Chapter Text

Part 1: The Gathering of Kings

The gods have spoken, the die is cast,
men march to futures already past.
An apple of discord, a vow in flame,
and kings remember the oath they claim.

The bride is stolen, the seas are stirred,
every harbor hums with a soldier’s word.
Oars bite the water, the prows take aim,
each heart is burning with glory and shame.

Yet silence lingers, as storms are spun,
for not all battles are lost with a sword—
some wars are woven before they’ve begun,
and fate keeps tally of every accord.

The great hall of Sparta felt too large for her. Pillars rose like trees, shadows clung in the rafters, and the air was thick with smoke from the braziers. At Menelaus’s side, Helen shifted in her seat, her feet barely brushing the floor. A thin circlet of gold pressed into her hair, heavy and unfamiliar. She told herself not to fidget with it.

She was fifteen. A bride. A queen. And terrified.

The courtiers whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear. She’s only a child… she’s beautiful, yes, but what does she know of ruling?

Helen lifted her chin, though her stomach twisted. She wouldn’t let them see her tremble.

“Speak,” Menelaus said, his voice deep and steady.

A farmer shuffled forward, sandals worn, cloak patched at the shoulders. He bowed low. “My lord, my queen,” he said, darting a glance at Helen as if uncertain whether to include her at all. “The harvest in Amyclae has failed. The storage pits are nearly empty. If tribute is taken, we shall starve.”

Menelaus frowned. “Amyclae has always paid what is due. Perhaps your neighbors are idle.”

The farmer’s voice broke. “No, lord. The rains failed us.”

Helen’s fingers tightened against the carved wood of her chair. She looked at the man’s face—lined with sun and worry—and for a heartbeat, she forgot the hall, the whispers, even the crown. She remembered Percy’s laughter years ago on the beach, how he’d told her not to be afraid of looking foolish when she cried. Do what feels right, he’d said once, when she’d been too scared to climb a rock into the sea.

She swallowed, and spoke.

“If Amyclae goes hungry, Sparta will, too,” she said, her voice softer than Menelaus’s but carrying all the same. The hall stilled at her words. “Hungry men steal. Desperate men rebel. We cannot afford that at our borders.”

Menelaus’s head turned sharply toward her. The elders murmured. Helen forced her hands not to shake.

“And what would you have us do, wife?” Menelaus asked, his tone testing.

Helen met the farmer’s eyes. “Open the storehouses. Lend them grain now. When the rains return, they will repay Sparta twice over. Mercy today will bring loyalty tomorrow.”

The farmer dropped to his knees, forehead pressed to the stone. “Bless you, my queen.”

The murmurs grew louder. Some scoffed. Some nodded. Menelaus studied her for a long moment, then finally leaned back. “So it shall be,” he declared. “The queen’s word stands.”

The hall moved on. Another petitioner stepped forward.

Helen sat straighter, her heartbeat thundering, the crown still heavy but a little less unbearable now. She had spoken, and Sparta had listened.

For the first time, she wondered if she could truly grow into this role—not just as the most beautiful woman, not just as Menelaus’s wife, but as something more.

And somewhere in her heart, she thought of Percy—her friend who had promised to save her if her husband proved cruel. She smiled faintly. She would not need saving. Not today.

She was Helen of Sparta, fifteen years old, and she had just taken her first step as queen.

The training sands of Atlantis were no longer unfamiliar.

Nearly three years had passed since he’d first been thrown onto them, sword in hand and Triton’s barked insults in his ears. Now Percy moved with ease among the rows of soldiers, salt spray clinging to his hair, bronze shield strapped tight against his arm. His strikes still weren’t elegant—Triton loved to remind him of that—but they were steady, instinctive, and hard to predict.

Today, they were sparring again, brother against brother. The soldiers ringed them in a wide circle, eager to watch. It had become a favorite entertainment: the crown prince’s flawless precision against the younger one’s scrappy cleverness.

“Keep your guard up, little brother,” Triton warned, eyes flashing as his trident thrust forward.

Percy caught the strike with his shield, let the weight of it carry him back two steps, then twisted, dragging the sand beneath his feet with a tug of water-magic. Triton stumbled—not much, just enough for Percy to dart in and tap the flat of his blade against Triton’s side.

The circle of soldiers erupted into cheers. Percy grinned. “Got you again.”

Triton rolled his eyes but his lips twitched. “One day you’ll learn to win without cheating.”

“Not my fault the ocean likes me better,” Percy shot back, tossing his wet hair out of his eyes.

They reset, circling. Percy’s heart pounded, not with nerves anymore, but with the exhilaration of belonging. This was his life now: mornings in the training yard, afternoons in council meetings, evenings swimming the open sea until his muscles burned. He was still only sixteen, but he felt years older than the boy who had once tripped over himself in Sparta’s feast halls.

And yet, when his thoughts strayed to Sparta—as they often did—he saw Helen’s face. The way she’d smiled at him, whispering that he was her shield, her safe place. He wondered if she was smiling still, seated beside Menelaus with a crown too heavy for her fifteen-year-old head.

He hadn’t seen her in months. Duties weighed on both of them now.

A strike from Triton jolted him back to the present—shield jarred, sword slipping. Percy stumbled, caught himself, and laughed breathlessly. “Fine. You win this round.”

Triton offered him a hand up. His grip was firm, brotherly. “Not bad, Perseus. For a land-boy.”

Percy smirked, brushing sand from his arm. He didn’t correct him. Not anymore. He wasn’t just a land-boy, wasn’t just an awkward half-blood between two worlds. He was Prince of Atlantis—second in line to the throne.

And though the title still felt strange in his mouth, Percy was beginning to grow into it.

The ships of Atlantis cut across the sea like sleek dolphins, sails snapping, bronze hulls gleaming in the sun. Percy stood at the prow of the lead vessel, wind in his hair, salt spray cool against his skin. His chest thrummed with something between exhilaration and homesickness.

This was his first command outside Atlantis—a small fleet, meant to patrol the coasts and remind the surface kingdoms that the sea had a prince now. Triton had wanted to lead, of course, but Poseidon had waved him off with a grin. Let your brother taste the waves. He’ll surprise you.

And maybe he was surprising himself, too.

They came ashore at Dymaina, a fishing town tucked between cliffs. The villagers had seen their sails long before the ships docked, and by the time Percy’s boots touched the sand, a crowd was waiting.

They gasped when they saw him. Sea-green eyes. Dark hair dripping saltwater. The aura of power he couldn’t quite keep contained.

“A god!” a woman whispered, clutching her child closer.

Percy nearly choked. “Uh—no, no, not a god.” He raised his hands in surrender, grinning awkwardly. “Definitely not. Just… prince. Prince Percy—Percyon. Of... of the sea”

The villagers didn’t look convinced. They pressed offerings into his hands—fish, bread, flowers—and knelt anyway. Percy flushed red to the ears, shooting an exasperated look at the Atlantean soldiers who were trying very hard not to laugh.

He ended up sitting cross-legged in the sand, eating grilled fish with the fishermen as children clambered around him, daring each other to touch his bronze vambraces. He told stories of the sea—half true, half exaggerated—about dolphins that played games and sharks that sulked like grumpy uncles. The villagers roared with laughter.

