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Chapter Text

In the Ashes of Rome

Chapter One

"I have come, I have seen, I have conquered."

Julius Caeser

Percy woke to unfamiliar hands gripping his shoulders and shaking him roughly. For a split second, his foggy mind grasped at the thought that it might be Annabeth, sneaking into his cabin for a surprise wake-up call. But of course, that wasn’t right, because Annabeth had broken up with him, and was on the other side of the country at Camp Half-Blood while he was still stuck in New Rome. 

When his eyes blinked open, and the blinding sunlight flooded in, what he saw nearly sent him into a full-blown panic. The face above him wasn’t Annabeth’s or anyone else that he knew for that matter. It was a young woman, maybe a little older than him, her dark eyes glaring down at him impatiently. She was dressed in a flowing white dress, cinched at the waist with a braided belt, her dark curls pinned in elaborate knots, like the kind of statues you’d see in a museum. Percy jerked backward, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Finally," she muttered in rapid Latin, her voice exasperated. "I have been trying to wake you for what feels like an eternity.” He was sure she was speaking in Latin but that wasn’t necessarily the confusing part. The weird part was that he could understand everything she said perfectly as if it was his first language.

Percy scrambled backward on the floor, his hands slipping on the cool marble beneath him. "Who are you?" His voice cracked, thick with confusion, his breath coming in quick gasps. His heart pounded in his ears, the scene around him unfamiliar and dizzying. He wasn’t in his room in New Rome He wasn’t in Califonia. This… this was somewhere else entirely.

The young woman furrowed her brow, folding her arms. "Very amusing, Perseus. But we don’t have time for your games. If you linger, Domina will have you whipped… again. " Her voice was sharp, urgent. "Did you forget what today is?"

Percy blinked, staring at her like she’d sprouted two heads. His head swam, and the pounding behind his eyes intensified. Domina? Whipped? What the Hades was happening?

"I-I’m sorry, I don’t—" he stammered, trying to push himself off the floor. His legs felt like jelly, weak beneath him. "I don’t understand. Who are you? Where am I?"

Her eyes flashed with irritation, but there was something else there, too—concern. "Why do you sit there, gaping like a fool? Do you truly wish to earn your stepmother’s ire? Must you always find new ways to provoke her? Sleeping through the day when you know Pater has important guests—what madness possesses you?"

"What?" Percy blurted, panic rising in his throat. "What are you talking about? Who is Pater? I don’t know where I am.”

The young woman took a cautious step back, her expression softening. "Perseus," she said slowly, her voice tinged with hesitation. "Are you unwell? You are not yourself." She leaned in, eyes searching his face. "You… you don’t remember me?"

Percy stared at her, his heart racing. He had no idea who this strange woman was. But it wasn’t just her. The whole room–marble pillars, feather bed, and painted walls—there was something almost ancient about it–something not normal.

When he was in the fifth grade, he had taken a trip to some art exhibit that reconstructed a roman home, and he almost swore he was back there. Everything was almost a carbon copy, to the thatch on the floor to the little shrine built into the wall. But that wasn’t possible. Gods, what had Hera done now? What kind of sick joke was this?

"Do I… know you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced around the room, trying to make sense of anything. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, his chest tightening with dread.

Before the young woman could answer, a voice echoed through the chamber, cold and sharp as a dagger. "Perseus!"

Percy froze, his head snapping toward the doorway. A tall, stern-faced woman strode into the room, her long robe sweeping the floor behind her. Her red hair was pinned in an even more elaborate fashion, her expression hard and unyielding. She eyed Percy with open disdain, her lips curling in a sneer.

"For the love of Jupiter," the woman spat, her voice dripping with venom, "why are you still lounging about like some common slave? Marcus Antonius is visiting your Pater tonight, and I will not have him thinking you are as lazy as a barbarian. Get up this instant."

"Mother," the girl—Livia, apparently—interjected quickly, her voice filled with worry. "I believe Perseus may be afflicted with something. He… he is not himself. He does not even recognize me."

The woman, who Percy assumed must be his "stepmother," rolled her eyes in an exaggerated show of impatience. "I care not if he is at death’s door, Livia Drusus. He is an embarrassment to this household. If he does not rise from that bed and prepare himself in the next moments, I will personally ensure he spends the next week in the fighting pits." She turned to glare down at Percy, her eyes cold as stone. "Do you understand me, Perseus?"

Percy’s mouth went dry, his pulse roaring in his ears. The fighting pits? Whipping? What in Hades was going on?

He stumbled to his feet, his mind spinning. "Look, I don’t know what’s happening," he said, his voice shaking. "I’m not—I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t know who any of you are. This is all a mistake."

Livia’s concerned gaze flickered between Percy and the woman, her face pale. "Perseus… truly, you don’t remember me? I am your sister."

"Sister?" Percy repeated, his voice barely audible, his mind reeling. He had a sister, but Estelle was on a trip to Florida with his mom and Paul partying it up and living the highlife at Disney world. This wasn’t possible, unless of course, his mother had a secret child, or his father just so happened to have another kid that was older than him then he doubted it was true.

"Enough!" the stepmother snapped, raising her hand to silence them. "We have no time for his theatrics. Perseus, if you wish to live through this day, you will do as I command. Now."

“Just nod, Perseus. And do what she says,” Livia said. “I’ll go get Cassia. If you're sick, she’ll know what to do. She always does. Do not worry. I’ll be back quickly.”

The young girl rushed off, leaving Percy feeling completely dumbfounded with the woman whose fiery temper matched her equally fiery hair. “Are you really unwell? Or are you just stupid. Get up! I should have never allowed Drusus to let you live.”

Percy raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “You must be a hit at parties.”

“How dare you speak to me that way?” she asked, her eyes moved up and down his body, and her gaze softened. “Perhaps, you really are not well? What feels wrong?”

“My head's pounding,” he lied, not sure what else to say. 

“Cassia will know what to do,” she said. “I don’t care if you still feel sick when Marcus Antonius comes. You will behave.”

Percy opened his mouth to say something, but shut it quickly, thinking better of it. He nodded at the woman, and she looked pleased. With that, she left Percy to his own devices leaving him reeling. What the hell had just happened?

He took a few seconds to look around his surroundings. He felt like he was on a movie set and all at once, someone was going to pop out and yell cut. Maybe he was dreaming? But his dreams had never been this vivid before.

He took a moment to breathe and focus on the last thing he could remember. He had traveled through the forest, trying to find some hidden gem in a lost temple for Hecate. She had asked him to do it so he could get a letter of recommendation for college (which was honestly stupid because he had saved the world more than once.) He had gotten through all of the traps and then the moment he touched the stone—

And then suddenly he had woken up in a place that he didn’t recognize that looked an awful lot like ancient Rome. 

All he wanted to know was what the fuck had happened?

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself down. He needed to figure out a plan and quickly or they were going to kill him for being a changeling or something equally dramatic. He really wasn’t in the mood to be hanged for being a witch. Did they even do that in Ancient Rome?

Obviously, he just needed to play along until he figured out what exactly had happened. Time travel was impossible (at least he thought it was). It was most likely some stupid trick or dream a god had put him under in order to get him to do what they wanted. Well, it wasn’t going to work. 

There was a knock on the door and in walked a man who looked far more regal than anyone he had ever seen before in his life. Behind the man was a young girl who he assumed must have been Cassia.  

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, draped in a finely woven tunic that looked like something straight out of a history book. His face was stern, marked with the lines of age and authority, though his dark eyes carried a glint of concern as they studied Percy.

This man was supposed to be his father, right? What had Livia called him? Peter? Pater? It was an odd thing to call a father.

“Pater?” he asked, the word feeling foreign on his lips.  At least, that’s what Livia had referred to him as in hushed tones. But everything about this situation felt wrong. Percy’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to reconcile the reality before him with the fragmented pieces of his memory.

The man’s eyes softened slightly at the sound of the word, though his expression remained guarded. “Perseus,” the man said slowly, as if testing the name on his tongue. He looked Percy over with the practiced eye of someone used to authority and scrutiny. “Livia said you weren’t feeling well. Are you alright?”

Percy blinked, momentarily lost in the haze of uncertainty. Livia? Oh right, that must have been the girl with dark hair. He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yes,” he said quickly, forcing a half-hearted nod. He racked his mind for some excuse–- any excuse to get himself out of here. “I’m sorry, I... had a nightmare and wasn’t myself.”

The man’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze intensifying. “I see,” he murmured, his tone laced with a quiet understanding. “Your nightmares are back.” There was no surprise in his voice, only a resigned familiarity, as if they had been through this before. “Is it the same one? Did you see that boy again? The one who looks like you but isn't?”

The boy who looks like you but isn’t.  

Percy’s heart skipped a beat. The boy who looked like him? His pulse quickened as his mind raced to make sense of what he’d just heard. He stared at the man, struggling to piece together the bizarre fragments of the conversation. “Yes,” Percy said slowly, raising an eyebrow. “I did.”

“I hoped that you would grow out of all that,” he said. “But it seems that you have inherited my sister's oddities. If only she were still here, your mother would have known what to do.”

“I am sorry, Pater,” Percy wasn’t sure why he was apologizing, but it seemed like the right thing to do. But what he did learn from that was that his mother was dead? And he had inherited some weird ability to have dreams from his aunt.

“Do not apologize for it,” he said. “It is a gift. One that will complicate your life, but a gift from your–from the gods nonetheless.” The man froze looking over him again. “Are you sure you are alright? You look like you’ve seen Pluto himself.”

“I—-“

“Stop your stuttering, boy,” he said. “What has taken your tongue for you? Speak plainly before I die where I stand from old age.” 

Percy calmed himself. He needed to play along with whatever nonsense this was if he wanted to find out what was happening to him.

“Get ready quick,” he said. “I need you to pick up some wine from the market. Marcus Antonius will be here by the end of the night, and I am told that he has acquired a taste of Gaelic wine. Only the gods know why. Do you feel up to that? I would have a slave do it, but you look like you could use the fresh air.”

“I can do it,” he said, even though he had no idea how to find wine in a Roman market. But, Perhaps, this was his time to get out and find out exactly what had happened to him and what kind of trick the gods were playing at. Because there was no way this was real. It just had to have been a really bad dream.

“Good,” he said. “Remember to be quick. Cassia will help you dress. And Perseus?”

“Yeah?”

The man sighed, and his eyes grew far darker. “Remember not to stand out. We can’t have the man asking questions about you. Try not to do anything stupid.” Asking Percy not to be stupid was like asking him not to breathe underwater. It really didn’t end up ever working. 

He turned to the girl who must have been Cassia who was looking at him with furrowed brows and the strangest expression he’d ever seen. He really didn’t need this girl to help him dress. 

I don’t—,” he said to try and intervene, but the man had already left, leaving him alone with a young girl around his age. She looked young, maybe a few years younger than him. Her hair was a mousy brown, but her skin was tanned, and she looked like she worked out at the gym with thin toned arms.

“Cassia?” he said. She kept looking at her feet, and Percy realized that she must have been a slave. Gods, that wasn’t right. What kind of people had slaves?

“Master,” she said, and Percy felt the urge to throw up

Percy wasn’t sure what he should do, or what he shouldn’t do. He just stood there, feeling like a complete and utter idiot. Obviously, the girl had noticed his confusion and went over to pick up a deep red tunic that was hanging on a peg on the wall. 

“Where am I exactly?” he asked her. He was sure she would end up gossiping to the rest of the household, but at the moment he really didn’t care. 

“Your home, ser,” she said. 

“And where is home?” he asked. Gods, he sounded like an idiot. But how else was he supposed to figure out exactly where he was? 

“Rome, Ser,” she said. 

“Right,” he said. “And just for my amusement. Who exactly is my pater?”

She shook his head but made no comment on it. “Marcus Livius Drusus Claudianus. He's a praetor." Oh, it looks like he and his long-lost dad had something in common then.

“Right,” he said. He couldn’t imagine saying that name ten times fast. How could someone possibly have the need for that long of a name? “Of course, he is.”

“And–”

“Have you hit your head, ser?” she asked timidly. “Why are you asking me all of these questions about yourself? I don’t think this is normal.” For a moment her face reddened as if she realized she had done something wrong. The way she looked you would have thought she accidentally murdered a cat or something. “I’m sorry, Ser. I shouldn’t have–”

“I did hit my head, Cassia. Thank you for asking,” he said. “And quite frankly, I don’t remember anything. Who am I? Who are you for that matter? What is a Pater?”

“You are Perseus Gaius Drusus,” she said, like he had lost his mind. And from her point of view, he was sure it looked that way. “You’re the adopted son of Marcus Livias Drusus Claudianus. Your mother was his sister, and he took you in after she died. Do you really not remember this?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Perhaps that is a good thing. I can start over and make a new name for myself.”

“Your tunic, Ser,” she said, nodding at the one he was already wearing. Oh right, because she was supposed to be helping him change. 

“Right,” he stammered and pulled up the woven cloth over his head. Once it was off, and quickly the woman put the tunic over his head, letting it fall over his body. It landed right below his knees, leaving the rest of him feeling very exposed.  Next, she took a thick leather belt with gold emblems attached to it and fastened it firmly around his waist. It was heavy and he didn’t like how it weighed him down for one second. How was someone supposed to move in something so ridiculous?

He was hoping that was the end of it, but she grabbed a long piece of fabric that he was guessing was a toga. He really didn't know. It was white, with a deep purple border.  Once, she was done she took a step backwards and stared at her feet.”

“Do you need anything else?” Oddly, her face had turned a bright red, and she was picking at her fingernails. 

“No, that will be all. Thank you, Cassia,” he said, and she looked up at him in surprise. She nodded at him before leaving quickly through the arches. 

“Thanking slaves?” someone said at the door. “You really have changed Perseus.”

Percy looked up to see Livia was back in his room, looking at him with mild amusement. “Since when have you ever taken the time to thank, Cassia? I thought you just enjoyed using her. You’ve only ever thanked her when she was on her knees.”

Percy felt the urge to throw up. What kind of person would do that? No wonder the poor girl had looked absolutely terrified of him. 

“I lose nothing from saying thank you,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Have you died and come back to us?” She asked, completely flabbergasted. “Did you hit your head and lose your senses as well as your memories?”

“What do you want, Livia?” he asked. Percy didn’t know this girl who was supposedly his sister, but so far, he really didn’t think he liked her.

“I’m going to the market with you,” she said. “I need a new chiton.” Percy had no idea what a chiton was.

“Fine,” he said. “Come along if you wish.”

She smiled at him. “There is the brother I remember. I was worried you had hit your head and changed forever. Whatever would I do if that had happened?” 

She probably would have been fine.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

Death does not concern us because as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist.

 —Epicurus

The Roman market was a chaotic sea of noise and movement, reminding Percy of the wildest Black Friday sales he’d ever witnessed—except without the neon lights and security guards and deals on Nintendo switches. Instead, the air was thick with the scent of fresh herbs, olive oil, and roasting meat. Crowds of men and women jostled each other, shouting at the top of their lungs as they haggled fiercely over everything from amphorae of wine to bolts of finely dyed wool. The stone-paved street underfoot was slick with the morning’s washings, and vendors perched under colorful awnings, their stalls brimming with goods from across the empire. The sharp clang of iron tools being hammered and the bleating of livestock from nearby added to the sensory overload.

Thank the gods for Livia .

Moving with practiced ease, Livia weaved through the throngs of people like a dancer at the American Ballet Theatre. Percy trailed behind her, trying to keep up while taking in the chaotic scene around him.

He still couldn’t get over how different this world was. A chiton , he’d come to learn, was not just some random piece of cloth, but an actual dress—who knew? And the wide belt cinched around his waist, the cingulum , felt strangely ceremonial, marking him as someone of status. At least, he hoped that was what it was called. He made a mental note to ask Livia later, if he ever had the courage to admit his ignorance.

For now, he was having a hard time pretending to be someone who belonged when he had no idea where he actually was. He decided to just go with the flow and see what happened. What was the worst that could happen?

All he knew was that he should probably avoid stepping on butterflies and shit like that. 

Livia approached a wine merchant, a balding man in a tunic that was stained from years of handling clay amphorae. His stall was lined with various jugs, each marked with the type and origin of the wine within.

“One cask of your finest Gallic wine,” Livia said, her voice cool and commanding as she gestured toward the merchandise. Percy just thought all the bottles looked the same.

The merchant nodded quickly, eager to please such a well-dressed and confident patron. He turned to fetch a cask from the back of his stall, the weight of the amphora evident as he heaved it onto the counter. With a grunt, he handed it off to the man standing quietly behind Livia—one of the household slaves, whom Percy had noticed shadowing them ever since they’d left the domus.

Apparently, good Romans didn’t carry things themselves. That was the work of slaves—silent, invisible to the eyes of the elite. The slave, dressed in a simple tunic, bowed slightly and took the cask without a word, adding it to the growing pile of goods they had accumulated.

Percy watched as the transaction unfolded, trying to wrap his head around the sheer normality of it all. The bustling market felt so vibrant, yet there was an unsettling undercurrent—everything here seemed to run on a hierarchy he didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t just the goods being exchanged; it was status, power, and control, all woven into the fabric of Roman life. The slaves were everywhere, carrying the burdens of their masters without question, their presence so ubiquitous that no one paid them any mind.

“Are you feeling alright?” Livia asked him, her eyes scanning up and down. “I don’t know what it is, but you seem different.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.” Of course he wasn’t fine. People didn’t just wake up in random places that look deceptively like ancient rome. But, he was trying to keep it all together.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You seem pale, and well–you just look confused.” Of course he looked confused, Percy didn’t think he’d ever felt more confused in his life and he’d walked through the Labyrinth. 

“Just a bad dream,” he said. “It’s really nothing to worry about.”

Livia shook her head. “Your dreams are omens. Of course, I should worry. Last time—”

“You worry too much,” he told her. Percy honestly had no idea if Livia was a worrier or not. But it seemed like the right thing to say. 

“And you don’t worry enough,” she snapped back. “Honestly, sometimes I can’t believe we are related. It's a wonder you’ve survived this long.”

“I guess I’m just special,” he smiled at her. “Some people can make it through the day without constant paranoia. You should try it, you’ll find it's rather calming.”

“What on earth happened to you?” Livia asked, and Percy stood. “You used to be afraid of stubbing your toe. You couldn’t walk outside without fearing you might catch a cold and your death. It’s like you are a completely different person.”

Well, it probably was because he was in fact a completely different person. Percy didn’t really know what to make of it. Clearly, he had traveled back in time. But what had happened to the boy whose body he had taken over? Was he dead? Was he in the future? The boy kid probably wouldn’t have survived for a minute in Percy’s shoes. 

Maybe the boy had died? And in that case did that mean he could never go home and was stuck in Ancient Rome for forever?

 There was a loud crash, and Percy's head snapped up. 

Only a few feet away from them a fight had broken out. Three men against one guy that was bloodied to a pulp. The best thing for him would be to just keep his head down and pretend he didn’t see anything. But, Percy had been bullied, and he always had a bleeding heart for an underdog.

“Perseus,” Livia’s voice cut through the noise of the market, sharp with disapproval. “What are you doing?”

Percy’s gaze remained fixed on the chaotic brawl ahead. Surprisingly the man was doing well against three armed men, but it still wasn’t right. Blood already stained the dust beneath their feet, and Percy’s instincts kicked in.

“Helping,” Percy muttered under his breath, trying to dart off into the fray.

Livia's hand shot out and grabbed the back of his tunic, pulling him back with surprising strength. “Do not get involved,” she hissed, her eyes flashing. “Pater would not like it.”

Well, Pater was just going to have to deal with it. Percy pulled himself free from her grip, adrenaline surging through his veins.

“Pater will survive,” he said, his voice firm. He scanned the nearby stalls and spotted what he needed—a sword on display at a blacksmith’s stand. Without a second thought, he snatched it up, ignoring the startled protests of the merchant.

“Perseus!” he heard Livia scream after him, but he ignored it. 

It wasn’t Riptide , but as soon as he gripped the sword’s hilt, Percy knew it would do. The weight was perfect, and the balance felt right in his hand. It hummed with readiness, as if waiting for the fight. No time to think—he had to act.

Without another glance at Livia, Percy sprinted toward the fight. The air around him seemed to hum with the tension of the market, the sounds of clashing blades, and the shouts of onlookers filling his ears. The crowd parted as he barreled through, people stepping back in a mix of shock and awe as this young Roman—no, Greek—plunged headfirst into the conflict.

He dove straight into the heart of the fight, his sword slicing through the air as he blocked a vicious blow meant for the ambushed man. The attackers, clearly not expecting someone to intervene, hesitated for a moment—a moment Percy seized to knock one of them off balance with a swift kick.

“Who are you?” the man beside him gasped, his breath coming in sharp bursts as they stood back-to-back, fending off their attackers.

“Percy,” he huffed, his sword slashing through the air as he parried an oncoming strike. He barely had time to catch his breath, the attackers pressing in from all sides.

“Percy?” The confusion in the man’s voice was unmistakable, even over the clash of metal and the shouts of the market-goers. “What kind of name is that? Are you Greek? You do have the look.”

“No,” Percy grunted, blocking a wild swing and countering with a thrust that sent one of the attackers stumbling backward. “It’s a nickname—a term of endearment.” He dodged another blow, his body moving on instinct. “Blame my pater and sister for it.”

“I blame my pater for everything,” the man quipped, twisting his sword into the side of an attacker who lunged at them. His voice was light, but Percy could sense the tension in his movements—this man was fighting for his life, and so was Percy.

Their attackers regrouped, circling them like wolves, each man ready to pounce. The marketplace had turned into a battlefield, and while Percy’s heart pounded in his chest, there was an odd sense of calm in the way he moved. The sword felt like an extension of himself, each swing fluid and precise, cutting through the chaos like a hot knife through butter.

“So,” Percy said between breaths, ducking just before someone could slice off his head. “Why exactly are these people trying to kill you?”

“Oh,” the man replied, blocking another attacker with a grunt, “I accidentally got caught up in the mob when I was your age.”

“Accidentally?” Percy echoed, dodging a spear thrust and sending its owner sprawling with a quick sweep of his leg. “Sounds like a fun time.”

“Oh, it was a riot,” the man said with a smirk, though there was sweat beading at his temples. “Literally.”

“Clearly,” Percy muttered as a spear came hurtling towards him, which he deflected just in time. “Seems like you’ve made some lifelong friends.”

Percy and the man made quick work of the rest of the people. The men stood no chance against Percy’s unique fighting style with the man's brute strength. When they were finally done, Percy could only stand there as he breathed heavily. 

The man groaned, leaning over with a small smile on his face. Oh, he was crazy.   His tunic, once pristine, was torn, revealing layers of muscle hardened by years of battle. The man’s weathered face softened as he looked down at Percy with something akin to gratitude.

“You’ve saved my life, boy,” the man said, his voice rough yet steady. “I am indebted to you.”

Percy, still catching his breath from the skirmish, straightened his back and tried to appear nonchalant. His sword, slick with blood, felt heavy in his hand, but he refused to show any weakness in front of a man who radiated authority.

“For the glory of Rome, ser,” Percy replied, his voice steady but his mind racing. “You do not owe me anything.”

The man’s dark eyes narrowed, studying Percy like a hawk sizing up prey. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at him, as if Percy were a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together.

“You are not a plebian,” the man said, his tone low and probing. “You don’t have the stench of common blood about you.”

Percy resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow, standing tall despite the weight of the man's scrutiny. His hands trembled slightly, though he hoped the man didn’t notice. “My pater is Drusus Claudianus, ser,” he said, voice firm. At least, he prayed he hadn’t butchered the name. 

The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise, though his expression remained guarded. “Drusus Claudianus? I was not aware Claudianus had any sons.” His gaze lingered on Percy, searching his face for something. “I was only aware of his daughter. Julia? Was that her name?”

“Livia, ser,” Percy corrected quickly. “Livia Drusus.”

“Ah, of course,” the man murmured, nodding slowly as if recalling a distant memory. His lips twitched into a faint smile. “How could I forget? Livia Drusus.” He paused, eyeing Percy once more. “But a son? That is not something I would forget.”

Percy hesitated for a fraction of a second before replying. “I am adopted,” he admitted, meeting the man’s eyes with a steady gaze. “My mother was his sister. But that is history now. Drusus is my pater.”

“Adopted,” the man repeated, his voice thick with something Percy couldn’t quite place—curiosity, perhaps, or doubt. “Of course. That explains much.” He tilted his head, still examining Percy with a keen interest. “You are a credit to him. And who, may I ask, taught you to wield a sword like that? You fight better than some in the legion.”

Percy’s grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, the cool metal grounding him as he replied, “I guess experience. Trouble follows me everywhere.”

“You mean to say you’ve never trained?” the man said, looking at him with doubt.

Percy nodded. “I’ve never really had a reason to train.” Again lie, but something told him it wasn’t a good idea to tell the stranger he had been holding a sword since he was 12.

The man let out a low whistle, his eyes gleaming with newfound respect. “A talent,” he said softly, as if to himself. “You should be in the legion with skills like that.” He looked Percy over  once more, his lips curling into a slow, calculating smile. “Rome could always use men with your raw talent, boy. The legion would welcome you.”

“My Pater is a politician,” he said. “And I will be the same. He doesn’t want me anywhere near the legion.”

The man just shrugged. “I’m sure he could be convinced to change his mind. I’m very persuasive when I want to be.”

Percy could imagine. With his good looks and charm, he was sure that man probably got away with everything. Add a sword and a commission in the legion and women and men were probably just waiting for a chance to be in the same room with him. 

“I need to leave,” Percy said, glancing nervously at the crowd. “My family will kill me if I don’t return with the wine. We have company tonight.”

“Oh really?” The man responded, his voice smooth as silk, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. His eyes gleamed with curiosity. “And what esteemed guest drinks Gallic wine?”

“The military type,” Percy replied with a slight shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. He remembered from his history lessons that Marcus Antonius was a formidable general of some renown. Still, Percy had always harbored the belief that he could best any soldier in a sword fight. Even a man like Antonius.

The man tilted his head, studying him with an unnervingly calm gaze. “You don’t seem too fond of the military,” he observed, his words measured but laced with an underlying curiosity. “Some might argue it’s a necessary institution.”

Percy’s lips twitched into a half-smile, though there was no joy in it. “I know it’s necessary, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I prefer peace over endless bloodshed.” His voice dropped slightly, a wistful note creeping in.

The man’s expression softened, and he nodded sagely. “Ah, peace. The dream of all wise men, though rarely attained.” His voice, smooth and knowing, felt like the whisper of an old philosopher. “It has been interesting speaking with you, Perseus Gaius Drusus. I have no doubt our paths will cross again soon.”

Before Percy could respond, he felt a sharp tug on his arm. Whirling around, he was greeted by the stern face of his sister, Livia, who was yanking him away from the conversation with a fierce determination.

“Well met, my lady,” the man called after them, his voice light but filled with curiosity. “You must be Livia Drusus,” he added, his gaze flickering between the two siblings. “Your brother is quite the talent. His skill with a sword is unmatched.”

“My brother is a fool,” Livia replied without hesitation, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Percy. “I’m surprised he hasn’t accidentally stabbed himself with that sword. He can barely walk straight, let alone fight.”

Excuse me? Percy opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, but the words caught in his throat. Of all the things she could say, why that?

“Really?” The man’s eyes glittered with amusement. “I find that hard to believe. He did, after all, just save my life, and with impressive ease.”

Livia barely acknowledged the compliment. “Apologies, ser,” she said briskly. “But we must be going.” With that, she yanked Percy through the bustling market, the crowd parting like water as she stormed forward.

Percy looked back over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the mysterious man, still watching them with an air of quiet amusement, his eyes following their every move.

“You’re covered in blood,” Livia hissed once they were clear of the crowd, her face pale with anxiety.

“Don’t worry,” Percy said with a crooked grin. “Most of it isn’t mine.”

Livia shook her head, her brow creased with worry. He could practically feel the tension radiating off her in waves. “Pater is not going to be happy about this.”

“Well,” Percy shot back, pulling his hand free, “then let’s not tell him. Problem solved.”

Livia froze, eyes practically on fire. “Not tell Pater? Have you lost your mind? He’ll find out—if he doesn’t know already. The best thing you can do is beg for mercy. You’re not supposed to be drawing attention to yourself. Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?”

Honestly, no.

“I saved someone’s life, Livia,” Percy said, shoving his way through more people. “That’s gotta count for something.”

It doesn’t count for anything,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve saved anyone if you're dead. Caesar will kill you if he finds out your heritage, or have you forgotten that as well as everything else.”

Why did someone always want him dead? Was it too much to ask for just a single day of peace?

“We need to get back home,” she said. “Before Pater’s anger explodes. Then not even the gods could save you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

He could hear the screams before he even entered the villa. His stepmother, who he still didn’t even know the name of yet, was yelling in the atrium so loud they could have heard it all the way in Los Angeles (not that it technically existed yet.) 

“Goodluck,” Livia said, giving his arm a supportive squeeze. “Just don’t say anything , foolish.”

“Me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her. “Foolish? Never.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Perseus, I mean it. You know Domina can be evil when you cross her. I don’t want to see you in trouble again.” With that, Livia disappeared within the maze of the house, her long skirts billowing behind her and oddly enough Percy missed her presence. 

“What have you done?” his step-mother screamed the moment her eyes locked with him. She darted across the room, and grabbed the fabric of his shirt in a tight fist. “Have you no sense? 

Percy groaned. Liva was right, this woman was evil. Why couldn’t this woman use her inside voice? 

“Perseus, Answer me!” she yelled. “After everything we have done to protect you, would you really throw it all away so quickly?”

“Please will you stop squealing?” he asked, prying himself out of her grasp. “You are giving me a headache.”

Percy felt the slap before he even saw her hand flying towards him. “How dare you?” the woman asked. “After everything? After everything we have done to protect you? You dare speak to me this way?”

“Scribonia,” a voice roared. From the corner of his eye he could see his pater ( he really needed something else to call him because that was just awful.) The was calm, but Percy could see the danger hiding beneath the surface. “That is enough. Leave me to deal with Perseus.”

Percy’s head turned to the man who had at one point in the few hours he had known looked at him with some sense of kindredship, but all that was gone, and instead was replaced with a politician. The woman– Scribonia –let go of Percy’s shirt and reluctantly left the room, leaving Percy with a very terrifying man. 

The man was quiet for a moment, but Percy could still feel the anger coming off of him in waves.

“Have you any idea what you’ve done?” the man asked. “I have only ever asked one thing of you. Put your head down, don’t draw attention to yourself. What you incited today goes against everything I have ever taught you. What spirit has taken over your mind?”

“I—”

“I do not want apologies,” he said. “I want an explanation.”

“I couldn’t stand and do nothing,” he said. “It's wrong to just watch people struggle if you can do something to stop it.”

“I don’t know whether I should be angry at you for not listening to me,” he said, his voice softening. “Or proud of the man you have become. I understand your need to help others, but you must first protect yourself. You cannot help anyone if you are dead.”

“What’s the use in living,” he told him. “If you can’t help others.”

“You are so much like your mother that it scares me,” the man said. “It’s like you became a man overnight. Do you know who it was you saved?”

“No,” Percy said. “But I’m guessing he was a soldier. He looked the part. Probably some stupid centurion who crossed the wrong people.” 

Percy didn’t even know the man but some part of him felt shame for disappointing him. “Now go,” he continued. “Marcus Antonius will be here in the  hour and you are covered in blood. Wash yourself, please. You smell worse than a horse's ass. Cassia–” he motioned to the serving girl who was  behind him. Good lord that woman just seemed to appear everywhere. “Prepare a bath for Perseus. You might need to use more oils than usual.”

She nodded to the man, and started leaving the room quickly without even looking at Percy to see if he would follow. Drusus gave him a small nod before Percy quickly scurried after the girl.

For being so small, the girl walked faster than anyone he had ever met, he practically had to run to keep up with her. She walked through the halls with such familiarity that Percy wouldn’t have been surprised if she was born there. Perhaps she was.

The room she led him to was probably the most ornate place he had ever been in. The marble pool before him shimmered under the soft light from oil lamps that lined the walls, their golden glow flickering in the haze. Ornate mosaics of gods and sea creatures stretched across the floor and up the walls. He could have sworn that one of the men in the painting looked like Mr. D, and he really didn’t want to think of Mr. D watching him bathe. The scent of herbs—something like rosemary, maybe lavender—hung in the air, sharp and earthy.

Cassia put a small vial of what looked like oil into the water, followed by some flower petals. “Shall I undress you?” She asked. 

“No, thank you, Cassia,” he said. “Please leave me.” He didn’t mean to sound dismissive, but it came out that way anyways.

She opened her mouth to say something, but quickly shut it, looking like he had offended her in some awful way. She had already helped him change, and even that had been embarrassing enough. He didn’t need her to know how to take a bath. 

She turned around quickly, and left Percy by himself, which he was thankful for. He just needed to be alone and figure out what exactly had happened.

He no longer thought this was all a dream or some illusion no matter how impossible and crazy that seemed. Dreams didn’t make him bleed, dreams didn’t smell like this–didn’t feel like this. No, this was very real. 

Percy stood awkwardly in the center of the private bath, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. It was much smaller than he had expected, more intimate than the bustling public baths he had read about. The air was heavy with steam, curling lazily toward the vaulted ceiling. He could feel the warmth radiating from the water, inviting him in, but he hesitated.

This was ridiculous. 

Somehow, he had traveled back in time. That was the only real explanation. He was completely out of his depth. How on earth was he supposed to convince people he was a real Roman Citizen if he didn’t even know how to take a bath or get dressed? They were probably going to kill him for accidentally calling Julius Caesar a dick or something.

He took off his clothes, fumbling the belt on his waist. The gold pieces made it hard to find where to untie it. Once it was off, he placed the belt and the clothes on a stool that he hoped was actually used to place clothing on.

He hissed when the water touched his skin, but  he immediately relaxed his body, and helped calm his racing mind. They seriously needed baths like this in NYC.

He scrubbed off all the blood and dirt off his body until his skin was raw and bright red. And then, he kept on scrubbing because he really didn’t know what else to do. Everything was unfamiliar and odd, and he just wanted to go home. He wasn’t even sure if he could get back home.

When all the blood was gone, Percy practically leapt out of the bath. When he turned round to grab his clothes, he almost dove back into the pool and drowned himself. 

There was Cassia standing in the entrance way, looking bored beyond all belief.

“Cassia!” he practically yelled. “What the hells?” He looked everywhere to find something to cover himself but there was nothing. He was now very naked in front of a girl that he didn’t even know. “I’m naked!”

“Yes, you are,” she said, looking completely bored.

“Can you leave?”

“You forgot to put oil on your skin,” she said, looking bored. “I’m not sure how a head injury could make you forget something as simple as that.”

“Excuse me—”

She threw a pair of clean garments on a nearby stool, and Percy instantly felt embarrassed. “Here are the clothes Domina wants you to wear for dinner... Do you remember how to get dressed?”

“I–”

“Stop gaping,” she said. “You look ridiculous.” He immediately closed his mouth. “Let me help you. It's not like I haven’t seen you naked before. Why are you suddenly blushing like a child?” He was not blushing, Was he? He definitely was not blushing. 

She grabbed a tunic that looked like it was made out of crushed velvet and helped him put it over his head. Next was the god awful gold belt thing, followed by several feet of flowing fabric. Percy couldn’t help but feel beyond embarrassed as her hands moved over his skin. 

“There,” she said, taking a step back from him. “You look somewhat presentable now.” Her eyes raked across his body, and felt very naked…again–under her gaze.

“Were we close or something,” Percy asked. “I’m sorry but I really don’t remember anything.”

“We have a more physical relationship,” she said, and Percy could only gape. 

“I’m not—that's not,” his face had turned a bright red, and Cassia was smirking at him. “What? I—“

“Relax,” she said. “We both enjoy it.”

“Oh, my gods—-,”

“You're being honest,” she said. “You really don’t remember, do you? I thought you were faking this morning or something as a joke.”

“Cruel joke,” he observed. 

“It sounds like something you would do,” she said without laughing. Gods, what kind of person did they all think he was? From what he gathered he had somehow ended up in the body of a roman boy. But, everything he learned about the person he hated. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked. “Maybe we can figure out what happened.”

“That's just it,” he said. “I don’t remember anything. I know my name is Perseus, but that's it. I don’t remember you, or my family, or how to put on these annoying clothes.”

“So you don’t remember who your father is, do you?” she asked. 

“I have some ideas. Obviously, it's someone they don’t want anyone knowing about. It’s not Caesar?” he asked, trying to crack a joke. 

The girl smiled slightly. “No, it's not.”

“It’s not a god, is it?” he asked, knowing the answer already. The only question was–was he a son of Neptune or Poseidon?

The girl looked at him knowingly. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“I get told that a lot.” He looked at her again…Maybe this girl would be able to help him somehow- help him figure out how to make sense of this new crazy world that he was in. “Would you help me? I really don’t remember anything, and I’m afraid I’ll just mess everything up.”

“Perseus Drusus asking me for help?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “As I live and breathe. I never expected this day.”

“Please,” he said, sighing deeply.  He was tired, and he just wanted to know what the hell was going on.  “Just tell me. Was I a good person?” 

She frowned at that, looking at her feet like they had suddenly turned into bars of gold. “Not at all. I’ve never met someone so spoiled in my entire life.”

“I guess I can only get better then,” he said. 

“You should go now,” she said. “The general will be arriving soon. Just try not to offend him and you’ll be fine.”

“That's easier said than done,” he commented. 

“I know,” she said. 

He left her in the bathing room, his hands clenching at his sides as he walked. Everything was going to be fine….it was going to be fine…There's no way he could screw up everything that badly, right?

He froze when he saw who was in the living room eating with his supposed father. It was the man who Percy had met in the market only an hour before. This was not good—not good at all. 

“And who is this?” the man said, knowingly looking over to Percy. 

Oh…he was fucked. 

Just being in the man’s presence felt like he was standing in front of the 12 Olympians. All the cheerful banter and amusement he had when they first met was gone, and instead it was replaced with the facade of a general. There was a power radiating off of him–a confidence Percy had only ever seen in himself and in Jason Grace. Of course, that was a problem because Percy really didn’t like authority figures. It didn’t matter if they were gods, he usually ended up telling them off. 

“My son,” Claudianus said. “Perseus Gaius Drusus.  Perseus, come forward, this is Marcus Antonius.” Percy walked awkwardly into the light., trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. For god's sake, this was Marcus Antonius. He was one of the most famous men in Roman history, and here he was…and Percy had saved his life…

The general eyes scanned him in such a way that Percy felt like he could see right through him. He gave Percy a satisfied nod before turning back to his father. “He does you a credit, Claudianus,” Marcus said. “Did he tell you he saved my life from an assasanation attempt this morning? I am indebted to him.”

He saw his father go completely still as realization flooded through him. “I heard that he was involved in an altercation this morning, but I did not know it was you.”

“Yes,” the man said, taking a sip of his wine. “I am extremely thankful that your son was there, or I might have died. He should be honored for his bravery.”

“There is no need,” he said. “We are humble people.”

“Ridiculous,” Marcus said. “You son should be honored. Tell me, has he been apprenticed yet?”

He saw the man swallow air. “No, he is not. I had plans to Apprentice him to Tiberius Nero next season. He’ll be a senator one day if he keeps his wits about him.”

“A waste,” the man said, lounging back on his chair. “He has the look of the army in him. He looks like he was born to hold a sword. I think with the proper training and leadership, He’d make a fine general one day.”

Claudianus laughed. “Perseus has no stomach for war. He has politician blood in him. He takes after his mother far too much—too soft. He’s never even held a sword before.”

“Really?” Marcus said, raising an eyebrow. “Every good politician has a stomach for war,” Marcus said. “ And what of his father?” 

Percy could see the panic in the man's eyes for a small moment. “What of him?”

“Does he take after you?” he said. “I remember tales of all the troubles you found yourself in when you were his age. Is he the same? I don’t envy you if he is.”

“No,” Drusus said. “You’ll find we aren’t alike at all.”

“I have a proposition for you, Drusus,” Marcus said. “Apprentice him to me. I’ll put him in the calvary just like I was. Maybe even throw him in the fifth cohort for the glory of Caesar. He’ll do great things if I have any say in it.” 

He could tell that was exactly what his father was afraid of. “I’m not so sure. I’d like to keep him by my side for a few more years.” More like he’d like to keep him far away from Marcus so the man couldn’t use him as a hostage if Brutus and Cassius ever chose to bear arms against Caesar. Which Percy unfortunately knew did end up happening. 

What on earth was he supposed to do if his Pater or whatever he was ended up dying because of Brutus and Cassius. Percy didn’t know much about Roman history, but he did know that death was hanging over Julius Caesar's head and he didn’t want to be anywhere near him when he ended up getting stabbed.

“He’s seventeen, Drusus,” he said. 

“Yes, and that already makes him a man.. When I was seventeen—well, I don’t think you want to know what I was doing when I was his age. It's not fit for young ears or anyone's ears really.”

“He’s my sister's only child, Marcus,” he said “Call me sentimental.”

“You’ll have to let go of him one day, Drusus. He is of marrying age, is he not?”

“Yes,” his father said, resigned to fate. “He is.”

“Perhaps, he would be a good match for my daughter Adriana?” Marcus said. “She is only a year younger than him. I had plans to marry her to  Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus when she was of age. But, Perhaps it would be better for her to marry someone of her age. I’ve heard Lucius is a brute anyhow and I would like to avoid that if I can.”

“What do you think, Perseus?” Marcus turned to him. “Do you think the legion would suit you? My daughter is beautiful, and I promise you will not disappoint you.”

“I’d like to have some choice in who I marry,” Did this man just offer him his daughter's hand in marriage? He couldn’t get married. He was seventeen. No way in hell was he going to marry anyone. 

“You’ve offered him too much,” his father said, shooting him a glare. “Perseus, express your thanks.”

“No use expressing thanks if you don’t mean it,” Marcus said, and for once Percy agreed with them man. “He seems to be a smart and well-bred man. Surely, he must see what it is I am offering him.”

“Well then, I’m afraid you truly know nothing about the boy,” Pater said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His voice, deep and authoritative, reverberated through the stone walls of the room. “He is lazy, prone to indulgence, and spends most of his days tormenting the slave girls. Is that really the kind of man you want for your daughter?”

Marcus, ever the optimist, chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with a certain pride. “She could do far worse,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, fingers casually tapping on the ornate armrest. “Perseus is handsome and from a good family. Adriana is equally beautiful, and her lineage is impeccable. Together, they would make a flawless match. Can you imagine the children, dear Drusus?” He leaned forward, voice growing more animated as he continued, “Think of it! Two noble houses united through blood.”

Drusus, ever cautious, frowned and stroked his beard, his brow furrowed in thought. “But Marcus, are you certain it is wise to rush into this decision? We’ve barely—”

“It is the best decision,” Marcus interrupted confidently, waving off his friend's concerns. “And besides, Perseus saved my life. Surely that speaks to his character, despite the whispers surrounding him. You must learn to look beyond idle gossip, Drusus.”

Drusus opened his mouth to reply, his hesitance still clear in his posture, but before he could, a voice cut through the conversation like a sharp blade.

“Don’t I have any say in who I’m marrying?” Percy spoke up, his voice firm but laced with frustration, stepping into the light that flickered from the hearth. His jaw was tight, eyes gleaming with defiance. “This is ridiculous.”

Marcus raised a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes as a slow grin spread across his face. “Ridiculous? Now there’s a word I haven’t heard in these parts,” he said, chuckling lightly, the sound like low thunder. “You speak oddly at times.”

A small wave of panic surged in Percy’s chest. He could feel the eyes on him, suspicion ready to pounce. Thinking quickly, he adopted a casual air, shrugging as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Oh, I heard a merchant from the west use it. It sounded clever, so I thought I’d try it. I’m always on the lookout for interesting phrases.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly, but his grin never faltered. “I like you,” he said, his voice almost conspiratorial. “And trust me, I don’t like many people.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I guess.”

“It is decided then,” Marcus said. “Perseaus will join me with the legion and marry Adriana. I can take him with me the day after tomorrow. That gives you enough time to say goodbyes and prepare for the journey.”

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”

Marcus Antonius

Imagine the world's most awkward dinner and then multiply it by ten. In a few short hours he had managed to save Marc Antony, get an apprenticeship and find himself engaged to someone he’d never even met. Percy didn’t think he had ever fucked up so badly in his life. Which is saying a lot because he quite literally blew up mount St Helens because Annabeth kissed him. 

Roman dinners were nothing like what he was used to. There were no stiff chairs or upright postures around a dining table; instead, guests lounged on their stomachs, propped up on cushions in a semicircle around a central table filled with platters of food. The table was piled high with roasted meats, fruit, olives, and bread soaked in olive oil. The warm, rich scent of honeyed wine filled the air, blending with the earthy aroma of roasted herbs. It was almost decadent—if not for the palpable tension hanging over the meal.

Percy had to admit, the lounging was fun, a strange luxury that made him feel both lazy and somehow princely, but it was hard to relax when everyone around him was looking at him like they’d already measured him for a burial shroud.

Livia, his sister, attempted to break the icy silence with her ease, recounting her trip to the market that morning and her plans to meet with friends in the next few days. She chatted lightly about new fabrics she’d seen and the gossip she’d overheard, but her words fell into the air without response. Their father, Drusus, remained silent, his face a stoic mask, his gaze fixed on Percy as if he were some problem that needed solving. Eventually, Livia gave up, slouching against the cushions, her expression pinched with frustration.

“Marcus will take you to the camp first thing in the morning,” Drusus announced, his voice low and commanding, the kind that immediately drew silence from the entire room. Percy had started calling him Drusus in his head instead of father. It wasn’t right for him to call him that, because he wasn’t his father. He had one father, and as much as Percy was conflicted about the man, there was no denying he was his son. 

The crackling of the fire was the only sound that followed. “You’ll train with the fifth cohort for a year before joining their conquest in Britannia. I’ve convinced Marcus to hold off the wedding until after the campaign. If it were up to him, you’d be married to his daughter by next week, and she’d be pregnant by the following.”

The weight of Drusus’s words hung heavily in the air, the future unfolding before Percy like a looming storm. His chest tightened, though he stayed silent, unsure how to react. The suddenness of it all—the camp, the war, the arranged marriage—it left him feeling untethered, as if his life had been planned out without his consent.

Across the table, Livia, his ever-observant sister, was watching him with a bemused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What?” Percy asked, breaking his silence, irritation creeping into his voice.

“I’m just wondering what I should write on your shroud,” she said, her voice teasing yet laced with an edge of truth. “You’re practically a dead man walking.”

Percy shot her a withering look, though the weight of her words settled uncomfortably in his mind. “Thank you for your thrilling confidence,” he muttered sarcastically, leaning back in his chair. “I feel so much better now.”

Before Livia could offer a retort, their father’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Livia, Perseus,” he said sternly. “That’s enough. The two of you are behaving like children.”

Percy bristled at the reprimand, his fists clenching under the table. “We are children,” he shot back, unable to stop himself.

Drusus turned his piercing gaze on him, eyes cold and unyielding. “You’re seventeen,” he said with measured calm, though his voice carried the weight of authority. “When I was your age, I was already leading men into battle, carving my place in the empire. Why can’t you two do the same?”

Percy fought the urge to tell him that he had already been to war. He’d traveled through the labyrinth, the sea of monsters, held up the sky, and traveled through Tartarus. Percy didn't need to carve his place in any empires—he built them.

The fire crackled once more, the flames casting long shadows across the room, deepening the silence that had once again fallen between them. For a moment he could almost pretend that he wasn’t in Rome. He was back at camp before everything went to hell. He blinked and he was sitting at a hearth, and there was Hestia, looking at him with a knowing smile. 

He was laughing at a campfire with Grover who had marshmallows stuck in his hair. Annabeth hadn't broken up with him because she wanted to put the past behind her and move forward. Jason was alive, laughing with them as if he had died alone and without his friends.  He could almost pretend...

“Perseus,” Scribonia told him. “Stop playing with your food and eat. The gods know this might be one of your last chances to have a good meal in a while. Those military men wouldn’t know a good meal if it was sitting right in front of them.”

“I’m sure those military men are just happy just to be alive,” he snapped. “I’m sure food is the last thing on their mind.”

“And what do you know of war?” Drusus asked. “Do not lecture us on war when you have not seen it–have not lived it or suffered for it. You’ll learn soon enough, and then you’ll wish you never had. Glory,” he spat. “What is glory when you are dead?”

“Glory doesn’t exist,” Percy said, and he knew it was true. There was no glory in kids dying in a battlefield or holding your friends while they died in your arms. Jason Grace didn’t feel glory when he was killed, neither did Bianca or Silena, or Charlie, or Zoe or…

His father raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you would jump at the idea of going to war. You always used to talk about making a name for yourself. Military accomplishments are the fastest way of doing that.”

“I don’t want to make a name of myself by killing people,” he said. 

“That’s a naive way of thinking,” Scribonia said. “There are two people in this world. People who kill and people who are killed. Which one do you want to be?”

Percy took a sip of the wine, and it tasted like ash on his lips. “We should try to change things then. I think we can live in a world without killing.” Percy was tired of killing. He was tired of the constant quests and war. Something told him things were only going to get worse. If things were bad in the future, he didn’t want to imagine what it was like thousands of years in the past with a militaristic empire. 

“Most men have tried to change the world,” Drusus said. “And most of them are dead.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Percy said, getting up from the table with little grace. “I think I've lost my appetite.”

“Perseus,” he heard Drusus shout behind him, but he didn’t look back. For once, he didn’t look back.

He slammed the door of his room closed like a teenager throwing a tantrum. He just wanted to go home. He didn’t want to pretend to be this perfect Roman citizen when he was anything but. He was Greek, it was in his nature to question the rules of the world. 

He collapsed on the bed, already feeling a headache forming.  How was he going to survive all of this? They were so different from him. Life wasn’t something that was sacred to them, it was something you ended—something you could control. 

“You look like hell froze over.” He groaned, recognizing the voice.

“Cassia,” he said. Why was he even surprised that she slipped in his room like some sort of creepy black widow. He didn't even look up as she walked in. He focused on anything except for her. “Are you here to tell me not to be stupid too?”

“I am not certain you would heed my counsel, even if I did,” she replied, her tone clipped, every word weighed down by an unspoken tension. “How are your memories?”

“Still gone,” he said, a smirk barely masking the turmoil beneath. “But I think it’s for the best.”

“For the best?” she echoed, her eyes narrowing in disbelief, and let out a small laugh. “How could the loss of one’s memories ever be for the best?”

“I wasn’t a good person,” he shot back, the air between them crackling. He sat up from the bed, no longer able to not look at her. What he saw was surprise on her face. She was staring at him like he was some sort of riddle that needed solving. “I can’t even pretend I was. From what I’ve gathered, I was… fucking terrible. I’d rather not remember that.”

Her gaze hardened, like steel forged in a furnace. “I do not believe that losing memories can dramatically change who someone is. You're a bastard, and annoying and ornery. And you're still the same man who--"

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted, the weight of the words hanging heavily. “I don't know what our relationship really was. But I've hurt you in some way. I'm sorry."

“I don’t think I can ever forgive you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with an intensity that felt like a blade.

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Cassia,” he replied, his tone almost casual, though his heart raced. “You should just know I'm not the same man you knew. Trust me, I'd rather die than hurt someone who doesn't deserve it."

“Well,” she snapped, her posture rigid, every muscle taut, “I suppose we don’t all have the luxury to simply forget who we are and become someone entirely different overnight.”

The silence stretched between them; a taut string ready to snap. The air was thick with unspoken memories and unresolved grievances, each breath a reminder of the chasm that lay between their past and present. The only problem was, Percy didn’t know how deep the chasm was and what laid between them.

“Goodluck,” she told him. “I hope this all works out for you. If you can pretend to be a different person, maybe the rest of us will be better for it.

She turned around, leaving Percy by himself to spiral. What exactly had he done to her to deserve such hate? He had ideas of course, but each one was worse than he could ever imagine. 

Percy collapsed on the bed, burying his head deep into the pillows, but couldn’t find it within himself to sleep. His heart was racing, his mind was racing, and so was everything else. He just wanted to go home, where things were not necessarily better, but at least they made sense. At least back home, he didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.

He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he lay wide-eyed beneath the rich velvet canopy of the bed, the fabric heavy and dark like the weight of his thoughts. He traced the intricate patterns woven into the material, pondering all the way his life could be worse. He could be dead, he could be fighting in the chaos of the Trojan War, or he could even be entangled in the horrors of World War II. All things considered; the discomfort of his current reality didn’t seem so terrible…yet.

Just a few hours later, as the first golden rays of dawn began to filter through the ornate windows, Percy felt a restless energy urging him to escape the confines of his room. He wandered the vast, echoing halls of the house, his footsteps loud on the polished stone. His gaze drifted over the tapestries depicting heroic deeds and ancient battles, the vivid colors catching the light and casting warm shadows on the richly painted walls. The house was steeped in silence; not a soul stirred, not even the servants who usually bustled about. In that quiet, Percy savored a rare moment of solitude.

His feet led him to the stables, a rustic haven filled with the earthy scent of hay and the musk of animals. Inside, a patchwork of black, white, and brown horses stood in their stalls, their coats gleaming in the soft morning light. One horse in particular—a majestic black stallion—neighed, its voice carrying a hint of annoyance toward the horse groomer, who had dozed off amidst the straw.

“What’s your name?” Percy asked, approaching a dark stallion whose hair was like ink, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“Can you speak to me? You’ve never done that before,” the horse replied, astonishment lacing its voice, as though such a thing were utterly unheard of.

“That’s a shame,” Percy said, a smile creeping across his face. “I find animals are better company than humans most of the time. They make for the best listeners.”

“Wait,” the horse said, tilting its head, eyes wide with surprise. “Can you understand me?”

“I can,” Percy confirmed, amusement dancing in his voice.

“Oh, my fucking gods,” the horse exclaimed, its tone reminiscent of Blackjack, a familiar comfort amidst the strangeness of this morning. “This one can talk to me!” The other horses perked up, heads swiveling in curiosity, their ears twitching as they tried to catch a glimpse of the human who had bridged the gap between their worlds.

“What’s your name?” Percy asked again, feeling an inexplicable connection forming.

“Troy,” the stallion replied, pride swelling in its chest. “Are you a son of our creator? I can smell the sea on you.”

Percy chuckled softly, fingers running through Troy’s glossy mane. “I am. My name is Perseus.”

“Like the Greek son of Zeus?” the horse asked in surprise. “I thought Rome hated anything greek? That name brings bad luck, you know? You should change it to something more Roman. Maybe like Octavion? Octavian is a great Roman name.”

“I like my name,” he laughed to the horse. “It's better than Troy any day.”

“Someone is watching us,” the horse said quietly, and Percy’s head snapped round quickly to Drusus standing there watching with an interesting glint in his eye. What on earth was the man doing up so early in the morning?

““Pater,” he added, the word slipping from Percy’s lips like an unfamiliar melody. It was a term filled with potential warmth, yet it felt cold, detached—a name that spoke of a man he had barely met.

“You can speak to horses?” Drusus’s voice broke through the moment, tinged with disbelief.

“Neptune created them,” Percy replied, shrugging. “I guess I can understand them because of that. Technically, we’re siblings if you think about it.” Percy didn’t want to think about it at all. 

“I’d rather not,” his father said, his tone shifting to something more serious. “You should apologize to Scribonia for leaving dinner. She wanted for you to have a good meal before you left.”

Percy waved away the suggestion, turning his focus back to Troy. At least horses were the same in every time period.  “Why should I apologize to her?”

“She cares for you, Perseus,” his father insisted, a hint of frustration in his voice. “She just doesn’t know how to show it. She fears that if you don’t learn about the world, you’ll perish quickly. I happen to agree with her.”

“Thank you for the confidence,” Percy replied dryly, his sarcasm hanging in the air like the last echoes of night.

“You’ve always found comfort in horses,” his father continued, his expression softening. “You’ve found comfort in them more than your own family.”

“Well, they’re the only living things that don’t annoy me when I talk to them,” Percy shot back, and then regretted it. “I’m sorry, that was–”

“You may not be my son by blood,” his father said, voice earnest, “but I think of you all the same. I cannot lose you to the tricks of men.” Or gods, Percy thought but chose not to voice. “Marcus Antonius is not a friend to you, and he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if he found out who you were.  You, Perseus, are not of mortal blood. You are the son of Neptune, and that brings you both great danger and great power. There are fewer things between the heavens and the earth that are as close to the gods as you are, my dear son. Marcus, and Caesar are afraid of that power, and would hope to squash it before you can learn to control it.”

“The gods…” Percy said. Sometimes he did forget that he was literally half god. He felt more mortal than godlike most of the time. In this century he wondered what his father was like, or if he could even call him that since he technically hadn’t even been born yet. “Have you ever met one? I mean, my father—”

The man smiled at him sympathetically. “I only met him once and I didn’t not realize who he was at the time. I thought he was a simple fisherman in town who had somehow fascinated my sister. If I had known…But, you have his eyes. You have the same recklessness and lack of restraint. It's a wonder no one has figured out who you are yet solely because of your similarities.”

“And my mother? What was she like?”

“A goddess among mortals. It’s no wonder she turned the head of a god. She was kind and good, and fierce. She hated Scribonia and always used to put her in her place,” he laughed, looking off in the distance as if he was thinking of some long lost and distant memory. “Unfortunately, that fierceness, well, it got her killed in the end.” Percy’s heart ached for a woman he had never even met before. She wasn’t even his mother, not really. But some part of the story reminded him of his mother Sally and her bravery. 

“It does no one any good to get lost in the past,” Drusus said. “Stay in the present. Focus on staying alive.”

“Hard to do when Caesar would kill me for even existing,” he said. “Marcus would kill me just as easily if he knew who and what I am.”

“It’s the debt you pay for the existing,” he said, and Percy froze at the words. He heard that before from Poseidon that the troubles in his life only happened because he had some debt to pay. He’d never asked for any of this? So why did he have to pay the price? 

“I’m not sure I should be the one to pay the debt,” Percy said. 

"I have something for you," the man murmured, his voice soft but laden with gravity. "Although, I hope you never have to use it."

Percy raised an eyebrow, curiosity immediately piqued. The man’s hands moved deliberately, retrieving something from beneath his cloak—a thick velvet bag, the deep maroon hue almost rich enough to swallow the light around it. He held it carefully, almost reverently, before passing it over to Percy with a solemn expression.

As soon as Percy took the bag, he was taken aback by its weight. It felt dense, far heavier than anything it should have been, as if it held secrets within that were not immediately visible. What could be inside? His fingers itched with curiosity, but he resisted the urge to tear it open immediately.

Gently, he untied the drawstrings and opened the bag. Inside, nestled in the soft folds of the velvet, was a small, elegantly crafted dagger. Percy’s breath caught in his throat. The weapon seemed to hum with an energy of its own. The blade gleamed with a cool, silvery light, the metal unlike anything he had ever seen. Celestial bronze, he realized almost immediately—his hands instinctively tightening around the hilt.

The craftsmanship was stunning. Intricate, swirling patterns were etched along the blade, delicate as vines, wrapping from the base to the sharp tip, where the light caught in a way that made it shimmer like liquid metal. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, providing a stark contrast to the gleam of the blade. Along with the dagger, there was a black leather belt, sturdy and well-made, meant to hold the weapon at his side.

The moment Percy grasped it fully, a strange, bittersweet pang gripped his chest. He missed Riptide, more than he cared to admit. But this… this was something different. Something personal.

"It’s celestial bronze," the man explained, as if reading Percy’s thoughts. "The only thing, next to imperial gold, that can truly kill a monster. Try not to lose it."

"I'll try," Percy said, his voice tight with awe. His hand brushed over the hilt, feeling the subtle hum of power that seemed to emanate from the weapon. It was heavier than he expected, but it felt like it was meant for him in some strange way.

The man’s gaze was distant for a moment, as if weighing the silence between them. Then, with a quiet reverence, he added, "Its name is Οργή Ηρώων."

Percy frowned slightly, the unfamiliar Greek words tumbling through his mind before clicking into place. "Heroes’ Wrath," he translated, his eyes still locked on the blade, entranced by the way it caught the light and shimmered with a cold, almost lethal beauty. The name sounded ominous, but it suited the weapon.

A heavy silence settled over them, broken only by the distant sound of wind stirring through the trees. The man sighed softly, glancing up at the sky. "The sun is rising," he murmured, his voice growing sharper with urgency. "We should say our goodbyes before Marcus grows impatient. Be quick about it."

Percy didn’t move for a moment, still feeling the weight of the dagger in his hand and the strange responsibility that came with it. But the man’s voice was a reminder—time was running short.

"Put that knife away," the man added, his tone gentle but firm. Percy slipped the dagger into the sheath at his side, the cool metal resting against his hip. As he did, he cast one last look at it—Heroes’ Wrath, a weapon forged for gods, given to a demigod. 

Percy nodded and attached the knife to his belt, securing it firmly in place. The man walked him back inside the house where Livia and Scribonia were already waiting for them in the atrium. It looks like they had only just woken up, exhaustion still weighing them down. Cassia was there too although she looked much more awake than the rest of the family. 

Percy didn’t know them well, and didn't think of them as family. But, some part of him already missed the idea of staying with them. At least with them he wouldn’t have to worry about being killed. They cared for him and at least here he would have been safe. 

“Try not to die,” Livia said, with a small smile. She walked towards him and gave him a hug. “I don’t want to lose my only brother.”

“Me?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “I could never die.”

He separated from Livia and turned to Scribonia who was nothing if not formal. “Keep your wits about you, son,” Scribonia said with some tenderness that surprised him. “Marcus isn’t stupid. He’ll know there is something different about you if you aren’t careful, Perseus.”

“I know,” Percy said. “I promise not to do anything rash or stupid.” 

“Good,” she said, with a small nod and a pat on the shoulder. “The world would be worse without you.” Maybe Scribonia wasn’t too terrible after all. 

Marcus watched the whole thing with rapt attention, looking slightly amused at the group. He leaned against a large column, his arms crossed over his chest, like he was beyond bored and couldn’t even be bothered to be there. “Are you ready, Perseus?”

Percy nodded, tearing himself away from the family. “I guess.”

“Good,” he said. “Then let's get going. We are losing daylight.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Five 

"Advice in old age is foolish."

