Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: The First Night of the Rest of His Life

New York City pulsed beneath a bruised autumn sky, its rhythm a clash of honking taxis, grinding subways, and the ceaseless murmur of countless lives intertwined. In Times Square, neon signs blazed, bathing crowded sidewalks in electric hues where vendors shouted over the wind, peddling hot dogs and pretzels. The Hudson River cut through Manhattan like a snake, reflecting the sharp glow of skyscrapers that stabbed at the clouds. Upper Manhattan, grittier and worn, carried the scent of asphalt, stale beer, and garbage heaped in shadowed alleys. Worn-down apartment buildings huddled close, their chipped facades and glowing windows leaking snippets of arguments and fleeting laughter into the night.

And on top of a rooftop, eight-year-old Percy Jackson sat perched, legs swinging over the edge, a crumpled pack of stolen Skittles clutched in his hand. Up there, the city’s chaos faded, muffled by the wind that drowned out the sounds from his apartment below—Gabe’s slurred bellows, and his mother’s complaining. The wind tugged at his black hair, carrying the faint tang of the river and the distant wail of a siren. He tore open the Skittles, the crinkle of the wrapper lost in the city’s sound, and popped a red one into his mouth. The sweetness was sharp, a small rebellion against the sourness of everything else. From the rooftop, he could see the skyline stretching out, a maze of steel and glass that felt both impossibly vast and suffocatingly close. He liked it up here, where the world seemed to pause, giving him room to breathe.

Below, a yellow taxi screeched to a stop, its driver leaning out to yell at a pedestrian who didn’t even flinch. Percy smirked. New Yorkers were built differently—hard-edged, like the city itself, but alive in a way that made his heart thump. He dangled one sneaker over the edge, the rubber sole scuffed from too many sprints through crowded streets. Well, not sprints, more like desperately running away from the store clerk with a handful of stolen food in his hands. The candy he was currently eating a testament to that. 

He leaned back on his palms, the rooftop’s gravel biting into his skin, and tilted his head to watch a flock of pigeons scatter against the purple sky. His eyes drifted to the horizon, where the Empire State Building stood like a sentinel, its spire piercing the clouds. He wondered, not for the first time, what it’d be like to climb it, to stand at the very top and look down at the city sprawled out like a map of his own messy life. The thought made his stomach twist—not with fear, but with a restless itch he could never quite scratch. School was a bust; the teachers called him trouble, and the other kids kept their distance, like he was a storm they didn’t want to get caught in. Maybe he was. 

The wind picked up, carrying a faint metallic scent, like rain was coming. Percy stuffed the Skittles into his pocket and pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. His mom’s voice echoed in his head— “Why can’t you be normal? Just be normal for one fucking day.”

Those words stung worse than the autumn chill creeping through his thin jacket. He squeezed his knees tighter, his knuckles whitening against the denim. Normal. The word felt like a stone in his gut, heavy and wrong. He wasn’t normal—never had been. Not with the way he saw things others didn’t, like the shadows that sometimes moved when they shouldn’t, or the way his temper flared like a match struck against pavement. He’d tried to tell his mom once, about the things he saw, the way the world sometimes felt…wrong. That was the only word he could describe the weirdness in his life. But she would just look at him with tired yet knowing eyes, her mouth a thin line, and tell him that it was his fault that all those weird things were happening to him. So he stopped talking about it.

Below, the city churned on. A streetlight flickered on, casting a yellow glow over a bodega’s graffiti-tagged shutter. Someone shouted in Spanish, their voice swallowed by the rumble of a passing delivery truck. Percy’s gaze drifted back to the Empire State Building, its spire now catching the last light of the sun before it dipped below the horizon. He imagined himself up there, wind screaming in his ears, the city small and conquerable beneath him. Up there, maybe he wouldn’t feel like a screw-up, like the kid who couldn’t sit still, who got kicked out of three schools in two years. Up there, maybe he could be something else. Something…better. 

A sharp creak broke his thoughts. The rooftop door behind him groaned open, and he tensed, his hand instinctively closing around the Skittles in his pocket like he was guarding a secret. Heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel, and he didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Gabe’s stench—sweat, cheap cologne, and the sour reek of beer—hit him before the man’s shadow loomed over him. 

“Get your ass back downstairs,” Gabe slurred, reaching for a cigarette from his pocket. “Your mom and I are done fucking and I need you for a beer-run.”

Percy didn’t move right away. He kept his eyes on the skyline, the Empire State Building’s spire now a faint glow against the darkening sky, as if he could will himself into staying up here forever. The gravel crunched again under heavy boots, and his shoulders stiffened. He hated the way Gabe’s voice slithered into his ears, oily and mean, like it was trying to crawl inside him.

“You deaf or just stupid?” The older man snapped, his shadow shifting closer. The flick of a lighter followed, and the acrid smell of cigarette smoke curled into the air, mixing with the city’s metallic tang. “I said, get downstairs. Don’t make me drag you.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging into the denim of his jeans. He wanted to snap back, to tell Gabe to shove it, but the words stuck in his throat like a wad of gum. He’d learned the hard way that talking back only made things worse—bruises faded, but the humiliation lingered. Instead, he slid his legs back from the ledge, the gravel scraping under his sneakers as he stood. He kept his head down, black hair falling into his eyes, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, the crumpled Skittles wrapper crinkling against his palm.

Gabe snorted, blowing a cloud of smoke that drifted into Percy’s face. “Pathetic. Can’t even look me in the eye like a man. I wonder who your father was. Must’ve been a coward judging by the son he had.”

His fists clenched in his pockets, the Skittles wrapper crumpling further under his grip. The jab about his father stung like a fresh cut, slicing through the thin armor he’d built up over years of Gabe’s bullshit. He didn’t know much about his dad—never met him, never even seen a picture. Just his mother’s drunken rants about how she missed him, how she loved him, and how he left her here with an unwanted son. Gabe never let him forget it, always ready to twist the knife, calling him a bastard or worse. Percy bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood, and forced himself to stay quiet. Talking back was like poking a rabid dog—pointless and dangerous.

“Move it,” Gabe barked, taking a drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing like a tiny, angry eye in the dimming light. He turned back toward the rooftop door, his boots grinding gravel into dust, expecting Percy to follow like some obedient mutt.

But the boy lingered for a second, his eyes flicking back to the Empire State Building, its spire now a faint silver needle against the night sky. He imagined himself up there again, high above the city, above Gabe’s stench and his mom’s tired sighs. Up there, maybe he could be untouchable. But the fantasy dissolved as Gabe’s heavy steps paused, and Percy felt the weight of his glare without even looking.

“Now, kid!” The man growled, laced with the promise of trouble if he didn’t comply.

With a sharp exhale, Percy turned and trudged toward the door, his sneakers dragging. The wind tugged at his jacket one last time, like it was trying to pull him back, but he stepped through the doorway into the dim, flickering stairwell. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of mildew and cigarette butts ground into the steps. Gabe’s shadow loomed ahead, his bulky frame blocking most of the light as they descended.

The stairwell echoed with the distant thump of music from one of the apartments below, a bassline that vibrated through the walls. Percy’s mind drifted, trying to block out Gabe’s muttering about “lazy kids” and “wasting my damn time.” He thought about the Skittles in his pocket, the small act of defiance that felt like a lifeline. He’d stolen them from the bodega on the corner, slipping them into his jacket while the clerk was distracted by a loud phone call. It wasn’t about the candy, not really. It was about taking something back, even if it was some of the only food he would eat tonight. 

They reached the apartment door, its chipped green paint peeling like old skin. Gabe shoved it open, the hinges squealing, and the familiar chaos of their home spilled out: the TV blaring some game show, dishes piled in the sink, and the smell of sweat and cigarettes lingering in the air. His mom was on the couch, seemingly passed out drunk, judging by the empty beer cans sprawled beneath her. 

Percy hesitated at the threshold, his sneakers scuffing the worn linoleum as the apartment’s stale air hit him like a wall. The TV’s garish light flickered across his mom’s face, her head tilted back against the sagging couch, mouth slightly open. Gabe lumbered past, tossing his cigarette butt onto the cluttered coffee table, where it smoldered briefly before he crushed it with a meaty hand.

“Beer’s not gonna buy itself,” he muttered, not looking at Percy as he flopped into a recliner that groaned under his weight. He grabbed the remote, cranking the TV volume until the game show host’s fake cheer drowned out the city’s hum filtering through the cracked window. “You got five bucks in that ratty pocket of yours, or am I gotta shake you down for it?”

Percy’s fingers tightened around the Skittles wrapper, the crinkle barely audible over the TV’s noise. He didn’t have five bucks—barely had fifty cents, scraped from under the couch cushions last week. His eyes flicked to his mom, hoping for a sign she’d stir, say something, anything to shift Gabe’s focus. But she didn’t move, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The sight twisted something in his gut, a mix of anger and helplessness that burned hotter than any taunt.

“I don’t have any money,” he said softly, the words barely carrying over the TV. He kept his eyes on the floor, on a stain shaped like a lopsided star, avoiding the man’s gaze.

Gabe snorted, leaning forward, the recliner creaking. “Useless. Just like your old man, huh? Bet he’s out there somewhere, dodging child support and leaving me to deal with your sorry ass.” He stood, his shadow swallowing the dim light from the flickering bulb overhead. “Go get my beer. Figure it out. Steal it, beg for it, I don’t care. Just don’t come back without it.”

Percy’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding so hard his head ached. He wanted to swing, to feel his fist connect with Gabe’s smug face, but he was only eight. Small, scrawny, no match for the man’s bulk. Instead, he turned toward the door, his sneakers squeaking against the floor. The Empire State Building’s image lingered in his mind, a sharp, unreachable dream that made the apartment feel even smaller, the walls closing in like a trap.

Outside, the hallway smelled of grease and something faintly sour, like spilled milk left to rot. Percy shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. The stairwell was quieter now, the music from earlier faded, replaced by the distant wail of a siren slicing through the night. He took the steps two at a time, his breath hitching as he pushed open the building’s heavy front door and stepped back into the city’s pulse.

The street was alive, a chaotic symphony of honking horns, shouted conversations, and the rhythmic clatter of a loose manhole cover under passing tires. The bodega on the corner glowed under a buzzing neon sign, its graffiti-tagged shutter rattling as a gust of wind swept through. His stomach growled, the Skittles long gone, their sweetness a fleeting memory. Stealing beer was trickier than candy—bottles clinked, clerks watched closer—but he’d done it before. Not because he wanted to, but because Gabe’s threats weren’t empty, and his mom’s silence hurt worse than any bruise.

He lingered across the street, leaning against a lamppost, its light casting shadows that danced across the cracked sidewalk. The bodega clerk, a wiry guy with a faded Yankees cap, was distracted, ringing up a customer buying a pack of smokes. Percy’s eyes scanned the street, clocking the rhythm of the crowd—tourists snapping photos, a delivery guy weaving through on a bike, a woman arguing into her phone. He could slip in, grab a six-pack from the cooler in the back, and be out before the clerk noticed. Maybe. His heart thudded, not from fear but from that restless itch again, the one that made him feel like he was teetering on the edge of something bigger than himself.

As he stepped off the curb, he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder pull him back just in time before a car rushed past right where he’d just been. His heart lurched, and he spun around, expecting Gabe or a policeman. Instead, he met the eyes of a stranger, a tall man with green eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim streetlight. His grip was firm but not harsh, his weathered face lined with something like concern or recognition. Percy’s breath hitched. There was something off about him, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The man wore a long, tattered coat that smelled of salt and storm winds, his dark hair streaked with grey and tied back in a loose knot. His presence was overwhelming, like standing too close to the ocean and feeling the sheer, untamed power of it.

"You should watch where you're going, boy," the man rumbled, his voice deep and resonant, carrying an accent Percy couldn’t place.

Percy yanked his shoulder back, bristling. "I was fine," he muttered, though his pulse was still racing from the near-miss.

The stranger studied him for a long moment, his gaze piercing, as if he could see right through him. Then, something shifted in his expression, a flicker of sadness, then regret. "You don’t belong here," he said finally, more to himself than to the kid.

Percy frowned, his instincts sparking like static before a storm. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. The man didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked past Percy, out toward the skyline, where the Empire State Building gleamed like a blade under the moonlight. For a second, the world seemed to slow around them—the cars, the voices, even the wind. Like time itself held its breath.

“You’ll understand soon,” the man said, finally. His eyes flicked back to Percy knowingly, and there was a weight to his gaze that made Percy’s skin prickle, like he was being seen for the first time, not as a screw-up kid or Gabe’s punching bag, but as something more. Something bigger. His frown deepened, his fingers twitching in his pockets, still clutching the crumpled Skittles wrapper like a talisman. He wanted to snap back, to demand what the hell the guy was talking about, but something in those green eyes—sharp, ancient, like they’d seen storms Percy couldn’t even imagine—kept his mouth shut. The man’s gaze flicked back to the Empire State Building, its spire a distant beacon against the bruised sky, and Percy followed his line of sight, feeling that restless itch flare hotter in his chest.

“Who are you?” He finally asked, the words sharper than he meant them to be. He took a half-step back, sneakers scuffing the pavement, ready to bolt if this got weird. Weirder, anyway. The street’s chaos churned around them—horns blaring, a group of teens laughing too loud as they spilled out of a pizza joint—but it felt distant, like the world was holding its breath again.

The man didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head, studying Percy like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “Someone who knows what it’s like to not fit,” he said at last, his voice almost lost in the city’s hum. “You feel it, don’t you? Like you’re a stranger in your own skin.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. The words hit too close, slicing through the walls he’d built to keep things like that out. He thought of the shadows that moved when they shouldn’t, the way his temper sparked like a frayed wire, the dreams that left him waking in a cold sweat, tasting salt and hearing waves crashing somewhere far away. He opened his mouth to deny it, to tell this guy to get lost, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he muttered, “You don’t know me.”

The stranger’s lips quirked, not quite a smile, more like he’d heard that line before and didn’t buy it. “Maybe not. But I know what’s coming for you, Perseus Jackson.”

The boy froze, his heart quickening. “How do you know my name?” His voice cracked, betraying the bravado he was trying to hold onto. His eyes darted to the bodega, then back to the man, calculating how fast he could run if this guy turned out to be some kind of creep. But the stranger didn’t move closer, didn’t reach for him. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, the tattered coat flapping slightly in the wind.

“There’s a lot you don’t know yet,” the man said, his tone softer now, almost gentle. “But you will. Soon. The world’s bigger than this city, son. Bigger than you can imagine. And you’re part of it, whether you want to be or not.”

Percy’s heart thudded against his ribs, a mix of fear and something else, something that felt like the spark before a fight. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, his fists clenching. “Stop talking in riddles. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

The man’s eyes flickered, like a storm rolling in over the ocean. He glanced up at the sky, where clouds were gathering, thick and heavy with the promise of rain. “Promise me that whatever happens, whatever might scare you, you won’t run. Promise me you’ll stand and fight.” 

Percy wanted to laugh, to call this guy crazy and walk away, but the sincerity in his tone, the way the air seemed to hum around him, kept him rooted to the spot. The stranger reached into his coat, and Percy tensed, expecting a weapon or worse. Instead, the man pulled out a small, weathered object—a ring, glinting cold in the streetlight’s glow. He pressed it into Percy’s hand, his grip warm and calloused.

“Keep this close,” the man said. “You’ll need it when the time comes to fight.”

Percy stared at the ring in his palm, its weight heavier than it should’ve been for something so small. The metal was cool, etched with faint, swirling patterns that seemed to shift when he tilted it, like waves caught in a current. He curled his fingers around it, the edges biting into his skin, and looked up to ask—what? He didn’t even know. But the stranger was already stepping back, his tattered coat blending into the shadows of the alley across the street. The city’s pulse roared back to life around—horns blaring, a dog barking, the bodega’s neon sign buzzing like an angry wasp—but the man’s presence lingered, heavy like the storm clouds rolling in.

“Wait!” Percy called out over the noise. He took a step forward, the ring clutched tight, but the stranger didn’t turn. He moved with purpose, like the city itself parted for him, and in a blink, he was gone, swallowed by the alley’s mouth. Percy stood frozen, his breath puffing in the chilly air, the ring a cold anchor in his hand. His mind raced, replaying the man’s words: You’re part of it, whether you want to be or not. Part of what? And how did he know his name?

The first drops of rain splattered the pavement, fat and heavy, pulling him back to the moment. He shoved the ring into his pocket, next to the crumpled Skittles wrapper, and glanced at the bodega. Gabe’s beer. Right. The whole reason he was out here, risking his neck for a six-pack he didn’t even want. His stomach churned, but the stranger’s words clung to him, louder than Gabe’s threats or his mom’s silence. Stand and fight. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sparked something in him, a flicker of defiance, like the candy he’d stolen, small but his.

He crossed the street quickly, dodging a cyclist who swore as he swerved. The bodega’s bell jingled as he pushed through the door, the air inside thick with the smell of stale coffee and cleaning spray. The clerk, still in his faded Yankees cap, was flipping through a magazine, barely glancing up. Percy kept his head down, his sneakers silent on the sticky floor as he moved toward the coolers in the back. His heart thudded, not just from the risk of stealing but from the ring burning a hole in his pocket, from the stranger’s green eyes that had seen too much.

The cooler’s hum vibrated through his fingertips as he opened the door, the cold air washing over him. He scanned the shelves—Budweiser, Corona, some craft stuff Gabe wouldn’t touch. His hand hovered over a six-pack of Miller Lite, his usual poison. He could grab it, slip it under his jacket, and be out in under a minute if the clerk stayed distracted. But his mind kept drifting to the ring, to the man’s words, to the way the air had felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

He grabbed the six-pack, the bottles clinking softly, and tucked it under his arm, pulling his jacket over it. The clerk didn’t look up, too engrossed in an article about the Yankees’ losing streak. Percy’s pulse raced as he moved toward the door, each step deliberate, his senses sharp. He was almost there when the bell jingled again, and a cop stepped inside, his radio crackling with static. He froze, his breath catching. The cop’s eyes flicked over him, casual but assessing, like he could smell trouble.

“Hey, kid,” the cop said. “Kinda late for you to be out, isn’t it?”

Percy forced a shrug, doing his best to hide the bottles behind his back. Something about this guy was wrong the more he looked at him. For some reason, a shiver went down his spine that had nothing to do with the autumn chill seeping through the open door. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the officer’s face, and for a split second, Percy swore he saw something flicker in the man’s eyes—something not human. They glinted like polished obsidian, too sharp, too deep, like twin voids swallowing the light. His uniform was standard NYPD—navy blue, badge gleaming—but it hung wrong, too tight across his shoulders, like it was stretched over something that didn’t quite fit inside it.

Percy’s grip tightened on the six-pack, the cold glass biting into his skin. He forced his face to stay neutral, though his heart was hammering so loudly he was sure the cop could hear it. “Just grabbing something for my mom,” he lied, making sure his body language didn’t betray him. He shifted his weight, inching toward the door, hoping the clerk would stay buried in his magazine and not rat him out.

The cop didn’t move, but his head tilted slightly, like a predator sizing up prey. The radio on his shoulder crackled again, spitting garbled words that didn’t sound like any police code Percy had ever heard on TV, more like a low, guttural chant, layered with static. His skin prickled, that restless itch in his chest flaring hotter, sharper, like a warning he couldn’t quite parse.

Something for your mom, huh?” the cop replied, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach those eerie eyes. His teeth looked wrong—too many, too sharp, glinting like they’d been filed to points. “Funny, you don’t look like you’re carrying groceries.” He took a step forward, his boots thudding on the sticky linoleum, and Percy caught a whiff of something foul, like rotting meat mixed with burnt rubber. It wasn’t a smell that belonged in a bodega, or anywhere in the city, for that matter.

Percy’s mind raced, the stranger’s words echoing in his head: Stand and fight. The ring in his pocket felt heavier now, almost pulsing against his thigh, like it was alive. He didn’t know what it was, didn’t know what the cop was either, but every instinct screamed that this wasn’t just a nosy officer. This was something else, something wrong, like the shadows he’d seen moving in alleys, the ones his mom told him were just his imagination.

“I gotta start heading home,” Percy said, forcing a casual tone as he took a step back, the bottles clinking softly under his jacket. “You know, curfew and all.” He flashed a tight grin, hoping it looked convincing, but the cop’s smile widened, splitting his face in a way that made his stomach lurch. The man’s skin seemed to ripple for a moment, like something was shifting underneath, straining against the human mask.

The clerk finally glanced up from his magazine, frowning. “Yo, everything okay over there?” he called out, eyeing the two. The question snapped the tension like a brittle twig, pulling Percy’s attention for a split second. The cop or whatever it was didn’t flinch, his obsidian eyes still boring into him, that unnatural smile stretching wider. The clerk’s gaze darted between them, his frown deepening as he set the magazine down and leaned over the counter.

“Hey, kid,” the clerk said, his words tinged with suspicion. “You paying for that or what?” His eyes flicked to the bulge under Percy’s jacket, where the bottles were poorly hidden, their outlines clear against the thin fabric.

His heart lurched. Busted. The clerk’s stare was heavy, but it was nothing compared to the cop’s presence, which felt like it was pressing down on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. The ring in his pocket burned hotter, a strange, tingling warmth spreading through his fingers, urging him to move, to do something. Stand and fight , the voice echoed again, low and urgent, like a tide pulling him toward action.

“I-uh, forgot my wallet,” Percy stammered, taking another step back, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. The cop’s head tilted further, unnaturally far, like a puppet with loose strings, and Percy’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know what this thing was, but it wasn’t human. The clerk’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped out from behind the counter, his wiry frame tense.

“You don’t got a wallet, you don’t get to walk out with my beer,” he snapped, pointing a finger at Percy. “Put it back, or I’ll get this guy to put you in cuffs.” He glanced at the officer, expecting him to agree, but the guy didn’t even blink, his gaze still locked on Percy like a heat-seeking missile.

The air in the bodega thickened, heavy with the stench of rotting meat and that burnt-rubber tang rolling off the cop. The radio crackled again, spitting out a guttural snarl that sounded less like words and more like something clawing its way out of hell. Percy’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the city’s hum filtering through the open door. He could feel the ring in his pocket burning with the desire to fight even as his mind screamed to run.

“Last chance, kid.” The clerk took another step forward. “Drop the beer.”

Percy’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to the cop, whose smile had grown impossibly wide, splitting his face into something grotesque, like a mask cracking open. The thing’s teeth glinted sharper now, rows of jagged points that no human mouth could hold. His instincts screamed, his body moving before his brain caught up. He let the six-pack slip from under his jacket, the bottles crashing to the floor in a shatter of glass and fizzing beer. The clerk shouted, lunging forward, but Percy was already moving, bolting for the door.

“Stop him!” the clerk yelled, but the cop didn’t budge. Instead, it let out a laugh that vibrated through the floor, chilling Percy to his core. He didn’t look back, didn’t dare. His sneakers pounded the linoleum, slipping slightly in the spreading pool of beer as he shoved through the door, the bell jingling wildly.

The cold night air hit him like a slap, the city’s noise roaring back to life. He sprinted across the street, dodging a taxi that swerved with a screech of tires, its driver cursing through the open window. His breath came in sharp gasps, his heart hammering as he ducked into an alley, the shadows swallowing him whole. The ring in his pocket bounced against his thigh, its strange warmth pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

He pressed himself against the damp brick wall, chest heaving, and risked a glance back toward the bodega. The clerk was at the door, shouting into the street, but the cop, or whatever it was, hadn’t followed. Its silhouette loomed in the doorway, unmoving, those black eyes glinting under the neon sign. Percy’s skin crawled. He didn’t know what that thing was, but it wasn’t after the beer. It was after him.

The alley smelled of garbage and wet concrete, the rain now falling in a steady drizzle, slicking his hair to his forehead. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the ring the stranger had given him. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, its swirling patterns seeming to shift, like waves caught in metal. Stand and fight. The words burned in his mind, but fight what? That thing in the bodega? Gabe? The whole damn city? His fingers closed around the ring, its edges biting into his palm as he tried to steady his breathing. His gut churned with the same restless itch he’d felt on the rooftop, only now it was sharper, like a hook tugging him toward something he couldn’t see.

He shoved the ring back into his pocket and glanced toward the alley’s mouth. The bodega’s neon sign flickered across the street, but the cop’s silhouette was gone. The clerk was still there, pacing and muttering. His heart sank. He couldn’t go back to the apartment empty-handed. Gabe would make him pay for it, one way or another. But the thought of facing that thing again, with its too-many teeth and void-black eyes, made his skin crawl worse than any of Gabe’s threats.

He pushed off the wall, his sneakers splashing through a puddle as he moved deeper into the alley, away from the bodega’s glow. The city’s pulse felt different here, muted, like the shadows were swallowing sound itself. The rain stung his face, cold and relentless, but it sharpened his senses, washing away the fog of panic. He needed to get home, figure out what to do about Gabe, and maybe, just maybe, make sense of the stranger and the ring. 

Percy moved cautiously through the alley, his sneakers splashing in shallow puddles that reflected the faint glow of distant streetlights. His breath puffed out in small clouds, his heart still racing from the encounter in the bodega. The ring in his pocket felt like a live wire, its warmth seeping into his thigh, urging him to keep moving, to stay alert. He didn’t know what it was, but it was no ordinary trinket—not with the way it seemed to hum, like it was whispering secrets he wasn’t ready to hear.

The alley soon opened onto a quieter street, lined with sagging brownstones and overflowing dumpsters. A stray cat darted across his path, its eyes glinting like coins before it vanished into the shadows. Percy slowed, his gaze sweeping the street for any sign of the cop. The memory of those teeth and bottomless eyes sent a shiver down his spine, colder than the rain soaking through his jacket. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was still out there, watching, waiting.

He turned toward his apartment building, its chipped facade looming at the end of the block, mostly hidden from view. The windows glowed with the sickly yellow light of cheap bulbs, and he could already imagine Gabe’s bulk filling the doorway, his slurred voice demanding the beer he didn’t have. As he approached the building’s entrance, the ring’s warmth pulsed again, sharper this time, like a warning. He froze, his hand halfway to the door’s rusted handle. His eyes darted to the shadows across the street, where a streetlight flickered, casting slideshows of light. Something moved—a shape, too tall, too fluid, slipping between the shadows like oil. His heart thudded, the ring burning against his thigh. Was it the cop? Or something worse?

His breath hitched, his hand still hovering over the door handle. The rain stung his face, blurring his vision, but he could feel those obsidian eyes from the bodega, or ones just like them, boring into him from the dark. The ring in his pocket pulsed again, a sharp jolt that made his fingers twitch. It wasn’t just warm now—it felt alive, thrumming in time with his racing pulse, like it was trying to tell him something.

Stand and fight 

He didn’t listen. 

Instead, he turned and bolted into the apartment, his sneakers pounding up the stairwell, the echo of his steps drowning out the rain’s steady patter against the roof. His breath came in sharp gasps, the ring in his pocket still searing against his thigh like a brand. The stairwell reeked of mildew and cigarette butts, the flickering bulb overhead casting shadows that seemed to claw at him as he fumbled with the door handle. His hands shook, slick with rain and sweat, as he pushed the chipped green door open, slipping inside as quietly as he could. 

The apartment was a haze of stale beer and cigarette smoke, the TV still blaring its game show nonsense, the host’s fake laugh grating against Percy’s frayed nerves. Gabe was sprawled in the recliner, his head lolling back, mouth open, a half-empty beer can dangling from his meaty fingers. Passed out. Thank God. On the couch, his mom lay slumped, her breathing shallow, surrounded by even more empty cans that glinted dully in the TV’s flickering light.

He eased the door shut, wincing as the hinges gave a faint squeak. The last thing he needed was Gabe waking up, demanding the beer he hadn’t managed to steal. His heart still hammered from the earlier events, but he ignored it, creeping past his parents toward the narrow hallway that led to his room.

The floorboards creaked under his feet, each sound like a gunshot in the quiet. He froze, glancing back at Gabe, but the man didn’t stir, his snores rattling like a broken engine. Sally shifted slightly on the couch, murmuring something incoherent, her hand twitching toward an empty can before falling limp. He quickly slipped from the hallway and into his room. His room, if you could even call it that, was just a cramped corner with a sagging mattress, a chipped nightstand, and a single window that overlooked the alley. The walls were bare except for the holes Gabe punched through when he beat him in a drunken stupor. 

He didn’t let out a sigh of relief until he managed to lock the door behind him, the flimsy bolt barely holding. He leaned against the door, closing his eyes. The room was cold, the window rattling in its frame as the rain outside turned into a full-blown downpour, hammering the glass like it wanted in. He walked over to his mattress, his sneakers squelching on the warped floorboards, and sank onto the thin bed, its springs groaning under his weight. The ring in his pocket pressed against his thigh, still warm, still pulsing like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. He pulled it out, holding it up to the faint glow seeping through the window from a streetlight outside. The metal gleamed, its swirling patterns catching the light in a way that made them seem to move, like currents twisting beneath the surface of a dark sea. He turned it over in his fingers, the edges smooth but heavy, as if it carried the weight of something ancient.

His mind churned, replaying the night. He wanted to chuck the ring across the room, to pretend none of it had happened, but his fingers wouldn’t let go. It felt like it belonged in his hand, like it had always been there, waiting. He clenched his fist around it, the metal biting into his palm, and tried to make sense of the stranger’s warning. You’re part of it, whether you want to be or not. Part of what? The shadows that moved wrong? The things he saw that no one else did? The restless itch that burned in his chest, urging him to run, to fight, to do something?

A crack of thunder rattled the window, making him jump. The rain was a torrent, drumming against the glass, blurring the alley outside into a mess of shadows and smeared light. Feeling restless, he paced the small room, his shoes leaving wet prints on the floor. He stopped at the window, peering out through the streaks of rain. The alley was empty, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, like those obsidian eyes were still out there, lurking just beyond the streetlight’s reach.

He thought about his mom, passed out on the couch, her tired eyes and slurred words echoing in his head. Why can’t you be normal? The memory hurt more than Gabe’s insults because it came from her. Were mothers not supposed to care for their sons? Love them? Reassure them? He wondered if she’d ever noticed the way he flinched at shadows, the way he’d wake up gasping from dreams of crashing waves and voices calling his name from the deep. He’d stopped telling her about them years ago, after she’d looked at him like he was broken

Another rumble of thunder shook the room, and the streetlight outside flickered, plunging the alley into darkness for a heartbeat. When it flared back on, Percy’s breath caught. A figure stood at the mouth of the alley, half-hidden by the downpour. It was too tall, too still, its silhouette wrong in a way that made his skin crawl. He squinted through the rain-smeared glass, trying to make out details, but the figure was just a smear of shadow, its head tilted like it was staring right at him.

Then, when the next flash of lightning came, it was gone, as if it had dissolved into the rain. Percy’s heart thudded, his breath fogging the cold glass as he pressed closer, searching the alley for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the relentless downpour and the flickering streetlight, casting dancing shadows.

He stood frozen, his breath still fogging the glass, eyes locked on the spot where the shadowed figure had been. The street was empty now, just wet concrete and overflowing dumpsters glinting under the stuttering streetlight, but the prickling on his neck told him he wasn’t alone. It was out there, waiting. He backed away from the window, his sneakers squeaking on the damp floorboards. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in, the air thick with the musty scent of old plaster. 

He kept the ring clutched in his palm, finding the warmth somewhat comforting, and sank back onto the mattress. His heart still raced, the image of that shadowed figure burned into his mind, but exhaustion from the day’s events was winning. The rain’s relentless drumming against the window was almost soothing now, a steady rhythm that lulled his frayed nerves. He pulled the blanket over himself, curling into a ball, his knees tucked to his chest. His eyelids drooped, the last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was the faint glow of the streetlight through the rain-smeared window, flickering like a dying star.

He dreamt of standing on a cliff above an ocean, the water below a writhing beast, its foam-flecked waves clawing at the rocks. The horizon pulsed with flashes of lightning, each bolt tearing the sky apart, illuminating the water in stark whites and silvers. He felt the pull of the ocean, not just in his ears but in his bones, a current tugging at something deep inside him, urging him to dive in, to let it swallow him whole. The wind howled, carrying whispers that weren’t quite words, though he could’ve sworn some of them were saying his name. He took a step closer to the edge, pebbles skittering into the abyss below. The water called to him, not with sound but with a feeling, like it knew him, like it had always known him. Another flash of lightning split the sky, and for a moment, he saw shapes in the waves—faces twisting and vanishing before he could make sense of them. His heart pounded, not with fear but with that same restless itch, now a fire in his veins.

Then the scene shifted, the ocean’s roar giving way to a new sound: the rhythmic thud of boots on stone. Percy blinked, and the cliff was gone. He now stood in a wide, shadowed plain, the ground cracked and dry, like a battlefield scorched by some ancient war. The air was thick with dust, and the sky above was a dull, lifeless gray, no stars, no moon. The marching grew louder, a relentless cadence that vibrated through his soles, through his chest. He turned, and there they were—soldiers, rows upon rows, their armor gleaming faintly in the gloom. Their helmets were strange, not modern but ancient, crested with plumes that swayed like dark flames. Their faces were hidden, but their eyes glowed faintly, pinpricks of light that locked onto him with unnerving focus.

His heart skipped a beat at the sight. He wanted to run, but his feet felt rooted to the ground. The soldiers didn’t speak, didn’t break formation, but their march felt like a warning, a promise of something coming. The ground trembled beneath their synchronized steps, and in the distance, he saw a banner rise, its symbol obscured by the dust but pulsing with a power that made his skin crawl. The air grew colder, the dust stinging his eyes, and the soldiers’ gazes seemed to bore into him, not with malice but with expectation, like they were waiting for him to do something, to be something.

He felt a burning sensation around his right ring finger, the feeling almost painful. He looked down, expecting to see the ring the strange man had given him, but instead found himself holding a golden sword. Before he could examine it further, the scene shifted again, jarringly, like a film reel skipping. The plain dissolved, and Percy found himself standing in a city unlike any he’d ever seen. The air was warm, golden, filled with the scent of olive trees and sun-baked stone. Towering marble columns rose around him, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns. Buildings gleamed white and gold, their roofs tiled in shimmering blue, reflecting a sky so clear it hurt to look at.

The city felt alive, its pulse thrumming in his chest like a second heartbeat. He stood in the middle of a bustling street, his shoes out of place against the smooth, polished cobblestones. People flowed around him, their voices a melodic hum, speaking a language he didn’t know but somehow understood—snippets of laughter, bartering, prayers. Their tunics shimmered in shades of white, blue, and gold, catching the sunlight that poured down like liquid fire. No one seemed to notice him, their eyes sliding past as if he were a ghost, but he felt as if the city itself was watching him.

In his hand, the golden sword gleamed, its blade impossibly sharp, reflecting the faces of passersby in its polished surface. It was heavier than it looked, but it fit his grip like it had been forged for him. He turned it over, half-expecting it to vanish like the cliff or the battlefield, but it stayed solid, tethering him to this strange place. His eyes drifted upward to a towering temple on a hill, its marble columns gleaming under the sun, a massive statue of a man in armor standing at its peak, his spear raised toward the sky. His face was stern, yet beautiful, his eyes seeming to follow him, sparking that restless itch in his chest again.

A shout broke his focus. Down the street, a crowd was gathering, their voices rising in excitement. He moved toward it, drawn by the energy, the sword still clutched in his hand. The cobblestones were warm under his shoes, the air buzzing with anticipation. As he pushed through the crowd, their tunics brushing against him, he caught glimpses of a procession—chariots rolling slowly, draped in laurel wreaths, pulled by horses with braided manes. The crowd’s cheers swelled, a rhythmic chant that vibrated through the stones. His grip tightened on the sword, its warmth pulsing in time with the city’s heartbeat, as if it were part of this place, part of him.

He elbowed his way closer, the crowd parting just enough for him to see the center of the procession. A figure rode atop the lead chariot, his silhouette sharp against the golden haze. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, his golden armor gleaming like a second sun, catching every ray of light and throwing it back in dazzling arcs. A crown of laurel and gold rested on his brow, and at his side hung a sword, but not just any sword. It was the exact one he was currently holding, down to the swirling patterns etched into the blade, shimmering like waves trapped in metal. The man’s face was obscured by the glare, but there was something achingly familiar about him, a pull in Percy’s chest that went beyond recognition, like a memory he hadn’t lived yet.

The crowd’s chants grew louder, their words coalescing into a name: “Imperator! Imperator!” The sound hit him like a shockwave, his breath catching. The man raised a hand, silencing the crowd, and turned his head. For a moment, their eyes met, and Percy’s world tilted. The man’s face was older, weathered by time and battles, but it was like looking into a mirror—his own sea-green eyes stared back, framed by dark hair streaked with silver, his jaw set with the same stubborn defiance. The man’s gaze held him, heavy with unspoken expectation, like he was seeing not just Percy but through him, to something deeper, something inevitable.

Once their gazes separated, the dream shattered with a deafening crash, the sound of splintering wood and metal tearing him from the golden city and back into the dim, musty confines of his room. His eyes snapped open, heart hammering, the roar of the crowd still ringing in his ears. The air was thick with the stench of stale beer and something sharper—fury, raw and unfiltered. His door, the flimsy barrier between him and the chaos of the apartment, was gone, reduced to jagged shards hanging from broken hinges. In its place stood Gabe, his bulk filling the doorway, his face flushed red with drunken rage. The flickering light from the hallway bulb cast his shadow across the room, making him look like a beast from one of his nightmares.

“You little shit!” Gabe roared, his voice slurring but venomous, each word a sledgehammer. He swayed slightly, one hand gripping the doorframe to steady himself, the other clutching an empty beer bottle like a club. “Where’s my fucking beer? You think you can just sneak off and leave me high and dry?” His eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto Percy, who scrambled to his feet. 

Percy felt dazed, his mind still half-caught in the dream. But Gabe’s presence was a brutal reminder, dragging him back to the grimy reality of the apartment. The rain still pounded the window, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the blood racing in his veins. He backed up, his shoes crunching on the warped floorboards, until his back hit the cold wall beside the window. Nowhere to run. His instincts screamed at him to move, to do something, but his legs wouldn’t listen, feeling like lead.

The older man lurched forward, the empty beer bottle swinging loosely in his grip, his boots grinding splinters of the shattered door into the floorboards. His face was a twisted mask of rage, sweat beading on his forehead, catching the dim light like oil. “You think you’re slick, huh?” he slurred, his voice thick with venom and cheap liquor. “Hiding up here like a rat, stealing my time, my beer—useless, just like your whore of a mother!” He took another step, the floor creaking under his weight, the stench of his breath filling the small room, sour and suffocating.

Percy’s back pressed harder against the wall, the cold plaster biting through his damp jacket. His heart pounded, a wild rhythm that drowned out the rain’s roar outside. Stand and fight, the stranger’s voice echoed in his skull, sharp and urgent, but his body was frozen, pinned by Gabe’s looming shadow. His eyes darted to the broken door, then to his mom, still slumped on the couch in the living room, oblivious to the storm brewing in his room. No help was coming.

“You got one job, kid,” he snarled, raising the bottle, its glass catching the flickering light from the hallway. “One damn job, and you can’t even do that right.” His lips curled into a sneer, revealing yellowed teeth, and his eyes glinted with something darker than drunken anger—something cruel, like he enjoyed this too much. He took another step, closing the distance, the bottle swaying in his hand like a pendulum counting down to violence.

The bottle arced through the air, a glinting blur in the dim light, and Percy’s instincts finally kicked in. He ducked, his body moving on pure reflex, but not fast enough. The heavy glass smashed against his face, the impact a white-hot explosion of pain that sent him stumbling sideways. His vision swam, stars bursting behind his eyes as he hit the wall, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. A warm trickle ran down his face, and he touched his features, fingers coming away slick with blood. A gash streaked across his skin, jagged and stinging, the coppery taste seeping into his mouth as he gasped for air.

Gabe loomed over him, his chest heaving with drunken fury. “You think you can dodge me, you little punk?” he slurred, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the floorboards. The stench of beer and sweat was suffocating, mixing with the metallic tang of Percy’s blood. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the rain’s relentless drumming outside a mocking echo of his racing pulse.

Percy’s hand instinctively went to his pocket, fingers brushing the ring the stranger had given him. Its warmth pulsed against his skin, sharp and urgent. Stand and fight. The words roared in his head, louder than Gabe’s bellows, louder than the pain throbbing on his face. His vision cleared just enough to see Gabe’s bloodshot eyes narrow, his gaze dropping to his hand, where the faint glint of the ring caught the flickering light from the hallway.

“What’s that?” He snapped, lunging forward, faster than his bulk should’ve allowed, and grabbed Percy’s wrist with a grip like a vice. His thick fingers dug into the boy’s skin, twisting until he yelped, the ring slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. It rolled across the warped floorboards, coming to rest near the mattress, its etched patterns shimmering faintly

Gabe’s eyes locked onto it, greed flickering through his drunken haze. “Well, well,” he muttered, a crooked grin splitting his face, revealing those yellowed teeth. “Hiding something shiny, huh? That’s worth something. Maybe enough to cover the beer you didn’t get.” He shoved Percy back, hard, sending him crashing into the wall once more. 

“Don’t touch it!” Percy shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and fury. His face burned, blood dripping onto his jacket, but the sight of Gabe bending toward the ring lit a fire in his chest. That ring wasn’t just some trinket—it was his, given to him by the stranger with the sea-green eyes, tied to whatever truth was out there, beyond this suffocating apartment. He lunged forward, ignoring the pain, and grabbed for the ring just as Gabe’s meaty hand closed around it.

“Back off, you little shit!” The man roared, swinging his free hand. His fist caught Percy in the face, sending him crashing to the ground. He hit the floor hard, his palms scraping against the rough wood as pain exploded across his jaw, radiating from the fresh bruise blooming under his skin. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, mixing with the blood dripping from the gash on his face. His vision blurred, the room tilting like a ship caught in a storm, but through the haze, he saw Gabe looming over him, the ring glinting in his hand. The man’s bloodshot eyes gleamed with a mix of greed and malice, his lips twisting into a sneer as he held the ring up to the flickering light, its swirling patterns catching the glow like liquid gold.

“Think you’re clever, hiding this?” He turned the ring over in his fingers, oblivious to the way it seemed to pulse, its warmth growing sharper, almost angry. “This’ll fetch a pretty penny. Maybe I’ll pawn it for a case of the good stuff, not the piss you were supposed to get.” He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made Percy’s stomach churn.

He pushed himself up on shaky arms, ignoring the throbbing in his jaw and the blood dripping onto the floorboards. “Give it back,” he said, each word laced with a defiance he hadn’t known he possessed.

Gabe’s head snapped toward him, his sneer widening. “What’d you say, punk?” He took a step closer, the ring still clutched in his fist, the shattered beer bottle dangling in his other hand like a weapon. “You don’t tell me what to do. You’re nothing—just a bastard kid who can’t even follow simple orders.” He raised the bottle, the glass catching the dim light as he swung it toward Percy’s head.

Instinct took over. He dove forward, not away, his body moving faster than his mind could process. He tackled Gabe’s legs, small and scrawny against the man’s weight, but the surprise sent Gabe stumbling back, the bottle slipping from his grip and shattering against the floor. The ring flew from his hand, skittering across the warped wood and coming to rest near the mattress. 

“You little—!” He roared, recovering quickly. His grip tightened on Percy’s collar, his knuckles whitening as he lifted the boy off the ground, Percy’s legs dangling uselessly. The man’s face was a twisted mask of rage, veins bulging at his temples, his breath reeking of stale beer and rage. The boy panicked, blood dripping from his face, staining Gabe’s hand. The room spun, the flickering hallway bulb casting shadows that danced across the walls like specters. The rain outside hammered the window, a relentless roar that seemed to urge Percy on.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Gabe snarled, his free hand balled into a fist, rearing back, and Percy braced himself, his body tensing for the blow. Pain already throbbed in his jaw, his face, his ribs—every hit from tonight had landed like a sledgehammer, but something inside him refused to break. That restless itch flared hotter, sharper, like a current pulling him toward action.

His eyes flicked to the ring, glinting faintly on the floor near the mattress. Stand and Fight! The voice insisted again, the words reverberating through his skull. His fingers twitched, his body moving before his mind caught up. He kicked out, his shoes connecting with Gabe’s shin, not hard enough to do real damage but enough to make the man grunt and loosen his grip for a split second.

That was all Percy needed. He twisted free, dropping to the floor, his palms scraping against the splintered wood as he scrambled toward the ring. Gabe roared, lunging after him, his boots stomping so close Percy felt the vibration. “Do not touch that fucking ring! It’s mine!” His voice was a slurred promise of violence, his shadow swallowing the room’s faint light as he towered over the boy.

Percy’s fingers closed around the ring just as Gabe’s hand grabbed his ankle, yanking him back. The metal was searing hot now, almost burning his palm, but he clung to it, its warmth fueling the fire in his chest. Gabe’s other hand swung down, a meaty fist aimed at his head, but the boy rolled, the blow glancing off his shoulder instead. Pain shot through him, but he didn’t let go of the ring. He couldn’t. It called to him, and he knew that it wasn’t an ordinary trinket. It was something bigger, something he couldn’t fathom. 

“Give it up!” Gabe bellowed, dragging Percy across the floor, his nails digging into the boy’s ankle. The broken doorframe loomed behind him, the hallway’s flickering light casting Gabe’s face in harsh angles, making him look less human, more like the monster from the bodega with its too many teeth. He kicked again, his heel catching the man’s wrist, forcing him to let go. He scrambled to his feet, clutching the ring, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he backed toward the mattress, his eyes wide in shock. 

The man staggered upright, his bulk filling the small room, his chest heaving with drunken rage. “You’re gonna regret that,” he slurred, cracking his knuckles. He took a step forward, his boots grinding glass from the shattered beer bottle into the floor. Percy’s back hit the wall again, but there was nowhere left to run. The ring pulsed in his hand, its heat spreading up his arm, into his chest, like it was waking something inside him. 

Gabe charged, a bull in a cramped pen, his fist swinging with enough force to crack bone. Percy ducked, his body moving on instinct, and dove for the mattress, sliding across the floor. His fingers fumbled with the ring, slick with sweat and blood, and in a desperate, unthinking moment, he slipped it onto his finger. The metal fit perfectly, too perfectly, like it had been sized for him alone. The moment it settled, a jolt shot through him, electric and wild, like lightning coursing through his veins.

The air in the room shifted, growing heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. The ring flared, its swirling patterns glowing with a soft, golden light. He gasped, his vision sharpening, the pain in his face and ribs fading to a dull throb. Gabe froze mid-step, his bloodshot eyes widening as he stared at the ring, the glow reflecting in his pupils like twin suns. “What the hell—” he started, but the words choked off as the light intensified, filling the room with a warmth that felt like summer, like the ocean, like power.

Knowing that whatever the hell it was, it was probably worth a lot of money, the sleazy old man lunged for Percy, tackling him to the floor. All his weight slammed into the boy, pinning him to the warped floorboards with a force that drove the air from his lungs. He was suffocating, his sweat-soaked shirt pressing against Percy’s chest, the stench of beer and stale cigarettes choking him. Gabe’s meaty hands clawed at his wrist, fingers digging into his skin as he tried to wrench the glowing ring free. “Give it to me, you little bastard!” he snarled, spit flecking Percy’s face. The golden light from the ring flared brighter with every hit the boy received, casting wild shadows across the room, making Gabe’s flushed face look feral, his eyes glinting with greed and rage.

Percy struggled, his legs kicking uselessly under the crushing weight. His free hand scraped against the floor, splinters biting into his palm as he tried to push back, but Gabe was too heavy, too strong. The ring burned hotter on his finger, its heat searing through his panic, urging him to move, to fight. Stand and fight , a command that vibrated in his bones. His heart pounded, blood roaring in his ears, drowning out the rain’s relentless assault on the window and the TV’s distant blare.

Gabe’s fingers closed around the ring, twisting the boy’s hand painfully, but the metal wouldn’t budge, as if it had fused to his skin. “Get off!” Percy gasped, his voice hoarse, his body thrashing. The glow intensified, the air crackling with energy, like static before a lightning strike. Gabe’s eyes widened, a flicker of unease cutting through his drunken haze, but his greed won out. He pressed harder, his full weight bearing down, his knee grinding into Percy’s stomach, making him gag.

Then it happened. The ring flared to its brightest crescendo, a blinding golden light that filled the room like a supernova. Percy felt a surge, not just heat but power, strong and untamed, rushing through his veins like a tidal wave. The ring shuddered on his finger, and with a sound like the snap of a breaking wave, it began to change. The metal expanded, twisting, elongating, the etched patterns writhing like living currents. In an instant, the ring was no longer a ring—it was a sword, its blade shimmering with the same golden glow, its weight perfectly balanced in his hand.

The drunken man slowed his assault, his wide eyes locked on the sword. The blade gleamed, its edge impossibly sharp, reflecting the flickering hallway light and his shocked features. “What the—” he started, but the words died in his throat as Percy’s instincts took over. The sword moved, almost of its own accord, guided by the same restless itch that had burned in him all throughout his life. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. With a cry that was half-panic, half-defiance, he drove the blade upward, the motion fluid, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Percy’s breath hitched, his hands trembling around the sword’s hilt as Gabe’s weight shifted, his body slumping forward. The blade sank deeper, a wet, grinding sound filling the room as it tore through muscle and grated against bone. Blood poured from the wound, a dark, viscous flood that soaked his hands, warm and slick, splattering onto the warped floorboards in heavy, rhythmic drips. Gabe’s mouth opened, a gurgling choke spilling out, his lips flecked with pink foam as his lungs fought for air that wouldn’t come. His bloodshot eyes, wide with shock and pain, locked onto Percy’s, the greed and rage in them fading into something raw, almost human…fear.

“You… fucking…” He rasped, his voice a wet rattle, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His hands clawed weakly at the sword, fingers slipping in the gore, leaving crimson streaks on the golden blade. Percy’s heart pounded, a deafening drum in his ears. The sword and the blood’s warmth spread through his arms, urging him on, feeding the fire in his chest. He yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, blood spraying in an arc that painted the wall in streaks. Gabe staggered, his body swaying like a felled tree, his hands clutching at the gaping wound in his chest. The hole was a mess of torn flesh and splintered bone, blood pulsing out in time with his fading heartbeat, pooling beneath him in a spreading, glossy lake. Percy stumbled back, his feet slipping in the slick mess, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

The man collapsed to his knees, his breath a labored wheeze, his face pale and slick with sweat. “Bastard…” he choked out, blood dripping from his chin, staining his yellowed teeth. His eyes flickered with a last spark of defiance, but it was fleeting, snuffed out as his body swayed and crumpled to the floor. The impact shook the room, the floorboards groaning under his weight, the blood pooling wider, seeping into the cracks like ink on a page. His fingers twitched once, twice, then stilled, his body a broken heap in the flickering light of the hallway bulb.

The boy stood frozen, the sword heavy in his hand, its blade dripping with blood, each drop hitting the floor with a soft, wet patter. His chest heaved, his face stinging from the gash and bruises, blood and sweat mixing with the tears he hadn’t realized were streaming down his cheeks. The room reeked of copper and death, the air thick with it, clinging to his skin like a second layer. He looked down at Gabe’s lifeless body, the man who’d made his life a living hell, who’d called him worthless, a bastard, a mistake. The man who’d loomed over him like a cloud of death, always ready for the reaping.

A surge of something primal tore through him—relief, rage, triumph, all tangled together in a knot he couldn’t unravel. He dropped to his knees beside Gabe’s body, the sword clattering to the floor, its glow fading to a soft shimmer. His hands shook as he stared at the corpse, the reality of what he’d done crashing over him like a wave. He’d killed him. He was dead. The thought was shocking, but beneath it burned a fierce, burning satisfaction. No more insults, no more beatings, no more nights hiding on the rooftop to escape the chaos below.

He reached out, almost without thinking, and pressed his hand to Gabe’s chest, where the blood was still warm, sticky against his palm. It felt real, too real. His fingers curled into a fist, and he slammed it down onto the lifeless form, once, twice, the wet thud of flesh echoing in the small room. “You don’t get to hurt me anymore,” he whispered, trembling with a mix of grief and fury. He hit again, harder, his knuckles splitting against Gabe’s ribs, blood smearing across his skin. The fire in his chest roared, urging him on, and he climbed onto the body, straddling his chest, his knees sinking into the blood-soaked shirt.

Percy grabbed the sword again. The blade gleamed faintly, as if eager for more. He raised it high, the golden light catching the blood still dripping from its edge, and brought it down with a scream that tore from his throat. The blade plunged into Gabe’s stomach, ripping through flesh with a wet, tearing sound, blood and tissue spraying across Percy’s face and chest. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The sword rose and fell, each strike a release, each cut a rebellion against every bruise, every insult, every moment of misery inflicted on him. Blood splattered the walls, the floor, the mattress, painting the room in violent streaks of crimson. Chunks of flesh clung to the blade, sinew and muscle parting under its impossibly sharp edge, the room filling with the sickly-sweet stench of death.

His arms burned, his breath coming in ragged sobs, but he kept going, the sword slicing through Gabe’s body like it was nothing, like he was nothing. The man’s chest was a ruin, ribs exposed, splintered and jagged, his insides a pulpy mess of red and pink. Blood pooled beneath Percy, soaking his jeans, warm and sticky, his hands slick with it as he gripped the sword tighter. His vision blurred, not from pain but from the tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood splattered across his face. He was crying, screaming, a howl of everything he’d held back for years.

By the time he was done, the room looked like a slaughterhouse. The sword felt heavy now, its weight pulling at Percy’s arms, grounding him in the horror of what he’d done. His mind spun, a chaotic whirl of rage, relief, and something darker—something that scared him more than Gabe ever had. The man who’d made his life a waking nightmare was gone, and yet the fire in his veins still burned, urging him to keep swinging, to keep cutting, as if the act could erase every bruise, every insult, every moment of powerlessness.

He staggered back, his adrenaline beginning to fade away. The room spun, the hallway bulb casting shadows across the blood-smeared walls. Percy’s gaze stayed locked on the dead body under him, barely noticing how the TV in the living room reflected in Gabe’s eyes or the game show host’s fake cheer, a surreal counterpoint to the bloodbath he’d created.

Then suddenly, he felt it—a hand on his shoulder, rough and unkind, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. His heart lurched, his mind instinctively thinking it was Gabe behind him, ready to bring down another beating. Without thinking, without turning, his body reacted, fueled by primal instinct. He spun, the golden blade flashing up in a single, fluid motion, its edge slicing through the air with a whistle. The sword met flesh, a soft resistance that gave way with a sickening schlick. Warm blood sprayed across his face, hot and sticky, and a choked gasp filled the room, not Gabe’s snarl but something softer, more familiar. His eyes widened, his breath catching as he stumbled back, the sword falling from his hands and hitting the floor with a dull clang. The figure before him swayed, clutching at their throat, blood pouring between their fingers in a crimson cascade. Blue eyes, wide with shock and pain, locked onto his

“Mom!” He yelled. He watched as she staggered backward, her knees buckling as she sank to the floor, her hands scrabbling at the gaping wound across her throat. Blood gushed, soaking her faded sweater, pooling with Gabe’s in a grotesque mirror of their shared misery. Her lips moved, trying to form words, but only a wet gurgle escaped, her eyes never leaving Percy’s, filled with fear. 

“Mom!” He shouted again, pressing his hands to her throat, trying to stem the flow. The blood was warm, slippery, coating his fingers, seeping through the cracks of his palms. It wouldn’t stop. Her hands fell limp, dropping from the wound, her fingers twitching once before stilling. Her gaze held his before it dulled, her pupils dilating into a vacant stare. He shook her, his hands slick with her blood, his voice breaking into sobs. The room spun, the stench of copper and death choking him, the rain’s relentless hammering outside a cruel mockery of his grief. He’d done this. The sword, the ring, the fire in his chest—it had all led to this. He’d meant to protect himself, to fight back against Gabe, but not her. Never her.

His mind fractured, torn between the image of her lifeless body and the memories of her, tired, distant, but his mother. The one who’d tucked him in when he was little, who’d whispered stories of the ocean before Gabe was in their lives, who’d looked at him with those same blue eyes and promised things would get better, even if she didn’t know how. But there were other memories, darker ones: her silence when the man would beat him, her drunken slurs echoing Gabe’s insults, her tired eyes turning away when he needed her most. She’d never loved him the way he wanted, not enough to shield him, not enough to leave Gabe. And now she was gone, her blood on his hands, her life snuffed out by the same blade that took out his worst nightmare. 

Percy’s chest shook, a sob wrenching free as he rocked back on his heels, his hands still pressed to her throat, as if he could force the blood back in, force her eyes to focus again. He didn’t know how to feel. Grief clawed at him, but it tangled with something colder, something bitter. He’d loved her, needed her, but she’d left him to drown in cruelty. And yet, she was his mom—his only anchor in a world that had always felt too big, too wrong. The contradiction tore at him, grief and resentment twisting like a storm in his chest, each emotion fighting for dominance.

He staggered to his feet, his legs unsteady, his shoes slipping in the blood. His face throbbed, the gash from the bottle stinging as sweat and tears fell with the drying blood. He felt like he was sinking, the room’s walls closing in, the air too thick to breathe. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t face his mother’s lifeless gaze peering up at him. Wading through the blood, he picked up his discarded sword, its blade still gleaming gold despite the red coating it. 

With his back turned and attention directed at the weapon in his hands, the boy didn’t notice the soft creak of the entrance door to the apartment opening or the heavy thud of footsteps approaching. It wasn’t until he noticed a shadow looming over him, its silhouette blocking out the hallway light, that Percy snapped out of his haze, his heart lurching into his throat.

“Look what we have here,” a familiar voice called out mockingly. 

Percy’s blood ran cold, recognizing it. He spun around, the golden sword trembling in his hands. Sure enough, it was the same cop from the bodega. Those obsidian eyes gleamed under the light, no longer pretending to be human, their depths swirling with something ancient and hungry. The toothy grin was back, wider than before, rows of jagged teeth glistening like shards of black glass.

“Quite the mess you’ve made, Perseus,” he continued, running a finger across a blood streak on the wall. “I wish I’d been the one to cause it, but it seems I was too late to the party. Oh well, at least there’s still one beating heart in this room.” 

The boy raised the sword defensively as the man—or whatever he was—took a step forward, his boots crunching on the splintered remains of the door. The cop’s grin widened, unnatural and predatory. The uniform still clung to his frame, but it was fraying at the seams, as if whatever was inside was too big to be contained much longer. The radio on his shoulder hissed, spitting out malicious snarls that twisted into words Percy could almost understand—something about “half-blood” and “sea-spawn.”

“Who are you?” Percy demanded, the words quivering. “What do you want?”

The cop’s laugh was a low, grating sound, like stones grinding together. “Oh, I think you know, kid,” he replied. His eyes flicked to the sword, and for a split second, something like caution flickered across his face. “You’ve known your entire life.” He took another step, his boots leaving wet prints on the blood-soaked floor, the stench of rotting meat and burnt rubber rolling off him in waves.

“Stay back!” The boy yelled again. His eyes darted to his mother’s body, then back to the cop, the guilt and rage twisting tighter in his chest. He didn’t know what this thing was, but it wasn’t human—it was like the shadows he’d seen moving in alleys, the ones that made his skin crawl long before tonight. And it knew his name, just like the strange man who had given him this ring, now turned into a sword. What the hell was the night becoming?!

The cop tilted his head, his grin stretching wider, unnaturally splitting his face. “You’re a hard one to track, but the blood…” He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he savored the air thick with copper and death. “It’s like a beacon. Calls to us. Makes you so easy to find.” His hand twitched toward his belt, where a standard-issue baton hung, but it shimmered, warping into something longer, sharper—a blade that looked like it had been forged from shadow itself.

Percy bit the inside of his cheek, his instincts screaming. He didn’t know how to fight, not really, not like the soldiers in his dream, but the blade felt alive, guiding his movements, urging him to act. “I said stay back!” he shouted, stepping over his mother’s body, his feet slipping in the blood. He swung the sword in a clumsy arc, more to keep the cop at a distance than to strike.

The cop laughed again, dodging the swing with unnatural speed, his body blurring like smoke. “Feisty,” he said, licking his lips. “But you’re no warrior. Not yet.” He lunged, his shadow-blade slashing through the air, aimed at Percy’s chest. The boy dove to the side, crashing into a nightstand. 

The sword in his hand flared brighter, urging him to fight, and he swung again, this time with more force, the blade slicing through the air with a sound like tearing silk. The cop hissed, leaping back as the golden blade grazed his arm, cutting through the uniform and drawing a line of black, viscous blood that sizzled when it hit the floor. “You’ll pay for that, half-blood,” he snarled, his human facade cracking further. His skin rippled, splitting along his jaw, revealing glimpses of something scaly beneath. His eyes burned brighter, twin voids that seemed to suck in the light, and his teeth lengthened, curving into sharp points that crowded his mouth.

The sight almost made the boy throw up in fear. He couldn’t fight this thing. Not here, not now. Every instinct screamed at him to run. He was eight years old, scrawny, battered, his face throbbing, his hands slick with his mother’s blood. The creature’s shadow-blade gleamed, its edge promising a far worse fate than Gabe’s fists. The monster took another step forward, its grin stretching impossibly wide at the sight of Percy’s fear. 

“You can’t run forever, sea-spawn,” it hissed. “The gods know your name. They always have.” Its blade twitched, eager, as it closed the distance, its scales rippling under the fraying uniform like a snake shedding its skin.

Percy’s eyes darted to the window, the only escape left. The rain-smeared glass rattled in its frame, the alley below a dark, uncertain promise of freedom. He didn’t know what this thing was, didn’t understand why it called him half-blood or sea-spawn, but he knew he couldn’t stay. Not with his mother’s lifeless eyes staring up from the floor, not with Gabe’s blood pooling around his feet, not with this monster closing in. He bolted. Clutching the sword, he lunged for the window, closing his eyes. The glass shattered outward with a brittle crash, shards glinting like jagged stars as they rained into the alley below. 

His body sailed through the air, the cold night air and rain biting his skin as he plummeted. He hit the pavement below with a jarring thud, his knees buckling as he landed in a shallow puddle, the impact sending a shock of pain through his legs. Rain pelted his face, stinging the gash as he scrambled to his feet, snatching the sword. He didn’t look back at the shattered window above, didn’t dare. The monster’s guttural laugh echoed in his mind, those obsidian eyes and teeth burned into his memory.

“You can’t run, Perseus!” He heard the monster call out from the apartment. “There is nowhere for you to hide from me!” 

The boy knew he was probably right, but took the chance anyway. Slipping into the darkness, he ran with all his strength through the streets of New York City. He didn’t know where to go or what to do next, but he knew he couldn’t stop. The sword in his hand pulsed with a foreign warmth, as if urging him forward, guiding him toward something—or someone—who could help. The rain poured down in sheets, soaking him to the bone, washing away the blood on his body. His shoes splashed through puddles, his breath coming in panicked gasps as he wove through alleys and side streets, putting as much distance between himself and the apartment as possible.

He didn’t understand any of what had occurred today. But one thing was clear: his old life was over.

And something far bigger had just begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: No Such Thing as Normal

The subway car rattled through New York’s underbelly, its fluorescent lights flickering with every jolt, casting shadows that danced across the grimy floor. Percy sat hunched in a corner seat, his scrawny frame dwarfed by the oversized jacket still damp from the rain. The golden sword, now somehow shrunk back into the ring, burned against his finger, its warmth a constant reminder of the blood on his hands. His face throbbed, the gash from the beer bottle stinging under a crust of dried blood, and his jaw ached where Gabe’s fist had landed. The subway’s hum vibrated through him, blending with the restless itch in his chest, a feeling that had always been there but now felt like a live wire, sparking with every heartbeat.

He kept his head down, black hair falling into his eyes, avoiding the gazes of the late-night passengers scattered across the car—a weary woman clutching a grocery bag, a guy in a hoodie blasting music through earbuds, a drunk slumped against a pole, muttering to himself. The train lurched, screeching around a curve. He pressed the side of his head against the cool, grimy window, the glass vibrating against his skin. Outside, the tunnel walls blurred past, an endless streak of concrete and graffiti, lit by sporadic flashes of electric sparks. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to keep moving. The monster’s words echoed in his skull: You can’t run forever, sea-spawn. What the hell was a sea-spawn? And why did it know his name? The ring pulsed again, sharp and insistent, like it was trying to answer, but all it gave him was more questions.

A crackle from the subway’s intercom snapped him out of his spiral. The garbled voice announced the next stop, but it sounded wrong, layered with that same tone the creature at his apartment had. He glanced around, expecting the other passengers to react, but the woman with the grocery bag just stared at her phone, and the drunk kept muttering, oblivious. The guy in the hoodie bobbed his head to his music, earbuds drowning out the world. His skin prickled, that restless itch flaring again, warning him to stay sharp.

He shifted in his seat and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. His face was a mess: the gash across his brow and eye oozed, crusted with blood and dirt, and a bruise bloomed purple along his jaw. His sea-green eyes stared back, wide and haunted, like they belonged to someone older, someone who’d seen too much. He barely recognized himself. The kid who’d stolen Skittles and dreamed of climbing the Empire State Building felt like a ghost, left behind in that blood-soaked apartment.

The subway car screeched to a stop, the doors hissing open to spill a gust of stale, underground air into the carriage. He glanced at the platform outside—Whitehall Street, the sign read, its letters faded and peeling. The station was nearly deserted, save for a lone janitor sweeping debris near a flickering exit sign. The lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that seemed to twitch when he wasn’t looking directly at them. His gut churned, screaming at him to move, to get out, to keep running.

He stood, his shoes sticking slightly to the sticky floor, and slipped out just as the doors began to close. The other passengers didn’t look up, their faces buried in their own worlds, oblivious to the kid with blood on his clothes and a sword-turned-ring burning against his skin. The platform smelled of damp concrete and something sharper, like ozone after a lightning strike. He scanned the station warily, half-expecting the cop, or whatever that thing was, to emerge from the shadows, its obsidian eyes glinting with hunger. But the platform was empty, the janitor’s broom scraping rhythmically against the tiles, the only sound besides the distant rumble of another train.

Percy’s hand hovered over his pocket, where the crumpled Skittles wrapper still sat, a pathetic reminder of the life he’d left behind. He couldn’t go back—not to the apartment, not to the blood-soaked floor, not to his mother’s lifeless eyes. The memories of what he’d done hit like a punch from Gabe, grief, guilt, and anger simmering in his chest like a hot coal. They were dead, and he was the one who killed them. He pushed the thought down, locking the images away. He had to focus, had to keep moving.

The janitor glanced up, his eyes lingering on Percy for a moment too long. His face was weathered, his gray beard streaked with grime, but there was something in his gaze, knowing, like the stranger from the street who’d given him the ring. Percy tensed, his ring finger tensing, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. But the man just nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, before turning back to his broom, as if he’d seen kids like him before—bloody, scared, and running from something they didn’t understand.

He hurried toward the exit, his shoes slapping against the tiles, the sound echoing in the empty station. The air grew colder as he climbed the stairs, the city’s pulse seeping back in—honking horns, distant sirens, the low hum of life above ground. But even as he emerged onto the street, the rain still falling in a steady drizzle, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the shadows pooling under streetlights and in the mouths of alleys. Nothing. Just the city, alive and indifferent. 

Percy pulled his jacket tighter, the damp fabric clinging to his shoulders as he trudged toward the Whitehall Terminal. The Staten Island Ferry was his best bet—a free ride, no questions asked, and a chance to put some distance between him and whatever was hunting him. He didn’t know why, but something about the water, the idea of crossing the harbor, felt right, like a tug in his chest pulling him toward the sea. A sparse crowd milled about—late-night workers, and a few tourists clutching guidebooks. He kept his head low, his black hair dripping into his eyes, hiding his wounds, and joined the line for the next ferry. The digital clock above the turnstiles read 2:15 AM.

The line eventually moved without anyone seemingly noticing an injured eight-year-old boy among their ranks. He stepped onto the ferry, the metal deck vibrating under his feet as the engines rumbled to life. He found a spot on the upper deck, away from the cluster of passengers huddling near the snack bar. The rain had eased to a fine mist, and the night air was sharp with salt and diesel. He leaned against the railing, the cold metal biting into his palms, and stared out at the black expanse of the harbor, where Manhattan’s lights blurred into a golden haze. The Empire State Building stood tallest, its spire a needle piercing the clouds. 

He stared at it, just as he’d done for so many years, hoping that the familiar sight would pull him back from the edge of the chaos threatening to swallow him whole. For a moment, he let himself imagine climbing that spire, standing at the top, above the city’s mess, above the blood and the screams. Just him and the sky, untouchable. A flicker above the building caught his eye, a shimmer that didn’t belong. He squinted, the mist stinging his face, and for a heartbeat, he swore he saw something impossible—a city, floating in the clouds. Towers of white and gold gleamed faintly, their edges soft, like a mirage caught in the storm’s haze. Columns rose like the ones from his dream, crowned with figures that seemed to move, their silhouettes shifting against the bruised sky. His breath hitched, his heart stuttering as the vision flickered, there one moment, gone the next. He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing blood and rainwater across his knuckles. Just exhaustion, he told himself.

The ferry lurched, a wave slapping against its hull, and Percy gripped the railing harder, his knees wobbling. The other passengers didn’t seem to notice the jolt, their voices a low murmur over the wind. Normal people, normal lives. He envied them, their ignorance of monsters with too many teeth, of swords that appeared from rings, of mothers who died by your own hand.

He turned away from the skyline, his gaze dropping to the water below. The harbor churned, its surface black and restless, flecked with foam that glowed faintly under the ferry’s lights. Something about it called to him, like the dreams of crashing waves and voices whispering his name. He leaned forward, the railing digging into his chest, and stared into the depths. For a moment, he thought he saw shapes moving beneath the surface—sleek, fluid forms that weren’t fish or debris, but something alive, watching him back. His fingers twitched around the ring, urging him closer, tempting him to dive in, to let the sea swallow his pain.