By the time the sun dipped low, the fear had faded. They no longer treated him like a god, but like something gentler, stranger—someone who belonged to both worlds.

That night, Percy swam out alone, leaving the ships anchored safely in the bay. He floated on his back, staring up at the stars. The sea rocked him like a cradle, steady, eternal.

A year ago, he had been a boy in Sparta, pretending to be a suitor just to make Helen smile. Now he was a prince, leading ships, bearing the weight of a title that felt both thrilling and suffocating.

He wondered if Helen had learned to feel the same way about her crown.

“Bet you’re doing better at this than me,” he muttered, watching the constellations blur in the waves.

The sea whispered around him, tugging gently at his hair, as if in answer.

The palace of Sparta was never quiet. Even at night, servants whispered in the halls, guards paced the courtyards, and the faint clang of practice weapons echoed from the training grounds. But the gardens—that was where Helen could breathe.

She slipped barefoot across the dewy grass, the scent of myrtle and cypress heavy in the air. And there, waiting by the fountain, was Percy.

“About time,” he whispered with a grin. His hair was damp, salt clinging to it, and his tunic looked like he’d thrown it on in a hurry. As if he’d just walked out of the sea and straight into her father’s palace.

Helen’s heart lifted. “You’re reckless,” she scolded, though her smile gave her away. “If anyone sees you—”

“They won’t,” Percy said easily. “I made sure. Besides, I’ve done worse. Remember sneaking through the kitchens that one time?”

Helen laughed, the sound bubbling out before she could stop it. “We were nearly caught!”

“Nearly,” Percy said, smirking. “But not quite. I’m getting good at this sneaking business.”

They sat by the fountain, water trickling softly between them. For a while, they talked as they always had—about nothing and everything. Percy told her about the villagers who’d mistaken him for a god; Helen told him about a noble who’d tried to lecture her on household accounts, only for her to point out three mistakes in his sums.

“Wish I could’ve seen his face,” Percy chuckled, tossing a pebble into the fountain.

Helen leaned her chin on her hand, smiling. “He went red as a beet. Menelaus laughed, though. I think he was proud of me.”

The words surprised her, even as she said them. She hadn’t thought she’d ever feel pride from her husband, or from herself, in this role. But she did.

Percy studied her quietly. “You’re different,” he said at last.

Helen tilted her head. “Different how?”

“Stronger,” Percy said simply. “Like the crown’s heavy, but you’re carrying it anyway. I don’t know how you do it.”

She looked down at her hands, twisting the gold ring on her finger. “You’re doing the same thing. Atlantis suits you.”

Percy made a face. “Suits me? Or drowns me in boring council meetings?”

Helen laughed again, soft this time. They both knew the truth—that duty was heavy, but necessary. That neither of them could run from it anymore.

When the first streak of dawn painted the sky pale gray, Helen sighed and rose. “I have to go back. They’ll be looking for me.”

Percy stood too, brushing grass from his tunic. “Yeah. Me too.”

They didn’t hug—they never did, not anymore. It would have felt too much, too final. Instead, Helen touched his arm lightly, a promise in the gesture. “Don’t stay away too long.”

Percy smiled, sea-bright and fleeting. “Never.”

And then he was gone, slipping into the shadows like the tide itself, leaving Helen standing in the garden, the echo of their laughter clinging to the air.

The training sands were cool under Percy’s sandals, the air sharp with the smell of salt and bronze. Rows of Atlantean soldiers stood waiting, their shields gleaming, spears upright. This was no sparring match for amusement—this was a drill. And for the first time, Percy was leading it.

He adjusted the grip on his sword, trying not to think about how many pairs of eyes were on him. Triton lounged at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Form up!” Percy called. His voice cracked a little at the start, but he steadied it, sharper the second time. The lines shifted, bronze flashing as the soldiers obeyed.

It was strange, commanding men twice his age, veterans who had fought sea-raiders and monsters before Percy had even learned to hold a sword. And yet—they listened.

The drill began. Shields locked, spears thrust, feet stamped in rhythm against the sand. Percy wove through the ranks, correcting stances, barking orders, sometimes nudging a soldier into better form with the flat of his blade.

“Again!” he shouted when the line faltered. “No gaps! You want to let a sea demon through that?”

A few soldiers grinned at his tone, but they tightened the formation. By the third repetition, the line moved like a single wave.

Percy stepped back, chest heaving with pride he tried not to show. He felt it, though: the shift. He wasn’t just fighting alongside them. He was leading.

When the drill ended, Triton strode forward. Percy braced himself for mockery. Instead, Triton stopped beside him, gaze sweeping over the soldiers.

“They followed you,” he said at last. His voice was low, grudging. “Not because you’re Father’s favorite. Not because of your name. Because you made them want to.”

Percy blinked. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Triton’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, though he’d never admit it. “Don’t let it go to your head, little brother. One good drill doesn’t make a commander.”

But the soldiers were watching, some with respect, some with pride. Percy lifted his chin, heart swelling. He was sixteen, yes—but for the first time, he felt like more than Poseidon’s son. He felt like a prince who could earn his people’s loyalty.

That night, as he floated just outside the glowing domes of Atlantis, Percy thought of Helen again. Of the way she had squared her shoulders in the feast hall, speaking when no one expected her to.

The winter air bit at Helen’s skin as she walked through the storage halls, her breath curling white in the cold. Rows of clay jars lined the walls, sealed with wax and rope. But many were already cracked open, their bellies half-empty.

“Not enough,” Menelaus muttered beside her, his brow furrowed. “If we ration harshly, we’ll last. If we don’t—” He gestured to the jars. “The pits will be empty before spring.”

Helen pressed her hands together, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on her. The hall was crowded: stewards with their tallies, soldiers with their arms crossed, farmers who had come begging. They were waiting—not just on Menelaus, but on her.

Her pulse hammered. She was only fifteen, nearly sixteen. What did she know of rationing grain? Of keeping a city from hunger?

But she remembered the farmer from Amyclae, the fear in his voice, and how her own words—just words—had steadied him. She took a breath.

“We cut equal shares,” she said at last, her voice steady. “No man, no soldier, no noble eats more than the poorest in the village. Sparta survives together, or not at all.”

A murmur swept the room. One of the stewards frowned. “My queen, the warriors will not stand for this. They guard our borders. They will demand more.”

Helen lifted her chin. “Then let them come to me, and I will tell them myself: a starving city cannot pay warriors. Feed the people, and the warriors are fed in turn.”

The silence was heavy. Menelaus studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a single sharp nod. “So be it.”

The decision spread like fire. Within days, the nobles were grumbling, the soldiers restless—but the people? They bent their heads in gratitude when Helen passed, whispering blessings under their breath. She walked through the streets more often now, wrapped in a plain cloak, listening. Their hunger was sharp, but their faith in her sharper.

One night, standing on the balcony above the torchlit city, Helen let out a long breath. Menelaus joined her, his arm brushing hers.

“You surprise them,” he said quietly.

“Do I?” Helen asked.

“You surprise me,” he admitted. “Not just beautiful. Not just mine. Sparta’s.”

