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Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝔞𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔰

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

Ɲเᥴk Ꭱꫀเd ᥲ᥉ Ꭻᥲ᥉ꪮᥒ Ꮐɾᥲᥴꫀ

lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıılıı.lllııılı.
Now Playing [ Two Birds －Regina Spektor   ]

1:17 ---♡--- 3:15
◁◁ ▐ ▌ ▷▷

┍━━━━╝✹╚━━━━┑

the golden boy

┕━━━━╗✹╔━━━━┙ 

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

❛ɢᴏᴅꜱ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ, ᴠᴇꜱᴘᴇʀ❜

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ᧁꪖꪊᧁꫀ ᥇ꪊ𝕣ꫀ𝕜 ꪖડ ડⅈꪶꪖડ ꪜꫀડρꫀ𝕣

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Now Playing [ Love and War －Fleurie   ]

2:41 --- ♡- -- 5:14

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┍━━━━╝✹╚━━━━┑

 a piece of shit

┕━━━━╗✹╔━━━━┙

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

❛𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞? 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨❜

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐣𝐨 𝐚𝐬 𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢

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Now Playing [ Smooth Criminal － Michael Jackson ]

1:29 --♡---- 5:57
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┍━━━━╝✹╚━━━━┑

 walking disaster

┕━━━━╗✹╔━━━━┙

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

❛𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚔'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝-𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜.❜

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

尸回尸尸と　几回亡卞凵尺几ヨ

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Now Playing [ Alien Blues － Vundabar ]

1:09 --♡---- 2:56
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┍━━━━╝✹╚━━━━┑

moon's companion

┕━━━━╗✹╔━━━━┙

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

❛𝔪𝔶 𝔡𝔞𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔡𝔫'𝔱 𝔠𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔪𝔢...❜

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

🆆🅷🅾🅹🆄🅽🅸🅾🆁 🅰🆂 🅼🅸🅲🅰🅷 🅷🅰🆁🆃

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Now Playing [ You Should See Me in a Crown － Billie Eilish ]

2:07 ----♡-- 3:01
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┍━━━━╝✹╚━━━━┑

vanity's favorite

┕━━━━╗✹╔━━━━┙

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

❛Ꮖ ᥲꪑ ᥲ gꪮd, Ꮩꫀ᥉ρꫀɾ.Ⲋꪮ ƒᥙᥴkเᥒg ᖯꪮᥕ.❜

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

꒒ꀎꉓꍏ ꂵꂦꋪꋪꀤ꓄ꂦ

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Now Playing [ Flawed Design － ALESTI, windbreakers ]

0:28 -♡----- 3:22
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 angry owl boy

┕━━━━╗✹╔━━━━┙

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

❛🄰 🄿🅁🄸🅂🄾🄽🄴🅁 🄸🄽🅂🄸🄳🄴 🄼🅈 🄼🄸🄽🄳.❜

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝕾𝖎𝖑𝖆𝖘 𝖁𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖗 never really belonged. Not between mortals, not between demigods, not even in this decade. 

𝕵𝖆𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝕲𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊 was the opposite—the praised golden boy of Rome—and yet, as Silas comes to find out, gold doesn't shine as bright up close.

He had never imagined himself on the other side of the war, and in failing to tread the right side of the line between hatred and love, Silas lost far more than he knew.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jMHcjcDkUjhVCvrwMWI8N?si=0d46f89b88a642b5

—ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴀꜱᴏɴ ɢʀᴀᴄᴇ, ꜱɪʟᴀꜱ ᴠᴇꜱᴘᴇʀ, ꜰᴇʟɪx ᴍᴏʀʀᴇᴛᴛɪ, ᴘᴏᴘᴘʏ ɴᴏᴄᴛᴜʀɴᴇ, ᴍɪᴄᴀʜ ʜᴀʀᴛ, & ʟᴜᴄᴀ ᴍᴏʀʀɪᴛᴏ. ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ, ʟᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ, ꜰʀᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ, ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ, ᴛʀᴀɪᴛᴏʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀᴏᴇꜱ.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

Chapter Text

This new cover includes my current  ocs: Silas Vesper, Felix Morretti, Luca Morrito, Micah Hart, and Poppy Nocturne

Jason Grace is also included as well as a glimpse of Discordia (That's her hand).

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦
ǝuo ɹǝʇdɐɥɔ
❝ＲＵＮＮＩＮＧＩＮ ＴＨＥ ＤＡＲ Ꮶ❞
✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

SILAS VESPER was very familiar with darkness.

In fact, he grew up in such darkness; his father, Leonard Vesper, was a lying, scheming serial killer who made sure Silas knew how to embrace the wickedness deep in his heart. As the old man would sprout, Silas was destined to have tainted hands to match a tainted soul－just like his father and mother (albeit she was absent in Silas' life). From a young age, Leonard trained Silas in the ways of deception, teaching him to lie with a steady voice, read a room in seconds, and slip through life unnoticed when it suited him.

But it didn't suit Silas Vesper.

Silas Vesper longed to be normal, not a killing machine.

Silas remembered the muffled sound of kids laughing outside their apartment window (the 4th one they moved into that month), the scrape of skateboard wheels over cracked sidewalks, and the clatter of Big Wheels racing down the block. He'd press his face to the glass, watching boys his age do tricks on battered skateboards, their shouts echoing like something out of a different life. Stuff that normal boys did in the summer of 1984.
Sometimes, when his father was out, Silas would tune the rabbit-eared TV to The Muppet Show or Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!, laughing softly at Kermit's frantic waving or Shaggy's terrified yelps. The glow of the screen made the dark apartment feel warmer, more alive, like maybe there was a world beyond the silence.

In his dreams, he imagined taking a GI Joe figure to the playground and trading stories of heroes with other kids who didn't flinch when their fathers came home.

But whenever Leonard returned, the TV went dark, and the world shrank to quiet footsteps, careful words, and a new lesson of the day.
And though Silas learned every trick his father taught him, deep down he still longed for scraped knees, shared candy bars, and a friend to watch Saturday morning cartoons with—just once.

At twelve years old, Silas slouched at the kitchen table, eyes drifting to the late afternoon light slanting through grimy blinds. Leonard's voice droned on about silent ways to kill—a garrote pulled quick, a knife slipped under ribs—but Silas barely heard him, mind drifting to the kids outside laughing on their skateboards.

Leonard's eyes flicked up from the kitchen counter, catching the unfocused glaze in Silas's stare. His smile didn't fade, but it settled into something brittle and cold around the edges.

"Come on, my clever boy," Leonard said, voice honey-smooth. "Let's get ice cream."

Looking back, Silas knew his father wouldn't indulge himself, especially not with his son around, unless it was another target to kill—or worse, to torture.

They walked to the corner shop, the air warm, smelling of car exhaust and melting asphalt. Leonard ordered two cones—chocolate for himself, vanilla for Silas—and they sat side by side on a cracked bench. Silas savored the sweetness until a strange nausea coiled in his gut, thick and sudden. His tongue grew heavy. His limbs tingled.

Leonard watched calmly, licking his cone with delicate precision. "Lesson time," he said softly, "is never over until I say so."

Silas's vision tunneled. He gripped the bench as bile rose in his throat. He was dying from poison. How pathetic. His stomach lurched at the thought, trying to remember from all the poisons which one this could be purging this sinner from the inside out. But all Silas could think about was Leonard and his false gentle smile. How could I have been this stupid? He's not one of those fathers.

Leonard's icy blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction at his son's discomfort.

"You should've been listening," he went on, voice still light, like they were discussing the weather. "If you weren't my son, you'd already be dead—killed by your own stupidity." He chuckled, a low, hollow sound. "But we'll call this... a teachable moment."

As darkness closed in, Silas clung to the lesson harder than he'd ever admit: there was no safety, not even in ice cream shared with your father. Especially not there.

Silas staggered along the empty street, boots splashing through dark puddles. He didn't dare look back.

The memory of his father's arrest clung to him like smoke: the way the sirens had screamed, the red and blue lights painting Leonard's face as calm as ever. The deadly smile he knew so well never left his father's lips, even as he was shoved into the back of a police car. God, that smile was seared into his mind despite how much he wanted to forget.

The unruly boy had slipped into the shadows that night, small and fast enough to vanish. But the world hadn't let him stay hidden long—something monstrous had come sniffing, far worse than sirens or cell bars.

They looked like giant black mastiffs, shadows made flesh. Their eyes glowed a deep, furious red, casting eerie light across brick walls as they prowled. Each beast was the size of a grizzly bear, some towering as large as garbage trucks, their shoulders scraping low-hanging fire escapes and denting rusted dumpsters as they stalked the alleys.

Their paws landed with bone-shaking weight, claws gouging trenches into asphalt. Steam curled from their muzzles with every huffing breath, reeking of scorched fur and rotting meat. When their jaws split open, it was like a void yawning wide—rows of jagged teeth glistening, ready to tear him apart.

Silas didn't know what they were, only that they moved with impossible speed for creatures so massive, that they hunted him with eyes like burning coals, and that each thunderous step echoed with the promise of death. He'd escaped them by sheer luck and a desperate will to live, darting through holes in fences and crumbling back alleys until their snarls faded behind him, replaced by the pounding of his own heart.

Now, every time he closed his eyes, Silas saw Leonard's face in stark flashes: the way his father's eyes had glinted with quiet pride, the faint curve of his lips betraying the hint of a smile—one that never reached his cold eyes. Silas remembered the sound of the squad car door slamming shut, a hollow thunk that echoed in his chest like a death knell. That brief, unreadable nod Leonard gave him—sharp, almost approving—felt like the only goodbye he'd ever get, and it cut deeper than any blade.

I should hate you, Silas thought bitterly, chest aching with a hollow, gnawing emptiness. I should be glad you're gone.

He hated himself for it, but he mourned the monster who'd shaped him.

Silas hated how his chest ached when he remembered it. Hated the part of him that missed the man who'd taught him to lie better than he spoke the truth, to smile while holding a blade behind his back.

Because in the end, Leonard was the only one who'd ever made Silas feel seen. The only one who noticed his quick mind, his sharp eyes, his hunger to prove himself. The only one who'd called him clever and capable—even if that praise came like a poisoned gift.

Leonard's gaze had always been a knife, carving Silas into something useful. His care had tasted like venom, his love tangled in threats and tests. But still, Silas longed for it, because it was the closest thing to affection he'd ever known.

Leonard was the only person who had ever looked at him like he was more than a burden, more than a stray destined for the gutter. That gaze, even when it pinned him like an insect under glass, made him feel seen. It was a twisted kind of love, but it was the only love he understood.

Now Silas was alone, and the man who'd shaped him—that sinister smiling monster—had left Silas with nothing but a tainted soul to match his tainted hands.

Silas's breath tore ragged in his chest as he sprinted through the dark streets, his hands raw and trembling from the scuffle. His thin shirt clung to him with sweat, blood, and grime—fresh bruises pulsing from where she had dug her nails in a frantic and desperate attempt for him to stop.

Child Haven had always felt like a sad limbo: cold tile floors that echoed every footstep, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry insects, and stale air filled with the endless loop of bad cartoons. Some staff offered a forced smile or a quick pat on the head, but most were apathetic, too tired or too bitter to care about the kids dumped there.

Silas had thought he could thrive there—he craved the attention, the praise, anything that felt like the sharp, dangerous love his father had given. But they didn't look at him the way they looked at her: the girl with big brown eyes and easy tears who always got comfort when she cried. Stupid Jessie Harris and her stupid emotions. So weak, it was pathetic. Unfortunately, the staff seemed to coddle the pathetic ones—the undeserving.

Tonight, when Jessie Harris smirked at him—lips curling with the kind of soft pity she knew he'd never receive—something inside Silas snapped like a brittle bone. His vision tunneled, the cold fluorescent lights above flickering like lightning. Her face, usually so wide-eyed and fragile, twisted into a taunt he couldn't bear.

In a heartbeat, he lunged. His hands closed around her slender neck, fingers pressing into delicate skin. Her eyes flared with terror, mouth opening in a silent scream. The desperate, stuttering rise of her chest felt like music to some dark part of him—a part that remembered Leonard's approving smile every time Silas showed ruthlessness.

Be strong, his father's voice whispered in his mind, smooth and cold. Strike first. Weakness is death.

For a second, he wasn't in the drab halls of Child Haven anymore; he was back in the kitchen, Leonard's eyes gleaming like silver as he taught Silas how to slip a knife under someone's ribs. Back in that world, love was a lesson soaked in blood and survival.

Her choked whimpers pulled him back. Silas blinked, breath coming in sharp gasps, the buzzing lights overhead sharpening into a nauseating clarity. His hands were still on Jessie's throat, thumbs trembling. Her eyes were wet with terror. His own reflection—wild-eyed, monstrous—swam in their glassy depths. It was the gaze of a young killer in the making, not a fragile child like Jessie Harris.

He ripped his hands away like they were burned. Stumbling back, his chest heaved with horror and a dizzying surge of guilt. A voice inside him—smaller, younger, softer—screamed that he'd almost proven Leonard right: that he'd always been a monster in training.

Terror and shame twisted together, and the boy bolted. He tore down the hallway, the sound of his own ragged breaths louder than the pounding of his feet, desperate to outrun the nightmare of what he'd almost become—and the ghost of the man who'd made him this way.

Unknowingly, Silas left a trail of strife in his wake. As the staff lunged to grab him, one tripped over a loose mop handle, crashing into another and sending them both sprawling across the cold tile floor. A nurse's hot coffee splashed onto a stack of papers, setting off shrieking alarms when it shorted out an ancient fax machine.

The chaos spread like wildfire—arguments erupted, doors slammed, a tangle of panicked kids scrambled from the common room as shouts echoed through the sterile halls.

Silas didn't see the mess behind him, didn't know he'd stirred something deeper than fear—something uncanny, something in his blood. All he knew was the pounding of his heart and the single-minded need to escape before they caught him and caged him like an animal.

So he ran. Out the back door, across the cracked concrete lot, into the night. He'd rather risk the unknown than wait for police cars to come take him away like his father—or worse, to sit in that sterile building feeling the emptiness swallow him whole.

He turned a corner too fast and slammed straight into someone. Hard.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The impact knocked Silas sprawling to the cracked pavement, the cold scraping against his already scraped palms. He blinked up at the boy standing over him—tall, with warm brown skin that seemed to glow softly even under the dim streetlights. A crown of short, afro-textured hair—naturally white blonde it seemed—sat atop his head like a radiant halo, catching what little light there was and making him look almost otherworldly.

But it was those eyes—silvery blue, sharp and bright—that pulled Silas's breath away. They were almost the same cold metallic shade as his father's, yet instead of frozen menace, they shimmered with something warmer, something almost playful, as if the boy carried a secret joke only he understood.

Silas's chest tightened, memories flashing unbidden: his father's quiet, calculated smile; the way Leonard's gaze could slice through silence and pin him like a prize; the dangerous charm wrapped in every word Leonard ever spoke.

But the boy's expression was different. His grin was wide and teasing, mischievous rather than cruel, and there was a lightness in his posture that Silas had never known.

"Well," he said smoothly, sliding the stolen wallet into his pocket with effortless grace, "this is the first time my mark's literally crashed into me."

Silas's lips curled into a weak, tired sneer despite himself. "Give it back, that's mine!" His voice was rough (or as rough as a thirteen year old could sound), cracked from disuse and pain.

The pretty boy (Silas buried that nickname as soon as it came) crouched down beside him, eyes glinting like molten silver as they studied Silas with curious amusement. "You're a mess," he said, voice low but playful. "And you're bleeding on my shoes."

For a moment, Silas found himself caught between fear and fascination. This boy was nothing like Leonard—but those eyes, those unsettling, striking eyes, reminded him of the man who had shaped his life in shadows and knives.

Silas glared up at the boy, rage flaring hot enough to push aside the pain in his bruises and bloody elbows. His eyes flicked to the bulge of his stolen wallet in the boy's right pant pocket.

"Give it back," he snarled, struggling to his feet, every muscle in his body screaming. Silas knew it was just a wallet with only a few sad pennies inside but it was his wallet.

The boy's silvery gaze swept over him, amused and unhurried. "This?" He patted his pocket lightly. "It's seen better days, you know. Feels like something my grandpa would carry." He smirked, eyes dancing. "No offense—just... stale."

Before Silas could lunge, the boy turned on his heel and bolted, sneakers slapping against the cracked pavement.

Silas's breath hitched, his vision narrowed, and the world fell away until there was only the chase. Lesson one, Leonard's voice hissed in his mind, never let your target out of sight.

He slipped into the shadows of the narrow alleys, staying low and silent, every footstep calculated. Years of childhood games twisted into deadly drills came flooding back—how to step where boards wouldn't creak, how to blend into doorways, how to watch patterns of movement.

Every turn Felix took, Silas was three steps behind, eyes fixed on the halo of white-blonde curls. The boy was quick, but he wasn't trained. He laughed as he ran, throwing playful glances over his shoulder, unaware of how easily Silas was matching his pace in the dark.

Focus. Predict. Trap.

Silas's breath came steady despite the burning in his legs. He slipped through a broken fence, ducked under a rusted fire escape, and waited in the shadows where he knew the p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ boy would pass.

He's mine. That arrogant son of a—

A figure darted past the broken fence, sneakers kicking up gravel. He was still laughing—until Silas exploded from the shadows like a striking snake.

Silas launched himself forward, tackling the taller boy to the ground with a vicious thud. He heard the boy's breath whoosh out into a startled gasp as they crashed into the litter-strewn alley. Before the thief could react, Silas straddled his chest, knees pinning his arms.

Silas's hand closed around a jagged piece of glass he'd spotted earlier, the sharp edges glittering menacingly in the weak streetlight. He pressed the broken bottle's point right against the thief's throat, the tip barely pricking the skin.

Silvery eyes widened—not in fear exactly, but in a startled, breathless surprise. His lips parted, caught between a laugh and a curse.

Silas angrily thought to himself, What the hell could he possibly be laughing about?!

"Wallet," Silas hissed, voice low and feral. His hair hung in sweat-damp curly strands around his face as he glared down at the boy. "Now."

The thief swallowed carefully, his Adam's apple bobbing just under the glinting edge of glass. Those eyes flicked between Silas's furious face and the improvised blade.

"Whoa," he breathed, lips curling into a crooked, admiring grin even with the weapon at his throat. "You're full of surprises, short stack."

Silas's hand trembled, fury and adrenaline coursing through him. He pressed the bottle harder, a bead of blood welling up where glass met skin. "I said give it back!"

Reluctantly, as if parting with long-lost treasure, the taller boy slowly, deliberately reached into his pocket and pulled out the battered wallet. His battered wallet. He held it up between two fingers, eyes never leaving Silas's.

"There," he said softly, silver eyes shining with something dangerously close to amusement. "All yours."

He's trying to trick me, no doubt... Silas glared as his eyes flicked from the thin line of blood at the thief's throat to the wild, unwavering silver of those eyes.

He wanted to press the bottle deeper. Wanted to reclaim control. Wanted to prove he wasn't weak.

But his hand wouldn't move. His father's lessons echoed like a dark drumbeat—finish what you start, never hesitate—yet every time he tried to force himself, the warmth in the thief's eyes, so different from Leonard's icy glare, held him back.

Silas's breath hitched. His arm dropped. The bottle clattered to the ground, shards scattering across the dirty concrete.

A beat of silence passed before the thief's grin turned sharp with opportunity. He shoved Silas hard, toppling him to the side, knocking the shorter boy into a trash bin. The thief sat up, wiping the smear of blood from his neck with a casual flick.

"Felix Morretti," he said suddenly, as if they were chatting over ice cream instead of rolling in alley filth, "That's my name. And you—" he jabbed a finger at Silas, eyes dancing with delight "—are the luckiest bastard alive tonight. Most folks don't even see me coming." His eyes twinkled with a mix of mirth and something else akin to bitterness— but Silas didn't care enough to try to discern the emotion.

Silas glared from where he'd landed, ribs screaming in protest after having the air knocked out of him. Again. His head was throbbing from landing on the metal trash bin a little too hard. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he spat, voice indignant.

The thief's grin only widened. "Relax, short stack. I could use the extra help." He tapped his temple. "You've got the eyes of someone who's been running forever or at least someone who knows how to stay alive."

Silas clenched his jaw, shaking his head stubbornly. "Not interested."

The thief raised an eyebrow, leaning in like they were sharing a secret. "Really? 'Cause I don't know what you're running from—but you're obviously running from something. And trust me..." He stood, extending a hand with theatrical flourish. "The streets are safer with me than without."

Silas Vesper smacked Felix's hand away as he got up on his own.

"Yeah, right—you're just one lucky thief. Not even experienced one at that." His voice dripped disdain, each word a shield for the gnawing truth: he was barely more skilled himself. But he'd sooner bite his own tongue than admit it.

Felix raised his near heavenly blonde eyebrows, a flash of mock hurt crossing his face before his lips curled into an infuriating smirk. His silvery eyes gleamed with playful defiance, like a cat toying with its prey.

"Ouch," he drawled, dusting himself off with exaggerated care. "But I'll take lucky over dead any day, short stack." His grin widened, unbothered. "Stick with me, and you might survive the night. Who knows? Maybe my luck will rub off on you."

Silas's jaw tightened, hands curling into fists at his sides. He hated how the thief's cocky confidence got under his skin—hated even more that a tiny, desperate part of him wondered if he might be right.

Silas Vesper could use some luck right about now.

ᴀ/ɴ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴇɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏꜱᴛʟʏ ꜰɪʟʟᴇʀ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴘʀᴇ-ᴊᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ꜱɪʟᴀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇʟɪx.
ɴᴏᴡ, ᴍʏ ɢᴏᴀʟ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴊᴏ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅɪꜰꜰɪᴄᴜʟᴛ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴏꜰꜰ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ! ɪꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴛᴇ, ᴋɪɴᴅʟʏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ʟʟ ꜰɪx ɪᴛ.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

匚卄卂卩ㄒ乇尺　ㄒ山ㄖ

❝ＬＯＳＴ ＩＮ ＴＩＭＥ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

FELIX'S LUCK did not rub off on Silas Vesper. But his germs sure did.

Silas woke to the sharp stink of wet concrete and the suffocating weight of Felix draped over him like an oversized, clingy cat. They were curled together in a crooked alleyway, shadows stretching long in the dawn light. Felix's breath ghosted warm and damp against Silas's neck, each exhale tickling like an irritating reminder of how close they were. Disgusting.

He shoved at Felix's chest. "Get off," Silas grunted, voice thick with sleep and irritation.

Felix grunted but didn't let go, only burrowing closer with the stubbornness of a stray cat. "Mmm... comfy," he mumbled, lips quirking in a half-smile even as he dozed.

The younger boy rolled his eyes to the gray morning sky peeking between crumbling rooftops. This was his life now: sleeping in alleys with an annoyingly cheerful thief who snored and drooled like a toddler. No thanks . 

Silas clenched his jaw, braced his hands against Felix's chest, and heaved with all his strength. The sudden, violent shove sent Felix sprawling off him, landing on the cold concrete with a thud and a startled yelp.

Felix blinked up at him, hair a halo of blonde curls, expression caught between hurt and indignant.

"I'm not one of those fags ." Silas snapped, already climbing to his feet and brushing the grime from his clothes.

Felix peered up at Silas from the cracked concrete, rubbing his elbow where he'd landed. "Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, voice edged with a wounded pout. "You know, most people would kill for a morning cuddle. Fag or not."

Silas only shot him a flat look, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently.

Felix rolled his eyes and pushed himself upright, dusting off his rumpled clothes with exaggerated care. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, but a spark of mischief glinted in his silvery eyes as he leaned in conspiratorially.

"I've been watching the crowds near the Strip—" he said, voice dropping low.

Silas interrupted with a harsh tone seeping into his voice, "Before or after you tried to steal my wallet?"

 Felix rolled his silvery blue eyes, but continued as if what Silas had to say made no difference to him (which it probably did). "Casinos draw all kinds of rich idiots—drunk, distracted, flashing wallets like they're invincible. We hit a few of them, we eat something that isn't garbage."

He flashed a grin sharp enough to slice the morning gloom. "What d'you say, Silas? You in?"

And that's when Silas knew the day could only get worse.

Silas and Felix turned out to be a surprisingly good team.

Silas prowled the casino entrances like he owned the cracked sidewalks, bumping into tourists with a muttered apology or flashing a quick, disarming smile. His sharp eyes tracked every mark, picking out the ones too busy staring at neon lights to notice a lightened pocket.

Felix drifted in his wake, all lazy swagger and innocent charm, hands slipping into purses and pockets with practiced ease. By the time anyone realized something was missing, Silas would knock over a trash can or start a shouting match with a passerby—anything loud enough to cover their getaway.

They melted into the swirling crowds again and again, pockets a little heavier each time. A shared glance, a half-smirk, and they were moving on to the next mark, a silent agreement hanging between them: for now, this worked.

Until it didn't.

They had ate like kings that fateful night in August, rich off other people's money.

They'd pooled the day's haul in a back alley behind a greasy diner just off the Strip. Grease-slick paper bags littered the cracked pavement as they tore into burgers dripping with cheese, fries so hot they burned their fingers. Silas couldn't remember the last time he'd felt full, the satisfying ache of his stomach stretching for something more than scraps or mystery food served at Child Haven.

Felix practically purred with delight, lounging against the graffitied brick wall, silver eyes soft in the neon haze spilling from the diner's flickering sign. "See?" he said around a mouthful of food, lips shiny with ketchup. "Told you we'd score big."

Silas rolled his eyes but didn't bother to argue, too busy licking salt from his fingers and letting the warmth of real food chase off the cold knot in his chest. For a moment, he let himself believe it could stay this way—a team, a plan, a full belly.

But Silas couldn't shake the itch crawling beneath his skin. The night felt wrong, the air heavier than it should be. Laughter and car horns drifted from the Strip, but every sound seemed muted, distant, like the world was holding its breath.

His gaze kept snagging on shadows between the dumpsters, the way the neon lights flickered one too many times. Something prickled at the back of his mind—a splinter of unease twisting deeper with every heartbeat. How come Felix hadn't notice it? Something is...Off.

Then a shadow drifted across the mouth of the alley. 

A woman stepped into the pale light of the streetlamp. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in a mane of shimmering red, eyes catching the glow with an almost metallic gleam. She was so stunning that Silas' breath caught in his throat—and so out of place among the drunks and tourists that it made his skin crawl.

Felix froze mid-bite, fries dangling from his fingers. His gaze locked on the woman as if he'd never seen anything more beautiful, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

Silas felt... nothing. Just a prickle of cold crawling down his spine. The woman's smile widened, slow and predatory, as she took a step closer—heels clicking sharp and deliberate on the sidewalk.

"My, my..." she purred, voice low and thick as honey, words curling around them like smoke. "Two little boys, alone in the dark. What a delicious sight." Silas had a gut feeling she really would eat them if they stuck around any longer.

The unease inside Silas exploded into jagged certainty: something terrible was about to happen. His pulse thundered in his ears, every instinct shrieking that this was no ordinary woman.

Then the woman smiled—slow, fanged, hungry—and the shadows shifted to reveal wings unfurling behind her. Silas' eyes widen at the flicker of something not quite human in the shadows around her legs—one metallic, one twisted like a donkey's hoof.

Lesson two: when you don't know what you're up against, don't stay to find out.

Silas lurched forward, grabbing Felix's arm. "Move," he hissed, heart hammering as the woman's eyes blazed an impossible red.

The woman's smile widened, impossibly bright and razor-sharp, as she took a languid step closer. Her heels clicked in a rhythm that felt like a countdown.

Felix let out a breathless, shaky laugh, eyes glazed, shoulders slackening under her gaze. He staggered a step closer, lips parting as if to speak, completely transfixed.

Silas's gut twisted. The woman's voice oozed into the air, sickly sweet and wrong. The shadows behind her seemed to shudder with each word.

She tilted her head, flaming hair spilling over one shoulder. "Come closer, lovely," she crooned, eyes locked on Felix. "I won't bite... much."

Felix took another helpless step forward, face slack with devotion.

Silas felt nothing—no pull, no warmth, only the cold certainty that they were seconds from dying. His heart slammed in his chest as he ripped Felix backward by the collar.

The scary lady's smile faltered, eyes narrowing. "How curious," she hissed, voice losing its syrupy edge. Wings flared behind her, black and leathery, throwing monstrous shadows across the alley walls.

"RUN!" Silas shouted, shoving Felix so hard, he nearly fell over. 

Maybe it was urgency in his voice or the fact Silas had pushed him away but he slipped out of his stupor enough to bolt away from the dangerous lady-monster.

Their sneakers slapped on the wet pavement as the monster's furious screech tore through the night like a blade. They rushed through the alley, Felix stumbling half-blind behind Silas.

"Faster!" Silas barked, yanking Felix upright when he nearly pitched face-first into a trash can. Felix's breaths came in ragged gasps, eyes still unfocused from the woman's charm or whatever the hell it was. Fiery demon was the first thing that came to his mind, though.

Behind them, the sound of wings beating the air with a thunderous crack echoed. The fiery demon surged forward, an unearthly blur of flaming hair and glinting fangs. Her laughter echoed off the graffiti-scarred walls, bright and horrible.

A clawed hand slashed out of the darkness, missing Felix's throat by inches. Somehow he got lucky when he tripped, causing him to not be a kebab; unfortunately, that also meant he crashed into the pavement with a strangled cry. The devil woman descended, talons raised for the killing blow.

Blood rushed to Silas' head, adrenaline drowning out every other thought. He drew the only thing he'd ever kept hidden from Felix: a short, narrow-bladed pugio, the Roman dagger his father had given him the day before his arrest. Its strange gold edge glowed faintly in the sickly light, a weapon older and deadlier than Silas understood. His father said it was useless when it came to hurting people but it was the only weapon he could think of at the moment. 

Father would be having a fit right now if he saw me —s aving some thief instead of saving my own skin.

He lunged, blade flashing in a vicious arc. The dagger's deadly edge carved deep into the monster's side, a gout of what looked to be golden blood spraying across the wall.

The monster screamed, voice splitting the night, wings flailing as she staggered back. It seemed to recoil at the sight of Silas' dagger which he thought was strange since it wasn't that powerful.

"Felix—MOVE!" Silas yelled, planting himself between the boy and the creature as he raised the dagger again, knuckles white on the hilt.

The fire demon's burning eyes locked on Silas, lips peeled back in a snarl. She lunged, claws gleaming in the neon gloom. "DIE, DEMIGOD!"

Silas didn't have time to think as a bone-deep dread flooded his veins—so cold and heavy it nearly rooted him in place. At the last second, he twisted aside, the outstretched claws whistling past his ear with a gust of rancid wind.

"RUN!" he shouted again. Silas was pissed at the foolish thief for not listening the first time around and it was very evident in his voice. Fucking listen, idiot.

Felix, dazed but alive, scrambled to his feet. His wide silver eyes met Silas's for a heartbeat of terrified gratitude before he bolted down the alley, footfalls fading into the night.

Silas turned back just in time to raise the pugio. The fire demon was already upon him, wings beating furiously, talons flashing. He parried one savage swipe, but the force nearly knocked him off his feet.

A haze of red fury flooded Silas's vision. His muscles moved on instinct, faster and sharper than he'd ever felt. He ducked low, slashing the golden blade across the monster's donkey leg. More golden blood sprayed the cracked concrete as the fire demon shrieked, staggering back—but she wasn't done.

"FOOLISH BOY! HOW DARE YOU?!" She lunged again, claws raking the air. Silas twisted, teeth bared, dagger dancing in precise arcs. Each strike landed deeper, faster, until the fire demon's screams mixed with the pounding of his blood. He knew what his father would say at the sight, "Such sloppy and disgraceful attacks are unbecoming for a killer."

The smell of scorched meat and sulfur filled the alley. Silas barely felt the sting of his own wounds, lost in the thrill of the fight, rage driving him like a storm. That was until the fire demon's claws caught his shirt, tearing the fabric and grazing his ribs with burning pain. He staggered, dagger slipping in his sweaty grip as the monster loomed over him, red eyes blazing. A terrifying cackle escaped her lips as she licked her fangs in delight at catching her prey.

A sudden shout split the night.

"HEY HIDEOUS LADY, EAT ON THIS!"

Felix's voice rang out, desperate and fierce. A heavy garbage bag sailed through the air, slamming into the demon woman's head with a wet smack. Rotten food and broken bottles exploded across her face, momentarily blinding her.

Seizing the opening, Silas silently drove the gold dagger straight into the monster's chest.

She let out a shriek that shook the alley walls, eyes flaring one last time before her body imploded into a swirling cloud of golden dust. The force of it knocked the injured boy back, coughing and blinking through the glittering haze.

Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breathing. Of course , Felix had to say something.

"What... the hell was that?" he panted, voice trembling between awe and terror. When Silas spared a glance at Felix, the frightend boy stood frozen a few feet away, eyes wide, chest heaving. " Fuck , are you gonna die?"

Silas wiped the strange golden blood and dust from his face, and picked up his dagger with a barely concealed shaky hand. "I don't know," he rasped, staring at the empty space where the monster had stood. "But we need to get out of here. Now. "

Silas tried to push past Felix, staggering toward the mouth of the alley with the dagger still clutched in his blood-slicked hand. Each step sent hot spikes of agony through his ribs, breath hitching in shallow gasps.

"I'm fine," he gritted out, voice hoarse with pain. "Just—just keep up."

But his legs buckled before he'd taken three more steps.

Strong arms caught him from behind, Felix's breath warm and shaky against his ear. "Shut up and let me help you," the taller boy snapped, his voice raw with exasperation—and something almost like fear.

Silas struggled, shoving weakly at Felix's chest. "I don't need you," he whisper-shouted, but the world tilted, black spots blooming at the edges of his vision. His knees folded again, and this time Felix hooked an arm around his waist, holding him up with surprising strength.

"You're bleeding all over the place," Felix shot back, tone edged with panic despite his forced grin. "Try walking it off later, yeah?"

He wanted to curse him, wanted to wrench free and prove he didn't need anyone—but the pain was too much. His head lolled against Felix's shoulder, breath coming in ragged gasps.

And so, leaning heavily on the thief he barely trusted, Silas let himself be half-carried out of the alley, every step a fresh reminder of how close he'd come to dying. Surprisingly, it wasn't his first rodeo.

Felix half-dragged, half-carried Silas through the maze of dark side streets, his voice a relentless stream of frantic rambling.

"What the hell was that thing? She—er, it said something about demigods —like, actual gods? And what was with your knife glowing? And the—"

"Felix..." Silas croaked, head spinning from blood loss and the pounding in his skull. "Not now."

So annoying, Silas thought weakly to himself. 

But Felix barely paused, eyes darting around the deserted sidewalks. Maybe the monster had scared the people away, it was pretty ugly after all.  "Not now? That chick had fangs, Silas! And wings! And your dagger turned it into glitter! That's—"

He stopped dead. Silas nearly collapsed with him.

They stood across the street from a gleaming white tower crowned with a massive neon lotus flower, its petals pulsing in slow, hypnotic light. The entrance yawned open, golden doors spilling warm, inviting light onto the empty sidewalk. The sign above read: Lotus Hotel & Casino.

Felix gaped, the words dying on his lips as a strange hush fell over them.

Silas felt his gut twist with that same creeping dread as before—the certainty that something here was wrong. Even exhausted, even bleeding, every instinct screamed to turn around.

"Let's... not go in there," Silas whispered, voice fragile but firm. Silas hated how his voice trembled. It reminded himself of those terrifying moments of failure and his father's cruel smile widening at Silas' pained whimpers.

Felix's eyes lingered on the hotel's golden doors, the soft music drifting out to meet them—an upbeat tune that seemed to tug at his bones. The pulsing neon lotus petals reflected in his wide silver eyes.

"Maybe... maybe they could help you," Felix said, almost to himself, voice soft and distant. "It looks... nice. Safe. Plus they're playing Beat it ."

Silas shook his head weakly, gripping Felix's shirt with trembling fingers. Every breath was a knife in his chest, the deep gashes across his ribs burning with every ragged inhale. Blood soaked his torn shirt, dripping down to stain his jeans dark. His vision blurred at the edges, black spots pulsing with the throbbing agony of each heartbeat. 

You're not in pain. You're not in pain. You've felt worse before, this is nothing.

"No," he rasped, panic bubbling in his chest even as fresh pain stabbed through him. "Felix, we can't—"

A smooth voice cut through the night. "Gentlemen, you look like you've had a rough evening."

They turned as a tall man in a crisp white bellhop uniform stepped out from the warm glow of the entrance. His smile was perfect, too perfect, eyes dark and glittering. "Why don't you come inside? We can get your friend patched up in no time. All on the house, of course."

Felix took a hesitant step forward, eyes glassy with exhaustion and the soft lure of the casino's lights. "See, Silas? They can help. "

Silas's heart thundered. Every instinct screamed trap, but his vision swam, legs nearly giving out again as agony wracked his body. The bellhop extended a perfectly manicured hand, smile widening just a fraction too much.

"Come now," he crooned, voice smooth as silk. "The Lotus Hotel and Casino welcomes you."

Silas Vesper wasn't too sure about that and instead was welcomed by darkness.

When Silas opened his eyes, he was lying on a plush velvet couch in a room awash with soft golden light. His ribs throbbed dully beneath clean white bandages, and a cool cloth rested on his forehead.

Hovering above him was a youthful doctor who looked barely older than Silas himself. He had messy, sun-bleached hair that fell into bright green eyes, freckles dotting his sun-kissed skin like splashes of gold. He looked more like a carefree surfer than any doctor Silas had ever seen.

"Hey kid, I'm Doctor Taylor." The doctor drawled with an easy grin. His voice was warm, but something in it felt off, like a song played slightly out of tune. "You really messed yourself up, huh? Good thing my old man's the best doctor around—ever heard of Asclepius?"

The name rang uncomfortably in Silas's mind, though he couldn't place why. A cold shiver slithered down his spine, even as the bandages eased his pain. The young man before him seemed to be as dangerous as that weird fire demon.

The doctor's grin widened, but his eyes glittered strangely in the soft light. "Don't worry. You're in the best hands now. Your friend told me you two encountered a flaming demon-lady. That was an Empousa."

A what? Silas thought as his eyes darted around the opulent room—high ceilings painted like a sunny sky, thick carpets muffling every sound, and the distant tinkle of slot machines weaving with children's laughter in a strange, dizzying melody.

"Where... where are we?" he demanded, voice low and ragged as he struggled to sit up. Slight pain flared under his bandages, but it wasn't as bad compared to before he blacked out. Silas forced himself upright, glaring at the doctor. "And what the hell was that thing that attacked us?"

"You're in the best place in Vegas to experience the childhood you deserve! Games, sweets, toys—everything you missed out on, and all the fun you could ever want." His eyes gleamed, too bright and too sharp, much like a serpent. "And you're safe now. That's what matters, right?"

Silas's gut twisted. Safe? Here, in this gilded cage?

"For what cost?" he spat, anger cracking through his exhaustion. "Nothing's free. So what's it going to take?"

For a heartbeat, the Dr. Taylor's smile froze, like a mask slipping—but only for a second. Then it was back, wide and careless. "Oh, don't worry about that," he crooned, patting Silas's shoulder a little too firmly. "You just focus on being a kid. That's what the Lotus is for."

His legs wobbled slightly as he stepped into the gilded hallway, the doctor guiding him with a too-bright grin. They passed arcade rooms flashing with rainbow lights, banquet halls where kids laughed over ice cream sundaes piled high, and indoor playgrounds stretching wider than Silas had ever dreamed.

The air buzzed with music, sweet scents, and a thick haze of something wrong that pressed on Silas's skull with every step. Yet...

"There's so much to see!" the doctor gushed. "Our guests never want to leave once they've had a taste."

Silas' sharp eyes scanned the endless halls—until they landed on a familiar mess of bright blonde curls bobbing through the crowd. Felix was bounding toward him, eyes wide and shining like a kid on Christmas morning, not that Silas knew how that felt— it's what he has seen on those stupid Christmas movies where everyone was cheery without a care in the world.

"Silas!" he shouted, skidding to a stop and nearly tackling him with a hug. Silas stepped away from the excited boy not wanting to get hugged or touched in general. "You have to see my suite—it's bigger than any hotel room I've ever been in! There's a TV in every corner, Silas. Every corner! "

His excitement was infectious, his smile huge and unguarded. But Silas only felt cold dread curling in his gut as he looked past Felix at the impossibly long corridor stretching on and on—like the Lotus Hotel went on forever.

Felix grabbed Silas' hand (which Silas immediately tried to pull away but Felix had a tight grip) and pulled him down the hall, chattering excitedly about the video games, bottomless candy bowls, and beds softer than clouds.

By the time they reached the suite, Silas' head felt light, thoughts fuzzy. His anger and fear ebbed beneath a warm, lazy comfort that seeped into his bones the second they stepped inside.

The room was massive—plush carpet, enormous TVs, toys scattered like a kid's dream exploded across the floor. Bright colors glowed from neon signs, and music drifted from hidden speakers, upbeat and oddly soothing, Felix said it was Micheal Jackson but Silas didn't know who that was—much to Felix's dismay.

"You don't know the King of Pop?!"

"Er, no..?" Silas' mind spun for the names of recent kings but it came up blank.

Felix gasped once more, "You have to listen to his songs! I think there's a CD player somewhere..."

Silas rolled his eyes, "I don't want to listen to music right now."

The taller boy spun around with a grin, arms spread wide. "It's perfect! C'mon, Silas—lighten up for once. We deserve this!"

A small, treacherous part of Silas agreed. His chest loosened as he took it all in, eyes wide with a wonder he hadn't let himself feel since he was little. The ache of wanting—of wishing he'd had this instead of cold apartments and whispered threats—pulled at him until his lips quirked into a reluctant, breathless laugh.

Maybe, just for a moment, he could let himself dance and play like a normal boy living in 1986. 

The neon lights of the arcade glared off Felix's eyes as he practically dragged Silas down rows of blaring pinball machines and flashing cabinets. The air pulsed with 8-bit soundtracks and the smell of stale popcorn.

"You have to hear 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough' live one day," Felix babbled, eyes alight with excitement. "MJ's the best—he's magic, Silas. And 'Thriller'? It's gonna change everything when you hear it, you'll see—"

Silas rolled his eyes, a small, unwilling smile tugging at his lips. "You sound like a broken record," he grumbled.

Felix stuck out his tongue and pointed to a corner cabinet: Guitar Smash! "C'mon, let's play—just one song!"

"No," Silas deadpanned, folding his arms. "I'm not making a fool of myself."

Felix pouted dramatically, but before he could argue, a soft, velvety voice drifted over the arcade noise: "Oh, let him be. Not everyone has the confidence for a show."

Both boys turned. Leaning casually against an Asteroids machine stood a striking figure: tall, androgynous, with long, inky black hair cascading in a layered wolf cut that framed a pale, sculpted face. Dark flannel hung open over a ripped band tee, and a chain dangled from worn black jeans. Their boots looked heavy enough to crack the arcade tiles.

Their sharp cheekbones cast shadows under the flickering neon, and their eyes—oh, their eyes—were a swirling kaleidoscope, shifting from mossy green to stormy gray to electric blue with every blink, never settling on one color for long.

Long, almond-shaped nails—painted chipped black—drummed lazily against the Asteroids cabinet as they regarded Silas and Felix with a crooked, knowing smirk. Their features were an elegant, almost unsettling mix of feminine and masculine, making them look ethereal and completely unplaceable, like someone who didn't belong to any time or place at all.

Felix's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water as he took in the newcomer's otherworldly presence. His usual stream of words stuck somewhere in his throat, cheeks flushing pink.

Silas, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes, voice flat and direct. "Are you a girl or a boy?"

The figure's lips curled into an amused smirk as they tilted their head, dark hair shifting like liquid shadow. Those kaleidoscope eyes glinted under the arcade lights. "Why does it matter?" they drawled, voice smooth as velvet and tinged with teasing exasperation. "I'm ethereal either way."

They paused, letting the silence stretch before adding with a lazy shrug, "But since you're curious—I'm a dude. One who can pull anything off. Name's Micah Hart."

Felix let out a strangled squeak of agreement, nodding far too enthusiastically.

Silas' eyes narrowed as Micah turned away, striding toward the Guitar Smash! cabinet with casual swagger. Despite Micah's easy grin, something about him felt off —that same subtle wrongness that clung to the doctor's too-bright smile. A prickle crawled down Silas's spine.

Micah slipped the guitar controller strap over one shoulder, rolling his long, ink-black sleeves up his pale arms. Neon lights caught the shifting colors in his eyes, flickering like a storm trapped behind glass.

The moment the game started, a heavy guitar riff blasted through the speakers, and Micah's fingers flew across the buttons with impossible speed. His boots tapped the sticky arcade floor in time with the music, long hair whipping around his face as he played with effortless confidence.

A crowd gathered almost instantly—kids and teens drawn like moths to his dark flame, eyes wide with awe as Micah nailed every note with uncanny precision. His aura radiated raw, rebellious energy that made everyone lean in closer, hungry for more.

Felix's mouth hung open beside Silas, silvery blue eyes sparkling like he'd just discovered a new deity.

Silas rolled his eyes aggressively. He bet that the foolish thief would throw all his money at the older boy if he could. Does he think everyone is stunning? Weirdo . How can he even like a guy in the first place? That's just...disturbing.

Micah's final note rang out, the game flashing a perfect score as the crowd burst into cheers. He flipped the guitar controller off with a flourish, grinning like a rockstar basking in his adoring fans. His kaleidoscope eyes flicked straight to Felix and Silas, locking on them like a predator spotting fresh prey.

Micah sauntered over, slipping through the crowd with that same lazy grace. "Enjoy the show?" he purred, voice smooth as silk, eyes glinting with sly amusement.

Felix practically vibrated with excitement, opening his mouth to gush—

—but Silas yanked him back by the arm. "We're leaving," he snapped, shooting Micah a look sharp enough to cut glass.

Felix stumbled after him, hissing under his breath. "Hey! What's your problem?"

Silas ignored him, weaving through the thinning crowd with single-minded determination. He threw one last glance over his shoulder at Micah—only to slam right into something small and solid.

"Ow!"

He staggered back, blinking down into the surprised, dark-eyed faces of a child: a boy about ten with shaggy black hair and olive skin, deep brown eyes peering up at him. 

"Don't just stand there, apologize!"  Felix whispered to Silas as he muttered an apology on Silas' behalf. Silas realized that the younger boy had dropped something; a stack of worn, brightly colored cards scattered across the polished arcade floor, skittering under his boots. The younger boy's eyes went wide with dismay as he dropped to his knees, frantically gathering them up.

Silas crouched too, muttering a grudging, "Sorry," though his voice was as flat and insincere as his narrowed eyes. His fingers moved faster than boy's, sweeping up cards with surprising precision. He reluctantly handed the stack of cards to its owner despite the urge to keep them to himself.

"Thanks!" The ten-year old blurted, hugging the cards to his chest before shuffling through them with bright-eyed excitement. "Look—this one's Hades, and this is Persephone, and this is Hypnos—he's super rare!" His words tumbled out in a rush, each name sharper than the last, filling the air with a strange sense of something ancient and powerful.

Silas froze for half a second. The names pricked at the back of his mind like dull needles, stirring something dark and half-buried in his chest—a sense of wrongness, of something big watching him just beyond sight. He swallowed hard, forcing the unease back down.

Before Silas could stalk off, a sharp voice cut through the lingering tension. "Nico! How many times have I told you to watch where you're going?"

A slightly older girl with olive-toned skin and a tangle of dark hair tucked beneath a distinctive floppy green cap that looked too big for her head came up behind the young boy, who Silas presumed was "Nico". Her dark eyes were sharp and a faint splash of freckles dusted the bridge of her nose—softening the sternness in her expression just enough to hint at the warmth she kept carefully guarded. She swept in, dark eyes flashing as she pulled her little brother to his feet with a firm tug. She looked Silas and Felix over with a quick, assessing gaze—equal parts wary and weary.

Nico whined, hugging his Mythomagic cards to his chest. "But Bianca, they bumped into me —"

Felix raised an eyebrow, smirking just a little as he elbowed Silas. "He's right, you know. It was our fault." He gave Silas a pointed look, clearly enjoying the chance to needle him.

Silas shot him a glare sharp enough to flay skin.

Before either boy could retort, Nico's eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. He bounced on his toes, cards fanned out like a tiny dealer. "Hey—do you guys wanna play Mythomagic with me? I can teach you! It's really fun!"

Bianca sighed, exasperation warring with resignation. "Nico..."

Felix's eyes sparkled with interest. "Mythomagic, huh? Sounds cool."

Silas pinched the bridge of his nose, but before he could snap a refusal, Nico started shuffling the deck with eager, practiced hands. 

I'm going soft if — Silas paused, his brows furrowed in confusion at his sudden thought about....someone with cold, silver-blue eyes? What's his name again...?

That night—or what seemed like night under the endless haze of neon and soft jazz drifting through the Lotus—Silas found himself leaning against the doorway of his suite, eyes heavy and thoughts tangled.

"How long," he asked, his voice just above a whisper, "was I out for? In the doctor's office."

Felix, standing barefoot in the corridor and fiddling with the hem of his shirt, looked up and squinted as if trying to catch a slippery memory. "A few days, I guess?" he said at last, voice uncertain. His silver eyes flicked back and forth, as if searching for something to anchor him.

A cold knot twisted in Silas's gut. He opened his mouth to press for more, but the words slipped away into the thick, perfumed air.

Felix's smirk returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry about it. We're safe here, right?" Without waiting for an answer, Felix stepped into his suite, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silas lingered a moment longer before retreating into his own room. He couldn't shake the sense that time had started slipping through his fingers like sand—and he didn't know how much he had left.

However, all of Silas's worries scattered the instant he stepped into his suite. His breath caught in his throat as he took it all in: the walls lined with gleaming weapons of every shape and size—axes, swords, daggers—each one carefully dulled but polished to a shine; shelves overflowing with rows of GI Joe action figures posed in mid-battle; and in the corner, a pristine skateboard perched beside a mini ramp, the wood smooth and waiting.

It was organized chaos, a playground tailored just for him.

For a moment, Silas simply stood there, wide-eyed, letting himself soak in the impossible perfection of it all. He could almost forget the aching weight in his chest, the gnawing fear crawling up his spine.

Almost.

Ignoring the odd dread, Silas collapsed onto the plush bed, the scent of new sheets and faint oil from the weapons lulling him faster than he'd ever admit; sleep claimed him before he could wonder what dreams would come.

ᴀ/ɴ ɴᴏᴛᴇ

ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴀꜱꜰ ꜱᴏ ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ, ɴᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ. (ᴘᴏʟɪᴛᴇʟʏ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ, ᴘᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ)

ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘʟɪᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ (ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ 5600 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ).

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ, ᴡʜᴏ'ꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴏ ꜰᴀʀ?? (ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴀʏꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀ. ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ, ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴘɪᴛ ᴍʏ ᴛᴇᴀ ᴏᴜᴛ)

ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ! 

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢

❝ＲＡＴ ＩＮ Ａ ＣＡＧＥ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

THE NEXT MORNING, Silas wandered over to Felix's suite, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes. He knocked once—lightly—and when no one answered, he cautiously pushed the door open.

Inside, Felix was already up and moving with surprising energy, socks gliding over the plush carpet as he planted one foot flat and lifted the heel of the other. He tried to slide backward like a fish out a water, or so it seemed to Silas. His white-blond curls bounced with each awkward step, arms swinging like he couldn't decide what to do with them. The bright light spilling through the windows caught the sheen of sweat on his brow as he bit his lip in fierce concentration.

Silas lingered in the doorway, equal parts bewildered and amused. "Is this supposed to be dancing?" he asked dryly, voice breaking the silence like a stone dropped in water.

Felix yelped, nearly tripping over his own feet before spinning around with a grin that lit up his whole face. "You're just jealous," he shot back breathlessly. "I'm gonna nail this before we leave."

Silas rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the tiny huff of laughter escaping his lips. "Right. Or we could find something more entertaining than you flailing around."

Felix's grin faltered into a petulant pout. "Can we at least eat breakfast first? I'm starving."

Silas shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smirk. "Then call room service. Isn't that what rich people do?"

Felix's eyes lit up with mischief and excitement as he darted into the bathroom. Moments later, Silas heard the squeak of the corded phone being yanked from its cradle. With a huff, Silas followed him into the grand bathroom; he found Felix had settled himself dramatically on the edge of the enormous tub, feet dangling, and punched in the number for room service like it was the most important call of his life.

"This must be what rich people feel like," Felix crowed, voice echoing slightly off the marble walls. He looked around wide-eyed, then snorted. "Just imagine calling for waffles while you're...constipated."

Silas internally laughed but tried to keep a straight face, so he scrunched up his nose at the absurd image.

Felix rattled off his order with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store: thick stacks of golden waffles dripping with maple syrup, a mountain of whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and a generous side of neon-orange Tang to wash it all down. He added a plate of powdered donuts and a bowl of sugary cereal—Fruit Loops, if Silas heard correctly.

Silas, meanwhile, hesitated before quietly requesting plain oatmeal, a couple slices of dry toast, and a glass of milk. He didn't know why the thought of syrup or jam turned his stomach, only that he'd always eaten breakfasts stripped of flavor and color, as if someone once taught him that excitement at the table was dangerous.

Felix shot him a baffled look as he confirmed their sprawling order with the cheerful voice on the other end of the phone. "Dude," he whispered after hanging up, "you're like eighty years old."

Silas just shrugged, eyes distant, his mind nagged by an ache he couldn't name.

While waiting for their food, they sprawled on Felix's bed, the muted hum of the hotel's endless music drifting through the walls as they waited. Felix absently flipped through TV channels with a remote the size of a brick, stopping on old Saturday morning cartoons that made him grin.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Felix broke it. "Hey...what'd you think of that guy from the arcade? Micah." His voice was casual, but he shot Silas a sidelong glance, eyes bright but uncertain.

Silas frowned, the memory of Micah's shifting kaleidoscope eyes sending a shiver up his spine. "Something felt...wrong. Like with that doctor. Like there's more going on than what we're seeing." His fingers drummed restlessly against the mattress.

Felix's smirk faltered. He picked at a loose thread on the blanket, avoiding Silas's gaze. "I thought it was just me. It felt like I should've tried to kill the guy," he admitted softly. "But...I dunno. He was cool. And...Doctor Taylor was nice, right?"

Silas's jaw clenched. "Nice doesn't mean safe."

Felix fell silent, eyes fixed on the flickering TV. A cartoon coyote plummeted off a cliff with a puff of animated dust, but neither of them laughed.

After they devoured their wildly mismatched breakfasts—Felix licking syrup from his fingers while Silas quietly polished off his bland toast—the restless energy between them bubbled over.

"Alright," Felix said, silvery eyes glinting with mischief, "time to cause some fun chaos. Got any bright ideas?"

Silas' lips curled into a razor-sharp grin. "How about we start with that show-off from last night?"

Moments later, they found Micah Hart on the Lotus Casino's neon-lit karaoke stage, pouring his soul into a ragged rendition of some song. His kaleidoscope eyes shimmered under the lights, black hair swinging with every dramatic note. A small crowd had gathered, swaying to the grunge anthem.

Felix slipped behind the controls, fingers flying across the buttons, and suddenly the speakers blared cartoon sound effects: honks, boings, and wacky squeaks drowning out Micah's anguished vocals.

Micah froze mid-lyric, face twisting from confusion to rage. "HEY!" he shouted, voice cracking through the noise. His microphone squealed with feedback as he scanned the crowd for the culprits.

Felix and Silas barely stifled their laughter as they ducked behind an oversized potted plant, adrenaline pounding in their ears. Micah's fury only fueled their giggles, the sight of the androgynous performer stomping across the stage like a furious cat sending them into breathless hysterics.

Just as Felix was about to cue another silly sound effect, Micah's voice surged back into the microphone—and this time, it was...beautiful.

His low, smoky tone wrapped around the raw opening lines of the song like velvet over a blade: "The world is a vampire, sent to drain...Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames. And what do I get, for my pain?" The words poured from him with magnetic intensity, each syllable thick with emotion. His now-shifty brown eyes locked on some distant point as he prowled the stage, voice rising and falling like a storm."Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game. Even though I know—I supposed I'll show, all my cool and cold—like old job."

"Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage! Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage. Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved."

The chorus hit like a punch—Micah's voice swelling powerful and desperate, perfectly matching the dark, grinding guitar riff thrumming through the speakers. The crowd stilled, almost hypnotized by the raw beauty of his performance.

Silas and Felix found themselves frozen, their prank forgotten.

"I've...never heard this before," Felix whispered, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. "It's...not like anything I've ever listened to."

Silas didn't answer. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stared at Micah, a strange shiver racing down his spine. There was something hauntingly honest in the way Micah sang, something that made him feel exposed—like the older boy saw through everyone, including him.

The words, "a rat in a cage"  stirred buried memories, ones that Silas had nearly forgotten.

His mind flashed back to waking up in the sterile brightness of Doctor Taylor's office, the plush bed and luxurious room that had felt more like a gilded cage than any safe haven. He remembered the suffocating dread, the certainty that comfort was just another trap.

Micah's haunting voice seemed to echo Silas's own unspoken fears, each note peeling away his bravado. His hands clenched at his sides as Micah sang on, oblivious to the turmoil he'd stirred.

Silas's eyes darted to Felix, who was still slack-jawed with awe. For a second, Silas almost envied his friend's carefree wonder—almost.

Silas grabbed Felix's wrist, fingers digging in just enough to snap him out of his daze. "Felix, focus," he hissed, eyes darting nervously around the glowing arcade. "We need to go. Now."

Felix blinked, still spellbound by Micah's voice. "What? Why? He's amazing—"

"No!" Silas cut him off sharply, voice low but fierce. "Don't you get it? This place—it's messing with us. Keeping us here." His breath came fast and shallow as he glanced back at Micah on the stage, the older boy's glinting an onyx black in the shifting lights. "Didn't you notice? Micah, Nico, Bianca—they're all wearing stuff from different times. Clothes that don't match ours. Doesn't that seem...wrong?" 

Admittedly, Silas noticed this fact since waking up but his worries seemed to dissipate the longer he stayed due to being entranced by the false happiness the Lotus Hotel and Casino offered him—the chance to be an innocent child not his need to be a responsible adult.

Felix's face paled as he processed Silas' words, eyes darting to the kids running around in clothes decades apart, to the frozen smiles on faces that never aged.

Silas tugged him toward the exit, voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "We have to get out of here before we forget everything, too. Damn it, how could I have been so ignorant?"

Micah's voice soared through the final outro, the raw, desperate notes of "And I still believe that I cannot be saved..." filling the arcade. His audience was spellbound, eyes fixed on the ethereal boy who sang with a passion that felt almost otherworldly.

The last echoes of his voice faded into the pulsing neon lights, and a hush fell over the room—broken only by the distant clink of arcade tokens. Micah lowered the mic with a flourish, his kaleidoscope eyes gleaming as they zeroed in on the two boys trying to slip away.

He leapt down from the low stage, landing with effortless grace, and sauntered straight toward Silas and Felix. His dark hair framed his sharp features like a curtain, every step radiating a rockstar's easy arrogance.

"You know..." Micah drawled, voice smooth as polished marble, "for all your obvious lack of talent, you do have nerve." He cocked his head, eyes swirling with shifting colors. "But messing with my performance? That was a mistake."

He ran a long, black-painted nail along his neck and his smile turned razor-sharp. "Funny thing, though..." Micah's eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "My last guitarist—some flaming chick—thought she could steal my spotlight. Tried to ruin my set by throwing a tantrum right in the middle of my solo."

A chill shot through Silas's spine, memories of claws, glowing red eyes, and the taste of terror slamming back into his mind. He and Felix locked eyes, both seeing the same horror reflected in each other: the empousa.

Micah's smirk widened, cold and satisfied. "So I made sure she kept playing. Right up until the final note of the last song. And let's just say...she wasn't looking so hot when the gig was over."

Silas glared, muscles coiling as he stepped forward. "We don't have time for your threats. Move."

Micah's gaze swept over them, his lip curling in amused disdain. "Honestly, you two look like you crawled straight out of the 80s," he sneered, flicking a stray lock of black hair from his eyes.

Felix blinked, curiosity cutting through his fear. "Wait—what year is it for you?" he blurted, voice tight but eager. Silas narrowed his eyes at Micah, but his curiosity overcame his urge to kill the boy.

Micah arched a perfect brow, as if the question was painfully stupid. "Nineteen ninety-eight," he said, enunciating each word with mocking patience.

The color drained from both Silas's and Felix's faces. They turned to each other in stunned horror, minds reeling. Even though, both believed the hotel to be messing with them, neither realized just how much time flew by. 

Micah's swirling eyes narrowed at their reaction. "What?" he scoffed, gesturing at their clothes with a disdainful wave. "Those out-of-fashion rags practically scream stuck in the past."

Micah's intense yet breath-taking smirk widened, sharp and restless beneath the curtain of his glossy black hair, amusement still lingering on his lips until Felix blurted, "I was born in 1972!"

"Felix—Shut up! God, why do I even bother?" Silas muttered that last part to himself.

Micah's smirk faltered. His gaze swept over Felix and then Silas, narrowing with suspicion. "Seventy-two...?" he echoed slowly, like tasting something bitter.

For a moment, the arcade sounds felt distant, muffled. Micah's now stormy grey eyes flickered with something raw, almost panicked, before his chin lifted defiantly. "No," he hissed to himself, voice laced with sharp vanity. "I'm not like them."

He scoffed, though it rang hollow. "I came here to entertain myself, not rot away like these mindless fools. I thought this place would be a playground—a stage—but it's a prison dressed up in neon and velvet." His eyes locked on theirs, wild and shining. "And I won't fade into some forgotten puppet show. I refuse. If you're leaving, I'm coming too."

With an insufferable groan, Silas shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked toward the exit, Felix trailing after him with Micah striding along, his boots clicking dramatically on the polished floor.

As they weaved through the arcade's maze of machines and blinking lights, Silas's eyes snagged on a black-haired boy about Silas' age, who stood near the change counter. He was tall and lean, with sea-green eyes that glittered with restless energy. His dark hair was perpetually messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed or fought a hurricane—maybe both.

Next to him stood a girl with stormy gray eyes and a mane of blonde curls pulled back into a high ponytail. She wore an orange t-shirt tucked into faded jeans, her posture exuding the kind of quiet authority that dared anyone to challenge her.

The boy was rambling animatedly to the girl—Annabeth, Silas caught the name—but Silas clenched his jaw and kept moving. He'd had enough weirdness for one day, and strangers were the last thing he needed.

Doctor Taylor spotted them just as they were about to slip out the door, his sun-kissed surfer grin faltering. "Hey, wait! You don't want to leave yet—there's so much more to see here. We can help you, keep you safe," he called out, arms reaching forward in earnest.

Before anyone could respond, Silas stepped forward, eyes cold and sharp. "Hell no," he snarled, and with sudden force, his fist connected squarely with Doctor Taylor's jaw. The surfer dude staggered back, stunned, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Chaos erupted immediately—guests shouted in surprise, staff scrambled, and the marble floors echoed with hurried footsteps. Felix grabbed Silas's arm, pulling him along as Micah kept watch, alert and ready.

They slipped through the disoriented crowd, racing down ornate hallways and bursting out a side exit into the broad daylight. Behind them, the Lotus Hotel and Casino's glowing neon signs faded as freedom called.

To say the trio, especially Silas and Felix, were shocked was a complete understatement.

They had stumbled out into the glaring daylight, the real sun burning their eyes after what felt like an eternity under neon lights and fake stars. For a long, breathless moment, they just stood there, blinking.

Las Vegas had changed—radically. Where Silas remembered grimy streets lined with flickering signs and Felix recalled the shadow of mobsters lurking in every dark alley, the city before them was polished, gleaming, and alive with an energy they didn't recognize. Towering new hotels loomed overhead, shiny attractions crowded the skyline, and clean sidewalks bustled with laughing families instead of the edgy figures they'd once known.

Micah's mouth opened slightly, but he looked more confused than shocked—this was his era, more or less. But for Silas and Felix, the sight was a punch to the gut.

The sidewalks were packed with people dressed in a dizzying mash-up of bold styles Silas and Felix had never dreamed of. Teenagers strutted by in low-rise jeans that clung to their hips, paired with snug crop tops and hoodies emblazoned with bright, glittery logos. Women sported embellished denim bedazzled with rhinestones and chunky, oversized sunglasses perched like tiaras atop their heads, shielding their eyes from the blazing Nevada sun. Wide-brimmed hats completed their dramatic looks, adding an almost theatrical flair.

Men lounged in baggy jeans slung so low they looked in danger of falling, graphic t-shirts shouting brand names like Ecko Unlimited and Rocawear in blocky, rebellious letters. Hoodies were layered even in the heat, sleeves pushed up just enough to flash bold watches or chunky bracelets.

Everywhere, sneakers gleamed—white leather Nikes with fat laces, Adidas Superstars with their iconic stripes—feet moving to a beat only they could hear. Earbuds snaked up into ears from the sleek, candy-colored devices everyone seemed to clutch, the tiny screens glowing in their palms as they flicked through with casual mastery.

Felix gaped openly, head swiveling side to side. Silas felt like they'd stumbled onto a movie set—one where everything was louder, shinier, and impossibly fast-paced.

Felix nudged Silas, wide-eyed. "What... are those?"

Silas scowled as he watched a teenager flick a thumb across the glowing screen of one. "No clue," he muttered, feeling more out of place with every second.

Felix's breathing turned shallow as he watched a girl skip by, her low-rise jeans slung dangerously low over rainbow-striped boyshorts. His wide eyes flicked from her strange device to the next person's, landing on a man pressing buttons with his thumb over a small rectangular device. "Silas... What year is this?" His voice cracked on the last word, panic seeping into every syllable.

Silas nearly snapped at Felix to shut his mouth but his heart was pounding too hard against his ribs like it was trying to break free. Every passing stranger looked like they'd stepped out of a fever dream of the future—sleek gadgets, logos he'd never seen, music playing without cassettes or CDs. The brightness, the unfamiliar brands, the sheer newness of everything pressed down on him, suffocating. He swayed on his feet, his hand gripping Felix's shoulder with white-knuckled intensity.

Micah stepped between them, eyes darting nervously at the bustling crowds. "Hey, chill out. I don't know what those... things are either," he said, forcing a smirk he didn't feel. "They weren't around when I—" He cut himself off, realizing the implications too late.

Felix's face went white. "What do you mean you don't know?! You're from '98!" His voice rose with each word, turning shrill.

Micah's forced confidence crumbled into a grimace as he looked away. "It... it means we've been in there longer than we thought."

Silas felt a cold, nauseating dread pool in his stomach. Twelve years—or more—gone, swallowed by neon lights and endless games. Silas could have sworn it only felt like a couple of days. His legs nearly buckled as he realized what that meant: everything they'd known had moved on without them. Their world was gone.

Panic clawed up his throat, raw and suffocating. Felix was breathing like a cornered animal, eyes darting wildly. Micah looked pale despite the sun, the truth sinking in with every frantic glance around.

They were strangers in a world that had kept going without them—and there was no going back.

They drifted in stunned silence through the crowded streets, weaving between tourists snapping photos with strange devices that could open and close and teenagers laughing in oversized hoodies. The sun blazed high overhead, but it offered no comfort—just a harsh light on how out of place they were.

Silas forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. His heart still hammered, but his mind finally clicked into focus. He clenched his fists and looked at the other two sharply. "We need to know exactly how long we've been gone. We need the date. We can't plan anything if we don't even know what year it is."

Felix winced like the words themselves stung. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, mumbling, "Do we really have to? I'd rather... not know." But he didn't look up, because the glaring signs and towering new hotels made the truth impossible to ignore.

Micah, who'd been trailing behind with a brooding scowl, perked up at the chance to take charge. He stepped forward with a smirk as he squared his shoulders, the dark flannel hanging open over a ripped band tee that bared hints of pale skin with every shift. A silver chain dangled from the belt loop of his worn black jeans, clinking softly as he moved with effortless swagger.

He glanced back at the other two boys, his ocean blue eyes glinting with a spark of mischief—and a dash of vanity. "Trust me," he purred, adjusting his flannel with a flourish. "No one can resist helping someone as majestic as me."

Without waiting for their replies, Micah slipped into the stream of foot traffic, head held high as he scanned for the perfect target—someone who looked kind enough, distracted enough, or just bored enough to answer a stranger's question.

Silas rolled his eyes but said nothing.

Felix, though, had to say something as per usual. He muttered, barely audible over the roar of the street, "Majestic, my ass..." But despite the sarcasm, both boys couldn't tear their eyes away from Micah's retreating figure, each silently dreading what the truth would bring.

Micah came striding back through the crowd with a dramatic huff, his chain swaying like a pendulum of irritation. His lips were twisted in a pout, eyes flashing in a way that screamed he'd just been insulted.

Silas's eyes followed the path Micah had taken, landing on a middle-aged woman standing beneath a garish casino sign. She was adjusting her designer handbag with fussy precision, brown eyes rolling as she barked into a small rectangular thing. Her perfectly styled hair and sharp-tongued demeanor rang a distant, haunting bell in Silas's mind.

She reminded him of an older, grumpier version of Jessie Harris: the bratty, smirking girl from Child Haven—the one he'd nearly choked to death in a blind rage back in August of 1986. What if...?

Panic flared in Silas's chest, hot and wild, as the past collided violently with the present. But he forced his rising panic down, shoving every feeling—every jagged shard of dread—into an imaginary glass jar and slamming the lid shut. He couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now.

Not when he was so close to finding the truth.

Micah arched an eyebrow, smirking despite the tension. "What's with the constipated look, Grandpa? Need a minute alone?" he drawled, voice thick with dry amusement.

"Shut up," Silas snapped, the words sharp enough to cut. "Just give us the damn date."

Micah's smirk faltered, eyes flicking away for a heartbeat—something tight and wounded flickering across his face, like whatever that woman had said had struck a nerve. He took a breath, then met their eyes with a dark, unsettling calm. "It's June 19th, 2006," he said flatly.

Felix's mouth dropped open. His lips worked soundlessly as he tried to do the math, eyes darting between the traffic, the signs, the unfamiliar gadgets in strangers' hands.

Silas let out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. "Nearly... nearly twenty years," he whispered, his voice shaking. Memories were flickering back like dying lightbulbs—Training with his father, his father's arrest, getting sent to Child Haven, thieving with Felix, the empousa, the Lotus Hotel swallowing them whole. He glanced at Felix, seeing his wide, terrified eyes mirroring his own recollections. "It's been nearly twenty years since we went into that godsdamn casino."

Felix's face paled as the date sank in. He stared at the bustling street like it was a stranger's nightmare, his lips moving with ragged, whispered words that slipped through clenched teeth. Words tangled with frustration, grief, and something fierce, a bitter storm hidden beneath his breath.

"She's gotta be thirty now... probably hates me... thinks I ran off... twenty-one years, just gone—like I meant to leave..."

The words spilled out like a confession to the empty air. His silvery eyes darted wildly, searching for something familiar in a world that had moved on without him.

Silas stood stiffly beside him, heart thudding. He heard only pieces—enough to taste the desperation—but Felix's past was a locked door he'd never been invited to open.

Felix's muttering slowed, breath hitching as his eyes flicked to Silas. In a world that had changed beyond recognition, with years stolen and everyone he knew turned to shadows of the past, there was only one thing—one person—that still felt real.

Silas.

The battered, sharp-eyed boy who had crashed into his life like a storm and somehow stayed. He didn't even know the curly, dark brown-haired boy's last name but it didn't matter. Silas was his only anchor to his past now.

Felix's voice went quiet, almost childlike. "At least you're still here," he whispered, the words meant more for himself than for Silas.

Silas shifted awkwardly, scowling to hide the sudden heat in his chest. "Don't get sappy on me now," he muttered, but he didn't pull away.

Before Felix could say more, Micah cleared his throat dramatically, stepping right between them with a huff. His eyes, now a mossy green, flicked around the street, restless and sharp. "Alright, enough with the sad-sack routine," he snapped, his eyes darting sharply across the street. "Hate to break up your little pity party, but we've got company."

He shifted his weight, scanning the crowd like a wolf scenting danger. "Someone's watching us—I can feel it." His tone was low, all the usual smugness drained away, replaced by a tense alertness. Still, a faint smirk tugged at his lips, as if the idea of being the center of someone's gaze flattered him—it was the kind of attention he craved, even if it came with danger.

Silas's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he glanced around for movement. Felix instinctively stepped closer to him, his earlier daze replaced by wary focus.

Micah clicked his tongue, eyes glittering like shards of glass. "So unless you two want to find out what's creeping up on us, I'd suggest we get moving."

Silas clenched his jaw but reluctantly fell into step behind Micah; as much as he hated to admit it, the older boy moved with an easy confidence through the unfamiliar city, weaving between blinking neon signs and glassy storefronts. Micah seemed to know exactly where he was going—or at least, he faked it well enough to reassure the others.

Silas still had the urge to pull out his pugio from his denim jacket and slit the pretty boy's throat—if anything, the urge grew now that they were out of that place. 

Every step deeper into the labyrinth of new Las Vegas made the hair on Silas' neck stand up. The oppressive sense of dread Micah had mentioned earlier pressed in on him like thick fog, and he caught Felix glancing over his shoulder more than once, silvery blue eyes wide with unspoken wariness.

Micah finally turned down a cracked alley that opened into a wide courtyard lined with broken benches and overgrown planters. A few homeless people huddled in corners or lay curled beneath filthy blankets, their eyes sunken, faces wary of the intruding boys.

But it wasn't the onlookers that made Silas' gut twist. Near the center of the courtyard sat a sickly, thin woman wrapped in layers of tattered clothing. Her hair hung in limp tangles, and her sallow skin looked like it hadn't felt sunlight in years. Yet her eyes burned with something fierce—something ancient.

Felix stepped closer, voice soft with concern. "Ma'am, are you okay—?"

The woman's head snapped up. Her eyes locked on Felix with sudden, piercing clarity—and then she shrieked. A bone-rattling, ear-splitting wail that made Felix stumble back and Silas whip out his dagger on instinct. Micah's eyes ( a mix of chestnut brown and jade green) widened at the youngest's weapon.

But the woman's gaze didn't linger on either of them. Her wild eyes darted straight to Micah, and she fell silent just as abruptly as she'd screamed, as if she recognized something in him—something only he carried.

"My sweet Hart, come to me. You mustn't stay with these boys."

The words slithered out of the woman's cracked lips like a prayer, soft and desperate.

Silas and Felix exchanged a look of pure suspicion, but for once, neither spoke up. There was something deeply wrong here—something that felt bigger than them, older than the city itself. The air around the woman seemed to shimmer with a heatless static that prickled Silas's skin.

Micah, for all his bravado, went as pale as the moon. His lips parted, and he took a small, involuntary step back. Silas caught the flicker of shock in his eyes—and something else, too: recognition.

Silas's mind spun. Hart? Isn't that his last name..?  It sounded like a childhood pet name, but the way the woman said it made the nickname feel heavy, loaded with meaning Micah clearly understood—and despised. Or hadn't heard in many years.

To his own surprise, Silas found himself stepping forward, half-opening his mouth to call Micah back. His instincts screamed not to let the older boy go alone—no matter how vain and insufferable he could be. Perhaps so that he could twist his dagger into—Shit, why am I feeling so violent?

But Micah strode to the otherworldly woman and he didn't look back. The tall boy moved like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, feet crunching over littered pavement as he followed the sickly woman into a battered camper van parked just beyond the courtyard.

As Silas and Felix hovered, tense and uncertain, the woman paused at the camper's open door. Her sunken eyes met theirs with an intensity that rooted them in place. "Do not fear, Micah must go elsewhere but thank you for keeping him safe." she rasped, but her muted glassy eyes swirled with amusement as if what she said was funny. "I've already sent you a guide. They should be arriving soon."

Then she slipped inside with Micah, leaving the two boys staring after them—alone in the empty courtyard, the world feeling far too big and far too strange. Silas and Felix exchanged a glance, wondering what the creepy lady meant. When they looked at the camper again, it had seemingly vanished without a trace—taking Micah along with it.

"What the hell?! Nothing makes sense anymore!" Felix groaned, dragging his hand down his face. Silently, Silas agreed with the talkative bastard.

Silas thought he'd experienced everything: watching his father gleefully demonstrate the best ways to kill—visually, of course; getting thrown off a horse so hard he saw stars; getting poisoned on his so-called "day out"; sprinting from monstrous devil dogs snapping at his heels; battling a fiery, fanged lady-demon; and, most recently, being slammed with the gut-churning truth that nearly twenty years had slipped by without him noticing.

But he never imagined he'd end up standing in a trash-strewn courtyard, staring into the sharp, intelligent eyes of a wolf—and realizing he was about to have a conversation with it.

The kooky lady must have forgotten what the word "soon" meant as Silas and Felix were waiting (very impatiently), watching dusk settled over the courtyard like a heavy blanket, the last rays of sunlight catching on broken glass and cracked pavement. A hush fell across the scattered homeless, an unnatural stillness that prickled Silas' skin. Out of the deepening shadows emerged two massive wolves, their paws silent on the concrete.

Between them padded a creature both regal and terrifying: a wolf towering seven feet tall at the shoulder, with a pelt of rich, chocolate-red fur that rippled like liquid shadow. Her eyes glowed silver, swirling like mist under moonlight, ancient and unblinking as they swept across the two boys.

Lupa. Silas felt the name settle into his mind like an instinct, primal and certain. She didn't growl or speak aloud, but her voice rolled through their skulls, each word as clear and commanding as if whispered directly into their ears: Listen closely, little pups. As of now, you will endure like a demigod until you reach the Wolf House.

Silas staggered back a step, breath caught in his throat—nothing was making sense, hadn't he endured enough? Why did he need to go to some house—was she leading them into a trap?Besides, there was no way he could be a demigod. Did that really mean his mother could be...? No, that can't be...She's dead. The wild-eyed boy swallowed hard. He'd never felt so small—and considering his life so far, that was saying something.

Silas glanced sideways at Felix, whose bravado had finally cracked; his silvery blue eyes were wide, breath shallow. They both looked up at Lupa's towering form. She was so massive up close that Silas almost forgot to breathe, each shift of her powerful shoulders radiating quiet authority. Perhaps if the she-wolf was less intimidating, Silas would have half a mind to verbally question her but even he knew when to keep his trap shut.

You have been lost long enough to time, her voice echoed inside their skulls, ancient and cold, yet thrumming with purpose. But Rome does not abandon its blood.

One of the smaller wolves prowled forward, hackles raised as if to herd them. Silas' heart pounded so violently he felt lightheaded, but he forced himself to stand straighter. Felix, too, clenched his fists, though his knees trembled.

The she-wolf's eyes gleamed like polished silver coins. Follow.

And without another word, she turned, her massive paws silent on the cracked pavement as she led them into the darkness beyond the courtyard. Silas walked under the darkness, silently thinking how crazy his life has turned out so far. If only he knew just how much wilder it would get.

The journey from the neon sprawl of Las Vegas to the misty reaches of Sonoma Valley felt like a fever dream neither Silas nor Felix could wake from. Under the moon's shifting light, they trudged on foot across barren deserts, empty highways, and tangled forests, guided by Lupa's silent, colossal presence. The wolf goddess rarely intervened, letting them face each challenge like true demigods—but she always loomed just beyond the treeline, a watchful shadow in the night.

Bandits tried to rob them near Barstow, but Silas easily manipulated them to start fighting amongst themselves before he sent the attackers fleeing with his sly grin (almost akin to his grin) and a show of his "bloodied" hands—it was smashed raspberries that Felix had found the night before—while tugging a heavy bag. Felix laughed at the sight, and joked Silas looked like a natural killer. Silas wasn't happy at that comment and one of the wolves had to watch him that night to make sure he wouldn't really kill someone.

In the high Sierras, beneath a brittle crescent moon, Silas and Felix found themselves cornered by a basilisk (finally a creature Silas knew the name of)—an emerald serpent no thicker than a man's wrist, but with pale yellow eyes that gleamed like death itself. Its white-spiked collar flared menacingly as it hissed, scales shimmering with an oily sheen. The monster slithered lightning-fast between boulders, leaving scorched patches where it exhaled puffs of crackling flame, each gout of heat licking dangerously close to the boys.

Felix, wide-eyed and stumbling backward, knocked over a pile of loose stones that cascaded down the slope with a clattering roar. The basilisk lunged—and a boulder, loosened by Felix's accidental luck, crashed directly onto its serpentine body. A sickening crunch echoed through the mountains, silencing the creature's furious shrieks as its fire died in a hiss of smoke. The monster's pale eyes dimmed, and its limp body twitched once before crumbling to ashes.

Felix gaped at the clump of ashes, then at his own hands. "Uh... did I do that?" he whispered, voice trembling with awe and disbelief.

Silas, panting and clutching his dagger, glared at Felix before letting out a shaky breath. "Don't look so smug," he snapped, though his voice cracked with relief. "Next time, try not to nearly get us roasted alive."

Above them, the dark silhouette of Lupa stood on a ridge, the moonlight glinting off her chocolate-red fur. Though she said nothing, they could almost sense her cold, silent approval before she melted back into the shadows of the Sierras.

Rainstorms pounded them in the Central Valley, drenching their ragged clothes and turning every step into a slog. Felix muttered endless complaints between chattering teeth, but Silas kept them moving with a grim determination, ignoring his own hunger and exhaustion. At night, they sometimes glimpsed Lupa's glowing silver eyes watching from the darkness, a silent reminder of their purpose.

By the time they staggered into Sonoma Valley, both boys bore scratches, bruises, and a ragged fierceness in their eyes. Hours earlier, as dusk fell like a bloody curtain over the High Sierras, they'd heard the first hoots—low, guttural calls that vibrated in their chests like a death knell. Then giant evil owls descended on them, ready for blood.

