Chapter Text
For a while, things were quiet, normal, even.
Which, in hindsight, should’ve been Luke’s first warning.
.
.
.
The thing was, Luke had gotten used to his routine.
There was school. There was his mother. And then there was Hermes. The three constants in his life, steady as clockwork.
But routine had a way of dulling the edges of caution. It bred familiarity, and with it, complacency.
So when Hermes pulled up outside the school gates a week later, Luke didn’t ask where they were going. He didn’t question the tight set of his father’s jaw, or the strange glint in his eyes. He just opened the door, slid into the passenger seat, and closed it behind him.
Because that was what they did. And old habits were hard to break.
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.
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“What do you want to eat today?” Hermes asked, hands draped over the wheel.
Luke blinked. They were still parked outside his school, the autumn sun angling through the windshield and cutting sharp lines across the dashboard. His backpack rested by his feet, heavy with books and unfinished homework.
“I don’t know,” Luke muttered, leaning his head back against the seat. “Whatever.”
“Whatever,” Hermes repeated, like he was tasting the word. “Alright then. Whatever it is.”
He twisted the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life with an easy purr, too smooth for something that looked like it had been salvaged from a scrapyard. Luke didn’t ask how it ran without gas. He didn’t ask where it had come from. Gods didn’t follow the rules of physics. Or traffic laws.
They pulled out of the lot like any other father and son. Distant houses rolled by. Trees blurred into amber and red. For a while, Luke watched in silence, trying not to notice the way the radio didn’t work unless Hermes wanted it to, or how the rearview mirror never showed the same street twice.
Then the road began to warp.
It was subtle at first. A bend in the street that hadn’t been there yesterday. A patch of highway that cut straight through a desert where there shouldn’t have been one. Luke sat forward, brow furrowing, but the car kept moving as if nothing had changed.
By the time he looked out again, mosques rose in the distance, their domes catching the last of the sunset. The Bosphorus glittered beyond a curtain of minarets. Call to prayer echoed faintly in the warm air, ancient and eternal.
Luke pressed his palm to the window, watching as the city rearranged itself around them. Istanbul—he’d never been, but somehow the name settled in his chest, like a memory inherited rather than lived. The air outside looked warmer.
They parked on a quiet street. Warm lights flickered above a line of small shops and food stands. The scent of grilled meat lingered in the air, along with roasted chestnuts and something floral and sweet. Hermes led them through a crowd of locals with easy grace, and Luke followed, both grounded and disoriented by the foreignness of it all.
Dinner was a blur of spice and smoke, of grilled lamb that fell apart under his fork, of tomato and garlic and something lemon-sweet he couldn’t name. They sat at a table outside, beneath strings of lights and fluttering linen, while Hermes chatted with the waiter in fluent Turkish, his laughter light, unburdened.
Luke watched him with a strange, gnawing feeling in his gut.
When the meal was over, Luke slouched back in his chair, exhausted and full.
But Hermes stood. “Come on. Dessert.”
Luke groaned. “I'm full.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Hermes said. “We haven’t even started.”
They walked a few blocks until they found it: a small ice cream cart stationed beneath a striped canopy. A man in a fez grinned at them as they approached, already fishing out the long metal rod he used to serve the dondurma.
The ice cream had an uncanny, stretchy consistency—thicker than anything Luke had seen. The vendor played his part expertly: dipping, twisting, flipping the scoop out of reach every time Luke tried to grab it. Hermes stood to the side, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the show.
When Luke finally got his cone, it felt like a victory. The first bite was cold, chewy, rich with pistachio and something floral. It clung to his teeth and tongue.
He stood in the warmth of the Istanbul night, slowly savoring the strangeness of it.
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.
It was only on the way back that Luke realized something was wrong.
Hermes usually didn’t drag things out. After their outings, he’d flick on the radio, sing along to whatever vapid pop song was playing, and have Luke back home in minutes.
But not this time.
The car was silent. No music. No humming. Just the low growl of the engine and the soft warping of space around them.