Helen’s throat tightened. She thought of Percy then—the boy who had promised to save her if her husband was cruel. The boy who had made her laugh so easily. She wondered if he would believe what she was becoming.

She didn’t need saving. She was saving herself.

And yet… she missed him.

The council chamber of Atlantis shimmered with filtered light, pale coral walls glowing faintly. Carvings of ships and treaties lined the hall — reminders that Poseidon’s city had never been conquered, not by storm, not by steel.

Percy sat at the long table, trying not to fidget. His tunic was heavy with embroidered symbols of Atlantis, marking him as the sea’s prince, but it felt strange on his shoulders. He would rather have been in armor or in the open waves. Today, though, was not about battles.

It was about promises.

Across from him sat the envoys of Naxos, a small but proud island kingdom. Their lord, broad-shouldered and silver-bearded, tapped his dagger on the table. His voice was sharp as he said, “Why has Atlantis called us here? What more do you ask of us? Tribute? Men? We have little enough as it is.”

Percy took a steady breath. “Nothing,” he said firmly. “Atlantis asks for nothing. We are not here to take from you. We are here to give.”

That made the man pause. His eyes narrowed. “To give?”

Percy leaned forward, remembering Amphitrite’s patient lessons. “You are small kingdoms, each standing alone. Pirates know this. Raiders prey on you because you cannot face them together. But you are not alone. When your signal fires burn, Atlantis will answer. My fleet will patrol your coasts. Your harvests, your trade, your people — safe, because I give you my word they will be.”

Silence settled. The lord’s hand stilled on his dagger. He looked at Percy as though seeing him for the first time — not just a boy in fine silk, not just an envoy of a god’s city, but someone who meant what he said.

At last, the man nodded, slow and heavy. “You would do this? For nothing?”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “For nothing but peace. A kingdom is only strong when its neighbors stand. I don’t want your tribute. I want your trust.”

The room breathed again. The lord sat back, the storm in his face softened. “Then you will have it, Prince of the Sea. If the fires burn, we will know you are coming.”

When the hall emptied, Percy slumped back against the chair, the tension sliding from his shoulders. His first envoy. His first real step into becoming the protector he wanted to be.

Triton clapped him on the back so hard he nearly choked. “Not bad, little brother. You almost sounded like you know what you’re doing.”

Percy laughed, shaking him off. “Careful. That almost sounded like you were proud of me.”

“Almost,” Triton said, but his smile gave him away

The summer air was heavy with heat and dust as Helen walked the marketplace of Sparta, her attendants trailing behind like shadows. Bronze merchants shouted prices, the smell of olives and smoked fish hung thick, and children darted between stalls.

When she first married, she had rarely walked the streets—half from shyness, half from the weight of eyes on her. But three years as queen had taught her that being seen mattered. If she wanted the people’s trust, she had to walk among them.

And they greeted her with warmth now.

“Blessings, my queen,” an old woman murmured, pressing a fig into her hand.

“Your wisdom saved us last winter,” a farmer said, bowing low. “Our village owes you.”

Helen smiled, though her heart still clenched at the word wisdom. She wanted it to be true—that they saw her mind as much as her face.

But there were always others.

“Look at her,” a soldier whispered as she passed. “The gods themselves must envy Menelaus. Beauty like that could launch ships.”

Helen’s smile stiffened. She kept walking, chin high, though the words stung. Beauty. Always beauty. No matter how many councils she attended, no matter how many times she calmed disputes or soothed famine, she was still first the girl whose face turned heads.

She paused at a pottery stall, examining a jug painted with waves. “It’s beautiful,” she told the craftsman. “But see here—the lip is too thin. It will chip in the first season.”

The man blinked. She traced the curve with her finger, showing him how to thicken the clay. “Try again,” she said gently. “Your work deserves to last.”

The potter bowed, flustered but grateful. “Thank you, my queen.”

As she moved on, one of her attendants murmured, “You notice everything.”

Helen smiled faintly. “If I must be seen, let it be for more than my face.”

That night, in the quiet of her chamber, Helen wrote a letter she would never send. To Percy. She told him about the soldier’s words, about how it hurt to be praised for something she never asked for. And she told him about the potter, how she felt proud of catching the flaw.

When she finished, she stared at the parchment, then tucked it away in a chest. He would never read it. But it helped, somehow, to write it.

She leaned back against the window, watching Sparta glitter with torchlight.

The sea was restless that morning, waves chopping harder than the wind alone could account for. Percy stood at the prow of his flagship, gaze sharp, every muscle tense. Around him, Atlantean soldiers muttered prayers and checked the edges of their spears.

They weren’t wrong to be nervous.

Pirates had been sighted for weeks, harassing trade ships, dragging fishermen under. Poseidon had ordered Percy to lead a patrol, not just as training, but as proof: Atlantis would not leave its allies vulnerable.

Triton wasn’t here this time. This was Percy’s command alone.

The lookout’s cry broke across the wind. “Sails! To the east!”

Percy’s stomach flipped. Black sails, jagged like torn wings, were cutting across the horizon. Pirate ships. Three of them.

His captains looked to him. Percy took a breath, heart hammering, then lifted his sword. “Hold course. Don’t charge.”

The soldiers frowned but obeyed. The pirate ships closed in, faster, hungrier. Percy gritted his teeth. He could feel the sea around him like a second skin, restless, waiting.

“Now,” he muttered, low enough only the waves could hear. “Now help me.”

When the pirates drew near, Percy raised his arm. “Turn broadside!” he shouted. “Archers ready—loose!”

Arrows darkened the sky. Pirates screamed, ducking behind shields. But Percy wasn’t finished. He spread his fingers, and the sea surged—not a wave, not enough to capsize, but a rolling swell that pitched the enemy ships at the perfect angle.

The second volley struck truer, piercing hulls, snapping rigging.

“Ram the lead ship!” Percy ordered. His fleet obeyed, the crunch of wood against wood echoing across the water. Soldiers leapt across, bronze clashing against rusted iron.

Percy fought too, blade flashing. His movements were instinctive, water pulling at his enemies’ feet, slowing them, dragging blades just an inch off target. By the time the sun dipped low, two pirate ships burned, the third limped away, and the waters ran red.

Percy stood on deck, panting, blood on his cheek—not his own. The men cheered him, calling his name, but Percy’s stomach churned. He stared at the bodies floating in the waves, eyes glassy, and swallowed hard.

Triton would have laughed. Poseidon would have roared with pride. But Percy only felt tired.

That night, sitting on the edge of the ship with his feet in the water, he whispered, “It worked. I led them. I won.”

The sea lapped against his ankles like a mother’s hand. But Percy couldn’t shake the thought: winning felt hollow.

He thought of Helen, of her people bowing with figs and olives instead of blood. She was learning to lead through mercy. He, through violence.

It didn’t seem fair.

The council chamber reeked of oil lamps and men’s tempers.

Two nobles stood before the throne dais, voices raised, faces red. One demanded rights over a pasture; the other claimed the land had belonged to his family for generations. Their shouts bounced off the stone walls, so loud that even Menelaus shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Helen sat beside him, back straight, her golden circlet pressing heavy against her brow. Once, she would have shrunk under such noise, let the men’s anger drown her. But not now.

“Enough.”