Silas probably would have laughed at the thought of being attacked by nerdy birds if he was in a better mood but he was just so tired of everything.

They were monstrous owls, wings spanning nearly ten feet, their obsidian feathers glinting like oil in the fading light. Their eyes burned a pale, sickly yellow, and every beat of their wings stirred the air with a rush of icy dread. Each bird's golden beak clicked hungrily, and their claws, long and leathery red, slashed the ground, leaving smoking gouges in the dirt.

One particular fat bird of omen lunged, its leathery red talons raking across Silas' chest.

FUCKING HELL! CAN I EVER GET A BREAK?!, Silas nearly screamed furiously.

Immediately, his body stiffened. Panic clawed at his chest as his legs locked and he crashed to the dirt. His vision flickered, frozen in place as the chaotic owls gathered overhead, more arriving with every shuddering heartbeat. Felix lay nearby, eyes wide and equally paralyzed, unable even to scream from pure terror.

Silas' mind howled in frustration. They'd come so far—fought monsters, crossed mountains, survived hellish nights—only to die here, helpless under the night sky. His muscles burned with the futile effort to move, but nothing obeyed him.

From the shadows, Lupa emerged. Her massive, chocolate-red form glided into view, silver eyes glowing like cold moons. She towered over them, seven feet of regal, silent power. Her gaze fell on Silas, holding him pinned not just by paralysis, but by the weight of her judgment. He sensed she expected something of him—some final spark of will.

Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, Silas forced a ragged breath through his locked chest. Even as fear and despair warred inside him, a stubborn flame refused to go out. He didn't know how he could possibly fight or save them, but he wasn't ready to surrender—not now, not with Lupa watching.

Above them, the giant demonic owls hissed and circled, but for that endless moment, the night held its breath.

Silas's world narrowed to the cold dirt beneath him and the sharp stars above. His heart thundered in his chest like a trapped animal. Screeches rose in a frenzied chorus as the giant owls swooped closer, feathers gleaming obsidian in the moonlight.

A darkness stirred inside him—deeper and older than his rage or fear. It felt like the same chaos his father once cultivated in him, but wilder, more primal, a churning storm of discord that twisted through his bones. It whispered to him of broken oaths and shattered minds, of madness that could tear reality apart.

He wanted—no, needed—those damn owls to taste that chaos. He wished, with every screaming thought, for them to know what it felt like to lose control as completely as he had so many times before. He yearned for them to feel that same helplessness, the same spiraling confusion, until they turned on each other.

Something deep in the forest seemed to shift. The evil owls, mid-dive, suddenly screeched in blind fury—not at Silas or Felix, but at each other. They tore through the sky in a feathered cyclone, slashing and biting, beaks snapping and talons raking. Black feathers exploded into the air like soot from a dying fire. Their monstrous forms spiraled through the air in a savage dance of beaks and talons, each trying to rip the others apart in a frenzy Silas had willed into existence.

But even as the owls fell into chaos, Silas' body remained frozen. His muscles refused to obey, the cold weight of paralysis anchoring him to the forest floor. He could only twitch his eyes, breath shallow, agony pulsing where the evil owl's talons had raked across his chest.

A low growl rumbled through the trees. Out of the mist stepped Lupa's two massive wolves, their fur bristling like shadows come alive. They padded forward with deliberate grace, each carrying a small wrapped bundle in their jaws.

Neither boy had ever seen anything like the golden squares the wolves nudged toward them. They looked almost like tiny, glinting brownies, warm and sweet-smelling even from the ground. Silas blinked, his mind foggy, unable to place what they were—but Lupa's voice rang through their thoughts, sharp and commanding: Eat up, pups.

Felix needed no encouragement. He wriggled forward until he could grab one with his teeth, the cube practically melting on his tongue. A rush of color came to his face, and the tension in his limbs vanished like frost in sunlight.

Silas hesitated, eyes fixed on the golden square glowing softly on the pine needles before him. He craned his neck closer and took a careful bite—flavor bursting across his tongue: plain vanilla ice cream, cold and creamy, just like the day he and his father had gone out for a "special treat."

For a heartbeat, he almost let himself bask in the sweetness—Leonard's rare, soft laugh, the comforting weight of his hand on Silas's shoulder. But then came the twist in his gut, the memory of writhing on sticky tile as the poison took hold, his father's voice droning about never letting his guard down and paying attention to his lessons.

Silas swallowed hard, forcing the rest of the golden square down. Warmth spread through him, the numbness receding from his limbs as feeling and strength returned. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he was upright, alive—and painfully aware of every beat of his heart.

Across from him, Felix flexed his fingers experimentally, a wobbly grin spreading across his face as he realized he could move again.

Standing sentinel in the shadows, Lupa watched them with a silver-eyed calm, her wolves silent and still as the boys recovered under her cold, ancient gaze. In her eyes, he thought he caught the faintest glimmer of approval—or perhaps wariness. It's not like Silas knew how to read a wolf.

Silas wiped the last crumbs of the golden square from his lips, eyes flicking over the now-empty clearing. Where once there had been a screeching storm of demon owls, there was nothing left but drifting golden dust, curling lazily in the dusky air like a fading nightmare.

He swallowed hard, the quiet pressing on his ears. We failed, he thought, bitterness thick on his tongue. His voice came out hoarse but steady: "So... that's it? We failed your test? You gave us—what, magic brownies—to pity us?"

Beside him, Felix looked up sharply, alarm flashing in his silver-blue eyes.

Lupa stepped forward, each movement measured and regal, her chocolate-red fur rippling like molten shadow. Her silver gaze cut through the gloom, pinning Silas where he sat.

You did not fail, her voice rang cool and powerful in both boys' minds, echoing from tree to tree. You faced the darkness, survived, and found strength in one another. That is what matters.

Silas blinked, disbelief warring with the raw hope surging in his chest. He shifted his gaze beyond Lupa, and his breath caught: hidden by the thick pines and brambles, a dark silhouette loomed just beyond the clearing—tall stone ruins tangled in vines, windows like hollow eyes staring into the gathering night.

"The Wolf House..." he breathed.

Lupa nodded once, slow and solemn, her wolves standing like silent sentinels at her flanks, which he realized was now much more than just the two that had accompanied them. Your true training begins tomorrow. Go, pups and rest for the night. 

Felix staggered upright first, clutching Silas's sleeve to haul him along. The two boys exchanged a look—equal parts relief, exhaustion, and grim determination—before limping toward the ancient ruins awaiting them just beyond the bushes.

The Wolf House emerged from the shadows like something out of a fever dream—massive and imposing, yet eerily majestic. Red and gray stones, weathered by decades of storms, rose in jagged walls that twisted skyward. Rough-hewn timber beams, each as thick as a man's torso, formed skeletal frames jutting out like broken ribs against the darkening sky. Moss crept across the stones in veins of green, and vines curled through shattered windows like grasping fingers.

The place looked less like a ruin and more like the half-finished palace of a billionaire lumberjack—grand, wild, and utterly untamed. The scent of pine and old wood clung to the air, mixing with a faint, ancient musk that made Silas' skin crawl.

Massive archways yawned like open maws, shadows pooling within. Tall stone chimneys jutted into the twilight like crumbling towers, and somewhere deep inside, Silas thought he heard a distant, ghostly howl. Yet, despite the ruinous state, the Wolf House radiated a quiet, ancient power—like it had stood sentinel for centuries, waiting for pups like them.

Silas and Felix lay sprawled on the cold, cracked stone floor of the Wolf House, the scent of damp wood and moss heavy in the air. Faint moonlight slanted through a shattered window, casting fractured beams across their bruised faces as they caught their breath. Their bodies still ached from the journey, but a fragile sense of triumph settled between them.

"It's been... two weeks, right?" Silas rasped, his voice hoarse and raw. He stared up at the massive timber beams overhead, trying to ignore the dark stains on the ancient walls.

Felix nodded weakly, a crooked grin tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion in his eyes. "Feels like two centuries," he muttered, shifting to rest his head against a fallen beam. "But hey—maybe the future's full of feasts, piles of gold, and baths big enough to swim in."

Silas snorted, the sound rough but genuine. "Or monsters, curses, and endless training."

Felix groaned dramatically. "Way to kill the dream, Si. Couldn't even let me have a minute of luxury?"

Silas froze at the nickname before a small, strained laugh slipped from his chest—wistfully, he hoped to hear it more; a verbal sign that the boy had...a somewhat trusted accomplice. 

They fell into a quiet silence then, side by side on the cold floor, both boys staring into the darkness of the Wolf House—each wondering what lay beyond this ruin, and what kind of warriors they would have to become to survive it.

The two boys drifted to sleep but they were ready to carve their fate from whatever chaos waited beyond.

ᴀ/ɴ: ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪᴅ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴅᴇᴍɪɢᴏᴅ'ꜱ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʟꜰ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ɪꜱ ʙᴀʀᴇʟʏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ (ᴀꜱ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ ɪꜱ ꜱᴀᴅʟʏ ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ɪ ɢᴇᴛ ᴡʜʏ).

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴀɴʏ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ, ᴋɪɴᴅʟʏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴜᴘ ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ. ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴀꜱᴋꜱ, ᴍɪᴄᴀʜ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ (ʜɪɴᴛ: ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ, ꜱɪʟᴀꜱ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴅᴇꜰ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜɪᴍ). 

ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ ʏ'ᴀʟʟ! 

ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ!!

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

ᥴꫝꪖρꪻꫀ᥅ ᠻꪮꪊ᥅

❝ＢＥＹＯＮＤ ＴＨＥ ＷＯＬＦ'Ｓ ＳＨＡＤＯＷ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

FOR FOUR GRUELING MONTHS, the ancient halls of the Wolf House echoed with the clash of wooden swords, the roar of Lupa's wolves, and the breathless gasps of two boys who refused to give up. Lupa was an unrelenting shadow at their backs, forcing them to run until their lungs burned, to spar until their muscles screamed, and to think faster than they ever thought possible. Every dawn brought new trials: wrestling each other in frigid mountain streams, memorizing Roman history under a sky lit by cruel stars, navigating labyrinthine forests filled with prowling wolves.

Felix's luck seemed to vanish in the Wolf House. He slipped on loose stones, got tackled by wolves twice his size, and earned more bruises than he could count. Silas, on the other hand, learned to channel the discord boiling in his veins, each frustration sharpening his instincts like a whetstone to a blade. Although Silas believed it was a miracle Felix wasn't dead yet because of all his close encounters of Death.

On the final day, as dawn painted the sky in cold gray light, Lupa regarded them with eyes like frozen moons. Her voice filled the ruins, echoing in their minds with a power that made their bones vibrate: Silas Vesper. Son of  the Lady Strife Discordia; the goddess of conflicts, discord, and chaos.

Felix let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. "Figures. I always knew you were the embodiment of bad vibes."

Silas shot him a glare. "Says the guy who trips over his own feet even when luck's supposed to be on his side."

Felix dusted off his torn shirt with an exaggerated sniff. "It's not my fault these wolves don't appreciate my natural grace."

Lupa's ears twitched as if barely tolerating their banter. She stepped forward, eyes glinting with cold pride at Silas. "You carry your mother's legacy whether you wish it or not. Discordia's blood flows in you."

Felix's smirk faltered, and he opened his mouth to fire another remark, but Lupa's cold silver gaze pinned him next. Her words rolled into their minds like thunder shaking the stones underfoot: Felix Morretti. Son of  the Lady Luck Fortuna; goddess of fortune, fate, and luck.

Felix blinked. Once. Twice. Then he let out a strangled squawk. "Fortuna? As in... literal goddess of luck?!"

Silas arched a brow, despite the tension. "Explains a lot—and also absolutely nothing."

Felix's mouth worked like a fish gasping on dry land. "Wait, wait—so my mom's been the reason I've always had weird streaks of good luck? And also why it runs out at the worst possible times?"

Silas rolled his eyes skyward. "And here I thought you were just cursed with being you."

Felix shoved him lightly, but his eyes shone with a mix of wonder and confusion. "You're literally the son of strife. I'm the son of luck. We're like a cosmic joke."

"Or a disaster waiting to happen," Silas shot back, but the corners of his mouth twitched as if he might smile.

Lupa watched them in heavy silence, the pines whispering overhead like ancient witnesses. Then, in their minds, her voice rumbled once more: Head south through the valley. Follow your instincts and use your senses. At the final crossway, the path will reveal itself. Know your blood. Know your power. The world beyond these woods will not forgive weakness thus you must conquer or die.

And just like that, she turned and melted into the trees, her wolves slinking after her, leaving Silas and Felix alone in the silent, ancient clearing of the Wolf House.

A gust of cold dawn wind swept through the Wolf House, scattering pine needles around their feet. In that quiet, the weight of what they'd learned settled over both boys like a shroud—and a promise.

They stood there for a long moment, staring after her. Then Felix blew out a shaky breath. "So... South?"

"South," Silas echoed grimly.

The next three days blurred into a cold, exhausting trek through rain-soaked highways and misty valleys. When the boys' feet blistered raw, they resorted to thumbing rides; one wary but kindhearted soda delivery driver took pity on their ragged clothes and haunted eyes, letting them ride in the back of his rattling truck.

By dawn on October 7th, the duo finally reached the hills overlooking a highway. They'd lost a day when their hitchhiked ride broke down outside a ghost town and spent a freezing night fending off a gang of raccoons who looked suspiciously organized. Somehow, Felix managed to charm the ringleader—a fat raccoon missing half an ear—and spent half the night trying to convince Silas they should adopt it as their "mascot." Silas flat-out refused, muttering darkly about "shady masked bandit animals" and how he didn't trust anything with grabby little hands (especially babies).

Felix and Silas stood at the mouth of the Caldecott Tunnel, the morning fog still clinging to the hills. Three dark passages yawned before them: two tunnels busy with the hiss of tires and distant honking, and a third, blocked off behind a rusted chain-link fence plastered with faded NO TRESPASSING signs.

Felix's eyes glinted with excitement as he jabbed a finger at the fenced-off entrance. "That's it. The abandoned one—this must be the path Lupa was talking about." Without a word, Felix scrambled up the fence.

Silas hesitated, then climbed the fence after Felix, shoes landing with a dull thud on the cracked pavement. The stale air inside smelled of rust and old rain. Each step deeper muffled the world behind them, the sounds of the highway fading into a dense, heavy silence.

Halfway through, they felt it: a strange pull, like pushing through a thick curtain. The darkness shimmered with subtle ripples of magic, and the scent of the tunnel shifted from damp concrete to cool earth and pine needles. It felt like the world itself was shifting underfoot, the air thrumming faintly with hidden power.

"Whoa, wicked!  You felt that right, Si?"

Silas paused at the nick-name, the word felt foreign and sharp, digging into something soft and unguarded inside him. His chest twisted, equal parts confusion and a strange, prickling warmth.

He swallowed hard, scowling to hide the mess of feelings. "Don't call me that," he snapped, voice harsher than he intended. I can't believe I let it slide the first time...ugh.

Felix just grinned mischievously, eyes dancing as he started walking backward toward the end of the tunnel, arms spread wide. "No promises, Si!"

Silas clenched his jaw, but couldn't suppress the tiny, bewildered flicker of something dangerously close to hope.

When they finally stepped out the other side, morning sunlight broke across their faces, sharp and brilliant. A sprawling valley spread out below, ringed by rolling hills crowned in misty evergreens. Stone roads snaked between rows of military-style barracks and a weathered stable, the scent of hay and horses drifting on the breeze. A massive field gleamed with dew, and a river snaked through the heart of it all, its waters reflecting the pale dawn sky.

Near the tunnel's exit, two demigods stood at attention. One was a tall, blond young boy with electric blue eyes, a small scar on his lip, and the chiseled features of a Roman statue—his bearing radiated authority and calm strength. The other, a girl with pale, almost moonlit skin and dark hair falling in sleek waves to her shoulders, watched them with a gaze that seemed half-lidded and dreamy, yet sharp as a dagger. Shadows clung to her eyes like smudged kohl, giving her an air of perpetual midnight. She exuded a quiet, unsettling calm that made it hard to tell if she was seconds from falling asleep or seeing straight into their souls.

The tall blond boy was the first to spot them stepping through the shimmering threshold. His electric-blue eyes narrowed with a soldier's instinct, and he straightened his stance like he'd been carved from marble. "Halt!" he spoke, voice sharp and commanding. "State your names—and who escorted you here."

Silas spotted how Felix flinched at the force behind the words, but before he could respond, the girl beside the blond stepped forward. Her dark hair was a tousled mess, deep shadows smudged beneath her eyes like permanent bruises. She swayed slightly on her feet, eyelids fluttering as if sleep might claim her at any second. "Yeah... names," she echoed in a voice soft but tinged with eerie calm. "And don't even think about lying."

Their purple legion shirts stirred in the breeze, marking them as sentries of Camp Jupiter, but to Silas and Felix, they were still strangers—unknown and untested.

Silas drew a steadying breath, forcing himself to keep his voice even—he had the urge to cause trouble with a little attitude but refrained. "We were training with Lupa for four months," he said, his eyes fixed firmly on the blond sentry's piercing gaze. "But we found our own way here." His tone was cool, betraying none of the exhaustion or raw nerves still thrumming through him. "I'm Silas Vesper. Son of Discordia."

He nearly let out a sigh of relief when neither of the sentries seemed to recognize his last name. Maybe people don't know him...it has been nearly 20 years.

He nudged Felix with his elbow—harder than necessary—and shot him a sharp look.

Felix rubbed his ribs with a small hiss, then straightened with a lopsided grin. "Felix Morretti. Son of... Fortuna," he declared, though his voice cracked faintly at his mother's name.

The blond boy's expression didn't shift much—if anything, Silas noted, he just seemed to be ticking boxes in his mind, his eyes sweeping them with a detached, dutiful air. Like he was checking a list rather than sizing up a threat.

It made Silas think this one wasn't suspicious by nature—just a soldier following orders.

Poppy let out a light, lilting laugh—one that teetered somewhere between genuine amusement and sheer exhaustion. She scrubbed a hand over her bleary eyes, blinking hard as if trying to stay awake. "Well, aren't you two just a delight," she said, her words drifting like she was half in a dream.

She jabbed a thumb toward the blond boy standing tall beside her. "This here's Jason Grace—yes, that Jason Grace, Son of Jupiter himself," she drawled, a teasing note in her voice despite her drooping eyelids. "Big hero material, I know. Try not to swoon."

Silas visibly scrunched up his face at the comment and Jason stared at him with his startling blue eyes for a moment before glancing towards Camp Jupiter. From what he recalled with Lupa's grueling history lessons, Jupiter is the chief king of the Gods and a god of light and the sky—basically, one hell of god you do not want to mess with. He could get the sense that Jason Grace was a formidable force if he felt like being one. 

Then she shifted, leaning lazily on her pilum as her eyes fluttered half-closed. "And I'm Poppy. Daughter of Somnus, in case you couldn't already tell," she added, smirking sleepily at them as she swayed slightly on her feet. "Welcome to Camp Jupiter, newbies."

Jason shifted his weight, glancing back at the tunnel entrance with a soldier's wary gaze. "I'll stay here," he offered in a firm, even tone. "Just in case more wander in."

Silas studied him, noting the way Jason held himself with easy authority—like he was born for command. He couldn't decide if the guy was a leader...or just another stickler for rules.

But Poppy let out a breathy huff, rolling her eyes. "Jason, don't be boring," she chided with a sleepy grin. She swatted his shoulder lightly, the blow barely more forceful than a falling leaf. "You're the golden boy around here. Go on—take them for a tour. And don't forget to drop by the Principia. You know how the Praetors get if they're not the first to poke the new meat."

Silas caught the faintest twitch of Jason's mouth, almost like he wanted to grimace, before he sighed. "Yeah," Jason muttered, voice low. "Wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

Then he looked up at the boys, blue eyes sharp beneath the early morning light. "Before I can give a tour, first the Praetors have to decide whether you guys are worthy of being here." 

Felix blinked before muttering under his breath, "What?! Isn't surviving with Lupa enough? C'mon!"

Poppy let out another light, dreamy laugh at the boy's comment but Silas had an unreadable expression on his face.

 "...Follow me," Jason said dryly, motioning them to follow him toward the camp gates.

Jason led them, his stride confident as he pointed toward the sparkling ribbon of water winding through the valley. "That's the Little Tiber," he explained, voice carrying just enough authority to make it clear he'd recited this before. "It's our boundary—keeps monsters, monsters disguised as door-to-door salesmen, and Greeks from getting in. Cross it, and you're under Camp Jupiter's protection."

Silas' brows rose with cautious interest. He took in the river, its surface gleaming like liquid silver in the morning light, and committed Jason's words to memory.

Felix, on the other hand, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else (most likely with that Poppy girl by the way he had smiled dreamily at her when she spoke). He scuffed his shoe against the path, muttering something rude as he kicked a loose stone—only for it to bounce unpredictably against the scabbard of Jason's gladius that hung by his waist, striking himself square in the crotch.

The dramatic boy collapsed to his knees, eyes wide and face contorted in shock and pain. "Ah, come on! What kind of luck is this?"

Silas tried hard not to laugh but couldn't resist a smirk. "Guess your luck finally ran out. Maybe pay attention next time, hm?"

Jason shook his head before giving a hand to the downed son of Fortuna, blond hair swaying lightly in the breeze, with a concealed, bemused grin. "Maybe don't test your fate yet—not until the Preators do anyways."

Jason guided them confidently through the sprawling camp, his voice steady as he pointed out the key landmarks. First came the mess hall—a bustling, sturdy stone building where the clatter of plates and laughter spilled out through open windows. Then the principia, the heart of Camp Jupiter's operations, where Jason briefly mentioned that the two new arrivals would soon be brought before the Preators to decide their fate. Silas caught the weight of the moment in Jason's tone: this wasn't a casual welcome.

As Jason opened the doors to the Principia, a hush seemed to fall over the chamber like dust settling on old stone. Felix and Silas stepped inside, both instinctively straightening their postures beneath the weight of the looming marble and velvet grandeur.

The ceiling glittered with the image of Romulus and Remus suckling beneath Lupa, the wolf goddess. Although Silas knew of the myth, it was hard to believe that was the same she-wolf, who had trained them, breastfeeding two toddlers...Quite frankly, he just hated babies. His eyes drifted elsewhere, but there wasn't enough lye to get rid of the image. The walls, draped in deep purple velvet, softened the stark edges of the military banners and polished weapons lining the back wall. Everything felt ceremonial. Heavy with expectation. Like stepping into the jaws of fate.

At the long table ahead—cluttered with scrolls, tablets, notebooks, and, oddly, a glass bowl brimming with jelly beans—two praetors sat. The pair rose as the boys approached.

The first to stand was a young woman, likely no older than eighteen, with rich brown skin and a halo of tight curls pulled into a sleek bun. Her bearing was regal, her eyes sharp as glinting bronze. The purple cape clasped around her shoulders fluttered slightly with her movement, and her eagle medal caught the morning light. There was no doubt in Silas's mind—she was power wrapped in silence.

Beside her, a boy maybe a year younger leaned back with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. His honey-brown hair was tousled, sun-kissed like someone who lived outdoors. A quiet confidence radiated from him, but it wasn't cold like the girl's—it was... musical somehow. He looked like he'd be more at home in a festival than a war room. Still, the glint of intelligence behind his relaxed posture was unmistakable.

The girl spoke first, her voice low and commanding. "Names. Lineage. Reason for entry."

Felix cleared his throat, nudging Silas with a grin. "You want to go first, or should I start charming?"

Silas didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. He stepped forward smoothly.
"Silas Vesper. Son of Discordia. We trained under Lupa for four months. We've come to join the Twelfth Legion."

At the mention of his godly mother, he noticed a shift in their expressions—one that spelled out they didn't seem to like children of Discordia. Or perhaps the jellybeans had an awful after-taste.

Felix followed with a lazy salute. "Felix Morretti. Also one of Lupa's star pupils. Apparently, my mom's Fortuna—not that she left a business card or anything."

The male praetor arched a brow but didn't speak surprisingly.

Felix glanced between them and added, "We came on our own. No escorts. Just two tired kids who'd really like a bed that doesn't have raccoons under it."

For a moment, neither praetor responded. Then the girl turned her calculating gaze to Jason. "You can go. We'll take it from here."

Jason gave a slight bow of his head. "Good luck," he said, with the sort of weight that made Felix blink.

As Jason turned to leave, Felix leaned toward Silas and muttered, "Man, are we applying for noble titles or something?"

Silas shrugged stiffly. "I was just happy she didn't ask for a résumé."

The male praetor leaned forward first, his fingers idly rolling a green jelly bean between thumb and forefinger. "Felix Morretti," he repeated thoughtfully. "Son of Fortuna. That... could be an omen. Good luck's hard to come by."

The girl, still standing, nodded. "We've been in need of fortune lately. The Twelfth Legion could use someone who tips fate in our favor."

Felix straightened proudly. "Well, I'm your guy. I once won a knife-throwing contest with a rock."

The male praetor's mouth twitched in amusement. The girl, however, turned her eyes sharply to Silas. "And you, Vesper..." she said the name slowly, like tasting something bitter.

Silas didn't flinch. He met her gaze with steady calm.

"Children of Discordia," she said, crossing her arms, "are not known for loyalty. Rome is order. Discipline. Unity. Discordia is—"

"Strife," Silas finished, his voice even. "Chaos. Rebellion. Not exactly Latin virtues."

The boy praetor raised a brow. "But you still came here. Why?"

Silas considered lying—but what was the point? "Because it's where I was told to go. I figured if the wolves didn't kill me, maybe the Romans would."

That earned a small, surprised snort from the male praetor. The girl's expression didn't change.

"Suppose," she said coolly, "you are in command of a legion. You're ambushed. Half your legion is injured. The enemy demands surrender or they'll execute prisoners. What do you do?"

Silas blinked. "Do I have the element of surprise?"

The girl's eyes narrowed slightly. "Say no."

Silas shrugged. "Then I'd buy time. Pretend to surrender. Use the delay to reposition. Give my healers a chance to get the wounded up. Once they let their guard down..." His voice trailed with a slight tilt of his head. "Strike hard."

The praetors exchanged a glance.

"You'd lie," the girl said. For once, Silas couldn't tell what she was thinking. Was she impressed by his cleverness or did she look down at his methods of winning?

"I'd win," Silas corrected.

The guy smiled slightly. "Very strategic of you."

"Next scenario," the girl said, circling slowly. "You're offered a reward. Gold, titles—whatever you want. But you must betray your cohort. Would you?"

Silas's jaw clenched. "No."

"Not even for revenge? Or for chaos?"

"I'm not a puppet," he said flatly. But it had to be the biggest lie that escaped his lips. "I don't make choices just because they suit my legacy. I make them because they're mine." Hah, I wish.

A moment of silence followed.

Felix, standing off to the side, whispered, "He's like, really intense when he talks like that. Anyone else getting chills?"

The male praetor finally set the jelly bean down. "You're clever, Vesper. Cunning. The kind of mind Rome often fears, but occasionally needs."

The girl nodded. "We'll watch you closely. Discordia's blood isn't easy to trust. But you survived Lupa's training. You got here on your own. And you answered wisely."

The male praetor finally leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. "That alone earns some respect."

The female praetor's eyes flicked from Felix to Silas. "But respect is not membership. Not yet."

She stepped around the long table, her purple cloak trailing behind her like shadowed firelight. Her boots echoed lightly against the marble floor.

"At Camp Jupiter," she said, "we don't hand out places. You earn them. Until then, you are both on Probatio."

Felix blinked. "Pro-what now?"

The male praetor explained, "Probatio. You're not legionnaires yet. That title means you train, work, and prove your worth—until you either survive your first year or accomplish an act of valor. Then, and only then, do you earn your mark, your cohort, and your right to fight in Rome's name."

Felix made a small sound—half-grumble, half-resigned sigh. "So, like... trial membership. Great."

Silas said nothing. He only gave a faint nod, the title sitting on his shoulders like a weight he'd already expected.

Then the female praetor turned to him directly, her voice cool.

"You, son of Discordia. We've seen your kind before. Rare. Unpredictable. Untrustworthy."

Silas held her gaze, not rising to the bait.

"Yet..." she continued, "your answers to our scenarios were... insightful. Roman, even. Perhaps too Roman."

The male praetor glanced at Felix. "And Fortuna's son—luck can be a weapon or a curse. We'll see which."

He gestured toward the door. "You'll be assigned a cohort by evening muster. Until then, remain in camp, stay out of trouble, and report to the Field of Mars for death ball tonight."

Felix gave a mock salute. "Yes, sir. Will try not to gamble away my soul in the meantime."

Silas muttered under his breath, "No promises from him."

As they turned to leave, the female praetor added, "And boys—Camp Jupiter doesn't forget. Earn your place."

Outside, sunlight warmed the marble steps. Felix sighed. "So... trial run. Fun."

Silas looked ahead, expression flat. "Just another test."

"Yeah," Felix smirked. "But this time there's real beds. Probably."

Outside the Principia, the marble courtyard basked under the high noon sun, shadows sharp and unmoving beneath the colonnades. Jason stood off to the side with another boy, deep in quiet conversation. The other kid looked about fifteen, with messy, reddish-brown hair that curled faintly at the ends. He wore thick glasses that magnified a pair of storm-gray-blue eyes—eyes that didn't seem particularly focused on anything, but gave the impression of noticing everything anyway.

Felix squinted. "Who's the guy with Jason? Looks like he just walked out of a chess club and a knife fight."

Silas didn't answer as he kept his attention on the other boy. His eyes were on the boy's posture: not aggressive, not proud—but set, like someone who always braced for something even if he didn't know what. There was no tension in his fists, no twitch of nerves. Just stillness. Intentional or not.

Something about it made Silas' instincts prick.

Jason turned, nodding to them. "There you are. Everything go alright inside?"

Felix shrugged. "Define alright."

The quiet boy glanced up then, and Silas found himself looking into a face that held nothing particularly fierce—but felt like it should. There was a strange, buried quality in his stillness, a quiet potential for chaos he didn't even seem aware of.

Jason gestured between them. "This is Luca. He's a friend."

Luca gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching as if unsure whether to smile or not.

"Hey," he said—soft, almost reluctant. The word was simple, but it curled strangely on his tongue, thick with a heavy Italian accent.

"Hey," Felix echoed, then added under his breath to Silas, "He blinked. That's good."

Silas didn't respond. He was still watching Luca—not out of suspicion exactly, but a gut-deep awareness. The boy didn't move like a killer. But Silas had been raised to notice the people who might become one. Luca didn't seem to know he had that spark in him. And maybe that was the most dangerous part.

Still, Silas looked away. He didn't have the energy to chase ghosts in other people. Not today.

"Praetors didn't chew you up too badly, I hope?" Jason asked with a ghost of a smile, and Silas wondered briefly what did make the guy smile? Then, he questioned why he even cared in the first place.

Felix made a show of rubbing his jaw with a theatrical wince. "I've had worse. But apparently we're toothpaste now—gotta be squeezed for worth."

That earned a short laugh from Jason, his usual firm composure softening for a moment. "That's one way to put it."

Silas just rolled his eyes, but he didn't object when Jason glanced between them and added, "You two up for the rest of the tour now? Might as well see what you've signed up for."

Felix perked up. "Only if it includes a snack stop and dramatic battlefield names."

Jason smirked. "We'll see what I can do."

With that, he turned, leading them down the nearest stone path toward the rest of Camp Jupiter. Luca didn't spare either of them a glance as he drifted beside the son of Jupiter.

As they followed Jason through the winding paths of Camp Jupiter, sunlight warm on their backs, Silas couldn't shake the feeling coiling in his chest—like a thread pulled too tight.

He was walking the right path. So why did it already feel like he was meant to leave it?

Maybe, like every child of Discordia, he was meant to be an omen—The shadow behind the shield. The hands that twisted the blade into a friend's back.

And somewhere deep down... Silas feared the Praetors were right.

ᴀ/ɴ:

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏᴄᴛᴀᴠɪᴀɴ ɪꜱ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀᴜɢᴜʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ. ᴘʟᴜꜱ, ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴀꜱꜱ.ᴡʜʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ɪ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ? ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ (ꜱᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏᴄꜱ ᴏᴍʟ).

ꜰᴇʟɪx ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪʟᴀꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀɴ ɪᴄᴏɴɪᴄ ᴅᴜᴏ, ɪ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ʏ'ᴀʟʟ. ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ'ꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴛᴏᴏ? ꜰᴇʟɪx ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴘᴘʏ!

ʟᴇᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ʟᴜᴄᴀ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ᴏᴄ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ; ʟᴜᴄᴀ  ɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴀɴ ᴏᴄ ᴏꜰ RACCOONsCLONE. ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢᴏ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ ᴏɴ ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴏᴏᴏᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ!!

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢᴏ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴇꜱᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄꜱ ᴘᴀɢᴇ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴜɪʀꜱᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴏᴏᴅ ʙᴏᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ. (ᴍɪᴄᴀʜ ɪꜱ ʟᴡᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴛᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ)

ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ!

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕚𝕧𝕖

❝ＷＡＲＹ ＷＥＬＣＯＭＥ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

PASSING THE warm steam rising from the baths, they moved through rows of barracks—neat, military-style wooden buildings with their occupants either sparring in the dirt or sprawled across benches in the shade, catching whatever rest they could. The Field of Mars stretched wide and green in the distance, churned by boot prints and scorched patches, a living monument to Rome's brutal, beautiful legacy of war.

Jason slowed his pace just enough to glance over his shoulder. "You two might want to prepare yourselves. We've got a round of Death Ball tonight."

"Death Ball?" Felix echoed, his voice caught between interest and horror.

Jason grimaced like someone who'd survived it once or twice. "Think paintball—but with acid, poison, and the occasional fireball. Rules are optional. Expect bruises, burns, and maybe a few broken bones if you're lucky."

Felix's confidence visibly wavered, his face paling a shade. "Oh. That's... fun. Sounds fun. Yep."

Silas only smirked, his shoulders loose and unbothered. "My father taught me to shoot."

The rest, he didn't say aloud. Not about how his father had a twisted love for blades—claimed they drew blood in a way that was personal, almost artistic. Guns were fine too, but only for when efficiency mattered. A clean headshot, he'd say, saves time but cuts down on beauty.

Silas had learned early: weapons were language. And he'd grown fluent in all of them.

Jason blinked at him, then wisely said nothing.

They crested the hill just as Temple Hill came into view—dozens of shrines scattered like ancient bones among the trees, but none more majestic than the towering temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Its grand white columns reached toward the sky, crowned with statues of eagles and thunderbolts, all gleaming gold in the afternoon sun. The marble steps shone like polished bone, and the air was thick with something old and godly—like the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath.

"If we had an augur, you'd probably find them here," Jason said, gesturing toward the temple.

"Don' need one," came Luca's quiet voice, thick with a heavy Italian accent and edged in something bitter. "Octavian, he already got plans to take da title."

His tone was clipped, the words almost too casual to be genuine. Jason shifted beside him, discomfort flickering across his features—like he wanted to say more but bit his tongue instead.

"He, uh... He was just made Centurion of the First Cohort," Jason explained, his electric blue eyes flicking between them. Silas wished they lingered on him for a moment longer but Jason had already glanced away. "Legacy of Apollo."

"What's a legacy?" Felix asked, curiosity winning over his lingering nerves.

Jason smiled faintly. "A legacy is someone descended from a demigod—usually through a long line. Their godly blood is diluted, so some may still have abilities while others don't."

Felix tilted his head. "So... not all of them are magical?"

"Not always," Jason said. "But legacy or not, they still serve ten years if they want to live in New Rome. The Twelfth Legion doesn't make exceptions." 

Felix let out a long breath, clearly doing the math in his head. "Ten years, huh..."

"Don't worry," Jason said. "The first year's the hardest. After that, you just stop noticing how often things explode."

Felix winced. Silas just gave a dry, almost-smile.

As they walked back to baths with Jason explaining New Rome and the structure of Camp Jupiter, Silas' sharp eyes drifted to the inside of Jason's right forearm, where a tattoo marked his skin—a proud eagle perched above the letters SPQR, with nine bold lines etched beneath it. He assumed the eagle had to do with Jupiter and the nine lines meant nine years of service. Long enough to be respected. Long enough to be dangerous.

Luca had one too, though his was different. A pair of crossed spears instead of an eagle, only two lines beneath the SPQR. It was simpler, newer—yet something about it felt just as earned. Maybe it was the way Luca carried himself: quiet, watchful, with a tension coiled just beneath the surface like a drawn bow. 

Silas tried hard to think of different gods and goddess that were associated with spears but came up blank; if he was being frank, everything still felt like a myth. It's not like he had actually seen them in person—Lupa didn't count, she was a giant bossy immortal wolf in his book—and yet he was supposed to just give them respect while earning theirs? 

Utterly ridiculous.

Silas and Felix stood off to the side, flanked by a pair of stern-looking guards as the Cohorts began roll call. The scene before them was nothing short of intimidating—orderly, rigid, and humming with disciplined energy. The first four cohorts, roughly forty campers in total, stood in neat, unwavering rows lining either side of the Via Praetoria, Camp Jupiter's main road.

At the very end, directly in front of the Principia, stood the Fifth Cohort—leaner in number, but no less formidable. All the legionnaires were dressed for war: polished chain mail shimmered over purple T-shirts, greaves clamped over worn jeans, and helmets gleamed in the fading sun. Leather combat boots scuffed the stone road in unison, their cadence sharp and martial.

Each camper bore an arsenal—spears that looked like deadly harpoons, gladii strapped to their belts, short daggers tucked against their hips. The legionnaires in front gripped large rectangular shields, painted in red and gold, so pristine they reflected the torchlight like mirrors.

Jason and Luca stood among the Fifth Cohort, the latter holding his helmet under his arm. Jason looked calm yet distracted by something, his eagle tattoo visible even from a distance. Luca stood beside him, back straight, expression unreadable.

Felix's eyes scanned the formation until he spotted Poppy within one of the side cohorts—not the Fifth. She wore her helmet crooked on her head, a yawn barely suppressed, but she still managed to look ready for battle in her own sleepy, slightly disheveled way. Surprisingly, Felix didn't comment although the enchanted expression he wore spoke more than words ever could.

Silas crossed his arms, eyeing the military display with cautious interest. It all felt a little too ceremonial. Too pristine. Like a war machine on standby.

Felix, beside him, let out a low whistle. "This place really is just... a glorified Roman boot camp," he muttered. "No pressure, right?"

Silas didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the rows of soldiers, eyes calculating. If this was going to be their future... he'd better learn the rules fast. 

The Lares were the last to fall in—wispy, purple-tinged figures that shimmered as they glided through the gathered ranks of demigods. Jason had explained earlier that these were house spirits, guardians of the legion, bound to its legacy even in death. Their ghostly forms flickered like candlelight, passing through solid matter without disturbing it, but somehow their presence still carried weight.

Silas watched, eyes narrowing slightly, as the Lares drifted to their designated cohorts. Even the dead respected the order here. That was... unnerving.

His gaze shifted again—each cohort was balanced, nearly symmetrical. Pairs of boys and girls stood at the head of every unit, each donning a plumed centurion helmet that gleamed bronze beneath the afternoon sun. Some had medals pinned proudly to their chests, symbols of past glory and valor.

Then came the commanding figures striding down the line—the Praetors.

Jason had already pointed them out earlier: Raphiel, son of Apollo, and Fidela, a legacy of Pietas, goddess of loyalty and duty. They were young—no older than eighteen—but held themselves with the gravitas of generals.

Raphiel moved with an easy confidence, his honey-brown hair catching the sunlight, a lyre-shaped pin tucked beneath the folds of his purple cape. His voice was calm but firm, offering corrections and instructions with the sharp clarity of a seasoned leader.

Fidela, however, was all fire and precision. Her voice rang through the air like a whipcrack, scolding any camper who stumbled, lagged, or spoke out of turn. Her eyes were sharp as a blade, scanning the line for weakness or disobedience, and not a soul dared breathe out of rhythm in her presence.

Silas muttered under his breath, "Guess the scary one is still alive." 

Felix elbowed him, a little too amused. "She's got the 'eat-you-alive' look. Reminds me of my old teacher—Miss Mendez. Used to throw chalk like a sniper." 

Silas lifted a brow—Felix never spoke of his past, and neither did he. It was an unspoken agreement: they preferred to leave the past behind, because the present mattered more now. Especially considering that nearly two decades had flown by, and nothing was the same anymore—except each other.

The roll call continued, names shouted, ranks confirmed. The camp ran like a well-oiled machine—efficient, unrelenting. And they were about to be part of it.

One of the centurions—Silas couldn't tell which—shouted, "Colors!"

A line of standard-bearers stepped forward, each draped in lion-skin capes, their faces solemn beneath the weight of tradition. They raised their poles high, each topped with burnished emblems representing their cohort—gleaming bronze eagles, gilded lightning bolts, or crossed swords that shimmered in the dusk.

All except one.

The Fifth Cohort's standard was bare.

Luca hoisted the long, empty pole with visible reluctance. There was no emblem, no symbol of honor—just a polished wooden shaft stripped of meaning. Felix barely hid his snort behind his hand, clearly amused, but the tension rolling off Luca said he hated every second of it.

The rest of the Fifth Cohort deflated as if the emptiness of their standard reflected their own worthlessness. Heads lowered. Shoulders slumped. All except for Jason, who actually lifted his head proud. He looked like a divine sculpture, radiating quiet strength and unshakable resolve—an unwavering pillar of dignity carved from stormlight and stone, as if Jupiter himself had struck the earth and left behind his son to lead the forgotten.

Raphiel, the taller praetor with golden skin and Apollo's fire behind his gaze, stepped forward and raised his hands. "My fellow Romans!"

The crowd silenced.

"Two new demigods have arrived at our gates—" he paused, casting a glance toward Silas and Felix, "—Silas Vesper, son of Discordia. Felix Morretti, son of Fortuna."

A murmur rippled through the legion. Some campers even threw Silas looks of wariness and suspicion as if he already wronged them by existing. I bet that's what their parents thought of them, he thought sharply.

Fidela stepped in sharply, her voice cutting like a gladius immediately silencing the gossiping campers, "They seek to join the legion, and after proper questioning, we have found them qualified to serve." Her tone held no warmth—if anything, she sounded like she wished the judgment had gone the other way.

The assembled campers raised their fists in salute and shouted as one: "Ave!"

Silas felt the word ripple through him like a war drum. Hail! 

"I thought the Nazi Party was long gone," he murmured under his breath. 

Fidela and Raphiel exchanged a glance—brief, unreadable—before Raphiel lifted his chin and called, "Senior officers, step forward. One from each cohort."

Armor clinked as five centurions stepped out from the lines, each radiating discipline and quiet authority. The centurion who had shouted "Colors" earlier pivoted toward the two new arrivals, eyes sharp beneath his crested helmet.

"Recruits," he said, voice clipped but not unkind, "do you bring any letters of reference or credentials?"

Felix, ever too quick for his own good, flashed a grin and asked, "Would a letter from a raccoon gang leader count?"

Silas' head snapped toward him so fast it could've dislodged his helmet—if he'd been wearing one. His glare could've shattered obsidian. The kind that needed no words, just pure wrath channeled into narrowed eyes.

Felix's smirk faltered and his mouth shut with an audible click.

Silas sighed and stepped forward, his tone grim but level. "No. We don't."

No embellishments. No excuses. Just the truth—carried on the shoulders of two demigods with nothing but their names, their bruises, and the thin hope that'd be enough.

After a beat of silence, the most senior officer stepped forward, voice ringing across the courtyard like a challenge cast in bronze, "Will any legionaries stand for Felix Morretti?"

The name echoed. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—maybe it was the name Fortuna, or maybe it was the way Felix stood, tired but smiling like he still had luck to spare—a murmur spread through the ranks. A few curious glances. A few hopeful ones.

Then Poppy stepped out of line from the Fourth Cohort, her armor disheveled, her hair in a sleepy braid that didn't quite stay put.

"I will stand for him," she said, voice clearer than any had heard from her all day.

Silas blinked in mild surprise. Even Felix looked caught off guard—then quickly tried to play it cool. 

A few others in the Fourth Cohort nodded approvingly behind her. Someone muttered something that might have been, Figures. Poppy always bets right.

Raphiel gave a slight nod, his purple cape catching in the breeze. "Fourth Cohort—do you accept him?"

Poppy slammed the bottom of her shield into the ground with a metallic thud. Her cohort followed in unison, pounding their shields in a sharp rhythm that echoed off the stone buildings—one resounding answer: Yes.

Felix turned, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Wicked," he whispered to Silas. "I think they like me."

"I think they like your mother, Felix." The unruly boy whispered, as one of the Fourth Cohort's centurions—an older girl with sharp eyes and a voice like cracked stone—stepped forward and lifted her chin.

"The cohort has come to agreement," she announced. "And we accept the recruit."

A ripple of murmurs passed through the assembled legionnaires, some approving, others less so—but no one spoke out.

Raphiel raised a hand, expression calm and measured. "Felix Morretti," he declared, "you have been accepted into the Fourth Cohort. You will receive your probatio tablet, engraved with your name and cohort. In one year's time, or upon the completion of an act of valor, you will be considered a full member of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata."

He stepped forward, voice rising as tradition demanded, "Serve Rome. Obey the rules of the legion. Defend with honor. Senatus Populusque Romanus!"

The entire courtyard boomed with the chant, loud enough to make the stone beneath their feet feel alive, "Senatus Populusque Romanus!"

Felix blinked against the sudden weight of it. For the first time, it felt real. His name. His cohort.

He glanced at Silas—half-smirk, half-shock—and mouthed, Your turn.

The senior officer's voice rang out again, crisp and formal, "Will any legionaries stand for Silas Vesper?"

The silence was deafening.

It wasn't the uncertain kind of silence Felix had received—this one was pointed. Heavy. Like the entire camp had taken a breath and decided together: no.

Silas stood still, back straight, face unreadable. But he felt the weight of their stares like arrows. No one wanted to meet his eye for too long. They didn't need to say anything—their hesitance was loud enough.

Of course, he thought bitterly. I'll never be enough for anyone. Not even him—my own father.

The thought scraped raw inside him, more familiar than it should've been. He had learned to live with it. Wrap it up tight and carry it like a second heart.

So he just stood there—alone, unchosen, and pretending he preferred it that way.

Jason stepped forward, his expression unreadable but sure. "I will stand for the recruit," he said, voice firm enough to carry through the courtyard.

A ripple went through the Fifth Cohort. Some exchanged uncertain glances. One kid actually looked like he wanted to protest, but Jason's presence weighed heavier than their doubt. The silent authority in his stance, the years etched into the nine marks on his forearm—he wasn't just any legionnaire. He was Jason Grace.

Fidela's gaze swept over the Fifth like a hawk testing for weakness. "Does the Fifth Cohort accept Silas Vesper?"

A pause.

Then Jason drove the butt of his shield into the ground with a resounding thud. One by one, the others followed. Reluctant. Uneven. But they followed. The echo of metal against stone rang hollow, but final.

One of the centurions stepped forward—a girl with reddish-brown hair pulled back into a braided crown, her posture disciplined but not unfriendly. She looked about fifteen, her expression thoughtful as she glanced between Silas and Jason. There was a flicker of reluctance in her eyes, but it was tempered by something else—optimism, maybe. Or a willingness to give someone a chance.

"The Fifth Cohort has come to agreement," she said firmly. "We accept the recruit."

Her voice didn't ring with pride exactly, but it wasn't cold either. Silas caught the faintest nod she gave him—a silent acknowledgment that, for better or worse, he was one of them now.

Fidela stepped forward next. Her tone remained neutral, professional to a fault. "Silas Vesper," she said. "You will receive your probatio tablet with your name and cohort."

A pause. A flicker of doubt in her eyes—not just skepticism, but something heavier, more layered. Like she was weighing not just Silas's future, but the risks he carried with him. It wasn't fear exactly, but a wary calculation, the kind a seasoned fighter makes before stepping into unknown territory. Her jaw tightened just slightly, the corner of her mouth drawing taut as if holding back a thought she couldn't voice—not here, not now.

Silas saw it. He was used to that look. The look that said You don't belong here, even if the words were never spoken. But he also saw something else—restraint. The choice to withhold judgment and to give him a chance.

"In one year's time, or when you complete an act of valor, you will be considered a full member of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata." Her gaze lingered on him a second too long before she finished crisply, "Serve Rome, obey the rules of the legion, and defend with honor. Senatus Populusque Romanus!"

The response from the camp echoed like a war cry.

Raphiel raised his voice over the assembled legion. "Centurions, you and your troops have one hour for dinner. After that, everyone is to report to the Field of Mars for tonight's match."

He turned, pacing between the cohorts with an almost theatrical sweep of his purple cloak. "First and Fourth Cohorts versus Second, Third, and Fifth. No blind shooting this time—unless you want extra cleaning duty for a month."

A few campers groaned. Most laughed or cheered as Raphiel gave a final salute. "Good fortune to all! Senatus Populusque Romanus!"

The crowd erupted with noise. Shields clanged. Swords were raised in mock victory. And then the legion broke ranks, surging toward the mess hall like a wave of hungry wolves.

A guard stepped through the parting crowd, handing Silas a slim bronze nameplate etched with his name and cohort. He strung it around his neck, the metal cool against his collarbone. Nearby, Felix received his own and held it up like a trophy.

Jason approached first, his chainmail catching the evening breeze as he offered a small smile.

"Congratulations," he said, his voice firm but friendly. "Probatio's no small thing. You made it."

Felix grinned, holding up his nameplate like it was a medal. "I feel like I just joined a cult. A very shiny, stabby cult."

Poppy gave a snort of laughter, still looking half-asleep as always. "You'll fit right in, Moretti."

Luca lingered at the edge of the group, arms crossed, his glasses sliding a little down his nose. He didn't speak right away, just eyed Silas with that unreadable expression again—still owlish, still stormy. Maybe he didn't know what to make of the new recruit. Maybe he didn't care. Either way, Silas noticed the subtle twitch of his fingers near the hilt of his gladius before he stuffed both hands in his pockets instead.

"You'll be with us now," Jason continued, nodding toward the Fifth Cohort. "We might be the underdogs, but we don't go down easy."

Silas looked down at the nameplate on his chest, the engraved letters glinting dully in the sun.

Probatio. Vesper, Silas. Cohort V.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected to feel—pride, maybe. Relief. Instead, it was something cold and sharp, tucked deep in his ribs. A nameplate wasn't proof of loyalty. Not yet.

But he nodded, giving Jason a faint, practiced smirk. "Don't worry. I won't let you guys down."

Felix elbowed him. "We're gonna die tonight, aren't we?"

"Statistically?" Silas deadpanned. "You are."

Jason's lips turned up into a ghost of a smile and Poppy swatted the golden boy's arm in retaliation as they turned to follow the flow of legionnaires toward the mess hall. The sun dipped lower behind the hills, casting long shadows over the path—shadows that Silas couldn't help but feel himself sinking into.

Silas sat wedged between Jason and Luca—who, in Silas's mind, still resembled a disgruntled owl with too-large glasses and a glare that could curdle milk—at the back of the dining hall near the kitchen's swinging doors.

Campers lounged across couches surrounding low tables, laughing, arguing, trading bites and stories. Felix had been whisked away by Poppy almost immediately, lost in a sea of new faces from the Fourth Cohort. Silas didn't blame him. Still, he couldn't ignore the faint sting of being left behind.

He tried not to stare too hard at the floating platters of food drifting from camper to camper. They glided through the air like lazy spirits, plates and goblets delivering themselves with unnerving precision. His own plate lowered in front of him with a soft clink: a modest slab of meatloaf, a square of cornbread, and a glass of room-temperature water.

Not fancy. Not unexpected.

But it was the fact that it arrived to him—for him—that left him blinking.

He'd eaten this exact kind of food a dozen times before. Bland military rations. Government-issued. The sort of meals that didn't waste flavor when survival was the only goal. His father's house, his training, his life—none of it had ever served food with comfort in mind. This was the closest thing he'd get to comfort though.

Luca wrinkled his nose at the offering, clearly unimpressed. "Looks depressing," he muttered.

Jason, on the other hand, bit back a grin. "Looks like you got someone else's dish, it happens—"

Silas picked up his fork, quiet. "No...This is the best thing I've had in years."

Jason looked over, but didn't say anything. Yet his eyes swirled with unvoiced questions so the Probatio avoided his intense gaze.

Luca just blinked behind his thick glasses, puzzled, before mumbling something in Italian under his breath.

Silas didn't bother explaining. He took a bite of the meatloaf. It was warm. Tender. Almost too soft. He chewed slowly and kept his head down as he felt an unexpected and unfamiliar warmth spread from head to toe.

It wasn't the food that threw him off.

It was that someone had made it for him.

And that it had come without strings.

Silas took another bite, then glanced up as a new tray floated by, gliding like a lazy bird across the room before settling in front of another camper.

"...How's it floating?" he asked, frowning.

Luca didn't even look up from poking at his pasta. "It doesn't float," he said flatly, thick Italian accent curling around the words like it was obvious.

Silas blinked. "Right. Of course."

Jason stepped in with a small laugh (Silas wished to memorize his laugh), leaning his elbow on the table. "What he means to say is that invisible wind spirits—aurae—wait on us."

Silas raised a brow. Great, they have more ghost thingys. Just when I thought I could get some privacy...

"Yeah," Jason went on. "They're like minor air nymphs. Somehow, they know what we like. More or less."

How can they know what I ate back in the '80s?  That's freaky.

Luca stabbed a meatball and muttered, "They don't like garlic. Or maybe I don't like garlic and they're mocking me."

Jason snorted. "They're not mocking you, Luca."

Silas took another slow bite, still watching the trays float around them, trying to spot any shimmer of movement in the air. "Huh," he murmured. "Not the weirdest thing I've seen all week."

Jason grinned—tight-lipped and faint per usual, more like a reflex than real amusement. The scar on his upper lip twitched with the motion, making the expression look practiced, controlled. Not unkind, just reserved—like someone who had learned to measure every emotion before letting it show. "You'll get used to it."

Silas adjusted the thin chestplate he had agreed to wear, fingers tapping against the straps absently. Most of the armor given to him—greaves, shoulder guards, even a reinforced leather tunic—was already discarded in a neat pile near the sidelines. He hated the weight, the clunky feel that slowed his steps and made every move feel like dragging through mud.

Gwendolyn, the Fifth Cohort's Centurion and the one who had spoken earlier during his acceptance to the Fifth Cohort, approached with a measured expression. She was trying, he could tell—trying not to seem too annoyed, too commanding. "I know you may think you're fast, Vesper," she said, holding out a pair of bracers, "but speed won't help much if you get melted by a fireball."

Silas only offered a thin smirk in return. "I like my odds."

With a quiet sigh and a shake of her head, she backed off, muttering something about stubborn recruits.

The two teams gathered on opposite ends of the Field of Mars, now transformed with barricades, uneven terrain, and tall flags fluttering in the evening breeze. First and Fourth Cohorts were marked by purple headbands, worn across their foreheads or tied to their biceps. Silas tugged his yellow one down tight over his brow, scanning the field as campers adjusted their weapons—loaded with firebombs, acid pellets, and darts enchanted to sting worse than a hornet's nest.

This wasn't a game. It was chaos dressed up as fun.

And Silas felt right at home.

A deep, resonating horn cut through the cool evening air, and the field erupted into motion. Campers charged from both sides with wild cheers and chaotic laughter, magical projectiles already flying through the darkening sky. Fireballs arced, poison bombs hissed on contact with the ground, and streaks of vivid green acid splattered against hastily erected shields.

Jason moved like a seasoned officer, barking orders as he led the Fifth Cohort's offense. Apparently, Gwendolyn trusted the son of Jupiter to get the job done (but she did instruct him their goal: eliminate the enemy cohorts while being the "front line"). "Left flank—duck! You two, move up and cover Luca!" His voice was sharp, commanding, never panicked. Luca flanked him with silent intensity, launching a volley of darts with practiced precision.

Silas hung back at first, letting the others scramble and slam around him, eyes scanning the fray. He felt out of place—not for the first time—but there was something else crawling under his skin now. A wrongness. A sickening tension in the air that had nothing to do with the game.

He took a single step away from the formation, planning to slip into the shadows and do his own thing—he always worked better solo. But then it hit him like ice in his lungs.

A flash of movement in his peripheral vision. The metallic whisper of wind. His skin prickled. Something was coming.

Without thinking, Silas lunged forward.

"Jason!"

He slammed into the taller boy's side, shoving him down just as a razor-thin dart sliced through the air where Jason's throat had been. The dart thudded into a tree behind them with a sickly hiss, sizzling through bark like acid.

Jason rolled to his feet, wide-eyed and stunned. "What the—how'd you see that?"

Silas didn't meet his eyes as he grabbed the acid pellet gun he had dropped from the dirt beside them. "I didn't," he muttered, jaw tight. "Just... felt it."

Jason stared at him for a beat longer, then gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Silas cocked the gun and turned back toward the chaos, jaw clenched and heart thudding.

He wasn't here to play games. He was here to win and, maybe, just satisfy his deep need to hurt someone. 

Silas crouched low behind the splintered remains of a barricade, the acrid scent of burnt cloth and poison lingering thick in the air. From the front lines, shouts echoed—orders and warnings, battle cries and groans. The Fifth Cohort was holding its ground, but barely. Silas could feel the tension rippling through every shout and shot, the chaos bleeding closer. Unsurprisingly, he thrived in this environment as he had already accomplished shooting thirty-five enemy demigods and bombed quite a few barricades which sent the enemy scattering.

Luca dropped down beside him with barely a word, his face glistening with sweat, breaths sharp and shallow. The two boys exchanged wary glances, neither trusting nor willing to turn their back completely. Just then—a twig snapped to their right.

They froze, as the pair reached for their weapons.

A second later, a loud curse split the air.

Silas didn't hesitate. He raised his acid pellet gun and fired a round over the barricade, not bothering to aim perfectly. A muffled yelp followed, and Silas smirked slightly.

"Felix," he muttered under his breath.

He could already imagine the older boy dramatically nursing his pride, probably knocked out of the game by a poorly aimed shot to the leg or shoulder. If Felix was skulking around, it wasn't unlikely that Poppy was nearby too. Silas shifted, ready to scan the nearby brush for her telltale presence, when something tugged at the edges of his senses.

A wrongness. Again.

He turned just in time to see Luca sway, his body unnaturally still for a moment, like his consciousness had slipped somewhere just out of reach.

"Luca?" Silas said cautiously.

The other boy didn't answer. His stormy blue eyes blinked slowly, all emotion drained from them as they glassed over—calm, eerie, vacant. And then he raised his weapon. Not toward the field. Not toward the enemy.

At him.

Silas' instincts screamed.

He dove, narrowly dodging the first blast as Luca's shot singed the barricade behind him. Rolling into a crouch, Silas whipped around and hissed, "What the hell are you doing?!"

But Luca didn't answer. His motions were sluggish, like sleepwalking—but laced with a dangerous intent. A flicker of recognition twisted in Silas's gut: this wasn't Luca. Not fully. Something was pulling his strings. Or perhaps, someone...

The next attack came in clumsier, and Silas dodged it again, barely. He was trying to avoid having his back exposed in the open but it was proving to be a challenge. Thanks father for the brutal training, he thought bitterly.

"Snap out of it!" he barked, ducking low and circling, unwilling to fire back just yet.

Not because he was afraid of hurting Luca, but because of what would come after.

He was already skating on thin ice. The camp didn't trust him. They barely tolerated him. If he hurt Luca—Jason's friend, a member of his own cohort, a Roman—too badly, it wouldn't matter that the other boy had clearly turned hostile first. Silas would be the villain. The omen. The unruly Roman. Just like they expect.

His jaw clenched as Luca advanced, still in that eerie, sleepwalking trance. Silas backpedaled, calculating, thinking. There had to be another way.

Think, Silas.

Something flared deep in his chest, cold and chaotic. That pull again—like a discordant note in the middle of a perfect melody. Maybe he could use it. Maybe—

A sudden whoosh snapped him out of it. From far off, a fireball sizzled through the air, arcing toward him like a guided missile.

Silas dropped to the ground hard, rolling sideways with a grunt as the fireball scorched past and exploded behind him. Heat licked his back. Dirt and ash scattered across his face.

His instincts surged to the surface as he faced his cohort member.

Luca's gun was already aimed again, dead center.

Silas moved fast, drawing his pugio in a swift, fluid motion. The blade gleamed faintly as he slashed upward—not to injure, but to knock Luca's arm wide. The gun skittered to the side, misfiring harmlessly into the ground.

"I don't want to hurt you," Silas hissed through his teeth, eyes locked on the glazed, unreadable expression in Luca's. "So don't make me."

His fingers tightened on the dagger's hilt. If this didn't work, he'd have to decide—fast—whether survival or reputation meant more.

But that chaotic current inside him whispered: Why not both? Just use your powers, it'll be more fun.

Luca lunged for the gun with surprising speed for someone half-conscious. Silas didn't hesitate—he struck the side of the boy's head with the butt of his pugio, just hard enough to knock him out cold. Luca collapsed with a soft grunt, his weapon clattering uselessly to the dirt beside him.

In the end, Silas didn't know the full extent of his powers—he had no idea what had triggered Luca's trance or how he'd pushed through it. All he knew was that something in him had reacted, like striking a tuning fork of chaos, just enough to disrupt the rhythm.

Before he could think further, a flash lit up the sky. Another fireball—this time aimed straight for Luca.

Silas' heart kicked into overdrive. His eyes snapped upward, following the line of trajectory. No time to hesitate.

He dropped low, the way his father had drilled into him—target, drop, move—and scrambled to older boy's side, adrenaline sharpening his focus. With a sharp grunt, he hooked an arm under the unconscious boy's shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried him across the field. The fireball exploded behind them, the searing heat chasing their heels.

He had to leave the gun behind. The weight of Luca was too much, and every second counted.

Once they reached another collapsed barricade, Silas set the heavier boy down behind cover, checking his chest to make sure he was still breathing.

Still alive. For now.

With a silent nod more to himself than anyone else, Silas left him there. He'll be fine and if he isn't, it's not my problem.

He rose slowly, slipping back into the dark like a phantom. His breath was calm, his footfalls noiseless. Around him, the shadows seemed to breathe, clinging to his figure like they knew him. The world dimmed unnaturally in his wake, the light drawn inward and swallowed whole.

The darkness didn't frighten Silas.

It followed him. And tonight, it would hunt.

Perched atop a half-collapsed barricade tucked beneath the thick veil of night, Silas spotted her—Poppy. She sat crouched behind the structure, purple headband bright against the shadows, her expression a muddled mix of frustration and confusion. Her brow furrowed as she stared out over the field, fingers twitching at the trigger of her paintball launcher, clearly uncertain whether to attack or retreat.

Silas didn't waste a breath.

He crept closer with the silence of a whisper, every step calculated. But as he drew near, a thick fog crept over his mind—warm, heavy, sleepy. His limbs trembled, as though a hundred invisible weights had latched onto his body. His eyelids grew leaden.

Somnus, he realized. She's his daughter. This must be her power.

Still, he fought against it.

Pure will surged through him—determination, desperation, defiance. He would not lose. Not now. Not like this. His hand raised, just barely steady, the muzzle of his paint gun aimed—

Poppy turned.

Her sleepy eyes widened, and in a heartbeat, she recognized him. "Oh, no—" she muttered, a spell rolling off her tongue in a panicked breath, or so it seemed to Silas as the world seemed to slow down.

It hit him like a wave.

His legs buckled. His vision spun. Darkness surged from the edges of his mind, clawing inward like hands dragging him down. He crashed to the earth with a thud, shadows swallowing his consciousness whole—

But not before he squeezed the trigger.

The last thing Silas saw, hazy and blurred, was the startled look on Poppy's face as a painful acid pellet struck her chest—then she tumbled from the barricade and disappeared from sight.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

🄲🄷🄰🄿🅃🄴🅁 🅂🄸🅇

❝ＣＨＡＯＳ Ｎ ＣＡＫＥ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

SILAS AWOKE—or thought he did—laying down with a jolt of breath that seared his throat. The air was wrong. Each inhale felt like swallowing embers. His lungs screamed. His skin blistered under a sky that burned with no visible sun. Ash clung to his lashes, and the earth beneath his feet cracked like broken glass, stretching toward the edge of a steep cliff. The panicked boy scrambled backwards from the edge, his hands scrapping against the scorched ground, scraps of glass dug into his palms as crimson droplets rolled down the open cuts. Did I die and end up in hell?!

And just when he thought the world couldn't grow darker, it did.

A presence slithered in from the void of darkness, and the shadows recoiled as she appeared—tall, twisted grace in motion. Her smile was a serial killer's mockery of affection: too wide, too hungry. Viperlike, she walked with no sound but the low groan of the scorched ground beneath her bare feet. Her hair, matted and disheveled, was tied back with a bloodstained ribbon, the same shade as dried poppies. Her wings—if they could be called that—unfurled behind her: tendrils of shadow threaded with whispers. Screams, actually. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Each one echoing pain, anger, betrayal.

Silas froze, the taste of iron on his tongue. 

He knew her. He shouldn't, but he did.

Not from dreams. Not from memory. But from the faded photo in the shoebox buried in the back of his father's closet. The one his father used to look at when he thought Silas wasn't watching. The same photo that had gotten him in trouble all those years ago. He had thought she was dead until recent events...

But this was her.

Discordia.

His mother. 

And she was smiling like she'd been waiting a very, very long time.

Silas couldn't breathe. He couldn't run. The air was too thick, too wrong—like smoke trapped in tar, clinging to his lungs and coiling tight around his ribs.

And somewhere deep in his chest, in the part of him he tried never to touch, memories split open like old scars.

He was seven.

The garage was cold. Damp. The concrete floor was wet with gasoline and something darker. Shadows clung to the corners like spiderwebs, and the only light came from a single buzzing bulb swinging overhead, casting everything in a sick yellow hue.

His father stood behind him, breath heavy with cigarette smoke and copper. He reeked of blood and madness. There was a rasp in his voice as he leaned in close—so close Silas could feel the heat of his breath on the back of his neck.

"Don't move," the man hissed, voice slithering like a curse.

Then the blade kissed his skin.

Not a slash. A slow, deliberate draw of cold steel across his spine, carving in neat, cruel strokes. Again. Lower. Again. The sting of each line burned into his flesh, searing like fire until it bloomed into a deeper, aching agony that made his knees tremble.

Silas had wanted to scream—God, he'd wanted to scream—but he knew better.

Screaming earned you more.

So he stood still, trembling in silence. His small hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He stared at the dark red-streaked wall in front of him, counting the rust spots on an old wrench. Six. Seven. Eight. Anything to pull his mind away from the pain. The rule was simple. Be quiet. Obey. Survive.

That night his father set their apartment on fire, destroying any evidence of the horrors that had taken place except for the masterpiece he had carved into Silas' back as if it were delicate marble.

Now, the woman before him tilted her head as if she remembered too—like she had watched from the shadows of that same garage, smiling as her beloved's madness etched into her son's skin.

Silas' stomach twisted violently as he pushed himself to a stand and face his mother.

How could she be real? How could she look so pleased?

Discordia—his mother—stepped forward, the earth blackening where her feet touched. The smell of decay followed her like a perfume. Her wings spread wider behind her, casting the cliff into deeper shadow, and still she smiled as if he were something precious and broken.

"Look at you," she purred, her voice like cracked glass over velvet. "Still standing. Just like he taught you."

Silas wanted to scream—but not from fear.

From rage. From confusion. From the sick, tangled mess of pain that had been his life.

And still, she smiled. Silas had to fight the urge to rip that grin from her horribly wicked face. The Lady of Strife reached out to him, as if trying to play her part as a mother but not quite knowing how to.

Her sleek, blood-red nails pressed into Silas's shoulders like talons, sharp enough to draw a sting, not quite enough to pierce. She leaned in, her breath warm with the scent of iron and rot, as if she had been whispering into the ears of corpses.

"You failed to prove yourself tonight," she said, almost sighing the words, though her tone was soaked in cruel delight.

Silas flinched—but her grip only tightened, her grin stretching wider. Not angry. Amused. Thrilled, even.

"But there will be more opportunities," she went on, her voice lilting, sing-song, the cadence of someone unhinged by too much power and far too much time. "Oh yes... so many more."

Her grin split into something feral, gleaming with anticipation—like the idea of what awaited him in the future outweighed his current failure a thousandfold.

"Prove to me you are worthy to be my son, Silas." His name rolled off her tongue like a challenge. Like a dare, one that he was guaranteed to accept despite the risks.

"Don't be as boring as your father," she spat with theatrical distaste, trailing her claws gently down his arm, "who never dared to go beyond with his artful little displays. So much wasted potential—such a waste of a canvas."

Then she sighed again, dreamy this time. "Oh, but when he was younger... he was delicious. Ruggedly handsome, all jagged jaw and furious eyes, painted in blood like a masterpiece."

Her eyes glittered with something unholy as she tilted her head to study Silas anew, like a sculptor pondering a half-finished statue.

"You could be so much more," she murmured. "If only you'd let yourself."

Silas's chest tightened, every breath a fight. He couldn't breathe—the acidic air scorched his lungs, his vision spinning as though the world itself tilted beneath him. His skin stung, blistered by the invisible heat radiating from the infernal landscape. His knees buckled. The laughter—the laughter—raked against the inside of his skull, high and cruel and echoing far too loud for just one voice.

Discordia's shriek of delight followed him into unconsciousness like a curse.

He woke with a haunted gasp.

His body jolted upright, drenched in cold sweat. He sucked in air like it might vanish again, gulp after ragged gulp, his throat burning. The coolness of the real world—or what passed for it—felt almost alien after the searing suffocation of the dream.

It took him a moment to realize his hands were shaking. Another to unclench his fingers from the folds of his blanket.

Silas didn't dare look around just yet.

He needed a second. Just one second.

To breathe.

To forget the sound of her voice, sharp as broken glass and laced with a kind of terrible charm—the kind of voice you hated to remember but couldn't help revering, even as it promised to ruin you.

When Silas blinked again, he realized the heat and smoke were, in fact, gone. The air was cooler now, still heavy but in a different way—thick with silence and the scent of linen, dust, and old wood polish. He found himself sitting up-right stiffly on the bottom bunk of a wooden bed, unfamiliar sheets pulled tight beneath him. The mattress was thin, but not uncomfortable. Too clean. Too foreign.

The room stretched around him—long, rectangular, and dimly lit from a high window slashed with afternoon sun. There were nine other bunk beds, all wooden and identical, each one made neatly with white bedding, military-straight. Some had worn shoes tucked underneath, clothes folded in crates nearby, a book left open or a weapon carefully laid against the frame. Signs of life. Signs of belonging.

This wasn't a place for him.

There was no one else in the barracks and so, in that moment, Silas let out a choked sob.

It clawed its way up his throat before he could stop it, raw and helpless. His hands clutched the side of the bed frame, knuckles white. Another sound broke from him—quieter, strangled—like something caving in.

His mother's voice still rang in his ears like a curse. His father's blade still lingered on his skin like a brand. Practically twenty years gone down the drain. His childhood drowned in rot and blood and poisoned lullabies. Now he was surrounded by gods and ghosts and golden standards, and he didn't know who he was supposed to be—just that he wasn't this.

He longed to be dead.

Not dramatically. Not even tearfully. Just...quietly. Like how someone might wish for sleep after staying up too long. A weary longing to stop.

But he wasn't.

He was here, alive, breath hitching in a strange bed, in a world that didn't even want him alive.

And for now... that would have to be enough.

Just as Silas finished drying his tears—his breath still a little shaky, eyes rimmed red—he scrambled to smooth his expression into something passably indifferent. He clenched his jaw, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye one last time.

The door creaked open.

Jason stepped into the barracks, sunlight catching in his blond hair, casting a soft halo around his head that made him look more statue than boy. Behind him trailed Luca, all sharp edges and moody scowls, his reddish-brown hair more unkempt than usual and his stormy eyes flicking around the room like they were searching for a threat.

Jason stopped a few feet from Silas's bunk, his tone careful. "You feeling better? After... y'know, falling back into that trench?"

Silas blinked, then nodded once. "Didn't hit my head too hard," he muttered. "Just a little dazed."

Luca snorted. "Could've fooled me," he said, folding his arms. "You looked like a corpse that forgot how to be dead."

Jason shot him a look, but Luca shrugged, muttering under his breath, "Scusa... guess I should say—sorry. For almost frying you." His voice was rough, reluctant, laced with that distinct Italian bite. "Wasn't exactly me. I didn't mean to—well, I didn't want to."

Silas studied him for a beat, noting the rigid posture, the clenched fists, the way his gaze didn't quite meet his. It was the closest thing to an apology someone like Luca could manage.

"...It's fine," Silas said, his voice steady again.

Luca grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly before he looked away. "Still. Next time I lose it, don't hesitate to deck me harder."

Jason gave a half-smile—tight and short-lived—but something about it eased the tension in the air.

"We just came to check on you," he said simply. "Deathball's brutal. But you did good, even if it got messy."

Silas gave a slight nod of thanks, keeping his thoughts folded tightly inside him like a map he wasn't ready to read. Instead, he sat up a little straighter, his voice still raspy from sleep—or whatever strange nightmare realm his mother had dragged him through.

"How'd I end up here?"

Jason leaned against the nearest bunk post, arms crossed. He didn't answer right away, his electric-blue eyes flickering to Silas's face, as if cataloging every bruise, every twitch of exhaustion. "Luca found you," he finally said. "After Poppy got knocked out,  whatever trance she had Luca under broke... then he noticed you were down and dragged you to the medics."

Luca scoffed in the background. "Dragged is generous. You're heavier than you look, Vesper."

Silas rolled his eyes but didn't respond to the jab.

Jason went on, voice even. "You got lucky. Nothing broken, just some bruising and a mild burn from that fireball. Honestly impressive, considering how much armor you weren't wearing."

Silas shrugged one shoulder. "Didn't see the point in getting weighed down."

The blonde gave a quiet huff—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "I figured," he said. "So after the medics cleared you, I brought you here. Thought the barracks would be quieter. Less... questions."

What he didn't mention was how he'd lingered for a moment too long after laying Silas down on the bottom bunk. That he'd stood there watching the boy sleep, somber and pale, and felt an inexplicable urge to brush the mess of dark curls away from his face just to see him more clearly.

But he hadn't.

Jason Grace followed rules. He didn't touch mysteries he hadn't earned the right to understand.

Luca grumbled from where he leaned near the doorframe, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn. "By the way, the sleepy one—Poppy—she's been lookin' for you," he said, his thick Italian accent curling over the words. "Wants to apologize for knockin' you into a godsdamn trench. Said it was an accident. I dunno, maybe she sleep-punched you."

Silas scrunched his nose in slight confusion, then gave a faint snort of amusement.

Jason shot Luca a glance. "She didn't punch him, Luca."

"She could've," Luca muttered under his breath, then nodded toward the hallway. "We'll be outside. Don't take a century."

They stepped out, and Silas rose slowly from the bunk, his muscles stiff and sore. He looked around the barracks again—empty, thankfully—and grabbed the fresh clothes left folded at the foot of his bed: the signature purple Camp Jupiter shirt and a pair of dark jeans. He undressed with practiced efficiency, careful, quiet.

As he slipped on the soft cotton shirt, he hesitated.

The scars on his back ached faintly—ghost pain, more memory than flesh. Long, pale lines slashed across his skin, some faint, others jagged and deep like cruel handwriting.

No one had seen them yet. No one had asked. And for now, that was a blessing.

With a deep breath, he tugged the shirt down and ran a hand through his unruly curls, schooling his face back into its usual false politeness. Mask in place.

Then he stepped outside.

The late morning sun was bright and warm against Silas's skin as he stepped outside the barracks. The camp was alive with distant chatter, clashing weapons from the training fields, and the rustle of autumn leaves stirred by the breeze. Jason and Luca stood waiting, casually leaning against the wooden post just outside the doorway.

Jason glanced over his shoulder and nodded. "You missed breakfast while you were asleep." For a second though, it looked like he wanted to say something else but refrained.

Silas shrugged. "Not really hungry."

Jason, unbothered, reached into the satchel slung at his side and pulled out a wrapped bundle. "Good thing I saved you some anyway."

He offered it forward—a whole grain sandwich with egg and cheese still faintly warm, and a small container of strawberry yogurt. Luca looked between them, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Not quite amusement, not quite surprise. Maybe both. Maybe neither. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into the ghost of a smile.

Silas hesitated. Is it poisoned..? Maybe that's why he's giving it to me—I did let down my cohort yesterday...

Jason didn't say anything else, just stood there with that same calm, unreadable expression and the sandwich outstretched like it was nothing. 

If anything, I can stab him in case it is poisoned. So, Silas muttered, "Fine," and took the food. The sandwich was simple, but the warmth of it... somehow heavier than it should've been.

"Thanks," he said, barely above a whisper.

Jason just nodded once, already turning away as if it hadn't mattered at all.

But it did. To both of them—not that either of them would admit.

Jason led the way down the gravel path, the scent of hay and something distinctly... animal hanging in the air. "We've got lessons soon by the stables and aviary with the Fourth Cohort," he said over his shoulder. "Maintenance and care. Elephants, eagles, unicorns—standard stuff."

Silas blinked, his footsteps slowing. "Elephants?"

Jason glanced back, noticing the bewildered expression. "Yeah. Big gray ones. With tusks." He said it straight-faced, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, like he was resisting a smirk. "They're war elephants. One in particular—Hannibal—almost always fights during the War Games."

"Hannibal?" Silas repeated, as if that clarified absolutely nothing.

Jason gave a small shrug. "Romans didn't always use them. Actually, they were terrified of them at first. But after the Punic Wars, they adapted. Used the enemy's tactics, made them their own. It's kind of what Romans do."

Silas glanced ahead toward the looming shapes of the stables, still unconvinced but now quietly intrigued. During the tour, Jason had off-handedly mentioned unicorns which he was inwardly excited to see. But elephants? That was weird and didn't seem practical in battle. Even if unicorns may not fight with their horns, at least they had the appearance of a divine and majestic horse...Okay so, maybe he was a hypocrite when it came to unicorns but who wouldn't?

"War elephants... sure. Why not. Just throw in a dragon and we'll call it a day."

"Don't tempt the gods," Jason replied dryly. "They tend to take requests literally."

At that, Luca snorted—sharp and unbothered, his arms folded like he knew the ridiculousness of it all and couldn't be bothered to hide it.

The lesson had spiraled into absolute chaos. What began as a structured rotation between the aviary, unicorn pens, and elephant enclosures had unraveled the moment Silas got within ten feet of the animals.

The eagles screeched wildly, flapping into the air and dive-bombing anyone in gold. The unicorns reared, their silver horns gleaming with sudden, unprovoked aggression before bolting through the mess hall. And the elephants—gods, the elephants—trumpeted loud enough to shake the barracks, their eyes wide with alarm as they stampeded toward the Little Tiber.

Silas stood there frozen, the weight of every gaze on him. He hadn't even touched anything. Just stepped forward.

Jason had leapt into action first, whistling sharply and lifting his arm as the eagles veered around and landed back in formation. His tone was calm but commanding—like thunder wrapped in patience.

Poppy, rubbing sleep from her eyes, had muttered something under her breath and within seconds, half the unicorns were curled up in the shade, snoring softly like newborns.

And Luca, scowling like he'd been personally inconvenienced by the chaos, had somehow managed to herd the elephants back to their pen with sheer force of will (and maybe some well-placed Italian swearing).

Silas could feel the judgment like a hundred silent knives. Even the elephants looked annoyed.

But the only eyes that mattered—those piercing, electric blue ones—were fixed on him with a complicated gleam. Not pity. Not anger. Just a weight Silas couldn't name.

He looked away, shame a stone in his gut. He was anger at himself for not adapting quick enough and being useless—again.

That's when Felix, gods bless him, tried to crack a joke as an attempt to get the attention off of Silas. "Well, guess this makes you the Beast Whisperer, huh?" he called out—just before slipping on a slick patch of something very much not grass and faceplanting directly into a pile of unicorn manure.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Poppy snorted. Someone else in the Fourth Cohort cackled and soon laughter erupted all around.

Unfortunately, Silas had to spend the rest of the lesson listening from a far away window, pretending everything was okay. He tried not to shoot glares of envy when the rest of the campers were able to gently pet the unicorns.

 If only he could just pet a unicorn...

Right after the lesson ended and most of the campers dispersed—still chuckling about Felix's manure mishap—Poppy hurried over to Silas, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. Her dark circles were more prominent than usual, her disheveled braid bouncing against her shoulder as she came to a stop in front of him.

"I—I'm really sorry," she blurted out, hands half-lifted as if unsure whether to gesture or just vanish entirely. "I didn't mean to knock you into a trench. I got caught up in the game and..." she trailed off, glancing down at her feet. "I didn't know it'd get that serious. I didn't know you'd... y'know, get hurt."

Her voice was genuine, if breathless—tinged with guilt and stubbornness, like she wasn't going to leave until he gave her an answer. Perfect match for Felix, Silas thought to himself somewhat annoyed.

Maybe it was because of his already bad day and still feeling vaguely scuffed from last night, but part of him wanted to tell her off—something bitter and sharp. But looking at her slouched shoulders and the way she wouldn't meet his eyes...

He exhaled slowly. Be polite. 

"I've had worse," he muttered, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. "Don't let it happen again."

Poppy's eyes flicked up, wide with relief. "So... you forgive me?"

Silas hesitated, then gave a stiff nod. "Reluctantly."

A crooked smile spread across her face. "Fair enough."

