Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Percy sat on the edge of a brittle chair, its joints groaning in protest beneath his restless weight. His mother lay fragile and pale against the starched hospital sheets, her hollow cheeks casting faint shadows. Her eyelids, fringed with a few remaining lashes, shielded eyes that once gleamed with unyielding warmth. Wisps of her thinning hair disappeared beneath a modest cloth, but it did little to diminish her dignity.

Despite her fragile frame, her grip on his hand was fierce, her knuckles whitening with determination. Pain flashed in Percy’s hand, yet he welcomed it—a sign of her defiance, her refusal to surrender entirely to the void pulling at her. But how long could such resistance last?

Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his immediately. She smiled—a tremulous curve of her lips that pierced straight through his heart. How cruel, Percy thought, that even in the throes of agony, she could summon such radiance. Her lips quivered as if the smile might collapse under its own weight, yet it remained.

“I want to go somewhere,” she whispered. “Somewhere with warm ocean and warm sun.” She closed her eyes, a fragile dream dancing behind her lashes. “The Mediterranean, maybe.”

“Mom, I don’t think it’s a good idea… your health…” Percy’s words faltered, panic rising in his chest like a tide he couldn’t hold back. The thought of moving her, of burdening her body with the strain of travel—it felt like a betrayal.

“Oh, stop it.” She sighed, her voice thick with the weight of the days. “I’ve been in the hospital for two months now. I’ve had enough of this—laying here, rotting, waiting for death to claim me.” Her voice was a brittle thing, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something he couldn’t place.

“Mom, don’t say that,” Percy murmured, squeezing her hand, feeling the fragile pulse beneath his fingers.

"Let’s go somewhere," she repeated, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made his breath catch. There was something else in her gaze now, something he hadn’t seen before—a strange, unspoken farewell. It was as if she were gazing at him for the last time, as if the moment were already slipping through her fingers.

And in that moment, Percy’s heart clenched painfully. He realized that he couldn’t let her wither away here, in this sterile room, consumed by the relentless weight of her sickness. She deserved to forget it all, if only for a week or two—just a small reprieve, where the sun kissed her skin and the sea offered its embrace.

His throat tightened, and the words came out in a strained whisper. “I will figure something out.”

Her gaze turned toward the window, where the morning light fell gently on her pale skin, as if it too were trying to console her. She exhaled slowly, a breath that barely disturbed the stillness of the room. “Thank you.”

A soft smile returned to her face, like a small, radiant beacon in the dark. “I feel stronger already.”

Percy leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her cool forehead. The warmth of her skin beneath his lips was an unbearable contrast to the emptiness he felt inside, but it was a sweet pain—a reminder of how much he still had to give. How much he still had to fight for.

When he returned to the apartment, Percy sank into the familiar embrace of the sofa, flipping idly through a stack of postcards Sally’s friends had sent from their travels. The glossy images tugged at his thoughts, filling the void left by her absence. He lingered on one of Gdańsk, Poland, but the chill of the Baltic Sea seemed too bitter for her frail lungs. Athens flickered in his mind—a city drenched in sun—but the clamor of tourists made it feel suffocating, too much like the life they were trying to escape.

His fingers paused over a postcard that seemed to breathe. Its image was of a Turkish island, Bozcaada, its sapphire waters shimmering under an endless sky. The terrain curved like an embrace, inviting and serene.

“What about Turkey?” he murmured to himself, already imagining the sun and sea cradling his mother’s weakened form. He wandered into the kitchen, where the silence felt too vast, too still. Picking up the phone, he called her.

“All of Turkey’s coasts are beautiful,” she answered, her voice honeyed with drowsiness. He must have woken her.

“What about Bozcaada?” he asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar name.

Her laugh was soft, like the rustling of dry leaves. “I’ve heard their vineyards are lovely. If we leave in two weeks, we might catch their wine festival.” There was a pause, her smile almost tangible through the line. “If that’s where you want to go, then Bozcaada it is.”

The first three days were like stepping into a dream. Percy let the warm Aegean waves lap at his skin, the sun gilding him without Apollo’s usual bite. Sally sat in the shade, her face uplifted to the gentle breeze, her expression so serene it made his chest ache. Here, they had carved out a small paradise, far from the gnawing edges of reality.

But her illness, relentless as the tides, returned. Her coughs came sharp and sudden, splattering blood against handkerchiefs she tried to hide from him. Her groans punctured the tranquil silence of their refuge.

She sat by the water’s edge now, an oxygen tube tracing a delicate line from her nostrils to the tank affixed to her wheelchair. Yet even in the shadow of her suffering, she smiled, her eyes glimmering as they watched the sea unfold before them.

Bozcaada was everything Percy had dreamed: a haven of soft mornings and cobblestone streets, where the sea seemed to breathe in time with the rustling olive trees. The tranquility wove itself into the air, but even this sanctuary could not sever the iron grip of his mother’s illness. Time loomed over them, a relentless shadow.

Desperation gnawed at him. He turned to Poseidon, pleading for aid, and sought counsel with anyone who might offer a glimmer of hope. But the whispers he uncovered chilled him to the core—this sickness wasn’t natural. It was a curse, coiling insidiously around Sally’s life.

Percy’s mind churned with guilt. Who had he offended so grievously that they had wrought this upon her?

If it would undo her suffering, he would swallow sand and weep flames for eternity. Yet nothing changed. Her radiance had dimmed, her once-bright aura now shrouded in quiet resignation. Despair flickered behind the mask of her gentle smile, and though she never spoke of it, Percy knew her time was slipping away. Her lungs betrayed her more each day, shrinking, collapsing, making every breath a battle.

Sometimes he stood over her bed in the dead of night, his eyes tracing the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, terrified it might stop. The thought of losing her clawed at him, a suffocating fear he could neither escape nor confront.

On the fourth day of their stay, Percy wheeled Sally through the bustling streets of the old town. Stalls spilled over with ripe fruits, vibrant vegetables, and fragrant spices. Sally plucked fresh grapes from a vendor, feeding him one with a playful flick of her wrist, her laughter a balm to his restless thoughts.

As they wandered, his gaze fell on an elderly woman, her frail form bent as she rummaged through a bin for scraps. Compassion surged through him, and he purchased a bag of groceries for her, offering it without hesitation. The woman sifted through the bag and, to his surprise, took only the raw meat and garlic, leaving the rest untouched.

Sally raised a brow at the oddity, but they exchanged only puzzled shrugs before continuing their stroll.

Later that evening, Percy returned from the pharmacy with medicine for the humidifier. As he ascended the stone steps to their apartment, he noticed a pregnant woman leaning against the door, her brow damp with exhaustion. A key lay just out of reach on the ground, and her swollen belly made bending impossible.

Without a word, Percy retrieved the key and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said in English, her amber eyes soft with relief.

Before he could turn away, she called after him. “The woman with you—is she unwell? I hear her coughing, even through the walls.”

Percy hesitated, shame tightening his throat. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m sorry if it’s disturbing you.”

“No need to apologize,” she said gently.

Percy’s eyes caught on the pendant she wore—a peculiar symbol carved into the metal. Its serpentine lines spiraled in a way that felt both ancient and unsettling.

Noticing his curiosity, the woman touched the charm, drawing it forward to show him.

“A labyrinthine serpent,” she explained, her voice reverent. “The symbol of Hekate.”

“Hekate?” Percy echoed. “The Greek goddess?”

“A Titaness, but yes.” Her amber eyes glimmered with quiet pride. “Mistress of the night, protector of women, guide to those in the dark. She’s also the goddess of childbirth. I owe her much,” she added, her hand brushing her belly.

Percy’s stomach twisted, a maelstrom of doubt and intrigue. Hekate. The name felt heavy, thrumming with a resonance he couldn't fully understand. He managed a polite nod, but his mind raced. The woman before him seemed knowledgeable—perhaps enough to answer the question he dared not fully form.

“Does she…” he hesitated, the weight of his desperation constricting his throat, “does she help with hopeless cases? Curses or… untreatable illnesses?”

The woman’s amber eyes softened, her gaze drifting momentarily toward the closed door behind her. Percy didn’t need her to say it; she understood. She knew his question was about his mother.

“There’s a temple,” she said after a pause, her voice low but steady, “in Lagina. Not far from Turgut. It is said she listens best at night, under the veil of stars. If you go there, you could ask for her support.”

Her words lingered like an incantation. Percy swallowed hard, the air around him feeling suddenly charged, as if the very mention of the deity had shifted something unseen.

“Night,” he echoed quietly, almost to himself, and the woman nodded.

“Yes. Her power thrives in darkness. But take care.” Her eyes sharpened, and for a moment, she seemed older, wiser, as though channeling something beyond her mortal years. “Hekate demands respect. She is not one to be summoned lightly.”

Percy’s pulse quickened. He glanced down at the sigil around her neck, its labyrinthine coils gleaming faintly as if catching a light that wasn’t there.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute, though a tempest churned within him.

That same night, Percy slipped away from the hotel, as his mother slept. The moon hung low in the sky, a silver sentinel as he dove into the Mediterranean’s dark waters. The salt kissed his skin as he swam tirelessly, emerging on a nearby beach. From there, he boarded a bus to Turgut, the rickety vehicle groaning against the winding roads as it carried him closer to his destination.

When Percy finally stood at the foot of the ruined temple of Hekate in Lagina, the night had deepened, the air heavy with the scent of earth and distant cypress trees. The temple loomed before him, its marble pillars a testament to both grandeur and decay. Time had weathered their once-pristine white into charred hues of gray and black, as if the stone had absorbed centuries of prayers, grief, and sacrifices. Vines clung stubbornly to the columns, winding around their bases like serpents.

The temple’s altar, cracked but still formidable, sat under an open sky. The stars above seemed to burn brighter here, their light a stark contrast to the oppressive shadows that pooled between the stones. At the threshold, remnants of ancient carvings etched into the walls depicted torches, serpents, and labyrinths—symbols of Hekate’s dominion.

Percy hesitated, his breath shallow as he stepped inside. The air grew colder, the stillness so profound that it muffled even his heartbeat.

He approached the altar, his palms clammy as he traced the jagged surface. “Hekate,” he called, his voice breaking the silence. It carried a mix of reverence and desperation. “I seek your help. My mother… she’s sick. Cursed. I’ll do anything—anything you ask—just… help her.”

The words echoed, swallowed by the void around him. He waited, every muscle taut, his senses tuned to the slightest sign. The stars seemed to flicker, the wind to hold its breath, but no voice answered.

Percy dropped to his knees, bowing his head against the cold stone. “Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You’re a protector… a guide. Don’t let her die because of me.”

Still, the night remained silent. No whisper in the shadows, no sudden flicker of light. Only the distant rustle of leaves and the mournful sigh of the wind through the pillars.

Anger surged in his chest, hot and bitter. He slammed his fist against the altar. “Is this how the gods are? Silent when it matters? If you’re not going to answer, then damn me too!”

Furious with himself, with the gods, with everything, Percy turned and left the altar. He stomped through the labyrinthine ruins, his footsteps heavy with resignation. The night seemed to press in on him, the once-vivid hope now dimmed to a smoldering ember.

Yet, as he descended the uneven steps away from the temple, something stirred in the darkness. A faint glow flickered at the edge of the ruins, too subtle to be moonlight. The air shifted, carrying a faint, otherworldly hum. Behind him, the shadows twisted, pooling unnaturally in the temple’s center.

Percy didn’t notice—didn’t feel the eyes that seemed to watch him as he disappeared into the night. But the ruins did not forget him. Something had woken, and though its intentions were hidden, it would not let his plea go unanswered for long.

The next day, Percy sought solace in the rhythmic embrace of the sea, its vastness the only balm for the restlessness roiling within him. The water’s shimmering expanse stretched infinitely, promising a quietude he longed to grasp. Yet, as he treaded along the shoreline, he felt an inexplicable heaviness, as though an unseen hand pressed down on his brow, compressing his thoughts into a throbbing ache.

His mother remained at the beach bar, cradling a glass of pomegranate juice, its ruby liquid glinting like captured sunlight. Her attention wavered between the device in her hands and the horizon, where sky and sea wove together in a seamless dance.

Percy trudged forward, sand shifting beneath his feet, until his stride was abruptly halted. He stumbled, nearly sprawling, over a sleek black dog darting wildly across the beach. Its coat gleamed like polished obsidian, and its bright eyes shone with a cunning intelligence that made him pause. The dog's frantic escape left a leash trailing behind it, tethering the air to a breathless young girl chasing it.

“Bekleyin! Lütfen, onu durdurun!” she called, her voice tinged with desperation.

Percy moved swiftly, cutting off the dog’s path with a practiced ease, scooping the leash from the ground and calming the creature with a firm touch. He returned the dog to the girl, who clasped the leash with trembling hands.

“Teşekkür ederim,” she gasped, gratitude pouring from her as if the weight of the world had been lifted. Yet, as Percy locked eyes with her, a peculiar unease prickled his skin. Her gaze lingered—too long, too intent—rooting him to the spot.

He forced a small smile, trying to mask the tightness in his chest. “English?” he asked, unsure of the words she had spoken.

Without hesitation, she replied in her native tongue, the words flowing from her lips with an odd sense of urgency: "Denizin oğlu, o seni bekliyor." She gestured vaguely toward the city before turning, pulling the dog along with her as she walked away, her steps deliberate, almost measured.

A cold shiver spiraled down his spine, as though a shadow had passed through him, unseen and untouchable. His heart quickened, and the pulse of his thoughts began to race.

But then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. He looked at his mother, her soft hum of contentment as she sipped her juice drawing him back to the present. Percy forced himself to breathe deeply, steadying his nerves. He shook the eerie feeling off, like sand from his feet, and turned to continue walking.

Later that evening, Sally and Percy ventured into the heart of the island to immerse themselves in the Şarap festivities. Bozcaada was alive with revelry; laughter rang out like chimes, and music wove a spell over the cobblestone streets. The aroma of roasted chestnuts and sweet wine drifted through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation.

Percy pushed his mother’s wheelchair through the throng, pausing now and then to admire a street artist sketching with swift, fluid strokes or to watch contestants laughing as they attempted to drain overflowing goblets of wine. The celebration was vibrant, chaotic, full of life—a stark contrast to the heavy shadow that had trailed Percy earlier.

And then he saw her.

Amid the crowd’s swirling energy, there stood a woman cloaked in silence. Her black shawl veiled most of her face, leaving only a sliver of pale skin and the gleam of watchful eyes visible beneath the fabric. She seemed to drift apart from the revelers, occupying a realm entirely her own. No one else appeared to notice her, as if she were a phantom passing through unseen.

In her hands, she clutched two torches, their flames a hypnotic dance of gold and crimson. The firelight flickered in strange patterns, casting eerie shadows that didn’t align with the world around her. Percy’s heart tightened, his breath catching in his throat.

She did not move, did not speak, but her presence loomed, potent and enigmatic. Percy’s hand instinctively gripped the handles of his mother’s wheelchair tighter as his gaze locked onto her.

Looking at her, Percy felt the familiar tingle of divine presence. Memories of encounters with other gods from the Greek pantheon flooded his mind, and a belief began to take root within him that she too was of divine origin.

His mother quickly noticed something was off with her son. "What's wrong, Percy?" she asked, following his silent gaze. However, she didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

As the mysterious woman gradually receded from view, determined not to lose sight of her, he forged ahead, weaving through the labyrinth of revellers clutching their drinks.

"Percy!" he heard his mother's voice behind him.

"I'll be back!" he shouted, continuing to chase after her.

As Percy strained to keep pace with the vanishing woman, a sudden hand clasped his wrist, halting his advance. Startled, he turned to behold the familiar countenance of Dionysus, the god of wine, his features etched with a mischievous grin. With a twinkle in his eye, Dionysus leaned in and whispered, “aren’t you supposed to be on holiday? Why not take a break and enjoy the festivities? Chasing shadows won’t do you any good.”

A pulse of irritation flared within Percy. He yanked his wrist free. “Perhaps you should mind your own business. What are you doing here?”

“Am I not the wine god?” Dionysus replied and made an amused sound. Bending down, he retrieved a rusty key from the ground and held it out to Percy with a flourish. "She has a penchant for leaving them in random places, but I believe this one belongs to you."

Percy eyed the key suspiciously. "Why would this trash be mine? What's this for?" he inquired, despite himself, his curiosity piqued.

Dionysus grinned mischievously and gestured towards the key. "Open the first door you come across and step inside. You'll understand what I mean.”

Percy's curiosity burned bright as he pondered Dionysus's annoyingly enigmatic words. "Who is she?" he pressed, but the god merely offered a cryptic reply, "I’m surprised you still haven’t figured that out," before vanishing into the bustling crowd as swiftly as he had appeared. Percy's arms twitched in impatience.

Deciding to heed the wine god's advice, Percy sought out a secluded area. Spotting the first door he encountered, he approached it with trepidation, the rusty key clutched tightly in his hand. With a deep breath, he inserted the key into the lock and turned it, the ancient mechanism groaning in protest.

With a creak, the doors swung open, revealing an abyss of darkness within. Ignoring the ominous chill that prickled his skin, Percy stepped cautiously into the unknown, guided only by the flickering light of a solitary torch positioned in the room's centre. As he crossed the threshold, the doors slammed shut behind him with a resounding bang, enveloping him in a suffocating silence.

As the flickering torchlight danced across the chamber, Percy's gaze fixed upon the woman who emerged from the shadows. Clad in flowing violet and saffron Greek robes that billowed like the waters of the River Styx. At first, Percy dismissed the shifting visage of her face and form as a mere trick of the wavering light. Yet, with each blink, he watched in astonishment as her appearance underwent a bewildering transformation.

One moment, she appeared as a radiant young maiden, her features exuding an aura of innocence and purity. Then, in the next heartbeat, she morphed into the form of a pregnant woman, her belly swollen with life. And just as swiftly, she aged before his eyes, assuming the guise of an old hag, her wrinkles etched with the weight of time's passage.

The cycle swirled, an eternal dance of transformation, each shift in her form more intoxicating than the last. Percy found himself helplessly entranced, caught in the intoxicating rhythm of her ever-changing personas, as though trapped in the folds of a dream that refused to release him.

“I’ve heard your call, son of the sea,” the maiden intoned, her voice like a melody woven from the deep night.

Percy’s brow furrowed, the edges of his confusion tugging at him, though he knew in the deepest corners of his soul that he was not entirely ignorant of the answer. “Who are you?” he asked, though his voice trembled with the weight of suspicion already blossoming in his chest.

She only smiled, enigmatic and silent, as if awaiting him to speak the words that would summon her true identity.

“Are you Hekate?” he breathed, his pulse quickening.

“I am,” she whispered, her words a soft caress against his skin.

A rush of hope surged through him, like a tide breaking over jagged rocks. “Then you’ve heard my prayer,” he said, stepping closer, his voice shaking with a quiet fervor. "You must help me. My mother, she—she’s dying."

She tilted her head, her smile widening like the opening of a shadowed door. “Yes, I’ve heard,” she said with a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Rarely do you, son of the sea, call upon the gods.” With that, her form shuddered, and the maiden dissolved into an ancient crone, her hair bleaching to white like frost upon a forgotten tomb. "I could not stop myself from meeting you," she continued, her voice now thick with a timeless sorrow. “And I am glad I did.”

“Will you help me?” he implored, his voice a raw thread of desperation, “I would give anything to see her well again.”

“Be cautious with such words,” Hekate murmured, her crone’s face bending into something more sorrowful than cruel. “Everything in this world is a heavy word. Do not toss it about carelessly.”

"Heavy or not, I mean it," Percy shot back, his chest tight with a mixture of pain and determination. “There is nothing I would not give for her life.”

“Even your own?” the crone asked, her voice a serpent’s hiss, eyes narrowing with something darker than curiosity.

Percy did not flinch. "Yes."

Her form rippled again, and suddenly, the crone was gone, replaced by a pregnant woman, her hand tenderly resting upon her swollen belly. Her eyes softened with a strange kind of tenderness as she gazed down at Percy, her voice a low murmur. “Compassion, selflessness, and yes, a stubborn resolve,” she whispered, as if the words were both a blessing and a warning. “You are worthy of my task... and my blessing. But first, you must prove it.”

“What must I do?” Percy asked, his heart pounding.

She smiled again, her expression unreadable. “I have a task for you, one that could cost you more than you think,” she said. “But don’t worry, it’s not your life I desire.”

Despite her reassurances, Percy felt the darkness stir in him, like a great weight pressing upon his chest. She was Hekate—goddess of the night, keeper of the underworld’s keys, a titaness whose power even Zeus feared. She loomed before him, a figure of towering, ancient authority, her eyes like the sky after sunset—violet and orange.

“What is this task?” Percy asked, his hands clenching.

The woman’s lips parted in a smile, soft and knowing. She stepped closer to him, her form shifting once again into the maiden, her sunset-colored eyes warm and inviting as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“I will send you to the far past, to change the present and the future,” she said, her voice lilting like a spell.

Percy recoiled, his heart thudding in his chest. “What?” he gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Hekate chuckled softly, the sound almost maternal. “What do you know of the Trojan War?” she asked. Percy, taken aback by the question, pondered for a moment.

“A bloody conflict that erupted between the city of Troy and the Greeks sometime in the late Bronze Age?” Percy answered. “It lasted many years and cost a lot of lives,” he added, receiving a nod from the goddess.

“Exactly. A lot of peril, a lot of destruction,” she said, her gaze distant.

“Do you know the real reason it happened?” she asked.

Percy had a very bad feeling about this.

“Helen, was abducted by Paris…”

“Again.”

“It was actually Aphrodite who—”

“Try again.”

“Well, probably another god—”

“Yes, the worst of them.” Her eyes gleamed like torch fire. “Everything you said is true, but the real reason was Zeus. Zeus feared the world could tip over if the population continued to increase. He was also concerned about the sheer number of demigods fathered outside of marriage. Other Greek deities also mated with many mortal women, producing many demigods, which Zeus had grown to see as inferior to the gods,” the hag explained.

“You mean… the Trojan War was Zeus’ way of cleansing the world of the undesirable demigods and depopulating the world?” Percy asked, his brows raised. From what he remembered, Zeus and Hera did not interfere openly in the war. They did not step in to save the life of the Lycian hero Sarpedon, the son of Zeus. Instead, they allowed Sarpedon, just like many other demigods, to perish in the war. The thought did not surprise him, adding another reason to the jar named “why I hate Greek gods.”

“When Prince Paris was born, there was a prophecy that stated Paris would be the one to bring doom and destruction to the city of Troy. Therefore, the leaders of Troy cast the young prince out to Mount Ida, where he was raised by a family of shepherds. As fate would have it, Zeus picked this very young man to arbitrate the conflict among the three goddesses. What are the odds of that happening?” Hekate asked, giving Percy time to ponder her words.

“So, Eris throwing the Apple of Discord was too orchestrated by Zeus? But why are you telling me all these things?” Percy asked.

Hekate’s expression softened, her eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and resolve. “Because you need to understand the stakes, Percy. The gods have always used mortals as pawns in their games, but you have the chance to change that. To show them that their actions have consequences, and that mortals and demigods are not just pieces on a chessboard.”

Percy’s mind churned in a fever of confusion. Her words rang with a certain truth, yet a darker whisper curled around his thoughts: But isn’t she doing the very same thing with me? Using me for her own purpose, for her own designs? He pushed the thought away, for the price she offered—the chance to change history, to rewrite the world’s bloodstained story—was too great to ignore. And above all, it was a chance to save his mother. That desire burned in his heart, as fierce and unwavering as the tide.

“But you’re a god yourself,” Percy said, confused.

“And what of it?” Hekate retorted, her tone tinged with bitterness. “I visit the underworld. I see the faces of people who could have lived long, happy lives if not for a god’s capricious war. You will prove that gods don’t hold absolute power over mortals. You are the only one who understands it, who does not roll by their feet like a good little puppy.” Her eyes sparkled with fervour. “I want you there, proving to them that demigods could turn the tide, that their own children could be their downfall. ”

Percy had to steady himself, his legs weak from the weight of the revelation. The cold stone beneath him seemed to ground him, as though the earth itself was offering a steadying hand. “You want me to travel into the past and stop the Trojan War?” he asked, the words tasting strange on his tongue, as though they were not his own.

"Yes," she answered, her voice steady, but layered with an unsettling finality. "Never too late to make a change. I have pondered this for countless years, and finally, I have found someone deserving of such a task." Her eyes gleamed, that same eerie radiance filling the space between them, as if her power had bent the very air in her favor.

Percy’s breath caught in his chest, each inhale feeling heavier than the last. He felt the weight of her words settle on his shoulders, like an iron cloak he couldn't shrug off. This is madness, he thought, but somehow, he felt pulled in—compelled by something deeper than reason. He exhaled, as though trying to release the knot that twisted in his gut. "But if I interfere with Zeus's plans, or any god who would support Menelaos’ side, they will kill me."

Hekate’s gaze sharpened, her voice cutting through the haze of his doubts. "I am no mere goddess of magic, young demigod. I am the daughter of Titans Perses and Asteria, from whom I received dominion over heaven, earth, and sea. I will make you into my aspect, so you will be perceived as one of us—a god in all but name. Even Zeus Olympios won’t dare stand in our way."

The words were like a beacon in the storm, her power gleaming in the darkness. He couldn’t deny the allure of her promise. She was ancient. Unshakable. Her words could almost make him believe she was the only one who could save him from the inevitable crushing weight of the gods.

"You will turn the tide of the war," she continued, her voice softening as she stepped closer. "Save thousands of mortals, hundreds of demigods—those who were swept up in the tides of this cursed war." Her face shifted before him, becoming younger, her features softening into the delicate visage of a maiden. “And when you return to your time, your mother will be healed. She will live, breathing the years you so desperately wish to give her.”

The words, so tender and filled with the promise of salvation, made his chest tighten. Percy felt the pull of hope deep in his bones, a force both foreign and familiar. Her words ring true, he thought, but at what cost?

“How am I to stop Paris from kidnapping Helen, from fulfilling his prophecy?” Percy asked, though he had his suspicions.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” Hekate’s eyes narrowed.

“Death.” Percy answered, his face emotionless.

"To find peace, sacrifices must be made," Hekate said. “Besides, what's one death among thousands?" she replied calmly. "By killing one, you could save so many."

A chill ran down Percy’s spine, each word settling into his skin like ice. He had killed before, in the heat of battle, in the name of survival. But Paris—Paris was just a boy caught in the gods’ twisted games, an innocent pawn, unaware of the forces playing with his life. The idea of taking his life, of becoming the instrument of his death, twisted something inside Percy, a knot of anguish and revulsion.

“Don’t pity him, Percy,” Hekate said, sensing his doubts. “He has caused much misery for Greeks and Trojans, even for himself. His love was not real but manipulated by Aphrodite. Sooner or later, he too met a tragic end.”

Percy thought of his mother, lying pale and fragile in the hospital bed. To save her, to bring her back to life, he reasoned, I must do this. The brutality of it sickened him, but the necessity gnawed at him like a hunger he could not ignore.

As her form shifted once more, Percy listened intently to her words, his mind racing with questions and doubts.

"When you return to the present," she said, her voice soft yet heavy with meaning, "you will still partake in the Tenedos festivities with your mother, as you do now. She will stand before you in her prime, vibrant with health. Your friends, too, will remain untouched, their fates unaltered. But know this," she paused, her gaze narrowing slightly, "some things around you will differ. Time is fragile, Percy. The ripple of your actions will stretch far beyond what you can see, touching even those who walk in the shadows of your world. Their lives will be altered in ways you cannot yet fathom."

Her words slithered into his mind, coiling and uncoiling like a serpent that had been disturbed from its slumber. Percy could feel the weight of her gaze, heavy and unrelenting, as though she could peer into the very depths of his soul. The decision he faced—so simple in its brutality—began to take on a darker, more labyrinthine form. He knew that by altering the past, he might inadvertently create a future that was just as tragic, just as fraught with consequence.

Still, the promise of saving his mother, of restoring her life, pressed against him like an unrelenting tide. Do it, the voice within him urged. Do it, and end the suffering.

He gripped the edge of the stone, his knuckles white with tension. His breath felt shallow, strained, as if the very air around him had grown thick with the weight of his choices.

“I will do it,” Percy said, his voice rough with the weight of the decision he had already made, even though he could feel the blood on his hands before it was even spilled. “I will… let you send me back. I will kill Paris and—”

“And when you do, I will send you back here. No matter how long you spend in the past, you will return to this exact day.” Hekate’s words were a quiet promise, yet they were wrapped in an unspoken truth that left no room for doubt.

Percy nodded, his throat tight, the reality of the task settling like lead in his chest. There would be no turning back from this.

Hekate regarded him with a mixture of pride and resolve, her eyes glinting with an ancient understanding. In Percy, she saw not just a demigod standing on the precipice of an uncertain future, but the embodiment of a hope that had long remained dormant. He was the spark in the dark, the catalyst for change she had long awaited, whether he knew it or not.

“Do not be afraid,” she said, her voice now imbued with a comforting warmth. “You will have my blessing, my guidance, and my gifts. I will be your guide in this world; you will not be alone.” Her words were meant to reassure, but they only amplified the tension in Percy’s heart.

“Tell me everything I must know before I go,” Percy said, the urgency in his voice cutting through the silence that had settled between them. The weight of his mission had sharpened his focus, pushing aside the lingering doubts.

He was ready—at least, he told himself that.

Hekate’s expression shifted, her features growing more serious, as if she were weighing the gravity of his request. She stepped closer, the air around her heavy with the power of a goddess who had seen countless centuries unfold before her.

“Understand this, Percy Jackson,” she began, her tone deliberate. “When you step into the past, you will not merely be an observer. You will become a part of it—woven into the fabric of time, your actions echoing through every moment. You will carry the weight of history on your shoulders, and though you may wish to return unchanged, you cannot.” Her eyes bored into him, searching for any sign of hesitation, but finding none. “The gods you will encounter will be less like the ones you know, more primal—less restrained by the subtlety of their later forms. Their tempers will be sharp, their whims as dangerous as the storms they command. You must tread carefully and avoid drawing unnecessary attention to yourself. Keep your head held high, but be vigilant for their signs.”

Her gaze softened, the faintest glimmer of empathy flickering in her ancient eyes. “You will be called upon to do what must be done. Do not mistake mercy for weakness, Percy. The gods will test you, and so will fate. The line between ally and enemy will blur, and you must trust only your instincts, for they are all you will have when the gods turn their gaze upon you.”

Percy's brow furrowed in concern as he considered her words. "What of my father?" he asked, his thoughts turning to Poseidon.

Hekate's response was swift. "Avoid him," she advised, her voice carrying a note of warning. "Do not trust his words or his influence. He is not the father you once knew, but a deity you may not even recognize. In these times of war, the only god in whom you should place your trust is me."

Percy stood up from the floor, he faced the goddess, his heart hammering in his chest like a war drum.

"Are you ready, son of the sea?" she asked, her voice a low, velvet murmur.

Percy hesitated for a heartbeat, his gaze darting to the empty space around him. He searched for a sign, a reason to turn away—anything that might offer an escape. But the silence echoed back. There was no one else. Only him, standing before the goddess who had chosen him for this impossible task.

"I am," he finally answered, his voice rough but steady.

Percy extended his hand, feeling the weight of his decision settle within him. Hekate traced a symbol on his palm, a sigil that glowed briefly before fading into his skin. He felt a surge of power, an ancient energy coursing through him. "Welcome these three symbols of a triple nature, my light-bearer.”

Percy closed and opened his hands, a strange sensation coursing through him. He felt like he could bleed ichor.

"Did I just borrow godhood?” he asked, trying not to buckle under the weight of such power.

"Still a demigod, but you’ve been baptized as my aspect, granting you much of mine abilities. You, who come from the sea, will be known as Einalian in the past," she informed him.

“Einalian,” he repeated. The symbols on his palms pulsed with energy, filling him with power and a strong connection to the goddess.

“Now, to the garb.” She said, turning into an excited maiden. “You’re a charming boy; I’m sure anything would suit you." She clasped her hands and pointed at him. From the tip of her finger, a black spiderweb emerged, slowly covering him in a material of the deepest black. No longer clad in the simple t-shirt and beach shorts, he now wore the attire of a priest of Hekate.

The dark, flowing robe draped around him in graceful folds, its fabric soft against his skin. The intricate silver embroidery depicted delicate patterns of moon phases, shimmering in the faint light.

He recognized the garment as a chiton, a traditional Greek robe, but unlike any he had ever seen before. The silver pin fastened at his shoulder caught his eye, its crescent shape glinting softly in the dim light. It seemed to emanate a subtle energy, a reminder of the goddess whose blessing he now carried with him.

Percy felt like Cinderella being dressed by her fairy godmother before the ball. The thought was ridiculous, but he could not shake it, especially when a pair of sandals appeared on his feet, crafted from supple leather with silver accents that matched the embroidery on his robe. His wrists were then adorned with silver bracelets, each etched with protective runes.

"These will make you less noticeable," Hekate explained, her smile imbued with warmth as she caressed the metal. "Don't take them off, unless you want to be seen," she advised, a hint of warning in her voice.

“This, you will use in case of emergencies,” she commented, and soon a pendant in the shape of a key appeared around his neck. It vibrated slightly as if alive, hinting at a hidden purpose. “It will open every door and bring you everywhere you want, except Tartarus and Olympus, of course,” she told him.

Percy marvelled at the newfound materials adorning his body, feeling a surge of both power and disorientation. "Thank you, Hekate," he murmured, adjusting to the weight of the unfamiliar garments.

As Hekate prepared to bid him farewell, her words carried a solemn weight. "When you leave through the door from whence you came, you will find your world forever changed," she cautioned. "I will come to you only during the nights. When you pass that door, seek Mount Ida, seek Paris."

With a gentle touch, Hekate's lips brushed against Percy's forehead, imbuing him with a sense of calm. He then went to the doors, and receiving a last reassuring look from the triple goddess, he opened them. His eyes widened as he beheld the bustling street filled with people enjoying the same wine festivities but...he was already in a different world.

Chapter Text

As Hekate had foretold, a world wholly unfamiliar greeted Percy when he opened the door. The people moved with a quiet grace, their garments—chitons and himations—simple yet noble in their design, draped with an artistry that seemed as effortless as it was elegant. The air itself brimmed with life, alive with the mingled sounds of laughter, music, and spirited conversation.

The street stretched before him, vibrant and bustling, lined with stalls and tables overflowing with wares. Merchants called out in melodic tones, offering amphorae of rich wine, loaves of freshly baked bread still warm from the hearth, and olives glistening like polished onyx. Piles of ripe fruits and baskets brimming with nuts lay in tempting abundance, their colors vivid under the golden light. The aroma of roasted meats wafted through the air, mingling with the heady sweetness of crushed herbs, a tantalizing promise of delights yet untasted.

Musicians stood scattered among the revelers, their hands deftly plucking lyres or breathing life into the reedy tones of auloi. Their melodies wove through the crowd like a spell. Dancers swayed and spun with a fluid grace, their movements as mesmerizing as the music itself.

Children darted between the stalls, their games of sticks and pebbles filled with unbridled laughter. The clatter of horse-drawn carts echoed against the stone-paved streets, mingling with the distant murmur of the sea. Groups of men and women sat together, reclining on couches under shaded pergolas, sipping wine from kylixes and chatting animatedly.

Amidst the revelry, Percy navigated through the crowd, his senses heightened by the sights and sounds of the ancient world around him. The people seemed not to notice him, and he glanced down at his bracelets, sensing it might be the reason for his invisibility. He didn’t mind; it gave him the freedom to explore and observe the people more closely than would otherwise be appropriate. He studied them, listened to their conversations in ancient Greek, recognizing their topics of discussion.

“The Hittites have been pushing their influence further west. Some say they have their eyes on our lands. Should we be worried?” asked a man named Leandros, his weathered face etched with the lines of sea's harsh embrace. The other, a young trader named Helios, with eyes as sharp as an eagle's, adjusted the strap of his satchel and turned to his companion.

“We’ve faced threats before. Our walls are strong, and our people are resilient,” Helios replied with quiet confidence.

Percy, approached them, straining to hear more.

“Leandros, do you ever wonder what lies beyond the waters?” Helios inquired, his voice tinged with the yearning of untraveled roads and unexplored seas.

“Every sailor who’s crossed the Hellespont has told tales of distant lands and strange peoples. But here, in our own Troy, we have our own wonders,” Leandros answered.

Percy felt the sharp twist of realization settle in his gut, heavy and disorienting. The words of the two men drifted around him like an elusive fog, but the truth was undeniable now. He wasn’t in some dream or fleeting vision. He had been swept back to the heart of the ancient city of Troy, right on the cusp of history—a time when the legends of the Trojan War had only just begun to take shape, when gods still walked freely among mortals.

As he raised his gaze, the sun dipped behind the towering wall ahead, casting a long shadow over the bustling city. The Trojan Wall loomed larger than any tale had ever dared to describe, its sheer magnitude defying imagination. It stood as a testament to human ambition and divine influence, its stones worn but unyielding, a barrier both physical and symbolic.

The crowd swirled around him, a vibrant current of life, but Percy felt like a stone cast into its flow—an outsider, displaced and unmoored. He couldn’t afford to lose himself in the revelry, in the comforting rhythms of the familiar. He needed clarity. He needed to breathe.

Passing through the grand thoroughfares of the city, Percy found himself surrounded by stately columns that lined the streets. They supported intricately carved arches that stretched skyward, framing the heavens with their elegant curves. The buildings themselves were a symphony of marble and sandstone, their facades adorned with detailed friezes depicting scenes from mythology and daily life.

Amidst this spectacle of stone and mortar, temples dedicated to various gods and goddesses stood as solemn sentinels, their sacred altars tended to by devoted priests and priestesses. Percy watched as offerings were made, prayers whispered, and incense wafted skyward.

Percy's steps carried him, where the grandest temple of all stood proudly in homage to Apollo, the radiant god of light and music. Its colossal form loomed over the surrounding structures, its golden facade gleaming in the sunlight like a beacon of celestial splendor. Percy's gaze was drawn to the statue of the sun god, its outstretched arms reaching skyward in a gesture of divine benevolence, its majestic presence commanding reverence from all who beheld it.

However, Percy's attention was soon diverted by the insistent rumbling of his stomach, a reminder of his mortal needs. His eyes alighted upon a nearby stall adorned with an abundance of ripe fruits and nuts, their vibrant colors and tantalizing aromas beckoning to him like a siren's song. Unable to resist the call of hunger, Percy made his way toward the stall, eager to sate his appetite.

He reached out to pluck an apple from the display, its shiny red skin inviting and tempting. But as he raised the fruit to his lips, his gaze was caught by the piercing stare of a black dog standing nearby.

Kneeling down, Percy couldn't resist petting the canine, scratching behind its ears and rubbing its warm belly, eliciting happy barks. But after a while, the dog grew tired of Percy’s caresses, its eyes gleaming with an unsettling orange light.

“You...” he trailed off.

The dog, oblivious to Percy’s musings, continued on its path, its paws clicking softly against the cobblestone streets. Percy, still holding the fruit in his hand, chewed absentmindedly as he followed, the cool, sharp tang of the fruit a contrast to the growing tension in his chest.

They reached a clearing, a valley overgrown with lush grass and fragrant herbs. Sheep grazed peacefully, their white wool contrasting against the vibrant green. Quiet streams trickled through the fields, their waters glistening under the sun. The serene landscape stretched out before him, with rolling hills dotted with wildflowers and old trees swaying gently in the breeze.

Suddenly, the dog exposed its canines, its fur bristling. Percy tried to discern why the dog was acting so defiant until he realized he was the reason. It looked at Percy as if about to attack—and attack it did. The once-cute dog Percy had petted minutes ago was now a beast, clamping its sharp teeth onto Percy’s ankle.

“What the hell is that for?” Percy asked, already seeing blood pouring from his leg as the dog tirelessly bit into it. Did he already misstepped? But he’s just arrived and done nothing! “I won’t kick you just because you’re her dog.”

“Hey!” a man from the mountain shouted, immediately running toward them.

Percy soon found himself on the ground, trying to fend off the hound’s relentless attacks and bites. Percy’s hands were slick with blood, his vision narrowing as the pain shot through him in frantic waves.

Then, like a flash of light, the shepherd arrived, his cane flashing through the air with precision. The blow struck the hound with a force that sent it yelping, its teeth loosening from Percy’s arm as it recoiled, snarling, before darting off toward the shadowed forest. The man followed its retreating form with a grim expression before turning back to Percy, his gaze softening in concern.

“Are you alright?” the man asked, kneeling by Percy, who was still on the ground, trying to process what had just happened.

“Yeah? Do I still have my leg?” Percy managed to croak out.

The shepherd chuckled, a low, throaty laugh that carried a note of amusement. “Don’t worry, the beast didn’t bite it off. But if I had hesitated longer, it might have.”

Percy looked at the man, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the sight of him. The young man was striking, his dark hair curling softly around his ears, his amber eyes a deep pool of warmth and concern that seemed to see through the mess of Percy’s own scattered thoughts. There was a softness to him, an easy confidence that stood in stark contrast to the violence of the moment they had just shared.

“Thank you,” Percy muttered, his voice strained from both the pain in his leg and the shock of the encounter. He reached for the man's outstretched hand. “My name’s Einalian,” he said, the name slipping off his tongue like it had always been his.

“I’m Paris,” the man replied, offering a warm smile.

Caught off guard, Percy could only stare at him in stunned silence.

Paris couldn't help but feel a pang of pity towards the boy before him. He sensed that the reason for Percy's weird behaviour likely stemmed from the recent traumatic experience of the dog attack.

“It should be looked at. I have a house not far; would you like to come with me? I have herbs that could help,” Paris offered, his voice gentle and reassuring.

Percy regarded him more closely. His attire was simple, adorned in a tunic of earthy hues, with a well-worn cloak draped over his broad shoulders. Despite his humble appearance as a shepherd, there was an undeniable regality in his bearing, hinting at the prince he was destined to become.

"Einalian?" Paris asked, noticing Percy's dazed state.

Percy finally nodded, rousing from his shock. Despite the sharp pain in his leg, he managed to take a few steps with Paris's support. They walked slowly, the sheep continuing to graze undisturbed as if nothing unusual had happened.

Paris’s house came into view, a modest but sturdy structure nestled among the trees. They entered, and Paris guided Percy to a wooden bench. He quickly gathered some herbs and began to prepare a poultice. The interior was illuminated by the flickering glow of a small hearth, where a fire crackled merrily, sending tendrils of smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. The room was filled with the comforting scent of burning wood, mingling with the earthy aroma of dried herbs and spices hanging from the rafters

“Are we on Mount Ida?” Percy asked, his voice faint with curiosity as he watched Paris grind the medicinal plants together with practiced ease.

“Yes,” Paris replied, his tone unruffled, though there was a flicker of mild surprise in his eyes. “Are you not from here?”

When the silence between them stretched too long, Paris pressed on.

“Did you get lost? Or maybe lose your memory?” He asked with a half-smile, but Percy didn’t laugh.

“Both, I think,” Percy answered, looking around the house. In one corner of the room, Percy spotted a small altar dedicated to the gods, adorned with offerings of fresh flowers, bowls of fruit, and flickering oil lamps.

Meanwhile Paris glanced at Percy's unusual attire, the black robe catching his attention. It struck him as uncommon, and he couldn't help but wonder if it signified mourning or if Percy was part of funeral ceremonies. He had heard of people sometimes losing their memory when faced with sudden family deaths.

Aware of the potential sensitivity of the situation, he decided not to ask, preferring not to trigger the boy further.

“I understand,” Paris said softly.“Perhaps, after you’ve rested, your memories will return to you.” He stepped closer, the faint rustle of his movements blending with the gentle murmur of the room. In his hands, he held the poultice, its earthy aroma wafting faintly between them.

“What is that?” he asked, wrinkling his nose as he caught a faint whiff of the concoction, making an involuntary face of disgust.

“Comfrey and thyme for your wounds. Don’t worry, you won’t have to eat it,” Paris reassured, kneeling before Percy and carefully preparing to apply the poultice.

Percy shifted uncomfortably, his unease evident as Paris positioned himself closer. “I could do it myself, you know,” he muttered, his hands flexed slightly at his sides, a small gesture of defiance. “I still have hands."

Paris smiled softly, though his expression remained steady and kind. “You’re my guest,” he replied, his tone firm yet gentle, as if the words held weight deeper than just a courtesy. “Let me,” he added, his eyes meeting Percy’s.

Percy didn’t argue further, though his unease lingered like an unspoken word.

Percy felt utterly miserable. Before him stood the man chosen by Zeus to judge the three goddesses of their beauty, the same man who, as a consequence, would be awarded the most beautiful woman by Aphrodite, and the very person responsible for the abduction of Helen of Troy, an act that triggered the war.

And the one Percy had to eliminate before any of these situations could unfold.

Paris cleansed Percy’s wounds with water from the stream. He could feel some of the injuries already beginning to knit themselves together, the faint tingling of accelerated healing stirring within him. But he forced it back, clamping down on the impulse, unwilling to rouse suspicion. Paris then gently applied the herbs to Percy’s cuts and bites, covering them with linen cloth.

"I appreciate your kindness, but I fear I have nothing to offer in return," Percy admitted, considering how he might somehow repay Paris before carrying out his grim task. He couldn’t help but regret not asking Hekate for coin before embarking on this journey. A sharp pang of frustration rose in him. She had sent him back with nothing but riddles and vague assurances, leaving him to navigate this ancient world empty-handed.

"There's no need for repayment," Paris reassured him with a gentle smile. "Hospitality is a sacred virtue here. Rest and healing are freely given without expectation."

Percy wanted to slap himself. The pang of guilt loud in his ears. The man before him was kind and unsuspecting, far from the cause of destruction Percy had been told about. 

Oh, gods, it would be so much easier if he were an arrogant asshole, Percy thought bitterly.

As the evening wore on, Paris prepared a simple meal, offering Percy some bread with olive oil and lamb meat. They ate in companionable silence, the crackling fire providing warmth and a sense of normalcy.

"Thank you, Paris," Percy said, breaking the silence. "I won't forget your kindness," his voice heavy with the weight of his burden.

Paris, standing from the table, gave a slight nod. "You're welcome, Einalian." His voice was steady, a comforting presence in the midst of Percy’s unspoken turmoil. His gaze lingered for a moment on Percy’s lips as he chewed, his thoughts unreadable. Then, with a small shift in posture, he added, "Let's rest, shall we? We'll see what tomorrow brings.”

Percy spent the night on a simple cot, fashioned from rough-hewn wood and covered with a thin layer of wool. Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. Impatient for the morning, Percy rose quietly, careful not to disturb sleeping Paris. As he stepped outside, the cool night air greeted him, illuminated by the gentle glow of the moon above.

Making his way to the nearby stream, Percy sought the healing properties of the water. Though he trusted Paris' herbs, he knew a swift recovery would be best. Sitting by the stream, he directed the water to flow over his wounds, feeling the soothing sensation as they healed completely in a matter of seconds. To avoid raising suspicion, he carefully rewrapped the linen cloth around his leg.

He blinked in surprise as he saw torchlight reflecting in the waters. Kneeling by the stream, he watched as it transformed into a pair of angry, sunset eyes.

"Lady Hekate," Percy greeted, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

"My hound bit you to draw the son of Priam’s attention," Hekate explained, seemingly feeling the urge to justify herself. "He listened to my command."

Percy smiled faintly. "I figured as much."

Hekate's eyes, reflecting in the water, sharpened slightly. "Paris still lives," she noted.

"Yes, well..."

"I don’t blame you," she continued, her voice holding a hint of understanding. "You did what was right not to kill him after he helped you."

Percy felt a sense of relief wash over him. The burden of his decision, though heavy, felt slightly lighter knowing that Hekate, in her wisdom, saw his actions as justified.

As if sensing his gratitude, Hekate's tone softened further. "We have seven moons till the wedding of Peleus and Thetis," she added, her words carrying a sense of urgency. "That is when Eris will drop the golden apple for the fairest and start the conflict.”

Percy felt a surge of unease as the weight of his task settled upon him. The realization that he had only a few days to seal Paris's fate filled him with trepidation.

“Until that day, earn Priam’s son trust, so he considers you more a friend than a stranger. When he’s not suspecting, strike him, swiftly and effectively."

As she spoke, a tongue of water rose from the stream, gracefully placing a silver blade into his hands. The dagger was small but elegant, adorned with black obsidians. "Take this," Hekate murmured, her voice a low echo in the night’s breath, barely stirring the air. "When the time comes, do not hesitate. Remember what is at stake. Remember for whom you are doing this."

Percy’s gaze was fixed on the dagger, its surface reflecting the moonlight like the surface of a forgotten lake. The weight of the weapon seemed to sink deeper than his hands could grasp. It was not the weight of steel, but of consequence, of fate wrapped in the cold promise of sacrifice. His mother... what would she say if she knew? If she learned that he had traded the life of an innocent for hers?

Would she forgive him his selfishness? Would she, perhaps, praise him for the love he bore her, for the depths to which he would sink to save her? No, definitely not.

But no matter the answer, she need never know. This was a burden he would carry alone.

"I remember," he whispered, the words slipping from his lips like smoke. "I will do it." His resolve felt as fragile as glass, yet unyielding, like the blade that now shimmered between his hands—silent, waiting for its moment of truth.

The eyes in the water softened slightly. "Good. You are stronger than you think, Percy. Do not forget that."

As the eyes faded from the water, Percy looked up at the moon emerging from the clouds. Its glow seemed to soothe him, but his hands still trembled. He gripped the dagger and quickly hid it under his chiton, just in time, because he heard approaching footsteps.

“Einalian?” Paris called out.

Percy turned to see Paris, his face etched with worry. "What rouses you from your rest so early?" Paris asked, his eyes scanning Percy’s face.

"I couldn’t sleep," Percy admitted truthfully, trying to steady his racing heart.

Paris nodded, seemingly accepting the answer. “Have you perhaps recalled anything of your past?” Paris inquired, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

“No,” Percy replied, his gaze falling to the stream.

"You should pray to Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. I could aid you in the rites," Paris offered kindly.

Like hell he would, Percy thought grimly. Mnemosyne was the mother of Apollo’s Muses. If she figured out Percy’s intentions, it would be the end for him.

Percy forced a smile. "You've already done so much for me. I’ll manage on my own." The last thing he needed was the intervention of the gods.

Paris nodded thoughtfully. “Come inside. I would not see you fall prey to that feral hound again,” he said, casting a wary glance at the surrounding trees but it was clear that something else weighed upon his mind.

“What’s wrong?” Percy asked sensing his unease.

“Sometimes, I feel the gaze of many eyes upon me, hidden in the boughs of trees, in the very walls of my home,” Paris said. “It is both comforting and unnerving.”

Percy knew that sensation all too well, and he had no doubt that Paris's instincts were correct. The eyes of the gods were ever-watchful, particularly on those whose fates were enmeshed in their grand designs.

A shadow crossed Percy's mood once more as he rubbed his temples in weariness.

“Would you care for a drink?” Paris offered, extending a jug toward him.

“What’s in it?” Percy asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Wine with herbs, crafted to soothe restless souls. It's perfect for the wine festival, which happens to be today,” Paris said with a smile, pouring Percy a generous measure of the aromatic beverage.

Percy took the cup, his senses immediately flooded by the rich, earthy scent mingled with subtle hints of rosemary and honey.

“I don't think I should...” Percy replied, unconvinced.

“I know not what trials you have faced, but you are safe here. Allow yourself to find peace,” Paris told him, his hand resting comfortingly on Percy’s shoulder.

Percy scrutinized the cup, the liquid within swirling like the uncertain tide. For a moment, he hesitated, sensing that this was not merely a drink. It was a chance to begin their friendship, to weave the fragile thread of trust that he would need for the task ahead.

But even as the thought lingered in his mind, another one followed—a darker, heavier weight. Perhaps, by accepting Paris’s gesture, he was simply elongating the inevitable. If I befriend him, Percy thought, the task will become more difficult still. And yet, when he examined the prince’s gaze, soft and open, there was no animosity to hold onto. No reason, beyond his own fears, to resent Paris. He was, after all, a man of honor, of circumstance far removed from Percy’s own war-ridden heart.

The alcohol burned pleasantly as it made its way down Percy's throat, warming him from the inside out. He glanced at Paris, who watched him with a curious expression.

“It’s good,” Percy acknowledged. The drink was potent, yet sweet and fruity, with a lingering hint of herbal bitterness.

“I made it myself,” Paris said, pride warming his voice.

Before long, the two found themselves seated by the stream, Paris observing as Percy gradually relaxed, his eyelids growing heavy with fatigue.

“I’m sorry…for keeping you up.” Percy's apology hung in the air, the weight of his exhaustion evident in every word.

Paris’s response was wrapped in understanding. "I don’t mind," he said, his voice a warm whisper. "It’s been a long while since I’ve had a companion such as yourself."

Then, as if his own words had unlocked something long buried, Paris paused, his eyes clouded with reflection. “The only company I knew were those who cared for me. But they’ve gone to another city, chasing a different life—leaving me with nothing but the sheep.” His gaze faltered, a faint shadow passing over his features. “They are intelligent creatures, yes, but… they lack the understanding that comes with a human touch.”

“Really?” Percy’s voice was laced with disbelief, his brow furrowing in skepticism. “You’re too handsome to have escaped notice. There must’ve been a woman, at least one.” His tone was teasing, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity beneath it.

Paris’s face bloomed with a sudden flush, a soft pink coloring his cheeks. He shifted, embarrassed yet unwilling to retreat from the truth.

"There was this nymph… Oenone." He spoke the name like a half-remembered dream, his voice tinged with something distant. "She chased me more than I chased her, really. But… it didn’t work out in the end."

“A nymph?” Percy echoed, his voice edged with surprise. He never imagined the supernatural world was so intricately bound to the mortal realm, not in the present time, at least.

“And you?” Paris asked in return, his voice laced with both curiosity and a flicker of hesitation, as if treading on a territory he wasn’t quite sure how to navigate. “Was there— or is there— someone dear to your heart? Someone to spend the cold night with?”

Percy felt the warmth rise in his cheeks, the rush of memories flooding him—golden hair, silver eyes filled with wisdom and laughter that echoed in his mind, a scent of something comforting and familiar.

“There was,” he said quietly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite himself. “Annabeth.” The name came out like a soft breath, a whisper of something long cherished. “She is… a mortal girl.” His smile wavered. “We were together, but… it didn’t work out.” The words felt foreign in his mouth, bitter-sweet, yet wrapped in a quiet tenderness. “We’re still best friends,” he added, tapping his chalice absently, as if trying to ground himself.

Paris studied him, his expression unreadable. “Where is she now?” he asked, his voice quiet, but sharp, probing.

Percy hesitated, caught between the truth and the lie he wished he could tell. “She’s—” he faltered, his voice trailing off, the distance between them suddenly too vast to cross with mere words. “Far away now,” he finished.

Paris nodded, his gaze softening for a fleeting moment, before he straightened, a new idea flickering in his eyes like a spark in the dark.

“I know what will make this night better,” he said, his voice a low hum of excitement. “Wait here.”

Without another word, Paris rose, his presence stirring the air around him.

As Paris vanished into the house, Percy remained seated, his mind adrift in the gentle fog of wine-induced reverie. Each sip seemed to deepen his intoxication, pulling him further into a blissful haze.

When Paris returned, he cradled in his hands an instrument that seemed to shimmer with otherworldly grace, its delicate strings glistening like threads of spun silver in the moonlight.

"It's a psalterion," Paris explained, his fingers moving over the strings with practiced ease, coaxing forth a melody that danced upon the air like leaves in a gentle breeze. It was a sound both familiar and foreign, reminiscent of the soft strumming of a guitar mingled with the ethereal tones of a harp.

For a moment, Percy allowed himself to be swept away by the music, the cares of the world fading into the background as he surrendered to the enchantment of the melody. In that fleeting instant, he felt a sense of peace wash over him, as if the music held the power to heal the wounds of the soul and mend the broken pieces of his spirit.

The alcohol and Paris’ music intertwined with the quiet murmur of the stream seemed to lull Percy into sleep. He descended onto the grass, his eyes closing as Hypnos' embrace enveloped him, guiding him into a tranquil dreamland.

As he settled into his slumber, the linen cloth slipped from his leg, catching Paris's attention. His brow furrowed as he noticed the unblemished skin beneath, with no trace of the wounds he had tended mere hours before.

The psalterion‘s gentle melody abruptly ceased, swallowed by the quiet whispers of the night.

Chapter Text

Paris brought Percy's limp body back to the house, laying him gently on the cot. Determined to make him more comfortable in his sleep, he started with the sandals, carefully removing them and setting them aside. Next, he moved to the chiton, unclasping it with deliberate care and sliding it from Percy's shoulders until it fell away completely. As the garment slipped to the ground, Paris's mind filled with questions at the sight of numerous scars marring Percy's body, each one a silent testament to the battles he had fought.

Who was this boy, truly? Paris wondered. He healed with an unnatural swiftness, far beyond the bounds of mere mortals, and yet the scars remained. Was he a demigod, sprung from the union of deity and human? Or perhaps a nymph, a spirit of nature bound in flesh?

Paris had often stolen glances at Einalian, glimpses caught in fleeting moments, but now he had the chance to study him closely. The boy’s skin was soft to the touch where the scars did not linger. His black, tousled hair just reaching the ends of his ears. His sea-green eyes, now closed in slumber, possessed a peculiar feature: at times, Paris thought he saw violet specks dancing within them.

Paris's gaze drifted to Percy’s hands. With gentle care, he opened Percy’s palm and beheld curious symbols etched upon it, white as the frost of early morn. They resembled tattoos, yet there was an ominous air about them. Paris's brow furrowed in contemplation. Was the boy perhaps cursed by some vengeful god? The mystery deepened as Paris pondered the significance of these signs.

When his curiosity was sated just enough, he tenderly covered Percy's body with a warm blanket, ensuring he was cocooned in comfort and warmth.

As Paris stood by the cot, he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of empathy for Percy. The boy's vulnerability stirred something within him, a desire to protect and understand him.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Paris was already awake, the morning stillness wrapping around him like a cloak.

The small room was filled with the soft, flickering glow of olive oil lamps that adorned the shrine. The gentle, smoky tendrils of burning herb incense wafted through the air, filling the space with their aromatic presence. Paris had laid out the ritual rites with meticulous care, placing pieces of pergamine at the feet of the statue of Apollo, each inscribed with prayers and invocations.

He remembered Einalian's words, that he would eventually find himself without the interference of the gods. Yet Paris's heart ached with a burning desire to help his new friend.

Kneeling before the shrine, Paris prayed, his voice a soft murmur in the stillness of the night.

"Mnemosyne, mistress of memory, the sweet and the sharp, protector of history, hear my plea," Paris whispered, his eyes closed in concentration. "Grant my friend Einalian the wisdom and clarity he seeks, that the past may be revealed and the future unveiled. Guide him with your light, and let your blessings fall upon him."

The light of the rising sun gradually illuminated the room, casting a warm glow over Paris as he continued his prayers. Each word stood as a testament to his unwavering faith, a link between mortal and divine. He believed fervently that the goddess would heed his plea.

And heed it she did, but not alone.

“Paris has lost his mind, mother,” commented Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. She stood tall and regal, her golden hair cascading down her back like a river of sunlight. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“How could he pray for someone who does not exist?” questioned Melpomene, the muse of tragedy. Her dark, flowing robes and somber expression contrasted with Calliope's brightness.

Usually, when mortals send prayers for someone, the gods perceive the person within their brilliant minds, their divine sight piercing through the veils of time and space to find the supplicant. They can then decide whether to direct their blessings or withhold them. But this time, when Mnemosyne, sought to find the one called Einalian, she saw nothing. Even if the name was fake, she should see something, but a black void stared back at her, a chasm of emptiness that defied her ancient sight. This anomaly surprised her so deeply that she called for her daughters.

“Maybe he’s a mere phantom, that appeared in dear Paris’ dream,” suggested Terpsichore, the muse of dance. She moved with an ethereal grace, her flowing garments shimmering like the stars.

Everyone knew of Paris’s great sense of justice and righteousness, if Paris sought help, the gods' favored son should surely receive it. Yet, how could she grant his wish if she could not find this Einalian boy?

Paris's prayer hung in the air, a thread of earnest hope weaving through the divine ether. Mnemosyne’s mind was troubled, for never before had a mortal's plea led to such an impenetrable void. She gazed at her daughters, their faces reflecting the same curiosity and concern.

Melpomene, spoke first, her dark eyes filled with solemnity, "Mother, if Einalian is obscured from our sight, there must be a reason. Some force, be it divine or mortal, shields him."

Paris's next revelation left them intrigued:

"His wounds heal swiftly, his attire peculiar," Paris confided to them, his words sparking curiosity. "I suspect he conceals a secret or has forgotten his true nature. I question whether he is truly the mortal he claims, or something else entirely. If he is cursed, I beseech you to lift it, for his sake and mine."

Mnemosyne exchanged a glance with her daughters, her expression grave.

Percy woke with a pounding headache, his head splitting with each ray of sunlight that pierced through his closed eyelids. With a groan, he rolled from the bed, eliciting a chuckle from Paris.

"I didn't realize you were such a lightweight with wine, my friend," Paris commented, amusement lacing his tone.

Percy felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. To succumb to drunkenness on his first day in Troy was a shameful display, particularly considering the weight of his mission.

"Forgive me," Percy mumbled, his voice thick with regret.

Paris offered a sympathetic pat on the head, his gesture carrying the warmth of fraternal affection. "I'm just glad you allowed yourself some rest."

The realization that he was naked beneath the blanket sent a bolt of panic through Percy's already throbbing head. Had Paris undressed him while he slept? Or worse, had he stripped himself in his inebriated state?

"Where are my clothes?" Percy asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.

"You seemed uncomfortable, so I removed them. They're right here," Paris replied, handing him his chiton. Paris noticed Percy's lingering gaze on his wrists, a subtle indication of the importance he placed on those bracelets.

“I would like to wash myself, do you have a body of water where I could soak in?” He asked.

“Sea for example.” Paris answered surprised Percy was even asking that, since they lived on a coast. “Or perhaps, salt is too rough for your delicate skin?” He asked, voice testing.

“Very funny.” Percy answered, but his eyes betrayed something akin to reluctance.

“There’s lake not far from here. Just go down the stream and you will eventually find it.” Paris said.

“Right, thanks.” Percy said heading to the doors. But before he left, he looked again at his bracelets, felt the key on his neck before exiting. Paris's gaze lingered on him as he left.

Percy sighed with relief at the sight of the lake hidden within the quiet forest. A smile played on his lips as he waded into the water. It didn’t cover him completely, but it was enough to bathe and relax. He descended to the bottom, sitting in a fetal position. His mind, for once, was quiet.

When he resurfaced, it took him a moment to notice a strange man sitting on a tree branch, looking at him directly, a smile playing on his lips.

Percy was supposed to be invisible, right?

He checked his wrists. One was missing. Dread surged through him, cold as death.

"Halt for a moment," he heard as he tried to dive into the water again to retrieve it. He stopped; the voice was too familiar to ignore.

"What do you want?" Percy asked, impatience growing. He really didn’t want to stay visible any longer.

"Why so rude, little nymph?" The man laughed as he descended from the tree.

His slender form was draped in a tunic of shimmering white, his winged sandals glinting in the sunlight. His skin bore the warmth of the earth, tanned and golden, a striking contrast to the silver of his eyes, which sparkled with a mischievous glint.

His hair, a cascade of soft, dark curls, framed a face that radiated the vitality of youth—a visage so effortlessly carefree that it belied the cunning and wit lurking beneath.

Hermes, the messenger of the gods, stood before him. Despite appearing much younger than Percy remembered, his aura remained as potent as ever, a reminder of his unpredictability.

Hermes observed Percy with a gleam in his eye. "I occasionally grace Ida with my presence to watch over someone, but you, I’ve never seen," he stated, his tone probing. "Are you a naiad nymph, perhaps?" Despite Percy's inclination to deny, the god of thieves intercepted his response. "Don't trouble yourself; I already know. You’ve been under that water for some time. Any mortal would have resurfaced dead by now," he remarked.

Percy, with his bracelet lost somewhere in the lake's depths, was in no mood for conversation or pleasantries.

"Is this what you seek?" Hermes inquired, a wily smile dancing upon his lips as he extended the bracelet. "An intriguing trinket," he commented, his curiosity aroused as he examined its radiant allure. The potent, safeguarding aura of magic was unmistakable. "A token from a fellow deity, I presume?" he speculated, noting the intricate craftsmanship and the palpable resonance of divine energy that emanated from it.

"I would appreciate its return," Percy replied, his tone devoid of warmth. It was challenging to sound intimidating when one found themselves half-submerged in a lake, weaponless, and unclothed, with a god scrutinizing them like a hawk.

"I might consider it," Hermes mused, his piercing gaze fixated on Percy through the hole of the bracelet, "if you reveal the identity of the deity who favors you so." With a swift movement, he descended from the tree to stand at the water's edge, his wings fluttering with anticipation, the bracelet dangling teasingly from his fingers.

Percy stiffened, his mind racing as his eyes narrowed. “How’s that your business?” he shot back, his voice laced with a defiance he didn’t entirely feel. He had learned by now to mask his uncertainties with a confident exterior, but Hermes wasn’t one to be deterred by such masks. The god’s eyes, once light silver, darkened swiftly into a deep, stormy grey, and with a sudden movement, he took a step closer.

“It is so that I might know from whom I shall be stealing you,” Hermes replied, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. Percy blinked, confusion flickering across his face. Steal? What did that mean? The distaste that bloomed on his features must have been clear, for Hermes's lips curled in the faintest of smiles.

“Don’t deny me, little nymph,” Hermes said, his tone turning colder, sharper. “I asked you a question.” 

Percy forced himself not to huff in annoyance, though the tension coiled tight within him. 

"Alright," Percy said, his voice quiet but firm, the words a subtle challenge in themselves. "Step nearer, and I shall tell you." He gave a slight nod.

Hermes complied eagerly, stepping into the water with a lithe grace, his every movement a dance of irresistible allure. He drew closer, until the space between them was but a whisper of air. "Will you divulge your secrets, little naiad?"

His gaze swept over Percy’s exposed form with unabashed hunger, the flicker of something raw in his eyes—something that made Percy’s brow furrow in discomfort.

"Isn't it foolish to step so near?" Percy retorted. He met Hermes’s gaze head-on, unflinching. "Since I am a water nymph, I could easily overpower you in my domain." His head tilted slightly, a challenge born of the sea’s wildness.

Hermes’s eyes widened, the glint of amusement dancing in their depths before he laughed, the sound tinkling like silver bells ringing through the stillness. 

"You amuse me so," he said, his voice laced with a mocking delight. "What a fortunate day this is, to find you here." His laughter began to subside, replaced by something colder, yet still tinged with amusement. "How adorable," he continued, his voice softening to a purr, "to think you could overpower me."

The words, meant to mock, only served to fuel the fire burning inside Percy. He took it as a challenge, one he would not back from.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding and with the swiftness of a storm unleashed, Percy struck. He summoned the waters to his will, the river surging at his command. A great spray of water shot forth, crashing into Hermes, sending the god stumbling backward onto the bank, his wings flailing to regain balance.

The bracelet slipped from the god's grasp, its silver sheen catching the light for a brief moment before it tumbled into the water.

Before Hermes could recover, before he could grasp the depth of the turn in events, Percy seized the bracelet with a swift movement and emerged from the lake, his heart pounding with adrenaline. He ran as if propelled by unseen forces, his feet barely touching the ground, his breath ragged in his ears.

As Hermes chuckled, removing the clinging algae from his face, his amusement was tinged with irritation. "Clever nymph," he conceded, shaking his head in reluctant admiration. "Definitely worthy of the chase."

"Einalian!" Paris's voice echoed through the gathering dusk as the sun dipped below the horizon. He searched everywhere, along the stream, by the lake, even venturing into the market to inquire after the boy, but no one had seen him.

Meanwhile, Percy sat huddled in a cave he had managed to find, fleeing from the wrath of Hermes. The bracelets remained securely fastened on his wrists, their gentle glow casting an ethereal light upon his face in the dimness of the cave.

He shivered, unsure if it was from the cold or the fear that gripped him. Hermes's voice reverberated through the trees, calling out to him, but eventually, it faded, giving Percy a glimmer of hope that the god had relented. Percy was taken aback by the Hermes he encountered. Unlike the familiar figure he had known before, this version seemed primal, untamed, and utterly terrifying in his essence.

He couldn't shake the unsettling notion that perhaps all the gods were similarly multifaceted. Hekate's warning echoed in his mind, reminding him that each deity might manifest in various forms and temperaments. The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth, especially when he pondered his own father, Poseidon. How much more daunting would the seas become with his presence?

"Einalian!" Percy's head snapped up at the sound of his name. It was Paris. Percy parted the vines covering the entrance of the cave, gesturing for him to come closer. "I'm here," he said softly.

Paris rushed to him, worry etched on his face. "I've been searching everywhere for you," he said, his arms reaching out to assess Percy for any injuries. "What happened?" he asked, draping an outer robe over Percy's trembling form.

“I got lost again,” Percy lied, forcing a weak smile. “My memory fails me still.”

Paris’s brow furrowed in concern, his sharp gaze taking in the disarray of Percy’s state—why was he naked, and why did he tremble so? 

“Did something spook you in the forest?” Paris asked, his voice soft yet probing.

“Yes, it was terrifying,” Percy replied, the words coming easily, though they barely skimmed the surface of the truth.

“Be it feral hounds or monsters, I will stand by you. Next time, call for me,” Paris declared, his voice firm and reassuring. A gentle smile tugged at his lips, offering comfort in a way Percy didn’t feel he deserved.

A familiar pang of guilt washed over Percy.

After his encounter with Hermes, Hekate, not pleased with the whole situation, had warned Percy to stay most vigilant, especially after managing to pique the god of thieves' interest. Percy had learned that his left bracelet protected him from the eyes of gods, while the right one obscured him from mortal attention. Sometimes, he wore only one, to shield from the gods but not from the people, particularly when they ventured into the city, indulging in its vibrant life.

As the weeks unfolded, Percy found himself immersed in the rhythm of life alongside Paris. Their routine, though simple, brought a sense of purpose and camaraderie that Percy had not anticipated. Each morning began with the familiar tasks of herding sheep and harvesting fruits from the garden. Sometimes they ventured into the bustling market to sell their goods, where Paris would regale Percy with tales of the city and the encounters he had with gods, who seemed to hold him in high regard.

One such story recounted the time Paris had served as a judge at a local cattle show. Despite the temptation to favor his own bull, Paris had awarded the prize to an unknown contender, basing his decision solely on merit. It turned out that the mysterious bull was none other than the god Ares in disguise—a revelation that did not surprise Percy in the least. Demigod was certain, that such fair judgment and impartiality were the very qualities that had led Zeus to choose Paris as the arbiter in the contest among the goddesses.

Yet, despite the outward tranquility of their days, Percy wrestled with an inner turmoil that gnawed at his conscience. The thought of harming Paris, once a distant task assigned by Hekate, now filled him with a profound sense of revulsion. He cursed his own weakness, his inability to carry out the deed that had been asked of him. For in the brief span of their time together, Percy had come to regard Paris not as a mere acquaintance, but as a friend.

Unbeknownst to Percy, Paris too harbored secrets of his own.

In the quiet moments of solitude, Paris would kneel before the altar, his whispered pleas echoing in the stillness of the night, a silent supplication to the goddess of memory for the salvation of his dear friend.

"He's at it once more," Mnemosyne mused, her attention fixed on the mirror before her. Within its depths, Paris knelt in prayer, the tendrils of smoke ascending to the ceiling of his modest dwelling, while candles flickered, illuminating his handsome features.

Yet, there was still no sign of the boy he prayed for so fervently.

"Should we alert our lord?" she pondered, a hint of worry in her voice.

Calliope paused, her expression contemplative. “Apollo's vision may penetrate the veil surrounding the boy.”

Terpsichore's eyes gleamed with excitement as she twirled gracefully. “Yes, let’s inform Apollo. This tale may inspire a dance worthy of the gods.”

And so, the muses ascended to the golden halls of Apollo, where the god of light and prophecy dwelled. The temple was a magnificent structure, its pillars of purest marble glowing with an inner radiance, its roof adorned with frescoes depicting the sun’s daily journey across the sky. As they entered, the muses were greeted by the warm glow of Apollo’s presence.

He sat at ease upon a long, reclining chair, his form draped in light, a lyre resting in his hands. It seemed as though he was tending to the instrument, his fingers deftly adjusting the strings, which flowed lazily around him like tendrils of hair caught in a soft, wandering breeze.

His golden eyes, deep and knowing, slowly turned to meet theirs.

"Mnemosyne has sent us, great Apollo," Calliope began, her voice resonating with a melodic cadence.

"I am listening," Apollo replied, his voice smooth and unhurried.

Calliope’s gaze remained steady as she spoke again. "We seek your guidance in a matter shrouded in mystery. Paris, son of Priam, prays for a friend named Einalian, yet this boy is hidden from our sight, lost in a void that defies our divine perception."

Apollo listened intently, his fingers gently strumming a tune that seemed to echo the very heartbeat of the cosmos. With a furrowed brow, he closed his eyes in concentration, as though attempting to perceive the boy's presence.

Melpomene stepped forward, her voice a soft lament. "We implore you to lend us your insight, to help us pierce the veil that conceals him."

"My sight too fails to find him," Apollo murmured in surprise opening his golden eyes. "Is he a being of flesh and blood, or a figment of Paris's imagination?" he pondered, his impatience evident as he regarded the muses.

“We maintain our belief in his existence, my lord. Paris harbors suspicions that he may transcend mere mortality,” Calliope assured as Apollo's curiosity simmered within him.

Apollo set the lyre aside with a single, deliberate motion, rising from his seat without a word. The muses, their hearts quickened by the silent intensity of his action, followed in his wake.

With a swift motion, Apollo raised his hand, summoning his magnificent carriage. It was a chariot of gleaming gold, adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of divine triumph. Its wheels, spun from precious metals, gleamed in the sunlight, while majestic white horses stood poised to carry their master across the skies.

"I was bored anyway," Apollo said, his voice light, yet carrying the weight of a god’s decision. He stepped into the chariot with a fluid grace, casting one last glance at his muses. “I shall uncover the truth myself.”

With that, he gave a subtle flick of his wrist, and the chariot surged forward, cutting through the air with the swiftness of a lightning bolt, leaving the muses to stand in stunned silence.

The chariot cut through the heavens, its speed unfathomable, carrying Apollo over the jagged peaks of Mount Ida. From this lofty perch, where the stars shimmered like scattered diamonds, the god of the sun surveyed the world below with his keen, unblinking gaze.

As the chariot glided over the lush fields, Apollo’s sharp eyes caught sight of a figure lounging carelessly in the verdant grasses. It was his brother. Hermes lay amidst the fields, his winged sandals resting beside him, his posture languid, as though the weight of the world did not concern him.

"Hermes, idling away your time? How unusual," Apollo remarked as he descended.

Hermes, still reclining in the grass with a careless grace, lifted his gaze lazily to meet his brother’s. 

“What brings you down from Olympus, brother? Have you also been ensnared by a nymph's charms?” Hermes quipped, arching an eyebrow at Apollo's focused gaze.

“If you've set your sights on a nymph, why hasn't she fallen into your grasp already?” Apollo inquired, stepping down from his chariot with a measured grace.

"He," Hermes corrected with a smirk, his tone dripping with amusement. "He eludes me for now. A clever little thing, adorned in peculiar artifacts, bracelets that render him invisible even under my gaze," Hermes revealed.

Apollo considered his words carefully, would they have in mind the same person? He, too, pursued an enigma that evaded his inner sight.

"A nymph outwitted you? Now that's a tale worth hearing," Apollo remarked with a hint of amusement, though a shadow of concern lingered in his gaze.

Hermes chuckled, his excitement palpable as he spoke. "He disrespected me, but in such an alluring way. Before I punish him, I may just have my way with him."

Apollo arched an eyebrow, a subtle expression of skepticism crossing his features. "Your intentions are as unpredictable as ever, brother," he remarked dryly.

Despite the gravity of their conversation, a playful glint danced in Hermes's eyes. "Indeed, but isn't that the beauty of it all?" he quipped, producing a piece of material from his bottomless pouch and examining it with a mixture of fascination and intrigue.

"You've managed to take his clothes," Apollo commented, eyeing the peculiar attire with keen interest. The fabric appeared divine, woven from spider wool that shimmered in the wind, carrying intricate symbols of moon phases reminiscent of his sister Artemis.

Hermes chuckled, twirling the fabric between his fingers. "Now, I have only this, but soon I will have him whole," he said, his smile sharp.

Apollo’s lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. A mere nymph wouldn't adorn himself in such high-quality materials and jewelry. If the boy were truly favored by a god, Olympus would have already heard of it. Apollo was convinced he wasn't just a mere nymph but someone of far greater significance. Perhaps even a demigod.

His dear brother didn’t need to be made aware of it.

“The wedding of Thetis and Peleus draws near. Zeus has tasked you with delivering invitations to the gods. Best you set about your duties before I report to our father you prefer to chase after a nymph," Apollo commanded, his voice firm and authoritative, cutting through the air like a sword.

He took nymph’s chiton from Hermes, shooting him a warning glance when the mischievous god attempted to protest.

Hermes's grin wavered, morphing into a scowl. Not wishing to further provoke his brother's anger, he merely muttered, "You're a killjoy," before vanishing into the ether.

Satisfied, Apollo examined the material once more. The intricate fabric woven from spider webs, the portrayal of moon phases, the hint of invisibility—all unmistakably pointed to one goddess.

He gazed up at the newly risen sun. The day was his ally, and he would harness its power until darkness once again shrouded the land.

Chapter Text

Before the sun graced the peaks of Mount Ida, Percy sat by the stream, his reflection distorted by ripples. Clad in Paris's green chiton, the fabric draped loosely from his shoulders.

His hands, squeezed freshly picked herbs, their fragrance filling the air. Each leaf crushed beneath his fingers seemed to draw him deeper into the moment.

He was communing with Hekate, her presence a shadowy form in the misty dawn. Her voice, usually measured and calm, now carried an urgent tone.

"It appears not only Hermes knows of you, but Apollo’s Muses as well," Hekate said, her voice hurried. "My messenger has informed me of their excited whispers as they descended to Apollo’s domain. They were repeating your name like a song." Her lips tightened, betraying her concern.

Her gaze sharpened as she noticed the dawning realization in Percy’s eyes. “You knew…”

"Paris suggested I pray to Mnemosyne for the restoration of my memory," Percy explained. "But I didn’t know he was praying in my spite."

"Paris has unknowingly set the wheel of events in motion," Hekate commented. "The prophecy is spinning by the hands of the Fates, and time is not our ally," she warned, her words bearing a dark undertone.

She expected him to kill Paris any day now.

Percy stood, his nerves frayed. "I may have doubts," he admitted, pacing around the clearing.

"Of course you do," Hekate answered, her tone softer yet still firm. She knew well of Percy’s attachment to the young prince. Nevertheless, she expected him to complete his mission if he wished to return home.

"Is there maybe another way to avoid the war, but let Paris live?" he asked, desperation tinging his voice.

"Are you familiar with the story of King Oedipus?" Hekate inquired.

Percy nodded, but Hekate recounted the tale nonetheless. "He spent his life fleeing from the doom foretold by his prophecy, only to fall into its clutches. He had intercourse with his own mother, killed his father, all without knowledge, all in a futile attempt to escape his fate. It was unavoidable."

"It wouldn’t happen if... he wasn’t chosen by Zeus to judge the three goddesses," Percy said, his voice choked. "What if Paris disappeared from their sight?" He looked at his bracelets. "I could give him my left bracelet; if he disappears, he could escape the prophecy altogether. Isn’t that worth the risk?"

Hekate’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of empathy softening the stern lines of her features. "It is a dangerous path you propose, Percy. The Fates are relentless, and their tapestry is intricate. I fear that Paris' demise may be the only resolution.”

But Percy refused to accept her grim prognosis. Clinging desperately to the flicker of hope within him, he lowered himself onto the verdant grass, his hands shielding his anguished face from the world.

"I see you need a little encouragement, a little persuasion," Hekate's voice cut through the air, her tone steely. Her form began to rise from the water, her violet eyes piercing through him with an intensity that was almost unbearable. She extended her hands, and before Percy could react, she embraced him with a motherly tenderness, only to yank him into the water with her.

At that very moment, Paris awoke from his sleep and witnessed this strange scene. "Einalian?" he called out, running to the stream, but there was no sign of him in the shallow waters.

Percy found himself in what he could only describe as hell. If hell encompassed everything that was the worst and most terrifying, then he was indeed in it.

"Where are we?" he asked the goddess, his voice trembling with fear.

"In Troy, amidst the Achaean siege," Hekate answered, her voice cold and distant.

Troops of Achaean soldiers were ravaging the city, smashing statues, stalls, and temples, killing fathers, and dragging daughters from their homes, raping them mercilessly on blood-soaked pavements.

Mothers screamed for their children as they were thrown into fire pits before Apollo's desecrated golden temple.

The lamentations, the cries, the screams—they threatened to drive Percy mad with their sheer intensity.

He looked up and saw Ares, the god of war, standing atop a white building, his red eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he observed the unfolding horrors, his lust for blood ever unsated. Upon sensing Percy's scrutiny, Ares's smile widened, the sharpness of his grin accentuated by the cruel twist of his lips.

"Come here, you whore. Prayers won’t help you anymore," a soldier jeered, his laughter echoing with cruel intent as he seized Percy by the hair, wrenching him forcefully onto the sodden ground beneath. With relentless pressure, the soldier pinned Percy beneath him, the weight of his armored body bearing down upon him with suffocating force.

In a brutal onslaught of violence, the soldier's teeth sank into Percy's vulnerable throat, tearing at his flesh with savage ferocity. He yanked roughly at Percy's blonde locks, his touch invasive as he groped at the contours of Percy's form, his hands violating the sanctity of Percy's body. With callous disregard, he forced Percy's legs apart, his actions driven by a depraved lust for dominance and control.

In that moment, Percy's mind reeled in confusion and horror. It was as though he had been thrust into the body of another, forced to bear witness to the unspeakable brutality unfolding before him.

"Apollo's priestess," Hekate explained with sorrow. "One of many who were not fortunate enough to die before the men tortured and claimed them."

As the nightmarish scene dissolved around him, Percy crumpled to the ground, his own body once again his own. The flood of relief that washed over him was overwhelming, but soon a wave of nausea surged within him.

Clutching his stomach, Percy fought against the urge to vomit, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the trauma he had endured.

"This is the fate that awaits Troy if you do not fulfill your duty," Hekate's voice was stern, echoing in the void around him.

Percy nodded weakly, the vision had burned itself into his memory, leaving him trembling.

"Above all, think of your mother," Hekate's voice softened, but there was an edge to it, like the cold gleam of a blade. "As you watch Paris’s life flee from his eyes, think of her. It is the price of her health, of your happiness.”

When Percy returned, he found himself lying on the grass, his breaths ragged, his mouth salivating from nausea. With a trembling hand, he pushed himself up onto all fours, his muscles protesting against the strain as he fought to regain his composure.

"Where were you?" Paris asked, reaching out to steady him, his voice tinged with relief and concern.

"Don’t touch me!" Percy cried, shying away from Paris’s touch, scrambling from the grass like a spooked animal. He couldn't bear to look at him.

Paris, surprised by Percy’s strange behavior, looked at his friend with unease. Despite his confusion, he ran after him and pinned him to the ground.

"Which deity torments you so?" Paris demanded, his voice edged with urgency as he refused to release Percy from his hold. "Which god inflicts upon you these restless dreams that haunt your nights? I know that torment all too well," he confessed.

"How would you know how I feel?" Percy's desperate gaze met Paris's, his eyes clouded with anguish as he struggled against his friend's restraining grasp. Despite his efforts, he found himself overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotions.

The screams... they made his bones rattle.

"Every night in my dreams, I see torches burning relentlessly. Their fire reveals terrible scenes. I'm just a shepherd; why am I seeing visions of Troy burning, of people I care about dying?" Paris's voice quivered with fear and confusion.

"Torches?" Percy questioned, his mind in a whirlwind.

Percy fell silent, his mind a chaos. How was that possible? Had he too been plagued by dreadful visions shown to Percy by Hekate? Not once, but night after night.

"Prince," Percy told him. "You’re Troy’s prince. The prophecy said, you will be the reason for the city’s downfall." He added bitterly. His eyes turned to the side, catching sight of a dagger appearing on the grass, its polished surface calling to him.

"Prophecy? Prince? What do you mean? Einalian?" Paris asked, confused until he too saw the dagger.

The cries…women raped, children burned, men slaughtered.

His mother.

Percy screamed and overpowered Paris, reversing their positions with a swift, forceful movement. With Paris now pinned beneath him, Percy reached out to grab the blade, his fingers stretching towards the weapon with urgent determination.

He felt his soul crumbling, guilt raging inside him like wildfire, but he had to do it.

"What are you doing?" Paris asked, eyeing the blade in Percy’s hands. It’s glint reflected in warm eyes.

Percy’s heart pounded in his chest, his resolve teetering. He could see the trust and confusion in Paris’s eyes, and it tore at him. Yet, the vision of Troy’s destruction loomed in his mind, and Hekate's words echoed within him.

"You have to die," Percy said, his voice breaking. "To save them all, you have to die."

Paris looked at him, a mix of horror and sorrow dawning on his face. "Einalian… let go of that dagger, let’s talk."

"I wish it didn't have to be this way," Percy whispered, his hands quivering as he lifted the dagger, its blade glinting in the dim light. "But it's the only way..."

A lone howl echoed through the valley, its mournful cry a harbinger of impending doom. Three times the sound pierced the air before fading into an eerie silence, leaving behind a sense of foreboding that hung heavy in the stillness.

Paris released a silent gasp as he enveloped Percy in a desperate embrace, the weight of their shared anguish palpable in the air. Beneath them, the verdant grass darkened, stained by the spilled blood that bore witness to their tragic bond. In Paris's eyes, a tumult of emotions flickered, first shock, then disbelief, and finally the cold sting of betrayal.

"I lov—," Paris murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he clung to Percy, his strength ebbing away with each passing moment.

Percy's heart pounded in his chest as he wriggled free from Paris's weakening embrace, his robe now stained with blood. He tried to register Paris's whispered words, but the sight of him lying there, blood gushing from his mouth, was too much to bear.

The weight of the dagger in Percy's hand felt unbearable. With trembling fingers, he let it slip from his grasp, the metal clattering softly against the grass.

He stumbled backwards, his mind reeling with the enormity of what he had done.

Overwhelmed by guilt and horror, Percy turned and ran. He ran like the wind, his heart pounding in his chest, climbing through the humid air until he reached the sea.

Without a moment's hesitation, he flung himself into Poseidon's domain.

As Percy remained submerged in the depths of the ocean, he gradually became aware of a curious realization: he could breathe underwater for a quite long time, longer than he had ever breathed before. It was a small comfort amidst the vast expanse of the sea, where time seemed to lose its meaning. Days, perhaps weeks passed by, but Percy couldn't tell for sure. Hekate's magic, pulsating within him, kept him alive, a constant reminder of the debt he owed to the goddess.

Despite his isolation, Percy found solace in the gentle glow emanating from his bracelets, their light reflecting softly on his face. The patterns of light and shadow danced across his skin, creating a mesmerizing display in the otherwise dark depths. He remained clad in Paris's robe, the fabric stained with blood that seemed to seep into its very fibers, a poignant reminder of the pain and guilt that weighed heavy on his soul.

In the silence of the ocean's embrace, Percy pondered the intentions of Hekate. Did she search for him, or had she chosen to give him time to come to terms with his guilt and the void that gnawed at him from within? The answer eluded him, lost in the vastness of the ocean that surrounded him, leaving him to confront his demons in the solitude of the deep.

Percy sometimes found himself drifting into sleep, seeking respite from the relentless weight of his thoughts. At first, his slumber was dreamless, a welcome escape from the turmoil that plagued his waking hours.

But then, one fateful night, the dreams came, and they were terrifying.

The siege of Troy unfolded once more before his eyes. White pillars crumbled into ruin, blood flowed on marble steps, and the cries of the murdered echoed through the air like haunting melodies.

As the soldiers advanced, Percy fought with all his might, his sword slashing through the air with deadly precision. He stood firm, determined to protect the Westal priestesses who sought refuge behind him. The clang of metal against metal filled the air, mingling with the cries of battle and the scent of blood.

Amidst the chaos, he glimpsed the victorious laughter of the Achaeans, their faces contorted with the thrill of conquest. Not far from them, he saw the figure of his friend Paris, standing alone amidst the carnage. A dagger protruded from his stomach, crimson blood staining his garments as he staggered forward with grim determination.

The once-gleaming eyes of his friend now blazed like infernal coals, reflecting the relentless fury of Ares, the god of war. With a sword clenched tightly in his hand and a sinister grin twisting his features, Paris advanced towards Percy, his gaze filled with madness.

In that moment, everything around them seemed to fade away, leaving only Percy and Paris locked in a deadly dance. His mind raced with the pressing need to escape the unfolding nightmare.

He dashed towards the nearest door, the key hanging around his neck now clutched tightly in his trembling hands.

As he reached the door, his breaths ragged and frantic, Percy wasted no time in unlocking it. With a swift motion, he turned the key in the lock, the mechanism yielding to his desperation.

The darkness beyond the threshold enveloped him like a shroud, and two torches flickered to life, casting eerie illumination upon the void. Percy, drawn by their beckoning light, moved closer, his heart pounding. Suddenly, amidst the shadows, the spectral form of Hekate materialized, her presence a haunting echo in the vast expanse of the dream realm.

"Paris lives," Hekate intoned, her face a cold mask.

"I—what?" Percy asked, his voice quavering with confusion and guilt. "I—I stabbed him, saw him bleeding to death by my hands," he said, the weight of his actions heavy on his conscience.

"Apollo intervened after you fled," Hekate said, her words carrying a haunting weight. "He saved the boy, and now he's looking for you."

Percy's heart swelled with a mixture of disbelief and profound relief as he processed the truth: Paris lived. Overwhelmed by the enormity of the revelation, he collapsed to his knees, his emotions cascading like waves crashing upon the shore.

But then, Percy grappled with the realization that Paris's survival meant his mission had failed, a heavy pall of guilt and despair settled over him like a suffocating shroud. He hadn't been able to fulfill his duty, safeguard the future from the looming threat.

Failed to protect his mother, the one soul who tethered him to hope. He was weak.

Tears carved silent trails down his face, crystalline streaks catching the dim light like fractured shards of his own resolve. His chest heaved, but no sound escaped his lips, as if voicing his grief might make it all too real.

"I need to fix this," he reiterated, his voice thick with turmoil. "There must be another path, another resolution.”

But Hekate's sharp rebuttal pierced through his resolve like a dagger. "Haven't you heard me?" she retorted, her tone dripping with disdain. "Apollo is searching for you, and he will leave no stone unturned until he finds you. Paris is his favorite follower. In god’s eyes he is righteous and good-hearted. Your attempt on his life was without reason, and the gods take such offenses gravely," she reminded Percy, her brows furrowing in disapproval.

Percy's resolve wavered for a moment, but then he straightened his shoulders, meeting Hekate's gaze squarely. "Let him come, I don't care," he declared, a defiant edge to his voice. "I've faced gods' wrath before, and it will be no different."

Hekate regarded him with pity, her expression softening slightly. "It will be much different. You don't know what gods are like in these times," she warned, her voice somber. "Apollo's wrath is legendary, even more so than Hera's. He hunts and kills his enemies with utmost creativity. His determination to find you will burn like a star, consuming all in its path. And when he does find you, you will lament the day of your birth," she prophesied, her words echoing ominously in Percy's mind.

Percy's body trembled with a mixture of apprehension and resignation. But had he not already endured trials beyond measure? What was another god's wrath to add to his burdens?

"How much time has passed since I’ve been gone?" Percy inquired, his voice weighed down by uncertainty.

"You've been absent for a month," Hekate replied, her tone grave and somber.

"Why did you not come to me sooner?" Percy pressed, his brow furrowing with concern.

"I have been forbidden from visiting Earth," Hekate explained, her voice tinged with regret. "They suspect me of treachery against Troy. Apollo sensed my magic upon the dagger," she admitted. "I had to beseech Hypnos for permission to reach you in your dreams. As it stands, I am confined to my realm in the underworld, and I fear I will not be released until you are found," she confessed.

Percy's heart sank at Hekate's revelation. Alone, without Paris or goddess by his side, he felt utterly lost and alone.

"I don't know what to do," Percy admitted, his voice heavy with despair.

But Hekate's response was one of reassurance."Welcome the sky again, Percy," she said, her voice gentle yet resolute. "Hope is not yet lost.”

Percy's mind raced with possibilities. "But where is Paris?" Percy questioned, the mere mention of his name stirring a tumult of emotions within him.

"Earlier than anticipated, he has taken his rightful place as a prince of Troy," Hekate replied. "Under the watchful gaze of the gods, he resides in the upper city now and is much more unapproachable.”

Percy nodded, a new determination hardening within him. "I’ll find a way to somehow get to him, and then…," he trailed off.

“Kill him? It’s too late for that,” Hekate interjected, her words slicing through Percy’s inner musings like a keen-edged blade. “You’ve already proven yourself incapable of such an act.”

Percy felt a sting of shame, but he knew she was right. "But I still don’t want Troy to fall,” he insisted.

“That’s why you need to be close to the unfolding events. What lies ahead is not the journey to Troy, but the path to Menelaus's realm, to Sparta. There, you will protect Helen.” Hekate explained, her gaze turning a sickly violet.

She raised her hand before Percy, her expression one of disappointment. “As I suspected, my connection to Earth has been severed,” Hekate lamented.

“What does that mean?” Percy asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“Your gifts may act defective,” Hekate replied bluntly.

Percy glanced down at his bracelets, feeling the weight of the key still hanging around his neck.

“How screwed am I?” he asked.

“We’ve found ourselves deep in horse muck,” Hekate admitted, a wry smile touching her lips. “But you can’t stay on the ocean bottom forever. Resurface, Percy. Be careful not to find yourself in bigger trouble than you already are.”

He doubted her words but nodded anyway, trying to muster some semblance of confidence.

As Hekate’s body began to fade, she added, “You have one month until the wedding, a week more to reach Sparta, and not let Helen be kidnapped,” she said, her voice echoing as she disappeared along with the torchlight. 

As Percy swam towards the light, the water began to grow warmer and brighter. When he resurfaced, he noticed a great warship sailing straight towards him with such speed that he knew something was amiss. As he wiped sea foam from his face, he saw burgundy tentacles emerging from the water, latching onto the side of the ship. Another tentacle followed suit, snaking its way onto the deck and grasping the leg of one of the soldiers, who screamed as he was dragged into the water.

Hekate's caution echoed in his mind, but Percy felt an overwhelming urge to amend his past inaction. The very fibers of his being thrummed with impatience, his muscles quivering with the need to act.

With a silent prayer to the sea, Percy called upon its power, propelling himself forward. He surged upward, emerging above the prow of the ship. The scene that greeted him was one of sheer pandemonium; terrified soldiers scattered across the deck, desperately seeking refuge as their comrades were ensnared by the sea monster's tentacles.

With adrenaline coursing through his veins, Percy spotted a weapon rack nearby and wasted no time in seizing a sword. With a deft motion, he unsheathed it and leapt forward to slash at the kraken’s tentacle, freeing one of the terrified soldiers.

The men looked at him in silent bewilderment before one of them yelled, “To the weapons! Keep the course to the shore!” rallying the crew into action.

Percy swung his blade with practiced skill, striking at the kraken’s massive limbs as they thrashed about, threatening to capsize the ship with their immense strength. But even as he fought, a nagging fear gnawed at the back of his mind.

The prayers of the terrified soldiers reverberated in his ears, their desperate pleas invoking the name of Poseidon. Would the sea god heed their cries, drawn by the chaos and the scent of blood in the water? Percy dreaded the prospect.

The giant squid retreated for a moment, but Percy knew it was only a temporary respite. With a determined grimace, he leaped from the ship, landing amidst the writhing tentacles. Ignoring the danger, he began to slash at the creature’s massive body, his sword cutting through flesh and sinew, turning the water around them crimson with blood.

As Percy believed the monster was finally defeated, a sudden blow knocked the wind out of him, a tentacle slamming into his chest with stunning force. His grip on his sword faltered, the weapon slipping from his fingers and disappearing into the thick mist of blood swirling around them. Before he could react, another tentacle snaked around his ankle, its grip like an iron vice as it dragged him down into the depths with surprising speed.

From the surface, Percy could hear the frantic screams of soldiers, “What are you gaping at? Help the boy!” echoing through the chaos of battle. But Percy made no move to struggle or call out for help. Instead, he allowed himself to be dragged deeper into the dark abyss, knowing that it might buy the crew precious moments to escape.

As darkness enveloped him yet again, Percy decided to finally let go of the squid, knowing they had already delved far enough. But as he reached to pry the tentacles away, he was startled to feel a human hand wrap around his ankle, its touch startlingly warm amidst the icy waters.

Glancing down, his eyes widened in horror as he recognized the familiar symbol resting on the stranger's arm—the trident.

With a surge of panic, Percy attempted to wriggle free from the god's grasp, but Poseidon's hold was unyielding, his grip firm and unrelenting as he dragged Percy further down into the abyss. Although the darkness should have obscured his vision, Percy could see surprisingly well, the faint glow from his bracelets casting an eerie light around him.

"Release me," Percy pleaded, his voice strained with desperation. "Lord Poseidon," he added, a note of deference creeping into his tone.

A flicker of intrigue danced in Poseidon’s azure eyes before his grip only tightened.

“Relinquish hope, for you are already ensnared within my grasp, sea ghost,” Poseidon declared, yanking Percy down until they were eye to eye. He drew Percy close, his gaze scrutinizing and bemused. The god's handsome countenance bore the weathered lines of the sea's unforgiving nature, his presence both regal and fearsome. Percy could sense the raw power emanating from him, the very essence of the ocean contained within his father's form.

“Sea ghost?” Percy questioned, bewildered.

“You elude detection, your scent barely perceptible, your form flickering like a torchlight,” Poseidon remarked, grazing Percy's pale cheek with his thumb.

Percy froze in stunned silence for a moment before panic surged within him.

“I am no wrath of the sea. I am y—” Percy began, but his words were swept away.

“Yet you have ensnared my gaze,” Poseidon interrupted, his voice deep as the ocean’s fathoms. “Consider yourself fortunate, boy. Rare are those who earn the privilege of my regard.” His eyes gleamed, their warmth deceptive, masking depths Percy dared not plumb—a predator’s patience, or a father’s ambivalence.

Percy’s lips curled, defiance shimmering in his voice. “I want nothing from you,” Percy retorted, a sudden surge of bravery seizing him, whether from his recent encounter with the sea monster or his accumulated ire at his neglectful father. “Let me reach the surface,” he demanded, the words laced with steel despite his trembling hands.

Poseidon’s expression did not darken as Percy feared; instead, his lips curved, the barest hint of amusement softening the severity of his face. His gaze swept over Percy as if reevaluating him, not with anger but with a curiosity that prickled beneath Percy’s skin like salt in a wound. “And why,” Poseidon mused, his tone languid as waves against a shore, “should I grant such a demand from one who so boldly rebuffs me?” Poseidon demanded, his grip turning painful.

Percy remained silent, his eyes fixed on his descending lost sword, its blade gleaming in the darkness. Summoning his courage, he invoked the water and guided the blade to him, before grazing Poseidon’s arm, sufficient for Percy to slip from his father's grasp and swim upward with all his might.

He called forth a great wave, which took him inside it’s folds and carried him onto the beach.

The sudden blaze of daylight overwhelmed Percy, its brilliance blinding him after the murky depths. He blinked rapidly, dazed and unsteady, as the roar of the surf filled his ears. Before he could gather his wits, Poseidon’s figure emerged, colossal and unyielding, his trident glinting with an otherworldly radiance, a symbol of dominion and wrath.

Percy scrambled backward, his palms slipping on the wet sand. There was no time to rise, no hope of fleeing.

There was no warning, no mercy in the act. Poseidon drove the trident down with brutal precision, its prongs sinking deep into Percy’s thigh. Agony erupted, searing and all-encompassing, tearing a guttural scream from Percy’s throat. Blood blossomed around the wound, dark against the pale sand, as the demigod writhed beneath the weight of his father’s fury.

"Now, mortal," the sea god intoned, his voice rolling like distant thunder, "do I have your attention?”

With a cruel sneer, Poseidon withdrew the trident from Percy's thigh, only to drive it mercilessly into his other leg. A wordless cry of agony escaped Percy's lips, his teeth bared in a grimace of pain as the excruciating torment seared through his body.

Through a haze of pain, Percy sensed Poseidon's icy gaze upon him, indifferent to his suffering. The sea god's cruel words sliced through the air like a bitter wind, chilling Percy to the bone.

"Now, you won't be so eager to run from me," Poseidon taunted, his voice dripping with malice and satisfaction.

Percy's face drained of all color, taking on a sickly, ghostly pallor as blood gushed from Percy's punctured arteries. It spilled out like wine from a shattered amphora.

He was so screwed.

Poseidon's relentless grip on the trident kept Percy pinned as he dragged him toward the sea, leaving a dark, crimson trail etched into the pale sands. With each wrenching tug, Percy’s body jerked, a pained moan escaping his lips, raw and unbidden. The salt of the sea air mixed cruelly with the metallic tang of his own blood, and the waves seemed to reach out hungrily for him.

But then—suddenly—the beach was ablaze with a brilliance so pure, so searing, it outshone even the midday sun. Golden light cascaded across the shore, banishing every shadow and forcing Poseidon to pause, his features etched with wary irritation.

From its heart emerged a figure that seemed more a celestial force than flesh.

Apollo.

His golden hair gleamed like molten sunlight, and his eyes, pools of liquid gold, shone with an intense, almost predatory gaze.

“Halt your anger, uncle,” Apollo's voice echoed across the shoreline, its melodic tone carrying an air of authority and command.

Poseidon turned to regard his nephew with a quizzical expression, his features still contorted with rage. 

"Poor thing barely draws breath," Apollo remarked, his voice laced with mock concern as he approached the scene, his presence imposing yet tinged with a deceptive gentleness.

"He dared to disrespect me," Poseidon repeated, his voice a thunderous boom that echoed across the beach. "He deserves punishment," Poseidon declared, his grip on Percy's form tightening with an iron resolve, the trident still piercing through the mortal's flesh, a grim testament to his fury.

Percy stirred faintly, his sea-green eyes fluttering open, though his vision was blurred and incomplete. All he could discern was a silhouette—a man drenched in light so pure, so familiar, it seemed to reach into his very soul. 

Apollo, approached his uncle with measured steps, his radiant countenance bathed in the ethereal light of his divine presence. "But consider, dear uncle," he began, his voice a soothing melody that danced upon the waves. "Hasn't he already suffered enough? I fear he won't endure another ordeal," Apollo's eyes, pools of liquid gold, held Poseidon's gaze with an unwavering intensity, beseeching him to show mercy.

Yet beneath this plea, there brewed an undercurrent of rivalry—a silent contest for dominance that Apollo yearned to triumph in. For there, amidst the tumultuous waves, Apollo had espied Einalian, carried ashore, as though delivered for his taking.

Apollo's gaze lingered greedily upon Percy, a smile of barely contained excitement threatening to break free from his lips.

He would not permit Poseidon to claim him.

Chapter Text

“Can you not sense your signature etched into his very flesh, coursing through his blood?” Apollo asked as he approached, his steps echoing with a grave certainty.

Poseidon’s brow furrowed in confusion, his voice laced with scepticism. “What nonsense do you speak of?”

With a graceful kneel beside the fallen Percy, Apollo removed his bracelets, crushing them effortlessly in his palm. The fragments shimmered briefly before disintegrating into nothingness.

As the enchantment lifted, Percy's trembling body grew more vibrant in colour, his presence no longer cloaked by the artefact that had rendered him invisible to the eyes and senses of the gods.

A flicker of realization dawned upon Poseidon's stern features, softening them momentarily. But he quickly shook his head, banishing the thought. “My children are born as abominations. He could not be one of them,” he declared, his voice tinged with doubt, as if grappling with a forbidden truth.

Apollo’s eyes glinted with a knowing smile. “Then taste his blood, and let your own senses confirm what your mind refuses to accept.”

Reluctantly, Poseidon complied. He dipped his fingers into the crimson flow from Percy’s wound, the warmth of the blood seeping into his skin. With deliberate slowness, he brought his hand to his lips, the metallic tang filling his mouth.

As the blood touched his tongue, Poseidon's eyes closed. The essence within the blood was unmistakable, Percy lay before him, as a demigod carrying the legacy of the sea god himself.

The gravity of the revelation settled heavily upon Poseidon’s shoulders. “It cannot be,” he murmured, more to himself than to Apollo. “How could I have been so blind?”

“Your ire blinded you to the truth,” Apollo said softly, though he knew there was more to it. It was not merely anger but an unmistakable desire for Einelian flesh that had clouded Poseidon's perception, preventing him from recognizing his own son.

The sea god's visage etched with pride, now softened by the urgency of the moment.

"Let me take him and heal his wounds," Apollo's voice resonated with clarity. "In his current state, he cannot mend himself in the water. He has lost too much blood."

Poseidon, his sea-blue eyes fixed upon the prone form of Percy, lingered in a moment of profound contemplation. "I could agree to that under one condition," he finally rumbled, his voice deep and resonant like the ocean's depths.

Apollo, though impatient, inclined his head in acquiescence. 

"He shall return to me when he’s fully restored," Poseidon declared firmly. "There is much I must know."

Apollo's smile was wry. "Of course."

"Very well," intoned Poseidon. The grip on his trident loosened, and with a reluctant grace, he withdrew its gleaming prongs from Percy's wounded flesh. The boy whimpered, a sound frail and pitiful, as the cruel punctures wept crimson rivulets. They could hear his quickened heartbeat as his body struggled with the loss of blood.

"Take good care of him," he added. Apollo could swear he saw a flicker of concern in Poseidon's eyes, quickly hidden beneath his stern exterior.

Apollo nodded solemnly, his unwavering gaze lingering as he pressed his palm against Percy’s wound, momentarily halting the flow of blood with a touch suffused with divine warmth. "Do not worry, I will," he assured, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of his promise.

With a graceful gesture, sun god summoned forth a chariot of luminescence, its celestial wheels suspended above the emerald-hued earth. Tenderly, he gathered Percy's form into his embrace, the demigod's blood trickling down Apollo's fingers, where it singed with sacred fire.

During the arduous voyage to Olympus, Percy's breathing grew perilously shallow, his heart's rhythm erratic and quickened by the severe blood loss. His body convulsed, and then he began to choke, his airway constricting in distress. Alarmed, Apollo halted their swift ascent, hovering in mid-air as he cradled Percy closer. The god's eyes narrowed as he assessed the boy's condition. Percy looked deathly pale, his skin clammy, breaths ragged and forced.

Barely conscious, the young demigod fought valiantly to stay alive.

Apollo's grip tightened around him, a mixture of annoyance and reluctant concern flickering across his divine features.

Without hesitation, sun god brought Percy's face close to his own. "Breathe," he commanded, his voice resonant with divine authority. Using his fingers, he pried open the boy's mouth and, with a firm, practised motion, delivered a solid push to Percy's chest. The force expelled the fluid from his lungs, and Percy's body shuddered violently, a harsh, wet cough escaping his lips.

Satisfied but not yet reassured, Apollo leaned in and with a calculated breath, he delivered a gust of oxygen directly into Percy's mouth, their lips only grazing.

Percy’s chest rose as the precious oxygen filled his lungs, his breaths gradually evening out. The choking subsided, replaced by a more regular, albeit still weak, rhythm. Apollo pulled back slightly, his piercing gaze never leaving Percy’s face.

As Apollo ascended to Olympus, he was instantly flocked by the muses, who ran to him like a group of birds sensing a storm in the air.

"What happened to the poor thing?" asked Polymnia, her voice muffled as she covered her face at the sight of Percy's wounds, her usual serene demeanour replaced by genuine distress.

"Such beauty marred by pain," stated Clio, the Muse of History, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of fascination and pity as she studied Percy's pallid face.

"He looks so innocent," added Polymnia, the Muse of Hymns, her voice soft and dreamy as she observed the unconscious demigod.

"So does Eros, but he’s the biggest pain in the..." remarked Urania, the Muse of Astronomy, her gaze sceptical and calculating.

"Do you not see the mortal is wounded? Let Lord Apollo tend to him, and cease your prattling like a flock of starlings!" Mnemosyne intervened with a commanding presence, ushering them away from Apollo's path.

Apollo's expression was inscrutable, his golden features cast in shadow despite the celestial light that surrounded him. He carried Percy with an air of protectiveness as he moved through the halls of Olympus, the muses reluctantly dispersing under Mnemosyne's stern gaze.

Within his sanctum, Apollo laid Percy upon a soft bed, the material shifting beneath the demigod’s form like gentle waves. The room, suffused with an eerie glow from the divine hearth, seemed to resonate with a hushed anticipation.

The muses lingered in the doorway, their eyes fixed upon Apollo and Percy with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Apollo’s hands moved with grace as he inspected Percy’s wounds, his touch both tender and invasive, as if seeking something beyond mere physical healing.

He applied pressure to the wounds on Percy’s thighs, ensuring the largest veins ceased their bleeding first. As the flow slowed and eventually stopped, leaving only tender skin in its wake, Apollo’s fingers moved methodically to the smaller cuts and bruises—those on his ankles, the red marks on his arms and legs that resembled the imprint of squid tentacles.

Apollo’s curiosity deepened as he tore away Percy's wet chiton, revealing scars scattered across his body like a battlefield map.

With practised ease, he discerned the origins of each scar—some from swords, others from claws, teeth, or arrows. Percy wore them like badges of honour, each scar a testament to battles fought. Apollo had no use for these marks of mortality.
With a flick of his hand, he willed the scars to fade away, leaving Percy's skin flawless and smooth, reminiscent of marble warmed by sunlight.

Yet despite the external transformation, mortal remained perilously weak. The wounds may have closed, but the toll of blood loss lingered, his organs protesting the strain, his heart labouring to pump oxygen to vital parts of his body. His chest tightened once more, causing the demigod to twitch in discomfort.

Apollo's brows furrowed deeply; urgency pressed upon him like a weighty mantle. Blood—fresh and abundant—was the only remedy that could restore demigod's waning strength. Without it, the boy’s life would ebb away like the receding tide, and Apollo could not allow that to happen, not after the long and arduous days of searching, and now, at last, having the boy within his grasp.

Summoning Hermes, Apollo watched as the god of speed and messages materialized in an instant, his typically jovial face shifting to one of shock as he beheld the prone figure of Percy.

"You've found him? For me? You didn't have to, dear brother!" Hermes sang.

Before Hermes could draw near to the bed, Apollo's eyes flared with a fiery anger. "Do not touch him," Apollo intoned, his voice low.

"Then why did you summon me? To boast about finding him faster than I could?" Hermes retorted, disappointment lacing his voice.

"I called you not for such trivialities. His life is fading," Apollo responded, allowing Hermes a closer look at the boy.

"He appears a bit pale, perhaps, but you’ve healed him, haven’t you?" Hermes inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"He is healed, but without fresh blood, his organs will fail, and he will slip away," Apollo explained, taking Percy's hand into his own. With a small, precise cut, he let Percy's blood flow, offering it to Hermes.

"Approach," the Sun God commanded, holding out Percy's hand.

Hermes leaned in, his tongue flicking out to taste the blood from Percy's palm. His eyes ignited with a strange emotion as he savoured the taste.

"There is a white rock which stretches out from Leucas to the sea and towards Cephallenia, where my temple stands. Call for a sacrifice, someone young and healthy with blood tasting the same. Be swift," Apollo instructed, his voice brooking no delay.

Hermes nodded, casting one last look at the pale demigod before vanishing, his form dissipating into the ether.

In the stillness of his sanctuary, Apollo watched over the demigod, his thoughts racing. He placed a gentle hand on Percy's forehead, feeling the cold sweat of his waning life force.

Outside the chamber, the muses lingered in the shadows, whispering among themselves, their voices hushed yet tinged with a sense of foreboding, the very walls seeming to tighten as they awaited the arrival of the sacrifice. Mnemosyne watched from a distance, her gaze piercing as she observed the unfolding events with the wisdom of ages past.

Soon enough, Hermes returned, guiding a young and healthy priestess whose blood matched the essence needed. Her eyes were wide with a blend of awe and terror, her steps faltering as she approached the Sun God.

Apollo's expression was stern but not unkind as he took her hand. "Fear not," he whispered, his voice imbued with a soothing warmth that momentarily calmed her trembling form. "Your sacrifice will save a life most precious."

"It is an honour, Lord Apollo," the girl murmured, her gaze initially avoiding the sun god before settling upon Percy's fading form.

With a touch that was both gentle and commanding, Apollo guided her towards Percy. Her heartbeat quickened beneath his fingertips as he brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.

"What would you have me do, my lord?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Isn't he a sight to behold?" Apollo inquired calmly, standing beside her.

"He is," the girl replied softly.

"You might try to rouse him with a greeting, or perhaps even a kiss," Apollo suggested.

The girl looked at radiant sun god only briefly, attempting to discern his intentions, but then she understood; she was just a mortal, the ways of deities difficult to comprehend, and her life less precious than the boy lying before her.

"I will try," she answered, already leaning over Percy, but before her lips could meet his...

With a sudden, ruthless precision, Apollo swiftly slit the girl's throat. Crimson blood surged forth, splashing directly onto Percy's prone form. Shock widened the girl's eyes, a strangled gasp escaping her lips before her body slowly went limp and then lifeless.

Apollo instantly invoked his divine power, compelling the spilled blood to permeate Percy's skin, coursing into his veins like a torrent.

Hermes stood at the entrance, his typically jovial countenance drained of its usual brightness, replaced instead by a mixture of disbelief and morbid fascination. Despite his initial revulsion, his eyes remained fixed on Apollo's unwavering hands.

In the shadows nearby, the muses hesitated, their ethereal forms betraying a tangible sense of unease. Only Thalia and Melpomene, the muses of comedy and tragedy, stood steadfastly by the sanctuary doors. Their expressions held a complex blend of intrigue and reverence, their eyes alight with a glint that mirrored the flickering flames of Apollo's power.

As the sacrificial blood was absorbed, Percy convulsed violently, ensnared in a nightmare's grip even in his unconscious state. Dark visions assailed him—visions of blood and death swirling in a chaotic tempest. He felt as though he were drowning in a crimson sea, the metallic taste of iron overwhelming his senses.

"Shh," Apollo hushed, his voice a soothing murmur as he pressed his hands firmly over Percy's heart. Channelling his divine energy, the Sun God allowed the essence of his power to mingle with the sacrificial blood, weaving together the frayed strands of Percy's fragile life.

Soon, a faint colour began to return to Percy's cheeks. His breathing, once shallow and laboured, grew deeper and more rhythmic. Apollo continued the transfusion with unwavering focus, ensuring that every drop of the life-giving blood reached its destination. Blond locks fell into his eyes in the process.

Finally satisfied with his ministrations, Apollo withdrew, his keen eyes scrutinizing Percy's form for signs of recovery. The demigod stirred, eyelids fluttering as his strength slowly returned.

Turning his attention to the lifeless figure of the sacrificed girl, Apollo's expression softened. He lifted her body, cradling her in his arms before presenting her to Hermes, who had appeared silently at his side.

"Ensure her passage to the afterlife,” Apollo instructed quietly, his voice carrying the weight of reverence.

Hermes nodded solemnly, with a tender touch, he received the girl's form and vanished into the ethereal realm, bearing her spirit towards its destined journey.

The muses, with their captivating melodies and entrancing movements, cast curious gazes upon Percy as he woke slowly from his unconscious state, his senses gradually returning one by one. At first, he registered a soft humming sound, as if someone stood nearby singing. Whispers followed, spoken in hushed tones that floated around him in gentle echoes.

As his sense of touch returned, Percy felt the comfort of soft materials beneath him and the warmth of a muslin cover draped over his body. His mouth tasted bitter with herbs, mingled with the lingering metallic tang of blood. Opening his eyes, he saw dim lights flickering, casting dancing shadows that played upon the walls.

As Percy focused his gaze and began to stir, the shadows stilled abruptly, and a woman’s face materialized before him. Her features were illuminated by the flickering light, and her expression held a mix of relief and concern.

Percy's mind whirled with confusion, struggling to grasp the fleeting fragments of memory that eluded him like mist. The last coherent images were a jumble of pain and fear—Poseidon's visage contorted with malice, his trident piercing Percy's flesh, a torrent of blood staining the ground.

With sudden resolve, Percy rose, startling the muses who had surrounded him. They retreated instinctively, leaving Mnemosyne alone.

“My lord, he has risen.” She called urgently.

Percy’s sea-green eyes locked onto Apollo’s, and in that instant, the world seemed to fall away. The god's handsome countenance bore a blend of gentleness and an underlying darkness, a stark contrast that rendered him even more intimidating. Draped in a creamy white robe adorned with saffron sashes cascading from his arms, Apollo stood and approached, his jaw set and his gaze penetrating as he scrutinized the boy with chilling intensity.

"Leave us," he commanded, his voice resonating through the chamber like the tolling of a bell. The muses exchanged anxious glances, hesitant to depart the palace, leaving Percy to confront their lord alone. The air thickened with expectation, the celestial power of Apollo tangible with every measured stride he took.

Percy, sensing Apollo's gaze upon him, immediately glanced down at his bare wrists, realizing with a sudden pang that his bracelets and key were missing—his avenues of escape obliterated.

"Don't bother searching for something long gone," Apollo declared, his voice devoid of remorse.

Percy's stare hardened defiantly, his hand instinctively seeking out a golden candle-holder nearby, grasping it tightly as his only semblance of defence against the imposing deity before him.

Apollo's laughter rang out, a sound that echoed briefly against the chamber's stone walls before fading into a chilling silence as his eyes narrowed with icy resolve.

"You still seem dazed from your recent close brush with death," Apollo remarked, his voice carrying a blend of casual observation and subtle reproach, drawing a silent question from Percy's troubled gaze.

"Yes, your father nearly brought about your demise. Were it not for my intervention, who can say what fate would have befallen you, dear demigod," Apollo continued, his approach deliberate as he knelt beside the bed, his hand lightly touching the bedstead.

"Why am I here?" Percy inquired, his voice weak and raspy from rest.

"You are well aware of at least one reason why you find yourself in my domain, Einalian," Apollo replied, his gaze piercing as he settled beside Percy, his arm resting casually upon Percy's covered thigh.

Percy glanced briefly at the placement of Apollo's hand, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening.

"Allow me to clarify," Apollo began, his voice low. "Firstly, you deceived and sought the life of Paris, a figure revered not only among my followers but also esteemed among the gods for his qualities. Such actions warrant severe repercussions, even death."

Apollo's countenance softened briefly before his expression hardened once more. "Secondly, you conspired with another deity against Troy—an act of treachery that demands retribution. And thirdly, in saving you from your father's wrath, a sacrifice was required. A life was forfeited so that you might continue to live."

"You, dear godling," Apollo concluded, his voice barely above a whisper, "are deeply indebted.”

Chapter Text

The soft glow of early evening light filtered through the windows of prince’s chambers, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. The walls, thick and sturdy, stood silent as guardians of the prince's sanctuary. Frescoes depicting heroic battles and hunting scenes added colour and life to the stone surfaces, their vibrant pigments gleaming in the dimming daylight.

Paris stood in the centre of the room, his tall, athletic figure reflected in a polished bronze mirror held by a young servant. His dark hair, freshly washed and oiled, fell in smooth waves to his shoulders. Another servant adjusted the draping of his rich, crimson tunic, embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread that caught the light with every movement.

A third servant approached with a finely woven woollen cloak, dyed a deep blue, the colour of the Aegean Sea. Paris extended his arms, and the cloak was fastened at his shoulders with ornate bronze clasps shaped like lions' heads. The prince's expression was calm and composed, but his eyes betrayed a spark of anticipation.

On a low wooden table nearby, a collection of Paris's most prized possessions was laid out: a zither given to him by Apollo, a ring bestowed upon him as he arrived, symbol of his heritage. But none of these treasures held such significance as a finely wrought dagger with a hilt encrusted in jewels. He reached for the blade, the metal catching the firelight from a nearby oil lamp.

He stood there, lost in reverie, the firelight flickering in his eyes, casting long shadows upon the walls. The dagger's hilt, adorned with sea motifs, gleamed as if alive, the precious stones set within it capturing the light in a dance of colours. It mocked him with its beauty, a stark contrast to the pain it had caused.

Yet, it was most precious, because it was the only thing Einalian had left him. Paris's thoughts wandered back to days spent on Mount Ida.

Before Einalian arrived, he had felt alone and alienated, living on a lonely hill with nothing but sheep to watch. But then Einalian crossed his path, his presence a balm to his solitude. Paris became lost in those sea-green eyes, those mysteries he carried, and the lies he sowed only so Paris wouldn’t discard him.

They had spent many hours under the vast sky, sharing conversations, their laughter echoing through the hills. Einalian had woven a web of enchantment, binding Paris with threads of affection and trust. But it had all unravelled in an instant, the blade a stark revelation of the betrayal that had lain hidden beneath their bond.

A sudden knock on the door pulled Paris from his musings. "My lord, are you ready for the meeting?" The guard's voice was respectful but insistent, a reminder of the duties that awaited.

"Yes, we can go," Paris answered, his eyes never leaving the dagger, which he then tucked securely into his waist belt.

With a final glance in the mirror, Paris adjusted his cloak and strode from his chambers, the corridors of the palace echoing with the sounds of his sandals against the stone floor.

As Paris entered the hall, heads turned and voices hushed, all eyes drawn to the figure of the newly found prince. He moved with a grace that belied the turmoil within, his demeanour regal and composed. Yet, beneath the veneer of calm, his spirit shivered.

"Life? Which life?" Percy inquired, his heart a tumultuous rhythm within his chest.

"The life of one of my followers. A girl, sacrificed for her blood, which now flows within your veins.” Apollo responded, his tone tinged with an almost indifferent detachment.

"She’s dead?" Percy queried, though the grim reality already seeped into his consciousness, his eyes cast downward in disbelief. "What was her name?" he whispered, a fragile plea escaping his lips.

Apollo's eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his divine features. Why did the boy care? What did it matter to a mortal who danced on the edge of doom? "Does it matter? She dwells in Hades' realm now, her passage softened by Hermes’ guidance," he replied.

Percy's eyes, akin to the stormy expanse of a turbulent sea, brimmed with tears. These tears, borne of profound anguish, traced a sorrowful path down his face.

"You should have left me to die," Percy uttered, his despair echoed in the hallowed halls, filling the silence with the sound of his heartache.

Apollo was taken aback by the raw emotion that dripped from every syllable, his divine countenance momentarily marred by surprise.

"I wish it were as simple as you make it sound, but alas, it is not. Believe me, death is not the direst of fates," Apollo said, his gaze drifting around the opulent hall, as if he could not bear to witness the sight of demigod in such pathetic state.

"Why go to such lengths to keep me alive?” Percy questioned, the anguish in his tone resonated through the chamber, mingling with the heavy air.

Apollo’s gaze remained steady. "I would kill you, of course, were you a mere mortal. But you are not," he stated, his tone firm yet tinged with an undercurrent of intrigue and something almost like pity. "You are a demigod, a being caught between worlds, and therein lies your value and your curse."

Percy sensed that Apollo was telling him half-truths. The god's words, though seemingly candid, held an undercurrent of something more, something that eluded Percy's immediate grasp.

Percy's weeping ceased, replaced by a quiet sobbing that shook his frame. He lifted his gaze to meet Apollo's, his eyes swollen and red, like embers struggling against the darkness.

"Do not think," Apollo continued, his voice low and resonant, "that just because you are Poseidon's son, retribution is not yours to bear. Your lineage does not absolve you; it only entwines you further."

Percy was very much aware of that. He was a demigod, a hero, and in the tales of old, heroes sought glory through deeds of valour and, if need be, through the spilling of blood.

Hekate had warned him about Apollo, yet Apollo had saved him from the death his father had decreed. Not only that, he had allowed a life to be sacrificed to save him. This meant he was here for a reason, a reason known only to the capricious Fates.

This was his chance to start his mission anew.

He clenched his hands into fists, feeling the weight of these thoughts pressing down upon him.

"I am grateful for the life you have given me," Percy said, his voice ringing clear and strong against the stone walls of the hall.

In the celestial glow of the firmament, the figure of Apollo arched a questioning eyebrow, taken aback by the sudden shift in the youth's demeanour. The unpredictable and tumultuous emotional changes mirrored those of Hera herself, in all their capricious intensity.

“I did not conspire against Troy. I had my own reasons for wishing to end Paris' life,” Percy stated with firm resolve, drawing Apollo's entire focus onto him.

“And what possibly could those reasons—”

“The prophecy. He is destined to bring about the downfall of Troy,” Percy interjected.

Apollo, not quite believing the words being spoken, questioned, “How can you punish someone for sins not yet committed?”

Percy fell silent, enveloped in the truth of Apollo's words. He was right, and yet, Apollo remained unaware of Percy’s true origin – he came from the future with his knowledge on Trojan War.

Hekate placed him in these times with all the burden of the past.

Apollo moved closer again, fixing his penetrating gaze onto the latter's sea-green eyes.

“Who revealed this prophecy to you? Could it have been Hekate, perhaps?” Apollo asked, his curiosity piqued. “At first, I assumed it was my dear sister, Artemis, but then I saw the dagger with which you tried to murder Paris. It reeked of the underworld.” Apollo's words hung heavy in the air. “I wonder why she chose you for this mission, especially given your apparent failure.”

Percy wondered that too, but it did not cease his regrets. He turned his gaze upon Apollo, his anger rising like a tempest within him, a storm of righteous indignation that set his heart pounding in his chest.

"My task is not lost yet," Percy retorted, his voice a resonant echo that reverberated through the cavernous expanse.

Apollo's expression remained impassive, though his eyes gleamed with a cold, calculating light. "Weren’t you two friends? Mnemosyne told me how often Paris knelled in prayer for no other than you. He cared about you, and you betrayed him," Apollo said, his words cutting like a knife, designed to pierce the very core of Percy's resolve.

Percy's visage contorted with agony, yet he did not falter. His voice, though heavy with grief, remained resolute. "Hekate said, it was either sacrificing him and preventing the fall of Troy or letting him live and watching the city burn together with him. I was compelled to choose the lesser of two evils."

"And you believed her, that it was the sole recourse," Apollo retorted, his voice a melodious blend of condescension and frustration.

"She unveiled to me a vision—Troy in flames, its people slaughtered by the consequences of Paris's decisions. I—" Percy hesitated, words escaping him. It was so unlike him to believe that death could be the only solution. Yet in that moment, he had. A wave of shame surged through him.

"The Fates weave the tapestry of destiny, their threads entwining the lives of mortals and gods in a dance of predestination and chance. The future remains ever-changing, a mutable expanse sculpted by whims and choices beyond even divine control. Thus, nothing is certain."

"But if you knew deep in your heart that it would happen, would you not try to stop it with all your might?" Percy asked, each word a plea for understanding.

"If you seek to persuade me to return you to Earth, to once more attempt Paris' life, you are grievously mistaken," Apollo replied, his voice imbued with an absolute finality, the tone of a deity accustomed to unquestioned obedience.

Percy’s gaze hardened, his mind a whirlwind of conflicted emotions. "What if I no longer intend to kill him? What if I wish to seek another way to avert this catastrophe?" His voice wavered slightly, the desperation behind his plea evident, yet underscored by a flicker of newfound determination.

Apollo regarded Percy with a mix of irritation and pity, his divine patience wearing thin under the relentless onslaught of Einalian desperation. "And what makes you think that any other path would succeed where this one failed?" The god's face, usually an impassive mask of celestial detachment, now bore the faintest traces of exasperation, as if the mortal's pleas were pebbles thrown against a mighty statue.

"I don't know," Percy admitted, his words bitter on his tongue. "There has to be another way. I want to search for it, and I can't do that if I'm here."

"I don't believe you," Apollo countered with a small, cynical smile. "Mortals are quick to proclaim their intentions but slow to act upon them. Even if your heart speaks truly now, the winds of your resolve could easily shift. This is not a risk I am willing to take."

A heavy silence descended between them, pregnant with unspoken words.

"Hold me to my word. I swear by the River Styx that I will not seek Paris' life again. Allow me the chance to find another way."

Apollo's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Percy with an intensity that seemed to pierce his very soul. "No," Apollo answered simply. "Your place now is within my domain, where you shall remain," he pronounced, the words heavy with finality.

"You are a fool if you think I will," Percy countered, his voice steady and resolute. This bold proclamation was met with a swift and violent slap to his cheek. Percy did not even flinch at the assault, allowing the sting to serve as a stark reminder of his resolve. His tongue darted out to gather the trace of blood that pooled at the corner of his lips, a bitter taste it had. Blood not wholly his own.

Apollo took Percy’s jaw in his hand, his touch firm, his gaze fixed intensely on the demigod’s now blood-stained lips.

"How cute to dare defy me," Apollo's voice resonated with a low, dangerous growl, his divine presence filling the room with a suffocating intensity that choked the very air.

Percy felt Apollo's ire searing into his skin, the heat of the god's proximity causing sweat to bead on his forehead. He resisted the urge to recoil, meeting Apollo's gaze.

"I dare to claim my freedom," Percy replied, each word carefully measured.

Apollo sneered at him, his golden eyes flashing with malicious delight. "You will attempt escape, and I will exact punishment for each and every effort," he declared, his voice echoing ominously in the vastness of their surroundings. His grip on Percy's jaw tightened, a silent threat of the consequences awaiting any defiance.

Releasing his grip on Percy's jaw, Apollo withdrew his hand and straightened to his full, imposing height. The sudden release was like a gust of wind after a tense storm, leaving Percy momentarily breathless and uncertain of the god's intentions.

Despite the impending menace of Apollo's ire, Percy’s countenance remained unchanged. For he has met gods before, each with their own dazzling array of divine powers, each cloaked in their own unique aura of self-importance. Each of them, he found, underestimated not only his powers but also his will, his determination.

Apollo, ever perceptive, appeared to discern the rising self-assurance within Percy. With an almost divine intuition, he saw fit to quell this sentiment. And he chose to do this with a swift, decisive action - one that took the form of a generous offering.

"Yet do not mistake me for a deity who lacks the virtue of hospitality," Apollo declared. His words, spoken with a certain eloquence and charm, carried an underlying promise. "Especially not towards one such as yourself, son of Poseidon," Apollo told him and with a cunning smile, that shone as bright as his celestial namesake, called Polymnia, beckoning her gently to step forward. In muse’s tender hands she held a small, unassuming box, the contents of which were mysteriously hidden from view.

As Polymnia drew closer, Apollo extended his hand, fingers dancing lightly on the surface of the box. The simple act of lifting the lid was imbued with a sense of ceremonial reverence, echoing the ancient traditions of his divine heritage. The silence was broken by the soft sigh of the box opening, revealing a sight of true beauty nestled within its depths.

It was a bracelet, but not of ordinary make. Forged from the purest silver, it was a testament to the skilled craftsmanship of Hephaestus. The silver was shaped into delicate vines, intertwining and looping around each other in an intricate dance. Each vine was detailed with painstaking precision, appearing alive as if ready to burst into growth at a moment's notice.

However, the true masterpiece was the citrine gemstone that lay at the centre of the bracelet. Carved into the radiant shape of the sun, it was a fitting tribute to the god of light himself. The gemstone glowed with an ethereal light, its fiery hues reminiscent of the golden rays of dawn.

"I have a gift for you, Einalian. Come and claim it," Apollo said, his voice a blend of arrogance and authority.

Percy, jolted by the sudden command, found himself in the grips of a firm resolve. "I seek nothing from you," he declared, his words echoing the sentiments he had once expressed to Poseidon. He held no desire to further entangle himself in the webs woven by the gods; such debts were often repaid in sorrow.

Apollo's golden eyes flickered with a mixture of surprise and irritation. He had expected defiance, perhaps, but not this cool, measured refusal. "You reject my gift?" he asked, his tone edged with disbelief. "You spurn the favour of a god?”

“I will not be bound by your whims,” Percy answered.

"To refuse me is to court disaster, that’s why you will accept this gift in good grace and gratitude," he proclaimed, his voice resounding with an undeniable force, his sunlit eyes shimmering with an unspoken threat of violence should Percy dare to struggle.

With the bracelet in his possession, Apollo advanced towards Percy, who had already risen from his resting place. His movements were unsteady, his legs threatening to tangle in the folds of the robe that hung too long, brushing against the cool marble floor. A sudden impulse for escape surged within him, propelling him towards the archway carved from white marble.

He found himself on the precipice of a skyward abyss; a leap from here would send him plunging into an unending fall. Yet, he could not shake the suspicion that some other form of arcane magic might be in play. Scarcely allowing himself time for contemplation, he took a leap of faith into the void. Yet, before he could succumb to the pull of gravity, Apollo's burning grip seized him, halting his descent.

"If I had known of your fervent desire for death, I might have spared myself the effort of saving you,” Apollo chided, his words laced with dry humor. "But this makes the bracelet all the more valuable."

Despite Percy's desperate struggle to free himself from Apollo’s grasp, the god effortlessly slipped the bracelet onto his wrist. It nestled against his skin, its bright gleam fading to a soft glow, but its impact was immediate and potent. The bracelet, seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. He could feel its grip tightening, not physically but spiritually, like a relentless, smothering presence.

The bracelets which Hekate had gifted him had been a source of solace and protection, a steady anchor in the tempestuous seas of his journey. They sang to him in silent whispers of comfort, of a stability. Yet, the new bonds that now graced his wrists spoke a different tongue. They were not gentle in their message; they spoke of boundaries not to be crossed, of a harsh retribution waiting should he dare to disobey.

"What is this?" Percy gasped, his voice a strangled whisper dancing on the edge of panic. He tugged futilely at his wrist, his efforts to rid himself of the metal as fruitless as a mortal attempting to shift a mountain. The god merely offered him a smile, a dangerous glint in his eyes that spoke of possessive delight.

"Merely a precaution, Einalian," his voice rolled forth like silk, tinged with feigned concern and a hidden amusement that danced beneath the surface. "To discourage you from... wandering.”

Wandering? Did this hellish trinket mean to bar his return to Earth? His mission—what of his mission? It echoed in his mind like a distant plea, a call to duty that burned brighter than the stars themselves.

“Your father told me to take care of you, so I am," Apollo added.

Percy suppressed a shudder of frustration and fear, his gaze flickering to his bound wrist with mounting desperation. Perhaps he could find a sharp enough tool to sever the offending metal. And if all else failed—he gulped at the horrific thought—he could even resort to severing his own flesh.

The surge of anger that coursed through his veins was like a tempest, threatening to drown him in its swirling depths.

"This is not protection but imprisonment," his words echoed through the spacious chamber.

Why should he welcome this domination?

With a swift turn, Percy hastened towards the exit, driven by an urgency that Apollo chose not to pursue, his countenance a tableau of eerie calm, hands clasped behind his back in a poised gesture.

The heavy folds of Percy's robe seemed to conspire against him, their weight unsettling his stride as if to impede his escape. He flung open the door, revealing a gathering of ethereal figures—Muses, no doubt—whose all-seeing eyes bore into his soul with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity, a gaze he hated for its implication of pity.

Stepping outside, Percy found himself enveloped in a corridor lined with towering marble pillars. The grandeur of the architecture dwarfed him, but he ventured onward.

Beyond the marble corridors lay a lush forest, its canopy stretching out before him. Dew-kissed moss cushioned his bare foot as he hesitated at the forest's edge. Fruits hung temptingly low from the branches, their vibrant colours and sweet scent beckoning to his senses.

Despite his hunger, Percy exercised caution. His survival instincts reminded him of the potential dangers lurking in these seemingly idyllic surroundings.

He ran forward between trees, trying to find a place to hide, or perhaps someone who could help him. Suddenly, his bracelet emitted an ominous glow, heralding an unforeseen reckoning.

Instinctively, Percy's heart quickened, urging him to flee, to sprint without pause, desperate to find an escape route back to familiar grounds. Perhaps, he thought fleetingly, he could leap off the edge again. The memory of the fall, the rush of air, and the brief sensation of freedom tantalized his mind.

His feet pounded against the forest floor, each step echoing with his frantic heartbeat. The glow from the bracelet intensified, casting eerie shadows among the trees. Percy’s mind raced, calculating his options

But just as hope flickered in the depths of his mind, a surge of vitality coursed through the bracelet. Tendrils of vibrant green burst forth from its metallic confines like serpentine apparitions unleashed from ancient slumber.

With preternatural speed and precision, they coiled around Percy's wrist with a vengeful grip, swiftly ensnaring his limbs. Every attempt to break free only tightened their hold, binding him ever more securely to the verdant floor of the forest sanctuary.

Exhausted and defeated, he ceased his resistance, allowing his forehead to sink heavily onto the cool, damp moss that carpeted the forest floor. 

It was then that he heard it—the delicate flutter of wings, a sound so incongruous amidst the verdant stillness that Percy's weary mind struggled to comprehend its origin. Slowly, he raised his head, eyes scanning the surrounding foliage until they fell upon a figure approaching with an air of nonchalant curiosity.

"Well, well," spoke a voice tinged with amused intrigue. "What do we have here? A demigod in distress?" The newcomer drew closer, revealing a handsome young man whose countenance bore a wry smile, lips curved in an expression that held equal parts mischief and sympathy.

Percy managed a weak response, “I’m fine,” he insisted, though his face, twisted in a grimace of pain, betrayed the lie.

"Are you now?" the newcomer sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You don't look fine to me, mortal," he remarked, his tone carrying a touch of jest.

Eros stood before Percy, clad in garments that shimmered with ephemeral hues. His fair hair seemed to catch the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above, lending an ethereal glow to his features. A faint scent of roses and ambrosia lingered in the air around him, a testament to his divine lineage as the son of Aphrodite.

“Then why are you standing there still? Help me,” Percy demanded, his frustration mounting, his voice a raw plea.

"But what am I going to get from this?" Eros replied, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I won't kill you," Percy answered, desperation tinging his voice.

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to do that, silly,” Eros chuckled, his laughter a delicate poison. “Threats won’t gain you anything, not from me.” Kneeling beside Percy, his eyes, dark and penetrating.

"Please," Percy almost whimpered, frustration releasing in a torrent of emotion. "I want—no, I need to go back to Earth."

"That's better. I like it when pretty things beg," Eros murmured, his eyes turning a vibrant pink. "I might grant your wish, but first, I will have to get my fill of your flesh." He reached out, brushing a finger against Percy’s chest, just above where his heart beat frantically.

“What in the Styx are you talking about?” Percy asked, his shock a palpable thing.

"Just touching, nothing more. I need to know if you're worth telling Aphrodite about," Eros explained, his tone nonchalant.

"Why would you—. No, no, I don't want her to know about anything," Percy said, raising his head to meet Eros's amused gaze.

“But it’s not like you are in any position to tell me what to do,” Eros said, his boredom tinged with malice. “So?”

“You are insane,” Percy muttered, his voice trembling. “Don’t touch me.”

"In a matter of minutes, you will beg for it, I swear," Eros said with a dark chuckle, hovering over the demigod. His hand cupped Percy's cheeks, making him pout angrily, his other hand sliding slowly down to his neck, chest, and finally ripping the fabric of his clothing in the process.

“H-hey!” Percy protested. “Get off!”

"How you’re so soft to the touch," Eros stated with awe, his fingers inspecting Percy's chest, making the demigod turn his head to the side in embarrassment. “Yet firm.”

"Are you done?" Percy asked when Eros suddenly withdrew.

"Oh, never," the god answered. In another instant, his lips descended on Percy's, claiming him possessively. His other hand slid lower, exploring Percy's body as if it were his own.

“This is going too far. Apol—” Percy tried to call between kisses, but Eros stopped and looked at him with an intensity that terrified him.

"Why call for that sun-blinded fool when we’re having so much fun?" Eros hissed, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

With one swift motion forced open Percy’s mouth and produced thick spit that stretched from his lips to Percy’s. Demigod struggled to avoid the wet saliva reaching his mouth, but it soon touched his tongue. It tasted sickly sweet, making him instantly dizzy, his eyes rolling back like a man succumbing to a powerful opiate.

Eros closed his mouth over Percy’s in another wet kiss, letting his saliva slide down Percy’s throat, as he choked on it, its magic igniting sensations that spread through his groin. As Eros's hands continued their explorations, Percy felt a strange mix of emotions. Anger, fear, and a flicker of something he refused to name.

"Stop it, I hate it," Percy managed, his voice hoarse, strained with the effort to push back against the overwhelming sensations.

Eros’s smile was slow, knowing, as though he had already anticipated the struggle. "Do you hate this?" He asked, his voice a velvet purr. "Or do you hate that you might actually love it?"

Percy's heart throbbed within him like a relentless war drum, each pulsation a resolute anthem of defiance against the intruding allure of Eros, the insidious god whose very essence sought to entwine itself around Percy’s will. His fists clenched in an act of elemental command. Drawing forth the water that coursed unseen through the foliage, within the moss, and carried upon the gentle breeze, Percy marshalled its liquid force against the god of love.

With a surge of concentration, he moulded the water into a spectral hand that materialized from thin air, seizing Eros by the throat and hurling him against the ancient oak. Relief flooded Percy as the tendrils of the enchanted bracelet began to recede back into the form of mere adornment. Free once more, Percy stood firm on steady legs, eyes fixed upon Eros who, despite being thrown aside, regarded him with the predatory calm of a hunter eyeing its prey.

"Most impressive, demigod," Eros purred, his voice like honey laced with a hint of venom. "But my influence already courses through you," His smile was as smug as a cat who had just raided the cream, extending a hand in mock invitation. “Come to me.”

Percy hesitated, a fleeting numbness mingling with an intoxicating sense of happiness that whispered Eros might offer everything he had ever desired. Yet clarity pierced through the haze, and he recoiled, the dizzying vertigo of conflicting emotions swirling within him until he could no longer discern up from down. 

"What have you done?" Percy demanded, trying to summon anger for another assault of water, but Eros eluded his sight with infuriating ease. The faint flutter of wings, a soft but sinister laugh, mocked his attempts to locate the elusive god.

Percy knew that he must strike at the god’s pride, to stir him to anger.

“Show yourself, bastard child of Ares,” Percy then spat, his words a challenge hurled into the shadows. In response, Eros` materialized abruptly, a tempestuous figure with bow drawn and arrow aimed unwaveringly at Percy’s face.

The demigod smiled, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “There you are.” With a swift motion, Percy conjured a hailstorm of sharp ice, launching it toward Eros before he could evade. The icy projectiles found their mark, slicing through Eros's radiant skin, causing ichor to seep through the almost translucent fabric of his chiton.

“Oh, you will pay for that,” Eros vowed through gritted teeth, his features contorted with pain and rage as he gathered himself, preparing to retaliate with deadly precision. But before he could release another arrow, it was intercepted by Apollo’s hand, stopping just inches from Percy’s stunned face.

“That’s enough,” Apollo growled, his eyes blazing with an angry golden fire that seemed to ignite the very air around them. “Run to your mother before I rip out your wings.” His voice carried a threat that made Eros pale with fear before he vanished into the ether, fleeing from Apollo’s wrath.

“I let you out of my sight for mere minutes, and you already find yourself in trouble,” Apollo remarked, his tone a mix of disappointment and amusement as he turned his gaze upon Percy, who suddenly seemed strangely timid under his scrutiny.

“I would protect myself better if not for this,” Percy retorted angrily, thrusting his hand with the bracelet before Apollo's eyes. The god seized his wrist, examining the offending object with a critical eye.

“It served its purpose. I felt your disobedience the second you decided not to heed my orders,” Apollo said, a hint of irritation lacing his words as he let go of Percy's wrist. “And you could die twice this week if not for my swift reaction.” He added. “Your debts are mounting, dear demigod.”

“I did not ask to be here in the first place,” Percy answered with anger. “This place—” He started looking around uncertainly. “Are we truly on Olympus?” he asked.

Apollo’s expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained keen and assessing. “Yes, we are. The only path down from here is guided by another god—me," Apollo explained, his initial anger dissipating into a calm resolve as he took Percy by the arm, leading him away. Percy’s face burned crimson, a flush creeping up his cheeks at the mere sensation of Apollo's touch on his arm. It seemed to lead his thoughts astray towards forbidden paths.

“I know the way. I can walk on my own,” Percy insisted, gently shrugging off Apollo's hand. The god raised an eyebrow but released his grip, watching as Percy took a few tentative steps forward. The further they walked, the more Percy’s mind struggled to focus. The grandiosity of Apollo's domain, with its towering pillars and flickering lamps, seemed to blur at the edges of his vision.

Despite his efforts to appear composed, his legs trembled with a mix of nerves and lingering adrenaline. Apollo, ever perceptive, noted the demigod’s unsteady gait and the darting glances he cast. Percy tried to mask his unease, but the intensity of Apollo's presence and the surreal nature of his surroundings made it a Herculean task.

They navigated the labyrinthine corridors, the silence between them punctuated only by the soft echo of their footsteps. Percy stole glances at Apollo, whose face remained an unreadable mask of serene authority. Yet, beneath that calm facade, an undeniable tension simmered.

Finally, Percy was ushered into one of the smaller bedroom chambers. The room, though modest compared to the opulence of the main hall, still exuded an air of divine splendour. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and a bed with soft, silken sheets invited him to rest. Percy felt a wave of relief wash over him at the prospect of being granted a moment alone.

“If you try to run again, I will know,” Apollo cautioned sternly and with a final glance, he closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar. The allure of escape was strong, but the memory of god’s warning tempered his resolve.

It was evident that Apollo trusted the bracelet on Percy's wrist to maintain order.

The taste of Eros's saliva still clung to his tongue, a sweet yet insidious sensation that Percy expelled into a pot filled with lavender. The flowers seemed to shimmer more radiantly, as if absorbing the god’s potent essence. He grimaced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Seated on the edge of the bed, Percy struggled to gather his thoughts, attempting to distract himself from the persistent ache between his legs. He reflected on the significance of being on Olympus—a place where divine intrigues unfolded with incomprehensible complexity. The upcoming wedding of Thetis and Peleus loomed ahead, where Eris's golden apple would sow discord among the goddesses, setting the stage for Paris's fateful decision. Yet Percy dared not take action in the midst of so many gods; remaining invisible to their watchful eyes seemed the wisest course, though he had not had much luck with it.

As he contemplated his predicament, a whimper escaped his mouth, the weight of his desires pressing upon him. His hand rested on his groin, but to his dismay, Percy felt nothing—no response, no sensation. He was numb to his own touch, a disconcerting realization that left him hollow and unnerved.

He knew it would pass, but the potency of Eros's venom was beyond what Annabeth had once described. It wasn’t merely an aphrodisiac; it compelled physical touch with an irresistible force, leaving Percy unsatisfied by his own efforts. The lingering, provocative thoughts in his mind only exacerbated his struggle, making it difficult to redirect blood flow from his member back to his brain.

"Focus, Percy," he muttered to himself, his voice strained. He forced himself to think of Annabeth, of her clear, steady eyes and the way she could calm him with just a look. But even the memory of her wasn't enough to dispel the venom's effects entirely.

“Focus…”

His thoughts kept drifting back to Eros's touch, the god’s invasive presence lingering like a shadow.

Polymnia descended the steps of Apollo’s halls, her usually serene face now marred by deep lines of worry. Each step she took was heavy with the weight of her concerns, her delicate features drawn tight with anxiety. She stopped before the grand door, the monumental barrier seeming to pulse with the latent energy of the god within. He already knew she was there. With a single, fluid motion, the door swung open, revealing Apollo, his golden gaze meeting her troubled eyes with a stare that was far from surprised.

“What is it, dear one?” he asked, his voice a silken caress that belied the steely command beneath.

“It’s the boy, my lord. He’s been restless all night, whimpering and repeating words to stay awake. I’m worried,” she explained, her voice trembling slightly, each word a fragile petition for understanding.

Apollo’s gaze was almost pitying, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. Polymnia, one of the most sincere and sensitive among the Muses, was known for her compassionate heart. Often her worries were trifles, but this time, even Apollo had to concede she had reason to be nervous.

“Don’t be. I’m certain of what has got him,” Apollo said, a smirk playing on his lips, the expression at odds with the gravity of her concern.

“What is it?” Polymnia asked, her voice barely concealing the distaste she felt at his apparent pleasure.

“He’s under the influence of Eros,” Apollo said, the revelation making the Muse pale, her usually composed demeanour faltering.

“That’s awful,” she breathed, stepping closer to Apollo as if proximity could glean more information or somehow lessen the burden of her worry. “Something must be done.”

“For now, let him be. This is a lesson he must learn,” Apollo replied, his tone almost bored but laced with a hint of his own impatience, the god's mood mercurial as ever.

“A lesson?” Polymnia echoed, her voice rising with a mixture of disbelief and indignation. “What lesson could possibly justify this torment?”

“Disobedience,” Apollo replied simply, his gaze turning dark, the mirth evaporating like mist in the morning sun. “I wanted to show him what peril would await outside my walls.”

Polymnia’s eyes widened in shock and dismay. “But he is suffering,” she insisted, her voice breaking, the sincerity of her plea a testament to her deep empathy. “Surely there is another way to teach him.”

“I will come to his chambers soon. He won’t suffer for long,” Apollo reassured, his voice rich with divine certainty. Yet, his words offered no solace to Polymnia; if anything, they deepened her agitation.

“Maybe I should ease him myself, my lord. The boy has already gone through so much. If he’s strained further—” Polymnia began, her voice trembling with concern, but she was immediately silenced by Apollo's hand creeping up her cheek.