Her voice rang through the chamber, clear as bronze striking bronze. The men fell silent, startled, as if they had forgotten she was there at all.

Helen rose slowly, descending the steps between them. Her gown brushed the floor, soft against the rough stone, but her gaze was sharp.

“You speak of land as if it is only yours,” she said, looking first at one, then the other. “But land does not feed itself. Pastures do not thrive without herds. Fields do not ripen without hands to sow them. Sparta is not yours alone. It belongs to every man, woman, and child who bleeds for it.”

The nobles exchanged glances. One began to protest, but Helen cut him off with a lift of her hand.

“You will share the pasture,” she continued, voice cool. “The herds will be split. And in spring, the grain taxes will be lowered so the land can recover.” She stepped closer, lowering her tone so the whole court leaned in to hear. “If you cannot agree, then I will find men who can.”

Silence. Then, slowly, both nobles bowed their heads.

Menelaus chuckled from the dais, his voice warm. “You see why I married her?”

Laughter rippled through the court, but it was edged with respect. When Helen returned to her seat, she saw it in their eyes: not just admiration of her beauty, but acknowledgment of her power.

Later, when the chamber emptied and the torches burned low, Menelaus leaned back in his chair, studying her with open pride. “You ruled them better than I could. You should know that.”

Helen’s heart swelled, though she kept her expression composed. She thought of Percy then—how he had once promised to steal her away if Menelaus was cruel. But there was no cruelty here, not now. Menelaus valued her, even if he would never say so in grand speeches.

Still… sometimes she missed Percy’s laughter, the way he never bowed or measured his words with her. With him, she had not been queen, only Helen.

But tonight, she had been both. And Sparta was stronger for it.

The sea bent to his will.

Percy stood barefoot at the prow, his sword raised, and the waves surged like warhorses beneath him. Three pirate ships bore down fast, their oars cutting furrows through the water—but Percy was faster. He thrust his hand forward, and the tide heaved, slamming broadside into the lead vessel. Wood splintered with a deafening crack, the ship groaning as it tilted.

“Now!” Percy roared.

Atlantean soldiers surged forward, their cheers echoing. Bronze rams struck hulls, arrows hissed through the air, and spears clashed with rusted steel. The pirates fought hard, but the sea fought harder—and the sea was Percy’s.

He moved through the chaos with frightening ease. Where a spear should have pierced his side, water hardened into a shield. Where an enemy raised his sword, a wave knocked him off balance. Percy struck, precise, efficient, never lingering on a kill longer than necessary.

He could hear his men shouting behind him—not just his name, but his commands, repeated with iron loyalty. They weren’t following Poseidon’s son. They were following him.

The last pirate ship caught fire, smoke curling into the sky. The battle was over.

Percy stood panting, sword dripping, water streaming from his arms. Around him, his soldiers bowed their heads—not in worship, but in respect. “Percyon,” one of them said quietly, “you lead like the tide. Steady. Unstoppable.”

Others murmured agreement. They knew who his father was. That wasn’t why they followed.

Percy wiped his blade clean, staring out over the smoking wrecks. The cheers rang hollow in his ears.

He had won. Again.

And yet—he was tired. Bone-deep tired.

That night, he sat alone at the edge of the ship, letting his feet dangle in the black water. The sea lapped at him gently, as if trying to comfort him. But he couldn’t shake the emptiness that had settled in his chest.

“Is this all I am now?” he whispered. “Fighting. Bleeding. Winning.”

The waves didn’t answer. Or maybe they did, in the soft rhythm of the tide: endless, eternal, carrying him forward whether he wanted to move or not.

For the first time, Percy wondered if he’d ever be allowed to just live without a sword in his hand.

The throne room of Atlantis was quiet. For once, no messengers clamored for attention, no soldiers demanded orders. The great hall was lit only by drifting lantern-fish, their glow painting the marble in pale blue.

Percy stood before his father’s throne, arms crossed tight, his sword belted at his hip though he hadn’t touched it in days. He felt…heavy. Not with wounds—those had already healed—but with something that clung deeper.

Poseidon studied him, chin resting on one hand. His sea-green eyes were sharp, but not unkind. “You’ve been restless since your last patrol.”

Percy swallowed, then met his father’s gaze. “Restless isn’t the word. Tired. I’m… tired of fighting, Dad.”

The words echoed strangely in the vast chamber. Percy hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to say them.

Poseidon leaned back, silent for a long while. Then, softly: “You know you don’t have to.”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“You’re my son,” Poseidon said, voice deep as the undertow. “Not my soldier. If you want to lay down your sword, I will not fault you. Atlantis does not demand your blood.”

For a moment, relief threatened to break Percy’s chest open. He wanted to believe it. To imagine walking away from bronze and blood, spending his days exploring coves, laughing with Helen on the shore, maybe even daring to be just Percy again.

But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came. His fists clenched at his sides.

“I can’t,” Percy whispered. “The island kingdoms—they’re ours to protect. Yours, and now mine too. If I stop, pirates raid their shores. People starve. Children drown.” His throat tightened. “How can I look away when I could stop it?”

Poseidon’s eyes softened, a storm calmed by compassion. He rose from the throne, his steps deliberate, and set a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. The weight of it was like the whole sea pressing down—and yet, grounding.

“You sound more like a king than a prince,” Poseidon murmured.

Percy gave a bitter laugh. “A tired king, maybe.”

Poseidon squeezed his shoulder. “The sea never rests, Percy. It is endless. But you are not. Remember this: if the tide pulls you under, it is no shame to rise again only when you are ready. Even gods forget this truth.”

Percy lowered his head, breathing in the briny scent that clung to his father like a second skin. Part of him wanted to take the permission and step away. To finally rest.

But when he looked up again, his jaw was set. “Not yet.”

Poseidon studied him, pride and sorrow warring in his eyes. “Then the sea will walk with you until you’re ready.”

And for the first time in days, Percy felt the faintest whisper of calm in his chest—like the tide lapping gently at the shore, patient, waiting.

The evening sun slanted gold across the courtyard, catching in Menelaus’s hair as he leaned over the table, laughing at something one of the generals had said. Helen smiled without realizing it.

Four years ago, she had stood trembling in this same hall, frightened to be handed to a husband she hadn’t chosen. But time had softened the edges of that fear. Menelaus was not cruel. He was steady, thoughtful in his own way. He listened when she spoke in council, and more than once he had told her, with quiet sincerity, “Sparta is stronger because of you.”

It was not the wild, breathless love of bards’ songs. It was slower, gentler, like a hearth fire — warm, constant, growing brighter the longer it burned. Helen found she liked that.

Yet, even in contentment, her thoughts sometimes drifted.

Later, as she walked the marketplace with her attendants, merchants called their greetings. One, a trader from the Cyclades, pressed figs into her hands and bowed low. “For the queen who rules as wisely as she is fair.”

Helen thanked him, but the merchant lingered. “Have you heard the tales, my queen? Of the Sea Prince?”

Her brows rose. “The Sea Prince?”

“A demigod,” the man whispered, eyes shining. “Percyon, rumors call him Prince of the Sea. He sails with only a few ships but is striking pirates where they hide. They say he calls the tides like other men call dogs, that no island under his watch has fallen to raiders in years.”