Felix strolled up to them in that moment, the scowl on his face doing little to mask the faint stench of unicorn manure still clinging to his aura of indignity. Though he'd managed to change into a fresh purple Camp Jupiter shirt and rinse off the worst of it, the trauma of his fall from grace—and into dung—still lingered heavily.

"Do not ask how many showers it took," he grumbled, shooting a glare at both of them before dramatically swiping a hand through his tight curls.

Poppy snorted, clearly fighting back laughter. Her shoulders shook, and her mouth twitched like she was seconds from cracking. "You looked majestic, Felix," she said, trying to sound sincere. "Like a fallen hero. A tragic tale. Man versus manure."

"Oh, hilarious," Felix deadpanned. "Next time, you bond with the magical horse that smells like wet hay and betrayal."

Before Silas could respond, Felix slung an arm around his shoulder. "So, what did I miss while I was busy getting initiated by unicorn waste? Let me guess—more people giving you the evil eye like you just poisoned their breakfast?"

Silas tensed slightly, but Felix's grin didn't falter.

"You know," Felix continued, "I'm starting to think you're the camp's new favorite scapegoat. Not that I mind. Adds a bit of mystery to my social circle."

Silas elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Dickhead.

"Ow—rude!" Felix winced, stumbling a little. "Betrayed by my own friend. Just like a Greek tragedy."

"Keep your dramatics to yourself," Silas muttered, though there was no real venom behind it.

The corner of his lips turned up into a smirk anyway. "Rude. I save the day with comic relief and this is the thanks I get?"

Poppy, now covering her mouth to stifle a laugh, finally let out a snort.

Silas muttered under his breath, "You slipped. Don't blame me."

"Did not. That was a tactical retreat," Felix huffed, straightening his shirt. "Besides, Poppy's laughing, so I win."

She wiped a tear from her eye. "Felix, I was laughing at you."

He grinned. "Details, details."

Silas couldn't help it—his lips twitched into the faintest smirk. For a moment, just a breath, things didn't feel so heavy. Somehow, even with manure, guilt, and bruised egos—this strange trio felt oddly right.

By the time October 30th rolled around—Silas' birthday, though no one knew—it had taken him longer than he liked to admit to settle into the rigid structure of Camp Jupiter. The daily routines, the grueling tasks, the drills—it was all sharp edges and tradition, but somehow, it had started to feel less like a cage and more like something... survivable.

There were still incidents, of course—usually involving him and the stables. Unicorns continued to hate him on sight. The war elephants weren't much better.

Campers, however, were growing less wary. No one dared trust him yet, but they weren't avoiding eye contact anymore either.

He'd even met Octavian in passing—the Centurion of the First Cohort and a legacy of Apollo. Silas had immediately pegged him as the older, villainous paper-pusher version of Jason... if Jason had been born smirking and oozing self-importance. 

He kept that opinion to himself.

The day itself was relatively normal. He spent most of it with Jason, Poppy, Felix (who'd declared the weather "birthday-perfect" without knowing why), and—unfortunately—Luca, who tagged along with his usual brooding owl face. Their lessons that day focused on Roman history and deities, mostly the minor ones.

Silas didn't say a word about it being his birthday. But as he sat under the autumn-dusted trees with the others—Felix doodling with a stick in the dirt, Poppy half-asleep in the grass, Jason pretending not to listen to Luca's rant about rustic gods—Silas allowed himself a small, quiet breath.

No blood. No knives. No screaming.

Just surrounded by people he could picture growing old with someday as weird as it sounded. Even Luca—the angry Italian boy with the face of a bitter owl.

After evening muster, when the cohort filed into the mess hall for dinner, Silas expected the usual—plain meat, cornbread, maybe lukewarm water. What he didn't expect was a cake.

It sat waiting at the end of his table like a prank at first—simple vanilla, but decorated with ridiculous care. Little skateboards carved in icing zipped across the sides. Tiny edible knives gleamed from frosting sheaths. And smack in the middle, Wile E. Coyote was eternally chasing the Road Runner through a swirl of bright, 80s-style frosted confetti patterns of spiral, triangle and rectangle.

Somehow, two lit candles had been placed at the top—one shaped like a 1, the other a 4.

Felix blinked. "Did... did we just crash your birthday?"

Jason raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching at the corners. "Fourteen? Huh. You're ancient." 

Obviously, it had been a joke but the truth made Silas uncomfortable. At his joke, Silas and Felix locked eyes and shared a silent glance—one that said, talk later? They didn't need to speak it. They understood.

Luca, already halfway into sitting down, snorted. "Wave the candles out already before the wax ruins the frosting."

Poppy, bless her sleep-deprived soul, looked at Silas with a small smile and simply said, "Happy birthday, Silas."

Silas hesitated, the warmth of the candlelight flickering in his eyes. For a moment, he just stared.

Then, with a quiet breath, he waved the flames out as he silently wished to live another year with his...friends.

Maybe, just maybe, birthdays weren't so bad...even if the age on the cake was technically wrong.

Late that night, long after the bruises and burns of war games had faded into soreness and bandaged pride—and long after the Fifth Cohort had once again failed to win—Silas and Felix slipped quietly through the Decumanian Gate, the back entrance of Camp Jupiter. No guards stopped them. No Lares whispered warnings. Maybe the camp was just too tired, or maybe it knew some rules were meant to be bent.

The Little Tiber shimmered under the starlight, its surface catching silver threads of moonlight as it hummed its otherworldly song. The water, like the camp, always felt ancient—older than their grief, their gods, maybe even time itself.

They sat on the riverbank, silent for a while, the cool breeze stirring the grass.

Felix sat with his arms resting on his knees, eyes following the slow current of the Little Tiber. "I get it, Si," he said after a long moment, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Knowing you should be in your mid-thirties... Knowing the world moved on without you. That you missed out on so much—so many chances to live, to mess up, to try again. And then you wake up, and it's all just... gone."

The river gurgled beside them like it was swallowing the silence.

Silas didn't look up. He just let the wind brush against his curls and stared at the bent blade of grass between his fingers. "I probably would've ended up in a ditch somewhere if we hadn't gone to that hotel," he said with a dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Or worse. But this..." He hesitated, then admitted, "This was the first time I've ever celebrated my birthday so I suppose I should be grateful."

He flicked the blade of grass away. "My father..." The birthday boy paused before continuing, "He never cared. And I never had friends to pretend it mattered."

Felix nudged a pebble with his boot, watching it skip once before plunking into the water. "Well," he said, voice low but firm, "for what it's worth... I'm not going anywhere. You've got me, Si. Best friend till death do us part, yeah?"

Silas blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity and the use of the nickname. Warmth stirred in his chest, unwanted but not unwelcome. He rolled his eyes, trying to cover it up.

"That was very faggoty of you," he muttered.

Felix huffed, crossing his arms with mock offense. "I'm being heartfelt and loyal, you jackass."

A beat passed before Silas sighed, gaze dropping back to the river. "...Fine. Best friends till we bite it."

Felix grinned at that. "Knew you liked me."

"Don't push it."

A beat of silence.

The Felix turned to look at him, his expression unreadable in the dark. "That cake was ugly as sin," he said finally, and Silas barked out a startled laugh.

"But it was yours," Felix added. "And we ate the hell out of it."

The birthday boy scoffed at his friend's rude comment, his voice irritated as he asked, "Is it too late to take back my promise?"

"HAH, no way out!", retorted Felix as their laughter drifted along the Little Tiber.

Under the stars and beside the river that divided the world from monsters and gods, these two boys displaced by time shared quiet grief, soft understanding, and—for once—something like peace. The Little Tiber murmured beside them, its current catching the moonlight like silver threads weaving between the past and present.

They sat close but not touching, the silence between them companionable rather than strained. Now and then, Felix would speak, his voice soft and low, sharing fragments of a life left decades behind—memories of his little sister, Amari, whose face had blurred in his mind with time. She'd been so small when he ran. Too young to remember him now, he said, and though he didn't cry, there was something hollow in the way he stared at the water, like he was trying to find her reflection in the ripples.

Silas listened, legs drawn close to his chest, the ache in his chest echoing Felix's in a language only the forgotten could understand. Neither of them said much after that. They didn't need to.

The stars blinked above them like quiet sentries as the boys sat in their stolen hour of calm, tucked between myth and memory.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

{chapter seven}

❝ＢＡＤ ＯＭＥＮＳ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

BY MID-NOVEMBER 2006, the cold Roman air carried more than just the bite of winter—it carried the weight of time. Luca received his third line, another black mark etched beneath SPQR on his forearm, proof of his third year of service. By now, Silas had learned he was the son of Mars, which explained the quiet, simmering aggression in his stance and the way he carried himself like a weapon even when he was still.

Poppy earned her fourth line and turned fifteen that following February. She was the same as ever—perpetually tired, her eyes rimmed with sleeplessness that never truly faded. Just an insomniac who still somehow kept pace with everyone else, laughing softly through the haze of exhaustion. It was odd, though, that the daughter of Somnus had trouble sleeping in the first place but no one seemed to question it.

Silas and Felix remained Probatio, their nameplates still hanging heavy against their chests. Slowly, though, the sharp suspicion around them began to dull. Felix, ever the talker, had worked his way into the Fourth Cohort's good graces with humor and persistence. 

Silas had not—but the Fifth Cohort at least stopped glaring every time he passed.

By the end of March, a shift rippled through the legion when Jason was officially voted in as Centurion of the Fifth Cohort by the Senate. It was an unspoken acknowledgment of his leadership, and though the cohort still bore its reputation as the weakest, there was a faint spark of pride rekindling beneath his quiet command.

Octavian's influence, meanwhile, grew heavier by the day. The Centurion of the First Cohort seemed to weave himself into everything with subtle calculation. He was cunning in a way that made people listen—sometimes even admire—while still leaving an uncomfortable taste in the air.

By April, Luca turned sixteen. He didn't make a big deal of it—as far as Silas knew—but Jason acknowledged it with some Italian pastries and warm brownies from New Rome over breakfast, and Poppy handed him a muffin she'd somehow baked despite barely sleeping. Silas muttered a "happy birthday" that Luca pretended not to care about, though his usual scowl lightened ever so slightly. Unfortunately, Felix was stuck with the medics that day due to injuries from the night before (war games was brutal last night). When it was evening, Silas noticed that Jason's and Luca's bed were empty so the boy assumed they were celebrating in private—as friends, of course. (He was trying his best not to jump to conclusions but no matter what, he doubt he would ever trust Luca).

Life at Camp Jupiter moved forward like clockwork—structured, rigid, and merciless. Lines were added to arms, and months bled together with drills, lessons, and war games. But even in the rhythm of routine, there was an edge to the air, a sense that something was shifting.

Something that none of them were quite ready for.

It was late May, the sun hanging high and warm over Camp Jupiter. The group—minus Jason, who had been called to a Senate meeting—had gathered for lunch outside near the dining pavilion, plates balanced on their laps. Felix was quieter than usual, staring down at his food with a faraway look in his silvery blue eyes until finally, he spoke.

"I had this dream last night," he said slowly, hesitating as though the words felt heavy on his tongue. "It was... weird. No—terrifying."

Silas raised a brow, stabbing at his bread. He imagined it as Luca's bitter face causing his lips to lift at the corners at the ridiculous thought. "You're being dramatic. What, you trip and fall off a cliff or something?"

Felix shook his head. "No. I was standing by the shoreline. The sea was calm. Then, all of a sudden, the water split apart. And this thing—" He shivered slightly, his usual easygoing tone stripped away. "An enormous serpent bigger than any ship I've seen. It had this long, narrow muzzle with rows of teeth, and these glowing eyes like... like it hated everything it looked at. It rose out of the sea, came ashore, and it just—" Felix swallowed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It swallowed me whole. That's when I woke up."

The group fell silent.

Silas scoffed lightly, trying to shake off the unease creeping up his spine. "It was just a nightmare. Too much dinner before bed."

But Poppy didn't look convinced. Her brows furrowed, her voice soft but sure. "No... that sounds like a true demigod dream. They don't come for nothing. There's usually a meaning behind it."

Luca, leaning back with his arms crossed, muttered darkly in his thick Italian accent. "Le visioni dei semidei... they are omens. Warnings. And usually, they do not end well."

Felix gave a nervous laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. Silas glanced between them all, uneasy despite himself.

The conversation drifted after that, but the weight of the dream lingered—like a shadow none of them could quite shake.

June 1st.

The barracks were swallowed in quiet, the kind of heavy silence that made every creak of the wood seem louder. Moonlight slanted through the high windows, painting pale streaks across the rows of bunks. Most of the 5th Cohort were asleep, their steady breathing filling the space.

Silas wasn't. He lay awake on his bunk, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind restless as always. Plus, the dream about his father didn't help matters.

The door opened softly. Jason slipped in, his steps slow, his posture weighted like someone carrying more than just himself. Even in the dim light, Silas could see it—the faint slump in the boy's broad shoulders, the exhaustion etched into the sharp lines of his face. The centurion looked older than he should've, like the weight of command had pressed the youth out of him piece by piece. (Considering he was the youngest in their group, it was most definitely concerning.)

Jason moved quietly toward his bunk, thinking no one was awake.

"Are you okay?"

The words slipped out before Silas could stop them. He surprised himself with how soft his voice sounded.

Jason froze mid-step, then turned his head slightly. In the darkness, his electric-blue eyes caught the moonlight like twin shards of ice. Then he smiled—that smile. Polished. Hollow. The kind of expression you wore when you wanted to convince everyone, even yourself, that you were fine.

"I'm fine," Jason said, his voice calm, careful, almost rehearsed. "Everything's fine."

Silas sat up, leaning on his elbows, and stared. "Stop pretending."

The bluntness cut through the quiet like a blade. Jason's fake smile faltered just a fraction, the corners trembling as if unsure whether to hold or collapse.

For a long second, neither said anything. The silence stretched, heavy with things unspoken. Jason didn't move. He just stood there, backlit by the pale moonlight, weighing whether to keep his mask in place.

Then, almost reluctantly, he let out a sigh. The tension in his shoulders didn't ease, but his voice softened, honest in a way Silas hadn't heard before.

"I'm... stressed," Jason admitted. "There's been news surrounding the coast—shipwrecks popping up out of nowhere along the western shores of Northern California. Whole crews gone without a trace. The Senate's been debating a quest, or at least an investigation. They think it's a monster."

His jaw tightened, the storm in his blue eyes flickering like lightning waiting to strike. "But no one can agree on who should go."

Silas felt a chill crawl up his spine at the word monster. Not the usual, casual way they spoke of such things here. No—Jason's tone carried weight. Danger.

And then Felix's voice echoed in his mind.

The dream.

Silas straightened, suddenly alert. "Felix," he said slowly, his voice low but edged with urgency. "A week ago, he told us about a dream he had... about a massive sea serpent. Furious and huge enough to swallow a ship whole. It came ashore and—" Silas hesitated, the memory of Felix's uneasy expression surfacing. "It devoured him before he woke up."

Jason's brows knit together, his expression grim.

Silas swallowed as a storm of thoughts plagued him. Nervously, he fidgeted with his pristine sheets, rumpling them up in the process. "Is it really possible...?"

An empty laugh escaped the blonde's lips, the scar above it pulled taunt, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Really, Silas? Anything is possible when it comes to monsters as if being a—" Distant blue eyes snapped back into reality as Jason blinked. "Sorry...the exhaustion must be getting to me." A beat of silence passed. Something akin to gnawing regret and mild confusion flashed in Jason's eyes. "Thanks for the talk but I probably should go to sleep..."

With that, the centurion half-hurried to lay in his bunk and bitterly, Silas blamed himself for making the already tired boy uncomfortable. With a huff, the son of Discordia fell back on his bed softly. In the end, he always failed...it frustrated him to no end.

Somehow, the barracks felt colder, the silence heavier than before. Yet, the two boys drifted to sleep with minds full of worries and heavy hearts.

The day the prophecy was issued began like any other—quite unremarkable. It was only four days after the barrack confrontation and things were a little awkward between the two boys. Well it was mainly one-sided as Silas was distancing himself out of sheer humiliation as he felt like he made Jason even more stressed that night, failing him as his friend. Gods, even the word 'friend' felt foreign in his thoughts.

Speaking of the boy, today he stood at the front of the Fifth Cohort, his tone even and precise as he led the morning lesson on ancient Roman history. Today's topic was the good emperors of Rome, their policies, their legacies, and the subtle intricacies of their reigns.

Somewhere in the middle of his explanation, a girl from the back of the group raised her hand, stifling a laugh.

"Is it true," she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice, "that Emperor Hadrian had... a lover? A guy?"

A ripple of giggles, mostly from girls, spread through the cohort. Silas stiffened where he sat, discomfort churning in his chest. The very thought made his skin crawl. Even here, even among emperors revered for their greatness, the same indulgent sins existed. Beside him, Luca shifted in unease, his expression unreadable but staying quiet. Silas did not want to relate to an angry, owl-faced boy so he shoved his emotions in a small, internal vial, hoping to seal them away for eternity. 

Jason, however, didn't flinch. His voice remained neutral, almost detached, as if the sin didn't bother him. Weird. Although, I doubt anything could taint Jason.

"Yes," he said simply. "Hadrian and Antinous. It wasn't uncommon for Roman emperors to take lovers, male or female. It wasn't seen as shameful unless they were of equal social standing. Antinous... wasn't; he was just a young Greek from Bithynia. But Hadrian loved him deeply regardless. When Antinous drowned under mysterious circumstances, Hadrian mourned so greatly that he declared him a god; he even built statues of his lost love and established an entire cult formed in his honor. The only reason it became a scandal was the fact that Hadrian truly loved his courier, someone lower than him, and openly showed it with his devotion to Antinous after his death."

Damn, I can't tell if that's bat shit level of crazy or a ridiculous amount of dedication to a dead person...Silas thought to himself.

Before the lesson could move on, a boy near the back muttered just loud enough for the cohort to hear, his tone mocking and sharp. "Guess even the great emperors couldn't keep it normal. Disgusting. Even worse, a Greek, ugh!"

A few snickers rose. For whatever reason, Silas wasn't one of them...A strange feeling flitting between anxiety and guilt curled up in his stomach as he fidgeted with his pugio, eyes glued onto the blonde boy across from him. He waited for pronounced judgement.

Jason's jaw tightened. His electric-blue eyes flickered like storm clouds ready to break. When he spoke, his tone was still calm, but there was an edge to it—low, dangerous.

"Hadrian was one of the greatest emperors Rome ever had," Jason said evenly. "His reign brought stability, peace, and strength. His love doesn't make him any less of a ruler—or a man. If you're so small-minded that you can't separate strength from prejudice, maybe you haven't learned much about Rome at all."

The boy fell silent.

Silas watched him, confused. The sudden flash of quiet anger in Jason's expression didn't make sense to him. The clenched jaw. The way his eyes darkened, thunderous and sharp. It wasn't just history for him—there was something else there, something personal.

The tension lingered in the air a moment longer before Jason smoothly returned to the lesson. But for Silas, the image stuck—Jason, calm as stone yet burning with something he didn't understand.

After the lesson, Silas found himself stationed on sentry duty by the tunnel entrance, the evening air cool and quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves beyond the gate. Beside him, Poppy leaned against her spear in a half-slouched, half-awkward posture, her eyes faintly rimmed with the dark circles of someone who never truly slept.

She rambled the way she always did when the silence stretched too long.

"...and then, of course, Luca started yelling at the elephants again—because yelling at giant animals is apparently the best way to calm them—so naturally they panicked. And then Felix, of all people, managed to 'save' everyone by, um..." She paused, her cheeks tinting pink as a small, almost shy smile curled her lips. "Well, he... started a fire. With someone's glasses. And some sticks. It wasn't on purpose—I don't think. But it distracted the elephants long enough for the medics to clear the injured."

Silas stared at her blankly, brow arched. Felix, a hero? What a joke. "So he caused a stampede, then set something on fire, and somehow he's the hero in this?"

Poppy shifted on her feet, rubbing the back of her neck. "Well... technically, yes? He... improvised! Of course, everyone involved still got mad but it could have been worse."

Silas let out a quiet, unimpressed breath. His dark eyes flicked to her face, catching the faint blush that refused to leave. "Why do you like him?"

The girl blinked rapidly, face going even redder. "I—I don't!" she stammered, her voice pitching a little higher.

Silas tilted his head, his expression flat as ever. "Your face says otherwise. You've been smiling this entire time, your voice softens when you say his name, and you can't even look me in the eye right now ever since I mentioned your...crush." He said the last word with a sort of venom as if the very thought of liking someone disgusted him.

Poppy opened her mouth, then closed it with a soft sputter, crossing her arms in mock offense. "You're imagining things."

He studied her a beat longer, inwardly baffled. What is it about Felix that makes her soften? He's reckless and weak. Hardly someone to depend on. Finally, he asked aloud, voice as even and factual as if he were stating the time of day, "What do you even see in him? He's... pathetic."

Poppy flinched at the word, her brows knitting as her usual quiet warmth hardened. "He's not pathetic," she said firmly. "He's kind. Brave in his own way. And yes, he's strange—he doesn't always do things the 'right' way, but he cares. More than you realize."

Silas scoffed softly, turning his gaze back toward the trees. "Love sounds stupid."

"It's not stupid," she said, her tone softening again, but not losing its resolve. "It's just... seeing someone's flaws and caring for them anyway. Knowing they'll do the same for you."

Silas said nothing. He couldn't begin to understand what she meant. The only love he knew was his father's—fear-inducing, suffocating, something meant to control rather than comfort. Whatever Poppy felt... it was foreign. Incomprehensible and weak.

They spent the rest of sentry duty in a stifling silence.

As they returned to camp, after being released from sentry duty, the air buzzed with urgency. News of a prophecy had spread like wildfire—every whispered conversation, every fleeting glance hinting at something larger looming over them.

Jason filled Silas and Luca in as they armed themselves for that night's war games. "It happened during the Senate meeting," he said, his voice even but tight with irritation. "Octavian claimed Apollo spoke to him. Used stuffed bears as his... divination tools."

Luca snorted, his Italian accent thick with disdain. "Stuffed bears? Dio mio... even a kid wouldn't fall for that."

Silas smirked despite himself, the mental image of a supposedly holy prophecy coming from a pile of plush toys almost enough to cut through the tension.

Jason didn't smile. "Half the Senate believed him—Praetors Raphiel and Fidela included. He has them eating out of his hand."

He recited the "prophecy" quietly, like it carried a weight he didn't want to disturb:

From Ilium's fall the beast did spawn,

To western shores it journeys on.

Where Fortune's heir and Chaos' child

with Sky's true son in tempest wild

Shall cast the foe's own fatal dice

To fell the Trojan monster's might,

And end the schemes of Greek deceit

To save the city from defeat.

The words hung in the dim barracks, heavy and unshakable.

Jason's thunderous blue eyes darkened as he finished reciting the lines. He exhaled slowly, gaze flicking between Silas and Luca before speaking.

"It's obvious who it's pointing to," Jason said, his tone calm but firm. "Chaos' child—that's you, Silas. You're the only one here who fits that. A son of Discordia doesn't exactly leave room for doubt."

Silas immediately frowned, crossing his arms. "Could be Luca," he muttered, half hoping to redirect the attention. Deep down, the unruly boy hadn't expected Jason to focus on him first. It made Silas secretly crave for his startling blue eyes to land on him again.

Luca stiffened, the faintest pallor creeping across his face as his storm-gray eyes flashed with something unspoken. But then he shook his head once, sharp and certain. "No." His voice was clipped, the Italian accent thicker than usual. "Mars may be a god of war, sì, but he is not chaos. He does not waste blood on meaningless battles. He fights with purpose." There seemed to more than that, but Luca didn't offer any more of an explanation.

Jason nodded slightly. "Exactly. Mars stands for honor, strategy—even in destruction. Discordia... doesn't." His gaze shifted back to Silas. "I'm sorry, but it has to be you."

The weight of that certainty settled on Silas like a lead cloak...One that he really wanted to shrug it off as it was kind of bothersome. 

Jason's tone grew more thoughtful as he continued, "Fortune's heir... it could mean someone wealthy—a rich legacy or demigod who comes from influence. But it could also mean a direct child of Fortuna. There are a couple at camp, though..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly as if working through invisible threads of logic.

Before he could finish, his gaze flicked toward the distant sound of movement—campers already beginning to gather. His shoulders tensed. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. "If we don't move now, we'll be late. And I cannot afford to be late."

Silas caught it—the faintest flicker of something human beneath Jason's calm, commanding exterior. A quick, soft scratch to his cheek, the telltale gesture of someone momentarily embarrassed at losing track of time. For just a moment, the unshakable centurion looked almost... distracted. Rushed.

Then it was gone.

"Let's go," Jason said sharply, already stepping into a jog.

The trio broke into a run, careful not to draw too much attention as they slipped into the flow of evening muster, hearts still half on the prophecy lingering over them.

As they ran, Silas felt it—the shift in the air, heavy and electric, like the charged silence before a storm breaks. Dread pooled low in his chest, cold and sharp, as if he already knew he was running headfirst into something he wouldn't come back from the same. His thoughts tangled—foreign, anxious things that left him unsteady. And somewhere, buried deep in that unease, was the memory of his mother's cruel smile, her promise of more opportunities to prove himself. Maybe this was one of them. Maybe the storm had finally found him. 

Maybe this time he wouldn't fail her.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ

❝𝑅𝒪𝒯𝒯𝐸𝒩 𝑅𝐸𝒱𝐸𝑅𝐸𝒟 𝒲𝒪𝑅𝒟𝒮❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

THE DAY THE PROPHECY  was spoken began like any other—calm, deceptively ordinary. Jason stood at the front of the Fifth Cohort, leading a lesson on Rome's good emperors. His voice carried steadily across the barracks courtyard, explaining the reforms of Nerva, the stoic wisdom of Marcus Aurelius, and—at the center of curious whispers—the infamous love of Hadrian for Antinous.

Someone in the back had giggled, asking about the scandal of it all. Jason's reply was neutral but sure, the same way he explained any part of Roman history. Intimancy between men wasn't frowned upon then, he told them, not as long as it didn't challenge social order. Hadrian's grief over Antinous had been so deep, so all-consuming, that he'd made the boy a god. His all-consuming affections for the Greek was the reason why it was considered scandalous.

Jason caught Silas' expression as the words hung in the air—a flicker of something unreadable in his sharp, dark eyes. Discomfort. Maybe even disgust. He wasn't the only one; Luca stiffened across from him, shifting uncomfortably. But Silas' reaction stayed with Jason longer than the others. It wasn't just confusion. It was... heavier. Like the concept of love itself was foreign, hollow.

Or maybe I'm just overthinking since he's been avoiding me like the plague, Jason chided himself thinking of a few nights ago...I didn't mean to shut him out, but how can I tell him that when he won't even come five feet of me when we're alone?

Before Jason could dwell on it more, someone else muttered a crude remark—it was the irritable voice of Jughead Julian as the young centurion liked to call him (in his head, of course)—about the dead emperor's relationship, and he felt the tension snap inside his chest. His jaw tightened; there was a quiet, thunderous edge in his blue eyes as he defended the truth calmly, firmly. The room fell silent after that, the weight of his voice settling over them like a warning.

Jason let the moment pass. He had no time to unpack the strange ache in his chest or Silas' cold reaction. Not when the Senate was already restless, Octavian whispering his poison in the shadows of their debates.

Internally, the son of Jupiter was not looking forward to the upcoming Senate meeting—not with him there twisting every word to fit his goals. Sometimes, he wished to blast Octavian to smithereens and dump his ashes into a river. Too bad he sucked at summoning lightning.

The son of Jupiter approached the invisible boundary where Camp Jupiter ended and New Rome began, his footsteps measured and quiet. The Pomerian Line shimmered faintly in the evening light, marking the sacred division between the military encampment and the civilian city.

"Ah, Jason Grace," came the sharp, clipped voice of Terminus, the god of boundaries. His marble bust stood proudly atop a polished pedestal near the line, his blank eyes somehow both stern and appraising. "Your hair, boy—it's a few inches out of regulation."

Jason resisted the urge to sigh. "I'll get it trimmed," he promised.

"Hmph. At least you're wearing a proper toga," Terminus sniffed, sounding begrudgingly satisfied. "Show me your ID."

Jason showed the inside of his right forearm as his sky-blue toga shifted from the movement. Nine crisp lines marked his years of service beneath the bold SPQR and the eagle tattoo—each line a permanent record of loyalty.

"Very well," Terminus said after a moment's consideration, his voice softening just enough to be almost approving. "You may pass, Centurion. Try not to disrupt the city's peace. And for Jupiter's sake, fix the hair."

With a nod, Jason stepped through the Pomerian Line, feeling the faint ripple of divine magic as he crossed into New Rome. He would have liked to roll his eyes but, as he learned from experience, Terminus seemed to have his eyes everywhere.

Long story short, the boy had to suffer from a 25-minute lecture on how to respect the rules and then recite them back to the talking marble bust. Jason shuddered at the memory alone—it had nearly taken him all day for him to recite each rule; he even had to go to medic because his voice was so hoarse (which Luca gladly made fun as it sounded like sand paper).

Suffice to say, nodding was a better option than standing through a lecture by an angry marble god.

The city stretched before him, bathed in soft golden light. Townhouses lined the narrow streets, each capped with red-tiled roofs. White marble walls gleamed in the fading sun, their smooth surfaces catching every glint of color. Shops and marketplaces spilled gently into the avenues, modeled so precisely after ancient Rome that it felt like stepping into another time. And at the city's heart, dominating the horizon, stood the Senate House—grand and severe, its design echoing the majesty of the Circus Maximus and the enduring arches of the Colosseum.

Jason straightened his shoulders as he made his way toward it, each step pulling him closer to the place where decisions that would change the camp—and maybe the entire western coast—were waiting. That's if the Senate could ever agree on anything.

As he made his way toward the west end of the forum, the great white-domed Senate House loomed ahead, its marble walls gleaming in the afternoon light. Citizens of New Rome waved to him as he passed—from kids playing on the street to even a few young veterans in civilian tunics, all showing respect for the son of Jupiter.

He climbed the broad steps and entered the Senate Hall. The interior spread out like a Romanized lecture hall, polished marble floors reflecting the torchlight. Rows of stone benches curved in a semi-circle, descending toward the central dais where two empty high-backed seats—reserved for the praetors—stood behind a podium carved with laurel leaves.

Jason slipped into the left side of the semi-circle next to Gwendolyn, who sent a small wave, where the centurions traditionally sat in the front row. The upper tiers were filled with Lares flickering faintly like pale smoke, alongside a scattering of retired veterans from the city, all dressed in proper white togas for the occasion.

From further down the row, Octavian caught Jason's eye. The legacy of Apollo offered him a smile—cold, sharp, and rehearsed. It was the kind of smile that carried too much self-importance, as if he already knew something that would change the course of the meeting, something that would make him the center of attention. Jason could tell by the smug glint in his pale blue eyes that Octavian had brought news he intended to wield like a weapon.

Jason gritted his teeth but forced himself to look away from Octavian's smug expression as the two praetors strode to the podium. Raphiel and Fidela made an odd pair—one honey brown-haired and warm-eyed, the other sharp and cold as polished steel—but together they drew the attention of every soul in the Senate Hall.

They raised their hands for silence, though, in Jason's opinion, Fidela hardly needed the gesture. Her mere presence commanded obedience; her stern gaze swept the room like a blade, and no one dared to meet it for too long. No one wanted to be the unlucky target of her scolding. Raphiel, on the other hand, was softer, more lighthearted—he even hummed absently under his breath, the sound carrying faintly through the vaulted chamber. Somehow, they were dating, citing it as "praetor tradition," which Jason still wasn't sure he believed. It sounded too stupid to be a thing.

Fidela was the one to break the silence, her voice firm, clipped, and without room for argument. "As you all know, there have been reports of unrest along the northern shores. Documented shipwrecks. Civilians have been injured, some missing."

Raphiel stepped in smoothly, his tone gentler but no less serious. "From the accounts given by camp messengers and local veterans, the damage to the ships suggests the work of a dangerous sea monster."

At that, the Lares seated in the upper rows began to murmur, their spectral voices rising in faint, uneasy whispers. The Romans had always feared the sea, and even in death, the old instincts remained. Monsters of the deep were unpredictable, uncontrollable—a reminder of the power that lay beyond their walls, beyond their carefully ordered lives.

They weren't the only ones murmuring—the unease spread through the rows of centurions as well. Jason could feel the tension ripple beside him, Gwendolyn shifting slightly in her seat as she tried, rather unconvincingly, to be optimistic under her breath.

Across the chamber, Octavian didn't share their concern. He watched the growing unease with an almost entertained glint in his pale eyes, as though he was savoring the way the room seemed to teeter on edge.

"Silence," Fidela commanded, her tone sharp enough to cut through the rising noise. At once, the Senate Hall fell still, the only sound the faint echo of her boots as she stepped back from the podium. She inclined her head toward her co-praetor before turning her gaze back to the assembly.

"Octavian," she announced evenly, "has provided us with a prophecy—divined from the stuffing of teddy bears."

Though Fidela's voice was serious, Jason could see that he wasn't the only one who felt skeptical. A few senators shifted uncomfortably, brows furrowed at the absurdity of the method.

Raphiel stepped forward then, his smile faint but strained. "Apollo has gifted Octavian with a small portion of the power of prophecy."

For the briefest moment, Jason saw Raphiel's expression darken, his easy warmth flickering like a candle guttering in a sudden wind. It was there and gone in an instant, but the young centurion caught it—the subtle flash of longing, even bitterness. It reminded him of the harsh, unforgiving brilliance of the sun at its zenith: blinding, distant, and impossible to grasp. Too bad his eyes didn't glow. 

Now, that would have really been cool, Jason thought. Or really terrible now that I think about it.

Raphiel's voice carried clearly through the Senate Hall.

"Centurion Octavian," he said, his tone polite but clipped, "stand and deliver the prophecy you have received."

Octavian rose smoothly from his seat, every movement deliberate, his pristine white toga draping perfectly as though even the fabric feared to crease under his touch. His pale hands clasped together with practiced reverence, and his face wore that serene, falsely humble expression Jason had come to loathe.

In a voice that was soft yet carried to every corner of the chamber, Octavian began:

"From Ilium's fall the beast did spawn,

To western shores it journeys on.

Where Fortune's heir and Chaos' child,

With Sky's true son in tempest wild,

Shall cast the foe's own fatal dice,

To fell the Trojan monster's might,

And end the schemes of Greek deceit,

To save the city from defeat."

When he finished, he inclined his head just slightly, as though awaiting the awe he assumed would follow. 

No one clapped for him. 

Jason's jaw tightened as the words hung in the air, heavy and ripe with unspoken nervousness. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of Lares shifting in their seats.

Not a moment later, the Senate erupted in chaos as realization hit the crowd of demigods.

Murmurs rose into anxious voices, then into outright arguments as panic rippled through the hall. The words Greek deceit had struck a raw nerve, stirring the ever-present bitterness of Rome's long feud with the Greek demigods (not that they existed anyways.) The Lares shifted restlessly, their spectral forms flickering like dying flames as they muttered among themselves about the Trojan Horse—how Greek trickery had once doomed Ilium and birthed centuries of mistrust.

Octavian, ever the opportunist, let the uproar build for a moment before clearing his throat. The sharp sound cut through the noise, drawing eyes back to him like moths to a flame. He stepped forward with calculated poise.

"While we may not yet grasp the full meaning of this divine message," he said, his tone silky and laced with quiet authority, "I—being the one chosen by Apollo to deliver this sacred prophecy—believe it is only natural that I interpret its intent for the good of the Senate and the city."

He paused, his pale gaze sweeping the room, searching for resistance. "Unless," he added with false humility, "someone objects to the will of the gods?"

Jason half-expected Praetors Raphiel or Fidela to shut him down, to remind the Senate that no one man should hold such influence. But to his unease, both praetors remained silent. Fidela's face was unreadable, her cold, sharp gaze fixed on Octavian, while Raphiel actually looked...interested.

The son of Jupiter debated—just for a heartbeat—whether he should speak up. He could call out Octavian's arrogance, remind them all that no single centurion should have the right to sway the Senate unchecked.

But it didn't matter.

Before he could open his mouth, Octavian continued smoothly, as though the moment of silence had been his cue.

"Obviously," Octavian went on, his voice rising above the soft murmurs, "a quest must be mandated to vanquish this fiend and protect Rome. Thus, it is only logical we determine who the questers shall be."

He straightened his toga with a practiced, self-important gesture before placing a hand lightly over his chest. So dramatic, Jason thought as he internally rolled his eyes.

"As you all know," Octavian continued smoothly, "I hail from a long and venerable line of legionnaires—descendants of the great god Apollo himself. The same god who has graciously seen fit to gift me with a fragment of his power, that I may guide Rome in these troubled times. So," his pale eyes gleamed with a flicker of triumph, "is it not clear that I am the Fortune's Heir named in the prophecy? Should I not lead the quest then?"

A ripple of agreement moved through the hall. Some nodded with conviction, others more hesitantly, but enough murmurs of "Yes, of course"  filled the air to give Octavian momentum.

Jason was not one of them.

He didn't even try to hide the tightening of his jaw as he stared straight ahead, refusing to look at Octavian's self-satisfied face. In Jason's eyes, the so-called centurion wasn't even worthy of the title, let alone the mantle of leadership on a divine quest. Octavian's strength didn't come from honor or skill; it came from cunning, politics, and the ability to twist words like daggers.

And Jason knew for a fact, that if this man led the quest, it would end in disaster.

It seemed Praetor Raphiel knew it too. The son of Apollo's golden gaze lingered on Octavian just long enough to convey quiet skepticism before he spoke, calm but firm.

"Interpretations," Raphiel said smoothly, "can be made at a later date. For now, we have more pressing matters."

Octavian sat with an exaggerated flourish, as if to silently announce, Ah, I had more to say, but alas, I'm being ever so humble and patient for the greater good. Jason didn't need to look at him to know there was a smug little smile playing at the corners of his lips.

The praetors shifted the discussion toward fortifications—ensuring the walls and borders of Camp Jupiter were reinforced in case this sea monster, unseen but made known by its trail of wreckage, decided to come ashore. Veterans murmured strategies. Lares whispered warnings. Centurions debated logistics in clipped, sharp tones.

And Jason? He could hardly focus.

His electric-blue eyes darted across the Senate hall, taking in the solemn faces, the flicker of unease in even the strongest warriors. He tried to listen, tried to stay grounded, but the prophecy lingered like a storm cloud over his thoughts. Fortune's heir. Chaos' child. Sky's true son.

Deep down, he knew. He was supposed to be part of the quest. He was currently one of the few demigod at camp related to a sky god, not to mention the sky god.

And it terrified him.

Jason had been told his entire life that he was a natural leader, an exceptional fighter, a son of Jupiter destined to carry the glorius burden of Roman honor. But a quest was different. A quest wasn't just about discipline or strategy—it was life and death, a responsibility so immense it could break even the strongest.

Sitting among older centurions, hardened veterans, and watchful Lares, Jason felt small. He felt like he was back at two years old, abandoned at the Wolf House, his mother's cold eyes the last memory before Lupa dragged him into a life of endless duty. Alone. Unsure. Expected to be strong before he even understood what strength was.

At least I won't be alone, Jason thought weakly, clinging to the single thread of solace the prophecy offered. There would be others—Fortune's heir, Chaos' child. Companions. Names and faces he already suspected.

But the thought didn't comfort him.

Because being together didn't guarantee they'd all return.

They could die out there. Be torn apart by the very monster they were meant to face. Or worse, they could abandon him—leave him to carry the weight of failure, the same way his mother had left him to carry the weight of her choices.

And if that happened, it would be on him.

It would always be on Jason Grace.

It was that night, after another brutal loss in the war games. The Fifth Cohort had dragged themselves back in silence, the sting of failure heavy in the air. Jason had heard the whispers, the murmurs about how even their newly minted centurion was slipping—too distracted to lead, too lost in his own head. Gwen, ever loyal, had tried to lift his spirits, offering quiet words of validation about his leadership. He'd given her a polite, tired smile, but it didn't soothe the knot of guilt in his chest.

Now, the barracks were still. Quiet except for the faint rhythm of breathing from his cohort. Jason lay on his bunk, staring up at the wooden ceiling, replaying the day in his mind—and unbidden, the memory of a few nights ago resurfaced.

His gaze shifted, hesitating as it landed diagonally across the room.

Silas.

The boy lay curled in his bunk, his dark, unruly hair tumbling over his face, his shoulders rising and falling with soft, even breaths. Jason lingered there, silent. Something in him wavered—an impulse to move, to bridge the space between them, though he wasn't even sure why.

Slowly, quietly, Jason sat up.

Before he could even question what he was doing, Jason quietly swung his legs over the edge of his top bunk and climbed down with practiced care. On the bottom bed, Luca was sprawled out like a starfish, muttering something incoherent in Italian—Jason caught something that sounded like giant cannoli gods and decided not to think too hard about it.

His steps were soft as he crossed the narrow aisle between bunks, each one sinking deeper into a feeling he couldn't quite name. When he finally reached the foot of Silas' bed, he froze.

Silas lay there in the dim glow from the barracks' lanterns, dark curls half-obscuring his face, his expression caught between youth and weariness. Jason's face heated immediately. What was he doing? Standing here like some kind of creep in the middle of the night? If anyone woke up now, what would they think?

Jason exhaled sharply, silently berating himself as he turned to retreat—

—but then his heart leapt into his throat.

Silas' onyx-black eyes had snapped open, sharp and unnervingly alert despite the sleep-heavy air. For a single breath, neither moved. Then Jason saw the realization flicker across Silas' face, the dawning awareness that Jason Grace had been standing there, staring at him.

Silas immediately pushed himself upright, the motion sharp and fluid for someone who'd just woken. His eyes narrowed to slits, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face as his mouth parted—no doubt ready to demand what Jason thought he was doing.

But before he could speak, Jason blurted out, "I—I wanted to talk to you."

The words tumbled out clumsy and rushed, but it was enough to make Silas pause. He studied Jason with a long, unreadable look, his dark gaze lingering as if weighing the truth behind the excuse. Then, with a faint huff that might've been resignation, Silas shifted and begrudgingly patted the empty space beside him.

Jason hesitated, his chest tight with some feeling he didn't want to name, before carefully lowering himself onto the edge of the bunk. Even in the dim light, he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. Why am I even blushing? he wondered, silently cursing himself. It wasn't like this was anything new. They'd sat next to each other before—during meals, during war games briefings, during those quiet moments when neither of them felt like talking.

So why did this suddenly feel... different?

Silas broke the silence first, his voice low and edged with a mix of curiosity and impatience. "So," he muttered, leaning back slightly against the wall. "What's so important you had to creep over here in the middle of the night?"

Jason's throat went dry for a second, but he forced himself to meet Silas' dark, expectant eyes. "I... wanted to apologize," he began, his words careful but honest. "For acting weird the other night. I didn't mean to brush you off like that." He exhaled through his nose, a faint crease forming between his brows. "I was just in a bad mood, but that shouldn't excuse how I acted. I know you avoided me when it was just us after that, and... I get it. But I'd like for us not to be awkward anymore."

His hands shifted on his lap, fingers restless. The skin was rough and calloused from years of gripping weapons, training until exhaustion, and holding himself to impossible standards. He twisted them slightly as if the motion alone could untangle the tension in the air.

Silas' answer didn't come right away. He stared at Jason for a moment longer, unreadable as ever, before finally muttering, "I'm... sorry, too. For avoiding you."

The words sounded strange coming from him, like they didn't quite fit in his mouth. There was a subtle hesitation, a faint edge of I have no clue if I'm doing this right in his tone that made Jason pause. He wondered, fleetingly, if Silas had ever truly apologized to anyone before—if anyone in his life had ever expected him to.

Even with the words exchanged, the air between them remained heavy, awkward in a way that neither of them quite knew how to smooth over. They both wanted things to go back to normal, but for now, all they could do was sit in the silence that followed, unsure of what came next.

Since they were both awake, Jason decided to steer the conversation somewhere else—somewhere that had been gnawing at him all day.

"About the prophecy," he said quietly, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry through the barracks. "I... I have this feeling I'm supposed to be on the quest. That is, if I can convince the rest of the Senate to even approve it."

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat before he pushed them out. "And I know you don't believe it, but... I need you. On the quest, I—I mean."

The pause after I need you hung a little too long, making Jason's stomach twist. He added the clarification quickly, hoping Silas wouldn't comment on it—or notice the faint heat rising in his cheeks.

"If I go," Silas muttered, his voice low and edged with that familiar bitterness, "I bet everyone will be wishing for my downfall."

Jason didn't even hesitate. "Then I'll be there to make sure nothing kills you. If you fall, I'll be there to help you up."

Instead of being touched, Silas' presence shifted—like the air itself turned heavier, sharper. Jason swore he could feel the boy's anger radiating off him, a strange, swirling weight of negative emotion that seeped into his own chest for a split second before dissipating.

"I don't need your help," Silas snapped, arms crossing tight over his chest. His voice was harsh, but there was something tired behind it, something that cracked if you listened hard enough. "I'm more than capable. Why can't anyone see that?"

Jason stayed quiet for a breath, just looking at him. The dim glow from the barracks lantern caught Silas' curls in faint gold, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones and the quiet defiance in his onyx eyes. Under the muted light, he looked both hardened and fragile all at once, like a blade forged in the wrong fire.

"I do see that," Jason said softly. "You're one of the most competent people I've ever met. And trust me, I've met a lot." His tone stayed calm, even, but it carried a kind of quiet conviction that was hard to ignore. "But depending on others isn't a weakness. It can help you. I believe we can be a great team together."

Something in Silas shifted at those words—hesitant, reluctant. Maybe it was the way Jason's electric-blue eyes softened, not with pity but with genuine belief. Or maybe it was how sincere the son of Jupiter sounded, his voice unshaken by doubt. Silas wasn't sure which it was, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of trust, faint and cautious, stirring somewhere deep in his chest.

They spent the rest of the night trading quiet words, their conversation meandering without purpose. They circled back to harmless topics—mocking Octavian's ridiculous theatrics with his stuffed bears even though neither had seen it (yet), recalling the chaos of Felix and Luca's elephant disaster, and every small mishap that had made the past few months bearable. The heaviness of the earlier talk faded into something lighter, easier, like the simple rhythm of breathing. It wasn't about the words themselves, but the shared space between them, the soft hum of connection that neither fully acknowledged but both silently leaned into.

The next three days blurred into a haze of exhaustion for Jason. The weight of his thoughts pressed harder than any armor, and he found himself by the Little Tiber late one evening, confiding in Luca. He spoke of the prophecy in a low, tired voice, leaving out the embarrassing moment with Silas, and admitted to the vision that haunted him—a vision of himself, wreathed in lightning, facing down a monstrous sea serpent amid a raging storm. Luca listened quietly, his sharp eyes betraying no judgment, only a faint glimmer of understanding before the conversation faded into silence.

By June 8th, the Senate Hall was tense with anticipation. The white-domed chamber was packed, murmurs echoing off the marble as Jason stepped forward. His voice was steady, even as his hands curled into fists at his sides. He spoke of his vision, recounting how he'd stood amidst a tempest, striking down a sea-born monster. "It wasn't just a dream," he told them, "I am the son of Jupiter, who holds dominion over the sky and thunder. The gods would not show me this without reason."

Octavian's pale, calculating face twisted into a sharp smile. "A dream," he dismissed smoothly, his tone cutting like a blade. "Visions are fickle things, Centurion. Perhaps it was merely nerves—"

Jason's jaw tightened as he cut him off, his voice firm. "It wasn't nerves. You may play augur, Octavian, but I am the one capable of leading a quest. This storm, this monster, it was a calling."

A ripple went through the room, soft murmurs of agreement rising from the Senate. Seeing the shift in the room, Octavian quickly straightened, his false smile stretching wider. "If you wish to prove yourself to everyone, so be it. But I seek to prove myself worthy. This quest could be an opportunity—not just for you, but for me as well." His gestures spoke louder than his words, a calculated display of youthful ambition. Let the young rush into danger, his expression seemed to imply, subtly planting doubt.

The Senate's whispers grew louder, uncertainty settling like a fog. Both candidates were powerful, both tied to the prophecy in their own ways. Praetors Raphiel and Fidela rose from their seats, commanding instant silence. Fidela's voice was as sharp as a blade. "Then the Senate shall vote between two leaders: Centurion Jason of the Fifth Cohort, new yet honest, the son of Jupiter who claims his vision designates him as the leader..."

Raphiel finished smoothly, his gaze sweeping the room. "Or Centurion Octavian of the First Cohort, legacy of Apollo, the one who delivered this prophecy. Discuss wisely, Senators."

The chamber erupted again into hushed debates, the weight of their choice hanging over every voice. Jason's sharp ears caught fragments of their debates, each whisper cutting in its own way.

"Jason is a well-respected leader... and the son of Jupiter, no less. The gods themselves seem to favor him." One of the centurions had whispered to another.

"Yes, but he's from the Fifth Cohort. They're the weakest for a reason. Can we really trust someone from there to lead a quest of this scale?"

"Better than Octavian. He's sly, too calculated. Always looking for an angle. Do you really think he cares about the Legion more than his own name?"

"Maybe not, but he's from the First Cohort. His family is powerful, old Roman blood. There's stability in that. Besides, he did deliver the prophecy."

"He's not a leader. Not really. He manipulates, but would he actually protect his questmates?"

Jason tried to keep his expression neutral, his electric blue eyes forward, but the whispers coiled around him like smoke. His name and Octavian's twisted together in the debate, two sides of a coin: one respected but weighed down by the shame of the Fifth, the other ambitious but hollow. The choice felt both obvious and impossible, and he could feel the tension humming like a storm waiting to break.

Raphiel lifted his hand for silence, and the murmur of voices died instantly, the weight of the moment sinking into the air like a heavy fog. His calm, commanding tone carried easily through the chamber.

"We will now put it to a vote," he declared. "Centurion Octavian as leader of the quest—those in favor, raise your hand."

All around the hall, hands lifted, a ripple of movement like a cautious wave. Jason tried to count, but the numbers blurred; it looked like nearly half the Senate supported Octavian. His stomach tightened when he caught the legacy of Apollo's smirk, self-satisfaction radiating off him like poison.

Before Jason could fully register the numbers, Fidela's voice cut sharply through the tension. "All in favor of Centurion Jason as leader of the quest, raise your hand."

A tense beat of silence followed, and Octavian's smirk widened ever so slightly, as if already savoring victory. Then, one by one, hands began to rise. At first hesitant, then more, until Jason could feel the tide shifting without even counting. Fidela and Raphiel exchanged a quiet glance, leaning toward one another as they murmured the results.

Finally, Fidela straightened, her voice cool and firm. "The Senate has spoken. Centurion Jason Grace will lead the quest."

Octavian's smug expression shattered. His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitened on his toga, and his pale eyes burned with thinly veiled hatred. Jason held his gaze just long enough to see the venom lurking there, knowing this wouldn't be the last time Octavian would try to strike back.

Both praetors sank back into their marble-backed chairs, the tension in the room settling into something quieter, more restrained. Fidela's sharp gaze swept the chamber before landing squarely on Jason.

"Centurion Jason," she said, her tone unreadable but carrying an edge of authority, "see us in private once the Senate is dismissed."

A faint murmur rose as senators, centurions, and lares began to stand, the scrape of sandals and shifting togas filling the air. Jason could feel the weight of a dozen glances brushing over him, but none burned as sharply as Octavian's.

From across the semicircle, the legacy of Apollo didn't bother hiding his fury now. His pale eyes gleamed like daggers, full of silent promises Jason could almost feel lodged in his back. Even as the rest of the Senate filed out with formal bows and curt farewells, that glare clung to him like a shadow.

The private meeting had been more strained than Jason expected. He'd stood before the praetors, their judgment heavy on his shoulders as he named Silas as one of his quest mates.

Predictably, Fidela's sharp features tightened at the mention of the son of Discordia. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the slightest flicker of disapproval breaking her otherwise stoic mask. Jason could practically hear the thoughts behind her piercing stare—Silas was still on probatio, still untested, still a risk. But she said nothing against it outright, only granting a curt nod.

It wasn't because she trusted Jason's judgment. No—Jason knew exactly why. Because he was the son of Jupiter, and that name alone carried the kind of weight that no amount of training or leadership could ever replicate.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

Raphiel, leaning casually against the dais with an unreadable expression, had only given a vague nod in return. It was hard to tell if he agreed, disagreed, or had simply let his mind drift elsewhere entirely. His golden eyes always seemed distant, unfocused—like a man perpetually half in another world. Sometimes, Jason wondered how he ever became Praetor.

The question of the final questmate remained unresolved. Fidela made it clear they would convene another Senate meeting to decide. He'd hate it if Octavian ended up being his quest mate in the end. Jason left the chamber with worry still coiled in his chest, feeling no closer to peace despite getting one decision in his favor. 

Needing air—or maybe just a moment of normalcy—he found himself wandering toward Bombillo's Coffee Shop. The warm smell of roasted coffee beans and sugar greeted him as he stepped inside. Without thinking, he ordered a brownie, the rich chocolate square warm in his hand. It wasn't much, but for a fleeting moment, it grounded him.

The weight of the prophecy still lingered, but at least for now, he let the sweetness soften the edges of the day. Briefly, he wondered if Silas liked brownies.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦
ƈɦǟքȶɛʀ ռɨռɛ

❝Ａ ＣＯＳＭＩＣ ＪＯＫＥ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

THE MESS HALL buzzed with chatter, the scent of roasted vegetables and fresh bread filling the air. Jason sat with Silas, Felix, Poppy, and Luca at their usual area tucked in the corner. He'd been quiet so far, mindlessly pushing food around his plate. But finally, he set down his fork, drawing everyone's eyes.

"I've been thinking about the prophecy," Jason began, his tone steady but laced with exhaustion.

"When haven't you?" Luca teased, a ghost of smile on his face.

Felix tilted his head, mouth half-full of bread. "Oh, fun. Light lunch conversation."

Jason ignored him. "We already know Silas has to come. He's the 'Chaos' child. That part's clear."

Silas didn't respond, though his sharp eyes flicked toward Jason briefly before lowering back to his plain plate of cooked carrots, bread, and red grapes. Luca looked at it in undisguised disgust. So, Silas looked at him right back—in undisguised disgust, of course. 

Jason continued. "And I'm... obviously in it, too. The 'Sky's true son in tempest wild.'" His electric-blue eyes dimmed just slightly. "But the 'Fortune's heir'... that one confused me at first."

Poppy leaned in. "You think you've figured it out?"

Jason nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think it's you, Felix."

Felix blinked. "Me? You sure you don't mean... like, someone actually useful?"

Jason gave him a faint smile, then shook his head. "Think about it. You had that dream about the sea monster—before any of us even knew about the shipwrecks. That wasn't coincidence. Demigod dreams like that are omens. Her children are rare, but you—" he gestured vaguely at Felix "—you literally have luck woven into your life. You start elephant stampedes and somehow end up saving people. You steal glasses, spark a random fire, and it works out. Chaos bends around you but never crushes you."

Felix slowly lowered his sandwich, squinting. "So you're saying all my... unfortunate accidents are actually fortunate?"

"In a twisted way, yes," Jason said. "The prophecy doesn't just call for someone with power. It calls for someone who can tip the scales. Fortune's heir. That's you—her actual child. That kind of influence over luck could be what we need on the quest."

Poppy gasped softly, realization dawning on her face. "Honestly, it does make sense. A quest with Jason and Silas would need someone who can... balance out the odds. Or at least make sure you're not completely doomed."

Jason nodded. "Fortune's heir doesn't have to be vague. We've been overthinking it this whole time when it's been a literal meaning instead."

Felix shifted uncomfortably. "Uh... that sounds like a lot of responsibility I didn't sign up for."

Jason's gaze softened but remained firm. "It's not something you can sign up for. It just is. And besides, you're already connected to the monster. Your dream was a warning meant for you."

Before Felix could respond, Luca remarked under his breath. "So, what, Octavian won't be in the quest after all? Poor little favorite of Apollo, gifted with his... stuffed bear prophecies." His thick accent dripped with sarcasm. The whole camp had been gossiping about Octavian and his new-found power since the proclamation of the prophecy, though, it was supposed to be kept a secret. However, Romans liked their gossip enough that they'd pay to get even a small whisper of rumors—just ask the delatores, a tight group of messengers who knew all the latest information...for a price.

Good thing, Jason was his best friend and a centurion so he got the news for free. 

Jason let a small smirk tug at his lips. "Octavian's a legacy, sure and he comes from a well-known family. He even has a little bit of Apollo's gift for prophecy. But..." Jason's voice hardened. "He isn't the one for this quest. He's ambitious, but that doesn't make him a leader. Not for this. He doesn't care about people the way he should."

Silas, quiet until now, finally spoke, voice flat. "You're saying you'd rather take Felix, the lucky ba—accident, over him, an experienced camper." If he was being honest, he'd rather drown in the Little Tiber than be on a quest with Octavian. The legacy of Apollo seemed like he would betray them if granted a good deal or power. Yet, having a quest full of inexperience campers seemed just as terrible, maybe worse.

Jason met Silas' onyx eyes calmly. "Yes. Because accidents or not, Felix has a purpose here. We all do." Deep down, Silas could tell Jason was really speaking to him but instead, the son of Discordia scoffed lightly, looking away, but didn't argue further.

How can he expect anything good to come from me when I don't know how to be a hero, Silas thought with a clenched jaw.

Just then, Felix groaned dramatically and dropped his head on the table. "Great. I'm doomed. Thanks for the pep talk, Grace."

But Jason only allowed himself a faint, reassuring smile. "You're not doomed, Felix. You're exactly where you're meant to be, man."

Felix groaned again, louder this time, as if the universe itself might take pity on him. His forehead stayed planted on the table like he was trying to will himself into disappearing. Luca looked like he was trying not to laugh at the boy's antics and so, Silas being Silas, flipped him the bird—the son of Mars' turned-up lips dropped as a familiar scowl painted his face. Luca bent his right arm so that it pointed upward and slapped his other hand against the crook of it, which vaguely reminded Silas of an umbrella.

Maybe it's an Italian thing but I'm pretty sure he just told me to 'fuck off' with his arms...That's pretty cool actually—I should try that out on some mortals to test my theory. Silas mischievously thought to himself, as he memorized Luca's aggressive movement. This would be the only time 'Luca' and 'cool' would be synonymous.

Beside him, Poppy's soft, perpetually drowsy voice drifted through the tension. "Hey... it's not all bad," she murmured, her words slow and feather-light, as if she could slip into a nap mid-sentence. "If you're meant to be on this quest, it's because you're supposed to be there. You'll... probably surprise yourself."

Felix peeked up at her, suspicious. "Probably?"

Her lips curved into a faint, almost dreamy smile. "Well... nobody's future is guaranteed. But I think you're... luckier than you give yourself credit for." She tilted her head slightly, gaze unfocused but oddly comforting, like her sleepy aura dulled the edges of panic.

Silas watched her through half-lidded eyes. If anyone needed sleep, it'd be her, he thought dryly. She always looked like she was running on half a soul—soft voice, drooping posture, eyelids heavy like lead. And yet... somehow, she always managed to say something that made people feel lighter.

Felix gave a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess that's one way to look at it. Maybe Fortuna's just messing with me."

Poppy shrugged lightly. "Maybe. But... she hasn't failed you yet, right?"

Then Luca leaned back, crossing his arms. "Luck? Don't fool yourself," he muttered, his thick Italian accent curling around the words. "This is not just some silly adventure. Quests... they are dangerous. Most of the time, someone doesn't come back."

The mood dipped instantly, Felix going pale and even Poppy's sleepy smile faltering.

Jason sighed, but his lips quirked into a faint, teasing smirk as he straightened. "Well, at least we can count on Octavian consulting his teddy bears tonight for more divine wisdom. Maybe they'll tell him how jealous he should be when we succeed."

Felix actually snorted, lifting his head slightly, and Poppy gave a soft giggle. Even Luca rolled his eyes, muttering something about "American humor," but the tension eased.

Silas remained quiet, arms crossed, his gaze slipping between them. He didn't know if he believed in this whole fate choosing them thing—but the way Jason spoke... it made him almost want to.

The river's surface rippled lazily, catching bits of sunlight like shards of silver. Felix skipped a pebble across the water, watching it hop three times before sinking. It was the same spot where they'd talked under the stars on Silas' birthday, except now there was no quiet peace—just the faint hum of unease between them. Jason had left after lunch to meet with the Preators in private.

"So," Felix said after a while, leaning back on his elbows. "Looks like fate finally decided to cash in on me. Fortune's heir." He said it with a dry twist of his mouth, like it was some kind of bad punchline.

Silas crouched by the edge of the river, dragging a stick absently through the damp sand. He didn't look at Felix when he spoke. "What did you expect? You're Fortuna's kid. She deals in luck. Good or bad. Guess this time, it's both."

Felix gave a soft huff. "Yeah, but it's not like she's ever been around. Never dropped a hint, never sent a sign. Now suddenly I'm supposed to risk my life like it's some cosmic joke?" He threw another pebble harder than he meant to, and it plopped straight into the current.

Silas glanced at him then, eyes dark, unreadable. "It is a joke. Fate's twisted like that. At least you're not the only one in its punchline."

Felix snorted. "Comforting. Really."

Silas didn't answer. He just stared at the flowing water, his own reflection bending and breaking with the current.

After a long moment, Felix leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. His voice was softer now. "You think we'll actually make it back?"

Silas paused, considering, then muttered, "I've heard no one ever really makes it back the same."

They stayed there in silence, the quiet broken only by the river's gentle rush. Two fated boys—one born of chaos, the other of luck—sitting on the edge of something much bigger than either of them could control.

Before either boy could say anything else, footsteps crunched lightly over the grass.

"Figures I'd find you two brooding by the river," came Poppy's soft, sleep-tinged voice. She plopped down beside them without asking, her legs folding lazily to one side.

She let out a dramatic sigh and leaned back on her hands. "Luca ditched me for sentry duty. Dude, now that I think about it—which I hate doing—I don't have anyone to talk to except the moody boy." She nodded toward Silas, her eyes half-lidded but teasing. "Not that I mind, but I'll miss having my friends around for once."

Felix snorted. "Gee, thanks. Always a pleasure to be reduced to the 'not here' category."

Poppy smirked faintly, clearly amused but too tired to muster more energy than that. She glanced between them, her expression softening as if she could sense the heaviness in the air but chose not to press. Instead, she leaned closer to the river, tossing a small stone into the water with barely a splash.

Silas watched her from the corner of his eye, saying nothing. Felix just rolled his eyes and lay back on the grass, arms folded behind his head.

For a brief, fleeting moment, it felt almost normal.

Silas tilted his head slightly, his tone almost curious rather than accusatory. "Why is it," he asked, "that you don't sleep? It's strange seeing that you're a daughter of Somnus and all."

The question seemed harmless, but it froze Poppy in place. Her normally soft, drifting gaze sharpened for the briefest moment before sliding away. She shifted uncomfortably, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her sleeve.

"My dad..." she mumbled, her voice quieter than usual, "...he had high hopes for me when I was born. Thought I'd be this perfect example of his power." She swallowed, looking more awake than Silas had ever seen her. "But I... I liked sleeping. I liked indulging in it. And apparently that made me... lazy. Vitanda set improbable siren desidia."

In a second, his mind translated the phrase as, "One must avoid that wicked temptress, Laziness." It was a quote from Horace, an ancient Roman poet, satirist, and critic who was the leading Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus. Gag me with a spoon, I'm sounding like a dweeb, Silas internally groaned.

He also noticed there was a faint bitterness buried under her sleepy tone, something she rarely let slip. 

Silas bitterly pondered, Fathers, mortal or not, are monsters, aren't they? Then, they act like we're the abomination as if we weren't their doing...Even at Camp Jupiter, he still hadn't escaped from the choking hold of his father's deadly high expectations. 

Vaguely, he recalled Jason's lesson about Somnus—how the god, disguised as a shipmate, had lulled Palinurus into eternal slumber using the water of the river Lethe, letting him drift into a dream before casually tipping him overboard to his death. A god who killed without malice, only indifference, as though sleep itself was more important than the life it claimed.

For a fleeting second, Silas wondered if Poppy carried some of that cold detachment in her blood—or if she was simply trying desperately not to.

Felix, sensing the shift in the mood, sat up slightly, his easygoing smirk fading into something softer, but he didn't say anything for a moment. Then, he cleared his throat softly, the silence stretching too long for his liking. He leaned back on his hands, tilting his head toward the water as if he could shrug off the heaviness.

"Well," he said lightly, a faint grin tugging at his lips, "guess that explains why you still manage to look like you're about to fall asleep even when you're wide awake."

Poppy blinked at him, startled by the sudden tease, and then let out a small huff of laughter despite herself. The tension in her shoulders eased a little, her usual drowsy smile creeping back.

Felix stretched lazily, pretending he hadn't just saved the moment from sinking deeper. "Anyway," he added, glancing at Silas with that lopsided grin, "I bet the real reason you're asking is because you're jealous she can look half-dead all day and still get away with it."

Silas rolled his eyes but didn't argue. The heaviness scattered like a dream upon waking, and they resumed pretending they were normal teenage kids laughing as if their lives weren't pre-destined for tragedy. 

The scent of oil and metal clung to the air in the Circus Maximus as the three worked in relative quiet. Silas crouched beside his near-broken-down chariot, fingers deftly knotting bits of wire and twine into simple but effective traps he planned to rig along the track. Poppy sat nearby, lazily wiping down the slightly better-kept chariot she'd been assigned, her usual sleepy expression softened even further by the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. Felix, meanwhile, was more or less pretending to help, half-distracted as he balanced on the edge of a wheel, humming tunelessly. All around them, other campers were preparing for the chariot races that would be taking place tonight.

The rhythmic scrape of a brush against rust and the faint creak of metal were the only sounds—until the sharp click of boots echoed from the tunnel entrance.

Silas straightened just enough to glance up, his dark curls falling into his eyes. Jason was walking toward them, the faint breeze from outside catching the edge of his sky-blue toga. There was a strange mixture on his face—relief tangled with lingering tension—but his stride was steady, determined. Briefly, he wondered how the toga (definitely not Jason's skin) would feel under his scarred fingers. Would it be silky smooth or made from a tougher material?

"Guess the Senate didn't eat you alive," Felix called, jumping down from his precarious perch.

Jason allowed the faintest hint of a smile. "Not quite. And...I have news."

That made Poppy perk up a little, blinking away the haze of her natural drowsiness. Silas simply waited, his trap forgotten mid-assembly, his onyx eyes quietly locked on Jason.

Jason stepped closer to the chariots, his voice even but carrying a subtle weight. "It's official. The Praetors agreed—the third quester will be Felix."

Felix froze, mid-stretch, his grin faltering for once. "Whoa... just like that?"

Jason nodded once. "Well, there was some, erm, disagreements but eventually the Senate accepted it."

Silas blinked slowly, his expression unreadable as he returned his gaze to the chariot wheel, though his fingers stilled. Poppy's soft gasp of surprise quickly melted into a small, supportive smile as she looked between them.

Jason added, "We'll leave in three days. Early morning after the Senate meeting on June 12th. That'll give us time to plan and pack what we need."

"Early morning?" Felix groaned dramatically, throwing his head back like the announcement physically wounded him. But just as quickly, his expression shifted, his eyes lighting up with realization. "Wait—June 12th? That's the day after my birthday!"

The words hung there for a beat.

Poppy blinked. "...Your birthday?"

Felix grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah? I'll be fifteen."

That made everyone pause—really pause. Jason raised an eyebrow in faint surprise, while Poppy tilted her head in open curiosity. Even Silas, who rarely reacted to anything beyond mild annoyance, looked up from his half-finished trap with genuine surprise flickering in his dark eyes.

"You're the oldest out of the both of us?" Jason asked, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. Now that Silas thought about it, there was something ironic about the youngest of the trio was leading them.

Felix's grin widened, proud despite the awkwardness. "Guess so. Didn't think it mattered, but... surprise?"

Silas muttered something under his breath, a mixture of disbelief and dry humor, before turning back to his chariot without another word.

Poppy, on the other hand, let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You could've mentioned it before now."

Felix shrugged. "Well, none of you asked."

For a moment, the looming tension of the quest lifted—just slightly—as the weight of the revelation settled over them.

Felix smirked as he caught Silas staring a fraction too long. "What's with that look? Didn't think this guy could be older than you? It's okay, Silas. You can still call me big bro if you want."

"No, I didn't think you could be so dumb and naive for a soon-to-be fifteen year old," was what he wanted to say but instead his expression flatlined, but the slight twitch of his eye gave him away. Without a word, Silas flicked the half-finished trap in his hands with precise annoyance and flung it at Felix. It didn't hurt, of course—it wasn't meant to—but it wrapped snugly around Felix's sleeve and the edge of his tunic, tangling him like a ridiculous makeshift net.

"Hey—HEY!" Felix flailed dramatically. "You petty gremlin! This is assault!"

Silas rolled his eyes with a huff. He had no idea what a 'gremlin' was but he could tell it was supposed to be an insult of sorts.

Jason just shook his head with a faint smile, clearly more amused than he cared to admit. Poppy crouched down beside Felix, her movements soft and deliberate as she worked to untangle him. Somehow—whether it was her carefulness or Felix's absurd luck—she managed to free him without a single scratch or tear in his clothes.

Felix grinned up at her in gratitude, brushing dirt off his tunic as he muttered a low, playful "thanks, doc."

Watching them, Silas rolled his eyes with semi-annoyance, though the faintest flicker of... something else lingered behind it. Jason, completely oblivious to whatever subtle tension brewed between them, finally broke the moment.

"So," Jason said, glancing between them with easy calm, "who's going to be my partner for the race tonight?"

Usually, chariot races were with two partners from the same cohort but Praetor Raphiel liked to change it up sometimes and allow different cohorts to intermix; tonight was one of those times.

Silas sighed, clearly not thrilled but resigned to the inevitable.

"I'll do it," he muttered, brushing some dust off his hands. "Might as well see if we can actually work as a team before we're stuck with each other on a quest."

Jason blinked, a little surprised that Silas was the one to speak up first. "You sure?"

"Don't make me repeat myself," Silas said flatly, already stepping toward the chariot.

Felix raised his brows with a teasing grin. "Aw, how practical of you. Team bonding through potential vehicular disaster. Love it."

Silas didn't even dignify that with a response, just shot him a sharp look that made Felix grin wider.

Jason, though, just gave a small, approving nod. "Alright then. Let's see how well we hold up under pressure."

The late evening sun dipped low over the Circus Maximus, casting long golden shadows across the dirt track. Silas climbed onto the chariot, his movements sharp and efficient, while Jason took his place at the reins. For once, there wasn't an audience of mocking whispers or suspicious glances—just the creak of wheels and the smell of dust and oil.

Silas, though he'd never admit it, was faintly relieved that Luca was stuck on sentry duty earlier. Normally, Jason would've been paired with him. Maybe this was his one shot at proving to the golden boy that he wasn't just the son of Discordia—unreliable, untrustworthy, cursed chaos in human form. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Luca sitting out on the tiered seatings with a couple other campers from the Fifth Cohort. At least, he wasn't a standard-bearer anymore or else he would have been order to stand holding an eagle-less pole. There weren't many chariots for the Fifth Cohort due to being a main target and the laughing stock in events; the ones they did have were in terrible shape and had centuries of rust on them.

The Circus Maximus thrummed with restless energy. Campers filled the stands, their voices echoing off the stone walls, while the sun dipped lower, turning the sky a molten gold. At the lowest tier of the seating—the ima cavea, the podium reserved for the highest-ranking Romans—sat the Praetors. Fidela leaned back with her arms crossed, her stern gaze scanning the arena as if daring anyone to misbehave, while Raphiel seemed far too relaxed, humming under his breath as though he were anywhere else but an official event.

A centurion announced the chariot teams over the din. Centurions didn't have to race, but Jason always did—it was tradition for him now. The Fifth Cohort wasn't exactly known for shining moments in events like this, but Jason wasn't the type to back down from competition.

The signal horn blared, cutting through the noise. "Campers, prepare!" Fidela's voice rang sharp and clear, silencing the crowd. She and Raphiel both stood for a brief moment, their presence alone commanding attention, before giving the official nod to commence.

Jason guided the horses into position at the starting line. Silas climbed into the chariot behind him, quiet but alert, his dark eyes scanning the other racers. Sadly, he couldn't get too close to horses or else they would go wild. At least they weren't as sensitive as unicorns when it came to his chaotic presence but not even horses could compare to unicorns so that fact didn't make Silas any happier. Ugh, I should go visit the stables tonight. Maybe this time, I can get one of them to come near me.

Around them, teams from different cohorts laughed, shouted, and smacked the sides of their chariots to rile up their steeds.

Up in the podium, Octavian sat among the senators, offering smug commentary loud enough for those near him to hear. He leaned forward slightly, his pale eyes narrowing as he spotted Jason at the starting line, as if even here—at something so trivial as a race—he couldn't resist silently calculating.

Jason inhaled deeply, gripping the reins with practiced ease. Silas crouched low, one hand steadying himself, the other prepared to handle whatever chaos the track might throw at them. Not far from them, Felix was nervously gripping the reins while Poppy gently patted their horses, probably whispering sweet words to them both. 

"Racers..." Raphiel's voice echoed from the podium. He raised his hand dramatically, his casual tone almost playful.

"Go!" Fidela barked, dropping her hand like a blade.

The chariots thundered forward in a violent rush of motion, wheels skidding on the tight-packed dirt as the horses surged ahead. The Circus Maximus roared with the cheers and jeers of hundreds of campers, veterans, and citizens, the sound bouncing off the curved stone walls. Jason tightened his grip on the reins, shoulders taut as the pair of black horses he'd chosen responded with sharp precision.

Silas braced himself in the chariot, crouched low to absorb the jostling force. Despite himself, his pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the strange thrill of the race. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of Felix's white curls in the next lane over. Felix was grinning like an idiot as he urged his horses forward, with Poppy swaying beside him in a sleepy but somehow unbothered manner, one hand lazily gripping the chariot rail.

"Left curve!" Silas snapped, his voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. Jason's reaction was instant. He tugged the reins just enough to shift their weight smoothly, the chariot hugging the inside curve. Silas leaned with the movement instinctively, his shoulder brushing Jason's arm for a fleeting second. The contact was brief, but it left an odd flicker of awareness in Jason's chest. He ignored it—this was neither the time nor the place.

A chariot from the Second Cohort rammed into them from the right, trying to edge them out of the track. Jason grit his teeth, forcing the reins tighter. Silas didn't hesitate. Quick fingers flicked a small, improvised trap over the edge, just enough to spook the other team's horses. They swerved, stumbling just enough to slow down without causing a pile-up.

"Nice," Jason muttered under his breath, glancing back at Silas for a split second. Silas didn't reply, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk curling on his lips.

Ahead, Felix whooped like a madman, somehow keeping his chariot balanced even though it swayed dangerously on two wheels for a moment. "You call that a turn?!" he shouted back dramatically, while Poppy clung to the side of the chariot, her braid flying like a flag behind her, her sleepy eyes wide with adrenaline.

"Felix, rein it in!" she called as they narrowly avoided a collision with a Third Cohort's chariot. She muttered something under her breath causing their enemy's horses to slow down as they were suddenly overcome with heavy drowsiness. The Third Cohort members did not happy in the least.

"Relax! Fortuna's got me!" he yelled, right as one of the wheels bounced over a stone and their chariot teetered dangerously to one side.

Jason winced. "He's gonna get us all killed," he muttered.

"Probably," Silas deadpanned, but then flinched as the wheel of a rival chariot grazed theirs, sending a jolt through the frame. Jason instinctively reached out—his hand brushing Silas' arm to steady him. Just for a second. The touch was fleeting, but it jolted something deeper than the impact.

Silas glanced sideways at Jason, the wind sweeping strands of unruly hair across his face. His expression was unreadable, but his breath hitched slightly, just once, before he refocused forward. With precision, Silas threw what looked like a modified bear trap right in front of the enemy chariot's wheel, which clamped shut as they rode over it causing the team to force themselves to a stop or else, they'd risk tipping over.

Jason's heart skipped for a different reason. He tightened his grip on the reins, forcing himself to look away and not think about how close Silas was. Or how weirdly aware he'd suddenly become of the boy's presence—the sharp lines of his profile, the bite of his sarcasm still lingering from earlier, the way his dark eyes locked ahead with such fierce determination.

"Focus," Silas said curtly, his eyes narrowing on the sharp second curve approaching. Jason didn't even have to be told—he felt Silas' weight shift slightly and matched it perfectly, his arms guiding the horses with a precise pull. They slipped into the turn seamlessly, the chariot gliding so close to the edge of the track that the wheels grazed the boundary stones but didn't lose momentum.

Another jolt—a chariot from the Fourth Cohort clipped them from behind. Silas steadied himself, his hand instinctively gripping Jason's forearm to keep balance. Jason's breath caught—just for a fraction of a second—at the unexpected warmth of the touch. Silas let go just as quickly, his expression unreadable as always, before he threw a smoke grenade over the side of the chariot. The sounds of several chariots slamming into one another echoed behind them. I hope the horses are okay, Silas quietly pondered, feeling a tiny bit guilty for the animals forced to run.

"You good back there?" Jason asked, his tone even, though he wasn't sure why his voice felt slightly tighter than usual.

"I'm fine," Silas replied, voice flat, but he glanced up briefly. Their eyes met in the rush of wind and noise—Jason's bright, electric blue locking with Silas' dark, stormy onyx. There was something in that fleeting connection—uncertain, unspoken, but there.

The final stretch opened before them. Felix's chariot was somehow still leading, despite nearly tipping over three times. Poppy yawned mid-race, but nothing about her face was calm. The girl looked exasperated, tugging at her bag of traps to free it from the jagged metal of the chariot's side, while Felix gestured grandly at the crowd, playing to them like a performer rather than a racer.

Jason grit his teeth, urging the horses forward, feeling Silas subtly shift his weight to help with balance. Every movement between them synced naturally, as if they'd been doing this for years instead of minutes.

"This is so rigged," Silas muttered. "No one's that lucky."

"Tell that to the universe," Jason replied. "I'm starting to think he's its favorite child."

And as they rounded the final stretch—dust clinging to their faces, sweat running down their backs—Jason and Silas didn't notice the crowd anymore. Not the Praetors watching from the ima cavea. Not Octavian's narrowed, calculating stare.

Just the track. The storm in their veins. The quiet spark of something unspoken between two boys trying to outrun fate.

The crowd's roar reached its peak as they crossed the finish line—Felix and Poppy just barely edging out ahead, their chariot wobbling precariously before stopping. Jason and Silas thundered in right behind them, a clean, controlled second place.

Felix raised his arms in dramatic victory, Poppy giving him a faint clap on the back as if humoring his antics. Jason pulled his horses to a smooth stop, his chest rising and falling with the rush of adrenaline. Silas stood silently behind him, brushing dust from his hands, his expression calm—but his heart, like Jason's, hadn't quite steadied yet.

They were close enough to feel victorious.

But also close enough to feel something else.

From the ima cavea, the Praetors exchanged looks. Fidela nodded once, almost approving of the Fifth Cohort's showing tonight. Raphiel smirked faintly, clearly entertained, as he clapped for them. 

And somewhere above the din, Octavian's calculating gaze followed Jason like a shadow, as if he were just waiting for something to trigger his downfall. Alas, nothing happened.

Jason hopped down from the chariot, landing lightly despite the exhaustion buzzing through his limbs. He turned to offer a hand to Silas, hesitating only for a beat.

Silas glanced at it, unreadable, then stepped down on his own without taking the help. He dusted off his hands, his face as calm and sharp as ever. Jason swallowed, unsure why he'd even felt the urge.

"You were... good out there," Jason said, his voice steadier than he felt. It wasn't forced—he meant it—but something about the words felt strangely personal after the sync they'd shared during the race.

Silas tilted his head slightly, his gaze meeting Jason's for a fleeting moment. "We didn't crash. I'll take that as a win," he replied, tone flat but not cutting. There was the faintest twitch of something at the corner of his mouth—maybe amusement, maybe acknowledgment.

Jason nodded, shifting his weight awkwardly. He wanted to say something more, to fill the sudden quiet between them, but nothing came. Silas, perfectly composed, turned away first, already moving toward the chariot pens.

The centurion let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He wasn't sure what had just passed between them—if anything had at all—or why it felt heavier than it should.

Before Jason could even process his feelings, a familiar voice rang out.

"Jason!"

Luca barreled toward him, a wide grin splitting his usually broody face. He threw a playful punch at his shoulder, exclaiming, "That was amazing! You—you actually made it look easy! Che figo!"

Before Jason could respond, more of the Fifth Cohort came rushing over, their cheers echoing through the arena. Hands clapped him on the back, pulling him into the center of their excitement. Then, almost in perfect unison, they hoisted him up onto their shoulders.

"You even whooped everyone's podex!" one younger legionnaire shouted, laughing breathlessly. "Except for those Fourth Cohort show-offs, but who cares? You smoked the rest!"

Jason couldn't help the faint, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He lifted a hand in a small wave to the stands, trying to ignore the slight heat creeping up his neck. Amid the noise, his electric-blue eyes caught Silas lingering near the chariots, composed as ever.

Even through the chaos, Jason thought he caught the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in Silas's gaze before the boy turned away.

Jason raised his hands slightly, motioning for the cohort to calm down—not that they really listened. His voice had to rise above their cheers.

"It wasn't just me," he said firmly, his tone carrying that natural authority that made people pause. "I wouldn't have held the line without Silas. He made the calls and shook off the other chariots. He saw what I couldn't. We won second place because of him too."

