The week passed. Still no word from Olympus.
How did I know they hadn't forgotten me? Well, the occasional random thunderbolt slamming into the woods whenever someone said my name a little too loudly was a pretty big hint. Subtle as always, Zeus.
Honestly? Camp life was almost peaceful compared to the hellscape of magical Vietnam that was the Faewylds... or, you know, that little scenic trip we took walking from freakin' Alaska.
Sure, it wasn't perfect. Some of the cabins had gotten creative, trying to set up a Malaysian-level betting syndicate around the sparring matches. "Recommendations" kept showing up left and right—eager volunteers who just happened to be carrying half their life savings in drachmas to bet on themselves. Real subtle, guys.
Meanwhile, the Huntresses of Artemis were pulling a whole other brand of drama. Every time I walked past? Instant bow-grab. Taut bowstrings, arrow tips gleaming, a few whispered prayers to whatever moon goddess handled "accidentally shooting problem children." I had no idea why they were doing that. It's not like I did anything. (Recently.) Were they gonna shoot me full of arrows? Newsflash, Sisterhood of the Traveling Moon—I'm arrowproof. Or, well, killproof. There's a difference, but I figured they'd learn that the hard way if they really wanted to go Legolas on me.
So I just smiled at them whenever it happened. Real friendly. Real slow. You know. Like a problem. And then went right back to soaking up the sun, enjoying the fact that for once, the world wasn't ending.
I didn't spend the whole week just lounging around. Nah. I made time for practice. Way out past the hills, into the woods—far enough that if something exploded, nobody could complain... or sue. Because these new powers? Yeah. They weren't some cute party trick.
How powerful? If I wasn't careful, the entire forest would've been swallowed up by a firestorm before I even realized I'd lost control. One bad twitch of my hand and poof—there goes half the Northeast ecosystem. With a little focus, I could raise hills out of the dirt like plucking wrinkles out of a blanket. Not Mount Everest or anything, but big enough to freak out a park ranger.
Wind? Easy. I could knock over a line of trees with a swipe of my hand, throw a mini-hurricane if I put some muscle into it. Lightning? I didn't even have to strum anymore. Just clench my fist—crack. Thunderheads would bloom like bruises in the sky.
And the fire... the fire was always there. Dancing between my fingers, curling against my skin like a loyal, very poorly trained dog.
I snapped my fingers absentmindedly—a little puff of flame burst in the air and snuffed out just as fast. Sif barked from under a shady tree nearby, tail thumping the dirt like she was saying, good job not burning down the state, dummy.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, rolling my shoulders. "A+ for not causing an extinction event."
She yawned dramatically. I couldn't help but grin a little. Cute not so little puppy, too bad that doggy teenhood seen to have hit, she is starting to get opinionated.
Another lazy afternoon. Another dumb idea. Which is why I was currently hunched over a busted-up crate outside the Hermes cabin, playing poker with one of their own. Kid's name was Cal—shifty grin, fast hands, pockets probably deeper than the Mariana Trench. Exactly the kind of guy you'd expect from a Hermes kid.
We weren't betting much—just a few drachmas I'd scraped together from sparring matches and friendly "bets" around camp. Cal's pile was suspiciously larger... and I had my doubts about where it came from. Probably stolen. Probably laundering it through our game right now. Fine by me. I wasn't feeling particularly righteous today.
He smirked, flicking a card onto the pile like he owned the place. "So," Cal said, pretending to shuffle but mostly just rearranging the deck, "what do you think? How's camp gonna hold up against the Huntresses?"
He meant the upcoming capture the flag match. The Hunters of Artemis were apparently mopping the floor with camp since forever—undefeated, unbothered, and about as friendly as an IRS audit.
I leaned back, threw my cards face-down onto the crate with a casual flick, and stretched like I didn't have a care in the world. "Eh," I said. "I can take them."
Cal chuckled—short and sharp, like he didn't know whether to laugh or call the infirmary. I smiled back. Because I knew he was cheating. He'd been counting cards since the second we sat down—marking tiny scratches with his thumb, reshuffling just a little too slick.
But that was fine. Because I was cheating, too. I'd strummed a soft little tune on my bass before we even sat down, casting Detect Thoughts under my breath. Nothing big. Just enough to catch surface thoughts. Like this card's trash, or he's bluffing, or maybe if I fake a sprained ankle, I can lift his wallet.
So really? The game was fair. Well... fair-er.
I gave Cal my best lazy grin, leaning my chin on my hand. "You sure you wanna keep playing, buddy?"
He squinted at me, suspicious. Cal tapped the crate impatiently. "My deal," I said, scooping the cards toward me.
He leaned back, smirking like he was already counting his winnings. Bad move.
I cracked my knuckles once—just for show—then started to shuffle. Not just your regular back-alley shuffle either. No. Thanks to those wonderful, sanity-bending gifts from the black suns? My fingers moved like they had their own rhythm. Cards flipping, dancing, snapping between my hands with perfect grace. I made it look easy. Casual. Like I did this every Tuesday while sipping coffee and solving quantum physics.
The deck waterfalled from one hand to the other—a smooth cascade that caught Cal's eye. He tried not to look impressed. Tried. Then I flipped the deck again, cutting it midair, sending the cards spinning, catching them without even glancing. And while I was putting on the show? I was working. Smudging his tiny marks. Breaking his counts. Mixing the deck so thoroughly even the gods of luck would need GPS to find the good hands.
Cal's grin faded just a little. He knew something was wrong. He just couldn't prove it.
I stacked the deck with a final crisp snap, slid it toward him like a blackjack dealer on a winning streak, and leaned back. "Your draw," I said, smiling slow. "Feeling lucky?"
He hesitated for half a second—just a flicker.
Cal tried. Oh, he tried. Little sleights of hand here and there. Palming a card. Sliding a coin to recoup some of his losses. Dropping a fake yawn to nudge the deck. Problem was? It didn't matter. Every trick he pulled? I was already three steps ahead. With Detect Thoughts still humming quietly in the background, every "maybe if I just..." plan he hatched popped right into my head before he even finished the thought.
It was like playing poker with a glass table between us and him thinking it was solid oak.
The drachmas kept swapping back and forth across the crate—
A few to him.
More to me.
A couple games later, the pile in front of me was growing steady. Cal's smile was getting thinner and thinner, stretched like taffy under a heat lamp.
I tossed another winning hand onto the crate, scooped the pot lazily, and leaned back, soaking in the early afternoon sun.
"Man," I said, real casual, "you're having a rough day."
He laughed—a little too loudly—and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well. Beginner's luck, right?"
"Sure," I said, stacking another neat pile of drachmas. "If you say so."
Sif woofed quietly from where she was lounging nearby, like even she knew I was steamrolling this poor kid.
Cal grumbled something about "unfair cosmic karma" and dealt again. The last hand came down hard. Cal dealt fast, like maybe if he moved quick enough, he could bluff the universe itself. I played it slower, deliberate, like I had all the time in the world and maybe a little extra tucked behind my ear. Flick of the wrist here, lazy little raise there. Let him think he was dragging me into a mistake.
He bought it. Poor guy shoved the last of his drachmas into the center with a grin that was more desperation than confidence. All in. Big moment. Final gamble.
I didn't even blink. I matched him with a shrug, flipped my cards with two fingers.