“I will be gentle with him,” Apollo said, his fingers stroking her cheek with a deceptive tenderness. “Just as I am always gentle with you,” he added, his tone laced with a subtle menace. Polymnia met his eyes with an empty stare. She knew her lord just like the rest of the Muses did; he was an insatiable and often terrifying lover. For the gods were beings of complex whims and insatiable appetites, and Apollo was no different.

“Gentle, my lord?” she whispered, her voice barely masking her scepticism, each word a fragile challenge to his promise.

Apollo’s smile was both charming and unsettling, a mix of divine allure and latent cruelty. “If he behaves,” he murmured, his words a veiled threat.

Polymnia found it hard to trust his assurances. Her eyes searched Apollo’s face for any sign of sincerity, but all she found was that same enigmatic smile.

Apollo’s fingers lingered on her cheek for a moment longer, their touch as cold as marble despite their warmth, before he let his hand fall. “Leave me. I will tend to the boy soon enough,” he commanded.

Polymnia bowed her head and stepped back, her mind troubled. She turned and left the room, her footsteps echoing in the grand hallway.

Percy's lips were red and bloodied from biting down, desperately trying to stifle the sounds of his torment as he rocked his hips in the bed, seeking any form of relief. Yet, the climax never came, and the friction only seemed to worsen his state, intensifying the ache rather than soothing it.

He was panting, wet gasps leaving his mouth, each breath accompanied by soft, involuntary whimpers. His clothes lay discarded somewhere on the floor, and his body glistened in the darkness, covered in a sheen of sweat. His member was painfully red and swollen, a testament to his relentless yet futile efforts to alleviate his suffering.

He had reached the breaking point, considering the unthinkable—calling out Eros's name. Yet, the memory of their last encounter held him back. He feared the god would only take pleasure in his suffering and make it even worse. Lost in his struggle to regain control, he failed to hear the door creak open.

Apollo stepped into the room, his presence a stark contrast to the darkness, radiating an unsettling blend of authority and allure. He was greeted by the sight of Percy’s perfect, naked body, curled in a half-moon position on the silk covers.

Already bare-chested, Apollo approached the bed with a predatory grace, each step deliberate, as if savouring the anticipation. He sat beside Percy, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. It was only then that Percy, sensing the shift, looked over his shoulder.

He was met with Apollo’s smug face, staring at him with a mixture of amusement and desire. “Poor thing,” Apollo mocked, his voice a silken whisper of condescension. Percy, his heart pounding, turned his head towards the pillow, trying to escape the intensity of Apollo's gaze. But the mere sight of the god’s handsome features made his heart skip a beat, and his muscles tensed in anticipation of a touch he both dreaded and longed for. He hated how his body betrayed him, responding to Apollo's presence with a mixture of fear and reluctant desire.

Apollo's hand moved with a deceptive gentleness, brushing back a strand of hair from Percy's forehead. The demigod shivered at the contact, his body betraying his resolve. Apollo leaned in closer, his breath warm against Percy's ear.

"You should have known better than to defy me," Apollo murmured, his voice a blend of chastisement and dark promise. "But now, you will learn."

Chapter Text

“Haven’t you had enough of that thrashing about?” Apollo asked, his hand resting just by Percy’s stomach, his lips hovering near his ear, a whisper of divine temptation.

“Go away,” Percy said, trying to pry his hands off, but Apollo gripped his wrist instead, his hold firm.

“I could make the pain go away, you know,” he murmured, his voice a silken thread of seduction that sent shivers cascading down Percy’s spine, straight to his member. His breath was warm against Percy’s ear, each word a caress.

“You knew,” Percy spat through gritted teeth.

“Of course I did,” Apollo replied, his tone one of smug omniscience. “And I was patient, hoping you would surrender much earlier. But you still haven’t begged me for my touch, my tongue, or my cock.” His words dripped with dark promise, eliciting a moan from Percy’s lips. Demigod quickly buried his face in the cushions, his embarrassment a searing brand on his skin.

“Don’t be ashamed. It’s only natural you feel that way,” Apollo cooed, his voice a lullaby of corruption. His hand finally rested on Percy’s shoulder, turning him over with gentle insistence until he lay on his back, exposed and vulnerable.

And the sight was too delicious to resist.

He was not surprised Eros had decided to claim him the second he laid his rose-coloured eyes on Poseidon’s son.

Percy was a vision of beauty and torment. Dark curls framed his face like a halo of shadows, contrasting with his pale, sweat-slicked skin. His sea-green eyes, vibrant and penetrating, resembled stained glass illuminated by the first light of dawn. His chest, bare and flushed, rose and fell with each labored breath, the rhythm of his struggle a silent hymn. His cheeks burned with the hue of dawn’s blush, and his parted lips, full and inviting, glistened as he wetted them with a sweep of his tongue. They gleamed like ripe fruit, tempting and forbidden.

Yet there was a crease between his brows, a furrow of confusion and unbidden feeling, as though he wrestled with sensations foreign to his being. It was a mark of vulnerability, a fleeting imperfection that only deepened his allure. Apollo’s gaze lingered there, drawn to that fragile shadow, and he felt a longing rise within him—a yearning to smooth it away with a kiss, to claim that fleeting sorrow as his own.

“You tricked me into meeting with Eros. You knew what would happen—what he would do.” His sea-green eyes burned with accusation, their brilliance undimmed despite the haze clouding his senses.

Apollo’s gaze flickered to meet his, and for a moment, something like amusement danced within the god’s golden irises. That the boy could still muster defiance, even in this state, stirred a wicked delight within him. 

“Is that so?” Apollo murmured, his tone laced with mockery. His hand found its way to Percy’s neck, a touch deceptively gentle. Slowly, it traveled downward, gliding over the curve of his collarbone to rest upon his chest. His fingers brushed against a nipple with a calculated carelessness.

Percy shuddered, his breath hitching as the unwanted sensation coursed through him. But then, as if summoning the last reserves of his will, Percy’s hands shot up, shoving Apollo’s touch away.

“Don’t,” Percy hissed, his voice raw and quaking. 

Apollo’s brows arched, a flicker of surprise crossing his features, though it quickly gave way to a smirk, unbothered and insidious. “I hadn’t foreseen that Eros would make it so troublesome for you,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery, a parody of concern. “But I can make it vanish, all of it. I can make you feel such delight that it will purge the pain, erase every shred of tension. Your thoughts will be clear again when I’m done with you. Would you like that?” he asked.

Percy’s mind was a maelstrom of confusion and need. He wanted to deny Apollo, to hold onto his pride, but his body betrayed him, responding to the god’s touch with an intensity that both frightened and exhilarated him.

Apollo’s hand moved with deliberate slowness, tracing languid, tantalizing patterns across Percy’s skin. “See how patient I am with you,” he murmured, his voice rich with dark satisfaction. “I wait, and wait, for you to give in. Just say the word,” he coaxed, his tone thick with promise, “and I will give you what you crave—what you cannot name, but feel in every trembling fiber of your being.” 

Percy’s breath hitched, his resolve wavering. He wanted to resist, to cling to his pride, but the relentless, gnawing ache was too much to bear.

All he wanted was the touch of another, a hand to finally still the relentless ache that throbbed within him.

“Please."

Apollo’s smile bloomed, triumphant and cruel, a victor’s smile that tasted of conquest. “That’s more like it,” he said, his hand finally closing around Percy’s shaft, eliciting a gasp of relief. “Good boy.”

Percy’s hips, driven by a primal need, bucked involuntarily, a silent plea for more.

Apollo’s movements were deliberate, each stroke slow and drawn-out. It was a dance, a seduction of the senses, coaxing every last drop of resistance from the trembling form beneath him.

“See? Isn’t this better?” Apollo’s voice was a hushed whisper brushing against Percy’s skin. His lips traced a slow path along the curve of Percy’s throat, teasing, until they finally pressed against the pulsing beat of his neck, savoring the rapid rhythm. Apollo drank in every beat, as if the very sound of it was his to command, his to consume.

Percy could only whimper, his breath a fragile, desperate sound as his body arched into Apollo’s hand, an offering. Apollo’s eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction, watching as Percy writhed beneath him, his body curving like a serpent, desperate to chase after the god’s touch.

Apollo’s hand halted abruptly, leaving a void where the warmth had been, and Percy’s eyes fluttered open, wide and luminous, a pout forming on his lips, a fragile disappointment on the verge of tears. The expression was so achingly beautiful, so raw, that it made Apollo’s heart stutter in his chest, a tremor of something unexpected stirring deep within him. He had planned to tease the boy further, to draw out every last bit of his restraint, but in that moment, Apollo found himself faltering. 

When Percy moaned into his mouth, the sound a soft, desperate plea, Apollo deepened the kiss, his movements growing more urgent as he stroked Percy’s flushed member. Each motion was deliberate, coaxing the boy to the brink of madness, demigods breath hitching in sharp gasps as he succumbed to the god’s caresses.

Percy’s head turned to the side, his body trembling, before he shattered, a soft cry escaping his lips as he came, the moment of release a sweet surrender that left him gasping. As the boy’s body convulsed in release, Apollo murmured against his lips,

“So pretty.”

Even after his climax, Percy’s skin remained sensitive, perhaps even more so than before. His member, still throbbing and eager, rose again.

A whimper of frustration and anger tore from Percy’s lips. His body—his traitorous body—betrayed him at every turn, a slave to the desires that Eros had ignited and Apollo was intent on stoking.

Would he be able to endure this? He had reached his release, had shattered under the weight of his own longing, and yet the ache, the hunger, refused to dissipate. He thought it should end, that it must end, but instead, the ache only grew, deeper and more intense, as though he had only begun to feel the full weight of it. 

Before Percy could even begin to calm from the release that had just wracked his body, Apollo was already moving, his hands seizing Percy’s legs with a possessive grip, pulling him closer with a fluid motion. He slid Percy further along, positioning himself between the boy’s trembling legs, his lips descending upon Percy’s aching member.

"Wait!" Percy gasped, his hand gripping Apollo’s shoulder.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming; Percy moaned, his voice a raw, desperate plea that echoed through the chamber. His hands flew to push Apollo away, but the god was prepared. With a flick of his wrist, Apollo activated the bracelet that bound Percy. Vines erupted from the golden band, snaking around his wrists and binding them above his head, rendering him utterly helpless. Demigod's breath hitched in his throat as he looked up at the vines, wide-eyed, his gaze flickering between them and Apollo. 

"Let me go!" He demanded. 

“Shh, my sweet,” Apollo whispered, his breath a warm caress against Percy’s inner thighs. “It’s time you learn the true warmth of the sun god.”

Percy’s struggles were futile. The vines held him fast, and each movement only seemed to tighten their grip. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and reluctant anticipation. Apollo’s mouth was relentless, his tongue a skilled instrument of torment and ecstasy. Each stroke, each flicker of wet muscle, drove Percy closer to the edge, his mind a whirl of thrill and pain. 

Percy looked up, his gaze darting somewhere, anywhere, desperate to avoid the reality of what was happening between his legs

With a soft, trembling exhale, he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to shut out the reality unfolding around him. Then, with a deep, almost fearful breath, he reopened them—his gaze flickering, a desperate attempt to reassure himself, to check if the nightmare had somehow ended.

But Apollo’s hands, like the caress of an unseen melody, teased and taunted still. The god’s fingers, warm and possessive, wandered across the tender expanse of Percy’s body, charting a course of ownership, lingering on his ribs, as though composing a sonnet of desire. Apollo’s nails brushed against the sensitive nipples, leaving trails of molten fire in their wake. A pinch, delicate yet cruel, sent a shock through Percy, his body quivering under the touch. All the while, Apollo’s tongue danced on his stiff member, a final, unforgiving crescendo.

Percy’s back arched, his hips bucking against the restraints as he sought more of that intoxicating touch.

“I can't,” Percy whimpered, his voice barely more than a breathless moan. “Please, I can’t…”

He was on the verge now, so close—closer than he had dared to believe. Percy marveled at the swiftness with which his body responded, the unbidden surge of desire rising once more within him. How quickly the cup of pleasure would brim again, overflowing with white. He bit his lip, his teeth pressing into the tender flesh, desperately attempting to stifle the moans that threatened to escape, shame rising in a flush beneath his skin.

“You can,” Apollo murmured, his voice a soft, lingering note, as he traced the curve of Percy’s leaking penis with the slow grace of a river winding through ancient stone. “And you will.”

Apollo’s own arousal was evident, his eyes dark with lust as he watched Percy writhe beneath him, each gasp and moan a testament to his skill.

Percy’s world narrowed to the points of contact between their bodies. The warmth of Apollo’s mouth, the firmness of his hands, the unyielding grip of the vines—everything coalesced into a singular focus of sensation that obliterated all thought. His mind, already addled by the aphrodisiac coursing through his veins, surrendered completely to the god’s will.

Apollo’s pace quickened, his movements more insistent as he sensed Percy’s imminent release. The demigod’s breath hitched, his body tensing as he teetered on the precipice. With a final, deliberate stroke, Apollo sent him over the edge, the world exploding into a kaleidoscope of pleasure. Percy’s scream echoed through the halls, a raw, primal sound that spoke of complete and utter surrender.

Apollo swallowed every last drop of Percy’s semen, making the boy overstimulated in the process. Percy’s body began to twitch violently, his mind overwhelmed by the relentless waves of pleasure.

“Let go of me, I’ve just come, please,” Percy pleaded, his voice strained and desperate.

“You did, my good boy,” Apollo praised, his tone dripping with satisfaction. He lifted Percy’s trembling form, positioning him so he was straddling Apollo’s thighs. Percy looked at Apollo with a mix of surprise and shame, acutely aware of Apollo’s arousal pressing insistently against his thigh.

Percy’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in defiance, his face flushed deeper than before. Yet, to his own bewilderment, something within him stirred, a subtle twitch of anticipation that spoke of his body’s betrayal. His gaze grew distant, a haze settling over his vision, and he could feel the warmth of his breath quicken, the taste of anticipation thickening in his mouth. He shook his head slowly. 

Apollo’s smile broadened, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I will prepare you well,” Apollo assured him, his voice soothing. His hand, slow and deliberate, slid behind Percy’s back, fingers tracing the delicate curve of his spine, a touch that spoke of both care and command. With a quiet, measured motion, his fingers found their way to the small of Percy’s back, parting the flesh, exposing the tight ring of muscle.

"You're already twitching there." Apollo murmured, his voice a low, indulgent note, as his finger brushed lightly over the sensitive flesh. “So... adorable.” His words were a soft caress as he nipped gently at Percy’s nipple, the delicate action laced with quiet hunger. His fingers, steady and patient, traced slow circles around Percy’s entrance, coaxing his body to yield, to surrender.

Percy leaned toward him, his breath a ragged symphony, as though each inhale was a struggle against the weight of a fevered desire. His fingers sank deep into Apollo’s golden locks, gripping with a desperation that spoke of an ache too long denied.

Slowly, Apollo pressed a finger into Percy, breaching the tight ring of muscle with deliberate care. Percy’s body tensed initially, but Apollo’s soothing murmurs and gentle kisses along his neck helped him to relax. The intrusion was strange and uncomfortable at first, but Apollo’s patient, expert touch soon transformed the discomfort into a burgeoning extasy.

“You’re doing so well,” Apollo praised, his voice a comforting balm. He added a second finger, stretching Percy further, his movements slow and methodical. Percy’s breath hitched, his hips involuntarily rocking against Apollo’s hand as the god’s fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves within him.

“Oh gods,” Percy moaned, his voice a mix of surprise and arousal. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced, an intense pleasure that seemed to radiate from deep within him.

“Yes, just like that,” Apollo encouraged, his own arousal evident in the throaty timbre of his voice. He continued to prepare Percy, adding a third finger and scissoring them gently, ensuring that the demigod was thoroughly stretched and ready to accommodate him.

Percy’s body trembled, his member a feverish throb against Apollo’s chest, as the god’s touch moved with a rare, deliberate patience, each motion a slow burn. Percy’s whimpers—soft, trembling utterances—wove a melody, sweet and tormenting, that seemed to stir something dark within Apollo’s soul.

When Apollo finally deemed the moment ripe, he withdrew his fingers, leaving Percy in a hollow, unbearable emptiness. The god’s form shifted, positioning himself at Percy’s entrance, his penis slick and hard with desire, poised to claim the boy in a union both inevitable and consuming.

“Are you ready, my sweet?” Apollo asked, his voice a seductive purr. Percy only looked at him, his eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and desire.

With a slow, steady push, Apollo began to enter Percy, the head of his cock breaching the tight ring of muscle. Percy gasped, his hands clutching at Apollo’s shoulders as his body adjusted to the intrusion. Apollo paused, allowing Percy time to acclimate before continuing his advance, sinking deeper into the tight, welcoming heat. Apollo sought to draw Percy’s mind away from the ache with tender, languid kisses along the curve of his jaw, his lips brushing the soft expanse of his cheeks like a whispered secret, until at last, the god claimed his lips, drinking in the soft moans that trembled from him.

Every inch felt like a conquest, every moan and whimper from Percy a testament to Apollo’s dominance. When he was fully seated within Percy, he stilled, allowing the boy’s body to adapt to the fullness.

“You are mine now,” Apollo whispered against Percy's quivering lips, his voice filled with possessive triumph. “Every part of you.”

Percy’s response was a breathless moan. As Apollo began to move, the pain quickly gave way to overwhelming waves of pleasure, each thrust sending jolts of ecstasy through Percy’s body.

In that moment, all thoughts of escape and defiance melted away, leaving only the raw, primal connection between them. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, a testament to Apollo’s control and Percy’s surrender. They shared wet, desperate kisses, Apollo ensuring that every part of Percy’s body was touched, caressed, kissed, and bitten. Each sensation was heightened by Eros’ influence, making Percy feel as if he were on the edge of a precipice, constantly falling but never quite hitting the ground.

When Apollo was about to come, he let out a guttural noise, primal and raw, making sure every drop of his divine essence nestled deep within Percy. His hips continued to move, even as Percy came again, his semen coating his abdomen and chest in white strings. Apollo’s relentless pace showed no sign of abating, his stamina seemingly endless.

Time lost all meaning. Minutes stretched into eternity, each second a beat in the symphony of pleasure that Apollo conducted. Percy’s body, once a battleground of conflicting desires, became a vessel for Apollo’s whims, responsive to every touch, every whisper. His cries filled the chamber, a haunting melody.

Hours passed in this relentless dance, their bodies slick with sweat, mingling with the evidence of their passion. Percy could barely keep his head straight, his strength sapped by the continuous onslaught of extasy and exhaustion. His head leaned on Apollo’s shoulder, a weak moan escaping his lips with every thrust.

“Feeling tired already?” Apollo murmured. “I won’t let you rest so easily.” He marked Percy’s neck with yet another red bruise. Apollo's hand found Percy’s cock again, stroking it in time with his thrusts, ensuring the demigod’s pleasure never waned.

The room was filled with the sounds of their coupling—skin slapping against skin, moans, and gasps, all underscored by the soft, almost melodic grunts of Apollo’s exertions. Percy’s mind was a haze of sensation, his body a canvas upon which Apollo painted his desires. 

Apollo's pace increased, each thrust deeper, more possessive, his grip on Percy’s hips almost bruising. “You belong to me,” he growled, his voice a mixture of satisfaction and hunger. “Every inch of you, every breath, every heartbeat.”

Percy’s response was a weak nod, his mind too far gone to form coherent words. His world had shrunk to the size of Apollo’s touch, his body a vessel for the god’s pleasure.

As the night wore on, Apollo showed no sign of stopping, his divine stamina ensuring that Percy’s body was continuously pushed to its limits and beyond. Each time Percy thought he could take no more, Apollo would find a new way to elicit fresh waves of pleasure, keeping him on the edge, never letting him fully rest.

“I will die,” Percy whimpered pitifully into Apollo’s neck. He felt the vibrations of Apollo’s melodic laughter reverberate through him, a sound both comforting and cruel in its assurance.

“You will not die. Not with me by your side,” Apollo said as he pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.

“I can’t get enough of you. And I think I never will,” he murmured, his tone possessive and adoring. He gripped Percy’s hair, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. Percy was utterly spent, his eyes dazed and tired, a string of saliva hanging from his lips, and tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. Yet, despite his exhaustion, a flicker of awareness was beginning to creep back in as Eros’s venom slowly receded from his system.

Apollo, however, was unfazed by Percy’s returning clarity. In fact, the prospect of Percy becoming fully conscious of the situation only heightened his excitement. He wondered with perverse curiosity what new expressions would Percy make as he realized Apollo had been ravaging him for the whole day already?

Apollo’s cock hardened again at the mere thought, a surge of desire coursing through him. He continued his onslaught, each thrust a claim, each caress a declaration of ownership.

The god’s hands roamed over his body, caressing, squeezing, and exploring every inch as if memorizing the contours of his flesh.

He marveled at the way Percy’s skin flushed under his touch, the way his breath hitched with each new wave of pleasure. Apollo’s lips traced a path from Percy’s neck to his chest, savoring the taste of his sweat and the sound of his soft, desperate moans.

“Look at me,” Apollo commanded softly, his grip on the demigod’s hair firm but not cruel. Percy’s eyes, though weary, tried to focus on Apollo’s face, the god’s beauty almost overwhelming in his divine glow. Apollo’s hands gripped Percy’s hips, pulling him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between them, their bodies a seamless union of mortal and divine.

“Tell me your name,” Apollo murmured, his voice a velvet whisper that caressed Percy’s ears. His gaze bore into Percy’s sea-green eyes, searching for the soul within. Percy looked at him with confusion. “I am a god of truth. I know Einalian is not your true name,” Apollo said, his words a gentle revelation.

Percy’s mind struggled to process, to understand. “So?” Apollo asked, his tone eager, almost hungry for the truth. He made a tentative move with his hips, and Percy’s breath hitched, a shiver running through his body. Percy’s eyes shut tightly, a fortress against the overwhelming reality of his situation.

“I can’t,” Percy answered, his voice sincere, trembling with the weight of his emotions. Apollo’s response was a kiss, deep and consuming, a silent vow of patience.

“It matters not,” Apollo whispered against Percy’s trembling lips. “Perhaps, in time, you will tell me. But know this, Einalian”—his words were a dark, unyielding promise—“I will keep you.” His voice deepened, thick with intent. “And you will learn to love it,” he added, burying himself deeper within Percy, a deliberate act, as if to carve his claim into the very marrow of the boy’s soul.

Each thrust was precise, an artful stroke that struck the bundle of nerves inside Percy, sending shivers of pleasure cascading through his entire being. Percy never imagined that such an unknown spot in his body could feel so wondrously euphoric. His mouth watered, tears streaming down his red cheeks, unable to contain the overwhelming sensations coursing through him.

Apollo's pace quickened, his movements of power and grace, each thrust deeper and more intoxicating than the last.

When Percy finally reached his breaking point, his release was a shattering, all-consuming wave that left him boneless and spent. His body convulsed in ecstasy, every muscle taut with the intensity of his climax. He felt as if he were dissolving into pure sensation, losing himself in the rapture that Apollo had so expertly crafted.

Apollo followed soon after, his own climax a surge of divine energy that seemed to fuse them together. It poured into Percy, molten and searing, like lava coursing through his veins, a fire that claimed him wholly, leaving nothing untouched.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Percy lay panting, his body trembling with the aftershocks. Apollo’s hand gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, his eyes softening with a rare tenderness. The vines loosened their grip, retracting into the bracelet, leaving Percy’s wrists free but marked with the imprints of their embrace.

Apollo leaned back, his gaze lingering on the masterpiece he had wrought. Percy lay in the sheets, unconscious now, his form a canvas of exquisite ruin. White, like spilled milk, dripped from between his thighs in slow, languid rivulets, glistening with the faint sheen of gold. His thighs bore the marks of their union—bruises and red bites, testament to Apollo’s touch, both cruel and tender. Percy’s abdomen was slick with the remnants of his release, a mixture of sweat, saliva, and desire that clung to his skin, a subtle, shimmering testament to the god’s presence.

His chest was marred with bruises, scattered like spilled rose petals, each one a soft, dark stain against his pale skin. His neck bore the marks of Apollo’s teeth, a constellation of them. His mouth, swollen and bruised from the fervor of kisses, trembled as though still tasting the sweetness of the violence that had taken place. Dried streams of tears traced the contours of his flushed cheeks, each tear a silent echo of the chaos that had raged within him.

Apollo smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips, and leaned toward Percy, his hand cradling the boy’s head as he sealed his mouth with yet another kiss—soft, almost reverent, as though savoring the aftermath of their union. Then, with a quiet grace, he gathered Percy into his arms, the weight of the boy light against him, and carried him from the chamber.

He moved through the halls with purpose, his steps steady as he brought Percy to the bath bath hall, a serene space filled with the soothing sound of trickling water and the scent of fragrant oils. The bath was a pool of warm, inviting water, steam rising gently from its surface.

Apollo placed Percy in the water, the warmth enveloping him and beginning to wash away the evidence of their lovemaking. Percy’s eyes opened only briefly, and each time he was greeted with a kiss on his eyelids, on his face, on his neck, lulling him back to sleep. Apollo’s hands moved with a surprising gentleness, cleaning Percy with care, his touch both soothing and reverent.

As Percy stirred again, it was with a different gaze, sober and more aware, yet exhaustion had rendered him pliable, like soft clay in the hands of his divine lover. Apollo hummed softly, a melody that seemed to blend with the rippling of the water, as they sat in the grand bath, its marble edges glistening like polished ivory.

“Did you come back to me already?” Apollo's voice was a gentle caress. Percy nestled against him, his cheek resting on the solid expanse of Apollo’s chest, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall as he breathed. Apollo’s fingers combed through his dark, wet locks, each stroke a silent promise of protection.

Percy raised his head, his gaze wandering around the opulent chamber, confusion clouding his features. He looked down at himself, noting the many marks left by their passion. Understanding dawned slowly, followed by a creeping terror that made his heart race. In a sudden burst of clarity, Percy pushed away from Apollo. He needed space to gather his thoughts, to understand what had transpired.

But his body betrayed him, exhaustion making his movements sluggish. Apollo’s grip was unyielding yet tender as he seized Percy by the hips, drawing him back with ease, his back pressed firmly against Apollo’s chest. He enveloped him with his arms, the god’s strength was effortless, his hold both a restraint and a reassurance.

The water around them responded to Percy’s inner turmoil, whirling and spiking as if it shared his distress. Apollo tightened his embrace, his voice a soothing murmur against the chaos. “Shhh, my light,” he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “There is no need for fear. I am here, and I will not harm you.”

Percy’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he fought to regain control. “Why?” he managed to choke out, his voice barely more than a strained whisper. “Why did you...?”

“You have consented to this,” Apollo said with a flicker of frustration.

Percy shook his head vehemently. “How could you even say that? I would never—” He started, his voice cracking under the weight of his anguish. He felt utterly violated, his body aching, his head pounding.

“I want your love, Einalian. I want you by my side,” Apollo said, keeping Percy from thrashing in his arms. His grip was firm, an iron band of control wrapped in velvet.

“You won’t get any of that from me,” Percy answered defiantly. Apollo’s expression darkened, and he covered Percy’s eyes with his hand, his touch both gentle and menacing. 

“Do you see anything?” Apollo asked through gritted teeth. Percy struggled to pry Apollo’s hand away, but his efforts proved futile, exhaustion sapping his strength. “Answer me!” Apollo raised his voice, a thunderous echo in the grand bath. Then, more quietly, composed yet no less intense, he repeated, “Answer me.”

“No,” Percy swallowed nervously, his voice barely audible.

“This is all you will see if you refuse me,” Apollo said darkly. “I can heal blindness; I can also take sight.” His words were a chilling reminder of his divine power, a testament to the capricious whims of the gods. Finally, he released Percy, but the boy’s vision remained shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, as if his eyes had been gouged out. Terror surged within him, bile rising in his throat. He felt utterly lost, his hands clawing at his face in a desperate attempt to dispel the void.

“I-I can't see. Give it back, please,” Percy's voice breaking under the weight of his desperation. The sense of utter helplessness overwhelmed him, his usual courage crumbling in the face of Apollo’s terrifying power.

Apollo smiled, moving away from Percy, reveling in how the boy seemed to search for him as an anchor in the midst of his despair. “I do not wish to harm you,” he said, the menace in his tone now replaced with a quiet, almost sorrowful resolve. “But you must understand the lengths I will go to keep you by my side.”

The darkness persisted, a void that threatened to consume Percy’s sanity. Panic clawed at his chest, each breath a struggle against the oppressive weight of his blindness. “Don't do this...,” he whispered. “Please, Apollo.” His hands reached out blindly, searching for the god.

Slowly, Apollo stepped closer, his fingers brushing against Percy’s outstretched palms. Percy’s fingers clung to god's touch, as if he were a lifeline in the sea of darkness. Apollo’s fingers traveled from Percy’s palms to his wrists, up his arms, then his hands moved to cradle Percy’s face, thumbs brushing away the tears that stained his cheeks.

With a gentle caress, Apollo’s fingers trailed down Percy’s face, coming to rest on his closed eyelids. A soft glow emanated from his touch, a warmth that began to pierce the suffocating blackness. Slowly, painfully, Percy’s vision returned, the world around him coming back into focus. The relief was overwhelming, but it was tempered by the knowledge of Apollo’s power and his willingness to use it.

Percy looked into Apollo’s eyes, and in those depths, he saw a tempest of emotions, an ocean of adoration tinged with the dark currents of an insatiable need to control. The intensity of Apollo’s gaze was almost suffocating, yet, despite the intimidation he felt, Percy kept his gaze steady, refusing to be cowed by his overpowering presence.

"Love you want?" Percy began, his voice trembling but determined. "How can I give you something I don't have?" The words echoed between them, resonating like a struck chord, vibrating with the raw honesty of his confession.

Apollo’s expression shifted subtly, the tempest in his eyes momentarily stilled. There was a flicker of something almost vulnerable but quickly masked. Apollo let go of him, and Percy backed away until he reached the middle of the pool. The water, once soothing, now felt like a barrier, a tenuous shield against the intimidating presence of the sun god. Apollo slowly rose, climbing the mosaic steps until he was out of the grand bath. He paused at the edge, turning to look at Percy, his body glistening under the light streaming through the stained glass above. The myriad hues played across his skin, transforming him into a living work of art.

Apollo’s expression softened, but the intensity in his gaze did not waver. “Perhaps not now,” he replied, his voice calm and contemplative. “The demer tree takes around 20 to 40 years to start producing fruit. Once pollinated, the fruit itself can take about 6 to 7 years to mature fully.” He explained, his tone almost didactic. “Love too needs patience. And I will nurture it, patiently, endlessly, until it blooms within you.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Percy said, the idea of being tended to with such care and persistence was to him more terrifying than alluring. 

“I will wait as long as it takes. I will be the sun that warms you, the light that guides you. And one day, you will see that this love I offer is not a prison, but a sanctuary,” Apollo said, his voice echoing with a divine certainty that reverberated through the grand bath hall. Percy wanted to laugh at the absurdity of those words. Sanctuary. The very notion was a cruel joke.

“What if I don’t?” Percy asked, his voice a fragile echo that barely seemed to disturb the tranquil surface of the water.

“You’ve already tasted the consequence,” Apollo replied, his tone carrying an ominous undercurrent. “You will experience living without the sun, without light, and without my good will—is that a fate you wish to embrace?" With that, Apollo turned and began to walk away, each step a graceful departure, his form a radiant silhouette against the shimmering backdrop of the bath chamber. Percy watched him disappear, a tumult of emotions swirling within him.

"No," Percy whispered, the word a fragile shield against the onslaught of memories that threatened to finally engulf him. Denial surged first, a desperate attempt to push away the reality that clawed at the edges of his consciousness. Yet, like cracks in a dam, memories flooded through—moments of pleasure twisted by the weight of coercion and violation.

Disbelief followed, gnawing at his mind as he struggled to comprehend what had transpired. Apollo, the sun god whose charm had once seemed benign, now loomed in his memories with a different shade of intensity. Percy's body, marked by his touch, bore silent witness to an encounter he could not fully reconcile. His anger flared next, fuelled by the sense of violation that seeped into every fibre of his being. Grief also appeared, for the loss of control, the desecration of his boundaries. The realization clawed at him, tearing away the last vestiges of denial.

He was raped. The thought pierced through his mind like a dagger. It was a possibility he had dared not confront until now, a truth that threatened to unravel the fragile semblance of control he desperately clung to.

Percy felt his body, touching himself to remind himself it was his own, reclaiming it from the violation he had endured. For a fleeting moment, he wished it had been another of Hekate’s visions, placing him in a hellish future of Troy, anything but this stark reality.

He could hardly believe this was his flesh. His skin, once marked by the scars of countless battles and hard-won victories, now felt unnaturally smooth. The memories of battles with minotaurs, hydras, the deep wound from Ares, souvenirs from Tartarus, and even those from the Sea of Monsters—all were gone.

Percy’s breath caught in his throat as he struggled to reconcile the reality of his altered body with the memories etched into his mind. Each scar had been a testament to his strength, a reminder of the challenges he had faced and overcome. Now, they were replaced by a new kind of marks, painfully present.

Percy wondered where Hekate was when he anguished, his mind drifting to the goddess of witchcraft, who had once promised to aid him if ever he found himself in dire need. Her presence was often elusive, appearing when least expected and vanishing just as quickly. Her absence now, in this moment of turmoil and fear, felt like a betrayal.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Anger, shame, and a profound sense of loss warred within him, mingling with a raw vulnerability he had never known.

“I am still me,” Percy whispered to himself, the words a desperate mantra against the tide of doubt and self-blame. He knew, deep down, that his essence remained unchanged, that no one act could define him. But he felt so lost, so utterly lost he didn’t know what to do. The fragrances in the air, usually soothing, now made his head spin with a sickening wave of nausea.

With a heavy sigh, Percy surrendered to the water, allowing himself to sink slowly to the bottom like a weighty stone descending into darkness. Despite its comforting temperature, it offered him no solace. He longed for the shock of cold sea water, something to match the icy numbness he felt inside.

Percy lay on his stomach, head buried in his hands, finally allowing himself to release the pent-up sorrow. Tears mingled with the water around him, his body trembling with the aftershocks of emotional turmoil he could no longer contain.

Drawn by the currents of sorrow emanating from the water, Polymnia approached quietly. As the Muse of hymns, she felt the emotions of others keenly, attuned to the melodies of their souls. She whispered softly, addressing Percy with gentle concern, yet refrained from intruding upon his grief. Seating herself by the edge, she summoned her lyre, weaving a soothing melody that caressed the air.

Percy’s eyes opened as he listened to the lilting notes of the music. His tears subsided gradually as he found himself drawn into the melody’s gentle cadence. In the embrace of its harmonies, he found a temporary respite, a moment of peace amid the chaos that had gripped him.

Yet, beneath his surface calm, Percy's brows furrowed with a question unasked. Did she truly believe a mere song could assuage the torment gnawing at his soul? The urge to lash out, to spray her with the venom of his ire, clawed at him, but he restrained himself.

His anger belonged to Apollo alone.

Percy slowly resurfaced. He blinked against the stinging sensation in his eyes, the remnants of tears mixing with the water that cascaded down his face. With trembling hands, he pushed wet strands of hair away from his forehead, trying to regain his composure.

Acknowledging Polymnia with a nod, Percy stepped out of the pool, his bare feet whispering softly on the cool marble floors that stretched between towering columns overhead.

He wanted to be alone, to retreat into the solace of his thoughts without the intrusion of conversation, even if Polymnia’s intentions were to offer comfort.

“Wear something before you depart,” Polymnia's gentle reminder broke the fragile silence that had settled between them, her voice carrying a soft insistence.

Percy found a single piece of muslin cloth nearby and swiftly fashioned it around his waist like a makeshift chiton. Its appearance was dishevelled, its folds uneven and carelessly draped. Yet, in his current state of mind, the details of his attire mattered little.

As he walked away, Percy felt the weight of Polymnia’s gaze upon him, filled with a mix of empathy and resignation. As the echoes of his footsteps faded into the distance, she remained, the haunting strains of her melody lingering in the air.

Chapter Text

He spent following days in the same room where he had first awakened. Nights were his refuge, enveloped in darkness that offered a strange comfort, yet each time he closed his eyes, a lingering fear gnawed at him—that his sight might vanish as Apollo had threatened.

Despite the looming fear, he attempted escape numerous times. Each effort was thwarted by the enchanted vines entwined in his bracelet, which bound him whenever he ventured too far. He was discovered by Muses in various nooks of the palace, ensnared by the tenacious vines, until he ceased his futile endeavors. Nevertheless, the thoughts of fleeing this place remained ever-present, a relentless whisper in the corridors of his mind.

Percy had not encountered Apollo during this time. From Mnemosyne’s fleeting visits, he gleaned that Apollo, along with Hera, was deeply engrossed in the meticulous preparations for the impending wedding of Peleus and Thetis. This revelation granted Percy a temporary reprieve from the god's presence, though he knew it to be only a fleeting respite.

Each passing day in this secluded sanctuary brought a fragile sense of solace, a fleeting respite from the uncertainties that plagued his mind. The muses, ever-present yet respectful of his need for solitude, offered their quiet companionship. Their gentle laughter and soft conversations wove a delicate thread of comfort through the otherwise tense air that surrounded him.

Therpsyhore would often invite him to dance, her movements a symphony of grace that he could never quite emulate. Thalia and Melpomene, ever the dramatists, played out newly envisioned scenes of comedy and tragedy, their performances a bittersweet balm to his weary soul. Polymnia and Euterpe endeavored to teach him the art of playing the Phorminx, Kithara, or Lyre, but his fingers, too impatient, often snapped the delicate strings in his attempts. The Aulos, a double-reed instrument with two pipes, seemed a more promising choice. Yet even here, the sounds he produced were more cacophony than melody.

Calliope, the most reasonable of the Muses, observed Percy's ignorance in both behavior and history and eagerly took it upon herself to educate him each day. Percy absorbed knowledge like a sponge, listening with rapt attention to the tales spun by Calliope and Clio. His usual inattentiveness to history vanished in their presence; the Muses enchanted him with their words and gestures, weaving their narratives with such grace that his mouth often hung open in wonder until Calliope gently closed it with a finger.

The muses, each a patron of creativity, provided their own unique brand of entertainment, yet he longed for something more substantial to occupy his mind. The rhythms of combat, the feel of a sword in his hand—these were the things that brought him a true sense of purpose. The absence of a weapon gnawed at him like a persistent itch, a reminder of a life left behind.

One day, in a moment of frustration, he approached Thalia. The most youthful and easygoing of the muses, she seemed a potential ally in his quest. "Could I have a sword?" he asked, his voice a mix of hope and desperation.

Thalia laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that felt like a slap. "Have you gone mad? Lord Apollo’s palace is no place for violence," she declared, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Percy felt his jaw tighten in frustration. Apollo forbidding violence? It felt like a cruel joke.

But Percy did not let the dismissal deter him. He sought solace in his favorite spot, a grand fountain enveloped by a tapestry of carefully tended flowers. The gentle sound of the water, the vibrant colors of the blooms, provided a calming backdrop as he pondered his next move. Sitting by the fountain, he stared into its depths, a plan forming in his mind.

With a deep breath, Percy extended his hand over the water, willing it to rise and take shape. Slowly, the liquid responded, forming a nebulous shape that he refined with careful concentration. Bit by bit, a sword began to emerge, its form clear and solidifying as he cooled it with a touch of ice.

Grasping the ice sword, he felt a flicker of the old familiarity. It was lighter than any real weapon, and the coldness bit into his skin, yet, as he began to swing it, memories of his past life flowed back. The fluid motions, the remembered stances—it all came back to him, muscle memory reigniting long-dormant skills.

The ice blade melted swiftly, droplets falling to the ground, but the brief exercise had served its purpose. Despite the ephemeral nature of his icy weapon, the act of wielding it grounded him, offering a semblance of the life he once knew and a bridge to the future he sought to reclaim.

His thoughts often turned to the impending wedding and the discord that loomed on the horizon, exacerbated by the presence of Eris and her infamous apple. The tension was palpable, a thick undercurrent that he couldn't ignore. He wondered how Paris, would navigate the labyrinth of choices laid before him. The fact that Paris had met Percy and had already been taken to Dardanele—would it alter the course of events?

The memory of his friend weighed heavily on his heart, a constant ache that colored his reflections. Paris, with his charm and wit, would soon found himself at the epicenter of a potential catastrophe.

As he sat beneath the dappled shade one afternoon, the play of light and shadow painting patterns upon his features, Percy felt a subtle shift in the air. Calliope, reading to him, sensed it too, her head lifting from the book. A presence, unmistakable in its aura of authority and allure, approached through the winding paths of the garden.

Apollo was drawing near. His footsteps, soft yet resonant, echoed through the garden. Percy's pulse quickened imperceptibly, a mixture of apprehension and defiance coursing through his veins. He stood amidst the verdant foliage, his posture rigid and alert, resembling a wild animal cornered by an unseen threat. Calliope, much more composed, rose respectfully. She looked at Percy with a questioning gaze, likely hearing the rapid beat of his heart.

The sunlight danced upon Apollo's golden curls as he emerged into view, his countenance bearing the regal demeanor of a deity accustomed to adulation. Each step Apollo took seemed deliberate, as if measuring the distance between them. His eyes, a brilliant reflection of the sun's own radiance, met Percy's with an intensity that spoke volumes.

Hatred simmered within Percy, a seething desire to lash out. Yet, he knew the futility of such thoughts. Apollo’s promise echoed in his mind. “You will experience living without the sun.” Percy’s heart ached, he did not want to be a captive, yet the prospect of facing Apollo’s wrath again filled him with dread.

The atmosphere, once serene, now crackled with tension. Apollo's presence, once tolerated, now felt suffocating to Percy. The god's keen scrutiny bore into him, a penetrating acknowledgment of Percy's turmoil. It was as if Apollo could read the very depths of his soul, discerning the conflict that raged within. A heavy silence settled between them, laden with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Apollo took another step closer, Percy’s muscles tensed.

"Einalian," Apollo's voice, resonant with a velvet timbre that commanded attention, shattered the fragile peace of the garden. "You have been missed.” The god’s eyes, usually so inscrutable, held a depth of emotion that Percy found disconcerting. They were filled with an intense longing, a burning need that sought to bridge the distance between them.

Percy swallowed hard, his throat dry. The garden, with its riot of colors and intoxicating scents, seemed to fade into the background.

"Have I?" Percy's response dripped with bitter skepticism, his defiance a shield against the god's manipulative charm. Apollo's brows furrowed slightly, his approach swift and purposeful as he closed the distance between them. Instinctively, Percy stepped back, a gesture of resistance that did not go unnoticed by the sun god.

"Never doubt me. I speak truth," Apollo asserted, his voice tinged with a warning edge. His hand hovered in the air, fingers poised as if to touch Percy's cheek, but the demigod's wary stance held him at bay. The memory of their shared intimacy still raw and unsettling, a wound not yet healed.

His voice, usually a thunderclap of authority, softened as he regarded Percy. "You look well, much better than the last time we saw each other," he admitted, the edges of his tone smoothed by a rare tenderness. "I am glad that the Muses took good care of you in my absence," Apollo said, his golden eyes shifting to Calliope, who bowed her head respectfully. Her demeanor was composed, a reflection of the grace with which she had guided Percy during Apollo's time away.

Apollo’s eyes roved over Percy’s form, noting the physical changes with satisfaction, his gaze both intimate and invasive. The memories surged unbidden: the violation, the helplessness, the overpowering presence of Apollo that had stripped him of his dignity. Percy cringed inwardly, his heart a maelstrom of anger, yet outwardly he tried to remained stoic.

"Why don’t you enlighten me about your escape attempts, hm? I’ve sensed each one," Apollo’s voice was tinged with playful curiosity. "Have any borne fruit?" he asked, his hands clasped behind his back, an air of detached amusement in his demeanor.

"I am still here, am I not?" Percy retorted, irritation simmering beneath his words.

"Precisely. I'm surprised you didn't stop after the first time, knowing very well what would transpire," Apollo said, his voice a melodic chide, like a teacher bemused by a recalcitrant pupil.

“There’s no purpose for me here," Percy replied coolly, his tone a frigid mask concealing the tempest within.

"I could imbue your existence with purpose. Under my watchful eye, you would thrive. Isn’t that preferable to hurling yourself into the void of senseless battles and intrigues?" Apollo countered, his words a velvet trap, offering comfort yet denying freedom.

"The fate of Troy is not some trivial intrigue. The battle could be avoided if—"

"Enough of that folly. Your future lies with me, Einalian, not with Greeks, not with Trojans. I will not permit you to return to Earth only to risk your mortal life," Apollo declared, his voice carrying finality and a hint of melancholy.

“Dying on a battlefield would be far preferable to languishing here and doing nothing,” Percy countered. His voice wavered, a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

Apollo’s gaze softened, a flicker of something akin to sorrow crossing his features. "You speak of death as though it were a release, yet you fail to see the beauty in the life I offer. Here, you could be eternal, untroubled by the fleeting concerns of mortals."

"Eternal life in a gilded cage is no life at all," Percy replied, his voice steady but his heart heavy with the weight of his words.

"You are young, impetuous," Apollo countered. "You do not yet grasp the peril of your desires. The mortal world is fraught with dangers that would consume you. Here, you are safe, cherished."

"Safe but suffocated," Percy shot back.

Calliope shot him a warning glance, her eyes a silent reprimand urging him to choose his words more carefully. The reminder of tact, especially in the presence of a god, lingered heavily in the air.

"Why do you find the idea of being with me so repulsive?" Apollo's voice now carried a hint of wounded pride, as though he could not fathom why Percy would recoil from his divine affection. The question itself felt like a cruel joke, the sheer audacity of it striking Percy like salt on an open wound.

Percy's heart ached with the injustice of it all, a simmering rage and pain he dared not voice. The words "get out of my sight" or "I don’t want to see you" burned on his tongue, but he swallowed them down. He knew too well the consequences of defying a god, especially one as temperamental as Apollo. Instead, he forced his voice to remain steady, his words carefully measured. "I just wish to be left alone."

Apollo's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of frustration marring his otherwise perfect features. "I’ve afforded you ample solitude already," he said, his voice hardening. "I’ve come here with a purpose more significant than idle conversation." His tone carried a blend of impatience and disdain. "Poseidon has announced your presence to every sea creature; as a result, Nereus eagerly awaits your attendance at his daughter’s wedding, and your father, of course too, wishes to see you.”

Percy stared at Apollo with wide eyes, the unexpected invitation to Thetis' wedding taking him by surprise.

Apollo's lips curled into a smile, sensing Percy's sudden interest. "You are to accompany me and my Muses to the celebration," he declared, his voice imbued with an authority that left no room for refusal. His golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of anticipation and command.

"Very well," Percy replied, his tone devoid of enthusiasm, yet his words held a weight beyond the surface—a chance to seek allies, perhaps even to meet with Hekate amidst the divine assembly, for all were invited, save Eris, of course.

As Percy's mind raced with possibilities, a plan began to take shape amidst the tumult of his emotions. The gathering of gods and demigods presented a rare opportunity to plant the seeds of his eventual freedom. The faces he would see, the conversations he would overhear… What if he could intercept Eris's golden apple before chaos ensued? Could he delay her arrival, or thwart her plans entirely, preventing discord?

Apollo raised a surprised brow at Percy’s unexpected eagerness, though suspicion soon narrowed his divine gaze.

“Do not think I am unaware of what stirs within that mind of yours,” Apollo remarked, stepping closer. Percy instinctively retreated, a delicate dance of proximity playing out between them.

“I merely wish to meet with my father,” Percy answered evenly.

“Has his trident not pierced deep enough into your flesh?” Apollo retorted sharply, his words cutting through the air.

“I would endure a thousand more wounds rather than remain here, with you,” Percy replied, his voice unwavering. In an instant, Apollo closed the distance between them, his grip on Percy’s throat tightening with a painful intensity.

“Leave, Calliope,” Apollo ordered the Muse, who threw Percy a look that silently conveyed, “Haven’t you learned anything?” She then bowed her head and disappeared between the lush trees. Percy watched her departure with a pang of regret.

“You are so eager to disrespect me,” Apollo sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as his nails dug into Percy’s jaw, forcing him to look into his eyes. "Sometimes I wish you did not speak at all; your whimpers and moans are enough of a melody for me."

"Release me," Percy growled, attempting to pry Apollo's hands away.

His heart raced with fear as Apollo's lips forcefully met his, slender fingers entwined in Percy’s black locks while the other hand gripped his waist. Percy turned his head away desperately, trying to evade Apollo’s insistent embrace.

“Stop,” Percy managed to utter, but Apollo disregarded his plea, overpowering him with ease. His tongue invaded Percy’s mouth relentlessly, exploring every corner as if to claim every part of him.

As Apollo withdrew, Percy’s face contorted in pain, blood mingling with his spit as he collapsed onto the grass. Not only kiss was stolen, it seemed.

Apollo knelt beside Percy, his smile twisted with superiority. "Stop?" Apollo repeated, his voice laced with condescension. "Stop your tongue from moving, perhaps?" His hand petted Percy's head with a sickening adoration that made Percy's skin crawl. The kiss had left him feeling violated, and now the pain in his mouth felt like a thousand cuts, his tongue barely able to move within it. Blood trickled down his chin as he looked at Apollo through teary eyes, anger simmering beneath the surface.

What had he done to him?

“You are forbidden to heal until the sun graces the sky once more. Know my mercy. I won’t let you suffer for long,” Apollo declared, his words a hollow promise that echoed falsely in Percy’s ears. The sheer audacity of the lie nearly provoked a bitter laugh, which turned to a choked sound of agony in his throat.

Oh, how Percy longed to lash out, to curse Apollo with every fiber of his being.

“Eat dog shit,” Percy wanted to shout, but all that escaped his mouth was a painful rush of blood, staining the pristine white cyclamen flowers at his feet a vivid crimson.

“Still so eager to speak? Each attempt to form a word invites a new wound,” Apollo continued, his voice dripping with venom.

Good, Percy thought bitterly. He had nothing to say to Apollo anyway, except perhaps to tell him to go fuck himself. But at the upcoming wedding, communication would be crucial. The thought of not regaining his ability to speak terrified him, akin to the fear of losing his sight. His body froze in terror as he looked at his bloodied hands, a string of crimson leaving his lips.

Apollo’s stance shifted abruptly, his gaze fixing on Percy with a curious intensity, a look that was neither readable nor easily deciphered, almost contemplative in nature.

"Polymnia, take him inside," Apollo commanded, concealing the turmoil beneath his composed facade. In an instant, the Muse appeared, her posture tense as if she had already absorbed the turbulent ambiance, perhaps eavesdropping from the lush shadows of the garden.

"Einalian," Polymnia's voice cut through Percy's turbulent thoughts, her touch gentle yet insistent as she caught him by the elbow to assist him to his feet. He shrugged off her grasp, standing on his own, refusing to spare Apollo even a glance as he departed.

"Behave, my dear, or there will be more dire consequences," Apollo's voice rumbled behind him. Percy paused briefly, waiting for Polymnia to catch up.

"Follow me. We will cleanse that blood," Polymnia said softly.

Percy nodded silently, though anger smoldered in his heart.

Apollo's gaze lingered on the pair as they disappeared between the pillars, his jaw clenched tight. Then, abruptly, he pivoted on his heel, his himation whispering softly in the breeze as he departed.

Percy's thoughts churned as he tasted blood in his mouth with every swallow, his stomach protesting. Spotting a fountain in the midst of the lush garden, he hastened towards it with purpose.

"Einalian, forgive me, but Apollo forbade you from healing," Polymnia remarked, her gaze already shifting to ensure her lord had departed, a hint of relief in her eyes.

Percy cared naught for Apollo at that moment. His immediate concern was to cleanse his mouth of blood before retching forth its vile taste upon the ground.

Bending over the fountain's edge, blood still trickling from his lips, he scooped water and washed the inside of his mouth with a gentle hand. As he spat, the crimson mingled with the clear liquid, swirling in a darkening circle that slowly revealed a mysterious vortex. Percy stood back, captivated by the unsettling sight.

Polymnia, sensing danger, swiftly grasped him by the chiton and pulled him away. "Do not approach it," she warned, her voice laced with concern. "It carries the stench of the underworld's decay." she cautioned, unaware that her words only heightened Percy’s curiosity.

"Einalian!" she cried out in desperation as Percy edged closer once more.

Then, they both saw it—a pallid hand, almost ghostly against the fountain's depths, emerging from the murky water. Its delicate fingers extended in an enticing gesture, as if bidding him to venture into a realm hidden beneath the surface. Images of Hekate flickered through Percy's mind. Could this be her design, he wondered.

Meeting Polymnia's wide-eyed gaze, her worry palpable as she clutched the back of his chiton, Percy offered a reassuring smile. With resolute trust in the unseen workings of the goddess, he reached out and grasped the spectral hand. In an instant, a powerful force pulled him from his earthly foothold, drawing him into a submerged world.

Water around him becoming darker and darker, suffocating, it invaded his nose, his mouth, filling his stomach and lungs, he swam in panic up to the surface, until the water listening to his pleads spat him on the unknown bank.

“Welcome, mortal,” a voice proclaimed from above. Percy looked up to behold the queen of the underworld herself, Persephone, standing alongside Hekate, whose torch cast a sickly green hue upon them both. “Your blood made it possible for us to find you.”

Persephone’s eyes shimmered like silver under dark lashes, her pale face translucent as glass. He recognized her slender hands, the same that had brought him here, yet the reason remained elusive. Looking around in awe, he realized he stood within Persephone’s Garden— he marveled at the glowing, otherworldly flora that seemed to defy the shadows that permeated the rest of Hades. Each bloom emitted a soft, ghostly light, casting delicate patterns on the ancient stones and eerie pathways. Percy stood, attempting to gather his thoughts amidst the disorienting surroundings.

Suddenly, his hand trembled violently; it was the bracelet given to him by Apollo. Vines sprouted forth from its jeweled surface, seeking to ensnare him in their serpentine embrace. Yet, as quickly as they emerged, their movements slowed and withered, recoiling under an unseen force.

“Here, the tricks of the sun god hold no sway,” Persephone declared, her voice resonating with a quiet authority that belied the gentle smile on her lips.

Hekate stepped forward, her eyes filled with alarming concern as she studied Percy intently. She gently grasped his jaw, urging him to open his mouth. Percy complied, revealing a tongue marred by deep cuts, blood flowing profusely onto his chin and staining the hem of his chiton.

Without hesitation, Hekate enveloped him in her arms, drawing him close. His head disappeared into the violet folds of her robe, seeking solace and protection amidst the turmoil.

“He seeks to intimidate you with his power. To break your courage, bring you to bay. Do not let him,” Hekate advised, her voice a mix of sympathy and steel. “I regret I cannot offer you more solace. We speak now only by the grace of Persephone, who supports our cause,” Hekate continued, nodding toward the goddess, who smiled gently.

Percy was not surprised by their alliance. Hekate had been the one to witness Persephone’s abduction and had aided Demeter in reclaiming her daughter, if only for half the year. Their shared history must have connected them by a common cause against the capricious whims of the gods.

She released him, her gaze lingering upon him, as if she wished to etch his image into her memory forever.

“I remain bound to this domain, but soon I will be free,” Hekate assured him, her hand resting reassuringly on Percy’s shoulder. “My penance will end only after Thetis’s wedding,” she stated with certainty. “Zeus knows well my intent to disrupt his plans. He anticipates Eris’s arrival to sow discord. Once Paris is chosen as judge and the wheel of fate turns swiftly, events will accelerate.”

“You will be present then, will you not?” Hekate asked Percy, searching his eyes for assurance.

Percy nodded solemnly.

“With Apollo by his side, he will be unable to act,” Persephone interjected.

“He will not need to,” Hekate countered calmly. “After the wedding concludes and Paris makes his choice among the goddesses, I will reclaim my full power.”

Percy pondered silently. Why would Zeus restore Hekate’s powers after the wedding and not following the abduction of Helen? The thought gnawed at him, a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Perhaps Zeus possessed knowledge or foresight that eluded them all, a deeper understanding of the unfolding events.

Hekate’s eyes held a knowing gleam, as if she too wrestled with uncertainties but remained steadfast in her resolve. “Zeus’s decisions are often shrouded in mystery,” she admitted, her tone contemplative. “Perhaps he believes that later events are inevitable, leading to the conflict he desires—a clash that will spill blood.”

“The wedding presents our best opportunity to liberate you from Apollo’s grasp. Once my power is restored, I will take you with me to Hades without consequence,” Hekate declared solemnly, her hand still resting on Percy’s shoulder. “For if you stay now, you would perish without support of my blessings.”

Hades? Percy cast a nervous glance around. He had not anticipated their decision to conceal him from Apollo here.

“Because the sun does not rise in my domain,” Persephone stated gravely. “Here, he holds no power over you as he does on the surface. Even within your father’s domain, you would not be safe. Apollo is a cunning, possessive, and an ambitious god. He would seek the deepest corners of the sea to harm you.”

Questions surged within Percy, their weight pressing upon him like the unseen forces of the underworld itself. Did Hades truly consent to this arrangement? How long would he have to stay here? And most troubling of all, how would he carry on with his mission hidden in this place? Perhaps Hekate would make him invisible again, as she had before, but nothing was certain.

“Do not be afraid, Percy,” Hekate’s voice echoed, a melodious balm amidst the tumult of his thoughts. Her words dripped with a languid assurance, weaving through the dense fog of his anxiety. “Abandon your doubts to the abyss for now. First, I must reclaim you from Apollo’s grasp, and then, like an opulent dawn unfurling, we shall contemplate the rest.”

Percy felt a stirring of gratitude, a tentative ember of hope flickering within him like a shy candle flame. Soon, he thought, he would be liberated from Apollo's clutches. He glanced at his wrist and raised his hand, displaying the bracelet adorned with his gift—a token now rendered inert, its usual vibrant glow extinguished in the realm of Hades.

“It’s inactive now, but it may yet serve its purpose upon your return,” Hekate explained, her tone carrying the weight of ancient wisdom. “Exercise caution, Percy. It would be prudent to feign ignorance of recent events upon your resurfacing in Apollo’s domain.”

Percy longed to linger in the safety of the underworld, away from the seething anger of Apollo. Yet duty bound him to play the god's game until the wedding day. Still, the gnawing uncertainty persisted—could he attempt another daring escape if the bracelet remained dormant?

It was oh, so tempting.

As the chill of the underworld's waters embraced him once again, Percy felt the relentless currents pulling him inexorably upwards, towards the surface world. Emerging from the fountain, he gasped for air, his body cloaked in the clinging slime of the Styx. The harsh light of the Apollo’s realm assaulted his eyes, and he felt as though he had returned from a journey spanning ages, the weight of his destiny pressing upon him like the mountains of Pelion.

Polymnia’s urgent voice shattered his reverie as she rushed to his side, her long hazel hair nearly obscuring his vision. “Gods, Einalian, what folly drove you there? I feared the worst,” she implored, her eyes wide with concern. Yet Percy's gaze remained fixed on the silent bracelet that now dangled uselessly from his wrist.

He knew the recklessness of his actions and understood the disapproval that would surely follow from Hekate, but the scars inflicted by Apollo demanded retribution. “Do not, I beg you, Einalian,” Polymnia’s voice broke through his daze as if she read his intentions. “Have you not suffered enough of my lord’s wrath?”

Percy held up the bracelet, showing her its lifeless state. “Even if it is broken, he will know you have escaped, and he will catch you before you even reach the forests of his belowed sister,” she said, her amber eyes full of determination and care.

Percy's heart ached for freedom, but Polymnia, like Hekate, spoke truth. He should not act recklessly. Patience was his ally. He nodded reluctantly.

“Good, now follow me and swiftly. We must rid you of the stench of the dead.” She pulled him to his feet with surprising strength, leading him to the bathhouse with hurried steps.

Drenched in the murky remnants of the underworld, Percy was ushered into the bathhouse. Polymnia swiftly closed the doors behind them and propelled him into the water, assisting him as he slipped out of his filthy chiton.

There was no time for embarrassment. Percy allowed himself to be washed, Polymnia’s hands working frantically to scrub away the black slime from his skin and hair. She muttered under her breath, as if counting the seconds, her movements nervous and her eyes panicked.

Finally, Percy grasped her wrist to stop her. “Calm yourself. It will be fine,” he mouthed, but she seemed unable to understand his silent reassurance.

"I cannot fathom what forces you've tangled with, but I implore you not to worsen your plight," she said, her voice hurried and fraught with emotion. "The bracelet, it's inactive. It's clear as the heavens you've tampered with it. He will suspect you've..." She faltered, too frightened to voice her fears aloud. Returning to her task, she meticulously scrubbed until no trace of Hades remained on Percy's body.

As Percy emerged from the bathhouse, clad in fresh robes, he and Polymnia halted abruptly. Before them stood Apollo, his golden form casting an ominous shadow over the fountain that now spewed the dark waters of the Styx like a stain upon the earth. Apollo's stance was one of deep contemplation, his gaze fixed upon the fountain as if it held the answers to some ancient riddle. Though he did not look at them, Percy knew the sun god was acutely aware of their presence. Polymnia cast a panicked look at Percy, who gestured for her to remain behind. He would face whatever consequences awaited him alone.

Percy stepped forward, ready to confront Apollo, but the god suddenly turned his head, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "Only her," he commanded, his tone icy and detached. He did not spare Percy a glance, and the boy's fists clenched in a surge of anger and frustration. Percy reached out to stop Polymnia as she began to walk obediently toward Apollo, gripping her wrist firmly.

Polymnia's hand trembled as it slipped from Percy’s grasp. Her face, a mixture of fear and sorrow, turned to him. "I’ll be alright," she whispered, though her voice wavered.

Percy's jaw tightened. He didn't fully understand Apollo's relationship with his Muses, but he could only hope it wasn’t as cruel as the god's treatment of him. Polymnia approached her lord, bowing curtly before they began a quiet conversation. Apollo's eyes were inscrutable, cold, his mouth moving with an air of certainty. Polymnia listened, but when she suddenly raised her voice in pleading, Apollo raised his hand.

A sharp and resonant sound cleaved the garden air as his hand struck her cheek, and her body crumpled to the grass, her face a tableau of shock and hurt. Apollo raised his hand again, his eyes cold and devoid of emotion, but Percy sprang forward, placing himself between the god and Polymnia, shielding her with his own body. He could only glare at Apollo with unrestrained anger.

"She did nothing," he mouthed, desperation in his eyes.

"Nothing?" Apollo's eyes bore into Percy's. "She committed a grievous act, one that I explicitly forbade. And yet, she defied me. Sweet Polymnia, your heart has always stirred lightly."

"My lord, I can swear upon the River Styx, it is not as you believe," Polymnia began to protest.

"Silence, lest your own words betray you," Apollo cut her off. "Tenebrous, impassioned nymph, you shall meet your punishment." He nodded, as though her fate was already sealed in his mind. "Stand aside, Einalian."

Steeling himself, Percy met Apollo's gaze, his finger pointing to his own chest as if to say, "Let your wrath fall upon me." This act of defiance only seemed to stoke Apollo's fury. The god seized Percy by his chiton. "Behold what you have wrought. She will bear the suffering intended for you," Apollo hissed through clenched teeth and hurled him aside with such force that he stumbled and fell.

The boy, wearied yet defiant, wasted no time. With a swift motion, Percy scooped up the black waters of the Styx from the fountain's depths and hurled them at Apollo's enraged face, aiming to halt the god's impending curse upon Polymnia.

The dark liquid splashed against Apollo's features, quenching the god's fiery wrath momentarily. Steam hissed and sizzled as the waters clashed with his divine radiance. For a fleeting moment, silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the ominous crackle of energy between them.

Polymnia sat on the grass, her eyes tracing dry paths where tears had fallen unnoticed. She glanced at Percy, her expression a mix of disbelief and urgency. Without speaking a word, she mouthed a single command: run. But Percy was weary of fleeing. A surge of unfamiliar rage welled within him, his eyes glittering with defiance. He was no longer willing to be hunted; he was prepared to confront the god himself.

"So bold, my dear, but so foolish," Apollo muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl. His anger, though palpable, seemed to mingle with a primal desire, igniting a fire within him that defied reason.

Fearing the worst Percy's gaze shifted to the fountain once more, a wellspring of determination fueling his actions. With all his focus and will, he shaped the Styx water into a sword that hardened and transformed into ice in his grip. Droplets trickled down his tense hands as he prepared to confront Apollo head-on. With fierce resolve, he charged at the god, who effortlessly dodged his initial strike and summoned his own weapon—a flaming sword that blazed with intense heat.

"Oh, that's just unfair," Ares whispered with a sharp smile, emerging from the shadows of the corridors. His red eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and anticipation as he observed the unfolding spectacle.

Chapter Text

As the clash of swords resounded through the garden, Percy stood his ground, his icy blade meeting Apollo's fiery weapon with a fierce resolve. Sparks flew, illuminating the garden in a dance of light and shadow. Ares watched with keen interest, his smile growing sharper as he witnessed the struggle. The Muses, gathered in anxious silence, could only hope for an end to the violence that threatened to consume them all.

Clio and Melpomene closed their eyes in silent protest, unwilling to witness the unfolding confrontation. Urania turned away, quietly dispersing to attend to her own tasks and duties. A few remained, their gazes fixed on the scene with a mixture of dread and morbid curiosity, uncertain of how their lord would respond to such audacious defiance.

Apollo effortlessly deflected Percy’s blows, each clash sending sparks flying as Percy’s ice swords crumbled under the relentless onslaught of Apollo's fiery blade. Time and again, Percy summoned new weapons from the fountain, each lasting only moments before succumbing to the intense heat. Yet despite the odds stacked against him, Percy fought on undeterred, his determination and skill proving formidable even for a demigod.

Apollo found himself oddly exhilarated by the challenge. Beneath his simmering anger, there flickered a dark excitement that infused his movements with a dangerous grace.

Growing impatient with the contest, Apollo moved decisively. With a swift stroke, he dispersed Percy’s latest blade from his grip, the ice melting and evaporating under the searing heat of Apollo's divine touch. Then, with a forceful kick, he sent Percy sprawling backward several paces, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.

Before Percy could regain his footing and summon another weapon, Apollo appeared beside him, gripping his throat firmly but not enough to choke him, holding him aloft in the air. Percy squirmed, discomfort evident in his strained movements, as Apollo savored his struggle.

"Her magic lingers about your flesh like incense about a censer," Apollo remarked with disgust. "Hekate thinks she can take you from me, but she’s as delusional as you. The enchantress stands no match for me," Apollo continued, his voice thick with scorn and jealousy.

Apollo's gaze bore into Percy with predatory intensity. He relished this chance to impart yet another lesson in obedience, to enforce the consequences of defiance upon the demigod.

Percy shook his head defiantly, grunting against Apollo's grip. His resolve to break free fueled every strained movement he made. However, his attention was suddenly drawn to Ares, the god of war, standing ominously by the pillars, his dark and curious gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him.

Apollo noticed Percy's unease and followed his gaze to where Ares stood. The grip around Percy's throat relaxed slightly, allowing him to slip from Apollo's grasp. Before Percy could attempt to flee, however, Apollo seized his arm with a painful tug and approached Ares with an expression of displeasure at the disruption.

Ares met Apollo's gaze with a cool demeanor, a hint of amusement playing in his eyes. He was accustomed to chaos and conflict, and the tension between Apollo and the boy seemed to amuse him greatly.

"What brings you here?” Apollo asked, arching his brows as he confronted the god of war.

Ares regarded Apollo with a smile, his gaze shifted briefly to Percy, who continued to struggle in Apollo's grip, before returning to the god of the sun. "Curiosity led me here," Ares explained casually, "my son informed me of a menace that you keep in your palace. I now understand why he sought to concern me with it." His eyes remained fixed on Percy, studying the demigod with a keen interest.

"I've never seen Eros bleed ichor so profusely. Naturally, he's quite embittered by it, resorting to plucking feathers from Aphrodite's doves since the incident," Ares admitted, his tone tinged with both surprise and intrigue. His gaze remained fixed on Percy, taking in the scent of sea and blood that clung to him. "Who are you boy?" Ares inquired, his curiosity palpable in the intensity of his scrutiny.

Apollo's expression hardened, displeased by Ares' sudden interest in Einalian. He released Percy's arm but kept a vigilant gaze fixed on him, poised to intervene at any moment. "He is no one of consequence," Apollo replied for Percy tersely, though his voice betrayed a hint of defensiveness

Ares decided to ignore Apollo, his attention now solely focused on Percy. The god of war approached the demigod with a critical eye, his demeanor assessing and direct. "You have the stance of a warrior, the resilience of a guardian, and the swiftness of a dancer," Ares remarked, his tone carrying both admiration and challenge. "You are an experienced fighter. I would like to have a sparring match with you."

Percy’s gaze strayed to the Muses concealed behind the towering pillars, where among them Polymnia found solace in the embrace of Calliope. If he could prolong this charade, perhaps Apollo would divert his ire away from her, fixating instead on Percy and Ares.

Moreover, the prospect of testing his mettle against the god of war stirred a fierce exhilaration within him. The thrill of facing such a formidable opponent overshadowed the peril, and he could already feel adrenaline coursing through his veins from the brief clash with Apollo.

Apollo's eyes flashed with unmistakable anger at Ares's audacious proposal. "You will not engage in such folly," he declared sharply.

Ares chuckled, a low, amused sound that resonated through the tense air. "It will be a mere sparring match, not a battle to the death," Ares reassured, his tone tinged with teasing sarcasm. "That would be over too swiftly. So, what say you, boy?"

Percy parted his lips to speak but faltered, realizing he was still rendered voiceless. Ares raised an eyebrow and extended his hand toward Percy. "Cat got your tongue?" he quipped, a mischievous glint in his eye, eager to inspect Percy's muted response. But before he could proceed, Apollo intercepted his movement.

"He's been silenced by my decree, for his impertinence," Apollo explained coolly.

"So he dares to test your patience and nerve," Ares remarked with a smirk. "And you confine him here to do what? To pour wine? To pluck at a lyre?" Ares scoffed, his voice thick with disdain. "You squander his potential."

Apollo's gaze hardened, the lines of his jaw tightening as his displeasure intensified.

"You are the lord of healing," Ares continued casually, his gaze shifting to Apollo now, "so you'll mend him if he ends up in pieces, won't you?" He grinned, turning his attention back to Percy, who returned the smile with a rare excitement.

Apollo froze, his eyes fixed on Percy's fleeting smile, etching the image into his mind. 

As he watched Percy's expression shift back to neutrality, Apollo's features darkened further. His jaw tensed with suppressed anger and hurt. The realization that Percy's smile had been elicited by Ares, not by Apollo himself, stoked the flames of jealousy within him like never before.

Ares, sensing Apollo's turmoil, smirked subtly. He found amusement in testing the boundaries of their rivalry.

"He does not need to spar," Apollo asserted firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "A sword would only harden his hands needlessly." If Apollo agreed to their sparring, he feared it would become a habit, and he wanted no such thing.

Percy clenched his jaw, frustration evident in his expression.

"Apollo, let the boy enjoy something for a change," Ares pressed, his voice resonating with a hint of amusement that echoed through the garden like a low, rumbling drumbeat. His presence, rugged and assertive, stood in stark contrast to Apollo's ethereal grace.

"Look at him," Ares continued, his voice carrying the weight of certainty. "He was born for war, forged in the crucible of conflict. The fire in his veins yearns for battle, I can sense it," he declared, nodding toward Percy with a knowing glint in his eyes.

Apollo regarded Percy with skepticism, his mind flashing back to the scars that adorned the demigod's body, remnants of battles he had faced. Percy was indeed a warrior, skilled and stubborn, but Apollo wanted more for him now.

Percy felt the weight of time spent in Apollo's palace dulling his once-sharp skills. He recalled the day he had asked Thalia for a sword and she had laughed in his face—a memory that now fueled his desire to test himself under Ares's watchful gaze.

Suppressing his pride, Percy turned to Apollo with pleading eyes, attempting to appear innocent despite the cringe he felt inwardly. He laid a hand gently on Apollo's arm, silently beseeching him for consent, knowing he would vent his irritation later during their sparring session. His eagerness was palpable, tinged with a shy anticipation for Apollo's response.

Apollo's gaze softened momentarily under Percy's touch, though a glint of desire flickered in the depths of his eyes. In that fleeting moment, Apollo realized he was drawn to this side of Percy—dependent, pleading, yet subtly defiant in his vulnerability.

He hesitated, torn between his protective instincts and the demigod's earnest plea.

Finally, with a resigned sigh and a faint smile, Apollo relented.

"Very well, Einalian," Apollo reluctantly acquiesced, his voice carrying both hesitation and a flicker of curiosity. "You may fight. But remember, it's just a sparring match—nothing more."

Percy blinked in shock, grappling with disbelief. Could it be true that Apollo had consented, or had he misheard? The ease with which Apollo seemed to relent left him incredulous, particularly in light of their recent fight.

Ares, observing the exchange with a knowing smirk, stepped forward confidently. "Excellent," he declared, clapping Percy on the shoulder with a firm grip. "Let's see what you're made of, demigod."

Percy met Ares's gaze with determination, nodding in agreement. Ares stripped away his bronze cuirass, leaving him clad only in a chiton secured loosely at his hips by a belt, his chest bare to the elements. Percy, already attired in lightweight garments, stood poised and ready.

"Let's do this Spartan way," Ares suggested, summoning two xipos, short swords with double-edged blades designed for close combat. He tossed one to Percy, who caught it deftly with steady hands.

Percy gripped the xipos, feeling its weight and balance. The cool metal felt reassuring in his grip, a familiar weight he had missed. He glanced at Apollo briefly, seeing a mix of concern and reluctant approval in his eyes.

Percy swallowed his nerves and focused on Ares before him. The god of war stood ready, his posture confident and his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Percy mirrored his stance, adopting a defensive position, his mind racing through every training session and battle he had ever experienced.

With a nod between them, the sparring began. Ares lunged forward with controlled ferocity, his movements swift and precise. Percy countered with agility, parrying Ares's strikes with calculated skill. The clash of their swords echoed in the grand hall, each move calculated and deliberate.

The Muses held their breaths as the two combatants circled each other. Ares, initially testing Percy's defenses with feints and controlled thrusts, gradually intensified his attacks as the spar progressed. Percy responded with skilled blocks and swift counterattacks, but the god of war's aggression was beginning to take its toll.

Close calls became more frequent. Ares, despite not exerting his full might, pushed Percy to his limits with relentless strikes. Percy's chiton became stained with sweat, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he fought to keep up. Cuts and bruises began to mar his skin, a testament to Ares's formidable prowess.

The metallic symphony of their swords echoed against ancient marble and the whispering leaves of venerable trees, a cacophony of conflict under the watchful gaze of towering statues. Percy felt alive, challenged in a way he hadn't been since leaving the mortal realm.

Apollo, his jaw tight with tension, paced restlessly around the sparring duo. His eyes, intense and unwavering, followed every movement with a mix of concern and guarded pride.

Apollo's tense pacing halted abruptly as Percy executed a skillful maneuver, evading Ares's thunderous attack with the grace of a seasoned warrior. With a swift twist of his body and a deft movement of his blade, Percy turned the tables on the god of war. Ares, caught off guard by Percy's agility and precision, found himself with a long cut along his thigh. Ichor flowed freely, staining the verdant grass beneath them with its otherworldly glow.

Ares frowned in surprise, momentarily taken aback by the demigod's prowess. Yet, his initial surprise soon gave way to a booming laughter that echoed through the garden, vibrant with genuine amusement. The god of war's resilience was legendary; the wound seemed to invigorate rather than hinder him. His stamina appeared boundless, unaffected by the injury or the exertion of their prolonged spar. If anything, the challenge only fueled his excitement further, his eyes glowing like twin coals ablaze with the thrill of battle.

Percy, undeterred by Ares' initial disarmament, surged forward with the grace of a panther evading Ares' lightning-quick strikes. The nearby fountain, a crystalline oasis amidst verdant splendor, yielded to Percy's command. With a whispered invocation, water coalesced into icy spears, glistening in the dappled sunlight. Each icicle hurtled towards Ares with lethal intent.

Yet, Ares, with the master's finesse that defined his godly prowess, shattered the incoming projectiles as if they were mere trifles, his blade singing through the air with lethal precision. One icicle, launched at astonishing speed, was deflected effortlessly, then crushed between Ares' iron grip and the unyielding edge of his sword. The destruction of ice sent a vapor swirling around them, momentarily obscuring sight with its chilling mist.

Distanced by the force of their exchange, Ares seized the opportunity to unleash a bold challenge. With a powerful motion, he flung his sword towards Percy. Sunlight caught the gleaming arc of the blade, tracing a dazzling path before it descended with lethal force toward the young demigod.

Apollo rushed forward with a premonition of impending danger, his senses honed to the swift, merciless trajectory of Ares' blade. But even the god of prophecy and light could not outpace the sheer speed and ferocity of Ares's attack. Percy, caught unaware and unable to see the blade in time, felt a searing pain beneath his ribs as the sword pierced his flesh with brutal force. The impact sent him sprawling backwards, a gasp of agony escaping his lips.

For a moment, the garden fell silent, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The god of war's usual grin faltered, replaced by a rare expression of uncertainty.

In an instant, Apollo was at Percy's side, swiftly withdrawing the blade with a practiced hand, eliciting a pained grunt from the wounded demigod. Pressing his trembling fingers over the puncture wound, Apollo invoked his healing light, usually steady but now betraying his inner turmoil. Percy, propped on his elbows, watched in awe as Apollo's efforts gradually stemmed the bleeding and closed the grievous wound.

Without hesitation, Apollo pulled Percy into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping protectively around the demigod's trembling form. "Never again," Apollo murmured fervently, his lips brushing against Percy's temple in a series of butterfly kisses.

Despite his shock and the lingering pain, Percy let himself be held captive, surprised by the god's sudden display of emotion.

Approaching them, Ares's eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and pride. "You fought admirably, mortal," he commended, a rare note of respect lacing his words. "Few can claim to have wounded me. It's a feat I won't soon forget."

Ares's jovial tone shifted as he glanced at Apollo, noting the god’s dark aura. "Don’t be mad, Apollo. You agreed to this, remember?" Ares inquired with a hint of teasing, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

Apollo's jaw tensed, his gaze flickering between Ares and Percy, a storm of emotions churning beneath his controlled exterior. "I agreed to spar," he replied evenly, his voice strained. "Not to see him at death's door."

"He's sturdier than he appears," Ares remarked casually, gesturing towards Percy, who sat silently, still recovering from their duel. “We have to repeat this.”

"Leave my sight," Apollo commanded tersely, his voice edged with lingering fear and protectiveness. "There will be no more sparring matches—today, tomorrow, or in a thousand years."

Ignoring Apollo's command, Ares tossed Percy a sword with a casual flick of his wrist. "Use it when you tire of singing hymns and splashing in the fountain. Until next time, demigod," he nodded to Percy before striding away, his footsteps echoing faintly in the lingering silence.

Apollo's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the departing Ares, a tumult of frustration and resignation flickering in his eyes. He turned to Percy, their eyes locking in the aftermath of their clash. The air around them crackled with tension that spoke volumes of their intricate relationship.

In Percy’s sea-green eyes, a subtle satisfaction gleamed, born of a desire to witness Apollo’s rare vulnerability once more. Silently, he mouthed a "thank you" not only for healing him, but also for granting him the opportunity to spar with Ares, appreciating the rush of exhilaration it had brought him.

Apollo's countenance darkened as he addressed Percy’s recent actions. "Do not thank me just yet," he began. Percy’s demeanor turned cold, his gaze drifting to where Polymnia had stood moments before. Fortunately, she and the other Muses had already departed, leaving him to face Apollo’s simmering wrath alone.

“I acknowledge your brave attempt to shield her from my ire,” Apollo continued, his eyes intense as they bore into Percy’s. The boy’s attention snapped back to Apollo, his brow furrowing in confusion. “She will not suffer further from my wrath, but you, on the other hand…” His smile, though curved, lacked warmth. Percy’s muscles tensed. “I told you before, each attempt to escape will be met with punishment.” Apollo asserted, rising gracefully and drawing Percy up alongside him.

Percy pried Apollo’s hands, stepping back, distancing himself from the god's overwhelming presence. Though he managed to break free, it was clear Apollo had allowed it, standing there with an air of unyielding authority, his message far from delivered.

"I could not believe it at first, yet the dark waters of the Styx bore witness to the truth. The Enchantress, with her beguiling ways, has led you to the very threshold of Hades, and you, like a lost child, have followed her call. You belong to the sea, not the shadowy realms of death. Do not let Hecate's wiles lead you astray. She cares not for your fate, but only for the power she can wrest from your loyalty. Though your devotion is noble, it is tragically misplaced. She has ensnared you in a web of deceit, and you, blinded by trust, have fallen willingly into her treacherous grasp.” Apollo warned, each word spoken with a grave conviction.

Percy felt a pang of bitter amusement at the god’s words, the irony striking him sharply. He raised his gaze to Apollo, his sea-green eyes flashing with defiance.

To turn back time had been his choice, one he had made willingly. Hekate had blessed him upon his arrival, sharing her powers with him, bestowing upon him a new name, watching over him, and accepting his errors. She had been a guiding light in his darkest hours, her enigmatic presence a source of strength and comfort. But then Apollo had appeared, seeking him out and dragging him into his realm. Apollo, with his blinding radiance and overbearing affection, had stripped him of his freedom and pride, violating his very essence under the guise of love.

Had he not confided in Zeus about Hekate and his suspicions, Percy would have carried on with his mission, steadfast and unbroken. Instead, Hekate was left weakened in Hades and he found himself ensnared in Apollo’s golden cage, a prisoner of the god’s twisted attachment.

“But she hasn’t stripped me of my voice or my freedom,” Percy mouthed, his resolve as palpable as the tension between them.

Apollo settled himself gracefully by the fountain's edge, his fingers sinking into the cool, black water behind him. Percy stood a few paces away, observing in quiet awe as the surface shimmered and cleared, each ripple smoothing into pristine clarity at Apollo's touch.

"You seek to reclaim your voice? Come closer," Apollo commanded calmly, withdrawing his hand from the water. Percy stood uncertain, caught between suspicion and necessity, as Apollo's penetrating gaze weighed upon him like a chain.

It seemed almost too good to be true. After the tumult of accusations and emotional upheaval Apollo had unleashed with his words, now he extended an offer to restore what he had taken away.

"Kiss me," Apollo's voice rang out, his lips curling into a smile as he observed Percy's bewilderment.

Of course Apollo would demand that.

Percy's cheeks flushed crimson with realization. Indeed, Apollo had stripped him of his voice through a kiss, an act that now required Percy to initiate to reclaim what was rightfully his. The urgency of his mission loomed large—a wedding to attend, a role to fulfill. What was one kiss in comparison to the greater purpose he served?

He should not feel as shy as he felt now. He was a hero, after all, having faced countless monsters and navigated perilous journeys. Yet here he was, quaking at the prospect of a mere kiss. It was absurd, he thought, but the emotional weight of the moment pressed heavily on him.

Percy clenched and unclenched his fists, then with measured steps, he approached Apollo, stopping before his legs. Apollo looked up at him, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and something darker.

Percy let out a shuddering breath, his resolve hardening.

“It is a small price to pay for such a gift, is it not?” Apollo purred, his voice a silken challenge.

Percy placed his hands on Apollo’s shoulders for support, his trembling fingers entangling in the folds of Apollo's saffron himation. Each touch felt like a live wire, tingling with unspoken tension. He leaned in slowly, tilting his head slightly to meet Apollo’s lips. The deliberate pace of his movements seemed to amuse Apollo, who watched with a smug, anticipatory smile.

Finally, Percy’s lips descended, his eyes closing as he initiated the kiss. The contact was light, innocent, and far too brief to fulfill its purpose. When Percy pulled back, his cheeks aflame, he tried to speak but winced as a sharp pain cut through his tongue, filling his mouth with the metallic taste of blood. He looked at Apollo with a mixture of anger and betrayal.

"It was too short. I didn't have time to heal you properly. Try again, my dear," Apollo said, his tone dripping with amusement and condescension.

Apollo was toying with him. The god's eyes sparkled with a cruel delight, savoring Percy's discomfort and frustration.

Percy felt a wave of indignation surge through him. This was not a mere task; it was a calculated humiliation. Yet, he could not afford to let pride deter him. His voice was too important, too vital for what lay ahead.

He would have much preferred to land a solid punch on that infuriatingly perfect face of Apollo's rather than entertain the idea of kissing it. The thought simmered in Percy's mind like a dormant ember, a silent vow of retribution waiting for the right moment to ignite.

Perhaps someday, he mused darkly, he would witness Apollo's divine ichor flowing. It would be a day of reckoning, a moment when Percy's smile would stretch wide.

With that thought burning in his mind, Percy tilted his head once more.

The second kiss was deeper, more demanding. Percy poured his frustration, his need into it. The sensation was electric, a clash of wills and a melding of desires. He felt the warmth of Apollo's breath, the firmness of his lips, and the subtle yield as Apollo responded tasting Percy’s blood on his tongue. Each moment stretched into an eternity, the world narrowing to the fervent meeting of their mouths. Apollo's lips were soft yet unyielding, a tantalizing blend of sweetness and cruelty.

When Percy pulled back, breathless and flushed, he waited for the sting of the cut to vanish. His heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Apollo’s gaze was inscrutable, a blend of satisfaction and something Percy couldn't quite place—a dark amusement, perhaps, or a glimmer of something more insidious.

"You’re so gullible," Apollo said, his voice a cruel whisper that sliced through Percy’s burgeoning hope like a knife. Percy’s heart sank, the realization washing over him like a cold, merciless wave. The sun god had no intention of healing him.

With a clenched jaw, Percy pushed away from Apollo, his body trembling with a mixture of anger and humiliation. But Apollo moved with the fluid grace seizing Percy’s wrist with an iron grip and throwing him onto the hard edge of the fountain where he had sat mere seconds ago. The impact jarred Percy, a shock of pain radiating through his back as he struggled to catch his breath.

Apollo pinned Percy’s hands above his head, his face so close that Percy could feel the heat of his breath. The sun god's eyes burned with a predatory light, a sharp smile curving his lips. "You were so eager to kiss me," he commented, his voice dripping with mockery and a dark, twisted delight.

“Do you think you deserve to get your voice back? When all you do is defy me, you disobedient boy,” Apollo hissed, his fingers tracing the now inactive bracelet on Percy’s wrist. “You destroyed my gift, very, very ungrateful of you.” Apollo’s tone was laced with seething reproach. “As I said earlier, you deserve punishment, very severe at that, after all, storms make the flowers fresh again,” he concluded, removing the bracelet from Percy’s wrist with a decisive tug.

Percy lay there, his hair spread out like a dark halo on the white stone, his sea-green eyes piercing and defiant. A surge of foreboding made his hair stand on end, each nerve ending tingling with a mix of fear and anticipation.

"Strange eyes," Apollo remarked, his voice tinged with fascination as he studied Percy's gaze. "It seems they would reflect, in each renewal, the changing skies—fond, dreamy, angry, or cruel." His words held a bitter edge, underscored by a deep, unspoken longing that resonated in the air between them. "I cannot bear for another to glimpse within them; your tempestuous sky belongs to me alone," he declared softly, his gaze piercing yet tender, betraying the complexities of desire and possession that intertwined within him.

Before Percy could fully grasp the meaning of Apollo’s words, the god's hand descended upon his eyes with brutal swiftness.

Water in the fountain mirrored the turmoil within Percy as he silently called upon his element to aid him. In this hour of desperation, even the name of his father eluded his tongue, trapped behind the wall of his enforced silence.

Percy thrashed, his body writhing in agony as he sought to plead, but his mouth filled with blood each time he attempted to speak. The bitter, metallic taste of his own life essence choked him, rendering his desperate cries for mercy mute. He was adrift in a sea of pain, the once vibrant strength of his voice now reduced to a garbled, crimson stream.

When Apollo’s touch finally withdrew, Percy blinked, fearing the worst, but his vision remained intact. Wide-eyed, he looked at Apollo, sensing a profound change within himself.

Apollo demeanor had shifted to one of curiosity, as if observing the aftermath of a potent spell. The god withdrew with measured steps, akin to a predatory beast reassessing its prey, while Percy, gripped by confusion and rising terror, struggled to comprehend the changes occurring within him.

Percy didn’t understand until he noticed it—a gradual obscuration, like winter frost spreading across glass, slowly blurring his vision with a milky shroud. Apollo paused, and when Percy tentatively took a step towards him, his vision cleared once more.

"It cannot be…" Percy's thought, his hands getting clammy from anxiety.

Apollo's smile widened, savoring the moment. He paced back leisurely, observing Percy as though reveling in the exquisite torment he had devised.

The veil of milky white descended over Percy's eyes again, distorting his surroundings as if viewed through vapored glass.

As Percy tightened his jaw and moved closer, driven by a mix of anger and desperation, Apollo's smile widened further—a triumph of control and dominance over the defiant mortal before him.

"Like a moth drawn to a flame," Apollo began, his voice carrying a contemplative cadence. "The bracelet is now obsolete, so I've devised a new arrangement. I will bind you to me, as lovers are bound. The closer you remain by my side, the clearer your sight will be. Isn't that an exquisite prospect?"Apollo relished Percy's predicament, finding perverse delight in the effectiveness of his punishment.

Percy's heart sank. His resentment towards Apollo surged like a tempest. The god had stripped away his freedom with a calculated cruelty that chilled Percy to the marrow.

"But should you choose to depart," Apollo continued, his tone turning colder, "your sight will dim. Remain with me, whether for my affection or for the preservation of your senses and my blessings will fall upon you like a flower rain." He said, and with a final, rustling sweep of his robe, Apollo turned and left, his footsteps echoing ominously in the stillness.

Percy stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed not only by the weight of Apollo's words but also by the encroaching blindness that clouded his vision. Unable to pursue the departing god, he was left alone, grappling with the realization of his entrapment.

Percy staggered back to the fountain, his steps faltering under the weight of mounting panic. Terror surged through him like relentless waves, each crashing with the force of an angry sea against jagged cliffs. The stark reality of his dimming vision gripped his heart, driving him to desperate measures. Desperation drove him to sit up and plunge his face into the fountain's waters, hoping they might heal his sight. But the water remained inert, offering no solace, no restoration.

Lifting his head, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but only subtle changes in shadows and shapes were perceptible. A profound sense of loss gripped him as he slowly rose, looking around with a growing sense of disorientation. His defiance, once a blazing flame, now flickered weakly in the face of his overwhelming need to see again.

Wrapping his arms around himself in a vain attempt to self-soothe, Percy shivered. Oppressive veil pressed down on him, amplifying his fear and vulnerability.

He took tentative steps, each one a struggle against the mounting despair. The world, now a blurred and indistinct landscape, seemed vast and hostile. His thoughts swirled in a maelstrom of fear and longing, each breath a battle to stave off the encroaching panic.

The loss of his voice and sight had stripped him of his defenses, leaving him exposed and raw.

His hands, trembling and unsure, reached out, seeking familiarity in the shapes and textures around him. His heart ached with a deep yearning to reclaim what had been taken, to restore the wholeness of his being.

From afar Apollo did not smile as he regarded Percy’s white, panicked eyes. The thrill of his sadistic pleasure seemed to wane, replaced by an emotion he could not easily name. The sight of Einalian, stripped of his sight and voice, a once vibrant spirit now shrouded in fear and confusion, left Apollo with an unexpected hollowness.

He yearned to approach demigod, to offer solace and quell the turmoil he had wrought. Yet, it was a lesson that needed learning, a consequence unavoidable. Apollo's gaze lingered on Percy, he would wait, allowing the boy to navigate his way through the mist Apollo had cast upon him, until he came to the god himself, longing for comfort, for the solace that only Apollo could provide.

Chapter Text

Percy manoeuvred the corridors with cautious steps, his hand trailing along the rough, sandy walls as he searched for his chamber. Every so often, he paused, his head turning sharply as if sensing unseen eyes upon him. He was certain someone was watching, relishing his struggle, but in his current state, he couldn't muster the energy or clarity to address it. He simply pressed on, driven by a desperate need to find the familiar door that would lead him to solace.

Finally, after what seemed an age of stumbling through oppressive shadows, Percy glimpsed the faint outline of his chamber door. With a surge of relief, he pushed it open and entered, the room's familiar embrace enveloping him like a long-lost friend. He collapsed onto the bed, his head sinking into his hands, releasing a pitiful sob as the weight of his loss crashed upon him.

He lifted his head, his senses heightened, when a strange sound pricked at his ears—the whispering of leaves, though he was nowhere near the gardens. He sat up, straining to understand the peculiar noise. Only then did he notice something dark creeping up the walls and ceiling. Rising from the bed, he approached cautiously, his hand outstretched. The rustling ceased as if reacting to his presence. When he touched the darkness, he felt vines under his palms—the same vines that had trapped him whenever he tried to escape. Yet, this time they did not emerge from his absent bracelet but seemed to spring from the very walls.

Was this Apollo's doing, an attempt to unsettle him, or were these vines a separate entity existing within the sun god’s realm? Though unnerved, Percy sensed no malevolent intent from them. They seemed more like silent observers, an unsettling presence, but not one that wished him harm. Withdrawing his hand, he returned to the bed. The vines resumed their movement, their rustling growing louder as the dark mass above him expanded.

For at least an hour, Percy lay in tense vigilance, trying to see, trying to hear. Eventually, the movement ceased, the vines hanging motionless, as if they had been there for ages.

The night proved to be an unyielding torment, and sleep eluded him. His vision was clouded by darkness, shadows merging and familiar shapes becoming indistinguishable. An oppressive anxiety weighed heavily upon him, only lifting when the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, bringing a fragile sense of relief.

As the new day broke, Percy felt the weight of his sleepless night bearing down on him. The vines had vanished completely. He wondered if they had been mere hallucinations or if they had retreated while he dozed. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but for now, the light of day offered a brief respite from his nightmarish vigil.

The arrival of Calliope was a welcome distraction, though her presence heralded yet another command from Apollo. She approached with a serene grace, bearing a tray laden with ambrosia and nectar, their divine aroma suffusing the room like an intoxicating perfume.

“Fill yourself, Einalian,” she intoned, her voice laden with a pity that Percy neither needed nor desired. “It’s important for you to recover after what you’ve been through.”

Despite the appeal of such potent sustenance, Percy made no move to partake. His mind churned with conflicting emotions, the allure of Apollo's presence clashing violently with his wounded pride. The notion of seeking out the Sun God, even for a fleeting moment of restored sight, grated against his sense of dignity. Anger simmered beneath the surface—a fierce protectiveness over what fragments of his pride still remained.

For the whole day, he stayed in his room, a sanctuary where he felt safest. The familiarity of the space allowed him to navigate with ease, and he found solace by the arch window, unadorned by glass, for on Olympus, such barriers were unnecessary. The weather was perpetually ideal, the temperature eternally perfect. Percy strained to observe any movement, the barely visible shadows of birds flitting on branches, the whispers of the wind—anything to ease his gnawing anxiety. As his eyes closed, the sun’s rays painted red shadows on the insides of his eyelids, flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.

When sleep finally claimed him, it did not bring peace. Instead, he found himself thrust into the heart of a siege, the din of battle echoing in his ears.

As the city burned, the Achaean soldiers continued their ruthless rampage. The once-proud statues lay shattered, their stone forms now mere rubble. Market stalls, once bustling with life, were reduced to splintered wood and twisted metal. Temples, once sanctuaries of worship, now echoed with the screams of the violated and the dying, that threatened to unravel Percy’s sanity. His mind strained against the intensity of it all.

Percy awoke to the lingering scent of smoke, the acrid reminder of the city's burning. His hands trembled with the weight of responsibility he felt for those who suffered. He alone now carried the burden of preventing further devastation. But how could he, confined here, blind and unable to speak a word? In a surge of anger, he swept everything from the table—nectar, ambrosia, plates, and chalice—all crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shattered serenity.

Collapsing back onto the bed, Percy turned his sightless eyes towards the window. The flames of anger flickered and faded, leaving behind a pervasive sorrow that settled deep within him.

The following day, instead of confronting Apollo directly, Percy sought refuge in the gardens, craving solace amidst the embrace of the natural world. There, surrounded by the soothing whispers of leaves and the gentle caress of the wind, he hoped to find clarity amid the turmoil of his emotions.

Free to roam without the constraint of the bracelet, yet burdened by his blindness, Percy wandered deeper into the lush foliage, finding respite by the stream near the forest. The murmuring breeze and the rustling leaves provided a comforting backdrop, soothing his troubled mind. The sounds of birdsong and the trickle of water kept him grounded.

As Percy allowed himself to rest, his tired eyes finally closed, and he settled on the soft grass, his head cushioned by the crook of his elbow. One hand submerged in the shallow, cold stream.

In the gentle embrace of a light doze, a white dove descended from the branches above. Its feathers shimmered in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting a soft, ethereal glow around its form. With a graceful flutter, it landed beside Percy's face, its intelligent eyes studying him with curiosity.

The familiar scent of roses and ambrosia tickled Percy's nose, rousing him from his slumber. Slowly, he opened his milky eyes, and the sudden movement startled the dove. With a quick flutter of its wings, the bird took flight, disappearing into the vast expanse of the sky above.

Percy grunted and allowed himself to doze off once more, succumbing to the lure of dreams. This time, he found himself in the dark labyrinth. He wandered aimlessly, every step echoing with the whisper of unseen leaves.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him trembled, and thick, sinewy vines erupted from the earth, writhing and twisting like serpents. They moved with a terrifying sentience, slithering up his legs and coiling around his body. Percy tried to scream, but his voice was swallowed by the dark, echoing silence.

The vines tightened their grip, winding around his torso, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He clawed at them desperately, but they only tightened, their rough texture cutting into his skin. Panic surged through him as they encircled his throat, choking off his air. His vision blurred, and the world around him began to spin.

Percy could feel the vines growing, their roots digging into his flesh, merging with him. They dragged him down to the ground, pulling him deeper into the suffocating darkness. His struggles grew weaker as the life was squeezed from him, the vines’ grip unyielding.

With a gasp, Percy jolted awake, drenched in sweat, his hands clutching at his throat.

As his senses gradually sharpened, he became aware of a shadow looming over him, a tall figure shielding him from the relentless sun. Percy sprang to his feet, body tense and alert. This was not Apollo, whose presence he had come to expect and dread, but another, whose aura was unsettlingly familiar and equally formidable.

“Demigod, I’ve come to spar,” Ares stated, his voice gruff and unyielding.

Percy was taken aback. Hadn’t Apollo decreed that they were not to spar for the next thousand years or so? The sudden appearance of the god of war was both surprising and disconcerting. Regardless, Percy knew he couldn’t entertain Ares today; his senses had been taken from him.

He waved a hand before his milky eyes, a silent yet eloquent reminder of his blindness.

"Spiderwebs fell into your eyes?" Ares asked with a hint of amusement, his tone neither mocking nor sympathetic. Percy met his gaze, or at least he aimed to, already feeling the weight of exhaustion in his limbs.

"You think yourself defeated because you cannot see? Use your other senses. You don’t need to rely on sight; it often misleads even the best warriors," Ares continued, his voice practical and stern, like a seasoned general imparting wisdom to a raw recruit. Percy remained unconvinced, the doubt etched into his features.

Yet Ares was not easily deterred. He shifted his stance, adopting a more conversational tone. "Apollo agreed to let us spar only because he believes you wouldn’t last long in this state. He tried to convince me that I would quickly bore myself fighting you. Don’t you want to prove him wrong?” Ares asked, his voice imbued with a subtle challenge, a hint of provocation that was impossible to ignore.

Percy clenched his jaw, the embers of defiance sparking to life within him. He could almost hear Apollo’s words, feel the condescension in his tone.

Percy realized then that Ares was not just a master of war but also of persuasion, his words crafted to cut as deeply as any blade. He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, brief and fleeting like a shadow passing over water. Though he could only perceive shapes and shadows, making it impossible to notice a sword hurling towards him or the subtle shifts in an opponent's stance, the thought of vexing Apollo was indeed tempting.

He nodded and followed the towering silhouette of Ares. The god’s steps were easy to hear, each one firm and deliberate, echoing through the silence like a drumbeat. Unlike Apollo’s suffocating and unpredictable aura, Ares’ felt sturdier and more grounded, a solid rock amidst the chaos.

They emerged into a tranquil glade, where the symphony of nature enveloped them. Percy drew in a deep breath, grounding himself as he felt the cool earth beneath his bare feet.

A hint of amusement flickered in Percy’s eyes when Ares handed him the weapon—a blunt wooden sword, reminiscent of those used to train the youngest of demigods at camp. He cast a questioning glance at Ares, one eyebrow raised.

"What?" Ares's tone was brusque, as if the answer were self-evident. "Did you think Apollo would sanction a spar with sharpened blades after the last debacle?"

Clearly, Apollo was intent on ensuring their duel remained safe this time. The gesture stirred something within Percy, an unexpected but welcome surprise at the god’s precaution.

Ares watched as Percy ran his hands along the sword, feeling the rough texture and the slightly curved edges.

"Careful not to get any splinters," Ares added, a hint of amusement and frustration coloring his words. It was clear that Apollo’s decision to use such a weapon irked the god of war, perhaps even felt disrespectful, yet it didn't deter him from the desire to clash with the young demigod.

"Prepare yourself," he intoned, a steely edge underscoring his words. "Feel the air, listen to the sounds around you, and focus on the tremors in the ground."

With a motion as swift and relentless as a striking serpent, Ares attacked. His first strike was a blur, a tempest of controlled fury that Percy barely managed to deflect. The second, however, was swifter and more powerful, the wooden sword crashing into Percy with enough force to leave a bruise. If the weapon had been real, it would have cut his flesh to the bone.

Percy winced and cursed silently at the less-than-ideal start.

Ares stepped back, his eyes a storm of intensity. "Don't feel discouraged," he advised, his tone unwavering even as he readied himself for the next exchange.

Percy gritted his teeth and lunged forward, determined to take the initiative this time. Their swords clashed again, but Percy found himself immediately pushed back by Ares’s overwhelming strength. His knees trembled under the god of war's relentless assault, his usual advantage of swiftness now diminished by his blindness, overshadowed by the sheer force behind each strike from Ares.

Frustration surged within Percy as he stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding being knocked to the ground. He twirled away from Ares, his sword gripped tightly in his hand as he regained his footing.

But Ares was relentless; before Percy could fully orient himself, the god of war was charging at him once more.

With a surge of adrenaline, Percy rolled to the side at the last possible moment, narrowly evading Ares’s blade. Vertigo swept over him, disorienting him for a fleeting moment. Standing up, he swayed, struggling to regain his bearings, but before he could fully recover, he felt the curved edge of a sword beneath his chin.

"You still mourn the loss of your sight, and that's why you lose," Ares remarked, his voice cutting through the haze of battle.

Percy was surprised to feel their wooden weapons still intact, suspecting some kind of magic kept them sturdy and unbroken. He knew Ares was right; his mind had been consumed by the inability to see. But it was still difficult. He had lost his sight only yesterday, and he still could not fully adjust to it. Since then, anxiety had gripped him relentlessly, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. The impending wedding loomed ever nearer, his time dwindling with each passing moment.

He needed to speak, to see, if he was to save Troy and prevent the senseless spilling of so much blood, if he was to return home to his mother, to his friends...

Percy's thoughts spiralled out of control, his breath quickening uncontrollably. Fear gripped him like feral beasts, their primal howls echoing in his ears, drowning out all else until all he could hear was a piercing, deafening ring.

Ares regarded the boy with a thoughtful gaze, considering how best to approach the situation. In that moment, he chose action over words. He struck swiftly, using the handle of his sword to deliver a sharp blow to Percy's stomach.

Percy gasped and fell backwards, the world spinning above him, pain shooting through his body as he swore he heard a rib crack. Grunting with the agony, he looked towards Ares with anger at the unexpected strike, his eyes squeezing shut in response to the pain.

"I don't know what is going through that head of yours, but it distracts you from the present. You think too much and feel too little. Embrace the physical pain, demigod. Let it ground you," Ares said, circling the boy with a steady gaze.

Percy sat up, unclasping his chiton and letting it fall to his hips, tying it there to leave his chest bare, revealing the growing red spot at his solar plexus. Was this some kind of unfunny jest Ares had chosen to make this place hurt the most?

Standing up, Percy realized that his mounting panic had begun to quiet to a mere whisper at the back of his mind. Ares was right, but at what cost? Now his body throbbed with pain.

"Do not see, but perceive," Ares advised, taking a few steps back to ready himself for another round. His red eyes were fixed intently on Percy, a rare patience tempering his usual ferocity. "We will continue fighting until you do."

Ares was not one to coddle or show mercy, and perhaps that was precisely what Percy needed now—to be pushed beyond his limits, to discover strength in his vulnerability.

Percy took a deep breath, pushing past the pain and disorientation. He tore a strip of fabric from his chiton, fashioning it into a temporary blindfold that he tied over his eyes. This time, his blindness was under his control. He closed his eyes, relying not on what was left of his sight but on his other senses—listening intently to the rhythm of Ares’s breathing, feeling the subtle shifts in the air around him, and sensing the vibrations through the ground beneath his feet.

When Ares lunged again, Percy moved with instinctive grace, parrying the blow with newfound confidence. Their swords clashed once more, the sound reverberating through the clearing like a thunderclap. Percy fought with all the strength and skill he could muster, each movement calculated and precise despite his blindness.

Ares paused for a moment, perhaps surprised by this sudden shift in Percy’s demeanour. “You’re starting to understand,” he acknowledged, his voice gruff but less harsh than before.

Apollo watched from a distance, his hands clasped behind his back, his jaw clenched and eyes sharp. He was impressed by how quickly Percy adapted to his lack of sight, yet a sour note of discontent played within him. It irked him that Ares was the one to teach, the one to praise.

The sun god had underestimated Einalian, believing the boy's blindness would drive him into seclusion. Indeed, Percy had spent many hours isolated in his room or wandering the distant reaches of the gardens, lost in his thoughts. But the scent of combat had drawn him out. The boy came alive with a fervour that Apollo had not anticipated. This was a piece of knowledge he vowed to use.

What grated on him most was how effective Ares was as a teacher—too effective, in fact. Ares, who loathed the very idea of instructing others unless they were high-ranking officers he could impart dubious strategic techniques upon, was now investing time and effort into a blind demigod. Ares was not merely teaching; he was encouraging Percy, fostering a resilience and skill that was becoming dangerously impressive. This unusual behaviour raised Apollo’s suspicions.

Ares wanted something from the boy, that much was clear. Perhaps he sought Percy’s loyalty, or perhaps something more elusive. The red colour in god’s eyes seemed to brighten each time Einalian met his sword. Each clash of blades, each grunt of effort, resonated with a raw, primal energy. Ares watched with a predatory intensity, his demeanour shifting from stern mentor to something more akin to a commander moulding a prodigy.

The sun god’s hands tightened behind his back, knuckles whitening. Apollo could not afford to let Ares gain too strong a hold over the demigod.

Ares had desired a longer spar than Percy had anticipated. It felt to Percy as if hours, if not days, had slipped by in an unending dance of parry and thrust before the formidable deity finally raised a hand to call a halt.

"Enough," Ares declared, his voice resonating with a tone that brooked no argument. The weariness of battle had settled heavily upon the demigod, its oppressive weight sapping the last remnants of his strength.

Percy collapsed to the ground, his chest heaving with quick and ragged breaths as he fought to recover. His once steadfast grip had loosened, and his sword lay discarded somewhere in the dust of the arena. Ares, with the nonchalance of a seasoned warrior, nudged the weapon with the tip of his boot, lifting it from the earth with an almost casual ease.

“It seems Apollo has taken a particular interest in you,” Ares remarked, his voice low and gravelly. “His whims can be as unpredictable as the shifting sands of the desert. I've seen many a mortal fall victim to his capricious nature. Marsyas, Niobe’s children, Coronis.”

Percy, still sitting on the ground and trying to steady his breath, looked up at the god of war with a mix of wariness and curiosity. The names Ares mentioned were steeped in tragic tales, each one a testament to the perils of attracting Apollo’s attention. Marsyas had been flayed alive for daring to challenge Apollo in music; Niobe’s children had been struck down for their mother’s hubris; and Coronis had been killed for her infidelity.

“If you find yourself in need of aid, whether it be to shield against his fury or face a greater challenge ahead, know that I offer my assistance,” Ares continued, his tone almost casual despite the weight of his offer.

Percy nodded slowly, the weight of Ares’s words sinking in. He wondered why Ares had taken such an interest in him, going so far as to offer his counsel. Especially since he had maimed Ares's son not so long ago. This seemed not to discourage Ares from coming here and sparring with him until the last tear of sweat had fallen. Did he want something in exchange? Percy wondered, but he was not able to ask.

Hekate's guidance to journey to Sparta after the wedding echoed in his mind. Ares, revered in the city for its warrior culture and military prowess, could potentially provide him with both transport and protection on his journey. It was a precarious hope, knowing the nature of gods and their agendas, but having an ally—even one as formidable as Ares—was a reassuring thought.

Every muscle in Percy's body ached as he navigated his way back, his hands tracing the cool, reassuring surface of the stone walls for guidance. The humid air guided him forward, its warmth beckoning him towards the bath halls.

Pushing open the heavy doors, he strained to hear any signs of activity. The silence reassured him—no splashing, no ripples disturbed the tranquillity.

He shed his chiton and eased himself into the warm, welcoming water. Instantly, his muscles relaxed, he mend his bruises and cuts with a soothing caress within moments.

Though he longed to submerge fully, the heavy, stuffy air and his blindness stirred unease within him. Instead, he rested his head against the edge of the bath, gazing upwards at the blurred torchlight flickering above, its glow a small comfort. His eyes fluttered shut once more.

In his mind's eye, a city was ablaze. Chaos reigned as people fled—women clutching their children, youths burdened with supplies aiding the elderly. Percy, panting and propped against his sword, inhaled the acrid stench of burning flesh. His gear clung to his torso like a second skin, and his sweat-soaked locks adhered to his forehead.

“Murder, amid the dearest trinkets of your stock, dances on your proud belly like a ruttish beast,” came Ares’ voice, a maddened cadence behind him. The god's eyes were wild, his grin feral, hair a dark, untamed mane. His body was as soiled and bloodied as Percy's. By his side stood his two sons, Deimos and Phobos—Pain and Panic—looking proudly at the unfolding siege. “Behold our army.”

“What—?” Percy began, but his voice faltered as he saw the horde advancing. Their eyes glowed with an unearthly fire, wounds gaping yet unhealed, a grim reflection of Ares himself. With a ferocious battle cry, they surged towards the city, slaying every soldier in their path.

As the living clashed with the dead, blood flowed in torrents, a gruesome mingling of red and black. The stench of decay churned the soldiers’ stomachs, their revulsion making them easy prey. Amidst the horror, Percy was drenched in the mingled blood, the slick tiles beneath him treacherous. His vision was overwhelmed with crimson, a relentless flood of red.

Apollo, ever curious, sought to find the boy Einalian, for the Muses themselves seemed beset by difficulty in their search. Yet he had not to wander long, for as he passed by the hallowed bath halls, the rhythmic pounding of Einalian’s heart reached his ears—like the thunderous beat of war drums, stirring within Apollo a deep unease.

Inside, a fragrant mist hovered above the warm water, ethereal and calming, yet it only masked the tension that lay beneath. Everything seemed normal at first glance, the gentle ripples in one corner the only sign of disturbance. There, nestled at the bottom, lay Einalian, motionless but for the slight movements caused by the water's currents.

Apollo’s face scrunched in worry. He knew the boy did not need oxygen when he was underwater, but the tremors in Einalian's body and the frantic beating of his heart signalled to Apollo that something was gravely amiss.

The boy was trapped in the clutches of a nightmare so profound that even the soothing embrace of the water offered no solace.

Without hesitation, Apollo plunged into the water, his robes billowing out like the wings of a diving bird, enveloping Einalian as he lifted him into his arms.

“Einalian,” Apollo murmured gently, his voice a beacon in the dark recesses of the boy's mind, rousing him from the depths of his terror.

Percy awoke with a start, eyes wide and disoriented, as if the horrors of his dreams still lingered before him. He clung to Apollo, his fingers digging into the god's skin in a frantic bid for reality, scratching in his panic. But the sun god paid no mind, his focus solely on the boy.

“What happened, my flower?” Apollo inquired, his voice as soothing as a gentle breeze, his fingers tracing calming patterns on the boy’s back, grounding and comforting.

The demigod’s body was trembling uncontrollably in Apollo's embrace. With tender care, Apollo pressed his cheek to the crook of Einalian's neck, offering reassurance.

Gradually, Percy’s awareness returned, the oppressive fog of his nightmare lifting slowly. He pulled away from Apollo, confusion clouding his features as he struggled to recover from the vivid and terrifying dream that had ensnared him. He stared at the sun god, his vision now clear, no longer shrouded by mist, and sighed with profound relief. In that moment, Percy seemed to have forgotten the resentment towards the god. He could not help but rest his head on Apollo's chest for just a minute longer, savouring his restored clarity and appreciating it more than ever before.

Apollo’s brows furrowed with concern as he inquired, “You have not drunk nectar or eaten ambrosia brought by Calliope, have you?” His voice carried a hint of weary frustration, as if he already knew the answer.

"No."

“The Underworld’s shadows cling to one's spirit, even for a short time, distorting dreams and magnifying fears. Divine sustenance could ease this burden,” Apollo explained, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the boy.

Percy's mouth formed a thin line. He believed he would have nightmares regardless, ever since meeting Apollo.

Apollo's curiosity was piqued as he asked, “So, what did you dream about? Was it I?” His inquiry was accompanied by a sharp smile, a contrast to his earlier concern.

Percy averted his gaze, unwilling to recount the horrors that had visited him in his sleep.

Apollo persisted gently, “Was it Ares?” His gaze darkened.

Percy’s brief glance was enough to confirm Apollo's suspicion.

Apollo's hands tightened on the boy’s shoulders. “Did he bring you harm?” he asked, his voice edged with a fierce protectiveness.

"No". The dream had been nightmarish, but it was not pain he had felt; rather, it was a terror of the creations that haunted him—hordes of dead men walking, zombies that killed with ruthless precision, each one bearing Ares’ eyes.

The boy tensed anew, and Apollo, perceiving his distress, removed his saffron himation and enveloped Percy with it. The boy watched him warily, ready to defend himself if needed, but the god’s intentions seemed pure this time.

“I shall ensure you partake of it this time,” Apollo said, taking Percy by the elbow as they exited the baths. Apollo dried himself within seconds and did the same for Percy, enveloping him in a mist that made his robes dry and warm.

Percy allowed himself to be led, his eyes drinking in the sights he had missed for what felt like an age. He looked around, savouring the dancing lights that poured through the stained glass windows high above, the sun casting its golden rays upon the colourful mosaics beneath his feet. Each step he took was a journey through a kaleidoscope of hues, the vibrant colours of the garden flowers outside competing for his attention with the artistry of the palace interior.

In one particular moment, Percy found himself utterly entranced by a shimmering fountain, its waters now clear and free from the dark enchantments of the Styx.

Apollo observed him silently, his gaze softening as he took in Percy's appearance. The young man's raven locks, tousled and wavy around his ears, seemed to have been shaped by the humid air. His azure eyes, wide with silent appreciation, took in the splendour around him like an awe-struck babe discovering the world anew. Percy hugged Apollo's himation close to his body, a gesture of both timidity and modesty, attempting to hide the vulnerability of his form. The sight was endearing, his embarrassment manifesting in a subtle, reproachful glare when he noticed Apollo's intense stare.

Had it not been for Percy's undeniable skill in battle and his unmistakable command over water, Apollo might well have believed him to be the son of Aphrodite.

"You're beautiful," the Sun God confessed, his voice carrying a whisper of reverence and longing. The words flowed effortlessly, for before him stood the most captivating being he had encountered in his immortal life—a vision to cherish and adore.

Heat climbed up Percy's cheeks and spread across his chest, a rosy flush that only seemed to enhance his youthful allure. His wide eyes, filled with a mix of surprise and confusion, locked onto the god's golden gaze.

What Apollo also realized was that he had lost in his own game. He had expected the boy to come to him, but it was Apollo who came to Einalian instead, too weak to bear the uncertainty of the demigod's safety. It was peculiar, this behaviour. Apollo, known for his persistence and unyielding nature, found his resolve dissipating when it came to the son of Poseidon.

For a moment, all was serene, a stillness enveloped in the golden warmth of Apollo’s regard. But then, a shadow passed over the deity’s luminous features, and his smile faltered. With a swiftness born of sudden concern, Apollo closed the distance between them. He reached out, gently taking Percy’s chin, his fingers light as a feather yet firm in their intent. He gazed deeply into Percy’s eyes, searching for something hidden beneath their surface.

Percy shrugged him off at first, a reflex born of unease and pride. Yet, the look in Apollo’s eyes—a mix of worry and ancient knowing—stirred a churning in Percy’s stomach.

Apollo hummed in acknowledgement, his expression betraying nothing as Percy could not see the transformation occurring within his own eyes. The whites, once clear as a summer sky, were turning from grey to a disquieting black. It was a sign, a grim token of his swim in the river Styx, its dark waters leaving an indelible mark upon his soul.

Apollo’s hand fell away, and he took a step back, his divine composure slipping ever so slightly. His lips curved into a smile, but it was a mask, an artificial mimicry of reassurance.

Apollo turned and strode towards the grand entrance of the palace expecting Percy to follow. Each step was deliberate, unhurried, and resonated with the grace of a deity who commands the very light of day, yet beneath the surface lay an urgency born of deep, abiding fear for the boy he held so dear.

Chapter Text

Hekate walked through the shadowed halls of Hades, in her hand, she held a torch, its flame casting ghostly illuminations on the darkened path ahead. The torch was more than mere fire; it was her sight, her connection to the world above. But now, that connection was severed, the flame showing nothing of Percy’s doings. The boy's image, once so clear in the dancing light, was now obscured, veiled in shadows and uncertainty.

Yet, Hekate knew that her essence still pulsed within Percy, a lifeline of her power providing him with endurance. When Percy’s blood mingled with the waters and his face reflected in the Styx, she had recognized his potential. Here was one with the makings of a psychopomp, a guide of souls, though unlike Charon, the grave ferryman, or Hermes of the winged feet. Percy’s connection to the underworld was forged through the element of water, which he wielded with effortless grace.

If only he could now embrace Hekate’s gift, if he could forge it to his advantage, he would reach the pinnacle of his divine potential, a power unmatched and fearsome.

“The essence of the Styx is both a gift and a curse, a power that can consume as easily as it can save,” a voice intoned, breaking the silence. Persephone, with an aura of ethereal grace, emerged from the shadows behind Hekate. Her white dress rustled softly, a stark contrast against the gloom of the underworld.

Hekate turned slightly, the torch casting a golden glow on both goddesses, illuminating the solemnity of their discourse.

“The Styx in him will stir, but he will prevail,” Hekate replied, her voice resolute, echoing through the cavernous depths. “He will learn to master it’s magic, to draw strength from its depths.”

Persephone’s expression softened, a rare glimpse of empathy crossing her features. “You see much in him, Hekate.”

The triple goddess’ eyes glimmered at that. Indeed, she held Percy dear, more than any mortal she had ever encountered.

Persephone stepped closer, her presence a comforting balm in the oppressive darkness. The weight of her wisdom, garnered through centuries of reigning as queen of the underworld, lent a gravity to her words. “And what of Apollo? His influence is... persistent.”

Hekate’s expression darkened, the torch’s flame flickering as if mirroring her agitation. “The boy’s spirit is stronger than the sun god realizes.”

A silence settled between the two, profound and laden with unspoken understanding. In the heart of Hades, amidst the wandering souls and whispering shadows, Hekate’s resolve burned bright.

“The Styx will protect him,” Persephone added, her tone resolute. “Its essence is within him, a shield against those who seek to control him. May the Fates weave kindly for him,” Persephone murmured, her words a solemn prayer.

“They will,” Hekate affirmed, her voice a whisper of steel and fire. “For he is not alone. My light will guide him, my strength will fortify him. And in the end, he will rise.”

Percy did not understand the sudden change that came over Apollo. His hands moved instinctively to his eyes, as if to verify they were still his own, yet he felt nothing amiss. A chill settled over his gaze as the distance between them widened, anxiety tightening its grip upon his heart. Without hesitation, Percy closed the gap, almost colliding with the Sun God in his urgency. Apollo halted abruptly, turning to face the boy who now fixed him with a defiant glare. For a moment, they stood thus, a silent exchange of wills, before Percy obediently fell into step behind the god, his heart heavy with unspoken dread.

It was as Apollo had foreseen: the boy was akin to a blind moth drawn irresistibly to a bright flame.

Apollo guided Percy through a grand hall adorned with towering, ivory-like doors that concealed not a throne room, as Percy might have expected, but a vast bridge with soaring arches, leading to a platform suspended amidst the clouds. As Percy traversed the bridge, he was greeted by breathtaking vistas—waterfalls cascading from lofty cliffs into a serene lake below, where colourful fish shimmered in the dappled light. Emerging from the tranquil waters were statues of diverse shapes and expressions, seemingly frozen in time. They reminded Percy of someone.

Apollo, noting Percy's keen interest in the statues, confirmed his suspicions with a knowing glance.

"Gifts from Medusa," Apollo began, watching Percy's eyes betray a flicker of recognition. Intriguing. "She often implores me for release from Athena's curse," Apollo spoke cautiously, sensing Percy's guarded reaction. The depth of solemnity in Percy's gaze intrigued him; not many knew the full story behind Medusa's curse—a secret that even Poseidon might have kept close, for it involved him directly.

"Do you know this tale?" Apollo inquired, his voice soft with curiosity.

Percy looked away briefly and shook his head in denial. But Apollo saw through the facade.

"You do," he whispered knowingly. "What else do you know, I wonder?" Apollo continued walking.

Percy's heart raced; it was unsettling how perceptive Apollo was, seeing through his defences with just a glance.

As they crossed the bridge, Percy sensed a shift in the air, an ethereal charge that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Apollo moved with effortless grace towards the hovering room, a gesture beckoning Percy to follow. However, before Percy could step inside, he noticed a subtle barrier, shimmering with gentle rainbow hues and threads of gold.

Apprehensive, Percy took a cautious step back, his vision beginning to cloud with a familiar mist. Though an intense desire arose within him for his sight to be clear once more and approach Apollo, he hesitated.

“It is a barrier infused with healing magic,” Apollo explained, noting the mingled hesitation and defiance in Percy’s eyes, his whites darkening further. Apollo longed to seize him and pull him to safety, but the boy had to cross the barrier willingly for the magic to work.

“Come to me,” Apollo extended his hand, his voice a blend of authority and entreaty. “I don’t want to hurt you; I want to help you,” he added with a subtle impatience that belied the calmness of his words.

Percy's suspicions only deepened, especially as he noticed a flicker of desperation seeping into Apollo’s expression. He looked around the unfamiliar area, his confusion growing. This was not the place where he was supposed to receive the nectar and ambrosia to dull his nightmares. It was somewhere different, somewhere that seemed to thrum with an energy all its own.

“Trust me this once. Why would I deceive you? You are more valuable to me whole and willing than broken and resentful.” Apollo whispered, his voice soft as a prayer.

Once, Percy had trusted Apollo and had been met with humiliation. Could he risk such trust again? After all he had endured—pain, fear, helplessness at the hands of the god before him—could he find it within himself to trust once more?

Did Percy have a choice at this point? Apollo loved to give him illusions of choice, and now was no different. What would happen if he decided to turn around and leave? The god would surely bring him back by force. The thought made Percy bitter and hopeless. He chose this time not to tempt fate. What greater peril could befall him? Had Apollo desired his death, it would have been exacted long ago.

With a deep breath, Percy stepped forward, allowing the barrier to envelop him. An intense surge of energy coursed through his form, unmistakably infused with Apollo’s potent magic—energy that penetrated to the very marrow of his being, invoking a sharp and probing agony.

He suddenly crumpled, his body collapsing into Apollo’s waiting arms. The Sun God caught him effortlessly, his golden eyes alight with a blend of triumph and an unexpected glimmer of concern.

A pang of anger surged within Percy. Hadn’t Apollo vowed not to harm him? Yet here he stood, doubled over in agony. The frustration ignited within him like a smouldering ember. That lying bastard.

Percy felt as if something within him struggled to escape, an unseen force clawing its way to the surface. In his mind's eye, he saw angry black waters advancing towards him, crashing violently against jagged rocks in their wake. He coughed into his hand, expelling a viscous black slime. His eyes widened in horror and disbelief.

“Good. Just a little bit more, let my magic work. Rid yourself of Hades’ remnants,” Apollo intoned.

Percy’s body convulsed as another wave of Apollo’s magic swept through him, a force that felt like a burning river, scouring away at the darkness within. He gasped, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gulps as he fought to hold onto the remnants of Hekate’s magic.

Apollo turned Percy to face him, the floor beneath them darkened by a spreading pool of black droplets.

As Percy realized the horror of his transformation, black water began to escape from his eyes, nose, and ears, streaming down his face in sinister rivulets.

Tremors racked Percy’s body, yet he realized it was not he who trembled, but Apollo who held him. The god’s face was scrunched with angry distress, as if unable to comprehend the phenomenon unfolding before him. His fingers, usually so composed and strong, brushed aside Percy’s dark locks from his furrowed brow with an uncharacteristic tenderness.

“Do not fight it, Einalian,” Apollo commanded, his voice a blend of stern authority and barely contained ire. Percy could hear the frustration laced within each syllable. “You saw what it wrought upon you—nightmares, unrest.”

Percy’s head lolled back, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily upon him. The magic of Hades warred within him against Apollo’s relentless light, a battle that felt as though it would rend his soul in two.

Apollo’s eyes flickered with a sudden realization, a mixture of desperation and determination. “You stubborn thing,” he muttered, his voice thick with a complex blend of emotions. In a moment of frantic resolve, Apollo pressed his lips to Percy’s, a kiss infused with the very essence of the sun.

Percy felt a surge of faint light and warmth spreading inside his mouth, a stark contrast to the icy darkness being expelled from his body. The sensation was both alien and oddly comforting. So this is how it feels to be kissed by the sun, Percy mused, his thoughts disjointed and fragmented.

The opposing forces within him clashed with increasing ferocity, each second intensifying his torment. He could feel the tendrils of Hades' magic writhing within him, seeking to anchor themselves deeper, while Apollo’s light sought to burn them away, to cleanse him of the Underworld’s taint.

When their lips finally parted, lingering like the last touch of a sunset fading into twilight, Percy understood the deeper intent behind Apollo's kiss. His tongue, unburdened, now moved freely, the oppressive weight of the curse lifted. Apollo's firm hand on the back of Percy's head and the other encircling his waist guided him gently to the ground. The cold marble beneath was a stark contrast to the searing pain that coursed through Percy's veins. His eyes rolled back, his body convulsing with the unbearable clash of divine energies.

“Speak to me,” Apollo implored, his voice a symphony of desperation and command. “Tell me why you still resist.” The Sun God embraced him tightly, as if by sheer force he could expel Hades’ magic from Percy’s being, squeezing him as if he could extract the darkness drop by drop.

Percy, struggling to form coherent thoughts amidst the torment, tentatively opened his mouth. His voice emerged, rich and melodious, shimmering in the heavy air despite the agony that twisted within him. “You cannot purge something that is a part of me,” he managed to say, each word a laborious effort. He did not fully comprehend the meaning himself, yet it felt as though his body spoke for him.

The darkness, the magic from Hades, was an intrinsic part of his being, entwined with his very soul. It was not something to be exorcized but embraced, for he felt that, it defined him as much as the blood in his veins.

"No, no. Hades is no realm for you," Apollo declared firmly, laughing bitterly as if he was tired of repeating the same thing, his trembling hands frantically brushing Percy’s dark locks. His touch, though ostensibly comforting, carried an underlying current of control. “You must let go of it.”

“I can’t,” Percy answered shortly, his voice resolute despite the tremors wracking his frame. “And I won’t.” He spoke through gritted teeth, black tears still streaming down his face, staining his chest and Apollo's once-pristine himation.

Percy felt an oppressive weight settle upon his limbs, a sensation so heavy it threatened to overwhelm him. It was as if he were on the verge of losing something precious—not sinister or tainted, but dearly held.

Apollo’s eyes flared with an otherworldly light, his anger and desperation igniting the magic that rose within him, heightening the conflict inside Percy. The god’s fury surged like a tempest, but it was tempered by a soft, almost pitiful whimper that escaped Percy’s lips.

“It hurts,” Percy managed to choke out, his voice a fragile thread amidst the storm of magical forces. He coughed again, expelling more of the black substance that stained his lips and chin. Each heave of his body felt like it tore him apart, the darkness clinging tenaciously to his very essence.

Only then did Apollo relent. He raised his hand, and from Percy’s throat, a bright light emerged, surging back towards the veil that had been ignited until it dissipated completely.

Percy slumped in Apollo’s arms, the tension of the ordeal finally releasing him into a state of exhaustion. Apollo gazed down at him, his expression no longer one of anger, but tinged with a hint of regret.

With tender care, Apollo lifted Percy, cradling him against his chest. As he ascended towards the hovering chamber above. This ethereal sanctuary, embraced by towering columns adorned with twisting vines, seemed to sway in apprehension as Apollo passed among them. His footsteps echoed softly against the polished marble floor, a quiet cadence that mirrored the solemnity of the moment. Percy stirred faintly in his grasp, the remnants of exhaustion and the fading echoes of their struggle lingering in the air around them.

At its heart lay a hollowed space adorned with sumptuous cushions and an assortment of carefully prepared delicacies, encircled by bowls overflowing with ambrosia and nectar. The atmosphere shimmered with a golden light that seemed to breathe life into the very air, casting a serene glow over everything it touched.

Apollo’s touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he arranged the cushions to ensure Percy's comfort, before he settled the boy amidst the circle. He smoothed back the dark locks from demigod’s forehead, his fingers lingering for a moment as if drawing strength from the boy’s presence. 

Percy stirred from slumber, the haze of sleep gradually dissipating as awareness slowly dawned upon him. He shifted slightly, the sensation of warm breath brushing against his skin drawing his gaze. The god of the sun lay beside him, his eyes closed, his face a picture of serenity as he rested. Golden locks spread out on the soft cushions they shared, creating a radiant halo around his head.

A surge of panic gripped Percy as he realized he was still half-enveloped in Apollo’s himation, the god’s bare chest pressed warmly against his side, an arm protectively draped around his waist. Heat rushed to Percy’s cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and anger at the god's casual intimacy.

With gentle resolve, Percy’s hands moved to disentangle himself from the god’s possessive embrace. Yet Apollo, instead of yielding, drew him closer, emitting a soft hum as his golden eyes opened, meeting Percy’s defiant gaze.

“How do you feel?” Apollo’s voice, though gentle, carried an undertone of deep concern, his eyes reflecting palpable relief at seeing Percy awake and aware once more.

"Let me go," Percy demanded, trying to pry Apollo’s hands away. But god did not relent, his grip firm, the warmth of his breath brushing against Percy’s skin in a tantalizing caress. Did he just smell him? His astonishment mirrored in the widening of his sea-green eyes.

“Now you reek of her even more than before,” Apollo murmured softly. “It seems my light only awakened the magic that lay dormant within you. I should not have intervened, knowing the potential outcome.” His admission hung in the air, making Percy stare at him in disbelief.

“Dormant magic?” Percy repeated, his voice laden with a mixture of confusion and rising anger. He indeed felt different—betrayed was a good word, disappointed too, and overwhelmingly angry at himself for trusting Apollo only to regret it afterwards.

“You should have not intervened at all.” Percy’s voice shook with emotion as he pulled away from Apollo, who reluctantly released his hold. “You said you didn’t want to hurt me, but you almost killed me.”

Freed from Apollo’s embrace, Percy stood unsteadily, the weight of recent events pressing down upon him. It wasn't mere physical exhaustion but an ache echoing in the depths of his soul. Closing his eyes briefly, he felt the pulsing presence of Hekate’s magic within him, stronger now, a current of power intertwined with defiance. He should have felt gratitude towards Apollo for this awakening, yet the god's actions had felt like an assault, an attempt to wrest away something fundamental to his being, leaving scars upon his spirit.

“Why did you stop?” Percy turned to Apollo, his voice filled with a quiet but fierce intensity. “I could feel you trying to tear Stygian magic from me. Why did you stop?”

“It was never my intention to harm you,” Apollo answered, standing up with an unhurried grace. His robe hung loosely from his hips, revealing the chiselled lines of his physique. He approached Percy slowly, as if measuring each step, mindful of the fragile balance between them. “Yet, in my fervour, I overlooked the fragility of mortal essence. I sought only to cleanse you, not to break you. I did not wish for you to suffer needlessly, so I released my healing light from you.”

To Percy it sounded almost as if he was apologizing, almost as if he regretted. But Percy felt something else as Apollo’s light travelled through his body, boiling the blood in his veins. It was possessive, yearning to be seated right where Hekate's magic resided.

Her magic, dark and formidable, had resisted Apollo’s attempt to overwrite it.

Percy’s eyes narrowed, the intensity of his gaze unrelenting. "You tried to take something from me that isn't yours to claim," he said, his voice trembling with a controlled fury. "You wanted to replace Hekate’s essence with your own."

Apollo did not flinch from the accusation. His expression remained serene, though a flicker of satisfaction glimmered in his gaze. "You are perceptive," he acknowledged smoothly. "Indeed, I cannot bear the thought of another laying claim to you. The enchantress has woven her magic deep within you—a seed that grows and sprouts, destined to call you back to her, to the depths of Hades, where you do not belong.”

Percy's frustration boiled over, his arms gesturing wildly to encompass the opulence of their surroundings. "I do not belong here either!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "I need her magic because I made a pact with her—to prevent the siege of Troy—and in return, she promised to send me home." He faltered, realizing he may have revealed more than he intended.

The image of his mother rose unbidden, vivid as the tide's gentle swell. Sally, seated upon the shore, her breaths escaping with quiet labor, yet her pale face remained adorned with a soft smile.

"Home?" Apollo's curiosity was piqued, his tone tinged with a hint of intrigue. "Where is this home of yours? Thessaly? Mycenae? Troy? Perhaps even the depths of the ocean?"

“It’s a land not yet discovered,” Percy replied, his gaze distant. Apollo sensed the truth in the boy’s words, which only heightened his curiosity.

“Even if you take me there, it will be pointless because…” Percy trailed off, wishing the curse still bound his tongue to keep him from revealing more.

“Because why?” Apollo pressed gently, stepping closer.

Percy's brows furrowed deeper, his expression one of defiance tinged with weariness. "Does that even matter?" he asked sharply, meeting Apollo's intense stare. "You want to keep me here regardless."

"You are right," Apollo admitted, his tone firm and commanding. "But I also seek to understand you, to unravel the mystery of the demigod hidden from Olympus yet already of age. Son of Poseidon, unrecognized by his own father. Pawn of Hekate, burdened with impossible quests. I could have extracted this information from you long ago, upon your first arrival in my domain, but I refrained, hoping you would share it willingly once trust had grown between us."

Percy scoffed bitterly. "Understand me?" he repeated incredulously. "You made my tongue bleed, blinded me to enforce compliance, and almost tore my soul apart. How could I trust you with anything? There is no trust left between us."

Apollo's gaze hardened in response, his features settling into a mask of cold resolve. "If you had shown respect and obedience," he countered icily, "none of this would have been necessary."

“I do not obey," Percy retorted defiantly, his voice laced with a burning resentment. "Especially not to gods who treat mortals as playthings to be discarded at whim."

Apollo's response was chillingly composed, his words dripping with a sinister undercurrent. “If that’s how you see it, then you are my precious doll," he murmured, his voice a velvety whisper. "One I would like to preserve forever, to immortalize in amber, to keep with me always.”

Percy recoiled inwardly at the dark implications of his words, the realization sending a shiver down his spine. The god's golden eyes gleamed with an intensity that bordered on dangerous, his smile twisted with a blend of desire and something more primal.

The sun dipped lower, its dying rays casting long, menacing shadows that stretched ominously across the chamber, deepening the already tense atmosphere. Percy instinctively drew the stained himation closer around himself, seeking solace and protection within its tainted folds.

Apollo's gaze bore into him, as if he could execute his desires at any moment without hesitation.

Once, Percy might have scoffed in Apollo's face or retorted with fiery anger upon hearing the god's decree to confine him within his palace. But now, after learning firsthand the consequences of disobedience, he opted for silent calculation.

Apollo sensed the demigod’s vulnerability like a palpable aura. Seeing Einalian in such a state, pathetic yet strangely endearing, Apollo’s gaze softened momentarily. The fire of anger within him waned, though the desire to claim demigod remained unabated.

Despite that, he resisted the urge to draw closer, knowing that such impulses would only deepen the rift between them.

It was a peculiar sensation—to witness such disobedience and yet yearn for Einalian’s flourishing, to imagine him smiling and laughing freely amidst the opulence of his palace. The thought stirred a complex mix of emotions within Apollo, blending admiration for Percy’s resilience with a possessive longing to keep him close.

Before leaving the chamber, Apollo spoke with a measured tone that betrayed neither warmth nor hostility, but rather a detached authority that befitted his divine stature.

"I have chosen to lift your silent curse, for I deem that time of your punishment has been fulfilled," Apollo declared. It was a decision tinged not only with judgement but also with a subtle longing for the familiar cadence of Einalian’s voice and their shared conversations.

Percy’s heart quickened with hope as he dared to ask, "What about my sight?"

Apollo’s smile, when it came, was patronizing and knowing, as if addressing a child ignorant of the world’s complexities. "For that, you will have to work harder, my flower," he replied, his voice laced with a honeyed condescension that left Percy feeling both disappointed and unsurprised.

"You may roam freely within my palace," Apollo declared, "but should you attempt to leave without my permission, you will risk losing sensation in your limbs next." His words took on a sultry edge, hinting at a vision that thrilled Apollo in a disquieting manner—Percy rendered dependent, unable to walk or escape, entirely at the mercy of the sun god's whims.

A dimple creased the corner of Apollo’s lips, a subtle quirk that belied the seriousness of his words. His eyes, glowing with a golden hue akin to torches amidst the encroaching night, seemed to pierce through hero’s defences with their unwavering intensity

Percy blinked, caught between awe and unease. How could anyone exude such beauty yet evoke such fear?

It took a fleeting moment for Percy’s racing pulse to steady.

"Your mercy is duly noted," Percy replied, his voice a carefully measured balance of respect and subtle defiance.

Percy’s ears pricked up as he caught a familiar sound—a faint rustling of leaves. He looked up to see the pillars alive with vines, twisting and turning, multiplying upon the hard marble with an almost sinister elegance. They descended gracefully, like serpents uncoiling from their lofty perches, slithering toward Percy, whose heart quickened at the unnerving sight. He glanced at Apollo, his eyes questioning and wary.

“They will help you navigate around the Palace,” Apollo explained, his voice calm yet tinged with a hint of pride.

“What are they?” Percy asked cautiously, taking a step back as one of the vines brushed his ankle in a cat-like manner, its touch both tender and intrusive. A flash of his nightmare appeared in his mind’s eye—vines slithering around his body, suffocating him, dragging him into the ground. He could almost feel the tightening grip, the cold embrace of the earth as it swallowed him whole.

"They are but extensions of my own being, here to guard and shield you in my absence," Apollo declared, his voice rich with a blend of authority and fervent care.

"I saw them in my chamber before. Was that your doing?" Percy inquired, a note of unease lacing his words, already harbouring a dislike for the enigmatic entities.

“They observed,” Apollo replied simply, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. With a decisive turn, Apollo made to leave, and as he did, Percy felt the familiar onset of mist clouding his vision—a stark reminder of his enduring curse. The farther he strayed from the sun god, the more his sight betrayed him. Suppressing the urge to chase after Apollo, Percy seethed inwardly, berating himself for such weakness.

As Apollo departed, the vines withdrew slightly, granting Percy a fleeting semblance of breathing space. Yet, their presence was far from benign. They seemed sentient, responding to Apollo's will with an eerie gracefulness, their movements a silent ballet of obedience and vigilance.

The veil over Percy's vision heightened his other senses to a keen edge. His hearing sharpened, attuned to the slightest whisper or rustle within the chamber. The vines' murmurs, soft and insistent, seemed to reverberate through the air like a haunting symphony of control, each subtle note playing on Percy's nerves like a skilled harpist manipulating taut strings. Their sinewy forms twisted and coiled, their dark, glossy surfaces catching and refracting the dim light in unsettling patterns that danced upon the chamber walls.

Percy stood amidst the twisting vines, feeling strangely isolated. Despite his blindness, he found solace in the return of his voice—it was a small victory.

Taking a deep breath, Percy began to walk towards the bridge that led back the way he came. Deprived of sight, he relied on hearing—the soothing murmur of distant waterfalls, the gentle movements of fish in unseen waters—to guide his steps. The vigilant vines trailed behind him, reacting subtly to his movements and any approaching presence.

That evening, Percy performed his evening ablutions, washing away the grime of the Styx and donning dark-blue chiton left for him by Calliope. The vines accompanied his every movement, their presence a constant companion. 

Lying on his bed, Percy felt the vines' movements echo through the ground beneath him, their sinuous forms emerging from hidden places to hover near. They encroached upon his personal space with an almost sentient curiosity, as if inspecting him from every angle, their touch at times as gentle as a breeze and at others as unsettling as an unseen hand.

When Percy's eyes finally closed, he dreamt of dark waters, vast and deep, stretching endlessly into the abyss. Upon this shadowy expanse, he drifted on a raft made from the pale bodies, their ghastly hands moving in unison, propelling him through the inky blackness. Above him, the sky was a void, devoid of sunlight. His gaze remained fixed upon this eternal night, a haunting emptiness that mirrored the depths below, as the raft carried him to an unknown destination.

In the morning, he was roused by the soft cooing of doves, their gentle sounds caressing his ears. Slowly, his white eyes opened, his eyelids still heavy with the remnants of sleep. The soothing, low-pitched melody beckoned him to close his eyes once more, but then, as if summoned by the essence of the dawn itself, a fragrance of roses and ambrosia permeated the air, intruding upon his senses with its heady sweetness. It was a scent familiar yet elusive.

The vines, ever attuned to his slightest movement, descended gracefully, their sinuous forms twisting downward like cascading tendrils eager to greet him.

Percy's absent gaze turned toward the window, where the delicate flutter of wings hinted at the presence of unseen visitors in the early light.

After washing his face and partaking of the divine food provided, he ventured out into the day, the warmth of the morning sun brushing against his skin as he sought his path amidst the palace's tranquil corridors.

By the fountains stood three Muses—Terpsichore, Thalia, and Euterpe. They were engaged in laughter, amused by Terpsichore's whimsical dance, her hands waving in the air as if to mimic a tree swaying in a storm. Their mirthful expressions faded into silence as they noticed Percy emerging from his chamber. Their faces paled as the vines, hidden on the sandy ceiling, followed him above his head, moving in wave-like patterns.

"Einalian!" Euterpe called out, her voice carrying a mixture of concern and pity as she noticed his sightless eyes. She was aware of their master’s decree, yet witnessing the young demigod's blindness was a heartrending sight for her. Percy turned towards their voices, offering a faint smile as he approached. The vines descended from the columns, reaching towards him with a cautious grace.

"We have missed your presence, Einalian. Your absence has been felt deeply.” Thalia announced, her voice tinged with genuine relief despite the underlying tension.

Percy nodded gratefully, feeling the warmth of their presence amidst the cold embrace of Apollo’s palace. "Thank you," he replied softly, his voice carrying a hint of resignation.

“You speak again!” Terpsichore exclaimed, her smile wide and infectious as she twirled around in a display of boundless energy.

“Well, yes. Yesterday your lord probed my spirit, but as he witnessed me choking on the Stygian slime, his remorse compelled him to lift the curse off my tongue,” Percy explained, his tone a mix of anger and reluctant acceptance of the bizarre turn of events.

Euterpe and Thalia exchanged perplexed glances, unsure how to process Percy's revelation, while Terpsichore seemed enraptured by the tale.

"Indeed, our lord's mercy is boundless," the Muse of dance interjected, her voice a delicate attempt to diffuse the lingering tension. Her eyes sparkled with genuine joy as she reached out and grasped Percy's wrists eagerly. "I'm delighted to hear your lovely voice once more," she continued, her words carrying an earnest warmth. "Why don’t you join us in our revelry?" she invited, her smile hopeful, as if the shared joy of their company could somehow erase the weight of recent trials.

“And what were you all doing exactly?” Percy asked, already feeling too tired to refuse but curious nonetheless.

“Dancing, of course! Show me how waves dance, how fish frolic, how the breeze whispers,” Terpsichore said, her voice filled with infectious enthusiasm. She took Percy’s hands and began to twirl around, pulling him into the dance with a joyous abandon.

Euterpe, the muse of music, gracefully lifted her aulos and began to play a joyous melody, filling the air with its enchanting notes. Thalia joined in, clapping her hands in time with the rhythm, their shared intention clear: to momentarily lift Percy from the weight of his struggles.

Percy stumbled at first, awkward and uncertain, but Terpsichore’s infectious energy soon enveloped him. She guided him through graceful movements, her gestures mirroring the fluidity of water and the gentle sway of branches in the wind.

"I’m not made for this," Percy admitted, feeling self-conscious.

"It is good to know how to dance, particularly for occasions such as wedding celebrations," Terpsichore explained warmly, her words carrying a gentle encouragement.

Panic flared in Percy’s eyes, the urgency of his mission crashing back into his awareness.

"How much time till Thetis's wedding?" he asked anxiously, his tone betraying a hint of apprehension.

"Two suns, do not worry. You will learn," Thalia reassured with a playful smile. "But for now, you move like a cornered horse," she teased lightly, her laughter ringing through the air. "Your steps are too hesitant."

"Should I remind you of my blindness?" Percy's voice carried a weight of frustration, his words tinged with concern. As he contemplated the impending wedding, thoughts of navigating among so many gods with non existent vision left him feeling vulnerable, exposed.

"It does not matter, be like water, demigod!" Thalia exclaimed with unbridled enthusiasm.

Percy furrowed his brow. "What does that even mean?"

Euterpe stopped playing and leaned closer, her voice soothing and knowledgeable. "To be like water is to adapt and flow, to find a way even when obstacles are placed in your path. Water can be soft and yielding, yet it can carve through stone given time. In your state, Einalian, it means to embrace your circumstances and move with them rather than against them."

"Stop talking to him; he has to feel," Terpsichore interjected, taking Percy by the arm to guide him. They spun and twirled together, her movements guiding his own in a dance that began to sway with more ease. Euterpe’s words echoing in his mind—adapt and flow.

"Good!" Thalia applauded, her claps ringing through the courtyard.

Percy allowed himself to be swept away. For a fleeting moment, he forgot the weight of his circumstances, letting out a laugh that felt light and beautiful.

The energy of the muses enveloped him, filling him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that seemed to suffuse his entire being. It was almost as if he were intoxicated, not with wine, but with the joy of movement, the harmony of music, and the fleeting sense of freedom.

But of course, the fleeting joy could not endure unchallenged. The serenity of the moment dissolved as the sun's radiant rays breached the parting clouds, casting a bright, almost harsh light across the tranquil garden.

The warmth of the muses’ joy still lingered around Percy, though a chill ran down his spine as he realized the sun god was approaching. The music abruptly ceased, leaving an echo of fading notes in the air, and the muses bowed respectfully as Apollo drew near.

Silence settled over the gardens, broken only by the faint rustling of vines retreating into the shadows cast by the looming pillars. Percy's restored sight allowed him to see Apollo clearly—a serene smile gracing his face, his presence commanding yet strangely welcoming. He was adorned in light armour etched with intricate carvings, his dark green cloak billowing behind him.

Percy’s eyes lingered on the ivory bow slung casually over Apollo’s shoulder and the quiver at his hip, adorned with finely crafted arrows. Despite the imposing presence of the weapons, Apollo appeared less intimidating in that moment—more youthful, almost carefree. But Percy knew better than to be swayed by appearances alone.

"What do we owe the honour, our lord?" Euterpe's question was spoken softly, her aulos hidden behind the folds of her tunic. Nearby, Terpsichore continued to gently sway, unable to stand still for long. Thalia stood with a curious smile, her cheeks still flushed from laughter, her hands red from continuous clapping.

Apollo’s gaze drifted briefly over the assembled Muses before settling on Percy. "It pains me to interrupt such joyous revelry," Apollo began, his voice carrying a melodic cadence. "But I must request Einalian's presence," he continued, addressing Percy directly. 

Percy glanced toward the Muses, who offered subtle nods of encouragement. With a brief farewell to them, he turned towards Apollo. Despite the sun god's inviting gaze, Percy sensed an undercurrent of purpose that gave him pause.

The sun god led him away from the confines of his palace, their path meandering past the distant boundaries until they arrived at the lush gardens of Olympus, a realm secluded and verdant beneath the golden light. Percy's fingers twitched with a longing, imagining the freedom of running down these emerald slopes.

"Where are we headed?" Percy queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and unease as they ventured deeper into the foliage.

"How fare your skills with the bow?" Apollo inquired, his gaze steady upon the young demigod as they passed murmuring streams.

"Not exceptional; I favour my sword," Percy replied, his eyes focused on shimmering waters.

“Today, we shall hunt," Apollo declared, a hint of anticipation colouring his words. "I shall instruct you in its ways," he added, drawing Percy's full attention, the intensity in his voice brooking no refusal.

"Why?" Percy questioned, his brow furrowing with suspicion.

Apollo's smile was enigmatic as he surveyed the tranquil garden surroundings. "I simply wish to see you draw your bow taut and your aim true," he admitted, his voice carrying a hint of sincerity that caught Percy off guard.