For a brief second, there was silence—like the cohort was actually processing what he'd said. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the cheers erupted even louder.

"Jason and Silas!" someone yelled.

"Silas! Jason!" others echoed, their voices layering into a chant.

Even the younger legionnaires, hesitant before, joined in until both names were shouted into the night. Silas, who had been lingering at the edge of the group with his usual aloofness, froze ever so slightly. For a moment, his onyx eyes softened in something that was almost surprise, almost reluctant pride, before his expression slid back into practiced neutrality.

In that moment, Jason felt a quiet certainty settle in his chest. Silas might act like he didn't need anyone, might brush off praise or loyalty like it was nothing, but Jason knew better.

No matter what comes next, Jason thought, his electric-blue eyes steady, I'll always have his back.

The next two days passed in a blur of preparation. Jason drilled the story of the Trojan Sea Monster into their heads with the same precision he used for combat training, his tone sharp but patient as he explained every detail—how the monster had been sent by Neptune to punish the King Laomedon of Troy, how it terrorized the city before Hercules slew it, and how it might have returned in a new, deadlier form.

When they weren't listening to history lessons, Luca had them sparring in the training arena. He didn't go easy on anyone—especially Felix, who awkwardly wielded his gladius like it was both too heavy and too light at the same time. Each clash of metal echoed across the sand, punctuated by Luca's exasperated mutters in Italian.

Meanwhile, Poppy gathered them under the shade of the barracks to teach basic field medic knowledge. She was soft-spoken, her perpetually sleepy tone almost soothing as she explained how to apply unicorn draught, what it could heal, and what it couldn't. Felix, to everyone's surprise, actually knew more than expected, easily recalling the steps. He shrugged it off with a grin, muttering something about being a "regular at the medics" thanks to his accidents.

Silas mostly stayed quiet through it all, but he watched everything with sharp, calculating eyes—soaking in every lesson, every movement, as if memorizing survival itself.

In a way, it reminded Silas too much of his father and his harsh, twisted "lessons"—the same cold precision, the same demand for perfection. The echo of those memories pressed at the edges of his mind like a shadow creeping closer. But he forced himself to shake it off, burying the phantom of his father's voice. He couldn't afford ghosts from his past to cloud his focus. Not now. Not when the future of this quest—and his survival—hung in the balance.

Plus, his mother was expecting him to prove himself worthy of being her son as if being born of her godly blood wasn't enough for her. 

Silas internally grumbled, Isn't that just rad? 

The sun had barely begun to crest over the hills, casting pale gold light across the valley, when the Fourth Cohort erupted in cheers. Their celebration was so loud it carried through the entire camp like a wave of joyous chaos, echoing across the training fields and even reaching the farthest barracks—those of the Fifth Cohort, nestled near the stables.

The Fifth Cohort wasn't known for early mornings unless it was mandatory, but today they were stirred awake by the racket. Felix's name was being chanted over and over, voices rising with laughter and shouts, the clatter of feet on the paved forum adding to the commotion.

By the time Jason, Silas, and Luca were dressed in their crisp purple camp shirts and worn-in jeans, the reason for the uproar became clear. Felix was being hoisted high on the shoulders of several Fourth Cohort campers, grinning like a fool as they paraded him toward the dining pavilion. Colorful ribbons—likely stolen from the stables or the armory—fluttered around his neck, and someone had smudged celebratory war paint across his cheeks in streaks of gold and blue.

Apparently, Poppy had told her cohort about his birthday and orchestrated the whole surprise, because of course she had.

As the small crowd carrying Felix approached, Jason couldn't help but smile faintly at the sight. Luca muttered something under his breath about show-offs, but even he looked a little amused.

When Felix finally stumbled down from the shoulders of his laughing friends, flushed and slightly breathless, the trio from the Fifth Cohort stood waiting.

"Happy birthday," Jason said first, his voice warm with genuine sincerity.

Luca gave a small nod, his tone even. "Buon compleanno."

And Silas—surprising even himself—muttered lowly, "Happy birthday." His voice lacked the usual edge, soft in an awkward, almost careful way.

Felix blinked at him, wide-eyed, like he'd just seen the impossible. "Whoa. You're actually being nice. That's... unsettling."

Silas' scowl instantly snapped into place, arms crossing over his chest as if to shield himself from the moment of softness.

Felix grinned with exaggerated relief. "Ah, there it is. The cold, broody Silas I know. I was starting to think I'd stepped into an alternate universe."

Jason shook his head, fighting back a laugh as Luca rolled his eyes.

Felix, still riding the high of being the center of attention, smirked slyly. "You know, Silas, with that same permanent scowl, you could almost be related to Luca."

The words hung in the air for a beat, and both boys turned their heads at the same time to look at each other—matching side-eyes filled with pure, mutual disgruntlement. The tension was sharp enough to slice through the morning chill.

Silas, to his credit, restrained himself. He merely huffed softly, his expression slipping into a deadpan glare that promised don't push it.

Luca, however, was not one for restraint. His lip curled as he spat out in Italian, "Preferirei vivere sulla luna che essere imparentato con quel succhiacazzi."

Felix didn't need a translator to catch the venom in Luca's tone; he burst out laughing, almost doubling over as the two boys continued their silent standoff.

Jason sighed, rubbing his temple, while Poppy—who had just walked up—muttered sleepily, "And it's not even mid-morning yet..."

Later that afternoon, when the camp had settled into its quiet lull, Felix and Silas slipped away from the noise. They found themselves at the Garden of Bacchus, perched on the hill that overlooked the neat red-tiled roofs of New Rome. The air was warm but softened by the cool shade of grapevines weaving into a thick, leafy canopy above, their clusters of fruit glistening faintly in the dappled light. Bees drifted lazily between blossoms, their soft buzzing blending with the gentle trickle of water.

In the center of the garden stood a marble fountain, its base wide and smooth, with Bacchus himself poised above it, sculpted in languid elegance with ivy curling along his limbs. Water spilled from his wine cup into the basin below, the rippling sound almost soothing.

Felix wandered ahead, running his fingers lightly along the stone edge of the fountain, his usual grin replaced by something more subdued. Silas followed at a slower pace, taking in the stillness of the place. It felt... detached from the usual chaos of camp—almost like it existed outside of time.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stood there, with the scent of grapes and earth in the air, the hum of bees circling above, and the soft sound of the fountain filling the quiet. It was a rare, oddly calming moment for them both—one where neither had to posture or pretend.

Felix glanced back at Silas, the faintest trace of sincerity in his eyes. "Not bad up here, huh?"

Silas only gave a small hum in response, his gaze on the statue but his thoughts far away.

Briefly, his onyx eyes lingered on the fountain's statue. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Bacchus could inhabit the stone the way Terminus did. But the marble remained still and silent, its carved expression frozen in eternal indifference. No voice. No flicker of godly presence. Silas took that as a no.

Felix's voice broke the quiet, soft but threaded with an unusual note of thoughtfulness. "I keep thinking about Amari," he said, his fingers absently tracing the fountain's rim. "Maybe I should try to find her while we're out there... on the quest."

Silas didn't answer right away, watching a bee dip lazily onto a grape leaf. The other boy was bound to talk anyways.

Felix went on, his gaze shifting toward the horizon. "Jason said we're going after the Master of All Winds first. Aeolus. Supposedly anything lost in the wind ends up with him, right? Maybe... maybe that means there's a way to get answers...To see if she's even out there still."

The words hung heavy in the air, mixing with the sound of water and the hum of bees.

Silas hesitated, weighing his words carefully. He could easily ask Aeolus about his own father, about the mortal monster he'd spent his life fearing... but the thought made his stomach churn. He'd rather avoid that truth for as long as possible.

Instead, he shifted toward Felix, his voice quieter than usual. "Don't... get your hopes too high," he said, the words blunt but not unkind. "Even if you did find her... how would you explain to her that you're still a teenager?"

Felix's hopeful expression faltered, shoulders slumping as he stared down at the fountain's rippling surface. For once, the boy seemed truly deflated.

Silas froze for a moment, unsure how to respond to the sudden weight in the air. Then, with the stiff resolve of someone entirely new to comfort, he reached out and gave Felix an awkward hug—tense arms, stiff posture—and patted his back once like it was some kind of ritual. "At least... you'll have us, Felix."

Felix blinked at him, clearly weirded out by the unexpected gesture, but then a small, crooked smile tugged at his lips. "Thanks, dude."

Silas wasn't sure if he was doing this whole friend thing right. But, strangely enough, it felt like—for today—he was.

They could only hope the Fates would go easy on them. But from everything Silas had lived through, from the scars carved into his past to the curse of his present, he highly doubted they would show mercy now.

Chapter Text

THE AIR IN the Fifth Cohort barracks was thick with early dawn stillness, the kind that clung like fog in the lungs. Somewhere beyond the walls, the faint neighing of horses and the chirp of waking birdsong drifted into the stone quarters, joined by the distant crash of the Little Tiber against its banks. A breeze pushed through the cracked window, carrying with it the earthy scent of dew-drenched dirt.

The sky beyond the narrow slats of the barracks was still painted in diluted hues—tender oranges bleeding into soft purples and pinks. The camp hadn't fully stirred yet. Not even the Fourth Cohort's obnoxiously early risers were making noise. It was the kind of quiet that settled in complete serenity.

Until a loud rustle from the bunk above broke that fragile silence.

Luca groaned under his breath.

Jason had shifted for what felt like the fiftieth time since lights-out—kicking once in his sleep, then rolling again, his cot creaking in protest. If Luca didn't know any better, he'd have accused Jason of running laps in his dreams. Instead, he lay still, eyes open for who knew how long, staring at the wooden planks just above his face.

The son of Jupiter was never an easy sleeper—too much on his mind, too many expectations curling behind his eyes like storm clouds—but last night had been particularly restless. And Luca knew why.

He rolled onto his side, face half-buried in his pillow.

Stupid quest.

Stupid sea monster.

Stupid silence and Jason's constant flipping.

He sighed, long and loud. "If you turn over one more time, I'm going to tie your legs together with my belt."

Jason, half-asleep, mumbled something that might have been "left flank hold" or "centurions report by second bell." It was hard to tell.

From across the room, the quiet rustle of movement signaled that Silas—that little figlio di puttana—was also awake, though more out of reluctant obligation than natural timing. His hair was flattened against one side, and his usual scowl took a moment to settle in place as he sat up, stretching stiff shoulders and blinking toward the sunlight with all the enthusiasm of a cursed vampire.

Some days—really, most days—Luca wished that Silas never showed up to Camp Jupiter.

Then, from outside the boy's barracks, Gwendolyn's voice cut in, positively loud and commanding. "Questers! Up and out! You've got a Senate meeting in less than an hour, and I am not waking you twice."

Silas winced at the volume and muttered, "She's louder than the horns they use for emergencies..."

Luca rolled out of bed with a theatrical groan, rubbing his eyes like a child who hadn't had enough sweets and demanded more. "Did she say 'Senate' or 'execution'? 'Cause I'm starting to think it's the same thing."

"She said Senate," Silas replied, already tugging his Camp Jupiter tee over his black tank top with his back against the wall, "but you could be right." The boy frowned as if Luca being right might be a sign of the end of his world as he knew it.

Luca mumbled out a few choice Italian curse words at his expression. Heaving a bitter sigh, he messily ran his fingers through his hair, just enough to comb out any knots.

It was bad enough his best friend talked on and on about the pesky boy, but to actually be leaving Luca alone to be with him was another thing. Well, at least there was Felix going with them, but that didn't comfort the Italian in the slightest.

Jason finally sat up with a grunt, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked like he hadn't slept at all—his blond hair was in an unusual tousled mess, and the bags under his eyes seemed deeper this morning.

Luca lingered beside the wooden bed post, pretending to check the frayed edge of his pant leg while he watched the shadow of his bunkmate move. The thought of Jason leaving—actually leaving—scratched something raw inside his ribs. He felt like a hound left behind at the gates, watching his owner walk off into a fog he couldn't follow. It was stupid. Overdramatic. But it clung to him like dew, unwelcome and cold. 

Good thing I slept with my camp shirt on already, Luca thought as he fiddled with the hem of his rumpled purple shirt, forcing his gaze away from the pair. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying his best not to shift as the fabric clung to the scars on his back, cool from the morning air.

It's only a shirt... Don't overreact like a cretino.

When Luca turned back, Jason had his shirt on—purple fabric catching the soft golden sheen of morning light—and his sky blue toga over it. The rest of the cohort was just beginning to stir. The son of Jupiter grabbed his belt and sheathed his gladius with practiced ease, but his hands hovered for half a second too long. Silas raised an eyebrow.

"You gonna forget how to strap that in now?" he asked dryly.

For Jason's sake, Luca refrained from shooting a biting remark at Silas. But, if there's one thing he couldn't hide, it was his anger—which carved itself in a heavy scowl that twisted across his face. Couldn't he see that Jason is obviously nervous and overwhelmed? Such an unfeeling bastard.

Jason, being Jason, gave a ghost of a smile and clicked the sheath into place. Gods, sometimes Jason should say something instead of pretending to be okay all the time, Luca scolded. It's infuriating. Just like Silas.

Together, they stepped out of the barracks into the cool morning air as the sun finally crested over the hills. Naturally, Luca walked beside his best friend with Silas trailing behind, oblivious to the envious gaze that radiated off of his least favorite American. A breeze stirred the camp banners, and distant voices echoed from the kitchens.

I could go for some hot chocolate right now. He thought as they headed to the mess hall.

The dining pavilion buzzed with early chatter, the soft clang of utensils, and the drifting scent of toasted bread and fresh berries. Silas made a beeline to their usual corner—a tucked-away wooden table near the back end of the mess hall, partially hidden from the main crowd. The familiar spot felt like the only piece of calm in an otherwise unpredictable morning.

He sat down on the closest triclinium, one of the dining chairs—that was really more of a piece of furniture to lounge on—which apparently was modeled after what the ancient Romans used; after all, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

A tray dropped onto the table in front of him, light steam rising off his breakfast: mashed banana folded into a bowl of milk and granola, and when Silas tasted it, it had just enough sugar to pull everything together. The meal itself looked like something between oatmeal and a potion gone slightly wrong—a creamy yellow, thick with little globs of banana, the granola scattered like soil. Aesthetically revolting. But to him, it was comfort. Familiar. Easy to eat. Plus, a great source of potassium and calcium.

Luca slid in across from him, pausing mid-sip of his cup of hot chocolate—one of the aurae had handed it to him with a sly wink before vanishing in a blink—when he caught sight of Silas' bowl.

"Che schifo," Luca muttered with a scrunched nose. "That looks like baby food someone chewed twice." Jason jabbed him in the ribs slightly for the comment but surprisingly said nothing about Silas' breakfast. Instead, he slid in beside Silas. Luca didn't seem too happy about that as he sipped his hot chocolate, giving Silas what looked to be a stink eye. Or maybe it was just about the breakfast. Luca was sometimes hard to read.

It's not that bad; if anything, his hot chocolate is the most disgusting thing here. I mean, who drinks hot chocolate in June? People these days... Silas rolled his eyes, very much judging Luca back.

Instead of dishing out an insult like usual, though, he stirred his spoon into the goopy mess with unbothered precision, letting the banana melt further into the milk. I should leave off on a relatively good note just in case I die on this stupid quest. Silas opened his mouth, not to berate the Italian, but to say something touching or whatever when he spotted Felix.

The dark-skinned boy trudged up to the table, heavy bags under his eyes, white curls slightly flattened on one side. He slumped beside Luca, a tray landed on the table unbalanced with a stack of pancakes and what might've once been syrup but now looked like glue.

"Never... stay up playing mythomagic," he mumbled, rubbing at his temple.

"Did Poppy keep you up?" Silas asked dryly, briefly looking up. They're so gross, Silas thought with a shudder but flashed a polite smile to mask his thoughts.

And Felix didn't deny it as a ghost of a grin flickered across his face. He looked like a lovesick puppy, which promptly stirred an urge in Silas to wipe that ridiculous look off his face. Good thing he didn't have to, as his friend's face dropped in horror when he peered down at Silas' bowl.

"What in the gods' name is that?" Felix asked, pointing his fork at it like it was an offering to Pluto. "Did an aura puke in there?"

Silas gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "Breakfast."

Felix blinked. "You're actually eating that?"

Luca leaned in. "And enjoying it."

"Revolting," Felix declared with the authority of someone who had once accidentally drunk nectar straight from the bottle. He probably would have fatally died had he not been both a) severely injured and b) saved by a crow that had accidentally flown in through a window, knocking the bottle out of his hand. Unfortunately, the bird got a big drop of the divine liquid in its beak and promptly burned up to a crisp. All that remained were a few ebony feathers that had landed on top of Felix's head of snow-white curls. The boy was so mortified that he passed out—although it could have also been the amount of nectar he had drunk.

This was all according to Luca, who apparently had gone to visit the (un)lucky boy in the infirmary since it was sort of his fault that Felix had ended up at the medics.

Silas took a spoonful and made eye contact with both of them as he chewed. Slowly. Pettily.

Beside Silas, Jason sat with his own food—untouched. He hadn't even registered the exchange. His gaze was distant, brows slightly drawn, his fingers fiddling absently with the corner of his napkin. His toast sat cold.

Silas followed his line of sight but found no real focus in it. The centurion was in his head, probably rehashing every decision leading up to the Senate meeting. A tense stillness clung to his shoulders—the kind that told Silas not to interrupt.

Which meant he didn't. Instead, he went back to his banana-glob concoction, letting Felix and Luca complain in the background.

The taste was soft, warm, and just a bit sweet.

Predictable. So unlike the world beyond the borders of Camp Jupiter.

Silas would have been lying if he said the outside world didn't scare him.

It wasn't just the monsters or the looming threat of a deadly quest. It was everything else—the parts that didn't come with claws or rotting breath. He didn't understand modern people, not really. Their slang, their screens, the way they could be so oblivious to danger. The blinking lights of cities made his head hurt. Cell phones felt like they belonged in a different world entirely—one he'd only ever looked into through a fogged window. Hell, the only reason he knew what a cell phone was called was all thanks to Poppy murmuring about how great it would be to have a magical cell phone—whatever that meant. At the time, though, Silas had pretended he knew exactly what she was talking about, nodding his head at her reasoning, just so that she wouldn't look at him strangely.

He could adapt. He always did. But gods, he hated it. His life had been nothing but change: shifting homes, shifting names, shifting friends who usually ended up staining his hands a crimson red. Camp Jupiter had finally offered something steady. Routine. Rules he could learn and memorize.

He had found a rhythm here, even if it wasn't perfect. Even if it sometimes reminded him of his father—the monster who had shown him true love—it was not the weak kind that Felix spouted about as he gushed about Poppy or his wistful whispers of his sister, Amari. It was the kind of love that only sinners could know—a choking love that threatened to spew its venom into every pore of his body, into his very soul, and destroy everything that made Silas unique by heaving it out until he was only left as an empty husk of a fragile masterpiece.

Silas blinked, vanishing those deeper thoughts to the back of his mind, because he had to focus on the present. Just keep pretending this is good enough... Honestly, it should be enough, so why does it not feel that way?

Maybe he was being ungrateful, but now the Fates seemed to be asking him to step off the edge again. Into noise. Into confusion. Into a world that moved too fast and had already advanced so much that it left his mind reeling.

His spoon clinked gently against the side of the bowl. He stared into the creamy yellow mush like it might give him answers. But it only reminded him that comfort, real comfort, was always temporary. Just like love.

The Senate House interior was carved in a grand semicircle, the tiered marble seats glowing with morning light as they faced a dais with a podium and two chairs. Jason, Felix, and Silas sat on the left side among the other senators, though it was painfully obvious that only Jason truly belonged. Silas sat rigidly upright, his camp shirt stiff against his spine, while Felix slouched next to him, barely managing to stifle a yawn.

Prior to entering the city of New Rome, Silas (and Felix) managed to get berated by a talking marble bust, which was just rad. They also had to dispose of all their weapons, which made Silas a little crabby—plus the fact that Terminus kept commenting on his "rumpled" appearance.

You're an unfinished bust; you really can't be talking, is what Silas wanted to say to the god of boundaries but kept his mouth shut.

Around them, the senators, most of them being centurions, rustled in their formal togas, all gold trim and stern expressions. Silas and Felix were the only ones not in full formalwear—Jason had insisted it didn't matter, but the sideways glances they received from some of the Centurions made Silas doubt that. Gwendolyn was the only one who shot them a kind smile; she seemed to be the least depressed of the bunch if Silas was being honest.

In the upper tiers of the Senate House, translucent shades milled about—ghosts of senators long dead, muttering among themselves and offering unwanted commentary in raspy voices. More than once, a lare scoffed loud enough to earn glances from the living. According to Jason, several of the city's oldest veterans also held honorary seats up there—some of whom were already in their fifties.

And then there was Octavian.

He sat in the center of the lowest tiered seats like a smug statue brought to life, his white toga perfectly pressed, the gold band around his arm catching the light just a bit too deliberately as if he wanted people to look right at him. In his hands, he cradled a stuffed animal that looked like it had been through hell and back—a teddy bear, its seams patched poorly with red thread. Silas stared at it for a beat too long before leaning toward Felix.

"Tell me that isn't supposed to be divine."

Felix snorted under his breath. "Tell me it's not supposed to be him."

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Silas' lips as he glanced back at the most self-righteous guy alive. The way Octavian clutched it, with near religious reverence and self-importance, made it all too likely. If he had a better reputation, Silas would have publicly mocked the centurion throughout New Rome, maybe selling some crude bears like the one he was holding now as proof of his madness. Sadly, he didn't.

Then came the sound of sandaled feet on stone—both praetors stepping into view.

Jason straightened instinctively as Raphiel and Fidela approached the center podium. Silas followed his example in an attempt to show respect to them—not that they seemed to care about him anyways. Raphiel raised a single hand, fingers poised and calm.

The room fell into silence like a stone into deep water.

"Let the Senate come to order."

Fidela stepped forward beside Raphiel, her expression composed; the gleaming medals pinned on her purple praetor toga were displayed with modest pride. She looked over the gathering with the piercing steadiness of someone long used to silencing rooms of bickering senators and half-dead ghosts.

"We thank Mars Ultor and Jupiter Optimus Maximus for guiding the choice," she said, voice clear. "Centurion Jason Grace of the Fifth Cohort has already been voted to lead this quest. He has chosen Silas Vesper and Felix Morretti as his companions for this quest—for better or worse."

Jason kept his face neutral, though Silas noticed the twitch of annoyance in his jaw.

Fidela continued, "As such, we will not debate that decision, nor question the companions he has chosen to accompany him, though they still be on Probatio."

There was a small ripple of murmurs, particularly from the upper tiers, where a few lares leaned in to whisper like gossipy pigeons. Felix shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Silas just crossed his arms and stared back at the room, daring anyone to speak up.

Raphiel raised his hand again, and the voices fell quiet once more.

"Instead," He said, "we shall now discuss what aid, if any, shall be granted to the questing party by the Senate."

The male praetor turned and nodded toward the scribes positioned near the base of the podium, ready to record every word for the archives. Silas elbowed Felix awake for what seemed to be the fiftieth time. Did he really have to stay up last night? He's going to get us killed if he doesn't listen. Ugh, why can't he be a little more responsible?

Silvery blue eyes blinked open only to be met with a scathing glare from Silas—effectively keeping Felix up for the majority of the meeting.

"The journey ahead is perilous, one that requires more than courage alone. It is the will of the praetors that Rome's strength be reflected in those we send beyond its walls."

There were scattered nods from some of the more practical-minded senators. Others—especially those skeptical of Probatio involvement—still looked unconvinced.

Fidela's bronze eyes flicked toward Jason. "Centurion Grace, step forward. Present your proposal."

Jason stood, shoulders square, the weight of every gaze pressing down like a breastplate too tight. As he descended the steps, Silas glanced up at the ghosts and veterans, then over at Felix, who mouthed quietly, Here we go.

The young centurion took a steady breath as he reached the base of the podium. His sky blue toga shifted with each movement, heavy with responsibility more than fabric. The murmurs above hushed at his presence—he wasn't just a centurion now; he was a quest leader, and every Roman in that hall expected to be impressed or disappointed.

He stood tall, a commanding presence framed by the steady brilliance of his blue eyes—like clear skies that never waver. His voice carried the calm assurance of a seasoned leader, each word measured and deliberate, reflecting the hard-earned honor etched into every stripe on his arm. The quiet strength radiating from him drew respect effortlessly, as if the very air around him acknowledged the weight of his experience and the depth of his character.

"We stand on the edge of disaster," Jason began, his voice loud enough to echo against the Senate walls, "and the line between order and ruin is thinner than ever."

Silas tilted his head slightly. Jason's voice had that rare gravity that made people shut up and listen—not from force, but something else. It was calm, deliberate, like thunder waiting behind the clouds. The son of Discordia leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, watching closely without realizing how intently his gaze lingered.

Jason continued, "This beast—this Trojan Sea monster—has already taken lives. It's not just a threat to Camp Jupiter or New Rome, but to the safety of the entire western coast. We don't know what's controlling it—or how to stop it. Not yet, anyways."

There were a few frowns among the older veterans. Felix shifted beside him, trying his best not to let his nerves show, or so Silas assumed. Octavian looked ready to interrupt, but Jason didn't pause long enough to give him the chance.

"But we do know this: the beast is tied to Greek legend strangely enough. The Trojan Sea Monster was sent in Neptune's rage to ravage Troy as a punishment for King Laomedon's refusal to pay the god. That points us toward divine interference—or at the very least, something ancient and intelligent. Monsters don't typically act on strategy... unless they're being directed."

The son of Jupiter rested one hand on the edge of the podium. "To get answers, we'll go to the only god who might know whispers of where it came from—Aeolus, the Master of All Winds."

At the mention of the wind god, there was a flicker of curiosity in the Senate, including the house ghosts perched along the top row. A few leaned forward as Jason pressed on.

"The location of his floating island changes constantly. But if anything in this world remains consistent, it's that wind answers to height. The best place to begin our search is Mount Whitney—the highest peak in California."

He let that sink in as a few heads nodded in approval before adding, "To get there quickly and safely, I propose the Senate grant us access to air transport. Temporary use of a Legion airship or—if nothing else—Pegasi and a chariot. The faster we reach Aeolus, the faster we can get answers."

Felix blinked. Silas noticed his friend's surprise—Jason had really thought this through. It didn't take Silas by surprise, though, as he had noticed how, during the past few days, his friend always had his head buried into history books or even ancient scrolls on anything that could be valuable to the quest, sometimes reading late into dusk. He had a relentless curiosity that drove him, a quality Silas admired but also found a bit daunting.

He shook his head to shake off his thoughts of Jason, ebony curls echoing his movement. If they ended up getting stuck with Pegasi and a chariot, that might just spell out their doom. Just like unicorns, Silas couldn't get within a few feet radius of a Pegasus, as they usually ended up taking off into the sky—right after kicking dust into his face, of course.

Jason's eyes scanned the crowd again, unshaken. "Depending on where Aeolus sends us next, we'll need to adapt. We're prepared to walk, drive, or do what's necessary. But I'll be honest: this isn't going to be a two-day march and back. This quest may take more than a week, especially if the creature moves again or we're led farther inland. The prophecy also states that we're supposed to free a whole city 'from defeat,' which may take longer than defeating the monster itself; that is, if we don't have answers from Aeolus."

A few skeptical murmurs rose again, but Jason ignored them. His eyes landed on the unruly boy in the front, and Silas tried his best not to squirm under his electrifying gaze.

He ended with, "We don't just fight for Rome inside its borders. We protect it from the threats that rise beyond it. That's what this quest is. We're protecting the future of Camp Jupiter."

He gave a short, polite tilt of his head, then stepped back before walking over to his seat. After a moment of silence, the Senate Hall rose with voices of veiled support and worry.

"Dude, are you okay?" Felix whispered, noticing Silas' rigid form, suppressed concern swirling in his silvery blue eyes. "I actually listened this time, so don't be—"

Silas cleared his throat, realizing his jaw was a little tense, as Jason sat beside him. "Uh, yeah. It's nothing. I was just thinking about the quest."

Felix threw a bizarre look at him that Silas had no clue how to decipher, so he rolled his eyes instead.

Jason let out a stiff laugh at their antics before leaning towards them to whisper-shout among the loud rants of the Senate members, his shoulder grazing against Silas', causing a weird sensation to stir in his stomach. Thankfully, before Jason could speak, the praetors spoke up once more among the noise, commanding everyone's attention. Though, their shoulders were still touching, much to Silas' dismay.

Silas had often thought that if Jason ever chose to be, he could be the most dangerous person in the room. And even then, no matter what path he took, Silas would still admire him—because power like that, wielded or not, was impossible to ignore.

And for a moment, Silas forgot about the Senate's judging stares and just thought, I could trust him...for now.

Praetor Fidela took a step forward, her hands clasped behind her back as she addressed the room. "Centurion Grace has spoken clearly and wisely. Now the question remains—should the Senate provide air travel to aid this quest?"

Before a vote could be called, a too-smooth voice cut in. "Praetor, if I may."

Silas's eyes snapped to Octavian, standing in pristine white robes with his usual smug expression. His stuffed bear dangled from one hand like a prop in a one-man tragedy.

"Maybe he's going to give us his teddy bear." Felix suggested under his breath. Silas highly doubts it.

Fidela's jaw tensed, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned toward Raphiel, whose face was unreadable for once. After a long, dragging pause, he gave a shallow nod. Silas sensed an underlying tension between Raphiel and Octavian—like a taut rope at a stalemate—and it seemed that Apollo was the root cause. How Silas knew was beyond him.

"Speak, Centurion Faust."

Octavian dipped his head with mock humility. "While I acknowledge the seriousness of this mission, I feel compelled to remind the Senate that this quest—however noble in spirit—is... risky. We risk throwing precious resources into a venture with no guarantees of success."

He paused for effect, eyes glinting as he turned slightly to gesture subtly at the questers seated to the side. "Two of these questers are probatio. They haven't even proven themselves as full legionnaires. And as for their leader... Jason Grace is undeniably brave, but he's also young and eager. Sometimes, eagerness clouds caution."

Silas's jaw locked.

The grip on his own knees tightened until his fingers were pale. He could feel the sting of his nails biting skin beneath the fabric. Eager? Unproven? They were being spoken about like they were reckless strays from the city gates. He glanced at Felix, whose eyes had narrowed faintly, his mouth slightly open like he wasn't sure whether to glare or laugh.

Even Felix—who tripped over rocks and his own ego—had more heart than most of these old ghosts watching from the rows above.

Silas bit down a curse, the taste bitter on his tongue. He didn't glance at Jason. He didn't need to. He knew his friend would be calm, trying to hold it in, just so he wouldn't give Octavian the satisfaction.

Octavian smiled as if he'd already won. "Therefore, I suggest moderation. Chartering an aircraft would be... excessive. It's best to limit their resources, in the event they do fail, so that Camp Jupiter may be able to defend itself against this monster should it try to invade our camp."

Praetor Fidela tilted her head. "Noted." She turned to the chamber. "Senators, the motion is as follows: we will be providing the questers with Pegasi and a chariot only—no aircraft. No other aid will be provided by the Senate. These three adventurers will survive or fail on their own merits. All in favor?"

Yup, Silas internally sighed, desperately wanting to bash his head against the tiered seat against him. We're so fucked.

Nearly every senator's hand went up besides the centurions of the Fourth Cohort and Gwendolyn.

Silas didn't move. Didn't blink. His eyes stayed locked on Octavian, whose smirk barely faltered as he held his teddy bear aloft like it was some divine symbol.

The fury inside Silas didn't burn outward—it simmered quietly, like coals pressed beneath stone.

He'll regret looking down on us. That puny piece of —

"—The majority of the Senate has found the motion passed," Praetor Raphiel announced, his deep voice cutting clean through the chamber like a blade. He hadn't risen from his seat, but his presence anchored the room with ease. "Now, we only have one last and most vital objective to discuss before the party of questers can be dismissed: their deadline."

The murmuring of ghosts and senators quieted once again.

Raphiel's gaze swept over the room before continuing. "Today is the twelfth of June. The Feast of Fortuna falls on the twenty-fourth. Should the questers return with either a solution or critical intelligence by then and no later? I'll let you all discuss amongst yourselves for a few moments before we come to a vote."

Silas blinked, caught off guard. What was so important about a feast?

Felix furrowed his brow, whispering to Jason, "Wait, they have a day just for my mom?"

Jason leaned slightly in Felix's direction but didn't look away from the front. "Yeah. The Feast of Fortuna's always been... complicated. Depending on her mood, she'll either bless the legion with prosperity for the next year or curse it with bad luck. They say the outcomes hinge on her interpretation of how strong and united the legion is."

Silas exhaled slowly. Great. Not just a quest, but now a ticking time bomb of  a divine mood swing that could grant them good or bad luck depended on whether or not they returned in time.

A senator stood from their row—a Centurion from the Third Cohort, a lean boy with olive skin and curly chestnut hair tied back into a short tail. His wine-red toga fluttered with his rise. "If they don't return by the feast," he began, voice carrying across the chamber, "it won't just be Fortuna's judgment we face. It'll be a sign. An omen."

Marcel Boivin. Silas recognized him from training drills—clever with a pilum, always had something to say about superstitions and how there should be wine in New Rome. He was a son of Mars like Luca but also a legacy of Bacchus, so he was certified crazy.

Marcel continued, "A quest left unfinished by the Feast of Fortuna would be a symbol of weakness and of broken will. It'll put the entire year under a shadow, and Fortuna... well, she doesn't exactly deal in mercy."

More murmurs broke out among the senators. Apparently, Marcel's reputation didn't matter when it came to the Feast of Fortuna. Unsurprisingly, the motion passed, in turn, cementing the trio's deadline: June 24th.

Silas glanced at Felix, who looked like he wanted to both laugh and shrink into his chair. Jason's eyes had narrowed slightly, but there was also a distant gaze in his stormy eyes, like he wanted to be done. With what, Silas couldn't be sure.

A little over a week. Thirteen days. That was all they had to find a floating god, hunt down answers about an ancient monster, defeat said monster, free a whole city from Greeks or whatever, and return to camp.

Silas felt the weight of it settling into his chest like river stones.

No pressure.

The Senate meeting concluded shortly after Octavian gave thanks to the gods by ripping his ugly bear by its frail seams, and the moment Fidela dismissed the questers, the trio wasted no time to leave for their journey. Jason led the way with purposeful strides, Silas a step behind with his usual reserved scowl, and Felix trailing after, bouncing on his heels with restless energy. The weight of the mission pressed against their backs, yet it hadn't dulled Felix's nerves—or maybe he was hiding it better than most.

Their stop? The Circus Maximus.

The famed arena stretched out before them in bold white stone and sun-warmed brick, empty now except for a few campers lingering from morning drills. The air still smelled faintly of dust, sweat, and horse dung. Silas wrinkled his nose as they made their way across the field.

They didn't bother approaching First or Second Cohort's stalls. Everyone knew those two cohorts treated their gear like sacred relics—and lending out their prized chariots to a quest group, especially one featuring two probationary members, would likely cause an all-out riot. Jason had no patience for drama today and neither did Silas. 

"Our best bet would be one from the Third Cohort," Jason muttered under his breath. 

"Oh! I wonder if they have any candy stashed in their chariots," Felix rambled, gesturing his hands randomly around. "We could use some free snacks for when we hit the road—erm, well, the air. Or is it the winds?" 

Silas eyed him like he couldn't believe that Felix was being dead serious. "Does it really matter? You packed some food in your bag, didn't you?"

The awkward pause gave away the answer: no, he had not. Before Silas could throttle the forgetful son of Fortuna, Jason told them he found the Third Cohort's chariots.

It didn't take long to find the right one: a serviceable chariot tucked into the shadows of the third bay, its bronze panels slightly tarnished but sturdy, elm wood frame intact. The wheels were rimmed with iron, well-greased and even. On the front, carved with surprising detail, was an eagle mid-screech—wings outstretched, talons poised. It gleamed faintly in the light filtering through the Circus arches. 

Silas gave it a once-over, tapping the frame with his knuckles. "Better than that scrap pile we used last week."

"Let's just hope it holds together long enough for us to reach our destination," Felix quipped as he approached the chariot, trying to hide his apprehension behind a forced grin. He crouched by one of the wheels, squinting. "Iron's still good. Bit of rust but... hey, I've definitely raced worse."

Jason brushed his hand across the eagle engraving thoughtfully. "Yeah. This'll do."

Each of them dumped their bags that carried basic medical supplies—including some unicorn draught and ambrosia—flimsy bed rolls, duct tape, a flashlight and batteries. Food and water was a given but apparently Felix didn't get the memo.

Ugh, I suppose I can ration my food but damn, how can he be such a spaced-out dud?

Silas crossed his arms with a grumble as the trio examined the chariot, his gaze drifting uneasily toward the far end of the Circus Maximus, where a stable hand was leading two feisty-looking pegasi toward them. Their coats shimmered—one dappled silver, the other dark as obsidian—and their wings flared in anticipation, hooves striking the ground with restless energy. As they drew closer, the pegasi snorted and tossed their heads, clearly agitated.

Silas took an instinctive step back.

"I don't like this," he muttered, glancing sideways at Jason and Felix. "It's not the chariot that's the problem."

Jason stepped forward as the pegasi were led toward them, his eyes immediately scanning their posture and energy. The silver one snorted and pawed at the ground, ears flicking back. The darker one—almost coal black—glared at Felix like it had been waiting for revenge.

Felix grimaced. "Listen, dude, that wasn't even my fault. That saddle was already loose when I got on." He pointed an accusing finger at the darker pegasi, who narrowed its glowing eyes like it understood and held a personal grudge. "Besides, I only fell into the water trough once."

Jason raised a brow but didn't look away from the animals. "They remember," he said simply, his tone more amused than judgmental. He stepped closer, moving with calm confidence, and gently reached out to the silver one's neck. "But they'll behave."

"How do you know?" Silas asked skeptically, eyeing the twitchy flick of the creature's tail.

Jason gave the silver pegasus a firm but reassuring pat. "Pegasi respect strength and storm-blooded instincts. You know, the original Pegasus is the mount of Jupiter." He smiled slightly as the animal relaxed under his hand. "Plus, they know I can handle them."

Felix muttered something under his breath, which sounded suspiciously like "show-off."

Still keeping his hand on the pegasus' mane, Jason glanced at Silas. "They'll sense the tension in us, so just keep calm. They won't toss you unless you give them a reason."

Silas frown deepened as he watched Felix and Jason attached the harness to the chariot. "Me standing near them is apparently enough reason."

Jason gave the leather straps a final tug, then glanced up at Silas with a quiet look that wasn't quite teasing, but not pitying either. Just... understanding.

"They'll behave," he said again, softer this time, like it was a promise instead of a reassurance. He rounded the front of the chariot and approached the two pegasi with calm, practiced steps.

The darker one—Nightspell, if Silas remembered what the stable hand had told them—stamped its hooves at his approach, ears flicking back. Jason gently reached up and rubbed the white streak between its eyes, murmuring something in Latin under his breath. The creature snorted but didn't pull away.

Felix gave the black pegasus a narrowed look, arms crossed. "I don't trust that one. He looks like the type to bite just out of spite."

The pegasus promptly sneezed in his direction.

Jason snorted. "Well, don't antagonize him then."

"I'm not the one who antagonized him!" Felix protested. "He just hates me."

Silas raised a brow, deadpan. "Hard to blame him."

Felix opened his mouth, then closed it again with a muttered, "Rude."

Encouraged, Jason turned to gesture for Silas to come closer. "Try holding your hand out. Let them get your scent."

Silas blinked. "You want me to willingly walk closer to the scary, winged horses?"

Jason gave him a look. "They're not scary horses. They just need to know you're not a threat."

Silas gave a skeptical grunt but stepped forward cautiously, arm outstretched. The second pegasus, a silver-dappled mare named Cloudbite, immediately reared back with a shrill whinny, wings flaring. Nightspell tossed his head and let out a challenging snort, stomping his hooves hard enough to make the dirt kick up.

Jason reacted instantly, moving between Silas and the animals, arms up. "Easy! Whoa, whoa!"

Cloudbite flapped her wings once, hard enough to rustle Jason's shirt, while Nightspell's glowing eyes glared directly at Silas like you again.

Silas took a step back, already done with the situation. "I told you," he muttered. "They hate me."

"I don't get it," Jason said, jaw tight as he stroked Cloudbite's side in an effort to calm her down. "They're usually better than this. They can even handle the wild antics of Bacchus' kids."

From the chariot, Felix crossed his arms, voice dry. "Maybe they just remember the stable incident."

"I didn't do anything to them during the stable incident," Silas snapped.

Felix shrugged. "You give off bad vibes. Pegasi are sensitive."

Jason didn't laugh, but his lips twitched,  and the scar on his lip gave him a rugged appearance. Despite the scar, he still looked like a divine statue in Silas' eyes. "They're not that sensitive."

Felix pointed at Nightspell. "He bit me last time. Twice. I'm pretty sure it was personal."

"That saddle was loose," Jason reminded.

"Exactly!" Felix exclaimed. "And I only fell into the water trough once. Once!"

As the pegasi began to calm down, Jason turned back to Silas, the humor fading from his face."It's only a few hours of flying. They'll settle down once we're in the air...Probably."

Silas didn't look convinced. "Probably," he echoed flatly, then turned his gaze back to the creatures. "We're going to die."

Felix beamed as he checked the straps one last time. "But stylishly. With wind in our hair."

Both boys climbed into the chariot where Felix was already waiting, idly fiddling with one of the straps. The wood creaked beneath their combined weight as they settled in, but it was Silas who moved with the most hesitation. Instead of taking a spot near the front or middle, he instinctively drifted to the far back corner, the open edge where there would be little between him and the sky beyond. He crouched slightly, one hand gripping the outer rail so tightly his knuckles blanched white. This had to be worse than taking an airplane—not that he even knew what being in an airplane felt like in the first place.

The pegasi, still restless from earlier, pawed at the ground and tossed their manes, their wings half-flared in agitation. Even tethered, they seemed to twitch at the scent of Silas, and if it weren't for the firm harnesses and Jason's steadying presence, they might've taken off right then and there.

Jason reached down to take the reins from Felix, whose face had grown uncomfortable at the unease radiated by the pegasi.

"Break a leg, dude." Felix muttered, backing up as far as possible to give Jason room.

Jason offered him a short nod, then cast a glance over his shoulder at Silas. The son of Discordia stood rigid, one hand still clamped to the side, the other hovering near his belt as if bracing for impact. His shoulders were taut, and though his face was schooled into neutrality, Jason could see the tightness in his jaw, the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"You okay?" Jason asked quietly, his voice low enough that only Silas could hear it over the restless snorts of the pegasi. Or so he thought.

"Who, me?" The oblivious son of Fortuna butted in, his hands patting down the side of the chariot like it was precious gold. "Well, it's not every day you don't get to chill in a sweet ride like this girl right here." 

The son of Jupiter's face twisted into something akin to embarrassment; Silas could tell from the way he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt and how quick the blood rushed to his cheeks. He spluttered out, "I actually—the question wasn't—"

Silas didn't meet his concerned blue eyes as he cut in. "Just start the ride, Grace."

Jason studied him for a second longer, then looked forward with a barely audible sigh. The reins snapped taut in his grip as he prepared the chariot for flight, the wind already beginning to stir around them.

Silas pushed his unruly curls out of his face, but the wind kept whipping them back into his eyes. Under his breath, he murmured in annoyance, "That stupid bust better cough up our weapons."

From his precarious perch at the very edge of the chariot, Silas had a full, sweeping view of Camp Jupiter unfolding beneath them. The morning sun cast a golden sheen over the glimmering ribbon of the Little Tiber, its gentle current winding between rows of towering pine trees. Beyond that, New Rome stretched with proud grandeur—red-tiled rooftops gleamed like rubies in the light, white marble columns rose like sentinels from a lost age, and cobbled streets wove through orderly blocks of villas, temples, and bustling plazas. It was a painter’s dream, a testament to centuries of craftsmanship and divine legacy.

If Silas weren’t gripping the rail like his life depended on it, he might’ve actually admired it.

Instead, all he could appreciate was the simple fact he hadn’t yet fallen to his death.

The chariot swayed with every gust of wind, creaking slightly under its own weight. The space was cramped, barely enough for three teenagers to stand shoulder to shoulder. And with Felix jittering like a wind-up toy and Jason fully focused on the reins, Silas didn’t have the luxury of relaxing. He had wedged himself into the back corner as far from the pegasi as possible, eyeing the creatures’ twitching wings with silent paranoia.

Just as they soared toward the invisible Pomerian Line—the divine boundary separating New Rome from the rest of the world—a thunderous pop echoed through the sky.

A marble bust materialized out of thin air, landing squarely in the middle of their chariot with an explosion of yellow sulfurous smoke and an indignant puff of divine annoyance.

“Halt!” barked Terminus, the god of boundaries, his carved brows furrowed into deep ridges. “IDs are needed to leave, or I will not grant your weapons back!”

Felix yelped, startled, and stumbled backward—straight toward the open air.

Silas’ hand shot out on instinct. He caught Felix by the ankle just as the boy’s foot slipped off the edge, yanking him back with a sharp grunt of effort.

Felix dangled upside down for a second, his shirt riding up slightly as he blinked at the sky in shock. “I—I was not ready for that!”

Silas muttered something under his breath that might’ve been “clearly” as he dragged him back into the chariot floor. The pegasi, spooked by the sudden motion, reared slightly with a shrill whinny, shaking the entire vehicle. The chariot rocked wildly for a second, Felix rolled to the center, and Jason cursed under his breath something vaguely in latin, pulling hard on the reins to steady their flight.

Terminus, unfazed, huffed with the dignity of a full Roman god. “This is very unprofessional. Honestly, you’d think Jupiter’s offspring would know better than to flout boundary protocol. Now—IDs, please.”

Silas swore he could see a crack forming in Jason’s polite smile as he reached to show the black lines on his forearm. Behind him, Felix moaned dramatically from the floorboards.

Terminus squinted at each of them in turn, his stony expression unreadable but dripping with divine scrutiny.

“Jason Grace,” the marble god intoned, voice echoing slightly with celestial authority, “son of Jupiter, Centurion of the Fifth Cohort.”

Jason gave a firm nod, arm outstretched to show the black lines along his forearm. The tattoo shimmered faintly in the sunlight, nine neat marks declaring his number of years of service. The chariot dipped slightly in the air, but he held his balance with practiced ease.

Terminus shifted his eyes—well, the suggestion of eyes—to Silas next.

Silas reached into the front of his camp shirt and pulled out the lead tablet that hung cold and solid around his neck. “Silas Vesper of the Fifth Cohort. Son of Discordia. Probatio,” he said flatly, lifting the small disc.

The god let out a disapproving hum, but moved on without argument. Good thing too, or else Silas would have chucked the marble bust off the chariot.

“And you?”

Felix pushed himself up on his elbows, still a little shaken from nearly falling out of the sky, and fumbled out his own lead tag from under his wrinkled purple shirt. “Felix Morretti, Fourth Cohort, Son of Fortuna. Probatio,” he muttered, raising it slightly like it might bite him. 

With a theatrical humph, Terminus declared, “Fine. Permission granted to cross the boundary and travel abroad. You may now retrieve your weapons.” His tone suggested he was doing them a great favor.

“I’ll just snap my fingers—”

“But you don’t have any,” Felix blurted.

A beat of silence. 

Silas wanted to scream up to heavens. FUCKING FELIX, I'M GOING TO—

The chariot rocked again—not from the pegasi, but from the sheer indignation radiating off the marble bust. “Excuse me? I am a god, young man! I don’t need fingers to—!”

Jason quickly leaned forward, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “Terminus, sir, we’re grateful for your assistance. Truly.”

The bust gave a disdainful sniff, but seemed mollified by the flattery. “Hmph. Mortals these days—no manners, no reverence. Now—be still.”

With no physical gesture at all, the god pulsed faintly with light—and in the next instant, all three boys felt the familiar weight of metal reappear.

Silas’ imperial gold pugio materialized snug against his thigh in its sheath, the cool presence a comfort against his skin.

Felix startled slightly as his standard-issue imperial gold gladius clicked into place at his side, a bit crooked—like it had second thoughts about staying with him.

Jason’s gladius appeared on his belt, the hilt gleaming with a faint crackle of static, as if it were just as charged as its owner.

“There,” Terminus said with finality, his carved marble expression somehow both smug and severe. “Now don’t let those winged beasts knock over any sacred columns on your way out."

The pegasi huffed as if insulted. Jason simply nodded, reins already in hand, trying to keep the chariot steady as Terminus continued without being asked to.

“If you're aiming for Mount Whitney, then listen closely,” the marble god barked, turning his chisel-sharp gaze to the skyward-bound trio. “Head past the East Portal of BART, then past Lafayette. Follow along the Donald D. Doyle Highway until you reach the Blackhawk Museum. Do not—and I repeat, do not—fly north of the Blackhawk Museum. If you do, you'll end up over Mount Diablo. And trust me, that mountain does not take kindly to trespassers. Terrible reception, horrible temper, and an uncanny number of unexpected hailstorms.”

Felix raised a hand as if in class. “How do we know if we’re near the Blackhawk Museum?”

“You’ll know,” Terminus intoned ominously. “It has a statue of a bull elephant out front and a dark energy I simply don’t trust.”

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Felix furiously scribbling down the information on a brown bag with a blue crayon. 

So he brings a crayon and a bag but no food? 

Silas was so done with his friend, he didn't even have the energy to think about throwing him off the chariot.

"Once you pass that museum, go straight east like you’re heading toward Yosemite. Then veer south before the forested peaks begin—your target lies further down in the Sierra Nevadas. Mount Whitney will be your beacon. It’s the tallest thing you’ll see for miles. You can’t miss it unless you’re exceptionally incompetent. Or Morretti.”

Felix blinked. “Hey—!”

“Anyway,” Terminus declared with finality, “Off you go! Fly well, fly straight, and don’t return with wing lice!”

And with a dramatic pop, he vanished from the chariot in a swirl of yellow and sandalwood-scented air.

Jason exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance. “Alright, let’s ride the air currents east. Once we hit the edge of Yosemite, I’ll shift our course south.”

Silas didn’t answer from the back of the chariot—his eyes were locked on the passing ground far below—but his grip on the side rails loosened just slightly.

The golden domes and tiled roofs of New Rome faded behind them. The Little Tiber gleamed like liquid silver as it slipped into the distance. And below, the green fingers of the hills stretched onward, guiding them toward the treacherous journey ahead.

Silas didn't believe in jinxes but he was sure that he just caused one because not long after, disaster struck. Actually, it was probably Felix's fault as he was the one laughing about a winged penis amulet. He definitely insulted some ancient Roman gods for sure.

Felix and Silas were in the middle of playing street craps on the chariot floor, hunched over a pair of dice clattering against the wood as the denarii changed hands between them.

“Ha! That’s another win for me,” Felix grinned, scooping up his winnings with smug satisfaction.

Silas was about to respond—maybe even accuse him of loaded dice—when a jolt of unease twisted in his gut. It was sudden, cold, and unnatural. His hands froze. His spine straightened like someone had yanked him up by invisible strings.

He slowly looked up.

Above them, the sky had begun to churn—dark clouds bubbling into existence where only blue had been moments ago. The air around them seemed to thicken, growing colder.

“Jason,” Silas said, voice sharp. “We need to land. Now.”

Jason, who had been keeping a watchful grip on the reins, followed Silas’ gaze. His jaw tightened.

Felix, clearly unnerved, stuffed his coins back into the pouch. “Yeah, uh—just saying—if we do crash, I’m putting my money on us landing smack on the Blackhawk Museum.”

He pointed vaguely downward to the ground. The rugged silhouette of Mount Diablo rose like a jagged spear through the haze. Its distinctive four peaks loomed in the distance, surrounded by smaller hills like watchful sentries. 

Even from the sky, it looked... wrong. The kind of wrong that ancient monsters might call home.

Silas narrowed his eyes at it, unease coiling tighter in his chest.

“It’s like the whole mountain’s... waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Felix asked, half-joking but already inching closer to the center of the chariot.

Silas didn’t answer.

He didn’t know. But whatever it was, it wasn’t good. 

Suddenly, through the thickening curtain of storm clouds, Silas saw her.

An angry-looking woman loomed above them—impossibly massive and terrifyingly real. Her form was wreathed in darkness, shaped from thunder and rain, with wild windswept hair and robes that billowed like war banners in a hurricane. Bolts of lightning crackled in her hands, and from her back sprouted great, shadowy wings that beat the sky itself.

A Roman figure—one meant to be carved in marble and prayed to from afar—not barreling down on them from a thunderstorm.

“Gods—” Silas choked out, staggering back.

The skies howled in response.

A blast of wind slammed into the chariot with bone-rattling force, sending it lurching sideways. Rain turned to needles, stabbing their faces and drenching them in seconds. The pegasi screamed, wings thrashing against the violent gusts.

“Hold on!” Jason shouted, yanking at the reins, but the storm had swallowed even his voice.

Felix let out a string of frantic curses, gripping the side of the chariot like his life depended on it—which it very much did.

Silas wasn’t as lucky.

The violent shudder of the chariot knocked him off balance. His boots skidded over slick metal, and suddenly there was nothing beneath him but air. One hand caught the edge—barely. The wind yanked at his legs like a furious beast, trying to rip him out into the storm.

He gritted his teeth, muscles straining as the storm woman’s eyes locked with his—glowing with divine rage. He could have sworn he saw sparks shooting from her hand as the storm swirled around what could only be a goddess—or a really terrifying monster.

As his right hand strained to hold onto the chariot, his left hand scrabbled for anything to hold onto—slick with rain and desperation. With shaking fingers, he fumbled for the pugio at his hip, yanked it free from its sheath, and slammed the blade into the bronze floor of the chariot. It bit in with a shriek of metal on metal, anchoring him just enough to keep from slipping further.

For what felt like the first time in his life, Silas cried out for help—but the wind ripped the words from his throat, scattering them into the storm like ashes.

The storm howled louder. 

Felix, trembling and wild-eyed, tried to crawl across the swaying chariot. “Hold on! I’ve got you—!” he yelled, though the winds snatched half his words away. He reached, but each time he got close, another gust shoved him back like a cruel invisible hand..

Jason, gripping the reins tight, yelled commands at the pegasi to get them to land. His brows were furrowed in focus, jaw clenched tight—but oddly, his stance barely wavered despite the turbulence. The winds didn’t bite at him the same way. Whether he noticed it or not, he barely stumbled while the chariot shook like a leaf around him.

Silas didn’t have time to question it. He didn't even have time to question his own life and all the horrible choices that he's had to make.

With a breath that rattled in his chest, Silas clawed his way upward, fingers slipping on the rain-slick floor. Every muscle burned, his limbs shaking beneath the weight of his drenched clothes—like trying to swim through wet stone. The wind howled past his ears, deafening and cold, slicing across his skin like knives. Thunder cracked overhead, close and vicious, taunting his feeble attempt at survival. 

He kept his eyes down, refusing to glance at the open air below. One wrong move—one missed grip—and he’d be gone, dashed against the mountainside like a forgotten offering.

His pugio was still buried in the floor, a trembling anchor. He clung to it like it was the only thing tethering him to life, using it to pull himself onto the chariot. The blade vibrated with each gust, creaking beneath his weight, but it didn’t break. Not yet. He had managed to get his upper half of his body in the chariot as his legs dangled precariously in the wild storm.

Almost there.

Then the sky screamed—or perhaps it was the scary lady. Silas was going through a life-or-death moment so he really couldn't care less about minor details like that.

The chariot heaved sideways like a wild beast, yanked by the reins of the storm. In that instant, Silas’s weight shifted—and his forehead struck the dagger’s hilt with brutal force.

Pain exploded through his skull—white-hot and instant. The world tilted, the air roared, and his vision fractured like shattered glass.

He couldn’t breathe as if all the air was suddenly sucked out of his lungs.

He felt his grip loosen, body slumping—barely conscious—and for one terrible moment, he felt the air underneath him instead of solid ground.

He was slipping. 

And the only thing louder than the storm was the desperate voice of Felix, raw and frightened, cutting through the chaos. 

“SILAS!”

Then—nothing.

Only the dark, rushing silence of falling.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

【ａ　ｓｉｌｌｙ　ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ】

ＩＮＣＯＲＲＥＣＴ ＱＯＵＴＥＳ

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚜, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢?

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝙽𝚘, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝.

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊: 𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚐 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠?

𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚜 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊: 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚘.

𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚣 (𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡'𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸'𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊: 𝙰 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎.

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: 𝙽𝚘!

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜?

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: 𝙽𝚘!

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗.

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: *𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜*

𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢: ...𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗.

[𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚝.]

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜!

𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢: 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢.

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊: 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: *𝚃𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛*

𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢: 𝙸𝚜...𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎?

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝙽𝚘...𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢: ...𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝?

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝚑𝚖𝚖...𝚗𝚊𝚑. 𝙸𝚏 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢, 𝚒𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚍.

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝙸𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗?

[𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚡 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢]

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎.

𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢: 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛.

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: *𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚍* 𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚎𝚝?

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊: 𝚈𝚎𝚜.

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: 𝙾𝚑 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗.

[𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛]

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗:.....

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍...

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙶.

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗: 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙱?

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝙽𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙱 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙲 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜.

𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚢: 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙳?

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙳 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚘.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡: 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙴?

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚜: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙴.

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊: 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙴. 𝙻𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

❝𝙶𝙰𝙼𝙱𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙰 𝙶𝙾𝙳𝙳𝙴𝚂𝚂❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

FELIX MORRETTI knew he was many things. A coward. An impulsive thief. A member of wild raccoon gang. But a bad friend? There was no way. 

Or so he thought up until he failed to save his best friend from falling down to his doom.

Rain blinded him, stung his eyes as he scrambled toward the front. The wind was wild, biting and sharp, and the pegasi shrieked, wings buffeted by the storm's fury. The chariot bucked beneath him as if it, too, was panicking.

Felix threw himself beside Jason, clutching the side rail. "SILAS FELL—HE FELL!"

Jason's head whipped around. His eyes—already storm-lit—flared brighter with raw, terrible understanding. His mouth tightened. Sparks crackled along his knuckles as he gripped the reins harder, muttering "Di immortales" under his breath.

The words twisted through Felix's brain, not in Latin, but in English. If Felix was in a better mood, he would have made fun of his friend's terrible habit of cursing in Latin. Right now, he was miserably soaked to the bone and just failed to be of use, so safe to say, he had bigger concerns at the moment.

Jason swore again, this time sharper. His eyes scanned the clouds, the shadows below. For a heartbeat, he froze—grief, decision, something heavier than fear etched into his expression.

Then he looked at Felix. "Hold the reins."

"What?" Felix asked, voice cracking.

Jason's hands were already lifting away. "Catch them. Keep the chariot steady."

"I don't—Jason—WHAT?!"

Jason gave him a hard, almost pleading look. "You can do this."

And then—without waiting for an answer—he dove.

Right off the chariot.

Felix screamed. Unless the son of Jupiter secretly learned to fly, it was completely reckless and very un-Jason-like. 

One second Jason was there, wind-blown and glowing like a thunder god, and the next he was a flash of gold and purple diving through the storm, swallowed by the clouds below.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL—"

He caught the reins by reflex, nearly wrenching his shoulders out of place. The pegasi thrashed, startled by the shift, and Felix nearly tumbled off the front in the process. He yanked hard, bracing himself, knuckles going white as the leather bit into his palms.

"Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—" he muttered under his breath.

The chariot veered dangerously, the wheels groaning as rain battered them from all sides. Felix clung to the reins like they were lifelines—and maybe they were.

Somewhere down there, Silas was falling to his death.

And Jason was chasing after him. 

At least his fuzzy dice were still hanging on—

Nope.

They swung at his face like a pair of soggy nunchucks and narrowly missed clocking him in the eye. Felix flinched with a curse, nearly letting go of the reins. His beloved nostalgic decor whipped wildly in the wind, strings unraveling, fluff drenched and pathetic.

"Traitor," he muttered at it, grimacing.

For a split second, he actually considered it. Just. Let go. Dive down after Jason and Silas. Maybe catch the dice on the way. It sounded dramatic enough for a headline. Probatio Found Splattered Over Blackhawk Museum In Attempt to Save Fuzzy Dice.

But that idea evaporated the moment he saw her.

Emerging through the veil of clouds, she was the kind of terrifying that didn't belong in mortal airspace. A living thunderstorm carved into the shape of a woman—her form wrapped in shadow and rain, hair whipping like storm-tossed seaweed, and lightning cradled in her fists like toys. Her robes thrashed behind her like the banners of a conquering army. And her wings—gods, her wings—they beat against the sky itself, great shadowy things that moved the wind.

She was a statue come to life. A Roman goddess plucked straight from some ancient temple, where she belonged on a pedestal with fruit baskets and incense—not dive-bombing a fifteen-year-old in a flying chariot.

"Oh no," Felix breathed.

Her eyes locked on him.

"Oh no, no no no—"

I'm so fucked. Maybe she didn't see me and—

Lightning cracked across the sky like a whip, and the chariot shuddered beneath him.

Okay, never mind, she did.

Felix yanked the reins instinctively, heart pounding so loud he couldn't hear the storm anymore—only the rush of blood in his ears and the wild flailing of the pegasi trying to escape whatever that was.

And honestly? He didn't blame them.

He wanted to escape her too.

He was going to die. This was it. Death by airborne diva.

"Okay, okay!" he shouted over the wind, squinting through the storm. "Listen, scary wind chick—ever thought about chilling out? And while you're at it, how about hittin' up a salon? Get that hair on point? It's totally screaming 'drowned Medusa,' not 'terrible celestial force'."

It was a stupid thing to say.

He realized that about two seconds too late.

The clouds above them cracked with a furious burst of lightning, so bright it lit up the goddess's face in skeletal flashes. Her eyes gleamed with ancient fury—no, with personal hatred. Like she knew the type of person he was and hated him for it.

"I despise children of Fortuna like you," she roared, her voice layered like thunder through a mountain pass. "Always mocking. Always gambling. Thinking you can manipulate chaos—"

The wind rose with her rage, slamming into the chariot hard enough to jolt Felix sideways.

"But—" he started, gripping the reins like a lifeline, "—isn't that, uh... kinda the point of storms? Sudden chaos? Doesn't that make you the queen of the random?"

Her eyes flashed, and the next bolt of lightning cracked a foot from the chariot's edge.

"I am Tempestas!" she thundered, wings beating against the heavens. "Goddess of storms and sudden weather. I refuse to be controlled!"

Felix's voice was little more than a mutter now. "But... doesn't Jupiter rule over you?"

She let out a shriek that was almost a scream, almost wind, almost laughter—but none of it pleasant. It shook the clouds and rattled the chariot. The air shimmered with static.

"You dare—" she began, voice full of stormclouds and salt.

"I-I mean, he is the big sky dude, right? King of the Gods? Lord of Thunderpants?" Felix offered weakly. "Just saying, maybe talk it out with him?"

Tempestas surged forward like a crashing wave.

In that moment, Felix regretted everything.

His mouth, always faster than his brain. His endless stupid comments. His clumsiness.

He regretted never standing up to his father, the way he'd always kept his head down, kept quiet, pretended he wasn't hurting when his father had thrown his beer bottles in frustration over something as small as the time Felix had burned rice because he was always stuck in his own world. That night, he wasn't allowed to eat—not that he could anyways with the bruises that painted his body left by his father.

He regretted running. Not just from his house, or his past—but from the people who counted on him. From his sister, Amari. Gods, his sister. He never even said goodbye. Just left with half a plan and a promise he couldn't keep, thinking he'd come back for her someday—when he was stronger, better, older. But deep down, he knew the truth:

He could barely take care of himself.

So how could he take care of anyone else?

The only reason he was alive right now—the only reason he'd ever been alive—was luck. Sheer, stupid luck. A few good rolls of the dice.

And as the goddess of storms bore down on him like a wrathful tempest, as the sky lit up with jagged light and the pegasi shrieked beneath him, Felix did the only thing he knew how to do.

He prayed.

Not the kneeling, candle-light kind. No. His mom didn't want tears or temples. His mom wanted risk. Hopefully.

"Alright!" he shouted, raising a trembling hand. "You hate Fortuna's kids, I get it! We mess with chaos, we tip the scales—but you know what?" His voice cracked, hoarse against the wind. "Maybe it's time chaos fought back!"

The storm paused. Just a little.

Felix reached into his coat pocket. His fingers closed around the small pouch that held the weight of his denarii and his dice.

"Let's settle this," he called, forcing his voice to stay steady. "A game of street dice. Just you and me."

The silence after that was worse than the thunder. The air felt stretched thin, tight, like it might rip.

And then... laughter. Dry, sharp, like wind cutting through bone.

"You dare gamble with me?" Tempestas hissed. "A mortal boy with nothing but luck in his bones?"

Felix held up the dice. The denarii was tucked safe in his pocket.

"Lady, that's exactly what I plan to do. I take it nobody's dare to gamble with the great storm goddess. Who knows, maybe you'll enjoy it?"

His heart pounded like a war drum. His hands shook. Every instinct screamed that this was suicide.

But it was all he had.

Felix swallowed hard, the pouch sweating in his palm. He forced his shoulders to straighten, forced his smirk back onto his face like armor.

"But before we play," he said, "you have to pause the storm."

Tempestas narrowed her eyes, swirling black with thunder and rain. "You dare give me conditions?"

Felix raised a hand, wagging a single finger. "Not a condition. A rule. You want a game of chance, right? Then let's make it fair. You're a literal goddess—of sudden weather, right? Hail, wind, lightning, all that jazz. So what's more chaotic than an unnatural calm?"

She didn't speak, but the winds howled louder behind her, swirling her robes like war banners. The pegasi shrieked again, flanks trembling beneath the strain.

"Think about it," Felix pressed, voice loud over the gale. "By stopping the storm... suddenly... you'd be proving your power over, uh, sudden weather. I bet everyone expects you to rage. But no one expects restraint. That's pretty unpredictable if I do say so myself."

That made her pause.

He saw the tiniest flicker of thought cross her face. Doubt? Curiosity? Or maybe she just liked the sound of her own unpredictability.

Finally, with a gust like a sigh, she lifted her hand.

The clouds groaned, then stilled. The wind dropped. The rain, mid-fall, scattered into mist and vanished.

Silence.

Felix's soaked white curls clung to his face. The pegasi snorted, stamping nervously on empty air. The chariot still rocked from the storm's memory, but they weren't spiraling anymore.

"I have ceased," Tempestas declared coolly, her voice booming like a drumroll. "Now cast your fate, boy of Fortuna."

Felix gave a small, breathless laugh. "Gods, I hope I don't die."

He glanced toward the space where Jason had vanished into the clouds. 

Silas... please be alive and...if you can hear me mom, please, grant some luck. Not just for me but for my friends too. They deserve it, he prayed silently, closing his fingers over the dice.

"If you don't mind coming aboard my sweet ride—"

Tempestas regarded him with eyes like thunderheads. "The chariot," she sneered, "reeks of mortal dust and horse sweat. Hardly fitting for a goddess."

Felix glanced down at the dripping chariot that had definitely seen some better days. "It also came with fuzzy dice, but okay. I get it. You're picky."

She raised a hand. Felix flinched, convinced he was about to get a holy smack to the face. He was relieved that the goddess was just performing some magic or whatever.

Storm clouds twisted beneath Tempestas, swirling into a dense spiral just beside the chariot—forming a floating platform of roiling mist and crackling static. It looked solid... ish.

"I have created a stage worthy of divine sport," she said, her voice distant thunder. "Step forth, child of fortune. Let us see if fate truly favors you."

Felix blinked at the storm cloud. "Right. Totally normal Tuesday."

He looked at the reins in his hands—then back at the waiting goddess and the makeshift arena of clouds.

"You sure we can't just... play on the chariot? It's kind of got seats. Stable footing. Little bit less chance of falling to my death?"

"I am not stepping foot in that cart," Tempestas spat, robes lashing in the wind. "Choose, mortal."

Felix exhaled through his nose, muttering, "You really are a storm cloud with opinions."

With exaggerated flair, he dropped the reins. Felix muttered a curse under his breath as he stepped cautiously onto the storm platform. The surface rippled beneath his feet, soft but firm—like standing on a giant, pissed-off trampoline.

The moment he left the chariot, though, the pegasi screeched and reared. Untethered and spooked from the chaos, they bolted into the clearing sky, reins flapping like streamers behind them with the chariot wildly moving behind them.

"Wait—WAIT!" Felix lunged after them as best as he could while standing on storm clouds, but it was too late. "You traitorous flying cows!"

Why did Jason think I could handle this? Just because I'm the oldest doesn't mean shit...

The pegasi's panicked cries faded into the distance, the chariot nothing more than a glint of gold vanishing into the clouds. Felix stood stranded, toes sinking slightly into the damp, crackling surface beneath him. The storm platform pulsed underfoot, like standing on the heartbeat of a hurricane.

"Well," he muttered, "guess that's my ride gone. Not like I needed an exit strategy anyway."

Tempestas loomed across from him, her shadowed wings spanning the entire platform, lightning dancing lazily between her fingers.

Felix lifted his chin, trying to sound braver than he felt. "Alright, here's the deal. If I win this game, you give us—me and my still-breathing friends—smooth weather for the rest of our trip."

The goddess tilted her head, smile as sharp as a breaking storm. "And if you lose?"

He uncurled his fingers and let the silver dice clink softly into his palm.

He could almost feel the weight of the thunder pressing down, hear the echo of his heartbeat in the sky itself. "If I lose..." he swallowed, "...I'll succumb to the storm and most likely go splat. No begging for mercy—well, maybe a little. Just victory for you."

Her grin widened. "I accept."

She stepped closer, the air around her smelling of rain and ozone, the kind that comes before lightning splits a tree in half. "You know, little mortal, I cannot wait for the day when the Dii Consentes are defeated. When no king rules the sky, and I am free to cause storms of all kinds whenever I please. I will be the one behind the mayhem in the skies for eternity."

Felix blinked, the words rattling around in his head without connecting. "Right... well... good thing that's not today."

She chuckled, low and dangerous. "Not today perhaps... but soon."

The clouds darkened above them, the dice in Felix's palm was the only solace he had at the moment.

"Shall we begin?" she asked.

Felix forced a smirk. "Lady, luck and I are on a first-name basis."

Felix crouched low on the cloud platform, the dice warm in his palm. He'd played games like this in back alleys and half-lit corners, usually with someone twice his size and half his patience. Street dice had kept food in his stomach more than once, and unfortunately, added to his father's supply of beer cans. It had also gotten him chased halfway across cities in order to evade getting shot at. 

Tempestas didn't sit—she hovered, her gown a shifting wall of stormclouds, eyes bright with something between amusement and hunger.

"First roll decides the shooter," she said, lightning flashing in the whites of her eyes.

How the goddess knew about gambling, Felix had no clue. Did gods gamble in the first place? Maybe they had monthly meetups or something.

The rules were simple enough. Whoever rolled higher went first. The first throw—the come-out roll—was everything. Seven or eleven and you win immediately. Two, three, or twelve and you're dead in the water. Anything else becomes the point, and you have to hit that number again before rolling a seven. Roll that seven first? Game over.

Felix tossed one die. Five. Not bad.

Tempestas flicked hers with a manicured nail, and it clattered across the cloud until it stopped—two.

"Looks like I'm up."

"What's your wager?" she asked, voice curling like smoke.

Lady, do you have short-term memory or what?

"If I win, you give us calm skies till we're home."

"And if you lose?"

"You already know," Felix hesitated, jaw tight. "...I die a horrible death."

Her smile was slow, dangerous.

"You may gamble as you wish, if you dare tempt the fates. I'll even be merciful enough to guarantee the safety of your friends... only if you can win five times in a row."

The words sank like a hook in his gut. Five in a row. He told himself not to get overconfident—hubris was a gambler's quickest death.

I'm betting my own life, he thought. I can't overdo it.

But the thought of his friends tugged at him like a loaded dice in his palm. If he failed, they would die together—Felix pushed away the nagging thought that they might already be dead and that the goddess was just toying with him by giving him false hope. But if this game was the key to saving them... well, Fortuna's son had always been willing to roll high stakes.

He crouched low, die in hand, the cool, springy surface of the cloud shifting faintly beneath his weight.

The come-out roll hit with a soft clatter—seven. Instant win. One down.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could practically hear his father's voice, low and laughing, calling him his lucky charm. Gambling had been the only thing that ever earned him pride from the old man.

He scooped the silver die up again, the weight suddenly feeling familiar, like slipping into an old coat. Eleven. Two down.

A grin ghosted on his lips before he forced it back. No overconfidence. Not yet.

The die tumbled, spun, and landed—five. Point set. He rolled again, the rhythm settling into his bones. Five. Three down. Her smile was gone now.

He could feel it—the shift. The way each win made his chest a little lighter, his hands a little quicker. He was good at this. Born for it, even. Fortuna's blessing was more than luck; it was in his blood.

Another throw—eight. Point set. This one dragged. Ten, six, nine. Each miss was a test, but he was still smiling when eight finally came up. Four down. He almost pitied the goddess now. Almost.

He swallowed, let the die roll free. Four. Point set. The air felt tight, the kind of quiet before a storm. One roll—three. Another—ten. He was already thinking of the next victory, the words he'd toss back at her when he'd won it all.

The next—seven.

Loss.

The die stopped between them, and the rush drained out of him so fast it left his hands cold. His father's voice—so loud a moment ago—vanished, leaving only the sound of his own pulse in his ears. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Why now? Why did you let me lose, mom? I needed to win for my friends' sake. Felix's mind was spiraling out of control as anxiety gripped his heart. I'm...going to die. For real this time.

Tempestas looked down at the silver die with slow satisfaction, though the bitter hatred in her eyes lingered. She'd kept it fair, but the victory was hers—and the loss had been his alone.

"You rise fast, little fortune-born," she said, voice smooth as rolling thunder. "But you always fall the same way. Your siblings do the very same. You mistake momentum for mastery, luck for control."

Her gaze sharpened, and he realized she hadn't been surprised at all. She had known. Known he would burn bright, burn hot—and burn out.

With a cackle, the cloud holding him whipped out from under his feet, dropping him into open sky. The searing gaze of Tempestas followed him as he plummeted.

The storm swelled behind him, dark clouds knitting together again, rain hammering down in sheets so heavy they stung. Wind clawed at him from every side, trying to spin him like a tossed coin.

Through the blur of water, something caught his eye—a somewhat large shape below. Bronze. Towering. Tusks. An elephant? His brain clicked a beat later. Blackhawk Museum.

A wild laugh tore out of him. "Looks like I bet right!"

If this was it, if Felix was going to splatter on the pavement, he might as well go out in style. He lounged back mid-fall, crossing one ankle over the other, hands folded behind his head. Dying cool—now that was a headline. He didn't think about the fact that he'd mostly be blood and disgusting globs of matter—that was Silas' thing.

Something smacked into his face midair with a wet thwack.

His fuzzy black dice.

He peeled them off, rain streaming down his cheeks, and blinked at them in disbelief. "Wait—am I gonna end up on the headlines?! That's gnarly!"

Just then, Felix slammed into something unyielding. The shock ripped the air from his lungs, pain flaring through his ribs. For one disoriented heartbeat, he was sure that was it—dead, gone, kicked the bucket courtesy of one moody weather goddess.

He lay there, rain pelting his face, feeling the strange weightlessness of shock creep in. Then a twitch in his fingers. His leg shifting. He could move.

A grin split his face. "Wicked. I'm a ghost."

Somewhere above him, a voice—annoyed, weak—scoffed. "You're not a ghost, idiot."

Felix froze. He knew that voice. He scrambled upright, blinking through the downpour. The inner face of the chariot loomed in front of him, wheels hissing on wet air as it glided forward. Silas was slumped against one side, soaked to the bone, blood mixing with rain as it trailed from a gash at his forehead.

For a heartbeat, Felix's stomach dropped—the sight hitting harder than the fall. "Silas!"

The other boy managed a faint glare, which felt like the best gift in the world.

Up ahead, Nightspell and Cloudbite flew hard against the storm, their harnesses creaking with strain. Blinking through the rain, he realized that Jason was holding the reins.

"Try modeling," Jason's voice called from the front of the chariot, the grin audible even through the storm.

Felix blinked, realizing exactly how he must look—hair plastered flat, shirt clinging in all the wrong places, fuzzy dice in one hand like some bedraggled fashion prop. Heat crept into his face despite the cold.

He laughed anyway, embarrassment melting into something warmer. "Glad you're both alive."

From above, Tempestas shrieked—a sound that split the storm like a rending sail. 

"Too bad she doesn't feel the same," Felix muttered under his breath.

The winds slammed into the chariot from all sides, shoving it hard enough to make the harness straps on Nightspell and Cloudbite groan. But the gale faltered, caught in an invisible tug-of-war.

Felix followed the source of the resistance and felt his breath catch. Jason stood firm, his right hand raised to the sky, every muscle taut with effort. The air around him seemed to hum, lightning flaring in the clouds behind him. His face was a mask of grim determination, hair whipping in the wind. And then Felix understood—Jason was fighting her. The storm goddess' own winds, turned against her by sheer will.

Jason didn't take his eyes off the reins, somehow sloppily steering with his left hand, urging the pegasi to land on the museum. "Take care of Silas!"

Felix glanced back. Silas was still slumped against the side rail, rainwater washing streaks of blood from his forehead. The gash looked worse in the dim light.

"I don't need help," Silas muttered hoarsely. "I'm used to pain."

The words were too casual, too practiced, and they dragged Felix straight back to another night—1986, the two of them sprinting down a neon-lit street with an empousa at their heels. He could still feel the burning panic in his lungs, the surreal moment when they'd stumbled into the Lotus Hotel and Casino. The flashing lights, the music that dulled thought, the smiling staff that welcomed them like old friends.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't still dream about that place sometimes. About the sickening thought of never leaving. Of time rotting away unnoticed while the world kept moving.

Felix's fingers tightened on the rail. "Yeah, well... you're getting it anyway," he said, planting himself next to Silas so the other boy wouldn't slip if the chariot jolted.

From his spot, he reached for his bag, still miraculously hooked to the side rail, its canvas slick with rain. Felix unfastened the clasp and dug around until his fingers brushed the small tin of unicorn draught. The fine, silvery powder shifted inside like stardust.

For a moment, the sight alone pulled him back—Poppy leaning over him in some cramped, makeshift infirmary, her voice half-scolding, half-soft. The way her calloused hands had brushed against his skin, careful despite themselves, as she sprinkled the powder over bruises and gashes.

He swallowed hard, shaking the memory from his head, and popped the lid. "Hold still," he muttered. Silas gave him a flat look but didn't pull away as Felix tilted the powder over the gash on his forehead. It clung to the blood instantly, the magic setting to work.

Only then did Felix pry open another tin, press a few golden cubes of ambrosia into Silas's hand. "Eat," he said, no room for argument or jokes for that matter.

To his surprise, the boy's face twisted with a subtle twinge of something worse than disgust; not the usual grimace of someone in pain, but as if the taste itself was unbearable. Felix blinked at that. Ambrosia was supposed to taste like your favorite food. For him, it was always grape Pop Rocks—sharp, sweet, and fizzing on his tongue, the same candy he used to share with his sister on the rare days they could afford it.

The memory sat heavy in his chest, its sweetness tangled with something else entirely.

Felix stayed crouched beside him, one hand braced on the chariot rail as the winds still howled above. He couldn't fail as a friend. Not now.

And deep down—though he'd never say it aloud—he thought of Silas as a younger brother.

And he couldn't lose another sibling. 

Despite himself, Amari's face rose unbidden in his mind. He wondered if she was alive, if she missed him—if she even remembered him.

I bet she's too old now for our shadow puppet shows...Felix thought wistfully as he gazed down on the shivering form of Silas. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Jason straining to guide the pegasi but, if Felix squinted hard enough, he could see that distinct elephant statue was coming closer in view. They were going to make it and that was a bet Felix knew he could count on.

Sorry sis, but I have to focus on this quest and that includes watching out for my friends and pushing away my selfish desires for now.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

ƈɧą℘ɬɛཞ ɬῳɛƖ۷ɛ

❝ＢＡＣＫ ＯＮ ＴＲＡＣＫ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

GETTING ALMOST wiped out in the first thirty minutes of their quest did nothing for Jason's nerves. His left hand kept the reins tight, the other shoving against the furious winds Tempestas was still throwing at them. The air bit at his face and stung his eyes, daring him to mess up.

Every time he glanced at Silas, he saw it all over again—skin pale like paper, blood running down from the gash on his forehead. For a second back there, he'd thought he was gone. In his arms, Silas had laid unmoving against his chest, completely soaked to the bone and freezing cold under his touch, night-touched curls plastered against his face. The only reason Jason knew he was alive—barely hanging on by a thread—was the faint warmth of his breath against Jason's neck. Gods, if he had been awake...Jason immediately pushed down that thought. Silas was just a friend so it really shouldn't matter how close they were.

They'd both been minutes from going splat if the storm hadn't suddenly broken, giving Jason just enough control to twist the winds into sporadic bursts. It wasn't much of a cushion—more like being slammed into a trampoline again and again—especially with a limp body in his arms. Somewhere ahead, through the thinning clouds, he finally spotted Cloudbite and Nightspell, the chariot's empty reins whipping wildly as they cut through the skies.

He let out a sharp whistle, the kind Poppy called a "head-turner," and the pegasi's frantic gallop slowed just enough for them to swing under him.

The landing was... not graceful, but at least it wasn't fatal. They hit the chariot with a jolt that rattled Jason's teeth. He kept his grip on Silas until they steadied, then hesitantly set him down on the left side near the front—close enough that Jason could keep an eye on him.