Luke stared out the window, watching as the narrow streets of Istanbul melted away into wide, modern avenues. The city grew around them—glass and steel stretching toward the sky, traffic thickening, the skyline unmistakable.
New York.
His blood went cold.
“Why are we here?” Luke asked, voice clipped and tight. His hand had already moved to the door handle before he even processed what he was saying, fingers curling around it like it might save him. “Why?” His eyes flicked to the window again—the skyline unmistakable now, the chaos of New York closing in around them like a trap.
“You know why,” Hermes replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead, knuckles steady against the wheel. His tone was even, unshaken, almost cruel in its calm. There was no room for argument.
“No.” Luke’s voice sharpened. “I told you—I’m not going to Camp.”
“And I told you that you are.” Hermes didn’t look at him. His tone was flat, eerily calm.
Panic bloomed fast and hot behind Luke’s ribs. His breath came shallow. “Stop the car.”
Hermes didn’t respond. Just kept driving.
“I said stop the damn car!” Luke lunged at the handle, yanking with both hands now, but it didn’t budge. The doors were locked. “Let me out!” he yelled, panic rising sharp in his throat, bitter as bile.
“I can’t do that,” Hermes said, still maddeningly composed. “I won’t let you endanger yourself.”
“That’s not your decision to make!” Luke shouted, twisting against the seatbelt like a caged animal. He was clawing at the door now, nails digging into the seam, desperate.
Hermes finally glanced at him. His eyes were ancient. Unmovable. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but it carved through the air like a blade. “But it is.”
The world outside blurred. In the span of a blink, the city was gone—replaced by winding backroads, then dark woods thick with old magic. The shift was so sudden, so absolute, it made Luke’s stomach lurch.
Desperation clawed its way up his throat. “You can’t do this to me.”
Hermes didn’t respond.
The silence was unbearable.
Luke sat rigid in the passenger seat, his fists clenched in his lap, knuckles pale with strain. The gravel of Camp Half-Blood’s driveway crunched beneath the tires as the car came to a halt, but he didn’t move. He wouldn’t. His chest was tight with anger, his breath shallow and hot with panic. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to escape, to disappear into the shadows where no one could find him. He didn’t want to be here.
He couldn’t be here.
Hermes killed the engine beside him. A moment passed, thick and expectant, before the god stepped out and closed his door with deliberate calm. Luke watched him walk around the front of the car, the winged sandals whispering over the gravel. His heart beat faster. He pressed his back hard into the seat.
The door swung open.
“Luke,” Hermes said gently.
Luke just shook his head, sharp and desperate, and wedged himself deeper into the corner, knees pulled up to his chest like a shield. “No.”
Hermes crouched, reaching in slowly, like one might approach a wounded animal.
“No!” Luke jerked away, heart pounding, breath coming fast and shallow. The thing about time travel, about having this younger body—it wasn’t just the smaller size or the difference in strength. It was the loss of control. His emotions all surged with brutal immediacy. His thoughts more scattered. Everything felt too much.
Hermes’s hand touched his arm. That was the final spark.
“Fuck you!” Luke screamed. He lashed out with his foot, the heel catching Hermes squarely in the shoulder.
A hollow, awful silence rang out.
It was the kind of silence that makes the air feel wrong, like it’s curdled. The kind of silence that prickled against your skin and told you that you’d gone too far.
Luke froze, chest heaving, horror bleeding into his rage. His eyes darted past Hermes, towards the campers whose eyes he could feel on him. Watching. Curious. Startled. Definitely afraid.
Hermes didn’t react.
He just moved—quiet, deliberate—as he leaned in and unbuckled the seatbelt with a single flick of his wrist. Then, before Luke could scramble away again, Hermes reached in and hauled him out of the car with effortless strength.
Luke didn’t fight him this time. The adrenaline had burned through him, leaving only a hollow, aching numbness. His limbs hung loose, unresponsive, and his thoughts scattered like shattered glass.
Hermes lowered him to the ground with unsettling care.
Then the god’s hand lifted and he gripped Luke’s chin, fingers strangely warm as he forced Luke to look into his eyes.