“What will we hunt?” Percy asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

“Doves,” Apollo answered, his tone almost nonchalant, but the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed more than mere concern for Percy's archery prowess.

Chapter Text

Doves were not what Percy expected; they were swift and elusive, challenging even the most seasoned archer. His previous encounters with a bow were marked more by luck and divine intervention than by skill—like the time Hera had guided his arrow to strike Geryon, the three-bodied rancher, in his three hearts. Those rare moments of success were not born of expertise but of fortune and celestial assistance.

Now, in the presence of Apollo, the god of archery himself, Percy was given the opportunity to master this noble art. Yet, he felt a deep-seated reluctance, knowing well his ineptitude with the bow. He had rejected such offers before, aware of his shortcomings, but now he was in no position to refuse.

They arrived at a sunlit clearing ensconced within a ring of ancient trees, where Apollo knelt and placed his hand upon the earth as if attuning himself to the very heartbeat of the forest.

"The Huntress is absent at this hour," Apollo murmured under his breath, his words carrying a weight of reassurance. Percy's eyes widened with realization—did Apollo mean Artemis? The revered goddess of the hunt, protector of maidens?

Apollo rose gracefully and passed Percy the bow. Percy gripped it, the unfamiliar weight a stark reminder of his inexperience. Too few times had he held such a weapon, and even fewer were the instances where he could claim any measure of proficiency.

Percy accepted it with a wary glance, sensing the weight of Apollo's confidence resting heavily upon his shoulders. When Apollo handed him an arrow, Percy's apprehension surfaced in a hesitant question.

"Is it alright to shoot here, on Artemis's grounds?" Percy inquired, his respect for the goddess evident in his tone. "I would not wish to provoke her wrath."

"And yet you seem to relish in provoking mine," Apollo replied with a raised eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "She won’t mind unless you harm one of her sacred animals or dare to court her maidens," he replied, his voice calm and steady. "Watch closely," he added, drawing his own bow.

Percy observed intently as Apollo's muscles flexed with fluid grace while he nocked an arrow. He pulled the string back to the corner of his mouth, the bow bending under the strain of his strength. Apollo's hair glowed in the grace of the sun as he took a focused breath. With a smooth release, he let the arrow fly, its trajectory straight and true. It struck a distant target with a soft thud, showcasing his mastery. Not one, but two doves fell from the tree, lifeless and still.

The casual display of lethal precision left the demigod unsettled. Yet he couldn't help but marvel at Apollo's skill; a touch of competitive spirit stirred within him.

"Sometimes, in the hunt, one must accept the cost," Apollo remarked, noting the conflicted expression on his face. “Now your turn," he instructed.

Percy threw Apollo a glance, exhaling deeply.

He had slain the Minotaur on his first attempt—how challenging could shooting an arrow possibly be? If he aimed between Apollo’s eyes, he was confident he could succeed on the first try.

The weight of the bow felt foreign, its tension unfamiliar against his palm.

Apollo's amusement was palpable as Percy prepared to take aim. The arrow leaned awkwardly to the side, betraying his inexperience. Sensing Percy's uncertainty, the god stepped closer, his presence both reassuring and unsettling.

“You are not holding a sword hilt,” Apollo commented with a half-grin, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Make sure you are holding the bow with a relaxed grip. A tight grip can cause the bow to torque, leading to misalignment.” As he spoke, he placed his hand on Percy’s, gently coaxing his fingers to loosen up their tense hold. His touch was firm yet tender, guiding Percy with a careful precision. His touch lingering briefly before withdrawing

"You stand too stiff," Apollo noted calmly, patting the back of Percy's knee to again encourage a more relaxed posture and adjusted Percy's other foot, his hands steadying the boy’s stance. Then, standing close behind him, he raised Percy's elbow slightly, making him stretch the bowstring further.

“Keep the body, nice and still,” Apollo murmured, his voice a soothing melody. His breath, warm against Percy's nape, sent a shiver down the demigod’s spine. "Focus."

"How can I focus with you so near?" Percy wondered silently, feeling the slight tremble in his own fingers, now slick with a sheen of sweat borne of both effort and the god's proximity.

"Let your mind become one with the bow, the arrow, and the target. In this moment, there is nothing else." Apollo instructed further, his whisper right by his ear. Their closeness allowed Percy to grasp Apollo’s scent — of mirth, clean and sweet, mingled with the fragrance of dry wood warmed by the midday sun.

Percy closed his eyes briefly to centre himself. Drawing the string back, he felt the raw power contained within it, a surge that resonated through his arm and down to his fingertips. His gaze fixed on the dove sitting on the cedar tree branch, unaware and innocent, cleaning its feathers with a grey beak. Percy's heart ached with the cruelty of it. How could he kill something that did not deserve it? It’s not like they were going to eat it afterwards.

The bowstring creaked under the tension, and he could feel every fibre of the wood straining with purpose.

Percy exhaled slowly, releasing the breath he had not realized he was holding. He shut out the world around him, focusing solely on the life ahead and the path to reach it. At the final moment, he shifted slightly, and with a swift, decisive motion, he released the arrow. It sliced through the air with a whisper, embedding itself in the bark of a venerable tree.

He cast a glance at Apollo, his eyes lingering on the arrow deeply seated in the tree's trunk.

“The birds are too elusive. Can we perhaps change our target?” Percy suggested.

“Elusive?” Apollo repeated with a half-smile. “The bird remains on the tree.” Indeed, Percy's intended quarry continued its peaceful preening, blissfully unaware of the fate it had narrowly escaped.

“You did not miss. You chose to strike the tree. Why?” Apollo inquired.

“I choose not to harm without cause,” Percy finally answered, his voice steady and resolute.

“Mercy?” Apollo whispered, his tone a blend of curiosity and a hint of reprimand. “What has the tree done to you, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Percy hesitated for a moment, then replied, “The tree bears the mark of my decision, a choice that spares life rather than takes it.”

Apollo's expression shifted, a trace of respect mingling with his amusement. “An interesting perspective,” he mused. “Though the hunt often demands blood, your choice reflects a different kind of strength.”

Percy inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Apollo’s words. “Strength lies in knowing when to wield power and when to withhold it.”

“I know something of this,” Apollo said, his gaze fixed upon Percy with unnerving intensity.

“You do?” Percy asked, scepticism furrowing his brow.

“Yes,” Apollo replied, his voice imbued with an unspoken gravity. “I often restrain myself when in your presence. Were it otherwise, you would be well acquainted with the full measure of my strength.”

The implicit threat hung in the air, a shadow cast by Apollo’s words, yet beneath it lay a nuanced admission of self-control.

“How about a touch of fortune?” Apollo proposed, his hand gesturing toward the forest with an elegant sweep. “Observe the grove yonder. See if you can strike any of them in flight.” The Sun God’s eyes sparkled with a blend of challenge and anticipation. “Should you manage to hit one, it will not weigh so heavily upon your conscience as if your aim were deliberate and our hunt will end.”

Percy pondered Apollo’s words. The notion of unintentional harm remained troubling, yet if a single death would conclude their pursuit, was it not better to sacrifice one life to spare many others? In that moment, the memory of Paris flared in his mind—spilling his blood to save a city.

Percy cast a final, lingering glance at the dove still perched innocently on the cedar branch. With a deep breath, he shifted his focus to the flock nestled in the grove, their white forms barely distinguishable amid the foliage.

“Prepare your bow,” Apollo instructed, raising his hand with a gesture that summoned a flurry of movement. In an instant, a cloud of white doves erupted from the trees, their wings beating against the air in a mesmerizing dance of flight.

Percy drew an arrow from his quiver, his hands steady despite the rapid beating of his heart. He struggled to focus on any single bird, his eyes darting amidst the flurry. The chaotic movement of the doves made it difficult to aim, each bird seeming to blur into the next.

"Steady," Apollo instructed, his voice smooth and commanding like velvet over iron. Percy inhaled deeply, trying to quell the tempest in his chest and sharpen the focus of his mind. As he exhaled, his fingers released the arrow, which sliced through the air with a sharp hiss, disappearing into the flurry of birds.

For a moment, time seemed to stretch thin, as if the world held its breath. Percy watched with a mixture of dread and anticipation as the arrow found its mark. A dove faltered mid-flight, its wings beating erratically before it fell to the ground, lifeless. But then, an uncanny sight unfolded—the rest of the flock descended like a cloud, their forms collapsing as if life had been stripped from them all at once.

Percy lowered his bow, confusion knitting his brow as he observed the peculiar spectacle. The fallen birds began to stir, their lifeless bodies gathering together in a surreal dance of fluttering wings and scattered feathers. A soft light enveloped them, and as the glow intensified, their merged forms took on the shape of a human figure.

When the luminescence dissipated, Percy’s eyes widened in shock. There, crumpled on the ground, was Eros, an arrow puncturing his chest. His ethereal beauty was marred by pain, his golden ichor flowing from the wound like liquid sunlight.

"Astonishing, Einalian," Apollo's voice slithered through the air, darkly amused, each word tainted with a malevolent edge. "You have struck down the greatest among them."

Percy paled, his heart pounding as he rushed to the fallen god. "I did not know it was you," he whispered to Eros, who glared at him with angry, shimmering pink eyes. Eros gripped the arrow, his fingers trembling as he plucked it out and discarded it with a growl.

Apollo approached, his form casting a formidable shadow over Percy's frantic efforts to assist the wounded god. Eros’s eyes, once clouded by confusion, now burned with the clarity of profound anguish. Golden ichor flowed relentlessly from the wound, winding its way through the air in glittering, sorrowful currents.

The scene was a macabre tableau of beauty and agony, the fragrant air thick with the scent of roses and the bitter tang of divine blood. Percy’s heart ached with the weight of unintended harm, his hands trembling as he tried to stem the flow of gold, feeling the cold, indifferent gaze of Apollo upon him, like a distant sun that illuminated yet scorched all it touched.

As the realization dawned that Eros's wounds did not heal, Percy’s gaze fell upon the discarded arrow. It lay there, shrouded in a sinister golden hue, the malevolent glow of its divine blessing unmistakable. Apollo had bestowed upon him a weapon cursed to slay anything, even gods.

Demigod’s gaze lifted to Apollo, his eyes wide with desperation and fear.

"Why are you standing there? Heal him!" Percy demanded, his voice quivering with suppressed fury.

“It’s more pleasurable to observe him writhing in pain,” Apollo answered, his tone chillingly casual.

Percy regarded Apollo with a furrowed brow, an unspoken unease lingering beneath his gaze. He knew all too well of Apollo's legendary prowess with the bow, capable of guiding arrows for others to their fateful marks—be it for glory or tragedy. The tale of Paris and Achilles weighed heavily in his mind, how Apollo had directed the arrow, foretold by prophecy, to the vulnerable heel of the otherwise invincible hero.

Confronting Apollo with a steely resolve, Percy’s voice carried a note of grim clarity. “You brought me here for this very purpose, did you not? To ensure that I would strike down the son of Aphrodite? You guided my aim.”

His accusation hung in the air, heavy with betrayal and realization. Apollo’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of mild amusement mixed with irritation. “He needs to learn his place,” Apollo said, his voice cold as the steel of his bow. “He dared encroach upon what is mine.”

"He wont learn anything if he’s dead. You— you can’t truly allow him to die," Percy said, pressing his hand against Eros's gash, desperate to stem the bleeding. “What has he done to deserve it?”

Apollo's eyes burned with possessive fury. “He infiltrated my sanctuary under the guise of a dove, spying upon you. He plotted, waiting for the opportune moment to tear you away from me. I’m sure Aphrodite had her part in this. She has always harboured a pent-up fascination with beautiful things. It pleases her more if she can steal them.”

Percy’s face flushed with heat, his anger and embarrassment mingling into a deep crimson. It was clear that his mere appearance could not account for the situation unfolding before him. The notion took root: this must be Aphrodite’s attempt to exact her revenge for the injury he had inflicted upon her son. She was not a goddess known for overlooking slights or forgiving perceived wrongs, especially when her children were involved.

Percy looked back at Eros’ face, he recalled the times when the delicate fragrance of roses and ambrosia had filled his senses, or the soft, ethereal flutter of wings had brushed against his ears. Eros's presence, though often elusive, had seemed benign, even comforting, despite the occasional stirring of anxiety.

Yet, as he sat there, watching the fallen god of love struggling with his wounds, Percy was plagued by the undeniable truth of Eros's fate. The punishment meted out to him—death—seemed an overly harsh decree for the sins committed.

Percy’s voice hardened with an icy resolve, the embers of his anger flaring with each word. “Are you so ready to condemn him to death on the mere supposition of his intentions?”

“I am certain of them,” Apollo admitted, his expression grim. “He has always been a thorn in my side. Capricious, meddling, and eternally disruptive. Removing him would be a service to all.” With a swift motion, Apollo summoned forth his flaming sword, the weapon igniting with a searing brilliance.

Instinctively, Percy threw himself over Eros, a desperate guardian against the divine fury that sought to claim the god. The heat of the blade licked at Percy’s face, casting its unrelenting glow into his sea-green eyes.

“Do you not care for the consequences of your actions?” Percy pleaded, his voice a mixture of desperation and resolve. “If there is any mercy within you, you must save him.”

“Mercy is a heavy demand,” Apollo replied, though his face shifted to a contemplative expression. “But for you, I might consider it.” He lowered his sword, the flames dissipating slightly, though they still flickered ominously. His tone was disturbingly casual, as if the life of the dying god before them were a minor inconvenience rather than a pressing matter. “Your pleas, however sweet, will not suffice. There is a price for my intervention.”

"Of course there is," Percy said, struggling to keep the sneer from his voice. “What do you want?”

Apollo's molten-gold gaze locked onto Percy, eyes shimmering with a chilling blend of amusement and malevolent intent. “Not much. I want your true name. Offer me that, and I shall restore him.”

Percy’s hands shook, the gravity of Apollo's demand pressing heavily upon him. He recalled Hekate’s warning—never reveal one’s true name, for such an act bore a cost that was often dire and irreversible. Yet, the urgency of Eros’s plight, the frail figure bleeding before him, left him with precious few alternatives.

“I will give it to you,” Percy said, his voice a raw mixture of desperation and determination. “But first, swear to me that you will heal him and that my name will remain a secret.”

Apollo's eyes narrowed, the playful glint replaced by a more sombre and intense focus. “Of course,” he murmured, his tone a dark promise. “It will be our little secret. Whisper it to me, and I shall save this frail dove. I swear it,” he added, his voice softening just enough to suggest a fleeting warmth, though the threat of his power and the weight of his word lingered like a spectre in the air.

Percy nodded, his heart pounding in his chest as he moved closer to Eros. He took the wounded god's hand, pressing it against the gash. Eros looked up at him, struggling not to choke on his golden blood. His rose eyes conveyed a mix of pain, anger, and something else—perhaps a warning.

As Percy moved towards Apollo, Eros’ ichor clung to his hands, which shone with an almost otherworldly radiance. Apollo observed with a gaze that was both appraising and delightfully detached, as though the golden sheen on Percy was an aspect of his divine charm.

God’s gaze was unwavering as Percy approached. His expression shifted, softening into a semblance of possessive affection, and he drew Percy closer with a languid grace, an arm encircling his waist in a gesture both intimate and commanding.

“Now, my demigod,” Apollo murmured, his voice a soft, seductive whisper that seemed to vibrate through the very fabric of their surroundings. “Reveal to me your true name.”

Percy closed his eyes, seeking solace in the dimness behind his eyelids, and braced himself for the inevitable. “It’s Perseus,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a tremulous murmur. “My true name is Perseus.”

A triumphant smile spread across Apollo’s face, his eyes flashing with a fierce satisfaction. “Perseus,” he repeated, savouring the sound as though it were a rare and precious nectar. “You have given me a great gift, and in turn, I shall honour it.”

Percy let go of Apollo, retreating a few paces as the sun god advanced towards Eros. His sword was no longer in his grasp; his hands, now clean and steady, were destined for acts of healing rather than harm. With a grace that belied his anger, Apollo cupped Eros’s face in his hands, his fingers firm.

“Should you dare to attempt another transgression,” Apollo intoned, his voice a velvet caress edged with a razor-sharp edge, “mark my words well: I shall ensure that those wings of yours are severed and cast from Olympus, never to grace the skies again.”

Eros, his eyes glistening with tears of indignation and pain, blinked rapidly but offered a reluctant nod, his pride stung by the threat.

Apollo’s piercing gaze lingered for a moment longer. Then, with a deliberate motion, he laid his hand upon Eros’s chest and a warm, golden light began to flow from his palm. The ichor slowed its relentless escape, the wound mending itself beneath the god’s touch. Eros’s breathing grew steady, and his pallor was replaced by the healthy hue of restored vitality.

As Eros slowly sat up, Percy approached him, his heart heavy with guilt and concern. "I’m sorry," Percy said softly.

Eros lifted his gaze, his brow knitted in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Are you not filled with anger toward me?” he asked, his eyes searching Percy’s face for any trace of resentment.

Percy’s thoughts drifted back to their first encounter, a memory fraught with helplessness and confusion. He recalled the tension of that moment, the imminent threat of Eros’s arrow aimed directly at him, only to be diverted by Apollo’s timely intervention.

He had accepted the violation of his personal space as a consequence of Eros’s nature—childish, impatient, and capricious. The true humiliation he experienced afterwards, however, stemmed not from Eros but from Apollo, whose actions had left him feeling powerless and exposed. In the light of these reflections, Percy’s anger toward the god of desire seemed to wane, diminishing when compared to the torment inflicted upon him by Apollo.

Percy shook his head, his expression earnest and resolute. “Has your little bird brain forgotten? It was I who loosed the arrow that struck you,” he replied, his tone carrying a mix of remorse and candidness.

Eros managed a weak chuckle, a strained smile flickering on his lips. “You are a fool, demigod,” he said, his eyes softened with a glimmer of mirth. “A fool most certainly.” His voice, though feeble, carried a peculiar warmth. “In truth, I find myself in love with you.”

Eros’s gaze was deep and laden with emotion, rendering Percy momentarily speechless.

Percy’s mind whirled with disbelief. He must have misheard; their last encounter had ended in discord, with Eros wounded pride and flesh. And now, this god spoke of love. The very idea was disconcerting, for Eros did not seem to be of the gentle sort. His nature was as lustful and unpredictable as any other deity, embodying the chaotic caprice of divine will.

Percy’s mind reeled, his scepticism warring with the genuine warmth in Eros’s voice.

“You must have hit the ground harder than you realized, to be speaking such words now.” Percy responded, his voice laced with a touch of irony, all the while feeling Apollo’s presence darkening behind him.

“Perhaps I have,” Eros murmured softly, a hint of resignation in his tone.

In an instant, the god’s form began to diminish. His body shrank and reconfigured until all that remained was a single white dove nestled amidst the grass. The bird, though breathing, appeared to be in a deep, tranquil slumber, its feathers ruffled slightly by the gentle breeze.

“What happened to him?” Percy asked, his voice a soft murmur of concern.

“He is frail, too feeble to sustain his divine form,” Apollo explained, his tone clipped and indifferent. “In time, he shall regain his strength.”

Percy, his heart aching with both sympathy and wonder, gently cradled the delicate creature in his hands. The dove's soft feathers and the serene stillness of its form spoke of a vulnerability that touched him deeply.

Turning to Apollo with a pleading gaze, Percy silently asked: Can I keep him?

Apollo’s response was curt and dismissive, his demeanour tinged with a touch of sulking petulance. “No, leave him where he is. I trust Artemis’s hounds will soon take care of him,” he said, a note of bitterness underlying his words. He turned away, his movements almost sullen as he retrieved the bow from where it lay on the ground.

Apollo’s indifference was palpable. It seemed his duty fulfilled, he cared little for Eros’s well-being beyond the immediate healing.

Yet Percy could not abandon the dove. Determined, he resolved to keep the fragile creature close until Eros could restore his strength. It was, he felt, the least he could do after having struck him.

Noticing his sour mood, Percy resolved to lift the heavy fog that clouded the Sun God's demeanour, even if only a little. "What now?" Percy asked, breaking the silence with a voice that was both curious and gentle.

"Back to the palace," Apollo replied curtly, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

"But what about the archery?" Percy pressed on. "I managed to release only two arrows."

Apollo turned to him, his countenance brightening just a touch, like the sun peeking shyly from behind dark clouds. "Are you willing to continue after what transpired?" he asked, a note of genuine surprise in his voice.

"I do. I want to learn, and who better to teach me than you?" Percy answered. He indeed wanted to learn, but more than that, he hoped to lighten Apollo’s mood before they returned to the imposing walls of the palace. He relished the time spent outdoors, free from the luxurious confinement.

Apollo’s mood seemed to lift further, though a slight undercurrent of suspicion lingered in his eyes. "Very well. But first, give me that nuisance," he demanded, extending his hand to take the dove.

"After what you've done?" Percy met Apollo’s gaze, his expression unwavering. "Absolutely not," he replied, his grip tightening protectively around the dove.

"And how do you intend to hold the bow and nock the arrow with one hand?" Apollo asked, his eyebrow raised in challenge.

But Percy was prepared. He lifted the dove gently and placed it on his shoulder. "Hang tight," he whispered to the bird, which nestled itself in the nook of Percy’s neck, its eyes closing in relaxation.

Apollo observed the tenderness with which Percy handled the dove, how his fingers were gentle on its white feathers, how his eyes softened and his lips curved into a serene smile. A jealousy ignited within Apollo, burning like a fire ready to spread.

Turning his head to the side, he took a few deep breaths, struggling to quell the urge to snap the bird's neck right then and there. "Are you ready?" Apollo asked as Percy took out a finely crafted arrow from his quiver, this one devoid of the ominous glow that had marked the one that hurt Eros.

"Which tree should I shoot at?" Percy asked.

"Tree? Not this time, darling," Apollo replied, stepping into the clearing. He moved far enough to blur in Percy's vision but not disappear completely.

"Try to shoot me," he said with a calmness that belied the audacity of the challenge.

"You mock me," Percy responded. "I won’t manage that with my sight all blurry and you so far away."

"You underestimate yourself," Apollo countered. "This time, I won’t carry your arrows, I swear." He cast a brief glance at Eros perched on Percy’s shoulder. "Shoot me, don’t be shy. I won’t punish you if you manage to hit me. In fact, I would be very much pleased." He admitted with a smile, his hands clasped behind him.

Percy took a deep breath, steadying himself. He nocked the arrow, feeling its weight and balance. His fingers brushed the fletching as he drew the bowstring back. The dove shifted slightly on his shoulder, but remained still. Percy focused on Apollo, the god's form steady and serene in the distance. He could feel the tension in the air, the weight of Apollo’s expectations and his own determination.

With a final breath, Percy released the arrow. It soared through the air, a silver streak against the green backdrop. Time seemed to slow as he watched its flight, every heartbeat echoing in his ears. The arrow struck true, embedding itself in the ground just inches from Apollo's feet.

“Again,” Apollo commanded, his voice calm but insistent. “This time, spread your legs wider and lean further forward.” His eyes sparkled with a mix of challenge and anticipation, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Percy nocked another arrow from his quiver, his gaze steadfast and unwavering as he met the Sun God’s gaze. He adjusted his stance as instructed, striving to find a more solid footing.

He drew the bowstring back, his muscles taut with the effort, and steadied his breath. The dove on his shoulder cooed softly, a gentle reminder of the life he had chosen to protect. In that moment, Percy felt a surge of resolve. He would not let Apollo’s challenge go unmet.

With a deliberate exhale, Percy released the arrow. It flew straighter and faster, slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. Apollo watched its flight with predatory focus, his eyes never leaving the gleaming projectile.

The arrow almost met Apollo’s ankles, but the god simply kicked it aside before it could embed itself in his flesh.

“Not fast enough,” Apollo remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Percy felt a surge of impatience. He reached for another arrow, his determination burning brighter. With a swift motion, he released again, aiming higher this time. Yet again, the arrow was intercepted by Apollo’s hand as if it were an advancing bee rather than a sharpened projectile.

“Once more,” Apollo instructed, discarding the shattered arrow with a flick of his wrist. "Draw the string closer to your lips.”

Percy gritted his teeth. He wanted Apollo to bleed ichor, and he would see it today. He could feel the challenge simmering within him, fuelling his resolve.

Minutes passed. Percy’s arms began to tremble from exhaustion, while Apollo seemed to derive great amusement from the exercise. The Sun God effortlessly caught the arrows, snapped them in half, or deflected them with his metal bracelet. A scatter of broken arrows littered the ground around Apollo, yet he remained unscathed.

Sweat gathered on Percy’s brow, and his breathing grew ragged. The weight of the bow seemed to increase with each shot, and the strain on his muscles intensified.

“Is this truly your best?” Apollo taunted, his voice carrying a mocking edge. “Where is the fire that drove you to protect the dove? Where is the spirit that defied me?”

Percy’s vision blurred with fatigue, but his determination only grew fiercer. “You want fire?” Percy muttered under his breath. “I’ll give you fire.”

He wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for another arrow, his hands steady despite the tremors of fatigue. With practised precision, he brought the shaft to his lips. Apollo watched with a mixture of fascination and intrigue as Percy began to nibble at the feathers of the fletching, trimming them to reduce drag. The air around them seemed to hold its breath, as if acknowledging the subtle artistry of Percy’s technique—a blend of instinct and understanding of aerodynamics.

But his innovations didn’t end there. He licked the arrow's tip, dragging his tongue along the shaft to coat it with a thin layer of moisture. This manoeuvre was part of his strategy to employ his dominion over water, hoping his saliva would enhance the arrow’s flight.

Apollo's stance shifted ever so slightly, a subtle yet noticeable twitch that spoke of an inner agitation. Intrigue and a flicker of arousal danced in his eyes like the play of sunlight upon a rippling stream.

Percy drew the bowstring back with a powerful, fluid motion, the bow creaking slightly under the strain. His entire being coalesced into that single, focused moment. The arrow, now streamlined for speed, was released with a snap of his fingers. It flew through the air with an unprecedented velocity, a silver streak against the darkening sky.

Apollo's eyes widened, and he braced himself. The arrow struck with such force that it drove him back, his hands barely managing to catch it. For a brief instant, the god’s composure faltered, and a flicker of surprise crossed his usually impassive features.

The divine light of the setting sun painted his features in shades of gold and shadow, emphasizing the deep lines of contemplation etched across his brow. He inspected the arrow with a gaze that melded astonishment with begrudging admiration.

"Very cunning, Perseus," Apollo mused, his voice a velvet whisper laden with both awe and a touch of condescension. “Yet, despite your considerable prowess, you have yet to strike me.”

Percy, feeling a surge of playful defiance amidst his exhaustion, tilted his chin slightly and met Apollo’s gaze with a wry smile. “Perhaps I should bind your hands behind your back, to level the playing field a bit?”

Apollo’s lips curled into a half-smile, a flicker of mischief dancing in his eyes. “Ah, but I’m not so certain I’d relish such a proposition,” he replied, his voice smooth and seductive, with an undercurrent of dark amusement. “I prefer to be the one doing the binding, rather than being bound.”

Percy faltered. There was an unsettling beauty in the way Apollo’s gaze lingered, a shadow of something more primal and untamed, like the darkened corners of a sunlit room.

“I too cherish boundless freedom,” Percy replied, the words escaped him with an edge sharpened by his growing frustration. For a fleeting moment, he had almost forgotten the confines of Apollo’s opulent realm, a temporary reprieve from his captivity within these gilded walls. Yet now, the stark reminder of his entrapment by the whims of the Sun God weighed heavily upon him.

Exhaustion began to seep into his bones, clouding his spirit. The physical and mental strain of the relentless archery practice, coupled with the stifling presence of Apollo, left him feeling as though his own resolve was crumbling.

Apollo, standing before him, seemed as indomitable as the sun itself—its brilliance unwavering and unyielding. Percy felt as if he were a mere moth scorched by the unrelenting blaze, each attempt to confront or escape its heat only serving to singe his spirit further.

Apollo recognized the inner turmoil that Percy grappled with. “Freedom,” Apollo mused softly, “is a concept both precious and elusive. It is not merely the absence of chains, but the ability to transcend them—whether physical or spiritual.”

Percy’s brow knitted in concentration, his face etched with frustration. “Your freedom seems limitless, while mine appears to be constrained by your will.”

Apollo’s expression shifted subtly as he approached with a measured grace, his steps echoing with an almost imperceptible rhythm. “Perhaps,” he suggested, his tone carrying a gentle, almost hypnotic cadence, “you may yet find a way to assert your own freedom within the confines of my domain.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed intently on Apollo. “It would be delusional of me to imagine such a possibility,” he said, his voice tinged with a note of defiant clarity. “I am not about to fall in love with the cage you’ve constructed around me.”

Apollo took a deliberate step closer, the golden hue of his form casting long shadows that danced around Percy. The weight of his presence seemed to press down upon the boy, an almost tangible force that made the air feel heavier.

“You will learn to love it,” Apollo intoned, his voice a low, resonant murmur that sent shivers racing down Percy’s spine. The promise, or perhaps the threat, in his tone was almost palpable. “To the extent that the mere thought of leaving my side will terrify you.”

The conviction in Apollo’s pronouncement was so profound that Percy had to close his eyes momentarily, trying to stave off the cold dread that began to seep through his resolve. It felt as though Apollo’s words were not merely statements but a chilling prophecy—an omen of something unavoidable, a curse wrapped in divine assurance.

“Let’s go back. The sun will set soon,” Apollo declared, his voice smooth but commanding, like the inevitability of twilight itself.

As they approached the grand palace, Percy pondered the implications of the name he was to give. The very thought of surrendering this fragment of himself, this essence that defined him, was a source of deep unease. To what end would Apollo's control extend? The god had not yet shown himself to be overtly malevolent, but the mere idea of further empowerment over Percy was a chilling prospect.

Percy, weary and absorbed in the labyrinth of his thoughts, stumbled into Apollo. The collision was minor, yet it felt significant, a tangible reminder of his own frailty and exhaustion. Percy’s steps faltered, the weight of his ordeal pressing heavily on him, making each movement a laborious effort.

Apollo’s hand, surprisingly gentle for someone so fierce, steadied Percy with a firm grasp. “Careful,” he murmured, his tone shifting from cold authority to something softer, almost reminiscent of a fleeting empathy.

The light from the palace windows spilled onto Apollo, highlighting the divine contours of his face, a visage both beautiful and terrible.

As they entered the palace, the grandeur of the surroundings felt both imposing and hollow, reflecting the tension and unresolved conflict between them. The opulence of the palace, a place of eternal splendour and cold detachment, with its rich tapestries and elaborate decor, stood in stark contrast to the turmoil within Percy’s heart.

“Perseus,” Apollo said, drawing Percy’s attention. There was something unnerving yet oddly grounding about hearing his name spoken by the god, as if each syllable carried a weight that anchored him in this strange reality.

“This time, you really must give me him,” Apollo said, his gaze shifting to Eros, nestled in Percy’s hands like a fragile treasure. The dove’s feathers gleamed softly in the twilight, its eyes closed in vulnerable repose.

Percy was not convinced, his eyes filled with caution and a lingering lack of trust. Apollo, noticing his hesitation, continued with a voice that shifted to a dangerous purr, softer but imbued with an edge that cut through the air.

“You are well aware of what he is capable of,” Apollo said, his tone like velvet lined with steel. “Should he attack you again, do you really wish to relive the last time I expended my efforts to expel the venom from your body?” His gaze locked onto Percy’s mouth, a dark gleam dancing in his eyes, as if he took pleasure in the memory of that intimate agony.

Percy’s cheeks flushed, his mind racing in search of a solution that would appease both Apollo’s wrath and his own desperate need to protect Eros. The memory of past encounters with the god of love’s dangerous whims haunted him, yet he could not abandon the fragile dove now nestled in his arms. Each feather, each heartbeat, seemed to echo the fragile balance he was trying to maintain.

A sudden thought struck Percy like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the fog of his panic. “Perhaps,” he began, his voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in his chest, “I could stay with you this night until Eros recovers. I will ensure that you won’t harm him, and you’ll have the comfort of knowing that I’m safe by your side.”

Apollo’s reaction was one of momentary surprise, as if struck by an unexpected revelation. The boy’s defiance had always been a source of frustration, but now it seemed to be tempered with a newfound resolve. Wasn’t this precisely what he had yearned for all along? To have Perseus near him, to watch over the demigod, to feel the warmth of his presence and inhale the intoxicating fragrance of his skin? The edges of Apollo’s hardened demeanour softened, his gaze turning contemplative and almost tender. The idea of Eros never returning to his former self seemed almost like a hidden blessing in this new arrangement.

Apollo’s golden eyes softened, the harsh lines of his face easing into a semblance of warmth, though the undercurrent of possessiveness remained.

“Come with me,” Apollo murmured, his voice like a gentle breeze rustling through leaves.

“Thank you,” Percy said, a wave of relief washing over him. He held the dove closer, feeling its gentle heartbeat against his fingers.

As they entered Apollo’s chambers, the room bathed in the soft, melancholy glow of twilight, Percy felt a mix of awe and apprehension. The space was a reflection of Apollo’s grandeur and capricious nature, filled with rich fabrics, gleaming instruments, and artefacts that seemed to pulse with an inner light, each one a testament to the god’s multifaceted existence. The air was thick with the scent of exotic incense, swirling tendrils of smoke weaving intricate patterns in the fading light.

To the side, a bath was built in, constructed from intricate mosaics that depicted ancient myths and legends. Warm water was already cascading from golden faucets, filling the bath with fragrant steam that curled invitingly into the air. Percy felt out of place in this setting, his mortal presence starkly contrasted against the opulent splendour. The fact that he was in Apollo’s chamber made his muscles tense with a blend of reverence and unease.

Percy's discomfort grew when he heard a rustling behind him. Turning cautiously, his breath caught in his throat as he beheld Apollo, now nude, his form a perfect harmony of muscle and grace. Heat spread down to his collarbones as he quickly averted his eyes, feeling overwhelmed by the god’s imposing presence.

Apollo’s voice broke the tension, smooth and amused. “Come on. We both need it after the whole day,” he said, his eyes alight with mirth.

“I am not going to bathe with you,” Percy responded, opening his eyes with a mix of defiance and discomfort.

He indeed felt sticky from the sweat and grime of the day, and the warm water promised to ease his worn muscles. But the thought of sharing a bath with Apollo was too risky, too intimate. “I will just go to the main bath hall,” Percy said, already turning towards the open doors.

“Blind and with that lovesick pigeon by your side? I won’t let you,” Apollo said, his voice a mixture of amusement and command. He raised his hand, and the doors swung shut with a soft thud, sealing off Percy’s escape.

Apollo’s lips curved into a darkly amused smile. “And it’s not like I have not seen all of you already,” he remarked, a glint of something primal in his gaze.

Percy’s heart raced, torn between indignation and the growing realization of his helplessness. Eros nestled in his hands stirred, sensing his unease.

Apollo took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “There is no need to be afraid,” he said, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper.

“I don’t trust you,” Percy replied.

“Suit yourself,” Apollo said indifferently, descending into the water, which thankfully covered his lower half. The sight of him lounging there, exuding a casual dominance, only heightened Percy’s sense of vulnerability. Apollo’s eyes never left him, watching like a hawk as he relaxed in the bath, helping himself to grapes, the juice dripping down his sharp jaw in a display of unbridled sensuality.

Percy felt a mix of emotions roiling within him—anger, fear, and a reluctant acknowledgement of Apollo’s undeniable allure. The god’s confidence was both infuriating and captivating, making Percy’s resistance feel increasingly futile.

Finally, Percy relented. The fatigue of the day and the insistent ache in his muscles outweighed his desire to maintain his defiance. Turning towards the large bed in the centre of the room, he gently placed the dove upon a soft pillow. The bird stirred slightly but remained nestled in its serene repose.

“Turn away,” he demanded, his hand already on the brooch of his chiton.

Apollo’s eyes darkened, “As you wish,” he said, turning his back but leaning on his elbows, his posture relaxed yet alert, like a predator feigning disinterest.

Percy unclasped the fibulae and untied his belt, letting his garments fall to the floor. The air felt cool against his bare skin as he descended the steps into the bath, keeping a careful distance from Apollo. The warm water enveloped him, soothing his tired muscles and offering a momentary reprieve from his troubled thoughts.

When he resurfaced, he found Apollo still turned away, though the god’s awareness of his every movement was palpable. Percy’s eyes wandered reluctantly over Apollo’s broad shoulders, noting the tension in the god’s muscles, a silent testament to his barely restrained power.

“It’s so easy to make you flustered,” Apollo remarked, glancing sidelong at Percy. His voice, though laced with a veneer of playful mockery, carried an undercurrent of frustration. “Yet somehow, it’s impossible to win you over.”

Percy turned his gaze away, focusing on the intricate mosaics adorning the chamber walls. Each tile told a story of gods and heroes, triumphs and tragedies, the rich tapestry mocking his current predicament.

"Win me over?" Percy echoed, his voice a mixture of incredulity and defiance. "Try being a good god for once, not punishing me for wanting to be free."

Apollo’s gaze remained fixed on Percy, his head tilted as if contemplating some profound mystery. The silence between them grew thick and heavy, only interrupted by the gentle lapping of the water and the faint whispers of the wind that stirred through the chamber's arches.

“So you propose that there is a chance for me to sway you?” Apollo inquired, his tone calm yet edged with a faint trace of intrigue. He faced Percy and took a deliberate step closer, which demigod, ever vigilant, noted with growing unease.

Chapter Text

Apollo, a divine predator, loomed over Percy with a menacing grace. His godly form cast a shadow that seemed to stretch and contort across the bath, enveloping Percy in a relentless embrace of power. The god’s body, glistening with a radiant, honeyed sheen, moved with an otherworldly fluidity, each motion precise and deliberate.

“There is always a chance I might come to despise you less than I do now,” Percy responded with brave honesty, his voice a measured blend of defiance and diplomacy. “You could start by giving me my sight back.” The urgency in his tone underscored the gravity of his situation. Time was not his ally, and he knew that to sever the bond with Apollo after their forced union, he needed his sight. The thought of navigating the dark and treacherous realms of Hades blind filled him with dread, a prospect too harrowing to contemplate.

Apollo’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glimmer flashing within their depths. “It is a lamentable fate, indeed, that I find myself so drawn to you. Most of my previous admirers accepted my affections, submitted to my guidance, acknowledged my dominion and might. Yet you resist, even in the face of my punishments,” he said, his voice echoing with a mixture of disdain and fascination.

Percy regarded him with careful curiosity, a sense of unease twisting in his gut.

Before Percy, another soul had resisted: Daphne. Apollo was struck by the piercing barb of Eros, an arrow of gold that inflamed his heart with insatiable longing. Yet Daphne, the nymph of the forest, felt the icy touch of a leaden dart, a cold revulsion.

Apollo pursued Daphne through shadowed groves, his heart ablaze with a fervour both divine and damning. His ardent pleas, like honeyed poison, fell upon deaf ears, for Daphne’s soul recoiled at his every word, her essence consumed by dread and disdain.

The chase stretched on beneath the indifferent gaze of the heavens. Daphne ran until her strength waned, her limbs trembling with the weight of Apollo’s desire. In her final, desperate act, she called out to her father, Peneus, the river god.

Peneus, moved by his daughter's plight, cast a merciful spell. Daphne’s flesh melded into bark, her hair blossomed into leaves, and her delicate limbs became slender branches. She was transfigured into a laurel tree, her beauty forever entwined with nature's timeless tapestry.

Since then, Apollo declared the laurel sacred, its leaves to crown the brows of poets and victors alike.

Percy shuddered at the thought of sharing Daphne’s fate, though his feelings, unlike the nymph’s, were rooted in genuine anguish, sculpted by his harrowing encounters with Apollo. The god’s infatuation with him was equally sincere, a terrifying force in its raw authenticity.

Percy’s eyes shone with angry tears, the exhaustion and frustration of his ordeal becoming painfully evident. The water around them began to grow cold, the temperature dropping under the influence of Percy’s powers, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.

Steeling himself, Percy approached Apollo and grasped the god's bare shoulders. “I will accept your affections then,” Percy declared, his face, etched in seriousness. “Lead me as you will,” he continued, his tone unwavering, “but return to me my sight.”

Apollo seized his wrists with an intensity that bordered on cruel, pulling him closer until their chests met.

“Brave words you utter, Perseus,” Apollo murmured, his breath a mere whisper against Percy’s cheek. The god’s voice was soft and mocking, tinged with a sneer that betrayed simmering doubt. “But are these words sincere?”

“They are,” Percy answered quickly, hoping Apollo wouldn’t detect the bitterness lurking in his response.

Apollo took Percy’s chin in his hands, his eyes gleamed with a cold light as he scrutinized Percy’s face. “I detect not the faintest glimmer of truth within you,” he said, his tone dripping with disdainful amusement.

Percy’s frustration boiled beneath the surface; he felt the sting of his own impotency.

“A tree cannot grow upon barren soil.” Percy replied, his voice taut with provocation.

"Our tree does not need soil; it flourishes hung in the divine air like you in my embrace," Apollo whispered, his fingers tangling in Percy's raven-black hair, pulling him closer. "I have foreseen our future, and it is one of unity. We shall be as one for eons to come."

Percy’s lips trembled at the ominous words, his gaze shifting to lock onto Apollo’s face. His sea-green eyes searched desperately for any sign of deceit, any trace of falseness in the god’s promises. Yet, he found nothing but an unyielding conviction, a certainty that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

"No," Percy declared. "I will descend into Hades, with or without the obols upon my eyelids."

In the depths of his mind, Apollo envisioned Percy splayed upon a funeral pyre, the flickering flames casting eerie shadows over his pallid skin. Two coins glimmered on his eyelids, a solitary one nestled between his lifeless lips. The sight of such macabre tranquillity wrenched Apollo's heart with a pang of terror. Had he not suffered enough loss, endured enough anguish? Memories of countless mortals, cherished yet ephemeral, slipping eternally from his grasp, surged forth like a relentless tide of sorrow and regret.

Apollo's fingers burrowed into the demigod's flesh with a force akin to claws sinking into damp sand, extracting a sharp cry of pain from Percy.

"I will not stand idly by and witness your demise," Apollo growled, his voice quivering with a fervent, protective wrath. "Perseus, my beloved. Imagine, freedom from the ravages of time,” Apollo murmured, his voice a seductive purr. “I will see you bleed gold, rather than let you fall to the abyss. You could stand eternally by my side, witnessing the world’s beauty through the ages. Forever.” Apollo murmured, his voice a sultry promise as he kissed Percy’s shoulder tenderly.

This was so much worse than Percy had anticipated. The realization settled heavily in his mind, a grim weight pressing down on his spirit. If he did not manage to escape soon, to fulfil his mission, Apollo would surely doom him to remain trapped in this world. Each passing moment solidified his entrapment, binding him further to a destiny that was not his own. The thought of being unable to return to his present, to his mother, to his friends, gnawed at his resolve.

The thought of losing his life, his identity, everything he had fought for, filled him with a dread so profound it nearly paralysed him. Would all his sacrifices and struggles hold any significance if he were lost in time, a mere plaything for a capricious god?

He would be lost to his world, and his world would be lost to him.

In the god’s eyes, eternity was an exquisite garden, an endless canvas upon which to paint moments of sublime beauty and pleasure. But Percy’s heart, burdened with the weight of his humanity, could only hear the mournful dirge of lost freedom, the silent scream of a soul yearning for the fleeting joys and sorrows that define mortal life.

“What of my say in this?” Percy inquired, his voice tinged with defiance. “I don’t want eternity.”

The water around them churned violently, mirroring the turmoil within Percy’s heart. He twisted and writhed, his movements reminiscent of a fish ensnared in a net, straining futilely against the unyielding grip of the fisherman. Each desperate contortion only served to draw him inexorably closer to Apollo, until his back was pressed against the god’s firm, unyielding chest. He could feel Apollo’s hardened manhood pressing insistently against his hip, an undeniable symbol of the divine desire that radiated from his captor.

“Do you truly believe you possess a say in this matter?” Apollo asked, his tone cold and imperious as his hand slid down to Percy’s throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate column of his neck.

“Yes.” Percy hissed, his eyes blazing with anger.

“Foolish boy, you are but a mortal, and I am divine. What I decree, you are bound to obey.” The god’s grip tightened slightly, enough to make Percy’s pulse quicken under the pressure.

“Even the divine can be defied.” Percy answered, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Apollo’s laughter was a low, dangerous rumble, vibrating through Percy’s very core. It was a sound that spoke of an arrogance born of millennia of unquestioned authority. “So be it, then. Let us see who will break first.”

Percy felt the shift in Apollo’s demeanour, a dark signal that had been subtly hinted at earlier but now came to fruition with a chilling clarity. His heart pounded in his chest, the urgency to escape growing with every heartbeat. He tried to push away, to break free from Apollo’s suffocating embrace, but the god’s hold was unyielding. Their skin, wet and glistening in the evening light, seemed to fuse together.

Desperation surged within Percy, igniting a primal force as he summoned the water around him, imploring it to rise and shield him from the relentless god. The liquid answered his frantic call, coalescing into a barrier of gleaming, crystalline spikes, each one a dagger poised to pierce the divine flesh. Apollo was forced to release his grip, his hand recoiling in surprise and pain.

Percy seized the fleeting moment to crawl from the bath, clutching his chiton as he moved. His plan was uncertain, a mere shadow of strategy, yet the doors before him beckoned. His intent was to first seize Eros, then force open the doors and erect another barrier before Apollo’s heat could dissolve it. The endeavour seemed foolish, but he could no longer endure the oppressive presence of the god; the weight of Apollo’s power and proximity overwhelmed him.

Yet, before Percy could execute even this desperate scheme, Apollo’s scorching hand had already ensnared his ankle. God dissolved the ice shard, the mist curling around him like ghostly tendrils as he drew Percy closer. With a single, fluid motion, he lifted the mortal by his waist, the Apollo’s strength manifest in the ease of his hold.

“Your defiance,” Apollo’s voice rumbled, a blend of dark fascination and exasperation, “is both maddening and captivating.” He held Percy firm as the boy writhed in futile resistance. “But punishment is usually what follows it. You have learned nothing, haven’t you?” Apollo’s calm, unyielding demeanour was unsettling for one so affronted, the serenity of his voice belying the tempest of retribution that brewed within him.

With a nonchalant flick, Apollo cast Percy onto the bed, the sheets quivering and tossing with the impact.

Percy rose to a sitting position, immediately scrambling, his gaze filled with a mix of wariness and dread. His eyes locked onto Apollo before descending to the god’s injured hand. A tremor coursed through him as the stark realization set in—he had drawn blood from the deity. The golden ichor trickled down Apollo’s fingers, cascading onto his legs like autumn leaves.

Apollo raised his hand, his tongue slowly caressing the ichor from his palm before closing his eyes, savouring the moment.

"It has been an age since I savoured the taste of my own blood. How curious that in your presence, I am rendered weak, my form yearning for all that you might bestow upon me, even the cruellest of torments," Apollo intoned, his voice a sonorous blend of enchantment and dark longing.

“You think you can force yourself on me without me resisting?” Percy retorted, his words an attempt to rationalize his aggression toward Apollo. His fist tightened with a tremor of restrained fury.

“You profess you will linger in my company through the night, only to greet me with such coldness.” Apollo’s voice dripped with a feigned sorrow as he ascended the bed with languid motion, his eyes ablaze with intensity, his demeanour that of a predator poised for the final leap.

“You know very well this is not what I had in mind!” Demigod exclaimed, already glancing at the door, but Apollo’s body obscured it from his view

Percy’s breath hitched as Apollo’s weight pinned him down, but he refused to relent. His hands shot up, grasping god’s wrists, trying to pry them off his body. Apollo’s grip was like iron, but Percy twisted his hips, attempting to buck the god off.

With a growl, Apollo tightened his hold, his body pressing down with the force of a storm. The bed creaked and groaned under the intensity of their struggle, sheets tangling around their limbs like binding ropes. Percy managed to get a leg free and drove his heel into Apollo’s shin, eliciting a hiss of pain from the god.

“But I did,” Apollo said through gritted teeth. His eyes were dark, filled with an unrelenting determination. He shifted his weight, using one arm to pin both of Percy’s wrists above his head, his other hand sliding down to grip Percy’s thigh, immobilizing him further. “In fact, I have waited to claim you again with quite some impatience.”

Percy’s body arched, every muscle taut with effort. He could feel the raw power of the god pressing down on him, but he refused to surrender. With a desperate surge of energy, he twisted his torso, managing to free one arm. He swung it at Apollo, aiming for his face, but the god caught his wrist mid-air, their eyes locking in a fierce gaze.

Eros, still sleeping on the cushion, seemed to stir lightly. Percy silently willed him to wake, hoping for a distraction, a reprieve from the inevitable.

“Leave, leave me alone.” Percy said feeling overwhelmed. His words, though fierce, were laced with an undercurrent of helplessness that only seemed to amuse Apollo.

“Do you truly believe loneliness will bring you peace?” Apollo’s voice was both seductive and sinister, a dangerous mix of promises and threats. “Solitude is a cruel mistress, far harsher than my embrace.”

“But it’s the only respite from your presence,” Percy retorted, his anger barely masking the fear in his heart. He could feel his resolve wavering under the god’s relentless gaze, but he refused to give in. Not yet.

Apollo’s lips curled into a dark, enigmatic smile, a fleeting shadow of malice playing upon his divine features as he whispered, “I could grant you that—an unbroken serenity of the deepest kind. Peace, when the clamour of the world fades into nothingness; peace, when the distractions of the senses dissolve into an unending void; peace, when silence envelops you in its all-consuming embrace; and peace, when the touch of feeling is utterly eradicated.” His tone was laced with a sadistic pleasure, a shadowy aspect of his divine nature that surfaced with unsettling frequency in moments of twisted delight. It was a side of Apollo that reveled in the darker hues of existence, a perverse counterpart to his often-volatile passions.

The prospect of confronting another divine fury was insufferable. Time, that elusive beast, afforded him no luxury to negotiate what he might forfeit to the capricious rage of a god. Thus, he resorted to the sole act that might deliver him from the foreseen chastisement.

In a desperate bid to calm the deity, Percy twisted once more, drawing Apollo’s nape closer until their lips met in a fateful collision. The sun god, startled, became as a statue of alabaster, cold and motionless. Panic surged through Percy, a tempest of dread that his audacious gesture had only provoked further ire. As he began to withdraw from the kiss, Apollo's fingers ensnared his hair, an almost imperceptible cruelty in the god's grip.

Apollo’s kiss was fierce and possessive, a voracious embrace that consumed every corner of the demigod’s mouth. Their breaths entwined, their scents intermingling—Apollo’s fresh mirth and sun-warmed wood merging with Percy’s sea foam sweetness and the earthy aroma of petrichor.

Percy’s heart pounded within his chest; this contact, initiated out of sheer survival, now enveloped him in the raw ferocity of Apollo’s ardour. The god’s passion was a double-edged sword, both a solace and a torment.

When Apollo finally withdrew, his gaze penetrated Percy’s with a heady amalgam of triumph and satisfaction. A predatory smile curled the god’s lips as he cradled Percy’s face in his hands, tender as one might handle a fragile, priceless artefact.

Percy, embarrassed yet defiant, averted his gaze, allowing Apollo’s eyes to devour him.

The god seemed to wait, patient and expectant, his golden gaze locked onto Percy’s sea-green eyes, demanding an explanation.

But Percy found himself rendered mute, not by Apollo’s magic this time, but by the sheer weight of his own actions. He tried to rationalize it as a desperate manoeuvre to evade Apollo’s wrath. His body trembled involuntarily, knowing that the next few moments would reveal whether his gambit had succeeded.

"Why, first you plead with such bitterness for respite from my touch, and then, in the very next breath, you bestow upon me a kiss imbued with such sweetness?" Apollo's voice reverberated through the stillness, a sonorous inquiry slicing through the air like a blade through gossamer.

"Why do you promise me your affections and then threaten to strip me of my senses?" Percy retorted, his voice trembling anger. "You are also contradicting yourself."

Apollo’s gaze, though softened, remained fierce—a stormy sea of darkened gold. “Did you not wish for loneliness?” he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of centuries. “And what is loneliness if not the ability to extricate oneself from the surrounding world?”

“You possess neither common sense nor compassion; your skill lies only in the cruel art of twisting my words to suit your vile purposes,” Percy replied, his voice tinged with bitterness and accusation.

“I have no desire to be the instrument of your torment,” Apollo retorted, his voice smooth yet laced with a subtle, insidious edge.

Percy’s lips curled into a scornful sneer. “You have been that very instrument since you dragged me here against my will.”

“My sole wish is to harmonize your cadence with mine,” Apollo continued, “so that we may find solace in each other’s presence rather than resentment. Recall the delight we shared when I guided you in the art of archery; you surrendered to my lead.”

“Don’t be delusional.” Percy’s expression darkened, a storm cloud heavy with impending thunder. “We do not belong together.”

“I would say otherwise, my darling. Let me play with you, let me show you how harmonious we can be," Apollo insisted, his gaze like an unyielding sunbeam, piercing and unwavering, daring Percy to capitulate. To Apollo, consent was but a trifle—a dalliance, a delicate dance of seduction where every step led inexorably towards dominance.

"I am not an instrument," Percy retorted, his voice trembling with anger, a futile proclamation of autonomy. In this interplay, he was a mere kitten hissing at a prowling wolf.

“You might yet become one,” Apollo murmured, his voice a velvet caress. Percy could feel Apollo’s breath on his skin, hot and fast, their bodies still slick with bath water and now perilously close. "You produced such divine sounds when I last played upon you." His grip on Percy tightened subtly, a possessive yet tender gesture, pinning the boy against the embrace of the cushions.

"I was under Eros' influence, and you exploited it," Percy protested, his voice strained, a crimson flush creeping from his cheeks down to his collarbones.

Apollo's smile broadened into a wolfish grin, a predatory satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "But you cannot deny the symphony we created," he countered smoothly, his gaze lingering on Percy’s flushed face.

"Besides, you did plead for my touch then," he added, his lips brushing against Percy's bare shoulder, a tender gesture laced with mischief. "Would you beg for me so now?" His hands rested firmly upon Percy’s hips.

"No," Percy declared, shoving against Apollo’s chest. "I am no lover; I am a hero, born for battle, not to warm your bed." His voice quivered with the intensity of his assertion, though beneath it, fear lurked, keenly aware of the peril he faced.

Apollo's laughter rang out, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. "Why not both?" he asked, as his thigh pressed slowly between Percy’s legs, the insinuation sending a shudder through Percy’s frame.

Percy’s body arched and twisted, trying to break free from the compromising position.

“I will not let you claim me again.” Percy growled, his head turned from side to side, his face a mask of fierce concentration and frustration.

In a sudden burst of determination, he seized a fistful of Apollo’s lustrous golden hair, yanking it with savage intensity. Apollo’s head jolted back, a growl of surprise and pain escaping his lips. Yet, he did not relinquish his grip; instead, he drew nearer, his voice a dangerous murmur, laden with ominous intent.

“Enough,” he commanded, his eyes boring into Percy’s. “You will submit.”

Percy spat a curse, using his legs to try and push Apollo off once more. The god’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Percy’s flesh, but Percy refused to relent. His body twisted, muscles straining in refusal to be conquered. The sheer force of his movements caused the bed’s golden curtains to sway and the oil lamps on the nightstand to flicker ominously, casting erratic shadows on the walls.

“Last time, you were too out of it to remember,” Apollo took Percy by his hair, his lips tracing a fiery path along Percy’s neck as he spoke. “But I will make you remember this time. I shall show you how gods love, how I love.”

Percy responded with a snarl of defiance, his free hand raking desperately at Apollo’s back. The god’s skin was unyielding, his grip an iron vice that ignored Percy’s frantic claws. Still, Percy’s spirit remained a flame of resistance. He twisted his hips, trying to gain leverage, but Apollo’s weight was overwhelming, his strength an insurmountable force.

With a final, desperate surge, Percy managed to get a knee between them, pushing with all his might. Apollo shifted, his grip faltering for just a moment. Percy seized the opportunity, twisting out from under the god and scrambling to the edge of the bed. But Apollo was faster, his hand shooting out to grab Percy’s ankle, pulling him back with a force that sent them both tumbling onto the floor.

Percy’s hand found Apollo’s shoulder, shoving him back, but Apollo retaliated with a swift movement, capturing Percy’s leg and pulling him down. They rolled across the marble floor, a tangle of limbs and fierce determination, each trying to gain the upper hand.

Apollo's hardened member pressed against Percy, who bucked and writhed, feeling both the heat of Apollo's desire and the raw power of his restraint.

Percy’s breath came in ragged gasps as he wrestled with Apollo, their bodies slick with sweat and the effort of resistance. He managed to get on top, his knees pinning Apollo’s arms to the floor, his own member brushing tantalizingly against Apollo’s stomach. But the god’s strength was unyielding. With a surge of power, Apollo bucked, throwing Percy off balance and reversing their positions.

Apollo’s eyes burned with an intense light as he looked down at Percy, his hands pinning the demigod’s wrists by the sides of his head. Percy struggled, his body arching in a desperate attempt to break free, but Apollo’s grip was like steel, his weight a solid anchor against Percy’s efforts.

Apollo's member, rigid and demanding, pressed against Percy’s own, his hips buckling as he moved tantalizingly slow, grinding their lengths together with deliberate intent. Percy hissed, pleasure mingling with fury, his body reacting despite his desperate attempts to maintain control.

“Are you already tired?” Apollo’s breath was a blistering whisper, each exhale a cruel caress upon Percy’s fevered skin. “Or shall we continue this dance for a while longer?”

Percy’s jaw set with grim determination, his eyes flashing with the realization that to Apollo, this was nothing more than a game. The god sought to wear him down, to extinguish his defiance before the real torment began. The knowledge kindled a fresh blaze of rebellion within him.

"I hate y—" he began, but Apollo's lips descended upon his, cutting off his words with a kiss that was both a claim and a challenge. Percy’s legs thrashed in a frantic bid for freedom, but the god’s indifference was a cold barrier against his struggles.

Apollo's tongue traced the seam of Percy's lips, demanding entry. Demigod resisted, clamping his mouth shut, but Apollo's persistence was relentless. His teeth nipped at Percy's lower lip, a sharp bite that forced a gasp from the demigod, allowing Apollo to deepen the kiss.

Every muscle strained, sinews taut as a bowstring, as Percy tried to wrench himself from Apollo but god's hands were firm, unyielding, his grip like iron bands forged in the fires of Olympus. Percy’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm, each beat a desperate plea for escape.

When Apollo finally withdrew, Percy’s breaths came in ragged gasps, his strength waning as he lay beneath the god. Apollo’s lips traced a molten path along Percy's throat, each kiss a deliberate spark that ignited an inferno of sensation, too consuming to ignore.

Apollo's hand roamed over Percy's chest, his touch both tender and possessive, fingers dancing over sensitive skin as he continued to sway his hips, their members now stiff and slick with precome. The friction between their bodies sent shivers down Percy's spine, each movement of Apollo's hips a tantalizing caress that stoked the fire within him.

“I will escape,” Percy gasped, the words spilling from his lips more as a self-reassuring mantra than a true plea. Each breath quivered with rebellion, though his voice faltered and cracked as Apollo’s warm mouth traced the delicate curve of his collarbone.

Apollo raised his head, his eyes dark pools brimming with unspoken promises. “Indeed,” he intoned, his voice a velvet murmur tinged with an unsettling certainty, causing Percy’s eyes to widen in apprehension. “Whether it be your father, your enchantress, or even the king of the gods,” Apollo’s voice wove a tapestry of prophecy, “they may strive to wrench you from my grasp, and they may even succeed. Yet, I am certain of one thing,” he declared, his gaze a fierce blaze of haunting intensity. “You will inevitably return to me, for you are mine in ways that elude your understanding.”

Percy’s thoughts whirled, like leaves caught in a tempestuous gale. Apollo was no delusional tyrant; the god was acutely aware of the peril of taking Percy from the Earth.

Apollo’s actions now seemed driven by a desperate, possessive fervour, a primal urge to seize what he feared losing. The god’s relentless pursuit of Percy was not merely an assertion of power but a manifestation of a deeper, more primal fear.

“So, fight all you want,” Apollo murmured, his lips tracing a languid path across Percy’s cheek with a sweetness that belied the fervour in his eyes. “My sweet hero,” he breathed, his gaze filled with a longing and melancholy so profound that it compelled Percy to part his lips in stunned surprise. For Apollo, this was an unspoken invitation—a prelude to a kiss.

Apollo’s lips descended upon Percy’s mouth again with a new fervour that bordered on sacrilege.

The kiss began with a slow, deliberate press, Apollo’s mouth melding with Percy’s in a dance of sensuous exploration. The initial contact was soft, almost teasing, but it swiftly turned into something more urgent and demanding. Apollo’s tongue slid past Percy’s lips with a possessive hunger, probing and tasting. The touch was both invasive and intoxicating, a liquid heat that flowed and roiled within Percy’s mouth.

As the kiss deepened, Apollo’s hands roamed over Percy’s form, each touch a silent ode to the beauty that lay before him. With a slow, deliberate motion, Apollo shifted, positioning himself so that their members pressed together once more. He moved with a rhythm that was both maddening and exquisite, each thrust a calculated stroke that drew them both closer to the edge.

"Stop," Percy gasped between kisses, his voice a desperate plea.

Percy’s muscles strained under the assault, his nails digging into Apollo’s back with a need to anchor himself in the midst of the overwhelming intensity.

Apollo’s lips, tender yet insistent, travelled the landscape of Percy’s body with the reverence of an artist admiring his magnum opus. Percy’s breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with a mix of desperation and disbelief as Apollo’s mouth travelled down his neck, his lips branding every inch of skin they encountered.

Percy’s heart raced, his blood singing in his veins as Apollo’s mouth moved lower, lavishing attention on his chest, licking at his nipples, that perked slowly, red and glistening in god’s saliva. Then Apollo moved to his abdomen leaving possessive nips, bruises, each kiss a benediction that left Percy trembling and breathless.

Percy’s eyes widened as Apollo took Percy by the knee, making him spread his legs further.

In a desperate bid for freedom, Percy brought his other knee up sharply, aiming a defiant strike at Apollo’s side. But Apollo anticipated the move. He twisted with a fluid grace, rolling Percy beneath him with a commanding presence. One hand anchored firmly on Percy’s waist, the other gripping his leg with an ironclad hold, Apollo's breath danced warm and unsettlingly close to Percy’s groin. The god’s member, already hardened and pulsing with latent desire, hovered near, unfulfilled yet brimming with unspoken intent. Apollo’s eyes glowed with a barely restrained hunger as he savoured his proximity, his lips exploring Percy’s inner thighs with a series of bites and nips that were both ardent and feral.

Percy’s head twisted to the side, as if to escape the sight of his own degradation. His face was a canvas of mounting embarrassment and helplessness, each flush of crimson betraying the internal struggle. He cursed himself for the unwelcome anticipation that surged within him, a traitorous feeling that seemed to conspire against his will.

When Apollo finally took Percy’s member in his hand, the sensation was electrifying. Percy bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood in a futile attempt to silence the moan that threatened to escape. The god’s gaze remained fixed on Percy with a predatory fascination, a cold amusement gleaming in his eyes as he watched the demigod’s every reaction.

Apollo’s thumb traced teasing patterns along the slit of Percy’s member, each stroke a deliberate act of seduction. The contact was a wicked blend of tenderness and torment, eliciting a gasp of reluctant pleasure from Percy’s trembling lips. The sound was a soft surrender, a bitter acknowledgement of his body’s betrayal, and Apollo’s hungry eyes absorbed every nuance of Percy’s response.

“Such a pretty sound.” Apollo’s grip tightened, his expression softening into something almost tender, yet laced with impatience. The god’s desire was thinly veiled, his need to hear more of those delicious, tortured moans driving him forward.

He descended on Percy’s member with a fervent hunger, his mouth enveloping it with intensity as if he was partaking in a lavish feast. Apollo hummed in satisfaction, the sound vibrating through Percy’s flesh like a symphony.

The heat of Apollo’s breath, the slick caress of his lips, each flick and swirl of his tongue and the pulsating rhythm of his movements left Percy gasping.

His struggles grew weaker, his body betrayed him, responding to Apollo’s caresses with a treacherous eagerness.

Apollo’s gaze, molten and dark, was fixed upon Percy, his pace quickened, each motion a testament to his inexorable will.

In the throes of his forced submission, Percy’s eyes fluttered closed, body arched involuntarily, his hands clutching at the sheets, knuckles white with tension. Percy’s vision blurred, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The world narrowed to the sensations coursing through him, the heat of Apollo’s mouth, the strength of his grip.

The sounds of Percy’s desperate moans were twisted into a symphony of dark pleasure, a cruel mockery of his initial resistance.

“This is wrong,” Percy whispered, his voice trembling as he gripped Apollo’s arm, trying to cling to some semblance of control. He felt the approach of his climax, a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to engulf him entirely. But Apollo only smiled, a dark and knowing expression. He continued his relentless assault, his tongue a fevered serpent that slithered over Percy’s member, now red and swollen, glistening with the sheen of the god’s saliva.

He took Percy deeper into his throat, humming with a low, vibrating resonance that sent shock waves of pleasure through Percy’s body, a final push towards the climax that he could no longer evade.

His body convulsed violently, a shuddering orgasm tearing through him in a cry with a force that left him breathless. Apollo’s mouth remained firmly in place, swallowing every drop with a ravenous hunger.

With the last remnants of Percy’s climax consumed, Apollo’s touch gentled. The god’s lips pressed soft, lingering kisses to Percy’s placid member. His hands moved with a soothing tenderness, caressing the shivering boy’s trembling thighs, his sweaty skin.

Apollo rose from his position, his movements slow and deliberate, exuding a languid grace. His golden eyes softened, an expression of possessive pride and tender affection flickering within their depths. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Percy’s forehead. The boy’s sea-green eyes fluttered open slowly, reflecting a dawning realization. It was the most exquisite orgasm he had ever experienced, and the fact that it had been orchestrated by a man—a god, no less—was beyond his comprehension.

Apollo’s fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from Percy’s forehead, his touch a gentle reassurance. He observed the boy’s expression, a pure blend of bewilderment and confusion, as if he was grappling with the treacherous betrayal of his own body. No longer under Eros’ influence, Percy felt a clarity in his thoughts that only heightened his distress. He had reacted so eagerly to Apollo’s caresses that it made him nauseous, the pleasure mingling with a bitter sense of self-reproach.

Apollo’s gaze remained unwavering, a complex amalgamation of pride and dark satisfaction as he regarded the boy who lay beneath him. The god's eyes, filled with an almost tender cruelty, drank in every detail of Percy’s internal struggle.

“Do not torment yourself, beloved,” Apollo whispered, his voice a soothing murmur. “You are a creature of desire, as all mortals are. Embrace the pleasure I bring you, and let it be your solace.”

Solace? For Percy, it was an agony, not of flesh alone but of soul and pride. The aftermath was a cruel jest, a haunting dissonance between body and spirit.

The room had become a sanctuary of shadows, a realm enshrouded in darkness save for the otherworldly radiance of Apollo’s divine skin. His fingers, delicate and deliberate, traced a path down Percy’s cheek, a touch that promised balm even as it concealed the undercurrent of torment. Apollo, now an insatiable predator, was poised to feast upon the boy’s very essence. His gaze, alight with a hunger both carnal and celestial, was a harbinger of the inexorable pleasure he intended to exact.

Percy glimpsed the god’s intent in those luminous, unyielding eyes. In a desperate bid to escape, he swatted at Apollo’s hand and kicked the god squarely in the chest. Apollo responded with a dark, resonant laugh, his amusement undiminished by the boy’s defiance. With a single, decisive motion, Apollo’s grip tightened around Percy’s hips and he flipped the boy onto his stomach.

One hand pressed firmly against the nape of Percy’s neck, while Apollo’s knees pinned the boy’s legs to the soft mattress. With deliberate intent, Apollo spread Percy’s ass cheeks, his finger teasing the sensitive rim with maddening slowness. Percy’s hands reached back, grasping at Apollo’s wrist in a desperate attempt to pry his hands away, but Apollo remained unfazed. His finger slipped inside Percy, undeterred by the boy’s futile resistance.

Feeling the intrusion, Percy started to protest, coiling to the side like a struck serpent, but his movements were quickly restrained. “Shh,” Apollo silenced him, a dark promise in his voice. Percy groaned into the sheets scattered on the floor as Apollo’s finger, already slick with oil, moved inside him—slowly at first, then with more force. Impatiently, Apollo added another finger, watching with hungry eyes as Percy’s rim swallowed them. He reached deeper, finding the bundle of nerves that made Percy jump with the electrifying sensation. The boy’s eyes widened in bewilderment at the unfamiliar response of his own body.

“Did you like that?” Apollo asked with a sharp smile, his fingers mercilessly aiming again for that spot. The god's desire was palpable, an unspoken hunger to finally be inside the boy. Yet Apollo’s patience was a calculated grace; he did not wish for Percy to remember this night solely as one of pain and dominance.

Percy turned his head, pressing his face into the cushions to muffle his angry cries, each gasping breath a testament to the relentless assault. As Apollo’s third finger joined the others, stretching him further, the sensation was a cruel blend of humiliation and frustration intertwined with an undeniable pleasure.

Percy breathed with a whine, his member once again achingly hard, the relentless friction of the sheets beneath him a cruel and mocking tease. Apollo's own desire was equally fervent, his member pressing insistently against Percy’s thigh, throbbing with a primal impatience, poised to claim.

When Apollo judged that Percy was adequately prepared, he withdrew his fingers, savouring the shuddering clench of the boy’s muscles around the emptiness. A groan of satisfaction escaped Apollo as he leaned in, his tongue tracing a path of searing heat along Percy’s spine, nipping with fervour at the tender nape of his neck.

Apollo seized Percy by the throat, lifting him effortlessly from the cold marble floor and pressing his body flush against his chest. Percy yelped, his elbows scraping against the unforgiving surface as he struggled to maintain some semblance of balance. The imposing length of Apollo’s arousal pressed insistently against Percy’s entrance, a stark and unyielding reminder of the god’s intent.

“Have mercy,” Percy pleaded, his voice a whisper of despair amidst the storm of their entwined bodies.

Apollo’s response was a low, primal growl, his eyes darkened with a hunger that verged on madness. “Mercy?” he echoed, his voice a blend of dark tenderness and relentless desire. “My dear Perseus, mercy is not the offering I seek tonight.”

Chapter Text

With a firm grip on Percy’s hip, Apollo thrust into him with a swift, unyielding motion.

Percy’s scream tore through the air, his gasps mingling with cries of pain and shock as he was overwhelmed by the brutal stretch of Apollo’s member. “It hurts,” Percy choked out, his voice breaking, as the warm, sticky trickle of crimson blood began to seep down his trembling thighs.

Percy clawed desperately at the hand gripping his throat, the effort and pain causing his head to throb with a relentless intensity.

“This is your fate, your destiny—to be claimed by a god, to be claimed by me,” Apollo hissed into his ear, a primal claim reverberating with the thrill of possessing Percy’s wet warmth.

His teeth nipped at the delicate shell of Percy’s ear, his tongue soothing the sting before he began to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts initially exacerbated the pain, but the god’s impatience quickened his pace.

Apollo’s grip on Percy’s throat was firm, not enough to choke, but enough to remind him of his powerlessness. Each thrust was a declaration of possession, each movement a testament to Apollo’s unwavering resolve to claim what he deemed his. The god's rhythm grew more fervent, each thrust deeper and more insistent, carving his will into Percy’s very being.

“You are mine,” Apollo breathed into Percy’s ear, his voice a seductive command that sent shivers cascading down Percy’s spine. “I will pound that fact into the very marrow of your bones.”

Percy’s response was a choked sob, the god’s hand on his hip tightened, pulling him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between them. The friction, the heat, the relentless pressure of Apollo’s body against his own, it was all too much. Percy’s mind swam in a sea of sensations, each one a wave crashing against the shore of his resistance, eroding it bit by bit.

With a sudden, fluid motion, Apollo shifted, pulling Percy upright so his back was pressed against Apollo’s chest. The new angle sent a shock of pleasure through Percy’s body, drawing a gasp from his lips. Apollo’s hands roamed over his torso, one hand finding its way to Percy’s neglected member, stroking it with a languid, teasing rhythm. Percy’s head fell back against Apollo’s shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You’re so exquisitely sensitive,” Apollo murmured, his voice a dark caress.

Percy’s moans filled the room, his body, traitorous and eager, responded to Apollo’s every touch, arching into the god’s embrace with a desperation that mirrored the hunger in Apollo’s eyes. The god’s member moved within him with a steady, relentless rhythm, each thrust driving Percy closer to the edge of surrender.

The tension in Percy’s body reached a breaking point, his muscles quivering with the effort to hold on to the last shreds of his defiance. But Apollo’s touch was insistent, his fingers dancing over Percy’s skin with a cruel tenderness. The god’s hand on his member moved faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, driving Percy to the brink of ecstasy.

“No,” Percy cried out in disbelief, his voice a ragged whisper as the crest of his second orgasm loomed near.

“Let go, little hero,” Apollo murmured, his voice a dark, seductive lullaby. “There is no shame in surrender.”

With a final, shuddering gasp, Percy’s resistance crumbled. His body convulsed with the force of his climax, his cries echoing through the chamber as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensations. Apollo’s release followed in a triumphant groan, a manifestation of divine possession as he filled Percy with his sacred essence, marking the boy in the most intimate, irrevocable manner.

As the tremors of their shared climax ebbed away, Apollo’s grip on Percy softened, his hands now gentle as they traced the contours of the boy’s trembling form.

“I wish to hold you thus for eternity, never to release you from my embrace,” Apollo murmured, his tone almost tender as he slowly withdrew from Percy and lifted him. He placed Percy carefully on the bed, twisting the boy's body until they were facing each other.

Apollo’s eyes sparkled with a predatory delight as he surveyed the boy sprawled upon the creamy sheets, sweat glistening upon his skin, his breaths coming in shallow, desperate gasps. Percy’s dark hair formed a halo around his head, framing pretty face flushed with both exertion and an enduring spark of defiance. His neck bore the bruises of Apollo’s claim, each mark a testament to their fierce struggle.

Percy felt his cheeks heat under Apollo’s intense gaze. The god’s muscles, defined and powerful, loomed above him, his thick thighs straddling Percy’s sides. The demigod’s body trembled, not entirely from fear, but from the sheer intensity of Apollo’s presence.

“Do you find pleasure in tormenting me so?” Percy’s voice, frayed and desperate, clung to the last tatters of his defiance, his body trembling under the weight of exhaustion.

“Immensely,” Apollo replied, his voice a velvety whisper of malevolent delight. “The ecstasy of pounding into you, feeling my seed spill and seep deep within. I shall continue, relentless, until you are filled beyond measure, until your very form swells and distends with the weight of my essence.”

Percy stared at him, paralysed by a terror that gripped his soul.

“What? Did you imagine we were finished? We have scarcely begun,” Apollo’s lips curled into a sardonic smile as he looked down upon Percy. His eyes, twin orbs of luminous fervour, bore into Percy with an intensity that spoke of a dark, unending hunger.

Apollo’s hands slid under Percy’s knees, lifting him closer. Their position was even more intimate now, allowing them to see each other clearly, every reaction laid bare.

Percy could see the determination in Apollo’s eyes, the unyielding resolve that had claimed him once and would do so again.

Percy’s face, flushed with the remnants of their shared passion, now turned pale with fear. His fingers, still numb from the earlier ordeal, clutched desperately at the sheets, seeking some semblance of control or escape.

Apollo’s fingers traced delicate patterns on Percy’s thighs, their touch as light as a butterfly’s wings. His caresses were gentle, almost reverent, before his grip tightened, and with a swift, insistent motion, he forced Percy’s legs apart.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of Percy’s knee and positioned himself once more. Despite his exhaustion, Percy’s defiance flared one last time. He closed his legs, a final, desperate act of resistance.

Apollo’s smile widened, a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Such stubbornness,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Even now.”

“No, no more.” Percy said, his eyes, wide with mix of anger and apprehension, met Apollo’s. The god’s gaze was unwavering, filled with a certainty that was both infuriating and intoxicating.

With a deliberate slowness, Apollo’s hands pressed against Percy’s thighs, parting them again with a firm yet tender insistence. Percy’s breath hitched as he felt the god’s member brush against his entrance, the sensation both familiar and fearsome.

“You will yield to me,” Apollo whispered, his voice a silken command. “Not because I force you, but because, deep down, you desire this.”

Apollo's member found its path lubricated by the remnants of their earlier passions. The thrusts now bore no semblance of tenderness; they were raw, savage, and primeval, each movement driven by an unrestrained fervour that struck deep and unrelenting.

Percy, in a desperate bid to stifle the primal cries clawing at his throat, sank his teeth into the tender flesh of his own arm. As crimson drops began to trail down, Apollo seized his hand with an urgency born of both possessiveness and concern, intertwining their fingers and pinning Percy's hand beside his head. Apollo’s other hand, strong and steady, held tightly under Percy’s knee, ensuring his legs remained spread and vulnerable.

Percy turned his face away, a portrait of anguished beauty, his lips trembling with the threat of tears. For a fleeting moment, Apollo's rhythm faltered, as if recognizing the raw vulnerability laid bare before him.

"Look at me," Apollo commanded, his voice a blend of sovereign authority and gentle allure. Reluctantly, Percy met his gaze, though he shied away from the deity's eyes, his soul ensnared by a profound sense of intimidation.

Such feelings were rare for Percy; even before Zeus or Kronos, he had managed to temper the instinct to falter beneath such immense power. Yet now, stripped of his pride and will, he felt the crushing weight of divine supremacy emanating from Apollo, the radiant god of the sun.

Apollo tenderly kissed the tears that began to fall unbidden from Percy’s eyes, his lips brushing against the salty trails. As Apollo's kisses descended upon Percy’s plush lips, his movements grew more fervent, taking Percy’s member in his hands with a relentless urgency. The boy moaned into his lips, overwhelmed by stimulation from both sides. He gripped Apollo’s shoulder, caught in a liminal space of restraint and longing, neither pushing away nor drawing closer.

Percy’s member, still sensitive and throbbing from their prior union, responded violently to Apollo’s aggressive pace, swelling beneath the pressure of his warm touch. The god, his body glistening with sweat, continued his relentless pursuit, the wet noises of their coupling reverberating through the chamber like the thunder of a storm.

As their kiss broke, a shimmering thread of saliva connected them, Apollo’s gaze a meticulous observer of Percy’s every reaction. Every gasp and moan a testament to the boy’s growing acceptance. What had once been defiance now seemed a fleeting shadow, eclipsed by the all-consuming flame of Apollo’s will.

The creamy sheets beneath them were damp with sweat, clinging to Percy’s fevered skin. The scent of their mingled bodies filled the air, a heady perfume of desire and exertion.

“Will you come with me, my love?” Apollo murmured, his breath hot and eager as he nipped at Percy’s tender nipples, his lips alternating between biting and sucking with a fervent passion. Each caress was punctuated by a groan that intertwined with Percy’s skin, the god’s breath a sultry, heated whisper as he approached his own climax.

Apollo’s throaty moans ignited something dangerous within Percy. He recognized, though he would never confess, that the sound stirred a dark pleasure in him, intensifying his arousal. As Apollo’s climax surged, filling Percy to the brim with molten white, the boy’s own climax unfolded slowly, a crescendo of sensation that left him gasping and trembling.

Pearly strands painted his chest, his chin, and Apollo, with an almost reverent grace, extended his tongue to collect the shimmering droplets. The sight made Percy's skin prickle with a heat that burned deeper than mere arousal.

The god’s golden hair brushed against Percy’s cheek as he nuzzled the tender skin of his neck, his lips exploring the soft spot behind the boy’s ear, sending shivers of vulnerability cascading down Percy’s spine. The demigod’s gaze turned toward the ceiling, his thoughts a storm of confusion and defeat. He had fought, resisted, but in the end, he had been irrevocably claimed.

Percy’s eyes fluttered closed. Though a part of him bristled at the loss of his freedom, another—buried deep within—found a strange, reluctant solace in the god’s possessive embrace. It was this unsettling, self-loathing revelation that tormented him.

Percy’s breath erupted into a frustrated cry as Apollo lifted him with fluid grace, manoeuvring his pliant body as if sculpting clay.

With effortless strength, he positioned Percy so that the demigod’s trembling legs straddled his powerful thighs. Percy pressed his palms against Apollo’s chest, the firm muscles beneath his fingers a testament to the god’s power. Their faces were now mere inches apart, Percy’s ragged breaths mingling with Apollo’s steady ones.

“You can’t be serious,” Percy rasped, his voice a weary echo of its former strength.

Apollo’s golden eyes bore into Percy’s with an intensity that was both tender and commanding. “Serious?” he murmured, his lips brushing against Percy’s with every syllable. “I have never been more so.”

“You don’t understand,” Percy whispered, his voice cracking. “I can’t… I can’t do this again.”

Apollo’s smile, a maddening blend of arrogance and affection. “Of course you can, my little hero. Are you not a brave boy? You must become accustomed to it. Gods can indulge in their passions for days on end.”

“I am no god, please…” Percy replied, his voice a whisper barely discernible, yet in Apollo’s ears it sounded like the sweetest lament.

“So, you can beg after all,” Apollo purred with a predatory glint in his eyes. “I wish it were for my cock alone, for my thirst for you remains unquenched.”

“You will break me if you continue,” Percy said, his voice trembling with the weight of his surrender.

“Tempt me further with such words, and I just might,” Apollo replied, his tone a velvety whisper that caressed the very essence of their fraught encounter.

Percy’s spirit, once fierce and unyielding, now lay tattered and worn. He had no choice but to endure, clinging to the fragile hope that Apollo would not shatter him completely.

With his defiance utterly depleted, Percy’s body sagged in weary surrender.

Percy’s forehead rested against Apollo’s shoulder, his hair a tangled halo against the god’s resplendent skin. The demigod’s arms, trembling with fatigue, wrapped around Apollo’s neck, fingers gripping the god’s shoulders as if seeking to anchor himself.

The gesture elicited a shudder from Apollo, a thrill of triumph mingling with unexpected tenderness. The boy who had resisted so fiercely now clung to him, and it made Apollo’s head spin.

“Be gentle,” Percy murmured into the god’s skin, his voice a fragile plea.

“Of course,” Apollo whispered into Percy’s dark, tousled hair, his tone a soothing balm amidst the tempest of their union. Though he spoke with gentleness, a tempest of desire swirled within him. How could he possibly control himself when Percy was so pliant, so exquisitely putty in his arms now?

With a slow, deliberate movement, Apollo adjusted his position, muscles flexing as he lifted Percy slightly to align their bodies once more. The head of his member, slick with precome, pressed against Percy’s entrance.

With infinite care, Apollo began to push forward, the sensation of Percy’s tightness around him eliciting a deep groan.

“Gods,” Apollo breathed, his voice a ragged whisper. “You’re perfect.”

The contact was so profound it elicited a wordless cry from mortal. Filled with Apollo's warm semen, Percy already felt stuffed and full, yet now, he would swear Apollo's member grew in size, stretching him deliciously. He shuddered under the weight of this overwhelming sensation, legs tightening around Apollo’s waist.

Apollo’s gaze softened, a rare glimpse of unguarded affection. His lips brushed against Percy’s temple, “You are doing so well, my love,” Apollo rasped, beginning a rhythmic ascent and descent, each movement hitting that elusive, perfect spot with unerring precision. The pain was a constant companion, sharp and searing, yet it was interwoven with a pleasure so intense it left Percy breathless.

Each thrust was a careful dance, a balance between the god’s unyielding power and the fragile beauty of Percy’s mortal form.

“You were made for this, my adored tiger,” Apollo purred, his voice dripping with a dark, sensual edge. “To sit like a well-behaved boy on my lap and take my length.” His words were punctuated by a slow, deliberate thrust that made Percy’s breath catch.

Though Percy’s body was weary, it responded with a treacherous eagerness, his skin alive with hypersensitivity. Percy’s muscles tensed and quivered as he rode the relentless waves of sensation.

Percy’s mind swirled with conflicting emotions—resistance and surrender, hatred and longing, pain and ecstasy. The god’s hands guided Percy to the brink of madness, each touch a masterstroke that played his body like a finely tuned instrument.

Percy’s defiance had been fierce, but Apollo’s determination had been unyielding, and in the end, the god had prevailed.

The night, a canvas of ebony and velvet, shrouded Percy and Apollo in its clandestine embrace. Within the chamber, shadows danced to the rhythm of their intertwined breaths, each exhale a whisper of longing, each inhale a symphony of desire. Apollo's touch was a sonnet composed in flesh, his hands tracing verses upon Percy’s trembling skin, each caress a decadent line of forbidden poetry.

In the dimly lit chamber, a small form stirred in the corner, roused from its slumber by the throbbing rhythm of lust and pleasure that pervaded the space. The dove, initially nestled in the shadows, began to shimmer with a soft, ethereal glow, its body elongating and transforming as the pulsing energy of the room wove its enchantment. As the light grew brighter, the dove's delicate form gradually gave way to that of a young man, emerging from the animal guise in a cascade of shimmering light.

The young man blinked, disoriented and bewildered, as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. His gaze darted around the room, trying to piece together the fragments of his sudden awakening. The sweet, insistent symphony of desire that filled the air was palpable, a seductive undercurrent that tugged at his senses and made his skin prickle with both excitement and confusion.

His mouth parted in silent astonishment as he finally took in the scene before him. Apollo, in all his divine splendour, hovered over Einalian’s body with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The sun god’s focus was so absorbed in the act of consummation that he did not initially notice the presence of Eros, who had approached with the stealth of a cat.

The rhythm of Apollo’s hips was a mesmerizing dance of slow, deliberate movements that gradually quickened, each thrust a testament to the god’s fervour. Yet, despite the apparent ecstasy in Apollo’s motions, Einalian remained unresponsive, his body sprawled almost lifelessly under the weight of the sun god.

As Eros’s gaze remained fixed on the demigod’s form, his concern grew palpable. The boy’s lack of response to the pleasure, that was meant to envelop and invigorate him was troubling.

Eros’s own arousal was overshadowed by a deepening worry; the scene before him was not merely a display of celestial lust but a troubling tableau of one being seemingly at the mercy of another’s unchecked passion.

In that moment, Eros’s playful demeanour gave way to a more sombre, protective impulse.

As the night slowly yielded to the pale light of dawn, Percy lay spent and dazed. Apollo, ever the artist, held him close, their breathing a harmonious duet, the room still resonating with the echoes of their passion. Percy’s mind was a haze of exhaustion and elation, his soul indelibly marked by the night’s events. Apollo’s arms remained around him, a silent vow of protection and possession, a promise that their union was far from over.

Despite his exhaustion, Percy was denied the refuge of dreamless sleep. Instead, the shadows of his mind conjured harrowing visions: the siege of Troy, a chaotic dance of arrows soaring through the air, flames consuming buildings, and thick black smoke cloaking his vision. The scene was a grotesque tapestry of chaos, with people fleeing in terror, their feet slipping on the blood-stained marble. Amidst the turmoil stood Paris, his back turned to Percy, his bow in hand, a figure of defiant desperation.

“Be it feral hounds or monsters, I will stand by you. Next time, call for me,” Paris intoned, his words resonating in Percy's soul like the mournful echo. He had uttered those very words before, when Percy sought refuge from Hermes in the shadowed recesses of a cave.

“Paris…” Percy murmured, his voice strained, a mere whisper lost in the cacophony of his nightmare.

Apollo’s eyes shot open, his divine senses stirred by the name. The utterance ignited a bitter fire within him, a spark of jealousy and unease. He rose from his place by the bed, his gaze fixed intently on Percy’s face. The boy’s heartbeat had quickened, his once serene features now contorted into a grimace of pain. His brows were furrowed deeply, his lips quivering as he struggled against the onslaught of gore-soaked visions. It was a nightmare, another of those consuming dreams, likely conjured by the enchantments of Hekate.

Gently, Apollo took Percy by the arm, guiding him closer. He allowed Percy to bury his face in his neck, offering solace and warmth. The god smiled tenderly as he felt Percy’s breath against his skin, the boy inhaling his scent—a divine balm that seemed to lull him back towards the safety of sleep. This time, the boy remained still, the nightmares momentarily abated.

The room was bathed in the golden light of noon, the sun high in the sky, casting its radiant glow through the windows. The wedding approached, a looming event that hung over them like a dark cloud.

Fear gripped Apollo’s heart. The thought of losing Perseus was unbearable, and the prospect of showing him to other gods filled him with a possessive dread. Desperate to feel closer to him, Apollo started to gift Percy’s soft face with kisses, each one a silent plea for connection and protection.

He seemed to revel in the scent of himself on Percy’s body, a primal claim that soothed his anxieties.

His lips journeyed from the boy’s cheeks, planting tender kisses at the corners of his mouth, and then moved slowly down to the nook of his throat. Apollo savoured the taste of Percy’s skin, each kiss a sacred vow. He lingered at the hollow of his throat, feeling the pulse of life beneath his lips, a rhythm that grounded him amidst his swirling fears.

Apollo’s kisses travelled slowly to Percy’s shoulders. He paused, nuzzling his nose against the boy’s chest, right above his heart, as if to shield it. Percy’s breathing grew steady under the god’s affectionate ministrations, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

Percy stirred under Apollo’s touch, his eyes fluttering open to meet the god’s intense gaze. They held a universe of emotions—love, fear, possession—all swirling like a tempest.

“Apollo?” Percy’s voice emerged as a hoarse whisper, barely more than a breath.

Though the words were uttered with a tremor of uncertainty, they flowed like a delicate caress against Apollo’s ears.

“Perseus,” Apollo’s voice was a gentle, reverent murmur that brushed over the boy like a soft wind. “Allow me to hold you a little longer.”

Yet, as the divine caresses persisted, Percy’s sense of disquiet swelled.

A sudden, desperate clarity surged through him, and with a swift, panicked motion, he pushed Apollo away. The god's surprised look was fleeting as Percy scrambled from the bed, his movements frantic and disjointed. Entangled in the silken white sheets, he stumbled clumsily, his feet tangling in the luxurious fabric that only added to his disarray.

“From what are you running, little one?” Apollo’s voice cut through the stillness as he rose from the bed, his lithe form emerging from the tangle of sheets like a predatory beast. His eyes, gleaming with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and control, followed Percy’s frantic struggle across the room.

Percy’s legs, weakened by the relentless exertions of the previous night, trembled uncontrollably. His limbs, now unreliable and unsteady, gave way beneath him. He collapsed to the floor in a dishevelled heap of crumpled fabric and raw, exposed vulnerability.

“From you,” Percy hissed, his voice a sharp, broken whisper as he met Apollo’s gaze with a seething intensity. When Apollo extended a hand to aid him, Percy recoiled with a vehement rejection.

A stark white trickle of semen began to flow down his thighs, a humiliating reminder of the night's harsh realities. The warm liquid clung to his skin, a tangible sign of the god's merciless indulgence.

Percy looked down, sitting on his knees, his mind swirling with a maelstrom of emotions. The world around him spun wildly, a dizzying blur of confusion and pain.

“You have done it again,” Percy’s voice cracked with anguish, his words laced with bitterness. “You have disgraced me!”

“Disgraced?” Apollo’s tone was both disappointed and amused. “No, I worshipped you.” His gaze softened, yet retained a dark, unfathomable edge.

“You are a monster,” Percy spat. He scrambled to gather the silken sheets that lay strewn across the floor. He hugged them close, a cocoon of false security, a fragile veil that barely masked the anguish roiling within him.

Apollo’s gaze remained inscrutable, a blend of cold detachment and simmering intensity. With a fluid grace that seemed almost effortless, he approached the boy and swept Percy into his arms, lifting him with a strength that belied the tenderness in his touch.

“Don’t touch me!” Percy cried out, his voice a strained, desperate plea. Yet, the weariness from their long session had left him weak and unsteady. His muscles burned with a fierce, lingering ache, and his head pounded with the dull throb of exhaustion.

Apollo’s hold was unyielding but gentle as he laid Percy back onto the bed. The sheets, a tangled mess of silk and passion, became a battleground as they wrestled once more. Despite Percy’s efforts to resist, Apollo’s superior strength soon prevailed. He manoeuvred with a practised ease, pinning Percy down with a firm grip, his own legs encircling and restraining the boy’s.

“In my presence,” Apollo’s voice was a deep, resonant murmur, filled with an implacable authority, “there should be no place for shame.” His gaze, unwavering and intense, locked onto Percy’s, a blend of frustration and profound longing evident in his eyes. “We were connected last night, as one. That bond means more to me than you can imagine, yet I cannot bear to see you remain so stubborn in your refusal to accept it.”

Apollo’s gaze softened, a flicker of vulnerability beneath his divine exterior. He studied Percy with a mixture of frustration and longing, as if the boy’s resistance was a personal affront to the sacred connection they had forged.

Percy’s eyes roamed over Apollo’s face, desperately seeking the glimmer of divine majesty that had once enthralled him during his earlier, more naive days. In those simpler times, the god’s energy had seemed like a beacon of awe and inspiration. But now, that radiant aura had become a distant memory, replaced by black void sun—terrifying and all consuming.

In a desperate, almost primal act of rebellion against the overpowering deity who had claimed him so completely Percy did what only a fool would dare to try and spat directly onto Apollo’s face.

For a moment, Apollo was motionless, his usually composed and regal bearing momentarily shattered. The god’s breath hitched slightly, a subtle but clear indication of his sudden, simmering rage.

Percy’s gaze remained unwavering, his anger fuelling a newfound boldness. He stared directly into Apollo’s eyes, refusing to be cowed by the god’s divine fury.

“Fascinating,” Apollo said, his voice tinged with a dark amusement as he wiped the spittle from his face with his thumb. He then brought the thumb to his lips, licking it with a slow, deliberate motion, a dark laugh escaping him. The gesture was both mocking and unsettling, a sign of the god’s twisted sense of enjoyment in the situation.

Percy’s brows furrowed in confusion and unease, but before he could react further, Apollo moved with a sudden swiftness. In one fluid, commanding motion, he pried Percy’s mouth open, his strength overwhelming the boy’s attempts to resist.

Apollo’s face loomed over him with a cold, unyielding resolve as he spat directly into Percy’s mouth. The warm, salty fluid slid down Percy’s throat, its unwelcome presence almost choking him.

“Swallow,” Apollo commanded, his voice firm and implacable. He held Percy’s nose shut, ensuring that the boy had no choice but to comply with his demand.

With a satisfaction that bordered on cruel pleasure, Apollo observed the way Percy’s throat moved as he swallowed.

“Ah, so you can be obedient after all, my good boy,” Apollo said with a chuckle that was as dark as it was dispassionate.

With a final, deliberate motion, Apollo released his grip. Percy, now subdued and visibly shaken, gasped for air as he struggled to process the degradation he had just endured.

“Now that you’re properly reminded of your place,” Apollo said with a chilling calm, “I suppose I should decide how to further indulge myself.” His eyes gleaming with the promise of further torment.

Percy, humiliated and desperate, shook his head in denial. “Do not,” he pleaded, his voice quivering as he tried to push Apollo away. The god’s response was a series of sharp nips at Percy’s neck and chest, his bites both possessive and punishing. Apollo’s hands gripped Percy’s sides with a painful intensity, digging into the already bruised flesh from the previous night’s ordeal, each touch amplifying the boy’s agony. Apollo's thigh slid between Percy’s legs, slowly and inexorably spreading them to gain access to his core.

Just as Percy’s anxiety reached a crescendo, a soft knock reverberated through the chamber, piercing the oppressive atmosphere.

Apollo, momentarily distracted, bit down hard on Percy’s throat, eliciting a sharp gasp from the demigod. The earlier disrespect, it seemed, had stripped away the last vestiges of tenderness from Apollo’s actions.

“My lord,” came a voice, clear and regal, from beyond the door. It was Mnemosyne, her tone unwavering and commanding. “Pardon my intrusion, but we soon must be on our way to the wedding venue.”

Apollo stilled, his breath hot against Percy’s skin, frustration evident in the slight hitch of his exhale. He licked the trickle of blood from his bite with a slow, deliberate motion, then pressed a final, intense kiss to Percy’s mouth.

“It seems the Fates favour you today,” Apollo whispered, his voice a low murmur. “Shame, I would like to continue what has begun.” The god’s gaze lingered on Percy’s perfect body. Every mark, every bruise, was a testament to their violent dance, a dark symphony etched into the canvas of Percy’s skin. A mixture of satisfaction and reluctant tenderness flickered across his face.

Percy, trembling and weak, dared not respond.

Finally, Apollo rose to his full height, his form bare and resplendent. With a fluid motion, he opened the door.

Mnemosyne stood there, maintaining a cold detachment. She greeted Apollo briefly, handing him a himation to cover himself. Apollo took the garment, draping it over his shoulders with an air of nonchalance, his divine composure restored.

As the door closed behind Apollo and Mnemosyne, a profound mist overtook Percy, evoking the blindness imposed upon him by the god.

Mnemosyne’s timely intervention had spared him.

As he lay there, bruised and exhausted, he knew that this fragile peace would not last, but for now, it was enough to keep him grounded. The tension in his body began to ease, if only slightly, despite the lingering pain. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, allowing the fleeting sense of relief to wash over him.

Sleep, elusive and yearned for, gently overtook him. It enfolded him in its tender embrace, a balm to his battered spirit.

“The outcast child is enrapt by the sun, and in all that he eats, in everything he drinks, he finds sweet ambrosia and rubiate nectar,” intoned a soothing voice, its poetic cadence gently stirring Percy from the depths of his slumber.

“'Whence,' ask you, 'does this strange new sadness flow, like rising tides on rocks, black, bare, and vast?'” continued a woman’s voice, rich with melancholic elegance. The words seeped into Percy’s consciousness as his eyes fluttered open, greeted once more by the delicate tapestry of spiderwebs that veiled his vision. Despite the distance from Apollo, which brought a modicum of relief to his restless mind, the oppressive shroud of his surroundings was something he could not easily acclimate to.

Through this shifting veil, a solitary shadow emerged, occupying the archway with an ethereal and commanding presence. The figure stood poised, exuding an aura of timeless grace and authority, the very air around her seeming to hum with her essence.

Her measured steps approached with a soothing grace, the soft rustle of her robes adding a delicate, melodic undertone to the stillness. In her hands, she cradled a cup of nectar, its polished surface catching what little light filtered through the haze.

“It is me, Calliope. You are back in your chamber,” she informed him, her voice a gentle balm to his frayed nerves.

“Where is Apollo?” Percy asked despite himself. He had to be certain his blindness was merely a consequence of their separation and not some new, cruel curse.

“Preparing his horses for the departure to the wedding venue,” Calliope responded, her tone patient as she waited for him to drink from the cup she held.

“Are the vines still here?” Percy asked, leaning towards the cup as he spoke.

Calliope’s gaze shifted to the sinuous coils of green that adorned the pillars, wound around the walls, and encircled the bed with their ever-present embrace. Though a flicker of unease touched her eyes, her voice remained steady and composed.

“Yes,” she replied. “They’ve been here since our lord’s departure.”

Calliope watched him closely, noting the way his fingers traced the edge of the cup before he finally drank. The liquid, warm and soothing, flowed down his throat, offering a brief respite from his anxieties.

“They seem to guard you, ever-watchful,” Calliope remarked, her voice soft yet laden with unspoken concerns. “Their persistence is a testament to Apollo’s care, though their ceaseless vigil may feel burdensome.”

Percy’s thoughts turned darkly, and he harboured a bitter resentment. Everything, he mused, was better than Apollo’s presence.

As Percy drank, he became aware of the delicate transformation that had taken place while he was unconscious. His skin was clean, now imbued with an array of exotic fragrances. He brought his hand to his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of mirth.

“You were bathed, dressed, and anointed while you rested,” Calliope explained, her tone soothing and reassuring.

“By whom?” Percy inquired, his voice tinged with both curiosity and apprehension. The knowledge that he had been cared for while he lay unconscious stirred a complex web of emotions within him. He wondered if he preferred the touch of the muses, whose care might have been tender yet impersonal, or the possibility of Apollo himself attending to his needs. The thought of the god’s hands upon him while he was in such a vulnerable state stirred a peculiar unease.

Calliope’s gaze grew soft, as if she were weighing the right words to offer comfort. “Lord Apollo attended to you himself,” she said gently. “He forbade us from disturbing your rest until it was absolutely necessary. You awoke at the most fortuitous moment, just before our departure.”

On one hand, there was a part of Percy that resented the intrusion, the imposition of Apollo’s care upon him in such a vulnerable state. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny that the god’s ministrations left him in a better condition than he might have been if left to his own devices.

“I am relieved,” Calliope said, her voice a velvety murmur, “that despite your... audacious defiance toward our lord, you appear to be managing well, given the frailty of mortal flesh.” Her words flowed with a soothing grace, wrapping Percy in a cloak of understanding.

“So, you are surprised I am still alive?” Percy asked, his brow arched in a mixture of incredulity and dark humour. Calliope’s laughter, gentle and melodic, filled the room. A delicate blush graced her cheeks, adding a touch of warmth to her otherwise composed demeanour.

“Surprised?” she echoed, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “No, not surprised. Impressed, perhaps. For it takes a rare resilience to endure the tempest of the divine and emerge with one’s spirit, if not unscathed, at least intact.”

“In truth,” Calliope continued, her gaze unwavering and soothing, “we were stationed by Apollo’s door throughout the night, standing vigil to ensure that our lord did not push you to the brink of peril. It was Eros who intervened on our behalf. The moment he disrupted Apollo’s efforts, he was cast out from the palace. Following that intrusion, Apollo seemed to relent and allowed you the rest you so desperately needed.”

Percy’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief. The revelation that the god of love and desire, renowned for his own indulgent pursuits, had felt the need to intercede, it meant that Apollo’s passion had indeed been perilously close to consuming him entirely.

“Eros?” Percy asked, a note of unexpected gratitude colouring his voice. The mention of the capricious god stirred a mix of relief and lingering gratitude within him. Although the thought of Eros, in his dove form, brought a fleeting smile to Percy’s lips, he was undeniably glad to be free from the constant presence of yet another deity declaring their love.

“Indeed, now let us prepare you for the wedding,” Calliope said, her voice imbued with a blend of gentle encouragement and subtle command.

“Am I not dressed already?” Percy inquired, his fingers brushing over the soft material of his chiton.

Euterpe laughed, her melodious sound briefly breaking the weight of the moment. She covered her mouth with her hand, the gesture of amusement both delicate and dismissive. “Of course not!” she exclaimed. “You must present yourself as a vision of beauty beside our lord.” As she spoke, Euterpe entered, bearing a cascade of luxurious fabrics draped over her arms.

The notion filled Percy with a deep sense of dread. The prospect of drawing the gaze of yet more deities was a thought he dreaded more than anything. He felt as though he had endured more than his share of divine scrutiny and would have gladly retreated into the obscurity of a cave rather than face the scrutiny of an assembly of gods.

“Though, I believe there is not much to add, since you are of great beauty already,” she remarked, her voice laced with an appreciative undertone that made Percy’s cheeks flush a deep, mortified crimson. The compliment, however well-intentioned, seemed to only amplify the vulnerability of his situation.

Soon, Percy was enveloped in the sumptuous layers chosen for him—soft, opulent fabrics that draped around him like a luxurious shroud. The silken texture against his skin did little to soothe the storm of emotions brewing within.

On the bright side, he had been granted the freedom to select the colours for his attire. With a sense of bittersweet agency, he chose a deep, dark blue that seemed to echo the vastness of a stormy ocean, paired with glistening silver that shimmered like moonlight on the water. The addition of a brown belt completed the ensemble, grounding the ethereal colours with a touch of earthy practicality.

He hoped that his garments would not be too eye-catching, though deep down, he wondered if it even mattered. After all, he was to stand next to Apollo.

If he could manage to keep his head low and his senses finely attuned, perhaps he could slip through the gathering without attracting the unwanted attention of deities he wished to avoid.

It would be difficult, of that he had no doubt, for his sense of sight remained cruelly denied. Once again, he found himself bound to Apollo. The very thought of it pricked at his mind like a relentless thorn.

Ares’ words echoed persistently in his mind, a clarion call to adapt and overcome. To navigate the wedding and avoid further complications, he would have to rely on his other senses, honing them to compensate for the blindness that still shrouded him.

"You must stay by Lord Apollo’s side at all times," Euterpe instructed, her fingers deftly folding his chiton.

Percy’s mouth tightened into an uncompromising line. The notion of being paraded as Apollo’s possession filled him with distaste. His anger still smouldered, making compliance a bitter pill to swallow.

"Watch your expressions," Euterpe continued, her voice laced with gentle admonishment as she prodded his cheek, noting his grimace. “At least try to smile.”

Percy regarded her with a look of sceptical resignation. “There is nothing to smile about in this life,” he murmured, the very notion of forced mirth seemed absurd to him.

Calliope cast him a pointed glance. “Find at least one reason,” she urged softly, as though the task were simple.

Percy’s thoughts spiralled inward, fixating on the distant hope of freedom. Hekate was his solitary beacon in the darkness, a glimmer of salvation amidst the oppressive grip of Apollo. His mind conjured images of Apollo’s face contorted with fury as he descended into Hades with her, a defiant triumph that seemed tantalizingly within reach.

The memory of ichor trickling down Apollo’s hand suddenly flashed before his eyes, a visceral reminder of the god's vulnerability.

He recalled Apollo’s intense gaze, dark and smouldering, as he licked the gold from his hand, the image seared into his memory with unsettling clarity.

“Now, you’re just daydreaming, Einalian,” Calliope remarked, her voice cutting through Percy’s reverie with an unexpected sharpness. The sudden intrusion jolted him from his thoughts, bringing him back to the present moment.

Percy’s cheeks flushed with an intense heat, the embarrassment of his own wayward thoughts was palpable.

As Euterpe delicately placed a fresh laurel wreath upon Percy’s dark curls, he felt a surge of resentment. The wreath, intended as a symbol of honour and celebration, felt more like a crown of thorns upon his head.

Once dressed, Percy was led by Euterpe through the grand hallways, each step resonating with the heavy cadence of obligation and dread. The halls, once familiar, now seemed transformed into a labyrinth of grandeur and expectation. They arrived at the very chamber where Percy had first awakened, now reconfigured into a lavish preparation area.

Muses reclined in sumptuous seats, their forms draped in elaborate garments and adorned with shimmering jewels. Some were still adjusting their accessories, their fingers deftly arranging intricate necklaces and delicate tiaras.

As Percy entered, a hush fell over the assembly. The muses' chatter ceased, replaced by an expectant silence that seemed to envelop the room. Their gazes, though discreet, were fixed upon him, marking his entrance with a mixture of curiosity and silent judgement.

Apollo awaited him with an air of divine majesty, his resplendent garments radiating the full splendour of his celestial status. He was clad in armour forged from the purest gold, each plate meticulously adorned with intricate patterns of coiling serpents that seemed to come alive, undulating in the shifting light. Draped over his shoulders was a saffron cape, the fabric flowing like liquid sunlight down to his ankles, whispering against his sandals. His visage was serene, a mask of tranquil anticipation, yet as his gaze settled upon Percy, a fleeting shadow of unease flitted across his otherwise flawless countenance.

Calliope and Euterpe, ever attuned to the subtleties of their lord's mood, exchanged a glance filled with concern. The air around them seemed to grow heavier with unspoken questions until Calliope dared to voice their concern. "Is something amiss, my lord? Have we prepared him poorly?" she inquired, her voice a melody of anxious deference.

Apollo seemed too lost in his thoughts to answer, his eyes not straying from Percy, who regarded him with cold indifference, though inside his heart drummed a relentless rhythm. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, until finally, Apollo spoke, his voice as smooth as polished marble.

“On the contrary,” Apollo said, his eyes fixed on Percy with a gaze that was both intense and unyielding. “You performed excellently, for he appears—” His words flowed like rich honey, a smile briefly gracing his lips before it faltered, as fleeting and elusive as sunlight obscured by a passing cloud.

“Eternal,” he murmured, the word slipping from his lips almost imperceptibly, a whisper of divine admiration.

Only the muses caught that soft utterance, their faces brightening with a knowing light.

Percy's gaze remained steadfastly averted, refusing to meet Apollo's eyes. His silent defiance was a tangible barrier, one that Apollo could sense but struggled to penetrate.

"Look at me," Apollo commanded in a gentle tone, his fingers tenderly lifting Percy's chin until their eyes finally met. The demigod's expression was a complex tapestry of anger, resentment, and an underlying vulnerability that Apollo found both maddening and strangely endearing.

"You are beautiful," Apollo declared, undeterred by Percy's defiant glare.

Percy’s gaze flickered away once more, and he turned to the grand mirror that captured his image. As he approached, his eyes widened.

His attire, a testament to Apollo's favour, was nothing short of magnificent. His tunic, made from the finest silk, was dyed in the deepest shades of indigo and adorned with silver embroidery that caught the light with every movement. His belt, a masterpiece of leather and metal, cinched his waist, emphasizing his lithe strength. Sandals of the finest leather, gilded and laced with precision, adorned his feet, the straps winding up his calves in a display of both elegance and restraint. A wreath of laurel leaves crowned his brow, signifying his union with Apollo.

His eyes, luminous and sea-green, stood in stark contrast to the raven locks that framed his face, the tendrils curling at his forehead, veiling his furrowed brows with an almost melancholic grace.

Was this still he, the same soul in a visage so transformed? The question gnawed at his mind, as he beheld his own reflection with a mix of awe and anxiety. Never before had he appeared so godlike, and the thought churned within him, stirring a tempest of unease.

Apollo, with a serene yet commanding presence, approached his side, reveling in their shared magnificence. Memories of their union flowed back to him, as sweet and intoxicating as honey.

He recalled the expressions of sublime rapture that adorned Percy's pretty face in the throes of ecstasy, the supple warmth of his flesh as Apollo held him close. In the mirror's reflection, Apollo could not mask the smouldering longing that still lingered within him. Percy, feeling the weight of that unspoken desire, stiffened under Apollo’s penetrating gaze.

“It pains me to see you without my markings adorning your body,” The god's voice held an undertone of possessive regret, as if the absence of his marks were a personal loss, a disconnection from a bond he felt was rightfully his. “It seems I shall have to paint them again when we return from the celebrations,” Apollo murmured, his voice a velvety caress as his hand settled lightly on Percy’s shoulder. The touch, though gentle, was met with a surge of tension. Percy’s body tightening like a coiled spring ready to snap.

Determined to maintain his silence, Percy attempted to swat Apollo’s hand away, the motion a reflexive act of defiance. Yet, Apollo was undeterred, his demeanour as unyielding as the sun itself.

“Dear, dear, glum thing,” Apollo said, his tone a blend of condescension and affection. “Come here,” he commanded, his voice tinged with an imperious warmth. As he spoke, he moved closer, enfolding Percy in an embrace from behind. His arms wrapped around Percy with a grip that was both unyielding and painfully possessive.

“See how the light loves you,” Apollo whispered into Percy’s ear, his breath a warm flutter against Percy’s skin, sending involuntary shivers down his spine.

“It suffocates me,” Percy thought, twisting his head away in an attempt to escape the overwhelming closeness. Apollo’s breath lingered at his pulse point, a maddeningly gentle touch that made his heart race.

“I want to see again as your body bends and stretches like a delicate ship pitching from side to side as I sink my spars in your waters,” Apollo murmured, his words a poetic invocation, laden with a yearning that was almost palpable. “But alas, we must remain on shore,” Apollo continued, his voice carrying an undeniable charm. “For today is a day dedicated to a different union, and you shall stand by my side, shining as the sun kissed waves.” Apollo’s grip loosened slightly, yet the tension between them remained, a constant, pulsing force.

“Come, my love,” Apollo said, taking Percy by the hand. “We are to journey to Earth today,” he continued, pulling Percy along with him. The god’s hold on Percy’s hand was firm, the slight tension in his grip and the taut muscles around his jaw betraying a barely concealed urgency.

As they reached the gardens, a vision of divine splendour awaited them: a magnificent chariot of celestial craftsmanship, drawn by elemental fire horses whose manes blazed with otherworldly flames.

These fiery steeds greeted their master with an awe-inspiring display, snorting sparks into the air. Apollo stepped into the carriage first. He extended a hand towards Percy, who stubbornly refused the gesture, climbing up on his own.

Apollo's eyes twinkled with amusement at the defiance. Without missing a beat, he immediately drew Percy close to his chest, wrapping a possessive arm around the demigod's waist. He gave the signal to the horses, and with a burst of golden light, the carriage set off, soaring through the skies with unparalleled speed and grace.

The Muses, ever the faithful entourage, followed after them in their own carriages, each one a unique expression of their divine attributes. Their laughter filled the air, a melodic sound full of mirth and joy. They chattered excitedly among themselves, their conversations buzzing with anticipation for the grand celebration of Thetis and Peleus's wedding. The prospect of such an illustrious event promised an evening of music, revelry, and the weaving of new tales to add to their storied repertoire.

The fire horses galloped across the sky, their flames casting a golden glow on Percy's face, highlighting the tension in his clenched jaw and the determination in his eyes.

The wind whipped through his dark curls, and the wreath Euterpe had placed upon his head glinted in the sunlight. His body, though held tightly by Apollo, felt adrift, his spirit yearning for freedom.

Apollo, sensing the boy’s unease but choosing to ignore it, tightened his hold, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Percy's waist.

Chapter Text

The wedding of Thetis and Peleus was set in a breathtaking grove, nestled near a series of cascading waterfalls that added a natural symphony to the ceremony. The grove, lush and verdant, was adorned with a carpet of soft moss and delicate wildflowers that created an enchanting path leading to the altar. The scent of blooming jasmine and the gentle mist from the waterfalls mingled in the air, lending a sense of ethereal beauty.

Poseidon was usually not this restless. He stood beside his wife, Amphitrite, by the cascading waterfalls, their soothing sound a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. Her gown, a fluid garment of shimmering azure, was half-submerged in the water as she watched Nereus' grand children frolicking in the crystal-clear pool. Poseidon stood as a silent guardian, his trident feeling inexplicably heavier in his grip as he looked towards the sky, anxiously anticipating Apollo’s chariot carrying his son.

The news had been a revelation, one he had yet to fully digest, especially since he could not recall any woman who might be the boy’s mother. He cast a furtive glance at his beautiful, clueless wife, her wide smile radiant as she watched the children play in the waters.

Poseidon could scarcely bear the thought of her reaction upon discovering this new chapter of infidelity—one that diverged from their usual monstrous progeny and instead brought a human demigod into their midst.

Zeus, sensing his brother's inner turmoil, approached with the ominous grandeur befitting the king of gods. His presence was a mesmerizing tableau of divine power, both awe-inspiring and fearsome. His hair, dark as a tempestuous sky, framed a face that was undeniably handsome, yet etched with the marks of countless trials and tribulations. He wore a breastplate of white gold, shimmering with an ethereal light. Draped over his shoulders was a long, white cape that flowed like cascading waterfalls, billowing with each step he took. A wreath of glistening olive leaves crowned his brow, symbolizing his eternal dominion.

“What troubles you so, brother?” he asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and concern.

Poseidon, unwilling to delve into the complexities of his predicament, merely replied, “Apollo is late.”

“He’s always late, that insolent boy,” Hera commented from her nearby perch, a peacock perched elegantly on her lap, which she stroked with the tenderness one might bestow upon a favoured cat. But then, her gaze rose as a glimmer of gold illuminated the sky.

As the distant chariot drew nearer, the very heavens seemed to shudder with the portent of its arrival. Poseidon’s heart, though stilled by his stoic exterior, beat with an anxious rhythm.

The muses' chariots landed gracefully first, their occupants alighting with effortless elegance, their gowns rippling like liquid starlight, their laughter like the tinkling of delicate bells, filling the air with an otherworldly melody.

Apollo’s chariot touched down with a soft, resonant thud. As the divine vehicle came to rest, Apollo’s hand fell away from Percy, and the demigod leapt from the chariot with a sudden, almost visceral recoil, as if the very touch of the sun god were an unwelcome imposition.

Poseidon’s gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, narrowed upon this unexpected display.

Apollo—the resplendent god of the sun—radiated a light that, though subdued for the occasion, still bore the unmistakable mark of divine brilliance. His presence, regal and commanding, cast a golden glow upon the assembly, but it was the arrival of Percy that seized the collective gaze of the gathering.

Amidst the opulence of the scene, where gods wore their grandeur like cloaks and mortals marvelled at the celestial display, Percy emerged as an enigmatic beacon. His beauty was striking, a blend of vulnerability and strength that captured the attention of all who beheld him. His hair, dark as the abyssal night, his eyes, a deep sea-green, seemed to reflect the very essence of the wondrous spectacle unfolding before him.

As Percy moved through the assembly, each step was a deliberate and elegant dance with the earth, embodying both grace and purpose. He approached the mighty triad of Poseidon, Zeus, and Hera.

Though Percy stood tall and unyielding, untouched by the aura of fearsome power that surrounded him, there was an undeniable tension that lingered in the air.

Poseidon’s eyes, searching with a careful, almost paternal scrutiny, swept over Percy’s form, assessing him for any sign of harm or distress. Dressed in the finest materials, the fabric of his garments clung to him with a perfection enhancing his radiant health and beauty. This vision of vitality and elegance, though reassuring, did little to dispel the unease that gnawed at Poseidon’s mind.

Apollo, usually the epitome of serene composure, appeared oddly tense beside Percy. This discomfort was likely fuelled by the penetrating gaze of Zeus, whose eyes were alight with a curiosity tinged with something more dangerous.

“Greetings, dear father, uncle, and—” Apollo began, his tone a harmonious blend of warmth and casual familiarity, but he was abruptly cut off.

"Who is he?" Hera interjected with an air of imperious authority. Her eyes, dark and probing, swept over Percy with an almost tangible scrutiny, seeking to unravel the significance of the young demigod standing before them.

Before Apollo could respond, Poseidon interjected. “He is my son,” he declared moving closer, a certainty resonating in his tone. The revelation hung heavy in the air, drawing the eyes of all present, including Amphitrite, who stood up immediately, approaching the pair, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"Him?" she asked, looking at Percy as if he were a spectre. "He can't be." She almost laughed, but Poseidon’s darkened expression told her he was not jesting. "How?" she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

The god’s ocean-blue eyes seemed to probe Percy’s very soul, seeking answers to questions long unasked.

"What is your name, boy?" Poseidon asked, a note of urgency underlying his tone, as if the name itself might unravel the mystery of his lineage.

"Einalian," Percy replied, the name emerging with a lyrical quality that seemed to hang in the air like a delicate refrain.

"Who is your mother?" Amphitrite's voice trembled slightly, her face drained of colour.

"She was a mortal named Sally. She no longer walks this world," Percy answered with careful precision.

For Poseidon, the name struck no familiar chord, and a flicker of confusion crossed his features.

Amphitrite’s gaze flickered back to Poseidon, her voice quavering as she questioned him further. "Are you certain he is your son?"

"He bears my blood," Poseidon affirmed, his voice taut with conviction. "I have tasted it myself." His eyes, hard as the sea’s depths, were locked onto Percy, who seemed to avert his gaze, fixating instead on Poseidon’s trident with a shadow of something akin to recognition—or perhaps a memory of pain.

Poseidon, grappling with a surge of conflicting emotions, felt a profound unease as he watched Percy, a living testament to a past he could not recall, standing amidst the gods, neither quivering nor bowing under their piercing gazes.

“I see you have cared for him well, Apollo,” Poseidon intoned, his voice a blend of velvety smoothness and a subtle, possessive edge. “For this, I am indeed grateful,” he added, his gaze shifting to Percy with an intensity that belied a depth of paternal yearning. “Yet, once the wedding concludes, you will accompany me to the depths of the sea, where you rightfully belong. There, you will enlighten me about all that I am bereft of concerning you,” Poseidon commanded.

“Pardon me?” Apollo’s voice, sharp and tinged with incredulity, broke the tense silence. “The last time you encountered your son, he teetered on the brink of death due to your actions. Should I place my trust in your assurances that you will not inflict harm upon him again?”

Poseidon’s eyes flashed with a flicker of indignation. “Why should you concern yourself with my intentions toward my own son?” he retorted, his voice laced with offended disbelief.

“All this while, Einalian remained unprotected,” Apollo pressed, his tone accusing and unyielding. “You were oblivious to his existence, and now, only after your paternal instincts have stirred, do you speak of reclaiming him? How convenient.”

Percy’s eyelids fluttered in astonishment. He had not anticipated such blunt and unvarnished truths being laid bare, words that resonated not only with the Poseidon of yesteryears but with the present as well.

Poseidon’s expression darkened, a storm gathering in his eyes. “Apollo,” he thundered, his voice reverberating with a divine gravitas, “you have always been covetous, forever reaching for that which is not yours to seize. Einalian is of my blood, and no god shall lay claim to what belongs to me.”

Athena's eyes flickered with concern at the escalating discord, her serene composure a stark contrast to the brewing storm around her.

“Oh, but indeed, I did,” Apollo’s voice resonated with an unsettling blend of gravity and certainty. “Upon his arrival in my realm, a blood sacrifice was demanded, ensuring your son’s survival. A life was relinquished, one of my own priestesses, in exchange for Einalian’s continued breath. Thus, the boy is now indebted, irrevocably bound...” Apollo’s gaze was unyielding as he concluded, “...to me.”

“I never asked for a life to be lost for me,” Percy argued, the pain of his predicament etched into every syllable.

Apollo, maintaining his regal composure, responded with an almost unsettling calmness. “You did not, but your father did. He entrusted me with your safety until you could recover,” he explained, his eyes glinting with a satisfaction that bordered on the cruel. “Uncle, you laid this fate upon your son yourself.”

Poseidon’s resolve hardened, his voice cutting through the tension with an air of finality. “I will bring you a mortal in his place, and you will release my son.”

"Not just any mortal," Apollo replied. "It has to be his follower, a friend, or a lover. Someone devoted, just as my maiden was when she was killed," Apollo explained, his voice chillingly calm.

Percy's eyes grew wide, horror dawning upon him. “The choice was made for me, so why do I have to pay for it? Kill for it? How is that fair to anyone?” Percy asked, his voice trembling with anger.

Poseidon turned to Zeus, desperation etched in every line of his face. "Brother, you cannot sit idly by while Apollo reduces my son to mere servitude," he implored, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and pleading.

But Zeus remained silent, his gaze contemplative. "This is an ancient law, established by Apollo. I cannot alter it. The boy must meet the conditions set forth, no matter how dire they may seem," Zeus finally spoke, his voice heavy with the weight of immutable tradition.

Percy closed his eyes, the weight of his predicament pressing down upon him with an almost physical force. Apollo always seemed to be two steps ahead, perpetually devising new schemes to bind Percy further into his machinations. This time, it felt as though Apollo had triumphed once more.

Desperate for a moment of solitude, Percy left Apollo’s side, taking a few faltering strides before collapsing onto the grass. Apollo, sensing the need for respite, allowed Percy a brief escape, hoping he would come to terms with his new reality. For now, Apollo preferred Percy to remain distant, especially with Poseidon's ire simmering like a storm on the horizon.

Hermes, stationed not far away, approached with tentative steps, his movements uncharacteristically cautious. He knelt beside Percy, his eyes filled with a disquiet so profound it seemed to disturb the very air around them. The disturbance was palpable, a dark ripple that drew the attention of Poseidon, who could no longer remain a passive observer.

"What's wrong, son?" Poseidon asked, his voice laced with concern.

Hermes took Percy’s face between his hands, gently turning it towards Poseidon.

The demigod's eyes, once vibrant with life, now stared blankly, devoid of sight. The revelation was so unsettling that the gathered gods collectively shuddered.

Percy wished he could dig a grave and bury himself in it, finding solace in the obscurity. His blindness, though a curse, became a shield against their pitying stares, an unexpected mercy. The only sounds that reached him were their murmured whispers of shock and dismay.

“That’s your curse,” Poseidon’s voice trembled with a potent blend of fury and disbelief, each word erupting like a storm unleashed upon the heavens. “How dare you!”

Apollo, in stark contrast, maintained a veneer of calm. His eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of irritation as he observed Hermes’ hands still resting on Percy’s face. "Your son's disrespect and reckless bravery know no bounds," Apollo stated, his tone laced with condescension. "Thus, I was compelled to impose some boundaries, so he might learn his place."

As Apollo approached Percy, their proximity seemed to restore the boy's sight. The gathered gods watched in silence as Percy's sea-green eyes flickered back to life. His gaze, once veiled in blindness, now locked onto Apollo with an intense, simmering fury. Apollo, seemingly unfazed, allowed a gentle smirk to curl his lips, his demeanour betraying no remorse for the ordeal he had orchestrated.

Poseidon, on the other hand, was consumed by a maelstrom of emotion. His protective instincts surged forth, manifesting in the very elements around them. The water in the vicinity began to stir restlessly, the earth beneath them quivered slightly, and the leaves on nearby trees trembled.

Even Dionysus's cup of wine swirled on its own, causing the god of revelry to glance inside with raised brows, then closed his eyes, his hand adorned with intricate jewels shielding his face as the sun's rays flared uncomfortably bright.

“Someone’s unhappy,” Dionysus murmured softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of amusement and knowing. And indeed, the tension was palpable. Apollo and Poseidon, poised like two opposing storm fronts, were locked in a silent confrontation, their gazes locked with an intensity that suggested a tempest of anger brewing beneath the surface.

“Are you going to fight me, Uncle?” Apollo's voice was laced with a sharp challenge, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light.

Hermes, sensing the growing tension, took Percy by the arm, guiding him away from the heart of the conflict. As they moved further from the clash, Percy’s vision blurred once more, slipping back into darkness. Despite the blindness that enveloped him, a smirk tugged at his lips. The thought of Apollo facing retribution, of witnessing the god’s arrogance being brought low, was a bitter consolation.

“Enough, both of you,” Athena’s voice cut through the tumult with measured authority. “This day is sacred, meant for celebration and joy, not for the petty squabbles of the gods. You will air your grievances when the festivities have ended. For now, let us turn our attention to honouring this union.”

With grace and resolve, she moved towards the newlyweds, her presence a soothing force as she endeavoured to restore harmony amidst the clamour.

Zeus stepped forward, his gaze shortly stopping at Percy, before he nodded in agreement with his daughter’s wisdom. “Words of sagacity, as always. Let us return to the revelry. Our disputes shall be addressed outside this sacred venue.” His command brought a palpable shift, compelling the gathered gods to disperse.

“Poseidon,” Zeus beckoned, his tone a low murmur rich with veiled command, “I require your presence.”

Poseidon’s gaze lingered upon Apollo with a brooding intensity, his ire simmering like a tempestuous sea. The urge to confront the affront with immediate, unrestrained fury was palpable. Yet, Amphitrite, with a gentleness that belied her own inner turmoil, clasped his arm. Her voice, though a mere whisper, conveyed a serene urgency that resonated deeply with Poseidon’s turbulent emotions. He cast one final, conflicted glance at Percy, his eyes reflecting a profound mixture of sorrow and resolute determination, before he reluctantly followed Zeus for a private conference.

“My, my,” Hermes murmured softly, a trace of mock sorrow in his voice. “Had I known the wedding would dissolve into such pandemonium, I might have reconsidered my attendance.” He sighed.

Percy turned his head slightly, his expression tinged with weariness. “You liar,” he whispered. “You revel in this disarray, don’t you?”

Hermes raised an eyebrow in surprise, then his lips curled into a knowing smile. “You’ve caught me, sweet naiad” he admitted, his tone shifting to one of playful candour. “I was hoping for a little excitement, I admit. The wedding was becoming rather tiresome.”

“But it’s barely begun,” Percy retorted, his voice laced with disbelief.

“The more reason to be excited,” Hermes replied, his grin curving into a devilish crescent. With a swift, playful motion, he twirled a single lock of Percy’s hair around his finger, giving it a teasing, almost painful tug. Percy winced as Hermes vanished from his side, leaving behind only a fleeting echo of laughter.

Soon, Apollo’s imposing shadow fell over Percy, the god’s presence enveloping him like a heavy cloak.

“We need to talk,” Apollo’s voice intoned, rich with a grave, unyielding gravity.

“I don’t see much to discuss,” Percy replied, his tone edged with a quiet defiance.

“You have been aware of your debt since the very first day you entered my domain,” Apollo said, his gaze piercing through Percy with an accusatory sharpness. “Why are you surprised now?”

“I am not surprised,” Percy shot back, his anger flaring with a palpable intensity. “I am angry because… I want to return to the Earth, and I am shackled by you.”

“You are on Earth now,” Apollo replied, his voice carrying an inscrutable calm.

“Oh, so you intend to leave me here when the wedding concludes?” Percy’s disbelief dripped from his words.

“Don’t hold on to false hope,” Apollo said, his smile a brilliant, yet bitter flash of teeth. “You know the truth.”

“I don’t have anyone,” Percy began, his voice cracking under the weight of his anguish. “To barter for her life. And even if I did, the cost is too cruel to contemplate.” He spoke with a mix of resignation and sorrow.

“That’s precisely why I devised this rule,” Apollo answered, his tone cold and detached. “No one of worth would sacrifice a loved one.”

Percy laughed, the sound strained and hollow.

“But you killed your own priestess who loved you,” his voice trembled. The sheer injustice of it all made his blood seethe. Tears, shimmering like diamonds, clung to the ends of his lashes. “You are a monster.”

Apollo's gaze softened, an admiration flickering within. There was a perverse beauty in the way anguish twisted Percy's features.

"Maybe I am," Apollo admitted, his voice laden with acceptance.

Percy’s mouth snapped shut, the defiance in his eyes giving way to a profound weariness. He closed his eyes slowly, a single tear escaping to trace a shimmering path down his cheek like a pearl slipping from a broken string.

The air buzzed with anticipation as the moment everyone had been waiting for finally arrived. The guests, a dazzling array of gods, demigods, and mortals, turned their attention to the grand entrance. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the assembly, as Thetis and Peleus made their appearance.

Thetis, radiant in her divine beauty, was adorned in a flowing white chiton that shimmered like moonlight on the sea. Her veil, a delicate cascade of silver threads, framed her face, revealing eyes that sparkled with the depth of the ocean. She was escorted by her father, Nereus, the ancient sea god, who walked with a dignified grace, his silver trident in hand.

Peleus, the mortal hero and king of the Myrmidons, stood tall and proud in his traditional wedding garb. He wore a white himation draped over his shoulders, fastened with a golden brooch shaped like an octopus, a nod to his bride's lineage. His chiselled features were softened by a look of awe and reverence as he gazed at Thetis, his soon-to-be wife.

The ceremony began with the traditional procession. The bride and groom were led to the altar, a beautifully decorated platform draped in garlands of myrtle and roses. Hymns were sung by the Muses, their melodious voices weaving an enchanting spell over the assembly. Euterpe, holding her flute, played a soft, harmonious tune that added a celestial quality to the proceedings.

As they reached the altar, Peleus and Thetis stood before the priest, who was flanked by Apollo and Hera, representing the gods' blessing on their union. The priest raised his hands, invoking the gods and goddesses of Olympus to witness and bless the marriage.

Percy stood in silence beside the muses, his eyes vacant and distant.

Erato, ever the harbinger of romanticized tales, was bubbling with enthusiasm. She seized the opportunity to regale him with the events unfolding around them.

Her words flowed around Percy like a shimmering veil, each description more lavish than the last, her excitement palpable in every syllable. Yet, for all her skilful narration, Percy remained unmoved, his mind adrift amidst the noise and spectacle, absorbed in his own silent storm.

The couple stood amidst a backdrop of divine splendour, each clutching a pomegranate, its vibrant red a vivid emblem of fertility and prosperity. The ceremony unfolded with an air of solemn grandeur, every gesture steeped in ancient symbolism.

Peleus, his voice unwavering and imbued with a deep sense of commitment, spoke first. “I, Peleus, take you, Thetis, to be my wife. I vow to honour and cherish you, to protect and provide for you, and to love you as long as we both shall live.” His words, rich with sincerity, echoed like a sacred promise.

Thetis responded with a voice as soft as a caress. “I, Thetis, take you, Peleus, to be my husband. I vow to support and stand by you, to bring joy and peace into our home, and to love you with all my heart, forever and always.” Her vows flowed like the whisper of waves, touching all who listened with their tender sincerity.

As their vows reached their poignant conclusion, Peleus and Thetis each took a pomegranate and broke it, allowing the seeds to cascade onto the ground. This act, a symbol of their shared future and the multitude of children they would bear, was a sight both beautiful and profoundly moving.

The priest, draped in robes of resplendent white, took a goblet of wine, offering it first to the gods with a reverent gesture. Then, he extended it to the bride and groom. They each took a sip, their actions sealing their vows with a ritual that intertwined their fates.

The final act of the ceremony was the joining of hands, a gesture that encapsulated their union. Apollo, his visage serene and suffused with divine blessing, stepped forward. With a gentle, deliberate motion, he placed Thetis's hand into Peleus’s, their fingers intertwining in a symbol of eternal bond.

Hera, radiant in her regal bearing, approached with a graceful nod. She blessed their union with a sprinkle of holy water. The sacred water fell like a benediction, affirming their vows and consecrating their marriage with the weight of divine favour.

The gathered guests erupted in a chorus of applause and joyous shouts, their voices melding into a vibrant symphony that reverberated through the sacred space.

---

Following the ceremony, the revelry moved to an impressive, tall white building that resembled a grand temple. This magnificent structure featured high arches and towering pillars, exuding an air of timeless elegance and divine grandeur. The entrance was flanked by intricately carved statues of Thetis and Peleus, their serene expressions welcoming the guests into the heart of the celebration.

Inside, the temple was an architectural marvel, with wide windows that framed the cascading waterfalls outside. These windows allowed the waterfalls to spill gracefully into a large, sparkling pool in the centre of the hall, creating an awe-inspiring focal point. The sound of the water inside echoed softly, adding to the serene ambience.

Surrounding the pool, there were plush, reclining areas for guests, furnished with sumptuous cushions and low, ornate tables. These tables were laden with ambrosia, nectar, and a bounty of delectable foods that catered to every divine palate. The air was filled with the enticing aromas of the feast, mingling with the natural fragrance of the surrounding grove.

Hebe and Ganymede, the godly cupbearers, moved gracefully among the illustrious guests, their movements a dance of fluid elegance. They poured wine and nectar with such precision that each drop seemed to hold a universe within it.

Apollo and Percy found themselves seated near the serene cascade of a waterfall that flowed from the open windows to the lake within the grand hall where water nymphs played, their laughter mingling with the melodious strains of the muses’ songs that wove through the air.

The table before them groaned beneath the weight of nature's bounties: ripe fruits glistening like jewels in the dim light, nuts and meats arranged in decadent profusion, and the divine ambrosia, its ethereal glow casting a soft halo over the sumptuous offerings.

Apollo, ever the embodiment of divine artistry, held a lyre in his hands. His fingers, delicate yet assured, caressed the strings with an skill that mirrored the cascading water beside them.

Percy, seated nearby, chose not to glance in Apollo’s direction. On his other side, Polymnia graced him with her presence, her beauty an ephemeral bloom amidst the opulence. The sight of her brought a flicker of solace, a quiet reprieve after the day he had intervened to protect her from Apollo’s divine ire.

She offered him ambrosia, which he took with a faint, weary nod. Yet, as he tasted the golden sweetness, he found himself eating with languid slowness.

His eyes roved over the gathering, searching for a figure cloaked in saffron and violet—Hekate. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. Would he retreat to Apollo’s palace today, his freedom denied once more?

The absence of Eris and her fateful apple only compounded his unease. He wondered if his presence had already altered the course of events, if some unseen misstep had set the world awry. Each lingering doubt gnawed at him, each possibility of deviation from fate adding to his growing anxiety.

Perhaps he was simply too anxious too soon. The evening had not yet reached its end, and the threads of fate still hung suspended, waiting to be woven.

“Do not let your mind stray too far,” Apollo intoned, his voice a velvet whisper that drew Percy’s gaze towards him.

Apollo, embodying an air of practised serenity, bestowed upon Percy a fleeting, reassuring smile as if their previous conversation held no place.

“You are someone of great importance, not a mere servant. It was never my intention to reduce you to such a role as your father might believe.” Despite the calm facade, his words carried an ominous undertone, casting a shadow over Percy’s heart. “But if you attempt to leave without settling your debt, you might find yourself treated as one.”

A debt that is impossible to settle, Percy thought bitterly. He could be chained by feet and wrists to Apollo’s palace, and it would make little difference. Yet, his shackles were invisible.

Still, a glimmer of hope persisted—a fleeting chance to vanish into the shadows with Hekate’s arcane aid, and to elude Apollo's gaze until the culmination of his task. It was, perhaps, the only resolution that offered solace.

He faced a grim dichotomy: to remain and embrace his fate as Apollo’s latest plaything, or to flee, with the frail hope of evading Apollo’s relentless pursuit. The latter, despite its peril and uncertainty, seemed his most viable sanctuary.

“Don’t worry,” Percy declared, his voice steady despite the turmoil. “When Lady Hekate comes for me, you will not have the opportunity to treat me as such.”

“Will she now?” Apollo's reply was dripping with a sinister amusement. “And where is she, then? I see no sign of her.” His eyes, sharp and unyielding. “I am afraid she has found herself another champion to carry out her missions.” He gazed deep into Percy’s sea-green eyes, probing for the cracks in his resolve.

Doubt flickered in Percy’s eyes, a fleeting shadow, which he could not allow Apollo to see. He straightened, standing tall against the god’s oppressive presence.

“You still believe there’s an escape from me? With your debt hanging over you and my dominion firmly in place?” Apollo chuckled, plucking another string on his lyre, the sound resonating with an unsettling perfection.

“You have no dominion over me,” Percy sneered, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned an ashen white.

“Perhaps if I were to claim your body upon the very steps of my own temple, with the eyes of the multitude upon us, you might come to accept your fate,” Apollo's words dripped with a cold, calculated promise, their venomous sweetness chilling Percy to his core. “Or better yet, imagine it done within the sacred confines of your father’s temple, beneath his gaze,” he added with a cruel flourish.

Percy was scandalized, his breath catching painfully in his throat. The urge to seize the lyre from Apollo’s hands and smash it over the god’s head was almost overwhelming. He envisioned the strings entangling in Apollo’s perfect hair, an image of satisfying retribution.

Driven by a tempest of frustration, Percy wrenched the laurel wreath from his head and cast it onto the table, sending it skidding across the opulent spread of food and drink. The delicate leaves, once a symbol of honour, now lay in disarray amid the sumptuous offerings, their significance lost amidst the extravagance.

Polymnia watched him with wide, alarmed eyes, her usual grace momentarily faltering. The other Muses, however, seemed unperturbed by yet another display of defiance. They exchanged knowing glances but continued their musical play, their expressions reflecting an air of resigned familiarity.

Apollo's eyes blazed with a searing yellow intensity for a fleeting moment before he blinked, transforming his gaze into a complex interplay of disapproval and peculiar amusement.

As Percy strode away from the table with hasty steps, driven by a bitter desire to escape the oppressive weight of Apollo’s presence, the sun god’s golden eyes remained fixed upon him, unblinking and sharp.

Percy’s vision blurred, enveloped by a fog of his curse. He pushed through the throngs of revellers, their animated conversations and joyous dances interrupted by his frantic passage. In his haste, he jostled some, causing their wine to spill, but he paid no heed to the chaos he left in his wake.

Ares stood by the entrance, his appearance more regal than ever. He wore a bronze helm adorned with intricate engravings of mythical battles, a crimson plume flowing like blood from the crest. His armour, polished to a mirror sheen, gleamed under the torchlight, accentuating the sculpted muscles beneath. A cloak of deep scarlet draped over his broad shoulders, fastened with a clasp shaped like a roaring lion's head. His presence was a testament to war's glory and the unyielding strength of a god.

His gaze momentarily lifted from his chalice, casting a penetrating glance over Percy, who manoeuvred blindly through the crowd. Ares’s eyes, a fierce red, took in the scene with an astute awareness. His gaze shifted to Apollo, who observed Percy’s retreat with a predatory focus. Something must have transpired between the two. Their eyes met briefly, and Ares smiled at Apollo, a smile as sharp and dangerous as a shark’s grin, before he returned his attention to Percy.

Ares observed the boy’s defiance with a grim satisfaction, his gaze fixed on Percy’s eyes—blind yet aflame with a fierce, unyielding fire. His fingers, restless and twitching with a near-manic eagerness, betrayed his yearning for the visceral thrill of combat. The thought of clashing with the demigod, of feeling that primal rush once more, stirred within him like a long-forgotten hunger.

As Percy passed by, Ares's voice, smooth and resonant, sliced through the din of the revelry. “Tired of the party already?”

The familiar tone made Percy pause. “Ares,” he greeted, his voice tinged with weary amusement. “More like tired of one particular sun god,” he replied with a wry twist of his lips.

Ares, with his keen gaze, observed the boy’s pale eyes, which revealed a depth of emotion more profound than one might expect.

“The doors are that way,” Ares said, gesturing toward the wall with a languid, yet purposeful motion.

“You want me to break my nose?” Percy shot back, his tone laced with dry humour. “Besides, I can feel the breeze coming from here.” He pointed at the doors.

“Good. Your senses are keen,” Ares replied, a hint of approval in his voice. “I feared I had taught you nothing, or that you had already forgotten our sparring lessons.”

Percy’s face grew serious, his words carrying an unvarnished truth. “I did not forget. In fact, those lessons have been invaluable. I am grateful for your time,” he said, causing Ares to straighten with a sudden, almost startled composure. The god’s eyes softened as he regarded Percy with a newfound warmth.

“So I trust you have not forgotten my proposition. It still stands. Should you find yourself in need, whether against your foes or Apollo himself, I am here to assist,” Ares offered, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. He noticed the boy’s hair, dishevelled with a stray lock sticking out almost comically, and instinctively reached out a hand before retracting it, letting it fall back to his side.

“I did not forget,” Percy assured him, his voice steady. He had indeed weighed Ares’s offer carefully, recognizing that the god had become his contingency plan. Despite his lingering trust in his father, this unfamiliar and unsettling version of Poseidon left him scarred and wary. Hekate remained his primary hope; if she failed to appear, he would accept Ares’s offer without hesitation. Yet, doubts gnawed at him: could Ares truly shield him from Apollo’s formidable reach? That remained an open and troubling question.

“Does our training session still stand, or has Apollo barred you from entering his domain?” Percy inquired, a brow arched in curiosity.

“He has not, but my affairs have kept me occupied. I have not been able to visit,” Ares admitted, though he owed no such explanation. Percy’s lips curled into a faint, fleeting smile.

Ares’s gaze, ever vigilant, shifted as he noticed two muses gliding with an almost ethereal grace toward Percy.

“Apollo’s muses, sent to shepherd you,” Ares intoned, a touch of disdain colouring his words. “They’re coming.”

Percy’s body tensed. “I must leave,” he said, urgency lacing his voice. With a swift, determined motion, he bolted towards the doors, the need to evade their watchful eyes and reclaim his fleeting freedom driving him forward like a man possessed.

Guided only by the faint echoes of the forest and the soft, melodious strains of a satyr’s flute, Percy ventured into the embrace of the woodland. Nymphs watched as he made his way to a solitary rock beside a gently babbling stream. There, Percy sat quietly, feeling the soothing touch of the water against his skin.

Though the world around him was shrouded in darkness, the music of the flute and the crisp melody of the stream provided an odd sense of solace.

“Hekate,” he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of desperation and longing. “Where are you?” He implored, his words faltering as he buried his face in his hands. “Please, take me from here, from him.”

He had been yearning for the moment when her hand would stretch out to him, a beacon of salvation in his encroaching darkness. Yet, despite his fervent longing, there was no sign of her presence. The anticipation of her arrival had sustained him, but as time stretched on, his hope began to wane, flickering like a dying flame.

Not far off, Aphrodite reclined with a languid grace, also savouring a rare moment of solitude. Though she adored the adulation of others, the incessant intrusions had wearied her. She lay in a white alcove adorned with ivy and rose bushes, her maidens attending to her every need. Half-naked, she displayed her beauty without a hint of shame, her bare chest exuding a regal strength intertwined with allure. Her golden locks cascaded around her like a sunlit halo, enhancing her ethereal splendour.

Her gaze, mirroring the scintillating play of sunlight upon the water, cast ephemeral glimmers that danced across her serene features. Yet, her attention remained fixed on the retreating figure of Percy, her contemplative silence hinting at a deeper curiosity. Eventually, her eyes shifted toward her son, Eros, who stood nearby with a broad, knowing grin plastered across his face as he observed the demigod.

"Are you familiar with the son of Poseidon?" Aphrodite inquired, her voice a melodic blend of intrigue and amusement.

Eros's eyes glinted with a rare, fervent intensity as he responded, “Yes, mother. I’ve already tasted his voice, his wrath, his lips.”

Aphrodite's brow arched gracefully, her amusement evident. “Did you sting yourself with your own arrow?” she teased lightly, a playful smile curving her lips as she observed the vibrant excitement radiating from Eros.

“Why don’t you show him to me?” Aphrodite suggested with a soft laugh. Eros, ever eager to comply with his mother’s playful advice, simply vanished, reappearing beside the desolate demigod in a cloud of fragrant flower petals. The heady perfume filled the air, enveloping Percy in a dizzying haze that made his head spin. Quickly, Percy covered his mouth and nose, casting a disdainful frown at Eros's iridescent figure.

"Ah, how delightful to see you still standing," Eros murmured, his voice dripping with a honeyed mockery.

"How tragic that I no longer see you in your dove form," Percy retorted, his tone sharp and tinged with bitterness.

“You don’t see at all, as I’ve noticed,” Eros said, his smile faltering ever so slightly as he peered into Percy’s sightless eyes. There was something haunting yet strangely beautiful in their milky depths.

“Lust awakened me,” Eros whispered, his breath warm and intoxicating against Percy’s ear. “You should be grateful I transformed just before your heart ceased its weary struggle against Apollo’s relentless onslaught.”

Percy swallowed hard, a lump of bitter memories lodged in his throat. "So I have heard. I am grateful," he conceded, gratitude tinged with the bitterness.

“No need to thank me,” Eros replied, his hand finding its way to Percy’s shoulder with an almost imperceptible lightness. “I simply returned the favour.” His gaze lingered with a mix of fondness and reminiscence. “But I must admit, the sight of you sprawled on that bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath like a man on the brink of death, was quite the spectacle.”

Percy swatted Eros’s hand away from his shoulder, his irritation and embarrassment evident.

“There’s no need to be shy,” Eros purred, his voice rich with a mischievous edge that seemed to revel in Percy’s discomfort. “I’ve witnessed mortals in all manner of humiliating positions; yours was merely a beautiful expression of helplessness.” His tone was almost affectionate, as if finding beauty in suffering was a cherished pastime.

"We’re even now, so cease your harassment,” Percy declared, turning his face away. Yet Eros’ presence wove through the air like a phantom, elusive and ever-shifting, making it difficult for Percy to discern where the god might next materialize.

“You should be grateful I am the only one brave enough to approach you,” Eros purred, his voice a serpentine whisper that danced through the air like a wraith. “Others tremble at the very thought of Apollo’s wrath should they dare to flirt with you. If you knew how many here lust after you, you would find yourself besieged from every corner, your every part sought after and used to the fullest.” His words, a provocative caress.

In a sudden burst of rage, Percy’s hands closed around Eros’s throat with a ferocious grip, his fingers pressing into the delicate flesh with a strength born of mounting frustration. With one swift, decisive motion, he hurled both himself and the god into the stream. The water erupted around them in a tumultuous splash, the force of their impact sending ripples cascading outward like disturbed shadows.

“I have had enough of you,” Percy growled, his voice a guttural rasp that echoed with raw, unbridled fury. “Your games are tiresome, and your presence is a blight upon my peace. I preferred you in your dove form—silent and cute.”

Eros, despite being submerged, maintained his composure, his lips curving into a devilish grin. “So you find me charming?” he asked, unperturbed by the water cascading over him. Despite his precarious position, he made no attempt to free himself from Percy’s grasp.

Percy, momentarily taken aback by the god’s unfazed attitude, released his grip in a moment of confusion. He attempted to stand, but before he could fully regain his footing, Eros pulled him back with a sudden, playful tug, their bodies colliding in the cold, rushing stream.

Determined not to be outwitted, Percy shifted his strategy. Drawing upon the stream’s natural flow, he commanded the water to coil and twist around Eros with purposeful precision. The stream’s icy touch encased the god in a shimmering, frosty sheath, freezing him in place. The cold water formed a crystalline prison around Eros, his form now ensnared and immobilized.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Eros protested, his voice now muffled by the ice. His eyes still gleamed with that same mischievous light, though his movements were now restricted. “You can’t just trap me like this. It’s no fun if I can’t move.”

“For me, it’s a delight,” Percy retorted, his voice laced with a mix of satisfaction and weary resolve. He stood over the frozen god, his breath forming heavy puffs of steam.

Percy was about to turn and leave, content to leave Eros in his icy confinement, when an eerie silence fell over the glade. The rustling of the stream and the distant sounds of the forest ceased abruptly. A sudden, inexplicable sensation enveloped him—a vortex of shifting forces. In a heartbeat, he was no longer standing beside the frozen Eros but was instead sprawled atop the god himself.

“What have you done?” Percy exclaimed, his voice a mix of panic and anger as he tried to disentangle himself. He kicked Eros sharply in the side, eliciting a yelp from the god.

“We’re still at the wedding,” Eros said, his voice a strange mixture of amusement and exasperation. “No worries. I just wanted to show you to my mother.”

“Wait—” Percy began, straining to sense Aphrodite’s presence. Her divine aura was palpable, yet the blinding fog in his eyes made it impossible to pinpoint her exact location.

“Hey, focus on me,” Eros said, his hand grasping the nape of Percy’s neck with an unyielding grip. Instinctively, Percy covered Eros’s lips with his hand, an automatic defence against any unwelcome advances.