A cough behind him snapped him out of it. He spun, his hand instinctively flexing, ready to hold a sword at any moment. An old woman stood a few feet away, her gray hair tucked under a knit cap, her coat patched and worn. She leaned on a cane, her eyes sharp despite the wrinkles creasing her face. She didn’t look like a threat, but after the cop, Percy wasn’t taking chances. His muscles tensed, ready to bolt.

“Are you heading home as well?” She asked softly, her question almost lost in the wind. Her eyes flicked to the ring on his finger, then back to his face, lingering on the gash and bruises. There was no pity in her gaze, just a quiet knowing. 

“I don’t have a home,” Percy muttered. The words tasted bitter, true in a way he hadn’t admitted until now. Home was Gabe’s fists, his mother’s silence, a blood-soaked room he could never return to. He turned back to the water, hoping she’d take the hint and leave him alone.

She didn’t. Her cane tapped the deck as she shuffled closer, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “We all have a home,” she replied wistfully, staring up at the Manhattan skyline, looking exactly where he’d seen the floating city. “You just haven’t found yours yet.”

He glanced at her, his grip tightening on the railing, not liking how it seemed she knew more than she was letting on. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. He was tired of riddless—first the stranger, then the monster, now this old woman. Everyone seemed to know something he didn’t, and it was starting to piss him off. The ferry rocked gently, the harbor’s black water slapping against the hull, and he felt that pull again, the same one from his dreams, urging him toward something he didn’t know. 

The woman didn’t answer right away. She leaned on her cane, her patched coat flapping in the wind, and tilted her head, as if listening to something beyond the ferry’s hum or the city’s distant roar. “You’re running away,” she said finally, not a question but a statement, her eyes flicking to the blood crusted on his jacket, the gash on his face. “But you can’t outrun destiny. The only thing you can do is stand and fight.” 

There were those same three words again. He felt the familiar red, hot anger boil in his chest. He wanted to snap at her, to demand what she knew, but her knowing eyes held his, like she could see the blood on his hands, the bodies he’d left behind, and wasn’t fazed.

“Who are you?” he practically growled. “And why does everyone keep saying that?”

The old woman’s lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. She adjusted her grip on her cane, the wood worn smooth under her gnarled fingers. “Names don’t matter yet, boy,” she replied. “What matters is you’re waking up. The world’s bigger than you know, and it’s been waiting for you.”

He frowned, his jaw aching as he clenched it. “Waking up to what? Monsters? Swords that come out of rings?” He gestured vaguely at his hand, the ring glinting faintly under the ferry’s dim lights. “I just killed—” His voice cracked, the words catching in his throat. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t admit out loud what he’d done to his mother. The memory of her blood, warm and sticky on his hands, flashed through his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out.

The woman’s gaze softened, just a fraction, but she didn’t step closer. “You didn’t mean to,” she said quietly in a motherly tone. “But that doesn’t change what’s coming. You’ve got a spark in you, Perseus Jackson. The kind that draws attention, the good and the bad.”

His eyes snapped open, the sound of his full name jarring. “How do you know my name?” he demanded, stepping back slightly. The ring flared on his finger, telling him to move, to act, but he held it at bay, his fingers twitching. “What do you want from me?”

She tilted her head, studying him like a teacher sizing up a student who’d just failed a test but had potential. “I’m just here to point you in the right direction. You’re on the path of fate now, whether you like it or not. That ring—” Her eyes flicked to his hand. “It’s no trinket. It chose you, just like it chose its bearers before you.” 

“What does that even mean?!” He cried out in frustration, throwing his hands in the air. “It chose me?! That doesn’t make any sense!” 

The old woman chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that carried over the wind. “You’ll understand soon enough. But for now, you need to keep moving. They’re hunting you.”

“They?” His stomach twisted, the image of the cop’s obsidian eyes lashing in his mind. “You mean that thing from the bodega? The one that followed me home?”

“Among others,” she said, her tone darkening. “You’ve stirred the pot, Perseus. Blood calls to blood, and you’ve spilled plenty tonight. They’ll keep coming until you learn to stand your ground.”

He shook his head, frustration boiling over. “I don’t even know what I’m fighting! I’m just a kid!” His voice broke, angry tears threatening to spill. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“Nobody asks,” she said firmly. “But it’s yours all the same. You’ve got power in you, boy, whether you want it or not. That sword—” She nodded toward the ring, its glow pulsing faintly. “It’s a piece of something bigger. Keep it close, and don’t let anyone take it from you.”

Percy’s fingers curled around the ring, its warmth the only thing keeping him from slipping. “And if I don’t want it?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “What if I just throw it into the harbor and walk away?”

Her eyes narrowed, untold power brimming behind them. “You can’t walk away from who you are. Throw it in the sea, and it’ll find its way back to you. Run, and they’ll chase you. Hide, and they’ll sniff you out. The only way through is forward, Perseus. Stand and fight.”

There it was again. Those words, like a drumbeat in his skull. He wanted to argue, to tell her she was crazy, but he had a feeling none of it would matter. Like she said, he was walking down a path he couldn’t step away from, no matter how hard he tried. He glanced at the water again, its surface glinting like it was watching him, waiting.

“Where do I go?” he asked finally, barely above a whisper.

The old woman pointed her cane toward the horizon, opposite of New York City. “West,” she answered. “There’s a place for kids like you, a safe haven if you can reach it and earn your right to stay there. Follow the pull in your chest, it’ll guide you. But be quick, and be smart.

“A place?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “What kind of place?”

She didn’t answer right away, her gaze drifting to the water, as if she could see something he couldn’t. “A place where you’ll learn who you are, what you can do, and become. But it’s not an easy road. The world between here and there is full of things that want you dead.”

He swallowed hard, the gash on his face stinging as the wind whipped across the deck. “And if I don’t go? If I just… stay here?”

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, they seemed to glow faintly, like the stranger’s had. “Then you’ll die,” she said simply. “And so will anyone who gets close to you.”

The ferry’s horn blared, a deep bellow that vibrated through the deck, signaling its approach to Staten Island. Her warning hung heavy in the air, as real as the blood crusted on his hands. He glanced at her, half-expecting her to say more, to explain the cryptic talk of safe havens and things that wanted him dead, but she was already turning away, her cane tapping the deck as she shuffled toward the stairs leading below.

“Wait!” he called out, his plea swallowed by the wind and the ferry’s rumble. She didn’t stop, didn’t look back. Her patched coat blended into the shadows of the stairwell, and in a moment, she was gone, as if she’d never been there at all. He stared after her, his heart pounding, the restless itch in his chest flaring hotter. The ferry lurched as it docked, the deck tilting slightly under his feet. Passengers began to move, gathering their bags, zipping their coats against the drizzle. 

Percy stayed rooted to the spot, his eyes scanning the water one last time, searching for those shapes he’d glimpsed beneath the surface. Nothing but black waves and foam, churned by the ship’s wake. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of fear and confusion, and forced himself to move. He couldn’t stay here, exposed, with monsters—because that’s what the cop was, he was sure of it now—hunting him.

He joined the crowd funneling toward the gangway, keeping his head low, his damp hair falling into his eyes to hide the gash on his face. The other passengers paid him no mind, their faces tired or distracted, caught in their own lives. He envied them again, their normalcy, their ignorance. The terminal was a cavernous space, its high ceilings echoing with the shuffle of feet. He slipped through the crowd, his sneakers squeaking on the wet floor, and headed for the exit, the night air hitting him like a slap as he stepped outside.

He moved quickly, his shoes splashing through puddles as he navigated the unfamiliar streets of Staten Island. The borough was quieter than Manhattan, slower but no less alive—corner delis glowed under flickering neon, their signs promising hot coffee and cheap eats; cars hissed past, tires kicking up spray; a stray dog nosed through an overturned trash can, its eyes glinting as Percy passed. He kept to the shadows, avoiding streetlights, his senses on alert for any sign of monsters. 

His face throbbed, the gash across his brow stinging with every gust of wind. His jaw ached, a dull ache that matched the rhythm of his steps. The blood on his clothes had soaked into the cloth along with the rain, sticky and heavy, clinging to his skin. He stumbled, catching himself against a brick wall. Exhaustion, blood loss, and hunger were catching up to him quickly. His breaths came in soft, shallow gasps, the cold brick keeping him steady as the world spun. West. A safe haven. He remembered the woman’s words. The idea of a place where he might belong, where he could learn what the hell was happening to him, felt like a lifeline, fragile but real.

His mother’s blue eyes, wide with shock, suddenly flashed in his mind, causing him to grimace. He didn’t know if he deserved such a place, not after what he’d done. Shaking his head, he forced himself off the wall and kept pushing forward. He couldn’t afford to break down now. The old woman had said west, so west he’d go. He didn’t know what he was looking for, didn’t even know if he believed her, but he had nothing else. No home, no family, just a ring that turned into a sword and a trail of blood behind him.

The streets grew quieter as he moved away from the ferry terminal, the bustle of Manhattan replaced by the low hum of residential blocks and shuttered storefronts. After an hour of searching, he noticed a neon sign flickering ahead, its red and blue letters buzzing through the drizzle: Maggie’s Diner – Open 24 Hours. The promise of warmth, food, and a moment to catch his breath pulled him forward unconsciously. He needed to patch himself up, to eat something more than stolen Skittles, to figure out his next move before whatever was hunting him caught up.

He pushed through the diner’s glass door, a bell jingling above as warm air washed over him, thick with the smell of frying bacon and burnt coffee. The place was a relic—checkered linoleum floor, cracked vinyl booths, and a jukebox in the corner spitting out a tinny rendition of some old rock song. A handful of patrons sat scattered: a trucker hunched over a plate of eggs, a nurse in scrubs sipping coffee at the counter, and a couple of high schoolers in a booth, laughing over milkshakes. Percy kept his head low, his damp hair falling into his eyes to hide the gash on his face, and slid into a booth in the far corner, as far from the windows as he could get. The vinyl squeaked under him, cold against his wet jeans.

He glanced at his reflection in the napkin dispenser on the table. His face was a wreck: the gash across his brow oozed, the bruise on his jaw a sickly purple, and his sea-green eyes looked hollow, like they belonged to someone else. Blood and dirt streaked his cheeks, and his jacket was a mess of dark stains. He looked like he’d crawled out of a nightmare, which wasn’t far from the truth. His fingers brushed the ring, its metal warm, as his stomach growled, loud enough to make him wince.

A waitress approached, her apron stained with grease, her red hair tied back in a messy bun. Her name tag read Doris. She chewed gum with a rhythmic pop, her eyes scanning him with concern. “You look like you got hit by a truck, kid,” she greeted. “What’ll it be? And don’t tell me you’re just here for water. You need food.”

Percy’s throat tightened. He had no money in his pocket, just a crumpled Skittles wrapper in his pocket. “I… uh, don’t have any cash,” he winced in embarrassment, the words barely audible over the jukebox. He braced for her to kick him out, his body tensing, ready to bolt.

Doris raised an eyebrow, popping her gum again. “Rough night, huh?” She studied him for a moment, her gaze lingering on the gash and bruises. “Tell you what. I’ll get you a burger and fries, on the house. You look like you need it more than most. But you gotta clean up first—bathroom’s in the back. Can’t have you scaring the other customers looking like you just walked off a horror movie set.”

He nodded, too tired to argue, and mumbled a shaky “Thanks.” Her kindness felt foreign, like it didn’t belong in the world he’d just stumbled out of. He slid out of the booth, his legs wobbly, and headed to the bathroom. It was a small room, with flickering lights and a cracked mirror above a rusted sink. The air smelled of bleach and mildew, but it was quieter than the diner, the jukebox’s hum muffled by the door. Percy locked it behind him and leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the cold porcelain. His reflection stared back, a battered kid who didn’t look like he belonged anywhere—not in this diner, not in the city, not in the life he’d left behind. He turned on the faucet, the pipes groaning as cold water sputtered out. He splashed his face, wincing as the water stung the gash, turning the sink pink with diluted blood. He scrubbed at his hands, the blood—his mother’s, Gabe’s—flaking off in dark clots, swirling down the drain.

The memory of their bodies hit him like a fist, but he forced it down, focusing on the cold water, the rough paper towels he used to dab at his face. Opening his eyes, he almost let out a shout of surprise when he noticed the gash closing, the red edges of the wound knitting together before his very eyes. The skin pulled tight, the blood crusting over and flaking away, leaving only a deep white scar once it was over. He shakily ran his fingers over the newly healed skin, trying to make sense of it. He flexed his jaw, expecting pain, but the bruise was fading too, the purple hue lightening to a faint shadow.

“What the hell is happening?” he whispered to his reflection, slightly in awe of just how crazy this day had been. The mirror flickered, its cracked surface distorting his reflection for a moment, making his sea-green eyes seem to glow with an unnatural light, similar to the man who’d given him the ring. Whatever was happening to him, it wasn’t normal…he wasn’t normal—just like his mother always told him.

The bathroom door rattled, a quick knock pulling him from his thoughts. “Hey, kid, you okay in there?” Doris’s muffled voice came through. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Coming,” Percy called back. He took one last look in the mirror, at the boy who wasn’t quite himself anymore, and turned off the faucet. The pipes groaned as the water stopped, leaving the room in near silence, save for the faint hum of the diner’s jukebox seeping through the walls. He dried his hands on his damp jeans and unlocked the door.

Doris had left a plate piled high with a burger and fries in his booth, a glass of water sweating beside it. He slid into the seat, his stomach growling louder than the jukebox’s tinny rendition of an old Springsteen song. The other patrons paid him no mind as he kept his head low and tore into the burger. The first bite was heaven—greasy, warm, and real. He’d rarely ever had the chance to eat something like this due to having no money. Gabe and his mom would always spend what little they had on alcohol and cigarettes, leaving him to fend for himself. That meant some nights he would have to steal cups of ramen or candy. Other nights, he simply went hungry, his stomach twisting itself into knots while he curled up on the rooftop, staring at the skyline to distract himself from the ache.

He chewed slowly, savoring each bite, the fries crisp and salty, the water cold enough to sting his throat. For a moment, it was just him, the food, and the diner’s hum—a fleeting bubble of normalcy in a night gone mad. The only thing that could make it even better would be to share it with a friend, something he’d never had before. He was halfway through with his meal when he noticed the waitress at the counter, her back to him, phone pressed against her ear. Her voice was low, but the diner was quiet enough that he caught fragments—“…kid, looks beat to hell… yeah, blood on his clothes…” She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes locking onto his for a split second before she turned away, her voice dropping even lower. His stomach flipped, the burger suddenly heavy in his gut. Was she calling the cops? Social services? Or something worse—someone who knew what he’d done, someone hunting him like the monster had?

His instincts kicked into overdrive, the restless itch in his chest flaring again like a warning siren. He couldn’t stay. He had to move. He shoved the last of the fries into his mouth, chugged the class of water, and slid out of the booth quietly. The jukebox switched to a slower tune, some mournful ballad that felt too on-the-nose. He kept his head low, avoiding the eyes of the nurse at the counter and the high schoolers on their phones. Doris was still on the call, her back to him, but he wasn’t taking chances.

He slipped out the diner’s door, the bell jingling softly as the cold night air hit him. The drizzle had picked up again, soaking his clothes that were just beginning to dry. His breath puffed in the chill, and he scanned the street, his senses sharp despite the exhaustion tugging at his bones. He noticed across the street a hulking 18-wheeler parked in a lot. He presumed it belonged to the trucker finishing up his meal in the diner. Figuring it was his best shot to put some distance between him and New York, he quickly darted across the street, his sneakers splashing through puddles. The truck loomed in the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, its massive frame a patchwork of rust and faded paint, the trailer hitched behind it a long, silver beast with “Western Freight” stenciled on the side in peeling letters. The cab’s windows were dark, the driver still inside the diner, probably finishing his eggs. Percy’s heart raced, the ring on his finger pulsing with that familiar warmth, urging him forward like a compass pointing west.

He glanced back at the diner, its neon sign buzzing through the mist. Doris was still at the counter, her silhouette visible through the fogged-up glass, phone still pressed to her ear. He didn’t want to know who she was calling, but he wasn’t going to wait to find out. The monster’s words echoed in his mind: You can’t run forever, sea-spawn. Maybe not, but he could damn well try.

The truck was his best shot. He crept closer, keeping low, the rain and darkness helping him blend in as he fiddled with the trailer’s rear doors, their metal cold and slick under his fingers. A heavy padlock secured the latch, but the hinges looked loose, rusted from years of neglect. He tugged at the door, wincing at the faint creak it let out, but it didn’t budge. His eyes darted to the diner, half-expecting the trucker to come barreling out of the diner screaming bloody murder. 

Percy’s gaze fell on the gap between the trailer’s doors, just wide enough to slip a hand through. He reached in, feeling along the inner latch, his fingers brushing against cold metal and something…warm? A texture that almost felt like fur. He yanked his hand back, panic rising as he watched the trucker get up from his seat, and tried again, this time pushing with purpose. A soft click echoed, barely audible over the rain, and the door gave way, swinging open just enough for him to squeeze through.

He didn’t hesitate. He slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, the metal groaning softly as it settled. The trailer’s interior was pitch-black, the air thick with the smell of motor oil, rust, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, the faint glow from the gap in the trailer’s doors cast shadows across the interior, revealing rows of cages stacked floor to ceiling. He almost gasped when he saw it, realizing what that smell was. Damp, animal fur. 

Inside the cages, eyes gleamed in the dim light—wild, restless, and unnervingly intelligent. Zebras, lions, and horses stared back at him, their forms cramped in the metal cages, their breaths huffing in the stale air. He took a cautious step forward, his footsteps silent on the trailer’s floor, slick with condensation and something sticky he didn’t want to think about. He didn’t know why these animals were here, caged in the back of a truck bound for who-knows-where, but something about them felt… wrong. Not just the fact of their captivity, but the way their eyes locked onto him, not with fear or anger, but with recognition, like they knew him.

He crept closer to one of the cages holding a horse. The bars were sturdy but rusted, streaked with grime and what looked like dried blood. A faded sign bolted to one of the cages read “Property of Triple G Exotic Transport,” the letters peeling like the paint on the trailer’s exterior. Exotic transport? Was this some kind of illegal smuggling operation? A circus on the move? He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The truck’s cab door slammed outside, the sound muffled but unmistakable. Percy felt his blood run cold and ducked behind a stack of cages, pressing himself against the cold metal wall of the trailer. The animals stirred, a low growl rumbling from the lion’s cage, its golden eyes glinting as it tracked his movement. The horse nearest him snorted softly, its ears twitching, and for a moment, he swore it tilted its head, like it was bowing to him. 

The truck lurched forward, tires crunching over wet gravel, and Percy braced himself against a cage to keep from sliding. The animals shifted, their eyes still locked on him, their gazes unnerving. He didn’t know where this truck was headed, but it was moving, carrying him away from Staten Island, away from the monster in the bodega, away from Gabe and his mother, who were still lying in pools of their own blood. West, he hoped, toward whatever “safe haven” was out there. 

The truck rumbled along, its engine a low growl that vibrated through the metal floor, shaking Percy’s bones as he sat behind the cages. The horse nearest him, a sleek black stallion with a mane that shimmered like oil, snorted again, its breath puffing out in a warm cloud. Its eyes, dark and deep as the harbor he’d left behind, held an intensity different from the others, like it was trying to tell him something. Its ears flicked, letting out a whine so loud he swore the trucker could hear from up front. 

“Hey,” Percy whispered frantically, trying to calm down the animal. He leaned closer to the stallion’s cage, gripping the bars. “You’re not gonna rat me out, are you?” It was a half-joke, born of nerves, but the horse tilted its head, its dark eyes locking onto his with unnerving clarity.

Then, impossibly, the horse replied.

“Depends if you got any sugar cubes,” 

“What the—” The boy stumbled backward, his back hitting the trailer’s cold metal wall.  He stared, mouth agape, as the stallion snorted again, shaking its head, its mane rippling in the dim light filtering through the trailer’s gaps. “You… you talked,” he stammered. “Horses don’t talk.” 

The stallion huffed, an indigent sound as if he’d just been insulted. “I’m not one of those low-breds!” It shifted slightly in the cramped cage, its powerful muscles rippling under its sleek black coat. It turned slightly, angling its body toward Percy, and that’s when he saw them. Wings, folded tightly against its sides, their feathers shimmering with an iridescent sheen that caught the faint light. Each feather seemed to pulse with a soft, otherworldly glow, like moonlight trapped in obsidian. The wings were massive, even folded, their tips brushing the cage’s rusted bars. His breath caught in his throat as he processed what he was seeing. A horse with wings.

“Can this day get any weirder?” Percy threw his hands up in exasperation.

“It can get weirder!” He heard another voice speak up across the trailer. 

His head snapped toward the sound, scanning the rows of cages. His eyes landed on a zebra, its black-and-white stripes stark against the rusted metal of its enclosure. The animal’s head was tilted, one dark eye glinting with mischief as it watched him.

“Yeah, you heard me,” the animal continued, its tone similar to that of a New Yorker, like it had spent its life hustling on the streets of Brooklyn. “Name’s Marty, by the way. Welcome to the freak show.”

Percy blinked once, then twice, wondering if his exhaustion was causing him to hallucinate. He rubbed his eyes, half-expecting the scene to vanish, but Marty was still there, chewing on a stray piece of hay like it was a cigar, its striped muzzle twitching with amusement.

“Okay,” he said slowly, barely above a whisper as he tried to keep his panic in check. “Talking zebra. Sure. Why not?” He glanced back at the winged horse, who was now eyeing Marty with what looked like annoyance. “You got a name too?”

The stallion snorted, its wings rustling against the cage. “Damn right I do! The name’s Blackjack. Best remember it because I’m the fastest Pegasus here!” 

“You’re the only Pegasus in this rust bucket,” Marty cut in, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he flicked his tail. He looked back at Percy. “Don’t let this guy’s ego fool ya, kid. He’s all feathers and no brains.”

Blackjack whinnied, a high, indignant sound, his wings twitching as if he could burst through the cage and prove the zebra wrong. “Keep talkin’, you striped wannabe donkey!” He snapped with that same Brooklyn edge. “I’m a purebred Pegasus, not some knockoff mule. You’re just jealous ‘cause you’re stuck waddlin’ on the ground while I could be soarin’ over the city if I wasn’t locked in this tin can.”

“OOOH!” The Zebra shouted, whipping its head back. “Did you hear that, Perseus?! That’s classic Pegasi racism! Typical of your kind! Always with the 'purebred' nonsense. You think just 'cause you got wings, you're better than the rest of us?"

“Your kind?!” Blackjack yelled back, stamping his hoof against the floor. “What do you mean ‘your kind’?!”

The truck lurched over a pothole, jolting Percy and cutting off the bickering between the two animals. The cages rattled, and a low growl rumbled from the lion’s enclosure, its golden eyes glinting with irritation.

“Keep it down, both of you,” Percy hissed sharply, pressing himself deeper into the shadows. “You want the trucker to hear us? I’m already in enough trouble.” His eyes darted toward the trailer’s front, where the muffled sound of the cab’s radio seeped through the metal wall. The last thing he needed was the driver pulling over to check the cargo and finding a stowaway kid covered in grime and blood-soaked clothes.

Blackjack snorted, his wings twitching against the bars. “Trouble’s your middle name, kid. Ain’t that right, Marty?”

Marty chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Oh, he’s got that half-blood stink, alright. Trouble follows you like flies on dung. I suppose he can’t help it, though, considering he’s the lord’s son.” 

The boy’s back straightened at that remark, shifting his body toward the two animals who continued to bicker with one another. “Wait, wait, wait. Half-blood? I’ve heard that before. Why does everyone keep calling me that? What does it even mean?” He questioned, shuffling back over to the Blackjack’s cage.

The horse—Pegasus, he reminded himself— tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting with something like pity. “You really don’t know, do ya, boss? Jeez, you’re greener than I thought. I thought you would’ve known by now, considering you got the ring on your finger.” 

Percy glanced down at the golden ring on his finger, its metal glinting faintly in the dim light of the trailer, its swirling patterns dancing. He leaned closer against the cage, his fingers gripping the rusted bars, the cold metal biting into his skin. The Pegasus’s wings rustled softly, their iridescent feathers catching the faint glow, and Marty’s mischievous eyes watched him from across the trailer, chewing his hay with a smug grin.

“What do I not know?” he asked urgently, hoping to finally get some answers, considering he was stuck with these two animals for quite some time. “What does half-blood mean? And who’s this ‘lord’ you’re talking about?” He finished, each word edged with the frustration of a kid who’d been thrown into a world that made no sense. 

“Oh boy,” Marty snorted, his mane shaking as he tilted his head to meet Blackjack’s gaze through the cage bars. “Do we tell him? You know their scent gets stronger once they find out who they really are.” 

“I don’t know,” the Pegasus replied hesitantly. “Is it really our place? Lupa usually handles that type of stuff once they get to the house.” 

“Well, Lupa isn’t here,” the Zebra replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes, which Percy thought wouldn’t be possible for an animal. “The kid has the ring, monsters are chasing him, and he’s already got blood on his hands. Might as well give him a heads-up before something nastier finds him.” 

Blackjack let out what sounded like a groan, ruffling his feathers in agitation. “It’s your funeral. You know how it goes—once they know, it’s like ringing a dinner bell for every monster from here to Tartarus. His scent’s bad enough already.”

Percy’s grip tightened on the bars of Blackjack’s cage, his knuckles whitening as his impatience practically boiled over. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” he snapped in frustration. “What’s a half-blood?! Who’s Lupa?! What’s this house?! And who is this lord that I’m supposedly the son of?!”

The Pegasus sighed, shaking his head. “Alright, boss, calm down before you pop a vein,” he replied, his Brooklyn accent thick with exasperation. “You want the truth? You’re a half-blood. Half-human, half-god. Your daddy’s one of the big shots up top, and I ain’t talkin’ about some CEO in a penthouse. I mean a god. The kind that throws lightning bolts or shakes the earth. Or, in your case, rules the seas.”

The boy was silent for a moment, his mind malfunctioning at the declaration. “A god?” he repeated, his voice cracking. “You’re saying my dad’s a… god? Like, what, Thor from one of those comic books?” He laughed, a sharp, nervous sound that echoed in the cramped space. “That’s insane!”

Marty snorted, his striped muzzle twitching. “Insane? Kid, you’re talkin’ to a zebra and a winged horse in the back of a truck. You got a magic sword that pops outta a ring, and you’re runnin’ from monsters that want you dead. ‘Insane’ left the station a long time ago.”

“Pegasus,” Blackjack corrected in a warning tone, shooting the zebra a glare before focusing his attention back on Percy. “Look, boss, it ain’t a joke. You’re a demigod and the son of our lord, Neptune.” 

Neptune. Just saying the name sent a shiver down his spine. He knew of Neptune. He’d learnt about him when he went on his first and only field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, back when he was still allowed on school trips before the suspensions piled up. The Roman god of the sea, earthquakes, and horses, with a trident and a temper that could drown entire continents. The idea that he, Percy Jackson, a scrawny kid from a broken-down apartment in Upper Manhattan, could be the son of a god like that was absurd. It was beyond absurd—it was impossible. Despite his doubts, however, his instincts were telling him it was true. And it would explain everything. The weird shadows watching him, the monsters, the way his wounds healed when water touched them, and of course, the talking Pegasus and Zebra. 

“Neptune?” Percy echoed, the name heavy on his tongue. “You’re telling me my dad is… Neptune? The sea god? That’s—” He shook his head, still finding it hard to believe. “No way. My mom never said anything about gods. She just said my dad was…” His words trailed off. What had she said? A sailor, maybe, lost at sea. Or was that just the story she’d told him to fill the void of heartbreak? Her tired eyes, her slurred rants about a man she loved and lost—they’d never added up, not really. And now this Pegasus was saying his dad was a god?

“Yeah, boss, Neptune. Lord of the seas, shaker of the earth, father of horses like me and Marty. Though he’s more of an ugly cousin you only see on holidays, but blood nevertheless.” He puffed out his chest, his wings twitching proudly against the cage bars. “You got his blood in you. That’s why you’re a half-blood. Half-human from your ma, half-god from your pops. It’s why you see things others don’t, why monsters are sniffin’ you out like you’re a buffet.”

Percy’s head spun. He leaned back against the trailer’s cold metal wall, his legs shaky, the ring on his finger pulsing that now felt like a confirmation. Half-human, half-god. Neptune. The idea was…he couldn’t really put it in words. He thought of the stranger with the sea-green eyes, the way he’d looked at him with that heavy, knowing gaze. Was that… his father? Or just another piece of this insane puzzle? The truck rumbled on, its vibrations blending with the restless itch in his chest, now a roaring fire he couldn’t ignore.

“Okay,” he said slowly, trying to come to terms with what he’d just been told. “Let’s say I believe you. Half-blood, Neptune’s kid, whatever. The old lady on the ferry said something about a safe haven, west. Is that what you’re talking about?”

“You catch on quick, boss. Yeah, it’s a place for kids like you—demigods, half-bloods. A camp, out west, where you can train, learn to fight, and not get eaten by monsters every other Tuesday. It’s called Camp Jupiter.”

“Camp Jupiter?” Percy repeated, testing the name. It sounded familiar for some reason, like his mind knew of it but couldn’t picture it. “What, like a summer camp for… god kids-demigods?” He corrected himself.

Marty chuckled, his striped tail flicking. “It ain’t no summer sleepaway with s’mores and sing-alongs, kid,” Marty continued in amusement. “It’s a fortress, a training ground for demigods like you. Run by the Romans—tough as nails, all about discipline and honor. You’ll either find your place there or get chewed up and spit out. No in-between.”

Percy’s brow furrowed, his fingers clutching around the ring. “Romans? Like… gladiators and togas?” His mind flashed to the dream of the golden city, the chariots, the man in armor who looked like an older version of himself. The pieces were starting to connect, but they didn’t make sense, not yet. “And who’s Lupa? You mentioned her before.”

“That’s where the Wolf House comes in,” Blackjack replied, sounding almost apprehensive at the mention of it. “She’s the one who’ll decide if you’re worth keepin’ around. The mother of Rome. She trains demigods, tests ‘em, makes sure they’ve got the guts to survive Camp Jupiter. If you don’t impress her, you’re out. And trust me, you don’t wanna know what ‘out’ means.”

Percy swallowed hard, the image of a massive wolf staring him down turning his blood cold. His life had already turned into a nightmare, and now he was supposed to face some kind of wolf audition? “So, what, I just… find this Wolf House?” he asked with skepticism. “Go west, dodge monsters, and hope this Lupa doesn’t eat me? Sounds like a great plan.” Sarcasm dripped from his words, but it was a flimsy shield against the panic clawing at his chest. He didn’t even know where “west” was, not really. California? Nevada? He’d never been farther than the Hudson River.

“You’ll feel it, kid. That itch in your chest? That’s destiny calling you, pullin’ you forward. Neptune’s kids always find their way to water, and the camp’s near the sea. Follow the coast, trust your instincts, and try not to die. Simple enough.”

“Simple,” the boy muttered, rubbing the scar across his face. “And what about the monsters? They’re still chasing me?” 

“Oh, yeah, boss,” Blackjack nodded quickly. “They’re chasing you alright. Your demigod scent is crazy strong. Perhaps the strongest I’ve ever smelled before.” 

Percy’s stomach twisted, the burger and fries from the diner threatening to come up. “Great,” he said, his voice flat. “So I’m a walking monster magnet. Awesome.” He leaned back against the trailer’s wall, the cold metal sending goosebumps down his skin.

“Look, kid,” Marty said, his tone softening in pity. “You’re tough. Gotta be, to survive what you did back there. Camp Jupiter’s your shot at answers, at learnin’ how to fight back. But you gotta get there first. Stick to the shadows, don’t trust anyone who smells wrong, and keep that sword handy.”

“Sword,” Percy repeated, glancing at the ring. He still couldn’t wrap his head around how it transformed, how it felt alive in his hand, guiding his strikes like it had a mind of its own. “How do I even… make it do that again?”

“Now that’s something we can’t answer,” the two answered with a laugh. “You’ll have to discover that for yourself. All we know about that ring is that it’s powerful. At least, that’s what we heard from the stories.” 

“Stories,” he questioned, looking back up. “What stories? The lady on the ship said it had previous bearers before me. What does that mean?” 

Blackjack and Marty glanced at one another, not sure if they should spill everything they knew. The trailer rocked gently as it rumbled along, the animals’ cages creaking with each bump in the road. The lion in the corner let out a rumbling growl, its golden eyes glinting with impatience, as if it too was waiting for Percy to catch up to the truth.

“That isn’t our place to tell you. If the lady didn’t tell you the full story, I’m sure she doesn’t want us to explain it. I’m sure we’ve already rocked the boat enough telling you about who you really are.” 

Percy sighed in exasperation, closing his eyes. He hated not getting the full story. It seemed everyone he’d met recently just spoke to him in riddles. It was surprising, to say the least, that he’d gotten a somewhat full story from two animals no less. 

“Look, kid, it ain’t about keepin’ secrets to mess with you. That ring’s old—older than Camp Jupiter. It’s tied to your blood, to fate, to things bigger than you or us. Tellin’ you too much now? It’d be like handin’ a toddler a flamethrower. You gotta learn to use it first.”

Blackjack nodded, shifting positions in the cage, seemingly ready to end the conversation and get what little sleep he could attain. “It chose you for a reason, but you gotta figure out why. We ain’t the ones to spill that tale. Lupa might, if you prove yourself.”

The boy wanted to keep asking questions, to demand more answers from the talking Pegasus and zebra, but he could tell they were exhausted and didn’t want to say anything more. He slumped against the trailer’s cold metal doors, feeling that same exhaustion creep within him as well. He supposed he needed the rest, having not gotten since…well, since he’d killed his family. The memory stung, causing him to curl up closer to the wall, his knees pulled to his chest, his eyelids beginning to droop.

The last thing he heard was the lion’s rumbling breath, steady as his own, and Blackjack’s muffled mutter, “Get some rest, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Wolf’s Call

When Percy awoke, he found himself standing on a riverbed rather than the grimy, rusted floors of the trailer. Slightly panicked, he spun around, his feet sinking into the soft, muddy bank. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and fresh water, a stark contrast to the stale oil and animal musk. The river before him was wide, its surface shimmering under a sky bruised with twilight, the water flowing with a steady rhythm. Reeds lined the banks, swaying in a gentle breeze, and in the distance, a low hill rose, crowned with a crumbling stone archway that looked ancient.

He glanced down, his heart still racing from the jarring shift. The golden ring gleamed on his hand, its swirling patterns catching the fading light, warm against his skin. “Where am I?” he muttered. The place felt real, too real, but it had the same dreamlike haze as the golden city, the battlefield with marching soldiers, the ocean cliff. Another dream then, he surmised. He took a cautious step forward and scanned the riverbank. No Blackjack, no Marty, no cages or trailer. Just him, the river, and that archway looming in the distance, its shadow stretching across the water. 

A distant rumble broke the silence, not thunder but something heavier—boots on earth, metal clanking, voices shouting orders in a language he didn’t recognize but felt he should. He spun toward the sound, his blood kicking up a notch. Across the river, shadows moved on the opposite bank, their forms blurred by the mist rising from the water. Soldiers, he realized, their silhouettes sharp with armor and spears, their shields glinting faintly in the twilight. There were hundreds of them marching in tight formation, their steps synchronized with the beat of drums. At their head rode a man on a horse, his crimson cloak billowing, a golden eagle standard raised high above him. The man’s helmet gleamed, its crest catching the last light, and for a moment, his face turned toward Percy—a strong jaw, eyes like burning coals, radiating authority.

The man, presumably the leader of the army, raised his hand, halting the soldiers’ march with a single, commanding gesture. The drums fell silent, along with everything else around them, even the running water. Percy’s breath caught as the man’s gaze continued to lock onto him across the river. Those eyes—sharp, calculating, like they could pierce through time itself—held a weight that made the boy feel like a bug. His armor gleamed, a breastplate of polished gold etched with intricate patterns of laurel and lightning, and at his side hung his hand holding the reins, a ring so similar to Percy’s perched on his finger. 

“Who are you?” Percy called out. The words felt inadequate, swallowed by the vastness of the scene, but he couldn’t stop himself. He felt as if he should already know the answer to that question. The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he dismounted with a fluid grace, his crimson cloak pooling around him like blood on the riverbank. The soldiers parted, their weapons lowered, their eyes hidden beneath crested helmets, watching the boy with the same eerie focus he’d seen in his earlier dream. The man stepped forward, his boots sinking into the mud, and pointed across the river, directly at him. No, not at him—beyond him, toward the crumbling stone archway on the hill.

“Rome lies that way, Perseus,” the man said in that same language he didn’t recognize but could somehow understand. What he said wasn’t just a statement; it was a command, laced with an authority that made Percy want to follow him. “Your path is set. Follow it, or fall.” He raised his hand again, and the soldiers snapped to attention, their shields clanging in unison. The eagle standard gleamed, its golden wings catching the twilight, and Percy’s eyes were drawn to it, a pull in his gut telling him it meant something, something bigger than he could grasp.

The boy turned to the archway on the hill, noticing a faint distortion like heat rising off asphalt, and again he felt that restless itch in his chest flare, pulling him toward it. Movement caught his eye, causing him to take a cautious step forward to get a better look. At the crest of the hill, just in front of the archway, he noticed a wolf, its silhouette against the rising moon on the horizon. It was a massive beast, its fur a silvery grey that shimmered, its eyes glowing amber, locked onto him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. The beast was larger than any dog he’d ever seen, its shoulders broad, its stance relaxed, and pointed at him. 

Percy’s hand twitched toward the ring, instinct screaming at him to summon the sword, but he hesitated. The wolf didn’t move, didn’t bare its teeth or lunge. It just watched, its gaze piercing, like it was sizing him up, judging him from a distance. He took a quick glance behind him to see if the man or the army was seeing this, but found that they were nowhere to be seen. It was as if they had simply disappeared the moment he took his eyes off them. A howl split the air, loud and wild, echoing off the river and across the hills. His head snapped back toward the animal, his pulse spiking. The beast’s head was thrown back, its muzzle pointed skyward, the sound shaking the ground beneath his feet. 

The call felt ancient, commanding, stirring something deep and familiar in his chest, like a memory he couldn’t quite grasp. His ring burned hot against his finger, as if responding to the wolf’s cry. The howl soon faded, and the wolf lowered its head, its amber eyes locking onto Percy again. It took a single step forward, beckoning him. He didn’t know why, but he felt no fear—only a strange pull. 

“Who are you?” He whispered, the words carried across the wind. The wolf didn’t answer, of course—it was a wolf—but its eyes held a knowing glint, like it understood more than it should. It took another step, then another, disappearing over the hill, its gaze never leaving him. The message was clear: Follow.

Percy glanced back across the river, half-expecting to see the man in the crimson cloak or the soldiers with their eagle standard again, but the opposite bank was empty still, shrouded in mist. His feet moved before he fully decided to, sinking into the mud as he took a step toward the hill. He followed, his heart pounding, the ring’s warmth increasingly spreading up his arm. The closer he got to the top of the hill, the stronger the pull in his chest became, like a tide dragging him forward. The air thrummed with energy, the same dreamlike haze he’d felt before, but clearer now, more urgent.

As he climbed, he could see the wolf’s head peering down at him from above, watching his every movement. Each step he took became increasingly heavier, like the ground itself was testing him. The wolf’s amber eyes gleamed from the crest, unblinking, urging him onward. The crumbling stone archway loomed closer, its weathered surface etched with faded symbols—laurels, eagles, lightning bolts—that seemed to pulse faintly in the twilight. The golden ring on his finger burned hotter, its swirling patterns almost glowing, as if it recognized this place.

He reached the top, his breath ragged, and the wolf stepped aside, its massive form silent as it positioned itself beside the archway. Percy’s gaze flicked to it briefly—its silvery fur rippled in the breeze, those piercing eyes still locked on him, calm but expectant. Then he turned forward, and his breath caught. Below him sprawled a city, one so similar to his previous dream. Gleaming marble temples with red-tiled roofs stood alongside modern buildings of glass and steel, their reflections shimmering in a river that wound through the valley like a silver ribbon. Golden domes caught the last rays of the setting sun, casting a warm glow over bustling streets filled with people moving with purpose. Beyond the city, rolling hills stretched toward the horizon, dotted with vineyards and olive groves, while a massive coliseum dominated the center, its arches lit with torches that flickered like stars.

The sight was beautiful, alive, and impossibly real—yet it carried the same dreamlike state as the riverbank, the soldiers, the man in the crimson cloak. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something vast, something that knew him, even if he didn’t fully understand it. The ring vibrated, and for a moment, he swore he heard a whisper, as if the city itself were calling his name.

Footsteps crunched behind him, heavy with the sound of boots, and he turned to see the man in the crimson cloak approaching, his golden armor gleaming in the light, his ring glinting in time with Percy’s own. “You followed,” he stated with pride. “Good. The path is not easy, Perseus, but it is yours.” He gestured toward the city, his eyes never leaving the boy’s. “This is where it begins. New Rome awaits.”

Percy opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but the ground shook beneath him, and the world dissolved again, the man, the city, and the plain fading into darkness. He gasped, his eyes snapping open, and found himself back in the trailer, sprawled on the grimy floor, the faint howl of a wolf still ringing in his ears. He pressed his palms against the cold metal floor, steadying himself as the truck swayed over another pothole. The cages creaked, and the animals stirred, their eyes glinting in the dim light filtering through the trailer’s gaps.

“You okay, boss?” Blackjack asked, bringing him back to reality. “Looked like you were havin’ one hell of a dream.”

Percy wiped sweat from his brow, the scar across his face tingling faintly. “Yeah,” he muttered, his throat dry. “Yeah, just…a weird one.” 

It had certainly been a weird one. A dream that clung to his skin like the damp clothes he was wearing. But it felt more like a memory than a dream, each detail vivid, as if it had carved itself into his mind. His fingers brushed the ring as he glanced at his impromptu companions, their gazes watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern. 

“You sure you’re alright, kid?” Marty asked. “We heard you muttering.”

Percy swallowed, trying to push down the lump in his throat. “Just a dream,” he said, though the words felt like a lie. “Saw… a wolf. A guy in armor leading an army. Some city.” He hesitated, unsure how much to share. The animals already knew more about him than he did about himself, and that made him uneasy. “New Rome,” he added, testing the name again, watching their reactions.

Blackjack’s wings twitched restlessly against the bars of his cage, neighing at the mention of the city. “New Rome, huh?” he said reverently. “You’re seein’ the big stuff, boss. That’s no regular dream. That’s the gods messin’ with your head, showin’ you what’s comin’.”

“Or it’s just his brain tryin’ to make sense of all the crazy he’s been through. Kid’s got enough trauma to fill a coliseum. Don’t need divine PowerPoint presentations to make it worse.” Marty snorted, picking at some hay below him. 

Percy frowned, shifting to sit cross-legged on the trailer floor, the sticky grime clinging to his jeans. “It felt real,” he stated, picking apart the dream. “Like I was there. The guy—he had a ring like mine.” He held up his hand, the golden band catching the faint light. “Said my path was set. Pointed me toward that city. And the wolf…” He trailed off, the memory of those amber eyes sending a shiver down his spine. “It was like it wanted me to follow it.”

The two animals exchanged a glance, their bickering replaced by a heavy silence. The lion in the corner growled softly, as if it also knew of the wolf. “Sounds like Lupa,” the Pegasus said finally, his tone serious, no trace of his usual bravado. The mother of Rome. If she’s showin’ up in your dreams, you’re gettin’ the VIP treatment. She doesn’t waste her time on just anybody.”

“Lupa,” Percy repeated, remembering the name from their earlier conversation. The old woman on the ferry had mentioned a safe haven, and Blackjack had talked about the Wolf House. Now this dream. It was all connected, but the pieces were a jigsaw puzzle with half the box missing. “So, what, she’s testing me already? In my dreams?”

“Testin’, guidin’, judgin’—call it what you want,” Marty replied through a mouthful. “She decides who’s worthy of Camp Jupiter. You saw her in your dream, kid? Means she’s already got her eye on you. That’s either really good or really bad.”

“Great,” the boy muttered sarcastically. “Another thing that wants to decide if I live or die.”

The truck hit another pothole, the cages rattling loudly, and Percy braced himself against the wall. The animals shifted, a chorus of snorts and growls filling the trailer. He glanced toward the front, where the cab’s radio droned on, now playing some twangy country song that barely reached them over the engine’s rumble. The trucker hadn’t stopped, hadn’t checked the trailer. Yet. He wondered how long they’d been driving. How far they’ve gone from New York. He hoped they were heading west at the very least, closer to whatever waited at the Wolf House.

“Just stick to the plan, boss. Get to the Wolf House, find Lupa, and prove you’re worth her time. She’ll point you to Camp Jupiter. After that, it’s up to you to not screw it up.”

“Real helpful,” Percy said, rolling his eyes. But there was a spark of determination in his chest now. A feeling of true meaning. He didn’t have a home anymore, didn’t have a family, but maybe this Camp Jupiter was a shot at something else—a place where he wasn’t just a kid running from monsters. A place where he could learn to become someone better. A place to stand and fight for something. 

Deep in his thoughts, he barely realized that the truck was beginning to slow. His eyes quickly widened as he heard the engine shift to a low rumble signaling they were soon to park. The animals stirred, their ears twitching, their gazes darting toward the trailer’s doors. The cab’s radio cut off abruptly, replaced by the sound of a door opening. 

“Hey, boss,” Blackjack looked at him with a crazy look in his eye and what looked to be almost a smile. “You’re not gonna be able to hide from this guy, so why don’t you let us out of these cages?” 

Percy’s heart slammed against his ribs, the sudden silence of the truck’s engine amplifying every sound—the creak of the cab door, the crunch of boots on gravel, the restless shifting of the animals in their cages. Marty nodded in agreement, his hooves stomping in anticipation. “Trucker’s comin’. You’re cornered in here, and you ain’t exactly blendin’ in with the scenery. Let us out, and we’ll make sure you escape without being seen. Maybe cause a little chaos to keep him busy.”

Percy’s gaze darted between the animals and the door, his mind racing for solutions. The idea of freeing a bunch of caged animals, especially a lion, sounded like a one-way ticket to disaster. But the alternative was worse: getting caught by the trucker, who might call the cops or, worse, turn out to be another monster in disguise.

“You sure about this?” He whispered, already beginning to fumble with the locks. “What will you guys do?” 

“Don’t worry about us, boss,” Blackjack said with confidence. “We’ve been itchin’ to stretch our legs. You just focus on gettin’ outta here before that trucker figures out he’s got a stowaway.”

Marty’s cage was next, the zebra kicking at the bars as Percy worked the latch. “Yeah, kid, we’ll handle the chaos,” he added, his muzzle curling into a grin. “Just don’t expect an invite to the afterparty. We’re outta here once the doors swing wide.”

The lion’s growl made the boy freeze, his hand hovering over its cage. Those golden eyes locked onto him, unblinking, radiating a dangerous intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. “Uh… what about him?”

Blackjack glanced at the big cat while he stretched his wings. “Don’t worry about Simba over there. He’s got his own beef with these cages. Just pop the lock and stay outta his way. He won’t mess with you… probably.”

“Probably?!” He practically shouted, his stomach twisting into knots. But the crunch of boots on gravel was getting closer, and the faint jingle of keys from outside the trailer spurred him into action. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and unlatched the lion’s cage, stepping back quickly as the door creaked open. The lion didn’t move right away, just stared at him, its massive head tilting slightly as if sizing him up. Then, with a slow, deliberate stretch, it stepped out, its paws silent on the trailer’s floor, muscles rippling under its tawny fur.

Percy’s heart pounded as he moved to the other cages, his hands shaking but working fast. The zebras and horses stirred, their hooves clattering as he freed them one by one. The trailer filled with the sounds of snorts, whinnies, and the restless shifting of animals tasting freedom. He glanced at the trailer’s rear doors, where the trucker’s shadow loomed closer, the beam of a flashlight cutting through the gaps in the metal.

“Alright, boss,” the Pegasus said, getting ready for the escape. “When those doors open, you bolt. We’ll make sure this guy’s too busy to chase you. Head for the shadows and don’t look back.”

Marty trotted out, shaking his mane. “West, kid. Keep movin’ west. Follow your instincts and don’t get killed, ya hear?!”

Percy nodded, his throat tight. He didn’t know how to thank them, or if he even should. They were animals—talking, magical animals, sure, but still animals—and yet they were the closest thing he had to allies right now. “Thanks,” he managed. “For… everything.”

Blackjack snorted, tossing his head. “Don’t get sappy on me, boss. Just don’t get eaten. I’d hate to lose my favorite demigod this early. Plus, lord Neptune would kill me!”

The flashlight beam swept closer, and the jingle of keys turned into the unmistakable scrape of a lock being undone. Percy crouched behind a stack of empty cages, his eyes wide and adrenaline pumping through his veins. The animals tensed, their muscles tensing with anticipation. The lion licked its fangs, its tail flicking as it positioned itself near the doors.

The trailer doors swung open with a groan, the trucker’s silhouette filling the gap. He was a burly guy, his flannel shirt stretched tight over his shoulders, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The flashlight beam swept across the trailer, catching the glint of the animals’ eyes. “What the—” the trucker started, his voice cut off as the lion let out a bone-rattling roar and lunged forward.

Chaos erupted. The lion barreled out, its massive form knocking the trucker back. Blackjack reared, his wings flapping wildly, sending a gust of air that rattled the cages. Marty charged, head-butting the trailer’s edge, his hooves sparking against the metal floor. The other animals followed, a stampede of zebras and horses spilling out into the night, their hooves thundering on the gravel. The trucker shouted, stumbling back, his flashlight dropping to the ground as he scrambled to avoid the onslaught.

Percy didn’t wait. He slipped through the chaos, leaping out of the trailer and hitting the wet gravel with a roll. The rain had picked up again, slicking his hair to his forehead. He darted toward the shadows of a nearby tree line, his shoes slipping but finding traction as he pushed himself forward. Behind him, the trucker’s curses mixed with the animals’ cries of joy as they escaped their prison. He didn’t look back. The trees loomed ahead, their branches providing the darkness and offering cover. He plunged into the underbrush, thorns snagging at his damp jacket, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

The sounds of the trucker and the animals soon faded, swallowed by the patter of rain and the rustle of leaves. He kept moving, his legs burning, his lungs aching. The forest was dark, the canopy blocking out what little moonlight broke through the clouds. The restless itch in his chest burned, pulling him forward, west, just as the old woman and the animals had said. West. Toward the Wolf House. Toward Lupa. Toward answers—if he could survive long enough to get them.

The ground sloped downward, and he stumbled, catching himself against a tree. He took a few seconds to gather himself, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn’t afford to hurt himself now. He pushed deeper into the forest, the rain easing to a fine mist. He didn’t know where he was, but the truck had been heading west, and that was enough for now. He’d find a road, a town, something to point him in the right direction. 

Hours passed, or maybe it was minutes—time blurred in the dark, his exhaustion making every step feel like wading through mud. His stomach growled, the diner’s burger long gone, and the cold seeped into his bones, his damp clothes clinging to his skin. But he kept moving, his will driven by his dreams of New Rome. A promise of a home. Of belonging.

Through the darkness, he noticed a faint glow through the trees, flickering like a beacon. He slowed, crouching low, his senses on high alert. A campfire, it looked like. He crept closer, sticking to the shadows, careful not to make any noise. The glow grew brighter, and he heard voices. He parted the branches, peering through the underbrush. A clearing opened up ahead, the ground muddy and trampled. Three figures stood around a small fire, their silhouettes noticeable against the flames. They weren’t human, not entirely. One was tall, its skin glinting like polished bronze, its arms too long, ending in claws that scraped the ground. Another had wings, leathery, bat-like, folded against its hunched back. The third was the worst—a woman, or something shaped like one, with snakes coiling in her hair, their hisses audible even from where Percy hid. Her eyes glowed faintly, scanning the forest, and for a moment, they seemed to lock onto him.

His blood ran cold. Monsters. The restless itch in his chest screamed at him to run, but his legs felt rooted to the spot. The ring burned hot, urging him to act, to fight, but he was outnumbered, exhausted, and had no idea how to summon the sword again. The snake-haired woman tilted her head, her glowing eyes narrowing, and she hissed something to the others. They turned in unison, their movements predatory, and started toward the trees—toward him.

Percy’s heart hammered. He backed away slowly, trying not to snap a twig or rustle the leaves. The monsters moved closer, their steps deliberate, the bronze-skinned one’s claws glinting in the firelight. He didn’t know what they were, but he knew they weren’t here for a friendly chat. The old woman’s words echoed in his mind: They’ll keep coming until you learn to stand your ground.

He gripped the ring, its warmth spreading through his hand, and whispered, “Come on, do something.” Nothing happened. No sword, no glow, just the same pulse. The monsters were almost at the tree line now, the snake-haired woman’s hisses growing louder, her serpents writhing like they could taste his fear.

Realizing he couldn’t sit here any longer, he turned and ran.

Branches whipped at his face, the forest seemingly closing in around him, the trees tighter, the air heavier. Behind him, the monsters crashed through the underbrush, their snarls and hisses echoing like a pack of wolves on the hunt. The ring burned hotter, almost painfully, and he felt that pull again, the same one from the ferry, from the dream—toward water, toward the sea. The ground sloped sharply, and he stumbled, sliding down a muddy embankment. A stream glimmered below, its surface catching the faint moonlight. He didn’t think, plunging into the water, the cold shocking his system, waking him up. The current was strong, tugging at his legs, but it felt… right, like slipping into a familiar pair of shoes. As the water washed over him, he felt stronger, clearer, like the stream was pouring energy into him.

The monsters reached the embankment, their silhouettes looming against the firelight filtering through the trees. The snake-haired woman hissed, her serpents snapping at the air, but she stopped short of the water, her gaze hesitant. The bronze-skinned creature snarled, its claws flexing, but it too hesitated, pacing along the bank. The winged one hovered above, its leathery wings beating the air, but it didn’t dive.

Percy crouched in the stream, the water up to his waist, his breath steadying. The ring pulsed, and this time, he felt it—instinct, not thought. He squeezed his fist, focusing on the sword, picturing it in his hand. A flash of gold, and the blade materialized, its weight familiar, its golden blade gleaming even in the dim light. The stream seemed to hum around him, the current swirling faster, responding to his presence.

“Who are you?!” he called out, his voice steadier than he felt, the sword raised defensively. “What do you want?!”

The snake-haired woman laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Perseus Jackson,” she hissed. “I’ve tracked your scent for hundreds of miles. I’m glad I can finally see your pretty face before I tear it off!” 

“I know I haven’t taken a shower in a day, but come on, I don’t smell that bad!” Percy replied, somehow forcing a smirk. 

The snake-haired woman—not Medusa, considering he’d be turned to stone already—titled her head, her serpents hissing in unison. Her glowing eyes narrowed, and she took a cautious step closer to the stream’s edge, her clawed feet sinking into the mud. “You’re bold for a half-blood pup,” she sneered. “But boldness won’t save you. Your father’s blood makes you a prize, and I intend to collect.”

Despite the threat, the three monsters didn’t make any further advancements, which gave him a flicker of hope. The stream was holding them back, its rushing water a barrier they didn’t want to cross.

“My father?” Percy shot back, gripping the sword tighter. “You mean Neptune? If he’s such a big deal, why don’t you come in here and find out what his kid can do?” He didn’t know where the bravado came from—maybe the water, maybe the sword, maybe the sheer desperation of being cornered—but it felt good. The water responded, its current swirling faster, frothing around his legs like it was alive, ready to fight with him.

“You can’t fight us all!” she snarled, but there was a tremor in her voice, a crack in her confidence. 

Even though the demigod was only a boy, he was still a son of Neptune, one of the strongest Olympians. They all could see that similar fire in his eyes, that same spark of defiance that toppled nations and slain kings. One would be a fool to underestimate him, even now, battered, exhausted, not knowing the full extent of his powers, and clutching a sword he barely understood. 

Percy felt the water surge even more around him, fueling his resolve. To him, the stream wasn’t just a barrier but an extension of himself, its currents twisting like living tendrils. He didn’t know how he was doing it, but the stream obeyed him. It roared to life, its waters twisting into a towering wall that loomed over the forest like a tidal wave frozen mid-crest. Percy’s heart thundered, a crazed, adrenaline-induced smile forming on his face as he watched the monsters slowly back up, fear in their eyes. The ring on his finger burned white-hot, its swirling patterns glowing as if forged from the heart of a volcano. He didn’t understand the power coursing through him, but he felt it, like the sea itself was alive in his veins. 

Acting purely on instinct, he raised his sword, the blade glowing bright, and unleashed his wrath. The stream exploded forward, a wall of water crashing down with the force of a collapsing mountain. It roared like a living beast, its currents twisting into spirals that tore through the forest with brutal force. Trees snapped like twigs, their trunks splintering as the wave smashed them aside. The ground churned into a muddy quagmire, roots ripped from the earth, rocks tumbling like pebbles in a storm. The air filled with the deafening crash of water and the screams of monsters caught in its path.

The monster's shrieks cut through the chaos, thrashing desperately against the water. They clawed at empty air, their eyes wide with panic, before the water swallowed them whole, dragging them into the churning depths, never to resurface again. The water receded, leaving a ravaged clearing in its wake. Mud and broken branches littered the ground, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and crushed trees. Percy stood in the stream, his chest heaving, features etched with shock. He stared at the destruction, his mind struggling to process what he’d just done. The monsters were gone, swept away by a power he didn’t understand, a power that felt both foreign and deeply familiar, like a memory buried in his bones.

He stumbled out of the stream, his shoes squelching into the muddy bank. As soon as he exited the water, he dropped to his knees, the sword slipping from his grip and transforming back into the ring on his finger with a flash of gold. His breath came in ragged gasps, the adrenaline fading, leaving him trembling. The forest was silent now, save for the drip of rainwater from the trees and the faint gurgle of the stream settling back into its natural flow. No hisses, no snarls, no glowing eyes in the dark. Just him, alone again.

“What am I?” he whispered, staring at his hands, still slick with water and mud. The scar across his brow tingled, a faint reminder of the gash that had healed impossibly fast. Neptune’s kid, Blackjack had said. Half-blood. Demigod. So, it was true. He had doubts, but after that display, he’d be a fool not to believe. He was a demigod. A demigod who’d just unleashed a wave that tore through a forest, drowned monsters, and left him standing. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t human.

He forced himself to his feet, his legs shaky but driven by that restless itch urging him to keep moving west. He didn’t know how far he was from this safe haven, or what he’d face when he got there, but staying still wasn’t an option. The monsters had found him once; they’d find him again. He trudged through the forest, the mud sucking at his shoes, his damp jacket clinging to his shoulders. The air was cold, the drizzle persistent, but the water on his skin felt comforting, like a friend he hadn’t known he had. He followed the stream, its gentle flow guiding him through the darkness. The trees thinned as he continued, the ground leveling out into a gravel path that led to a narrow road. A rusted signpost leaned crookedly at the edge, its letters faded but legible: Route 206 West.

“Well, at least I’m out of New York,” he muttered to himself. 

The road stretched into the darkness, flanked by dense woods on one side and open fields on the other, their grasses swaying in the night breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, swallowed by the chirps of crickets. Other than that, it was quiet, save for the occasional rumble of a passing car, its headlights slicing through the mist before disappearing around a bend. He kept to the shoulder, his shoes crunching on loose gravel, his head low to avoid drawing attention. 

Hours passed, the night growing colder, the mist thickening into a fog that curled around the trees like ghostly fingers. His breath puffed in front of him, and his teeth chattered despite the jacket. He needed food, shelter, and a moment to rest, but he didn’t dare stop. Not with monsters out there, sniffing for his “ half-blood scent,” as Marty had put it. The memory of the snake-haired woman’s hisses, her serpents writhing, made his skin crawl. If they’d found him once, they’d find him again. He had to keep moving.

Fueled by that thought, Percy walked on, the fog swirling around him, the road stretching into the unknown. Each step was a choice, a defiance of the monsters, the doubts, the guilt of what he’d done to his parent. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he’d face it. He had to. The wolf’s howl echoed in his mind, a call he couldn’t ignore, and with it came a flicker of something fierce, something unbreakable. He was Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, and he was still standing.

And so, he kept walking, a lone figure in the mist, chasing a path only he could follow.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Rome is Watching

The California sun burned high, a relentless disk searing the cracked asphalt of the highway. Percy trudged along the shoulder of the highway, kicking up dust as endless streams of cars flew past. A month had passed since he’d slipped out of New York’s shadows, a month of stolen rides, sleepless nights, and the constant threat of danger. His clothes hung even looser now, his scrawny frame leaner from days of scarce meals, mostly scavenged fruit, gas station jerky, and the occasional kindness of strangers. But people rarely let him tag along or help for more than a day or two. They seemed to be nervous or uneasy around him for some reason. 

He’d crossed the country in fragments: hitching rides in truck beds, hiding in train cars, and once, memorably, stowing away on a bus full of retirees headed for Vegas. Each mile brought new threats. Monsters with glinting eyes in alleyways, voices whispering his name from storm drains, shadows that moved against the wind. He’d fought when he had to, the sword flashing from his ring in bursts of instinct, its golden blade slicing through claws and scales. The stream in Pennsylvania had been a turning point, proof of the power in his blood, but it scared him as much as it saved him. Neptune’s son. The words still felt strange to him.

Now, the Pacific Ocean glinted to his left, a restless expanse of blue that called to him, its waves crashing against the rocky cliffs below. The air tasted of salt, a far cry from the diesel and damp concrete of New York. He’d made it to California, though he wasn’t sure exactly where. The road signs blurred together with names that meant nothing to him. All he knew was that he was told to follow the coast. He rounded a bend, the highway curving along a cliff’s edge. Seagulls flew overhead, their cries cutting through the roar of the surf. A battered pickup rumbled past, its driver barely glancing at the kid with the oversized jacket and haunted eyes. Percy kept his head down, his black hair falling into his face, hiding the scar. He was used to being invisible now, a ghost slipping through the world’s cracks. But invisibility didn’t stop the monsters. They’d found him in Ohio, in Nebraska, in the Nevada desert, each fight leaving him more exhausted, more certain he couldn’t keep running forever. 

But he didn’t have to keep running much longer. The Wolf House was close now. He could feel it in his bones, that itch in his chest pulling him like a compass needle toward something he couldn’t name. He adjusted the strap of his tattered backpack—stolen from a dumpster—and squinted against the sun, his green eyes catching the light like sea glass. He only had a couple more hours of daylight, it seemed. And judging by how no one would stop to pick him up, he’d likely be walking through the night again. The thought didn’t thrill him, but it was familiar by now. Another night of cold, hunger, and watching the shadows. 

As the hours passed and the sun began to set, the California sky bled into a deep orange, casting long shadows across the ground. The highway stretched quietly now, the stream of cars thinning as dusk settled. The cliffs to his left dropped sharply to the sea, while to his right, dense forests loomed, their towering trunks swallowing the fading light. The air began to cool, causing Percy to tug at his jacket tightly, the torn fabric stiff from days of sweat. 

As much as he wanted to continue walking, the cold and hunger were getting to him, his limbs shaky and heavy, threatening to give out at any moment. He needed to find shelter, something to eat, and a moment to think. The road curved sharply, and ahead, a faded wooden sign caught his eye, half-hidden by overgrown ferns. It pointed to a park, and below it, a smaller sign pointed to a trailhead leading into the forest. A park meant people, maybe a ranger station, a chance for food, or at least a place to hide for the night. His stomach growled, a reminder of the apple core he’d eaten at dawn, scavenged from a gas station trash can. He glanced at the ocean, its waves glinting under the dying sun, then back at the trail.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Forest it is.” He stepped off the highway, his feet finding relief in the dirt rather than the hard asphalt he’d been walking on all day, as he followed the narrow path into the trees. The forest was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the distant crash of waves. His senses stayed sharp, honed by the numerous encounters with monsters he’s had over the month. Every snap of a twig made his ring finger twitch, ready to summon the golden sword at any moment.

The trail wound deeper, the redwoods towering like silent giants, their branches blocking out the last of the twilight. He moved quickly, his breath puffing in the chill, eyes scanning the shadows. After about a mile, the path opened into a small clearing, where a weathered ranger station stood, its windows dark, roof sagging under a blanket of moss, seemingly unoccupied. The station looked abandoned, its paint peeling in long, curling strips, and a rusted padlock hung crookedly on the door. Percy’s heart sank slightly—no food here, no warmth—but it was better than sleeping exposed to the elements. He crept closer, his steps silent on the damp earth, and peered through a grimy window. Inside, shadows cloaked the room, but he made out a desk cluttered with papers, a cracked chair, and shelves sagging under dusty maps and old cans. No signs of life, human or otherwise.

He circled the building, looking for a way in. The back door was boarded up, but one of the boards was loose, its nails rusted through. He tugged at it, wincing at the faint creak, and managed to pry it free. The door groaned as he pushed it open, the hinges protesting after years of neglect. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of mildew and rotting wood. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The ranger station was a single room, cramped and cluttered, with a small fireplace in one corner, its hearth cold and choked with ash. A threadbare cot sat against the far wall, its mattress wet, sagging, and stained.

Despite that, however, it was the best spot to rest he’d had in weeks. 

Percy dropped his backpack onto the floor, the thud echoing in the quiet. His stomach growled again, louder now, and he rummaged through the pack, hoping he’d missed something edible in his last check. Nothing but the crumpled Skittles wrapper, now faded and torn, a useless relic of the life he’d escaped from. He sighed, slumping onto the cot, ignoring the wet stains beneath him. The faint drip of water from a leak in the roof punctuated the silence, each drop echoing like a clock ticking down. His fingers traced the golden ring, its warmth fighting against the chill creeping into his bones.

The events of the past month inevitably drifted through his mind as he sat in silence. Talking animals, monsters, a dream of a wolf, and a city called New Rome. He was a demigod, son of Neptune, or so Blackjack and Marty had claimed. The thought still felt like a fever dream, but the power he’d unleashed in the stream, the way the water had obeyed him, was undeniable. He wasn’t just a kid anymore. He was something else, something dangerous.

The building’s single window rattled as a gust of wind swept through the forest, carrying the distant crash of waves from the ocean. He glanced at it, half-expecting to see glowing eyes in the darkness beyond. Nothing. Just the black expanse of the redwoods, their shadows swaying ominously. He forced himself to relax, though his muscles stayed taut, ready to spring. A month on the run would do that to you. The cot creaked under him as he leaned back, his head resting against the rough wall. Sleep was a risk, he knew that now, but exhaustion was winning. His eyelids drooped, the weight of the day pulling him under.

His dream was something different this time compared to the others. There were no wolves, no soldiers marching, not even an ocean or a river. This time, he was in a singular tent. It was spacious, smelling of leather and iron, with bookshelves, a table littered with maps of battlefields, and an armor stand, adorning similar armor to what the man was wearing in his previous dream. Its golden breastplate was etched with the same laurel and lightning motifs Percy had seen in his earlier dream. A crimson cloak hung beside it, draped like a bloodstain frozen in time. Outside, the wind howled, carrying faint echoes of clashing steel and shouted commands, but inside the tent, it was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a lit candle.

Percy stood in the center, his sneakers silent on the woven rug. He didn’t know how he’d gotten here, but the dream felt as real as the ranger station’s damp cot. Hearing footsteps behind him, he spun, his fingers instinctively flexing around the ring, ready to summon the sword. Turning around, expecting to see a monster, he was surprised to find himself looking up at a tall man. He looked to be in his late thirties, his face weathered, lined with scars that spoke of battles fought and won, but his eyes, burning, intense, like embers in a dying fire, held Percy’s gaze with unshakable authority. The younger boy noticed a faint golden glint on the man’s finger. Taking a closer look, he noticed that he too carried the same ring. Percy didn’t know if he should even be surprised at this point, considering the man in his previous dream did as well.

Despite that, he was different from the other man, yet no less intense. The two stared at one another in silence for a moment, seemingly gauging one another. The man’s presence filled the tent like a storm waiting to break, his broad shoulders squared, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a simple tunic, but the way he carried himself, rigid, commanding, made it clear he was no ordinary soldier. His dark hair was streaked with gray, cropped close in a military style, and a faint scar ran from his temple to his jaw, mirroring the one Percy now bore across his brow.

“So you are the new bearer of the ring,” the man greeted, his voice deep and melodic, carrying a tone of someone used to being obeyed. 

“Y-yeah, that’s me, I guess,” Percy stuttered, his heart beating like a war drum for some reason. He squared his shoulders, trying to match the man’s commanding presence, but he felt small under that piercing gaze. “Who are you? Another guy with a ring like mine? I’ve been seeing a lot of those lately.”

The man’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. “Names carry power, boy. Mine is not for you to know yet. But you’re here because you’re meant to be. This—” He gestured to the tent, the maps, the armor gleaming in the corner. “This is a glimpse of what you’re tied to. A legacy older than the cities you’ve fled through, stronger than the monsters hunting you. And this ring,” he raised his hand, the golden band glinting in the candlelight, its swirling patterns identical to Percy’s, “is a mark of destiny. It binds us, you and I, across time.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed, frustration bubbling up. “More riddles,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I’m sick of riddles. Everyone, monsters, talking horses, old ladies on ferries, keeps telling me stuff I barely understand, but nobody tells me what it means. You’re in my dream, so you owe me something. Tell me who you are, or what this place is, or why I keep seeing guys like you with rings like mine.”

The man’s gaze hardened, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he was testing Percy’s nerve. He stepped closer, his boots silent on the rug, and leaned down slightly, his face inches from Percy’s. “You want answers, Perseus? Earn them. The ring you wear is no trinket; it’s a mark of lineage, of duty. It binds you to Rome, to the gods, to a fight that’s been raging since before you were born. I wore it once, as did others before me. Each bore its weight, its power, its curse.”

“Curse?” the boy’s voice cracked, the word hitting like a punch. He glanced at the ring, its golden surface glowing faintly, as if it were listening. “What kind of curse?”