Marcus Tullius Cicero

Thank the gods Percy had ridden Blackjack before, but nothing could have prepared him for the relentless hours in the saddle. The forest around them was a verdant maze, thick with towering trees that loomed like ancient sentinels. Sunlight filtered through the emerald canopy, casting dappled shadows on the soft, loamy ground. Each hoofbeat of the horse – Troy - sank into the rich earth, the scent of damp moss and pine filling Percy’s nostrils. His legs ached, his arms ached, his head ached—he didn’t think there was a single part of him that didn’t hurt.

He didn’t know what he thought of Marcus Antonius. He only had vague memories from history class about the man and his doomed relationship with Cleopatra. The man he met now hardly seemed like a romantic. He was cold, smart, impulsive, deadly and Percy knew it would be a bad idea to get on the wrong side of him. He could be a valuable ally, but also a dangerous enemy. 

“Do you ever tell me where you learned to wield a sword like that?” the man said, his voice a curious blend of admiration and challenge. The air around them was alive with the chirps of hidden birds and the rustle of unseen creatures scuttling through the underbrush. A light breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the earthy scent of wet soil, freshly disturbed by the previous night’s rain.

They’d been traveling in the woods for what felt like years even though it had only been a few hours. The training camp he'd come to learn was about a four-day journey on horseback and Percy was dreading every second of it. 

“I always wanted to be a soldier,” Percy lied, his voice steady despite the storm of exhaustion inside him. “I hate politics. I’ve never understood the art of it, or really wanted to understand it.” The sun slipped behind a thick cloud, casting a cooler shadow over them, and Percy felt a shiver trace his spine.

“Perhaps you should be a politician. That’s still not an answer,” the man said, smirking slightly, his tone playful yet probing. “It’s like you purposely don’t want to tell me where you learned.”

“I—” Percy’s mind raced for an excuse. It wasn’t like Percy could tell him that he’d traveled in time and learned to wield a sword because he was the son of Poseidon.  “I learned from the gladiators.”

“Oh, did you?” Marcus’s interest piqued, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness of the forest.

“We had a slave— Luke, ” Percy continued, feeling the weight of the lie settle heavily in his chest. “I used to get picked on, and he would watch the whole thing. One day he threw a sword at me and told me a good man needed to learn how to fight his own battles. The man was—well, he taught me everything I know.” The words felt like hot coals on his tongue, even though there was some truth to them. Luke had been a mentor once, before he had betrayed him and then started a war. 

“He must have taken a liking to you,” the man mused, his tone skeptical. “I’ve never met a man a slave would willingly teach. They usually try to hide the fact that they can kill you.”

“Well,” Percy scoffed, “if you treat them like the human beings they are and not like property, you’ll find they can be quite pleasant.” The forest around them seemed to listen, the leaves quaking slightly in response to his words.

He could practically feel Marcus roll his eyes, even though he couldn’t see him. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who actually believe it’s wrong to have slaves? That’s just the way the world works, Perseus. Some people are born to serve. There’s nothing wrong with that.” The weight of the man’s words hung in the air like the thick humidity of impending rain.

“Then maybe we should change the world,” Percy shot back, a fire igniting within him. He squeezed his legs on the side of the horse, urging Troy into a canter, the horse's powerful stride propelling them forward through the lush, green world. The forest blurred around them, but the distant calls of birds and the rustling leaves remained, a reminder of the beauty that thrived in their midst, even amidst the shadows of their conversation.

“Perseus wait,” the man said, cantering next to him. “I am sorry. I did not think it was something that was so close to your heart. You believe in a democracy, don’t you?” Percy said nothing. He knew it would be dangerous to admit something like that to a man who was one of Caesar's closest supporters. This man didn’t believe in democracy. He believed in an empire. The empire. 

‘I believe,” Percy clarified. “That every person be it slave or citizen of Rome has a brain, and they have hearts. They have families who care for them–daughters, sons and wives. They deserve to be treated with respect for what they do just like any other Roman.”

“They are slaves,” Marcus said. “Yes, they have brains, but it is their job. They should be treated better perhaps, but they are nothing but property.”

“Tell me, Marcus,” Percy said cautiously, aware of the delicate nature of the topic. “Who can own a human soul? It seems to me that such a right belongs only to the gods, and we are mortals.” Well, Percy was half mortal, but he wasn’t about to mention that. “To assume that role would feel profoundly disrespectful, and I would prefer not to invoke the ire of the gods.” More specifically he really didn’t want to piss off Mr.D.

“We are gods,” Marcus said. “Because we say we are.”

“Maybe you should be in politics,” Percy laughed. “You have a way with words.”

“Maybe, I should,” the man said. Marcus stopped in his tracks pulling the horse to a stop. His eyes were wide, and Percy could tell something was wrong. 

“What wr—” The man put a hand up, cutting Percy off.

“Is that?” Marcus said. “A wolf? I didn’t think there were any in the parts.”

Percy froze, every muscle tense, as a cold wave of recognition rippled through him. The gleaming silver eyes that stared back from the edge of the clearing were far too familiar, as was the sleek, dark fur rippling like shadows under moonlight.  There was no mistaking her.

Lupa.

“We should turn back,” Percy said, his voice barely more than a whisper. His mind raced with the memories of waking up in the wolf house with no idea who he was. Lupa had been dangerous then, cold and sinister, ready to kill him if he showed a single spec of weakness. 

“Are you scared of a little wolf, Drusus?” Marc laughed and tightened his hold on his reigns... “I’ve seen you run into a fight without a thought, but a wolf scares you?”

“She doesn’t scare me,” Percy said. He wasn’t sure there was much that really scared him anymore.  “She is Lupa, mother of Rome. And she deserves our respect.”

“Lupa?” Marc scoffed, the name rolling off his tongue like a joke. “You jest? I didn’t take you for one to believe in old wives’ tales. There are no gods, no monsters that roam this earth. Just the fantasies of frightened men.”

Percy’s gaze remained locked on the wolf, who hadn’t moved—her presence more than physical, as if the very air bowed to her. “People might think you’re a myth one day, Marcus. What are myths but history we’ve forgotten?”

Percy was shocked when the creature nodded at Percy and bowed her head, her eyes never once leaving him. Percy bowed back, giving the wolf a small smile. He was sure this wouldn’t be the last time he would see her. 

And as the night seemed to thicken around them, Marcus, oblivious to the weight of the moment, stood frozen. He too, it seemed, would soon be forced to believe. Myths were real, gods were real, and Percy's existence was the proof of that. 

Lupa stayed that way for a long moment, and Percy could only nod back at her. Could she sense who he was? Did she have any idea, or was she merely granting them a blessing on their journey?

Percy could only watch as Lupa rose and left the two of them, leaving the air thicker than before. 

“We best be going,” Marcus said, completely ignoring what had just happened. “I don't like the idea of staying here for long. We have a long journey ahead of us and we are losing daylight.”

Percy didn’t need to be told twice and tightened his legs around the horse and spurring him on. Marcus followed closely behind him, and they fell into a silence, that only made Percy’s mind race more. 

What was Lupa doing there? He honestly hadn’t thought of the wolf in months, but that didn’t mean he would ever forget his time with her.  Did she know who he was? Could she sense the sea in his veins? Or maybe, she sensed something else. Did she know he didn't belong?

They continued riding for hours, slipping into a comfortable silence. When the sun set, casting dancing lights across the sky, they made camp for the night. Marcus lit a fire, and for once in his life, and Percy soaked in the much-needed warmth. He missed heated blankets, indoor heating, and restrooms where the toilets flushed. 

They had a cold dinner of cheeses and bread, and his stomach practically sang when he ate. It wasn’t much but the cheese was soft and salty, the bread was better than any baguette he’d ever gotten in any bakery, and he rested his aching legs. 

“You’re quiet,” Marcus observed, his voice low, but there was an edge to it, like he was skirting around what he actually wanted to say. 

Percy barely shifted, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames, as though they held something just out of reach. “I’m tired,” he murmured, his tone casual, but his posture too tense to sell the lie. "I'm not used to travel like this."

Marcus didn’t miss a beat. He prodded at the fire with deliberate slowness, the crackle of wood filling the silence. “You confuse me,” he said, his eyes not leaving the embers. “I’ve met a lot of people throughout my life. But, I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

Percy quirked an eyebrow, though he didn’t look up, still studying the fire like it might offer him some escape. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied, his voice steady. “I’m an open book.”

Marcus snorted, a short, humorless sound. “A book?” His tone dripped with skepticism. “What’s a book?”

Shit. Percy cursed inwardly. Books didn’t exist here. “It’s like a fancy scroll,” he said, keeping his voice as nonchalant as possible.

Marcus gave a curt nod, his gaze dark and calculating. “Right,” he said, the word dragged out just enough to suggest doubt. “You know, I’ve spoken with the servants about you. They tell me you’re a skirt-chaser, a man who tumbles with the slaves and beats those beneath him. A man of appetites.”

Percy’s stomach tightened. He forced a shrug, but the firelight flickered across his face, betraying a hint of unease. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

“No one changes that much,” Marcus countered, his voice dropping to a near growl, a warning. He stood then, towering over Percy, the shadow of a war-hardened leader. He reminded Percy almost of Zeus in a way. He had the same confidence, and the same danger sitting beneath the surface.  “Listen to me and listen carefully. If you’re lying to me, if this is some clever ploy in a game I don’t see yet, I will crush you. I don’t care how charming or cunning you think you are. I’m not a steppingstone on your way up the ladder.”

Percy could feel the weight of Marcus’s gaze, heavy and unyielding, like the man was sizing him up for battle. He forced himself to meet the general’s eyes, refusing to flinch. “I’m not lying to you, Marcus,” he said, each word precise. “I’m impulsive, sure. I’ve got a problem with authority, no doubt. But I don’t beat slaves. And I don’t lie.”

Marcus held his stare, the air between them thick with tension. The fire crackled louder, but it was the quiet threat in Marcus’s eyes that left Percy’s heart pounding.

“Good,” he said. “I hope for your sake you are telling the truth. I like you, Percy,” he said the nickname like he was pushing a knife through his flesh. “If I am to trust you with my daughter. I need to know you are respectable. Believe it or not, but I don’t want her married to someone cruel. It doesn't matter who your father is, or that you saved my life. If you raise a hand to her, I'll kill you myself. 

“Of course,” Percy said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less."

“Good,” he said, looking vaguely pleased. “Get some rest. You’ll need it for the journey ahead.”

Percy didn’t sleep that night–too busy worrying about how he was going to survive in a world where threats weren’t empty, and friends could easily stab you behind your back. He wasn't made for this. He was made for lazy bonfires at camp, long swims, and the occasional sassy remark to a god. 

When they woke the next day, Percy was sore from the hard ground, but he pretended not to care and got right back on the horse. They chatted about the weather, about their childhoods–superficial things that never crossed into the line of familiarity. 

Percy hated it. 

The next day was the same, grueling and exhausting, but Percy didn’t complain. His legs were getting used to the constant pain, and so was his head. The chatter wasn’t as terrible and boring, and oddly enough actually did make the time go faster.

 But the third day was the worst. Percy had come to the absolute terrifying conclusion that he wasn’t going home—this was real. His lies would only get more elaborate, and he’d have to keep it up for the rest of his life. He'd probably end up marrying Marcus's daughter, trapped in a loveless marriage where she would end up resenting him for as long as they both do live. 

“Perseus, wait,” Marcus hissed, snapping him out of reverie. He stopped the horse, he hadn’t even realized he hadn’t been paying attention. Marcus’s voice was barely audible yet sharp as a blade. His hand shot up in a silent command, fingers stiff with urgency. His eyes narrowed to slits, scanning the path ahead, while his other hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white with tension. His whole body was coiled, ready to spring.

Percy squinted, shielding his eyes from the blinding shafts of sunlight filtering through the dense canopy. In the distance, the blurry outline of a camp flickered between the trees, but something about it made his skin crawl. There was no movement. No flicker of a fire. No murmurs of conversation or the clinking of gear. Only an unnatural, oppressive silence. The kind of silence that makes you feel watched.

A cold shiver lanced through Percy’s spine. His gut twisted with the unsettling sensation that they weren’t alone. Something was lurking.

Marcus dismounted in one fluid motion, barely a whisper of sound as his boots hit the soft forest floor. His eyes never left the clearing. He tied his horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch, each movement deliberate and methodical. Percy followed suit, his heart pounding in his ears as he looped the reins around the nearest tree. The forest seemed to be holding its breath, and each creak of leather or rustle of leaves felt amplified, echoing in the eerie quiet. Every step felt like a risk.

He pulled a small knife from its sheath, the weight of it all wrong in his hand. His fingers tightened around the hilt, wishing more than anything for the familiar comfort of Riptide.

“Be ready for anything,” Marcus whispered, his voice grim. His sword slid from its scabbard with a soft hiss, the cold steel gleaming in the slanted light. Percy nodded, his throat dry. His heart thudded in his chest, a dull roar that made it hard to focus.

They crept through the underbrush, every footstep measured, every rustle of leaves a threat. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating. Percy had to remind himself to breathe, his lungs constricting as the feeling of imminent danger grew with each step.

When they finally broke through the trees and into the clearing, Percy’s stomach lurched. The camp was deserted, but the stench hit him like a wave—an overwhelming, rancid odor of decay and blood. He gagged, fighting to keep the bile from rising as his eyes darted to the source of the smell.

A body was slumped against a tree, or what remained of it. It looked like it had been torn apart—ripped open by something savage, its flesh shredded and mangled as though a wild animal had feasted on it. It looked like the poor man had gone to war with a velociraptor and lost.

“What happened here?” Percy breathed, his voice barely a whisper. A cold sweat slicked his skin as his gaze fell to the ground, to the deep, jagged claw marks that marred the earth. They were fresh, still raw. “These are claw marks.”

“Maybe a wolf?” Marcus offered, though there was no conviction in his voice. His face was pale as he took in the carnage. “Some kind of wild animal? The man must’ve been taken by surprise.”

“No…” Percy’s voice was a soft denial, his stomach knotting as he traced the marks with his eyes. They weren’t random; they were deliberate, gouged into the earth and trees with terrifying force. He knelt, running his fingers lightly over the grooves. They were too large, too precise for any normal predator. “Do you see this?”

Marcus stepped closer, eyes narrowing as something on a nearby tree caught his attention. His expression twisted in disgust. “Gods,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he stared at the slick, golden liquid seeping down the bark. “What is that?”

Percy’s heart skipped a beat. He knew exactly what it was—ichor, the blood of the gods. But he couldn’t tell Marcus that. Mortals weren’t meant to know such things. He wasn’t sure how he would be able to deny his parentage if he started spewing knowledge he shouldn’t have known. “It’s nothing,” he lied, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Just tree sap.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but Marcus didn’t question it. Still, Percy could feel his pulse racing. He needed to redirect the conversation. Fast. “It was probably just a wolf attack. “

Marcus grunted, though his eyes lingered on the golden ichor with unease. “You’re probably right. Those poor bastards. They never stood a chance."

But Percy’s stomach churned with a different kind of fear. He recognized these marks, these deep, lethal slashes. They weren’t from a wolf. They were far too precise, too vicious, for any normal beast.

They were talon marks. The first time he saw marks like this he was twelve years old, and he almost had his head lopped off by a fury.

"What is it?" Marcus said, his eyes following him. "You look live you've seen a ghost."

Maybe he had seen a ghost, but all Percy knew was they needed to get out of these woods as soon as possible.  If there were furies hiding somewhere, he wouldn't be able to fight them without revealing to Marcus who he really was. He really wasn't in the mood to get his head chopped off by Julius Caesar.

"How far are we away from the camp?" Percy asked. 

"Nearly two days," he said. "If we make good time, we can be in warm beds the day after tomorrow."

"Good," Percy said. "Let's get out of these fucking woods."

Chapter Text

The gates of the garrison opened up, and the first thing that hit Percy was the smell, or the lack of smell to be specific. He had been expecting a diseased camp filled with men who didn’t shower, like they showed in the movies. Instead, he was shocked to find a clean camp, probably cleaner than most streets in New York. 

Finally, after what felt like years, Percy had arrived at the camp and it wasn’t at all what he had expected. 

The soldiers were all well kept, and they stood at perfect attention as the gates opened up. Marcus rode ahead with his head held high, not even bothering to look at the soldiers he past. He stopped the horse in front of the group, stepping off of it with grace, and handing the reins to what looked like a stable boy. 

Percy did the same, trying to copy the man's every movement, so he looked like he belonged there and wasn’t some weirdo from the twenty-first century. 

“Attention!” Marcus’s voice rang out, cutting through the thick, humid air of the military camp, and Immediately all eyes were on him. All at once, Percy realized he was no longer in the presence of Marc Antony who he had laughed with on the journey to camp. No, this was Marcus Antonius, General of the Roman legion. Only now could he understand exactly why historians had been fascinated by the man for generations. He looked like a king, and he acted that way too.

Marcus nodded to Percy, and all at once, the eyes of the legion were on him. “This is Perseus Gaius Drusus, and he’ll be joining the fifth Cohort as your sixth Centurion.” Percy stood at the forefront, feeling the weight of a hundred curious gazes upon him. A wave of groans and snickers swept through the ranks, a sound that twisted his stomach into knots. This was going to be challenging—probably even worse than his first days in New Rome, a city that had felt like a fever dream. 

Marcus gestured for Percy to join the line of men, and gave him a small nod. It hardly felt reassuring. 

“Perseus,” one of the soldiers called out from behind him, his tone dripping with disdain. “What kind of fucking name is that? Are you greek? I didn’t think they let any Greeks join the legion.”

“You're one to speak,” another man said with blonde hair and curls that reminded him oddly of Jason. “What kind of name is Octavian?”

“Fuck you, Octavian,” he told the blonde–Octavian- he guessed was his name. He guessed there was always going to be an Octavian he didn’t like somewhere. 

Marcus’s voice out again, cutting through the murmur of the assembled soldiers. “We will be leaving Rome in three months!” he declared, his tone both commanding and fervent. A hush fell over the training yard, the weight of his words settling heavily on the men gathered before him.

His eyes, cold and unyielding, swept across the sea of faces—young warriors eager for glory, seasoned veterans hardened by the scars of past battles. “I expect all of you to train relentlessly for the glory of Rome,” he continued, each word deliberate and sharp. “Failure is not an option. Mediocrity will not be tolerated.”

Percy felt like he’d just been handed a death sentence,

With that, Marcus moved through the center of the crowd disappearing into a nearby building, leaving Percy feeling completely out of his element. 

He heard a snicker behind him. “A centurion? Did your pater pay for such a high position? You’ll be dead before our very first battle. Does Marcus really expect us to listen to you? You’ll get us killed with your lack of experience.”

“Octavian–”

“I’m just saying what we are all thinking,” the man said. “It isn’t right. You shouldn't buy your way into the legion.”

“You’re one to talk,” another boy said with dark hair. “Did you forget your uncle is Julius Caesar?”

“I didn’t use my uncle to get into the legion, Silas,” he said. “You know that.” The boy seemed genuinely hurt that Silas would even consider the fact. It seemed Octavian had worked hard to get to where he was, and he hated people who didn’t work for where they were. Percy took a mental note of the boy, it might be important to have someone like him on his side.

“Try not to listen to anything Octavian says,” Thaddeus said to him, ignoring the glare from the man. “He does this to all new members of the legion. He hates the idea of anyone tarnishing or bringing the tenth a bad name.  You're higher in rank than him even though you just got here. So, you should have no problem putting him in his place if he gives you any trouble.”

“I’d put him in his place regardless of rank,” Percy replied, a spark of confidence igniting within him.

“I can see why General Antonius likes you,” Thaddeus grinned, a glimmer of camaraderie breaking through the tension. “He appreciates those who aren’t afraid to stand their ground. Just remember—don’t ever break his rules, or he’ll break you. Understood?”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Percy said, forcing a smile. “...I think.”

“Just keep your head down and don’t stand out too much,” Thaddeus continued, his demeanor shifting to serious. “You’ll be fine. The fifth cohort looks out for its own and the men in your command are young but some of our finest. Even Thadeaus would probably take a sword for you, despite his attitude. He’s just hesitant to let people in because new recruits don’t tend to last long.”

Wait. The men under his command? Marcus put him in a command position? What the hell?

“Right,” he said. “I get it. No use getting to know the new guys if they're just going to die in a week. Would you mind introducing me to my men? I honestly have no idea where they are.”

“Of course,” Thaddeus said. “You’ve already met them.”

“Please don't say—”

Thaddeus laughed. “Octavian is your Opito–your second in command. Don’t worry he’s a good man despite the mouth on him. I'm the first centurion in charge of the first cohort. Of course you know General Antonius is our Legatus. But, Caesar is the one in charge of the 10th legion. Not that you’ll see him all that often.”

Percy's mind was spinning with all the random roman words that were thrown at him. He knew he wasn’t going to remember any of them. Where was Annabeth when he needed her. Oh right, she was at Camp without him. 

“Don’t worry,” the man said. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden hues over the training camp as Perseus and Thaddeus walked along the dusty path. The air was thick with the earthy scent of sweat and leather, mingled with the sharp tang of metal from the weapons being sharpened nearby. Stone and timber structures loomed around them, their weathered surfaces telling tales of countless soldiers who had trained and bled in these very grounds.

“I have a good feeling about you, Perseus,” Thaddeus said, clapping him on the shoulder with a force that felt reassuring yet heavy. “Can you handle a sword? You’d have to be for the General to make you a centurion.”

Percy could feel the weight of Thaddeus's expectation, but little did he know, Percy was among the finest swordsmen of his time. This was a different era, a world where skill could be overshadowed by lineage. “Yeah,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “I can handle one.”

“We have drills in an hour,” Thaddeus said, gesturing toward a cluster of rustic barracks that huddled together like sentinels. “Claim a bunk and then meet us in the training yard. I’m sure everyone is dying to see what makes you so special.”

“I’m really not that special,” Percy said, trying to downplay the situation.

Thaddeus raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of intrigue. “General Marcus Antonius brought you here himself. That’s never happened before. People are already asking questions about you. Politically, you are one of the highest people here. You have the General’s ear, and the General is an ally of Caesar. Most people are going to try to be your friend, and the others are hoping for your downfall.”

Percy shrugged, dismissing the flattery. “It’s only because I’m engaged to his daughter.”

Thaddeus stopped abruptly, his face draining of color as he stared at Percy. “You’re engaged to Adriana?”

Percy felt an icy chill run down his spine; it was as if he had stepped into a frigid pool. “Yeah?”

“It’s nothing,” Thaddeus muttered, resuming his pace, though his demeanor had shifted. The friendly air that had surrounded him moments before had hardened into something unwelcoming. Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that he should never have mentioned Adriana. 

He had never met Adriana, so it should not have mattered to him. Yet, the way Thaddeus tensed suggested a deeper connection, a personal stake in the situation that made Percy uneasy. “Have you met her?” he ventured, curiosity gnawing at him.

If possible, Thaddeus grew even more rigid, his jaw clenched tight. “Yeah, I’ve met her. She’s—well, you’ll just have to wait and see for yourself. I’m sure she’s not too happy her pater engaged her to someone she’s never met.”

“I can understand that,” Percy replied, feeling a knot of frustration tighten in his chest. “Marcus didn’t give me much of a choice in the matter.”

“General Antonius,” Thaddeus corrected sharply. “I don’t know how you met the man or how close you are, but he’s General Antonius to you and to everyone else here.”

Thaddeus’s tone shifted, infused with a bitterness that sent a shiver through Percy. It was as if the very air had thickened, pressing down on him.

“Look,” Percy said, trying to inject some levity into the tense atmosphere. “I only met him a few days ago. I can't exactly say we're best friends forever, braiding each other's hair and singing kumbaya around a campfire.”

“What does that—Then what exactly happened?” Thaddeus demanded, his eyes narrowing. “I know who you are—everyone does. You're the son of a Praetor—a politician. Is your pater vying to have you close to the emperor? Does he think being close to Marc Antony will bring you favor from Caesar? General Marcus is dangerous to anyone and everyone. It does more harm than good to be his friend. You should stay as far away from him as you can.”

“Drusus doesn’t want me anywhere near the General,” Percy shot back. “If it was up to him, I would be apprenticed to Nero, and that would be the end of it. I didn’t choose this, and I don’t want it. I don’t know what your business is with Adriana, but leave me out of it. Don’t be angry at me; I’m not the one who chose to marry her.”

Thaddeus froze, his eyes widening. “My buis—What does General Antonius find so interesting about you?”

Percy smirked, the tension momentarily forgotten. “I guess you’ll have to find out, won’t you?” He turned on his heel and marched ahead, the barracks coming into view. Oddly enough, the barracks were an exact replica of New Rome so it wasn’t hard to figure out where to go. They were sturdy but lacked the elegance of New Rome, built from rough-hewn stone and splintered wood. The air inside was stale, infused with the musk of sweat-soaked fabric and the faintest hint of mildew. There was no running water, no luxury, just a row of simple bunks that lined the walls, each one a reminder of the harsh reality of life in the legion.

He placed his bag on the only empty bunk.. At the end of the bunk was a metal chest and when he opened it, he found the uniform of a roman centurion. The smooth leather was familiar to him, not unlike the armor he had worn before. Quickly, he slipped it on securing every strap where it needed to be. 

He wished he had a mirror. He was sure he looked nothing like the stupid new york kid he used to be. 

Percy  practically jumped out of his skin when he heard a voice behind him. “Your command, Centurion Drusus?”

He turned to see Octavian, his opito or whatever that was behind him. “Take me to the men,” he said, trying not to let his fear slip in. If he wanted to succeed here, he would have to be every inch the centurion the roman legion thought he was. There wasn’t any room for mistakes. 

The man nodded at him, and led Percy out of the barracks where a group of about 80 men were waiting for him lined up with not a single foot out of place. Most  of the men looked older than him, and Percy could tell they weren't pleased to be taking orders from a politician's son who was younger than him. 

Percy just stood there for a moment, not entirely sure what to say. They looked at him with expectant eyes like he should say something but all Percy could think about was how hungry he was. 

“What's your name, Legionnaire?” he asked, standing in front of a ginger who was taller than him. 

“Lucius Pompeius,” the man said, his face forward and voice loud like Percy was a drill sergeant. 

“And you?” he asked the boy next to him, who didn’t look a day over sixteen. He had a mess of dark curly hair that reminded him of Nico when he was having a bad hair day. 

“Silas Aeneaus,” the boy said, with a high pitched voice. 

“Well met,” he said. He turned to address the rest of the group, trying to hide the fear in his voice. He spoke loudly, and put on a mask of cool indifference. Power was a currency in Rome, and he couldn’t let these men think he was weak. “My name is Perseus Gaius Drusus and over the next few days. I will be observing all of you to see your skills and talents during training.  I look forward to serving with all of you for the glory of rome.”

Percy took a deep breath and walked away from them, hoping more than anything he hadn’t made too terrible of an impression on the men. 

“You won’t make it a week here,” he heard a voice say. He turned to see Octavian, looking at him calmly like he hadn’t just talked down to an officer. “I bet you’ll trip on your own sword before the week is over.”

“Octavian was it?” he asked the man. “What is your full name?”

“Gaius Octavious” he said, and for a small moment he panicked. Wasn’t Gaius Octavious the birth name of Augustus Caesar? Oh he was fucked. Already, he probably made an enemy of the future emperor of Rome

“Gaius Octavious,  you’ve just earned yourself latrine duty,” he smirked. “Disrespect is not something I will ever tolerate. Do you understand?” Percy tried not to panic. He just gave the future emperor of Rome latrine duty. “If you have something to say to me or have issues on how I am running this cohort, you pull me aside. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ser,” the boy said, his face turning a vibrant shade of red 

“Good,” he turned to the rest of the group. “Does anyone else have the urge to tell me I’ll fail before I’ve even started? I’m sure Octavian would enjoy the company.” The group was silent, but he could feel Thaddeus fuming next to him. “No? But you all had so much to say earlier.”

He could see the realization on all of their faces that Percy had heard their words about him earlier. It wasn’t how Percy wanted to start his relationship with them, but they needed to know he would not handle bullying in the ranks. There were few things Percy disliked more than a bully. 

“Let's get started,” he commanded, although not unkindly. “I’m interested to see where all your individual skills lie.”

“Individual?” he heard a voice say next to him–Silas. “We won’t be going through formations, Ser?”

“No,” Percy said, hoping he hadn’t already fucked up. “We’ll be sparring. There may be a day when you won’t have the legion to help you. Swordsmanship is a skill of mine, and I would like to see where you are all at before we get started.”

“Of course, Ser,” he said, lowering his head.

The group of men split themselves into groups of 2 albeit with quite the looks of confusion. He had forgotten that Rome took more focus on the skill as a legion as a whole and less on the individual. If he had any say in it, his men would be some of the best fighters anyone had ever seen. 

He walked through the groups, correcting as he went, and helping wherever he could.  “You can use the edge of your sword,” he corrected a man. “You can do more than just jab.”

Some of the men seemed to have never heard corrections like that, and just furrowed their brows. Graecus heard as he moved, but Percy ignored it. 

“Here,” Thaddeus said, giving him a sword. “I noticed you don’t have one yet. Not sure why they put you in charge when you don’t even have a good sword.”

Percy took it gingerly from him, swinging it back and forth in his hands to test it. It was probably the worst, most unbalanced sword he’d ever held in his entire life. He’d have to make use of it until he could get something that wasn’t quite so terrible. 

“Thank you,” Percy said. “Is there an armory somewhere or a blacksmith?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“This has to be the most unbalanced sword I’ve ever held in my life,” he said. “I could probably make something better with my eyes closed, and the gods know I'm not exactly Hephaestus’s favorite.”

“It's a legion standard issue,” he said. “We all have them.”

“Well then it seems I’ll have to talk to the General to see if we can get us anything that won’t kill us from tetanus,’ he eyed a particular part which was growing rust. No amount of oil would be able to bring this sword back to its former glory. 

“Tetanus?” he asked. Oh right, did they not know about tetanus in this century yet?

Percy continued his walk around the group, and noticed that there were a few fair fighters. One of which was unfortunately Octavian. It seems you didn’t become Caesar without having some skills with a blade. 

“Good,” he commented, as he passed by. “Don’t use too much of your energy, or you’ll get exhausted too quickly.”

The man rolled his eyes, and so quickly that Percy barely had time to block, he slashed at him with his sword. He jumped back just in time, and could stare at the boy. 

“Octavian,” he asked, his voice laced with both confusion and a simmering anger. “What the hell are you doing?” The air between them crackled with tension, heavy and charged, as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training yard.

“Thaddeus was right about you,” Octavian shot back, his expression a mix of disdain and arrogance. He tightened his grip on the sword, the blade gleaming ominously in the fading light. “You aren’t fit to be a centurion of this legion. I don’t think you even deserve to be here.”

“Octavian,” he said, trying to maintain his composure despite the brewing storm. “Put the sword down. I wish you no harm.” He could see the muscles in Octavian’s jaw clenching, a telltale sign of the brewing conflict within.

“You have no experience and no skills,” Octavian continued, his voice rising, emboldened by his indignation. “Why should I follow you into battle? You’ll get us all killed.” The tension hung thick in the air, palpable and electric.

“Put the sword down, Legionnaire,” he repeated, his tone shifting from pleading to commanding. “Do not make me say it again.” The weight of authority filled his voice, but Octavian remained unmoved.

“Who the hell do you even think you are?” Octavian challenged, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve only gotten this position because of your father. I have no idea why General Antonius would ever think to put you in charge of eighty men. I don’t think you have the stomach for it.” The insult cut deeper than he anticipated, the truth of it resonating uncomfortably within him.

“Do you really think that, Legionnaire?” a voice interjected, cool and measured. The entire group turned to see Marcus Antonius standing nearby, arms crossed, his expression appearing almost bored as he regarded the confrontation. The setting sun cast a warm glow around him, but it did little to soften the sharpness of his gaze.

“I don’t put just anyone into positions of leadership,” Marcus continued, his voice steady and commanding. “You don’t need me to tell you of Perseus’s skills. Perhaps he should show you. Give Perseus your sword.”

“Sir?” Octavian blinked, disbelief etched on his face as he processed the order.

“I know for a fact that his sword is unbalanced because Centurion Thaddeus gave him a blunt training sword,” Marcus stated with a hint of amusement. “Give him your sword.”

“I don’t need a balanced sword to fight him, sir,” Percy interjected, a flicker of confidence igniting within him. If he were honest, he could defeat Octavian with his eyes closed.

“No, you don’t,” Marcus said, a smirk tugging at his lips, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But you will to fight me.”

Everyone was immediately silenced, hoping just maybe that the man was joking. They waited a second and then another…He wasn't. Percy had seen Marcus fight, he was something to be reckoned with. But, was he as good as Percy? Or was Percy as good as him?

Octavian reluctantly handed over the sword to the General who looked at it with a glimpse of amusement. “You need a better sword, Legionnaire. But, this will have to do.”

The man held it out for Percy and when he moved to grab it, he whispered in his ear. “Don’t fuck this up, Centurian. Or your men will never respect you. Give me everything you’ve got. We fight until first blood.”

Percy smiled at him. “Of course, General.”

Marcus made the first move, but Percy had been expecting it. 

Gods, he was strong—far stronger than Percy remembered. The moment their blades clashed, Percy felt the sheer power in Marcus's strikes. He attacked relentlessly, each swing of his sword flowing seamlessly into the next, forcing Percy onto the defensive. The blows came from every angle, a vicious whirlwind that allowed no time for thought. Percy’s muscle memory kicked in, deflecting each strike on instinct, but he could feel the weight of the unfamiliar sword dragging him down. His arms ached, his muscles screamed in protest. He wasn’t used to this body, this strength. The Perseus of this time must not have trained much, because it had only been a few seconds and his arms already felt like lead.

But he kept moving. Gritting his teeth, Percy slipped into the familiar forms of combat, relying on years of experience rather than raw power. His feet danced across the dirt, his sword cutting through the air in precise arcs. He could tell Marcus was sizing him up, watching his every move with calculating eyes.

“You’re good,” Marcus growled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That gladiator taught you well. But you are weak. Your arms can barely hold that sword.”

Percy barely ducked in time as Marcus’s blade whistled past his head, close enough that he could feel the air shift. “I’m just getting warmed up.” But so was Marcus. If Percy thought the man had been fast before, he was even faster now.

Marcus exploded into motion, faster than Percy had anticipated, each strike heavier and quicker than the last. Percy’s muscles burned as he blocked and parried. The man left him no time to move to fight back–too busy trying not to gst his head chopped off. 

He couldn’t keep this up. His stamina was fading, his body wasn’t responding the way it should. If he had his own strength, his own stamina, he could have outlasted Marcus, could have fought for hours if needed. But this body wasn’t his. The more he fought, the more sluggish his movements became.

Desperate, Percy changed tactics. Marcus was strong, but Percy was faster. He darted to the side, ducking under another wild swing and circling around Marcus, using his agility to stay out of reach. He lunged forward, aiming for the man’s exposed side, but Marcus twisted, deflecting the strike with ease.

“Do you give up?” Marcus taunted, his voice a low growl, eyes glinting with amusement.

“You haven’t drawn blood yet. This isn’t over.”

Marcus's smirk faded, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “So be it.”

Marcus charged again but this time Percy was ready. As Marcus swung down with brutal force, Percy sidestepped, twisting his body at the last second. His sword clanged against Marcus’s weapon, knocking it upward with a jarring force. Just like Luke had taught him all those years ago—strike the hand, twist the wrist, disarm. The movement was fluid, practiced, second nature.

Marcus’s sword flew from his grasp, spinning through the air in a silver arc before it clattered to the ground near Silas, who watched with wide eyes, frozen in place.

“You still haven’t drawn blood,” Marcus growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Percy wiped the sweat from his brow and grinned, his gaze drifting to the fresh cut on Marcus’s hand, where blood dripped steadily onto the dirt. “Are you sure about that?”

Marcus’s eyes flashed down to his hand where sure enough, a small pool of blood was beginning to form on his hand where he had hit the sword away from him. The man just smiled down at it, and lowered his sword, giving Percy a small nod. The soldiers were silent and the only noise that could be heard was his heavy breathing. He took a moment to collect himself, squaring his shoulder and focusing. 

“Does anyone else want to question my abilities?” Percy asked, towards the crowd. Even Marcus Antonius looked somewhat impressed by Percy’s show of abilities. Thaddeus had paled slightly, clearly not expecting him to have defeated the General. “Do I measure up in your eyes, Thaddeus?” he asked, stepping dangerously close to the man.

“You’ll never measure up, Graecus,” the man spat. 

Percy laughed, wiping Marcus’s blood from his sword, and letting it fly to the ground. “Next time you want to test my talents, do it yourself. Don’t send Octavian to do the dirty work for you, Centurion. You are a leader in this legion, put away your petty squabbles and start acting like it.”

With that, Percy sheathed his sword, wishing he was sheathing it in Thaddeus Lucius’s blood instead. He turned on his heels leaving the whispers that had already started.

He handed Octavian back his sword. “Thank you for your weapon,” he said. “It served me well.” The man took it hesitantly, looking at Percy in a completely different way that he couldn't quite describe. “You should be careful who you align yourself with Octavian.”The man nodded at him slightly, and Percy simply clapped his shoulder as he left him in his confusion. 

 “Thaddeus won’t forget that,” Marcus Antonius said as he left. 

Percy took another look back at Thaddeus, who was glaring at him, his hand tightening firmly on his sword.“Good. Neither will I.”

Chapter Text

Three months. For three long, grueling months, Percy had been enduring the torment of training alongside the hardened soldiers of Rome. He had thought he’d known hardship before—surviving war, fighting through Tartarus, even getting dumped by Annabeth because they were “going in different directions”—but nothing had prepared him for the living nightmare that was serving under Marcus Fucking Antonius .

The man was relentless, a slave driver through and through. Each morning, before the first hint of dawn, they were jolted awake for a brutal run, armor clanking around them like iron cages. Helmets slammed against skulls, swords weighed down their hips, and the scent of sweat hung thick in the cold air. It was physically exhausting, but it was the unyielding schedule that ate at Percy the most, like a slow and methodical torture.

And then there were the men—they despised him. Graceus. That was what they’d taken to calling him, hurling the name like an insult. And the worst part? Percy couldn’t even correct them; they were right. He was Greek, and every day he spent in Rome only sharpened the feeling of not belonging.

He hated rules, and he hated routine even more. Waking up at precisely the same time every day, doing the same repetitive drills, eating at the same hour—it felt like he was back in middle school, stuffed in a classroom with 30 ADHD kids and a retired actor-turned-teacher whose one claim to fame was a cameo on Law and Order twenty years ago. Only now, his “teacher” was the most notorious Roman general of all time, a figure who hovered over the camp like a brooding shadow.

In all those three months, Percy had exchanged fewer words with Marcus than he could count on one hand. Though once a familiar face on their journey to camp, Marcus had turned into a ghost—rarely seen outside his tent, emerging only for morning announcements and then vanishing just as quickly. Percy caught occasional glimpses of him, but they were distant, as if Marcus was some untouchable deity rather than a flesh-and-blood leader.

This morning was no different. The sun had yet to rise, yet Percy stood in formation, exhaustion already tugging at his eyelids as he tried not to fidget. Every second that passed made it harder to keep still, his hands itching for something to occupy them. Ancient Rome had many innovations, but if they didn’t have fidget spinners, they were seriously missing out.

“ Men! ” Marcus’s voice boomed across the muster field, sharp and commanding. Even now, Percy couldn’t fathom how the man managed to sound so energized before dawn. Percy, on the other hand, was ready to collapse where he stood.

“Today is War Games,” Marcus announced, his gaze a fiery challenge as it scanned the soldiers. “Fifth Cohort against the First. May fortune favor you.”

War Games. Percy felt a thrill of excitement, tempered by an edge of dread. His gaze swept over the faces around him—men who looked ready to fight him just as eagerly as they would any real enemy.

He’d never had any real issue in the past with earning the respect of those he fought with. Sure, Clarisse may have hated his guts but they respected each other for what each had gone through. These men knew nothing about him–they wouldn’t let themselves learn anything about him. To them, he was just another centurion who had been chosen because of his fathers political career and not because of his talent or skills. 

“Oh, great,” Percy muttered to himself. “War games. Because obviously, there’s no way that could possibly go wrong.”

He cringed inwardly, wishing he were back at Camp Half-Blood playing good old capture the flag. At least there, he had the vague reassurance that he wouldn’t get skewered by someone overly enthusiastic about 'practice. He missed those days when all he had to worry about was Clarisse smashing in his face for fun. 

“So.” Percy turned to Octavian, who stood stiffly beside him, his mouth a thin line, as if he’d rather be anywhere else than forced to explain anything to him. “What exactly happens during these…‘war games’?”

Octavian’s eyebrow arched with practiced disdain, his lips curling in a smirk that conveyed the usual ‘how are you still alive?’ vibe. The air between them grew thick as he sized Percy up, then finally said, “You don’t know.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. He let the question hang a beat longer, then leveled a cool stare at Octavian. “Just answer the question, Legionnaire. I’m assuming Thaddeus is going to try to use it to embarrass me in front of Marcus?”

Octavian’s face twitched at that, the barest hint of tension breaking his mask. For a moment, his gaze flickered past Percy as though debating just how much he should reveal, before snapping back. “You pick up things quickly,” he sneered. “Yes, he’s going to use it as an excuse to put you in your place. I’d watch your back during the games—or you might find yourself at the wrong end of a pilum.”

Percy’s laugh was short, humorless. He stepped closer, meeting Octavian’s icy gaze with unwavering intensity. “It’ll take more than someone like Thaddeus to scare me,” he said, voice low and steady. “I’m not easily scared.”

Octavian’s eyes hardened, a flicker of something dark settling there. “You should be,” he replied, his words as cold as steel, twisting the faintest smile as if savoring some cruel joke known only to him.

“I’m only scared of three things in this world, Octavion,” he told the man. ”And not even Marcus Antonius is on that list.” Three things he was desperately afraid of? Disappointing Sally Jackson, Giant knitted socks, and drowning. Everything else was just noise that faded into the background. 

“It’s General Antonius, Graecus,” Thaddeus corrected smugly, standing beside him. Percy fought back the overwhelming urge to punch him square in his flawless Roman jaw. Seriously, how did the guy manage to look like he stepped straight out of a cologne commercial while prepping for battle?

Instead, Percy flashed his most charming, innocent smile. “And it's Centurion Drusus to you.”

Thaddeus opened his mouth, probably to lecture him about Roman titles or etiquette, but Percy turned him out, focusing instead on Marcus. He was still at the front of the camp, talking to one of his soldiers who served directly under him. He looked up, and when he made eye contact with Percy gave him a small reassuring nod. 

It didn’t feel very reassuring. 

Percy’s cohort looked like they’d rather face a hydra than go through with this. Outwardly, they were impeccable: every leather strap was tightened, every plate of armor gleamed as if it had been buffed to a mirror finish, and their swords had a fresh coat of oil, the metal reflecting the faint morning light. But despite their pristine appearance, their faces told a different story—dark circles under their eyes, grim frowns, and stiff postures betrayed their exhaustion and nerves.

They had marched through the night, their footsteps muffled by the dense forest floor, until they reached the hill where the games would take place. Rising abruptly from the woods, the hill loomed large, its slopes rugged and forbidding. On one side, the land fell away into steep cliffs, where jagged rocks jutted out above a roaring river that churned far below, its thunder echoing through the valley. Dark purple flags fluttered in the breeze from makeshift guard posts—weathered remnants from previous games, their fabric frayed and stained from countless battles fought here. The entire scene felt both familiar and haunting, as if the land itself held onto memories of past skirmishes, waiting for the next to unfold.

They made camp–a small makeshift tent that doubled as a meeting room for planning their attack. Octavian, Silas, and himself were crammed around a small map written in latin (which he was shocked he knew how to read.) Small candles were their only light, and he had to strain his eyes to see anything. The air was heavy, stale, carrying a faint hint of something metallic—perhaps from rusting armor, or the blood and grime that clung stubbornly to each soldier’s gear. A damp chill lingered, gnawing at them as they crowded around the small, rickety table.

“So all we have to do is take the hill?” Percy asked, eyeing the target at the top. “And they’re just defending? Sounds easy enough.”

Octavian, standing at his side, shot him a sharp look, his eyebrow raised in incredulity. “Easy?” he repeated. “We’re supposed to break through seventy-five legionnaires from the first cohort, all of whom would be thrilled to break every bone in your body.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely not easy, ” Silas muttered from behind Percy, glancing warily up the hill where their enemy waited, shields and spears at the ready. “And their commander, Thaddeus—he’s a beast on the battlefield. We’re outclassed before we’ve even started.”

Percy just sighed, crossing his arms as he surveyed the hill. “Never tell me the odds, kid,” he said, his voice steady with a hard-won confidence. “Trust me, I’ve fought worse things before.”

Silas and Octavian exchanged glances, but Percy didn’t wait for their response. His mind was already racing through potential strategies, the familiar surge of battle instincts kicking in. His eyes narrowed as he studied the terrain, noticing the subtle slopes and rocky outcroppings they could use for cover. The hill was daunting, yes, but he’d overcome far worse in places far less forgiving than this training ground.

“So, what exactly is your plan?” Silas asked. “I mean you have to have one. Are you planning on luring them away? Flanking them? Distracting them?”

“If they are smart, they won’t leave that hill for any reason,” he explained. “They have the high ground; they could hold it indefinitely. If this were real, I’d recommend starving them out but that’s not exactly possible, is it?”

"Then what should we do?”

“We have to give them a reason to make them scatter, and we have to be quick about it,” he explained. If he was able to use his powers, he'd just send an earthquake or wave of water and be done with it. But, that wasn’t exactly an option. 

“I have an idea,” he said. “Do any of you know how to swim or climb?”

Octavian raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”

Percy pointed to the map, his finger tracing the hill’s edge. “This side,” he said, tapping the corner, “drops off to steep cliffs with a river below. It’s risky, but they won’t be expecting anyone to approach from there. They’ll assume the cliffs and river make it too dangerous to guard heavily.”

He looked up, eyes sharp with determination. “Here’s the plan: we’ll create a diversion by launching a large-scale, obvious attack from the opposite side, drawing most of their defenses there. Meanwhile, a smaller group will scale the cliffs and sneak up from behind. With their focus on the main force, they’ll never see us coming from the cliffs.”

Percy’s gaze swept across his cohort, studying each face in the dim candlelight. Silas looked nervous but determined, Octavian more calculating, the flickering shadows playing across his sharp features as Percy laid out the final plan. “Once we’re in position behind them, we’ll hit them simultaneously from both sides,” Percy said, his voice low and steady. “We’ll surround them, catch them off guard, and force them to split their forces. That’s our advantage. If we’re fast and precise, we can take the hill.”

Octavian’s mouth twisted in a smirk. “Not a terrible idea,” he said, arching a brow. “But it’s so—”

“Greek?” Silas finished, a grin tugging at his lips.

Percy only shrugged. “If you want to beat an enemy, the first thing you do is throw out the rulebook.”

Octavian snorted, a flicker of amusement breaking through his usually guarded expression. “Don’t let Thaddeus or Marcus hear that. They worship rules.”

Percy grinned back, warmth creeping into his tone. “How about you, Octavian? Where do you stand on rules?”

For a moment, Octavian’s smile softened, something almost friendly flashing across his face. “Rules are meant to be broken, Centurion Drusus,” he replied, and Percy felt a fleeting sense of camaraderie he hadn’t experienced in months. The bonds he thought were long faded felt stronger now, more real.

“Good,” Percy said, nodding. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Octavian’s tone grew more serious. “Drusus,” he began, surprising Percy with the respectful address. “Have me lead the frontal charge. I’d pay to see Thaddeus’s face when he realizes we’ve outmaneuvered him.”

Percy and his soldiers pushed steadily through the waist-deep water, the icy current swirling around them in relentless, tugging waves. Percy felt the energy of it coursing through him, the cold biting at his skin but restoring his muscles, filling his veins with a familiar, primal power. Here in the water, even this far from the ocean, he felt unstoppable. Each step came easily, the weight of the river more of a reassurance than a burden.

Silas, however, looked anything but reassured. Every step was a struggle, his boots sliding on the slippery stones beneath them as he clenched his jaw against the freezing cold. He shivered, his face twisted with irritation and discomfort, a stream of muttered curses almost drowned out by the rush of water.

“I fucking hate water,” Silas hissed through chattering teeth. “Why on earth did you think this was a good idea?”

Percy flashed him a grin, practically gliding through the river’s current. “It’s a brilliant idea, Silas. I love water. What’s wrong with a little refreshment?”

“What’s wrong?” Silas snapped; his glare fierce as he fought to steady himself. “It’s cold enough to freeze me solid, it’s up to my waist, and I can barely keep my footing.” He glanced down with disgust, lifting one soaked foot with effort before setting it back down. “And it just sucks. ”

Percy’s smirk widened. “Tell me how you really feel.”

Silas clenched his fists, barely keeping himself upright. “What I wouldn’t give to be warm and dry right now,” he muttered, his gaze shifting enviously to the distant bank where Octavian lounged in comfort, his dry armor glinting in the faint sunlight. “Octavian is a lucky bastard.”

“Lucky?” Percy chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s the bait, Silas. You’re lucky you get to be part of the action.”

Silas muttered something unintelligible, but Percy barely noticed, his senses more attuned to the water than to his comrades’ grumbling. The river was alive, filled with the sharp scent of sea salt, though they were miles from the coast. The briny air reminded him that, here in his element, he could bear the freezing currents and shifting stones with ease. In these depths, he wasn’t just Percy Jackson; he was something larger, stronger, at one with the water itself.

“You’re too chipper, Drusus,” Silas muttered again. “Why can’t you be miserable like the rest of us?”

Percy just shrugged his shoulders. “Where is the fun in that?”

Eventually, they waded out of the water, boots squelching as they stumbled onto a narrow strip of rocks that lined the shore. The embankment was rough and jagged, each stone sharp underfoot, forcing every soldier to step carefully, some clutching at fresh cuts on their hands and legs as they struggled up. One by one, they emerged from the icy water, each looking more drained and miserable than the last, shivering as they regrouped under the looming cliff face.

Silas took a long look up the rock wall, his hands planted on his hips as he exhaled sharply. “We have to climb that ?” he muttered, disbelief in his voice. “Are you insane?”

"Probably," Percy said with a shrug, his face set with determination. "Let’s get moving."

He turned toward the cliff face, ready to climb, when a dark shadow passed overhead, sending flickering shapes across the ground. The entire group looked up in unison, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. A piercing screech echoed above, followed by frantic shouts as soldiers scrambled for their swords, eyes wide with terror.

The creature circled again, its torn, leathery wings spread wide, silhouetted against the dim sky. It moved with deadly precision, dipping low, its massive talons glinting as they stretched forward, ready to strike anything that dared move.

Percy’s stomach twisted at the sight—a Fury, its twisted, vengeful face locked in a snarl, half-human, half-beast, eyes blazing red with ancient rage, and a mouth lined with jagged, hungry teeth.

Silas stumbled back, his face pale. “What the hell is that? Some kind of bird? I’ve never seen a bird that large before.”

“We need to get up there now!” Percy barked, urgency sharpening his voice.

Silas could barely look away from the Fury, dread etched into every line of his face. “What the hell is that, Drusus?”

Percy’s blood ran cold, his gaze fixed on the creature above. “It’s a Fury.”

Chapter Text

Percy had never scaled a cliff so fast in his life—not that cliff climbing was a skill he’d exactly perfected. But as he climbed, the brutal scene above drove him onward, every scream and clang of battle scraping at his resolve. The shrieks of Roman soldiers echoed off the cliffs, each cry cut short as Alecto swooped low with terrifying precision. Her wings beat the air with enough force to send stones skittering, violent gusts tearing at soldiers clinging to the rocks. She descended again and again, her talons flashing in arcs of deadly bronze, slicing into flesh and armor as though they were paper.

Percy’s arms burned, his fingers bloody and raw, but he forced himself upward, barely registering the ache in his muscles. Silas and his men scrambled below him, all too aware of how critical and perilous their ascent was.

When Percy finally pulled himself over the cliff's edge, he could only stare at the battlefield laid out before him. He immediately drew the knife Drusus had given him, its celestial bronze blade glinting weakly in the daylight. It felt absurdly small in his hand, almost laughable against the vast fury that rained chaos upon them, yet it was the only weapon they had that might stand a chance.

“Fuck,” Percy muttered, his voice barely audible against the sounds of carnage. The ground was littered with bodies—Thaddeus’s men and his own, scattered across the rocks like broken dolls. Blood stained the stone, dark streaks trailing from where Alecto had torn into them, limbs and armor twisted at grotesque angles. Those who hadn't managed to wedge themselves into the narrow crevices along the cliffside were unrecognizable, shredded into grisly fragments left in Alecto’s merciless wake.

Beside him, Silas cursed under his breath, eyes wide as he took in the brutal scene. The wind shifted, and Percy glanced up just in time to catch Alecto's shadow sweeping toward them, her wings blotting out the sun. She was coming in fast, her eyes fixed and blazing, claws outstretched, hurtling straight at—

“Shit,” Percy muttered, weaving through the scattered, panicked soldiers like a shadow. His gaze locked onto Thaddeus, who was oblivious to the dark shape descending fast from above. With a burst of speed, Percy threw himself at Thaddeus, crashing into him and sending them both sprawling out of Alecto’s deadly path. Her claws sliced through the air just inches away, leaving only the faintest whisper of wind where Thaddeus had stood moments before.

The impact jarred Percy to his core, the weight of the other man knocking the air clean out of him. Three months of training wasn’t nearly enough to get him back to what he used to be; every muscle in his body felt stretched, raw. It might be years before he felt like himself again.

Thaddeus scrambled to his feet, eyes blazing as he glared down at Percy. “What the hell, Drusus?” he snapped. "What was that for?”

Percy rolled his eyes, pushing himself up with a grunt. “ That, ” he said, brushing dirt off his scraped knuckles, “was me saving your life. Alecto was about two seconds away from turning you into ribbons.”

Thaddeus’s face shifted as he glanced skyward, catching sight of the winged horror circling above. For once, he was silent, the realization settling in as he registered just how close he’d come to being shredded by the fury’s claws.

“I didn’t need your help,” he said, which was very clearly a lie. 

Percy rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t slip out of his head. 

“We need a plan and quickly if we want to kill that thing,” Percy said. “We're all sitting ducks here.”

“I don’t need—”

“This isn’t a game!” Percy shouted, his voice raw as he glared at Thaddeus. He jabbed a finger at the dark shape tearing through the sky above them—a Fury with leathery wings, her talons lashing out to snatch any demigod who ventured too close. “Do you see that? That’s a Fury, a real, live Fury. If we don’t send her back to Tartarus now, none of this matters because we’re all dead. I don’t care how you feel about me, pull yourself together.”

Thaddeus paled, his eyes darting to the beast in the sky. “Furies don’t exist, Percy,” he muttered, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “I mean—they can’t…”

Percy’s jaw clenched as he watched Thaddeus waver, his gaze unfocused. “That thing up there looks pretty real to me, don’t you think?” he growled. “It was pretty real when she killed half of your men. Snap out of it! We need to focus, or we’re both as good as dead.”

Thaddeus shook his head, mumbling, “They can’t exist…” His voice cracked, as if he was still trying to wake himself from a nightmare he desperately wished were fake.

Percy didn’t have time for this. “If you can’t handle it, go hide. Move, or get out of my way,” he hissed, his frustration sharpening his words like a blade. Thaddeus’s hand suddenly shot out, clutching Percy’s arm, his fingers trembling but determined.

“You can’t do this alone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’ll tear you apart.”

Percy’s eyes darkened with resolve. “Trust me,” he replied coldly. “Alecto doesn’t stand a chance against me.”

Something shifted in Thaddeus’s gaze, the fear melting away. He nodded, swallowing hard. “Right. Then… let’s finish this.”

Percy sighed, scanning their meager arsenal. “Alecto’s fierce—nearly impossible to take down without the right weaponry. Do you have any celestial bronze? Imperial gold?”

Thaddeus looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Of course I don’t. Why would I have that?”

Percy muttered a curse under his breath, his grip tightening on his small celestial bronze dagger. It felt fragile, insufficient. But he couldn’t waste time on doubts. “This is all I have,” he muttered, glancing at the knife. “And it’s the only thing that’ll send her back to Tartarus.” Gods, he missed Riptide. He’d trade anything for the sword right about now.

The plan he’d had in mind vanished, replaced by raw improvisation. Usually, with Riptide in hand and the power of the sea coursing through him, he’d take down a Fury without breaking a sweat. But, he wasn’t able to use her powers without them figuring out his heritage.  

“Oh, I hate this,” he muttered. He was going to have to do what he did best, and that was talk. “Stay right here. Alecto is quick to anger, I’ll draw her out.”

Percy was already running before Thaddeus could stop him. 

“Hey, Alecto!” Percy’s voice rang out across the bloody field, his gaze fixed on the Fury circling above, her wings outstretched like a vulture over fresh carrion. The clash of metal and the dying cries of Roman soldiers surrounded him, but he held his ground, feet planted firmly in the dirt. “Get down here! We need to have a little talk.”

The monstrous silhouette of Alecto darkened the moon as she descended, a shriek splitting the air like tearing metal. Her wings cut through the night, leaving an icy chill in their wake. Percy flung himself to the side, hitting the ground and rolling just as her talons slashed into the earth, sending chunks of dirt and splintered bone scattering. She had missed him by inches, her claws carving deep furrows into the blood-soaked ground where he’d just stood.

“Swiper no fucking swiping!” Percy called out, rising to his feet with a grin. “Get down here and put those claws away—before I put them away for you!”

Alecto rose again, her massive wings flapping in irritated pulses. Her crimson eyes blazed with fury as she hovered, radiating malice, the stench of decay and smoke rolling off her. “How dare you disrespect me like this, demigod?” she hissed, her voice like glass grinding on stone. “Do you even know who you’re dealing with? I will grind you to dust beneath my feet.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Percy replied, twirling his dagger with a confident smirk. “But how about we hit pause for a sec? We need to have a chat.” He could see the bodies of Roman soldiers littering the battlefield, armor dented and flesh torn, their lifeblood staining the ground around them. The sight only made him more determined.

Alecto’s lip curled, a forked tongue darting between her razor-sharp fangs. “Why would I ever waste my breath talking to a mortal pest like you?”

“Because,” Percy said, his tone darkening as he lifted the celestial bronze dagger, “if you don’t, I’ll send you straight back to Hades. I’ve heard celestial bronze hurts like a bitch.”

A flicker of hesitation flashed in her crimson eyes, then her lips twisted into a mocking sneer. She laughed—a jagged, cold sound, scraping like broken glass. It reminded him too much of their first encounter at the Met, back when he’d been less sure of himself, less prepared to face the darkness she carried.

“I’m not here to kill you,” Alecto hissed, her claws flexing as though savoring the thought. “But... I might be changing my mind.” Her gaze shifted, narrowing as if considering him anew. If she wasn’t here for him, then who was her target?

“Why don’t you just calm down for a hot second, Alecto,” Percy yelled, his voice biting through the din of battle. “Let’s just talk.”

Alecto’s nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply, her mouth curling into a wicked grin. “I smell the sea on you, boy,” she spat, her teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Interesting. You’ve found yourself among Romans, haven’t you? Does it suit you, son of Poseidon? Are they so different from what you know?”

“Well,” Percy said, his tone icy, “they were my friends—and now I’m just pissed.” He wouldn’t say he was besties with the Romans, but Alecto didn’t need to know that. 

Percy jammed the knife into Alecto’s side, and the Fury unleashed a scream so loud it practically shattered the sound barrier. The shriek was like nails on a cosmic chalkboard, a mix of rage and “oh-my-gods-I-just-got-stabbed” that made Percy’s ears ring. He half-expected the ground to split open, Hades himself popping up like, “Hey, could you keep it down? I’m trying to run the Underworld here!”

But no, it was just Alecto, screeching like he’d stepped on her favorite hellhound. The scream ricocheted off the cliffs, echoing into the night as if it was trying to drill a direct line down to the Underworld itself.

He needed her to get close—close enough that he could drive the knife into her, but how was he supposed to pull that off without either using his powers in front of the Romans or getting shredded to pieces in the process? Alecto was like a whirlwind of death, her talons gleaming, and every move she made was a deadly calculation.

He was going to have to get creative.

Percy’s mind raced as he scanned the battlefield, his eyes flicking to the Romans who were too distracted to notice him. There had to be a way to use his powers—just enough to give him the edge—without anyone figuring it out. He wasn’t supposed to be showing his true abilities, not here. Not in this foreign world of Roman soldiers who didn’t know him or his father.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, focusing on the familiar tug in his stomach—the familiar pull that always came when his powers began to stir. The connection to the water, the force that ran through him, ready to be summoned at will. The power rushed through him, more intense than it had been in weeks, like an old friend finally coming back to say hello. For a fleeting moment, he felt stronger than he had in a long time—like the world was bending to his will, and he was finally embracing the full force of what he was.

He was a demigod, son of Poseidon. But since he’d arrived here, in this strange Roman world, he hadn’t felt like that. He’d felt lost, like a piece of him had been left behind in the wreckage of his past. All he’d wanted was to fit in, to make sense of everything that was spinning around him, and to not drown in it. But now, for the first time in what felt like ages, he could feel it—his power, the water, thrumming beneath his skin.

He thought of the air around him—the invisible currents of moisture that clung to every surface, the mist in the cool night air. He focused on it, feeling the water that lived in everything. If he could just draw on that—just control it in a subtle enough way—maybe no one would notice. Maybe he could get the Fury close without tipping his hand.

Alecto’s eyes went wide as she felt the wind shift, her body lifting unnaturally, drawn toward Percy by the invisible currents in the air. Her wings flapped frantically, struggling to fight against the pull, but it was no use. The air around her seemed to have a mind of its own, a force that was steadily pulling her closer to the ground, dragging her toward Percy with relentless precision.

“How are you doing this?” Alecto screamed, her voice high-pitched with a mix of disbelief and fury, her talons scraping at the air as she desperately tried to break free.

“What are you talking about?” Percy grinned, his expression nonchalant, as if this was just another normal day for him. “I’m not doing anything.”