Straight flush.
The kid's face did this tiny, wonderful spasm, trying to decide between screaming or crying. He threw down his hand—three of a kind—and it might as well have been a white flag. Not even close.
I leaned back in the battered old crate we were using for a table, dragging the pile of shiny coins toward me with a slow, easy sweep. No hurry. Let it sink in. Victory tasted sweet. .
"Good game," I said, meaning it, because hey—he tried. "You were getting better toward the end. Maybe next time."
Cal grimaced but pushed himself up to his feet, sticking out his hand. I shook it without a second thought. Say what you want about Hermes kids—they knew how to lose without throwing a tantrum. Most of the time.
"Anyway," I said, stuffing the clinking mess of drachmas into my belt pouch, "I need to go grab something to eat. Can't save the camp moral on an empty stomach."
"Yeah," Cal muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like he'd just survived a war. "Good luck. You're gonna need it."
I grinned, shot him a lazy finger-gun point, and whistled low for Sif to follow as I turned toward the cafeteria. She padded after me, tail wagging.
Couldn't go into capture the flag on an empty stomach, after all.
The two armies faced each other across the clearing—campers versus Huntress.
There were a lot more of us, no question. Twice, maybe three times their number. But numbers weren't everything. You could feel it just standing there. The Hunters were sharper. Cleaner. Organized like they'd been doing this since my grandma's time—and probably longer. Some of them might've fought in wars before electricity was even a rumor.
Chiron stood between the two groups, looking every inch the responsible school teacher, clipboard tucked under one arm. He ran through the rules in that steady, worn-out-professor voice: capture the flag, no maiming, no killing, fight until you surrender, honor and glory, teamwork matters, blah blah blah. Honestly, it sounded more like he was reciting from muscle memory than expecting anyone to actually listen.
He finished with the traditional, almost bored, "Any questions?"
Normally, no one answered. Normally, everyone just shuffled their feet and got ready to sprint into the trees.
But today wasn't normal.
I raised my hand high like an overeager kindergartener. "I do, sir."
Chiron closed his eyes for a second, breathed out through his nose like he was already regretting everything about his life. "Yes, Lucas."
I dropped my hand, stepped forward a little so my voice carried. "I got one question. You said we fight till we surrender, right? But see... I don't really surrender. Not because I'm stubborn. More because..." I gave a big innocent smile. "I'm very hard to kill."
A ripple of scoffs ran through the campers. The Huntress sneered openly, sharing smirks like they couldn't wait to knock the "arrogance" out of me.
Chiron rubbed his temples. "Lucas, it's good you fight to your very best—but no man is immortal. Only the go—"
He didn't finish.
Because I flicked my hand up lazily, letting one of my claws pop free. A thin shimmer of metal caught the sunlight—and then with a neat, casual swipe, I slashed it across my own throat.
There was a horrible wet sound.
A gasp rolled through the clearing like a wave. Rhea and Will screamed "NO!" at the same time, voices cracking with panic, but it was already done.
Blood gushed out in a wide, theatrical arc, dark and heavy. Some campers staggered back, faces going green. A few turned away entirely. One poor Huntress fainted straight into the dirt.
I stood there proudly, lifting my chin high, showing everyone the wide-open wound for a second or two. Gurgled some blood out of my freshly slashed vocal cords—a nice, raspy death-rattle noise for effect—before the healing kicked in.
The cut sealed itself like melting wax under a flame. No scar. Just smooth, unmarred skin.
I hacked once, spat a gob of blood onto the ground—the venom mixed in sparked a small fire where it landed, a little hiss of burning grass.
Silence. The entire field just... stared.
I smiled, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and shrugged. "So yeah," I said, voice perfectly fine again. "You see my problem."
Chiron stared at me like he was deeply reconsidering every decision that had led to this moment. Somewhere in the back, I heard someone whisper: "What the actual Hades?"
He then rubbed his chin, clearly thinking hard, tapping the clipboard against his leg like it might magically give him an answer. After a long moment, he sighed. "Honestly," he admitted, loud enough for both sides to hear, "I have no idea."
Murmurs broke out on both sides of the field. Chiron turned toward the Huntresses, gesturing with a hand. "Perhaps you have a suggestion?"
The Huntresses huddled up instantly, forming a tight little knot of silver and leather, intense whispers. Their heads bent together, their quivers clinking softly when they shifted.
After a minute or two, one of them stepped forward. She was a little taller than most of the others, darker-skinned, with sharp, proud features and a voice that, when it came, rolled out smooth and formal, like something straight from a Shakespeare play.
"If it please thee, wise Chiron," she said, bowing slightly, "would he object if we employed lethal force against him—so that we might have a fair chance at immobilization?"
A ripple of startled muttering ran through the campers again. Someone choked behind me. Sif gave a low, rumbling huff at my side like she was ready to back me up if it came to that.
Chiron turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged, completely unbothered. "Yeah, whatever. Lethal force isn't a problem. Doubt anyone here could actually kill me." I smiled wide enough to flash a hint of tooth. "Lot of things have tried. You'll just have to try harder. Honestly, your best bet's magic. Hope you've got someone good at it over there."
The Huntress—serious, regal—nodded at me. "Thy courage is... admirable," she said, giving me the kind of polite bow that almost sounded like a dare.
I grinned wider, rolling my shoulders back and cracking my knuckles casually. "This," I said under my breath, just loud enough for Rhea to groan and Will to bury his face in his hands, "is gonna be fun."
The horn sounded, and both teams scattered into the woods, splitting up toward their assigned zones.
Almost immediately, the Athena cabin kids swarmed together near the center—maps were whipped out, hushed arguments broke out like little fires, and within a minute it turned into a full-blown war council. Ares kids got pulled in too, dragged kicking and screaming into the web of plans, forced to nod along as phrases like "pincer movement" and "flanking maneuver".
I stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, listening with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. It went on. And on. And on.
Finally, one of the Athena girls—I think her name was Elara, sharp-eyed and way too serious—turned to me, waving a stick at a drawn-up dirt map like a professor explaining the battlefield of Thermopylae.
"Lucas, you'll take point here, with three support runners—"
"Nah," I cut in lazily, making a casual slicing motion with my hand. "Too complicated."
Everyone turned to look at me.
"I'll just," I continued, pointing vaguely at the distant woods, "go there, get the flag, and come back here."
Blank stares.
I gave them a big thumbs up. "Fear my great mind," I added solemnly.
Someone—probably one of the Ares kids—snorted so hard they nearly fell over. The Athena cabin collectively looked like I'd just drop-kicked a puppy.
"That's… not a strategy," Elara said, absolutely scandalized.
"Sure it is," I said, already turning away, hands tucked behind my head. "It's called winning. Try it sometime."
While the rest of the campers scattered into their carefully divided squadrons—Athena kids shouting orders like they were storming Normandy, Hermes kids pretending to care, Ares kids cracking knuckles and daring someone to give them an excuse—I just peeled off casually toward the woods. Just me, the bass slung across my back, and Sif padding silently at my side.
We hit the treeline without a single person even trying to stop me. Guess if you talk the talk people expect you to be also able to walk the walk.
I crouched near a fallen log, scratching Sif behind the ears. She leaned into it with a low purr-growl, her tail swishing.