“No kissing,” Percy huffed, his voice edged with a blend of irritation and awkward determination.

Despite his efforts, Eros’ struggle intensified as he realized yet again that Percy was not the easy opponent. Percy’s actions, driven by a mix of desperation and irritation, only seemed to intensify the playful challenge.

Their tussle became a chaotic ballet of tangled limbs and errant kicks. Eros, his golden locks and divine grace swirling amidst the chaos, pulled at Percy’s hair with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Percy responded with equal fervour, gripping Eros’s tunic and yanking it, trying to regain control. Their movements were far from refined; they rolled and tumbled across the grass, their bodies a tumultuous whirl of energy.

The air was punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional hiss of pain as one or the other was caught off guard. Eros’s playful taunts and Percy’s gruff responses mingled with the sounds of their scuffle. The grass around them was soon tousled and damp from their struggle, their earlier enmity momentarily forgotten in the heat of their physical exertions.

Aphrodite, reclining nearby, observed the spectacle with an air of detached amusement. Her laughter, light and melodic, rang out like distant bells carried on the wind, an enchanting counterpoint to the physical comedy unfolding before her.

The allure of Aphrodite's laughter soon drew the attention of Ares. Emerging from the periphery, his imposing figure cut a striking contrast against the verdant backdrop.

"Someone won’t be happy," Ares mused, his eyebrow arching with a blend of disapproval and intrigue. His gaze swept over the scene, noting the wasteful expenditure of energy in their playful struggle—a diversion better suited for the rigours of true combat.

"Oh, let them play," Aphrodite interjected lightly, her voice carrying a note of indulgent amusement.

Percy suddenly yelped in pain as Eros sank his teeth into his shoulder. In an instant, Percy struck back, landing a blow square on Eros's face, sending ichor streaming from the god’s nose.

“What? You said no kissing, but what about bites?” Eros asked, his voice a mix of mock indignation and amusement as his nose realigned with a soft crack. The divine bones shifted back into place with a disconcerting ease.

"You’re worse than a feral dog," Percy retorted, his fingers probing the wound to gauge its depth. The scent of his own blood confirmed it was not shallow.

"It will make you relax," Eros said, sprawling on the grass with a lingering grin. Propped up on his elbows, his breath came in light, amused puffs, a stark contrast to the escalating tension. Percy, however, straightened, his playful demeanour giving way to grim focus.

"I was relaxed until you bit me," Percy said, panic threading his voice.

His words carried an undercurrent of truth, as Eros had momentarily allowed him to escape his inner turmoil. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though he were back among the demigods at camp, immersed in the familiar rhythms of camaraderie and challenge. He had been enjoying the engagement, lost in the fray, until the sharp sting of Eros's teeth pierced his skin, and a peculiar, unsettling tingling began to spread through his body.

Ares, having witnessed the unfolding drama with increasing discontent, emerged with an air of commanding authority. His gaze, sharp and unyielding, settled upon Eros, each glance a silent rebuke, as if the very weight of his displeasure could restrain the god of love.

"You should return to Apollo," Ares commanded, grasping Percy's arm to guide him through the revelry towards the sun god.

"Are you mad? I won’t go to him!" Percy exclaimed pulling away.

“Do you prefer to stay with my son, then?” Ares asked, his tone both genuine and enigmatic, carrying an undercurrent of something inscrutable.

“No. I want—I want to be alone,” Percy said, his voice breaking as he spun on his heel and plunged into the depths of the revelry. His eyes, wide yet unseeing, sought refuge amidst the swirling chaos, desperate for a moment of solitude amid the relentless clamour.

Percy pushed through the throngs of celebrating deities and mortals, the press of bodies and the cacophony of the festivities growing more intense with each passing moment. The music swelled, laughter and shouts mingling with the rhythmic beats of drums and the haunting melodies of lyres. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, rich foods, and the sweet, heady aroma of spilled wine.

He stumbled, teetering on the edge of collapse, his skin quivering at each touch as if scorched by unseen flames. The festive chaos around him became an oppressive labyrinth, a ceaseless whirl of divine merriment offering no sanctuary from his fevered torment.

"Where are you fleeing, sweet nymph?" crooned a voice of disembodied mirth. He chose to ignore it, but soon Hermes materialized before him, nearly causing a collision.

"Hermes," Percy gasped, his voice a strained plea for respite. "Let me pass."

"You seem unwell," Hermes observed, noting the inflamed wound with an air of detached curiosity. "What ails you so?"

As if conjured from thin air, another voice—perhaps from his left, perhaps from his right—intruded upon his feverish disorientation. “Is that son of Poseidon?” Percy struggled to maintain focus, his eyelids fluttering open and closed.

"I was bitten," Percy mumbled, though he felt no need to explain further. The desire to escape the clamour overwhelmed him.

"Bitten by what?" Hermes inquired, his tone a mixture of amusement and concern.

“A feral pigeon,” Percy breathed, the scorching air searing through his lungs like molten iron.

Hermes leaned in closer, his gaze both curious and playful. “Indeed, you look as if you’ve wrestled with one,” he remarked, his eyes glinting with a knowing spark. “And you certainly carry his scent—roses and ambrosia, mingled with a certain, shall we say, aura of adventure.”

Percy raised his arm to his nose, making a sullen face as he sniffed. “I do not,” he protested, though the truth was plain, clinging to him like a stubborn shadow. He swayed slightly, the tingling in his abdomen intensifying to an unbearable degree.

Hermes chuckled, a sound that floated like a distant, discordant melody. “My, my, you are truly out of it,” he remarked, his hand settling heavily on Percy’s shoulder. The weight of his touch was nearly suffocating, causing Percy’s brow to furrow in discomfort.

Hermes, relishing the spectacle, observed Percy’s dishevelled state with a bemused delight. The boy’s hair was tangled with grass, his chiton smeared with dirt, face flushed, white eyes, narrowed and teary.

“Ah, so it is desire that has sunk its teeth into you,” Hermes mused, his tone rich with dark amusement. “Do you require my assistance, little nymph?” He continued, his voice a sultry purr. “I could whisk you away to some distant realm, far from this chaos. Somewhere secluded, where we would be alone.” His hand, with its unsettlingly gentle touch, slid from Percy’s wrist up to his elbow, finally resting lightly on his biceps. The pressure was both intimate and commanding, an insidious caress that promised refuge.

Percy was ensnared by an internal maelstrom, a gnawing ache that seemed to consume his very being. His lips tingled with an insatiable hunger, a craving for the forbidden sensation of tongues entwining, the thought of warm saliva pooling down his chin. He felt exposed, his longing raw and unashamed.

Hermes's words stirred this inner turmoil into a frenzied yearning for solace and comfort. Seeing the conflict etched upon Percy's face, Hermes took him by the hand, guiding him away from the cacophony of the main hall to a secluded chamber adjacent to the revelry. The room, meant for the service of food, stood empty save for two centaurs indulging in meats, their joviality a stark contrast to the tension that thickened the air.

“I should not be here, I need—” Percy insisted, his voice a strained whisper as his body pulsed with an unrelenting intensity. Hermes, both amused and enticed by the palpable desperation, pressed Percy against the cold stone wall. Their bodies were drawn into a proximity that made Percy's breath catch, and he moaned softly, his lips parting in involuntary invitation.

Without hesitation, Hermes’s lips descended upon Percy’s with a relentless fervour. Percy’s eyes widened in initial shock but soon fluttered closed as he felt Hermes’s tongue entwining with his own in a demanding kiss.

Unlike Apollo’s tender yet consuming embrace, it was a dance of speed and aggression, marked by swift nips, probing licks, and insistent tugs that left Percy’s lips bruised and swollen.

“Finally, in my arms, sweet naiad,” Hermes purred, his voice a sultry whisper against Percy’s mouth. The warmth of his breath, tinged with the tang of fresh oranges, was both alluring and jarring. “Why don’t you stay with me a while longer? I can offer you an escape, a ride of sorts.” His words dripped with a seductive promise, yet beneath the surface lingered a hidden undertone that spoke of more perilous game.

Hermes’s hands delved into Percy’s dishevelled locks, his fingers brushing away the clinging blades of grass that had tangled in his hair. The chamber echoed with the reverberations of Hermes’s laughter, a sound both haunting and mirthful.

Percy’s dazed thoughts spiralled into chaos, yet his gaze remained fixated on Hermes’s lips, a silent invitation that drew the god back for more.
The kiss that followed was both fervent and playful, a dance of passion and mischief, that made Percy's head spin.

“I would revel in the night, lost between your legs,” Hermes murmured, his voice a sultry whisper. His lips lingered on Percy’s lower lip, tugging it gently. His hand ventured up Percy’s thigh, the fabric of demigod’s chiton bunched and folded under Hermes's touch, his fingers brushing teasingly against the naked skin.

Hermes’s hips rolled in a slow, deliberate motion, creating a friction that hinted at the intense pleasure he was eager to offer.

Percy’s head lolled to the side, his senses disoriented by the sensations washing over him. Something was terribly amiss. The presence of Hermes, though enticing, felt dangerously unfamiliar and invasive.

His teeth clenched. Percy’s mind reeled, caught between the gnawing need that drove him and the stark awareness that this was not the solace he sought.

In that moment of acute discomfort and confusion, Percy’s thoughts turned toward the figure who, despite the tumultuous circumstances, felt less like an encroachment and more like a potential refuge.

Gritting his teeth, Percy wrenched himself free from Hermes’s grasp and stumbled onward, his body ablaze with an unrelenting fever. Every step was a battle against the insistent heat and the chaotic swirl of his thoughts.

Hermes, undeterred by Percy’s attempt at escape, stalked after him with a predatory intensity. However, his path was abruptly blocked by the imposing figure of a centaur.

“Halt, god of thieves,” the centaur declared, his voice a deep rumble that carried an air of authority and disapproval.

Hermes’s eyes narrowed in irritation, but he reluctantly came to a stop, his gaze shifting from Percy to the centaur.

“Chiron?” Percy’s voice, a mix of surprise and relief, broke through the tumultuous fog in his mind. Recognition sparked in his eyes as he faced the familiar voice of his mentor.

“It is I, young demigod” Chiron replied, his tone carrying a note of genuine surprise that Percy, despite their never having met in person, knew him.

Percy felt a profound surge of relief as Chiron’s familiar presence cut through the turmoil. His longing for help was palpable, and it seemed the centaur’s perceptive nature was attuned to his desperate need. Without protest, Percy was hoisted onto Chiron’s firm back.

Hermes, clearly displeased, cast a brooding, intense gaze in their direction, yet he chose not to escalate the matter further. The arrival of Athena, her gaze as icy as a winter’s frost, seemed to quell any further inclination from the god of thieves to challenge the situation.

“Apollo, take me to Apollo,” Percy whispered weakly, his voice barely audible above the thrumming of his fevered pulse.

“It shall be done, son of Poseidon,” Chiron assured him, his tone steady and soothing as he navigated through the labyrinth of revellers. His firm back provided a semblance of stability amid the disorienting swirl of the festival.

Percy’s head lolled heavily against Chiron’s back, his breaths coming in ragged, feverish gasps that cut through the oppressive heat of the crowd.

As they drew near Apollo, the music of the sun god’s court abruptly ceased, the silken strains of melody silenced in an instant. Apollo rose from his seat with a swift, decisive movement, his eyes, usually warm and golden, were now shadowed with a deep seriousness that unsettled those around him. The muses, once caught in the heady rhythm of their performance, now turned their attention with deepening worry.

The sight of Percy, feverish and clinging to Chiron with a desperate vulnerability, brought a rare flicker of anguish to Apollo’s eyes.

“What has happened?” Apollo’s voice cut through the din, urgent and soft as he helped Percy slide from Chiron’s back.

The centaur's voice, imbued with a mix of concern and respect, was steady and succinct. “Lord Apollo, the boy is unwell. He called for you.” Chiron’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, a silent offering of his concern, before he gave a gentle nod and rejoined the swirling crowd, fading into the background with the grace of his kind.

Apollo’s eyes, usually so warm and radiant, now held a piercing clarity as he examined Percy. His fingers, gentle yet firm, guided Percy’s frail form as he settled him on the reclining chair.

Percy’s desperation was palpable as he clambered onto Apollo, his body trembling with fever and need. He pressed himself against the god of the sun, moaning softly in relief as the familiar scent enveloped him.

“Apollo,” Percy purred, his voice a fragile whisper as he clung to the god.

Apollo’s eyes widened with a mixture of shock and unease at the unexpected intimacy. His usual poise faltered as he felt the feverish heat radiating from Percy’s body, coupled with the unmistakable pressure of Percy’s hardened member against him. The god's heart raced, a tumult of conflicting emotions stirring within him.

“What has gotten into you?” Apollo’s voice was low, edged with concern, as he gently cradled Percy’s face in his hands. The god’s touch was tender yet firm, a stark contrast to the urgent need in Percy’s gaze. His eyes, usually so serene, now held a storm of worry and possessiveness as he examined Percy’s flushed cheeks, bruised lips, and the bite mark that marred his shoulder.

A faint scent of oranges lingered on Percy’s lips, a smell that made Apollo’s rage simmer just beneath the surface. The realization struck him like a thunderclap.

“Who kissed you?” Apollo’s voice was dangerously low, each word a serrated edge of his anger.

Percy shook his head weakly, his lips forming the words but no sound escaping. “Don’t—,” he pleaded, his voice barely audible.

“Who?” Apollo demanded.

“Hermes,” Percy mouthed silently, his eyes brimming with fear. The god’s grip tightened painfully in response.

“I will kill him,” Apollo hissed, his eyes flashing with a fury.

“Don’t. Just stay with me,” Percy pleaded, his voice quivering with desperation. “Take me somewhere where there’s no one else. Just us.”

Apollo’s gaze fell on the bite on Percy’s shoulder, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. With a sigh, he gently lifted Percy into his arms.

Exiting the main hall, Apollo navigated swiftly through the labyrinth of gardens and glades. He hoped to avoid an encounter with Poseidon along the way; such a meeting would undoubtedly complicate matters further.

The setting sun bathed their path in a warm, golden glow, its fading light casting elongated shadows that seemed to echo the urgency of their journey. The tranquil, encroaching dusk held a promise of respite, a sanctuary far from the relentless clamour of the revelry.

Finally, Apollo arrived at a secluded glade, where the sounds of the festivities fell away into a distant murmur. Here, the serene quiet was a balm to Percy’s fevered state. Apollo laid Percy gently on the soft, verdant moss, the ground cool and soothing beneath them. As the sun dipped lower, its rays filtered through the canopy, casting a dappled light across the tranquil space. Apollo’s hands remained upon Percy, his touch a blend of fierce protectiveness and profound tenderness.

“Eros could not keep his mouth from you after all,” Apollo said softly, his hand resting over the wound. A soft, healing light enveloped the area, casting a warm, gentle glow. Percy sighed in relief at the soothing sensation, but the venom coursing through his veins remained stubbornly relentless, the pain growing ever more unbearable.

“How do you feel?” Apollo’s voice was soft, infused with a curious tenderness.

“You've done something wrong. It still hurts,” Percy gasped, burying his face in the folds of Apollo’s himation, seeking solace in the familiar fabric.

“Wrong?” Apollo echoed, his tone laced with a teasing undertone. “It is you who has found himself ensnared by Eros once more. Perhaps I’m beginning to feel a pang of jealousy,” he confessed, a wry smile touching his lips.

“Stop talking,” Percy snapped, frustration etched across his features. His trembling hands seized Apollo’s wrist, guiding it with a desperate urgency along the sensitive curve of his thigh. Apollo’s breath hitched.

“Perseus,” sun god murmured, his voice strained. His control wavered as he regarded Percy’s eagerness, the depth of the boy’s need palpable and poignant.

“Touch me there,” Percy whispered, his voice hushed but insistent. Apollo’s gaze flickered between concern and a deep, conflicted desire as his fingers, guided by Percy, caressed the softness of his skin.

“Why should I listen to you now,” Apollo’s voice trembled slightly, “when you so clearly sought comfort in Hermes’s embrace?” His eyes, though filled with concern, were tinged with a hurt that bled through his usually serene demeanour.

“But he does not feel like you,” Percy murmured, his voice strained and fragmented as he struggled to find coherence. “I could not let him touch me. I— I needed you.” His lips trembled as he spoke, his face buried in the folds of Apollo’s himation, the fabric dampened by the hot, fevered breath escaping him.

Apollo’s gaze softened as he looked down at Percy, a flicker of something profound and tender crossing his features. With an almost reverent gentleness, he kissed Percy’s trembling hand, a gesture so intimate and rare for a god. His lips traced a path of fire up Percy’s arm, each touch igniting a shiver across the demigod’s fevered skin. He nuzzled into the crook of Percy’s neck, feeling the frantic pulse beneath the delicate skin, and smiled, his breath a warm caress against Percy’s ear.

“Repeat it,” Apollo commanded, his voice low and intimate, mingling with Percy’s breath.

“I need y—” Percy began, but the words faltered as Apollo’s mouth descended upon his. The kiss was a soft, intense declaration, encouraging and enveloping. Percy responded with equal fervour, his fingers threading through Apollo’s golden locks as their tongues danced together in a passionate rhythm. It was a messy, beautiful mingling of lips and saliva, their breaths coming in rapid bursts as they lost themselves in each other.

Apollo's hands slid beneath his robes, fingers grazing Percy's thighs and stomach with a tender touch. Each movement was as deliberate and delicate as if he were caressing the strings of a lyre. The sensation was a strange mixture of ticklish delight and burgeoning desire, causing demigod to squirm.

A breathless moan escaped Percy’s lips, swallowed by Apollo’s mouth as the god’s hands ventured lower, gripping Percy’s ass with a possessive fervour. The contact sent shivers through Percy’s spine, his grip tightening in return, his body a tempest of conflicting desires and urgent need.

Suddenly, Percy rose to straddle Apollo's lap, struggling to position himself properly on the god’s muscular thigh. His arms trembled with the effort, but his determination was unwavering. His hips moved instinctively, seeking the delicious friction against Apollo’s bare skin. The sensation was electrifying, sending waves of pleasure coursing through him.

Apollo, his lips curved into a knowing smile, paused in their kiss. He looked deeply into Percy’s fervent sea-green eyes, a glint of amusement mingling with his own desire. “You want to use me?” he asked, his voice a soft, sultry murmur.

“Yes,” Percy gasped, the word escaping in a ragged moan as Apollo’s hands tightened around his hips. The desperation etched into Percy’s face, his need palpable, only served to heighten Apollo’s enjoyment. “I’m gonna cum like this,” Percy moaned, rolling his hips down in a plea for more.

“I’ve never seen you so eager,” Apollo whispered, his voice tinged with fascination and a hint of disbelief.

Percy’s hips stuttered, the pleasure overwhelming as his precum soaked the front of his chiton. With a desperate need, he raised the fabric, holding the material between his teeth, exposing himself fully to Apollo. The god swallowed hard, his own desire flaring at the sight.

“Such a beautiful, trembling thing,” Apollo whispered, his voice thick with want. He moved his hands to grip Percy’s hips, guiding his movements with a gentle yet firm touch. “Take what you need.”

Percy could feel Apollo’s strong, muscular thigh beneath his cock, rubbing tantalizingly against his length with every forward rock of his hips. The sensation was maddening, a delicious torment that sent shivers up his spine. His member pulsed with an agitated series of throbbing desperation, each beat echoing the frantic rhythm of his heart.

Apollo’s gaze was fixed with a ravenous intensity upon Percy, his desire igniting at the sight. His fingers, trembling with an almost divine anticipation, traced the contours of Percy's spine as the boy writhed in a frenzied rhythm upon his thigh, gasping with a sinful pleasure that mingled with the scent of sweat and longing.

As Apollo's dived into the forbidden depths of Percy's heat, a moan escaped the boy's lips, a sound so primal it resonated with the very core of Apollo’s being. "What a shameless melody.” The god’s fingers moved with deliberate precision inside him, eliciting sweet cries of pleasure.

Gripping hard at Apollo’s biceps, Percy rolled his hips with a desperate urgency, his movements becoming more fervent as the edge of his climax approached. Each motion sent jolts of searing pleasure through him, the intensity of the friction against Apollo’s leg building to an unbearable peak.

Cum dribbled from Percy’s tip with every desperate rut against Apollo’s body, his need growing more urgent with each passing moment.

“Look at me,” Apollo commanded, his voice a velvety whisper that cut through the haze of pleasure.

Percy, his breath ragged and his eyes glazed with a mixture of need and anticipation, forced himself to open his eyes.

“I want to see you come undone,” Apollo whispered into Percy’s mouth, his voice thick with want. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Apollo used his teeth to tug the chiton’s material from Percy’s mouth, exposing the boy’s flushed, trembling lips.

The fabric fell away, and Apollo’s fingers traced the zipper of Percy’s lips with a teasing caress, their breath mingling in the charged space between them. Their lips connected in a feverish dance of tongues and yearning, a silent exchange of their shared hunger.

“Let go,” Apollo urged, his voice a dark, velvet caress against Percy’s lips. “Show me how much you need this.” His fingers delved deeper, finding that exquisite spot within Percy, sending electric jolts of sensation through his body.

With a final, desperate cry, Percy’s body convulsed as he reached the peak of his pleasure. The climax surged through him, blinding, all-consuming.

Sticky spurts of warm cum coated Percy’s length, each jet of pleasure causing his hips to stutter uncontrollably. His knees began to shake lightly, the aftershocks of his climax still rippling through his body. The intense pleasure was both exhilarating and exhausting, his moans muffled by the force of Apollo’s kiss.

Apollo’s fingers, still deep inside Percy, pressed and stroked with a gentle precision, heightening the residual pleasure and coaxing every last shiver from Percy’s spent body.

Apollo, with a delicate touch, ran a finger gently along Percy’s still-pulsing length. The light contact sent a jolt through Percy, eliciting a disgruntled whimper as his body reacted instinctively to the lingering sensitivity.

Apollo’s gaze was a mix of adoration and possessive satisfaction as he watched Percy’s reaction. He continued to trace the contours of Percy’s spent arousal, his touch careful and deliberate, savouring the way Percy’s body twitched and responded.

“Still so sensitive,” Apollo murmured, his voice soft and soothing. “You did so well.”

Percy, his eyes half-lidded clung to Apollo with a desperate fervour. The intoxicating heat of his pleasure had ignited an unspoken yearning within him—a craving not merely for release, but for a deeper, more profound connection.

Suddenly, Percy stilled, his gaze locking with Apollo’s. The golden hue of Apollo’s gaze was like a dying sun, its warmth and intensity casting a divine glow upon his chiselled features.

“What’s wrong?” Apollo asked, his voice tinged with concern as he noticed the intense, pleading stare in Percy’s eyes.

With a tremor of vulnerability, Percy whispered, “I want to feel you…” His voice was a soft, hesitant murmur, and he buried his face in the folds of Apollo’s robe. “Inside me,” he continued, a breathless whisper that carried the weight of his longing. A sudden shyness enveloped him, or perhaps it was the receding venom from his body, softening his once-bold demeanour.

Apollo’s fingers, slick and trembling, withdrew slowly, his hands sliding under Percy’s thighs with a firm, possessive grip. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, heavy with both hesitation and anticipation.

“You’ve never asked for permission,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet Apollo’s. “I want to feel you—moving inside me. I want us to come together.” He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with Apollo’s as he murmured the last part directly into Apollo’s mouth.

The sheer intensity of Percy’s request, the purity of his longing coupled with the promise of mutual fulfilment, ignited a fire within him. His grip on Percy’s body tightened, his fingers pressing firmly—almost painfully—into the tender flesh of his thighs, as if to anchor himself in the moment.

Apollo, driven by a fierce, unrestrained desire, lifted Percy effortlessly into the air. The boy gasped as his back met the rough bark of an ancient tree, the impact both startling and thrilling.

Their lips collided with a hunger that bordered on the divine. The kiss was a symphony of wet, passionate exchanges— ballet of tongues and teeth, punctuated by the soft, breathy sounds.

Percy’s legs spread, parting in an almost desperate invitation. His limbs wrapped around Apollo, drawing him closer and making it easier for the god to access him. The urgency in Percy’s movements spoke volumes. Apollo’s hand spread Percy’s ass with a firm yet tender touch, preparing him for the impending union.

Percy’s heart raced, his breath quickening as Apollo’s body loomed over him, the tension palpable in the air. “Are you ready, my love?” Apollo’s voice, a deep and velvety murmur, was laced with an intensity that made Percy’s skin prickle with anticipation.

“Yes,” Percy whispered, his voice a trembling plea. “Hurry.”

In a single, fluid motion, Apollo entered Percy. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming, a groan escaping Apollo’s lips as he felt the tight, welcoming warmth envelop him. Percy’s moan was a delicious symphony of pleasure and surrender, his body arching instinctively to accommodate the fullness of the sun god.

Apollo enveloped Percy’s hips with his arms, feeling as if he could come from just being inside him.

Apollo’s movements were deliberate and slow, savouring every sensation as he guided Percy through the exquisite intensity of their shared experience. Percy’s moans, soft and breathless, harmonized with Apollo’s deep, throaty groans, creating a haunting melody.

“Deeper,” Percy gasped, his voice trembling with need.

Apollo chuckled softly, a sound rich with both amusement and lust. “As you wish,” he whispered, his grip on Percy tightening as he complied. With a fluid, controlled motion, he descended Percy onto his thick shaft completely, burying himself to the hilt.

Percy’s head fell back against the tree, his eyes fluttering shut. The feeling of being filled so completely, so profoundly, made his head spin.

With every thrust, the tension between them built to an almost unbearable peak, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to consume them both. Percy’s fingers dug into Apollo’s shoulders, his nails leaving marks on the god’s flawless skin as he clung to him, each movement bringing them closer to the edge of oblivion.

Apollo’s control was slipping, the sight and feel of Percy’s eagerness driving him wild. “Perseus,” he groaned, his voice a raw, guttural sound, “I can’t hold back much longer.”

“Don’t,” Percy whispered, his eyes opening to meet Apollo’s. “Fill me.”

The words were all Apollo needed. With a final, powerful thrust, he let himself go, the climax tearing through him like a tidal wave. Percy’s own release followed almost immediately, the sensation of Apollo’s hot cum filling him sending him over the edge.

---

Afterwards, Apollo reclined against the ancient tree, his breath a measured rhythm, yet his heart pounded like a tempest within his chest. Percy’s head lay upon Apollo’s lap, his raven locks a silken cascade that teased the god’s skin. The boy was enveloped in Apollo’s himation, a protective shroud against the chill of the nocturnal air. Apollo’s fingers traced idle patterns on Percy’s arm, a tender gesture that belied the intensity of what had just transpired between them.

The revelry continued in the distance, the sounds of celebration a faint backdrop to their intimate silence. Until their return, Apollo found pleasure in simply having Percy near him. He looked down at the boy, who still seemed dazed from their passionate encounter. Percy’s cheeks were flushed a deep red, and his eyes stripped of its usual hatred and defiance. Instead, it held a quiet contentment, a vulnerable acceptance that Apollo found both endearing and heart-wrenching.

“When you look at me like that, I almost feel like you love me,” Apollo whispered, his voice gentle and tinged with a vulnerability he rarely showed.

Percy’s gaze met Apollo’s, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The usual barriers between them had melted away, leaving only the raw, unfiltered connection they had forged in the heat of their passion. Percy’s hand tightened slightly on Apollo’s thigh.

“I don’t know what I feel,” Percy admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Apollo’s eyes softened. “Maybe it’s why I can’t stop watching you,” he confessed. “Afraid that when you wake up again, you will loathe me anew. Hope makes me search for something that is not there,” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of longing and despair.

Percy’s eyes searched Apollo’s face, for the first time, he saw Apollo not as a deity but as someone capable of doubt and weakness. He knew it was desire still clouding his judgement, yet it had been a long time since he felt so relaxed in Apollo's company.

He lifted his hand, fingers tracing Apollo’s jaw, sliding to his chin until Apollo seized it, kissing his hand with fervent desperation.

Percy’s heart hammered in his chest, the weight of their shared intimacy pressing down on him, both exquisite and suffocating.

Percy’s eyes slowly closed, the tumult of emotions overwhelming him until he shut them completely, surrendering to the darkness.

Apollo's gaze remained steadfast upon Percy, eyes tracing every delicate feature of the boy's face. He did not even raise his head as Eros approached, the god of desire standing before him with hands clasped behind his back, an inscrutable mask of nonchalance upon his face.

"You had to bring him to me immediately after you bit him, yet it was Chiron who delivered him," Apollo accused, his voice a symphony of restrained fury.

"I relished the spectacle," Eros replied, his tone laced with playful indifference. "The boy fought valiantly against my venom, managing to evade the touch of many—except the god of thieves. Hermes, of course, would never let such an opportunity slip by."

Apollo's aura darkened, he gazed down at Percy's bruised lips, his thumb brushing over them with a tenderness that belied the storm brewing within. Possessive ire stirred in his chest, his thoughts consumed with erasing any trace of Hermes' lingering touch.

“How much more until he becomes immune to you?” Apollo's voice was a velvety murmur, caressing the night’s silence with a faint tremor.

“One more act,” Eros replied, his gaze unwavering as he observed Percy’s tranquil, slumbering form. With feline grace, he knelt beside the boy, his presence a dark whisper in the stillness. Apollo's eyes narrowed with fierce territorial glint.

Eros's smile widened, his voice weaving through the quiet:

“To still my arrow’s might, three rites must be fulfilled:

By taking my venom where fervent desires blend,

By yielding to my bite where dark passions ascend,

By tasting my pleasure, from dusk until the end.”

“This will safeguard his heart from my arrows,” Eros concluded, his tone dripping with a dangerous allure. “Is this not a marvel?”

“I detest your ways,” Apollo intoned, his fingers tenderly placing Percy’s hand upon his own chest, brushing aside the boy’s dark, damp strands with an almost obsessive care. “But I must ensure no force enslaves him to his own desires,” Apollo murmured, his voice a low rumble of fierce protectiveness.

“Or to loathing,” Eros interjected with a sly, taunting edge, the shadow of Daphne’s tragic fate hanging heavily between them. The memory twisted Apollo’s heart, a deep sorrow etched into his very soul.

His gaze hardened into molten slits, an unspoken threat burning through the encroaching darkness like twin torches ablaze. “Let your arrow so much as graze him before the final rite,” Apollo declared, his voice a frigid whisper laced with menace, “and I will flay you alive.”

Eros shuddered at the venom in Apollo's tone, a visceral reaction to the icy promise that chilled the very air around them. "I understood it long ago," Eros attempted to soothe Apollo's ire, though the trembling in his voice betrayed his fear. “I will honour my part of the pact,” he promised, his tone a strained attempt at reassurance. “There is something in this for me, after all. You will finally share him,” he continued, his head tilting with an almost serpentine grace.

“Do not delude yourself into thinking I will grant you too much leeway with him,” Apollo warned, his voice a dark, resonant murmur laced with an edge of possessive bitterness.

The mere thought of sharing Percy with another was a source of profound resentment, yet Apollo recognized its necessity. The shifting tides of fate heralded danger, and he saw a tempest of intrigue and conflict converging upon them. He felt an ominous certainty that Percy would find himself at the very heart of this impending storm.

He knew well that where there was conflict, Aphrodite and Ares were never far behind. He would not allow Perseus to fall prey to Aphrodite’s insidious schemes.

“It does not matter. I adore an audience,” Eros declared, his smile twisting into a dangerous semblance of madness, his gaze fixated on Percy with an unsettling intensity. “I can hardly wait,” he added, the words dripping with dark promise. As he vanished into the ether, the very air seemed to shiver with the weight of his departure, leaving behind a haunting fragrance of roses.

Percy leaned into Apollo, his head resting against the god’s shoulder, finding comfort in the solid warmth of his presence. Apollo’s arm wrapped around him, pulling him closer, their bodies fitting together in a way that felt achingly right.

When Percy awoke, he found himself enveloped in the saffron himation of Apollo, its opulent, golden fabric offering an almost reverent warmth against his bare skin. He lay on the grass, the damp soil beneath him mingling with the earthy scent of the forest, starkly contrasting with the vibrant revelry he had been a part of. The celebrations felt like a distant memory, their echoes swallowed by the dense foliage around him.

He sat up, a sticky sensation between his legs making him wince. Panic surged through him as fragments of the night’s events came crashing back.

Oh no.

Every detail, every searing touch, every forbidden kiss, surged back into his consciousness with brutal clarity. He buried his face between his knees, a groan escaping his lips as he tried to process the overwhelming emotions. The memory of Apollo’s healing touch, the way he had held him close, and the kisses that had ignited something deep within him made Percy’s face burn crimson.

“You’re awake, good,” Calliope said, her voice a gentle balm in the midst of his turmoil. She extended a creamy chiton adorned with golden clasps towards him. “Wear this.”

“What happened to my previous robes?” Percy asked, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

Polymnia, seated on the grass beside him, wore a troubled expression. “They were soiled and torn,” she explained softly.

“Where is Apollo?” Percy asked, his voice laced with a palpable desperation. His blindness suddenly felt like a shroud, more oppressive and all-encompassing.

“Hermes has overstepped,” Polymnia replied softly, her fingers delicately smoothing Percy’s dishevelled hair. “Our lord is occupied with correcting him. Though I suspect Hermes has already fled from his wrath. It has become a familiar pattern, their clashes.” She spoke with a hint of weary resignation.

“Oh, gods,” Percy murmured, his face burning with an intense, uncomfortable heat as the memory of Hermes’ kiss surged back into his consciousness. How could he have allowed himself to be so thoroughly played with, to be kissed by him? The worst part was the painful recollection of his own response, the way he had involuntarily reciprocated the kiss.

Polymnia’s eyes glinted with protest as she observed Percy’s fingers delving into his hair, tugging with frustration and tangling the carefully arranged strands she had laboured over with meticulous care.

“Composure will serve you better than frustration,” Calliope said, her voice a soothing counterpoint to Percy’s turmoil. “Hermes is fortunate to be swift; otherwise, Lord Apollo would have returned with his severed limb.”

"He still may return with someone else’s severed limb," Polymnia quipped, her humour as dry as withered leaves in autumn.

Percy’s brow furrowed, uncertainty shadowing his gaze. “Has he… done that before?” he asked.

“Indeed,” Calliope responded with a dark, almost mournful cadence. “There was a time when he flayed the satyr Marsyas, who, in his arrogance, dared to challenge our lord to a musical contest and met with defeat.”

Percy nodded slowly, the tale echoing in his mind. “His hide was displayed upon Apollo’s wall for many moons,” Calliope continued, her tone laced with a hint of grim nostalgia. “It was a trophy he took some pleasure in.”

"Of course he did," Percy sighed, not surprised.

Once dressed, Percy was led back towards the revelry, but the siren call of the stream proved irresistible. He needed to immerse himself, even if only briefly, to clear his mind of its tumultuous thoughts. As he turned towards the water, Polymnia’s voice trailed after him, exasperation colouring her tone.

“Einalian!” she called out, frustration evident.

Calliope hovered nearby as Percy stepped into the stream, the water rising to cover his thighs. Her eyes, a blend of concern and reproach, watched him intently.

“You will get your chiton wet,” she admonished.

“I can dry it later. Give me a moment,” Percy replied, his voice muffled as he fell face-first into the cold embrace of the water. Its gentle caress soothed the remnants of the previous night’s chaos.

Yet, as he submerged, images of Apollo and their intimate doings haunted his closed eyes, intertwining with the cold clarity of the stream.

He was definitely going insane.

The biting chill of the stream contrasted starkly with the lingering warmth that haunted Percy’s thoughts. He emerged from the water, droplets clinging to his skin, yearning for the night’s end. “Is the sun rising yet?” he asked, his voice carrying a weary hope.

“It is,” came the soft, familiar reply.

Chapter Text

“It is,” came the soft, familiar reply.

Percy turned towards the sound, and his gaze cleared as he saw Apollo. The god settled himself by the bank, his form gradually illuminated by the orange hues of the waking sun and Percy found himself motionless.

The crisp bite of the stream did little to quell the heat rising in Percy’s face, as memories of their shared intimacy surged back, making him feel exposed and shameless. He considered submerging himself once more, seeking refuge from Apollo’s lingering gaze, but then his eyes caught the glint of gold on Apollo’s hand. It shimmered, still slick with ichor, in the morning light.

“What happened?” Percy asked, despite his desire to retreat from the scene.

"Come closer, my love," Apollo said, his smile radiant, almost feral. "I have brought you something." He waited, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of anticipation and something far darker.

Percy hesitated. A mix of apprehension and intrigue causing goosebumps to prick his skin.

His wet chiton clung to him like a second skin, now almost translucent, revealing more than it concealed. The fabric traced the contours of his body, highlighting the curves and lines that lay beneath. Apollo’s eyes darkened with a mixture of amusement and something far more predatory as Percy, oblivious to his own state of undress, approached with hesitant steps.

Each step Percy took was tentative, his bare feet sinking slightly into the cool, damp earth.

Polymnia and Calliope exchanged glances laden with disquiet as they also edged closer, their eyes fixed on Apollo.

“Extend your hand,” Apollo commanded, his voice smooth and insistent. Percy, driven by a mixture of dread and curiosity, complied, holding out his palm.

With deliberate slowness, Apollo transferred the object from his hand to Percy’s open one. At first, Percy’s mind struggled to make sense of the leathery, twitching thing that now rested on his palm. It felt almost like a frog—wet and pulsing with a grotesque vitality.

But as Apollo’s gaze remained unyieldingly fixed on him, the truth became clear. The object was no amphibian, but...a severed tongue.

Apollo chuckled darkly, as he observed Percy’s struggling to keep his composure.

Polymnia, her face contorted in disgust, turned away from the sight, her hand pressed to her mouth to stifle any potential gag. Calliope's gaze, however, remained fixed on the severed tongue, her eyes betraying a mixture of horrid fascination and reluctant admiration.

“What—whose tongue is this?” Percy asked, his voice betraying revulsion. Muscle before him, still writhing faintly and slick with ichor, unmistakably belonging to a god.

“Hermes’, of course,” Apollo replied with a casual laugh. “I want you to keep it,” his voice smooth but laced with a chilling command. “Until Hermes returns, grovelling on his knees like a dog, begging for it.” God's gaze was unwavering as he spoke. “It won’t grow back until you give it back,” he added, his tone carrying an edge of finality.

Percy was at a loss, grappling with how to react to this grim gift. Apollo had wrested something sacred from Hermes, something woven into the very essence of his being. For Hermes, the god of thieves and wanderers, was also the divine herald whose silver tongue was his most potent instrument.

“That’s—” Percy began, his mind struggling to find the right words.

“Punishment for daring to touch you, for sullying you with that wretched tongue of his,” Apollo intoned, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “I will ensure that anyone who dares to encroach upon what is mine suffers a similar fate.” His tone carried an unmistakable edge of possessiveness and threat.

Percy's eyes, sharp with rising fury, fixed on Apollo.

"This is your idea of protection?" Percy spat, his voice gathering strength with each syllable. "Mutilating anyone who comes near me?"

"Yes," Apollo replied, his conviction as unyielding as stone.

Percy’s voice trembled with a mix of anger and disbelief. "You did exactly that to me," he accused. "You made my mouth bleed, silencing me, and now you offer me Hermes' severed tongue because he kissed me?" The thought of accepting such a grotesque token turned his stomach, a repulsive symbol of Apollo's twisted love. Percy could not—would not—be complicit in that darkness.

Apollo's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "Because he forced himself upon you," he insisted, as if the violence were justified by that alone.

Percy's lips curled into a bitter smile, tinged with irony. "And what makes you think I didn't reciprocate?" he challenged, his words laced with defiance. "Perhaps I prefer him to you."

Apollo's gaze faltered, distant and unfocused, as if the dawn itself had cast shadows over his thoughts."But he does not feel like you," Apollo murmured, his voice echoing the very words Percy had spoken the night before. "I need you," he continued.

“It was Eros’ venom speaking through me,” Percy shot back, his face flushing with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “Don’t make it weird. You, Eros, and Hermes are all the same—exploiting vulnerability, trampling over boundaries. Maybe you should all have your tongues cut.”

“Do not,” Apollo said, his voice edged with warning. “Compare us.” His eyes bore into Percy’s with fierce intensity.

Percy met his gaze with a sharp glare, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“But I wonder,” Apollo continued, his voice softening to a dangerous purr. “Why do you seek to provoke me? Why this cold demeanour? Are you afraid of something?” He raised a brow, his curiosity piqued.

“I am not,” Percy replied, though his voice wavered slightly.

Apollo’s smile was brief, a quick flash of teeth. “You are afraid of your feelings. Your heart stirred for me, didn’t it?” he probed, his tone velvet yet piercing.

“Don’t make me laugh. You’ve treated me like a prisoner, abused me, and you think I suddenly harbour affection for you?” Percy sneered, his words a bitter wine.

“Oh, but you do,” Apollo murmured with eerie certainty, stepping forward with an air of predatory grace.

“I do not,” Percy shot back, his voice firm yet tinged with desperation.

"You lie," Apollo chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, satisfaction unfurling across his face like a dark flower blooming.

Percy realized then that he should have kept his mouth shut. Apollo was toying with him again, weaving his words into a trap meant to ensnare Percy’s mind.

He took a step back, the small distance between them a fragile barrier, yet one he clung to, desperate to maintain even the illusion of space.

Percy trembled, but it was not Apollo he feared—it was the storm of emotions brewing within himself, emotions he refused to name. "Do not tell me how I feel," Percy said, his voice wavering. "I despise you for everything you’ve done to me."

"Lie to yourself if you must," Apollo murmured, his tone soft, almost tender, yet laced with an unsettling certainty.

Unable to endure Apollo’s piercing gaze any longer, Percy’s attention drifted to the grotesque object in his hand. He hesitated, unsure of what to do with it, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Tossing it into the river seemed too callous, and returning it to Apollo was out of the question—who knew what horrors would come of a rejected gift? For now, Hermes’ tongue was safe with him, though the very idea felt absurd.

As if sensing his turmoil, Calliope, ever perceptive, materialized beside him with a small, crimson sachet. Without a word, she handed it to Percy, her eyes gentle but urging. He accepted the pouch and carefully placed the severed tongue inside, feeling the weight of it as he secured it to his belt.

Apollo's smile deepened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he watched Percy. The sight seemed to please him, as though the act itself was a silent acceptance of the dark bond that now tethered them together.

“Is that your token of affection, Apollo?” Rich timbre cut through the ambient noise of the forest. “A severed limb as a gift? Have you lost your grasp on common sense, or perhaps forgotten the art of courting your admirations?” Words dripped with a steely edge.

Percy turned at the sound of his father’s voice. There was a chance, he realized, that merely standing in the stream had summoned Poseidon. Perhaps the water, a conduit of their shared essence, had called out to his father, sensing Percy’s turmoil, his unspoken plea for guidance in the wake of Apollo’s disturbing actions

Apollo’s response was laced with an unsettling calm. “Love does make one mad,” he conceded. “I was merely demonstrating how seriously I regard anyone who dares to encroach upon what is mine.”

The word “mine” seemed to hang in the air, heavy with possessive menace. Poseidon’s face tightened, his displeasure evident. He did not like the notion of sharing his son, and the sentiment was reflected in his stern gaze.

Percy observed the exchange with mounting unease, his heart pounding as he tried to navigate the shifting dynamics. Poseidon approached, his demeanour commanding even without the trident that usually accompanied him.

“I wish to speak with my son,” Poseidon intoned, his voice a deep rumble that reverberated with authority. “I have not had the chance, considering you kept him to yourself throughout the night.” His eyes bore into Percy with a piercing intensity, causing the young demigod’s cheeks to flush with a mix of shame and anxiety. Percy fervently hoped Poseidon remained oblivious to the full extent of his tangled relationship with Apollo.

Apollo’s face, a canvas of conflicted emotions, shifted through reluctance and resignation. After a beat of silence, he gave a curt nod. But before he could retreat into the forest to grant them their privacy, he removed his cape and with an almost tender possessiveness, draped it around Percy’s hips and shoulders.

“It will get wet,” Percy murmured, his voice laced with hesitation as he observed Apollo’s careful, almost reverent hands folding the fabric around him.

“It does not matter,” Apollo replied, his gaze lingering on Percy. “Don’t take too long; patience is not a virtue I possess today.”

With that, Apollo, accompanied by his muses, vanished into the verdant embrace of the forest, seamlessly blending into the revelry.

Percy turned to face his father, the cool stream murmuring around Poseidon’s legs as he waded deeper into its crystalline embrace.

“I could not speak to you through the night for another reason. Truthfully, I felt a profound shame,” Poseidon’s voice was deep and resonant, yet laced with sincerity.

“A god feeling shame—that is indeed novel,” Percy mused to himself, his thoughts tinged with a bitter edge.

“For I do not remember your mother,” Poseidon said, his gaze drifting into the shadowy depths of his memories, as if searching for an image just beyond his reach. “Yet, when I look upon you, I am certain she must have been a vision of radiance. It is a profound regret that I cannot recall her,” he added, the sorrow in his tone almost palpable.

Percy understood the weight of those words, recognizing the cruel irony of his father’s plight. How could Poseidon remember someone who had not yet existed?

Poseidon’s expression softened, and he spoke with a reflective air. “At one point, I entertained the notion that you might be a creation of my own mind, much like Athena sprung from Zeus’s thoughts. Yet, I lack the divine intellect and artistry to forge a being as—let us say—pleasing as you.” His voice, imbued with both admiration and regret, revealed a depth of feeling that transcended mere fatherly affection. “Still, our bond is undeniable. You are of my blood, and everything that belongs to the ocean falls under my protection.”

The sombreness in Poseidon’s gaze deepened. “Regrettably, while you remain entangled with Apollo, my ability to shield you is curtailed. Therefore, I offer you this.” He reached into the folds of his robe, producing a tarnished gold pin, its surface marked by the passage of time.

As Poseidon activated the pin with a deft motion, a delicate clink resonated in the stillness. In a cascade of celestial light, Anaklusmos materialized in Percy’s hands, its form a familiar and reassuring presence. Though Percy’s sight was veiled in darkness, his fingers immediately recognized the weapon’s shape and texture.

Percy’s fingers traced the blade's contours, the familiar grooves and weight stirring a profound mixture of relief and melancholy within him.

“Hopefully, this will offer you protection in my absence,” Poseidon said, his tone imbued with hope. “It’s made of—”

“Celestial bronze,” Percy interjected, his voice steady despite the welling emotions.

“Indeed,” Poseidon confirmed. “It’s effective against gods, demigods, and monsters. It passes through mortals harmlessly, as it has no effect on them.”

As Percy examined the familiar blade, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over him. The sword was not merely a tool of battle; it was a bridge to his past—his quests, his victories, the moments of triumph and hardship that had shaped him. Each swing and flick of the blade seemed to echo memories of a life that had been both his burden and his glory.

“Thank you,” Percy said, his voice filled with gratitude. “I will treasure it.”

Poseidon’s gaze, though unseen by Percy, was filled with a complex mixture of pride and concern. “May this gift serve you well,” he said, his voice carrying a father’s earnest vow, “and may you find strength in its presence when my own protection cannot reach you.”

Poseidon’s voice deepened, a new intensity creeping into his tone as he continued, "There is also another matter we must discuss." He paused, the silence stretching like a shroud before he asked, "Do you believe Apollo loves you?"

Percy faltered. It was not love, he surmised, but rather an obsession he hoped would wane as Apollo’s fickle nature wore thin, just as it had with countless others before him. Did the gods even grasp the essence of love? Or did they merely imitate or distort it, sculpting it to fit their divine whims? Apollo’s notion of love seemed to flourish in the domain of punishment and reward, an attempt to mould Percy into an ideal vision he could never truly become.

“Can’t you see the evidence of his so-called love etched in my eyes?” Percy retorted, his voice thick with anguish, though he struggled to maintain an air of indifference. The effort to appear unshaken only served to highlight the deep fissures of his wounded pride, which Poseidon, with his discerning gaze, saw through the fragile veneer.

“He took advantage of you, imprisoned you, and yet you have not succumbed. You have remained unbowed.” The flicker of pride mingling with the sadness in Poseidon’s eyes spoke of an admiration that was tempered by his own grief.

Percy’s hands tightened around the blade.

“The sea,” Poseidon whispered, his voice a soft rumble of reflection, “does not tolerate confinement or restraint.” The words seemed to drift like a melancholy tide, revealing a deeper truth.

Gently, he guided Percy to a large rock by the water’s edge, where the early sunlight filtered through the trees. The warmth began to dry Percy’s damp clothes, the moisture evaporating slowly under the sun’s tender touch.

“I must tell you something,” Poseidon began, sitting beside Percy, his silver chestplate—etched with intricate patterns that mimicked the scales of fish—glistening in the soft light, “there is a way to free yourself.”

Percy’s interest was immediately piqued. “How?” he asked, his voice a whisper, as if afraid the answer might shatter whatever fragile hope he held.

Poseidon placed a firm hand on Percy’s shoulder, a gesture meant to anchor him. “I know you are reluctant to take a life, especially one that does not deserve it, yet…”

“Father—” Percy interjected, his body tensing as he sensed the weight of the next words.

Poseidon’s grip tightened slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What if it were a follower? A devotee, someone who would offer their life willingly to free you from Apollo’s grasp. I would see to it myself.”

A knot of dread tightened in Percy’s chest. “I don’t have a devotee. I’m not a god,” he protested, trying to push away the unsettling thought.

“Not yet,” Poseidon countered, his tone unyielding.

“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?” Percy’s voice sharpened with anxiety. “I am a demigod and I will remain one.”

“Calm, Einalian,” Poseidon soothed. “I do not wish to force this choice upon you. My intent is not to strip you of your identity or make you something you are not.”

Poseidon’s gaze softened, his tone a blend of tenderness and resolve. “Allow me to build you a temple, to spread the word of the newly claimed son of Poseidon—stubborn, fair, and unjustly ensnared by Apollo. I will gather devotees for you. When the time comes, one will be chosen—a willing soul—to be sacrificed, to secure your freedom.”

“Father,” Percy began, his voice trembling with apprehension, “I am moved by your offer. But I fear that turning my struggle into others’ suffering is not the path I wish to tread. One innocent life has already been lost because of me, and now another is to die in my stead.”

Poseidon’s gaze remained steadfast, unyielding. “I cannot stand idly by while Apollo binds you in chains of his making. It wounds me deeply as your father and a god. The sacrifice I speak of is a grim necessity, an act meant to restore what has been unjustly taken. I seek your agreement, but know that it does not hinge upon it.”

Percy’s lips thinned into a hard line, a storm of emotions flickering across his face. “So you intend to act, regardless of what I choose?”

Poseidon’s gaze hardened. “Consider yourself grateful that I informed you about it. My plan will come to fruition, and I will see you stand in my domain, regardless of the cost.”

The finality in Poseidon's voice was like a wave crashing against the shore—unrelenting and absolute. Percy’s heart sank as he grappled with the implications of his father’s words.

---

As they walked back toward the celebration, Poseidon’s hand rested reassuringly on Percy’s back, a silent promise of support. The pin, now clipped to Percy’s chiton, was a concealed talisman of protection, cleverly hidden from Apollo’s discerning gaze.

“I want you to remain steadfast,” Poseidon said, his voice a soothing murmur yet carrying an unshakeable firmness. “Be like a rock that stands resolute against the storm. I will ensure that you find your freedom, son.”

Percy nodded, his face a tapestry of gratitude and apprehension. The laughter and music seemed to fade into the background, overshadowed by the heavy implications of Poseidon's words.

The scene before him swirled in a chaotic blur of festivity, but Apollo’s arrival instantly crystallized the focus. As he advanced, his radiant light cut through the din, almost blinding in its brilliance as his presence restored clarity to Percy's vision. In those moments, Percy felt himself laid bare under that divine attention, his thoughts and fears dissected. Apollo’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept over Percy with an intensity that left no emotion unexamined. For a heartbeat, Apollo’s gaze met Poseidon’s, an exchange of unspoken words passing between the two gods. Then, with an imperious sweep, Poseidon's towering figure dissolved into the throng, parting the crowd like a churning wave.

The silence between Percy and Apollo stretched, filled only by the distant strains of music and the gentle hum of conversation. Apollo appeared on edge, his eyes not just focused on Percy but scanning their surroundings with a subtle, almost imperceptible wariness.

“What were you two discussing?” Apollo inquired, his voice laced with a subtle curiosity.

“Restoring my freedom, things of that nature,” Percy replied, his honesty sharp as a blade, both knowing full well that Poseidon longed to reclaim him from Apollo's grasp.

“Is he so jealous that I’ve stolen more of your time?” Apollo’s smirk was a perfect blend of handsomeness and arrogance.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Percy retorted. “But soon, he won’t have to be.” His words carried a bitter edge, a hint of rebellion.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Apollo murmured, stepping closer, his fingers slipping through Percy’s raven hair. Percy remained still, enduring the touch, for the shadows in Apollo’s eyes were darker than before.

“I’ve already told you,” Apollo whispered, his voice a silken trap, “our future is one of unity. I will have you by my side, even if it means hiding you so far away that not even death will find you.” His words were a promise tinged with a threat that left no room for doubt. “Run if you must, give it everything you have—but know this, if I catch you, I will not be gentle.”

The god's golden gaze fixed hungrily on Percy’s lips, poised to claim them. But the charged moment was abruptly fractured by a low, insistent rumble.

Percy’s stomach.

Apollo froze, confusion flashing in his golden eyes, as though the mundane reality of hunger was a concept beyond his divine comprehension. Percy seized the moment, murmuring, “I’m hungry,” he admitted softly, pressing a hand against his midsection. The rich aromas wafting from the morning feast had amplified his hunger, exacerbated by the strain of recent events.

The admission seemed to break the spell. Apollo blinked, his face retreating from Percy’s, the god suddenly distant, as if reminded of the chasm between their natures.

“Of course,” Apollo murmured, his voice softer, almost reflective. “Sometimes I forget,” he added, speaking more to himself than to Percy.

"Come, my love. Let me sate your hunger," Apollo said as he took Percy’s hand, leading him with a swiftness as if the mortal's hunger were a perilous wound that required immediate healing.

As they rejoined the heart of the celebration, Percy’s unease became almost tangible, a thick, almost suffocating presence that seemed to follow him. His eyes darted through the throng with a restless urgency, their search for Hekate growing more frantic with every moment. Instead of finding the familiar, comforting presence he sought, Percy was met with the sight of the muses. Their ethereal grace, usually so distinct and aloof, had merged seamlessly with the dancers, their forms seemed to ripple like waves in a sea of colour and sound.

In a shadowed corner, Eros lounged beneath a verdant alcove, his posture one of indolent ease. A forest nymph leaned close, her kiss grazing his shoulder with the softness of a whispered secret. Yet, his attention was not on her; his unsettling smile remained fixed on Percy, eyes dark with an intensity that made Percy’s skin crawl.

Nearby, Aphrodite reclined on her chaise, her beauty as breathtaking as it was terrifying. Her eyes scanned the passing crowd, and though her lips were curved in a semblance of a smile, there was a sharpness to her gaze, a calculating gleam that suggested she was already plotting the next lives she would ruin for her amusement.

Elsewhere, nymphs flitted about like restless spirits, their laughter light and airy but tinged with something unsettling. Their eyes, too bright and too knowing, followed Percy with a strange intensity, as if they were privy to secrets that would unravel his very being if spoken aloud.

Further still, a cluster of centaurs engaged in murmured conversation, their voices a low rumble beneath the din of the celebration. Chiron occasionally cast a discreet glance toward Percy and Apollo.

Yet amidst the chaos, Percy’s gaze softened as he caught sight of Peleus and Thetis at the edge of the crowd. The couple was ensconced in their own world, lost in each other’s embrace, their gazes tender and filled with an unspoken affection that transcended the frenetic energy of the celebration. They swayed in a private dance, their movements relaxed and harmonious.

Apollo, seemingly oblivious to Percy’s growing discomfort, guided him toward a grand table heaped with an array of earthly delights. The spread was resplendent—fruit, nuts, honey, milk, bread, and an assortment of sweet treats piled high, each dish a testament to indulgence.

With an effortless grace, Apollo’s hand reached for a golden platter where plump, glistening grapes lay in sensuous repose. He selected one, its skin taut and luminous, and held it delicately between fingers. With a slow, deliberate movement, he brought it to Percy’s lips, the gesture as tender as it was imperious. The god’s eyes, though veiled in an almost affectionate warmth, shimmered with an unspoken command.

As the grape grazed Percy’s lips, he faltered. Hunger gnawed at him, a primal need that begged to be sated, yet the touch of the god’s hand, so capable of feeding and healing, also bore the chilling promise of ruin, of fire and death.

Percy seized the grape from Apollo’s grasp and, with swift resolve, tossed it into his mouth. The grape burst upon his tongue, its sweetness unfurling like molten gold, a fleeting balm.

Apollo’s brows arched in subtle surprise at this small act of defiance. His expression shifted to one of amused curiosity rather than irritation. He was poised to offer Percy another grape, the fruit glistening in the soft light, when—

"Apollo, we need to talk," Hera's voice sliced through the golden reverie like a dagger through silk. The Queen of the Gods advanced with a regal authority that demanded attention, her gaze locking onto Percy with a scrutiny that made the air itself seem heavier. Apollo's irritation rippled through the space between them, a subtle but undeniable shift.

"What is it?" he asked, his words clipped and edged with barely concealed frustration. The question hung in the air, taut as a bowstring. Hera's eyes, however, spoke volumes beyond her measured silence, the intensity in them unmistakable—this was no mere trifle.

Apollo remained near enough to Percy that the sumptuous feast still lingered within the demigod's view, a tantalizing array of delights. Yet, he deftly manoeuvred just out of earshot, allowing the shadows cast by the towering pillar to shroud their exchange.

Percy let the murmured conversation between the gods fade into the background, his focus drifting back to the laden table before him. A smile tugged at his lips as he indulged in the simple pleasures of mortal food. The richness of ambrosia and nectar had their own allure, but the taste of freshly baked bread, tender meats, and the crisp bite of olives stirred something deep within him— wave of nostalgia, a fleeting escape to simpler times.

His reverie was interrupted by a familiar, languid voice cutting through the celebratory clamour. "You look positively starved. Is Apollo denying you food?"

Percy turned to find Dionysus standing behind him, a platter of glistening fruits in hand. The sight of the god of wine and revelry, so effortlessly mingling with the human feast, was strikingly different from the stern and irritable ‘Mister D’ Percy remembered from camp. Here, amid the opulence of Olympus, Dionysus seemed more himself—an enigmatic figure of indulgence and freedom.

“You look positively drunk,” Percy mused silently, his thoughts unable to dismiss the striking image before him. Dionysus, in his divine form, was a vision of untamed beauty and hedonistic allure. His hair, a wild cascade of dark curls intertwined with ivy and grape leaves, framed a youthful face, where amethyst eyes glinted with perpetual mischief. The god's bronzed skin seemed to emit a subtle glow, a living testament to his immortal vitality. He wore a robe of deep, regal purple, edged with intricate gold, the fabric draping around him with a fluid grace that seemed almost alive. Each of his fingers bore rings studded with vibrant jewels, their colours dancing in the light as he moved.

Dionysus swayed slightly, an almost imperceptible motion, yet enough to make Percy raise a brow in curiosity. He couldn't help but wonder—could gods get drunk? And if so, how much ambrosia or wine would it take to reach this state of languid ease?

“I missed the taste of normal food,” Percy remarked, his voice carrying a note of wistful nostalgia

Dionysus chuckled, the sound a blend of intoxication and comfort. “The mortal world has its charms, does it not? Even we gods cannot resist the allure of a well-roasted boar or freshly baked bread.” He punctuated his words by popping a fig into his mouth, relishing the explosion of sweetness, before tipping his wine vase back. The ruby liquid spilled over his chin and chest, staining his bronzed skin with rivulets of wine that glistened like liquid rubies.

As Dionysus reveled in his indulgence, a young man approached with the quiet grace of a night breeze, his steps nearly soundless as he carried a pitcher overflowing with wine.

"Are you perhaps thirsty for good wine?" the youth inquired, his voice as smooth and captivating as the nectar he dispensed.

"I am, Ganymede, sweet as the grapes ripening in the sun," Dionysus sang, his words a playful melody as he reached out for the pitcher. But with a deft movement, Ganymede skilfully evaded the god's grasp, holding the vessel just out of reach.

"Not for you," Ganymede chided, his tone laced with exasperation. "At this rate, there will be none left if you keep drinking. Even the Styx isn't as deep as your stomach." The cupbearer’s irritation was plain, though softened by the familiarity of their exchange.

"What sorrow!" Dionysus exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock despair. "Am I not the god of wine?"

“More like the god of short memory and lying drunk under the table,” Ganymede retorted, his irritation evident as he ignored Dionysus' exaggerated pout. Instead, he turned his attention to Percy, his gaze softening.

Percy stood frozen for a moment, his gaze locking onto the cupbearer. A strange, unexpected wave of familiarity washed over him, unsettling in its intensity. Ganymede’s warm brown eyes, the dark sweep of his eyebrows, his sun-kissed skin, and the cascade of brown curls framing his face—they all seemed to echo a distant memory, a faint echo of someone he once knew, someone like Paris.

“You should try it, demigod. I’ve done it myself,” Dionysus said, his proud, almost impish smile breaking through Percy’s reverie, snapping him back to the present.

“You did not, Lord Dionysus,” interjected Ganymede, a note of playful reproach in his tone. “I had to spend a whole week harvesting them with Hebe by hand, and then another three days treading on them barefoot.”

“Well, yes, but I helped you carry the heavy amphorae to Hera’s basement, did I not?” Dionysus replied, his eyes twinkling with touch of self-satisfaction.

Ganymede shook his head, his curls shimmering in the light. "I did not require your assistance," he said, his tone carrying a hint of pride. "Lord Zeus would have handled it if I had asked."

Dionysus, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, responded softly, catching Percy’s raised eyebrow. "Of course not. Zeus would be far too wary of Hera’s basement. Only the Fates know what nightmarish concoctions await beneath her palace."

Ganymede’s face betrayed a flicker of expectation. "Alright, but at least acknowledge that my wine is superior to Hebe's."

Dionysus grinned, his voice laced with playful admiration. "Certainly. Hebe’s wine pales in comparison to yours. Hers is far too sour." As he spoke, Dionysus's hand discreetly reached for the pitcher, his subtle manoeuvring ensuring Ganymede’s attention remained fixed on his praise. Yet, Ganymede swiftly batted Dionysus's hand away, nearly sending the pitcher tumbling.

“One hundred years ago it was,” Dionysus continued unperturbed, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. “Back then, Ganymede was a newly minted god, fresh from the forge of Olympus. Apollo had prophesied the wedding of Thetis and Peleus, a grand affair requiring the finest wine from my vineyards on mortal grounds. We had to labour tirelessly to prepare the best vintage in time for the celebration. This boy”—he gestured to Ganymede with expression of genuine gratitude—“assisted me with unwavering dedication.”

Ganymede rolled his eyes. “Had I known the extent of the work involved, I might have thought twice about agreeing to help,” he said, though his words carried more warmth than true resentment.

“Would you, really?” Dionysus responded, his voice taking on a softer, more nostalgic edge. “You were struggling to find your place on Olympus, longing for the mortal world you left behind.”

Percy’s gaze shifted back to Ganymede, the ancient story of his abduction surfacing in his mind. He remembered how Zeus had snatched Ganymede from his mortal life in the form of an eagle, forcibly removing him from his world to serve on Olympus.

To Percy, the tale seemed both nightmarish and intimately familiar.

“I don’t remember those days,” Ganymede said with an air of casual dismissal.

Dionysus chimed in with a teasing tone. “Ah, and who has such poor memory?”

Ganymede’s expression softened, a wistful smile curving his lips. He extended a goblet toward Percy, his eyes conveying a silent invitation.

“I apologize,” Ganymede said, his tone light yet edged with a hint of weariness. “Dionysus always seems eager to harass me whenever I step away from Zeus's duties to serve during quests. It must be his insatiable thirst for wine.”

Percy accepted the goblet, its surface gleaming like liquid ruby in the ambient light of the hall. As he admired its beauty, his gaze wandered back to Dionysus. The god’s eyes, locked on Ganymede with a mixture of admiration and something deeper, suggested that it wasn’t just wine that kept him close.

Percy took a tentative sip, and the rich, complex flavours exploded across his palate—a harmonious blend of sweetness and depth, with an earthy richness. The wine’s warmth spread through him, enveloping him in a sense of comfort and indulgence.

“This is... extraordinary," Percy admitted, each word laden with the weight of his genuine admiration.

"Of course it is," Dionysus declared with a flourish, his eyes gleaming with the fervour of his pride. "That’s how wine tastes when it’s forged from the sweat of hard work and the fire of unyielding passion."

A playful glint danced in Dionysus' eyes as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Naiads have been eyeing me like ravenous beasts since the beginning of this affair. It would be a sin against indulgence itself to let such an opportunity slip through my grasp."

With that, he gave a parting nod and drifted away, leaving Percy and Ganymede amidst the celestial splendour.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Ganymede's question was casual yet laced with a deeper curiosity.

Percy’s smile was strained, a thin veneer over the storm raging within. He was thankful Ganymede was not a god of truth, for his words might have betrayed him. "In such circumstances? Of course," he replied, sarcasm barely masked. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen so many people in one place,” Percy admitted, the memory of Bozcaada with his mother surfacing unbidden, causing his heart to clench with a sharp pang of loss.

Ganymede’s smile was a tapestry of subtle wisdom, his warm brown eyes deepening with understanding. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he murmured, his voice a gentle whisper of revelation. “Though, I confess, I am not particularly fond of the clamour of large crowds.” His candid admission was an unexpected yet soothing balm, softening the edges of his divine facade.

Percy’s curiosity piqued, he asked, “Isn’t your role to revel in such gatherings?”

Ganymede leaned closer, his breath a warm, tantalizing caress against Percy’s ear. "My role," he whispered, "depends largely on my lord's mood. When he’s in a foul temper, I keep him company. When he’s in high spirits, I ensure that others enjoy themselves." His words carried a teasing lilt.

As Percy drew closer to Ganymede, he couldn’t help but, again, notice the striking resemblance—the way the curve of Ganymede’s jawline mirrored Paris’s, the familiar glint in his eyes. It was as if fate had carved another version of the man Percy had once known.

He knew he should look away, should stop his mournful scrutiny of a god who merely resembled his friend, but the hollow ache in his heart made it impossible.

Ganymede, perceptive as ever, noticed Percy’s lingering gaze and the silence that stretched between them. His usual playful demeanour wavered, and he arched an eyebrow, a hint of concern replacing his earlier light-heartedness. “What troubles you?” he asked, his voice probing yet patient.

Percy hesitated, his thoughts swirling like the eddies in a stream. The pain of the memory was sharp, but there was something in Ganymede’s eyes—a quiet understanding—that made him feel safe enough to let the words flow.

His eyes fixed on his cup as if it held the answers he struggled to articulate. “You remind me of someone,” he admitted quietly.

Ganymede tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Someone dear to you?” he asked. “Well, tell me about it,” Ganymede said, taking a step closer to Percy, his presence both gentle and insistent.

Percy's voice wavered as he responded, the words pulling at memories he wished he could forget. “I didn’t know him long, but it felt as if I’d known him for a lifetime. He was like an older brother to me, a brother I lost,” he murmured, unable to meet Ganymede’s gaze any longer. The memory of his blade thrust into Paris’s stomach haunted him, a sight so visceral that it still turned his stomach. He could still hear Paris's strangled gasp, see the shock and betrayal etched into his features as he fell, life spilling from him like wine from a shattered glass.

"He also tended flocks. Even when it rained," Percy added softly, the words almost to himself. The mention of this connection seemed to spark something in Ganymede, a flicker of interest in his golden eyes. But before Ganymede could pursue the thought, Percy shifted the conversation.

"Do you miss it?" Percy asked, his voice tinged with a softness that belied the turmoil inside him.

"Herding sheep?" Ganymede replied, a flicker of amusement brightening his expression.

"Well, yes, but also," Percy hesitated, choosing his words carefully. His gaze flicked back to Apollo and Hera, the storm of their argument echoing the turmoil in his own heart. "I mean freedom," he clarified, the word laced with longing.

Ganymede tilted his head thoughtfully. “It’s been so long since my feet touched the Earth that I’ve forgotten what it feels like, what my home looks like,” he confessed, his words sending a shiver down Percy’s spine.

“What do you mean?” Percy’s voice trembled, a quiver of despair threading through his words. “Don’t you remember your loved ones?”

Ganymede’s gaze, distant and hollow. “No,” he said, the words escaping his lips like fragments of a forgotten dream. “Lord Zeus, in his boundless wisdom, commanded me to erase the memories of my family, to shield me from the relentless anguish that remembrance could summon. Now, when I attempt to recall my parents or my siblings, I am met with a vast, impenetrable void. They do not matter now, for they dwell in Hades, lost to me forever.” He regarded Percy with detached expression.

Percy stared at Ganymede, his expression a mixture of disbelief and dawning comprehension.

“It’s almost like you’ve never lived as a human,” Percy said, his voice trembling slightly as the words took shape. “Zeus’ favour,” Percy spat, the name of the king of gods tinged with bitterness. “His so-called gift to you, has not only stripped you of your mortal existence but has destroyed your bond with it.”

Ganymede’s brows knitted together, a flicker of discomfort crossing his ageless face. “It was my choice,” he replied, his tone defensive, as though the matter had been settled long ago.

“Was it?” Percy’s voice cut through the air with a sharp edge, his disbelief palpable. His eyebrows arched in questioning, a subtle challenge underlying his tone. His gaze shifted to Zeus, who reclined regally. As if feeling the weight of Percy’s stare, Zeus turned, his expression one of dispassionate curiosity. Percy’s face, etched with anger, betrayed his inner turmoil.

Ganymede’s eyes, distant and inscrutable, held firm. “It’s better that way,” he said, a hint of resignation colouring his words, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Percy.

Yet Percy remained unmoved, his gaze turning to Ganymede to pierce through the veneer of his calm. “Is it?”

Ganymede, visibly discomforted, adjusted his stance with a deliberate, almost defiant grace. Rather than succumbing to unease, he chose to cloak his agitation in a mantle of unwavering confidence.

“For now,” Ganymede began, his voice a serpentine whisper, “you cloak your fear in a veneer of defiance. But such pretence will serve you little against the inexorable truth.” His words carried a sombre gravity. “In time, when the relentless grasp of Apollo’s power constricts and you come to realize that no mortal will can withstand the gods' might, you will come to see the world through my eyes. For those who remember, who are bound to the past, bear the deepest suffering.”

Percy’s gaze wavered, the weight of Ganymede’s declaration settling heavily upon him. “I will never allow that to happen,” Percy murmured with fierce defiance. “I will cling to my humanity, and I will die a human.”

Ganymede’s eyes, distant and reflective, seemed to gaze beyond the present. “I too swore such vows,” he responded, his voice heavy with a mournful cadence, “once upon a time. Yet there came a morning when I awoke, and the visage of my mother had faded into a blur, obscured by the march of eternity.”

As Percy grappled with the implications of Ganymede’s revelation, an icy shiver of dread snaked down his spine. The looming spectre of Apollo’s schemes cast a dark shadow over his thoughts. Would he, too, be condemned to lose his humanity, adrift in a void of forgotten memories and forsaken emotions? Would the essence of his being dissolve into mere echoes, a pale shadow of the vibrant self he once was?

No, Percy resolved with steely determination. He would not succumb to the same fate as Ganymede.

Percy refused to follow the path of eternal detachment and loss. His family, his friends—their faces, their laughter, their shared moments—served as steadfast anchors to his humanity. With every fibre of his being, he vowed to cling to them, resolute in his refusal to become a mere shadow of what he had been.

“You don’t look well,” Ganymede observed with a disquieting calm, his voice almost disembodied in its serenity. “Perhaps it would be wise to lay off the wine for now.” His eyes, devoid of the warmth and empathy Percy yearned for, only deepened the chasm of isolation that seemed to separate them.

As Zeus summoned Ganymede with a raised hand, the cupbearer cast a lingering, contemplative glance over his shoulder. “What was the name of your shepherd friend?” he inquired, his tone carrying a note of idle curiosity.

“Paris,” Percy replied, his voice barely more than a wistful murmur. As the name floated through the air, Apollo’s head snapped toward them, his golden eyes narrowing with a sharp, predatory focus.

Ganymede, his expression thoughtful yet inscrutable, offered a final glance before he retreated to Zeus's side, leaving Percy in a silence.

Zeus lounged at his opulent table, his silver eyes gleaming with amused glint as he observed Ganymede’s return. “And how did your little exchange with Apollo’s latest infatuation fare?” he inquired, his tone edged with a sharp curiosity, as though he were savouring the anticipated drama.

Ganymede materialized beside him with an almost spectral grace, his presence causing the shadows in the room to ripple and dance. His movements were fluid, as if he were part of the very air around him. Leaning in, he whispered, his voice a serpentine hiss that cut through the hushed atmosphere, “Son of Poseidon seems lost. His grasp of Apollo’s favour as tenuous as mist. Hatred festers in his heart, a dark craving for freedom that he dares not articulate—and beneath it all, a terror. It seems the demigod quakes at the very gift of immortality.”

Zeus’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of contemplation darkening his expression. The faint smirk on his lips vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “And what of the debt?” he inquired, his tone laden with a challenge, sharp as a dagger. “Does the boy possess any worthy substitute to satisfy Apollo’s demands?”

“There might be such a person,” Ganymede continued.

“Speak,” Zeus commanded, his eyes lingered on Percy, who leaned against a column, his gaze roving the room with an intensity that suggested he was searching for an absent presence.

Ganymede drew a deep breath, his voice sinking to a conspiratorial murmur. “The demigod mentioned that I remind him of someone he once knew.” The words floated through the room like the ghostly wail of a distant lament. “Someone named Paris.”

Zeus’s head whipped around to face Ganymede, his eyes narrowing with a razor-sharp curiosity. “Ah, you mean Alexander, now prince of Troy,” he mused, his tone both intrigued and contemplative. “Indeed, you and Paris share a royal lineage.” His gaze turned analytical, a gleam of recognition lighting up his silver eyes. “Though you may bear a resemblance, I have yet to see it for myself,” he added, his eyes roving over Ganymede’s form with a critical intensity.

“Demigod spoke of Paris as a friend he lost. Do you know what became of him, my lord? Does he still live?” His gaze, heavy with concern, remained locked on Percy, as if seeking reassurance through the answers Zeus might provide.

Zeus, languid in his opulent seat, raised his cup to his lips, a slow, knowing smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “That's an intriguing tale,” he said, his tone rich with a sinister undertone. “You see, Paris’s life was preserved by Apollo himself after the poor boy was grievously wounded. The very demigod you now observe was the cause of those wounds,” Zeus murmured, a glint of grim excitement lighting up his eyes.

Ganymede’s posture stiffened, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features. “Why would he hurt his friend?” he inquired, his voice trembling with shock and incredulity.

Zeus’s gaze sharpened momentarily, a flicker of impatience flashing across his face before he allowed his expression to soften. “Do not concern yourself with such mortal intricacies. Affairs of mortals are beneath your notice, my boy.”

“But—”

Zeus cut him off with a gesture, the air around him seeming to crackle with divine authority. “Do not press further,” he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of finality. “The threads of fate are spun by forces beyond your ken. Some things are best left untouched.”

The wedding party was slowly coming to an end, and a heavy cloak of despair enveloped Percy. He felt hopeless, adrift in a sea of revelry and divine splendour. Hekate was nowhere to be seen still, and her absence gnawed at his heart like a relentless spectre. The gods and mortals alike rose from their seats, anticipation crackling in the air, as they awaited Zeus's final words. With the last blessing bestowed upon the wed pair, Percy knew he would be doomed to return with Apollo to his palace, confined once more within its cold, resplendent walls.

Zeus, commanding and magnificent, rose from his throne, holding aloft a chalice brimming with the nectar of the gods. The very heavens seemed to shiver in response to his grandeur. A hush fell over the assembly, their gazes riveted upon the king of Olympus as he prepared to deliver his parting words.

“To Thetis and Peleus,” Zeus intoned with a voice resonant and profound, “may your union be sanctified by the gods and endure as steadfastly as the eternal stars.”

Hera’s voice followed, smooth yet commanding, weaving the final threads of divine blessing. “May your marriage be a beacon of harmony and strength, a testament to the intertwined fates of mortals and immortals.”

With these words, the assembled gods and guests lifted their chalices in a final toast, the clinking of crystal a fleeting counterpoint to the weight of destiny. As Zeus drank deeply from his chalice, the divine nectar cascading over his lips, the heavens quaked in response.

From the abyss of the celestial firmament, a silhouette materialized—a woman ensconced in flowing raiments that undulated around her like sinuous serpents. Her red hair twisted and swirled, as though kissed by an unseen breeze. A soft smile played upon her lips as, with otherworldly elegance, she released a radiant orb—a golden apple.

It fell gently among the gathered assembly, rolling to a stop at the feet of three goddesses, resplendent and formidable: Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena.

Upon the gleaming surface of the apple, an inscription shimmered: "For the fairest." The goddesses exchanged silent, charged glances before their hands began to extend, each reaching for the fruit simultaneously, their movements fluid and predatory.

“Halt!” Zeus's voice reverberated through the grove, a divine edict that stilled the murmurs and softened the rustle of garments. His gaze, fierce and unwavering, swept across the sky in search of Eris, but she had vanished into the ether before his eyes could fall upon her. Instead, his piercing scrutiny was drawn irresistibly to the golden apple, which now lay shimmering at the feet of the goddesses.

With deliberate care, he reached out and took it into his grasp, turning it over to feel the potent magic thrumming within its radiant surface. “The golden apple for the fairest,” he declared, his words resonating through the assembly. All eyes turned, captivated by the unfolding drama.

Percy’s eyes closed slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. This was it—the apple of discord, the harbinger of strife cast by Eris herself. He could almost hear her mocking laughter echoing through the heavens. A flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, a brief acknowledgement of the chaos to come.

Turning his attention to Apollo, Percy noted his expression—Apollo’s golden features were taut with concentration, as if he was attempting to decipher the significance of Eris’s intervention, just like the rest of the divine assembly.

The three goddesses stood tall, their divine beauty and power undeniable, but now, the apple had cast a long, dark shadow over them. Percy could see it in their eyes—Hera’s calculating gaze, Aphrodite’s seductive confidence, and Athena’s cold determination. Each knew what was at stake, and none would yield without a fight.

“This is a matter of common sense,” Hera’s voice cut through the tension, her tone regal and assured. “Of course, I should be the one to receive the apple.”

“You are always so sure of yourself,” Aphrodite retorted, her voice laced with a silky disdain. “True beauty is not merely in power but in the heart's deepest desires. The apple should be mine.”

“Alas,” Athena interjected, her demeanour calm yet resolute. “Isn’t wisdom the highest of virtues? The true beauty of the mind and spirit. The apple should be mine as a testament to the valour of intellect and the coronation of reason.”

Hera’s gaze shifted to Zeus with an air of expectation. “My husband,” she demanded, her voice laden with authority, “as the sovereign of the divine realm, you should judge this contest. Your decision will undoubtedly be the most just.”

“No,” Athena interjected swiftly, her eyes meeting Zeus’s with a steely resolve. “Someone impartial, who sees truth in the hearts of others, should make this decision.”

Her gaze then settled on the god of prophecy and truth. “Apollo,” she said with a determined edge, “you, who discern the deepest truths of the soul, should be the one to decide.”

Aphrodite, ever the enchantress, glided gracefully toward Apollo. Her touch on his shoulder was light, yet imbued with an air of desperate persuasion. “Don’t let Zeus be the judge,” she murmured, her voice a silken thread of persuasion. “We both know who will win if it comes to his choice.” She cast a sidelong glance at Hera, her expression a mixture of pity and cunning.

Apollo, caught in the web of their competing appeals, remained silent, his face an inscrutable mask of contemplation. As the goddesses’ entreaties surrounded Apollo, Percy found himself momentarily free from the celestial dispute, momentarily forgotten.

Percy’s brows furrowed as a sharp, burning itch flared in his palms. With a furtive glance, he opened his hands to find Hekate's sigils carving themselves anew into his skin, the lines etching deep as if drawn by an invisible blade. His breaths grew shallow, each inhale laced with the bitter tang of magic.

Percy bit down on the inside of his cheek, determined not to let his pain show. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself, not now when the stakes were so high and the eyes of the gods were everywhere.

He cast a quick glance at Apollo, who was still locked in silent deliberation with Aphrodite and Athena. The god of the sun appeared oblivious to Percy’s internal struggle, focused instead on the weighty decision before him.

Seizing this rare moment of solitude, Percy's eyes roamed the eerie stillness, only to fall upon a strange and unsettling sight—a black, amorphous shape rising from the waters by the grove. The satyrs scattered in alarm, and the nymphs vanished into the lush foliage with a rustle of fear.

The black blob began to coalesce, taking on the form of a woman draped in shifting shades of black and purple. Her arms extended toward him, her gesture one of inviting embrace. Her face was a kaleidoscope of ever-changing features, morphing from one countenance to another with a fluid, unsettling grace.

For a fleeting moment, Percy’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized his mother, Sally, among the shifting visages.

“Mom?” he whispered, the word escaping his lips with a tremor of hope and confusion.

This haunting resemblance shattered something deep within him, awakening a desperate yearning.

Seeing his chance, Percy broke into a run, each step a defiance against the gilded confines of his divine captivity. Time seemed to stretch, the world around him slowing to a surreal crawl as he hurtled towards the spectral figure. His vision blurred, the distance between him and Apollo growing with each frantic stride. It wasn’t until Apollo’s voice, sharp with fury, cut through the air that Percy hesitated.

“Perseus!” Apollo’s cry was laced with a god’s wrath and a lover’s anguish.

At the sound of his true name, Percy faltered. Hekate, the goddess emerging from the waters, also stilled. Now, the secret of Percy’s true name lay bare, the revelation hanging in the air like a curse.

“Do not falter, Percy, run to me.” Hekate urged with apprehension.

Percy’s resolve hardened. He surged forward, his sight once again swallowed by the encroaching abyss, but the loss of vision mattered not to him now.

The distance between him and Apollo widened, each step propelling him closer to the dark enchantress. He stumbled, nearly falling, but pressed on until he finally collapsed into her waiting arms. Darkness enveloped him, a velvet shroud that swallowed him whole.

Apollo’s hands grasped at empty air, his face a mask of rage and shock. He fell to his knees in the muddy waters, the place where Hekate had risen like a monstrous apparition, stealing away his beloved. Frantically, he searched, his hands digging through the mud in a futile quest.

“Perseus!” he cried, his voice breaking with desperation, until a hand touched his shoulder.

It was Poseidon, his expression demanding an explanation.

Apollo rose, his golden curls casting deep shadows across his brow, his demeanour radiating both urgency and a sense of dread. “Hekate took him to Hades,” he implored, his voice quivering with a fervent plea. “You must help me retrieve him.”

Poseidon’s face remained a calm sea, but his gaze was a storm of suspicion and anger. “I would, if not for the way he ran to her as if she were his saviour, and fled from you as if you were his captor,” he said, each word a deliberate accusation. “It is clear to me that you have mistreated him. His escape was as evident as the tides.” Poseidon’s eyes, though calm in their outward appearance, held a flicker of grim satisfaction at the thought of Perseus’s flight.

Apollo’s eyes flared with an inner light, golden and fierce. He rose to his full height, his presence radiating a celestial intensity. “How can you speak so, when your own son has been taken to the realm of the dead? His fate is now woven into the shadows of the underworld.”

“I begin to believe that the underworld may treat him with more kindness than you ever did,” Poseidon retorted, his voice laced with bitter irony.

Apollo’s anger flared visibly, and he took a menacing step toward Poseidon, his movements charged with righteous indignation. “You—” he began, his tone a mix of fury and accusation.

“Silence!” Zeus thundered, his voice a divine decree that brooked no argument. “We have more important matters than a wayward demigod,” he declared, his gaze cold and imperious.

“Why did you call him Perseus? Wasn’t his name Einalian?” Athena’s voice broke the silence, her curiosity piqued by the revelation. Her keen eyes fixed on Apollo, demanding answers.

Apollo’s silence was heavy, laden with an unspoken tension that seemed to coil around him like a serpent. His jaw was set in a rigid line, his eyes refusing to meet Athena’s penetrating gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but beneath the calm veneer, there was a barely concealed storm.

“I will not cast judgement,” Apollo declared, his voice a calm facade concealing a turbulent undercurrent. “Let Father decree the arbiter.” He looked at the golden apple in Zeus’ hand—the very emblem of discord that had heralded his beloved’s vanishing.

To him, it was a fruit more bitter than any he had ever known.

His eyes flickered with barely restrained anger as he turned to Zeus, silently urging him to be swift, each passing second a cruel extension of the distance separating him from his love.

Zeus, ever the master of fate, held the apple aloft, his voice booming across the assembly. “Alexander, son of Priam, will be the judge.”

His announcement rippled through the assembly of deities and demigods, eliciting murmurs of astonishment and curiosity. To place the fate of such a momentous decision in the hands of a mortal—albeit a prince—was a twist none had foreseen.

“Paris,” Apollo murmured, his voice betraying a fleeting shadow of distaste. The name twisted his features momentarily, though he chose not to elaborate. Paris, once merely a shepherd, was now a figure of considerable influence, his judgement less susceptible to the seductive allure of gold and power.

As Zeus’s fingers closed around the golden apple, claiming it as the prize to be contested, Apollo’s gaze shifted back to Poseidon. The tension between them crackled in the air, a silent storm of unspoken words and clashing wills.

“Eris’s casting of the apple was but a ruse,” Apollo began, his tone simmering with frustration. “It was all orchestrated so Hekate, could whisk your son away.”

Athena stepped forward, her silver eyes gleaming with a penetrating insight. "Indeed," she interjected. "The boy showed no surprise at Eris's appearance, nor at the sight of the golden fruit. It was as if he anticipated it, as if he had been forewarned."

Athena’s keen intellect was not to be taken lightly, and her deduction sent ripples of doubt through the divine assembly.

Poseidon's countenance remained shrouded in a contemplative veil, yet an unmistakable aura of distrust clung to him. “His presence in Hades remains unconfirmed,” he proclaimed, his voice as resolute and unyielding as the tides. “I will venture forth to search for and retrieve the boy,” he continued, his tone brooking no argument. “Do not obstruct my path.” With a piercing gaze that swept across Apollo and the assembled throng, Poseidon's edict was not merely a command but a portent of fate—a cautionary decree rather than a mere suggestion.

With a swift movement, Poseidon gripped his trident, its prongs glinting ominously. In a flash he vanished, Amphitrite at his side, her demeanour as stormy as the waves she commanded.

Apollo's face darkened, his golden features now shadowed with a fierce resolve. He would find the boy, just as he had before, and this time, no trickery would stand in his way. The challenge was set, and Apollo was not one to shy away from a contest, especially when it involved something—or someone—he cared deeply about.

Ares, stepping forward with the predatory intensity of a seasoned warrior, declared his intent with a grin as sharp as the blades he wielded. "I shall join the pursuit," he said, his voice brimming with the anticipation of battle. To him, this was not merely a hunt; it was a challenge to be conquered, a test of strength that would reaffirm his dominance.

Hermes, ever attuned to the shifting tides of divine intrigue, materialized beside Ares with a burst of energy. His hand was raised eagerly, despite the severed state of his tongue,rendering him mute, his wide grin painted with ichor spoke volumes—each curve and twitch a cascade of unspoken intentions.

He cast a sidelong glance at Apollo, who stood with an unyielding sternness, his features carved from the marble of determination. Yet, Hermes's enthusiasm remained undimmed. The thought of seeking out Perseus, now stripped of Apollo’s protective mantle and left exposed, stirred a particular thrill in the god of thieves.

The atmosphere crackled with the energy of impending rivalry. The gods, each with their own designs and desires, exchanged glances, their motivations intertwined.

"It sounds like a contest I am eager to partake in.” Eros appeared beside them, his ethereal wings fluttering lightly in the air, adding an element of capricious charm to the tense gathering. “What’s the prize?” he inquired, his voice a melodious blend of innocence and knowingness, though the answer was already clear to all present.

Chapter Text

Percy was engulfed in a fathomless abyss, the darkness so profound it seemed to swallow the very essence of light. The familiar chill of the cold water embraced him, not with the tenderness of a lover, but with the cruel indifference of an ancient spectre. He could breathe beneath the surface, yet with every breath drawn, a strange buzzing stirred beneath his skin, unsettling him.

Suddenly, a hand gripped his wrist with an unyielding force, and terror surged through him. His first thought was of Apollo, but the voice that followed was soft, cutting through the oppressive darkness like a gentle breeze.

“It is I, Hekate,” the voice murmured, he felt the brush of her robes, as she led him towards the riverbank, her touch a tender contrast to the biting cold of the water.

“Be swift,” Hekate whispered, her gaze darting over her shoulder, where a shadowy silhouette lingered just above the water’s surface. “Styx does not suffer the presence of the living.”

With a fluid motion, they reached the safety of the bank, where the goddess of the river slipped back into her inky domain, leaving only ripples as evidence of her fleeting presence.

Percy collapsed onto the bank, his body wracked with violent convulsions as he vomited up the black, brackish water. The taste of death lingered on his tongue, acrid and unforgiving.

“What… what happened?” Percy croaked, his voice frayed and broken.

“When Zeus bestowed his final blessing,” Hekate began, her voice heavy with the long-withheld breath of relief, “the wedding rites concluded, and my powers were restored. In that moment, you managed to escape.” Though Percy could not see her smile, he sensed its warmth radiating through her words, a gentle reassurance. “You have arrived in the Underworld.”

Hekate’s hands found his arms, steadying him, and her sunset eyes swept over his face. Her smile faltered as her gaze lingered on Percy’s eyes, now pale and cursed. “Apollo has scarred you deeply,” she said, her voice threaded with sorrow, as if each word bore the weight of his suffering.

“I couldn’t make him undo the curse.” Percy said, frustration lacing his voice.

Hekate’s expression shifted, a glint of cunning flashing in her eyes. “I cannot heal you myself, for only Apollo holds the power to lift this burden,” she admitted, though her tone remained unexpectedly confident, now freed from the chains of Zeus’s decree. “But do not despair, Percy. I have crafted something that may aid you.”

“What do you mean?” Percy asked, a fragile hope flickering within him like a dying ember suddenly stoked to life.

“Follow me,” Hekate instructed, her voice a beacon guiding him through the labyrinthine corridors of her dominion. The chill of the Underworld clung to him, seeping into his bones, while the cold, insistent currents whispered around his feet.

As they proceeded, Percy grappled with the moments before he was ensnared by the Underworld. His name—his very essence—pressed upon him.

“Hekate,” Percy began hesitantly, “when I rushed to you, Apollo—”

“Cried out your name to the heavens, and the echoes reverberated through every ear,” Hekate interjected, her voice laced with unease. “It is a grievous misfortune,” she continued, her tone steeped in melancholy.

“Why?” Percy asked, his confusion palpable.

“Your true name was the tether that kept you in the present,” Hekate explained. “But now, as countless gods and mortals repeat it, as it reverberates through their minds and lingers on their tongues, the ship of time, once steady, will now cast its anchor into yesterday’s waters. You will cease to be in your present, and instead, your essence will reweave itself into the tapestry of the past, here.”

“Wait.” Percy took a few hurried steps to halt before her, his pale eyes wide with a sudden realization. “Does this mean that there is no Percy left in my time? Has my mother forgotten me? And my friends—”

“It has not happened yet, and let us hope it never will,” Hekate said, her gaze darkening with a flicker of sympathy. “I might entreat the river Lethe to assist us in this endeavour, but for now, our focus must remain on the task at hand. The sooner we complete it, the sooner we can restore the balance and safeguard your place in the world.”

Percy felt a sliver of relief, a fragile balm for his troubled spirit, as they pressed on.

They reached a secluded chamber, where a symphony of eerie sounds echoed through the darkness: the scraping of claws, the growling of hounds, the slithering of scales against stone, the rustling of feathers, and the soft hiss of unseen serpents. The air was thick with the mingling of these noises, each one a whisper of the strange creatures that dwelled within.

“Where are we?” Percy asked, his apprehension swelling with every unidentifiable sound. His hands clung to the uneven wall, the rough texture grounding him amidst the chaotic cacophony.

“I cannot be everywhere at once,” Hekate began, her voice imbued with the enigmatic authority. “To extend my vigilance, I rely on my emissaries: hounds to prowl the earth and sense what lurks nearby, serpents to coil in the shadows and observe the hidden, and crows to soar the skies and survey the world from above. Through their eyes, their ears, I act upon what they reveal.” Her eyes gleamed with a playful, almost wicked light as she continued, “But these are no ordinary beasts. They are imbued with my magic. Through them, you will see the world anew. Their senses will become yours, their sight your own—but you must choose.” She gently took his wrist, guiding his hand forward.

“This sounds insane,” Percy remarked, his scepticism clear but his resolve firm. With no alternative, he resigned himself to trust her. “Alright, just ensure they don’t sink their fangs into me,” he added, taking tentative steps as Hekate guided him through the labyrinthine shadows.

His fingers first encountered a damp, warm nose, accompanied by the deep, rhythmic cadence of heavy breathing and the sensation of thick, plush fur beneath his touch.

“A dog?” Percy ventured, his voice tinged with cautious relief.

“A hound,” Hekate corrected, her tone almost affectionate. “They are loyal, fierce protectors, with a hunger for human flesh that makes them formidable, but their size can betray you when stealth is required.”

She then placed his hand on a smooth, cool surface, where something slowly slithered over his skin, its forked tongue flickering against his flesh.

He winced instinctively and tried to pull his hand away, but Hekate’s voice was firm and soothing: “They do not like sudden movements, hesitation.”

“Snakes,” Percy murmured. The serpent’s skin was soft, its body coiling gently around his fingers, reminding him too much of the vines in Apollo’s palace—ever vigilant, ever present.

“They are silent hunters,” Hekate said, her voice a soothing caress. “With senses as sharp as their fangs, they are predators born of shadows.”

Sensing his unease, Hekate led him to another creature. She guided his hand to a small, twitching body, only for it to recoil as a flutter of wings brushed against his fingers.

“A raven,” Hekate explained. “They detest confinement, yet they are intelligent, perceptive, and possess a memory that rivals even the gods. But their freedom comes at a cost—they cannot be easily tamed.”

Finally, she let his hand fall to his side, only to feel something light and hairy climbing up his chiton. A spider, very big spider. He suppressed a shiver, grateful for his blindness at that moment.

“Birdeater,” Hekate whispered, her tone almost cooing. “Stealthy, with unmatched vision and senses, yet their insatiable hunger can often shroud their purpose. There are times when, in the throes of their ravenous desire, they devour their very partners.” She carefully removed the creature from his clothing, letting it disappear back into the shadows.

“So, which will you choose?” Hekate asked, her voice as soft as the night. “This creature will be your companion on the mission. You will connect with them, see through them, feel through them. Choose wisely, for their strengths and weaknesses will become your own.”

Percy stood in the dim chamber, the echoes of the creatures around him filling the heavy air. The decision felt monumental, each option representing a different path, a different aspect of himself. His mind sifted through the possibilities, weighing each creature’s strengths and the burdens they might bring.

First, the hound. Percy imagined its loyal, powerful form—strong, protective, and unyielding. But as he pictured the hound by his side, he felt a deep unease. The hound was a creature of the earth, solid and grounding, but also conspicuous.

Next, his thoughts turned to the snake. It slithered silently in his mind, a master of stealth and patience, its tongue flicking in the darkness. The snake’s ability to navigate unseen, to strike with precision, was tempting. But Percy recoiled slightly as he thought of its cold, watchful gaze. The constant vigilance reminded him of Apollo’s curse—the feeling of always being observed, always being pursued.

His mind then wandered to the raven. He recalled the soft flutter of its wings, the brief, fleeting touch of feathers. The raven represented freedom, intelligence, and a sharp, keen insight. The raven’s perspective was alluring, offering a chance to rise above his challenges, to see the world from a vantage point where clarity reigned. But there was a wildness to it, a refusal to be caged, that spoke to Percy’s own restlessness, his desire to escape the bonds of his current fate.

The spider was discreet, a creature of great vision and unparalleled senses. It moved with patience and precision, spinning webs that connected everything in its path, its many eyes perceiving what others missed. But the spider’s hunger, its need to feed on what it captured, felt too close to the predatory nature he had encountered in others, the endless hunger for power and control.

Percy sighed deeply, burdened by the weight of his decision. Each choice before him tugged at different facets of his being, as if each creature called to a different shadow within his soul.

“Meditate on it if you must,” Hekate whispered. She allowed him to settle on the cold ground. The hound approached instantly, its wet nose pressing against his face, the warmth of its breath a sharp contrast to the chill of the shadows. Percy laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the chamber, but as the hound’s affection grew too overwhelming, he gently pushed it away. Even so, the creature lingered nearby, its presence a constant, loyal weight.

Above, the raven perched silently, its gaze fixed on him from a height unseen. The air was thick with the subtle flutter of wings, a sound that seemed to whisper secrets in a language he could not quite grasp. The snake, too, was there—its presence quiet, yet undeniably potent. If he focused, he could just barely detect the soft rasp of its scales against the table, its tongue flicking out to taste the air, seeking, sensing.

But the spider—ah, the spider was different. Its presence eluded him, slipping through the cracks of his awareness like sand through clenched fingers. No matter how intently he listened, how sharply he focused, the spider remained a phantom, a ghost in the periphery of his senses. Only when he placed his hands on the cold ground did he finally feel it: the delicate, deliberate touch of hairy legs, moving with stealth. He shivered as the creature climbed up his arm, its hooks digging ever so gently into his skin as it ascended, its weight foreign.

How large was this creature? he wondered, as it continued its silent journey. The size of his palm, not bigger. The spider slipped into the folds of Apollo’s chiton, the very fabric of his past now harbouring this dark, new companion.

Then something extraordinary happened. As the spider nestled into the his wet clothing, Percy felt a strange tingling along his skin. It was as if every hair on his body had become a finely tuned antenna, quivering with an awareness that was not his own. He closed his eyes, surrendering fully to the sensation, and in that moment, he felt the spider knock—softly, almost timidly—at the door of his consciousness, seeking entry.

He exhaled, letting go of his resistance, and allowed the creature into the deepest recesses of his mind. And as he did, the boundaries between them began to blur, their essences intertwining like the threads of a spider’s web. He could feel the spider’s body as if it were his own—the wet gleam of its black eyes, the rhythmic pulse of its hemolymph through its peculiar heart, the eerie stillness of its being.

The darkness that had once enshrouded Percy began to dissolve, its dense opacity softening into something fluid, almost malleable. From within this emerging clarity, images began to take shape—not his own thoughts, but something deeper, something shared.

The spider, with its quiet malevolence, its patience, and its hunger, seemed to embody the very nature of the underworld itself. It was a creature of the shadows, thriving in the spaces between light and dark, unseen yet ever-present. It was a hunter, like him, bound by a destiny that cared little for the lives it entangled in its web.

In that moment, Percy understood that the choice had never been difficult at all. The spider was not merely a companion; it was an extension of himself, a reflection of the darkness that had always lurked within him, now brought to the surface and given form.

Curiosity stirred within him. He wondered if this creature, that now shared his soul, bore a name. He asked, not with words, but through the silent connection they now shared.

The spider answered, its voice a whisper in the recesses of his mind. *“Helper,”* it said, the word resonating in the ancient tongue—*“Aregos.”*

“Aregos,” Percy whispered aloud, the name slipping from his lips like an invocation. With that utterance, his blindness lifted, and he saw as he had never seen before. All eight of the spider’s eyes were his, each one revealing a different facet of the world, all combining into a single vision.

The chamber around him came into sharp focus, every detail vivid and crystalline.

The cold stone of the Underworld glistened with a spectral light, shadows seemed to dance with an eerie vitality, and even the faintest movements were rendered with an acute precision that took his breath away. At the entrance of the chamber, Hekate stood, he saw her saffron robes swaying gently, their fabric shimmering in the dim light. He noted the delicate curve of her pale feet, the rough texture of the ground beneath them, each detail rendered with an intensity that made the world feel unexpectedly tangible.

“You have chosen,” she said, her voice a soft melody that resonated through the newly awakened senses Percy now possessed. “The spider is an outsider, misunderstood and often feared, yet it possesses a strength that others lack. It thrives in the darkness, its many eyes always watching, always waiting. It is not just a creature of stealth; it is a creature of strategy, of patience, and of power.”

Percy rose unsteadily, swaying as he acclimated to this novel perception. The experience was both disorienting and thrilling.

Through Aregos’ multifaceted eyes, the world had transformed: the relentless gloom of the Underworld now shimmered with an elusive beauty, and the darkness that had once felt like an oppressive prison now unfolded as a tapestry rich with hidden possibilities.

“The bond you have forged will be your guide, Percy,” Hekate’s voice resonated with the gravitas of ancient wisdom. “Where your vision falters, this spider will see. Where your strength wanes, she will remain steadfast. Trust in this creature, for she bears my blessing.”

“She?” Percy whispered, surprised. Hekate nodded solemnly.

“Hello there, princess,” Percy murmured, addressing the spider with a hint of reluctant amusement.

With a mere thought, Percy beckoned Aregos to ascend onto his palm. The spider complied with a fluid grace, its hairy legs sprawling across his hand. The creature was indeed formidable, its size and presence both imposing and curiously reassuring. Its body, fuzzy and oval-shaped, was pleasantly warm to the touch. As Percy gazed through its multifaceted eyes, the world unfolded with a new clarity.

He saw himself.

What unsettled him most was the sight of his own eyes: the once-vibrant sea-green now dulled beneath a ghostly white veil. This spectral pallor of his irises was a glaring testament to Apollo’s ire. The image ignited a fierce surge of anger within Percy, a scalding wave of indignation and frustration that shattered his focus. The delicate thread connecting him to Aregos was momentarily severed, and he stumbled.

Hekate’s voice pierced through his chaotic thoughts, calm and authoritative. “You need not always maintain the connection with it’s sight,” she instructed. “When your focus wavers, the bond will break, but it is a bond that can be reestablished with practice and patience.”

Percy drew in a deep breath, trying to steady the tempest within him. “What if Zeus decides to strip you of your power again?” he asked, his voice laden with the weight of lingering fear.

Hekate’s eyes, though dim in the eternal gloom of the Underworld, blazed with an unyielding resolve. “Zeus no longer possesses the luxury of time to limit me. My role as a goddess extends beyond the whims of Olympus. The forces that bind me to this realm are ancient, far older than even his throne. I knew my imprisonment would not last forever.”

Percy’s brow knit in concern. “Does Hades know I am here?”

“Of course,” Hekate replied, her voice steady. “We must seek him out. When we reach his throne room, you will petition him for sanctuary.”

Before Percy could dwell on what Hades might demand or how he would plead his case, Hekate lifted her staff. The air around them shimmered, seeming to ripple and bend, as if the fabric of reality itself was yielding to her will. Shadows deepened, coalescing into something almost tangible, and the ground beneath their feet began to undulate, shifting like the surface of a dark, restless sea.

With a final, decisive motion from Hekate, the familiar world dissolved around them, swept away in a swirling vortex of shadows and echoes, until they stood before the imposing gates, the great hall of Hades looming in the distance like a monolithic titan waiting in the void.

---

Hades lounged upon his sombre throne, the vast expanse of the underworld stretching out before him. His foot tapped in rhythm with the haunting melody of Persephone’s aulos, a delicate tune she wove through the air like a silver thread. She sat nearby, her presence a soft, glowing beacon amid the cold, stony gloom of the palace.

His gaze drifted upwards as the echo of approaching footsteps reverberated through the cavernous hall. Rising from his throne, his curiosity stirred, the shadows themselves seemed to deepen in anticipation.

Persephone’s music faded into silence, her gaze fixed intently on the two figures emerging from the darkness. Hekate advanced with an almost spectral grace, her saffron robes shimmering like spider silk under the pale crescent moon. The torch at the end of her long staff cast an erratic, ghostly light, flickering against the polished stone walls and casting elongated shadows that danced with eerie life.

Hekate's countenance was ever-shifting, a fluid embodiment of her chthonic nature. At one moment, she appeared as a beautiful maiden, her youthful allure tinged with a timeless grace. In the next, her visage morphed into that of a serene, expectant mother, a gentle glow of anticipation radiating from her. Finally, her form settled into that of a crone, her face etched with the lines, embodying the weight of countless ages. Each transformation was a glimpse into the myriad faces, reflecting the ever-shifting essence of the goddess.

“Hades,” Hekate intoned, her voice rich and sonorous. “Persephone.” Her gaze swept over them like a shadow crossing the face of the moon.

“Hekate, whose name echoes through the cities crossroads,” Hades responded, his voice a deep rumble that reverberated through the cavernous hall. His eyes, dark and inscrutable, regarded her with a flicker of curiosity. “Under the moon’s pallid light, your presence is ever felt.”

“I bring you a quest,” Hekate continued, her words drifting through the air like a dense, swirling fog.

In the shadows beside her, Percy lingered—a spectral figure in the remnants of his recent ordeal. The once-vibrant colours of Apollo’s himation had faded, transformed into muted, sorrowful blacks after his immersion in the Styx. As he stood there, the worn fabric clinging to him like a shroud, Aregos, ever vigilant, climbed onto his arm, her presence a steadying force in the suffocating gloom.

Through the arachnid’s eyes, Percy beheld Hades standing before them—a formidable figure draped in regal shadows.

As Hades drew nearer, a flicker of amusement danced across his countenance, his lips curving into a sardonic smile. "Ah, so at last you deign to appear before us," he drawled with an air of disaffected grace. "Is this the scion of Poseidon who graces my realm?”

“I am he,” Percy replied, his voice a steady echo in the dim light. “My name is Einalian.”

Hades’ gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing as they scrutinized the young man before him. He took note of the pale voids where Percy’s pupils should have been, an unsettling sight.

“What has befallen you, child?” Hades inquired.

“Apollo,” Percy responded, bitterness cutting through his words. “I discovered that the only place where I might escape him is within your realm. So, I come to you, seeking sanctuary.”

Hades’ gaze darkened, his mind turning over the request. “Sanctuary, indeed, I can offer, for this realm is a refuge to all who have passed beyond the mortal coil. Yet you are not of the dead; your heart still beats with the fire of life, your skin retains the warmth of the living. No living soul treads these halls without a price. Tell me, what will you offer in exchange?”

A flicker of despair clouded Percy’s face, but resolve swiftly replaced it. With a determined movement, he reached for the pin on his himation, feeling its familiar weight. Activating it, he presented his Riptide to Hades with an air of sorrowful resignation.

Hades cast a languid glance at the blade, his gaze indifferent, as if it were a relic from an era long past. “Is this all you have to offer?” he inquired, his tone imbued with a dispassionate air. “I am surrounded by a multitude of blades, many rusted and forsaken. My intrigue, however, is drawn to the crimson sachet you carry at your hip.”

Percy’s brow furrowed in thought as he recalled Hades’s interest. He reached for the red sachet, presenting it. Hades took the sachet with an expression that melded curiosity with a hint of sardonic amusement. He peered inside, his eyes narrowing in contemplation.

A deep, resonant laughter erupted from Hades, its echoes cascading through the corridors. The sound elicited a raised brow from Persephone, who looked on with surprise.

“A most unexpected item to carry,” Hades mused, a playful glint illuminating his dark eyes. “Whose tongue is it?”

“Hermes’,” Percy answered, his voice steadying, though still laced with a note of desperation. “Apart from the blade, it is all I have to offer.”

Hades studied Percy with an unhurried, penetrating gaze. After a pause thick with contemplation, he spoke, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “A peculiarly fascinating offering, indeed. I accept your gift. You may keep the sword.”

Percy’s eyebrow arched in surprise, his expression one of incredulous disbelief. "That’s it? A severed tongue is all you need?" he asked, his voice threaded with the delicate astonishment of one who had glimpsed the abyss but expected a far darker void.

Hades, with an air of chilling detachment, responded, “Certainly not. Your life would be the most fitting tribute, but I need not consult Hekate to know such an outcome is far from imminent,” he said, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the enigmatic goddess.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved the corners of Hades’s pallid lips, a semblance of mirth that barely touched the cold expanse of his face. “It appears you are one of those who crave the weight of merit before the reward. Very well, I might have a favour to ask.”

Hekate’s eyes flashed with a momentary spark of surprise, mingled with a trace of impatience, like the brief flicker of a dying flame.

“What favour?” Percy asked, his voice betraying a curiosity he couldn't quite stifle. Perhaps he should have remained silent; if Hades was now to impose some revolting task upon him, silence might have been the better choice.

“Styx has been unusually agitated of late. Souls that should rest are stirring her waters, disturbed by the notion of eternal confinement. Many, despairing, have flung themselves into her depths after their crossing with Charon. Being a child of Poseidon, you possess an intrinsic affinity for water. You could undertake the task of retrieving them.”

“Hades—” Hekate moved to interject, a subtle warning in her gesture, but Hades continued, shifting his focus back to Percy.

Percy blinked, taken aback by the sheer absurdity of the request. “You want me to fish bodies from the river?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Not bodies—souls,” Hades corrected with a patient but firm tone. “And yes, you may use a specially crafted net designed for the task, or rely on your own powers. The choice is yours.”

Percy stood in silence for a moment, grappling with the strangeness of the request.

“How many souls do you require?” he finally asked, his voice breaking the silence with a note of cautious resolve.

Hades’ gaze remained as unyielding and frigid as the stone walls of his realm. “Bring me one hundred souls,” he decreed, his voice a cold, unrelenting command that reverberated through the shadowy labyrinth of the Underworld.

Percy’s eyes widened at the enormity of the demand—one hundred souls.

“Accomplish this,” Hades continued, his tone icier still, “and I shall grant you a great protection and a place of the highest honor—by the Underworld’s own austere standards, of course. Do not, however, anticipate the comforts of a king’s chamber or any such frivolous adornments.”

Percy glanced at Hekate, seeking reassurance, and she met his gaze with a nearly imperceptible nod, a silent endorsement of his choice.

“I will do it,” he said, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart.

Hades’ eyes flickered with a cold satisfaction, the fires of his dominion gleaming with a harsh light. “Then your place in my realm is assured. Welcome, Einalian, to the kingdom of the dead.” His words lingered in the air like the final toll of a bell, resonating with the sombre finality of Percy’s entry into a realm where the living’s rules held no sway, and the only currency was the souls of the damned.

---

Hades bestowed upon Percy more than he could have ever anticipated, more perhaps than he would have wished for—an island in the midst of the Styx, a solitary place surrounded by the dark, churning waters. At its centre stood a house carved from the very stone of the underworld, encircled by Hekate’s protective torchlights that flickered like ghostly sentinels.

By Hekate’s magic, the interior had been charmed to mirror the cabin Percy had known at Camp Half-Blood. Every detail was familiar, every corner carefully crafted to ease his navigation in his blind darkness. The smooth wood beneath his fingertips, the faint scent of pine and sea salt, all conjured the memories of a life that seemed a world away. Here, in the depths of Hades’ realm, it was these small comforts that grounded him.

"It’s all I can do for you," Hades remarked as they circled the new abode, his tone almost begrudging.

“It’s perfect,” Percy replied, his eyes, borrowed from Aregos, lingering on the skeletal fish that adorned the entrance. Their hollow eyes seemed to follow the river's flow, a silent, eternal vigil. The house was a stark contrast to the grandeur of Apollo’s palace—no golden splendour, no radiant light. Yet it felt more like home.

Just then, Persephone arrived, her arms filled with blankets and cushions, a gesture of comfort in a place that knew little of it.

"I would never have thought you'd find more solace in my husband's realm than on Olympus," Persephone remarked, her voice carrying the weight of her own surprise. "You are a curious soul indeed."

Hades turned to Percy, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Hekate is not your mother, is she?"

Before Percy could respond, Persephone shot her husband a sharp look, a silent reprimand for his prying. Hekate, standing slightly apart, spoke before the tension could thicken. "I have no children. It’s my curse and my blessing," she said, her gaze softening as it rested on Percy.

Percy hesitated, his mind flashing back to a fleeting moment at a wedding—a moment when he could have sworn Hekate's face had resembled his mother's, Sally. But the memory was hazy, uncertain. He approached Hekate, on the verge of asking her about it, the question trembling on his lips. Yet, he held back. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks, a desperate hope manifesting in the most unlikely of places. Now was not the time to appear vulnerable, to grasp at shadows when he needed to stand firm in this unforgiving world.

"Thank you," Percy said quietly as Persephone handed him the sheets, her gaze soft with a kindness that seemed out of place in this shadowed realm.

“When do I start fishing?” Percy asked, turning to Hades, his voice carrying a resolve that belied the uncertainty swirling within him.

Hades, his gaze turning stern and distant, called out in a voice that echoed through the shadows, “Styx, stand before us.”

The river responded with a low, menacing gurgle, the water churning as if awakened from a deep slumber. From the black waters, a figure began to emerge, her form slowly taking shape as the currents twisted and coiled around her. A woman stepped onto the bank, her body clad in flowing darkness that seemed to absorb the light. Her hair, long and black as night, trailed behind her like a river of ink, while her eyes, endless and empty, mirrored the void. Her skin, black as coal, seemed to absorb what little light there was, rendering her a moving shadow among shadows.

Her movements languid, almost otherworldly in their slowness.

"What do you require?" she asked, her voice a low murmur, as if carried on a current far below the surface.

Hades, his tone firm but with an undercurrent of something softer, addressed her. "This boy, named Einalian, is Hekate’s torchbearer. You will teach him how to harvest souls from your river," he commanded, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a dark fog. "He is a demigod, the son of Poseidon, and he can breathe within your waters. But…" Hades paused, a rare note of pleading slipping into his voice, "do be careful with him."

Styx turned her empty, black eyes to Percy, scrutinizing him with a gaze that felt as heavy as the river’s current. There was no warmth in her stare, only the cold, unyielding presence of the underworld itself. Percy met her gaze without flinching, though his heart beat faster in his chest.

“He is living,” she murmured, her voice a spectral whisper.

“Yes, indeed,” Hades replied with a condescending edge, as if addressing a wayward child rather than an ancient deity. “But he must remain so. Do you understand?”

“As you command,” Styx replied, her tone edged with discontent.

Hades approached with a smooth, deliberate grace, conjuring a silver net from the void. It shimmered with an eerie, otherworldly glow, casting fleeting reflections that danced like phantoms. Wordlessly, Hades handed the net to Percy. As the weight of the task settled upon him, Styx receded into the dark waters, her form blending seamlessly with the river’s inky depths, leaving behind only the faintest ripple in her wake.

Hades clasped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the cavernous space, a gesture that signified the conclusion of their encounter. “She will return when she is ready,” he said, his tone final. “In the meantime, make yourself comfortable,” he added.

Hekate’s voice cut through the darkened shore. “Yet, you know well that he will not remain here eternally. We have a quest to complete in the mortal realm. I require your assurance that whenever Einalian steps into your domain, he will be shielded from the pursuit of Cerberus or the Furies.”

Hades regarded her with a solemn nod. “Such an assurance I can provide. However, let it be known—no other souls shall accompany him.” After that, together with Persephone, they melded into the shadows, their forms dissolving as they transported themselves to Hades’ palace.

Hekate stood at the bank, her saffron robes whispering with the soft wind that stirred the stillness of the underworld. The fabric seemed to shimmer in the low light, an ethereal glow that contrasted with the inky darkness around them. Her eyes, the hue of a dying sunset, burned with a silent urgency as she turned to Percy.

“We have but fleeting moments,” she said, her voice heavy with portent, making Percy’s heart quicken. “Before the night’s end, Paris will pass judgement upon the goddesses. His choice will reverberate through the fates of gods and mortals alike.” Her gaze was fixed upon him, intense and unyielding. “I must implore you to speak with him.”

Percy’s heart leapt with a surge of confusion and anxiety. “Wait, how am I to do that?” he asked. “Am I going to him, to Troy?” The thought of confronting Paris filled him with a tumult of dread and longing. The weight of missing him was as tangible as it was unbearable.

Hekate’s expression softened. “Not in the manner you imagine,” she replied, her voice a calm current that nonetheless carried a hidden urgency. “You will reach him through his dreams. In that ephemeral realm, your words may find a way to penetrate his consciousness, to alter the course of his fate.”

“What am I supposed to tell him?” Percy asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“Warn him about the goddesses,” Hekate instructed, her tone sharpened by the weight of her knowledge. “Tell him not to be swayed by Aphrodite’s promises.”

“Then, which goddess should he choose?” Percy pressed.

“Neither,” Hekate answered, her voice firm and resolute. “He must understand what is truly at stake. The choice isn’t about which goddess to favour; it’s about understanding the consequences of his decision. Let him see the bigger picture, the war that could follow, the destruction that could consume both gods and men.”

Percy’s heart thundered with uncertainty. “Are you ready?” Hekate inquired, her gaze steady.

Though he was unsure of the precise nature of his task, Percy nodded, placing his trust in the goddess’s guidance. Hekate moved closer, her presence as commanding as the shadows that enveloped them. With a single, deliberate tap to the centre of his forehead, Percy collapsed onto the sand, his form sinking into the embrace of unconsciousness, lost to the realm of dreams.

Aregos crawled from Percy’s arm to his chest, a silent sentinel, its fangs glinting ominously in the dim light as if prepared to rouse its unconscious master from the depths of sleep.

“Don’t,” Hekate said softly, her voice firm yet kind. “Let him sleep. Let him dream.” She extended her hand, drawing forth a delicate poppy flower, its petals a deep, velvety crimson. She plucked the seeds from its heart, letting them fall like tiny stars onto Percy’s prone form.

As the seeds settled into the sand around him, she closed her eyes, her murmured incantation weaving through the stillness. “I call you, Morpheus,” she intoned, her voice carrying through the veil between worlds.

Morpheus had not materialized, but his presence lingered in the air, a shadowed whisper that wound itself around Percy, shifting the very essence of the night.

The seeds by Percy’s body stirred, blossoming into crimson flowers whose velvet petals unfurled like secrets spilling forth. Their blossoming was a silent hymn, a testament that Morpheus had indeed heeded the call that rippled through the veils of slumber.

Hekate’s voice, though a mere murmur, was laden with an urgency that bordered on the frantic. "Bind his mind to Alexander, the prince of Troy," she implored. Hekate stood vigilant, her eyes never straying from Percy, her presence a spectral guardian of this delicate ritual.

---

Percy opened his eyes to the soft caress of grass beneath him, each blade tickling his skin with an unsettling familiarity. Rising slowly, he found himself amidst the verdant splendour of Mount Ida, the valley unfurling before him in a lush embrace, the sun reigning high and merciless in the sky, coaxing beads of sweat from his brow. The world around him pulsed with an unsettling vitality—it all felt so disconcertingly real.

As he stood, his gaze was drawn to a distant silhouette atop the hill—a lone figure with a staff, casting a shadow that stretched across the earth like an ancient memory. Percy hesitated, his thoughts tangled in the web of the dream’s ethereal logic. Was he merely a phantom in Paris’ dream?

He took a tentative step forward, the earth beneath him yielding as though it recognized his tread. But with each step, reality shifted—a sudden, searing pain shot through his ankle. He glanced down to find Hekate’s hound, its fur black as the abyss, teeth gnawing at his flesh with the eager ferocity of a beast savouring its favourite bone.

The memory struck him then, a vivid echo of a past encounter—their first meeting.

Paris, the shepherd-prince, noticed him at last, descending from the hill with the urgency of one fleeing his own demons. Gone was the grandeur of Troy, replaced by the humble garb of a herdsman, an unassuming figure in a world that seemed to have not yet known his name.

The hound’s jaws finally slackened as Paris struck it with his staff, sending the beast retreating with a growl, leaving Percy’s leg bloodied and throbbing. Paris’s eyes searched Percy’s face, his expression vacant, as though gazing upon a stranger. But as Percy took the offered hand, he spoke the name that hung like a ghost between them.

“Paris,” Percy whispered, his voice thick with the weight of unspoken sorrows.

A flicker of recognition sparked in Paris’s eyes, a shadow passing over his features as if the name had stirred something deep within. “Few remember that name,” Paris murmured. He studied Percy, his brow furrowing as realization dawned, the past rushing back to him in a wave that nearly swept him off his feet.

Percy braced himself, expecting the anger, the bitterness that was surely Paris’s due. But what came instead was a gesture as unexpected as it was profound—Paris collapsed into him, arms wrapping around Percy in a fierce embrace. There was no vengeance in his touch, no rage—only a raw, desperate need for connection.

Paris clung to him, his fingers digging into the fabric of Percy’s clothing, as though fearing he might slip away into the ether. Slowly, he pulled back, his hands cradling Percy’s face with a gentleness that belied the storm raging within. His thumbs brushed the tender skin beneath Percy’s sea-green eyes, as if anchoring himself to the fleeting reality of this dream.

“Einalian,” Paris breathed, his voice trembling with wonder, his gaze fixed on Percy with an intensity that spoke of disbelief and awe. “It is truly you.”

Tears welled in Percy’s eyes, spilling over as he grasped Paris’s wrists, his heart breaking under the weight of their reunion. The dreamscape shimmered around them, a fragile world that held their shared scars in silent reverence, as they stood together, bound by wounds neither time nor fate could erase.

“I missed you,” Percy choked out, his voice fractured by deep sorrow. “I want to apologize to you—for what I’ve done. I am so sorry, I am so sorry, I am so sorry.” He buried his face against Paris’s shoulder, his tears mingling with the tranquil silence of the dreamscape.

Paris’s expression softened, absorbing the weight of Percy’s words like a sponge drawing in water.

“Einalian, listen to me,” he murmured. “I was angry with you, felt betrayed by you…lonely” Paris confessed, his words trailing like the last notes of a mournful song. “But now I understand what duty demands of us. You were ensnared by forces far beyond your control.”

Percy stood stunned, as if the very earth had shifted beneath him.

“I nearly ended you, and yet you speak as if I only brushed against you,” Percy said, disbelief colouring his tone. Paris responded with a laugh—a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unshed tears.

“You did not mean it,” Paris replied softly, his eyes alight with a sorrowful wisdom. “I saw it in your eyes. You were shattered by the burden of your mission. But you saw through the deceit and returned to me.” His hands, trembling like autumn leaves, rose to cup Percy’s cheeks, his thumbs tracing the contours of a face etched in memory.

The mission, Percy reminded himself. He could not delay; there was a message he must deliver.

“Alexander, I…”

“Don’t call me by that name,” Paris whispered, his voice a fragile thread in the silence. “You are the only one who knew me as Paris. Let me hear it again, even if it’s just in this dream.”

Paris’s eyes grew distant, a reflection of the deep well of emotion within him. It was as though time had carved a map of loss and longing upon Paris’s face, a map that Percy could read with aching clarity.

“Paris, I am here to tell you something,” Percy began, his voice heavy with the gravity of his purpose.

“It’s been so long since I dreamt of you,” Paris continued, his voice tinged with a childlike wonder. “But this… this feels so real.” His brow furrowed as he struggled with the dream's vividness, his mind caught between the waking world and the ethereal nature of his visions. “In my dreams, you always remained silent. But now, you speak as if you are truly here.”

“That’s because I am,” Percy replied, his voice carrying the weight of undeniable truth. “I stand before you, not just in a dream, but in this moment. And I come to you with a warning.”

In that moment, as the dreamscape wavered around them, Percy felt the weight of prophecy and fate pressing down, heavy as a storm-laden sky. The question hung in the air like a haunting melody, and as he looked into the eyes of his old friend, he knew that their destinies were intertwined in a way that transcended time, betrayal, and the petty whims of the gods.

“What warning?” Paris inquired, his voice edged with a curiosity that could not mask his underlying anxiety.

“Listen to me carefully,” Percy said, his tone grave and urgent. “Zeus, king of the gods, has appointed you to judge the contest for the fairest goddess. Tomorrow, Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite will be sent to you. Each will tempt you with promises of great rewards. But I implore you, Paris, do not succumb to Aphrodite’s offer. She will promise you the most beautiful woman, Helen, but accepting her gift will bring about war with the Spartans, with Achaeans.”

Paris’s laughter was a soft, almost dismissive sound, a brief ripple in the tense atmosphere, and he shook his head as though trying to dispel a troubling thought. “Why would I desire Menelaus’s wife?” he asked, his tone laced with disbelief. “To abduct her would be to invite war upon my city. I have no such folly in my heart.”

Percy’s relief was palpable, though caution still gripped him like a vice. “Are you not tempted by the promise of the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“Beauty alone does not sway me,” Paris replied with a fervour that startled Percy, the intensity of his words vibrating in the air between them. “There is but one I desire, and it is not the wife of Menelaus.”

Percy nodded, recalling the healer who had captured Paris’s heart during his time as a shepherd on Mount Ida—a love Paris had kept hidden. Or perhaps, Percy mused, it was some other woman within the walls of his palace in Troy who had ensnared Paris’s affections.

“You don’t know how relieved I am to hear that,” Percy said, squeezing on Paris’s shoulder, feeling the bittersweet comfort of their renewed connection. The moment was tender, fragile, like the last fading notes of a song. “I’m glad we’ve had this chance to speak.”

Paris's smile was soft, his deep brown eyes radiating warmth.

“If the prophecy unfolds as you say,” Paris began, his voice imbued with both earnestness and a tremor of hope, “and after I render my judgement, will you come to Troy? I wish to have you by my side.”

A shadow of regret crept into Percy’s heart, its weight pressing upon him like a distant, mournful bell tolling in the depths. “I dwell now in the kingdom of Hades,” he confessed.

Paris’s eyes widened, his face drained of colour as disbelief etched itself into his features. “You cannot be dead,” he whispered, the words escaping like fragile birds from his lips.

“I am not dead,” Percy clarified, his tone earnest. “But I am bound to the Underworld… for the time being.”

Paris's confusion deepened, his expression a maze of anxiety and despair. "What are you saying?" he murmured, his voice frayed with unease as he recoiled, a mere step distancing him from the nightmare unravelling before him. "This dream grows stranger with each passing moment. Are you truly here, or am I trapped in some nightmare?" His voice trembled, a thin thread of fear woven into every word, as the dreamscape around them began to fray at the edges, reality's relentless pull threatening to drag him back to the waking world.

“No! Don’t wake up,” Percy implored, his desperation swelling as Paris began to dissolve, his form slipping into the encroaching abyss of reality's dawn.

“You cannot be dead!” Paris cried out, his hands clutching at his hair in a frenzy of despair. “I have to see you again.”

“You will, you will! Paris!” Percy’s voice echoed in the vanishing dreamscape, a desperate plea against the encroaching void. But it was too late. The world around them shattered like a fragile mirror, and Percy found himself alone on the desolate hill, their words dissipating into the void like autumn leaves scattered by an unforgiving wind.

Percy awoke on the riverbank, the oppressive shadows of the Underworld closing in around him like a suffocating shroud. Aregos connected with him in an instant, the creature’s presence pressing against the crown of his head. He rose to a sitting position, the world around him bathed in a surreal red hue. It was only after a moment that he realized it was not blood, but poppy flowers—crimson petals torn from their stems by a bitter wind, scattered across the sand. Hekate stood above him, her eyes the hue of a dying sun.

"Did you manage to deliver the message?"

"I did," Percy answered, though uncertainty laced every syllable. He turned his gaze to the abyss that stretched before him, the void that seemed to mirror the tangled knot of doubt tightening within him.

"Tomorrow, you will journey to Sparta," Hekate intoned, her words bearing the weight of inexorable fate. "There, you will endeavour to draw near to Helen, to shield her if the moment demands it. We can’t be sure if Paris will heed your warnings or if he will succumb to Aphrodite’s bewitching promises. Paris, after all, is but a man,” Hekate spoke, her voice thick with disdain, as if to be a man was to be inexorably flawed. "To Menelaos, you will present yourself as a priest of the deity whose temple stands closest."

“Do you know which deity’s temple it is? Should it not be my father’s?" Percy ventured, but Hekate’s gaze turned away, evasive as the moon slipping behind clouds.

“You will see,” she replied. "Remember to remain hidden, unassuming. No fights, no shouting, no playing the hero," she warned, her tone sharp with admonition. "I need you to remain in the city, not be cast out like a rogue."

“Have some faith in me,” Percy retorted, a flicker of offence igniting within him, though it quickly dimmed in the face of her stern gaze.

"Faith?" Hekate’s eyes flickered with a dark fire. "After all that has transpired, I merely wish for you to understand the fine line between daring and folly," she said, her words laced with a weary kind of exasperation.

"Alright, fair enough," Percy replied, placing his hands on his hips in a gesture that seemed almost too casual for the gravity of the moment. "What about the fishing?" he asked, his gaze drifting toward the murky waters of the Styx, where shadows seemed to writhe just beneath the surface.

“Hades was not precise with it. You can do it anytime you wish,” Hekate answered, her tone dismissive as if the task were of little consequence. “Do not trouble yourself over it. Remember, your true mission holds far greater importance.” Percy nodded, though his eyes lingered on the river.

"Now, go to sleep. I want you rested for what awaits," Hekate commanded, her voice brooking no argument, a chill wind in the desolate expanse.

"How will I know when it’s tomorrow?" Percy asked, casting a wary glance around the bleak, timeless void. "There are no alarm clocks here.”

A glimmer of amusement flickered in Hekate's eyes as she replied, "I will send my messenger to wake you. Expect wet licks on your face.” Her tone was light, yet it failed to ease the anxiety that etched itself deeper into Percy’s features.

Hekate stepped closer, her presence as commanding as the ominous task she had set before him. Her shadow stretched across the barren landscape like a dark omen, yet there was an unsettling comfort in the raw power she exuded. "Do not worry," she intoned, her voice a blend of steel and silk. "I will provide you with new artifacts for your journey. We must ensure that no divine eye besides mine can discover you. Once we are certain the Trojan War will not be ignited, you will be sent home—to the present.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, a promise and a warning all at once. Percy felt the weight of her gaze.

"Rest, my torchbearer," Hekate said, her voice softening as she extended her hand, a rare gesture of affection. But as her fingers neared Percy's head, Aregos, hidden within his hair, suddenly reared up on its back legs, ready to defend its master.

Hekate paused, her smile deepening with amusement at the sight of the formidable creature's loyalty. "Goodnight," she murmured, her tone laced with a strange warmth. And with that, she dissolved into the darkness, her form melting into the shadows until nothing remained but the faint scent of sulphur and incense.

---

The River Styx whispered in the language of the damned, its waters thick with the restless murmurings of souls caught in an eternal purgatory. The surface appeared deceptively calm, a polished mirror that hid the turmoil below. Beneath, the current churned with the tortured remnants of the dead, their forms writhing and twisting as if in ceaseless agony. Percy stood at the edge, his reflection wavering, distorted by the ripples of anguish that marred the river's depths.

Styx emerged from the river as if summoned by its darkest currents, her form materializing slowly, each movement deliberate and heavy with the weight of millennia. She was the embodiment of the river itself—ancient, unyielding, and merciless. Her eyes, black as the void, met Percy’s with an expression that was neither warm nor cold, but something altogether inscrutable.

He reached for Aregos nestled on his head.

“I’m sorry, friend,” Percy murmured softly to the spider. “But you’ll need to stay on the shore for this. Besides, I’d kind of prefer not to see what’s in the river if I’m being honest.” He gently set the spider down on the sand.

Aregos scurried after him for a few steps, its many eyes fixed on Percy with a mix of concern and loyalty. But as Styx’s cold waves lapped closer, the creature hesitated, its dark form retreating from the icy touch of the river.

Percy carefully removed the clothes, not wishing to soil them with the river's grimy filth. There was no one to witness his preparation, save for Styx, who stood apart, her form barely concealed by the river's detritus and her cascading locks of dark hair, a spectral figure of desolation and raw nature.

Without a word, the goddess extended her hand, her fingers long and skeletal, like the branches of a tree stripped bare by winter's chill. Percy hesitated, the enormity of what he was about to undertake sinking into him like a leaden weight.

Yes, he had acted despite Hekate’s advice to wait—his curiosity had made him bold, reckless even.

Yet, there was no retreat; not here. He took her hand, feeling a chill that seeped deep into his flesh, numbing him to the core.

Styx led him into the river, the waters closing over them like a shroud. It was a cold that went beyond physical sensation, a freezing of the soul.

Though Percy could not see, the presence of the souls around him was unmistakable. They were not mere shadows or echoes, but tortured entities, wracked with endless suffering. Their touch was palpable, a constant sensation of gnawing dread and despair. They clawed at the water, their forms distorted by the eternal torment they endured, mouths open wide in silent screams for mercy that would never come. The hollow, sickly light of their eyes seemed to pierce through his blindness, a relentless reminder of their unending anguish.

Styx turned to Percy, her gaze meeting his with an intensity that transcended sight. She raised her free hand, gesturing toward the souls with a slow, deliberate motion, as though commanding the very essence of the river. With the grace of a predator toying with its prey, she reached into the depths and drew a soul from the throng. It emerged reluctantly, writhing in her grasp, a mass of twisted limbs and shattered hopes.

Percy sensed the soul’s anguished presence. He felt Styx’s movements as she cupped the it in her hands. The soul writhed against her hold, flickering between the human and the monstrous, struggling to escape its fate. With a slow, twisting motion, Styx severed the it from the river’s grasp, leaving it suspended between her palms, trembling like a trapped insect.

She turned to Percy, her expression unreadable. As she released the soul, it drifted toward him, a spectral form carrying the terror of its eternal plight. Percy extended his hand, hesitantly mirroring Styx’s earlier movements. When his fingers closed around the soul, he felt a pulse of raw fear and desperation, a primal scream that resonated through his mind.

Styx nodded, her approval silent but unmistakable. She gestured again, indicating that it was his turn to try. Percy focused, aligning his senses with the river’s dark rhythm, the pulse of endless death that thrummed in the water. He extended his hand, feeling for the tortured presence of a soul. When he found one, he drew it toward him, careful to maintain control as it writhed and screamed in silent terror.

The work was a gruelling dance with shadows. Each soul he ensnared was a skirmish with suffering seeping into him like poison, wrapping his spirit in chains of unending sorrow. Styx watched with an ancient mask of detachment, but Percy could almost taste the dark satisfaction in her presence, a grim approval of his mastery.

After what felt like an eternity, Percy stumbled onto the shore, his body encrusted with the grimy sludge of the Styx. In his trembling hands, he held a silver-threaded net, now a prison for the souls within, their forms writhing and their screams slicing through the murky gloom.

Hades awaited him in solemn silence, his gaze as sharp and unyielding as the shadows that clung to the river's edge. Percy, too weary to notice the god’s presence, collapsed onto the bank, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“How many did you capture?” Hades inquired, his voice emerging from the darkness like a spectral whisper.

Startled, Percy’s head twisted to hear Hades approaching, his figure a dark silhouette against the bleak landscape. He struggled to steady himself and answered, “Around thirty. I lost count. I know it’s still too few, but—”

“I expected you to fail,” Hades interjected with a calm that belied the gravity of his words.

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Hades took the net from Percy’s hands with deliberate grace. “The task was designed to be impossible,” Hades explained, his expression inscrutable. “I sought merely to gauge your resilience and see if you possess any inherent talent worthy of my notice.”

“Was it some sort of sick trial?” Percy asked, feeling Aregos already creeping up his skin to settle upon his damp hair.

In that instant, their minds linked—Percy blinked, and suddenly Hades was there before him. His robes trailed behind him like living tendrils.

“Indeed. And you have acquitted yourself admirably. I trust Styx is gratified, though her thoughts are as elusive as the whispers of the abyss,” Hades remarked, his gaze riveted upon the roiling black waters.

“Adorn yourself and accompany me to the feast. There is one eager to make your acquaintance,” Hades said, already turning to depart.

“Who?” Percy’s anxiety flared, his mind racing with visions of Apollo’s imminent arrival.

“Not him,” Hades clarified. “Be prompt.” With that, he vanished into the gloom.

Percy cleansed himself in the clear waters and clad himself in new garments bestowed by Hekate—a grey chiton, embroidered with threads of silver, falling to his mid-thigh, and a dark blue chlamys draped across his shoulders, shielding him from the bitter caress of the wind.

He then set out across the Styx, his bare feet pressing against the river’s surface, for no bridge or ferry was provided. As he traversed, he felt the souls stirring beneath, glimpsing their spectral faces from the murky depths.

He halted as a boat emerged from the shrouded fog, a solitary lantern swaying with its passage as Charon ferried the newly arrived. The ferryman’s visage remained obscured beneath a sable hood, yet Percy discerned a slight inclination of acknowledgement.

Without pausing, Percy pressed on, his footsteps unwavering despite the tension coiling within him. Beneath the surface of the river, he could see the silhouette of Styx gliding like a shark.

At last, he arrived at Hades’ palace, where his steps echoed through the desolate halls, each sound magnifying the emptiness around him. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to fathom who might be Hades’ guest.

He halted, his gaze drawn to a table laden with the bounty of the earth. Four silhouettes sat by it: Persephone, Hades, Hekate, and… Hermes. The messenger god’s presence was striking, his helmet adorned with wings, perhaps a tool that allowed him to leap effortlessly between realms.

In the dim light of the underworld, Hermes’ skin glowed with an otherworldly luminescence, making him appear as if he didn’t quite belong in this shadowed realm, much like Persephone.

As Percy approached, Hermes' eyes locked onto Percy, his gaze dark and seething with barely contained fury. It was as if he were throwing daggers with each look. His fists were clenched tightly on his thighs, the knuckles white.

Percy took a seat beside Hekate, across from Hermes. The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut.

Percy glanced at Hekate, noting the weariness in her eyes. She wasn’t angry, but there was a deep fatigue etched into her features, as if the burdens she carried were wearing her down.

“Have you rested?” she asked, her tone softer than he expected.

Percy shook his head. “I met with Styx.”

He could have sworn he saw her rolling her eyes, a rare crack in her stoic facade.

"You suspect why Hermes is here, Einalian," Hades began, his voice a deep rumble as he poured himself a glass of wine, the liquid dark as night.

"Yes," Percy replied, his voice steady but laced with a quiet empathy. "You’re here to regain your tongue, I believe." He couldn’t shake the feeling of pity that welled up within him as he looked at Hermes. The god, usually so full of life and mischief, now looked utterly wretched. His lips were pressed into a firm, grim line, and dark circles underlined his tired eyes, giving him a hollow, almost human, vulnerability. Percy knew all too well the agony Hermes was enduring; he had experienced it himself—his tongue cut, blood pooling in his mouth, each word a fresh wound.

"I tried to explain to him that the tongue was given to me by you, Einalian, and now belongs to me," Hades said, his fingers tapping a contemplative rhythm on the table. "Yet he seems reluctant to leave without it."

Percy pondered the dilemma, his thoughts racing. “Is there a chance you could give it back to him?” he inquired, his voice trembling with a fragile hope. A fleeting spark of surprise flickered in Hekate’s eyes as she turned to him, her gaze revealing a hint of astonishment at his unexpected gesture of mercy.

Hades, draped in the sombre elegance of his underworld realm, reclined in his chair, his demeanour contemplative, almost serpentine. “It was a means of your position here,” he intoned slowly, as if savouring each word for its weight and consequence. “Unless you possess something else of value to offer in exchange…” His voice trailed off, the implication of his words hanging in the air.

Percy felt his heart sink. He possessed nothing that could rival the worth of what was demanded. What could he possibly offer to match such a demand?

“More souls, then,” Percy proposed. “I shall bring you two hundred or more.”

Hades' eyes narrowed, the faintest trace of amusement ghosting over his lips. “An offer devoid of elegance,” he mused, his tone almost languid. “You underestimate the nature of this transaction.”

A flicker of desperation ignited within Percy. “Do you wish to leave Hermes speechless for years to come?” he ventured, hoping to stir some vestige of empathy within the god of the dead.

Hades' eyes darkened at the audacity of Percy’s words. "Hermes? That chatterbox? I find him more tolerable when his tongue is still," he sneered, his lips curling into a cold smile. Across the room, Hermes scowled, his pride wounded.

Percy cast a glance at Hekate, the goddess whose gaze remained fixed on Hermes with a penetrating intensity, as if she could unravel his very soul with her stare alone.

As Percy’s mind scrambled for a solution, a ghastly idea surfaced. It was a notion so repugnant it made his stomach churn, yet it seemed to be the only path forward. Bracing himself, Percy rose from his seat with a resolve hardened by necessity.

Hades leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he watched Percy approach. The god of the underworld radiated a quiet curiosity, intrigued by what the demigod might propose. Percy’s heart pounded in his chest as he made a subtle gesture, signalling his intention to speak privately.

Hades, with a casual wave of his hand, cast a silencing spell over the table, a shimmering barrier of magic that would keep their conversation hidden from the others. He leaned forward slightly, allowing Percy to whisper into his ear.

Hekate’s gaze sharpened, her brow furrowing as she watched Percy, suspicion creeping into her expression. Whatever he was offering, it clearly unsettled her.

As Percy whispered, Hades’ expression shifted from surprise to amusement. A sly smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he pulled back slightly to regard Percy with a newfound interest.

"Are you sure, boy?" Hades asked.

Percy nodded, his voice steady but filled with resignation. "It’s useless to me anyway. If it has any worth to you…"

Hades cut him off with a swiftness. “It has,” he intoned, his eyes alight with a dark, almost malignant satisfaction. His words lingered in the air, before he nodded decisively, sealing their silent pact.

Hekate, her senses attuned to the shift in the room’s atmosphere, rose abruptly from the table, her face a mask of profound concern. “Whatever folly this boy has bartered, do not consent,” she urged, her voice tinged with a rare, anxious edge. The depth of her worry was so palpable that even Hermes, brooding in his corner, glanced up in surprise.

“You’ve always had an eye for my possessions, Hades. Name it, and I will yield it to you. Spare the boy any future regret,” Hekate pleaded, her tone a blend of desperation and defiance.

Yet Hades seemed impervious to her plea, his gaze fixed with an almost covetous gleam as he rose from his chair. He turned to Persephone, his voice soft as a whispering breeze. “You may close your eyes, my love; the sight will be a gruesome one.”

Chapter Text

Paris woke with a start, his eyes wide, heart pounding like a war drum. He rose from the bed, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a shroud. Throwing a robe over his shoulders, he made his way through the silent corridors until he reached the balcony. The night air was cool, but it did little to soothe his frayed nerves.

“Can’t sleep?” His brother’s voice broke the silence as he approached, leaning casually against the railing, his gaze fixed intently on Paris.

“Did I wake you?” Paris asked, trying to steady his beating heart.

“Your breathing was loud enough to wake old Priam,” Hektor teased lightly, though his expression quickly turned serious. “Nightmares keeping you awake?”

“This one was more vivid than any I’ve ever had,” Paris admitted, his voice tinged with unease.

“Tell me about it.” Hektor said, his curiosity piqued.

Paris hesitated, his reluctance evident, but finally, the words spilled out. “An old friend from Mount Ida. His name was Einalian. The most beautiful youth I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Hektor’s expression darkened, a shadow crossing his features, but he remained silent, waiting for Paris to continue.

“And?” Hektor prompted, his tone careful.

“He told me something peculiar.” Paris turned to his brother, eyes wide with the weight of his revelation. “That tomorrow, I will be asked to judge three goddesses.”

Hektor didn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes took on a seriousness that surprised Paris; he had expected mockery, not concern.

“And what about that made you so restless?” Hektor pressed gently.

“He warned me not to agree to Aphrodite’s promises,” Paris explained, feeling a heavy burden lift as he spoke. “She will offer me the most beautiful woman, Helen of Sparta, but he said it will ignite a war with the Achaeans.” His words trembled on the edge, his face clouded with doubt. "What if Cassandra is right?" he asked, his voice brittle.

Hector’s lips curled in a disdainful sneer. "Cassandra? That wretch is lost to madness, her mind a ruin. You’d be a fool to listen." His eyes glittered, sharp and unforgiving. "Perhaps her disease is catching—are you slipping into her darkness?”

Paris frowned, unsettled by the bitterness in Hector’s tone. He rarely spoke of Cassandra so coldly, as if she weren’t still their sister, once so full of innocence and light.

"Did that boy speak anything that wasn’t drenched in delirium?" Hector pressed, his voice rough as iron.

"No," Paris sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Only more madness." Yet beneath his resignation stirred an unspeakable dread, the nagging pull of truth.

"He told me he’s already in the underworld." Paris’s eyes drifted to the distant city. "How could that be?" His voice broke, a shiver passing through him. "How could death claim him so soon?"

Hektor placed a firm hand on Paris’s arm, squeezing it in a gesture of reassurance, though the grip was almost painful. "I'm surprised you still cling to him after all that’s passed," Hector said, his grip tightening just before it loosened. "He betrayed you, Alexander. How long will you sacrifice your nights to the ghost of his memory?"

"But I love him," Paris whispered, the confession trembling on his lips like a fragile secret laid bare. "We were brothers, once."

Hektor moved closer, his expression hardening as he gripped the nape of Paris’ neck with firm, almost paternal authority. “I am your brother now,” he said, his voice low and resolute. “You are still a child in so many ways. Do you even know what love means?”

Hektor’s grip turned heavy, a reminder of the world they lived in and the expectations that weighed on them both. "Honour the second life Lord Apollo has granted you, and cease these foolish dreams of one who nearly stole it from you," his words, though harsh, were meant to guide, to pull Paris away from a past that could only bring him pain.

Yet, as Hektor released his grip and took a step back, the weight of his command settled heavily on Paris’ shoulders.

“Do you understand?” Hector’s voice hung in the air.

Paris nodded, though the gesture was more out of habit than agreement. His thoughts still lingered on Einalian and the strange, foreboding dream. Hektor’s stern gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, searching for signs of compliance. But when he found none, he sighed and turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the corridors.

Left alone with the cool night air and the distant murmur of the city, Paris felt the weight of his thoughts settle over him like a shroud. He leaned on the balcony, staring out into the darkness, unable to shake the image of Einalian’s face or the ominous warning he had received.

As Paris’ brother retreated into the depths of the palace, something unsettling began to happen. Hektor’s eyes began to glow with an eerie, golden light, casting a faint, otherworldly shimmer in the shadowed corridor. The transformation was subtle yet unmistakable, as if some hidden force was slowly revealing itself within him, a secret that lay just beneath the surface.

---

Persephone’s gaze was downcast, her delicate hands resting in her lap, as if the weight of the decision pressed too heavily upon her to lift her eyes. It was Percy’s choice, and she knew she must not interfere. Yet, a silent plea flickered within her, a hope she dared not voice. She glanced towards Hekate, her eyes imploring what her lips could not utter. The Triple Goddess met her gaze, her own eyes ablaze with a storm of purple and orange hues, swirling like a cosmic vortex. In an instant, Hekate moved, her form dissolving into shadows, reappearing beside Percy, her presence a shield against Hades' looming hand.

“Hekate,” Hades intoned, displeasure etched into every syllable, yet he paused, awaiting her words.

“The boy has endured more than any soul should bear,” Hekate declared, her voice laced with sorrow and unassailable truth. “He has suffered under Apollo’s cruel hand, stripped of his senses, his dignity torn asunder. I was powerless then, unable to halt the torment inflicted upon him. But now, now I can act, and I will not stand idle as he is maimed once more, this time by his own kin.”

Hades straightened, the air around him thickening with contemplation.

“And yet, he has made his choice,” Hades countered. “The boy offered me a trade—Hermes' tongue for something of equal value. It is you, Hekate, who should convince him to relinquish this pursuit, to let go, and allow me to keep what has been rightfully claimed.”

Hekate turned to Percy, her gaze piercing through to his very soul, seeking the resolve within him.

But Percy's expression told her all she needed to know. “I cannot stand by and watch,” Percy explained, his voice steady with conviction. “To let Hermes live in this state would be to accept Apollo’s cruelty as just. Let me do it, let me prove something.”

Hekate’s gaze softened, a rare tenderness emerging as she recognized the unyielding depth of Percy’s resolve, though the tempest in her eyes continued to swirl, undiminished. “You are a true hero,” she whispered, her voice a delicate thread of admiration. “But sometimes, even heroes must allow themselves a touch of selfishness. I hope Apollo will one day rue his cruelty, for I long to witness him pay the price he so richly deserves.” Her fingers brushed his cheek, a fleeting caress, before her focus shifted back to Hades. With a solemn nod, she accepted the inevitable.

Standing behind Percy, Hekate held his face gently in her hands, a guardian against the darkness that loomed before them.

Hermes, sensing the gravity of what was about to transpire, rose slowly from his seat, confusion etching lines into his brow. He struggled to comprehend the sacrifice Percy had just offered, the lengths to which he would go.

“Which one?” Hades inquired, his voice a quiet rumble.

“Right,” Percy replied, bracing himself for the impending pain.

Hades’ focus sharpened, a dark intensity settling over him. With a slow, deliberate motion, he summoned a tendril of magic, black smoke coiling like serpents in the air, enshrouding Percy’s eye. The moment stretched into eternity, then a scream tore through the air as his eye was wrenched from its socket with a brutal swiftness.

Hekate held him close, her arms a sanctuary in his moment of agony. She whispered soothing words, her breath warm against his brow.

Reluctantly, she released him, her heart aching as she watched him stagger backward, his hand clutching the empty socket where his eye had been.

“That was quick,” Percy muttered, his voice trembling as the shock of the pain began to ebb, though its echoes still pulsed through his veins. Warm blood trickled down his cheek, each drop marking his chiton with dark stains.

Hades, with an air of reverence, held Percy’s eye aloft. It gleamed in the darkness like a fragment of the pale moon suspended in the void of night. His gaze lingered on it, captivated by the morbid beauty it possessed.