He focused harder, pulling from the last reserves of his energy, and with a sharp tug, he willed the air around her to constrict, a powerful force that dragged Alecto down closer to him. The Fury was so stunned, so disoriented by the sudden shift in the wind, that she didn’t even attempt to fight it. She was caught, suspended by the very air she had once controlled with ease.

In that moment, time seemed to slow. Percy didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, the knife gleaming in his hand. Without a second thought, he drove the blade deep into her side, the celestial bronze biting into her monstrous form with a satisfying, sickening crunch.

“Give Hades my regards,” Percy growled, his voice steady as he drove the knife deeper. He twisted the blade, feeling the celestial bronze sink into something that wasn’t quite flesh—something dark and ancient that throbbed with eerie, otherworldly energy.

Alecto’s eyes shot wide, her twisted features contorting in fury and shock. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, frozen in place as if she couldn’t believe some mortal dared to fight back. For a split second, Percy felt the force of her rage push back against him, a heat like standing too close to the flames of Tartarus itself—but then—

With a flash, her entire form erupted, bursting into a swirling cloud of golden dust. Sparkling particles drifted around him, catching the moonlight in an oddly beautiful shimmer as they faded into the night. Percy staggered forward, almost tripping on thin air, his fist clenching around nothing where Alecto had been just moments before.

Percy let himself breathe for a moment, taking in all the carnage around him. Alecto was gone, but that didn't make anything better. There were fires everywhere, bodies strewn across the hilltop, and terrified soldiers. A few of them crept their heads out of their hiding places, realizing that it had finally ended.

"Drusus?" he heard a voice say. 

He turned to see Octavion alive and well, albeit with a large gash on his head. "What the hell was that?"

He mouth felt like ash. How the hell was he going to explain all of this?

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

“Peace is a condition in which we can understand matters clearly and measure them accurately. It’s the absence of the turmoil and chaos that war brings.”

-Seneca the Younger

“How did you do that?" Octavian’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and filled with suspicion. His eyes, narrow and calculating, traced every line of Percy’s face, as if searching for cracks in his armor. Thaddeus stood next to him, looking more exhausted than he had ever seen him. There was a large gash on his head that must have come from Alecto. He was leaning on his sword for support, the blade covered in red blood. 

Percy kept his gaze forward, his shoulders perfectly level. He hated how easily he could now slide into the falsity of a general. His face was blank, his voice seeping with authority and a dangerous edge. "How did I do what?"

Octavian’s eyes narrowed further, his patience wearing thin. “Fight like that,” he insisted, his voice hardening with urgency. “I’ve never seen anyone move like you. That style—it's not something we’re trained in.”

Thaddeus, standing slightly behind Octavian, said nothing. His silence was deafening, but his eyes—their sharp, piercing gaze—spoke volumes. He didn’t trust Percy, and that mistrust was all too clear.

Percy allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth. His eyes flickered with an emotion just out of reach, distant and unreadable. “No,” he murmured, his voice almost taunting, laced with an amusement that seemed out of place given the circumstances. “I’m sure you haven’t. But that’s irrelevant now. We need to tend to the wounded.” He turned to a soldier that was leaning on a tree nearby. “I need you to send word back to General Antonius what has happened here. We will need help bringing back the dead, and we need more medics.”

The man nodded to him– Titus thought his name was. He took off, most likely in search of a horse to bring him back to camp.

He could tell Octavian wanted to ask him more questions, but for the moment he let it go. Percy mentally prepared himself for the interrogation that was most likely coming his way. Both he and Thaddeus were looking at him in a different way, and didn’t like it. For now, the only thing keeping him alive was that he hadn’t made too big of an impression on anyone. No one thought he was an imposter because he seemed like every other nepo baby who got a job because of their family connections. But, soon, people were going to start asking questions–questions he couldn’t answer, and he needed to be prepared for that. 

It wasn’t in Percy’s nature to not stand out. He’d been causing problems since the moment he was born. He didn’t want to keep his head down, he didn’t want to pretend to be stupid or a brute. He wanted to prove to everyone that he wasn’t who they thought he was. That he was so much more if you gave him the chance.

His gaze swept over the scene around them—bodies scattered across the clearing, the air thick with the stench of death and blood. At least a dozen soldiers lay lifeless, their still forms testaments to the brutal clash. Many more were injured, their groans of pain mixing with the frantic murmurs of the few still able to move. Percy took a slow breath, his demeanor unfazed as he motioned for Octavian and the others to assist. With grim efficiency, they moved from one soldier to the next—some to offer aid, others to cover the fallen. Every step was a reminder of the cost of this battle, of the lives torn apart in its wake.

They took a moment right before sundown to break their fast, but Percy couldn’t stomach eating any food. Every time he thought about it, his eyes flashed to all the dead, and bile forced it’s way up his throat. 

Finally, he collapsed against a tree trunk, letting his body relax into the rough bark. What he wouldn’t give in that moment for a Tempur-Pedic bed. He’d probably sell his soul for it. 

Octavian collapsed next to him, looking equally exhausted. Inwardly, Percy groaned. All he wanted to do was be left alone for at least a minute so he could go over all the thoughts rushing through his head. 

“You’ve seen death before,” Octavian commented, his voice like knives in his ears.  It was no question–just a statement. 

Percy nodded. “Of course I have.” 

“I don’t just mean death,” Octavian said. “I mean war. This—” he gestured all around them. “It makes me sick. But you aren’t even fazed by it.”

Percy hated to admit that the man was right. Death was something that no longer phased him. He’d been killing monsters since he was twelve years old. But, that didn’t mean that he liked it or enjoyed i—it was just what it was. It was something he had to do to survive. 

Visions of the battle of Manhattan flooded his brain but he pushed it away. “Of course, I’m fazed by it. But, someone has to be strong for the soldiers.”

Octavian just shook his head. “I–”

"What is it? You look like you have more to say," Percy asked. He really didn’t like the way Octavian was looking at him. It was if he had realized something–put some puzzle pieces together. 

He shook his head slowly, his expression betraying the shock of the encounter. "That... that was a Fury, was it not? I must admit, I never imagined they could be real. I always assumed they were nothing more than a myth."

"Be careful, Soldier. Names, especially those of such creatures, possess great power."

Octavian glanced at him, brow furrowed. "You don’t seem at all surprised by their existence," he remarked, the surprise still evident in his voice. 

Percy paused before answering, his voice measured and steady. "No," he replied simply. "Throughout my life, I have encountered enough of the impossible to no longer be surprised.”

Silence hung between them, thick and taut. Then, without warning, Octavian broke it, his voice edged with a strange mix of curiosity and demand. "Teach me."

He blinked, momentarily stunned by the request.  "Teach you?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "I thought you said I didn’t deserve to be here. I thought you hated me.” He couldn't forget how cold the man had been towards him when they first met. The last few months had been hell for Percy, but despite Thaddeus’s and Octavian's ire, he still managed to keep going. 

Octavian’s gaze didn’t waver, his expression hardened by something darker than just pride. "I thought you were just someone good with a sword. But, from what I’ve seen, you're much more than that, aren’t you?”

Percy’s eyes flicked up, locking with Octavian’s for the first time. The tension in the air thickened, the din of the camp fading into the background as if they were the only two people in the world. "Just because I could kill a fury doesn’t mean you know anything about me.”

Octavian’s brow furrowed, a shadow of doubt crossing his face, but he pressed on. "I thought you said words have power, Ser.”

Percy smirked. “Not for me, they don’t.”

“So will you, do it?” he asked. “Will you teach me?”

“Do you think you can handle it?” he asked. “I’m not sure you could.”

“Let me decide for myself what I can and can’t do, Drusus,” he said. 

“Fair enough,” Percy said. “You should know I won’t go easy on you.”

“I’d be angry if you did ser,” he said. 

When they arrived back at camp, the whole place was chaos. 

Medics rushed into the line, grabbing those whom they could heal. The soldiers for their merit waited to collapse until after they were hidden away in their tents. They held their heads high, and Percy admitted they had gained his respect. 

He turned to Thaddeus and Octavian, their faces drawn but alert. “Get some rest, Sers. You’ve earned it.”

Thaddeus merely nodded, his silence a relief Percy hadn’t known he needed. Octavian, however, lingered, his weight shifting as if to argue.

“Octavian,” Percy said, his voice firm but low. “Go. Get some rest. You’re no good to me if you collapse.”

Octavian’s eyes narrowed, his gaze darting over Percy’s form. “Have you looked at yourself? You’re covered in dirt and blood—you look like you just crawled out of the Underworld.”

“Noted,” Percy replied dryly, his lips quirking in something too bitter to be a smile. “Now, go. That’s an order.”

With a roll of his eyes, Octavian muttered something under his breath and stalked off, his back ramrod straight despite his obvious fatigue. Percy watched him disappear into the maze of tents, noting with grudging admiration how the man never once faltered.

“Centurion Drusus!”

The voice cut through the chaos, sharp and insistent. Percy turned to see a boy barely older than a cadet, his cheeks flushed from exertion. Despite the grime and smoke clinging to the air, the messenger’s tunic was startlingly clean, its crisp edges almost out of place.

“General Antonius requests a report,” the boy stammered, his chest heaving from a dead sprint. “He needs you in his tent within the hour.”

Percy nodded once, a curt acknowledgment. “Understood.”

Percy nodded once, brisk and professional, though his mind churned with thoughts of the battle. The boy lingered a moment longer, his eyes darting nervously to the blood on Percy’s cheek, then to the worn grip of the sword at his hip. Percy gave him nothing more, his attention already turning back to the camp. Taking the hint, the boy snapped a salute and scurried off, weaving through the labyrinth of people.

In the hour before he was set to meet Marcus, Percy wasn’t able to rest. Instead, he found himself scrubbing golden ichor from his skin and armor. It clung to him stubbornly, streaks of shimmering celestial blood that no amount of water seemed eager to rinse away. His armor didn’t look much better. The once-proud bronze was scuffed and dulled.  Percy worked at it with a rag, his strokes firm and repetitive, until the metal regained enough of its shine to pass for respectable. It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it would have to do. Lastly, he turned his attention to his face. He hadn’t really noticed the stubble creeping in until he saw his reflection in the dented surface of his shield. With a knife, he awkwardly scraped at his jaw. The blade dragged against his skin, and he muttered a quiet warning to himself not to nick anything important.

When he was done, the face that greeted him was almost unrecognizable. Through the warped shield, he noticed his features were more angular, the shadows under his eyes darker, and his hair wild. But, he looked strong, and almost terrifying in a way he had never been. All of his soft features had disappeared, and he wondered what else would change about him in the years to come. 

He put the knife down, and made sure every strap was in place before leaving for his meeting with the General. 

Percy’s boots crunched against the gravel path as he weaved through the labyrinth of tents. The canvas walls rippled in the faint breeze, casting shifting shadows that danced like specters. Soldiers hurried past him, their armor clinking with each hurried step. A few offered him quick salutes, their expressions taut with unspoken questions he didn’t have the answers to. He nodded back; his focus fixed ahead.

The General’s tent stood apart, larger and more ornate, its entrance flanked by two guards who eyed Percy with sharp precision. From inside, he could already hear the muffled rise of voices—a mix of heated debate and strained calm.

“General Antonius,” he greeted as he entered the tent. 

“Centurion Drusus,” the man said, his voice clipped yet warm, carrying an odd undercurrent of authority. “I’m glad to see you intact. Others were not so fortunate.”

Percy offered a curt nod, though his attention drifted to the stranger standing at the edge of the room. The man’s presence scratched at the edge of Percy’s awareness like a half-remembered dream. His golden hair caught the light in a way that seemed almost… too perfect. There was something about him that didn’t sit right, though Percy couldn’t quite place it.

“This is Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa,” Marcus continued, gesturing toward the man. “A senator sent to audit the legion’s readiness. This is Perseus Drusus,” he told the unknown man. “He’s a centurion of the fifth cohort.”

Agrippa inclined his head with an easy grace, but his piercing gaze lingered on Percy for a beat too long. Percy suppressed a shiver. The name didn’t ring any bells, but there was something disconcertingly familiar about him—impossible, really, because Percy didn’t know anyone in ancient Rome. “Perseus,” he commented. “A Greek name.”

“He acts like a Greek–fights like one too,” Marcus said. Oddly, Marcus was looking at him strangely, as if he was gauging his reaction to the man's presence.

Percy bristled but kept his expression neutral. “I find it takes enemies off guard,” he replied evenly. “Most expect me to fight like a Roman.”

“Wise,” Agrippa said, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile. “I never met a Greek I didn’t like, you know.”

“I’m not Greek,” Percy said, his tone calm but firm.

“No shame if you were, Centurion,” Agrippa countered, his gaze still fixed on Percy. There was something in his eyes—an old, knowing amusement that sent a flicker of unease through Percy.

“Most people would disagree, Senator,” Percy replied, choosing his words carefully. His gaze darted briefly to Marcus before returning to Agrippa. “General,” he said, redirecting the conversation, “we have more pressing matters to discuss than my supposed Greek inclinations. The Legion was attacked, and many Legionares lost their lives.”

Marcus smirked, though his attention had already turned to the table strewn with maps and reports. Agrippa, however, didn’t move. His piercing gaze lingered on Percy for another moment, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were savoring some private joke. Then, with the same fluid grace, he stepped aside, his presence as commanding as it was unnervingly out of place.

“Tell me,” Marcus said. “I’ve heard such interesting reports already that I’d like to hear it from your mouth. What exactly happened on that hill?”

“We were attacked, Ser,” he said. “By a kindly one.”

“A kindly one?” Marcus asked. “I’m not familiar with that term.”

It was the stranger who spoke up. “He means a Fury, General.”

“A Fury?” The man at the desk raised a skeptical eyebrow. “One of Pluto’s servants?”

Percy’s stomach tightened. The casual mention of the name sent a faint ripple of unease through the room. Marcus, oblivious or indifferent, leaned back against the desk with a smirk.

“Be careful with names, Ser,” Percy said, his voice carefully neutral, though a sharp edge lurked beneath it. “The gods in these times are far less forgiving. We’d do well not to test their tempers.”

Marcus scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “You and your gods, Perseus. Always so devout.”

“I’m not devout, Ser,” Percy replied evenly, choosing his words with care. “I just prefer not to be turned into a pigeon.”

The corner of Agrippa’s mouth twitched, and his golden eyes glittered with something akin to amusement. Octavian, meanwhile, gawked at Percy as if he’d just casually insulted Jupiter himself. Marcus laughed—a hearty, booming sound that momentarily eased the tension in the room.

“You’d make a fine pigeon, Perseus,” Marcus teased.

“And you, Ser,” Percy shot back without missing a beat, earning another round of laughter from the room.

But the levity was fleeting. The man at the desk sobered, rising to his feet with an air of practiced authority. He began to pace, his movements deliberate, his brow furrowed in thought.

“If the ancient terrors of this world are stirring once more,” he said gravely, his voice carrying a note of foreboding, “I shudder to think what this heralds. They have slept for so long that most have dismissed them as myths. If they return, surely it portends a storm unlike any we’ve known.”

Percy nodded, his mind racing as he chose his words carefully. “This does not bode well, Ser. The gods themselves are restless. On our journey here, we encountered Lupa and saw the devastation left behind by what could only have been a Kindly One. These omens... they do not favor the empire.”

Marcus’s eyes darkened, their scrutiny sharp and unyielding. His silence stretched uncomfortably, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. At last, his tone cut through the tension like a blade. “Drusus,” he said, his voice low and exacting, “you seem well-versed in matters of gods and monsters. How, exactly, did you kill this creature?”

“I didn’t kill it,” Percy replied, his words measured but unflinching. “I sent it back to the Underworld. Monsters don’t die—not truly. They reform, given enough time. This won’t be the last we see of her.” He paused, glancing at Marcus before adding, “Only Celestial Bronze or Imperial Gold can send them back to where they belong.”

Agrippa’s gaze narrowed, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “How do you know all this?” he asked, his tone laced with curiosity and mistrust. “Most common soldiers wouldn’t.”

Percy hesitated for the briefest of moments, the weight of Marcus’s stare pressing against him like a stormfront. “I know more than most,” he admitted, his voice steady though his chest tightened under the weight of his half-truths. “My family is religious. I was raised to fear gods and monsters.”

Agrippa leaned back, studying him with a calculated smirk. “And do you fear them, Centurion Drusus?”

“No,” he said. They should fear me.

Marcus straightened, his expression hardening with resolve. “Then I trust you to investigate these disturbances. Do whatever is necessary to prevent further attacks. Caesar must not hear a whisper of this—not until we have answers.”

“Yes, Ser,” Percy replied, his gaze flicking once more to Agrippa. The stranger’s eyes gleamed with something ancient and knowing, though he said nothing. Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that the man saw through him—

“Get some rest, Perseus,” Marcus said, his voice edged with weariness, though his eyes held a sharp glint of concern. “You look dead on your feet.”

Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “I look better than you, Ser,” he replied, lifting an eyebrow with just enough defiance to earn a flicker of amusement from the older man.

The General’s lips twitched into a faint smile before he shook his head. “You are, without a doubt, the oddest Roman I’ve ever had the misfortune of commanding. Sometimes—”

“Sometimes, what, Ser?” Percy cut in, his tone light, but his eyes narrowing slightly. He could feel the weight of the General’s scrutiny settle on him like a cloak.

Marcus crossed his arms, his gaze steady and calculating. “You’re not the politician’s son I expected you to be,” he said slowly, as though weighing every word. “There’s something different about you—something... more. When I granted you the rank of Centurion, I half-expected you to fail, to crumble under the weight of responsibility. And yet, here you stand. You’ve risen above expectations as if...” His voice trailed off, the unspoken thought lingering in the air like smoke. “...as if you’ve led armies before.”

Percy suppressed the smirk threatening to curl his lips. His hands rested on his belt, his stance deceptively casual. “Leading armies isn’t too hard, Ser,” he said, his voice low and steady. “It’s leading the men that takes real work.”

Marcus barked a short laugh, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Well said, Perseus,” he conceded, nodding as though Percy had passed some unspoken test. “We’ll make a general of you yet.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN

“No,” Percy said, his tone firm but patient, like a teacher guiding a particularly stubborn student. “Not like that. You don’t have to jab at everything. Swing the sword.”

He stepped back, demonstrating with a fluid, sweeping motion, his blade cutting through the air with a faint hum, almost musical in its grace. It was like watching a dancer weave through an intricate routine, every motion purposeful and seamless.

Octavian frowned, his grip tightening on his gladius until his knuckles turned white. He tried to mimic Percy’s movement, but his swing was stiff, and deliberate, like a soldier following the rigid commands of a drill instructor. “This feels... strange,” he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration.

“Good,” Percy said, a sly grin curving his lips. Before Octavian could react, Percy lunged. His blade became a blur, slicing forward with deadly precision. Octavian yelped, stumbling back as the edge whistled past his shoulder, close enough to stir the air against his skin.

“That means your enemies won’t expect it,” Percy added, his voice carrying a spark of mischief.

Octavian steadied himself, his posture snapping into a rigid, defensive stance. His gladius was held close to his body, textbook-perfect as he’d stepped straight out of a combat manual. His eyes narrowed as he studied Percy. “You fight like a gladiator,” he observed, his tone clipped. “Not a soldier.”

Percy’s grin widened, a flicker of amusement lighting his sea-green eyes. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his body relaxed but coiled like a predator sizing up its prey. “You never know when you’ll be in a situation where you can’t depend on your cohort,” he said lightly.

He moved again, faster this time, his sword flashing in a calculated arc. Octavian raised his gladius just in time to parry, the clash of bronze against steel ringing out sharply. The force of the blow sent a shiver up Octavian’s arm, and he gritted his teeth, his stance faltering for a split second.

“You have to expect everything,” Percy said, stepping back just enough to reset.

Octavian adjusted his footing, his brow furrowed in concentration. Percy watched him intently, noting the rigidity of his movements. Octavian’s feet moved in precise, deliberate steps, disciplined but predictable.

“You’re thinking too much,” Percy said suddenly, darting in again. This time, he feinted left before twisting his wrist to arc the blade toward Octavian’s right side. Octavian barely blocked it, the impact making his arm tremble.

“I’m trying to fight,” Octavian shot back, frustration flaring.

“No, you’re trying to follow the rules,” Percy corrected, his voice calm but firm. “Stop thinking like a soldier.”

He moved again, faster than before, his strikes unpredictable—a low sweep followed by a sudden upward slash. Octavian blocked one, then the other, but his form was breaking under the relentless assault. Percy pressed forward, his movements fluid and unorthodox, adapting to Octavian’s every shift.

Octavian stumbled back, his chest heaving, his sword held shakily in front of him. Percy stopped, lowering his blade just enough to give Octavian a moment to catch his breath. “You see? Discipline is important, but it can also be a cage.:

Octavian’s frown deepened as he adjusted his footing. Percy watched the man's footwork—it was rigid, disciplined but predictable. Percy’s feet were light but quick. He adapted easily, moving like water. He moved more like a dancer than a soldier. 

When their sparring finally ended, Octavian slumped over, his chest heaving. Sweat clung to his brow as he gasped, “Dear Gods, you fight like a monster. Where did you learn it all?”

Percy straightened, rolling his sore shoulder with a wince. The truth was, he didn’t feel like a monster. He barely felt like a fighter. His arms, though stronger than when he’d first arrived at camp, still struggled with the weight of the sword. Every swing was an act of muscle memory rather than mastery.

“I learned most of my skills from a boy named Luke,” he said, truthfully. “All the other skills I learned along the way.”

Octavian opened his mouth to respond, but his words faltered as his attention shifted. His face lit up with an expression so out of place it seemed almost eerie—a broad, wild smile. “Agrippa!” Octavian called, his voice unnaturally warm like the word itself was a lifeline to familiarity. “How goes it? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

From the shadows emerged Agrippa, his stride purposeful, his demeanor commanding. His sharp eyes scanned the gathering, taking in everything with the precision of a hawk. “I’m alright, Octavian,” he replied, his voice steady and composed, carrying an air of quiet authority. His gaze settled on Octavian. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Octavian smirked, his demeanor as polished as ever. “Fate has a funny way of orchestrating reunions.” Percy held in a laugh. He knew the fates well, and they only had a funny fascination with knitting giant socks and scaring twelve-year-olds on the side of a highway. 

Percy shifted slightly, caught in the current of the exchange. “How do you two know each other exactly?” he asked, his gaze flicking between them, sharp and curious.

“Oh,” Octavian began with a casual wave of his hand, “we had the same tutor.” His words danced on the edge of self-importance, a habit that Percy had come to recognize. “I’ve known Agrippa for years.”

“Really?” Percy asked, narrowing his eyes at the two men.

Agrippa’s gaze settled on Percy, dissecting him with a calm intensity. “You are a strong fighter,” he said finally, his voice smooth but weighted with intrigue. His eyes held Percy’s, unflinching. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “I’m impressed.”

“You were watching?” 

Octavian chuckled, breaking the tension. “Don’t make his head any larger, Agrippa,” he said, feigning exasperation. “It might explode.”

Agrippa didn’t take his eyes off Percy. “Surely not,” he mused, his tone light yet layered with subtle implications. “I’ve met Perseus’s father, and he is of humble stock.”

“The apple fell far from the tree then,” Octavian quipped, a sly grin stretching across his face. “He isn’t anything like Claudianus. He doesn’t even look like him. It’s a surprise they’re related.” He held up a hand in mock surrender. “I jest, of course.”

“You're wrong,” Agrippa said, with a soft smile. “I think he looks quite a good deal like his father.”

“Then you are blind,” Octavian laughed. “He looks nothing like Claudinaus.”

Percy stiffened, the slight shift in his stance betraying his unease. “No, I’m afraid I look nothing like him,” he said with a shrug, his voice laced with an attempted nonchalance that didn’t quite land. “He adopted me when I was born.”

Agrippa’s gaze sharpened--his words cutting through the air with deliberate precision. “Then who is your real pater?” he pressed his tone probing, like a blade testing for weakness in armor.

Percy’s eyes flashed, and his reply came swift and sharp, a dagger in its own right. “He is my real pater,” he snapped, the words crisp, defensive. The air between them seemed to hum with tension, Percy’s rigid posture daring Agrippa to press further.

“I didn't mean to offend,” he said. “I was just curious. You are a curiosity, you know?”

The young man exhaled sharply, a flicker of frustration cracking through his carefully constructed mask. “I’m a bastard, if you must know,” he said, his voice flat but carrying a weight that settled heavily in the air between them. “My mother was his sister. My father? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I see.” Agrippa’s tone was as neutral as a scholar appraising an artifact, but his eyes betrayed a glint of intrigue. “For a bastard, you’ve climbed high. You know much about the otherworld. Tell me—who is your family god?”

The young man hesitated for only a breath before answering. “Apollo.” He spat the name like an afterthought, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Although, I’ve been terrible with my prayers lately.”

“He probably hasn’t noticed,” Agrippa replied, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile that was almost too knowing. 

“I’m not sure they really listen to our prayers,” he said. “Not unless there is something in it for them.”

“You sound as if you hate them,” Octavian commented. 

“I don’t hate them,” he said. As much as he sometimes wanted to. There was so much he still could never understand about them no matter how hard he tried. “I just don’t understand them.”

Agrippa’s expression softened, though the edge of his smile remained. “There are a few things about the gods we are meant to understand.”

Percy looked down, the corners of his mouth pulling into a faint frown. The conversation faltered as a distant sound reached their ears—a faint thud of hooves against dirt. Percy straightened, his gaze snapping to the approaching figure. The silhouette grew larger, sharper, until Marcus emerged from the tree line, astride a powerful black horse.

The animal’s muscles rippled with every step, its hooves kicking up small puffs of dust. Marcus sat tall, his armor catching the sun in dazzling flashes of gold and silver. His face was unreadable, but there was a sense of purpose in the way he rode, his gaze fixed directly on the small group.

“Drusus!” Marcus called out as he neared, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip crack.

He stiffened, stepping forward.  “Yes, sir?” Percy asked, his voice steady despite the tension hanging in the air.

Marcus reined in his horse, the leather creaking under his grip. The horse snorted and pawed at the ground, impatient. “Pick a few men,” Marcus commanded, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “I need you to pick up something from town.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “What exactly am I picking up?” he asked cautiously, his tone betraying a flicker of apprehension.

Marcus’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. “A sword,” he said finally.

Percy felt a chill creep down his spine at the way Marcus said it—it wasn’t just an order. His mind raced. What on earth did Marcus need a sword for?

Percy fought the urge to ask him a thousand questions. He simply nodded at the man and that seemed to be good enough for him because Marcus took off on his horse. 

He turned to Octavian. “You want to get out of this hell hole?”

Octavian straightened, his mouth twitching into something close to a smile. “Of course I do. You don’t even have to ask.”

“Good. Bring Silas too. He could use a day away from this camp,” Percy added. His mind flicked to the boy—Silas. Somehow, against all odds, the kid had walked away from last night’s chaos without a scratch. Physically, at least.

Octavian nodded, his expression darkening slightly at the mention of the boy. “Alright. I’ll let him know.”

“I’m coming too,” Agrippa said. “I have to leave for the capital anyway.”

Percy nodded at Agrippa. “Tell him to meet me by the gates in an hour,” Percy continued, his tone firm now, the leader in him taking over. “It’s a day’s ride into town. Travel light. And be prepared.”

Octavian tilted his head, frowning. “Prepared for what?”

Percy’s gaze hardened as he met the man’s eyes, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily on his shoulders. “Anything.”

Percy still hadn’t adjusted to the daily grind of ancient Roman life.

The ride into town was relentless, every mile of rough terrain chipping away at his stamina. Yet, as they drew closer, the landscape transformed. Signs of civilization began to emerge—a mosaic of stone roads, towering aqueducts, and bustling marketplaces.

Within the camp, it was easy to forget where he truly was. Camp had a sense of familiarity, a distant echo of Camp Jupiter that felt almost like home. But the moment he crossed into the heart of a Roman town- the illusion shattered. The weight of the past pressed down on him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a stranger in his own skin. 

To their right, the Mediterranean Sea stretched endlessly, a vast and glittering expanse of blue-green that shimmered beneath the afternoon sun. It was alive, shifting and rolling in gentle waves, the breeze carrying its briny scent and the faint crash of distant surf. The sea wasn’t just water—it was a voice, a presence, and it called to Percy like an old friend whispering his name.

The pull was almost unbearable. He felt it in his chest, a deep ache that resonated in his bones. The horizon blurred in the heat, but he imagined the cool embrace of the waves, the way the salt would cling to his skin like an old memory. It took every ounce of willpower not to drop from his horse, toss his shoes aside, and wade into the water until it wrapped around him.

"Let’s stop to rest," Percy said abruptly, his voice tight. The others exchanged glances—there was no real need to stop, and he knew it.

Octavian halted his horse with a sharp snap of the reins, his pale expression taut with impatience. “Perseus,” he said, his voice sharp, “we should continue. There is no need to linger.”

Percy glanced back, his tone measured. “Just ten minutes. I need to stretch my legs.”

Octavian sighed and dismounted, brushing the dust from his cloak with precise movements.“Very well,” Octavian said, though his irritation was evident. “I hate the sea.”

 Agrippa and Silas followed, their heavy boots landing with a muted thud on the gravel. Agrippa didn’t speak immediately, watching Percy with a quiet intensity. 

“You shouldn’t hate something just because you are afraid of it, Octavian,” he chastised. 

“I’m not afraid of the sea,” the man scoffed, kicking a stone. 

“No?” he asked. “I think sometimes I am.” How could he tell them that his most irrational fear was drowning? He couldn’t even drown and yet the feeling was sometimes overwhelming. 

Percy nodded slowly, the weight of the sea pressing against his thoughts. “Respect it, or be consumed by it,” he murmured.

Agrippa raised a skeptical eyebrow, his expression halfway between amusement and disbelief. "You’re afraid of the sea? You’ve lived with it all your life, haven’t you?"

His eyes swept toward the weathered dock ahead, its wooden planks worn and splintered with age. The fisherman, seated at the far end, busied himself with tying his boat securely. Without his presence, Percy would’ve thought the dock abandoned—untouched for years.

He nodded at Octavian. He didn’t bother tying his horse to a tree or post, although the horse was far sassier than most, he knew he wouldn’t run away. He let himself relax and his legs were finally able to move after hours in the saddle. His father might have been the lord of horses, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed riding them for hours on end. 

Percy didn’t respond, his steps slow and deliberate as if he were caught in a trance. When was the last time he had seen the ocean and felt its power? He hadn’t used his abilities in so long that he could feel them bubbling under his skin, just waiting to burst out. All he wanted to do was stick a single foot in its depths.

The planks of the dock groaned softly under the weight of his boots. The horizon stretched behind him in vivid hues of fiery gold and deep crimson, the sun descending into the sea with a final burst of light.

The air around him grew thicker, infused with the bracing scent of salt and a hint of electricity—almost as if the sea itself held its breath.

“How is the catch?” Percy finally asked, his voice steady yet distant, as if he were speaking from a place far removed from the present.

The fisherman paused, his hand still on his net, and looked up at Percy with a knowing smile.“It could be better,” he replied softly.

“You’d have better luck to the north,” Percy told him, though he had never fished a day in his life.

“Are you a fisherman by trade?” the man asked curiously. “Perhaps you could join me. Two hands are always better than one.”

“No,” Percy said, shaking his head. “I’m not a fisherman.”

“Pass me that rope, will you?” he asked, his voice calm yet authoritative, nodding toward a piece of frayed string lying at Percy’s feet.

Percy nodded silently and dropped to one knee, his fingers weaving through a tangle of thick, weathered rope. The texture was rough against his palm as he grasped a length of it and held it out to the man. Without so much as a glance, the fisherman took it, his hands moving with an effortless precision honed by years of experience.

Expertly, he wove the string between the gaping hole in the net, his movements fluid and deliberate. In mere seconds, the tear was mended, and the man looked down at his work with a satisfied smile—a smile that hinted at secrets hidden beneath the surface.

“You are very skilled,” Percy murmured, his voice carrying a mix of awe and a hint of disbelief, watching the man’s effortless movements. 

The man ran a weathered hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, each strand streaked with years of saltwater and sun. His features were sharp but softened by time, the creases in his face speaking of long, quiet hours spent on the edge of the world. There was something achingly familiar in the way he carried himself, something Percy couldn’t place but felt in his bones. “I’ve spent my life on the sea,” the man said, his voice deep and gravelly, yet rich with an unmistakable reverence. “I can recognize my own kind.”

Percy swallowed, eyes drifting to the horizon where the sea stretched, boundless and indifferent. “I haven’t spent a life on the sea,” he replied, and for a fleeting moment, there was a longing in his voice—a quiet yearning for something he couldn’t define. “But somehow, I wish I had.”

The man gave a small, knowing smile, as if he'd heard this before. “Maybe not,” he said. “But the sea lives in you all the same. It’s in your blood, in the way you move, in the way you think.”

Percy’s gaze dropped to the ground, kicking at the dirt beneath his boots. “I wish sometimes that I was just a fisherman,” he said, his voice a whisper, barely audible over the crash of waves against the rocks. “Sometimes I’d like to be anything else but what I am.”

The man’s eyes flickered with something like understanding, though his lips twitched into something like a smirk. “And what are you?”

Percy hesitated, his chest tightening. “A soldier, I guess,” he said. Once, he used to be more. He used to know who he was. He knew the world and his place in it. He was a demigod, a son, a brother, a friend. Now? He was a soldier of Rome. 

The man chuckled darkly, shaking his head with a bemused look in his eyes. “You don’t stand like a soldier,” he scoffed, his voice rough as the wind whipped around them. 

Percy furrowed his brow. “And what do I stand like?” He asked, his curiosity piqued, though there was something instinctive pulling at him like he knew the answer already. 

The man studied him for a long moment, the silence between them stretching like the sea, deep and endless. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and thick with meaning. “You stand like a god.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Percy’s heart skipped a beat. “What?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, his mind racing. 

“The time is coming, Perseus,” the man continued, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he could see past the surface of Percy’s doubts and fears. “The time is coming for you to reveal who you truly are. You play at being a soldier when you are meant to do so much more.”

Percy stared at him, dumbfounded. Who are you ? The question bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, but it was already too late. 

The stranger’s lips curled into a smile, almost pitying, and his eyes—those deep, dark eyes—glinted with the wisdom of the ages. “Do you not realize it?” he asked softly. “The sea knows its own.” 

"Centurion Drusus!" Octavian’s sharp voice cut through the air, echoing off the marble columns. "We must make haste."

Percy turned abruptly, his hand instinctively tightening around the strap of his sword. Octavian stood a few paces away, his piercing gaze locked on him, the weight of suspicion radiating like a blade pressed against his neck.

But Percy’s attention didn’t linger. Instead, his eyes flickered back to the man standing in the shadow of the sea. The stranger’s features were sharp, weathered by years of salt and sun, his presence haunting.

"Go," the man said, his voice low but resonant. 

Percy froze. He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat felt dry, his heart pounding in his ears. The man’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned back to his weaving.

"Drusus," Octavian hissed, impatient now.

Percy blinked, forcing himself to turn back to the man who would one day be emperor  "Let’s go," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He took a step forward, but Octavian caught him by the shoulder, his fingers like iron clamps.

"Who was that?" Octavian demanded, his voice laced with suspicion.

Percy didn’t answer immediately. He wrestled with himself, the lie already forming on his tongue. "I don’t know," he said, the words hollow and brittle.

But as he spoke, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He did know. Every part of him knew.

The man was his father.

Chapter Text

The town of Cosa should have been beautiful. Its cobblestone streets meandered down to the glimmering ocean on one side, while rugged mountains loomed protectively on the other. The salty breeze rolling in from the waves carried a faint promise of freedom and peace. But as Percy rode through the town gates, that promise disintegrated, replaced by a heaviness that hung in the air.

The stench hit him first—an unholy mixture of rot, sweat, and despair. It clung to the town like an unwelcome guest. Percy’s stomach churned as his eyes darted to the skeletal figures lining the streets. Their faces were hollow, cheeks sunken in as though hope itself had been sucked from them. Children sat in the dirt, their wide, unblinking eyes following the horses with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“What happened to these people?” Percy asked, his voice thick as he took in a woman trying to hush a crying baby with empty hands.

“Famine and plague,” Agrippa answered grimly, his tone flat as though he'd explained this a thousand times before.

Percy’s grip on the reins tightened. “Has Rome done nothing to help them?”

Octavian, riding just ahead, didn’t even look back. “Rome has many children, and it does what it can,” he said, his words as cold and impersonal as the gilded armor he wore.

“I–”

“Perseus,” Agrippa said. “We must make haste. We are already late as it is.”

Percy swallowed air. Tearing his eyes away from the people. “Of course.”

They rode deeper into the heart of the city, where the air grew heavier with the scent of spices, sweat, and burning wood. The clang of blacksmiths’ hammers echoed faintly in the distance, mingling with the chatter of merchants and citizens.The homes looked better the further they traveled, as did the people. While the people on the outskirts were starving and struck with sickness–these men and women were thriving.

Finally, they stopped in front of a modest one-story house. A domus –he learned it was called. It was smooth, with cream-colored walls faintly glowing in the late afternoon sun. The red-tiled roof sloped neatly, with terracotta shingles catching the light. A small garden framed the entrance, where laurel and rosemary bushes grew in tidy rows, their fragrant scent mingling with the air. The wooden door was sturdy, adorned with an iron latch, and a mosaic of geometric patterns bordered the threshold, a testament to the household’s care.

“Is this the place?” Silas asked, his voice low, almost cautious.

Percy gave him a curt nod, his eyes scanning the building. “Yes.”

Sliding off the horse with practiced ease, Percy handed the reins to a nearby stable master.  “Take care of him,” he urged the man. “He’s a good horse.” His horse snickered in response.  The man, short and wiry, took them without a word, his eyes darting briefly to Percy’s sword before he led the horse away.

“We’ll wait here,” Octavian said. “I don’t trust these people.” Octavian had good instincts. Percy didn’t trust them either. “Agrippa enter with him. Perhaps the sight of a senator will ease their worries.”

Percy strode toward the entrance, with Agrippa behind him, his boots stirring up the dust of the street. A stern-looking man stood guard by the door, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

“I’m here to see Lucius Algia,” Percy announced, his voice firm but controlled.

The man squinted at him, taking in his appearance with a slow, deliberate gaze. “Who are you?”

Percy’s hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of his sword, resting there with a subtle but unmistakable warning. The polished metal glinted faintly in the sunlight.

“I’m a centurion of Rome,” Percy said evenly. He thought it was rather obvious considering their uniforms that were adorned with the seal of Rome and the eagle.  “I need to speak to Lucius Algia.”

The guard’s eyes flickered down to Percy’s sword, the polished pommel gleaming faintly in the fading daylight. His gaze lingered a beat too long, and the barest hint of unease ghosted across his expression. He shifted his weight, his posture growing taut, like a bowstring drawn just shy of release.

“Of course, Centurion,” the man finally murmured, his voice subdued, as though he suddenly remembered his place. He stepped aside, the movement rigid, and pushed the door open with a creak that echoed like a whisper of warning. “Right this way.”

The scent of wax and old wood spilled out, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the city outside. Percy stepped across the threshold; his boots muffled against the worn wooden floor. The dim interior greeted him with flickering shadows cast by a single oil lamp on a far table. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword instinctively, a habit born of cautious survival, as his eyes swept the room.

From the far side of the room, a man emerged from the shadows with deliberate steps. He was short and stout, his figure weighed down not by muscle but by the gold and jewels draped across him. Thick chains adorned his neck, rings glittered on nearly every finger, and his robes were of such fine fabric that it glimmered even in the weak light.

Percy felt his stomach twist, a faint wave of disgust bubbling within him. 

“Lucius Algia?” Percy asked, his voice measured.

The man stopped, his lips curving into a tight, insincere smile. Suspicion flickered in his sharp, calculating eyes, and he folded his arms over his chest. “What do you want?” he demanded, his tone clipped, as though speaking to a servant who had overstepped their bounds.

He studied Percy with the gaze of a man used to appraising things—people, objects, opportunities. The silence stretched for a beat before he leaned slightly forward, his curiosity slipping through his carefully constructed facade.

“Who exactly are you?” Percy asked, his voice softening, curiosity sharpening his words like a blade probing for weakness. Percy stayed silent for a moment, letting the tension build like a storm cloud.

Lucius chuckled, a low, smug sound, and straightened, his chest puffed with pride. “An acquirer of rare objects,” he said, his tone rich with self-assurance, each word wrapped in the silken arrogance of a man who delighted in his reputation. He savored the title as if it were a feast laid out before him, meant to be admired as much as consumed.

"And apparently of weapons too," Percy retorted, his fingers twitching toward his pocket. "I’ve been sent by Marcus Antonius to pick up a sword.”

“Ah, yes.” The man smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sad to part with such an item, but Marcus has deep pockets.”

“What exactly is so special about this sword?” Percy asked, narrowing his gaze.

The man’s grin deepened, and with deliberate care, he reached beneath the folds of his dark, tattered cloak. “Let me show you. Wait here.”

He disappeared back into the house, only to return moments later with a sword covered in a cloth. The fabric was cracked with age, its corners darkened as if scorched by time itself. Percy felt his stomach tighten. The air in the room seemed to shift, growing heavier, charged with an energy he couldn’t explain.

When the man peeled back the leather covering, Percy’s heart slammed to a stop.

Percy’s breath caught as his eyes locked onto the blade, gleaming faintly in the dim light. It wasn’t just a weapon—it radiated power, history, and something far more dangerous: purpose. The edge seemed to hum, as if it was alive and aware, and the hilt bore intricate engravings that glowed faintly, whispering of battles long past.

“It’s called Anaklusmos ,” the man said, his voice reverent, almost worshipful. He stepped closer, his hand hovering near the sword but not daring to touch it. “Forged from celestial bronze—an exceedingly rare material, as you likely know. Swords like these are rare, and men who can wield them even rarer.”

“Riptide,” Percy murmured, the name slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.

The man nodded. “You know Greek? Not many do in this area.”

Percy nodded. “I pick up languages easily.”

The man nodded. “Legend has it, this sword once belonged to the great Hercules himself. A blade fit for a demigod of his stature. It will serve Marcus Antonius well, so long as he respects its will.”

Percy’s stomach churned. He knew the truth. The stories had been twisted, polished, and rebranded over centuries, but he couldn’t forget who had first wielded that sword. “Zoe…” he whispered under his breath. A pang of loss cut through him, sharp as any blade. He could still see her face, her quiet strength as she stood with Artemis, her unwavering loyalty until the bitter end.

Agrippa’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing like a hawk spotting prey. But he didn’t speak. 

“Thank you, Ser,” Percy said quietly, slipping a few coins into the man’s outstretched hand. The weight of the ancient coins in his palm felt strange, a reminder of how far from home he truly was. He turned his attention to Riptide, holding the blade carefully, almost reverently, as if it were a lifeline in this foreign world.

The familiar bronze glinted faintly in the light, and he couldn’t help but wonder: what form did it take in this time? Ballpoint pens didn’t exist in ancient Rome. A quill, perhaps? Or maybe a drachma, like Jason’s? The thought made him smile faintly, though the moment of nostalgia was fleeting.

He nodded to Agrippa who gave him a small nod. . Percy didn’t linger. He turned on his heel, his steps purposeful as he made his way out of the house. Octavian and Silas were still on their horses outside, but they looked up, their eyes lingering on the mysterious sword. 

The stableman handed over the reins with a quick bow, though his eyes darted nervously to Riptide before settling back on Percy. Percy barely noticed. He mounted the horse with practiced ease, the creak of leather and the faint snort of the animal grounding him for a moment. Behind him, Agrippa, Silas, and Octavian followed suit, their horses restless, hooves stamping against the dirt.

He glanced once more at the shadowed streets, his lips pressing into a thin line. This place reeked of power and corruption, the kind of atmosphere that clung to your skin long after you’d left. He tightened his grip on the reins. He’d be happy to never see a place like this again.

With a nudge of his heels, he urged the horse forward, the animal breaking into a steady canter. The rhythmic thud of hooves against the stone streets echoed around them, mingling with the distant hum of the city—voices calling, the clang of metal on metal, the faint strains of a lyre drifting from somewhere unseen.

But they didn’t make it far.

Percy’s horse suddenly reared its head, letting out a sharp, nervous neigh that cut through the air. Its canter faltered, and it came to a jerky stop, hooves scraping against the stone.

“What is it?” Percy murmured, frowning as he leaned forward, one hand instinctively patting the horse’s neck in an attempt to calm it. He could feel the tension in its muscles, the tremor that ran through its body.

The horse neighed again, its head tossing as if in defiance. Its voice was clearer this time, a haunting whisper that sent a chill down Percy’s spine.

“Our father’s house,” it said. “You should visit him.”

Percy stiffened, his hand pausing mid-pat. Slowly, his gaze lifted, following the direction of the horse’s uneasy stare.

The temple loomed before Percy, its design eerily reminiscent of his cabin at Camp Half-Blood. The carved columns, weathered by time but still majestic, bore an uncanny resemblance to the celestial patterns etched into his own cabin walls. The sight stirred a deep, aching knot in his chest. This place should have felt familiar, almost comforting. Instead, it felt like a ghost, haunting him with memories of a life he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back.

His mind wandered to the people he’d left behind, the ones he couldn’t face when he’d disappeared. Camp Half-Blood was fractured, just like him. Annabeth had left first, and her departure had hit him harder than he cared to admit. She’d moved to New Rome, putting an entire continent—and Grover—between them. It wasn’t just the distance that stung. It was the finality of it, the unspoken truth that things would never be the same.

Jason was gone, and his death had cast a shadow over all of them. Even now, Percy couldn’t think of him without seeing the jagged edges of the Seven—broken, battle-worn, and still bleeding from their war with Gaea. No amount of nectar or ambrosia could heal those wounds. And then there was Percy, the one who was supposed to be their leader, vanishing without a word, adding another crack to an already shattered group.

He swallowed hard and turned his gaze away from the temple, unable to shake the thought of Camp. Were they missing him yet? Did they even notice he was gone? He pictured Annabeth at the Senate in New Rome, her sharp mind focused on anything but him. He imagined Hazel and Frank trying to hold everything together, Leo’s nervous energy filling the silence Jason had left behind, and Piper, her voice strained as she reassured everyone that Percy would turn up.

But would he? Would he ever see them again?

The question hit him like a wave, leaving him unsteady. For the first time in years, Percy wasn’t sure if he was a hero, or just another lost kid looking for his mother in a grocery store. 

He took a step towards the temple–his heart longing. 

“Perseus,” Octavian said, his tone clipped. His gilded armor gleamed in the afternoon sun, as if mocking the faded temple behind him. “We must leave.”

Percy tore his gaze from the temple. “Let me make an offering first,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “Then Agrippa can be on his way, and we can return.”

“An offering?” Octavian’s pale blue eyes narrowed, irritation flickering across his face. He shifted his weight in the saddle, his pristine horse stamping the ground impatiently. “Is this really necessary? I know you are devoted to the gods, but they will not mind if you do not pray for one day.”

Agrippa, standing beside his horse with the ease of a man who had seen too much, raised a hand to stop Octavian’s protest. “Let him.” His voice was calm, measured, but there was a faint undercurrent of weariness. “Perhaps some prayer will do these people some good. Maybe the gods will grant mercy upon them.”

He held in a laugh. The gods didn’t grant mercy. They didn’t grant mercy to their children so why would they care about random Roman citizens.

Percy nodded, his throat tightening as he glanced at the villagers who had gathered at a respectful distance. Their expressions were wary, their gaunt faces watching the exchange in silence. Centurions in a city like this was a rare sight, and the townspeople wanted to know why they were visiting. He saw a small boy run off through the crowd, most likely to go tell his friends of the sight. T

“Thank you, Agrippa,” Percy said quietly. He dismounted, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached the temple steps. The wind picked up, ruffling Percy’s dark hair and carrying with it the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs beyond the temple.

“I will be quick,” he called back, though his voice barely carried over the mournful sound of the wind. The men nodded at him, staying on their horses, and letting him go to the temple by himself.

Walking into the temple was like walking through a portal back home. The scent of the sea greeted him. The layout of the place was not unlike his cabin—minus all the bunkbeds of course.  The air felt heavier as he stepped inside. 

In the center of the temple was a large altar covered in thick dust. Neptune was a feared god to the Romans, and not many besides fishermen prayed to him. He was brought back to the small altar at New Rome covered in thick dust. It didn’t matter what century he was in, Neptune was feared.  

Percy traced his fingers along the altar’s cold, jagged surface, letting the chill seep into his skin as he closed his eyes. A faint pulse of power thrummed within the stone, ancient and unyielding. Lowering himself to his knees before the altar of Neptune, he let out a slow breath. It wasn’t his father Poseidon’s domain, not exactly—but it felt close enough. Maybe, just maybe, his father could still hear him, even if the Greek gods no longer held sway over Rome.

“Father,” he whispered. “Are you there?” He could feel a breeze of saltwater blow in, and Percy knew the man was listening. Maybe the god was just as curious of Percy as he was of him. He wasn’t sure what to expect of his roman form. 

He was sure the fisherman on the dock had been him. But, he couldn’t figure out for what reason he had appeared to him. In the future when rules were more relaxed he could still only count the times he met the man on one hand. 

He pulled out a piece of bread wrapped in cloth and put it on the altar. “It’s not blue. But, that's all I can offer you.” It wasn’t a piece of brisket to be thrown into a fire at camp, but it would do. Hopefully Neptune wasn’t picky. 

“Please help these people—help Rome,” Percy murmured, his voice soft but firm as it echoed in the stillness of the temple. “I know what is coming, and I will need your help to face it. I’m torn between the person I was... and the person I am scared to become.”

“I do not know why I am here,” he continued. “I don’t even know if you do. But, I will—”

“To what gods do you pray?”

The voice cut through the silence like a knife, sharp and unexpected.

Percy froze, his words dying on his lips. Slowly, he turned, his hand instinctively flying to Riptide, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice. A young man leaned casually against one of the temple’s marble pillars, faint light filtering through the open roof casting angular shadows across his face. He had a mop of dark curls, startling blue eyes, and chiseled features. 

Though his posture seemed relaxed—almost lazy—there was a cold precision in the way his eyes bored into Percy, like a predator sizing up prey. His lip curled slightly, disgust twisting his expression as if merely looking at Percy was an affront.

“Has anyone ever told you it’s impolite to interrupt someone’s prayers?” Percy asked dryly, though his grip on Riptide tightened. His voice carried an edge of irritation, but he couldn’t help himself. “Manners maketh man.” Did he just quote Kingsman ? Gods, apparently, he did.

The man didn’t react to the joke. His gaze remained steady, cutting through Percy’s words like they were nothing. “I know who you are,” he said, his voice low and laced with disdain.

Percy’s muscles tensed, his fingers flexing against the hilt of his sword. “Do you?” he asked, his tone sharper now. “And who exactly do you think I am?”

“You're a stranger in this country,” The man’s lips twisted into a sneer. “A Graceus, ” he spat, the word heavy with venom. Percy had been called worse things in his life, he supposed. 

“And who are you?” he asked. “I do not think I have had the displeasure of meeting you before.”

The man was silent, so Percy  forced himself to smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Have I done something to offend you, Ser?” he asked, his voice light but carrying a dangerous undercurrent. “Or do you simply lurk in the shadows, waiting to ridicule any patron who comes to pray?”

The man pushed off the pillar, his movements fluid yet deliberate, like a coiled snake preparing to strike. “I was told you would be in this city,” he said, his words cutting through the air like a challenge. “They described you easily enough.”

Percy’s grip on Riptide tightened further. His instincts screamed at him that this conversation wasn’t headed anywhere good. “Who told you?” he demanded, his voice low.

Was this man an assassin? He didn’t feel like a monster, but there was something off about him—something Percy couldn’t quite put his finger on. He must have already been inside the temple when Percy arrived; otherwise, Octavian and Silas would have stopped him at the entrance. Which could only mean one thing... Someone knew Percy was coming.

The man tilted his head, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. “You have enemies.”

Percy scoffed, though his unease grew with every second. “Oh, I’m sure,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “But which one? I’d like to know who I have the honor of entertaining tonight.”

The man’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “I hope you prayed to your gods,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, the threat palpable in the silence that followed. “Only they can help you now.”

The faint, chilling sound of metal sliding free broke the quiet. The man’s sword glinted in the moonlight as he drew it with deadly precision, its polished blade singing like a promise of violence.

Percy sighed, letting the cloth slip away from Riptide. The celestial bronze shimmered in the dim light, its weight perfectly familiar in his hand, like welcoming an old friend. The weapon wasn’t just a sword—it was an extension of himself, a part of his soul.

He tightened his hold on Riptide. He looked behind the man to the entrance of the temple. It didn’t seem like his men were aware of what was happening outside. They would soon. 

“Will you fight me?” the man taunted. “Or will you run like the rest of your kind?”

If I must.”

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut with a resounding bang, the sound echoing off the cold walls. A metallic click followed—a lock sliding into place, sealing Percy inside. The air in the room shifted, as if the space itself recognized the danger caged within it.

From the shadows, a low chuckle echoed—a slow, deliberate sound, full of amusement. “Your friends can’t help you,” the man murmured. “They’re a little… preoccupied outside.”

Percy didn’t flinch. Octavian, Agrippa, and Silas could handle themselves. Whatever attack this man had planned, they were strong enough—and smart enough—to stop it. He met the man’s gaze, his voice steady, lethal in its quiet certainty. “I don’t need them to stop you.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes cold, unyielding. “You should start praying.”

The air between them grew thick, weighted by the kind of tension that could snap like a frayed wire. The man’s smirk faltered for just a second, but it was enough for Percy to see it— hesitation.

Still, he recovered quickly, straightening with a sneer. “You’re trapped in here with me,” he taunted, his voice low, dripping with false bravado. “Are you not afraid?”

Percy held his gaze, unblinking, his eyes as cold and vast as the ocean before a storm. “No.” His voice was quiet, measured. “ You’re trapped in here with me. ”

The man’s smirk vanished. He lunged.

Percy had been waiting for it.

A flash of silver, a glint of steel slicing through the dim light. Percy sidestepped effortlessly, the blade missing him by mere inches. His counter was fluid, almost casual—a shift in stance, a subtle tilt of his head as he let the moment between them. "You’ll have to do better than that." His voice was clipped, edged with amusement.

The next strike came faster. Almost, Too fast. The man wasn’t just strong—he was quick. Blades clashed in a vicious rhythm, the metallic screech echoing through the chamber. Percy barely had time to think as his opponent moved with an unsettling fluidity, weaving through his defenses, probing for weaknesses.

But speed wasn’t everything.

Percy wasn’t as strong as he used to be. But he had experience. He had fought gods, monsters, and Titans. He’d been to Tartarus, and survived. Fighting one man—no matter how skilled—was nothing compared to that.

And yet, this opponent was unlike most Roman soldiers he’d fought so far.  He wasn’t predictable. His stance shifted constantly, adjusting with each of Percy’s movements. He wasn’t just attacking—he was studying. Every parry, every feint, every step Percy took, the man absorbed it, adapted, refined his strategy in real time.

“That sword,” the man growled between vicious strikes, his blade clashing against Percy’s with enough force to rattle his bones. “How does someone like you claim it?”

Percy barely managed to deflect the next blow, the impact sending a jolt up his arm. “You know it?” he asked, twisting to the side and nearly taking the man’s head off with a counterstrike.

The warrior dodged, his movements sharp and practiced. His eyes flickered to Percy’s weapon, something almost reverent in his gaze. “It was once wielded by Hercules,” he said, his breath heavy. “How do you have it?”

Percy tightened his grip on the hilt. “You’re misinformed,” he said, his voice calm despite the fight raging around them. Their swords met again, sparks flying in the dim light. “Hercules wasn’t the first to wield it.”

The man’s expression darkened. His teeth clenched as he pressed forward, trying to force Percy back. “Who are you?” he demanded, muscles straining. “Why would someone pay so much for your head?”

Percy had a few guesses. He’d made more enemies than he could count. Still, the way his opponent watched him—calculating, wary—made it clear. The boy’s skill was unsettling, his instincts too sharp. Only a certain kind of warrior could fight like that, could adapt so quickly in the chaos of battle.

Percy exhaled, feeling the weight of the name before he spoke it. “My name is Perseus Gaius Drusus,” he said, the words foreign, wrong on his tongue. The lie wrapped around him like a second skin, unfamiliar but necessary.

His sword gleamed, steady in his grip. “I’m a soldier of Rome.”

“No,” the man said, shaking his head. “You’re lying. What are you hiding?” Percy was hiding lots of things. He would need to be more specific. 

 Percy’s lips thinned into a grim line. He parried another strike and swung his blade in a wide arc, narrowly missing the man’s head. His opponent ducked just in time, the blade whistling past his ear.

"You’re a Demigod," Percy said, the word rolling off his tongue like an accusation. “No one else would be able to fight me and live.”

The man froze mid-step, his eyes wide with shock. His breathing quickened as realization dawned. "How—" he began, his voice cracking, but Percy didn’t let him finish. 

Percy scoffed. “A son of Mars, I presume?” 

The man's shock was exactly what Percy needed to get the sword from him. All at once, he used the trick Luke had taught him years ago, and the man's sword went flying, clattering on the temple floor. 

The room was silent. The only sound Percy could hear was the man's loud breathing. “Who are you?”

“Oh?” he said, raising an eyebrow at him.  “You don’t know? But you're so informed on everything else.”

“Who are you?” the man pressed. “I was told you were greek—dangerous. But, you’re a demigod, aren’t you?”

Percy’s smirk was sharp, cutting. “Whoever said I was a demigod?”

Suddenly, a shout echoed through the hall, slicing through the heavy air like a blade. “Perseus!” It was Octavian, his voice strained and desperate from beyond the temple’s stone walls. His hands pounded on the other side of the door, his voice desperate

The man exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His eyes darted to the door that Octavian was trying to break down. 

“Why are you still here?” Percy asked. “Any second now that man banging on the door will get in here and not hesitate to kill you.”

The man laughed. “You’re letting me go?” he asked. “Just like that?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Percy said. “Go. 

The man stiffened, but his resolve didn’t waver. “Are you one of us?”

Percy caught the slip— us . His mind raced. There are more of them. The weight of that simple word hung in the air. His eyes flashed to the man's arm, hoping to find the branding of Camp Jupiter, but there was nothing. 

“I am a friend,” Percy said, his voice steady but with an edge of something dangerous beneath it. “I mean no demigod harm.” His eyes never left the man’s.

“I don’t trust you,” the man shot back, his tone firm, his stance unwavering. “If you are on their side, that makes you an enemy. Caesar hunts people like us. You would help him–the man that want us all dead?”

“I am on nobody's side,” he hissed. “And especially not Caesars.” Caesar was hunting demigods? Why was this the first time he was hearing about it. He knew it was dangerous if the man ever discovered his identity, but was the man actively hunting half-bloods?

The man’s eyes flicked to the door, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his posture was palpable. “You really have no idea what’s going on do you? How can you be so oblivious to what is happening?”

“Go,” Percy ordered, his voice lower now, edged with something cold. A dark promise. He tilted his chin toward the exit. “They will not be as merciful. Choose.”

Behind him, Octavian’s shouts grew sharper, laced with panic. “Perseus!” The name was no longer just a call—it was a plea, thick with urgency.

Percy could almost hear the frantic heartbeat on the other side of the door— feel the desperation bleeding through the wood.

His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword. “You’re running out of time,” he said evenly, his sea-green eyes locked onto his opponent. Unwavering. Unforgiving. “Choose.”

The man hesitated, his breath shallow, his muscles coiled like a predator unsure whether to strike or retreat. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck taut with indecision. Defiance burned in his eyes, but beneath it lurked something else—uncertainty, maybe even curiosity.

“I will not forget this,” he said, his voice rough like gravel. Yet, in that moment, he no longer seemed like a threat—just a man grappling with questions he hadn’t expected to ask. 

Percy tilted his head, the motion slow, deliberate—almost mocking. “Good,” he murmured, his tone dangerously even. “Tell whoever sent you that I won’t forget either.”

The man hesitated just a second longer before nodding sharply. Then he turned, his boots striking the temple floor with hurried, echoing steps. The sound faded into the shadows as he disappeared.

Percy moved quickly. If Octavian, Silas and Agripp knew he let the man go…well the were soldiers of Rome. They would not understand. Better let them think the man got the upper hand.

He took his knife and before he could think better of it, he cut the top of his head. Blood poured freely, sticky and wet. He’d have to make sure he cleaned it thoroughly so he didn’t end up dying of some weird infection. He cleaned up the blood on the knife and put it back on his belt. Almost at the same moment, the heavy temple doors burst open with a resounding crash, and Octavian stumbled inside, breathless, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he gasped, bracing a hand against the doorframe as if he’d just run a marathon. A few seconds later, Silas and Agrippa came into view. Agrippa looked like he hadn’t even worked up a sweat while Silas looked like he was about to keel over. 

Percy arched a brow, barely suppressing a smirk. “You okay?” he asked, giving Octavaian a once-over. No visible wounds, just sheer exhaustion.

“Am I okay? Are you okay?” Octavian shot back. “I wasn’t the one locked in a temple with a damn assassin! Gods, what happened to your head?”

Percy waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, he was actually quite pleasant. He heard you banging on the door and ran off. I’m afraid Octavian that you saved my life and I am now indebted to you.”

Octavian’s face paled. “Thank the gods for that. Why was he after you? Did he say that?”

“Apparently, someone paid him to try and kill me,” he explained. 

“Shit,” Octavian hissed. “There's a bounty on your head?”

Percy exhaled through his nose, half a chuckle, half resignation. “Oh, there’s definitely a bounty on my head.”

“Of course there is,” Silas mumbled. “Why does trouble follow you everywhere?” Percy had been asking himself that very same question for his entire life. 

“Shit.” Octavian spun toward Agrippa. “We need to leave. Now.” Percy had to agree with the man on that. However, he wasn’t excited to go back to the barracks. 

He took one last look at the temple—the only real connection he had to his father. He wrapped Riptide back in its cloth, already missing the feeling of it in his hands. If only he could keep the weapon for himself and not deliver it to Marcus. Marcus did not need a celestial bronze weapon like he did. 

As they stepped beyond the temple’s threshold, the aftermath of violence lay bare before them. Three men sprawled lifeless on the dirt, their armor dented, their bodies still. Blood seeped into the earth, dark and glistening beneath the moonlight. It smelled like copper and death.