"Alright girl," I said under my breath. "New orders. Go find Rhea. Stick with her. Keep her company."
Sif huffed—not happy about missing the action—but gave my hand a quick lick before slipping back through the trees like a ghost.
I tightened the strap across my chest, feeling the familiar weight of the bass settle between my shoulders.
Because while the other cabins were probably still drawing battle diagrams and debating who got to hold the map upside down, I was already moving. Just me, my stupid little hat, a war bass, and the open woods between me and the prize.
The sun beat down through the canopy in shifting gold coins of light. The forest floor crunched soft under my crocs. Somewhere distant, I heard the sharp twang of a bowstring flexing.
A little while later, I was perched high up on a thick tree branch, pipe clamped between my teeth, a lazy curl of smoke drifting up into the hot noon air.
Below me, stretched across the creek and tucked between the brush, the Huntresses of Artemis thought they were hidden. To the untrained eye, maybe they were.
But not to me.
Not when my nose caught them first—the faint tang of leather, sweat, oiled bowstrings, the iron-sweet scent of hidden arrowheads.
Not when you knew where to look. A glint of silver here. A shifted leaf there. The whisper of movement too perfectly still to be real.
They had organized killzones beyond the creek—a perfect choke point where any reckless idiot would walk straight into a flurry of arrows. Behind that, layers of traps—tripwires, nets, pits hidden under false ground. And beyond even that, concentric fire teams, ready to collapse inward if anyone made it too far.
Top tier stuff, honestly.
I got why they kept winning capture the flag.
But it was going to take a lot more than perfect tactics to stop me today.
I reached back, strumming a low, lazy chord on my bass—enough to pulse magic into the strings and cast Mage Hand. A translucent, ghostly version of my hand floated beside me.
The sound alone was enough to alert them.
A silver streak whistled through the air and thwack—an arrow lodged itself dead center in my forehead. My head snapped back slightly, and I blinked at the shaft sticking straight out.
Down below, a chorus of gasps and a few triumphantly whispered calls.
I just smiled.
Turned casually to the floating hand.
"You know what to do?" I asked.
The Mage Hand gave me a thumbs-up.
Another arrow hit me—this one glancing off my temple. The first arrow was already starting to push out, my regenerating flesh forcing the splintered shaft to fall to the ground like an old splinter.
I chuckled low in my throat. "Good enough."
I strummed again—harder this time—pulling on the magic coiled in my gut. The notes twisted and bent through the bass, and reality shivered in response.
Dimensional Door.
A crack of light split the air beside me, folding open into a shimmering portal—its other side flashing with the image of the Huntresses' flag, fluttering innocently between two tall birches.
Me and my ghostly Mage Hand jumped through at the same time.
One second I was lounging lazily in a tree with arrows sticking out of me. The next?
I was standing dead center in enemy territory, a few feet from their flag, grinning like the devil had just handed me the keys to paradise.
The moment I landed, the arrows started flying.
Not a pause. Not a shout of warning. Just a snap of bowstrings, and the air filled with silver death. They whistled past my ears, pinged off the ground around me, a couple of them lodging into my jacket like angry sewing needles. Didn't matter. My body was already burning through the damage, spitting splinters of arrow shafts out of my skin like stubborn thorns.
I took a few steps forward, slow, deliberate—the flag dancing just ahead like a taunt.
Then the brush exploded.
A Huntress, silver paint streaked under her eyes, burst out of the leaves with a wicked-looking pair of curved kukri knives. She was fast—blinding fast—her first swipe coming in low, aiming to hamstring me before I could react.
Good plan.
Bad execution.
She didn't account for my feet moving like they had minds of their own.
I shifted my weight, pivoted on the balls of my heels, and slammed my shin straight into the side of her knee.
Crunch.
She gasped—sharp and pained—crumpling to the forest floor as her leg gave out like a folding chair.
Another arrow buried itself into my shoulder, the force jerking me sideways, but I growled through it and kept moving.
More Huntresses were emerging now, trying to swarm me, thinking numbers would slow me down.
They were right—kinda.
It slowed me down like throwing sticks at a freight train.
Another Huntress lunged at me with a short spear. I sidestepped, caught the shaft under my arm, and wrenched it free with a single twist then poked her hard on the gut with the shaft, sending her sprawling face-first into the dirt.
Arrows kept peppering me. Some hit. Some bounced. Some got forced out by my healing factor working overtime.
It was glorious.
Something deep inside me snapped.
Locking in.
I dropped to all fours without a second thought, dirt kicking up behind me as I tore through the forest floor, every muscle in my body singing.
The Mage Hand clung to the back of my jacket like a stubborn little goblin, flapping like a cape as I charged.
The Huntresses moved fast—real fast—but not enough.
One lunged at me with a blade drawn, moving to intercept. I pivoted off one hand, sliding low under her swing, then lashed out with a heel, catching her in the ribs. She folded with a gasp and hit the ground rolling.
Another leapt from a bush with a net, hurling it straight at me.
I didn't stop. Didn't flinch. I just let it hit.
The net tangled over me for half a second—enough for the Huntresses nearby to cheer.
Then shink—a metallic rasp as my claws punched free from my knuckles, gleaming like molten chrome.
One clean swipe later—the net shredded into useless strands, fluttering to the ground.
The claws slipped back into my skin just as easily, the flesh knitting clean as if nothing had happened.
I kept moving—faster now.
Arrows peppered the ground around me, one or two bouncing off my head, one lodging itself in my calf—which I ignored—because the prize was right there:
A crimson flag. Red as blood. Fluttering mockingly in the middle of their layered kill zone.
Another Huntress darted into my path, a nasty-looking spear leveled at my ribs. She timed her thrust well—too well for a normal fighter to dodge.
I twisted low, hooked her ankle mid-sprint, and sent her sprawling into the mud, snatching the spear from her hands before she even hit the ground.
The Mage Hand flailed on my back, barely holding on as I shot forward again, the flag dead in my sights, I stop just before reaching it, Mage Hand catching it on its spectral digits.
The Huntresses fanned out in front of me, silver glinting between the trees. Their leader stepped forward.
"You have fought with skill," she said, voice steady but hard. "But it is over. You are surrounded. Surrender the flag, and you will be shown mercy."
I wiped some blood from my mouth with the back of my hand and grinned.
"Mercy's overrated. I'm feeling stubborn today."
Murmurs ran through the Huntresses. A few tightened their grips on their bows. The leader's lips pressed into a thin line.
"You speak boldly for one so trapped. Many before you thought likewise. They are jackalopes now—my Lady's favorite, a reminder of folly."
I laughed, low and easy.
"A petting zoo doesn't sound like a bad retirement plan," I said, feeling the Mage Hand hovering loyally near my shoulder, flag in its ghostly grip. "But I've got better things to do."
The Huntresses tensed. Bows creaked. The leader opened her mouth to deliver what was probably going to be a very dramatic threat.
I didn't let her finish.
One smooth slide across my bass strings—a sharp, biting chord that made the air shiver—and the magic snapped out clean and fast.
The leader barely got a half-syllable into her next word before—pop!
Polymorph hit her dead on.
Where she once stood was now a very pissed-off sheep, stomping her tiny hooves furiously against the dirt.
The forest went dead silent.