“Keep it hidden, keep it safe, and let it not be bartered,” Hekate warned, her voice a low murmur of caution that cut through the stillness. Hades, his expression inscrutable, closed his hand around the eye. He held it close, his dark gaze shifting from Percy to Hermes with an almost imperceptible smile.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice low and certain. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a small red sachet, tossing it toward Hermes with a practised nonchalance.

Hermes, his hands trembling with anticipation, caught the sachet and hastily opened it. His eyes widened with greed and relief as he retrieved his severed tongue. Without hesitation, he thrust it back into his mouth. The tissue knitted itself together with a grotesque swiftness, the muscle reattaching, his voice restored as if the cruel silence had never existed.

Yet Hermes remained silent, his gaze fixed intently on Percy, who was still wiping the bloody tears from his cheek. There was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes as he took a few quick steps toward Percy, only to be halted by Hekate’s outstretched arm.

“You have what you came for. Now, leave,” she commanded, her voice a venomous hiss.

Hermes' expression grew solemn, his usual levity replaced by something more sincere. “I want to talk to him, just for a moment,” he pleaded.

Hekate’s eyes narrowed as she gauged his sincerity, her instincts honed by millennia of dealing with the trickster god. Yet still, she remained wary. “If you even think of disappearing with him, I will find you,” she warned, her voice laced with lethal intent. “And this time, you will lose far more than your tongue.”

A tense silence hung in the air before Hermes nodded, his expression resigned but respectful. He approached Percy with an aura that seemed to shimmer more brightly, his divine presence almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Percy, feeling the weight of the god’s attention, raised his head to meet Hermes’ gaze, the remnants of pain still etched on his face. The moment felt heavy, laden with the echoes of what had just transpired.

“How do you feel?” Percy asked, the awkwardness of the question almost making him wince.

Hermes laughed, a sound that mingled disbelief with a tinge of amusement. “How do I feel?” he echoed, shaking his head as though the very question were absurd. “It’s you, Perseus, who stands before me with your eye wrenched from its socket, and you wonder how I feel?”

Percy flinched, startled by the god’s use of his true name, the familiarity of it cutting through the tension.

“I was certain that my fate was sealed, that I was doomed to become a maimed deity,” Hermes continued, his voice carrying a hint of regret. “I should not hold anger towards you; it was not your fault.” He looked away, as if the words themselves were a burden. “It was the first time I saw Apollo so enraged, all because of a kiss shared with you.”

The memory made Percy’s cheeks flush, the heat rising with the embarrassment of the past.

“But I do not regret it,” Hermes said, his smile sharp and revealing a genuine flicker of his true self.

“Stop talking nonsense,” Percy retorted, his voice edged with annoyance. Hermes swayed on his heels, as if pondering his next inquiry with an air of mischief.

“May I kiss you again?” Hermes asked, his tone almost imploring.

Percy’s eyes narrowed, his expression a mixture of amusement and wariness. “I won’t spare another eye if your tongue is to be cut again,” he warned, his voice firm.

Hades, perched in his throne, raised an eyebrow at the exchange, though he remained silent, sipping his wine with an air of detached interest. His gaze flickered to Persephone, who, too, observed the unfolding drama with a quiet intensity.

“Alright,” Hermes grunted, a note of resignation in his voice as if he had half-expected the rejection.

“You can go now,” Percy said, casting a wary glance towards the dark, formidable presence of Hekate. He had no doubt that if Hermes overstayed his welcome, the goddess would have no qualms about unleashing her hounds upon him.

“Allow me to offer you some... delectable information,” Hermes continued, his tone slipping into one of languid ease. “I’m certain you’re curious about the hunt.”

“Hunt?” Percy’s brow furrowed, his interest sharpened by the unexpected revelation. “What hunt?”

Hermes chuckled softly, the sound both warm and biting. “You can’t be that clueless,” he teased, his voice lilting yet razor-edged. “Poseidon, Ares, Eros—along with a few others—are actively pursuing you now that you’ve slipped from Apollo’s watchful eye.”

“He is under my protection now,” Hades interjected, his words a dark rumble.

Hermes barely flinched, offering only a casual shrug. “Not for long,” he replied coolly, as though delivering a simple truth. “They’re rather... determined. It’s become quite the contest.”

“And what of Apollo?” Percy’s voice betrayed an edge of unspoken urgency. “Where is he?”

Hermes’ casual wave of the hand was as dismissive as it was enigmatic. “He disappeared after the wedding. No one knows where he roams now. I suppose he prefers to play this game in solitude.”

Hades’ gaze darkened, his interest piqued as the shadows around him deepened. “Are you also a part of this game, Hermes?” he asked.

Hermes flashed a sly, knowing grin, his arms spreading as if to embrace the vast web of schemes he found himself entangled in. “Indeed, I am,” he purred, his eyes glittering with something unspoken. “Most of them are aware of your sanctuary here. It’s only a matter of time before they arrive, sniffing out their prize.”

“Well then, he’s right here. Why don’t you try to take him?” Hekate’s voice flowed like silk, but beneath it was a sharp edge, a gleam of defiance in her eyes that dared Hermes to cross the line.

Percy’s breath hitched, anxiety coiling tight in his chest. Hekate’s directness unsettled him—she was playing a dangerous game.

“I’m no fool,” Hermes replied smoothly, though his tone lacked the confidence he sought to project. Hades’ gaze, cold and unblinking, seemed to carve into him, weighing every word. “I’ve found you first, reclaimed the tongue that was once stolen from me—what more could I want?” His voice was light, almost dismissive, yet his eyes lingered on Percy, betraying him.

There was something else too—a flicker of nervousness. Hermes, for all his bravado, did not want to provoke Hekate, who shared powers that mirrored his own, nor Hades, whose patience thinned with every passing second.

Hekate’s expression faltered, a shadow of worry flickering across her face before she quickly composed herself. “No matter how many seek him now, Einalian will cease to be anyone’s concern once he fulfils his destiny,” she declared, her tone resolute.

“And what will happen then?” Hermes stepped closer, his curiosity sharpening.

“I will perish,” Percy explained, hoping to quell Hermes’ eagerness with the grim reality of his fate.

“What do you mean?” Hermes turned to Percy, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his face.

“I will cease to exist,” Percy said, his voice steady but heavy with finality.

“It’s alright,” Hermes attempted to offer a reassuring smile, though it faltered, strained by the gravity of Percy’s declaration. “If you die, I will visit you here still.”

Percy, contemplating the futility of further explanation—that he would not merely vanish but be sent far into the future—decided against elaborating. Instead, he blinked slowly, his gaze steady.

Hermes felt an unfamiliar pang of unease, as though the full scope of the truth eluded him. His gaze darted to Hades and Persephone, who appeared as bemused as he was, their expressions clouded with incomprehension. Only Hekate’s eyes burned with a knowing gleam, and Percy’s mirrored that same cryptic awareness.

“I believe it’s time for your departure,” Hekate announced, her tone firm and final.

“I believe it is,” Hermes agreed, adjusting his helmet with a practised motion. “Hey, hope to see you soon.” He gave Percy a playful nudge with his elbow, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous light.

Hekate moved forward as if the brief contact might somehow transport Percy to a realm unknown.

“Hope not,” Percy replied, his tone was light, yet beneath it lay the recognition of the danger Hermes represented.

Hermes flashed a grin, the flicker of something more serious passing briefly through his eyes. “Thank you for the tongue,” he said, his voice carrying an unusual note of sincerity. “I will cherish it more than before.”

There was a hesitation, a pause that felt longer than it should have, as Hermes cast one final, lingering look at Percy. Something unsaid hung between them, something only Hermes seemed to understand. Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he disappeared.

As the divine presence faded into nothingness, the oppressive atmosphere of the room began to lift, and Percy’s shoulders, once tense with unseen burdens, slackened in a moment of profound relief.

He turned his gaze toward Hades.

“Is there…a possibility that I might one day recover my eye?” Percy inquired, his voice tinged with a blend of hope and resignation.

Hades, placing his goblet of wine with an almost ritualistic care, summoned forth the eye once more, cradling it delicately between his fingers. Percy recoiled at the sight, a visceral shudder overtaking him.

“There is,” Hades responded, his gaze lingering on the pallid orb before meeting Percy’s gaze.

“You will regain the eye, shall we say... when you die,” Hades declared with a hint of ironic detachment.

“That seems dreadfully unfair,” Percy retorted, his voice laced with a sense of indignation.

“Unfair, do you say?” Hades’ voice brimmed with a sardonic mirth. “Consider it a rare gift that I deign to return it to you at all, especially given how you so willingly surrendered it.” The god’s tone grew more contemplative.

“The eye will be of little use to me in death,” Percy remarked, his expression darkening.

“Ah, but quite the contrary,” Hades said with a cold, cryptic smile. “You shall find it most necessary when you stand as Styx's servant, fishing souls from her inky waters for all eternity... it will serve you well."

Percy flinched, a tremor running through his defiance. "What?" he spat, his voice splintering with disbelief. "I thought the pact would be fulfilled after a hundred souls—"

"A hundred? Perhaps." Hades’ eyes glimmered. "But none have been so... adept as you, demigod. The bond that ties you to my domain is woven from something stronger. Your labour, your willingness—it has only drawn the net tighter. After death, you shall serve my kingdom, indefinitely."

Percy's fists tightened, trembling with silent fury. Why now, he wondered, was Hades so intent on provoking him?

The cruelty lay not in the threat itself, but in the subtlety of its suggestion, like a dark seed planted in the back of his mind.

Perhaps the god sought to conjure a vision of endless toil, of unceasing labour in the cold river Styx, hoping to deter Percy from any act that would inch him closer to death’s threshold.

Did Hades, in some twisted way, care for his survival?

With a measured breath, Percy let the fire within him cool, the heat slowly draining from his chest as he regained control.

A bitter smile twisted Percy’s lips. "Well," he said slowly, "I suppose fetching souls beats rotting in some forgotten corner of the underworld. I should thank you, Lord Hades, for sparing me the tedium of eternal idleness."

Hades' eyes widened, if only for a fraction of a second, caught off-guard by the sardonic retort. For once, it seemed the god of death was left without a reply.

“This day has been too long for you,” Hekate said softly, breaking the stillness as she moved to Percy’s side. Her hand slipped gently around his arm, her touch both firm and guiding. “Let’s return to your cabin.”

But Hades’ voice cut through the quiet, low and resonant. “Perseus,” he began, his tone heavy with authority yet laced with curiosity. “That is your true name. Why hide it?”

“I don’t,” Percy answered, his voice tinged with a quiet resolve. “I simply no longer identify with it; it belongs to a different time.”

“I will honour it, Einalian,” Hades nodded, his gaze softening with understanding.

Percy inclined his head in gratitude, a silent acknowledgement of the respect offered. With a final nod, he vanished alongside Hekate, leaving the room behind, now steeped in a quiet, contemplative stillness.

Hekate left him on the island, and Percy made his way to his cabin, which he had whimsically named “cabin-half-dead”—a name that struck him as both morbidly fitting and absurdly humorous. He undressed with a sense of weary resignation and approached the mirror, a tarnished surface that reflected his sombre mood. With a damp cloth, he began to wash away the dried blood, each stroke revealing the tender, oozing flesh beneath. He winced at the sight

After a brief, restless bath, he retreated to his bed, struggling to ward off the shivers that coursed through his body. The darkness of the room seemed to amplify his loneliness, and he groaned as Apollo’s visage—unbidden and unwelcome—haunted his closed eyelids. The grandeur of the god's palace, once overwhelming, now appeared in his mind as a distant memory of warmth and light. The radiant heat that had once scorched him now seemed to beckon with a deceptive comfort. He cursed himself for the thought.

Was this what they called Stockholm Syndrome? Had he become so accustomed to confinement that he now yearned for it? He shivered again, though this time he tried to convince himself it was merely the chill of the underworld, not some strange nostalgia.

Suddenly, he was jolted upright by the sound of doors creaking open and the soft patter of four-legged footsteps approaching. He reached out in the darkness, and by touch, recognized the snout and fur of an animal.

“Hello?” he asked, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and confusion. The dog’s body was warm, a comforting presence against his cold skin. It leaped onto his bed, settling by his side with a gentle thud. Percy could only surmise that Hekate had sent this creature as a gift of solace. The dog, sensing his weariness, made no effort to rouse him but instead curled up beside him, its warmth a balm for his frigid limbs.

Grateful for the unexpected companionship, Percy embraced the hound, his fingers sinking into the soft fur as he closed his eyes. The rhythmic rise and fall of the dog's breathing soon lulled him into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

Just as Hekate had predicted, Percy awoke to the sensation of warm, moist licks against his cheeks and hair. The hound’s enthusiastic greeting caused Aregos hidden in his locks to scuttle in alarm with each affectionate swipe, clearly displeased by the disturbance.

He connected with the spider, calming its skittish movements, and rose from the bed feeling unexpectedly refreshed. The details of how long he had slept were lost to him.

Percy looked out to see Hekate standing by the shore, her form almost ethereal, the wind catching her dress and head veil, making them billow like dark clouds against the grey sky. Her serene smile greeted him, and in her hands, adorned with silver rings, she bore an offering of fresh fruits that glistened with unnatural vibrancy.

After a few moments, Percy stood before her, now clothed in the humble garb of a Spartan youth—a creamy chiton that hung from his body with simple, unadorned grace.

“I thought it’s forbidden to consume anything from the underworld,” Percy mused, his curiosity piqued as he accepted the fruit, the skin of the apple cool and smooth beneath his fingers.

“These are my offerings,” Hekate replied, her voice as soft as the breeze that swirled around them. Her gaze held warmth, patient and knowing, as he raised the fruit to his lips. “The essence of my gifts transcends the borders of this realm. Eat.”

Percy savoured the crisp, sweet flesh of the apples, each bite a contrast to the stark surroundings.

“It is time for you to return once more to the realm of the living,” Hekate intoned, her voice carrying a note of impending urgency, like a distant storm gathering strength. “Yet this time, you must tread with far greater vigilance.”

With deliberate grace, she took Percy’s hand in her own, her touch both cool and commanding, as if wielding an unspoken power. From within the folds of her flowing robes, she produced a leather bracelet, its surface intricately inscribed with a delicate crescent moon. She fastened it around his wrist with a gesture that spoke of both protection and a solemn duty.

“Wear this,” she instructed, her voice firm, resonating with ancient authority. “It is crafted from the hide of a hound, imbued with its loyalty and ferocity. Any dog you encounter will become your guardian. Should you call for me during the day, when my presence cannot manifest, they will stand as your defenders.”

From her robes, she then drew forth a piece of soft linen, its texture as delicate as a whisper against the night. Gently, she draped it over Percy’s eyelids. “This will make your blindness more convincing.” Percy’s brow furrowed in concern as he traced the linen’s edge.

“And this,” Hekate added, handing him a simple staff. Percy’s lips tugged at the corners with excitement as he took it, already swinging it through the air with practised motion.

“Oh,” he said, his curiosity piqued. “Does it have any enchantments too?”

“If you strike someone hard enough with it,” Hekate said with a touch of amusement, “it will cause them pain.” Her gaze softened for a moment, a flicker of warmth in her eyes.

But then her expression turned serious once more.

“Now, for the key,” she continued, producing a silver key on a plain string. She placed it gently around his neck, letting it hang against his chest. “This key can open any door you wish—simply envision your destination clearly. If you find yourself pursued, do not hesitate to use it to return to the underworld. Here, you will find sanctuary.”

“Thank you, Hekate,” Percy said, a surge of gratitude swelling within him, mingled with an unexpected confidence. For the first time, the weight of his fate seemed lighter, and an eager anticipation sparked within him—a sense that the challenges ahead might not be insurmountable after all.

Hekate’s serene smile flickered, a glint of something darker in her eyes. “This isn’t the end,” she said softly. “This part…will sting.” Her tone was both warning and command. “Extend your right hand.”

Percy’s throat tightened as he swallowed, laying his staff gently on the ground before offering his hand, palm open, a silent trust hanging between them.

“The bracelets failed you because they were mere adornments—too easily removed,” Hekate explained, her voice taking on a grave note. “But now...” She took his hand, her touch delicate yet purposeful, hovering her own above it.

In a swift motion, a thin blade appeared in her fingers, gleaming with an unnatural sheen. Without hesitation, she began to carve a new sigil into his flesh, the strokes deliberate, each cut deep enough to ensure permanence.

Percy winced, pain shooting through him, but he endured, the sensation familiar, echoing the scars already etched onto his skin by Hekate’s previous gifts, each filled with her ancient magic. His palms pulsed with energy as she finally released him, the fresh wounds burning with her enchantment.

“These marks will make you invisible to the gods,” Hekate murmured, her voice quiet but heavy with power. “They will not hear you, nor will they see you. But the world around you will still respond to your presence—if you speak, if you act, they may sense it in the winds, in the motions of the earth.”

Her eyes met his, a warning shimmering in their depths. “That’s why you must be vigilant, Percy. Avoid speaking to others beneath the open sky. The gods are perceptive. They will grow suspicious if they see mortals conversing with the wind.”

Her gaze then shifted to the pin on his chiton—Riptide, the concealed blade gifted by Poseidon. A faint smile played on her lips, tinged with both admiration and concern.

“I hope you won’t have to draw that sword,” Hekate commented, her tone measured, “but I am relieved that Poseidon saw fit to arm you.” Percy’s fingers brushed the pin, feeling the cool metal beneath his touch.

"Remember," Hekate intoned, her voice thick with an almost maternal gravity, "your task is to find a way to get closer to the palace, to Helen. Observe more than you act. Knowledge, Perseus, is your sharpest blade now."

She moved toward the cabin door, her hand slicing through the air with a practised grace, and the doors swung open. Percy stepped forward, his gaze locking onto the bustling street beyond. The world outside felt jarringly vibrant, a stark contrast to the quiet, shadowed space of the underworld.

“Find the nearest temple to the palace,” Hekate instructed, her voice carrying the weight of the gods’ will. “Gain Helen’s trust and keep watch over her. Let us pray that Paris makes a reasonable decision in the judgement.”

Hekate gave a small, knowing nod—an unspoken acknowledgement of the trials to come. He paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on her, memorizing the shadowed strength that surrounded her like a cloak. Then, with a final breath, he crossed the threshold, stepping into the world of mortals once more.

The first light of dawn, wan and spectral, cast a pale hue over the vibrant streets of Sparta. The city was a cacophony of life, with vivid colours clashing against the muted tones of stone and dust. Market stalls brimmed with rich fabrics and gleaming pottery, their wares shouting for attention in hues of red, gold, and lapis lazuli. The scent of spiced meats and fresh bread mingled in the cool morning air, a tantalizing promise of sustenance and festivity.

Yet, amidst this lively spectacle, Perseus stood as an anomaly. The Spartan populace moved with a grim efficiency, their faces chiselled and stern. The men, their gazes steely and dismissive, looked upon Percy with a scornful edge, their contempt palpable. To them, his blindness marked him as a pitiable outcast, an object of their disdain rather than a worthy subject of consideration.

In contrast, a few women—perhaps more curious than contemptuous—glanced at Percy with an intrigued curiosity. Their eyes, though softened by the constraints of their society, lingered a moment longer on the sight of this foreign, sightless youth.

Some of the more perceptive among the Spartan citizens sensed an aura about him—something intangible and otherworldly, an essence that hinted at depths beyond mere blindness. They kept their distance, their respect mingled with a hint of fear.

As Percy wandered through the labyrinthine streets, lost in thought, a sudden, firm grip on his wrist jolted him from his reverie. The hand was unyielding and deliberate, belonging to an old priest whose greying hair tumbled past his shoulders, and whose chiton was a simple linen, betraying nothing of the deity he might serve.

Percy’s heart raced, uncertainty flooding his senses. This wasn’t part of Hekate’s plan, surely? Yet, a flicker of curiosity urged him to follow as the priest guided him toward a temple. The weathered columns of the edifice rose with sombre grace, standing tall against the encroaching shadows of dusk. The marble façade, scarred by the relentless passage of time, exuded a cold, dignified reverence that seemed almost to mock him with its imperfection.

Percy’s gaze was drawn to a statue before the entrance—a man in mid-stride, one knee bent, his hands poised with an arrow aimed with chilling precision, as if it sought to pierce Percy’s very heart.

Apollo.

A shiver ran down Percy’s spine as he imagined the statue’s marble limbs coming to life, bearing down upon him with an inexorable weight.

Before he could step across the threshold, Percy wrenched his arm free from the priest’s grasp, drawing in a steadying breath. The air seemed to grow colder, charged with a latent dread as he spoke.

“You have the wrong person,” he said, his voice trembling slightly with agitation. “I have no business here.”

The priest’s eyes were calm, his voice a respectful murmur. “We believe otherwise.” He paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “We sense a divine spark within you. It is our belief that you are the healer destined to restore our king’s waning health, sent here by Apollo.”

Percy’s heart skipped a beat, his astonishment barely masked. King Menelaos was ill—he contemplated the nature of this affliction, the weight of his new opportunity settling over him. This might be a part of Hekate’s design, but he could not be certain. Yet, the chance to draw closer to the palace, to Menelaos, and perhaps even to Helen, was too fortuitous to ignore. He decided to seize the moment.

“I apologize,” Percy said, his voice now tinged with a forced conviction. “You are correct. I have been summoned here by divine will.” He spoke with reluctant resolve, striving to maintain a facade of certainty.

The priest’s smile widened, relief evident in his expression. “I knew from the start that you were the right person,” he said, his tone imbued with genuine assurance. He guided Percy deeper into the temple, where the flickering light from oil lamps danced across the walls, casting ephemeral patterns that seemed to offer fleeting solace.

But as Percy stepped into the sacred space, a gnawing realization took hold—he had no idea how to treat people. The truth of his inadequacy loomed over him like a dark cloud. He feared that, if truth were known, he might be the worst Apollo priest ancient Greece had ever seen.

“Do not worry, master, I will assist.” The voice of Aregos echoed in Percy’s mind, an unexpected intrusion that sent a shiver through him. It was the first time since their introduction that he heard the spider speak.

“Since when do you know how to deal with humans?” Percy’s tone wavered between curiosity and scepticism, his mind racing to reconcile this new, unsettling revelation.

“I was human once,” Aregos replied, the softness of her voice nearly swallowed by the strain of their mental exchange. Percy’s mouth parted, a response on the brink of formation, but he hesitated. There was a profound weariness in the spider's tone, and Percy chose not to press further.

"I count on you," he said instead, his tone soft but resolute.

---

As Percy entered the opulent chamber of King Menelaus, the sight before him was both sombre and stirring. The room, adorned with lavish tapestries and golden artefacts, felt stifling with its grandeur. At the centre of this opulence lay the ailing king, propped against an array of sumptuous pillows, his face pale and drawn.

Beside him, Helen sat, her renowned beauty diminished not by time but by the weight of her concern. Deep lines of worry marred her face, shadowing the brightness in her eyes. Yet even in her distress, she moved with a grace that marked her as a queen. As Percy approached, she rose from her seat, her regal bearing dissolving into an almost desperate plea.

“Are you the healer sent to help?” Helen’s voice trembled with a blend of urgency and hope, her gaze searching for assurance.

"Yes," Percy replied simply, his voice steady despite the tension that hung in the air.

Helen gave a quick, sorrowful nod to her maid, who had been waiting discreetly by the door. With a silent, resigned acceptance, Helen allowed herself to be led away, leaving Percy alone with the slumbering king.

Percy introduced himself to the priests and healers who had gathered around the king’s bed, their gazes heavy with expectation. He could feel their doubt, their unease, but he remained steady. As he moved closer to Menelaus, he could feel the subtle stir of Aregos nestled within his hair.

The spider’s presence was a reassuring guide, a thread of ancient wisdom woven into his own thoughts. Aregos’s whisper, soft yet insistent, threaded through Percy’s mind, revealing the nature of the king’s affliction.

“He exhibits signs of a severe fever, darkening of the skin, and profound weakness—typhoid fever,” Aregos murmured, his voice carrying a quiet certainty that soothed Percy’s nerves.

Percy repeated Aregos’s diagnosis, his voice steady and composed. His gaze lingered on the king’s pallid face, noting the deep lines carved by suffering and the clammy sheen of sweat clinging to his brow. Each symptom corroborated Aregos’s diagnosis—typhoid fever, a relentless and feared ailment of ancient times, marked by unyielding fevers, delirium, and a gradual erosion of strength.

With a deliberate calm, Percy reached for the king’s wrist, his fingers seeking the pulse beneath the skin. The heartbeat he found was alarmingly rapid, a frantic rhythm that spoke of the body’s desperate struggle against the invasive illness.

The king was teetering on the edge, and Percy understood the urgency of each passing moment.

“I shall prescribe a regimen to alleviate His Majesty’s suffering,” Percy declared, his voice firm yet gentle, imbued with the weight of his responsibility.

“Please, we have all the herbs we could gather,” the priest said, gesturing to a nearby table where various ancient remedies were arrayed, their presence both hopeful and inadequate.

Percy let Aregos take the lead, allowing the spider’s ancient wisdom to guide him. Aregos’s presence, subtle yet profound, was a steadying force amidst the tension. As the spider assessed the herbs spread before them, Percy waited, his trust in the creature’s knowledge unwavering.

With a gentle nudge in his thoughts, Aregos began to speak, and Percy voiced the words aloud, his tone assured and resolute.

“We will need to start with a strict diet of clear broths and barley water,” Percy said, his voice resonating with quiet authority. “This will maintain hydration and begin to restore some of the strength he has lost.”

Percy’s hands moved swiftly, selecting the necessary ingredients as Aregos continued to guide him.

“Additionally,” Percy went on, “I shall prepare a concoction of willow bark and honey. The willow bark will help to manage the fever, while the honey will soothe the inflammation that ravages his body.”

He began to crush the willow bark with practised ease, mixing it with the honey in precise measures. As the potion took shape, Percy felt a sense of purpose solidify within him. Under Aregos’s guidance, each step felt deliberate, part of a careful plan to bring King Menelaus back from the brink of death.

At one point, Percy halted mid-motion, his thoughts swirling with a dark, unsettling realization. He was aiding the recovery of the very man who had summoned Agamemnon to wage war against Troy. If Menelaus were to die, perhaps the great conflict would never ignite—perhaps the fates of countless lives would be forever altered.

Yet, who was he to condemn an innocent man to death? His gaze drifted to Helen, lingering by the door, her concern etched deeply into her features. If the king were to perish, Helen would be compelled to marry another, perhaps someone who might treat her with far greater cruelty.

Percy shook his head, the weight of his thoughts pressing heavily upon him. This was not his mission—to end Menelaus’s life. He had already failed in his part to eliminate Paris. His role now, he reminded himself, was to preserve life, not to extinguish it. The futility of such an endeavour had become apparent.

He resolved to focus on what he could control, to act with the compassion and skill he had been entrusted with, rather than being consumed by the haunting spectre of what-ifs.

The chamber was filled with a hushed reverence as servants and priests gathered around him, their eyes fixed on his every move. One priest, ever diligent, recorded Percy’s words as if they were sacred teachings.

“When will he recover?” Helen asked, her voice soft yet edged with the quiet tension of someone who had already waited too long. Her eyes never left Percy’s hands, watching every deliberate movement as he worked.

Percy offered a gentle smile. “A week or two, your highness,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I will make sure he does.”

Helen’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, the faintest hint of relief touching her features. “Thank you,” she whispered, her gratitude deep and sincere.

One of the priests, who had been watching Percy with a mix of awe and disbelief, spoke up. “To know such things without sight, to move with such ease…” He paused, his voice filled with reverence. “You are truly sent here by Apollo.”

Percy quickly masked his scepticism, offering a response that was as close to the truth as he dared.

“His light penetrates everything,” Percy said, striving to keep his tone even.

The priest nodded, his belief unwavering, while Percy inwardly resisted the urge to sneer at the irony of it all. The path he walked was shadowed in deception, but if it meant saving the king and staying near Helen, just like Hekate told him to, he would play the part they needed him to.

In the opulent chamber of Paris’s palace, the air was thick with anticipation and the murmur of fate’s whispered promises. The room, adorned with tapestries of grand battles and regal feasts, lay in an expectant hush, as though the very walls were holding their breath.

The velvet drapes, heavy with the scent of rich incense, framed the tall windows, through which the waning light of day cast long, sombre shadows. The atmosphere was saturated with the weight of destiny, a melancholic symphony that reverberated through the polished marble floors and intricately carved columns.

Paris, resplendent in his princely robes, sat upon his throne—a seat of power now burdened by the gravity of his impending decision. His expression was a complex tapestry of wonder and trepidation, his gaze fixed upon the space before him.

In a sudden, almost imperceptible shiver of air, the goddesses appeared, their presence marked by an ethereal radiance that seemed to distort the very fabric of reality. First came Athena, her eyes gleaming with the sharp clarity of wisdom, her armour shimmering with a light that spoke of countless battles and sagacious victories. Then Hera entered, her aura regal and commanding, the very embodiment of sovereignty and divine authority. Last, and most mesmerizing, Aphrodite emerged, her beauty an intoxicating blend of celestial allure and otherworldly grace, a vision of loveliness that seemed to challenge the very essence of human desire.

Each goddess stood poised with an imperious grace, their forms swathed in an ethereal mist of divine radiance. The chamber’s opulence seemed but a mere shadow beside their resplendent presence, and Paris felt the weight of their gazes—each a poignant blend of promise and peril.

Paris stood amidst the opulent splendour, awed and yet resolute as he bowed deeply before the divine assembly.

"I am unworthy of such a celestial visit," he murmured, his voice trembling like a leaf caught in a tempest. "How can I be of service to such divine beings?”

In a scintillating flash, Hermes appeared, his countenance grave despite the mirth that danced in his eyes.

“Dearest Alexander,” Hermes intoned with an air of solemnity, “you have been chosen by Zeus, the sovereign of the gods, to decide which goddess is worthy of this apple.” With an elaborate gesture, Hermes presented him with the golden fruit, upon which “For the Fairest” was inscribed. Paris took it turning it with focus.

Athena stepped forward, her voice a silken thread of reason. “Prince Alexander, I offer you wisdom and might, the assurance of strategic victories and the guidance of intellect that has shaped the course of empires.”

Hera followed, her tone imbued with the gravitas of a queen. “Choose me, Alexander, and you shall have the power of dominion and the favour of the heavens. My influence will shield your city from all adversaries, ensuring its prosperity and grandeur.”

Aphrodite approached last, her voice a velvet whisper that caressed the very soul. “And I, dear mine, offer you the ultimate gift of love and beauty. Choose me, and I will grant you the most exquisite of humans, whose beauty will surpass all others and bind your fate to a glory beyond compare.”

Paris’s heart raced, each goddess’s offer a seductive lure, weaving their promises into the tapestry of his destiny. He felt the pull of Aphrodite’s promise, the allure of beauty and the tantalizing vision of a world transformed by divine favour. Yet, amidst this temptation, a distant, shadowy whisper from a friend, now a phantom in the realms of Hades, echoed in his mind.

Drawing a ragged breath, Paris steeled himself against the sweet seduction of the goddesses' offers.

"Your promises are as intoxicating as honey, but I crave something…" His gaze lingered on Aphrodite's naked form, a vision of divine splendour. "Different and perhaps more perilous."

"Dare you question our gifts?" Athena's voice cut through the mists of temptation, her tone both sharp and commanding. "Speak your doubt."

"I seek to reclaim a beloved from the underworld," Paris declared, his fist clenched around the golden fruit.

Aphrodite's gaze, veiled in an artifice of mournful grandeur, met his with a sorrowful resignation. "Such a longing is naught but a fleeting dream, my dear one."

Athena, her brow etched with scepticism, offered a reluctant nod. "Indeed, the dead are beyond our grasp."

"He is known as Einalian," Paris persisted, his voice trembling. “Eyes the colour of the sea’s melancholy, hair dark as night, and his smile—, his smile outshines the very sun."

“I am aware of whom you speak,” Hera interjected. As she stepped forward, her words kindled a faint, flickering flame of hope within Paris’s weary gaze. “He yet breathes.”

“Your wish, though momentarily within reach, is fraught with peril. Einalian, ensnared by Apollo’s divine favour, hides within the underworld where the sun god’s grasp is weakened. Yet should you retrieve him, Apollo will swiftly reclaim him,” Hera said, her voice resonating with clear authority.

A shiver of elation coursed through Paris. Einalian’s continued existence was a beacon in his darkness, a rapture that nearly unseated his reason. But Apollo, the very deity who had once been his patron, who had gifted him with a lyre and saved him from ruin, had taken Einalian into his own celestial domain.

If his friend fled to the underworld to avoid Apollo, it was a sign that the sun god was now his rival. How could he, a mere mortal, wrest Einalian from the grasp of a god?

“What counsel, then, do you offer?” Paris implored, his voice a trembling whisper of despair.

Aphrodite’s eyes narrowed, a spark of frustration briefly igniting her carefully composed facade. “Does he hold you in equal devotion?” she questioned.

“No,” Paris confessed, his gaze heavy with sorrow. “Yet he remains a jewel in my heart, even if my affections are unreciprocated.”

“I could compel him to love you,” Aphrodite purred, her pale fingers sliding seductively up his shoulder. Paris closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sweet, intoxicating scent of her presence, his thoughts swirling in a dizzying haze. “Should you choose me, I could spark an all-consuming obsession within him, making him cling to you even if it invites Apollo’s wrath,” she whispered, her voice a tempting promise.

Paris swallowed hard, the weight of her proposal pressing heavily upon him. “That would mean peril for both of us.”

“No,” Aphrodite laughed softly, her voice warm and reassuring. “I shall shield you from harm.”

“Keep your head anchored to the earth, Alexander,” Athena interjected sharply. “You owe your kingdom your allegiance. I could elevate you to become a wise and revered king, commanding lands and ensuring the prosperity of your people for millennia. In time, you might win his heart. After all, no one rejects a king.” Her words dripped with the promise of enduring legacy and the heavy mantle of respect, as if she were weaving a new tapestry for his fate, one of divine grandeur and unassailable authority.

Her words, though compelling, barely grazed Paris’s resolve, still consumed by the tantalizing promise of Aphrodite’s allure. Just as he raised his hand, poised to bestow his favour upon the goddess of love, a thunderous voice cut through the tension.

“I could elevate you to the heights of divinity,” proclaimed Hera.

The air in the chamber grew taut with shock, as Athena and Aphrodite exchanged looks of astonished disbelief. The suggestion hung heavy, like a thundercloud poised to unleash its storm. Athena’s eyes narrowed with concern as her thoughts grappled with the enormity of the proposition.

“Place the apple in my hands,” Hera continued, her eyes shimmering with a predatory gleam, “and I shall grant you a place beside Zeus himself. On Olympus, I will consecrate your union with divine sanction, severing Apollo’s claim and securing your beloved's place at your side.”

Athena stepped forward, her disbelief apparent in her stern gaze. “Such a feat is beyond our reach. He does not yet merit such elevation.”

“That is where you err,” Hera retorted, her voice edged with sharpness. “Did Ganymede earn his ascent through merit, or was it merely divine favour?”

Athena, though acknowledging the truth in Hera’s words, found the notion of granting ascension for an apple a peculiar and unsettling concept.

“Paris has already found favour with the gods, many of whom hold his heart in esteem. From youth, his heart has been pure and his judgements fair,” Hera asserted, her conviction as unyielding as stone.

“There must be a deeper truth to this,” Aphrodite interjected, her voice laced with suspicion. “To bring Einalian from the underworld and bestow divinity? The apple cannot be the sole price.”

“Perhaps,” Hera replied enigmatically, her smile a crescent of cryptic significance. “Time will unveil all. And so?”

Paris stood amid the shifting shadows, his heart a tumultuous cauldron of hope and dread. The promise of godhood loomed before him like a cruel, luminous spectre—an enchanting glimpse of power and sanctity. With such power, he could not only shield Einalian but also protect the entire city of Troy. No longer would the boy have cause for concern about the city's safety.

The mere thought of enfolding Einalian in his arms once more, of manifesting the boundless depths of his devotion, drove him forward.

With his resolve as stark as the morning sun, Paris advanced towards Hera with an unwavering, almost desperate determination. Meeting her gaze with a fervent intensity, he placed the apple into her hands. “You are indeed the fairest,” he said, his voice trembling with earnest fervour, “I beseech you, let Einalian stand by my side.”

Aphrodite’s eyes widened in scandal, her dominion over such wishes eclipsed. Athena, though resigned, seethed with silent rage.

Hera’s eyes blazed with feverish delight as she released a laugh rich with almost maniacal glee. Her gaze upon the apple was laden with inscrutable significance, as if it concealed a secret beyond mortal comprehension. Athena’s jaw clenched. She sensed a deeper, hidden meaning behind Hera’s triumphant expression.

On the third day of tending to King Menelaus's frail health, as the first light of dawn crept through the narrow windows, a palpable excitement surged among the gathered servants and priests. The king’s eyes fluttered open, stirring for the first time since Percy’s arrival. The room seemed to exhale in unison, a wave of relief washing over the anxious assembly.

Menelaus, his strength slowly returning, turned his gaze towards Percy. He regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and confusion, his brows furrowing as he took in the young healer’s appearance. “You are blind,” he murmured, disbelief colouring his voice. “Why are you here?”

Percy didn’t miss a beat, his response as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Without me, you would be burning on the pyre.”

Menelaus's brow shot up, surprise quickly giving way to anger. His face flushed with indignation as he propped himself up higher on the cushions. “Such tone to a king?” he snapped, his voice rising with the heat of his temper.

Percy remained unfazed, though he averted his eyes in a gesture of respect. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I speak the truth,” he said calmly. “You were in a dire condition when they called for me. Without intervention, you wouldn’t be speaking to me now.”

The king’s anger wavered, replaced by a grudging acknowledgement of the situation. After a moment of silence, Menelaus asked, his tone less harsh, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Einalian,” Percy replied, adopting the alias he had chosen for this mission.

Menelaus regarded him with a piercing scrutiny, his eyes sharp and unyielding. “Einalian,” he echoed thoughtfully. “From where do you hail?”

Percy considered the question for a moment before responding, “Tenedos.”

“Ah,” the king murmured, his eyes drifting shut once more. “A beautiful island,” he said softly, his voice trailing off as he succumbed to sleep again.

As Percy laboured tirelessly in the days that followed, a sense of dread gnawed at the corners of his mind. The palace had begun to whisper of something darker—illness spreading through the land like a slow, creeping mist. “It’s been that way lately,” one of the priests confided, his voice heavy with weariness. “People are falling ill, more each day. I fear it’s the beginning of an epidemic.”

Percy felt his pulse quicken. He knew the forces that might be responsible, and a silent prayer curled from his lips—he hoped, with all his being, that it was not his fault.

Days passed, and the king’s strength returned, slowly but surely. Menelaus began to walk again, his appetite growing with each passing meal. Though wine and sweet libations were still forbidden, he seemed more himself, even laughing quietly in the still hours of the morning. Percy, ever watchful, ensured that water, herbs, and time worked in tandem to ease the monarch’s recovery.

One afternoon, as the sun began to dip behind the palace walls, casting long shadows across the table, Menelaus looked at Percy with a keen, knowing gaze. “You surprise me, boy,” the king said, his tone softened by newfound vitality. “Even though you are blind, there is no denying your skill.”

Percy offered a modest smile, dipping his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

Menelaus’s expression shifted, becoming serious, yet imbued with a certain warmth. “I want to appoint you here, in my palace. Permanently.”

Percy’s breath caught in his throat, his mind a tempest of conflicting emotions. The news was a rare gift, extending his chance to ensure Helen’s safety before he would be allowed to return to his own time. With only one week left to determine whether a war would commence, as Hekate had forewarned, this opportunity was crucial.

“My lord,” he began, “I'm not sure I deserve such an honour.”

The king’s eyes, now clear with gratitude, regarded him with a profound seriousness. “You have drawn me back from the brink of death, boy, and not only me. I have heard of your valiant efforts to quell the illness spreading through the palace. Though Sparta may scorn those like you, within these walls, respect will be your due.”

Percy bowed his head. “Thank y—”

“But,” Menelaus interrupted, a glint of mischief mixed with a darker curiosity creeping into his tone, “you must prove it.”

Percy straightened, his heart pounding. “Prove it?” he repeated, confusion flickering across his face.

“Take off the blindfold and show me your eyes,” the king commanded, his voice low but firm. At once, the hum of the feast quieted. All eyes turned toward Percy, watching him with the greedy curiosity of those who hungered for spectacle. Many still harboured doubts, whispering amongst themselves that the blind healer could not truly be sightless.

Percy’s pulse hammered wildly in his temples, the rhythm of his fear syncing with the growing tension in the hall. He hesitated, a fresh wave of dread crashing over him. What if Apollo was indeed watching from the shadows, close enough to bestow clarity upon his sight?

The fear was irrational, he knew, but recently, it had become an oppressive presence in his life. Every murmur, every whisper, every fleeting ray of sunlight seemed like a subtle sign of Apollo’s watchful eye, a reminder of the divine scrutiny he imagined was bearing down upon him. The thought that, upon removing the blindfold, his eyes might suddenly regain their sight filled him with a profound terror.

Menelaus’s eyes bore into him, his impatience a palpable force.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Percy reached behind his head, fingers trembling as they untied the linen cloth. The air in the hall grew thick as the blindfold slipped from his face, landing softly on the table.

Menelaus leaned forward, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. The crowd held its collective breath. Percy’s face, though youthful and serene, was marred by the truth his eyes revealed. One socket lay empty, dark and hollow like forgotten caves. The other eye, white and gleaming like a pearl pulled from the deepest ocean, held no trace of sight—only an otherworldly glow, cold and ancient.

Menelaus exhaled slowly, a trace of satisfaction settling on his features. “Very well,” he said, reclining with a release of the tension that had gripped him. “It is a pity you cannot behold the world’s beauty, particularly that of my wife. Yet, in a way, I find solace in it! Fewer admirers make for a more tranquil existence.”

The king’s laughter, deep and resonant, filled the room, and the echoes of his mirth reverberated through the chamber, mingling with the laughter of those who joined him.

Percy forced a smile, though his thoughts swirled elsewhere. The immense relief he felt was a fragile balm against his fears.

His gaze, momentarily drifting, found Helen, who sat by the king, flushed and vibrant, her spirit seemingly lightened by Menelaus’s recovery. There was a tenderness in the way she looked at him—perhaps even love. Percy still couldn’t be sure. But her concern for the king had been genuine, her worry etched into every line of her face in the days prior.

It would be a terrible shame if Paris came to destroy all this fragile peace.

Chapter Text

Aphrodite sat in her chamber, her nails digging cruelly into her flesh, the sunlight casting a glow over the delicate skin now torn and bleeding gold, the wounds welling with a slow, languid gleam. Her breath quickened, eyes wild with a tempest of fury, her beauty twisted into something feral, venomous.

“That brat!” she shrieked, her voice reverberating off the marble walls like a dissonant chord. In a single, violent motion, she rose from her seat. “Wretched son of Priam! Curse him and the miserable line that springs from his loins!” Her voice tore through the silence.

The chamber, once a haven of serenity, became the stage for her violent rage. Goddess of love hurled her gilded statues to the floor, their faces shattering into jagged fragments. The soft coo of doves, her eternal companions, dissolved into chaos. A white cloud of feathers erupted as they scattered in terror, fleeing her wrath as if pursued by some unseen malevolence.

The air thickened with the heady scent of crushed petals and incense, mingling with the bitter tang of her blood—a perfume of destruction, intoxicating, all-consuming

It was then that Ares emerged from the shadows, drawn to her by the smell of her fury, her screams curling through the air like a lover's beckoning.

“So, where’s your precious fruit?” he teased, the words laced with mockery. He had barely finished before a statue flew in his direction, shattering against the wall beside him. Ares laughed, his amusement only deepened by the chaos around them.

“Don’t you dare,” she snarled, her voice ragged, trembling with the weight of her wounded pride. Her golden hair hung like a veil over her face, concealing her wild, tear-streaked eyes. She was dishevelled, her usual grace marred by her fury. Yet, even in her broken state, she demanded reverence. “Am I not the fairest?” Her voice cracked, vulnerable in a way that seemed foreign to her divine lips.

Ares only smiled. “You are. Your beauty is unmatched—you know this, everyone knows,” he said, his tone drenched in a honeyed sincerity. He stepped closer, undeterred by her disarray, his fingers trailing over the destruction she had wrought. “Still... Hera must have been more convincing, mustn’t she?” He mused, his voice soft with mock curiosity. “What did she offer that outshone even you?”

He sat beside her, among the wreckage of her fury, like a god admiring the remnants of a battlefield. His red eyes flicked over her with an almost possessive gleam, watching her unravel in a way that thrilled him.

Aphrodite’s shoulders shook, her breath shallow as she struggled to regain her composure.

“The fruit was almost in my hands,” she hissed, her nails digging into her palms. “I saw it in his eyes—his lust, his love—but then...” A laugh, harsh and twisted, spilled from her lips, echoing through the chamber like a hollow wail. “Hera offered him godhood. Everything I could give, she promised and more—Einalian by his side, eternal ascension.”

Ares’s brow furrowed, his amusement dimming as curiosity flickered in his eyes. “Demigod and him know each other?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “The Prince of Troy... wants Einalian who now hides in the underworld.”

“Don’t play the fool, Ares.” Aphrodite’s gaze lifted, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of exhaustion and bitter understanding. She saw through him, saw through everyone. “You want him too,” she said, her voice soft but dripping with certainty. “Everyone wants him.”

“Have you seen how our son was with Einalian at the wedding?” Aphrodite’s voice softened, a smile creeping across her lips, though it held a sinister edge. “Usually, he grows bored with his lovers, our boy—flitting from one to the next like a butterfly drawn to a flower. But with him... it was different. I saw it.” Her eyes glowed with an unsettling delight, her words steeped in something both maternal and malicious. “The son of Poseidon—he’s desired by many, and that alone makes him worthy of Eros’s attention. Of my attention.”

Her fingers twitched, the tips brushing her thighs as though the thought of Einalian was something she could grasp, something tangible she might mould into her own twisted vision.

Her eyes fluttered as if lost in the dark fantasy forming in her mind. “I want to see all of Priam’s children fall, one by one, along with the city. I want to watch their skin peel as the flames consume them, hear their screams as Troy burns alive.”

Her words came faster now, fuelled by her growing obsession, her breath shallow as she nodded to herself. Her eyes were far away, as though she could already see the destruction unfolding before her. “And sweet Alexander,” she hissed, her voice dripping with contempt, “I want him to be witness to it all. To see Einalian taken beneath his own feet, helpless, crushed by the weight of his failure.”

Ares watched her with a mixture of fascination and unease, his sharp features betraying a flicker of uncertainty.

“And you,” her gaze locked onto him. Her fingers, delicate yet unyielding, slid up to grasp his chin, forcing his blood-red eyes to meet hers. She whispered, her breath like a hiss in the air, “you desire this greatly, don’t you? War.”

“And all that it brings,” Ares's voice rumbled.

Meanwhile on Earth, Percy immersed himself in the restoration of health among the ailing citizens. The plague, less dire than they had feared, began to yield to his ministrations. With Percy’s guidance, the people of Sparta took up the mantle of creating their own remedies, their collective efforts weaving a fragile tapestry of hope.

Every evening, as the sun sank behind the horizon, Percy descended into the underworld with news for Hekate. The goddess’s responses were often shrouded in silence, an enigmatic acquiescence that he interpreted as her indulgence in his daily triumphs, perhaps wary of interrupting him should any vital matter arise.

From the shores of the Styx, the dark presence of the river goddess lingered. Whenever she drew near, his veins would tingle as though he were part of the river itself.

Percy worked day after day, tirelessly fishing souls from the murky depths of the Styx. It had become such a routine that, at times, he lost track of where he was, the faces of the dead merging with the shadows of the underworld.

He told himself it was a matter of paying his debt to Hades, though he knew, deep in his bones, he had already fished a hundred souls. Perhaps more. And yet, he fished until his body failed him, collapsing onto the riverbank, his limbs heavy and useless, consciousness slipping away like a mist at dawn.

He always woke in his bed, restored, as if the river had cradled him back to the surface. There was a strange, unspoken harmony in the way he drifted between worlds, as though he belonged to both yet was bound by neither.

But one day, when the veil of sleep lifted, he did not find himself nestled in the familiar comfort of his bed. Instead, he awoke at the gates of Tartarus, his empty net clutched in his hands like a grim relic of his descent. The dark maw of the prison yawned before him, its breath foul with ancient hunger. Fear clawed at him, but it felt distant, like a memory of emotion rather than something he still possessed.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the vision to dissolve, his heart racing. When he opened them again, he found himself in his bed once more, his body warm and safe, his pulse a steady thrum beneath his skin. Relief washed over him like a tide, gentle and reassuring. It was only a dream, he told himself. Just a dream, the product of his overworked mind and tired body.

He had left the blindfold in his cabin that morning, feeling the weight of its fabric as something he could no longer bear. Instead, over his empty socket, he wore a brown leather eye-patch. It was simple, unassuming, yet somehow more unsettling to those who encountered him. His other eye, blind and cloudy, remained exposed, its eerie stillness enough to clear his path.

It was the final week of his quest—the crucial, ticking days that weighed heavily on his every decision—when everything began to shift.

As evening fell, Queen Helen appeared before him, her face a portrait of urgency. She moved swiftly, the hem of her tunic gathered in her hand, pulling it up so she could cross the stone floor with more haste. Her sandals whispered against the ground, but it was the sharpness in her eyes that captured his attention.

“Einalian,” she said, her voice taut with concern. “The hunters sent for the medical ingredients have vanished. And now the soldiers dispatched to find them... they haven’t returned.”

Percy’s focus sharpened at her words, a familiar sense of dread creeping in. He had been expecting something to go wrong—things were always precarious near the end, weren’t they?—but this felt like the first crack in a fragile wall.

Helen’s breath came quicker, not from exertion but from the weight of her thoughts, the responsibility that now rested squarely on her shoulders. Menelaus, still prostrate from his illness, could not be burdened with more. She needed solutions.

“I know you are more than a healer,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper, but her words carried a heavy implication. "If there’s divine aid you can call upon..."

Percy tilted his head slightly, feeling the faint sting of her unspoken question. She was searching, not with words but with the quiet gravity of her gaze—seeking something hidden beneath the surface of his flesh.

Helen, with her measured calm, was weighing him, feeling for the pulse of the divine, testing if his gifts ran deeper than the transient tricks of man.

“What is your plan, your highness?” Percy asked, his voice low, measured.

Helen’s resolve solidified, her gaze unwavering. “Join me and my men on this quest. We will go into the forest and search for them, dead or alive. I will not sit idle while my people vanish.”

Percy blinked, surprised by her resolve. “You are going as well?”

“I am a Spartan queen,” she replied, her tone carrying the edge of her warrior spirit. “I can wield a sword. Can you?” Her voice was sharp, challenging, and Percy could hear the faint undercurrent of affront. In the eyes of Sparta, he was just a blind man, a healer—someone who prayed but did not fight.

“Certainly,” he said, a slight smile tugging at his lips, his hand brushing over his chest where the pin lay hidden beneath his tunic.

Helen gave a brisk nod. “Good. Tomorrow at first light, meet me by the stables.”

“Why not now?” Percy asked, his voice tight with impatience, the urge to act already thrumming in his veins.

Helen stopped mid-step, turning to face him with an arched brow. “Darkness may not make a difference to you, but to us, it does,” she said, her tone steady but firm. “It would be too dangerous to embark in the night.”

He nodded, acknowledging the logic of her words, though it did little to quell the restlessness inside him.

She turned without another word, her steps echoing through the dimly lit hall as she disappeared into the shadows of the palace. Percy remained standing there, the weight of the coming day settling in his chest.

Removing the key from around his neck, Percy turned it in the lock, his mind awash with the spectral echoes of the Underworld. The door creaked open and he stepped out onto the shore of his cabin.

There, amidst the murky gloom, Styx awaited him as she always did—with the patient chill of eternity. Her form wavered like a ghostly wisp against the boundless abyss of the dark waters.

"I have other concerns besides fishing today," Percy muttered, his voice edged with weariness. Sleep had evaded him for days, and Styx had dragged him from his restless slumber relentlessly, demanding his aid in task that never seemed to end.

“An increasing tide,” she replied, her voice an eerie echo. The scene before them was nothing short of chaos. Charon’s boat, once steady in its task, now rocked under the weight of too many souls. It creaked ominously, burdened by the unrelenting flow of the dead. Souls leapt into the water in desperation, flailing in the inky black waves as they tried to cling to the boat or each other, turning the river into a churning mass.

“There was a battle in Thessaly,” Styx continued, her tone flat, as if such carnage were routine. “King Agamemnon allied yet another land, and the blood spilled has brought a new tide to my waters.”

Percy’s gaze hardened as he stared at the frantic, dead soldiers. Their faces were twisted in anguish, lives cut too short, dragged into the Styx far before their time. He clenched his fists, the weight of their unfinished lives pressing against his chest.

He took off his clothes and reached for the net Styx offered, feeling the cold grip of inevitability as it slid into his hands. With a weary breath, he waded into the river, plunging the net into the fray, hauling in lost souls with desperate resolve. Each pull on the net brought a rush of icy water over his skin.

Aregos awaited him on the shore with steadfast patience, nestled in the soft, protective folds of his robes.

Forty souls. He managed to capture forty before the exhaustion finally overtook him. His limbs ached, his vision blurred, and he staggered back to the shore. The souls still called to him, their wails ringing in his ears as he collapsed, the cold sand beneath him a distant comfort.

With a shuddering sigh, he closed his eyelids, surrendering to the oppressive weariness.

He felt a shadowy presence, a spectral hand lifting him with the gentleness of a whispered secret, guiding him to the sanctuary of his bed. Before it slipped away into the enveloping night, Percy was wrapped in a fleeting embrace.

When he awoke, Hekate stood over him, her dark silhouette stark against the lingering remnants of his murky dreams. The room felt heavy with her presence, as though even the air itself had stilled in reverence to the goddess.

“You’ve done well,” she intoned, her voice grave yet threaded with a note of approval. A subtle nod accompanied her words, though her gaze remained inscrutable.

Percy groaned into his pillow, the weight of fatigue pressing down on him. “Finally, some good news,” he muttered, laboriously pushing himself upright. His limbs felt leaden, the exhaustion of endless work and sleepless nights taking its toll.

“Menelaus is regaining his health,” Hekate continued, her words carrying a tone of measured satisfaction. “You’ve earned the trust of Helen and the palace by aiding in the fight against the sickness.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through the quiet with a note of grim determination. “It’s Apollo’s doing, isn’t it?”

Hekate’s gaze hardened slightly, her tone growing colder. “Perhaps,” she said, the mere mention of Apollo casting a shadow over her words.

Percy’s jaw tightened. “And what of Paris? Did you discover who he chose?” His voice held an edge of urgency.

Hekate’s response was almost hesitant. “Hera was chosen,” she said, though the words seemed to falter, her usual composure cracking just enough to send a jolt of alarm through Percy.

“That’s good, right?” Percy asked, though his voice carried a trace of uncertainty. “Hera likely offered him prosperity—maybe a great kingdom or something along those lines.”

“Or something,” Hekate echoed, her tone distant and detached. There was a hollow quality to her voice, a lack of the usual conviction that sent an icy chill through him.

Percy’s eyes narrowed, sensing that there was more to the story. “What is it?” he pressed, his voice insistent.

Hekate’s gaze grew colder. “You must return to the Underworld permanently until the end of the mission,” she advised, her words sudden and sharp.

“What? Why?” Percy demanded, rising from the bed. His voice cut through the quiet, but Hekate’s silence was louder. He could see it in her eyes now—an etched concern, deeper than anything he had seen before, like she had already resigned herself to some hidden, inevitable fate.

“There are far greater powers in pursuit of you,” Hekate explained, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Even with your blessings, Earth is no longer safe for you. You need to stay here.”

Percy’s frustration was palpable. “But Menelaus still needs me. The disease lingers, people continue to fall, and more will succumb. They’re counting on me.”

Hekate’s tone cut through the dimness. “You are needed here as well. After the battle in Thessaly, Styx is so choked with souls that the river barely moves.”

“Well, then maybe Charon should consider a larger boat,” Percy retorted sharply. He shook his head in frustration. “Besides, my debt is settled—one hundred souls already surrendered. Now, it is Helen who has called upon me. I promised to help her retrieve the soldiers lost in the forest.”

“The more reason to stay hidden,” Hekate warned, her voice taking on a sombre edge. “The wilderness holds no doors; you won’t be able to flee quickly if danger arises.”

Percy’s eyes flared with defiance. “So I’m supposed to sit here and do nothing, return to the present like some… coward?”

Hekate stepped closer, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper, barely carrying the weight of her burden. “Percy, your task is nearly complete. Keep your head low, or you will not survive the storm that’s coming. Do you not wish to return to your mother’s arms, to the world you left behind?”

The words echoed in Percy’s mind, but instead of relief, they left a hollowness. He had been clinging to the belief that this mission—this precarious dance between gods and mortals—had more meaning. For the first time since he’d appeared in this time, Percy had felt a sense of purpose. Yet now, with the end of his task so near, he realized just how incomplete it all felt. The sense of finality didn’t match the knot of unease growing in his chest.

His brow furrowed. Hekate’s words gnawed at him, each syllable settling deeper into his bones, but something didn’t sit right. "There’s something more, isn’t there?" he asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper in the vast silence. “Something you’re not telling me.”

Hekate’s eyes darkened. A fleeting vulnerability passed through her gaze, as if she was burdened by a secret too heavy even for her divine shoulders. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Hekate said nothing.

“Give me the key,” she finally said, extending her hand. The command was simple, but it carried the weight of inevitability.

“You don’t understand—” Percy began, but Hekate’s eyes flared with an inner fire, a spectral glow that silenced him.

“Perseus Jackson,” she intoned, her voice a deep, resonant hum that seemed to reverberate through the very fabric of his soul. “The course of your destiny teeters on a precipice. Heed my guidance, or the tides of fate will drag you under.” Her tone bore a strange, maternal authority.

He hesitated, the looming shadow of her power casting a chill over his resolve.

Percy’s attention shifted to the key hanging from the chain around his neck. That key had been his lifeline, his means of travelling between Menelaus’ palace and Hades' domain. Without it, the reality hit him like a sudden gust of wind—he would be stuck.

His heart raced as he looked back at Hekate’s stern but patient gaze. Slowly, with steady hands, he lifted the chain from around his neck. The key felt heavier than it should, its weight symbolic of far more than just its physical form.

With a deep breath, Percy handed it to Hekate, his fingers brushing against her cold, waiting palm. His pulse quickened, the reality of what he was doing settling in.

“I wish only to protect you. Allow me to do so.” Hekate murmured, her voice a soft echo as she closed her fingers around the key, the gesture imbued with a sense of finality.

Percy swallowed, nodding, though the unease in his chest refused to subside.

As Hekate’s form dissipated into the ether, Percy lay on his bed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as his mind churned with unanswered questions. “I really want to know what’s going on,” he muttered, the words a soft echo in the quiet room.

“Sometimes ignorance is bliss,” Aregos’ voice murmured in the recesses of his thoughts, a spectral whisper in the void. “It spares you the torment that knowledge brings.”

“But knowledge is also power,” Percy retorted sharply, frustration seeping into his voice. “Ugh, I sound like Annabeth.” He muttered, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone. He sprang up suddenly, his bare feet meeting the chill of the wooden floor. He dressed swiftly in a grey chiton, the fabric brushing softly against his skin, and threw a chlamys over his shoulders. Though the key might have been taken, there remained one force he still believed could aid him.

“You always offer wise counsel and for that, I am deeply grateful,” Percy replied, his voice tinged with both frustration and urgency.

“But?” Aregos’ voice prompted gently.

“I hate sitting on my ass,” he said, the bitterness clear in his tone. “What if something happens? What if Menelaus’s illness worsens or Helen is harmed, or Paris shows up?” His words were punctuated by the sound of drawers scraping open. He sifted through the cluttered contents of the dimly lit cabin, his hands displacing layers of dust and spiderwebs that clung to the corners.

“Is there no fire in this place?” he demanded, his voice tinged with frustration.

He paused in the centre of the room, momentarily defeated, his hands resting on his hips as if the answers would simply present themselves. Then, his gaze turned to flickering lights outside.

Torches. Of course.

Tearing a page from one of the old books on his table, he stepped outside, stealing a flicker of flame from Hekate’s torch, "I can’t believe I’m doing this. But desperate times…" he muttered as he returned inside. Placing the burning page in a goblet half-filled with honeyed wine, Percy watched the fire flicker with growing impatience.

“Hermes, I summon thee,” he intoned, watching as the flame began to fade. His fingers twitched anxiously, the fire's reflection dancing in his pale eye.

“Her—”

The door creaked slowly, and Percy’s hair stood on end. He turned, his breath catching as Hermes stepped into the doorway, the god’s soft glow making him stand out in the surrounding darkness.

With a casual grace, Hermes removed his winged helmet, setting it aside as he crossed the threshold. His Caduceus, once towering in his hand, shrank down to a mere pin with a flick of his wrist. Percy watched as he fastened it neatly to his belt, the movement so fluid it almost felt rehearsed.

Hermes moved quickly, his strides effortless as he approached the goblet and the charred remains of the page. Percy froze, watching the god stand before the table, motionless, seemingly unaware of his presence. Hekate had told him he'd be invisible to other gods, but to what extent? His curiosity, laced with apprehension, got the better of him.

He took a cautious step forward, the floorboard creaking softly beneath him. Hermes’s head tilted ever so slightly, as if listening, but he didn’t turn. Percy stifled a grin, emboldened by the god’s lack of reaction.

He circled the table, leaning in close, his breath inches from Hermes’s ear, testing his invisibility. The god’s brow furrowed in concentration.

Then, with a sly smile, Percy extended his hand, waving it boldly in front of Hermes’s face. It was almost comical. The thrill of being unseen sent a rush of exhilaration through him—until, in an instant, Hermes’s hand shot out, seizing his wrist with the force of a storm.

Percy gasped, stumbling, his body colliding with the table as the goblet clattered to the floor, its contents pooling in sticky trails of honeyed wine and ash.

“I think we’ve played this game before, little naiad,” Hermes teased. The words struck Percy like a cold wave, flooding his mind with the memory of their first encounter—when he'd sought refuge in a peaceful bath, only for Hermes to steal his enchanted bracelet, chasing him to the freezing cave.

Percy’s brows furrowed, a mixture of frustration and begrudging familiarity tightening his expression. “Must I strip you bare to behold you in full?” Hermes asked, his tone light yet laced with an unmistakable undertone. His fingers grazed Percy’s wrist, searching for the bracelet that was no longer there.

“Sorry to disappoint, it’s not something you can take off.” Percy grunted, slowly pushing himself upright from the table, though Hermes’s grip on his wrist remained firm.

The god’s smile faded, replaced by an inquisitive softness. “Why did you summon me?” he asked, his playfulness giving way to a more serious edge.

Percy exhaled, his mind racing through the tangled mess that had become his mission. “I’ve been detained here,” Percy answered, now sitting on the edge of the table.

Hermes released a quick, sharp laugh that echoed like a bark in the dimly lit room.

“And I need a ride,” Percy said, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency. “Can you help me get out of here?”

Hermes’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous light. “I can certainly offer you a ride,” he purred, the dark amusement in his tone evident. “As for anything beyond that... well, that’s a different story.”

“I—” Percy began, desperation seeping into his words. “I thought, given that I traded my eye for your tongue...”

“How naive of you to think that would suffice to compel my aid,” Hermes interrupted with a mocking edge. “Has it not occurred to you that Hekate may be right to keep you bound to this place? Or has that thought slipped through your grasp, like so many others?” His gaze swept over the enigmatic cabin, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What do you know?” Percy asked, his frustration igniting a fierce curiosity. “Does it concern the golden apple?”

“I am bound by oath not to speak of the judgement,” Hermes replied, his tone both enigmatic and resigned. His gaze wandered into the distance, then snapped back with a glimmer of mischief. “Still,” he drawled, drawing out each word with languid amusement, “if you’re so determined to tread this path, I could assist. But," his smile curved dangerously, "such aid is never without its price.”

“Name it,” Percy demanded, his voice taut with urgency. “But I’m not giving away another limb.”

Hermes’s grin widened, wicked amusement flickering across his features. “Oh, don’t worry,” he purred. “I’ve no need for pieces of you—at least, not in the way you imagine.” He leaned closer, the air thickening with his presence, as if the very space around them bowed to his whims.

“Reveal to me the secret of your invisibility,” Hermes said, his request hanging heavily in the air.

Percy’s mind churned with unease, questions clawing at the edges of his thoughts, but he forced them into a cold, stubborn silence. His focus shifted, drawn away from Hermes and toward the creeping shadow that stirred from the river’s depths—the Styx. Her figure, half-substance, half-shadows, rose from the swirling murk. Percy could almost feel her gaze grazing his skin.

A chill gripped him—he had to leave, now.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Percy clasped the god’s hand, feeling the unnerving coolness of Hermes’s fingers as they traced with deliberate care over his open palm. The scars left by Hekate, etched deep into his flesh, pulsed faintly beneath the touch, as if the ancient marks stirred in recognition of the divine presence.

Hermes’s eyes fluttered shut, a faint smile ghosting over his lips, as though deciphering the cryptic symbols carved into Percy’s skin.

“Where do you wish to go?” Hermes asked, his voice soft, as his blue eyes opened again, revealing nothing of his thoughts—his face an impenetrable mask.

Percy studied the god’s expression, searching for even the slightest crack in the facade, any subtle sign of treachery lurking beneath the calm. But Hermes’s gaze remained unreadable, the mockery and mischief that had so often shadowed his words now hidden away.

“Take me to Sparta,” Percy said at last, his voice steady despite the turmoil churning beneath the surface. Then, almost as if in an afterthought, he added, “please.”

Hermes’s grip on Percy’s wrist loosened, his expression inscrutable. Just as Percy feared the god might reject his plea, Hermes moved decisively. His hand slid to the back of Percy’s head, his other arm wrapping around Percy’s midsection, drawing him close.

The world around them blurred, a vortex of motion swallowing them whole. The sensation was disorienting, like being dragged through a whirlwind of light and darkness. Percy’s stomach churned as he held his breath, the fabric of reality twisting around him.

In the next moment, the whirlwind of Hermes’s transport subsided, and they stood within the cool, dim interior of a temple. Percy felt an unsettling disorientation as his connection to Aregos faltered, plunging him into temporary blindness. Anxiety surged through him until he heard a grunt of pain from Hermes. Aregos’s presence reasserted itself, climbing back onto Percy’s legs and settling against his head, reestablishing their mental link.

Percy turned around, his gaze falling upon statues of Hermes looming above them, their shadows stretching long in the flickering light of the sacred flames.

He then noticed Hermes sprawled on the ground, clutching his arm in evident pain. Two puncture wounds were visible.

Kneeling beside him, Percy assessed the situation with growing concern. “Don’t tell me you’ve bitten him, Aregos,” he accused, a mixture of disbelief and alarm in his voice.

“He was too close,” Aregos grunted in his mind, her tone defensive.

Percy was stunned, grappling with the realization of just how potent Aregos’s venom must be to bring a god to such a state.

“Hermes, are you alright?” Percy asked, his voice filled with concern as he gently held Hermes’s arms. The question felt almost absurd given the god’s obvious distress, but Percy’s worry only mounted as Hermes seemed to be unresponsive, his pain palpable.

Percy’s hands reached for Hermes’s wounded arm. “What do I have to do? Suck the venom out?” he offered, the desperation in his tone clear.

Hermes stilled, the pained expression melting away into a sly grin. “I’m almost sorry the spider didn’t bite me elsewhere,” he quipped, the amusement in his voice unmistakable as he relaxed on the floor.

As the realization hit Percy, the pretence became clear. His heart raced with a cocktail of relief and frustration.

“Congratulations,” Percy said, bitterness edging his tone. “The performance was very convincing.” With a brusque shove, he pushed Hermes away and rose to his feet, his frustration boiling over.

“Welcome to Sparta,” The god sprang to his feet with effortless grace, his movements so light it was as if he weighed nothing.

Percy barely had time to murmur a quick thank you before he bolted toward the exit, his urgency palpable in every stride. As Percy vanished through the doors, Hermes’s gaze lingered on the opening, his eyes distant and contemplative.

Percy hurried to the stables, pushing through the crowd with a barely contained urgency. Helen was already there, flanked by eight soldiers and their restless horses, each steed pawing impatiently at the ground. Relief washed over him at their sight.

“You’re late,” she said, her tone carrying a subtle air of disapproval.

“I apologize,” Percy replied, his voice edged with irritation. “Some—people delayed me.”

Helen’s nod indicated she accepted his explanation, though her gaze remained stern. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

Without further ado, they mounted their horses, and the group plunged into the dense forest. The exhilaration of riding surged through Percy, the wind slicing against his face with a fierce, invigorating bite. His spider companion, undeterred by the rush, clung precariously to his hair, its tiny legs dancing in the air as they rode into the wild embrace of the trees.

As they reached the edge of the forest, the horses grew increasingly agitated, their nervous whickers echoing through the quiet glade. They refused to venture further, rearing and stamping as if the forest itself was a living threat.

“That’s not a good sign,” Percy muttered, struggling to keep his horse steady as it tried to back away, its hooves digging into the soil. He dismounted, his feet meeting the ground with a soft thud.

Helen followed suit, her xiphos held poised in her hands, the weapon gleaming with a lethal grace. The soldiers moved ahead, their senses sharp as they scanned the glade for any signs of danger. The eerie silence of the forest was unsettling, each crackle of a twig or rustle of leaves amplified in the tense atmosphere.

The forest path seemed to stretch endlessly until they reached a clearing. Percy’s keen eyes caught sight of a dark puddle staining the grass. He knelled and dipped his fingers into the viscous fluid, bringing them to his nose. The metallic scent confirmed his fear. He glanced over his shoulder at Helen, his face grim. “Still fresh,” he said.

Helen’s gaze swept the clearing with a blend of determination and unease. The Spartan soldiers around them, undeterred by the ominous signs, moved with purpose, their disciplined formations slicing through the underbrush in search of the missing comrades.

Without warning, a shout pierced the air, drawing Percy and Helen towards a tree where a woman sat, her form eerily calm amidst the chaos. Half of her face was smeared with blood, her hands similarly stained.

A soldier approached with practised caution, kneeling beside her. “What happened here?” he demanded, his voice steady despite the grim scene.

Percy’s instincts flared. “You’re too close,” he warned, his voice edged with suspicion.

The woman’s eyes, cold and unfeeling, flicked towards him. “Torchbearer,” she hissed.

“Torchbearer?” the soldier echoed, confusion etching his features.

Before anyone could react, the woman’s movements were swift and brutal. In a flash, she grabbed the soldier, her fangs piercing his throat with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed from the wound, and the soldier’s face went ashen, his eyes wide with shock and pain as he fell to the ground, desperately clutching his neck.

The remaining soldiers, though momentarily stunned, swiftly regrouped. One of them lunged at the woman, but with a deftness that bordered on supernatural, she evaded him, scaling the nearest tree with fluid grace. In a heartbeat, she vanished into the dense canopy.

Percy knelt beside the wounded soldier, his hands working with quiet urgency as he tore a strip of fabric from his chiton. The soldier's wound, though not fatal, bled sluggishly, the deep gash oozing dark crimson. Percy pressed the makeshift bandage against the soldier’s flesh, his fingers stained red as he tied it tight to stanch the flow. The soldier winced, his face draining of colour as he nodded gratefully, but Percy’s keen eye caught something unsettling.

The soldier’s pupils were dilated, reflecting the horror of a mind caught in a waking nightmare. The faint sheen of sweat on his brow and the way his gaze darted around, as though he saw phantoms in every shadow, spoke volumes of the confusion and fear gripping him.

“What is she?” Helen demanded, her voice trembling as she raised her weapon defensively.

“Empousa,” Percy replied, his voice grim. “And they are rarely alone.” His words were barely out when the shadows around them shifted, and a group of Empousai emerged from the darkened edges of the clearing. These creatures were a grotesque fusion of woman and beast—half-human, half-monster. Their bronze legs shimmered ominously in the dwindling light, their wild hair framing faces etched with hunger and cruelty. Their fangs, sharp and glistening, were a macabre testament to their predatory nature.

But the most horrifying aspect of the Empousai was the dark magic bestowed upon them by Hekate. They were not just predators; they wielded the power to conjure terrifying visions and fleeting moments of false euphoria, weaving illusions that disoriented their victims before feasting on their despair.

The Empousai—Hekate's creatures, born from the blackest folds of her shadow—had never shown themselves in her underworld while Percy wandered those spectral realms. They served her—so it was said—but loyalty was a fickle currency in these realms. What madness brought them here?

“Don’t let them touch you,” Percy warned urgently. “They are harbingers of illusions and insanity. If you’re confused, you will be an easy target.”

The clearing erupted into chaos as the Empousai descended upon them. Their twisted forms flickering in and out of the shadows. Percy’s blade sliced through the air with ruthless precision, each strike a calculated blur of motion. The edge of his sword gleamed as it met the vile flesh of the nearest Empousa. The impact was savage—his blade cleaved through the creature, and blood sprayed in a dark crimson arc, splattering the forest floor.

The Empousa's shriek ripped through the air, a bone-chilling wail that echoed through the trees under the harsh daylight.

Percy fought to stay close to Helen, his instincts screaming to shield her, but he quickly realized that her prowess needed no such protection. Her xiphos, a deadly blur in the glaring sun, danced with fierce determination as she engaged one of the Empousai.

With a swift, practised movement, Helen’s blade cut cleanly through the creature’s throat. The Empousa crumpled in a twisted heap at her feet. Despite the carnage, her expression remained a mask of grim resolve, her warrior's focus unshaken. Sweat mingled with the dark, foul blood of the monsters that now marred the forest floor.

The Spartan soldiers, once proud and resolute, now stumbled under the oppressive weight of the Empousai’s dark sorcery. Their minds, like fragile vessels, cracked beneath the onslaught of confusion and madness. Eyes wide with terror, two soldiers flailed about, their bodies convulsing in fits of delirium, movements twitching, frantic, as the Empousai’s cruel spell drained their strength.

Percy’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as his blade found flesh. Each shriek that tore from their throats was a twisted melody to his ears, echoing the violence he had come to know so well.

The Empousai, once drunk on the frenzy of battle, began to falter. Their once-bold steps turned to retreat, their snarl-laden breaths softening into cowardly whimpers as Helen and Percy’s strength became undeniable. Some limped away, wounded; others simply faded back into the shadows from which they came, retreating like mist before the dawn.

But Percy’s blood still burned with purpose—he needed answers. With a swift motion, he plunged his blade into the arm of a retreating Empousa, her shriek sharp as he pulled her down beside him.

“Answer me, and you’ll live,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous. “We’re not here for blood. Only for men lost in these woods. Have you taken them?”

The creature's mouth curled, her fangs gleaming as she hissed through ragged breaths. “No,” she rasped, her voice a venomous whisper. “We are here by Lady Hekate’s will... to take you back.”

Helen stiffened beside him, her disbelief turning to something colder, sharper. Her gaze bore into him, and he could feel its weight as if it were a dagger pressed to his skin. Hekate's name lingered in the air.

“Then why attack us?” Helen demanded, her grip tightening on the hilt of her blade.

“We grew... hungry,” the Empousa purred, as if the answer were simple.

Percy’s heart beat faster, the tension thrumming through his veins. “If you did not hurt them, where are they?”

A soft hiss came from the shadows, another Empousa slinking forward. “There is another,” she whispered, her voice curling around the words like smoke. “She who turns men to stone. Her gaze... it is death. To look upon her is to be lost.”

A cold shudder ran through Percy’s body, his mind tumbling into the abyss of hopelessness. He turned toward Helen, feeling her presence like a tether to sanity.

“Medusa,” Helen breathed, the name falling from her lips like a death knell.

Percy’s thoughts raced, a creeping dread gnawing at his insides. “Take us to her.” His voice was steady, deliberate.

The Empousa’s eyes gleamed with something dark, calculating. “We can lead you,” she hissed. “But after that, you must return with us to lady Hekate. Once this is done, we will leave this forest without hurting anyone. We swear it on the Styx.”

The weight of the oath hung in the air, its power undeniable. Even the Empousa, treacherous as she was, could not break such a vow without suffering the wrath of the gods.

Percy hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Alright.”

The Empousai began to retreat, their sinuous forms slipping into the shadows, beckoning the group to follow. But before Percy could take a step, Helen yanked at his arm with barely contained fury.

“I need an explanation,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “Now.” Her eyes, lit with an intensity that brooked no delay, searched his face for answers.

Percy’s voice was calm but edged with urgency. “It will come. For now, let’s focus on saving your people, alright?” His words were measured, a delicate balance between reason and the truth he wasn’t ready to reveal. Slowly, reluctantly, she released him, her defiance simmering just below the surface.

The Empousai led them deeper into the forest until they reached a cave, its entrance swallowed by shadows. Inside, the dim light of a single torch flickered weakly against the walls. Three statues stood solemnly around the cave’s mouth, their stone forms frozen in eternal agony. Farmers, perhaps, or travellers caught unaware. But the third was unmistakable: an Empousa, her once-fierce form now lifeless, entombed in stone. A grim reminder that the Empousai had been telling the truth. Medusa was, indeed, near.

Reaching up, Percy pulled Aregos from his head, the spider reluctant to leave the sanctuary of his hair. He held her in his palm, her hairy legs brushing against his skin.

“You can’t come with me. I don’t want you becoming a permanent doorstop,” he murmured gently.

Helen watched the exchange, her face contorted with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Percy’s words, however, were soft, tinged with an odd tenderness as he placed Aregos on the ground.

“Come back,” Aregos whispered, her tiny voice laced with worry.

“I will,” Percy promised. With a quick movement, he activated the blade, its gleam cutting through the gloom.

"I think it's clear who should enter," Percy said, his voice calm but laced with determination. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

For a moment, Helen's gaze hardened, a flicker of defiance lighting her eyes. Just as Percy turned to leave, she lunged, her fingers locking onto the fabric of his chiton with such force it nearly tore beneath her grip.

"Don’t be ridiculous," she hissed, her voice trembling with raw emotion, every word sharp and jagged. "We’re going there together."

Percy blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. As her grip loosened his gaze softened, just for a fleeting second. Helen's loyalty, her unwillingness to let him face the horrors alone, stirred something in him. For a moment, she reminded him of Annabeth—the same unrelenting will, the same refusal to stand idly by when the stakes were highest.

But the brief flicker of memory faded as the reality pressed back in.

“No offence, but few survive meeting Medusa. You’ll be too tempted to look into her eyes.” Percy said, his words blunt but factual. His tone softened, as if explaining an inevitability. “Her greatest weapon is her gaze. She won’t kill me if I don’t see.”

Before Helen could argue further, Percy acted swiftly. His hands untied the bracelet of dog hide from his wrist, and without hesitation, he slipped it onto Helen’s, the rough texture of the band a stark contrast to her grace. His voice cut through the tension as he called for the hounds.

The forest stirred in response. From the thick, looming trees came the low, guttural growls and mournful howls of Hekate’s spectral hounds. They emerged from the shadows like wraiths, their eyes glowing with an eerie, pale light. They encircled Helen, their ghostly forms both protection and warning, guardians of the sacred and damned alike.

The Empousai, seated around the cave, shifted uneasily at the sight of the hounds, though they made no move to flee. The hounds’ presence was a testament to Hekate’s favour, a silent acknowledgement that the goddess of magic had placed her trust in the son of Poseidon.

“They will protect you while I’m away,” Percy said, his voice steady but low, the weight of responsibility heavy in each word.

Helen’s eyes, sharp with command, met his in an unwavering stare. “Return with the lost soldiers,” she ordered, her voice ironclad, though something softer echoed beneath. “Or without them, but return.”

Percy nodded, though the pressure of her demand weighed more heavily than he cared to admit.

Taking a breath, Percy crossed the threshold into the cave, the distant echoes of his footsteps swallowed by the oppressive darkness. Behind him, the spectral hounds stood vigilant, Helen watching with an intensity that burned into his back. The further he walked, the more the sounds of the forest faded, replaced by the hollow silence of stone and shadow.

He’d killed Medusa once before, but he knew better than to let hubris cloud his judgement. The gods, after all, were never so predictable.

The air clung to Percy like a cold, wet shroud—thick with rot, bitterness, and time itself, suspended in a perpetual gasp. Riptide hummed faintly in his grip, but even the celestial bronze felt small in this forsaken place, where the line between the living and the petrified had long blurred.

“The stench of the sea... the weight of the tides… Poseidon,” came a voice, soft and low.

Medusa emerged from the shadows, her figure a wraith of anguish bound in serpents. Her hair seethed with life—snakes twisting and coiling, their tongues flickering in the stale air, tasting it with a malice that had simmered for centuries.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, her voice now sharp, edged with venom so potent it felt like it could turn flesh to stone without her cursed gaze. “Do you come to mock me? To remind me of the curse Athena laid upon me... because of you?”

The serpents hissed violently, their fury feeding on Medusa’s own as she slithered closer, poised to strike. Yet, something held her back, her eyes—hidden in shadow—falling upon his form.

“You’re not him,” she said, her voice heavy with ancient bitterness, yet tinged with confusion. “And yet… you smell of him. You carry his wretched scent.”

Percy stood still, his grip tightening on Riptide. “I am his son,” he answered, his voice steady despite the growing tension. "I came here for the soldiers you've lured here.”

Suddenly, her enormous tail whipped through the air with terrifying speed. It struck him with brutal force, sending him crashing against the stone wall behind him. Pain shot through his body as the weight of her tail pinned him to the cold surface, his breath leaving him in a ragged gasp. Riptide fell from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.

“I know what was done to you wasn’t fair. I know the gods are—”

“Spare me your pity!” Medusa shrieked, her voice lashing through the air like a curse. The cave trembled with the force of her rage, her tail pressing harder against his chest. Percy’s ribs ached from the pressure, but he refused to flinch.

“It’s not pity,” he rasped, his voice strained but unwavering. “It’s understanding. What my father did was awful, but I am not him.”

Medusa’s eyes burned with a wild, dangerous fury, but beneath the wrath, there was something deeper—something raw and festering. “How can you understand my pain?” she spat.

She slithered even closer, her cold breath brushing against his face, her monstrous form towering over him. The serpents coiling in her hair paused, their hissing replaced by an eerie silence as they waited for her to strike.

Medusa’s slit-like eyes focused on Percy’s face, narrowing as they fixated on the pale gleam of his sightless eye. She froze mid-motion, her rage held in suspension, the weight of it slowly retreating. Her tail, still pinning him against the wall, loosened its grip just enough for Percy to draw a painful breath.

"What happened to you?" she murmured, her voice a whisper now, laced with curiosity, though no less dangerous. Her sharp gaze scoured his face, her serpents shifting restlessly as if sensing something they had not before. “That eye… it hums with something ancient. A curse. I know that magic too well.”

She leaned back, the hissing serpents calming, their malice tempered by an almost melancholic wonder. “You…” she murmured again, softer this time, as if the truth began to dawn on her. “You have been cursed haven’t you? By a god.”

Percy’s chest tightened under the weight of her words, and he nodded slowly. “Apollo cursed me,” he confessed, each word feeling like a drop of lead in the stillness of the cave. “Much like you, I tried to escape his… advances, and was punished for it.”

Medusa recoiled at his words, her sharp intake of breath turning into a venomous hiss. For a moment, fury flashed across her face, but it was not directed at him.

“You are the son of Poseidon,” she said, her tone shifting, softening with something closer to lament. “And yet he did not protect you from Apollo's wrath.” She leaned closer, her tail loosening its grip but still poised in a show of power. The serpents crowning her head now coiled lazily, their ferocity giving way to a quiet, simmering sadness. “It seems he has failed us both.”

Her voice cracked like a shattered mirror, her grief sharper than any rage. Percy, standing before her, could feel the kinship between them—both broken by gods, both cursed for refusing to bow to a power that devoured all in its path.

“We are alike,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread in the dim, suffocating air of the cave. Slowly, her cold hand, covered in soft, iridescent scales, reached up to cup his cheek. Her nails, sharp as daggers, traced his skin with an unexpected tenderness, a caress as delicate as it was dangerous.

Percy’s heart pounded, but he remained silent, unsure of what to say in the face of such terrible understanding. Medusa studied him carefully, her serpents now as still as the statues around them.

“You have known the cruelty of the gods,” she said, her voice trembling with the weight of her curse. “You have felt their power—the way they twist and crush everything they cannot own. They ravage us, child. They seize the sacred and shatter it, merely because we refuse to bow.” Her hand lingered on his face, as though she sought some solace in his presence, some fleeting connection to the world she had long been exiled from.

Percy stood in the silence that followed, the weight of her bitterness settling over him like a heavy, suffocating fog. He could feel the echoes of her pain—raw, endless, as if her wound had never healed, as if time had only deepened it.

Medusa leaned back, her form slipping into the embrace of the shadows once more. “I cannot grant you what you seek,” she declared. “The men are already dead, destined to remain thus until time itself wears them away.” Her eyes glinted with a dark resolve. “I shall release you, though the temptation to feel the blood of Poseidon's son upon my hands is great. You are different, wounded in ways akin to my own.” She paused, the sorrow in her gaze deepening. “That is why I permit you to depart with your life untouched.”

Percy turned slowly to leave, the bitter taste of regret lingering on his tongue. He was too late—lives had already been claimed by her. Yet he halted and turned back.

“Spartans are aware of your presence,” he said. “With their men turned to stone, they will hunt you relentlessly. I urge you to abandon this forest and seek refuge where mortal hands cannot reach.”

As he ascended the stairs, his fingers brushing against the uneven, ancient walls of the cavern, Medusa’s voice echoed once more, now touched with a tremor of hesitation and an unfamiliar fragility. “Son of the sea—should you ever find yourself hunted, should the gods' malice turn against you again, I offer you sanctuary, wherever it may be. I offer you what I have been cruelly denied.” Her words seemed to shiver in the cold, unfeeling air.

Percy’s throat constricted, a peculiar blend of gratitude and sorrow flooding his senses. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a barely audible breath. He nodded in acknowledgement, aware that this woman—this cursed creature—had extended a greater mercy than any deity ever had.

As Percy emerged from the depths of the cave, the sun hung low in the afternoon sky, casting long shadows across the clearing. Warm air brushed against his face, yet it did nothing to lift the weight that pressed upon him. Helen stood before him, her gaze sharp with unspoken questions. The flicker of hope in her face dimmed as she took in his grim expression.

“The men inside,” Percy began, his voice thick with sorrow, “nothing remains of them but cold stone.”

A storm of anger darkened Helen’s eyes. She stepped forward, her voice cold and unwavering. “Then they will be avenged,” she swore, her words sharp as the edge of a blade.

Before her vow could settle in the air, shadows rippled unnaturally around them, and from the dim edges of the forest stepped the Empousai. “It is time,” they hissed, their voices a twisted melody, eager to please Hekate with his return.

But Percy stood firm, the afternoon light catching on the gleaming bronze of his sword, its edge humming with deadly purpose. “I will not descend to her realm today. There is much I must do here,” he said, his voice steady as the earth beneath him.

“We had an agreement,” the Empousa snarled in return, her claws sinking into the soil as if to anchor her rage.

“I swore no oath upon the Styx to return with you,” Percy replied, his words cutting through the tension with cold clarity.

“Then we will not leave this forest until you do,” the Empousa hissed, her voice a venomous whisper dripping with malice. Her eyes, dark and glinting with a wicked hunger, flicked toward the soldiers flanking Helen, a predatory gleam illuminating her gaze. “We’ll help ourselves to men’s flesh,” she purred, her tone laced with a twisted desire that lingered longingly on the soldiers. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, an eerie patience etched into her expression, as she awaited Percy’s falter.

Percy’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, the metal growing warm with the intensity of his resolve. His voice dropped to a low, menacing murmur. “If you so much as touch anyone,” he growled, his tone a dark promise, “I will tear you apart, piece by piece, and scatter your remains across the land. Not even Hekate will find what’s left of you.”

The Empousai erupted in fury, their shrieks piercing the still air like the howls of a forsaken pack. The ground beneath them cracked open, and from the chasm surged a torrent of Empousai, like hornets disturbed from their nest—feral, ravenous. The air itself seemed to crackle with their fury as they closed in, their singular desire to take Percy, to tear apart any who dared stand in their way.

Soldiers’gaze flickered with uncertainty, their eyes reflecting the growing unease as the number of Empousai increased with every monstrous form crawling from the earth. The chances of their survival seemed to dwindle with each advancing creature.

Percy’s confidence wavered, a crack in his armour that Helen perceptively noticed.

“Einalian,” she called out, her voice cutting through the chaos and pulling his attention.

“We’re not giving you to them, do you understand?” she declared, her eyes burning. “We fight to the last of them.” Her gaze, fierce and unyielding, revealed a potent mixture of excitement and apprehension. Percy realized that beneath the surface of her unwavering determination lay a raw, palpable fear.

Hounds, fierce and loyal, encircled Helen as Percy had intended, their growls a protective shield as they fought off the Empousai. The battlefield became a chaotic dance of shadow and steel, each strike and counterstrike resonating with the tension of survival.

In the midst of the tumult, Percy felt a sharp kick to his back, sending him crashing onto an Empousa. His sword impaled her with a sickening crunch, but the proximity allowed her to whisper her dark magic directly into his ear. He staggered to his feet, disoriented by a wave of vertigo that threatened to pull him under. Another Empousa leapt onto his back, her embrace both sweet and perilous, forcing him to lean backward into her embrace.

“Einalian!” Helen’s voice cut through the chaos, but her cries were lost in the melee.

Just as despair threatened to engulf him, a sharp swish sliced through the air. A spear embedded itself in the Empousa’s side, forcing her to release Percy. Arrows began to rain down on the Empousai, and from the trees emerged soldiers, their presence a beacon of unexpected support.

High above, dark silhouettes on horseback descended with an ethereal grace. Their forms cut through the shadowed sky, a menacing blend of strength and agility. As they dismounted with swift, practised movements, they plunged into the fray with an unyielding ferocity. Their every action, honed and deliberate, seemed to echo with the promise of retribution.

Percy’s world spun in a disorienting whirl. He fought to push back the relentless advance of the Empousai, his blade a desperate shield against the encroaching shadows. His senses, overwhelmed by the onslaught, struggled to keep pace with the chaos that enveloped him. The fierce new arrivals, their eyes burning with unspoken intensity, were a whirlwind of controlled aggression, carving through the ranks of the Empousai with a ruthless precision.

The creatures, sensing the shift in the tide, began to retreat with growing frustration. Their snarls and hisses, once so dominant, became mere whispers as they slithered back into the underbrush, their anger fading with the retreating sun.

Exhausted and battered, Percy collapsed to the ground, clutching his head as a wave of nausea surged through him with an intensity he had never known. In his other hand, he still clung to the hilt of his sword, a tenuous lifeline amidst the tumult.

“Your highness?” He croaked, his voice barely rising above a whisper, hoping she was still safe.

“I live,” Helen replied, her tone a steady beacon of resolve amidst the turmoil.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his shoulder. His blade sprang up, an instinctive arc of cold steel trembling to strike, yet he hesitated, unable to reconcile the form before him. Eyes of raw amber—warm, honeyed and impossibly serene—gazed back through the tumult. Brown hair, flowing like waves of twilight, framed a smile so gentle it seemed to cut through his confusion like a knife.

The visage was an affront to reason, a surreal apparition that defied his senses.

"Einalian." The voice, achingly familiar and hauntingly sweet, pierced through the confusion.

It felt like a fleeting mirage, conjured by the dark magic of the Empousai, a tantalizing illusion designed to torment him.

“You’re not real,” Percy rasped, his voice fragile as a broken reed, barely audible above the din. The words quivered in the space between them, a denial he didn’t quite believe. His hand moved, trembling as it reached out. And when their fingers met—warm, solid—the world seemed to still.

Chapter Text

Hekate moved with an eerie grace, her robes whispering across the rough ground, casting long shadows in the dim light. She circled Hermes, who knelt before her, bound by inky tendrils that coiled tighter with every breath he took. Her voice, soft yet commanding, broke the silence. “We both know why you’ve found yourself in this situation.”

Hermes, his usual levity dulled by the weight of his bindings, let out a strained chuckle. “Well, then explain it to me, since I’m already here.” He didn’t struggle. The dark tendrils held him fast, pressing him to the cold earth.

Hekate’s gaze was unwavering. “I warned you what would befall you if you took Einalian from here.”

Hermes’s smile, though pained, tugged at his lips. “I told him you might be right, that keeping him here would be safest,” he admitted, his words heavy with regret. “But that boy… he doesn’t listen. And I’ve always had a soft spot for stubborn nymphs like him.”

The tendrils tightened, a sickening crunch reverberating through his ribs, yet Hermes uttered no cry of pain, only a sharp, shuddering breath.

“And now,” Hekate’s eyes glittered with a cold, unyielding accusation, “he might be in peril as we speak, and you remain indifferent.”

Hermes looked up at her, his breath laboured but his wit still sharp. “Why don’t you fetch him yourself, then?”

Hekate’s gaze grew darker. “I make my efforts,” she said, her tone clipped. “Yet, even a horde of Empousai can’t match his stubbornness.”

"Efforts, are they?" Hermes quirked an eyebrow, his tone edged with dry humour despite the vice-like grip of the tendrils crushing his chest. "Doesn't seem like you're having much success." His eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade, cutting through her calm. “Unless—”

A realization flickered behind his gaze. “You don’t really want him back, do you?”

Hekate’s flowing black hair spilled from beneath her veil, her sunset eyes burning as she turned to fully face him. “What makes you think that?”

Hermes leaned forward, the tendrils restraining him tightening with a hiss, but he barely noticed. His eyes, bright with understanding, bore into hers. “Because, if you really wanted him back,” he whispered, “he’d be standing here, not me.”

The words lingered between them, heavy and cutting.

Hekate’s lips pressed into a thin, controlled line, her face a mask of composed resolve even as something raw flickered behind her eyes. “Do you presume I do not care for him?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “I bestowed upon him every protection within my power.”

Hermes’s smile only grew as though he had uncovered something long buried. “And yet,” he mused, “despite all that protection, he still runs headfirst into danger.” He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with sudden understanding. “Or maybe,” he whispered, leaning forward against the restraints, his voice barely above a breath, “you know he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.”

Hekate’s eyes flickered, her lips tightening before she exhaled softly, her gaze slipping away, as if lost in some distant thought.

“Storms revive the flowers,” she said, her voice tinged with a wistful melancholy. Then, with a grace both eerie and casual, she crouched beside him, her black robes pooling around her like a shroud on the rough stone floor. Her demeanour was now tempered into more patient presence.

“Or they drown them in mud and decay,” Hermes retorted, his voice sharp with defiance.

Hekate’s gaze remained steady, unwavering in its conviction. “Einalian will never drown, nor will he decay,” she said with quiet finality.

Hermes’s expression shifted, his tone now probing. “So you agree with Hera’s plans, then? To make the prince of Troy and the son of Poseidon join in divine union?”

For a brief moment, the flicker of something unreadable passed over Hekate’s face. Her sunset eyes darkened, but she did not flinch. “Hera's plans are always layered,” she murmured. “She sees the world in threads, each one weaving fate tighter, constricting. If the union serves her ends, it is not without reason.”

Hermes tilted his head, his gaze sharp and probing. “But do you agree?” he asked, pressing further, the curiosity in his voice unmistakable.

Hekate’s lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “What I agree with is irrelevant,” she replied, her tone flat. Her gaze shifted, becoming distant, as though she were peering through the veil of time itself. “What matters most,” she continued in a murmur, “is that Apollo will be compelled, whether by Zeus or Hera, to cease his pursuit of Einalian once Alexander claims him as his own.”

There was a pained edge to her voice, a hint of sorrow that coloured her words. “And I know Einalian desires nothing more than to be free of Apollo.”

Hermes’s brow furrowed, his sharp mind catching the subtle weight of her statement.

“Days will show which path Einalian’s fate will turn to,” Hekate concluded, her tone reflecting a weary resignation. The shadows seemed to deepen around her, echoing the uncertainty of the future she so calmly predicted.

With a flick of her wrist, the tendrils relinquished their grip, and Hermes’s body collapsed onto the cold, stony floor with a heavy thud. He lay there for a moment, gathering himself, the crunch of his ribs settling back into place punctuated by a low grunt of discomfort.

“So, no dismemberment today?” Hermes asked, his voice laced with wry relief as he slowly rose to his feet.

Hekate’s gaze remained inscrutable. “No, but I do have a request,” she said, her voice cold and measured. “Or rather, I expect your gratitude for sparing your limbs from my hounds.”

Hermes dusted himself off, standing before her with a mix of weariness and wary curiosity. “I’m listening,” he said, bracing himself for whatever came next.

“I want you to steal something for me,” Hekate said.

---

“You’re not real,” Percy rasped, his voice fragile as a broken reed, barely audible above the din. The words quivered in the space between them, a denial he didn’t quite believe.

His hand trembled as it reached out, his fingertips brushing the space where shadows bled into flesh. And then, their fingers met—warm, solid—and the world seemed to still.

"I am," Paris murmured, his grip resolute as he drew Percy upright. With deliberate grace, he wiped the blood from Percy’s cheek, the motion, an artful prelude to the touch that lingered.

For a brief, fleeting second, Percy felt relief wash over him—Paris was real, flesh and blood before him, after all the chaos, all the ghosts. But almost immediately, dread followed, seeping into his bones like ice.

"What are you doing here?" Percy asked. His hand rested on Paris’s shoulder, the cold metal of his armour offering little comfort.

“I should ask you the same,” Paris replied, his tone gentle but laced with curiosity. He noticed the changes in his friend—the way Einalian seemed more guarded, more worn. He saw it in Percy’s pale face, in the misted eye that unnerved him—a sightless white veil. The other eye, concealed beneath an eyepatch, only deepened the mystery, the transformation he had endured.

“You look terrible,” Paris remarked, his voice soft, almost teasing, though concern lurked behind his faint smile.

“Thank you,” Helen’s voice interjected as she stepped closer, her own appearance no less dishevelled. Her golden hair, now stiff and matted with crusted blood, framed her weary face. She sheathed her sword, and despite everything, a glimmer of gratitude danced in her eyes.

Paris’s expression softened, the teasing edge replaced with something gentler, a quiet respect in the way he bowed his head. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice laced with a touch of humility. “I can see now the weight of what you’ve endured before we arrived.”

Helen met his gaze with a smile both weary and sincere. “We have indeed borne much,” she replied, her voice a soft murmur. “But it seems the Fates have smiled upon us this day. Who could have foreseen that two young Trojan princes would be our salvation? And yet, here we stand,” she added, the weight of the day’s events hanging heavily between them.

From behind, a deep, measured voice broke the fragile silence. “Queen Helen.” Hector emerged from the treeline, his form tall and imposing, the quiet authority of a man who had seen too many battles etched into every line of his face. His soldiers followed, their eyes scanning the darkness for any lingering threat, though the worst had passed.

“The monsters are gone,” Hector continued, his voice calm, steady as stone. “The path to the palace is clear.” His gaze found Helen’s, and for a moment, he offered her a respectful nod.

When his gaze fell on Percy, it lingered for just a moment, a flicker of something like detachment crossing his features before he turned away. With a curt signal, he led the way, instructing his men to mount the horses.

---

The thick veil of the forest began to dissolve, its looming shadows parting reluctantly as the group emerged from the last grasp of its gloom. The air was suffocating—damp with the scent of earth, sweat, and blood, and yet a strange, unsettling stillness settled over them as they crossed into open ground.

The spectral hounds, ever vigilant, dissolved into the ether as they reached the edge of the woods, their glowing eyes disappearing like fading embers. Helen’s gaze lingered on the bracelet around her wrist, her expression focused, almost troubled, as if the object held more weight than she was willing to admit.

With a wordless gesture, she slipped the bracelet from her wrist and extended it toward Percy, her fingers holding it out carefully, almost reluctantly.

"Take it back," she offered, her voice calm yet edged with something uncertain.

Percy’s hand reached out but did not take the bracelet. Instead, he gently closed her fingers around it, shaking his head. “I know it’s far from appealing,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “But it’s useful. Keep it, your highness. We never know when it will prove its worth again.”

Helen’s eyes flickered with something unspoken as she regarded the bracelet, her fingers curling around it before slipping it back onto her wrist. “Very well,” she murmured.

The ride back to the palace was wrapped in a shroud of oppressive silence, occasionally pierced by the rhythmic clop of hooves on the stone-paved road. Percy and Paris exchanged furtive glances, their eyes speaking volumes in the void of their unanswered questions.

The soft glow of Sparta’s palace loomed in the distance, but it brought Percy no comfort. Every step closer felt like a step further away from the relief he so desperately needed.

He felt the world around him blur into the background as he tried to untangle the knots in his mind, to find the moment where everything had gone wrong—or where everything would go wrong. The desire to speak with Hekate gnawed at him, but he had fled, key was taken from him that would allow him to traverse back to the underworld. Should he seek Hermes again? He was already drowning in too many unpaid bargains.

Paris’ warm brown eyes glowed with a silent fervour, his expression composed, but the fire beneath smouldered—an ember that would not die. His gaze lingered on Percy, tracing the battered form. His face was a canvas of contradictions—relief etched alongside sorrow, a flicker of longing tempered by restraint.

Where Paris burned, Hector chilled.

Older prince followed in their wake, his gaze sharp, assessing, as though he could see through every veil Percy had carefully woven. Was it suspicion? Distrust? Percy couldn’t tell.

Helen rode beside them, silent, her tired eyes reflecting a weariness that no amount of rest could ease. The weight of the palace loomed ahead, but the prospect of explaining their grim return to Menelaus gnawed at her. To recount the horrors, to untangle the labyrinth of events that had led to this moment, felt as exhausting as the journey itself.

As they reached the palace, Menelaus greeted them with wide-eyed disbelief, his gaze darting between the bloodied, dirt-smeared figures as though they had risen from the bowels of Hades. Helen, her voice steady despite the turmoil within, began to weave the tale of their grim odyssey, a tapestry of lost soldiers and the horrors endured in the cursed wilds. And somewhere, within that tale, Percy’s secrets unravelled—whether through Helen's words or the soldiers’ whispered accounts.

He faced the daunting task of convincing Menelaus of his benign nature, his plea framed as that of a simple follower of Hekate, favoured and protected. Menelaus, after days of Percy tending to him through his illness, was swayed by this explanation. His trust, though fraught with scepticism, was firm.

An agreement was reached: the details of the day's events would remain confined within the walls of Menelaus's chamber.

Following the ancient tradition of 'xenia', the sacred hospitality decreed by Zeus himself, Menelaus turned his attention to the princes, Paris and Hector. In these hallowed halls, every guest—whether friend or foe—was to be treated with dignity and respect. As Menelaus approached them, he welcomed them into his home with all the honour and reverence the tradition demanded.

"Alexander, Hector, young princes," Menelaus said, his voice heavy with sincerity. "Zeus himself decrees that those who find shelter in our halls must be treated as family. But tonight, you are more than that—you are saviours." His eyes gleamed with a warmth that belied the strain of recent events.

The palace attendants rushed forward, offering water to wash the grime of battle from the princes’ hands, while servants laid out food and wine to replenish their strength. The air inside the palace felt different now—charged not just with the gravity of their return but with the king's profound desire to repay their service. Every gesture, from the pouring of wine to the offering of soft linens, was laden with meaning, a symbol of Menelaus's commitment to uphold xenia as more than duty, but as an act of gratitude.

“Let us drink to peace,” Menelaus’ voice carried through the hall, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. His cup raised, a symbol of unity.

“To peace,” Hector echoed, his deep voice steady and sure, his cup lifted in sync with Menelaus’s, a gesture of agreement, of allegiance. “Between Troy and Sparta,” Paris added, his words deliberate.

The hall buzzed with the approval of soldiers, nobles, and onlookers, each man eager to believe in this fleeting moment of harmony.

“May the gods keep the wolves in the hills and women in our beds!” Menelaus added with a booming laugh, his voice full of bravado and cheer. The room erupted in laughter, the crude jest rippling through the air like wildfire. The men, soldiers and courtiers alike, clapped their hands and raised their cups higher, their voices filling the space with roars of approval and agreement.

Percy, standing at the edge of this raucous scene, forced a weak smile as he lifted his cup to his lips. The bitter tang of the wine slid down his throat, but it did little to quench the growing unease.

He glanced at Helen, standing close beside Menelaus. She, too, smiled politely, but her eyes—those sharp, storm-filled eyes—remained distant, detached from the revelry.

He could already feel the weight of fate creeping in. Helen near Paris was a risk, one that could spiral beyond any control. He prayed silently that this wouldn’t be the beginning of something dangerous.

Then, amidst the celebrations, his spider eyes found Paris.

The humble shepherd who had once been the light of Percy’s days on Mount Ida now stood transformed—a prince cloaked in regality, but beneath that veneer, Percy could see the cracks. Paris’s princely armour, polished and gleaming, was as fragile as crumbling marble, revealing the raw, tender heart he knew.

Their gazes met for a fleeting moment, a silent thread weaving through the laughter and clinking cups. Determined to speak with him, Percy began to descend the stairs, but just as his foot touched the last step, a figure stepped into his path.

A priest, cloaked in the deep reds and golds of Apollo’s order, halted him with a glance that dissected his form like a blade.

"It has been some time since you graced Apollo’s temple with your presence," the priest observed, his tone walking the tightrope between benignity and reproach. "Though, in truth, I can’t recall ever seeing you there." The remark held a sorrowful note, less anger than disappointment, as though Percy’s absence had wounded the heavens.

"I’ve been preoccupied," Percy muttered, his voice a low rasp, "aiding King Menelaus, attending to sick, killing monsters. I haven’t exactly had the time to sing hymns." He made to move past, but the priest's hand shot out, grasping his arm like a vice.

"It would be most appropriate," the priest insisted, eyes narrowing with growing impatience, "to offer thanks to the sun god."

"For what, exactly?" Percy’s retort was sharper than intended.

The priest’s expression faltered, shock flashing briefly before he resumed his impassive mask. "For healing the sick, for guiding King Menelaus," he began, his voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of a chant. "And for allowing you to escape the monsters with your life intact."

Percy scoffed, a wry smile curling at the edges of his lips. “I’m sure there are other gods who’ve played their part.”

"But you," the priest countered, voice like a blade poised to strike, "are favoured by Apollo, are you not?"

Percy’s smile faded, the brief flicker of defiance extinguished as quickly as it had appeared.

“Among others,” Percy muttered, his tone laced with the weariness.

The priest’s gaze hardened. "We bear some responsibility for you, Einalian. That is why I must insist you present yourself at the temple today."

Percy’s jaw clenched, disgust flickering behind his eyes, but he swallowed his protest, offering only a curt nod.

"And first," the priest added, a look of disdain twisting his features as he recoiled slightly, "clean yourself. You smell like carrion."

With that, the priest turned, his robes billowing as he left Percy standing there, the faint echo of his authority reverberating in the air.

Percy stood there, contemplating whether he should appear in the temple at all. Even if Percy had not wholly embraced the pretence, he had been granted a permanent position within Menelaus's palace.

"It would serve you well to wear the mask a little longer," Aregos murmured, her voice laced with a reluctant, almost weary wisdom. "Priests, they are fragile creatures. Once you defy them, they’ll be quick to cast their stones, especially if they learn you are no priest of Apollo, but Hekate’s follower."

Percy knew she was right, but it didn’t lessen the bitterness that curled in his chest. His thoughts flickered to the days ahead—three, maybe four—before he would return to his own time.

What mattered was surviving these last days, keeping the threads of time from unravelling in his hands. And with Paris here in Sparta, it all felt like the prelude to impending disaster.

“Once they ask me to sing, I’m out of there,” Percy murmured under his breath, his words a fragile defiance carried on the heavy air. His steps quickened toward Paris, but as he approached, a shadow loomed in the periphery.

There was a figure, unmistakable now, standing not far from Paris. His eyes gleamed like red embers, smouldering in the gloom with an unsettling intensity.

Percy froze, his heart slamming against his ribs. He took a step forward, then back, the hesitation settling like lead in his bones. Paris noticed the shift in his demeanour, his brows furrowing with concern.

Percy’s breath hitched. He had expected the god’s presence given Sparta's ties to Ares, but not this close—looming over Paris as though he was a spectre sent to claim him.

If Percy could only get Paris alone—away from the oppressive shadow of Ares—it would be a small victory. A chance to speak, to warn him of the danger that loomed like a storm cloud, and perhaps even to hatch a plan, fragile as it may be, to safeguard them both. But with Ares so near, watching like a hawk, the very thought of such a conversation seemed impossible, reckless.

The god of war would sense Percy lingering, hear his voice, even if it was just a whisper carried on the wind. So, Percy did what he had to. He turned on his heel, already regretting the cold dismissal he’d given Paris, already cursing the distance he was forced to keep.

As he walked through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, the fading light of the sun cast long, mournful shadows against the walls. He took a sniff of his battered, torn chiton and sighed. The priest had been right—he smelled like decay.

While rounding a corner, he spotted Hector standing alone, leaning against the stone wall, his nose buried in his hand. There was a weight on him, a heaviness in the way his shoulders slumped as though the revelry had become too much. His expression was tight, pained, his brow furrowed in quiet suffering.

Without thinking, Percy ripped another piece of his already ragged chiton. Today, it seemed his clothes were more useful to others than himself. As he approached Hector, the clean piece of fabric in hand, the prince's eyes slowly lifted from the floor, creeping up Percy’s form with a kind of hesitation, as if unsure what Percy intended.

“It’s for your nose,” Percy said softly, tilting his head in that familiar, almost gentle way of his. “I assume it’s bleeding.”

Hector’s gaze lingered on Percy’s face—troubled, unreadable—before he silently took the offered cloth. His fingers, calloused from battle, brushed against Percy’s briefly.

“Someone hit you?” Percy asked, his tone laced with quiet concern. He wondered, for a fleeting moment, if Hector had tasted some bitter rejection, perhaps from one of the Spartan women.

“No,” Hector replied, his voice low, the answer almost startling in its simplicity. “It happens sometimes. More often than not, in fact,” he added, a strange frustration in his voice.

“This… just happens?” Percy’s voice wavered between curiosity and a playful disbelief, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. But beneath the humour, the healer in him stirred. His gaze lingered on the trail of blood, dark as pomegranate seeds on Hector’s skin.

“Perhaps,” Percy began, a flicker of seriousness in his tone, “cutting back on the wine might help. Alcohol thins the blood, after all, and could be the culprit.” He offered the advice with a casual air.

Hector’s eyes widened, only for a heartbeat, before settling back into his stoic composure. The warrior’s stillness was unnerving, his silence an impenetrable wall. “Or may I?” Percy asked, extending his hand with a soft gesture.

Without a word, Hector extended his arm, the muscle taut beneath the skin, veins like rivers beneath marble. Percy’s fingers traced them delicately, searching for the pulse beneath. Hector’s skin was hot, almost searing, as if something inside him threatened to ignite. The heartbeat came fast, urgent, like the drum of some distant war not yet fought.

“Increased blood pressure,” Percy murmured, “can strain the vessels… cause them to break.”

“How fares mine?” Hector’s lips curved, a quiet smile that held no arrogance, only the quiet authority. His gaze fell upon Percy like that of a teacher, patient and knowing, as though the answer was already written in the air between them. Percy released his hand, suddenly feeling the weight of that gaze—small, like a shadow in the presence of a flame.

Had he overstepped? For a moment, doubt crept into the space between them.

Percy dropped Hector’s hand, his fingers brushing the side of his own tunic as if needing to anchor himself. The sudden shift in their dynamic left him off balance—Hector’s eyes, steady and warm, seemed to see through every effort Percy made to stand on equal footing.

Percy cleared his throat, trying to recover from the odd sense of vulnerability. “Your pulse is strong,” he said, his voice softening. “But, well, even heroes need to take it easy sometimes.” He added a wry smile, but it felt weaker than he intended.

Hector tilted his head, the faintest glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Even heroes?" he repeated, his tone low.

“I don’t think you’re invincible,” Percy countered before he could stop himself.

Hector tilted his head, considering the words with a slow nod. For a heartbeat, the tension thickened between them, but then his gaze shifted, flicking upward as something unseen caught his attention.

“There’s a spider in your hair,” Hector said, the observation blunt, as though he were commenting on the weather. His gaze fixed on the small creature with an intensity that made Percy blink.

Percy felt a slight jolt of surprise. Few people ever noticed Aregos—no one, in fact, except for Helen, and that was only when he’d let the spider crawl onto his hand. He’d grown used to its quiet presence, a comfort that had become as much a part of him as the blindfold covering his eyelid.

“I know,” Percy said, suddenly self-conscious, running a hand through his hair as if to assure himself the spider was still there, tucked among the strands.

Hector’s gaze didn’t waver. “Strange thing to keep on your head,” he mused, eyes narrowing as though he were inspecting it more closely, as if trying to determine whether it was a trick of the light or something far more curious.

Percy offered a half-smile, though the expression felt strained. “It helps me think,” he replied, the words escaping him more defensively than he intended.

Hector, to his credit, didn’t laugh. His gaze lingered a moment longer on the small, crawling creature before he exhaled softly, almost as if accepting this peculiarity with the same stoicism he approached everything else. “Don’t overwork it, or it will fall from your head one day,” he said—a strange piece of advice.

Percy smirked but felt a subtle chill in Hector's words, his mind flicking back to his impending task. The need to keep an eye on Paris gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

“Well, I hope you feel better,” Percy murmured, the words slipping past his lips almost absentmindedly as he turned away from Hector. His departure was swift, a barely noticeable farewell as he wove through the crowd, the rank odour of blood and death helped him part the way.

His fingers brushed against Paris’s wrist—soft, fleeting, an imperceptible tug, urging him to follow.

Percy looked up, his gaze flicking toward Ares, who stood like a shadow across the room, his red-hot eyes scanning retreating Paris. Percy’s spider eyes observed Ares, watching, waiting. When Ares finally looked away, Percy exhaled, relieved.

“Where are we going?” Paris’s voice was a quiet breath, full of hesitation.

“The baths,” Percy replied, his tone hushed, almost conspiratorial. “We can speak there.” His grip tightened, leading Paris through the labyrinth of the palace until the steam and soft hiss of water enveloped them both, the baths looming before them in a cloud of warmth. Even as they entered, Percy’s movements were sharp, his gaze darting over his shoulder, wary of unseen eyes.

“There’s a god of mayhem here,” Percy muttered, his voice a soft, urgent rasp. “I don’t want him interrupting.”

Paris stood there, confused, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He watched, wordless, as Percy began to peel away his battle-worn garments, the layers of filth and blood-stained linen falling like discarded armour. His skin and grime laid open to the dim light. Paris’s gaze lingered on him, yet Percy remained oblivious to the shifting air between them, to the silent storm brewing in Paris’s chest.

“You’re not going to wash?” Percy asked, his voice cutting through the fog of silence, though his tone held no reproach, only curiosity.

“I—” Paris faltered, the intimacy of the moment prickling his skin. His hands hung at his sides, uncertain.

Percy’s tone softened, guilt weaving through his words as if he regretted the imposition. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pulled you away from Menelaus. You’re a prince now—your duties come first.” His tone was light, but the weight of their past coiled between the words, tightening like a noose.

Paris laughed—a hollow sound. “Menelaus? He’s already too drunk to recognize me from his soldiers.” With a resigned sigh, Paris began to undress, unbuckling his cuirass with slow, deliberate movements. As the dagger slipped from his belt, the gleam of the blade caught Percy’s attention, a familiar shimmer that made his breath catch.

“You still have that?” Percy’s voice dropped to a whisper, disbelief lacing every word.

Paris’s fingers lingered on the blade, tracing the delicate lines of the dagger’s hilt with a tenderness that seemed almost reverent. The weapon, though cruel in its history, was handled with a care that spoke of enduring affection.

“It’s all I had left of you,” Paris admitted softly rising it in the air, his voice carrying the weight of fractured past. His fingers curled around the hilt.

Then Paris’s gaze fell on Percy’s pale, sightless eye, his brow furrowing as a question that had lingered unspoken finally found its voice.

“I wondered about it before, but—” He hesitated, his voice faltering slightly. “How can you see, when your eyes—”

“Oh,” Percy said, reaching into his tangled hair to retrieve the spider. Paris's eyes widened with surprise as he observed the creature wriggling in Percy’s hand.

“I see through her eyes,” Percy explained, a hint of a smile touching his lips despite the grimness of their situation.

“That sounds—” Paris began, struggling to find the right words.

“Like madness?” Percy’s laugh came, low and brittle, as if fractured under the strain of something deeper. “Yes, it is. But it’s better than stumbling in the dark. Lady Hekate gave me this gift— I can see through her animals.” He shrugged, the gesture more resigned than proud.

“Hekate,” Paris repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with a newfound gravity. “Is she the one who told you to kill me?”

Percy’s throat tightened, the weight of guilt pressing down on him as he nodded. His voice emerged as a fragile whisper. “Yes.”

Paris’s gaze lingered on Percy, his head tilting slightly, a quiet intensity in his eyes. "If Hekate told you to kill me again, would you do it?"

"No," Percy answered, his voice firm but edged with something darker—something that betrayed the inner conflict roiling beneath the surface. Percy’s hand trembled slightly as the spider crawled across his palm, its delicate legs tapping against his skin. “Not even for her.”

Paris studied him for a moment longer, his reply soft, almost tender, as if he were holding something fragile. "I believe you."

Percy’s brow furrowed, confusion and doubt twisting his expression. “How can you trust me, Paris? After what I’ve done—after everything... How can you even stand in the same room as me?”

A flicker of vulnerability crossed Paris’s face. He took a step closer, his presence both a comfort and a challenge.

“We are both stripped bare, Einalian. I hold the blade now, yet you don’t flee. You didn’t even flinch when I raised it.” His voice was low, each word carrying the weight of an unspoken truth.

“I trust you… and you trust me, too,” Paris whispered, his words fragile but unshakeable. “I’ve always had a gift for reading hearts… and yours is full of regret.” His eyes darkened, shadowed by a bittersweet understanding. “But I forgave you long ago, Einalian. That weight you're carrying—it's mine to lift. Let it go.”

Percy’s lips trembled, his heart swelling with an emotion he couldn’t name. He didn’t deserve a friend like Paris.

Then, like a cold gust, the realization hit him.

When he returned to his own time, to his old friends, to the family he had left behind, Paris would be gone. Vanished into the dust of centuries, buried beneath the weight of forgotten history. The man standing before him—so real, so alive—would be reduced to mere fragments of memory. His body, once warm, would have long been claimed by the earth, his bones ground to ash, scattered by wind and rain. His name would exist only in the crumbling ruins of statues or painted on the walls of forgotten museums.

“I will try,” Percy whispered, his throat tight.

The steam from the baths curled like ethereal wisps, weaving through the air as Percy and Paris descended into the water, the warmth wrapping around them, a gentle contrast to the grit and grime that clung to their skin. Percy, feeling the tension of the day ease ever so slightly, let himself sink into the soothing depths. The water lapped against his chest, softening the sharp edges of his muscles and mind. He closed his eyes briefly, lulled by the rhythmic movement of the water and the soft sounds of Paris beside him.

The water, now darkened, swirled around them as they moved in quiet synchrony, washing away the blood and dust that had caked their bodies. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of what lay between them still heavy.

“I know what you want to ask me about,” Paris finally said, his voice breaking the silence like a whisper in the mist. “The judgement. It happened just as you told me it would.” His gaze drifted away, lost in the rising steam, his hands moving absently as he scrubbed at his skin. “I chose Hera.”

Percy’s fingers, once gliding through the water in a gentle rhythm, stilled.

“I’m glad you listened,” Percy murmured, his voice barely rising above the soft ripple of the bath. “But... how did she convince you?” His tone carried a cautious curiosity, as if afraid of where the answer might lead.

Paris’s gaze flickered toward him, something unspoken hovering between them. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke.

“Hera promised me everything I could ever wish for,” Paris began, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely stirred the steam around them. “The power to protect what matters most to me—my family, my city…” He hesitated, and Percy thought he saw something flicker in Paris’s eyes, something heavy with significance.

Percy’s lips curved into a faint, weary smile as the warmth of the bath enveloped him, soothing the fatigue that weighed heavy on his limbs. “It means Troy will be safe, and so will you,” he murmured, his voice soft as a breeze. His head leaned back against the cool stone edge, and though he fought to stay alert, his eyelids fluttered, the lull of exhaustion tugging him closer to sleep. “Alexander, prince of Troy... has palace life made you arrogant yet?”

Paris chuckled, though there was a note of sincerity in his response. “I haven’t asked you to bend your knee for me, have I?”

Percy snorted softly, the sound echoing gently in the steam-filled room.

Paris’s tone shifted, wistful now, a longing threading through his words. “But I would love to go back to those days on Mount Ida... they were simpler.” He paused, his eyes searching Percy’s face. “Would you?”

Percy’s smile softened, turning wistful as well. “To sit in the sun... feel the wind on my face... hear the soft thud of sheep’s hooves against the grass,” he murmured, his voice fading as sleep began to claim him. “To sit by the fire again with wine in hand... listen to you playing.” The words barely escaped his lips, a whisper already drifting into the warmth, his mind slipping into the soft haze of drowsiness, lulled by the quiet comfort of the moment.

Paris's face, a canvas of both torment and affection, softened as he listened to Percy.

“Einalian, there is something I didn’t tell you,” Paris’s voice broke through the quiet, though it was soft and filled with hesitation, as if uncertain of how much to reveal. He moved closer, his hand gently finding Percy’s arm, not wanting him to sink further into the water’s depths as his body grew heavier with drowsiness.

“Hm?” Percy responded, barely conscious, his voice muffled by the encroaching tide of sleep.

“It’s—” Paris hesitated, his heart heavy with the weight of what he wished to say. The words lingered on his lips, but then, looking at Percy’s peaceful, weary face, he faltered. “Nothing,” he murmured at last, his voice tender and full of care. “Rest now.”

And Percy did. He let himself slip fully into the quiet, into the dark folds of sleep, feeling Paris’s presence beside him, steady and watchful.

When Percy awoke, it was to the gentle touch of mist that still lingered in the air. The soft sounds of clattering metal and fabric echoed through the quiet bath halls. When Aregos reconnected with him, his gaze found the ceiling above, the pale marble arches, glowing faintly in the low light. His limbs felt heavy, but there was a strange calmness in him.

He stirred and his focus turned to Paris. The prince was nearby, dressed now in soft, clean garments, tying the final belt with practised hands. His back was turned, but the care in his movements was evident. Percy watched him in silence, the memory of their quiet exchange still lingering in the edges of his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, I fell asleep,” Percy muttered, rubbing his face with one hand as he reached for his eyepatch with the other, tying it securely behind his head. The weight of his brief slumber still clung to him, but the warmth of the bath had eased the tightness in his limbs.

Paris turned, his expression softer now, his gaze flickering over Percy with approval. “Don’t be. You look much better, even if you didn’t sleep long.” He tossed a piece of fresh fabric toward him, the linen light enough to fold into a makeshift chiton. “I, too, found solace,” Paris continued softly, “mostly in observing your peaceful face while you slept.”

The moment those words escaped him, Paris averted his gaze, a flush of embarrassment colouring his cheeks as if the weight of his own honesty had caught him off guard.

Percy furrowed his brow at the unexpected confession, unsure how to respond. His mind briefly flickered back to the unfinished thought from earlier—the thing Paris had wanted to say before he had shamelessly fallen asleep. He opened his mouth to ask, but before the words could form, the creak of the bath hall door shattered the stillness.

A priest of Apollo entered, his robes billowing gently with each step as he made his way toward them. His presence was commanding, though his expression remained polite as he offered a bow to the Prince of Troy, his hands clasped before him in respect. His gaze then shifted to Percy, who slowly began to rise from the reclining chair where Paris had laid him.

"It’s time, boy," the priest said, his voice calm but impatient. He handed Percy the priestly robes, the white linen stark against the dim light.

“Are you praying to Apollo?” Paris asked, a peculiar strain threading through his voice. "Wasn't he the one who made you blind?" The question struck Percy like a sudden chill, and his mind raced. How did Paris know? He hadn’t spoken of it. Hera—of course. She must’ve told him, having seen it at the wedding.

“It’s complicated,” Percy managed to murmur, his words barely escaping the gravity of the moment.

Paris drew nearer, his hand grazing lightly against Percy’s arm before guiding him gently by the nape, allowing Percy’s chin to rest upon his shoulder. The gesture, though unexpected, radiated a profound, quiet warmth.

“I still know so little of you,” Paris began, his voice heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts, trailing off into the enveloping silence. "And now, you're already leaving."

Percy swallowed, his throat tight.

“But we've already found each other,” he replied softly, the words meant to reassure Paris as much as himself.

Paris smiled faintly, his breath a warm, tender caress against Percy’s ear. “You’re right. We will have all the time in the world to talk.” His voice dropped to a whisper. "Let’s finish this conversation when you return." The words curled around Percy’s spine, sending a shiver deep into his bones.

Percy patted Paris's back, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Wait for me," he murmured before slipping into the waiting robes and following the priest toward the door.

The priest's grip was firm but not harsh as he took Percy by the arm, leading him from the warmth of the bath’s steamy embrace.

As they crossed the threshold, Percy glanced over his shoulder. Paris stood still, his gaze trailing after them, soft yet unwavering. The prince’s brown eyes held a tenderness, a wordless promise that flickered in the dimming light like a candle’s flame.

After Percy had donned the white chiton, the fabric flowing gracefully over his slender frame and draped over his head like a veil, he was led to the temple. His once-grimy skin now gleamed faintly in the dim, golden light, his damp black locks curling with a restless grace beneath the cloth.

The air inside was thick with incense, a blend of myrrh and frankincense curling in delicate tendrils toward the marble statues of Apollo that loomed overhead, bathed in a golden light that seemed almost divine. Before him stood a young priestess, Xanthe, her hands raised in solemn reverence as she began the prayer.

Her voice, soft yet laden with a hypnotic melody, floated through the air like an incantation wrapped in velvet. “Great Apollo, god of light and healing, we lift our hearts in thanks for thy boundless mercy and guidance. Thou hast bestowed thy favour upon this city, upon those who tread within thy radiant beams, and hast led us from the shadows into safety. Thy wisdom illuminates our path, thy strength shields us from harm, and thy brilliance graces us with blessings untold. None are kinder than thou, O golden one.”

She paused, the echo of her words hanging in the air like a soft, lingering mist within the hallowed chamber. Her gaze turned to Percy, expectant and unyielding.

Percy’s throat constricted, the words feeling alien and treacherous on his tongue. He had spent so long eluding Apollo’s penetrating gaze that the prospect of now offering gratitude felt akin to bowing before a beast whose presence he feared more than revered.

He held incense platter in his hands, the smoke making his pale eye glow with tears.

“We thank thee—” His voice faltered, the pain etched into his features like a deep wound. He stared at the platter, its trembling surface a reflection of his own quaking hands.

Everything that had transpired between them surged before Percy's eyes like a relentless, dark procession—the abuse, the unbearable heat of Apollo's searing touch, the brilliance of his mocking laughter. The god's games were never-ending, each more insidious than the last. Apollo's clever hands had always known just how to tighten the chains around him.

What madness had driven him to this moment, kneeling before an idol of the very god who tormented him? What was he doing—praying like some lovesick fool to the one who had carved hell into his soul?

His breath came in ragged gasps as the world seemed to shrink around him, and in a frenzied, defiant motion, he hurled the incense platter at the statue. The impact sent the ashes scattering, leaving a jagged streak of soot smeared across the marble likeness of Apollo.

The priestess stood paralysed, her face a shifting tableau of disbelief, rage, and then terror, as the temple’s lights flickered, their once steady glow now wavering like the last flickers of a dying flame, extinguished by some unseen force.

A cold shiver crawled along Percy’s spine as the heavy temple doors creaked open, each sound like a note in a funeral dirge. He turned, instinct guiding him toward the disturbance, only to see Hector advancing slowly, his steps unnaturally deliberate. Blood streamed from Hector’s nose and ears, dark rivulets tracing eerie paths down his face. But it was his eyes that made Percy freeze—eyes that gleamed with disturbing light.

"Only one would dare offend me thus," thundered Hector’s voice, but there was a dissonance in it, as if it wasn’t solely his own. Hector’s golden eyes, stared unblinking at Percy, but they no longer seemed his own.

Hector smiled, a wide and feral grin, teeth bared. Then, with a grotesque brilliance, light began to pour from his eyes and mouth. The brilliance was blinding, as though his very being was unravelling, letting something else slip through.

Hector’s body crumpled, unconscious, to the cold stone floor, leaving behind an empty husk.

Percy’s mind reeled as the realization struck him with the force of a tidal wave—Apollo had been possessing Hector all this time. The thought seemed almost surreal, like a nightmare twisting itself into reality.

Through Hector's eyes, Apollo could see Percy, even through the enchantments that should have kept him concealed from divine sight. Apollo, as always, had been two steps ahead—watching, waiting, manipulating the threads of fate with a cruel precision Percy hadn’t fully understood until now.

Xanthe, who had been standing beside Percy, dropped to her knees, her body quaking with fear. She collapsed to the ground, pressing her face into her trembling hands, the weight of the god’s presence too much to bear. Her lips moved in a whispered prayer, but her words were unintelligible, swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed Apollo’s arrival.

The god’s visage was a tempest of fierce disarray, his presence a maelstrom of lethal intensity. His eyes, glowing with an unsettling gold, cast flickering light that danced ominously upon the walls. His robes billowed around him as though defying gravity itself. Percy’s fists clenched in helpless rage.

“Lord Apollo, forgive us,” Xanthe implored, her voice muffled by her hands. "He is but a youth, my lord, foolish and misguided. Spare him, I beseech thee.” Her trembling voice cut through the tension, laden with audacity.

Apollo’s eyebrow arched with regal disdain as he moved toward the altar, each step igniting the lamps in a sequential blaze, casting long, menacing shadows that twisted and writhed across the walls.

"Depart now and take Prince Hector with you," Apollo's voice was calm and cold, carrying the weight of divine authority that allowed no defiance. "Anyone who dares enter this temple henceforth shall be reduced to ashes."

Xanthe’s legs buckled beneath her as if they might give way entirely, trembling like reeds caught in a violent tempest. She barely managed a hurried nod, too terrified to meet Einalian’s gaze, her breath hitching as she fumbled to grasp Hector’s unconscious form. The strain of dragging his limp body across the cold stone floor became a desperate struggle, her movements clumsy with fear. The towering doors slammed shut behind her with a resounding finality.

Percy, chest tight with anxiety, edged slowly into the shadow of a towering statue, willing the stone figure to hide him. Apollo left Hector’s body... That meant he couldn’t see him now, right? The thought brought a glimmer of hope.

Maybe—just maybe—he could slip away, unseen, unnoticed.

His eyes darted around the dim temple, seeking any possible escape. Yet the only visible exit loomed behind Apollo, whose tall, imposing form blocked the way like an immovable barrier. No key to allow his flight to the underworld, no path free from Apollo's gaze. Hope mingled bitterly with anger, making his stomach churn.

Could he fight, or should he flee?

Apollo’s footsteps, deliberate and slow, echoed like a predator’s heartbeat, the sound pulling Percy’s nerves tighter with each passing second. Percy crouched lower, his mind racing, plotting silent retreat. But Apollo’s mere presence seemed to constrict the temple space, shrinking every possibility for escape.

"Perseus..." Apollo’s voice, strained and brittle, broke the silence with the precision of a blade. "Concealment serves no purpose." His words cut through the shadows.

"You may be wondering how I found you?" Apollo’s voice, deceptively soft, dripped with a silk-smooth malice. "Alexander couldn’t stop talking about your valiant little efforts to stop the war, how you told him to resist Aphrodite’s promises. It was all too clear where you’d be hiding—just behind Helen’s skirt. Convincing the young prince to come here was child's play."

Percy’s breath caught in his throat as the god continued, his tone almost gleeful. "It was delightful seeing you covered in blood in the forest." Apollo’s words slithered through the dim light, equal parts accusation and amusement. "But now, to find you here, in my temple..." His voice darkened, a velvet thread stretched taut over steel. "Dressed in my priests' robes, no less. You truly have no shame."

The shift in Apollo’s tone was unmistakable, thick with desire now, lust curling around the words like smoke.

The air felt suddenly too dense, the space around him closing in. Percy fought the urge to run, knowing any sudden movement might give him away. But staying... staying meant facing Apollo’s hunger.

The god's impatience was palpable, alive, each deliberate footfall of Apollo’s echoing like a clock’s ticking.

“You dared to flee from me,” Apollo’s voice cut through the air, smooth as polished marble, but beneath its surface lay an undercurrent of venomous menace. The subtlety of the threat only sharpened its edges. “An offence I shall not easily forgive.”

Percy, pressed into the shadow of the statue, forced his breath to slow, though the pounding of his heart was deafening in his own ears.

“Yet,” Apollo continued, his words coiling like a serpent ready to strike, “if you cease this futile hiding and return to me, my wrath might be... mitigated.” The offer was thinly veiled, a cruel taunt masked as mercy.

Percy, though blind, could sense the god’s predatory anticipation—the way Apollo savoured the moment, the decision looming heavy like a guillotine’s blade, suspended above him.

Not yet. Don’t move too soon.

Percy’s body coiled with tension as he edged silently around the statue, moving in slow, deliberate steps toward the passage. His muscles ached with the strain of cautious retreat, his every step measured as if walking the edge of a blade. He could see the passage now, leading to the doors, and freedom hung tantalizingly close.

Just a few more steps...

But as he neared the passage, Apollo had stopped. He knelt, his hand pressed flat against the cold stone floor, his golden eyes narrowed in concentration. Percy’s blood ran cold. The god was listening—not with his ears, but through the earth itself, feeling the slightest vibration, the tremor of movement.

He hesitated for a single breath—just a fraction of a second—and it was enough.

Apollo’s head snapped toward him with slow, deliberate precision, his golden eyes gleaming with an unsettling, terrifying confidence. A chilling smile curled at his lips, as if Percy’s flight had been nothing more than a game, and Apollo had known the outcome all along.

Fear, sharp and unrelenting, surged through Percy’s veins, spurring him into a frantic dash before his mind could even register the choice. Instinct took over. His hand flew to the pin on his robes, and in an instant, the sword materialized in his grip. Its weight was familiar, grounding, but not nearly enough to still the storm that raged within him.

His feet struck the cold temple floor, every step a desperate rhythm of escape. The passage loomed closer, but so too did the inevitable, oppressive presence of Apollo’s wrath.

“Running from me will only bring you more suffering,” Apollo’s voice rumbled, low and terrible.

Percy didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

His legs continued to propel him forward, desperate and unrelenting, toward the promise of escape. The doors loomed just ahead—salvation—but before he could grasp the handle, Apollo's hand extended, not to touch him, but to summon a wall of searing fire that engulfed the exit in a radiant blaze.

The heat struck Percy like a tidal wave of agony. He reached out, instinct guiding his movements, but the inferno lashed at him, its fury so intense that he felt his flesh begin to blister and peel away. A guttural scream tore from his throat, his body crumbling to the ground in a heap, writhing under the crushing weight of the pain that seared through every nerve. His hand, scorched and broken, fell away from the handle, the sword he clutched slipping from his grasp and clattering on the temple floor, its metallic echo lost in the roar of flames.

His vision blurred, sweat mixing with blood as he gasped for air, each breath a struggle against the unbearable heat. His eyes instinctively sought out his hands—those hands that had once borne the sigils, glowing with an ancient magic that had shielded him from divine wrath.

But now, those same sigils writhed and contorted, the arcane symbols warping grotesquely under the relentless assault of the flames. They had once pulsed with power, a protection, a gift—but now they withered, dissolving into nothingness like smoke curling from a dying flame.

The sight of the magic’s dissolution sent a tremor through Apollo, a flicker of something fragile—perhaps fear, perhaps desire—catching in his breath as he watched Percy crumble. Apollo’s gaze remained sharp, merciless, devouring every detail of Percy’s agony with a cold intensity.

Percy was on his knees, draped in the folds of his chiton. The fabric clung to his trembling body in soft, ethereal waves, its pristine whiteness a cruel contrast to the soot and sweat that streaked his skin. His rich, black locks tumbled free, framing his face like a veil of shadow, while his jaw, sharp and clenched with the unbearable weight of suffering, caught the flickering firelight.

In a swift motion, Apollo closed the distance between them. His hand shot out and clasped Percy’s wrist, the god’s grip cold and unyielding. With the faintest flicker of divine power, the burns on Percy’s hand mended instantly, the seared flesh knitting together under Apollo’s touch. For a fleeting moment, something like tenderness softened Apollo’s intense expression, his golden gaze lingering on Percy’s face as if even he couldn’t help but admire the tragic beauty.

Percy stared at his hand, the place where the sigil had once glowed now healed but eerily blank, as though the symbol had never been there. A suffocating dread coiled in his chest, winding tighter and tighter as his trembling gaze shifted to Apollo.

Percy’s heart sank under his focused gaze. He was no longer invisible, no longer shielded by the enchantments that had kept him hidden from the god’s sight. There was no escape now. He was fully within Apollo’s grasp, exposed, seen.

And then, Apollo moved again, his hand shifting with unnerving swiftness. His fingers curled around the nape of Percy’s neck, not in a gesture of comfort but with precise intent, plucking something from Percy’s tangled hair.

Aregos.

Apollo held the delicate spider aloft, her tiny body writhing in his grip, legs flailing in a frantic, desperate dance. Her chelicerae stabbed at the air, futile against the god’s iron grasp. Percy’s heart lurched in his chest.

“No,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as his hand shot out, reaching for her. Panic surged through him, a desperate need to protect her.

But it was too late.

With a casual flick of his fingers, flames roared to life in Apollo’s palm, engulfing Aregos in an instant. Her frail form twisted and writhed in the fire, her final, pitiful hiss cutting through the air—a sound so sharp, so filled with pain, that it cleaved through Percy’s soul. He felt it, raw and searing, as though the flames had burned him too, branding his very heart with the agony of her loss.

“Aregos!” Percy cried out, his voice hoarse with despair. He lunged forward, his hand grasping at the empty air where her ashes now fluttered, falling like dark snowflakes just beyond his reach.

But Apollo was unmoved, his grip like iron as he effortlessly held Percy back, lifting him as though he weighed nothing at all. The god’s eyes remained cold, indifferent, as if the life he had just snuffed out was nothing more than an afterthought.

Tears streamed down Percy’s cheeks, his voice cracking under the weight of his fury and grief. “You monster!” he screamed, his body trembling violently with the force of his emotions.

Apollo, with unsettling calm, embraced him from behind, halting his struggles with a cruel, possessive hold. He pressed a chilling kiss to the nape of Percy’s neck, his breath a cold whisper against his skin.

“I told you what disobedience would bring,” Apollo murmured softly into Percy’s ear, his voice laced with a finality that chilled the air between them.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Apollo’s fingers slid beneath the edge of Percy’s eyepatch. The god’s touch was deceptively gentle as he wiped away Percy’s tears with a mocking tenderness. He tugged the eyepatch away, his hand moving to grip Percy’s jaw, forcing open the lid of his mutilated eye to expose the empty void beneath.

The sight ignited a searing fury within Apollo. His face remained outwardly calm, but the rage beneath was barely contained.

“Now, tell me, my light,” Apollo’s voice carried a dangerous edge, each word a sharp command that seemed to vibrate with the weight of his wrath. “How did this happen?”

Percy’s body continued to tremble, his sobs subsiding into ragged breaths as he struggled to control himself. His gaze fell to the floor where Aregos’s ashes lay, scattered and carried away by the charged air of the temple.

“Speak, Perseus,” Apollo's voice cut through the air, uncompromising and cold.

Percy’s breath hitched, his teeth clenched in a blend of defiance and agony. His lip curled with bitter rebellion as he spat, “Fuck…you.”

The unfamiliar words, spoken in pure English, elicited a brief flicker of surprise on Apollo’s otherwise composed face, a momentary crack in his divine facade.

“I see, you’re still distracted,” Apollo said with a dismissive tone, rising to his full height. His grip on Percy’s arm was like iron, unyielding and firm. “You will speak of this when we return to my palace.”

“I will go nowhere with you, you bastard,” Percy retorted, his words a fierce blend of English and Greek, a testament to his fraying control.

At that moment, the earth beneath them began to tremble. Apollo’s eyes narrowed, his attention sharpening as he sensed the disturbance. He expected the tremors to be the work of another deity, but his gaze shifted to realize the source was Percy’s own wrath.

“Are you throwing a tantrum? How endearing,” Apollo sneered, his disdain palpable as he kicked the temple doors from their hinges, sending them crashing to the ground with a resounding thunder. With an effortless motion, he wrapped his arms around Percy, lifting him as though he were a mere child.

Percy, however, focused less on Apollo’s hold and more on the ground beneath them. He willed the ground to crack, to shatter, and collapse in a spectacular ruin. It was the only way he could conceive of giving Aregos a final resting place, a burial beneath the crumbling edifice of the temple that had witnessed her end.

The earth groaned in response, the cracks spreading outwards like the fissures of a dying heart. With a final, defiant burst of energy, Percy watched as the temple’s floor buckled and fractured, the dust and debris swirling around them in a chaotic dance.

People began to scatter in panic, priests waiting outside collapsing to their knees in fear. The temple’s foundation groaned under the strain of Percy’s anger, and suddenly, a fissure split open just beneath Apollo’s feet. Distracted by the seismic shift, Apollo’s grip momentarily loosened.

Seizing the opportunity, Percy wriggled free from Apollo’s hold and fled, sprinting blindly toward the mountain slopes where the forest loomed. His priest robes billowed behind him in the wind as he raced away from the god.

He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t even think. Who could he call for aid? Medusa was too far, and the thought of Apollo unleashing his wrath upon her clawed at his heart. Poseidon was too distant, his powers too slow to reach him in time before Apollo swept him up once more. And Hekate—he hesitated. The sun had not yet set, and the thought of returning to the Underworld to face her wrath chilled him. He wasn’t ready for that journey, not yet.

So, he made a desperate choice, clinging to the sliver of logic that remained in his frantic mind. Sparta. It was a city of warriors, a place forged in iron and blood, where battle was the heartbeat of life.

In his flight, Percy’s voice tore through the wind, “Ares! Help—, help me!”

The words left his throat like a wound reopened, his hope clinging to the tattered remains of reason as he hurled his plea into the abyss, praying that the storm of his desperation would summon the gaze of the god of mayhem.

A sudden, sharp cry split the air—a blade’s swish followed by a heavy thud. Ares’s intervention was swift and brutal as he struck Apollo’s leg with a sword, sending the sun god staggering. Apollo growled, yanking the blade free, ichor streaming down his leg in molten gold. His expression wasn’t one of pain, but of sheer annoyance, as if this skirmish with Ares was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Percy, his mind reeling from the sounds of divine wrath, pushed forward with hurried determination. The clash of metal, the roar of voices—both mortal and divine—echoed in his ears. His steps were unsteady, guided solely by the distant crash of debris and the vibrating ground beneath his feet as the temple of Apollo descended into ruin behind him.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the cacophony. “Einalian!” Paris’s call reached him, urgent and clear amidst the chaos.

Percy paused, turning toward the sound just as the pounding of horse hooves grew louder and louder behind him. The tremor of the galloping beast vibrated up his legs until Paris arrived, reining in the horse beside Percy.

“Jump on,” Paris commanded, his voice tight with urgency. Percy didn’t hesitate. He felt Paris’s strong arm reach down to guide him, and with a swift motion, Percy climbed onto the horse behind him, wrapping his arms around Paris’s stomach for balance.

The wind whipped against them as Paris spurred the horse forward. The sounds of battle began to fade, but Percy’s heart pounded with an entirely different fear now.

“He’s going to catch up to us,” Percy muttered, breathless from the chaos behind them. He could almost feel Apollo’s fury closing in, the relentless presence of the god who never let go.

Paris turned slightly, his voice steady despite the panic rising in the air. “He won’t if we reach Hera’s temple in time.”

“Hera?” Percy’s voice was a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

"Trust me," Paris whispered.

Percy wanted to, more than anything. But as he hugged Paris tighter, burying his face against him, the familiar scent drifted in—the unmistakable fragrance of roses and ambrosia.

Chapter Text

“Trust me,” Paris whispered.

Percy wanted to—more than anything. He pressed his face against Paris’s chest, gripping the rough fabric of his cloak as if holding on for dear life. His breaths were shallow, every sense heightened. Though he couldn’t see, his other senses sharpened—the sound of hooves pounding the earth, the wind whipping through their hair, the rise and fall of Paris’s chest against his own.

But something else clawed at Percy’s awareness, something darker. The air had changed. It was thick with the unmistakable scent of roses and ambrosia—too sweet, too familiar.

A flutter of wings echoed above them, sharp and invasive, filling the space where silence should have been.

“Faster!” Percy’s voice came out sharp, his blind gaze lifting to the unseen sky. Paris urged the horse faster, his body taut, muscles coiling with the same dread.

But even the strongest horse couldn't outrun the god of desire.

A gust of wind tore through the trees, violent and fierce. Doves descended in a flurry of wings, their feathers cutting through the air like blades.

The horse reared back, startled, its hooves slicing through the air as Percy tumbled from its back, the ground rushing to meet him with brutal force. Paris fell beside him, close enough that their bodies nearly tangled in the dirt. He let the horse bolt away into the chaos, its frantic hooves fading into the distance. Percy scrambled to his feet, the unsettling brush of wings whispering against his skin from all sides. He could feel them closing in, their focus unnervingly clear.

In one fluid motion the Prince of Troy unsheathed his sword. "Back!" he shouted, his voice sharp, eyes wild. The blade swung through the storm, carving arcs of light and shadow. It sliced through the throng of birds, feathers exploding into the air, their fragile bodies crumpling to the earth with a sickening thud. Blood spattered in the air—hot, metallic droplets stinging Percy’s skin, the scent of iron mingling with the intoxicating sweetness of roses.

But for every dove Paris struck down, two more seemed to take its place. They swarmed, relentless, the cries they made far from the coos of ordinary birds—these were not gentle messengers of peace, but harbingers of something far darker.

One dove was exceptionally fierce, its talons gleaming like sharpened daggers as it dove toward Percy with predatory precision. But before it could strike, Paris surged forward, his blade slicing through the air. The weapon connected with the creature’s wing, and a spray of silver feathers erupted like a sudden storm.

Paris’s breath hitched in his throat, a sound of dread barely contained. “Oh no.”

Percy’s anxiety mounted instantly. He gripped Paris’s arm. “What is it?”

“The blood of this one,” Paris began, his voice faltering as his eyes locked onto the traces of ichor, “it’s—it’s gold.”

The dove, now wounded, let out a scream that tore the sky apart. Its body twisted and writhed, feathers turning to flesh, bones snapping and reforming. A man emerged from the grotesque metamorphosis, beautiful and terrible—half-human, half-dove, his wings slick with ichor, his eyes burning with a hatred that pierced through the storm. Eros.

Percy stepped forward, his voice desperate. “Stop, Eros! Please—stop!”

But the god’s ears were deaf to mortal pleas. With a savage cry, he flung Percy aside, the force of the blow sending him tumbling to the ground. Paris raised his sword again, but Eros was faster, his talons flashing like lightning. He knocked the blade from Paris's grip and slashed through his arm, the spray of blood painting the earth in crimson.

“Paris!” Percy’s voice broke, panic and disorientation consuming him. His world was nothing but sounds—screams, the clash of sword against claw, the frantic beating of wings. He stumbled, his hands reaching out, trying to find his friend.

Before he could steady himself, Eros's talons latched onto Percy’s body with merciless force, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Percy gasped, his body jerking as if torn from the ground itself, and then the god’s wings enveloped him—folding around him like a shroud, tight and unyielding.

“Let me go!” Percy cried out, his voice swallowed by the wind, lost in the storm of wings. He struggled against the hold, but Eros’s grip was unyielding, his touch deceptively gentle despite the strength with which he carried Percy away.

“Einalian!” Paris’s voice cut through the chaos, but it was weak, too faint for Percy’s comfort. Demigod’s heart clenched with fear, imagining how severe Paris’s wounds must be.

Percy could only gasp for air, his mind a frantic whirlwind as he struggled to orient himself. The wind was colder now, biting at his skin, the air thin and sharp as they flew impossibly high—further from Paris, further from any hope of escape.

Then, without warning, the rush of air ceased. The sudden stillness was a cruel jolt, and before Percy could brace himself, he felt the violent drop. His stomach lurched as gravity reclaimed him, and he plummeted through the air, the weightless freefall ending in a jarring thud.

But instead of the brutal slap of stone or earth, he landed on something soft.

Dazed, Percy pushed himself onto his hands and knees. His senses swirled, fragmented and confused, the air thick with a heady perfume that made it hard to breathe. His fingers grazed the ground—it was covered in petals, soft and delicate, but as his hand slid further, it met something sharper, more insidious. Thorns.

The feeling of the flora—alive and coiling around him—was unnerving. The loss of Aregos’s guidance hanging like a phantom ache in the back of his mind.

“Who’s there?” Percy’s voice cut through the thick silence, a tentative inquiry swallowed by the vast emptiness. His blind fingers reached out into the void, desperate for something real, something solid. Instead, they brushed against the warm, bare skin of someone’s thigh—smooth, exposed, and unashamed.

“Eros?” Percy’s voice was hesitant, tinged with uncertainty as he reached out, his fingers curling around Eros’s shoulders. His touch met with taut muscle, and a quiet hiss escaped the god’s lips.

It was then Percy noticed the slickness beneath his fingers—the unmistakable wetness of blood. His brow furrowed, his confusion shifting into something sharper. “You’re bleeding,” Percy murmured, but instead of compassion, a simmering anger rose in his chest.

“It will pass soon,” Eros murmured, his voice soothing, almost dismissive. His hand slid along Percy’s arm, fingers tracing a path until they curled gently around his elbow, as if to soothe the tension sparking between them.