Percy swallowed, a flicker of guilt gnawing at him, though he hadn't been the one to cut them down. He murmured a quiet prayer, hoping that, despite their fates, they might find their way to Elysium.

Agrippa cleared his throat, a quiet but firm sound that pulled Percy’s attention. “This is where I must leave you,” he said, his voice steady, yet laced with something unspoken—something heavy. “I need to return to the capital.”

Octavian, who had been standing nearby, offered a small smile. “I’ll get your horse ready then.” Without another word, he turned and walked toward the animal, his hands moving with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before. The rhythmic sounds of leather straps tightening and buckles clicking filled the space between them.

As soon as Octavian was out of earshot, Agrippa turned back to Percy, studying him with an intensity that made the younger demigod shift slightly under his gaze. “You know, Perseus,” he said, his voice quieter now, more deliberate, “you aren’t entirely what I expected.”

Percy arched an eyebrow. “And what exactly did you expect?”

Agrippa hesitated, then let out a soft chuckle. “I’m not sure. But certainly not someone like you—not a child of the Claudii.” His expression turned thoughtful, eyes narrowing slightly. “You are nothing like your adopted father.”

Percy smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Then, with an easy shrug, he added, “It was nice meeting you, Agrippa. Try not to stir up too much trouble in the Senate.”

Agrippa let out a laugh—brief, but genuine. “Me? Never. I’d never anger anyone.” But just as quickly as it had come, the warmth faded from his face, replaced by something far more serious. His voice dropped low, and his dark eyes flicked to Octavian, who was busy securing the last of his horse’s tack. “You need to be careful, Perseus. The world is shifting, and not for the better. The Senate is crawling with schemers, men who smile to your face and plot your downfall the moment you turn away. Don’t trust anyone—especially not those close to Caesar.”

Percy followed his gaze, his stomach twisting slightly. “Octavian means no harm, Agrippa.”

Agrippa exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Octavian is like a brother to me—we grew up together. I trust him.” His eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his face. “But even so, be careful. He meets with Caesar often and sends him letters just as frequently. You never know what he might say, what information he might let slip.” His voice turned grim. “You don’t want Caesar’s attention.”

Percy forced a confused look, feigning ignorance. “Why should I be wary of Caesar?”

Agrippa’s gaze sharpened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You know why.”

Percy felt his breath catch, his body going rigid. Did Agrippa know? How? He’d been careful—had barely used his powers, had kept his identity guarded. And yet, the way Agrippa looked at him now, as if he could see right through the facade, sent a chill down Percy’s spine.

Agrippa mounted his horse with practiced ease, the leather creaking beneath his weight. As he took the reins, he gave Percy one last look—one that was both a warning and a plea.

“Goodbye, Perseus Jackson,” he said, his voice heavy with meaning. “Heed my words.”

Then, with a flick of the reins, he was gone, leaving only dust and unanswered questions.

Percy tightened his grip on the reins, swinging them over his horse’s head before pulling himself into the saddle with practiced ease. Octavian and Silas followed suit and Percy could tell that the exhaustion was already hitting them. It was going to be a long journey back. 

“I’m afraid we have no time to stop,” he said, scanning the horizon as if expecting danger to materialize from the shadows. “We ride through the night. We don’t want to risk any more bounty hunters catching up.”

Silas snorted, adjusting his own grip on the reins. “After you, you mean?” His smirk was sharp, and teasing, but an edge was beneath it. “Honestly, I say we just leave you behind. Might solve a lot of problems.”

Percy huffed out a low chuckle, rolling his shoulders. “Don’t make me push you off your horse,” he warned. 

Percy knew now, more than ever, that his secret had to stay hidden. Whatever was unfolding was far bigger than he’d imagined. If the stranger was right, Caesar wasn’t just targeting demigods—he was hunting them. But why? Was it fear? A grudge? Or was there something else going on? 

“You okay?” Octavian asked. “You look lost in thought.”

“Yeah,” he said, tightening his hold on the reins. “I’m fine.” 

But he wasn’t fine. Because at that moment he realized exactly what Agrippa had said to him. He hadn’t called him Perseus Drusus. He called him by his name—his real name. A name that no one could have known.

Perseus Jackson.

Chapter Text

Percy’s hands burned with reluctance as he stepped into General Antonius’s tent, his grip on Riptide tightening like a lifeline. Every instinct screamed at him not to let go. Handing it over to Marcus felt wrong —an unshakable, gnawing unease that curled in his stomach like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Inside, Marcus was hunched over a map, his sharp eyes scanning the parchment with quiet intensity. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across his face, making the lines of his features look even sharper, more defined. Annoyingly perfect, Percy thought. The man was always so composed, every detail of his appearance meticulously in place—clean-cut, masculine, exuding an effortless authority that people in the 21st century had forgotten how to recognize.

Marcus looked up, his expression unreadable, and gave a single nod.

Percy forced himself to step forward, further into the tent, his gaze flickering across the room as if searching for some last-minute excuse to turn back. But there was none.

It was almost surreal—standing before the man whose legacy had been reduced to a tragic love story, a cautionary tale of power undone by passion. It was hard  to believe this was the guy history remembered as a fool for Cleopatra.

With one final, reluctant breath, Percy held out the sword.

Every muscle in his body resisted.

But refusing would invite questions. And questions were dangerous.

Especially when someone was hunting demigods.

"Thank you for retrieving this sword, Perseus," Marcus said, his voice measured, yet his words had an underlying tension. He held the blade with reverence, the polished Celestial Bronze gleaming in the dim light of the chamber. "I’ve heard it was not an easy task?”

“No ser,” he said. “Apparently I have a bounty on my head.”

“Who exactly did you anger?”

Percy had to think about it. If He was in his time there would be a plethora of people. But, the fact was he didn;t know anyone here

Percy hesitated, reluctant to let the sword go. Its weight in his hand felt right—balanced, familiar, as though it had been forged with him in mind. Slowly, he extended it to Marcus, his fingers lingering on the hilt for just a moment longer than necessary.

Marcus took it carefully, holding it up to inspect the intricate craftsmanship. The blade caught the light, casting faint golden reflections across the walls. "It's a magnificent sword, isn’t it?" he remarked, his voice carrying a quiet admiration.

Percy nodded, his gaze fixed on the weapon. "Yes," he said simply, though the word felt inadequate.

Marcus lowered the sword and turned his sharp eyes to Percy. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "I’m glad you like it," he said. "Because it’s yours."

Percy blinked, stunned. "Mine?" he asked, his voice incredulous. "Why?"

Marcus’s smile widened, his tone suddenly light. "Consider it a wedding present," he said, as though the matter were obvious. "It was Agrippa’s idea, actually. If you’re to investigate the recent attacks, you’ll need a sword you can trust. And besides—" he held the blade out, offering it back to Percy, "—it’s Greek. I could think of no better weapon suited to you."

Percy stared at the sword, his heart pounding. Carefully, he reached out and took it, the hilt settling into his grip like it belonged there. He turned it over, admiring the fine details etched into the metal—the delicate patterns of waves and tridents that seemed to shimmer faintly, as though alive.

"Thank you," Percy said, his voice quieter now. "I don’t know what to say."

Marcus chuckled, his tone dismissive. "Don’t say anything," he replied. "Consider it a payment for marrying my daughter."

Percy’s brow furrowed, and he glanced up at the older man. "You don’t have to pay me to marry your daughter, sir," he said, half-joking, though he couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy.

Marcus’s laughter was louder this time, but there was an edge to it that Percy couldn’t quite place. "You might not feel that way when you meet her," Marcus said dryly. His smile twisted into something wry. "She’s… challenging. "

Percy’s grip tightened on the sword, and for a brief moment, he wasn’t sure if Marcus was warning him about his daughter—or about something else entirely.

“I’m sure she’s wonderful,” he said. 

“That’s good because she’s arriving at camp tomorrow”

“She’s arriving at camp tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think it's about time you met her considering you’ll be married by the end of the year.”

Marriage, the more he thought of it the more terrified he was. 

Marriage was like shackles, locking him in place to this new century he found himself in. The more time passed, the more he wanted to go home. He wanted to see his mother, his baby sister Estelle. He missed Grover, Annabeth, Tyson and even Mr.D. 

All he wanted was to be back there, sitting by a campfire, eating smores and telling stories of all their adventures. He hated Ancient Rome, and he hated that he seemed to fit in perfectly. 

Once upon a time, he thought he’d end up marrying Annabeth, and settling down in New Rome. Once upon a time, he wasn’t even sure he would make it past his sixteenth birthday. His life never seemed to go how he expected. 

If he married someone here that would be the end of it. He would put down roots that would make it impossible to ever return. 

“She’ll be here in the morning,” Marcus continued. “I expect you to be on your best behavior. None of that snark you usually have.”

“Of course,” he nodded, although he felt like he was underwater.

“Good,” he said. “You are dismissed. And Percy,” he continued, stopping him in his place. 

He hadn’t been called Percy in a long time. His heart ached to hear his real name. “I say this as a friend, as your future father in law, and not as your commander. Enjoy tonight, because tomorrow everything changes. Meeting the woman you are meant to spend the rest of your life with tends to change someone's perspective on everything.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Marcus.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

Stepping out of the tent did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. If anything, it felt worse—like he’d just handed over a part of himself he’d never get back.

His feet carried him forward without thought, aimless and restless, his body moving while his mind reeled. The weight of it all pressed against him, heavier with every step.

The sun was sinking beyond the horizon, painting the sky in molten golds and fiery oranges. It should have been beautiful. Peaceful, even. But all Percy could think about was how fleeting it was. How every time he found a moment like this, it was always on the edge of something terrible.

No matter the century, I’ll never have peace.

He had only been in Rome for a few months, and yet he was already drowning in chaos. An assassin was after him. Caesar was hunting demigods. Agrippa knew his real name. He was engaged , for gods’ sake.

He almost would have preferred Kronos coming back. Almost.

With a heavy breath, he dropped onto a worn stone bench outside his tent, rubbing a hand down his face.

The sunset stretched before him, golden light bleeding over the camp. For a second—just a second—he could almost pretend he was home. Sitting outside his cabin at Camp Half-Blood, watching the sky burn into twilight.

But then—

A twig snapped.

Percy went still.

The peace shattered.

His muscles tensed. Instinct took over as he gripped Riptide. His eyes scanned the darkness beyond the firelight.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice low but edged with authority. He lifted his sword, its golden glow cutting through the gloom. “Step into the light.”

Silence pressed in.

“I know you're there,” he said. “Step out now, or I’ll alert the entire camp there is a trespasser.”

Then, hesitantly, a figure emerged from the shadows. Small. Hooded. Their face remained hidden within the deep folds of their cloak, the firelight licking at the edges but never fully revealing what lay beneath.

Percy’s grip tightened. His gut reaction screamed assassin—one more name on the endless list of people who wanted him dead. But something about the way they stood, the stiffness in their posture, the hesitance in their steps… it didn’t fit.

They weren’t here to kill him. At least, not yet.

“I said,” he spoke again, firmer this time, his stance unwavering. “Who are you? You will answer when a Centurion of Rome is addressing you.”

The hooded figure let out a soft, almost scoffing breath. “If you have to say your title to gain respect, then you don’t deserve any.”

Their voice was strange—high, unsteady. Too young to be a soldier, but too defiant to be afraid. The words carried the sharp bite of someone used to being ignored, yet unwilling to submit.

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “I’d agree with you,” he said evenly. “But you’re clearly not a member of the legion, which means you’re trespassing. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you over to General Antonius.”

The figure didn’t answer. They stood there, unmoving, hands twitching slightly at their sides. The fire crackled between them, filling the heavy silence.

Percy exhaled through his nose, keeping his voice steady but pressing. “At least give me your name. I’d like to know who I’m addressing.”

A pause. Then, softly—

“I’m nobody.” A flicker of hesitation. “I’m of no importance.”

Percy studied them for a long moment before allowing the smallest smile to touch his lips. “I’ve never met someone that wasn’t important.”

"Forget I was here," the voice said, low and edged with urgency.

Percy didn’t move. His fingers curled instinctively around the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it—yet. "You know I can’t do that," he said evenly. His stance was relaxed, but his voice carried a warning. "Don’t make me call the guards. They won’t be as kind. Just put your hood down."

A pause. Then—

"No."

His jaw tightened. Difficult. Great.

"Perhaps you didn’t understand me," he said, his tone cooling. "That wasn’t a question. Take your hood down. Now. Before I make you."

The figure stiffened. Even through the cloak, he could see the tension creeping into their frame, the subtle rigidity of someone weighing their options—fight, flee, or obey.

Slowly, with clear reluctance, their hands rose to the edge of the hood. With a hesitation so slight he almost missed it, they pulled it back.

The flickering torchlight illuminated her face, and for the first time, Percy felt his breath hitch.

Dark curls cascaded down past her shoulders, framing striking blue eyes that locked onto his, sharp and searching. Her features were delicate yet strong, a face carved with a quiet kind of defiance. And gods —she was beautiful.

Scratch that.

She was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And he’d met Aphrodite.

“You’re a woman,” he said, his voice edged with suspicion. His sword remained steady, its blade gleaming under the flickering torchlight. “What are you doing here?”

She arched an eyebrow, unfazed. “Are you implying I shouldn’t be here simply because of my sex?” Her lips curled slightly, a hint of amusement shadowing her words. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Most men think that way.”

His grip on the hilt didn’t falter. “I don’t care about your sex,” he said, his tone measured. “It makes no difference to me.”

She tilted her head, scrutinizing him as if trying to peel back his words and see the truth beneath. “I find that hard to believe.”

He exhaled sharply, a trace of impatience creeping into his stance. “You’re free to believe whatever you like,” he said. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here? Are you an assassin?” His eyes darkened, scanning her with cold calculation. “If someone thought I’d lower my guard simply because you’re a woman, they made a fatal miscalculation. Women are often far more dangerous than men.”

A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—flashed in her storm-dark eyes before she quickly masked it, her expression smoothing over into cool indifference. "Not many men believe that."

"Well," he said, smirking slightly, "most men are idiots."

She studied him then, her gaze sharp, assessing, as if trying to place him among the faces she’d encountered before. "Who are you?" she asked. "I haven’t seen you here before." Interesting. So this wasn’t the first time she’d been there. For what reason did she have to sneak into the camp?

"I'm Centurion Perseus Drusus," he replied smoothly, tilting his head slightly. "And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

Her brow furrowed at his name, confusion flickering across her face. "Perseus?" she echoed, like she was trying to recall where she’d heard it before. "You're Greek?"

His smirk didn’t waver. "A common misconception," he said. "I’m Roman. And don’t make me ask again—what are you doing here?"

She didn’t flinch, didn’t back away. If anything, her chin lifted slightly in defiance. "I’m not here to kill anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking," she said. "I was just… curious."

His jaw tightened. Curiosity gets people killed.

"Go," he ordered, his voice dropping, carrying more weight than before. "Before I change my mind. And don’t let anyone catch you." He hesitated, then added, his tone quieter but firm, "Not all the men here… not all of them are good men."

For the first time, something in her gaze shifted—an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them, heavier than words.

She understood.

"Thank you," she said, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant, like gratitude wasn’t something she often gave.

Percy didn’t respond right away. He just held her gaze, his expression unreadable, before giving a single, sharp nod. "Don’t let me catch you here again."

She lingered for a fraction of a second longer, then, with a final glance, stepped back into the shadows.

And just like that, she was gone.

She moved like a whisper, vanishing into the darkness as if it were an extension of herself. The shadows swallowed her whole, obscuring every trace of her presence, until even the sound of her footsteps faded into the night.

Percy exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he saw her.

Chapter Text

"Breathe, Perseus," Octavian said, his tone edged with the no-nonsense authority of an officer. "Just breathe."

"I'm trying to," Percy said.

"You’re failing," Octavian muttered.

Easy for him to say. How was Percy supposed to breathe when he was going to meet the girl he was apparently destined to marry in just a few minutes? Gods, this was ridiculous. He was too young for this. He wasn’t ready for this.

His hands curled into fists at his sides as he paced the length of the marble floor, his boots scuffing against the stone. The chamber felt like it was closing in, the weight of expectation pressing down on his chest like a boulder.

"I don’t even know how to talk to girls, Octavian." His voice came out more frantic than he meant it to, but there was no taking it back now.

Octavian scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest like a soldier assessing an incompetent recruit. "What do you mean? You just open your mouth."

Percy shot him a withering glare. "I have only been with one woman in my entire life, and I’ve known her since I was twelve years old. What in Hades’ name am I supposed to say to some girl I’ve never  met?"

Octavian exhaled sharply through his nose as if restraining the urge to roll his eyes. "You could start with ‘hello.’"

Percy groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I can fight monsters. I can lead an army into war. But I can’t talk to a girl? What the hell is wrong with me?" He paused, suddenly catching the slight twitch of Octavian’s lips. His eyes narrowed. "What? What's so funny?"

Octavian let out a sigh, shaking his head. "It’s just—" He tilted his head, his smirk edged with something almost smug. "People at camp think you're inhuman, you know that? They curse your name when you best them in the arena. You fight like a son of Mars, you don’t flinch under pressure, and you actually have honor— which , let’s be honest, is more than I can say for most of the men here. I’ve even heard a few soldiers whisper that you're a god in disguise." He chuckled, shaking his head. "And yet… perfect Perseus is afraid to talk to a woman?"

"I'm ridiculous," Percy muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

"You're human," Octavian said plainly.

Percy nearly winced. Not really. The truth of it settled uneasily in his gut. He wasn’t just human, was he? Not in the way that mattered. And yet, here he was, feeling more like a terrified mortal boy than a seasoned warrior.

Octavian crossed his arms, giving him a pointed look. "Are you ready? You're already late to meet the general."

Percy let out a slow exhale, rolling his shoulders. He was as ready as he could be. Which wasn’t saying much. "Pray for me?"

Octavian snorted. "I don’t think even the gods can help you with this, Perseus. Good luck—and try not to say anything stupid."

For gods’ sake, he shouldn’t be afraid. He had faced Titans. He had been to literal hell. He had stood before the most beautiful woman in the universe—Aphrodite herself—and somehow managed to form words.

And yet, the idea of meeting the woman who was supposed to be his fiancée made his palms sweat.

Taking a deep breath, Percy stepped out of the barracks and into the bright midday sun. The heat pressed down on him, heavy and dry, making the fabric of his tunic stick uncomfortably to his skin. Around him, the camp was alive with movement—soldiers marching in formation, centurions barking orders, the clang of weapons striking shields in the training grounds. Dust rose from the well-trodden paths, kicked up by the constant stream of activity.

The walk to Marcus’s tent felt longer than it should have-like each step was dragging him closer to something inevitable. His boots crunched against the packed earth, the sound swallowed by the din of the camp. He forced himself to keep his posture steady. He would be fine. 

By the time he reached the general’s tent, his pulse was thrumming in his ears. He shoved aside the heavy canvas flaps and stepped in, momentarily blinded by the shift from harsh sunlight to the dim, cooler interior.

Marcus was exactly where Percy expected him to be—seated behind his desk, scanning some report with the sharp focus of a man who had spent his life drowning in logistics. Marcus set the parchment aside the moment he entered, his sharp eyes flicking up to meet his. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

"Perseus," Marcus greeted, rising to his feet with the ease of a seasoned commander. "I’m glad you’re here. Adriana will arrive any moment. Sit, won’t you? Do you need a drink? You look nervous."

Percy exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the tension gripping his spine. "Is it that obvious?"

Marcus’s smile remained, though there was something knowing in his gaze. "Only to those who know you well. Sit."

Percy hesitated for a beat before stepping further inside. The tent was warm, the brazier in the corner casting flickering shadows against the canvas walls. Marcus moved behind the desk, reaching for a heavy flagon of wine. He poured a generous amount into a polished bronze cup before extending it toward him.

"Drink," he said simply, pressing the cup into Percy’s hand.

Percy took it gingerly, feeling the cool metal against his palm, but made no move to bring it to his lips. He had learned early on that alcohol did little for demigods—his metabolism burned through it too fast for anything short of a lot to have an effect. And as much as he would’ve liked to dull the edge of his nerves, getting drunk before meeting his fiancée wasn’t exactly the best strategy.

Still, he turned the cup in his hands, watching the deep red liquid swirl against the light. His stomach twisted as he thought about the next few minutes—about her . About what she would be like. About what this meant for his future.

Future. There wasn’t anywhere he didn't think about his past and everyone else's future. 

“Here she is,” Marcus said, and when he looked up he almost dropped his glass of wine. 

Oh fuck. The fates were messing with him, and laughing at him somewhere. 

The girl that stood in the doorway of the tent was beautiful, stunning even. And under good light and not under the cover of darkness he could actually see her face more clearly. If he had thought she was beautiful last night, it compared to nothing how she actually looked. 

She was frozen in the doorway, but surprisingly she didn’t react. Percy likewise, tried to hold in his surprise. 

“Perseus,” Marcus said. “This is my daughter Adriana—your future wife.”

“This is him?” she asked, turning to her father, and seemingly ignoring Percy. He could tell she was flustered, but she hid it well. “The man who saved your life?”

“He has an odd look about him,” Marcus confirmed. “Greek, but handsome. You could do far worse, you know? I’m sure he’s well endowed.” Someone shoot him now . Why did Percy feel like he was a cow at an auction and they were debating how high to bid for him? 

“I thought he’d be taller,” she said, looking him up and down. Percy didn’t know what to say to that. He was one of the tallest in his cohort and they were not small men in the least. 

Percy blinked. “Excuse me?”

She gave him a once-over, unimpressed. “I just assumed.”

“I thought you’d be shorter,” He said, raising an eyebrow at the woman.

“Why don’t I leave you two so you can talk?” Marcus said, obviously trying to hold in a laugh. He got up from the chair, and Percy shot him a look as if to say help me. He really wished that Marcus would take Percy with him. 

Percy felt a tightening knot in his stomach as he watched Marcus prepare to leave him alone with Adriana. The atmosphere in the room was thick with unspoken tension, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was stepping into treacherous waters.

He could fight an army of monsters any day, take down gods, and giants. But, put Percy Jackson in front of a woman? That was a bad idea. 

“So, Adriana,” Percy drawled, arms crossed as he leaned against the desk. “Is sneaking into military camps at ungodly hours a hobby of yours, or just a one-time poor life choice?”

Adriana didn’t miss a beat. “Have you told my father?”

He tilted his head, considering. “No.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Will you?”

He tapped his chin, dragging out the moment. “Should I?” His lips quirked. “I mean, breaking into a camp full of armed soldiers? That’s either really brave or really stupid. Can’t decide which.”

She huffed. “It’s none of your business.”

Percy shrugged. “Fair point.”

That made her pause. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, like she’d been ready to argue but had lost her footing. “Wait—you’re not going to push?”

He met her gaze evenly. “Look, I don’t know you. You had a life before you met me. You have a right to your secrets.” For a second, something unreadable flickered in her expression. Then, just as quickly, her usual guardedness returned.

“I just need to know,” Percy said, softer now. “It’s nothing that’s going to get you killed, right?”

She exhaled. “No. It’s not.”

“Good.”

A beat of silence passed, stretching just long enough for Percy to shift his weight. Then, she tilted her head. “So. You’re the one I’m supposed to marry?”

He let out a dry laugh. “Try to contain your excitement.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled,” she deadpanned.

“I can tell. The enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

She smirked. “I don’t like being forced into things.”

“You don’t seem like the type to let anyone force you into anything,” He said, and he meant it. 

Her eyes glinted with amusement. “I’m marrying you, aren’t I?”

Percy huffed a laugh. “Touché.”

Adriana didn’t hesitate before steamrolling ahead. “If I am to marry you, we should lay out some ground rules.” Her tone was sharp, decisive—like she was drafting a battle strategy, not discussing a lifelong commitment.

Percy ran a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he said, trying to sound cool despite feeling like he was walking into a trap.

She seemed momentarily surprised that he wasn’t arguing, but she pushed forward. “First and foremost, I do not belong to you.”

He made a face.“Obviously.” 

She blinked. “This is a contract and nothing more. You need something from me, and my father thinks he owes you. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“If that’s what you want,” he said, trying not to sound too disappointed. “ I thought we could try to be friends.”

Adriana’s brows arched, her smirk deepening as though she found the idea ridiculous. “Friends? Of all the absurd things to ask for.”

He smirked, tilting his head ever so slightly, his gaze steady on hers. “Wild concept. Listen, do you want to get out of here? This tent is suffocating."

Adriana studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "I could use some air," she murmured, her voice softer now, almost considering. "Perhaps a walk would do us some good."

The air between them felt thick as they stepped out of the tent, the cool air brushing against Percy’s skin, though it did nothing to steady the warmth pooling low in his stomach. He extended his arm toward her in what he hoped was the proper way—Octavian had drilled it into his head that this was how a Roman man was supposed to court a woman.

She hesitated just a fraction too long, her gaze flicking between his face and the arm he offered before she finally reached out. Her fingers slid over his forearm, her touch burning even through the fabric of his tunic. He swallowed hard, feeling the heat crawl up his neck. 

The cool air outside did little to calm the nerves growing in his stomach. Their conversation was awkward to say the least. They spoke of the weather, of how the troops were faring, of her father. They skirted around the topic of why she had been at the camp last night, even though he had a small inkling of it. 

He hoped he was wrong. He didn’t want to start a marriage if his future wife was sneaking around at night rendezvousing with Thaddeus of all people. It might just put him over the edge. 

But, he couldn’t say anything. She had been forced into this marriage just as much as he had been. How could he deny her the freedom to choose who she wanted to be with? 

Adriana gasped, and Percy looked up to see the subject of her surprise. 

Thaddeus and Octavian were walking straight towards them. 

Shit. 

“Adriana?” Thaddeus’s voice was soft, almost breathless, as though her sudden presence had knocked the air from his lungs. His dark eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face. “What are you doing here?”

Adriana hesitated, her frown deepening as she regarded him. Her posture was straight, and composed, but there was a tightness in her jaw that betrayed the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. Percy didn’t need to know her well to sense the weight of history between them. It hung in the air like an unspoken secret, invisible yet undeniable.

“I’ve come to see my father,” she said at last, her voice steady but not unfeeling. Then, with a slight shift of her gaze, her expression softened into something unreadable. “And to meet Perseus.”

At the mention of his name, Thaddeus’s head snapped toward Percy so fast it was a wonder he didn’t sprain something. His expression contorted like he’d just bitten into something rancid. “Perseus?” His voice held a sharp edge as if the name itself tasted bitter on his tongue.

“That’s me,” Percy said.

Before Thaddeus could retort, Octavian cut in, his sharp blue eyes darting between Adriana and Thaddeus like a particularly dramatic tennis match. “Who is this?” he asked, his sharp blue eyes darting between Adriana and Thaddeus.

Adriana turned to face him, her features sharpening into something coolly authoritative. “I’m Adriana Antonius,” she said, her voice carrying the practiced poise of someone used to commanding a room. “General Antonius’s daughter, and Perseus’s betrothed.”

“Perseus’s betrothed?” Octavian repeated, the words slow and deliberate, as though he needed extra time to process them. His gaze flickered between Thaddeus and Percy, and then something shifted in his expression. A flicker of understanding crossed his face, quick as lightning, followed by a sly smirk that suggested he now saw the full picture. “He didn’t tell me he was betrothed to the General's daughter.”

Had he forgotten to tell Octavian the woman he was marrying just so happened to be Marcus’s daughter? Oops.

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose as if trying to steady himself under the weight of everyone’s stares. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he said flatly, his green eyes meeting Octavian’s with a mixture of exasperation and defiance. “My private life is private.”

The room felt charged, an unspoken tension crackling like static in the air. Thaddeus’s jaw clenched as he looked back at Adriana, his eyes searching hers for something—an explanation, perhaps, or a reassurance she couldn’t give. Percy caught the way Adriana’s fingers twitched at her side, the smallest motion betraying the resolve she worked so hard to project.

Adriana shifted her attention back to Percy, her eyes scanning his face with an unreadable intensity. “Well,” she said, her voice softer now, though the edge of duty still clung to it, “I suppose we should carry on. My father will be wondering where we went.”

Percy nodded stiffly, unsure how to navigate the layers of tension unfolding in front of him. He could feel Octavian’s eyes boring into him, sharp and curious, while Thaddeus’s silence felt louder than any words he could have spoken.

The silence stretched, heavy and taut, until Octavian, ever the opportunist, broke it with a pointed remark. “This is certainly going to be interesting.”

“Adriana,” Thaddeus said, his voice seeping with bitterness. “May I speak with you please.”

She didn’t even blink. “You just did.”

 He looked at Percy and Octavian. “In private.”

She frowned. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”

Oddly enough, Octavian was the one to speak up. “It isn’t appropriate, Thaddeus. You know that.”

“I just—“

“Why don’t we continue our walk?” Percy cut in, sensing this conversation was spiraling into uncharted, headache-inducing territory. “Thaddeus and Octavian have… work to do. Lots of work. Don’t you?”

Octavian blinked. “What—”

“Yes,” Percy barreled on. “The thing. With the shovels.”

A pause.

Then Octavian, ever the opportunist, inclined his head with exaggerated wisdom. “Ah, yes. The shovel thing. Very important.” His voice carried the perfect blend of mock seriousness and barely concealed amusement. With theatrical ease, he clapped a firm hand on Thaddeus’s shoulder. “Come along, Thaddeus.”

Thaddeus, jaw tight and eyes burning with barely restrained fury, flicked his gaze between them, his expression that of a man calculating the most efficient way to commit murder without witnesses. His fists twitched at his sides, but before he could act on whatever violent impulse was brewing, Octavian tightened his grip and steered him away with a forceful tug.

Percy watched them go, resisting the urge to exhale in relief. He could still feel the lingering tension in the air, thick and oppressive, pressing down like a storm cloud that had yet to break.

When they were finally alone, silence settled between him and Adriana like an unwanted guest, heavy and unmoving. He’d never been good with awkward silences—gods, he hoped this wasn’t a preview of what their marriage would be like. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was this suffocating quiet, thick with everything they weren’t saying.

Adriana, arms crossed tightly over her chest, kept her gaze fixed on the ground, the set of her shoulders unusually stiff. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here, and honestly? He felt the exact same way.

Percy raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Adriana, trying to piece things together. "I take it Thaddeus is the reason you were here last night?" The question left his lips without hesitation, though he kept his voice calm, betraying none of the confusion that churned beneath his surface. He’d suspected as much, but hearing it aloud felt different.

Adriana froze, her body stiffening like she was caught in a trap. She jerked her arm away from him, as though the very touch had burned. "It’s not what you think," she muttered, her voice quiet and defensive. She refused to meet his eyes, but he noticed how her fingers trembled slightly, betraying the calm she was trying so hard to maintain.

Percy let out a breath, leaning back a fraction, his expression softening. He wasn’t angry—not yet. In fact, the last thing he wanted was for her to feel like she needed to explain anything to him. "It would be okay if it was," he said gently, the words feeling heavier than he expected. "I don’t blame you."

She looked at him then, shock flashing across her face. For a moment, he thought she might say something, but instead, she only shook her head. "You’re taking this surprisingly well," she said, her voice laced with disbelief. "I’m shocked you aren’t dueling him already."

Percy couldn’t help but smile, but it wasn’t a happy one. "I take it you two—"

"Please don’t," she cut in quickly, her tone edged with something sharp, something raw. "I don’t want to talk about that."

He paused, respecting her request, but he couldn’t let it go. He leaned in just a bit, his voice soft but insistent. "Okay," he said, giving her the space she needed. "But, you know, you can talk to me. That’s what friends do, right? They talk things through."

Her eyes narrowed at him, suspicion and something else swirling in her gaze. "Why are you so obsessed with being friends?" she asked, her voice small but edged with frustration.

Percy felt a pang in his chest at the question. Why was he so desperate for this to work, for them to be something, even if it meant starting with friendship? He ran a hand through his hair, trying to explain without sounding like a fool. "I don’t want to spend the rest of our marriage hating each other," he said quietly, the truth coming out before he could stop it. "Marriage is forever, Adriana."

Her laugh was bitter, almost painful to hear. "People get divorced all the time," she shot back, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Marriage isn’t forever."

"For me, it is," he said, his voice steady. 

She looked at him-really looked at him. 

"You aren't what I expected," she said. 

Percy laughed and offered her his arm which she took graciously. "You aren't the first person to say that, and you won't be the last."

Her mouth upturned a small amount. "Shall we go face my father? I'm sure he's betting if we've murdered each other yet."

"I'm betting on you," he said. 

She huffed a quiet laugh, though something in her eyes dimmed. “You’d be the first.”

That hit him harder than he expected. A pang of something—anger, sorrow, disgust at the world she had grown up in—twisted in his chest. He hated this place. Hated the way Rome treated its women like pawns to be moved across a board. Hated that she said it so casually, as if she had long since accepted it as an unchangeable truth.

He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and gave her arm a light squeeze. “Come on,” he said. “Your father awaits.”

They walked in step, their strides aligning as they made their way back to the general’s tent. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the packed earth, the scent of sweat, steel, and dust thick in the air.

Then, a prickle of unease ran down the back of Percy’s neck.

Instinct kicked in.

He turned his head, scanning the surrounding tents, the clusters of soldiers moving about their duties. But no one stood out—no obvious threat, no immediate danger.

And yet…

Someone was watching them.

Chapter Text

Percy wasn’t sure what to make of his new bride.

After their peculiar conversation a few before, she had been avoiding him with almost surgical precision. Not a glance, not a word—just silence thick enough to choke on. He wasn’t sure if he should feel offended or relieved. Maybe both. She would turn her head if she saw him and then walk the other way. 

Time, she just needed time, he kept telling himself. But even he didn't believe that. 

Of course, the moment he set foot back in his barracks, Octavian latched onto him like a leech, spewing an endless stream of commentary about her—her beauty, her wit, her supposed virtues that Percy had yet to witness firsthand. The words blurred together, a constant hum of noise that made his head throb. It had gotten so annoying that he considered flinging himself off the cliffs near the edge of camp. 

Across the room, Thaddeus sat sharpening his blade, his every movement slow and deliberate, his knuckles tight around the hilt. He hadn’t said anything, but his silence was louder than Octavian’s rambling. Every now and then, he would lift his gaze just enough to shoot Percy a look—one that could cut just as deep as his sword. A warning. A challenge.

And now, Percy understood why.

The sudden shift in Thaddeus' demeanor, the cold stares, the clipped words—it all made sense. Percy wasn’t just some outsider thrown into this mess. He was the one stealing away the girl Thaddeus loved. Whether he had chosen this or not didn’t matter. In Thaddeus’ eyes, Percy was an intruder, a thief.

And maybe, for the first time, Percy felt the same. 

Percy had been on edge since the moment he met her, and it wasn’t just because of the unsettling certainty that someone had been watching them. That part didn’t surprise him—there was always someone watching. It could’ve been Thaddeus, with his stormy glares and clenched fists. Octavian, ever the schemer, waiting for a moment to twist the knife. Marcus, unreadable but ever-present. Or just some nameless soldier lurking in the shadows. The list stretched on, endless and suffocating.

But this was different.

This wasn’t just the paranoia of being observed. It was something deeper, something crawling under his skin like a warning whisper he couldn’t quite hear. A tension in the air, a shift in the wind—like the moment before a blade struck home. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something dangerous was waiting just beyond his line of sight, just around the bend.

The monster attacks, Agrippa’s unsettling knowledge, the assassin slipping through the cracks, Caesar’s relentless hunt for demigods—it was too much. Too many threats, too many loose ends. It all swirled together in his mind, a chaotic storm of half-formed thoughts and unanswered questions, pressing down on his skull until his head throbbed with the weight of it all.

And he still didn’t know how he had traveled back in time. 

That was the most concerning question of all. 

He found himself once again in Marcus’s tent. Adriana was standing to the side, looking uncomfortable with the situation she found herself in. Percy couldn’t blame her. Everything about this was awkward. It was dinner time, and the spread of food Marcus had left out on a table wasn’t helping his concentration one bit. 

“How do you find my daughter?” Marcus asked, his tone casual, but there was something calculating in the way he studied Percy, waiting for his answer.

Of course, he didn’t know what to think of her. She was beautiful, that much was obvious. She was smart and had a mind of her own.  She would probably be dangerous and deadly if she ever learned how to wield a sword. 

But, she hated him. 

He thought perhaps they might be able to find some common ground, but over the past two days she had been avoiding him like the plague. It was hard to get to know someone when they wanted nothing to do with you. 

“Your daughter is listening, you know?” Adriana cut in, her voice sharp, edged with something Percy couldn’t quite place. God, those where the first words he'd hear her say in days. 

Marcus only chuckled. “I told you she was challenging.”

Percy forced himself to smirk, though he didn’t dare look at Adriana. He could feel her gaze burning into him, intense and unrelenting, like she was trying to unravel him from the inside out. He didn’t know if it was anger, resentment, or something else entirely. Probably all of the above.

“I like a challenge,” he said evenly. Then, without thinking, he added, “Adriana isn’t a challenge. She speaks her mind, and she has a brain. She should be allowed to use them.”

Silence.

When he finally risked a glance up, both Adriana and Marcus were staring at him like he’d just sprouted a second head. It was almost comical. Had no one ever spoken about a woman like this before? The realization made his stomach twist. It was ridiculous, really. Most women he knew were far more capable—more dangerous—than men. Zoë Nightshade had been a warrior beyond compare. Thalia Grace could level an entire battlefield with nothing but her glare and a well-placed bolt of lightning. And Annabeth Chase? She could outthink and outmaneuver gods.

The list of competent women he knew was far longer than the list of competent men.

“Good,” Marcus said, as if Percy had just passed some invisible test. “You two should count yourselves lucky to have met. Your wedding will be in three months. Take the time to get to know each other. Few people from your station get that opportunity. You should be spending every moment trying to get to know one another instead of avoiding each other." His eyes flashed to Adriana.

Three months. It felt like an eternity and yet no time at all. Three months to figure out who Adriana would be to him. A stranger? An enemy? A lover? He had no idea. But in three months, everything could change.

“Perseus,” Marcus said. “In the mornings I’ll relieve you of your duties, so you and Adriana can get to know one another.” Marcus was clearly trying to play matchmaker. It looked like he might actually care if they liked each other or not. 

Great, another reason for his men to hate him. Octavian would never let him hear the end of this. 

He nodded at the man, and Marcus smiled. “I had the cooks prepare a meal for you two. You can eat it in my tent while I’m in a meeting.” He gestured toward a tray of food spread out on the low wooden table.

Percy’s gaze flickered to the food, and despite himself, his stomach tightened with hunger. The tray was piled high with rustic loaves of flatbread, still warm and dusted with coarse flour, the scent of baked grain wafting through the tent.

Perseus,” Marcus said before he left. “There are soldiers outside who can hear everything.”

His face felt like it was on fire. “Thank you for the reminder, Ser.” Gods, that was mortifying. Did Marcus really think—He probably did think Percy would try something since that's what he would have done in his place. 

The man simply smirked before he left them awkwardly in the confines of the tent. Gods, he was mortified. 

The fire between them crackled, sending shadows dancing along the walls of the tent, their elongated figures shifting like specters. The warmth did little to cut through the tension hanging thick in the air. Adriana sat across from Percy, her posture deceptively relaxed, but he could see the sharpness in her eyes, the way she studied him—not with curiosity, but calculation.

Percy moved to the table, sitting awkwardly. He poured himself a goblet of ruby wine. It was at moments like these that he wished he could get drunk. Adriana moved, sitting across from him, but she didn’t touch any food. 

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

Percy nearly choked on his drink. The warmth of the liquid turned to fire in his throat, and he set the cup down with deliberate care, his fingers tightening around its rim. He met her gaze warily. “What kind of question is that?”

“A reasonable one,” she said smoothly, tilting her head just slightly, like a predator assessing its prey. “I need to know if my future husband will have any mistresses.”

His expression hardened. “I would not dishonor you so, Adriana.” His voice was steady, edged with something firm, unyielding. “It doesn’t matter what my past was. You are to be my wife.” Wife, he didn't even want to think of the word. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her gaze never wavered. The firelight reflected in her dark eyes, making them gleam with something unreadable. “So?” she challenged. “That’s never stopped a husband before.”

His jaw clenched, his fingers curling into a fist against his knee. “I will not bed another woman while I am married to someone else. I hope you will do the same.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. But he saw it—the flicker of something dangerous in her eyes. A hesitation. A thought unspoken.

Thaddeus.

Percy didn’t look away. He saw the way her fingers tensed around the fabric of her dress, how her throat bobbed as she swallowed down whatever words threatened to escape. A battle was waging inside her, and he wasn’t sure which side would win.

Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his luck. His voice dropped low, quiet, but sharp as a blade. “Will you?”

She hesitated.

Gods, she hesitated.

His stomach twisted, an ugly knot pulling tight in his chest, and he hated that it did.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice barely more than a breath. “The past is the past. You are my future.”

Percy leaned back, exhaling slowly, forcing himself to release the tension coiled in his shoulders. “Don’t sound too excited.”

A flicker of amusement touched the corner of her lips, almost a laugh—almost. But not quite. And then, she tilted her head again, her expression shifting back into something unreadable.

“You never did answer my question,” Adriana said, her voice light, but there was an edge to it. “Have you ever been with a woman?”

Percy’s fingers stilled against the grain of the table.

“Yes,” he admitted, the word falling from his lips like a stone into deep water.

Adriana tilted her head, dark eyes glinting with curiosity. “Who was she?”

For a moment, the tent around him faded. Instead, he saw her —golden hair catching the sunlight, storm-gray eyes full of fire and intellect, a smirk that had once driven him insane, a mind sharper than any blade. Annabeth.

Once, he thought she would be his forever. They had been unshakable, a team that could conquer anything.

Funny how quickly forever could turn into never again.

His throat tightened. He looked away.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, his voice quieter now.

Adriana leaned in slightly, voice dropping but no less sharp. “You had no problem questioning me about Thaddeus.”

Percy’s gaze snapped back to hers. A flicker of something passed through her expression, something taunting, but not unkind. His chest ached, but his voice was cold when he spoke.

“She’s dead.” The words came out harder than he intended. Final. Unforgiving. “Let it rest.”

For the first time, Adriana hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” she said. And for once, she sounded like she meant it. “I shouldn’t have pressed.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s okay. It’s not a secret. It was years ago.”

Annabeth wasn’t dead. Not really. But she might as well have been. She hadn’t even been born yet, and Percy knew, with certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would never see her again.

Adriana studied him for a long moment. “I guess we both have difficult pasts,” she murmured. Then, after a beat, she nodded toward the sword hanging at his hip. “My father—did he give you that?”

Percy glanced down at Riptide, its familiar weight a comfort against his side. “It was a wedding present.”

“Right,” she said, moving her hand through her hair. “A wedding present.”

Hades, she sounded like it was the worst thing in the entire world.

“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she said, standing from the table. The chair screeched as she moved it across the floor. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

“Wait,” he said, standing up from the table. “I’m sorry.”

She kept walking, leaving the tent and Percy continued to follow her. Sure, enough the guards Marcus had mentioned where outside, but they didn’t follow them. 

She whipped her head back. “Stop following me!” 

She kept walking, moving towards the edge of the bluffs where a river raged below. It was beautiful really, and he would have commented on it if she wasn’t so angry. 

The wind screamed around them, pulling at Adriana’s cloak as she stood at the cliff’s edge, her fists clenched at her sides. The river below was a roiling mass of black water, the waves crashing violently against the jagged rocks. The air was thick with salt, the taste of a storm lingering on the wind.

“Adriana,” he said her name. “Please.” 

She stopped, and he wasn’t really sure why she did. 

“It’s not you,” she whispered–so softly he almost didn’t hear it. “Gods, you aren’t the problem. I hate that you’ve been—”

“What?”

“You’ve been kind considering the circumstances,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just. I don’t want to be married. I don’t want you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He tried not to feel hurt by her words. But, something in her eyes broke him. She looked so young–far too young to be married. Adriana stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching for him, but whatever she was looking for, she either didn’t find it—or refused to accept it.

The wind howled between them, not just a whispering breeze but a force that clawed at their clothes, stole the warmth from their skin, and filled the empty space with something vast and unrelenting. The distance between them was only a few feet, yet it felt insurmountable—a chasm carved by resentment, fate, and choices neither of them had made.

And for the first time, Percy wondered if no matter how hard he tried, she would always see him as a stranger. He was the man who had uprooted her life, a storm that had torn through everything she knew. No matter what happened, some part of her would always hold resentment for him.

“You can call me Percy,” he said, his voice steady, measured—an anchor against the chaos around them.

She raised an eyebrow. "Percy? What kind of name is that?”

 “It’s what my family has always called me,” he said. “Perseus is far too serious. I hate it. It makes me sound like something I'm not." 

Her gaze flickered over him, unreadable, the wind whipping strands of hair across her face. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m trying,” he said. His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “I know you don’t want me. I know you love someone else, and that I will never be enough for you. But I’m trying.”

The wind surged, rattling through the trees, howling so fiercely it seemed to carry whispers within it. Adriana’s hair billowed behind her, strands twisting wildly in the air, and she had to clutch the ends to keep them from whipping into her face.

But the wind kept building—too fast, too unnatural.

Percy’s gut twisted. Something was wrong.

A prickling unease crawled up his spine as the howling deepened, growing not just in force but in sound. It wasn’t just the wind anymore. There was something beneath it—a low, droning wail that didn’t belong, like a voice carried from some faraway void.

He felt it before he saw it.

The air around them shifted, thickening with an invisible pressure, the way the sea felt before a wave came crashing down. His instincts flared, screaming at him.

“We should get out of here,” he said sharply, his eyes scanning the sky, the ground, the shadows that stretched too long around them.

The wind shrieked.

Too strong. The sound of it was too strong.

Then he saw it—something dark, something massive, something moving.

His heart slammed into his ribs.

“Look out!” Percy’s voice tore through the chaos, raw with urgency.

She looked up, but it was far too slow. 

Without thinking, he lunged, shoving Adrianna hard enough to send her sprawling into the dirt. Alecto’s jagged claws slashed the air where she had been standing a heartbeat before, missing flesh by inches. The Fury shrieked in frustration, her wings beating the air with a thunderous snap.

“Roll!” Percy barked.

Adrianna barely had time to react, but she twisted, dirt and gravel scraping against her arms as she tumbled. A moment later, Alecto dived, her talons gouging deep furrows into the ground where Adrianna had been.

Percy was already moving. He sprang to his feet and yanked Adrianna up with him, his grip firm but urgent. In one seamless motion, he reached for Riptide on his belt.  He leveled it at Alecto, his sea-green eyes burning with something sharper than anger.

“I killed you,” Percy said, his breath steady despite the wildfire of adrenaline coursing through his veins. His grip on Riptide was firm, the blade gleaming under the dim, flickering light.

Alecto’s lips curled back, revealing yellowed fangs in a grotesque mockery of a smile. Her black, depthless eyes glinted with something dark—something hungry. “Clearly,” she rasped, her voice like rusted chains grinding against stone. “You didn’t do a good enough job.”

Percy flexed his fingers around his sword, knuckles tightening until they blanched. His stance remained unwavering, but his stomach coiled with the familiar tension of facing something that refused to stay dead. “I was really hoping you’d spend at least a few years in Tartarus,” he said, his tone almost conversational, though his muscles remained taut.

Alecto’s wings flared, the leathery membranes stretching wide, casting jagged shadows that slithered over the ground like living things. The air around her seemed to darken, the scent of sulfur thickening. “Disappointed?”

He looked at Adriana—her eyes wide next to him. He needed to get her out of there. He could kill Alecto easily but not if she was there. 

“Not really.” Percy smirked, twirling Riptide with practiced ease, the blade cutting the air with a sharp whisper. “It’s fun killing you.”

Alecto tilted her head, her grin widening, unnatural and predatory. “That sword,” she murmured, her gaze tracking the movement of the celestial bronze. “Where did you get it?”

“This little old thing?” Percy spun it once more before letting it settle into a steady grip. “I don’t know. But I bet it hurts like a bitch.”

He never took his eyes off Alecto as he shifted, planting his feet with subtle precision. His voice was low but firm as he spoke to Adriana. “When I tell you, I want you to run. I’ll hold her off. You need to find your father.”

“What–”

He kept his eyes on the fury. “Run, Adriana!” he screamed at her. “Run!”

Chapter Text

Adriana, to his complete and utter dismay, refused to move.

She stood her ground, fists clenched at her sides, her chest rising and falling with uneven, panicked breaths. The wind whipped around them, carrying the sharp scent of rain and the lingering sting of sulfur from Alecto’s presence. The air was thick, humid—too warm for comfort, like the oppressive weight of an oncoming storm. The dirt beneath their feet was dry and cracked, but Percy knew that if he let loose, if he truly called upon the sea, he could turn the battlefield into something entirely different.

But he couldn’t. Not with Adriana here.

Percy wasn’t sure if he respected her for her sheer obstinance or despised her for it—because right now, she was making everything so much harder for him. Without her, he could stop holding back. He could unleash his full strength, drown Alecto in a tidal wave, or freeze her mid-air with a single thought. But with the way things were now? He had to play human.

And that was getting more difficult by the second.

“No,” Adriana said, shaking her head, her voice tight with fear. “She’ll kill you.”

Percy exhaled sharply, frustration flickering beneath his concern. The heat of battle pressed in around him, the charged air buzzing with tension. "I’ve killed her before, Adrianna," he said, his tone unwavering, edged with something dangerously close to exhaustion. "I can kill her again."

"But—"

"Please!" His voice cracked like a whip, raw and desperate. The wind picked up, rustling through the trees, the distant sound of crashing waves growing louder in his ears. He was running out of time.

Adrianna flinched but didn't back down. Her brown eyes—wide, terrified—locked onto his. "You’re just a man, Perseus," she murmured. "And she is..." Her breath hitched, uncertainty flickering across her face.

Then, suddenly, she moved.

Before Percy could react, her trembling fingers brushed against his cheek. He barely had a moment to process the touch before she pressed a fleeting, unsteady kiss there. The warmth of it lingered, fragile yet grounding, like a single ember in the cold.

She pulled back, meeting his gaze. "Don’t die," she whispered.

Percy gave her a small, lopsided smile, squeezing her hand just once in reassurance. "I won’t."

“I’m going to distract her,” he said. “Run.” She nodded, and Percy turned his attention back to Alecto who was watching their interaction with nothing but disdain. 

The fear in Adriana's eyes didn’t fade, but she turned and ran, her footsteps pounding against the dry earth as she disappeared toward the camp.

Percy charged Alecto, taking her attention away from the fleeing girl. The Fury loomed ahead, her leathery wings half-unfurled, sending powerful gusts through the clearing. The force of them rattled the trees, shaking loose brittle leaves that spiraled around her like dying embers. The stench of rot clung to the air, mixing with the electric charge of the storm waiting to break.

The clock was ticking. The sky was taken off his shoulders as he watched Adriana disappear into the camp. 

Thank the gods.

"Alecto," Percy seethed, shifting his stance as his fingers curled tighter around Riptide’s hilt. "What the hell do you want?"

The Fury grinned, her thin lips peeling back to reveal jagged, yellowed fangs. Her eyes gleamed, dark and hungry, as leathery wings flexed behind her, their slow, deliberate rustling sending a shiver through the stale air. "I thought that was quite obvious," she purred, voice dripping with venom. "Your death."

Percy rolled his eyes. "Obviously. But why?" People always wanted him to die, she was going to have to clarify. 

Alecto tilted her head, the movement eerily avian, and let out a low, rasping chuckle. "Do you really not know?" she mused. "You’ve made someone very, very angry."

A smirk ghosted across Percy’s lips, but his grip on his sword remained firm. "I make a lot of people angry," he said, tone casual but edged with wariness. "It’s kind of a hobby of mine. You’re gonna have to be more specific."

Alecto’s grin widened, a gleeful malice glinting in her eyes. "You really don’t know, do you? Have you lost your memory?" Oddly enough, this time he had all of his memories intact.  Her talons curled in anticipation. "You have something that doesn’t belong to you."

If Percy had a nickel for every time a Fury accused him of theft, he’d have—well, two nickels. Not a lot, but weird that it had happened twice. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t just ask him civilly if he stole something. It would stop a lot of stress on both ends. But, Alecto had always been a kill first ask questions later type of monster.

He exhaled sharply. "What exactly do you think I stole?"

"That sword in your hand!" she seethed, her wings snapping open in fury. "It does not belong to you. It belongs to—"

"The only person who can lay claim to this sword is the huntress Zoë Nightshade," Percy cut in, his voice cool and unwavering. "And maybe Hercules but he's an asshole. I wouldn't give this sword to him even if he begged me for it."

Alecto’s dark eyes flickered with something unreadable. "You know its history?" she murmured. "Not many do. How do you claim it?"

Percy twirled the blade absently, the celestial bronze glinting in the dim light, its edge catching like liquid fire. The weight was familiar in his hand—solid, sure—but now it carried an accusation heavier than the metal itself. "It was a gift," he said, voice firm despite the unease twisting in his gut.

Alecto let out a furious hiss, her fangs glistening with venom. Her wings snapped open, stirring the air into a suffocating swirl of sulfur and dust. "It does not belong to you!" she shrieked, voice like nails against stone. "It belongs to the Son of Hades! The demigod you murdered!"

The words slammed into Percy harder than any monster’s strike. He barely had time to process them before Alecto dove, her talons slicing through the space he had occupied just seconds before. He rolled hard to the side, dirt grinding against his skin as he barely avoided being gutted.

Springing to his feet, he thrust Riptide outward, the blade steady in warning. But Alecto wasn’t interested in warnings. She let out another ear-piercing shriek and charged again, wings propelling her like a missile of fury and vengeance.

This time, Percy was ready.

That familiar tug in his gut pulled tight, an instinct older than thought. The moisture in the air around him shuddered, answering his call. In the span of a heartbeat, water coalesced, freezing midair into a jagged spike of ice. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it hurtling toward the Fury.

Alecto’s yellow eyes widened in shock, but she was fast—too fast. She twisted mid-flight, her tattered wings snapping open as she veered sharply to the side. The ice shard whistled past her, missing by inches before embedding itself into the ground with a sharp crack, splintering the earth like shattered glass.

Percy gritted his teeth and sent another. Then another. Each one sliced through the air, deadly and precise. But Alecto moved like smoke, twisting and dodging with infuriating ease, her serpentine form slipping between his attacks like water through cupped hands.

His pulse quickened. The power coursing through him felt intoxicating, like stepping into his true skin after months of suffocating inside a lie.

It was a dance—fluid, instinctive. After so long suppressing his abilities, now he let them surge freely. The night air thickened with the scent of saltwater and ozone as he wove between Alecto’s strikes, every movement a seamless flow of attack and evasion. He struck with waves that crashed like miniature tsunamis, sent jagged ice spears hurtling through the dark, forcing her to dodge again and again.

Back home, he would’ve ended this in seconds. A well-placed tidal wave, a surge of power—she’d have been nothing but a memory.

But something was different here.

Alecto was stronger, faster, her presence more suffocating than it had been when he was twelve. Maybe it was the weight of prayers, whispered by fearful mortals in the dead of night. Maybe it was the land itself, old and steeped in blood, granting her strength.

Whatever it was, she was not the same Fury he had faced all those years ago.

And that was a problem.

Murder. A demigod had been murdered. And somehow, because of the sword in his hand, Percy had become the prime suspect. Man, he was really tired of people accusing him of things he didn’t do. Why couldn’t they just ask him nicely and without trying to kill him?

His grip tightened. "I would never harm a demigod," he said, his voice low, steady, but laced with growing anger. "What changed? You didn’t even know me the last time we met. Why do you suddenly think I killed someone?"

"You have his sword!" she snarled, wings flaring as she dove again. “How else would you come to have it? He would not give it to you willingly!”

Percy braced himself, muscles coiled, heart hammering against his ribs. "I told you—it was a gift!" he snapped, dodging to the side just as Alecto lunged. His breath came faster now, the weight of the fight pressing in. "I picked it up in the town of Cosa’s!"

He dodged again, flinging his sword up at her. Despite the urge to kill her quickly, he was learning more information in the past few minutes than he had in the entire time he’d been in Rome. 

Steadying his breath, he began toying with the beast. He darted quickly around her, never giving her the opportunity to bury her teeth into his flesh. 

“I would never kill a demigod,” he said, in between dodging. “But, I will help you find out who killed this son of hades if you give me the chance.”

There was hesitation in the fury's eyes, so quick he almost missed it. “Give me a chance,” he almost begged. “Give me a chance and I’ll find out why people are hunting demigods.” 

For a split second, his concentration wavered. Out of the corner of his eye, movement caught his attention—Adriana. And she wasn’t alone.

Shit.

She’d done exactly what he asked and brought help—Marcus, and Octavian. They were running toward him, weapons drawn, ready to fight. But they had no idea what they were up against.

He clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t have told her to get help. He should have told her to run. Now, with them here, he couldn’t keep using his powers without raising questions. And worse—he’d have to take Alecto down the old-fashioned way.

Alecto’s gaze flickered toward the approaching group, and a wicked, knowing smile stretched across her decayed lips. "If you won’t tell me the truth," she cooed, her voice sickly sweet, "then perhaps their deaths will encourage you?"

She shot toward them in a blur, her massive wings beating against the air with hurricane force. The gust sent leaves and dust spiraling into the sky, nearly knocking Percy off balance.

Marcus, Silas, and Octavian barely had time to process the danger before the Fury was upon them. Swords drawn, they stood firm, gripping their weapons with white-knuckled determination.

But they weren’t demigods.

They were only men.

And they didn’t stand a chance.

Percy willed himself to move faster, stepping between the romans and the fury. 

“This is between you and me,” he yelled up at her over the sound of her wings. “Leave them be.” His eyes flashed to Adriana, watching everything unfold. 

He shouldn’t have done that. 

Alecto caught his glance, and her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. Her yellow eyes gleamed with cruel amusement.

“Oh, you care about this one, don’t you?”

Then, with a powerful beat of her wings, she dove.

“No!” The word tore from Percy’s throat, raw and desperate, but the Fury was already moving, her talons outstretched, a blur of shadow and teeth.

Marcus saw it too. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, shoving his daughter to the ground and stepping between her and death itself.

Alecto shrieked—a piercing, unnatural sound that rattled Percy’s bones. Claws flashed in the moonlight, streaked with black venom. She struck with inhuman speed, her leathery wings kicking up a storm of dust and debris. Octavian and Marcus barely had time to react before she cut through them. With a single, brutal swipe, she flung them aside like ragdolls.

They hit the ground several feet away with a sickening crack . Limbs twisted unnaturally. Bodies went still. Unconscious. Or worse.

Percy’s pulse roared in his ears. The night had never felt colder.

 He ran as fast as he could towards Adriana who was pushing herself up from the ground. She moved towards her father,  but Alecto moved faster. It didn’t matter how good with a sword he was or how fastr he was—he couldn’t stop the Fury from flying toward her.

The pull in his gut was undeniable, ancient and raw. It wasn’t fear. It was power—an intoxicating rush that felt like stepping into a birthright he had too long ignored. His blood sang, his veins burned with something more than rage. The world around him responded, eager to obey.

He reached out, and the water answered. It surged from the roots of plants, bled from the cracks in the stone, rose in shimmering tendrils from the river far below. Even the sweat on his skin twisted into his command. The droplets hardened midair, sharp as obsidian, countless spears of ice catching the light like a thousand tiny daggers. Sharp enough to kill even Achilles. 

With a single motion, he let them fly. One by one, the ice shards found their target. Alecto screamed—a raw, guttural sound that cut through the night—but she didn’t fall. The spears buried themselves into her flesh, yet instead of collapsing, she turned to him with a slow, agonized smile. As if the pain had only made her stronger.

Then—movement. Alecto lifted her arms, muscles tensing like coiled steel. She slammed them into the ground.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A sickening crack split the air.

Percy’s breath hitched as a deep, shuddering tremor rolled beneath his feet. A low, groaning sound echoed through the cliffs, ancient stone protesting the sudden violence. The ground shifted, fractured. Small pebbles tumbled first, bouncing chaotically before larger chunks followed, plummeting into the void below.

His stomach twisted.

The air around him thickened, vibrating with the power of something ancient, something breaking free.

Then, the cliff split apart.

And then suddenly, the cliff fell apart before his eyes.

Rocks tumbled into the water far below, swallowed by the depths in an instant. The ground where Adrianna had stood was gone.

Their eyes met—wide, panicked—before the earth beneath her vanished, dragging her down with it.

Percy didn’t hesitate. 

The moment Adrianna disappeared; his body moved on instinct and sprinted to the cliff’s edge.  The roar of the collapsing rock still echoed in his ears, but none of it mattered. Without a second thought—without fear, without doubt—he hurled himself over the edge, diving headfirst into the darkness after her.

End of Part One

Chapter Text

PART TWO

THE SON OF HADES

A thousand knives plunged into her body the moment she hit the river. Cold water—colder than she could ever imagine came rushing for her all at once, taking away every rational thought. 

The first thing she did when she hit the water was breathe—her first mistake. Salty water forced itself down her throat, filling her lungs, and chest. Someone once told her that drowning was the most painful way to die. She never believed them until now. 

Adriana was going to drown. Only eighteen years old and she was as good as dead. Fuck. 

Her arms burned as she shoved them above the water, muscles straining against the river’s pull. The moment her head broke the surface, she gasped, sucking in cold air that seared her throat. Water gushed from her mouth in violent coughs, but she had no time to recover. The current yanked her forward, raging like a wild beast, dragging her downstream faster than any galloping horse.

The river roared in her ears, deafening, relentless.

She barely had time to take a breath before the water wrenched her under again.

Darkness swallowed her.

Icy currents slammed against her, twisting her like a rag doll. She thrashed, kicking hard, arms clawing through the black water. Nothing. No sense of up or down. Her lungs screamed for air, panic slamming into her like a war drum in her chest.

Swim. Move. Find the surface.

She flailed wildly, but the river gave her nothing. Her hands sliced through the void, her legs pumped against the crushing weight, but for all she knew, she was swimming straight into the abyss.

Her lungs locked up. Breathe. They demanded it. Now.

Something slimy slithered against her ankle—reeds, or worse. A fish darted between her legs. Broken branches scraped her arms, jagged and unyielding. Then—pain.