The man straightened, his expression unreadable. “The kind that comes with power. You’ve felt it, the water bending to your will, the strength in your blood. But power draws enemies, young one. It draws betrayal, sacrifice, loss. You’ve already tasted it.” His eyes flicked to Percy’s hands, as if he could see the blood that no longer stained them, the blood of his mother, of Gabe. “The path to New Rome will demand more.”

Percy’s chest tightened, the memory of his mother’s lifeless eyes flashing through his mind. He shoved it down, focusing on the present. “New Rome,” he said, latching onto the name. “I saw it. In another dream. A city with temples and a coliseum. The wolf and the other man carrying the ring led me there. That’s where I’m supposed to go, right?”

The man nodded, his gaze drifting to the tent’s flap, where the faint sounds of battle echoed, distant but no less horrifying. “New Rome is the heart of our kind, a sanctuary for demigods who prove themselves worthy. But it’s not a gift, it’s a crucible. You’ll be forged there, or you’ll break. Mother Lupa will see to that.”

“Lupa again,” Percy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “The wolf. I think I saw her in my dream.”

“Lupa is the mother of Rome, the guardian of its legacy. She raised Romulus and Remus, the founders of the eternal city. She tests those who seek to join her pack, to claim their place among the legion. She’ll judge you, Perseus. Your heart, your strength, your will. Pass her trial, and she’ll guide you to Camp Jupiter. Fail, and…” He trailed off, his silence heavier than words.

The son of Neptune swallowed hard, his throat dry. “And I’m wolf food. Got it.” He tried to sound flippant, but the fear was there, gnawing at him. He glanced at the armor stand, the crimson cloak swaying slightly in the breeze seeping through the tent. “So, you’re Roman too, then? Like the guy I saw in my last dream, with the army and the eagle standard?”

The man’s expression shifted, a shadow passing over his face. “Rome is eternal, but its faces change. I am… a memory of its past, a shadow of its will. You’ll meet others like me in time. Those who carried the ring, who bore its burden. We watch. We guide, when we must.”

“Great,” Percy said, sarcasm masking his unease. “More cryptic ghosts. Just what I need.” He gestured to the tent, the maps, the distant clash of steel. “So, what’s this? Some kind of Roman war camp? Am I supposed to fight in it?”

The man’s gaze softened, just a fraction, as if he saw something in the boy that reminded him of himself. “This is but a moment in history. A fragment of Rome’s heart, preserved to show you what you’re part of. You’re not here to fight, not yet. You’re here to understand. The blood of Neptune makes you a force of reckoning, but it’s your choices that will shape what you become. Rome demands loyalty, discipline, sacrifice. Can you give that?”

Percy’s jaw clenched, his sea-green eyes flashing with defiance. “I don’t even know what I’m fighting for. I’ve got monsters chasing me, a sword I barely understand, and dreams that make no sense. You want loyalty? Give me something to believe in.”

The man studied him for a long moment, then nodded, as if he had passed some unspoken test. “Fair enough,” he replied. “Belief comes with time. For now, survive. Find the Wolf House. Face Mother Lupa. She’ll show you the path to New Rome, and there, you’ll find your purpose or lose yourself trying.”

The tent began to fade, the edges of the world blurring like ink in water. The man’s form shimmered, his features dissolving into shadow. “Wait!” Percy called out, stepping forward, but the ground beneath him shifted, soft and muddy, like the riverbank from his earlier dream. The man’s voice echoed, faint but clear, as the tent collapsed into darkness.

“Stand and fight, Perseus. Rome is watching.”

Percy’s eyes snapped open, his heart pounding against his ribs. He was back in the ranger station, sprawled on the sagging cot, the air heavy with mildew and the faint drip of the leaky roof. His breath came in short gasps, his hand instinctively gripping the ring. The dream clung to him, vivid and heavy, the man’s amber eyes burned into his memory. Rome is watching. The words sent a shiver down his spine, but they also lit a spark in his chest, that restless itch flaring brighter than ever.

He sat up, wincing as the cot creaked beneath him. The ranger station was still dark, the window rattling softly in the wind. He peered up at it, expecting to see only darkness. Instead, he saw a tall, dark figure staring at him through the cracked glass. Its eyes glinted with an unnatural white glow, piercing through the night like twin lanterns. Percy froze, his breath catching in his throat as he sat completely still, unsure if he was seeing things right or still in a dream. The figure didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stood there, its silhouette tall and imposing against the moonlit forest. His instincts screamed at him to act, to run, to fight, but his body felt rooted to the cot, pinned by that unnatural gaze.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if studying him, and for a moment, Percy swore he saw the faint outline of a familiar police officer's uniform, its golden badge reflecting the stars overhead. His blood ran cold, not wanting to believe it true. But the more he looked at it, the more he realized it was true. The silhouette was unmistakable now, the same broad shoulders, the glint of a badge, the frayed NYPD uniform that clung to a frame too large. It was the cop from the bodega, the monster with obsidian eyes and too many teeth. How had it found him here, in a forgotten ranger station on the edge of California?

The monster’s head tilted further, an unnatural angle that sent a shiver down his spine, its glowing eyes narrowing as it watched Percy slowly angle himself against the wall. It raised a hand, its fingers long and clawed, pressing against the glass. The window groaned under the pressure, the cracks spiderwebbing outward with a faint, splintering sound. Percy’s heart lurched, realizing it was trying to get inside. He glanced at his backpack across from him, wondering if he could make a break for the door before it was too late. The monster’s lips parted, revealing rows of jagged teeth that gleamed like shards of black glass, and a low hiss slithered through the air, audible even over the wind rattling the station’s walls.

“You can’t hide, Perseus,” it rasped. 

The words slithered through his mind like a blade scraping bone. Forcing himself to move, he rolled off the cot and scrambled to his feet. The monster’s glowing eyes tracked him through the cracked glass, unblinking, its clawed hand still pressed against the window. The glass groaned louder, a high-pitched whine signaling it was seconds from shattering. Percy’s fingers curled around the ring, its warmth urging him to act. He didn’t have time to think as instinct took over. 

He lunged for his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as he bolted for the back door. The window exploded behind him, glass shards spraying across the room like shrapnel. The monster’s hiss turned into a snarl as it watched him flee. Percy didn’t look back. He slammed his shoulder into the door, the rusted hinges screaming as it gave way, and stumbled out into the cold night air.

The forest loomed around him, the redwoods towering, their branches swallowing the moonlight. He sprinted down the trail, his torn-up shoes slipping on the damp earth, heart pounding in his ears. Behind him, the monster crashed through the ranger station, its claws tearing through wood and metal with a sound like a chainsaw. The ground trembled under its pursuit, fueling Percy’s resolve to keep running. The trail twisted, narrowing as it wound deeper into the forest. Low branches whipped at his face, leaving stinging welts, but he pushed through, hoping there was no sudden dropoff in the darkness. 

Percy risked a glance over his shoulder and wished he hadn’t. The creature was hot on his trail. Its NYPD uniform hung in tatters, revealing a hulking frame of corded muscle and glistening black scales. Its face was a nightmare, eyes like white-hot coals, a maw stretched wide with jagged teeth, and a tongue that flicked out, tasting the air. It moved too fast for something so large, its claws ripping through roots and underbrush like paper.

“Perseus!” it roared, its voice a distorted chorus, as if multiple throats spoke at once. “You cannot outrun your fate! You are mine!”

The trail twisted sharply, the ground uneven beneath Percy’s feet as he sprinted, his breath ragged, the cold air burning his lungs. The monster’s roars echoed behind him, closer now, the crunch of its claws tearing through the forest floor like a relentless machine. The ring on his finger pulsed, its heat spreading up his arm, urging him to fight, to stand his ground, but every instinct screamed to keep running. The path dipped into a ravine, the redwoods thinning as the terrain opened into a rocky clearing bordered by cliffs. 

He skidded to a halt, his shoes sliding on loose gravel, as the trail dead-ended into a clearing surrounded by cliffs, leaving him nowhere to go but upward. But he didn’t have time to climb as the monster suddenly burst into the clearing, its massive form tearing through the last of the underbrush. Its glowing eyes locked onto him, and its maw split into a grotesque grin, teeth glinting like obsidian daggers. The tattered remains of the officer's uniform hung off its scaled body, a mockery of the human it pretended to be.

“No more running, demigod,” it growled, vibrating Percy’s bones. “Your blood belongs to me.”

The son of Neptune took a step backward, his back pressed against the rough cliff face, the cold stone biting into his skin through his tattered jacket. His chest heaved, each breath a struggle against the panic clawing at his throat. The monster loomed before him, its claws flexing as it took a deliberate step closer. The clearing was a trap—no paths out, no cover, just the towering cliffs that watched them from above. 

“I smell your fear,” the monster laughed, a strange, beastly sound, as it approached closer. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had blood from the sea. It’ll be a delight to feast on yours.” 

The boy, through his panic and fear, somehow managed to feel anger in that comment. He’d traveled so far across the country, survived on meager scraps, and fought monsters in alleys, deserts, and forests. He’d faced hunger, cold, and darkness, all to reach this moment, and he wasn’t about to let some overgrown lizard end his journey here. The ring on his finger burned hotter, its golden glow pulsing in time with his racing heart. The restless itch in his chest surged, not urging him to run this time, but to fight, to claim his place, to prove he was more than prey.

“Enough,” Percy growled. He clenched his fist, the ring’s warmth spreading through him like wildfire. With a flash of gold, the sword materialized in his hand, its blade gleaming under the faint moonlight. “You want my blood? Come and take it.”

The monster’s grin widened, its eyes flaring brighter in anticipation. “Oh, I love it when they fight back. It makes the reward so much better!” It suddenly lunged, claws slashing through the air with a screech like metal on stone. Percy dove to the side, rolling across the gravel, the blade slicing upward in a desperate arc. The sword connected, sparks flying as it grazed the creature’s scaled arm, drawing a thin line of black ichor. The monster roared, more annoyed than hurt, and swung again, its claws raking the spot where he had stood mere seconds before, sending shards of rock flying.

He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the loose gravel, but the sword gave him balance. The clearing was small, barely thirty feet across, hemmed in by towering cliffs on three sides and the monster blocking the only way back to the trail. He had no water to call on this time, no stream to bend to his will, but the ocean’s distant roar echoed in his ears, a reminder of who he was. Son of Neptune. Demigod. He wasn’t running anymore.

The monster’s claws tore through the air again, a blur of black scales and glinting death. He ducked, the wind of the strike whistling past his ear, and swung his sword upward, aiming for the creature’s exposed flank. The golden blade bit into its side, drawing a spray of ichor that hissed as it hit the ground, but the monster barely flinched. Its massive tail whipped around, nailing Percy into the ribs and sending him sprawling across the gravel, the air knocked from his lungs. Pain exploded in his chest, burning and blinding, but he forced himself to roll, narrowly avoiding claws as they slammed into the ground where he’d landed, sending up a spray of dirt and rock.

Percy gasped, clutching his side, his vision swimming. The monster loomed closer, its glowing eyes boring into him, its teeth bared in a predatory grin. “You’re quick, half-blood,” it rasped, its words a grating chorus that echoed off the cliffs. “But quick doesn’t mean strong. You’re nothing without your little tricks, your water. Just a boy playing hero.”

Percy’s grip on the sword tightened, his knuckles whitening as he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his ribs. The monster’s taunt stung, but it also fueled the fire in his chest, that itch that had been growing since New York. He wasn’t just a boy, not anymore. He’d survived too much, seen too much, to let this thing reduce him to nothing. The ocean’s distant roar filled his ears, a steady rhythm that matched his heartbeat, reminding him of the power in his blood. Even without water, he was Neptune’s son, and he’d make that mean something.

“Keep talking,” he spat. “And I’ll rip your tongue out!” He shifted his stance, planting his feet firmly on the gravel, the golden sword raised in a defensive arc. The monster’s glowing eyes narrowed, its grin faltering for a split second, as if it sensed the shift in him, the moment when fear gave way to resolve.

The creature lunged again, its claws slashing in a wide arc, aiming to tear him in half. Percy dove to the right, the blade whistling past his shoulder, and rolled back to his feet, swinging his sword in a counterstrike. The golden blade sliced through the air, catching the monster’s forearm and drawing another spurt of black ichor. This time, the creature snarled in pain, its massive form recoiling slightly, giving him a fleeting moment to breathe. He used it, circling to the side, keeping the cliff wall at his back to limit the monster’s angles of attack.

The clearing was a cage, the cliffs hemming him in, but Percy turned it to his advantage. The monster was big, powerful, but its size made it less agile in the tight space. He darted forward, feinting left, then lunged right, slashing at the creature’s leg. The sword bit into its scaled thigh, and the monster roared, its tail whipping out again. He anticipated it this time, leaping over the sweeping appendage and landing on a knee.

“You’re slowing down,” he taunted, hoping to rattle it. “What’s wrong? Not used to prey that fights back?” He didn’t know where the bravado came from, but it felt right. The monster’s eyes flared, its claws flexing as it let out a terrifying roar.

It charged again with terrifying speed, its claws aimed at his chest. Percy dove under the strike, sliding across the gravel, feeling the sting of rocks tearing at his skin. He swung upward as he passed, the sword slicing into the monster’s underbelly, drawing a spray of ichor that sizzled as it hit the ground. The creature staggered, its roar shaking the cliffs, but it didn’t fall. Instead, it spun, its tail lashing out like a whip, catching the boy’s shoulder and sending him crashing into the cliff face.

Pain exploded through his arm, his vision spinning as he slumped against the rock, the sword falling out of his grasp. The monster loomed closer, its features blazing with triumph. Its claws flexed, glinting in the moonlight, as it took a deliberate step forward, savoring the moment.

“Pathetic,” it hissed. “Your father’s blood won’t save you now.”

Percy’s chest heaved, his breath coming out more as a wheeze. He definitely had internal damage. Despite that, he forced himself to focus, his sea-green eyes narrowing as he pushed off the cliff, ignoring the screaming pain. He wasn’t done yet. For some reason, he glanced up at the cliffs surrounding the clearing, and there, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, he saw them, wolves. Their silvery fur gleamed faintly, their amber eyes glowing with the same intensity as the wolf from his dream. They stood motionless, watching him from the cliff’s edge, their gazes piercing, judging.

Rome is watching.

The words from his dream echoed in his mind as if the wolves themselves were speaking. The monster took another step, its claws scraping the gravel, but Percy’s focus sharpened, the pain fading to the background. The wolves’ presence wasn’t a threat; it was a challenge, a reminder of Lupa, of the path he was on. He wasn’t just fighting for survival anymore; he was fighting to prove himself worthy.

The monster lunged, its claws slashing toward his throat. Percy dove forward, rolling under the strike, his hand closing around the grip of his sword. With a surge of will, he swung upward as he came out of the roll, the blade slicing across the monster’s chest, drawing a spray of black ichor that landed all across his skin. The creature roared, staggering back, its eyes wide with shock.

He sprang to his feet, ignoring the ache in his ribs and shoulder, and charged. The monster swiped at him, but he ducked, the claws whistling over his head, and drove the sword into its side, twisting the blade for maximum damage. The creature screamed, a sound that shook the cliffs, and its massive arm swung wildly, catching Percy in the chest and sending him skidding across the ground once more.

He hit the ground hard, the air knocked from his lungs, but he clung to the sword, refusing to let it slip away again. The monster staggered, ichor pouring from its wounds, but it wasn’t done. It lowered its head and charged like a bull, its claws aimed to tear him apart. Percy’s instincts screamed, and he rolled to the side, the monster’s claws slamming into the cliff face, sending shards of rock flying. He scrambled to his feet and saw the wolves again, their gazes locked on him, unblinking. Stand and fight, Perseus. 

The monster spun, its tail whipping toward him, but he was ready this time. He leaped over it and sprinted forward, closing the distance before the creature could recover. He aimed for its neck, the sword flashing in the moonlight, but the monster twisted, catching the blade with its claws in a shower of sparks. The impact jarred Percy’s arms, the sword nearly wrenching from his grip, but he held on, his muscles screaming as he pushed against the creature’s strength.

“You’re nothing!” the monster roared, its voice cracking with rage. “A child of a god no one loves! I’ll rip you apart and drink your blood!” 

Percy’s jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with a fire that matched the wolves’ above. He gave a roar of his own, shoving forward with all his strength, forcing the monster’s claws back. The creature snarled, its maw opening wide, and lunged, its teeth aiming for his throat. Percy saw his chance. He dropped low, letting the monster’s momentum carry it forward, and drove the sword upward with every ounce of strength he had left. The golden blade sank into the soft flesh of the creature’s throat, piercing through scales and muscle.

The monster’s roar turned into a choked gurgle, its glowing eyes widening in shock. Percy twisted the blade, feeling the resistance give way as ichor poured from the wound, hot and acrid, splashing across his hands and face. The creature thrashed, its claws flailing, but he held on, driving the sword deeper until the monster’s movements slowed, its massive body slumping to the ground with a thud that shook the clearing. The glowing eyes dimmed, flickering like dying embers, and then went dark.

Percy stumbled back, the sword slipping from his grip and transforming back into the ring. His chest heaved, his body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion. The clearing was silent now, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant crash of waves from the ocean. He looked down at the monster’s body, its black scales glistening with ichor, already beginning to dissolve into a pile of golden dust that scattered in the breeze. He’d done it. He’d actually killed it.

His gaze lifted to the cliffs, where the wolves still stood, all eyes fixed on him. One stepped forward, its silvery fur catching the moonlight, and let out a low, resonant howl that echoed through the night. The others joined in, their voices rising in a chorus that sent a shiver down Percy’s spine. It wasn’t a threat, it was approval, a recognition of his victory.  

The lead wolf lowered its head, its eyes locking onto his, and in that moment, he realized who it was. Her aura was undeniable, ancient and powerful, sending goosebumps across his skin. This was the mother of Rome. Guardian of the legion. He stood in silence as she approached, her massive form moving with a grace that belied her size, her silvery fur shimmering under the moonlight. The other wolves remained on the cliffs, their howls fading into the night as they watched from above, leaving only the sound of Lupa’s paws crunching softly on the gravel. Percy held his breath, his body still aching from the fight, but he stood his ground, meeting her amber gaze. The itch in his chest flared, not with fear, but with a strange certainty, as if he’d been waiting for this moment since he’d first heard her name.

Lupa stopped a few feet away, her head tilting slightly, those piercing eyes studying him with an intensity that made him feel transparent, as if she could see every choice, every doubt, every moment of defiance that had brought him here. He didn’t speak, couldn’t find the words, but he didn’t need to. The silence between them was heavy with meaning, a conversation without sound.

Finally, after a moment of silence, she spoke. 

“Come with me, pup. You have much to learn.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Heart of the Pup

Dawn broke over the trees, painting the forest in hues of gold and pink, as Percy followed Lupa through the dense underbrush. They’d been walking for what felt like miles, each step painful. His body ached, bruises from the fight with the monster throbbed with every step, his ribs protesting where the creature’s tail had struck. But Lupa paid no attention, or rather didn’t care about his winces or grimaces, moving ahead, her massive form weaving through the trees with silent grace, her silvery fur catching the first rays of sunlight. She hadn’t spoken since her command to follow, and Percy didn’t push her. Her presence alone was enough, an aura that demanded respect without effort.

The trail wound upward, the ground rocky and uneven, forcing him to watch his step. His tattered shoes, already worn thin from weeks on the road, snagged on roots and stones, but he pressed on. The wolves from the cliffs trailed at a distance, their amber eyes glinting through the trees, a silent escort that kept Percy’s senses on edge. He wasn’t sure if they were guarding him or ensuring he didn’t bolt. Either way, their presence was a reminder: he was being judged.

Lupa led him to a clearing where the trees parted, revealing a sprawling estate nestled against a hillside. Its stone walls were weathered, ivy clinging to their cracks, but the structure stood proud, its arches and columns echoing the Roman architecture from his dreams. The roof was tiled in faded red, and a massive oak door, carved with images of wolves and laurel wreaths, loomed at the entrance. The air thrummed with energy, the same dreamlike haze he’d felt by the riverbank and in the tent, but more intense, as if the place itself were alive, watching him.

So this was it. The place he’d spent a month traveling across the country to find. 

Lupa stopped before the door, her gaze locking onto his. “This is the Wolf House, Perseus,” she stated, a twinge of pride in her words. “Here, you will be tested. Strength, cunning, heart, these are the measures of a Roman. Prove yourself worthy, and you will find your path to New Rome. Fail, and you will not leave this place.”

Lupa’s lips curled back, revealing a hint of sharp teeth, a wolf’s version of a smile. “The tests are not for me to reveal. They will find you, as the monsters have. Survive them, and you will understand.” She stepped aside, her massive paw brushing the earth, and the oak door creaked open, revealing a shadowed interior. “Enter, pup. Your journey begins now.”

He hesitated, glancing at the wolves circling the clearing, their eyes unblinking. The ring burned hotter, urging him forward, and he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He’d faced monsters, survived a cross-country trek, and killed a creature that should’ve torn him apart. Whatever waited inside, he’d face it too. He stepped through the doorway, the cool air of the Wolf House enveloping him, and the door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

Inside, the hall was vast, its stone floor polished smooth, its walls lined with faded frescoes depicting battles, gods, and wolves. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the figures seem alive. At the far end, a stone altar stood, draped in a crimson cloth embroidered with a golden eagle. Above it hung a massive tapestry, its threads depicting a she-wolf nursing two infants beneath a fig tree. Romulus and Remus, Percy realized, the founders of Rome. He didn’t know how he recognized it, having never heard those names before. For some reason, however, it just came to him naturally.

Deep in thought, he failed to catch the slight hint of movement coming from behind him in the shadows. It wasn’t until he heard a low growl echoing throughout the hall that he turned around. His ring finger twitched, ready to summon the sword. But it wasn’t a monster. A wolf stepped into the torchlight, smaller than Lupa but no less imposing, its fur a deep charcoal gray, its eyes glowing like embers. It paced toward him, head low, sizing him up.

The son of Neptune involuntarily took a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. He didn’t want to fight this wolf, or rather, couldn’t. His injuries from the previous battle still throbbed, his ribs aching with every breath, and his strength was nearly spent. The wolf’s growl deepened, a low rumble that vibrated through the stone floor, causing Percy’s heart to race. He forced himself to stay calm, meeting the wolf’s gaze, remembering Lupa’s words: Strength, cunning, heart.  

His breath hitched as the animal stalked closer, its ember-like eyes locked onto his. The air in the hall thickened, the torchlight flickering as if the flames themselves were holding their breath. His fingers twitched around the ring, urging him to summon the sword. He focused, willing the golden blade to appear, but nothing happened. The ring stayed cold, inert, its usual spark absent. He tried again, twisting it, pressing his thumb against the etched surface, but the sword refused to materialize. Panic clawed at his chest. The ring had never failed him before, not in Ohio, not in Nebraska, not even against the monster in the clearing just hours ago. Why now?

The wolf’s growl grew louder, pulling his attention back. Its lips curled back, revealing gleaming fangs, and its muscles tensed, ready to pounce. Percy’s mind raced. No sword, no water nearby, and his body was a map of bruises and exhaustion. He was cornered in this ancient hall, with no room to run and no weapon to fight. The wolf took another step, its claws clicking against the stone floor, each sound echoing like a countdown.

“Okay, okay,” Percy muttered under his breath, raising his hands higher, palms open, trying to look non-threatening. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just… let’s talk this out, yeah?” His voice wavered, but he kept his eyes on the wolf’s, remembering something from a wildlife show he’d watched: never look away from a predator. It felt like a lifetime ago, sitting on a sagging couch in that run-down apartment with his drunken parents. The memory stung, but he shoved it down. Focus. Survive.

The wolf didn’t seem interested in talking. It lunged, a blur of gray fur and snapping jaws, aiming for his throat. Percy dove to the side, hitting the stone floor hard, his bruised ribs screaming in protest. The wolf’s teeth snapped shut inches from his face, the hot gust of its breath washing over him. He scrambled to his feet, backing toward the altar, his hands still raised. “Come on, I’m one of you, right? Lupa’s pup or whatever? Let’s not do this!”

The animal circled, its eyes never leaving his, its body low and coiled like a spring. Percy scanned the hall for anything he could use, a weapon, a shield, anything. The frescoes on the walls offered no help, their painted warriors frozen in useless glory. The torches were too high to reach, and the altar’s crimson cloth was just fabric, no match for fangs and claws. His backpack lay crumpled by the door where he’d dropped it, too far to grab. He was alone, weaponless, and running out of time.

The wolf charged again, faster this time, its claws scraping sparks from the stone. Percy threw himself behind the altar, the heavy stone catching the wolf’s momentum as it slammed into it, shaking the platform. The tapestry above swayed, dust raining down, and the golden eagle embroidered on the cloth seemed to glint in approval. His heart pounded, his mind racing for a plan. The ring wasn’t working, and he couldn’t outrun a wolf in this state. He had to fight, bare-handed, battered, and against a creature born to kill.

Once again, Lupa’s words echoed in his head. The wolf wasn’t just testing his ability to fight; it was testing his will, his resourcefulness. He couldn’t rely on the sword or his powers. This was on him and him alone. 

The wolf leaped onto the altar, its claws gouging the stone, its growl vibrating through Percy’s bones. He ducked under its swipe, feeling the air shift as its claws passed inches from his head. He grabbed the crimson cloth, yanking it free from the altar, and spun, throwing it over the wolf’s head. The fabric tangled around its face, momentarily blinding it. The wolf snarled, thrashing to free itself, and Percy seized the chance. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the wolf’s neck in a desperate chokehold, using his body weight to drag it off the altar.

The animal’s massive body thrashed beneath him, its claws scraping wildly against the stone floor. The crimson cloth tangled around its head muffled its snarls, but the beast’s raw power was overwhelming. Percy clung to its neck, his arms burning with the effort, his bruised ribs screaming as the wolf bucked and twisted, trying to shake him off. His legs scrambled for purchase, wrapping around the creature’s torso to anchor himself. The hall echoed with the wolf’s enraged growls and the scrape of claws on stone, the torchlight casting wild shadows over the struggling combatants.

Percy’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the fight raged on. The wolf was stronger than anything he’d faced. This was no ordinary beast; it was a child of Lupa, a guardian of Rome’s legacy, and it fought with a ferocity that matched its divine lineage. Its muscles rippled under his grip, each movement threatening to fling him off like a rag doll. He tightened his hold, his fingers digging into the thick fur, feeling the heat of the animal’s blood flowing beneath.

“Stay down!” he grunted, his voice hoarse, but the wolf only roared louder, its head thrashing to free itself from the cloth. The fabric tore, a shred of crimson fluttering to the ground, and one ember-like eye locked onto him through the opening, blazing with fury. Percy’s stomach twisted. He had seconds before the wolf broke free, and he had no weapon, no plan, just the desperate instinct to survive.

The ring on his finger was still cold, useless, refusing to summon the sword. His powers, the water that had once bent to his will, were out of reach in this dry, ancient hall. The ocean’s distant roar, which had fueled him in the clearing, was a faint memory now, drowned out by the wolf’s snarls and his own pounding heartbeat..

The wolf bucked again, its hind legs kicking out, and Percy’s grip slipped. He slid down its side, his hands scrabbling for purchase as the beast spun, its jaws snapping free of the cloth. Its teeth gleamed in the torchlight, inches from his face, and he felt the hot, sour breath wash over him. Time slowed, the world narrowing to those glowing eyes, those razor-sharp fangs.

With a surge of raw defiance, Percy lunged forward, not away. His hands grabbed the wolf’s muzzle, forcing its jaws shut with all his strength. The beast’s eyes widened, shocked by the audacity, and it reared back, dragging him across the stone floor. His knees scraped raw, blood mixing with the dust, but he held on, his muscles screaming, his vision blurring with the effort. The wolf shook its head violently, trying to fling him off, but Percy’s grip was iron, fueled by something deeper than strength. 

The wolf’s claws raked the air, missing him by inches as he twisted his body, keeping its jaws pinned. He could feel its strength waning, just slightly, its thrashing less coordinated as exhaustion set in. But Percy was fading too, his arms trembling, his ribs a furnace of pain. He couldn’t hold it much longer. He needed to end this, now, or he’d be the one broken on the floor.

Lupa’s words echoed again: Prove yourself worthy. The wolves on the cliffs, the men in his dreams, the golden ring, they all pointed to this moment. Rome demanded sacrifice, not just survival. Strength wasn’t enough; he had to show heart, the will to do what others wouldn’t. The wolf’s ember eyes burned into his, and in them, he saw not just a beast but a challenge, a mirror of his own resolve. This wasn’t just a test of survival; it was a test of who he could become.

With a guttural yell, Percy released the wolf’s muzzle and threw himself onto its back, wrapping his arms around its neck again. The beast roared, rearing up, its claws slashing wildly, but he clung on, his face pressed into its fur. The smell of earth and blood filled his nose, and he acted on instinct, driven by a primal fury he didn’t fully understand. He reared his head back and drove his teeth into the wolf’s throat, right where the pulse thrummed strongest, tearing through fur and flesh with a savage bite.

The wolf’s roar turned into a choked scream, its body convulsing as hot blood flooded his mouth, metallic and bitter. He bit harder, his jaw locking, tearing deeper, feeling the muscle give way under his teeth. The beast thrashed, its claws scraping the stone, but Percy held on, his hands gripping its fur, his legs clamped around its torso. Blood poured down his chin, soaking his tattered jacket, but he didn’t let go, not until the wolf’s struggles weakened, its body sagging beneath him.

With a final, shuddering gasp, the wolf collapsed, its massive body hitting the stone floor with a thud that echoed through the hall. Percy sat atop it triumphfully, his head tilted back, eyes closed, blood dripping down his mouth in rivulets. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, smearing crimson across his knuckles, and stared at the motionless body. Its charcoal fur was matted with blood, its ember-like eyes dimmed to a dull glow, flickering like a dying fire. The hall was silent now, save for the faint crackle of the torches and the distant drip of water echoing somewhere deep within the Wolf House. His body screamed with pain, bruised ribs, scraped knees, a throbbing shoulder, but he’d done it. He’d won.

He pushed himself to his knees, his hands trembling as he steadied himself against the altar. The crimson cloth lay in tatters nearby, stained with dirt and blood. The tapestry of Romulus and Remus loomed above, their features shadowed by the torches, their eyes seemingly watching him. A low growl broke the silence, and Percy’s heart lurched. He spun, finding Lupa herself stepping into the light from the shadowed doorway. She padded forward, her claws clicking softly against the stone, each step deliberate, her gaze never leaving his. The other wolves in the pack lingered in the shadows behind her, their eyes glinting like stars in the darkness, but they stayed back, deferring to their mother.

She stopped before the fallen wolf, her head tilting as she studied its body. She looked sad, giving the now-dead wolf a soft lick on its face. Then her gaze shifted to Percy, and he felt her judgment, as if she were peeling back his soul to see what lay beneath. He forced himself to stand, though his legs wobbled, and met her eyes, refusing to look away. Blood still dripped from his chin, his tattered jacket clinging to his sweat-soaked frame, but he squared his shoulders, summoning what little strength he had left. He’d faced her test and survived. He wouldn’t shrink now.

“You fought with heart,” Lupa said at last. “Not with a blade, not with the power of your father, but with the will of a Roman. You are young, pup, but there is strength in you.”

Percy swallowed, the taste of blood still pungent on his tongue. “Was that the test?” he asked. “Fighting your wolf bare-handed? Or was it just trying to kill me for fun?”

Lupa’s lips curled back, that wolfish almost-smile flashing her fangs. “The test is never singular, Perseus. It is not the fight alone, but what it reveals. You did not run. You did not falter, even when your gifts failed you. That is the mark of a warrior, not a child.”

He nodded, though his head spun with exhaustion. “So, what now? I passed, right?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have passed the first trial, pup. But the Wolf House does not yield its secrets so easily. There are more tests, challenges, to forge you into what Rome needs. The city awaits, but only for those who are worthy.”

Percy’s stomach twisted, a mix of relief and dread. “More tests,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Great. Any chance you can give me a hint about what’s next? Or maybe a sandwich first? I’m starving.”

Lupa’s tail flicked, a low huff escaping her, almost like a laugh. “You will find sustenance, but not here. The Wolf House is not a place of comfort. Follow me.” She turned, gliding toward an archway at the far end of the hall, one he hadn’t noticed before. The other wolves parted, their eyes still fixed on him, as if measuring his every step.

Percy hesitated, his body screaming for rest, but her command left no room for refusal. He grabbed his tattered backpack from the floor, wincing as the strap dug into his bruised shoulder, and followed her through the archway. The air grew warmer as he continued to walk, the stone walls giving way to a narrow passage that sloped downward, the flickering torchlight replaced by a faint, natural glow ahead. The passage eventually opened into a small clearing outside, with towering trees above and a small stream flowing through the middle. 

The area was bathed in the soft light of dawn, the first rays filtering through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the mossy ground. The stream gurgled gently, its clear water catching the sunlight like liquid crystal, winding through the center of the clearing before disappearing into the forest. Lupa stood at the stream’s edge, her fur glowing in the morning light, her eyes fixed on the water as if it held secrets only she could read.

The sight of the stream stopped him cold. His body practically screamed at him to jump in, to allow the water to mend his broken bones, heal his cuts, and wipe away the muck and blood that stuck to him like a second skin. He looked to the wolf, silently asking her permission to approach the water. She gave a slight nod, her tail flicking once as if granting him leave. He didn’t hesitate, dropping his backpack onto the mossy ground and stumbling toward the water, his legs nearly giving out as he knelt at the stream’s edge. The cool air rising from the surface brushed against his blood-streaked face, and he plunged his hands into the water, feeling an immediate jolt, like a current of electricity sparking through his veins.

The stream responded to him instantly. The water swirled around his fingers, alive and eager, wrapping around his hands like a living thing. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him, and felt the familiar pull in his chest, the power of his father’s blood awakening. The cuts on his knuckles began to close, the bruises on his arms fading from purple to pale yellow. His ribs, still throbbing from the monster’s tail and the wolf’s thrashing, ached less with each breath, the pain dulling as the water’s energy seeped into his bones. He splashed his face, washing away the blood and grime, and the exhaustion that had weighed him down began to lift, replaced by a clarity he hadn’t felt in weeks.

Lupa watched silently, her eyes looking at the water traveling across his skin with piqued curiosity. He wondered if it had been a while since she’d last seen a child of Neptune. Making a mental note to ask about that later, he rose from the stream, water dripping from his hands and chin. He felt stronger, not just physically but in a way that was harder to name, like the stream had washed away some of the doubt that had clung to him. He was still battered, but he stood taller, his sea-green eyes catching the dawn light.

“Thank you,” he said to her. “For… whatever this place is. For not letting me die back there.”

Lupa’s head tilted, the gratitude catching her off guard somewhat. “Do not thank me, pup. You are here on your merit and your merit alone. If you had not defeated that monster last night, I would have watched you be eaten without lifting a paw. It is only thanks to your strength that you are alive.”

“Oh.” That was the only appropriate word Percy could think of after hearing that. It was a reminder of the brutal honesty of this place. No coddling, no pity, just the cold reality of survival. “Fair enough,” he nodded, accepting the harsh truth. “So, what’s next? You said more tests. Where do I go?”

Lupa’s tail flicked, and she turned her head toward the stream, her ears twitching as if listening to something beyond his hearing. “The Wolf House is not a single trial, Perseus. It is a crucible. The tests will come as they will, shaped by your choices, your fears, your strengths. But if you truly wish to know, all you have to do is look into the water.”

Percy’s brow furrowed, his gaze shifting to the stream. The water sparkled under the dawn light, its surface smooth except for the occasional ripple where a leaf drifted past. He stepped closer, the moss soft under his tattered shoes, and knelt again, peering into the clear depths. At first, he saw only his reflection, disheveled black hair, sea-green eyes, a face still streaked with small traces of blood despite the washing. But as he stared longer, the water shimmered, the reflection distorting due to sudden movement underneath the water.

Catching the glint of blue-colored scales, he quickly realized it was a fish. A beautiful one that swam gracefully through the clear water. Growing confused, he turned back to the wolf goddess, asking the silent question as to what she meant. 

“You said you were hungry, pup,” she looked down at him, steel in her eyes. “Eat.” 

Percy blinked, staring at Lupa, then back at the stream where the fish’s blue scales flashed like sapphires in the dawn light. His stomach growled, a painful reminder of the hunger gnawing at him, but her command caught him off guard.

“Eat?” He repeated, the word cracking with disbelief. “The fish?” He stared at the stream, where the fish darted through the water, its movements fluid and almost deliberate, like it was watching him back. The idea of eating it felt wrong, like a violation of something sacred.

Lupa’s eyes narrowed, her tail flicking with impatience. “Hunger does not wait for sentiment. You must survive, no matter the cost. Take what the gods provide, or you will weaken and fail.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. The fish’s scales caught the light, almost glowing, and as he leaned closer, he swore he heard a faint voice, soft and melodic, like a ripple in his mind. “Son of the sea… why harm what swims in our father’s embrace?” The words weren’t spoken aloud, but they echoed in his head, clear as the stream itself. His breath hitched, and he froze, his hands hovering over the water.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, glancing at Lupa. Her expression didn’t change, but her amber eyes gleamed with something unreadable, like she was testing him again. Waiting to see what his action would be. 

“I hear only your hesitation, pup,” she said, her voice low and edged with challenge. “Will you starve for a voice only you hear? Or will you prove you can do what must be done?”

Percy’s stomach twisted, not just from hunger but from disgust at the thought of eating something from his Father’s domain. He could feel the fish’s connection, its lifeforce flowing through the water, tied to the same power that had healed him moments ago. Eating it felt like betraying that connection, like turning his back on the sea that had always called to him. But Lupa’s words cut deep. Rome demanded sacrifice, and sacrifice wasn’t meant to be gentle. He’d fought a wolf bare-handed, torn its throat with his own teeth. Could he really balk at a fish?

He reached into the stream, his fingers brushing the cool water, but the fish didn’t flee. It swam closer, its blue scales shimmering, its eyes, impossibly human-like, meeting his. The voice came again, softer now, pleading. “We are kin, my prince, but my life is his, as is yours. Do what you must.”

His hand froze, trembling just above the water’s surface. His hunger clawed at him, his body screaming for sustenance after days of scraps and the brutal fight in the hall. This was another test, he realized, not just of strength or cunning, but of resolve. Could he do what was necessary, even when it felt wrong? 

“This is part of it, isn’t it?” he asked, looking back up at Lupa, who was as still as a statue. “Not just eating to survive, but… choosing to act, even when it feels wrong.”

Her tail flicked once, a subtle acknowledgment. “The path to Rome is not paved with comfort, pup. It demands you face what you would rather avoid. You either survive or be nothing. Choose now.”

Percy’s eyes dropped back to the fish. Its movements were hypnotic, weaving through the water with a grace that felt almost deliberate, like it knew its role in this moment. The voice whispered again, fainter now, resigned. “Do what you must, son of the sea.” His chest tightened, guilt and hunger warring within him. He thought of the wolf he’d killed, the blood still lingering on his tongue, the primal act of survival that had left him both victorious and hollow. This was no different, he told himself. Survival wasn’t clean. It wasn’t kind.

With a shaky breath, he plunged his hand into the stream. The water surged around his fingers, alive with his father’s power, but the fish didn’t dart away. It stilled, accepting its fate, and his fingers closed around its slick, scaled body. The contact sent a jolt through him, a vibration of energy that felt like a heartbeat, and for a moment, he hesitated, his grip loosening. The fish’s eyes met his again, and he swore he saw understanding there, not fear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible, as he lifted the fish from the water. Its scales shimmered in the dawn light, dripping crystal droplets onto the moss. His other hand trembled as he reached for a jagged rock by the stream’s edge, its surface worn smooth by years of water. He didn’t want to do this, but Lupa’s words echoed in his mind: Prove you can do what must be done.

He raised the rock, his movements swift to spare himself second thoughts, and brought it down on the fish’s head. The dull crack echoed in the clearing, and the fish went limp, its vibrant scales dulling in the air. The voice in his head fell silent, leaving only the gurgle of the stream and the distant rustle of leaves. Percy’s throat tightened, his eyes stinging, but he forced himself to stay calm. He’d done it. He’d made the choice. 

Lupa watched, her expression unreadable, but her eyes gleamed with something that might have been approval. “You chose action over sentiment,” she said. “That is the Roman way.”

Percy didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fish in his hands. Its weight heavier than it should be. He knelt by the stream again, rinsing the blood from his hands, the water swirling red before clearing. His hunger hadn’t faded, but the act of killing the fish had dulled his appetite, replacing it with a hollow ache. Still, he knew he had to eat. Survival demanded it.

“Suppose I can’t make a fire or something real quick?” He looked to the goddess, but she shook her head.

“You will eat as the wolves do,” she replied. “As Rome’s first children did.”

He almost groaned aloud at the thought of eating it raw. He looked back down at the fish, its lifeless body cradled in his hands, its blue scales no longer shimmering with life. He swallowed the lump in his throat, Lupa’s burning gaze reminding him there was no backing down. This was the Wolf House. This was Rome. And Rome did not care about his feelings.

He took a deep breath, lifting the fish to his mouth. Without hesitation, he bit into its side, his teeth breaking through the scales and into the soft flesh beneath. The taste was briny and cold, with a faint metallic tang that reminded him of the wolf’s blood. He forced himself to chew, the texture slimy and tough, his gag reflex threatening to kick in.

He focused on the stream’s gentle gurgle, the cool air against his skin, anything to distract from the act. Swallow. Chew again. Swallow. Each bite was a battle, but he kept going, tearing through the fish with grim determination. Scales stuck to his lips, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand, his fingers still trembling. 

Lupa watched every move, her tail still, her posture regal. When he finished, dropping the fish’s remains, little more than bones and tattered scales, onto the moss, she gave a single nod. “The sea is your father, but Rome is your mother now. She demands more than loyalty. You have taken the first steps, Perseus, but the path grows steeper. The Wolf House will test you until you break or until you are forged anew.”

Percy wiped his mouth, the taste of raw fish lingering, bitter and cold. His stomach churned, but he forced it to settle, meeting her gaze. 

“What’s next?” 

Lupa’s eyes glinted, a wolfish smile adorning her features. In that moment, looking down at the boy whose face was streaked with determination and sheer willpower, she realized that he’d be unlike anything Rome had ever seen. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Rome's First Blood

A week had passed since Percy first crossed the threshold of the Wolf House, seven days that felt like a lifetime carved from pain, hunger, and relentless trials. Each day brought new tests, challenges of endurance, wit, and will that left him battered but unbroken. Lupa's pack had pushed him through the forest, forcing him to navigate treacherous ravines, hunt for sparse meals, and face monsters that could've torn him in half if he'd made one mistake. His body bore the marks: fresh scars crisscrossing his arms, back, and legs, along with weariness that clung to his bones despite Lupa's occasional mercy to allow him to bathe in the stream.

Yet, tonight, the Wolf House offered a rare moment of stillness.

The campfire crackled at the heart of a small clearing next to the stream, its flames licking the cool night air, casting a warm glow over the mossy ground. Percy sat cross-legged on a flat stone, his tattered jacket draped over his shoulders, the ring on his finger glinting faintly in the firelight. Across from him, Lupa lounged on her haunches, her silvery fur shimmering like moonlight, her amber eyes reflecting the flames. The pack lingered at the clearing's edge, half-hidden in the shadows. For once, they weren't circling him, testing him, or lunging from the dark. The air felt different tonight, less like a crucible and more like a pause, though he knew better than to trust it.

He poked at the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling into the starry sky. The warmth was a small comfort against the chill seeping through his worn clothing. And his stomach was full tonight, thanks to a rabbit he'd caught and cooked. Lupa had allowed him a fire this time, a grudging concession after he'd proven himself in a grueling chase through the thorns. The meat had been tough and gamey, but it was better than scales and blood.

Her gaze hadn't left him, her silence heavy, as if she were waiting for him to speak first. He shifted, the stone cold against his legs, and finally broke the quiet. "So, a week in, and I'm still alive. That's something, right?" His voice was hoarse, roughened by days of shouting, panting, and swallowing dust. He tried for a grin, but it felt more like a grimace.

Lupa's tail flicked, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Survival is not triumph, pup. It is the bare minimum. Rome does not celebrate those who merely breathe."

"Yeah, I'm getting that," he muttered, tossing the stick into the fire. It flared briefly, consuming the wood with a hungry crackle. "Every day's a new way to get kicked in the teeth. Hunt, fight, don't die. Rinse and repeat. When do I get to New Rome?"

Her lips curled back, revealing a flash of fangs, not a threat, but that wolfish smile that made his skin prickle. "The point is the forging, Perseus. New Rome is not a prize handed to the weary. It is earned through fire and blood, through trials that strip away weakness. You stand at the edge of worthiness, but you are not yet whole."

He leaned back, resting his hands on the stone, feeling the roughness under his calloused palms. "Whole, huh? Feels more like I'm being torn apart." He glanced at the pack, their eyes glinting like embers in the dark. "Your kids don't exactly go easy. That one with the scar on its muzzle nearly took my arm off yesterday."

Lupa's ears twitched, a low huff escaping her, almost like amusement. "Cato is fierce, but he tests your limits, not your life. Had he wished you dead, you would not be sitting here. Especially after you killed his brother."

Percy cringed at that comment, running a tongue over his teeth, still able to taste the ghostly hint of blood staining them. He eyed Cato, who sat motionless in the dark, but he could see him staring straight through and into his soul.

"Why'd you make me kill his brother?" He asked softly, a twinge of sadness evident in his tone. He didn't want to kill that wolf, didn't even want to fight him. But he was left with no choice. Kill or be killed.

"You did not kill his brother because I commanded it," she replied, her gaze lifting to Cato, a silent reprimand for him to look away from the boy. "You killed him because you chose to survive. The Wolf House does not force your hand; it reveals your heart. You could have faltered, fled, or begged for mercy. You did none of those things. As did Cato's brother. He knew what the test was and its consequences. He chose to meet it head-on and should be celebrated for that."

Still, despite her words, the guilt gnawed at him. "Didn't feel like much of a choice," he muttered, staring into the fire. "Fight or die. That's not exactly freedom."

"Freedom is a mortal illusion, child." She stated, continuing to watch Cato silently dissolve into the darkness before turning her attention back to Percy. "Rome does not offer it. Duty, sacrifice, strength, those are the pillars of our world. You are not free to run from your fate, but you are free to meet it with courage. Cato's brother was a test, as was the fish, as is every moment you spend in this place. Each choice carves you into something greater or breaks you."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his sea-green eyes reflecting the flames. "And what if I don't want to be carved? What if I'm fine just being… me?" The question hung in the air, true and honest, a crack in the armor he'd been forced to build over the past week.

Lupa tilted her head, her expression unreadable but her voice softer, almost maternal. "You are a son of Neptune, Perseus. The sea does not ask to be vast; it simply is. So too must you become what you are meant to be. The boy you were, the one who doubts, who hesitates, he cannot survive New Rome. But the warrior you are becoming might."

Percy let out a slow sigh, her words settling into him. He wanted to argue, to push back against the relentless grind of the Wolf House, but deep down, he felt the truth in what she said. Every trial, every scar, every choice was shaping him, whether he liked it or not. The ring on his finger felt heavier now, a reminder of the power he carried and the responsibility it demanded.

He glanced at the stream nearby, its gentle gurgle a faint echo. The water had healed him, strengthened him, but it couldn't erase the choices he'd made or the blood on his hands. He thought of the fish, its pleading voice, the wolf, its dying screams, and his mother, her lifeless eyes staring through his. They had all been tests, and all had left marks deeper than the scars on his skin.

"So, what's next?" He asked, snapping out of his reverie. "Another monster? Another chase through the woods? Or do I have to wrestle Cato next?"

"Tonight, you rest," she replied, walking up next to him, tenderly licking the scar across his brow once as if giving him a goodnight kiss a mother would to her child. "Tomorrow, you will begin to learn of Rome's history along with its language and its people."

Percy almost laughed, having not expected to go from fighting wolves and monsters to opening up the textbooks. The shift felt jarring, like stepping away from a battlefield into a classroom. But he didn't question it. The promise of rest, however brief, was a lifeline he'd cling to. He nodded at her before settling down on the mossy ground, letting the running water from the stream lull him. Before he knew it, his breath had evened out, and his body given way to the blissful darkness.

Lupa watched him drift off, her gaze softening as she studied the rise and fall of his chest. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the scar above his brow and the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his young features. For all his defiance, all his strength, he was still a boy, a boy carrying something far greater than he could ever realize on his shoulders.

She sat vigil throughout the night, a silent guardian against the night, her pack keeping their distance in the shadowed trees. A faint rustle in the underbrush broke the stillness, and her ears flicked toward the sound behind her. From the darkness stepped out a figure cloaked in crimson and gold, his silhouette broad and towering, as if carved from the heart of a mountain. The air around him shimmered with heat, and the ground seemed to quake faintly with each step. His face was obscured by a plumed helmet, but his eyes burned like molten iron, cutting through the night. A spear, its tip glinting with a faint red glow, rested casually over his shoulder, and a sword hung at his side, its hilt worn but gleaming. The scent of ash and iron clung to him, and the forest itself seemed to hold its breath in his presence.

The wolf goddess's growl softened, her head tilting downward in a gesture of respect. The figure paused at the edge of the campfire, his gaze sweeping over the sleeping boy before settling on Lupa. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows that danced across his crimson cloak, making it seem as though flames licked at its edges.

"Lord Mars," she greeted, glancing over at her approaching pack to go back into the darkness, signaling that everything was okay.

"Lady Lupa." The father of Rome rumbled. He stepped closer, the heat radiating from him making the air waver. His burning eyes fixed on Percy, who lay oblivious, curled on the moss with his tattered jacket as a makeshift blanket. "This is the boy, I presume. The son of Neptune."

Lupa inclined her head, turning to look at the demigod. "His name is Perseus. The first son of Neptune in over a hundred years."

Mars' gaze lingered on Percy, studying him with the intensity of a general assessing a soldier before a war. The firelight glinted off the god's armor, revealing intricate engravings of battles long past. He shifted his spear, planting its butt in the earth, and the ground trembled faintly, a low hum of power rippling outward.

"He looks… small," Mars said at last, his tone neither mocking nor dismissive, but clinical, as if weighing a weapon's balance. "At least much smaller than Jupiter's new boy. He is all the talk on Olympus right now."

"I'm sure he is. I trained him well, after all." She replied, remembering her time with the son of Jupiter a mere few months ago. "But soon, I believe Perseus's name will also be known throughout our world. He has the sea in his veins and the fire of war in his heart.

"Good," the god mused, taking his eyes off Percy. "Good. As much as I hate to say it, sadly, the city cares little for the sons of Neptune. He will need that fire if he is to endure there."

Lupa silently nodded, shifting into her human form, something anyone rarely had the pleasure of seeing. She laid a hand on Percy's hair, running her fingers through it softly. "He is unpolished. He questions and he doubts, but he does not yield. Each trial forges him further. He has killed when he must, endured when he could have fallen."

Mars knelt beside the boy, his massive form casting a shadow that swallowed the firelight. The god's hand hovered over him, not touching, but close enough that the air shimmered with heat. Percy stirred faintly in his sleep, a crease forming on his scarred brow, as if sensing the divine presence. Mars tilted his head, his burning eyes narrowing as he studied the ring on Percy's finger.

"Gods…so it is true," he muttered, almost in awe. "He bears the ring of Rome."

Lupa's eyes followed Mars' gaze to the ring, its faint glint catching the firelight. "Yes," she said softly. "It chose him. Just like it chose the others before him."

"A relic of the old kings and emperors," he murmured, gently brushing his fingertips against its wavy patterns. "Forged in the waters of the Tiber. Few have borne it. Fewer have lived up to its power."

"The ring sees what lies beneath, the power, the courage, the potential. He is young, but he is worthy. He will prove it."

Mars snorted, a sound that carried both amusement and skepticism. "Worthy or not, the city will chew him up if he falters. New Rome is no place for the weak, and the sons of Neptune…" He trailed off, his gaze darkening as if recalling some ancient grudge. "They are not welcomed with open arms. The sea is too wild, too unpredictable for the Senate's taste. They'll see him as a threat before they see him as a hero. Even more so now that the golden boy has arrived."

"Then he will make them see," Lupa replied sharply, her tone defensive as if already protecting her child from the corruption that was the senate. She withdrew her hand from Percy's hair, folding her arms as she faced the war god. "He has already faced death and chosen to fight. He carries the scars of his choices, and he will carry more before this is done. But he will not break."

"You've always had a knack for picking the stubborn ones," Mars chuckled softly. "Romulus, Remus, Caesar, Augustus…and now this one." He gestured toward Percy, who remained oblivious to the divine conversation, his chest rising and falling steadily. "But stubbornness alone won't carry him through the gates of New Rome. The tribulations ahead demand more. So much more."

The goddess's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "And he will give more. The sea runs deep, Lord Mars. You, of all gods, should know the strength that lies in its depths."

The god's eyes flared briefly, like embers stoked by a sudden wind. He shifted his spear, the red glow of its tip pulsing faintly, and turned his gaze away. "Perhaps," he conceded with a whisper.

A silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant howl of a wolf in the forest. Percy stirred again, muttering something incoherent in his sleep, his fingers twitching toward the ring as if drawn to it even in dreams. Mars watched, his expression unreadable, but there was a calculation to his silence.

"What do you see in him, Mars?" Lupa asked. "You came here tonight, not as a spectator, but as the father of Rome. Why?"

The god's helmet gleamed as he tilted his head, the plumes catching the firelight. "The Fates are weaving something around this boy," he finally spoke, lifting his head to the starry sky above. "Something big. I can feel it in the air, in the earth. War is coming. Not the petty skirmishes of mortals, but something greater. And this one…" He nodded toward the boy. "He'll be at the heart of it. Not Jupiter's boy nor his Greek daughter or Hades and his two. It'll be this son of Neptune."

Her eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening. "You speak of prophecy."

"I speak of destiny," Mars corrected gruffly. "Prophecies are for poets and oracles. Destiny is for warriors. And this boy will need to be a warrior if he's to face what's coming."

She held his gaze, unflinching. "Then let him rest tonight. Tomorrow, I will begin teaching him the ways of Rome, its language, its history, its laws. He will learn what it means to be a son of Rome, not just a son of the sea."

"Good," Mars nodded, standing tall. "Teach him well, Lupa. He'll need every lesson, every trial you can give him." He paused, his burning eyes flicking back to Percy one last time. "And tell him this, when he wakes: Rome does not forgive weakness. If he doubts himself, if he hesitates, the city will crush him. But if he rises, if he claims his place…" The god's voice softened, just a fraction. "He could be greater than any who came before him."

With that, he turned, his crimson cloak billowing like a flame caught in the wind. He stepped into the darkness, and the air shimmered as he vanished, leaving only the faint scent of fire and ash.

She sat motionless, watching the fire dim as if the god's presence had drained its strength. She looked down at Percy, her expression softening once more. "Sleep, Perseus," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "For tomorrow brings new battles."

She shifted back into her wolf form, her fur catching the moonlight as she settled beside the fire, her eyes fixed on the boy. The pack stirred in the darkness, their soft whines echoing through the clearing, but none approached. Her vigil continued, her presence a silent promise that, for tonight at least, Percy was safe.

As the stars wheeled overhead and the fire burned low, Percy dreamed, oblivious to what had just transpired around him.

In his dream, the forest dissolved, replaced by a rolling plain under a sky heavy with storm clouds. The air smelled of earth and blood, and the ground beneath his feet was soft with fertile land. Two figures stood before him, their silhouettes blackened against the horizon. They were young, broad-shouldered, clad in rough tunics and cloaks of wolfskin, their faces weathered but fierce. Twins, unmistakably, with dark eyes that burned with ambition and rivalry.

One held a spear, its tip gleaming with a faint bronze sheen, while the other gripped a short sword, its blade notched from use. The ring on Percy's finger pulsed with heat, as if recognizing the scene unfolding before him. The twins faced each other across a shallow ditch, the earth freshly turned, as if marking the boundaries of something yet to be born. A crowd of shadowed figures, warriors, farmers, shepherds, watched from a distance, their murmurs carried on the wind like the hum of a distant storm.

"Remus," the twin with the spear said, his words etched with frustration. "You cannot claim this alone. The gods chose us both. The auguries were unclear."

The other twin, Remus, laughed, a sound that carried across the plain like thunder. "Unclear? The birds favored me, Romulus. Seven to your six. The hill is mine. The city will be mine." He gestured to the land around them, a sweeping arc of hills and rivers that shimmered with potential, waiting to be shaped in man's image.

Romulus's grip tightened on his spear, his knuckles whitening. "You mock the gods' will with your arrogance. The Palatine is the heart of our future. I saw the vision. You would tear it down for pride?"

Remus stepped closer, his sword glinting as he pointed it at the ditch. "Your vision, not mine. You dig your walls, your boundaries, but you cannot cage me. I am no less a son of Mars than you." His eyes flicked to the ring on his brother's finger, the intricate patterns catching the harsh glint of lightning flashing overhead. "That ring binds us both to this land. Or have you forgotten our mother's blood?"

Romulus's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "You speak of mother's blood, but you spit on her legacy. This city will not stand divided. One must lead. One must rule." He drove his spear into the earth, the impact sending a tremor through the ground. "I will build Rome, brother. With or without you."

The crowd's murmurs grew louder, a mix of anticipation and dread. The air grew heavier, flashes of lightning and thunder rolling across the hills. Percy's breath caught, the ring burning against his skin. He wanted to speak, to tell them not to fight, but his voice was trapped, as if the dream held him in its grip.

Remus's lips curled into a defiant smirk, his sword still raised, its tip hovering over the ditch. "Rule?" he spat, his voice dripping with scorn. "You speak of ruling like a king, Romulus, but we were born of wolves, not thrones. You think that ring gives you the right to command me?" He gestured sharply at the gleaming band, its intricate patterns pulsing faintly, as if alive with the same power Percy felt burning against his own skin.

Romulus's eyes darkened, his posture rigid, the spear in his hand trembling slightly, not with fear, but with barely restrained fury. "The ring is a symbol. A promise of what we can build. But you would rather tear it down than see it rise. You challenge the gods' will with every breath." He stepped forward, closing the distance, his tone dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Step over that line, brother, and you force my hand."

The air crackled with the threat, the storm above swelling as if feeding off their conflict. Percy's heart pounded, his own hand twitching toward the ring on his finger, its heat almost unbearable now. The twins' eyes locked, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Remus laughed again, sharp and bitter, and took a deliberate step over the ditch, his foot landing heavily on the other side. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that rippled through the plain. "Your walls mean nothing to me," he declared. "If you want your city, you'll have to take it from me."

Romulus's face hardened, his spear rising slightly, its bronze tip catching a flash of lightning. "So be it," he whispered, the words carrying a finality that made Percy's stomach twist. The crowd surged forward, their murmurs turning to shouts, some calling for peace, others egging on the inevitable clash. The brothers circled each other now, two wolves locked in a dance as old as the hills around them.

Romulus moved first, his spear flashing through the air with lethal precision. The bronze tip sliced toward Remus's chest, but the younger twin was quick, his sword arcing up to deflect the blow with a screech of metal on metal. Sparks flew, illuminating their faces. The ground trembled beneath their feet, as if the earth itself recoiled from the violence.

Remus twisted, his blade a blur as he countered, aiming a vicious slash at Romulus's side. The elder twin sidestepped, the sword grazing his tunic, tearing cloth but not flesh. They moved like predators, each step deliberate, each strike fueled by a mix of rage and grief for the bond they were shattering. The crowd roared a chaotic blend of encouragement and horror as the storm above unleashed its fury, rain lashing down in sheets, turning the earth to mud.

Romulus lunged, his spear a streak of bronze aimed at his brother's throat. The younger twin ducked, rolling through the mud, and came up swinging, his sword hacking at Romulus's legs. The elder twin leapt back, but not before the blade nicked his thigh, drawing a thin line of blood that mixed with the rain.

"You'd kill me for a hill?!" Remus snarled over the storm. He wiped rain from his eyes, his chest heaving, but his stance never wavered. "For a dream?! For a mere ring?!"

"For Rome!" Romulus roared, his spear thrusting forward again, this time catching Remus's shoulder. The younger twin grunted, blood blooming through his tunic, but he didn't falter. He charged, closing the distance, his sword swinging in a brutal arc that forced Romulus to block with the spear's shaft. The wood splintered under the blow, and he stumbled back, his eyes blazing with defiance.

The crowd surged closer, their shouts drowned by a crack of thunder. Lightning illuminated the scene, freezing the brothers in a moment of primal fury. The ring on Percy's finger throbbed, and he felt a pull, as if the dream were trying to drag him into the fight itself. He tried to move, to shout, to do something, but the vision held him like chains.

Remus pressed his advantage, his sword slashing relentlessly, each strike heavier than the last. His brother parried, his movements growing desperate, the splintered spear barely holding. "You could have stood with me," Romulus gasped, dodging a blow that would have cleaved his chest. "We could have built it together!"

"You wanted to rule, not build!" Remus spat, his blade catching Romulus's arm, drawing more blood. "You wear that ring like a crown, but it's a curse. It's our doom!"

Romulus roared, his strength surging as if the mention of the ring ignited something within him. He discarded the broken spear, drawing a dagger from his belt in a fluid motion. He tackled his twin, the two crashing into the mud, grappling like beasts. Fists flew, knees drove into ribs, and the crowd's cheers turned to a fevered chant, urging blood. Through the rain and blood, Percy could see the ring on Romulus's finger glowing with the same golden light, pulsing erratically as if urging him forward.

Remus eventually gained the upper hand through the struggle, pinning Romulus beneath him, his sword raised for a killing blow. "This is your Rome," he hissed, his words thick with betrayal. "Built on your blood!"

But Romulus was faster. His dagger flashed upward, plunging into his brother's chest with a sickening crunch. Remus froze, his eyes wide, the sword slipping from his grasp as blood poured from the wound, mixing with the rain-soaked mud. The crowd fell silent, the storm itself seeming to pause as Remus collapsed, his body slumping beside the ditch he'd mocked.

The elder twin staggered to his feet, his chest heaving, his face streaked with mud and blood. He stared down at his brother's body, the dagger still clutched in his hand, trembling. The ring on his finger glowed faintly, then dimmed, as if sated. The crowd watched, some weeping, others shouting his name, but Romulus's eyes were locked on Remus, his expression unreadable.

"Rome," he whispered, his voice breaking. He knelt beside his brother, closing Remus's eyes with a trembling hand. "It begins here."

The dream shifted, the plain dissolving into darkness, the storm fading to a distant rumble. Percy's vision blurred, and he found himself standing on a hill overlooking a city that didn't yet exist. Seven hills stretched before him, their slopes bathed in a golden light of dawn. The ring on his finger pulsed once, then went cold, its weight heavier than ever.

He felt a hand on his shoulder as he continued to stare outward at the land. He shifted his gaze slightly, seeing fingers caked in blood grasping him. He craned his head upward, finding himself looking up at the man who'd just killed his brother. His dark eyes, still raw with the grief and fury of fratricide, bore into him, as if searching for recognition, judgment, or perhaps a reflection of the same fire that had driven him to kill his own brother.

"You've seen it," Romulus stated lowly, the pain of what he'd done evident in his features. His grip tightened briefly, the ring on his finger glinting with a faint, ominous light that mirrored the one on Percy's own hand. "The cost of Rome. The blood it demands. You wear the ring. You carry its burden now."

Percy's throat tightened, words struggling to form. He wanted to pull away, to deny it all, but the dream held him fast, and Romulus's gaze was unrelenting. "What do you want from me?" He finally managed. "I'm not you. I'm not…this." He gestured vaguely at the hills, at the blood staining Romulus's hands.

"You think you can choose?" The man replied. "The ring chose you, as it chose me. Rome is not a place, boy, it's a fire. It burns away what's weak, what's unworthy. You'll either rise in its flames or be consumed." He leaned closer, his breath hot with the scent of iron and earth. "You've killed already. You know what it's like to take a life. Tell me, does it haunt you?"

Percy's mind flashed to Gabe gurgling as he died on the apartment floor, his mom's lifeless eyes as she stared up at him. He wanted to say no, to shrug it off, but the truth clawed at him. "Yeah," he admitted, barely a whisper. "It does."

Romulus nodded, as if expecting the answer. "Good. Let it. That guilt is what makes you more than a killer. It's what makes you a warrior. Rome will ask for more blood, more choices. You'll stand where I stood, with a blade in your hand and a brother at your feet. The question is, will you falter?"

The son of Neptune stayed silent for a moment, looking out at the hills, watching as the grass flowed with the wind. "No," he eventually replied, his jaw clenched. "No, I won't falter."

The founder of Rome patted Percy's shoulder, averting his gaze to where the eternal city would eventually stand proud. "The gods have already rolled the dice," he whispered. "The ring binds you to Rome, to its glory and its curse. You'll fight, because it's in your blood. You'll kill, because the city demands it. And you'll build, because that's what Romans do."

He turned back to the boy, kneeling in front of him and grasping his chin with the same hand that had driven a knife through his brother's chest. "Prove you're worthy, Perseus," he said, one lone tear rolling down his cheek as he stared into the son of Neptune's sea-green eyes. "Prove you're more than me."

The vision collapsed, the hills dissolving into darkness, Romulus's figure swallowed by the fading light. Percy's eyes snapped open, his breath ragged, the cold moss beneath him grounding him back in the Wolf House's clearing. The fire had burned to embers, its faint glow barely holding back the night. Lupa still sat beside him, her amber eyes fixed on him, as if she'd been watching his dream unfold.

He sat up, his heart pounding, his skin coated in a sheen of sweat. He ran a hand through his damp hair, his fingers brushing the scar above his brow. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, its light filtering through the dense canopy of the forest surrounding the Wolf House. The embers of the campfire smoldered, casting faint wisps of smoke into the crisp morning air.

Eventually, after calming down, he looked to the wolf goddess, who continued to sit in silence, her gaze telling him everything. She looked sad, remembering her sons whom she did everything she could for them to survive and prosper. Yet it wasn't enough. They still fell victim to the curse of ambition and destiny.

"Come along, pup," she finally spoke, getting to her feet and beginning to trek back to the Wolf House. "There is much to learn today."

-A/N- There are seven hills of Rome, with the Palatine Hill being the most famous. It is considered the birthplace of Rome. The hills were initially separate settlements that eventually merged into a single settlement. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Last Lesson

Percy stood in a small clearing, his breath curling in the crisp morning air. In his hand, he gripped the familiar golden sword—well, Imperial Gold sword to be exact. Over the past couple of months, Lupa had drilled into him the intricacies of New Rome’s craftsmanship, teaching not just how to wield such weapons but how they were forged, tempered, and bound. The dummy before him was a crude thing, fashioned from straw and wood, wrapped in tattered cloth that mimicked a Roman tunic. Its painted face stared blankly, but Percy’s sea-green eyes burned with focus. 

Lupa stood a few paces away, watching him intently as he squared off against his foe. “Focus, Perseus,” she commanded, her words echoing through the morning chill. “The sword is not merely a weapon. It is an extension of your will, your intent. Strike with purpose, or do not strike at all.”

He nodded, adjusting his grip on the sword. He stepped forward, planting his feet in the stance Lupa had drilled into him. The dummy stood motionless, but in his mind, it was Romulus, spear raised, or Remus, sword flashing through the rain. He shook the images away, forcing himself to focus. He lunged, the blade slicing through the air in a clean arc. The straw dummy shuddered as the sword carved through its chest, spilling bits of straw onto the ground. He pivoted, striking again, this time aiming for the neck. The blade bit deep, nearly severing the wooden frame. His movements were fluid, honed by days of relentless training, but there was a new edge to them, a fire kindled by Romulus’s words: Prove you’re worthy.

Lupa’s tail flicked, her eyes narrowing as she watched. “Adequate,” she quipped. “But your strikes lack precision. You fight as if the enemy is already defeated. A Roman does not assume victory; he ensures it.”

Percy wiped sweat from his brow, turning to her. “I hit the thing, didn’t I?” he said, catching his breath. “It’s not like it’s fighting back.”

Her lips curled into that wolfish smile. The same one that sent goosebumps across his skin. “The dummy is not your enemy, pup. It is a mirror. It shows you your flaws, your hesitations. Every swing of your sword reveals what lies within you.” She paced around him slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “Your heart is fierce, but it is still divided. You fight with the strength of the sea, yet you hold back, as if afraid of what you might become.”

“I’m not afraid,” he replied, though his tone wavered, betraying the lie. “I just… I don’t want to lose myself. Like last time.” His mother’s face flashed through his mind. He could still hear her gasps for air in his head, feel her blood coat his hands. It was all his fault. He knew that he shouldn’t feel guilty, considering she wasn’t the best mother to him, but she was still his mother. She didn’t deserve to die at her own child’s hands.

“You carry guilt like a shield,” the wolf goddess said, stopping short of him. “It weighs you down, dulls your blade. A wolf does not linger on the blood of the past. It learns, it adapts, it survives.” She stepped even closer, her presence commanding, almost suffocating. “You cannot wield Imperial Gold with a divided heart. The sword demands clarity. New Rome demands it.”

Percy’s grip tightened on the hilt, his knuckles whitening. “Clarity?” he muttered, his jaw clenching. “You think I don’t want that? Every time I close my eyes, I see her. I hear her. I—” He stopped, not needing to finish the sentence. Lupa knew. She always knew.

“The sea is vast, child, but it is not endless. Even its storms must break. You cannot outrun what you carry, but you can forge it into something stronger.” She paused, her gaze locking onto his. “Do you know why Romulus challenged you to prove your worth?”

Percy’s eyes flicked up, meeting hers. He had told her of his dream about the founder of Rome after much deliberation. All he got from her in return was a nod before being told to run ten miles. “Because he thinks I’m weak. Because he thinks I don’t belong.”

Lupa’s tail flicked sharply. “No. Because he sees the fire in you, as I do, but fire uncontrolled consumes everything, friend, foe, self. Romulus does not doubt your strength; he doubts your discipline. Prove him wrong.”