I tipped an invisible hat to her. "Better luck next time, Your Wooliness," I said, turning on my heel, the Mage Hand fluttering after me proudly with the flag.
Behind me, chaos broke out—Huntresses shouting, scrambling, some too stunned to even nock an arrow.
But me? I just walked off toward our side of the forest, casual as anything, humming a little victory song under my breath.
The shouting behind me turned to curses. Then the arrows came.
They peppered my back, my arms, my legs—a dozen silver shafts thunking into me like I was some kind of oversized practice dummy. Some buried halfway into my skin; others just scraped and stuck awkwardly.
I didn't slow down.
I didn't even flinch.
You'd think by now they'd realize: arrows weren't gonna cut it.
The creek was ahead, sparkling under the ever-noon sun, a natural boundary between their turf and ours.
I reached deep inside—felt that familiar, wild hum of power thrumming under my ribs—and let it go.
My eyes flared blue, hot and bright.
The water answered instantly.
The surface of the creek hissed, steamed—then froze solid in a single, crackling sheet, the frost racing out from under my boots like it was desperate to serve.
A few of the Huntresses gasped behind me.
I stepped onto the ice without hesitation, boots clicking as I crossed the frozen creek like it was a polished marble hallway. The Mage Hand floated after me dutifully, flag still clenched in its ghostly grip.
Arrows kept thudding into my back the whole way across.
I trudged a little deeper into the woods, arrows still sticking out of me like the world's angriest voodoo doll, until I stumbled onto the "grand battleplan" in action.
The Athena kids were in full command mode, moving Ares and Hermes cabin members around like they were playing Risk but with live pieces. They were drawing diagrams in the dirt, whispering strategy like they knew how navy worked.
My cabin?
Smart ones. They were hanging way back with bows drawn, ready to counterfire on the huntress.
Off to the side, I spotted Percy—couldn't miss him with that half-grin, half-lost expression—and standing next to him was some punk-looking girl with spiky black hair. Looked like she'd tried to fight a bottle of hair gel and lost. Leather jacket, stormy glare, general aura of "punch first, don't ask questions."
No idea who she was.
Probably trouble.
The fun kind.
Honestly? The whole setup looked exhausting. Way too complicated for what basically boiled down to "grab flag, run fast."
I leaned against a tree, watched for a second longer, then decided subtlety was overrated.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled:
"Hey, fuckers!"
The entire operation screeched to a halt.
Athena kids froze mid-handwave.
Ares kids stopped mid-insult.
I sauntered out of the trees, covered in blood, dirt, and arrows—looking every inch like a disaster they didn't have a contingency plan for. Mage Hand floated above me, proudly waving the Huntresses' red flag like it was the grand prize at a carnival.
"Guess what I got?" I said, flashing my sharpest grin.
Mage Hand twirled once, the flag snapping in the breeze.
The silence shattered all at once.
Ares kids started whooping like they just won a bar fight. Hermes kids sprinted toward me like they were gonna hoist me up and parade me around camp. Athena kids looked like they were going to combust from sheer tactical offense.
And way in the back, the Huntresses—silver cloaks and all—looked ready to draw and quarter me on principle.
I stood there grinning, Mage Hand proudly spinning the flag like a drunk cheerleader, and casually scanned the crowd.
And there, right in the middle of the chaos, was Rhea—trying very hard not to look proud.
I pointed at her with the thumb of my free hand.
"Oy, Best Friend Forever!" I called, loud enough to carry over the noise.
She gave me a look like she was seriously reconsidering that title.
"Get your delicate healer hands over here and help me out," I said, jerking a thumb at the various arrows sticking out of me. "These things are starting to itch."
Rhea groaned audibly—a full-body, soul-deep groan—but started weaving her way through the stampede of demigods to reach me.
She crouched down beside me. She didn't bother with preamble—just gripped one shaft lodged between my ribs and yanked.
I grunted but stayed upright, the healing already knitting skin back together under her touch.
Until she went for the one in my lower back.
"Fuck!" I snapped, flinching forward.
"Oops. Sorry," Rhea said sweetly, with a voice that absolutely did not sound sorry at all. Then she shoved the arrowhead in deeper like she was trying to uncork a particularly stubborn wine bottle. With a twist.
"You're doing this on purpose," I hissed through clenched teeth.
She just smiled—an innocent, cherubic smile that made me want to run headfirst into a tree—and yanked another one free with a wet schlurp that made someone nearby gag.
Around us, the chaos was winding down. Some campers were chanting my name. Others were still too stunned to react. The Huntresses were muttering murder in ancient Greek, and one was trying to shake their former-leader-turned-sheep out of her wooly rage spiral. She was attempting to headbutt a tree. It wasn't working.
"You love me," I muttered as Rhea plucked another arrow out like she was picking daisies, this time from my thigh.
"I tolerate you," she said flatly. "Barely."
"Semantics," I replied, wobbling slightly but grinning like a lunatic.
Mage Hand hovered above us, still proudly waving the captured flag. It did a little spin. I gave it a thumbs-up.
"You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
I shrugged, spreading my arms as if to gesture to the chaos around us. "I mean… quitting would be rude to the audience."
As if on cue, a camper nearby whooped again and someone tossed a handful of glittering drachmas into the air. Hermes kids immediately scrambled after them like pigeons chasing breadcrumbs.
Rhea sighed the sigh of someone who was seriously reconsidering her life choices.
"You're impossible."
"And yet," I said, throwing an arm around her shoulders, "here you are."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't shove me off.
Not right away.
The sun was still shining. The flag was still ours. And for once, the only thing chasing us was a stampede of very angry immortal archers.
Not a bad day, all things considered.
CP Bank:200cp
Perks earned this chapter: None.
Milestones: Break the Huntress winning streak: 200cp476Magus exploratorMay 6, 2025View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 30- The Mayans were right all along.View contentMagus exploratorMay 9, 2025#2,077It started when Chiron's ceremonial horn blew, echoing over the treetops like a bell at the end of an era—and the camp erupted.
There was no restraint, no decorum, not even a half-hearted attempt at keeping things civil. The second the red flag crossed the boundary clutched in a glowing Mage Hand and I strolled in after it, bleeding like a rockstar, Camp Half-Blood lost its collective mind.
Cheering roared through the trees like thunder. Campers who'd been losing to the Huntresses since they were nine screamed so loud I thought someone had been stabbed—though honestly, I might've still had an arrow stuck somewhere. The Ares kids, usually too proud to lift anyone who wasn't on fire, hoisted me up on their shoulders. I didn't fight it. I raised one arm like a champion gladiator, grinned through bloody teeth, and let the victory parade carry me down the hill.
It wasn't just the campers either. The satyrs, who were supposed to help keep the chaos in check, were fully into it. One leapt onto a picnic table and started shredding a pan flute solo like he'd been possessed by Dionysus himself. Nymphs swirled in from the woods like they'd heard freedom calling and decided to RSVP to the riot. A conga line broke out. Actual dancing. Hands and hooves clapping in rhythm to a beat no one was keeping.
And then, from somewhere near the Demeter cabin, a voice shouted a word that should've been illegal at camp:
"KEG!"
Everyone froze just long enough to see it—a massive, dirt-caked barrel being dragged out of a half-collapsed stump, old enough that it probably predated our great great grandfathers. No one knew where it came from. No one cared.