A blade of fire tore through her side, white-hot and blinding. Her body convulsed, the agony stealing what little strength she had left. A scream tried to break free but only sent a fresh surge of water flooding into her mouth.

No. Keep fighting. Don’t stop.

Her limbs slowed. Her mind blurred. The river dragged her down, eager to claim her.

Then—hands.

Strong. Solid. Human.

Fingers locked around her waist, unshakable and sure. A force pulled her upward, tearing her from the river’s grip.

And then, as if the world itself had mercy, her head broke through the surface. Air. Sweet, glorious air. It rushed into her lungs, filling them with the most incredible relief. She didn’t know if she had ever truly breathed before this moment.

“It’s okay,” a voice murmured, low and steady despite the chaos. “I’ve got you.”

She barely registered the words, her mind sluggish, drowned in the weight of exhaustion and near-death. Water roared in her ears, the river’s current still trying to drag her back, but strong hands held her fast. She turned her head, dazed, blinking through the stinging spray—Perseus.

Her breath hitched. He was here. Had he jumped in after her? The fall should have killed them both—jagged rocks, shallow waters, the sheer force of it all. She had barely survived. How had he?

Yet there he was, his face set with determination, dark hair slicked back, water beading down his cheekbones. His grip on her was unyielding, his arms coiled with effort as he half-swam, half-dragged her through the swirling current. Every muscle in his body flexed against the river’s fury, moving with an unnatural strength, a defiance against the pull of the deep.

She didn’t fight him. She couldn’t. Her limbs were heavy, her chest burning, but he was an anchor, dragging her toward the shore, toward solid ground.

The moment they hit the sand, she collapsed, trembling and breathless, her body spent. Her fingers dug into the damp earth as if to remind herself she was still alive.

Perseus loomed over her, his own breathing ragged, water dripping from his tunic in heavy rivulets. His gaze burned into hers, a mix of concern and something unreadable.

“Are you okay?” he rasped, his voice rough, edged with something sharper than exhaustion.

Adriana blinked up at him, still trying to process the fact that he was here—that he had jumped in after her. Water dripped from his dark hair, tracing down his face in thin rivulets, catching on his jaw before falling away. He looked wild in the half-light, but not in a way that frightened her. There was something steady in his sea-green eyes, something that anchored her even as she shivered.

“You jumped in after me?” Adriana’s voice came out breathless, her chest heaving, fingers digging into the soaked fabric of her chiton as if grasping for stability. The river’s chill clung to her skin, seeping into her bones, but the shock of seeing him here—of him saving her—made it impossible to focus on the cold.

“Of course.” His response was immediate, unwavering, as if the very thought of doing anything else was ridiculous.

She stared at him, searching his face for some hint of hesitation, some crack in the armor of his certainty—but there was none. Just the steady weight of his gaze, fierce and unwavering, like he would have fought the entire river itself if it meant getting to her.

“But—”

“Is your leg okay?” His tone sharpened, cutting through whatever argument she might have made. His eyes flicked downward, scanning her with an intensity that made her stomach twist.

She followed his gaze, but the heavy, waterlogged folds of her chiton hid the damage. Not that she needed to see it to know it was bad. Pain pulsed through her calf, hot and sharp, a constant, nagging throb that sent tremors up her spine.

“It’s fine,” she lied, forcing steel into her voice.

His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek, and for a moment, she thought he might call her bluff outright.

“I need you to be honest with me, Adriana.” His voice softened, but the urgency remained, pressing against her like an unseen force. “If I’m going to get us out of this, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

There was something about him—something that unsettled her. He wasn’t like most Roman men she had known. There was no cold detachment, no expectation of obedience. Kindness wasn’t a common trait among them, yet he wielded it effortlessly, without hesitation. And still, he carried himself with an unshakable certainty, a quiet power that hummed beneath the surface, restrained but ever-present.

Who was he?

Her shoulders sagged. She dropped her gaze, ashamed. “It’s not fine.”

“I didn’t think so.” He nodded, the corners of his mouth pressing into a thin line, as if he had already known the answer.

His fingers hovered near her ankle, hesitant yet deliberate. “Can you roll up your chiton?”

The question sent a strange jolt through her, though she couldn’t place why. Maybe it was the way his voice dipped lower, steady but expectant. Maybe it was the way his hands, so battle-worn and strong, looked as if they belonged to someone who had spent a lifetime wielding a sword—but now, they hovered inches from her skin, waiting.

Heat flooded her face. Did he realize what he was asking of her? “I—”

“I won’t hurt you, Adriana,” he said softly, his voice steady, grounding. “But I need to see how bad it is.”

Swallowing hard, she nodded and hesitantly gathered the heavy fabric, pulling it up just enough to reveal her leg. The sight wasn’t reassuring. A jagged gash ran down her calf, raw and angry. Blood mixed with the murky river water, streaking her skin.

Perseus’s touch was impossibly gentle as he examined the wound. His fingers were rough with calluses, but he handled her as if she might break. From his bag, he pulled out a cloth and a small container. The sharp scent of alcohol stung her nose before he even opened it.

“This is going to hurt,” he warned, his stormy eyes flicking up to meet hers. “But if I don’t clean it, infection will set in.”

“Infection?” The word sent a new kind of fear through her. She didn't know what it meant, but from the look on his face, she knew it wasn’t good.

Perseus didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked up toward the trees, his entire body tensing like a predator catching the scent of something dangerous. His damp curls clung to his forehead, water dripping from his jaw. When he looked back at her, there was something darker in his expression—something protective.

“She’s hunting us,” he murmured, his voice low and tense.

Adriana swallowed hard, a knot forming in her throat. “Who?”

Before she could press him further, he uncorked the container, and the sharp, pungent scent of alcohol filled the air between them. The moment the liquid touched her wound, fire shot through her leg, searing her flesh like molten metal.

She gasped, her fingers digging into the dirt beneath her, her breath stolen by the excruciating burn. “Gods—” Without thinking, she grabbed Perseus’s hand and squeezed—hard. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to mind, his grip steady and unwavering.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re going to need stitches.”

Adriana had heard men swear before but hearing it from Perseus was somehow jarring.

“Is it that bad?” she asked, her voice tight, gritting her teeth against the pain.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said, his gaze unwavering as he met her eyes. “It’s not good.”

“Just… do what you need to do,” she said through clenched teeth, forcing herself to focus despite the agony.

Perseus handed her the flask of liquor, and her stomach churned at the sight of it. Her hands shook as she took it, the weight of it heavier than she expected.

“It’ll help,” he said, his voice steady but knowing. “It won’t take away all the pain, but it’ll dull it.”

Her palms slick with nervous sweat, she brought the flask to her lips, and with a shuddering breath, tipped it back. The fire of the liquid poured down her throat, scorching its way into her chest. Gods, this is awful, she thought, but she forced herself to keep drinking, each swallow like molten heat searing her insides.

When she finally pulled the flask away, Perseus took it from her gently, offering a small but encouraging smile.

“Better?” he asked, his tone almost teasing despite the gravity of the situation.

She couldn’t answer. Her entire body still throbbed with the pain, but the liquor had given her something to hold on to, something to brace herself with.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice rough but gentle.

She looked up at him, forcing herself to meet his gaze, even as her heart fluttered in her chest. His eyes were steady, and unwavering.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice dropping even lower, the words just for her.

She nodded, unable to speak, her mouth dry as the fear began to settle deep in her stomach again.

Perseus’s fingers hovered over the gash, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His touch was careful, reverent, as if he were afraid, she might shatter beneath his hands. When he pressed the needle to her torn flesh, a sharp sting jolted up her leg, and she sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice steady, his presence grounding. “I’ve got you.”

Then, with painstaking precision, he threaded the needle through her skin.

The bite of it was immediate, raw and unforgiving, as each slow, deliberate stitch pulled her flesh back together. She clung to Perseus’s hand, her nails digging into his palm, and bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. The scent of blood and saltwater clung to the air between them, thick and metallic, and the distant roar of the sea seemed to echo the pounding of her pulse.

Her world narrowed to the steady rhythm of his hands, the unyielding warmth of his grip, the unbearable pull of each stitch. Then, as suddenly as the pain had flared, it dulled into something heavy and aching—a deep, throbbing pulse beneath her skin.

She let out a shuddering breath, her body sagging with exhaustion, swallowing down the sob that threatened to escape.

“You did it,” Perseus murmured, his thumb brushing against her temple as he smoothed back a stray lock of hair. His voice was gentle, full of quiet pride. “It wasn’t too bad, was it?” She would have laughed if she weren’t still trembling. 

A loud screech flew through the air, and the fury screamed overhead, searching—searching for them. 

“We need to get to the woods,” he shouted. 

Without asking, one of his arms wrapped under her legs, and around her back. He lifted her up, carrying her to the nearby woods. He kept walking, journeying further into a dense forest, until the canopy was so thick that it covered them completely. 

He rested her down against a tree trunk, his eyes never once leaving the sky above them. 

“Why is she after us?” she asked him.

Perseus' face went pale, his expression tightening, but he kept his eyes still on the sky. “I don’t know.”

He was lying. Adriana could see it in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched, and his gaze flickered away from hers. He knew exactly why that creature was hunting him. What had he done to provoke such a monster, to make it come after him with such relentless fury? She had to wonder—what kind of man was this, to bring something like that down on them?

He rose to his feet, offering her his hand. His fingers were long, strong, but she hesitated before accepting it. She didn’t trust him. Not after everything that had happened. Not after this. But her body was already betraying her, weak from the exertion, and for a moment, his warmth felt like the only anchor in the storm. She took his hand, and he pulled her up, his grip firm. As she stood, her legs buckled slightly, and she stumbled. His other hand shot out to catch her waist, and for a split second, she felt the heat of his touch, the force of his strength holding her steady.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice low, the sound a little too gentle for comfort.

Adriana bit her lip, trying to ignore the way her pulse skipped. “I’m fine,” she said, forcing the words out, even though the ground beneath her still felt unsteady.

A beat of silence passed. The kind that was full of unspoken words.

“Liar.” His lips curled into a barely-there smile, but his voice had dropped into something darker, something sharper. It made the hairs on her neck stand on end. “There’s an inn not far from here. About an hour’s walk. They should be able to help us.”

Liar. The word echoed in her mind like a drumbeat. He was the one lying, not her. There was something in his eyes that didn’t match his words, something off about the way he looked at her—like he was hiding something. And she wasn’t foolish enough to think she could trust him.

“Put your arm around my shoulder,” he suggested, his tone casual, but she could sense the underlying insistence. “I can support you. Don’t want those stitches tearing. Looks like the river dragged us several miles from camp. With your leg and her still hunting us, it’ll take us days to get back.”

Days? The thought made her stomach churn. The idea of being alone with him for that long—of relying on him for anything—was almost too much to bear. She had to keep her distance, to stay sharp, to never let her guard down. Anything could happen in those days. He could—

She shook her head, trying to clear the knot of unease in her chest. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, as though sensing her discomfort. His words were meant to reassure, but they only made her feel more exposed, like she was walking on the edge of something dangerous.

“My father is going to kill you,” she said, her voice low but steady, every word laced with the weight of her distrust. “He’s going to think the worst of you after being alone with me.”

Perseus’ expression darkened, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe? Or was it something else? “I know.” He sounded resigned, but there was an edge to his voice, something almost daring. “But what’s the worst that could happen? He forces me to marry you?”

Her arm wrapped around his shoulders, and he hoisted her up. Immediately a rush of pain moved throughout her body, making her gasp. 

“I know,” he said, tightening his hold on her. “But it’s just a couple miles.”

Adriana had a feeling they were going to be the longest miles of her life.

Chapter Text

The inn—or hospitium as the Romans called it—was far grander than Percy had expected. After months of sleeping under canvas with 30 other men, the sight of solid walls and a tiled roof felt almost surreal. He had grown so accustomed to the militaristic simplicity of camp—dirt-packed ground, crackling fires, the endless smell of smoke and sweat—that he had nearly forgotten the grandeur of Rome.

It wasn’t quite a hotel, at least not in the way he imagined luxury. More like a sprawling villa, its outer walls lined with painted frescoes that had faded under the sun. The air inside was thick with the scent of spiced wine and warm bread, a far cry from the rations he had survived on for far too long.

The real prize, though, lay beyond the main hall—a bathhouse nestled at the back of the inn, its entrance framed by pillars of white marble. Through the open archways, steam curled into the cool evening air, carrying the promise of hot water and relief. His muscles, stiff from weeks of marching and battle, practically begged for the chance to sink into the baths and scrub away the layers of grime that clung to his skin like a second armor.

Rome might not have felt like home, but at least for tonight, it would be enough.

“Hello?” he called, his voice cutting through the quiet hush of the inn.

For a long moment, nothing stirred beyond the dimly lit corridor. Then, the door creaked open, and a man stepped through, his bare feet whispering against the stone floor. He clutched the folds of his toga in one hand, his expression lined with the exhaustion of a long day.

“It is late,” the innkeeper muttered, his gaze flicking between the two of them. His brow furrowed slightly, lingering on Adriana’s disheveled form, the damp edges of her chiton clinging to her skin.

“We need a room, some food, and a bath, Ser,” he said, steady but firm. “Our journey has been long, and we need rest.”

The innkeeper exhaled, studying them with the wary eye of a man who had seen all manner of travelers cross his threshold. His lips pressed into a thin line before he gestured them inside.

“You look like you’ve traversed through Tartarus,” he said. “Come in, come in.”

They stepped forward into the warmth of the inn, the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine curling through the air, a stark contrast to the damp chill still clinging to their skin. A single oil lamp flickered in the corner, casting long, wavering shadows along the walls.

The innkeeper rubbed his chin, considering. “I do have one room available,” he finally said. “You’re in luck—most rooms have been sold for Bacchanalia.”

His words hung between them, unspoken implications settling in the space like dust. One room.

Adriana stiffened beside him, but she said nothing.

The innkeeper’s gaze sharpened ever so slightly. “Shall I prepare it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

She didn’t comment on it, and for that he was extremely thankful. They’d have to deal with the whole one bed situation after they were cleaned and fed. 

The man led them deeper into the villa, guiding them past a spacious dining hall bathed in the warm glow of flickering oil lamps. The scent of roasted lamb, honey-glazed figs, and spiced wine thickened the air, mingling with the low murmur of conversation. Reclining couches lined the room, each occupied by patrons draped in flowing tunics, propped on their elbows as they plucked morsels of food from bronze platters. Some diners gestured lazily as they spoke, while others let out indulgent sighs, eyes half-lidded in contentment. 

“If you’d like to bathe first,” the innkeeper offered as they reached the corridor, “we can have your food brought to your room.”

“That would be lovely,” Adriana said smoothly, offering a polite smile. “Thank you.”

The innkeeper returned the smile, his sharp eyes flicking between them with quiet curiosity. Then, with an amused tilt of his head, he asked, “Are you two newlyweds?”

Adriana didn’t falter. “Yes,” she said smoothly, warmth threading through her voice like a golden thread in fine silk. “We’ve only been married a week.”

“Ahh,” the man chuckled, his weathered face softening with fond amusement. “The honeymoon phase. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

His words were light, meant as nothing more than idle conversation, yet as the innkeeper turned away, a weight settled between them like a stone dropped into still water. The lie had come too easily—practiced, natural.

They walked in silence until the innkeeper stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, its surface worn smooth by years of use. He rested a hand on the frame. “Here is your room. Let us know if you need anything. The bathhouse is in the back. There is a separate section for men and women.”

Percy murmured his thanks, then pushed open the door, stepping inside. The room was small, intimate. Flickering lamplight cast shadows across the frescoes painted on the walls—scenes of gods feasting, of nymphs dancing beneath the boughs of olive trees. A single window let in the cool night air, carrying with it the faintest hint of salt from the distant sea. In the center of the room sat a modest bed, its frame sturdy, its mattress covered in soft linen that looked far too small for two.

He swallowed, the reality of their situation pressing in around him. The room was meant for lovers, which they were anything but

“I’ll take the floor,” Perseus said with a lopsided smile, though the thought of it already made his spine ache. The wooden planks looked about as inviting as a bed of nails. But his mother had raised him right—he wouldn’t let Adriana sleep on the floor, and offering her the bed was the only decent thing to do.

“It’s big enough,” she countered, her cheeks tinged with a deepening flush. She shifted her weight, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“Adriana,” he sighed, turning toward her. “We aren’t married yet.” His voice was firm, but he couldn’t ignore the way his pulse ticked a little faster as he said it. “Besides, I think your father would kill me if I breathed too close to you.”

She lifted her chin, a glint of something sharp flashing in her eyes. “Do you always do everything my father says?”

“I—” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

“We can share the bed, Perseus,” she said, voice level but laced with something unreadable. “Don’t make a spectacle of it.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, thick as a storm cloud. Then he exhaled, feigning nonchalance. “Alright,” he murmured. “If you're sure.”

Truthfully, he was relieved. He needed sleep—real sleep, not the kind stolen in fits between cold stone and restless dreams. 

“We should bathe first,” she said. “I’m covered in river water, and blood.”

“Alright,” he said. “Why don’t you go over? I’ll be there soon.” 

She didn’t question him, only nodded before slipping out of the room. He waited until the sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor before turning toward the simple wooden basin resting on a low table near the window.

Communal baths weren’t exactly his thing. Something about them felt too exposed—too many strangers sharing the same water, voices echoing off marble walls, the weight of other people’s gazes. He’d take a private shower over a human soup any day.

With a quiet sigh, he reached for the ceramic pitcher and poured cool water into the basin. The surface rippled under the flickering lamplight as he dipped a cloth into it, then ran it over his arms, scrubbing away the dirt and dried sweat of the day. The soap beside it—an ancient Roman mixture of lye, tallow, and olive oil—left a slick, unfamiliar residue on his skin. It cleaned well enough, but it didn’t lather the way modern soap did. It smelled earthy, almost metallic, nothing like the fresh, crisp scents he was used to.

Once he was clean, he left to go grab them some food from the kitchens. Even a piece of cheese and bread would do wonders to sate his hunger. The cook, an older woman–a slave from Britannia, helped him fix a plate for the two of them. He snuck two gold coins into her hands as they left. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something. 

With the plate of food in hand, he returned to the room, the quiet settling in his chest like a weight. The door creaked as he opened it, and he set the food down on the small wooden table by the bed. Adriana lay there, looking much better than she had earlier, her face more peaceful, though still pale from her ordeal. He lingered for a moment, watching her steady breathing, the rise and fall of her chest like a quiet rhythm in the silence of the room.

“Adriana?” he murmured softly, his voice barely a whisper. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t stir. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. She was already asleep. 

Percy did end up sleeping on the floor. Or rather, he ended up lying there, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion clinging to his bones but never quite dragging him under. The steady rise and fall of Adriana’s breathing filled the cramped room, and he couldn’t bring himself to wake her just for the sake of a mattress. It didn’t matter—he’d sleep when they got back to camp.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Percy was pretty sure Adriana hated him—or, at the very least, barely tolerated his existence. He couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t exactly winning any trust points by keeping secrets, and she could probably sense it. People usually could.

But what was he supposed to do? Just come out and say it?

Oh, by the way, I’m from the future and also half god. Crazy, right?

Yeah, that would go over well. She already looked at him like she was waiting for him to slip up, to prove whatever suspicion she had about him was true. If he told her the truth, she wouldn’t just dislike him—she’d think he was insane.

He also had a bigger problem. He liked her…He wanted to hate her—it would make everything easier for him

A flickering glow seeped in from beneath the door, casting long, shifting shadows across the floorboards. Percy tensed. His fingers twitched toward Riptide as he slowly pushed himself upright, careful not to make a sound. The air in the room felt heavier now, thick with something unspoken, something wrong.

Then he heard it.

Creeeak.

A pause.

Creeeak.

Back and forth, back and forth. Someone was standing just outside the door.

A slow chill prickled down Percy’s spine. His pulse thumped, steady but alert. He didn’t like this. Not one bit

Adriana didn't stir, her breathing steady and deep, oblivious to the sudden shift in the atmosphere. He leaned closer, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, his senses sharpening. The faintest noise echoed through the stillness—a soft creak, a muffled shuffle, as though someone was moving just beyond the door.

He reached over and shook her gently, his fingers brushing against her arm, urging her awake. Her eyes snapped open instantly, wide and frantic, darting around the dimly lit room. The shadows clung to the corners, the air thick with tension.

"Something is wrong," he murmured, his voice a thread of urgency woven through the dim quiet of the room. The words pressed against the still air, thick with an unspoken warning.

Adriana stirred, blinking away the haze of sleep. Shadows clung to the corners of her vision, her mind sluggish as she rubbed at her eyes. "What do you mean?" she rasped, her voice still rough with sleep.

Percy's gaze was sharp, his body taut like a coiled spring. "Someone is outside our door." His whisper carried the weight of steel, and he tilted his head slightly, listening—straining—for the faintest sound beyond the threshold.

Adriana stiffened. The last remnants of sleep vanished in an instant, replaced by the electric prickle of adrenaline. In one swift movement, she pushed herself upright, her spine straight, her breath steadying into silent, practiced control.

Percy moved like a shadow, his steps featherlight against the wooden floor. One hand ghosted toward the hilt of his weapon, while the other hovered over the door handle, fingers curling around it with lethal precision. The tension in the room tightened, stretched thin like a blade ready to snap.

Then—he struck.

The door flew open with a violent crash, the force rattling the walls. Before the intruder could react, Percy seized him by the scruff of his shirt and hurled him inside. The man staggered, barely catching himself before slamming against the far wall.

"You!" Percy's snarl was low and edged with fury. Gods, he thought bitterly. He knew he’d regret sparing this bastard. He shoved the man hard against the door, pinning him there, the blade of his sword flashing as it came to rest against the stranger’s throat. The cold, unforgiving steel pressed against his skin, forcing him still.

"What the hells are you doing here?" Percy demanded.

The intruder—the assassin he met in his fathers temple.  His breath came shallow and measured, his hands raised in cautious surrender. "I came to warn you," he said, voice tight. "Hades is sending his men after you tonight. They plan to kill you in your sleep."

Percy's grip on his weapon never wavered. His eyes flicked over the man, searching for deceit, but found only grim certainty. "And why the hell would you warn me?" he pressed. "You tried to kill me yourself."

The man exhaled sharply, something bitter flashing behind his eyes. "You let me go," he murmured. "Consider the debt repaid."

Silence stretched between them, thick as smoke.

Adriana stood still beside him, her gaze locked on the stranger, unblinking.

"Why is Hades after me?" Percy asked, his voice a blade’s edge.

The man gave a humorless scoff. "Are you really asking that? Hades hates you. You killed his son."

Adriana’s breath hitched. A sharp, almost imperceptible reaction—but Percy felt it like a knife to the ribs.

His stomach knotted. What?

"Refresh my memory," he said coldly, forcing his voice to remain even. Whatever the other Percy had done… it must’ve been before he arrived in this world.

The man’s eyes darkened. "Last year," he said. "Hades’ son challenged you after you—" he hesitated for half a beat, then continued, his tone laced with disgust. "After you assaulted his sister. He never got the chance to fight you. He died before the duel even started—poisoned in his sleep."

A deadly, suffocating silence fell over the room.

Adriana turned to him slowly, her expression unreadable. "Perseus?" Her voice was soft, but laced with something else—something sharp beneath the quiet. "Did you really?"

Percy’s jaw tightened. He looked her dead in the eye. "No," he said. "I'm not lying."

The man gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Everyone knows what happened. Your pater covered the whole thing up.”

"I swear on the River Styx," Percy cut him off, his voice sharper now. The air around them crackled, the ancient magic seeping into the walls. "I did not kill him, nor did I assault his sister."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The man’s expression flickered—something like shock, maybe even fear, creeping into his face.

"How do you know that oath?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper now, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was a tremor in his voice, a crack in his composure. "It’s ancient. Only—"

“I am not sure who you think I am,” Percy said. “I told you I was on your side. You have to understand why.”

"I see," he said, his voice measured, though his mind churned beneath the surface. "So I was right. Does your betrothed know?"

Percy exhaled slowly. "No one knows except my pater," he admitted, his tone clipped, deliberate. "And I would like to keep it that way. You know who is hunting us."

The words settled in the room like a blade pressed against a throat—sharp, cold, dangerous.

Adriana’s gaze flickered between them, something tense and frightened flashing in her eyes. She didn’t believe him. Of course, she didn’t. Why would she? Percy had been lying through his teeth since the moment they met. Lies were the only armor he had left.

The man studied her, then turned his gaze back to Percy. "Let's discuss this downstairs," he said evenly. "You have some time before they get here. Three hours at the least."

Percy’s jaw clenched. He glanced at Adriana. If he left her alone in this room to talk to an assassin, she'd never trust him again. Not that she trusted him now—but this would seal it.

But what choice did he have?

He couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t explain. Not when Caesar was hunting his kind. Not when Marcus swore fealty to Caesar, and Adriana was bound by blood to her father. If she knew the truth, it would destroy them both.

She’d turn him in. She’d have no choice.

He would be dead by morning.

A cold weight settled in his stomach.

"Alright," he said finally, and the moment the word left his mouth, he regretted it.

Adriana’s glare was instant—sharp enough to cut.

She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to. He could see it in her eyes. She was already imagining a hundred different ways to kill him.

And for the first time, Percy wondered if, by the end of this, she actually would.

Chapter Text

She needed to leave. And she needed to leave now.

During Perseus’s conversation with the strange man, her mind kept circling back to his accusations—assaulting a woman, murdering a man. What kind of person was Perseus? What kind of person did those things?

The thought of staying near him made her skin prickle. She didn’t need him. She had been raised in these woods, their shadows and winding paths as familiar to her as the lines on her palms. The whispering trees, the scent of damp earth—this was her home, not his. She could find her way back to camp without him. She could find her father without him.

With quick, precise movements, she gathered what little belongings she had, snatching up a loaf of bread left over from the dinner Perseus had procured for them. Her fingers trembled as she tied the bag shut, but she ignored it. There was no time for hesitation, no time for second-guessing.

She could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her, a quiet voice in the back of her mind whispering that this was a mistake. Running now might change everything. But she couldn’t afford to think about that—not about what Perseus might do if he caught her, not about the unanswered questions clawing at the edges of her mind.

The only thing that mattered was getting out. Getting away. Before it was too late.

Perseus was still in the other room, his voice a low murmur as he spoke with the stranger. It was the perfect escape, if the monsters ever did end up attacking he would be too worried about them to find her. 

She didn’t linger. Moving swiftly, she slipped through the doorway, careful to keep her footsteps light. Their room was tucked away in the back of the hospitium, right beside a seldom-used rear entrance—her escape route. If she moved fast enough, she could be long gone before he even realized she was missing.

She didn’t want to imagine that he was a monster, but she didn’t want to stay and find out. If he was a good person, this would all be water under the bridge at some point, and they would laugh about it at their wedding anniversary in years to come. She just didn’t know who he was, and unfortunately Persesus wasn’t being very forthcoming.

The moment she stepped outside, the darkness swallowed her whole. It was a thick, oppressive black, deeper than the caverns beneath the earth, heavier than the air in a storm. Darker than Tartarus. She hoped she wouldn’t regret this.

The air felt different out here—thicker, laced with something that made her skin crawl. The night was too quiet, the usual rustling of leaves and distant chirps of nocturnal creatures absent, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. She tightened her grip on her sack, quickening her pace. She had made her choice. There was no turning back now.

Footsteps echoed behind her—too close.

"Why, hello," a voice drawled, smooth but laced with something sharp beneath it. "Aren’t you beautiful?"

Adriana didn’t break stride. She didn’t even glance over her shoulder. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, but she kept her expression blank, her gaze fixed ahead. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to disappear into the trees, but she knew better. Running would only make her prey.

The man let out a scoffing breath. "Well," he mused, his tone shifting, hardening. "That isn’t very polite."

The footsteps quickened.

Adriana’s breath quickened. The air smelled of damp stone and the faint, acrid scent of oil-burning torches, but beneath it lingered something fouler—sweat, wine, and the metallic tang of trouble.

A hand shot out, rough fingers closing around her wrist.

She screamed and twisted, but the grip tightened, yanking her back.

The voice slithered into her ear like a snake, its rasping whisper thick with malice.

“Not so fast,” the man sneered, his breath hot and rancid against her skin. “You’re alone, little dove. Let’s have some fun.”

She jerked forward, desperate to run, but his grip tightened like an iron shackle. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she wrenched at his hold, twisting, clawing—anything to break free. She stepped on his feet, clawed at his throat—she would not go easily. 

Then, cold steel kissed her throat.

Everything inside her went still.

Her blood turned to ice, her limbs locking up as if she had been turned to stone. The knife pressed harder, biting into her skin, and a slow, stinging warmth trickled down her throat.

“Move,” he murmured, his voice a razor’s edge of amusement. “And you die.”

His breath, thick with the rancid stench of rot and ale, ghosted over the back of her neck, making her stomach churn. She wanted to recoil, to flinch away, but his grip was a steel vise, unyielding. The blade at her throat was sharp enough that the slightest wrong movement could be her last.

No. No. No.

This can’t be happening.

Adriana wasn’t religious—she didn’t believe in the gods. But, she prayed. She prayed to anyone who would hear her. 

His fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt, tugging, and the silk whispered against her legs as it lifted. The cold night air bit at her exposed skin, her body trembling—not just from fear but from the sheer helplessness sinking its claws into her chest. Panic clawed up her throat, but no sound came out. She could barely breathe. Her body felt like it had turned to stone, every muscle locked in place as if moving would shatter her into pieces.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Think. Move. Fight. But how? She was trapped, bound by the blade at her throat and the sick amusement in the man's voice. One wrong move and she would be dead, but somehow being dead might be better to the alternative.

The knife pressed in deeper. A fresh sting flared across her skin, and warmth trickled down her neck. The sensation barely registered past the roaring in her ears. The world had shrunk down to the feel of his hand, the rasp of his breath, the growing certainty that she would never leave this place alive.

Then—

A sharp clang of metal rang through the suffocating silence.

Her eyes snapped open.

Perseus stood in the shadows, his sword gleaming under the moonlight, the steel reflecting a deadly shimmer. His stance was rigid, his grip on the hilt unwavering, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something she had never seen before. A storm brewing beneath the surface.

“Let her go,” he said, his voice cold as iron. “Now.”

Her chest heaved, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Relief and terror tangled together, knotting in her ribs. Was she saved? Or had she just run from one monster to fall into the hands of another?

The man behind her let out a low, mocking chuckle. “Oh? And who is this?” His grip on her tightened possessively. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t in the mood for sharing.”

Perseus took a step forward. His sword gleamed under the stars, but it was his voice that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Run,” he said. His tone was almost bored, but there was something beneath it, something sharp and merciless. “Run before I decide to sheath my sword in your blood. It’s more than you deserve.”

Something in the way he spoke, in the way he stood—utterly still, utterly certain—made the air shift. The night itself seemed to pause, as if even the darkness was holding its breath. Before, she hadn’t seen the centurion in him, just the politician's son raised with a golden spoon in his mouth. But the man in front of her now wasn’t the one she had come to know over the past few days. He was terrifying. 

And for the first time since this nightmare began, Adriana wondered if perhaps Perseus was so much more than what he pretended to be. 

The man’s expression twisted with annoyance. He glanced at Perseus with defiance. “Who the fuck do you think we are? I’ll do as I please.”

Perseus didn’t waver. He stepped forward slowly, his sword still poised and ready, and his voice rang out with finality: “Let her go. I won’t give you another warning.”

Adriana’s breath was shallow as the pressure around her neck lessened. She could feel the man’s grip loosen as he hesitated, uncertainty creeping into his actions. The tension between the three of them was thick, but Perseus stood his ground, his focus never shifting.

“No,” he said, his voice like a blade gliding over stone. “I don’t think I will.”

Then, all at once, the man's hands went slack. His grip on her vanished as if his strength had been stolen from him, and she didn’t hesitate—she wrenched herself free, stumbling back. The air around them crackled with something unseen, something wrong.

A strangled gasp tore from the man's throat. His hands flew to his neck, fingers clawing desperately at his skin as if invisible hands were tightening around it. The man collapsed onto his knees, writhing, clawing at his throat with raw, frantic desperation. His eyes bulged, terror warping his face into something barely human. He was dying—but there was nothing killing him.

She staggered back, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Perseus. He stood perfectly still, his sword untouched by blood, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his eyes—something cold, something ancient.

Was he doing this? But how?

His eyes were locked onto his victim, dark and unyielding.

“Please let me go,” the man yelled. “Spare me.”

Adriana's stomach twisted violently. She could still feel the phantom weight of his hands on her, the scrape of his blade against her throat. He deserved this, didn’t he? He would have—he would have—

But the way Perseus watched him, unblinking, unmoved… that terrified her more than anything else.

He had been kind to her. He had protected her.

But now… now she wasn’t sure who he was.

“I told you. You only get one warning,” he said, his voice devoid of mercy.

And then, in one swift motion, he drove his sword through the man’s stomach.

The blood hadn’t yet hit the ground, but Perseus was already in motion. He grabbed her arm, yanking her behind him with a force that left no room for hesitation. His body shielded hers, pushing her out of the way with swift, practiced efficiency.

“Don’t look,” he commanded, his voice low and urgent. But she couldn’t obey. Her gaze locked onto the man, watching as his blood poured out in a dark, steady stream, pooling on the ground as his body hit the earth with a thud.

Perseus turned sharply, eyes scanning her for any sign of injury, any flicker of distress. “Are you okay?” His voice was tight, his concern barely concealed.

She nodded, but her attention never wavered from the body, her mind still trying to process what had just happened.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice low but growing more insistent, each word sharpening with authority. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She remained rooted in place, her gaze locked on the still, lifeless form before her, as though it held her in a trance she couldn’t break.

With a sudden, deliberate movement, Perseus stepped forward. His hand shot out, gripping her chin firmly, forcing her face upwards. His fingers pressed into her skin, his touch commanding, yet not without a strange tenderness. He locked eyes with her, the intensity of his stare holding her captive. There was no escape from it, no way to look away. “At me,” he said again, his voice steady but unwavering, like a rope pulling her out of the storm. “It’s going to be okay.”

Her heart raced, but his eyes, unwavering and resolute, anchored her. She blinked, the weight of his words pressing down on her, pulling her back from the brink of panic. For a moment, she didn’t know if everything would truly be okay, but in that instant, all she could do was trust him. Trust the man standing before her, whose eyes now held hers like a lifeline.

“We have to get back,” he said, his tone urgent. “Someone will have heard that.”

“No,” she replied, her voice firm, though tinged with a resolve she hadn’t expected from herself. “I’m not going back.”

Perseus’ eyebrows knitted together, a brief flicker of frustration crossing his features before he masked it with calm determination. “Now is not the time, Adriana. We need to move.”

She jerked her arm free from his grasp, her fingers curling into fists as she stepped back, defiance lighting her eyes. “No,” she repeated, her voice more resolute. “I’m not going with you.”

Perseus, however, wasn’t swayed. Without another word, he moved with swift efficiency, grabbing her arm again, pulling her with him. His grip was unyielding as he guided her away from the alleyway, and despite her struggles, he didn’t falter. She fought against him, her body tensing, but he didn’t let go. They reached the back door of the Hostinuim in silence, and he threw it open with a quick, practiced motion, ushering her inside.

The building was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only came when everyone had already retreated to their rooms for the night. The air felt thick with silence, and it weighed heavily on Adriana’s chest.

“Let me go,” she snapped, her voice strained as she yanked against his grip. But her efforts were in vain. Perseus moved with a purpose, not even acknowledging her protest, his steps unrelenting as he half-dragged her toward the back hallway.

She should have just gone with him. He had saved her life, surely if he meant to harm her he wouldn’t have. But,  she still couldn’t forget the accusations of that man. 

They moved through the darkened halls, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls, as Perseus guided her to their room. He opened the door with the same efficiency, his hand still gripping her arm, but she barely registered it. All she could feel was the pulse of anger and frustration in her veins, but Perseus seemed determined, his focus unbroken as he steered her inside.

“Let me go, Perseus!” she screamed, her fists pounding against his chest, each strike frantic, desperate, like a heartbeat gone wild. “Let me go!” But Perseus didn’t even flinch. His grip was unyielding, his fingers digging into her arms with the force of iron shackles, a steady pressure that held her like a prisoner.

With a roar of frustration, Perseus slammed the door behind them, the impact rattling the small room as the sound of splintering wood ricocheted off the walls. It was deafening, an explosion of noise that filled the air, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging inside him. His hands balled into fists, every muscle in his body taut with fury. He trembled, barely able to control the tremor that shook him from head to toe. 

Without a word, he dragged her toward the bed, forcing her to sit, her body collapsing onto it as if it was the only thing anchoring her to reality. She was thankful for the brief respite, though the air between them crackled.

“Are you okay?” His voice was gentle—so much gentler than she had expected.

Adriana tensed. She searched his face for anger, for resentment, for anything that would make sense. But his eyes held something else entirely. Not fury. Not cold indifference.

Fear. Not of her. For her.

“Did they hurt you?”

Her throat tightened. “I’m fine.” It barely made it past her lips, thin and unconvincing. She wasn’t fine. She could still feel the cold bite of the blade against her neck.

“How’s your leg?”

“It’s fine,” she repeated. A lie. They both knew it.

Perseus didn’t argue. He just reached for a bottle of alcohol and a clean cloth. She expected him to move with the same storm-force he had in the alley, the same unchecked ferocity. But he didn’t.

Instead, he hesitated before pressing the cloth to her neck. The warmth of his fingers barely ghosted over her skin, steady and deliberate, as if he was afraid he’d hurt her.

Adriana swallowed hard. “You aren’t angry?”

He stilled.

“Of course, I’m angry,” His tone was calm, almost understanding. “You left because you didn’t trust me. It's my fault you were almost—If Ajax hadn’t heard your scream.”

That—she hadn’t expected that.

“Ajax?”

Perseus nodded. “He’s the one that was in our room tonight. He’s surprisingly charming when he’s not trying to kill you.”

She watched him, wide-eyed, the unease curling in her stomach almost unbearable. This wasn’t the man she had seen in the alley. That man had been raw, unrelenting—a hurricane with nothing left to lose. But this one—this one had only warmth in his hands, patience in his voice.

“People are hunting us,” he said. “Monsters and men want us dead. I understand you don’t trust me, but at least stay until we get back to camp.”

Adriana shook her head. “No. They want you dead.”

For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Those eyes—she hadn’t realized how green they were before.

Perseus exhaled, slow and measured. “I want to tell you everything, Adriana. I just—” His jaw tightened. “I’m just trying to figure out how. Please be patient.”

She didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Would he really tell her everything? Would he tell her how he was able o bring that man to his knees without even lifting a finger?

Then, her voice broke through it, trembling. “Just tell me the truth. Did you hurt that girl? Did you kill her brother?”

She didn’t want to believe it. It didn’t fit the man in front of her, the one who had thrown himself off a cliff to save her without a second thought. But the man in the alley—he had been someone else entirely.

Which one was the truth? Who was Perseus? Monster or man? Or maybe something in between.

“No,” he bit out, his voice tight. “I didn’t. I would never.” His fists clenched at his sides, the veins in his neck bulging, his entire body taut with the effort of holding it together. “It’s my fault you think I’m capable of that.”

“How should I know?” she coaxed, her voice rising. She tried to remain calm. It was unnerving how calm Perseus could stay during all of this. But, she could see his annoyance bubbling under the surface.  “I don’t know anything about you, Perseus. You refuse to tell me anything. Why should I trust anything you say when you won’t trust me?” Her chest heaved, her breath coming fast, eyes locked on his with a defiance that was all too familiar now.

“Please stop calling me that,” he said, his voice strangely raw.

Adriana blinked, startled by the intensity in his tone. She took a step back, confusion darkening her expression. “What? Your name? Perseus?”

“Please, Adriana,” he begged, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “Percy... call me Percy.” The words were fragile, as though the name itself carried a painful weight he couldn’t bear alone. She stared at him, searching his eyes, unable to understand the desperate need behind it. “I don’t want to hear that name—-not from you.”

She didn’t say anything. 

“You could have died tonight,” he whispered. “Don’t you realize that? If Ajax hadn’t heard your scream, you would have died. They would have—”

She straightened, her chin tilting up as if to ward off the sting of his words. “Well, I didn’t,” she said, her tone defensive. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” he replied, his voice softening just a fraction, though the tension in his shoulders remained taut. “You’re the most capable woman I know. But, you’re injured. You were attacked tonight. And if I hadn’t been there…” His words trailed off, the weight of the unspoken possibility hanging heavily between them.

“I don’t need you to protect me, Perseus,” she said sharply, her eyes flashing. “I don’t need you .”

“I know you don’t need me,” he said. He kneeled on the ground in front of her, taking her hands in his. “But you have me, for better or worse. I know you don’t trust me. I never expected you to right away. But, I am trying. Why aren’t you?”

“Because I love someone else,” she said. “And because of you I can never be with him.” 

So there it was—everything was finally out in the open. She couldn’t trust him— wouldn’t trust him when her heart still belonged to another person. She didn’t want to make this marriage work, she didn’t want to try. 

She wasn’t a terrible person. Now that they were engaged, she told Thaddesus she could never see him again. He had been far angrier than she expected and she still had the bruise from where he grabbed her wrist tightly. When she had met Perseus that first time at night, she had been a mess. And he had been…Well, she had thought he was handsome—princely. 

“I understand,” he said, his voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. “More than you might expect.”

The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The weight of unspoken memories pressed against his chest, but still, he forced himself to speak.

“I fell in love with a girl once,” he murmured. His gaze drifted past Adriana, as if looking into a past only he could see. “She was beautiful—fierce, brilliant, stubborn to a fault. We grew up together, fought side by side, faced countless trials, battles, quests. And somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her.”

Adriana sat still, watching him carefully, her fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment. “What happened to her?” she asked, her voice hesitant, barely above a whisper. She didn’t want to know. Not really.

“She’s dead.” 

He finished cleaning up the wound on her neck. A shiver crawled up her spine, but before she could respond, his fingers brushed against her throat again, his touch deliberate, lingering. Her breath hitched. He was so close—closer than he needed to be, close enough that she could count the constellations of freckles scattered across his sun-bronzed skin. Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

Her heart hammered.

His thumb grazed just beneath her jaw, barely a touch, but it set her nerves alight. He hesitated for half a breath, his fingers stilling against her skin like he wasn’t sure if he should pull away or stay.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate. “I  need to go back to talk to Ajax. I promise not to be long.”

Adriana barely nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

Perseus lingered for a moment longer, his gaze flickering over her face, searching for something—hesitation, fear, maybe something else. Then, finally, he pulled away, pushing himself to his feet.

But at the door, he stopped. His hand rested against the wood, his shoulders tense.

He didn’t turn when he spoke, but his voice was quieter now, rougher.

“Please try not to run off again.”

And with that, he left her feeling more confused than before.

Chapter Text

Percy had messed up.

He had alienated her, so much so that she thought she had to run away. Sally Jackson would be ashamed of him

His feet carried him downstairs on instinct, the weight of his frustration settling deep in his chest. The air in the dining hall was thick with the scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and too many conflicting perfumes. Candles flickered in their iron sconces, casting long shadows over the guests sprawled across cushioned benches, feasting and drinking like they had all the time in the world.

Percy needed a drink—not that he could get drunk. 

He grabbed a goblet from a passing tray, took a sip, and instantly scowled. Wine. Of course. Fuck Rome for not having anything good. No vodka. No tequila. Just this sour, watered-down disappointment. Much like his future marriage. 

She hated him, and it was entirely his fault. She’d rather be on her own, in the middle of the woods than be with him. He had to tell her the truth quickly. He just hoped she wouldn’t go running to her father when the truth was revealed. 

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. What was it about Adriana that got to him so much? Lately, he felt the urge to strangle her from frustration  every time she opened her mouth. In a way, she reminded him far too much of Annabeth—maybe that was the problem. 

That single, frozen heartbeat when he saw the knife pressed against her throat. Panic had shot through him like a blade to the ribs, sharp and blinding. His body had moved before his mind caught up, instincts screaming to protect her—to save her—even though she wasn’t his to protect.

She wasn’t like Annabeth or Reyna, or even Clarisse or Thalia, who could kill a man a thousand different ways before he even blinked .

Adriana was different.

She wasn’t a warrior in the way he was used to. But gods, she was sharp . He knew she was suspicious of him—she didn’t believe a single thing he said. Maybe that’s what scared him the most. She could see right through him.

And Percy had no idea what to do with that.

Someone tapped on his shoulder, and he turned around to see Ajax standing there. Percy wasn’t sure what he thought of the strange demigod. Now that he didn’t want to kill him, he’d almost say the man was cheeky. Something about him reminded him of blue eyes, and blonde hair— Luke. 

He hadn’t thought about Luke–hadn’t wanted to think about him in years. But the way the boy held himself, and the way he talked was oddly reminiscent of the son of Hermes.

“You look miserable,” Ajax observed, his tone dry but not entirely without sympathy.

Percy rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

The man just shrugged. “I do what I can.”

Percy exhaled, a sharp breath through his nose. “Shut up,” he muttered. Not his most brilliant comeback, but exhaustion dulled the edges of his wit.

Ajax didn’t take offense. He just studied Percy with a look that was far too perceptive for his liking. “Is she alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more careful. “She wasn’t—”

“She’s alright,” Percy said quickly. Then, after a beat, he added, “Physically, at least.”

And wasn’t that the real problem? Because some wounds weren’t visible. Some didn’t bleed, but they still left scars. He was sure she wouldn't forget what had happened, or what had almost happened for a long time. 

Percy knew he would never be able to forget it. When Ajax heard her scream, Percy hadn’t hesitated. His instincts took over. He had ripped Ajax’s sword from its sheath and sprinted outside without a second thought. The image was burned into his mind—her wide, terrified eyes, the cold glint of the knife pressing against her throat. The moment something inside him snapped. He hadn't just fought; he had lost control. And when the man's body hit the ground, lifeless, the weight of what he’d done settled over him like a crushing tide.

He had killed him. A man. Not a monster. A human. What did that make him?

"Thank you for the warning," Percy said, his voice rough. "Really, I appreciate it. Because of you, she’s safe."

Ajax nodded, but there was something guarded in his expression. "You have your work cut out for you. She hates you."

"I know," Percy admitted. But not nearly as much as he hated himself. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You cannot,” Ajax said simply. “She is not some broken tool to be repaired. Right now, her world is in turmoil, and you stand at the center of everything that has unraveled. Of course, she keeps her distance—anyone would. You must grant her time, whether you wish to or not.”

Time. He always needed more time. And, of course, it was the one thing he never had enough of.

“She will come around,” Ajax said with certainty. “She must.”

Percy huffed. “I really don’t think she will.”

Ajax smirked. “You forget—I once tried to kill you, and now we are sharing drinks instead of blows. People change. Even when we think they never will.”

The words settled between them, heavy with meaning. The distant murmur of voices, the clink of tankards, the scent of spilled ale and aged wood filled the space, but Percy barely noticed. He wanted to believe Ajax was right.

But some things—some wounds—felt too deep to heal.

Percy nodded, and changed the subject. "So Hades wants me dead?" 

"You don’t seem surprised," Ajax said, watching him closely.

Percy met his gaze. He wasn’t.

“It’s not the first time a god has wanted me dead, and it certainly isn’t going to be the last,” he said. “Answer me this. You aren’t Roman, are you? You’re greek.”

“Don’t ever call me Roman again,” he said. “I might just change my mind about stabbing you. No, I’m greek. I try to stay away from Roman demigods. They have too many rules–too many guidelines. Whenever we’re together, wars usually break out.”

Percy knew exactly what he meant. But he also knew that, someday, things would be different. In thousands of years—if the gods didn’t screw everything up again—Greek and Roman demigods would stand together. He was lucky enough to call some of those Romans friends.

Ajax exhaled, glancing toward the exit. “I need to go. I’ve been gone too long.” He hesitated, then met Percy’s gaze with something close to sincerity. “If you ever need a safe place, you’re always welcome with others of your kind. We protect our own.”

Percy swallowed down his surprise. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “Really.”

Ajax studied him for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Perseus,” he muttered, “but be careful. And leave this place—quickly. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d wager they’ll attack in a few hours.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. He gave a short nod, watching as Ajax disappeared down the corridor. Then he turned on his heel and headed off to find Adriana.

Gods, he hoped she didn’t hate him.

A rough tap on his shoulder yanked him from his thoughts. He turned, slow and reluctant, and found himself face-to-face with a man who reeked of sweat and stale ale. The guy was stout, broad-shouldered but going soft, his shirt clinging to his skin in damp, yellowed patches. His breath was an assault—something acrid, something fermented, something Percy really didn’t have the patience for.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the man said. 

“Of all the cliché things you could’ve said,” Percy muttered, taking a lazy sip of his drink, “you had to go with that one? Really?”

The man didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink. His gaze flicked over Percy’s armor, lingering on the insignia.

“You’re a centurion.”

Percy tilted his head. “You’re observant.”

The man’s lip curled slightly. “I don’t like centurions.”

Percy exhaled, setting his cup down with a soft thud . “If it’s any consolation, they usually don’t like themselves either.” He leaned back against the bar, fingers drumming against the wood. “So, is there something I can help you with, sir ?”

The man leaned in, close enough that Percy could smell him—wine, sour and cloying, but beneath that, something rotting . Like old blood soaked into fabric, left to fester.

“You can die , Perseus Drusus.”

The knife flashed before Percy could react, a streak of silver aimed straight for his ribs.

Instinct took over.

He twisted, sidestepping just in time. The blade missed him by inches, but the man wasn’t done. His lips curled back, revealing fangs where human teeth should have been. He lunged, snapping at Percy’s throat, too fast for a mortal—too hungry.

Percy slammed his palm into the man’s chest, shoving him backward. The creature hit the floor hard, dust curling around him as he landed.

"Perseus, Perseus," the thing hummed, unfazed, stretching its limbs like a cat after a lazy nap. "That’s no way to treat someone."

Percy didn’t lower his stance. His heart pounded, but his grip was steady, ready. "Who are you?"

The thing—whatever it was—tilted its head, its smile widening. "Shouldn’t you be worried about more important things?" It purred the words, drawing them out like it enjoyed the taste of them. "Like your precious fiancée ?"

The moment Adriana’s name left its lips, Percy was already moving.

He didn’t wait to hear the rest. Didn’t care.

His feet pounded against the stone floor as he bolted from the tavern, weaving through the maze of corridors, shoving past startled guests. The air was thick, stifling, but the only thing he could focus on was the panic clawing up his throat.

Adriana.

Please, please be okay.

He sprinted faster.

He reached the door to their room, hands shaking, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He slammed it open, and his eyes instantly locked on the scene before him.

Adriana was on the floor, scrambling to her feet, her breath ragged—a grotesque, monstrous creature with eyes that gleamed like liquid fire—had already lunged. Its claws, sharp and jagged, slashed at her with terrifying speed.

Adriana yelped, barely dodging the attack, her hands trembling as she reached for something to defend herself. Her face was pale with terror, her eyes wide as she tried to push herself back, but the creature was too fast.

Percy didn’t hesitate.

He closed the distance in a flash. His sword was already in his hand, his body moving on instinct—fast, lethal. Before the creature could react, he was upon it.

The blade sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, cutting deep into flesh with a resounding crack. A howl of pain, sharp and brief, filled the space before the monster collapsed into a storm of golden dust, scattering like embers in the wind.

“Adriana…” He breathed her name, his voice rough, urgent, almost desperate.

She was still on the ground, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her lips parted, but no words came. She was frozen, wide-eyed, her hands trembling as she slowly pushed herself back against the wall.

“Are you okay?” His voice dropped, low and urgent, as he stepped toward her. Not waiting for an answer, he knelt beside her, so close he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. His gaze raked over her, taking in every bruise, every cut. The thin, angry line at her throat—where the blade had been pressed against her skin earlier—sent something dark surging through him.

“What the fuck was that?” she asked. 

“A monster,” he said.

“No shit,” she said.

“We need to go,” he said, his voice sharp and urgent, his eyes scanning the shadows outside the inn’s creaky wooden walls. “Now. There’s another monster in the inn.” His eyes flashed to the window. It was their only option.

Adriana followed his line of sight and groaned. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Yeah. Literally any other idea.”

She exhaled sharply, her gaze darting between the rickety wooden frame and the alleyway below. The window creaked as the wind rattled its loose hinges, as if protesting the sheer stupidity of what they were about to do. The alley wasn’t just a two-story drop—it was worse. The villa was built on uneven ground, its foundation raised, making the fall longer, the landing rougher.

Percy had jumped from higher places before and survived. That didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

“My father will kill you if we die,” Adriana muttered, gripping the window ledge.

He shot her a lopsided grin. “Then let’s make sure we don’t.”

And then they jumped.

The night air tore past them, weightless for a second—then impact.

They hit the ground hard. The force of it sent them tumbling, rolling over rough cobblestones and dirt. Twigs snapped beneath their weight. A sharp crack rang out as Percy’s shoulder slammed into something solid—a crate, maybe, or a stack of barrels. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but there was no time to dwell on it. His breath was gone, knocked clean out of his lungs, his ears ringing from the impact.

Somehow—miraculously—nothing felt broken.

A groan beside him. Adriana was already stirring, pushing herself up onto her elbows, shaking off the fall. Her hair was a mess, dust clinging to her clothes, but she was alive.

Percy didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her hand, yanking her up, ignoring the sting in his scraped palms. The alley behind them was still empty—for now—but the distant clatter of boots and the sharp bark of orders told him that wouldn’t last.

"Keep going!" he yelled over the howling wind, already pulling her toward the edge of the woods. The trees loomed ahead, dark and unwelcoming, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky. But they were the only cover they had.

Adriana faltered for half a second—too long. He shoved her forward.

"Run!"

The moment they crossed into the tree line, the world changed. The inn's glow vanished behind them, swallowed by thick, suffocating darkness. The wind howled through the canopy, rattling leaves like bones. Branches lashed at them as they tore through the underbrush, their breath coming fast and ragged.

Then—a sound. A crunch. A snap.

Percy skidded to a halt, his muscles locking as the realization slammed into him. They weren’t alone.

The forest had gone deathly still, save for the low creak of shifting weight on brittle twigs. A branch snapped to their left. Then another behind them. Shadows moved within shadows, circling like vultures. Not just one monster. Dozens.

"Keep moving," he hissed, pushing Adriana ahead. His mind raced. The only way out of this was if he used his powers.

He glanced at her. Could he trust her? He didn’t have a choice.

The fog thickened, curling around the trees like grasping fingers. Percy pressed his back against the rough bark of an ancient oak, his heart hammering against his ribs. Beside him, Adriana trembled, her breath too fast, too loud.

He clamped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. His own pulse roared in his ears.

Then, from the darkness, a voice slithered through the trees—low, taunting, dripping with malice.

"Perseus…" It sang his name, stretching it out like silk unraveling. "I can smell you. Stop running and face me."

A shiver crawled down his spine. The voice coiled around them, threading through the branches like a noose, tightening with every breath.

"Face me, Perseus," she coaxed. " Face me and die. Hades is hungry for your soul."

Adriana’s breath hitched beneath his palm, her wide eyes darting up to his. She was hurt—he could see it in the way she leaned against the tree, her hands gripping her side. On a normal day, he could handle this. But tonight wasn’t normal. If things got worse, if he had no other choice, he’d have to reveal his abilities to her. He didn’t want to. But if the alternative was her dying? No contest.

Percy moved forward, his hand outstretched—

"Perseus—"

A sudden whistle cut through the air. Then another.

Percy barely had time to register the arrows before they struck.

They came like a storm, slicing through the night, gleaming silver in the moonlight. One embedded itself into a tree mere inches from his face. Another buried itself in the monster nearest to them—a gaunt, snarling empousa with flaming eyes. The creature let out a shriek, twisting in agony before collapsing into dust.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then—

"Perseus," Adriana whispered. "I'm sorry."

His jaw tightened. "Now is not the time, Adriana."

"It’s just—if we die—I should thank you for saving me,” she said. “You’ve save me three times now—”

"We aren’t going to die," he interrupted. His voice was steady, certain, even as his heart slammed against his ribs.

She swallowed hard. " How do you know?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You aren’t all-knowing, Perseus.”

He exhaled, glancing at the arrows still vibrating in the bark. A slow grin crept onto his face.

"Because those arrows are silver," he murmured. "We’re not being attacked. We’re being saved." His eyes flickered toward the trees beyond. "They’re Huntresses."

As if summoned by his words, the clearing erupted into chaos.

Shadows shifted, and a dozen figures melted out of the darkness, swift and silent as falling snow. Their silver cloaks rippled like liquid moonlight, bows raised in seamless unison. The twang of bowstrings cut through the night, followed by the sharp whistle of arrows slicing the air.

The Huntresses of Artemis had arrived.

They moved like specters, their eyes gleaming cold and sharp, their movements fluid, practiced—deadly. Arrows struck their targets with merciless precision, each silver-tipped shaft finding its mark. The monsters barely had time to react. A guttural snarl. A flash of claws. Then, nothing.

One by one, the creatures dissolved into golden dust, their death cries lost in the wind. The air shimmered with it, glowing embers spiraling skyward before vanishing into the night, like fireflies winking out of existence.

Silence settled over the clearing, thick and heavy. The only sound was Percy’s own breath, ragged and uneven.

Then, a voice. Soft, but firm.

"Are thee alright?"

Percy stiffened.

His heart lurched as he turned toward the speaker, already knowing before he saw her. The voice, the form, the presence—he could never forget.

His gaze locked onto her, and the world seemed to tilt.

Dark curls framed a face that was achingly familiar, her features set in a composed, unreadable mask. A bow rested against her back, its polished wood gleaming in the moonlight. And her eyes—deep, unwavering—held a quiet strength that sent a jolt of something sharp and cold through his chest.

It couldn’t be.

"Who are you?" Adriana asked, but Percy barely heard her.

His throat went dry.

"Zoe," he murmured, disbelief thick in his voice.

His fingers curled into fists, as if grounding himself to reality.

"Her name is Zoe Nightshade."

Chapter Text

A dozen bows and swords were pointed at them like a death squad ready for the kill. Although the girls in front of them looked young— hunters, Perseus had called them—they looked terrifying.

Perseus quickly shoved her behind him, and for once, she didn’t mind his protective nature. Something about these girls made the hair on her arms raise, and her blood chill. She had no doubt that every single one of them would be able to kill them in an innumerable amount of ways. 

One girl stepped forward, and the others subtly adjusted around her, acknowledging her as their leader without a word. Zoë Nightshade. That was the name Perseus had whispered. She looked slightly older than the others, but still no more than sixteen, her posture impossibly steady, her presence commanding. Her gaze was sharp, assessing—yet utterly devoid of recognition.

She didn’t know him.

But Perseus? He knew exactly who she was.

“Who are you?” the girl asked, her eyes edged with suspicion. He was looking at her like she was a ghost, an echo of something lost and unreachable. 

“My name is Perseus,” he said, his voice quieter than it should have been. “Perseus Drusus.”

Her expression hardened. With practiced ease, she lifted her bow, her fingers steady against the string. The arrow was knocked before he could blink. “How do you know me?”

Adriana knew this woman would not hesitate to kill them, if she didn’t like the answer she received. Gods, she hoped he knew what he was doing. 

He remained still, unwavering despite the weapon aimed at his heart. It irritated her, that unshakable calm of his. Even when he had every reason to be afraid, even when she should have terrified him, he stood there steady, composed, unreadable.

"Chiron told me," The man said, his voice measured, each syllable carrying the weight of something vast—something old. " He told me your tale."

The girl's eyes lit up in recognition. But Adriana didn’t recognize the name. Chiron? What were they talking about?

"Chiron?" she echoed, her voice laced with skepticism. Her eyes narrowed, shifting as if truly seeing him for the first time. "Thou art one of them?"

"Yes," he said, his tone steady—unshaken, like the tide that shaped the shores.

Zoë's lips pressed into a thin line. " I do not care for thy kind," she said, her voice cool as moonlight. "Especially men of thy kind. Trouble follows thee as surely as the sun rises. Thou art a dying breed—yet I can feel the power that lingers about thee. Thou reeks of the sea. Of Greece."

Adriana studied him, this man she was bound to marry. There was so much she did not know about him—so much he would never offer willingly.

"We are not dying," he said. "We are being hunted."

A chill curled down her spine. Hunted? What was he talking about?

"Yes," she murmured. "By that Caesar of yours. I despise human kings—their arrogance, their delusions of divinity. They call themselves gods, yet if they ever stood before one, they would tremble."

Percy rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. A rustle of fabric behind her made her ears twitch, the whisper of movement—quiet, but not unnoticed.

"I do not fear the gods," he said.

Zoë scoffed, her expression one of quiet disdain. "Then thou art as foolish as the rest of thy kind."

“It would be wise to fear us,” a voice murmured, smooth as moonlight on still water.

A woman stepped out of the woods, and for a fleeting moment, Adriana forgot how to breathe.

She was the most breathtaking creature Adriana had ever seen—tall, poised, her very presence a quiet command. She did not need a crown to be a queen, nor armor to be a warrior. The dim glow of the night caught in her golden hair, turning it to spun sunlight, while her features were a contradiction of sharp and soft—like a blade honed to deadly perfection, yet held in the gentlest of hands.

But it was not her beauty that made Adriana’s breath still in her chest.

It was the way she froze the instant her gaze landed on Perseus.

Recognition flickered in those piercing eyes. It was not shock, nor surprise—it was something deeper, something carved into the marrow of her being, as though he were a ghost of a story long since buried.

She did not speak his name.

She did not speak to him at all.

Instead, she stepped toward Zoë, whispering something too quiet for Adriana to catch.

Perseus dipped his head. “My lady Artemis,” he said, his voice steady. “I meant no disrespect.”

Zoë’s lip curled. “If thou meant no disrespect,” she said, “then thou should not have opened thy mouth.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You wouldn’t be the first to say that.”

The woman—Artemis—turned to him at last, her gaze sweeping over him in a slow, deliberate motion. Not a glance. A study. She measured him, weighed him, as if searching for something beneath his skin. And yet, if Perseus felt the weight of it, he did not waver. His shoulders instead squared, and his head lifted higher.

She turned back to the girl whispering something in her ear. “My lady does not wish to speak to thee now,” Zoë said, stepping between them like a gate slamming shut. “But thou art welcome to share a meal before going on thy way.”