The son of Neptune exhaled, his breath clouding in the cold. He turned back to the dummy, its straw-strewn form now a mockery of his own doubts. He raised the sword, its golden blade catching the weak sunlight filtering through the trees. This time, he didn’t see Romulus or Remus in his mind. He saw himself, reckless, angry, teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t name.

He lunged, faster this time, the blade whistling as it sliced through the air. The first strike split the dummy’s shoulder, sending splinters flying. He spun, driving the sword into its side with a force that cracked the wooden frame. Straw spilled like blood, scattering across the ground. His movements were sharper now, each swing deliberate, fueled not by anger but by a need to prove, not to Romulus, not to Lupa, but to himself.

The goddess watched in silence, gleaming with something close to approval. When Percy finally stepped back, panting, the dummy was a ruin, barely standing, its cloth tunic in tatters. He lowered his sword, his chest heaving, and turned to her.

“Better?” he asked.

“Again,” she replied, flicking her wrist once toward the dummy. 

Percy almost groaned when he saw the strawman return to normal, no longer bearing the scars of his attack, its painted face staring blankly as if mocking his efforts. He looked back at Lupa, who only looked at him expectantly.

“The dummy is eternal; your flaws are not. Again.” 

This continued on throughout the day, the sun climbing higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the clearing. Percy’s muscles burned, his arms heavy from the endless repetition of strikes, parries, and lunges. Each time he reduced the dummy to a pile of straw and splinters, Lupa’s command would echo: “Again.” And each time, the dummy reformed, its painted face as impassive as ever, taunting him with its silent resilience.

Eventually, his body gave way to the exhaustion and heat, his knees buckling as he dropped to the ground, the Imperial Gold sword slipping from his grasp and transforming back to the ring on his finger. His hands bled from the countless hours of friction on the grip, the sweat dripping into the wounds stinging horribly. He heard Lupa walk up to him, her gaze staring into him with an intensity that made him feel exposed, as if she could see every crack in his resolve. She stopped just short of him, her head tilted slightly, assessing. 

“You tire,” she observed. “Yet the enemy does not. The dummy reforms, as your challenges will. Rest is earned, not given.”

Percy clenched his fists, dirt grinding into his blood. “I’m trying,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve been trying all day. How many times do I have to cut that thing down before it’s enough?”

Lupa’s tail flicked, and she lowered her head until her eyes were level with his. “Until you are perfect.”

“Perfect?” he rasped, raising his head up from the dirt slightly. “Nobody’s perfect. Not even the gods.”

Lupa’s lips curled back, revealing a glint of sharp teeth in what might have been a smile or a snarl. “Perfection is not a state, Perseus. It is a pursuit. A Roman does not seek to be flawless; he seeks to be relentless. You stop when you fall. A wolf rises and runs again.”

He wanted to argue, to snap back that he wasn’t a wolf, that he was just a kid, but the words died in his throat. He knew she wouldn’t accept them. She never did. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the ache in his legs, the burn in his arms. The dummy stood whole again, its straw-stuffed form mocking him with its untouched tunic and blank stare. He flexed his fingers, the ring glinting as it shifted back into the golden sword.

“Again,” he said before Lupa could. Her tail flicked in approval, though her expression remained unreadable.

This continued until the moon shone overhead, its pale light casting a silver sheen over the clearing. Blood coated his hands, dripping onto the sword’s grip and the dirt below. The dummy was now battered, its straw spilling out in clumps, the wooden frame splintered and broken. His chest heaved, each breath a ragged pull of the night air that burned his lungs. His vision swam, the edges blurring as exhaustion clawed at him, but he kept his stance, sword raised, refusing to fall again.

Lupa circled him, her paws silent on the frost-kissed grass. Her eyes glowed like twin moons through the darkness. “Your body falters, but your spirit holds,” she said through his haze. “That is the mark of a warrior. But a warrior must know when to strike and when to endure. Look at the dummy, Perseus. What do you see?”

Percy’s gaze flicked to the straw figure, its painted face now cracked, one eye half-obliterated by a stray slash. “I see a target,” he replied, voice hoarse. “Something to hit. Something to destroy.”

“No,” she corrected, stepping closer. “You see yourself. Every blow you land is a blow against your doubts, your fears, your guilt. But destruction alone is not enough. A Roman builds as much as he breaks. You must learn to forge, not just to fight.”

He lowered the sword slightly, his arms screaming in protest. “Forge what? I’m not a blacksmith. I’m barely keeping up with this.” He gestured at the dummy, its tattered form a testament to the hours he’d poured into this endless task.

Lupa’s tail lashed, and she bared her teeth, though there was no malice in it. “You forge yourself, pup. Every strike, every fall, every time you rise again, you shape who you are. The sword is not just gold; it is will, tempered by hardship. New Rome does not need a boy who swings wildly. It needs a leader who strikes true.”

“Leader?” he asked incredulously. “I’m no leader. I’m just… me.”

Lupa’s ears twitched in agitation. “A leader is not born. A leader is made. Forged in moments like this, when every muscle screams to stop, when your heart begs for reprieve, and yet you stand.” She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with something fierce, almost proud. “You are not ‘just’ anything. You are the son of Neptune, blood of the sea, heir to Rome’s legacy. But legacy is not given, it is claimed.”

“Fine,” he swallowed, his throat dry, and turned back to the dummy, prepared to hit it all night if need be. But Lupa laid a hand on his shoulder, stopping him before he could raise the sword again.

“Enough,” she said softly. “The dummy has served its purpose for tonight. You have struck it down countless times, yet it stands again. So too will your enemies, your doubts, your fears. But you, Perseus, have not broken. That is enough for now.”

Percy exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he lowered the sword. The Imperial Gold blade shimmered briefly before collapsing back into the ring on his finger, its weight vanishing but leaving his hand tingling with the memory of its grip. He looked at the dummy, its battered body barely holding together under the moonlight, and felt a strange mix of frustration and satisfaction. He hadn’t won, not really, but he hadn’t lost either. He supposed he could live with that for tonight.

“Get to the water, heal yourself and rest, child,” she whispered in Latin, licking one of the many wounds across his hands and forearms. “Tomorrow, we begin again. The dummy will be waiting, as will your flaws. Be ready to face both.”

He nodded, too exhausted to argue. “Goodnight,” he replied, glad that he’d been able to understand what she said. If he hadn’t, he’d be afraid that she would make him run another twenty miles while spouting Latin phrases. He watched her go, her form blending seamlessly into the darkness until only the faint glint of her eyes remained, like stars in the night. He stood alone in the clearing, the dummy looming silently before him, its cracked face still mocking in its stillness. His hands throbbed, the cuts from the sword’s grip stinging as the cool air brushed against them. He flexed his fingers, wincing, and looked down at the blood smeared across his palms.

He thought of his mother again, her face flickering in his mind like a ghost. The guilt was still there, heavy as ever, but Lupa’s words echoed louder now: A wolf does not linger on the blood of the past.

With a final glance at the dummy, Percy turned and trudged toward the stream, the sound of the running water calling to him like a promise of relief. The stream was a silver ribbon under the moonlight, its gentle current whispering over smooth stones. He knelt at its edge, the cold biting into his knees as he dipped his bloodied hands into the water. The sting of the cuts eased almost instantly, the power of his father’s domain knitting his skin back together. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. The sea was in his blood, and here, at least, he felt whole.

As the wounds on his hands closed, leaving only faint pink lines, Percy splashed water on his face, the chill shocking his senses awake despite the bone-deep exhaustion. He sat back on his heels, staring at his reflection in the rippling surface. The boy looking back was someone he barely recognized. His eyes were hardened, narrowed like the wolves around him waiting to pounce on prey. The scar running across his face made him appear older, more weathered. And his body had filled out considerably since he first arrived at the Wolf House, his shoulders broader, his arms corded with muscle from weeks of relentless training. He was still only an eight-year-old boy, but he was becoming something more, something still taking shape. 

The trek back to the Wolf House was slow, his legs heavy with exhaustion. The forest around him was alive with the sounds of the night, crickets chirping, an owl hooting somewhere in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves as a breeze swept through. As he climbed the steps of the house, he heard the faint sound of conversation drifting from inside. He paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the rough wooden doorframe, the cool night air still clinging to his skin. The conversation was hushed and in Latin, but he could faintly make out some words, including his name.

“You keep him too long, Lupa,” a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize said, her tone warm and melodic. “The boy is ready.”

“He is not ready,” He could hear Lupa reply firmly. “He is strong, yes, but unrefined. The sea in him rages, untamed. New Rome will not embrace another stormbringer unless he is polished.”

“You underestimate him, dear wolf,” the woman countered, her words laced with a gentle challenge. “I’ve watched him through your trials. He bears the ring, faces your pack, and carries the scars of his choices. How much more must he endure to prove his worth to you?”

“You see the spark in him, as I do, ” the wolf goddess growled, not threatening but thoughtful. “But a spark is not a flame. New Rome is a tribulation, and the Senate hungers for weakness to exploit. If he enters their gates half-formed, they will tear him apart.”

Percy’s heart thudded as he edged closer, peering through the cracked door. Inside, Lupa stood in her human form, her silver hair catching the firelight, her posture rigid yet respectful. Across from her, seated on a low stone bench, was a woman cloaked in soft, shimmering white, her presence radiating a quiet warmth that seemed to fill the room. Her hair was a cascade of auburn, pinned loosely, and her eyes glowed faintly, like embers in a hearth.

He’d never seen such beautiful women before. 

“You speak of the Senate as if they rule the boy’s fate. They do not. The ring chose him, Lupa. You cannot keep him here forever, forging him into your vision of a perfect Roman. He is not clay to be molded; he is fire, like my hearth, and fire must be allowed to burn its own path.”

Lupa’s jaw tightened, her hands folding behind her back. “Fire without control destroys, my friend. You know this. You saw what became of Romulus and Remus. Ambition and pride consumed them, and Rome was born in their blood. Perseus carries that same fire, that same danger. If I release him now, he may burn too brightly, too soon.”

The woman leaned forward in her seat, summoning a small flame in her palm. “And yet, Rome endures because of that fire. Romulus built it, not because he was perfect, but because he was relentless,” she replied, playing to Lupa’s earlier words. “The boy is no different. Let him face New Rome. Let him face the Senate’s scorn, the city’s trials. He will rise or fall, but it must be his choice.”

Percy’s fingers tightened on the doorframe, his mind racing. He realized that they were debating his fate, his readiness, as if he were a blade being tested for its edge. He was thankful for Lupa’s protectiveness, but in that moment, he had never felt so worried before. 

“You speak of choice, but choice is a luxury he cannot afford.” Lupa paced slowly around the room. “The Fates have woven a storm around this boy, as Mars himself sensed. War is coming, and New Rome will need a warrior, not a dreamer. I will not send him to the city until he is ready to stand against whatever challenges are thrown at him.”

The woman’s smile faded, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And how long will that take, Lupa? Another month? A year? You cannot shield him from his destiny, no matter how fiercely you guard him. The boy is a son of Neptune, not your pup to cradle. The sea does not wait for permission to surge. Let him go.”

The wolf goddess stayed quiet for a moment, her eyes flickering with a storm of emotions, pride, protectiveness, and something akin to fear, though Percy could scarcely imagine her fearing anything. She stopped pacing, her silver hair glinting as she turned to face the woman fully. “You speak of destiny as if it is a gift,” she growled. “Destiny is a chain, Vesta. It binds and it breaks. I will not see this boy shattered before he has the strength to bear it.”

Vesta, the name clicked in Percy’s mind. The goddess of the hearth. Her aura made sense now, the warmth that seemed to radiate from her, softening the cold stone walls of the Wolf House. 

“Chains can bind, Lupa, but they can also anchor,” Vesta’s tone softened, standing up from her seat. “You see a boy teetering on the edge of ruin, but I see a spark that could light a new era for Rome. You train him to fight, to survive, but survival is not enough. He must learn to live, to lead, to carry the flame of Rome forward. You cannot forge that in this forest, no matter how much you teach him.”

“You think I do not know this?” Lupa replied, waving her hand in exasperation. “I have raised Rome’s heroes for centuries. I have seen them rise, and I have seen them fall. Perseus is different, wilder, more unpredictable than even Romulus was. The power in his blood makes him a force of nature. If I release him now, they will see only a threat, not a leader.”

“Maybe so,” Vesta replied, her gaze slowly drifting to the door where Percy hid behind. Her eyes landed directly on him, and he froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he thought she’d call him out, expose him for eavesdropping, but her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. She held his gaze, her ember-like eyes warm yet piercing, as if she could see every thought, every fear, every hope swirling in his mind. Then, with a subtle tilt of her head, she turned back to Lupa, her expression unreadable. “But New Rome needs a leader who shakes its foundations, not one who merely fits its mold. Let him go, my friend. Let him find his path.”

Fearing he might’ve overstayed his welcome, Percy turned away from the door, his heart pounding in his chest. He slipped silently into the shadows and back into the small clearing near the stream. The moonlight bathed the clearing in a pale glow, the stream’s gentle ripple the only sound breaking the stillness of the night. He sat on a smooth stone by the water’s edge, his knees drawn up. His mind churned, replaying the conversation he’d overheard. Their words felt as if the entire world was pressed against his shoulders. He was only eight years old, a kid with a sword that turned into a ring, a kid who’d killed his own mother, who’d washed up at the Wolf House with nothing but guilt and a fire he didn’t understand. How was he supposed to be a leader? How was he supposed to carry Rome’s flame when he could barely carry himself?

He stared at the night sky, the stars scattered like distant beacons across the dark expanse. A leader. A force of nature. A spark that could light a new era. The expectations felt like chains, just as Lupa had described, binding him to a destiny he wasn’t sure he wanted. His fingers traced the ring on his hand, wishing he could receive some advice from one of the men in his dreams. Now those were people who knew what was expected of them, what they had to do to forge their legacy. Could he do the same? Or would he burn out, as Lupa feared, consumed by the very fire Vesta saw in him?

With those questions on his mind, he closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, hoping for a reprieve from his own mind. But the stream’s current wasn’t enough to quiet the storm in his head. Eventually, however, after what felt like hours, sleep crept over him, just as the stars started to drift below the horizon. For once, no dreams haunted him. There was no Romulus or Remus, no ghostly image of his mother’s face or the sound of her gasps. There was only silence, a vast, empty void that swallowed his thoughts and fears. It was a mercy, this dreamless sleep, a rare moment where the guilt and the expectations of Rome didn’t press down on him. He floated in that quiet darkness, his body resting, his mind still.

That rest didn’t last long, however. 

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, Percy stirred not to the sounds of chirping birds or the stream’s running water. No, he woke to the sounds of howling wolves piercing the dawn. His eyes snapped open, heart pounding as he scrambled to his feet, the cold dew of the grass soaking into his palms. His hand instinctively reached for the ring on his finger, the Imperial Gold sword materializing in his grip. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

The forest around him was alive with movement, shadows darting between the trees, growls rumbling from the unseen, snapping branches that shook the ground. He turned, sword raised, searching for the source of the disturbance, but it seemed to be all around him. 

“Lupa!” he yelled out. No answer came, only the echo of his own shout and the growing howls of the wolf pack. His heart dropped. Lupa was never far, her presence a constant that he could depend on. Where was she? Hearing the yelps of an injured wolf in the brush a few yards ahead, he didn’t hesitate to rush forward. The howls grew louder, more frantic, punctuated by snarls and the unmistakable sound of tearing flesh.

He burst through a tangle of underbrush into a larger clearing, and the sight before him made his blood run cold. A dozen wolves, their fur bristling and eyes wild, formed a loose circle around one of their injured. Surronding them were a number of Cyclops and a pack of snarling, monstrous Hellhounds, their eyes glowing like molten embers in the morning light.

Percy’s grip tightened on the Imperial Gold sword, his pulse hammering in his ears. One of the injured wolves, a young white with a torn flank, whimpered as it dragged itself behind a larger, black wolf, its fangs bared. Cato. The Cyclopes advanced, their clubs raised, while the hounds circled, looking for an opening.

“Lupa!” he shouted again, his voice cracking with urgency. Still no response. His eyes scanned the clearing, searching for her silver form, but she was nowhere to be seen. Fear clawed at his chest, but he shoved it down. If she weren’t here, then he’d have to do this himself. Shoving the doubts down, he acted on instinct and charged into the fray. The nearest hound turned its head, its glowing eyes locking onto him, but he was faster. He swung the blade in a low arc, slicing through the beast’s side. It let out a guttural yelp, collapsing into a pile of dust that glittered briefly before scattering across the grass.

The clearing erupted into chaos as the demigod barreled into the scene, cutting through the second Hellhound as it lunged, jaws snapping inches from his throat. Dust exploded from the beast, coating his face, stinging his eyes, but he didn’t stop. The wolves snarled and snapped, their claws raking at the Cyclopes, who swung their crude clubs with bone-crushing force. Cato stood over his injured commrade,  his teeth tearing into a Hellhound’s flank, sending it howling into a cloud of ash.

Percy spun, his blade a blur, slicing through another hound that tried to flank him. The Cyclopes roared, their single eyes glinting with hunger as they lumbered toward him, their clubs raised to crush. He ducked under a swing that could’ve pulped his skull, the air whistling above him, and drove his sword upward, piercing the nearest Cyclops’s gut. The monster bellowed, a sound that shook the trees, and collapsed, its massive body hitting the ground with a tremor that sent leaves cascading down.

“Stay together!” Percy commanded the pack, ducking under another wooden club. He didn’t know if they understood him, but Cato’s eyes flicked toward him, a fleeting acknowledgment before the wolf tore into another Hellhound. He rolled to the side, the ground exploding where a club landed, dirt and roots spraying like shrapnel. He sprang up, his sword slashing across the monster’s thigh, severing muscle and tendon. The Cyclops stumbled, its roar turning to a scream as it fell, and Percy finished it with a thrust to its chest, the Imperial Gold blade sinking deep. Dust billowed, mixing with the dawn mist, and he coughed, his lungs burning as he scanned the clearing for the next threat.

The Hellhounds were relentless, their numbers seeming endless as they poured from the shadows. His arms screamed with fatigue, but he fought on, his blade carving through one beast after another. “Lupa, where are you?!” he yelled again, desperation creeping into his voice. Was this another test? Had she abandoned him to face this alone? The thought fueled a surge of anger, and he channeled it into his next strike, cleaving a Hellhound’s head clean off its shoulders. 

A shadow loomed behind him, and he turned just in time to see a Cyclops’s club descending. No time to dodge. Instinct took over, and he raised his sword just in time to take the brunt of it. The sheer strength of the hit, however, sent him flying backward into a tree. The impact drove the air from his lungs, his vision sparking with white-hot pain. He could see the towering monster charge forward, its weapon raised for a finishing blow. The wolves snarled, Cato leading a charge to intercept, but the Hellhounds pressed in, keeping the pack at bay.

Percy’s ribs throbbed, each breath a knife in his side, but his instincts urged him to move. He rolled to the side just as the club crashed down, splintering the tree trunk where he’d been. Bark and wood shards rained over him as he scrambled to his feet. The Cyclops roared, swinging its club in a wide arc, but he ducked low, the weapon whistling over his head. He lunged forward, slashing at the monster’s knee, the blade biting deep. The monster staggered, its bellow shaking the clearing, and Percy seized the moment, driving the sword upward into its chest. The monster exploded into a cloud of dust, the blast knocking him back a step.

The wolves continued to fight fiercely around him, their teeth and claws tearing into monsters, but they were beginning to tire. And it seemed that for every monster they killed, two more emerged from the woods. Percy’s eyes darted to the stream, wondering if he had enough strength to pull off a plan that was forming. The Cyclopes and Hellhounds pressed closer, their roars and snarls blending into a cacophony that drowned out the wolves’ desperate howls. He had no time to think, only to act. Even if the plan wasn’t perfect, it was all he had.

He sprinted toward the stream, barely noticing a Hellhound who had broken from the pack, its jaws snapping at his heels. He reached the water’s edge and plunged his free hand into the current, feeling the familiar surge of strength flood his body. The cuts on his hands sealed, the ache in his ribs dulled, and his vision sharpened. But he needed more than healing; he needed a weapon.

“Neptune, if you’re listening, I could use a hand,” Percy muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening in the water. The stream responded, its flow quickening, swirling around his hand as if alive. He focused, willing the water to bend to his command. The surface rippled violently, then froze, the liquid hardening into jagged shards of ice that glinted like daggers in the morning light. His eyes widened; he hadn’t known he could do that, but there was no time to marvel.

With a shout, he thrust his hand forward, and the ice shards tore free from the stream, streaking through the air like a swarm of deadly hornets. They slammed into the nearest Hellhound, piercing its hide in a dozen places. The beast howled, its body convulsing before it exploded into a cloud of dust, the shards melting back into water as they fell. Percy spun, sending another volley toward the Cyclops charging him. The ice drove into its single eye and chest, stopping it mid-stride. It roared, clutching at the frozen spikes, before collapsing into a heap of dust that mingled with the morning mist.

The wolves rallied at the sight, Cato darting forward to tear into another Hellhound, his teeth ripping through its flank. Percy kept his hand in the stream, drawing more water, his mind racing as he shaped it into another barrage of ice shards. He flung them at the advancing monsters, each shard finding its mark with deadly accuracy. A Hellhound lunged, only to be impaled mid-air, bursting into ash before it could reach him. A Cyclops swung its club, but the shards shredded its arm, forcing it to drop the weapon with a bellow of pain.

“They’re falling back!” Percy roared triumphantly, watching as the remaining monsters hesitated, their numbers dwindling under his powerful display. His chest heaved, his hand still submerged in the stream, the cold water surging his power even more. He could feel the sea’s strength coursing through his veins, wild and untamed, but he forced it into focus. The monsters were retreating, but he wasn’t about to let them escape to regroup. Lupa’s words echoed in his mind: A Roman does not assume victory; he ensures it. He gritted his teeth, his sea-green eyes glowing with strength. 

He drew deeper on the stream’s power, his fingers trembling as the water churned violently around his hand. The air grew colder, the morning mist thickening as he pulled every ounce of his strength into one final act. The stream’s surface shimmered, then erupted, thousands of ice shards forming in a glittering swarm that hovered like a deadly storm cloud. The wolves froze, their ears pricking as they sensed the shift in the air, while the retreating monsters turned, their single eyes and glowing gazes widening in fear.

With one final beastial roar, he thrusted both hands forward. The ice shards surged, a lethal torrent tearing through the clearing like a blizzard of blades. They sliced through the air with a high-pitched whine, striking the fleeing Hellhounds and Cyclopes mercilessly. Dust exploded in clouds as the shards pierced hides and flesh, each impact a burst of glittering ash that scattered across the grass. A Cyclops raised its club in a futile defense, only for the shards to shred through its arm and chest, reducing it to a crumbling heap. The Hellhounds’ howls turned to shrieks, their bodies disintegrating under the onslaught.

The clearing soon fell silent, the only sounds the panting of the wolves and the faint trickle of the stream. The mist hung heavy, tinged with the acrid scent of monster dust. Percy staggered, his knees buckling as the last of his energy drained away. The Imperial Gold sword slipped from his grip, reverting to the ring on his finger as he sank to one knee. He looked around, his vision swimming, but clear enough to see the carnage or lack thereof. No bodies remained, only piles of dust settling into the earth. He’d done it. Letting out an exhausted laugh, he turned his gaze to the pack, who were licking their wounds or taking care of the ones too injured to do it themselves. Cato, however, stood tall amongst them, looking at the son of Neptune with a gleam of respect in his eyes. 

Percy nodded at the wolf before groaning out as he laid on his sore back, hoping the water would heal him quickly. His gaze drifted upward, where the dawn light filtered through the branches. His breath caught, however, when he noticed three figures standing atop a cliff overlooking the clearing, their silhouettes blackened against the rising sun. He squinted, trying to make out details, but the light haloed them, obscuring their faces. Their eyes, though he couldn’t see them, felt like they were boring into his soul, judging every choice, every strike, every moment that had brought him to this point.

He didn’t know it, but he was being watched by Lupa, Vesta, and Mars, the very gods who had shaped his trials, now gathered to assess the boy who bore the ring of Rome. They had orchestrated this last test, not just to see if he could survive, but to gauge the fire in his heart, the resolve that would either forge him into a leader or break him under Rome’s unyielding demands.

Mars, his crimson cloak rippling faintly as if stirred by an unseen flame, spoke first. “Reckless, but effective. The sea’s power runs strong in him, but it’s wild, uncontrolled. Like his father.”

Lupa, in her human form, her silver hair glinting like moonlight even in the dawn, stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, but her eyes filled with pride. “Wild, yes, but not untamed,” she countered. “He bent the stream to his will, shaped ice from water. No son of Neptune has ever been able to achieve such a power.”

Vesta smiled faintly, looking down at the demigod who was being surrounded by the wolf pack, some of them beginning to lick his wounds that had yet to be healed by the water. “He spared no hesitation in defending your pack, Lupa,” she stated, not bothering to hide her own pride toward Percy. “He fought not for himself, but for them. That is the spark I spoke of; the heart of a leader, not just a warrior.”

Mars shifted, his spear tapping lightly against the rocky cliff, sending a faint tremor through the earth. “He’s got fight, I’ll give him that,” he rumbled, his gaze that of a general assessing a recruit. “But New Rome isn’t a forest brawl. The Senate will test him in ways no monster can. They’ll smell the sea on him and circle like sharks. If he’s to stand among them, he needs more than raw power.”

“He has more,” Lupa’s eyes narrowed. “He has the seed of Rome’s strength, duty over self. I was reluctant earlier but after this, I believe he is ready to learn the city’s ways, to face its trials.”

“He carries the ring, Mars,” Vesta said pointedly. “The same ring that bound Romulus, that bore witness to Rome’s birth. It does not choose lightly. Perseus is not just a warrior or a son of Neptune; he is a builder, whether he knows it yet or not. New Rome will shape him as much as he will shape it.”

“He is ready to take the next step. New Rome awaits, and the city needs him, whether the Senate admits it or not.”

Mars’s burning eyes lingered on Percy, who was now sitting up. The boy’s face was pale, his scars stark against his skin, but his eyes burned with a fire that even the war god couldn’t ignore. “Very well,” he said at last. “He’s earned his chance. But know this, Lupa: the city will not be kind to him. The ring marks him as a target as much as a champion. If he’s to survive, he’ll need more than your training or Vesta’s faith. He’ll need to become something greater than either of us expects.”

Lupa’s lips curved into a faint smile, her pride unmistakable. “He will,” she said simply.

Vesta’s gaze softened further, her hand reaching out as if to touch the air above Percy. “Then it is decided,” she said. “The boy is ready for New Rome. Let him face the city, its laws, its people, its trials. The flame of Rome burns in him, and it will guide his path, even through the darkest of storms.”

The Father of Rome nodded, his spear lifting from the ground as he turned, his crimson cloak flaring like a flame. “So be it,” he said, his form dissolving into a shimmer of heat and ash. 

Vesta lingered a moment longer, her eyes meeting Lupa’s. “You’ve done well, old friend,” she said softly. “He is your finest pup yet. Trust him to find his way.” She, too, faded, her presence melting into a warm glow that lingered briefly before vanishing into the dawn.

Lupa stood alone on the cliff, her hair stirring in the morning breeze. She continued to watch the boy as he rose to his feet, surrounded by the wolves who now regarded him with camaraderie. She smiled at the sight before turning her gaze to the west, where the city awaited. 

“Prepare my children, for the son of Neptune comes.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Bear Witness 

The night was eerily quiet as Percy stood at the bottom steps of the Wolf House, watching the stars twinkle faintly above. His hands gripped the backpack Lupa had given him tightly, hoping that his shakiness would go unnoticed. He exhaled, his breath misting in the chilly wind as he tried to calm his nerves. But how could he even attempt that when he was finally leaving the house for New Rome, something he’d been preparing for since he’d first arrived here almost a year ago? It was a weird feeling, leaving a place he considered home. Regardless of the relentless, painful trials that left his body utterly exhausted or the wolves that sometimes almost killed him in his sleep, the Wolf House had been so much better to him than that apartment in New York ever could. He felt a sense of belonging and pride to be a part of something bigger than himself. 

But he supposed all good things eventually come to an end. Lupa had done for him all she could. She trained him not only in war but in discipline, history, legacy. She had pushed him to the brink of breaking more times than he could count, and yet somehow, he never did. Each time he fell had carved something stronger within him, a flame that grew brighter with every hit of the sword, every mile he ran, or every enemy he defeated. In a way, he owed her everything, even the bruises, even the nightmares. Especially those. Because now, standing here, he didn’t feel like a lost kid anymore. He felt like a soldier. Maybe not a perfect one. Maybe not even a good one. But one who had purpose.

He glanced behind him once more, half-expecting to see her looking at him with that expectant gaze he grew so accustomed to, or Cato staring into his soul like some sort of demon. But sadly, there was nothing. Just the whisper of wind through the trees, and his own nervous heartbeat. No one was coming to say goodbye, he knew that. Lupa didn’t do goodbyes. Wolves didn’t mourn or cheer or even look back when one of their own left. You either earned your place or you vanished from their memory. Still, it made his chest ache a little, standing there on the edge of something new and terrifying, without even a nod. 

“Goodbye.” He whispered in Rome’s language one last time before turning back.

He adjusted the straps of his backpack and took his first steps away from the Wolf House. The forest path stretched before him, a narrow ribbon of dirt and pine needles winding through the towering redwoods. The stars above offered faint guidance, their light filtering through the canopy, but the ring on his finger pulsed softly, as if it knew the way. He didn’t have a map, only Lupa’s instructions: Follow your instincts.

That wasn’t a lot of help, but he expected nothing less from the wolf goddess. 

Walking through the darkness and into the unknown, he didn’t see the pack gather at the top of the stairs, their eyes glinting in the starlight as they watched Percy’s silhouette fade. The wolves stood silent, their fur ruffled by the night breeze, their gazes fixed on the boy who had fought beside them, bled with them, and earned their respect. Cato stood slightly apart, his ears pricked, his eyes narrowed as Percy’s figure grew smaller, swallowed by the forest’s embrace.

“I fear we let a monster off its leash,” Cato rumbled, turning to Lupa, who stood motionless above them, her human form cloaked in silver moonlight, her expression unreadable.

Her gaze remained fixed on the path where Percy had disappeared. “Not a monster,” she replied, her words carrying the certainty of centuries. “A wolf.”

The forest swallowed Percy whole, its shadows wrapping around him like a cloak as he trudged forward, the weight of his backpack digging into his shoulders. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion but from the gravity of what lay ahead and what he was leaving behind. New Rome. The name reverberated in his mind, conjuring images of the city he’d seen in his dreams. He’d heard Lupa’s stories, her lessons about Rome’s glory and its ruthlessness, but they felt distant, like tales of a world he didn’t belong to. Not yet. Soon, he would be though. 

He walked for what felt like hours, much to his displeasure. He thought that part of his journey had long since passed. But no, it seemed he would have to endure one final trek to prove his worth. The path was unforgiving, the dirt uneven beneath his worn shoes, roots snagging at his feet as if the forest itself wanted to strangle him. The night was deep now, the stars obscured by thick clouds rolling in from the west. A distant rumble of thunder echoed, causing Percy’s grip to tighten on his backpack straps. He’d faced monsters and wolves, but the uncertainty of this journey felt different. In the Wolf House, he’d known the rules: fight, survive, endure. Out here, alone, with only the ring and his instincts, the rules were unclear. What if New Rome rejected him? What if the Senate saw him as Lupa feared, a wild, unpredictable threat? What if he wasn’t ready?

He shook his head, shoving the doubts down. “One step at a time,” he muttered to himself. It wasn’t good to doubt, especially after what Lupa put him through. He was ready and will be ready to face New Rome when he arrived. In his thoughts, he failed to notice the slab of asphalt beneath him nor the beaming headlights of a car speeding toward him. The blare of a horn snapped him out of his reverie, and he dove to the side, rolling into the dirt as the vehicle screeched past him.

“Dipshit!” He heard the driver’s voice echo as he sped down the highway, leaving Percy coughing in a cloud of dust and exhaust. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline surging as he scrambled to his feet, brushing gravel from his palms. The taillights of the car vanished around a bend, leaving him alone again on the dark road

“Great start, man,” he said to himself, rolling his neck as he looked down the stretch of street. Of course he would be walking on the road again. When he felt a slight drizzle, he groaned, tilting his head back to the sky. And of course it’d be raining as well. “Just like old times.” 

He continued down the road for another few hours, keeping his jacket hood pulled tight as the distant rumble of thunder grew louder, and the drizzle thickened into a steady downpour. He squinted through the darkness, scanning the road for any sign of shelter or direction. 

“Follow your instincts.” 

He snorted, wiping water from his face. “Instincts aren’t exactly a GPS, Lupa,” he muttered, but he pressed on, trusting that the ring’s subtle warmth meant he was heading the right way. His thoughts wandered as he walked, drifting back to the Wolf House, to Lupa’s training, to the fight in the clearing. He could still feel the power he’d used thrumming in his veins. That icy, cold ability that destroyed everything in its path. It was a beautiful thing, at least to him, but he had a feeling New Rome wouldn’t see it that way. The city wasn’t a clearing full of Hellhounds and Cyclopes. It was a city of laws, of politics, of people who’d judge him not just for his strength but for who he was or who they thought he was. A son of Neptune. A wildcard. A threat.

He knew he should’ve given them the benefit of the doubt, or at least hope they’d welcome him with open arms. But Lupa and Vesta’s conversation he’d overheard didn’t give him much room for optimism. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the road, and for a brief moment, Percy thought he saw a figure standing in the distance, cloaked in shadow, watching him. He froze, his hand instinctively flexing for the ring, ready to summon the sword. But when the next bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, the figure was gone, leaving only him and the howling wind. His heart thudded, his mind telling him it was just the rain playing tricks, but he knew better than to think that now. 

But until whatever it was showed itself, all he could do was continue to walk. And walk he did until the very rays of dawn began to pierce the storm clouds. His soaked clothes clung to his skin, but the chill didn’t bother him as much now as the rain had softened to a light mist. The road stretched on from the forest into the hills surrounding a city he’d only ever seen on TV. San Francisco. It was a sprawling mosaic of lights and shapes, half-shrouded in the early morning fog that clung to the hills like a ghostly veil. 

Percy paused, catching his breath as he took in the sight. The city was vast, its skyline a gleaming silhouette against the dawn. It was different from New York, but no less alive even at this hour. Peeling his eyes away from the sight, he scanned the hills surrounding him. It was here, somewhere, hidden from mortal eyes. He could feel it, and the ring could too, practically vibrating against his skin, urging him forward. 

He adjusted his sodden backpack, taking one last look at the city before beginning his trek downward. The path he was on led to a bustling highway with lines of early morning traffic. He received a few odd looks as he walked past, keeping to the shoulder. But he paid no mind, instead looking for any sign of New Rome; some hidden gate, a shimmer in the fog, anything that might mark the city Lupa had prepared him for.

He glanced at the cars rolling past, half-tempted to hitch a ride, but he knew these people wouldn’t stop for a homeless-looking kid. Plus, you never knew if you were getting in a car with a mortal or a monster. He had the ‘luck’ of that happening to him a couple of times. Besides, New Rome wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into by thumbing a lift. It was hidden, protected, meant only for those who belonged or those stubborn enough to find it.

He sighed, wondering to himself if he was even close. Suddenly, however, as he was looking out toward the Caldecott Tunnel that was a few hundred yards ahead, he heard it. A rumbling, not from the traffic, but from something heavier, faster. He heard the frantic honking of cars behind him, and as he turned, he saw something that turned his blood cold. 

“Oh shit,” he muttered, watching as a monster the size of a garbage truck slowly waltzed its way toward him, weaving through the cars with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible for its size. The beast’s silhouette loomed larger as it lumbered through the morning fog, its massive form parting the mist like a ship cutting through waves. Percy’s heart thudded in his chest, the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through his veins as he watched it come closer. He knew what it was. Lupa had told a particular story about the creature, a hulking nightmare of muscle and horn that had haunted demigods for centuries. The Minotaur. 

Its bovine head swung side to side, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air, searching. It hadn’t seen him yet, but it could smell him, his scent, the sweat of a son of Neptune. The cars swerved wildly to avoid it, horns blaring, drivers oblivious to the true nature of the monster weaving through their midst, thinking it was some garbage truck or freight trailer. Percy’s hand tightened into a fist around the ring, questioning if he should stand and fight. Truthfully, however, he didn’t know if he could even defeat such a legendary monster. 

His heart hammered as he stood frozen on the highway shoulder, watching as it drew closer, its hooves cracking the asphalt with each deliberate step. The ring on his finger grew stronger, almost burning against his skin, urging him to act. He could fight. He wanted to fight. The fire in his chest, that spark Vesta had spoken of, burned to face the beast head-on, to prove he was more than a kid with a sword, more than a boy running from his past.

He took a step forward, the Imperial Gold sword materializing in his hand with a faint shimmer. The Minotaur’s head snapped toward him, its dark, glassy eyes locking onto his with a predatory glint. A low, guttural bellow rumbled from its throat, shaking the air. Percy felt the sound vibrate in his bones as he planted his feet, the sword raised, his sea-green eyes narrowing. But then, movement in the fog behind the monster caught his eye. Shadows shifted, coalescing into forms that made his confidence waver. More monsters. A trio of Hellhounds, their eyes glowing like lava through the fog. Behind them, two Cyclops lumbered into view, their crude clubs dragging along the ground. And beyond them, barely visible through the haze, Dracaena, their spears dripping with poison. 

He practically stopped breathing. The Minotaur alone was a nightmare, but with a small army backing it? His grip on the sword tightened, but doubt crept in, slowly evaporating his bravado. He could feel Lupa’s eyes on him, scrutinizing his every thought. But this wasn’t a straw dummy or a pack of wolves he could rally. This was a death trap.

The Minotaur snorted, pawing the ground, its massive horns glinting as it lowered its head, ready to charge. Its eyes burned into him, and he felt the pull of the fight, the urge to meet it head-on, to let the sea’s power surge through him and tear through the beast. But then his gaze flicked back to the other monsters, now spreading out, flanking the Minotaur like a pack of predators cornering prey.

“Yeah, fuck that,” Percy muttered under his breath, his determination crumbling under the sheer odds. He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t stupid either. Lupa had drilled survival into him as much as fighting, and right now, survival meant running. He spun on his heel, bolting toward the Caldecott Tunnel in the distance, its dark entrance a beacon of escape. At least, the best escape possible. The Minotaur roared, the sound echoing like thunder, and the ground shook as it charged after him, the other monsters following in a chorus of snarls and stomping feet. 

Curses and horns blared around him as he weaved through the standstill traffic. He could hear the monsters gaining on him, along with the panicked shouts of mortals as the Minotaur barreled through the cars like they were mere toys. His legs burned as he sprinted toward the Caldecott Tunnel, his panicked breathing growing stronger as the Minotaur’s bellows grew louder, each roar a physical force that seemed to shove him forward. The blood rushed in his ears, not just from fear but from the adrenaline-fueled clarity that came with being hunted. 

The tunnel was getting closer, its dark mouth yawning like a void. His instincts screamed at him to get there as soon as possible, knowing that it could offer some protection, or at least a bottleneck for him to escape. But the Minotaur was faster than he’d expected, gaining ground with terrifying speed. He risked a glance over his shoulder and immediately regretted it. The beast was only a few car lengths away, its massive horns lowered, eyes blazing with primal fury.

A car swerved to avoid the Minotaur, its tires screeching as it slammed into another vehicle, creating a pileup that blocked part of the road. Percy used the chaos to his advantage, weaving between cars, leaping over hoods, and dodging panicked drivers who couldn’t see the monsters but felt the tremors of their approach. The tunnel was close now, maybe a hundred yards, but the Minotaur was closer. He could feel its hot breath on his back, hear the scrape of its horns against metal as it plowed through the traffic.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, pushing his legs harder. His mind raced for a plan, but the beast didn’t give him time to think. A deafening roar split the air, and he felt the ground shake as the beast closed the gap. He dove to the side just as a horn sliced through the air where he’d been, smashing into the side of a pickup truck. The vehicle crumpled like tinfoil, glass shattering in a spray that stung his face as he rolled across the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, sword still in hand, and faced the Minotaur as it turned, its hooves gouging the asphalt. The beast towered over him, its muscular frame rippling with raw power, its eyes burning with a hatred that felt personal.

The Minotaur charged, faster than anything that size had a right to be. Percy sidestepped, the beast’s horn grazing his jacket, tearing a gash in the fabric. He swung his sword, aiming for its flank, but the blade only grazed its thick hide, sparking against the coarse fur. The Minotaur spun, impossibly agile, and swiped with a massive fist. Percy ducked, feeling the air whistle above his head, and slashed again, this time drawing a thin line of ichor across its arm. The beast bellowed, more annoyed than hurt, and charged again.

The demigod darted toward a nearby SUV, using it as cover. The Minotaur’s horns smashed into the vehicle, lifting it off the ground and sending it crashing onto its side. Glass exploded outward, and Percy shielded his face, feeling shards nick his arms. He scrambled backward, his mind screaming at him to run, but the Hellhounds were closing in now, cutting off his escape. One lunged, jaws snapping, and he swung his sword in a desperate arc, slicing through its neck. The beast dissolved into dust, but another took its place, its claws raking the air inches from his chest.

The tunnel was so close, but the Minotaur wouldn’t allow him to get any closer. His eyes darted to the cars around him, searching for anything he could use. A delivery van caught his eye, its rear doors ajar, revealing crates of bottled water stacked inside. An idea sparked, reckless but possible. He sprinted toward the van, hooves thundering behind him. He reached the open doors and grabbed a crate, ripping it open with a strength he didn’t know he had. Plastic bottles spilled out, and he plunged his hand into one, feeling the familiar surge of power.

The water responded instantly, swirling around his hand like a living thing. He focused, willing it to harden, just as he had with the stream. The liquid froze into a spear of ice, sharp and gleaming. He spun, hurling it at the Minotaur. The shard struck its shoulder, embedding deep, and the beast roared, stumbling but not falling. Percy grabbed another bottle, forming another ice spear, and threw it, this time aiming for its chest. The Minotaur swatted it aside with a massive hand, the ice shattering into harmless fragments.

“Shit,” he cursed, realizing he’d underestimated the beast’s resilience. The Hellhounds were almost on him now, and the Cyclopes were closing in, their clubs raised. He needed more than spears. He needed a miracle. The Minotaur charged again, and this time, Percy didn’t dodge fast enough. A massive horn caught his side, lifting him off the ground and sending him hurtling through the air. He crashed through the windshield of a parked sedan, the glass exploding inward as his body slammed into the driver’s seat. Pain erupted across his ribs and shoulder, the breath driven from his lungs. Shards of glass dug into his skin, and he tasted blood, his vision swimming as he struggled to stay conscious.

The beast loomed over the car, its massive form blotting out the sun. It ripped the door off the sedan with one hand, tossing it aside like it was a mere bug. Percy gripped his sword, his hands slick with blood. He rolled out of the car just as the Minotaur’s fist smashed through the dashboard, crumpling the vehicle like a soda can. He hit the pavement hard, glass crunching beneath him, and staggered to his feet quickly.

He wiped blood from his brow, his sea-green eyes darting for any advantage. The Tunnel was just ahead, its entrance a faint promise of escape, but the monsters were too close. Then he saw it: a narrow service entrance carved into the tunnel’s side. It looked abandoned, barely visible with a rusted metal door half-hidden by overgrown vines and graffiti, tucked into the concrete wall of the Tunnel. For some reason, he was drawn to it even more than the tunnel itself, his instincts screaming at him to go for it. And at this point, with a potential hand of death dealt to him, he had half the mind to listen to them.

Glancing back at the monsters approaching, he took a deep breath before bolting toward it, adrenaline surging as he weaved through the stalled traffic. Cars honked and swerved, mortals oblivious to the nightmare unfolding in their midst. Percy's injuries screamed with every step, blood rushing down his face and into his eyes, but he didn’t dare stop, focusing on the service entrance, its door a lifeline. 

A Hellhound lunged, its claws grazing his backpack, tearing a strap. He spun while running, slashing with his sword, but missed its muzzle by mere inches. The other monsters were gaining, barreling through a minivan, sending it spinning into the guardrail. But somehow, by sheer luck, he reached the tunnel, the cool, damp air hitting his face like a slap. The service entrance was just to his right, its door slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning.

He dove for it, skidding across the gritty concrete as a Cyclops’ club smashed into the tunnel wall above him, showering him with dust and debris. He scrambled to his feet, yanking the door open with a screech of rusted hinges, and slipped inside, slamming it shut just as the Minotaur’s horns rammed into it. The force of the impact hit him square in the chest, sending him flying backward. Pain flared through his already battered body, but he gritted his teeth, clutching the sword as he scrambled to his feet just in time as the monsters tried to come through all at once, their jaws snapping and bellows echoing through the tunnel.

He turned and ran, knowing that at any second they’d be upon him once more. His footsteps echoed as he sprinted, the air heavy with the scent of mold and rust, and the dim flicker of a single bulb overhead cast erratic shadows across the walls. Behind him, the monsters’ roars reverberated, the Minotaur’s bellows shaking the very stone around him. He didn’t have much time. He needed to find a way out of here, but he didn’t know where he was going. The tunnel seemed endless, a maze of damp stone and flickering lights, but the sword’s vibration grew stronger, guiding him like a compass.

The tunnel widened suddenly, opening into a larger chamber where the air felt different: cleaner, warmer. The walls here were smoother, carved with faint, weathered symbols: laurel wreaths, eagles, the letters SPQR etched in deep relief. Percy’s heart skipped a beat. He was close. This had to be it, New Rome, or at least its threshold.

But there was no time to dwell on it. A deafening crash echoed behind him as the monsters poured into the chamber. His chest heaved as he skidded to a halt, searching for an exit. At the far end, a massive stone archway loomed, flanked by two figures in gleaming armor. He almost shouted in pure joy when he spotted their purple cloaks billowing in the damp breeze that tunneled through the chamber. Romans. 

Without thinking twice, he ran towards them, not daring to glance back at the monsters who were hot on his trail. “Halt!” He could hear one of the guards shout, but his voice cracked when he saw what was behind him. 

Percy raised his free hand, panting, trying to look non-threatening despite the Imperial Gold sword and the blood dripping from his face. “I’m not the problem!” he shouted. “Look behind me!”

“Oh shit!” The second guard, a girl, yelled, panic seeping into her tone. 

“Run!” Percy yelled, not slowing his pace as he barreled toward the archway. The guards hesitated for a split second, their training warring with the sight of the monstrous horde. Then, as the Minotaur let out a bone-rattling bellow and charged, they turned and sprinted with the boy, their armor clanking in rhythm with his frantic footsteps.

“Why are there so many?!” the boy yelled, looking back at Percy, who was struggling to keep up, his injuries slowing him down despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

“They’re after him, you idiot!” the girl answered, glancing at her fellow guard with an exasperated look. “What’d you do, kid, to draw so many?!” 

“And who are you?!” the boy questioned once more. 

“Would love to answer those questions when we’re not on the verge of being eaten!” Percy replied, glancing back at the monsters who were mere feet away from them now. Pushing himself even harder, he ran for his life, keeping pace with the guards who knew where to go. He stumbled as they rounded a corner, light from the opposite end of the tunnel blinding him momentarily. He shielded his eyes, grabbing the tail-end of one of the guard’s cloaks to keep up. The monsters’ roars echoed closer, the ground trembling under their pursuit, the heat of their breath stinging the back of his neck. 

Eventually, however, the light grew even brighter, and they burst through the opening. Percy had no time to stop, even when he saw a vast valley bathed in golden morning light with rolling hills framing a city of gleaming white marble, its rooftops glinting with red tiles, temples and aqueducts rising like monuments to a forgotten empire. New Rome. It was more breathtaking than Lupa’s stories, more alive than his dreams. 

He was here. He’d made it.

But there was no time to marvel. “Get to the camp! We’ll be safe there!” the boy ordered Percy before grabbing a horn off his belt and blowing it with a sharp, piercing note that echoed across the valley. The sound was a call to arms, a signal to the legion of Rome to come to their aid. 

Percy didn’t need to be told twice, turning to run, but at that moment, he saw a spear flying through the tunnel toward the guard still signaling the city. Without thinking, he dove forward, tackling the much taller boy to the ground just as the spear sailed over their heads, embedding itself in the earth with a thud. The impact sent a jolt through his already battered body, but he rolled to his feet, sword in hand, pulling the guard up with him. The girl was already ahead, sprinting toward the camp, shouting for reinforcements. The Minotaur’s roar shook the valley, and Percy glanced back to see the beast charging through the tunnel’s exit, its horns gleaming in the dawn light, the other monsters still behind.

“Move!” he yelled, shoving the guard forward. The boy stumbled but regained his footing, clutching the horn as they ran toward the gates of the camp. It loomed closer now, its gates and walls flanked by towering statues of eagles, wolves, and gods, their eyes seeming to watch Percy as he approached.

The girl guard reached the gates first, banging on the heavy doors with the hilt of her gladius. “Open the gates! Monsters incoming!” she shouted urgently, glancing back at the two boys who were still yards away. 

“They’re gaining!” Percy yelled, watching as the Hellhounds surged forward, their claws tearing up the earth, saliva dripping from their snarling maws

“Keep goi—” the older boy was cut off when a spear whistling through the air hit its mark directly in the back of his leg, sending him sprawling to the ground in a cry of pain. Percy skidded to a halt, his heart lurching as he witnessed the guard collapse, clutching his leg where the weapon had pierced clean through. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the grass, and the boy’s face twisted in pain, his horn slipping from his grip and rolling into the dirt. The Minotaur’s bellow shook the valley, its hooves pounding closer, the Hellhounds, Cyclopes, and Dracaena fanning out to cut off any escape. The girl guard was still banging on the camp’s gates, her shouts growing more frantic as the heavy doors remained shut.

“Get up!” he shouted, dropping to one knee beside the fallen demigod. He grabbed the boy’s arm, trying to haul him to his feet, but the weight was too much, his leg useless from the damage. Percy’s eyes darted to the approaching monsters. He had seconds, maybe less.

“I can’t!” the guard gasped, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow. “Leave me, kid! Get to the gates!”

Despite the plea, Percy wasn’t going to listen. He wasn’t leaving anyone behind, not after making it this far. He wasn’t going to let these monsters take anyone, not when there was something he could do about it. He stood back up, sword in hand, planting himself between the injured guard and the oncoming horde. 

“Stay down,” he told the guard. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide with a mix of pain and disbelief, but Percy didn’t wait for a response. The ground trembled as the Minotaur charged, its bellow a force that rattled his bones. He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. Not with the guard bleeding out behind him, not with the girl still pounding on the gates, not with the feeling that the statues of the gods and heroes along with the entire city were watching him. 

He scanned his surroundings, his gaze catching the glint of a river winding through the grass, not far from the side of the camp’s gates. The Tiber. An idea quickly sparked in his mind as he glanced back at the approaching monsters. It was reckless and desperate, but it was all he had. If he could reach it, he might be able to keep everyone alive. He looked down at the injured guard, who was trying to crawl toward the gates, leaving a trail of blood in the grass. The girl guard’s shouts grew hoarse, but the camp’s gates still didn’t budge. No reinforcements were coming, not yet. It was now or never.

“Come on, then!” Percy roared, drawing all of the monsters' attention as he began to run toward the water. The Minotaur’s bellows echoed behind him, the ground shaking as it and the other monsters gave chase, their roars and snarls a cacophony of death closing in. He could hear the injured guard shouting something, but the words were lost in the chaos. The girl’s desperate pounding on the camp gates faded as he put distance between them, drawing the monsters away. 

The Tiber was close now, its waters glinting like molten silver in the morning light. His heart pounded, not just from the run but from the wild surge of power he felt stirring within him, the call of the sea in his blood responding to the river’s presence. He didn’t know if he could pull this off; his trick with the ice shards had been instinct, not skill, but he had no choice. The monsters were too many, too strong, and the camp’s gates weren’t opening fast enough. If he didn’t act, they’d all be dead.

He skidded to a halt at the river’s edge, the damp grass slick beneath his shoes. The monsters slowed as they approached, savoring the thought of him having no escape. They formed a crescent moon around him, snarling and salivating as they closed in on the kill. His breath came in ragged gasps, his injuries screaming, ribs bruised, shoulder throbbing, blood still trickling from the cuts on his face. But the river was here, and with it, a chance.

He slowly began to lift a hand from his side, feeling the familiar tug of the water’s energy, like a current pulling at his soul. The Tiber’s surface began to ripple, responding to his will, its waters churning as if being awakened. “Come on, Dad,” he muttered, looking to the sky. “If you’re ever gonna help, now’s the time.”

He didn’t have time to listen for a response as the Minotaur charged straight for him, its hooves churning the ground into mud. Percy focused, willing the river to obey. The water churned violently around his hand, ripples spreading outward, then rising, coiling like a serpent. He didn’t know what he was doing, not really, but he trusted the instinct that had carried him this far. With a shout, he yanked his hand upward, and the Tiber responded.

A wall of water erupted from the river, towering thirty feet high, shimmering in the sunlight. It surged forward, slamming into the Minotaur with the force of a tidal wave. The beast bellowed, its massive body knocked off its feet, tumbling backward in a spray of water and mud. The other monsters were caught in the wave as well, some dissolving into dust while the bigger ones were simply knocked off their feet. Seizing the opportunity, he charged into the fray, his sword flashing as he slashed through a Hellhound, its form disintegrating into golden dust. The water receded, leaving the ground slick and the remaining monsters disoriented, but he didn’t stop. He moved like a storm, his blade a blur as he cut down another Hellhound and dodged a Cyclops’ clumsy swing. 

Using the water in the ground as a deterrent, with a swipe of his hand, he froze it and sent tendrils of ice shards upward like makeshift missiles, impaling a Dracaena through the chest and through a Cyclops’s foot. Using the distraction, he pushed toward the cyclops, sliding beneath its legs and slicing through its tendons. The monster howled, collapsing to one knee as ichor spurted from its body. Using his sword to climb onto its back, he drove the blade into the Cyclops’s neck, twisting it until the beast shuddered and crumbled into dust.

Landing on a knee, he didn’t have time to defend himself from the last Hellhound who lunged at his side. Turning his head, he watched in slow motion as the beast’s jaw opened wide, ready to take a chunk out of his face. But in the corner of his eye, he watched as a golden pilum soared through the air and directly into the monster’s eye, sending it crumpling to the ground in a heap of dissolving dust. Whipping his head, his gaze landed on the source. There, standing at the now-open gates of the camp, was a line of Roman legionnaires, their armor gleaming in the morning sun, spears raised and shields locked in formation. At their center stood a figure in a red cloak, a centurion by the look of the crest on their helmet, who had thrown the pilum with deadly accuracy. The girl guard from earlier was beside him, her gladius drawn, her features filled with relief as she shouted orders.

“Advance!” the centurion ordered in Latin, settling back into the front rank as they approached the remaining monsters. 

Percy sighed in relief, staggering to his feet as he watched the legionnaires throw their javelins at the remaining monsters who dared to fight back. Sadly, he didn’t have much time to rest when he heard the snort of an enraged bull. He turned, finding the Minotaur shaking off the water, its eyes locked on him with a fury that made his blood run cold. He glanced at the Tiber, its waters still rippling from his earlier surge, but he could feel the strain in his veins, the exhaustion creeping in. He’d never used his powers to that extent before, not on this scale, and it had taken more out of him than he realized. His vision blurred at the edges, but he gripped his sword tighter, refusing to falter. Not now, not when he was so close to New Rome’s gates.

The legionnaires shouted behind him, their javelins whistling through the air, but the Minotaur’s thick hide deflected the projectiles like they were mere thorns. The centurion’s voice boomed, urging the soldiers forward, but Percy knew they wouldn’t reach him in time. This was his fight. It had always been his fight. From the moment he’d left New York, the world had tested him, and now, on the threshold of New Rome, the Minotaur was the final trial.

He planted his feet, his eyes narrowing as he calculated his odds. They weren’t good. The beast was too fast, too strong, and he was running on fumes. But he wasn’t running anymore. He’d done that for so long, and now, surrounded by the city he spent close to a year trying to get to, he refused to back down. 

“Come on, you ugly bastard!” Percy roared, pointing his sword at the monster. The Minotaur bellowed in response, lowering its head, horns aimed to impale him. Time seemed to slow, his world narrowing as he watched it charge. His brain screamed at him to dodge, to roll, to survive, but he held his ground, waiting for the perfect moment.

The monster was mere feet away when he decided to finally move. He dove forward, sliding under the beast’s frame, the ground slick with mud and dust. One horn grazed his back, tearing through his jacket and slicing a gash across his skin, but he ignored the sting. His sword flashed upward, slashing at the underbelly as he passed beneath it. Ichor sprayed, hot and golden, splattering his face, but the cut wasn’t deep enough to slow the beast. The Minotaur skidded to a halt and spun with terrifying agility, its bellow shaking the valley.

Percy rolled to his feet, his sword dripping with ichor. The beast charged again, faster this time, its horns swinging in a deadly arc. He sidestepped, but the monster anticipated it, swiping with a massive fist. The blow caught his shoulder, sending him sprawling into the mud, his sword skittering across the ground. Pain exploded through his arm, his vision swimming as he gasped for air. The Minotaur loomed over him, raising a hoof to crush his skull.

Desperation surged through him. He rolled to the side just as the hoof slammed down, the impact sending a shockwave through the ground. Scrambling, he lunged onto its back, his hands grasping at the coarse fur as he climbed up. The beast thrashed, trying to shake him off, but Percy clung tight, his fingers digging into its hide. His sword was out of reach, lying in the mud several feet away, and the legionnaires were still too far to intervene. Its movements were wild and erratic, desperately trying to get him off, but Percy’s focus narrowed to a single point: the beast’s own horn, glinting wickedly in the morning light.

Wrapping one arm around its thick neck to steady himself, he reached for the base of the monster’s right horn with his free hand, his fingers brushing the rough, bone-like surface. The Minotaur snorted, sensing his intent, and thrashed harder, nearly throwing him off. But Percy gritted his teeth, his muscles screaming as he tightened his grip, refusing to let go. He yanked at the horn, testing its give, but it was solid, rooted deep in the monster’s skull. If he was going to break this thing, he needed to pour all his strength into it. 

Gripping its neck tighter, he reared back and drove his fist into the base of the horn with every ounce of his power. Still nothing. He punched again and again and again, each strike fueled by desperation and the burning will to survive. His knuckles split, blood mixing with the ichor staining his hands, but he felt the horn give slightly under the onslaught. The Minotaur roared, its movements growing frantic as it tried to dislodge him, bucking like a wild bull. Percy’s vision blurred from pain and exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop now. With a primal shout, he wrapped his hand around the horn’s base, planting his feet against the beast’s back for leverage, and pulled with everything he had.

The horn snapped with a sickening crack, the sound echoing across the valley like a thunderclap. The monster staggered, its bellow turning into a high-pitched scream of agony as ichor poured from the wound. Percy didn’t hesitate. Gripping the severed horn like a dagger, he drove it into the back of the beast’s neck, twisting it deep into the muscle. Ichor sprayed, hot and golden, soaking his torn jacket and stinging his eyes, but he didn’t let go. It still wasn’t enough. The monster continued to thrash wildly, its body convulsing as it tried to shake him off

He yanked the horn free, ichor gushing from the wound, and stabbed again, this time aiming for the base of the skull. The Minotaur bucked, nearly throwing him, but Percy dug his knees into its sides, anchoring himself as he drove the horn deeper. The beast staggered, its movements growing sluggish. Eventually, it hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud. The demigod rode it down, still clinging to its back, the horn buried deep in its neck. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His breath came in ragged gasps as he ripped the horn free and stabbed again, ichor splattering across his face, his hands slick with it. The beast’s roars weakened to groans, its limbs twitching as it tried to rise, but Percy kept stabbing, each thrust fueled by a need to end this. The horn sank into its flesh over and over, carving through muscle and bone, until the monster’s movements slowed to a shudder.

Even as it lay still, Percy didn’t relent. He straddled the beast, his knees pinning its shoulders to the muddy ground, and drove the horn into its skull one final time. The Minotaur let out one last pitiful bellow before its body shuddered and began to dissolve, crumbling into a pile of golden dust beneath him. The horn slipped from his trembling hands, clattering to the ground, and Percy collapsed forward, his chest heaving, his body screaming with pain. He knelt there, surrounded by the dust, blood, and ichor mingling in the mud, his vision blurred by sweat and exhaustion.

His ears rang, his body trembling from exertion and the throbbing pain in his ribs, shoulder, and the fresh gash across his back. The severed horn lay beside him, slick with ichor. He stared at it, half-expecting the Minotaur to reform from the dust, but thankfully, nothing. Just the silence of the valley and the clinking of armor. Footsteps crunched through the grass, approaching him until he saw the boot of a soldier. He looked up, wincing as pain flared through his neck, and saw the centurion staring down at him, his red cloak billowing behind him, the crest of his helmet catching the sunlight. 

He outstretched a hand toward Percy, which he took gratefully, slowly getting to his feet. The Roman’s face was stern, his eyes narrowing as they flicked from Percy’s blood-streaked face to the pile of golden dust where the Minotaur had fallen. Behind him, the legionaries fanned out, wanting to get a glimpse of the boy who defeated multiple monsters by himself. Every pair of eyes held a mix of awe, wariness, and something else, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Fear. 

The centurion released Percy’s hand, stepping back to appraise him fully. “Who are you?” he asked in Latin, the question ringing out through the air for all to hear. 

Percy straightened, ignoring the fire in his ribs and the blood dripping from his brow. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, including the statues of the gods and New Rome itself, bearing witness to his arrival. He took a deep breath. 

“I’m Percy Jackson,” he announced, meeting the centurion’s eyes. “The son of Neptune.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Unwelcomed Hero

When he took down Cyclops, Hellhounds, Dracaena, and even the Minotaur, he expected New Rome to welcome him with open arms. He would’ve thought the legionaries who witnessed his strength, his determination, and his ability to protect would earn him a place among them without question. Hell, he figured saving one of their own would’ve at least earned him a thank you. Instead, he received none of that. Instead, immediately after the battle, without even a chance to wash the blood and ichor off him, the centurion had practically paraded him through the streets of New Rome for all eyes to see and into the Senate House. 

When he walked inside the chamber, the room went deathly silent, save for the sound of the heavy double doors closing and the clinking of the centurion’s armor against the marble floor as they walked toward the center of the room. Percy couldn’t help but be left awestruck at the grandness of the chamber. Marble columns soared to a vaulted ceiling, their surfaces etched with intricate carvings of Roman victories and gods. Golden braziers flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Rows of senators, draped in pristine white togas edged with purple, sat on tiered benches, their faces a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and barely concealed unease at the sight of the boy dripping blood on the marble. 

At the far end of the chamber, elevated on a dais, sat the praetors; two figures in ornate togas, their expressions unreadable as they watched them approach. One male, one female, both looking to be in their early twenties. He could feel their gazes bore into him as the centurion placed him in the center of the room before approaching the dais and whispering a few words he couldn’t quite make out. During this time, Percy scanned the room, his eyes landing on a few senators who were already looking at him with disgust. He quickly tore his gaze away, instead focusing on the statues and artwork above. Standing here, in the middle of the chamber, with torn clothing and blood dripping down his skin, made him feel like a stray dog dragged into a palace. 

He wanted nothing more than a shower, a meal, and a bed, but it seemed those would have to wait. The centurion, whose name he still didn’t know, stepped back from the dais, his polished armor gleaming in stark contrast to Percy’s battered appearance. The praetors exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them before the male praetor rose, his toga falling in perfect folds around him.

“Percy Jackson,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority, echoing off the marble walls. “Son of Neptune. You stand before the Senate of New Rome. Your actions outside our gates have raised…questions. Speak. Tell us why you are here.”

Questions? What did he mean by questions? What was there to question? He killed those monsters and saved a legionary; there was nothing to question about that. His jaw tightened, his annoyance already beginning to flare, but he held his tongue. He couldn’t lash out. Judging by the praetor’s tone and the scrutinizing gazes boring into his back, he had to remain calm, lest he wanted to be kicked out of the city after just arriving. But it’s okay, Lupa had taught him to stand tall, to face judgment without flinching, to act like a seasoned leader, and he’d be damned if he let her down now.

“I’m here because Lady Lupa sent me,” he announced, blood trickling down his temple. “I was placed through her trials and endured them all, just like everyone else. She told me to find New Rome, to join the legion. I fought my way here, through monsters, through that—” he gestured vaguely toward the doors, where the memory of the Minotaur’s dust still lingered in his mouth.

A murmur rippled through the senators like the rustle of leaves before a storm. The female praetor raised a hand, silencing them instantly. She looked back at Percy, leaning forward slightly, her expression softer but no less intense, as if she could see straight through to the fire Lupa had forged in him.

“You claim Lupa’s blessing,” the male praetor interrupted, looking down at him. “Yet you arrive without any letters of recommendation, without proof beyond your word and the spectacle outside our gates. A son of Neptune is no small claim, Percy Jackson. The sea is wild, unpredictable, and its children…” He paused, choosing his words carefully, though his tone carried a clear edge. “Well, our history can answer that.”

Percy’s fists clenched at his sides, blood seeping out of the open wounds. He wanted to snap back, to demand why saving one of their own and felling a legendary monster wasn’t proof enough. But thankfully, just before he made that mistake, the centurion who’d brought him here spoke up.

“I can back his claim of being a son of Neptune,” he stepped up, drawing every eye in the Senate. “I saw him wield the Tiber’s waters like a weapon, commanding it with the authority only a child of Neptune could possess. He faced the Minotaur alone and brought it down with its own horn. He saved my legionary, Lucius Anderson, and risked his life to draw the monsters away from our gates. If that’s not proof of his heritage and his worth, then I don’t know what is.”

“The senate recognizes Centurion Anthony of the fifth cohort,” the female praetor announced, acknowledging the centurion’s testimony. 

Percy could feel his shoulders sag in relief, happy to know that at least someone in this room was willing to vouch for him. The centurion’s words seemed to shift the atmosphere slightly, a few senators exchanging glances, their expressions softening from outright disdain to cautious consideration. But only a few. Most still held disdain or scrutiny in their gazes, including the male praetor who remained unmoved, his eyes narrowing as he studied Percy like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

“Thank you, Centurion Anthony,” he stated, cutting through the murmurs that had begun to rise again. He stood from his chair, his toga shifting gracefully as he stepped forward on the dais. “But the Senate must be thorough. A son of Neptune is rare. After the power he’s displayed, Percy Jackson is…unsettling to some.” He gestured subtly toward the rows of senators, where a few shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Unsettling?” Percy couldn’t help but blurt out. He regretted it instantly as the room’s attention snapped back to him, the air growing heavy with scrutiny. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stand straighter, to channel the strength Lupa had drilled into him. “I don’t understand. I fought for you. I saved one of your legionaries. I did what Lupa trained me to do. What more do you want?”

The male praetor’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but something close to it, as if Percy’s outburst had confirmed some suspicion. “What we want, Percy Jackson, is certainty. The sea is not a gentle master, and its children have a history of…instability. I suppose Lupa hadn’t told you that, had she?” 

Percy licked the blood off his lips, his mind racing to process the implication. Instability? What was that supposed to mean? Lupa hadn’t mentioned anything about the children of Neptune being unstable, only that they were rare, powerful, and often misunderstood. Her lessons had been about strength, survival, loyalty, and the legacy of New Rome, nothing about some ancient stigma attached to his heritage. His fingers twitched, itching to summon his sword, but he kept them still, knowing any sudden move would only make him look more like the reckless sea-spawn they seemed to fear.

The female praetor stood, her movement fluid and commanding, drawing every eye in the room. Her toga shimmered faintly in the golden light of the braziers, and her voice, when she spoke, was calm but firm, cutting through the tension building. “Enough, Praetor Titus,” she said, her gaze flicking briefly to her co-praetor in warning before settling on Percy. “But I must agree with my fellow praetor’s earlier statements. Percy Jackson has no letters of recommendation nor anyone to vouch for him. New Rome is a city of order, built on trust and proof. Without those, we are no better than the monsters we fight against. Your actions at the gates are commendable, Percy Jackson, but they alone cannot grant you a place among us. The Senate requires more than valor; it requires assurance of your loyalty, your control, and your place within our ranks.”

Percy clenched his teeth so hard they threatened to crack. Blood trailed down his face, his eyes narrowed at the two praetors like a wolf ready to bite out its prey’s jugular. He wanted to argue, to point out the unfairness of being judged for a heritage he didn’t fully understand. The statues of the gods lining the chamber seemed to loom larger, their marble eyes judging him as much as the living senators. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the heavy double doors of the Senate House creaked open with a resonant groan, silencing the murmurs.

All heads turned as two figures stepped into the chamber, their presence commanding immediate attention. The air seemed to shift, growing heavier, warmer, as if the very essence of the room acknowledged their arrival. Percy’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized them instantly. A collective gasp swept through the Senate. Senators rose from their seats, some out of respect, others out of sheer shock. The praetors stiffened, along with Centurion Anthony, before they knelt, their heads bowed. 

The son of Neptune watched the two goddesses approach him, their gazes locked onto him with a warmth that filled him with both relief and confusion. 

“Mother Lupa. Lady Vesta.” He greeted, a smile involuntarily forming on his features despite the situation. 

The two goddess smiled back before their gazes began to sweep the chamber. The senators remained frozen, some still standing, others half-risen, their togas rustling faintly as they struggled to process the arrival of two goddesses in their midst.

“Ave Mater Romae! Ave Domina Vesta!” Praetor Titus declared. 

“Ave!” The senators echoed in unison, their shouts reverberating through the chamber. 