“You’re lucky,” Hermes said, voice low and steady, “that I favor you so.”
Luke knew this was the moment he was supposed to drop his eyes, murmur apologies, scrape together some performative remorse. A proper mortal would beg.
But nothing in him bent.
Instead, his lip curled, the barest edge of a sneer rising before he could stop it. The words he wanted to say blistered behind his teeth—sharp, stupid, unforgivable things—and he only barely managed to keep them there.
Hermes stared at him in silence. And then, instead of fury, something else flickered in the god’s gaze. His mouth twitched, just slightly. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make Luke’s stomach twist with something he didn’t want to name.
Without a word, Hermes released his chin. His hand moved to the top of Luke’s head, ruffling his hair in a gesture so casual and familiar it felt like whiplash. As if none of this had happened. As if affection could be given so freely.
Then Hermes’ gaze shifted, his expression sharpening.
“Lord Hermes.”
That voice. It had been years, but Luke recognized it instantly.
Chiron.
Luke turned slowly, shoulders stiff, breath caught somewhere in his throat. First, his eyes found the centaur, dignified and unchanged. Then they moved to the half-bloods gathered beyond—campers frozen mid-task, some with mouths slightly open, others clutching weapons or supplies or each other, all of them staring.
The sky was dark above them, storm clouds gathering.
Hermes stepped forward, calm as ever.
“Chiron,” he said, his tone lined with a familiarity that stretched back centuries. “It’s been a while.”
The centaur inclined his head in greeting, eyes flicking from the god to the boy standing at his side.
Hermes turned slightly, his hand—now resting firmly on Luke’s shoulder—anchoring him in place. “This is my son, Luke Castellan,” he said, his voice louder now, enough to carry. “He’ll be staying at camp from now on.”
There was no gentleness in the declaration. No trace of uncertainty or request. Hermes didn’t ask.
He commanded.
“You will take care of him.”
The air hung still for a breath too long, but no one dared challenge the order. Not even Chiron, whose silence was as telling as any spoken word.
Then Hermes began to walk, and with him, Luke was guided forward—no longer dragged, no longer defiant, but simply moved like a piece on a board. The god’s hand stayed on his shoulder, gentle in pressure, immovable in intent.
They passed through the crowd like a storm parting a field.
Campers stepped aside instinctively, whispers passing in their wake like the rustling of leaves. Some starred at Hermes, others only gawked at the boy beside him, their eyes wide, confused, and filled with something Luke couldn’t bear to look at. Fear. Awe. Jealousy. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Cabin Eleven came into view, squat and familiar, the paint as faded as he remembered. Luke’s steps slowed involuntarily, but Hermes didn’t.
Luke dropped his gaze to the ground.
He didn’t want to see the others—not yet. Not the faces of those he used to call siblings, not the ones he’d left behind, or worse, led to their deaths. The guilt hung thick in his chest, a pressure that hadn’t eased since the moment he woke in this too-young, too-small body.
But it was unavoidable now.
Hermes stopped just inside the cabin. “This one is yours,” he said, nodding toward a lower bunk near the far wall.
Luke’s eyes flicked upward, just for a second—and immediately regretted it.
Liam sat only a few feet away, staring at him like he’d seen a ghost. Beside another bunk stood Noah, face unreadable, mouth pressed into a thin line. Andy—still unclaimed, still wide-eyed—was half-curled on a mattress, knuckles pale where they gripped the frame.
And then there were others. So many others. Children he remembered from a different life. Some who hadn’t survived the war. Others who had followed him into it blindly.
All of them watched him now.
He couldn’t breathe.
Hermes turned to him again, his hand lingering on Luke’s shoulder before he let it fall. “I’ll bring your things tomorrow,” he said, his tone softer now, like he thought he might coax some small response out of Luke. “Is there anything in particular I should pack? Or something you need?”
Luke said nothing.
He didn’t look at him. Didn’t move.