Perseus hesitated. Then, “Wait.” His voice was softer this time. “My lady, may I speak with you? I need—”

“I know what it is you want.” Artemis’s voice was a blade, cutting through his words with effortless finality. “I will speak with you later.”

Adriana’s fingers curled into her palms. Who was this woman? Perseus had called her Artemis. Wasn’t she the Greek goddess of the hunt? Adriana wasn’t sure if she believed in the gods, but if anyone was a goddess, she wouldn’t be surprised if this woman was.

A pause.

And then, Artemis turned away, disappearing into the trees, as silent and untouchable as the moon slipping behind the clouds.

Zoë turned briskly. “Follow us. I shall set up a tent for thee for the night. Gods know, you two look like you need rest.” She turned to Adriana as if she noticed her for the first time. “You are hurt. My hunters will help you.”

Her gaze swept down to her leg, still aching from falling off that cliff. Add in the pain on her neck and the bruises from the jump out the window, and she felt like her body was following apart. 

“Be careful what you say around her,” Perseus warned. “She’s a goddess.”

“A goddess?” Adriana mused. It couldn’t be, could it? How did Perseus know? And why did a goddess seem like she knew him? Where on earth would he have met a goddess?

They trailed behind the group of girls, weaving through the dense forest for what felt like hours. Adriana had to lean on Perseus for support, pain flooding through her. She looked down at her leg, and sure enough her skin was an angry red where her skin met the stitches. The exhaustion hit her all at once, and she hated to admit that Perseus half carried, half dragged her through the woods. 

The shadows stretched long between the trees, the thick canopy above swallowing what little light the moon offered. Every step sent a fresh ache through her body—a dull, persistent reminder of the fall—but she forced herself to push forward, focusing on the uneven ground beneath her feet. Anything to keep her mind from spiraling.

But it was impossible to quiet her thoughts.

The attack replayed over and over in her mind—the cold press of a blade against her throat, the rasp of her attacker’s breath in her ear. And then, Perseus. He had saved her, but the more she thought about it, the less sense it made. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t lifted a hand. And yet, somehow, the man had gasped, choked—like the air itself had turned against him.

Who was Perseus Drusus?

It was the only question that mattered.

She had expected arrogance from him—he was the son of a politician, after all. Confidence was bred into men like that, unwarranted and hollow. But Perseus wasn’t just confident. He carried himself with a quiet certainty, a sharpness that wasn’t for show. He didn’t need to boast, didn’t need to prove anything with empty words. His skill spoke for itself. The way he moved, the way he fought—it was like nothing she had ever seen before.

She had watched him battle that Fury on the cliffs, and it was more than skill. There had been precision in his strikes, a lethal grace to his movements, as if fighting was something written into his very bones.

He was not comfortable speaking to others.But he was comfortable fighting them.

Even though he was kind—he scared her. But she was more curious than scared. Her brain itched to know the truth behind the mysterious man that she was to marry.

And gods help her, she had to admit—he was attractive. Annoyingly so.

His dark hair was perpetually tousled, like he had just run a hand through it in frustration. His eyes—greener than the very forest around them—held something unreadable, something dangerous and knowing. And then there was his body—strong, carved muscle beneath the fabric of his tunic, as if Jupiter himself had taken a chisel to stone.

Her thoughts took a treacherous turn.

What would it be like to kiss him?

Her gaze dropped, just for a moment, to his lips. Full, perfectly shaped, the kind of mouth that would be both soft and commanding against her own. She swallowed hard. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? A kiss. A touch. The night they would have to consummate their marriage.

Her skin prickled with heat at the thought.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Her breath caught in her throat. Had she been staring?

The way he looked at her—like he knew exactly where her mind had wandered—made her pulse quicken and her stomach tighten. But he said nothing. Just turned his gaze forward again, as if he hadn’t just stolen the air from her lungs.

Thankfully, he said nothing, and kept his eyes in front of him. 

The hunters stopped in a small clearing, the canopy above thinning just enough for moonlight to filter through, casting silver streaks across the forest floor. It was remarkable how quickly they moved—silent, efficient, as if they had done this a hundred times before. Tents were pitched in mere moments, firewood gathered, flames sparking to life and crackling against the cool night air. The scent of roasting meat and fresh herbs curled through the clearing, blending with the earthy aroma of pine and damp soil.

Zoë gestured toward a small tent near the edge of the camp. “That is yours for the night,” she said.

Adriana exhaled softly, her exhaustion settling deep into her bones now that they had stopped moving. Her leg throbbed in protest, a dull ache she had been stubbornly ignoring.

“Sit her down here,” Zoë ordered, pointing to a moss-covered log near the fire.

Perseus didn’t hesitate. His hands were firm but careful as he helped lower her onto the rough bark. She felt the heat of him, even though his tunic, the way his fingers lingered just a second too long before he sat beside her.

Zoë turned to a young girl who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Despite her small stature, there was something steady about her—an unshaken confidence beyond her years.

“This is Lucretzia,” Zoë said. “She’s one of our best healers. She will tend to her wounds.”

Perseus tensed beside her. His shoulders squared, his jaw tightening like a steel trap.

“I’m not leaving her,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute.

Something flickered in Zoë’s expression—disapproval, perhaps, or understanding. It was hard to tell. The firelight cast shifting shadows across her face, making her unreadable.

“We will take care of her,” Zoë said again, her tone edged with finality. “She does not need you.”

“She is my future wife,” Perseus countered, and something about the way he said it sent a slow warmth curling through her body. His voice was steady, firm—not a declaration, but a promise. “I am not leaving her.”

Zoë exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes. “Men,” she muttered before striding away, her irritation trailing behind her like a shadow.

The young girl knelt beside Adriana; her small hands surprisingly steady as she lifted the hem of her chiton. Her fingers were cool against Adriana’s skin as she examined the wound, her sharp gaze assessing every stitch, every sign of strain.

“Did you do this?” she asked, glancing up at Perseus.

“Yes,” he said. “I did what I could, but we’ve been running. She’s probably aggravated it.”

The girl hummed in approval. “You did well,” she admitted. “Do you have experience with field surgery?”

Perseus hesitated. “Some,” he said at last. “But only out of necessity.”

A ghost of a smirk crossed the girl’s face. “Not terrible for a male,” she said dryly. “You’re lucky it isn’t infected. What she needs now is to stay off of it as much as possible. She needs rest.”

Perseus exhaled, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “There’s a Fury and gods know what else is hunting us,” he said. “Is there anything you can do? I don’t think staying off of it is practical.”

The girl nodded. “I am a daughter of Hecate. I can heal her—but it will be painful.”

Perseus turned to her then, his eyes locking onto hers. There was something raw in his expression, something unspoken but felt all the same. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” he murmured.

Adriana swallowed, her pulse quickening. Pain, she could handle. She gritted her teeth, forcing steel into her voice. “Just do it.”

The girl nodded, her focus unwavering. "I will not lie to you. The pain will be unlike anything you have ever experienced before."

"I can do it," she said, before her resolve could break.

“Sit on the ground,” she instructed Perseus, her voice calm but firm.

He raised an eyebrow in silent questioning, but he didn’t argue. Without hesitation, he lowered himself to the dirt, settling against a log with a soft rustle of leaves beneath him.

“I need you to hold her,” the girl continued, her tone softening slightly. “If she moves, I could make everything worse.”

She froze. The girl wanted her to….

“It’s okay, Adriana,” Perseus’s voice came again, gentle yet firm, as he shifted to face her. His eyes were steady, reassuring, but she could see the tension there—the uncertainty beneath the surface.

Slowly, her body moving like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, she sank to the ground, positioning herself between Perseus’s legs. His presence was solid behind her, a steadying force, and when her back met his chest, a jolt of warmth spread through her. His arms wrapped around her immediately, secure and comforting, grounding her in the moment.

The girl gave a small nod of approval, then turned her attention to the task at hand. Perseus, his hand warm and steady, grasped hers gently. His fingers intertwined with hers, and he squeezed, his voice low and comforting.

“Hold on as tight as you need.”

The moment the girl’s glowing hands pressed against her wound, agony struck like a blade plunging deep into her flesh. A scream tore from her throat, raw and broken, as the pain raged through her like wildfire, merciless and all-consuming. It wasn’t a clean kind of suffering—it was jagged, seeping into her bones, twisting deep like something ancient and cruel had sunk its claws into her body and refused to let go.

She clung to Perseus, her fingers digging into his arms as if anchoring herself to him could somehow keep her from being swallowed whole. She trembled violently as she fought to breathe through the unbearable torment. His arms tightened around her, solid and steady, but it did little to stave off the pain crashing through her in relentless waves.

She tried to think, tried to grasp onto anything that wasn’t pure suffering—the feel of Perseus’s heartbeat against her spine, the rough fabric of his tunic beneath her fingers—but the pain was too vast. She had thought his stitches had been agony, each pull of the thread like a knife scraping against raw flesh, but this—this was something worse. This was pain with weight, with purpose, as though it sought to unmake her from the inside out.

Her mind reeled, her thoughts slipping away like sand through her fingers. Dying could be slow or swift, gentle or brutal. Was this what it felt like? Had she already begun to slip away, and she just hadn’t realized it yet?

She let out another scream, a raw sound, so deep and guttural that even the birds flew away. 

"Stop!" Perseus said, "Give her a moment."

"It's okay," she said, speaking through her gritted teeth, "I can do this."

He brushed more of her hair back, "Okay. I'm right here. Squeeze my hand as tight as you need. I'm not leaving."

She steeled herself, nodding at the girl to continue. She raised her hand to her injury, but this time she didn’t scream, instead, she grabbed onto Perseus for dear life.

“Good girl,” Perseus said, brushing some of her sweaty hair off of her face. 

“Oh gods,” she said, and held onto him tighter.

When was the pain going to end? She left like her teeth were shattering into thousands of pieces–like every single bone in her body was breaking and healing over and over again. 

“It’s okay,” Percy said. “You’re okay.” He was rubbing comforting circles on her arms as he held her, but it didn’t seem to do much good.

Infact, the pain only grew.

"I...I...It hurts." She softly cried into his chest, closing her eyes. Sweat was trickling down face, sticking hair to her face.

His lips grazed the top of her head. “Just a little bit longer, Adriana. You can do this.”

Gods, how much longer? She wasn't sure how much she would be able to take.

​​Then, without warning, the pain vanished.

She let out a long, shuddering breath, and for a moment, the absence of pain felt almost euphoric—like floating in a cloud of sweet nothing. It was a sensation so foreign, so relieving, that it made her close her eyes in pure, almost disbelieving relief.

“Look,” Perseus said, his voice carrying a note of quiet disbelief.

Adriana glanced down at her skin. Sure enough, where there had been raw, bleeding wounds only moments before, the flesh had seamlessly knitted itself back together. Not a trace of injury remained—not even the faintest scar to mark the spot, as if the damage had never existed.

A shiver ran through her as she touched the smooth, unblemished skin, still feeling the residual tingling of the healing magic. “Why did it hurt so much?” she asked, turning her gaze to the girl who had performed the magic.

The girl’s expression remained steady, unflinching. “Magic cannot come from nothing,” she explained, her tone quiet but certain. “It needs to feed off of something. It takes a piece of you for every little thing it gives. The pain was payment for your healing.” She stood, brushing the dirt from her dress, her movements graceful despite the effort it had taken. “I’ll leave you now. Get some rest. You may experience some phantom pains. They will fade with time.”

Adriana nodded, the weight of her exhaustion slowly catching up with her. Without thinking, she leaned back slightly, finding herself naturally falling into the warmth and steady presence of Perseus behind her.

“Can you stand?” he asked, his voice soft, yet full of concern.

“I just need a moment,” she said, her voice quiet, more to herself than to him. “Then I’ll be fine.”

He nodded, but to her surprise, he leaned back too, giving her more room to rest against him. His chest pressed against her back, the strength of his body solid and unwavering, but it had the opposite effect than she’d expected.

Instead of comfort, all she could think about was the way his hands had gripped her earlier, how strong his arms had felt around her, steadying her. She could feel the muscles in his body, the way his presence enveloped her, and a sudden curiosity flickered in her mind—what would it be like to feel them pressed against her in a different way…

Her breath hitched, and the movement made him shift slightly, his head dipping down, just enough that she could feel the faintest brush of his breath against her ear.

"Are you okay?" Perseus asked.

She nodded quickly, swallowing hard. Gods, she needed to move.

Some part of her—probably the sensible part—screamed at her to get up, to put distance between them. They weren’t exactly alone, and she could feel the stares of a few of the younger girls, their curious eyes darting between her and him, as if they, too, sensed something brewing beneath the surface.

But the other part of her—the reckless, aching part—wanted to stay just a little longer.

Before she could spiral further into the thought, the air around her shifted. A sharp presence, cold and unforgiving, sliced through the space between them like a blade.

A goddess stood before them, her figure almost glowing with an ethereal light, the air around her charged with an undeniable power. She glanced down at them both with a quiet amusement, her lips curling into a half-smile as she observed the scene.

“What?” she asked the goddess. Her pain had blurred her common sense.

“Oh nothing. Mortal love amuses me,” she said. She turned to Perseus. “Perseus Jackson, it’s time we spoke, don’t you think?”

Perseus Jackson? The name hit her like a stone, unfamiliar and odd. It had a strange ring to it, and for a moment, she couldn’t place it. Legend? What kind of legend? She had never heard of anyone by that name, and yet the way she said it—It was as if she was speaking of Hercules, or one of the Greek heroes from legend. 

But, he was just Perseus, wasn’t he? He was the man who had a weird fascination with her calling him Percy. How could someone like that be considered a legend by a goddess?

 Adriana's mind scrambled, but nothing came up.

Perseus helped her up from the ground, and already she missed his presence. God, she was acting like a lovesick child. What was wrong with her? Not even a few hours ago she had been running from him in fear and now—-

Next to her, Perseus had gone deathly pale. The color drained from his face so fast, she thought he might faint. His breathing had gone shallow, his fingers curled so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white. Just the mention of his name had shattered him.

“You know me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, raw with something close to fear. “You know—”

“I’ve heard of you,” she interrupted, her tone clipped, dismissive.

His eyes snapped to hers. “Where?” His voice sharpened, urgent. “No one should know that name.”

Adriana studied him, tilting her head slightly. “Names are not easily forgotten. They hold power,” she murmured. “Especially a name like yours, Perseus Achilles Jackson.”

The way she said it sent a shudder through him. He looked as if he wanted to flinch, as if the syllables alone had weight, pressing down on him.

“Achilles?” he asked, with surprise.

“You used to bear his curse, did you not?” she asked. “I can sense the River Styx on you. But it’s been washed away, hasn’t it?”

“It's not a Roman blessing,” he confirmed. “I had to let it wash away.” 

“I do not agree with you being here,” she continued, her expression unreadable. “The knowledge you possess is dangerous. You could destroy things. You could destroy Rome.”

Perseus swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his ears. “Do you know why I’m here?” he asked, voice rough with something unspoken. “Because I don’t. I had almost given up on ever learning.”

And gods, he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer.

“Yes,” she said. “You are here because you have always been meant to be here. History cannot be rewritten—and you are such an important part of it. The future of Rome depends on you. You have a destiny—the likes of which have never been seen and will never be seen again.”

Perseus didn’t seem phased by the comment. If anything, he looked angry.

“Someone is always telling me I have a destiny,” he said. “Haven’t I done enough?”

“No,” she said. “It's the debt you owe for existing. With so much power comes a need for balance. You have been gifted, and you must pay for those gifts.”

“But I never wanted them,” he told her. 

“But you’ve been given them nevertheless,” she said.

“Maybe I’m done,” he said, his voice edged with bitterness. “I’m done with these games. What would you do if I just stopped? If I walked away and left you all to clean up your own messes?” His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “The only thing the gods have ever done is take. Since I was twelve, I’ve been sent on quest after quest, dragged from battle to battle, going wherever they demanded. And for what? I’m tired. I’ve done enough. Let someone else fix your disasters.”

Adriana had never been religious. She didn’t believe in the gods, had always dismissed them as myths spun by power-hungry men to control the weak. But Perseus—he almost made her believe. It wasn’t divinity that clung to him, but something just as potent. Conviction. She had never heard someone speak with such raw, unshakable conviction before. It burned in his voice, in his stance, in the fury simmering just beneath his skin.

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she met his gaze and said, “You’ll do what needs to be done.” Her voice was steady, certain. “Because it’s who you are. It’s not in your nature to stand by while innocents suffer—not if you can stop it.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might shatter. Then, without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and strode into the woods, shadows swallowing him whole.

“Perseus—” Her voice caught in her throat as she took a step forward, her gaze locked on the retreating figure. But before she could move any further, the goddess raised a hand, halting her with a quiet command.

“Let him be,” the goddess murmured, her tone calm, but weighted with an ancient knowledge. “He needs time. We have asked him much. But in the end, he will do what needs to be done. That’s who he is. He is drawn to danger like a moth to the flame, unable to resist when others are in peril.” Her words hung in the air, thick with meaning.

The woman narrowed her eyes, her brows knitting together. “How do you know who he is?” she demanded, her voice edged with suspicion.

“All of Rome will one day know who he is,” the goddess said cryptically, her voice carrying the faintest echo of prophecy. She didn’t speak with arrogance, but with the quiet assurance of someone who understood the delicate threads of fate weaving themselves into existence.

The woman’s heart thudded in her chest, her instincts bristling with confusion. “What are you talking about?” She stepped closer, frustration clouding her thoughts. “Who exactly is he?”

The goddess’s eyes softened, and she looked away for a moment, as if considering something far beyond the present. “Only he can tell you that,” she said gently, her voice like a soft wind carrying whispers of something deeper. “But I think you already know, or at least… you’re starting to.”

She wanted to protest, to demand answers, but the words caught in her throat. The uncertainty gnawed at her. What did she know about Perseus? Who was he really, beyond the surface of what she’d seen?

“I—” The sentence died on her lips, too heavy to continue.

The goddess, sensing her hesitation, gave a small, knowing nod. “Walk with me,” she urged, her voice warm yet firm. “We have much to discuss.”

What would a goddess want to speak to her about? The question rattled in her mind, but she had no choice but to follow, drawn by an unspoken pull.

The world around them seemed to slow, as if listening to their words. “History is being written,” the goddess continued, her gaze piercing as she looked ahead, her voice low and deliberate. “And it is being written quickly. You must decide which side you will stand on.”

Sides? The word felt foreign, misplaced. Which sides? she thought, her mind swirling with questions she couldn’t grasp.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if fearing the answer would shatter her understanding of everything she’d ever known.

The goddess’s steps were measured, purposeful. “When the time comes,” she said, her tone shifting, the weight of her words settling like a cloak between them. “Will you stand by your husband, or will you stand by your father?”

The question struck her like a thunderclap. It broke something inside her. The very foundation of her thoughts trembled. What kind of question is that? Her heart raced, the blood pounding in her ears. 

The choice was so clear, so obvious.

Of course, she would stand by her father. He had been her guide, her protector. Perseus was a shadow in her life—a stranger, someone she barely knew. She couldn’t even begin to fathom why she’d have to choose between them.

She barely knew Perseus, but she doubted he would ever turn against her father. They seemed to be as thick as thieves. There was a strange comradery—or brotherhood between them that everyone except for themselves seemed to notice.

"Of course," the goddess continued, her voice smooth, almost indulgent. "There is another path you could take—one that would make things much easier for you. It would save you years of heartache and pain."

A chill curled around her spine. Another choice? What could she possibly mean? She already knew where she stood, who she would fight beside when the time came. There was no question.

And yet, the goddess smiled, as if she sensed the hesitation, she hadn’t even allowed herself to acknowledge.

"Would you like to join the Hunt?"

Chapter Text

The forest was quiet—too quiet. The usual hum of insects and rustle of leaves had faded, swallowed by an unnatural stillness. Percy’s fingers twitched at his side, itching toward Riptide, though he hadn’t drawn it yet.

He had been an idiot, running off from Artemis in that way, but gods, he was tired. He had thought he would finally get rest after the war with Gaea, but then he found himself in Ancient Rome, a few years before the murder of Julius Caesar. 

A cold breeze slithered through the trees, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

He wasn’t alone.

He drew his sword quickly, aiming it at whoever was sneaking behind him. Then, like a shadow stepping out of the void, she was there. Silent as a cat, poised like a predator. Zoe Nightshade.

Percy didn’t startle—at least, he told himself he didn’t. But he could feel the weight of her gaze, sharp and unyielding.

It was hard not to feel grief when he looked at her. This was the girl he had watched die--joining the stars as if they were old friends. He wanted to tell her what would happen to her in a few years. But, he couldn't and that was the hardest part. 

“Zoe,” he said evenly. “I had a feeling you would want to speak to me.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her dark eyes flickered with something—wariness, suspicion, maybe even curiosity. “How do you know my name?”

Percy exhaled through his nose. “I told you,” he said. “Chiron mentioned it.”

A beat of silence. Then, her voice, smooth but edged with steel: “I can sense your lies.” She took a measured step forward, moonlight catching the silver accents of her cloak. “Not surprising, coming from someone of your sex.”

Percy scowled. “That’s offensive.”

“It is not offensive if it is true,” she said coolly.

“Yes, it is.”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “So you admit you were lying?”

Percy narrowed his eyes, but before he could respond, her gaze flickered downward, as if she were reconsidering something. Then, she repeated herself, slower this time, as if savoring the weight of her own words. "No one has seen Chiron in a hundred years."

A hundred years. The words slammed into him, hollow and cold. He had expected skepticism, maybe even a laugh at his expense—but not this. Not the kind of disbelief that came wrapped in an impossible truth.

Zoe’s expression was unreadable, her voice cutting through his thoughts like the edge of a blade. “If you are going to lie, at least be clever about it.”

Percy clenched his jaw. She wasn’t lying. Or was she? He could feel the pulse of Riptide against his palm, steady and warm—something familiar in all this strangeness.

Her sharp gaze flicked to the sword. "That blade," she said, her tone shifting, sharpening like steel drawn from a sheath. "Where did you get it?"

His grip instinctively tightened around Riptide’s hilt. He had a feeling that whatever he said next would decide whether she saw him as an ally—or an enemy.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said.

“What a surprise,” she rolled her eyes. "That must be hard for you."

 “Marcus Antonius gave it to me as a wedding present. I don’t know how he came to know of it, but he had me retrieve it for him in Cosas.”

Zoe’s stare didn’t waver. If anything, it darkened, as if she were peeling back his words, searching for the hairline cracks in them. “How did Marcus Antonius come to know about this sword?”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Then, finally, she nodded, her expression unfathomable. “It doesn’t belong to him. Or you. It belongs to—”

“To you?” Percy cut in. "Or Hercules?"

Zoe’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t give her time to respond. He flipped the sword in his grip and extended it to her, pommel first. “Hold the sword, and then tell me where its allegiance lies.”

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, as if compelled, she took the blade eagerly. Her fingers traced the ancient designs etched into the steel, movements slow, reverent. A shudder ran through her, her eyes glazing over as if caught in a memory centuries old. He understood her feelings, he felt the exact same way holding it.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Its allegiance has changed.” She exhaled, something like sorrow flickering behind her eyes. “It’s accepted you as its master.”

The admission seemed to pain her. Even as she handed the sword back, her fingers lingered on the hilt for just a moment too long.

“Tell me everything,” she said, her voice edged with something Percy couldn’t quite name. “I do not understand.”

He slid the sword back into its sheath, but the weight of her gaze was heavier than the celestial bronze. “Marcus sent me to retrieve it,” he said. “On the way back, I was attacked—in my father’s own temple—by a demigod who claimed he was hired to kill me.”

Zoe’s lips parted slightly, the barest trace of surprise crossing her face before she smoothed it away. “You’ve made powerful enemies.”

“Hades,” Percy confirmed. The name alone was enough to make her pale. “That’s why his Fury is chasing me. He believes I killed his son. And that I—” He exhaled sharply. “That I assaulted his daughter.”

The accusation hung in the air like a blade suspended between them. Zoe arched an eyebrow, assessing him with quiet scrutiny. “Did you?”

“No.”The single word came firm, unshaken.

Her silence stretched, as if testing the weight of his answer. Then, just as smoothly, she moved on.

“Do you not find it odd that Marcus Antonius sent you on a mission where you just so happened to be attacked?” She tilted her head slightly. “Are you certain he wasn’t the one who orchestrated this plot?”

Percy bristled. “Why would he be?” His voice rose, sharper than he intended. “I’m marrying his daughter. We are to be family."

Zoe’s smirk was almost pitying. “Are you?” The way she said it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “No marriage is confirmed until the wedding bed is warm,” she continued, her voice like silk over steel. “Even then, she can divorce you.”

Her meaning was clear. Nothing was certain. Nothing was safe.

And Percy was beginning to wonder if he had ever truly known who his enemies were. There was so much he didn’t know about the man he was before he appeared in Rome. He wasn’t a kind man, and he bet he really did assault that girl and kill her brother.

How was he supposed to explain that it hadn't been him because he was from the future? No one would believe him. Although he was planning on telling Adriana his heritage, he still hadn’t figured out how to tell her that small detail

"Your fiancée," she said, her voice smooth, almost lazy, but her gaze was sharp as a dagger’s edge. "Do you love her?"

His throat tightened. The answer should’ve been simple. It should’ve been an easy ‘no.’ But it wasn’t.

"No," he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. "I’ve only known her for a few days."

Zoe tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was close to solving. "Then why does it matter if you marry her or not?" A pause, then, with a soft, knowing smile, she added, "She is a means to an end, isn’t she? Women always are to men."

His jaw clenched. "She is not a means to an end," he snapped, the heat rising in his voice before he could contain it.

That only seemed to amuse her. Zoe let out a light, melodic laugh, the sound both cruel and delighted. "Oh no," she murmured, her eyes gleaming. "You care for her."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Of course I do." The admission felt like an unraveling, a dangerous thread pulled loose. Despite everything—despite the circumstances, despite the deception—she was carving out a place in his life. A place he hadn’t expected.

Zoe’s expression softened, but her words were sharper than ever. "Then let her go."

His stomach twisted.

"Are you really going to make her choose between you and her father?" she pressed, her voice laced with something between pity and accusation.

He turned away. "I don’t want to talk about this." The words came out cold, final. He needed to steer the conversation elsewhere, before she could dig deeper, before she could force him to admit more truths he wasn’t ready to face. "What do you know about the recent monster attacks?"

Zoe raised an eyebrow at the abrupt change.

"The Romans I’ve met don’t even believe in gods and monsters anymore," he continued. "Not really. Not like we do. They’ve been absent for so long. So why now? Why are they attacking?"

She regarded him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small shrug, she said simply, "I do not know. Perhaps Hades is angry and only your death will sate him.”

“If it was my death that could stop all of this I would rip open my veins now,” he said. “But something else is happening. You know that. You’ve seen the carnage. Does the lady Artemis disappear for days and weeks up on Olympus? Is she keeping things from you? All of these are omens for something larger looming. I’ve seen it before.”

“How do you know?”

He exhaled, shaking his head with the kind of tired amusement that only came from experience. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Zoe’s brow furrowed. “Rodeo?”

“Never mind,” he muttered. No use explaining that one. “Has a prophecy been made?”

Her expression flickered, the briefest widening of her eyes betraying her shock before she locked it away behind a stony glare. “How—no one knows that,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost reverent. “It has been a carefully guarded secret for hundreds of years. You can’t know that.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d suspected as much, but that didn’t make hearing it any easier. “It’s not at all surprising,” he said. “With everything going on, I’d be shocked if there wasn’t one. What does it say?”

Zoe hesitated. He could see the debate happening behind her eyes, the push and pull of duty versus the nagging thought that maybe—just maybe—he deserved to know.

“Only Lady Artemis can tell you that,” she finally said.

“Then let’s go talk to her.” He turned to leave, but a firm hand on his arm stopped him in place. He glanced down at her grip before meeting her gaze, her expression unreadable.

“She’s busy right now,” Zoe said.

His jaw clenched. “With what?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, something sharp and knowing. “She’s talking to your fiancée.”

His stomach dropped.

Fuck, she was probably trying to convince Adriana to join the hunt as they spoke. Would she say yes? Would she say yes to be done with their silly engagement? 

“You can’t stop her if he says yes,” Zoe said. “It's her choice to make alone.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Percy asked. “If it was something she wanted, I wouldn’t stop her. It’s her choice to make alone. However, I think its cruel of you all to ask someone a question like that when someone is clearly in an emotional state. No one should make a decision like that.”

“Emotional?” Zoe asked. “How exactly is she emotional? Is it because she’s a woman?”

“For fucks sake, No,” he said. “It’s because she’s been attacked by a fury, she's fallen off a cliff, been attacked and almost assaulted, had her leg stitched back together by magic, and learned gods are real. Tell me you wouldn’t be emotional if all that happened to you in a few days? She’s barely even slept or eaten either. It’s not because she’s a woman. Women are more capable of dealing with emotional stress than men who like to lock it away and pretend nothing can affect them.”

“I don’t like you, Perseus,” Zoe said. “But, you care for her. Perhaps you are right.”

Of course he was right.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I really don't want to talk right now. I’m going to find Artemis and ask her about that fucking prophecy.”

Percy didn’t find Artemis—not because he wasn’t looking, but because her Hunters made sure he couldn’t get within five feet of her. He had forgotten just how infuriatingly stubborn the merry band of preteens could be, their silver-clad ranks forming an impenetrable wall between him and the goddess.

Worse, Artemis was still deep in conversation with Adriana. A heavy weight settled in Percy’s chest, a slow realization creeping over him like a tide he couldn’t push back. Adriana might not be coming back with him.

Gods, what was he supposed to tell Marcus? The man would kill him if he returned without his daughter. And maybe—maybe that wouldn’t be the worst outcome. If it came down to it, leaving the legion might not be such a bad idea. At least then he’d be free. Free to follow the threads of these recent attacks without orders or oversight. Free to finally figure out what the hell was really going on.

After what felt like hours, Adriana left Artemis’s tent looking visibly shaken. Artemis must have used some of her magic to get her new clothes. She looked cleaner and far better than she had been, but he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. What on earth had the woman said to her?

He should never have left her alone.

Wordlessly, he joined her at the edge of the dying campfire, lowering himself onto the log beside her. The flickering embers cast a weak, reddish glow over the both of them, illuminating the exhaustion in her face. Around them, the Hunt was winding down, the girls disappearing into their tents one by one, murmuring quiet goodnights. The air was thick with the scent of pine and smoke. It had to be pushing one in the morning, and he still hadn’t slept.

Not that he would be able to.

“What did Lady Artemis ask of you?” he asked after a few moments of silence. 

The firelight flickered against her face, casting deep shadows beneath her eyes. She held her arms close, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves as if she could wring an answer from them.

“She asked me to join the Hunt,” Adriana admitted, voice softer than the night around them. “She said it would save me much heartbreak.”

A sharp, unseen hand clenched in his stomach. The breath he took felt too tight, his ribs caging something wild, something he didn’t understand. They barely knew each other—why did the thought of her leaving twist like a knife inside him?

“And will you join them?” he asked, his voice careful, almost too even.

She turned to him, her gaze flickering like embers stirred in the wind. “Are you that happy to be rid of me?” she challenged. “Are you excited by the prospect of not marrying me?”

His pulse roared in his ears, a crashing wave against jagged rock. “Are you going to join them?” he asked again, and this time, the fear crept into his voice like a shadow stretching in the firelight. Gods, what was wrong with him?

She hesitated. “I—”

“I won’t blame you if you do,” he said quickly, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “It must be liberating, for once, to make your own choice.”

Her gaze sharpened, piercing through the space between them. “Why do you do that?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“Why are you so goddamn supportive?” she demanded. Her voice was not a whisper anymore—it was edged, raw. “Why can’t you be angry? Curse my name? Beg the gods to strike me down for even considering this?” She took a step closer, searching his face, her breath uneven. “Do you even care if I leave?”

He exhaled sharply. “Of course I care.” The weight of those words sank between them, deep and undeniable. He didn’t know her well, but gods he cared. “But it’s your decision to make, not mine. I won’t take that from you, Adriana. I’ve already taken so much.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, as if she were seeing something in him she hadn’t before. Then, her lips curled—not quite a smile, but something close.

"You know," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. "I think if I had met you before everything, I might’ve actually liked you."

He tilted his head, studying her expression, trying to determine whether she meant it. "Really?"

"Might," she confirmed, though there was a glint in her eyes. "You’d still annoy me."

A smirk tugged at his lips, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease. He raised a brow. "You’d love me, admit it."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, but there was something fragile in the way she looked at him, something hesitant and fleeting, like a wisp of warmth in the cold. "You’re pushing your luck." A pause, just long enough for the moment to settle between them. Then, with the smallest tilt of her lips, "I’d barely tolerate you."

"You barely tolerate me now," he pointed out, and despite everything, the teasing edge in his voice felt natural. "I’ll take what I can get."

Her gaze flickered downward, her fingers curling against the fabric of her sleeves. "I’m sorry," she said at last, so quietly it almost didn’t reach him. "I never really thanked you for saving me when— I shouldn’t have run off like that. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I’ve been inconsiderate at every turn." She exhaled sharply. "I always knew I’d never get to choose who I’d marry. I just thought I had more time."

He shook his head. "You don’t have to thank me. I’d never let anyone hurt you." His voice was steady, but something raw stirred beneath it. "And don’t apologize for running. I don’t blame you for thinking the worst. If I were in your position, I probably would’ve thrown myself off a bridge by now."

She huffed out a laugh, the corner of her mouth lifting. "I’m still considering it," she smirked.

He turned to face her fully, the firelight catching in the strands of her hair. "Whatever decision you make, I will support you. Don’t think about me, or Thaddeus, or your father. What do you want, Adriana?"

A shadow passed over her face. She lowered her head, shaking it slowly. "I don’t know," she admitted, and for the first time, she sounded truly lost.

Against his better judgment, he stepped closer and took her hands in his. She tensed at first, her fingers twitching in his grip, but she didn’t pull away. When she finally looked up, her expression was unreadable.

"I won’t lie to you," he said, his voice low. "You’d probably be safer if you joined them. My life— my life has always been dangerous. Being my wife would be dangerous."

Her brows knit together. "Why?" she asked, searching his face. "What’s so dangerous about you? You're a centurion, a politician’s son."

He held her gaze, waiting—almost daring her to piece it together.

"You know I’m more than that, Adriana," he said at last. "Haven’t you figured it out yet?"

She stared at him, the gears in her mind turning. Then, slowly, realization dawned in her eyes. "When I spoke to Artemis, she called you something—half-blood." Her voice was almost hesitant, as if she were testing the weight of the word on her tongue. "What does that mean, Perseus?"

He exhaled, the answer heavy in his chest. "Half human—"

"Half god," she finished for him. “Who is your father?”

“Poseidon,” he said. “God of the sea.”

Her eyes were wide as she looked at him differently—as if she was really seeing him for the first time. “Your greek?” She said it as if it were worse than being the son of a god. Perhaps it was.

“Do you understand?” he said. “My life will always be dangerous. As long as I am alive there will always be something. And…” he didn’t want to tell her. “You can’t tell anyone, because Julius Caesar is hunting my kind, right now. If you tell your father, or Thaddeus, I am as good as dead, and my family too.” 

She frowned, and cursed. “I won’t tell anyone, Perseus. Fuck Caesar.”

Thank the gods. He let cool air fill his lungs as he was finally able to breathe.

“You don’t like Julius Caesar?” he asked, eyebrows rising in genuine surprise.

Adriana turned her gaze to him, the flickering torchlight catching in her dark eyes. “He is my emperor,” she said, her voice even. “I like him well enough.”

He studied her for a beat, noting the way she said it—not with admiration, nor disdain, but something carefully neutral. “Then why don’t you like him?”

She arched a brow. “Why don’t I?”

“Oh, humor me,” he said with a smirk, reclining slightly as if the weight of politics was something he could shrug off like a cloak. “I don’t pay attention to all that much.”

“For a politician’s son, you are an idiot,” Adriana shot back, her tone sharp as the glint of a dagger. “Julius Caesar has thrown Rome into chaos. His war with Pompey ended in blood, and now he acts like a king in everything but name. No one has truly seen him beyond a few controlled appearances since his return from Egypt. And they say he fathered a child there—with Cleopatra herself.”

He blinked, a scoff barely suppressed at the mention of Egypt. Right. He’d almost forgotten that little scandal—Caesar, Rome’s most formidable general, ensnared by the Egyptian queen. If the whispers were true, the boy, Caesarion, was more than just a rumor. He was proof of how deeply the entanglement ran.

A chill ran down his spine, not from the night air, but from the weight of what he knew was coming. Everything would unravel soon—Caesar’s assassination, the war that would follow, and Marcus running off to Egypt, chasing the same queen who had once captured the heart of Rome’s most powerful man.

There were only a few more years until Julius was murdered. Maybe two or three, he didn’t know exactly how long he had.  And then everything would change. Octavian would be emperor, Marcus would be in Egypt, and…Percy didn’t know where that left him.

He didn’t know what side he would need to take. Octavian’s, or Marcus? He knew in the future Livia ended up marrying Octavian, and his father ended up dying after siding with Cassius and Brutus. He knew how this war was going to end.

“You’re thinking too hard,” she murmured, her voice dipping into something softer, more intimate. “What’s going on inside that pretty head of yours?”

“Pretty?” His brow quirked, lips parting slightly in surprise.

She rolled her eyes, but there was something playful in the way she did it, something teasing. “You really are an idiot.”

His chest tightened at the familiarity of it, the way she could insult him and still make it sound like affection. He tried to focus, tried to ignore the way her voice curled around his senses. “You haven’t told me if you’ve accepted Artemis’s offer yet.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face, barely noticeable in the dim firelight, but he caught it anyway. Then she exhaled, shaking her head. “Unfortunately,” she said. “I told her no. I don’t like the idea of immortality. You're stuck with me.”

The breath Percy had been holding eased out of him, leaving behind something dangerously close to relief. He didn’t understand why. Maybe he’d been bracing for the answer, fearing she’d say yes—that she’d choose a life that had nothing to do with him.

“I’d hate to live forever too,” he admitted. His voice was rougher now, lower. “It would be worse than death.” His gaze trailed over her face, drinking in the way the firelight cast warm shadows against her skin. “So this is it, then? You’ll actually marry me?”

Her lips curved into a half-smile, but there was something unreadable in her expression. “Do I have any other choice?”

His throat tightened. “You have a thousand different choices in front of you,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ll support you no matter what you decide. You could run off to some foreign country, and I’d tell your father you died in the fall.”

And he meant it. He would never trap her, never make her feel like she owed him anything. But deep down, there was something dark and selfish inside him that wanted her to stay, to choose him—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

She sucked in a breath, her voice quieter this time, more uncertain. “I—Do you want to marry me?”

The way she asked it sent something sharp through him. His chest ached, his pulse quickening. It was a bad idea. A terrible, reckless idea.

But when had that ever stopped him before?

His hand moved without thought, his fingers grazing her jaw before settling against her cheek. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft beneath his touch, and when his thumb traced slow, lazy circles just below her cheekbone, she shivered.

Her lips parted. A small, breathy sound escaped her—barely even a gasp, but it sent heat curling in his stomach.

“I would be lucky to marry you, Adriana,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes flickered downward, drawn to his lips. He felt it then, the shift in the air between them, thick with something unspoken, something dangerously electric.

He could kiss her.

He could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin, the way her body swayed just slightly toward his, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether to close the space between them or pull away.

His fingers tightened against her cheek, just slightly. Her pulse was racing beneath his fingertips, and he knew, if he just leaned in a little—

No . He wouldn’t do that to her—wouldn’t put her in that position. So instead, he let his hand fall away, curling his fingers into a fist at his side.

“We need to head back in the morning,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Your father—well, he’s probably assuming the worst by now.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “Perseus… we have to be prepared. He’ll think—” Her throat bobbed, and she dropped her gaze. “Well, my father always assumes the worst. He’ll marry us quickly to save the family’s reputation.”

The words settled between them like a stone sinking in deep water.

“We have weeks, then,” Percy said quietly. “Not months.” His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.”

Adriana let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. “It could be worse,” she murmured. “I could be engaged to someone in their nineties.”

Percy huffed, grateful for the shift in tone. “Well, I’m glad I’m passable, at least.” He tapped his fingers against his jaw. “You’ll be happy to know I have all my teeth.”

Her lips quirked, something flickering behind her eyes—fondness, maybe, or something heavier. “Small victories,” she said.

“For what it’s worth,” he told her, feeling rather brave “I’m glad you won’t be joining the hunt.”

She smiled at him, and for the first time he thought maybe there was hope for them after all. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Her dream was strange.

She stood in the middle of an immense hall, its marble floors cold beneath her bare feet. Towering statues loomed around her—Greek and Roman figures, frozen in time. But something was wrong. The statues, once vibrant with painted details, had lost their color, stripped down to a stark, lifeless white. Cracks ran through the stone like veins, some figures missing arms, legs, or even entire faces. The sight unsettled her, as if she had stepped into the ruins of a world long abandoned.

Then, she noticed him.

A small boy stood in the center of the hall, gazing up at the statues with wide, wary eyes. His dark hair was an untamed mess, and his clothes were strange—too modern, too out of place. Yet there was something eerily familiar about him, something tugging at the edges of her memory.

He wasn’t alone.

An old woman stood beside him, her wrinkled hands clutching his tiny shoulder. Her gaze was unreadable, her presence vaguely off, like a shadow stretching too far in the wrong direction.

And then, before her eyes, the woman began to change.

Her skin shriveled, darkening into something leathery and grotesque. Her spine cracked as wings burst from her back, black and membranous, stretching wide enough to blot out the dim light of the hall. Her fingers curled into gnarled claws, her mouth stretching into a monstrous grin as her teeth elongated into gleaming, wickedly sharp fangs—fangs meant for tearing flesh.

The child turned, his expression frozen somewhere between terror and understanding, as if he had seen this before.

And then, the Fury lunged.

Instead of the talons shredding through the boy's skin, she could feel it shredding hers.

She gasped, her body seizing as invisible claws raked down her arms and shoulders, burning like firebrands. It was as if she had been pulled into the boy’s place, as if the nightmare had made her its target instead. 

The sensation was too real—too sharp, too vivid—to be just a dream. She staggered back, her breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. The statues loomed closer, their hollow, unseeing eyes locked onto her suffering. 

The boy was still there, untouched, watching her with an expression that made her stomach twist. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He wasn’t even surprised. “Adriana,” he whispered, his voice a chilling echo in the vast hall. 

Her legs gave out, and she fell to her knees. The Fury towered over her now, its grotesque wings casting shadows that slithered like living things. It bared its fangs, blood-red eyes gleaming with triumph. 

“Adriana!” the boy repeated.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling as though she had just surfaced from deep underwater. Her body was trembling, drenched in sweat, the phantom pain of talons still burning across her skin. The lingering echoes of the Fury’s shriek rang in her ears.

And then—warm hands.

“It’s alright,” a voice murmured, steady and familiar. “It’s alright.”

Her vision cleared, the suffocating darkness of the dream peeling away. Percy knelt beside her, his face etched with concern, the dim lantern light casting soft shadows across his features. His sea-green eyes searched hers, flickering with something raw—fear, maybe, or worry. He was close, closer than she should be comfortable with, but at that moment, she wasn’t.

“You had a nightmare,” he explained. “You were screaming. I thought—”

“Just a dream,” she managed, her voice hoarse. “I was in some strange temple, and there was a Fury attacking a child.” She swallowed hard, shuddering as the memory curled like smoke in her mind. “It felt so real.”

“Gods,” Percy murmured. His hands, rough from battle but impossibly gentle now, reached up to brush damp strands of hair from her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

She exhaled shakily, but the moment her body registered his touch, another thought hit her— she wasn’t wearing much.

The shift one of the Huntresses had given her was thin, barely anything between her skin and the cool night air, now clinging to her with the dampness of sweat. It left little to the imagination, and judging by the way Percy’s breath hitched for the briefest second, he had noticed.

Heat crept up her neck, though whether from embarrassment or something else entirely, she couldn’t tell.

His hands, once steady, hesitated, as if only now realizing the position they were in. The space between them suddenly felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. The air between them felt the same as it had been the night before.

She had thought he was going to kiss her last night. He had been so close, close enough that she could hear his heart beating, and feel his breath on her skin. All it would have taken was more him to move an inch and his lips would have been on hers.

She couldn’t hide the disappointment when he pulled away. What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t have felt that way. She shouldn't have felt anything really. But gods, she did and she didn’t know what to do with that.

“I should—” he started, but his voice caught, rough and uncertain, like he was struggling to find the right words. Like he wasn’t entirely sure what he should do.

The air between them was thick—charged with something she wasn’t ready to name. She swallowed, trying to steady her breathing, but the remnants of the dream still clung to her, leaving her pulse erratic. Except now, it wasn’t just fear making her heart race.

“You—you don’t have to go.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, before logic could catch up and remind her why this was reckless, why it was dangerous.

He froze. His gaze—storm-dark, heavy with unspoken conflict—held hers, and for a moment, neither of them moved. She could see the battle raging behind his eyes, the silent war between obligation and something else, something unnamed, something that made her heart stutter in her chest.

“Yes, I do,” he murmured, but there was no steel behind the words, no finality. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than her.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her blanket, gripping it as if it could anchor her, as if it could stop the ground beneath her from shifting. Her throat felt tight, but still, she whispered, “Perseus… please.”

Something in him cracked.

For the first time since she had met him, she saw fear—not the kind forged in battle, not the kind that came with blood and war, but something deeper, something raw. He inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his throat before he slowly, hesitantly, nodded.

With measured control, he lowered himself beside her, as if each movement carried a weight he wasn’t sure he could bear.

Are you sure?” he asked, voice quiet, searching.

She nodded. It was too late to take it back now.

But the moment he settled beside her, the air shifted—charged, electric. She had thought his presence would be comforting, something solid to hold onto in the dark. Instead, it set her nerves on edge in an entirely different way. He was close—too close. The heat of him seeped into her skin, the scent of sea salt and steel lingering between them. Every inhale was filled with him.

Sleep felt distant, unreachable. Her body remained tense, coiled tight with the echoes of the dream—the boy with those familiar sea-green eyes, the talons raking through her flesh, the phantom pain that felt too real to be just a memory.

She shuddered, her breath shaky.

“You’re okay,” Perseus murmured, his voice low, steady. “Just relax.”

She tried. Gods, she tried.

Then, to her surprise, he moved. Gently, carefully, as if testing a boundary neither of them had spoken aloud. He eased her closer, his arm shifting until her head rested against his chest.

Her breath hitched.

His warmth enveloped her, his skin hot where it pressed against hers. The steady, hypnotic rhythm of his heartbeat thrummed beneath her cheek, strong and unwavering. His fingers, rough and calloused, traced slow, absentminded circles over her bare shoulder. It was a touch that wasn’t meant to be intimate, and yet, it was.

Every lazy sweep of his thumb sent a new wave of awareness through her, made her hyper-conscious of just how little space there was between them. Her pulse quickened, heat unfurling low in her stomach, an ache she didn’t dare name.

He wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like temptation, like something dangerous in an entirely different way than the monsters chasing them.

And yet, the tension in her limbs unraveled, her body betraying her. The rigid tightness in her shoulders softened. Her breathing slowed, matching the quiet rise and fall of his own.

After a few seconds, she melted into him, her body relaxing against his in silent surrender.

She shouldn’t want this.

She shouldn’t want him.

But right now, wrapped in his warmth, feeling his slow, steady breaths against her hair, she let herself forget why this was reckless. Why this couldn’t last.

Just for a moment, she let herself want.

Morning came too soon.

Golden light filtered through the canvas of the tent, casting soft, dappled patterns along the fabric. The air was crisp, carrying the distant scent of pine and damp earth. She blinked groggily, disoriented for half a second—until the space beside her registered as empty.

Perseus was gone. Of course he was.

Most likely, he was already off somewhere, speaking with Artemis about things she would never understand, things she wasn’t meant to understand. She sighed, letting her head sink deeper into the feathered roll beneath her, resisting the pull of the waking world. Outside, the camp was stirring to life. The telltale sounds of the Huntresses moving with practiced efficiency drifted through the fabric walls—the clinking of weapons being strapped into place, the murmured voices, the rhythmic steps of boots crunching against the frost-kissed ground.

Soon, she would have to rise. Soon, she would be back on the road, where Furies and monsters would be waiting, where danger lurked at every turn, never far behind.

But right now, she didn’t want to move.

Some stubborn, aching part of her wanted to stay in this tent forever. Here, she wasn’t engaged. Her father wasn’t Marcus Antonius. And Perseus—

Perseus was a demigod.

She still couldn’t quite grasp it. Half god. The words felt foreign, too large to fit into the image of the boy she had come to know. He looked normal enough—on the streets of any city, he could have blended in, just another face in the crowd. A man, not a legend.

And yet, there were moments when that illusion shattered.

She saw it in his eyes—when they darkened like a gathering storm, swirling with something ancient, something that didn’t belong to the world of men. She heard it in the way he spoke to Artemis, his voice edged with quiet authority, an unspoken understanding that no mortal should have. She felt it in the way he carried himself—steady, unshaken, untouched by fear in the face of horrors that would send others running.

She had seen him fight.

There was no hesitation in his movements, no wasted effort. He fought with precision, with a brutal, effortless grace that was almost unnatural. He didn’t just survive battles—he dominated them.

No mortal man could do the things he did.

She forced herself up from the bed, her limbs stiff from sleep, her mind still clouded with the weight of her thoughts. She needed to move, needed to focus on anything except him—except the warmth that still lingered where he had been, the memory of his touch imprinted against her skin like a ghost.

She quickly put on the clothes the Huntresses had left out for her--clean small clothes, and a pristine chiton. She was thankful to finally be clean after hours smelling like blood and river water. 

Stepping outside, the camp was already alive with movement. The crisp morning air hit her first, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, fresh from the lingering night’s dew. Voices murmured through the clearing, the occasional clang of weapons being sharpened punctuating the quiet hum of conversation. The Huntresses moved with their usual efficiency, tending to their bows, fastening their quivers, stretching out sore muscles in preparation for another long day on the road.

The smell of cooking food wrapped around her like a warm embrace, rich and savory. Her stomach clenched painfully at the scent of sizzling meat, the faint buttery aroma of freshly baked bread drifting through the air. Somewhere nearby, someone was stirring a pot over an open fire, the scent of herbs—rosemary, maybe thyme—mingling with the sharper bite of smoke.

Gods, when was the last time she had eaten?

She struggled to remember.

Her mind flashed back to the inn—the flickering candlelight, the scratchy wool blankets, the way exhaustion had weighed on her bones. She had only managed to shove a few pieces of cheese into her mouth before everything went to hell. She could still taste the salt on her tongue, still feel the lingering dryness in her throat from how quickly she had swallowed it down.

Now, hunger gnawed at her insides, sharp and insistent.

A voice cut through her thoughts, smooth and certain. “Are you alright?”

She blinked, the world snapping back into focus as she turned to see Zoe standing beside her.

She was beautiful—not in the fleeting way of youth, but with an untouchable, ageless elegance. The kind of beauty carved from something eternal, like marble shaped by gods rather than men. The sharp lines of her face, the effortless grace in her stance, the way she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had never doubted her own strength. It was the kind of beauty that made Adriana feel suddenly small, fragile in a way she had never liked to acknowledge.

Zoe’s hands were poised on her bow, a cloth in one of them, moving with the absentminded ease of long practice. Yet even in stillness, there was an edge to her, a hunter always aware of her surroundings.

“Yes,” Adriana said, forcing her voice steady. “Thank you. Your name is Zoe?”

Zoe nodded, her focus returning to her bow, though Adriana had the distinct feeling she was being studied. Weighed.

“I noticed the boy leaving your tent this morning.” Her tone was casual, but there was something deliberate in the way she said it. “I did not realize the two of you were so… close.”

Heat flooded Adriana’s face. “I had a nightmare,” she said quickly, but even as the words left her mouth, they felt like an excuse.

Zoe hummed, her expression unreadable. She didn’t pry, but she also didn’t look entirely convinced. Instead, she held Adriana’s gaze for a long moment before speaking again.

“What do you know of him?” she asked. “Is he a good man?”

Adriana hesitated.

She should have had an answer. But when she thought of Perseus, nothing fit neatly into categories of good or bad. He was—

“I’m still trying to figure that out for myself,” she admitted. “He’s… confusing.”

Zoe arched a dark brow. “How so?”

Adriana exhaled slowly. How could she possibly explain?

“He scares me,” she confessed, the words barely above a whisper.

Zoe’s hands stilled, her grip tightening around her bow. “Has he hurt you?” she asked sharply.

“No,” Adriana said, too quickly, as if the very idea was absurd. “He’s only ever been kind to me—far kinder than I probably deserve.”

Zoe’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but her gaze remained keen, searching. “Then what is it about him that frightens you?”

Adriana chewed on her lip.

What was it? The way he looked at her sometimes, like he was seeing through her, past her, as if he already knew all her secrets? The effortless power he carried, the way he moved like violence was something he had been born with? Or maybe it was something else entirely—the way she noticed too much about him, the way her body reacted before her mind could stop it.

The way her pulse always quickened when he was near.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “There are times when he seems… cold. Terrifying.”

Zoe studied her for a beat, then nodded. “He’s a warrior,” she said simply. “I noticed it the moment I set eyes on him. More than that, he is a demigod—a child of the Big Three.”

Adriana frowned. “The Big Three?”

Zoe glanced at her, as if deciding whether she was worth explaining it to. “A child of either Zeus, Poseidon, or Hades,” she said. “Demigods born from them have always been powerful. Too powerful. They are closer to their godly side than their human one. They attract monsters, wars, and gods like bees to honey. You spend that much time fighting off the creatures of Tartarus, and it’s bound to rub off.”

She swallowed. “What rubs off?”

Zoe held her gaze, steady and certain.

“The darkness,” she said.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“If Perseus seems cold at times, it is because the world made him that way,” Zoe continued, her voice softer now, edged with something almost like understanding. “I can only imagine the things he has endured. I do not know his full story, but the way Artemis speaks of him…” She hesitated, as if weighing her words. “It is as if he has already suffered more than most demigods ever will.”

A shiver ran down her spine.

She thought of the way he looked at her sometimes—like he was holding back a storm. Like he had seen too much, lost too much.

And for the first time, she wondered if she should be afraid of him… or for him.

“You should speak to him,” she said. “Tell him of your fears. He might not even be awre of the darkness in him.”

“You should listen to Zoe,” a voice said. She turned around to see the goddess leaning against a tree, watching them with amusement. “Perseus will need support if he is to survive. His destiny is great, but his path isn’t set in stone. He could easily die before he achieves any of it.” 

“I thought you said what is meant to happen will always happen?” she said.

The goddess smirked and pushed herself off the tree with the grace of a cat. “Perseus’s ending is written and cannot be changed, but how he gets there is always in motion.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. 

“He will need you,” she said. “It would be easier for you to leave him and join the hunt, but it would make his future harder. Prophecy is a strange thing. Are you sure you do not wish to join us?” the goddess asked, her voice smooth and unyielding, like the surface of a frozen lake. “It would make things easier for you.”

Easier. Adriana nearly laughed at the word. She wanted nothing more than to run—to cast aside the weight of her duty, the tangled mess of her heart, the constant pull of her father’s expectations and the presence of Perseus, always too much, too intense. But what kind of person would that make her? A coward. And she refused to be that.

“I’m sure,” she said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.

Artemis studied her for a moment, then shook her head with something close to pity. “I wish you good luck, Adriana. You shall need it.” Then, with a knowing smirk, she added, “If that boy ever hurts you, the Huntresses will skewer him for you.”

Adriana’s lips twitched despite herself. “Is that a promise?”

The goddess’s smirk widened. “Of course.”

A voice cut through the night like a blade.

“I need to speak with you.”

Perseus. 

Gone was the gentleness he had carried in the tent. His expression was grave, the usual flicker of mischief wiped away, leaving only raw intensity in its place. The shift was unnerving. Adriana had always been struck by how easily he could slip between light and dark—one moment full of easy charm, the next a storm barely restrained. And now, as he fixed Artemis with that unyielding stare, she was reminded of why even gods tread carefully around him. Sometimes it was like the man had two people living in him. There was the kind gentle man who had comforted her, and then there was the dangerous one--the god inside of him. 

Artemis arched a brow, tilting her head as though humoring a mortal who had dared to approach her. “Oh?”

“You mentioned prophecy,” he said. She froze. How long had he been listening to their conversation?  “Is the great one about me?”

For the briefest second, something flickered in the goddess’s silver eyes—a glint of something sharp, something cautious. Then, just as swiftly, it was gone, replaced by that familiar, detached amusement.

“You’re sharper than you look, Perseus,” she mused, her lips curving faintly. “How did you know?”

Adriana’s stomach twisted. She hated this—hated when Perseus knew things he shouldn’t, when he spoke in riddles even gods struggled to keep up with. He had a way of peeling back truths, of unearthing secrets, and it unsettled her to no end.

Percy exhaled, his fists curling at his sides. “Because there’s always another prophecy.” His voice was steady, but there was something bitter beneath it. “There’s always something lurking in the shadows, waiting to unravel everything. There’s always another shoe waiting to drop. This isn’t the first great prophecy I've suffered, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Artemis sighed. It was a soft sound, but it carried weight, like the hush before a storm. “I can’t tell you what it is,” she admitted. “Because I haven’t actually heard it myself. Only whispers, fragments. They say there are two parts.”

His pulse quickened. “Who should I talk to?”

“My brother will know,” she said, her voice tinged with something almost wistful. But then, just as quickly, exasperation clouded her expression. “But he’s been missing for quite some time—off on one of his ridiculous little adventures.” She rolled her eyes. “He has an infuriating habit of involving himself in matters he has no business being a part of.”

The air around them shifted, and suddenly Artemis’s gaze sharpened, turning cold as steel. The amusement was gone, replaced by something harder.

“You need to be careful,” she warned. “There are things brewing that not even you can comprehend.”

Percy met her gaze without flinching. “I can comprehend far more than you think.” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something dangerous simmering beneath the surface. “Do you know my whole story?”

Artemis hesitated. “No,” she admitted at last. “No one does. We only know where you come from, and that you are considered a hero there.”

His jaw tightened. “Trust me. Whatever is coming, I’ve dealt with worse.” His voice dropped slightly, a dark certainty threading through it. “I’ve walked through Tartarus and survived. I can manage another prophecy.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Artemis’s eyes. Then, for the first time that night, she looked… unsettled.

“I see. I had not known--” A beat of silence. “How are you alive?"

"I ask myself that question everyday," he told her. 

"My huntresses are leaving in a few hours. We will keep that fury hunting you busy so you can get to your camp safely. You should leave within the hour, we'll give you horses and food for your journey."

Perseus bowed his head to her. "Thank you, My lady. I'm sorry we could not have met during better times."

"May fortune favor you, Perseus Jackson.” Her voice was softer now, the slightest hint of respect in it.

He smirked at her slightly. She was glad to see some of his humor was back, the darkness slowly disappearing from him. "I'll take all the fortune I can get."

She frowned. "I hope you won't need it."

So did Adriana. 

Chapter Text

Two hours after parting ways with the Huntresses, the forest felt strangely hollow. Their sharp laughter and constant bickering had faded into the trees, but Percy already missed the wild, restless energy they carried with them like wind in their wake.

He tightened the straps on the saddlebags, securing the few possessions he owned to the horse the Huntresses had—somewhat begrudgingly—gifted them. The mare huffed as if equally reluctant to carry his weight, but at least they wouldn't be trudging the whole way back to camp on foot.

The sooner they returned, the better—at least, that’s what he told himself.

But as the path stretched out ahead, dappled with late-morning sun and shadow, Percy couldn’t ignore the heaviness in his chest. The thought of returning to rules, and responsibilities, made his stomach twist.

But there was something that made is stomach twist even more. Zoe Nightshade. Alive. Breathing. Free.

The name echoed in his mind like the reverberation of an old song. He hadn’t dared to dream he’d ever see her again—not when he’d first traveled through time, not when he found himself staring at a world where old names had become legend. But she was here. Still defiant. Still fierce.

Something deep inside him—something wounded and boyish—mended itself in that moment.

“There’s a bridge about a mile up,” Percy said, his voice low, but sure. “After that, it’s only a few hours to camp. We should be home by nightfall.”

He didn’t look back.

They rode in silence for a while, the forest thinning as the trail wound toward the river. The horse’s hooves clopped rhythmically against the packed earth, the only sound besides the rustle of wind in the treetops. Percy’s fingers tapped against the saddle horn, his eyes scanning the narrowing path ahead.

Eventually, the trees parted, revealing the old stone bridge—a moss-covered arch stretching over a churning river, its surface glinting like shattered glass in the noon sun. A place Percy had crossed a hundred times during marches.  always with a kind of mindless familiarity.

But today, something was wrong.

A figure stood in the center of the bridge, unmoving. Cloaked, broad-shouldered, and planted like a statue. Even from a distance, Percy could feel the weight of their presence, the way the air seemed to still around them.

He pulled the reins gently, bringing the horse to a slow stop just before the bridge. “Great,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Highwayman. Because this trip wasn’t cursed enough already.”

He slid off the horse, hand drifting instinctively to the pen in his pocket. With a flick, Riptide could be in his hand and glowing within a heartbeat—but he didn’t draw it. Not yet. Not until he knew for sure.

“Hey!” Percy called out, voice echoing across the span. “Unless you’re selling Girl Scout cookies or directions to Olympus, I’d recommend getting out of the way.”

The figure didn’t move.

“Who are you?” the highwayman drawled, voice rough and deliberate, like gravel crushed under iron. A blade glinted at his side, half-loosed in its cracked leather sheath, the metal catching the blood-orange spill of late afternoon light. His eyes, sharp beneath the battered tricorn hat, flicked from Percy’s dented shoulder plate to the insignia stitched into the frayed edge of his cloak.

“What’s a centurion doing without his legion?”

Percy breathed in slowly, trying to steady the tightness in his chest. He swung one leg over the saddle and dismounted, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. The horse shifted under the sudden loss of weight, snorting softly.

He stepped forward, keeping a firm hold on the reins as he moved to Adriana’s side. “Here,” he said, offering a hand up to her stirrup. She took it, and he braced her with his other hand as she swung down, landing more gracefully than most demigods he’d seen.