But Percy wasn’t soothed. He yanked his arm away. “Where am I?” he demanded, his voice tight with anger that only barely masked the undercurrent of something more fragile—fear.

Eros’s fingers ghosted over his throat, barely a touch. “A place for you, Perseus,” he whispered, the maddening softness of his voice threading into Percy’s every nerve. Eros leaned his forehead against Percy’s arm, his breath warm against Percy’s skin. “You are finally where you should be.”

The touch that grazed Percy’s face was impossibly soft, deceptively gentle. Eros’s fingers lingered on his cheek, caressing with a feather-light grace that belied the cruel power beneath. Percy jerked back, instinctively recoiling, but Eros followed, his movements slow, deliberate.

“Get me out of here, Eros,” Percy hissed, his voice trembling with barely contained fury.

Unfazed, Eros stood still, his gaze unwavering, dangerous in its tenderness. His hand drifted upward, fingers threading through Percy’s hair with a lover’s delicacy. “Why would you return to that mortal pit?” Eros purred, his voice a sultry hum, coaxing and soothing.

“You hurt my friend,” Percy hissed, his voice taut with the sting of betrayal. “Paris is—”

Eros’s hand moved swiftly, his fingers pressing against Percy’s mouth, silencing him. "I don’t want to hear about that mortal,” Eros snapped, his voice laced with thinly veiled jealousy. "But don’t worry," he added, the faintest smirk curling at the edges of his lips, "he will live—for now.”

Percy’s chest tightened as he tried to push Eros’s hand away, but the god’s grip was firm.

“Besides,” Eros continued, his tone shifting, a dark edge creeping into his voice, “war is coming, Perseus. Here on Olympus, you are untouchable. Safe.” His fingers relaxed slightly on Percy’s lips.

The word safe rang hollow in Percy’s ears. Safe? He had never felt more vulnerable.

“War?” Percy’s voice wavered, suspicion curling in his gut. “What do you mean?”

Eros leaned closer, his breath warm against Percy’s cheek, his words a purr. “My mother is bitter, you see,” he began, his fingers tracing idle patterns against Percy’s neck. “Bitter that Alexander did not choose her, as he should have.” A shadow passed over Eros’s face, his expression darkening. “She believes punishment is in order. So she took matters into her own hands.”

Percy stiffened, his breath catching. “Does this… plan of hers include love-imbued arrows?” The words tumbled out, suspicion sharpened into something more dangerous.

Eros’s lips curved into a grin. “Ah, clever boy,” he said, his laughter light and almost joyous. “After all, love and war always go hand in hand, don’t they?”

“So Ares supports this too,” Percy mused, a wave of disappointment washing over him.

“Of course he does. He can hardly wait for the conflict to unfold,” Eros replied, his tone almost dreamy.

“How can you speak so lightly of it? Lives will be lost,” Percy’s voice quivered, laced with disbelief as he grappled for some semblance of reason amidst Eros’s madness.

Eros’s hands coiled around Percy’s neck like ivy. “What do I care, silly?” he murmured, his breath a warm caress against Percy’s skin. “My parents crave the sight of a city in flames. Who am I to deny them such exquisite pleasure?” His words slithered with indifference, dripping with the same languid cruelty that made destruction seem a lover’s indulgence.

Percy shoved Eros back, his strength fuelled by disgust and rage.

He had to reach Paris. To Helen. If he faltered, the world would spiral into chaos, unravelling like thread from a frayed tapestry, destined for ruin.

Eros stumbled but quickly regained his balance, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Percy turned, desperate to climb out of the bed, but a sharp pain shot through him—the thorns. They wrapped around him like serpents, their grip tightening, tearing at his skin. He groaned, his struggle only making the vines tighten further.

“What madness is this?” Percy gasped, each thorn bit savagely, a venomous kiss of agony, forcing him back onto the bed. It was as though the very flora rejected him—spitting him out yet refusing to release him.

“Our love nest,” Eros’s voice echoed, disembodied and chilling. "You’ll not leave, Perseus. Not until I finish my rite."

“What nonsense are you speaking of?” Percy’s breath quickened, his voice wavering as anxiety twisted his stomach. A rite? The words only deepened the pit forming within him.

“Apollo is afraid of what’s coming, you see,” Eros said, rising to all fours on the bed, leaning toward Percy, who instinctively backed away. “He fears the hail of Aphrodite’s arrows will reach you, making you the centre of the war—making you… how to put it? Incapable of thinking straight.” Eros smiled, wicked and knowing.

“He wants you immune to that magic,” Eros purred, his voice a velvet caress. “And what better way to achieve this than by filling you with it until your heart is rendered numb to its allure?”

“What does that mean?” Percy asked, his voice trembling, as confusion and dread intertwined.

Before he could rise, Eros’s hand pressed against his chest, pushing him back onto the cushions.

“I’m weary of explanations,” Eros sighed, a note of exasperation mingling with his lustful anticipation. “I’ve longed to be between your legs, and now, thanks to Apollo’s bargain, I can indulge without consequence.” Eros moved closer to Percy, his presence a suffocating haze.

Percy’s heart clenched painfully at the mention of Apollo. Apollo allowed this? The thought struck him like a blow, a wave of unexpected emotions crashing over him—disappointment, hurt, anger—each one knotting his chest tighter.

“Back off,” Percy growled, summoning every ounce of defiance as he attempted to rise once more, but Eros was quick, seizing him with a grip that felt like iron.

In a flash, Percy’s instincts flared. He kicked Eros hard in the stomach, the impact jolting through his leg. The god stumbled back, momentarily winded, but instead of anger, laughter erupted from him—a sound full of wild, deranged delight, as if Percy’s resistance only fuelled his twisted hunger.

Percy bucked against him, arching his hips in a desperate attempt to dislodge the god, buying just enough space to throw a sharp punch. The blow landed hard, ichor spilling from Eros’s nose like molten pearls, splattering across Percy’s face.

“I don’t have time for games!” Percy roared, his voice cracking with frustration. The weight of dread settled heavy in his bones. “I said back off!”

Eros’s eyes, glowing with that feverish, unnatural pink, burned with a lust that twisted into something dark, something primal.

Without a word, he struck. His hand yanked Percy’s leg, pulling him down violently as his fangs sank into the tender flesh of Percy’s calf.

Percy cried out in pain, his body jolting as he kicked wildly, desperate to escape the god’s savage bite. The venomous puncture seared through his veins, sending waves of heat radiating up his leg. Eros withdrew, his lips gleaming with blood and venom, his expression a cruel mix of ecstasy and hunger.

And then, like a shadow slipping into the night, he vanished into the darkness of the chamber.

“Games?” Eros’s voice echoed from the shadows, disembodied and haunting. “This will be no game, my dear.”

The room succumbed to a heavy silence, the air thick with the menace of Eros’s concealed movements. Percy felt trapped, a creature ensnared in a hunter’s gaze, his heart pounding, waiting for the next onslaught.

“Stop hiding like a coward, fight me at least.” Percy challenged, his head whipping from side to side, sensing the subtle shifts in the air as Eros circled him.

Eros reappeared behind him, his touch a cold, cruel caress as he yanked Percy’s hair back, exposing the tender side of his neck. With a predatory hiss, he sank his teeth into the exposed skin. Before the sting of his bite had fully registered, Eros vanished once more, leaving Percy trembling and exposed.

Percy could already feel the insidious tide of heat rising within him, the venom of Eros’s bite working its enslaving magic, spreading its corrupting influence through his veins.

“Eros, stop this,” Percy’s voice trembled, fraught with a raw, aching desperation. “Let me—” His plea was cut short as Eros’s hands snatched at him, cruel fingers digging into Percy’s arms, pulling him back into the bed.

Their limbs tangled, and Eros’s teeth sank into Percy’s wrist, blood staining the sheets in a sick, symbiotic ritual.

As Percy struggled to push him away, Eros growled—a feral sound—his teeth remaining embedded in Percy’s flesh, a possessive grip, like a dog reluctant to let go of its prize.

When he finally withdrew, vanishing like a phantom, Percy was left grappling with the remnants of his own helplessness.

“Fuck!” Percy grunted, clutching his trembling hand as the venom surged up his arm.

The torment persisted, a relentless, vicious cycle. Eros would reappear like a striking serpent, his fangs sinking into Percy’s skin, tearing through him with a brutal, predatory precision. Crimson rivulets stained the sheets, mingling with the venom that coursed through Percy’s veins, spreading a searing heat that clawed at his insides.

Eros no longer bore the semblance of the capricious deity Percy once knew; instead, there was something primal in his behaviour—an amalgamation of raw, animalistic ferocity and ceremonial precision. His movements, once playful and teasing, now held a terrifying focus.

Percy lay still, unmoving, his body overwhelmed by the burning heat of the venom. His muscles twitched involuntarily, but the fight had drained from him. The oppressive silence of the room wrapped around him like a suffocating veil, broken only by the occasional, shivering intake of breath.

Was this what it felt like to be trapped in a bad trip? Percy wondered, as his world spun around him, amplifying his disorientation given his blindness. He teetered on the edge of oblivion, his feverish skin pricked by goosebumps and sweat that mingled in an unsettling dance.

He strained to gather his scattered thoughts, the venom’s cruel grip still latent, awaiting its final, devastating bloom.

“Eros, this isn’t you,” Percy rasped, his voice a cracked whisper, each word trembling with raw defiance. He blinked away the sting of tears threatening to spill.

Eros stilled, the predatory gleam in his eyes dimming for a fleeting moment. His silhouette loomed over Percy like a shadowed phantom. He traced his fingers over Percy’s bruised skin with an almost tender touch.

“This is exactly who I am,” Eros drawled, his voice smooth. “Few can see it; fewer still can feel it as deeply as you do now. What I offer you is a gift.”

Percy turned his head to the side, his voice filled with quiet desperation. “I don’t want your lust,” he murmured, eyes closing as the words left him. “I want your friendship.”

For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of Percy’s words hanging in the air. Eros’s face twitched, the raw hunger flickering in his gaze briefly faltering, as if the purity of Percy’s plea clashed violently with his own desires.

“Friendship?” Eros spat, disbelief twisting his voice into something brittle and cold. “You think friendship is enough? You think I will settle for something so...human?”

Percy’s heart pounded in his chest, and he knew there would be no reasoning with the god, no appeal to a softer side that might not even exist.

"Friendship is not enough for me," Eros growled, “I want more, I will tear it from you if I must, whether you choose it or not.”

Percy’s chest heaved, his breaths laboured, but his defiance remained. “Love isn’t something you can take by force.” He swallowed hard, every word heavy with the weight of his pain. “If you do this, you’ll destroy any chance we ever had of being anything at all.”

Eros recoiled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. A flicker of doubt crossed the god’s features, a crack in his once impenetrable façade. But it lasted only a second. With a snarl, Eros shoved Percy back against the bed, his fangs grazing Percy’s neck again, though the bite didn’t come this time.

“We both don’t have a choice,” Eros hissed, his breath hot against Percy’s skin. “You are under me only because Apollo agreed to it, and soon—when my venom sinks deep—you won’t think about anything else but feeling me inside you.” His words were laced with cold calculation.

Percy’s breath caught, but he fought the rising tide of panic. “This… this isn’t right,” he gasped, his voice trembling. The venom coursing through his body began to burn hotter, sinking its claws into his senses, but Percy fought against the encroaching haze, his will battling the insidious magic.

“I won’t let you control me.” Percy gritted through his teeth, his voice a raw, determined whisper.

Eros leaned closer, his lips brushing Percy’s ear, his tone dark and almost mocking. “Oh, Perseus, the venom will control you. And when it does, you’ll be begging for me. But don’t worry—when that time comes, I’ll be more than willing to give you exactly what you need.”

---

Apollo and Ares clashed like twin storms, their weapons meeting with the force of thunder. Apollo’s flaming sword hissed with heat, every strike illuminating the battlefield in violent bursts of light, while Ares’s great sword sang in response, a cold, brutal counterpoint. Ichor spilled from Apollo’s injured leg. Ares caught the sight and smirked—a chink in Apollo’s armour, a weakness that would make him more prone to desperate mistakes.

"Your impatience blinded you," Ares sneered, the smirk on his lips razor-sharp as he pressed harder, aiming a strike at Apollo’s wounded leg. The metallic clang of their swords rang out. “You would never let yourself be injured so recklessly.”

Ares’s keen gaze took in more than just the immediate struggle. He noticed it—the way Apollo’s brilliance seemed dimmed, his once-radiant light flickering like a candle threatened by the wind. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough for Ares to sense that whatever had befallen the sun god was draining his strength. And Ares couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a burden Apollo had willingly embraced.

“Stop diverting my attention from him,” Apollo spat, fury igniting his features as he blocked Ares's attack with a savage swipe of his sword. The clash reverberated in the air, Apollo’s rage spilling forth as each swing of his blade became wilder, more forceful.

“He called for me,” Ares rasped, voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “Has he ever called for you?” The words were a blade of their own, twisting in Apollo’s gut.

Apollo’s jaw clenched, fury simmering beneath the surface. In a blinding flash, Apollo surged forward, his sword driving Ares to the ground. With a swift motion, he pinned Ares beneath him, his blade piercing his hand.

Ares gritted his teeth, but through the pain, a smile twisted his lips. The scent of burnt flesh rose as Apollo’s flaming sword scorched his hand, the heat turning the skin black.

“He’s been taken by Eros,” Apollo said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Just as I intended.”

For the first time, Ares’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing slightly. “Taken by Eros?” he growled, his confusion bleeding into frustration. “For what?”

A dark, cruel smile curled Apollo’s lips. “I want him stronger. Indifferent to Aphrodite’s petty charms.”

Ares’s expression hardened, a flicker of realization crossing his face. “I never thought you’d be so senseless,” he snarled, his voice dripping with disdain. “Reckless, yes. But never like this.”

Apollo’s brows furrowed, his confusion deepening.

“You don’t grasp the true nature of Eros, do you?” Ares continued, his voice growing more intense, a warning laced within each word. “He’s no gentle lover, no god of soft embraces. He’s a tempest, a force of destruction just like my sons, Deimos and Phobos. He’s born of me, after all.”

Apollo’s golden eyes darkened, a storm brewing within them. He stood over Ares, sword still ablaze, the heat radiating off him like the fury of the sun. “Whatever you mean,” Apollo said coldly, his voice calm, though tension rippled through his body. He released Ares from his burning prison, the God of War’s hand blackened and useless, hanging at his side.

“If Eros fancies Einalian,” Ares said, his voice lower now, more dangerous, “he will hurt him. The more he desires, the more he will destroy. The bigger the passion, the deeper the ruin.” Ares’s eyes gleamed with bitter understanding. “You should know that better than anyone. You, who claim to protect the son of Poseidon.”

Using Apollo’s moment of doubt, Ares raised his sword once more, the blade glinting ominously in the fading light. Apollo dodged with effort, but the weapon grazed his robes, tearing through the fabric.

"Then end this farce and cease slowing my pace," Apollo hissed, his voice sharp with impatience, each word clipped as he summoned his chariot. On the distant horizon, the familiar blaze of his steeds erupted—a flare of untamed fire, scorching the heavens with their brilliance, a symbol of both his power and his desperate need for escape.

But before he could move, Ares’s sword was at his throat, the cold steel resting under his chin with a menacing finality that forced Apollo to meet the war god's piercing gaze.

“I won’t let you go yet,” Ares declared.

“You warned me of Eros,” Apollo replied, his voice a low growl, golden eyes aflame with barely restrained fury. “Yet you want to keep me here, knowing Perseus is in danger?”

Ares’s grin faltered, shifting into something darker, more calculating. “You put this upon yourself, sun god. If there’s one person Perseus will hate after Eros finishes with him, it will be you—for allowing it.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “And I’m more than content with that.”

Apollo’s jaw clenched. The weight of Ares's blade against his skin did little to subdue his rage. “And if Eros kills him?”

Ares’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “Maim him? Yes. Exhaust him, torment him, twist his very soul? Absolutely. But kill him? Eros isn’t that careless.” He paused, watching Apollo’s reaction with a dark gleam in his eyes. “And if by some chance he does, it’ll be a lesson for Eros, too. The boy was always reckless with his affections.”

Apollo’s chest heaved, breath ragged and uneven as he stared into Ares’s unrelenting gaze.

“If by some chance he does,” Apollo repeated, “I will kill him.” His eyes blazed with molten gold.

Ares’s brows furrowed, fury igniting in his eyes, and they clashed again with renewed ferocity. Their weapons met, sparks flew, scattering like fireflies caught in a tempest.

---

Percy writhed, tearing at his priest robes, blood staining the once-pure fabric. The venom was taking full effect now, twisting Percy’s senses, igniting a fire within him that only worsened with each passing second. Percy’s breath came in ragged gasps as his body betrayed him, his skin slick with sweat and his muscles twitching uncontrollably. The robes, once a symbol of purity, now chafed and stuck, their touch unbearable.

"Oh, gods…" Percy gasped, burying his face into the sheets, gripping them with white-knuckled fists as if they were the only anchor keeping him from surrendering completely. The sheets felt cool against his fevered skin, but it wasn’t enough.

Eros leaned back slightly, savouring the sight before him, but his irritation was growing. Percy wasn’t crawling toward him, wasn’t begging for him the way he expected. Instead, the name of another god slipped from his lips.

"I need…" Percy’s voice trembled, his body wracked with spasms as he fought against the venom. "Apollo… I need Apollo," the words escaping in a half-choked plea into the sheets.

Eros’s pink eyes flickered with fury, a sharp edge cutting through his previously calm demeanour. "Apollo?" The name tasted bitter in his mouth. He clenched his jaw, his irritation mounting. "He’s not here, Perseus," Eros spat, his tone hardening. "He’s busy with Ares at the moment, remember?" His voice dripped with thinly veiled contempt. "It’s just us now."

Percy’s eyelids remained shut, his body burning with the overwhelming heat that tore through him. He could barely focus, his thoughts a feverish jumble, but the name—Apollo—was a lifeline, something to cling to in the storm.

"It’s too hot," Percy gasped, his fingers shook as he tried to tear the bloodstained robes from his body. The effort was agonizing, every movement sending fresh waves of pain and heat through him.

Eros’s eyes darkened further as Percy finally succeeded in freeing himself from the suffocating weight of his priest robes, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Percy’s beautiful body, now exposed and trembling under the god’s gaze, was a sight Eros had long craved. But still, Percy’s mind wasn’t on him.

"It's me you need, Perseus. Only me," Eros purred, his words dripping with a dangerous blend of possessiveness and longing.

Percy’s head fell back against the pillows, his breath harsh and shallow, the struggle to form words evident. "But—"

Eros’s expression twisted, impatience flickering in his gaze. "You need me," he snarled, closing the distance between them, the room thickening with shadows as his power surged, a heavy weight pressing down on Percy’s already fevered body.

“I need…you.” The words tumbled from Percy’s lips, coaxed forth by his desperation. He reached out blindly, his fingers brushing against Eros’s skin, tugging him closer.

Eros yelped in surprise at Percy’s boldness but quickly masked it with a predatory grin. In a swift motion, he pinned Percy’s hands above his head, his grip possessive and firm. Their lips collided with fervour, the kiss a chaotic blend of sweetness and urgency, a low groan escaping Percy as the god devoured him whole.

Eros grinned, his hips rolling with deliberate precision as he nudged Percy’s thighs further apart, pressing their bodies closer together until there was no space left between them. Percy’s body responded instinctively, a traitorous heat pooling low in his abdomen as Eros pressed against him.

Their slick skin slid against each other, and with each thrust, their hardened members met, the friction igniting an almost unbearable sensation within Percy.

Percy’s head tilted back, his eyelids fluttering as the jolts of pleasure coursed through him, sharp and electrifying, setting every nerve on fire. He had no room for shame, no space for hesitation.

“Isn’t that better?” Eros whispered against his lips, his breath hot and heavy. He hovered there, his lips grazing Percy’s, waiting for the response he knew would come.

Percy moaned into Eros’s mouth, his voice low and needy, his entire body trembling as he nodded. His body moved in tandem with Eros, his thrusts unrestrained, chasing after the euphoria that danced just out of reach.

“Tell me you want this,” Eros murmured, his breath hot against Percy’s ear.

“I—” Percy hesitated, grappling with the turmoil inside him.

Eros’s touch was electric, but the shadow of someone else loomed over his heart.

“Say it!” Eros’s voice turned sharp, a raw edge creeping into his tone. “Say you want me.”

Desperation surged within Percy, battling against the remnants of his will. “I want… you,” he managed, the admission slipping past his lips like a confession.

Eros’s smile was feral, triumphant. “Good boy,” he hissed, sinking his teeth into Percy’s shoulder, the bite both excruciating and intoxicating.

“More,” he breathed, his body arching toward Eros, yearning for release. “Please…”

Eros’s mouth descended upon Percy’s erect nipples, licking and nibbling until they shone with a lustrous sheen, glistening in the dim light like offerings on an altar.

With a deft hand, Eros ensnared their members, his fingers weaving a sinful dance over their flesh. He squeezed and kneaded their tips, each movement a sensuous rhythm. Their moans intertwined, rising in perfect harmony, echoing through the air.

“I’m—” Percy gasped, breathless and undone.

“Coming so soon?” Eros taunted, his tongue dancing over the bite marks on Percy’s chest. “Good. Spill for me.” His movements quickened, each thrust a wicked promise, until Percy’s fingers gripped Eros’s arm, body tensing on the precipice of surrender. Percy’s cock twitched, the tension coiling within him until, with a pitiful whine, he came.

Eros leaned his forehead against Percy’s chest, his golden locks cascading down like a halo as he gasped into the warmth of his skin, surrendering to the moment. His groan resonated through the very marrow of Percy’s being. Silken rivulets adorned Percy’s bare abdomen, cascading like ethereal ribbons.

Some trickled down to Eros’s extended tongue, which he gathered eagerly, slurping it like a man starved.

Percy’s breath hitched as Eros captured their lips, allowing demigod to taste the saltiness of their shared release. There was something profoundly illicit about it; the mere thought sent new jolts of arousal coursing through Percy’s body.

Percy felt exquisitely sensitive; even a mere strand of Eros's hair could elicit a moan, causing his hips to betray him in desperate surrender. Lost in a sea of pleasure, words barely formed on his lips—Eros's touch became an addiction.

With trembling hands, Percy reached for the god of desire, enveloping his neck in a desperate embrace, whimpering at their tantalizing proximity. The once-nauseating scent of roses and ambrosia now enveloped him, the only air he craved.

To hear Eros’s voice was to bask in the most sublime melody, a siren song that beckoned him deeper into bliss.

He longed for Eros everywhere—around him, inside him.

“Your sweet cooing sounds enough to make any man sick with want,” Eros murmured, his tongue flicking teasingly against Percy’s lips before claiming them in a searing kiss. With deft fingers, he spread Percy’s legs, cradling his knee, his touch wandering southward. Eros gripped Percy’s cock, drawing a whine from his throat, a sound that made Eros chuckle with dark delight. But his true aim lay much lower; his fingers found Percy’s soft rim, teasing the entrance before pushing his digit, slick with their mingled essence.

Percy gasped into the kiss as Eros began to move his finger in and out, adding a second, each thrust eliciting a sigh. Percy’s body became pliant and eager under Eros’s ministrations.

Percy’s trembling hands wandered over Eros’s skin, marvelling at the softness beneath his fingertips. His hands roamed over the god's shoulders, gliding down the firm planes of his chest, tracing the muscles of his back, and then up again to the nape of his neck.

His fingers tangled in Eros's tousled locks, pulling him closer as their mouths danced in a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

Percy groaned as Eros slid a third finger inside him, the sudden stretch making his ears burn with heat, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts, as his body adjusted to the intrusion.

A deft stroke to his prostate sent a sharp, electrifying jolt through him, ripping a high-pitched keen from his throat that he couldn’t hold back. Percy’s hands flew from Eros’s hair, twisting desperately in the sheets as if searching for an anchor in the storm of sensation.

“Such exquisite abandon,” Eros purred, his voice laced with a feral hunger.

Percy’s body arched, the thrumming of his heart echoed in his ears. “Please, more,” he breathed.

“More?” Eros's eyes glimmered with mischief, a predator toying with his prey. “How delightful it is to hear you beg.” He relished in the power he wielded, a god who toyed with the fragile threads of Percy’s will, pulling them taut, ready to snap.

With a deliberate slowness, Eros withdrew his fingers, teasing Percy with the tantalizing absence, only to plunge back inside with renewed fervour. Eros watched with gleaming eyes, drinking in Percy’s every gasp and moan, each sound a sweet nectar that fuelled his ravenous desires.

“I can feel you tightening around me, begging for release,” Eros hissed, his breath a sultry caress against Percy’s ear, igniting a fire that danced dangerously close to madness. “Let me take you beyond the veil of reason.”

Eros moved suddenly, his descent swift and deliberate, fingers still buried deep within Percy, holding him captive to the waves of sensation. His tongue, warm and wicked, trailed down the sensitive length of Percy’s member with a slow, sinuous caress. When his lips closed over the tip, it was with the reverence of a forbidden prayer, his breath hot and unholy against Percy’s trembling flesh.

“I could drown in you,” Eros murmured between, his voice rough and reverent. His fingers curled once more, pressing against that sacred spot within Percy.

Percy’s breath hitched, a whimper escaping his lips as the waves of ecstasy crashed higher. He gripped onto sheets, knuckles white, as god coaxed him closer to the edge.

In an instant, Eros withdrew, leaving Percy to whine in disappointment, his desire a hard, aching need that clawed at his insides.

Yet Eros harboured other designs.

“I want you to come, impaled upon me,” he purred. “Squeezing me tight as I warm you from the inside.” The promise in his tone sent a shiver cascading down Percy’s spine.

With a swift, almost effortless motion, Eros positioned himself between Percy’s trembling thighs. His strong hands gripped Percy’s hips, lifting them from the sheets as if presenting him like an offering.

Eros pressed a soft kiss to Percy’s inner thigh, a brief, tender prelude to what followed.

In one powerful thrust, Eros drove himself deep, filling Percy with a force that stole the breath from his lungs. Percy gasped, his head tilting back, eyelids fluttering shut as his body arched instinctively, helpless to the sudden, overwhelming fullness. The stretch was intense, a fusion of pain and pleasure that left him trembling.

Percy’s hands instinctively gripped Eros’s thighs, fingers digging into the god’s skin as if anchoring himself to something solid amidst the torrential waves of sensation.

Eros chuckled, a low, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate through Percy’s very bones. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. With ruthless precision, Eros began to thrust—slow, deep strokes that rocked Percy’s body with each powerful movement, his pace steady but unyielding. “You’re squeezing me so tight.” Percy’s cock jerked violently, twitching as if it might erupt at any moment, clear droplets spilling from its tip.

The pressure built quickly, pleasure surging through Percy in waves, until his control shattered. His cry of release filled the air, white strands of his climax spilling across their stomachs, but even then, Eros did not stop.

The god’s rhythm quickened, his thrusts growing more forceful, relentless as Percy’s oversensitive body squirmed beneath him, every nerve aflame. The sheets beneath them clung to Percy’s sweat-drenched skin.

“I just came, I just—" Percy gasped, his voice broken, struggling to hold onto some fleeting sense of control. Tears pricked at Percy’s eyes as he trembled, his cries reduced to breathless gasps, each one punctuated by the sharp slap of Eros’s hips against him.

Eros’s gaze locked onto Percy’s face, his eyes wild with an almost feral intensity. “More,” he growled, his voice dark, commanding. He thrust deeper still, the force of his movements a physical manifestation of his unyielding desire. “Let it consume you.”

In that moment, under Eros’s spell, Percy felt the world dissolve, leaving only the intoxicating heat of their union, a fierce blaze that bound him irrevocably to the god who wielded pleasure like a weapon.

Percy felt himself succumbing, thread by thread, to the divine chaos that was Eros, the embodiment of both beauty and beast.

“It’s too much,” Percy gasped, his voice trembling under the weight of the overwhelming sensations crashing over him. But Eros silenced him with a searing kiss, their tongues twisting, swallowing Percy’s protests whole.

“Breathe, my darling,” Eros whispered against his lips, his voice dripping with wickedness. “Breathe me.”

Eros kept his hands firmly under Percy’s knees, his grip possessive, squeezing the tender flesh as he held Percy’s legs apart.

Each thrust tore through Percy like wildfire. Percy’s insides melted into liquid heat, his body surrendering to the relentless rhythm of Eros's hips, the steady pace pushing him past the brink of sanity.

“You look so perfect like this,” Eros murmured, his voice dark and honeyed, fingers digging possessively into Percy’s trembling thighs. “Flushed and spread open, eager to take me.”

A strangled cry ripped from Percy’s throat as he came again, his body convulsing with each wave of release. Yet there was no reprieve; Eros followed with a guttural groan, filling him, the force of his climax shuddering through both of them. Eros’s jaw clenched, his teeth bared like an animal's as he plunged deeper still, white spilling from Percy’s rim, coating his thighs in a lewd testament to their shared hunger.

“You’re going to break me,” Percy cried out, overwhelmed by the stimulation, his body tightening around Eros's member in a delicious, desperate embrace. Each movement sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through him, blurring the lines of pain and ecstasy until they became indistinguishable.

“That certainly sounds like something I’d like to see,” Eros purred with playful edge.

Eros's grip tightened around Percy’s hips as he effortlessly lifted his lower body from the tangled sheets. The motion was swift, almost brutal, as Eros angled him higher. His thrusts, once teasing and deliberate, now turned vicious, unyielding. Each deep plunge reached further.

The sheets rustled beneath them, the room heavy with the sound of skin against skin, their shared breaths uneven and ragged. Percy’s hands scrabbled for purchase, fingers twisting into the fabric beneath him. His hips stung where Eros’s fingers pressed, but the bruising only fuelled the flames licking at his insides.

Percy’s head lolled back, mouth open in a silent scream as another wave of pleasure tore through him, white streaks splattering across his abdomen, one drop daring to reach his lower lip.

The slick, wet stains dribbled down onto the sheets, where the fabric greedily absorbed every drop.

Eager to taste the remnants of his own release, Percy gathered that lone drop from his lower lip, his tongue flicking out with a delicate, almost reverent motion. The gesture was enough to make Eros groan, the sound rich with desire, his eyes darkening as he watched Percy savour the taste.

“Look at all that mess you made,” Eros remarked, his tone teasing as he glanced down. With a deliberate slowness, he scooped up the white release on his fingers, bringing them to his lips with an unsettling grace. The soft sound of his tongue licking them clean echoed in the air, a sensual melody that sent a flush racing across Percy’s cheeks, even though he couldn’t see the sinful spectacle.

By now, Percy didn’t know how much more of himself he could give. He was unravelling, body and mind submerged in a fog of desire that throbbed in every inch of his flesh. Yet, despite the exhaustion, he craved more. Eros filled him to the brim, bloating his insides with a burning, molten seed. The venom of Eros had seeped into his very bones, into the marrow, saturating him with a need that overpowered reason. His body, pliant in Eros’s arms, ached to please him.

Each pulse of Eros’s release inside him made Percy’s insides flutter, the heat between his legs surging once more. His member stiffened at the mere thought, the desire running unchecked through his veins, the pain in his head pounding like a distant echo—but it didn’t matter.

All that existed was Eros: his scent, his voice, his touch.

Percy’s trembling hand reached out instinctively, his fingertips tracing the sharp lines of Eros’s face—those impossibly perfect cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, wet and parted.

As Percy’s thumb grazed Eros’s teeth, his brow furrowed in quiet alarm—there was something sharp, wrong about them.

A flicker of unease rippled through him, but Eros, ever attuned to Percy’s shifting emotions, swiftly took demigod’s hand in his own, grounding him with a steady grip.

“Don’t wake up just yet,” Eros murmured, a haunting softness threading through his voice.

With a deliberate thrust of his hips, he found that sweet spot inside Percy, sending a jolt of pleasure racing through him, skilfully diverting his attention from the unsettling thoughts.

A low hiss escaped from Percy’s lips as Eros traced the bite marks on his skin, his tongue flicking over the wounds with deliberate slowness, as if ensuring the venom still coursed through Percy’s veins.

When Eros filled him once more, Percy’s eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to a haze of exhaustion that enveloped him like a heavy shroud. Eros cradled him in an embrace, his presence both anchoring and overwhelming, buried deep within.

Under Eros’s influence, Percy’s body began to transform, a heady blend of roses and petrichor blooming in the air around them—a tempest of thunderstorm mingling with the sweet fragrance of perfume. Eros purred with satisfaction, feeling Percy shift and yield beneath him, his body becoming more pliable, more malleable. Percy’s skin glowed softly, intoxicating Eros with its sweetness, the very scent making his mouth water.

Apollo had committed a monumental error in allowing the god of desire to taste Perseus so profoundly, for now Eros was resolute in his intention to rip the demigod from the sun god's embrace and claim him as his own. He envisioned a future where Perseus would not only understand but also be grateful for this upheaval, for Eros would never inflict the same punishments that Apollo had.

He would become the embodiment of everything Perseus craved in a lover, the antidote to Apollo’s blinding brilliance, the darkness that cradled and soothed.

Every moment spent entwined with the demigod fuelled Eros's determination, stoking the embers of longing that surged within him. He saw in Percy not just a vessel of desire but a soul yearning for liberation, and Eros was poised to offer him a path away from Apollo’s harsh glow.

In the depths of his soul, Eros knew he could offer a freedom Apollo could never provide.

Eros would not rest until the demigod stood wholly in his embrace, a radiant flame that eclipsed the sun, igniting their shared desires in a blaze of unapologetic passion.

Eros would kneel before him like a devoted servant, eager to please. He would push him into the sheets, relentless and fervent, pounding without mercy if that was what Perseus wanted.

Had he ever felt this way about any mortal—or immortal, for that matter? The thought struck him with a visceral intensity: here, before him, was not just a lover but a drug, a potent allure that pulled him deeper into a delirium of lust.

In that moment, Eros understood that his desire transcended the mere physical; it was a profound yearning to merge their souls, to lose himself within the depths of Perseus’s essence, becoming one in a tempest of ecstasy and rapture.

To devour.

Suddenly, Eros's back arched, cracking as a gasp escaped his lips. He crawled further, feeling his wings unfurl, vast and imposing, casting a shadow over their makeshift nest. His fangs grew longer, glistening with anticipation as saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth, hunger overtaking reason.

He leaned closer to Percy, his eyes gleaming, almost crimson from the depths of his primal urges. Breathing fast and hard, he fought against the raw instinct that urged him to claim Percy entirely.

To consume.

Percy’s sightless pale eyes opened, a softness in their depths that belied the beast hovering over him, oblivious to the monstrous form Eros had taken. With tender trust, he extended his hands, enveloping Eros’s neck in a gentle embrace, grounding the god in a moment of unsettling intimacy.

Eros snarled, the sound echoing with inhuman tension, yet he remained still, paralysed by the conflicting desires within him.

There was a vulnerability in Percy too, an aching need for confirmation that their union wasn’t merely a means to satisfy Eros’s lust, a ritual to complete. He sought assurance, a tether to the truth amidst the chaos that enveloped them.

“Do you remember…the day when I—I shot you with an arrow?” Percy asked, his voice tremulous, caught between nostalgia and yearning. “You told me you loved me then, but do you still?” His fingers wove through Eros’s golden locks, a gentle caress that radiated warmth, akin to sunlight breaking through a storm-laden sky.

With palpable effort, Eros responded, the words tumbling from his lips as if they were a sacrificial offering. “I do love you.” The admission lingered, a delicate promise woven with the weight of his darker instincts. “I desire you above all else.”

Percy gasped when he felt Eros claws digging at his arms in tight embrace. Scent of blood slowly fogging the fragrance of roses and the brine of the sea.

Yet within Eros, a sudden regret flared, bitter and consuming. The gnawing ache to spend more nights with Percy, more days filled with the sweet cadence of their laughter, threatened to unravel him. But with this rite came the weighty gift of liberation from his magic, a gift that filled him with dread. Would Percy ever come to him willingly again, untainted by the heady intoxication of Eros’s venom, or would he remain forever beyond reach?

Possessiveness surged within Eros, a primal urge igniting something fierce as his mouth opened, sharp teeth gleaming in the soft light. With a desperate hunger, he plunged into Percy’s neck, the bite deep and agonizing.

“This… is not…” Percy gasped, the words barely escaping his lips. The wound burned as if aflame, every muscle near it torn and shredded. His voice cracked. “Love…”

Blood, thick and dark, flowed in sinuous trails, pooling beneath him like a river in no hurry to meet the sea.

To destroy. 

Yet, even in this agony, Percy felt a haunting euphoria blossom within him, a perverse thrill in surrendering to Eros. His blood mingled with the god’s venom, a heady symphony that sang through him, intoxicating and consuming. Eros drank greedily, as if Percy’s essence was the only nectar that could sate his hunger.

“Eros,” Percy managed to utter, the name a plea, but Eros paused only for a heartbeat before he withdrew, only to bite down harder on the other side of his neck, drinking with an even greater ferocity, as though seeking to claim every drop of life from him.

Amidst the chaos of sensation, a timid thought flickered at the edge of Percy’s fading consciousness, fragile yet undeniable. With each drop of blood lost, that thought sharpened, as if the very venom within him was being drawn out along with his life, leaving him momentarily free from the intoxicating haze Eros had cast over him.

Did he truly want to be consumed? The question whispered in his mind, delicate yet piercing. Eaten alive by the god of desire, devoured as if he were nothing more than sustenance, a fleeting indulgence. No. Percy’s pulse quickened in defiance, though his body was weak. He still had too much to do—friends to protect, promises to keep. The thread of time still wound tightly around him, tethering him to a mission that had not yet ended. The thought gnawed at him, spurring a sudden desperation.

He tried to squirm, but Eros’s grip was iron, holding him firmly in place, as if determined to siphon the very essence of him until there was nothing left. Percy’s mouth opened to speak his name again, but the god, too consumed by his own ravenous hunger, did not register his plea. The sharp sting of fangs and claws only deepened, drawing him further into the abyss of pain and unwanted euphoria.

His heart, frantic now, sought escape, sought light. And then, from the depths of his soul, the name emerged—soft at first, but growing with urgency. Apollo.

“Apóllōn,” he breathed, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer, a plea. His voice trembled with the longing for the sun god’s radiance, for that blinding light to pierce through the cold, to envelop him in warmth. His body was freezing, chilled to its very marrow as the life drained from him, and the memory of Apollo’s brilliant light seemed vital—his only hope in the drowning dark.

He imagined his blood ascending the steps of Apollo’s once-magnificent temple, cascading in a shimmering stream, pooling around him to revive his lifeless form, bringing warmth back to his chilled skin.

Even as his strength faded, his heart still beat with the hope that Apollo would hear, that the god who had been his tormentor might now be his saviour.

Yet with each passing second, with no sign of the radiant sun god, doubt began to creep in like a shadow, darkening the edges of his thoughts. Had Apollo abandoned him? After all, it was Apollo’s design, wasn’t it? It was him, who had driven Percy into Eros’s suffocating embrace, the snare tightening with each indulgence of desire. This, too, must have been part of the sun god’s cruel game.

A bitter realization clenched at Percy’s heart, chilling him to the core. Apollo, brilliant as he was, had never been a god of mercy. The warmth Percy had longed for—hoped for—was nowhere to be found.

He swallowed with effort, the motion pulling painfully at his torn muscles, sending fresh rivulets of crimson cascading down his neck, soaking the sheets.

But still… still, even in the midst of his anguish, Percy raised a trembling hand, fingers brushing against Eros’s back, caressing the god’s skin as if offering a final, quiet surrender. It was the gesture of a rabbit forgiving its predator—not for mercy, but for the very nature of its existence.

He couldn’t hate Eros for being what he was. Nor could he hate Apollo for abandoning him to this fate.

He was too tired for hatred now.

Apollo growled in frustration, his muscles taut with fury as Phobos and Deimos descended, their dreadful presence casting a dark pall over the battlefield. The very air crackled with an undercurrent of anger and agitation, igniting a blaze in Apollo’s eyes that mirrored the sun’s fiercest light. The winged sons of Ares were relentless, their malicious laughter ringing out as they circled him like vultures, ready to feast on his torment.

With a sharp intake of breath, Apollo prepared himself for the onslaught. He felt the heat of their aggression, but what he did not expect was the sudden, sharp whistle of an arrow slicing through the air, piercing the heavens to embed itself in Ares’s thigh. The god of war knelt, a snarl escaping his lips, his gaze rising to find Artemis sprinting towards her brother, graceful and fierce as a deer leaping through the underbrush, ready to shield him from further harm.

A surge of warmth spread through Apollo at the sight of his sister, her presence a beacon in the chaos. With renewed vigour, he surged forward, directing his wrath at Deimos. He cut at the his wings, the flames licking hungrily at the feathers, scorching them to ash. Deimos howled, the sound raw and filled with agony, crashing to the ground with gritted teeth.

Ares, despite the arrow lodged in his flesh, flashed a twisted smile, reveling in the challenge. He charged at Apollo, fury propelling him despite his compromised balance. Their weapons clashed again, the force of their blows sending shockwaves through the air.

But then, in the chaos of battle, Apollo suddenly froze, his breath hitching in his throat as he closed his eyes, surrendering for just a moment to the weight of the world pressing upon him.

Faint and fragile, a voice whispered to him from the edges of his consciousness. It wasn’t the bold, commanding call of a prayer. No. This was something more delicate, something aching and raw, like a lover’s hesitant plea. It swept over him, like the first timid rays of the morning sun, soft and warm, flickering with the softest hue of red beneath his closed eyelids.

And then he saw a vision, a projection of thoughts that floated through the divine ether. He saw Percy, his beloved, lying in the temple at Sparta, the once-sacred site now standing in ruin, shadows clinging to the crumbling walls like ghosts. Percy’s body lay unresponsive, pale as moonlight, yet even in death, Apollo's power surged within him. With hands outstretched, he poured forth his essence, spilling golden light that danced over Percy’s lifeless form, beckoning blood to return to his sickly, cold body.

His breath hitched, his eyelids fluttered open.

"Perseus," Apollo whispered, the name escaping his lips with reverence, as if it had been conjured from the depths of his heart.

For a moment, everything else faded—the battle, the bloodshed, the smirk on Ares’s lips. All Apollo could feel was that gentle pull, that quiet call from someone far away yet unmistakably connected to him. It was not desperation, not fear. It was need, the kind that tugged at the threads of his divinity and pulled him toward the very core of what mattered most.

Apollo's focus snapped back with a searing flash of pain as Ares’s blade sliced clean through his wrist. His hand, still gripping the sword, dropped heavily to the ground, ichor spilling from the wound like molten gold. For a moment, he just stood there, stunned, watching his own hand lying in the blood-soaked grass.

“He’s dying.” Apollo muttered, barely registering the loss. His mind was elsewhere—far from this battlefield, far from Ares’s taunts. His thoughts were with Percy, with the tender voice that had reached out to him moments ago, fragile but unbreakable.

Ares brought his blade to Apollo’s throat, the cold steel glinting ominously. Yet, within the depths of the god of war’s eyes flickered a moment of hesitation. He observed the dread rising on Apollo’s face, the sun god’s radiance dimming under the weight of impending doom.

“I shall release you, but only if you vow not to unleash your wrath upon Eros, should fate conspire against us,” Ares intoned, his voice a low rumble, thick with the weight of consequence.

“I swear it,” Apollo implored, the words spilling forth from his lips.

Ares studied him, the tumult of emotions flickering in his red eyes. After a moment, he nodded, lowering his sword with a reluctant grace. “Run to him, then. See what remains when you arrive.”

What remained?

Percy’s form lay cradled in Eros's arms, swathed in white sheets that clung protectively to him, stark against the deep crimson stains that marred their purity. Eros’s lips, smeared with the same sanguine hue, dripped a slow, mournful rhythm. Oblivious to the world around him, Eros swayed back and forth, a haunting lullaby of despair woven into his every movement, his face contorted in anguish as he wept. Tears spilled from his once-pink eyes, now dulled by the weight of regret.

Apollo's form ignited gradually, flames licking at his skin as he wrestled with the agonizing truth. Each flicker of fire mirrored his inner turmoil, consuming him from within as the harsh reality settled like ash in his soul.

Aphrodite sat beside Eros, her presence a soft counterpoint to the tempest of emotion swirling around them. She focused intently on her son, as if the sight of Percy’s bloodied body might shatter her resolve, stubbornly refusing to glance at him.

“Move aside,” Apollo intoned, his voice unnaturally detached.

A shiver raced through Eros as he caught sight of Apollo's ethereal form, but he clung to Percy fiercely, unwilling to release the body that felt as if it had become part of him. Only when Aphrodite seized Eros with an iron grip did he relent, the goddess of love dragging him away as he choked on his tears, fingers entwined in her golden locks.

“Mother, what have I done?” he gasped.

Apollo loomed over Percy for a fleeting moment, his gaze lost in a void. With reverence, he reached down, lifting Percy into his arms with a slowness that belied the storm raging within him. Only when he felt the absence of a heartbeat, the silence of breath, did his face contort, the mask of detachment shattering into jagged fragments. A single, choked sob escaped his lips, echoing through the chamber like a dying star, before he turned and began to walk away, trembling.
Apollo kept his gaze fixed forward, unwilling—unable—to glance at Eros. He knew that if he dared look, the fury coiling within him would erupt, and the promise he’d made to Ares would shatter like brittle glass.

He summoned his radiant horses, the celestial steeds bearing the weight of his anguish, and returned to his palace—a journey that felt both infinite and fleeting.
The air around him hummed with unbearable tension, and though the sun blazed in its path, no warmth reached Apollo's heart. The light felt hollow, an echo of its former glory. What had he done?

His mind roiled, consumed by the sight of Percy—so still, so lifeless. A god could tear apart worlds, command the stars to move, but what good was divinity when faced with the fragile mortality of the one he had allowed himself to care for?

When he finally arrived at the palace, the Muses, as they had on that first fateful day when he had brought Percy to this palace, swarmed around him—anxious, their ethereal forms aglow with concern. But as Apollo stepped from the chariot, his radiant form dimmed by a sorrow he dared not speak, their worry curdled into shock.

Polymnia collapsed to the marble floor, her knees buckling as if the weight of the sight alone was too great to bear. Her hands trembled as she reached out, though no divine song could soothe the wound in her soul. Tears welled in her eyes, her voice breaking into a quiet lament that echoed through the hall, filling every corner of the palace with a heavy, unbearable silence.

The Muses gathered in a hushed circle, their songs muted, their eyes wide with pain. Percy, the demigod who had once burned so brightly, now lay limp in the arms of the god who had loved him too late.

They were witnesses to his agony, to the god’s own undoing. Percy, once a flame of vitality, now lay limp and ashen, a fragile wraith against the gold of Apollo’s splendour. Yet no divine light could penetrate the gloom that suffocated him.

When he placed Percy’s cold, unyielding form on the bed they had once shared, the world splintered beneath his hands, fragments of his heart scattering like shattered glass.

With trembling hands, he laid his head upon Percy’s chest, desperate for the rhythm that had once pulsed with life, only to be met with an agonizing silence that echoed in the void. He clenched his teeth, the pain roiling within him, before cry escaped his lips.

“My love,” he moaned, the words laced with the venom of self-loathing, dripping like blood from an open wound. “My light…” His voice shattered like brittle bone, each syllable a testament to his despair. “You are—, because… because of me.”

He clawed at his face, nails biting into flesh as though he could carve the pain out of his very soul. His scream—feral, primal—ripped through the night, shaking the marble pillars, making the very sky tremble.

Apollo’s hands cupped Percy’s pale face, the once-warm skin now cool to the touch, fragile as if it might crumble beneath his fingertips. He brushed a thumb over Percy’s still lips, longing for them to part with breath, for his sea-green eyes to open once more, even if only to curse him.

But there was nothing.

This face—this beautiful, haunting face—was nothing but a ghost of the vibrant boy he had loved.

“How could I not have known?” he whispered, his voice breaking, eyes glistening. “How could I have let death steal you from me? You were meant to be eternal, to bask in the light forever.” His hands shook as they traced the contours of Percy’s face.

How many times had he lived through such moments? Countless, it seemed, yet this time the agony felt different—exceptional, as though fate had found a crueller way to twist the knife.

Why this time? he wondered, as his hands shook over the stillness of Percy’s chest. Why does this death tear at me so deeply, when I have watched countless others fade?

Because this time, he had known the future was theirs.

This time, he had seen it so clearly—the vision of Percy, forever young, forever radiant, basking in the divine splendour of Apollo’s love. He had dreamed of an eternity with him, one where they would rise together with the sun and watch the stars fade, knowing that time could no longer steal anything from them.

Because this time, he had known what could have been if Perseus had lived.

Panic clawed at Apollo’s thoughts, twisting and turning like a wounded creature. He pressed his cheek once more against Percy’s chest, as if seeking to awaken the warmth that had fled, a desperate plea to defy the silence that engulfed them.

“You should live,” he gasped, rising with a fervour born of desperation. “You should live.”

“Heal yourself, Apollo,” Artemis’s voice rang out, piercing the heavy silence. She had entered the chamber without him noticing, a silent witness to his unravelling. The Muses had wisely chosen to keep their distance from Apollo in his grief, their caution borne of instinct. Only Artemis dared to approach, fuelled by the fierce bond of blood and concern.

But Apollo cared not for his own wounds, too entranced by the lifeless form before him, a grotesque tableau that felt like an affront to the very fabric of existence.

“What are you going to do with him?” she asked, her gaze shifting to the still demigod. She took in the ripped throat, blood smeared across his skin, the marks of a struggle written all over him—Eros had been relentless, and it left a bitter taste in Artemis’s mouth.

“He will stay with me, here,” Apollo murmured, his voice hushed, laden with a reverence that felt almost sacrilegious in the face of such tragedy.

“His body should be returned to his father, to Poseidon.” Her voice was firm, grounded in reason, but it faltered against the storm raging in her brother’s eyes.

Apollo almost winced at her words, as if struck by a physical blow.

“Returned?” he laughed weakly, a sound tinged with disbelief. “No.” The finality of his answer hung in the air. “There’s no need for that yet.”

Artemis’s eyes widened with concern, the flicker of madness igniting in her brother’s gaze sending tremors of dread through her heart.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, hoping to anchor him amidst the storm. “He’s dead, Apollo. The only thing you can do for him is to provide him with a proper burial.” Her voice, meant to soothe, fell flat against the tumult raging within him.

“I will not let him go,” he replied, his voice steady, the weight of his decision settling like a mantle upon his shoulders.

“Clinging to a corpse will not bring him back.” Artemis countered. “The gods will not abide this folly. They will come for him, for you, and then what will remain?”

Apollo’s heart wrenched tighter, a vice of pain, rage, and reluctant determination. Instead of relinquishing Percy’s body to the depths of the ocean, where Poseidon could cradle him, he clutched the lifeless form to his chest, a desperate embrace filled with the promise of preservation.

In a luminous burst, his radiant light enveloped Percy, an ardent caress that sought to heal the ravages wrought upon him. The ghastly wounds began to fade, the flesh weaving itself anew.

With a surge of divine magic, he cast an ethereal shield around them, vowing to keep Percy safe within the sanctuary of his palace—a hidden refuge where time would stand still.

Immediately after Percy’s soul fled his shattered vessel, too wounded, too broken, and no longer able to tether itself to the corporeal realm, demigod found himself enveloped in a different kind of existence.

Submerged in the depths of water that breathed life and stole it away, he was cocooned in shadows, both black and murky. She held him tenderly in her embrace, as if he were her own, and perhaps, in that moment, he truly was.

When he dared to open his eyes, he beheld her. Her inky hair cascaded like a silken veil, draping over him as he lay cradled in her lap. Her cool, elongated fingers caressed his face with an intimacy that belied her fearsome visage. Her eyes were twin voids, deep and unfathomable, where small white flames flickered timidly, like distant stars trembling in the vast expanse of night. She was terrifying, monstrous in her otherworldly beauty, yet the gentleness with which she handled him was anything but cruel.

She was Styx. And he belonged to her. In her presence, he felt his blood sing, pulsing vibrantly with a resonance he had never known before.

As he moved his arms, the grains of damp sand crumbled beneath him, pooling in his fists like remnants of forgotten dreams.

“What happened?” he asked, uncertainty lacing his words. His memories were blank, a haze of fragments and echoes that eluded his grasp, yet one certainty pierced the fog—he knew Styx.

“Death,” she replied.

Chapter Text

Helen’s heart pounded in her chest as they arrived at the ruins. Dust still hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire, clinging to the desolate scene before them. The temple, once a place of reverence, lay shattered, columns crumbled and debris scattered across the ground like fallen giants. Menelaus's expression was grim beneath his robe, shielding his mouth from the thick dust that choked the air. His gaze hardened when he saw the scene laid before him.

"Gods, what happened here?" Menelaus muttered, his voice muffled by the cloth.

The ground was split open like a wound. Fissures ran from the shattered remains of the temple down to the city wall and beyond, toward the forest. Menelaus dismounted, eyes narrowing as he spotted Hector lying unconscious on the ground. Blood streamed from the young prince’s nose, his skin ashen but breathing shallowly. Medics crowded him, hoisting his limp body onto a horse to rush him back to the palace for care.

A guard approached, his head bowed in deference. “We believe it was an earthquake, my lord," his tone heavy with doubt.

"Well, obviously." Menelaus grunted, his thoughts racing. His gaze swept over the wreckage. "Where’s Einalian?" he demanded, turning toward Helen, whose eyes mirrored his growing dread.

“We have not found him," the guard responded hesitantly. "Prince Alexander is also absent.”

Menelaus’s brows furrowed, his face twisting into a grim scowl. "What do you mean? You’ve searched the ruins?"

The guard hesitated. "Yes, my lord, but… there are no signs of their bodies. The temple’s destruction was… absolute."

Menelaus glanced around, his eyes scanning the wreckage until they landed on a figure trembling near a half-toppled pillar—Apollo’s priestess. She looked like a child lost in the wake of disaster, her body shaking as if the weight of what she had witnessed was too great to bear.

"You," Menelaus barked, his voice commanding. "Tell me, did you see my healer?" He waved a guard over to bring the woman forward. She stumbled, her legs barely supporting her, her face pale and eyes wide with terror.

The guard pulled her, but she could barely stand. "M-my lord," she stammered, her voice thin and strained. "I saw… I saw Lord Apollo in his full grace. His radiance… it scorched those who dared witness him." Her eyes darted nervously across the ruined temple as if she still felt the presence of the god lingering in the air.

Menelaus’s gaze darkened. He saw no scorched bodies, no carnage to match the priestess’s dramatic claim. He could feel the hysteria dripping from her voice, but the worry gnawed at him nonetheless.

"Speak plainly, girl," he commanded.

Her eyes welled with fear, her words faltering. "Einalian… he disrespected Lord Apollo. The god punished him severely. Our temple… our temple is no longer worthy of prayer. Apollo… destroyed it." Her voice cracked, the weight of her statement heavy.

Helen inhaled sharply, her eyes darting to Menelaus. His jaw clenched as he processed her words, anger flickering in his eyes.

Menelaus turned, his voice low and dangerous as he addressed the guards. "Search the outskirts. I want Einalian and Alexander found."

The guards flinched, their spines stiffening under the force of his command, scurrying into motion without hesitation.

Helen stood still, her gaze fixed not on the ruined temple but on the jagged fissure stretching out toward the distant forest, as if some dark hand had clawed its way from the earth. The air was heavy with the stench of dust and fire, but there was something else too—a tremor beneath the ground, a pulse that beat just beyond the edge of her consciousness.

Menelaus paused, his eyes narrowing as he glanced back at her. “Come, Helen. We must return to the palace.” His voice, though firm, held a thread of urgency.

She barely heard him, her mind drawn to the fissure, that raw wound in the earth leading somewhere beyond the city walls. "Go ahead, my lord," she murmured, her voice soft, distant. "I’ll join you shortly. There’s something I must see."

He hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowed, before nodding briskly. "Don’t linger too long." With a final glance, he mounted his horse and disappeared into the shadows of his city.

Helen urged her own horse forward, her guards flanking her silently as they rode beyond the ruined gates, crossing the broken walls that once guarded the heart of Sparta.

The night air thickened with the metallic clang of swords, echoing like a cruel symphony in Helen’s ears. Every strike seemed to resonate through her bones, each sound sharper, more vicious, than the last. She trembled beneath the weight of it, her pulse quickening, skin damp with a cold sweat as if the darkness itself clung to her.

The clash grew louder, swelling in the distance—phantom warriors locked in their savage waltz. Her breath caught, heavy and ragged, as her eyes flickered toward the heavens. There, in the vast expanse of night, flames flickered—wild, untamed, burning with hunger. Not fire, not something as simple as flame, but an ethereal blaze that danced across the sky, casting grotesque shadows over the treetops, illuminating the world in a sickly, trembling glow.

And then she saw them—figures cloaked in the shadows of the gods. Two silhouettes moving with a grace that bordered on madness. One, a soldier adorned in the splendour of battle, his armour gleaming, his every movement precise, predatory. The other was enveloped in light, his hair a cascade of gold, shimmering even in the suffocating darkness. He moved like a celestial storm, a force untethered by mortal limits. A god. They were gods, warring beneath the starless heavens.

Helen’s blood surged, her fingers tightening around the reins, the weight of divine presence suffocating her. She had no place here, no right to witness this celestial spectacle. Mortals were not meant to stand so close to the divine—especially when the air itself throbbed with the promise of violence. Yet something held her, rooted her to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away.

Why were they here?

The night swallowed her thoughts, choking them with dread. Her gaze drifted down, searching for anything, something that might anchor her in the storm. That’s when she saw it—an ethereal shimmer on the grass. She dismounted, her legs steady as she knelt, but her fingers trembling as they reached toward it. Feathers, as pale as death, lay before her, and beside them, a golden puddle.

Her heart stilled. She recognized the glow, the faint, intoxicating scent that rose from the puddle like a curse. Ichor. The blood of gods.

Her breath caught in her throat, choking on the fragrance that filled the air—roses, wild and overwhelming, mixed with something richer, darker, more carnal. It twisted her senses, made her mouth water in an almost unbearable hunger. She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to let it linger, to indulge. She wiped her hands quickly, the lingering scent clinging to her skin like sin.

It was real. Her soldiers stood oblivious in the shadows, unable to see what lay before them. How could she explain this? No mortal could fathom the sight of ichor spilled upon the earth, much less believe it. How could she make them understand the terror that clawed at her insides? This was not for Menelaus to know, not for anyone but her.

"Your Highness?" One of the soldiers called out, his voice pulling her from the edge of hysteria.

She exhaled sharply, nodding to him. "We leave," she muttered, her voice brittle as frost. She turned away from the scene, her gaze lingering on the battle that raged in the distance, the gods dancing in their violent embrace.

The flames still burned in her mind, the scent of ichor still thick in her nostrils. Einalian, Alexander—wherever they were—she prayed they were far from this unholy conflict.

The following day, an uncanny shift began to creep in, subtle yet impossible to ignore. The world itself seemed cloaked in a drab veil, heavy and unrelenting. The sky was a smothered expanse of grey, where not even the faintest shard of sunlight could pierce through the oppressive clouds.

Along the shoreline, whispers spread among the sea people, their voices tinged with growing unease. They spoke of the sea’s unnatural stillness—waves once restless as a beast’s breath now lay unnervingly placid, the water smooth as glass. A suffocating calm had descended upon the ocean.

Then came the rain—sharp, icy, and bitter with salt. It fell in gusts that cut through the humid summer air, a reminder that nothing was as it should be.

Einalian remained lost, and Alexander too had vanished without a trace. Hector lay unmoving in his chambers, entombed in a restless slumber, his body trapped in some impenetrable sleep, unheeding of the voices that called him back to the waking world.

Helen sat at the long dinner table, her gaze flicking up from beneath her lashes to study Menelaus. His usual air of confidence had cracked. The crease between his brows had deepened, it clung to him stubbornly, as if the worries of the world had etched themselves permanently onto his flesh. He said little, chewing absently on bread while his mind worked through invisible tangles.

The silence between them was oppressive, thick like the storm clouds that loomed over the city. Helen’s fingers toyed with the edge of her cup, tracing its rim as her own thoughts spiralled inward. She couldn’t shake the memory of what she had seen the night before—those flames, the gods, the ichor. The heavy knowledge sat in her chest, festering like a secret too dangerous to speak. What was happening?

Menelaus, as if sensing her gaze upon him, suddenly looked up. His eyes, usually so steady, were clouded with a weariness Helen had never seen before. His voice, low and bitter, carried the weight of frustration and suspicion. "They should have never set foot here," he muttered, the words half-spoken to himself. "Their presence reeks of misfortune. The Trojan princes arrive, and the earth itself rebels—my healer is kidnapped, and Hector, felled like some lifeless doll."

“Kidnapped?” Helen blinked, her voice soft but edged with surprise. “Why would you think that?”

Menelaus’s gaze grew sharper, as though the accusation had been simmering in his mind for hours. "Is it not evident?" he asked, his tone now more forceful. "I saw Alexander... mounting his horse as the earth shook beneath us, slipping into the chaos like a shadow. He must have seized the moment—used the quake as a veil to take what wasn’t his. Einalian. It explains why neither of them is found.”

Helen’s lips parted, the implications swirling in her mind. “Alexander...?” she repeated. “But why would he—”

"It makes sense," Menelaus cut in, his voice rising with growing certainty. "Einalian is a good man, too loyal, too honourable to disappear without reason. He wouldn’t abandon us, not like that. Not without cause."

She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to make sense of it all. She knew Menelaus respected Einalian, had trusted him with matters of great importance. But to suggest that Alexander had something to do with his disappearance? The accusation felt heavy, and yet, as Menelaus spoke, his conviction began to infect her too. Hadn’t she seen strange things herself—things she could not explain? Her encounter with the gods, the bizarre events that had unfolded in such quick succession?

Yet something gnawed at her. "But why would Alexander want to take Einalian?" she murmured, more to herself than to Menelaus. Just as the words left her lips, a sudden wave of nausea gripped her, and she choked, hand flying to her mouth as she stumbled to her feet.

The scent hit her like a violent gust, thick and cloying—roses, overwhelming in their sweetness, but tinged with something bitter and decayed, like a bouquet of flowers left too long in the water, their petals wilting under the weight of time, their beauty curdling into something grotesque.

“Helen? What is it?” Menelaus’s voice, sharp with concern, cut through her daze as he stood, his hand steadying her. She blinked up at him, her vision blurred, before her gaze darted around the dining room, frantic, searching for the source of the smell.

"You don’t smell it?" Her voice was fragile, laced with an edge of panic, as though her world had shifted and he was somehow still standing on solid ground.

"Smell what?" Menelaus asked, a soft smile tugging at his lips, almost amused, as if she were speaking in tongues he could not comprehend.

"Roses," she whispered, her throat tight. "With decayed honey." The words were sour on her tongue, their meaning lost somewhere in the bitter aftertaste of the air.

Menelaus tilted his head, his expression softening with a tender curiosity. "Are you... pregnant?" he asked gently, his green eyes searching her face as if hoping to make sense of her reaction.

Helen’s mouth snapped shut, her expression darkening in an instant. She threw him a look, sharp and filled with unspoken disappointment, as if his suggestion had cheapened something far more profound, more dangerous than he could ever understand.

Whatever this was, it was not for him to know. The scent—this suffocating stench of roses and rot—was meant for her. A message, a warning. And it had everything to do with the night before.

"Lead me to the bedroom," she said, her voice cold, distant. "I need to lie down."

Without another word, Menelaus took her arm, guiding her to their chamber where the curtains hung heavy and the air was thick with stillness. She sank into the bed, eyes wide and staring, the smell still clinging to her senses like a curse.

Percy raised his trembling hands to his face, fingers slowly tracing the contours of his eyelids. He blinked once, then again. The darkness that had clouded his vision now lifted in one eye. A single, clear glimpse of the world, yet it was enough to send a wave of relief.

Why had I lost my sight? He searched his memory, but the details eluded him, slipping through his grasp like sand. It didn’t matter now. He had his sight, however partial, and that was enough for the moment.

Turning slightly, he beheld three figures standing solemnly on the shore, their silhouettes framed against the murky light. The sight of them pulled at something deep within him—a memory, a warning, something he should know but couldn’t place.

Hekate stood at the forefront, her torches flickering with a spectral glow, illuminating her features with an otherworldly grace. Her black veil, caught by the whims of an unseen breeze, danced away, revealing dark locks that cascaded around her like shadows. Her sunset eyes, pools of familiar sorrow, regarded him with a tenderness that tugged at the remnants of his soul.

Next to her stood Persephone, radiant and ethereal, her long hair swirling around her like golden threads spun from sunlight. She emanated a warm glow that seemed to caress Hades, illuminating his shadowy figure beside her. Hades stood patiently, hands clasped behind his back, a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips as he regarded Percy.

“Welcome, demigod,” Hades intoned, his voice rich and slow. “I did not expect to see you back so soon.”

“Lord Hades,” Percy responded, rising carefully, his legs shaky beneath him. Styx lingered at his side, her presence so close it felt as though she might melt into his shadow.

As Percy’s gaze rested on the gods before him, memories began to surge, like a flood breaking through the dam of his mind. They returned not as flashes but in slow, heavy waves, each one carrying the weight of his past choices.

He moved toward Hekate, the pull of her familiar energy tightening his throat. The closer he came, the sharper his memories became—vivid flashes of warnings and choices he had disregarded flooded his mind, each one a jagged reminder of the cost of his hubris.

“Mom?” he ventured, the word slipping from his lips before he could reconsider. Hades and Persephone exchanged wide-eyed glances, surprise mingling with something deeper.

Hekate stilled, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face, but then she softened, a quiet smile curving her lips.

“I remember your warnings, and still... I didn’t listen,” Percy’s voice cracked, bitterness threading through each word. “I paid the highest price.” The weight of his regret hung heavy between them. “If I could go back—”

“My boy,” She leaned forward, cradling his face within her hands, their foreheads pressing together. “There’s nothing to reverse. My powers in that matter are already exhausted.” Her gaze held him captive, fierce and unwavering. “What’s done is done.”

Her thumbs traced soft circles against his cheeks.“I’m sorry it had to come to this,” she continued, her voice thick with emotion. “But you’ve learned the lesson, haven’t you?”

Percy nodded, his throat tight, the motion small but resolute. “Yes,” he whispered.

Hades tilted his head, curiosity igniting a flicker in his dark eyes. He longed to question Hekate about this sudden display of maternal instinct toward the demigod, but he sensed the layers of history woven between them. This was no sudden affection; it was a gradual transformation, a substitution of the mother Einalian had lost for the one he now found in Hekate.

And the boy, still adrift in the bewildering fog of his own death, perhaps hadn’t yet grasped the truth. His eyes, haunted and hollow, clung to her not with recognition but with desperate need, craving the comfort of a mother’s embrace, even if she wasn’t truly his.

“So, how did you die?” Hades inquired, his tone casual, as if he had posed the question countless times before. Yet, the gravity of the inquiry hung in the air, palpable and suffocating.

Percy’s face twisted, reluctant, shrouded in shame. “It wasn’t a death I imagined for myself,” he admitted.

“I was... eaten, I think,” he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty, the memories too clouded to fully grasp. Devoured, a word that carried a strange, forbidden comfort, flickered in his mind.

Hades raised an eyebrow, his amusement barely concealed. “Eaten? By what?” he pressed, intrigued.

Percy’s lips quirked into a faint, almost self-aware smile, a dark amusement playing at the edges. “By whom,” he corrected. “I didn’t see his face,” Percy added quietly, memories slipping like shadows. “But I heard his voice.”

And felt his touch. The thought hung between the unspoken words, heavy and intimate.

His knees buckled suddenly, and he dropped to the ground, his head pounding with a violent rhythm, fragments of that voice echoing in his mind.

“You think friendship is enough?”

“We both don’t have a choice…”

“Tell me you want this.”

“I do love you.”

“It was...” Percy gasped.

“Don’t,” Hekate’s voice cut through the rising tension, sharp and cold as a blade. Her eyes flashed as she shot Hades a warning glare. “He’s fresh from Thanatos’ arms. Have some common sense, Hades.”

Hades leaned back slightly, unbothered by her rebuke, though the flicker of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

Hekate knelt beside him, her presence a steadying force. She placed her hand on Percy’s back, her touch a gentle, circling motion. “Don’t worry; your memories will become clearer in time. Don’t stress it,” she advised.

But Percy was impatient. He clung desperately to the hazy memories, fragments tinged with emotional weight that pulsed like a heartbeat he no longer had. They beckoned to him, tantalizingly close yet obscured by a fog he could not penetrate.

“Aregos,” Percy suddenly whispered as he gripped Hekate’s skirt with trembling hands. The rush of memory was a physical blow, making his heart throb painfully in his chest. “I’ve lost her…” His voice broke, the wound of that loss more painful than his own death.

Hekate’s gaze hardened, her lips pressed into a thin line, her voice firm yet unforgiving. “You paid a high price for your recklessness,” she said, there was no softness in her words, no comfort to offer—only the brutal truth that Percy’s actions had set in motion the tragic end of more than just himself.

Percy remained on his knees. The memories swirled and stung like thorns, a distant sensation of pleasure mingling with the pain. The gods watched him, each with their own unreadable expressions.

“Paris…” Percy’s voice wavered, his thoughts still a blur of confusion and sorrow. “Where is Paris?” he asked, his eyes searching Hades and Hekate, desperation bleeding through his words.

Hades raised a single brow, an expression of faint amusement crossing his otherwise impassive face. “Why don’t you worry about yourself first, demigod?”

“What’s there to worry about now?” Percy’s voice sharpened like a blade, his gaze locking with Hades'. “I’m already dead.”

Hades' lips twitched into a smile colder than the darkest winds of Tartarus. “But you are not yet buried,” he murmured.

Percy inhaled sharply, his steps deliberate. “What?” he snapped, frustration boiling beneath the surface. “Then what am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be wandering the earth or something—haunting mortals?”

Hekate’s voice was softer, but it cut through the tension like silk through water. “Styx flows in your veins. The river calls to her own. Your soul sought her out the moment it slipped from your body.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. His breath hitched as the question took form, dread rising like bile. “Where... where is my body?”

Hekate’s gaze darkened, shadows flickering in her eyes. “That remains to be discovered. But I have... suspicions,” she murmured. “The knowledge of your death may not be ours alone. And that complicates matters.”

His frustration mounted, clawing at him from the inside. “But what does it matter?” His voice was raw, straining under the weight of his own unravelling. “Why must I be burned? I’m already here—what difference does it make?”

Hades stepped closer, the shadows gathering around him like the folds of a funeral shroud. “Your body must be turned into ash,” he intoned, each word deliberate. “If it is not, your soul will drift, untethered from the memory of who you were. And in time, you will forget entirely—dissolve into the void, swallowed by the very nothingness that awaits all forgotten things." His words carried the cold certainty of inevitability.

He paused, his gaze narrowing, a faint sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ordinarily, I’d care little if a mortal faded into oblivion. But you..." His voice darkened. "You have work to do here, Einalian. And should you forget your duties, it would displease me greatly."

Only then did Percy remember—he was meant to fish souls, wasn't he? And after his death, hadn’t Hades promised him something in return? The weight of forgotten obligations settled on his chest like a stone, and the flicker of memory rekindled his frustration.

"Where is my eye?" Percy’s voice cut through the thick air, sharper now, demanding. He stepped toward Hades, hand outstretched, unceremoniously and without deference. "I’d like it back."

Hades responded with a low, rumbling laugh, a sound as dark as the depths of Tartarus. From the folds of his robes, he produced the eye—gleaming sea-green, glistening like a jewel plucked from the ocean’s abyss. It shimmered with the eerie beauty of something alive, something more than it seemed.

"You won’t get it yet," Hades said, his voice cool, a subtle amusement playing in his tone. "Not until your body is properly buried."

Percy huffed, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

To drive the point home, Hades took Percy’s hand and placed the eye into his open palm—but before Percy could close his fingers around it, the eye slipped through as if his hand was made of smoke, weightless and incorporeal. It fell toward the ground, but before it could touch the earth, Hades caught it with effortless grace, the corners of his mouth twitching into a dark smile.

"Not yet, little soul," he murmured, holding the eye just out of reach.

Percy was led to Hades' palace, his steps slow and unsteady, as if the very ground beneath him had become unfamiliar. Once inside, he was seated on a cold, stone chair, his hands clasped together in a grip so tight it hurt. His mind—hazy, fractured—swirled with confusion. Death. He was dead, that much he understood. But the emotions he expected to feel—anguish, despair—eluded him. Instead, a deep frustration festered within him, an anger that burned without a clear source. His thoughts were a scattered mess, like fragments of glass refusing to piece themselves together.

He tried to remember, but each thought slipped through his fingers like sand. Did he have a family? Beyond Hekate, who was the only constant in his swirling confusion? Friends? He had Paris—he was sure of it—but when he tried to recall Paris’s face, all that came to him were distorted smiles and blurred expressions, a ghost of a memory that refused to come into focus. The thought of it gnawed at him, as though something vital had been stolen.

Styx…yes, he knew that name, felt its weight in his chest. She was dear to him, he suspected. A protector, perhaps, someone tied to his soul like Hekate was. But why couldn’t he remember clearly? Why did everything feel like it was slipping further away the harder he tried to hold onto it?

And Hades. There was no hesitation in recognizing him. The god of the underworld, dark and commanding, now his master by the very nature of death. Percy belonged to him now, as all dead things did. There was an unsettling clarity in that—his place here felt certain, even as the rest of his world crumbled into shadowed fragments.

“To find your body, we must first uncover the circumstances of your death,” Hades declared, intertwining his fingers as he leaned back in his chair, a casual dominance radiating from him. “Who is responsible?” he murmured, his dark eyes flickered toward Hekate.

The atmosphere thickened with anticipation, and Hades’ gaze shifted back to Percy, a glint of curiosity igniting in the depths of his eyes. “Did your death hurt?” he asked.

Percy’s memory wavered like a mirage. He searched through the fog, grasping at the fragments that clung to his mind. Pain had been there—sharp, raw, searing. Yet alongside it, something more complex, something he could barely articulate.

“Yes, but…” His throat tightened, words heavy. “There was pleasure too.” His skin, devoid of life’s colour, might have flushed crimson if blood still coursed through his veins.

Hades stood, the creaking of his chair echoing through the silence as he approached Percy, who looked up, questions swirling in his gaze. The god loomed closer, his breath a spectral whisper against Percy’s skin. He leaned in, inhaling deeply, as if trying to capture the essence of the boy before him.

“Did you just smell me?” Percy asked, disbelief flickering in his wide eyes.

Hades gave a slow, deliberate nod, amusement lurking in his tone. “Difficult to avoid.” His voice, silken and cold, wrapped around the next words. “Usually, souls are scentless, mere wisps in the wind. But you…” He paused, leaning just a fraction closer. “You reek of roses.”

Roses.

Percy blinked as the realization struck him like a lash across his soul.

His hands flew to his neck, fingertips ghosting over the place where he had felt the violent rip, the rush of blood, and the heady perfume of roses mingled with ambrosia. The scent had clung to him, in life and now, even in death—the intoxicating fragrance of the god of desire.

“Eros.” The name fell from his lips like a curse.

Hekate rose from her chair, a tension crackling around her as she prepared to move. But Hades raised his hand, halting her departure with a mere gesture, his gaze fixed intently on Percy.

How could it be that even after death, Eros still claimed a part of him? That his very soul bore the scent of him, of roses blooming in the dark?

"He left something behind," Hades intoned, his voice measured and distant. “It’s a peculiar magic—one that demands a sacrifice in blood. Eros, whether consciously or not, has etched his mark upon you. A... gift, of sorts.”

“A gift?” Percy’s laugh came out harsh and bitter. “He killed me.”

Hades' expression remained still. “Sometimes, the greatest gifts come wrapped in violence. And not all wounds are fatal, Einalian. Some merely change you.”

“This wound was very much fatal,” Hekate countered, a note of protectiveness weaving through her voice.

Persephone rose and stepped closer, her pale fingers trailing through the air as if seeking to weave a fragile thread before they settled on the backrest of Percy’s chair.

“To bear favour among gods—it’s both a curse and a gift,” Persephone murmured, her presence like a gentle autumn breeze over the decaying earth. “Each of them will want something from you, but they’ll give in equal measure—perhaps even more than you desire.”

Percy’s gaze darkened as he absorbed her words. The weight of divine attention is always heavy, and Persephone’s calm acceptance of it only unsettled him further.

“Sometimes,” she continued, her lips curling into a faint, bittersweet smile, “it’s better to accept the inevitable and find what happiness you can in a fate that cannot be changed.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “You mean to say I should just surrender? That I should stop fighting against what they take from me?”

“Not surrender,” she corrected, her eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. “But to bend, like a tree in the storm. There’s power in yielding when the world tries to break you. Some chains are made of softer links—ones you might learn to live with.”

Her words were meant to soothe, but they felt like a gentle trap, a reminder of the impossible choice he faced.

Percy felt his chest tighten at her words. His fingers twitched, still half-expecting to feel the warmth of life there, still grappling with the cold finality of what he had become. He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “I don’t want his mark... or this ‘gift.’”

Persephone’s gaze softened. “You don’t have to want it,” she said gently. “But you must decide how to carry it.”

Percy’s fingers traced the invisible scar across his neck, the ghost of Eros’ touch still vivid in his mind—a haunting reminder of the moment life had slipped from him. He pondered the nature of this so-called gift. It could not merely be the scent of roses lingering on him; that felt too simplistic. Besides, what difference did it make now that he was dead? The world of the living had become a distant memory, and the allure of flowers felt like a mockery in the shadow of his loss.

Percy lay on the bed, enshrouded in mirth flowers that framed his body, glowing faintly as if kissed by sunrays. Magic thickened the air, a heavy perfume that clung to every corner of the room. The weight of Apollo's presence loomed large, a palpable force that pressed down on Percy’s still form, as if even in death, the god of the sun sought to claim him.

Apollo stood there, immobile like a statue carved from shadow, his gaze fixed on the visage of the demigod. A slow turn revealed the encroaching figures, a darkness settling deeper in his heart.

“How did you—” he began, but understanding washed over him. Hephaestus, the god of fire, had the power to lift the flames that licked hungrily at his palace, and it was clear he was there at Aphrodite’s behest.

Aphrodite took two hesitant steps forward but paused, her face a mask of conflict.

“I am not here to urge you to surrender the boy to Poseidon, nor to comfort your grief,” she began, her voice soft yet resolute. “I come bearing a solution to both matters.”

Apollo remained silent, his gaze returning to Percy, inscrutable and cold, offering no solace yet revealing an openness to her words.

“During the judgement of Alexander, the prince of Troy chose Hera as the fairest,” Aphrodite continued, her tone steady yet laced with urgency. “She promised him eternal union with the son of Poseidon, their forms ascended to divinity.” She paused, allowing the weight of her revelation to settle like dust in the air. “Hera must fulfil this plea; it is her sacred duty as the goddess of marriage. His death won’t stop her.”

Apollo's brows furrowed slightly, yet his expression remained a stoic mask, emotions tempestuous yet restrained, held captive by sheer will.

“That means,” Aphrodite pressed on, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, “you must surrender Perseus’s body to Hera if you wish to bring him back.”

“If I agree, Alexander and…Perseus.” The name of his beloved barely escaped his throat, laden with a bitterness that curdled in his chest. “They will be united in a bond of marriage, a tie forged by Hera that is hard to break, impossible to sever.” Apollo’s voice trembled with the mere thought of giving his beloved away, rage coiling within him like a serpent ready to strike. "Perseus will no longer be mine," he whispered, his gaze darkening, as if even saying the words were an affront to his very being.

Aphrodite's eyes softened, though her words were unforgiving. “But is he yours now? He belongs to Hades.” The truth struck with cruel finality, and Apollo stiffened.

Her voice lowered, her usual poise cracking under the weight of her own desperation. "It’s only a matter of time before Poseidon learns whose hand claimed his son," Aphrodite murmured, her voice trembling like a fragile chord stretched to breaking. "If you choose this course, he will not turn his wrath upon mine,” she said, the weight of her vulnerability hanging heavily in the air.

“Why would I want that, woman?” Apollo’s gaze turned cold, a storm brewing within his chest. “Eros deserves every punishment that awaits him.”

Aphrodite’s jaw tightened, her eyes flashing with indignation at his words, yet still, she pressed on.

“Don’t you want to see Perseus alive again?” she asked softly, her voice a delicate plea, careful not to provoke further wrath. “His eyes glistening with life, his breath warm upon your skin?”

Apollo's expression didn’t soften; instead, it darkened further. Her words did nothing but stir the fury coiling within him, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“I can make him love you,” she continued, desperation slipping into her voice. “He would be yours—”

“I don’t want him near that rotten magic,” Apollo’s voice thundered. His eyes flickered like the core of a blazing sun. The force of his anger radiated outward, thick and oppressive, pushing Aphrodite back with its intensity.

Before she could respond, Hephaestus stepped forward, his hulking form acting as a barrier between his wife and the seething god. The heat radiating from Apollo's wrath felt like standing too close to a forge, and even Hephaestus, accustomed to flames, shifted slightly in discomfort.

“Careful, brother,” Hephaestus warned, his voice steady but firm, his dark eyes locking with Apollo's. “Don’t lose yourself to that fire. If you truly love that boy, you will resurrect him despite the cost. Even if you must watch him from afar, wouldn’t that be enough, to glimpse upon him alive and well?” Hephaestus questioned, his voice steady, grounding against the rising tempest.

Apollo’s eyes dimmed a little as he turned his attention to Percy, lying still on his bed, like a doll stripped of its life, a vessel bereft of warmth, so hauntingly beautiful yet so irrevocably lost.

Aphrodite stepped closer to the sun god, her face brushing against his shoulder, her gaze unwavering yet tinged with vulnerability. “Please,” she implored, her voice trembling slightly. “My boy did not wish to kill him; he loves Einalian. He is unstable now, drowning in regret, and I fear for his life with each passing day. So, I beg you.” A tear escaped her eye, glistening like a shard of light.

“Give the boy to Hera,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, “and watch Perseus breathe once more.”

Paris stood beneath the tree, his skin catching the golden light as it glistened under the weight of the enchanted apples. He traced a finger along one of the fruits, its skin humming with magic. Its intoxicating sweetness filled the air—a fruit so alluring, it clung to one’s throat when bitten, its nectar sharp enough to make teeth ache.

He winced as Hera applied a healing ointment to his wounds. The bitter, herbal stench of the salve was a harsh contrast to the inviting fragrance of the apples overhead. Not far from them, Ladon slumbered, dragon’s claws twitching as though chasing prey in its dreams. Its yellowish-green scales shimmered under the sun, its breath thick with the smell of sulphur.

"You have failed to deliver him," Hera remarked, her voice cool and detached, her attention fixed on rubbing the ointment into his skin. Her hands moved with efficiency but without care, and Paris couldn’t stifle a groan at the roughness of her touch.

"Stop moving," she commanded, her tone sharp. When she was done, she inspected her work, nodding with satisfaction as her eyes briefly flickered to meet his.

“He was taken by Eros. If you permit me to seek him…”

“Careful,” Hera warned, a layer of ice coating her words. “Aphrodite is fierce, and you are under my protection now. Should anything happen to you, it would be a humiliation,” she explained, her gaze unwavering, a vengeful goddess cloaked in authority.

Her expression shifted suddenly. She placed her hand on Paris’s shoulder, the weight of her palm a chain binding him to the earth. With a focused gaze, she observed a chariot descending from the heavens, a celestial flame burning in the firmament, heralding the arrival of a god cloaked in sunlit radiance.

Dragon Ladon blinked his yellow eyes, but even the inferno of his gaze paled beside the blazing intensity of Apollo’s presence.

Before Hera could react, Paris broke free, rushing toward the luminous figure that approached with the grace of a falling star. Hera caught prince by his injured arm, pulling him back like a marionette strung by invisible threads.

“Do not,” she warned, her voice a silken whip as she chose instead to witness Apollo’s intentions unfold.

Apollo approached, Perseus cradled in his arms—a frozen visage, an alabaster statue suspended in time. He laid Percy upon the verdant grass beneath the Hesperides' tree, where the whispers of leaves sang of eternal summers and unfulfilled desires. Percy lay sprawled limply, his head lolling to one side, an empty vessel held together by the divine enchantments of the sun god.

Paris collapsed beside his friend, cradling him tenderly as if the slightest touch might fracture the fragile remnant of the life that once surged within. Apollo stood back, permitting this moment, yet a tempest brewed within him—a twisted expression of possessive disgust curling his lips. The sight of Paris’s fingers brushing Percy’s face, the sorrow and yearning radiating from him like a mournful hymn, ignited a wildfire of jealousy in his heart.

“Perseus?” Paris called, his voice trembling like a fading ember, desperate to awaken his friend from the stygian depths of shadow. “What...what happened to him?” His gaze flickered up to Apollo, pleading for clarity.

“He’s dead, my dear Alexander. His soul dwells somewhere between worlds, lost and confused,” Hera explained, her tone icy yet oddly triumphant, as if relishing the anguish that rippled through the garden

“Dead?” Paris echoed, disbelief saturating his voice. He lifted Percy’s body to rest against his knees, cradling him like a fragile relic. His trembling fingers sifted through Percy’s dark, unruly locks, their familiarity a cruel contrast to the icy, lifeless weight beneath them. A tear slipped from his brown eyes, falling onto Percy’s pale cheek, a crystalline drop tracing a path like rain cascading down a forgotten windowpane. It lingered for a heartbeat, before merging with the lifeless skin. “It can’t be.”

With trembling hands, Paris brushed his fingertips along Percy’s cheek, wishing against all odds for a spark of life, a flutter of breath. But all he felt was the coldness of death, the absence of warmth that had once radiated from the boy he adored. “Wake up, Perseus… Einalian…” The name slipped from his lips, a prayer laced with desperation. “How… how did it even happen?”

Across the garden, Apollo stood frozen in place, a figure carved from pure obsidian, each muscle taut with restrained agony. His breath hitched, chest heaving with the weight of everything unsaid. The sight of Paris, so tender, so painfully gentle, holding Percy close as if he could protect him even in death, made Apollo’s very soul splinter. Every quiet plea from Paris, every brush of his fingers, was like a dagger twisting deeper into his heart. Helpless rage and grief twisted in him, coiling like a serpent, but the weight of guilt held him still.

It was his fault.

Hera smirked, her voice dripping with venomous delight. “Such is the fate of the sun god’s loves,” she mocked, her words sharp and cruel. “Your lovers, once resplendent, become nothing but ash in the wake of your fiery passions. A fleeting flame that consumes, leaving only remnants behind.”

Apollo’s gaze darkened, shadows swirling in the depths of his expression, a tempest of regret and fury battling within him. He remained silent, for Hera's taunts rang with the harsh clarity of truth, each syllable slicing through him like the sharpest blade.

It was his fault.

Eros was just a trap he had allowed Percy to tumble into, fully aware of the peril that lay in wait. Apollo had spun his golden threads of love around him, believing he was woven into something divine. Instead, it had unravelled into chaos, leaving him clutching the empty husk of the boy he adored.

“I want him alive,” Apollo uttered, his voice a strained whisper. He stared straight ahead, while Hera circled him like a vulture.

“You beseeched me before—to entwine Perseus and yourself in sacred matrimony. Yet I rejected your plea, perhaps knowing even then that this love was but a fleeting spectre, doomed to vanish,” she replied, her tone sharp as a dagger, every word a thorn embedded deep in his heart. “I am seldom mistaken,” she murmured, her gaze flickering towards the entwined forms of Paris and Percy, a glint of malevolent delight shimmering in her eyes.

“I shall elevate Perseus to divine heights, united with Alexander in an unbreakable bond. Their souls shall intertwine in a marriage blessed by my own hands.” Hera proclaimed, while Apollo absorbed her words, his face an impassive mask concealing the tempest within.

Paris’s head snapped toward her, his eyes igniting with desperate hope. “Is that still possible?” he asked, his voice quivering, a moth drawn to the flickering flame of possibility.

“Of course it is—so long as his body remains unscathed,” she replied, a sly smile curling her lips as she patted Apollo on the arm with an air of false camaraderie. “You did well to keep him preserved like this.”

“He’s so beautiful in death,” Hera purred. “Just imagine how radiant he will be in immortality.”

Apollo’s jaw tightened, an iron bar of restraint holding back the fury bubbling within.

“Shame you will not lay a hand on him after. His body will belong only to one who cherishes him fully, to Alexander,” she continued, her voice thick with delight at his anguish. “But it’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Is that your price?” Apollo challenged, his heart thundering with a mix of fury and desperation. “To twist my love into something grotesque, to bind him to another?”

“Is it not fitting?” Hera replied, the mocking tone back in her voice. “You sought to elevate him, to make him your own, yet here you are, watching him slip away. How poetic, don’t you think?”

Apollo swallowed hard, the bitterness of her words choking him. “And you take such joy in this torment?” he said, his voice low and fierce, like the crackling of flames about to burst forth. “You delight in tearing apart what little remains of my heart.”

With that, Hera's smile bloomed wide, a sinister flower unfurling in the oppressive air, each petal an exquisite mockery of Apollo’s despair.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Hera replied, her gaze icy and unwavering. “You know you deserve it.”

In the dim room, where the wind howled softly, pushing the white curtains into a delicate dance, a man lay motionless on the bed. By his head, an incense platter stood sentinel, the last remnants of a fragrant stick curling upward in tendrils of smoke, its tip still glowing orange.

The man rested, his brown locks sprawling across the pillow, dark eyelashes fluttering just slightly, as if caught in a dream.

A shadow loomed over the figure, an unsettling presence that thickened the air. A pale hand, dirty from crust and blood, with sharp, bird-like claws glistening with a translucent substance, crept closer, tracing a path from the man’s serene face to his neck and down to his chest. The claws glinted in the dim light, each movement imbued with a malevolent grace.

Then, with a swift and brutal motion, the claws sank deep into the man’s heart, piercing the veil of tranquillity.

Hector rose with a start, drawing in a deep breath as if he had resurfaced from the depths of an unforgiving sea. He clutched his chest, a sharp pain buzzing within him, a phantom ache that echoed through his very core. Yet, when he looked down, there was no mark, no wound—only the lingering sensation of something terrible brushing against his soul.

He blinked, confusion swirling in his mind like the smoke that lingered in the air. What had just transpired?

His bare feet touched the cool floor, and with a sense of determination, Hector stood up and exited the chamber. He traversed the dim corridors, the faint murmur of Menelaus's voice echoed from the main hall, a distant reminder of the world beyond his thoughts. Yet, he did not linger; he ventured further into the labyrinth of shadows until he found himself before the doors that seemed to beckon him with an unspoken promise.

As he opened the doors silently, a soft rustle caught his attention. He looked down to find white feathers laid out before him, delicate and ethereal, as if they were guiding him along a path meant solely for him.

Hector slipped inside, the door closing behind him with a gentle whisper. Turning slowly, his heart raced at the sight before him.

Helen lay on her bed, a vision of tranquil beauty. Her golden hair fanned out across the pillow like spun sunlight, and her hand rested lightly on her stomach, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing a rhythmic melody that filled the air. Soft breaths escaped her lips, almost as if she were speaking in her dreams, sharing secrets with a world only she could see.

Hector approached, each step taken with reverence, as if he were stepping into a sacred space. The weight of the world outside felt distant, and all that mattered was this moment—this fragile stillness where time seemed to pause, allowing him to linger in her presence.

How sweet the taste of madness was, how intoxicating the thought of her entirely his.

She was the sun that burned away the shadows in his heart, and he would not allow anyone to come between them—not Menelaus, not fate itself.

Chapter Text

The Heraion of Samos, a grand monument to Hera’s unfathomable power, rose with austere majesty from the heart of the island, its towering columns watching over the endless stretch of the eastern Aegean Sea. The temple, steeped in a reverence as old as time itself, seemed to breathe with the weight of millennia, where the veil between mortal and divine thinned to a whisper. The air here thrummed with something sacred, an electric stillness that wrapped itself around the stones, woven with the echoes of prayers and the goddess's presence.

Upon the golden altar, just at the feet of Hera’s towering effigy, lay Percy’s body, bare beneath a veil of white silks that clung like mist to his cold skin. His hands were entwined over his chest in a gesture of eternal surrender.

Water dripped in steady rivulets from Poseidon’s body, pooling on the marble floor as he crossed into the temple, each step a measured beat, echoing like the distant crash of waves. The air itself seemed to bend beneath his presence—unhurried, yet inevitable—an embodiment of the relentless, untamable sea in all its might.

His trident, gripped tightly, hummed with latent power, every step reverberated through the sacred space, his eyes—ancient, fathomless—never straying from the lifeless form before him.

Hera stood nearby, her presence both serene and sharp, like a blade dipped in honey. She inclined her head toward Poseidon in a gesture of deference, acknowledging the weight of his arrival.

Though Paris’s heart ached to remain by Percy’s side, he stepped aside, reluctant but obedient, his devotion lingering in the soft tremor of his body.

Poseidon's hand hovered above Percy, suspended in hesitation as if even the god of the seas feared what lay before him. Then, with a tenderness at odds with his immense power, he knelt beside his son and cradled Percy’s cheek in his palm. The slight movement turned Percy’s head to the side, limp as a broken doll.

Poseidon’s fist closed, expression darkened. The rising fury was palpable, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed the temple’s walls might crack under its pressure. His eyes flickered toward Hera, who stood watching, her silence an unspoken confirmation. The terrible truth weighed heavily upon him—his son was dead.

“Who dared?” Poseidon growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble. His gaze was sharp, his anger barely contained. “Who dared to extinguish his life?” The single word dripped with an unspoken promise of wrath, seeking a target for his fury.

Hera paused, as if weighing how much to unveil, how much chaos to stir in the wake of her own schemes. She measured her words carefully.

“Eros, son of Aphrodite,” she finally said, her voice smooth, revealing only what she wished to reveal. The name hung in the air like a curse, its weight sinking deep into the room.

Poseidon’s eyes narrowed further, the fury within him bubbling like the seas before a violent storm. The god’s chest heaved, but then Hera’s voice cut through the stillness, cool and decisive.

“I shall ascend him,” she declared.

Poseidon rose slowly, the tumult of his wrath ebbing like the retreating tide, though the storm within him still brewed ominously.

Hera’s gaze flicked toward Paris, who stood rigidly, the tension in his frame palpable as Poseidon’s steely attention shifted onto him.

“I received a golden apple,” Hera continued smoothly. “It bestowed upon me not merely a new title but a wellspring of influence.” The word lingered on her lips, heavy with promise. Her smirk widened. “For that, Alexander, prince of Troy, implored me to release Einalian from Apollo’s stubborn grasp. And what better way to orchestrate this divine liberation than by granting them my blessing?” Her eyes gleamed with a predatory satisfaction, a tempest of desires hidden beneath her poised exterior. “Unite them in something greater, something truly divine.”

Poseidon mulled over her words, his thoughts swirling like the depths of the ocean. There was nothing that Percy’s father desired more than to tear him away from Apollo’s grasp, to sever that bond which had brought nothing but suffering. And now, this plan—this desperate wish of a boy on the cusp of manhood—seemed to offer a way out, a path to freedom. Yet, even as the possibility unfolded before him, it was not without its bitter irony.

His son would live, that much was certain. But at what cost? To be chained once more, this time to a princeling of Troy, a city whose very breath echoed Apollo’s name in prayer. It galled him, this twist of fate, that the very god he sought to estrange from Percy would still loom over him, if only in the shadows of Troy’s temples.

Poseidon’s gaze remained locked on Paris, unyielding as granite. He stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on the Trojan’s shoulder. Paris, though visibly nervous, held his ground, the flame of his resolve flickering but not extinguished.

“And what is marriage,” Poseidon intoned. “if not yet another bind that ensnares the soul?”

Paris felt the weight of the sea god’s scrutiny pressing against him like an unforgiving tide. “I do not wish to restrain him further,” he declared, each word a quiet rebellion against the weight of expectation. “I want to free him—to protect him.”

Poseidon’s lips twitched, a flicker of approval dancing across his face. “How much do you mean it, I wonder?” he mused, his voice a low murmur, heavy with challenge.

Paris’s eyes met his, determination flashing there. “How can I prove my worth of him to you?” he asked, already bracing for whatever trial might follow.

The sea god’s gaze deepened. "Do you know Eros?"

"I do," he replied, his voice steady, yet the weight of his failure bore down upon him. "When he sought to claim Perseus… I wounded Eros, but not sufficiently to stop his pursuit. I watched as he took my friend from me."

Bitterness curled around his words, a quiet admission of defeat that tasted like salt upon his tongue. "In my attempt to protect him, I failed," he confessed, the shadows of regret flitting across his expression.

For a fleeting moment, Poseidon’s gaze softened, a rare flicker of paternal understanding crossing his ancient, weathered face. "Defeat is not the greatest failure, mortal," he rumbled. "To have never tried at all—that is the true disgrace." His eyes locked onto Paris's, and in their unfathomable depths, Paris saw something unsettlingly familiar—the stormy glint of Percy’s own eyes, the reflection of sea-green waters now crashing within Poseidon’s. It was like staring into the same ocean that had birthed Percy’s soul.

"Find Eros," Poseidon commanded, his voice calm but deadly. "Make him pay for what he has done to my son."

Paris nodded, his resolve as firm as the earth beneath him. The enormity of the task—facing Eros, the god of desire—did not daunt him. Instead, it stoked the blaze of his determination. This was not just a quest. This was a reckoning. A chance to reclaim what had been stolen from him, from Percy. The memory of his last battle with Eros flashed through his mind—he had tasted victory once, felt the warm ichor splash against his skin as his sword cut through the god’s flesh. Yet, it hadn’t been enough. He had failed then, unable to protect Percy from the cruel hands of fate.

But now, he was different. The injustice of Percy’s death gnawed at him like a festering wound. Percy, who deserved more than to lie cold and silent, robbed of life and love.

And then, there was the unanswered question, the one that haunted him with every step. How had Percy died? The knowledge eluded him, yet he could feel it, like an itch beneath his skin, urging him to seek the truth no matter how dark it might be. It gnawed at him, the need to understand, to know every detail of the moment that had torn Percy from him. His heart clenched at the thought, but he couldn’t turn away from it. He needed to know.

He would know.

Hera, who had been watching from the shadows, stepped closer. A veil of unease seemed to drape her brow, her lips parting with a breath as cold as prophecy. “He will die,” she murmured.

“Or perhaps he will not,” Poseidon countered, his voice both deep and sharp. His gaze slid back to Paris, assessing him like the waves test the cliffs. “Beneath that polished princely armour, beneath the sheen of your conviction, beats the heart of a warrior still unproven. Do you even know the storm that stirs within you?”

Paris felt the weight of those words coil around him like chains. The desire for vengeance, for retribution, burned within him—a flame too bright to extinguish, even beneath the gods' crushing gaze.

Poseidon’s voice dropped, becoming a distant murmur. “Prove your worth,” he intoned. “And my blessings shall be yours, a gift worthy of your trials.”

But as the warmth of his voice faded, so too did the flicker of kindness in his eyes. “But fail…” His smile vanished, replaced by an icy stare. “Fail, and you shall not glimpse my son’s face again, nor know his warmth. My son will marry only someone worthy of protecting him.”

Hera’s expression darkened, her regal composure slipping into something colder.

"I shall remain nearby, a witness to your glory or your defeat." Poseidon said, his gaze shifting toward Percy’s still form, lying as if ensconced in a tranquil slumber, untouched by the hand of death.

He cast a final, lingering glance at Hera, who met his gaze with a silent nod, her regal composure betraying a flicker of unease. With that, Poseidon turned away, his movements imbued with a grace that belied his immense power. He vanished into the depths of the sea, his presence receding like a tide retreating from the shore.

"This is a rare opportunity to earn a blessing from one of the mightiest Olympians," Hera proclaimed, her voice resonating with a weighty purpose. "A blessing that will shine most brilliantly when you ascend to immortality. Consider the path you tread."

She stepped closer, her gaze piercing through the air like a sharpened spear, intent and unyielding. "Do you wish to fulfil Poseidon’s quest as a mere mortal, or will you embrace the divine?" Her words hung heavy in the atmosphere, laced with an enticing challenge, beckoning Paris to confront the depths of his ambition and the heights of his potential.

Paris hesitated only for a moment, his eyes falling to his hands, still trembling with the weight of his decision. He clenched his fists so tightly that the skin broke, and a thin line of blood traced the path of his knuckles. His eyes, though resolute, softened at the sight of his own vulnerability—a sign of his humanity.

"I want to do it as a mortal," he finally declared, his voice steady, though tinged with the weight of uncertainty.

Hera's surprise was almost imperceptible, her brow lifting ever so slightly. "If you fail and Eros destroys your body," she said, her tone now laced with something more akin to caution, "I will not be able to resurrect you."

Paris nodded, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “I understand,” he replied, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed the gnawing fear beneath his determination. “But will you still resurrect Perseus?” His voice faltered at the mention of Percy, the sound of his name softening the iron in Paris’s heart.

A rare, genuine smile touched Hera’s lips, a subtle warmth breaking through her otherwise imperious demeanour. "Yes," she promised softly.

Paris moved toward Percy, each step laden with the gravity of parting. He knelt beside him, his fingers brushing through Percy’s black locks with a gentleness that defied the bitterness in his soul. He looked at Percy’s face, memorizing the serene stillness that had overtaken it, as if trying to hold onto this moment forever. "We will look into each other's eyes again," Paris whispered, his voice hoarse. He took Percy’s hand and squeezed it gently. Closing his eyes, he allowed the sensation to etch itself upon his heart.

"Where is Eros?" The question slipped from his lips, though beneath it echoed a tempest—of fury, of grief. He placed Percy’s hand gently upon his chest, as though he were cradling the last fragile remnant of a shattered world.

Hera’s gaze drifted upward, a smile that hinted at secrets lost in the stars. "He has been near since the moment Apollo laid Perseus in your arms. Lurking, haunting the edges of shadow. Now, he is here, on this very island, nearer than you dare imagine," she murmured, her voice as silken as it was venomous.

A sharp inhale filled Paris’s lungs. The air thickened with the promise of their reckoning, as if the island itself pulsed with the god’s dark presence.

Paris nodded, his body trembling with restrained violence. He turned from the altar, from the body of the one he loved, his grip tightening around the sword at his side.

Each step from the temple was a step toward the storm.

---

Outside the temple, Paris stumbled upon an unexpected figure—Apollo, bathed in the waning light of the evening. His silhouette stood motionless, a deity enshrouded in stillness, but beneath that calm exterior, Paris discerned the faintest tremor in his golden eyes, a subtle disturbance that betrayed the churning tempest within. Apollo’s lips remained pressed into a thin, deliberate line, a sentinel guarding his true thoughts.

In the hush of the fading day, Apollo made no sound as he reached to unhook a spear crafted from celestial bronze, its surface shimmering with a light that seemed to pulse like the heart of the sun. He extended it toward Paris, the weapon a striking contrast to the shadows gathering around them. The offering, though wordless, bore gravity.

Paris hesitated, his fingers brushing the cool, polished metal of the spear, sending a shiver coursing through his chest—an echo of the confusion swirling within his mind. Why? The question pressed upon him, sharp and relentless, carving doubt into the moment. Why would Apollo, tormentor of Einalian, extend this hand now? Why would the sun god, who wielded the sky itself, bestow such a formidable gift?

“Why are you helping me?” Paris’s voice sliced through the stillness, taut with the bitter edge of suspicion. The question hung in the air like an accusation, heavy with distrust.

Apollo’s eyes locked onto his, and the silence that followed was thick with meaning—an unspoken confession. There, in the sharp intensity of the god’s gaze, was something Paris had not expected. Pain, raw and naked, flickered briefly, but still Apollo offered no words.

The silence deepened the tension, but Paris could not let it be. Anger began to rise in him, bubbling from the depths of his wounded heart. “What has Eros done to him?” His voice shook with fury, the raw emotion splitting the quiet as his heart screamed for answers.

At that moment, Apollo’s eyes blazed like twin suns, their light searing and furious. Paris raised his arm in defence, shielding himself from the unbearable glow as Apollo’s divine fury spilled into the night, making the air itself tremble.

Apollo turned his gaze aside, and his voice, sharp as an arrow, cut through the atmosphere. “Ask him yourself.”

Paris’s breath hitched, and his gaze followed Apollo’s to the temple roof. There, perched like a wounded predator, was Eros.

But this was no god of love. No sweet cherub of desire. Eros was a monstrous thing, grotesque in his disarray, a half-man, half-creature. His eyes glowed a sickly, maddened pink—embers of a twisted flame. Blood, crusty and brown, coated his once-pristine form. His claws raked the temple’s stone, carving deep scars into its walls. Wings, jagged and broken, hung limply at his back, half-torn, like a fallen angel stripped of grace.

This was not love. This was what love could become—feral, wild, destructive. Eros, unhinged and terrifying, was a nightmare made flesh.

Paris felt the spear in his hand, the weight of Apollo’s gift grounding him in the face of the horror before him. The gravity of what lay ahead settled upon his shoulders, cold and unrelenting.

“He’s weakened by his insanity; use it,” Apollo's voice echoed in his mind before the god vanished into the shadows, his form shifted and deformed, morphing into something primal—a creature of the wild that slipped swiftly into the verdant underbrush.

Paris stood poised, the spear of celestial bronze gripped tightly in his hand, his heart racing. But the distance was too great; the moment was not yet ripe for a direct strike.

Drawing in a deep breath, Paris called out, his voice echoing through the dusk. “Is this what you wanted, Eros? Perseus is gone, his life extinguished for your amusement.”

A sneer curled on Eros's lips, but Paris pressed on, relentless. “You call yourself the god of love, yet you wield destruction with no heart to hold it!”

With that, Eros lunged forward, his claws glinting like daggers in the twilight. They clashed with Paris's sword, metal ringing out against the sharpness of divine talons, each blow sending tremors through his arm. Eros's movements were fluid, a grotesque dance of grace and ferocity.

As they tumbled through the underbrush, Paris fought fiercely, a flurry of strikes and parries. Eros countered with vicious swipes, his claws slicing through the air, leaving trails of shimmering darkness in their wake. With every clash, Paris could feel the weight of Eros’s taunts wrap around him like a shroud.

“You are but a flickering shadow in the inferno of my power, mortal,” Eros hissed, his voice curling with mockery, like venom dripping from fangs. “Lovely Perseus? Merely a plaything—deliciously fragile, easily shattered.”

The words slithered through Paris’s mind, but before he could retaliate, agony blossomed across his face. Eros's claws raked his skin, carving crimson gashes that bloomed like angry, blood-red flowers. Paris staggered, the pain searing through him, but in its wake surged a wild, untamed fury. With a desperate roar, he lashed out, driving his foot into Eros’s chest. The impact rippled through the air, a savage defiance, and Eros crashed beneath a gnarled tree, momentarily stunned.

The god's laughter was a cruel melody, fractured by his sharp breath. “Shall I tell you who else has tasted my ruin? Your brother,” Eros spat, his voice dripping with malice.

Paris froze, the words striking like shards of ice, slicing through the storm of rage in his heart. “What?”

Eros’s claws gleamed as he licked them, savouring the taste of Paris’s blood. “He fell under my spell with such speed, such hunger—he will never wake from the delirium of his lust.”

The blood drained from Paris’s face, dread flooding his veins like ice-cold poison. “What have you done?” he choked, his voice barely more than a whisper, trembling beneath the weight of his terror.

“Your dear brother, hero of Troy, fell head over heels for none other than Queen Helen,” Eros purred. “I wonder,” he mused, eyes glinting with dangerous amusement, “how Sparta’s king will react when he learns that Hector has stolen his beautiful wife?”

A pause, deliberate and thick with tension, followed as Eros leaned in closer, his lips quivering with mock pity. “Will Menelaus weep? Or will the fires of rage consume him?” He tilted his head, a smile curving slowly like a crescent moon. "Ah, the things men will do for love."

The malice in his voice seemed to pull the very air taut with tension, and Paris felt his heart constrict, crushed beneath the terrible weight of the revelation. This wasn’t a mere threat—it was the ruin of nations.

If anything happened to Helen, Menelaus’s wrath would know no bounds. The Oath of Tyndareus, that cursed vow binding the kings of Greece to protect her, would be invoked. War would sweep across the land like an all-consuming fire.

“You’ve condemned us all,” Paris rasped, his voice raw.

“Condemned?” Eros sneered, his mocking laughter biting deep. “No, princeling. I’ve simply... hastened the inevitable.” His eyes gleamed with dark delight, basking in the chaos he had unleashed. “You mortals are so eager to incinerate your world for the love of a woman.”

Paris’s fingers tightened around the shaft of his spear, trembling under the weight of fury and despair. Within him, a storm raged—Perseus, Hector, and now Troy, all slipping from his grasp like sand in the wind. Eros was not merely a tormentor; he was an extension of Aphrodite’s will, her vengeful hand reaching through him, eager to strip away everything Paris held sacred. Her wounded pride—the scorn of being denied the title of fairest—had set this devastation into motion. But she, with all her wiles and cruelty, was still weaker than Hera. Hera, queen of the gods—his only remaining hope.

His breath steadied, his gaze darkened, fixing on Eros, who hovered above him, wings casting ominous shadows that sprawled across the ground. "War or not," Paris growled, his voice low and cold, "I will end you."

"You will try!" Eros spat, lunging forward with wild fury, his strength sending Paris crashing into the dirt.

Before Paris could rise, Eros descended, claws gleaming like obsidian, slashing toward his stomach. A sharp grunt of pain escaped Paris as the god's talons tore into him, his sweat beading and pooling on his brow. His breath came in ragged gasps, teeth clenched, until in a desperate move, his trembling fingers scooped up a handful of sand and flung it into Eros's gleaming pink eyes.

The god shrieked in rage, momentarily blinded, but his arrogance radiated like a cruel sun. He knew, as if by divine certainty, that his victory was inevitable.

But in his blinding confidence, as the beach sand burned his vision, Eros failed to notice Paris's bloodied fingers creeping toward the spear half-buried in the sand beside him. Dirt clung to Paris's skin, his hands shaking with fury and exhaustion. With a final, guttural roar, Paris raised the spear in a savage arc, and Eros, descending like a storm bent on destruction, impaled himself upon its deadly point.

The spear plunged deep into Eros’s abdomen, and with a ragged gasp, he collapsed to the side. His wings trembled, twitching in a final desperate attempt to lift him, but Paris was already upon him, rising to his knees, pinning the god to the earth, the spear still buried in his guts.

Blood from Paris's torn stomach trickled down, staining Eros's chest in dark rivulets, a mingling of mortal and divine agony. They both were teetering on the edge of death, their bodies broken, yet neither yielding.

Paris leaned in, his face inches from the divine horror beneath him, their breaths mingling in the stillness, thick with unspoken rage.

“Tell me, creature,” Paris growled, his voice a deadly whisper, his face inches from Eros’s, “how did you take Perseus from me? What foul act did you commit, so that I may punish you for every torment?”

Eros’s lips curled into a broken smile, his teeth glistening with ichor as he trembled. His eyes, once filled with malice, flickered with something unexpected—regret, like a shadow passing over them. But it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Eros swallowed thickly, his throat convulsing with the effort. “I devour what I desire.” His smile twisted into something feral, grotesque in its honesty. “I licked at him, bit at him... drank from him until he turned cold and still.” His voice broke, wavering between madness and pride. “I consumed him as one consumes love—until there was…there was nothing left.”

Paris's stomach churned, his breath catching in his throat as his trembling hands drove the spear deeper, twisting it mercilessly. Eros gagged, his golden ichor spilling from his lips like molten metal, his body convulsing in defiance. The god's wings, once magnificent, now trembled and wilted beneath the weight of his suffering.

“Damn you,” Paris snarled, venom dripping from his voice. “You are an abomination, unworthy of living, unworthy of loving.” He spat the words with a conviction that left no room for pity.

“This... is who I am,” Eros rasped as his eyes fluttered shut, his lips quivering as if on the verge of shattering. For a moment, Paris thought he saw devastation etched into the god’s face, a brief flicker of something akin to sorrow—but then, the laughter came. It was bitter and hollow, a desperate sound that echoed through the clearing.

“Kill me, then,” Eros rasped, his voice weak but defiant. “Go on, princeling. Avenge your darling and feel better.” His words dripped with mockery, but beneath them lay the quivering remnants of a god who had lost more than his strength.

Paris clenched his jaw, a deep breath hissing through his teeth. The fury in his heart began to shift, solidifying into something colder, something far more calculated. Death was too easy for Eros. The punishment he deserved would not come in a single moment of pain—it would be drawn out, relentless, unforgettable.

The storm in Paris’s eyes dimmed, giving way to a chilling calm. A slow smile crept across his lips, but it was not one of triumph. It was far more dangerous, a smile that spoke of cruelty honed by heartbreak. He leaned casually against the lance still buried in Eros’s body, pressing down just enough to draw a sharp intake of breath from the god.

“Watch the skies, Eros,” Paris said softly, his voice a whisper of malice. “Get used to the sight, because from this moment forward, you will never touch them again.”

Eros’s face twisted. “What are you—”

Paris said nothing more as he reached into his robes and drew forth Perseus’s dagger, the moonstones embedded in its hilt shimmering with an otherworldly light. For a moment, Paris admired the blade, his eyes softening briefly as if cradling a memory. But that softness vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by the cold finality of his decision.

Without hesitation, Paris tore Apollo’s spear from Eros’s body, the sudden movement causing Eros to cry out. His scream echoed through the quiet night, raw and guttural. As he writhed, Paris turned him over in the sand, forcefully pinning the god beneath him before plunging the spear into his shoulder, twisting it cruelly. Eros’s face twisted in agony, his teeth clenched in a desperate attempt to muffle his screams, but they escaped him nonetheless.

Paris remained unmoved by the god’s suffering. The fury that had once burned in his chest had turned to ice, cold and calculating.

He pressed the dagger to Eros’s skin, the sharp edge biting into the flesh of his wings as he began to cut, a slow, deliberate motion that opened the wound wider. With a brutal yank, he started to pull at the first wing, tearing it apart with his other hand, and Eros howled.

Paris smiled, a flicker of satisfaction warming the storm brewing within him, before his jaw clenched in deadly focus.

The wing tore halfway from its moorings, jagged bone splintering and tearing from the god’s back, but sinew and muscle clung stubbornly, hanging by threads of flesh. Paris’s breath quickened, fury and revulsion coiling into a heady storm within him, intoxicating and disorienting. His hands, already stained with ichor, tightened around the hilt of his blade, and in one swift motion, he brought it down.

The dagger cleaved through flesh with a sickening sound, a mix of ripping and slicing that filled the air like the tearing of wet parchment.

Eros pleaded and screamed again, as Paris severed the wing completely. He pushed it aside, it hit the ground with a heavy thud, twitching grotesquely, still spilling golden ichor in a sickly rhythm.

“Mother! Mother!” the god cried, his voice cracking in desperation, calling out to Aphrodite with a hope that was quickly fading.

Paris grip tightened as he wrenched the second wing, this time with greater force, ripping it from Eros’s back with a brutal snap. Ichor sprayed across his face and chest, the warm fluid soaking into his clothes as he drove the blade down again, cutting through muscle and bone.

Aphrodite soon descended from the celestial firmament, summoned by the anguished wails of her beloved son. Her ethereal beauty, once a radiant embodiment of love, was now marred by a torrent of tears cascading down her alabaster cheeks, each droplet a mournful hymn to the profound agony that racked her child.

Her golden hair whipped violently in the tempestuous wind, and her eyes, wide with fury and despair, blazed like twin suns consumed by eclipses as she cried out, “Son of Priam, you shall pay!” Her voice trembled, a melodious tremor infused with the weight of divine wrath. “You will pay for this!”

Paris raised his head, but his jaw tightened, recognition dawning as he beheld the goddess. He made no move to distance himself from Eros, his resolve as unyielding as the stone beneath him.

Aphrodite descended and rushed forward, arms outstretched in a desperate bid to cradle her fallen child, to shield him from the cold, relentless cruelty of the world. Yet, before her sorrow could envelop him, Ares emerged from the twilight like a living shadow, his arms encircling her waist, restraining her in a grip both firm and possessive.

"Let go of me!" Aphrodite shrieked, struggling against him.

"Stop your squirming and be grateful," Ares murmured, his voice a low growl as his lips brushed her ear. "Poseidon could have dealt him a far worse fate." His red eyes, twin embers burning with something close to pity but not quite, lingered on the broken form of Eros.

The wind howled around them, carrying Eros’s whimpers, and the sight of his once-majestic wings lying lifelessly on the ground seared into her memory.

At last, Paris relented. He rose unsteadily, grasping Eros’s heavy wings in his hands, taking a few faltering steps toward the temple before he collapsed, his wounds surging forth as the adrenaline drained from his veins, the sand beneath him intensifying his agony.

His face bore the brutal scars of battle, heavily cut and bruised, while his chest and arms were marred by the cruel imprints of Eros's talons and claws.

Aphrodite let out a guttural howl, the absence of Paris revealing Eros's shattered form, the spear still embedded within him. “Take him. Take our boy from here,” she pleaded, her words raw with the anguish that only a mother could endure.

Ares, never one to deny his lover's wishes, stepped forward and wrenched the spear from Eros' trembling body. His eyes narrowed as he recognized the weapon’s power—it hummed faintly with Apollo’s magic, celestial bronze glowing faintly under the blood and ichor that coated it. A grim smile twisted his lips. "Of course," he muttered, tossing the spear aside before hefting Eros onto his shoulder with a grunt, the once-god of desire now nothing more than a limp burden.

"Don't carry him like a sack of figs!" Aphrodite's voice quivered, her pallor betraying her fear as she watched her son sag against Ares like a broken doll.

But there was no other way to carry him. Eros’s back bore the grisly evidence of his mutilation—two jagged stumps where his wings had once spread gloriously, now reduced to ragged bones jutting from the gaping wounds.

"He'll heal," Ares grunted, his tone dismissive as Eros whimpered into his armour, his tears mingling with the golden ichor that dripped from his mangled form. "Foolish brat."

Ares paused, his gaze lingering upon the battered form of Paris, Eros’s twitching wings sprawled beneath his feet like grotesque trophies. A smirk danced upon his lips as their eyes locked—a silent, electric challenge flickered between them.

“I look forward to our next meeting, prince of Troy,” Ares declared, his voice dripping with venomous amusement. The word “Troy” left his mouth in a sneer, curling mockingly in the air, as though the city’s name was a jest, an illusion of grandeur destined to crumble.

Paris's gaze tracked him warily. Meanwhile Aphrodite’s sobs echoed through the air, the sound more piercing than any scream, but Ares’s grip remained unyielding, as though to carry the weight of divine tragedy was second nature to him.

Summoning his chariot, he called forth the monstrous steeds—flesh-eating horses with flaring nostrils, their eyes wild at the scent of blood. The beasts pawed at the earth, eager for battle or feast, it mattered not. Ares lifted Aphrodite onto the chariot with surprising tenderness, her ethereal form trembling. Her tears fell like a relentless rain, pooling onto her son’s broken body, now transformed into a delicate dove with it’s wings cut, resting mournfully in her lap.

With one final, lingering glance at Paris, Ares grasped the reins, his eyes narrowing with a fierce intensity. Without another word, the horses lunged forward, devouring the distance beneath their hooves.

---

Meanwhile, Paris, his breath ragged and shallow, clutched the severed wings in his blood-slicked hands, the feathers heavy and damp, dragging behind him like the weight of his own soul. The wings, still twitching with the memory of flight, seemed to pulse against his skin, as if they had not yet realized they were no longer bound to Eros. Each step sent a jolt of pain through Paris’s battered body, yet he dragged them forward, leaving a golden trail in his wake.

The sea, dark and brooding under the dying light, stirred. From its depths, Poseidon emerged, his form rising from the waves as though he were born of the storm itself. His eyes, cold and endless, met Paris’s, and a flicker of something akin to amusement played on his lips.

“Impressive,” Poseidon’s voice echoed, low and resonant like the tide crashing against the rocks. His presence was commanding, an immortal force that seemed to warp the air around him. “You’ve earned them.”

“Earned them?” Paris rasped, his mind clouded with exhaustion and the slow ebb of blood seeping from his wounds. He swayed slightly, his grip on the wings faltering. What could Poseidon possibly mean by that? The god’s words felt distant, as though Paris were hearing them through water.

“The wings,” With his trident, Poseidon gestured toward the torn appendages that Paris still clung to. They twitched again, unnervingly alive, as if they might take flight on their own. “Better attach them quickly, or they’ll return to their previous owner.”

A soft, almost mocking smile curled Poseidon’s lips as he took a step from the water, his movements fluid, effortless, as though the very earth bent to his will. “Come,” he said, his voice a command woven in velvet. He walked toward the temple, his figure casting a long, serpentine shadow on the blood-soaked ground.

Paris stared, dumbfounded, the cold ache of confusion settling in his bones as he looked at the twitching wings once more. The idea of attaching them to himself seemed as foreign as the gods’ whims, but the quiet authority in Poseidon’s voice allowed no room for questions. His grip tightened around the feathers, slick with ichor and blood, and with a silent nod, he followed the god’s lead toward the Heraion.

As Paris crossed the temple threshold, Hera stood vigil over Percy’s lifeless form. Her gaze shifted slowly from Percy to Poseidon and then to Paris, her eyes narrowing as she took in the ravages that marred his flesh. Deep cuts crisscrossed his skin, the marks of Eros' claws, yet her attention faltered as her gaze landed on the wings he bore.

A flicker of something dark and satisfied passed across her face, her lips twitching into a small smile as her eyes glistened with approval.

“You look terrible,” she remarked, approaching him, her fingers deftly wiping the blood from his face with the soft fabric of her robe. “That’s no look for a prince.” As the material soaked up the crimson from the deep gashes that marred Paris’s visage, the reality of his injuries became stark—one cut particularly vicious, tearing at the corner of his mouth like a cruel half smile.

Paris remained silent, the weight of his vengeance pressing down upon him, more formidable than ever before. He released his grip on Eros's wings, allowing them to fall to the ground with a dull thud.

Poseidon approached him and without words Paris bowed his head, his heart thrumming and he knelt as he felt the weight of Poseidon’s hands settle upon his head—a sensation both comforting and overwhelming.

“Alexander, son of Priam. You have dared to confront a god and emerged victorious. Few possess the audacity to not only defy but also to challenge one of divine stature.” Poseidon’s voice echoed like the profound rumble of the abyss. “Swear to me that you shall not betray my son, and that your hand shall never rise against him,” he intoned.

"I swear it on the Styx," Paris replied, closing his eyes in solemn reverence, his world spinning. "I will stand by his side until the end of time."

Poseidon's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “In the sea depths where shadows dance and the currents murmur their secrets, you shall breathe as the fish does, your lungs brimming with the very essence of the sea.”

As he spoke Paris felt the sensation of water cascading over him, though his body remained dry. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever experienced—like the ocean itself was cradling him, its waves crashing in his ears, the call of seabirds piercing the air, fish dancing in the depths beneath him.

The air shimmered with a saline glow, wrapping around Paris like a silken shroud. “Let the waves cradle you in their healing balm, for within their depths lies the power to mend what is broken, to weave together the frayed strands of life. Drink deeply of this gift.”

Then, abruptly, the sounds ceased, leaving behind an eerie, all-encompassing silence.

Paris opened his eyes. Poseidon stood before him, his hands now retreating, his fingers once again wrapping around the shaft of his trident. There was a solemnity in the god’s gaze, as if he knew more than he let on.

“Thank you, Lord Poseidon,” he murmured, his voice a whisper of reverence. In that moment, he felt the ocean’s pulse resonate within him—a promise of strength and resilience coursing through his veins, an eternal bond to the depths of the sea.

Percy waited. He waited for the flames to consume him, to feel his body reduced to ash, but that moment never came. Days bled into each other, unmeasured in the realm where time itself seemed to lose its grip. He spent those days catching the souls swimming past him, drifting along the shores of the Styx. His once sharp thoughts became hazy, his mind wandering between consciousness and something far deeper, almost dreamlike. When he awoke, he was either immersed in the Styx or standing at its bleak shore, the eerie calm of the place settling into his bones.

His hands gripped his glistening silver net. It shimmered under the weight of a dim, unnatural light. He cast it into the waters, and Styx stood behind him, her presence a familiar, comforting weight against his back. Restless souls swam beneath the surface like forgotten whispers, lost and unwanted. The net slipped through the depths with ease, cutting through the stillness , a tool fashioned for gathering the forsaken.

Percy’s task was simple—retrieve these wayward souls, collect them in the net’s shimmering threads, and deliver them to the pit—gaping chasm where the river Styx plunged like a black waterfall into the abyss below. The sound of it was not mere rushing water but something far more sinister—whispers threading through the wind, voices of the damned carried up from the depths, mingling with the eerie howl of the void. Its chill bit into him, sinking deep into his ghostly skin.

It was a duty that kept his hands busy, his mind occupied, and the lingering dread at bay. The weight of the souls in his net grew heavier, but it did not slow him down. They clung to the strands like desperate shades, but Percy moved with a quiet resolve, pushing aside the creeping sensation of being just as lost as they were.

Sometimes he saw silhouettes standing on the shore, silent observers in the gloom. Among them, he recognized Hades, his gaze steady, as though waiting for something yet unspoken. And then there was Hekate, her torch held aloft, the flicker of its flame casting a brief, warm glow that momentarily allowed Percy to forget the weight of his worries. But she never spoke. Instead, she would look at him and then drift away, swallowed by the shadows.

The silence of the underworld weighed on him, pressing like a heavy stone on his chest. Styx, ever present, was no companion for conversation—her cold, watchful nature left little room for solace.

Driven by the need to hear another voice, Percy decided to approach Charon, the only other figure who moved through these dark waters.

Charon had already begun his journey across the river, his skeletal frame shrouded in a tattered hood, the long oar in his hands pushing the boat through the black, churning waters. Percy swam closer, feeling the pull of the current as it tugged at his limbs, his presence nearly imperceptible beneath the surface. He resurfaced near the boat just as a commotion erupted—someone had tried to jump, perhaps pushed.

A young woman, trembling and pale, teetered at the edge, her grip tightening around the small child in her arms. The sight twisted something deep in Percy. Without thinking, he reached out, grabbing her by the arm before she could plunge into the cold depths of the river.

“Careful,” he whispered, his voice softer than he intended as he helped her sit back down, securing her hold on the child. Her wide, frightened eyes met his, haunted by fear and desperation.

He leaned over the edge of the boat, his body still tangled in the dark, cold grip of the river below.

After so much time tending to the souls, existing in Styx's depths, he resembled more a creature of the river than a man. The algae crawled over his skin, twisting like vines, his hair dripping with the dark water, heavy and tangled. His sea-green eye, still vibrant, glowed eerily in the gloom.

“What are you doing, boy?” Charon's voice rasped, the old ferryman’s gaze steady as he watched Percy.

Percy’s grip tightened on the edge of the boat, his muscles taut with frustration. “Did you not see? She could have fallen off,” he snapped.

Charon tilted his head, his smile widening into something unsettling. “Is that not what we want?” he mused, his tone slow.

Percy blinked, confusion clouding his features. Why would I want to give myself more work than I already have? The thought rattled in his mind. “We? Who’s we?” he asked, bewilderment softening the edge of his voice.

Charon’s bony fingers drummed against the oar, his smile growing faintly sinister. “Those who serve Kronos, of course.”

“Kronos?” Percy's question emerged, innocent and clueless.

“Seaweed Brain!”

His head jerked to the side at the familiar name, the sound of it unravelling something deep within him. Charon faded into the background as he focused on the voice, like a thread tugging him forward.

Without hesitation, he stepped onto the Styx, his feet making circles in the black, restless waters. Each ripple echoed that name, calling him deeper.

"Percy, my brave boy."

Another voice. Soft, tender, and full of love that washed over him like an incoming tide, warm and familiar. His heart clenched. Sally. Who’s Sally.

“Come here, Kelp Head!”

He halted at the jagged precipice, staring into the abyss, where shadows seemed to swirl, teasing the boundary between reality and madness. Those names—they were not mere echoes from some distant past but fragments of himself, scattered pieces of a fractured identity, pulling him toward memories that danced just beyond his reach. Hauntingly familiar, they flickered in the corners of his mind, as though woven into the marrow of his existence.

The pit, vast and silent, was a maw that swallowed sound. Yet, the names clung to the air, hovering like ghosts waiting for him to make the next move.

"Who are you?" Percy’s voice, barely more than a breath, called into the darkness. He waited, the silence gnawing at him, until, just as he prepared to retreat, a voice, deep and resonant, rippled up from the abyss.

“Why don’t you come down and find out?”

Percy hesitated, the voices tugging at him like a lifeline, anchors to the memories slipping ever further from his grasp. His feet shifted, loosening stones that tumbled over the edge, vanishing into the blackness below. The pull was intoxicating. He could travel through Styx, yes, but—

But just as his resolve tightened, he felt a sharp tug at his arm, wrenching him back. He stumbled, colliding against someone’s chest. Startled, he looked up to find Hades, his dark gaze filled with reprimand.

“They say whoever comes to the edge feels most alive,” Hades said, his tone a curious mix of admonishment and concern. “But in your case, I fear that thrill won’t work.” He released Percy’s arm, letting him straighten.

"What are you doing here?" Percy dared to ask.

"I sought something lost to me," Hades replied, his gaze lingering on the void. "Yet I find you teetering on the edge instead. It would take me considerable time to fetch you from the depths, you know."

“What’s down there?” Percy asked, his voice quieter now, the temptation of the void still pulling at him.

Hades watched him closely as Percy’s gaze returned to the black maw of the abyss. He sat on the jagged rocks, pulling Percy to sit beside him. The god's presence, though usually commanding, felt almost...comfortable.

“That’s the shortest way to the lower levels of the underworld,” he explained, his tone casual but tinged with a subtle warning. “It leads to the river of fire, Phlegethon, and Tartarus.”

Percy shivered. The names resonated with a dark power, but not the same as the voices that had called him earlier. He turned his eyes back to Hades. “I wasn’t... It wasn’t like that,” he said slowly. “I wasn’t trying to—” His words faltered as he struggled to explain. “I heard someone call me from down there.”

Hades arched an eyebrow, his expression narrowing into something more inscrutable, shadows flickering in the depths of his eyes. “When you look long into an abyss, the abyss begins to gaze back,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of aeons. “There are forces below, deep in Tartarus, that defy even the comprehension of gods. Old. Sinister. It’s better not to let your eyes linger too long.”

Percy’s gaze wavered, uncertainty clouding his features. His voice broke through the silence, soft but insistent. “Is Kronos down there?”

Hades' eyes widened, just a flicker, but enough to betray a momentary shift. His expression grew guarded. When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper. "Why do you ask?”

“Charon mentioned him…” Percy began, but the words faltered as he realized he couldn’t remember what he had been discussing before the names began to call to him.

“Kronos.” Hades spoke the name with measured reverence, a god naming something beyond gods. “The Lord of Time, chained in the abyss of Tartarus.” He met Percy’s gaze, his eyes dark with ancient memories. “You already know this,” he continued, “you’ve just…” He reached out, his fingers brushing through Percy’s damp hair, plucking a piece of purple algae. “Forgotten.”

In that moment, Hades saw it clearly—Percy was adrift, caught in the tides of memory and oblivion. Whatever dark force beckoned him from the abyss was playing with the delicate threads of his lost past, a marionette pulling Percy toward its will. He was vulnerable, like a child lost in the vastness of the world, curious, trusting too easily, his innocence ripe for exploitation.

Hades pressed his hand firmly on Percy’s shoulder, not unkindly, but with an authority that resonated in the air between them.

“Kronos,” Hades continued, his voice a murmur, “is not merely the father of gods. He is a force of undoing. He ruled before the Olympians, devouring his children, swallowing the future to preserve his reign. And when the gods overthrew him, they did not kill him—they couldn’t. Instead, they bound him in the depths of Tartarus, chained in time itself.”

Hades’s eyes grew distant for a moment, as though he could see through the layers of the world, down into the endless void where Kronos waited. “But even chains can weaken,” he added softly, “and time has a way of turning back on itself. There are some, I have no doubt, who wait eagerly for his return.”

Percy shivered, though not from cold. There was something in the air now, a deep sense of wrongness, of something vast and terrible stirring beneath the surface of his thoughts.

“Why would anyone want to free him?” Percy asked.

Hades’s lips tightened, his gaze darkening. “There are those who believe Kronos’s return will bring balance, an end to the rule of the Olympians. They think him a savoir… but they forget he is also a devourer.” His eyes locked with Percy’s, a warning. “Do not let him deceive you. His power is ancient, but his hunger is eternal.”

Hades’s grip on his shoulder tightened, grounding him in the present moment.

“And be careful, little soul,” his gaze hardened. “Be careful where you place your trust.”

Percy's voice wavered, a fragile thread of hope entwined in the words as he asked, “Can I trust you?”

His gaze held Hades, searching for something—an anchor.

At this moment, Hades was more than just the lord of the underworld. He was something solid, something real. Hekate was a guide, and Styx, a comfort. But Hades… Hades was a presence.

Hades’s dark eyes softened for a moment, but only just. It was a fleeting glimpse beneath the mask of a ruler who had seen ages rise and fall. He inclined his head slightly. “You can,” he said, his voice steady. “But trust is not a shield against what lies ahead. It is only a light, and sometimes… it is a dim one.”

Percy absorbed the words, feeling their gravity settle within him. He nodded, and Hades’s hand slipped from his shoulder, the connection severed as the god rose slowly to his full height, his presence towering.

“Come,” he commanded, his voice firm and resolute, leaving no room for dissent. “I won’t have you lingering here any longer. From this moment on, steer clear of this place.”

“But this is where I guide the souls,” Percy protested.

“I understand,” Hades replied, his voice steady and imbued with a patient authority. “But for now, consider yourself absolved of that duty.”

“What else am I to do?” Percy asked in a hesitant breath. The task bestowed upon him by Hades had been his sole distraction against the encroaching darkness of his thoughts. It was what made time move, rather than crawl, as he awaited the moment when his body would finally be discovered and buried, when his memories might begin to unfurl.

Hades smile was thin, laced with something more cunning. “I’m sure I can find something to occupy you.”

Hermes materialized the following day. Percy, just emerging from the dark embrace of Styx, grasped his chiton tightly, unbothered by the cold, damp fabric clinging to him. This time, he grasped no net; Hades had confiscated it, leaving him with only the chill of the river to seep into his bones.

With nothing but his restless thoughts to accompany him, he found himself teetering on the brink of annoyance. He could either soak in the obsidian waters or pester Charon with questions that the ferryman was far too weary to entertain, swatting him away with his oar like an irritant fly.

He collapsed onto the shore, feeling an exhaustion that gnawed deep into his very bones, a weariness that no amount of time in the afterlife could dispel.

Hermes bounded toward him, exuberance bubbling over like a child reunited with a long-lost pet. Yet, as he lunged forward, the god of thieves passed through Percy’s ghostly form, as if he were nothing more than a whisper in the wind.

It was a sight that verged on the absurd—Hermes sprawled awkwardly in the sand, his usual grace faltering as he lay there, bemused.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Hermes remarked, his voice laced with dry humour, yet he made no effort to rise. Instead, he sprawled comfortably on the ground, nestled into the space where Percy’s body should have been—or rather, where it lingered as a spectre. It was as if two film frames overlapped, an ethereal juxtaposition of existence. Propped up on his elbows, Hermes’s grin widened, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes as he beheld Percy’s ephemeral form.

Percy blinked down at him, momentarily speechless, the god’s sudden appearance catching him off guard.

“At least I’m finally inside you,” Hermes quipped, his smirk deepening.

A hot flush of anger surged through Percy, and with an irritated huff, he rolled away from the god, his fists clenching at his sides as the frustration boiled beneath his skin. Who was this infuriating god?

"Who are you?" Percy demanded, his voice edged with impatience as he turned to face Hermes again, face scrunching with suspicion.

"You little nuisance," Hermes replied smoothly, settling beside Percy with a dramatic flourish, his legs crossed as though they were old companions. “Did you drink from Lethe? How could you forget your devoted lover?” Hermes tilted his head, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Lover?” Percy repeated, his brows knitting together as he scrutinized Hermes more closely, as though trying to unlock some hidden memory. But no matter how deep he searched, there was only fog where recognition should have been. No spark of recollection, no flicker of familiarity, only the gnawing frustration that this god was playing a game Percy didn’t know the rules to.

Hermes sighed dramatically, feigning a wound from Percy’s lack of memory. His teasing instincts were at the ready, but then he noticed a stark shift in Percy’s demeanour. The demigod gathered his knees to his chest, and sorrow gripped him, ghostly tears pooling in Percy’s eyes, cascading down his cheeks like shimmering dew at dawn.

Hermes straightened, leaning closer, his usual bravado fading into something gentler.

“What got you so sad, sweet nymph?” he asked, his voice softening. It was perhaps the first time he had witnessed Percy weep, and the sight unsettled him.

“I don’t remember much these days,” Percy admitted, his voice thick with sorrow as he wiped the tears from his cheeks, leaving streaks of glistening trails that caught the fading light. "Even this place becomes…unfamiliar.” He looked around, as if seeing the shadows of the underworld for the first time.

“Hey, it can't be that bad,” Hermes began, attempting to infuse his words with reassurance, though doubt crept into the corners of his mind. “You must remember your name at least, right?”

“It’s Percy,” he replied, looking up at Hermes, whose face was momentarily frozen in shock. His tongue flicked behind his teeth, searching for the right words, but the dissonance lingered in his ears.

“That doesn’t sound… quite right,” Hermes murmured, attempting a playful smirk that faltered, failing to reach the depths of his silver eyes. “Isn’t that short for Perseus, maybe?”

“Yes…no.” Percy replied, a frown etching deeper across his features as he gazed at his hands, now translucent, the light passing through them. “Gods, I don’t know anymore.”

A sob escaped him, raw and anguished, his frustration spilling over like water from a cracked vessel.

Hermes wanted to cheer him up but when he tried to place a comforting hand on Percy’s shoulder, it passed through him like mist. Percy was slowly fading, slipping deeper into the abyss of his own death, his body still unburied and abandoned.

Seeing Percy in such anguish twisted something deep within Hermes’s heart, causing the wings on his helmet to droop, mimicking the defeated posture of a cat.

He seemed to consider, for a moment, how one might lift such a weight—how to offer solace in a place where none dared hope for it.

"Can you still grasp stones?" Hermes asked, plucking one from the ground with ease, tossing it into the air before catching it effortlessly in his palm.

"I can touch what belongs to the underworld," Percy replied, his voice muffled, barely rising from where his head rested against his knees.

Hermes crouched beside him, he glanced at the stone in his hand, then back at Percy. "Wanna skip stones across the Styx?" he offered.

Percy hesitated but slowly raised his gaze, meeting Hermes’s silver eyes. The god smiled, a quiet warmth in the gloom. "I’m Hermes, by the way."

Paris stood alone in the temple, accompanied only by Percy’s lifeless form. His gaze was fixed on him, awaiting Hera’s return. A gust of cold air suddenly stirred the room, heralding the arrival of a vortex behind him. From its depths emerged a woman draped in black and saffron robes, her presence like the whisper of death itself. She regarded him with a brief, almost imperceptible nod.

"Son of Priam. Ascended at last," she murmured, her voice low as though she feared waking Percy from his eternal sleep.

Paris's eyes narrowed, his posture tense and vigilant. "You seem far too pleased for someone who once thirsted for my death," he stepped closer to Percy, the air between them charged with an unspoken ferocity.

"Times have shifted, as have fates," Hekate replied, her voice a silken murmur. She moved with a languid grace, her gaze lingering on the dark, brown wings now folded against Paris’s back. Her eyes traced the scars that wove intricate patterns across his face; even in his divinity, they remained—a testament to his vengeance.

"Your city will soon be devoured by flames, and only a god can hold back the tide of destruction. Percy failed to end you when the world teetered on the edge of ruin, and now you stand divine, the only hope left to salvage it."

"I know you haven't come to fawn over my ascension." Paris’s wings unfurled slightly, a looming shadow falling over Percy's still form. "You’re here for Perseus. But I won’t let you take him from me."

Hekate circled the altar with a slow, deliberate motion, her eyes fixed on Percy’s pale, lifeless body. A tremor flickered through her lips, a rare sorrow shadowing her ancient eyes. "Apollo may have mended his flesh," she whispered, a tremble in her voice, "but I see him as he was before the veil of death descended."

In a sudden gesture, she reached for Paris’s hand. As her fingers brushed his skin, the world twisted—truth unveiled its savage underbelly. Paris gasped, seeing Percy anew. His friend’s body was ravaged—deep, jagged wounds carved by teeth, blood clinging to him like a lover's embrace. His lips bruised from kisses too violent, his skin marked by hands too cruel in their hunger.

Paris recoiled, wrenching his hand free, nausea twisting in his gut. A low curse escaped him, bitter and sharp. Stripping Eros of his wings wasn't enough. I should have flayed him, made him writhe before the end. Hatred coiled in his chest, cold and venomous.

"Eros deserved every torment," Hekate's voice slid through the air. "But you... you wear those wings now. What once wrought cruelty now serves as your mantle of protection."

Paris clenched his fists, his gaze locked on Hekate as she tilted her head, an enigmatic expression flickering across her features.

"Why do you keep vigil over his broken form, instead of granting him the peace of the grave?" Hekate's question cut through the haze of his anger.

"I want to make him live again. I want him to rise as a god, to stand at my side," Paris answered, his voice low.

“Did he ever whisper such a wish to you?” Hekate’s tone was soft, yet edged with piercing clarity.

Paris faltered. Percy had never uttered such a desire. In fact, Percy recoiled at the very idea, mistrusting the gods, shunning their power.

"Hera cares nothing for Perseus’s apotheosis." Hekate’s words were sharp, cold as steel. "She seeks to bind you both, her puppets, woven into a union of her making. But Perseus… he deserves more than to be a pawn in her ambition."

Paris met her gaze, suspicion lacing his voice. “And isn’t he a pawn in yours?”

Hekate’s expression softened, and for a moment, her voice carried a rare gentleness, a quiet grief. "I wish for him to live once more, just as you," she confessed, her words like a soft, sorrowful hymn. "But with a choice. Percy never desired to walk the path of gods. The very thought repulses him. Perhaps, in time, you could sway him... but not like this. Not when his soul is bound in silence and confusion, when he cannot choose his fate."

Paris was silent, her words weighing heavily on him. He didn’t want Percy to resent him for making him something he never wished to be. And yet, the thought of being together forever—free from death’s reach—was intoxicating. But there was more than just marriage at play.

He hadn’t even told Percy how deep his feelings ran, hadn’t confessed that he saw their bond as more than friendship. He only wished Percy would understand that his desire for union went beyond the mere formality of marriage—it was a way to sever him from Apollo’s grasp.

“I want to see Percy free again, standing by my side as my friend,” Paris declared “Or perhaps more.” He added, his voice strained yet thick with unspoken longing.

“You yearn for the days on Mount Ida, when the world felt light and unburdened,” Hekate corrected, leaning closer, her presence a paradox of comfort and unease. “But those days are lost, Paris; you must cease your clinging to shadows that can never return. If you choose to bind yourself to Perseus, know this: your life will not be an easy one. Many gods will still conspire to sever your union, simply because Perseus is coveted by far more than just Apollo.”

“So you support this? Me marrying Perseus?” Paris asked, his heart deaf to Hekate’s clear warning, the wisdom rolling off her like autumn leaves, swirling around him yet failing to penetrate his fervour.

Hekate’s eyes darkened, a shadow flickering across her face. “Percy trusts you. You are dear to him, and I trust his judgement. It’s a fragile thing—yet it’s enough for me to stand by this… union.” She paused, the weight of her words settling like a storm between them. “But do not think for a moment he will rejoice when he learns that Hera’s hand stirs in your plans.”

Paris could hardly deny it. Hera’s meddling would not sit well with Percy. He considered Hekate’s offer, the decision heavy on his mind.

He approached Percy’s body with slow, reverent steps, cradling him gently in his arms. He stared at him, his mouth set in a tight line. The stillness of Percy’s form, the weightlessness of his presence, haunted him. “How do you plan on reviving him?” he asked quietly,.

“If you give me his body, I will seek the aid of an ancient being who can turn back the sands of time, just before Perseus drew his last breath. He will be reborn in the river Styx, restored to how he was before, his memories intact—as if Eros never severed his life.”

“Will he remain a mortal?” Paris asked, his voice laced with apprehension.

“Still a demigod,” Hekate confirmed.

Paris’s heart clenched. "The war is coming," he whispered, grief thickening his voice. "If he dies again…” He couldn’t finish the thought; the words caught in the tangle of fear that choked him.

Hekate’s eyes softened slightly, yet her words bore resolute strength. "Indeed, the boy has a way of courting danger, doesn’t he? And you… you may be the tether that pulls him back from the edge of his recklessness." Her voice held the weight of ancient certainty. "With your divinity and loyalty, you will become the shield that stands between him and the perils seeking to consume him."

Paris nodded, swallowing the knot of fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Her words rang true, but the burden of responsibility pressed harder with every breath. "I want to be there when he wakes."

Hekate’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “You will be,” she promised, her tone laced with a quiet understanding. “I will let you stand by him through every step. I am certain Perseus will find solace in your presence when he awakens, whole once more.”

“Hera will be furious,” Paris muttered, though there was little fear in his tone now, only a grim acceptance.

"No doubt," Hekate replied, her smile widening ever so slightly, as though Hera’s fury were but a fleeting storm. "But that is of no concern now."

With a graceful sweep of her hand, she summoned a vortex, a swirling tempest of darkness and stormcloud hues. The air crackled with the weight of ancient power, the pull of the unknown yawning before them.

Paris cast one last glance at Percy, then met Hekate’s gaze. Without hesitation, he stepped into the swirling storm, following her into the unknown, clutching Percy’s fragile body close as though he could shield him from the chaos that awaited.

The very air felt like a thick, choking weight, pressing against their lungs. The landscape stretched into a vast, desolate plain, the ground cracked and oozing with rivers of molten rock that twisted and coiled like serpents. The sky above was not a sky at all but an oppressive dome of swirling ash and blood-red clouds, illuminated by flashes of distant lightning. The air was thick with the stench of sulphur and decay, and a low, eternal groaning echoed from deep within the earth, as if Tartarus itself were a living, suffering creature.

At the centre of this pit lay Kronos’s prison, a monument to eternal suffering. It was a colossal cage of black iron, embedded deep into the ground, its bars wider than the trunks of the tallest trees. Vines of tortured souls coiled around it, writhing and weeping, their screams forming the wind that howled through the abyss. At the heart of the cage, bound by chains as thick as rivers, was Kronos, the Lord of Time. His form was immense, towering over Paris and Hekate, though his body was hunched, his chains groaning under the strain of his strength. His skin was the colour of stone, cracked and ancient, with faint golden light seeping through the fissures. His eyes burned like two orange coals, glowing with a fire that had seen the birth of the world and would witness its end.

Paris had never set foot in the underworld before, but the sheer weight of the place made his breath quicken, his pulse hammering in his ears. His eyes darted nervously across the immense figure before him.

"Gods, who is that?" he asked, circling cautiously, his voice barely more than a whisper. The sight of that being sent a cold, dreadful shiver down his spine.

"Kronos, Lord of Time," Hekate explained, her gaze unwavering as she looked up at the fallen titan. "He will aid us in Perseus’s death."

The trapped god smiled, a terrifying expression that split his cracked lips. His eyes blazed like twin suns, burning with the same untamed fire that once ruled the cosmos.

Paris tried to recall the stories his father had told him—legends of gods and titans, of a time before time itself. Kronos had been the father of all gods, older than the world, a being who devoured his own children in fear of prophecy. Zeus, the only one to escape, had overthrown him and imprisoned him here, deep in the bowels of Tartarus.

A heavy stone of dread sat in his stomach, twisting with each breath. The weight of the place, the silent screams of the damned, everything told him he should not be here.

Kronos's eyes flickered like distant stars, igniting with cruel brilliance as they fixed upon Percy, cradled in Paris's grasp. His smile broadened, an ancient malice gleaming in his gaze. He extended his fingers, revealing a sea-green pearl, glistening between them. Only after a lingering moment did Paris realize it bore an uncanny resemblance to Percy’s eye.

“I sought to call him forth before, but the boy was too shy to heed my summons. Such a sweet thing. I merely wished to express my gratitude, for he has been the one to deliver souls for my insatiable hunger,” Kronos rumbled, his voice a low, thunderous echo, like the grinding of tectonic plates.

Paris raised a sceptical brow. Percy was aiding this primordial force? A flicker of relief coursed through him, yet he remained vigilant, ever watchful.

If Percy could surrender his trust to Kronos, perhaps he could unearth the path to trust within himself as well.

Hekate’s lips quivered, her countenance a chilling mask of frost. “And now, the hour has come for you to repay his boundless generosity. Breathe life into the young soul whose journey was cruelly truncated.”

Kronos's gaze lingered on her, a tempest of curiosity swirling in his ancient eyes.

“Who is he to you, Hekate?” he inquired, his tone a haunting melody laced with intrigue.

Hekate swallowed the weight of her unspoken grief before responding, her voice a fragile whisper amidst the cacophony of the winds.

“He’s like a son to me,” she murmured, her fists clenched tightly, the fabric of her robes billowing like tortured spectres in the howling tempest.

A flicker of surprise ignited in Kronos’s eyes. “It is unlikely of you to become so entwined with mortals,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Have you, perhaps, grown weak?”

Hekate’s jaw tightened at his insinuation, but she chose silence as her response. Then he released a low, rasping chuckle, a sound that reverberated through the very bones of the earth beneath them, a sinister melody of dark amusement. “You know as well as I,” he said, his voice rich with malicious delight, “that a mere handful of souls will scarcely suffice to manipulate time on his behalf. I have languished in these chains for so long, my strength withering, growing frail.” His lament echoed artificially, a hollow echo of his former power.