Her heart skipped. For a moment she was back on the beach, salt on her lips, a boy grinning at her through wet hair.

“Is that so?” she asked lightly.

The merchant nodded eagerly. “Aegae, a small island kingdom west, prospers because of him. And not just Aegae—many islands. He fights for what’s right. For the small folk. He is a prince who remembers he is also a man.”

Helen smiled politely and moved on, but the words lingered.

That night, lying beside Menelaus as he slept, Helen stared up at the carved beams above their bed. She felt the warmth of her husband’s arm heavy across her waist, and she was grateful for him, for the life they were building together.

But in the dark, she whispered to herself:

So that’s what you’ve become, Percy. A protector. A real prince. I am proud of you.

The hall of Delos was alive with the scent of salt and wine, torches spitting against the damp. Kings and queens from half a dozen islands gathered around the long table, their cloaks still dripping from the storm that had driven them to shore.

Queen Arisba raised her cup. “Once again, the pirates came in the night. And once again, he came after them. Percyon of Atlantis. The boy cannot be older than twenty, yet he drives men twice his age before him like waves scattering gulls.”

The envoy of Paros gave a sharp laugh. “A boy, yes, but one who commands the sea itself. I saw it—he raised his hand, and the tide turned their ship broadside. Not one arrow struck us. Our people lived because of him.”

Murmurs of agreement circled the table.

King Dmetor of Naxos leaned forward, heavy rings clinking against his cup. “I care less for how he fights than for what he does after. He gives the wounded water with his own hands. He carries children from burning boats. He asks no tribute, demands no coin. Tell me another prince who fights for those who cannot repay him.”

The words silenced the room.

The envoy from Aegae stood, young but proud, his voice steady. “We are small, the first to be swallowed if raiders came. But he came instead. Every time. When the fires burn on our cliffs, the Sea Prince answers. He has never failed us.”

The firelight flickered over maps carved into the stone walls, each island glowing in the minds of those gathered. A web of scattered lands, fragile on their own—but bound together now by one figure.

At last Queen Arisba spoke again, softly. “The people call him Protector of the Isles. Some whisper he is favored by Poseidon, others that he is Poseidon’s hand upon the sea. Whatever he is, he has given us hope.”

A ripple of assent ran around the table. Cups were raised, not to Atlantis, not even to Poseidon—but to the boy who bore the storms for them.

“Percyon,” they said together, voices strong over the crackle of the fire. “Protector of the Isles.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the chamber.

Outside, the storm raged. But in that hall, with the fire casting maps of the islands in gold upon the wall, there was a sense of something greater than weather or war: a bond. A network of small kingdoms, knit together by trust in a single youth who had made himself their shield.

The harbor of Naxos was quiet at dusk, the air thick with salt and the cries of gulls. Percy stood on the pier, armor unbuckled, watching his men mend the sails after another skirmish. His body ached, though no wound showed. Victory felt heavier every time.

He didn’t notice the two fishermen until they passed close by, their baskets heavy with the day’s catch. One was old, his back bent, the other little more than a boy.

“…Protector of the Isles,” the elder was saying. “That’s what they call him now. Did you hear? Even in Delos, even in Paros. A prince, yes, but more than that. A good man.”

The boy nodded eagerly. “My uncle swears he saw him raise the sea itself. Said the pirates fled before they even touched the shore. He saved Aegae last spring. If he hadn’t—”

Their voices faded into the gulls’ cries as they walked on.

Percy stood rooted, the words crashing through him harder than any wave. Protector of the Isles. He hadn’t chosen that name. He hadn’t asked for it. But it was spreading, carried like driftwood from one island to the next.

Triton came to stand beside him, following his gaze. “They love you, little brother,” he said. “Even more than they fear the sea.”

Percy let out a breath, shaky with something he couldn’t name. “They shouldn’t. I’m just one person.”

Triton’s mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. “One person who answers when the fires burn. That’s more than most kings can claim.”

Percy turned back to the water, where the horizon was already blurring into night. Protector of the Isles. A name born not of his father’s power, but of his choices.

It should have felt like triumph. Instead, it felt like a tide rising higher and higher, pressing on his chest, one he wasn’t sure he could keep swimming against forever.

The Spartan coast was quiet at dawn, mist curling low over the waves. Percy stood barefoot on the sand, the spray cool against his face. He hadn’t set foot here in almost a year. His duties had chained him to the sea, and though the sea was vast, it felt smaller without this place — without her.

A soft laugh came from behind him. “Protector of the Isles.”

He turned. Helen stood a little ways up the beach, her cloak drawn close against the chill, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “That’s what they call you now. The fishermen at the market whisper it like a prayer. The traders speak it like a promise.”

Percy flushed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“No,” Helen said, walking closer until she stood beside him, her sandals sinking into the wet sand. “That’s why it suits you.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The surf hissed around their ankles, rising and falling.

“I’ve missed this,” Helen admitted finally, voice soft. “Three years, Percy. We used to see each other every week. Now…” She trailed off, looking out over the endless blue.

“I know.” Percy’s throat felt tight. “Atlantis. The islands. There’s always another fight, another plea for help. By the time I look up, another year’s gone.”

“And Sparta doesn’t rest either.” Helen’s smile was wistful. “Menelaus needs me, the people need me. Some days I barely remember what it felt like to just… play on the beach with you.”

Percy glanced at her, catching the shimmer of memory in her eyes, and for a moment he was fifteen again, laughing as they ran barefoot through the surf.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly.

“And I of you,” she replied, just as soft.

A gull cried overhead, and the moment stretched — two friends grown into their crowns, still bound by the thread of what they once shared, even as the years pulled them apart.

Helen nudged him with her shoulder, breaking the silence. “Still, I’ll say it once, just to your face.” Her lips curved in a teasing smile. “Protector of the Isles.”

Percy groaned, shoving at her arm. “Don’t you start.”

Her laughter rang over the water, bright and warm, and for a heartbeat, it felt like nothing had changed at all.

Chapter Text

The slopes of Mount Ida rolled out like green velvet, dotted with wildflowers that nodded lazily in the warm breeze. Sheep bleated softly as they grazed, their bells chiming in a slow rhythm that matched the steady pace of Paris’s steps.

He carried no scepter, no sword — only a crooked shepherd’s staff, polished smooth from years of use. His tunic was plain wool, his sandals worn, and the sun warmed his skin as he watched over the flock.

This was enough.

Paris smiled as one of the younger lambs strayed too far, nosing at a patch of daisies. With an easy swing of his staff, he nudged it back toward its mother. The ewe bleated once in thanks, or perhaps in warning, and the lamb settled at her side again.

From the slope above, the valley stretched wide and golden. Orchards swayed in the distance, and the faint glimmer of Troy’s walls shimmered far off in the haze. But Paris rarely thought of the city. His heart belonged to the mountains, the quiet pastures, and the simple life of tending what was his.

Some shepherds grumbled at the monotony. Paris found it comforting.

He knelt to tie a loose strap on his sandal, fingers brushing the grass. The scent of thyme rose sharp and clean, the earth rich beneath him. A hawk wheeled overhead, casting a brief shadow over the flock before vanishing into the blue.