As soon as her boots touched the ground, Percy slipped the reins over the horse’s head and kept a secure grip on the lead, looping the leather once around his palm. The mare tossed her head, ears flicking as she eyed the space ahead warily.

“I don’t like this guy,” the horse muttered under her breath, her voice low and disgruntled.

Percy tightened his grip on the reins and gave her an absent-minded pat on the neck. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me neither.”

“We’re just passing through,” Percy said, his voice level, a touch too calm.

The highwayman stepped forward. Gravel crunched beneath heavy boots. His fingers danced near the hilt of his sword. “Not without my say-so, you ain’t,” he said. “Now, how ‘bout you tell me the real reason you’re creeping through these parts? Nobody wanders here without a reason.”

Percy let a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth—cold, calculated, unamused. “I’m on my honeymoon,” he said, glancing toward Adriana.

She didn’t so much as blink. Gods, she was good. If she had any opinion about the lie, she kept it sealed behind that cool exterior. He hoped she wouldn’t gut him for it later.

“We’re heading to the coast to visit family,” he added. “If you’d be so kind as to let us pass.”

The highwayman’s grin widened—greedy, knowing. His eyes lingered too long on Adriana. Percy’s pulse surged, heat rising to his face, but not just from anger. He stepped half a pace forward without realizing it.

“I don’t know,” the man muttered. “Depends how badly you want to get there.”

Percy’s fingers curled around his sword’s pommel. The worn leather met his grip like an old friend. He could already feel the first motion of a draw running through his mind—clean, smooth, aimed for the man’s exposed throat.

“I don’t think you understand,” Percy said, voice low, steel buried in velvet. His gaze locked with the man’s, unflinching. “That wasn’t a question. Let us by.”

A beat passed.

Then, behind him, movement. Adriana stepped forward.

“You heard him,” she said. Her voice was silk pulled tight across wire. Calm. Dangerous. Seductive in its precision.

Percy felt it in his spine—the shift in her presence, like a blade unsheathing. Her hood fell back with the motion, silver glinting at her temple. The light caught the inky curl of a tattoo along her neck, sharp and ancient. He saw the flicker of recognition in the highwayman’s face. Good. Let the bastard realize too late who he was dealing with.

“Didn’t say you had company with steel in her spine,” the man muttered.

Adriana didn’t blink. “You’re standing on the wrong side of a decision,” she said. “One where you live… or one where you bleed.”

Percy swallowed. Not from fear—never that—but from something unexpected and molten blooming in his chest. Maker’s breath, she was magnificent. Calm, deadly, absolute. The fire in her eyes, the poise in her voice—it thrilled him, and he felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the fading sun.

The man hesitated. Then, wisely, dropped his hand from his hilt.

“Honeymooners with bite,” the highwayman muttered. Then, slowly, that wicked smile curled across his face like rot spreading under skin. “You want to pass?” he asked, voice thick with mockery. “Kiss your wife.”

Percy blinked. For a second, he thought he’d misheard. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “What the fuck did you just say?”

The man shrugged. “Price for passing my bridge, boy. You say you’re married?” He flicked two fingers lazily between them. “Prove it. Kiss her.”

There it was—that smug tilt to the bastard’s voice. It wasn’t about proof. It was about power. He wanted them flustered. Off-balance. Embarrassed. He was amused by this—laughing at them. 

Percy hated games more than anything. It was cruel for people or gods to play with people's emotions like this.

“You don’t have to kiss her,” the man said, voice smooth as silk over steel. “It’s a choice. And oh… if I don’t love choices. What door are you going to pick, hero? A kiss? Or the long way around? Doesn’t matter to me, of course. I just like to see what people do. ”

There was something strange about his tone—off-key, like a familiar song played half a beat too slow. Percy squinted at him, but the man’s face was shrouded in the shadow of his hood, unreadable. His smile, though, was unmistakable: wide, sharp, and amused, like someone watching the ending to a story they’d already read a hundred times.

But the choice? That wasn’t hard.

A kiss was nothing. Compared to weeks of trudging through monster-ridden backroads? It was barely a sacrifice.

Percy turned to Adriana, the faint gold light of late afternoon catching in her hair. His heart wasn’t racing—but it wasn’t still either. There was a heat rising in his chest, a hum just under the skin, and it had nothing to do with the blade at his side.

“Are you okay with this?” he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. “You don’t have to.”

Adriana’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “It’s just a kiss,” she said. But her voice wavered, just slightly. Not quite sure. Not quite steady.

Before uncertainty could take root, he moved.

His hand rose slowly, like he was reaching into something fragile. His fingertips brushed the edge of her jaw—barely there, like testing the shape of a thought before speaking it aloud. Her skin was warm, soft, and she froze under the touch, not retreating but not leaning in either. Her breath came faster, not panicked, just alert.

Percy leaned closer, not diving or hesitating—just there, like gravity. He let his forehead rest against hers for a heartbeat, grounding them both. Her breath caught, lips parted slightly, eyes wide.

She didn’t pull away.

So he kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a dare. It was deliberate—warm and sure, like the moment before a wave breaks. He kissed her with confidence, but not possession. Calm steadied him, even as fire curled beneath his ribs.

Adriana tensed—her hand twitched at his chest—but then, gradually, she responded. Her lips moved against his, soft and uncertain at first, like she was feeling her way through the dark. Her fingers brushed the fabric of his cloak, caught there as if afraid to hold on too tightly. The world fell away for a second—no trees, no bridge, no stranger with a wolf’s grin. Just the slow pull between them, the breath they shared.

By the time they parted, it wasn’t abrupt—it was slow, almost reluctant. Adriana’s gaze lingered, open in a way Percy had never seen before. Something unguarded shimmered in her eyes before she blinked it away.

A low whistle cut the silence.

“Well, damn, ” the man said, voice lazy with amusement. “Didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”

He stepped aside, as if granting access to some hidden corridor. “You’re welcome to pass, Centurion. That was fun, wasn’t it?”

Percy didn’t answer. He gave a curt nod, Riptide still firm in his grip. His eyes never left the man—not until he and Adriana reached the edge of the bridge where their horse stood waiting, reins dangling from a low-hanging branch, tail swishing with impatience.

Percy slipped Riptide back into his pocket and grabbed the reins, giving the mare a soothing pat on the neck. She eyed him sideways.

“I still don’t like that guy,” she muttered.

“Join the club,” Percy murmured.

Adriana approached, scanning the bridge like it might still vanish beneath them. Percy turned to her and offered his cupped hands without a word. She hesitated, eyes flicking from his hands to his face, then stepped into his boost and swung lightly into the saddle.

He mounted behind her in a smooth motion, the saddle creaking under their combined weight. The mare shifted once, then settled, sensing the tension riding both of them.

Percy reached around Adriana to take the reins, careful but not distant. His chest brushed lightly against her back; her posture went still, but not stiff. Just aware. Focused.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low near her ear.

She didn’t look back. “Go.”

With a soft click of his tongue and a gentle nudge of his heels, Percy guided the horse forward.

The bridge creaked beneath them as they crossed—stone worn smooth with time, mist curling up from the river below. No monsters. No traps. Just the faint sound of hooves and the silent presence of a choice already made.

Only when they reached the other side did Percy turn to glance back—

—but the man was gone.

No footsteps. No shimmer. Just wind through the trees and the empty bridge behind them.

As if he’d never been there at all.

They rode in silence, the horses' hooves crunching along the narrow path, until the trees thickened behind them and the road turned. Adriana’s gaze drifted back once more before she finally relaxed.

When they were far enough, Percy exhaled.

“You think he’ll follow?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said, voice steady as flint. “But if he does, he won’t get far.”

The words hung between them like a drawn bowstring, sharp and sure. Percy felt the heat of them—not just the threat, but the certainty in her tone, the way she didn’t even consider being afraid. He almost believed it would be a mercy for the man not to follow.

But still, a chill crawled under his skin.

He didn’t tell her what was tugging at the edges of his mind—that the man on the bridge hadn't felt like a man at all. There was something in the way he watched them, something ancient in the curl of his voice. A god, maybe. Or a monster in disguise. The worst part was not knowing which would be more dangerous.

Percy shifted slightly in the saddle behind her, the movement subtle but awkward with so little space between them. Turning to look at her wasn’t easy from their shared position on the horse, but he managed it—just enough to catch the edge of her profile, the sweep of her jaw, the wind teasing loose strands of her hair.

“Nice line back there,” he said, voice low. “You can be terrifying when you want to be.”

She glanced back, her smile blooming slowly—confident, curved, and just the tiniest bit dangerous. “It’s part of my charm,” she murmured, the words brushing over him like silk. “I like terrifying men.”

That did something to him.

Percy blinked. He felt like he was fourteen again—awkward limbs, dry mouth, and a storm of feelings with nowhere to land. And gods, he didn’t want to go through all that again.

The horse walked on beneath them, hooves clicking against the dirt path in a steady rhythm, trees closing in on either side like tall sentries. The air between him and Adriana grew quieter, heavier.

And all Percy could think about—against the warmth of her back, the brush of her hair near his cheek—was that kiss.

Not the one they had just shared, but the one he wanted them to have in the future. The one that might happen if she kissed him back because she wanted to, and not because of the sick and twisted games of a monster. The one she gave because she wanted to.

His fingers tightened slightly on the reins, grounding himself. He was ridiculous. 

He wasn’t sure what scared him more: how much he wanted it… or the sinking feeling that he already knew it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.

Adriana shifted slightly in the saddle, and Percy froze—every nerve in his body at attention. She leaned back, just a little, enough for her shoulder to graze his chest. Casual. Intentional. Infuriatingly unreadable.

“You’re quiet,” she said, her voice still that velvet-gloved dagger, light but edged.

He swallowed. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They had been riding for hours, horse hooves muffled against the dry earth, their path weaving through silent olive groves and stretches of old Roman stone. The silence between them had stretched too—but it was no longer uncomfortable. It was full of something quiet and private: exhaustion, yes, but also thoughts neither of them dared speak aloud. Memories they hadn’t sorted yet.

When the outer palisade finally rose ahead of them, stark against the setting sun, Percy felt something twist in his gut. The sight should have been reassuring—safety, order, familiarity—but instead it made him feel like a prisoner being led back to the gates. His grip tightened on the reins, jaw clenched against the urge to turn the horse around and vanish into the hills.

He could do it. Just drop Adriana off and keep going. He didn’t owe the legion anything. He didn’t need to remain tethered to them.

He knew there were Greek demigods running around somewhere. He wondered if they had a version of camp that he could run off to—maybe he could take Adriana there. She certainly would fit in with the greeks. 

But then her arms tightened slightly around his waist, grounding him.

“We’re back,” Percy said quietly, reining the horse to a slow halt just outside the gates.

The words felt too small for the weight behind them—days of travel, battles fought, and truths neither of them had fully spoken aloud. Dust clung to their armor and cloaks, and the scent of smoke and sweat clung stubbornly to their skin.

Behind him, Adriana exhaled, her breath brushing against the back of his neck. It was long and shaky, like she’d only just let herself believe they’d made it. “Thank the gods,” she murmured, her voice low—relieved, but raw. She didn’t move to dismount yet, like the idea of setting foot back in camp wasn’t entirely safe.

Before them, the camp gates towered—massive slabs of iron-bound oak weathered by years of sun, rain, and siege. Twin sentries flanked the entrance, red-crested helmets gleaming in the dying light, their spears planted in the dirt with ceremonial precision.

A shout rang out, sharp and commanding, followed by the brassy blare of a war horn. The sound seemed to ripple through the camp like thunder.

The gates creaked open slowly, groaning on ancient hinges. The air beyond was thick with dust and firelight, and something colder—expectation.

As they passed beneath the arch, the camp revealed itself in startling stillness.

Everything stopped.

Messengers froze mid-step. A line of legionaries practicing drills lowered their shields in unison. At the blacksmith’s forge, even the hammer paused mid-swing. Hundreds of eyes turned to them—some wide with shock, others narrowed with suspicion.

Percy could feel it, like pressure against his skin: whispers held just behind lips, memories flaring behind stares. They looked like ghosts returning from a battlefield no one expected them to survive.

Do they think we’re dead? Percy wondered. Did they burn shrouds for them like Annabeth had done all those years ago?

He didn’t let the thoughts show. He just sat straighter in the saddle, chin high, letting them look. Let them wonder.

Then, movement—abrupt and purposeful. From the heart of the camp, the flaps of a large crimson command tent were flung aside. A figure stormed out with a soldier’s gait—measured, clipped, every movement radiating control.

Marcus Antonius. He came to a sudden halt the moment he saw them. His face was unreadable, carved from marble—only his eyes betrayed anything, and even then, the emotion flickered too fast to name. It wasn’t joy or relief. It was something different. 

Percy gave a nod, voice steady. “Marcus.”

The Roman’s jaw worked for half a second, then he spoke. “You’re alive,” he said. But for some reason, he didn’t look happy.

Chapter Text

Marcus was eerily silent as he led Percy through the camp. All around him people stared as if he had risen from the dead. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen looks like that, and he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the last.

Percy stiffened. He swallowed hard, the dry desert air catching in his throat. He had never seen Marcus look like this before—eyes sharp, jaw clenched, every inch of him radiating a barely restrained fury. The man might as well have drawn a blade. For all Percy knew, he was being marched to his execution.

Before continuing on, Marcus glanced toward Adriana. For the briefest second, the harsh lines of his face softened, his voice gentling. “Get some rest. We’ll talk soon.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, her voice low, hesitant.

She offered Percy a look—part sympathy, part warning. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary, and in them he read the truth: whatever came next, it wouldn’t be mercy.

Percy followed Marcus to the tent, like he was walking to the gallows. He wasn’t sure what he expected— I’m glad you're alive, would have been nice. Thank you for jumping off a cliff and saving my daughter. But he wasn’t holding his breath.

The silence continued when they entered the tent. Marcus moved immediately to a flagon of wine and poured himself a large glass. He chugged the whole thing so quickly that even Mr. D would have been impressed. 

He poured himself another glass, but didn’t chug this one. Instead, he handed it to Percy, like he was handing him a death warrant.

“Did you fuck her, Perseus,” Marcus said. “I need to know the truth.”

“What?” He had expected him to ask Percy about their journey, but he hadn’t expected him to be quite so crass. “That’s really all you have to say?”

“Did you fuck her?” he said it again, but this time far more slowly. “I need to know. I need to know what I need to fix.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t. You know me, Marcus. I would not disrespect her in that way.” 

“No one will believe you, Perseus,” Marcus said, his voice measured but heavy with finality. The dim torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting jagged shadows across his face. “You were alone with her for a week. Her reputation is ruined. You are ruined.”

Percy’s throat tightened, his pulse hammering in his ears. “There has to be something we can do,” he said, desperation creeping into his tone. “You know me. You know I didn’t touch her.”

Marcus’s gaze darkened. The man standing before him was no longer a friend, but a father—a man sworn to protect his daughter at any cost. The weight of his station bore down on his shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice was colder than before. “We have to act quickly. We leave for Rome tomorrow. You’ll be married within the week.”

Percy’s breath hitched. “The week?”

“It’s the only way to save you both,” Marcus said. His expression softened, but there was no room for argument. “I wanted more for you two. I wanted time—for you to know each other, to grow fond of one another before you wed. But there is no other way.”

Percy swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. “I understand. Have you told her?”

Marcus hesitated just a moment before answering. “She will understand her duty,” he said at last. “As I hope you understand yours. The marriage must be consummated, of course. I expect you to put a child in her within the next few months.”

Percy exhaled slowly.  Dear god, children. He felt like a child himself most days. “Of course.”

A silence settled between them, thick and weighted. Finally, Marcus sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “I am sorry, Perseus. This isn’t what I wanted for either of you. You’re a good man—and good men are rare these days.” His voice was quieter now, almost regretful. Then, as if recalling something, he straightened. “I’ve already sent a messenger to your family. They’ll be at the wedding.” He hesitated before adding, “So will Caesar.”

Percy stiffened. “Caesar?”

“Yes, Perseus. Caesar.” Marcus studied him with something that looked like pity. “He’s in Rome now, taking a short respite from his campaign against Pompey. After your wedding we’ll head to the campaign.”

“I see,” he said. That meant war was on the brink. He knew being a part of the legion that he would have to fight eventually. But, he was hoping it was going to be far off into the future.

“Thank you,” he said. Percy stopped. Had Marcus Antonius really just thanked him?

“For what?”

“You jumped off a cliff to save my daughter—a woman you don’t even love or know,” he said, and paused. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“I’ve just realized something,” Marcus said, a strange light flickering behind his eyes as a laugh began to rise. “You actually believe in all this shit, don’t you? I’ve watched you, and I was certain I knew what I was looking at. A performance—polished, precise. The posture of a hero, the words of virtue… I was sure it was all carefully chosen, all a matter of timing. Sooner or later, I thought, the illusion would falter, and I’d see the man beneath. But it hasn’t. You speak of duty, of justice, of the gods and their will—and for fucks sake you actually mean it.”

He chuckled now, shaking his head, the amusement bubbling up despite himself. “That’s the part I can’t quite grasp. And perhaps that’s what unsettles me most. Because men like you… they change the course of things. Not through power or fear—but through belief. And belief—that’s a dangerous thing. It bends others, shapes fate, ignites wars. You believe in what you say. That makes you rare. That makes you real. And gods help us all… that makes you dangerous.”

“I’m not your enemy, Marcus.” Marcus gave a short, dry laugh. “You know I’m not.”

“Everyone is someone’s enemy. You don’t get to climb this high without cutting people down to get what you want. It’s the price people like us pay for power.”

“I don’t want power,” Percy confessed. “I never have. I think the world would be a much better place if people stopped trying to gain power and keep it. Is a crown worth it to you, Marcus? An army? Or is it about the gold—wealth? What do any of those things matter when you're dead?”

“You might be the only Roman who doesn’t care for power.”

“Maybe Rome is destined to fall, then. What happens when Rome sets its eyes on something a little too far out of reach? What happens when it cuts down the wrong person?” He scoffed. “Nothing lasts forever. Not gold, not power, and certainly not Rome.”

“Names last,” Marcus said.

“Not mine,” Percy replied. “No one will remember Perseus Drusus in a thousand years. One day, even you will be forgotten, Marcus Antonius. What will your name mean then? What does it matter if you're remembered, if everyone who really knew you hated you?”

There was a pause, and then Marcus barked a low, surprised laugh. “You know,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, “you might be the most exhausting idealist I’ve ever met. But gods damn me if it’s not entertaining.” He gestured vaguely toward the door, half-grinning now. “Go on, philosopher. Go talk to Adriana. Go find your future wife.”

“Marcus,” Percy said. “I mean it. I’m not your enemy.”

“Friendship is like the wind, Perseus,” he said, his face growing serious. “Let’s hope it doesn’t change direction.”

The barracks smelled of sweat, old leather, and the faint tang of olive oil that clung stubbornly to the stone walls. Light from a single oil lamp flickered in the corner, casting warped shadows across the low, arched ceiling and the worn mosaic tiles beneath their feet. A tapestry depicting some long-forgotten Roman victory hung crookedly by the doorway, its reds faded to rust, its laurels dusty and frayed.

Percy lay sprawled on a narrow cot layered with rough wool blankets that scratched against his skin, the straw-stuffed mattress beneath him creaking with every shift of weight. A helmet hung from the bedpost, dented and dull, catching the lamplight like a watchful eye. His bronze chestplate lay discarded nearby, half-buried under his tunic and a pair of worn sandals.

“Oh, come on,” Octavian drawled from the foot of the bed, reclining against a fluted marble pillar that still bore chisel marks from a century ago. He lazily tossed a date into his mouth, chewing like the conversation was no more urgent than debating the weather. “Don’t look so glum. Most men would jump at the opportunity to be married to someone like Adriana.”

Percy groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut. “She’s in love with someone else,” he muttered, his voice muffled by his frustration. “How am I supposed to compete with that? She’ll end up resenting me. Maybe poisoning my food. Probably stabbing me in my sleep.”

Octavian scoffed, flicking the date pit expertly into a clay bowl already half full. “Please. If she was going to stab you, she’d do it in broad daylight and make sure she had witnesses who could vouch for her tragic sorrow. She’s not the subtle type. For what it's worth, neither are you.”

Percy cracked one eye open, glaring flatly. “That’s so comforting.”

“She doesn’t love Thaddeus,” Octavian said, waving a hand as though brushing dust off a scroll. “Not in that way, anyway. They grew up together. They always assumed they’d get married, never once considering the alternative. They’re comfortable. And people confuse comfort with love all the time.”

The torchlight made Octavian’s golden hair glow like a halo—an ironic illusion given the smirk curling his lips. He reminded Percy oddly of Apollo at times. He wondered if he was secretly legacy like the Octavian he had met in the future. 

Percy exhaled sharply and threw his arm over his eyes. “Gods. Just hand me a sword. Fighting is less complicated than marriage.” He still found it ridiculous that he could face a literal Titan with more confidence than a wedding ceremony.

Octavian’s smirk deepened. “Everything is less complicated than marriage.”

“Even war?”

“Especially war. War has rules. Marriage just has in-laws. Unfortunately, your in-law is Marcus Fucking Antonius.”

Percy groaned again, dragging his hand down his face. “Gods. How am I going to survive?”

Octavian straightened, plucking another date from the bowl but not eating it this time. He twirled it between his fingers, thoughtful. “It could be worse,” he said quietly. “You know, I’m really not supposed to be here. I was supposed to be studying in Greece.”

Percy blinked, turning his head slightly on the lumpy pillow. He vaguely remembered that from some dusty scroll of Roman history. “Why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Octavian said after a pause. He stepped away from the pillar, his boots clicking softly against the mosaic floor. “I wanted to do something more with my life. I never told my father I was leaving before I joined the legion. I can imagine it was a nasty surprise when he realized I was gone. I’ve heard he’s got some poor scrawny kid pretending to be me back home. No one outside the legion knows I’m here.”

Percy snorted. The sound echoed a little in the stone chamber. “So no one outside the legion even knows you’re here?”

“Not a soul.”

“Do you regret running off?”

Octavian leaned back against the pillar again, this time with less swagger. He studied the dancing shadow on the ceiling. “Not really. Although, if I had known I’d end up under Marcus Antonius’s command, I might’ve rethought things.”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“He’s insufferable,” Octavian groaned. “A complete know-it-all. He walks around like he’s a god among men. If you ask him, he probably thinks he’s a demigod.”

Percy turned his head more fully, an eyebrow arched. “You two are eerily similar.”

Octavian froze. Blinked. Then narrowed his eyes at Percy like a cat who's just been spritzed with water.

The silence between them lingered—dry, charged, and laced with old stone and firelight.

“Let’s get out of here,” Octavian said. “You’ve been hiding in here for too long. You need to talk to the men, and to your future wife.”

“You should just hang me for desertion,” he chucked.

Octavian rolled his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

Begrudgingly, Percy trailed after Octavian out of the command tent, the flap rustling shut behind him with a finality that made his stomach twist. The air outside was thick with the scent of smoke and sweat—familiar, but no more comforting than when he’d first arrived. The camp looked exactly as he remembered it: orderly rows of white canvas tents, the clang of metal from the forges in the distance, the rhythmic cadence of marching feet.

It hadn’t changed.

Not that a place could change much in a week. But part of him—some naive, desperate part—had hoped it would feel different. That something would be better. That maybe he would be.

But the moment his boots touched the dusty path, the eyes found him.

He felt the weight of every stare like a stone in his chest—soldiers pausing mid-conversation, new recruits nudging each other, murmuring behind hands. The warmth of their suspicion prickled across his skin like sunburn. Before he’d fallen off that cliff, , he’d started to believe he was finally being accepted here. Now, the cold space around him told a different story. He might as well have been a stranger again.

They rounded the corner of a supply tent, and Percy—lost in thought—nearly collided with a figure coming from the opposite direction. He jerked to a stop just in time, heart lurching in his chest.

And when he looked up, his breath caught.

Of all the people in the camp, it had to be her.

The one person he wasn’t ready to face.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

“Adriana—” he said, her name catching in his throat like something half-swallowed and sharp.

“Perseus—” she cut in, her voice low and even. He tried not to flinch when she said it. Perseus. Formal. Distant. Heavy with meaning. He hated the way it sounded in her mouth—like a stranger's name. All he wanted was to be Percy. Just Percy.

“I’ll leave you two,” Octavian interrupted with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes, his words oiled with mock courtesy. “I’m sure you have much to speak about. Good Luck, Perseus.”

Percy watched him drift away through the camp. A part of Percy—ashamed and small—almost wished Octavian had stayed. Or taken him with him. Anything to avoid what came next.

He turned to face her. The air between them was still and too quiet.

He inhaled slowly. “My lady,” he said, dipping his head in a shallow bow.

Adriana’s eyes narrowed, her arms crossing over her chest with a soft rustle of linen. “ My lady? ” she repeated, her voice cool. “Aren’t we past that?”

He met her gaze, guilt tightening his jaw. “Yes, but—” He sighed, running a hand through his hair until it stood on end. “Your father… he’s moving up the wedding. He’s afraid people might suspect I—”

Her eyes slipped shut, her breath catching. The motion was graceful but weary, like someone who had seen the storm clouds gathering and knew they couldn’t outrun them. “When?”

“Next week,” Percy murmured. “We leave for Rome tomorrow.”

The words settled between them like a stone dropped into still water. No splash. Just ripples.

She was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice that barely stirred the air between them, she said, “I thought we’d have more time.”

“Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “Same. I’m sorry.”

She looked at him then, her expression unreadable. “What exactly are you sorry for?”

“No one should be forced to marry someone they don’t love.”

She gave a dry laugh, not unkind. “I can think of worse fates than being married to you.”

He wanted to smile, but it faltered before it could form. “You remember what I told you? About who I am. What I’m part of. It’s going to be dangerous.”

She lifted her chin, the torchlight catching the bronze in her hair. “We’re Roman. Everything is dangerous.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Caesar will be at the wedding. Your father too. Neither of them can know the truth. Not about me. Not about us.” The kiss. He still couldn’t stop thinking about it and what it meant…

“I know.” Her voice didn’t tremble, but something in her eyes did. “And I haven’t told them. I won’t.”

Silence settled over them, thick with things they couldn’t say. The weight of duty.

“I want you to know,” he said, feeling his face heat up immediately. “I don’t expect anything from you. If you want, we can live completely different lives. If you want to try and make this marriage work, then I want that too. But, I won’t force you into anything. I would never.”

“You have to be the strangest Roman I’ve ever met,” she said. “Thank you. I think…I think I’d like to make this work, If you do?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I think I do.” Perhaps there was hope for them after all. It wasn’t love—but there was an understanding between them. Great marriages had been built on far less.

He heard a rustle of something, and turned to see Thaddeus walking towards them. Gods, he was going to be an annoyance. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with him considering everything that was already on his plate.

“Thaddeus,” Perseus said, his voice cool and clipped as the man stepped into view. Without thinking, his hand dropped to the small of Adriana’s back, a subtle gesture—but unmistakably possessive. Protective. His fingers brushed the soft fabric of her tunic, grounding him as much as it warned the other man.

Thaddeus noticed. His gaze dipped to the gesture and lingered, his jaw tightening. His dark eyes sharpened with something between suspicion and disdain.

“You’re alive?” Thaddeus asked, voice tinged with surprise—and something sourer beneath it. “Marcus Antonius didn’t kill you?”

Perseus lifted a brow. “Why would he?”

Thaddeus gave a short, humorless laugh. “I could think of a few reasons.”

Then, turning slightly, he faced Adriana. “Adriana,” he said, bowing his head just enough to be polite—but only just. “You seem well.”

“I am,” she replied calmly, though her posture stiffened. “Thanks to Perseus.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Thaddeus muttered with a roll of his eyes.

The jab was subtle, but sharp—and Percy felt it slice through the moment like a blade. His spine went rigid, every instinct bristling. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He took a step forward, shielding Adriana slightly with his body. “Do you have something you’d like to say?” His tone dropped lower, a warning now. A challenge.

“How was your journey?” he asked. “Was it as eventful as people say?”

“What exactly have people said?” Adriana asked. Her fists tightened against her sides. Perhaps everything was not as good between the two of them as he thought. 

“That you fu—”

“That’s enough,” Perseus said, putting his hand up.

Thaddeus turned to Adriana, his eyes narrowed and full of anger. “I didn’t realize you were so easy.”

“What did you just say to me?” she asked, completely shocked. Percy was as shocked as Adriana. He had thought he had cared for her—loved her. But those words? No one who loved you could ever be so cruel.

“Did you open your legs for him, Adriana?” he asked. “Did he take you—Does he know the sounds you—-”

Before he even knew what he was doing, Percy’s fist went flying….right into Thaddeus’s face.

“For once in your life Thaddeus,” he growled. “Can you shut the fuck up?”

Chapter Text

Adriana’s hands trembled, the fine tremor running from her fingertips to her elbows, as she watched Thaddeus stagger back, clutching his jaw. The sharp crack of the blow still rang in her ears, as if the air itself hadn’t recovered. Her stomach felt scraped hollow, her ribs drawn tight around the frantic thud of her heart. She could hardly process the words he had hurled at her—words so steeped in arrogance and cruelty they barely felt real.

Her gaze flicked to Perseus. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. He stood rooted in place, shoulders squared, his expression carved into something hard and merciless. He had moved with no hesitation—not a single heartbeat between insult and retribution. That unflinching strike hadn’t been rage in its wildest form, but something quieter and infinitely more dangerous: deliberate protection. The realization lodged somewhere deep inside her, unsettling in ways she couldn’t name.

“You graecus !” Thaddeus spat, his voice ragged with anger and humiliation.

Adriana’s stomach knotted tighter. She had seen Perseus fight—seen him dismantle men twice his size with fluid precision. And she knew, as certain as she knew her own name, that Thaddeus could not win against him. Not in a fair fight. Perhaps not in any fight.

“Thaddeus,” she said, the warning in her voice sharp as glass. “Enough. You embarrass yourself.”

“I embarrass myself?” he shot back, laughter curling bitterly around the words. “It’s only been a week and already your allegiances have shifted like sand. Did you really forget? The river. The sun on the water. Falling in love. Promising forever?”

Those days felt so long ago—memories slowly disappearing into time. Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. “The man I made those promises to would never speak as you just have,” she said, her voice cool but trembling underneath. “He would be ashamed of them. Ashamed of you.”

A shadow fell across the marble courtyard.

“What is this?” Marcus’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Adriana stiffened, her heart clenching as though gripped by an iron hand. Slowly, she turned toward the voice, already knowing the weight of his gaze would be worse than any reprimand.

Her father stood in the shadow of the archway, framed by a flood of late-afternoon sunlight that gilded the edges of his figure in gold. The deep crimson border of his cloak spilled over one shoulder like a spill of blood, catching in the faint breeze that drifted through the courtyard. 

“Father,” she began softly, but Marcus’s gaze was already moving past her.

First to Perseus—tall, unmoving, shoulders squared, his right hand still relaxed at his side, though there was a coiled readiness in the line of his frame. The memory of the strike lingered in the subtle set of his jaw, in the unshaken steadiness of his stance. Then to Thaddeus—slightly hunched, one hand pressed to his jaw, his mouth bleeding in a slow, dark trickle.

“Explain,” Marcus said, his voice low, even, but dangerous enough to make the cicadas in the olive trees seem suddenly too loud.

Thaddeus straightened with a wince, fury overriding the pain. “This Graecus assaulted me—”

“Careful,” Marcus interrupted—not raising his voice, but cutting him cleanly in two. “I asked for an explanation, not a performance.”

The courtyard seemed to tighten around them. Adriana stepped forward instinctively, but Perseus’s voice broke the silence before hers could.

“Thaddeus questioned your daughter’s honor and virtue,” he said, tone steady and unflinching. “I merely reminded him what is considered respectable in polite company.”

Marcus’s eyes stayed on him for a long, unreadable beat. Adriana could almost hear the wheels turning in her father’s mind—calculations weighed in the currency of power, every possible consequence rippling outward into the dangerous, shifting currents of Rome’s loyalties.

There was something in that stare that chilled her. It was not merely curiosity, nor even suspicion—it was recognition. A flicker, fleeting but undeniable, that told her Marcus saw something in Perseus. Something he should not be able to see. Something that, if he truly knew, would have Perseus dead before the sun dipped below the Palatine.

Marcus’s voice shattered her thoughts, loud enough to make her flinch. “Is this true, boy?” he demanded, his gaze snapping to Thaddeus. “Did you question my daughter’s honor?”

The young man faltered, his defiance flickering like a torch in the wind.

Thaddeus hesitated, lips parting as if to twist the truth into something palatable. But Marcus had already taken a step forward, his cloak shifting like the wing of a predator.

“Answer me.”

“I—” Thaddeus began, but the words died the instant Marcus’s hand struck him.

The sound cracked through the courtyard like the snap of a breaking mast in a storm. Thaddeus’s head whipped to the side, a spray of blood marking the pale stone at their feet. For a moment, even the cicadas fell silent.

“You dare speak such filth about my blood?” Marcus’s voice was a thunderclap, deep and resonant, carrying the authority of a man who had commanded armies and crushed cities. “You shame yourself, your house, and every name tied to you.”

Adriana’s chest tightened. She had seen her father mete out discipline before—and it was always terrifying. 

Thaddeus’s nostrils flared as he staggered upright, pride fighting with the humiliation burning across his face. His eyes darted toward her, then to Perseus, as though searching for an ally and finding none.

Marcus stepped closer, looming over him. “You will apologize to my daughter,” he said, each word slow and deliberate, “and to the man who defended her when you should have. Walk with me, Thaddeus. I think this conversation is long overdue.”

“But—”

“That wasn’t a question centurion,” he snapped. 

Thaddeus swallowed hard, the taste of blood thick on his tongue. His pride warred with the humiliation etched into every muscle of his body, but Marcus’s gaze was absolute—unyielding, unblinking, and terrifying in its intensity.

“Yes, sir,” he muttered finally, voice rough, and began following Marcus, each step hesitant, as if the ground itself might betray him.

Adriana’s hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She watched her father and Thaddeus move toward the shadows of the archways, chest tight with awe and lingering fear. Perseus stayed behind, leaning slightly against the marble balustrade, arms loose at his sides. He looked almost… ordinary, like he could have been standing on a street corner in Manhattan, waiting for a cab, rather than in the middle of a Roman courtyard.

“Hey.”

His voice cut through the leftover tension like a breeze through heavy air—soft, casual, almost absurdly out of place after what had just happened. It was the kind of tone you’d use leaning over a table in some bustling tavern—or, she thought with a strange flicker of recognition—maybe in one of the marketplaces of the Greeks. But there was something even more informal about it, something not quite… Roman.

“You good?”

Adriana blinked at him. Her chest felt tight, as if her ribs had been cinched with a leather strap. Her pulse still thudded in her ears, sharp and uneven. “I… I think so,” she whispered, though the rush of adrenaline was still surging, leaving her hands faintly trembling at her sides.

Perseus stepped closer, his movements unhurried. The folds of his tunic hung loose, one hand buried casually in the fabric, as if he were taking the edge off a dangerous moment simply by refusing to give it power. “Don’t let him freak you out,” he said, his gaze steady. “That was all ego. Nothing to do with you.”

She swallowed hard, unsure how to answer. “I… thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve—”

He shook his head, his mouth curving into an easy, lopsided smile. “Relax. You’d have been fine. You can be terrifying when you want to be, my lady.” 

“My lady?” she asked. “Whatever happened to Adriana?”

“Whatever happened to Percy?’ he asked. “You still refuse to call me that.” 

That startled a soft, incredulous breath out of her. “It feels too familiar.”

“We aren’t exactly strangers, Adriana,” he said. 

“No,” she murmured. “I guess we aren’t.”

Her thoughts swirled, part disbelief, part gratitude, part the strange, unsettling warmth that came from his presence. There was something… grounded about him. Solid. Real. And yet, everything about the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, was out of step with the stiffness and ceremony of Rome.

“Perseus?” She spoke his name quietly, as though trying it on for weight and meaning. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” His smile deepened, but there was a flicker of something more—dry humor, maybe even a hint of mischief—in his eyes. “If I’m honest, I was protecting Thaddeus more than you. I can imagine what would’ve happened if you got your hands on him. He’d probably be dead in a river by now.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Sounds tempting.”

For a moment, she could almost forget that the man before her was half god. She could recognize it easily now. His eyes were too green, more unnatural than anything she’d ever seen. She could imagine he was exactly like Hercules, or Achilles, doomed to a hard life only because of the context of his birth. 

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if weighing whether to say what came next. “I don’t ask this to be cruel,” he began, “but… what do you see in him?”

She looked down for a moment, the mosaic tiles blurring under her gaze. “Thaddeus was always kind to me, Perseus. Something changed in the past few months. Even before you came into the picture, he started growing… irritable. Like the world had cheated him somehow. He blamed it for all his troubles. I wish I knew what turned him so bitter.”

“Sometimes,” Perseus said, his tone losing its levity, “we think the best thing for us is pushing away the people we love. Sometimes people think it’s the best way to protect them.”

Her brow furrowed. “You know from experience?”

He didn’t answer. Or rather, he chose not to. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face—regret, maybe, or a memory he wasn’t ready to let surface. His gaze slipped away, finding the shadows stretching along the colonnade. When he finally spoke, his voice was brisk again, as if tucking the subject neatly out of reach. “You should rest. We’ve got a long journey tomorrow.”

“Right,” she murmured. “Rome.”

She didn’t need to name the other thing that loomed between them—her wedding to him. The thought lingered in the air like the faint, electric charge before a storm, unseen but impossible to ignore. They were easier with each other now, more than they had been before, but the ease felt fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of a table—one wrong word and it might shatter.

He shifted, and for a moment she thought that was the end of it—that he’d turn and walk away. But instead, he stepped closer, the faint scent of leather and woodsmoke clinging to him. “Goodnight, my lady,” he said, and his voice had softened—low, almost careful.

When his fingers curled around hers, she was caught off guard. His touch was warm and steady, the calluses on his palm rough against her skin. He raised her hand slowly, deliberately, until his lips brushed the back of it in a gesture that was both formal and unexpectedly intimate.

The memory of their kiss on the bridge bloomed unbidden, vivid as firelight—the taste of the wind, the quiet certainty in the way he’d held her. She thought of the night in camp, his arms around her while the hunter stitched her wounds closed, his breath hot and uneven against her neck as they drifted into uneasy sleep.

“Goodnight, Perseus,” she said, her smile tugging at the edges of something deeper, something she wasn’t quite ready to name.

For half a heartbeat, he lingered there, still holding her hand, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles before he let go.

The lamplight in her father’s private chamber guttered against the walls, casting long shadows over polished marble and gilded busts of Rome’s great men—Caesar’s likeness looming most prominently, his marble eyes fixed and unblinking, as if judging every word spoken beneath his gaze. The air was warm with the faint scent of beeswax and the sharper tang of spiced wine cooling in a bronze cup. Outside, the low murmur of the military camp drifted through the window like the distant breathing of some great, restless beast.

“Adriana.” Her father’s voice cut through the silence—low, measured, and heavy with command. “Are you alright?”

She turned from the open shutters, the campfires flickering like constellations scattered on the earth. “I am fine,” she said, though the weight pressing down on her chest made the words sluggish and false. “As well as one can be… given the circumstances.”

Marcus Antonius stepped forward into the lamplight, the gold trim of his tunic catching the glow. “You do not seem fine. I wish you could realize how fortunate you are. Most women in Rome would not be matched with a man like Perseus. You could do far worse. He is kind, and though his values often irritate me, he is an honorable man. This whole business with Thaddeus…well its over now.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” she murmured, the words more for herself than for him.

“They aren’t wrong,” he replied, pouring wine into a shallow cup. He swirled it absently, the dark liquid catching the lamplight like blood in motion, though he did not drink. “Tell me what gnaws at you. You’ve been… different since your journey. What happened to you?”

A hundred truths crowded her tongue. The silver glow of Artemis’s eyes. The shadow of prophecy that clung to her. The impossible choice she suspected she would one day face—between her father’s Rome and the man who would be her husband. She had always imagined her loyalties were unshakable. But Perseus… Perseus was not easily dismissed. Gods help her—she feared she might choose him.

She had never kept a secret from her father. But telling him about the goddess—about the bed she had shared with Perseus, about the kiss on the bridge—would be like setting oil to flame.

“I’m exhausted from the journey,” she said instead. The lie was wrapped in truth; weariness did cling to her bones. “We fell in a river. Perseus had to pull me out. We walked for hours before finding an inn.”

“You were gone for a week,” he said, his brow creasing. “Surely more occurred than that.”

“There were… things hunting us,” she admitted. “Monsters. I never believed they were real.”

“Unfortunately,” Antony said, his jaw tightening, “they are as real as you and I. The world is changing, Adriana. Either we change with it, or we are crushed beneath it.” He let the thought hang in the air before steering elsewhere. “Perseus treated you with respect?”

She hesitated. “Perseus is… a confusion.”

“What confuses you?” His mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

“He is not what I expected,” she said, his name heavy on her tongue. “Half the time, he is gentle. The other half, dangerous.”

Antony’s smile deepened—not with affection, but calculation. “Then you understand why I want him close.”

Her pulse quickened. “So that is why you want me to marry him? So you can keep him under watch?”

Her father’s eyes sharpened, the warmth draining away. “He could be a dangerous enemy, Adriana. The first time I saw him fight, I knew he was no ordinary man. His family name already carries weight in the provinces. If he wished, he could climb into the Senate with alarming speed. And if fortune favored him… he could gather enough influence to topple Caesar himself.”

A cold shiver worked its way down her spine. “You speak of treason.”

“I speak of reality,” Antony said, his voice a quiet blade. “Rome is full of men who crave power. But the most dangerous man is not the one who hungers for it—it is the one with convictions. Perseus is dangerous because of what he believes… and because of what he might inspire.”

She drew in a slow breath. “And what does he stand for?”

Antony did not blink. “Why, democracy, of course. The very thing Caesar claims to honor while twisting it to his will. And mark me well, daughter—men who dream of a free Republic are destined to either change Rome… or be crushed by her.”

Before Adriana could answer her father, the measured tread of boots echoed down the marble hall—slow, deliberate, like each step was being placed exactly where it was meant to be. A shadow filled the doorway before the man himself emerged, tall and broad-shouldered, the torchlight catching in eyes that seemed to burn faintly—not with heat, but with something deeper, older, as if they had looked on the world long before Rome had drawn its first breath.

“I hadn’t expected you so soon,” Marcus said, voice warm in tone but touched with a rare note of deference. That in itself was unusual—her father did not defer to anyone.

The man inclined his head, a faint smile curling his lips. “Some matters cannot wait, old friend.” His voice was low and smooth, but it carried a vibration that seemed to hum in her chest, the way a deep bell might when struck.

Adriana found herself studying him without realizing she was doing it. His presence felt heavy—like the air before a thunderstorm that hadn’t yet broken. The lamplight clung to him in strange ways, his shadow stretching too far across the floor, bending subtly, as if the laws that governed everything else in the room didn’t quite apply to him.

“I bring word from Rome,” he continued, his gaze sliding briefly over her before returning to Marcus. The glance was fleeting, but it left her with the sharp, unsettling certainty that in that single heartbeat he had taken her measure entirely.

She folded her arms, trying to mask the sudden chill running along her spine. His clothes were travel-worn but without a speck of dirt, his boots clean despite the roads. A bronze signet ring gleamed on his finger, carved with an emblem she didn’t recognize—older than any Roman crest, its lines more Greek in style, its curves almost serpentine. There was a faint scent in the air around him—not sweat, not leather, but something colder, like rain striking ancient stone in the dark.

Marcus leaned in to hear him, their voices dropping to a murmur. But Adriana’s eyes stayed on the stranger, drawn against her will. He was too still, too patient. He blinked less often than he should have, and when he did, it was slow and deliberate, like a man who knew the world wouldn’t dare change when his eyes were closed.

And then his gaze returned to her. The air seemed to press in slightly, as if the walls themselves were listening. There was weight in his eyes—not curiosity, but a sense of recognition, as though he already knew her and had been waiting a very, very long time for this meeting.

“This is your daughter?” His voice was soft, but the words slithered through the air like something alive, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

“Yes,” Marcus said, his posture tightening in a way Adriana had never seen before. His shoulders pulled in, his chin dipped slightly—not with deference, but with the instinctive tension of a man who knew he was in the presence of something dangerous.

The man tilted his head, his eyes dark pools that caught the torchlight without reflecting it. “Come into the light.”

She froze, glancing at her father. His hands were clenched so tightly that the knuckles stood out bone-white. The sight unsettled her—Marcus Antony was not a man easily rattled.

She took a step forward.

“Closer,” he said, the command smooth as silk but heavy as stone.

Something in her chest tightened. She obeyed, each step sounding too loud in the vast marble hall. The air between them seemed to be thin, heavy and suffocating, and her pulse began to roar in her ears.

He moved toward her with measured precision, stopping so close she could feel the faint stir of his breath. His gaze raked over her slowly, unhurried, like a jeweler appraising a rare gem. The faint curve of his smile made her stomach turn.

When his hand lifted, she instinctively stepped back—but his fingers still caught a loose coil of her hair. The touch was feather-light, yet it pinned her in place more effectively than chains.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, the word curling like smoke. His thumb brushed the strand as though testing its texture, then let it slide through his fingers. “You didn’t tell me your daughter was so beautiful, Marcus.”

“I’m sure her fiancé thinks so,” Marcus replied, his jaw tight, voice edged with a warning that did nothing to ease the cold settling into her bones.

“I would think,” the man went on, taking a slow step toward Marcus, “that a daughter such as this would warrant… greater consideration. A stronger bond. A union forged for more than politics or convenience.” His eyes flicked back to her, the darkness in them pulling at her like an undertow. “She deserves a match worthy of her.”

“She has one,” Marcus said, and though his tone was steady, Adriana could hear something beneath it—strain, like a rope drawn taut.

The man’s smile sharpened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We will see. Who is she engaged to?”

“Perseus Drusus, my lord,” he said.

The man’s eyes narrowed, the faint flicker of the torchlight catching in them like molten obsidian. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, and the silence pressed against Adriana’s chest, heavy and suffocating. There was anger in his eyes. 

“Perseus Drusus,” he repeated slowly, each syllable low and deliberate, like a curse being weighed on a scale. The undertow of his gaze turned on her, and it was as if he could see through her, past the surface of her skin, straight into some hidden corner of her soul.

Marcus stiffened, his hand twitching near the hilt of his dagger. “Yes,” he said carefully. “Do you know of him?”

“Of course I do,” the man said. “Perseus Drusus. You know what he did to that slave boy?” 

“I’ve heard rumors,” her father said, his voice low, almost strained. “But I’ve come to know the man. He has ridiculous values. His head is in the clouds more often than not. He can be… peculiar in the way he speaks of honor.” His hand flexed at his side, as if gripping an invisible edge to steady himself.

. “I’d hardly call Perseus a silly man,” the man said. “He is… dangerous. Power runs in that boy's veins. If left unchecked it could burn all of Rome. What he did to that boy is only a small testament of what he can do.”  

The stranger’s voice drifted back over his shoulder, calm and smooth, but carrying a weight that made the walls themselves seem to constrict. “I must be going, Marcus,” he said. He paused in the doorway, one last look at Adriana that made her stomach tighten, and his lips curved into a smile that was almost too knowing. “It was… lovely to meet you. I’m sure we will meet again.”

And then he was gone. The echo of his footsteps lingered in the marble corridor long after the door closed, and the torchlight seemed dimmer, colder, as though it mourned his departure.

“Father?” Adriana asked, voice small, wary. “Who… who was that?”

Marcus ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, and for the first time she saw the shadow of fear in his eyes. His posture, usually so commanding, was tight, coiled, as if he were bracing against something unseen. “If you know what is good for you, Adriana,” he said slowly, his voice tight with a tremor she had never heard, “you will never think of that man again. Forget he was here… altogether.”

“Father—”

“Trust me Adriana,” he said. “You don’t want him to gain an interest in you.”

In that moment, she’d realized she’d never seen her father look more terrified.

Chapter Text

If someone had told him a year ago he’d be getting married, he probably would’ve laughed—or choked and died. Back then, he was a mess,  sorting through the wreckage of his breakup with Annabeth Chase. 

He’d always believed that somehow, someday, the two of them would find their way back to each other. They’d survived monsters, wars, and more close calls than he could count. They could survive college too, couldn’t they?

But she was gone now. And so was the boy he used to be.

Outside the carriage, the Roman countryside spread out in golden layers. Vineyards stretched toward the horizon, and the air was heavy with the smell of crushed grapes and olive oil. The horses’ hooves beat a steady rhythm on the dirt road, and dust rose behind them in a soft, hazy trail. The leather seats creaked when he shifted, and the sunlight flickered through the small curtained window, painting the inside of the carriage in uneven bands of gold.

He missed New York in a way that made his chest tighten. He missed his mother’s laugh and the smell of her blue pancakes on Sunday mornings. He missed his little sister tugging at his sleeve, her hands sticky with syrup. He missed the sound of gulls crying over Montauk’s gray-green waves. 

“You’re sulking,” Adriana said from across the carriage, her voice teasing but with a sharp edge.

Percy didn’t turn. His eyes stayed on the passing countryside, fields stretching green and gold under the weak sunlight. If he stared long enough, a patch of olive trees or a bend in the river almost reminded him of home. Almost.

“I’m not,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m just enjoying the ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “The smell of birdshit really is intoxicating, isn’t it?”

Percy chuckled under his breath, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“I don’t like traveling,” she admitted, crossing her arms over her stomach. “It makes my stomach ache.” She shifted in her seat, pressing a hand to her ribs. What he wouldn’t give for some dramamine at that moment.

“It’s not much longer. We’ll be in Rome by tomorrow evening,” he said, more to himself than to her, voice low, almost thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, letting the wheels of the carriage rattle under them. “You should rest. We’ll be busy in the capital.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could rest even if I tried,” she said, lips quirking in a grin that made his chest tighten.

“Try,” he said, eyes flicking to hers. “You can even use me as a pillow if you want. I’m forever at your service.”

Her grin widened, playful and sly. “Tempting,” she said, rolling her eyes but not moving away from the suggestion.

Percy laughed, a low, teasing sound that vibrated through the space between them. “Don’t sound too excited,” he warned. “You might give a guy a complex.”

She leaned back, letting her hair tumble over her shoulder, and gave him a look that was equal parts challenge and amusement. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said. But the spark in her eyes said otherwise.

Percy’s gaze lingered on her longer than it should have, tracing the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head.

He turned his head then. She was watching him with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Adriana was beautiful, in a practiced sort of way. Her dark hair was twisted into intricate braids, and gold caught the light at her ears and wrists. Her posture was perfect, her expression poised, but her gaze was sharp, assessing, as if she was still deciding whether he was worth her time.

“In less than a week, we’ll be married, Perseus,” she said. Her voice was calm, but there was something resigned beneath it.

He’d come to realize that it didn’t matter how much time they spent together. Even though they had formed a friendship of sorts, she still hadn’t chosen this marriage. There would be a part of her that always resented him for taking away her choice. 

“I know,” he sighed, resigned to his fate.

The countryside grew quieter as the sun arced lazily across the sky. The road narrowed between two low hills, their slopes tangled with cypress and scrub. Percy shifted on the cushioned bench, glancing at Adriana beside him. Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white, eyes scanning the horizon with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

He felt a cold twist in his stomach, a warning he could not ignore. The horses had grown restless, tossing their heads and stamping on the packed dirt as if sensing danger.

Then the carriage jolted to a sudden stop.

Percy lurched forward instinctively, muscles coiled and ready. The driver muttered a curse under his breath, clutching the reins tighter as the carriage rattled over the uneven road.

Percy’s unease thickened in his chest. He leaned toward Adriana, lowering his voice until it was almost a growl. “Stay down,” he said, eyes scanning the horizon.

Her hand brushed his arm, light but grounding. “What is it?” she whispered.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, the words tasting like ash. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, prickling against the chill in the air. The countryside stretched outward, eerily still. No birds, no insects, nothing but the wind sliding over the fields, carrying a faint metallic tang.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He swung his legs over the carriage step and landed hard on the dirt. The sun stabbed into his eyes, blinding him for a heartbeat. Ahead, Marcus stood rigid, shoulders tight, eyes locked on the road.

“General?” Percy called, squinting against the glare. “What’s going on?”

Marcus’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer at first, just shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “There’s a tree in the road,” he said finally, voice low, tight. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.

Percy’s gut twisted. “A fallen tree? Odd, isn’t it?” Of all the cliche things.

Marcus let out a short, bitter laugh, sharp against the silence of the fields. “Odd? You think a tree this size just falls in the middle of the road by accident? No. Someone put it there. Someone is waiting.”

Percy’s fingers itched toward his blade. “Do you think it’s just scouts, or something bigger?”

Marcus’s eyes flicked nervously along the edges of the road, scanning the tree line. “Could be scouts. Could be an ambush. Could be… worse.” Reading between the lines, he knew hey were fucked.

Percy’s heart rate picked up, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. “How many men do we have with us?”

“Not enough,” Marcus muttered. He kicked at the dirt, sending a small puff of dust into the air.

Percy’s eyes flicked to the small group of soldiers surrounding the carriage. Their armor glinted in the sunlight, but their hands shook on the hilts of swords and spears. Not one of them could fend off a large-scale monster attack. Only he had the power to banish a creature to Tartarus.

His mind raced. He could not defend all of them—not unless he did something impossible, something reckless. 

“Go back to the carriage, Perseus,” he said. “Protect my daughter. I don’t trust anyone else with her life.”  

A shadow flickered at the edge of the tree line.

“Don’t—” Percy began.

The first arrow sliced through the air. It struck a nearby soldier, sending him down to the ground. Fuck.

“Perseus!” Adriana cried, sticking her head out of the carriage.

“Get back inside,” he yelled, running towards her.

He pushed her back inside the carriage. “Get down!” he shouted, pushing her to the floor. The wooden side scraped against her shoulder, but she obeyed, curling against the cushions as another arrow thudded into the carriage wall near her head.

Shit, he should have known something like this was going to happen. The fates had two favorite pastimes–knitting giant socks, and torturing him

“Stay in the carriage,” he commanded, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword as the chill evening air nipped at his face.

“What? No,” Adriana protested, her eyes flashing with stubborn determination.

Goddamn, he loved that she always felt the need to step in, to fight alongside him. But now was not the time.

“Adriana,” he said, forcing a gentle smile. “I appreciate that you want to help, but I can’t focus if you’re out there. You aren’t trained to fight, and you’d only slow me down.”

“Can’t focus?” she repeated, tilting her head with a teasing frown, as though his words were a challenge rather than caution.

He rolled his eyes, exasperated but helpless in the face of her stubborn charm. Of course that was what she chose to hear. “Adriana. Please,” he urged, his voice softening.

“Wait,” she said, her tone hesitating now, betraying the inner conflict warring behind her eyes.

He glanced back at her and caught the flicker of uncertainty—the desire to step forward battling with the fear of being left behind. Then, without warning, she reached for him. Her hands gripped his leathers, steady and sure, and she pressed a quick, bold kiss to his cheek.

“For good luck,” she whispered, her lips brushing his skin.

He blinked, stunned for a heartbeat, the sharp scent of her perfume lingering. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the adrenaline thrumming through him. “Thanks,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost breathless. “But… I don’t need luck.”

Outside, a battle was already brewing. There were monsters everywhere, and unfortunately the Romans were extremely unprepared to fight them.

Ahead, Marcus fought an empousa. The creature twisted and lunged, eyes burning with hunger. Marcus stabbed and slashed, each strike precise, but the monster barely flinched. It didn’t matter how many times he hit it; without celestial bronze or imperial gold, the strikes couldn’t kill.

“Marcus! Catch!” he shouted.

He threw the knife his father had given him. It spun through the air, and Marcus snatched it effortlessly. He twisted and drove the blade into the empousa. The creature exploded in a shower of gold, sparks flying in every direction.

“What the fuck is that?” he asked, staring at the knife in amazement.

“Imperial gold,” Percy growled, swinging the blade in a wide arc. It cut through an empousa cleanly, and golden fragments rained to the ground like sparks from a fire.

He didn’t hold back. He slashed, hacked, and rolled through the monsters, each movement precise and fluid. Gold dust clung to his skin and hair, glinting in the moonlight as he moved. The adrenaline thrummed through his veins, and with every strike, he remembered what it felt like to fight without restraint. Not since battling with the Seven all those years ago had he felt this alive.

This body responded to him now, muscles and reflexes finally matching his years of experience. And by the gods, it felt incredible. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt at home in his own skin. Powers or not, he didn’t need magic. His skill with a sword carried its own weight, sharp and unstoppable, and every monster that fell before him reminded him of that truth.

“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” Marcus shouted, swinging the knife in a wide arc that cut straight through a charging creature.

“Yeah,” Percy yelled back, dodging a strike and driving his blade into another monster’s chest. “Only this time, we aren’t fighting some run-of-the-mill bandits.”

A massive shape lunged at him from the left. Percy twisted aside, the creature’s claws slicing through the air where his head had been. He brought his sword up in a clean, practiced motion and cut through its neck. The monster exploded into golden dust, coating his face and arms.

“I preferred the bandits!” Marcus grunted, kicking an enemy off his shield. 

The monsters kept coming, crawling out of the dark like a living tide. They poured through the trees, their eyes glowing with hunger, their claws scraping against roots and rock. Fanged mouths snapped in the dim light. Spears flashed. The air stank of sulfur and blood.

Percy moved on instinct, cutting down anything that came near Adriana’s carriage. Golden dust exploded around him with every strike, coating his arms and burning in his throat. The ground beneath his boots was slick with ash and ichor. The forest echoed with the clash of metal and the inhuman shrieks of dying monsters.

They were being pushed back. Every time one creature fell, two more took its place. The line of soldiers was breaking apart, their bronze blades barely slowing the onslaught. Only Percy and Marcus had weapons that could kill these things for good. Everyone else was fighting just to stay alive.

Percy’s pulse hammered in his ears. His chest ached with every breath. He turned in a quick circle, scanning the chaos. There were too many of them, too fast, too close.

He drove his sword through a monster’s gut and shouted over the roar, “We’re not going to hold them much longer!” All around them their small group of soldiers was being cut down. Soon, it would only be him and Marcus left.

Marcus grunted as he slammed his shield into a creature’s face, bone crunching under the impact. “You think I haven’t noticed?” he barked, twisting to drive his sword through another monster’s chest. The air reeked of sulfur and ash, every breath thick with smoke.

Then Percy froze. A voice sliced through the chaos, high and mocking, wrapping around him like poison. His blood went cold. He hadn’t heard that voice in years, but he would never forget it for as long as he lived. 

Kelli.

She emerged from the haze, limping toward him with a predator’s smile. Her mismatched eyes gleamed in the firelight, and her fangs glistened as she hissed his name. “I can smell you from here, Drusus.”

Percy’s grip tightened on his sword. The years peeled away in an instant—gone was the Roman armor, the campfire smoke, the sound of clashing steel. He was fifteen again, lost in the twisting dark of Daedalus’s labyrinth, heart hammering, that same smirk haunting his every step. The cheerleader from hell. The fucking empousa who refused to die.

He didn’t wait. He surged forward, slicing through the air with the speed of instinct. His blade met hers, sparks bursting between them. She shrieked, darting back with inhuman speed. 

“Your lover looks tasty.” The words crawled under his skin and planted themselves in his ribs.

He saw the shove in the same breath. A hulking monster ripped a woman from the carriage and forced a knife against her throat. The blade caught moonlight and left a wet, cold gleam. Blood did not fall yet, but he tasted it on his tongue, iron and close.

Marcus lurched forward, every joint sudden and wrong. Percy yanked him back, fingers clamping like a promise. “Let me handle this, Marcus.”

“My daughter—” Marcus’s voice broke.

“I will not let anything happen to her,” Percy said. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Their quarrel is with me.”

“Why Perseus? What do they want with you?” Marcus demanded, eyes wide, terror raw in his face.

He suddenly felt years older than he was. He’d gotten used to nobody knowing his real identity. He realized then, that he’d actually been happy and relieved to live in a time where he wasn’t Percy Jackson, the kid who had a prophecy hanging over his head. 

But, his time of pretending was over. If he did not reveal who he was, Adriana would die. If he did, everything would change.

Adriana’s eyes found his. Realization flooding through her of what he was about to do. She gave him a small nod. 

He swallowed and let the words line up behind his teeth. There was no other way now.

The knife at Adriana’s throat moved with the monster’s breath. Its hand tightened, thumb pressing the blade so close to skin that the shine blurred. She did not scream. Her jaw worked once. Her hands were a tangle against her sides.

“Your lover looks tasty,” Kelli said. Her voice was smooth and bright, the kind of sweetness that hides a trap. “I cannot wait to hear her scream.”

Percy felt his jaw lock around the name he loved. He measured the distance in heartbeats. Each step felt like walking across an earthquake. “Your battle is with me. Not her. Let her go.”

She laughed. The sound cracked. “You can save her, you know.” She tilted her head, eyes glittering. “All I want is your death, halfbreed. Only when your blood waters the steps of Olympus will my master be satisfied.”

His stomach dropped at Olympus. Marcus’s eyes snapped to him, searching. Percy saw suspicion harden in the older man’s face. Had Marcus put the pieces together?

He swallowed all of that and let the bluff fall into place. There was no time for slow thinking.

“Let her go, Kelli,” he said again, soft and steady.

The monster at Adriana’s throat shrugged as if Percy had asked for the weather. “How do you know my name?” it asked, voice like gravel. “That does not matter. You must pay for what you have done. Killing you and the girl would be a mercy compared to what Hades plans.”

The knife tightened. Adriana did not scream. Her shoulders were squared, her fingers clenched so hard at her sides that his vision snagged on the white knuckles. She looked calm, dangerously calm. Percy wanted to tell her it would be okay. He could not make his voice move.

“You can tell Hades,”He said, lowering his voice until it was a blade. “I did not kill his son. I did not touch his daughter.”

“You killed him in front of hundreds,” Kelli said, each word a flat verdict. “Do not bother lying. Monsters see their own.”

“Perseus Drusus killed the boy,” he said. He put the name out like a match.

Confusion flickered across Kelli’s face, then sharpened into hunger. She smiled wider, like a viper tasting blood. “You are Perseus Drusus,” she said, savoring the name.