Cups appeared. A tap was forced in with what looked like a combat knife. Someone toasted to me, and the entire Apollo cabin howled like wolves.
Through it all, I caught the glint of silver sulking at the edge of the party. The Huntresses were gathered in a cold little crescent beside the archery range, arms crossed, lips tight, eyes sharper than their arrows. The lieutenant was among them, stone-faced and seething. The bruise on her pride might've been worse than being a sheep for a few minutes. One of the younger girls was actually cleaning blood off her blade with terrifying professionalism. They looked like they'd been personally offended by the concept of defeat.
Still didn't stop me from raising my dented tin cup in their direction with a lopsided grin that probably shaved a decade off Artemis' immortal patience.
"Not so fun when the other side wins, huh?" I said casually, letting the red flag drape from my shoulder like a cape. "Takes a little getting used to."
Beside me, Rhea groaned and muttered something about inevitable divine vengeance, then elbowed me in the ribs hard enough to jostle one of the arrow heads she'd recently—and very helpfully— tried to pull out of me.
"You know they're going to curse you for this," she said flatly.
"Rhea?" I took a long, gloriously cold sip. "My life is cursed."
And then someone in the conga line set a picnic bench on fire.
The bonfire at the center of camp crackled high into the night sky, and someone—probably a Hermes kid—had enchanted the smoke to burst into little illusions as it rose. Shapes of deer, lightning bolts, flying pigs, and once, embarrassingly, what looked like me riding Sif like a surfboard.
The nymphs were halfway through their usual party spiral—two were hanging upside down from a tree to pour cider into each other's mouths. Meanwhile, some of the more responsible ones were doing their best to keep the younger campers from being trampled or accidentally roasted. I saw one literally scoop up a giggling nine-year-old with vines and carry them off like a gentle woodland bouncer.
Rhea, unfortunately, got caught in that sweep.
"Nooo, Lucas!" she called, reaching out dramatically as she was pulled away in a swirl of vines and giggling children. "Help me out! These tree girls are kidnapping me!"
I laughed and blew a raspberry in her direction. "It's past your bedtime, Rhae-Rhae." Then, with a flick of my fingers and a quick strum of the bass slung over my back, I cast Mass Cure Wounds. Half the groaning kids sprawled around the campfire perked up, bandages knitting themselves, bruises fading.
"Free healthcare for my fans!" I shouted.
Will Solace, who was trying to stop someone from bleeding onto the s'mores table, looked up, blinked, and gave me a rare, stunned thumbs up.
"That doesn't mean you can punch each other again!" he yelled at the campers, who were already doing a rematch.
Off near the fountain, I saw Percy caught in what looked like a aggressive argument with a punk-looking girl. Couldn't hear what they were saying—but from the body language, it involved pointing at someone, and denial. Percy wasn't even trying to hide that he was sharing a cup with a very pretty blonde girl beside him, who was laughing into her drink like none of this was her problem.
Damm my man has rizz, I couldn't manage a percent of that when I was thirteen, hell in both lives, the hormones would eat my ass alive.
I walked to the keg. I knelt beneath it, grabbed the sides of the barrel with both hands, tilted my head up, and shouted, "Spin the tab!"
One of the Hermes kids obliged.
The lukewarm stream of watery wine poured into my mouth, and I immediately pulled away, sputtering. "Ugh. Vinegar with a hint of worms," I muttered, wiping my chin.
I wasn't walking.
That was the first sign something had gone sideways. My Crocs were dragging, not stepping. Gravel crunched under my heels in slow jerks. Pine needles gripping against fabric. My jacket felt too heavy, soaked through and clinging like I'd swum across the lake instead of just drinking the equivalent of it.
Sif huffed beside me. Correction—Sif was dragging me. One big paw forward, another tug of my collar clenched in her jaws. The loyal beast of burden to my absolutely burdened self.
"You're... a good girl," I managed to mumble, voice thick with wine and whatever else was in that keg.
She didn't reply. Not that I expected her to. Her focus was on getting me out of the revelry and somewhere I wouldn't embarrass us both.
Something else grabbed my arm—small.
I cracked one bloodshot eye open and saw her.
A girl.
Tiny. Maybe eight years old, ten if I was generous. Freckled nose, braid trailing down her back like a little ember of gold. Bare feet stepping with care, like the ground listened when she walked.
She said nothing. Just scowled with all the might of a child doing something she shouldn't have to, and kept pulling.
I tried to sit up. Failed. "Who... who're you?"
She didn't answer.
She felt... familiar. Like warm blankets on cold nights. Like bread just out of the oven. Like a fire you forgot you needed until it flickered into view.
Sif gave a grunt, and together they hauled me a few feet farther—away from the drunken laughter still echoing near the pavilion, past where the stars finally looked undisturbed by party lights, to a quiet patch of grass and earth beside a softly crackling fire.
Someone had left a sleeping bag there.
The girl gave one final, indignant tug—then let me drop onto it with a whump.
Sif flopped down beside me, tail thudding twice before curling close.
The little girl brushed ash off my sleeve like a mother hen, then turned to go.
"Hey," I said, blinking up at the stars. "Thanks. You... you're nice."
She paused. Just long enough for the fire to flicker in her silhouette and give me the most indignant dirty look she could muster.
Then she vanished into the dark, but I still could smell her, she was a few feet away dragging another unfortunate soul away like she did to me.
I closed my eyes.
The night wrapped around me like a cloak.
Somewhere between one blink and the next, the night shifted.
The fire was lower now. Less a beacon, more a whisper of warmth in the dark. Campers were being herded off in pairs or dragged by laughing friends. The Huntresses had long since retreated. Satyrs limped toward the woods, shoulder to shoulder with dryads who looked like their bark had bruises. Whatever wild joy had lit the evening was dying down—or being snuffed out, gently and deliberately.
The haze behind my eyes cracked open for a second.
Just long enough to see it again.
Black suns.
Two of them.
Floating behind my eyelids.
One shined.
Pain lanced through my head.
Not sharp.
Just deep.
Like something was carving room for itself in my skull.
I squeezed them shut, groaning.
When I opened them again…
Everything was too clear.
The night was in high definition. Each leaf, each shimmer of light on the lake, each shift in shadow—too crisp. Too real. Like I was seeing the brushstrokes on the painting of the world, the people walking had weird after images, or rather before images, I could see glimpses of their next move, my head screamed.
I groaned again. Swallowed thickly.
Then I threw up into the grass.
The world spun.
Sif whined.
And I passed out cold, the music still humming somewhere behind my ribs, slowly climbing my body toward my eyes.
I dreamed.
A bald man stood in a mountain, muscles coiled like rebar under skin. He was holding a massive glowing orb strapped to his back.
He strained under its weight.
And then his body clicked.
Limbs twisted, joints locked. His flesh creaked and shrank into carved wood, lacquered like an antique doll. The orb didn't vanish—it transformed. Threads unraveled from its glow, thinning into a ball of yarn. Strings sprouted from his limbs and wound upward into an unseen sky.
He hung like a puppet, dancing and juggling the ball of yarn.
The scene bled sideways.
Now another bald figure, skin the color of a storm cloud, light grey, stood before a pyramid.
There was a beast beside him. A dog, maybe—if someone had some really bad taste in dog breeds.