Cloudbite's ears flicked back, and Nightspell tossed his head, clearly unhappy to be near the bleeding out son of Discordia. Jason almost told them to get over it, but settled for a firm pat on their rears before taking the reins again. He resisted the urge to look over at Silas for the millionth time already.

His stomach still twisted with anxiety; he'd told Felix to keep the chariot steady, but the son of Fortuna was nowhere in sight. The churning dark clouds above didn't help ease his worries as rain began pelting them.

By sheer luck though, Felix had dropped in with a thud right in the middle of the cramped chariot. A jolt went through Jason's heart when he heard Silas speak up suddenly beside him but he was oddly disappointed that Silas didn't acknowledge him.

Back in the present, the Blackhawk Museum's roof grew larger with every second. Jason tightened his grip, both hands locked on the reins now, forcing the pegasi to push them further from the heart of the storm. Tempestas's voice was only a distant shriek now, fading behind them.

The relief didn't last, though. A vicious gust shoved them sideways at the last second, and they crash-landed in the back parking lot, skidding hard before screeching to a stop right in front of a row of dumpsters.

Luckily, there were no mortals to witness them.

Beside him, Felix and Silas slammed into each other with a bone-jarring thud. Jason winced, guilt twisting in his gut—mostly for Silas. He was already barely holding together, and this definitely didn't help.

Jason kept a tight hold on the reins until the pegasi stopped snorting and pawing at the ground. Only then did he glance down.

Silas was awake—somewhat. His eyes were open but dull, like the light behind them was flickering. There was a little more color in his face now, but it wasn't much, and the gash on his forehead still looked bad.

"We should take a break," Jason said, voice low but firm. "Probably get a change of clothes after letting the weather calm down."

Silas's head tipped toward him, the movement sluggish. "We can't know when it'll let up," he rasped, voice rough like gravel. "If the crazy lady's behind it, it won't stop."

"Actually..." Felix piped up from where he was sprawled beside Silas in the cramped chariot. "She is behind it. Her name's Tempestas...Think she said she's the goddess of storms and abrupt weather. One crazy chick, let me tell ya."

Jason's brows knit together. "Back in 259," he started, voice a little distant as he dug through what he remembered, "Aedes Tempestatis was a temple built by Lucius Cornelius Scipio—son of Barbatus. He'd conquered Corsica and Aleria, and to save his fleet and win against the Carthaginians, he vowed to honor Tempestas. Built the temple for her."

Felix blinked at him. "That's... specific."

Under his breath, Silas muttered not so quietly, "Zeek." Felix bursted out laughing but Jason didn't know what it meant so he ignored them.

"It's weird she's coming after us. Jupiter's supposed to have entrusted Aeolus with controlling the winds. According to one legend, Tempestas was his wife—his companion—the one who'd calm him down if things got too wild."

Silas piped up weakly, "Well, if he's as crazy as her, maybe she finally got fed up with him."

Jason glanced at the clouds, waiting for Silas to get fried by a bolt of lightning. Nothing happened. If anything, the rain was easing up.

Felix drummed his fingers against his knee, humming. "She did mention something earlier... about refusing to be controlled. And not having the patience to wait for the day the Dii Consentes are defeated."

Jason frowned at Felix's words. The Dii Consentes (also called the "Harmonious" Gods) are the twelve known key-deities of the Roman Pantheon, made up of six gods and six goddesses. Jupiter (also known as his absent dad), god of the sky and daylight thunder; Juno, wife of Jupiter and goddess of marriage; Neptune, the feared god of freshwater and the sea; Minerva, the virgin goddess of wisdom, strategic warfare and the crafts; Mars, the patron of Rome and the god of war; Venus, the ancestor of the Roman people through Aeneas and the goddess of love, beauty, and desire; Apollo, the twin god of the sun and prophecy; Diana, the twin goddess of the Hunt, animals, and the Moon; Vulcan, the god of fire, volcanoes, and metalworking; Vesta, the virgin goddess of the hearth and home; Mercury, the messenger of the gods and god of trade, thieves, and tricksters; andCeres, the goddess of grain crops, agriculture, and motherly love. 

Maybe Tempestas had been hinting at something—some kind of brewing evil in the godly realms. An evil bigger than anything they'd had time to think about. But right now, they didn't have the luxury to sit around and connect every ominous dot.

Felix shrugged and started retelling his run-in with the goddess, how he'd tried to gamble with her like that was a sane thing to do.

"You what?" Silas rasped, giving him a flat stare. Even pale and drenched, he still managed to radiate disapproval. "That's not just stupid, that's inviting a death wish."

Didn't you just bad-mouth a goddess that we barely escaped from? Jason almost said but bit his tongue instead. 

Felix muttered something about "high risk, high reward," but the son of Jupiter barely listened. His eyes flicked to Silas, noting that he looked a bit better now—less ghostly, a touch more color in his face. Still wet, still mopey, hair plastered against his head. The image weirdly reminded Jason of a grumpy black kitten caught in a downpour.

He's cute when he's grouchy, Jason couldn't help but think. 

Aloud, he said, "I think I saw a plaza right next to the museum. We should get a change of clothes so we can dry off and not get hypothermia—or a cold."

A pause before they all realized something far more invaluable than escaping a goddess' rage...mortal currency. 

None of them had so much as a quarter.

Felix leaned back with a sly grin. "I could... use my luck to our advantage."

Silas' eyes narrowed immediately, like he knew exactly what Felix was implying, and he didn't like it one bit. Jason, on the other hand, didn't catch on at all.

He figured Felix meant he was going to be begging on the side of the plaza or something. Not exactly heroic, but if it worked... why not try it?

"If something goes wrong," Jason told him, "yell for help—and don't forget about your gladius."

Felix gave a jaunty salute and hopped off the chariot, striding toward the line of dumpsters like a man with a plan.

Before Jason could even ask what he was doing, Silas pinched the bridge of his nose, a slow exhale escaping like he was going to hate how this was about to play out.

And then—

"BEHOLD!" Felix's voice rang out. "MY MINIONS! RISE!"

Jason blinked. He's not actually summoning anything... right?

A moment later, a rustle came from inside the dumpsters, followed by the chaotic scrabble of claws. Three fat raccoons scurried out, looking extremely confused but clearly ready for whatever nonsense Felix had in mind.

Jason had no idea how to process what he was seeing, so he went with the first thing that came to mind.

"What do you need an army of raccoons for?"

Felix wagged a finger at him. "Uh, not an army. A raccoon gang, duh."

Jason wanted to ask what the difference was, but decided his brain didn't deserve that answer. "Uh, whatever. Just come back in thirty minutes, or else I'll assume you got kidnapped or... got rabies."

"Pft, I don't know what mabies are—"

"Rabies," Jason corrected.

"Whatever, man. I'll get us some clothes and food."

Jason swallowed back a grimace at the mental image of their lunch being pawed over by those grubby little hands. "I'm... not feeling too hungry, but thanks."

Silas, meanwhile, looked like he was fighting the urge to leap off the chariot and strangle his friend on the spot. Jason motioned for Felix to hurry before Silas actually committed homicide in the back parking lot of the Blackhawk Museum.

After pointing Felix toward the plaza, Jason settled onto the opposite side of Silas, boots nearly brushing Silas's thanks to how cramped the chariot was.

The rain had stopped—abruptly, unnervingly. Jason couldn't decide if that meant the goddess had come to her senses... or was simply lurking somewhere above, boredly waiting for them to take off again so she could throw another tantrum. He prayed it wasn't the latter.

Now it was just the two of them, and the quiet was... heavy. Awkward. The kind that made every shuffle of movement sound louder than it should. Silas didn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed stubbornly on some point past Jason's shoulder as if the dumpsters were far more interesting.

He itched to ask if he did something wrong but kept quiet instead.

Humiliation burned hotter than the gash on his forehead. Saved—actually saved—by Jason Grace, of all people. He could practically hear his father's voice coiling in his ear, low and venomous: Pathetic. Weak. You've gone soft.

He clenched his jaw, trying to shove the whisper back into whatever corner it crawled out from.

"Sorry," Jason said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. "I should've fought harder for airplane travel... it's my fault you're hurt."

Silas looked up just in time to catch the worry swimming in those too-blue eyes. It made something in his chest twist—not from warmth, but from irritation. He didn't want Jason's pity. He didn't need it. He wasn't a failure. He wasn't weak.

He snorted, brushing Jason's apology away like it was nothing. "Don't be dramatic. I don't even remember half of it—I banged my head, blacked out. But when I woke up and saw you standing there... you've got the whole air-control thing, so I put two and two together."

The blonde boy rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Sort of. More like... made trampolines from the air."

Damn. Silas almost wanted to know what that felt like. When he was ten, his next-door neighbor's kid had a mini trampoline, and it made him the undisputed king of the block. All the other kids were at his house, laughing, bouncing, like they had some secret membership Silas wasn't part of. He'd stood at his own bedroom window watching them, aching for the kind of freedom you couldn't fake.

He'd begged his father to let him go over. Leonard had chuckled, said, There's no need to ask, son. Silas had taken that as yes—that after his lessons, he'd finally get to be one of them. A normal kid.

But after an excruciating hour of analyzing newspapers in that cold, airless study, Leonard came home wearing that gleeful smile—the one that only appeared after killing someone. It sent shivers down Silas' spine when he saw it. That monster's smile."My son, now you can go play. It's all yours."

Silas understood instantly. He didn't go. Couldn't. The thought alone made bile crawl up his throat. His refusal earned him a night locked in the room with the family's corpses—the very boy who'd once been the center of every laugh now staring at nothing with glassy, lifeless eyes.

Yet despite all the empty eyes he'd been forced to stare into from a young age, some stubborn part of him still craved the very things his father called useless—attention, excitement, those ridiculous, unnecessary wants that made life feel worth living.

Leonard had tried to ingrain it into his mind that blending in was the ideal life, that the invisible survived longest. But Silas had never been content with being blandly ordinary. He wanted the world to look at him, even if it was just to say they wished he'd disappear.

The son of Discordia blinked, only then realizing he'd been wringing his hands raw. He let them drop, as casual as he could manage, like he hadn't just been twisting himself into knots. The last thing he needed was Jason thinking he was strange—or worse, a freak with crimson stained on his hands that perfectly matched his tainted soul.

Instead, he asked, "How long do you think it'll take to reach Mount Whitney from here?"

"With Fortuna's blessing, I'd say about an hour. That is..."

Jason didn't have to finish. They both knew what he meant—if no monsters or bitchy goddesses decided to ruin the day.

A gust rolled past, rattling the dumpsters nearby. Both of them shivered, goosebumps prickling up their arms, the damp clothes leeching away whatever warmth they had left.

"Fuck, what's taking the damn bastard so long?" Silas huffed under his breath. He felt like shit despite the ambrosia and unicorn draught that Felix had given him. At least his wound was throbbing with pain anymore.

A ghost of a smile flickered across Jason's lips, and Silas couldn't help looking at his scar, the one right above his upper lip. He wondered if it was from the gladiator fights Camp Jupiter would hold often times. Silas had the urge to ask but knew from his own experience, he'd hate for someone to question the origins of his scars, so he left the question die in his throat each time. 

"It gives us some time to rest up...Something you should be doing now, Si." Jason lightly scolded, his blue eyes swirling with barely hidden concern.

Silas bristled. Like being humiliated by needing rescue wasn't enough—now the thirteen-year-old hero was mothering him. Saved from a crazy storm-bitch goddess and getting babied in the same afternoon? This was not on his list of things he'd expected to happen along this quest. Just gag me with a spoon already.

"Ughh, I'm not a child—so don't baby me, Jace."

The son of Jupiter floundered at the sudden nickname and Silas found himself amused at his confused expression.

"What?" Silas drawled. "Everyone seems to think they're entitled to giving me lame nicknames, so why can't I? Golden boy."

Jason scratched his cheek, throat clearing like he couldn't quite spit the words out right. When he finally spoke, his voice came out softer than Silas expected. "Jace is better. It's... normal."

Huh, who'd expect him to want to be normal. Seems like nobody with the way they treat him as some natural born hero, Silas silently thought to himself. Well, all but that damn Octavian.

He shut his eyes before Jason could read his face, but not without tossing back one last jab: "I'm only resting my eyes because there's nothing better to do, Jace."

All he got in return was a quiet, "Mhm."

Felix came striding back into view with three raccoons in tow, all of them trailing scraps of fabric that could loosely be called clothing. The garments were rumpled, mismatched, and smelled faintly of mildew, but Felix held them up like treasure.

"Don't worry, boys," he said with an exaggerated flourish. "I paid for these."

Jason's brows climbed halfway to his hairline. Silas didn't need his father's paranoia to know the son of Jupiter wasn't buying that for a second. The grin plastered across Felix's face was too wide, too mischievous.

Then Felix produced a bag stuffed with sandwiches. "And—tadah! Lunch for later."

"The only person who needs food is you, seeing as you forgot to pack one of the most essential items for a quest." Silas scoffed under his breath.

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome, now stop bitchin', short stack."

Jason looked like he was ready to tell them to wash out their mouths with his bar of soap that he brought along for all their swearing but dropped it with a heavy sigh. His gaze flicked from the food to the raccoons, who were happily retreating back to the dumpsters after Felix tossed them half the haul like some warped offering. "Where... did you get all this?" he asked slowly, voice teetering between suspicion and disbelief.

"Ah, ah," The son of Fortuna gestured wildly with his hands, "Let's say I have some...experience borrowing clothes from unaware people. Plus, it helped that I had my gang to back me up."

Jason furrowed his brows as if debating whether or not he should believe Felix. Silas shook his head softly before looking away, a ghost of smile tugging at his lips.

They decided it would be smarter to change one at a time—privacy wasn't exactly a luxury, but nobody wanted to stand half-naked in an alley with raccoons watching. Felix went first, stripping off his soaked purple camp shirt and tugging on some oversized T-shirt while loudly humming to himself.

While Felix wrestled with a pant leg, Jason turned to Silas, eyes flicking to the silvery powder that had mixed with his blood on his forehead. "Are you... uh—sure you don't need help? You're still banged up, and I—"

Silas froze mid-step, staring at him flatly. "What, are you offering to dress me or something?"

Jason's face went red instantly. "No! Gods, no, I didn't mean it like that!" He fumbled over his words, one hand tightening on the hem of his borrowed shirt like it could save him. "I just thought—like—if you got dizzy or something—"

Briefly, Silas thought it was... strange. The way Jason's first instinct was always to help, even when it made no sense. His chest prickled with something uncomfortably close to guilt.

He shook it off, expression sharpening. "I'm fine." His voice left no room for argument, and before Jason could trip over another apology, Silas stepped aside to wait his turn.

When Felix finally rejoined them, grinning like he'd just walked a fashion runway in his wrinkled jeans, Silas disappeared behind the cover of the dumpster's shadow. Peeling off his tank top, the cold air pressed against the ugly scars carved across his back.

The tank top clung wet and heavy to his skin, and peeling it off felt like tearing away armor. For a second, the chill morning air dragged over his back and he imagined eyes on the scars, sharp and accusing. He tugged on the white T-shirt quickly—baggy enough that it swallowed his frame, mercifully hiding everything. The jeans hung loose on his hips, but rope from his bag made an easy, rough belt. Not its intended purpose, but it worked.

When he stepped back out, he forced his posture tall, his face unreadable. The shirt draped over him, covering the past he refused to let them see.

Jason's eyes flicked up at him briefly, like he'd been about to ask something, but Silas cut him off with a sharp raise of his brow. Jason cleared his throat instead, looking away.

Good. Let things stay that way.

As soon as Jason disappeared down the alley to wrestle into his surfer-wannabe getup, the pegasi grew restless, tossing their heads and pawing at the ground. Without the son of Jupiter's calming presence, their unease increased around Silas.

"I get it, geez," he muttered, hopping down from the chariot to lean against the frame. He dug through his drawstring bag, pretending he was busy.

"Hey, man..." Felix's voice came from the other side, softer than usual.

Silas didn't look up. "What do you—"

"Please," Felix cut in, fiddling with the hem of his new shirt. "Don't die."

Silas stilled, the words hanging heavier than they should've. He forced a breath out through his nose, aiming for dismissive but sounding closer to tired. "...You do realize everyone dies at one point or another. Well, mortals and demigods, anyway."

He blinked, too quickly, and shoved down the flash of memory—eyes glazed and vacant, the way they always came back to him.

"But," he added after a beat, voice quieter, "if it makes you feel better, I'll try not to."

Once Jason came back, they were ready to take off again. Using the stretch of the parking lot, the pegasi thundered forward and the chariot lifted, soaring over the giant elephant statue outside the Blackhawk Museum.

Jason took the reins, steady as ever, directions already carved into his head somehow. That didn't stop Felix from shoving his crayon map into the blonde's face every few minutes, insisting he knew shortcuts.

Silas leaned toward the edge of the chariot, forcing back the nausea twisting in his stomach. Not motion sickness—he wasn't that weak. No, this was the sick churn of remembering just how close he'd been to plummeting to his death. He shifted closer to Jason, though not because he wanted saving again. Definitely not.

Felix, meanwhile, filled the air with a stream of questions. At one point, he jabbed his chin at Silas's belt. "So, where'd you get that pugio? You had it when we met."

His fingers brushed the hilt automatically. "It was a... gift."

Not a lie. His father had given it to him—his first blade, the start of training that left scars on his hands he still carried. Still, ever since coming to Camp Jupiter, the thought itched at him: how had Leonard even gotten hold of an Imperial Gold weapon? It wasn't like the man was a demigod. Leonard used to scoff at it, call it "useless for killing," which only confirmed he was mortal through and through.

Silas stared at his knuckles, traced the faint white lines from old cuts he'd given himself when he was younger, still clumsy with the blade. He remembered bleeding over the gold, his father's amused smile, the way he'd been told to "make the weapon remember you."

Jason's voice cut through his web of thoughts, startling him. "So... did you two know each other before Lupa?"

Silas immediately shot Felix a sharp glare. Seriously? Your big mouth got us in enough trouble already.

"Yeah," he said flatly. "Barely, though. We were... just accomplices trying to survive."

"I stole his wallet," Felix said brightly, grinning like it was the funniest memory in the world, "and then he threatened me, so I knew he was destined to be my best friend—"

"Stop bullshitting, Felix." Silas rolled his eyes, heat crawling into his chest. "You just wanted help stealing."

"Stealing?"

Shit. Silas had forgotten they were supposed to keep that buried. His gut twisted as Jason's shock rang in his ears, and he cursed himself silently. He hated how easy it was for Felix to just toss their past into the open like it was harmless.

"Yeah, Jace, stealing." Silas snapped before he could stop himself. "Not everyone had the luxury of growing up at Camp Jupiter as a toddler."

Jason's back went stiff, shoulders tensing against the reins. He didn't turn around, but the silence that followed was thick enough.

Felix immediately raised his hands and pointed at Silas like a tattletale, his grin daring. Look what you did.

Silas scowled and flipped him off.

But before Felix could make it worse, Jason spoke again—quiet, careful. "Sorry. I didn't mean... I just forgot. Sometimes I forget that not everyone... not every demigod had it as easy as I did."

The words hung in the air, heavy with guilt.

Silas bit the inside of his cheek, unsettled by the apology. He didn't need pity, but gods, it was better than judgment, at least in this situation. 

"It's fine, Jason."

He left it at that. No more.

His eyes slid to Felix, who was half-hanging out of the chariot, fumbling with his soggy fuzzy dice like they were the most important thing in the world. The pegasi's speed made it hopeless, but Felix kept at it anyway.

Why do you care so much, Felix? Silas thought, watching him. ...Are we actually friends, or just two runaways too stubborn to walk alone? ...Or am I just a stand-in for the sister you lost?

The thought sat in his chest like a stone, heavier than the nausea.

Everything was going smoothly—too smoothly. No monsters, no storm goddess. Nothing trying to rip them apart limb by limb. Silas' stomach knotted tighter with every mile; something was bound to happen.

The air grew colder as they climbed higher, a sharp, biting cold that belonged only to the mountains. Silas could stand the chill, but even he had to grit his teeth when it clawed down to his bones. The others weren't faring much better, each of them shivering in their surfer-wannabe clothes, underdressed and underprepared.

Then the Sierra Nevada range appeared. Even Silas couldn't deny the way it stole his breath—the sweep of jagged peaks, white clouds curling low enough to brush the summits, sunlight turning the granite into something almost holy. Jason pointed ahead, calling Mount Whitney a granite massif, rattling off facts like the golden boy always did. Silas' gaze stuck on the snow frosting the peak. Cold, distant, untouched.

It was beautiful, yes. But beauty never lasted long in their world.

The landing went smoother than their mess at Blackhawk, though Silas still gripped the edge of the chariot until the very last second. They gathered their bags and stepped out, their eyes immediately drawn upward. Clouds twisted in impossible patterns, swirling around a colossal island that seemed to hang suspended in the sky itself. Its surface glowed with purple stone, wide as a football stadium, its rugged cliffs riddled with caves and dark holes. A single, thin ice bridge stretched from the mountain slope to the floating landmass, glittering faintly in the cold light.

Before any of them could process it, the pegasi snorted, wings beating hard against the thin mountain air. In an instant, they were gone.

"Not my fuzzy dice!" Felix howled, hands thrown up as if he could still catch the fleeing steeds.

"Why'd they leave us here?!" he demanded, already sagging with disappointment.

Silas rolled his eyes, but Jason beat him to the explanation. "If you'd paid attention during the Senate meeting, you'd know."

Felix blinked. "I was paying attention! ...mostly."

Jason sighed, a puff of silver vapor escaping his lips. "Felix, they were only authorized to get us as far as Mount Whitney. Not the whole quest. And it's too cold for them up here anyway." His voice had that calm, steady tone Silas had started to recognize—the one that made him sound like he was born for command. "If you've got a jacket, put it on now. It's not going to get any warmer."

Silas dug through his bag and pulled out a black jean jacket. It wasn't much against the mountain air, but it was all he had. Felix, meanwhile, strutted around in a neon green parka that looked a size too small.

"I guess Poppy packed one of hers, haha... Isn't she the most thoughtful—"

Silas smirked, jabbing at the tall boy's ribs. "Yeah, unlike you, Felix."

"Hey, respect your elders!" Felix shot back, puffing his chest.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." With a huff, Silas flicked a glance at Jason, who had just zipped up his beige parka. The blonde caught sight of Silas' flimsy jacket and immediately started tugging his own off. Adamantly, Silas shook his head, shoving the jacket back to its proper owner.

"Gods, just take it. Stop being stubborn."

"I said I'm fine, so ignore it."

"There's no way you're not freezing your—"

They were chest-to-chest by then, frustration crackling between them in the frozen air. Jason's jaw was set in that heroic, immovable way of his, and Silas refused to look like the weaker one.

Felix wedged himself in before sparks flew. "Woah, let's all take a chill pill. And you know it's serious when I'm the one saying it, boys."

Silas turned away with a frown, arms crossed tightly, clamping his mouth shut to keep from chattering his teeth in the biting cold. Reluctantly, Jason shrugged back into his parka, giving a small huff as he adjusted the zipper.

"C'mon, we've got a Master of the Winds to talk to!" Felix chimed, looping his arms around the two of them and practically dragging them toward the thin ice bridge that led to the floating island.

Silas grumbled under his breath but allowed himself to be pulled along, his boots crunching against the frost as the wind tugged at his jacket. Jason shot a sideways glance at him, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them—one part exasperation, one part relief that Silas was still stubbornly standing.

Avoiding his gaze, Silas' eyes drifted to the bridge, the icy surface gleaming like glass beneath the swirling clouds. Aeolus, master of the winds, waited somewhere ahead—if he had the answers they sought, it might be worth the risk. But if he didn't... well, the thought of simply stepping off the edge flickered in Silas' mind. He shoved it away, forcing himself to keep up with Felix's frantic pace.

He better not be crazier than that wild storm lady.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𐌂𐋅𐌀𐌐𐌕𐌄𐌓 𐌕𐋅𐌉𐌓𐌕𐌄𐌄𐌍

❝ＴＨＥ ＣＲＡＺＹ ＷＥＡＴＨＥＲＭＡＮ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

They climbed the precarious ice bridge, Silas shivering the worst of the three. Jason kept insisting on giving up his jacket, but Silas refused with his usual flat stubbornness. Felix, either to keep his nerves in check or to fill the silence, started rambling about his old raccoon gang members: Goatie, Annie, and Sassy.

"—So then Goatie was distracting the dog while Annie went for the trash lid, and Sassy was the lookout—"

"That's the stupidest names ever, Felix," Silas muttered through chattering teeth. "Why the hell would you name a raccoon 'Goat'?"

Jason cracked a small smile, but Felix puffed up like Silas had insulted family.

"It's Goatie, not Goat. And because I sensed, you know, those were the destined names for an iconic trio in some series."

"You do realize the raccoons didn't give a damn, right?" Silas shot back.

Before Felix could argue, the sight ahead stole his words. The island loomed like something out of a fever dream—a massive free-floating slab of glowing purple stone. It was impossible to measure, but Silas figured it had to be at least as wide as a football stadium and just as tall. The cliffs along its sides were jagged and riddled with caves. Every so often, a burst of wind shrieked from one, deep and resonant like the pipes of a massive organ. At the very top, brass walls gleamed against the gray sky, circling what looked like a fortress.

Silas glanced down and realized the bridge underfoot wasn't solid ice after all. As the winds shifted, the span writhed beneath them, snaking one way and then another. In some places it thinned to a ghostly blur. In others it broke completely, reforming ahead of them in a dotted line, like the fading vapor trail of a plane.

"This is insane," Felix said, voice wobbling as he tried to keep his footing. "How do mortals not see this? You can't just miss a giant glowing flying fortress."

Jason, looking slightly uneasy after making the mistake of gazing down at the chasm below, said, "The Mist veils their eyes. They either can't see it at all, or it looks like something ordinary. Maybe they seem a giant chasm, I don't know."

If Silas was correct, the Mist also shrouded over Camp Jupiter in order to make it seem like a normal, completely empty valley. Poppy had once said that Trivia is the goddess of the Mist, meaning she is the source of its power and Silas found it pretty intriguing when she showed how she could bend the Mist to make a spoon appear to be a fork—well, until Poppy tried to use it like a fork. The Mist broke almost immediately when she tried to, and the daughter of Somnus was left pouting with a heavy sigh.

"Ordinary," Felix echoed, glaring at the purple cliffs. "Right. Because a brass fortress belching organ-wind is just your everyday background scenery."

They finally stepped off the icy vapor bridge and found themselves at the base of a stone stairway carved directly into the cliffside, each step steep and uneven, leading all the way up toward the brass-walled fortress.

Silas kept his eyes fixed forward. Looking down meant remembering the yawning emptiness below and the very real possibility of slipping into it—a little too close to his recent brush with death. He had no interest in reliving that.

Felix, for once, didn't crack a joke. His usual bravado was muted, shoulders hunched as if he too was imagining the drop.

Jason looked steady enough, but Silas could tell something was gnawing at him. His tight jaw and the way his hand flexed near his pocket hinted at nerves of a different sort. He was preparing himself for whoever—or whatever—was waiting at the top. 

Maybe he had questions of his own, Silas thought. Probably about family. He'd been raised in New Rome since he was a toddler, but from what Silas had heard, Jason hadn't grown up with relatives like some of the other campers. Not like Octavian, who could boast about his long line of ancestors. Jason had no one. So maybe the wind god had answers that even Jason craved.

Finally, they reached the top of the floating island. If they didn't have to carry their stuffed bags, it probably would have been easier, or so Felix claimed. Bronze walls encircled the fortress like a crown, gleaming in the weak sunlight. Silas couldn't imagine anyone being mad enough to attack this place—unless it was another storm god, like Tempestas.

The twenty-foot-high gates groaned as they opened for them, revealing a wide road of polished purple stone that climbed straight toward the citadel. The main building itself was a massive rotunda, Roman in design—white marble columns, high arches, and a dome that glinted with bronze. For all the grandeur, it wasn't exactly traditional. Strange bronze towers bristled on the roof, sprouting like spears, their tips covered in gleaming discs.

"What the hell is all that?" Silas blurted before he could stop himself.

Felix squinted, tilting his head. "Maybe it's, like... for talking to aliens."

Jason glanced at them as if the answer should be obvious yet his voice wasn't unkind. "They're for broadcasting. You know, satellite television?"

Silas nodded as if that explained everything, shooting Felix a quick look that said just roll with it. Thankfully, Felix's short attention span saved him—he was already gawking at the courtyard.

The fortress sat in the middle of a perfect circle, a quarter mile wide, and the grounds were nothing short of unnerving. They were divided into four equal sections, like some oversized seasonal wheel.

On the right sprawled an icy wasteland of bare black trees and a frozen lake. Snowmen waddled across the drifts, propelled by the shrieking wind. Silas couldn't tell if they were enchanted decorations or alive. He decided neither answer was comforting.

To the left, autumn blazed eternal. Gold and crimson leaves swirled into patterns—shapes of gods, animals, and people that chased one another across the ground before scattering again.

Behind the rotunda, Jason pointed out two more sections. One was a lush pasture, but instead of sheep, rolling clouds grazed lazily across the grass. The other was a barren desert, tumbleweeds scratching across the sand in strange designs—Latin letters, crude smiley faces, and at one point, an enormous ad that shimmered into being:

WATCH AEOLUS NIGHTLY!

"One section for each of the four wind gods," Jason murmured. "Four cardinal directions."

Felix's eyes went wide. "Oh, oh, can I please attack one of those snowmen—"

In perfect unison, Jason and Silas cut him off. "No."

Felix deflated, dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. Jason and Silas ignored him, keeping their pace steady as they walked down the purple road and climbed the steps toward the palace. The massive bronze doors creaked open to reveal a gleaming foyer of white marble, its walls draped with long purple banners. Some read in golden letters:

Dii Consentes Weather Channel

Others were simpler, flashing only: DC!

Seems like the Master of Wind really likes purple...

"Hello!"

The voice made them all flinch. A woman floated up to them—literally floated. She was petite, with slightly pointed ears and an ageless face that might've been thirteen or thirty. Her green eyes twinkled cheerfully, and even though there was no wind, her auburn hair rippled in slow motion. A white gown billowed around her like parachute fabric, drifting with her movements.

Silas squinted, trying to see if she had feet. If she did, they never touched the marble floor. In her hand she carried a glowing rectangular box that pulsed with light. Silas caught Felix's eye, and they exchanged a look—equal parts confusion and unease. Silas shoved down the frustration of not knowing what half this technology was supposed to be.

"Are you from Camp Jupiter?" the woman asked brightly. "We've been expecting you."

"That's totally not creepy, ha ha..." Felix chuckled nervously.

Silas nudged his hand, subtle, a silent I know this is weird, but we're in it together. Jason's gaze flicked over them, unreadable, which only made Silas snatch his hand back to his side, heat prickling at the back of his neck.

"Yes," Jason said evenly. "We're from Camp Jupiter."

"Wonderful! Right this way. My name is Mae." She beamed and glided forward, consulting her glowing box as she floated. She didn't even look up as she passed through a marble column—her body simply blurred, reformed on the other side. She spoke up from pressing her fingers on the device with a hum, "I can fit you in right before his 9:47 spot."

The lobby was chaos, and Silas could sense it right before they entered. Winds gusted around them like a restless crowd, buffeting their clothes and hair. Doors banged open and shut on their own. Paper airplanes of every size and shape darted overhead, dive-bombing and spiraling. Wind nymphs—aurai—plucked the planes mid-flight, unfolded them, scanned the messages, then tossed them back. Instantly, the pages folded themselves again and zoomed away, carrying their secrets.

Silas pressed his lips tight, trying not to gape. Jason looked just as thrown off, though he tried to hide it. Felix kept twisting around, eyes wide, like a kid in a chaotic carnival.

Then something much worse drifted by.

It looked like a cross between an old woman and a chicken on steroids. Her face was wrinkled and sour, framed by greasy black hair in a net. Her upper body was vaguely human, with withered arms, but her massive feathered torso and wings belonged to a bird—and not a graceful one. She waddled through the air like a sagging parade balloon, talons scraping the marble as she bumped into pillars and scowled.

"That's a harpy," Jason whispered. "Spirits of violent gusts. Not the same as aurai."

Mae perked up at that, her smile widening as if she were pleased to be contrasted favorably against the harpy. "Oh, you know your spirits!"

Jason just gave an awkward nod. He probably hadn't expected to be heard over the noise.

"So," Felix piped up, "you're taking us to see Aeolus?"

"Exactly!" Mae chirped. She led them toward another set of doors, this one like an airlock. Above the frame, a green light blinked steadily.

"We have a few minutes before he starts. Come along now, boys!"

The central chamber of Aeolus's fortress was as vast as a cathedral. Its domed ceiling shimmered like polished silver, but the rest of the room looked like a tornado had raided a TV studio. Cameras, spotlights, fake potted plants, even entire set walls drifted aimlessly in midair. It was a confusing scene to Silas as he tried to process all the modern technology scattered everywhere.

And there was no floor.

Felix yelped as he nearly stepped into nothingness. He stumbled backward thanks to a rogue paper airplane zipping passing his nose.

"Whoa—!" He gulped, pressing a hand to his chest. "I'm all for crazy ideas, but maybe a little warning next time!"

Below them, an enormous pit plunged straight through the heart of the mountain, honeycombed with caves. Some tunnels led outside—Silas recognized them from earlier, when winds had blasted outward like cannon fire. Others were sealed with some kind of glossy substance, like glass or hardened wax. Harpies and aurai darted in and out, paper airplanes zoomed along, but for anyone who couldn't fly, it was basically a half-mile-deep death trap.

Silas thought grimly: Good thing Felix is a lucky bastard.

"I'm so sorry!" their guide gasped. She fished a walkie-talkie out of her flowing robes and chirped into it: "Hello, Muggy? Hi! Could we get a floor in the main studio, please? Yes, a solid one. Thanks a ton, girl!"

Seconds later, a swarm of harpies rose screeching from the pit, each clutching chunks of random building materials. They set to work with unnerving speed—hammering, gluing, and slapping down duct tape in quantities that made none of them feel reassured. In no time, a patchwork causeway stretched across the chasm: marble slabs, plywood sheets, carpet squares, even chunks of sod wedged together.

Jason frowned. "Are you sure we won't fall through?"

"Oh, no worries, demigods!" she said breezily. "The harpies are very good at their job."

Easy for her to say. She just floated over the mess without touching it.

Both Felix and Silas glanced at Jason. Mutually, they agreed: he's the best chance of survival.

Jason scowled. "Seriously? I'm not Superman."

"Okay, but—" Felix started.

Silas cut him off before he could make it worse. "Statistically, you're the least likely to die, so move it, golden boy."

Jason's jaw tightened, annoyance written all over his face. But he stepped forward. The floor held.

Felix exhaled in relief. "Imagine if it collapsed like, one second later."

"Thanks for that," Jason muttered.

They all waited a beat just to be sure, then Felix inched forward, gripping Jason's sleeve. Jason shot him a sideways look.

"What? I'm not falling to my death a second time today," Felix said defensively.

"Uh-huh." Jason's electric blue eyes flicked toward Silas, his expression unreadable, like he wanted to say something but couldn't think of what.

Silas interrupted him before the blonde could speak. "I'm fine. And no, I'm not scaredy cat like Felix."

"Hey!" Felix protested. Silas didn't bat an eye.

"You'd try to save me no matter what I do, whether I hold onto you or not. It's like... in your nature." Silas cringed as soon as the words left his mouth.

Jason blinked, as if caught off guard, then looked away with a flush painted across his face. Poking his head out from the right side of Jason, Felix wiggled his brows at his scowling friend across from him. Of course, Silas flipped him off quickly in response before Jason could notice.

Mae led them toward the center of the chamber, where a sphere of flat-panel screens hovered in orbit around a control station. Inside the sphere floated a man, calmly flipping through paper airplanes and glancing at monitors.

He didn't acknowledge them as they approached. Rude much, grumbled Silas. At least he seems sane.

Mae gently ushered them into the circle.

On the screens, dozens of programs flickered—some Silas recognized as news broadcasts, others looked like gladiators brawling, demigods wrestling monsters. Movies, maybe. Or... reality shows?

At the far end of the sphere, a silky blue backdrop floated like a cinema screen, framed by hovering cameras and spotlights.

In the center, a man hovered in a director's chair that wasn't really there, talking rapidly into an earpiece phone. He held a remote control in each hand, firing them off at random screens as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

He wore a business suit patterned like the sky—bright blue fabric streaked with drifting clouds that shifted and darkened as though a storm were passing through. His face, caked in stage makeup, was uncanny: not quite young, not quite old, as if someone had taken a Ken doll and half-melted it in a microwave. White hair stuck up in tufts, and his eyes twitched, flicking between monitors as though trying to absorb every program at once. His mouth twitched constantly too—smiling, grimacing, muttering to no one.

He was either amused, or crazy. Possibly both. Realization dawn on Silas: Aeolus was worse than Tempestas...He's a crazy weatherman.

Mae floated toward him like a stagehand entering the set. "Ah, sir—Mr. Aeolus. These demigods—"

"Wait!" Aeolus snapped, holding up a hand. His grin stretched unnervingly wide as he finally looked at them. "Let me guess."

He spun toward Silas first, his gaze cutting through him like a blade of wind. "This one. The secrets he hides could cause a whirlwind! HA-HA!" He slapped his thigh, then flicked his wrist. Out of nowhere, an envelope fluttered through the air and landed in Silas's hand.

The handwriting on the front stopped his heart—one he'd recognized even if he was blind. His father's.

The paper even smelled faintly of cigarettes and blood. The stench turned Silas's stomach. He fought the urge to drop it.

Before he could react, Aeolus swiveled toward Felix. "And you, son of Fortuna!" His voice rang like a game show host announcing a prize. "You're searching for a woman. Amari Morretti?"

Felix froze, wide-eyed.

"You'll need this... if you find her." Aeolus tossed something that sparkled in the studio lights. Felix caught it clumsily. A keychain dangled in his palm: a sage-green pom pom, dice charms—the first etched faintly with the letter F, the other with A—and a silver key.

Felix stared at it, mouth open like a fish.

"Close it before you catch flies," Silas muttered, pressing a hand under his chin to shut it.

Aeolus chuckled, wagging both remotes at them. "Strange, strange. You two aren't the age you should be. Mm-mm. Out of place. Out of time. But no matter!" He laughed, high and sharp, before suddenly pointing a remote at a random screen where gladiators clashed with swords.

Silas wrung his wrists, nails digging into his skin. He should've known coming here was a mistake. He could almost hear his father's voice curling in his ear, see blood seeping through the letter onto his hands, feel cigarette smoke tightening around his throat like a noose.

And then—blink. Everything looked normal again. The envelope was just paper. His hands were just hands.

But there was no way the Master of the Winds didn't know. Aeolus had brushed against his past like it was nothing, almost revealing everything in front of Jason. Whether he meant to or not, it didn't matter.

Silas wondered, not for the first time, how long he could keep pretending.

Jason cleared his throat, faltering. "Huh—What—"

"We're normal. Everything's fine." The words clawed at Silas's tongue, though he only let part of them slip aloud. He stepped forward quickly, cutting Jason off before Aeolus could spiral further. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

"We're on a quest to fight the Trojan Sea Monster. We need information—where to find it, or who's behind its appearance."

Aeolus's eyes flicked from one floating monitor to the next, like he was trying to catch six different plotlines at once. "Hmm, I suppose I've heard whispers from far south—no, it was up north." He made a wild, dismissive gesture with both hands. "Sorry, son of Discordia, but I do not give my words for free. You demigods wouldn't mind doing me a favor for such invaluable information, now would you?"

It wasn't a question.

He leaned back in his chair, twirling a remote as if the very idea amused him. "You're on a quest to battle some monster. But what's new? Aren't most heroes? That's hardly breaking news!"

Their expressions—irritation, fatigue, a thin layer of panic—meant nothing to him. Aeolus's voice pitched up brightly, as though introducing the next act of a variety show. "There've been these pesky centaurs partying nearby, making such a racket I can't hear my own broadcasts. Headache after headache. Go chase them off, maybe I'll give you the answers you seek. And!" His eyes glittered with showman's glee. "You're even permitted to stay a few days. How does that sound?"

Again, not a question.

"Maybe? What—" Felix muttered, jaw tightening.

Jason stepped forward, hand steady on Felix's shoulder. "If these centaurs are such a headache to you, and we get rid of them like you ask, shouldn't we be guaranteed answers for our help?"

For a heartbeat, the air pressure in the chamber spiked. Aeolus's face darkened, his suit following suit, the clouds on his lapels churning and flashing with lightning. Silas thought they were about to be shredded apart by divine fury.

Then the suffocating storm broke—not in violence, but laughter. Aeolus's cackle rattled the floating screens. "Ah, you're a strange one, son of Jupiter... or should I say—champion of Juno?"

Jason froze. The word hit harder than thunder.

"Champion?" he echoed, his voice thinner than usual, caught between disbelief and dread. "But... how? I've never—"

"Sir," Mae interrupted. "Three minutes to air."

"Air!" Aeolus exclaimed, clapping his hands like a delighted child. "I love air. Makeup!"

A miniature tornado shot down from the ceiling, bristling with brushes, blotters, and cotton balls. They whirled around Aeolus's head, leaving his face buried in a storm of powders and creams. When the funnel lifted, his complexion was somehow more grotesquely plastic than before, and his hair stuck up in frosted spikes like some deranged Christmas tree.

Felix didn't even crack a joke. He just clutched the keychain tighter—the sage-green pompom brushing his knuckles, the dice charms pressed against his palm. His sister's keychain.

Silas shoved his father's letter into his bag as quickly as he could, the paper burning his fingers. Jason's eyes lingered on him—worried, searching—and Silas almost snapped. Stop staring. It's not your problem.

Aeolus beamed, looking suddenly camera-ready. "Now, shoo, shoo! Come back when you've cleared out those centaurs, eh?" He waved a jeweled remote like a dismissal.

Mae ushered them out, brisk and efficient. A few moments later they were back on Mount Whitney, the palace doors shut behind them. The cold mountain wind knifed through their jackets.

None of them spoke. Jason's brows furrowed, his lips parted as if he wanted to say something—anything—but even he couldn't string the madness they'd just witnessed into sense. Felix toyed with the keychain in his fist, clicking the dice charms together like he hoped they'd form an answer. His eyes flicked to Silas once, uncertain, like maybe he wasn't the only one who felt the ground had shifted under their feet.

Silas said nothing. He kept his arms crossed, hiding how badly his hands shook. The letter pressed like lead against his side, every step reminding him of its weight. He craved to read it, to hear the voice he hated most whispering to him again. And yet he wanted to rip it to shreds, scatter it from the mountain peak, watch it vanish into the endless wind. His father had a claw in his heart—always had—and Silas couldn't tear it free. Leonard was a leech feeding on his soul, devouring whatever scraps of happiness Silas might've falsely believed he deserved.

The wind howled around them, but it wasn't nearly as suffocating as the silence between them.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

ᑕᕼᗩᑭTEᖇ ᖴOᑌᖇTEEᑎ

❝ＷＥ ＣＲＡＳＨ Ａ ＰＡＲＴＹ ＡＮＤ ＧＥＴ ＡＮＳＷＥＲＳ （ＮＯＴ ＦＲＯＭ ＴＨＥ ＣＥＮＴＡＵＲＳ， ＴＨＡＴ＇Ｄ ＢＥ ＳＴＵＰＩＤ）❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

THE REST OF THE day was spent fruitlessly combing the mountainside. No tracks, no broken branches, not even a whiff of horse. If there really were centaurs up here, they were better at hiding than anything Silas had ever hunted. Felix wasn't much help either, his thoughts wandering back to their friends at Camp Jupiter, the comfy beds they'd left behind. Honestly, all of them seemed to be missing camp right about now.

The silence grew heavier with every crunch of boots on snow, until finally Jason broke it. "You're shaking so bad," he muttered. "Here—take my jacket."

"Hey—I'm not a child—" Silas sputtered, breaking into a cough that rattled his chest.

"Then stop acting like one." Jason rolled his eyes, clearly reaching the end of his patience. "Would you really rather die of hypothermia than just wear this?"

"Yes," Silas said bluntly, though the word trembled with his shivers and hardly sounded convincing.

With a sigh—equal parts exasperation and grim determination—Jason muttered, "Looks like this might be harder than tracking centaurs."

That was Silas' only warning. A pause, the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He knew something was about to happen, and he wasn't going to like it.

"Wait—don't you dare—" Silas snapped, but the words barely left his mouth before Jason and Felix lunged.

"Traitor!" he shouted at Felix as they wrestled him into the beige parka. "You Judas—get your hands off me, I'd rather freeze—Jason, I swear to the gods, if you touch that zipper—"

His curses and flailing arms were ignored. If he hadn't been shivering so badly, he might've fought them off, but the cold had already sapped his strength.

Felix whooped like they'd just pulled off a miracle as Jason yanked the zipper up to Silas' chin. 

When Jason reached to tug the hood over Silas's head, Silas jerked back like he'd touched a live wire. Too close. His shoulders tightened, every instinct screaming to shove the son of Jupiter away. Jason just sighed, exasperated, and let him sulk in his newly acquired layers.

By the end of it, Silas looked less like someone dressed for the cold and more like someone who'd been forced into a straitjacket. He glared at them both, muttering darkly, "Hope you're proud of yourselves. If I die, I'm haunting you."

They trudged back to the palace before sunset, the ice vapor bridge awaiting them like it had been expecting their return. A different aura—this one taller, more severe—led them to their rooms. When Felix asked about Mae, the aura only replied that she had unfortunately been fired.

Each of them were given lavish guest rooms in Aeolus' palace. Thankfully, they didn't run into the crazy weatherman again. Felix looked practically thrilled, grinning as he vanished into his room, and Jason even seemed somewhat pleased with his own room. None of them had expected to actually have decent places to sleep during their quest.

"Although, we wouldn't be here overnight if we didn't have to do a favor," Silas muttered with clear disdain.

Jason shot him a warning look. Both of them knew that saying—or even hinting—negative feelings about a god was practically begging for a lightning bolt to the head.

When they split off (after saying good night, of course), Silas stepped into his assigned room and stopped dead. The place was enormous. The walls were covered in depictions of the four cardinal winds and their gods: Aquilo with his biting northern snowstorms, Vulturnus with the east's burning summer heat, Favonius bringing mild western spring breezes, and Auster drowning everything with his southern summer storms. Shelves lined with books—every kind of book imaginable on winds, air currents, weather patterns—loomed along the walls.

As soon as he stepped inside, he tugged off Jason's jacket and tossed it carelessly onto the chair, chiding himself for not bringing a better one. He hated that he needed help. He hated even more that he'd accepted it. He hadn't wanted to buy a jacket from camp anyway—he didn't have the money for it. Maybe he should've stolen from the homeless fauns that littered Camp Jupiter's streets. They wouldn't have missed a few coins, right? 

"Ugh, Jason, why'd he have to be nice...He's also turning me into a nerd," Silas groaned, flopping face-first onto a bed that was way too big for just one person. "Who cares about some direction gods?"

He wouldn't admit it out loud, but it felt...strange, having his own huge room. Strange in the way that pricked at the back of his mind like déjà vu. It wasn't personalized, not really, but something about it tugged at him, reminding him of the Lotus Hotel and Casino. That same eeriness of comfort that didn't quite belong to him, a sweetness that tasted like a trap.

For a second, panic clawed up his throat. What if time here was the same as it was in the Lotus Hotel—warped and bent so badly that they'd lose hours, maybe days, without realizing it? He could practically feel the hours slipping like sand through his fingers already, tricking him into lowering his guard.

Silas sat up, heart hammering. No. Stop being paranoid. He clenched his fists until his knuckles ached, forcing himself to breathe, to remind himself this was different. Aeolus was crazy, sure, but not subtle. If the crazy king of Aeolia wanted them trapped, they'd know it.

Still...he kept glancing toward the clock on the wall, half-expecting the hands to suddenly spin out of control. He counted the seconds aloud just to make sure time was going as it should.

Silas tried to sleep, but it was useless. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was the way the winds in the room never stayed still—icy one moment, suffocatingly warm the next—but his body refused to rest. He shifted under the blankets, eyes finally settling on his bag at the foot of the bed. He always kept it close because you never knew when you'd need to run.

His fingers twitched, itching to open the letter stuffed inside.

Was he weak for wishing he wasn't alone in this stifling room? Weak for wanting someone there just to remind him he wasn't stuck in his own head? He already knew what his father would say. Not just about tonight, but about everything—making friends, letting them celebrate his birthday, hesitating when he should've killed them all.

The words were easy to imagine, cruel and sharp, wrapping around him like smoke until he almost couldn't breathe.

In the end, Silas couldn't bring himself to open the letter. But the weight of it was there, lodged deep in his chest, a claw that would not let go.

It had been three days and still nothing. Silas was beginning to wonder if the insane weatherman had lied—or worse, lost his mind—since there were no centaurs in sight.

On the third night, the three of them were gathered in Jason's room. Felix was sprawled across the blonde's bed like he owned it, while Silas dragged his scarred fingers along the spines of the bookshelves lining the wall, each volume containing something about winds. Jason's beige parka was tossed carelessly on the floor. Silas had shoved it back at him after the first night and, before Jason could argue, told him flatly that an aura had provided him with a black parka instead. End of discussion.

Currently, they were debating what to do if they actually found the missing party of centaurs.

Jason leaned against the lavish pillows, sighing with the kind of groan that sounded like it had lived in his chest all day.

"For the love of Venus, Silas, we can't just kill them on sight. Yes, Aeolus told us to get rid of them, but it doesn't have to be a fight. Maybe we could try talking first, or—"

Felix, who had been tossing his sister's keychain up and down with unnerving focus, suddenly piped up like he'd been listening all along. "Dude, aren't they just... barbaric party people? Or, well, half-man, half-horse—wait, are they considered people or monsters?"

Jason pressed his fingers to his temples, looking like he wanted to bash his head against the wall. "If we do end up fighting, I don't like our odds. Three demigods against who knows how many centaurs?"

"You know who likes our odds?" Felix grinned, catching the keychain with a flourish. "Me."

Silas rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Yeah, and look where that confidence got you when you gambled with Tempestas."

At that, the son of Fortuna deflated. Maybe he was being a little harsh, but Silas was getting antsy being stuck at Aeolus' palace for so long. With a sigh, he muttered, "I suppose... we could make disguises. Infiltrate their party. And then kill them."

Felix shot him a look that practically said, What is it with you and killing? Silas had half a mind to snap back that they were monsters, not people, when Jason spoke instead.

"Okay," Jason said slowly, like he was choosing each word with care. "I guess blending in could work. But we can't just immediately charge at them, Silas."

What does he take me for? An amateur killer?

Silas drew his pugio from its sheath, letting the blade catch the lamplight as he drawled with exaggerated politeness, "Of course not, your highness. But for the record, it doesn't matter how many are there. They'll all end up eating my blade."

Jason stared at him strangely. It wasn't disbelief—more like something unnervingly close to admiration—but Silas, prickling under the weight of that gaze, mistook it for doubt.

"R-Right," Jason stammered, suddenly clearing his throat. "But how are we supposed to get supplies for disguises?"

"Oh!" Felix sat up, excitement snapping back into place after Silas' semi-rude comment. "My disguise is gonna be way better than either of yours. I'm like the king of crafts."

"Don't let Minerva hear that, or else you'll become a spider," Silas remarked, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

Everyone froze for a moment, bracing in case either Silas or Felix got zapped on the spot. When nothing happened, they exhaled.

"Okay, but where are we going to get supplies from?" Jason frowned, a hundred possibilities clearly running through his head. "It's not like we can just ask Aeolus—"

"Why not?" Silas said, dead serious.

Jason blinked. "Um, maybe because he's a busy god and we'd be interrupting his, er, duties."

Felix snickered. "Duties, hah!"

Neither Silas nor Jason looked remotely amused, which prompted Felix to flop back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, muttering, "Geez, lighten up."

"He's the one who asked us for a favor," Silas pressed, voice sharp. "If he wants us to crash a party, then he should expect us to ask for supplies—or some kind of support. Think about it. Aeolus needs us because he's way too damn—"

Jason's eyes widened like Silas was about to get the entire room incinerated. He cut in fast, words tumbling out in a rush, "Okay, okay, we'll ask in the morning!"

Just then, there was a knock on the door. A frosted-looking aura slipped inside (literally), a soft chilly breeze drifting through the room as she passed. She had snow-white hair pinned into a pristine bun, crystal earrings that sparkled like icicles, and icy blue eyes that reminded Silas of too many different people at once, some of whom he wished were dead.

She carried a silver platter stacked with food: lollipops, slushies (Coca-Cola, grape, and cherry—the Coke was obviously Silas'), steaming chili with pinto beans, and Caesar salads.

As the aura turned to leave, Silas leaned forward and asked, voice smooth, "Would it be possible to squeeze us in for an appointment early tomorrow morning, dear?"

The aura paused. "I'll need to check with the secretary, but I'll return with an answer."

Silas gave her his best polite smile, the kind that wasn't really a smile at all but only he knew that. "Thank you so much for your assistance, and we hope to hear from you soon...?" He tilted his head as though he truly wanted her name. Fall for it...I'd hate to be this nice over nothing.

"Nivia," she said, cheeks coloring as she giggled before sweeping out the door.

Silas ignored both Jason and Felix's bewildered stares. He was busy feeling rather proud of himself for once. Jason's face, however, carried a clouded sort of grumpiness.

"Didn't know you were into flirting with aurae now..." Jason muttered.

What the hell did I do wrong now? Silas thought irritably. I'm literally just trying to get us the fuck out of here.

"Yeah, man. It's like you were a completely different person," Felix said, already snatching up the grape slushie. He slid the salads toward Jason and Silas like they were the healthy, responsible ones.

"She's more likely to hurry and help out if we're nice." Silas spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"...You mean if she has a chance at helping you." Jason stabbed his salad with a fork like it had personally offended him.

Silas spared a glance at Felix, clearly confused by Jason's sudden pettiness. Felix just lifted his hands and shrugged, his eyes glancing back down at his chilli. 

He's probably just as antsy as me to get out of here...still, it's weird.

After eating, Felix stood up with a groan, rubbing his stomach. "Stuffed! See ya, boys, in the morning." He shot Silas a wink and tilted his head toward Jason, who still hadn't said much. "Don't do anything I would. Or do—just don't get caught."

Silas rolled his eyes, chewing the last of his salad while seated on the floor, his back pressed against the bookshelf. The silence that followed Felix's exit was suffocating, heavy as the humid air that clung to the room. It felt like being trapped inside a summer storm, the atmosphere pressing against his skin.

The slushie in his hand was a saving grace, though the constant temperature swings were starting to wear on him. He could swear the air grew hotter every time he tried to breathe.

Jason, sitting across the room, didn't seem half as bothered. His expression was carved into something tight and unreadable, jaw stiff, spoon clinking against the bowl of chili. He looked pissed off.

Son of Jupiter thing, Silas figured. Probably messing with the air around him without realizing it.

The silence gnawed at him until he finally snapped, his tone sharp, "What'd I do this time, huh, Jace?"

Jason choked on his chili at the sudden nickname, coughing into his fist. Color rose faintly in his cheeks. "I—I—it's nothing. Just..." His voice dropped, uncertain. "Just a little tired of being stuck here."

"So...you're taking it out on me?" Silas grumbled, the words rougher than he meant them. Figures. Why would Jason be different—

"No, it's..." Jason stopped himself, eyes locking on Silas with that electrifying blue gaze that always made his chest tighten. "Sorry. You're right. I didn't mean to get mad at you, Si. I just...let jealousy get the best of me."

Those eyes spoke in a language Silas didn't know how to translate—concern, affection, sincerity. All things foreign to the son of a serial killer.

He smirked to mask the ache crawling up his ribs. "If we see her next time, she's all yours. I wasn't actually interested in her. Gods, no."

Jason blinked, and for a split second his posture faltered, like he'd been misunderstood. Then he forced a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah...thanks for understanding, Si."

Silas brushed the crumbs off his lap and pushed himself to his feet. He could feel Jason's gaze weighing heavy on him, pressing with words left unsaid. Silas didn't give him the chance.

"Good night, Jace."

He shut the door behind him, leaving the golden boy in silence.

Only then did Jason whisper into the empty room, soft enough for no one to ever hear.

"Sweet dreams, Si."

The next morning, Nivia breezed straight into Silas' room. He sat bolt upright, instantly awake, caught between embarrassment that she'd just waltzed in and irritation that she had. She set down a silver platter of fruit and cereal on his desk with her usual frosty elegance.

"Unfortunately, Lord Aeolus is booked solid this morning," she said sweetly. "But if there's anything I can do to assist—"

"Supplies." Silas cut her off, voice flat. No charm this time. No polite smile. "We need stuff to make a centaur body."

"O-Oh, right." Nivia's poise faltered, her icy-blue eyes flickering as if he'd slapped her with his tone. "I'll...ask Muggy. She's great at this sort of thing."

Silas blinked when she lingered instead of leaving. What, does she want a thanks or something? His irritation snapped.

"Can I help you?"

Her lips parted in a sharp little gasp, caught between offense and bewilderment. With a frosty huff, she spun on her heel and swept out, leaving a trail of cold air in her wake.

Silas scowled at the door. Girls. So moody. Well...Poppy's the exception.

After breakfast, Silas found himself in Felix's room — which looked like a tornado had hit it. Clothes, wrappers, and random trinkets were scattered everywhere. Silas briefly wondered how Felix wasn't constantly in trouble for his terrible cleaning habits at Camp Jupiter.

Nivia breezed in without a word, dropped a heap of supplies onto the floor, and breezed right back out. The pile included cardboard, paint, brushes, a bundle of (hopefully fake) fur, duct tape, scissors, and even a tangled black wig that looked like it had lost a fight with a hellhound. She didn't so much as glance at them.

Felix gave a low whistle. "Whoa. What did you do to make her so unhappy, man? Don't you know how to treat a lady?"

Silas rolled his eyes. "No point in being nice anymore." He resisted the urge to glance at Jason, half-expecting the golden boy to look disappointed. "Anyway, we don't have all day. We're making one disguise."

Jason's brows knit together. "One?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Silas snapped. "We don't have time to waste on three realistic centaur getups. One suit. We all squeeze in."

The next several hours were spent in controlled chaos. Felix actually proved he was good at crafts, carefully piecing together the cardboard frame while Silas mixed paint for a convincing horse hide and Jason dutifully held things steady. The fake fur was glued down in messy clumps, paint splattered the floor, and someone managed to get duct tape stuck in their hair.

Still, slowly but surely, the ridiculous contraption began to look like a centaur. All the while, they bickered and brainstormed. Parties happened at night — which meant their cover story was simple. Show up as a party-goer, mingle just enough to get close, and then strike.

It wasn't exactly Silas' idea of subtlety...but it would work.

When they finally stepped back, the three boys stared at their crude masterpiece. It wasn't...awful. In fact, it was almost convincing — shockingly so. Felix, as it turned out, had hidden talents when it came to arts and crafts. The makeshift centaur had a cardboard stallion body, painted with uneven patches of brown and black, and a slim slot where someone could squeeze through to connect the fake horse body to the human torso. The black wig duct-taped onto the rear swung limply like a depressed tail.

Felix clapped his hands together. "So...who's gonna be on top?"

Jason scratched his cheek, looking a little too thoughtful. "Silas should. The tail's black, his hair's black. Makes sense."

Silas narrowed his eyes. "That's not really a reason—"

"Good enough for me!" Felix cut in cheerfully. "You're the one obsessed with stabbing the centaurs, so hey — perfect front man."

Silas gawked. "You can't be serious."

"Dead serious." Felix ducked under the contraption and crouched stiffly, claiming the rear end without hesitation. "Besides, you're the shortest. Anyway, dibs on butt duty."

To say Silas was baffled was an understatement. His disbelief only grew when he realized what that left: he'd have to sit on Jason's shoulders.

Jason seemed to realize the same thing. The golden boy went unusually quiet, a strange flush creeping up his neck.

Silas scowled. "What's with that look?"

Jason stiffened, eyes flicking away. "N-Nothing."

"Is it because you'd have to carry me the whole time?" Silas pressed, his irritation rising. "I'm not that heavy."

Jason let out a laugh — awkward, nervous, and far too quick. "Yeah...sure, Si."

It was evening by the time they stepped out into the mountain air, their breaths puffing white against the twilight. The chill sank into their bones immediately. The disguise was awkward to carry, but none of them were stupid enough to risk wobbling across an icy vapor bridge while crammed inside it.

For the past three days, they'd found nothing — no trail, no answers, nothing but endless gusts of wind that seemed to mock their efforts. But as soon as their boots touched solid ground on the other side of the bridge, Silas' sharp gaze caught the glint of scattered bottles lying in the snow. Some were smashed, others still sloshed faintly with liquid.

"Those centaurs have to be very drunk..." Felix muttered, his face pale. His usual grin faltered as if the sight dragged him into some memory he didn't want to relive. He tried for a laugh, brittle as glass. "Is it too late to call it a night, ha ha..."

Silas hesitated. He wasn't good at comfort; never had been. The words came out flat, but they were all he could offer. "If we don't get those answers from Aeolus, we won't complete the quest. And if we return to camp having failed—" His jaw tightened. "We won't find Amari."

That name struck something in Felix. His silver-blue eyes hardened with sudden resolve, the fear burning away as determination took root. He gave a sharp nod, almost too quick, like he needed the motion to steady himself.

Jason had been silent, but the flicker in his electric-blue eyes gave him away. He wanted to ask — Silas could see it, the curiosity twisting on his tongue. Who's Amari? But in the hush beneath the stars, Jason swallowed the question, as though afraid that pressing too far might shatter something delicate between them.

Following the trail of broken bottles down the slope, they froze when the echo of shouting and pounding music spilled through the night air. It rolled up the mountain like thunder, wild and uneven.

"Sounds like they're in that cave down there..." Silas muttered, eyes narrowing as he adjusted the pugio strapped to his belt. His hand brushed against the duct tape in his pocket—because really, when didn't duct tape come in handy? "We should get the disguise on now, in case anyone's guarding the entrance."

Felix let out a crooked grin as he and Jason shifted the bulky disguise into place. His amusement only grew when Silas, with obvious reluctance, squeezed himself into the slit at the front and scrambled onto Jason's shoulders. Jason braced silently, steadying them both as Felix ducked beneath the stallion body at the rear.

The only clear thought that flickered through Silas' head in that awkward moment was: His shoulders are broader than I thought.

He tugged the black parka around himself to hide the stiff edges of cardboard legs. From a distance, with the wig tail swishing faintly in the cold wind, they almost passed for a real centaur. Hopefully, the drunken centaurs below wouldn't look too closely.

The three of them moved stiffly down the slope, every step of the disguise creaking in protest. To anyone watching, they probably looked like a centaur that had forgotten how to walk. The pounding music grew louder, echoing off the mountain walls until it felt like it was rattling in their ribs.

Sure enough, a lone centaur lounged outside the cave mouth, bottle in hand. Its shaggy hair glistened with frost, and its heavy hooves scraped against stone as it suddenly perked up at the sight of them.

"James! You're back, you short bastard!" the guard bellowed, tossing the empty bottle aside as it galloped toward them—not out of malice, but joy.

Silas didn't hesitate. He could feel the emptiness around them—no others nearby. Before Jason could so much as twitch beneath him, he pulled his pugio and let it fly. The blade struck true, right through the creature's chest. With a startled grunt, the centaur dissolved into a shower of golden dust, scattering across the frost-bitten ground.

"Silas," Jason hissed, his voice sharp and low. Silas could imagine that deep, disappointed frown without needing to see it. "You're going to get us killed if you do that—"

"What was that? I don't think legs talk." Silas nudged his boot gently against what he hoped was Jason's stomach. "Tell Felix to pick up my pugio."

There was a hiss of whispered protest beneath the disguise, then the shuffle of movement. A moment later, a dark hand waved blindly through the slit, and Silas leaned to the side, plucking the familiar weight of his dagger from Felix's grip.

Time to crash a party, he thought, gleeful sparks firing in his chest. Let Jason frown all he wanted—by the end of the night, Silas would prove himself right. Every last one of those drunken centaurs would be just be a pile of golden dust.

The disguise swayed and lurched deeper into the cavern, each step an awkward shuffle. Every straggler that staggered too close never got the chance to sound an alarm—Silas' pugio struck true each time. They collapsed in golden showers, their laughter and slurred curses dying in their throats.

Silas would be lying if he said it wasn't a little fun. There was something satisfying about watching them crumble like ash on the wind, vanishing before they even realized what had happened. Pests, he thought darkly, until the shimmer of dust caught in his hair. His hand brushed at it, but only spread the glittering flecks through his ebony curls. Great. He probably looked like some idiot who had styled his hair with golden glitter.

Ten minutes of stiff trudging later, they found the heart of the party. The cave bloomed wide, firelight flickering off stalactites, the air thick with smoke, booze, and sweat. Music blared—no rhythm, just pounding drums and stamping hooves. Centaurs shoved, fought, embraced, tripped over each other in a glorious mess. For one fleeting, dangerous second, Silas let himself drink in the chaos with delight. His lips almost twitched into a smile—before he snapped himself back.

Focus, idiot.

A pack of burly centaurs noticed him, their shouts breaking through the din.

"Oi! The pipsqueak James made it!"

"Hah, look at the runt, finally crawled out of the hole!"

They barreled toward him with clattering mugs, shoving a cup under his nose. The reek nearly knocked him back—sharp, pungent, like someone had distilled fire itself.

Jason shifted beneath him, a subtle warning tremor. Shit. Silas' mind was already racing. Jason was straining, his movements sluggish from carrying his weight so long. They couldn't keep this up.

I need them to turn on each other. Fast.

His fingers tightened on the mug. Deep down, Silas knew there was something inside him, a power that thrummed whenever things spiraled out of control. Sometimes he felt it like static before a storm, an omen scratching at the edge of his thoughts. But it was unpredictable—always slipping loose when he was furious, cornered, done pretending.

Maybe he didn't have to wait for it. Maybe he could try to force it.

He could almost hear his father's voice, the words sharp as a blade: Anger is weakness. Rage makes you sloppy. It makes you lose control. His father's phantom gaze burned in his skull, disappointment heavy.

Silas curled his lip. Maybe control isn't what I need right now.

The centaurs were watching him expectantly, mugs raised, waiting for him to drink. If he hesitated, they'd get suspicious.

Drinking might help me loosen up until there's nothing left but raw nerves and rage.

But then his stomach twisted, doubt cutting cold through the haze of temptation. What if it works too well? What if I drag Jason and Felix down with me?

Still, he laughed—louder than he felt, the sound rough around the edges—and clinked his mug against theirs like he belonged.

The liquor scorched his throat on the way down. It burned hotter than fire, settled in his gut like molten lead. Silas coughed once, but bit it back, refusing to give the centaurs the satisfaction of seeing weakness. Around him they roared in approval, slamming their mugs together, some of the alcohol spilling onto the rocky ground.

"Good lad!" one of them bellowed.

The chatter swirled, messy and loud. Snatches of gossip slipped through between the boasts.

"... Aeolus is still pissed off about our parties, boring bloke!..."

"...something's brewing soon so best to drink away..."

"...Hey, did you hear what Millard did yesterday..."

Silas let their words wash over him, twisting them into something else entirely. In the back of his mind, the voices began to shift. They weren't centaurs anymore. They were his neighbors, sneering. His father, disappointed. The praetors at camp, dismissive and cold.

"That boy's not normal."

"You're too weak, son."

"Hardly Roman enough, Vesper."

His grip on the mug tightened, knuckles whitening. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, drowning out the drums, the laughter. He could almost see their faces in the smoke and firelight, each one looking down at him, weighing him, finding him to be an anomaly of sorts.

Heat flared in his chest, crawling up his throat, leaking out in sparks he couldn't see but could feel.

The centaurs noticed first. They shifted uneasily, tails flicking, mugs lowered. Their rowdy energy sputtered like a candle in wind.

"Oi, mate," one slurred, his voice pitched nervously, "you ain't one of dem bitter blokes when drunk, are ya?"

The tension spread like ripples in a pond. Silas hadn't moved a muscle, but they edged back from him anyway, their laughter thinning to wary silence.

Jason stirred beneath him, whispering through clenched teeth, "Silas. Whatever you're doing—stop."

But Silas' lips curved, faint and sharp.

No. Let's see what happens.

With an unnerving smile, Silas tilted his head as names popped up in his head. "Hah, no way! You guys are talking about Millard and his stupid accident, right? Didn't you hear that it wasn't an accident, but that someone shoved him off that cliff?"

There were a few mutters, apparently these centaurs liked Millard enough to whisper who could have done such a thing. As if none of you are brutes yourselves, Silas thought icily.

"Hey, what are you on about?" another centaur asked, his voice strained with nerves.

"Oh, don't play dumb, Steve." Silas' smile widened further, his onyx eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "Millard told me everything."

Steve stiffened. He looked in a hurry to leave, dropping his bottle, but the others caught the implication. Rum-soaked suspicion ignited like tinder, and they piled onto Steve before he could protest. The noise was deafening—shouts, hooves striking stone, fists slamming into flesh. Steve didn't last long. His massive form buckled, and with a startled cry, he exploded into dust.

The room fell quiet for half a breath. Silas watched, fascinated. The weight was too suffocating, he mused. A shame. Or maybe not.

"You guys didn't think it was Steve?" Silas feigned surprise, raising his brows. "I only meant that he knew who did it."

"Huh?" one slurred.

Geez, Silas thought sarcastically, they're so bright.

"Steve knew who did it because he saw the whole thing happen."

"Hey! Why didn't you say so?" a centaur huffed, gripping his club tighter.

"No," Silas drawled, letting his voice drop into something colder. He could feel his blade calling to him, itching in his hand even though it wasn't drawn. "Why didn't you ask Steve before you killed him?" He let the pause hang like a noose, watching their confusion fester. His voice returned to a false nonchalant tone. "Anyways, I was going to say that person is with us now. He's the strongest centaur at the party."

That hooked them instantly. The room buzzed with distrust as their bloodshot eyes darted across the cave, looking for a traitor. The centaur who had called him "mate" earlier scratched at his scuffled beard, his breath rank with alcohol. "So...how do we know which bloke did it?"

Silas leaned forward on Jason's shoulders, his grin sharp enough to cut. "Easy. You ask yourselves...who's been pretending to be your friend this whole time? If you're not one to think then simply fight to the death. The last one standing obviously hurt Millard."

That was all he needed to say before the chaos rippled within the cave. The centaurs turned on each other, paranoia spilling faster than the liquor. Shouts rose, weapons swung, hooves stomped. It only took one blow landing wrong, one misstep, and then the whole cave dissolved into violence.

Jason yelled up at him, voice barely audible under the din. "What the HELL is going on?"

Felix's laugh came muffled from under the disguise, but there was a manic edge to it. "I think he just set the whole cave on fire without lifting a torch."

Silas' pulse thundered in his veins, matching the rhythm of the centaurs tearing each other apart. He knew—he knew—this was him. His anger, his will, his chaos pushing them into slaughter. And he couldn't stop smiling.

His face had sharpened into something inhuman, like a serpent poised over its prey. His lips curved back in a smile that was too wide, too fanged, his teeth gleaming white under the torchlight as though meant for tearing, not grinning. His onyx eyes glimmered with a feral delight, and when Silas laughed, it slithered from his throat with a cruel rhythm.

"They're so stupid," he hissed, head tilting as the centaurs tore into each other, "gods, I almost pity them." His laughter followed, jagged and cold, cutting through the chaos like broken glass.

Jason buckled at last, dropping to his knees, both boys tumbled to the ground but Silas stood back up in an instant as he watched the mayhem unfold. The disguise collapsed around them, useless scraps of fur and cardboard legs crunching beneath hooves. Felix let out a yelp as he barely escaped getting trampled on. Most of the centaurs were too frenzied to notice—but the few who did never lasted long enough to cry out. Silas was on them in an instant, blade flashing with frightening precision. He slit throats before they could shout, plunged his pugio into eyes so they'd never see again, and twisted until they burst into golden dust.

That dust clung to him, covering his face, his curls, his jacket. It smeared across the freckles on his nose, catching in his lashes like glittering ash. Silas looked drenched in gold—like a victor of war.

Then he turned.

Jason and Felix were staring at him. Not with awe. Not even with disgust. With horror.

The wild grin slid off his face as his gaze dropped to his pugio. His hand trembled faintly around the hilt. The shine of the blade warped his reflection—eyes wide, black as tar, mouth still curled in that serpentine smile he hadn't realized he wore. For an instant, he saw his mother's cruel precision staring back at him. His father's dead-eyed hunger. He looked like both of them—merciless, frightening, utterly untouchable.

A chill bled through him. His stomach twisted. Gods. I'm not like them, am I?

To his surprise, Jason and Felix moved first. They didn't run, didn't raise their weapons. They reached toward him—two hands offered in the frantic chaos.

Silas' breath shuddered out of him as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. With fingers that weren't steady, he gripped both their hands and let them pull him back onto his feet.

"C'mon, let's go, Si," Jason whispered. His voice was soft, but Silas couldn't shake the image of Jason's eyes—startled, electric blue, wide as though he had seen something monstrous crouching inside his friend.

What the fuck happened? Silas' thoughts rattled, frantic, breathless. Was it because of the alcohol? Shit, was I just too angry to control myself?

Out of all the things that was running in his mind, Silas desperately wished that his friends wouldn't treat him differently after doing...whatever that was.

Please...I may not be a good person but I'm trying...I promise.

Jason was worried.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn't the first time on their quest.

They had managed to slip away from the carnage after...whatever Silas had done. Jason couldn't even put it into words. The boy hadn't just fought—he had unleashed. Chaos itself bent around him like a storm obeying its master, and Jason wasn't sure if Silas had meant for it to happen, or if it had been something raw and instinctive clawing out of him.

Silas hadn't looked like himself though. His smile had been too sharp, his eyes too wild, and when he moved, it was with a precision Jason associated more with predators than people. But even with the horror of it still clinging to him, Jason couldn't shake the image burned into his mind.

The golden dust of the centaurs had swirled around Silas, coating his face and hair until he looked crowned in it. Against his black curls and pale skin, the specks gleamed like constellations, as though the gods had drawn a map of stars across him. He looked nothing like the awkward, sharp-tongued boy Jason knew—he looked like something celestial, an angel of death descending on the battlefield.

Jason had been terrified. His stomach had lurched, his hands had gone clammy—but even then, a part of him had admired it. Admired him.

And that was what scared Jason most of all.

Despite being friends for almost a year now, Silas was still one big mystery. Jason could read people—granted he wasn't always the best at it—but Silas? Silas slipped through his fingers like smoke.

So the thought of liking someone like him, someone who felt so untouchable and out of reach, was daunting.

It wasn't that Silas was hiding from them out of cruelty. Jason didn't think so, at least. But beyond Felix, Jason had no clue about Silas' past—where he came from, what haunted him. He didn't even know the boy's favorite color, or if he had a sweet tooth, or if he hated the cold. Silas had carved out this distance, sharp and deliberate, like the blade he always kept at his side.

And yet, Jason could see the way his friend carried himself. How his words cut quicker than his knife, how his eyes sometimes went far away when the world got too quiet. Jason swore he could almost see it—the thorns choking his heart, pressing in tighter every time he tried to feel anything real.

Jason wanted to tell him, it's okay. I'll save you. I promise.

But the words caught in his throat every time, because deep down he knew the truth.

How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?

Silas wasn't sure what happened next. His mind spun in too many directions, the world tilting and folding in on itself. Somewhere, hushed words of concern drifted toward him, muffled and far away.

And then—her voice. A velvet purr curling in his ear: Look at you.

He almost laughed. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe he was already gone. But fleetingly, treacherously, Silas wondered if he had proved himself tonight. Proved what? That he was strong? That he was dangerous? That he was just like them?

Did I want this?

The centaurs' drunken shouts still echoed inside his head, looping endlessly. He didn't even know how he had known the words to say, how he twisted them against each other so easily. It just...came. Like a second voice whispering in his veins.

One blink—he was standing on the bridge. Two figures blurred at either end. Friends? Were they? What would his father say if he saw him now, clinging to others like this? Friends make you weak, boy.

And gods—did he look like his father just now? That expression, the one that had frightened even himself—how long ago had it been? Seconds? Hours?

The next thing he knew, he was being lowered onto a bed. A firm grip steadying him, a familiar scent, a voice he knew better than his own.

"Don't worry, Si," a soft voice murmured. Gentle. Solid. The snow-white curls above him haloed by lamplight, silvery-blue eyes heavy with something unreadable. "I'm here."

A damp cloth pressed against his face, cool against skin sticky with dirt and gold dust. It was Felix wiping him clean.

Despite the screaming chaos clawing at the inside of his skull, Silas felt himself relax—not because the noise was gone, but because Felix was there. Anchored. Safe. The only good thing from his past somehow made flesh beside him.

And gods—why did it sting so much? Why did his eyes burn? Felix wasn't Leonard. Felix wasn't his father. Felix wasn't even dead. And yet—why did it feel like grief was ripping him open?

The words spilled out, heavy and slurred on his alcohol-stench breath. "Are yoo... scared uhf me?"

A pause. Then a hand ruffled gently through his dusty curls, warm and grounding.

"A little at first," Felix admitted. Honest. "But then... I realized you weren't you."

Silas' heart lurched. His voice cracked before he could stop it. "How'd yoo know—that wasn't—the sstroo me?"

He hadn't meant to say it aloud. But Felix only smiled faintly, that thief's smile, and said, "Because I know my Silas. We're best friends till we bite, remember?"

Silas let out a choked little laugh. Yeah. How silly.

The room that was once an empty prison of paranoia and regrets no longer felt hollow. No longer gnawed at his edges. For once, he didn't have to watch the clock's hands tick by the second.

Within minutes, he was asleep. The chaos finally receding, drowned out by the quiet heartbeat of the lucky thief who had promised him safety.

And Silas believed him.

Silas groaned with all the enthusiasm of a vampire dragged into daylight. His head pounded, every throb like a drum someone refused to stop beating. When he cracked open his eyes, he froze—the heavy weight of an arm draped right across his face.

Felix. And his germs.

With a disgusted noise, Silas shoved the arm off, scowling as though Felix had committed some mortal offense.

But then—memories. Distorted, fragmented, far too vivid. The fight. The laughter. The golden dust clinging to his skin. And the things he'd said. The things they'd seen. His stomach dropped. If there was a god of embarrassment, Silas was ready to sacrifice himself.

He swore, then and there, to never touch alcohol again. Not even a sip. Not even if Bacchus himself offered it.

Right now, the idea of throwing himself off the icy vapor bridge sounded preferable to facing Jason. Emotional confrontations were not his specialty. Maybe I can just pretend nothing happened, he thought, running through increasingly elaborate strategies for avoidance.

After a long, scalding shower and a change of clothes, Silas found his eyes drifting toward his bag. The one that still held his father's letter. His throat tightened. But before the thoughts could dig their claws in, Felix stirred.

The boy rolled out of bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets, hair sticking out in every possible direction. "Man," Felix groaned, stretching dramatically, "who knew being the butt was hard work?"

Silas shot him a flat look. "You literally had the easiest job." He tilted his head as he shook the water dripping from his black curls.

"Eh," Felix shrugged, grinning. "But Jason didn't really mind—"

A sharp knock at the door cut him off. Both boys froze.

The silence stretched. Not an aura—they would have barged in. Whoever it was, they were waiting. Patient. Intentional.

Silas' stomach sank like a stone. Jason.

He turned on his heel, scanning the walls frantically for any sign of a hidden window, a crack, a hole—anything to slip through. Not because he was avoiding Jason. No. Definitely not. He just happened to be proactively researching emergency exits.

Meanwhile, Felix—traitor that he was—bounded toward the door with all the eagerness of a golden retriever.

Silas climbed onto his bedside desk, eyes narrowing as he spotted an opening near the ceiling. Perfect. Freedom. He turned, about to ask Felix for a boost, when his gaze snagged on a pair of electric blue eyes watching him from across the room.

The one and only Jason Grace.

The realization hit like a punch. Silas leapt down immediately, landing with a soft thud, but humiliation scorched through him so fiercely he almost thought he'd combust on the spot.

Out of all the things Jason could have said, Silas hadn't expected the faintest trace of a tease, "Am I interrupting your escape?"

Silas cleared his throat, scrambling. "Uh—nah. I was just...making sure there were, y'know. Emergency exits."

Jason's brows lifted, a smile tugging at his mouth. The scar at the corner of his lip shifted with it. "Right. Because you never know when you'll need to swan-dive off a floating palace."

Silas' ears burned. He resisted the urge to crawl under the desk instead.

"Well," Jason went on, tone softening into something more serious, "I figured after a night's rest, we could go to Aeolus."

Before Silas could respond, Felix let out a loud whoop, already half out the door. "Finally! About time."

The three of them shuffled into the hall. Jason and Silas lingered by the doorway while Felix ducked into his room to grab his bag, and suddenly the silence between them stretched, taut and uncomfortable.

Silas blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Uh—so...how do you even know he's gonna give us answers? What if I—we didn't...get rid of them all?"

Jason scratched at his cheek, avoiding Silas' sharp stare. "I stayed behind to make sure after Felix got you to bed. The rest were reduced to dust."

"Oh."

The word sat heavy on his tongue. Was he supposed to say thanks? Or pretend it wasn't a big deal? He shifted his weight, wishing he could rewind time—or fast-forward it.

Thankfully, the door banged open and Felix returned with a lopsided grin, swinging his bag onto his shoulder. He hooked an arm around each of them like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Alright, lads," Felix announced, grinning wide, "let's get some fucking answers, yeah?"