Paris watched it go, a wistful smile tugging at his mouth. “Freedom,” he murmured to himself. “That’s all a man needs.”

From a pouch at his belt, he pulled a wooden flute. The tune he played was simple, lilting, but the sheep quieted as if listening. Even the breeze seemed to soften, carrying the music down the slope. Paris closed his eyes, lost in the rhythm. He needed nothing more than this: the sun, the flock, the mountain, the song.

It began with a quarrel on Olympus.

At the wedding feast of Peleus and Thetis, all the gods had gathered in splendor—save for one. Eris, goddess of strife, had not been invited. She came anyway. In her hand she bore a golden apple, gleaming brighter than the torches.

Upon it was carved a single word: Kallistē — “to the fairest.”

The apple rolled across the floor, and laughter died. Every gaze turned to the goddesses. Hera, queen of Olympus, proud and regal. Athena, sharp-eyed, wisdom burning in her. Aphrodite, soft as dawn, beauty veiled in rose.

Three hands reached for the apple.

“Mine,” Hera said, voice heavy as thunder.

“Mine,” said Athena, clear as steel.

“Mine,” whispered Aphrodite, sweet as honey.

The quarrel shook Olympus. Zeus, unwilling to choose among them, cast the decision far from the feasting hall. “Let a mortal judge,” he decreed. “One untouched by power. One who will see with clear eyes.”

So Hermes was sent to the slopes of Ida, where Paris tended his sheep, content in his quiet life.

He looked up from his flute as the messenger’s winged sandals brushed the grass. Behind Hermes came three figures, radiant and terrible. The flock stilled, the breeze dropped. Even the hawk overhead vanished into silence.

“Paris,” Hermes said, his voice echoing like struck bronze. “You are chosen.”

The young shepherd blinked, staff clutched tight in his hands. “Chosen for what?”

Hera stepped forward, her eyes like polished gold. “To judge between us. Which among us is fairest. Speak true, and the choice will be yours.” She lifted her chin. “Choose me, Paris, and I will give you rule. All the world will bow at your throne.”

Athena followed, armored, spear in hand though she smiled. “Choose me, and I will grant you wisdom. Victory in every battle, cunning sharper than any blade.”

Last came Aphrodite. She needed no armor, no crown. She only laughed softly, and even the grass seemed to lean toward her. “Choose me, sweet shepherd, and I will give you love. The most beautiful woman in the world shall be yours. She will look at you as no other man.”

Paris’s heart pounded. Power. Wisdom. Love. Three treasures no mortal should ever be offered, and yet all were before him.

He hesitated. Hera’s promise glittered like gold. Athena’s burned like fire. But Aphrodite’s… Aphrodite’s was a whisper that slid into his chest like a knife wrapped in silk.

The most beautiful woman in the world.

Paris lowered his gaze. “You, lady,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You are fairest.”

Aphrodite’s smile was a sunrise, warm and blinding. She reached and set the golden apple into his hand. “So it shall be.”

And with that, the gods withdrew, leaving the shepherd alone on the mountain — his flock scattered, his flute silent, the weight of destiny heavy in his palm.

The dust rose golden under the midday sun, each step kicking up clouds that clung to sweat and skin. The yard rang with the crack of wood on wood, spears striking shields, blades meeting in sharp rhythm.

Patroclus adjusted his grip on the spear and circled. Across from him, Achilles moved like fire — quick, radiant, untouchable. Every thrust Patroclus made, Achilles was already gone, sidestepping, spinning, striking.

“Too slow,” Achilles called, laughter glinting in his voice.

Patroclus bit back a curse and swung harder. The shaft whistled through the air, grazing Achilles’s shoulder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make him stop grinning.

“Better,” Achilles said, his eyes bright. He lunged, and their weapons locked with a wooden crack. Dust swirled around them, sweat stung their brows, but for a heartbeat Patroclus forgot the fight.

He saw the curve of Achilles’s mouth, fierce and alive. The sunlight painting his hair like hammered bronze. The way the muscles of his arms rippled with each strike.

Beautiful, Patroclus thought, before he could stop himself. Beautiful like no one else.

Achilles shoved, breaking the lock, and Patroclus stumbled back a step. He steadied, set his feet, and drove forward again — not to win, but to keep him close.

Hours passed, the rhythm of their sparring as familiar as breath. Achilles always brighter, faster, but Patroclus steady, tireless, matching him blow for blow longer than any other could. They pushed each other, drove each other, until their shadows lengthened and their arms trembled with the weight of their weapons.

Finally, Achilles let his spear drop, his chest heaving with laughter. “Enough. You’ll make me sweat through my armor.”

Patroclus leaned on his own weapon, catching his breath. He tried to smile, though his heart was still pounding too fast, for more than just the fight. “You always did hate to lose.”

Achilles grinned, sharp and dazzling. “Then it’s a good thing I never do.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest wouldn’t leave. Achilles shone brighter than the sun — and Patroclus would follow him anywhere.

Achilles huffed, tossing down his spear. “You are impossible.”

Patroclus smirked, the words leaving his mouth before he even thought. “Impossible stylish.”

Achilles blinked. “What?”

Patroclus froze for a heartbeat, then shook his head quickly, covering the slip with a laugh. “Nothing. Just—something someone once said.”

But inside, the ache lingered. A scrap of laughter, a memory of a boy who could make even Helen giggle until her ribs hurt.

The dust of the training yard still clung to their skin, glowing faintly in the last light of day. Achilles sat with his back against the wall, watching Patroclus lower himself to the ground.

Patroclus winced as he moved, his tunic torn at the shoulder where Achilles’s strike had caught him earlier. A shallow gash, bright against the bronze of his skin, trailed along his collarbone. Nothing grave — but enough to make Achilles’s chest twist.

“You should have blocked faster,” Achilles said, voice low. He tried for lightness, but it came out heavier than he meant.

Patroclus gave him a crooked smile. “Not all of us were dipped in the Styx, you know.”

Achilles frowned. The joke didn’t ease the knot in his stomach. He fetched a basin of water, dipping a cloth and wringing it out. Patroclus raised an eyebrow.

“You?” Patroclus teased. “Playing healer?”

“Be quiet,” Achilles muttered, pressing the cloth gently against the cut. His hands were steady, though his heart wasn’t. “I’ll not let you bleed when I can stop it.”

Patroclus sucked in a sharp breath, then relaxed as Achilles dabbed away the dust and blood. Achilles leaned closer, his golden hair falling loose, his touch uncharacteristically careful.

“You take more care with me than yourself,” Patroclus murmured.

Achilles met his eyes, the world narrowing to that single steady gaze. “Because you matter more than I do.”

Patroclus stilled, caught by the words. His lips parted, but no answer came — not yet. Achilles bound the wound with strips of linen, fingers brushing skin with each knot.

When it was done, he sat back, but he didn’t release Patroclus’s shoulder. His thumb lingered on the edge of the bandage, as if afraid the boy might vanish the moment he let go.

Patroclus finally smiled, soft and small. “You fight like a storm, Achilles, but you tend wounds like a lover.”

Achilles’s breath hitched, though he covered it with a laugh. “Then it’s a good thing I intend to be both.”