Silence quickly ensued over the chamber, save for the flickering flames of the braziers along the walls. The two goddesses stood side by side, Percy in the middle, taking in the sight of the most powerful people of New Rome kneeling before them. Lupa stepped forward first, her gaze sweeping over the senators that made even the most seasoned among them flinch. “Rise, my children,” she began, her tone resonant, carrying the growl of a wolf beneath its human cadence. “You ask for letters of recommendation. For vouchers. Well, here I stand, Lupa, mother of Rome, to vouch for Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune.”

The senators stirred, murmurs rippling through the chamber like waves on a shore. Percy’s gaze flicked between the two goddesses, gratitude swelling in his chest, though he kept his face passive. The praetors exchanged another glance before rising to their feet. 

Praetor Titus cleared his throat, making sure his posture remained respectful. “Mother Lupa, Lady Vesta,” he began, his voice careful, “your presence honors us—”

“Thank you, son of Mars,” Vesta interrupted with a smile, tilting her head slightly. “But Lupa and I did not come here for pleasantries. We came to ensure that New Rome does not falter in its judgment.” She finished, her tone carrying an undercurrent of steel that made Titus shiver. For the goddess of warmth, she could be ice cold when needed. 

“Vesta is correct,” Lupa continued, placing a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Percy here has endured my house along with its harshest lessons. He was under my care for close to a year, which might I add, is longer than any and all of my other children besides Romulus and Remus. He arrived at your gates, saved a fellow Roman, and defeated legendary monsters, yet you question his worth?”

“Lady Lupa, with respect,” the female praetor spoke up, a bead of sweat trailing down her brow. “We only questioned to uphold tradition. A son of Neptune is… unprecedented in our time. His power, as Centurion Anthony described, is formidable, but it raises concerns. Concerns that we rightfully must address for the safety of New Rome and for the legion.”

Both goddesses and Percy’s eyes narrowed even further, their features growing dangerous, causing the two praetors to look down at their feet in submission. “H-Had we known that you would recommend him, my ladies, we would’ve skipped this entire proceeding. But we were unaware of such divine intervention.”  She finished hastily, feeling her mouth dry up in nervousness.

“Then let it be known, Praetor Julia,” Lupa declared loudly enough for all to hear. “That Percy Jackson has not only earned the right, but has been called to be here.” She reached for the boy’s hand, raising it high in the air and showing the ring on his finger that shimmered faintly in the flickering light of the braziers.

Everyone, including the praetors, gasped at the sight of the gold band etched with ancient patterns. Whispers erupted among the senators, their eyes wide with recognition. Some stood up in pure shock, knowing exactly what it meant, while others leaned back in their seats in fear, realizing that the son of Neptune had just become even more dangerous.

Praetor Julia’s composure faltered, her eyes darting from the ring to Lupa, who could barely contain the smile on her face. “The Ring of Rome,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, though it carried in the chamber. “H-How…It hasn’t been seen in over a thousand years?”

“By the will of the Fates,” Vesta answered. “This boy bears the mark of Rome’s legacy, chosen not by chance but by destiny. You question his worth, yet the ring he wears speaks louder than any letter of recommendation. It chose him, as it chose Romulus. Will you deny the will of Rome itself?”

The Senate chamber fell into a heavy silence, none daring to stand up and challenge. Percy stood still, his bloodied hand raised by Lupa, the Ring of Rome gleaming on his finger. His heart pounded from the realization that this moment was a turning point. The gods, the Senate, the city itself, they were all watching, waiting to see what would happen next.

Praetor Titus’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking between the ring and Percy’s face, as if searching for some flaw to exploit. But even he couldn’t deny the significance of the ring or the presence of two goddesses standing in defense of the boy. He cleared his throat, stepping forward cautiously. “Lady Vesta, Mother Lupa, we do not deny the will of Rome or the Fates. The Ring of Rome is… undeniable proof of Percy Jackson’s claim. We accept your vouches and welcome the son of Neptune into New Rome.” 

Percy breathed a sigh of relief, but tensed when he felt Lupa grip his hand somewhat harder. He looked up, only to see her baring her too-sharp teeth.

“New Rome,” she growled, glaring at the praetor. “Not the legion?” 

Titus audibly gulped but stood his ground, nodding his head in affirmation. “Yes, my lady. He may be accepted into New Rome but not the legion…yet. He is far too young to join the ranks of the legion immediately, even as a probatio.”

Lupa’s eyes flashed, a storm brewing in their amber depths as she lowered Percy’s hand but kept her grip firm. When she spoke, her words were low and dangerous, a growl that silenced the chamber’s whispers. “Too young?” she repeated with barely restrained fury, wanting nothing more than to bite that smug look off the boy’s face. “You stand before a boy who has felled monsters that would make some legionaries tremble, who has endured more trials than I’ve given to anyone else, who bears the Ring of Rome itself. And you dare call him unready ?”

The son of Mars stiffened, his face a mask of practiced calm, though more beads of sweat trailed down his temple. “Mother Lupa,” he said carefully, bowing his head slightly, “it is not a question of his valor, his heritage, or your judgment. As you are well aware, the legion has rules, traditions that have held New Rome together for centuries. No one under twelve may serve, not even as a probatio. To allow otherwise would set a precedent that could destabilize the order we uphold.”

“Yet the son of Jupiter serves,” Vesta pointed out, arching an eyebrow at the double standard. “In fact, he is in the first cohort, the best of the best, supposedly. Why is the son of Neptune held to a different standard?”

Titus’s composure frayed under the combined scrutiny of the two goddesses. He glanced at Julia, who gave a subtle nod, urging him to tread carefully. “The son of Jupiter,” he began, his tone measured, “was an exception made under… extraordinary circumstances. His lineage, his actions, and the auguries all aligned to justify his early admission. But even he was not admitted without the Senate’s approval.”

“Lady Vesta, Mother Lupa,” Julia spoke up, making sure her mannerisms were respectful. “We do not doubt Percy Jackson’s strength or the significance of the Ring of Rome, but the legion’s laws are clear. Exceptions, even for the son of Jupiter, required debate, auguries, and the Senate’s vote. To admit Percy now, at…how old are you?” She asked, glancing down at the boy.

It took a moment for Percy to think, his mind jumbled with too many thoughts to think properly. But eventually, after figuring out the date, which just so happened to be a day after his birthday, much to his surprise, he answered.

“Nine.” 

“To admit him at nine years old without such a process would invite chaos. The legion must remain a bastion of order, especially in times of unrest.” Julia finished. 

Lupa almost turned into her wolf form, ready to break these two’s neck, but Vesta glanced at her, sending a subtle beam of energy to calm her friend. After that, she turned back to the praetors, hoping to resolve the issue with the sort of finality only a goddess could offer. “Very well,” she stated coolly, though the flames in the braziers surged higher, mirroring her own inner anger. “We will abide by the traditions. However, when the time comes on his twelfth birthday, Percy Jackson will be instated in the legion without issue, am I understood?”

The praetors bowed their heads. “Understood, Lady Vesta. On Percy Jackson’s twelfth birthday, the Senate will convene to ensure his admission to the legion, as is tradition. We honor the will of the gods and the legacy of Rome.”

Lupa’s lips curled into a faint, wolfish smile, though her eyes still burned with a protective ferocity as she released Percy’s hand. “See that you do,” she warned. “Until that day, however, the boy will have to have a patron as he does not have any family within the city.” Her gaze swept the chamber, daring anyone to challenge her decree. “Who among you will take responsibility for Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, bearer of the Ring of Rome, until he is of age to join the legion?”

The room fell silent again, the senators shifting uncomfortably in their seats, their togas rustling like dry leaves. Percy had difficulty swallowing when no one spoke or even stepped forward for what felt like an eternity. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the braziers or an awkward cough. His stomach twisted at the thought of no one taking him. He’d traveled all the way from New York, killed monsters and endured brutal trials, all for this chance. But now, under the scrutiny of adults who saw him as a threat or a burden, that chance might never come. 

So he stood there in silence, blood still trickling from his wounds, but all he could feel was the sting of rejection creeping in. Lupa’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, her fingers digging into his skin with barely restrained anger, but not even her fierce aura could force the senators to act. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat louder in the quiet, as he waited for someone, anyone, to step forward.

Just as the silence threatened to become unbearable, a deep voice cut through the chamber, regal and commanding. “I will take him.”

All heads turned to the source. A tall figure rose from the back of the tiered benches, his white toga edged with the deep purple of high rank. The senator was broad-shouldered, his blonde hair streaked with silver, and his face bore the weathered lines of a man who had seen both battle and politics. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Percy with an intensity that made the boy straighten instinctively. The chamber stirred, murmurs rippling through the senators as they recognized the speaker.

“Senator Octavius,” Julia announced, her tone betraying a flicker of surprise before she regained her composure. “You offer to take responsibility for Percy Jackson?”

“I do,” Octavius replied, descending the steps with measured grace, his toga flowing like a river of white and purple. The golden eagle pinned to his shoulder gleamed in the brazier light, marking him as a man of immense influence. He stopped a few paces from Percy, his gaze flicking briefly to Lupa and Vesta in respect before settling on the boy. “I will act as his patron, guide him, and ensure he is prepared for the legion when the time comes.”

Percy didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know this man, but his presence was undeniable. He carried the same authority as the praetors, yet there was something else in his posture, calculation, and a spark of ambition that he couldn’t quite place. He glanced at Lupa, seeking her reaction. Her amber eyes narrowed slightly, studying the senator and his intentions, but she eventually gave a subtle nod, signaling her approval. Vesta’s expression remained unreadable, though the flames in the braziers flickered higher for a moment as if knowing something no one else did. 

“Very well,” Praetor Titus said, his tone tight, as if he wasn’t entirely pleased with this development. “The Senate recognizes Senator Octavius as the patron of Percy Jackson. You will be responsible for his conduct, his training, and his integration into New Rome until he is of age to join the legion. Do you accept this duty?”

“I accept,” the man replied without hesitation, his eyes never leaving the boy. There was a faint smile on his lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Percy felt a shiver run down his spine despite the warmth of Vesta nearby. 

Lupa’s grip on Percy’s shoulder tightened briefly before she released him, stepping back to stand beside Vesta. “Then it is settled,” she declared with a finality that brooked no argument. “Perseus Jackson is under the protection of Senator Octavius. New Rome will honor this arrangement, and when the time comes, the legion will welcome him as one of its own.”

“See that he is treated with the same respect as your fellow Romans,” Vesta inclined her head, her gaze sweeping the chamber before resting on the man. “The Fates have marked this boy. His path will not be easy, but it is necessary.”

The senators murmured their assent or disapproval, some with genuine reverence, others with reluctant compliance. Praetor Julia stepped forward, raising a hand to silence the chamber. “The Senate acknowledges the will of Ladies Lupa and Vesta, and the patronage of Senator Octavius. Percy Jackson is hereby granted residency in New Rome under the senator’s care. This session is adjourned.”

The heavy double doors creaked open again, signaling the end of the proceedings. The senators began to rise, their togas rustling as they filed out, casting curious or wary glances at the son of Neptune as they passed. Centurion Anthony approached, offering Percy a nod of respect before joining the exodus. The praetors descended from the dais, exchanging quiet words with each other as they left, their expressions unreadable.

Octavius remained, standing before the three of them with an air of quiet confidence. Up close, Percy could see the senator’s features more clearly: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that seemed to see more than they revealed. “Come, Percy,” he said, gesturing with his hand forward. “We have much to discuss, and you look like you could use a bath and a meal.”

Percy hesitated, glancing at Lupa and Vesta. Lupa’s expression softened, a rare warmth in her wolfish eyes. “Go, my child,” she said quietly. “You have done well. Trust in your strength, and remember my lessons.”

“You carry Rome’s heart, Percy Jackson. Let it guide you, but never let it blind you.” Vesta smiled gently at him.

With a final nod to the goddesses, Percy turned to follow the senator. Just as he reached the double doors, he turned to look back but found only an empty chamber. They had already disappeared, leaving him to deal with this new chapter of life himself. Octavius led him out of the Senate House, through the grand marble halls of New Rome, and into the bustling streets of the city. The air was warm, scented with olive trees and fresh bread, just as it had in his dreams. Legionaries in polished armor patrolled the cobblestone paths, and civilians, some in regular clothing and some in togas, moved through the markets, their chatter a lively hum. Yet Percy could feel eyes on him, whispers trailing in his wake.

“That’s him?”

“The son of Neptune.”

“He fought the Minotaur!”

“Dear gods, let’s hope he doesn’t destroy the city.”

“Look at the ring.” 

“Why in gods name does he have it?”

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, trying his best to ignore the whispers that followed him like his shadow. He tried to focus on the towering buildings and temples with gleaming marble facades on either side, their columns adorned with laurel wreaths and offerings to the gods. Yet, despite the city’s grandeur, he couldn’t help but delve into his thoughts, thinking he was an outsider. The stares, the whispers, it was almost too much.

Octavius paid no heed to the obvious attention, however, moving with purpose, his toga pristine and his stride confident, acknowledging passing citizens with a nod or a raised hand. Percy kept pace, though he hated the sound of dripping blood pattering against the cobblestone streets. The senator hadn’t spoken to him since they left the Senate House, unnerving him somewhat. He stole glances at Octavius, trying to read the man who had volunteered to be his patron. Those piercing blue eyes gave nothing away, but there was something in the set of his jaw, the faint curve of his lips, that made Percy wary. This man was no simple senator; he was a player in a game he didn’t yet understand.

They turned down a quieter street upon a hill overlooking most of the city, lined with elegant villas of white stone and red-tiled roofs. Olive trees cast dappled shade, and the distant sound of a fountain’s trickle softened the air. Octavius stopped before a wrought-iron gate, its intricate design depicting wolves, eagles, and the God Apollo intertwined.  He pushed it open, gesturing for Percy to follow. “Welcome to my home,” he said smoothly. “You’ll be staying here until you’re ready for the legion.”

Percy stepped through the gate, his battered shoes scuffing against the polished cobblestone path. The villa before him was a vision of Roman grandeur: a sprawling courtyard framed by marble columns, a bubbling fountain at its center carved with nymphs and flowering vines climbing the walls. The scent of jasmine filled his nostrils along with the coppery tang of his own blood, reminding him he needed a bath desperately. He felt even more out of place here, like a damaged ship washed ashore in a pristine harbor.

Octavius led him across the courtyard. “You’ll have a room in the west wing,” he said without turning. “A bath is being prepared, and I’ll have a healer tend to your wounds. You’ve earned a rest, Percy Jackson.”

“Thank you, but no need for a healer,” he replied. “The water from the bath will heal me. You know, son of Neptune and all.” 

Octavius paused mid-step, turning to face Percy with a raised eyebrow, his piercing blue eyes glinting with curiosity. “Is that so?” he chuckled, his tone carrying a hint of intrigue, as if the boy’s words had added another piece to an unseen puzzle. “The gifts of Neptune run strong in you. Very well, no healer. But you’ll still need proper attire and a meal. We can’t have you looking like you just crawled out of the Tiber for much longer.”

Percy managed a faint smile, his exhaustion beginning to win over the adrenaline that had carried him through the Senate. He followed Octavius through an arched doorway into the villa’s interior, where the air was cool. Polished mosaic floors gleamed underfoot, depicting scenes of ancestors’ triumphs and gods in vibrant tiles of red, blue, and gold. Servants in simple tunics moved silently, their eyes briefly meeting Percy’s before darting away, as if unsure whether to acknowledge the bloodied boy trailing their master.

They passed through a peristyle garden, where a small fountain bubbled under the shade of a fig tree, and entered a corridor lined with busts of stern-faced men and women, their marble eyes seeming to follow Percy. Octavius led him to a modest but well-appointed room with a single bed draped in white linens, a wooden chest, and a small window overlooking the city. A bronze bath filled with steaming water sat in one corner, towels and a fresh pair of clothes folded neatly beside it. How they knew his clothing size, he didn’t know, but was too tired to question it.

“You’ll find everything you need here,” Octavius said, gesturing to the basin. “Clean yourself up, rest if you must. We’ll dine in an hour. I expect you to be presentable.” His tone was firm but not unkind, though there was an edge to it that made Percy feel like he was being tested.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, watching the man begin to walk out. He hesitated, then added, “Thank you, Senator. For… taking me in.”

Octavius’s lips curved into that same faint smile, the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, thank you, Percy, for allowing me the opportunity to guide a son of Neptune.” His words were smooth, almost too polished, and Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more behind them than simple gratitude. Octavius gave a slight nod before turning and leaving the room, his toga trailing behind him like a shadow.

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Percy alone in the quiet. He stood there for a moment, staring into the empty air like some sort of shellshocked soldier. 

What in the world did he get himself into?

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Game Begins

He’d almost gotten lost navigating the villa, trying to find where they would eat. The place was a labyrinth of marble corridors, open courtyards, and rooms filled with artifacts that whispered of Rome’s ancient glory. Statues of gods and heroes lined the halls, their eyes seeming to track his every step, while frescoes depicted battles and triumphs that felt both distant and eerily familiar. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread drifted through the air, guiding him toward the dining hall, though his stomach churned more from nerves than hunger.

He made sure to look presentable per Octavius’s request, scrubbing every particle of blood and ichor from his skin in the bath as the warm water knitted his wounds closed. The cuts and bruises faded, leaving only the scars, some of which he wasn’t ready to share the story of. The fresh clothes provided to him, jeans and a black t-shirt, fit him perfectly, though the crisp fabric felt foreign against his skin, too clean for someone who’d spent almost a year in the wilderness. He ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to tame it, but it stayed stubbornly messy, a small rebellion against the polished world he’d been thrust into.

The dining hall was as grand as the rest of the villa, with a long table of polished oak set beneath a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of Apollo’s triumphs. Golden candelabras flickered, casting warm light across platters of roasted lamb, fresh figs, olives, and warm bread drizzled with honey. The sight was unlike anything Percy had ever seen in his entire life. Back in New York, he was lucky to even see dinner, and at the Wolf House, there were only fish, rabbit, and the odd fruit here and there. 

Octavius already sat at the head of the table, his toga exchanged for similar clothes Percy was wearing, though the golden eagle pin still gleamed at his shoulder. There were two other people sitting with him, a beautiful blonde-haired woman who he assumed was his wife and a boy around his age, his features strikingly similar to his father's. The senator looked up as Percy entered, his piercing blue eyes assessing him with that same calculated intensity.

“Percy,” he greeted. “Join us. You’re just in time.” He gestured to an empty chair across from his son, who was staring at Percy with wide eyes.

The son of Neptune nodded, not trusting his voice. He slid into the chair, his movements cautious, as if he were stepping into a den of monsters rather than a dining hall. The blonde woman offered him a warm smile, her green eyes softening the formal atmosphere. She was dressed in a flowing white dress, her hair pinned up with golden clips shaped like laurel leaves.

“Welcome, Percy,” she said, her voice gentle but with a refined edge that spoke of years navigating New Rome’s elite circles. “I’m Livia, Octavius’s wife. And this,” she gestured to the boy, who was still eyeing Percy like he was an alien, “is our son, Octavian.”

The boy snapped out of his reverie once his mother cleared her throat, causing him to reach across the table for a handshake. Percy cautiously took it, not wanting to be rude, but was surprised when Octavian suddenly pulled him forward, turning his hand over. His pale blue eyes, so like his father’s, glinted with a mix of fascination and envy as he examined the ring on his finger, watching the patterns etched on the band shimmer faintly under the candelabra’s glow.

“So the rumor is true,” he muttered in a dream-like trance, running a finger over it. 

“Octavian,” Livia said sharply, her gentle demeanor replaced with a mother’s warning.

The boy flushed, his cheeks reddening as he sat back, muttering a quick, “Sorry.” His eyes, however, never left the ring, darting back to it every few seconds as if he were just itching to touch it again.

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy replied with a shaky smirk, flexing his ring finger. “I only know a little about it. Just got handed to me by a strange guy one day.”

Octavian’s lips twitched into a smirk, but his eyes didn’t soften. “Oh, I know,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “The ring of Rome. The mark of legends. I’ve read about it in the archives. Romulus wore it when he founded the city. So did Julius Caesar, Marcus Aurelius, Hadrian, Aurelian, and many more of the most influential people in our history. They say it holds the heart of Rome itself.” His gaze flicked to his father, then back to Percy. “And now it’s on your finger. A son of Neptune, of all people. That’s… unexpected.”

Percy knew that it used to belong to old kings and emperors. Hell, he’s even met some of those guys in his dreams. But he himself was just a kid, not some legendary emperor. “Thank you for the information,” he replied, his tone light but guarded. “But I’m just here to… you know, not die and maybe find a place in New Rome.” He forced a grin, hoping to cut through the tension, but it felt brittle even to him.

Livia’s laugh was soft, like the chime of a bell, and it eased the air in the room. “Modesty is a fine trait, Percy,” she said, passing him a plate of roasted lamb. “But you’ll find New Rome doesn’t take kindly to those who downplay their worth. You’ve already made quite an entrance.”

Octavius nodded, slicing into his own portion of lamb. “Indeed. Your arrival has stirred the city. The Senate may be bound by tradition, but the people talk. By morning, every corner of New Rome will know of the son of Neptune who felled not only the Minotaur but a small army of monsters.” His gaze flicked to Percy, assessing. “That kind of fame can be a weapon or a burden. Which it becomes depends on you.”

Percy took the plate from Livia, thanking her, his fingers brushing against the warm ceramic. He didn’t know how to respond to Octavius’s words. Fame? He’d never wanted it. All he’d wanted was to survive, to find a place where he wasn’t running from monsters or his own past. But the way he spoke, it sounded like New Rome was a chessboard, and he was a piece being maneuvered into place. He took a bite of the lamb, the rich flavor unlike anything he’d ever tasted before.

Octavian leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze still fixed on Percy’s ring. “So, how’d you get it?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity that bordered on obsession. “The ring, I mean. You said a ‘strange guy’ gave it to you. Who was he? Some god? A spirit?”

“Octavian,” Livia warned again, her patience wearing thin. “Let the boy eat.”

“It’s fine,” Percy said, swallowing the bite of lamb. He set the fork down, his appetite fading under Octavian’s scrutiny. “I don’t really know who he was. It happened a while back, before I even got to the Wolf House. I was in New York getting Gabe…” his voice trailed off somewhat, wondering to himself if he should tell that part of the story. He didn’t want these people to look at him differently, well, even more differently. “Uh, anyway, like I said, I was in New York and as I was crossing the street, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was a tall man who looked about your dad’s age. He told me some stuff, even knew my name, and then handed me the ring before disappearing.” 

Octavian’s brow furrowed, clearly dissatisfied with the vagueness of the story. “That’s it?” he asked, tone tinged with disbelief. “No prophecy, no grand vision? Just… here’s a ring, good luck?”

Percy shrugged, trying to keep his irritation in check. “Pretty much. I didn’t exactly have time to ask questions.”

Octavius, who had been quietly observing the exchange and secretly trying to discern any hidden meaning, set down his knife with a deliberate clink against the plate. “Enough, Octavian,” he said calmly, though it silenced his son instantly. “The ring has chosen him, as Vesta and Lupa confirmed. That is enough for us to trust in its purpose.”

Octavian leaned back, his lips pursed, but the spark of curiosity, or was it suspicion, remained in his eyes. Livia, sensing the tension, gracefully steered the conversation elsewhere. “Tell us, Percy,” she said, turning to him, “what was it like in New York. I’ve always wanted to visit but never have had the chance.” 

Percy hesitated, his hands tightening into fists underneath the table. New York. The name conjured a flood of images, feelings, and smells he never wanted to relive again. He rubbed his thumb over the ring, its golden band a reminder of everything that had spiraled out of control that night. How could he explain New York to these people, who lived in a city of marble and myth, where monsters weren’t just big, scary creatures but also human? His life there had been a different kind of battle, one without glory or gods, just survival.

“It’s… loud,” he said finally, choosing his words carefully. “Crowded. Everyone’s always moving, like they’re running from something or chasing something. You’ve got skyscrapers so tall they block out the sky, and the streets smell like hot asphalt and food carts. It’s alive, but not like here.” He gestured vaguely toward the villa’s walls, the painted frescoes glowing softly under the candlelight. “It’s messy, chaotic. You either keep up or get swallowed.”

Livia’s green eyes softened, her smile encouraging. “It sounds overwhelming,” she said, her tone gentle but probing. “But it must have shaped you to survive what you’ve faced.”

Percy bit the inside of his cheek, his mind flashing to the blood-soaked floor of his apartment, to his mother’s dead eyes staring up at him. Shaped him? Yeah, you could say that. It had shaped him into someone who stole to eat, who ran from shadows that weren’t always in his head, who’d killed to survive. He didn’t know how to tell her that New York hadn’t just shaped him; it had carved him into something he wasn’t sure he liked.

“Yeah,” he muttered, poking at the lamb on his plate. “Something like that.”

Octavian’s gaze hadn’t left him, those pale blue eyes sharp with calculation, just like his father's, like he was trying to peel back Percy’s skin to see what lay beneath. “Sounds like a place for mortals,” he said, his tone clipped, almost dismissive. “No wonder you didn’t know what you were until the ring found you. A demigod in a city like that? You must’ve been a magnet for trouble.”

“Octavian,” Livia said sharply, her patience fraying again. “Mind your tone.”

The boy shrugged, but the smirk playing at his lips told Percy he wasn’t sorry. “I’m just saying, Mother. New Rome is different. Here, we know who we are. We’re trained, disciplined. Not stumbling around, waiting for some stranger to hand us a magic ring.”

Percy’s ring finger twitched beneath the table, the urge to snap back rising with every breath. He didn’t know much about this family yet, but he could already tell Octavian was the kind of kid who’d never had to scrape by, never had to dodge a beer bottle or search for food in a garbage can. He forced himself to take a slow breath. “Maybe,” he replied, “but I’m here now, aren’t I? Guess that’s gotta count for something.”

Octavius’s lips quirked. “It does,” he answered. “The Fates don’t bring someone like you to New Rome by accident. The ring, the Minotaur, all the monsters you faced on your journey to get here, your very survival; it’s all part of a larger tapestry. The gods are watching, Percy. They always are.”

Livia’s gentle smile faltered, her green eyes flicking between Percy and her husband, sensing the shift in the room. “The gods guide us all,” she said, her voice a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood. “But tonight, let’s focus on the present. Percy, you must be exhausted. Tell us, what do you hope to find here in New Rome?”

The question caught him off guard, cutting through the fog of his thoughts. What did he hope to find? Safety? Purpose? A place where he wasn’t running or fighting for his life every day? The truth was, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Lupa’s training had been about survival, about proving himself worthy of New Rome. Now that he was here, standing in this polished villa with a senator’s family staring at him, he realized he didn’t have an answer. Not a clear one, anyway.

“I just…” He hesitated, rubbing his thumb over the Ring of Rome, its faint warmth soothing him just a tiny bit to answer that question. “I want to belong somewhere. Lupa said New Rome was where I’d find that. A place where I could be more than… what I was.”

Octavian’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “More than a street rat from New York?” he said, his tone teasing but with an underlying hint that he wasn’t just joking. “That’s a tall order for a son of Neptune.”

“Octavian!” Livia snapped loudly enough to make the boy flinch. She turned to Percy, her expression truly apologetic. “Forgive my son. He’s… passionate about our city’s legacy. New Rome is a place of second chances, Percy. You’ve already proven you’re worthy of that.”

Octavius didn’t apologize for his son’s words, but his gaze dropped to his plate, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table. Percy forced a nod, though the words stung more than he wanted to admit. Street rat. It wasn’t far from the truth, but hearing it thrown at him like an insult made his fists shake in unbridled anger under the table. He wasn’t that kid anymore. He’d fought too hard, bled too much, to be reduced to that.

“You’ve got the ring,” the senator finally spoke, lifting his head from his plate. “And you’ve got the blessings of two of the most important goddesses in our culture. That’s more than most of us can claim. That means something, even if we don’t know what yet. Just… don’t expect New Rome to roll out the red carpet despite all that. People here don’t trust easily, especially not, forgive me, sons of Neptune.” 

“Why is that? Percy questioned, turning to look at the senator. The praetors had said the same thing, practically spitting the words out as if they were venom. He was tired of the vague hints, veiled warnings, and blatant disdain directed at him. “Everyone keeps talking about ‘son of Neptune’ like it’s a curse. Lupa never mentioned anything about that. She said I was rare, powerful, not… whatever it is you all seem to think I am.”

Octavius leaned back in his chair, setting his knife down again, the faint clink against the plate echoing in the quiet dining hall. “Lupa is selective in her teachings, so it is understandable why she wouldn’t tell you. She teaches survival, strength, discipline, but not politics. It’s not a curse, Percy,” he said carefully. “But it’s not a blessing either. The sea is… unpredictable. Its power is vast, untamed, and so are its children. History has not been kind to those who bear Neptune’s blood.”

Livia’s expression softened at the boy’s tense features, and she reached out, her hand hovering near Percy’s as if to offer comfort but hesitating, unsure if he’d welcome it. “It’s not about you personally, Percy,” she said gently. “It’s about precedent. New Rome values order, stability. The children of Neptune, rare as they are, have often been… disruptive. Not because they choose to be, but because their power is so great it can unsettle the balance.”

“Disruptive how?” Percy pressed, his green eyes narrowing. He didn’t want platitudes or vague warnings. If he was going to live in New Rome, join the legion, and try to make a life for himself here, he needed answers. Plain, blatant answers, no matter how much they might hurt.

Octavius exchanged a glance with Livia, a silent conversation passing between them before he spoke. “Throughout the years, there were others like you. Sons and daughters of Neptune who shook the foundations of Rome, sometimes literally. One caused a flood that nearly drowned the city during a civil war. Another, a legionary, summoned a storm so fierce it destroyed half the fleet during a campaign. And the most recent one caused an earthquake over a century ago. Their intentions weren’t always malicious, but their power… it’s like trying to harness the ocean itself. It doesn’t bend to mortal will easily.”

Percy sighed, feeling the knot in his chest sinking deeper. He thought of the Tiber, how its waters had surged at his command, bending to his will without him even fully understanding how. It had felt natural, like breathing, but he supposed that to others, it wouldn’t look like that. “So, people think I’m a walking disaster waiting to happen?”

“Not at all,” Livia interjected quickly. “You’re not defined by those who came before you. But New Rome is cautious because it has to be. The city survives because we trust in structure, in rules. Your power, Percy, it’s extraordinary, especially at your age, but it frightens people. And fear can make even the wisest act unwisely.”

“It’s not just about power,” Octavian pitched in, careful with his words, especially when his mother gave him a stare that could turn even Medusa into stone. “It’s about loyalty. The sea doesn’t answer to anyone, does it? Not even Jupiter. People here wonder if a son of Neptune can truly be loyal to New Rome, or if you’ll always be… untamed.” He lingered on the last word, letting it hang in the air like a challenge.

Percy’s blood ran hot, and he leaned forward, meeting the boy’s gaze head-on. “I fought my way across the country to get here. I faced monsters, starvation, everything, because Lupa told me this was where I belonged. I saved one of your legionaries. If that’s not loyalty, then what is?”

Octavian opened his mouth to retort, but Octavius raised a hand, silencing his son with a single gesture. “Enough,” he interrupted. “Percy, no one here doubts your courage or your actions. The Senate’s caution, the whispers you’ve heard, they’re not all about you as a person. Most are about what you represent. The ring of Rome on your finger only amplifies that. It marks you as someone destined for greatness… or catastrophe. New Rome will watch you closely because it has no choice.”

Percy sank back in his chair, their words settling over him like a heavy cloak. He wanted to argue, to tell them they were wrong, that he wasn’t some ticking time bomb. But the truth was, he didn’t know what he was capable of. The power he’s displayed throughout the year, the way the water had answered him, it had been exhilarating, but also terrifying. What if they were right? What if he couldn’t control it?

“You’re not alone,” Livia reassured, finally pushing through her hesitance and laying a hand on the boy’s. “You have a home here, with us. We’ll help you navigate this city, its politics, its expectations. And when the time comes for you to join the legion, you’ll be ready, not just as a son of Neptune, but as a Roman.”

Percy nodded, though the knot in his chest didn’t loosen. “Thank you,” he said quietly, not trusting himself to say anymore. 

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, broken only by Livia’s attempts to keep the conversation light; stories of New Rome’s festivals, the upcoming chariot races and gladitorial matches, the beauty of the city’s gardens in spring. Percy listened, nodding when appropriate, but his mind was elsewhere, replaying what had happened in the senate along with what was revealed to him about his previous ancestors. He was grateful for her kindness, wary of Octavian’s veiled hostility, and deeply uncertain about Octavius’s intentions. The senator had taken him in, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t purely out of kindness. There was a game being played here, and he was a piece on the board, whether he liked it or not.

When the meal ended, Octavius stood, wiping his hands on a cloth napkin. “Percy, you’ve had a long day,” he said. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll begin your education. There’s much you need to learn about the city, the legion, and your place in it.”

Percy nodded, rising from his chair. “Yes, sir.”

Livia stood as well, gesturing to the servants to start cleaning the table. “Sleep well, Percy. You’re safe here.”

Octavian said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the ring even when he began to make his way out of the hall. A servant led him back to his room, the villa’s corridors now dimly lit by oil lamps that cast flickering shadows across the mosaics. When he reached his bed, he collapsed onto it, the soft linens feeling unnatural compared to the forest floors he’d grown used to at the Wolf House. The room was quiet, save for the distant trickle of the courtyard fountain, but his mind was anything but still.

He held up his hand, staring at the ring. Its golden surface gleamed faintly, the swirling patterns seeming to move with a life of their own. Had he known what this ring truly was, what it meant to Romans, he probably would’ve never accepted it from that man. Sure, it turned into a sword and protected him more times than he can count, but were the eyes and whispers worth it?

Sleep didn’t come easily. When it did, it was fitful, haunted by dreams of crashing waves above New Rome, filled with the screams of the city’s inhabitants as water swallowed the marble streets. He stood at the heart of the flood, the ring burning against his finger. Faces from his past, his mother’s, Gabe’s, Lupa’s, swirled in the waves, their voices accusing, pleading, warning. He tried to call out, to stop the water, but it surged beyond his control, a force too vast for him to command. Above it all, a resonant laugh echoed in the air, cruel and ancient. 

“This is what you will become, little demigod,” the voice rumbled, causing Percy to clutch his head in pain. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard, shaking the very foundations of his mind. “This is what you are destined to be!” 

His eyes snapped open, heart pounding, and limbs tangled in the sheets. He sat up, shakily running a hand over his face as he tried to stop his erratic breathing, the first hint of the sun rising above the hills hitting his green irises. He shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering images of the flood, the screams, that laugh. It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.

But Lupa had taught him better. Dreams for demigods were rarely just anything. They were messages, warnings, or glimpses of what might be. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet cold against the marble floor as he approached the window that overlooked the city. The temples and red-tiled roofs glowed in the approaching dawn light, encapsulating the city in a perfect picture. He could see the Tiber River winding through the city like a silver ribbon, its waters shimmering as it captured the last of the stars disappearing overhead. He shifted his gaze over to the Field of Mars, noticing there were already legionaries out there training, their armor glinting as they moved in orderly formations. The city was alive, even at this hour.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He turned, expecting a servant, but instead, Livia stood there, already dressed for the day ahead. 

“You’re awake early,” she greeted, walking inside the room. “I thought I’d let you sleep in before my husband barges in here and tells you it’s time to start your training.” Her smile was warm, but there was a knowing glint in her green eyes, as if she could sense his restless night. “But here you are.” She stepped closer, staring out the window. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Really makes you feel small, but in a good way. Like you’re part of something bigger.”

Percy nodded, his gaze drifting back to the city below. It was beautiful, but it didn’t feel like home, not yet. “It’s… a lot,” he admitted, his voice groggy from the restless night. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Makes New York feel like a different world.”

“New Rome has that effect,” she replied, patting his shoulder before beginning to make her way back out. “Breakfast is already prepared. I suggest you hurry, get dressed, and eat as much as you can before Octavius finds you. I wish I could stay and eat with you boys, but the university needs me in early.”

“That’s okay,” he said, managing a small smile. “Thanks for checking on me.”

Livia nodded, and with a final encouraging smile, she slipped out of the room, leaving Percy alone with only his thoughts. He exhaled slowly, turning back to the window. For a moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to belong here, to march with the legionaries on the Field of Mars, to walk the streets without eyes tracking his every move. He shook it off, forcing himself to focus. Maybe one day, but not today. He couldn’t afford to dwell on such things, not when he had a senator waiting to shape him into whatever New Rome needed him to be.

He dressed quickly, pulling on a fresh pair of clothes left for him by the servants. The clothes still felt too clean, too perfect, but he was starting to get used to the way they fit, like they’d been tailored just for him. He ran a hand through his hair again but gave up on trying to tame it before heading to the dining hall. The villa was quieter in the early morning, save for the chirping morning birds in the courtyards. The fresh smell of bread and fruit led him to the dining hall, which was bathed in the morning glow streaming through high windows, the painted frescoes of Apollo’s triumphs gleaming in his domain. The long oak table was set with a simpler spread than the night before: warm bread, a bowl of fresh fruit, a pitcher of watered wine, and a platter of sliced cheeses. Octavius sat at the head of the table, already dressed in a crisp, white tunic with his golden eagle pin gleaming at his shoulder. Octavian was there too, slouched slightly in his chair, picking at a grape with a bored expression, though his gaze flicked up as Percy entered.

“Good morning, Percy,” Octavius greeted with a nod. He gestured to the empty chair across from Octavian. “Sit. Eat. We have a full day ahead.”

Percy nodded, sliding into the seat. He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his fingers, the crust crackling under his touch. Even the damn bread was some of the best he’d eaten. He could feel Octavian’s eyes dart to the ring on his finger again, a flicker of that same mix of fascination and envy crossing his face before he masked it with a smirk.

“Sleep well?” he asked casually, though it was edged with an almost knowing tone as if he knew what he’d dreamt of last night. 

“Well enough,” Percy replied, keeping his tone neutral. Octavian’s smirk lingered, but he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.

“Good,” the senator said, sipping water from his glass. “Because today, we start your training. Customs, history, combat, politics, you’re going to learn it all if you’re to thrive here.”

Percy nodded, swallowing the bread. “I understand, sir. I’m ready to learn.”

Octavius’s lips curved into that faint, unreadable smile. “Good. We’ll start with the basics: the structure of the legion, the roles of the Senate, and the traditions that keep New Rome strong. You’ll also need to familiarize yourself with the city; its streets, its temples, its people. Octavian will accompany you today to show you around.”

The boy’s head snapped up, his smirk vanishing. “Father, I have augury practice this morning,” he protested, his words tight. “The priests expect me at the temple.”

“Your augury can wait,” Octavius said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Percy is your guest, and you’ll treat him as such. Besides, it’ll do you good to see the city through fresh eyes. You might learn something.”

Octavian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. He shot Percy a look that was nothing but anger before returning to his grape, tearing it apart with more force than necessary. Still, the son of Neptune kept his expression neutral, though he couldn’t help but feel some anger as well. Octavian wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat, and being stuck with him all day didn’t sound like a picnic.

“After breakfast,” the senator continued, “you’ll both head to the Forum. You’ll see the heart of New Rome; its markets, its temples, the Senate House from the outside. Octavian will explain the city’s layout and its key landmarks. Pay attention. You’ll be expected to navigate it on your own soon enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said, though his mind was already racing. The Forum sounded like the kind of place where eyes would follow him even more than they had yesterday, if that was even possible. He could already hear the whispers of citizens watching him out of the corner of their eyes.

“After that, you’ll come back here, where we will practice some combat in the courtyard. Your feats against the Minotaur and other monsters prove you have talent, but talent alone won’t earn you a place in the ranks. You’ll need to refine your skills, learn to fight as part of a unit, not just as a lone wolf.”

Percy nodded more eagerly this time. Fighting was something he understood better than politics or navigating marble corridors. But fighting alongside others? That was new. At the Wolf House, it had been him against the world, with Lupa’s lessons hammered into him through blood and bruises. The idea of coordinating with a team felt as foreign as the clean clothes on his back.

Breakfast passed quickly, with Octavius steering the conversation toward neutral topics: the upcoming Volcanalia festival, the state of the legion’s training grounds, the latest auguries from the temple priests. Percy listened, trying to absorb every little detail possible. To him, his training, his education, had already begun far before sitting at this table.

When the meal ended, Octavius stood, brushing crumbs from his tunic. “I have matters to attend to in the Senate,” he said. “Octavian, take him to the Forum. Be thorough, but be back by mid-afternoon. Percy, listen to my son. I expect you to be able to recount the route, the temples, and the names of the landmarks when you return.”

Percy nodded, rising from his chair. “Thank you, Senator.”

He watched the man leave the room, his presence like a storm finally passing. The moment the door shut behind him, the tension seemed to thicken rather than ease. Octavian didn’t move right away. He continued to sit, stabbing the remains of his breakfast with his fork in moody silence. Then, finally, with an irritated sigh, he pushed his chair back and stood.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve.

Percy couldn’t help but agree.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: A City of Wolves

The morning sun encapsulated the city in a golden glow as Percy and Octavian stepped out of the villa and down into the bustling streets. The cobblestone paths gleamed underfoot, polished by centuries of use, and the air hummed with life; merchants haggling in the markets, legionaries marching in crisp formation, and children darting through the crowds, their laughter echoing through the hills. Percy's eyes darted everywhere, trying to take it all in, but Octavian's sullen presence kept him silent.

He walked with the confidence of someone who knew every corner of the city, his posture straight, his clothes perfectly fitted. He didn't look at Percy, his gaze fixed ahead as if guiding a stray dog beneath him. "Keep up," he said curtly, not slowing his pace. "The Forum's this way. Try not to gawk like a tourist."

Percy bit back a retort, repeating three words in his head as he matched Octavian's stride: Observe. Learn. Survive. He focused on the city's layout, noting the way the streets branched off like veins from the main artery they followed. Temples with gleaming columns rose on either side, their fronts carved with scenes of gods and heroes. Statues of Jupiter, Mars, and Bellona loomed over plazas, their marble eyes seeming to track him just as the senators' had yesterday.

The whispers followed them, as he'd expected. Passersby glanced at him, their eyes lingering not just on him but the ring as well. Some whispered to their companions, their voices too low to catch, but their tones unmistakable, curiosity, suspicion, fear. A woman nudged her husband, pointing subtly at Percy. A group of legionaries paused their conversation, their hands clenching at their sides as if to grip their weapons, which they weren't allowed to have in the city. Despite all this, he kept his head high, his jaw set, refusing to let their stares unnerve him. Lupa had taught him to show no weakness, even when on the inside he wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball.

Octavian noticed, of course. His lips twitched into that familiar smirk. "You're already famous," he said. "The son of Neptune with the Ring of Rome. They'll be telling stories about you by nightfall. Probably already are."

"Don't sound so thrilled about it," Percy muttered, dodging a cart piled high with supplies as it rumbled past.

The boy shrugged. "Fame's a double-edged sword here. It opens doors, but it also paints a target on your back. You'll learn that soon enough."

They walked for a little while longer before they turned a corner. Percy's breath caught despite his effort to stay composed as the forum opened before them. It was the heart of New Rome, a vast open space framed by grand temples, basilicas, and colonnades. The Senate House dominated one end, its marble columns gleaming in the sunlight, while other buildings, like courthouses and archives, stood around it.

"This is the Forum," Octavian said, his voice taking on a lecturing tone as if he were reciting a script. "Center of New Rome. Political, religious, commercial, all of it happens here. That's the Senate House," he pointed to a rectangular building with a columned portico, its doors flanked by legionaries in polished armor. "You've already had the pleasure. Over there's the Basilica Aemilia, where legal disputes are settled. And that," he gestured to a raised platform covered in carvings of wolves and eagles, "is the Rostra, where senators and praetors give speeches. And if you're a traitor to Rome, it's also the place where you're hanged. We haven't had a hanging in over two hundred years, though. You'll probably end up there one day, whether you want to or not."

Percy's eyes narrowed at that last remark, but let it slide, too busy trying to commit the names and landmarks to memory. The scale of it all was overwhelming, like stepping into one of Lupa's stories about Rome's glory. But much to his annoyance, Octavian didn't pause for him to take it in. He strode forward, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, his golden hair catching the light like a beacon. They passed a fountain where water spouted from the mouths of stone dolphins, their tails curled skyward. A group of augurs in white robes stood nearby, tossing grain into the air and muttering as they watched the birds swoop down to peck at it. One of them, an older man with a hooked nose, locked eyes with Percy for a moment before turning back to his ritual. Percy's stomach twisted. Augurs. Lupa had warned him about their influence here, their knack for twisting omens to suit their agendas.

"Good morning, Augur Markus," Octavian greeted the man respectfully, his tone very different from the one he used with Percy. Even his posture was different, the way his shoulders straightened, head held high, and smirk vanished. This was a game of alliances and appearances to him, Percy noticed. And boy did he play it well.

"Octavian," the augur replied with a curt nod, looking up from his task. "I see you've skipped your lessons today at the temple to instead play guide. An unusual task for one of your talents."

Octavian's smile was tight, but he didn't rise to the bait. "Father's orders," he said simply. "This is Percy, the new arrival. I'm sure you've heard of him."

The augur's gaze lingered on Percy, his expression heavy with scrutiny. "Indeed," he said lowly. "The son of Neptune." He paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. "The other augurs have been… unsettled since your arrival, boy. The birds fly in strange patterns, and the winds carry whispers."

"I'm just here to learn, sir," Percy replied tightly, not liking what the man was insinuating. "Not trying to stir up any trouble."

Markus's lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or disdain, Percy couldn't tell. "Intentions matter little to the gods," he said. "Only actions. And yours will be watched closely." With that, he turned back to his grain and birds, dismissing them as effectively as if he'd slammed a door.

Octavian didn't comment, but his smirk returned as he led him away, as if he were savoring the augur's words. "See? Told you you're famous," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Percy to hear.

Percy shot him a sideways glance but held his tongue. He didn't need an augur to tell him he was walking on a tightrope. The stares, the murmurs, the way even the statues looked at him; it was all starting to feel like a cage, no matter how grand the city was. Lupa had prepared him for battles, to survive, to kill, not for navigating a web of politics and omens. He forced himself to focus, committing the augur's name and face to memory. Markus. Another player in this game he didn't yet understand.

As they moved through the Forum, Percy's senses were assaulted by the sheer vibrancy of the city. Merchants called out from stalls filled high with goods. A priestess in flowing robes offered blessings at a small altar to Vesta, her hands raised over a flickering flame. Legionaries marched past, practicing their formations, their armor clinking rhythmically. Fauns were dancing and playing music loudly, while Lares walked past, muttering quietly to themselves. It shouldn't have been any different from the crowds in New York, yet it was. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

Octavian led him past the Rostra, where a small crowd had gathered to hear a senator drone on about new laws passed. His voice carried the same commanding cadence as Octavius's, but it lacked the regalness. "That's Senator Damarion," Octavian pointed out, barely glancing at the platform. "He's harmless. Loves the sound of his own voice, though. Avoid him at banquets unless you want to hear him yap for hours."

Percy nodded, filing the information away. "Got it. Anyone else I should watch out for?"

Octavian's lips twitched, and for a moment, he thought he might actually get a straight answer. But then the boy's expression hardened. "Everyone," he said simply. "New Rome's a city of wolves. Some bare their teeth; others hide behind smiles. You'll figure out which is which soon enough."

They continued their tour, eventually leading out of the forum and to Temple Hill, which was where the main temples dedicated to the gods were. The path wound upward through New Rome, the cobblestone streets giving way to a gentle incline lined with cypress trees and marble statues of gods and heroes. The air grew cooler as they ascended, carrying the faint scent of incense and blooming laurel.

Temple Hill was a sacred place, Octavian explained, his tone shifting to something almost reverent. "This is where we honor the gods," he said, gesturing to the cluster of temples that crowned the hill, their white marble facades gleaming against the blue sky. "Each one's dedicated to a major deity. Jupiter, Juno, Mars, Bellona, and so on. The priests and augurs tend to them, and the Senate consults them before any major decision. You'll spend a lot of time here if you want to fit in."

Percy nodded, his gaze sweeping over the temples. Each one was a masterpiece of architecture, with towering columns, intricate friezes, and altars adorned with offerings of flowers, coins, and food. The largest, a grand structure with a golden statue of Jupiter Optimus Maximus looming at its peak, dominated the hill. Its steps were bustling with priests in white robes, their hands stained with ash from sacrificial fires, and citizens leaving offerings at the altar. Smaller temples flanked it, each dedicated to another god, their entrances framed by flickering braziers and guarded by bronze statues of divine eagles and wolves.

"That's the Temple of Jupiter," Octavian continued, pointing to the largest structure. "The heart of New Rome's faith. Every legionary swears their oath to Jupiter before joining the ranks. You'll do the same when you're old enough." His tone carried a hint of challenge, as if daring Percy to imagine himself standing there, ring or no ring.

Percy didn't take the bait. Instead, he asked, "And the others? Which one's for Neptune?"

Octavian's steps faltered for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to notice. The boy's smirk returned. "Neptune's temple is… over there," he said, gesturing vaguely to a smaller, less ornate building tucked away at the edge of the hill, half-hidden by a grove of trees. Unlike the others, its marble was weathered, its columns chipped, and no priests or worshippers lingered at its steps. The altar was bare, save for a few wilted flowers and a cracked seashell.

Percy's jaw tightened as he stared at the neglected temple. It wasn't just smaller, it looked forgotten, like an afterthought compared to the grandeur of Jupiter's or Mars's temples. The sight hit him harder than he expected, a quiet confirmation of everything he'd been told about his heritage. Unpredictable. Disruptive. Unwanted. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the distant view of the Tiber winding through the city below, its waters catching the sunlight.

"Not much traffic there, huh?" he replied lowly.

Octavian shrugged, his casual tone almost too deliberate. "Neptune's not exactly a crowd favorite. The sea's too wild for most Romans. They prefer gods who fit into their neat little boxes. Neptune? He's… messy. Like you." He shot Percy a sidelong glance, that infuriating smirk still lingering.

Percy's ring finger twitched, the urge to cut that smirk off his face growing stronger with every breath he drew. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets. It wouldn't do him any favors if he'd decked a son of a senator on this sacred hill. "Good to know," he muttered.

"Octavian, is that you?" A voice called out, pulling their attention toward the Temple of Jupiter. A figure in a flowing white robe trimmed with gold emerged from the temple's shadowed entrance, his steps deliberate as he descended the marble steps. The man was older, his hair a mix of silver and black, and his face carried the stern authority of someone used to being obeyed. A heavy amulet shaped like a lightning bolt hung around his neck, glinting in the sunlight.

Octavian's posture straightened instantly, the smirk vanishing as he adopted the same respectful demeanor he'd shown earlier. "Augur Kadyn," he greeted, inclining his head. "Good morning."

Percy's eyes flicked between the boy and the approaching augur, noting the game of appearances was in full swing again. He, on the other hand, felt like he was stumbling through a script he hadn't been given.

Kadyn's gaze landed on the son of Neptune, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as they took in the boy's appearance, lingering on the Ring of Rome gleaming on his finger. "And this must be Percy Jackson," he said. "The son of Neptune who's set the city buzzing like a disturbed hive."

"That's me," Percy replied in a flat tone, tired of being introduced as some kind of anomaly. He squared his shoulders, meeting the man's gaze head-on, refusing to shrink under the scrutiny. "Just… taking the tour."

"A tour, is it? And with our future Augur Maximus as your guide, no less." His eyes flicked to Octavian, a glint of amusement in them. "I trust you're showing our new arrival the proper respect due to one who bears the ring of Rome?"

Percy refrained from looking at the boy beside him. Future augur? And the highest ranking one at that?

"Of course, Augur Kadyn. Father's orders were clear. I'm showing Percy the city and all it has to offer, as instructed."

"Good," Kadyn replied, his tone lax. He turned his attention back to Percy. "I was just speaking with the other augurs about you, boy. The omens are… unsettling. The birds scatter when we cast the grain, and the smoke from the sacrificial fires twists in ways we cannot yet interpret. Your arrival has stirred the gods' attention, it seems."

"So I've heard," Percy replied, tired of hearing about omens and whispers, but he kept his expression neutral, remembering Lupa's lessons.

The augur studied him for a long moment, searching for a crack in Percy's resolve. Finally, he nodded, though the gesture felt more like a concession than approval. He turned to Octavian. "I need a word with you, Octavian. Privately. There are matters concerning your missed lessons we must discuss."

The boy grimaced, but he nodded with an eagerness to escape Percy's company. "Of course," He turned to the son of Neptune. "Stay here. Don't wander off. I'll be back shortly."

Percy raised an eyebrow but said nothing, watching as Octavian and Kadyn climbed the steps into Jupiter's temple. Their voices were low, too faint for him to catch more than a murmur, but the way Octavian's shoulders tensed and Kadyn's hands gestured sharply told him it wasn't a casual chat. Standing there alone, his eyes scanned the temples before once more landing on his Father's. He hated how isolated it looked, as if the city itself had turned its back on the sea god. Glancing back at where Octavian disappeared to, he took a step toward Neptune's temple, then another, his feet moving almost without his permission.

The cypress trees cast long shadows across the path, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, and the distant hum of New Rome faded as he approached. The temple was smaller than the others, its columns chipped and streaked with moss, the steps uneven from years of neglect. A single seashell, cracked and faded, sat on the altar, its edges worn smooth by time. No priests tended it, no worshippers knelt in prayer. Even the air around it felt stagnant.

He clenched his hand around the ring as he climbed the steps, each one creaking faintly under his weight. Up close, the temple's details came into focus: faint carvings of waves and tridents etched into the marble, barely visible beneath layers of grime. A rusted bronze statue of the god stood at the far end, his trident raised but tarnished, his face stern yet weathered, as if even he had grown tired of being forgotten. Percy's chest ached, not with sadness, but with a strange mix of anger and recognition. This was his father's place, his heritage, and it was treated like an afterthought.

He stopped before the altar, his hand hovering over the cracked seashell. Part of him wanted to touch it, to feel some connection to the father he'd never known, but another part hesitated. What was he even doing here? Why would he pray to a god who hadn't been there for him in his entire life? Who let him be abused at the hands of people who were supposedly 'family'? Who let him travel across the country, chased by monsters, with nothing but the clothes on his back? What kind of father would abandon their child to such a fate?

He stared at the seashell, its faded surface a mockery of the vibrant ocean he felt thrumming in his veins, before pulling his hand back, clenching it into a fist at his side. "You could've given me a heads-up," he muttered under his breath, looking up at the statue. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves in the grove. He turned away and started down the steps. He didn't need a crumbling statue to tell him who he was or who he wasn't. He'd figure that out himself, just like he always had.

"Talking to yourself already?" Octavian questioned, leaning against a tree at the base of the temple, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk back in place. "Didn't take you for the praying type."

"Just checking out my dad's place. Looks like it could use a janitor."

The boy snorted, pushing off the tree and sauntering closer. "Neptune's temple hasn't had a proper priest in hundreds of years. No one volunteers. Too much bad luck, they say. Storms, floods, earthquakes, your father's got a reputation." He paused, his gaze flicking to the ring again, like a moth drawn to a flame. "Guess you're used to that by now, though. Bad luck following you around."

Percy's fingers twitched, the urge to wipe that smirk off surging again. He forced a shrug, walking past and back down the hill. "Bad luck's just another Tuesday for me. You done with your secret augur meeting? Your father wanted us back at noon."

Octavian's smirk faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing as Percy brushed past him. "It wasn't a secret," he said, falling into step beside him, his tone defensive. "Just temple business. You wouldn't understand." He straightened his posture, as if trying to reclaim the upper hand. "Yeah, let's head back. Father wants you to start combat training this afternoon."

Percy didn't respond, keeping his eyes forward as they descended Temple Hill, the cobblestone path winding back toward the heart of New Rome. He was glad to be heading back to the villa and out of public eyes. He didn't know how much he could take before he snapped and punched something, or rather someone. Maybe this combat training would be a chance to let off some steam.

The walk back was quieter, the morning crowds thinning as they left the Forum behind. Octavian kept up his lecturing tone, pointing out landmarks: a statue of Romulus and Remus suckling at Lupa, a column commemorating some ancient victory, but Percy only half-listened, his mind still lingering on Neptune's neglected temple. The chipped marble, the cracked seashell, the way it stood apart from the others, it wasn't just a building. It was a reminder that he didn't fit here, not yet, maybe not ever. The ring might mark him as something special, but to the people of New Rome, he was a son of Neptune first, an outsider with a dangerous legacy.

When they reached the villa, Octavius was already waiting, standing in the center of the courtyard with his arms crossed, his golden eagle pin catching the light. He held wooden swords in each hand, their tips resting lightly against the grass. A few servants lingered at the edges, setting out water jugs and towels, their movements quick and silent.

"Prompt," the senator noted, nodding at the boys as they approached. "Good. Let's not waste daylight. Percy, you've proven you can fight to survive, but survival isn't enough in the legion. You need discipline, strategy, teamwork. Today, we'll start with the basics of Roman combat." He tossed one of the wooden swords toward Percy, who caught it by the hilt with a reflex born of months dodging claws and teeth. The wood was smooth, heavier than he expected, and balanced like a real blade.

The son of Neptune nodded, giving the sword an experimental twirl. This, at least, was something he understood. The wilderness had taught him to be quick, ruthless, and adaptable. Lupa's training had sharpened those instincts, turning him into a weapon. But the word teamwork nagged at him. He'd always fought alone, relying on his own strength and power. Coordinating with others? That was a different beast.

Octavian, meanwhile, looked less than thrilled. He grabbed the second sword, testing its weight with a scowl. "I'm not a legionary, Father," he said, his tone clipped. "I'm training to be an augur, not a soldier. Why do I have to do this?"

"Because you're a Roman," Octavius replied sharply. "Augur or not, you will know how to defend this city. And you'll set an example for Percy. Now take your positions. I want to see you two spar to see what I'm working with."

The boy muttered something under his breath but complied, moving to stand on the opposite side of Percy. He squared his shoulders, gripping the wooden sword with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His pale blue eyes locked onto Percy's, a glint of challenge in them. "Don't expect me to go easy on you," he said in the tone of someone who'd been raised to believe he was untouchable. "Despite not wanting to be a soldier, I've been training since I could walk."

Percy's lips twitched into a small smile, his fingers tightening around the hilt. He'd faced monsters that could rip him apart with a single swipe; a senator's son with a wooden sword didn't scare him. But he could feel the eyes of Octavius and the servants on them, watching, judging. This wasn't just a spar; it was a test.

Octavius stepped back, his arms crossed. "Begin," he commanded, his voice cutting through the quiet courtyard like a whip.

Octavian moved first, lunging forward with a swift, practiced strike aimed at Percy's chest. His form was textbook, his movements precise, the product of years of drills under New Rome's best instructors. Percy sidestepped, his body reacting before his mind caught up, the wooden sword whistling past him. He countered with a quick jab toward Octavian's side, but the boy parried, their swords clacking together with a sharp crack.

"Not bad," Octavian said, circling to the left, his smirk returning. "But you're sloppy."

Percy didn't take the bait, keeping his stance loose, his eyes tracking his opponents' every move. The boy was fast, disciplined, but there was a rigidity to his style, like he was fighting by memory, not instinct. He, on the other hand, had learned to fight in the dirt, with claws and teeth and desperation as his teachers. He let Octavian come at him again, this time with a series of quick, controlled strikes, each one aimed to test his defenses.

Clack. Clack. Clack. The wooden swords met again and again, the rhythm of their sparring echoing off the villa's marble walls. Octavian's attacks were relentless, his footwork precise, but Percy could see the pattern in them, predictable, like a dance he'd memorized. He let the boy press forward, giving ground, letting him think he had the upper hand.

"Is this really all you've got?!" Octavian taunted, his breath steady despite the flurry of strikes. "I'm not too sure those rumors of you killing the Minotaur are true after all!"

Percy's jaw tightened, locking another strike and stepping inside Octavian's guard. He shoved forward, using his shoulder to throw the boy off balance. Octavian stumbled, his smirk faltering for a split second, but he recovered quickly, spinning to deliver a low slash aimed at Percy's legs. He jumped back, the sword missing him by inches. Enough playing defense. He surged forward, his own strikes coming faster now, fueled by the simmering anger that had been festering within since arriving in the city. His sword arced toward Octavian's shoulder, then his side, then his thigh, each blow forcing the boy to scramble to parry. Percy's style wasn't polished, wasn't Roman, but it was unpredictable, like the sea itself.

Octavian's composure started to crack. His parries grew sloppier, his footwork less sure. "What is this?!" he snapped, blocking a particularly hard strike that made his arm tremble. "You fight like a barbarian!"

"Good," Percy growled, pressing his advantage, driving Octavian back across the courtyard. The boy's smugness was gone now, replaced by a flash of panic as his opponent's sword came down in a heavy overhead strike. He barely got his blade up in time, the impact sending a jolt through his arms.

Percy didn't let up. He could feel the ring on his finger growing hotter, as if it were feeding off his adrenaline, urging him on. His next strike was a feint, a quick jab to the chest that made the boy flinch, leaving his side open. He swung hard, the wooden sword connecting with Octavian's ribs with a solid thwack. The boy gasped, stumbling back, his free hand clutching his side.

"Enough!" Octavius's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Percy froze mid-motion, his sword still raised, his chest heaving. Octavian was doubled over, one hand braced on his knee, his face red with pain and humiliation. He lowered his sword, stepping back, his pulse still pounding in his ears. He hadn't meant to go that hard, but the taunts, the city's stares and whispers, the memory of that neglected temple; it had all poured out in those final moments. He glanced at Octavius, expecting a reprimand, but the senator's expression was unreadable, his blue eyes studying him with that same calculated intensity.

Octavian straightened, wincing, his smirk gone entirely. "You cheated," he muttered, his voice tight with anger. "That wasn't a fair fight."

"Fair?" Percy shot back, unable to stop himself. "You said you've been training since you could walk. I've been for less than a year. You tell me what's fair."

Octavian's eyes flashed, but before he could retort, Octavius raised a hand. "Enough," he repeated, his tone final. He stepped forward, his gaze flicking between the two boys. "Son, you underestimated your opponent. That's a mistake no Roman can afford. Percy, your instincts are sharp, but you lack discipline. You fight like a lone wolf, not a soldier of the legion. Both of you have much to learn."

Percy nodded, looking down at his sword. He knew the senator was right. He'd fought with fury, not strategy. But gods, had it felt good to let loose, to shut his smug mouth, even if just for a moment. Octavian, still clutching his side, glared at him but said nothing. The servants at the edge of the courtyard exchanged glances, their whispers barely audible. Percy only caught fragments.

"Too wild."

"Crazed look in his eye."

The son of Neptune bit the inside of his cheek. Even here, in the heat of a spar, behind walls, he couldn't escape judgment. Octavius walked over and picked up the wooden sword his son had dropped, inspecting it as if checking for damage. "We'll go over proper form today, but over the coming days and weeks, Percy, I'll have veterans from the legion come here to help you. I fear I cannot offer you the full scope of training needed to integrate into the legion's ranks. The kind of warrior you are becoming... it will take more than a senator's time and words." He handed the wooden sword back to Octavian, who took it with a scowl, his pride clearly bruised. "And you, my son, will join these sessions when your augury duties allow. You may be destined for the temple, but you'll not neglect your combat training. New Rome demands strength from all its citizens.

Octavian's jaw clenched, but he nodded curtly, his gaze flicking to Percy with an evil amount of resentment and jealousy. Percy paid no mind, still too caught up in the joy of beating the kid's ass into the dirt.

"Take a moment," Octavius continued, his tone softening slightly. "Drink some water, both of you. Then we'll go over basic formations and stances." He pointed to a servant standing in a corner. "You, bring us two scutums."

Percy grabbed some water handed to him, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The courtyard felt smaller now, the marble walls closing in as the adrenaline from the spar ebbed away. The senator's words echoed in his head as he drank from the bottle; You fight like a lone wolf, not a soldier of the legion. Yeah, he supposed he did and wasn't sorry for it either. Lupa had taught him to survive, to rely on himself, because no one else would. The idea of fighting as part of a unit, trusting others to have his back, felt like asking him to swim against the current. He wasn't sure he could do it, or if he even wanted to. Would these people have his back? Octavian certainly wouldn't. So why should he? But he knew that way of thinking would only hinder him in the long run. New Rome wasn't the wilderness. If he was going to survive here, he'd have to learn their ways, whether he liked it or not.

The servant returned, carrying two wooden shields, their surfaces scuffed but sturdy, each painted with a simple red and gold pattern. Octavius took one and handed it to Percy, who tested its weight, slipping his arm through the straps. It felt awkward, bulky compared to the fluid way he'd fought with just a sword. Octavian took the other shield, his movements stiff, still favoring his bruised ribs.

"Shields up," the man ordered, stepping back to observe. "In the legion, you fight as a wall, not as individuals. The shield is your life, and your comrades' lives depend on it. Percy, you'll learn to hold a line. Octavian, you'll show him how it's done."

Octavian's lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, raising his shield and sword into a defensive stance, his posture rigid but practiced. Percy mimicked him, trying to match the angle of the shield, though it felt unnatural. Octavius walked around them, correcting their form with quick, precise instructions.

"Shield higher, Percy. It protects your chest and knees. Octavian, loosen your grip; your arm will tire too quickly like that."

They drilled for what felt like hours, Octavius guiding them through basic formations: the testudo, where soldiers locked shields to form a protective shell; the wedge, for breaking enemy lines; and the orb, a defensive circle for when surrounded. Percy's muscles burned, his body unaccustomed to the weight of the shield or the precision required to move in sync with another. Octavian, despite his complaints, moved with a grudging competence, his years of training evident even if his heart wasn't in it. Every so often, their eyes would meet, and he could see the spark of resentment still smoldering in the boy's gaze.

By the time Octavius called a halt, the sun was lowering to the horizon, the courtyard bathed in a warm orange light. Percy's shirt clung to his skin, soaked with sweat, and his arms ached from the unfamiliar strain of the shield. Octavian looked no better, his blond hair plastered to his forehead, his face flushed from exertion. The senator nodded, satisfied.

"That's enough for today," he said, taking the shields from them. "Percy, you've got potential, but the legion doesn't need lone heroes; it needs soldiers who can trust their brothers and sisters in arms. Octavian, you did well, but your attitude needs work. You're not above this, no matter what your augury talents suggest."

Octavian muttered something under his breath, too low for Percy to catch, but the senator's warning glance silenced him. "Go clean up," he continued. "We'll resume tomorrow. Percy, I expect you to practice the stances we covered. You'll be tested on them soon."

"Yes, sir," he replied, handing over his wooden sword. His body screamed for rest, but his mind still wanted to spar. He'd forgotten the fun thrill of having a fight that didn't have your life on the line. He glanced at Octavian, who was already stalking toward the villa's entrance, his shoulders hunched in defeat. For a moment, he almost felt a pang of sympathy. Almost.

As he followed inside, the cool shade of the villa's corridors was a relief after the heat of the courtyard. The servants had already prepared the bath and fresh towels in his room, and Percy took his time washing the sweat and dust from his skin. When he finally emerged, the sun had fully disappeared behind the hills, and the villa was encapsulated by the soft glow of oil lamps. Livia had been waiting downstairs, sitting on a chair and reading a book, as she was waiting for the servants to finish preparing the table for dinner.

"I see you survived your first morning," she greeted, her tone warm and teasing. "I heard you gave my son quite the lesson in the courtyard."

Percy rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry about that. Got too caught up in the moment. Plus, he's not my biggest fan right now."

Livia's smile softened, sighing as she closed the book in her hands. "Octavian is…complicated. He's grown up in his father's shadow, with expectations greater than most. Your arrival, the ring, it's stirred things in him he doesn't know how to handle. Give him time."

Percy nodded, though he wasn't sure he believed time would fix anything between him and Octavian. "I'll try," he said, more to be polite than because he meant it.

Livia stood up, walking over to him before handing him the book. "This is for you. I got it from the university. It contains all the basic history and customs of New Rome. It's not the most exciting read, but it'll help you understand this place better: its laws, its gods, its people. Knowledge is as much a weapon here as a sword. The more you know, the less anyone can use ignorance against you."

Percy took the book, its leather cover worn but sturdy, the title embossed in gold: Historia Novae Romae. He flipped it open briefly, scanning the dense text and intricate maps of the city. "Thanks, Mrs. Livia," he said, genuinely grateful. "I'll read it. Promise."

She nodded. "Good. Now, come eat. You've earned it."

Dinner was quieter than the night before, with only Percy, Livia, and Octavius at the table. Octavian had excused himself, claiming temple duties, though Percy suspected he was nursing his bruised ego as much as his ribs. The meal was simple but hearty: roasted vegetables, grilled fish, and more of that impossibly good bread. Octavius ate in silence, his mind clearly elsewhere, while Livia kept the conversation light, asking Percy about his time with Lupa and sharing stories of her own early days in New Rome as a scholar's daughter.

After dinner, he retreated to his room, the book gifted to him tucked under his arm. The villa was quiet now, the servants moving like shadows as they cleaned and prepared for the next day. He sat on the edge of his bed, the oil lamp casting a warm glow over the pages as he opened Historia Novae Romae. The pages were dense, written in a formal style that made his head ache, but he forced himself to read it. Livia was right. If he wanted to survive in this world, he needed every advantage he could get.

The book detailed New Rome's founding, its ties to the ancient Roman Empire, and the gods' role in its survival. It described the legion's structure, the Senate's authority, and the delicate balance between mortal governance and divine will. There were sections on the children of the gods, their roles in the city, and the rare mentions of Neptune's offspring that caught his eye. The text echoed what Octavius and Livia had said: children of Neptune were powerful but feared, their abilities often leading to unintended chaos. One passage described a son of Neptune who, in a fit of rage, had summoned a tidal wave that breached the city's walls, killing dozens before he was stopped. The story chilled Percy, not because of the destruction, but because he could feel the potential for that kind of power in himself, simmering just beneath the surface.