“No.” Percy’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “I am much worse. I am Percy Jackson.”

He let go.

Power flooded his veins like a tidal surge. The air thickened, heavy with salt and pressure. The ground vibrated under his boots. He felt the pull of every drop of water around him—the mist in the air, the dew clinging to the grass, the sweat on Kelli’s skin—and called it to him. The moisture obeyed, swirling into a spiraling current that snapped and twisted in the air.

The water hardened in his hands, forming a spear of glinting ice that hummed with energy. He flicked his wrist, and the weapon shot forward like a lightning strike. It hit Kelli square in the chest, throwing her back through the air. Her scream cracked through the night.

Percy didn’t pause. He turned, eyes glowing with that deep ocean blue that meant danger. Another spear formed instantly, rising from the mist itself. He launched it at the monster gripping Adriana. The icicle punched through its throat, freezing the snarl on its face before it disintegrated into ash. Adriana stumbled free, gasping.

Percy was already moving. Each step pounded like thunder against the dirt. The air around him rippled with power, water streaming from the grass and pooling at his feet as he sprinted toward the carriage. He hit the next monster full force, driving his shoulder into its ribs and hurling it aside.

The monster hit the ground hard, choking out a hiss before Percy finished it. He thrust his hand forward, and the puddle beneath its body surged upward, wrapping around the creature like a living rope. The water flashed white with frost, freezing solid in an instant. Percy clenched his fist. The ice shattered. What was left of the monster collapsed into dust.

Another lunged at him from behind, claws raised. He didn’t turn. With a sharp exhale, he called to the mist around them. It condensed in a heartbeat, swirling into a whip of water that lashed backward across the creature’s chest. The blow cut clean through it. Ash scattered into the wind before its body even hit the ground.

The air crackled. The last monster hesitated, eyes flicking between Percy and the wreckage of its companions. Percy stepped closer, slow and deliberate. The grass at his feet bent under invisible weight, soaked with gathering water.

“Run,” he said quietly.

The monster bolted. Percy raised a hand. The air snapped cold. A spear of ice tore through the darkness, catching the creature midstride. It dissolved into nothing before it could hit the dirt.

Silence fell. The mist settled.

Percy lowered his arm, his pulse still hammering in his ears. The water that had swirled around him sank back into the earth, leaving the soil dark and damp. He turned toward Adriana.

She knelt beside the carriage; one hand pressed to her neck where a thin line of blood traced her skin. Her dress was torn, hair falling across her face in disarray, but her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made his chest tighten.

He dropped to one knee beside her, close enough that the heat from his body brushed hers. His hand found her cheek, thumb grazing her jawline with slow, deliberate pressure. “Hey,” he said, voice low, threaded with something more than concern. “You’re okay now.”

Her breath hitched, shivering against him. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, voice raw. “He knows now.”

Percy let his thumb trace the curve of her cheekbone, brushing hair away from her temple. “Worth it,” he murmured, the words warm and quiet, almost brushing against her lips. His eyes held hers, dark and intense. “Let me deal with your father.”

Her fingers curled around his wrist, holding him still, trembling against his skin. “You’re bleeding,” she breathed.

He glanced down, seeing the shallow cut along his arm, already knitting closed as the water’s magic healed him. He flexed his fingers under her hand, letting the brush of their skin linger longer than necessary. “I’ll live,” he said, voice low, almost teasing, letting her feel the strength coiled beneath his calm.

Her gaze lingered on him, a mixture of worry and something hotter, something unspoken, and for a heartbeat the chaos around them—the blood, the monsters, the danger—faded into the electricity crackling between them.

Percy leaned just slightly closer, enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “You,” he said, voice thick with tension, “stay still. Don’t move. Not yet.”

Her lips parted, and for a long moment they just stared at each other, the world narrowing to the warmth of their proximity and the dangerous energy humming in the air.

Percy barely had time to breathe before rough hands seized the front of his armor. His back hit a tree hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Bark bit into his shoulders as Marcus glared down at him, his expression a mix of fury and disbelief.

“What the hell was that?” Marcus demanded, voice raw from shouting. “Who the hell are you?”

Chapter Text

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Marcus’s hand clenched around the edge of his armor, the metal creaking beneath his grip. His knuckles turned white. Percy didn’t have to guess what One of them meant. 

“One of what, Marcus?” he asked, feigning confusion. Percy’s voice stayed steady, though his heartbeat hammered in his throat. He’d been dreading this moment since the moment he first arrived in Rome. Gods, Marcus didn’t even believe in monsters until a fury almost killed his daughter. 

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Perseus…”

“Say the word, Marcus Antonius,” he said, stepping closer. The firelight flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows under his jaw. “Caesar hunted us long enough. You might as well name what you fear.”

“You’re a demigod,” Marcus whispered. “You’re the son of a god. Are you not?”

Percy didn’t move. He only nodded once, slow and deliberate. Would he even believe it? It amazed Percy what mortals could rationalize if they put their heart into it. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Marcus’s hand dropped from his armor, his breath uneven. He’d never seen the man look so confused before. Marcus Antonius always looked so put together, calm and reserved. But now, he looked like he was seconds away from breaking. 

“Because Caesar is hunting us,” Percy said quietly. “And my existence is a threat to him.”

Marcus’s eyes flashed with anger. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“Can you really blame him, father?” Adriana’s voice broke through the tension. He’d almost forgotten Adriana was there. His eyes fell to the small cut on her neck. Thank gods, he’d gotten to her in time. 

Marcus turned on her, and his voice cracked like a whip.. “You knew?” 

“I found out after he fell from the cliff,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to lie to you. I just—It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

“Gods damn it,” Marcus roared, his hand raking through his hair. He took a step back, pacing like a caged animal. “You should have told me. I wouldn’t have invited Caesar to the wedding. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? If he finds out, we’re finished. All of us. He’ll kill you, Perseus. Then he’ll kill me, and then Adriana. You’ve doomed us.” 

Percy’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Will you tell him?”

Marcus turned sharply, eyes hard as flint. “You’re fortunate, Perseus,” he said. “Fortunate that I hold even an ounce of respect for you. If any of our men had survived to see what you did tonight, this would not be a conversation. You’d already be dead.” His words landed heavy, each one deliberate. “My daughter comes before all else. The moment you endanger her, you become nothing to me. Do you understand?”

Percy met his stare without flinching. “I would never hurt her,” he said. “You have my word. Believe it or not, Marcus, I am not your enemy. Do not judge me for the accident of my birth. Caesar wants my kind destroyed because he fears us—and he should. We can be his greatest threat, or his strongest ally.”

Marcus studied him for a long moment. The torchlight flickered between them, the air thick with salt and tension. “Who is your father?” he asked finally. “Which god claims you?” His tone was quiet now, almost reverent. “I’ve met others who claim to be demigods, but you are different. Even Hades wants you dead. Why?” Percy couldn’t help but wonder what other demigods he had met. 

Percy’s jaw tightened. “My father is Neptune,” he said. “God of the sea.” The lie settled between them like a stone. He kept the truth locked inside, buried deep where no Roman could reach it. Being a demigod was dangerous. Being Greek was fatal.

Across from him, Marcus exhaled slowly, the sound rasping against the quiet. His hand dragged down his face, smearing a streak of grime across his cheek. “Neptune,” he muttered. “Gods help us. We are truly cursed.”

Percy’s pulse thudded against his ribs, but his voice came out steady. “Why?”

Marcus’s armor shifted with a dull creak as he straightened. “You’re one of the Big Three. I’ve heard the rumors from Caesar—he says your kind are too powerful, unpredictable. He gave orders that any of you should be killed on sight.”

Percy’s mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “I thought you didn’t believe in monsters not so long ago.”

“I didn’t,” Marcus admitted, his voice tight with unease. “I thought Caesar was mad. You should hear him at night, ranting about gods and their half-blood offspring. I never imagined—”

“That it was real?” Percy finished for him.

Marcus gave a dry laugh. “Gods, demigods, monsters—it all sounded like something out of a tavern tale.”

Percy looked past him toward the firelight flickering against the trees. Shadows moved like restless ghosts between the tents. “What have I told you about myths, Antonius?” he said quietly. “One day, you might be one.”

Marcus hesitated, his hand dropping from his sword hilt. “Perseus, there’s something else you should know.” His voice dropped low, almost drowned out by the crackle of the fire. “Caesar’s obsessed with a prophecy. That’s why he’s hunting demigods. He got his hands on the Sibylline Books years ago. He thinks one of Neptune’s sons will bring about the fall of Rome.”

“The syllabine books?”

“It’s a collection of—”

“I know what it is,” he said. “I’ve read it before.” He was confused about Caesar having them though. He recalled from one of Annabeth’s many lectures how it wasn’t seen in Rome until the last Roman emperor.  

“You’ve read it—”

“How does the prophecy go, Marcus?” Artemis had also spoken of a prophecy. Of course, the fates could never let him rest. There would always be another prophecy hanging over his head. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Caesar never showed me. All I know is it mentions the son of Neptune.” It was a good thing he wasn’t really the son of Neptune then.

The sound reached them before the sight did—hooves grinding against gravel, the clink of armor, the muffled voices of soldiers cutting through the smoke-thick air. Percy tensed, hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. The night smelled of burnt flesh and blood, heavy and metallic, thick enough to taste.

Marcus turned sharply toward the noise, relief flashing across his face. “Scouts,” he said, though his tone wavered between hope and dread.

A moment later, the shapes emerged from the darkness—Octavian at the head, his red cloak streaked with ash, Thaddeus beside him, the glint of his helmet catching the torchlight. Behind them came a handful of scouts, their faces drawn and wary, eyes sweeping the camp that had once held dozens.

Now it was silent.

Octavian’s boots crunched over the blackened earth as he stopped before them. The air between the men was thick enough to choke on. He looked from Percy to Marcus, then to Adriana, who stood just behind Percy with her hair tangled and her dress covered in blood, dirt and gold dust.

“What in the name of Jupiter happened here?” Octavian demanded. His voice was sharp, brittle with disbelief. “Where are the others? General Antonius?”

Percy didn’t answer right away. The camp reeked of death—charred tents, the faint hiss of something still burning at the edge of the clearing. He could hear the flies already gathering, drawn by the bodies lying just beyond the reach of the firelight.

“They’re gone,” Marcus said quietly. “All of them.”

Thaddeus stepped forward, his expression dark. “Gone?” He scanned the field, his jaw clenching when he saw the first body. “Gods above…” He knelt beside a fallen soldier, pressing two fingers to the man’s neck, though they all knew it was pointless. The man’s skin was gray and cold.

Thaddeus’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you three live.”

Percy felt the accusation like a blade pressed against his throat. He met Thaddeus’s gaze evenly, though his pulse quickened. “We were ambushed,” he said. “Something came out of the woods—monsters. Not Romans. You can still see the tracks.”

Thaddeus rose slowly, his boots squelching in the mud. “I see blood,” he said. “And scorched earth. But no monsters.”

“They don’t leave bodies,” Percy replied. “You should know that by now.”

“Are you all alright?” Octavian asked, cutting the tension. “What are your orders General Antonius? Centurion Drusus?”

“There is a garrison not far from here,” he explained. “We’ll rest there for the night. Take only the horses, leave everything else behind. Who knows if they will come back.”

“Of course, Ser,” he said, nodding at them.

The order moved through the camp like a whisper. The surviving scouts began untying the horses, their movements hurried and sharp, metal bits clinking in the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and damp leather. Percy could hear the faint snort of the animals, uneasy from the stench of blood that still clung to the air.

He went to his horse, Troy.. “Easy,” he murmured. “It’s over.” 

“Over?” the horse quipped. “I can still smell those beasts.” 

“You don’t smell too good yourself,” he laughed. The horse just huffed

Behind him, Marcus gave quiet orders, his voice low but firm. Octavian and Thaddeus barked at the scouts to move faster, their torchlight swinging wildly, throwing long, shuddering shadows across the wreckage of the camp.

Adriana approached silently, her face pale beneath the flickering light. The hem of her dress was torn and streaked with mud. When her eyes met Percy’s, there was something in them—shock, yes, but also a kind of fragile steadiness. She had seen death before, but not like this.

“There’s not enough horses,” Marcus said grimly. “Half the mounts bolted when the attack started. You’ll have to share.”

Percy tightened the saddle straps, the leather creaking beneath his hands. The horse shifted under him, restless. He glanced over his shoulder. “Adriana can ride with me.”

She hesitated, her gaze darting to Marcus. The torchlight caught on the smudge of soot along her cheek, the faint tremor in her fingers. After a moment, Marcus gave a single nod. “Stay close. Don’t fall behind.”

Percy held out his hand. “Come on.”

Her palm slid against his, cool and soft, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. When he pulled her up, she was lighter than he expected. She swung one leg over the saddle, and her back brushed his chest as she settled in front of him.

The contact sent a flicker of heat through him, sharp and unwanted. The night air was cool, yet she felt impossibly warm. He could smell the faint trace of her perfume beneath the smoke, something floral that reminded him of spring rain and sea breeze. He swallowed, forcing himself to focus on the reins instead of the way her hair brushed his jaw.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

She reached for the saddle horn, fingers tightening around it. He could feel the tension in her shoulders, the rhythm of her breathing as it synced with his.

“Are you tired?” he asked, his voice low.

She nodded slowly, her head turning just enough that he could see her profile, the faint shimmer of her lashes.

“Lean back,” he told her, his tone softening. “You can sleep if you need to. I promise I won’t drop you.”

Her lips curved into a faint, tired smile. “You promise?”

He felt it then—the smallest shift as she leaned into him, the weight of her head resting just beneath his collarbone. Her hair tickled his throat, and he could feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric of her dress, steady but quick.

“I promise,” he said quietly.

“My father created horses,” he told her. “You couldn’t be in better hands.” 

He wrapped one arm around her, more to steady her than anything, though the gesture felt far more intimate than he meant it to. Her breath was warm against his wrist.

She had drifted into sleep somewhere along the way, her head resting against his shoulder, her breath soft and even. Every few minutes, a loose strand of her hair brushed his chin, feather-light and distracting.

He should have focused on the road. On the possibility of another ambush. On the shadows that moved where they shouldn’t. But his thoughts kept circling back to her—the way she had looked at him after the battle, unafraid despite everything, and the way she had reached for his hand when he offered it.

He’d promised to protect her. That much had been simple at first. But as the miles slipped beneath the hooves, Percy realized what had been quietly building between them. There was something there, some feeling that he couldn’t make sense of. 

He thought of Annabeth, of the promises he’d broken and the centuries he’d crossed, of the curse that had followed him since the day he was born. He remembered how his heart broke when she broke up with him. He had always thought that she would be the one. At the time, he didn’t think he’d ever come to care for someone again, like he did for her. And yet, somehow he’d come to care for Adriana.

They rode on in silence until the trees began to thin. The forest opened into a clearing where the outlines of a small Roman garrison rose from the fog. Stone walls loomed ahead, weathered but sturdy, torchlight glimmering from the watchtowers.

Marcus raised a hand, his armor glinting faintly in the moonlight. “We’re here,” he called softly.

The column slowed to a halt. Ahead, the garrison gates loomed out of the mist, flanked by two worn stone towers and a narrow bridge slick with dew. The wood groaned as the gates creaked open, the heavy sound echoing through the quiet valley. The faint glow of torches spilled out, revealing a cluster of weary sentries who stumbled forward at the sight of them.

Their confusion was immediate. Armor half-buckled, cloaks hastily thrown on, they looked from the soot-stained survivors to the burned, bloodied state of their horses.

“General Antonius,” one of them gasped, lowering his spear. “Gods above, what happened?”

Marcus’s voice was rough with exhaustion. “We were attacked. Most of our men were killed. We are the only survivors.”

The words seemed to hang in the air. A few soldiers crossed themselves, murmuring prayers to Jupiter or Mars under their breath. The scent of burning pitch from the torches mixed with the stench of sweat and charred leather.

“Hera’s tit,” the centurion swore, shaking his head. “You’re lucky to be alive.” His eyes swept over Marcus, then Octavian and Thaddeus—and finally landed on Adriana’s sleeping form. Perseus nudged her gently, and her eyes burst open. .

Percy noticed the way the man’s expression changed. Just slightly. His brow furrowed, his gaze lingering too long on her soot-smeared face, the torn hem of her gown, the way her hair spilled loose over her shoulders.

“We will be when we rest,” Marcus said, cutting through the moment.

The centurion blinked, dragging his gaze away. “Aye. Of course. I’ll have rooms prepared for you at once, General. I am Praefectus Castrorum Decimus, I’ll make sure you are well taken care of. It may take an hour—we were just breaking our fast when you arrived. Would you and your companions care to join us?”

“That would be a most happy welcome,” Marcus said. “We continue to the capital at dawn.”

The centurion nodded quickly, bowing his head before barking orders to his men. They hurried off toward the barracks, their voices echoing through the stone courtyard.

Percy dismounted, his muscles protesting after the long ride. The air here was different—damp, heavy with the scent of horses and oil lamps. He helped Adriana down, his hands steadying her waist longer than they should have. She looked pale, her eyes still sharp despite the fatigue.

But even as she stepped away, Percy could feel the centurion’s gaze follow her again, curious and uneasy.

He didn’t like it.

Something about that look made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He turned to Marcus, lowering his voice. “Do you trust this place?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “I trust no one until morning.”

The gates groaned shut behind them, sealing them inside.

They followed the Centurion through the narrow stone corridor, the air growing thicker with each step. The sound of voices drifted ahead of them, boisterous, careless laughter, and the faint clatter of mugs striking wood. When they entered the mess hall, the noise faltered.

The room was long and low-ceilinged, lit by flickering sconces that threw unsteady shadows across the walls. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and boiled grain, undercut by the sour tang of spilled ale. Rows of rough-hewn tables crowded the space, every one occupied by armored men slouched over half-finished meals.

The laughter died almost at once. A murmur rippled through the hall like a shift in the wind as the soldiers turned to stare.

Percy’s instincts tensed. He followed Marcus and Adriana toward the head table, his eyes sweeping the room. Octavian and Thaddeus stayed behind taking a seat with the rest of them men. These men weren’t like the disciplined legionnaires he had fought beside. Their armor was dented, their cloaks unwashed, their faces unshaven. Some still wore their helmets indoors, as though they didn’t trust each other enough to take them off.

One man leaned too close to another, whispering something that drew a few rough chuckles. The smell of wine hung heavy in the air.

Something about the place crawled beneath Percy’s skin. These weren’t soldiers on alert—they were vultures at a feast.

“Sit with us at the head table,” the Centurion said, leading Marcus forward. His voice carried a forced politeness that didn’t reach his eyes. When he turned toward Adriana, his tone softened. “My lady?”

Adriana inclined her head with grace that seemed almost foreign in the grim hall. “We’d be honored,” she said, her voice steady despite the weight of every gaze in the room.

Percy moved to follow them, but Decimus shifted suddenly, his arm blocking Percy’s path. “You can sit with the rest of your company, over there.” He nodded toward the back table where Octavian and Thaddeus had found themselves. 

Percy’s jaw tightened. “I’d rather stay with—”

Marcus cut him off, his tone sharp enough to still the nearby conversation. “Centurion Drusus will sit with us.”

The man blinked, the flicker of defiance flashing in his eyes before he caught himself. “Ser,” he started, “it’s not proper.”

Marcus turned fully toward him, his expression hard. “I could give a flying fuck about propriety,” he said flatly. “He’s to be my son-in-law in less than a week. I won’t have him separated from me or my daughter.”

The words struck like a thrown blade—swift, deliberate.

The man’s lips pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. “Of course, General,” he said finally, the deference in his voice tight and brittle. As he stepped aside, Percy caught the faintest flicker of something behind his eyes

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I didn’t catch your name. What was it again?”

“Decimus,” he said. “I’m the Praefectus Castrorum, here.” 

“I see,” he said.

The hall’s murmurs resumed, softer now, the tone changed. Percy followed Marcus and Adriana to the head table, the weight of every soldier’s stare following him. He could feel it, the simmering hostility beneath the surface, and the unease in the air.

He sat beside Adriana, close enough to feel the brush of her sleeve against his arm. Across from Adriana, Decimus poured wine into their cups with exaggerated care, the liquid glinting deep red in the firelight.

Percy kept his gaze steady, but his thoughts were restless. He didn’t trust this man. He didn’t trust any of them.

And from the way Marcus’s hand stayed near the hilt of his sword, Percy knew he wasn’t the only one who felt it.

“So,” Decimus said, tearing a piece of bread. “You were attacked by monsters, General? That’s the story going around.” His gaze flicked toward Adriana again, then back to Marcus. “We haven’t seen any in so long. I thought they were a myth.” 

“Monsters are very real,” Percy said when Marcus didn’t speak.

The meal began in uneasy silence. Bowls of lentils and bread were set before them, along with roasted meat that still glistened from the spit. The men at the lower tables had returned to their laughter and rough stories, but the noise sounded hollow—forced, like a distraction.

“It’s an honor, my lady,” Decimus said, raising his cup. “Not often we have such beauty at our table.”

Adriana offered a polite smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “The honor is mine, Ser.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. He reached for his own cup but only sipped the wine, the bitterness of it lingering on his tongue.

Decimus gestured for a servant to refill Adriana’s cup. “You’ve traveled far today,” he said. “You must be exhausted.”

“Just a little,” she admitted. Her cheeks had taken on a faint warmth from the wine, her posture softening.

Percy glanced at Marcus, but the general seemed focused on his meal, speaking little, his expression unreadable. Percy didn’t blame him, it had been a long day, and Marcus had learned much about him. 

Decimus leaned closer. “A strong heart, to ride through the night after such… tragedy. Few could manage it.”

Adriana swallowed, her fingers tightening around the cup. “We didn’t have much choice.”

“And yet you survived,” Decimus said smoothly. “All three of you. That’s fortune—or something more.”

The words were casual, but Percy caught the glint in his eyes. A test. He didn’t believe their story. 

He set his cup down with a soft clack. “We were lucky,” he said evenly. “That’s all.”

Decimus’s lips twitched. “Luck can be a dangerous thing to rely on. I prefer to rely on skill.” 

The conversation drifted uneasily after that. The food was bland, the wine too sharp, but Decimus kept pouring, refilling Adriana’s cup each time she set it down. She protested once but he only smiled and said, “To calm your nerves, my lady. You’ve earned it.”

The Centurion shifted his attention. “And what of you?” Decimus asked, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “How does a centurion come to be engaged to the general’s daughter?”

Percy’s spine stiffened, but Marcus spoke before he could. “Perseus isn’t some normal centurion,” Marcus said, his voice carrying the authority of command. “He is the son of Marcus Livius Drusus, a praetor of Rome. He may one day follow his father and join the Senate. He is a perfect match for my daughter. Caesar himself has blessed the union and will be at the wedding.”

A murmur rippled through the nearby officers. Decimus raised his brows slightly, feigning surprise. “A politician, are you?” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Strange that a man with such a pedigree would trade scrolls for swords.”

“I think every man should serve his country,” Percy said. His tone was even, but there was steel beneath it. “It’s an honor to stand with the legion.”

Decimus leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Honor,” he repeated, as though testing the word. “Yes. But honor can be a fragile thing in Rome. One whisper, one accusation, and it breaks.”

The torch beside them sputtered, throwing his face into shadow.

Adriana glanced at Percy, sensing the current beneath the words, her brow furrowing faintly. Percy met Decimus’s gaze without flinching, though he could feel the man trying to read him—searching for cracks, for secrets buried beneath his borrowed Roman name.

The hall around them felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker. Somewhere in the corner, a soldier laughed too loudly. A cup clattered to the floor.

Percy forced himself to reach for his wine again, though his appetite had vanished. He lifted the cup, his eyes never leaving Decimus.

“To Rome,” he said.

Decimus smiled thinly. “To Rome,” he echoed. But there was something mocking in the way he said it, as though the word had no meaning at all.

By the time the plates were cleared, Adriana’s laughter had grown lighter, her words slower, slurring just enough to make them sound intimate. She leaned toward Percy without realizing it, her shoulder brushing against his chest. Her fingers fumbled slightly with the rim of her cup before dropping it, and he caught it reflexively.

Her face was flushed, warm and intoxicating, and her hair had fallen loose, brushing against his arm as she shifted. She was leaning far too heavily on him, relying on him without thinking, and Percy’s heart hammered in his chest.

Fuck. She was drunk. Not surprising, given how Decimus had kept refilling her cup like clockwork.

“She’s had enough,” Marcus said abruptly, stopping Decimus from refilling her cup. He stood and pushed his chair back. The general’s voice was firm, cutting through the warm haze of wine and candlelight. “Enough. We’ve had a long night. I’m taking my daughter to her quarters.”

Adriana blinked up at him, eyes unfocused, and muttered something incoherent before leaning further into Percy. He felt the weight of her body press against his, soft and warm, her head brushing his shoulder. 

“I can show her the way,” Decimus said, his tone smooth, too smooth, but Percy ignored him, his protective instinct flaring.

“Not necessary,” Marcus replied, not meeting Decimus’s eyes. ““I’d prefer if Perseus would take her. You and I have business to attend to.”

The man swallowed. “I’ll have a slave show you the way.”  He raised a hand to a young serving girl that couldn’t be older than fifteen. “Show them to their quarters.”

Percy’s hand went to her waist, steadying her as she wobbled slightly on unsteady legs. Her fingers curled around his arm for balance, and she leaned closer, the heat of her body pressing into his side.

“Easy,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, steady. “I’ve got you.”

They left the hall, and he could feel eyes follow them as they moved. It didn’t take long to get to her quarters. The young girl stopped in front of a large door, nodding at them as she left. Adriana’s steps wavered slightly; Percy kept a steady hand at her waist to guide her.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.”

“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “He meant you to.”

She frowned. “Decimus?”

He nodded. “Men like him don’t pour wine for kindness. He doesn’t trust us. He must have thought he could loosen your tongue.”

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t like anyone, do you?”

“I like people who don’t stare at you like a prize.”

Her breath caught at that, and for a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Her gaze lifted to his, unfocused but searching, and the space between them grew smaller.

He forced himself to look away, to focus on the barracks door ahead. “Come on,” he said softly. “Your room’s just there.”

When they reached the door, she turned to face him. The torchlight painted her features in amber and shadow, her lips curved in something halfway between gratitude and something deeper.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For looking after me.”

“Always,” he said.

Her eyes, glossy and half-lidded, found his. “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, slurring slightly, and it made his heart thud painfully in his chest. She seemed so fragile

 “Like what, Adriana?”

She lifted her gaze, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Don’t look at me with those perfect eyes.”

Her head fell against her chest and she let out a long, shaky breath. He noticed the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, the soft curve of her neck exposed for him to see, and his hands itched to reach out and steady her. He blinked, caught off guard. “Are you alright?”

“My father knows now,” she admitted, voice tight, fragile. “Everything changes now.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“I love my father, Perseus. But he’s dangerous. There isn’t anyone he wouldn’t kill if it suited him. Even me.”

“He wouldn’t kill you,” Percy said, stepping closer. “You’re his daughter.”

She shook her head. “Would your father kill you if given the chance?” Probably, he thought, though he didn’t answer.

“My father only cares about power,” she continued, eyes flicking to the shadows around them. “He won’t hesitate to kill us both. The only reason you’re alive is because he thinks he can use you. And he knows you are his best defense against Caesar if ever Caesar turns on him.”

“You’re scared of him?” Percy asked quietly, keeping his voice low so it would only reach her.

“Yes,” she admitted. Her gaze lingered on his face. “Why aren’t you?”

“I can handle Marcus,” he said, the corner of his lips tilting into a faint, dangerous smirk. “I’ve dealt with far worse in my life than one Roman general. And you…you know I would never let him hurt you, right?”

Her breath hitched. Her lips parted slightly, and for a second Percy could barely think past the way she looked at him—vulnerable and defiant all at once. He wanted to tell her to stop, to calm her, but all he could do was swallow hard and hold himself back, feeling the magnetic pull of her closer than ever.

Before he could say another word, she moved closer. Her hands brushed his chest lightly, almost tentative, leaving a trail of fire on his skin and then she pressed herself against him. She was so close, he could feel her breath on his cheek.

“Adriana–” he breathed. “You shouldn’t…We—”

Her lips found his with a sudden, fierce urgency. It wasn’t gentle; it was sharp, demanding, the kind of kiss that stole the air from his lungs and made his chest ache. Percy’s mind went blank for a heartbeat, 

It was fierce, sudden, a collision that stole the air from his lungs. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the world blurred around them. 

Her lips were soft, tasting of honeyed wine, and the scent of her hair wrapped around him, warm and floral, like jasmine mixed with smoke. His hand rose to her waist, holding her close, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against his chest. The air seemed to crackle, alive with them, the tension between fear, danger, and desire coiling tighter with every heartbeat.

He didn’t want to stop. Every part of him wanted to sink into the moment, to forget the world beyond  that small hallway. But reality pressed in, sharp and cold.

“Adriana,” he murmured against her lips, his breath warm and unsteady.

She didn’t answer. Her fingertips traced the sharp line of his jaw, slow and searching, as if she could memorize him through touch alone. Her heartbeat fluttered against his chest, quick and frantic, like a trapped bird trying to escape its cage.

He drew back just enough to see her face. Candlelight brushed against her skin, turning her cheeks a soft rose. Her pupils were wide, her smile unfocused, the faint scent of wine lingering between them. She swayed toward him again, caught in the gravity of him, but he stopped her with a gentle hand around her wrist.

“You’re drunk,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

“So?” Her tone was playful, her words slurring at the edges. “Does it matter?”

He moved  back, putting space between them. “Yes. It matters.” His voice softened, threaded with something heavy and tender. “I don’t want you to regret this in the morning.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, and leaned in to kiss him again.. “I promise I won't.”

He pulled away from her. “Yes, you will. If you still want me tomorrow when you aren’t drunk, then I am yours. But not now, Adriana. I won’t sleep with you in a barrack full of soldiers who are probably listening. You deserve far more than that.”

Adriana swayed where she stood, her eyes glassy. The warmth in her cheeks had deepened to a faint flush.

“I feel sick,” she said suddenly, her hands flying up to her mouth. “I think—”

She turned away before finishing the thought. Perseus stepped forward instinctively, steadying her shoulders as she stumbled toward a small alcove that housed a statue of Hera. She bent forward, her breath coming in shallow bursts.

He held her hair back, his hand trembling slightly as he rubbed slow circles on her back. “Easy,” he murmured. “Breathe, Adriana.”

After a long moment, she straightened, wiping at her lips with the back of her hand. Her eyes shone in the dim light, no longer hazy with desire but dulled with exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, guiding her gently towards the door of her room. “You just need rest. Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

She leaned into him as they walked, her steps uneven, her head resting against his shoulder. The night hummed quietly around them, the low murmur of soldiers asleep, the distant cry of an owl. When they reached the door, she froze. “Come in with me.”

“Adriana—”

“Not for that,” she slurred. “I don’t feel safe here.” Her hand reached for his wrist, fingers curling weakly around him. “Please.”

He hesitated, looking down at her, at the faint smile tugging at her lips even as her eyes closed. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

Adriana woke with a start, her skull pounding as though someone had driven a knife clean through her eyes. The pain pulsed in steady waves, sharp and merciless, dragging her fully from sleep.

The room was drowned in darkness. The air felt thick and unmoving, heavy with the faint scent of linen and something unfamiliar—warm skin, perhaps, or the lingering scent of cologne in the air. A single strip of moonlight pressed weakly through the curtains, silvering the edge of the bed but leaving the rest cloaked in shadow.

She groaned softly, lifting a hand to her face, but stopped short. Her fingers brushed against something solid—something warm. Her body went rigid. Slowly, she blinked into the gloom, her vision swimming until shapes began to form.

There, beside her, was the unmistakable rise and fall of another person’s chest. Someone was lying next to her.

What the fuck?

Careful not to make any noise, she peeled herself out of bed, moving to the candle at their bedside. She picked up the candle, shining the light over the sleeping form.

“Perseus?” she asked softly, but he was fast asleep.

While sleeping, Perseus looked more his age. The tension that was always there, hanging at the ends of his lips and on his forehead, was no longer there, making him look more peaceful than she’d ever seen him. It made him look more boyish. Sometimes, she caught glimpses of the bright, clever, and jovial man he might have at one time. But his past had burned away that youth from him, stealing what little laughter he might have had.

Then the memory of the night before came to her all at once.

Oh. 

Oh gods.

Embarrassment filled her. Had she really done that? Had she really thrown herself so shamelessly at him? 

Her stomach twisted as the realization sank in, a mortified heat crawling up her neck. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, trying to quiet the rush of breath that threatened to spill out. Every fragment of last night flickered through her mind like shattered glass—his voice, low and steady; his hands anchoring her when she’d been falling apart; the way she’d leaned into him, desperate for warmth, for something.

Adriana squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to get out. To breathe. To think.

He should have been disgusted with her. But, there was only gentleness in him. That fact seemed to make everything harder. It made it impossible to hate him, when she should have.

She came to the startling realization that she liked him. And, perhaps there was something even bigger than just likeness growing inside her heart. She still knew close to nothing about him. She knew his heritage, and was thankful he had shared that secret with her. But, what of his past? His friends? What was he like to live with? Was he messy or clean?

Gods, what was wrong with her? She shouldn’t be thinking these things.

She had to get out. She needed air, and she needed to think before she did something extremely stupid like kiss Perseus when she was sober. 

She set the candle down and turned toward the door, her bare feet whispering against the cool floorboards. The air felt colder away from the bed, as if the shadows themselves were holding their breath. Her fingers brushed the doorknob—

A sound.

Soft at first, barely a scrape. Then clearer: the faint shuffle of feet on stone, just beyond the door. Adriana froze. The hair on her arms stood on end.

Another noise followed—a low murmur, like someone speaking in hushed tones. She couldn’t make out the words, but there was an edge to them. Urgent.

Her heart kicked against her ribs. She glanced back toward the bed. Perseus hadn’t stirred, still lost in sleep, his breathing steady. She hesitated, torn between waking him and pretending she hadn’t heard a thing.

The sound came again, closer this time. A metallic click, sharp and deliberate, like a latch being tested.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Someone was on the other side of that door.

She took a slow step backward, keeping her eyes fixed on the handle as it gave a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor—like someone was testing it, deciding whether to come in.

Adriana’s throat tightened. She whispered, barely audible, “Perseus…”

But the word dissolved into the dark as the door gave another small, deliberate rattle.

“Perseus,” she whispered again, louder this time.

No response.

Adriana turned toward the bed, her pulse skittering as the door creaked ever so slightly. The candlelight trembled in her hand, casting jumpy shadows across the walls. Whoever was out there hadn’t left. The sound of their breathing—or maybe her imagination of it—seemed to slip through the cracks around the frame.

She rushed back to the bed and grabbed his shoulder. “Perseus, wake up,” she hissed, shaking him harder than she meant to. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, his heartbeat steady when she pressed her palm to his chest—but he didn’t move. Not even a flicker.

Her panic rose like a tide. “Come on,” she whispered, shaking him again. “Please. I think someone’s—”

The words cut off as another sound came from the hall. A whisper of fabric brushing against wood, then the unmistakable thud of a footstep.

Her breath hitched.

“Perseus!” she said again, desperate this time. She gripped his face between her hands, forcing herself to look for any sign—any twitch, any flicker of awareness. But his eyes stayed closed, his features calm, his breathing even. Too even.

The wine, had they put something in the wine? But then, why wasn’t she fast asleep? 

“Gods, no…” she murmured.

Her eyes darted to the door. The handle turned slightly this time.

“Perseus,” Adriana whispered again, shaking his shoulder harder. “Please—wake up.”

Nothing.

He lay completely still, his chest rising and falling in that maddeningly steady rhythm. His skin was warm under her hand, his heartbeat strong, but there was no flicker of awareness. No twitch, no frown, nothing.

“Perseus,” she said again, voice cracking now. She pressed her palm to his cheek, shaking him, whispering his name like a prayer. “Come on, please, something’s wrong—”

Then she heard it.

The door handle turned.

Her head snapped toward it. The soft metallic sound sliced through the silence, and before she could even think to move, the latch clicked and the door began to open.

A line of cold light spilled into the room, cutting through the darkness. The air shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and iron. Adriana froze, every instinct screaming at her to run, but her legs wouldn’t obey. She was frozen in place, thick branches pulling her deeper and deeper into the ground.

The door creaked open wider.

Someone stepped inside.

Their silhouette filled the doorway, tall, deliberate, unhurried. The candlelight quivered in her trembling hand, painting the intruder in fleeting gold. A hood shadowed their face, but she caught a glint of something metallic beneath the fabric. A weapon, maybe?

“Who’s there?” she demanded, though her voice was barely more than a whisper.

The figure didn’t answer. They took another step forward, the floorboards groaning softly under their weight.

Adriana stumbled back until her knees hit the edge of the bed. Behind her, Perseus didn’t move. Not a sound, not a breath different from before.

“Stay away,” she said, trying to sound steady, though her heart was hammering hard enough to shake her words apart. “I’m warning you.”

The figure tilted their head, the faintest movement, like they were studying her. Then, slowly, they reached up and pulled the hood back.

Her stomach dropped.

“Adriana,” the stranger said softly.

Hearing her name spoken like that, quiet, intimate, certain–sent a spear of dread straight through her chest. Her pulse spiked instantly.  She didn’t know this man, and that mean she had no idea what he might want or do. At least if she’d known who entered their chambers she would know what to expect.

“Stay back,” she warned, forcing steel into her tone even as her fingers trembled.

The stranger didn’t listen. They stepped farther into the room, boots whispering over the floorboards. The thin candlelight caught the edge of something at their hip—a curved blade, dull bronze gleaming where it slipped free of shadow. The air seemed to press in around her, heavy and tight, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

Adriana’s grip tightened around the candleholder until the metal bit into her skin. She welcomed the pain. It kept her grounded. “Don’t,” she breathed. “I’ll scream. I swear I will.”

Their mouth curved, slow and knowing. “You could,” they murmured, voice smooth as oil. “But it won’t matter. No one can hear you. Scream all you want. In fact, I’d prefer if you did.”

They moved without warning.

Adriana reacted on instinct, not fear.

She swung the candleholder hard. The weight of it surprised even her. Hot wax exploded through the air, splattering across the stranger’s sleeve and hand. The flame guttered violently—and went out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

The stranger swore, sharp and angry, and that was all Adriana needed.

She lunged sideways instead of back, crashing into the small table by her bed and shoving it with everything she had. Wood shrieked against wood before slamming into the stranger’s legs. They stumbled, momentum breaking.

She didn’t hesitate.

Adriana ducked low, grabbed the edge of the bedframe, and kicked—hard—right where she’d aimed moments earlier. Her heel connected with a knee. The grunt of pain was immediate, gratifying.

A hand seized her wrist anyway.

Iron. That’s what it felt like. Her bones screamed as pressure flared up her arm. Adriana gasped but didn’t cry out. She twisted sharply, letting her body go loose for half a breath, then snapped back and drove her knee upward.

“Let me go!” she shouted, dragging her nails down their forearm, ripping fabric and skin alike.

The grip faltered just long enough.

She tore free and sprinted for the door, bare feet slapping against the floor, lungs burning already—

Too slow.

An arm hooked around her waist and yanked her backward. She slammed her heel down hard on their foot, felt something crunch beneath her weight. The stranger hissed.

“Stop fighting,” they snarled.

“Not a chance,” Adriana spat.

She threw her elbow back with everything she had. It connected with ribs—once, twice. The second blow knocked the air from them. She broke free again, chest heaving, vision sharpening with panic and adrenaline.

She reached the door. Her fingers brushed the latch.

Pain exploded at the back of her head.

Her vision flickered—white, then black, then a smear of red behind her eyes. She staggered but didn’t fall. Instinct dragged her forward, fingers clawing at the latch until it finally gave in. She needed to get out. If she just got out maybe she would have a chance to escape. 

 The door swung open and she spilled into the hallway. Cold air slapped her across the face.

Run.

She bolted, legs wobbling, the world tilting as she pushed through it. Her breath came in sharp, wet gasps. Behind her, the stranger cursed and crashed into the wall before giving chase.

The hallway stretched long and dim, lit only by a handful of torches on the walls.. Her shadow jittered beside her, elongated and frantic.

She rounded the corner, her legs stopping abruptly. 

 Someone was there, waiting for her. 

Adriana’s feet slipped on slick marble floors, almost sending her hurtling to the ground. The man observed her, eerily calm as if he tried to kidnap people every day. He looked at his nails, picking at the beds. A nasty habit she hated. 

“Going somewhere?” the person asked, voice smooth, edged with amusement.

Her pulse slammed in her ears. She backed up automatically, only to hear the heavy footfalls of the first attacker closing in behind her.

She was trapped.

Her head throbbed, vision swimming, but she squared her stance anyway. Her hands curled into fists even though they trembled. She braced her stance. If they wanted her that was fine.

But they were going to bleed for it.

The newcomer stepped forward, and even in the low light she saw something glint at their side. Another weapon? A blade? She couldn’t tell.

The first attacker lunged from behind.

Adriana didn’t think. She threw herself sideways, hitting the wall hard enough to rattle her teeth. 

The newcomer reached for her, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and throwing her against the wall hard. 

Stars burst behind her eyes. The room tilted wildly as her legs gave out. She collapsed to her knees, palms scraping painfully against the floorboards. Her breath came in ragged, broken gasps as the darkness pulsed in and out.

Boots approached. Heavy. Controlled.

Adriana lifted her head anyway.

Even now, even half-blind and shaking, her eyes burned with defiance as the stranger loomed over her. If this was the end, she would not make it easy. Not for a single second.

A hand reached for her—

She tried to crawl, to push herself up, to shout for Perseus, but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate. Her fingers slipped uselessly across the floorboards.

“Shh,” the stranger murmured, kneeling beside her. “It’ll be over soon.”

Chapter Text

Percy was underwater.

Cold wrapped around him the moment his eyes opened. Currents slid over his skin, steady and slow, tugging at him with a gentle insistence that should have been comforting. For a heartbeat, it almost was. His body floated, suspended, as if the water itself held him.

Then unease crept in.

The water pressed in too thick, too dark. Murk clouded his vision, swallowing any sense of distance or direction. He strained to see, but the cold seeped deeper, settling into his chest, bringing with it a sharp awareness that something was wrong. The quiet felt heavy, expectant.

Movement stirred ahead of him.

A shape emerged from the gloom, tall and indistinct, its outline wavering as the currents shifted. It drifted closer, neither fast nor slow, as though the water carried it forward of its own will. Percy narrowed his eyes, forcing his vision to focus, heart beginning to pound as recognition tugged at him.

“Father?”

Poseidon materialized out of the deep. He looked so familiar that it hurt. He wore his familiar board shorts and Hawaiian shirt. Although, his beard and hair looked littered with more grey than the last time he had seen him. His image flickered for a moment, straining at the edges, like an old television without connection.

But, of course it wasn’t his father. Not a father that knew him anyways. The past version of his father he had met on the dock was more jaded than the father he knew. 

“I need to speak quickly,” he said. His voice vibrated through the water and into Percy’s bones. “I’ve lulled you into a deep sleep. Nothing will disturb us.”

Percy’s pulse spiked. Questions tangled in his mind, all of them colliding at once. “I don’t understand,” he said, the words tight in his throat.

“Look at me, Percy,” Poseidon said, firmer now. “Really look at me.”

Percy forced himself to focus. The currents drew inward, tightening around Poseidon’s form, sharpening every line and shadow. The water cleared just enough for Percy to see him fully. Understanding hit him in a sudden rush that stole his breath.

“It’s you,” Percy whispered, awe and certainty blending together. “Not the version from the past. You. My father.”

“It’s nice to see you, Percy,” Poseidon said, and something like sorrow softened the edges of his features. “I’m sorry that this has happened.”

“How has it happened? Why?” Percy asked. The water quivered with his rising panic.

“None of that matters,” Poseidon said. “You are here now, as you have always meant to be. Chiron and I did our best to prepare you for this.”

“You knew?” Percy’s voice cracked. “All along you knew I would come here? Why didn’t you warn me?”

“What has happened must always happen,” Poseidon said. “Time is a wheel, and it flows like water. You can put a boulder in its path, but the river will always redirect, returning to its original course. This is something that not even I could stop.”

Did that mean that Percy was always meant to travel back? This was always going to happen and the gods knew it?

His fathers image flickered again, almost disappearing completely.

“Why do you keep fading?”

“It is taking a tremendous amount of power for me to talk to you,” he said. “I think most of New York City is in a blackout at the moment.”

What message could be so important that he used enough energy to put New York City in a blackout? “There is a prophecy greater than anything you can imagine,” Poseidon continued. “You will be forced to make a choice, and it will change everything.” His gaze held Percy’s, unyielding. “Remember there are things more important than you. More important than your happiness. I wish you had been given an easier road. We have asked so much of you. I am sorry.”

The apology struck deeper than the warning. Percy’s mind raced, fragments of past quests and losses flashing through him. Every sacrifice. Every battle he had survived by the narrowest margin. A bitter understanding began to take shape.

“You know everything, don’t you?” Percy said. The words tumbled out, tight with accusation and fear. “My future is your past. You know exactly what is going to happen because you’ve already lived it.” He swallowed, dread pooling in his chest. “Did you know from the start what would happen?”

Poseidon’s expression shifted, something old and heavy passing through his eyes.

“I didn’t realize for a long time who you were,” he said. “But the older you grew, the more you looked like an old friend I once knew.” His voice softened, carrying a note of finality that made Percy’s stomach drop. “This is the last time I will see you as I am for many years. I have gone against the Fates to contact you like this, and they are not pleased. But I had to warn you. I had to give you your best chance.”

The weight of those words settled over Percy like crushing depth. His thoughts jumped ahead, to everything he might lose, to everyone he loved. One name rose above the rest, sharp and unbearable.

A tight ache swelled in Percy’s chest. “I miss you,” he said quietly. “I miss my mother, my sister, Annabeth and Grover. Will I ever see them again?”

“One day,” Poseidon answered. “Although they may not recognize you when they do. But none of that is important. We are wasting time.”

“Tell my mom I love her,” Percy said. His throat burned, the words scraped raw by fear and certainty.

“She knows, Percy,” Poseidon replied without hesitation. “She will always know.” His gaze flicked past Percy, urgency tightening his features. “It is time for you to wake. I am sorry, but your lover is in danger.”

The world seemed to tilt.

“Adriana?” Percy surged forward, panic exploding through him. The water roared in response, spiraling violently as his control slipped. “What is wrong?”

“I have chosen a terrible time to contact you,” Poseidon said. Regret edged his voice. “For that, I am sorry. But remember this. You already know the decision you will have to make. It will be hard. Harder than anything you have ever done. You will doubt yourself.” His voice deepened, steady and inexorable. “But it has always been meant to happen. Every year of training, every war, every quest has led you to this moment.”

Light from the ocean floor began to collapse inward, folding in on itself as the space between them unraveled. Percy reached out, fingers stretching toward his father as the water tore them apart.

“Father!”

Poseidon’s form broke apart into glittering currents, scattering like starlight caught in a tide. The pressure vanished all at once, and the dream shattered, crashing down like a wave breaking against stone.

Percy woke with a gasp.

His room lay in ruins around him, sheets twisted and furniture askew, as if a storm had torn through it. Cold dread settled in his chest as his eyes flew to the empty space beside him.

Adriana was gone.

Percy slammed the door to Marcus’s quarters open without knocking. Wood cracked hard against stone, the impact rattling the torch brackets along the wall. Flames leapt and guttered, throwing wild shadows across the low ceiling as cold pre-dawn air rushed in. The room smelled of oil and iron and sleep not yet shaken loose.

Marcus came awake in an instant. He surged upright in the narrow bed, muscles coiling, hand already wrapped around the dagger at his side. The blanket slid to his waist as his sharp gaze locked onto the doorway. Even half-dressed, even half-asleep, he looked like a man built for war.

“You better have a good reason for waking me this early, Perseus,” Marcus said. His voice was rough, still edged with command.

Percy stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving. His lungs burned as if he had been underwater too long. He tasted copper and smoke and something sour that might have been fear. His heart thundered so loudly he was certain Marcus could hear it. His hair hung loose and tangled, his clothes wrinkled and damp with sweat, clinging to him as proof that he had been running without stopping.

“She’s gone,” Percy said.

The words scraped out of him, bare and sharp, as if saying them might finally make them real.

Marcus’s brow furrowed. “Who’s gone?”

“Adriana.” Percy forced himself forward into the room. The door swung shut behind him with a dull thud that felt final, like sealing a tomb. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He barely noticed the pain. He could still see the room in his mind. The overturned chair. The scuffed floor. The way the air had felt wrong, like the water before a storm. “I checked her quarters. Every corner. There were signs of a struggle.”

His throat tightened. He swallowed and still failed to push the image away. Empty bed. Broken order. Absence screaming louder than sound.

“She’s gone.”

The torches hissed softly. Their light stretched long across the stone floor, catching on a scattered breastplate near the wall and the half-unrolled map on Marcus’s table. For a heartbeat, everything felt frozen.

Marcus swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the floor. The last trace of sleep vanished from his face. His jaw set, hard and immovable, as the weight of Percy’s words landed. Inside the room, the air felt tight enough to choke on.

“Call a meeting,” Percy said. His voice steadied, but the fury underneath it pulsed and hot. He could feel the sea pressing at the edges of his control, restless and demanding. “It’s time we spoke to our hosts properly.”

Marcus moved with swift efficiency. He reached for his armor, leather creaking as he pulled it on, metal scraping softly as he secured the clasps. The familiar sounds grounded the room, but they did nothing to calm the storm roaring through Percy’s head. Every second that passed felt stolen from her.

Marcus glanced at him, quick and assessing. His gaze lingered when he noticed Percy’s hands trembling despite the rigid set of his shoulders.

“Perseus, you need to breathe,” Marcus said, stepping closer. His tone gentled despite the tension. “If you don’t stop and think, you’ll do something you regret.”

“I can’t stop.” Percy spun toward him. The words tore out, fractured and raw. His chest burned. His thoughts raced, spiraling through every terrible possibility. Dark corridors. Bound wrists. Fear in her eyes. Each one worse than the last. “Every moment she’s out there, every second I’m standing here doing nothing…”

He could feel the water stirring beyond stone and walls, answering his rage. It wanted release. So did he.

Marcus’s expression softened, just enough to hurt.

“You love her, don’t you?”

Percy went still.

The room felt smaller. The stone walls pressed in, heavy and unyielding. The torch flames whispered as they burned, their light flickering across the map and the weapons and the quiet proof of a world that expected him to be calm, measured, rational.

“I don’t…” Percy started, but the lie collapsed before it fully formed. The words sounded thin, hollow, useless.

Marcus let out a slow breath, almost a laugh. “Gods,” he murmured. “You don’t even realize it.”

Percy flinched. His jaw tightened until it ached. He looked away, fixing his stare on the far wall, on the carved markings in the stone. If he let himself think too hard about it, about her smile, about the way her voice sounded when she said his name, he would break.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said sharply. He turned back, forcing focus like a blade. “We need to find her. I’ll wake Octavian.”

Marcus raised a brow. “Not Thaddeus?”

Percy’s eyes darkened. Distrust surged hot and immediate. “I don’t trust that man.”

A faint smirk touched Marcus’s mouth. “Smart. Neither do I.”

Marcus hesitated, then asked, “Will you reveal yourself?”

The sea answered before Percy did. It surged in his veins, cold and furious, pressing against his skin.

“Maybe?” he said. “I don’t know. Decimus won't live to tell anyone what he knows anyways.”

“And what of Octavian?” Marcus asked. “You two are friends, are you not? Does he know your secrets?”

“No, he doesn’t,”  he said. “Only you and Adriana know.”

“Perhaps it's time he knew the truth,” Marcus said. 

Octavian arrived moments later, still fastening the ties of his tunic as he stepped into Marcus’s chambers. His hair was damp, as if he had just splashed water on his face in an attempt to wake himself, and confusion sharpened his features when his gaze swept the room.

“You sent for me?” he asked, eyes flicking from Marcus’s half-fastened armor to Percy, who stood rigid near the table like a coiled spring. “What do you need, General Antonius?”

“I didn’t call for you,” he said, and gestured to Percy.

“We have a situation.”

Octavian’s posture straightened at once. He took in Percy more carefully now, the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers dug into the edge of the table as if he needed the wood to keep himself anchored. A flicker of unease crossed Octavian’s face.

“What happened?” he asked.

Percy turned before Marcus could answer. He did not trust himself to soften it, and he did not want to. “Adriana is missing.”

Octavian stared at him. “Missing how?”

Percy inhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. He forced the memory into words. “Her quarters were disturbed. Furniture overturned. Marks on the floor. She didn’t leave willingly.” Percy didn’t think it was a good time to mention that she had been in his room, and a dream of his father in the future kept him soundly sleeping throughout the attack. 

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

Octavian ran a hand through his hair. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Percy said. The certainty burned. He had felt it in his bones, in the water that responded to his panic, in the way the air itself had seemed to recoil from that empty room. “I would know.”

Marcus stepped in smoothly. “We have not raised the alarm. Not yet.”

Octavian’s head snapped up. “You haven’t told anyone?”

“No one else can know,” Percy said. “I don’t trust anyone outside of this room.”

“Perseus,” Octavian said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll be alright.”

Gods, he hoped Octavian was right.

Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber. The night air was cold and heavy, the hour so late the world itself felt unwilling to be awake. Decimus stood half-draped in his cloak, irritation carved into his features as he faced the two men who had dragged him from sleep.

“Why have you woken us at such an hour, Centurion?” Decimus demanded, his voice sharp in the quiet. He turned slowly toward Marcus, dark eyes narrowing. “Do you allow all of your centurions to behave with such disrespect?”

“Leave us,” Percy commanded the other guards in the room. They looked around at each other, debating whether or not they should listen to the mysterious centurion.
None of them moved.

Percy turned his head slowly. The torchlight caught his eyes, dark and unreadable, and something in the air shifted. Pressure built, subtle but unmistakable, like the sea pulling back before a wave.

“I will not say it again,” he said. “Leave us.”

This time, they felt it. The anger beneath his skin. The power he had spent years hiding, coiled tight and barely leashed. Whether they understood what he was or not did not matter. Instinct screamed at them.

One by one, the guards backed away and filed out, boots scraping stone. The door closed behind them with a heavy finality.

Only Marcus, Octavian, and Percy remained.

“Where is she?” Perceus cut in, his tone flat, dangerous.

Decimus scoffed, folding his arms. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of.”

A muscle in the centurion’s jaw jumped. “Where is Adriana?”

Silence stretched. Somewhere outside, the low murmur of guards on patrol echoed, boots scraping stone. Decimus lifted a brow, lips curling in faint amusement. “You’ve lost a woman?” he said lightly. “How… embarrassing.”

The sound of steel slicing through the air cut through the moment.

Marcus moved so fast it was almost impossible to follow. His knife left his fingers and buried itself in the table beside Decimus’ hand with a sharp thud, the blade quivering as it sank deep into the wood. Decimus flinched back instinctively, his breath catching.

“You should answer his question, Decimus,” Marcus said calmly, though his eyes were anything but. “You’ll find he’s far less patient than I am.”

Decimus stared at the knife, then slowly withdrew his hand, anger flashing across his face. “I don’t know where she is,” he said stiffly. “What has happened?”

“She was taken in the middle of the night,” he said, every word clipped, restrained fury simmering beneath. “Kidnapped. Someone from your group is responsible.”

Decimus let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “And you did not wake?” he asked, stepping back. “She was in your room. You could not stop it?”

His eyes hardened, something dark and unreadable settling there. “I never said she was in my room, Decimus.” No one, not even Octavian and Marcus knew that. 

The torches cracked softly, and the silence that followed was thick with implication.

“You will tell me where she is,” he said quietly, each word deliberate, lethal, “if you wish to speak again.”

The man laughed—a short, ugly sound that echoed off the stone. “You Roman scum.”

Percy stilled.

The insult scraped against something deeper than pride. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as the air seemed to change around him. “You’re Greek?” he asked, surprise bleeding into cold recognition.

The man froze. Just for a heartbeat—but it was enough. His shoulders tightened, his jaw locking as he realized what he’d done.

“And what of it?” he snapped, too quickly.

Percy took a slow step forward. He could feel it now, unmistakable—the familiar pressure beneath his skin, the hum of power that sang only to those like him. “Are you a half-blood?”

Silence.

The man’s eyes widened before he could stop himself. “How do you know?”

“I can sense it on you,” Percy replied. His voice was steady, almost thoughtful, as though he were examining a puzzle finally clicking into place. “I should have known.You aren’t the first Greek I’ve met. I had a run in with Ajax not too long ago.” The man’s eyes widened even further. Percy’s gaze swept over the man—his stance, his restless energy, the way his fingers twitched as if itching for a weapon. “A son of Ares, I assume. His children always were—impulsive. Quick to act before thinking.” His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “If you’d stopped for even a moment before taking her, you wouldn’t have done it.”

The man bristled. “And why is that?” he demanded.

Percy’s lips curved then, slow and knowing. “Because we’re more alike than you think, Decimus.”

Color drained from the man’s face. His gaze flicked to Marcus, searching his expression, weighing how much he knew. “You’re not—” His voice faltered. “You aren’t?”

“I am,” Percy said simply. “Taking Adriana was the stupidest thing you could have done.” 

“Who is your godly parent?”

Octavian's head snapped to Percy, confusion spreading across his face.

The air seemed to tighten around them as he stepped closer. “The sea runs through my veins,” he continued, voice low, resonant, “stronger than blood.”

Decimus swallowed hard. “Poseidon?”

“Perseus,” he heard Octavian speak behind him. “What are you talking about?” 

Percy felt guilty for keeping who he was from Octavian. The man had grown into a friend since he came. He hated lying to people he called friends. He knew Loyalty was his fatal flaw. But somehow, he’d wondered if perhaps that had changed since he traveled to Rome.

“I’m sorry Octavian,” he said. “But there is much you don’t know about me.” 

Percy smiled and for a fleeting second. It was a relief to hear his father’s name spoken aloud, unhidden, and unmasked. Marcus still believed him to be a son of Neptune, and Percy had let him believe that. 

“They say some half-bloods are closer to gods than to men,” Percy said, the calm in his tone far more unsettling than anger. His eyes darkened, tides gathering behind them. “You’re about to discover why. Hold him.”

“Perseus?” Octavian stilled.  “What are you planning? Perhaps you should—”

“Hold him, Octavian,” he said. “Thats an order.”

His friend's eyes grew dark. For a moment he felt bad about it, but there were far more important things to worry about than Octavian's feelings.

Octavion moved forward, indecision on his face. He hesitated for only a heartbeat. 

His hand closed around Decimus’s shoulder, grip firm enough to bruise. He kept his face carefully neutral, even as his pulse spiked. He had expected threats, perhaps a blade. He had not expected this quiet, terrible certainty rolling off Percy like a tide pulling back before a wave.

“Stay still,” Octavian said to Decimus, voice clipped. Percy could see the curiosity behind his friends eyes. He had no idea what Percy was going to do. He only knew it wasn’t going to be good.  “You do not want to make this worse.”

Decimus laughed weakly, panic bleeding through the sound. “This is madness. Marcus, you can’t allow this.”

Marcus did not answer. He stood near the wall, arms crossed, his face hard and unreadable. His silence was permission.

Marcus’s voice cut through the room, low and lethal. “What do you think is more important to me? You or my daughter.”

Decimus did not answer.

Percy lifted his hand.

For a brief, traitorous second, memory flared. Annabeth’s voice. Her hand in his. A promise whispered long ago, never to use his power like this again. He thought of the misery he’d brought Misery, and the power he’d felt that day. He needed that power now. Annabeth was gone. Adriana was not. And whatever line he had once sworn not to cross had dissolved

The pull hit him deep in his gut, ancient and absolute.

Water answered.

Moisture tore itself from the air, from the stone, from every breath in the room. It spiraled toward him in a tightening coil, wrapping around his forearm like a living thing. The torches sputtered as damp crawled up the walls. The temperature dropped sharply, cold enough to sting skin.

Percy did not look at Marcus. He did not look at Octavian. Their reactions did not matter. He could deal with what they thought about all of this in the morning after Adriana had been saved. 

Decimus saw it.

His eyes went wide, whites flashing. “What magic is this?”

The water surged across the floor and snapped tight around his ankles.

“No,” Decimus gasped, stumbling as he fought it. The water climbed relentlessly, heavy and merciless, locking around his calves like iron chains forged from the sea itself.

Percy stepped closer.

Something inside him shifted. He felt it with terrifying clarity. The water inside Decimus answered him too. Blood rushing through veins. Moisture in lungs. The salt on his skin. Fear sharpened everything, made the connection cleaner, stronger.

Control settled into Percy like a second spine.

“You took her,” he said.

“I didn’t,” Decimus choked. “I swear I didn’t touch her. Why are you doing this? You are one of us. You must share the same goals as we do.” 

Percy tilted his head slightly, studying him the way one might study a tide pattern. His fingers curled.

“I can feel your heartbeat, Decimus,” Percy said quietly. “I know you're lying.” 

The realization hit him then, cold and profound. He was not just sensing water. He was mapping the man. Every vessel. Every muscle. Every nerve lighting up under his will. Decimus was no longer a body. He was a system Percy could dismantle piece by piece.

Water forced its way into Decimus’s mouth and nose.

He screamed, then choked. His body convulsed violently, eyes bulging as panic exploded through him. He thrashed against Octavian’s grip, boots scraping uselessly against the stone as water filled his lungs in short, brutal pulses.

Octavian’s stomach turned. His hands tightened reflexively as he held Decimus upright, knuckles white, face carefully blank. He did not look at Percy. He did not dare.

Percy watched with chilling focus.

He felt every stuttering breath. Every frantic spike of the heart. Every second as terror bloomed and collapsed again. He cut the water off just before the breaking point.

Air rushed back into Decimus’s lungs.

Decimus folded forward with a broken sob, coughing violently as water poured from his mouth and splattered onto the stone floor. His whole body shook, gasps tearing out of him like he had been dragged back from drowning.

Percy did not move.

“Where is she, Decimus?” he asked.

His voice was calm. Endless. Patient in the way the ocean is patient.

“I can do this all day,” Percy said softly. “Can you?”