The night was heavy with summer warmth. Crickets sang in the grass, and the air smelled of olive wood smoke drifting from the hearth. The barracks had quieted after a day of sparring; most of the boys had long since fallen into exhausted sleep.

But not Patroclus.

He lay on his side, staring at the darkened rafters, listening to the soft rise and fall of Achilles’s breathing beside him. His shoulder throbbed faintly where the bandage pressed, but it was not the wound that kept him awake.

It was him. Always him.

Achilles shifted, turning onto his side so that they were face to face. Even in the dim light, his hair caught the glow of the fire’s dying embers. His eyes, half-lidded with drowsiness, still shone like polished amber.

“You’re not sleeping,” Achilles murmured.

Patroclus managed a small smile. “Neither are you.”

Achilles huffed a laugh and reached out, fingertips brushing Patroclus’s jaw. It was such a soft gesture, so unlike the boy who fought like lightning itself in the yard.

“Does it hurt much?” Achilles asked, his gaze flicking toward the bandaged shoulder.

“No.” Patroclus shook his head, truthfully. “Not anymore.”

Achilles’s hand lingered, warm against his skin. Patroclus caught it, weaving their fingers together. His heart stuttered at the simple act, but Achilles only smiled, the kind of smile he gave no one else.

“You fight me harder than anyone,” Achilles said quietly. “And still you’re here, at my side. Why?”

Patroclus swallowed, the words tangled in his throat. Because I cannot bear to be anywhere else. Because you are the sun, and I am only myself when I stand in your light.

He settled for, “Because you’d be unbearable without me.”

Achilles laughed softly, the sound wrapping around him like silk. “True.” He shifted closer, until their foreheads touched. Their breaths mingled, warm and even.

Patroclus’s chest ached with it — with the intimacy of it, with the knowing that this was more than friendship, more than loyalty. This was love, raw and unashamed.

“Stay with me,” Achilles whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

“Always,” Patroclus answered. The word slipped out before he could think, but it felt truer than anything he had ever spoken.

For a long while they lay like that, tangled together, the night wrapping them in its hush. Achilles’s arm curved around Patroclus’s waist, drawing him in. Patroclus fit against him easily, as if this was where he had always been meant to be. The air was filled with the low hum of crickets. Achilles lay half on his side, his arm still draped lazily across Patroclus’s waist, holding him close as though the thought of distance was unbearable.

Patroclus shifted slightly, turning until their faces were inches apart. Achilles’s eyes opened, golden even in the dim glow of the embers. He smiled — that crooked, boyish smile that still made Patroclus’s chest ache.

“Still awake?” Achilles murmured.

“Not anymore,” Patroclus teased, though his voice was soft.

Achilles’s hand found his cheek, thumb brushing just below his eye. It was a touch so familiar, so easy, that Patroclus leaned into it without thought. And then Achilles kissed him.

Not hurried, not urgent — just the kind of kiss they had shared countless times, one that spoke of comfort, of belonging. A slow press of lips that deepened only because Patroclus sighed into it, his fingers curling in Achilles’s hair.

When they parted, Achilles rested his forehead against his, their breaths mingling. “You make me forget the rest of the world exists,” he whispered.

Patroclus smiled faintly. “That’s because you always think it revolves around you.”

Achilles laughed, low and warm, and stole another kiss — quicker this time, playful. “It does, when you’re in it.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes but kissed him back anyway, because it was true: the world, the prophecies, the glory, all of it meant nothing compared to this — to the boy in his arms.

The world outside might roar with kings and gods, but here, in the circle of Achilles’s arms, Patroclus found peace.

And in the quiet beat of Achilles’s heart against his cheek, Patroclus knew: he would follow this boy to the ends of the earth.

The olive groves of Ithaca whispered with evening wind, their silver leaves flashing pale against the deepening sky. Odysseus walked among them slowly, his hand brushing the bark of the nearest tree. The earth smelled rich, the sea murmured against the cliffs, and for once, there was no demand on his wit, no battle to be fought.

Beside him, Penelope moved with quiet grace, her veil pulled back so the breeze could touch her face. She carried a basket filled with figs and grapes gathered from the lower orchard, but Odysseus thought the fruit less lovely than the calm strength she radiated.

“You’re thinking again,” Penelope said softly, glancing sideways at him.

He smiled faintly. “Am I not always?”

“Too much,” she countered, adjusting the basket in her arms. “The grove is not an enemy camp. The trees require no clever schemes.”

Odysseus chuckled, reaching to pluck a fig and drop it into her basket. “Perhaps not. But strategy rules everything, even orchards. Plant them too close together, and they fight for sunlight. Too far apart, and the soil is wasted. Balance is the secret.”

Penelope shook her head with mock exasperation. “Even olives must march in ranks under your command.”

“Of course,” Odysseus replied, deadpan, before grinning. “But you — you command me. And I have never yet rebelled.”

Penelope raised a brow, though her lips curved. “You rebel often. You just happen to be persuasive when you do it.”

They walked on, laughter soft between them. Odysseus felt the weight of the world ease, as it always did when she was near. He had built his home here with her through love that rooted itself deeper with each season.

As they reached the crest of the hill, the sea spread out before them, waves tinged rose by the sinking sun. Penelope set the basket down and leaned against him, her head resting against his shoulder.

“Ithaca is small,” she murmured. “Some might envy larger kingdoms, greater wealth.”

Odysseus kissed her hair lightly. “Let them. I would not trade a thousand empires for this island, for this grove, for this moment with you.”

Penelope closed her eyes, smiling. “Good answer.”

The council hall of Ithaca was small compared to the gilded courts of greater kings, but it was well-kept, its beams polished with salt air, its hearth warm even in summer. Around the table sat the island’s elders: fishermen with weathered faces, farmers with hands calloused by plow and earth.

Odysseus leaned forward at the head, speaking of trade winds and harbor routes. His words were clever, weaving currents and coin into a pattern only he could fully see. The men listened with trust — not because they understood every thread, but because Odysseus always made his visions work.

Penelope watched, her spindle resting idle in her lap. She knew her husband’s brilliance, but she also knew when he spoke too quickly, when his mind leapt five steps ahead while others stumbled to follow.

When the fishermen frowned at mention of tariffs, Penelope cleared her throat gently. All eyes turned to her.

“Perhaps,” she said, her tone calm but firm, “we explain it more plainly. The market in Cephallenia grows each year. Their merchants hunger for fish. If our men sell directly, they will earn more than if they barter here. Odysseus proposes we open that path. Less middleman, more silver in Ithacan hands.”

The farmers nodded slowly, comprehension dawning. Murmurs of approval rippled through the hall.

Odysseus sat back, a small smile tugging at his lips. His eyes met hers across the table, golden-brown with amusement. She arched a brow at him: You see? Not all battles need riddles.

When the council dismissed, Odysseus came to her side, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You make me seem wiser than I am.”

Penelope rose, smoothing her veil. “You make yourself seem more complicated than you are. It evens out.”

He laughed, low and warm, and caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Without you, I’d lose half my battles before I began them.”

“And without you,” Penelope returned, her lips curving, “I’d die of boredom.”

They stepped from the hall together, two halves of a whole — a king and queen whose strength lay not in size of kingdom or might of armies, but in the harmony of their bond.