He closed the book after reading for a good two hours, his eyes burning from the strain of reading by lamplight. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, he let the exhaustion take him, his hand resting over the book on his chest. He'll learn their rules, their games, and their city. Not for them but for himself. Because surviving wasn't enough anymore. If New Rome wanted to treat him like an outsider, he'd show them why that was a mistake. Let the augurs twist omens, let the people sneer and whisper behind his back. He'll learn every law, master every formation, and carve out a place for himself whether they liked it or not.

And if the gods were watching?

He hoped they were.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Steel and Skill

Another morning crept over New Rome, but Percy was already awake, his body tense from another night of fitful dreams. Once again, he dreamt of crashing waves upon the city and that same evil laugh echoing in his mind. It had to mean something. It just had to. It couldn’t be as simple as a regular nightmare or his brain trying to conjure what he was thinking throughout the day. He sat on the edge of his bed, the book in his hands once more, its pages marked by his restless fingers. Reading, surprisingly, calmed him. Made him forget the nightmares, the memories, and the anxiety, if only for a moment. That moment, however, truly was bliss. 

Deciding to get the day started, he rose, splashing cold water from the sink onto his face. The villa was quiet, save for the distant clatter of servants preparing breakfast. The dining hall was bathed in morning light, the long oak table set with a modest spread. Octavius was currently the only one there, sitting at the head of the table and reading a newspaper. 

“Morning, Percy,” he greeted without looking up. “I trust you’ve begun reading the book Livia gave you?”

“Yes, sir,” Percy replied, taking a seat. “Got through the beginning of the empire, the gods, and some of the legion’s structure. It’s… a lot to take in.”

Octavius folded the newspaper with a crisp snap, his eyes lifting to meet Percy’s. “Good. Knowledge is the foundation of a Roman’s strength. The legion’s structure, the Senate’s laws, the gods’ will, they’re all pieces of a larger machine. You’ll need to understand how they fit together if you’re to find your place here.” He paused, his gaze flicking to the ring on Percy’s finger, its golden band catching the morning light. “Especially with that on your hand.”

He nodded, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf on the table. The book had already shown him how intricate New Rome was, a city built on layers of tradition and power, each rule and ritual interlocking like the stones of its streets. But it also felt like a labyrinth, one he was only beginning to navigate. He glanced at the empty chair where Octavian usually sat, half-expecting the boy’s smirking face to appear.

“Where’s Octavian?” he asked, keeping his tone casual as he spread a bit of cheese on the bread.

“Temple duties,” the man replied neutrally but with a hint of approval. “He’s assisting the augurs with a morning sacrifice. The omens have been… unnatural as I’m sure you’ve heard. The priests want to ensure the gods are appeased.”

Percy sighed through his nose, the memory of Augurs Kadyn and Markus's words echoing in his ears. He forced himself to take a bite of the bread, chewing slowly to mask his annoyance. “Unnatural, huh? Seems like I’m causing a lot of trouble just by existing.”

Octavius’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to soften the edges of his stern demeanor. “You’re not the first to stir the city, Percy, and you certainly won’t be the last. Great power always brings scrutiny. The ring only amplifies that. But trouble can shape those who endure it into something stronger.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. “Or it can break them. Which it will be for you depends on how you handle what’s coming.”

Percy met the senator’s gaze, searching for the meaning behind his words. There it was again, that calculation, like he was measuring him for a role he hadn’t yet been told about. He swallowed the bread, its taste suddenly dry in his mouth. “What’s coming, sir?”

He leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “New Rome is a city of balance, but balance is fragile. Especially now that there’s both a son of Jupiter and Neptune in its boundaries. Your arrival, the ring, the omens, it’s all tipped the scales. The Senate, the augurs, even the legion, they’re watching you, waiting to see if you’ll be a hero or a threat. And there are those who will try to use you for their own ends. You’ll need to be sharp, Percy. Sharper than that sword you wield.”

The boy felt a chill run through him despite the warm food in his belly. He thought of the whispers in the Forum, the neglected temple of Neptune, Octavian’s barely veiled resentment. Even Livia’s kindness felt like part of a larger game, her warmth a counterpoint to her husband’s ambition and her son’s envy. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said finally. “What’s the plan for today?”

The senator stood, looking at him with a look that said he should’ve known the answer to that already. “More training. This time, however, we’ll be at the Coliseum, where I have a previous centurion of the First Cohort waiting to help you today. His name is Centurion Troy, and he will teach you the finer points of legion tactics. After that, you’ll study with Livia. She’s arranged for you to sit in on one of her lectures at the university: Roman history, with a focus on the gods’ influence. Make sure to thank her as she pulled a lot of strings to get you in there.” 

Percy nodded, the day ahead already settling heavily on his shoulders. It sounded like a marathon, but he was used to pushing through exhaustion. Lupa had drilled into him that rest was a luxury, not a right, and he’d learned to keep moving no matter how tired he felt. He finished his bread, wiping his hands on his jeans, and stood, ready to face whatever was thrown at him.

“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “I’ll make sure to thank Mrs. Livia, too.”

Octavius gave a curt nod, his gaze holding Percy’s for a moment longer than necessary. “Good. Meet me at the front gate in ten minutes. We’ll walk to the Colosseum together. Centurion Troy doesn’t tolerate tardiness.” With that, the senator strode out of the dining hall, his golden eagle pin glinting as he passed through a shaft of sunlight. Percy lingered for a moment, glancing at the empty chair where Octavian should have been before grabbing an apple from the table and heading back to his room to grab his shoes. 

The walk to the Colosseum was brisk, the morning air crisp with the scent of dew and blooming jasmine. New Rome was already awake, its streets alive with people making their morning commute, store owners opening up their businesses, and the rhythmic march of legionaries heading to the Field of Mars. Octavius led the way with his usual purposeful stride, nodding at passing citizens who greeted him. Percy kept pace, also greeting the people as ordered by the senator. 

“It’s good to show respect to people, even when they might not reciprocate it.”

Percy nodded, though he had half the mind to ask why he should respect those who wouldn’t mind seeing him thrown out the city. But he held his tongue. Octavius wasn’t the kind of man who appreciated backtalk. The Colosseum loomed ahead as they approached, its massive arches rising against the morning sky. Unlike the crumbling ruin he had seen in pictures of old Rome, New Rome’s Colosseum was pristine, its white marble polished to a gleam, statues of heroes and gods lining each and every archway. Banners of red and gold fluttered in the breeze, embroidered with the SPQR insignia and symbols of the legion’s cohorts.

The roar of a distant crowd drifted through the air, though it wasn’t a crowd of spectators; it was the calls of training cohorts deep within the arena. Weapons clashed in rhythmic cadence, shields slammed into dummies, and centurions yelled orders that rebounded off the marble like cannon fire. Percy’s steps slowed as they approached the entrance, his eyes tracing the towering arches and the intricate carvings of victories long past. The sheer scale of it dwarfed anything he’d seen in New York, even the skyscrapers that had once felt like giants. He rubbed his thumb over the ring, feeling excited at the prospect of being able to train in such a place. 

Octavius led him through a side gate, bypassing the main entrance where a group of younger legionaries were hauling training equipment. The senator’s presence drew salutes from those they passed, their fists thumping against their chests in practiced unison. Percy noticed the way their eyes flicked to him, lingering on him as if he were some exhibit in a museum. Some were curious, others wary, and a few outright hostile. He kept his gaze forward, expression neutral, and followed into the shadowed tunnel that opened into the arena.

The interior was amazing. A vast oval of packed sand surrounded by tiered seats that could hold thousands. Dozens of legionaries were already out there, training in tight formations. Their armor gleamed, and their movements were precise, almost mechanical, as they executed drills under the watchful eyes of their centurions. The air was thick with the sounds of clashing swords, thudding shields, and shouted commands, a symphony of disciplined chaos that made Percy’s blood rush in excitement. This was certainly no Wolf House brawl; this was war as an art form, and he was about to step into it.

Octavius gestured toward a broad-shouldered man standing near the center of the arena, barking orders at a group of legionaries practicing a wedge formation. The man’s armor was scuffed but meticulously maintained, his helmet tucked under one arm, revealing a weathered face with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. His hazel eyes were fierce, scanning his recruits with an intensity that reminded Percy of Lupa’s.

“That’s Centurion Troy,” Octavius pointed out, his voice carrying over the din. “He served in the First Cohort for twenty years as Primus Pilus before retiring to train new recruits. He’s one of the best, and he’ll expect your best. Don’t disappoint him.”

Percy nodded, clutching his ring tighter as the man led him over to the veteran soldier. 

“Senator Octavius, my old friend!” Troy greeted, his voice booming across the arena. Percy was surprised to hear a Scottish accent to it, something he’d never expected in New Rome. The man turned from his recruits, who continued their drill without missing a step, and clasped Octavius’s forearm in a warrior’s grip. His scarred face broke into a grin. “It’s been too long. When you called me the other day, safe to say I was surprised!” 

The senator returned the grip, his stern demeanor softening slightly in the presence of a comrade. “Troy, you old war dog,” he said, a rare warmth in his voice. “I trust you’re still terrorizing recruits into shape?”

“Always,” Troy replied, his grin widening. His hazel eyes flicked to the boy standing a few feet away, taking him in with a single, appraising glance that felt like it peeled back layers. “And this must be the lad causing all the stir. Percy Jackson, son of Neptune, bearer of the ring of Rome.” His tone was light, but his gaze lingered on the golden band, a flicker of curiosity, or perhaps caution, crossing his scarred face.

“It is,” Octavius turned, gesturing to Percy to come forward. “This is who I called you about.” 

The boy stepped forward, noticing the way Troy was sizing him up. His gaze was different from the senators’ or augurs’. It wasn’t suspicion or awe; it was the look of a man who’d seen enough battles to know what made a fighter, and what broke one. He squared his shoulders, meeting the stare with a look of his own. Lupa had taught him to never show weakness, even in the face of a seasoned warrior like this; he wasn’t about to start now.

“Sir,” he greeted, extending a hand. Troy took it, his grip strong enough to make Percy’s knuckles ache. The centurion’s calloused palm spoke of years wielding a sword, and the scar on his face seemed to deepen as he grinned.

“Likewise, lad,” the centurion replied. “By Jupiter’s beard, Octavius, you sure you brought me a nine-year-old boy?! His grip is killing me! And look at his scars, he has almost more than I!” His booming laugh echoed across the Colosseum, cutting through the clatter of training legionaries. The man’s energy was infectious, even to the senator. For the first time since arriving in New Rome, Percy felt a flicker of ease, like he could breathe without the eyes and expectations pressing down on him. 

“I’ve heard tales of you already. Slaying the Minotaur, crossing the country with nothing but that ring and your wits. Impressive, for a pup still wet behind the ears.” His eyes flicked to the ring again. “Let’s see if you can live up to the hype.”

Octavius clapped a hand on Troy’s shoulder. “I leave him in your hands, old friend. Teach him what it means to fight as a Roman, not just a lone wolf. I’ll return for him before the university lecture this evening.”

The centurion nodded, his grin fading into a more serious expression. “Aye, Senator. I’ll whip him into shape. Or at least keep him alive long enough to try.” He turned to Percy, gesturing toward the other legionaries. “Come on, lad. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The senator, just before walking away, stood beside Percy, placing a hand on his shoulder. A rare gesture of encouragement. “I’ll leave you with Troy. Pay attention, the legion is your future. I’ll see you in the evening.” With that, he turned and strode out of the arena, his golden eagle pin flashing one last time before he disappeared into the tunnel.

Percy felt his blood rush even faster as he followed the centurion toward a group of legionaries practicing in the arena’s center. The legionaries, all older than Percy, some in their teens, others closer to twenty, moved with a ferocity that made his spar with Octavian feel like child’s play. Their armor gleamed, their shields locked in tight formations, and their eyes flicked toward him as they approached.

“Right, you lot!” Troy’s Scottish voice boomed, silencing the murmurs among the recruits. “This here’s Percy Jackson, son of Neptune. He’s joining us today, so let’s see if we can teach him how Romans fight. He shot Percy a sidelong glance, his grin half-challenging, half-amused. “You ready, lad?”

Percy’s fingers curled around the ring in a vice-like grip, looking up at the man. “Ready, sir,” he replied with a nod.

Troy clapped his hands, the sound sharp as a whip. “Good! I want to see what I’m working with, so I’ll have you spar with one of the fresher recruits. Larry, come forward!”

A lanky boy stepped out from the group of legionaries, his armor slightly too big for his frame, clanking softly as he moved. Larry was taller than Percy by a head, his dark hair cropped short, and his eyes gleamed with a mix of confidence and mischief. Despite being three years older, he wasn’t much bigger than Percy, which he was happy to see. It seemed his time with Lupa and eating the very hearty meals at the villa seemed to get his body back to normal. Gone was the skin and bones of his time going without meals or scavenging in dumpsters. 

He held a standard gladius in his hand, its edge dulled for training but still imposing. Percy sized him up, noting the way Larry’s grip on the sword was loose but ready, a fighter’s stance honed by training but not yet hardened by real battle.

“Larry, son of Mercury,” Troy introduced. “Fast as a whip and twice as cocky. Let’s see how you fare against him.”

The older boy flashed a grin, his teeth bright against his tanned skin. “Centurion Troy, how do you expect me to fight someone without a gladius?”

Troy was about to reply, looking for a weapon for Percy to use, but the son of Neptune subtly flexed his hand, feeling the familiar warmth of the ring grow stronger as it shimmered and transformed into a golden gladius, its blade catching the sunlight with a gleam that made Larry’s grin falter. Murmurs erupted among the spectating legionaries, their eyes widening at the sight.

Troy’s features sparked with approval as he watched Percy give the blade an experimental twirl. “There’s your answer, Larry. The lad’s got his own blade. Now, let’s see if he can use it. Standard rules: no dirty moves, no powers, just steel and skill. First to disarm or force a yield wins. Begin!”

Larry didn’t hesitate, darting forward with the speed his divine heritage promised. His gladius slashed in a tight arc toward Percy’s shoulder, the move quick but telegraphed. Percy sidestepped, his instincts kicking in. He parried the strike with a sharp clang, the force vibrating up his arm. The son of Mercury was fast, no doubt, but he’d fought faster. He countered with a quick thrust toward his chest, forcing the older boy to twist away, his oversized armor clanking as he moved. 

Some odd citizens in the stands and even the other legionaries who weren’t part of Troy’s training stopped what they were doing to watch, their eyes drawn to the clash of swords in the arena. Percy felt their gazes but pushed them to the back of his mind, focusing solely on his opponent. The older boy’s speed was impressive, his movements fluid like a dancer’s, but he matched him strike for strike, his own style fast and unpredictable. 

Larry grinned as their blades locked, pushing against each other with a scrape of metal. “Not bad, you little shit,” he taunted. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Percy didn’t respond, letting his sword do the talking. He broke the lock, stepping back to draw Larry in, then lunged with a feint to the left before swinging low toward his legs. Larry hopped back, barely avoiding the strike. The son of Neptune pressed forward, his attacks relentless, each swing fueled by the same simmering anger that had driven him against Octavian. His emotions poured into his strikes, making them faster, stronger.

The son of Mercury was good, no question. His footwork was precise, his strikes calculated, and he used his height advantage to keep Percy at a distance, darting in and out like a wasp. But Percy had fought monsters that didn’t care about form or finesse, and he’d learned to adapt. He let Larry’s speed dictate the pace, waiting for an opening, his eyes tracking every twitch of the older boy’s shoulders.

Larry’s confidence started to crack as Percy deflected a particularly aggressive thrust, the force of the parry sending a jolt through his arm. “You’re tougher than you look,” he admitted, circling to the right, his breath coming faster now. “But I’m not done yet.”

Percy didn’t reply, conserving his energy. He could feel the sword’s warmth growing hotter, spreading through his hand, urging him to push harder. He ignored it, focusing on the fight. Larry was fast, but he was starting to overextend, his strikes growing reckless as he tried to overwhelm. That was his mistake. Percy ducked under a high slash, stepping inside his guard, and drove his shoulder into the older boy’s chest. Larry stumbled, his armor clanking, and Percy swung his gladius toward his wrist, aiming to knock the sword from his hand.

But the boy was a son of Mercury, and speed was his birthright. His eyes flashed with a sudden intensity, and in a blur of motion, he sidestepped Percy’s strike, his body moving faster than seemingly possible. The air around him shimmered faintly, a telltale sign of divine power. Percy’s instincts screamed in warning, but before he could react, Larry was behind him, his gladius swinging down with impossible speed. He twisted just in time, the blade grazing his arm, leaving a stinging welt but no blood. The crowd gasped, and Troy’s voice boomed, “Larry, no powers! Fair fight!”

Larry didn’t seem to hear, or maybe he didn’t care. His grin was back, bigger now, almost feral. “Sorry, kid,” he said lowly. “Can’t let you show me up.” He moved again, a streak of motion, his sword a blur as it aimed for Percy’s legs. The son of Neptune dove to the side, rolling across the sand and springing back to his feet, his heart pounding. The sword burned even hotter now, as if responding to the challenge, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to tap into whatever power it might offer. Not yet. Not like this.

Larry pressed his advantage, his speed unnatural, his strikes coming from every angle. Percy blocked and dodged, his muscles screaming, but he was losing ground. The older boy was a whirlwind, his gladius a golden streak in the sun. One strike in particular came down hard, aiming for his shoulder, and Percy barely got his gladius up in time, the impact sending him crashing into the sand. The legionaries and a few citizens in the stands were cheering now, all shouting for the son of Mercury to win the fight. None were cheering for him.

“Yield!” Larry barked, his sword inches from Percy’s face. His eyes gleamed with triumph, certain he’d won.

Percy’s jaw clenched, his breath ragged. He could feel the sea in his blood, stirring, urging him to unleash it, to show this cocky son of Mercury what a son of Neptune could do. But he didn’t need powers to win this. He’d faced worse odds with nothing but his wits and a blade. Lupa’s voice echoed in his mind: Use their strength against them.

In a flash, he swept his leg out in a move that was more street brawl than Roman training. Larry’s knees buckled as Percy’s foot hooked behind them, and he toppled backward, his sword clattering against the ground. Before he could recover, Percy was on him, pinning him to the sand with a knee on his chest, the golden gladius pressed tightly against Larry’s throat. The older boy froze, his eyes wide with shock. The arena went silent, everyone in shock as to what they’d just witnessed. 

“Yield,” Percy said quietly.

Larry’s face twisted, a mix of humiliation and grudging respect. “Fine,” he muttered, the word barely audible. “I yield.”

The son of Neptune stood, stepping back and lowering his sword, its warmth fading in victory. He offered the older boy a hand, but he ignored it, scrambling to his feet and brushing sand from his armor. His grin was gone, replaced by a scowl as he retrieved his gladius.

Troy clapped his hands, breaking the tension. “Well done, lad!” he called to Percy, his Scottish accent thick with enthusiasm. “You’ve got fire in you, that’s for sure. Larry, you let your ego get the better of you. Using powers in a fair fight? Sloppy. You’ll be cleaning up Hannibal’s shit for that.”

Larry’s scowl deepened, but he nodded, casting a dark glance at Percy before stalking off to join the other legionaries. The arena’s tension lingered like dust in the air, settling slowly as the legionaries resumed their drills, their clashing weapons and shouted commands filling the void left by the spar’s end. Percy stood there, catching his breath, his sword shimmering before reverting back into the ring. He’d won the fight, but the victory felt hollow. No one had wanted him to win. No one cheered for him. Now, he had a feeling there was only a bigger target painted on his back.

“Not bad for a first go, lad,” the veteran centurion approached, “You’ve got instincts most of these recruits would kill for. It’ll be interesting to see what you can do with proper training.” He clapped a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Join the cohort over there.” He jerked his thumb toward a group of legionaries forming a testudo, their shields locked into a tight, turtle-like formation. “Time to learn how to work as a team.” 

He nodded, grabbing a shield the Scottish man had handed to him before jogging toward the others. The legionaries parted slightly to let him join, their expressions hidden behind their helmets and shields. He slipped into the formation, mimicking their stance as best he could, shield raised, body angled to protect the soldier beside him. The weight of the scutum felt awkward, its bulk forcing him to adjust his balance, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to be still. Troy’s voice rang out, barking orders to tighten the formation, to move as one. Percy tried to match their rhythm, his shield clanking against his neighbor’s as they shuffled forward in unison.

“Lock shields, lads!” He shouted. “You’re a wall, not a pile of loose stones! Jackson, keep your shield level, protect your mate’s flank!”

Percy adjusted, his arm straining under the shield’s weight. The legionary to his right, a girl he vaguely remembered, muttered to him to move closer to her. His eyes flickered to her, recognizing her voice and finally who she was. 

“You’re the girl from the entrance,” he stated quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to disrupt the formation. “The one who ran with me and that guy back to camp.”

The girl, her face half-hidden by her helmet, gave a curt nod. “Lavinia,” she said, her tone clipped but not unfriendly. “And you’re the kid who drew a whole monster army to our doorstep. Nice entrance.” There was a hint of dry humor in her voice, but her bright grey eyes stayed focused on the drill, her shield steady.

Percy managed a small grin. “Didn’t mean to make your day that exciting.”

“Exciting’s one word for it,” she huffed, shifting her weight as the formation moved forward. “Lucius is still talking about you saving his life. Says you’re crazy.”

He tightened his grip on the shield, the weight still unfamiliar but growing more manageable with each step. “Lucius, huh? The guy who took a spear to the leg?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her tone softening slightly. “He’s already healed up and back at the barracks. Don’t let it go to your head, saving him. You’ve got enough people whispering about you as it is.”

Percy nodded, keeping his eyes forward as Troy’s commands echoed across the arena. The formation shifted, moving into a wedge, and Percy struggled to keep pace, his shield clanking awkwardly against Lavinia’s. She shot him a quick glance, her expression unreadable behind her helmet, but she didn’t correct him. Instead, she nudged her shield closer, guiding him into the proper alignment.

“Follow my lead,” she muttered. “You’re not half bad, but you’ve got to move with us, not against us.”

Percy bit back a retort, focusing on matching her steps. The legionaries around him moved like a single organism, their shields and bodies in perfect sync, a clear distinction from the way he usually fought. It was frustrating, humbling, but he could feel the strength in their unity, the way their formation made them stronger than any regular fighter could be alone. A small voice in the back of his head told him, though, that he wasn’t just a regular fighter. He blocked it out for now; no reason to get cocky just because he defeated a fresh recruit of the legion. 

The drills continued, the veteran centurion driving them through one formation after another. Percy’s arms burned, his legs ached, and sweat stung his eyes, but he pushed through, determined to prove he could keep up. The other legionaries didn’t speak to him, their focus locked on the task, but he caught their sidelong glances, their curiosity and wariness as tangible as the sand beneath his feet. Lavinia was the only one who acknowledged him, her curt instructions and occasional dry remarks keeping him from making too many mistakes.

By the time Troy called a break, the sun was high overhead, the arena shimmering with heat. Percy lowered his shield, his arm trembling from the effort, and took a long drink from a water jug passed around. Lavinia plopped down beside him, removing her helmet to reveal short, dark hair plastered to her forehead. Her grey eyes scanned him, assessing but not hostile.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said after a moment, wiping sweat from her brow. “Thought a son of Neptune would be… I don’t know, flashier. Throwing water around, making waves. But you’re just… you.”

Percy snorted, setting the jug down. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m still figuring out the water thing. And the rest of everything else.”

She smirked, a quick flash of teeth. “Don’t apologize. Flashy gets you noticed, and not always in a good way. Your ring and beating Larry are examples of that. The first won’t like you beating his ass, but hey, we love sticking it to them so props to you for that.” 

“You’re not in the same cohort?” He questioned, looking at the son of Mercury, who was polishing his gladius with more force than necessary. Lavinia shook her head, her smirk widening.

“Nah, Larry’s First Cohort, like most of the show-offs around here,” she said, carrying a hint of disdain. “There’s no full cohort here today. This is a mixed group; recruits from all five cohorts who want extra training from Troy. He’s the best, so you get a bit of everyone: First Cohort hotshots, Second Cohort strategists, even some of us from the Fifth who just want to get better. The Colosseum’s the only place in the city where we can carry weapons and train like this, outside of Camp Jupiter and the Field of Mars. Keeps the city folks interested too. That’s why you see some of them in the stands watching us. Most of them are old heads though who are reliving their days in the legion. 

Percy glanced around, noting the variety of armor styles and insignia among the legionaries. Some bore the eagle of the First Cohort, others the Pegasus of the Second. It made sense. New Rome was strict about its rules, and weapons in the city proper were a big no-no unless you were in a designated training ground like this. He rubbed the ring on his finger, wondering why he was allowed to bring it wherever in the city he pleased. “So, you’re Fifth Cohort?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Yup,” Lavinia replied, leaning back on her hands, her shield propped beside her. “Not the most glamorous, but we’re scrappy. Get the job done. You’ll figure out the cohort rivalries soon enough. First thinks they’re the gods’ gift to the legion, Second’s all about brains over brawn, Third and Fourth are solid but don’t stand out much, and Fifth… well, we’re the underdogs. Always have been. We don’t even have an insignia like the others.” 

Percy nodded, filing that away. The book he’d been reading touched on the cohorts briefly, but seeing them in action, mixed together under Troy’s command, gave him a better sense of the dynamics. “Sounds like I’ve got a lot to learn about how things work around here.”

“You do,” she agreed, her words matter-of-fact. “But you held your own against Larry, and that’s a start. Just don’t expect him to invite you to his next birthday party.” She chuckled, then tilted her head, studying him. “You’re different from the others who’ve come through here. Most newbies show up wide-eyed, thinking they’re hot stuff because they survived the Wolf House. But you… you look like you’ve experienced stuff that only veterans have seen. It would explain how you killed those monsters, how you beat Larry, and how you have those scars across your face and body. What’s your story? Before Lupa got her claws into you, I mean.”

Percy hesitated, the scar across his face almost feeling as if it was burning. The question hit closer than he wanted, dredging up blood that still stained his nightmares. He wasn’t ready to unpack that, not with a near-stranger in the middle of a dusty arena. “Long story,” he said finally, keeping his tone light. “Short version: bad luck, worse family, and a whole lot of running. Lupa found me, whipped me into shape. The rest is history.”

Lavinia arched an eyebrow, clearly sensing the evasion but not pressing. “Fair enough. We all have our secrets in this city.” She stood, brushing sand from her legs, and offered him a hand up. This time, unlike with Larry, he took it, pulling himself to his feet with a nod of thanks. Just as they were about to resume the drills, a murmur rippled through the stands and the legionaries alike. It started low, like the hum of distant thunder, but quickly grew into gasps and excited whispers that cut through the arena's clamor. Percy turned, following the gaze of the crowd toward the main entrance tunnel. The training had paused, shields lowering as even Troy's booming commands faltered for a moment.

There, coming through the tunnel, was the entire first cohort, led by a centurion whose armor was polished to a mirror sheen, the red crest on his helmet swaying with each step, and the eagle insignia of the First Cohort gleaming on his breastplate. But that wasn’t what caught Percy’s eye. It was the boy striding confidently behind the centurion, his presence commanding attention without effort. He was about Percy’s age, with close-cropped blond hair and piercing blue eyes. His armor, though simple compared to the centurion’s, fit him perfectly, the eagle of the First Cohort etched into the leather straps across his chest. A faint scar ran across his upper lip, barely noticeable but adding a hint of grit to his otherwise polished appearance. The air around him seemed to hum with a subtle energy, like the charge before a lightning strike, and the legionaries in the arena straightened instinctively as he passed, their murmurs tinged with awe.

Percy’s gaze locked onto the boy, a strange feeling stirring in his gut. He recognized him somehow. He felt… familiarity. 

“Who’s that?” He asked, keeping his voice low. 

That didn’t seem to matter, however, as the boy seemed to hear him, turning his head slowly toward him as they passed. Their eyes locked, green and blue, and for a moment, it seemed as if the entire arena faded away. Their gazes burned into each other, their irises swirling with recognition, challenge, maybe even hostility. It was like two storms colliding, trying to overpower the other with sheer will. Percy’s fingers brushed unconsciously against the ring, as if it, too, had felt the shift. 

“That’s Jason Grace, son of Jupiter.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: The Burden of the Divine

The drills dragged on despite the arrival of the First Cohort and the supposed golden boy of Rome. Lavinia, along with the rest of their rag-tag group, continued their formations, following in step to whatever Troy ordered. Percy, however, couldn’t shake his thoughts about the boy. His eyes kept drifting toward the First Cohort, now drilling on the far side of the Colosseum, their movements more polished than the mixed group he was with. Jason stood out even among them, his presence magnetic, like he was born to lead. Every so often, he caught the boy glancing his way, those blue eyes assessing him with an intensity that mirrored Octavius’s but felt… different. Less calculated, more instinctive, as if he was sizing him up not as a threat, but as a rival.

“Eyes front, Jackson!” Troy’s voice snapped Percy back to the present, his shield nearly slipping as he scrambled to adjust his stance in the testudo formation. Lavinia shot him a quick look.

“Daydreaming already?” she muttered, her shield nudging his to keep the line tight. “Focus, or Troy’ll have you running laps till sunset.”

Percy grunted, forcing his attention back to the drill. “Just… curious,” he said, keeping his words low. “That Jason guy. Everyone’s acting like he’s the second coming of Romulus.”

“Close enough,” she snorted. “Son of Jupiter, raised by Lupa herself for a year, just like you. The Senate loves him, the legion worships him, and the augurs say the gods have big plans for him.”

His jaw tightened, but didn’t respond. He gripped his shield tighter, the wood creaking under his fingers, and forced himself to move with the formation, step by heavy step. The drills pushed on, relentless under Troy’s watchful eye. Percy’s muscles screamed, the shield’s weight dragging at his arm, but he refused to falter. He’d faced worse. This was just another test, and he’d pass it, no matter how many eyes were on him or how many whispers followed. Still, Jason’s presence was a distraction, a nagging pull at the edge of his thoughts. The boy moved with a confidence that wasn’t arrogance, not exactly, but something close; assurance, like he knew exactly where he fit in this world. Percy envied that more than he wanted to admit.

When Troy finally called a halt, the sun was finally beginning to dip, the arena’s radiating heat slowly beginning to ebb away. Percy lowered his shield, his arm trembling, and wiped sweat from his brow. The legionaries dispersed to grab water or collapse in the shade, their armor clinking as they moved. Lavinia plopped down beside him again, tossing her helmet onto the sand with a groan.

“Gods, I hate testudo drills,” she muttered, stretching her arms. “Feels like carrying a house on your shoulder. You held up, though. Not bad for a newbie.”

“Thanks,” Percy said, managing a tired grin. He glanced across the arena, where the First Cohort was taking a break of their own. Jason stood apart, talking with the centurion. Even at rest, he seemed to draw attention and radiate authority. How a nine-year-old boy could do that, he didn’t know. Perhaps sons of Jupiter just had that effect. “So, what’s the deal with him?” He asked, nodding toward Jason. “Everyone’s acting like he’s already a praetor.”

Lavinia followed his gaze. “He might as well be. Jason’s the golden boy, like I said. First Cohort’s grooming him for leadership, and the Senate’s got their eyes on him for bigger things. Definitely praetor. Consul, maybe, one day. Though we haven’t had a consul since the early wars. He’s got the lineage, the skills, and the gods’ favor. Or so the augurs keep saying.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “But don’t let the shine fool you. He’s half-human, same as us. Just… better connected. And don’t think he hasn’t noticed you. That little stare-down earlier? He’s sizing you up, same as you’re doing to him.”

“Why? Seems like he already has everything he could possibly ask for. Why worry about a son of Neptune?” 

Lavinia laughed, a loud bark that drew a few glances. “Oh, come on, do I really have to answer that for you? You’re the first son of Neptune in a century who carries the ring of Rome, for godssake. When you arrived here, you practically killed a small army of monsters, including the Minotaur, single-handedly. You’re not just the new kid, Percy. You’re a walking omen, and Jason knows it. He’s not stupid. He’s probably wondering if you’re here to challenge his spot at the top.”

Percy frowned, the idea settling uneasily. He hadn’t come to New Rome to challenge anyone, least of all some golden boy with Jupiter’s blood. All he wanted was a place to belong, a chance to stop running. But the way Lavinia said it, the way Jason’s eyes had locked onto his, made it clear that belonging wouldn’t come without a fight.

Before he could respond, Troy’s voice boomed across the arena. “Jackson, get over here!” 

Glancing at Lavinia one last time, he got up and jogged over where the veteran stood, his boots kicking up small clouds of sand. The centurion’s scarred face was set in a serious expression as he watched him approach, unnerving him somewhat. 

“Sir?” 

“Percy, lad, when does Octavius get here to take you back?” Troy asked, leaning down so that the conversation could stay between them.

“Sometime in the evening, which should be coming up soon,” he replied, arching an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

Troy’s hazel eyes flicked toward the First Cohort, still gathered on the far side of the Colosseum, before returning to him. His voice dropped lower, carrying a tone that made Percy’s stomach tighten. “The First Cohort’s centurion, Pierce Miller—he nodded subtly toward the man in the gleaming armor with the red-crested helmet, “—he didn’t show up here today just to drill his cohort. A full cohort trains in the Field of Mars, not here. No, he’s here because he’s got a reputation for bullying the younger recruits into proving themselves, especially those who’ve got the city’s attention. Like you. And I’d wager my best gladius he’s itching to see you and Jason go at it in the arena. A son of Neptune versus a son of Jupiter? That’s the kind of spectacle that’d fill every seat here.” 

Percy’s eyes narrowed, his gaze instinctively drifting to Jason, who was adjusting his armor while still talking to Centurion Miller. “So, what? He wants a show?” He asked, a mix of irritation and unease creeping in. “I didn’t come here to be someone’s entertainment.”

Troy clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Lad, you’re in New Rome now. Everything’s a show, whether you like it or not. Miller’s a hard bastard, always looking to prove the First Cohort’s the best. And Jason? He’s their prize colt. You, with that ring and your blood, you’re a challenge to their pride. They’ll want to test and break you to make sure you know your place.” 

He glanced again at Jason, who was now looking his way, those blue eyes locking onto him once more. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of curiosity and challenge in his gaze, as if he knew what they were discussing. His fingers clenched around the ring, feeling that familiar warmth brewing around the band once more.

Before he could respond to Troy, the sharp clank of armor drew their attention. Centurion Miller was striding across the arena, his polished breastplate gleaming like a mirror in the fading sunlight. The red crest on his helmet bobbed with each step, and his broad shoulders carried the kind of authority that silenced the murmurs of nearby legionaries. Jason followed a step behind, his posture relaxed but alert, like a wolf trailing its leader. The other legionaries and remaining citizens in the arena slowed their movements, their eyes darting toward the approaching centurion, sensing something was about to unfold.

“Old Troy,” Miller greeted, his words smooth but edged with a distasteful bite. He stopped a few paces away, his purple eyes flicking to the son of Neptune before settling back on the older man. “I see you’ve got the new blood out here. Stirring up quite the storm, isn’t he?” His gaze lingered on the ring, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Troy straightened, his own expression hardening, knowing this wasn’t a simple conversation of greetings. “Aye, Miller. Percy’s got potential, no doubt. Just teaching him the ropes.”

Miller’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with something predatory. He turned his attention to Percy, sizing him up like a butcher eyeing a cut of meat. “You’re the one they’re all whispering about. Son of Neptune, bearer of the ring of Rome. Killed a Minotaur, they say. Impressive… if it’s true.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no need to rise to the bait. He’d met men like Miller before; bullies who used their rank like a whip. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting angry.

“It’s true,” Troy answered for him, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “The boy’s earned his place.”

“If that is the case, then I believe the boy can speak for himself,” Miller clapped back, his tone coming out more as a growl. He turned his attention back to Percy. “Not wanting to speak on past victories, do we? How humble. That’s a rare trait for a son of Neptune.” He tilted his head, glancing at Jason, who stood silently at his side, still staring at his potential rival unblinking. “I was just telling young Grace here that it’s been a while since the First Cohort had a proper challenge. These drills with Troy’s mixed lot are fine for new recruits of the legion, but I think you and Jason could give us all a real show.”

“Miller,” Troy’s face darkened. “The lad’s barely been here a week. He’s learning formations, not putting on spectacles for your amusement.” 

Miller raised a hand, dismissing the veteran’s protest with a casual wave. “You know as well as I do that the Colosseum’s no place for coddling. The boy’s got the ring of Rome, doesn’t he? Let’s see if he’s worth it.” He turned back to Percy, his tone dripping with challenge. “What do you say, Jackson? Care to spar with the son of Jupiter? Let’s see if Neptune’s blood can stand up to the king of the gods.”

Percy tilted his head slightly, eyeing up his potential opponent. His neutral expression hadn’t changed in the slightest, yet he caught that familiar glint of anticipation in his irises. That’s when it clicked in Percy’s head. Jason wanted this. Not in the arrogant, chest-thumping way that Octavian might, but in the quiet, unshakable confidence of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. The way his fingers flexed near his gladius, the way his shoulders squared subtly. He wasn’t being forced into this by Miller. He was ready. Eager. He was looking for a reason, any reason, to cross blades. And Miller had brought it on a silver platter.

He felt the sand beneath his boots shift as the Colosseum seemed to fall into an expectant hush. Even the stragglers in the stands leaned forward, whispers already passing like wildfire: Neptune’s son versus Jupiter’s. He hated it. Every fiber of him screamed that this wasn’t what he’d come here for. He hadn’t crossed the country, hadn’t bled and fought just to be thrown into some pissing contest to entertain New Rome. And yet, he couldn’t turn away from the prospect of a fight. It wasn’t Miller’s smirk or the crowd’s hunger that made him stay. No, it was the unspoken message burning in the son of Jupiter’s gaze: I need to know who you are.

“Pierce, we’re in the middle of formation drills,” Troy spoke up before Percy could, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder in warning for him not to do or say anything stupid. “Percy’s got enough on his plate learning the basics. Maybe another time.”

Miller’s smirk didn’t falter. He stepped closer, his armor clinking softly, and leaned in just enough to make his presence imposing. “Come now, friend. I’m Primus Pilus now, not you. If I say the boy spars, he spars. A legionary doesn’t say no to me.” His tone was smooth, but the undercurrent was unmistakable. It was a command, not a request. He gestured toward the boy at his side. “Jason’s ready. Aren’t you, Grace?”

Jason gave a curt nod. “If he’s willing, sir, I’ll spar.” His words were measured, polite, but there was no mistaking the challenge beneath them.

Percy’s teeth grinded against one another. He didn’t like being pushed, not by Miller, not by anyone. But the idea of backing down, of letting this smug centurion and the whispering crowd think he was afraid, grated against every instinct Lupa had drilled into him. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a sharp voice rang out from the edge of the arena.

“Enough, Miller.”

Those two words were enough to silence everyone in the arena, drawing all eyes toward the source. Octavius, striding back into the Colosseum, his golden eagle pin glinting on his toga. His presence was like a storm rolling in, quiet but heavy with authority, causing even Miller’s smirk to falter for a fraction of a second. The senator’s gaze locked onto the centurion, his expression cold and unyielding. “You don’t give orders to Percy Jackson. He’s not in the legion yet, and he’s under my charge, not yours.”

Miller’s face tightened, his hand twitching toward the gladius at his side, though he didn’t dare draw it. “Senator,” he said, his tone carefully neutral but laced with defiance, “I meant no disrespect. I just wanted to see if he could handle a simple spar to prove his worth. It’s tradition for new blood to show their mettle.”

Octavius’s gaze didn’t waver, and his voice dropped to a dangerous low. “Tradition doesn’t apply to a boy who’s not yet sworn to the legion.” He stepped closer, his presence towering despite his lack of armor. “You want a spectacle? You’ll have it on Dies Probationis. Until that time occurs, Percy’s training is my responsibility, and I say he’s done for the day.”

Everyone went deathly silent, even the citizens in the stands held their breath, sensing the rare clash of authority unfolding before them. Miller’s smirk was gone now, replaced by a tight-lipped scowl. He inclined his head stiffly, the bare minimum of respect. “As you say, Senator.” He turned to Jason, jerking his head toward the First Cohort. “Grace, back to your unit. We’ve got drills to finish.”

Jason nodded, his gaze lingering on Percy for a moment longer before he turned and strode back to his cohort, his movements as fluid and assured as ever. The First Cohort fell into formation behind him, their shields clanking in unison as they resumed their drills under Miller’s barked orders. The centurion cast one last glance at Percy, his purple eyes promising this wasn’t over, before turning away.

Troy let out a low whistle, breaking the tension once everyone had either gone back to their drills or cleared out. “Right, that was a mess,” he muttered, clapping Percy on the shoulder. “You dodged a spear there, lad.

The boy nodded, looking up at the senator who was still watching the centurion like a hawk. 

“Miller’s a problem,” Octavius said finally, almost more to himself. “He’s ambitious, even for a Roman, and he’s got the First Cohort behind him. Men like him don’t take kindly to unknowns, especially to sons of Neptune. You did well to keep your head back there.”

Percy nodded, his throat tight as he processed Octavius’s words. The senator’s gaze softened slightly, a rare flicker of approval in his steely eyes. “Thank you, sir,” he replied somewhat shakily due to the adrenaline still coursing through him. “And thanks for stepping in. I… I didn’t know what to do there.”

The man gave a curt nod. “You’ll learn. New Rome tests everyone, and not always with a sword. Come, we’re due at the university. Livia’s waiting, and she doesn’t tolerate tardiness any more than Troy does.”

Percy glanced back at Troy, who gave him a quick, encouraging grin. “You did well today, lad. Keep those instincts sharp, but listen to the senator. And watch your back around Miller’s lot. They don’t forget a slight.”

“Thanks, Troy,” he replied, managing a small smile. “For everything today. I learned a lot.” He meant it. The centurion’s gruff but fair approach had been a stark contrast to the politics and posturing he’d faced elsewhere. It felt like a glimpse of what the legion could be; tough, but honest.

“Aye, you’ll do fine. Now go learn something bookish for a change. Can’t swing a sword all day.” He turned back to his recruits, his voice booming across the arena as he barked new orders, leaving Percy and Octavius to head toward the exit.

As they walked toward the Colosseum’s shadowed tunnel, Percy’s mind churned with what had just occurred. He knew he had an even bigger target on his back now, with him defeating Larry, a legionary of the First, and having Octavius protect him against Miller. He didn’t know whether the senator had truly protected him, or just delayed the inevitable. The way Miller’s purple eyes had burned into him, the way Jason’s stare had clung like a promise; it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He glanced at Lavinia, who was gathering her gear with the other legionaries who were preparing to head back to camp. She caught his eye and gave a quick wave, her smirk saying she’d be watching to see how he handled whatever came next.

Percy returned the wave, a small gesture that felt like a lifeline in the sea of scrutiny. “See you around,” he called out, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.

“Try not to drown, Jackson,” she shot back teasingly. She slung her shield over her shoulder and rejoined her group, leaving him with a faint grin as he followed Octavius out into the city.

The walk to the university was quieter, the late evening sun casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. The city buzzed with its usual energy, but Percy felt the weight of the day settling into his bones. Octavius didn’t speak much, only pointing out a few landmarks: a statue of Ceres wreathed in flowers, a small shrine to Janus at a crossroads, his tone clipped but informative. Percy soaked it in, storing the details alongside what he’d read in Historia Novae Romae. Every piece of knowledge felt like a shield against the city’s judgment.

When they reached the university, a sprawling complex of marble buildings surrounded by olive trees and manicured gardens, his breath caught. The architecture was grand yet welcoming, with open courtyards where students milled about. Some were reading silently while listening to music, others sitting in small groups, laughing and conversing. And at the entrance of one of its many grand halls was Livia, who stood waiting elegantly while students strolled past her, inclining their heads in greeting to their professor.

“You’re cutting it close,” she said, raising an eyebrow at her husband. “My class starts in five. I thought I was going to have to send out one of my students to get him.” 

“Blame Miller,” Octavius replied dryly, stepping forward to clasp her hand briefly. “He tried to stir up trouble in the Colosseum. Wanted Percy to spar with Jason Grace.”

Livia’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That man’s scheming will be his downfall one day,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to Percy. “You’re alright, though? No bruises from that crazy man Troy.” 

“I’m fine,” Percy said, shrugging, though his arm still stung from Larry’s grazing blow. “Just another day of people wanting to see what I’m made of.”

Her expression softened at the sight. “I’m sure you handled yourself well. Come, let’s get you inside. The lecture’s about to start. You’ll sit with the other students, but don’t worry, no one’s expecting you to recite Cicero yet.” She winked, easing the knot in his chest.

“Thanks, Mrs. Livia,” Percy said earnestly, remembering his promise to Octavius earlier that morning. “For getting me into the lecture, I mean. I know you went out of your way.”

She waved a hand dismissively, though her smile widened. “Nonsense.”

Octavius gave Percy a final nod. “I’ll see you back at the villa tonight. Listen to Livia and take notes. Remember, knowledge is the foundation of a Roman’s strength.” With that, he turned and strode off, leaving Percy with Livia as they entered the building.

The lecture hall was a marvel of Roman engineering and artistry. The walls were adorned with intricate mosaics, each figure rendered in vibrant tiles of sapphire, emerald, and gold, their faces serene yet commanding as they held scrolls, lyres, or books. Above, the ceiling arched into a shallow dome, painted with a celestial map of constellations that seemed to shimmer in the flickering light of the dying sun. The air carried the faint scent of parchment and ink. At the front, a raised dais held a heavy oak lectern, its surface carved with laurel leaves and the SPQR insignia, behind which stood a large slate board dusted with chalk.

As he followed Livia into the hall, he could already feel the stares on him. It seemed here too, he was the black sheep. Students ranging in age from teenagers to young adults lined the hall, none of them remotely close in age to him. They whispered to one another as he walked down the steps, their gazes lingering on his worn clothes and golden band on his finger. He felt so out of place, but he kept his head high, ignoring the murmurs, and followed Livia to a seat near the front, where she gestured for him to sit.

“Sit here,” she whispered. “You’ll hear better, and I can keep an eye on you.” Her tone was light, but there was a glint in her eye that told him she wasn’t entirely joking. She gave him one last reassuring nod before striding to the front of the hall, her robes flowing with a grace that commanded the room’s attention. The students straightened in their seats, their chatter fading as she took her place at the lectern.

“Good evening, students.” She began, her voice clear and commanding, so unlike the tone he was used to hearing at the dinner table. “Tonight, we continue our study of the divine influence on New Rome’s history, focusing on the Second Founding and the role of the gods in shaping our city’s destiny.” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room, lingering briefly on Percy with a flicker of encouragement before moving on. “As children and legacies of the gods, you all understand that our lineage is not merely a gift; it is a responsibility. The gods watch us, guide us, and, at times, test us. Their will is woven into the fabric of New Rome, from its laws to its legions. Tonight, we’ll explore how their influence has both preserved and challenged our city.”

Percy leaned forward, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Livia’s words echoed the pages he’d read last night, but hearing them spoken with such conviction brought the history to life. She spoke of Aeneas, the Trojan hero who carried the gods’ favor to found the first seeds of Rome, and of Romulus, whose divine lineage from Mars gave him the strength to forge a city from nothing. She described the Second Founding, when the gods led survivors of the old empire to this hidden valley in the West, granting them a new home under the protection of Jupiter, Juno, and the other Olympians. Her voice wove a tapestry of battles, omens, and divine interventions, each story underscoring the delicate balance between mortal ambition and godly will.

As she spoke, his mind drifted to the neglected temple of Neptune, its cracked seashell and weathered columns stark against the beauty of Jupiter’s temple. The book had mentioned Neptune’s role in the Second Founding, a storm that shielded the fleeing Romans from their enemies, but Livia barely touched on it, focusing instead on Jupiter’s guidance and Mars’s martial strength. He shifted in his seat, the ring growing warm against his finger, as if protesting the omission. He wanted to ask about it, to demand why his father’s contributions were brushed aside, but the stares burning on the back of his head kept him silent. He wasn’t here to draw more eyes.

Her lecture eventually shifted to the gods’ ongoing influence, her tone growing more intimate as she addressed the students directly. “Each of you carries a spark of the divine, but that spark comes with a burden. The gods do not grant their favor lightly. They expect loyalty, discipline, and sacrifice. When a child of the gods strays, or when their power disrupts the city’s balance, the consequences are severe. History is littered with examples: heroes who rose too high, demigods who let their gifts consume them.” Her eyes flicked to him again, brief but pointed, and he felt a chill run down his arms. Was she warning him? Or was he just imagining it, seeing judgment where there was none?

She continued, describing demigods of old who let power consume them. Each tale ended the same: the gods’ gifts were a double-edged sword, and New Rome’s survival depended on keeping them in check. His fingers tightened around the armrest. The stories felt like a mirror held up to him, reflecting the whispers he’d heard in the Forum, the augurs’ cryptic warnings, even his dreams of crashing waves upon the city. He was a son of Neptune, a wildcard in a city that prized order. He glanced around the room, catching a few students staring at him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. One girl, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, leaned over to whisper to her neighbor, her eyes never leaving him. He forced himself to look away, focusing on Livia’s words.

“The gods’ favor is not a guarantee of glory,” she stated, pacing the dais. “It is a test. New Rome stands because we honor that test, because we channel divine power into the service of the city, not personal ambition. Remember this as you train, as you study, as you take your place in the legion, the Senate, or wherever life takes you. The gods are always watching.”

The lecture ended with a call for questions, and a few students raised their hands, asking about specific events or the roles of lesser gods. Percy stayed silent, his mind buzzing with too many thoughts to form a coherent question. When Livia dismissed the class, the students rose, gathering their notebooks and backpacks, their chatter resuming as they filed out of the hall. A few lingered, approaching Livia with questions or compliments, their voices bright with admiration. He stayed in his seat, waiting for the crowd to thin, not eager to face more stares in the courtyard.

She approached him once the hall was empty, her robes rustling softly as she sat on a seat beside him. “You were quiet,” she noted gently. “Something on your mind?”

Percy hesitated, his thumb brushing over the ring. “Just… taking it all in,” he said finally, not quite meeting her eyes. “Your lecture…it was good. I learned a lot. But you didn’t talk much about Neptune. When you talked about the Second Founding, I thought you would’ve mentioned his contribution.”

Her expression softened, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. She sighed softly, looking up at the constellations on the ceiling. “As I’ve told you before, Neptune’s role in our history is… complicated,” she said carefully. “His power is undeniable, but it’s also unpredictable. New Rome values stability, and the sea doesn’t always fit into that ideal. His contributions are recorded, but they’re not celebrated the way Jupiter’s or Mars’s are. It’s not fair, I agree, but it’s the reality of this city.”

He nodded, the words settling heavily in his chest. “Yeah, I got that from his temple. Looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.”

Livia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze distant for a moment. “It hasn’t. Not for lack of respect, but… fear, perhaps. Or caution. Neptune’s children are rare, Percy, and their power often comes with consequences the city would rather avoid.” She paused, then placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch light. “But you’re here now, that changes things. It’s up to you to decide what that means for New Rome.”

He wanted to push back, to argue that it wasn’t fair to judge him for a legacy he didn’t choose, but the sincerity in her eyes stopped him. She wasn’t dismissing him like the augurs or challenging him like Miller. She was offering him something rare in New Rome: a chance to define himself. He gave a small nod, his throat tight. “I’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.

“I know you will,” she whispered with a smile. “Now, come on. It’s getting late, and I promised Octavius I’d have you back at the villa before the moon’s too high.” She stood, smoothing her robes, and gestured for him to follow her out of the lecture hall.

The university’s courtyard was quieter now, the last students disappearing into the evening, their laughter and footsteps fading into the hum of crickets and the distant clatter of the city. He walked beside her, his hands shoved into his pockets. The day’s events churned in his mind, each one replaying itself like a broken record player. If there was one thing he truly could understand from today, it was that New Rome was a puzzle. Each piece was jagged and unforgiving, and he was still learning how to hold it without cutting himself.

The villa was bathed in the soft glow of light as they all sat down for dinner. The servants moved quietly, their footsteps barely audible on the mosaic floor, as they refilled glasses and took away empty plates. Octavian had joined them tonight, his attitude better than the day before, though he avoided Percy’s gaze. The green-eyed boy picked at his food, his mind still churning with questions. One stuck out in particular. At the Colosseum, when Octavius had stopped Miller from dragging him into a fight.  

Dies Probationis

Octavius had mentioned it offhandedly, as if it were common knowledge, but his brain couldn’t connect the dots. He set down his fork, the clink of metal against ceramic drawing eyes. Octavius, sir,” he began, causing the senator to look up from the table. “Back in the Colosseum, you mentioned something about Dies Probationis. What is it, exactly?”

Octavian’s hand froze mid-cut, his knife hovering over his plate. His pale blue eyes flicked up, meeting Percy’s for the first time that evening. The senator set down his glass, his expression shifting to one of measured curiosity, as if weighing how much to reveal. The dining hall grew quiet, the clink of silverware and soft murmurs of the servants fading into the background. Livia’s gaze darted between her husband and Percy, her lips parting slightly, but she said nothing, letting him take the lead.

“Dies Probationis,” he echoed, “is the Day of Proving, a tradition as old as New Rome itself. It’s the crucible where those who wish to join the legion must prove their worth, not just to the Senate or the augurs, but to the legionaries themselves. Every recruit, no matter their lineage or deeds, faces it. It’s what separates those who merely survive from those who can stand as Romans.”

Percy leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “So, it’s a test? Like a fight?”

“Not just a fight,” Octavius corrected. “It’s a spectacle, a ritual, and a judgment all in one. On Dies Probationis, new recruits, those who’ve trained at the Wolf House, earned Lupa’s approval and wish to enlist in the legion as a Probatio, step into the Colosseum to face seasoned legionaries from each of the five cohorts. The fights are not to the death, but they’re brutal. Each cohort watches, judges, and ultimately decides which recruits they’ll claim for their ranks. It’s not just about strength or skill; it’s about heart, discipline, and how well you embody the ideals of Rome.”

Octavian’s lips twitched, a shadow of his usual smirk returning as he cut into his food. “It’s also a chance to get humiliated in front of the entire city,” he added, his words laced with a mix of disdain and amusement. “The stands will be packed. Senators, priests, citizens, even the fauns and Lares show up. Everyone’s there to see who rises and who falls.”

Percy’s fingers brushed the ring on his hand. “So, I’ll have to fight someone from a cohort? To prove I’m good enough?”

“Yes,” Livia interjected. “Usually, it’s one fight per recruit.” She drawled out, causing the boy to arch an eyebrow.

“I'm sensing a but here.” 

“But…given your status, it could be more.” 

“She means that usually people get recruited after just one fight, but since you’re a son of Neptune, no cohort wants you, which means you fight till you get recruited or you collapse in the dirt.” Octavian finished, relishing the thought of Percy’s potential downfall. His eyes glinted with barely concealed glee, the resentment from their spar still simmering beneath the surface.

Percy’s stomach twisted, but he kept his expression neutral, refusing to let Octavian see any crack in his resolve. “So, I keep fighting until someone claims me, or I’m out cold?” he clarified.

“Exactly,” Octavius confirmed. “The cohorts are selective, especially the First and Second. They’ll want to see not just your skill, but your endurance, your ability to adapt under pressure. A son of Neptune, bearing the ring of Rome, will be held to a higher standard. Some cohorts may hesitate to take you because of your lineage, others because of the ring’s significance. You’ll need to prove you’re worth the risk.”

Livia’s hand reached across the table, resting lightly on Percy’s arm. “It’s not just about fighting, Percy,” she said softly. “ Dies Probationis is about showing who you are. Your courage, your loyalty, your ability to stand with others. The cohorts aren’t just looking for a warrior; they’re looking for a brother or sister in arms. Show them that, and you’ll find your place.”

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. The idea of proving himself to a city that already judged him as an outsider felt like climbing a mountain with no peak in sight. But Lupa had taught him to face impossible odds, to keep moving forward no matter what. He’d survived monsters, hunger, and sleepless nights. A few fights in the Colosseum wouldn’t break him. At least, he hoped not.

Octavian set his knife down with a deliberate clink, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t get too confident,” he warned. “The legionaries you’ll face will be some of the best. And the cohorts… they talk. They’ll know about your little stunt with Larry today, and they’ll be ready for you. Especially the First. Miller’s got a long memory, and Jason…” He trailed off, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before the smirk returned. “Let’s just say Jason doesn’t like being overshadowed.”

Percy met Octavian’s gaze, unflinching. “Good. I don’t plan on hiding in anyone’s shadow.”

The boy’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he leaned back in his chair, picking up his knife again. “We’ll see,” he muttered, slicing into his food with more force than necessary. “We’ll see.”

Octavius cleared his throat, drawing attention back to him. “Enough, Octavian. Percy, focus on your training. Dies Probationis won’t happen until the Senate officially recognizes you as eligible to join the legion, which won’t happen for another three years. Until that time occurs, you’ll continue your training under Centurion Troy and study with Livia to prepare you for what lies ahead. The Senate will be watching your progress closely, as will the augurs, the gods, and everyone else in the city, for that matter. Use this time to build your skills, learn the city’s ways, and prove you’re more than just a son of Neptune. Prove you’re a Roman.”

Percy nodded, his gaze growing distant. Three years. Three years to carve out a place in a city that seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length. Three years to train, to learn, to survive the whispers and the stares. He glanced at Livia, who offered a small, encouraging smile, and then at Octavius, who stared at him with those expectant, calculated eyes. 

“I understand,” he said finally. “I’ll be ready.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Three Years Forged

The clash of metal rang out through the Colosseum, a rhythmic cadence that echoed off the marble arches and vibrated through the packed sand of the arena. Percy stood at the center, his golden gladius flashing the starlight overhead as he parried a swift strike from his opponent.

“Not bad, lad,” the veteran centurion noted with a smirk, circling the son of Neptune. “You’ve come a long way. It used to be that one hit from me would send you flying into the dirt.”

Percy huffed out a laugh, twirling his weapon as he circled in the opposite direction. “I would hope three years of training under your hellish regime would make me at least a little better, Troy,” he replied, his breath steady despite the sweat beading on his brow. Three years in New Rome had sharpened him, honed his instincts, and built muscle where there had once been only skin and bones. The boy who’d stumbled into the city was gone, replaced by a lean, battle-ready demigod whose green eyes burned with determination.

Troy’s grin widened, his scarred face creasing with approval. “Hellish, eh? Good. Means I’m doing my job. Now, let’s see if you can keep up with me today.” He lunged, his own gladius a blur of polished imperial gold, aiming for Percy’s left shoulder.

Percy reacted instinctively, his body moving before his mind fully registered the strike. He sidestepped, the golden gladius in his hand meeting Troy’s blade with a sharp clang that reverberated through the arena. The force of the blow sent a jolt up his arm, but he held firm, twisting his wrist to redirect the centurion’s sword downward. In the same motion, he stepped forward, aiming a quick slash at the man’s midsection, forcing the veteran to pivot and raise his shield to block.

“Quick thinking!” Troy barked, his Scottish accent thick with amusement as he danced back, his shield absorbing the impact with a dull thud. “But you’re still leaving your left side open, lad. A real enemy would’ve gutted you by now.”

The boy gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance to cover the vulnerability. Three years of training had taught him to listen to the centurion’s critiques, even when they stung. Troy wasn’t just a teacher; he was a relentless taskmaster who’d pushed him to his limits, breaking down his wild, instinctive fighting style and rebuilding it with Roman discipline. Though there were still times the lone wolf had broken out of its cage. The Colosseum had become his second home, it's sand stained with his sweat and occasional blood, its arches echoing with booming commands and the clash of metal.

The centurion pressed forward again, his attacks faster now, a storm of strikes meant to overwhelm. Percy met them head-on, their blades clashing in a rhythm. The man lunged with a heavy overhead strike, aiming to force him back, but he saw the opening; a slight overextension in the centurion’s swing, a fraction of a second where his shield lagged. He ducked under the blow, stepping inside Troy’s guard, and slammed his shoulder into the centurion’s chest. Troy grunted, stumbling back, his shield raising too late as Percy’s gladius arced toward his wrist. With a twist, he hooked the blade under Troy’s, leveraging his momentum to wrench the gladius from his grip. The imperial gold sword clattered to the sand, and in the same motion, he swung his shield forward, catching Troy’s chest and sending him sprawling onto his back.

The air went silent, the only sound being Percy’s slightly heavy breathing. The Scot lay there for a moment, stunned, his scarred face frozen in disbelief, before a booming laugh erupted from his chest. “By Jupiter’s beard!” he roared. “You’ve gone and done it! Knocked me on my arse!”

Percy lowered his blade, a grin tugging at his lips. He willed the blade back into the ring, its warmth cooling as if satisfied with the victory. He offered Troy a hand, and the centurion took it, pulling himself up with a grip that nearly crushed his knuckles.

“Well done, Percy,” he said, his words thick with pride. “Three years of my hellish regime, and you’ve finally bested me. Not many can say that, lad.” He clapped a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder, his grin wide. “I think you’re ready for Dies Probationis tomorrow.” 

Percy’s grin faded, his heart kicking up a notch as the reality of tomorrow settled over him like a storm cloud. Dies Probationis. The Day of Proving. Three years of training, studying, and navigating New Rome’s labyrinth of politics and prejudice had all been leading to this. He’d known it was coming, had felt its weight in every drill, every lecture, every whispered rumor that followed him through the city’s streets. But hearing Troy say it out loud, with that rare glint of pride in his hazel eyes, made it real.

“Thanks,” he replied, his voice quieter than he intended. He rubbed the back of his neck as he looked out at the empty seats surrounding them. “Guess tomorrow’s the big day, huh?”

“Aye,” the centurion replied, his grin softening into something almost paternal. “You’ve earned your shot. The Colosseum will be packed, and every cohort, every citizen, and even the gods will be watching. Show ‘em what you’re made of, and don’t let the bastards grind you down.” He paused, his scarred face growing serious. “But be ready, Percy. The fights won’t be like our spars. The legionaries you’ll face, they’ll be out to prove something, too. Especially with you being who you are.”

Percy nodded, his jaw clenching. He knew what he meant. Son of Neptune, bearer of the ring of Rome, the kid who’d arrived in New Rome with trailing monsters and omens. The city had never fully embraced him, despite Octavius and Livia’s protection, Troy’s training, and the grudging respect he’d earned from a few like Lavinia. To most, he was still an outsider, a wildcard who didn’t fit into New Rome’s neatly ordered world. Tomorrow, he’d have to prove he belonged or be broken trying.

Troy clapped him on the shoulder one last time. “Go get some rest, lad. You’ll need it. I’ll see you at dawn.” With that, he turned and made his way through the tunnel, disappearing into the night and leaving Percy standing alone in the vast arena. He took a deep breath, looking up to the stars that glittered like the eyes of the gods themselves. He tilted his head back, letting the cool air wash over his sweat-damp skin, and closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the roar of the crowd that would fill this place come morning. 

He imagined the stands packed to the brim, senators in their pristine togas, augurs muttering to one another, citizens craning their necks for a glimpse of the new recruits for the legion. The cohorts would be there, their banners snapping in the breeze, each eyeing him with their own mix of curiosity and disdain. He could picture Octavius and Livia in the senatorial box, their features expectant. Hell, some of the gods might be in attendance as well, considering this was one of the most important days in their history. 

His eyes drifted to the arches above, their marble carvings of ancient victories gleaming faintly under the starlight. Heroes and gods stared down, their faces as unforgiving as the city itself. He wondered if Neptune was watching, if his father’s gaze lingered on him from some distant divine perch. The thought brought a bitter twist to his lips. “Hope you’re enjoying the show,” he muttered under his breath.

A soft scuffle from the seats above broke him out of his thoughts, causing his hand to instinctively twitch around the ring, ready to summon his gladius. He turned, eyes narrowing as he noticed a figure lounging on one of the stands. The starlight caught on short, dark hair and a familiar silhouette, making him release a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“And here comes the son of Neptune! The boy who killed the Minotaur! The boy who holds the ring of Rome! The boy who—”

“Alright, alright, Lavinia, we get it.” Percy interrupted, a wry grin tugging at his lips. 

The girl smirked, hopping down into the sandy arena with a grace befitting that of a child of Minerva. She sauntered over, hands on her hips, her posture casual. “Just thought I’d check on the star of tomorrow’s show,” she said, tilting her head. “Big day, Percy. You ready to get your ass kicked in front of New Rome?”

He snorted, crossing his arms. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Troy seems to think I’ve got a shot.”

“Troy’s an optimist,” she shot back, though her tone wasn’t mocking but warm. “But yeah, you’ve gotten good. Beating him just now? That’s no small thing. Most of us couldn’t touch him after three years, let alone send him sprawling.” She paused, her smirk softening into something closer to respect. “You’re not the scrawny kid who stumbled into camp anymore.”

Percy shrugged, trying to play off the compliment, but her words hit deeper than he wanted to admit. Three years of grueling training, sleepless nights studying Roman law and history, and endless scrutiny had changed him. He wasn’t just surviving anymore; he was becoming something else, something New Rome might not be ready for. “Guess Lupa’s lessons stuck,” he said, his voice quieter. “And Troy’s. And maybe a few of yours.”

Lavinia’s eyebrows shot up, mock surprise on her face. “Me? Teach the great Percy Jackson? Nah, the only thing I’ve taught you over these years is how to steal Lucius’s food when we go out to the cafes.” 

He laughed, the sound echoing in the vast Colosseum. “Yeah, well, that’s a skill worth learning. He’s always trying to take mine.” He leaned back against the low wall separating the arena from the stands, the cool marble chilling his skin. Lavinia’s presence was a rare comfort, a reminder that not everyone in New Rome saw him as a walking omen or a threat. Over the past three years, she, along with Lucius, had become the few people he could count on to keep it real, no matter what the city thought of him. They’d grown close together, and he’d like to think it was because they just naturally got along, but it was probably mostly because the three of them had run away together with the Minotaur chasing them. That would bond anyone. 

She plopped down on the sand next to him, stretching her legs out and tilting her head back to look at the stars. “So,” she said after a moment, her tone shifting to something more serious, “tomorrow’s the big day. Dies Probationis. You nervous?”

Percy hesitated, his fingers brushing the golden band. “Not nervous,” he said finally, though the word felt like a half-truth. “More… ready to get it over with. Everyone’s been waiting for this, haven’t they? To see if I’ll crash and burn or actually pull it off.”

Lavinia snorted, nudging his shoulder with her own. “They’ve been waiting since you walked through the gates with that ring. The whole city’s got bets on you, you know. Half think you’ll wash out, half think you’ll make history. No pressure, though.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Great. Glad to know I’m the main event at the betting stalls.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the dark arches above, where the carved heroes seemed to loom larger under the starlight. “You’ve been through it, right? Dies Probationis. What’s it like?”

Her smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her grey eyes glinting with memory. “It’s… intense. I went through it three years ago, when I was twelve. The Colosseum’s different when it’s full. The noise, the eyes, the way every move you make feels like the gods are judging. You’re not just fighting an opponent; you’re fighting the whole city’s expectations. And the legionaries they put you up against? They don’t hold back. They’re not trying to kill you, but they’ll make you wish they were.”

Percy nodded, picturing the arena packed with faces all watching him like hawks. “How’d you do?”

Lavinia grinned, a flash of pride breaking through. “I held my own. Took a beating from a Second Cohort girl who fought like she was born with a gladius in her hand, but I got a few hits in. Fifth Cohort picked me up after that. They like scrappy fighters who don’t quit, and I fit the bill.” She glanced at him, her grin softening. “You’ll do fine, Percy. You’ve got that same stubborn streak. Just… don’t let the crowd get in your head. And watch out for the First. They’ve got a chip on their shoulder, especially after you embarrassed Larry that one time.”

He snorted, picturing the lanky son of Mercury’s scowl after their spar. “Yeah, he’s not sending me any friendship bracelets anytime soon.”

“Or ever,” she added with a laugh. “But seriously, it’s not just Larry. The First Cohort’s got their eyes on you, and not in a good way. Miller’s been talking you up as a threat to their pride, and Jason…” She trailed off. “Jason’s different. He’s not like Miller, all bluster and ego. He’s quiet, but smart. And he’s been watching you ever since you got here.”

“Yeah,” Percy nodded quietly, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, understood. Thanks for the advice. I needed it.”

Lavinia gave him a playful shove. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me. Save that for tomorrow when you’re bleeding in the sand.” Her tone was teasing, but there was a warmth in her eyes that told him she believed in him, even if she’d never say it outright. She stood, brushing the sand from her jeans. “And don’t worry if you don’t get picked up by the other cohorts. I’ve been talking with Anthony, and he’s been interested in you since you first arrived. I can’t promise anything but…” She drawled out, giving him a sly grin, “let’s just say the Fifth’s got a soft spot for underdogs.”

Percy raised an eyebrow, recognizing the name. Anthony was the same man who vouched for him in the senate when he first arrived in New Rome. He’d stood up for him without a second thought and had even saved his life when that Hellhound almost took his face off. The thought of that man having his back sent a flicker of hope through him. “Thanks, Lavinia,” he said genuinely. “Means a lot, knowing someone’s rooting for me. Even if it’s just for the underdog points.”

She smirked, giving him a mock salute. “Anytime.” She turned to leave, her boots kicking up small puffs of sand as she headed toward the tunnel, but she paused and glanced back. “Get some sleep, alright? You’ll need it for tomorrow. I have a feeling it’ll be a day no one will ever forget.”

Percy nodded, watching her disappear into the tunnel. He lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting to the stars above once again. The thought of tomorrow sent a pang of anxiety down his chest, but he pushed it down, focusing on the rhythm of his own breathing. He’d faced monsters, survived Lupa’s brutal training, and endured three years of New Rome’s scrutiny. Dies Probationis was just another hurdle. A big one, sure, but he’d clear it. He had to.

With a final glance at the arena, he turned and made his way through the tunnel. The streets were quieter now, the bustle of the day replaced by the soft glow of street lights and the occasional murmur of late-night conversations. His boots echoed on the cobblestones as he headed back to the villa, his mind conjuring potential futures of tomorrow. He passed a few passing citizens along the way, some staying quiet with their heads low, while others pressed him on what the next hours would bring him.

“You’re about to get your ass whooped, y’know that right?” 

“Kid, I’d back out now. You still have time.”