Then: a snap.
The figure and the hound froze. Became wood. Their eyes glassy, their limbs jointed. Strings erupted from their backs and wrists and necks, vanishing skyward.
They danced for someone else now.
The world shattered.
I was at a university.
I recognized the flag of Massachusetts on a pole. Ivy on old stone. Men and women in robes broke through the doors like it was a raid—which, I guess, it was. There was shouting. A gun. A professor fell. A book was stolen from his bag.
And my eyes burned catching a glimpse of the book.
Even asleep, they burned.
Then the dream dragged me forward.
The Luxor in Las Vegas. But wrong.
The black pyramid didn't reflect light. It devoured it. Every beam, every shimmer, every starlit thread in the world bent toward that one point. Strings—dozens, hundreds, maybe more—all pulled into its peak like offerings.
Inside a hidden chamber in the basement. Faceless worshippers. Shifting shadows. The stolen book rested on a pedestal now. Beside it, an angled glowing gem sat—wrong to look at directly. Every word spoken from its pages clawed at my skull.
Before a throne—empty.
Then a note. A gold-rimmed scrap of melody, bright and burning, tore from my ribs. A single grace note of whatever was buried deep inside me. It flew into my eyes.
He sat there. A tall man, cloaked in yellow. The color hurt to look at—not because it was bright, but because it shouldn't exist. His skin was darker than void, but his robes, that of a pharaoh, shimmered like it was the finest piece of cloth that ever came out of cairo.
But his face…
Everything in the right place—nose, eyes, mouth—but nothing sat where it should. Ratios bent. Angles frayed. Just off enough to make my heart lurch with every glance.
He was beautiful.
And awful.
The strings ended with him.
The cultists' chant grew louder, more mad.
And as his glowing eyes opened—
I bolted upright, choking on my own breath.
My lungs were fire. My throat tried to scream but only spat blood. White-hot buzzing split my skull like a cracked bell. I couldn't think—only feel. My hands clawed at my chest, my face, like I could peel away the image seared into the back of my eyes.
But it wouldn't go.
Thin trails of blood wept from them.
And that was the worst part.
I remembered, from my past life, of reading books late at night.
The Black Pharaoh.
The Crawling Chaos.
"No," I croaked. "No no no no—"
Arms wrapped around me.
A child's frame, but not a child's presence. A warmth that didn't burn but cradled. A voice soft enough to cut through the noise.
"Lucas," she whispered.
I couldn't hear her over the screaming in my skull. Couldn't see her through the blur. The memory was still there, a thousand-yard stare into infinity.
But she didn't let go.
She just held me, like I was something fragile. Like I mattered.
"Breathe," she said gently, touching my face. "You're safe. You're here."
I wanted to tell her.
To explain.
But how do you describe a thing like Him?
How do you speak the shape of terror?
Even with her warmth anchoring me, I could still feel my mind hurting, the image of wrongness.
A broken laugh slipped out of me, shaky and full of hurt.
"He's real… they are real," I whispered.
Hestia didn't speak.
She just pulled me closer, her chin resting on my shoulder, like she could hold me here with pure intention alone.
I bled. I shook. I breathed in firelight and the scent of ashes and the soft, enduring calm that only she carried.
And I prayed—
Really prayed—
To all that would listen, to all that my mind could remember... that He hadn't seen me back.
My breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps—half-wheezes, half-sobs. My whole body shook like I'd swallowed fire and it was trying to burn its way back out.
Hestia didn't flinch. Her arms stayed locked around me, one hand slowly combing through my hair, her fingers light and methodical.
"It's alright," she whispered. "You're here. You're back. You're safe."
I didn't believe her. Not yet.
The blood had stopped, but my eyes still burned. My nerves were frayed wires sparking inside my skin, My vision was even better then before, but I also could feel the music going to my eyes, a trickle but constant. Every time I blinked I saw him again—those strings, that throne. It was like my brain refused to forget even a second of it, like it needed me to remember what should not be known.
A warm nose pressed against my side.
A low whine.
And a rough, sandpaper lick across my cheek.
I turned my head, blinking through the static. She stared at me with those big, dumb eyes, her ears back, tail thumping slowly against the dirt. She whined again, softly, nudging my ribs with her snout.
I let out something between a sob and a laugh and reached out, burying one hand in her fur.
"Good girl," I rasped. My voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
Sif licked me again, less frantic this time. Just steady. Comforting.
I leaned into her, still trembling, with Hestia behind me and my wolf at my side. Their warmth anchored me in the here and now. Not in the throne room. Not in the strings. Not in the gaze.
Here.
Camp.
Stars above. Grass beneath. Firelight flickering just beyond my vision.
Hestia's hand hadn't left my shoulder. She stayed kneeling beside me. She didn't push, didn't prod—but her voice, when it came, was soft and steady.
"What did you see, Lucas?"
I didn't answer right away.
My eyes flicked to the firepit still glowing nearby, to the silhouettes of distant campers being guided off to bed by satyrs and dryads. We were alone enough for now. Mostly.
I shook my head, licking my lips, voice still hoarse.
"…Not here."
She tilted her head slightly. Not surprised. Just… watching.
"Better to take this somewhere a little more secluded," I muttered.
She nodded once.
"Alright," she said gently. "Then let's find a quieter fire."
The walk to the Big House felt longer than usual, even though my legs were moving fine. My head wasn't. Every sound felt too loud, every shadow a little too deep. Sif walked beside me like a anchor, occasionally brushing my hand with her fur. Hestia didn't say anything, just kept her pace slow and steady.
When we reached the porch, we could hear Chiron inside—sounding exactly like a man dealing with children, hope he gets payed well... actually, I don't think he gets paid.
"No, I don't care how cool it sounded in your head. You do not mount fireworks to the back of a pegasus! Especially not one borrowed from the stables—"
We stepped in, and Chiron turned.
He blinked once.
His eyes went to me—my bloodshot eyes, probably still a little crusted, my shaking hands—and then to Hestia, who gave him a smile that was a little too calm to be just polite.
"Chiron," she said gently, "we need a room."
He looked like he was going to ask something.
Then thought better of it.
"Far study's open," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll make sure no one disturbs you."
"Thank you," she said. And that was that.
We moved down the hallway, past walls lined with old photos and antique Greek weaponry. I wasn't looking at them. My eyes kept twitching to corners. Looking at shadows.
The room was small. Cozy, really. An old study with a brick fireplace and overstuffed chairs that smelled like mold. Books lined the walls, and a single window looked out over the forest, where the moon shined in the sky.
Hestia raised a hand, and the hearth lit instantly, fire blooming to life with a warm whoosh.
I sat down hard in one of the chairs. Sif curled up beside it.
Hestia sat across from me, watching carefully.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then, gently, she asked, "What did you see?"
I stared into the fire. My hand twitched. My mouth was dry.
I glanced around the room one more time, just to make sure we were alone. No shadows that didn't belong. No whispering cracks in the walls. Just me, Hestia, and a flickering hearth.
Then I took a breath and started talking.
"There was this bald guy. He was at the top of a mountain—somewhere high, like… above the clouds. Just standing there, hunched, holding this huge glowing orb on his back. It pulsed. Like it was alive. Like it had weight."