They pushed through the chaotic lobby, winds gusting like a restless mob, tugging at their clothes and hair. Doors banged open and shut on their own. Paper airplanes of every shape zipped through the air—dive-bombing, spiraling, colliding midflight. Wind nymphs plucked them out of the air, unfolded them, scanned the scribbles, then tossed them back up. The pages immediately folded themselves and darted away again, carrying their secrets.

Felix muttered, "Do they just hire a new secretary every day? Or do they fire 'em before lunch?"

Their aura-guide didn't bother answering, just ushered them toward a set of double doors. The frame blinked with a green light like an airlock.

The chamber beyond could've been a cathedral, if a cathedral had been ransacked by a tornado with a taste for daytime TV. The domed ceiling gleamed like polished silver, but below it, cameras, fake plants, spotlights, even entire wall segments drifted in midair. Silas slowed, uneasy at being surrounded by those modern technologies.

A patchwork causeway stretched over a yawning chasm: marble slabs, plywood boards, chunks of carpet, even sod jammed together in a mad quilt. They hesitated, until Felix shoved Jason forward. Jason stumbled, shot them a huff, then raised a thumbs-up when the platform didn't collapse.

At the center, a sphere of flat-panel screens hovered like orbiting moons around a control dais. Aeolus floated inside, flipping through paper airplanes, firing remotes at random screens, talking into an invisible earpiece.

He wore his suit that was patterned like the sky, clouds drifting across the fabric and darkening as if storms passed through him. His face—half-Ken doll, half-melted candle—twitched with smiles and grimaces in rapid succession. His white hair shot up in tufts, and his eyes flicked so fast between monitors it was dizzying.

Their new guide floated toward him nervously. "Mr. Aeolus. The demigods have—"

"Finally!" Aeolus whipped around, his grin too wide, his eyes burning with the light of twenty different channels. "Still haven't opened that letter, eh? Shame! Ha-ha!"

Silas stiffened at the sudden spotlight on him. Aeolus' words landed sharp, like he'd peeled back a curtain Silas never wanted touched.

Jason stepped forward, jaw tight. "We did what you asked. Now—information."

Aeolus waved him off, already distracted by a new voice in his ear. "Yes, yes, Lady Juno, I'm on it, don't rush me." He nodded sharply, then muttered, "Ah! Looks like she's keeping an eye on you, son of Jupiter..."

Jason's expression twitched, but Aeolus barreled on, half to them, half to his unseen correspondents. "Rumors say the source of the Trojan Sea Monster is a cult on the shores of Crescent City..." He froze, listening again. "Yes, Lady Fortuna, understood. Yes, Lord Jupiter, yes, yes—exception granted."

"Exception?" Felix repeated, brows knitting. "Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

Jason's shoulders stiffened at the mention of his father—and his godly stepmother. Silas caught the flicker of doubt in his face. Juno helping her husband's son (that wasn't hers unsurprisingly) was pretty unheard of.

Aeolus clapped his hands like a talk show host closing out a segment. "Ancient dice! That's what you'll need to deal with the beast. Been ordered to give you some winds—send you straight to the shop where you'll find it."

Jason opened his mouth. "That's—"

"I hope you lads are good at finding needles in haystacks!" Aeolus barked a laugh.

Before they could demand more, the floor ripped apart. Felix slammed into Jason, who slammed into Silas, and all three of them dropped into the abyss. A split-second later, the winds screamed to life and whisked them away.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

c̶h̶a̶p̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶f̶i̶f̶t̶e̶e̶n̶

❝ＷＥ ＭＥＥＴ ＡＮ ＥＶＩＬ ＨＩＰＰＩＥ

 ＡＮＤ ＪＡＳＯＮ ＩＳ ＣＵＲＳＥＤ

 ＴＨＥＮ ＣＵＲＥＤ ＢＹ 

ＦＥＬＩＸ＇Ｓ ＰＥＮＩＳ ＡＭＵＬＥＴ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

AS THEIR QUEST dragged on, Silas was beginning to hate anything that involved being in the air. He hated the rush of wind in his ears, hated the way his stomach dropped every time the ground fell away, hated that Jason's arm was locked tight around his waist like some kind of seatbelt. The winds howled so fiercely, it was a miracle Silas wasn't blinded by his own tears.

Within a minute, they slammed into the ground in a heap. Silas ended up crushed at the bottom, Jason pancaked in the middle, and Felix—tallest and heaviest of the trio—squashing them both at the top.

Silas squirmed, yelping as Jason's breath fanned hot against his ear. "Get—off—"

They untangled in record time, and Felix stumbled to his feet, wheezing out a laugh. "I can't tell if that was gnarly or fucking terrifying!" He spat out a stray feather, coughing as it clung to his lip.

Jason looked disgusted. Silas wasn't far behind.

They stood on lumpy arid dirt in what looked like a half-forgotten parking lot. It took Silas a minute to unscramble the words on a flickering neon sign above the storefront but eventually he figured out it read:

ENVY'S FORGOTTEN SIERRA

Jason squinted. "The store itself looks forgotten."

Even though, he was told that most demigods tended to have dyslexia and ADHD—Silas called it as ADD sometimes—he still felt shame coiled in his chest; nearly all his life he believed that something was wrong with him when it came to reading and paying attention thanks to his father threatening him for his slip-ups. Turns out he had some disorders, but that didn't make Silas feel any better.

He pushed any thoughts of his father down, desperately ignoring the weight of the letter pressing down on his back.

Through the dusty display window, they could just make out a mountain of odds and ends: trinkets, furniture, framed art that looked decades out of date. Something about the place screamed forgotten and remembering, all at once, like it had been scavenged from a thousand different lives.

"Who names their kid Envy?" Felix muttered, pushing forward. 

The door creaked as they stepped inside. A bell above the frame jingled, and all three of them flinched at the sharp sound.

The air smelled faintly of old varnish, lemon cleaner, and dust. Every inch of the store was packed—shelves teetering under stacks of CDs, VHS tapes, dusty chess sets missing pawns, rotary phones in faded pastel colors. Dozens of paintings of the Sierra mountains lined the walls, each slightly different: snowy peaks, stormy skies, blood-red sunsets. A crystal chandelier sagged crookedly from the ceiling, strung with cobwebs that glittered faintly under the light.

Somewhere deeper in the shop, faint music spilled out of an old stereo. The speakers crooned: "I don't want to talk... about the things we've gone through..."

Silas shivered. He didn't know the song, but something in the melancholy tone made the hairs on his arms stand up.

"Jackpot!" Felix exclaimed. He darted to a sagging CD shelf, his bag bouncing against his side. Flipping through jewel cases with reckless speed, he muttered, "C'mon, tell me this place has Michael Jackson's latest..."

Silas hung back, scanning the clutter. His unease coiled tighter, like the bell had rung in something waiting just out of sight.

Jason was in the middle of lecturing Felix—"Don't just go grabbing CDs, there could be something dangerous—"

Silas shot him a glare. "Let him get all the CDs he wants."

The woman's voice floated out over the crackling stereo, "Nothing more to say... no more ace to play..."

Jason's brows pinched. "But—"

The chorus swelled, sharp and cutting. "The winner takes it all—"

Silas cut him off, eyes still flicking toward Felix. "Nope. Not listening to reason right now." His voice was tight, but softer underneath, unspoken: You don't get it. He needs this. It... makes him happy.

Instead he snapped, deflecting, "We're never gonna find that stupid dice in all this junk..."

"The loser's standing small..." crooned faintly in the background.

"A dice, you say?" rasped a voice from the shadows.

Silas and Jason had their weapons drawn in an instant, eyes scanning the cluttered shelves.

Felix, too far down the aisle and buried in jewel cases, didn't notice a thing.

Silas' attention darted everywhere at once. The song kept bleeding into his ears, distracting, haunting. He made a mental note to ask Felix who the singer was later—whoever she was, her voice hit something in him he didn't have words for.

But the speaker of that rasping voice? Whoever that was, Silas already knew he hated them.

The woman emerged from behind a shelf (and the fact Silas hadn't sensed her sent a chill crawling up his spine). She looked like she'd dressed by losing a fight with a thrift store: layers upon layers of mismatched fabric, necklaces jangling, scarves knotted haphazardly around her head. Something bulky sat beneath the wrappings—maybe hair, maybe not.

Her skin was waxy pale, stretched too thin over a lean, wiry frame. Jaded green eyes burned with a manic gleam as she gnawed on her fingers, her teeth stained and crumbling. Her breath hit them like a wall, rancid and rotten. Jason actually staggered back, and Silas couldn't tell if it was from the stench or the sheer horror of her face.

She looked to be the definition of a wicked hippie. Besides weren't Hippies supposed to be a fad, something out of the sixties and seventies? Naive peace-lovers, his father had sneered once, who didn't care what they did so long as there were drugs involved.

"Yes," she rasped, as though answering a question only she heard. "I have a whole collection of dice. Come, come, boys. Excuse the mess, I had a little mishap recently."

That had to be one of the worst lies Silas had ever heard—top ten material, easily—but they couldn't exactly call her out. If the dice were anywhere in this dump, it'd be in that collection.

How the hell are we even supposed to tell which one it is? Silas thought. Wait...this has to be the dice from the prophecy... right?

He glanced at Jason as they followed the disgusting, evil-looking hippie deeper into the shop. Jason met his eyes, steady, that unspoken look passing between them.

I've got your back.

Yeah. I've got yours too.

Silas could only hope Felix would notice their absence if things went south. Trouble felt inevitable with the old hag leading them deeper into the cluttered store. Jason walked close, his expression just as taut as Silas felt—nerves sharpened, ready to spring, yet forced into uneasy politeness.

"So... you must be the owner. Envy, right?" Jason asked, voice cautious.

The hippie barked a laugh that rattled in her chest. "Oh, yes, I own this place. But Envy? That's just my shortened English name."

Oh, great, Silas thought, dread crawling up the back of his neck. We're definitely in 'complex monster' territory. Or worse. Please, gods, not another goddess.

He glanced sidelong at Jason, who had slipped into that statue-like focus—stern, distracted, his brows drawn tight. Even under the sickly light, Jason looked like he'd stepped out of some Roman carving, every line of his face cut sharp. Silas hadn't noticed the faint scars along Jason's arms before, pale lines tracing his skin, but somehow they only added to his damn impossible gracefulness.

Focus, goddammit, Silas snapped at himself, dragging his gaze back to the hag.

The woman shuffled ahead, plucking random objects from shelves as though she couldn't decide if she wanted them or not. Her manic green eyes gleamed every time her fingers lingered too long. She's stronger than she looks, Silas thought grimly. The rotting act has to be a cover. If we have to fight her, she'll be a nightmare. 

"You boys are just so nice," she cooed suddenly, gnawing on the nail of her thumb. "So polite. I don't mind showing you my collection. Ah—but don't touch any of the dice, or things might get... messy again."

Jason frowned. "Um, but isn't this a store? As long as we don't steal, shouldn't it be—"

"Jason?" Silas cut in flatly.

Jason blinked at him. "Yeah?"

"Don't piss off the crazy hippie."

"...Sorry."

Envy shuffled toward a glass counter buried under a mountain of dice—wooden, metal, glass, some chipped, some polished to a gleam. A few were the regular six-siders you'd expect, but others stretched into stranger shapes: octagons, dodecahedrons, even twenty-sided ones, their edges sharp as teeth. She swept her arm across the clutter and dumped the whole collection onto the countertop, the clatter echoing like bones rattling in a grave.

For fifteen minutes, Jason and Silas combed through the mess with their eyes only—no touching. Every die blurred into the next. Silas could already feel the frustration crawling in his bones. This is impossible. We'll never find it in this junk heap.

Then Jason froze. His hand hovered over a small piece hidden in the pile: a pair of dice crudely carved from what looked like a knucklebone. Four uneven sides each with a faint inscription scratched into the yellowed surface, the marks almost glowing under the dim light. It didn't look anything like the modern dices, that's for sure.

"That one," Jason whispered. He reached out, his finger just barely grazing one of the dice—

Envy shrieked.

The sound ripped through the store, high and feral, shattering the heavy silence. Before Silas could blink, her skeletal fingers darted out and snatched the knucklebone dice, cradling it against her chest. Her face twisted, lips peeled back, green eyes ablaze with something raw and ugly.

"NO! It's mine! MINE!" she spat, the word frothing in her throat like poison.

The glare she turned on Jason rooted Silas in place. Cold recognition crawled over him. That expression—that consuming hatred, that gnashing hunger—it was the exact look he wore when jealousy twisted in his gut.

Jason staggered. He sucked in a breath like it burned. A sick sound escaped him as angry red boils erupted across his golden skin. They bubbled and spread over his jaw, across his cheeks, crawling down his throat and arms like wildfire. His skin swelled and blistered, oozing with pus where the boils broke. He dropped to his knees, teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder they didn't crack, his fists digging into the floor as his perfect Roman statue of a body warped under the plague of envy. 

Silas' stomach lurched. Jason's beauty—his impossible grace—was rotting away before his eyes just from Envy's glare alone—or should he say Invidia, the goddess of jealousy and hatred?

And Envy just cackled.

Silas had never thought he could burn hotter than last night's fury—but this was wildfire. This was his limit shattering.

He vaulted the counter in one smooth, furious motion, pugio flashing. Before the hag had even finished blinking, his blade drove into her right eye. Golden ichor exploded across his hand and cheek in a hot, metallic spray. Envy shrieked, the sound splitting the shelves like glass under pressure, but to Silas it was a symphony.

He leaned close, twisting the blade until her scream turned ragged. His whisper cut quieter than steel, "You may be a goddess, but when I'm through with you, you'll beg to be mortal."

He ripped the knife free, ichor pouring down her ruined face. She clawed at the scarf on her head as though desperate to unleash something worse—but Silas didn't give her the chance. With a vicious slash he severed her right hand; it hit the floor with a wet slap. Before she could recoil, he seized her remaining wrist. Her bones ground under his grip as she writhed, her strength like iron cables straining against him. He refused to let go.

Behind him, Jason stumbled through the wreckage, knocking dice and glass to the ground. His skin still writhed with boils, his breath ragged, and every time his hand brushed his fallen bag it seemed to skitter just out of reach, cursed by some unseen force.

"FELIX!" Silas bellowed, his voice raw. "GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!"

He's our only hope—

The hag rasped his name like a death rattle. "Silas Vesper."

Her breath hit him in a wave of rot and bile, nearly making him gag, but he didn't falter. He drove her other hand to the counter and slashed clean through, ichor spraying like molten gold. Then he pressed the pugio hard against her throat.

She laughed. Laughed. Godly blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth as her single jaded green eye locked on his.

Her grin widened through the ichor. "You may hurt me now, but I will be your downfall. I curse you to be consumed by envy against those you cherish most—until you too are incapable of happiness."

"Shut up, old hag." Silas said coldly, his voice devoid of mercy. He rammed his pugio straight through her throat. The blade tore through cartilage and ichor sprayed in golden arcs across the counter.

The words, however, slid under his skin like ice. The shop fell silent for a breath, and Silas' fury flickered—because he knew, deep down, she wasn't lying.

That hesitation cost him.

Something moved.

The scarf writhed. With a nauseating hiss, coils of jade-green serpents burst free from her head, eyes glowing like emerald fire, venom dripping from their fangs. Silas barely managed to roll aside as one struck where his throat had been, its fangs punching into the glass with a hiss that made the counter smoke.

He came up in a crouch, instinct pulling him between the monsterous goddess and Jason. Jason was on his knees, writhing, his golden hair plastered to his sweat-soaked forehead, every breath a strangled gasp.

Silas tightened his grip on the pugio, his heart hammering.

"Over my dead body," he snarled, planting himself as a shield. "FELIX MORRETTI, IF YOU DON'T—"

"Hey, relax, I'm—"

Felix bounded over, his bag bulging like he'd just raided a record store clearance sale. His tone died mid-sentence when his silvery-blue eyes landed on the carnage. The goddess was half-blind, her wrists stumps of ichor, her throat a ragged ruin, golden blood dripping down her tattered dress. Silas stood in the middle of it, gore streaked across his face and hands, expression carved in cold stone.

"Whoa, what the—" Felix stammered.

But then he saw Jason. The Roman was pale, skin crawling with boils, barely conscious. Felix dropped to his knees so fast his bag spilled across the floor, CDs clattering like coins. He shoved ambrosia cubes against Jason's lips, muttering, "C'mon, Grace, chew. Don't make me spoon-feed you."

Silas turned back just as Envy staggered toward him. Even nearly blinded, her head a nest of hissing serpents, she moved with predator's fury. She bared her broken mouth and hissed, ready to lunge.

But then her eyes flicked past him. She froze.

Her face contorted—not with malice, but terror. She stumbled backward, tripping over her hem. "Get it away from me, boy!"

Silas blinked. What?

Felix froze, halfway through forcing ambrosia between Jason's teeth. He followed her gaze, confusion sharpening to realization. On the floor beside his scattered CDs lay a crude, ugly little charm—bronze, worn, unmistakably obscene in design. The fascinus. It was hung on some beaded necklace that Felix probably found in the store.

And Envy's whole body recoiled backwards by some strange force, or so it seemed.

"Wait..." Silas' heart thudded as he pieced it together. Envy wasn't looking at Felix. She wasn't even looking at them.

She was staring at the charm like it was the most poisonous thing in the world.

The goddess hissed again, but this time it wasn't fury—it was fear.

"Shit," Silas muttered, remembering. Didn't Jason say it was an ancient Roman charm? Something to ward off evil... His eyes flicked to the grotesque little bronze piece glinting on the floor.

"Felix, give me that stupid thing—and take Jason outside."

Envy inched closer, her bare feet dragging across the cluttered floor, snakes uncoiling and spitting venom. The ragged wounds Silas had carved into her were knitting themselves together, golden ichor slowing to a trickle. Her ruined eye was already reforming, threads of gold spiderwebbing across the socket.

"You got it, Si." Felix's voice was unusually steady—serious, even—until his gaze fell on the charm. He snorted. "I can't wait to tell Poppy you tried to defeat an old hippie goddess with a—"

"Shut. Up." Silas didn't take his eyes off Envy.

"You're no fun," Felix muttered, but he scooped the charm up anyway. With a practiced flick, he tossed it toward Silas, who caught it in one goddess-blood-slicked hand. Then Felix slung Jason's arm over his shoulder, half-dragging, half-carrying him toward the door. Jason was groaning, still wracked with boils, but at least he was breathing.

The bell over the shop door chimed faintly as they stumbled out, leaving Silas alone with the goddess.

Envy bared her golden-stained teeth, her voice rattling like cracked glass. "Do you really think a trinket will save you, boy?"

Silas wrapped the crude bronze charm tight around his fist, pugio still gripped in the other hand."Guess we'll see."

He slipped the crude charm around his neck, angling the grotesque little fascinus so it faced her directly. Instantly, the goddess recoiled, her skin paling to a sickly, green-gray as if the charm was leeching the strength out of her. The snakes hissed and thrashed wildly, snapping at the air but refusing to lunge forward.

"No, don't—!" Envy shrieked, stumbling back, her voice breaking in a way that didn't sound divine at all—just pathetic.

Like I give a shit about your opinion, lady.

"You shouldn't have hurt Jace like that," Silas said coldly, his onyx eyes gleaming with a hatred so sharp it almost glowed. His voice was steady, deadly quiet. "You may be the goddess of hatred—but I doubt your hatred could begin to compare to mine right now."

Envy whimpered, clutching with her stumps for hands at her reforming wounds as the ichor dripped down her face. 

Silas moved like a shadow, swift and merciless, slipping past every feeble swipe of the snakes. Envy's screeches only fueled him. The goddess of jealousy—so ancient, so feared—was nothing more than prey in front of a demigod whose soul was already cracked and tainted. He heard the faintest whispers in his ears, familiar voices—his father's cunning, his mother's chaos—and though they promised only ruin, he obeyed.

Her golden ichor painted the walls, dripping across the broken glass counters, splattering over discarded trinkets and dice. And Silas... Silas was the painter. Every slash, every stab was deliberate, orchestrated with a detached precision.

This wasn't like last night. There was no thrill, no twisted smile curling his lips. What burned through him now wasn't pleasure—it was need.

A need to carve out the rot. A need to silence the gods and goddesses who thought they could meddle with his life, or worse—touch the people he refused to lose.

When Envy staggered, her serpents writhing in panic, Silas didn't see a goddess anymore. He saw a parasite. And parasites had to be destroyed.

Silas walked out of the store with godly blood still clinging under his nails no matter how hard he'd scrubbed. In one hand, he carried a stack of CDs—Bad, Dangerous, and Invincible—every Michael Jackson album Felix had been fussing over. He'd even snatched up a faded Michael Jackson shirt on the way out, though Silas was faintly surprised at how feminine the infamous pop star looked on it.

The ancient dice, pried from Invidia's severed hand, was tucked securely in his bag, along with an old two-tone steel-and-gold watch he'd pocketed for himself and a strange golden coin. One side bore Julius Caesar's profile; the other showed a double-headed axe with IVLIVS etched across it. It radiated with a deep, thrumming energy—something Jason would probably nerd out over later if he wasn't half-dead.

"Here's your shit." Silas tossed the CDs toward Felix, then whipped the shirt into the son of Fortuna's face.

"Hey! Wait... did you get this for me?"

Silas rolled his eyes. "No, it's for the crazy hippie woman."

His sarcasm fell flat when his gaze landed on Jason. The son of Jupiter was slumped against the sun-baked wall, sweat rolling down his temples, lips moving in feverish half-words. The desert heat shimmered around him, making his pallor worse. Silas crouched, frowning, and pressed a hand to his forehead—it was burning.

"Did you give him the unicorn draught too?" Silas asked sharply.

"Yeah, of course, but I'm running low on it...and it doesn't even seem to be working..."

Jason's cracked lips whispered something in Latin—something that sounded like grumpy black cat. The words barely made sense, but hearing them directed at him sank into Silas' chest like an anchor.

"He's burning up," Silas muttered, jaw tight. "Did you give him too much ambrosia?"

"No," Felix snapped, indignant. "I know the ratio of ambrosia to pain, Si. Don't act like I'd overdose him."

"Okay, so why doesn't he look better?" Silas tried not to snap, his voice tight.

Jason's head lolled sideways. Silas caught it with his palm before it smacked against the pavement.

"Gratias, scary angel," Jason murmured weakly.

He's still scared of me... from last night, or maybe always. I have to fix this.

Silas' gaze dropped to the fascinus dangling from his hand.

"Felix," he said sharply, "do you know if this thing can undo Envy's glare?"

"You mean from the evil eye?"

"What? ...Actually, I don't care."

"Boo." Felix pouted, then tapped his chin. "Well, my bunkmate swore the fascinus works if you put it on the victim and laugh, because 'laughter is the best medicine,' or some corny shit like that."

That sounds stupid as hell. But it burned through her—so maybe it'll work.

"Hey," Felix added with a glance around, "shouldn't we be more worried about Crazy Chick 2.0?"

"There's no need." Silas slipped the charm's rough string over Jason's neck, watching it fall against his feverish skin. "She'll need at least an hour to reform."

He leaned back, but Jason's hand shot up and clamped around his wrist. The heat of it seared, boils puckered across his skin, and Silas shook him off with a hiss.

"Jason," Silas ordered quietly, "laugh. Just laugh, so I can tell you what I found."

Jason didn't laugh. He barely breathed, muttering to himself in a mix of English and Latin, fever-dream words spilling out like prayers.

Felix crouched beside them, curiosity sparkling. "So... what did you find?"

"Not now." Silas' eyes never left Jason. "Not with you here."

Felix stood, slinging his bag across his back with a dramatic sigh. "Fine, fine. I'll catch a cab while you try the comedy routine." He smirked over his shoulder. "If jokes fail—which, knowing you, they will—tickling always works!"

His voice faded down the desert road, leaving Silas alone with Jason's ragged breaths and the stupid necklace between them.

Silas sighed, glaring at the fascinus as if the charm itself mocked him.

"Laugh," he repeated flatly. "Now."

Jason blinked, eyes glassy. No sound. No smile.

Silas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gods, I can't believe I'm doing this..."

He crouched closer, voice low and stiff, "A Roman, a Greek, and a faun are walking through the forest. The Roman complains—never mind, this is stupid."

Jason groaned faintly, muttering something in broken Latin. Not even close to a laugh.

Silas grit his teeth. He tried again, deadpan, "Felix thinks he's funny."

Nothing.

In the silence, the desert wind howled, Jason's breath shallow against it.

Silas scowled, desperate. He jabbed a finger awkwardly at Jason's side.

The boy twitched, but no laugh came—just a pained grunt.

"Damn it," Silas muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "You're supposed to laugh, idiot. That's how this works."

Jason's half-lidded eyes rolled toward him, and for a second Silas swore he saw the ghost of a smile... but then it faded, lost to fever.

The necklace glinted uselessly in the sun.

Silas' chest tightened. He wasn't used to failing at something he wanted this badly.

"Don't you dare quit on me," he whispered harshly, gripping Jason's shoulder. "You're not allowed."

Silas exhaled sharply. He wasn't good at this—humoring people. But Jason wasn't going to laugh on his own, and he needed him to.

"Fine," Silas muttered. "When I was younger, I had this... indoor ramp."

His throat went tight for a second, the memory flickering too vivid. (The one in his room at the Lotus Hotel and Casino, of course. Not that he was ever going to mention that part to Jason. He wasn't stupid.)

"I thought I looked so cool. Like those skaters outside convenience stores, flipping tricks like they owned the place." He looked away, jaw set. "I imagined people watching me. Cheering. Then..."

He clicked his tongue, bitter. "One pebble. Just one. Don't even know how it got there. My board hit it and I, ugh I can't believe I'm telling you this but....I flew face-first across the ramp like an idiot. So I cursed out the pebble with every vile word I knew at the time, which turns out I knew a lot because I ended up falling asleep standing up."

Jason blinked at him, bleary-eyed. For a second Silas thought it hadn't worked—then Jason gave a short, startled snort. And another. Until it broke into a real laugh.

"You—" Jason coughed through the laughter, "you cursed... a pebble?"

Silas' scowl deepened, but his shoulders loosened ever so slightly. "It sabotaged me."

Jason shook his head, still laughing, the sound ragged but genuine. The fascinus at his chest glowed faintly as the boils began to fade, fever draining away with every laugh.

Silas crossed his arms, face deliberately blank. Inside, though, relief churned hot and unsteady. It was a strange feeling that he wasn't accustomed to but he allowed a ghost of smile to flicker onto his face.

When Jason finally stopped dying of laughter (though honestly, what Silas had said wasn't that funny), he looked steady again—clear-eyed, no fever, no boils. Completely cured.

Silas bent down, scooping up the bag Jason had dropped back in the dice aisle. He shoved it toward him, and for a brief moment, their hands grazed. Jason flushed instantly, color rushing up his neck.

"Shit," Silas muttered, frowning. "You're getting red. Did it not work?"

"W-What? I'm fine!" Jason sputtered, yanking the bag against his chest like it could shield him.

Silas narrowed his eyes. "Then why are you red? Is it because—"

"It's hot," Jason blurted, looking anywhere but him as he scratched his cheek. "We're in a desert."

Right. That's bullshit. He's probably just embarrassed from having to be saved by me. Silas thought bitterly, his chest tightening in ways he refused to name.

He sighed, digging into his own bag. Aggriesively, he pressed something into Jason's palm. "Thought you might like this."

Jason blinked down at the coin, fingers curling around its weight. One side gleamed with Julius Caesar's face, the other with a double-headed ax and the word IVLIVS. Ancient, powerful, humming with history.

For once, Jason Grace had nothing to say. His silvery-blue eyes lifted, wide with astonishment. He looked amazed, confused, and utterly speechless—something Silas privately considered a damn miracle.

Successful gift, he decided.

"Cool, right?" Silas said aloud, more defensive than he meant.

Jason's blue eyes lifted to meet his onyx ones, and Silas felt himself heat up—just a little—when a soft, genuine smile touched the son of Jupiter's lips. He immediately blamed it on the desert sun.

"Yeah... thanks, Si. I'll cherish it forever."

"S-Shut up! You're just saying that to make me feel—"

"No," Jason cut in, shaking his head. Golden strands fell into his face with the motion. "If I ever lose this, you have every right to get mad at me. But, um... maybe not too mad."

A laugh escaped Silas before he could stop it, "Hah. I don't think I could ever get mad at you..."

"Oh yeah? And why's—"

The sudden blare of a horn cut him off. A cab barreled toward them across the sand, kicking up dust. Both boys jumped back instinctively.

Silas smirked when he caught sight of Jason still wearing the fascinus around his neck, glinting in the light. Out the rear window, Felix's head popped out, hair wild in the wind as he waved like a lunatic.

"Need a ride, losers?!"

Silas just rolled his eyes at his dumb friend, and when they all squeezed into the back, he wound up stuck in the middle—thanks to being the shortest. The driver looked like he was in his mid-twenties, lost in his own little world.

Felix gestured grandly with his hands. "Guys, meet Eduardo."

"Wait, how do you even have money to afford a cab? Actually, I don't want to know." Silas caught himself, remembering exactly who he was talking to—a lucky thief.

"Uh, but I am curious," Jason said.

Felix opened his mouth to brag, but their driver cut in first.

"A dónde quieres ir, jóvenes?"

Jason leaned forward, ready to speak (Silas wondered if he could understand a little thanks to Luca speaking Italian and from knowing Latin), but Felix was already whipping out his crayon map on the back of his brown bag. He'd scribbled a crude white crescent and a cluster of buildings, and—by some miracle—the driver understood, nodding as he turned onto the highway. He pressed some button on his car and that caused both Silas and Felix to jump when music blared through out the car; it was full of funky, heavy pop beats in what Silas assumed to be Spanish. 

The silence between them didn't last long. The song, though, was still playing in the background annoyingly enough.

"Di immortales, the dice!" Jason exclaimed suddenly.

"Don't worry about it—" Felix waved his hands, only for Silas to smack them away as he bent down for his bag.

"Don't worry about it?" Jason's voice spiked. "Aeolus said it's what we need to deal with the monster, and we just left—"

"Jace, I have it." Silas cut him off, pulling out a pair of old knucklebone dice. Up close, they could see the faint glow of the inscriptions: a circle etched into the side like a pizza pie sliced into eight pieces (as Felix had so helpfully put it), and above that, an asterisk.

"Weird... It's a tali," Jason said, brow furrowed as he turned the dice over in his palm. "It was used in ancient times for gambling and this one dice game. Sorry, I don't know much about this kind of stuff, but I think it was invented by a Greek guy—uh, Paladin? No... oh! Palamedes."

"Pala-who now?" Felix leaned in to touch it, but Silas smacked his hand away.

"Hands off. You've got germs."

Jason ignored them, his voice settling into that tone he always used when digging through memory. "He fought in the Trojan War against our ancestors, laying siege to Troy. He was pretty clever—he even proved Odysseus was faking his insanity to dodge the draft. But that made Odysseus his enemy, and eventually Palamedes got framed for treason by him."

Felix whistled low. "Damn. I'd hate to be him."

Silas, meanwhile, tuned out Felix's ignorance. We literally went over the Trojan War in history lessons. Dumbass. It's like the prequel to Rome itself.

"Yeah, seriously..." Jason kept studying the dice. "It's said before Palamedes died, he dedicated the dice to Fortuna—Er, Tyche I mean. Put his fate in her hands but she didn't save him from getting killed, though."

"Wait—Tyche?" Silas asked.

Jason nodded. "Yeah. Fortuna's Greek counterpart."

Silas's gaze dropped to the dice, the dimly glowing marks staring back at him like fate carved in bone. He remembered the prophecy's words, sharp and heavy: the foe's own fatal dice.

"It makes sense," Silas muttered slowly. "If the Greeks were Rome's enemies, then these dice must've been his. But..." His fingers curled around the knucklebones, as if he could wring an answer from them. "How is this supposed to take down a giant sea serpent?"

Felix perked up suddenly. "Maybe it's with a game? Like the one Jason mentioned."

Silas frowned. "Do you always think everything's a game, Felix?"

"No!" The denial came fast, but the flash of hurt on Felix's face made Silas's stomach twist. "It was a genuine idea, Si. But thanks for reminding me I'm just... childish. You won't even let me hold the dice. Afraid I'll be irresponsible? Or that I'll curse us with bad luck?"

"Fel—" Silas started, already regretting the words, and held the dice out toward him.

Dark hands shoved the knucklebones away. Neither boy noticed the faint green shimmer that bled into the bone under Felix's brief touch, the color of clovers and chance.

"It's fine," Felix muttered, retreating toward the window. "You guys can figure it out. I'll just... be here." He leaned against the glass, his reflection refusing to meet their eyes.

Silas tried again,"Felix—" But the other boy ignored him, staring out at the blur of desert.

Annoyance pricked at Silas, layered over guilt he didn't want to name. Beside him, Jason looked torn, caught between his duty as leader and his instinct as a friend, blue eyes flickering between them like he wanted to fix everything but had no idea how.

This is going to be one hell of a long ride, Silas thought grimly, cradling the ancient dice in his palm. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason traced the edge of the coin Silas had given him earlier, as if he was thinking the same thing.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

ᝯׁhׁׅ֮ɑׁׅ֮℘tׁׅꫀׁׅܻ᥅ ꯱ׁׅ֒ꪱׁׅ᥊ׁׅtׁׅꫀׁׅܻꫀׁׅܻꪀׁׅ

❝ＮＥＷＳＰＡＰＥＲＳ ＮＥＶＥＲ ＬＩＥ 

（ＢＵＴ ＳＩＬＡＳ ＤＯＥＳ）❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

TO SAY THE CAR RIDE was awkward was an understatement. The silence stretched until Felix, pretending like nothing had happened, started chiming in again when Jason began explaining the markings on his coin. Silas wasn't fooled—he could tell something was still bothering Felix. But every time he asked, Felix brushed him off with a shrug, as if he hadn't been upset at all.

Fine, Silas thought. He'll tell me eventually. We're supposed to be best friends, after all...

Trying to change the subject, Silas vaguely recounted how Envy had led them to the back room and how they'd found the dice. Jason winced, admitting how he'd made the mistake of touching them, which earned him the goddess's wrath—and the curse of the evil eye.

"Naturally, I had to protect Jason," Silas said.

"You mean mutilate a goddess?" Felix snorted.

Before Silas could defend himself, Jason cut in. "That was pretty reckless, Si, but... thanks for having my back." His gaze dropped, finger absently brushing his cheek. "But hurting a god has consequences. Severe ones. So can we please avoid attacking them, no matter how..." He faltered, visibly unwilling to swear.

"Bitchy they seem?" Silas offered flatly, sighing like the words were being dragged out of him.

Jason hesitated, then gave the smallest, reluctant nod.

"Fine," Silas muttered, crossing his arms. "Only because what you're saying makes sense."

"Wait." Felix stuck his hand up like he was in class instead of crammed in the back of a cab. "Hold up. You're telling me you got away with no problems after messing up Crazy Chick 2.0?"

Silas didn't miss a beat. "She barely even had time to scream, let alone speak."

Jason's brows drew together, as if dredging up foggy memories. "But I thought I saw her sp—"

"Jace, you were on the verge of dying," Silas cut in bluntly. "There's no way you remember what really happened when you were gasping for air. You almost looked like a fish, now that I think about it."

Jason's face burned red, embarrassed at having nearly died a stupid death just for breaking the one rule Invidia had given them.

Felix gave a long, low whistle. "He got you good, golden boy. Or should I say... fish boy?"

Silas was surprised to see Jason scowling at the nickname, but then the golden boy sighed as if it wasn't worth the energy. Instead, fish boy said, "Guys, we need an actual plan."

"With what information? We barely have anything to go off, Jace," Silas muttered.

"Let's just pretend we're orphans," Felix piped up, already leaning forward to peer up at Eduardo just to get the cab driver to play one of his CDs.

Jason inhaled sharply. "Uh, Felix, I generally love your ideas but—"

"That's a lie," Silas interrupted flatly. "His ideas stress you out."

Jason faltered. "What—no. Okay, maybe a little bit, but—"

Felix's face crumpled into a pout, all wounded puppy. Silas resisted the urge to roll his eyes—didn't want Felix thinking he was mad at him. Instead, he shocked them both. "I agree with him."

"You—what?" Jason's blond eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead. "Do you guys always have to pick the wildest ideas? Can't we have one real, well-thought-out plan for once?"

"Uh, we will," Felix said, surprisingly confident. "We come up with a well-thought-out sob story and—bam—we sneak into the cult."

"They'd eat it up, Jace." Silas, out of sheer boredom, tossed his pugio into the air and caught it again. Jason looked uneasy at the unruly boy's antics. "It's a universal fact—people love preying on orphans."

Felix perked up like he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life. "Okay, picture it: three tragic orphans, wandering the desert with nothing but each other—"

"Felix," Jason groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"—our parents? Eaten alive by aliens. Our poor grandmother? Struck down by lightning. Our dog? Exploded. Tragic." Felix's hands flailed dramatically.

Silas snorted. "Exploded?"

"Hey, nothing says sympathy like a dead dog."

Jason gave him a 'seriously?'  look. "Felix, we're not traumatizing ourselves into a cult. Or falsely traumatizing—"

"But that's the point! They'll lap it up. Cults love vulnerable orphans."

Silas leaned back against the sticky cab seat. "He's not wrong. And you're forgetting the prophecy." He tapped his bag where the knucklebones sat, the faint weight of his father's letter tucked beneath them. "'The foe's own fatal dice'—we already have Palamedes' tali. Somehow, we have to figure out how 'to save the city from defeat'  and end the 'Greek deceit' which could mean anything...This is also assuming the city we're supposed to save is Crescent City."

Jason frowned, fingers brushing the coin in his pocket. "Right, but how do dice stop a Trojan Sea Monster? And how could a cult be the source of a monster of divine anger?"

"The cult's the connection." Silas's voice was low, calculating. "They must be the ones who summoned the beast. Crescent City has to be crawling with those sick followers. Maybe these dice are the key to undoing whatever spell or pact they used."

Jason nodded slowly, thoughtful as always. "So, if we infiltrate the cult, maybe we'll find out how the dice work against the monster and how we can save the city from deceit...or something like that."

Felix crossed his arms, eyes darting to Silas's bag before quickly looking out the window again. His usual grin was plastered on, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sounds like a plan, then. Tragic orphans plus destiny dice equals cult infiltration."

Silas noticed the way Felix kept his gaze stubbornly fixed outside, refusing to meet either of their eyes. Still upset about earlier, huh? He could practically hear the sulk under all that fake cheer.

Jason, oblivious, tried to rally them. "Okay. So the plan is: figure out where the cult is, sob story for entry, learn what the cult knows, figure out how the dice can be used, and stop the sea monster to save the city."

"And don't die," Silas added dryly.

"Right. That too."

Just as Silas adjusted the time on his new two-toned watch (which Jason had already joked looked like something a dad would wear), their driver cleared his throat and asked where they wanted to be dropped off. Crescent City was only five minutes away, the sky already tilting toward late afternoon, and it hit Silas that most of their day had been wasted in the backseat of this car. The watch hands pointed to 4:40 p.m.

Jason suggested they go to a hotel—an idea both Felix and Silas shot down immediately.

"But—"

"No. Absolutely not," Silas cut in.

"Y-yeah," Felix stammered, fiddling with his sister's keychain nervously. "I'd rather sleep on the sand with angry squirrels than stay at a hotel. That's saying something 'cause squirrels are a raccoon's worst enemy. That, and garbage trucks."

"Besides, with what money?" Silas added, backing Felix up while his eyes stayed fixed on the slow-moving hands of his watch.

Jason looked like he wanted to argue, but the protest withered on his tongue. He turned instead to Eduardo and tried in painfully broken Spanglish, "A la, uh, beach? Um, sand place with agua...?"

"Ah, una playa?" the driver asked.

Jason nodded quickly, even though it was clear he only understood about half of what Eduardo was saying.

"Cuál playa?" Eduardo pressed.

"Uh, yeah."

"No, hijo, cuál playa quieres ir?"

Jason shot a helpless look at Silas and Felix, but both only shrugged like it wasn't their problem.

Feeling generous, Silas finally leaned forward. "Can you actually take us to the nearest newsstand or store? Como una bodega."

Eduardo nodded, and Silas managed to keep his expression neutral—though inside he was fighting the urge to smirk at Jason's utterly lost look. He leaned back in his seat, speaking casually, "If there's some weird cult nonsense happening in this town, odds are the newspaper's already covered it."

"Oh, oh, can I please get the comic strip section!" Felix piped up, way too eager.

Silas huffed. "Whatever—just make sure you actually pay attention to the news part."

Jason tilted his head, curiosity written all over his face. "How'd you even think of using the newspaper?"

"Listen," Silas said, "when all else fails, newspaper's got your back. Way more detailed than TV or whatever." He wrinkled his nose like the word television was offensive. Jason furrowed his brows, somewhere between disbelief and confusion.

Silas didn't explain further. He wasn't about to tell them that he'd grown up scanning headlines and crime columns for clues, checking if the police or public had figured out who was behind the grotesque murders. Of course, they never did—it was always his father, Leonard—until that fateful night in August. When Silas was younger and still clung to stupid childish curiosity, he'd secretly rip out the comic strips to read before bed, treating it as precious treasure. That didn't last long, though. His father had caught him and made sure he learned not to waste time on fantasies—or hide anything from him.

The ticking of his new watch dragged him back to the present. Silas squinted down at it, anxiety prickling when the seconds almost seemed to crawl by.

The car slowed to a stop in front of a grocery outlet.

I must've spaced out. Shit, Silas inwardly cursed.

"Gracias," Jason muttered awkwardly as he pushed the door open. Silas didn't hesitate to follow—he hated being crammed in that backseat, the walls of it pressing too close, suffocating as if he was a bird trapped in a box, or worse, a little boy locked in a room full of silent ghosts.

Felix traded out the CD Eduardo had been playing with a feather—the same one he'd been chewing on earlier. Eduardo grimaced, clearly refusing to touch it, and Silas spared the poor mortal from Felix's inevitable rant of gratitude by grabbing his friend by the sleeve and dragging him out of the cab.

"Hey—wait! May the blessings of my mom go with you!" Felix shouted back dramatically.

Jason looked like he couldn't decide if he should be disgusted or laugh at his friend's wild idea of gratitude. "Did you just bless him with a feather?"

"Mind you," Silas muttered dryly, "it was the one in his mouth." He shook his head, scolding like Felix was some misbehaving toddler, all while dragging him toward the entrance.

"Felix—"

"I know already, geez. Stop trying to act like parents, you two." Felix kicked a rock in irritation. By some miracle—or maybe curse—it ricocheted off the store wall and nearly nailed him in the head. Silas caught him by the ear before it could, yanking him aside just as the rock instead shattered the window of a parked car.

All three froze. One silent glance passed between them.

Go, go, go!

They bolted inside the store. The silence hit immediately—strangely heavy, strangely wrong. No cashier, no clerk, no sound beyond the faint hum of the freezers.

"At least we've got this," Felix announced, already pointing triumphantly at the newspaper rack tucked in the back corner.

"Here, read your depressing shit while I enjoy my sweet comics!" The tall boy declared, hugging the paper like it was treasure. He scampered off toward a corner and plopped down, grinning like a kid unwrapping candy.

Jason and Silas exchanged a knowing look, both rolling their eyes. For someone who hated not being taken seriously, Felix was doing a spectacular job of acting like a child. Hard to believe he was technically older than the two of them.

Silas snapped open the front page. The headline screamed at him in bold black type:

NUMBER OF MISSING CHILDREN SKYROCKETS IN CRESCENT CITY

"Mehercule," Jason breathed, voice tightening. His storm-gray eyes scanned the words, worry carving deep lines into his face.

The article read:

Since the end of May, reports of missing children have risen from 10 to 45 in just three weeks. Parents and guardians have also disappeared under unexplained circumstances. Small belongings—shoes, backpacks, and toys—were discovered abandoned along the shore at Pebble Beach and near Battery Point Light. Local police are pursuing leads, though no suspects have been named. Officials warn families to remain vigilant.

The Cornupia Foundation, a newly established relief organization, has offered support to those affected. Its founder, Aeneas, issued a statement: "Our doors are always open to those in mourning, to those in need. Together, we must grieve these innocent lives while protecting what remains." The Foundation has since set up a relief center at Battery Point Light, offering meals, temporary shelter, and aid to families during the ongoing investigation.

Jason's brow furrowed at the name. "...Aeneas..." He said it like it tasted wrong on his tongue. "That might be a coincidence."

Silas gave him a flat look. "After everything we've been through, nothing's a coincidence, Jace. But wasn't Aeneas just...a demigod? There's no way he should still be alive."

Jason shook his head. "Yeah. Doesn't make sense. That's why I thought—maybe—it was just a coincidence."

"Whatever the case, we should check out this so-called relief center. After all..." Silas's mouth twisted into a smirk. "...we're just poor little orphan boys."

Before Jason could respond, Felix bounded over, comics forgotten. His face was void of a smile now, worry dragging down his usual light-hearted self.

"Si, Jace—you guys need to see this."

Felix explained as he led them, saying that he had gone to find a bathroom when he stumbled across an employee—a janitor—who looked dazed, muttering how she had lost her baby, specifically: "...took my precious Jewel. My baby girl..."

At the sight of the three boys, the woman wrung her hands. Her eyes glazed as she called out for help.

"Please, help... find my baby. The storm swallowed my Jewel." Her voice was manic as she stared at Jason. "PLEASE! SAVE MY JEWEL!"

Silas felt dread creeping along his stomach. Something was wrong with her, and it seemed the woman herself couldn't figure out what it was either.

The son of Discordia moved with fluid grace, shoving the woman away as carefully and as nice as possible. "Ma'am, where did you last see your...?"

The woman sobbed, shoulders shaking, mascara streaking down her pale cheeks. Her hair, once neatly tied back, hung in loose, damp strands around her face. Silas forced himself to mask his irritation. They needed answers, not sob stories.

"We will look for her, no matter what." Felix's tone was dead serious as he placed a steady hand on her shoulder, his touch firm but comforting.

Jason nodded. "Yeah, if it's okay, we need to ask you some questions so we can help you find Jewel. Can you tell us your name?"

"O-okay," she sniffled, voice trembling. Her wide eyes darted between them, glassy with tears, her knuckles white as she clutched the edge of her stained apron. She looked confused, as if trying to remember, which made Silas' jaw tighten. He checked his watch for reassurance—it was still ticking.

"I—I can't remember." She winced, pressing her palms to her temples. "Everything feels... fuzzy."

They all exchanged a glance. Jason cleared his throat.

"That's okay," the son of Jupiter said gently. "My friend will ask some questions now, so please don't feel overwhelmed." Jason then sent a nod to Silas, signaling him to ask.

'Baby' could mean anything so I need to clarify. The unruly boy thought to himself before speaking up, "Who is Jewel to you?"

"S-She's my..." The brunette paused, clearly trying to think hard, which didn't ease Silas' gnawing worries about this city or their quest. "Jewel is my daughter..."

The woman nodded, letting out a shuddering breath. Silas had to tread carefully since this lady seemed to be under some sort of influence and definitely very emotional. Keeping his voice low and calm, he continued, "Where was the last place you saw her?"

"We... went to a beach. It was beautiful, but then..." Her lips trembled as she tried to form the words, her eyes darting toward some unseen memory.

"What happened?" Silas lightly prompted.

"There was a terrible storm while she was out playing in the water. I rushed over... she's only ten, but she loved the ocean with all her heart... And then," she faltered, staring blankly at the floor, struggling to remember.

"It's alright if you don't know, ma'am," Felix said softly, kneeling slightly to meet her gaze.

"Thank you, boy, but I have to remember... for my daughter." Her voice cracked as she shook her head, tears spilling freely now, soaking the front of her apron. "There was something in the water and it... it... took—took..."

She couldn't finish, but they all knew what the 'it' was—the Trojan Sea Monster. A shiver went down Silas' spine and he noticed he wasn't the only one—even Felix looked anxious at the thought of the monster. It was also unspoken knowledge but...

There was no hope her ten-year-old daughter, Jewel, would be found alive—or found in the first place. 

To Silas' surprise, Felix gave the woman a warm hug. The normally unserious boy looked conflicted, pity flickering across his face.

Sure, Silas felt bad for this stranger—and, by extension, for her daughter—but he wouldn't dare hug someone they had just met. Instead, he leaned close to Jason, whispering. "She seems to be under something. I doubt she'll remember anything else without breaking down. More than she is now, I mean."

"Silas, be a little more considerate, please."

"I am," Silas replied bluntly. "I'm suggesting we stop asking questions and instead—ask her to take us to the place that girl was last seen."

Tumultuous blue eyes met his own void onyx ones, stormy and unyielding. Jason's jaw tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line, the faint tension in his brow making him look older, more serious than usual. "That girl's name is Jewel. Could you have some respect? Why are you avoiding saying her name?"

Silas felt a hollow pull in his chest. Gritting his teeth, he stared at the floor for a moment. Acknowledging her name felt like anchoring her corpse to his ankle—another weight he didn't want to carry. He already had enough ghosts trailing him, memories clawing at his mind like jagged teeth.

With a reluctant, measured sigh, he raised his gaze and adjusted his tone. "Sorry, I'll be more mindful from now on..." When Jason didn't object, Silas continued, "As I was saying...we should go to where Jewel was last seen and find out what happened. Or we go undercover as orphan boys to get information from that sketchy organization if that fails."

Honestly, I don't understand why they are so desperate to help this stranger and her daughter when we have our own problems to deal with...Not to mention that this girl isn't... 

Silas didn't finish his thought.

Jason's shoulders eased slightly, but the lines of worry on his face didn't disappear. "...Sounds like a plan," he said, voice tight with unease. Felix, sensing the tension, padded over quietly, eyes flickering between the two. They quickly filled him in on the plan, his hands fidgeting nervously with a candy wrapper he must have stolen out of habit.

Jason asked the favor, and the woman, still trembling but steadier now, agreed without hesitation. She didn't bother adjusting her worn, faded work uniform, her hands clutching the hem of her apron as if it were a lifeline.

Moments later, they were back in another vehicle—a rumbling minivan. Jason took the front passenger seat, his posture stiff, hands gripping his seat belt like he was bracing against the world. Silas and Felix sat in the middle row, the tight space magnifying their unease. Silas' gaze drifted downward, taking in the scattered Barbie dolls splayed across the floor—tiny reminders of innocence shattered.

Felix, normally full of restless energy, sat slouched, his usual grin wiped clean from his face. The light in his eyes seemed dimmer, weighed down by memories he couldn't shake and dread he couldn't name. Silas felt a pang of something he didn't want to admit—sympathy, perhaps, or the faint echo of the helplessness that had haunted him for years—and forced himself to focus on the road ahead.

He'll learn to stop chasing ghosts one day, Silas thought, glancing down at his watch. The hands swept steadily around the face, a quiet, unyielding rhythm that seemed almost comforting. Or so I hope...

He knew he was a hypocrite. After all, he himself would plunge headfirst through hell for even the faintest whisper of his father—a ghost of an unlovable man, a monster who had somehow, in his own twisted way, loved him. Yet, Silas was terrified what legacy his father's corpse hoped to choke out of him, because deep down, it would never be the words a son of a serial killer wanted to hear—just the words that he deserved.

And Silas already knew what he deserved a long time ago...

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

chapter seventeen

❝ＷＥ＇ＲＥ ＪＵＳＴ ＯＲＰＨＡＮ ＢＯＹＳ，

 ＳＩＲ， ＮＯＴ ＤＥＭＩＧＯＤＳ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

THE MINIVAN RUMBLED to a stop, tires crunching against the gravel pull-off. The salty wind pressed against the windows, carrying with it the endless hiss of the tide. When the side door slid open, Silas was hit with the tang of brine and something sharper—metallic, like rust.

Pebble Beach stretched wide before them: a long, uneven swath of pale sand littered with smooth stones and agates that glittered faintly under the gray sky. According to the woman, they washed down from the mountains and collected here as if the ocean itself couldn't quite stomach them. The waves rolled lazily at first glance, but every crash against the shore carried a heaviness, like the sea was hiding something beneath its surface.

None of the three had ever been to a beach before, or so it seemed by everyone's reactions. Jason's storm-colored eyes softened, scanning the horizon with something close to awe. Felix's grin twitched, fragile but still there, as he kicked at a patch of sand like he expected it to fight back. Silas only shoved his hands in his pockets, unimpressed by the supposed beauty, but secretly surprised. He hadn't expected it to look... normal.

What unsettled him more was the absence of the things he did expect. No police tape closing off the area. No flashing lights, no patrol cars, not even a lone officer scribbling into a notebook. The paper had said children had vanished here. Forty-five kids gone, plus their parents. And yet, the beach sprawled in front of them, open and untouched, as if nothing had happened.

It should've been a relief, no cops swarming the place—police only made Silas twitchy, reminding him of questions and lies—but the emptiness made the back of his neck prickle.

The woman twisted in her seat, her eyes hollow yet searching. "Do you... need anything else?" Her voice cracked, the question half-genuine, half-mechanical, like she wasn't entirely there.

Jason shook his head, polite as ever. "No, ma'am. You've already done more than enough." He hesitated, then added softly, "We'll find you when we know the truth. Thank you—for everything."

The woman gave the faintest nod before staring back out toward the gray line of the sea, her hands tightening on the wheel. Silas caught the glassy sheen in her eyes and looked away first. Not long after did she drive away, leaving the trio to investigate the beach.

And so, the three of them fanned out slowly along the shoreline, their footsteps crunching on wet pebbles that gleamed like marbles in the fading light. The air carried the heavy weight of the ocean. None of them had ever seen the sea before, but the instinctive unease in their bones told them it wasn't to be trusted. The tide swelled and pulled, restless, as if it were breathing.

Silas found himself watching the waves with narrowed eyes, trying not to imagine what writhed beneath the surface. For the first time, he understood the Lares' endless mutterings back at camp about the dangers of the sea. They'd spoken like it was mysterious and waiting to swallow the careless. Now, with the thought of a monster lurking in these very waters, dragging the unfortunate into its abyss, Silas could almost hear their voices again—see their hollow-eyed warnings.

Felix broke the silence with a groan. "Ugh, sand in my boots. Why does anyone like this place?" He shook one foot uselessly before trudging forward again.

A sharp yelp cut through the air. Jason and Silas turned at once.

Felix hopped back, clutching his ankle like he'd stepped on glass. But lying half-buried in the sand was no shell, no jagged rock—just a cheap neon-green water gun, the kind a kid would've brought to the beach for fun. Its plastic casing was cracked, salt water already eating away at the paint. 

Felix's grin faltered. "Guys... I'm getting the creeps."

Jason's jaw flexed, his eyes scanning the endless shore as if expecting more abandoned toys to materialize from the tide. "Yeah...me too."

Silas glanced down at his watch, comforted by the familiar weight on his wrist. The hands pointed to 5:07 p.m. Still steady. Still reliable. He relaxed slightly, letting out a quiet breath.

He didn't notice that the second hand had stopped ticking the instant his boots touched the sand.

The night pressed heavy against the shore. Pebble Beach, with its endless hiss of waves and scattered toys half-buried in the sand, looked almost peaceful in the dark.

Almost.

They had agreed on taking night watches and right now it was Silas' turn. He sat hunched on a driftwood log, the breeze biting through his shirt. His watch glinted faintly in the moonlight—2:48 a.m., steady as always. But every time he leaned closer, squinting at the hands, they froze in place: 5:07 p.m., the moment he'd first stepped onto this mysteriously empty beach. His stomach knotted. How could a thing run and stop all at once?

The wind tugged at his hair, slicing down his spine like cold fingers. He refused to pull the stolen parka tighter around himself. He didn't deserve warmth—not after the way he treated people, the sharp words and the colder silences. Warmth was for better people. People like...them.

Silas glanced at his companions. Felix was sprawled out on the sand, arms loose, mouth wide open. It was disgusting. It was... kind of endearing too, in that oblivious, Felix way. Jason, as expected, slept with soldier-like stillness laying on his side, yet there was a hidden softness to him in the moonlight.

Silas swallowed the envy that crept in his heart whenever he thought of the campers that would acknowledge his friends but never him. He knew they deserved the best, even if he didn't.

Still, the thought festered. Sometimes, he wished the recognition fell his way. He knew he was clever, cunning—more than capable. He just wasn't the kind of person Romans liked to admire. His cleverness looked too much like cruelty, his instincts too close to violence.

Shit, he thought, running a hand down his face. If we have to report to the Senate after this, they're going to strip what little respect I had left. Reckless, undisciplined, un-Roman.

Julian's voice crept back like a splinter: Graecus. The way he'd spat it, dripping with contempt. Silas winced, the word fitting too well. He fought dirty. He bent tradition until it broke. He made the Lares shift uneasily. He wasn't tame like the others—and they all knew it.

And still, his watch ticked on.

Why can't I be a normal boy? Or even just a normal demigod? Silas's thoughts tangled as his gaze slid to Jason, curled on his side, mumbling in his sleep. The sound almost pulled a smile from him—a fragile thing he quickly swallowed back. How do I ever become as respected as him, when everyone looks at me and sees the wrong things? When every skill I have gets twisted into something cruel?

Jason at least had a title. A seat in the Senate, however shaky. Silas's friends were reliable, sure, but they weren't the golden ones, the ones the Legion bowed their heads for. Respect wasn't given to clever shadows or boys who fought like barbarians.

Maybe... when this quest is over, Mother will love me the way Father did. Maybe even more than he ever could. Only she could understand how it feels to be misunderstood...

His eyes drifted to the bag at his side, dark as the surf. Inside, the letter waited—its presence itching at his nerves like an open wound. His fingers twitched, aching to tear the seal, to finally know what waited inside.

But he froze.

The night air shifted. A crunch of pebbles behind him—measured, deliberate. Shoes. Not the restless roll of Felix, not Jason's quiet movements. Someone else.

Silas's breath caught sharp in his throat. In an instant, Silas spun, pugio flashing in the pale moonlight. His chest tightened when he saw not a monster, but a girl—small, maybe ten years old, frozen on the pebbles like a startled deer. Her wide eyes brimmed with terror, and for a heartbeat Silas wondered if he was the monster in her eyes.

She didn't move to attack. She only looked like a child who'd stumbled too far into the dark.

Silas exhaled sharply and nudged Jason and Felix awake with his boot, never lowering his blade completely.

"Is your name Jewel?" he asked, forcing his voice steady, careful not to spook her further.

The girl's voice rasped, hoarse as though scraped raw by hours of crying. "N-no. I'm... Eliza."

Felix groaned into the sand, unhelpfully muttering, "Five more minutes." Jason, however, stirred, his eyes snapping open at the sound of her voice. Silas quickly filled him in on their sudden night visitor.

"Do... you know a girl named Jewel?" Jason asked gently, pushing himself upright.

Eliza shook her head, dirty-blonde strands falling across her face. Up close, she looked out of place—wearing a stiff jean skirt, a striped pink-and-white shirt, white knee socks, and sneakers scuffed from long wandering. The outfit might have been cute once, but in the cold coastal night it seemed unbearably uncomfortable.

Silas frowned. Under the dim wash of moonlight, her eyes flickered oddly—an almost unnatural violet. He blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the shadows.

"I-I'm looking for my daddy," she whispered, voice trembling. "Have you seen him?"

By now, Jason had risen to stand beside Silas, his expression taut with concern. Felix dragged himself upright too, brushing sand from his jacket.

"No, sorry, we haven't..." Jason began carefully, but his words faltered, leaving a silence too heavy for the girl to carry.

Silas stepped in. His tone was sharper, steadier. "Eliza, this is very important. We need to know since... we're trying to find the missing people. Do you remember the last place you saw your dad?"

The girl's dazed eyes flickered, like she was fighting through fog in her own mind. "Uh, y-yeah. He went to... the lighthouse. We... went together, I think." Her small voice wavered. "There was a nice man."

She didn't elaborate. The way her face crumpled, confused and fragile, made it clear she didn't know more—at least not clearly enough to say.

Felix crouched to her level, his usual grin slipping back into place. "Wait, Liz—can I call you Liz?"

Eliza hesitated, then gave a timid nod. "Um, okay, mister."

"Cool. Thanks, kid." Felix offered her a reassuring smile, as if that alone could anchor her to solid ground. "Now, Liz, what're you doing out here all by yourself? Where's your mom? Don't tell me you came here alone."

Silas and Jason exchanged a glance. It was strange, almost disorienting, to see Felix slip so easily into an older-brother role when most of the time he behaved like the youngest of them all.

"Sometimes I forget he's fourteen," Jason murmured under his breath.

Silas let out a dry snort. "Seriously."

Before either could say more, Eliza's face shifted and a sense of dread curled within Silas' stomach in that moment. The child's lips curled into a grin far too wide, too sudden to be natural. Silas's fingers tightened on the hilt of his pugio, instincts screaming, but Jason caught his arm, holding him back. Don't attack a kid, his eyes said.

Yet the moonlight betrayed her. Her eyes really were purple—no trick of the dark, no illusion. An eerie, amethyst gleam stared back at them.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice light but wrong. "I didn't come alone."

The words hit like a curse.

None of them even had time to move. Mist surged around them, rolling thick across the sand and seeping into their lungs, their heads, their very thoughts. It wasn't just air made dense—it clawed at their sense of reality, yanking them loose from the world.

Silas gagged on it, coughing, eyes stinging as he squinted through the haze. His blade trembled in his grip. He wanted to curse, to scream—but then he saw Eliza.

She was crying. Not with the terror of a child lost, but with the despair of someone who knew this was her fate. Her small shoulders shook, tears streaking her cheeks, and it dawned on Silas with a chill that wasn't from the sea breeze:

This wasn't her choice.

She wasn't their enemy. She was the bait luring them into a trap.

Someone—something—was using her, forcing her into this role.

But who had that kind of power?

Silas didn't have time to think.

Felix crumpled first, his knees buckling as he hit the sand. The betrayal in his eyes was sharp, raw—like he couldn't believe the girl he'd just comforted had turned on him. Jason wasn't far behind, his body slumping as if the weight of the mist had stolen the fight from him.

Silas held on, though every heartbeat felt weaker, slower. His mind thickened, thoughts dissolving into white noise, like someone stuffing his skull with cotton. His vision tunneled, the edges blackening as he fought to keep a grip on himself.

He staggered, dragging his body closer to his fallen friends. His hand stretched out, fingers trembling toward them, reaching for any kind of anchor.

Please. I can't be alone. I need...

The thought unraveled before it could finish, leaving only a hollow ache echoing in his chest.

The first thing Silas knew was the beach—the hiss of surf inside his skull, the weight of salt on his tongue. The second was absence: his belt felt wrong, light, meaning he didn't have his pugio.

The third thing was a lie to the first. He wasn't on the shore. He was on a bed, staring up at a white ceiling.

White, everywhere. White walls, white sheets, white light humming overhead until it felt like needles behind his eyes. The room had edges too clean to be trusted; even the corners looked scrubbed of shadows. Panic crawled up his throat. The walls had to be closing in. They had to be.

He forced his gaze down—and flinched.

His watch: 5:07 p.m.

He stared until his eyes watered, willing the second hand to move. Nothing. Frozen. The same time it had read on the beach.

His fingers shook as he wrung them together. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled for the door. Locked. The handle rattled uselessly in his grip. He paced—three strides, turn, three strides back—each breath a little sharper than the last.

Think. Think. Think.

Silas pressed his back to the locked door, breath shallow. He couldn't remember why he had been at the beach—only that he had been there. The sand, the mist, the salt in his throat... all of it slipped through his fingers like water.

But names clung stubbornly to the corners of his mind. Jason. Felix. One by one, the syllables echoed like lifelines he couldn't afford to lose.

"Jason," he whispered, testing it, grounding himself. "Felix..."

The fluorescent light above him flickered once, then again—though Silas didn't notice the rhythm synced with the stutter of his pulse.

His hands clenched, restless, and the light overhead gave another twitch, humming louder, straining against its own steady glow. The room seemed to breathe with him, contracting every time his chest did.

Panic buzzed hot in his skull. The memories stayed locked away, but the names burned like brands. Jason. Felix. Jason. Felix.

The light snapped with a sharp pop, flooding the room with shadows for a heartbeat before it steadied again.

Silas stared upward, frowning, but his mind was still stuck in the haze. He didn't realize it wasn't the bulb failing—

It was him.

Instead, his eyes snagged on something resting against the pillow—a folded, yellowing envelope.

The letter. His father's letter.

For a moment he just stood there, caught between dread and longing. Maybe it was the haze clogging his thoughts, maybe it was the silence pressing too close, or maybe it was simply that he was alone and wanted—needed—something familiar. Something that wouldn't dissolve when he reached for it.

He sat down slowly, the bed creaking under his weight. His scarred fingers hovered, then brushed the envelope's rough surface. It was stained in places, edges softened from too much handling. The faint smell of cigarette smoke clung to it, stubborn, invasive, like the man who had written it.

Silas swallowed hard. He was lying to himself—pretending this letter held comfort, that it was more than the shadow of a ghost who had broken him. But he didn't care. He just wanted...

Gods, he didn't even know anymore.

Just something.

And so he opened the envelope. It took him several minutes to properly read but Silas managed to do so. His father's nearly forgotten words read:

My Silas,

If you are reading this, it means I am gone. Dead, buried, forgotten by all but you. And yet, isn't that the way of the world? People turn their backs, but blood—our blood—always remembers. You, my boy, are the only one who will carry me forward. The only one who understands.

I imagine you holding this letter with those clever hands of yours, scarred maybe, but capable of great things. You were always different from the rest—sharper, braver, willing to do what others wouldn't. That's why you were mine. That's why I was proud.

Now don't let grief twist you. Death is just another door, and I've already walked through it. You, however—you are still here. And you will not waste what I've given you. My name, my blood, my ambition. You are the continuation of me, Silas. Every choice you make, every shadow you carve into the world, that is my legacy through you.

I know the world won't understand you. They will call you cruel, reckless, dangerous. They said the same about me. Let them. The weak always throw stones at the strong. You mustn't bend yourself to their smallness. You are meant to unsettle. To take what you want. To remind people that chaos cannot be caged. Because you were born for greatness, and greatness does not bow down to rules—no, it finds a way to evade such useless ideas.

And when you doubt yourself—and I know you will—remember this: you were loved. Not by god, not by your so-called peers, but by me. My love was not soft or simple, but it was real. And it made you strong. Strong enough to carry on where I cannot.

So live, my Silas. Live as though I am still watching. Because I am, in a way. And every time you cut your own path through this miserable world, you prove that I never really died.

Your father,
Leonard Vesper

Silas's eyes blurred over the ink halfway through, but he couldn't stop. His throat burned, every word heavy and sharp, cutting him from the inside out. He hated the sweetness threaded through the venom, hated the way Leonard's voice felt alive again in his head. It was crueler than silence.

When he finished, the letter sagged in his hands. He pressed it to his face like it might still hold warmth, but all it smelled of was smoke and ash, everything his father had ever been.

Grief hit him like the tide—suffocating, endless. He hadn't cried when he'd first thought of the possibility that his father could be dead, but now it came raw, wracking his chest until he had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. Because Leonard was right, wasn't he? No god, no camp, no demigod had ever truly seen him. Only the monster who'd raised him, the one who'd called him son and made him strong enough to survive.

And that was the worst of it. The weight he couldn't set down. That maybe he was the legacy Leonard claimed, whether he wanted it or not. Chaos ran in him like blood, the hunger to unsettle, to scar, to take. He didn't want it. He wanted to be free of it. But freedom was a lie, and he knew it.

Silas clutched the letter tighter until the paper crumpled, whispering into the empty room like a prayer he didn't believe in.

"Why did you leave me?"

The silence answered back. 

Why did you leave him?

Silas sat frozen, the letter trembling in his hands. The words on the page bled into the cracks of his mind until he couldn't tell if he was reading them or remembering them, if Leonard was speaking from beyond or if it was just Silas parroting the voice that had shaped him.

A thought dug its claws into him and refused to let go: Did he think I abandoned him?

He had lost all the years that had been blurred—days stolen in the Lotus Hotel, hours that had slipped through his fingers like sand. He tried to tell himself it hadn't been his fault, that he hadn't meant to lose so much time, but the truth pressed down heavier than the white ceiling above him. If he hadn't disappeared into that cursed place, maybe he could've done something. Visited the prison. Written. Found a way, any way, to let his father know he wasn't alone.

Instead, Leonard had died behind bars, nameless and hated, with nothing but his crimes for company. And now here was Silas, clutching a letter that smelled of smoke and regret, wondering if his father's last thought had been that his son had turned his back on him.

The despair curled tight in his chest, crushing. He wanted to believe the fates were wrong, that he wasn't the shadow Leonard left behind—but guilt whispered otherwise. Maybe he'd always been too much his father's son. Maybe he'd proved it the moment he let time slowly kill his father, left to die all alone in a cell.

The son of Leonard could have sworn he heard his father's voice croon in his ears, a hint of an angry smirk dancing on his lips, saying, "Selfish little sinner."

Silas pressed the letter flat against his knees, staring at the still hands of his watch.

5:07.

The minute his father died, maybe. Or the minute Silas knew he failed him forever.

He didn't know which hurt worse.

The letter slipped from his fingers, crumpling against the sheets as the weight of it crushed him. A sob tore out of his throat, sharp and jagged, and another followed until he was heaving like his chest might split apart. His voice broke into a scream—wordless, aching, the kind of sound that felt ripped from bone and blood.

The sterile white walls closed in, the ceiling pressing lower, suffocating. The light above flickered wildly, stuttering with every surge of emotion that shuddered through him. His hands clawed at his face, his hair, his chest, as though he could rip out the grief by force.

He couldn't think of Jason. He couldn't think of Felix. They were names, shadows, drifting beyond reach. There was only Leonard—his father, his blood, his curse—dead and still managing to trap him, still managing to own every piece of him.

The scream built again, sharper this time, sharpened by fury, by the gnawing ache of guilt that told him you could have stopped this, you could have been there. Rage and grief collided, pressure mounting inside his chest until it had nowhere left to go.

The bulb overhead burst with a violent snap. Shards scattered like falling stars, the light extinguished in a single breath. And then there was nothing—no glow, no edges, no escape. Just the cold, consuming dark.

And Silas Vesper was very familiar with darkness.

Silas winced when a sliver of light spilled into the room as the door creaked open. To his embarrassment, a familiar blonde boy with electric-blue eyes stood framed in the doorway. Silas stayed hunched in the shadows, his face turned stubbornly toward the corner. If Jason saw him—saw this—Silas wasn't sure he could stand it.

"Uh, Si? You in here? They told me you were resting..." Jason's voice was cautious, almost like he was afraid of intruding.

Maybe if I keep quiet, he'll leave me alone, Silas thought, throat too raw to risk speaking. If Jason heard how hoarse his voice had become, the truth of his breakdown would be laid bare.

A pause. Then Jason's voice dropped into a whisper, concern lacing each word. "...What? Is that glass?"

Shit.

Silas' jaw clenched as his pulse spiked. He dragged his sleeve across his face, rough and quick, but it did nothing to erase the red blotches or the tremor in his breath. The crunch of Jason's boots against the glass made him flinch harder than he wanted to.

"Si... what happened in here?" Jason's voice had shifted—gentler now, cautious, like he was speaking to some cornered animal.

Silas pressed his forehead to the wall, nails digging into the peeling paint. He couldn't answer. His throat still burned with the residue of screams, and the thought of Jason hearing it—knowing—made his stomach knot with shame.

The silence dragged on, thick and suffocating, until Jason finally exhaled. "...You don't have to talk. But at least—at least let me know you're okay. Please... can you look at me?"

There's no avoiding him.

Silently, Silas turned his head, though he couldn't bring himself to meet those divine, electric eyes. Jason lowered himself to his level, worry carved deep into his face. His hands twitched upward, almost cupping Silas' cheeks, before he stopped short at the warning in Silas' weak glare.

Jason's voice came out rough, torn between fury and concern. "Who... did this to you?"

"I... did."

Silas hated how fragile his own voice sounded, every word fraying at the edges.

Jason froze, his breath catching like the words had punched him. He shifted, kneeling there in the mess of glass like he'd forgotten about it. "Why, Si?" His voice cracked a little, gentler than before. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

Silas stared at the floor, jaw tight. His fingers fidgeted against the seam of his pants. "...I opened the letter." The words dragged out of him like stones. "He's dead. My father's dead."

Jason blinked, his shoulders sinking. "Oh." For a moment, he looked like he didn't know what to do with his hands or his voice. Then softer, stumbling but genuine, "Silas... I'm so sorry."

"I can't—" Silas cut himself off, shaking his head. "Not all of it. Not here. If we make it out of this place, I'll... I'll tell you more."

Jason hesitated, then nodded quickly, almost too quickly. "Okay. Yeah. You don't owe me everything right now." His voice wavered before he steadied it. "But... you don't have to carry it alone, either."

He reached out, like he wanted to rest a hand on Silas' arm, but let it fall short, fingers curling against his own knee. "I'm not good at this kind of thing, but... I'm truly sorry for your loss. Really."

It wasn't polished or heroic—it was awkward, halting—but it was real. And for the first time in a long while, Silas let himself lean on real.

With a sniffle, the son of Discordia furrowed his brows. "Wait, how'd you get in here? My door was locked."

Jason looked off-put by the sudden topic change but answered anyway. "What do you mean? It was unlocked. They told me you were resting—"

Silas was immediately suspicious. "Who's they?"

Jason didn't even get the chance to respond before another figure filled the doorway.

He was striking in a way that set Silas' nerves on edge—handsome in a roguish, effortless sort of way, auburn hair catching the dim light, black eyes glittering like a starless night sky. There was something impossible about those eyes, too alive, too knowing, as if they could drink in every shadow Silas carried and still hunger for more. He looked to be in his late twenties at most, yet carried the weight and stock of a seasoned warrior, shoulders squared with the confidence of someone who had never been denied.

When he spoke, his voice was magnetic, charming in a way that reminded Silas of someone he thought he'd met once before—though the memory slipped through his fingers like sand. "Ah, did you make this mess, boy? No worries. Everyone's been on edge with the kidnappings lately. I understand your... distress." His smile was easy, too easy. "Your friend mentioned you kids have been sleeping on the beach. Tell me—were you hoping to get snatched up too?"

Jason stiffened beside him, but Silas found himself caught between fight and fog. The words on his tongue, the sharp retorts, the sneers—none of them came. Despite the chill crawling down his spine, what the man said made sense. Or maybe it was that hazy, cotton-stuffed fog still clinging to his mind, dulling the edges of his doubt.

His mouth moved before his instincts could stop him. "No, sir. We were... looking for our parents. The beach was where they were last seen. It was a stupid idea, but—" his voice faltered, low, almost ashamed, "we were desperate for answers."

"Desperate, you say." The man mused aloud, voice calm and oddly warm. "Oh, forgive me, boys. My name is Aeneas, founder of the Cornupia Foundation."

"Aeneas, like... the first hero of Rome? Son of Venus?" Jason's voice carried a flicker of awe, like he'd just spotted a myth come to life.

Aeneas smiled at that, a little too pleased. "Yes. And I hope to be as legendary as the original Aeneas."

"That's so cool," Jason said, his wariness dissolving into admiration so quickly it almost startled Silas.

Silas, meanwhile, couldn't shake the itch at the back of his mind. That name... I know it from somewhere. But not in a good way. The harder he tried to drag it out of memory, the slipperier it became.

Aeneas watched him closely, then, almost casually, flicked on a light switch that hadn't been there a moment before. The sudden brightness stung their eyes. When Silas blinked the spots away, the broken glass was gone.

"I—there was glass—" Jason stammered, but his voice faltered. His expression went slack, dazed.

Aeneas chuckled softly, the sound perfectly reasonable. "Glass? What do you mean, Jason, boy? This bulb's been working fine all afternoon."

Silas's gut twisted. No—that's not right. I saw it. And yet, the certainty slid away from him, replaced with a numb nod. Jason mirrored him.

Guess I was hallucinating earlier, Silas thought. The thought didn't comfort him.

"Wait, sir—"

"You may call me pater, if you like, Silas."

Silas didn't question how the man knew his name. He didn't even notice the slip in his own thought.

"I came here to tell you both that you're welcome to stay with us. We have plenty of room, and several other orphans have already found their place here. Your friend Felix is enjoying his stay, and I hope you boys will too. After all"—Aeneas's smile was steady, patient, true—"we're the only family you'll ever need."

The words curled inside Silas's chest like smoke. He hated how natural it felt to nod along, how easy it was to imagine this man standing where Leonard once did. His mind rebelled, but the protest was weak, muffled.

No. He's not lying. He can't be lying.

And somehow, Silas believed him.

"Ah, right, I can imagine you're hungry," Aeneas said, almost on cue, just as both Jason's and Silas's stomachs growled in unison. "Dear Katherine is serving lunch. She makes a mean casserole—like you wouldn't believe it. If you'd like some food, take a plate—or even three! Your friend is eating in the kitchens right this second."

Jason and Silas shared a glance. Maybe some food couldn't hurt.

Silas pushed down the prickle of dread that always came with strangers offering meals, but the unease sank under the warm hum already spreading through his thoughts. These people were good. They had to be.

Jason offered his hand, steady and certain, and helped Silas to his feet. Together, they followed the auburn-haired man. Aeneas's grin was dazzling, reassuring, and with it came the unshakable sense that they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Neither Jason nor Silas noticed the dangerous gleam hidden in Aeneas's twinkling black eyes, or the unsettling murmur that slipped past his charming smile.

"Welcome to the family, demigods. I hope you never leave because the real game is about to start."

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

❝𝙵𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙻𝚈 𝙳𝙴𝙱𝚃𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚆𝙸𝚂𝙴 𝙰𝙳𝚅𝙸𝙲𝙴 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙼𝙾𝙼: 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝙻𝙰𝙱𝙴𝙻 𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙺!❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

FELIX LOVED getting free stuff. Waking up in a luxury king-size bed was a dream because he could have sworn that he had just been resting on an uncomfortable beach. Man, Is this real? 

The son of Fortuna sat up slowly, squinting around at the room.

It was too perfect. High ceilings, silk curtains, a desk-table that gleamed like it had never been touched. Even the sheets smelled like lavender instead of salt water or mildew. For a second, Felix let himself sink back into the pillows with a grin. If this is a scam, it's the nicest one I've ever been in.

Still, comfort never stopped his hands from itching. He slid off the bed and prowled toward the desk, eyes landing on a shiny CD player. Jackpot. He reached to pop it open—already imagining sliding the disc into his pocket—and he was pleased to see it was Thriller by Micheal Jackson.

"Hell yeah," he muttered,  but then he sucked his teeth in when the desk drawer was locked shut. "Damn it."

The dresser drawers were no better, each one refusing to budge. The only useful thing that wasn't sealed up tight was a little green note left neatly on the desk. Felix recognized his own name scrawled across the top, but the rest blurred into nonsense. He only picked out a few familiar words: you, eat, food.

His stomach growled like it agreed with the message. Felix sighed. "Guess I'll take what I can get."

He glanced back at the bed, then around the pristine room again. Royalty, that's what this was. A gilded cage maybe, but Felix wasn't picky. Coming from nothing made it a lot easier to enjoy something. Although, there was a sense of unease because he could have sworn this room reminded of someplace...

That's when one of the most drop-dead gorgeous men Felix had ever seen walked in. Striking didn't even cover it—he was the kind of handsome that set every nerve on edge. Roguish, effortless, auburn hair catching the dim light, and black eyes glittering like a starless night sky. He couldn't have been older than his late twenties, yet he carried himself with the stock and gravity of a seasoned warrior. Broad shoulders, squared posture, and that kind of confidence Felix had only ever seen in people who had never once been told no.

Of course, no one could ever beat Poppy. Except—when Felix tried to picture her face, even her name slipped back into the fog of his thoughts. He frowned. What had he just been thinking about?

Then the man spoke, and his voice was just as dangerous as his looks. Magnetic. Smooth. Charming in a way that reminded Felix of someone—someone he thought he'd met once, though his head hurt when he tried to think harder than he normally did. Whoever it was, they'd been just as pretty, if not more.

"Sorry for the intrusion, boy," the stranger said warmly, "but I found you and your friends on the beach and thought to myself, these poor children! Don't worry, your friends are resting now in their own rooms."

Felix blinked, trying to read between the lines. Still, the man was smiling, and everything about him looked safe.

"Oh. Thanks...?" Felix offered, his tone half-grateful, half-guarded. He wasn't sure if he should trust him, but friendliness was hard to argue with.

"Ah, how rude of me!" the man said, flashing a grin that could have sold sunshine in a storm. "My name is Aeneas, founder of the Cornucopia Foundation, where our mission is to help the less fortunate. Now, this may be personal, but I only want to help you, Felix. So—do you mind telling me why you boys were out on that beach?"

It didn't even cross Felix's mind to question how this stranger already knew his name.

"Uh, we're all adopted!" Felix announced brightly, launching straight into the first nonsense story he could string together. "But our parents were eaten by aliens, and then our poor grandmother was struck down by lightning—"

Aeneas chuckled, deep and warm, and Felix had to try very hard not to swoon at the sound.

"Aliens? Lightning?" Aeneas said. "That's a tale if I ever heard one."

"It's all true, sir! I swear on my dead dog's life. Poor thing exploded. Tragic circumstances." Felix even sniffled, swiping at his eyes as if overwhelmed by grief. "Since then, we've been wandering the cruel earth until we washed up on that beach—utterly exhausted and in despair."

Fake tears glittered at the corners of his eyes, as dramatic as his lies.

And this time, to Felix's surprise, it seemed like Aeneas actually believed him.