“Good luck tomorrow, Percy. I hope you make it through.” The last voice was kinder, a rare note of encouragement from an older woman who clutched a basket of groceries, her eyes crinkling with a warmth that reminded him of Vesta. He gave her a small nod, grateful for the sentiment, even if it felt like a drop in the ocean of skepticism surrounding him.

The villa was quiet when he arrived, its marble halls bathed in the soft flicker of lamps and candles. The servants had long since retired, and the only sound was the faint gurgling of water from the courtyard fountain. He climbed the stairs to the upper levels quietly, sure to keep silent as the others had surely gone to sleep by now. He paused at the threshold of his room, his hand lingering on the doorframe, when a soft voice called out from behind.

“Percy.”

He turned to see Octavius standing at the far end of the hall, near the open doors of a balcony overlooking the city. The senator’s silhouette was framed against the starlit city, the moon casting shadows across his face, softening the hard lines of his usual stern expression.

“Come. I’d like a word before you rest.” He gestured for Percy to join him.

The boy nodded, crossing the hall to step onto the balcony. They stood beside one another in silence for a moment, simply looking out at the Tiber’s water as it weaved through the city and hills. He could see the marble buildings glowing under the moonlight, temples and houses standing against the night. The Colosseum loomed in the distance as well, its arches dark but imposing, a reminder of the crucible awaiting him at dawn.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Octavius finally broke the silence.

Percy leaned against the railing, his gaze remaining on the distant Colosseum. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied, his words steady despite the lump of anticipation tightening in his throat. “Troy says I’ve got a shot. Lavinia too. But it sounds like the whole city’s waiting for me to either shine or crash and burn.”

The man’s lips twitched, a rare hint of a smile breaking through his stern demeanor. “They are,” he admitted. “New Rome thrives on spectacle, and you are a spectacle unlike any they’ve seen in generations. A son of Neptune, bearing the ring of Rome, stepping into the Colosseum for Dies Probationis? The city hasn’t had a show like this in my lifetime.” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly on the railing. “But it’s more than a show. Tomorrow is about your future. Our future.”

Percy’s brow furrowed at that. “Our future?” he echoed, unsure of the senator’s meaning. “You mean the legion? The city?”

Octavius turned to face him, his blue eyes piercing in the moonlight, searching Percy’s face with that familiar, calculated intensity. “I mean our family,” he said simply, the words landing like a stone in still water. “You’ve been with us for three years. Livia and I have watched you grow, not just as a warrior, but as a young man. You’ve faced challenges most would crumble under, and you’ve done so with a strength that reminds me of the best of Rome. I’ve come to see you as a son, not just a guest under my roof.”

The confession took his breath away. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, and looked out at the city to hide the sudden sting in his eyes. “I… don’t know what to say,” he managed finally. “You and Livia, you’ve done so much for me. Taken me in, trained me, kept the Senate off my back. I’m grateful, but…” He hesitated, the words catching. “Why? Why did you take me in? Why were you the only one who stood up that day in the senate when no one else would?”

Octavius’s expression softened, a rare warmth breaking through the steel in his gaze. “Because I saw what you could become,” he said quietly. “Not just a warrior, not just a son of Neptune, but a leader. A Roman who could shape this city’s future. The ring on your finger, the blood in your veins, they’re not curses, Percy. They’re gifts, if you choose to wield them wisely.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the Colosseum. “Tomorrow, you’ll step into that arena not just to prove yourself to the cohorts, but to show New Rome who you are. Not the outsider they fear, not the wildcard they whisper about, but a son of this city, a son of our house.”

Percy stood frozen, the words settling over him like a mantle he wasn’t sure he could carry. He gripped the balcony railing, his knuckles whitening, as he tried to process what the senator had just said. A son. Not just a guest, not just a stray taken in out of duty or pity, but a son. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called that. He forced himself to meet the man’s gaze, which held a warmth he hadn’t expected. For three years, Octavius had been a stern mentor, a demanding teacher, pushing him to master Roman tactics, to understand the city’s laws and traditions. But this…this was different. This was personal. It wasn’t just about New Rome or the legion; it was about family, about a place to belong.

“What does tomorrow mean for you?” He asked, his voice almost lost in the wind. “You and Livia. You’re putting a lot on me, calling me… family. What do you want from this? From me?”

Octavius’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it wasn’t the polished senator’s smile he used in the Forum or the Senate House. It was unguarded, the kind of smile a father might give a son. He turned back to the city, his hands clasped behind his back, and took a slow breath, as if choosing his words with care. “Tomorrow,” he began, “is a turning point not just for you, but for all of us. New Rome is a city of balance, as I’ve told you before, but it’s also a city of ambition. The Senate, the cohorts, the augurs; they all vie for power, for influence, for the gods’ favor. Your arrival has disrupted that balance. Some see you as a threat, others as a tool. But Livia and I… we see you as hope.”

“Hope? Hope for what?”

“For a stronger Rome,” Octavius replied fervently. “For a city that doesn’t fear or shy away from the unpredictable. But you…you can change that. Tomorrow, when you step into the Colosseum, you’ll have the chance to show this city that a son of Neptune can be more than what the stories tell. You can be a cornerstone, a leader who bridges the divide between the gods’ might and Rome’s order.”

Percy’s fingers brushed the ring, its warmth pulsing faintly against his skin. He thought of the cracked seashell on Neptune’s altar, the weathered statue staring down at an empty temple. The idea that he could change how New Rome saw his father, saw him, felt like a weight on his shoulders heavier than any shield he’d carried before. “And if I fail?” he asked, the vulnerability slipping through despite his effort to hide it. “What if I’m not enough?”

The man turned to him. “You won’t fail,” he said firmly. “Not because you’re flawless, but because you’ve already proven you don’t give up. “We’ve watched you these three years through every bruise, every doubt, every moment you thought no one saw. You’ve clawed your way through challenges that would have broken others. Tomorrow, you’ll face the Colosseum, the cohorts, the city, but you won’t face them alone. You carry our faith. Mine, Livia’s, even Octavian’s, though he’d never admit it.”

Percy snorted softly at the mention of Octavian, the image of the boy’s resentful glare flashing in his mind. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’d rather see me face-plant in the sand.”

The senator’s lips twitched again, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “My son is… complicated, as Livia has told you. His path is different, though he too, will have to go through the same thing as you tomorrow. He sees you as a rival, a disruption to the order he’s been raised to uphold. But he’s also seen your strength, your resilience. In time, he’ll come to respect you, even if he fights it every step of the way. Family isn’t always easy, but it’s enduring. And you are part of ours now, whether he likes it or not.”

Family. The word felt foreign, like a language he hadn’t yet learned to speak. He’d spent so long running, fighting, surviving on his own that the idea of belonging to anyone, let alone a senator’s household, felt like stepping onto uncharted waters. Sure, Lupa’s pack offered some semblance to that, but he was no wolf, at least in the literal sense. He did see Lupa as a motherly figure, but to the others, like Cato, it was more camaraderie than anything else. 

“Thank you,” Percy said. “For… all of this. Taking me in, believing in me. I don’t know if I’m what you think I am, but I’ll try to be. Tomorrow, and every day after.”

“That’s all we ask. Try. Fight. Endure. The rest will come.” He placed a hand on Percy’s shoulder, a brief, firm grip that meant so much more than any words could convey. “Now, get some rest, for this will be your last night here, and tomorrow will demand everything you have.”

Percy gave a small nod, stepping back from the railing. “Goodnight, sir,” he said, turning toward his room. As he walked down the hall, the senator’s silhouette lingered in his peripheral vision, framed against the city like a sentinel. The villa’s quiet enveloped him as he shut the door behind him, the soft creak of wood the only sound in the stillness.

He collapsed onto his bed, the familiar leather-bound Historia Novae Romae still resting on the bedside table, its pages worn from three years of study. His eyes drifted to it, but he didn’t reach for it tonight. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, the lamp next to his bed casting shadows that danced like specters of tomorrow’s fight. The Colosseum loomed in his mind, its arches filled with faces; Octavius, Livia, Lavinia, Troy, even Jason Grace. And somewhere, in the depths of his imagination, he felt Neptune’s gaze, distant but undeniable.

Sleep came fitfully, but this time, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t dream of crashing waves upon New Rome or that sinister laugh echoing in his head. Instead, he found himself standing in a vast, misty plain, the air thick with the scent of ancient earth. Stars wheeled overhead, brighter and more vivid than any he’d seen in New Rome, forming constellations he didn’t recognize. Before him, three figures emerged from the mist, their silhouettes vivid against the ethereal light.

He knew them instantly, as if their names were etched into his soul. They weren’t strangers, not entirely; his dreams had brought them to him before, in moments of guidance or warning, though never all at once.

“Good to see you all again, Julius, Marcus, Augustus.” He inclined his head. 

“Oh, so the boy finally knows our names.” Marcus joked. “Only took him three years.” 

“Quiet,” Julius raised a hand in exasperation. “We haven’t spoken to him since he first arrived in the city.”

“Yeah, what’s that about?” Percy interrupted. “Why did you guys stop showing up? I could’ve used some guidance with all the stares and whispers following me around.” His tone was half-joking, but there was a bite of frustration beneath it, the horror of three years of navigating the city’s politics and expectations without their cryptic counsel.

Julius rolled his neck, his sharp eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and gravitas. “We are not your nursemaids, Perseus Jackson,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d conquered empires. “Our role is not to hold your hand through every trial but to guide you when the moment demands it. You’ve grown strong without us, as we knew you would.”

“You’ve learned to stand on your own,” Marcus continued, stepping closer to the boy. “The city tests you, as it tested us. Its whispers, its judgments, they are the crucible that forges a true Roman. And tomorrow, you will face the greatest test yet.”

Augustus, younger than the others but with an aura of unyielding authority, crossed his arms, his golden laurel crown gleaming faintly. “We’ve watched you, son of Neptune,” he said intensely. Tomorrow, you must wield the ring not just as a weapon, but as a beacon. Show them who you are.”

Percy looked down at the ring, its vibration growing stronger as it seemingly recognized its previous owners. “So, what’s this?” He turned his attention back to the three men. “A pep talk before the big fight? Or are you here to warn me about something?” He couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. The dreams of crashing waves and that sinister laugh still lingered in his memory, and he wasn’t sure he trusted these legendary Romans to give him straight answers.

Julius’s lips twitched into a faint smile, the kind a general might give before sending a soldier into battle. “Both,” he said simply. “Tomorrow is more than a test of strength. The Colosseum will be a stage, and every eye in New Rome will judge you not just for your skill, but for what you represent. A son of Neptune, bearing the ring, is a challenge to the order they cling to. Some will want you to fail. Others will want to use you. And a few…” He paused, glancing at Marcus and Augustus. “A few will see you as the future.”

“The gods are watching, Perseus.” Marcus nodded, looking to the stars above. “Not just Neptune, but all of them. Your actions tomorrow will ripple beyond the arena, beyond the city. The omens have been unsettled since your arrival, and they will peak tomorrow. Trust your instincts, but temper them with discipline. The sea is wild, but its strength can be harnessed into a great power.” 

Percy’s jaw tightened, getting the feeling they knew about his nightmares. “And the laugh?” he asked. “The one I keep hearing in my dreams, with the waves crashing over the city. Is that part of this, too? Or is it just my head messing with me?”

The three emperors exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable, and for a moment, the misty plain seemed to darken, the stars above dimming slightly. “The laugh is no mere dream,” Augustus finally spoke. “It is a shadow, a whisper of something ancient and restless. The gods have enemies, and so does Rome. Your presence, your power, has stirred things that were meant to remain dormant. Be wary, but do not let it distract you tomorrow. Focus on the task at hand.”

Marcus placed a hand on Percy’s shoulder, the touch surprisingly solid for a dream. “You are not alone in this,” he said. “The ring binds you to Rome’s past, to us, and to those who will stand with you. Trust those who have earned it: Lavinia, Troy, even Octavius and Livia. They see what you can become, even if you doubt it yourself.”

Julius stepped closer, his presence commanding the mist itself to part. “Tomorrow, you fight not just for a cohort, but for your place in history,” he said. “Do not fear the whispers or the stares. Let them fuel you. Let them see the son of Neptune who will not break. And when the time comes, when the shadow behind that laugh reveals itself, you will be ready. We will ensure it.”

Percy swallowed, their words filling him with more doubts and questions than answers. The misty plain began to fade, the stars blurring as their forms grew translucent. “Wait,” he called out, stepping forward. “What’s coming? What’s the shadow? You can’t just drop that and leave!”

“Remember, Rome is watching.” They said in unison before fully disappearing. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: The Day of Proving

The walk to the Senate House was a blur. Citizens were already up for the day, bustling through the streets, murmuring in anticipation and speculation. Percy kept his head high, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him. The ring on his finger drew eyes as always, its golden gleam a beacon of his difference, his danger. Octavian walked a step ahead, his posture rigid, as if determined to outshine him in every way. But Percy could tell that the boy was just as nervous, if not even more so. This was an important day for him, too. Countless hours of training and studying had led to this moment, and if Octavian got put in any other cohort besides the First, then it was all for naught. 

The Senate House loomed ahead, its marble columns and statues towering over them as they approached. Citizens gathered around the entrance, all trying to get a chance to go inside and see the proceedings. But it seemed the building was already filled to the brim with spectators and senators alike, the legionaries guarding the entrance no longer letting anyone inside. 

“Only officials and eligible recruits are permitted at this time!” One of the guards shouted across the Forum.

Percy’s steps slowed as he and Octavian approached the double doors that were already parted, revealing the bustling interior. The crowd parted slightly, their voices growing louder as they caught sight of the son of Neptune. Octavian’s jaw tightened, his blue eyes flicking toward Percy with resentment for being the one everyone was talking about, but he said nothing, striding forward with the confidence of someone born to this city’s elite.

“Move aside!” another legionary barked, his polished armor clanking as he gestured for the crowd to clear a path. “Recruits, this way!”

The two boys followed, their hearts pounding but faces set in a mask of calm. Just before they stepped inside, Octavian stopped abruptly, turning to face him, his voice low. “Don’t embarrass yourself in there,” he hissed, his usual smirk replaced by a tense glare. “The Senate’s watching, and so are the gods. If you fall apart, it’ll reflect on my family. Don’t drag us down with you.”

Percy met his gaze, unflinching. “Worry about yourself,” he replied coolly. “You’re going through the same thing as me.” The words were more confident than he felt, but he’d learned long ago to hide his doubts. Lupa’s lessons echoed in his mind: Show no weakness. He straightened, brushing past Octavian to join the other recruits, who stood in a line in the middle of the room, all waiting for the orientation to start.

The Senate House was a cavern of marble and authority, its high ceilings adorned with frescoes depicting the triumphs of Rome, both ancient and new. Golden light streamed through tall windows, illuminating the rows of senators seated in tiered benches that curved around the central dais. Their togas gleamed, each fold meticulously arranged, their faces a mix of stern judgment and eager anticipation. At the front, the praetors sat in high-backed chairs, their purple cloaks draped over their shoulders, their expressions unreadable as they watched Percy and Octavian approach. 

Percy stood among the other recruits, a motley group of boys and girls whom he didn’t recognize, their features nervous and apprehensive. He forced his shoulders to relax, hoping he didn't look the same as them. Octavian stood a few paces away, his chin lifted, his posture perfect as he basked in the familiarity of the Senate’s scrutiny. Unlike Percy, he seemed to thrive under their stares, his gaze scanning the room as if already calculating his place among the elite.

“I think I just shit my pants,” a boy to his left whispered to himself, not realizing that he just voiced his thoughts aloud. 

Percy sideeyed him, suppressing a grin at the boy’s nervous admission. The kid looked about his age, with tousled black hair and a lanky frame that seemed to tremble under the Senate’s gaze. Getting a closer look, he could even see what looked to be red stains on his lips, almost making him look like a blood-drinking vampire. 

“Breathe, man,” he nudged him lightly with his elbow, keeping his voice low. “It’s just a room full of old people in fancy dresses. You’ll be fine.”

The boy’s eyes widened, panic and gratitude flickering across his face. “I should be the one telling you that,” he let out a nervous laugh, glancing at the ring on Percy’s finger. “You’re the one they’re all staring at.”

Percy offered a small, reassuring grin, though his own nerves were buzzing beneath his calm exterior. “Yeah, well, staring’s all they can do for now,” he muttered, his eyes flicking to the men sitting above. The boy beside him nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly, though his hands still fidgeted with his beltloop.

One of the praetors, Titus, rose from his chair. His purple cloak rippled as he stepped forward, his presence commanding silence without effort. The murmurs in the room died instantly, all realizing it was time to begin. “Recruits of New Rome,” he began, his words resonant, carrying to every corner of the chamber. “Today, you stand before the Senate, the heart of our city, to be judged worthy of joining the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. You have trained, you have endured, and now you face Dies Probationis, the Day of Proving. This is no mere formality. It is a trial of strength, will, and loyalty. The legion awaits you in the Colosseum, and they will test you as only Romans can. Prove yourselves, and you will earn your place among us.”

His gaze swept over the line of recruits, lingering on Percy for a fraction of a second longer than the others. He still held that same disdain in his eyes, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He, along with Praetor Julia, had promised Vesta and Lupa that Percy would be inducted when he turned twelve. It would be a death sentence to go back on their word now.

Julia rose to stand beside Titus. “The gods watch you today,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth that Titus lacked. “Their favor is not guaranteed, but their judgment is certain. Show them your strength, your discipline, and your loyalty. Show them you are worthy of New Rome.” Her gaze lingered on Percy too, but unlike Titus, there was a flicker of curiosity in her expression, as if she were waiting to see what he’d do rather than expecting him to fail. “If there are no objections, we hereby sanction the commencement of Dies Probationis,” she finished, her voice echoing like a final decree. She lifted her hand, and the senators struck their feet against the marble floor in unison, the sound thunderous, like distant drums of war.

The praetors stepped back, and an augur in the front row, Augur Kadyn, rose from his seat, his white robe trimmed with gold catching the light as he moved to the center of the dais. The heavy lightning bolt amulet around his neck gleamed, a reminder of his authority as Augur Maximus. The room grew still as every eye turned to him.

“Before the recruits march to the Colosseum, it is tradition for them to be blessed by the waters of the Tiber.” A murmur of anticipation rippled through the assembled crowd. The blessing of the Tiber was a sacred ritual, one that marked the transition from citizen to potential legionary, binding them to the lifeblood of New Rome. “The Tiber flows through the heart of our city, as it did through the heart of ancient Rome,” he intoned, his voice carrying the cadence of ritual. “Its waters are the life of New Rome, blessed by the gods, guarded by Tiberinus himself. Recruits, may this blessing grant you the strength that it has given to those before you.” 

Kadyn raised his hands, and two younger augurs, draped in simpler white robes, stepped forward carrying a large bronze basin etched with images of river gods and ancient battles. The basin shimmered with water that caught the golden light streaming through the windows, its surface rippling as if alive. 

“Step forward,” he commanded. The line of recruits shuffled forward, Percy among them, his boots scuffing lightly against the polished marble floor. Octavian stood to his right, his posture rigid as he realized this was really happening. The boy to his left, the one with the red-stained lips, fidgeted nervously, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He gave him a subtle nod, trying to reassure him.

One by one, the recruits approached the basin. Kadyn dipped his hands into the water, murmuring a prayer in Latin that echoed through the chamber, invoking Tiberinus and the gods of Rome to grant strength and loyalty. He splashed the water over each recruit’s head, the droplets catching the light like tiny stars as they fell. The recruits bowed their heads, accepting the blessing with varying degrees of solemnity or nervousness. When Octavian’s turn came, he stepped forward with practiced grace, his chin high as Kadyn’s hands dripped water over him. The water slid down his face, and he didn’t flinch, his expression one of quiet triumph, as if the blessing confirmed his destiny.

Then it was Percy’s turn. He stepped forward, his heart thudding but his face a mask of calm. The Senate’s eyes bored into him, their scrutiny heavier than ever. Kadyn’s gaze met his, and for a moment, Percy saw a flicker of something in the augur’s dark eyes. The ring on his finger pulsed, its warmth spreading up his arm, and he felt the sea stirring within him, restless and eager. Kadyn’s lips tightened, as if he sensed it too, but he said nothing, dipping his hands into the basin once more.

“Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune,” Kadyn intoned. “May the waters of the Tiber bind you to New Rome, and may the gods guide your path.” He scooped the water, his movements slow, and raised his hands above Percy’s head.

The moment the water touched him, it was as if the world shifted. The droplets didn’t simply fall; they seemed to cling to him, shimmering against his skin before cascading down in rivulets that felt alive, electric. A rush of energy surged through him, like a wave breaking against the shore, and for a split second, he saw a vision: a vast, churning sea, waves crashing against cliffs, and a figure cloaked in shadow watching from the depths, its laughter cold and familiar. The same laugh from his nightmares. The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him biting his cheek hard enough to draw blood, his breath hitching as the water dripped from his hair onto the marble floor.

Kadyn froze, his hands still outstretched, the basin trembling slightly in the younger augurs’ grip. A murmur rippled through the Senate, senators leaning forward, their togas rustling like leaves in a storm. Titus’s eyes narrowed, and Julia’s widened, her hand tightening on the armrest of her chair. Octavian, still damp from his own blessing, shot Percy a sharp glance, his earlier resentment flaring into something closer to alarm.

Percy shook his head, trying to clear the lingering echo of the vision. He stepped back into line, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, the ring on his finger burning hotter than ever. The water hadn’t just blessed him, it had awakened something, stirred the sea in his blood in a way he hadn’t felt since he’d first arrived in the city.

Kadyn recovered quickly, his expression smoothing into one of practiced calm, though his eyes lingered on Percy a moment longer than necessary. “The blessing is complete,” he declared, raising his voice to quell the growing murmurs. “Recruits, you are now bound to the Tiber, to New Rome, and to the will of the gods. March to the Colosseum, where your trials await.”

The Senate erupted into a controlled uproar, senators stamping their feet again, the sound like thunder rolling through the chamber. The legionaries at the doors stepped forward, ushering the recruits out with loud commands. Percy could see Octavius sitting high above the rest of the senators, his face expressionless, though he gave a subtle nod as he watched him leave. He fell into step with the others, his mind racing. The vision, the laugh, the way the water had felt, it wasn’t just a ritual. Something had happened, something the augurs hadn’t expected. He glanced at Octavian, who was walking stiffly, his jaw clenched as if he sensed the shift too. The boy with the red-stained lips kept close to Percy, his nervous energy palpable, but he didn’t speak again.

As they exited the Senate House, the morning sun hit them, bright and unrelenting, casting long shadows across the Forum. The crowd outside had grown even larger, citizens lining the streets, their voices a cacophony of cheers, jeers, and speculation. Banners of red and gold waved above, embroidered with the SPQR insignia and the symbols of the five cohorts. Percy’s eyes scanned the crowd, catching glimpses of familiar faces: Lavinia, standing with a group of Fifth Cohort legionaries, gave him a quick nod, her smirk encouraging. Troy stood near the edge, his scarred face set in a proud grin as he caught Percy’s eye and gave a subtle thumbs-up. Livia even stepped out from the crowd, stopping Percy and Octavian before giving them a kiss on the head, whispering good luck to them both. 

The crowd was a living, breathing beast, its roar swelling with every step they took toward the towering arches of the Colosseum. Cheers erupted for some recruits, names called out with pride or encouragement, but for Percy, the noise was a jumbled mix of awe, suspicion, and outright hostility.

“Son of Neptune!” a voice shouted. “Show us what you’ve got!” another called, this one tinged with excitement, but it was drowned out by a jeer from somewhere deeper in the crowd: “He’ll drown before he’s done!” Laughter followed, harsh and mocking, cutting through the cheers. Percy kept his eyes forward, his jaw tight, refusing to let the taunts burrow under his skin. He’d faced worse than words, but the sheer volume of the crowd’s noise was a new kind of beast, overwhelming in its intensity.

The recruits moved in a tight line, flanked by legionaries in gleaming armor who barked orders to keep the crowd at bay. The banners of the five cohorts snapped in the morning breeze, their colors vivid against the white marble of the city: the golden eagle of the First, the Pegasus of the Second, the bull of the Third, the lion of the Fourth, and the plain, unadorned banner of the Fifth, a reminder of their less-than-favorable status. 

Octavian marched a few steps ahead, his posture rigid, his head held high as if the crowd’s adulation was his birthright. Every so often, a voice would call out his name—“Octavian! Make us proud!”—and he’d incline his head slightly, acknowledging the praise with a practiced ease so similar to his father. The boy soaked in the attention, thriving under it, while Percy felt like he was wading through a storm, each shout and whisper threatening to pull him under. He caught Lavinia’s eye again as they neared the Colosseum’s entrance, her smirk reassuring him. She raised a fist subtly, a gesture of solidarity, and he nodded back, drawing a sliver of strength from her presence.

The Colosseum loomed larger with every step, its arches soaring into the sky, each one crowned with statues of gods and heroes that seemed to watch the procession with unyielding judgment. The crowd’s noise reached a fever pitch as the recruits approached the main entrance, a gate flanked by twin statues of Mars and Bellona, their golden spears glinting in the sunlight. The ground trembled faintly underfoot, not from any divine power, but from the sheer force of thousands of voices shouting, chanting, and jeering, their words blending into a deafening roar that echoed through the hills and valley.

Inside the Colosseum, the chaos only intensified. The stands were packed to bursting, a sea of people lining every tier from the lowest benches to the highest arches. Senators in their pristine togas, augurs in flowing robes, and citizens of every rank pressed shoulder to shoulder, their faces alight with anticipation. The air crackled with energy, a palpable mix of excitement and tension, as if the gods themselves were leaning down from Olympus to watch. Banners of the five cohorts fluttered above the crowd, their colors snapping in the breeze, while the SPQR insignia gleamed on every shield and breastplate. The arena floor was pristine, its sand raked smooth, waiting to be stained with sweat and perhaps blood. The sheer scale of it dwarfed even Percy’s imagination, transforming the Colosseum from a training ground into a crucible of destiny.

The recruits were led to a holding area beneath the stands, a shadowed chamber carved into the Colosseum’s foundations. The air was cool and damp, smelling of earth and iron, with the distant roar of the crowd muffled by thick stone walls. Legionaries in ceremonial armor stood guard, their faces impassive as they directed the recruits to line up along the wall. Percy stood beside the boy with the red-stained lips, who was still fidgeting, his nervous energy almost contagious. Octavian positioned himself at the front of the line, his posture as rigid as a statue. 

A grizzled legionary, his armor dented but polished to a mirror sheen, stepped forward. His name was Tristian, a veteran of the Second Cohort known for his no-nonsense approach to training. Percy had seen him occasionally when training or walking around the city, always looking like he had a stick up his rear. “Listen up, recruits!” His voice boomed, silencing the nervous murmurs. “You’re about to step into the Colosseum for Dies Probationis. This is no game, no sparring match. You face the best of the Twelfth Legion, and they will not hold back. Your task is simple: fight until a cohort claims you or you can fight no more. The gods are watching, the Senate is watching, and Rome is watching. Do not disgrace yourselves.”

Percy’s heart thudded as he glanced at the other recruits, their faces a mix of determination, fear, and grim resolve. “This is it, huh? No turning back now.” The boy with red-stained lips whispered.

“No turning back,” he agreed, flexing his fingers, feeling the ring vibrate against his skin as if it sensed the battle ahead. “By the way, what’s your name, or should I just call you vampire?” 

The boy blinked, startled, then let out a shaky laugh, the tension in his face easing slightly. “Dakota,” he said quietly. “And, uh, it’s not blood. It’s Kool-Aid. I… spill a lot.” He rubbed at his lips self-consciously, leaving a faint red smear on his thumb.

Percy grinned, the small moment of levity cutting through his own nerves. “Kool-Aid, huh? Classy. I’m Percy, but I’m guessing you already knew that.”

“Yeah,” Dakota admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Hard not to. You’re kinda famous around here. Or infamous, depending on who you ask.”

Before Percy could respond, Tristian’s voice cut through the chamber again. “Enough chatter! Form up!” He gestured sharply toward a tunnel that led to the arena floor. “When your name is called, you’ll enter the arena. You’ll face one opponent at a time, chosen by the cohort centurions. No powers unless permitted by the referee, only steel and skill. If you’re claimed, you’ll join the cohort that chooses you. If not…” He paused, his gaze hardening. “You’ll leave the Colosseum and find another path in New Rome. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, sir!” echoed through the chamber, Percy’s voice joining the others. His mind raced, picturing the arena above, the thousands of eyes, the clashing blades. He thought of Lavinia’s advice, Troy’s training, Octavius’s faith, and the cryptic warnings of Julius, Marcus, and Augustus. The shadow behind the laugh lingered in his thoughts, but he pushed it down. Today wasn’t about ancient enemies or divine omens. It was about proving he belonged.

The heavy iron gate at the far end of the chamber groaned open, revealing a tunnel that led to the arena floor. Sunlight streamed through, carrying the roar of the crowd like a tidal wave. Tristian gestured to the first recruit, a wiry girl who had just finished putting on her armor. “Gwen, daughter of Ceres! To the arena!”

Gwen squared her shoulders, her armor clinking as she stepped forward, her face set with determination despite the slight tremble in her hands. The crowd’s roar surged as she emerged from the tunnel, swallowed by the blinding sunlight and the weight of thousands of eyes. Percy watched her go, his own pulse quickening. The reality of Dies Probationis was no longer a distant concept; it was here, now, and his turn was coming.

The chamber grew quieter as the remaining recruits waited, the distant clash of steel and shouts from the arena filtering through the stone walls. Dakota shifted beside Percy, wiping his red-stained lips nervously. “She’s got guts,” he muttered. “I grew up with her. Hope she makes it.”

“She will,” Percy replied, more to reassure Dakota than out of certainty. He didn’t know Gwen, but he’d seen her in passing during training with Troy, always quiet but fierce with a spear. If she could hold her own, she’d earn a place. That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? Earning a place in a city that didn’t hand out acceptance lightly.

Octavian stood apart, his gaze fixed on the tunnel entrance, his fingers twitching as if itching to grip a weapon. Percy caught the boy’s eye for a moment, and the resentment there was unmistakable, sharp as a blade. Octavian didn’t just want to succeed today; he wanted to outshine everyone, especially him. The son of Neptune turned away, focusing on his own breathing. He couldn’t afford to let Octavian’s rivalry distract him.

One by one, the recruits were called. A broad-shouldered boy named Lucus, son of Vulcan, marched out next, his hammer clanging against his shield. The cheers and gasps from the crowd told Percy the fight was fierce, though he couldn’t see it from the chamber. Another recruit, a girl named Reyna, daughter of Bellona, went out next, her eyes narrowed dangerously as if she were actually going out to battle. Percy eyed her out of the corner of his eye, noting just how pretty, yet dangerous, she looked. It seemed her fight had ended rather quickly due to the crowd’s cheer quelling slightly. He wondered if she’d won or gotten beaten. 

Each name called filled him with more and more anxiety. He rolled his neck, letting that soothe him slightly. Dakota glanced at him, his nervous energy barely contained. “You think they’ll call us soon?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Probably,” Percy replied, keeping his tone light. “They’re just saving the best for last, right?”

Dakota let out a shaky laugh, rubbing his hands together. “Yeah, or the ones they want to see squirm the most.”

Before he could respond, Tristian’s voice boomed again. “Dakota, son of Bacchus! To the arena!”

The boy managed a weak grin, wiping his lips one last time before grabbing his shield and gladius. “Thanks, Percy. See you on the other side, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Percy nodded, watching as Dakota shuffled toward the tunnel, his armor clanking awkwardly. The crowd’s roar swelled as he emerged, and Percy strained to hear the announcer’s voice calling out Dakota’s opponent, a Fourth Cohort legionary. The clash of metal soon echoed faintly, followed by cheers and a few jeers. He clenched his jaw, hoping his new friend could hold his own.

Minutes dragged on, each one longer than the last. The chamber was emptying with only a handful of recruits left. Octavian was still there, his posture growing tenser with each name called, as if he couldn’t stand waiting any longer. Percy leaned against the wall, his mind replaying Troy’s drills, Lavinia’s advice, and Octavius’s words from the night before. A son of their house. A cornerstone for New Rome. It all pressed against his shoulders, but he refused to let it crush him.

Finally, after a few more recruits were called, Tristian’s voice called out once more. “Octavian, legacy of Apollo! To the arena!”

Octavian’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with anticipation and determination. He adjusted his armor with a precise flick of his wrist, his movements almost theatrical, as if he’d rehearsed this moment his entire life. 

“Hey,” Percy said, catching Octavian’s arm just as he started toward the tunnel. The other boy froze, his blue eyes narrowing as he turned to face him, the air between them crackling with the familiar tension of their rivalry.

“What?” He replied, his posture stiff, as if Percy’s touch was an insult. The chamber’s dim light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tight set of his jaw.

Percy held his gaze, unflinching despite the hostility. “Just… good luck out there,” he said. He didn’t like Octavian; three years of snide comments and veiled threats had made that clear, but they were both facing the same crucible today. In some strange way, that bound them, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Octavian’s eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face before his usual smirk slid back into place, though it lacked its usual bite. “Save your luck for yourself,” he replied, his words dripping with condescension. “You’ll need it more than I will.” He yanked his arm free and strode toward the tunnel, his armor glinting as he disappeared into the sunlight, the crowd’s roar swelling like a tidal wave to greet him.

Percy watched him go, his own nerves buzzing even greater now. The chamber was empty now, save for himself. He was alone now. Utterly, terrifyingly alone. That shouldn’t have scared him. He’d traveled across the country alone with nothing but the clothes on his back. For some reason, though, this scared him more than any monster ever could. His palms were slick. His legs felt heavier than they should’ve, like he was standing in water up to his knees. The smell of iron and damp stone pressed in on him, mixing with the faint tang of blood and sweat that drifted from the arena above.

“You’ve faced worse,” he told himself. “You’ve faced monsters, killed anything that dared tried to kill you. You trained with Lupa. You trained with Troy. You’ve done everything right to get to this moment. This is your day to seize. Take it.”

But his heart didn’t seem to care for reason. It pounded against his ribs so violently he thought the legionaries nearby could hear it. His mouth was dry, and for a crazy moment, he wished he could call the Tiber itself down into this chamber, just to drown out the noise and pressure. Just as he felt as if he was going to throw up, the iron gate groaned again, the sound cutting through his spiraling thoughts. Tristian’s boots scuffed against the stone floor as he stepped forward. “Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune!” he barked, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. “To the arena!”

Percy’s breath caught, his true name catching him off guard for a moment. The formality of it, the invocation of his divine heritage, made the moment feel heavier, as if the gods themselves were leaning in closer. He straightened, rolling his shoulders to shake off the nerves, and gripped the ring on his finger. Its warmth pulsed reassuringly, like a heartbeat syncing with his own. He gave Tristian a curt nod and stepped toward the tunnel, his boots echoing in the now-empty chamber. This was it. Dies Probationis. The day he’d been preparing for since he stumbled into New Rome, bloodied and battered

The sunlight hit him harshly as he emerged onto the arena floor, blinding after the dimness of the holding area below. The roar of the crowd crashed over him, a living force that vibrated through the sand beneath his feet and rattled his bones. Thousands of faces filled the stands, their voices a chaotic blend of cheers, jeers, and chants. “Son of Neptune!” someone shouted, the cry picked up by others until it became a rhythmic chant, half-praise, half-challenge. Banners snapped in the breeze, each cohort’s section roaring louder as Percy’s name echoed through the Colosseum.

He squinted against the glare, his gaze sweeping the arena. The sand was freshly raked but already bore the scars of earlier fights; scuff marks, shallow gouges, a faint red stain where blood had soaked in. High above, in the senatorial box, he spotted Octavius and Livia, who nodded at him reassuringly, their gazes telling him that he knew what needed to be done. Lavinia was in the Fifth Cohort’s section, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her smirk replaced by a grim expression, as if she was finally feeling the nerves for him as well. Troy stood near the arena’s bottom seats, arms crossed, his scarred face set in a proud grin.

“Get er’ done, lad!” He shouted, his voice somehow able to cut through the cacophony of the crowd.

The referee, a stern-faced legionary named Devyn from the Third Cohort, stepped into the center of the arena, his armor gleaming under the midday sun. He raised a hand, and the crowd’s roar dulled to a restless murmur. “Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune!” he announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the Colosseum. “You stand before the Twelfth Legion Fulminata to prove your worth on Dies Probationis. The cohorts have chosen your first opponent. Step forward, Lucius Anderson, son of Mars, of the Fifth Cohort!”

The crowd’s murmur surged into a roar as Lucius Anderson strode onto the arena floor, his armor clinking with each confident step. The Fifth Cohort’s section erupted in cheers, their unadorned banner waving proudly. Percy couldn’t help the grin that split across his face. Of course his first opponent would be Lucius. His gladius was already drawn, its imperial gold blade catching the sunlight, and his rectangular shield was held steady, its surface etched with faint scratches from past battles. He looked different now, stronger, more assured, the limp from his old injury gone. Three years had forged him into a warrior, just as they had Percy. The son of Neptune flexed his hand, willing the ring to transform into a golden gladius. The blade shimmered into existence, its weight familiar and comforting in his hand. He grabbed a scutum from a nearby rack before stepping into the center of the arena, a few paces away from his friend.

Devyn, the referee, raised his hand again, silencing the crowd. “Standard rules: no powers, no dirty moves. Steel and skill only. Fight until one yields, is disarmed, or is unable to continue. Do the fighters understand?” 

“This is payback for stealing my food a couple days ago,” Lucius joked, settling into a defensive position. 

“You knew about that?” Percy grinned, his nerves easing slightly at the familiar humor. “Guess I owe you one, then. Let’s make it quick.” He settled into his own stance, gladius raised, scutum angled to protect his left side, his body loose but ready.

Devyn’s hand dropped. “Begin!”

The crowd’s roar surged back to life as Lucius moved first, his gladius slashing in a tight arc toward Percy’s chest. The son of Neptune reacted instinctively, raising his scutum to block, the impact sending a dull thud through his arm. Lucius was fast, his Mars-blessed strength evident in the force behind the blow, but Percy had sparred with him before in training sessions with Troy. He knew Lucius’s style: aggressive, direct, relying on power to overwhelm. Percy sidestepped, using his shield to deflect another strike, and countered with a quick thrust toward Lucius’s shoulder, forcing him to twist away.

“Not bad, Jackson!” Lucius called, his voice carrying a grin even as his blade came down in a heavy overhead strike. Percy caught it on his shield, the force driving him back a step, sand crunching under his boots. He gritted his teeth, muscles straining, and shoved forward, breaking the lock and swinging his blade low, aiming for the legs.

Lucius leaped back, his shield catching the strike with a sharp clang. “You’re gonna have to do better than that!” he taunted, his eyes glinting with competitive fire. He pressed forward, his attacks relentless, each swing of his gladius precise and heavy, meant to wear Percy down. The son of Neptune met him blow for blow, his own style fluid and honed by years of Troy’s training. He ducked under a high slash, stepping inside Lucius’s guard, and slammed his shield into his opponent’s chest, forcing him to stagger back.

The crowd roared, the Fifth Cohort’s cheers rising above the rest as Lucius regained his footing, his grin undimmed. “Sneaky,” he said, circling to the right. “Lavinia’s been telling you my openings, huh?” 

“Maybe,” Percy replied, keeping his tone light despite the sweat stinging his eyes. He didn’t let his guard drop, watching Lucius’s shoulders for the telltale twitch that signaled his next move. Sure enough, he lunged, his gladius aiming for the ribs. Percy parried, the blades scraping with a screech that echoed across the arena, and countered with a feint to the left before slashing toward Lucius’s arm. The son of Mars raised his shield just in time, the golden blade glancing off the shield’s edge.

For a moment, they traded blows in a blur of gold, their shields clashing, their blades flashing in the sunlight. Percy’s muscles burned, but his focus was razor-sharp, every movement guided by instinct and training. Lucius was good, but Percy had grown since then. He’d learned to read his opponent, to anticipate, to turn their strength against them.

His opponent overextended on a particularly aggressive thrust, his shield dipping slightly. Percy saw his chance. He dropped low, sweeping his scutum in a wide arc to hook behind Lucius’s legs. He stumbled, his balance thrown, and Percy surged forward, slamming his shoulder into Lucius’s chest. The son of Mars hit the sand with a grunt, his gladius slipping from his grip as Percy pinned him down, his golden blade hovering just above his throat.

“Yield!” Percy shouted. He didn’t want to humiliate his friend, only end the fight.

Lucius’s chest heaved, his grin returning despite the blade at his throat. “Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I yield, you sneaky bastard.”

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers, surprised murmurs, and disappointed groans, rippling through the stands. The Fifth Cohort’s section was loudest, their shouts tinged with pride despite their legionary’s loss. Percy stepped back, lowering his gladius and offering Lucius a hand. His friend took it, pulling himself up with a laugh.

“Not bad, Perce,” he said, brushing sand from his armor. “You’ve been holding out on me in training.”

“Had to keep some tricks up my sleeve,” Percy replied with his own grin. The referee raised his hand to signal the end of the match, and the crowd’s noise dulled to a restless hum as they waited for what came next.

“Perseus Jackson defeats Lucius Anderson of the Fifth Cohort! The cohorts will now deliberate!” He gestured toward the stands, where the centurions huddled with their cohort, their heads bent in discussion. Percy’s gaze flicked to the Fifth Cohort’s section, where Lavinia was whispering to a tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair; Anthony, the centurion who’d vouched for him three years ago. Lavinia caught his eye and gave a subtle nod, her smirk returning, as if to say, You’re doing fine, kid.

The deliberation was brief, which he didn’t know whether that was good or bad. He could feel thousands of eyes on him as he stood in the middle of the arena, waiting like a puppy in a cage, hoping to be adopted. Eventually, however, all the centurions stopped their discussion with their cohorts, turning back to the referee before giving him a thumbs down. The crowd gasped, some laughing and cheering, some groaning. Devyn stepped forward again. His armor clinked softly as he raised his hand to silence the crowd, his stern gaze sweeping over the stands before settling on Percy.

“No cohort has claimed Perseus Jackson after his first match,” he announced. 

Percy kept his face neutral, though his grip on the gladius tightened, as he stared up at Lavinia, who looked more than displeased at her centurion. She turned back to him, giving him a look that said I don’t know why!

Devyn continued, unfazed by the crowd’s unrest. “As per the rules of Dies Probationis, the recruit will face another opponent until a cohort claims him or he can no longer fight. Perseus Jackson, prepare for your next match!” He turned, scanning the cohort sections, his hand poised as if waiting for a signal. “Step forward, Skylar Bridger, son of Apollo, of the Forth Cohort!”

The crowd’s roar surged again at the prospect of another fight. The Fourth Cohort’s section erupted in cheers, their lion-emblazoned banner snapping in the breeze. Skylar was lean, almost wiry, with sun-bleached hair tied back in a short ponytail and a cocky grin that reminded Percy of Octavians. His armor was lighter than Lucius’s, built for speed, and his gladius gleamed with a polish. A short bow was slung across his back with a small quiver of arrows. 

Percy sized him up, noting the way Skylar moved: light on his feet, his steps soft, like a dancer. The son of Apollo’s green eyes sparkled with confidence, and his grin widened as he caught Percy’s gaze, as if the fight was already won in his mind. The crowd’s chant shifted, a mix of “Skylar!” and “Percy!” clashing in the air, each side vying for dominance.

Devyn raised his hand again. “Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, versus Skylar Bridger, son of Apollo, of the Fourth Cohort! Standard rules: no powers, no dirty moves. Fight until one yields, is disarmed, or is unable to continue. Do the fighters understand?”

“Understood,” Skylar said smoothly, his voice carrying a lilt of amusement as he twirled his gladius with a flourish. “Let’s end this quickly, you dirty sea-spawn.” 

The son of Apollo’s words weren’t new. Three years in New Rome had taught him to shrug off insults like “sea-spawn.” He forced a tight grin, keeping his stance loose but ready. “Big talk for a guy with a ponytail,” he shot back. “Hope you fight better than you quip.” 

Skylar’s grin widened, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, don’t worry, Jackson. I’ll make this quick and painless. Well, mostly quick.” He settled into a fighting stance, his gladius raised. The bow on his back stayed slung, a reminder that he was trained for distance as well as close combat.

Devyn’s hand dropped. “Begin!”

The arena erupted as Skylar moved like a flash of sunlight, his gladius slashing in a tight, precise arc toward Percy’s shoulder. The speed was startling, faster than Lucius’s brute force, and he barely got his shield up in time, the blade scraping across the shield’s surface with a harsh screech. Skylar didn’t pause, darting to the side and striking again, this time aiming low for the legs. The son of Neptune pivoted, deflecting with his gladius, the impact sending a jolt up his arm. Skylar was quick, quicker than Lucius, maybe even quicker than Larry had been three years ago. His movements were fluid, almost effortless, like he was dancing to a tune only he could hear.

Percy countered, thrusting his gladius toward Skylar’s chest, but the son of Apollo was already gone, sidestepping with a grace that made Percy’s heavier, shield-weighted movements feel clunky. “Come on, sea boy,” Skylar taunted, circling to the right, his grin never faltering. “You’re supposed to be some big deal, right? Show me something!”

The crowd’s chants grew louder, the Fourth Cohort’s cheers rising above the rest, their lion banner waving furiously. Percy ignored the noise, focusing on Skylar’s eyes, watching for the telltale flicker that would betray his next move. He’d learned from Troy to read opponents, to anticipate rather than react, and Skylar’s cocky demeanor was a mask for precision. The son of Apollo feinted left, then slashed right, aiming for his exposed side. Percy twisted, catching the blow on his shield, and shoved forward, using the shield’s weight to push Skylar back a step.

He lunged again, his gladius a blur, striking high, then low, then high again in a relentless flurry meant to overwhelm. Percy blocked and parried, his shield arm burning under the onslaught, but he held his ground, waiting for an opening. Skylar was fast, but speed could be a weakness if you knew how to exploit it. He let him press the attack, his strikes growing bolder, his movements just a hair more reckless as he tried to force a mistake. The son of Neptune kept his scutum steady, absorbing each blow, his gladius ready but held back, baiting him into overcommitting. The crowd’s roar faded in his ears, his focus narrowing to the fight. Skylar’s grin faltered slightly as Percy deflected a particularly aggressive thrust, the force reverberating through both their arms.

With a sudden burst of speed, he feinted high, then dropped low, aiming a sweeping slash at Percy’s legs. Percy saw it coming. He jumped back, the blade missing by inches, and slammed his scutum down, catching the gladius mid-swing. The impact sent a shock through both of them, and Skylar’s grin faltered as he stumbled, his balance thrown. Percy didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, his gladius flashing in a tight arc toward the chest. The son of Apollo raised his own blade to parry, but Percy was already moving, using his shield to bash Skylar’s arm, forcing it wide. The crowd roared, sensing the shift, as he pressed his advantage, his strikes relentless now, each one driving Skylar back across the sand. The son of Apollo’s speed was still there, but his movements were growing sloppy, his breath coming in quick gasps.

“You’re good, Jackson,” Skylar panted, dodging a thrust that nearly caught his shoulder. “But I’m not done yet!” In a flash, he leaped onto Percy’s raised shield as if it were a springboard. Vaulting into the air, he unslung the bow on his back, drawing an arrow straight for Percy’s chest.

Percy’s training kicked in. He didn’t think as he dropped his shield slightly, twisting his body as his gladius flashed upward in a desperate arc. The arrow flew, its fletching whistling as it sliced through the air. Time slowed, his senses sharpening to a razor’s edge, and he felt the sea in his blood surge, urging him to move faster, to be more. His gladius met the arrow mid-flight, the blade slicing through the shaft with a crack that echoed across the Colosseum. The arrow split, its halves spinning harmlessly into the sand.

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar of shock and awe. Skylar landed lightly on the sand, his eyes wide with disbelief, the bow still in his hands. “What the—” he started, but Percy was already moving, closing the distance before he could nock another arrow. He slammed his shield into Skylar’s chest, the impact sending the son of Apollo sprawling backward, his bow skidding across the sand.

Percy didn’t give him a chance to recover. He lunged, his gladius aimed at the wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon entirely. The son of Apollo scrambled to his feet, grabbing his gladius from where it had fallen, but his confidence was shaken, his grin replaced by a grimace. Percy pressed forward, his strikes precise and relentless, each one driving him further back. The son of Apollo parried desperately, his lighter armor giving him speed but no match for Percy’s momentum.

“Yield!” Percy shouted, his gladius locking against Skylar’s, their blades scraping with a screech that drowned out the crowd’s roar. He leaned into the lock, using his shield to pin Skylar’s arm, his strength forcing the son of Apollo to his knees.

Skylar’s green eyes blazed with defiance, but his arm trembled under the pressure. “Not… yet,” he gritted out, trying to twist free. But Percy was stronger. He shoved harder, his shield grinding against Skylar’s arm, and with a final twist, he wrenched the gladius from Skylar’s grip, sending it spinning into the sand.

The son of Apollo fell back, panting, his hands raised in surrender. “Alright,” he gasped. “I yield.”

The crowd exploded, the sound shaking the very foundations of the Colosseum. Cheers, gasps, and shouts filled the air, the Fifth Cohort’s section roaring loudest, their unadorned banner waving furiously. Percy stepped back, lowering his gladius, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He offered Skylar a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, the son of Apollo took it, pulling himself up with a grudging nod.

“Not bad, sea-spawn,” Skylar said, his grin returning, though it was tinged with respect. “Didn’t expect you to slice that arrow. That was… insane.”

Percy managed a tired grin, the adrenaline still buzzing through him. Devyn stepped forward, raising his hand to silence the crowd. “Perseus Jackson defeats Skylar Bridger of the Fourth Cohort!” he announced.

His gaze once again flicked to the stands, where the centurions were huddled with their cohorts. Lavinia was leaning close to Anthony, her hands gesturing animatedly, her grey eyes fierce as she argued. He couldn’t hear her words, but he knew she was fighting for him, pushing the Fifth Cohort to see past the stigma of his lineage. Troy stood nearby, his arms crossed, his grin wider than ever as he watched the deliberation. Octavius and Livia remained in the senatorial box, their gazes locked on him, a silent encouragement.

The deliberation dragged on longer this time, the crowd’s murmurs growing restless. Percy stood in the center of the arena, his shield heavy in his hand, sweat stinging his eyes. He’d won two fights, proven himself against two skilled legionaries, but the cohorts’ hesitation was a bitter pill. He was no stranger to being an outsider, but their judgment felt worse now with the entire city watching.

Finally, Devyn raised his hand again, the centurions stepping back from their discussions. The arena fell into a tense hush, every eye on the referee. “No cohort has claimed Perseus Jackson after his second match,” he declared. “As per the rules of Dies Probationis, the recruit will face another opponent!”

The crowd’s reaction was a mix of shock, excitement, and unease. Boos mingled with cheers, some shouting for Percy to keep fighting, others mocking his unclaimed status. He glanced at Lavinia, who looked furious, her fists clenched as she glared at Anthony. The centurion’s face was grim, but he shook his head slightly, as if bound by some unspoken rule. Percy’s jaw tightened, his sword’s vibration growing stronger as if sensing his growing anger. He wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

Devyn scanned the cohort sections, his hand poised for the next opponent. “Step forward, Bryce Lawrence, legacy of Orcus, of the Third Cohort.” 

The crowd’s roar surged once more as Bryce Lawrence stepped onto the arena floor, his armor gleaming with an almost unnatural sheen under the midday sun. The Third Cohort’s section erupted, their bull-emblazoned banner snapping fiercely in the breeze. Bryce was tall and muscular, his movements almost predatory as he stalked forward.

“Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, versus Bryce Lawrence, legacy of Orcus, of the Third Cohort! Standard rules: no powers, no dirty moves. Fight until one yields, is disarmed, or is unable to continue. Do the fighters understand?”

Percy didn’t respond to the taunt, his eyes narrowing as he studied Bryce. The legacy of Orcus moved with a deliberate slowness, his stance low. He didn’t know much about the boy, having never heard or seen him train before, but the Third Cohort’s centurion had chosen him for a reason. 

Devyn’s hand dropped. “Begin!”

The fight ended almost before it began, with Bryce disarmed and on his knees, a thin line of blood welling on his neck where the edge of Percy’s gladius pressed against his skin.

Yet, no cohort claimed him. 

His fourth opponent, a son of Mars from the Second Cohort, was defeated in the same manner, although it had taken longer. The boy, a few years older than he, was a monster, using pure strength to push him to his very limits. Yet, he somehow beat him, though now he was on the brink of exhaustion with blood, sand, and sweat dripping down his face. 

Once again, no cohort claimed him.

His chest heaved, his breath ragged as he stepped back to the middle of the arena. The crowd’s roar was a distant hum in his ears, drowned out by the pounding of his own heart. His blade felt heavier now, its grip slick with sweat, his arm trembling from the effort of four grueling fights. The stands were a blur of motion and color, banners snapping, voices clashing in cheers and jeers. The Fifth Cohort’s section was the loudest, Lavinia’s voice cutting through as she shouted something at Anthony, who stood with arms crossed, his face still unreadable. Troy’s grin had faded into a tight-lipped grimace, his eyes locked on him with a mix of pride and worry. In the senatorial box, Octavius and Livia watched silently, their expressions a mask of calm, though he caught the faint tightening of Octavius’s jaw. The crowd’s energy was relentless, feeding off his every move, some chanting his name, others hurling insults, but he paid no mind. All he wanted was a chance. For someone to take a chance on him. Was that really too much to ask for?

Devyn stepped forward, his armor glinting as he raised a hand to quiet the restless crowd. The arena fell into a tense hush, the air thick with anticipation. “Perseus Jackson defeats Jacob Vorenus of the Second Cohort!” he announced, his voice booming across the Colosseum. “No cohort has claimed Perseus Jackson after his fourth match. As per the rules of Dies Probationis, the recruit will face his last opponent!”

The crowd erupted, a chaotic mix of shock, excitement, and disapproval. Boos clashed with cheers, some spectators leaning forward eagerly, others shaking their heads in disbelief. Percy’s jaw clenched, his grip on the gladius tightening until his knuckles whitened. Four fights, four victories, and still no cohort would claim him. He glanced at Lavinia, who was now standing, her hands on her hips, glaring at Anthony as if she could will him to act. The centurion’s gaze flicked to Percy, then away, his expression conflicted but resolute.

Percy forced himself to breathe, steadying his shaking legs. He couldn’t falter now, not with the eyes of New Rome, the Senate, and the gods upon him. He rolled his shoulders, ignoring the ache in his muscles, and adjusted his grip on the shield. He’d faced monsters, survived Lupa’s trials, and endured three years of New Rome’s scrutiny. This was just another fight. He could do this. He had to do this. 

Devyn scanned the cohort sections, his hand poised as he prepared to call down the final opponent. Percy looked to the First Cohort, knowing that he’d have to face one of them next. They sat in near silence, their golden eagle banner still, their centurion, Pierce Miller, watching him with a cold, smug look written across his features. He knew what that look meant. Miller had been waiting for this moment, biding his time since that day three years ago. The First Cohort’s pride was on the line, and Miller wasn’t about to let a son of Neptune steal their spotlight without a fight. Percy’s stomach tightened, not from fear, but from the certainty that whatever came next would be his hardest test yet.

Devyn’s hand rose higher, commanding silence. The crowd’s noise dulled, every eye fixed on him. “Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, prepare for your final match!” he declared. His gaze swept the stands, lingering on the First Cohort’s section, where a figure stood, armor gleaming brighter than the rest, a purple plume on his helmet marking him as someone of note.

Percy knew who it was without even looking. He knew all along, ever since that day, that it would all come down to this. He watched as the figure stepped forward, the crowd’s anticipation spiking into a fevered roar. The First Cohort’s section erupted, their golden eagle banner waving in the breeze, its talons gleaming under the sun. The figure descended the steps with deliberate confidence, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, every movement radiating authority. The purple plume swayed slightly, catching the light, and the crowd’s chants coalesced into a single name: 

Jason Grace.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Sons of Gods

The roar of the crowd was unlike anything heard before in the previous matches as the son of Jupiter stepped into the arena. The sunlight caught his armor, casting a radiant glow that made him look every inch the golden child of New Rome. He paid no mind to his name ringing out through the hills and valley, his blue eyes instead locked onto Percy’s, carrying that same intensity. He didn’t smile, didn’t taunt like Skylar or banter like Lucius. He simply nodded, a gesture of acknowledgment that felt more like a challenge than a greeting.

Percy was barely able to keep the sigh of annoyance from escaping his lips. Jason Grace. Of course it would come down to this. The son of Jupiter, the golden boy of New Rome, the one everyone expected to lead, to shine, to embody Rome’s ideals. He’d known this moment was coming since learning of Dies Probationis. It was what everyone, the senators, the citizens, the legion, even the gods themselves, had been waiting for: a clash between the son of Neptune and the son of Jupiter, a spectacle to settle the unspoken rivalry that had simmered for years. The sea against the sky. Outsider against the embodiment of Roman perfection. 

Percy rolled his neck, feeling the ache in his shoulders from the previous bouts, but adrenaline surged through him, sharpening his focus. If he could beat Jason, the golden boy, the Senate's darling, the legion's future praetor, then no cohort could deny him. It would shatter the stigma of his lineage, prove he wasn't a curse but a force New Rome needed. Surely, defeating him would force their hand, earning him a place in the legion not out of pity, but out of undeniable respect. He had to do this. He had to fight, no matter how tired he was, no matter how much sweat and blood rolled down his face. He had to beat him. There was no other option. 

Twirling his blade, the son of Neptune approached the middle of the arena where Devyn was awaiting, raising his hand to demand a silence that fell unevenly across the Colosseum. The two opponents stared at one another with narrowed eyes and tense postures as they listened to the announcer. 

"Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, versus Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, of the First Cohort!” 

The thousands in the stands couldn’t help but erupt, the sound shaking the very stones of the Colosseum. The chant of “Jason! Jason!” clashed with cries of “Percy! Percy!” in a cacophony that seemed to split the heavens. The air crackled with anticipation, every eye fixed on the two demigods standing in the center of the arena. The banners of the First Cohort waved furiously, their golden eagle soaring above the rest, while the other cohorts’ sections added their own cheers and jeers to the chaos. In the senatorial box, Octavius leaned forward slightly, knowing that this moment was the reason why he had adopted Percy three years ago. The training, the studying, the countless hours of it all came down to this. Livia’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her calm facade betraying her as worry and concern crossed her features. Lavinia, in the Fifth Cohort’s section, stood with her arms crossed, her grey eyes darting between the two boys, her lips pressed into a thin line. Troy’s grin had vanished entirely, replaced by a tense nod of encouragement as he caught Percy’s eye.

“Absolutely no use of powers!” Devyn continued, making sure the two demigods heard that part. “Any combatant that uses his powers will be automatically disqualified. Steel and skill only. Fight until one yields, is disarmed, or is unable to continue. Do the fighters understand?”

Percy nodded, his grip tightening on his gladius. “Understood,” he rasped, his throat dry from the heat and sand.

Jason’s response was a curt, “Understood,” his tone clipped but calm, his eyes never wavering from Percy’s. It was just like Mother Lupa’s. There was no mockery in his gaze, no arrogance like Skylar’s or malice like Bryce’s. Just a quiet, unshakable intensity, as if he were studying a puzzle he was determined to solve. The son of Jupiter reached into his pocket and brought out a single, golden coin, its edges gleaming in the sunlight. He flipped it once, catching it deftly, and with a flick of his wrist, the coin transformed into a gleaming imperial gold gladius, its blade etched with faint lightning symbols. In his other hand, he held a scutum, its surface polished and adorned with the golden eagle of the First Cohort. The crowd’s roar swelled at the display, realizing the fight they’d always wanted was about to commence. 

The son of Neptune steadied himself, planting his feet in the sand, his own gladius and scutum at the ready. His body ached from the previous fights, his muscles screaming with every movement, but the sight of Jason’s calm confidence ignited a fire in his chest. This wasn’t just another opponent. This was the son of Jupiter, the boy everyone expected to lead New Rome into its next golden age. Beating him wouldn’t just earn him a place in the legion; it would rewrite the narrative that had shadowed him since he arrived. He could feel his blade vibrate in his hand, urging him forward, to fight, to claim his place among New Rome. He was inclined to listen to it. 

Devyn’s hand dropped. “Begin!”

The arena erupted into a deafening roar as the two cousins began to slowly circle one another, their steps slow as they tried to eye for an opening in their stances. Sand crunched beneath their feet, the air crackled with tension, and the thousands chanting both their names swelled even further, shaking the very foundations of the Colosseum. But the two boys tuned out all the noise, their world narrowing to their opponent, who continued to mirror one another.

Finally, Jason moved first, his gladius flashing in a thrust toward Percy’s chest. It wasn’t a full commitment, just a test, but the speed was startling, the blade slicing through the air with a precision that spoke of years of relentless training. He reacted instinctively, raising his shield to block, the impact sending a dull thud through his arm. The force was controlled, measured, but it still pushed him back a half-step, the sand shifting under his weight. Jason didn’t press the attack, instead stepping back, circling again, his eyes never leaving Percy’s.

The son of Jupiter struck once more, this time faster, his blade arcing toward Percy’s left side, where Troy had always warned him he left himself open. He twisted, catching the blow on his shield’s edge, and countered with a quick slash toward Jason’s shoulder. He parried effortlessly, their blades clashing with a sharp clang that echoed across the arena. The crowd roared, the First Cohort’s cheers surging, their golden eagle banner waving wildly in the air. 

The two demigods traded blows, their movements a blur of gold. Jason’s style was disciplined, every strike calculated, his shield always in position to block or deflect. He fought like a machine, precise and unrelenting, but there was a fluidity to it, a grace that made each move seem inevitable. Percy, by contrast, relied on instinct, his strikes less polished but unpredictable, honed by years of surviving monsters and Troy’s brutal drills. He ducked under a high slash, slamming his scutum forward to push Jason back, but the son of Jupiter held his ground, his own shield absorbing the blow with a dull thud.

“That would’ve knocked me down if you weren’t tired,” Jason conceded with a nod, taking a step back. “I’m sorry we can’t have a true fight.” 

Percy gritted his teeth, ignoring the burn in his arms. Jason wasn’t wrong; four fights had taken their toll, and his legs felt heavier with each step, but he wasn’t about to let the son of Jupiter win so easily. He lunged with a feint toward the chest before slashing low at his legs. Jason jumped back, his shield dipping to block, but Percy pressed the attack, his blade swinging in a tight arc toward the sword arm. The son of Jupiter twisted, parrying with his own blade, and shoved forward, forcing Percy to retreat a step.

The crowd’s roar intensified, sensing the fight’s rising tempo. Percy’s breath came in sharp gasps, sweat stinging his eyes, but he didn’t let up. He couldn’t afford to. Jason was too good, too controlled, and every mistake he made was met with a counter that pushed him closer to the edge of exhaustion. He blocked a heavy overhead strike, the impact rattling his teeth, and countered with a thrust that Jason deflected with a flick of his wrist. The son of Jupiter’s eyes narrowed, studying him, and Percy realized he was waiting for him to overcommit, to make the kind of reckless move that had cost lesser fighters their matches.

He wasn’t going to give him that chance. Percy shifted his stance, circling to the left, his shield raised to cover his vulnerable side. He feinted high, drawing Jason’s gladius upward, then dropped low, aiming a sweeping strike at his opponent’s legs. Jason leaped over the blade, his movements almost impossibly smooth, and countered with a thrust that grazed Percy’s shoulder, the imperial gold leaving a shallow cut that stung like fire. The crowd gasped, the First Cohort’s cheers growing louder, but Percy barely felt the pain, adrenaline drowning it out.

“First blood!” someone shouted from the stands, and the chant of “Jason!” grew louder, drowning out the scattered calls for the son of Neptune. He ignored it, focusing on Jason’s movements, the slight shift in his stance that betrayed his next attack. The son of Jupiter lunged, his gladius aiming for his chest, but Percy was ready. He sidestepped, using his shield to deflect the blow, and slammed his shoulder into Jason’s shield, trying to throw him off balance. He staggered but recovered quickly, his blade flashing in a counterstrike that Percy barely blocked, the clang of their gladii ringing in his ears.

The clash continued, the sand beneath their feet churning, kicking up in clouds that caught the sunlight, adding a hazy glow to their duel. Percy’s muscles screamed, his body pushed to its limits after four grueling fights, but he refused to yield. Every move he made, though, was met with a counter, every feint answered with a calculated response. It wouldn’t be long now till he made a mistake. It was only thanks to his instincts that he was able to stay in the fight this long. 

They broke apart, circling again, both breathing heavily. Sweat dripped from Percy’s brow, mingling with the sand and blood on his face, his shoulder stinging where the blade had grazed him. Jason’s expression remained focused, his blue eyes unblinking, but there was a flicker of respect there, an acknowledgment of his cousin’s tenacity. 

Jason lunged again, his blade a streak of gold aimed at the chest. Percy parried, their blades scraping with a screech that drowned out the crowd for a moment. He countered with a low slash, but the son of Jupiter leaped back, his shield snapping down to block. The two demigods clashed again, their movements a dance, but neither was able to gain the upper hand. 

The crowd’s energy surged, sensing the stalemate. The First Cohort’s cheers grew louder, their golden eagle banner waving furiously, but the Fifth Cohort’s section matched them, Lavinia’s voice cutting through as she shouted encouragement. “Come on, Percy!” she yelled, her hands cupped around her mouth. Troy’s scarred face was tense, his fists clenched as he leaned forward, willing his student to keep going. In the senatorial box, Octavius and Livia watched with bated breath, sitting on the edge of their seats.

Percy felt his blade vibrate with power, its warmth spreading through his hand, urging him to push harder. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the ache in his limbs, and launched a flurry of strikes, each one faster than the last. Jason met them all, his gladius a blur, his shield absorbing every blow. But that's when he saw it: a slight hesitation in Jason’s stance, a fraction of a second where his shield lagged. He seized the opening, feinting high before dropping low, his gladius arcing toward his side in a strike that could end the fight.

The crowd gasped as Jason twisted, his shield barely catching the blow, the impact sending a shockwave through the sand. Percy pressed forward, his momentum carrying him inside his opponent’s guard. He slammed his scutum into Jason’s, their shields locking, and leaned in with all his strength, trying to force the son of Jupiter to his knees. Jason’s muscles strained, his jaw clenched, but he held his ground, refusing to relent. 

For a moment, they were deadlocked, their shields grinding against each other, their blades poised but useless in the close quarters. The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, the tension in the air electric. Percy’s arms trembled, his body screaming for rest, but he poured every ounce of his will into the push, his sea-green eyes locked on Jason’s. “Not giving up yet,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the crowd.

Jason’s lips twitched. “Neither am I,” he replied. With a sudden burst of strength, he shoved back, breaking the lock and forcing Percy to stumble backward. The son of Jupiter followed through, his gladius slashing in a tight arc toward Percy’s chest. He raised his shield just in time, the blade glancing off with a screech, but the force drove him back another step, his boots slipping in the sand.

They fought on, neither yielding, neither breaking. Percy’s instincts screamed at him to keep moving, but Jason’s discipline was a wall he couldn’t breach. Every strike he landed was met with a counter, every feint answered with a block. The crowd was on its feet now, the Colosseum shaking with their shouts, the banners of every cohort waving as if caught in a storm.

Minutes stretched on, the fight a brutal stalemate. His vision blurred at the edges, his body pushed beyond its limits. Jason’s breaths were coming faster now, his movements still precise but slower, the toll of the prolonged duel evident even in his disciplined form. The son of Neptune saw another opening, a slight overextension in the latest thrust, and seized it. He ducked under the strike, stepping inside Jason’s guard, and swung his gladius in a vicious arc toward his opponent’s chest. The blow was perfect, a strike that would have ended the fight, perhaps even drawn blood serious enough to force a yield.

But in that split second, something changed. A gust of unnatural wind surged through the arena, kicking up a swirl of sand that stung Percy’s eyes. Jason’s body seemed to blur, his form shifting sideways faster than humanly possible, the wind carrying him just out of reach of his blade. The gladius sliced through empty air, missing by inches, and Percy stumbled forward, thrown off balance by the sudden miss. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that shifted to murmurs of shock and outrage.

The wind that had carried Jason out of harm’s way died as quickly as it came, leaving a haze of sand settling in the sunlight. Percy steadied himself, his gladius still raised, his chest heaving as he glared at Jason. The son of Jupiter stood a few paces away, his own blade lowered, his blue eyes wide with a mix of surprise and guilt. He hadn’t meant to use his powers; Percy could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his grip on his gladius faltered for a fraction of a second.

“FOUL!” Devyn bellowed, stepping forward with his hand raised, positioning himself between the two fighters. The crowd’s noise dulled to a restless murmur, every eye fixed on the referee. “Jason Grace, you have violated the rules of Dies Probationis! The use of powers is strictly forbidden!”

The First Cohort’s section exploded in protests, their golden eagle banner waving furiously as legionaries shouted in defense of their champion. “It was an accident!” one yelled. “He didn’t mean it!” another called, their voices blending into a single shout of defiance. In contrast, the Fifth Cohort’s section roared with indignation, Lavinia’s voice rising above the rest as she leaped to her feet, pointing accusingly at Jason.

“Disqualify him!” she shouted, her grey eyes blazing. “He broke the rules! Percy won fair and square!”

That got most of her crowd on their feet, exclaiming their own indignation.

“It was instinct, sir,” Jason took a step forward, addressing Devyn directly, though his eyes flicked to Percy for a moment. “I didn’t intend to use my powers. The wind reacted to my movement. I swear it on Jupiter’s name.” His tone was earnest, but there was a trace of frustration in it, as if he were angry at himself for the slip.

Percy’s grip on his sword tightened, his blood pounding in his ears. Instinct. He wanted to believe him, wanted to think it wasn’t deliberate, but the sting of the near-miss burned in his chest. That strike should have ended the fight, should have been his moment to prove himself undeniably. Now, it was tainted by a gust of wind and a broken rule. He opened his mouth to speak, but a surge of rage choked his words. This was his chance, his one shot to join the legion, to show New Rome he wasn’t just a wildcard son of Neptune. And the golden boy had just screwed it all up.