Silence thickened between them, slow and heavy. Hermes studied him for another moment, waiting—for what, Luke didn’t know. An answer? A flicker of gratitude? A sign that he hadn’t completely shattered inside?
Whatever it was, he didn’t get it.
Hermes exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a hum, then finally straightened. “All right,” he said at last.
Before Luke could step away, Hermes turned him gently but firmly to face him. His hands were steady, almost careful, as if handling something fragile.
“I know you’re not happy with me,” he murmured, and for a breath, he studied Luke’s face as though looking for something buried beneath the anger and silence. Then, as if coming to a decision, he leaned down.
His lips brushed Luke’s forehead.
It was too sudden. Too intimate. Luke didn’t have time to flinch before it was over, and yet the imprint of the kiss lingered like fire beneath his skin.
Warmth bloomed from the point of contact—first across his face, then down through his arms. A pulse, almost electric, lit up his veins. And then he felt it: a burning itch at his wrists.
He looked down.
Golden runes had appeared, circling his wrists like glowing shackles. The symbols shimmered faintly in the dim light, as if alive.
Luke jerked back, eyes wide. “What the hell did you do?”
Hermes met his gaze, unflinching. “You are not to leave camp,” he said, his voice now hard, all gentleness gone. “This is a simple safeguard. Now you can’t cross the borders.”
The words hit like ice water. Safeguard. The way someone might describe a leash on a dangerous animal.
Luke’s stomach twisted. The warmth that had settled under his skin curdled, turned jagged. Rage surged up, fast and searing. It cut through the fog of panic, the cold dread, the guilt clinging to his ribs like rot. All that was left was the heat of betrayal.
His jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists. “What am I?” he demanded. “Your prisoner?”
Hermes didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at him—calm, composed, as if Luke’s fury were expected. Accepted. Like a tantrum from a child who didn’t understand the rules of the world he lived in.
That made it worse. It made Luke want to scream.
Instead, he spun away, stalking toward the bed Hermes had pointed out earlier. Every step was an effort not to turn around and hit something. Or scream. Or fall apart.
He needed distance. He needed oxygen. He needed to not see that goddamn face.
Behind him, feathers stirred—soft and deliberate. The sound of wings fluttering at the god’s heels. Hermes was about to leave.
“I really fucking hate you,” Luke said, his voice low, acid-laced, meant to wound.
There was a beat of silence behind him. Then—
“I know,” Hermes said.
Just that. Quiet. Unshaken. A truth acknowledged without defense or apology.
And somehow, that made it worse. Like the god had taken the blow without even bleeding. Like Luke hadn’t landed a hit at all.
It felt, unmistakably, like losing.
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Dionysus took a slow sip of his Diet Coke, the soda hissing softly in the morning stillness. His gaze, sharp beneath the droop of his lashes, settled on the boy seated at the far end of the Hermes table.
Luke Castellan.
Hermes couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d carved mine into the child’s forehead with a knife.
Dionysus watched the way the other demigods gave the boy space—not out of reverence, no, but the way one might avoid touching a live wire. Even the younger campers, the ones too new to understand, could feel it.
Something was wrong with the air around him. Off. Charged.
Gold shimmered faintly at the boy’s temple, curling like molten script down the contours of his face—less a glow, more a whisper of something divine etched into mortal skin. It pulsed not with light, but with intent.
But it wasn’t the glow that held Dionysus’s attention. Not really.
Hermes’ favor practically dripped off the boy, thick as honey and just as cloying. It clung to him like perfume, sweet and sharp and impossible to ignore. Not merely affection, no. This was something older, heavier. It pulsed with resolve, laced through the air like threads of golden wire, binding the boy to his father.
He could feel it, even from across the pavilion. Divine attention wrapped around the child like a second skin—possessive, territorial. A claim, unmistakable. And beneath that claim, a warning, clear as day: Stay away. This one is mine.
Dionysus let his gaze drift away, slow and deliberate. The morning sun caught on the rim of his can, scattering fractured light across the table. He took another drink, the soda fizzing like static on his tongue
He didn’t need prophecy to know.
This was going to be trouble.