Aeneas' smile softened, though there was still something sharp beneath it, like steel hidden in silk. He set a hand lightly on Felix's shoulder, the weight just enough to be grounding without seeming forceful.

"You poor boy," he murmured. "You've suffered far too much already. But you don't need to wander anymore. We take in children like you—orphans, the forgotten ones—and give them a home. Should you choose to stay, you'll find you're not alone. Even now, there are several others here, resting safe under our care."

Felix blinked at him, brain scrambling somewhere between this guy's way too nice and oh gods, free food. His stomach growled right on cue, betraying him.

Aeneas chuckled again, warm and indulgent. "I won't keep talking—no doubt you're starving. Come, let me show you to the kitchens. Our dear Katherine is cooking up something delicious as we speak. I promise, her casseroles could rival ambrosia."

Felix's mouth watered before he could stop it. Maybe this whole foundation thing wasn't such a bad gig after all.

"Dude, please, I need that food in my belly!"

Aeneas guided him through a dizzying maze of hallways, each turn leaving Felix's sense of direction wobbling until he wasn't sure if they were still in the same building. By the time they emerged into a wide dining room, his head was still spinning.

The sight that greeted him made his chest ache: a cluster of little kids, no older than ten, already gathered around the long table. Some of them looked barely five or six, their small faces lit by the glow of an abundant spread laid out in the center.

Something about it tugged at him—familiar, painfully so—but when he reached for the memory, it slipped out of his grasp like water through his fingers. All he was left with was the gnawing sense that something important was missing.

"Children," Aeneas announced warmly, his voice carrying a gravity that filled the whole room, "meet your new brother!"

Six pairs of eyes turned toward Felix. He froze, suddenly hyperaware of how out of place he looked standing there in yesterday's clothes.

"I'll leave you to eat, son," Aeneas added, with a final pat to Felix's shoulder.

The word son landed strange in his chest—awkward and unfamiliar, but oddly comforting too. For once, Felix didn't argue.

On the left side of the table sat three kids, all of them quiet—whether from shyness or something heavier, Felix couldn't tell. They picked at their food without saying a word.

The boy furthest away caught his attention first. Chinese, maybe nine years old, with a baby face that was way too serious for someone that age. But it wasn't the seriousness that made Felix's stomach flip—it was the boy's eyes. One was a bright, unnatural red; the other, a stark, ghostly white.

Woah, Felix thought, staring a little too long. I didn't even think that was possible. Kid's definitely gonna be a heartthrob when he grows up.

Beside him sat a girl who looked a little older. Her hair was dirty blonde, falling like a curtain as if she wanted to hide behind it. Still, Felix couldn't miss the unsettling glint of her eyes when she shifted—purple. Not the dull violet of a bruise, but amethyst, clear and sharp. She refused to look at him.

Felix slid into the empty chair next to her anyway. "Hey. I'm Felix," he offered brightly, though it bounced against the silence. The girl ducked deeper behind her hair.

The Chinese boy just blinked at him. Then, in a soft, accented voice, he said, "Your red thread looks weird."

Felix froze. "Uh, kid...what red thread?"

The boy pointed at Felix's right pinky. Felix stared down at his dark skin, seeing nothing but the usual. No thread. No string. Nothing.

"...Right." He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck.

He leaned toward the curly gingerhead boy on his other side, hoping for backup. The kid fiddled with a keychain that dangled a single toy key, studiously avoiding Felix's eyes. Felix raised his brows at him, a silent Is he usually like this? but the boy said nothing.

Felix tried again, "What's your name?"

The gingerhead shifted, clutching his toy key tighter, as if it mattered more than the question. Is this what kids like playing with nowadays? Strange but cool.

Aloud, he said, "Sorry, I should've told you my name, little man. I'm Felix! My best friend calls me—oh wait, I probably shouldn't be a bad influence around you."

He sheepishly messed with his white tight curls, surprised to find grains of sand hidden in them. Maybe I can make a sand castle if there's enough sand in my hair.

"Hey! Wanna make a sand castle later?"

"Uh, okay..."

"Damn, just okay?" Felix slumped, clearly offended. "Aren't sand castles cool?"

The ginger laughed. "You're weird, mister."

"I prefer the word astonishing. But don't ask me to spell it—I've got no clue."

"Me neither, mister."

Felix groaned, making a couple of kids glance his way. "Little man, don't call me 'mister.' Makes me sound ancient. Just call me by my name—or big bro!"

Swinging the keychain around his pale, chubby finger (something about it tugged at Felix's memory—like he'd lost something valuable), the ginger grinned up at him. "Okay, big bro! I'm Timmy!"

The girl next to Felix, who had been quiet until now, suddenly piped up with a sassy retort. "More like tiny Timmy..."

Before Felix could scold her, another child beat him to it—an eight-year-old with reddish-bronze skin and level brown eyes sitting across the table. Her long, ruler-straight black hair shifted as she shook her head. "Stop being mean, Eliza." Her voice carried a light Spanish lilt, almost melodic.

Eliza's lips pulled into a pout, but she didn't push back.

The eight-year-old, on the other hand, gave Felix a cheerful little wave. Everything about her struck him as tidy—her posture, her hair, even her smile, all neat and almost unsettlingly symmetrical.

"Hi! I'm Olivia. I'm eight! How old are you?"

"Uh, I'm fifteen—"

The small boy next to Olivia cut in, his words tripping over a slight lisp thanks to the gap in his front teeth. "You're old!" he declared with a grin so wide it seemed designed to show off that gap. His uneven dimple tugged at his right cheek as he beamed. With his olive tan, tousled black hair, and a mix of Greek and Egyptian features, Felix guessed he was about five. His dark brown eyes sparkled with untold secrets. Strangely enough, he shared the same straight little nose as the girl two seats down.

That girl looked about six, though her appearance set her apart from the rest—pale as snow, strawberry-blonde hair dull as dust, and muted green eyes that made her look almost spectral. A ghost among children.

"What—I'm not old—" Felix spluttered, throwing his hands up.

The Chinese boy finally chimed in, voice flat but cutting. "You're a teenager."

The emphasis made Felix feel every year pressing down on him, sitting here surrounded by children.

At this point, Felix wasn't sure what he should be doing, so he started eating. Between mouthfuls he mumbled, "Mh—so you're Eliza. Wait, can I call you Liz?"

Eliza froze at the nickname, but after a long beat, she gave a small nod. These kids are interesting... just like me, Felix thought.

Pointing his fork toward the neat-looking eight-year-old across the table, he added, "And—you're gonna be Liv."

"Wow, I'm getting a nickname?" she said, raising her brows. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Hermano, please don't talk while you eat. My mama said that's bad table manners."

"Oh. Yeah, sure," Felix muttered, realizing he was up against a pint-sized etiquette officer.

Liv didn't stop there. She gently tapped the Chinese boy's arm when she noticed he'd ditched his fork in favor of grabbing eggs with his bare hand. "Hualian, forks were made for a reason. And, um—Tim? Why are you using your key as a fork?"

Lo and behold, little Timmy was scraping casserole with his toy key. The ginger puffed out his chest and huffed, "I'm not using it as a fork. It's a spoon. Duh."

Felix nearly choked on his bite. What the hell kind of orphanage is this?

His gaze landed on the ghostly pale girl and the mischievous boy across from him, both of them looking way too young to be tangled up in... whatever this place was. "What are your names? Can't call you guys 'the ghost girl' and 'the cheeky boy,'" Felix joked, fork gesturing between the two like it was a magic wand.

Eliza leaned closer, whispering like she was spilling a terrible secret. "It's weird, but she doesn't speak. Pater says she was born like that."

Pater? Felix blinked. Did she mean Aeneas? 

The mischievous boy just grinned, gap-toothed and triumphant, clearly pleased to have been labeled cheeky boy. "Secret, secret!"

"Huh, what do you mean, kid?" Felix asked, baffled. Since when do five-year-olds go around demanding classified intel?

Eliza rolled her eyes, the perfect little gossip. "That's the only way he'll tell you his name. All of us told him a secret. It makes him happy..."

What? Felix nearly blurted. They're all kids. What kind of dirt could they even be hiding? Where they stash their candy? Who peed in the sandbox? And, honestly, couldn't one of them have just coughed up a secret and told the rest of the group?

Timmy, abandoning his toy key-as-silverware, piped up, "Yeah, my secret is—"

But before he could finish, the cheeky boy pressed a stubby finger to his lips, shushing with uncanny authority. The moment stretched, and Felix swore Timmy's words just... dissolved, like he physically couldn't say them anymore.

Felix felt his stomach twist. Yeah, that's not normal. Not sandbox-level secrets. That's... something else.

Hualian pouted, crossing his arms. "It's not fair. She didn't have to tell him anything. I wish I couldn't speak, too."

"Hualian, that's a very disrespectful thing to say," Felix lightly scolded, hoping ghost girl wasn't too rattled by the comment. But when he looked at her, her pale green eyes shimmered with a sadness so heavy it almost weighed on the air. The kind of sadness that spoke louder than words ever could.

Meanwhile, the Greek-Egyptian boy leaned forward, gap-toothed grin wide, expectant. He was practically vibrating in his seat, waiting.

Felix twirled his fork between his fingers. Sure, what's the worst that can happen? He's just five anyway. I'll say something dumb, he'll giggle, and bam—we're done.

He cleared his throat. "Okay, cheeky boy, you want a secret?"

All eyes were on him, and Felix suddenly felt way too exposed. To shake it off, he scraped his chair back and plopped himself down between cheeky boy and ghost girl. Maybe if he was closer, he could figure them out.

The five-year-old leaned toward him, gap-toothed grin turning conspiratorial. "Quiet."

Felix blinked. "Uh—what?"

But then the ghost girl nodded once. Instantly, the world dropped into silence. Not the casual kind either—absolute silence. No chewing, no chair legs scraping, not even the faint sound of breathing. The room had been swallowed whole.

Across the table, the other kids froze in terror. Timmy's face scrunched up, tears streaking down his cheeks, but Felix didn't hear a single sob.

"What the—" His own voice echoed unnaturally, startling him so badly he nearly jumped out of his chair. The sudden motion sent his knee into the table. A candlestick toppled, flames licking across the napkins like they'd been waiting for it.

The moment sound came crashing back in, it was chaos—Timmy's bawling, chairs scraping, kids screaming, even the ghost girl looked spooked. Felix hacked as smoke clawed down his throat, scrambling to herd the kids toward the door. "Go, go, go—single file, no little people left behind—come on, move your butts!"

The fire spread faster than it should've, making his heart hammer as he ushered the last kid out. Coughing hard, he shoved into the hall—only to collide with a wall of muscle.

No. Not a wall.

Aeneas.

The man looked down at him, eyes glittering like pitch under glass.

Behind him, a woman in her thirties bustled past in a hairnet, face slack, movements jerky, as if she were working a shift in her sleep. Felix stared. Robot. Or alien. Definitely alien.

And then Aeneas smiled.

Instead of scolding him, Aeneas's hand settled firmly on his shoulder, guiding him through the haze. His voice was smooth, reassuring in a way that made Felix's chest unclench against his will.

"Don't worry, son. Accidents happen. The important thing is that you got everyone out safely. That's what matters."

Felix blinked, chest still burning from the smoke, but he nodded. Somehow, those words felt... true.

Aeneas led them down another dizzying set of hallways, his strides steady while Felix and the kids trailed behind. By the time they stopped, Felix had lost all sense of direction—south could've been up for all he knew.

The door swung open to reveal a cavernous chamber, unlike anything Felix had seen outside a museum or some billionaire's estate. The marble floors gleamed under soft lantern light, and in the very center rose an enormous sculpture. A woman carved in dazzling white stone stood tall, draped in a double chiton that looked alive in the folds. In her left hand, she held a cornucopia overflowing with carved fruit and grain; in her right, she steadied a steering paddle as though guiding an invisible ship.

Felix's jaw dropped. "Woah. You must be rich."

Aeneas chuckled under his breath, the sound both amused and indulgent, before kneeling down to the children's level. His large hands smoothed over their hair, his tone soft as he coaxed them back from their tears.

"I'm not rich, Felix," he said at last, glancing up with that same disarming smile. "I just have a very generous sponsor. Without him, the Cornucopia Foundation would never have existed."

Before Felix could open his mouth to ask, the marble woman's head turned—just slightly, unnervingly—and her stone eyes locked on him.

Time stopped. The children froze mid-breath, Aeneas crouched with one hand extended but unmoving, even the smoke clinging to Felix's shirt seemed suspended in the air.

Then, the voice came. Warm, rich, and achingly familiar.

"Felix, my charming boy," the marble goddess said, her lips unbroken stone, "I've come to warn you and tell you the truth."

Felix's legs nearly buckled. His throat tightened as though he were suddenly three years old again, begging the shadows for luck when he had nothing else except a drunk, angry father who had blamed him for his mom's disappearance. "...Mom?"

Her glow pulsed faintly through the cracks in the marble, and the statue's features softened, if only for him.

"Yes. Fortuna." The name rolled like fate itself. "Your mother."

Felix had no words except, "Uh... I don't have to bow, right?"

His marble mother smiled softly. "My child, you don't need to bow to luck."

"Woah. That should be a line in a movie."

"Felix." She didn't seem mad but she was definitely giving him a pointed look, as if to say, 'my dear child, this isn't the time.' so Felix grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry, go on, I'm listening." 

"I cannot speak for long," Fortuna said, her warm voice edged with strain. "The Mist shrouding this place makes communication fragile." Her eyes bore an emotion Felix had never seen in his father—worry for him. "Felix, do not trust Aeneas. He lies, he manipulates. He gathers these poor children not out of kindness, but for his own power. And if they fail to serve him..."

A shiver ran down Felix's spine. For an instant he saw it—an enormous serpent from the depths, long, narrowed maw wide, as those beady, glowing eyes of pure hatred stared down at him before consuming him whole. The Trojan Sea Monster.

"The beast consumes the innocent to ease its rage. In seven days it will return to the shore, hungering for flesh. Aeneas barely holds it back with the power of this sculpture—"

Felix's head spun from the avalanche of information. "Wait, what?" he blurted, though his chest tightened at the thought of any of those kids being tossed into the sea.

"My son," Fortuna's voice gentled, "only you hold the power to decide its fate. It lies in your hands."

"How?" Felix's throat went dry. "I'm trying, I swear, but I don't even know why I'm here. Silas can knock out enemies without blinking, Jason has all his brainy plans, and me? I'm just... lucky. And half the time when I try to help, it blows up in my face." His head dropped, shame curling his shoulders in.

"Charming boy, don't be a fool," his marble mother chided softly. "You treat luck as your ancestor Palamedes once did. You mustn't label luck."

Felix blinked. Wasn't that the guy who got framed for treason? I'm related to him? Great. Just great.

"Luck is not good or bad," Fortuna continued, her voice smooth yet stern. "It is the eye of the beholder that decides. One man's fortune is another's ruin. A single throw of the dice can crown a poor man a king or bury him in debt—for fate is blind."

Her expression flickered, pained, as though even speaking through stone was tearing at her mind. "Listen well, my son. Find your ancestor's dice. But do not speak of being Palamedes' legacy—not to your friends, not to your camp. The Romans will never trust the blood of a Greek, and it will endanger you. After all, because Palamedes died, he left quite a debt—one that would be paid with your blood."

"But Silas would never tell them! And I doubt—"

"Ah." Fortuna's voice thinned, like the last echo of a prayer. "That son of Discordia... I say this out of love, but Felix, your fate rests in his hands. Trust him carefully."

And with that, the warmth drained from the marble. Her voice vanished. Time jolted back into motion, and the room around him stirred as if nothing had happened.

Felix blinked hard, trying to process what just happened. Let's see... Mom pops in through a marble statue, drops the bomb that Aeneas is shady, something about a sea monster wanting a kid-snack in seven days, oh, and surprise—he's apparently related to some Greek dude who got done dirty in the history books. Right. Totally normal Saturday morning stuff. No, wait Sunday morning stuff.

He rubbed his temples. Okay, so I'm cursed with bad brain soup half the time, but somehow that whole conversation didn't turn me into mashed potatoes. Does that mean... Aeneas has been controlling the Mist?

"Felix?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin. Aeneas was suddenly there, looking at him with that calm, too-kind smile.

Felix plastered on his best nothing's weird at all, sir face. "Uh—yeah, just... admiring the architecture. Big fan of marble ladies, you know?" He laughed nervously and waved at the statue like it hadn't just backstabbed the room's vibe.

Inside, though, his thoughts were racing. Mysteries? Nope. That's Jason's nerd thing, Silas's paranoia thing. Me? I can dance with luck and maybe get an extra bread roll at dinner. But these kids... He glanced toward the group, still shaken but slowly calming under Aeneas's watch. If I can figure out what's really happening with them, maybe I'll finally be useful for once...

And I won't let Aeneas hurt them like my father did to me. The thought settled heavy in Felix's chest, sharper than any warning his mother could have given. No. I'll save them—no matter what it takes.

Because in the end, Felix loved to gamble with his odds. Even if the dice were loaded, even if the deck was rigged, even if the whole table was set against him—he'd play.

And this time, the stakes were more than just his life.

Chapter Text

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chapter ████████

❝Ａ ＣＨＩＬＤ＇Ｓ ████

 ＨＡＶＥＮ❞

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SILAS WASN'T A fan of children. Never had been. So when Aeneas led them into a dining room where seven of them sat waiting—Felix among them—his first instinct was wariness. The air carried a faint tang of smoke, though no fire burned, and something about it clawed at the back of his memory. A place he'd been once, where the walls reeked of neglect and sadness. But no matter how hard he tried, the recollection slipped through his grasp.

Jason's hand brushed his, startling him more than it should have. A jolt raced up Silas's arm, and he yanked it away like he'd been burned.

The table held platters of lasagna, rice, dumplings, casseroles, and burgers—hearty, heavy dishes better suited for an evening feast rather than a simple lunch. Silas's appetite didn't stir. His attention, however, snagged on Felix. The boy had been planted at the head of the table, wedged between two children: a ginger with a toy keychain he twirled like treasure, and a girl with amethyst eyes and dirty-blonde hair. She was older than the rest—maybe ten years old—and she kept her gaze fixed anywhere but on Silas, as if she already knew him.

Aeneas, cheerful as ever, bid them relax and enjoy the feast. Then he vanished, leaving behind no clue where he'd gone—or why.

So he sat down between two girls: one tall for her age, maybe eight, with reddish-brown skin, level brown eyes, and long black straight hair that gleamed in the candlelight. She immediately perked up.

"I'm Olivia," she announced, posture as neat as her voice. "But you can call me Liv!"

On his other side was the opposite—silent as stone. A pale, six-year-old with muted strawberry-blonde hair and eerie green eyes that didn't blink enough. She didn't introduce herself, didn't even shift in her chair, and Silas wasn't about to press her.

Olivia, though, leaned forward and jabbed her fork toward him. "Where'd you get your cool scar?"

Silas's hand twitched toward his forehead before he caught himself. For a beat, he tried to remember—something concrete, something he could give. But the memories tangled, messy and half-buried, so he went with the first lie that felt close to truth.

"Got it in a storm."

Her eyes went wide.

"Woah, so you got struck by lightning?"

That came from across the table—an Asian boy with mismatched eyes, one rogue red, the other pure white, fixed on Silas like he'd just uncovered a grand revelation.

"Uh... no?" Silas muttered, already regretting this entire seating arrangement.

"Oh." The boy deflated, but only for a heartbeat before Liv swooped in to fill the silence.
"That's Hualian," she explained proudly, pointing with her spoon. "He's my best friend here."

Jason, stuck on Hualian's other side, looked like he'd rather face down a monster than endure the boy's eager chatter. His discomfort only deepened when the five-year-old beside him giggled—a cheeky little thing with olive-tanned skin, messy black hair, and dark brown eyes that seemed to hold secrets far too old for his age.

Felix from the head of the table piped up, "Oh, Si and Jace—" The nicknames rolled off his tongue so easily that some of the tension in Silas's shoulders loosened without his permission. The dark-skinned boy jabbed a thumb toward the oldest-looking girl at his right—dirty-blonde hair falling like a curtain, eyes a startling amethyst. Felix flashed his wide grin.

"Meet Liz! She's got the dirt on everyone here, or so it seems, hah!"

Liz's cheeks flared pink. The ten-year-old ducked her head, grumbling into her plate, "N-No, that's not true! I just listen to Pater."

Father. Aeneas.

Silas's jaw clenched, a flicker of memory tugging at him—his own father, long gone, better gone. He shoved it aside before the thought could sour him further, and luckily Felix bulldozed over the silence.

"And this is my man, Timmy!" Felix announced, pointing to the ginger boy beside him, who was diligently spinning a toy key around his finger like it was his most prized possesion. "Loves his key, so don't you dare try to steal it."

Felix wagged a finger straight at Silas, like he was already guilty of the crime.

Silas rolled his eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "If anyone was going to steal something, it'd be you, dumba—"

Jason nearly choked on his lasagna. His electric-blue eyes went wide as he cut in, voice pitching higher. "—Ooookay! Remember to use, uh, kid words."

Silas leaned back, arms crossing, giving Jason a flat look that screamed Seriously? His thoughts echoed loud enough across the table without words: They're not going to remember, nerd. They're just kids.

Jason's answering glare said just as clearly: They'll remember. Please, don't curse in front of them.

Silas's dry glare hadn't even faded when Hualian piped up from across the table, voice sharp with certainty.

"Jace's red strings are connected to Si."

The room went quiet for a beat. Jason blinked at the boy. "...What?"

Silas raised an eyebrow, scowling. "What are you talking about, kid?" He glanced at Jason, then at his own hands—saw nothing but skin and faded scars.

But Hualian only tilted his mismatched gaze at them, one eye burning red, the other pale as bone. "Strings. You don't see them?"

Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat, already pulling back like the idea itself was too much. Silas wanted to roll his eyes again, but something in the boy's voice stopped him—it was too matter-of-fact, too certain.

Felix leaned over and waved his fork dismissively. "Oh, don't worry about it. Hualian says stuff like that all the time."

"Y-Yeah," Timmy, the young ginger, shyly added.

Olivia covered her mouth, trying and failing not to giggle. "It's true, though. Hualian sees fated people through string."

"Just like how I see which key fits right for a door-hole!" Timmy then proceeded to go on a ramble of how amazing keys were so Silas tuned him out.

Fated people? A key-obsessed kid? For a second, the thought flickered—were these kids some kind of legacy? Demigod? Or something stranger? But the question fizzled as quickly as it came, slipping away like smoke between his fingers. Besides, why in the world would the Jason Grace be "fated" to a despicable person like him? Silas grew nauseous at the thought of fated meaning something romantic. 

How disgusting.

Jason had already gone back to eating his food, a dazed smile on his face. How can he smile at this? Silas thought as he looked down at his own empty plate and decided not to push it.

He spared a glance to the silent girl beside him—only to jolt when he found her already staring back. For someone so young, she looked utterly hollow, her pale green eyes carrying a weight far too heavy for six years. They seemed to plead with him, begging him to understand something without words.

While the table buzzed with chatter—Jason politely humoring questions, Felix carrying on like the self-appointed ringleader—Silas's onyx eyes stayed fixed on her. The girl moved her lips, slow and deliberate, but no sound followed. It struck him then—mute. She was trying to say something she couldn't give voice to.

"Can... you spell?" Silas whispered, leaning just enough for her to hear.

She tilted her hand side to side in a so-so gesture.

Silas's stomach twisted. Makes sense—she's only six. But if she's a demigod then... His thoughts snagged on barbed wire. Pain lanced through his head like someone shoving glass behind his eyes. He hissed under his breath, clutching at his temple.

A hand gently pressed against his wrist. Warmth radiated through him, soft as sunlight breaking fog. The pain ebbed, replaced by a strange, balanced calm.

Silas blinked at Olivia—Liv—sitting on his other side. Her wide brown eyes were earnest, her voice melodic. "Do you feel better, hermano?"

He wanted to demand how the hell she did that, wanted to tear through the unease curling in his gut. Instead, all he managed was a stiff nod. "...Yeah. Thanks."

When Silas turned back, the six year old avoided his gaze as if she made a mistake trying to communicate. Does she know something? 

Liv snapped him out of his daze when she politely asked if they could swap drinks, saying that she was allergic to apples. So, he nodded and he was now sipping apple juice while the eight year was drinking orange juice with such poise for a little kid. 

Jason then asked how long each of them had been here.

Liv answered first, arms folded. "Pater found me at the beach. I was the first."

She nodded toward Hualian. "Then him. After that came the two youngest—together."

Felix perked up. "Oh, right, what're their names?"

The other kids went still. Even Olivia's bravado faltered. "Not our place to say," Timmy muttered. The mischievous boy next to Jason peered at them, pressing his tan, stubby finger to his lips as if joking but most of the kids flinched as if expecting something scary to happen. After a beat, the boy laughed and everyone seemed to ease up at the sound. Why are they scared from a five-year old? 

"Eliza after that," Olivia went on, voice softening. "Pater took her in when her daddy disappeared one night."

Eliza's mouth pinched at the word "disappeared," but she said nothing.

"The last was Timmy," Olivia finished. "He doesn't remember much just like Hualian—nothing before Pater took him in."

Felix tilted his head, casual as a card player laying down a risky bet. "Any others ever stay here before you lot?"

That was when the room changed. The unnamed pair stiffened. Eliza's expression flickered with unease.

But no one said a word.

"What do you mean?" Hualian tilted his head, all wide-eyed confusion. "It's always been us six that stayed."

"Y-Yeah," Eliza added quickly, her voice cracking. "Just us."

Silas narrowed his eyes. Her tone was too sharp, the words too careful. He opened his mouth to push—

—but the door creaked. A woman in her thirties bustled in, hairnet pinned down, expression slack and hollow. "Children. Time for sleep." Almost like robots, all the children stood up and followed, their faces blank as a slate. It was an unnerving sight.

Sleep? Silas blinked, trying to find a window for a sliver of sunlight. It was afternoon. It had to be. That's what Aeneas had said. But when he looked at his watch, the hands were locked in place, frozen at 5:07. Fuck. I hate this.

His stomach lurched. His mind twisted when he tried to think past this room, past here. Every attempt felt like something was pulling his thoughts apart, stretching them thin until they threatened to snap. This isn't right. I've felt this before.

Déjà vu surged through him, choking tight around his throat.

"Whoa, Si." Jason was at his side, concern sharpening his voice. "You okay?"

"Y-Yeah," Silas lied, forcing the words through the tremor in his chest. "Food didn't agree with me."

Felix's grin faltered, voice gentler than usual. "But... you didn't even eat."

In an instant, Jason started piling food onto Silas's plate. Silas didn't even have the strength to snap at him to quit. The golden boy went so far as to cut the food into neat pieces, fork poised like he was about to feed him.

"Jace... I—you don't need to feed me. I'm not a baby."

Jason froze mid-motion, face flushing scarlet. He looked like a kid caught stealing candy. "I—uh—yeah. You're not a baby. D-duh." He fumbled for words, panic spilling out in stammers. "I just thought—erm, well, I didn't think. I just acted without—"

"—thinking." A ghost of a smile tugged at Silas's lips. "Yeah, I could tell, Jace."

He almost added my saving grace but bit it back. Jason was already mortified enough.

Across the table, Felix shot Jason a look. Silas couldn't quite read it—half teasing, half amusement—but it made his chest tighten all the same. With effort, he forced himself to eat. Jason stayed at his side, blue eyes flicking over him like he was making sure every bite went down.

Sure, it was humiliating to be force-fed by a thirteen-year-old golden boy, but Silas had bigger worries gnawing at him now.

"It's strange we've barely seen any adults," Silas muttered between reluctant bites of lasagna. Too much seasoning, but he ate it anyway.

"Yeah," Jason agreed, watching his friend eat from the corner of his eye. "And that woman—acting without a thought in her head."

Felix snorted. "Ouch, Grace. Way to call someone stupid." Before Jason could sputter a defense, Felix's grin slipped into something sharper. "They're all like her. I saw some of them when they were putting out a fire."

Jason nearly choked on his orange juice. "A fire?!"

Silas groaned, rubbing his temples. "Let me guess—you started it."

"I—hey! That was an accident!" Felix puffed up, then immediately ruined it by smirking. "A good accident."

Both Jason and Silas gave him identical frowns of confusion. Felix burst into laughter at their synchronized expressions before waving them down.

"Look, I was just trying to get that cheeky kid's name at breakfast. Apparently, you only earn it after telling a secret."

Jason raised a brow. "That's... weird."

"Anyway, right before I could trade my secret, the whole room went dead silent. Spooked everyone to death! I panicked, kicked the table, knocked a candle over—poof, napkins on fire. But hey, silver lining—that's how I found some statue of my mom. And then my mom decided to speak to me."

Jason practically threw his cup of orange juice down. "Time out. Your mom—the goddess Fortuna—talked to you? Personally?"

"How? And why?" Silas's eyes narrowed. He didn't like the twitch of envy curling in his gut. Good for Felix, sure—but the look on his face was too bright, too whole. The opposite of everything Silas's own mother had ever given him.

"Uh... you're not gonna believe me, but Aeneas is—" Felix's words died as his gaze shifted to the doorway.

There stood Aeneas, smiling like a marble statue come to life.

"Hello, my sons. Did you enjoy your food?"

Aeneas guided them through the twisting halls one by one, showing them to their rooms like a gracious host. Silas, as always, was last.

The deeper they went, the stranger it felt. Each corner bled into another, halls looping like a snake swallowing its own tail. No matter how hard Silas tried to map it in his head, the layout kept shifting, warping, as if the house itself didn't want to be remembered. Soon enough, they were standing in front of a familiar door.

Finally, Silas asked, "What's the date today?"

Aeneas laughed, the sound rich and amused, echoing off marble. "Why does it matter, boy?"

But when he saw Silas's frown—the nervous flicker of his onyx eyes—his expression softened into something dangerously close to pity. "It's Monday, June eighteenth. 2007."

Silas's stomach dropped. He didn't know why the date made his pulse thunder, only that something—someone—was counting down to a nearing date. Something tied to Felix's mother, Fortuna.

He stepped back as Aeneas leaned in with that carved, perfect grin.

"Silas Vesper," the man said, almost kindly, "whatever you're worrying about doesn't matter."

Doesn't matter. But it did. Silas knew it did. He opened his mouth to argue—

"But—"

"Just go to sleep, son."

That word cut deeper than any blade. Son. It tasted like ash, like chains, like blood in the dirt. He hated it. He wanted it.

With a bowed head of ebony curls, Silas forced the word out, quiet and obedient, like how a son would to a father.

"Yes, Pater."

The door closed behind him with a heavy thunk, sealing him in.

Silas stood frozen in the center of the room, onyx eyes darting across the white walls. The place was too clean, too polished, like a dollhouse version of safety. No windows. No sound. Not even the faint scrape of rats or pipes.

Just stillness.

He turned in a slow circle. Hadn't the hallway bent left? Hadn't there been a staircase? His head throbbed every time he tried to retrace his steps. The corridors dissolved in his memory, leaving behind only smoke and static.

Paranoia pressed on him like a hand around his throat. This isn't right. This place isn't right.

He sat on the bed, but the mattress dipped wrong, too soft, too inviting. He pressed his nails into his palms until he felt crescents of pain. Still here. Still real.

But the word clung to him.

Son.

It rattled in his skull until it was his father's voice, harsh and raspy, calling him lazy, calling him stupid, calling him son.

He hunched forward, pressing his forehead to his knees, breath shaking. He told himself he was fourteen now, not that broken child. He told himself his father was dead, that he'd never hear him again. But grief didn't listen to logic. Grief never did.

The silence crawled closer. His mind whispered with it. What if you never leave? What if you're trapped here, just like that place? This place is a real child's haven!

Silas squeezed his eyes shut. His chest ached. For a terrifying moment, he almost wanted Jason's steady presence, Felix's laugh—anything to remind him he wasn't alone.

But all he had was silence, paranoia, and the ghost of a word that cut deeper than any knife.

Son.

He was supposed to feel safe and happy here. That was the point, wasn't it?

A bed with a clean sheet, a pillow that didn't stink of mildew, a nightstand with a glass of water already waiting. A warm lamp glowing with gentle light. Aeneas had called it his room, his sanctuary.

But right now, this place was a child's hell.

Every detail that should have comforted him instead made his skin crawl. The water on the nightstand didn't ripple, didn't even move, as though it wasn't real. The lamp's glow was too steady, no flicker, no hum—like it wasn't powered by anything at all. The air was stale, unmoving, a coffin's breath.

And the bed... gods, the bed. The mattress swallowed him when he sat down, smothering his weight like quicksand. His chest tightened. He thought of all the kids who had sat on it before him—had they sunk into it too, vanished quietly while Aeneas smiled his hollow smile?

Silas clawed at his temples, because every time he tried to remember the way here, the hallways twisted in his head. Corridors bent, doors stretched, staircases folded into themselves. His brain hurt just trying to hold the shape of the building, like it was punishing him for thinking too hard.

And wasn't that the point? Wasn't this how you broke kids—give them a place that looks like paradise and watch them rot inside it?

He curled on the bed despite himself, jaw locked, fists clenched. The lamp's light bled into his closed eyelids. He wanted to turn it off but couldn't move. He couldn't shake the thought that if he did move, if he reached for it, something in the room would reach back.

Safe and happy. That's what Aeneas had said earlier.

But this wasn't safety. This was a cage painted gold. A playground of illusions. A house that smiled like his father had when he was smoking, right before the torture started.

And Silas hated himself for realizing—deep down—that he almost preferred the curling of smoke and ash suffocating his lungs whenever his dad was near. At least then, he knew what was coming.

Here, he had no clue what waited for him in the dark. 

Or rather—he had no clue what hid behind all those false smiles and he was afraid to find out the sick truth that awaited him.

Chapter Text

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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲

❝𝚃𝙾 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝚁𝚄𝚃𝙷,

𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙳 𝙰 𝚃𝙾𝚈 𝙺𝙴𝚈❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

FELIX'S MIND WAS racing in his grand bedroom, though "grand" felt more like a "fancy distraction." After talking to his mom through the marble statue and then pretending to be as mushy-brained as Jason to throw off suspicion, Felix knew he was the only one who had a grip on what was really happening here. Or, well—some of it. Messy, half-baked implications. Enough to make him sweat.

Silas seemed to be fighting off the Mist's chokehold too, jaw set like he was at war with invisible chains. Jason, on the other hand, was either blissfully oblivious or already wrapped around Aeneas's finger like one of those brainwashed adults wandering the halls.

Some of the kids knew things too. Felix was almost sure Liz did. And that cheeky little boy—yeah, he was hiding something sharp under all that gap-toothed grinning. But maybe Felix was just paranoid...or maybe he wasn't paranoid enough. 

His silvery blue eyes drifted to the locked drawers and desk gleaming across the room. His gut twisted. Secrets were tucked in there—he'd bet his luck on it. If only he could unlock them...

Maybe Tim would know. The boy was practically welded to his toy key. What if it wasn't just a toy? If Felix asked, casually of course, he might find out. As long as Aeneas wasn't looming like a creep. The man had an uncanny way of popping up right when Felix needed privacy, like some bad horror movie jump scare. 

Ugh. Sooooo not rad. 

"Maybe tomorrow I'll get the chance to tell them the truth..."

Or so he hoped.

All day, Felix had tried to snatch a moment with Silas or Jason. But Aeneas had them on an endless tour: the indoor gardens, the kitchens, the halls. So long. Sooo boring. And when they finally entered the cavernous chamber with his mother's statue, Felix's chest had leapt—maybe she'd wake again, maybe she'd throw him some hint. But she stayed marble, silent as a mouse.

Instead, he noticed the adults. A handful in plain robes, their faces empty, eyes glassy. They moved like shadows, placing candles around Fortuna's statue in some kind of deliberate pattern Felix couldn't decode—a ritual of sorts. 

Definitely a ritual.

And Felix really, really hated not knowing what kind.

Because he didn't want to end up as some sacrificial lamb, thank you very much.

Nor did he want anyone else to get hurt by that strange man...

If Felix knew how to write, he would have slipped letters under Silas's and Jason's doors explaining everything—If he could even find his way to their rooms in the first place. But embarrassingly enough, he could barely write, let alone read. He hadn't even told Poppy or Silas—two of the people he trusted most—just how bad it was. Fifteen years old and the only thing he could really read was his own name. Anything more than that and the letters slipped sideways, tangled up like snakes.

The other kids growing up had laughed at him for it, of course. Not just for stumbling over words, but for every little thing he did wrong or even for things he was born with—his dark skin color and his contrastingly stark, white hair and silvery blue eyes that none of his close relatives shared; everyone was sure that Felix Morretti was considered an anomaly or the result of a secret affair—some plainly thought he was adopted. If his drunk father didn't ramble on about his "dead" mother, Felix definitely would have thought the same thing.

...Geez, stop thinking about that.

He thought he'd grown thick skin, but here in this cage, where everything was about pretending to smile and following strict rules, his shame felt heavier than ever. What if they needed to read something crucial to survive? What if the truth was written down right now in those locked drawers he couldn't open, and he was too stupid to even recognize it?

So, during dinner, he decided to take a risk. He leaned toward Eliza, voice low so no one else would overhear.

"Hey," he whispered, trying to sound casual. "Think you could, uh...have a little talk with me later?"

The girl's fork clattered against her plate. Her wide eyes flicked toward Aeneas's chair at the head of the table, even though it was empty for the moment. Fear etched across her face so starkly that Felix instantly felt guilty for asking. He was dragging her into danger she clearly didn't want.

But he needed the truth. He needed something to help set them free.

"I swear," he said quickly, leaning closer, "I'm not tryin' to get you in trouble. But I think...I think Pater's lying to us. And if I'm right, then we're all screwed."

He meant every word, and it made his chest ache. He wasn't just trying to survive—he was trying to keep the others from being swallowed whole by this place.

Eliza didn't answer right away. She sat frozen, fork hovering above her plate, as if the wrong word would summon Aeneas out of thin air. Her voice, when it finally came, was so small Felix almost missed it under the clatter of dishes.

"To know the truth," she whispered, "you need his key."

For a second, Felix's heart lurched. Aeneas has a key? His eyes darted toward the head of the table, imagining the handsome man pulling some gleaming, skeletal thing from his robes.

But then Liz's gaze flicked sideways—quick, guilty—toward Timmy, who was doubled over laughing at something Hualian had said.

"The key was a gift from his mommy," she murmured, her hand trembling as she cut her bread. "To remember his daddy. He never lets that go, big brother..."

Felix followed her eyes to the little boy. His fingers curled around the keychain in the palm of his hand, like he always did when he wasn't paying attention. Felix had thought it was just some cheap trinket, the way kids liked to carry junk. But now—

That? That's what opens the secrets in this place?

He swallowed hard, guilt pressing heavy against his ribs. Timmy was just a kid. Barely old enough to keep himself out of trouble, let alone fend off Aeneas. And now Felix was staring at him like he held the key to the truth—Because he quite literally did.

"Thanks, Liz," he muttered, forcing a smile to cover the dread settling in his stomach.

Her eyes darted to his, wide and pleading. Don't make me regret telling you.

Felix's chest twisted. He hated the thought of it—stealing something so precious. He'd grown up with little treasures of his own, scraps that meant more than gold because they carried memories no one could take. And this key? It was Timmy's anchor. His reminder of a dad who was already gone. Or, well, thought to be gone.

Maybe that was why Aeneas allowed it. He wasn't stupid. He must've known Timmy would never part with it, no matter what. A leash disguised as a keepsake. Still...Why did Aeneas hide my sister's keychain? Was it because it'd motivate me to leave this place?

Ohhhhh.

Looks like I answered my own question!  Man, Father dude is sick in the head...he really thought this through a shit ton.

Felix drummed his fingers against the table, forcing his usual grin back into place. Alright, so if Timmy won't let it go...then maybe I just have to get him to come to my room.

He leaned back in his chair and let out a loud laugh at one of Jason's dry remarks, clapping the younger boy on the back as though everything was perfectly normal. "You're a riot, Grace," he teased, then turned his charm toward Timmy.

"Yo, little man," Felix said with a grin, leaning across the table to the ginger-head. "You ever play cards with someone who never loses? Bet I could show you a trick or two. Maybe even dice. My room's got a whole stash—fun stuff."

Timmy's eyes lit up, curiosity sparking, but before he could open his mouth, Olivia cut in sharply. "Hermano! Don't be ridiculous. We can't leave our rooms during sleep-time." Her glare was sharp enough to slice him in two.

Felix held up both hands, smirking like he'd only been teasing. "What? Just an idea. No harm in talking about it, right kid?" He winked at Timmy, who was still smiling faintly, the idea planted in his head. Whether he had the nerves to sneak around was an entirely different question though.

But across the table, Silas was squinting at him with that unnerving stare of his. The kind that said without words: What in the hell are you trying to do? 

The kind of stare that Felix tended to ignore nine out of ten times.

Instead, he only gave a tiny shrug and went back to fiddling with his fork, acting as if he hadn't just risked scolding for one whispered invitation.

Inside, though, he was buzzing. Because Timmy looked interested. And that was a start.

Silas, dragging a reluctant Jason with him, tried to corner Felix after dinner. The son of Fortuna had barely gotten the words "I'm trying to uncover the truth" out before Aeneas materialized at the end of the hall like a shadow that had learned to smile. That killed the conversation fast.

The rest of the walk to their rooms was spent in hushed whispers, Felix careful not to let anything useful slip with Pater hovering so close. When they finally bid each other good night, Felix flopped onto his ridiculous, oversized bed. He stared up at the ceiling, mind gnawing on the same bone, What day is it really? Wednesday? Thursday? The days blur by too damn fast in this place...

Sleep was already dragging him under when a hesitant knock rattled the door. Felix shot upright, heart skipping—Timmy? Already? 

"I come up with such awesome plans," The son of Fortuna said as he skipped to the door, "I would've made a rad quest leader!"

But when he cracked the door, it wasn't Timmy at all.

It was Liz.

The ten-year-old's eerie purple eyes stared up at him, wide and glittering with fear.

"I-I want to help," she whispered, wringing her hands. "Tim is too much of a scaredy cat to sneak around b-but I'm not."

Felix blinked, startled, then ushered her in quickly before anyone could catch her wandering. The poor kid was trembling like a leaf.

"Hey now," Felix grinned, crouching a little to her height, "no shaking allowed in my room. Strict rule. You know what happens if you break it?"

Liz blinked nervously. "W-What?"

"You get tickled until you sneeze out your brains. Poof! Brains everywhere. Super gross." He made an exploding gesture with his hands and crossed his eyes dramatically.

Liz gave the tiniest giggle, clapping her hands over her mouth.

"See? That's better," Felix said, puffing his chest. "Braver than Wonder Woman just for knocking on my door."

That got a real laugh out of her, though she quickly fumbled with something behind her back. When she held it out, Felix nearly swallowed his tongue. 

Tim's toy key.

"I-I want to help," Liz whispered, trembling. "Pater says he'll help us find peace by tomorrow night. He promises I'll get to see my daddy soon. But I..." Her purple eyes watered. "I think he's lying, like you said..."

Felix's grin faltered, brows knitting. "How do you know this, Liz?"

"...Because Pater tells me stuff." Liz nervously tucked a dirty-blonde strand behind her ear before continuing, "He says I can do magic, and I can help control the Mist thingy for him."

Felix froze. Wait. Aeneas isn't the only one controlling the Mist—it's her? Does that mean she's a child of that Mist chick Trivia? Or even a legacy?

He wanted to blurt out questions, but Liz was already on the verge of tears. So he slapped on a wide smile and nudged her shoulder. "That's a sick power, Lizzie-bug! Like...mega witchy stuff. Does that mean this toy key's just an illusion?"

"Uh, no," she admitted, flushing. "I snuck a fork into Timmy's hand during dinner and made it look like his key. He's probably sleeping with the fork right now..."

There was a beat of silence, and then both of them snorted—Felix wheezing, Liz giggling into her hands.

"Imagine the poor guy," Felix said between laughs, "dreaming about stabbing monsters, but it's just...a salad fork."

Their laughter softened the weight of the secret, just for a moment. Felix sat on the edge of his bed and patted the spot beside him. Liz climbed up, clutching the key tight.

"You know, Lizzie-bug..." his voice gentled, "Pater isn't who he says he is. He wants to use your magic for bad things. Things that'll hurt you—and hurt everyone else."

The girl sniffled as her little shoulders shook, big, fat tears spilling down her cheeks. "I just want my daddy, big brother... I don't wanna hurt them. But Pater will—"

"Hey, hey," Felix soothed, pulling her close the way he used to with Amari when their dad got down-right terrifying. "My friends and I will find a way to save all of you. But to do that, we need your help. Can you stop the Mist from messing with their brains? They've gotta be able to think, remember—otherwise we can't make a plan."

Liz gave a wobbly nod, holding onto him like he was her lifeline.

"S-sorry for hurting you that day on the beach. I was just listening to Pater..."

Felix's silvery-blue eyes softened. He crouched down so he was level with her trembling face and whispered, "It's okay. I understand. You're still an awesome kid, Liz—don't you forget that, okay? No Mist, no creepy Pater talk changes that."

Liz nodded hard, swallowing tears.

"Now," he added, forcing a grin, "you should scurry off to bed before anyone notices. Ninja-style. Silent as a salad fork."

That earned him one last giggle. "Okay... Good night, big brother."

His chest ached at the words. But he smiled through it, letting his voice go soft. "Good night, little sister. Dream of wizards and dragons, Lizzie."

She disappeared through the door, and the moment it clicked shut, Felix's smile collapsed. He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, pain pounding behind his eyes from thinking for three people at once—himself, Silas, Jason. It was too much.

But no way was he sleeping now. Not with Liz's words echoing in his ears.

He shot up from the bed, key clenched tight in his fist, and crossed to the locked drawers. His heart thudded. Please be magic. Please be magic. Please be magic.

He slid the key toward the lone desk drawer's lock, praying that the Parcae wouldn't laugh in his face if this ended up failing.

Luckily, the desk drawer lock clicked. Felix almost shouted in triumph, bouncing up on the balls of his feet—only for his grin to wilt when the drawer revealed nothing but files. Stacks of them, crammed with tiny letters and boring words he could never untangle.

Still, the clipped photos made his stomach drop. Every kid and adult here had a file—even him. Even Silas and Jason. 

Even kids that none of them have met—not that Felix realized just yet.

Instead, Felix scowled. "Oh, come on." He could barely sound out his own name, let alone whatever paragraphs were written underneath it. And of course, that cheeky boy's real name was right there on the file, taunting him forever. And that ghost girl too! 

Unless...

He showed Silas or Jason the files. They could read. They'd figure it out. But when? Tonight, sneaking through the halls like thieves? Or tomorrow at breakfast, crammed between kids and creepy adults who might notice? Either way, they'd be cutting it close—tomorrow night was when everything went down.

If they were lucky.

Felix chewed his lip, nerves buzzing. If he got caught, Aeneas would reset him—wipe his mind clean with Mist and pretty smiles. He shivered at the thought.

"Alright, one gamble at a time," he muttered, gripping the key tighter.

He crouched at the row of three drawers, jamming the key into the bottom one. The key shifted its shape within, and somehow, turned with a satisfying click.

Inside weren't papers, but things. Real items. 

His grin came roaring back to life.

"Woah...so this really is a magic key. Wicked."

The first drawer was crammed with roses, candles, Jason's gold coin IVLIVS, Silas' pugio, and even a pair of gladii—along with their missing bags.

"Gods, is this guy an idiot or what? Keeping all his secrets locked in the room I'm sleeping in." Felix huffed, rifling through. "Whatever, at least I got our shit back."

His hand froze when he spotted his sister's keychain. The sage-green pom-pom brushed his fingers, the dice charms clinking softly—one etched with an F, the other with an A. His throat tightened. Clutching it close, he slipped it into his pocket with a quiet vow: he was getting out of this hellhole, finding her, and...Okay, so he didn't have a plan to explain his "situation", but Felix was determined on figuring it out through improvisation—and a dash of luck, of course.

For right now, though, he'd focus on saving the kids and even the brainwashed adults who moved like aliens. 

The next two drawers were filled with toys and personal trinkets, and the sight set his stomach on fire with grief. Every item screamed of stolen lives, of people who deserved better. It only hardened his resolve to tear Aeneas—the fraud wearing the mask of "father"—to shreds. His real dad had been many things, but Felix knew, deep down, the man had loved him in his own broken way. Aeneas? He was just a leech of a man, playing with innocent lives like they were pieces on a game board. Can't believe I thought he was a handsome dude...

Then his mother's words slammed back into his mind: 'Find your ancestor's dice.'

How in Plutos were a pair of ancient knucklebones supposed to matter against a sea monster fueled with hatred? And the Trojan Monster was supposedly coming in seven days. 

But that couldn't be what Eliza meant, could it? By Felix's count, only two days had passed. Three, at most. Dread crawled up his spine, cold and sharp, and the realization hit like a fist to the gut.

Time was warped. Twisted. Just like that place. The neon lights, the dazzling games—the place where he'd wasted nineteen years trying to claw back a childhood he never had.

His stomach heaved. Felix doubled over and vomited across the lush carpet, bile burning his throat.

But desperation shoved past nausea. He tore into every corner of the room like a madman, rifling drawers, shoving things aside, hunting for the dice his mother had spoken of. 

Nothing. Not a trace.

Maybe Aeneas already had it. Maybe that's why he was so confident—His plan was actually going to happen and they had no way of stopping Aeneas. Or worse...No way of stopping that horrifying monster that was going to consume them all.

Felix froze, the thought curdling in his gut.

"Ohhhhhh, fuck."

Chapter Text

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CREEPING AROUND in the cover of darkness, blending with the shadows, Silas felt hypersensitive to every little detail. His mind, strangely enough, didn't feel like it was made of cotton balls and rainbows and instead it seemed to be working overtime with a sharp clarity. From what Silas could piece together, Felix seemed to be working on uncovering the truth behind the shady work of Aeneas.

The thought anchored him, gave him something to chase. Every floorboard groan was a code to be cracked. Every flicker of torchlight was a warning.

He wandered deeper, turning into corridors that didn't feel the same as they had that morning (if it was morning, that is). Walls stretched where they should have ended, doors appeared in places he swore he'd passed dozens of times before. It was like being trapped in a shifting labyrinth that never wanted him to reach the center. But the fog in his head—the sticky sweetness of false memories—had receded. He could see the tricks now, at least a little.

And in that clarity, one memory stood sharp—the marble chamber. Fortuna's statue presiding over a half-finished ritual, double chiton folding like frozen water, cornucopia in one hand, paddle in the other. The long candles of gold and light blue hues had been laid at her feet. The air thick with anticipation, as those mindless, robed adults worked on completing whatever insanity that, no doubt, Aeneas had ordered them to do.

Silas' gut twisted. Whether the memory was true or planted, it mattered. That statue, that ritual—it was a catalyst. Maybe the catalyst for summoning the Trojan Sea Monster.

He stopped at a corner, listening. The place was too quiet. Always too quiet, like silence was just another way of screaming. His instincts told him Felix had already gone digging, already taken steps into dangerous territory. And Jason—well, Jason was basically untouchable, thanks to following the rules of this place. 

Such a rule-follower, Silas thought, not bothering to keep his eye-roll internal.

He tapped his finger on his useless watch, the familiar weight grounding him. Answers. Friends. He needed at least one of those to get out of this hellhole.

And, begrudgingly, Silas had to admit Felix seemed to be the most aware of what was happening. Probably thanks to his mother's warning—the kind of warm, overly loving advice Silas had never gotten, not that he cared to realize why. Jealousy soured the thought, but he pushed it down. He didn't need love, or luck, or gods-damned prophecies. He just needed to keep moving.

And so he did.

The shadows clung onto him like old friends. His father's lessons made silence second nature; at Camp Jupiter, the others used to jump when he appeared out of nowhere, not realizing he'd been trailing them for ages, soaking up every word of their conversations. He pushed the memory aside. Nostalgia was pointless here.

A sharp voice snapped him back to the present. It was Aeneas yelling at someone—or so it seemed.

Gone was the syrupy warmth, the counterfeit fatherly tone—this was raw, venomous. Silas froze, pressing himself against the wall, every nerve on edge. He strained to catch the words, though he didn't dare inch closer.

"...not keeping them in check...!" Aeneas' fury cracked the air. "And failing to report about Felix trying to plant the idea of breaking curfew—"

Silas' pulse quickened. Whoever Aeneas was tearing into, it wasn't clear. But Felix's name was enough to set his nerves on edge.

"Pater, I-I'm so sorry. So sorry, it's-it's my fault. I'm so—please!"

Silas' stomach dropped. That whimpering voice—it wasn't one of the adults. It was a child.

Olivia.

The neat-freak eight-year-old with reddish-brown skin and wide brown eyes, the one who insisted on organizing even the mismatched toys. The same kid who wrinkled her nose at apples and swore they were cursed because she both despised them and was allergic. The little girl who, against all odds, had managed to make Silas feel safe—peaceful, even—in this illusion of a family.

Now she was sobbing, words tumbling over themselves in terror. She begged forgiveness, promising she'd never disobey Pater again.

Aeneas' reply was smooth, almost tender. "Don't worry, my dear Olivia. You won't be able to by tomorrow night."

The girl gasped in relief, thanking him with the shaky gratitude of someone who thought they'd been spared.

But Silas felt the blood drain from his face. His spine prickled with ice. He heard no mercy in that promise—only the cold, final weight of something far darker.

That's when he heard her sharp cry, Olivia's voice breaking as she begged Pater to let her go.

This is reckless. But I can't let him hurt her.

Silas' chest burned with the thought. Deep down, he had started to think of her as a little sister, one of the many strange, bright kids who had burrowed their way into his guarded heart. He had no weapon, but rage and protectiveness were enough to drive him forward.

He slipped from the shadows into the torchlight.

Aeneas stood with his back to him—only it wasn't the auburn-haired man Silas knew. The figure's skin was corpse-pale, his hair ink-black, and his profile carved wrong. And when Silas caught a clearer glimpse, his stomach clenched. The ears. The nose. Sheared clean away, leaving raw impressions where features should have been. His body was covered head to toe with ugly, old white scars—each one worse than the last. It was as if he had been heavily tortured—something Silas could easily recognize, brushing off the thoughts about his father's masterpiece that was painted into his torn flesh and blood.

For a heartbeat, horror threatened to root him in place. But he forced himself past it.

Snatching a torch from the wall, he let the shifting light stretch his shadow across the chamber. The movement made the figure turn. Silas met the man's gaze with cold, apathetic eyes, locking onto the cunning darkness behind them.

This was no Roman. Whatever this was, it wore Aeneas' face like a mask—and badly.

Silas lunged, torch arcing forward, every muscle coiled tight with the knowledge that Olivia was still clutched in the fraud father's grip. One wrong move and she would pay the price.

Just as he expected, the man jerked Olivia up like a living shield, her small frame blocking any clear strike.

Silas didn't hesitate. He lunged lower, teeth bared, and sank them into the pale wrist clutching her. The taste of iron and ash filled his mouth. At the same time, he rammed the torch upward, shoving the flame into the distorted face.

Olivia shrieked, thrashing in terror as Silas yanked at her arm, trying to wrench her free.

The stench of singed flesh curled in the air. Any normal man would have howled in agony.

But "Aeneas" only laughed. Cold, guttural, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the stone walls. His grip didn't falter. His skin blistered, yet he held firm, dark eyes glinting with a cruel amusement.

"As if fire could scare me," he hissed, voice nothing like the fatherly tone he wore before. "Do you think I haven't endured worse than this?"

Silas' jaw ached from the bite, but he refused to let go, tugging harder at Olivia. Every instinct screamed at him—this wasn't just Aeneas. This was something older, sharper, and far more dangerous wearing his skin.

"Aeneas" snarled, swinging his free hand with inhuman strength. The torch clattered to the floor, sparks skittering across the stone. His face, blistered and peeling where the fire had licked it, was now devoid of any smile—only raw hatred burned there.

Silas didn't flinch. He drove his fist straight into the man's ruined face. The impact cracked against scorched flesh, and for the first time, the figure staggered. A guttural sound tore from his throat, somewhere between a growl and a gasp. His grip slackened.

Olivia slipped free.

"Run! Don't look back, Liv!" Silas barked, already pulling her by the wrist.

They bolted into the labyrinth of corridors, their footsteps pounding against the stone. Torches flickered and shadows reeled around them, the air vibrating with the echo of pursuit.

Behind them, "Aeneas" gave chase. His stride was heavy, deliberate, each step sounding too close no matter how fast they ran. His voice carried down the halls, warped and furious, "You think you can steal her from me? Hah! You think you can save her? How do you plan to do that when you've been trained to kill, hmm?"

Olivia whimpered but didn't slow, her small hand clamped tight in Silas'. The maze stretched endlessly before them, doors and corners shifting, halls looping where they shouldn't. Every turn felt like it could betray them.

But Silas refused to be stopped. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't going to take her. 

"Liv—do you know your way around here?" Silas hissed as they darted down another corridor, the sound of pursuit echoing behind them.

"A little," she panted, wide eyes glistening in the dark. "I think... I sort of know."

"Good." He slowed just enough to crouch, gripping her shoulders. "Then run. Hide."

Her face crumpled. "But—Pater will hurt you if you stand against him!" Her voice cracked, desperate, terrified.

Silas forced a smirk, sharp and thin. "Don't worry, Livvy. He's going to have a hard time with me." His tone dropped, iron beneath it. "Go, before you can't anymore. If anyone tries to stop you—punch, bite, do whatever it takes."

Her lips trembled. "B-But I can't. That's... that's mean—"

"Liv." His voice cut clean, no room for argument. "Right now, you need to hide and survive. So listen to my words and go."

For a heartbeat, Olivia froze, torn between fear and trust. Then she nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. "...Okay, Hermano. S-Stay safe."

The word hit him harder than he expected even if had heard Olivia used it several times. Hermano. She thought of him—a monster—as a boy worthy enough to be her brother.

And then she was gone, darting into the shadows with hurried but determined steps.

Silas exhaled, straightening as he listened for the coming footsteps. Sure, he could have fled too. But what were the chances the fraud would go after Olivia instead? He couldn't risk it.

He tapped his watch, the steady weight grounding him. Delay. Distract. Endure.

When "Aeneas" came, Silas would be ready.

In his dreams, Jason found himself standing in a pale-blue marble courtyard. Sacred geese strutted across the flagstones, their white feathers pristine, their eyes reflecting silver fire.

At the center stood a woman, towering nearly seven feet tall. She wore a gown the shade of a twilight sky, draped with a cloak of rough goat skin that hung over her shoulders. A staff topped with a blooming lotus rested in her hand. Her face was severe, carved from patience and stone, but her eyes—glowing white—seemed to pierce straight into his chest.

Jason dropped to one knee instantly, head bowed. "Lady Juno," he said, though confusion churned in his gut. He didn't understand why she was here, now, when everything was seemingly fine.

Her voice was calm, but heavy with warning.

"Jason Grace. Your quest is doomed to fail if you remain shackled by Aeneas' rules. Don't you realize, boy, that you are not meant to follow? You are destined to lead!" His godly stepmother's voice reverberated in his skull. "Not just this quest, but all Romans. That is your fate."

Jason looked up, uncertainty flickering across his face. "Lead... all Romans?"

Juno's grip on the staff tightened. "Yes. If you do not die. So—do not die, Jason Grace. For I have great plans for you."

The sacred geese flapped their wings as if echoing her decree, the air trembling with their cries.

Jason's heart hammered. A leader of Romans? He had no idea how—but the weight of her words pressed down on him like prophecy carved in marble.

His throat tightened. He wanted to argue—wanted to tell her she was wrong. He didn't want to lead all Romans, didn't want the suffocating burden of Jupiter's son weighing heavier than it already did. He only wanted to prove himself to his cohort, to shape a better future than the mold his absent, godly father had stamped him into whether he realized it or not. But the words stuck. How could he refute a goddess? His godly stepmother, no less.

Juno's eyes narrowed, the white glow intensifying. She leaned closer until her shadow engulfed him.

"Go forth, my champion," she commanded, each syllable like iron. "Either conquer—or die."

Jason's breath caught.

And then, in the same moment, her severity broke with a gesture so absurd he nearly choked. She tapped the tip of her lotus-topped staff against his nose. A boop.

The son of Jupiter blinked, utterly stunned. Was that... affection? Mockery? Both!?

Before he could make sense of it, the courtyard, the geese, the goddess—all shattered like glass.

He woke with a gasp, heart pounding, sweat slick on his skin. For a moment he couldn't breathe. Then his legs moved on their own, pacing tight circles around his room as if he could outrun the weight of prophecy pressing against his ribs.

As if he could pretend he was just a boy that wasn't born to be a hero.

"Aeneas" advanced, wielding a weapon Silas had never seen before—a double-ended spear. One side bore a leaf-shaped bronze blade that caught the light with every swing, the other a vicious spike that promised just as much pain. It was nothing like a gladius or pilum. No Roman fought with something like that.

Silas gripped his only weapon tighter—a half-burned torch he'd ripped from the wall. The fire sputtered with each movement, smoke stinging his eyes. Against a real weapon, it felt laughably inadequate, but it was all he had.

The first clash nearly took him apart. The bronze blade sliced through the air, forcing him back, while the spear's length gave "Aeneas" the advantage of reach. He didn't fight with the steady, drilled rhythm of the legion. His movements were wild, fluid, twisting the shaft like it was an extension of himself. It was un-Roman and unpredictable.

For a heartbeat, Silas faltered. This wasn't just sparring, this was something far older...

A fight born from shared hatred and deep suspicion. A fight that was meant to kill. 

So he did what he always did when rules failed him—he fought dirty. He ducked under a sweep, jabbing the torch upward toward his opponent's face, forcing him to recoil. Sparks spat against blistered skin. Silas pressed the opening, darting close enough to slam his shoulder into the man's chest.

But the spear swung back around, fast, the spike whistling past his ear. Each strike pushed Silas further, the length of the weapon dominating the space between them. The torch might buy him seconds, but "Aeneas" still had the advantage.

The fraud father sneered as the spear cut through the air. "You know... my sponsor had great hopes for you, even went as far as ensuring you'd be left unharmed. But I'm sure he'll understand why I have to kill you now."

Okay? Silas thought flatly, dodging a slash that nearly sliced one of his curls off. Does he hear himself? Talking in the middle of a fight like this?

The man laughed, low and cold. "Ah, you Romans. Not much of a talker during battle, are you?"

Silas barely managed to duck another swing, his lungs burning as the torch's smoke made his eyes water. Every blink blurred the world worse, the spear just flashes of bronze and shadow. He didn't even know if he was dodging skillfully or just by raw instinct, but either way—it was too close.

The spear came around fast, faster than Silas expected, and with one sharp sweep it smacked the torch clean out of his grip. His only weapon clattered across the stone floor, flame sputtering as it rolled out of his reach.

Great. Just great.

Now it was his fists against a double-ended spear—because clearly life loved to make him the underdog. Running wasn't an option; "Aeneas" could skewer him in the back before he hit five steps.

The bronze blade hissed through the air, grazing his arm, then his side. Each shallow cut stung, lines of blood hot against his skin. Silas bit down hard on his lip until the copper taste filled his mouth, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a scream.

"A reckless Roman," "Aeneas" said, smirking as he twirled the spear with casual ease. "Are you sure you're not Greek?"

What the hell is he even blabbing about? Silas thought, ducking another slash. Guy's trying to kill me and hold a philosophy debate at the same time.

Maybe I can try to blind him if I can somehow shatter the glass in my watch—that'll give me time to run. 

He swallowed the panic and went with the oldest trick in the book: a distraction loud enough to reverberate off the marble.

"NO! OLIVIA, RUN AWAY!" he screamed, throwing his hands in warding gestures as if to protect some fleeing child.

"Aeneas" snapped his head toward Silas' pointed finger, a haunted grin ripping across his blistered face, black locks whipping. For a sliver of a second the thing wore the exact expression of someone pleased at a hunt. Silas used that sliver of a second to his advantage.

He hurled his useless two-toned watch—stuck at 5:07 and heavy with meaning—straight at the bastard's head and willed the darkness inside him to obey. Fury and something older, chaotic, pooled in his gut and pushed outward. The watch slammed into Aeneas' right eye with a sound like a cracked bell.

Glass exploded across the chamber.

Shards flashed through the weak torchlight, a scatter of bright teeth. One shard nicked Aeneas' already-scarred skin; another tore across his face and lodged, glittering, in the blistered flesh as if to crown the thing in mockery. For a breath, the creature staggered, blinking, the blood and glass making him look only more monstrous. Thankfully, most of the shards pierced his eye, leaving him bleeding and partially blind in his left eye.

Silas should have felt triumphant. Instead a cold shiver of dread trace down his spine.

Time seemed to slow. The spear's bronze tip blurred into a silver arc. He saw it before his body did — an upward slash aimed to finish him. He moved, but not far away enough.

The blade caught him clean from the jaw up to just beneath his right eye. Heat and fire lanced through his face. He tasted metal and felt his lip split as he fiercely bit it to keep himself from screaming pathetically; warm blood splattered onto the stone. Pain detonated, incandescent and immediate, and his knees threatened to give.

Silas blinked, trying to focus around the haze. His cheek burned; his vision blurred at the periphery. The world smelled like iron and smoke and something acrid from the shattered watch.

He'd bought a moment. He'd also bought a wound.

Breathing through the pain, a dark humor — sharp, almost ridiculous — flickered through his head: of course "Aeneas" would stab him the moment he got clever. Of course the gods refused neat victories for their "heroes". Or should he say their pawns?

Whatever, The son of Discordia gritted his teeth before turning on his heel, it's time for me to vanish.

Thus, he bolted away from the strange, hideous fraud that had once claimed to be a father. If anything, "Aeneas" was the father of lies and deception but Silas didn't have time to really think about the deeper implications.

He was being hunted, after all.

Blood trickled down his cheek and stung his jaw, warm and sticky against his teeth. Every step mattered. He forced his legs to move silently across the cold stone, each footfall measured, practiced. Easy. That part was easy.

Breathing, however... that was another matter. The pain made his lungs seize with every inhale, shallow breaths cutting sharp in his chest. He gritted his teeth, forcing rhythm into the ragged sound of life. One false gasp, one uneven exhale, and "Aeneas" would be on him in a heartbeat.

That is, if he isn't following the trail of blood that I'm leaving behind...Shit.

The corridors twisted endlessly, shadows stretching like fingers trying to pull him back. His onyx eyes darted from wall to wall, every corner a potential deathtrap. The blood smeared across his face burned, the metallic scent thick in the air.

Step by step, he moved deeper into the maze, balancing speed with silence, desperation and calculation. He wasn't safe yet. Not by a long shot.

But with each careful, labored breath, Silas told himself, Better bleeding and running than dead and failing. Besides....That should've bought Olivia time to escape. That's what matters.

His pulse had barely settled into a ragged rhythm when he heard it—the unmistakable sound of pursuit. Heavy, deliberate footsteps, echoing off the walls of the twisting corridors.

It had to be "Aeneas."

Panic clawed at his chest. He forced himself to slow, to calculate, but every instinct screamed to sprint. His fingers brushed the nearest torch, and suddenly the flame guttered and died. Another torch flickered out. Then another.

Darkness swallowed the hall. Thick, familiar, suffocating darkness. Shadows and his own blood intermingled and pooled at his feet, walls disappeared into nothing, and Silas froze, heart hammering like a drum in his ears.

Desperation clawed its way past his fear. He dropped to his knees, pressed against the cold stone, and whispered—no, prayed—into the void. "Please... mother... I need to hide. Help me, please. I'll be in your debt!"

The maze seemed to hold its breath. His own ragged breathing was deafening in the silence. Somewhere deep in the darkness, footsteps continued, slower now... deliberate, searching.

Silas forced himself to stillness, blending into the void as best he could, counting on something—anything—to shield him from the monster chasing through the shadows.

In the suffocating dark, he thought he heard something else—soft, melodic, almost impossibly sweet.

"Ah... I was wondering when you would come to me."

Mother.

His chest tightened. He had hoped she'd call him son, but she hadn't. Not yet. Clearly, he hadn't earned that title.

"You're familiar with the darkness," the voice continued, curling around him like smoke, "Now, truly embrace it. Become it. Be the shadows... and feel it."

Silas swallowed hard, the words seeping into his bones. The fear that had gripped him a moment ago dulled just slightly, replaced with a cold clarity. The darkness around him wasn't just absence—it was an extension of himself, a tool, a shield.

He pressed his back to the stone, letting the shadows swallow him, and exhaled slowly. He didn't yet know how to be it, fully—but he would. He had no choice. It was conquer or die now.

As "Aeneas" drew closer, Silas felt the darkness respond to him, curling and thickening around his body. It wasn't gradual—one moment he was solid, with the metallic taste of blood and the ache of his wound, and the next, the edges of his form rippled and blurred like smoke caught in a draught. His arms stretched unnaturally, fingers thinning into black tendrils, merging with the surrounding shadows. His legs elongated and flowed into the stone floor, as if gravity no longer applied.

Then, fully, he became the shadows themselves—solid flesh replaced with a non-corporeal, liquid darkness that clung to every surface. Walls, pillars, and the flickering torchlight became more than surroundings—they were brushes against his being. He could feel every grain of dust, every echo, every temperature change along the hallways. It was like touching the world with his skin and senses everywhere at once.

The torchlight in Aeneas' hand sliced through him like a blade. Silas felt himself warp and twist around the light, edges recoiling in spasms of nausea, bending in ways that no body should. His mind screamed against the sensation, but the whispers from the darkness were louder. It despises the light. It despises it. It despises it. They hissed around him, pulling him deeper, urging him to merge further with the void.

Time itself seemed to stretch. Each heartbeat of Aeneas was a drum in Silas' awareness. Every shadow he passed over whispered secrets of the space, paths, and objects around him. The sensation was dizzying, overwhelming—but it gave him a heightened awareness he had never known. He could sense Aeneas' approach before the torch flickered, feel the smallest motions in the air as if the hallway itself betrayed the enemy's presence.

"You may have tricked me, but once I get my hands on you—!" Aeneas shouted, the voice cutting sharp through the whispers, a cruel reminder that this chase wasn't over. "You'll be the first to die at the jaws of the mighty Kêtos Troias."

What the fuck does that mean? Is he talking about the Trojan monster or what, the shadow of boy thought to himself but it seemed to echo amongst the muted whispers, or rather, in the void of darkness. 

"Aeneas" bent down to inspect the small pool of blood that had seeped from Silas' torn flesh onto the stone floor, spear in one hand, and a torch in the other, causing said bleeding out person to shift thanks to the annoying light source. 

And he didn't move away in the usual sense. No, no. He flowed around the torchlight, stretching along the walls, sliding over the floor, coiling up pillars, and folding into the darkness of corners. He wasn't fleeing—he was everywhere the shadows were, and for the first time, the shadows were him.

There was exhilaration in it, a terrifying ecstasy. He was weightless, invincible, and infinitely aware—but the nausea and the whispering voices were never-ending, clawing at the edge of his sanity. And yet, this was his only chance to survive.

At last, "Aeneas" slowly stood up. His torch swung wide, the shadows stretching and snapping back in distorted shapes, before he muttered something under his breath—It wasn't Roman at all. 

It was Greek. Not that Silas realized—he wasn't a linguist after all.

Then, with a final sweep of the torchlight, the man turned and stalked away, his footsteps fading into the endless maze.

Silas didn't trust it. He stayed still—no, everywhere—tracking the faint ripples that the torchlight left in its wake. The way it made the shadows recoil told him where "Aeneas" moved, where the corridor bent, when distance grew between them. Only once he was certain there wasn't a trap waiting in the dark did he dare to imagine flesh again.

It was harder than expected. He had to recall each piece of himself, one by one: bone, muscle, skin. The ragged wound across his face. The way his lungs ached for air. The metallic taste of blood. The weight of his useless watch on his wrist. The masterpiece his father had carved into his once porcelain skin. The multitude of scars that littered over his body from years of harsh, valuable training. Piece by piece, he forced himself back into being.

The shadows resisted, tugging at him, but eventually gave way. With a shudder, he collapsed onto his knees, fully corporeal once more.

The nausea hit instantly. Silas doubled over, retching violently, bile and blood splattering the stone floor. His vision swam, his balance tilted as if the world itself had been knocked askew. He pressed his palm against the ground, forcing himself to breathe, but every gasp was a knife in his ribs.

He had never felt so disoriented, so alien in his own skin. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he had truly returned—or if the shadows still had some part of him locked away.

Blood was already slicking his upper lip before Silas realized it was dripping from his nose. He coughed wetly, his stomach twisting, and dragged himself forward on shaking arms. The nausea clung to him like a second skin, hot and dizzying, each breath shallow and raw.

The stone beneath his palms was damp and sticky in places, but it wasn't until his hand skidded through something warm that he realized he'd crawled back over his own vomit. Revulsion tore through him, sharp as the bile still burning his throat. He gagged, tightly sealing his split lips shut, and pressed forward faster, half-blind and half-sobbing.

Every scrape of his knees against the ground echoed too loudly, and every shadow flickered at the edges of his vision, whispering, threatening. His paranoia made the dark feel alive, pressing close, waiting to pounce the moment he faltered.

At last, a dim torchlight teased the corner of his vision—faint, sickly, but enough. He clawed toward it like a drowning man reaching for air, dragging his body into its weak embrace. Relief never fully came. His head throbbed, blood pattered down his face, and the sick stench clung to him.

The last thing he felt before his eyes rolled back was the cold stone biting into his cheek as he collapsed, swallowed once more by the dark.

Somewhere else in the twisting dark, Jason padded quietly down the corridor, shoulders squared though his mind was still racing. He had decided to leave his room and find the others—staying put gnawed at him worse than any adult lurking in the halls.

He wasn't expecting to nearly collide with someone, much less one of the children.

Olivia.

Her eyes were blown wide, shimmering with panic as though the shadows themselves were chasing her. She staggered back at his sudden appearance, fists curling like she meant to fight, but there was no weapon in her hands—only trembling fingers and half-formed instinct.

For a heartbeat, Jason thought she might actually swing at him anyway. Her stance reminded him of a wolf pup cornered in the wild, one that didn't know whether to bite or bolt. He'd seen that same look before, years ago, when he was barely taller than a shield and Lupa had thrown him amongst the pack to learn or die.

He forced the memory down and raised his hands, palms open. "Hey, it's just me," he said, voice steady, low. "You don't need to fight."

Liv's breath hitched, her chest heaving too fast. Her eyes flicked to his face, then past him, then back again, like she wasn't sure if she could believe him. Jason stayed rooted, unthreatening, letting her see he wasn't going to strike.

Slowly—achingly slowly—her shoulders slumped. The tension bled out of her frame, leaving her shaking instead of lashing.

"Good," Jason murmured, softer now. "You're safe with me."

He steadied Olivia by the shoulders, crouching slightly so his eyes were level with hers. The place already felt wrong—dark hallways, walls too quiet for a place meant to "protect" kids—but her trembling told him there was more.

"Why are you so afraid?" he asked gently.

Her lip quivered before words tumbled out in a rush. "Because... because Pater got mad at me." She twisted her hands together, nails digging into her palms. "I was supposed to keep the order. Follow the rules. Make the others do it too. But Felix—" her voice cracked on the name, "—he questioned how things worked around here. And Pater... he blamed me for not stopping him."

Jason's jaw tightened. She was eight. Eight and already burdened with the responsibility to be mature and a rule-enforcer.

"At first I thought he forgave me," Liv whispered. "Every night, Pater would talk with me—he said I was special, the first one he took in. But then..." She shivered, eyes darting away as if remembering it pulled her back there. "He started dragging me away. Like the other kids....The ones who never came back."

Jason's stomach sank. Did they—

"I thought it was over," she admitted, barely audible. "But Silas—he saved me. He had a torch and he fought Pater off. Then, we ran together...Until he-he...told me to run. So I did. I left him there."

Her small voice broke into sobs, shoulders hitching. Jason felt a cold weight in his chest at the image: Silas, torch in hand, holding off a man who called himself their protector.

The son of Jupiter drew in a slow breath and wrapped his arms around Olivia, pulling her against him. She looked so small, her shoulders trembling like a leaf. "Hey, hey," he murmured, resting his chin briefly against her dark hair. "You didn't leave him behind. Silas made a choice—to protect you. That's what family do. That's what he does."

But the words rang hollow inside him. Because the thought of Silas alone against Aeneas—without any backup, without even a weapon beyond a burning stick—made his stomach churn. He remembered Juno's voice, the chill in her eyes when she'd warned him of failure. He couldn't shake the sense that Silas was part of that warning.

Jason pulled back enough to meet Liv's eyes, steady but urgent. "Listen to me. Silas is strong, but I can't let him fight alone. I need to go after him." His hand hovered uncertainly on her shoulder. "The problem is, I can't leave you here. Not with... not with him roaming around."

Olivia wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her voice small but stubborn, "I can keep up. Just...Don't leave me alone."

Jason's chest tightened. He wanted to argue, to order her to stay safe, but he couldn't risk Liv getting caught by herself—and yet, he'd be endangering her safety by taking her along.

At least, I'll be there by her side...faex, I hope I'm making the right decision because we need to hurry. Before...

He stood, pushing his doubts away, gripping her hand tightly. "Then we'll find him together. Stay close, no matter what."

But as they started down the shadowed corridor, his heart pounded. Every step felt like a race against time—because if Aeneas had truly decided to kill Silas, Jason wasn't sure they'd be fast enough.

But if Aeneas laid a hand on Silas, Jason swore he'd bring the whole cursed foundation down on his head.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ-ᴛᴡᴏ

❝𝐼𝒢𝒩𝐼𝒮 𝒰𝐿𝒯𝐼𝒪𝒩𝐼𝒮 𝒜𝑀𝒪𝑅❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

JASON FORCED himself to breathe evenly as he led Olivia through the twisting corridors, his grip firm but gentle on her small hand. Desperation clawed at his chest, each second stretching thin, but he kept his voice level, his stride steady. He couldn't let her see the panic—the paranoia—that threatened to split him apart. Not when she already looked like a frightened sparrow, wide-eyed and shivering.

The air grew colder the deeper they went, the torches flickering against walls of ancient stone. The place reminded Jason of the ruins he'd once read about in Camp Jupiter's archives—dungeons built to break the spirit as much as the body. Each step echoed with uneasy weight, the silence around them more suffocating than noise.

He glanced down at Olivia. She was trying to be brave, but her lips pressed tight, her shoulders hunched, like she was waiting to be scolded for breathing too loudly. Jason wanted to reassure her, to say something light like Felix might've managed, but the words came out stiff, awkward. 

"Stay close, Liv...Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you."

It was the best he could manage when his own nerves were on edge. 

Then, at the end of the hall, his eyes caught the shape on the ground. A torch, charred and lifeless, lay discarded as if ripped from someone's grip. Next to it—dark spatters staining the stone. There was shattered glass everywhere, some of snagged with that crimson liquid.

His stomach turned to ice. 

It was blood. It had to be.

Jason forced his shoulders back, steadying his breath as if that could steady the storm inside him. He couldn't afford to fall apart now. Silas was out there—hurt, maybe worse—and Jason swore he wouldn't let it end like that. Not if he could help it.

Beside him, Olivia's face had gone pale, her wide brown eyes shimmering with tears. She looked ready to collapse. For a moment, Jason's heart screamed to turn back, to get her away from this nightmare. But every drop of blood on the stone told him Silas was deeper in, and if he didn't move forward, he might lose him.

He crouched, squeezing her hand. "Close your eyes, Liv. Think of a safe place. Somewhere warm. Somewhere you're happy."

She sniffled, shutting her eyes tight. "...My mama's kitchen. She's makin' chipa, and I'm helping roll the dough. It's warm... and it smells good... and she lets me eat some even before it's cooked." Her trembling voice softened a little as she spoke, clinging to the memory.

Jason held her hand tighter, guiding her down the hall as she described the scene. But when his eyes caught the blood trail along the stone floor, worry twisted in his gut. There was more now—far too much. The torchlight gleamed off it, sickly red-brown, and he swallowed hard, fighting not to show his revulsion.

The corridor split ahead. Two paths. Left or right.

The blood curved left.

Silas...

Jason's grip tightened on Olivia's hand as he led her that way. The air grew colder, the silence heavier, until the torchlight faltered—and the hall ahead swallowed itself in pure darkness.

He stopped, staring into it, every hair on his body standing on end. The black stretched thick, unnatural, like it wasn't just an absence of light but something alive, watching.

A shiver crept down his spine. Gods, this is creepy. But...it's just the dark, nothing to worry about. 

Or so the son of Jupiter told himself.

Jaw clenched, Jason wrenched a torch from its sconce, the flame sputtering as he lifted it high. The shadows recoiled, but the darkness ahead still felt thick, almost daring him to step closer. Olivia clung tighter to his hand, and Jason forced his legs to move, each step deliberate, steady—though his heart thundered like war drums.

The stone underfoot was slick. His boot skidded, and he would've ate the stone floor if his instincts didn't kick in. The air shifted around him, bracing him upright before he could hit the ground. The torch wavered, its light flaring—and that was when he saw it.

A spreading pool of crimson, dark and gleaming. Fresh. The copper tang hit his nose and he gagged, bile burning his throat.

It wasn't just drops this time. It was too much. Too much for anyone to lose and still walk away.

Jason's knuckles whitened around the torch. He wanted to believe Silas had pushed through somehow, that he was still alive—but staring at that blood, it was getting harder to convince himself.

No, he has to be alive. I promised him that I'd make sure nothing would kill him. I...I can't break my promise, the boy who believed in following rules—promises counted as rule in his book—thought frantically to himself, almost to comfort himself or, rather, motivate him. He's not dead.