Before he could stop himself, Percy’s rage boiled over. “Instinct?!” he spat, the word carrying across the entirety of the arena. “I’ve been fighting all day! Four matches, four wins, and I’m still standing here, bleeding and exhausted, while you get to waltz in fresh and pull that?”

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, a mix of shock and excitement at Percy’s outburst. The Fifth Cohort cheered, their shouts of “Percy!” rising again, while the First Cohort’s protests grew more heated, their loyalty to Jason unshaken. In the senatorial box, Octavius and Livia were on their feet, not liking the sight of Percy’s growing anger. Troy, still at the arena’s edge, was almost tempted to hop down into the sand, knowing that his student’s temper could cost him as much as it could win.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his blue eyes narrowing, but he didn’t back down. “I didn’t mean to, Percy,” he said firmly. “You’re good, better than I expected. I got caught up in the fight, and my powers… they reacted. It wasn’t intentional.” He paused, his gaze softening slightly. “You deserve a fair fight. I’ll take the disqualification if that’s what it takes.”

The crowd’s reaction was immediate, a swell of gasps and shouts of annoyance. The First Cohort’s section roared in outrage, Pierce, standing with a scowl, his purple eyes glinting with barely concealed fury. “This is a disgrace!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the noise. “Jason Grace is the best of us! A momentary lapse doesn’t negate his skill! The son of Neptune can’t handle a real challenge, so he cries foul!”

The insult hit Percy like a slap, and his rage flared hotter. He gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles were deathly white. His teeth grinded against each other so hard, he thought they would crack. His heart pounded, his mind racing. Victory by disqualification wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t proof of his worth, not in the eyes of the cohorts, the Senate, or the gods. It would be a hollow win, a technicality that would only fuel the whispers that he was a liability, a son of Neptune who couldn’t earn his place through skill alone. He glanced at Lavinia, who was still on her feet, her expression torn between anger and hope, as if she wanted him to take the win but knew it wouldn’t be enough. Troy’s eyes met his, and the veteran centurion gave a subtle shake of his head, a silent warning: Do not let the wolf out.

Percy’s grip on his gladius tightened even further to the point where the blade was vibrating in fury, his rage warring with the need to prove himself. It was telling him to act, to fight, to claim his place. It demanded he finish what he started, rules or no rules.

"The First Cohort stands with Jason Grace! We will not accept this. The fight continues or the legion fractures here and now!"

The threat hung in the air, igniting pockets of unrest throughout the stands. Legionaries from the First stood, their shields clanging in unison, a rhythmic beat of rebellion that spread like wildfire. The Second Cohort joined in, their Pegasus banner dipping in solidarity, shouts of "Let them fight!" rising from their ranks. Even the Third and Fourth added their voices, the bull and lion emblems waving as centurions barked orders to stand firm. Only the Fifth remained divided, Lavinia's group cheering for Percy while Anthony held back, his face pale with the thought of what could potentially happen. Never before has this happened in Dies Probationis’s history.

Percy's vision tunneled, the world narrowing, his blade pulsing with a heat that seeped into his veins like liquid fire. The rage, simmering since the first unclaimed victory, boiled over. It wasn't just anger at Jason's slip or Miller's arrogance; it was three years of whispers, of being the outsider, the curse, the son of a god New Rome feared. The sword loved it. The ring fed on it. A surge of energy exploded through him, powerful and overwhelming, banishing the exhaustion that had clawed at his limbs. His muscles coiled with renewed power, his heart thundering like waves crashing against cliffs. The air around him thickened, heavy with the scent of salt and ozone, as if the sea itself had risen to claim the arena.

He didn't think. He didn't hold back. The rules, the warnings, the consequences, they all dissolved in the storm of his anger. With a guttural roar that echoed across the arena, Percy unleashed his powers. The sky above New Rome darkened in an instant, heavy clouds rolling in from nowhere, blotting out the sun like a veil drawn by angry gods. Thunder rumbled, deep and ominous, shaking the marble arches of the Colosseum. Rain exploded from the heavens, not a gentle drizzle but a torrential downpour, sheets of water slamming into the sand and turning it into a muddy slurry. Lightning cracked across the sky, jagged bolts illuminating the arena in flashes of brilliant white, one striking so close to the edge of the stands that spectators screamed and recoiled.

The crowd's chants faltered, replaced by gasps of awe and terror. This was no ordinary storm; it was a son of Neptune’s storm, born of his rage, his heritage manifesting in a way New Rome had feared for a long, long time. The rain lashed at faces, soaking togas and armor alike, while lightning danced erratically, illuminating the scene. Senators clutched their seats, augurs muttered frantic prayers, and even the hardened legionaries stared wide-eyed, their shields forgotten. In the Fifth Cohort's section, Lavinia's mouth hung open in sheer astonishment. Troy's face paled, his hazel eyes reflecting the storm's fury as he whispered, “Gods help us, the wolf is out of its cage.” 

Jason's eyes widened, the guilt from his own slip vanishing as the storm hit. He felt the wind shift around him, the air crackling with electricity that resonated with his own divine blood. "Percy, stop!" he shouted over the howling wind, but there was no stopping now. He called upon his own powers, summoning winds that whipped through the arena in opposition to Percy's storm. Gusts howled in defiance, pushing back against the rain, creating swirling vortices of water and air that lifted sand into mini-tornadoes. Lightning from Percy's storm clashed with bolts Jason summoned, the sky igniting in a spectacular duel of thunder and light, each crack echoing like the gods' own war drums.

The sight was apocalyptic, something ripped from the myths of old; two demigods, sons of the sea and sky, wielding the elements in a clash that shook New Rome to its core. No one in the Colosseum, from the lowliest citizen to the highest senator, had ever seen anything like it. The arena had hosted countless battles, but this was divine fury made manifest, a storm of rain and lightning warring against one another. The crowd was in utter awe, eyes wide as they witnessed what felt like the end of the world unfolding before them.

Percy didn't care. The rage had overtaken him fully, the sword's influence fueling his every move. With a feral snarl, he suddenly hurled his shield at Jason like a discus, the scutum spinning through the air with unnatural force, propelled by a gust of water-laden wind. Jason's eyes flashed, and he summoned a burst of air to deflect it, the shield veering off course and slamming into the arena wall with a crack that split the stone. But Percy was already charging, his gladius raised, water swirling around him like a living armor, raindrops hardening into icy shards that pelted toward Jason.

The son of Jupiter met him head-on, his sword crackling with arcs of electricity that sizzled through the rain. Their blades collided in a burst of sparks, the impact sending shockwaves rippling across the muddy arena floor. Percy felt the jolt race up his arm, numbing his fingers, but he pushed through, twisting his gladius in a vicious riposte that forced Jason to leap back. The son of Jupiter landed lightly, winds coiling around his legs like invisible springs, propelling him into the air for a downward strike infused with lightning.

Percy rolled aside just in time, the blade slamming into the sand where he'd stood, discharging a bolt that exploded outward in a web of electric veins. The ground cracked, fissures spidering across the arena floor, and the nearest section of the stands shuddered as the energy arced into the stone, blackening marble and sending spectators scrambling in panic. Screams pierced the storm's howl, but the fight didn't stop. He rose from the mud, his eyes glowing with an unnatural sea-green luminescence, and summoned the arena's hidden waters; the underground aqueducts that fed New Rome's fountains and baths.

With a rough command that echoed like crashing waves, he wrenched the water upward, bursting through the cracked sand in geysers that shot skyward like liquid spears. The arena floor buckled, the foundations groaning as the water eroded the earth beneath, turning solid ground into a quagmire. One geyser erupted beneath Jason, hurling him upward, but the son of Jupiter twisted mid-air, summoning a cyclone to cushion his fall and redirect the water into a swirling vortex. He countered by channeling lightning through the cyclone, electrifying the water into a deadly whirlpool of sparks and steam that hurtled toward Percy.

The Colosseum trembled as the electrified vortex slammed into Percy's hastily raised water barrier, a wall of churning liquid pulled from the storm and the geysers. The two forces collided in a cataclysmic explosion, steam erupting in a scalding cloud that blinded half the arena and scorched the lower stands. Marble cracked under the heat, statues of gods toppling from their pedestals with thunderous crashes, and the crowd's awe turned to outright terror. Senators fled their box, augurs chanted desperate prayers, and legionaries formed hasty shields to protect civilians as debris rained down.

Lost in the frenzy of battlelust, the cousins were deaf to the voice of reason. They knew it was wrong, a reckless endangerment of their people that would surely bring grave consequences. But in that moment, with power coursing like lava through their veins, a deeper, older hunger consumed them. For three long years, this desire had simmered since the day that forged their paths. This was not a rivalry born of hate, but a need to meet as equals, to finally answer the question that had haunted them both. The gathering storm was their crucible, and its fury would be their answer.

Who was truly the strongest?

Percy charged through the steam, his body wreathed in an armor of swirling water that deflected Jason's lightning strikes, each bolt fizzling into harmless sparks upon contact. He closed the distance, his gladius swinging in a brutal overhead arc empowered by a tidal surge that made the blade hit like a crashing wave. Jason met it with his own sword, the clash producing a shockwave that ripped through the air, shattering nearby barriers and sending a section of the arena wall crumbling inward. Dust and stone cascaded into the stands, injuring spectators and causing a stampede in the lower tiers.

Jason retaliated with a blast of wind that lifted Percy off his feet, hurling him toward the collapsing wall. But Percy twisted in mid-air, summoning a fissure of water that sent him flying back in his opponent’s direction. Jason barely flew out of the way before Percy landed like a meteor where he’d just been standing, causing the entire Colosseum to shake violently, arches cracking, the upper levels swaying dangerously as if the structure itself might collapse. The Tiber River, visible in the distance, began to churn unnaturally, its waters rising in sympathy to Percy's call, threatening to flood the valley if the quake intensified.

"Enough!" Jason roared, his voice amplified by thunder, as he summoned a massive lightning bolt from the darkened sky. 

The bolt descended like the wrath of Jupiter himself, a jagged spear of pure energy that illuminated the chaotic arena in blinding white. Jason's eyes blazed with electric fury, his hand extended as he channeled the storm's power, amplifying the bolt with a surge of his own divine essence. The air crackled and ionized around him, the wind howling in obedience to his command. With a fierce gesture, he hurled the amplified lightning directly at Percy, the bolt expanding into a colossal arc that lit up the Colosseum like a second sun, its thunderous boom drowning out the screams of the terrified crowd.

Time seemed to slow as the lightning hurtled toward Percy, the son of Neptune standing defiant in the mud-churned arena. But in that moment, with death staring him straight in the eye, he felt something akin to the Tiber River’s water blessing from earlier. It was like electricity surging through his veins, a primal, deep connection to not only the rain but the lightning. Neptune was the Earthshaker, the Stormbringer, and in that suspended heartbeat, his father's legacy roared to life within him. The crowd held its collective breath, senators frozen in mid-flight, legionaries shielding civilians, all eyes locked on the impending cataclysm.

In absolute awe, Percy raised his bare hand, not out of calculation, but pure instinct. The lightning struck his palm with cataclysmic force, a blinding explosion of light and heat that should have vaporized him on the spot. But instead of consuming him, the bolt halted, coiling around his fingers like a living serpent of plasma. The energy coursed through him, wild and untamed, his body a conduit for the storm's rage. The crowd gasped in unison, a wave of stunned silence rippling through the stands as Percy, with a defiant roar, deflected the bolt. He twisted his wrist, sending the amplified lightning flying sideways, redirecting it into the upper tiers of the Colosseum.

The bolt slammed into the stands with devastating impact, exploding against the marble seats in a shower of shattered stone and crackling energy. Screams erupted as debris rained down, sections of the arena crumbling further, spectators scrambling in panic as the structure groaned under the assault. The First Cohort's banner caught fire, its golden eagle twisting in the flames before toppling over the edge. But he paid no heed to the destruction; his focus was unbreakable, his rage a tempest that drowned out everything else.

His hand, however, told a different story. The skin blistered and charred instantly, the flesh burning severely from the raw power he'd channeled. It seemed he could control the element, but his body lacked the innate resistance Jason possessed, the sky god's son built to wield such forces without harm. Agony shot up Percy's arm like molten lava, his nerves screaming in protest, but he ignored it, clenching his fist through the pain. There was no room for weakness now; the fight wasn't over.

Jason staggered back, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of horror. "What... how?" he muttered, the winds around him faltering as the reality sank in. He'd thrown everything at Percy, amplified by his own power, and yet the son of Neptune stood unbroken, the storm still raging above them. Rain continued to pour, mixing with the blood and mud on Percy's skin, his burnt hand smoking faintly in the downpour.

The son of Jupiter’s own anger began to simmer even greater at the sight of his cousin still able to stand in the face of his unleashed power. The storm above roared louder, as if the heavens themselves were torn between the two demigods, each pulling at the fabric of the sky with their divine lineage. The Colosseum trembled, its ancient stones groaning under the strain of their clash, and the crowd’s panic grew as the arena threatened to collapse entirely.

Seeing that their opponent was still in the fight, the two cousins prepared to charge at one another again, summoning the final vestiges of their divine power, their bodies trembling with the effort to draw on reserves that were nearly depleted. Percy’s burnt hand shook as he gripped his gladius, water swirling around him in a spiraling vortex. Jason’s eyes crackled with electric fury, winds howling around him as he summoned another bolt of lightning, smaller this time but no less deadly, its energy pulsing in his palm like a heartbeat. The air between them vibrated with raw power, the ground quaking as their opposing forces strained against the very fabric of the world. The crowd in the stands tried to run away to safety, but there wouldn’t be any time before the two forces collided. All they could do was hide behind whatever cover was available and pray to the gods.

But before either could unleash their final strike, a deafening crack split the heavens, louder than any thunder they had summoned. The sky itself seemed to tear open, a blinding red light piercing through the storm clouds, bathing the arena in an eerie, blood-hued glow. The ground shuddered violently, not from Percy’s quaking or Jason’s winds, but from something far greater, something ancient and wrathful. Everyone fell silent, their panic giving way to a primal dread as every eye turned skyward.

From the crimson rift in the clouds descended a figure wreathed in fire and shadow, his aura pressing against every soul in the Colosseum. Mars, the god of war, materialized in the arena’s center, his massive form towering over the two demigods. His armor was blackened iron, etched with scars of countless battles, and his eyes burned like molten iron beneath a helm shaped like a snarling wolf. The air grew thick with the scent of blood and ash, and the storm above stilled instantly, the rain halting mid-fall, the lightning frozen in jagged arcs across the sky. Even the Tiber in the distance calmed, its churning waters flattening as if bowing to the god’s will.

“ENOUGH!” Mars’ voice boomed, a sound that shook the Colosseum’s foundations, sending cracks spidering through the already-damaged marble. His gaze swept over Percy and Jason, his eyes narrowing with a fury that made even the sons of Neptune and Jupiter falter. They knelt instinctively, their heads held low in submission. The crowd followed suit, legionaries, senators, augurs, and citizens alike dropping to their knees, thankful for the Father of Rome’s arrival. 

Mars’ gaze burned into Percy and Jason, his molten eyes flickering between them, assessing, judging. The air around him crackled with barely contained violence, as if the god himself were a storm on the verge of erupting. His voice, when he spoke again, was a low growl that reverberated through the arena, each word heavy with divine authority. “You dare defile Dies Probationis with this reckless display? You, sons of the sea and sky, wield powers forbidden in this sacred trial, endangering New Rome itself!”

Percy’s chest heaved, his burnt hand throbbing, but he forced himself to meet Mars’ gaze, the defiance in his sea-green eyes flickering despite the god’s overwhelming presence. Jason, beside him, kept his head bowed but his jaw tight, his own eyes holding a spark of resolve. Neither spoke, their transgression sinking in as the god’s words echoed in the silent Colosseum.

Mars stepped forward, his iron boots sinking into the muddy arena floor, leaving scorched imprints in their wake. He towered over the two demigods, his shadow swallowing them in darkness. “This trial was to test your skill, your discipline, your worth as legionaries of Rome. Instead, you have unleashed chaos, defied the laws of the gods, and brought shame upon your city.” His voice rose, each word a lash. “You have turned a contest of honor into a spectacle of hubris!”

He raised a gauntleted hand, and the air shimmered with heat. “Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, your rage is a tide that drowns reason. You summoned the storm, broke the sacred rules, and endangered your people. And you, Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, your lapse opened this floodgate, your powers a spark to his inferno. Both of you stand guilty in the eyes of Olympus.”

Percy’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to scream that he’d only fought to prove himself, to claim the place New Rome had denied him for so long. But the god’s presence stifled his words, the primal fear of divine retribution rooting him to the spot. Beside him, Jason’s fists clenched, his shoulders rigid, but he too remained silent, accepting the god’s verdict.

Mars’ eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that carried to every corner of the Colosseum. “Yet, I am not without mercy. Your strength, your fire, your will to fight, these are the marks of true warriors. But a warrior without discipline is a blade without a hilt, dangerous to all, including himself.” He paused, his gaze shifting between them, as if weighing their fates. “You will not be disqualified.” He declared, causing the two cousins to let out a small sigh of relief. “But,” he continued, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the cracked marble, “you will face punishment as the Senate and Legion deem fit. Your actions have consequences, and New Rome will judge you for this transgression.”

Percy’s heart pounded, the pain in his burnt hand pulsing in time with his racing thoughts. Punishment. Would it be exile? A quest to atone for their recklessness? Or something worse, something only the Senate’s cold deliberations could devise? He stole a glance at Jason, whose jaw was set, accepting the god’s words with a stoic resolve that Percy couldn’t muster. The son of Neptune’s defiance flickered, but the fire in his chest refused to die, even under Mars’ gaze.

Mars turned his attention to Percy alone, his iron-clad boots grinding the muddy sand as he stepped closer. The god’s shadow swallowed him, and Percy felt the air grow hotter, the scent of ash and blood thickening. “Perseus Jackson,” Mars said loudly, “you have fought with the heart of a warrior, proven your skill against the finest of New Rome. Your victories today are undeniable, your strength a testament to Neptune’s blood. Despite your lapse, you have earned the right to stand among the Legion.” He paused, his eyes narrowing, as if peering into Percy’s very soul. “But no cohort has claimed you. No banner flies for the son of Neptune. Who among you,” he bellowed, turning to face the stands, his voice shaking the Colosseum, “will accept this warrior into your ranks?”

The crowd stirred, murmurs rippling through the stands like waves on a troubled sea. The banners of the cohorts fluttered in the air, but no one spoke. The First Cohort’s section, still seething from the interrupted fight, stood rigid, their loyalty to Jason unwavering. The Second, Third, and Fourth cohorts remained silent, their legionaries exchanging uneasy glances. The stigma of Neptune’s lineage, the fear of his unpredictable power, hung over the arena like a storm cloud that refused to break.

In the senatorial box, Octavius gripped his hands tightly, hoping that, against all odds, the fruits of his dedication would finally bear true, while Livia’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her composure cracking under the strain of Percy’s isolation. Lavinia stood frozen among her cohort. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but hesitated, glancing at her fellow legionaries, who shifted uncomfortably under Mars’ scrutiny. Troy caught Percy’s eye. His face was grim, but he gave a slight nod, a silent urging to hold fast, to endure. Percy swallowed hard, forcing down the rage that threatened to surge again. He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t break. Not now, not after everything.

The silence stretched, unbearable, until a single voice broke through the air.

“I will.”

Every head turned toward the fifth Cohort’s section, where Centurion Anthony stood above the rest, his hand raised high. Lavinia’s head snapped toward him, gratitude filling her features before she turned back to Percy, her signature smirk playing on her lips. 

“The Fifth Cohort claims Perseus Jackson,” Anthony spoke louder. “He has proven his strength, his courage, and his loyalty to New Rome. We would be honored to have him fight under our banner.”

A ripple of shock passed through the stands. The Fifth Cohort, often mocked as the dumping ground for misfits and underdogs, had spoken up where the elite cohorts had not. Whispers broke out, some laced with scorn, others with reluctant admiration. The First Cohort’s section bristled, Pierce’s scowl deepening, but no one dared challenge Mars’s presence.

Mars’s eyes locked onto Anthony, assessing him with the same intensity he’d turned on Percy and Jason. For a moment, the god’s expression was unreadable, his molten gaze flickering like a forge. Then, slowly, he nodded, a gesture that sent a wave of relief through the arena. “So be it,” he declared. “Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, is claimed by the Fifth Cohort. Let no one question his place among you.”

With a final glance that seemed to burn through both demigods, Mars raised his hand. The red light intensified, and in a flash of fire and shadow, he vanished, the storm clouds dissipating as if they’d never been. The Colosseum fell into a stunned silence, the air heavy with the fading scent of ash and ozone. The rain had stopped, the lightning gone, leaving only the churned mud and cracked marble as evidence of the chaos Percy and Jason had unleashed. The crowd remained on edge, their eyes darting between the two demigods still kneeling in the arena’s center.

Percy’s chest heaved, his burnt hand throbbing with a pain that cut through the adrenaline. His gladius, still gripped tightly, felt heavy now, its earlier fire dulled. The rage that had consumed him moments ago ebbed, replaced by a flood of exhaustion that made his limbs tremble. But beneath it, a spark of something else flickered, something bright, warm, and unfamiliar. The Fifth Cohort had claimed him. After three years of training, of fighting to prove he was more than the son of Neptune, more than a curse, he had a place. A banner. A home.

He glanced toward the Fifth Cohort’s section, where Anthony stood tall, his expression resolute despite the murmurs of disbelief from the other cohorts. Lavinia was grinning now, her grey eyes sparkling with pride as she gave Percy a thumbs-up. The realization hit him like a wave crashing against the shore. He’d done it. The grueling hours under Troy’s drills, the endless nights studying New Rome’s laws and history, the constant struggle against the whispers of his lineage, it had all been for this. The Fifth Cohort, the underdogs, the misfits, had seen his worth when no one else would. His heart swelled, a grin breaking across his bloodied, mud-streaked face. He wanted to stand, to raise his sword in triumph, to shout his thanks to Anthony, Lavinia, and every member of the Fifth who’d dared to stand with him.

But his body had other plans. The adrenaline that had kept him upright through the fight, through the storm, through Mars’ wrath, drained away like water through sand. His vision blurred, the edges darkening as the pain in his burnt hand flared brighter, a searing reminder of the lightning he’d dared to wield. His knees buckled, the gladius slipping from his fingers to clatter against the muddy arena floor.

Despite this, he was happy, so happy. The Fifth had claimed him. Three years of sweat, blood, and unrelenting effort had forged this moment. He was one of them now, a legionary of New Rome, no longer an outsider. The thought warmed him, even as the darkness closed in.

“I did it, Mother Lupa,” he whispered one last time before succumbing to the darkness. 

“I did it.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Atonement in Gold 

The world was a haze of shadow and mist when Percy’s consciousness stirred, the arena’s roar fading into an eerie silence. His body felt weightless, as if he were floating in the depths of the sea, the pain in his burnt hand and his entire body gone as if he hadn’t fought five legionaries in a row. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of earth, and the ground beneath him was no longer the churned mud of the Colosseum but a smooth, polished stone that gleamed faintly under a starless sky. He blinked, his vision clearing, and found himself standing in a vast, circular chamber, its walls adorned with intricate mosaics depicting battles and triumphs of a Rome long past. Torches flickered along the perimeter, their flames casting dancing shadows. 

Before him, through the mist, stood a figure, tall and imposing, clad in golden armor that shimmered as if forged from sunlight itself. His helmet was crested with a blazing sun, its rays glinting like molten fire, and his face was obscured by a golden mask that left only his piercing eyes visible. He looked more like the god Apollo than a man. The son of Neptune stood straighter, his instincts on edge, the ring on his finger pulsing faintly as if reacting to the figure’s aura. That told him all he needed to know. Whoever this was before him was a previous ring bearer.

“You’ve made quite the spectacle,” the man spoke, his words echoing through the chamber, tinged with both approval and admonition. “Rome will not soon forget the storm you unleashed, nor the defiance that drove it.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed as he studied the figure. “Who are you?” he asked. “Another emperor? Another cryptic guide here to tell me I screwed up?”

The figure’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it was hidden behind the mask. “I am Aurelian, Restorer of the World, Emperor of Rome in an age when the empire bled and faltered.” He stepped closer, his armored boots silent against the marble, the sun-crested helmet catching the torchlight. “I am no mere guide, son of Neptune. I am a shadow of Rome’s glory, bound to the ring you wear, called forth by its power and the fire in your soul.”

Percy’s fingers brushed the ring, its warmth flaring. “Julius, Marcus, and Augustus, they’ve shown up before, spouting riddles about my destiny. So why are you here now? Why have you never shown up before?” 

The emperor removed his helmet with a deliberate motion, revealing a face etched with the lines of hard-won battles: strong jaw, sharp features, and hair cropped short in the Roman style. His eyes, a piercing hazel, fixed on Percy with an intensity similar to that of Mars. “We who once wielded the ring do not appear at random. We are echoes, summoned when your actions mirror the trials we faced in our lifetimes. The ring calls us forth to guide, to warn, to remind you of the path that lies ahead."

The demigod frowned, beginning to connect the puzzle. “So, Julius showed up when I started for New Rome, talking about conquest and standing alone. Marcus showed up before I had to kill that cop monster in the forest, talking about how the ring holds a burden, a curse. And Augustus showed up before Dies Probationis, going on about leadership and enduring tests. And now you... because of what? The fight with Jason?"

Aurelian's nod was solemn. "Precisely. Your rage in that arena, the unbridled fury that shattered the rules, unleashed the storm, and nearly brought the Colosseum crumbling down, echoes my own. In my time, the empire teetered on the brink of oblivion. Barbarians ravaged the borders, usurpers fractured the legions, and the very heart of Rome bled from within. The Palmyrene Empire in the East and the Gallic secession in the West had carved away vast swaths of territory. I stood amid the ruins of what was once unbreakable, my blood boiling with a rage that could have drowned the world. It was that same fury that drove me to reclaim it all, to march my armies across deserts and mountains, to crush Zenobia's rebellion, to reunite the fractured realms under Rome's eagle. I restored the world, as they called me, but it began with rage. The same rage I see in you.” 

Percy felt a chill run down his spine, the parallels not lost to him. His outburst against Jason hadn't just been about the foul or the exhaustion; it was years of being the outsider, the "sea-spawn" no one trusted, boiling over in a storm of power he couldn't contain. "I didn't mean to... I mean, I did, but not like that. The ring, it fed into it, made it stronger. But if your rage saved the empire, why does it feel like mine almost destroyed everything?"

"Because, like Marcus said, the ring is both a gift and a curse. A double-edged blade that nearly consumed me. That led to purges and battles that soaked the earth in blood. But I learned to harness it, to forge it into purpose. Yours today was raw, unchecked, much like mine when I first took the throne. The ring amplified it, yes, drawing on the echoes of emperors past. That's why I appear now: to warn you that such fury, if not mastered, will drown not just your enemies, but your allies, your city, yourself. New Rome stands on the edge of its own fractures, the cohorts divided, the gods watching with bated breath. Your place in the Fifth is a beginning, but rage alone won't hold it together. Temper it with wisdom, as I did, or it will be your undoing."

Percy absorbed the words, the mist around them shifting as if responding to the emperor's tale. He glanced down at the ring, its golden surface now cooling, as if listening to the emperor’s words. "So, what now? You gonna tell me how to 'temper' it before I flood the whole valley next time?"

Aurelian's faint smile returned, though it held an edge of steel. "Advice is earned, not given freely. But heed this: the shadows you sense, the laugh in your dreams, the stirring omens, they are tied to Rome's past as much as its future. My era saw the empire nearly lost to chaos; yours may face something similar. Seek allies throughout the legion, those who understand the fire in your veins. Lavinia, Lucius, even that Centurion Anthony, they see the warrior, not the curse. And when the rage rises again, remember: I restored the world not by destroying it, but by rebuilding what was broken."

The chamber began to fade, the mosaics blurring into swirling mist, the torches dimming to embers. Aurelian's form grew translucent, his voice echoing as he dissolved into the ether. "We will meet again, Perseus, when your path mirrors mine once more. Until then, endure. Restore what is fractured in yourself, and in Rome."

The vision shattered like glass, and Percy jolted awake, gasping for air. He was no longer in the arena but in a dimly lit room, the scent of herbs and ambrosia heavy in the air. Soft bandages wrapped his burnt hand, a cool salve soothing the pain that had been agonizing moments—or had it been hours, days?—ago. He lay on a bed in what looked like one of the infirmaries in the city, the walls lined with shelves of nectar, ambrosia, and other medical supplies, a statue of Apollo watching over the space with a serene gaze.

Voices murmured nearby, and Percy turned his head to see a doctor talking to a person he couldn’t quite see, huddled by the entrance door. He could hear the worry in their voice, but the older doctor kept reassuring them, saying that everything would be alright now that the worst was over. As his vision cleared, he caught sight of the doctor’s features: golden hair that seemed to shimmer faintly in the lamplight, sharp blue eyes that held a spark of divine clarity, and a face that radiated both authority and compassion. It was Cale Camren, a middle-aged son of Apollo, the head healer of New Rome’s hospital. Percy had seen him countless times over the years, usually after one of Troy’s brutal training sessions left him battered and bruised. He had patched him up after sprained wrists, gashed forearms, and once, a particularly nasty concussion from a shield bash gone wrong. The healer’s hands moved with practiced precision, adjusting the bandages on his burnt hand, his touch light. 

“You’re awake,” Cale said, carrying a mix of relief and mild reproach as he noticed Percy’s eyes open. “Good. I was starting to think you’d sleep through the Senate’s verdict.” He stepped closer, his hazel eyes scanning Percy with a clinical intensity that softened into a wry smile. “You’ve got a knack for making my job harder, boy. Channeling lightning? Really? Most people would’ve been ash after that stunt.”

The son of Neptune managed a weak grin, his voice hoarse as he replied, “Yeah, well, I’m not most people.” The words came out rougher than he intended, his throat dry and scratchy from the ordeal. He shifted slightly on the bed, wincing as the movement sent a dull ache through his body, though the salve on his burnt hand dulled the worst of the pain. The room was quiet now, save for the faint clinking of Cale’s tools as he set them aside and the distant murmur of voices from beyond the infirmary door.

Cale raised an eyebrow, his smile twitching with amusement. “Understatement of the century. You and that cousin of yours turned the Colosseum into a war zone. I’ve got over a hundred people in here with injuries from flying debris and a dozen legionaries who got hurt escorting citizens out of the area. You’re lucky Mars didn’t smite you both on the spot.”

Percy’s grin faded, his mind flashing back to the fight: the storm, the lightning, the crumbling marble, the terrified faces in the stands. The memory of his rage, the way the ring had amplified it, sent a chill through him. He’d lost control, let the sea in his blood take over, and it had nearly cost New Rome everything. The thought of injured citizens, of legionaries hurt because of his actions, twisted his gut. He glanced at his bandaged hand, the faint throb beneath the salve a reminder of the lightning he’d dared to wield. “How bad is it?” he asked quietly, barely above a whisper. “The damage, I mean. The people.”

Cale’s expression softened. “No fatalities, thank the gods. Mostly cuts and bruises from the debris, broken bones from the stampede. The Colosseum is in rough shape and will need repairs, but we’re Romans. Building is in our blood. The Senate’s not thrilled, and the augurs are muttering about omens again.” He paused, folding his arms. “You and Jason stirred up quite a mess, Percy. A spectacle like that doesn’t just fade away. They’re calling it Dies Irae now.”

“The Day of Wrath,” Percy echoed idly, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh. He pushed himself up slightly, ignoring the ache in his muscles, his sea-green eyes searching the healer’s face for more answers. “What about Jason? Is he… okay?”

Cale nodded, setting down a vial of nectar he’d been preparing. “He’s fine. Banged up, like you, but he walked out of the arena on his own. He’s in another room, getting patched up by one of my apprentices. The boy’s tougher than he looks, though I’d wager he’s feeling the Senate’s wrath as much as you will.” He gave Percy a pointed look, his tone dry. “You two didn’t just break the rules; you rewrote the rulebook and set it on fire.”

Percy let out a shaky laugh, though it lacked humor. “Yeah, sounds about right.” He glanced at the door, where the murmur of voices grew louder, as if someone was arguing just beyond the threshold. “What’s the Senate saying? About me, about Jason, about… all of this?”

Cale’s expression darkened, and he leaned back against a nearby table, crossing his arms. “They’re in an uproar, as you’d expect. The First Cohort’s screaming for Jason to be let off, claiming his slip was an accident, while the Fifth is pushing for you to be recognized as a full-on legionary despite the tradition of new recruits being a Probatio first. They say your display of power earned that right, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up too much on that. The other cohorts are split; some want you both punished for endangering the city, others think you’re both too valuable to cast aside. The augurs aren’t helping; they’re reading omens in every crack in the Colosseum’s walls, muttering about Neptune and Jupiter clashing like it’s the end of days.” He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got a talent for stirring things up, kid.”

Percy’s fingers brushed the ring. Aurelian’s words echoed in his mind: temper the rage, forge it into purpose. He wanted to believe he could, but after that fight, it would definitely have to be an ongoing process. “What kind of punishment are we looking at?” he asked, bracing for the worst.

The doctor shrugged, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. “That’s for the Senate to decide. Could be anything from a public reprimand to a quest to atone for your… spectacle. Mars himself said you’d face consequences, so they’ll want to make an example of you both. But,” he added, his tone softening, “you’re in the Fifth Cohort now. Anthony’s claim wasn’t just talk. He and Lavinia are out there right now, arguing your case to anyone who’ll listen. You’ve got people in your corner, kid. Don’t forget that.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. He did have people in his corner, a small group, but he’d take what he could get. He would eventually have to expand that circle per Aurelian’s wisdom, but for now, it would have to do. “Thanks, Cale. For patching me up, and… for not sugarcoating it.”

The healer snorted, pushing off the table to grab a clean cloth. “Sugarcoating’s not my style. You’re part of the legion now; you can handle the truth.” He paused, glancing at the door as the voices beyond grew more insistent. “Sounds like your welcoming committee’s here. Try not to start another storm, yeah?”

Before Percy could respond, the door swung open, and Lavinia strode in, her grey eyes blazing with her usual fire. Behind her came Anthony, his broad frame filling the doorway, his expression a mix of pride and exasperation. Lucius trailed them, a grin spreading across his face as he caught sight of his friend awake.

“Look who’s not dead!” Lavinia exclaimed, her smirk wide as she crossed the room in a few quick strides. She stopped at the foot of his bed, hands on her hips. “You scared the shit out of us. Passing out after Mars shows up? Dramatic much?”

Percy managed a weak grin, pushing himself up further despite the protest of his sore muscles. “Had to make an exit, right? Couldn’t let Jason steal the show.”

Lucius laughed, leaning against the wall. “You gave him a run for his money, Perce. I’ve never seen the Colosseum shake like that. You and Grace turned it into a gods-damned myth.”

Anthony stepped forward, his presence commanding the room despite the casual way he leaned against the bedframe. “You’re a piece of work, Jackson,” he said. “That stunt you pulled out there? Nearly brought the Colosseum down, scared the Senate into thinking Neptune himself was about to flood the city. But you fought like a true Roman. The Fifth’s proud to have you, even if you’re going to give me gray hairs before I’m twenty-five.”

“Thanks, Anthony,” he replied, knowing that the fifth’s claim over him was more than just a lifeline; it was a declaration, a defiance of New Rome’s prejudice against him. It took guts to do such a thing. “I didn’t think anyone would… you know, after everything.”

Lavinia snorted, hopping onto the edge of his bed next to him. “Oh, please. I told Anthony you were worth the risk.” Her features softened, her grey eyes glinting with something closer to affection. “Took some convincing, but he listened.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. “Convincing? You practically held a gladius to my throat, Lavinia.” His tone was dry, but a faint smile tugged at his lips, betraying his amusement. “But she’s right. I’ve been watching you since you stumbled into New Rome, covered in blood and monster guts. You’ve got fire, Percy. The kind the Fifth needs. The kind Rome needs, even if they don’t see it yet.”

Percy’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something, to thank them properly, but the words caught in his chest. Instead, he looked down at his bandaged hand. “Why didn’t you claim me sooner?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. His sea-green eyes flicked up to meet Anthony’s, searching for an answer. “After Lucius, or Skylar, or even Bryce. You could’ve stepped in then. We could’ve avoided…” He gestured vaguely. “All of this. The city almost got wrecked because I lost it.”

Anthony’s expression grew serious, his dark eyes holding Percy’s gaze with an intensity that reminded him of Octavius. He stepped closer and leaned down slightly, his words low and firm. “I wanted to claim you after Lucius,” he admitted. “Hell, I wanted to claim you the moment you walked through the gates three years ago, ring on your finger, Lupa’s mark on your soul. But wanting and doing are two different things in New Rome.” He straightened, glancing at his comrades before continuing. “The Fifth Cohort’s not exactly the Senate’s darling. We’re the underdogs, the ones they stick with the misfits and the troublemakers. If I’d claimed you too soon, before you showed the entire city what you’re made of, they’d have written you off as another reject. You needed to prove yourself, not just to me, not just to the Fifth, but to every cohort, every senator, every gods-damned person in those stands.”

Percy’s brow furrowed, his fingers curling into the sheets. “Prove myself? I fought four legionaries, beat them all, and still no one stepped up until after Mars showed up. What more did I need to do?”

Anthony’s lips twitched into a wry smile, but there was no humor in it. “You’re a son of Neptune. New Rome’s built on order, on control, and you… you’re the opposite of that. You’re a storm waiting to happen, and they saw it today. You had to stand in that arena, take on the best of the legion, and still be standing when the dust settled. You did that. You faced Lucius, Skylar, Bryce, Jacob, and Jason Grace himself, and you didn’t just survive; you dominated. That’s why I waited. Not because I doubted you, but because Rome needed to see you for what you are: a warrior they can’t ignore.”

Lavinia nodded, her smirk returning. “He’s not wrong. The Senate, the First Cohort, they were all waiting for you to crash and burn. They wanted an excuse to keep you out, to say a son of Neptune doesn’t belong. You didn’t give them that. You gave them a show they’ll be talking about for generations.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think Anthony was holding out to see if you’d take down Grace. That was the real test.”

“So basically, it all came down to politics?” Percy deadpanned.

“Politics is New Rome’s lifeblood, kid,” Anthony shrugged, not looking the least bit apologetic. “You don’t survive in this city without playing the game, even if you’re swinging a sword instead of a pen. The Senate, the cohorts, the augurs; they all watch for leverage, for power. You just gave them a whole lot to chew on.”

Percy leaned back against the pillows. Politics. Power. Authority. That’s what truly mattered in this city. It was how you made a name for yourself. How you not only survived but thrived. He had a long way to go if he wanted to obtain those three things. The ring on his finger pulsed faintly, as if reminding him of the emperor’s words: Temper it with wisdom, or it will be your undoing. He glanced at Lavinia, who was still perched on the edge of his bed. “So, what now? Mars said there’d be consequences. The Senate’s not just gonna let me and Jason walk away after… that.” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if the storm he’d unleashed still lingered above.

Before an answer could come, the door swung open again, and another familiar face filled the room. Octavius entered, his toga pristine despite the chaos that had unfolded in the Colosseum, his expression a carefully controlled mask of authority. Livia followed closely behind, her eyes softening with relief as they landed on Percy, though her hands were clasped tightly, betraying her lingering worry. The room seemed to shrink under his presence, his stature and reputation commanding immediate attention. Even Anthony straightened slightly, and Lavinia hopped off the bed, giving a respectful nod.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, slightly tapping the son of Neptune’s foot. Eventually, however, his mask came off, and a smile slowly adorned his face. “You’ve caused quite the stir.”

Percy swallowed, pushing himself up straighter. “I didn’t mean to, well, I mean, I did, but not…” He trailed off, the words tangling in his exhaustion. “I just wanted to prove I belonged.”

“You’ve proven that and more, my boy. The Fifth Cohort’s claim is a testament to your strength, but your actions today have rippled far beyond the arena. You and Jason Grace have forced New Rome to confront its fears and its future in a way it hasn’t in generations.”

Percy’s gaze flicked between him and Livia, then to Anthony and Lavinia, who stood silently, watching the exchange. “So, what’s the punishment?” he asked, hoping to finally get an answer to the question that had been floating around his head since waking up. “I assume you’re here to tell me?”

Octavius exchanged a glance with Anthony, a silent communication that Percy couldn’t quite read. The senator’s expression hardened slightly, as if weighing how much to reveal. “The Senate is still deliberating,” he said finally. “Your display, and Jason’s, broke sacred rules. The augurs are pushing for a severe penalty; some are calling for exile, though I doubt it will come to that. Others, including myself, argue that your potential outweighs your recklessness. The Fifth’s claim strengthens that case, but the decision rests with the praetors and the Senate majority.”

Anthony nodded, stepping forward. “I’ve been in those chambers since you passed out, Jackson. The First is fighting tooth and nail for Jason, saying his slip was an accident, a reflex. They’re not wrong, but it doesn’t erase the fact that you both almost destroyed the Colosseum and almost killed innocent people. The Senate’s split; some want you to be sent on a quest to atone, something dangerous enough to prove your loyalty. Others want you stripped of your Probatio rank and barred from the legion entirely. But,” he added, his tone firm, “the Fifth won’t let that happen. You’re one of us now, and we protect our own.”

Percy’s lips twitched into a faint smile, happy to have some friends in his corner. But the thought of his punishment quickly wiped his face clean. A quest. Exile. Stripped of rank. Each possibility made his heart skip a beat. “What about Jason?” he asked again. “He’s the golden boy. They’re not gonna punish him as hard, are they?”

Octavius’s eyes narrowed. “His lapse is being framed as a momentary error, but even he cannot escape unscathed. The Senate knows that letting one of you off lightly while punishing the other would fracture the legion’s unity. Whatever punishment they devise, it will likely bind you both, a shared consequence to quell the unrest between the cohorts.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. Bound to Jason. He couldn’t say he liked the idea, not because he hated the son of Jupiter, though their rivalry was far from resolved, but because it meant his fate was tied to someone who’d always been New Rome’s favorite.

Before he could reply, a sharp knock echoed from the door, and a legionary in polished armor stepped inside, his face grim. “Centurion Anthony, Senator Octavius,” he said, saluting. “The Senate has reached a decision. They request the presence of Perseus Jackson and Jason Grace in the Senate House immediately.”

The room fell silent, everyone immediately on edge. Anthony’s expression hardened, and he gave his new recruit a curt nod. “Time to face the music, kid.”

Lucius clapped him on the forearm, careful to avoid his bandaged hand. “You’ve got this, Perce.”

Percy managed a grin, though his stomach churned with nerves. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the ache in his muscles as he stood. Octavius led the way, his toga sweeping behind him as the group exited the infirmary. Livia stayed close to him, her presence a quiet reassurance as they stepped into the bustling streets of New Rome. The city was alive with whispers, citizens pausing to stare as they passed, their eyes lingering on Percy. He could see the Colosseum in the distance, its damaged structure clearly visible over the other buildings around. Banners still fluttered in the breeze, though the crowds had thinned; many likely gathered at the Senate House to hear the verdict.

As they approached the Senate House, Percy’s heart pounded, realizing his fate was once again hanging in the balance. The marble columns gleamed in the late afternoon sun, and the legionaries guarding the entrance stood straighter as they approached. The double doors were already open, revealing a chamber packed with senators, augurs, cohort representatives, and citizens lucky enough to witness from inside. The air buzzed with electric tension, every eye turning to the son of Neptune as he stepped inside, his companions fanning out behind him.

Jason was already there, standing near the central dais, his armor replaced by simple jeans and a purple shirt. His face was bruised, his blond hair disheveled, but his posture was as rigid as ever, his blue eyes meeting Percy’s with a nod that carried no hostility, only acknowledgment. Whatever punishment awaited, they’d face it together.

Praetor Titus stood at the front, his purple cloak draped over his shoulders, his expression as stern as ever. Praetor Julia stood beside him, looking surprisingly stern as well. He supposed even she would feel angry at the mess they’d caused. The senators sat in their tiered benches, their togas pristine, their faces all impassive as they stared down at the two demigods. 

Titus raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that rippled through the chamber. “Perseus Jackson, son of Neptune, and Jason Grace, son of Jupiter,” he began, his voice carrying to every corner of the Senate House. “You stand before the Senate of New Rome, accused of defiling the sacred tradition of Dies Probationis. Your reckless use of divine powers endangered the city, damaged the Colosseum, and injured its citizens. The gods themselves, through Mars, have declared your guilt. Yet, your strength and valor cannot be denied. The Fifth Cohort has claimed Perseus, and the First Cohort stands by Jason. The question now is how New Rome shall address your transgression.”

Julia was the next to speak. “The Senate has deliberated long and fiercely. Some call for exile, others for leniency, citing your potential as warriors of Rome. Mars himself spared you from immediate judgment, a mercy not lightly given. After much debate, we have reached a verdict.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over Percy and Jason, then to the assembled senators. “You will not be stripped of your places in the legion, nor will you be exiled. But your actions demand atonement, a task to prove your loyalty and discipline to New Rome and the gods.”

Percy’s heart thudded, his bandaged hand flexing instinctively. Atonement. A quest. He’d heard stories of such punishments; missions to slay monsters, retrieve artifacts, or face dangers that tested the very soul. He glanced at Jason, whose eyes were fixed on the praetors, ready to accept whatever came.

“You will embark on a quest to find lost imperial gold.” 

Percy and Jason sideeyed each other for a moment, expecting something a little more dangerous. But they quickly put their attention back on Julia, who continued to issue her proclamation. “The imperial gold you will seek is no ordinary treasure. It is a sacred reserve, forged in the heart of ancient Rome and blessed by the gods themselves. This gold, stored in the vaults of New Rome, was stolen three months ago by forces unknown, a theft that has weakened our city’s defenses and insulted the divine favor that protects us. The augurs have divined that it lies hidden in the northern forests of Washington, in a place shrouded by shadow and guarded by forces both mortal and monstrous.”

Titus stepped forward, his stern gaze sweeping over Percy and Jason. “This theft was no mere act of greed. The augurs speak of a growing darkness, a force that seeks to destabilize New Rome and unravel the legacy of Olympus itself. The omens are unclear, but they point to a power tied to the old enemies of the gods, to enemies long thought vanquished. You, Perseus Jackson, and you, Jason Grace, will retrieve this gold and uncover the truth behind its theft. You will restore what was taken and prove your worth to New Rome, or you will fall in the attempt.”

Percy’s mind raced. Old enemies of the gods?  The laugh from his nightmares, the cryptic warnings of Julius, Marcus, Augustus, and now Aurelian; they all pointed to something larger, something ancient stirring in the shadows. Whatever or whoever had stolen the imperial gold had to be connected somehow. He glanced at Jason, noticing the slight clench of his jaw and tense shoulders, a sign that even the golden boy of New Rome felt the pressure of this quest. 

“Do you two swear by New Rome and the gods to undertake this quest, to retrieve the lost imperial gold, and to uncover the truth behind its theft, no matter the cost?” Julia asked, her gaze locking onto the two boys with an intensity that demanded their full commitment.

Percy straightened his sea-green eyes meeting the Praetors. “I swear,” he said, the words echoing throughout the chamber. 

“I swear,” Jason echoed, though Percy was able to catch a flicker of unease in his tone, a shadow of the same uncertainty he felt. Whatever rivalry lingered between them, this quest would force them to work as one, their fates intertwined by the Senate’s verdict.

The Praetors nodded, their expressions softening just a fraction. “Very well. You will depart at dawn tomorrow. The augurs will provide what guidance they can, and the Fifth and First Cohorts will equip you with what you need for the journey. You will report to Centurion Anthony and Centurion Miller for final preparations. But remember this. The gods and Rome are watching. Do not mistake their mercy for leniency. Fail, and the consequences will be far greater than any storm you two can unleash.

The chamber buzzed with murmurs as the senators and onlookers processed the verdict. Percy could tell everyone was apprehensive about letting them take on such a quest, especially him, a Probatio barely in the legion for a day. He glanced up at Octavius, who sat above the rest of the senators, his face impassive, but his slight nod told him that he believed in him. This is what he’d been training for. This is why, for the past three years, he’d been put through the most rigorous obstacles. It was time to live up to expectations. 

“This session is concluded. Perseus Jackson and Jason Grace, you are dismissed to prepare for your quest. May the gods guide your path and strengthen your resolve.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: A Quest, a Faun, and a Shaky Start

Camp Jupiter was different compared to New Rome. Percy knew that was an obvious statement, but it didn’t truly hit him until he, along with Anthony, Lucius, and Lavinia, made their way from the Senate House toward the barracks of Camp Jupiter, where the cohorts were headquartered. New Rome was all polished marble, bustling streets, and towering buildings, a city that breathed history and power, its every corner steeped in legacy. Camp Jupiter, by contrast, was a fortress of discipline and purpose, its layout precise and utilitarian. The barracks were arranged in a strict grid, each cohort’s quarters marked by their banners fluttering above sturdy stone buildings. The air here smelled of leather, metal, and sweat, vastly different from the incense and flowers he had grown accustomed to in the villa. 

His legs still ached as they walked across the camp, his bandaged hand still throbbing faintly, but he kept pace with the others as they led him toward his new home. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Senate’s verdict or the quest for the lost imperial gold, yet despite that, he was excited. Excited to finally be a part of something, to have friends, to have a place he could truly call home. Anthony walked at the front, his broad shoulders squared, his centurion’s crest glinting on his helmet tucked underneath his arm as he occasionally glanced back to check on him. 

“You’re gonna love the barracks,” Lavinia said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “It’s not exactly Octavius’s villa, but it’s home.”

“Smells like sweat and unwashed socks,” Lucius quipped, waving at a friend passing by. “But you get used to it.”

“That’s just character,” the daughter of Minerva replied with a huff. “Not like those First Cohort snobs with their polished marble floors.”

“Careful,” Anthony chuckled. “The First is already on edge. They’ll have your head for that kind of talk, especially after today.”

Both legionaries shrugged, undeterred. “Let ‘em try. Percy took their golden boy to the limit. That’s worth a few dirty looks.”

The son of Neptune managed a faint smile, but he wasn’t really paying attention to the bickering. Instead, he was trying to survey every single inch of the camp, etching every single building, every pathway, every statue, and every banner into his memory. A habit born of Octavius’s consistent quizzes and tests. The Fifth Cohort’s barracks stood at the edge of the camp, a modest stone structure compared to the grander quarters of the First and Second Cohorts. Its walls were weathered, marked by years of training and the occasional prank from the other cohorts, but there was a rugged pride in its simplicity. Their unadorned banner fluttered above the roof, its fabric catching the evening sun. It wasn’t as grand as the others, but to Percy, it was the most beautiful sight in the camp.

“Look who it is!” A voice called out from their left, causing their heads to turn. “Surprised they even let you in here after the stunt you pulled.” 

Percy bit the inside of his cheek once he noticed it was Pierce Miller who stood at the entrance door of his own barracks, flanked by his legionaries who simply watched them stride past. He kept his gaze forward,  refusing to give the First Cohort centurion the satisfaction of a reaction. Lavinia, however, had no such restraint. She spun on her heel, her grey eyes flashing as she jabbed a finger toward Pierce. “Keep talking, Miller. Your golden boy didn’t exactly walk away unscathed, did he? 

Pierce’s scowl deepened, his purple eyes glinting with barely contained anger. “Watch your tongue. The Fifth might’ve claimed Jackson, but he’s still a walking disaster. Don’t think this quest will make him a hero. Jason’s gonna have to be the one to pick up the slack.” 

Lavinia clicked her tongue, giving an exasperated wave of her hand as they all continued their way toward their own barracks. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered, mostly to herself, but Percy picked up on it. He couldn’t help the smile that split across his face. He was glad to have a friend like her, even if she was a little too fiery for her own good. Anthony placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her forward before a fight could break out. 

They reached the barracks where they stopped just before the door, Anthony turning back to look at the son of Neptune. “Ready to see your new home?” 

Percy nodded, his throat tight with a mix of exhaustion and anticipation. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, its hinges creaking, and gestured for him to step inside. Lavinia gave him a playful shove, forcing him inside where his senses were immediately overwhelmed by the cacophony of noise, smells, and plain chaos. The large, open common room was packed with legionaries, all of whom were in a state of disarray, some plantless, some shirtless, and some just openly nude. Tables were pushed together, littered with bottles of alcohol and platters of food, with a makeshift banner across the rafters, scrawled with the words “Welcome, Sea-Spawn!” in bold, messy letters, dripping with red paint that looked unsettlingly like blood at first glance.

Legionaries danced on tables, their feet stomping to the rhythm of music playing from a loudspeaker sitting in a corner. Others were engaged in wrestling matches, their cheers erupting as one slammed another into a table, breaking it. A group near the back was chanting, egging on a familiar figure who stood atop a table, juggling three jugs of Kool-Aid with surprising speed. It was Dakota, his lips still stained red, his lanky frame swaying slightly as he tossed the jugs higher, grinning like a madman. The crowd around him roared with approval, some splashing their own drinks in encouragement, the red liquid sloshing onto the floor. 

“Percy!” The son of Bacchus spotted him and nearly dropped a jug, catching it at the last second to a chorus of jeers and laughter. “The man of the hour! Get over here, you storm-brewing lunatic!” He leaped off the table, landing with a stumble that sent more Kool-Aid splashing, and jogged over, his grin wide and infectious. “We made it! Fifth Cohort, baby! We’re gonna make history with you!”

Percy couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in his chest easing at the sight of his new friend. This energy wasn’t something he had expected to feel after what had occurred in the Senate, but he was happy nonetheless. Lavinia shoved him, leaning closer to his ear. “Told you it’s home,” she said, her voice barely audible over the din. “These idiots are your family now. Good luck.”

Anthony clapped a hand on Percy’s shoulder before moving a table to the center of the room, climbing atop it. He let out a single, sharp whistle, commanding the attention of everyone present. The music cut off abruptly, the wrestling matches paused, and even Dakota stopped drinking, setting the Kool-Aid jugs down with a sheepish grin. The Fifth turned toward their centurion, their faces alight with excitement. 

“Alright, settle down, you crazy bastards,” he began with a laugh. “I know we all want to have fun, but I think it’s time we officially welcome the new faces in our ranks.” 

A cheer rang out through the air, with multiple hands clasping Percy’s back and ruffling his hair. 

“With that being said, I’d like to welcome Dakota, son of Bacchus, Gwen, daughter of Ceres, and Percy, son of Neptune, into our cohort! 

The room erupted in cheers once more, the sound crashing over the building like a wave. Legionaries swarmed around him, Dakota, and Gwen, their hands clapping shoulders, ruffling hair, and shoving cups of both alcohol and suspiciously red liquid into their hands. Percy couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, feeling for the first time since stepping into the Colosseum like he could finally breathe. 

Anthony raised his hands, calling for quiet again, though his grin betrayed his own excitement. “You three,” he said, pointing at them, “have just joined the most stubborn, scrappy, and downright insane cohort in the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. The Fifth doesn’t get the glory, the gold, or the fancy banners, but we’ve got heart, and we’ve got each other. You proved yourselves out there today. Dakota, with that ridiculous shield work; Gwen, with a spear like Ceres herself; and Percy…” He paused, his dark eyes locking onto the son of Neptune. “Well, you managed not to drown us all, so good job on that.” 

Laughter and cheers erupted again, louder this time, and Percy felt his face heat up, a grin tugging at his lips. Dakota slung an arm around his shoulders, sloshing Kool-Aid onto his already-stained shirt. “To the storm-bringer!” he shouted, raising his cup, and the cohort echoed him, their voices shaking the rafters. Gwen, standing a little to the side, gave a shy smile as legionaries clapped her on the back. She looked overwhelmed but happy, her green eyes glinting with quiet pride.

The party continued well into the night, much to the displeasure of the other cohorts, who had to endure the raucous noise. As the night wore on, Percy found a quiet moment to slip away from the crowd, stepping outside the barracks to catch his breath. The cool night air was a stark contrast to the stuffy, sweat-soaked warmth inside, and the stars above Camp Jupiter glittered in a sky now clear. He sat down on the stairs and let his gaze drift to the city off in the distance.

It was nice to be alone for a bit, to catch his breath. The events of the last few hours felt like a lifetime packed in a single day, and he wanted nothing more than to go to bed. He knew, however, that tomorrow would bring even more chaos. He almost couldn’t believe that he was going on a quest after just joining the legion. As a Probatio no less. Who in their right mind would send him on an important quest like finding stolen imperial gold? 

The creak of the barracks door broke his thoughts, and he turned to see Lavinia stepping out, her silhouette framed by the warm light spilling from inside. “What are you doing out here?” She asked, plopping down beside him on the steps. 

“Just…thinking,” he replied, looking back up to the stars. 

“Thinking, huh?” She leaned back, propping herself on her elbows, her grey eyes glinting under the starlight. “About what?”

“Just trying to wrap my head around it all,” he admitted quieter than he intended. “One minute, I’m fighting for my place in the legion. Next, I’m sworn to a quest with Jason Grace to chase stolen gold in some creepy forest. Who in their right mind would send me on a quest when there’s plenty of qualified legionaries out there?” 

Lavinia snorted, kicking a pebble across the dirt path. “You’re not freaking out about the quest, are you? Because if you are, I’m gonna have to give you the ‘Fifth Cohort doesn’t quit’ speech, and I’m not drunk enough for that yet.”

He managed a small grin, his fingers brushing against the ring. “I mean, wouldn’t you if you were in my shoes?” 

“I wouldn’t know how I’d react,” she admitted with a shrug. “I’ve never been on a quest.”

Percy craned his head at her, slightly hitting her upside the shoulder. “Is that a little bit of jealousy in your voice?” 

Lavinia laughed, swatting his hand away with a mock scowl, though she couldn’t hide the way her eyes gazed up longingly. “Please, your quest is lame. If I’m ever sent on one, it’ll be something epic. Not a scavenger hunt.” She sighed to herself, looking back at the door when there was a particularly loud crash from within. “But yeah, maybe a tiny bit. I mean…isn’t that why we joined the legion? Why we train every day? Some people stay in the legion for over twenty years just to get a chance for a quest and make a name for themselves, and then here comes along this twelve-year-old son of Neptune, barely in the legion for a day, and he gets one with the son of Jupiter, for gods sake.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure this quest is the Senate’s way of saying, ‘Go die in a forest so we don’t have to deal with you.’”

She laughed, nudging him with her shoulder. “You’re not wrong. But you’re also not just some random Probatio, Percy. You’re the guy who made the Colosseum shake, who stared down Mars and lived to tell about it. If anyone’s gonna come back from this quest with imperial gold and a few monster heads to spare, it’s you. And Jason, I guess,” she added with a playful roll of her eyes.

He leaned back, resting his hands behind him on the cool stone steps. “You really think I can pull this off? I mean, it’s me and Jason, the guy who’s basically New Rome’s poster boy. What if we end up tearing each other apart again before we even find the gold?”

Lavinia tilted her head, her expression softening as she studied him. “You’re not gonna tear each other apart. You’re both too stubborn for that. Look, I saw the way you two fought out there. It wasn’t just rage or rivalry; it was also respect, even if neither of you wants to admit it. You pushed each other to the limit, and yeah, you both lost control, but you also showed the whole damn city what you’re made of. Jason’s not your enemy, Percy. He’s just… another piece of the same game we all play.”

He frowned, her words sinking in. “Maybe,” he muttered, not wanting to fully admit she was right.

“You’ll figure it out. Besides, you’ve got the Fifth behind you now,” she grunted, getting back to her feet and offering him a hand up. “And when you come back with that gold, we’re throwing a party that’ll make tonight look like a tea party.”

Percy laughed, following her back inside. “Deal.” 

The next morning came faster than he would’ve liked, the sky over Camp Jupiter painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun barely crept above the horizon. Percy stood outside the Fifth Cohort’s barracks, his pack of supplies slung over his shoulder. Lavinia, Lucius, and Dakota stood nearby, their faces a mix of groggy enthusiasm and genuine concern. Anthony was already barking orders to a few other legionaries, ensuring the cohort’s morning drills would proceed in his absence. The centurion had promised to meet the questers at the camp’s edge to brief them before they departed, but for now, it was just Percy and his new friends.

“You got everything?” Lavinia asked, rummaging through his pack and then his clothes like a concerned mother. “Food, water, ambrosia, nectar, money? You’re not gonna pass out in the middle of some forest, right?”

Percy patted his pack, managing a half-smile. “I’m good, Lav. You guys loaded me up with enough healing stuff to survive a drakon attack. Besides, I’ve got Jason to babysit me, apparently.”

Lucius snorted, leaning against a nearby pillar. “Yeah, good luck with that. Golden boy’s probably already polishing his armor and practicing his heroic speeches.”

Dakota, still hungover from last night and standing out in the cool morning air with nothing but his underwear, grinned and raised his hand in a mock toast. “To Percy, the storm-bringer, and Jason, the spark-plug! May you not blow up half of Washington looking for this gold.”

The son of Neptune rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dakota.”

The sound of boots crunching on gravel drew their attention, and Percy turned to see Jason and Centurion Miller approaching from the direction of the First Cohort’s barracks. He was dressed practically in jeans, a purple Camp Jupiter shirt, and a light jacket. His blond hair was neat despite the early hour, but that wasn’t what surprised Percy. It was the person who was walking beside him. 

“Percy,” Jason greeted with a nod, stopping a few paces away

“Jason,” he replied, matching the nod. “Who’s this with you?” 

“This is my other recruit,” Centurion Miller spoke up before the son of Jupiter could answer. “Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano, daughter of Bellona. She’ll be accompanying you on this quest.” 

Percy remembered this girl from the arena, the one who looked like she was actually going out to battle. Even in the morning, she carried an aura of power around her, her eyes narrowed as if scanning a battlefield. She stood tall, her dark hair pulled back into a tight braid, her clothes neat and practical, with a gladius sheathed at her side and a dagger strapped to her thigh. Her dark eyes met his, assessing him with a gaze that felt like it could pierce through to his soul. There was no hostility there, but no warmth either; just a steady, calculating focus that made him feel like he was being compared against some invisible standard.

Before he could greet her, Anthony stepped into the scene, his expression darkening as he crossed his arms and fixed Centurion Miller with a hard stare. “Hold up, Miller. Why wasn’t I informed about this? You can’t just add another person to a Senate-sanctioned quest without consulting anyone.”

Miller’s lips curled into a faint, smug smile, his purple eyes glinting with the same arrogance Percy had seen in the arena. “As Primus Pilus, I have the authority to make strategic decisions for the legion’s benefit, Anthony. And it’s tradition; bad luck to send only two on a quest. Three is the sacred number, as ordained by the gods. Reyna’s proven herself on Dies Probationis, and her skills as a daughter of Bellona make her the perfect addition to balance this… volatile pairing.” His gaze flicked to Percy, the word “volatile” carrying a pointed edge.

Anthony’s jaw tightened, his broad shoulders squaring as he took a step closer to Miller. “Tradition or not, you don’t get to make unilateral calls like that without running it by me. Percy’s my responsibility, and I don’t appreciate being blindsided. You could’ve sent a runner, a message, anything.”

Miller raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “And yet, here we are. The Senate approved Reyna’s inclusion last night, after you left the chambers to party with your new recruit.” His tone dripped with condescension, and he gestured toward Percy with a dismissive wave. “Unless you’re questioning the Senate’s judgment?”

Anthony’s fists clenched, but before he could retort, Lavinia stepped in. “Don’t pull that Senate card, Pierce. You know damn well you pushed this through to stack the deck for your golden boy.” She glanced at Jason, who looked uncomfortable but stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. “What, afraid Percy might outshine him without someone to keep things ‘balanced’?”

“Lavinia,” Anthony warned. He clearly appreciated her fire but knew this wasn’t the time for a full-on confrontation.

Miller’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Careful. Your cohort’s already on thin ice after yesterday’s spectacle. You don’t want to add insubordination to the list.” He turned his attention to Jason. “But now’s not the time for this. We have to send these three on a quest, don’t we? Let’s get to it.” 

The group followed the First Cohort Centurion to the edge of camp, where a black SUV was waiting for them at the entrance. Percy exchanged a quick glance with Jason, wondering if they were going to make them drive all the way to Washington when they were only twelve and had no driving experience whatsoever. 

“Alright, listen up,” Anthony began, stopping just before the car. “The three of you are heading into the northern forests of Washington to retrieve the stolen imperial gold. This isn’t just some fetch quest; it’s a mission to restore New Rome’s strength and prove your loyalty. The augurs say the gold’s hidden in a forest shrouded in mist and guarded by forces we don’t fully understand. Where that exactly is in Washington, we don’t know, which is why you three need to work together to find it.” 

He paused, his gaze lingering on Percy and Jason. “The Senate’s given you a week to return with the gold,” he continued. “Fail, and the consequences won’t just be yours; they’ll ripple through the legion, through New Rome itself. The Fifth Cohort’s behind you, Percy, and I expect you to make us proud.”

Miller, standing with his arms crossed, let out a soft scoff but didn’t interrupt. He stepped forward. “The First Cohort has faith in you, Jason,” he said pointedly. “And in you, Reyna. This quest is your chance to show me I made the right choice selecting you two. Do not fail.” His gaze slid to Percy, his smile thinning. “And you, Jackson… don’t let your temper drag them down.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. Instead, he turned to his centurion with a curious gaze. “So I assume we’re driving there,” he stated. “I hate to break it to you, though, I’ve never driven before.” 

Anthony’s lips twitched into a faint smirk as he clapped a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Driving? You think we’re sending three twelve-year-olds to navigate the highways of America in a stolen SUV?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, kid. You’re not driving. Not yet, anyway. New Rome’s got better ways to get its heroes where they need to go.”

Before he could ask what he meant, the SUV’s driver-side door swung open, and a small figure stepped out, carrying a glass bottle that suspiciously looked like beer. The sunlight caught on a pair of small, curling horns peeking through tousled brown hair, and a tired, almost drunken smile spread across a face that was both youthful and old. He wore a faded Camp Jupiter T-shirt, ripped cargo shorts, and mismatched sneakers that looked like they’d seen better days. But what really caught the eye were the pair of legs that were covered in coarse fur. He leaned casually against the car, twirling a keyring around one finger and scratching his ear with the other. 

“What…up,” he greeted with a burp that sounded like it was on the borderline of throwing up. “I’m Don the faun. I’m your ride, your guide, and your guy.” 

Percy blinked, looking at Jason, then Miller, and then finally Anthony. “Oh hell no,” he said, beginning to walk away, but his centurion stopped him by the back of his collar. 

“Hold it,” Anthony said, pulling Percy back with a gentle tug. “You don’t get to walk away from this. I know he’s a little…much, but Don’s one of New Rome’s best guides. He’s been ferrying legionaries across the country for longer than you’ve been alive. You want to get to Washington in one piece? He’s your ticket.”

Percy crossed his arms, eyeing Don warily as the faun took a long swig from his bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The smell of beer wafted over, mixed with an earthy, musky scent that reminded Percy of the damp forests he’d traversed across the country. Don’s bleary eyes twinkled with mischief, and he gave a lopsided grin, revealing slightly pointed teeth. “Relax, kid,” he slurred, tossing the keyring into the air and catching it clumsily. “I’ve driven to Washington before. It’s just a thirteen-hour drive. You three just sit back, enjoy the ride, and try not to blow anything up, yeah?”

“You sure you can drive?” The son of Neptune asked with a furrowed brow. “You know, with you drinking beer and all.” 

“Fauns can’t get drunk,” Don corrected, stumbling backward into the car, causing Percy to nod mockingly. 

“Sure, sure, how silly of me to think that.” 

He exchanged a skeptical glance with Jason, who looked equally unimpressed but gave a small shrug, as if to say, We don’t have a choice. The trio climbed into the car, Percy taking the front passenger seat while Jason and Reyna slid into the back. Don hopped into the driver’s seat, tossing his empty bottle into a pile of cans in the footwell and starting the engine with a rumble that sounded like it was one bad day away from giving out. The faun adjusted the rearview mirror, catching Percy’s eye with a grin. “Buckle up. This is gonna be one hell of a road trip.”

Lavinia stopped just outside Percy’s passenger window, letting her arms rest on the frame as she leaned in. “Alright, don’t go starting any hurricanes out there, got it?” She jerked her thumb toward Don, who was already fumbling with the radio, blasting an off-key mix of Latin pop and static. “He’s got a tendency to get… distracted.”

“You don’t say?” Percy mocked, looking at her in exasperation. 

Her grin widened, then she leaned in closer, giving him a swift kiss on his cheek. The gesture was light, playful, sisterly, causing the son of Neptune to roll his eyes. She was worried for him; he could clearly tell. “Good luck, Percy. Come back in one piece, okay?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he mock saluted.

As Don revved the engine, causing the car to lurch slightly, he glanced back at his friends one last time. Lucius raised a fist in encouragement, while Dakota, still in his underwear, waved a half-empty jug of Kool-Aid like it was a battle standard. Anthony stood a little apart, giving Percy one final nod. 

Don finally got the radio under control, settling on a station playing something that sounded like a mix of war drums and electric guitars. “Alright, kiddos!” he announced, his voice slurring slightly as he pulled the car onto the road leading out of Camp Jupiter. “Next stop, Washington! Or, y’know, maybe a burger joint if I get hungry. Who’s up for some fries?”

Reyna, sitting ramrod straight in the back seat, let out a quiet sigh. “Focus, faun,” she spoke up for the first time. “We have a mission.”

“Yeah, yeah, Miss Bellona,” Don replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Mission, gold, monsters, blah blah. I got this. Been doin’ this before you were born.” He hiccuped, then shot Percy a wink. “So you’re the guy I keep on hearing about, right? Try not to flood the car, ‘kay?”

Percy rolled his eyes, settling back into his seat. “No promises.”

This was going to be a long car ride.