Paris’s eyes darted between Hekate and Kronos, panic rising in his chest. Frail? The titan’s power pulsed in the air around them, a malevolent force just waiting to be unleashed. He could feel it, the growing tension like a predator about to pounce.

But Hekate's eyes gleamed, her gaze narrowing. She saw through his lie, as did Paris. Kronos wasn’t weak—he was on the verge of release. His chains strained against his hulking form, groaning with the weight of eons, but the cracks were there, subtle but spreading. He only needed a push, a final offering to break free.

"And that is why I brought him," Hekate said, she turned her gaze toward Paris, her meaning clear.

Chapter Text

Kronos’s eyes gleamed with a hunger that seared through the shadows, a molten promise of power and freedom. His smile stretched unnaturally wide, revealing jagged teeth glistening like shards of glass in the dim, fiery light. "A god’s strength could do much to loosen these chains," he whispered, his voice a rumbling caress of desire and menace. "And what better god than one who has only just begun to taste his power?"

Paris felt the blood in his veins freeze, a crystalline chill that gnawed at the marrow of his bones. Instinct drove him to retreat, his feet moving of their own accord as Hekate glided forward, her presence a dark, suffocating mist that devoured the room with each step. The air trembled with her magic, thick and oppressive, clinging to his skin like a noxious vapor, relentless in its grasp.

"It will not be permanent," Hekate’s voice slithered through the gloom. There was no mistaking the insidious undercurrent in her tone. "Kronos will lend you his strength. Together, you will be unstoppable. Justice will be served to those gods who have scarred Percy and left your beloved city on the precipice of ruin."

Justice. The word slithered through Paris's mind, warped beyond recognition. His breath hitched, panic swelling inside him, and he forced the words out.

"My city is not in ruin," he protested, the crack in his voice betraying him.

"Not yet," Hekate whispered, her gaze flickering toward Percy’s still, fragile form, then back to Paris. The weight of her eyes was unbearable, like a velvet noose tightening slowly, cutting off his will. "Let Kronos merge with you," she purred, her voice like silk gliding across a blade. "He will save Percy. He will help you save Troy—everything you hold dear." Her promises were honeyed traps, sinking their hooks into the most vulnerable corners of Paris’s heart. "He will lift you to heights untouched by mortal or god alike."

Paris shook his head, his voice hollow yet laced with an unyielding resolve. “I’ve told you before, Hekate. Power is not my hunger. I crave peace.”

“And yet,” she countered, her voice a silken thread woven with grim foreknowledge, “Hera thirsts for bloodshed, as does Zeus. Some gods view their half-mortal offspring as burdens, Paris. Zeus, Hera—both would revel in their destruction, and what better veil than war? Chaos swallows all—no blame, no guilt, only devastation to wipe the slate clean.”

“But Poseidon—he cares for Perseus,” Paris muttered, as if grasping at a fraying thread of hope.

“Poseidon cares for his only human son, yes,” Hekate replied. “But the others? They are seen as threats, undesired and dispensable.”

Paris's heart clenched. “The war— it can be stopped.”

Hekate’s laugh was low, bitter. “The war was woven into the fabric of your fate the day you drew breath. Why do you think Zeus chose you to judge the fairest of goddesses? He knew, no matter what choice you made, the threads of war would tighten. You are a child of prophecy, Paris. Destined to ignite the fall of Troy, to spark a war that will bleed years, leaving behind nothing but ash and ruin.” Her words dripped like poison, each one a slow and deliberate strike.

“And how did your family greet you,” Hekate’s voice was a serpent’s hiss, “after all those years spent tending sheep?”

Paris's mind wandered back to that time—those days that felt like a lifetime ago. They had welcomed him, yes, but there had been something lurking beneath their smiles. His father had embraced him, yet his gaze often drifted to the horizon, shadowed with unease. Hector had never been far from his side, moving with him like a vigilant spectre, as if waiting for something to go wrong. But it was Cassandra… Cassandra who had met him with fire in her eyes, livid and frantic, her voice tearing through the palace as she screamed and thrashed, pleading for him to be cast out of Troy, to be sent back to the wilderness from where he came. Her eyes had been wide, maddened, burning with a vision only she could see.

Paris pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line, the memory both razor-sharp and dulled by the weight of time.

“Cassandra,” Hekate drawled. “I imagine she wept for you to return to the hills, to the life you once knew. But what is a prophetess to a city bound for ruin? Her warnings were but the ravings of a cursed mind, weren’t they?” Hekate mused, a knowing glint flickering in her eyes, as if she were picking apart his memories like threads.

“Her prophecies are little more than madness,” Paris replied, his voice cold.

“Madness, yes,” Hekate murmured, her tone light, though her words bit deep. “Cursed by Apollo to speak truth that no one would believe. A cruel irony, is it not? And still—she saw the war, as clear as the blood that will stain the sands of Troy.”

“The war may be inevitable,” Hekate continued, her gaze piercing into Paris’s soul, “but how it ends, how much is saved, that—Paris—that still lies within your grasp. The gods have shaped your fate, but the final stroke is yours to make.”

Percy awoke to the sensation of fingers threading through his hair, affectionate at first, then tugging playfully as if testing his awareness. His eyes fluttered open, but the blinding light that seared through his skull sent a sharp wave of pain spiralling behind his eyes. Apollo? The name leapt to his mind, a whisper of dread, but he blinked once, twice, again. Slowly, the haze lifted, and Paris's face swam into view, hovering above him with a soft, knowing smile.

"Paris?" Percy rasped, his voice thick with sleep.

"You’re coming back," Paris murmured, his tone soft. "But your body still needs to reclaim itself, to find its strength." His hand lingered in Percy’s hair. "Sleep," Paris’s voice was soft yet irresistible, like a lullaby spun from the shadows. A wave of warmth and relaxation washed over Percy, and before he could think to fight it, his eyes closed once more, sinking him back into the velvet embrace of oblivion.

Percy drifted, not upon the cold, unforgiving currents of the Styx, but in waters of perfect warmth, an embrace neither too cool nor too warm, lulling him deeper into its embrace. He inhaled—only to realize he was breathing water. His eyes fluttered open, as if brushing away the delicate tendrils of a spider’s web. Bubbles rose lazily from his lips, dancing upward in the muted light. He was submerged and it felt so natural, so oddly serene.

The light was dim, yet everything glimmered with startling clarity. His body rested upon a bed of foam, soft as a lover’s sigh, his skin draped in robes of flowing white, clinging to him like the faintest of mists.

He sat up, his movements slow, languid, as though the water cradled every gesture. Around him stretched a palace of vibrant beauty—an underwater kingdom alive with coral reef and vivid colours, its marble pillars soaring like ancient sentinels, covered in delicate sea moss and the creeping green of algae. Schools of fish swarmed near him, their iridescent bodies swirling in curious harmony, trailing him like tiny, inquisitive spirits.

“Father?” Percy called, rising from the strange, ethereal bed. His voice carried in the water, soft and muffled, yet somehow resonant, as if the sea itself whispered in return. He swam forward, gliding past the vibrant life that teemed around him. The palace gave way to the open sea, and only then, as the expanse widened before him, did Poseidon appear, his presence filling the waters with a sudden, powerful stillness.

“Father,” Percy greeted him with a nod, confusion still flickering behind his eyes. He had no answers, no clear sense of why he was here, beneath the sea’s surface, in the cradle of his father's domain.

Fragments of memory washed over him like waves, fleeting and jumbled. Eros. His touch—insatiable, devouring—his hunger seeping into Percy’s bones, draining him, his life slipping away like petals crushed too tightly in an eager hand. Then there was the underworld—Hades, Hekate, Persephone, Hermes—faces, voices, images swirling together, an incomprehensible blur.

The last thing that clung to clarity was the quiet moment by the banks of the Styx, Hermes by his side. Together they cast stones across the river’s obsidian surface, the ripples vanishing as swiftly as they formed.

He had glanced at Hermes then—so calm, so steady—before his gaze drifted to the river again.

And then, it came. The gaping maw of Tartarus split wide before him, a void darker than night. His soul, light as vapour, fragile as a withering bloom, was snatched from its fragile perch, dragged mercilessly into the chasm.

Percy’s hand drifted to his empty eye socket—a hollow, aching reminder that his eye still lay in Hades’ grasp. Of course, the burial rites remained undone. Hades had every right to keep his prize. Only when Percy died again—this time properly—would his sight be fully restored.

A sudden unease gnawed at him. He had returned from death, hadn’t he? But something about it was all wrong. His breath came too smoothly, his heart beat too steadily. His body, untouched by decay, still clung to life. There was only one explanation as to why it persisted.

“Why do I live?” Percy’s voice trembled as he fixed his gaze upon Poseidon. “I was in the Underworld mere moments ago.”

“Moments?” Poseidon laughed. “A year’s worth of tides and tempests.”

“A year?” Shock coursed through Percy, draining the colour from his cheeks as disbelief washed over him. “Impossible,” he murmured. His eyes fell upon the sword, glinting menacingly at Poseidon’s hip.

Before doubt could slow him, Percy lunged, fingers curling with desperate intent around the hilt. Poseidon’s reaction was a breath too late. In a fluid arc, Percy dragged the blade across his arm, crimson bursting forth, spilling over the stark paleness of his skin.

Relief flooded him, heart finding its rhythm once more within the confines of his chest.

He was not divine. He was still mortal, still…him.

“Reckless,” Poseidon murmured, a voice heavy with a father’s timeless lament as he reclaimed the blade. "Even after all you’ve endured, you remain too much yourself—impulsive, untamed." His words were laden with a quiet ache as he pressed his hand against Percy’s wound, his touch a silent act of protection, as if mending wounds could mend the flaws he saw in his son.

"What happened?" Percy’s voice cut through the silence, his eyes searching Poseidon’s face.

"You died," Poseidon began. "And were summoned back by none other than Hekate," he intoned. “Later, Paris delivered you to me, proclaiming that your awakening would be a matter of time—perhaps a year or more.” A shadow of disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Yet, I had anticipated that Hera would be the one to restore you, not as a mere mortal, but as something…divine.”

“I’m relieved she did not,” Percy confessed with a flicker of defiance.

Poseidon's brows furrowed, genuine curiosity threading through his astonishment. "Why do you shy from the path of immortality?"

Percy found himself ensnared in silence; all he craved was peace, yet he feared that lingering in the relentless cycle of time on Olympus would offer anything but solace. “I’m not ready to face such life,” he murmured, the words barely a whisper. Yet, a part of him longed for the indifference to time’s passage, to drift like a leaf upon the current of existence without its burdens. "And I’m not worthy," he added, his gaze distant, as lost lives flickered through his mind like a broken film.

"Worth is something you can always prove," Poseidon replied, his tone steady and encouraging. "Alexander did just that; he laboured fiercely to carve his place among the immortals. Once respected for his fair judgement, he is now a god, praised and adored."

"Paris... what?" Percy struggled to grasp the implications of his father's words.

"He became a god by Hera’s blessing, a transformation born from necessity." Poseidon explained.

"Necessity? What could that possibly mean?" Percy asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. Paris, above all, cared for his city. "Is... is Troy in danger?" he pressed.

Had the prophecy come to fruition? Was the city damned after all?

Where were Paris and Helen?

“What has changed?” Percy pressed, desperation threading through his voice like salt upon open wounds.

Percy’s gaze lifted, yearning to breach the surface, a silent plea echoing in the depths of his heart.

Poseidon cupped Percy’s face in his hands, his touch both tender and firm, guiding him back into the stormy depths swirling within his eyes.

“What if you stayed here until you regain yourself after so much time spent in the Underworld? After all that has transpired, do you not wish to tread more cautiously?” Poseidon questioned, his voice a mix of concern and authority.

“You have not answered my question, Father,” Percy replied.

“I’m not sure how to respond, to be fair,” Poseidon admitted, his gaze piercing yet contemplative. “If I were to tell you that war brews above the surface, would you then be eager to remain here with me in the depths of the sea? Would you prefer to dive headfirst into the chaos of battle? Or if I were to say there is no war, would you still yearn to resurface, comforted by the promise of peaceful times? Or might you choose to linger here, knowing the world above offers no greater thrill than teetering on the edge of death?”

Percy stilled at those words.

“Just tell me the truth,” Percy urged.

“It troubles me—the reckless abandon with which you plunge into peril,” Poseidon cautioned, his brow furrowed with concern. “Hera was right; you need a guardian to shield you from harm.”

Furrowing his brows, Percy retorted, “I can navigate these waters alone, father.”

“Your actions do not affirm that claim. You perished, son. Carelessness led you to Eros's lair, yet you shall no longer tempt fate with such folly.” Poseidon’s expression bore the gravity of command.

“What do you mean?” Percy asked.

“Hera has orchestrated a grand ceremony for you and Alexander. You shall partake in a divine union, for he will guard you, as you seem unable to safeguard yourself.”

“What divine union?” Percy’s features twisted in a tempest of anger and confusion.

Poseidon’s demeanour shifted, troubled shadows flickering across his face as he hesitated.

“You are to wed Alexander, the prince of Troy.”

A flicker of disbelief danced across Percy’s lips before he burst into laughter. “This must be some folly of the mind,” he exclaimed, the absurdity restoring a spark of humour within him. He could scarcely fathom that such words would escape his father’s lips.

Yet Poseidon’s gaze remained cold, and Percy’s mirth dissipated like mist in the dawn.

“You jest, Father,” he insisted.

“I rarely jest.” Poseidon answered. "I want you to be protected," Poseidon continued, his hand coming to rest at the nape of Percy’s neck, fingers pressing gently into the tense muscles. "There is really no other choice.”

"There’s always a choice," Percy whispered, bitterness biting through the words. "I’m just never given one."

Poseidon flinched, a shadow passing over his features.

Everything his father had said thus far only intensified his agitation. Poseidon was not one to withhold the truth, and yet here they were, tangled in shadows. If answers were to be found, Percy would have to seek them out himself.

With a sudden surge of resolve, Percy pushed away from Poseidon’s grasp and commanded the water to rise beneath him. The liquid obeyed, lifting him as he swam upwards, leaving Poseidon behind. The god did not attempt to stop him.

As Percy broke the surface, the vast horizon unfurled before him, revealing not one but five warships, their silhouettes stark against the sunlit sky. Anxiety gnawed at him as he approached the vessels, their forms steeped in the weight of ancient glory.

These warships, sleek and formidable, were crafted from dark wood, their hulls glistening with the brine of the sea. Tall masts reached skyward, their sails unfurled like the wings of some great mythical beast, catching the wind with a soft rustle that whispered tales of battles fought and lost. The prow of each ship was adorned with intricately carved figures of proud gods and fierce creatures, gazing defiantly toward the horizon as if challenging fate itself.

As he swam closer, he could see the rowers—men hardened by the sun and sea, their backs glistening with sweat as they synchronized their powerful strokes. Their voices mingled with the cries of gulls overhead, creating a cacophony of life and anticipation. The ships rocked gently upon the waves, their wooden frames creaking in a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of the ocean.

One of the men spotted him, his eyes widening in disbelief as he beheld a stunning young figure, draped in white silk that billowed gracefully around him. The sunlight danced upon the fabric, casting a radiant glow that seemed almost otherworldly as Percy glided effortlessly on the surface of the water.

“A nymph,” the man murmured to his companion, awe lacing his voice. The friend turned, but by the time he caught sight of the apparition, Percy had vanished beneath the waves, leaving only ripples in his wake.

“Are you having a sunstroke?” the man scoffed, shaking his head with a bemused grin as he turned back to the task at hand. He resumed pushing the prow, muscles straining against the weight of the vessel, his laughter mingling with the salt-laden breeze.

Percy circled the ship cautiously, driven by a painful need to uncover the men’s destination.

But before he could climb aboard, a gleaming chariot blazed through the sky, almost blinding him with its radiant light. He recognized it instantly—Apollo's chariot, a magnificent vessel of gold and sun, soaring against the azure expanse.

In an instinctive reaction, Percy retreated into the depths of the sea, dread coiling around him like a serpent, rendering him weak. His muscles trembled with the force of an unspoken fear. Never had he anticipated that the mere presence of Apollo could quicken his heartbeat to such a frantic tempo.

He plunged deeper, seeking refuge in the darkness where light could not penetrate, settling on a rocky cliff. The pressure enveloped him, pressing against his skull like the weight of the world, but he paid it no mind. The chill of the water enveloped him, but it was a familiar embrace; the frigid touch of the Styx had been far more unforgiving than this.

He sat there, suspended in a world of shadows, seeking solace in the silence that surrounded him, even as his thoughts spiralled into chaos.

Apollo was near—so very near, always lingering in the periphery of his mind. Suddenly, Percy hesitated. Should he resurface after all? To what end? To be ensnared by the god once more? But could he continue to hide behind his father’s shadow forever?

If Troy was embroiled in war, he would undoubtedly lend his aid to Paris in defending the city. Yet, Apollo...

Percy took steady breaths, the bubbles swirling around him. He glanced upward again, the surface beckoning him with an almost magnetic pull.

Determined, he tried once more, this time with caution. Instead of surfacing near the shoreline or among the warships, he emerged within a cave that swelled with water at high tide. Clambering onto the rocky ledges, he searched for an exit. When he finally discovered a narrow passageway, he slipped through, emerging into a hidden lagoon draped in verdant foliage.

The dense canopy of trees sheltered him, shrouding the sky in a comforting darkness, a refuge from the blinding light above.

He straightened, feeling the warm wind gently dry his clothes. The air was rich with the scents of grass and earth, and he reveled in the sensation of the breeze on his face, the cool rocks and soft grass beneath his feet. In that moment, he felt… alive.

Yet, hunger gnawed at him, an insistent reminder of his need for sustenance. With swift, practised movements, he retreated into the water, his hands gliding through the cool depths as he caught a few fish. Their scales glistened like shards of silver as they flopped helplessly in his grasp.

Emerging once more at the lagoon's edge, Percy noticed a glint on his robes—a pin had materialized, marking the return of his Riptide. With a quick flick of his fingers, he activated the pin, and his sword emerged from it, shimmering in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees.

He set to work, gutting the fish with precision, the blade cutting through flesh and bone effortlessly. Once the fish were prepared, he gathered kindling and set about lighting a fire.

As the flames flickered to life, a sudden rustling in the nearby bushes drew his attention. Instantly, he stood, sword raised, poised for defence. But his tension eased as he caught sight of a large, fluffy dog, its nose pressed eagerly to the ground, sniffing for something delicious—most likely his fish.

Percy relaxed, sitting back and giving a quick whistle to the dog, which immediately lifted its head, curiosity glimmering in its eyes.

As the creature approached, Percy realized it was much larger than any dog he had ever seen. Yet, there was something odd about it; no wolf would exhibit such an endearing, dog-like demeanour.

Deciding to cast aside his concerns, he watched as the dog plodded over, settling beside him with a soft thud. Its tail wagged enthusiastically, and its front paws tapped impatiently on the ground, eager for a taste of the feast.

Percy tossed the first fish toward the dog, watching as it sniffed the offering briefly before turning its gaze back to him.

“What? Do you prefer it cooked?” he quipped, a hint of amusement lacing his tone.

With a resigned sigh, Percy reclaimed the fish and began to prepare it alongside the rest. Once they were rendered ready, he tossed the fish again.

The dog licked its teeth, yellow eyes wide with anticipation, as if waiting for some unspoken permission.

“Go on, boy, eat it.”

The dog barked happily, delight shimmering in its gaze, before diving toward the fish and swallowing it whole in a single, ravenous gulp.

Percy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, amusement bubbling within him. He tossed another fish, captivated by the creature’s insatiable hunger as it devoured the offering just as quickly, leaving no trace behind. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, and he shifted his focus to the satisfying task of filling his own belly. Beside him, the dog sat in rapt attention, its gaze fixated on the fish it presumed was intended for its own delight.

Once he felt satiated, Percy removed his robe and fashioned it into a chiton. Though a considerable length of the fabric still trailed behind him as he walked, its lightness offered him no discomfort.

With a sigh, he turned to the dog, which nudged him with a gentle insistence against his leg. Kneeling beside the creature, he sank his fingers into its plush fur, marvelling at its softness.

“Weird dog,” he muttered, and to his surprise, the creature let out a howl—long and loud, echoing through the trees.

“Definitely not a dog, then,” Percy concluded, a shiver racing down his spine. No ordinary dog howled like that. Yet, despite the unease it stirred within him, he continued to caress the creature, which responded with unabashed affection, burying its damp snout into the crook of his neck and bestowing a brief, slobbery kiss upon his cheek.

Suddenly, a gust of wind rushed against Percy’s face, and the dog vanished into the underbrush like a wisp of smoke. He looked up to see a man with wings descending, each feather glistening like shards of shattered glass. Recognition ignited within him, a fierce blaze kindling his heart, and in an instant, he poised his sword to strike.

With a primal urge, he leapt forward, yearning to slice through Eros’s throat, until a familiar face emerged before the edge of his blade—not Eros’s, but Paris’s, a visage etched in resolve and warmth that momentarily dulled the fire of his wrath.

Percy lowered his sword slightly, a keen instinct urging him to sense the deception that might lie before him. It was Paris, yet his once-familiar visage was marred by deep slash marks etched across his cheeks, neck, and mouth. His eyes, a familiar shade of brown, shimmered now with a vibrant intensity, almost orange, like embers stoked to life, and then there were the wings…those magnificent appendages, white and brown, reminiscent of a hawk soaring through a tempest.

Paris took a cautious step forward, as if he were approaching a feral cat poised to either flee or strike.

“It’s me,” he said, his voice a soothing balm, yet it did little to quell the tempest raging within Percy.

“Prove it,” Percy replied, his eyes narrowing as his blade rose once more.

Paris sighed. “Remember the day I searched for you everywhere, only to find you in that cave?”

Percy nodded, the memory vivid despite the passage of time. “I told you, be it feral hounds or monsters—I will stand by you,” he said. Percy's sword slipped from his grip, and he stepped closer, enveloping Paris in a fierce embrace. Paris's arms encircled him, the gentle press of his chin against Percy’s shoulder.

“Reunited at last,” Paris whispered.

“Has it truly been a year?” Percy inquired, drawing back just enough to catch the haunting glimmer in Paris’s gaze.

“For me, it felt like an eternity,” Paris confessed, his voice steeped in the slow, dragging weight of hours that stretched interminably. Percy noted the transformation in Paris, as if time had sculpted him anew, and a cold knot of concern twisted in his stomach.

“Gods, what’s happened to you?” He asked.

Percy reached for Paris’s wings, fingers trembling as they brushed against the feathers—soft, warm, an earthy blend of browns and whites. His touch lingered, slow and hesitant.

"After learning of your death, I made Eros pay for the torment he wrought upon you," Paris murmured, his voice low and trembling, each word a fragile whisper as Percy’s fingers absently caressed his wings. "I tore the wings from Eros’s back and as I ascended, those very feathers bled into me, became part of my being. Poseidon, in his mercy, saw fit to bless me, while Hera herself lifted me beyond mortality, into divinity."

Percy's hand froze mid-motion.

Eros, stripped of his wings? The god who had wielded such cruel power over Percy, now reduced in such a brutal, primal way. Percy knew what Eros had done to him was unforgivable, but to tear away the very thing that defined him... It was savage.

“Did you want to become a god?” Percy’s fingers sank deeper into the feathers, a warmth there that felt both tender and unnerving.

“It wasn’t about wanting,” Paris replied, his voice carrying a quiet intensity. “It was about need. I had to become divine, to protect my city, my family and…you.”

Uncertainty flickered within Percy's chest, forcing a question to rise before he could stifle it. “Poseidon told me something strange when I awoke—something about Hera’s divine union.”

Paris's smile morphed into a strained reflection, brown eyes clouded with doubt.

He grasped Percy’s hands, but Percy wrenched them away, fixing his gaze on Paris, demanding an explanation.

“During the judgement, the three goddesses lured me with promises of kingdoms, glory, and the most beautiful woman on earth,” Paris began. “Yet Hera, she offered me something infinitely richer. She vowed to elevate me to divinity so I will protect my city. When I expressed my longing to sever the chains binding you to Apollo, she claimed that a marriage blessed by her would grant me that power.” He paused, searching Percy’s face for a flicker of understanding, but his friend’s expression remained an inscrutable mask. “She received the golden apple,” Paris continued, his voice a fragile thread. “In that moment, I would gain divinity, and you would be shielded from harm. Apollo would find no claim upon you; our bond would be sanctified, compelling even Zeus to intervene should anyone dare to tear me from you.”

“What does divine union mean?” Percy ventured.

“It does not mean you must become a god,” Paris replied, his tone soothing. “It’s merely an option—to partake of the golden apple.” He offered this assurance, yet the weight of his words lingered. “If you wish to remain mortal, no one will force you into a role you do not desire.”

“Do you understand how insane that sounds? Look what they led us to become.” Percy said. “Circumstances created by their whims led you to become a god, forced you into a marriage…Would you truly sacrifice so much?" Percy whispered, scarcely daring to meet Paris’s gaze. The god's serene, scarred visage radiated a kindness that felt painfully absurd. “You deserve to marry someone you love.”

Paris’s eyes softened. He took Percy’s hand in his own once more, and this time, Percy allowed it.

“Perseus, you are that person,” Paris corrected gently. “I am not compelled to do anything; I choose this. I want us to be united, in fact… I look forward to it.” His admission hung in the air. “Do you?” he asked, his voice lowering, uncertain yet brimming with hope.

Percy paled.

“What…” he drawled. “What do you mean by that?” He longed to laugh, but the sound lodged itself in his throat.

“I—” Paris faltered, the words wilting on his tongue. Despite his divine nature, his battles fought, and the princely title he bore, those three words remained ensnared like a caged bird, desperate for release.

“Spit it out."

“I love you."

Percy froze, his breath catching. Fear coiled within him, twisting around that cursed word.

"Since when?" His voice cracked, fragile as glass.

"Since Ida, of course." Paris's smile tugged at his lips, a haunting curve. "But I fell harder when you pierced me with that dagger."

Oh, it was a familiar echo—Eros had confessed the same after being shot by his arrow.

Should Percy start kissing and hugging so that the gods would feel more disgust than desire? It seemed that fighting them and inflicting pain only drew them closer, making them fall in love with him instead.

Percy’s eyes closed, his heart breaking in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He wanted to believe Paris, to trust that this arrangement could work, that maybe marriage built on friendship wasn’t too high a price for a safety. But the ghosts of Apollo’s touch, of Eros’s games, still haunted him, and the idea of giving himself to someone else — even someone as kind, as forgiving as Paris — filled him with dread.

“You are dear to me, Paris,” he finally said, the admission dragging across his lips like iron. “But after Apollo… after Eros… I’ve no strength left to even give us a chance. That door…” He choked on the words. “It’s safer closed.”

Paris tightened his grip around Percy’s hand, firm yet tender. “Our friendship is a treasure I do not seek to tarnish; I understand the boundaries you draw. Perhaps, one day, you’ll find the courage to open it again.” His voice was a murmur, delicate and patient. “Until then, let me stand by your side. Let me be the one who asks nothing, who takes only what you’re willing to give.”

“Please, agree to this union,” he implored. “I will never ask you to do anything else.”

Percy’s gaze softened, as if, for a fleeting moment, the ice in his chest began to melt.

How could he still harbour anger toward Paris after all that had transpired? Percy had plunged a blade into his flesh, yet Paris—exuding a grace too pure, too unearthly for this shattered world—had forgiven him.

Not merely forgiven. Paris had avenged him, cutting through the darkness that shackled Percy’s soul. The sharp edge of guilt pierced Percy’s heart, the weight of that mercy unbearable.

Perhaps—perhaps this wasn’t the worst fate. To be locked away in Apollo’s palace, ensnared by that relentless, burning light, seemed a far crueller torment than standing here, by his friend's side.

Paris deserved at least this.

“Alright,” Percy said, but the word emerged heavy and forced, each syllable a burden he had yet to fully comprehend.

Percy bowed low before the rulers of Troy, his heart still pounding in the aftermath of his agreement. When he raised his eyes, they fell upon Priam, who rose from his throne with a warmth that immediately softened the grandeur of the palace. The king was not as imposing as Percy had expected—his face, though lined with the marks of age and long years of leadership, carried a kindness that set Percy at ease. His silver-streaked hair framed a gentle gaze, and the deep lines around his eyes spoke not only of worries but of smiles long shared. Draped in robes of rich crimson, he bore himself with the authority of a king who had faced many trials, yet still stood unbroken.

“Mother, Father,” Paris began, his voice composed, though a tremor of pride glimmered beneath the surface. “This is Perseus, son of Poseidon, the one I spoke of. He’s a dear friend of mine.”

“Welcome, Perseus,” Priam said, his voice soft but rich, like the warmth of a fire on a cold night. He stepped forward, extending his hand in a gesture that felt far more personal than royal. “It is an honour,” Priam said, his voice a low rumble. “To have a guest like yourself, son of the god who helped raise these walls.” His eyes flickered briefly toward the towering stones that encircled his city, a faint reverence in his tone. “Poseidon’s strength runs in your blood, and it is a strength we welcome in this time of war.”

“Please, feel at home here, Perseus. Our doors are open to you, as is our trust. Any friend of Alexander is a friend of ours.”

Beside him, Hecuba mirrored her husband's welcoming presence, her soft gaze resting on Percy with a quiet but reassuring warmth, though her hands remained still in her lap.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Percy replied, nodding gratefully, his voice steadier than he felt. He glanced at Paris, whose mood was a bright contrast to Percy’s lingering dread. Paris beamed with joy, his smile wide enough to reveal the dimples etched into his cheeks, an infectious lightness that seemed to dance around him.

“Come, I’ll show you around, and then we will feast together,” Paris said, taking Percy by the arm and leading him deeper into the palace, the rich tapestry of their surroundings unfolding like a story woven from silk.

“Do your parents know about your divinity?” Percy asked as they strolled through the opulent corridors.

“They do not. Their gaze cannot penetrate my aura, nor can they see my wings. To them, as to the Trojans, I am still only Alexander, son of Priam,” he explained.

“I saw ships on your waters. Who were they?” Percy asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Achaeans,” Paris replied shortly.

Percy halted, turning to face his friend, the gravity of the moment settling in.

His heart swelled with fear. Had Paris kidnapped Helen, or had some other power orchestrated this conflict? The questions twisted in his mind like thorns. Paris had not chosen Aphrodite; his aim lay somewhere else. Yet the conflict had unfolded regardless.

Eros had whispered to him of Aphrodite’s yearning for discord, hinting that Ares would be all too willing to fan the flames. Eros, too, must have his part to play in this tangled web, but how? The uncertainty gnawed at Percy, an unsettling weight pressing against his chest.

“You’re in a state of war, aren’t you?” he asked, concern etching itself on his features. “How did that happen?”

Hesitation flickered in Paris’s eyes.

“How about I let you rest a bit? Bathe, change—after we eat, I’ll tell you everything,” he proposed.

Percy nodded slowly, torn between impatience for answers and gratitude for the chance to refresh himself. As they entered his chamber, he felt a warm hum of magic radiating from the walls, a gentle pulse that seemed to welcome him. He reached out and placed his hand on the cool stone, feeling the subtle vibrations beneath his palm.

“You put enchantments on it. Why?” Percy asked, curiosity lacing his voice.

Paris smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “To make this room undetectable by others, so they won’t bother you,” he explained.

As Percy took a moment to absorb his surroundings, he found himself enveloped by the splendour of ancient design. The chamber was a marvel of ancient Greek architecture, with high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes. Pillars of polished marble rose gracefully, their surfaces gleaming in the soft, diffused light from the oil lamps that flickered gently along the walls. The air was fragrant with the scent of olive oil and herbs, a calming presence that wrapped around him like a warm embrace.

Luxurious textiles draped over low benches, their rich colours inviting him to sink into their softness. A wooden stand nearby held fragrant oils and unguents.

In the centre of the room, a grand bathing area caught Percy’s eye. A large, circular basin carved from smooth stone was filled with cool, crystal-clear water, the surface shimmering like a polished mirror. Surrounding it were elegant tiles, each one meticulously arranged in a mosaic of deep blues and vibrant greens, reminiscent of the Aegean Sea.

Percy approached the window, the linen curtain swaying gently in the breeze, its soft fabric whispering against his skin. Before him stretched a breathtaking view of the shores, the cerulean sea shimmering under the sun like scattered jewels. Nearby, a blue bird flitted about, gathering twigs and sticks to build its nest, its vibrant feathers a splash of colour against the earthy tones of the world below.

He watched the little creature with fascination, momentarily lost in its industriousness, when he felt a warm presence beside him. Paris approached, his hand resting lightly on Percy’s arm, grounding him in the moment.

“Do you like this place?” Paris asked, his voice a soothing melody as he gently coaxed Percy to turn toward him.

“I do,” Percy replied truthfully, a smile breaking through the tension that had held him captive.

As he took in the beauty surrounding him—the rolling waves, the distant mountains, and the serenity of the garden beyond—Percy felt the weight of his worries begin to lift, if only for a moment.

“You deserve some respite,” Paris murmured, his voice soft as the breeze. “You should not know war or pain, only this—peace.” His gaze lingered on Percy. “For longer than you allow yourself.”

“Everything that is good eventually ends,” Percy replied, his voice carrying a weight heavier than he intended. “It’s just the nature of things.”

Paris frowned slightly. “We have the power to create beautiful moments that linger, even against the tide of time.”

Percy felt a flicker of hope ignite within him, however small. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Nothing worth having is easy,” Paris replied, his playful grin illuminating his features. “Rest well,” he added, before turning and disappearing behind the ornate doors.

Percy gaze drifted back to the small blue bird, tirelessly flitting about with a stick in its beak. There was something oddly hypnotic in the bird’s ceaseless work, an elegance in its simplicity, as if nature itself had found peace in repetition while Percy’s mind spiralled into a maze of unanswered questions.

After bathing and slipping into fresh robes, Percy lay down, the cool fabric of the bed pulling him into a fleeting moment of ease. Yet his thoughts, restless as ever, turned toward Hekate.

Was she aware of his return? The questions gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. How had she managed to pull him from the clutches of death itself? The mystery of it all swirled in his mind like an unholy incantation, restless even as his eyes drifted shut.

Sleep, when it finally claimed him, came fitfully, his mind racing even as his body stilled.

When he awoke, it was night—just before dawn’s fragile fingers reached for the horizon. Percy rose from the bed, his throat parched, each breath heavy as if the weight of the night clung to him. He slipped through the corridors, their dimly lit expanse stretching before him. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight that danced upon the walls.

As he turned a corner, Percy stopped abruptly, his pulse quickening when he spotted Priam advancing slowly down the corridor.

"Your Highness," Percy called softly, his voice barely more than a rasp. "Have you seen Paris?"

Priam halted. "Paris?" he echoed, and only then did Percy realize his mistake.

“I mean, Prince Alexander, of course,” Percy corrected quickly, scratching awkwardly at the nape of his neck. “Forgive me.”

Priam smiled, the faintest twinkle of amusement lighting his eyes. "No matter, it is only a testament to how close you two have become," he said warmly. "You may call him whatever you like."

Percy offered a nod, but a strange unease coiled in his chest.

"It’s been some time since I’ve seen you last," Priam remarked, his tone light but laced with something Percy couldn’t quite place.

Percy raised a brow. "I spoke with you just yesterday, Your Highness."

Priam chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to echo too long in the empty corridor. "No, I’m quite sure it was a week ago."

Percy’s brow furrowed. A week ago?

“I… spoke to you just yesterday,” Percy repeated, his voice steady but now carrying a trace of uncertainty.

Priam tilted his head, his smile lingering but faintly puzzled. “Ah, perhaps time is playing tricks on me then,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. Yet, despite his light words, something in his gaze shifted—there was a distant gleam. “These days, the hours blend together, especially when war lurks at the gates.”

Percy’s unease deepened, his instincts prickling. The corridors around them felt unusually still, the faint flicker of torches casting wavering shadows on the walls. Was time slipping around him?

“Perhaps I’ve been more distracted than I realized,” Percy murmured, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Priam regarded him for a moment longer, his expression softening again. “No matter, my boy. Time has a way of spiralling when one is burdened with fate, and you—Perseus—carry a heavy one, don’t you?”

Percy forced a smile. “It seems so,” he said quietly, unsure whether Priam’s words held simple empathy or something deeper. “I’ll leave you to your rest, Your Highness. I should find… Alexander.”

With that, Percy excused himself, his mind racing as he trotted outside. The night air was still, but the faint blush of dawn began to paint the horizon. He found his way to the back gardens, where the first light of the sun crept cautiously over the edge of the world. He squinted at it, as if half-expecting to see Apollo himself lurking within the golden glow, watching him.

He jumped when a hand touched his arm. Spinning around, Percy found himself face-to-face with Paris, his expression amused.

“Paris,” Percy said, his hand flying to his chest. “You’ve surprised me.”

“I apologise,” Paris replied, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, Percy considered mentioning his strange conversation with Priam, but he hesitated. Perhaps it was nothing, he thought. Priam’s words could have been the ramblings of an ageing king or just a well-meaning joke. Percy couldn't let his paranoia take over.

Taking a deep breath, Percy forced himself to relax, trying to shake off the skittish, overly cautious state of mind that had been plaguing him. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, his voice calm, though an undercurrent of tension remained. “And I’m thirsty.”

“Wait here,” Paris said with a grin, before calling for servants. In no time, a comfortable place was arranged for them beneath the pomegranate trees, their branches heavy with ripe, ruby-red fruit. Soft cushions were laid on the grass, and a table was set with food and drink.

They sat together, filling their stomachs, and as promised, Paris began to explain what had transpired.

“A year ago, after you… died,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Eros, poisoned Hector with his venom. He boasted of it to me during our clash, as if reveling in the chaos...” With each word, Paris's tone deepened. “It was a potent toxin—not one that kills, but one that consumes from within. It drove my brother insane for the queen of Sparta. He… he took her back to Troy. I could not halt him, and I discovered the truth far too late.”

“When Menelaus learned of this betrayal, he summoned Agamemnon,” Paris continued, his gaze distant. “Together, they have rallied the Achaean forces—thousands of men from the breadth of Greece, united under the banner of vengeance: to reclaim Helen and ruin my city.”

Percy clutched the fig in his hands, its skin taut and glistening under the dim light, his stomach roiling with a mixture of dread and helplessness.

Everything was unravelling around him, a tempest of despair, and instead of taking action, he had languished in Hades, then lost in a fruitless slumber for an entire year within his father’s domain. The weight of his inaction pressed down on him, suffocating.

“Where is Helen now?” he asked.

“She’s safe, but her freedom is… limited. Hector keeps her in his chambers at all times, becoming something feral when deprived of her presence,” Paris replied, shaking his head. Percy's eyes widened—Helen, locked in the same room for a year with a stranger maddened by desire. His heart sank.

“He gazes upon her as if…”

“As if he wishes to devour or kill her,” Percy cut in, his voice tight, jaw clenched in anger. The fig slipped from his hand, unnoticed, rolling to rest against Paris’s thigh.

Paris’s expression hardened. "It’s not like that," he replied leaning towards him, as if trying to convince both Percy and himself. "Hector would never harm her intentionally. But the poison—it’s twisted him. He’s not the man he once was. He’s trapped, just as much as she is."

Percy’s fists clenched at his sides, trembling with barely contained fury at Paris’s attempt to justify Hector’s actions. How could he call that "safe"? There was nothing safe about it—especially not for her.

"Trapped or not, she doesn’t deserve this. No one does," he bit out.

Paris’s gaze was steady but shadowed with a conflict Percy could clearly see. "You think I don’t know that? I’ve tried everything to keep them apart, to protect her, but Hector... he’s beyond reason when it comes to her. Eros’s venom has made sure of that."

"Take me to her," Percy demanded, his voice colder. "I need to see her."

Paris looked away for a moment, his jaw tense. When he finally met Percy’s eyes again, there was something softer in his gaze, though his resolve hadn’t wavered. "I can’t promise that Hector won’t react violently. But if it’s what you truly want…."

"It is," Percy said firmly.

Paris’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his divided loyalty. "Very well," he murmured, rising to his feet, his hand reaching out for Percy’s. Then, with a faint smile, he added, “I really can’t say no to that pretty face.”

The casual remark caught Percy off guard. He huffed in response, trying to mask the sudden flush as he took Paris’s hand, the contact lingering a little longer than he expected.

As they walked through the winding halls of the palace, the silence between him and Paris felt heavy. As they neared Helen and Hector’s chamber, Percy’s pulse quickened.

When they reached the door, Paris hesitated. He placed a hand on Percy’s shoulder, his voice barely a whisper. "If Hector is inside, do not provoke him. He’s volatile, but there’s still a part of him that’s my brother."

Percy nodded, though his mind was already set.

Paris pushed the door open, revealing the dimly lit chamber within. Percy stepped forward, his breath catching as he saw Helen sitting by the window, her golden hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, her face turned toward the rising sun. For a moment, she looked serene, but there was a hollowness in her gaze, a quiet resignation that made Percy’s chest tighten, and his fists clench in helpless fury.

"Helen," Percy whispered, stepping closer.

Her head turned slowly, disbelief flashing across her beautiful features. “Einalian?” she breathed, her voice trembling with the faintest flicker of hope. She rose to her feet, and that’s when Percy saw it—her rounded, pregnant belly.

His breath faltered. His eyes travelled lower, and there, gleaming cruelly in the dim light, was a shackle around her ankle, the metal biting into her skin. Percy’s body reacted before his mind could catch up—a choking sound escaped him, a mixture of horror and fury, his hands trembling with the urge to tear the chains apart, to free her from this monstrous fate.

He moved to close the distance between them, his arms reaching out, desperate to offer her some semblance of comfort, when suddenly the cold press of steel kissed the underside of his chin. Percy froze. His eyes flicked sideways, locking onto Hector.

Hector stood there, half-dressed, his hair dishevelled, his eyes gleaming with possessive fury. He looked like a man lost to madness—eyes wild, as though the venom of Eros still coursed through his veins, twisting him into something primal, dangerous. The blade at Percy’s throat trembled with Hector’s uneven breath.

"Do not touch her," Hector growled.

"Speak for yourself, wife-stealer," Percy snapped, the words slipping out before he could bite them back. Percy barely had time to sidestep as Hector’s blade hissed through the air, narrowly missing his throat.

The room exploded into chaos. Hector, wild-eyed and unrestrained, lunged at Percy again, his sword a blur of silver. Percy had no blade, no weapon to defend himself—only instinct and agility to keep him alive. He ducked beneath another strike, the sound of steel slicing through the empty air sharp in his ears. Hector roared, his fury unbridled, and Percy, fuelled by adrenaline, pivoted sharply, driving a fierce kick into Hector’s side.

The impact sent Hector staggering, his sword arm wavering just long enough for Percy to grab his wrist. With a grunt of effort, Percy twisted Hector’s hand, forcing him to release the sword. The blade clattered to the floor, but before Hector could regain control, Percy kicked it hard, sending it flying out the window in a gleaming arc. Hector’s snarl deepened as the weapon disappeared into the dawn light.

In the same breath, Hector charged at him. They crashed into each other with the force of colliding storms, tumbling together in a tangle of limbs and frenzied motion. Percy struggled to keep him at bay, the raw power of Hector overwhelming as they grappled. His grip on Hector's arms began to falter, but just as Hector’s fist swung toward him, Percy twisted again, knocking him off balance.

But before Percy could strike back, Paris was there. Swift and deliberate, Paris pulled Percy away from the frenzy, wrapping his arms around Percy’s waist, lifting him from the floor, restraining him before he could charge Hector again.

“If you hurt her, I will kill you, Hector!” Percy’s voice shook with rage, his chest heaving as he shouted over Paris's shoulder.

“Calm down, Perseus,” Paris tightened his hold around the demigod. Percy turned in his embrace like a serpent uncoiling, pausing abruptly as a wave of calm flooded the room.

Hector's fury ebbed, and he sagged against the bed, his breath evening out as though the tempest within him had been quelled. Helen sat back in her chair, her eyes widening as the tumult subsided, slowly registering the shift in the atmosphere.

Percy, still closest to Paris, felt the strange serenity washing over him, dulling the sharp edges of his anger. He fought against it, trying to keep his fury alive, but it slipped away like sand through his fingers. His breath steadied despite himself.

“Easy,” Paris whispered, his breath warm against Percy’s ear. “You don’t have to fight.”

But the indignation clawed at him, a stubborn beast unwilling to be tamed. “How can you say that?” Percy shot back, his voice taut with emotion. “Helen is trapped, and Hector—”

“—is my brother,” Paris interrupted gently, his grip firm yet tender. “And he’s lost himself in this madness. But we can’t let rage consume us, can we?”

Percy’s gaze flew to Helen, whose eyes were locked onto him with an intensity that seemed to brighten her entire being. In that moment, the fight she had just witnessed appeared to stir a fragile ember of hope within her—a hope Percy was determined not to squander.

She will be free.

As Paris led him from the chamber, the tension between them palpable, he gently set Percy on the ground once they reached a safe distance. The moment Percy’s feet touched the earth, he pushed away, his breath still uneven, the remnants of frustration clinging to him like mist.

“It went just as I predicted—disastrous,” Paris remarked, his tone laced with weary resignation, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips.

Percy took a deep breath. “You can control emotions?” he asked.

“Not control—just influence,” Paris replied. “I stop fights where they serve no purpose. It’s a means of preserving peace, even if it feels like manipulation at times.”

Percy furrowed his brow, considering the implications of Paris's words. “You’re like Ares, just… the other side of the coin,” he commented, an unsettling thought forming in his mind.

Paris chuckled lightly, though there was a hint of melancholy in his gaze. “Perhaps. Ares revels in chaos and conflict; I seek to quell it. But the burden of peace is just as heavy as that of war. Each choice carries its own weight.”

“And what of Hector?” Percy asked finally. “Can you reach him?”

“I can’t control how he will react, but I can temper his emotions so he won’t harm Helen or himself,” Paris replied, the weight of responsibility etched on his features. “But I can’t watch him all the time,” he added.

“You definitely weren’t watching him when he raped her,” Percy spat as he turned sharply away. He couldn’t bear to stand still, the anger coursing through him too volatile, forcing him to walk it off before it consumed him entirely.

But then, Percy felt another wave of calm wash over him, the familiar soothing influence from Paris creeping into his mind like an unwelcome whisper.

Without thinking, Percy seized Paris by the shoulders, slamming him against the cool stone wall. “Stop tempering my emotions,” he growled, his breath hot with fury. “My anger is justified.”

Paris exhaled softly, his gaze steady despite the force. “It seems to be having little effect on you anyway,” he admitted.

Percy’s grip tightened, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, tinged with desperation as he leaned in. “You need to help me free her, Paris.”

Paris’s eyes widened, a mix of surprise and understanding dawning on his face. “Perseus, it’s not that simple. Hector is unpredictable. You know that as well as I do.”

“I know,” Percy breathed, his urgency mounting, “but I can’t leave her like this.”

Paris pushed off the wall, his expression shifting to one of contemplation. “Hector won’t take kindly to anyone threatening his claim.”

“Queen of Sparta belongs to Menelaus; she’s not Hector’s claim,” Percy argued.

“Menelaus does not deserve to have his wife back, not after what he and Agamemnon’s armies have done. They’ve devastated the lands around our city, leaving nothing but ashes and sorrow in their wake.” Paris countered, his gaze distant as he recalled the ravaged landscapes that lay beyond their walls.

“What?” Percy’s curiosity flared, drawing him closer to Paris. “How close are they?” His voice dropped, a sharp edge of urgency creeping in as he twisted his head, as though searching beyond the palace walls. His mind conjured the looming image of Troy’s mighty fortifications, built by the hands of gods, now threatened by an army swelling at its gates. The Achaeans—Agamemnon, Achilles, Diomedes, Odysseus—men whose names had already become legend, were coming to claim their prize.

“They’ve made camp not far from here, just beyond the ridge. Their numbers swell with each passing day, drawn by promises of glory, plunder, and women.”

A chill ran down Percy’s spine but he forced himself to relax. The war was said to last ten years, and they were only one year into the chaos. There was time to turn the tide, he believed.

“Have you gathered allies?” Percy asked, his eyes scanning Paris's expression for hope.

Paris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve called upon the Lycian army, led by Sarpedon. The Amazons have also pledged their aid, though their forces are fewer than we’d hoped. And the Dardanians—our kin from nearby regions—stand with us. But beyond that…” His voice trailed off, a shadow of doubt creeping into his tone. “The allies we have are scattered, and many are hesitant to throw themselves into this conflict.”

Percy frowned. “That’s not enough,” he muttered, his thoughts racing. “You’re facing an army of kings, all united under one banner.”

Paris held up a hand, his eyes flashing with stubborn pride. “Those walls—Troy’s walls—were built by gods. They’ve held against everything the Achaeans have thrown at us so far.”

Percy’s gaze hardened. “Don’t cling to false hope,” he interjected. “Those walls may have been built by the gods, but this war... it’s not just about stone and mortar. It’s about men—thousands of men—driven by rage, greed, and desperation. What is a god, even one as strong as you, against thousands of men?”

Paris flinched at Percy’s words, his jaw tightening. For a moment, the godlike confidence faltered, replaced by a flicker of doubt. “You speak the truth,” he admitted, voice low, “but it’s not easy to face.”

Percy's eyes softened.

“Paris, whatever comes, I will stand by you.” His eyes blazed with promise, eager and defiant. “I won’t let your city burn.”

Paris's expression shifted from sombre to something more intimate. His gaze lingered on Percy’s lips, as if drawn to them by an invisible thread. Percy noticed, his heart thudding in his chest as heat crept up his neck. He flushed, coughing awkwardly, turning his head to the side.

“Can you show me the army?” Percy asked, his voice quieter, trying to dispel the sudden intensity.

Paris blinked. “Of course,” he said, snapping back into his usual demeanour before reaching out and taking Percy’s hand, pulling the demigod with him as they made their way toward the towering walls of Troy.

Paris led Percy through the winding corridors of the palace and up a series of stone stairways that grew narrower as they ascended. The scent of saltwater and the distant murmur of the sea grew stronger with each step, and soon they emerged onto the high battlements of Troy's formidable walls. The early morning sun bathed the city in golden light, casting long shadows over the streets below.

As they reached the edge of the wall, Paris let go of Percy’s hand, allowing him to step forward. The vast expanse of land unfolded beneath them, and beyond the city limits, a scene of grim foreboding stretched out to the horizon. Thousands of Achaean ships dotted the coastline like dark, hulking beasts anchored just offshore, their sails still as if waiting for a signal to pounce.

The sea shimmered in the distance, yet the sight of the ships robbed it of its beauty, turning the once-blue waters into a stage for destruction. Tiny fires flickered along the ridge where the Achaeans had made camp, their tents scattered like carrion birds awaiting a feast. The black smoke curled into the sky, a constant reminder of the slow, inevitable death creeping toward Troy.

Paris stood beside him, silent for a moment, his gaze locked on the scene. “There,” he said softly, his hand gesturing toward the coastline. “The ships of Nestor, Agamemnon, Menelaus. Their champions wait, sharpening their blades, preparing for our fall.”

Percy’s breath hitched as he took in the sheer scale of the army gathering against them. The Achaean forces seemed endless, their dark banners rippling in the breeze, carrying the weight of a thousand looming deaths.

As Percy returned to his chamber, the weight of the day still pressed on his shoulders, he found solace by the window. Leaning over the stone ledge, his gaze wandered lazily across the shores where figures lingered in the distance. Fishermen, perhaps—though a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Achaeans? He couldn’t tell anymore, the line between peace and war blurring with each passing hour. His eyes drifted to the tree where the bird had gathered sticks just yesterday. But something was wrong. He straightened abruptly, his pulse quickening as he noticed the nest, already fully formed, with small, fragile eggs nestled within.

That was impossible. The unsettling realization crept in like a shadow: time had betrayed him. Priam had been right—a week had passed, not a day. His sense of urgency grew sharper, slicing through the haze of his confusion.

Brushing his fingers through his black locks, Percy felt a chill run down his spine. The air tasted different now, laced with the sour bite of lost days. His gaze dropped to the ground below, where the same dog he had fed not long ago lingered, its curious eyes fixed on him.

“You again?” Percy asked, intrigue sparking within him. The dog paused, tongue lolling, then burst forth in a playful wag, barking as if urging him to come closer.

Percy glanced back at his room, there was no point in lingering here; his mind raced with questions, and sleep felt like an unwelcome stranger.

With a sudden resolve, Percy leapt from the window, his landing a graceful crouch, the earth welcoming him like an old friend.

The dog greeted him with a joyous bark, licking his face enthusiastically. Percy chuckled, brushing the dog aside but seeking comfort in its soft fur.

“You don’t look like a stray. Are you the palace dog or something?” he mused, continuing to pet the creature.

As he rose to his feet, Percy surveyed his surroundings, his mind drifting toward the shoreline, though the daunting prospect of closed gates barred his path against the looming threat of the Achaeans.

How he longed to be invisible again, to slip through the cracks of reality like a wisp of smoke, unseen and unburdened. He envisioned whisking Helen away from Hector’s grasp, perhaps even infiltrating the Achaean camp. If only he could remember the sigils etched upon his hands—those sacred marks that had once granted him the power of stealth. If he could recreate them, then maybe, just maybe, he could become undetectable once more.

In that moment, the dog tugged playfully at his chiton, a silent invitation to adventure.

It burst into a sprint, and Percy, caught in a whirlwind of exhilaration, dashed after it. They wove through the city, past the fragrant gardens, and finally into the embrace of the forest, where the air danced with a wild freedom. He felt a forgotten joy surge within him, a child chasing a kite across the sky.

He paused only to cleanse his brow in the cool stream, when a flutter of wings caught his attention. Assuming it was Paris, he remained still, but suddenly, a body descended upon him, plunging him into the stream's embrace.

With a grunt, he shoved the intruder away and summoned the water, a surge of frigid liquid striking the intruder squarely in the chest. The winged god was sent tumbling several meters away, rolling like a child’s ball, his visage smeared with grass and dirt.

"Not this again! That's no way to treat a god, let alone a friend!" Hermes protested, sputtering out leaves and soil.

“Hermes,” Percy greeted, his voice soft with surprise.

“Welcome back, little naiad!” Hermes beamed, springing to his feet as he adjusted his helmet, the wings atop it fluttering like restless creatures. In the blink of an eye, he was beside Percy, the distance between them collapsing as though it had never been.

Percy had almost forgotten the sheer speed of Hermes, the way the world seemed to blur when he moved. Now, without Hekate’s enchantment to shield him, vulnerability seeped into his bones, like water creeping into cracks.

If Hermes wished, there would be no escape—Percy’s muscles coiled, his body instinctively tensing as unease unfurled, slow but certain.

“What are you doing here?” Percy asked, his fingers tightening around his soaked chiton, squeezing water from it.

“Wanted to see you back from the dead, Per-cy,” Hermes replied.

Percy’s eyes widened. That name...

“What did you call me?” Percy’s voice quivered in disbelief.

“You’ve forgotten already?” Hermes’s joy dimmed. “You revealed that name back in the underworld.” His tone softened, disappointment curling in the edges of his smile.

Percy’s brow furrowed, his mind groping at the fleeting shapes of memories that felt like trying to catch rain in his hands. “We were skipping stones,” he murmured.

Hermes’s eyes brightened, his laughter bubbling up. “Yes, we did!”

Percy smiled, soft and subdued, the recollection washing over him like a gentle wave. He couldn’t quite recall the details, but he remembered the feeling—the weight of despair, the confusion that had clung to him like a shroud. And how, in that moment, Hermes had simply been there, with no grand schemes or hidden motives. Just the god of thieves, offering him a moment’s peace.

“Thank you,” Percy whispered despite himself, his eyes locking with Hermes’s silver gaze, the words carrying more weight than they seemed. It wasn’t just for that fleeting moment of comfort—it was for the rare, unspoken kindness beneath the god’s mischief.

Suddenly, the underbrush rustled, a soft stirring that broke the tension. From the shadows, Percy’s lost friend emerged, dog’s eyes flicking warily toward Hermes. It hesitated for a moment, sniffing the air, then slunk forward with a timid gait.

The creature's tail dipped low, its eyes gleaming with unease as it pressed itself closer to Percy, seeking his familiarity, his protection.

“Did this strange mister scare you?” Percy cooed, cradling the dog’s head in his palms, his voice transforming into tender, lilting tones. As the dog’s ears drooped and it plopped down at his knees, Percy enveloped it in a warm embrace, feeling the pulse of innocence radiating from its fur.

Hermes stood motionless, left momentarily speechless as laughter caught in his throat.

“Do you have a name, boy?” Percy asked, his voice softening.

The dog was large, almost wolf-like, its fur a fair beige, nearly white, contrasting sharply with its piercing yellow eyes and the inky blackness of its snout. Its sharp teeth glimmered like a warning in the dappled light. Percy buried his nose into the dog’s fur, inhaling the earthy scent of dry wood and smoke—a mingling of warmth and wilderness.

“You should be called Nibbles,” he concluded.

Hermes suddenly collapsed onto the grass, laughter erupting from him like a summer storm, high-pitched and uncontainable, as he clutched his stomach. “Nibbles! Someone save me; I’m going to burst!” he gasped between fits of mirth.

“What’s wrong with the name?” Percy replied, irritation sparking as he tried to make sense of the god’s delight.

“The name is truly brilliant,” Hermes replied, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, “but you have no idea what this wolf is, do you?”

“Wolf?” Percy echoed, scepticism lacing his words. “He’s too domesticated for such wildness.”

“Do you not recognize the light that flickers within him?” Hermes asked.

Percy studied the wolf closely, searching for the spark that Hermes spoke of. The creature’s demeanour was soft, almost gentle. “It’s just a canine,” he insisted, a tinge of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “A big one, sure, but…”

Yet as he gazed deeper into the wolf’s yellow eyes, something shifted within him, a glimmer of recognition that sent a chill skittering down his spine. It was an unsettling mix of comfort and dread, a reflection of something he both yearned for and feared.

With a sudden jolt, Percy let go of the dog, rising abruptly, his brows knitting together in a storm of confusion. No, it could not be true.

Chapter Text

Yet as he gazed deeper into the wolf’s yellow eyes, something shifted within him, a glimmer of recognition that sent a chill skittering down his spine. It was an unsettling mix of comfort and dread, a reflection of something he both yearned for and feared.

With a sudden jolt, Percy let go of the dog, rising abruptly, his brows knitting together in a storm of confusion. No, it could not be true. This was certainly not him.

“Stop spewing nonsense, Hermes,” he said, his voice steady but laced with a tremor of disbelief. He glanced at the god of thieves still sprawled on the grass, shoulders quaking with barely contained laughter, and felt a swell of frustration rise within him.

Yet the dog seemed unfazed by their conversation, or perhaps it was merely pretending to be. It lay in the grass, tongue lolling out, gazing up at Percy with an expression of innocent expectancy, as if waiting for him to resume the gentle affection he had bestowed upon it moments before.

Percy’s jaw tightened, a dull throb beginning to pulse at his temples, the day’s burdens weighing heavily on his mind. He had grown weary of this relentless charade, each passing moment unfurling like the slow, drawn-out sigh.

Hermes had to be jesting, as he so often did. Surely, Apollo wouldn’t take the form of a wolf to shadow him without the thrill of a dramatic abduction first. Such was the nature of that sunlit tyrant.

For his own sanity, Percy chose to let it go—for now.

What mattered most was Helen. He had to wrench her from Hector’s grasp, to spirit her away to sanctuary, a place where she might be safe, at least until the time of her delivery. Too much suffering had she endured by Hector’s side—a year, a lifetime’s worth, enough to corrode even the brightest soul.

“Hermes,” he called, voice a weary murmur weighed down by fatigue. The god of thieves lay sprawled on the grass, a tableau of indolent grace. At the sound of his name, he stirred, a glimmer of amusement draining from his silvered eyes.

Percy edged closer, settling beside him.

“Do you recall,” he murmured, steady but with an edge that hinted at shadows beneath, “when you pulled me from the Underworld—on the condition that I reveal what kept me hidden from divine sight?”

Hermes’s gaze flicked toward a distant wolf, yet slowly, with a glint of curiosity, he fixed his silver eyes back on Percy.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice light but threaded with caution.

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “The sigils—if you remember them, could you recreate them?”

A grin spread over Hermes’s face, sly and cutting, his eyes gleaming with secret mischief. “Planning an escape already?” he teased, his tone mocking. “Has palace life dulled you, or has Alexander’s charm faded so soon?”

Percy let out a breath, the weight of his intentions pressing into his voice. “It’s not for me. I need to help someone else leave this place.”

Hermes’s brow quirked, and for a brief moment, his voice softened. “I recall the sigils well,” he admitted, “though without Hekate’s will, they may falter.”

“I have to try,” Percy pressed, his voice raw with an unguarded hope. “Please?”

Hermes’s eyes widened, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. At last, with a slight nod, he reached into his bottomless satchel, drawing forth a parchment.

“No, not like that.” Percy drew Riptide, the blade gleaming coldly in the fading light, and held it out to the bewildered god.

“Carve them into my palms,” Percy commanded, his unblemished hand extended, the demand casual but unyielding.

“Must you always be so dramatic?” Hermes muttered, taking the blade with an uneasy expression.

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Would the sigils hold if you merely drew them? Would they last?”

“Unlikely,” Hermes murmured. “We don’t even know if this will work at all.”

“Hurry.” Percy’s tone was clipped, catching the god’s reluctance. He smirked. “What? The sight of blood makes you unwell?”

Hermes scoffed, though his face betrayed a flicker of discomfort. “Shut up. Give me that.” He took Percy’s wrist firmly, laying it across his thigh, then gripped the blade, preparing to make the first cut—

But a rush of air swept through the scene as Paris descended, the force of his wings sending a gust strong enough to disrupt Hermes, who staggered, lowering the blade.

Percy stood, jaw clenched, clearly displeased by the interruption.

“What are you doing?” Paris demanded, his voice stripped of its usual softness.

He approached, his gaze sweeping over the quiet clearing, but as he sensed no other presence, his attention settled on Percy. The white wolf from earlier had already vanished into the shadows.

“What are you two conspiring over?” Paris’s gaze fell to the gleam of Riptide, still flickering with a cold light in Percy’s hand.

Percy let out a steadying breath, retracting the blade with a smooth, guarded motion. He stepped closer to Paris, his expression shadowed yet calm. “I asked Hermes to show me something.”

Paris’s mouth curved in a brief, taut smile. “Show you what?”

“Nothing dire,” Percy replied, his tone light yet edged with hidden resolve. “Only a sigil Hekate once gifted me—the one that cloaks me from sight.” He let the truth spill, a thin veil over his true intentions. “I thought I’d slip past and watch the Achaeans, see what schemes they’re spinning.”

“Is that all.” Paris’s expression softened, but a flicker of worry lingered beneath his gaze. “I can’t make you invisible, unfortunately,” he murmured. “And I’d rather you not stray beyond these walls. The Achaeans are wild dogs, barely men. If they so much as sense you’re Trojan, they’ll tear you apart.”

Percy flinched at the raw hatred simmering in Paris’s voice, though he could hardly blame him—after all, the Acheans had ravaged nearby villages, leaving only desolation in their wake. A rare guilt weighed down on Percy’s chest, uncomfortably familiar yet unsettlingly deep. “I didn’t mean to trouble you,” he murmured, aware that Paris had more than enough burdens without the added weight of babysitting him.

Paris’s smile softened, though an edge lingered in his gaze. “There’s no need to apologize. I trust that Hermes’s intentions are noble—he did seem remarkably eager to help you, didn’t he?” Paris's gaze slid pointedly to the messenger god.

Hermes’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something evasive passing through his silver depths. “Why, naturally,” he replied, his tone light. “Nothing to worry over. I wouldn’t dream of whisking him away from you…without good reason, of course.”

Percy’s gaze hardened, catching the faintest quiver in that reply—a sly, teasing quality that felt like the very promise of danger. He barely had time to react before Hermes seized his wrist, and the world around them twisted into a chaotic vortex, his form pressed to Hermes’s as they spiralled through shadows and light, every part of him pulled taut, bound to the god’s gravity. Then, with a jarring thud, they landed on solid ground. Without hesitation, Percy unsheathed Riptide, pressing the blade against Hermes’s throat, its edge catching the faint glimmer of twilight.

“Explain yourself.” Percy demanded. The faint scent of salt filled his lungs, and when he looked past Hermes’s shoulder he recognized the forest by the shore, distant yet unmistakable—the Trojan walls loomed far behind them. A cold dread laced through him, mingling with a spark of surprise.

Hermes merely arched a brow, unfazed by the blade at his throat. “Your future husband annoys me,” he said, an exasperated sigh lacing his words. “Besides, isn’t it precisely the time to get a closer look at our lovely Achaean friends?”

Percy hesitated, then slowly lowered Riptide, though his gaze remained guarded.

“That’s reckless, Hermes. I’m not…” He trailed off, as though wrestling with his own nature.

“But isn’t recklessness the finest part of you?” Hermes murmured, his words sliding through the air like a silken lure. “And besides, what will you ever learn by watching from atop high walls?”

“Spying on Achaeans is not my priority right now,” Percy countered, his tone edged with caution.

“Helen is, though, isn’t she?” Hermes guessed.

Percy’s gaze narrowed. “How do you know?”

Hermes tilted his head, an enigmatic smile curving his lips. His silver eyes glinted with a flicker of insight as they met Percy’s. “I know you,” he said softly. “I knew you’d feel the tug of justice, the way your heart falters at the thought of how Hector treats his prize.”

Percy’s jaw clenched, the fire in his gaze rekindling. “Then you should know I want her away from him. Can you help me free her?” he implored, his eyes aflame with a desperation.

To Hermes, Percy bore the innocence of a pup, his lonely wide eye glimmering with the naïve anticipation of a promised treat, yet a heavy melancholy settled in Hermes's heart. “That…won’t be possible,” he whispered.

“Why?” Percy’s voice cut through the stillness, disappointment slicing through his words.

“Have you seen Helen?” Hermes inquired softly, and Percy nodded. “She is bound in chains—no ordinary shackles, but cruel iron forged by Hephaestus at the behest of Zeus.”

“What?” Percy's gaze turned to frost.

“Why would Zeus desire his daughter chained?” he pressed.

“He spoke of it as a means of protection,” Hermes murmured, but the glade echoed with the bitter symphony of Percy’s laughter. Such madness! Each day, the gods carved deeper disappointments into the fabric of his being.

“Safe? From what?” Percy demanded, laughter replaced by anger.

“If Helen were to escape and succeed, Menelaus would hardly welcome her back once he discovers she carries Hector’s child, and Sparta—let alone his camp—would be far too dangerous for her,” Hermes explained. “That is Zeus’s rationale.”

“No.” Percy's head shook violently, a fire igniting within his chest. “He shackles her because he fears that if she were to flee, she might find refuge with Menelaus, free from harm. The war would dissolve—a possibility too dreadful for him to bear. He’s indifferent to her suffering.” As he spoke, his hands fell to his face, tears brimming like tempestuous clouds ready to burst.

“If he truly cared, she would be already free but he sees her as a pawn, a sacrificial piece to maintain the balance of power.” His jaw clenched.

“Even if you tried…those chains are impossible to break,” Hermes said softly. “Not unless Hector relents, and we both know he’s lost in his madness.”

“Only if Hector relents,” Percy echoed, a flicker of hope igniting within him, his face rising slowly from his hands.

He needed ideas—urgently, desperately.

His hand hovered over Riptide, fingers tapping its hilt as he weighed the options. Percy’s thoughts turned to the triple goddess. Surely, she would conjure some glimmer of possibility.

“I need to speak to Hekate,” Percy said, urgency woven tightly into his voice. “You could take me to her. You have the means.” His eyes, a silent plea brimming within them.

But instead of eagerness, he noted an unusual crease of concern on Hermes’s brow.

“Can you get me to the Underworld?” Percy asked Hermes, more directly this time.

Hermes raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “You’ve barely clawed your way back from death’s grip, and you’re already itching to return? Is life’s fragile gift so unappreciated?” He chuckled, but soon his expression grew sombre, the humour fading from his eyes.

“Besides, I’m…not exactly welcome there,” he admitted, glancing away with a rare discomfort. “Hades seems to believe I relieved him of something…valuable.”

Percy’s curiosity piqued. “What could you have possibly stolen from Hades?”

“I didn’t steal anything!” Hermes protested. “I merely…borrowed it. Temporarily. And then, well, misplaced it.”

“You fool.” Percy couldn’t help but chuckle.

But even as his laughter faded, a darker thought unfurled within him. If Hermes couldn’t bring him to Hekate, perhaps he could approach this dilemma from a different angle. The true thorn in his side was Hector—Hector, whose relentless hold on Helen had kindled a frenzy of violence and injustice. To remove him would be a decisive blow, but such a course threatened to split the delicate thread of trust that bound him to Paris, a rift that might not mend. And yet, perhaps there was another way, a subtler cure to unwind the threads of Hector’s madness.

“You can’t take me to the Underworld,” Percy began slowly, “but could you take me to Eros?”

Hermes turned to him, brows lifting as if Percy were raving mad. “I beg you finest pardon?”

Percy leaned forward, his voice a low, determined whisper. “If I speak to Eros, maybe I can convince him to lift whatever curse he’s cast on Hector. Undo the threads that bind him to this madness.”

Hermes’s expression shifted, a flicker of concern shadowing his gaze. “And you believe Eros—of all the gods—will be swayed to end his little game?”

Percy’s mouth curved into a daring smirk. “You know me. I can be… persuasive.”

Hermes’s eyes darkened. “He killed you, Percy,” he said, his tone stark, the words hanging heavy between them as if the reminder alone should quench Percy’s resolve.

“Yes, but…”

"Sorry to break it to you, sweet naiad," Hermes murmured, his tone laced with a delicate irony, “but Eros is nowhere to be found. Since his wings were severed, he’s been hiding—vanished into shadows even I can’t trace.”

Percy’s brow furrowed, the hope faltering but not extinguished. “What about Aphrodite?” he asked.

Hermes shrugged. “If she knows, she won’t speak a word.”

Percy sighed, and Hermes’s gaze softened, almost as if pitying the persistence in him. “But…I can bring you to her, if that’s what you want. She’s not far from here.”

Percy tilted his head, his voice dipping into a playful drawl. “Hermes…”

Hermes lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking. “What?”

“Come on,” Percy said with a knowing grin. “What do you want? You rarely offer favours without a cost.”

Hermes chuckled, the sound low and full of mischief. “Ah, you wound me. Maybe I just enjoy seeing you claw your way through this mess.”

“Hermes.”

“All right, all right,” Hermes relented, holding up a hand as if in surrender. “Let’s just say… if you get what you’re after, you’ll owe me a favour. One I can call in whenever I see fit.”

Percy raised an eyebrow, wary but intrigued. “And if I don’t get what I want?”

Hermes’s grin widened with that infuriating, feline mischief. “Then the debt remains. You’re too much fun to give up so easily.”

And before Percy could brace himself, Hermes darted forward, pressing a swift, feather-light kiss to his lips—so fleeting it was almost like a breath. Percy’s senses lagged just a second behind, and as the realization hit, a warm flush rose, spreading across his cheeks.

Reflexively, Percy’s hand flew up, landing a swift slap against Hermes’s cheek, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

Hermes hissed, yet remained unfazed, his eyes glinting with mischief as he touched his cheek. “Ah, well,” he said with a devilish grin. “That kiss was worth every bit of the sting.”

Aphrodite was, indeed, not far from the looming city of Troy. She craved a front-row seat to the spectacle of blood and fire, hungry to see her will manifest in the battle’s savagery. Under Hermes’s lead, they navigated the tangled paths winding along the coastline, shrouded in the shadows of forest cover to avoid the prying eyes of the Achaeans. Percy’s every step felt heavier as they drew nearer to her, and each shifting shadow grew sinister in the waning light.

A flash of white flickered at the edge of his vision. Percy’s mouth tightened as the white wolf appeared, its alabaster fur glimmering in pale streaks beneath the trees.

“How did he find us?” he murmured, casting a sidelong glance at Hermes.

“By scent, I’d imagine,” Hermes replied, an amused lilt colouring his tone. “You carry a rather distinctive fragrance, Percy,” he added.

Percy huffed, unwilling to rise to the tease, but Hermes’s smirk only grew as he continued. “And Aphrodite… well, she’s never been fond of wolves. They stir some… primal fear in her. Nibbles here might just prod her into being more forthright if she’s less than willing to divulge Eros’s whereabouts.”

Percy cast a wary glance at Nibbles, the wolf padding silently behind them, its eyes fixed upon him with a gaze that bore into his very marrow.

Percy’s mouth twitched, uncertainty darkening his features. “I don’t think I want the goddess of love as an enemy, Hermes.”

“Oh, but you may already be on her bad side,” Hermes quipped, a touch too cheerfully. “Wasn’t it somewhat your fault that Paris tore the wings from her son?”

Percy’s gaze hardened. “I’m liking this plan less and less.”

Hermes’s smirk faded, his own confidence wavering as the distant rush of the sea filled the silence. “Let’s hope,” he murmured, though doubt coloured his voice, “that she’s in a forgiving mood.”

The lagoon shimmered like a dreamscape as they drew near, the air thick with salt and the intoxicating scent of blooming roses that drifted in gentle waves, wrapping around them like a lover's embrace.

Percy paused, each breath Percy took was a bittersweet reminder, a heady perfume that clawed at the edges of his stomach, suffocating him with memories he wished to forget.

Hermes watched him with patient eyes, an understanding silence enveloping them as Percy struggled to regain his composure. He swallowed hard and resumed his approach to the lagoon, each step heavy with purpose.

On the shore sat Aphrodite, surrounded by her maidens, who attended to her with delicate care. Their voices chimed like distant bells, ringing softly in the caress of the wind.

Aphrodite’s head turned, her gaze catching on Hermes and Percy, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across her face—was that surprise? Delight? Unease? He could not discern which.

She did not rise; instead, she awaited their approach, her poised grace unwavering. Her maidens shot them wary looks, their vigilance palpable, yet they parted to grant the pair space, lingering just close enough to feel the tension.

“I have heard the son of Poseidon returned from the dead,” Aphrodite remarked, her voice smooth as silk, laced with curiosity. “I did not expect you to visit me so soon. And I wonder… why?”

Percy knelt in the warm sand, his eyes meeting hers, face to face with her otherworldly beauty, a vision of divine allure that made his heart race.

“I seek your son,” he stated, each word tight against the walls of his throat, heavy with urgency.

Aphrodite’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear igniting in their depths. “If you seek revenge…” she whispered, her tone dropping, fingers digging into the damp sand as if to anchor herself against the tide of his intent.

“I do not,” he replied, urgency threading through his voice. “I come to ask a favour.”

Her brows arched in skepticism, but a subtle shift softened her expression as she leaned closer, eyes briefly fluttering shut. When she opened them, her gaze glowed with something between mystery and delight. “You carry my son’s scent,” she murmured, a trace of enigma lacing her tone. “So it is true. He has imprinted upon you—body and soul.”

Percy’s face drained of color as Hades’s words echoed through his mind—a soul marked with the scent of flowers, both wondrous and deeply unsettling. His voice lowered, almost to a whisper, each word laden with quiet dread. “What does that mean?”

Aphrodite tilted her head, observing him with a probing intensity. “Tell me, son of Poseidon,” she asked, her tone both curious and strangely tender, “how vast are the flames of resentment in your heart? If he were to stand before you now, would you weep? Shiver in fear? Or… would rage be your first impulse?” Her hair swayed in the breeze, golden strands catching and refracting the warm hues of the setting sun.

Percy’s lips parted, but no answer rose. Could he truly say? His heart beat with a painful clarity, yet a heavy silence filled the spaces where resentment should have burned. Had he forgiven Eros in that final heartbeat before his death? Anger should have roared through him, fierce and consuming, but in its place lingered only a soft, bruised ache, a wound that would not close. He longed to hate, yet the feeling evaded him, slipping just beyond his grasp.

Aphrodite’s gaze lingered on him, studying the quiet anguish in his eyes. A glimmer of satisfaction seemed to spark within her as if she had found exactly what she was looking for. With a solemn nod, she continued.

“Whatever favor you seek of him, he will not answer,” Aphrodite murmured, her tone softening, almost wistful. “He’s been absent since his wings were severed—vanished, yet not entirely lost. At times, I sense a shadow of him. But to emerge fully, to face you… that hour has not yet come.”

Percy held her gaze, a silent plea behind his steady resolve. If Eros was unreachable, perhaps the goddess herself could intervene.

“You desired this war,” he said, his voice laced with an edge he could barely contain. “It’s beyond reversal now; the Achaeans stand at Troy’s walls, and you have what you sought. But at least relieve Hector of his madness, this curse Eros laid upon him. He’s enslaved the queen of Sparta. I only wish for her freedom, her safety.”

“Paris,” Aphrodite drawled, her voice taut and unyielding. “He ignited this war by refusing me in the contest, his pride throwing away the gift I offered. If you seek someone to blame for Helen’s plight, it is him.”

Percy understood that the war would unfold regardless, but he remained silent, allowing her words to settle into the silence between them. Paris had indeed kidnapped Helen in the original myth, and now, because Aphrodite had not been chosen, it was his brother who had suffered for her pride. Fate was an unyielding force, and it twisted and turned in ways that left them both ensnared.

The true fault lay with Percy. He had failed to kill Paris on Mount Ida, and now he felt the weight of that failure, heavy as lead.

Aphrodite’s eyes darkened, narrowing as she studied him, her emotions roiling like storm-tossed waves. Slowly, she reached out, her hand grazing his cheek, soft as silk. Percy winced, instinctively turning his head aside.

Rather than offense, a glimmer of amusement danced in her gaze.

“I don’t wish for you to suffer for the mistakes of others. I would much rather shower you with my love, for my son has chosen you as his mate,” she declared, her voice imbued with an unsettling sweetness.

At the word "mate," a chill prickled his spine, the unspoken implications curling in his stomach. Percy’s frown deepened as he replied, “I don’t need your affections.”

Aphrodite chuckled lightly, her laughter a melodic chime that belied her true intent. “I bet you tell that to every valiant fool bold enough to lay claim to your heart,” she teased, but her mirth faded swiftly.

“Tell me, sweet thing,” she purred, her voice threading through the air like honeyed smoke. “Would saving Helen soothe that troubled heart of yours?” Her tone turned earnest, each word carrying a gravity that felt uncomfortably sincere, making his heart quicken despite himself.

“Yes,” Percy replied, his voice a fragile echo.

“What if I told you that the one who can heal Hector is you?” Aphrodite’s words coiled around him like a vine, equal parts constricting and alluring.

Percy felt a tremor of surprise, a spark of wariness flickering in his chest. “What?”

“My son gifted you with something precious, you know,” Aphrodite went on, her voice slipping into a murmur. “You and he shared an ancient ritual meant to shield you from love’s enchantments, a ritual you drank from so deeply it nearly shattered you. You drank, and drank, until the magic in you bloomed into agony...and, yes, brought you to death itself. But now, now that you’ve returned, you carry its boon: immunity. A weapon.” She leaned in, her breath warm as her words sharpened with intrigue. “If there is anything you’ve gained from that ritual, it is this: an immunity to love’s sway, and the ability to pierce through its illusions in others.”

Percy stared at her, caught between disbelief and something deeper—a pull he fought to ignore as her words sank into him. “You’re saying… I can undo Eros’s magic?”

Her eyes sparkled with a knowing light. “You and he are opposites in a most curious way. Eros’s kiss is madness incarnate, driving men to the heights of desire...but your essence,” she leaned closer, her gaze penetrating, “your very touch brings clarity, your spirit a cure. Where his touch enflames, yours tempers. Yes, with but a kiss, you can dissolve Hector’s delirium.”

So, all that suffering had not been in vain? The question lingered, heavy, as Percy recalled Apollo’s attempt to render him immune to love’s thrall. Yet doubt still twisted within him; he’d never truly believed Apollo’s plan had worked. But the signs were there—just briefly, his soul had tasted the scent of roses, an impossible bloom, fragrant and damning. Eros’s claim marked him, an indelible ache left on his spirit.

He glanced at Hermes, who seemed less engaged in their conversation and more focused on picking up the seashells pushed to the shore by the gentle waves.

“How can you be so sure?” Percy murmured, his voice curling with uncertainty, a fragile tremor lacing his words. “I’ve never done that before.”

Aphrodite leaned in, her presence enveloping him like a warm breeze. She took him by the nape and kissed him—briefly, yet enough to leave a taste. He stared at her, bewildered, his mouth buzzing with the sensation before it dissipated into the air.

Hermes's attention snapped toward them, the seashells slipping from his fingers as frustration radiated off him like heat from a flame.

“I’m sure,” she whispered, flicking his nose playfully, her expression a blend of mischief and conviction.

Percy’s brow furrowed, his thoughts tangling with disbelief. Could it be this simple? Yet beneath his suspicion, a flicker of hope arose, fragile and daring.

As if summoned by her actions, a white wolf emerged from the shadows, its head hung low, eyes watchful. It plopped down a few paces away, resting its head on its paws, exuding an aura of solemnity as it merely observed.

Aphrodite’s expression darkened, transforming into one of disgust and reluctance.

“What’s he doing here?” Her tone sharpened.

Percy blinked, following her gaze. “It’s a dog I found on Trojan shores. It’s not aggressive, just annoyingly persistent,” he tried to reassure her.

Aphrodite cast a questioning look at Hermes, who responded with a knowing glance Percy did not see—a silent exchange laden with meaning. Her expression softened, though her gaze held a glint of amused awareness.

“Ah, so it’s just a stray,” she murmured, feigning relief. “Does he have a name?” she asked.

“Nibbles.” Percy muttered, his face flushing. He could think of a thousand better names for a creature as fierce as this, yet the name had come to him unbidden.

Aphrodite’s lips curved into a sly smile. “A cute name for a cute mute,” she cooed, though her gaze flickered knowingly, as if the wolf before her were anything but ordinary.

“Well then,” Hermes interrupted, his voice tinged with impatience, “we should take our leave. Paris’s eyes are everywhere, and remaining here too long will only draw his attention.”

Percy inclined his head in agreement, yet as he moved to rise, Aphrodite caught his wrist, her fingers gentle but unyielding.

“Let me take a last look at you,” she murmured, her voice laced with something between tenderness and mischief.

Percy stilled, his pulse drumming beneath her touch, and let her guide his face into her hands. Her fingertips, cool as river stones, traced the line of his jaw, her eyes studying him with a depth that unsettled him.

“There’s something unusual about you,” she began, her voice soft, almost lost to the breeze. “It isn’t merely the allure of youth, nor the flash of a hero’s beauty. No, it’s something darker—a reluctance, a quiet defiance.” Her thumb brushed over his bottom lip, almost absently. “This disdain you carry, this weariness.”

“It’s only self-preservation that I act like this around beings who hold no respect for human life,” Percy replied, his voice laced with a bitter resolve.

“And yet, don’t you see?” Aphrodite countered, her eyes shimmering with a knowing light. “The gods are drawn to it like moths to flame. Rejection, after all, has a way of intensifying desire.”

She let out a low sigh, her breath a sweet whisper of honey and milk. “Perhaps it’s this very resistance of yours that has made you… irresistible.”

Percy’s throat tightened, words failing him as he met her gaze. Something in her expression was almost wistful, a glimmer of loneliness that pierced through her usual airs of confidence and seduction. She released him, but her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.

Hermes cleared his throat. “Perseus, time is pressing,” he murmured, his voice a soft reminder that tugged him back from the strange pull of her gaze.

Percy nodded and tore his gaze away, feeling as though he’d broken free from a spell. But as he turned, Aphrodite’s final words followed him, soft as a breath against his neck.

“Remember, son of Poseidon, that love and loathing often spring from the same root,” she whispered, her voice laced with both warning and intrigue. “And if ever you find yourself at that root… do not be surprised if it’s tangled deeply within your own heart.”

As Percy walked beside Hermes, the weight of her words seemed to trail him like a shadow, intertwining with his thoughts. He glanced at Nibbles, the wolf padding silently by his side, eyes gleaming with a depth that hinted at secrets of his own.

“Well, she’s certainly taken a liking to you,” Hermes murmured, his tone light, though his gaze betrayed an undercurrent of something serious. “But be wary; with her, favour is a double-edged sword. Best not to linger in her sights again.” He paused, his eyes darkening with caution.

Percy arched an eyebrow, scepticism simmering in his gaze. “What can be worse than Eros’s attention?”

In that moment, Apollo’s face flickered into his thoughts, a radiant visage that felt both illuminating and oppressive. His attention was searing, a blazing sun that threatened to burn through the very fabric of Percy’s being, while Eros’s gaze was a shadowy embrace, consuming and unrelenting.

“Aphrodite is a different breed of seductress,” Hermes murmured. “If you think Eros was a handful, try her. She devours hearts like yours for breakfast, with a sigh and a smile.” His gaze flickered, a wry gleam lighting his features. “And she was clearly trying to seduce you.”

Percy let out a short huff. “What’s this? Jealousy?”

Hermes took a slow step closer. “Jealous? Oh, I wouldn’t say that… though I might have expected a bit more attention. This was meant to be our date, after all.” His words floated between them, teasing, yet carrying a hint of something rawer beneath their charm.

Percy turned, surprise lighting his face as he studied Hermes, who met his gaze with an amused but guarded expression.

“Our… date?” Percy echoed, eyebrows raised, the words tumbling out before he could mask his disbelief.

Hermes shrugged, the casual gesture betrayed by the flicker of something more in his gaze. “Well, what would you call it? We’re wandering through enchanted forests and hidden glades, slipping past danger, sharing secrets,” he said, his smile tilting toward mischief. “And lest you forget, I’m the one who spirited you away from Paris’s grip.”

Percy smirked, though the edges of his amusement held a tentative curiosity. “I didn’t think gods went on dates.”

Hermes’s laughter rang out, light and airy. “Ah, but we do. We just cloak them in grandeur—‘divine meetings’ or ‘crossing destinies.’” His voice softened, the playfulness giving way to something more introspective. “But there are times, even for us, when a mere encounter feels... rare. Unbidden. Something more.”

Percy let his fingers tangle in Nibbles’ thick fur, grounding himself in the wolf’s steady warmth, as if the creature’s presence alone could dispel the unsettling heat prickling beneath his skin.

But the air between them suddenly changed. Hermes’s gaze shifted, and Percy recognized the look.

“Are you alright?” Percy asked, watching as a sickly pallor washed over Hermes's skin, his eyes hollowed, the silver in them glinting in a strange, fevered way. He'd seen Hector wear a similar face once.

As Hermes took a step closer, Percy instinctively backed away, his shoulders pressing against the reassuring bulk of Nibbles beside him.

“Oh, I am perfectly fine.” Hermes’s smile twisted, his brows furrowing as he took in Percy’s wary stance. “Why are you backing off from me?”

His words were smooth, yet the air grew thick with tension that prickled Percy’s skin. Nibbles’s fur bristled, his teeth bared in silent warning as Hermes took two deliberate steps forward.

Hermes extended his hand as if ready to reach for Percy, but Percy’s voice cut through the charged silence.

“Take one more step, and I won’t hesitate to slice that hand off.”

The weird atmosphere throbbed between them, and Percy’s mind raced, wondering if Aphrodite’s influence had somehow snared Hermes, despite her never laying a hand on him. At Percy’s side, Nibbles let out a low, menacing growl that rumbled like distant thunder. In a flash of movement, his powerful jaws snapped forward, forcing Hermes to stumble back, eyes widening as he rubbed his bitten fingers.

Hermes let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, come on!” he groaned, though a flicker of unease haunted his gaze.

“What has gotten into you?” Percy demanded.

Hermes's shoulders slumped, his grin slipping into something more deranged as he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “What’s gotten into me?” he sneered. “What’s gotten into you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “Did you steal something from Aphrodite?” he accused, searching Hermes’s expression for answers.

Before Percy could react, Hermes lunged, his movements unsteady as if caught in some kind of intoxicating fog. Percy felt a cold wave of desperation swell within him.

“Get a grip, Hermes!”

Before Percy could summon Riptide to defend himself, Nibbles sprang into action, sharp teeth sinking into Hermes’s arm. The two collided in a chaotic tumble, and Percy's heart raced as he watched, his eyes darting between the writhing forms of the wolf and the god.

Only then did Percy notice a seashell tumbling from Hermes’s side, its surface glistening with the remnants of the sea. Its presence sent a ripple of unease through him. Curiosity mingled with dread as he picked it up, bringing it to his nose.

The scent of roses wafted from the shell, so sweet that he nearly gagged. The realization struck him with a sickening clarity: this seashell was a vessel of Aphrodite’s enchantment, infusing Hermes with a feline lust that left him unsteady and dangerously close to madness.

“Nibbles! Stop it, come here!” Percy called out, his voice sharp and commanding. To his surprise, the wolf obeyed, jaws unclenching from Hermes’s hand.

Percy sprinted to them, hovering protectively over Hermes. Of course, Aphrodite would resort to such trickery. She knew Hermes would eventually try to kiss him, and this frenzy was merely her way of demonstrating Percy’s newfound ability.

Percy gripped Hermes's hair and twisted his head to the side, instinctively aiming to bite him. Yet, he hesitated, realizing he wouldn’t be able to pierce his godly flesh—too impenetrable to draw ichor.

That moment of indecision was enough for Hermes to push him back, flipping their positions until he was atop Percy. The kiss came instantly, electric and primal.

But then, as abruptly as it had begun, Hermes stilled. Clarity flickered back into his silver eyes, the haze of desire lifting like morning mist.

He stared down at Percy, the shock and horror slowly spreading across his face as he took in their position—the closeness, the vulnerability. Percy, still pinned beneath him, let out a shaky sigh, a mix of relief and raw emotion spilling over as tears threatened to blur his vision.

“What happened?” Hermes’s voice was a fractured whisper, his question barely forming as he scrambled to his feet, the realization of his actions crashing down on him. Panic colored his face, his hands lifting as if in surrender. “Oh, gods—Percy, I…” His voice broke off.

“I—I don’t know what came over me,” Hermes stammered, shaking his head as if he could rid himself of the memory. “I would never do that to you, never force myself like that.” His face contorted.

“I mean, I kissed you before, but I was just teasing. But now…”

Oh, they both knew what Hermes intended to do.

Percy’s heart was heavy as he remained seated on the ground. Nibbles approached, licking Percy’s face as if trying to wipe away the lingering scent of Hermes from his skin. He welcomed the wolf’s affection, seeking solace in the creature’s warmth and innocence, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.

When he finally rose, he held the seashell at a distance, making sure to keep it far from Hermes’s reach. “So, what’s this?”

“I found it…on the beach. It reminded me of you,” Hermes admitted, his gaze dropping as if he were a beaten dog, vulnerable and contrite.

“Pathetic,” Percy murmured, eyeing the small object in his palm. “A cunning god, brought low by a cheap spell.” With a swift motion, he crushed the seashell between his fingers. Its sharp edges bit into his skin, fragments of pink and iridescent blue scattering across the sand.

Hermes forced a smile, thin and strained, searching Percy’s eyes for any spark of forgiveness. “At least we know Aphrodite didn’t lie,” he offered, a glint of something like humor in his eyes—though it only deepened the chill in Percy’s expression. “You are indeed immune to love magic.”

“Be thankful you have an excuse this time.”

But even as he spoke, Percy felt the wound within him pulse, raw and festering. He knew it was Aphrodite’s magic, knew it was the spell twisting Hermes’s intentions. Yet the look in Hermes’s eyes during those moments haunted him.

“Forgive me,” Hermes said, his voice barely a whisper.

Ignoring him, Percy dropped to one knee beside Nibbles, sinking his hand into the thick, white fur as he scratched behind the wolf’s ears. “Good boy,” he murmured, voice low and rough, finding an ounce of solace in the creature’s unwavering loyalty. Nibbles’s hackles softened under Percy’s hand, though his vigilant eyes never left Hermes, a silent promise of protection in every sinew of his form.

Hermes sighed, his breath hitching slightly. “Percy…”

“You scared me,” Percy said, words slipping out before he could stop them, raw and bare. “I know it was her fault, but that look in your eyes… the way you reached for me…” He swallowed hard, as if trying to choke back the images that now surfaced. “I thought you were Eros for a moment.”

Hermes’s face contorted, a flash of horror passing through his features. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” he replied, his voice earnest and sincere. “But please, don’t avoid me, alright? I want this friendship.”

Percy paused, weighing Hermes's plea against the tide of his emotions. The bond they shared, tugged at his heart despite the chaos that had just transpired. “Friendship,” he echoed, his brow furrowing. “It’s complicated when the gods are involved.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Hermes replied, a hint of a smile returning to his lips. “But I’m still here, aren’t I? Trying, despite the chaos.”

Percy regarded him, his resolve wavering as he felt Nibbles nuzzle against his side. “Fine,” he relented, a cautious truce forming between them.

Hermes’s face lit up with relief, the desperation fading into gratitude. “I promise, no more enchanted seashells,” he said with a playful grin. “Just me, trying to be a friend.”

Percy’s gaze softened, his fingers lingered on the wolf’s fur. He looked Nibbles straight into those unwavering yellow eyes.

The wolf’s gaze held him captive, as if somehow knowing the fractures Percy carried inside. For a brief moment, a strange peace washed over him, as though the creature’s steady presence was a balm to the turmoil twisting within.

Hermes watched, silent.

Chapter Text

“So, what now?” Hermes asked after a moment, his voice soft as Percy blinked, focus slowly sharpening.

“We go back to Troy.” Percy’s tone was steady, but there was an edge to it, a simmering urgency beneath his calm. “It’s time for me to spit in Hector’s face.”

“Now that is a plan I can get behind!” Hermes adjusted his helmet, the metal gleaming ominously in the twilight. But before they could step away, an arrow thudded into the earth at their feet, quivering as if mocking their presence.

“Stop right there!” a voice boomed, its authority reverberating through the air, making the very ground tremble beneath Percy’s feet.

“Well, they’ve got a way with greetings,” Hermes remarked with a wry grin, unfazed by the threat. With the easy grace he stepped forward, subtly placing himself between Percy and the approaching figure.

A young man stood before them, sculpted in sinewy muscle, his form a deadly elegance wrapped in leather armor. Golden hair, half-braided, flowed down his shoulders like rivulets of sunlight spilling over bronze, fierce and untamed. Beside him, soldiers clad in obsidian-black cuirasses marked by the crimson crest of the Myrmidons, a legion renowned for their unflinching loyalty and unyielding skill, loomed in disciplined silence, their faces chiseled with the cold indifference of seasoned warriors.

Hermes’s gaze sparkled with a hint of playful arrogance, a brow lifting in amusement as he regarded the stranger. “Have you no respect for the gods,” he taunted, “or are you so blind you fail to recognize one standing before you?”

The warrior’s posture remained taut, his expression as cold as dawn’s first light, but he lowered his bow slowly, his blue eyes piercing as they studied Hermes with cautious intensity.

“Perhaps both,” he answered, his voice cool and unyielding.

Percy marveled at such audacity, this brazen disregard radiating from the man in palpable waves. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a marble frieze, carved into being by the whims of some relentless artist.

Leaning close to Hermes, Percy murmured in a voice low and cautious, “How have we come this far without noticing him?”

Hermes’s voice was barely a whisper, the words feathering the air. “There’s a familiar magic here, thick as mist. It must have blurred even my sight.”

Percy stepped forward, his tone cautious yet firm. “Who are you?”

The man met Percy’s gaze, his eyes fierce, blazing like polished steel under the sun’s dimming light. His voice, steady and commanding, carried the authority of countless battles and the pride of one who had bested them all. “I am Achilles,” he announced, each syllable weighted as if carved from stone, “captain of the Myrmidons.”

“Well, we are in a hurry now, so if you don’t mind…” Hermes’s tone was sharp, and he gestured for Percy to take his hand and flee toward Troy. But Percy shook his head, a surge of excitement propelling him forward. Here stood a living legend—the greatest hero known to the Achaeans. Hermes watched him with furrowed brows, concern flickering across his features as Percy approached the demigod with an ease that belied the tension in the air.

“Are you really?” Percy ventured, awe threading through his words.

Achilles’s gaze sharpened, his mouth curving into a slight, almost bemused smile as he watched Percy. “Would I wear another man’s name?”

Percy felt a thrill race through him, mingling with disbelief. Achilles—living and breathing before him, his stance as imposing as a storm about to break. Every tale Percy had heard, every story of valor, seemed to converge in the fierce clarity of those eyes.

Hermes, however, shifted impatiently, his gaze darting from Achilles to the encroaching twilight. “This is no time for hero-worship,” he muttered. “The walls of Troy aren’t getting any closer while you’re standing here gaping.”

Percy jolted back to reality, his mission flooding back to him. Helen. She awaited him, and each second he lingered felt like an affront to the resolve he’d forged.

Achilles took a step forward, his voice laced with challenge. “I’ve shown you the courtesy of my name, stranger. Do you not think it fair to offer yours?”

Percy’s gaze met his, a flicker of defiance behind his calm. “I’m Einalian,” he replied, a thread of reservation weaving through his words. “But I’m no captain, not even a soldier.”

“Ah,” Achilles mused, eyes narrowing in assessment. “But a healer—of that I’d wager.” Percy’s head tilted up in faint surprise. Had Menelaus spoken of him?

Achilles studied him with an intense scrutiny, then his gaze slid to Nibbles, who prowled protectively at Percy’s side, eyes sharp with intelligence. “You keep strange company for a healer. A god’s favor,” he nodded toward Hermes, “and that wolf who prowls at your side, with eyes so keen, it’s no mere beast.”

Percy’s gaze fell to Nibbles, who looked as unremarkable as ever, yet Achilles’ observation unsettled him. He absently scratched behind the wolf’s ears, grounding himself.

“How is it you know me?” Percy ventured, his tone measured yet wary. “For all you know, I might be a Trojan spy.”

Achilles chuckled, a sound echoed by the amused murmurs of his soldiers. “Striding by our camp as if it’s yours to claim? Hardly the behavior of a spy.” A faint smile played at his lips, an old warrior’s wry amusement. “No, Menelaus told us of you. The healer Einalian, taken with Helen, or so he feared. He’ll be relieved to see you alive.”

Achilles took a step back, his gesture half an invitation, half a challenge. “Come with us. If you’re as skilled as they say, you could be of use. There’s a soldier who’s fallen ill. Look at him, if nothing else.”

As Percy fell in line behind Achilles, he cast a quick glance at Hermes, whose expression was unreadable save for a flicker of something cautious in his eyes. Yet the god only shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders concealing a mounting tension. He kept his steps light, that familiar air of indifference shrouding him like a cloak.

“Lead the way,” Percy said, his voice steady though the unease in his chest mirrored Hermes’s subtle warning. Percy’s purpose was clear, though his mind wrestled with doubts. He would offer aid, nothing more. There could be no room for sentiment, no promise of more than what was asked of him.

And yet, something flickered at the edges of his resolve. Perhaps by aiding Achilles, by giving him what he wanted—his strength, his assistance—he might gain something precious in return: trust.

Achilles strode forward, his movements fluid yet edged with purpose. His soldiers followed suit, their footsteps a rhythmic pulse against the earth, as if some silent melody propelled them.

But just as Hermes moved to follow, something struck him—a force unseen yet visceral, halting him in place. His body jolted, as if an impenetrable wall had risen from the very air. He staggered, his expression twisting in shock and disbelief.

In the same instant, Achilles’s hand shot out like a striking serpent, his fingers clamping down on Percy’s arm. With a sharp, forceful tug, he wrenched Percy to the ground, the impact jarring but brief. The sharp sting of the earth against his skin barely registered as three soldiers rushed forward in a blur of muscle and purpose, their rough hands seizing him.

“What are you doing?!” Percy shouted, his voice thick with confusion and alarm. The words tumbled out in an angry rush, edged with a mounting panic that he could not fully suppress.

He glared up at Achilles, trying to catch his gaze, his mind reeling with disbelief. “Let me go!”

Achilles’s jaw clenched, but his eyes sparkled with a dark confidence as he glanced toward Hermes, now stranded outside the camp’s boundary. “This is the Achaean camp, guarded by the grace of Athena herself. Only those with pure intentions can enter,” he explained, his words a taunt edged with satisfaction. “The Trojans have their walls—but we have something greater. Any man who doesn’t favor our cause will be left outside. Even a god.”

Hermes’s eyes gleamed silver as he attempted to slip through the barrier, his form flickering as he tried to teleport across. Yet with each attempt, his shoulders sagged a little more, his brow furrowing in mounting frustration. He could not pass.

The Myrmidon warriors turned, their gazes transfixed on Hermes, his form both awe-inspiring and strangely surreal.

To see a god with mortal eyes was rare—almost unheard of—yet here he stood, visible in all his divine fury. Perhaps it was the magic of Athena’s barrier that laid him bare to their mortal sight, stripping away the veil that so often cloaked the gods from human view.

They dared not approach, yet they could not look away, their breaths held as if waiting for Hermes to shatter the unseen wall that held him at bay.

"Return Einalian to me, now," Hermes intoned, his voice dangerously calm.

But Achilles merely looked more pleased, relishing the god’s frustration.

Whoever Einalian was, he mattered to Hermes, and Achilles reveled in the knowledge that he now held something dear to a god. For Achilles, who had always found twisted delight in testing the patience of deities, especially so brazen as Hermes, this moment was savored like the sweetest wine.

"No," Achilles replied, his tone infuriatingly placid.

Hermes surged forward, pressing against the invisible barrier once more. This time, it did not shove him back, but quivered beneath his touch, rippling as though he had struck the surface of water.

The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, some gripping their weapons more tightly, others transfixed as though spellbound. For all their strength and valor, none dared approach, awestruck by the god’s sudden vulnerability—and his unmistakable rage.

In a sudden fury, Nibbles sprang toward Achilles, his growl feral as he launched himself against the barrier. A shiver ran through the air, the barrier shimmering, almost straining under the pressure.

But like Hermes, the wolf was repelled, landing back with a sharp yelp. Undeterred, he lunged again and again, his snarls echoing in the air, until a trickle of golden ichor marred his sleek fur. Percy’s eyes widened in shock, his struggles forgotten as he stared at Nibbles, a thought seizing his mind with chilling clarity: Was that ichor? Was Hermes telling the truth all along? Was Nibbles truly…

The realization settled heavy and dark within Percy, each heartbeat echoing with silent horror as he was dragged further into the Achaean stronghold, his gaze locked on Nibbles, who could do nothing but watch.

A furious scream tore from Hermes, reverberating across the shores and into the heart of the camp. It was a sound that transcended mortal anger, echoing with the raw, ancient power of a god denied.

As Percy was dragged forward, flanked on all sides by Myrmidons, he felt the iron grip of their hands anchoring him, their broad shoulders boxing him in like a caged animal. The soldiers eyed him with undisguised curiosity, murmuring and craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the stranger.

Percy’s gaze darted, searching for something—anything—that might give him a sliver of an opening. Then he spotted it: a simmering pot over a small fire, steam curling from it in the dry, salt-laden air. Without hesitation, he seized the moment. He lunged, splashing a handful of hot water at the hands holding him. The Myrmidons recoiled, hissing in pain as Percy twisted free and bolted.

He weaved through the soldiers, dodging their outstretched arms, ducking and leaping as he surged toward the glittering line of the shore. The sea glinted in the distance, beckoning like a sanctuary, his father’s domain waiting with open arms. He felt Achilles at his heels, closing in, fingers brushing the hem of his chiton. But desperation lent Percy wings; he darted forward, faster, more elusive, until he reached the shore, the cool waves kissing his feet.

But just as he leapt for the water, Achilles’s grip latched onto his ankle, and they tumbled together into the shallows. The salt water surged around them as they grappled, a frenzied clash of limbs, neither with blade drawn—only raw strength and determination. Percy felt the water moving with him, felt it part and flow at his command. Yet Achilles, too, had an innate power over the waves, the son of a sea goddess, attuned to its rhythms.

The soldiers gathered at the shore, watching the spectacle with wide eyes, but Percy paid them no heed. Frustration surged within him, and he knew he had to act quickly, or this struggle would become a snare. Achilles faltered for just an instant—a heartbeat of hesitation. It was enough. Percy called to the sea. Water rose in response, a column that lifted him out of Achilles’s grasp, carrying him just out of reach.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Percy shouted, his voice barely rising above the relentless crash of the waves.

Achilles looked up, and a gleam of something fierce and fevered sparked in his eyes.

“But I do,” he replied, his voice dark. It was the voice of a man who had tasted glory and wanted more.

Percy’s pulse raced. The sea’s embrace was at his back, his father’s realm, whispering of escape, of sanctuary—but here, in Achilles’ gaze, he saw a tempest of ambition, a man who would chase him even into Poseidon’s depths.

Percy twisted and lunged, waves gathering at his fingertips, molding into arcs of water that struck out with precision. Achilles was quick, evading the strikes and retaliating with fierce lunges, his movements fluid and unyielding. But Percy had the sea on his side. The water rose to his commands, swirling and crashing in waves that broke Achilles’s rhythm, forcing him back, keeping him at bay.

Yet Achilles moved like a storm himself, fierce and relentless, darting through the splashing water with an intensity that was almost terrifying. He was undeterred by Percy’s power, eyes gleaming with a predatory thrill as he pushed forward.

They clashed again, both panting with exertion, muscles straining, the air thick with salt and sweat.

The onlookers on the shore murmured, transfixed by the sight of two sons of the sea wrestling for dominance.

But then, as Achilles lunged once more, Percy hesitated. In a flash, a thought crossed his mind—a shadow of the future he’d glimpsed. Achilles, fierce and proud, the favored warrior of the Greeks, would die. This man before him, relentless and noble in his own brutal way, would meet his end on this blood-soaked land. The thought jarred Percy, made his grip loosen, his defenses falter. For a moment, the tide pulled away from him as he released Achilles, leaving himself exposed.

In that heartbeat of vulnerability, Achilles struck, seizing Percy’s wrists and wrenching him to the ground. Sand scattered around them as Percy was forced down, pinned beneath Achilles’s weight, his strength subdued, his breath coming in gasps.

Achilles’s face was close, his sharp eyes studying every flicker of expression, as if he could pry answers from silence alone.

“You are a demigod,” Achilles murmured, his words less a question than a conclusion he had reached. “Child of the sea, just like me—but which one?”

Percy’s pulse hammered in his ears, his instincts screaming at him to deny it, to protect the truth. But there, in Achilles’s fierce gaze, Percy sensed an understanding, a recognition that no words could refute. The bond of the sea—a shared bloodline, a tie as old as tides.

“A son of Poseidon,” Percy finally answered, his voice soft but unyielding, as if the words themselves were shaped from salt and foam. “Though that truth serves neither of us here.”

Achilles’s mouth quirked, half-amused, half-skeptical. “Poseidon’s son, walking Trojan lands as if you’ve no allegiance? I find it hard to believe.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “What I believe in goes beyond allegiances.”

Achilles leaned back, an intrigued gleam flashing in his eyes. “Then you’re either a fool or a dreamer. The gods pick their sides; they always do.”

“Perhaps I am both,” Percy replied, defiance sparking through the exhaustion weighing him down. “But I’ll not fight for slaughter’s sake.”

Achilles's expression shifted, the barest trace of sympathy mingling with his skepticism. “Above all,” he countered, “my men and I fight for glory.

Percy’s face tightened, his words a strained whisper. “There is no glory in war.”

Before Achilles could answer, the sharp bite of a commanding voice pierced the tension, ringing through the air with the clarity of a struck bell. “Achilles, release him this instant.”

Menelaus approached, his stride measured, and the look in his eyes—a tempest contained—told of endless battles fought, of a heart worn raw by the burden of leadership. His face was carved in the image of command, but it softened slightly as his gaze flicked toward Percy.

Achilles, with a reluctant tsk, finally released Percy, irritation twisting his features, though it was tempered by a grudging respect. He stood, extending his hand with a warrior’s stoic gesture. Percy hesitated for a brief heartbeat, still reeling from the charged confrontation, before he took the offered hand. It was strong, pulling him to his feet with a force that both grounded and unsettled him.

“Your Highness,” Percy greeted, composing himself, though he could feel his pulse still racing from the clash.

Menelaus’s hand remained steady on Percy’s shoulder, grounding him.

“Welcome back, my boy,” Menelaus said, his voice heavy with relief, each word carrying a weight of unspoken emotion. “I feared the worst.”

This king, a hardened warrior of Troy, had a father’s warmth hidden beneath his battle-worn exterior. It caught Percy off guard, as if he were seeing him for the first time, not the man of iron but one of flesh and heart.

"My mother once spoke of a son of Poseidon," Achilles’s voice sliced through the stillness, cool as the night air and heavy with interest. "His only human child, with eyes like the sea—one who ensnared the hearts of gods as easily as if he were a love child of Aphrodite herself."

The air tightened around them, thick with the weight of Achilles’s words, his gaze burning with that same unyielding curiosity. "Menelaus, did you know? Your healer is not only a liar but favoured by gods who do not support our cause?"

Around them, the soldiers shifted restlessly, their unease palpable, a quiet murmur running through them as the tension hung in the air.

Menelaus’s jaw clenched. “Those matters we will discuss somewhere else,” he said. His tone left no room for argument, and Percy could feel the weight of his gaze even as it was redirected toward the horizon.

Percy cast one last look toward the sea—the vast expanse now cloaked in shadows.

He wished, more than anything, that Menelaus would understand. But he followed nonetheless, the quiet rhythm of his footsteps blending with the silence of the approaching night.

The air inside Menelaus's tent was thick with the scent of oil, parchment, and the subtle tang of saltwater. The space was lit by flickering oil lamps, their weak flames casting dancing shadows on the canvas walls, where the faintest echoes of the outside world filtered in—distant murmurs of soldiers, the thud of hammers on iron, the wind carrying a sense of promise, of fate, of inevitable war.

The tent itself, though grand, felt suffocating in its temporary nature. Its interior, adorned with tattered tapestries and worn furs, bore the evidence of a journey not yet complete—things not yet settled. A large wooden table sat at its center, cluttered with scrolls, maps of the Greek world marked with inked crosses, and half-finished plans of attack. In the corners, weapons stood against the walls like silent sentinels. The canvas, though tightly stretched against the chill evening air, seemed always on the brink of surrendering to the winds outside. It was a place of waiting, of preparations, but it had not yet felt the full weight of what was to come.

Percy stood before Menelaus, feeling the suffocating heat of the space settle on him as the king’s voice filled the tent, rough with the exhaustion of a year’s journey that had taken its toll on every soldier.

“The seer Calchas,” Menelaus intoned, his voice roughened by fatigue and steel, “read an omen in a snake devouring a mother bird and her brood. He claimed it was a sign—a war stretched over ten agonizing years. And after the year it took to muster our forces, I’m inclined to believe him.”

Percy’s gaze drifted to the maps on the table, tracing the jagged lines that marked their path—an odyssey of violence and destruction.

Percy knew now that the Achaeans had reached Trojan shores far sooner than history would record. Had Agamemnon’s daughter already been offered, throat cut beneath the red-lit skies of Aulis, sacrificed to appease Artemis and coax the winds? The army that reached these shores bore the weight of months of hardships, and their resolve was fraying. Weaker, hungrier, less whole than they would have been if they’d arrived in the bloom of their prime.

Percy watched Menelaus’s gaze harden, amber-like in the shadowed light of the tent. “If Helen were returned, would the Achaeans find their way home? Could this war be stayed?”

Menelaus’s eyes flashed with cold, unswerving conviction. “No. Agamemnon craves this war as much as I do. Nothing is left but to conquer—to seize what is ours.” His voice darkened, a glint of something savage in his eyes. “My men tire of the length of this war. They hunger for what Troy can offer: wealth, women, and spoils enough to sustain them on the journey back. We will take it all.”

"In three days," Menelaus said, his voice hardened, "the Pylians will arrive, led by Nestor’s son Antilochus. With that final reinforcement, I will declare war. I want Priam to gaze upon my assembled host, to feel the weight of his city’s ruin pressing down on him, even from those lofty Trojan walls."

He paused, as if savoring the bitter taste of the thought. Then, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial edge, he turned his focus to Percy, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, calculating gleam. “You are Poseidon’s son,” Menelaus said, almost coaxing, his tone thick with expectation. “Your aid would be invaluable. I saw you fight Achilles—there are few who could stand against such power, but you…” His voice trailed off for a moment. “You just might. Imagine the power you two could wield together—your strength and his. Achaeans would crush Trojans in days. Or one night.”

“I would rather avoid this conflict than partake in it.” Percy’s voice was soft but firm, a quiet defiance threaded through his words.

The words hung in the air, a stillness sweeping over them as Menelaus’s face darkened. His gaze turned colder, sharper. “If you stand apart from us, then you are, by default, against us. For your own safety, I’d advise you to run. Return to Tenedos, where you came from. I would rather not find you on the battlefield.”

He turned away, his eyes fluttering closed as though dismissing Percy entirely. A flick of his hand was all the acknowledgement he gave, an imperious gesture that might have sent any lesser soul scurrying. But Percy, undeterred, stepped forward, his resolve like iron, his will like stone.

He knelt beside Menelaus, his hands gripping the armrests of the throne, eyes locked on the king's face. “But there is one thing I could do,” Percy said, his voice low, each word carefully chosen but pressing against the silence. “Bring your wife back to you.”

Menelaus’s eyes snapped open, his gaze sharp, his body twisting in his chair as he turned to face Percy directly. His voice was a whisper, barely audible against the rising tension in the room, “How?” he breathed, the word laced with a mix of disbelief and the faintest hint of desperation.

Percy felt a surge of confidence rising within him, his chest swelling with a quiet power. He had walked through the flames before, and now, standing before this king, he would do so again.

He began, his voice steady but filled with the weight of truth. He spoke of Aphrodite’s machinations—her subtle cruelties, the venom Eros had placed into Hector’s heart, the way it twisted his love for Helen into a fevered obsession. Percy described how this cursed love had driven Hector to kidnap Helen, setting the stage for the war, a war that had spiraled beyond any one mortal’s control. He spoke of how he could heal Hector, break the grip of this unnatural love, and free Helen from her prison.

Menelaus sat frozen, his face a mask of disbelief, eyes narrowing as he tried to piece together the magnitude of what Percy had just revealed. Some parts of the story seemed too fantastical, too far-fetched to trust, and yet… there was no mistaking the earnestness in Percy’s eyes. The king could feel the weight of truth in those words, as though they were etched into the very air they breathed.

Percy had done the impossible before, had healed Menelaus from a sickness that had threatened to claim his life, pulling him from the brink of death itself, and in doing so, had saved not only his life but the hopes of a kingdom. He had tended to the wounds of countless Spartans, easing their suffering, fighting against the odds. And now here he was again, standing before Menelaus, offering his help once more—help that seemed, to the king, almost too much to believe.

“But the question remains—would you take her back?” he asked softly, each word careful yet pressing.

Menelaus’s face softened for an instant. “Of course,” he murmured, almost dreamily. “She is my queen, my love—my Helen.”

Percy’s voice grew almost a whisper. “Even if she… carries another man’s child?”

Menelaus froze, a stunned silence filling the space between them. “What...?” The word hung in the air, his expression a mix of disbelief and horror. But then his face hardened, his gaze darkening as realization dawned. “No. No—”

“She was forced,” Percy said, his words quick and unguarded, the truth slipping free. “Hector forced her.”

A tremor seized Menelaus, his entire body quivering with the tremulous violence of a man on the edge of madness. His face paled before it flushed a deep crimson, the rage building within him, raw and unrestrained. His fists clenched at his sides as though the very thought of what Percy had spoken of could tear him apart.

“I will kill him,” he seethed, his voice choked with fury. “I will gut him where he stands, crush his throat with my bare hands.”

The air in the tent seemed to thicken, to grow heavier with each word that passed from his mouth.

Menelaus’s thoughts had already outrun the rationality that Percy had tried to weave around them—Eros’s curse forgotten in the heat of his wrath. To Menelaus, it was no longer the machinations of gods that mattered. The only thing that mattered was the affront to his honor, to his love—Helen, now tainted by another man’s seed.

He stormed away, fists clenched, breaths heavy and ragged. “And when I do, I will laugh over his corpse.

Percy followed, undeterred, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You still haven’t answered me. Will you accept her back?”

Menelaus stopped dead in his tracks, struggling for breath. He shook off Percy’s hand and drew his sword, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions. Percy braced himself, ready to defend—but instead, Menelaus swung the blade at a chest of polished wood, splitting it in two.

As the chest shattered, something gleamed within the wreckage, catching Menelaus’s eye. He knelt, hands trembling, and lifted a delicate silver pin, crafted in the shape of a swan with wings unfurled—a promise from a distant time. For a moment, the fury drained from his face, replaced by a haunting, sorrowful tenderness.

Menelaus turned back to Percy, his shoulders sagging as he extended the pin. “I’d kept this for her, a gift for our first child. She knows of it.” His voice softened, and his gaze grew distant. “If you see her… give it to her. Even if she fears I’d forsake her for what’s happened, this pin will tell her otherwise. She’ll know I would’ve loved her all the same.”

Percy swallowed and closed his hand around the delicate pin. He gave Menelaus a single nod, holding his gaze steady. “Then…”

Menelaus’s hand came to rest heavily on Percy’s shoulder, his expression hardening. “You can leave the camp,” he replied, his voice quiet yet firm. “But come back with my wife, or don’t come back at all. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Good,” Menelaus murmured, a faint, grim smile tugging at his mouth. He clapped Percy lightly on the cheek in an almost fatherly gesture. “Off you go, then.”

As Percy stepped from Menelaus’s tent, the weight of their conversation hung in the air, heavy and unresolved. He hadn’t realized how the hours had slipped away, lost in the ebb and flow of words, until the first light of dawn broke over the horizon. The morning light met him with a cold bite, and only one figure stood waiting—Achilles, arms folded, his gaze sharp and assessing. Percy cast him a wary sidelong glance but said nothing, setting off back toward the city walls.

But, naturally, Achilles trailed him, his heavy footfalls loud in the morning quiet.

“Will you join our side?” Achilles’s voice cut through the silence.

“No,” Percy answered curtly, his steps unfaltering.

“Then why did Menelaus let you go?” Achilles pressed, and Percy stopped, turning slowly to face him.

“He expects me to deliver him something.” Percy said, veiling truth behind his simple words.

“So now you’ve become his messenger boy. Much like Hermes?” Achilles teased when Percy did not answered, son of Thetis continued. “You’re a warrior, a son of Poseidon,” he said. “We should meet on the battlefield.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. The light of the early day caught in Achilles’s golden hair, making him look every bit the demigod he was—beautiful, deadly, inevitable. Percy felt the weight of those words settle deep within him. It was a challenge, but more than that, it was a declaration of the kind of war Achilles sought: one where he would force the gods themselves to take notice.

“What a spectacle that would be,” Percy mused, his voice softer now, as he resumed his walk. His words hung in the air like smoke, dissipating in the morning breeze, leaving Achilles blinking in mild surprise, the taunt falling limp.

“Are you not afraid for your life?” Achilles called after him, his tone tinged with irritation, his pride pricked like an exposed nerve.

Percy looked back, an almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. “Why should I be? I’ve already died once. And let me tell you,” he added, his voice dropping to a murmur that held more than a hint of dark humor, “the Underworld is not so bad. Better than this mortal coil, if I’m being honest.”

A brief silence stretched between them, and Percy turned, leaving Achilles standing in the early light, his expression unreadable.

But Achilles moved again, falling into step beside Percy.

They passed soldiers who bustled in the quiet morning ritual—preparing food, washing their faces in the cool embrace of the ocean, tending to restless horses. Their eyes flickered toward the two demigods, the unspoken curiosity hanging heavy in the air, a ripple of intrigue.

“What happened to your eye?” Achilles’s question cut through the air, blunt and unapologetic.

Percy exhaled, almost tiredly. “I exchanged it with the god of the Underworld.”

He hoped the statement, strange and mad enough, might stall Achilles’s curiosity. But Achilles’s blue eyes only narrowed with intrigue.

“Which god?” he pressed. “Hades?”

Percy nodded. “Yes.”

Achilles tilted his head, studying him. “To sacrifice half your sight… it must have been something precious you gained in return.”

Percy’s lips quirked in a faint, humorless smile. “Actually, it was Hermes’s tongue.”

Achilles’s eyes widened, momentarily caught off guard. “So that’s why he guards you like a hawk.” His voice softened, almost amused. “Is he your lover?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and uninvited. Percy shook his head, his response curt, but tinged with something like a warning. “No. Friend.”

“Why do you care?” Percy’s voice had a bite to it now, the thread of patience fraying.

Achilles smirked, his gaze dark and calculating. “You’re aligned with gods who have no love for us, and it makes me all the more eager to kill you.”

Percy’s hands opened at his sides, a silent invitation. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?”

Achilles paused, hands on his hips, casting a glance around them. “Not many witnesses to see it here, are there?” His grin widened, tinged with that ruthless hunger for honor and renown.

“Bastard,” Percy muttered under his breath as he pressed on toward the shimmering edge of the barrier, now visible to him, its pulsing light casting an otherworldly glow that seemed to breathe, to throb like a living heart.

Achilles’s eyes widened in shock, his hand instinctively flying to his sword as the figure aloft caught his attention. Wings, vast and sweeping, unfurled against the pale blush of dawn. “What is that?” he demanded, his voice a mix of astonishment and wariness.

Percy didn’t so much as flinch, his steps steady as he drew closer to the winged figure. His eyes, as deep and unreadable as the sea, flickered with a strange tenderness, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his words soft.

“You’re safe—that’s all that matters,” came the answer, and before Achilles could process the meaning of the words, the winged figure moved swiftly.

Paris, his face a mask of quiet resolve, enveloped Percy in a fierce, protective embrace. The world seemed to hold its breath as Paris's wings beat with sudden force, lifting them both from the earth with an effortless grace.

Below them, Achilles’s gaze was locked in stunned awe, his mouth falling open as he recognized the winged figure not as a hawk, but as a man—a Trojan prince with eyes that, for an instant, gleamed like embers.

Percy clung to Paris, his fingers gripping the fabric of the prince's tunic, his breath warm against the smooth curve of Paris’s neck.

“Why do I find you in the Achaean camp of all places?” Paris whispered, his voice soft yet weighted, a strange relief threading through his words.

Percy’s eyes closed for a moment, allowing the rush of exhaustion to pull at his limbs, his body swaying with the rhythmic beat of Paris’s wings. “I met with Menelaus,” he said, his voice heavy. “Tried to turn him from this war.”

Paris’s lips curled into a smile, dark and knowing. “Not a fruitful endeavor, I imagine?”

Percy sighed, his fingers tightening slightly on Paris’s form. “No,” he muttered, and Paris’s soft laugh rumbled through him, a sound that was both comforting and bittersweet.

They touched down atop the Trojan wall, wind swirling around them, catching Percy’s chiton and tugging at its clasp until it slipped free, baring his chest to the chill. He moved to pin it back, but Paris’s eyes lingered on him with a wry smile.

“You seem to have endured more than mere words with Menelaus,” Paris observed, stepping closer to help refasten Percy’s chiton, his fingers deft as he brushed away the fabric.

“I crossed paths with Achilles too,” Percy replied with a half-smile. “More of a tumble in the waves than a true fight, but he’s eager to finish the job once we meet on the battlefield.”

Paris’s expression shifted, a subtle shadow passing over his features as he rested his hands on Percy’s shoulders. “I have no wish to see you out there, caught in the chaos. You’re worth far more within these walls than among the fray.”

His gaze softened, and his eyes roamed Percy’s face, lingering as if trying to etch every detail into memory. The intensity of his scrutiny made Percy flush, his heart drumming under the warmth of that regard.

“I want to protect the city,” Percy whispered.

“Of course you do,” Paris murmured, his voice low, and he closed his eyes as though surrendering to Percy’s wish. “Then I’ll watch over you, no matter where the battle pulls us.”

“I don’t want to be your burden,” Percy said, his voice almost inaudible.

Paris’s hand tightened reassuringly on his shoulder. “You could never be. Besides,” he added with a gentle smile, “I’d rather bear the burden of keeping you safe than leave it to fate.”

A silence hung between them, and Percy found himself searching for words, his mind darting back to the gathering tension in the city. “I was wondering,” he ventured after a moment, “when is… the divine union going to happen?”

Paris blinked, momentarily taken aback, then a smirk crept onto his face, teasing and warm. “So eager to call me your husband?”

Percy’s face burned, and he stumbled over his response. “That’s not—I mean… I was just curious, that’s all.”

“Well,” Paris grinned, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’ll make sure you don’t miss it, my warrior.” His fingers lingered just a moment too long before releasing Percy, as if reluctant to let him go.

“Seven days from now,” Paris added, his gaze steady, unflinching. “The eclipse will come, veiling the sun in darkness.”

“What?” Percy’s voice was low, almost a breath.

“Hera thinks ahead,” Paris replied, his tone rich with certainty. “She won’t have this union interrupted—not by any god, least of all Apollo. An eclipse offers a rare opportunity—an invitation to darkness where we can claim our bond without his interference.”

“Speaking of bonds…” Percy murmured, his tone tempered but insistent, “I need to see Helen.”

At this, a flicker of apprehension clouded Paris’s gaze, a subtle wariness that Percy had expected yet hoped to dispel. He held his ground, meeting Paris's wary eyes with a quiet persistence. “I carry a message from Menelaus,” he pressed softly, as though coaxing a wild animal closer. “Let me offer her some peace… She’s had no word, no reassurance in over a year. She deserves, at the very least, that much.”

Paris looked at him, his lips pressed in a thin line, his eyes filled with a strange mixture of protectiveness and doubt. “Hector will attack you again,” he warned. “This time, without a second thought, even if he sees you standing outside her doors.”

Percy hesitated, a flicker of frustration clouding his features, but Paris’s expression softened, and he continued, “When Menelaus decrees open war, Helen, Hector, and the rest of the palace will gather on the wall. That will be your chance. Hector may be less inclined to strike when his attention is divided—between the Achaean army at his gates and his family by his side. Out in the open air, I’ll be able to intervene if he does.”

Percy’s brows knitted, his impatience showing. “Three days… I’ll have to wait seven more days?”

“She’s waited a year,” Paris replied gently, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Surely, she can manage three days more.”

“To you, it will pass quicker than a breath,” he added, as if trying to infuse some warmth into the waiting. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” Percy admitted, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

With a gentle grip, Paris took Percy’s wrist, guiding him toward the palace halls where sustenance awaited.

Once Percy had eaten, he retreated to his chamber for a bath, the water soothing against his skin. His head lolled to the side as he closed his eyes, fatigue pulling him under, almost luring him into sleep. It was the sound of knocking that roused him, and in his drowsy state, he barely noticed as he slid beneath the surface of the water.

Paris entered with a soft chuckle, his laughter light and teasing as he spotted Percy looking up at him, bleary-eyed and sleep-addled. “I brought you some clothes,” he said, the warmth in his voice contrasting with the chill of the approaching night. “Just please, wear them before you drift off again. The nights are turning cold.”

“Time,” Percy muttered, the remnants of his drowsiness still clinging to him like a veil.

“Time?” Paris echoed, his brow furrowed in curiosity as he approached. “What of it?”

“I seem to lose it when I’m here,” Percy said, lifting his gaze to meet Paris’s. “Can you wake me up in a few hours?” he asked.

“I would prefer you to sleep for as long as you wish,” Paris replied, his tone soft and considerate. “Rest is a luxury you deserve, especially now.”

Percy nodded, feeling the pull of sleep once more, but a part of him lingered on the edge of wakefulness, desperate to seize every fleeting moment with Paris before the inevitable storm of war descended upon them.

He reached out, seizing Paris's hand, but the contact scorched him, a painful flare that made him wince.

“Are you carrying coals in your hands?” Percy gasped, cradling his burned palm, the sting sharp and unexpected.

Paris seemed caught in a moment of bewilderment, his gaze descending to his own hand. “It’s—” he began, his voice faltering, eyes trapped on Percy’s burned skin, the sight of it unraveling him. “I’m sorry.”

“It happens sometimes," Paris continued, his voice a low murmur, a confession painted with the weight of his own confusion. "I don’t fully understand this godhood yet—this power that still escapes me. Even after a year, I am still discovering parts of myself... I certainly never meant to harm you.”

Percy’s heart raced. “You didn’t hurt me,” he reassured, even as the heat lingering on his palm told a different story. He submerged his hand in the water, healing it swiftly. “Look, good as new,” he said, offering his palm to Paris, who knelt beside him, taking Percy’s hand and kissing it with fervor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, genuine pain flickering in his eyes, as though the simple act of burning had transgressed a deeper boundary. 

Percy’s gaze softened. With a tender motion, he reached out, brushing back the bronze locks that fell across Paris’s forehead, his fingers lingering as though savoring the connection.

“It’s okay,” Percy whispered, his voice barely a breath. His words felt fragile, like glass breaking in the silence between them.

He had wronged Paris. Betrayed him in ways that could never be undone. And perhaps, just perhaps, he deserved every bit of the pain Paris might choose to inflict upon him in return.

Paris’s lips, warm and soft as the flutter of a moth’s wings, lingered at the pulse point on Percy’s wrist. The rhythm of his heart throbbed beneath that delicate touch. Slowly, Paris lifted his gaze, amber eyes locking with Percy’s, a depth there that seemed to pull him in.

In that moment, everything seemed to hang suspended, fragile and breathtaking. Percy felt it too—he could not look away.

Paris’s lips drifted over Percy’s skin like a butterfly, each kiss placed with reverence, as if he were worshiping some hidden, delicate part of Percy’s soul. His breath was a tremulous caress, sending waves of warmth over Percy’s skin. Percy, unable to resist, watched him, his lashes heavy, heart racing.

When Paris’s face moved close enough to brush against the curve of Percy’s shoulder, he lingered for a moment. They shared a moment of silence, an understanding passing between them.

Paris leaned in, his lips tracing the corner of Percy’s mouth, teasing, light as a whisper, before he pulled back just enough to study Percy’s reaction. When no protest came, Paris leaned in again, this time bolder. His lips trailed across Percy’s, slow and deliberate, coaxing him with a tenderness that cracked the last remnants of resistance. And then, as if they were two pieces of the same whole, Percy’s mouth moved.

Percy’s lips tasted just as Paris had imagined—sweet like honey, intoxicating as a bloom of roses, each kiss a heady delight that wrapped around Paris like a vine. Their plush lips molded together with an effortless harmony, a perfect fit that sent a shiver down Paris’s spine, drawing a soft moan from his throat, a sound of pure longing spilling into the air.

As their mouths danced together, Percy’s hands found their way to Paris’s nape, fingers tangling in the silken strands, pulling him in timidly yet insistently closer.

When they finally parted, breathless and dazed, Paris captured Percy’s lips again in a flurry of stolen kisses—quick, desperate pecks that tasted of urgency and a fear of separation.

Percy gazed up at Paris, cheeks flushed with a tender warmth that mirrored the vibrant red blossoming on Paris’s own face. 

They simply stared, eyes searching one another for the meaning behind what had just unfolded.

Percy’s gaze was the first to waver, dipping toward the milky water that enveloped him. “Water turned cold,” he murmured.

Paris, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Percy’s skin, swallowed hard. He reached under the surface, his fingers brushing against Percy’s leg. A fleeting touch. His hand lingered, just enough to send a ripple through the calm of the water.

“It does seem to have lost its warmth,” Paris replied, the huskiness of his tone betraying the tumult of emotions roiling just beneath the surface.

As the reality of the situation settled around them, Percy couldn’t help but smile, a hint of nervousness creeping into his expression. “I should get out."

“Or you could stay,” Paris countered, a spark of mischief igniting in his amber eyes. “We could… warm it back up.”

The suggestion hung in the air, tantalizing and laden with possibility. Percy hesitated, the thrill of desire battling with the remnants of caution.

“Paris…” Percy began, his voice a low murmur, ready to draw the line. But then Paris’s gaze softened, a silent plea that cut through his resolve.

“Can I join you?” Paris asked, his voice carrying an edge of vulnerability that caught Percy off guard.

Percy’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he lingered on the question, the weight of it hanging in the air like a challenge. He couldn’t bring himself to refuse, not when Paris looked at him that way—his gaze tender yet desperate, as though everything depended on that one simple answer.

Percy nodded, slow and almost uncertain.

Then, with a fluid motion that seemed almost too natural, Paris untied the golden clasp of his chiton, the fabric slipping from his body like a whisper, revealing the sculpted muscles of his chest and the sharp angles of his hips.

But there, crisscrossing his torso and shoulders, were the scars. They marred the perfect symmetry of his form—ridges and grooves, raw and jagged, as if carved by cruel hands. Eros’s talons, sharp and unyielding, had left their mark, the wounds deep and visceral. 

The more Percy looked at the scars, the more he thought they glowed like fissures on a volcano, red under the skin. There was an unsettling beauty in their heat—like the reminder of some primordial force, dormant but ever-present.

Paris descended into the bath beside Percy, the water shivering beneath his weight, as if even it felt the pull of his presence. Before fully settling, his voice—low and lingering like smoke—fractured the heavy silence, snapping Percy from his daze.

“When I overcame Eros,” Paris murmured, his words slithering into the still air, “your father bestowed upon me a blessing—one that grants me breath beneath the water.”

Percy’s brow furrowed, confusion tightening his chest as he tried to grasp what Paris had said.

“Whatever you mean,” Percy muttered, his breath stuttering, a tremor of unease flickering through him. Just then, Paris submerged, slipping into the milky depths where the water clung to him like silk.

When he rose again, it was between Percy’s legs. A hand guided Percy’s thigh upward, parting him with unerring intent.

Before Percy could react, Paris’s mouth was on his cock—hot, ravenous.

“Paris!” Percy gasped, his head falling back against the rim of the bath, as the molten warmth of Paris’s tongue sent tremors through him, teasing him with a sensuous rhythm.

Percy’s fingers curled into the edge of the bath, his grip white-knuckled as the heat of the water seemed to intensify around him.

His other hand found its way to Paris's shoulder, fingers digging into the taut muscle beneath the surface.

The water lapped gently against their bodies, a soft, rhythmic tide that seemed to mirror the pulse in Percy’s veins.

Paris’s hands, now tracing the curve of Percy’s waist, felt like flames against his skin—languid, unhurried, but insistent. There was an almost tender precision to his touch, as though each movement was crafted for the sole purpose of undoing Percy.

Percy’s breath caught, his chest heaving with a desperate longing as his mind struggled to hold onto any shred of control. He couldn’t help the low moan that escaped him, a sound torn from deep within, as Paris, with a hunger that matched the darkness between them, took his member fully, swallowing him to the back of his warm throat.

“Gods. Paris...” Percy whispered, his voice trembling, not entirely sure whether he was calling for release or restraint.

“Slow, slow down. If you continue...” His breath hitched, heavy and unsteady. Percy shut his eyes, lost in the whirl of sensations, wondering if Paris could hear him through the enveloping water.

His hand slipped from the shoulder to the nape of Paris’s neck, fingers trembling with the effort to hold on—to keep some semblance of control, though it was slipping away faster than he could grasp it.

And then, it broke.

The heat inside him surged with a violent rush, crashing over him like a storm, his body arching in a moment of pure, unrestrained release. His head fell back against the rim of the bath, his chest heaving as every tremor wracked through him, every spark of sensation igniting in waves that left him breathless and undone.

Through it all, Paris remained steady, his touch unwavering. He sucked the last drop from him, each movement deliberate, as if drawing out the very essence of Percy, until his body was left limp and undone, floating in the haze of a pleasure that felt both boundless and all-consuming.

When the sensitivity became too much—when the lingering heat turned into a kind of discomfort—Paris tugged at Percy’s hips with a smooth, practiced motion, pulling him under the surface of the water. The coolness of the liquid around them contrasted with the heated pulse of their bodies.

Paris’s lips found Percy’s in the dark warmth of the water.

The kiss was slow and consuming, an undercurrent of everything they had shared, everything they were yet to explore. 

When they resurfaced, their kiss did not falter—it lingered, as if the very act of breathing were a sin. The water clung to their bodies, a slick, intoxicating veil, and Percy’s fingers, trembling with urgency, found their way to Paris’s stiffened member. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked him, the motion languid yet filled with a quiet power, as if drawing the last drop of sweetness from a forbidden fruit.

Paris’s hips bucked toward him, the movement sending a groan spilling from his lips.

Percy’s grip tightened on Paris, and the slow rhythm of his touch mirrored the delicate, aching buildup within both of them.

“Percy…” Paris breathed, his voice barely a whisper, the sound of it thick with desire, trembling with the effort to remain in control.

Their mouths met again.

The tide of sensation swelled, and Paris’s movements became more frantic, as though his body knew that the release he sought was imminent. His breath quickened, and his hips bucked in a rhythm that threatened to shatter them both.

And then, with a final, shuddering gasp, Paris’s body stiffened, his entire form tensing in a moment of pure, consuming release. The sound he made—a deep, throaty groan—seemed to echo in the stillness of the water. His eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

Percy smiled softly, the delicate warmth of Paris's seed spilling onto his hand. When Paris returned to himself, his hands gently took Percy’s, pressing soft, reverent kisses upon them, his lips lingering in a silent vow.

Percy’s eyes fluttered shut, the weight of exhaustion pulling him under, his body threatening to slip from the edge of the bath. But Paris's hands kept him anchored.

Later, Paris laid beside Percy, who slept in a peaceful surrender, soft breaths spilling from his lips—lips that only moments ago had been kissed with such tenderness.

Paris’s eyes, glazed like dying embers, flickered with an orange hue, casting an almost spectral glow over Percy’s face, which he observed with the quiet intensity of a lover who knew too well the weight of time.

It was in that moment, as he watched Percy’s form rise and fall with each shallow breath, that Paris felt the fire within him burn—raw, untamed. Lava coursed through his veins, a slow, boiling fury, as he fought to keep Kronos at bay, to silence the dark, ancient hunger that writhed in his chest.

Percy dreamt of darkness—of fathomless coal eyes, and the towering shadow of dark titan looming over him. He could feel himself trapped in his colossal palm, squeezed mercilessly, as though Kronos intended to wring the very life from him. A rush of red spilled from Percy’s mouth, warm and metallic, painting the darkness as it fell.

Kronos's laughter rang out, chillingly similar to Paris’s, but twisted, a cruel echo that slithered into Percy’s bones.

He woke with a start, breaths ragged, his heart hammering wildly against his chest, sweat pooling on his brow. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him, sharp and relentless, like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

It was still dark when Percy rose, the quiet night pressing in around him, soothing in its stillness yet stark against the chaos within. The cool shadows embraced him, a welcome relief from the relentless scorch of daylight he so often dreaded.

He took a few breaths by the window, the night breeze chilling the sweat on his skin. Gradually, his heart slowed, and with it came a flash of memory—the bath, Paris, the tender yet reckless intimacy they had shared. Him and Paris… they had done things, Percy thought, feeling his cheeks heat, though it had been far more than some innocent dalliance. They’d kissed, touched, found release together—actions far beyond friendship.

Percy slapped himself lightly, ashamed. How could he let himself fall into this, into them, knowing how tangled and dangerous it was becoming? This wasn’t going to work. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not with Paris. It only complicated everything.

And then his mind flickered, unbidden, to Apollo. What if he knew? The thought clawed at him, a silent warning. A relationship with Paris was risky, but the idea of Apollo’s wrath made Percy’s blood run cold. Why did the thought of Apollo hold such weight over him, as though he had no right to another’s affection without facing the sun god’s fury?

As if his bond with Paris, the tenuous thread of their so-called marriage, wasn’t trouble enough.

I am not afraid of Apollo, Percy told himself, forcing a resolute nod. Yet, as the thought settled, his shoulders sagged, as if Apollo’s unseen gaze was already upon him, his judgment lurking in every shadow of the room.

But it was night, and Apollo’s gaze could not reach him here, shielded by shadows. Yet he knew—there was another whose whose gaze could.

“Hekate,” Percy called softly, his voice threading into the quiet night. He stared into the darkness, his eyes straining as if he might glimpse the elusive, triple-faced goddess emerging from the shadows. He needed her wisdom, her guidance, more than anything now.

“Hekate, it’s me—Percy.” His voice trembled, a flicker of desperation slipping through. But only silence answered him, thick and unyielding, pressing against him like a second skin. He waited, heartbeats stretching long and heavy, his hope dwindling with each passing moment.

Still, he waited, eyes fixed on the darkness, willing it to yield, to reveal some sign of Hekate’s presence. When nothing stirred, he pushed away from the window, slipping into the palace corridors with hurried steps. The shadows pressed close around him, the night obscuring his vision, though after so long without sight, he had grown accustomed to navigating in near darkness.

He halted abruptly when a cry pierced the stillness. A woman’s cry. Driven by a desperate, fleeting belief that it might be Helen’s voice, he pushed forward—only to find Priam cradling a young woman in his arms. Her shoulders trembled, shaken by silent sobs, long strands of fiery red hair cascading over her like a river of gore, dark and rich, clinging to her skin.

The woman stilled at the sound of his footsteps.

Priam met his gaze with an expression laced with sorrow, an unspoken understanding passing between them, as if he foresaw the storm about to unfold.

The woman broke free from Priam’s embrace, her movements sharp and agitated, and began to approach Percy. Despite himself, he took several hesitant steps back, his breath hitching with unease.

“You!” she shrieked, her voice piercing through the air like a dagger. Percy froze, his pulse quickening at the sudden, uncomfortable intensity of her presence.

“Cassandra, calm yourself first,” Priam implored, but his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

The woman, Cassandra, wrenched herself free from Priam’s grasp and moved toward Percy with the frantic grace of a creature lost in a storm. Against his own will, Percy staggered back, a chill of unease gripping his bones.

“You are pursued by the same monster,” she whispered into his ear, her breath hot and urgent. “Apollo. The god of light, the harbinger of doom.” Her words were a litany of sorrow. “He is relentless, is he not?” she murmured, as though she could taste the bitterness of his presence in the air. “Has he cursed you yet? Of course, he has—how could he not? You denied him, didn’t you? I know it, I feel it in my bones. If you hadn’t, you would be somewhere else—safe, with him, burning under his light. But no—no, you are still here, and soon you will join him. Soon you will become his, as I saw. As I saw it all.”

Percy tried to free himself from her grip, his hands trembling as he held her wrists, the cold chill of fear creeping through his chest.

“What have you seen?” he asked, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper, as though the question itself might unravel something inside him.

Cassandra’s lips curled into a grim, pitying smile—an expression of one who knows too much but cannot escape the weight of the knowledge. Her eyes gleamed with the fever of a prophet cursed to see nothing but the inevitable.

“Don’t heed her words,” Priam interjected, his voice soft but urgent. “She’s... unwell. Please, be patient with her.” Yet, he stepped back, allowing Cassandra the space to pour out her fragmented visions.

Her eyes bored into his, as if she were peering into some abyss where only Apollo’s light could reach.

"From the light you can always flee, forever chase into the embrace of night, skulking in shadows like a hunted soul. But Apollo is the sun unyielding, and when he pursues, he is merciless. With the aid of the architect of fate and the incarnation of love itself, he will forge a vessel—delicate, yet inescapable—that will carry your chains.

These chains, they will not weigh on your wrists, but will coil around your heart, as tender and unrelenting as the love that shapes them. You will cradle them, as a mother cradles a newborn, unaware of the iron sting they carry. And though the doors may stand open before you, though the flood of hatred for him will rise in you like the waves that drown the shore, even when escape lies just within your grasp, you will remain, forever bound to his relentless blaze until even your darkness is his to command.”

She released him, her hands falling by her sides, limp and lifeless, as though he had drained the very essence of her. For a moment, they stood in eerie stillness, like two phantoms caught in a moment of frozen time, suspended between doom and revelation.

Percy’s heart thudded, a sickened rhythm that matched the pulsing weight of her words. He wished—no, desperately wished—that he could dismiss her prophecy as the ravings of a madwoman. But the truth, bitter and unyielding, pressed against him, and he could not deny it.

“Any words of reassurance?” Percy asked, his voice barely a whisper, trembling with a fragile hope that fluttered in his chest—so faint, so fleeting, like the final, desperate glow of embers swept away by the cold breath of the wind. “At least give me some guidance.”

Cassandra’s gaze met his, unblinking, unwavering, as if she had already seen this moment, already known his pain. Her lips parted, and her words, as haunting and cryptic as the prophecy itself, slithered from her mouth like a serpent’s hiss.

“Fear him, love him, and he will be your slave.”

The words were madness, pure and unfiltered. How could one both fear and love in the same breath? How could Apollo, the sun incarnate, that merciless tyrant, become a slave to him? It was a paradox, a cruel jest of the gods, and yet, it stirred something in Percy—a sickening confusion, a twist in the gut.

His brow furrowed, the storm of doubt clouding his thoughts. How could he reconcile this madness, this twisted love, with the reality of what he had seen? Apollo was no one’s slave, not now, not ever. The idea was absurd. Yes, he could fear Apollo. He had feared him before, and even now, the mere thought of him sent icy tremors down his spine. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, the cold tightening around his heart. Fear, he knew all too well.

But love? How could he—how could anyone—love such a creature, such a force of destruction?

Percy exhaled, a shaky breath escaping his lungs, the air thick with confusion, desperation, and the weight of Cassandra’s words.

Cassandra, seeing the struggle in his eyes, merely glanced at him once, her expression shifting into a mask of cold indifference. Without a word, she turned from him, walking away with the quiet dignity of someone who had long since accepted her fate. Priam, witnessing the unfolding scene, gave Percy a look laden with apology, but it was nothing more than a fleeting acknowledgment before he followed Cassandra, his steps slow, careful, guiding her back to the sanctity of her chambers.

And Percy? He stood there, alone in the hall, drowning in a silence that seemed to press down on him, suffocating him.

Chapter Text

Percy turned, feeling the stone walls looming over him like unseen eyes, and moved deeper into the shadowed corridors, driven forward by a restlessness he couldn’t name.

Then he stopped. The night was shattered by the crack of thunderous blows and the coarse cheers of men. A sick sense of foreboding coiled in his chest as he ran toward the sound. And what he found made his blood freeze.

Trojan soldiers had gathered in a brutal circle, looking down at a group of captured soldiers—some twenty men, their backs slashed raw, blood pooling thick around them. They were battered, bruised, broken. Some fought against their bonds in defiance; others lay limp, lost to unconsciousness, perhaps worse.

At the center of this hellish scene was Paris, his back to Percy, a whip gripped in his hand. With a terrible strength, he struck down upon one of the prisoners, the crack of bone splitting the night, flesh tearing under the relentless bite of leather. The cruelty was almost ritualistic.

Percy’s stomach churned as he stepped forward, a strange numbness creeping over him.

"Paris," Percy called, his voice breaking through the eerie cadence of violence, though he could scarcely recognize it as his own.

Paris flinched, then turned slowly, his shoulders easing, as if he could shed the brutality from his face in an instant. His mouth curved into a smile, but there was something hollow in it, something forced. “Percy,” he murmured, his voice a soft caress, as though he weren’t standing amid bloodshed. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

Percy’s gaze fell, drawn inexorably to the glistening, crimson pools spreading around his bare feet. The blood was still warm, clinging to his skin.

He swallowed hard, searching Paris’s face for a flicker of humanity. “Who… who are these men?” he asked, his voice strained, fighting the horror rising within him.

“Achaeans,” Paris answered, a shadow passing over his face. “They sacked Lyrnessus tonight. Slaughtered the Cilicians,” Paris’s hand tightened on the whip, and his voice broke, a tremor running through it, “and took my cousin Briseis.”

Percy reached out, his hand gentle as it settled on Paris’s shoulder. He understood the rage, the raw desire for retribution—but the brutality? To see Paris, a god, reduced to this cruelty made something ache deep within him.

Percy inhaled sharply, stepping closer until his breath was warm against Paris’s ear, his voice barely a whisper. “Paris, you’re a god now. It’s…” He glanced over the broken bodies. “It’s not your place to unleash this kind of violence upon mortals. Look at them.” He gestured to the men, whose wounds gaped like ghastly mouths, bones visible beneath shredded flesh. “Your strength—it's more than theirs. Let them face mortal punishment, at least.”

Paris’s expression wavered, his anger momentarily softened by Percy’s words. A glimmer of realization flickered in his eyes, but it twisted into something else—a dark resolve Percy hadn’t seen before. He held the whip out toward Percy, his blood-stained hand extending the weapon with chilling calm. “Then you do it,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering. “It’s either you or me, Percy. If you won’t take this, I’ll continue.”

“They don’t even have weapons to defend themselves,” Percy managed, the words thick in his throat.

“And Cilicians had none when they were slaughtered.” A bitter smile played on Paris’s lips, his voice a low murmur threaded with vindictive satisfaction. “They deserve to suffer for what they’ve done. All of them.” He was watching Percy closely now, as if waiting, hoping perhaps, that Percy would understand.

Percy stared, his heart pounding, as Paris’s words sank in like shards of ice. "I won’t partake in this," he said, his voice cold, each syllable laced with disgust.

“Then don’t interfere.” Paris’s face darkened as he turned back to the broken figure of a prisoner at his feet, his arm rising, the whippoised for another blow.

But Percy’s hand shot out, gripping Paris’s wrist, halting the brutal swing. “You’re not yourself, Paris,” Percy hissed. “This grief has twisted you. This isn’t justice—it’s madness.”

Paris shook Percy off, his expression hardening, a dark gleam in his eyes. “Then take this and finish it,” he growled, shoving the handle into Percy’s hand. “They might survive if it’s you, but I won’t leave them breathing if I continue.”

Disbelief and a hollow hurt filled Percy’s gaze, but slowly, he closed his fingers around the whip’s intricately carved handle, feeling the weight of its purpose. Such beautiful craftsmanship—a thing of beauty, twisted into an instrument of cruelty.