Hestia tilted her head. "Strange. That could be… Atlas, maybe. But I'll need to ask around."
I nodded. "Didn't feel quite right, but maybe."
"Then it cut—hard. New place. Another bald guy. Same kind of wrong. Standing in front of a pyramid. Normal. Except his skin was like ashy."
I hesitated, my voice growing a little quieter.
"There was a dog, too. Big mutt. Ugly. Looked like it had been kicked too many times, maybe. Nothing supernatural. Just… off."
I rubbed my hands together, trying to bleed off the leftover tension.
"I don't know who it was. Just that it didn't feel right."
Hestia went still for a beat. Then she said, "That might have been from the Egyptian pantheon."
I blinked. "The Egyptians?"
She nodded, slowly. "They're sealed. Imprisoned, more accurately. None of them should be active in our world. If you're seeing them… something is very wrong."
"…Right."
I rubbed my temple, the memory already clawing at the edge of my mind like splinters under the skin.
"It didn't stop there," I muttered. "Next part was… a university. Somewhere cold. I saw a flag—Massachusetts, I think. Place looked old. Ivy-covered, classic American brick. Then it went to hell."
Hestia frowned, leaning forward slightly, her expression unreadable.
"There were guys in robes. Not toga robes, like… cult robes. They broke in—stormed the place. One of them had a gun, just shot some poor guy who looked like a professor. Straight up. No hesitation."
I swallowed. "Then they rifled through his stuff and found it. A book. I couldn't see it clearly at first, but the second I knew what it was, my head started burning. Like my brain didn't want me to look."
Her voice was quiet. Careful. "What was it?"
I looked her dead in the eye. "The Necronomicon."
She flinched.
A real, divine flinch.
Her lips parted slightly, eyes narrowing like I'd just dumped kerosene in her hearth.
Then I continued, my voice just above a whisper. "Last part of the dream… it was the Luxor. The hotel in Vegas. The pyramid. Except it wasn't reflecting light—it was eating it. Like every ray of sunshine, every shadow, just bent toward it like gravity."
Hestia's brows furrowed.
"Inside… there was this room. Cultists everywhere. Same robes. The book was there too—on a pedestal. Still looked like it had a face, eyes, a mouth… like it was hungry, besides it a weird looking gem. Then there was a throne. Empty at first."
I hesitated, my stomach twisting.
"And then a music note flew into my eyes... and then someone was there."
Hestia's voice was barely a whisper. "Who?"
I swallowed, the word sticking in my throat like it knew better than to be spoken. But I forced it out.
"A man," I said slowly. "Tall. Towering. Skin black—too black. Not just dark-skinned—wrong. Like it was eating the light around it."
Hestia's breath hitched.
"He was dressed like a Pharaoh," I continued, voice thin. "Golden regalia, layered cloth, a long yellow drape wrapped around his shoulders like it was alive. And his face—"
I hesitated.
"…his face wasn't real. It looked human at first, but it wasn't. The proportions were off. Like something was wearing a person's shape. Like a costume that didn't quite fit."
Silence pressed in around us.
The warmth of the hearth didn't reach my skin.
And then I swallowed hard, throat dry as ash.
"Nephren-Ka, pawn of Nyarlathotep."
Hestia didn't move.
Didn't blink.
But something in the room changed. The light dimmed, like the fire itself was recoiling. Her hands, still resting on her lap, clenched.
She knew.
Hestia's expression shifted—no longer soft, no longer motherly warmth. It was something ancient now. Something stern. The flicker of the hearth before a wildfire.
She extended her hand.
"We're going to Olympus," she said, voice calm but edged with urgency.
I didn't hesitate. I took it.
The second our fingers touched, fire surged up from the ground around us—bright and hot, but not painful. It curled like ribbons around our legs, racing higher, faster, burning without smoke. In less than a breath, the flames consumed us.
Then they were gone.
And so were we.
I stumbled a little as we landed, blinking at the sudden change in air, light, pressure. The warmth of the fire was replaced by something else—thin mountain wind, clear and sharp like it had never been touched by pollution. We were standing on a stone path, wide and ancient, each step perfectly cut from marble and gold-veined obsidian. Temples towered on either side of the road, massive and regal. Each one bore a distinct mark—lightning bolts, owls, roses, tridents—columns as far as the eye could see.
And at the top of it all, rising from the peak of the mountain like it had always been there, was the temple. A sprawling, monumental version of the Parthenon, larger than life and humming with power. Its pillars were thick as redwoods. Its roof glittered, inlaid with starlight.
The throne of gods.
I stared up at it, my breath catching in my throat.
Then Hestia gave my hand a tug and, without a word, started walking, dragging me with her.
As we walked the winding marble path, the world around us began to shift. Temples loomed like ancient memories, and along the wide road, figures began to appear.
Gods.
Minor ones, mostly. Household deities, river spirits, old battlefield echoes made flesh. Nymphs with hair like willow leaves and laughter like chimes paused mid-step to stare. Satyrs froze with goblets halfway to their lips. A trio of dryads peeked out from the blooming archways of a laurel-covered shrine.
Not at Hestia.
At me.
At the scruffy, sunburnt demigod being tugged along like a kid late for school by one of the big guys.
A few whispered behind their hands. I caught snatches of it.
"Is that the one who—?"
Up the steps she went. Her grip didn't falter for a second, and I—fully grown, armed to the teeth, wielder of elemental might and bearer of a crown torn from a fae queen's skull—was being dragged behind her like a toddler on his way to confession.
We passed a statue of Nemesis that turned its head as we walked by.
The minor gods on the terrace fell silent. Some bowed. Others simply stared.
Hestia didn't break stride.
And then, finally, we were there.
The top.
The apex of Olympus.
Hestia marched right up to the titanic golden doors at the front.
And knocked.
Three firm, echoing raps.
The golden doors creaked open with a sound that wasn't quite metal—more like thunder trying to whisper. Light spilled out in waves, warm and heavy, and then—
"—I told you, Dionysus, those weren't my dryads—"
"—Because it's always Hera's turn to host the solstice, and you know she's going to demand the blood oranges again—"
"—Ares, for the last time, put the Minotaur skull down—"
The throne room proper loomed before us, cavernous and opulent. Twelve thrones encircled a ring of polished stone, each one tailored to its occupant. Athena's gleamed silver and bronze, all edges and wisdom. Ares' looked like a war crime. Apollo's had a built-in sound system. Hermes' wasn't even in the same place every time I blinked.
The gods were scattered across the thrones or pacing around, some in togas, others in modern wear—leather jackets, business suits, flip-flops. Their voices rose and fell in in their bickering,
I barely had a second to register any of it before Hestia yanked my arm and kept going. She didn't slow down. Didn't flinch. Just dragged me straight through the middle of Mount Olympus's immortal equivalent of a holiday dinner with knives on the table.
A few gods paused mid-argument to glance our way. I felt their eyes—not warm, not cold. Just interested. Like something unusual had just walked into their family dinner.
I swallowed.
"Uh. Are we just gonna—?"
"Yes," Hestia said.
So I shut up and followed, the buzz of argument swirling behind us like a hurricane of egos and divine gossip.
Every voice in the throne room faltered.
Gods froze mid-sentence. One of Hermes' sandals, previously mid-air in a bored kickflip, dropped with a sheepish thud. Even Ares lowered the Minotaur skull he'd been about to lob at Dionysus.