His stomach lurched again, but he swallowed it down. No way was Olivia seeing this. He crouched quickly, turning her by the shoulders so her back faced the mess. "Keep watch behind us, Liv," he murmured, his voice firmer than he felt. "If anyone comes, you call for me right away."

Her small hand clutched the hem of his tunic like she didn't want to let go, but she nodded. "...Okay, Hermano."

Jason lit another torch from his own and set it in the wall sconce, then another, until the hall flickered with uneasy firelight. Every corner felt less suffocating in the glow, but the silence gnawed at him.

When he finally moved forward, the ground changed again. His boots stopped just short of another slick patch. The light caught it—vomit laced with blood, smeared across the stone, not far from a torch that was still burning up on its sconce.

Jason tightened his jaw and stepped wide, careful not to touch it. His chest constricted. Blood, vomit, Silas must've been here—recently too...faex! 

He crouched near the smear of mixture of crimson and bile, trying to make sense of it. A memory clicked—back in the previous hall where the torch had been discarded, he'd noticed shards of glass glinting against the stone, some of it sticky with blood...Unless Silas had been carrying some other piece of glass around, that had to be from his watch.

Jason half-smiled, half-frowned when he thought of the time in the cab. He had teased Silas about how that two-toned antique made him look like someone's old-school dad. The thought soured quickly now. If the watch had shattered... then Silas had been desperate. Desperate enough to break something he had never taken off since wearing it.

His pulse spiked as he tracked the possibilities in his mind. Silas either ran further down this hall—or it was Aeneas bleeding out. Yeah...Maybe he had it wrong. Maybe the trail wasn't his friend's at all. 

Silas was... gods, he was a brutally skilled fighter. Jason had seen it before—the way Silas moved when instinct took over. His curls, dark as midnight, always seemed to blur into the shadows around him, giving the impression that he belonged to them more than to the light. Freckles spattered across his nose and cheeks in daylight, a harmless detail, almost softening—but in the torchlight of combat they vanished, leaving only the sharp lines of his face and those uncanny onyx-black eyes.

Eyes that didn't just look at you, but through you, measuring, calculating, waiting for the exact moment to strike.

He fought like a shadow given form: quick, unflinching, slipping between openings where no normal fighter could. Graceful as a dancer one moment, ruthless as a cornered viper the next. A flick of his wrist could feign carelessness—until it snapped into violence so sudden it stole the breath from anyone watching. Jason had caught himself more than once staring, unsettled and strangely in awe, as if Silas wasn't just a boy but something older, darker, borrowed from the myths themselves.

Like an angel of death, Jason thought with a tightening in his chest—terrible, beautiful, and meant for war.

The son of Jupiter caught himself and smacked his own cheek lightly, shaking his head. Not the time for that. Not now. He needed clarity, not distractions.

Liv's small voice broke the silence, hesitant and embarrassed. "Um... I need to use the bathroom."

Jason almost laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the tension clawing at his chest. Gods, if the situation weren't so grim, it would've been funny. He walked over and squeezed her hand a little tighter instead. "Alright, stick close to me. We'll find somewhere. And hey, maybe try not to think about drinking water?"

"Hey!" she huffed, cheeks pink, "And no... I was thinking of having tereré!"

Jason blinked. "Having what now?"

"It's... I dunno, it's like a tea thing my mama used to drink in summer," she explained shyly, clearly trying to distract herself from the fear.

Jason actually smiled at that, torchlight flickering across his face. "That sounds pretty cool." His curiosity piqued. "Where's your mama from?"

"Paraguay," Liv answered quickly, her brown eyes flicking to him. "Have you been there?"

The nerd in him chuckled softly, the sound surprising even him in this place. "No, not yet. But I've heard of it—it's the heart of South America."

Liv grinned a little at his earnest tone, and for a moment, just a moment, it almost felt like they weren't standing in a dungeon with blood splattered on the floor.

They retraced their steps, the scenery shifting around them as though the place itself couldn't decide what it wanted to be. Gone were the torches and damp medieval stones; in their place, sterile overhead lights buzzed faintly above polished hardwood floors. The contrast made Jason's stomach twist. He found himself wishing for a window—anything to prove they weren't just wandering deeper into someone else's illusion.

Just as they reached a door at the end of the hall, it creaked open on its own. Jason immediately pulled Liv behind him, torch raised and muscles coiled for a fight.

But it wasn't a monster or an adult.

It was Felix, half-stumbling into the hallway with his usual clumsy bravado. He pitched forward and caught himself on the frame, muttering a curse. Jason exhaled—until he noticed what Felix had tripped over.

A small plastic key.

Jason frowned, stooping to pick it up. The size, the color, the faint chew marks along the edges—he recognized it.

Timmy's toy key.

"Uh—Felix, why do you have Tim's toy? Please don't tell me you stole a toy from a literal child." Jason drew in a long, calming breath, though every nerve in him wanted to snap. Sure, he'd pieced together that Felix had terrible habit of stealing, but stealing from a kid? Even for him, that felt low.

"Dude, trust me, I didn't steal it." Felix's grin stretched wide, the kind that only made him look guiltier.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Well... Liv needs a bathroom. Can she use yours?"

"Oh, heyy, Livvy!" Felix sang, head tilting, white afro curls bouncing with the motion. Mischief danced in his eyes, which left Jason seriously doubting his word. "Of course, little lady. You too, zeek." His grin widened into something conspiratorial. "C'mon in. I got something you might find... interesting."

Felix, how do I know your definition of "interesting" matches mine? Jason wanted to say. You literally think feathers are cool. But he bit his tongue. No use starting another pointless argument.

He stepped inside and blinked. Compared to his own plain, practical quarters, Felix's room looked downright lavish—deep-colored drapes, a plush rug, and gilded details that made Jason's space seem like a budget motel. Though, normal was better in his humble opinion—but he could be biased because normal was what he wanted most.

Jason pointed Liv toward the bathroom, and the moment the door shut, Felix burst into motion.

"Okay, so—get this—the key is magic."

Jason pinched his nose. "Magic? Felix, I—"

"Hush, Grace," Felix cut him off with a finger wag, eyes alight with manic glee. "It's my turn to speak, because I uncovered some crazy shit."

"...Language," Jason muttered automatically.

"Yeah, yeah," Felix waved it off, grinning as if the rules of the universe bent for him. "Anyway, I tried it on my dresser, right? And boom—unlocked it. But here's the kicker: it wasn't just my junk inside. It was our stuff. Our things." He leaned in, dropping his voice for dramatic effect. "And maybe... more than that."

Felix dragged Jason over to the desk table with all the enthusiasm of someone about to unveil buried treasure. A mess of files was dumped onto the wood, pages sliding in all directions. Jason's eyes widened at the sheer volume—though, truthfully, it took him a few seconds to push through the haze of dyslexia and make sense of the text.

The first file caught his attention. A photo was paper-clipped to the top: a smiling ginger-haired boy with reddish freckles on his nose and cheeks. Underneath, bold letters spelled out Timothy "Timmy" Porter.

Jason skimmed past the basic stats until something more interesting jumped out.

Abilities: Adept key knowledge. Key-based powers. Water detection abilities.

Half the page was marred by thick black strokes of redaction—names, dates, entire paragraphs blotted out. But in the margins, someone had scrawled a note: Legacy of Portunus.

Jason's brows knit together. Portunus—the god of keys, doors, ports, harbors... He recalled the Roman feast, the Portunalia, when they'd throw keys into the fire for luck. It was pretty fun, actually, until some new camper usually caught their clothes on fire doing dumb antics. Strange how that memory surfaced now when his mind felt like cotton balls before...

Beside him, Felix leaned in like a vulture, eyes flicking over the page but never quite reading it. "Sooo... what's the verdict, Jace?"

Jason shut him down with a raised hand. "If you wanted answers this badly, why didn't you just read it yourself?"

"O-oh, uh—thought it'd be best to, you know, wait and inform you first. Keep the suspense alive. Ha...ha."

Jason gave him a look but let it drop. "Well. Tim's a legacy of Portunus. God of keys, doors, harbors. It says he's got key-based powers, so maybe that toy key of his is part of it."

Felix snapped his fingers, triumphant. "Sooooo, it's magic."

"...Yeah. Sure. It's magic."

"HA! I told you!"

Jason restrained an eye-roll and pulled the next file closer. The photo showed a boy with Chinese features and mismatched eyes—one red, one white.

Name: Hualian Chen.
Age: Nine.
Abilities: Red String Sight.

There was a scribbled explanation: Ability to see platonic and romantic fated connections through strings.

Jason frowned at the sparse details and also at the weird feeling curling in his chest at the thought the strings connected between Silas and him possibly meaning something platonic. It's not a bad thing if we're meant to be friends. Being friends is okay—great in fact. Most of the file was oddly thin, with only a single line at the bottom: Legacy of Cupid. Although quite useless, he's needed for ██████████.

The next two files were worse. Nearly everything was censored into oblivion. Only the pictures remained—two younger children staring solemnly at the camera.

"Hey, that's Cheeky Boy and Ghost Girl!" Felix pointed at them with glee, as if recognizing old friends.

Jason scanned what little text remained. "The girl's name is Laqueta. Says here she's a daughter of Dea Muta, goddess of silence and secrets. Mother of the lares." His voice dropped, grim. "So the lares at camp are basically her half-siblings. That... sucks."

Felix groaned, throwing himself onto the carpet as if physically weighed down by the syllables. "Laqueta? What are these names? No way I'm remembering that. From now on, she's 'Etta.' It's cute, right?"

Jason sighed. Cute. Sure...Once I get through all this info and get armed, we'll go searching for Silas. 

Behind him, soft footsteps padded back into the room. Liv emerged from the back, looking impossibly neat for someone who'd panicked half a dozen times that night. Felix immediately swept her into a card game, shuffling the deck with a dramatic flourish. Their chatter faded into background noise, leaving Jason alone with the files.

The next folder: Eliza Roberts.

Age: Ten.
Parentage: Child of Trivia.
Abilities: Powerful Mist manipulation, including illusions.

A note was scrawled in another language. The script curved and slanted in a way Jason recognized but couldn't read. Ancient Greek. He frowned, sighing through his nose. Weird. If these are Aeneas' then why is it Greek? 

He set it aside, tugged the next file free—then froze.

A picture of Liv stared up at him. Not one taken here, but something official-looking, sharp and cold. Olivia Maria Lopez-Romero.

Age: Eight.
Abilities: Induce concord and harmony, including calming temperamental children.

The notes were starting to make Jason uneasy, as it read: She is the one helping keep the children at the seams thanks to her being a legacy of Concordia. ALLERGIC TO APPLES! Must report to me to ensure the children are behaving properly.

The son of Jupiter's grip tightened until the paper crumpled slightly. Report to me. Like she's some tool. She's eight, godsdammit. His teeth ground together, jaw tight with rage.

He almost shoved the files away when the next one slid into view.

And it nearly stopped his heart.

The paper clipped photo wasn't a photo at all, but a grainy black-and-white clipping, yellowed with age. A boy's face stared out of it, eerily familiar—dark curls, sharp angles. Beneath, in bold letters:

Name: Silas Vesper.

Age: 13 (??)
(Not his real age. Physical age only.)

Last Seen: August 20th, 1986.

Jason's eyes widened, pulse hammering in his ears. "What... how? This—it's not possible." His whisper sounded foreign, brittle.

The words blurred for a moment as he tried to steady his breathing. 1986. That was over twenty years ago. Before he was even born.

It has to be a mistake. Some kind of error. How can he be thirteen and—No, how can it not be his real age? This doesn't make any sense!

But the notes offered no comfort.

Abilities: Unknown.

Notes: Son of the infamous serial killer Leonard Vesper, also known as The Painted Corpse Killer. Needed to be kept alive for ██████.

The rest dissolved into incoherent scribbles—questions without answers, lines struck through, half-thoughts abandoned.

Jason stared. His chest felt tight, hands clammy on the page.

Didn't Felix and Silas say they met before Lupa? He remembered it clearly, Felix laughing it off, while Silas glared at him like it was their inside joke.

Jason swallowed hard. Does he know?

The next file slid free, and his brows furrowed.

Felix Morretti.

The picture wasn't recent either. It looked like a clipping torn from an old newspaper, the edges yellowed. Felix looked no older than twelve in it, smiling faintly in a way that didn't reach his eyes.

Age: 15 (??)
(Not his real age. Physical age only.)

Last Seen: July 11th, 1984.

Jason's stomach dropped. No...

Reports: Ran away from home under unknown circumstances. His disappearance left his father and sister devastated. KEEP THE KEYCHAIN AWAY FROM FELIX. He is a vital instrument for—

The rest devolved into a string of Ancient Greek Jason couldn't make sense of, no matter how hard he squinted.

Abilities: Luck manipulation. Dice-based powers.

His hands shook so badly, the words blurring. 1984. That's even earlier than Silas. What—

The papers slipped from his fingers, scattering across the desk and floor. He jerked upright, spooked, heart in his throat.

"Whoa there, Jace." A familiar voice broke in, casual as ever. Felix strolled up, ruffling Jason's hair like nothing was wrong. "Stop squinting at the pictures for a minute and check out the goods."

Hello? I was in the middle of spiraling, Jason thought with mild annoyance. He hated being interrupted when he was reading—it was a huge pet peeve of his. But Felix was already grabbing his arm and dragging him over to the nearby dresser.

With a huff, Jason stumbled after him. Felix tossed a backpack at his chest, and Jason caught it easily, recognizing it immediately. His stuff.

"Oh, and don't forget Silas' gift~" Felix sang, flipping a golden coin toward him. Jason snatched it out of the air before it could hit the ground.

He stared at the thing in his palm, brow furrowing. Why would Aeneas lock up my coin? What is it, magic too? He thought it sarcastically, shoving it into his back pocket. It felt useless, just extra weight.

"Listen," Jason said firmly, drawing both Felix's and Liv's attention. "I think Silas is in danger. Or—he's doing something dangerous. I don't know." He rubbed the back of his neck, voice low. "Aeneas was lashing out at Olivia over something small—"

"It was over rule-breaking! That's not small—" Liv huffed, crossing her arms.

Felix gave her a look, the kind that said that's ironic, missy, you're breaking the rules right now too.

Jason shook his head. "Anyways. The point is—I don't think Silas is safe. I think we should leave Liv here, and go find him."

Felix brightened. "Cool, I was already gonna look for you guys—to give you your things back. And because this father dude? He's hiding way more than he lets on."

Jason's stomach twisted at the choice of words. He's not the only one...

But he didn't say it. Couldn't say it. Not with Silas as their focus.

Instead, he squared his shoulders, determination cutting through the unease. No wonder where Silas got his graceful fighting moves from, he thought grimly, picturing shadows, blood, and that cursed file. He must have been lonely...Just like me, especially when she died. He shoved the thought away to focus on gearing up. He didn't have the time to dwell on the girl that had left him behind. Again.

After strapping their gladius to their belts—Jason having to help Felix with his sheath, as usual—they slung their bags over their shoulders and stepped back into the hall. They stood by the door, and Jason crouched down to Liv's eye level.

"Stay safe. Don't open the door for anyone. Got it?"

Liv nodded firmly, small fingers clutching the hem of her shirt. "Okay, hermano...Te amo mucho."

Felix ruffled her black hair with an easy-going grin, "Ey, don't miss us too much, kid."

The son of Jupiter gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before straightening. With their goodbyes said, the door clicked shut, so he and Felix turned down the corridor, boots thudding against the hardwood as the quiet pressed in around them.

Jason broke it first. "There was a lot of blood where I last searched. And vomit. If that was Silas's, then..." His throat tightened, but he forced the words out. "He'll need serious medical attention."

Felix faltered mid-step. The color drained from his face, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. "You—you don't think he's... dead, do you?"

Jason's jaw flexed. He wanted to say no, wanted to give the assurance Felix clearly needed. But he couldn't lie. Not when he didn't know.

"I..." He exhaled through his nose, gaze hard. "I don't know."

The silence after was heavier than before, thick with everything unspoken. Jason's hand tightened around the grip of his gladius, knuckles paling with the pressure.

But most importantly—where was Silas?

The son of Fortuna had explained that the tali they'd found in Envy's store was crucial for whatever Aeneas was planning—but it also had the power to banish the monster entirely. Felix admitted, with a faltering laugh, that according to his mother, only he could wield it. He said it hesitantly, almost bracing himself for Jason's inevitable scoff.

But Jason didn't laugh. He didn't even smirk. Instead, he looked at Felix with something close to certainty. "Honestly, Felix... you're more powerful than you realize."

Felix blinked at him, then cracked a grin to cover the weight of the moment. "But not as much as you, Superman."

Jason groaned. "Don't call me Superman." 'I'm not a hero,' he wanted to say, but the words stayed locked behind his teeth. "I can't even fly, man."

"Hm, fineee." Felix tapped his chin as if thinking hard. "But calling you Airman makes it sound like you're full of gas."

He broke into cackles at his own joke. Jason rolled his eyes, but the edge of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. 

Suddenly, a chill went down his spine—the kind that served as a warning.

"Boys."

The voice was calm. Deep. Fatherly.

Jason spun, instincts surging as he drew his gladius in one smooth motion. The shadows made the hallway seem endless, but he caught the sound—measured, echoing footsteps slowly approaching.

They had stumbled into a new chamber without realizing it, the dark giving way to pale marble floors that gleamed faintly under ornate lights overhead. A lavish setting, too pristine, too deliberate.

And in that cold echoing space, Aeneas was waiting.

Those footsteps echoed again—steady, deliberate, like the owner had all the time in the world.

Jason tightened his stance, gladius angled defensively. "Show yourself."

From the shadows, the voice repeated, calm and unhurried. "Boys, don't run away."

Felix muttered under his breath, "...well, that's not creepy at all."

And then, finally, the figure of Aeneas emerged.

Except Aeneas didn't look at all like the handsome hero with auburn hair and a charming smile; instead, the man before them was grotesque. His face was a ruin—deep slashes carved across blistered skin, his nose and ears hacked away, black hair hanging in greasy locks. A grimy bandage wrapped around one ruined eye. He didn't look Roman. He barely looked human.

Felix whispered under his breath, "Uh...is that the father dude or am I trippin'?"

Jason didn't lower his guard, his grip tightening on the gladius as he glared at the disfigured man. "Who are you—and where's Silas?"

The stranger's single eye gleamed dangerously. "Ah. So you can see my true form... Then the child truly has betrayed me. Not that it matters now, not when I'm so close to utter destruction."

Felix, nerves clear in his voice, tried to cut the tension. "Whoa, you sure you want that? Sounds like a lot of work, if you ask me—"

"Silence!" the man snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. "I did not claw my way back from the grave to argue with insolent children! Romans no less! I will see your precious camp in flames, your legion torn apart. Nothing will stop me—"

At that, something inside Jason snapped. Camp Jupiter—his family, his home since he was a toddler. The thought of it in ruins lit a fury in his chest. The lights flickered as a sudden gust of wind burst outward, hurling the scarred man backward across the marble floor. Jason stepped forward, gladius raised, electric blue eyes blazing with a whirlwind of emotions.

"I don't know who you think you are," Jason growled, "but there's no way in Pluto we're letting you hurt anyone else—or destroy our camp."

The scarred man lay there for a heartbeat, then began to laugh—a dry, jagged sound that sent a chill up Jason's spine. "Brave words, son of Jupiter. But what of your friend?"

Jason's blood ran cold.

Please, Silas, don't be dead.

Felix stepped forward despite Jason's protest, the smile gone from his face. His silvery-blue eyes flashed manic, hard as knives. "Where the hell is Silas, you ugly bitch?" he snarled.

The scarred man's head snapped, just enough for the light to catch a shape hidden behind his back. A weapon—long, cruel—gleamed in the torchlight. Jason didn't think. He threw himself forward and reached with a sudden, violent gust that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with a raging temper. The weapon skittered from the man's grip and clattered across the marble.

The thing was wrong for a Roman: a double-ended spear, a broad leaf-shaped bronze blade at one end, a wicked spike on the butt. It looked designed to pierce and slash, not for polished legion drills.

Cornered, the man laughed—dry, surprised, almost delighted. "Why, he's perfectly safe and alive. I am not a monster, after all. But... for how long he can stay that way, well, I'm not certain."

Jason's fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. Heat swelled under his skin, a low roar building in his chest, something fierce and ancient stirring just beneath restraint. His hair prickled; his muscles twitched as if pulled by some invisible charge. He could feel power humming at the edges of his sight.

Felix's voice cut through the storm, low and urgent. "Jason—don't. I want to strangle him as much as you do, but we need him alive to know how to send the monster away. Or else we all die."

A string of Latin curses spat from Jason's teeth, raw and short, electric blue eyes locking onto the man's single cruel black gaze. For a breath the world narrowed to the impossible want to end this with a fight to the death.

The scarred thing's smile spread like a wound. "Put your weapons down, boys, if you want real answers."

Jason and Felix exchanged one hard look. Pride and fury warred with strategy; they didn't even have the tali of Palamedes nor a way to get rid of the monster. They dropped their gladii with heavy clacks onto the marble.

It was the moment the room had been waiting for. Four hands—large, quick, professional—snatched at them. Arms pinned theirs; grips caught wrists and shoulders; strong adults they hadn't even seen until now hauled them apart and held them fast. Jason shoved and twisted, muscle burning, but then they placed heavy iron shackles on his wrists. He couldn't break free. Felix yelped as a hand clamped his jaw, stifling a curse.

"You tricked us!" Felix spat, panic and fury coiling his voice.

The scarred man laughed again, this time with showman's relish. "Of course I did. I am the best trickster of all time! Everyone forgot about me, but I am the cleverest Greek—Sinon. Can you believe I even fooled the gods with this 'Aeneas' disguise, hah!"

The name landed like a stone in Jason's gut. Memory jolted—lessons, old stories he'd skimmed in the dusty Camp archives—Sinon, the liar, the Greek who presented the Trojan Horse as a gift, the man who convinced Troy to welcome doom inside its walls. He claimed he was only a poor Greek prisoner and a sacrifice to the gods chosen by Odysseus in his jealous rage, saying that it was due to being related to Palamedes—the man who forced Odysseus to fight in the war yet ended up being framed for treason by said man.

Oh, we're so fucked. Jason thought to himself, trying to shift the air around him to blast the mortals away but he was also afraid of hurting them unlike Aen—Sinon.

"My devotees—take them to the chamber. It's time to begin the ritual."

To Jason and Felix, he didn't bother to speak. He only whistled—a thin, crooked tune that made the marble seem to shiver. "Hope you enjoyed your stay, Romans. Consider this revenge on your ancestors for turning me into this." His hand drifted to his ruined face, the motion laced with venom. "They made me less than human. I will make the world less for them in return."

The four adults tightened their grips and began to haul them down the long corridor. Felix hissed and spat, teeth bared, but the men only shoved him harder. Jason strained at his bonds, every inch of him roaring to tear free, to hunt, to zap Sinon with lightning, but now he was stuck being dragged around like a prisoner. His gladius lay useless on the marble, his empty sheath just as useless now.

"Let go of me!" Felix snarled, writhing like a caged animal. He glanced once at Jason, eyes wild, then down the hall where torchlight guttered and shadows thickened. For a beat his bravado cracked and real panic seeped through. "Where—where's Silas?" he demanded again, voice raw.

Sinon's single eye glittered. "Oh, he's safe." The word was a spit. "Safe... for now."

Jason swallowed the curse that wanted to pour out and held his anger like a blade sheathed in ice. If Silas was alive, they had to live to pull him out. If he was hurt—if—Jason's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Jason closed his eyes for a sliver of a second and, like a promise, breathed it into the dark: If you touch him—if you harm Silas—I promise to get my revenge.

Like with any rule, this was a promise he intended to keep till his dying breath.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

Ｃђ𝔸ρｔ𝔢Ř ｔⓦ𝔼ｎⓣү-тĦŘᵉｅ

❝ＦＥＬＩＸ ＭＡＫＥＳ Ａ ＳＴＵＰＩＤ ＢＥＴ

（ＷＨＩＣＨ ＬＥＡＤＳ ＴＯ ＳＩＬＡＳ

 ＨＡＴＩＮＧ ＧＲＥＥＫＳ，

 ＧＡＭＢＬＩＮＧ ＡＮＤ

 ＧＡＭＥＳ ＩＮ ＧＥＮＥＲＡＬ）❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

Expect unreliable narration.

SILAS SQUINTED in the dim light, the tight cords cutting into him but doing nothing to ease the worry coiling in his gut. Sinon—the fraud father, the name the boy spat at when he first heard it—glided into the chamber to sprinkle his "words of wisdom" over the bleeding son of Discordia.

"I can see why my sponsor finds you invaluable... even for a Roman." Sinon's smirk pulled his ruined features into something worse; the blistered skin, the shaved-off nose and ears made the expression grotesque. "I almost let an ancient grudge get in the way of a bargain—how silly of me. Besides, sooner or later your friends will come looking for you... and when they do, I'll be ready for them."

The scarred man rested a pale finger beneath Silas's chin as if admiring a specimen. The gag in Silas's mouth kept him from spitting or biting; he could only stare and let the hate sit behind his teeth.

If all Greeks are like this, I fucking hate 'em, he thought, while Sinon chuckled—a rasp that echoed off the marble.

"You know... you're quite like me, more than you think, son."

Shut the hell up, creep. Silas wanted to scream it, wanted to pound the man into silence, but he stayed silent and let his eyes do the talking.

"Though, I wonder—do you like pain? Or rather, do you long to be dead?" Sinon asked, already assuming the answer. "Hm, of course you do. Why else would you refuse the ambrosia?"

Because I don't fucking trust you, bastard. The reply burned behind Silas's lips. Maybe the food was magical—but it could also be poisoned. He wasn't stupid. He wanted to snap that thought into Sinon's mouth with his fist. No—better yet, with the chair he was currently strapped to.

"Like I've said before, I need you alive, son. So please, don't be such a brat this time—eat the goddamn ambrosia."

Sinon's voice soured from mock-fatherly warmth to sharp irritation, the word son twisting into something venomous. Silas caught the sight of ambrosia in the man's scarred hands too late; the gag was ripped from his mouth, and before he could turn away, the divine food was shoved between his teeth.

Silas bit down—hard. The taste of copper and divine vanilla flavor hit the back of his throat as Sinon hissed in pain, jerking his bleeding hand back. But the gag snapped into place again before Silas could spit the ambrosia out, forcing him to choke it down.

It tasted like plain vanilla ice cream—sweet, harmless...And yet it carried ghosts.

Memories slammed into him, thick and choking: his father's voice, the glint of a blade, the smell of turpentine and blood. The echo of screaming that wasn't always someone else's. Silas wished, for a half-second, that the ambrosia had been poisoned. At least then he wouldn't have to remember.

He hated remembering.

Warmth spread through his veins, the divine healing working despite his hatred. His cuts began to slowly knit together; the bruises faded. But the pain didn't leave—it crawled somewhere deeper, beneath the skin.

His newest wound throbbed worst of all—the one Sinon had carved from his jaw to just under his right eye. He hadn't seen it yet, but he could feel it: jagged, ugly, a brand of humiliation.

He lost. To that thing.

Silas clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. The ropes creaked. If he lived through this, he swore—Sinon wouldn't.

"Aw, don't look so glum, son."

Sinon's unwounded eye gleamed in the dim torchlight—black, glassy, and filled with a kind of manic delight. "You're going to be reunited with your friends soon! Hope you don't mind that blonde one being sacrificed. He's just not useful to me besides being a pawn."

For a breath, the entire chamber dimmed, as though the torches themselves recoiled from the words. Then the fire sputtered back to life, casting warped shadows along the marble.

I hate being weak, Silas angrily thought.

Sinon turned away, snapping his fingers once. A mortal woman hurried into view, her movements rigid, her eyes hollow with obedience. He leaned close, whispered something in her ear, and she nodded so sharply it looked painful.

Silas strained against the cords biting into his wrists, the gag muffling every curse clawing at his throat. He didn't get to hear what Sinon said, but the man's footsteps—slow, measured—echoed like the ticking of a countdown.

Then came the others. Four adults, all with the same blank expressions, their motions jerky and puppetlike. Fear lingered in their eyes, though—the kind that didn't belong to them anymore.

They began untying him, the ropes loosening one by one until his arms ached from returning blood flow. The gag, of course, stayed in. Cowards, Silas internally dissed them.

When they finally pulled him upright, Silas staggered, legs unsteady from being bound so long. The moment he found his footing, they were on him again—hands gripping his arms and legs, holding him suspended between them like dead weight.

Then the hood came down. Thick. Scratchy. Suffocating, as if the world was confining him to this tight space with little air to breathe.

Only the sound of shuffling feet and his own rapid heartbeat filled the dark.

Shit, he thought bitterly, muscles tightening against their grip. That bitchy Greek must've told them what happened last time.

He twisted once, twice—enough to make them readjust their hold—but they didn't loosen.

Silas gritted his teeth beneath the gag. He hated this. The helplessness. The dark pressing in against his face. He didn't fear it, not really... but right now, with his mind running and his heart pounding—

He couldn't help but hate it.

Currently, Silas was boredly watching a bunch of cultish devotees kneel before the marble statue of Fortuna, chanting in some ancient language, while he sat chained inside a small cage across the chamber. At least this place had actual lighting instead of those flickering torches. Small victories, he supposed.

The only real upside? That Greek creep, Sinon, wasn't hovering over him anymore.

Still, it struck him as odd that the adults kept repeating the name "Tyche" when it was very clearly Fortuna they were worshipping. Silas frowned. Are they normally this stupid, or is that just part of the brainwashing package deal?

Just then, the same woman Silas had seen whispering with Sinon earlier entered the chamber, carrying a familiar set of ancient tali on a velvet pillow. She moved like a puppet, placing them carefully within the ritual circle before stepping aside.

Trailing behind her were the youngest of the children—Ghost Girl and Cheeky Boy—and Hualian, who fidgeted anxiously with a pristine rose in his hands.

What the hell? Silas's mind raced. Sinon was using Olivia to report on the kids... does that mean each of them has a role in this freak show? He had to admit — if he weren't disturbingly attached to the little kids, he'd call Sinon's manipulation impressive. But right now, all he could think about was how vile the man was for treating everyone like pawns — as if this were just some twisted game.

The trio looked uneasy, even the cheeky Greek-Egyptian boy. Silas shifted and gave his cage bars a light kick, just enough to get their attention. Their heads snapped up — wide eyes, trembling hands.

"Are you in time-out?" the five-year-old whispered, curiosity flickering in his dark brown eyes. "What'd you do?"

Okay, be as charming as Felix.

"Eh, it doesn't matter—"

The cheeky boy's eyes lit up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Oh, oh! Is it a secret? I wanna know, pleaaaaase!"

Beside him, Hualian huffed, clearly unimpressed that this was the boy's first response, while Ghost Girl timidly looked away from Silas's gaze.

He's awfully eager to know secrets... maybe he knows something himself.

So, the son of Discordia decided to play along.

"...If it is, then you'll have to trade me one," Silas drawled, tilting his head lazily against the bars. "Tell me a secret too. One about what's going to happen—if you really know any."

The Greek-Egyptian boy's pout was almost comical as he crossed his arms, looking deeply insulted. "Of course I know! Sinon tells me—"

The words died midair. The boy's mouth moved, but not a single sound escaped. He turned to Ghost Girl, flailing his hands in confusion as if demanding, What gives? She shook her head fiercely, expression tight with warning.

So she does have powers... something to do with silence? Silas noted, watching them argue in noiseless frustration. His eyes slid to Hualian, who looked about done with both of them, nervously twisting the rose between his fingers.

And him... why's he here? What's with the flower—part of the ritual, maybe?

Silas, unfortunately, didn't get any answers—because just then, Jason and Felix were dragged into the chamber, both shackled and flanked by several adults. And behind them came Sinon, that horrible smile stretched across his ruined face.

For a heartbeat, Silas forgot to breathe. The sight of them—bruised, exhausted, and still standing—was both a relief and a curse. His eyes flicked toward the youngest pair of children, the ones who had been bold enough to speak to him moments ago. They flinched harder than Hualian did, shrinking into themselves the second Sinon entered.

So even they're scared of him. Would it be wrong of me to assume that they truly know everything?

"Release that Roman," Sinon ordered, pointing to Felix, his voice sharp as broken glass. The adults obeyed immediately, unshackling the son of Fortuna.

The moment the cuffs hit the floor, Felix lunged—no hesitation, no plan—just pure, desperate anger.

It was over before it began. Sinon barely shifted his weight before driving his fist square into Felix's face. The sound cracked through the chamber like a whip.

Even Silas winced. Gods... Felix, you idiot.

Felix hit the marble floor hard, clutching his jaw, but even then his glare didn't waver. There was something stubborn, almost heroic, in that furious stare that made Silas's chest twist painfully.

He'd never thought of Felix as a fighter—he was more the running-and-hiding type, the kind who survived on luck and timing. But right now, luck looked like the last thing on his side.

And from the look on his face, Felix wasn't planning on running ever again.

Sinon whispered something to them, and both boys' eyes swept the room before locking onto Silas. They looked ready to fight—nerves taut, anger simmering just beneath the surface. Jason especially. Literal sparks flickered from his fingers, tiny arcs of electricity snapping in rhythm with his breathing.

Silas almost smirked. Sparky, he thought, the nickname slipping into his mind before he could stop it. He didn't say it aloud, though—not now. Not when Sinon's earlier words still echoed in his head. The son of Jupiter was going to be fed to a sea monster, supposedly.

Sinon's scarred mouth twitched like he'd caught the thought midair. Paranoid, Silas told himself. Just paranoia. Right?

"Ah, I almost forgot," Sinon drawled, stepping toward the marble doors. "It seems we have another guest tonight."

For a split second, Silas thought he meant him—until Sinon added, voice dripping venom, "She invited herself. How... annoying."

He yanked someone forward by the hair—dirty-blonde hair. Silas's blood went cold.

Eliza.

Felix's eyes went wide, all color draining from his face. Fear and guilt twisted across his features, emotions Silas didn't have time to untangle before Sinon chuckled darkly.

Both Jason and Felix shouted for him to let her go. Felix, ever impulsive, tried to charge—but tripped over nothing, hitting the marble with a crack that made Silas wince. Sinon barely looked at him.

"I'll deal with you later, girl," Sinon said, dragging Eliza toward the cage. "But how about you join your brother first?"

He shoved her inside without care. Silas caught her as best as he could with his hands shackled behind his back before she could fall, offering a shaky smile despite being trapped in chains.

"I'd wave," he muttered, "but as you can see, I'm a little tied up at the moment."

Eliza didn't laugh. Her wide eyes said everything.

So Silas forced a nervous chuckle, pretending he didn't feel the cold dread gnawing in his gut.

Sinon's voice blurred into meaningless noise—something about "divine will" and "the goddess of luck" and "her statue"—but Silas tuned him out entirely. His focus was on the small, dirt-smudged girl beside him.

"You were there at the beach, right?" he murmured under his breath, keeping his tone calm, almost casual.

Eliza's head jerked up. "Y-yes. I'm sorry for—"

"No offense," Silas interrupted quietly, "but sorry's not gonna help us right now." He leaned closer, the faint rattle of his chains the only sound between them. "I know everything's scary and confusing, but I need your help."

Her voice trembled, but she nodded. "O-okay."

"You can control the Mist, yeah?"

A flicker passed over her eyes—hesitant recognition—and she nodded again.

"Good," he whispered, eyes darting briefly toward Sinon and back. "Then when I give you the signal, I need you to cast the strongest illusion you can. You'll have to focus hard, Eliza. Really hard."

"...Okay," she breathed. "What is it?"

Silas's lips curled faintly—part grim, part daring. He glanced up toward the ritual circle where the tali glinted under the artificial lights.

"You'll know," he said at last.

And before Eliza could ask again, Sinon's voice cut through the air—sharp, commanding—and Silas snapped his head back toward the front, face blank, the plan buried in his chest like a live wire waiting to spark.

Felix should've seen this coming. He was a trickster too—whether it was on purpose or just by accident (okay, mostly on purpose). He could practically hear those old insults from his classmates echoing in his head—"Stupid dog." And right now, that's exactly how he felt: forced to heel, tail down, when all he wanted was to bite and tear into the parasite of a man standing in front of him.

Don't get him wrong—Felix wasn't violent by nature. Far from it. But anyone who hurt kids the way this disgusting Greek did deserved nothing but a one-way trip to Hell.

(Okay, maybe he was a bit of a hypocrite when it came to his dad. But deep down, Felix still believed that his old man—drunk and angry as he was—had loved him. Just... had a really terrible way of showing it.)

His gaze flicked to the cage, and his stomach knotted. Silas looked wrecked. There was a new gash slicing down from his jaw to under his right eye, raw and angry. Felix knew that wasn't his friend's doing—Silas might be reckless, but he wasn't cruel. And then there was Eliza, small and pale beside him, amethyst eyes wide with fear. Felix's heart sank. She'd probably followed him after their late night conversation. So really, this was his fault too.

"As I was saying, boy," Sinon's voice slithered through the chamber, "all I need from you is to listen closely to my instructions. Everything must be precisely executed—"

"Stop using big words, jackass," Felix muttered under his breath.

Sinon's lip curled, irritation flashing across his ruined face. Jason, standing nearby, said nothing. The son of Jupiter had cooled off—on the surface, anyway—but his sharp eyes followed everything, every movement, like he was waiting for a chance to strike. His gaze drifted more than once toward Silas and Eliza.

"Fine," Sinon finally hissed, dismissive. "I'll deal with you later."

He turned and approached Hualian, who stood stiffly near the cage, the rose still trembling in his hand. The two exchanged hushed words that Felix couldn't make out. He shot Silas a questioning look, but the son of Discordia's face was unreadable as ever—expression flat, eyes sharp, giving nothing away.

Maybe he'd heard. Maybe he hadn't. With Silas, there was no telling.

The boy Felix had internally dubbed as "future heart-throb" nodded once before turning toward the youngest kid in the room—the nameless five-year-old who somehow still managed to look both innocent and unnervingly calm. Hualian extended the rose to him with both hands, and under Sinon's hawk-like gaze, the child stepped forward to grasp it.

They leaned close, whispering something—except no sound reached Felix's ears. The entire chamber seemed to have swallowed noise itself. Whatever the kid said, Hualian clearly heard it. Without hesitation, he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the pristine red petals, as though sealing a promise—or a curse.

Sinon grimaced, though Felix suspected it was supposed to be a smile. Hard to tell when your face looked like burnt wax.

Hualian then handed the rose to the secret-obsessed boy, who took it with an almost giddy expression—eyes wide, teeth flashing. It was almost funny, if it weren't for the fact that they were minutes away from a ritual meant to unleash a sea monster big enough to wipe out everything they loved.

No. I can't let that happen. I can't let the Trojan Sea Monster devour us... or anyone.

Felix's gaze darted to the center of the room—to the ancient tali, his ancestor's dice, resting on a velvet pillow inside the glowing ritual circle. His pulse quickened. If what his mom said was true, only he could use them. Maybe that was his edge. From what Sinon had said and the advice of his mother, Felix pieced together that Sinon was using his mother's statue not to just summon the monster but he could direct the beast as long as it was within a close distance from the statue. Yet, Palamedes' tali—a fool's dice—was supposedly more powerful than a statue of the goddess of luck for whatever reason. Wild.

Sinon didn't mention why and neither did Felix's mother.

"Hey, Jason," Felix whispered, voice barely audible as Sinon turned his back. The adults gripping Jason stood motionless, their eyes dull, like puppets without strings. Jason shot him a wary look.

"...Am I going to like this idea?"

Felix hummed thoughtfully. "In my dreams, I hope so. Not that I want to see you in my dreams, Grace."

Jason groaned under his breath. "Felix, I know we don't have many options for escape, but—"

"—but what do we have to lose?" Felix winced immediately. "Okay, okay, a lot. We have a lot to lose. But just—trust me, alright? Remember what I told you earlier? About the dice?"

Jason's lips parted, maybe to argue—or maybe to agree—but he didn't get the chance. Sinon turned sharply, his shadow stretching long across the marble. His single eye fixed on Felix with the kind of focus that made the son of Fortuna's stomach twist.

And for one brief, idiotic second, Felix wondered if the man actually could shoot lasers. Because if he could, they'd both be toast. Quite literally.

"Escape is fruitless, boys. This whole place is shrouded with the power of the Mist and secrecy, no one is finding you off this island—especially not with the high tide." 

"Oh..." Felix feigned a sorrowful look. "But if I help you with your sketchy ritual, doesn't that mean I end up monster chow? Can't I play one game first—or at least gamble one last time?"

Sinon's single eye gleamed at the word gamble. Felix could feel Silas and Jason's burning glares, the kind that screamed, Are you being serious right now?

"Are you being—" Silas started, but Sinon cut him off.

"Gamble, you say?" the cult leader purred. "What could you possibly bet with, boy?" Despite the mocking tone, his tongue flicked across his lips, barely restraining excitement. Felix bet the jackass hadn't played a fun game since he'd crawled out of his musty grave. Not that he wanted to indulge him—but it wasn't like he had much choice.

"Oh, um..." Felix glanced toward Silas, trying to project an I'm sorry, please trust me look. "If I lose, I'll go through with the ritual. But if I win, we all walk free—the kids, your alien choir, everyone. You can pick whatever game you want, and I pinky swear I'll follow through."

Sinon tilted his head, the expression on his half-melted face somewhere between curiosity and hunger. From the corner of his eye, Felix caught Silas whispering something to Lizzie, who leaned toward the two youngest kids. Jason was muttering under his breath—Latin, probably—but Felix couldn't make out the words. He forced himself to look away before Sinon noticed and got any ideas about hurting the kids.

After what felt like a decade, Sinon chuckled. "I know just the game, son."

Felix's frown deepened. "Don't call me that."

"Do you want to play or not?" the fraud father hissed, forcing Felix to swallow every insult clawing at his tongue.

"Suzanne, fetch me my bag."

The woman—standing near the cheeky boy, Etta, and Hualian—moved like a puppet on strings. She dipped her head as she passed Sinon, as if he were actually worth bowing to, then slipped through the marble doors.

"Sooo," Felix drawled, half-sneering, "what's the game? If you were really planning on telling me."

Sinon didn't even twitch this time. Instead, he looked almost...giddy. Ew.

"A beloved ancient game you Romans called Tali," the cult leader said, his tone mockingly reverent. "To play Tali, we'll need four astragaloi bones and some gambling coins—drachma, of course. I'd rather not touch any more Roman filth unless I'm destroying it. I'm already making an exception by playing your version, ugh."

He went on like a smug lecturer. "Two of the sides on a talus are broader than the others. The Romans marked them with three and four, while the narrower sides bore one and six. They even named the sides—one, the concave narrow side, was 'Dog.' Three, the broad concave, 'Hole.' Four, the broad convex, 'Belly.' And six, the convex narrow—'Vulture.'"

"Whoa, that's...a lot of information to absorb," Felix muttered. "If we're using tali, then can't I just use those ones?" He gestured toward the circle, where his ancestor's dice gleamed faintly.

"He makes a great point," Jason added, voice steady but eyes flicking toward Felix. "That's two of the four tali needed, isn't it?"

Sinon's single eye narrowed. "Do you think I'm a fool?" His voice curled like smoke. "No. We'll be using my old set." Then, with a flash of teeth, he added, "Don't worry, boy. I've marked all four sides. Certainly you can count, no?"

Felix's jaw tightened. "Yeah," he said through his teeth. "I can count."

Suzanne returned soundlessly, her steps echoing faintly against the marble as she clutched a weathered leather satchel. The bag looked older than time itself—stitched with fraying thread, smelling faintly of iron and smoke. She bowed again as she handed it to Sinon, who accepted it with an indulgent hum.

From inside, the fraud father withdrew four astragaloi bones and two neat stacks of drachma—thirty coins for each player. The dice clattered together with a dry, hollow sound that reminded Felix of brittle teeth.

Even from a distance, Felix could see the dark carvings etched into each bone. They weren't just numbers; they were tiny engravings, etched deep enough to hold a trace of shadow. The markings matched exactly what Sinon had boasted about earlier: the concave narrow side, Dog (1); the broad concave, Hole (3); the broad convex, Belly (4); and the convex narrow, Vulture (6).

Sinon's smile was thin. "Now," he said, his tone oily with satisfaction, "let's review our game. You throw all four tali at once. The number that counts is the one that lands face down. Each combination has a name."

He began to list them, savoring each word like a sermon, "Venus—the best throw. All numbers different: one, three, four, six. Senio—the Six. A six and any other mix: six, anything, anything, anything. Vulture—all the same, except ones: three-three-three-three, or four-four-four-four, and so on. And Canis—the Dog." He paused, his single eye glittering as it fixed on Felix. "The worst of all. One-one-one-one."

Felix tried not to show how his throat tightened at the sound of that last word.

"The rules are simple," Sinon continued. "Each round, players alternate throws. You pay into the pot for your failures—three coins for Canis, two for Vulture, one for Senio. But if, by some divine miracle, you throw Venus—you win the pot, the game, and your life."

He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Of course, Venus is almost impossible. One chance in thirty-five, to be precise. But you seem like a lucky boy."

Felix forced a grin, even as his palms prickled with sweat. "Guess we're about to find out, huh?"

Sinon laughed—a dry, awful sound that didn't quite reach his eye—and motioned to the marble floor between them. "Then, Fortuna's son, let us see if your mother will gift you with her luck."

Felix crouched, palms hovering above the ancient bones. The air around him felt heavier, the chill from the marble seeping into his skin. Every eye in the chamber was fixed on him—Jason tense, Silas unreadable, Eliza clutching the bars, Hualian with a curious gaze, while cheeky boy poked at Etta's cheek.

He smirked without looking up. "Her luck? You're wrong, old kook—it's my own." He glanced at the bones, then back up at Sinon, his grin turning razor-edged. "And you know what else you're wrong about? Luck's not a gift—it's a weapon."

Felix rolled the bones between his fingers, the carvings catching the dim light like teeth.

"And I never miss."

Silas watched from inside his cage, legs stiff against the cold stone floor. Felix, that idiot, that brilliant idiot, was gambling with a monster in a mortal's body. And worse—he was winning.

Not by much, but enough to make Sinon's single eye twitch every time the bones clattered against the marble.

The tali rolled across the floor with soft, percussive clicks, the sound echoing faintly in the vaulted chamber. Four knucklebones spun and tumbled until they finally stilled—6, 4, 3, 3. A Senio. Not bad. Felix leaned back with a grin that Silas could practically feel radiating smugness from across the room. Sinon's turn landed him with a pathetic Canis, four 1s, and a curse that hissed out between his teeth as he tossed three coins into the growing pot.

Silas didn't even realize he'd been holding his breath until the next round started.

He told himself to focus on the game, to study the pattern of Sinon's throws, but his eyes kept darting to the boy near the ritual circle—the one he'd come to know as Segerseni, the self-proclaimed keeper of secrets. He had no idea what he'd done by telling the kid about his plan. The five-year-old had that look again, the one that said he was listening even when no one spoke.

Silas still remembered trying to give him a harmless lie earlier—something about a forbidden love affair between two unicorns—and the boy's nose had wrinkled in offense. "That's not real," he'd said, as if Silas had insulted him. If anything, Silas was the one who was heavily insulted because it could definitely be true about the unicorns at Camp Jupiter.

Now, Segerseni's wide eyes flickered between Felix and Sinon, his tiny fingers twitching against the hem of his shirt. The place itself felt charged, humming beneath the surface, the Mist folding over every torchless corner. When Sinon had mentioned that the chamber was veiled by secrecy and the Mist, Silas had understood—this was partially Eliza's doing. The Mist bent around her like smoke, but the weight of it, the precision—it wasn't just her.

No, Ghost Girl had to be helping her too, her silence muting the air itself. And Hualian... Hualian stood by the cage, eyes far too sad for a boy his age. He was part of it too, though Silas couldn't yet see how.

Another roll clattered. Felix's laugh echoed as Sinon scowled at yet another loss—Vulture, four 3s. Felix's bones landed in a near-perfect mix, just shy of a Venus. 1, 3, 4, 4.

Silas exhaled through his nose. He couldn't decide which was worse: Felix taunting the lunatic across the room, or the fact that, for once, Lady Luck seemed to be listening.

Even Jason, ever the faithful doubter of Felix's outrageous plans, had started to grin—murmuring encouragement under his breath until the next roll came up Senio. When Felix let out a victorious whoop, Jason actually cheered, "That's it, Felix! Keep showing him who's—"

"Silence!" Sinon's voice cracked like thunder.

Jason immediately snapped his mouth shut, but the command hadn't been what stopped him. Silas's sharp eyes caught it first—the faint shimmer wrapping around the Ghost Girl's hands. She'd pressed a single pale finger to her lips, and Jason's voice simply... vanished. His lips still moved, brow furrowed in confusion and anger, but not a sound escaped.

The girl looked startled by her own power—guilt flickering across her translucent features—but didn't know how to undo it. 

That's a little terrifying, Silas thought to himself, hoping not to be on the bad end of her magical secrecy powers anytime soon.

Meanwhile, Felix, ever oblivious to the growing storm, was running his mouth again. "So, while we're rolling these bones, wanna tell me what all this fancy chanting's for? I mean, between you and me, the vibes is very doom cult, but points for presentation—"

Sinon didn't even glance up from the tali. "You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, come on," Felix pushed, still grinning. "Humor me. I'm about to be monster food, right? At least let me die educated."

Sinon's lip curled, the single eye narrowing into something venomous. "You Romans never knew when to hold your tongue."

Felix raised his eyebrows, about to quip something back—but then the bones clattered across the marble.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

They spun wildly before falling still—1, 3, 4, 6.

Silas's heart skipped.

For a beat, the entire chamber went dead quiet. Then Felix gasped. "Oh, no way!"

He leapt to his feet, eyes wide and glittering as he pointed at the tali. "Venus! I got Venus! That's—wait, that's the best one, right? HA!"

Jason's laugh didn't even made a sound, but it was evident in the way his blue eyes lit up with joy. Even the smallest of the kids—Segerseni—clapped his hands before earning a sharp glare from Sinon.

Silas, however, didn't move. Not that he could move in the first place.

Because the moment Felix shouted, the air in the chamber seemed to change. Sinon's grin didn't falter—it rotted. The corners of his mouth twisted upward, too wide, too cruel. His single eye gleamed like molten obsidian as he murmured, "So... Fortuna still favors her son."

Silas's gut went cold. He didn't like that tone. Not one bit.

Luck, he realized, had just become a weapon aimed back at them.

"See, now you have to keep your promise—"

"Hah, haha, you foolish Roman." Sinon's laugh was jagged and dry, like something cracked open inside him. "You never made me swear an oath—just nod along with your stupid terms. Did you truly think I'd let you go?"

"Um... yeah?" Felix replied, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

"No!" Sinon's voice echoed through the marble chamber. "The beast is tied to my life! Why would I let it starve when it can feed on my enemies? Now—" his single eye gleamed with manic joy "—take the son of Jupiter to the death rock. My pet hasn't eaten in a week, and he's dying for a demigod snack!"

He laughed again—deep, awful, and echoing—as chaos broke loose.

Silas tilted his head toward Eliza and winked.

And then everything happened in a blur.

The cultists surged forward—half a dozen adults seizing Jason while Felix lunged, only to be caught and dragged back by Sinon, who held him with grotesque mockery, almost like a father restraining a disobedient child. Felix shouted Jason's name, struggling against the man's iron grip.

Eliza sat frozen, tears brimming in her eyes. Ghost Girl pressed trembling hands to her mouth. Even Segerseni's mischievous spark had dimmed, his dark eyes heavy with dread. Only Hualian looked between Silas and Jason, uncertain, as if trying to understand something invisible happening between them.

But Jason—

Jason wasn't struggling. He wasn't even afraid. He met Silas's gaze through the shimmering veil of the Mist and stood still, resolute.

And Silas—cloaked by Eliza's illusion—knew how upset Jason would be. The real Jason.

Because he would be taking Jason's place.

Silas figured if death was calling, then it might as well collect his overdue debt.

"Jason," he mouthed silently to the boy that wore his face. The illusion blinked, startled, until their eyes met perfectly.

Don't save me.

Then the chamber doors slammed shut with a thunderous boom, sealing Felix's cries and the real Jason behind them.

Silas exhaled once, the cold settling over him like an old friend.

I suppose it pays to have secrets, he thought grimly, as he stepped forward—toward the darkness, toward the death that was meant for someone else. Now I don't have to carry father's legacy...

A sack was roughly placed over his eyes as hands guided him like a lamb being lead to its slaughter. Although, he wasn't as innocent as he appeared and while yes, Silas could fight, he was tired of fighting.

...

That was a lie.

Silas Vesper was just a boy who longed to be dead.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

ȼħȺᵽŧɇɍ ŧwɇnŧɏ-føᵾɍ

❝ＭＡＮ ＯＲ Ａ ＭＯＮＳＴＥＲ❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

THERE WAS A strange sense of peace, despite the fact that Silas was knowingly walking further and further into the darkness. Maybe it was because he was so close to achieving the final stage of humanity—death—that he let himself think freely for once. How free his soul would be when his final breath was taken. Death itself seemed to draw the humanity out of the monstrous boy, tempting him with new ideals.

Sure, he thought about his friends—and, begrudgingly, his family. His mother would probably be pissed that he wasn't even trying to escape. He shuddered at the thought of being one with the shadows again, of letting the paranoia and insanity claw back into his mind.

Yeah, no. He was good.

Thinking about a ghost of a monster whose expectations weighed heavier than his life sentence was also out of question.

Instead, his thoughts turned toward the laws of life and the curse of being a demigod. The gods could do whatever they liked, even settle down with their legacy campers in New Rome—according to Jason and Poppy, anyway—but the majority of them were too high up their asses to ever visit their children. And for what? Because that's just the way it is?

As Romans, they were told to honor traditions, lineage, and the silent gods who abandoned them. Why—because that was the life of a Roman? It wasn't enough that a demigod or legacy had to endure Lupa's brutal teachings only to face an even harsher world afterward. The gods didn't care for them, and mortals could never comprehend the weight of all those expectations. From a young age, demigods learned to suffer—again and again—until the time came when they were forced to pledge ten years of their lives to the Legion, just for the right to live comfortably in the so-called paradise of New Rome.

And still, the suffering never stopped.

In those ten years, every camper was broken down and reshaped into a useful weapon of Rome, something the Dii Consentes could proudly play as a pawn in their twisted divine game.

(Silas hadn't even been at Camp Jupiter for a full year yet, but he'd already watched more than a few campers get buried six feet under—some from something as simple as sentry duty. He hadn't seen a single god there to mourn them.)

If Silas could change things for the better, he would start with Camp Jupiter. But considering how stubborn the praetors were—and how quickly people turned on him because of his lineage—it would be smarter to focus on the true root of the problem: the Dii Consentes themselves. The gods were the disease. The camp was only a symptom.

His own friend, who practically grew up at Camp Jupiter, was living proof of it.

Jason Grace—one of the most heroic people Silas had ever met, and not because of his lineage—had never spoken to his father. Not once and it showed. Silas could still remember the look on Jason's face when Felix mentioned that his own mother had pleaded for him personally. It wasn't jealousy or anger—it was disbelief. Jason, who had spent his entire life abiding by the rules, earning every ounce of respect the Legion had to offer, who carried the weight of everyone else's expectations on his shoulders... and still, not even Jupiter himself could spare him a word.

Something ugly and burning clawed its way up Silas's chest. If he was being honest, the whole "sense of peace" shit was complete bull. There was no way the son of Discordia would be able to achieve such a level of tranquility until he breathed his last—not when years of bitterness and envy had decayed his heart so.

How could the gods look at them and see nothing but pawns to be sacrificed? Did they forget what it meant to feel, to care, to be human? Parasites. Every last one of them.

As he walked deeper, the air grew colder, heavier. His thoughts wandered to the fate of his soul—tainted, fractured, damned. Letus, the Reaper of Souls, would take it without question. And despite everything—saving his friends, trying to free the cult's children, doing stupid favors for an insane weatherman—it would never atone for his blood-drenched sins. He could almost hear the screaming in his ears, like a broken record playing on repeat...

(Yes, Silas didn't mind calling Letus by his true name. Most Romans feared the god so much they whispered his Greek one instead. Cowards, his heart seethed.)

Before the tangles of his thoughts could drag him further into madness—into all the what-ifs and should-haves—a low creak split the silence. A gust of cold air slipped through the opening, sharp and briny, and for a fleeting moment Silas could almost pretend he was standing on the beach again. He smelled salt and seaweed before he heard it—the rhythmic crash of waves somewhere close. It was unnerving how near the ocean sounded when he couldn't see a thing. The hood over his head pressed down like a weight, thick and suffocating, sealing him in darkness.

A sudden shove cut through his thoughts. Too late, he realized there were steps ahead—short, but steep enough that when he stumbled forward, his knees buckled and he pitched face-first onto the cold stone. Pain shot up his jaw, and he hissed a curse under his breath before rough hands dragged him upright again.

Somewhere to his left, just beyond the sound of his own ragged breathing, came the dull thud of chains—metal scraping, clanking, dragging against itself in a slow, rhythmic pattern. It was impossible to tell what was making the noise, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. The ropes around his wrists bit into his skin, tighter with every small movement, the coarse fibers digging deep until it felt like his pulse itself was trapped. It didn't help—none of it helped—the unease clawing at his chest.

He wanted to throw up. Shit, how many times had he felt this same choking confinement before? His father's favorite punishment, his own private hell: to be bound, restrained, reminded of how powerless he really was. The son of Leonard could practically hear that raspy voice whisper in his ear,"Freedom is a lie, son. Don't fall for it.". Every inch of rope felt like a ghost of that memory dragging him back under.

And though he'd promised himself he wouldn't beg—not again—the words slipped out anyway. "Stop," he rasped, breath hitching. "Please—stop." He hadn't realized tears were already spilling down his cheeks until the cold air stung them. His face burned with shame as rough hands pushed him forward, forcing him onto a small, unsteady boat that rocked beneath his weight.

Silas had never really feared the ocean—at least, not until now. But with every lurch of the boat, every cold spray of salt water against his face, the knowledge that a giant serpent was lurking somewhere beneath the surface made his skin crawl. Yup, it was official: Silas Vesper permanently hated the ocean. And beaches. And probably anything remotely damp.

He tried to steady his breathing, forcing his brain to focus on details instead of panic. Judging by the shifting weight around him, there were at least two adults aboard. The heavy thunk near his feet sounded like a coiled rope... or a duffel bag stuffed with gods-know-what. The oars dipped and rose in steady rhythm—so, the adults were rowing. Great. He was definitely not escaping this one.

"I guess it's too late to turn into a shadow now," he muttered under his breath. The thought of reforming in the water made him grimace. He didn't really know how to swim. Not well, anyway. Shadow-shifting was one thing—but drowning? That wasn't a pretty enough death in his eyes.

The boat glided farther and farther into the open sea, each stroke of the paddles echoing like a countdown. Dread settled heavy in Silas's gut. This was it. He was about to sacrifice himself for the greater good—or whatever dramatic bullshit Felix would probably call it later, if there was a later.

The seconds stretched, unbearably slow, until the boat suddenly slammed into something solid. The impact nearly tossed him overboard, and only the firm grip of the two adults kept him from meeting the waves.

One of them yanked the hood from his head. Silas blinked rapidly, disoriented by the dim light. The moon was only half-full, the boat far too small for comfort, and the man in front of him—an Asian man with mismatched red and white eyes—watched him with something almost human in his gaze. Regret.

He looked so much like Hualian that Silas froze for a moment before the man spoke, voice trembling. "I'm sorry. I wish I could save you—all of you children—but I must do this for my son. I'm—"

"I understand," Silas cut in, tone almost curious. It was strange, hearing one of them speak like an actual person. None of the cultists ever talked about their feelings; they were puppets with empty eyes. But this man was begging for forgiveness.

"My life for his safety, right?"

The man nodded, ignoring the edge of mockery in Silas's voice. "Please forgive me—"

"Shut up and knock me out already."

The man faltered, clearly startled, then exchanged a look with his companion. A moment later, the other robed figure raised a crowbar—and darkness came crashing down.

My brain's going to explode if this keeps happening, Silas thought dully, right before the world disappeared.

Waiting for death was, surprisingly, boring.

Silas sighed for what felt like the millionth time, his head throbbing as he watched the moon dip lower and lower toward the horizon. Being stuck on what Sinon so charmingly dubbed the "death rock," he'd half-hoped there'd at least be something to distract him. He'd woken up about an hour ago—or maybe more—strapped down with ropes to a rough, sea-slick boulder. Each wave soaked his ankles, icy and relentless, while the wind bit through his soaked clothes.

The rock dug cruelly into his back—his father's scarred masterpiece—and he really, really hated that. Anything but that.

He winced and, despite himself, his thoughts drifted to his father.

As his onyx eyes followed the rhythm of the waves breaking against his so-called deathbed, a hollow smile tugged at his lips. It figured he'd die thinking about him.

The day he earned the scars on his back was the same day he learned the past his father had tried to bury. Funny, how the man who'd preached about erasing evidence of memories kept both a journal and a photograph of Silas's mother tucked inside it. Silas had been seven then—sharp for his age, though dyslexia sometimes tangled his thoughts. Not that he knew the word for it back then.

His father had been in the garage that night, busy with his latest "project." The victim—Chester Blackthorne, a man with steel-blue eyes and shaven black hair—looked eerily like the man in one of the black-and-white photos Silas had found in an old shoebox. In that photo, a solemn woman in a polka-dot dress rested a gloved hand on a young boy's shoulder. The boy had dead eyes—the same hollow look Silas had seen in the mirror too many times. Beside them stood a stern man in a military uniform, medals gleaming, a hand gripping the boy's shoulder like a vice.

Seven-year-old Silas had just cracked open the worn leather journal when the sound of footsteps froze him. His father entered, drying his hands with a towel—the vivid red ruining the white fabric. Silas barely had time to shove the shoebox beneath the bed before the man's voice filled the doorway.

"My son," Leonard Vesper said, his tone sickly sweet. That tone was always worse than anger—it was the warning before the storm. "Why do you hide? Surely, you're not keeping secrets from your own father?"

Silas squeezed his eyes shut and turned, bowing his head instinctively. "I'm sorry—"

"Sorry means nothing to me, Silas." His father's voice hardened, cutting through the boy's trembling words. "Saying sorry and crying doesn't change the way the world works."

Silas heard the heavy steps draw closer. Rough, scarred hands tilted his chin up until he was forced to meet those sharp, silvery-blue eyes.

"Open your eyes, son, and see. The world is a messy place — a hell on earth for people like you and me. We're the outcasts. But do we let that stop us?" Leonard's voice rose, thrumming with conviction and a dangerous sort of pride. "No! To hell with the world!"

Madness gleamed behind his father's grin. "You're special, my boy. Destined for something greater — I know it. Even your mother said so. That's why I'm hard on you, Silas. One day I won't be here, and when that time comes, you'll face the world alone. You'll be shackled by rules and fear. But don't you ever forget — deep down, you were born to cause chaos."

Silas's breath hitched. "But... I-I don't care about that stuff, Father. I'll always have you! And I hate your stupid training. I hate hurting people, and I hate killing!" His voice cracked under the strain. "Is that why Mother left? Because of you—because of me?! And why do I have to help you kill people like these folks! You're the real monster here!"

The words spilled before he could stop them—rage, fear, and the ache of expectation twisting his chest.

He pulled a crumpled photo from his back pocket: one of the three mysterious people, and another of his mother alone — pale, sharp-featured, her black hair tied back with a dark ribbon, a smile too wild to be tender.

That's when he realized his mistake. His father's expression darkened, and his hand dragged slowly through his curls—a familiar, dangerous tell. 

Leonard reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, sliding one out with a practiced grace. The metal lighter flicked open with a soft click. He chuckled, low and hollow.

"Ah, I know boys your age say hurtful things. But me? A monster?" He lit the end, the flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face. "Does a monster feed you, clothe you, laugh with you? Does a monster make sure you have a bed to sleep in, that you're educated, cared for? I don't think so, Silas."

Silas held his breath, the smell of smoke curling into his lungs. He waited—waited until the silence felt unbearable—before speaking again, voice small but sharp with curiosity.

"Are those people... Grandma and Grandpa? Is the boy in the picture... you?"

For the first time, something cracked in Leonard's composure. His face twisted—confusion, pain, anger, nostalgia—all at once. It startled Silas.

"Stupid boy," his father muttered. "Can't you spot the resemblance? Though I suppose it's difficult to see without color." He paused, eyes distant, before his mouth curved into something unreadable. "Come with me. Let me show you. Call it another lesson, son."

Silas blinked, and the world fractured. The memory slipped from his grasp like smoke. He must've blacked out—he must've—because when awareness returned, the sun was already rising over the horizon, painting the ocean gold. His limbs were numb, his throat raw. And his back burned, a phantom pain that felt too much like a memory refusing to die.

Just think about Jason and Felix, Silas scolded himself, blinking away the stupid tears that had somehow slipped down his cheek. I wonder what's going on over there? Maybe they already escaped. Or maybe they followed Sinon's grand instructions and now we're all doomed...

He got his answer soon enough.

Something massive was cutting through the water in the distance, a dark shape gliding beneath the waves.

"Damn," Silas muttered, resigned. "I guess this is it. I die as monster chow. How unique."

The words came out too easily, but his throat burned anyway. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—to Jason, to Felix, to Poppy, to Luca (mainly "fuck you, Italiano"), and to the gods who never listened—but all of it stuck somewhere between his heart and lungs.

The surface of the sea broke open.

A monstrous head rose, long and narrow, water streaming down black scales that glistened under the rising sun. Two hateful, glowing eyes locked onto him from a distance. Even from here, it looked colossal—hundreds of feet long, maybe more, though it was hard to tell with the rest of its body sliding in and out of the water like a serpent from some ancient nightmare.

It opened its mouth. Rows upon rows of jagged teeth caught the moonlight, and it let out a sound halfway between a roar and a high-pitched, indignant shriek.

Silas blinked.

Did not expect the legendary Trojan Sea Monster to sound like a sissy.

It snorted, sniffing the air, before its crimson eyes settled on the only meal in sight—the idiot tied to a rock. AKA Silas Vesper.

The monster dove beneath the waves again, sending choppy waves that rocked Silas's tiny stone. When it surfaced this time, it was closer—too close. The first rays of dawn bled across the horizon, turning the ocean into molten gold. It would've been beautiful if not for the nightmare cutting through it.

That familiar dread coiled tight in Silas's gut. Every hair on his arms stood on end, a primal warning screaming at him to run, even though he couldn't. He was frozen—literally tied down—and yet his body still reacted like it had a chance.

The monster's shadow darkened the water around him as it drew near, scales glinting with sunrise light. Silas could see the ridges of its gills pulsing, smell the brine and rot wafting from its open jaws. Then, as the waves broke against his rock, he spotted something worse—strips of cloth tangled between its teeth.

Shredded shirts. Bits of leather. A child's shoe.

Evidence of the others who hadn't been so lucky.

Silas swallowed hard, forcing out a shaky laugh that tasted like salt and fear."Guess you've already had breakfast," he muttered. "But sure, go ahead—second course is on me."

The water bulged outward as the monster surged upward again, its massive form breaking the surface in a spray of gold-lit foam. Silas barely had time to flinch before its shadow swallowed the sun. The air turned cold, the roar of waves deafening.

Every instinct in him screamed move, but the ropes bit into his wrists, holding him in place. He could only stare as rows upon rows of teeth glistened above him.

The monster lunged, mouth yawning wide enough to blot out the rising sun—

—and Silas closed his eyes shut, as if finally accepting peace. 

Peace that would only last a moment.

Chapter Text

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ-ꜰɪᴠᴇ

❝𝐹𝐿𝐼𝒫 𝒪𝐹 𝒜 𝒞𝒪𝐼𝒩❞

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

IT WAS UNSETTLING to be wearing Silas' face—to feel the weight of someone else's bones and the jagged edge of a gash that wasn't his, cutting from jaw to eye. Ebony curls fell into his vision when he strained to glance down at his scarred hands behind his back, the fingers twitching with a familiarity that didn't belong to him. 

Jason didn't dare reveal the truth—not when Felix looked seconds away from murdering the "Greek" across the room. If Felix realized it wasn't actually Silas in that cage, the son of Fortuna's fury could level the place, children and all. And panic—chaos—was the last thing they needed.

Besides, Jason couldn't let himself think about Silas. Couldn't dwell on the fact that somewhere beyond these walls, his friend might be walking to his death—if Sinon hadn't been lying.

"Ah, ah," Sinon chuckled, the sound soft and venomous. "His death was necessary. My little pet is hungry, after all. And though I am the greatest liar among men, I did not lie about escape being futile."

"Shut up. Shut up."

Felix's voice cracked like lightning. His silvery-blue eyes burned with manic fury, hands trembling with barely contained power. Jason had never seen him like this—not the cheerful, lucky Felix who always laughed in the face of danger. This was something else, something raw.

"If you think that's going to make me cooperate," Felix spat, "you've got another thing coming, jackass!"

"Calm down—" Jason winced; even to his own ears, the voice that came out was wrong. Silas's voice. Low, threatening, threaded with venom. 

Felix shot him a look so sharp it could've carved through steel. "How can you say that, Si? He's—he's like family! I know you're used to it being just us two since what happened all those years ago, but is it really that hard for you to trust people? To not twist it into something for your gain?"

Jason froze. Whatever expression he wore—Silas's face, Silas's scars—it must have been wrong, because Felix's anger cracked. He huffed, muttering an apology under his breath, turning away.

Sinon watched them like a man admiring his own cruelty. His single eye gleamed as he traced a finger down the shaft of his spear, pretending to be bored. "If you don't cooperate, Felix," he said lightly, "your other friend is next in line. That is—if you care about him at all."

Felix's defiance bled out of him. The anger drained into hollow disbelief, his knees buckling as he sank to the floor. Something in him fractured. Jason could only stare, heart twisting beneath a borrowed face, as Felix whispered—half to himself, half to the statue of Fortuna—

"No... he's... all I've got left... no one else."

Something poked his arm. Jason looked over to see Eliza staring at him, eyes glowing that weird shade of violet that made her look like she already knew more than she should.

"While Pa—Sinon's busy with Felix," she whispered, leaning close, "Silas told me to tell you that you've gotta trade a secret with him to find out the rest of his plan. And um..." she paused, wrinkling her nose, "stop putting your powers in a—" her mouth twitched, "in a damn box. Brother Silas said I could curse since I'm a big girl."

Of course he did.

Jason let out a quiet huff that was half-grumble, half-smile. That sounded exactly like Silas—bossy, cryptic, and probably smirking somewhere even when everything was falling apart. Still, the idea of "trading a secret" made his stomach twist. Silas's plans always had some strange catch, and Jason wasn't sure he liked where this one was headed.

He glanced toward the ritual area, where Sinon was whispering to Felix, who looked ready to break apart. The son of Fortuna was shaking, tears streaking his face, like every word Sinon said was scraping at his soul.

Jason's chest tightened. He couldn't just sit here and do nothing while Felix was being torn down like that. If Silas's plan was their only shot, he'd make it work. He had to.

His eyes flicked over to the trio of kids huddled near the cage. That's when he spotted the Greek-Egyptian boy Silas had vaguely mentioned—the secret-obsessed five-year-old. The kid stared right back at him, one finger jammed up his nose, eyes wide and weirdly calm.

Jason grimaced. This was the person Silas trusted with part of his plan? Really?

Eliza gave him a tiny nod, like she could hear what he was thinking.

Jason sighed and tried to smile at the kid. It came out shaky, more like a grimace than anything.

Silas, you're stupidly smart, he thought, but if this blows up in our faces, I'm haunting you myself.

"Uh, hey... Lord of Secrets," Jason whispered.

The boy's brown eyes lit up like someone had just handed him a crown. Jason could practically feel the little kid's ego inflate. "I've got something you're looking for," he added quietly.

The unnamed boy perked up and tapped the shoulder of Etta, the girl beside him with that permanent sad-face expression. Without a word, the two shuffled sideways toward the bars of the cage, whispering like spies on a mission.

Across the room, Sinon was still busy twisting Felix's mind into knots, voice low and poisonous. Jason's stomach churned with the urge to help, to do something—but if Silas had a plan, this was his only chance to hear it. He couldn't be in two places at once.

I hope I'm making the right call... Gods, this is stressful.

He used a few small bursts of air to inch himself closer to the bars, trying not to draw attention. "Listen," he murmured, "I heard Silas told you some kind of plan—"

"Yeah," the boy interrupted proudly. "Cost him five secrets. You know, since this plan isn't actually a secret."

Jason's shoulders sagged. Five? Silas sure has the mysterious act down, he thought dryly

Still, he hesitated, running through ideas in his head. What's one secret I can actually tell? Something safe. Something that wouldn't blow up in his face later.

"So... how much is it gonna cost me?" he asked carefully. "I could tell you my biggest fear."

The boy tilted his head, thinking about it. Eliza scooted closer like a nosy cat, clearly way too interested in the gossip.

"You're scared of stuff?" the boy asked, confused. "But you're a big kid."

Jason almost laughed. "Of course I am. Everyone gets scared sometimes. But facing your fear doesn't make you weak—it just means you've got people counting on you to be strong. And doing it anyway, even when you're scared... that's the bravest thing you can do."

He looked the boy straight in the eye when he said it, then glanced over to Sinon and Felix again. Felix was kneeling now, hands trembling in front of a velvet pillow where the tali of Palamedes rested like something sacred and dangerous.

"Um... sort of," the Greek-Egyptian boy said finally, not looking all that impressed.

"R-right," Jason muttered, heat rising in his face. Maybe I'm not as good with kids as I thought.

He swallowed hard. "Alright then. I'll tell you my secret..."

Etta pressed a finger to her lips, and suddenly the world around Jason went silent. It was like he and the so-called Lord of Secrets were trapped inside a soundproof bubble. He could hear his own startled yelp and the boy's quiet giggle—but nothing else. Sinon's voice carried on in the distance, muffled and far away, as if through glass.

What even is my biggest secret? Jason thought, panic flickering through his chest. He'd always considered himself honest—too honest, even—but there was one truth that sat heavy in his heart. One fear that kept him awake on bad nights.

"My biggest secret is...that....I'm afraid of failing to save the people I love," he admitted quietly.

"Thanks for telling me your biggest secret, Jason," the boy said, his grin bright and childish. "I'm Sergerseni, and this is Laqueta, my best friend."

Sergerseni's excitement made Laqueta elbow him sharply, her expression flat and ghostlike as she glanced toward Sinon, who had started speaking again. The moment she did, sound returned all at once—the chanting, the murmurs, the rhythmic pulse of something dark and ancient beneath their feet. Jason's heart thudded in sync with it. Time was running out.

"Thanks," Jason whispered. "Mind if I call you Seni and Etta?"

Seni nodded eagerly, clearly delighted. Laqueta's pale green eyes blinked once, slow and measured—so Jason took that as agreement.

"Silas left you a plan, right?" he asked in a low voice, glancing toward the robed circle. "Can you tell me what it is?"

"Oh sure! He said you'd swap places with him using something called the Mist, thanks to—"

"—yours truly," Lizzie interrupted, flashing a smug grin before pretending to look innocent.

Seni let out a dramatic sigh, the kind that made it clear he hated being cut off. Jason had to gently urge him to go on.

"Okay, so," Seni muttered, crossing his arms. "Si said my magic keeps the island a secret, and..." He glared at Jason like the boy had just stepped on his pet. "You have to destroy my rose."

Jason blinked. "Uh... why can't you do it?"

"Hualian gave it to me! I can't just break it!" Seni snapped, clutching the rose like it was something sacred.

"Right, right—okay, but how am I supposed to break it then?"

"I don't know," Seni said with a helpless shrug, spinning the rose between his fingers.

Jason's gaze followed the movement, the petals catching faint light. He could feel the air shifting around it—the way it swayed, light and easy. Closing his eyes, he focused, guiding the breeze in his mind. Smash it. Smash, smash, smash.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a sharp gust, the rose shot downward and hit the marble floor with a muted thud—or it should've been a loud one, if Etta hadn't silenced the sound like someone turning down a TV volume.

Jason's eyes widened in awe. That's so cool, he thought, a grin tugging at his lips despite the tension. For a brief second, he wished he had mirror to see what Silas's smile looked like but Jason brushed that thought in the far corner of his mind. That's a little—

"What's going on here?" Sinon's voice cut through the room like ice. He stared down at the fallen, crushed rose, though now—thanks to Eliza—it looked perfect again. His dark eye swung to the Greek-Egyptian boy; the kid's grin vanished. "Pick up your rose, boy."

"Y-yes, Pater," the boy stammered, snatching it up.

Sinon's gaze shifted to Jason. A cold, mocking smile spread across his face as he opened his arms. "Let the ritual truly begin!"

Oh, you spurcissimus man, Jason thought, every part of him itching to blast Sinon. Now I don't have a plan. I hate this.

The robed adults rose into a chant that swelled and folded over itself—not Latin, but something older; Jason caught one clear word: Tyche—the greek name of Fortuna. The name hung in the air like a spell. Candles guttered and the statue of Fortuna began to glow faintly. Felix reached for the tali of Palamedes, the knucklebones resting on a velvet pillow. Jason remembered Felix joking they had an inscription that looked like a pizza cut into eight slices; now the little circles and asterisk-like marks along the bone pulsed a vivid green under Felix's fingers.

It was like they were made for him, Jason thought, remembering Felix's nervous explanation. He didn't doubt it for a second—except the look on Felix's face and Sinon's smile told a worse truth. Felix was being led to accept this, and whatever came next would be their fate.

Think, think, think. If Sinon's life was tied to that monstrous thing, then killing Sinon should kill the monster too. If that happened, the cultists would lose whatever hold they had. The thought felt huge and dangerous, but it was the only opening Jason could see.

Concentrating on the air around the tali clenched in Felix's hand, Jason forced himself to stay calm. He couldn't let them touch the inner circle. Felix shook the bones like dice, muttering words Jason didn't understand, and Jason willed the breeze around them to hang everything a fraction higher—just enough to stop the tali from landing where Sinon wanted.

Sinon's face went white with fury. "What are you doing? Are you doing something?!" He slammed the spear down toward Felix's throat; Felix's eyes widened at the threat and the confusion.

"N-no! I swear on my sister's life, I didn't—"

Suddenly a tali shot past Felix's face and smacked into the Greek across the chamber. He howled and lunged, trying to snatch the ancient bone out of the air. Felix stumbled back away from the circle, then his silver-blue eyes found Jason.

"Did you do this, Si?" he mouthed—part amazed, part bewildered.

Jason—well, Silas—nodded automatically, though his mind was a frantic scramble. He had no clear escape plan. All he had was a coin in his pocket and the metal chains binding his wrists behind his back. He could try conjuring a lightning bolt to snap the shackles, but that risked frying Eliza too. Besides, I suck at summoning lightning.

Wait—could Eliza make a key with the Mist? Why didn't I think of that sooner,Jason cursed himself for taking so long. As Felix began distracting Sinon by waving around the other knucklebone in the air like a madman, Jason leaned his head to the side, whispering, "Liz—Eliza, can you make a key? For my shackles and the cage lock?"

Despite being somewhat energetic, Eliza looked exhausted, dark circles under her violet eyes, but she met his gaze. Jason promised himself this would be the last time he asked her for a favor with the Mist. She gave him a tiny, tired nod.

At that moment Sinon grabbed the rogue tali out of the air and snapped them back to Felix with a growl. "Roll again," he ordered, pressing the ritual to start up again. Felix's fingers trembled over the bones.

Eliza's voice came up, barely audible. "If I do this for you, your illusion is going to flicker, Jace..."

Jason swallowed. His face—Silas's face—felt too tight, too visible. "That's okay," he whispered back. "I'll handle whatever happens. Maybe it's for the best anyways."

Turning his back toward Eliza, Jason angled himself away from the ritual circle. The fake key Lizzie had conjured shimmered faintly in her small hand before slipping into the lock. With a soft click, the shackles sprang open—and Jason caught them midair with a burst of wind, keeping the metal from clattering against the bars.

The moment the bindings loosened, he felt it—the Mist unraveling around him. His body stretched slightly taller, dark curls bleaching into his familiar short blond hair. The gash along his jaw vanished, replaced by the faint, old scar at his lip. The heavy presence of Silas's borrowed face melted away, and Jason exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath for hours.

Then a sharp clack! split through the air. Jason spun toward the ritual just in time to see the tali land, glowing violently. His stomach dropped.

"Futuere," he hissed under his breath. "Liz, key—now!"

She shoved it into his palm just as a tremor rattled through the marble floor. Sinon's laughter filled the chamber, rich and triumphant—until his single eye snapped toward Jason. The shock and dawning horror on the man's face almost made Jason smirk. Finally, he understood.

He hadn't captured Jason Grace at all.

Sinon's gaze flicked to the tali still burning a vibrant green on the floor.

"Felix!" Jason shouted, fumbling with the lock until it gave way. "Get the tali and take the kids—run!"

"What about you?" Felix shouted, swiping the tali off the floor and shoving it into his pocket. He grabbed Seni and Etta by the hands, with Hualian trailing after them. Jason lifted Eliza into his arms and carried her out of the cage, ignoring the sharp ache in his legs and back. He set her down beside Felix, steadying her with one hand.

"Devotees—get them!" Sinon bellowed, his waxy face twisting in fury.

"I'm buying you time!" Jason called back, thrusting his hand forward. A violent gust of wind erupted, sending robed cultists flying like rag dolls. "Just go! Get everyone out!"

Sinon snarled, clutching his spear as his followers hit the marble walls. "Incompetent fools! Every one of you!"

If I can just draw him away—