Percy let his gaze drift over the crowd, seeking even the faintest glimmer of compassion. What he found instead was chilling. Amusement mingled with apprehension, a perverse pleasure twisted into their expressions as they watched Paris wield his wrath. And beneath it, in every taut jaw and narrowed eye, lurked a raw, pulsing fear—a fear of the god masquerading as a man in their midst, a fear that bound them to obedience, to silence.

This had become a spectacle, a grim ritual they seemed to have grown accustomed to, each face poised for the climax, as if awaiting the final, bloody crescendo. Who had taught them to revel in this violence? It couldn't have been Priam, that gentle, silver-haired king. He was absent, his peaceable wisdom nowhere to be found here, only Paris, surrounded by men who fed off cruelty and trembled beneath his gaze.

The tension coiled around them like smoke, thickening with each unspoken word. Paris's gaze bore into Percy, his breath shallow, his patience fraying. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes, dark as the blood on the ground.

“This isn’t you,” Percy whispered, his voice wavering, his eyes glossed with a sheen of hurt and disbelief.

Paris’s lips twisted in a faint, bitter smile. “Maybe it is me,” he replied, each word tinged with a raw, dangerous honesty. “Maybe you’ve been wrong about me all along.”

“No,” Percy insisted, his voice softer yet unyielding. “I know your heart, Paris.”

Paris scoffed, a flicker of skepticism darkening his gaze. “Do you? Because I will kill them, no matter what you think you know. This is war, Percy. They deserve this.”

Desperation twisted in Percy’s expression, the weight of his plea hanging heavy between them.

Percy’s gaze fell to the broken men scattered at their feet—some bearing wounds so grievous their breaths had already slowed to their last, others still clinging to life, eyes wide with terror. Soldiers caught in the tempest of a king’s feud, some of them scarcely older than Percy himself.

If he tried to save them, he risked becoming a traitor in their eyes; yet, if he did nothing, he would betray himself.

“Paris,” Percy began, a plea caught in his throat. “Could you—let me at least—”

But Paris’s expression hardened, his intent unyielding. Percy saw it in his eyes: these men would not leave Troy alive. Keeping them breathing would mean feeding them, a luxury Troy could ill afford with war clawing at its gates.

Paris shook his head, his voice flat and final. “No.”

“Even if I continue, they will die anyway,” he murmured, his words barely a whisper, “can you at least… grant them a quick death?” His gaze lingered on Paris, raw and pleading, the intensity in his eyes almost painful. “Please.”

Paris’s eyes fell shut, a slow, strained inhale as though to steady himself against some unseen tempest. For a moment, the cold mask slipped, and beneath it, Percy glimpsed a glimmer of the man he remembered—a gentleness buried beneath hardened resolve. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him, and he nodded, the fury in his gaze receding to a resigned stillness. “You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, reaching for his golden spear, his voice tempered by a weary calm.

“I don’t intend to.” Percy’s voice was soft but resolute, and he took a step back. He turned from the scene, his gaze dropping as he cast the whip aside.

Paris turned, his voice rising, sharp and unyielding as thunder. His command reverberated through his soldiers, who moved as one, their grim task evident in the tightened grips around their weapons. One by one, they plunged their spears through the chests of the captured Achaeans, each thrust final, precise, mercilessly swift.

Percy’s footsteps carried him away, yet the sounds lingered, haunting him—final gasps, bodies collapsing, the thud of mortality claimed in swift retribution.

Percy walked on, his steps steady, gaze fixed forward, but his mind churned in a turmoil of conflicting thoughts. The sounds of death still echoed in his ears, reverberating in his bones. He barely registered the hurried footsteps behind him, the scent of iron and blood growing stronger until Paris reached him.

“Percy!” Paris’s voice cracked the silence, but Percy didn’t turn, didn’t even slow his pace. Frustration flared in Paris’s eyes, and in a sudden, desperate movement, he reached out, gripping Percy’s shoulders, pressing him firmly back against the cold stone wall.

“Don’t ignore me,” Paris breathed, his voice low and strained, trembling with urgency. “I beg you.”

Percy’s eyes flickered toward him, guarded yet softened by a sorrow that clung to his gaze, a pain left unsaid yet seeping out in his silence. They stood there, breaths mingling in a silence that pulsed between them, a silence thick with regret and an unspoken bond neither dared to define.

Paris’s voice broke through, hesitant. “Just tell me… what side are you on?”

Percy’s brows furrowed. “Neither.”

A shadow crossed Paris’s face, his voice almost a whisper. “Are you still on my side, at least?”

“Yes.” Percy’s gaze softened, yet a sliver of disappointment remained. “But I thought you a man who would choose mercy.”

“I did choose mercy,” Paris countered, voice thick with frustration. “They died quickly.”

“Because I asked you to.” Percy’s words were a quiet rebuke. He imagined what might have happened if he hadn’t been there, if he’d simply slept on—those men, tortured to the brink, their last hours drawn out in agony.

Paris’s eyes darkened, a flicker of shame tracing his face, but he held Percy’s gaze. “That’s why I need you by my side, Percy. To hold me back, to keep me from going too far.”

Percy shook his head, a bitterness edging his tone. “I’m not your moral compass.”

“You once called me a contradiction of Ares…” Paris’s voice dropped, his eyes glinting with a darkness Percy hadn’t seen before. “But I’m beginning to think I’m not so different from him after all.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, and he held Paris’s gaze. “Yes. I think you’re even worse.” His voice was a low, cutting whisper. “You’re hiding something from me.”

Paris’s face twisted, a battle raging beneath the surface. For a moment, Percy could almost see the war within him—the shame, the pride, the hesitance to reveal whatever truth he buried beneath his rage. Gently, almost tentatively, Paris reached for Percy’s wrist, pulling him close with a quiet tenderness, as if testing whether Percy would follow. Percy did.

They walked in silence, returning to Percy’s chamber. There, Paris washed his face and hands, crimson rivulets streaming down his skin, swirling into the basin, remnants of his earlier wrath dissolving into the still water. He looked up then, his dark gaze lingering on Percy, as though searching his face for absolution or maybe even redemption.

Percy moved closer, settling beside him, silent, watchful, waiting.

“Since I became a god…” Paris’s voice broke the silence, rough and raw, worn thin from struggle. “I carry this anger, Percy.” His hands gripped the basin’s edge, knuckles paling, as if it was the only anchor to his own restraint. “It’s like a fire that never dies—gnawing at me, consuming me with a rage I’d never known. I try to control it, but there are times…” His words faltered, his gaze dropping, dark and distant. “There are times when I don’t even recognize myself.”

Percy leaned forward, searching Paris’s face, seeking the man he’d known beneath this confession. But what he saw sent a tremor through him—a smile, creeping up on Paris’s lips, a smile that didn’t belong. Paris’s head snapped up, and his eyes, smoldering orange like embers, fixed on Percy with a fire that was almost otherworldly. They burned in a shade all too familiar, like the ominous glow of Hekate’s magic, yet evoking something older, something darker. The faint scars on his face began to glow, each line etching into a sinister, pulsing light.

“It’s coming back to me, in waves.” Paris’s voice had a strange edge now, a simmering pleasure beneath the words. “And I think I’ve started to like the feeling.” He chuckled, eyes never leaving Percy, the embers within them flickering with twisted satisfaction.

Percy jolted awake, his breath caught somewhere between relief and dread, his pulse hammering as he took in his surroundings. Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a delicate warmth over the room. He looked to his side, his eyes falling on Paris, asleep, his dark curls sprawled in angelic disarray against the pillow. For a moment, Percy couldn’t discern dream from reality, the haze of his mind still thick with remnants of his vision.

He rose quietly, moving to the window to let the morning air cool the feverish tremor that clung to him. He closed his eyes, exhaling, desperate to shake the image from his mind.

“Nightmare?” Paris murmured, his voice a soft rasp as he stirred.

Percy flinched, his grip tightening on the windowsill as he struggled to grasp where reality began and the nightmare ended. Slowly, he turned to Paris, his eyes searching, still troubled. “I… I don’t know. Where was I last night?” He asked, his voice low. “And why are you here?”

Paris sat up with a sigh, running a hand through his tousled hair. He looked disheveled, dressed in different clothes than Percy remembered.

“You woke in the night and met with Cassandra,” he explained, his tone soft, as though cautious. “She said something that left you shaken. Priam sent me to find you… I found you slumped against the wall.” Paris’s brow furrowed in gentle concern. “I don’t blame you. Cassandra has a way of unsettling people… she’s unwell, mentally. Whatever she told you, it’s nothing more than shadows in her mind.”

Percy stared, his mind scrambling to piece together the edges of what was real. So the haunting look in Paris’s eyes, the relentless rage, the blood—were they only shadows of a nightmare?

A breath escaped him, relief unfurling in his chest like a slow tide receding. “I thought…” he started, but Paris approached, slipping his hands into Percy’s hair, his touch gentle yet possessive, grounding him in this fragile morning light.

“Forget it,” Paris murmured, his gaze soft, yet intent. “Whatever ghosts Cassandra gave you—let them stay in the dark.”

Percy forced a nod, though his thoughts churned beneath his calm exterior. Cassandra’s words had only been of Apollo, and yet his dream had been haunted by a vision of Paris—a twisted version, ferocious and ruthless. The dissonance was enough to make his heart waver, his mind doubt. Yet here was Paris, his touch gentle, his presence solid and grounding, a balm to the lingering dread that clung to Percy’s waking mind.

Paris leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to Percy’s cheek, his smile soft and unguarded, melting away the last tendrils of Percy’s nightmare. It was a smile that held warmth, genuine and quiet, so at odds with the dark figure Percy had faced in his sleep.

“It’s just us here, Percy,” Paris whispered, his fingers brushing softly against Percy’s cheek. “You’re safe.”

“How many days until the eclipse?” Percy’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Six days,” Paris replied, his tone gentle, almost tender.

Relief softened the tension in Percy’s shoulders. “Then time hasn’t left me.”

Paris’s hands slid down his back, steadying him. “Because you’re here with me,” he murmured, his voice low and resolute. “Nothing will take me from you, Percy—not time, not fate, not anything that wishes to steal us from each other.”

A faint smile touched Percy’s lips, and for that fragile moment, the lingering dread ebbed away, replaced by a quiet calm he hadn’t felt in days. He allowed himself to rest against Paris, his heart finally finding a steady, hopeful rhythm, one that felt almost… safe.

He pondered, almost absently, if he should confide in Paris—tell him of his plan concerning Helen, his newfound power over love’s tangled snares—and the caution that still wrapped him in silence.

A soft voice broke his reverie. “Will you train sword fighting with me today?” Paris’s words were a lifeline, cutting through the fog, and Percy’s gaze snapped upward, a spark igniting in his eyes.

“Yes,” he replied, the word spilling out with the hunger of someone starved for clarity, for action—anything to anchor himself.

Paris offered an excited smile. “After we eat, I will take you to the training grounds.”

Percy dressed himself in a set of training armor designed for both movement and protection. He wore a short chiton, reaching just above his knees, dyed a deep crimson to signify the city of Troy. Over it, he strapped a bronze cuirass—a simple chest plate fitted to his form.

Leather bracers encircled his forearms, reinforced with small bronze plates to guard against strikes. A belt secured his waist, holding a scabbard for his training sword, its leather grip worn but reliable. His sandals were laced high, reaching to his calves, giving his steps a sturdy grip on the sunbaked earth.

Paris moved with the raw, unrestrained power of a god, each strike laden with a force that seemed to shake the ground beneath them. His sword swung in broad, confident arcs, slicing through the air with deadly intent.

In contrast, Percy flowed like water, each step and pivot as light as air. He twisted and turned, evading Paris’s blows with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. His blade flickered, darting in and out like a silver flash, never still, never predictable. Every strike he dodged and parried was answered with a swift counter, as if he were weaving a dance around Paris’s powerful thrusts. With each lunge, Percy’s agility became more evident, his movements a mesmerizing blend of poise and precision, like a shadow eluding the sunlight.

Their clashing blades rang out, a metallic symphony that drew the eyes of everyone within earshot. Soldiers halted their own sparring sessions, their eyes riveted on the interplay of strength and grace, raw power and calculated precision. There was something almost mesmerizing in their duel, as if they were enacting an ancient dance known only to them, a blend of aggression and admiration woven into every clash of steel.

Priam himself appeared, standing at the edge of the training grounds, his gaze thoughtful and solemn as he observed his son and their unusual guest. Even the most hardened soldiers stole glances at him, reading the quiet approval etched in the king’s face. Beside him stood Hector, arms crossed, his stance seemingly idle yet his gaze was anything but indifferent. His eyes, sharp and calculating, traced Percy’s every movement, as though appraising each stroke, each shift, with a soldier’s discernment—a silent measure of its worth on the battlefield.

In the cool shade, Helen reclined among her attendants, her golden hair catching faint rays of sunlight that spilled through the canopy. Her hand lay upon her stomach, a subtle, protective gesture, while her piercing blue eyes followed Percy.

The sun rose higher, drenching the field in light, glinting off bronze and sweat. Their breaths grew heavier, but neither relented, lost in the rhythm of their exchange. Paris’s stance began to tighten, his resolve fierce as he tried to close the gap between them, but Percy slipped just out of reach each time, using his momentum to stay a step ahead.

At last, Paris swung his blade in a wide arc, forcing Percy back a few steps. Both warriors paused, breathing hard, eyes locked in silent respect. A quiet murmur rose from the gathered crowd—a mixture of awe and reverence for the intensity they had witnessed, a moment where strength and agility had collided beneath the Trojan sun.

“You held back,” Percy accused, his voice sharp with frustration as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He could still feel the tension in his limbs, the way Paris’s controlled strikes had kept him on edge.

“I did not,” Paris replied, his tone light, almost mocking, though there was an underlying hint of amusement. His lips quirked into a half-smile, but the glimmer in his eyes betrayed his restraint.

“You did,” Percy insisted, stepping back, his chest heaving with the exertion. “I’ve fought gods before. You don’t have to hold back.”

Before Paris could respond, the deep voice of Hector rumbled from behind them. “I won’t hold back.”

Percy turned, eyes narrowing as Hector approached, already gripping his sword with the steady confidence of a seasoned warrior.

“Training’s over,” Paris said, his voice firm as he stepped forward, his posture shifting into one of authority. He didn’t want this to escalate—not now, not when they were both still recovering from their previous sparring. But Hector wasn’t the kind of man who would back down, and Percy—Percy was never the kind of man to turn away from a challenge.

Percy’s gaze locked onto Hector, his mind already racing, calculating. He could learn more from Hector’s fight than he ever would from Paris’s controlled strikes. He stepped forward, his body tense with readiness, his eyes never leaving the older warrior.

“Let’s go, then,” Percy said, his voice low but firm. He nodded toward the center of the training ground and moved to stand in position. The sun hung high above them, casting sharp shadows on the sand beneath their feet.

Hector glanced at Paris as he passed him, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way he held himself—like a lion sizing up its opponent before the first strike. Paris didn’t say a word in response, merely watching with an unreadable look as Percy took his place.

Paris moved to join the other soldiers, stepping back to give them space, though close enough that he could intervene if the fight went awry.

Percy stood ready, his grip on his own sword tightening, waiting for Hector’s first move, the air around them thick with anticipation.

The crowd of soldiers had gathered, forming a loose ring around the two fighters, their eager eyes reflecting the anticipation of the battle that was about to unfold. The clash of swords had begun as soon as they stepped into their positions—Percy with his swift, flowing movements, Hector with the raw power and precision that had earned him his reputation.

Percy danced around Hector’s strikes, using his agility to sidestep blows that might have crushed lesser men. His sword flicked through the air like a blade of wind, finding the openings in Hector’s defense with the grace of a dancer, all while his mind stayed sharp, calculating each move.

Hector, though slower and more deliberate in his strikes, was no less dangerous. His blade came down with the force of a thunderclap, each swing a heavy promise of destruction. The clash of metal rang out in the heat of the day, and with each strike, Hector’s eyes blazed with intensity. Yet, as the fight wore on, something in Hector began to shift—his focus seemed to waver.

Percy saw it—a brief, telling flicker in Hector’s gaze, the unmistakable crack between composure and the shadow of something darker. It was a look he knew well, that tremor of a man caught in the throes of conflicting desires.

He took a steady breath, stepping closer, his voice a murmur threaded with provocation, soft but sharp enough to reach Hector’s ears alone.

“I wonder,” he began, his tone light, almost mocking, “what prize awaits if I win?” He let a smirk curl at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with a dangerous playfulness. “Helen, perhaps?”

The words hit Hector like a hammer, and Percy saw it in his eyes. The curse that Eros had placed upon Hector was alive and thrumming beneath the surface. Hector’s grip on his sword tightened, his eyes narrowing with a sudden, blind fury.

Hector growled, swinging his blade with renewed force, no longer calculating, no longer the disciplined warrior Percy had fought before. His attacks were wild, desperate, fueled by rage and jealousy.

Percy held back from deflecting, certain that the force alone would send him to his knees. But then, he saw an opening—a single flaw in Hector's technique. Ducking beneath a wild swing, Percy flowed with a rare precision, his elbow snapping into Hector's arm with enough force to jar the warrior’s grip. In a heartbeat, he kicked the sword from Hector’s hand, sending it clattering to the ground.

The sun retreated behind a wall of clouds, and a hush fell over the onlookers. Hector stood unarmed before Percy, yet his eyes held a smoldering fire, one that had not yet burned out. With a sudden, reckless fury, he charged at Percy, caring nothing for the blade that Percy still held.

"Hector!" Paris’s voice cut through the silence, a note of caution. But Hector didn’t falter.

Percy’s blade met his charge, the tip pressing just beneath Hector’s chin, a silent demand. Hector’s gaze flickered downward, and for a moment, the fury receded. But Percy saw it—a haunting shadow flickering in Hector’s eyes, a remnant of the curse Eros had laid upon him. The malice, the blind rage, stirred to life, vibrating in the air between them. Hector’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening as though he were on the edge of surrendering to the venom seething within.

Hector’s breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes still clouded with the remnants of his curse. “You… you did this,” he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice—only confusion and pain.

Percy stepped back, lowering his sword. He had won, but the victory felt hollow. It wasn’t Hector he had defeated—it was the curse, the twisted magic that had driven him to this moment.

Before Hector could recover, the soldiers rushed toward Percy, their eyes alight with excitement. “You were incredible!” one of them exclaimed, gripping Percy’s shoulder with a grin. “Can you spar with us next? Teach us what you know!”

The swarm of men was overwhelming, but Percy, though tired, couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through him.

He glanced at Hector, who had retreated to the edge of the training ground, his expression unreadable but not hostile.

“Alright,” Percy said with a grin, sweeping the sword from his shoulder. “Let’s make it a lesson, then. The sun’s not going anywhere.”

For the rest of the day, Percy taught them all. He moved with the ease of someone who had learned the art of survival, teaching not just how to wield a blade but how to think in battle, how to read the enemy’s movements, how to remain fluid and unpredictable. His body ached with the exertion, but the soldiers’ enthusiasm pushed him onward, each new challenge from them driving him to teach harder, fight smarter.

By the time the sun began its slow descent behind the horizon, the training grounds were a chaotic blur—sweat, blood, and the harsh clang of steel melding into a symphony of combat. Finally, it was Paris who called for the training to cease, his voice cutting through the air like a sudden breeze.

The soldiers, their bodies slick with sweat, clapped Percy on the back with exuberant grins. The camaraderie was infectious— their spirits high despite the weight of the world pressing ever closer.

One of the soldiers, a young man with dirt smeared across his face and a grin that stretched almost too wide, turned to Percy with eager eyes. “Care to join us for a drink?” he asked, his voice rough but full of warmth, already turning to rally others to the cause.

Percy hesitated, the thought of revelry appealing in some distant corner of his mind. His body ached from the exertion of the day, and the pull of camaraderie was undeniably strong. Yet, a whisper of caution stirred within him. The Achaean army was amassing; war was no distant dream. In less than two days, the city would be engulfed in flames, and the tides of fate would crash against them.

Yet as he looked at the soldiers, their energy still high despite their weariness, Percy felt something stir within him. A strange yearning—a desire to be part of something more than the constant struggle, more than the haunting weight of prophecy and duty. For once, to forget. To simply be.

He was about to turn down the offer when Paris’s voice broke through the moment.

“Go.”

He glanced over at Paris, who stood a few paces away, leaning against a pillar, the tenderness in his gaze impossible to miss. There was something about the look Paris gave him—something that softened the edges of his hesitation.

“And you?” Percy asked, his voice still tinged with the echo of doubt.

Paris’s smile was small but sure, and he straightened, the slight tilt of his head betraying his thoughts. “I have to meet with the counsel and Priam,” he said, his tone casual, but the promise in his voice was unmistakable. “I will join you during the night.”

Percy stood still, the decision catching in his chest, and then, with a slight nod, he let the tension ease from his body.

“Alright,” Percy said, the smile that tugged at his lips real this time.

And with that, he turned to join the soldiers, who greeted him with cheers and laughter, leading him toward the distant glow of the city’s lights, where the sound of celebration would fill the night. Paris stood behind, watching him go, his figure lingering in the fading light, and though Percy didn’t turn to look back, he could feel the warmth of Paris’s gaze on him.

Troy at night was a city of shadows and whispers, draped in the pale, ethereal glow of the moon. The once-vibrant streets, alive with the clamor of soldiers preparing for battle, now lay quiet, save for the occasional murmur of late-night conversations and the soft echoes of footsteps against stone. The air was thick with the mingling scents of roasting meat and fresh earth, reminders of the life that still pulsed through the city, despite the looming shadow of war. Lanterns flickered in the cool breeze, casting long, trembling shadows against the ancient walls, while the distant roar of the sea against the cliffs acted as a haunting lullaby—soothing, yet unsettling.

Percy walked among the soldiers, his steps slow and deliberate, blending into the ebb and flow of the night. The sounds of laughter and clinking wine cups grew louder as they drew near the courtyard. He entered the open space, and the thick, heady scent of wine immediately washed over him, its warmth mingling with the night air.

Laughter rang out—unrestrained, wild—as soldiers leaned back in their chairs, their faces flushed from drink. Though still clad in their armor, their movements had softened, their rigid postures giving way to a more relaxed demeanor. Wine flowed freely, deep crimson liquid filling cups and spilling over in the dim light of the torches, the ruby glow reflecting off the soldiers’ eager eyes.

The din of the evening swirled around him as Percy found a seat at one of the tables, surrounded by the men he had sparred with that very day. Their voices were warm, full of camaraderie, and for a moment, he allowed himself to be swept up in it.

But then, a presence stirred in the corner, pulling his attention away. Percy’s senses intensified, like a sudden rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. His gaze scanned the room, searching for the source. And there, in the corner, leaning casually against the wall, sat Ares. His legs were crossed over a stool, arms folded loosely over his chest, the lazy posture of someone pretending to sleep but never truly at rest.

Percy, curious, moved toward him, navigating through the clamor until he was seated on a long bench, just within reach. Far enough to remain at a safe distance, but close enough for their conversation to carry.

Ares stirred as Percy approached, his blood-red eyes flicking over him with an unreadable expression before a lazy smile tugged at his lips.

"Look who it is," Ares drawled, his voice a seductive murmur, thick with mirth and edged in something darker. "The Fates themselves must seethe to see you still draw breath."

"Are you drunk?" Percy asked, his eyebrow lifting in faint disbelief.

"Gods don’t get drunk," Ares replied smoothly, his tone like liquid bronze, resonant and proud. It was almost a taunt, as if the mere thought of inebriation was a mortal folly he could only observe from an amused distance. “I’m simply tired."

Percy’s eyebrow arched higher, skepticism lacing his gaze, as if he could peel back the thin veneer of Ares’s words.

Sensing the doubt in Percy’s silence, Ares chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. "I met with Aphrodite,” he said, savoring the name, each syllable curling in his mouth like a forbidden taste. “She kept me up for long nights, relentless. Insatiable, that one." A slow, throaty laugh escaped him, his eyes slipping shut as he seemed to relish some memory known only to him. "Care for the details?"

A flush crept over Percy’s face, his jaw tightening. "No," he muttered, his voice clipped.

Ares exhaled in mock disappointment. "No fun," he purred, his red eyes gleaming with mischief. "Such a pity. I’d have thought you’d appreciate a taste of divine indulgence."

"I’ve had enough of the divine indulgence for one lifetime," Percy murmured, half to himself.

But Ares wasn’t finished. His grin grew sharper, an almost feral gleam lighting his face. "You’ve barely scratched the surface," he murmured, gaze drifting to the soldiers basking in their wine and laughter, shadows flickering around their forms in the torchlight. "Have your mortal pleasures tonight, boy. You'll need them before what’s to come."

Percy’s eyes narrowed. "You mean the war?"

A chilling smile tugged at Ares’ lips. "Oh, if only it were that simple." His voice was both soft and ominous. "I hope this feast of carnage drags on for years, though the prophecy claims a decade." He gave a slow, careless shrug. "But I doubt they’ll last that long—these men always meet death faster than they expect."

A glimmer of something darker flickered in Ares's eyes as he added, “I heard you tried to sway Menelaus. Told him everything, didn’t you? Trying to silence kings with reason... admirable, but hopeless.”

Percy didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned away from Ares, letting his back serve as a barrier between them. A soldier, face flushed from drink, offered him a cup of wine, not sparing Ares a glance. Percy concluded, with a flicker of understanding, that the god was either cloaked in some kind of magic or rendered invisible to the soldiers.

Without looking at Ares again, Percy took the cup in his hand. He brought it to his lips, and as the sharp burn of the wine hit the back of his throat, his eyes slammed shut in reflex. It was raw, unrelenting, and the heat of it spread like wildfire through his chest. His breath caught, a fleeting moment of pain.

Ares’s sharp smile only deepened as he leaned closer, his gaze trailing over Percy with a predator’s interest, his focus narrowing as his eyes fell to the ground. A cold, amused silence hung between them before his voice, low and almost languid, broke the stillness.

“There’s blood under your feet.” Ares’s voice was soft, but the words carried a weight far heavier than the casual tone suggested.

Percy turned, following Ares's gaze, and lifted his leg, raising it slightly to inspect the soles of his boots. His eyes scanned for any sign of blood, but there was none.

“You’ve drunk too much,” Percy said, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re having delusions.”

But before he could even finish his sentence, Ares moved with a swiftness that caught him off guard. His hand shot out, grasping Percy’s leg with an almost unnatural strength. Percy barely had time to brace himself before he was dragged across the bench, his body sliding effortlessly toward the god.

With deliberate slowness, Ares untied the leather straps around Percy’s calf, before peeling the shoe off. A soft hum escaped Ares's lips, his eyes never leaving the bloodstained sole.

Percy leaned forward, his gaze following Ares’s hands, and his breath caught. The blood was dark, congealed into crusty patches on the soles of his feet. He hadn’t noticed it before. The sparring grounds had been quiet, the few drops of blood that had stained the earth quickly absorbed by the dry soil. And he'd bathed last night, so how had it come to be?

He looked up at Ares, who met his gaze with quiet, knowing eyes.

Without thinking, he yanked his leg away from Ares's grip, standing abruptly. The cup in Ares’s hand tilted slightly, a faint splash of wine spilling over the rim, but his gaze never faltered.

Percy’s heart raced as he pieced the memory together—his nightmare. The broken bodies of Achaeans, their blood pooling beneath him. He had thought it was just that—just a dream. But now, the evidence was undeniable.

Paris had been brutal—had been cruel in ways that Percy had refused to see, had denied in the warmth of his embrace and the tenderness of his words. The realization crashed over him like a wave, the weight of betrayal settling in his chest.

Percy’s breath came short, his hands clenched at his sides. How could he have been so blind? How could he have let himself believe that Paris, for all his affection, was anything other than the god he was?

The truth was too ugly to ignore now.

And yet... six days. In six days, he was supposed to be Paris’s husband, to stand beside him in front of gods and men alike, bound by vows that would make them one. But how could he marry a man who had taken his trust and twisted it, who had gaslit him, leaving him to question his own memories and his grasp on reality?

A flicker of doubt crossed his mind, tainting his perception of Paris even further. Maybe Paris was ashamed, hiding this brutal side, afraid of how Percy might react, afraid of rejection. Percy remembered the words he had thrown at him in a fit of anger, accusing Paris of being even more ruthless than Ares. Perhaps that had stung, perhaps that had driven Paris to cover up his actions with a lie, to cast a veil over his own darkness. But the motives were lost in speculation, only adding to the hollow ache gnawing at him.

He grabbed his cup, taking a long sip of the bitter wine, feeling the harsh burn slide down his throat. He wiped his lips, his gaze unfocused.

“Oh, it hit a nerve, didn’t it?” Ares’s voice cut through the fog of Percy’s mind, sharp and amused. “I just smelled Achaean blood under your feet, which struck me as... odd. But now I get it. Someone's been keeping secrets from you.” He leaned in, his gaze shrewd. “And judging by your reaction, it’s someone close.”

“Shut up.” Percy’s voice was a quiet snarl as he grabbed for the wine, needing something—anything—to dull the edge of his fury. He poured the dark liquid into his cup, but before he could bring it to his lips, Ares’s hand covered his, holding the cup firmly in place.

Ares’s smirk widened, a glint of mock sympathy in his gaze. “So, no wedding then?” he asked, lifting a brow as though the idea amused him.

Percy scowled, snatching his hand back. “Aren’t you on the Spartan side? What are you even doing here?” he demanded, irritation flaring up in place of his despair. He reached for the wine again, but Ares was faster, raising the cup to his lips and downing the wine in one easy gulp.

“I’ve always had a taste for drama,” Ares murmured, setting the cup down with a flourish. “And this,” he gestured between Percy and himself, a grin tugging at his lips, “is bound to be interesting.”

Percy’s gaze locked onto Ares, the god’s sudden intensity catching him off guard.

"I don’t want you to die again,” Ares said, his voice laced with an unexpected sincerity. “There are many men in the Underworld, damned to sit there—warriors who died too young, either by their own foolishness or because someone stronger bested them. Great warriors, all of them.”

Ares’s gaze grew distant, as though he could see through the veil between worlds, drawing his thoughts from a place beyond mortal reach.

Then Ares’s focus sharpened again, and he leaned forward, his posture shifting into something more deliberate, something almost predatory. “Troy will be sieged, sooner or later, and you seem determined to keep it whole,” Ares continued, his voice lowering to a near whisper, almost conspiratorial. “So, demigod, what if I could create you an army—an army from the Underworld itself? An army of brave, undead men.”

Percy’s breath caught. He felt the enormity of the offer in his chest, each beat of his heart resonating with the question that followed. The thought of an undead army, men dragged from death’s grip to fight by his side, was both thrilling and terrifying, carrying a darkness that made his skin crawl. Yet, he couldn’t deny the appeal of such power, a force that might truly turn the tide for Troy.

But it was Ares’s eyes that held him captive now, their intense, crimson depths glinting with an unspoken challenge, as though daring Percy to take a step into that shadowed world—to risk everything for the sake of a city that wasn’t even his own.

"Will they be... Spartan?" he asked, cautious. "If they are, wouldn’t it go against everything they fought for to turn them against their own homeland?"

Ares leaned back, his lips curling into a half-smile. “In death, the oaths of the living mean little. These men are damned,” he said, his tone both dark and enticing. “They didn’t keep their vows to the Styx, and that’s why they suffer in the depths. But that suffering could end, you know—if they’re given one purpose: to redeem themselves.”

The notion gripped Percy, and he could almost see it—ghostly figures clad in armor, rising from the shadows, their past sins stripped away by a singular cause. The chance for redemption, even through warfare, twisted something deep within him, both thrilling and unnerving.

“And they would follow my lead?” he asked, searching Ares’s face, looking for any sign of deception.

“Follow you?” Ares chuckled, the sound low and rough, as if amused by Percy’s cautious optimism. “They would do more than follow you. They would see you as their salvation—the one man offering them a chance at freedom from the endless torment of the Underworld.” Ares’ eyes gleamed with an eerie hunger. “For a warrior’s soul, there’s no higher honor. To fight for something—anything—other than the nothingness they’ve known.” Ares voice was now low and hypnotic, as though each word was a lure. “And the best part, boy, is that no matter which side you choose, they will listen to you. And only you. Not Agamemnon, not Alexander, not even a god.”

Percy’s gaze fell to the ground as he let the idea sink in, its implications weaving through him like a dark promise.

"Imagine it, Perseus—an army of warriors unbound by mortal frailties, who neither tire nor tremble, whose senses have been sharpened by death’s embrace, and who return not to live, but to conquer.”

As Ares’s words seeped into the air, a strange energy pulsed through the inn, a tangible force that seemed to bend the light around them. The lamps flickered, casting shifting shadows across the room, and the low hum of conversation grew louder, morphing into hearty laughter and the rousing strains of ancient war songs.

The men seemed to feel it too—an unspoken bond that swelled in their chests, a sense of camaraderie that rippled outward from Ares’s aura, amplifying the thrill of battle in their voices. Cups clinked louder, hands clasped shoulders with renewed vigor, and for a moment, it felt as though they were already bound to one another by something sacred, something fierce and unbreakable.

Percy found himself caught in the current of it, the weight of Ares’s words sinking deep into his mind, stirring thoughts of the strange, spectral army promised to him. There was something hauntingly beautiful about the offer—an army bound by their regrets, returning to redeem their own pasts and bound to him alone.

Yet, was this ethical at all? Was there not something deeply foul about it? What of the laws of the natural order, the delicate balance between life and death? This was necromancy—an ancient, forbidden art. And yet, hadn’t he himself been returned from the abyss? The question hung there, suspended like a poisoned vine, too tangled to untangle.

There was one person who might understand—one person who knew the delicate balance between life, death, and power. Hekate. She was the one who stood between the worlds, the one who could show him the consequences of wielding such power, or perhaps help him find a way to navigate the treacherous waters without sinking into the mire of corruption.

“I won’t make any decisions without first consulting them with Hekate,” Percy said, his voice firm. His words hung in the air like a shield, a boundary he refused to cross without the wisdom of the goddess. Ares, however, merely rolled his eyes, his amusement sharpening into something more dangerous.

“But,” Percy began, the words tumbling out with a palpable unease. “I can’t reach her now, nor can I find her. I don’t know where she is.” His brow furrowed, and his eyes darted to Ares, searching for some flicker of knowledge.

“Oh, so you’ve lost your mom?” Ares mocked, his voice smooth and lazy, like the whisper of smoke curling through the air. “You sound like a child who doesn’t know where to turn.” He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “I have no idea where she is, kid,” Ares continued. “She’s probably hiding in her realm, lost in her own shadows. You’d be best off starting there.”

“Well, I can’t get there,” Percy admitted, frustration thick in his voice. He hesitated, then continued, the truth spilling out in a rush. “Hermes stole something from Hades. And now... now he can’t take me there, not with Hades's wrath hanging over him.”

Ares studied him with a curious expression, the flicker of a dark idea forming behind his eyes. “Then you’d better find your own way.” His gaze sharpened, and his voice dropped into a dangerous murmur. “I’ve heard you know how to manipulate Styx’s waters. Hades himself told me you do it well.”

Percy’s brow furrowed, unsure of where Ares was leading him. “So?”

“Look for the dead in the waters. Preferably... a human one,” Ares said, his tone almost casual, as if the suggestion wasn’t disturbing at all.

Percy stared at him, not entirely sure he had heard right. “What?”

Ares leaned forward slightly, the amusement returning to his features, but this time with an edge of something sinister.

“The dead don’t travel by boat if they drown. The sea takes them, swallows them whole, and Styx ferries them instead. But there’s a rule: if you pray to Styx, she may hear you. She may allow you to travel with the soul, if you’ve called it to her.” He paused, his eyes gleaming with cold knowledge. “I’ve heard you’ve a knack for this kind of thing.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed as he processed the strange suggestion. “You seem to know an awful lot about these things,” he remarked, his voice laced with skepticism.

Ares chuckled, a rich, dark sound. “Oh, I know more than you think. Gods are excellent at collecting knowledge—especially when it serves their interests.” His eyes gleamed, but there was a flash of something more—something unreadable. “Besides, I’ve always had a special interest in the dead.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, his voice steady but edged with suspicion. “And what exactly do you get out of this? Helping me?”

Ares’s shrug was slow and languid, the motion imbued with an air of effortless arrogance, as though the question barely touched him. “I want to see you reach your full potential," he said, his words dripping with dark amusement. "And to call Styx from the mortal world... well, that’s a feat no one has dared attempt before. If they did, they likely didn’t live long enough to boast about it. But you, kid, you just might.”

Percy’s gaze remained fixed on Ares, his mind racing, trying to untangle the twisted motives behind the god’s cryptic words. “Alright,” he muttered, his voice low with contemplation. “And what about that army of the dead you offered me? Why hand them to me?”

Ares’s smile faltered, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he masked it with his usual air of indifference. It was clear that he was growing weary of the conversation, but he recognised the need for closure in Percy’s eyes, so he continued, his voice laced with twisted joy.

“There’s a certain... thrill in watching someone break free from the chains of their innocence,” Ares said, his voice dark. “To see them fall into the abyss and revel in the wreckage they leave behind. It’s a beauty, really—a kind of savage poetry.” His gaze locked with Percy’s. “And you, boy, you’re on the cusp of that beauty.”

“Innocent?” Percy’s voice cut through the tension, thick with doubt. “You think I’m innocent?” The word tasted strange on his tongue, foreign even. He was not a child. He was not untouched. He had bled, he had killed, he had been submerged in darkness. Innocence—what an absurd thing to attribute to him now.

"There’s a difference between the violence of the unknowing, the violence that comes from panic, from survival—that is the innocent blood, the blood that stains you unknowingly. But the blood of someone who has embraced the kill, who relishes the battle—that is something else entirely.” His words were slow, deliberate, each one weighed with meaning.

“The battlefield changes you,” Ares continued, his tone softer now, almost philosophical, as though he were the architect of every war, every battle, every blood-soaked moment. “It strips you down to your most primal self. What you’re left with is the truth of who you are—beneath all that hero nonsense. And trust me, Perseus,” he leaned closer. “you’re no hero.”

The words hung in the space between them, thick with an unspoken truth—a truth that tasted like iron and ashes, like the bloodlust that ran through Ares's very veins. It wasn’t about honor or power. It was about the raw, primal thrill of destruction.

Ares rose suddenly, his gaze fixed on Percy with a strange glint. Without warning, he clasped Percy’s head under his arm, the way a master might with his apprentice, firm but without malice. Percy struggled against the god’s iron grip for a moment before realizing resistance was useless; Ares clearly had a purpose for this unexpected escort.

They strode into the night, the air sharp and clean, purging Percy’s lungs of the inn's stale haze of spilled wine and sweat. Freed from Ares’s grip, he took a step back, eyeing the god warily.

“Follow,” Ares commanded, his voice like a blade against the dark. The simplicity of the order prickled Percy’s curiosity despite himself, compelling him forward.

They walked in silence, and Percy’s footsteps grew slower as they neared the army stables. There, looming in the moonlight, was Ares’s chariot, a fearsome sight forged of obsidian and bronze, sleek and predatory like a panther poised to pounce. Three monstrous horses were hitched to it, their muscular forms shimmering under the starlight. Blood-red eyes gleamed from beneath dark manes, and vicious, spiked horseshoes adorned their hooves, relics of battles untold.

The beasts dipped their heads into wooden troughs, tearing into raw slabs of meat with a fervor that made Percy pause. He was struck by the sight—horses that fed on flesh, their lips stained with blood, each muscle rippling with barely contained savagery.

“You can pet them,” Ares chuckled, his tone taunting, as though daring Percy to flinch.

Percy took a step forward, curiosity outweighing his caution. Tentatively, he extended his hand toward the nearest beast, his palm brushing over its flared nostrils. The horse huffed, its hot breath misting in the chill air, but it did not pull away. Percy’s hand traveled up to its forehead, lingering there as the beast’s ears perked up, as if surprised by the gentle touch.

Ares watched him in silence, a flicker of satisfaction shadowing his gaze. He stepped closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with Percy, his presence a dark, pulsing heat that reminded Percy of the volatile creatures he had just befriended.

“These are not like mortal horses,” Ares murmured, his voice rich with a note of pride. “They crave battle; they thirst for blood. Only a warrior’s touch can calm them.” His gaze flicked to Percy, watching with an almost fatherly satisfaction as Percy’s hand moved steadily over the horse’s wild mane. “Then again,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “it’s in your blood. Poseidon’s legacy. You understand creatures that others only fear.”

He moved to the chariot, the vehicle’s dark metal gleaming with a sinister allure under the moonlight, its frame crafted for speed and ferocity alike. Ares turned back to Percy, gesturing with a nod.

“Get in.” He commanded simply, his eyes gleaming with the expectation of obedience.

Percy hesitated, his hand falling from the horse’s head. The creature gave him a nudge, its muzzle stained red from the blood it had been devouring only moments before. The sticky warmth of it smeared across Percy’s shoulder, and he felt a jolt of revulsion. Wiping his hand discreetly on his tunic, he finally spoke, his gaze sharp as it held Ares’s.

“Should I trust you?” Percy’s voice, cool and calculated, broke the stillness. He could taste the weight of his question, a lingering note of suspicion hanging between them. After countless gods’ tricks—some entangling him with false promises, others twisting his very soul—he was slow to believe in anything divine, especially when it came to vessels such as this. Only with Hermes, perhaps, would he feel any sense of ease. Yet here was Ares, a god as unpredictable as war itself.

Ares, however, did not flinch at the inquiry. “You can trust I won’t harm you,” he said, his voice almost too soft, too certain, “for I never have—and I don’t intend to now.” His eyes, dark and intense, held Percy’s gaze. “I would rather see you in your full health on the battlefield, unbroken and strong. That is my desire.”

Ares leaned in, his voice lowering, tinged with an odd kind of gravity. “Besides, I want to show you something. Consider it…another lesson.”

Percy’s gaze shifted back toward the distant palace, a shadow crossing his face. He was not ready to face Paris again. Not yet. Instead, he found himself stepping toward the chariot, drawn by a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. There was something almost inevitable in his decision, as though he had no other choice but to follow this path, dark as it was.

Ares joined him, lips twisting into a grin as he seized the reins and snapped them, urging the horses forward with a sharp command. The beasts leapt into motion, muscles rippling, and the chariot surged ahead, its wheels grinding against the earth before lifting into the air. The sudden force wrenched Percy back, unbalancing him, and he clutched the edge as a laugh erupted from Ares. "Careful," Ares remarked, his voice laced with mockery, "You wouldn’t want to fall off so soon."

The chariot flew forward, and Percy clung to its sides, his heart hammering against his ribs. The world below them began to blur, and he couldn’t help but wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he was being carried toward something he could never escape.

The chariot touched down with a thundering crash, the ground shaking beneath them as they halted on the charred outskirts of what had once been a thriving city. But now, all that remained were the smoldering remains, the sickly glow of fire licking at the fractured timber of broken homes and crumbled stalls.

Percy’s stomach churned as the acrid scent of burnt flesh invaded his senses. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind grappling with the horror of the sight before him.

Corpses—lifeless and twisted—lay scattered across the streets, with only the most determined of survivors working to gather the dead in one place. Their movements were slow, reverent, as though the very act of touching the fallen was an acknowledgment of the brutality they had witnessed.

Percy’s gaze swept over the destruction, his heart heavy with the weight of what he saw. He didn’t need to ask the question; the ruin spoke for itself, loud enough to drown out any feigned ignorance. He knew, deep down, that this was no accident, no random attack. This was calculated, precise in its cruelty.

“Achaeans,” Percy muttered, the word falling from his lips like a dagger.

Ares, watching him with an unreadable expression, spoke the words Percy could barely bring himself to say. “It’s city of Lyrnessus. They sieged for supplies... and women.”

Lyrnessus, once a proud and flourishing city, now lay in ruins, its splendor all but erased by the horrors of war. The city had been a jewel, nestled against the edge of a once-bountiful river. Its marble streets had been smooth and inviting, the buildings tall and proud, their white stone gleaming like the bones of some ancient creature.

But now, the city was a carcass, a shell of its former self. The once-pristine homes had been reduced to skeletal frames, their roofs collapsed under the weight of fire and steel. The cobbled streets were littered with the broken remnants of lives lost—the shattered shards of pottery, torn banners fluttering in the wind like tattered souls.

Percy’s eyes darted to the temple that stood at the heart of the city, its towering structure still holding some semblance of grandeur despite the carnage surrounding it. But the sight that greeted him was enough to twist his insides—the golden statue of Apollo, once resplendent in its divine form, now shattered, its torso cleaved clean in two. The gilded pieces of the god’s body lay scattered at the foot of the temple steps, as though a mighty force had cast him down from his place among the heavens.

It was here that the Achaeans had taken Briseis—Apollo’s priestess, a woman caught in the web of war, a prize claimed by those who saw her as little more than spoils.

His gut twisted in discomfort, a knot tightening as the image of Paris, bloodied and angry, surged in his mind.

Percy had thought him mad—a vengeful fool. But now, amidst the ruins of Lyrnessus, he could not help but understand. Paris was not simply driven by madness; he was enacting a justice borne of suffering, an eye for an eye.

His breath hitched as Ares, with an unsettling calm, strode toward the mound of bodies—burned, slashed, and broken—each a silent testament to the savagery of war. Percy’s gaze flickered away, but it was a futile effort. His eyes could not leave the scene as Ares reached into the pile, his fingers brushing against the cold flesh of a child.

Ares lifted the small form with an ease that was both horrifying and matter-of-fact, the body pale against his dark, powerful hands.

"Light enough for you to carry," Ares mused with a wicked edge to his voice, as he approached Percy, the weight of the child’s body an absurdity in his arms.

Percy stumbled back, shivers crawling up his spine like icy tendrils. Ares's eyes never left him, studying his every reaction, a predator savoring the unease.

Ares extended his hands, the body cradled between his palms like some grotesque offering. "You need a body to communicate with Styx," he said, his voice like a dark lullaby, low and commanding.

Percy glanced at the child, whose delicate features were frozen in an eternal, mournful sleep. “This one did not die from drowning,” he whispered, as though speaking the words aloud would absolve him of the guilt growing in his chest. The child’s face was as pale as moonlight, framed by dark hair that seemed to absorb the dim light of the ruined city.

"But he was not yet buried," Ares countered, his tone edged with the coolness of inevitability. "The sooner he reaches Hades, the better for his soul."

Percy’s stomach churned. The child seemed untouched by the cruelty of war, an innocent caught in the chaos of something far beyond his understanding. But then again, was there ever innocence in war?

Ares stepped closer, sensing the demigod’s hesitation, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Don’t be afraid," he said, almost with a kind of amused tenderness. "Death is a part of life. One you’ve long danced with."

Percy nodded mechanically, the movement hollow, like a man walking a path he had no choice but to follow. He reached for the body, feeling the coldness seep into his palms as he took it from Ares’s hands. The weight was wrong, too light and too heavy all at once—an absence of life that made his heart ache.

Looking down at the child, Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a different kind of death. The souls he had guided in the Underworld had never felt so... final, so real. He had seen death before, felt it slither past him as shadows in the dark. But this—this stillness of flesh, the reality of mortal decay before his very eyes—struck a chord deep in his chest. It was a reminder of the fragile thread that separated life from death.

In the Underworld, the souls drifted like mist, untethered from their earthly forms. Here, in the ruins of Lyrnessus, death was all too tangible, suffocating in its presence. It was too much, too real, too close.

He walked without words, his body moving on instinct, each step deliberate and heavy. His mind was blank, a strange emptiness where once there had been thoughts, but still, there was a rhythm to his movements, a mechanical grace. He knew what he was supposed to do, knew the purpose that surged within his veins. Perhaps it was Styx herself, still flowing in his blood, or perhaps it was the weight of all that he had seen, all that he had touched.

Behind him, there were people—silhouettes in the fading light, trailing after him without a word, their footsteps as quiet as the breath of the dead. No one dared to speak, no one sought to stop him. They merely followed, as if they knew they would witness something beyond mortal comprehension.

Ares’s presence was palpable, his footsteps steady and unflinching, watching with that same unreadable gaze, ever vigilant. Percy could feel him, even as the distance between them stretched.

The wind whipped around Percy, pulling at the folds of his robes as he descended toward the shore. The waters churned restlessly at his feet, but as soon as they recognized the son of Poseidon, they stilled. Small waves kissed the sand, the sea giving way to him.

He walked deeper into the water, the cold creeping up his legs until it reached his hips. He looked down at the child in his arms, now a weightless burden, still and silent. He could hear the rhythm of his own heartbeat against the child’s fragile chest, could almost feel the pull of the soul still tethered to the mortal realm.

With his voice steady and clear, Percy spoke, the words rising from some deep, instinctual place within him. “Styx, I call upon you. Grant this child an entrance to the Underworld, so I may guide its soul toward peace.”

As he pressed the child to his chest, an unfamiliar emotion—something like sorrow, something like reverence—wrapped itself around his heart. The waters, cold as they were, seemed to pulse with an energy all their own, their touch icy but comforting in the same breath. Percy closed his eyes, focusing on Styx, calling her presence to him with every ounce of will he possessed.

Each utterance of her name felt like the tide pulling him further under, a current too strong to resist, tugging at the edges of his very soul.

The air around him grew thick with a cold, unnatural stillness, and then the shift began. A child's form, pale and delicate, burst into blue flame, the fire crackling with a strange, eerie radiance. Percy flinched, his muscles tensing, yet he did not let go. The flames burned no warmth, no heat—on the contrary, they were icy, a frigid breath of Styx herself that skimmed the edges of his skin without scalding.

As the fire blazed higher, the waters surrounding Percy seemed to stir in response. With an eerie, almost sentient shift, the water around him began to churn, swirling into a vortex. A black whirlpool formed, its spirals twisting inward, pulling with a slow, inevitable force. The very earth beneath him seemed to groan, and Percy felt himself being drawn deeper, the pull dragging him into the depths of the earth, deeper into the cold, suffocating dark that was Styx's realm. It was as though the sea itself was bending to his will, as if the waters recognized him now, acknowledged his summons.

Percy’s eyelids fluttered close, the pressure of the dark whirlpool squeezing the air from his lungs, and when he opened them again, everything had changed.

The child’s body in his arms was gone. In its place, only a wailing soul clung to him, its cries filling the space around them. Percy’s heart clenched at the sound. It was not the sorrowful wail of a grieving spirit, but the pure, raw agony of a soul wrenched prematurely from the flesh.

There were no tears here, only the wailing of something lost, a life unfinished.

“Shh,” Percy whispered, cradling the soul gently to his chest, as if he could somehow comfort the emptiness, the grief that burned in the ethereal form. The soul still writhed in his arms, a silent struggle that twisted in the air like smoke. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

And though Percy didn’t need to turn, he could feel her—the dark, omnipotent presence that had come to collect the soul. Styx stood behind him, her form a shadow in the swirling darkness of the Underworld.

“You’ve done well,” Styx’s voice rasped, ancient and cold, yet strangely warm in its way. The child’s soul stilled in his arms, no longer wailing, now silent and serene, drifting toward its final rest.

As Styx’s shadow deepened around him, Percy stood in silence, the darkness of the Underworld swallowing them whole.

“Guide the soul. Help it cross.”

Percy sat in the stillness, the world around him fading to a muted hum as the soul drifted away, slipping from his grasp like water through fingers. The child, now at peace, joined the countless others who wandered the shadowed realms of the Underworld, their slumber untouched by time or the cruelty of the world above.

He sat on the shore, his legs drawn close to himself, the cold kiss of the water’s edge creeping against his skin, yet offering no comfort.

From the depths of the water, Styx emerged, her form rising like an ethereal fog, her features barely visible in the twilight. She was a figure of dark elegance, her movements graceful but laden with an ancient power that seeped into the very air around them.

“You guided that little one, from the mortal realm to peace,” Styx’s voice drifted, raw and velvet, as though woven from the shadows of her river. “Hekate saw this truth within you.”

Percy met her gaze, still haunted by the weight of the child he had held. “What truth?”

Styx moved closer, her silhouette deepening until the tendrils of her skirt coiled around his feet like whispering reeds, binding him in place. “You are meant to be a psychopomp, a soul-bearer, as she is, as the messenger is. But,” she paused, a bony finger extending toward the river’s fathomless depths, “yours is the path of water.”

Percy’s pulse thudded hollowly in his chest, the sound reverberating through him. “You brought me here,” he said, his voice trembling with both conviction and doubt. “You tore me through the vortex because I called you. Just as Ares told me to.”

“Yes,” Styx murmured, her words winding upward from the abyss like smoke rising from the dark. “Because it was you,” she whispered, her voice thick with something older than time itself, “No other mortal could pierce the veil and summon me. The God of War knows this.”

He swallowed, feeling his own words catch in the stillness, a plea rising from the hollow of his chest. “Why me? I’m not a god—I shouldn’t have that power.”

“Not a god, no,” she replied, the depth in her voice rippling with something like prophecy. “But if you were one, if immortality ever sank its roots into you… this is the call that would bind you, just as it binds you even now.”

Percy’s breath hitched, and his voice faltered, stumbling under the weight of her gaze. “Styx, I’m just… one person. A person who isn’t enough. If I were to do this again…” He shook his head, his words shaking with the weight of what he had already seen. “The bodies in that city. The child. I don’t know if I could do it again.”

A silence as vast and consuming as the river itself settled around them, a stillness that pulled the breath from his lungs. When Styx spoke, her words bore the depth and ache of the ages. “You are the son of Poseidon, of tides and tempests. Your blood is the river’s blood, your spirit flows with its silent current. The river of souls courses within you—whether you will it or not.”

She paused, her gaze penetrating, fathomless. “I chose you because you are like me,” she whispered, the shadows shifting around her. “And yet, you are unlike me in a way I shall never know.”

Percy looked up, caught in the dark well of her gaze.

“I have never known mortality,” she continued, her voice a quiet confession that seemed to erode the very stones around them. “Nor have I felt the whisper of compassion. You, however… you carry it like a flame, a bond to those who live and die. There is a part of you that belongs to the souls, to the ebb and flow of death’s silent river. You feel their plight, and because of this, you can reach them in ways I cannot.”

Percy closed his eyes, leaning heavily into his elbows, letting the weight of Styx’s words wash over him like a cold tide. Her words had struck a nerve, unraveling the knots of his doubts, giving name to the strange peace he felt when he reached into the ether, drawing lost souls back from the void and guiding them toward rest. It was as though he’d been born to fish them from the darkness, his hands instinctively knowing the way, his heart understanding the weight of their journey. Perhaps this was his purpose.

But that realization, the very idea of it, sat like a stone in his chest. The peace he felt was edged with sorrow—a burden that left his heart raw, heavy, each soul a reminder of the life it had once carried. The memory of that child’s lifeless form in his hands was etched in vivid detail, and it churned within him now, stirring up doubts. Could he do it again? And again? He thought of the endless faces, each a flicker of life extinguished, waiting to be guided onward.

His hands trembled slightly, a pulse of dread tightening in his veins. War loomed on the horizon like a storm, and with it would come countless souls, their eyes pleading, lost and wandering. They would seek his help if not buried, some innocent, some furious, but all restless, unable to cross alone. Percy shivered at the thought, his heart a mixture of resolve and fear. The weight of it all was dizzying.

His voice, when it finally emerged, was low, weighted with quiet determination. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry them,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Styx’s gaze softened, her voice a rare, unexpected comfort in the still, suffocating air. “To carry the souls will always be your choice,” she murmured, her words like a balm against the burn of his uncertainty. “And when you call for me to take them, as you did now, I will be there. Each time, Perseus, I will be by your side.”

The unexpected warmth in her words made him smile faintly. “This is probably the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

She inclined her head, a glimmer of wryness breaking through her stoic facade. “And it has exhausted me greatly.” Her figure seemed to dissolve at the edges, a shadow retreating back into the endless depths. “I will take my leave.”

“Wait.” Percy stood, reaching toward her fading form. “Where is Hekate?”

Styx paused, a ripple in the darkness as her gaze met his one last time. “Seek Hades. He will tell you what you seek.” And with that, her form slipped into the currents, the river swallowing her in a shroud of black.

Percy crossed the river, its spectral chill lingering in his bones, and entered the yawning darkness of Hades' palace. His footsteps echoed softly through the empty halls, the only sound in that vast, silent place.

In the shadowed heart of the palace garden, a figure emerged—a presence woven from the very substance of the gloom yet carrying a glow all her own. Persephone stood there, her pale beauty a breath of life amid death’s desolation. She moved toward him, her smile gentle, a silent invitation in her eyes.

“To see you here... not a sight I expected,” she murmured, her voice warm, as if they were meeting on a sunlit day. Her gown billowed around her like moonlight woven with shadows, and she extended her hand, offering him a delicate flower. Pale and translucent, it held a ghostly beauty.

Percy accepted the bloom, lifting it to his face. To his surprise, it bore the scent of fresh lilac—a fragrance of spring, untouched by the decay he’d come to expect.

“Styx told me to seek your husband,” he said, the flower still lingering near his nose. “She exhausted her words.”

Persephone nodded, her lips curving in amusement. “He’s here,” she said, glancing behind her. She turned to reveal Hades, hunched beside an ancient tree, hands buried in its gnarled roots.

Percy blinked, taken aback at the sight of Hades in such a... mundane moment. The king of the underworld, engrossed in tending his wife’s garden, his fingers working carefully around the roots as though the cares of the dead mattered little here.

Hades didn’t look up but murmured, “I knew you’d come back here again.” His fingers deftly tugged at a thick, black root that writhed as if it possessed a mind of its own, a soft, otherworldly shriek rising from it. “Stop your squirming, vile thing,” he muttered, “this is my wife’s garden. Go leech elsewhere.” His hand released the root, which seemed to recoil into the shadows, vanishing into the earth.

Persephone watched with quiet amusement. "They rarely misbehave in front of him," she confided to Percy, her gaze shifting to him, as if reading the awe in his eyes. "Even roots know not to test the lord of this realm."

Hades finally turned, brushing the soil from his hands with a languid gesture, his dark gaze settling on Percy with the dry humor. “So, you seek guidance?” he asked, his voice a quiet rasp.

“The one to guide me—Hekate,” Percy replied. “War is at Troy’s door. I need her to help me. I’ve tried to call to her, but she won’t answer.”

Hades’ lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. “Tell me, what did you expect of a goddess who walks the borderlands?” he asked, his words cutting the silence like a blade through fog. “She chooses her moments to intervene and withdraw. No mortal, not even you, can summon her at will.”

Yet Percy was Hekate’s torchbearer, the one entrusted with her light, and surely she would not abandon him without some explanation. This vanishing—this silence—felt wrong, a knot tightening in his chest. It was suspicious, unsettling.

“What if I’m doing something wrong?” Percy whispered, the words sinking like stones into the still, murky waters of his mind. “That’s why she left?”

“Hekate walks her own path. If she has left, then she has her reasons,” Hades murmured, the faintest sigh escaping him, and then, almost tenderly, he placed a hand on Percy’s arm. The red of Percy’s himation, stood stark against the pale, marble-like smoothness of Hades’ hand. “Perhaps she watches you still, waiting for you to prove that you can face this on your own.” He paused, the words slipping into a lower murmur, as if speaking to something deeper within Percy. “Do not mistake absence for abandonment, Einalian.”

Persephone’s voice, soft and unyielding, joined the conversation. “Hekate may hold knowledge, but she cannot walk your path for you. If she has vanished, then you must be the one to see what lies in the dark. Trust your steps, even when you cannot see the ground beneath.”

“And what if she’s in danger?” Percy’s voice cracked through the stillness, the question bitter with an undercurrent of panic.

Hades and Persephone exchanged a glance—silent, calculating. “We have not heard from her in a year,” Hades began, his tone measured. “But if she were in danger, I would know. She is bound to my realm, woven into its fabric. I would sense her, feel her trying to reach me.”

Percy nodded slowly, but something twisted in his chest, an uncomfortable knot that refused to unravel. A year. Not even a whisper of her presence? That did not sit right.

Hades’ eyes flickered with a sharp, glinting edge. He struck Percy lightly on the back, as if waking him from the haze of self-doubt. “You are Perseus, son of Poseidon,” he said, his tone cutting through the air like the icy bite of winter’s wind. “Not a child lost at sea. If she has left, it is because she trusts that you have what you need to find her—or to manage without her. Do not let fear cloud your sight.”

“Hekate moves in shadows and silence; she is never absent, only unseen,” Persephone added, her words soft but carrying an immutable weight, her gaze like a deep pool—still, yet impossible to fathom fully.

The silence that followed seemed to thicken, the weight of their words pressing down on Percy’s chest like a leaden blanket. The cold reality of it gripped him: if Hekate had truly withdrawn, then he was alone in this fight. The responsibility to move forward, to make choices without her guidance, now rested solely on him. A lonely, suffocating burden, yet one he had no choice but to carry.

He swallowed hard, pushing the growing sense of isolation aside. Instead, he grasped at the next thread that had been gnawing at him, pulling the conversation elsewhere.

“I met with Ares today,” Percy began, his voice lower now, more uncertain. “It’s him who told me that I could travel to the Underworld through the waters—through Styx.”

Hades’s eyes flashed with something more than recognition—pride, perhaps—but it was an emotion he didn’t often allow to surface. "And you did it flawlessly," Hades said, his voice thick with approval. "I felt it. As you were drawn through her currents, soul of lost mortal carried in your grasp.”

Percy’s throat tightened. He had not expected praise, nor had he anticipated what would come next. Hades’s voice hardened slightly, a note of curiosity bleeding through the pride. “So, what of Ares?” Hades asked, as though testing the waters of Percy’s words.

“He said there’s a possibility of... walking an army of undead from the Underworld to fight for me in the coming war,” Percy explained, his voice almost reluctant.

He expected laughter, mockery, disbelief. But instead, there was silence—deep and profound. Persephone did not move, her eyes studying him with a quiet intensity. Hades, however, did not falter. He merely nodded, the motion sharp, deliberate.

“I am aware of this plan,” Hades said, his tone unsettlingly calm, like the quiet before a storm. “In fact... that proposition came from me.”

Chapter Text

The temple lay shrouded in an unnatural silence as Apollo approached, each step echoing through the sacred halls of Delphi. This was his sanctum, the holiest temple of his worship, a place that pulsed with the raw and undiluted energy of the sun god himself.

Not a soul dared cross the threshold, for word had spread that Apollo had descended, demanding solitude. His intentions remained veiled, and his priests, accustomed to the unfathomable ways of gods, respected his wish without question.

He stood now before his oracle—a woman seated rigidly upon her throne, her hands resting limply at her sides, head covered in a veil that obscured her eyes yet revealed her surrender to the divine trance. Beneath her feet, a deep fissure yawned wide, releasing vapors that coiled up around her, entrancing her senses, binding her spirit to the will of the god before her. She felt Apollo’s presence but remained silent, awaiting his word like a shadow waits for light.

Usually, Apollo’s communications with his oracle were subtle, mere whispers sent from Olympus, allowing her to weave his thoughts into prophecy. But tonight, his intentions veered from the usual; this time, he did not seek to connect with her alone but to channel her as a vessel for something far greater.

Apollo would call upon his own oracular powers, invoking them not to speak through her, but to reach beyond her—to commune with the Moirai, the Fates themselves. It was a delicate maneuver, an act of profound respect, for he dared not infringe upon the supreme authority of the Fates. His mind would touch theirs indirectly, through her.

He gazed into the depths of his oracle’s trance, his eyes glowing like molten gold, intense and unyielding, as he focused on summoning the Moirai. His silent call thrummed through the temple, reverberating in the stone, in the air, in the deep pulse of Delphi itself.

A ripple passed through him, a shiver that danced up his spine, as he felt their presence permeate the temple. It was as though they circled him now, their invisible forms brushing against the edges of reality, filling the air with a tension that cracked like unseen thunder. Their curiosity was palpable, each subtle movement sending fissures of power through the air. Apollo held his breath, hoping they would grant him the answers he so desperately sought.

His first thought, as ever, was of Perseus. He reached out to the Moirai with a question that had lodged itself in his mind, the one that haunted him as persistently as the shadows clung to Delphi’s stone walls. Who was that boy, bearing no past—only a future that defied the gods themselves? A boy summoned from nothingness, a phantom with a demigod's pulse yet no mortal mother or traceable lineage, no memory of origin that could tie him to the earth. And why, above all, did death shy away from Perseus, time after time, as though fate itself had withheld its hand?

Time and again, fate brushed him with its cold hand, only for life to reclaim him in a way that left even Apollo bewildered. First, there had been his father’s trident, piercing his flesh with a death blow so final that the blood should have poured out his life. Had Apollo not sacrificed his priestess to heal him, Perseus would have faded into the shadows that birthed him. But that wasn’t the end; it was only the beginning.

And not long after, there had been the savage strike from Ares, his blade piercing Percy’s stomach. The god of war’s strike was brutal, fatal, but Perseus had held on, his body refusing to give itself over, if not for Apollo’s intervention once more. Each time, the boy skirted death by a thread so thin that even Apollo could not fathom its strength.

Another time, Apollo himself had nearly condemned him, attempting to purge the cursed waters of Styx from Perseus's veins. And yet, even as the poison threatened to consume his soul, the boy clung to the Styx like an old friend, defying both pain and death with a resolve that left Apollo breathless.

When Eros’s hunger sank into Perseus, consuming him utterly, Perseus had bled out beneath the weight of desire turned lethal. His life left him; he passed through death’s door, and yet, against all laws of the mortal realm, he returned.

Hera had promised that such a journey would mark his transformation. He should have emerged a god, reborn with the threads of mortality severed once and for all. But a year passed, and Apollo’s heart surged at the sight of Perseus alive—still impossibly mortal.

How? he wondered now, eyes alight with a fervor that burned like the heart of a star. How could he return from the river’s depths unscathed? Not a fragment of his soul seemed out of place; his memories untouched, his spirit whole and unbroken, defiant as ever.

Why did the Moirai allow it, these threads snapping and reweaving, each time tying the boy ever closer to something vast, unknowable? He felt their presence tighten around him as if acknowledging his plea, the force of their interest almost tangible, a breath held just beyond the veil of his own sight.

The Moirai did not speak, but their impatience bled into his thoughts, an agitation laced with something cryptic, warning. They were not pleased with Perseus, for in his mind, they revealed to him a thread, glimmering and taut, refusing to snap no matter how many times the shears closed over it. It held on, enduring beyond reason, as if woven of something neither mortal nor divine, something that even the Moirai could barely command.

Then, as if releasing a burden heavy as the earth itself, they sent him a vision, a message draped in the weight of all their power. Percy was not meant to exist in this time. His presence belonged to some distant future, a place so far beyond their sight it bordered on the endless unknown. Time, that unyielding master that swallowed all things, had ushered Percy backward, threading him into this world for a purpose. But the path wasn’t clear.

Apollo’s mind surged with unease. The boy had said it himself, countless times—to stop the Trojan War. But the task felt hollow in the shadow of these revelations. Was the salvation of a single conflict all that Time, with its ancient omniscience, desired of Perseus? No, there had to be more, some deeper design, something that pulsed beneath the surface.

And then Apollo’s thoughts turned to Kronos, the Lord of Time imprisoned in the dark depths of Tartarus. Only Kronos could wield Time in such a manner, bending its currents to pull Perseus from the future into this age. Was the titan seeking an ally in the boy? Was this a maneuver, a clandestine pact hidden within the veils of destiny?

The Moirai trembled, their power shimmering around him in a shiver of acknowledgment, and then came the vision—their answer. It unfolded before his eyes like a prophecy etched in fire. Apollo saw Tartarus, vast and desolate, but alive with the weight of chains breaking. He saw Kronos, his figure immense and defiant, snapping the bonds forged to bind him. The darkness recoiled from him, and in that instant, Apollo felt the thunderous pulse of Kronos’s freedom, like an earthquake shaking the foundations of the world.

Was Perseus unwittingly a key to this doom?

What could resolve this twisted paradox, this boy, this unbreakable thread pulled from time’s dark weave? The question hung suspended, a cry reverberating through the fabric of the universe itself, unanswered but haunting, lingering as though demanding an answer from the gods themselves.

Immortality.

The Moirai’s response came as one, a soundless chorus that seemed to reverberate through Apollo’s being. Immortality. The word hung in the air, heavy and inevitable, like the weight of a prophecy that could not be undone. Apollo felt it in the cold, relentless pull of fate, the intricate strands of the boy’s destiny, woven through the hands of gods—Hera, Paris, Poseidon and Apollo himself. They had all played their parts, each pulling, pushing, guiding Perseus toward that inevitable ascent, that inevitable transformation.

Yet, the boy was not a god. He had stubbornly rejected it, running from both death and immortality, caught forever between two worlds, forever without his rightful place in either.

The thread—the thread that bound him to fate—refused to snap. It twisted and writhed, pulling tighter, yet ever slipping through the hands of the Moirai like the slippery coils of a snake. It tangled further with each passing moment, becoming a knot of paradox, an Ouroboros, a circle devouring itself, endlessly chasing its own tail, without beginning or end.

Apollo could feel it, the boy’s struggle, the fraying of time and destiny that hung so precariously in the balance. Perseus was both the answer and the question, the key and the lock, forever entwined in a cosmic dance with no end, no resolution. The gods could push and pull, they could mold and shape, but in the end, it was the boy who held the power to break free, or to fall deeper.

When the Moirai withdrew, their presence retreating like the last notes of a dirge, the temple sank into a silence so profound it seemed to deepen the shadows. Apollo stood unmoving, his gaze still lingering where their ethereal shapes had circled him moments before.

He turned to his oracle, seated still and statuesque upon the worn stone throne, her breathing shallow but steady. Yet blood traced thin, crimson lines from her nose and eyes, spilling like scarlet threads that coiled down her cheeks and pooled onto her hands—a silent testimony to the toll the vision had exacted.

With an ache that touched something old and hidden within him, Apollo knelt before her, cradling her face gently, tipping her chin toward him. Her breath hitched at his touch, and his fingers—light, warm, yet marked by exhaustion—pressed healing into her skin. The bloody trails vanished, the strain lifted, and he felt the familiar glow of his power as her pulse steadied beneath his hand.

A tired sigh escaped his lips, faint as a dying ember, lingering a moment in the sacred space. Then, as if he himself were but smoke on a midnight breeze, Apollo vanished, leaving nothing behind but the gentle, lingering scent of myrrh.

Hermes drifted as he always did, slipping seamlessly between realms, his spirit as light as the breeze, yet as relentless as the tides. When he grew weary of his ceaseless journeying, he would alight on places that offered a diversion—a thrill, a whim, or a spectacle. This time, he perched atop the Trojan walls, legs swinging in the open air as he surveyed the scene below. The soldiers moved like clockwork, each step a measured beat in the war’s rising symphony, preparing themselves for a fate that teetered on the edge of prophecy and doom. One day remained, perhaps two, and he was content to sit and observe, savoring the twisted beauty of their oblivious resolve.

Yet, beneath his flippant demeanor, shadows of troubling thoughts curled within his mind. He sensed Percy’s absence in this world, his descent into Hades a whisper carried through realms. Percy, who had invoked Styx itself—how many gods had felt the tremor of that display? Three at least, all compelled to bear witness to the testament of power Percy had laid bare. A mere demigod, yet here he was, breaching boundaries mortals could not fathom, his touch upon Styx rippling through the cosmos like a bold stroke on a still lake. And the waters had yielded to him, obeying the call of Poseidon’s lineage. The boy wielded his father’s domain with an unsettling ease, traversing the underworld’s heart as though it had long been his familiar haunt.

In the silence of that observation, Hermes felt the unease grow, an itch beneath his skin. Percy was more than mortal, more than even he understood—a wild thread in the tapestry of fate, slipping through the fingers of those who thought they held its design.

As if called by the stirring of Hermes’ thoughts, a faint gleam appeared, coalescing into the unmistakable form of Apollo. Yet this was no radiant god of the sun; he looked weary, shadows lining his face, the usual spark dimmed. He had shed his divine mantle, coming in the guise of a mortal—a form that only hinted at the fierce vitality he held back.

Hermes watched him closely, knowing full well this disguise was no whim. Apollo had taken on the form of a wolf to stalk unseen, to keep a watchful eye over Percy without triggering his suspicions. But now, seeing his brother worn, humorless, Hermes knew that Apollo had finally unleashed whatever he’d been storing that strength for.

“What’s got you so spent?” Hermes asked, arching a brow, though he couldn’t resist a slight grin as Apollo seated himself with that rare, somber elegance, a flicker of the celestial even in his weariness.

Apollo’s reply was blunt, his voice edged with an uncharacteristic urgency. “I need to reach the Underworld. Tartarus, preferably.”

Hermes blinked, surprised. The Underworld was a descent even Apollo seldom risked, yet here he was, his impatience unmistakable. Despite the exhaustion that haunted his gaze, there was something alive, something relentless and burning in his eyes.

“Going spelunking in Tartarus?” Hermes asked, half-teasing. “A bit dark, even for your taste.”

But Apollo barely reacted, his gaze fixed and searing. “I don’t have the luxury of jest,” he murmured, his voice rough with intensity. “There’s something I need to know, something only the depths can answer.”

Hermes hesitated, a faint, sardonic smile tugging at his lips, though it barely reached his eyes. “I wish I could help, but Hades—”

Apollo cut him off sharply. “I met with the Fates,” he said, a flicker of unease passing over his face. “They showed me a vision of Kronos—escaping his chains. And it felt… it felt as though it’s already come to pass.”

Hermes’s expression shifted, his thoughts unraveling as he glanced up, watching Apollo rise, his saffron robes swirling like the last embers of a dying flame.

"He couldn’t have escaped," Hermes muttered, though the usual jest in his eyes had dimmed to an uneasy flicker. "Father would know. He put our dear Grandpa there himself, bound him with chains no mortal—or god—could break."

“I’ll bear Hades’ wrath if he finds us, and he likely will,” Apollo said, his voice low and unrelenting. “But I need to reach the underworld—without Father’s knowledge. For now.”

Hermes’s lips curled into a wily grin, unexpected yet brimming with mischief.

Percy sat before Hades, the god's gaze heavy with an ancient knowing, his offer dripping with the weight of eternity. A thousand dead warriors, a legion to command in the chaos of the Trojan War, their fates sealed by the hand of the god of the Underworld. But there was a price—a price that sank into the marrow of Percy’s bones. Once the war’s ashes had settled, once the blood had been spilled and the cries of battle faded into the void, Percy would be bound. He would become a god, not by birthright, but by the cold decree of Hades himself. A soul guide, a psychopomp, forever tethered to the shadowed realm.

A god, yet shackled to the will of Hades, a servant in the realm of the dead.

It was not the first time he’d been offered such immortality. Percy thought wryly that he could nearly make a queue of the gods vying to immortalize him. First, it had been Apollo with his relentless insistence, then his own father, Poseidon, urging the same. Even Paris, dreamed of divinity for them both. And now, Hades, with his grave and final offer.

Each seemed to see in him something malleable, something worthy of reshaping into their ideal, bound to them by duty or by fate.

His answer to Hades was not certain, a careful promise as elusive as smoke. He would summon the undead only in his most desperate hour—and when that time came, they would rise at his call. But he knew, as he spoke, that this pledge bound him like iron, sealing his fate as much as it promised him strength.

Hades watched him, a gleam in his dark eyes as he shifted the conversation. “Now that you’ve guided a soul from the mortal realm, others will sense you as a guide. The pull between you and them will deepen; they will seek you to cross into my domain.”

The god rose from his seat, drawing near the fireplace. Against the desolation, the fire cast a faint warmth, releasing the chill from Percy’s bones, drying his damp robes inch by inch.

“If you were an immortal, the task would be far less burdensome,” Hades murmured, his gaze fixed on the flames as they danced higher, twisting in shades of amber and blue.

Percy managed a faint smile. “I’d prefer to remain human.”

But even as he spoke, the memory of Paris surged unbidden—a vision of what godhood could bring. Paris—once vibrant, mortal, and fiercely loyal—transformed into something else. A god, yes, but brutal and untethered, his once-shining eyes consumed by a strange, unholy madness.

Hades tilted his head, the shadows shifting like living things across his somber features. “Since I knew of you, I discovered that you spend more time amongst us, gods, than among your own kind. You walk our halls, bear our burdens, and yet deny what lingers just beyond your grasp.”

Percy frowned, his silence laden with unspoken resistance. His fingers twitched in his lap, a restless effort to anchor himself.

“The Fates,” Hades continued, his voice smooth and sharp, like the whisper of a blade on whetstone, “weave their threads without error. You, Perseus, have been spun into our tapestry, your destiny intertwined with ours. Perhaps it is time for you to see it as your place—to accept it, to embrace what you are meant to become.”

Hades turned, his gaze steady and impenetrable, a challenge veiled in his words. Percy’s brows furrowed, his jaw tightening as defiance flared in him like a sudden gust against a dying flame.

“No,” he thought fiercely. He needed to stay on Earth; he couldn’t abandon his friends, couldn’t forsake them for immortality. His friends. The thought struck him like a stray arrow. Helen and— No, not Helen. Others. Different friends.

Percy glanced down at his hands, trembling now as he tried to focus. Faces flickered in his mind like fleeting shadows, blurred and indistinct. He could almost see them, could almost hear their laughter, but their names slipped through his grasp like grains of sand.

Who were these people? And why did it feel like the harder he tried to hold onto them, the faster they dissolved into nothing?

One of them was a daughter of Athena. A brilliant girl, her silver eyes gleaming with sharp intellect, her quick wit cutting through the fog of his memories. Her name... her name…

And the other—a steadfast friend. Percy owed him so much. A satyr, who grounded him when he felt untethered, who could coax a smile even in the darkest moments.

Then, an electric presence came to mind—a stubborn one, unpredictable as a summer storm. Her eyes, so vibrant and impossibly blue, flashed like lightning across his thoughts.

Another image surfaced, a boy scarred by pain, who carried the weight of the underworld within his soul. He belonged to that realm, didn’t he? But why hadn’t Percy encountered him while here?

And another—a forceful girl, unapologetically herself, her resolve like steel. Her image gave way to another, a whirlwind of creativity and chaos, a girl of wild colors and boundless energy.

He had a brother, didn’t he? With one eye, just like Percy now. But not human—a Cyclops, his bond with Percy as unshakable as the tides.

And then there was one more—his presence cut deeper than the rest, a lingering ache in Percy’s chest. He had a scar on his cheek, much like Paris, but his hair was golden, his confidence radiant and effortless.

Where were all of them? These were his friends. They understood him, carried his burdens alongside him, fought beside him. They were like him. They were part of him.

Had they died? Was that why he couldn’t remember them?

His first memory… what was it?

Hekate. She was his first memory.

His father. His father was Poseidon, and his mother… his mother was He—

No. Not Hekate. That wasn’t right.

Pain seared through his skull like lightning, making him stagger to his feet. His hands flew to his temples, pressing hard as if he could hold his fracturing memories together. The room seemed to darken around him, Persephone’s worried gaze cutting through the haze like a beacon.

“Einalian?” she asked softly, her voice a careful blend of confusion and concern.

“Let me stay here a little longer,” he managed, his voice strained. He looked up at Hades. “I need to speak with Lethe.”

At the mention of the river, Persephone’s lips parted but she said nothing, her gaze darting to her husband.

Hades studied Percy, his dark eyes unreadable as silence stretched between them. And then, slowly, he nodded.

The cavern opened before him, vast and suffocating, the air thick with the scent of ancient stone and the breath of long-forgotten waters. Shadows clung to every crevice, their tendrils whispering secrets in a language older than time itself. Percy followed Hades deeper into this underworld of silence, the faint luminescence from the river ahead casting pale, ghostly reflections on the jagged, pockmarked walls. The river's surface remained unbroken, its waters shimmering with an unnatural, spectral light, as though it pulsed with a secret too great for mortal minds to comprehend.

The cave stretched out like some forgotten cathedral, its ceiling lost in the folds of darkness. Beneath his feet, the ground was soft with illusory moss, glowing faintly as though it breathed with a life of its own. Ivy spiraled up the towering trees that reached to the very edges of the cavern, their leaves a muted green in the dim light, coiling around trunks like forgotten memories. It was a place of eerie beauty, a dreamscape where the line between reality and illusion blurred, both alluring and unsettling in its haunting serenity.

“This is not a place for mortals to stay long,” Hades’ voice cut through the stillness, an echo of a world untouched by time.

“Shame. It looks beautiful,” Percy replied, his words slow, thick with a sudden, oppressive drowsiness that seemed to seep from the very air. His eyelids fluttered, the weight of sleep dragging at him, but he forced himself to stay awake, his gaze fixed on the shifting shadows ahead.

“Thank you.”

A voice reverberated through the cavern, soft as a sigh. From the depths of the darkness, a figure emerged—an ethereal being, cloaked in sleep itself, his features smooth and otherworldly. His face was serene, as if untouched by the cares of the waking world, his eyes gleaming with the dull, heavy luster of forgotten dreams. It was Hypnos, the god of sleep, and he moved with the grace of a specter, his form barely solid.

“This boy, named Einalian, wants to meet with Lethe,” Hades said, his tone curt, though there was no malice in his words.

“I know this boy,” Hypnos replied, his voice a silky drawl, amusement lacing every syllable. A smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes—curled at the edges of his lips. He stood on his toes, stretching forward like a curious child seeking to touch something forbidden. “He is Hekate’s chosen.” The words seemed to hover in the air, pregnant with meaning.

Hypnos took a step forward, a gleam of curiosity shining in his half-closed eyes. But before he could come any closer, Hades moved like a dark shadow, stepping in front of Percy.

“He needs to be awake for it,” Hades spoke softly, the words edged with quiet authority, “and your presence does not aid him.”

As if to confirm Hades' words, Percy leaned his forehead against the god's back, feeling the heaviness of sleep washing over him in slow waves.

Hypnos took a few steps back, his lips curling into something like an apology. “Excuse me,” he said curtly. “She’s here, as always. Made yourself comfortable, stay as long as you need,” he added, his voice echoing as he vanished into the darkness.

Percy straightened with a jolt, his hand flying to his face in a futile attempt to stave off the sleep that threatened to engulf him. He slapped himself, willing his senses to sharpen, the sting of his palm grounding him in the present. Hades chuckled softly at the action, but the sound was fleeting.

“Don’t get too close to her,” Hades warned, his voice low and steady. “Lethe is an understanding goddess, but she... forgets herself at times.” He leaned in closer, his words softer, as though he feared the very air would carry them away. “If she touches you, she can only take.”

Percy nodded, the weight of the warning settling over him like a shroud. He understood. This was no place for the unwary.

"When you finish," Hades added, his tone shifting to something more stern, more final, "call for me. If you take too long, I will come for you."

With that, Hades turned away, leaving Percy standing alone at the threshold of the river.

At first, Percy saw only the water. Its surface churned in restless eddies, as though plagued by unseen tempests beneath. The currents twisted sharply, doubling back on themselves, defying any sense of direction. The air around the river felt heavy, oppressive, charged with an unspoken tension that made Percy’s skin prickle. He had expected calm—serenity—but instead found chaos barely held at bay.

And then he saw her—Lethe.

She rose from the tumultuous waters, her form wavering like a mirage on the brink of collapse. Her hair cascaded in uneven waves, blending into the river's frantic movements, strands whipping like untethered memories caught in the flow. Her face bore an ageless beauty, but it was worn thin, stretched by the weight of countless forgotten lives. Her eyes darted, unfocused, their pale luminescence dimmed by unease. Even her hands trembled, clasping and unclasping as if wrestling with an invisible enemy.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice fragmented, brittle, a stream broken over jagged rocks. “Mortal. No—no, that’s wrong. Not mortal. Not mortal.” She muttered the words again, her gaze shifting past him, to nothing and everything all at once.

Percy swallowed hard, his throat dry as though the river's waters had drained him from within. “I’m called Einalian. But also Perseus.”

Her laughter came sharp and disjointed, startling him. “Names. What use are names? I had one, once. I think.” She touched her temple as if searching for it, her fingers trembling, before shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. They all drown here.”

Percy’s breath quickened. “Did you take something from me?” he asked, his voice unsteady, the question more accusation than inquiry.

Lethe’s gaze snapped back to him, sharp and defensive. “Take?” she echoed, her expression twisting. “No. Never. I give. Or they give. I don’t—” She faltered, her brow furrowing, her hands clutching at her chest as though trying to hold herself together. “I don’t remember.”

“My memories,” Percy pressed, louder now, his desperation cracking through. “My friends. My past. I can’t—” He stumbled over the words, the enormity of his loss suffocating him. “They’re gone. Did you take them?”

Lethe’s eyes darted away, her hands rising to clutch at her head as though battling unseen voices. “Memories,” she muttered, her voice low and fractured. “They never want to stay close, they slip past me. I can’t trust them. I can’t trust myself.” She laughed then, a sharp, joyless sound that cut through the air. “Why would I keep yours? I don’t even have my own.”

She advanced suddenly, her movement erratic, her shadow stretching unnaturally across the cavern walls. Percy stumbled back, his pulse hammering in his ears. She stopped just short of him, her gaze fixing on his with unsettling intensity.

“You let them go,” Lethe whispered, her voice a tremor that rippled through the air.

Her words hit him like a physical blow. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do that. They were—are—everything to me. Why would I—?”

“You did!” she snapped, cutting him off. Her agitation surged, her hands twitching at her sides as she paced, each step splashing soundlessly into the turbulent river. “You think you wouldn’t, but you did. Do you think you’re so different? That you’d hold on while your heart tore itself apart? Pain makes cowards of us all.”

Percy shook his head violently, denial etched into every movement. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” she asked, turning back to him, her expression now weary and raw, her fragility laid bare. “You didn’t bring them to me, Einalian. You left them behind. Not by choice, but by necessity. To survive.”

“I didn’t want to forget them.” Percy’s voice cracked, each syllable breaking apart like fragile glass. “I want them back. All of it.” His words were no longer a plea but a demand, raw and desperate.

“It is not me you should seek to regain them,” Lethe murmured, her voice like the whisper of wind over an empty grave. She turned her gaze downward, to the restless waters curling at her feet, as though their ceaseless ripples might hold the answers she herself could not give. “I have a sister. Her name is Memory. She remembers everything—every moment, every breath, all at once. Her burden is heavier than mine but her mercy is sweeter.”

Percy’s throat tightened, his mouth setting into a hard, unyielding line.

“You want me to seek Mnemosyne,” he said.

“If that’s her true name,” Lethe replied, her voice a fragile monotone, trembling on the edge of recognition and oblivion. Her gaze flickered, distant, her mind wandering through the labyrinth of her fractured memories. “Mnemosyne,” she repeated, the name twisting on her tongue with a strange, hollow reverence. “Name too long to remember.”

Her head tilted sharply to the side, the movement unnatural, almost feral. Her eyes, clouded with shadows of doubt and distrust, snapped back to him with sudden, disconcerting clarity.

Percy stiffened, his spine rigid as unease coiled through him.

“She will help you,” Lethe said at last. “Or she will destroy you. Memory is no gift—it is a curse that never fades, a wound that never heals.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping into a whisper that felt like the brush of cold fingers against his skin. “And she carries it willingly. Tell me, do you truly wish to share her torment?”

Percy staggered back as she advanced, her movements slow and deliberate, every step reverberating like a drumbeat in the cavern's suffocating silence. He retreated until his back struck a tree—its bark dark and slick with luminous moss, the towering branches stretching far beyond the cavern's ceiling, clawing at the unseen sky.

“Don’t come closer,” he warned, his voice trembling but resolute.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen a living mortal,” Lethe murmured, her voice a quiet hunger, soft but ravenous. A shimmer of saliva slipped from the corner of her mouth, catching the faint glow of the moss like spilled oil, rainbow-slick and glistening against her chin. “I’ve grown... hungry for memories from a fresh source. Perhaps you’ll share a few with me?” Her tone was almost inviting, but the sharp edge beneath it made Percy’s skin crawl. “Something exciting.”

He reached out instinctively, summoning her waters, and they obeyed—coiling around her with a reluctant familiarity. Yet they didn’t push her away. They hesitated, trembling as if caught between loyalties.

“You dare to wield my waters against me?” Lethe asked, a sly smile curling her lips. “Naughty, naughty demigod.”

Her amusement burned in his ears, but Percy pressed on, shutting his eyes tightly as he focused. The water twisted and churned, reluctantly at first, before it began to writhe in earnest. Lethe’s form staggered, the currents lashing out and dragging her toward the riverbank. She hissed, her anger a sharp, visceral sound, before she disappeared beneath the surface, swallowed by her own domain.

Percy didn’t linger to watch. He turned and ran, the slap of his feet against the stone floor echoing through the cavern. But with every step, an unnatural drowsiness seeped into his limbs, pulling at him, slowing him. His feet dragged, his breath grew labored, and a weight pressed down on his chest.

A chill crawled up his spine, and he glanced back, his blood running cold. It wasn’t Lethe who pursued him now but another figure, moving leisurely yet inexorably, his smile gentle and unnerving. Hypnos, followed with the soft cadence of a predator playing with its prey.

“Naughty indeed. Why leave in such haste?” Hypnos crooned, his voice lilting, a melody steeped in lethargy.

"Running away, thinking you’re free,

But little mortal, where can you flee?

The sleep you seek, the rest you crave,

Is but a bond, a chain, a grave."

Percy stumbled again, his legs giving way beneath him as though the ground itself conspired against his escape.

Hypnos crouched beside him, a picture of languid grace, his smile soft yet unnerving. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice silken, dripping with feigned concern. “Feeling tired, are we? I usually have this effect on beings.”

Percy, trembling and half-collapsed, pushed himself to his knees, defiance blazing in his gaze as he looked up at the god.

“Get away from me,” Percy growled, his voice hoarse with the effort to stay alert. “And stop with this rhyming.”

Hypnos tilted his head, dark locks spilling over his lavender eyes as he regarded Percy with a curious air.

“Oh, how fierce you are, my mortal friend, But don’t you see? This is how things end. You fight, you struggle, against my song, Yet here in my arms, you’ve belonged all along."

He reached out a lazy hand, fingers trailing the air as though drawing invisible patterns.

“Perhaps it’s you who should get away,” Hypnos mused, his tone lilting, each word slipping from his lips like a lullaby. “Why stay and fight the tides of decay? The pull of sleep will have its way.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, a flicker of fury piercing through the fog of his exhaustion. Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he lunged forward, his hands closing around Hypnos’s throat. “What do you want from me?” he demanded, his voice splintering with equal parts rage and desperation.

For a fleeting moment, Hypnos’s lavender eyes widened in surprise, but amusement quickly danced across his features. He made no move to pull away, his pale fingers instead curling lightly around Percy’s wrists, their grip gentle but inexorable.

“Careful now,” Hypnos murmured. “You may find yourself touching more than you bargained for.”

A shiver rippled through Percy’s arm, not from cold but from a primal sensation—his strength ebbing away, siphoned through the mere brush of Hypnos’s skin. His limbs grew heavy, unresponsive, as though the weight of the god’s presence had seeped into his very marrow.

“You’re awake only because I allow it,” Hypnos said, his voice softening. He eased himself to the ground, pulling Percy down with him as though cradling a child caught mid-fall.

“Shh, now, let’s lay here, for a while,” Hypnos whispered, his words like a lullaby woven from the deepest shadows.

Percy’s body slackened, his mind alert yet helpless, tethered to awareness even as Hypnos laid him gently on his side. Hypnos positioned himself before Percy, cradling him to his chest, his breath warm against the nape of his neck, his fingers tracing languid patterns across Percy’s back.

It was unsettling, this intimacy, and yet the rhythm of his touch stirred something buried deep—a memory of comfort, of a mother whose face now blurred in Percy’s mind like smoke dissipating in the wind.

“Dreams, child,” Hypnos murmured, his voice as soft as dusk. “I sometimes visit yours, you know. Though I find them far from restful. Blood, carnage, death... hardly the makings of a peaceful slumber.”

Percy’s breath hitched, his thoughts scrambling to focus, but the weight of Hypnos’s presence pinned him in place. His mind flickered toward Hades, silently willing the god of the Underworld to retrieve him from this cursed encounter. Yet he could not open his mouth and no rescue came, only the low, melodic whisper at his ear. “And then, among the chaos, a shadow takes shape, An ancient one with no escape. Kronos, his name, a father of dread, His whispers still linger in the cracks of your head.”

Hypnos flicked Percy’s forehead with a playful, almost affectionate tap, his finger light but purposeful.

Percy shivered violently, the name striking him like a bell tolling in a mausoleum. Hypnos leaned closer, his lavender eyes flickering with faint amusement. “He remembers you, Perseus. Do you remember him?”

Percy did not answer, he couldn’t. Of course he remembered Kronos—Kronos, the shadow that haunted his nightmares, a dark spectre always waiting in the recesses of his mind. How many nights had Percy woken drenched in sweat, his breath catching on the edge of a scream?

Hypnos' hands caressed Percy’s forehead, tucking a few black locks behind his ear. “Fear is your friend who never departs, it rests beside you, in broken parts,” he mused, his tone smooth and languid.

“And sleep seldom grants you peace, does it? Enemies bested, friends lost—these are the visions you host, the chains you drag from night to night.” His voice lilted, a dark melody carrying the weight of the unspoken.

Then, Hypnos’s tone grew softer, slyer. “Always blood, always war, a relentless stream. What if I gifted you a different dream?”

The god chuckled, a sound dark and rich, like silk brushing over a wound. “Desire, Perseus—now there’s a sweeter thing. It coils and burns, makes mortals sing. So much more thrilling than sorrow’s sting.” His violet eyes gleamed, a predator savoring its game. “Shall I show you that instead? A feast for your hunger—a vision to fill your…head.”

The descent into Tartarus was oppressive, the very air thick with ancient malice. Winds howled like the anguished cries of those long forgotten, carrying the scent of sulfur and despair. Hermes squinted against the relentless gusts, his silver eyes gleaming with unease as their robes billowed violently in the chaos. The ground beneath them seemed alive, shifting with unnatural pulsations as if the earth itself resented their intrusion.

“This is... scary,” Hermes muttered, his voice tinged with nervous laughter as he surveyed the desolate expanse. Each step felt precarious, as if the ground might swallow them whole.

Apollo, however, strode forward with grim determination, his golden eyes scanning the bleak horizon. His expression was stern, unyielding, the flicker of doubt buried beneath a godly veneer. Ahead of them, an ominous structure began to materialize—a prison forged in the primordial fires of creation.

The prison loomed like a scar upon the world, its jagged spires reaching hungrily toward the sky. Chains thicker than rivers coiled around the blackened pillars, their surfaces etched with runes that glowed faintly with ancient power. The walls pulsed with a strange, dim light, as if the stones themselves held the essence of time, fractured and bound. The air near the prison seemed frozen, suspended in a timeless void where seconds stretched into eternities. No living creature stirred, no sound dared to echo within the prison's shadow—only silence, crushing and absolute.

At the center of the prison lay Chronos. His colossal form was bound by chains of celestial iron, shimmering faintly like stars trapped in a web. He sat motionless, his head bowed as if in defeat, the once-mighty force of time reduced to an unresponsive husk. And yet, there was something unsettling in his stillness, a quiet that suggested not peace but the deliberate withholding of chaos.

Hermes shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the hulking figure. “Is this even allowed to be so close?” he asked, his tone half-joking but tinged with genuine apprehension. His wings twitched at the unnatural stillness, and he glanced around as if expecting the shadows to pounce.

Apollo didn’t answer, his focus fixed on the Titan. His jaw tightened, unease gnawing at the edges of his confidence. The Moirai’s vision had shown Chronos free, his wrath spilling across the realms like a tidal wave. Yet here he was, still imprisoned. And yet… something felt wrong, a dissonance that made Apollo’s skin prickle.

With deliberate steps, Apollo approached the bound Titan, his golden aura cutting through the oppressive gloom. He stopped mere paces from Chronos and called out, his voice commanding and clear. “Kronos.”

The Titan stirred, his eyes flashing like dying embers as he lifted his head to meet Apollo’s gaze. The movement was slow, almost mechanical, and his expression betrayed nothing but an ancient weariness.

Hermes crossed his arms, tilting his head as he observed the Titan’s sluggish response. “He seems weirdly quiet,” he remarked, his voice tinged with mockery. “Is this really the same Kronos who fought father and his siblings with everything he had? Seems... underwhelming.”

“I am,” Chronos rumbled, his voice low and fragmented. Yet there was something unnerving in his tone, a hollowness that did not belong to a being of his stature.

Apollo narrowed his eyes, the golden light in them intensifying. He was the god of truth, and something was amiss. The Titan’s presence felt fractured, incomplete, like a melody missing its core notes. “This is wrong,” he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening at his sides. "What game is this, Titan? Speak plainly, for I see through deceit."

The Titan leaned forward, his chains groaning with the weight of the movement. “You see much, god of prophecy. But tell me, do you see what you fear most? Do you see the moment where even your light falters? Where all falls still?”

Apollo, undeterred, stepped closer, his golden eyes narrowing. The light emanating from him grew sharper, cutting through the murky air of Tartarus like a blade. Hermes, a pace behind, flinched as the ground beneath them seemed to groan in protest, but he kept his silence, his wide eyes fixed on the unfolding exchange.

"Do you know a demigod named Einalian?" Apollo's voice was sharp, cutting through the timeless silence. "A son of Poseidon?"

Chronos stirred. For a moment, his inscrutable face shifted—a flicker of surprise, then something deeper, rawer seemed to ripple across his ancient features.

"Oh, you do," Apollo pressed, his tone growing sharper, his golden gaze unrelenting. “Who is he?”

The Titan’s chains quivered, their dull light pulsing as though in time with the beat of some unseen heart. But Chronos said nothing, his silence vast and suffocating.

Apollo’s eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. “I’ve spoken with the Moirai,” he continued, his voice edged with accusation. “They told me the boy is not from this time—that he’s been uprooted, torn from his place. You did this. You brought him here. Why?”

Hermes’s mouth fell open, the casual confidence he so often wore utterly stripped away. He stared at Apollo, his usual quips dying on his tongue as the weight of the revelation struck him. “Wait—what?” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chronos’s expression darkened, the faint, alien smile twisting into something far more unsettling. For a long moment, the Titan said nothing, the oppressive quiet broken only by the subtle hiss of temporal distortions rippling through the air.

“I asked you a question,” Apollo demanded, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Why is the boy connected to you? Speak, or I will—”

“You will what, god of truth?” Chronos interrupted, his voice suddenly thunderous, reverberating through the cavern with the weight of ages. His chains rattled violently, their star-forged links trembling as though they might shatter. “Bind me further? Pierce me with your radiant arrows? I, who am bound by the fabric of time itself? Do not mistake your momentary light for supremacy over eternity.”

Hermes took a step back, muttering under his breath, “This was a bad idea. This was such a bad idea.”

For a fleeting moment, the air shifted, thickening with a weight that pressed down like a shroud. Kronos’ lips parted, and the faintest curve of a smile touched them.

“The boy is a key,” Kronos intoned, his voice low and sonorous. “My key to unshackle the age of Titans—the age of gold, of power, of freedom from the chains of the Olympians. And he could be your key.” His orange eyes, once like a dying sun, flared with a predatory light as they fixed on Apollo.

Apollo did not move. His gaze burned fiercely, yet within it danced an uncertain flicker, something fragile caught between resolve and doubt.

Kronos’s voice coiled through the cavern. “You burn brighter than any god before you, Apollo. Even now, you feel it—don’t you? The relentless pull, the inexorable truth, that Zeus’s throne is not his by right, but by the circumstance of a fleeting rebellion. Just as I toppled Uranus, you, too, could topple him. This is the way of power: fathers must fall so sons may rise.”

Apollo’s expression hardened, yet he said nothing.

Kronos leaned closer, his form a thing of shadows and stolen light, vast yet precise in the way it loomed over Apollo. “You see it, don’t you? Even now, thunderbringer falters, his dominion trembling at the edges. And you, Apollo, with your sun—your fire—are the brightest force among the gods. Not even Olympus can contain the raw power you hold.”

The words slithered into Apollo’s mind, wrapping around his thoughts. He clenched his fists, his breathing slow but uneven, the turmoil within him rising like a tide. “You speak as though power alone is enough,” he said at last, his voice low and sharp. “But I know your games, Titan. You twist the truth to suit your schemes.”

Kronos chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to mock the very notion of resistance. “Games?” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a caress. “Call it what you will, but it is no game to claim what is yours by destiny. Zeus fears you, Apollo. He fears what you could become if you stepped out of his shadow. And why shouldn’t he? The sun consumes all—it burns away the old, the weak, the unworthy. Even Zeus must bow before the dawn.”

Apollo’s lips tightened, his jaw clenching as the weight of those words coiled around his mind. "You suggest treachery. I will not become the thing I despise most."

Kronos laughed again, low and resonant, the sound like the grinding of distant tectonic plates. “Treachery? Do you imagine Zeus’s reign was born of anything nobler? His thunder reigns not from justice but from fear. But you, Apollo—you are the Sun. Zeus’s lightning is but a flicker against the blaze of your might.”

“Why would Perseus be the key to this madness?” Apollo’s voice was steady, though a faint tremor ran beneath his words. He fought not to choke on the temptation Kronos wove so insidiously into the air, his golden eyes narrowing as if to pierce through the lies that might veil the Titan's truth.

“Son of Poseidon—whether he knows it or not—carries the power to unravel the order Zeus bled to create.” Kronos leaned forward, his massive form filling the cavern, shadows stretching and trembling as if tethered to his chains. His presence was a tide pressing in, relentless. “With his influence, the boy could help you claim what has always been beyond your grasp: the throne of Olympus.”

Apollo flinched, a subtle motion lost in the light he emitted. Everything Kronos said carried the ring of inevitability, a logic that coiled like a serpent in his mind. Yet, he knew the danger—knew the Titan’s words were as much weapon as wisdom. “I don’t believe a word of this drivel,” he hissed.

“And yet you came to me, sun god,” Kronos countered, his voice molten, unhurried. “You sought answers, and here they are, as plain as the burn of sunlight on your skin. You know I speak the truth, and you know that you cannot stop what is already in motion. Perseus is here, in this time, and he will act. He must. You have no choice but to watch as it unfolds.”

The Titan paused, his gaze drilling into Apollo like the weight of eternity. Then, with a cruel twist of his lips, he added, “Unless you take the boy's life.”

Hermes stiffened, the suggestion slicing through the mounting tension in the cavern like a blade through taut rope. His wings, poised and ready to spring, trembled faintly, but his voice failed him.

Apollo’s light flared, searing the shadows clinging to the walls, yet his composure held. He tilted his head ever so slightly, the motion deliberate, unyielding. “I would never,” he growled, each syllable heavy with the threat of divine wrath.

“Oh, I know,” Kronos murmured, his tone almost pitying. “That is what makes this so delicious. You cannot act, and yet you must endure. What will you choose, Apollo? Blind obedience to your father, or the boy’s life? Will you find the strength to wield destiny for yourself?”

The Titan’s gaze shifted, slow and deliberate, encompassing both gods in its grasp. “If you care for the boy,” he intoned, his voice low and measured, “you will speak of this conversation to no one. Least of all to your father.” Chronos’s lips twisted into something that might have been a smirk, though his eyes betrayed no trace of amusement. “Because if the king of gods discovers that Perseus is connected to me,” he purred, each word curling through the air like smoke, “he will kill the boy.”

“And as for the two of you,” he continued, his tone as smooth as a blade’s edge, “he will punish you both severely—if not for your insolence, then for your audacity in seeking me out.”

Hermes's silver eyes darted between Apollo and the Titan, his unease growing with each passing second. “This feels like one of those moments where we should leave,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual levity.

Apollo did not spare him a glance, his gaze fixed on the Titan. His golden eyes burned with an intensity that seemed to cut through the thick shroud of Tartarus. “I need to know more,” Apollo whispered, low and deliberate, the weight of his words sharp enough to make Hermes flinch. “From what time is Einalian? How much time divides us?”

The faintest curl of amusement tugged at Chronos’s lips, languid and knowing. He let the number fall from his tongue with deliberate slowness, each syllable heavy with an ancient, almost hypnotic rhythm. “Three thousand, two hundred, and sixteen.”

Apollo’s composure wavered, a rare crack in the golden armor of his divinity. His gaze faltered for a moment, then sharpened, the god stitching the revelation into his memory as though weaving a fragment of prophecy. 3216. The number hung heavy in his mind.

“Did he agree to being taken from his time?” Apollo asked, his voice quiet yet resolute. The question hung in the air, its simplicity belying the weight of the unease he carried.

“Yes,” Chronos answered, his tone laced with a sardonic sweetness. “He believed it to be a simple task. A noble errand. Yet, his presence unraveled threads far more tangled than he could hope to weave back together.”

There was something almost tender in the way Chronos spoke, a twisted affection veiled in malice. “But that’s just fine,” the Titan continued, his smile widening, sharp and cruel. “I am delighted that he’s such a troublemaker, that boy. The chaos he sows is more valuable than the harmony he sought to restore.”

Apollo stood motionless, his golden gaze piercing through the shadows that seemed to coil tighter around them, as though Chronos’s words had summoned the darkness to bear witness.

“His role is far from complete,” Chronos purred, his voice languid and steeped in cruel satisfaction. “But rest assured, god of light, when he has served his purpose, I will send him back to his time, safe and sound.”

The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable a chisel against Apollo’s composure. The god’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing into molten gold slits. The thought of Percy, desperate and at the mercy of this ancient force, set his divine blood boiling. But worse still was the image of Percy slipping from his grasp entirely—whisked away by the inexorable tide of time, leaving nothing behind but the cold ache of three thousand years of absence.

Hermes stood in the shadowed silence, his usual quicksilver wit dulled by the weight of the moment. His eyes now looked distant, as if even the endless games of trickery he once reveled in had lost their appeal.

“But,” the Titan mused, “if you were to surpass Zeus… well, then Perseus could stay.” His voice held a weighty pause, the implication hanging like a cloud of smoke. “There’s one thing that could keep him here, forever.”

Apollo’s breath hitched, though his face remained still, unyielding. His heart, however, was pounding like a drum in his chest.

Kronos leaned forward, his eyes glowing like two black suns, dark and infinite, as he delivered the final word, each syllable sharp as a blade.

“Immortality.”

The word sank into Apollo’s chest like a stone dropped into a silent abyss, its echo reverberating through every fiber of his being. The Moirai. Things they had whispered to him—was now unfolding before him in Kronos’s words. The truth of it, cold and unrelenting, was undeniable. It was unnerving, more than that—it was terrifying. Apollo’s mind raced, the pieces falling into place, aligning with a precision that left him breathless. But even as the truth settled over him, there was a lingering fear—a fear that Kronos’s offer, tempting as it was, might be more than just an opportunity.

It might be the last choice he’d ever make.

And still, Apollo stood, his lips curling into a thin smile that belied the storm within. “No,” he said, his voice soft but unyielding, a sliver of golden light piercing the oppressive dark. “There’s another thing that will keep him here—me.”

Kronos’s laughter was a low, rumbling quake, a sound that seemed to crack the foundations of the air. “He will not stay, Apollo. Not for your words, not for your love. Not even if you hammer his flesh to the foundations of your palace. He will slip through your fingers—just as water escapes the grasp of even the mightiest hand,” he said, the words rolling out like a curse. “The boy is elusive, much like his mother.”

Apollo’s composure fractured for the briefest moment, curiosity coiling tightly in his chest. “Mother?” he demanded, his voice low but edged with intensity. “Who is his mother?”

The Titan’s grin faltered, his mirth eclipsed by a shadow darker than the abyss around them. “The boy has two mothers,” Kronos murmured, each word heavy and deliberate. “One who waits for him in the future, and one who guides him in the past.”

Before the full gravity of his words could settle, the firmament of Tartarus trembled, the sound like the groaning of a collapsing cosmos. The air itself grew taut, vibrating with a terrible energy that heralded the arrival of the king of gods.

“We must go, now!” Hermes hissed, his urgency crackling like static. His hand darted to Apollo’s robe, tugging it so fiercely that the fabric strained, threads threatening to give way.

But Kronos’s voice cut through the rising chaos, smooth and venomous, a blade of sound. “Demigod’s here too, you know,” the Titan mused, his words slow and deliberate, as if savoring their impact. “In the Underworld. Looking for answers.”

Apollo hesitated, his eyes fixed on Kronos, the weight of unanswered questions holding him in place. The firmament groaned again, louder this time, the very essence of Tartarus shuddering under Zeus’s wrathful presence.

Hermes’s tug became a desperate yank, his movements sharp and frantic. “Apollo!” he barked, panic thinning his usual irreverence.

Kronos’s voice slithered after them as they began to retreat, weaving itself into the fabric of the shadows. It carried the weight of a prophecy, a warning, and a taunt all at once, curling around their ears like a serpent’s hiss.

“Think on it, child of light,” Kronos whispered, his tone haunting and unshakable. “The sun is meant to rise, not to follow. And even the mightiest waters wither beneath its heat.”

Apollo’s jaw tightened at the Titan’s words, but he did not look back. Instead, he walked away, each step heavier than the last. In his heart, a flicker of something darker stirred—an ember, faint but persistent, that Kronos had ignited with his tempting offer. Apollo pushed it down, for now, though the smoke of it would linger long after they had left Tartarus.

Hermes whisked them away from Tartarus, but not from the Underworld. The heavy gloom of the realm clung to them like a second skin. Shadows stretched long and eerie along the banks of the Styx, the river’s dark waters whispering secrets they dared not linger to hear.

Apollo moved ahead, his steps purposeful yet taut, his every sense attuned to the faintest trace of Percy. Yet the farther they went, the more fragile his focus became, unraveling under the oppressive stillness.

Behind him, Hermes’s wings stirred restlessly, his normally buoyant demeanor now clipped, tight with something Apollo could not ignore. He could feel the weight of his brother's gaze on him, sharp and probing.

“Can we unpack what we’ve just heard?” Hermes asked, his voice strained, as though he had just been struck by something he could neither fully comprehend nor shake off.

Apollo, golden and resolute, paused mid-stride, his sharp eyes narrowing as he turned to face his brother. “What is it?”

Hermes’ brows drew together, shadows playing across his features, making him appear older than he usually let on. “You sensed truth in Kronos’s words,” he said quietly. “If the old man isn’t lying, then Percy really is the catalyst for Father’s downfall.”

Apollo’s jaw tightened, his composure threatening to crack under the weight of his brother’s words. “He’s just a demigod,” he said, his tone clipped but resolute. “Troublesome, yes, but he cannot stand against our father.”

“Not alone,” Hermes said, his gaze drifting, as if seeking answers in the endless expanse. “But with powerful allies? He could.”

“It’s not his intention,” Apollo shot back, his voice hardening. “As Kronos said, he’s not even aware of the chaos he stirs.”

Hermes laughed, a hollow sound devoid of humor. “Unawareness doesn’t absolve him of consequence. You won’t convince me he’s not a threat.”

Something shifted in Apollo then, the golden light that clung to him dimmed, replaced by something darker, something protective. “Do you suggest something?” His words were sharp, a challenge veiled in calm.

“No.” Hermes’s reply was immediate, but his eyes narrowed, the restless flicker of his wings betraying his unease. “I don’t want him hurt. And I don’t want Kronos free, either. But…” He hesitated, his voice faltering as though the weight of what he was about to admit crushed him. “To think Kronos believes you could overthrow father…” His gaze turned back to Apollo, searching his face for a reaction. “It’s a thought that’s crossed my mind once or twice.”

Apollo’s expression darkened further. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone, a warning rumbling beneath each syllable. “Hermes.”

“We both know where our loyalties should lie,” Hermes added, as if to temper his confession. But his gaze remained steady, his wings twitching slightly, betraying the storm of thoughts within him.

Apollo stepped closer, his hand landing on Hermes’s shoulder—a gesture that was neither brotherly nor kind. His voice dropped to a whisper, but it carried a lethal edge. “We must ensure no one learns of this.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and threat. Then, almost lazily, he added, “If you do tell, I will be very displeased with you, brother.”

The weight of that statement hung between them like a guillotine’s shadow. Hermes didn’t need the threat spelled out; the unspoken promise of scattered limbs and a grieving Maia painted itself vividly in his mind. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and nodded once, his usual lightness stripped away by the suffocating tension.

“What of Percy?” Hermes asked, his voice quiet but probing, testing the fragile air between them.

Apollo’s hand slipped from Hermes’s shoulder, his expression calcifying into something unyielding, cold as marble. “I know his fate,” he murmured, voice low and weighted with certainty. “He is meant to be by my side for all eternity. Protected.” Yet the words trembled beneath their surface, fragile as spun glass. His lips curled into a bitter smile, quivering despite their edge. “But this—” He gestured sharply, laughter escaping like a bark of despair. “This has been the most harrowing battle I’ve faced. First, it was rivals clinging to him. Now, I must wrest him from time itself?” His voice cracked, dark mirth spilling forth.

He grinned then, sharp as a blade, and Hermes recoiled as if cut. Yet even through the manic glint in Apollo’s gaze, something deeper stirred—a terror poorly hidden beneath the veneer of arrogance. The fear of losing Percy. The fear of eternity without him.

“Percy despises you,” Hermes said bluntly, cutting through the silence. “You know that. Even if you managed to reclaim him—”

“Silence.” Apollo’s voice came low, drawn out, heavy with warning.

“But it’s true!” Hermes snapped, the words bursting forth in exasperation. “You are utterly blind, Apollo. Do you think… what? That turning into a dog or some other pathetic ploy will make Percy forgive you? After everything you’ve done?”

Apollo’s face darkened, his eyes flashing like a storm breaking over the sea. “What I’ve done?” he hissed. “I have shown him my love, over and over—yet he resists. Always pushing me away.”

Hermes sighed, shaking his head as if dealing with a stubborn child. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, “you ought to try a different approach. One that doesn’t involve divine ultimatums or incessant chasing like a lovesick wolf.”

Apollo’s eyes flared, a flicker of a god’s fury igniting behind the veneer of restraint. His fingers twitched, as if aching to reach out and throttle Hermes for daring to speak so plainly. But instead, he stood frozen—like a statue in a forgotten temple, bound by the weight of his own pride.

Apollo’s lips curled into a bitter smile, though it was tempered by something darker, something deeper. “You are right, brother. I should…” His words trailed off as his head jerked, turning slowly toward a distant, unseen point. There was something about the way his eyes narrowed, as if a pulse of intuition had struck him. A gut feeling so profound it made his skin prickle.

Hermes’s sharp eyes darted toward him, his unease immediate. “What is it?” he asked.

Apollo’s posture had stiffened, his body drawn tight as a bowstring. His golden eyes flared with an almost feral intensity. “I feel him,” he whispered. Another step forward, his boots stirring the ancient dust as if time itself had held its breath for his arrival.

Hermes hesitated, caught between the pull of caution and the insatiable tug of curiosity. He sniffed at the air, his senses straining for even the faintest whisper of what Apollo seemed to feel so keenly. But there was nothing—no trace of Percy, no sign of his presence. Hermes's voice wavered slightly as he called after his brother. “Where?”

“Close.” Apollo’s words came out as a hiss, his eyes sliding shut as he tuned himself to that faint, tenuous thread of presence. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a wolf catching the scent of familiar prey.

Hermes masked his unease with a nervous chuckle. “Now, now, brother,” he started, his tone light but strained, “didn’t we agree? Stop chasing. Percy’s safe with Hades and Hekate. Maybe it’s best we leave. I, for one, don’t want Zeus finding us here of all places.”

Apollo silenced him with a glare that could have split the heavens, and without another word, he strode forward, his pace quickening with each step. Hermes followed reluctantly, his unease growing as they neared the cave.

The entrance loomed before them, cloaked in moss that clung to the stone like a shroud—vivid green and damp, an eerie contrast to the dry, sunless realm of the underworld.

Apollo paused at the threshold, his hand brushing against the rough stone, his expression unreadable but for the simmering intensity in his eyes.

Percy was here. He didn’t know how he knew, but the truth of it thrummed through him like a chord struck on a lyre, reverberating through every fiber of his being.

Behind him, Hermes stretched his arms in a languid arc, a yawn slipping from his lips. He let his arms fall with a weary sigh, his fingers pressing into the nape of his neck as though seeking solace from an unseen burden. “That moss,” he murmured, casting a fleeting glance at the cave’s entrance, “looks almost inviting. Could use it for a nap, really.” His voice, usually quicksilver and sharp, sounded worn, frayed at the edges like an overplayed melody.

The magic of Hypnos, thick and intoxicating, clung to him, soaking into his very bones, dragging his steps and thoughts into a haze, his usual spark dampened by the cavern's enchantment.

Apollo felt it too, the drowsy pull of the cave, but his essence was still bright, burning with a fire that defied the magic around them.

“Stay vigilant,” Apollo murmured, his tone low and unyielding.

Hermes blinked, he gave Apollo a sidelong glance but said nothing more, as if too tired to argue.

They pressed onward, deeper into the cavern, the weight of something wrong settling in Apollo’s chest.

And then, there he was. Percy, lying sprawled on the cold stone floor, his body slack as if held captive by a sleep too deep, too unnatural. Above him loomed Hypnos, his violet eyes half-lidded, his presence a haze of tranquil menace.

Apollo’s heart clenched, a sharp pang piercing through his chest. Without hesitation, his bow was in his hand, the string taut, a golden arrow gleaming in the dim light. It flew swift and unerring, striking Hypnos with a cry that seemed to reverberate through the air like the tolling of a mournful bell. The god of sleep staggered back, his form flickering, and for a moment, the cavern seemed to dim further as if it shared in his pain.

Apollo was at Percy’s side before Hypnos could regain his composure. His fingers brushed against Percy’s forehead, and relief flooded through him as he felt the warmth of life still pulsing beneath the mortal’s skin. The boy was alive—trapped in the grasp of a sleep too profound, but unharmed. Yet the sight of Hypnos, his violet gaze now fixed on Apollo with a mixture of amusement and reproach, only sharpened the tension coiling in Apollo’s chest.

“Explain yourself,” Apollo commanded, his voice a cold, cutting blade. His bow remained raised, ready to loose another arrow at the faintest provocation.

Hypnos’ form shifted, his hair cascading like liquid night over his features. His lips curled into an imperceptible smile. He pressed a hand to the point where the arrow had struck, though no wound marked his golden flesh. “An archer with no patience,” he drawled, his voice honeyed, almost drowsy. “How fitting.”

“Speak plainly, or the next shot will not miss its mark,” Apollo growled, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the bow.

Hypnos smiled faintly, his lids drooping as though even this confrontation was an unwelcome disturbance to his eternal repose. “Boy ventured too far. I offered him peace—what else would you have me do?”

“Peace?” Apollo’s voice rose, the edges fraying with rage. “What you call peace is nothing but oblivion. Release him. Now.”

Hypnos sighed, a sound so soft it was nearly imperceptible. “I have no chains on him, radiant one. He sleeps because his soul craves it, because the waking world has left him raw and wounded.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, though his demeanor remained languid. “Take him, if you wish, but beware. The dreams he carries are heavier than you know.”

Before Apollo could retort, a soft sound drew his attention—a gentle thud that broke through the cavern’s tense silence. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Hermes, crumpled to the ground, his silver wings limp against the stone. His face was serene, a picture of peaceful surrender, but his stillness was anything but comforting.

“Hermes!” Apollo called, his voice laced with panic.

Hypnos chuckled softly, the sound like the rustle of leaves before a storm. “Perhaps he too sought a reprieve. I wonder... how long will you keep chasing light in a world so eager for shadow?”

“Wake up,” Apollo‘s anger flared in his chest as he rushed to his brother’s side. “Hermes, you fool,” he hissed, shaking Hermes’s limp shoulder, though the god’s wings hung slack, heavy with Hypnos’s enchantment.

His jaw clenched in irritation as the soft, malicious laughter of Hypnos slithered through the air, barely audible but thick with the promise of more sleep to come. The sound stirred something primal within Apollo, a tightness that grew with each passing second. No time for this, he thought.

He turned his focus to Percy, still crumpled where he had fallen, his breath shallow but steady. Apollo’s movements slowed, his rage tempered by something softer—something fragile. Gently, as though lifting glass, he gathered Percy into his arms. For a moment, he paused, closing his eyes to listen to the boy’s breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

Warmth.

The demigod’s body felt impossibly light against his own, limbs dangling like those of a broken marionette. Apollo’s grip tightened protectively around him, as though shielding him from the cavern’s malevolence. With a sharp intake of breath, he straightened, Percy resting limply over his shoulder.

But there was still Hermes to contend with. Apollo glanced at his brother’s prone figure, lying there like some careless offering. Irritation flared anew. “Useless,” he muttered under his breath, seizing Hermes by the ankle. The god of thieves slid easily across the cold stone floor, his wings dragging behind him like wilted petals, their silver sheen dulled by Hypnos’s spell.

As Apollo emerged from the shadowed maw of the cavern, the figure of Hades awaited him, arms crossed in a stance that seemed both commanding and nonchalant. His dark gaze locked first onto Apollo, piercing and inscrutable, before drifting lazily over Percy, draped unconscious in Apollo’s arms like a fragile effigy. Finally, his eyes settled on Hermes, sprawled gracelessly on the cavern floor, one leg still in Apollo’s grip as if the god of light were dragging an unruly sibling from a brawl.

Hades arched an eyebrow, a faint, sardonic smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying the chill of the Underworld. “I thought you hated my domain.”

Apollo’s expression flickered, softening just enough to reveal the weight pressing against him as he adjusted his hold on Percy. The boy’s head lolled against Apollo’s chest, his breath shallow, his body caught in the uneasy grip of unnatural sleep.

“I still do,” Apollo replied, his voice flat, each syllable steeped in loathing, but his tone carried an edge far sharper than mere distaste. His golden eyes, dimmed by the suffocating darkness of this place, glanced briefly at the jagged cavern walls before returning to Hades. “Now, perhaps more than ever.”

Hades’ eyes gleamed in the dim light, his gaze unreadable. "The Underworld has a way of making even the brightest gods question their loyalties."

Apollo glanced up, his expression hardening. "If I could, I’d be anywhere else."

"You and I both," Hades murmured. But there was no sympathy in his tone, no softness in his voice, just the sharpness of someone who had long ago made peace with his own darkness.

Hades extended his hands slowly, his dark robes shifting like liquid shadow around him. “Give me back the son of Poseidon,” he commanded. His gaze lingered on Percy, his expression unreadable but deliberate. “You already have a burden to carry.”

His eyes flicked to Hermes, still sprawled inelegantly on the floor, his presence as much a nuisance as it was a reminder of Apollo’s divided attention.

Hermes groaned then, stirring with faint, half-conscious protest as his limbs shifted beneath him. But Apollo barely spared him a glance, his gaze locked onto Hades.

“Percy needs to recover,” Apollo replied, his voice cutting through the stagnant air. His grip on Percy remained firm, protective.

“It’s not a wound but an enchantment old as time,” Hades’s voice was smooth, as though he were explaining the obvious to an impatient child. “It’s called Sleep, Apollo. If you wish, I can rouse him from his dreams.”

Hades extended his hands toward Percy, his fingers poised as if to unravel the very fabric of slumber. But at the mere suggestion, Apollo flinched—his body recoiling in a movement so swift, it seemed driven by instinct alone.

A flicker of fear crossing his face as he whispered, “Not yet.”

The stillness that followed crackled with an unspoken understanding, and Hades’s eyes glinted with a knowing light, his lips curving into something like a smile—a smile that was more a shadow of things left unsaid.

Hades’ dark gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned, his cape sweeping across the uneven ground as he began to walk toward the path leading to his palace.

“Follow me,” Hades said.

Percy dreamt of sunlight. It bathed him as he sat in the tall, whispering grass, his chiton askew, soft linen draped carelessly over sun-warmed skin. A smile graced his lips, languid and unguarded, as though the day itself had conspired to cradle him in its warmth. The grass swayed high, veiling him from prying eyes, yet he felt no fear of the pursuit—only a thrill, sharp and electric.

Someone was chasing him. But the knowledge didn’t terrify; it tantalized.

When the rustling of straws broke the stillness, his heart quickened. He rose like a spirit loosed from the earth, legs springing into motion, laughter bubbling from his lips—bright, breathless notes spilling into the golden air. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his flight, each chuckle a fleeting bird soaring free.

But the escape was short-lived. He barely breached the edge of the endless grassland when strong hands caught him, lifting him high, as though offering him to the heavens.

The naiads, basking and frolicking in their streams, turned their heads, silvery laughter chiming like water against stone. They paused, their gazes alight with curiosity as they beheld the scene.

Percy twisted in the grasp of his captor, his gaze meeting a face radiant as the sun. Apollo. His golden eyes, molten and tender, were fixed on Percy with an intensity that stole the breath from his lungs. His smile was wide, brilliant, suffused with an adoration that seemed to transcend mortal comprehension.

Percy’s heart fluttered in confusion, surprise threading through him, yet he felt no aversion, no disgust. He let himself be held, cradled in the arms of divinity, basking in the glow of a love so consuming it burned.

“I’ve caught you, my muse,” Apollo murmured, his voice a silken caress as his hands tightened possessively around Percy’s hips, anchoring him in this dreamscape of impossible warmth and yearning.

“Perseus, my very light,” he breathed, the words a quiet, burning claim.

And then Apollo kissed him, a searing touch that seemed to unravel the very fabric of the air, spiraling heat radiating outward in waves. Yet the kiss did not scorch Percy; instead, it enveloped him, sinking into his skin like sunlight on a winter morning.

Percy’s breath caught, his lips parting in instinctive surrender, the heat drawing him in rather than driving him away.

His hands found Apollo’s shoulders, not to push him away but to steady himself against the flood of sensation. His body responded without hesitation, leaning into the heat, into the golden light that radiated from the god who held him as though he were something sacred.

“Apollo, my very soul.” Percy whispered against the god’s lips, his voice trembling with something fragile and fierce all at once. His gaze held Apollo’s, unflinching, as his hands buried themselves in the god’s golden locks, their silken strands slipping through his fingers like sunlight caught in a net. Apollo’s answering smile was radiant, a thing of beauty and possession, lighting the world around them as though he were its sole architect.

In an instant, they were surrounded by the tall grass again, its swaying blades brushing against their skin, a living sea of green that cloaked them from the heavens.

Percy lay sprawled across Apollo’s robes, the fabric shielding him from the raw earth beneath him, yet it was Apollo who loomed over him, his presence a blinding force. He kissed every inch of Percy’s body—tender, worshipful, each kiss a promise, a silent hymn to something both divine and carnal. Apollo’s hands moved with reverence, squeezing, caressing, leaving traces of heat and tenderness in their wake.

When Apollo’s teeth grazed his flesh, Percy moaned, his breath catching in the dizzying mixture of sensation, his body trembling beneath the god. The pain called to him, a dark siren's song that entwined with his desire, igniting every nerve, every inch of his being.

He turned his head to the side, embarrassed by the sounds he made, but Apollo’s laughter filled the air, warm and intoxicating.

“Why so timid, my love?” His voice was low, sensual, and his hand traveled with deliberate slowness over Percy’s naked body, squeezing his thighs and spreading them wider, urging him to surrender. "Have we not done this countless times?"

Percy’s pulse quickened at the question, the weight of Apollo’s words sinking deep into him. "Countless?" He whispered, sea-green eyes wide with confusion and wonder.

“Yes,” Apollo purred, his voice darkened with an ancient hunger, “countless, and always more to come. I am forever unsatisfied in your presence, my muse.”

His words were followed by a kiss to Percy’s throat, Apollo’s blonde locks brushing against Percy’s skin, sending shivers down his spine. Percy chuckled softly, his breath hitching again as Apollo’s hips moved against him, setting a rhythm that made his heart race.

"My light," Apollo whispered, his voice raw, trembling with longing. His hands, as though seeking to consume him, explored Percy’s form with a tenderness that bordered on desperation. "Together," he breathed, eyes closing as he got lost in the moment, "until the stars fall from the sky."

Percy’s body arched instinctively into Apollo’s, a silent plea for more, as though his very soul sought to fuse with the god before him. Each movement was a language older than words, a deep yearning without boundaries. Apollo’s hands gripped him with a fervor that was at once possessive and adoring, and Percy, heart pounding, surrendered himself entirely. He welcomed Apollo’s fire into his core, the searing warmth filling him, erasing every fear, every hesitation, until there was nothing left but the two of them, burning together.

He felt so safe within those strong arms, wrapped in Apollo's embrace, a warmth that ignited every part of him. Apollo felt like home—like the comforting embrace of a fire on a cold winter night, a steady, flickering flame that banished all shadows.

Percy, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, felt tears well up and fall from his eyes. Apollo kissed them away, his lips lingering on Percy’s skin as if starved for the taste of him, as if he could never get enough.

“In this moment, there is no past, no future—only this, only us,” Apollo whispered against his ear, his breath warm and steady, the words a balm against the ache that had once thrived in Percy’s heart.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hypnos's voice rang out, smooth as silk yet heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. “To dream of comfort for once? To bask in the warmth of a love untainted by suffering. But you always run to what you know, to pain, to fight, to fear.”

Percy’s restlessness was palpable, each shift of his form stirring an uneasy ripple in the stillness of the room. Apollo stood in the shadows, hidden behind the dark pillar like a thief in the night, a god who had once blazed through the heavens now reduced to a mere spectator. He watched the boy with the same intensity as one might observe a fragile flame, afraid that even the smallest movement would snuff it out.

Apollo remembered the way Percy had resurfaced from the waters, gliding between Achaean ships with the quiet grace of a ghost, only to flinch when his gaze met Apollo’s from above, as if the sun itself had dared to intrude on his sanctuary.

The moment had been brief, but there had been something in the way Percy had darted away, like a shy nymph, retreating into the depths at the mere sight of Apollo in the sky. And it had pierced Apollo’s heart in a way he could not explain.

"Why don’t you sit by him?" Persephone’s voice cut through the stillness, soft yet incisive as she adjusted the animal furs under Percy’s head. She had been the first to notice the strange tension in Apollo’s posture, the way his gaze lingered on the sleeping demigod, yet never drew too near.

"I don’t—" Apollo faltered, caught off guard. His voice stumbled before he could hide it. "I don’t think it would be wise for me to show myself to him yet."

Persephone's gaze softened, but there was a knowing sharpness to it. "You’re afraid of him," she said, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Percy’s forehead as if to mock Apollo’s hesitation. A small, unspoken gesture that made Apollo’s fingers twitch with jealousy. It was so simple, so intimate, and it made him ache in ways he could not quite explain.

The words lodged themselves in Apollo's throat, refusing to come out. Afraid of a mortal? How absurd the thought sounded in his head. But when he tried to gather his thoughts, to form a defense, he realized, with a quiet horror, that Persephone was right.

Apollo was afraid to face him. And why? Because of the look Percy might give him—the look of revulsion, of fear, or, worse, of hatred. Apollo could not bear to see that look again.

He closed his eyes, drawing the world into shadow, and began to pace—a predator hesitant to take a bite from its motionless prey. The steps were slow, deliberate, as though Apollo sought to escape the inevitable confrontation, to delay the reckoning.

If Kronos was right, then Apollo should take Perseus in his arms and carry him away—far from the present, far from the weight of what was to come. He envisioned distant lands: Perhaps Mount Helicon, or Parnassus, yet these places too were fragile, too vulnerable to be their salvation. His mind turned to Hyperborea, the Celestial Realm where even the psychopomps would be lost, a land beyond time, a realm untouched by gods or mortals. A place where he could keep Perseus safe.

But then, as the night air thickened with hesitation, Percy stirred. His form, once restless, now softened into a smile, a serenity Apollo had not seen before. It was a fleeting thing, a curve of grace that seemed to halt the breath in Apollo’s chest.

And then, the sound—so delicate, so intimate.

“Apollo…”

The way Percy spoke his name—so full of something Apollo had not dared hope for—tenderness. Tenderness, laced with the kind of affection that seemed foreign, uninvited in the wake of all they had lost. Apollo felt a heat flood through him, a fire that danced in his chest and spread to the very tips of his fingers.

For a moment, Apollo wondered if it was a hallucination, the sweetness of Percy’s voice lingering in the space between dream and waking. But it was real. That tenderness, so raw, so fragile—had it truly been meant for him?

He turned away, as though the weight of it all might crush him if he dared to meet it head-on. Yes, he could seize him, take him in the darkness.

When Hermes awoke, he would help Apollo pull Percy from this place. No weddings, no war—just them, free, unburdened, as it should have always been.

But then, like a bitter sting, Hermes's words cut through the fog of Apollo’s yearning: “Do you think… what? That turning into a dog or some other pathetic ploy will make Percy forgive you? After everything you’ve done?”

Oh, forgiveness. That fragile thing that could make or break them, could breathe life into what had died between them. Apollo knew the truth of it—their salvation could not come without it. Without it, Percy would once again turn from him, slipping like a shadow into the night, fleeing, fighting, resisting.

And though Apollo thrived in their quarrels—savage, sweet in their agony—he could not bear the punishments, the constant struggle to bend Percy into submission. It was futile, as futile as trying to cage the moon in a jar. Percy had proved that, time and again, with every defiant look, every fierce step away.

And so, Apollo waited—watched and breathed in the tense silence, knowing the time would come when he could interfere, when he could be the savior Percy needed, the one who would break through the walls of bitterness and fear.

Percy jolted awake, his breath a desperate, ragged gasp, as though the very air had betrayed him. His chest heaved with the remnants of a dream too beautiful to bear, too cruel to recall. His fingers, trembling and feverish, clawed at the coarse sheets beneath him, their texture harsh, unyielding—yet it was the only thing anchoring him to the unrelenting, suffocating weight of his waking life. The sheets offered no comfort; they were not the soft embrace he had longed for, nor the gentle refuge that had cradled him in his dream.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as though the darkness could somehow preserve the fragile, fleeting memory of the dream. It had been so sweet, so intoxicating—a place where he felt whole, where joy swirled like golden wine, where warmth, tenderness, and safety surrounded him like the embrace of a long-lost lover. But Apollo—the Apollo, the god who had deceived him, scarred him, and punished him with an indifference only a being as cruel and immortal as he could possess—had no place in such peace.

And yet, the dream had been so… beautiful.

A cruel irony that stung his chest like a thousand splinters.

Sudden sorrow settled deep in his chest, sharp and relentless, gnawing at his heart. He didn’t understand it, but it gripped him fiercely, a sorrow darker than the nightmares that usually plagued him. This sorrow was not born from terror, but from the sting of beauty—this dream, so perfect, so complete, and yet so utterly unreachable. It was a lie, a sweet, poisonous lie, crueler than the nightly horrors he had come to expect. At least in those, there was no promise, no hope of something impossible.

He cupped a trembling hand over his mouth, as if to silence the cries that burned in his throat. But even muffled, his sobs cut through the stillness, the taste of salt bitter on his lips. When he finally opened his eyes, the sight before him—that sight—struck him like a cruel blow, swallowed his breath, and stole the remnants of his fleeting composure.

A saffron robe, vivid and damning, tangled around his legs.

Apollo.

The god—the god, whose name had been both balm and poison to him—was there, still, as real as the cold bite of the night air.

Reeling, Percy threw himself from the bed, untangling himself in a frenzy.

He staggered backward, his breaths quick and shallow, his heart hammering in his chest as his gaze swept across the room.

The chamber was unfamiliar—its walls draped in dark stone, its bed covered in animal skins. Red lampions swayed gently overhead, their glow casting shifting shadows as a soft, uncanny wind drifted in from an open archway.

Through the opening, a vast expanse of the Underworld unfolded before him. The Styx wound lazily below, its dark waters gleaming faintly beneath the pale, unnatural light. He could see the island where his cabin stood, Charon’s crooked silhouette pushing his boat across the river, and clouds swirling on a sky painted in hues of purple, broken only by the faint radiance of Persephone’s silver trees.

The Underworld suddenly felt suffocating to him, as if the mere presence of Apollo, like a sun too bright for his pale world, shattered the fragile peace he had managed to carve out.

He spun sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps, his breath catching in his throat, though his eyes refused to linger on the figure that pursued him. Without a glance, he turned toward the gaping wound of the palace—toward the bleeding, heartless mouth of the Underworld. His gaze fell downward, drawn to the Styx, her dark waters coiling like serpents in silent dance.

No words escaped his lips, nor any hesitation marred his movement. With the elegance of a predator, he crouched, muscles rippling beneath the thin veneer of his skin, poised to leap.

And then, like a creature of the night breaking free from earthly bonds, he was airborne.He plunged downward, vanishing beneath the surface of Styx like a spectre swallowed whole by the ancient, unforgiving depths.

Percy resurfaced at the coast, the bitter taste of Styx still in his mouth, its chill crawling beneath his skin, gnawing at his very soul.

The sea was alive with unrest, its waves crashing like the furious heartbeat of a beast disturbed.

Percy’s gaze lifted to the sky, dark clouds swirling in tortured spirals, an endless ocean of shadows twisting and writhing in silent, brooding rage. Brief streaks of lightning tore across the heavens, casting jagged shards of light that flared and vanished, like flashes of anger too wild to be contained. Thunder boomed overhead, a distant warning rolling through the sky.

The moon hung high, its silver light harsh and unfeeling, an indifferent witness to the turmoil below.

It would be wise to avoid drawing any more attention from the gods—especially Zeus. Percy’s heart raced at the thought of the king of the gods, his wrath a tempest greater than anything the sea could conjure.

Then, as though summoned by the currents themselves, the air shifted, thickening around Percy. He felt the presence before he saw him, a silent command rippling through the water, wrapping around him in a cocoon of calm. A quiet surged from the depths, and the waves grew still, cradling Percy in a wordless shelter. His heart stilled as his father’s presence unfurled.

“My son.” Poseidon’s voice rang out, low and resonant, carrying with it the weight of oceans and the depths of storms. Percy turned, bowing his head in respect as his father emerged, his aura unmistakable—a force that bent even the air, wrapping them in a sanctuary of silence that held against the tempest.

Poseidon’s eyes glimmered, a hint of wry amusement flickering across his face. “Boy, this is hardly the time for you to take such dives into the sea,” he murmured, a low chuckle rumbling through him. “I know where you’ve been; I felt it—the pull of Styx, the tremor of Hades’ realm.” He shook his head, pride gleaming in his gaze. “Such a gift—that you could traverse the realms—is something even I did not foresee.”

Poseidon studied Percy, words lingering on his lips, his gaze clouded with something unsaid. A flicker of restraint passed over his face, as if he had come close to divulging something, only to decide against it. "Return to Alexander," he commanded softly, though the weight of his words left no room for question. "Rest, and do not venture out again in a storm."

Percy trudged back to shore, his himation lost somewhere on the sand, leaving only the thin chiton clinging to his damp skin. He blinked at the sudden shadow looming overhead. Paris didn’t wait—his hands found Percy’s waist, lifting him effortlessly before carrying them both back to Troy in silence, the world a blur beneath them.

Once in his chamber, Percy shed his damp clothes, slipping into fresh robes of soft white. Paris guided him to a seat by the fire, still without words, his gaze heavy with an unspoken question. Silence stretched between them, the only sound the crackling of flames licking at logs, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

“I was in Lyrnessus today. With Ares.” Percy’s voice tightened with the memory, as if the images of the destruction still clung to him. He held Paris’s gaze, but Paris’s face remained unreadable, a mask that Percy struggled to decipher.

“I saw the bodies… temples desecrated,” Percy murmured, his voice dipping into a softer cadence, as though speaking the words too loudly would make them real. “It was awful. But after witnessing what you did to those… Achaeans, I understood…your actions, to some degree.”

Paris’s eyes flickered briefly toward the fire, the shadows shifting on his face, concealing the emotions swirling within him.

“So you remember.” Paris’s voice, low and hesitant, broke the silence.

“Yes,” Percy responded, his voice firm despite the tremor in his chest. “Why did you try to deceive me?” The words hung in the air between them, neither sharp nor biting but heavy with quiet disappointment.

“I didn’t want you to reject me,” Paris confessed, his voice raw, vulnerability cracking through the veneer of pride he wore. “It is not how I wish you to see me.” He paused, the fire in his gaze reigniting, flickering with a wild, untamed intensity. “In your eyes, it may be brutal, inhuman. In mine, it is justice.” His words sharpened like an edge. “To kill Achaeans… it’s the only way I feel I am fulfilling my purpose, my domain. Protecting Troy.” He exhaled a long breath, the weight of his convictions evident in every syllable. “Justice,” he said, as if the word itself could justify everything he had done.

Percy’s eyes darkened with a quiet resolve. “Fire extinguished with fire only scorches deeper. Why not show them you are better than they are?”

Paris’s expression hardened, and he shook his head slightly, stepping back. “This is war, Percy.” His voice dropped, carrying the gravity of the truth he carried. “And Greeks, well, they only understand the language of violence,” Paris continued, his voice steady now, almost cold. “If they act like animals, I will slaughter them like animals.”

Percy watched him closely, noticing the subtle twitch of Paris’s jaw, the unspoken turmoil under his calm exterior. He paced, the rhythm of his steps deliberate, as if wrestling with his own demons.

“But my anger,” Paris continued, his voice now a fervent whisper, “it would never turn against you. Never.” He swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing as the fire’s flickering flames danced higher, almost as if responding to the intensity of his words. Percy’s gaze drifted to the flames, a prickle of unease tracing his spine.

“That’s not what I worry about, Paris,” Percy replied, his voice woven with quiet tension.

Paris’s gaze flickered, something raw and unspoken swirling beneath his composed exterior. “I’ll try to be better,” he said, his tone pleading, but the undercurrent of something darker—familiar and unyielding—remained. “But don’t ask me to abandon my wrath.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed, his own storm stirring deep within. “Don’t try to deceive me again,” he warned, his voice steady but sharp. He paused, eyes flicking over Paris’s form, weighing him like an enigma wrapped in an impenetrable shell.

“You wouldn’t want me to run from the altar,” Percy half-joked, but the warning in his voice was unmistakable, threading through the words like poison in a glass of wine.

Paris’s eyes darkened at the mere suggestion, a flicker of something predatory flashing across his features. He leaned closer, and without a word, his lips brushed against Percy’s. Percy’s breath caught, his body tensing in surprise before his mouth parted, an invitation unspoken but undeniable. Their hands found one another, fingers interlacing as their tongues mingled—heat, hunger, and something far more ancient than either could name surging between them.

“You taste of death,” Paris murmured against his lips, his voice thick with desire, eyes half-lidded as if intoxicated by the very essence.

“I dived in Styx,” Percy said quietly.

Paris’s eyes flickered at the admission, something dark curling in his gaze. Paris’s hands moved with intent, the brush of his fingers against Percy’s skin sending shivers through him. Slowly, almost reverently, his hands traveled down, skimming the fabric of Percy’s chiton before sliding beneath it.

He drew Percy closer, his hands gripping the strong curve of his thighs. In one fluid motion, Paris lifted him, the power in his arms undeniable as they pressed under Percy’s knees, a silent command echoing in the space between them.

Percy’s fingers clung to Paris’s shoulders, his touch tentative yet necessary, a fragile anchor against the sudden surge of motion.

“Paris,” he murmured, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion, “I don’t have the energy for this.”

Paris placed him back on the floor, his actions slow, reverent, as if he were yielding to some unseen force. Yet, he did not let go. The pull within him was undeniable, a deep and unspoken need to offer Percy solace, to replace the exhaustion with something softer, something sweeter. It wasn’t just about comfort—it was about grounding Percy before his restless mind spiraled again.

Paris’s expression wilted, a wounded beast left cold beneath the stars, eyes dark with yearning and confusion. “Let me bring you even a sliver of comfort,” he murmured, his gaze a question that begged the night for mercy.

Comfort. The word echoed in Percy’s mind, pulling him back to the dream, to the warmth of Apollo’s embrace—the feeling of belonging, of burning against the sun god’s light. He closed his eyes briefly, but the warmth quickly soured, replaced by the chill of distance. He did not feel the same with Paris. No, there was something... wrong. A thread of mistrust now woven between them, one that clung like a shadow, creeping under the skin.

Looking at Paris now, Percy saw not the boy he had once known, but someone else—a twisted reflection, familiar yet unrecognizable, as though the world itself had contorted them into a shape both alien and painfully close.

Slowly, Paris drew nearer, his movements deliberate, guiding Percy back until the rough stone met his shoulders. He leaned in, a shadow at his back, brushing so close that the air between them trembled.

Paris sank to his knees, his gaze lifting like a supplicant before the altar, searching Percy’s eyes for something—permission, perhaps, or the breaking of a barrier.

His hands slid up Percy’s thighs, the touch light yet possessive, as his mouth lingered near Percy’s clothed crotch—teasing, an unspoken promise.

Percy’s gaze faltered, a flicker of hesitation crossing his chest like a storm cloud. He tried to step back, but Paris’s grip tightened, hands firm on his hips, urgent, nearly bruising.

“Paris,” Percy warned, his voice low, trembling with the weight of his own restraint.

“Please,” Paris’s voice broke through the tension, soft yet insistent. “Let me taste you. Nothing more, I swear,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, desperate and insistent.

Before Percy could gather the breath to protest, Paris’s hands rose to lift Percy’s chiton, and with a sudden, swift motion, he took him into his mouth.

A hiss escaped Percy’s lips, the warmth of Paris’s mouth an unexpected wave crashing over him. His head turned, a flush of embarrassment burning through him as Paris’s mouth moved, coaxing him to grow, to respond.

Percy’s breath quickened, a choked gasp leaving him as the pressure of Paris’s touch deepened, seizing him, dragging him under.

It took but a whisper of effort from Paris before Percy’s breath caught in trembling moans, his body betraying him in the grip of Paris's deft, sinful tongue. "So sensitive," Paris purred, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips, his hand wrapping around Percy now, pulling him taut with a teasing grasp, while his tongue flicked and danced at the tender tip.

Was it his dream that made him so fragile under the touch? How wrong, how cruel, to let Apollo's warmth linger in his thoughts now.

The sound of wetness, slick and unsettling, echoed in the stillness, each shift in Paris’s movement magnified in the quiet space. Percy felt his ears burn, a flush creeping over his face as the walls seemed to hum with the intensity of the act.

"Enough," Percy managed, though Paris's efforts grew more fevered, more demanding. The edge of release, sharp and imminent, threatened to unravel him.

He looked down at Paris—at the sight so decadent that his pulse stammered in response. Paris knelt before him, his gaze consuming, aflame with unspoken vows, as though Percy were some sacred offering he dared not tarnish but could not resist. The sheer power of it—the paradox of divine submission—stirred something primal in Percy, a lust that thrummed to life, blooming almost painfully as Paris took him in with unrelenting fervor.

As if sensing the thoughts that flared behind Percy’s half-lidded gaze, Paris’s lips curved into a smile. He let his teeth graze the sensitive skin that left Percy gasping, before his lips sealed again, his hum deep and resonant. The vibrations surged through Percy‘s member, lighting his nerves on fire, every pulse a whisper of surrender.

“Paris!” Percy’s legs quivered, surrendering as he came, white strings spilling, finding home in Paris’s ravenous mouth. God swallowed with greedy satisfaction, and Percy’s legs buckled beneath him, his chiton slipping back into place as if the scene had never unfolded.

Before Percy could falter, Paris caught him, lifting him effortlessly and laying him gently on the bed.

Percy gazed up at him, his body spent, eyes heavy with exhaustion, his brows furrowed in a fleeting trace of concern. But then the tension melted from his face, replaced by an unspoken invitation as he drew Paris closer, his arms a silent plea for solace.

Paris, a creature of quiet joy, melted into the embrace, his head finding refuge against Percy’s shoulder. His dark hair spilled like a river of shadowed silk across Percy’s neck, the faint scent of apples mingling with the earthy perfume of Paris’ skin.

Exhaustion settled over them like a heavy shroud, their bodies tangled in a delicate quiet as sleep claimed them. Each breath fell in soft murmurs, a shared rhythm beneath the weight of their dreams.

Yet when Percy drifted into the depths of slumber, Paris remained awake, his gaze unwavering as he stared into the fire. The flames danced, their flickering light casting shadows across his face, deepening the dark crescents beneath his eyes. In the shifting blaze, he saw a reflection of the power that thrummed within him—raw, untamed, an all-consuming force that devoured everything in its path.

His head tilted slightly, and he leaned toward Percy, drawing in his scent. It struck him with a displeasure he could not easily dismiss. The decay of the Styx—dark, ancient—was a scent he could abide, even savor. The sea’s salt, too, was natural, grounding.

The roses... that lingering sweetness clung stubbornly to Percy’s skin, but it was easy to overwrite, with baths, with Paris’s touch. Yet, no matter how often he tried, it returned, as though it had seeped into the very marrow of Percy’s being, an imprint too deep to erase.

But then there was something new, a scent like mirth, of burned wood, of something alive with heat. It was a trace that clung to Percy now, foreign yet unmistakable. Apollo’s.

That scent, like fire and light, flickered in the air between them, a sharp contrast to the roses—clear, unmistakable, and uninvited. It was a signature, a claim of its own, and Paris felt it burn in his chest, a challenge he could not ignore. Even in the intimacy of this moment, Apollo’s presence loomed between them, unseen but undeniable.

Chapter Text

Peacocks wailed beyond the balcony, their cries shrill and haunting in the dawn’s fragile light. Percy’s eyes fluttered open, his body still heavy with the remnants of sleep. His gaze fell upon the hem of an opulent skirt embroidered with gold, its vibrant hues catching the muted glow of morning. Slowly, his head tilted upward, and there she was—Hera, queenly and inscrutable, standing beside him like a statue come to life.

The chill of her gaze sent a shiver down Percy’s spine, but he didn’t flinch. His senses stirred, and with them, the warmth of another body at his back—a steady arm draped over his waist. Paris.

"Do you take pleasure in spying on people while they sleep, or is this some divine habit?" Percy muttered, rising from the bed with an annoyed flick of his hand, his voice roughened by the haze of slumber.

With his other hand, he nudged Paris awake, feeling the prince’s arm tighten briefly around him before falling away.