All eyes turned.
Zeus, seated atop the grandest throne—marble, gold, stormclouds and ego—cleared his throat with a rumble that made the torches flicker.
"Welcome, Sister," he said, voice rolling out like a verdict. "Once more to the throne room. A record in this century, I believe..."
His eyes—crackling with subdued lightning—turned to me.
"And the demigod of the hour. We were talking about you."
I shifted awkwardly under the collective gaze of Olympus.
I looked up, scanning the thrones. One by one.
Apollo's was empty.
No surprise there—probably off somewhere pretending he hadn't missed child support.
Hestia stepped forward, her small frame barely taller than my waist—yet when she spoke, her voice boomed like a temple bell. It echoed through the marble and columns, carried not by volume, but weight. Authority.
"The son of Apollo had a dream," she said, each word sharp and clear.
The gods shifted in their seats. Poseidon leaned in. Athena's eyes narrowed. Aphrodite, lounging on a chaise with roses blooming in her hair, slowly set down her goblet. Even Hermes stopped picking at his nails.
Hestia's tone dropped lower—quieter, but heavier.
"And the things he saw were grim."
That word hung in the air like a blade.
Whatever warmth the hall had drained away.
Hestia stood firm, her childlike frame doing nothing to lessen the weight in her voice.
"His visions were vague," she said. "But certain things stood out. A bald man atop a mountain, carrying the world on his shoulders. It might be Atlas."
That earned a few nods, though muted. None of the gods were eager to revisit that particular chapter.
She continued, "And there were signs—faint, but present—of the Egyptian pantheon. A possible resurgence."
Now the murmurs began in earnest. Poseidon leaned forward slightly, brows drawn. Hermes grimaced, muttering something about 'sandstorm diplomacy.' Even Athena narrowed her eyes.
Zeus gave a slow exhale. "The Rosetta seals?"
"They might be weakening. Or someone damaged it in the museum," Hestia confirmed. "If they break, the Egyptian gods won't be the only ones involved. The House of Life will feel it first. And if they panic…"
"Then we've got mortal mages throwing spells like fireworks," Hermes said with a dry smile. "Delightful."
"Old man Ra probably won't even notice," Ares grunted. "Unless someone lights a fire under his mobility chair."
That earned a few bitter chuckles. Even Aphrodite rolled her eyes.
But Hestia's expression didn't waver. She let the amusement fade on its own before she said, calmly:
"That was the simple part."
"A cult. They've either already stolen—or are about to steal—something truly foul."
Pause. One heartbeat. Two.
"The Necronomicon."
And just like that, the throne room exploded.
"May the Fates shit on us all!" Athena snapped, sitting up so fast her scrolls scattered.
"Gods above and below!" Dionysus gasped, nearly dropping his Diet Coke. "That cursed thing again?"
Ares slammed a gauntleted fist down. "Son of a Titan's whore!"
Even Aphrodite winced and muttered, "Of all the damnable relics in existence…"
Hestia didn't flinch. She stood there like a torch in a hurricane—quiet and blazing, letting their panic speak for itself.
She didn't stop. Her voice, impossibly loud for someone who looked twelve, didn't waver once.
"They plan to use it," she said. "The cult. They're trying to bring back the Black Pharaoh."
The room turned frigid.
"Back into existence," she added, her words sharp enough to draw divine blood. "Most likely… the next time the stars align above the Luxor."
And then—
Olympus shook.
The marble floor beneath us trembled, a low grinding groan rippling up from the depths. The torches lining the throne room flickered. Somewhere behind me, a column cracked with a sound like a bone splitting under pressure.
Then the smell hit.
Sulfur. Hot, bitter, curling up from the cracks like a warning.
I turned toward the sound—toward the floor that had just moaned beneath us—and opened my mouth.
Hestia, still calm, met my eyes and nodded once.
"Hades heard it," she said.
Zeus rose to his full, titanic height, face thundercloud-dark and beard crackling with static.
He raised a hand.
And unleashed the Master Bolt.
A flash of searing light roared into the open sky above the mountain, loud enough to split clouds and silence gods. The very air shook, the echo bouncing off the peaks of Olympus like a divine whipcrack.
"Silence!" Zeus bellowed.
And the throne room obeyed.
Then Zeus turned, eyes sharp with command.
"If you will cause such a ruckus," he said, voice booming, "you might as well step into the light. Come, brother."
The floor darkened.
Shadows swirled at the base of the chamber—slow at first, then faster, coiling like ink in water. The ground rippled black, and from its depths rose Hades, tall, pale, and wrapped in robes that flickered between noble finery and funeral cloth, bro looked like he shopped at hot topic.
His expression was grim, mouth pressed into a line. His eyes locked onto Hestia first, then flicked to me—and something in them burned. Urgency. Recognition. Worry.
Then Zeus turned his gaze outward, sweeping across the chamber, his voice soft now—but no less thunderous.
"It seems," he said, "that my decision to keep him alive"—he nodded in my direction—"has already begun to bear fruit."
There was a subtle shift across the thrones.
Hera stiffened but said nothing, fingers curling around the armrests like she'd bite her tongue before admitting anything.
Demeter shifted in her seat, looking suddenly fascinated by the hem of her robes.
Hermes let out a tiny sigh and leaned back, clearly dreading the follow-up lecture.
Ares, though?
He just grinned.
Grinned like a kid watching a bomb he made finally go off.
"Damn right it has," he muttered. "Told you the kid had bite."
A hush settled in the throne room, the kind that only comes when everyone is thinking.
Athena was the first to move.
She stood—not dramatically, just enough for her presence to press in on the room like a falling guillotine. Her grey eyes shimmered with a kind of heatless clarity, like polished steel under moonlight.
"If they're summoning Him," she said slowly, "then the stars will play a role."
Zeus raised a brow.
"Explain."
"Nyarlathotep," she said, like the name was a poison she'd trained herself to swallow, "and the other spawns of Azathoth are intrinsically tied to the movement of the heavens. Rituals involving them almost always align with astronomical phenomena. Conjunctions. Eclipses. Perihelions. Moments when the veil is thinner."
Her gaze turned slightly upward, calculating.
"The next time all the proper signs align... should be in..." she paused, lips twitching as her mind raced through celestial charts no mortal would ever see, "late 2012. December. A convergence predicted by multiple calendars—human, divine, and otherwise."
A few of the gods visibly relaxed. Even Zeus let out a breath.
"So we have time," Athena finished.
"Time," Hades said flatly, "to prepare. Or to forget. Depending on which one of us you're speaking to."
That got a few tight chuckles.
I stayed quiet.
Because all I could hear in the back of my skull... was the whisper of strings being plucked.
CP Bank:100cp
Perks earned this chapter: 100cp Sharingan (Epic of Leviathan) [Divination] The Sharingan is a powerful dojutsu possessed by the Uchiha clan. Purchasing this grants you it and optimally you may receive their bloodline. The main abilities it gives the user are the ability to see chakra, powerful perception, skill in illusion techniques, and the ability to instantly learn anything they observe. This does not extend to copying other abilities, but skills such as martial arts are an example of what can be learned. This is what you receive for choosing the 100 CP option.
Milestones: None.