The hearth glowed low, embers crackling as shadows danced across the walls. Penelope sat by the loom, her fingers guiding the shuttle back and forth, the rhythmic thock-thock steady as the tide. Threads of deep blue and pale cream stretched across the frame, slowly taking shape — a pattern of waves and ships.

On the floor nearby, Telemachus leaned against his father’s knee, eyes wide with the stubborn wakefulness of a boy who did not wish to sleep. Odysseus, never one to waste an audience, had obliged him with a tale.

“…and the giant raised his club, carved from the trunk of an olive tree. Bigger than this hall, heavier than ten oxen. But I, cleverer than him, whispered a trick into the ears of my companions…”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was almost a growl. Telemachus gasped and clutched at his father’s tunic. Odysseus laughed, ruffling the boy’s dark curls, before softening the story’s edges with humor, turning monsters into lessons, danger into wit.

Penelope listened with a half-smile, her shuttle pausing mid-weave. He had never faced that giant but he spun the tale so convincingly she almost believed it herself. That was Odysseus: half man, half story, and entirely hers.

Telemachus’s lids drooped at last, lulled by his father’s voice and the steady beat of his mother’s loom. Odysseus gathered him gently into his arms and laid him onto the pallet by the fire.

When he turned back, Penelope was watching him, her eyes warm above the weaving.

“You frighten him with monsters, then soothe him with laughter,” she said softly.

Odysseus shrugged, grinning. “That’s life, isn’t it? Monsters always come — best we teach him to smile at them.”

Penelope set aside her shuttle, rising to join him. She smoothed the front of his tunic, her touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “And if one day the monster is cleverer than you?”

“Impossible,” Odysseus teased, but his hand found hers, squeezing lightly. Then, quieter, more earnest: “If such a day comes, I trust you to outwit it for us both.”

She leaned her forehead against his, weaving warmth into the quiet of the room. The loom stood still, the child slept, and for that moment the kingdom of Ithaca was no empire of spears and sails, but a simple hearth — and love was its only ruler.

The cavern was timeless, the loom endless. Threads stretched across it in dazzling colors, pulsing faintly with the beat of mortal lives.

Clotho spun, drawing strands from the void. Lachesis measured with her rod, laying them in their places. Atropos’s shears gleamed, sharp enough to sever destiny with a single breath.

Tonight, their work slowed. For at the heart of the loom lay a gathering of threads, bright and knotted, destined to clash.

“This one,” Lachesis murmured, her hand hovering over a golden strand, glowing like fire. “Achilles. Brightest of them all. His line burns quickly, fiercely.”

Beside it twined a gentler one, bronze-hued and steady. “Patroclus,” Clotho named softly. “Bound to him by love. He will hold Achilles’s fire, but only for a time.”

Atropos’s shears clicked once, impatiently. “They are doomed.”

“They are necessary,” Lachesis corrected.

Another thread shimmered with rose and pale flame. “Helen,” Clotho whispered, reverent. “Born to beauty too great, cursed to be prize and burden both.”

“And Paris,” Lachesis added, eyes narrowing at the thread beside hers — dark wine-red, pulsing with Aphrodite’s promise. “His choice is made. He will draw her across the sea, and a thousand ships will answer.”

“And the clever one,” Atropos muttered, pointing to a thread woven of gray and silver, sharp as steel. “Odysseus. He bends without breaking. His fate stretches long.”

But then their eyes turned to the anomaly.

A thread green as the sea itself, streaked with starlight, foreign to the loom. It wove already between them all — brushing against Helen’s rose, tugging at Achilles’s gold, curling protectively near Patroclus’s bronze, even drawing Odysseus’s silver closer.

“He does not belong,” Atropos said, voice flat. “This thread was never meant to be here.”

Clotho smiled faintly, her spindle spinning faster. “He belongs because we placed him here. Twice-spun, twice-burdened. Once a savior of Olympus, now a prince of the sea.”

“He will change them,” Lachesis murmured. “Already his thread binds theirs tighter. Love will knot where before there was none. Choices will twist.”

Atropos’s shears hovered. “And if he ruins the pattern?”

“Then let it be ruined,” Clotho said firmly.

Lachesis measured, eyes serene. “We gave him this chance not to be a weapon, but a boy. Not to be used, but to love.”

“And in loving,” Clotho finished softly, “he will shape the war as surely as any blade.”

The loom hummed, the sea-colored thread pulsing once like a heartbeat. Outside, mortals stirred: Achilles dreamed of glory, Patroclus of warmth, Helen of freedom, Paris of beauty, Odysseus of home.

And Percy, green-threaded, slept in the deep, unaware that Fate itself had chosen him to bind them all.

Chapter Text

The stone halls of Sparta were quiet at night, the braziers burning low, shadows flickering across the carved walls. In the queen’s chamber, her women moved softly, preparing the room for sleep.

One smoothed fresh linen across the bed, another scattered rose petals into a bowl of water, their fragrance sweet and cloying. A younger maid knelt by the hearth, coaxing the fire into a low, steady glow. They spoke in whispers, their words carrying in the hush.

“Have you seen her lately?” one murmured, glancing toward the door. “She hardly eats. Walks the garden as if searching for something that isn’t there.”

“She is restless,” another agreed, braiding strands of wool with deft fingers. “As if her heart knows something her mind will not say aloud.”

The youngest maid, crouched by the fire, looked up nervously. “I dreamed last night,” she whispered. “I saw ships burning. A thousand of them, all aflame. And the queen standing on the shore, her hair flying loose.”

The older women crossed themselves quickly, muttering charms against ill fortune. “Keep your tongue still, girl,” one hissed. “Bad dreams breed bad omens.”

But the words lingered in the air, heavy as the scent of roses.

The door creaked then, and all fell silent. Helen entered, her veil drawn back, her eyes dark and unsettled. Even in the dim light, she was radiant — but her beauty tonight seemed sharpened, fragile as glass.

She dismissed them with a wave, her voice low, distracted. “Leave me. I will sleep alone.”

They bowed and filed out, but the youngest lingered a moment longer, watching the queen pace the chamber, her hands clenched white in her gown. Helen’s lips moved soundlessly, as if in prayer.

The maid shivered. Something was coming. She felt it in her bones.

When the door shut behind her, the hall seemed colder than before.

The palace buzzed with the unusual noise of foreign guests. Servants hurried through the halls with trays of wine and platters of roasted meat, their sandals slapping softly on stone. In the great court, the fire burned high, casting long shadows over the walls.

Among the guests, one drew every eye.

Paris, prince of Troy, was handsome in a way that seemed almost unnatural. His hair gleamed dark as polished amber, his tunic embroidered with gold thread, his voice smooth as honey poured from the comb. He smiled often, but there was something about that smile that made the servants whisper uneasily to each other when his gaze turned away.

“He flatters everyone,” one of the cupbearers muttered as he refilled a goblet. “But his eyes only ever follow the queen.”

It was true. Helen moved through the hall beside her husband, Menelaus, her beauty as untouchable as a flame. She smiled politely when Paris bowed, but her body stiffened when his compliments lingered too long. To the servants who knew her gestures well, the distance was obvious. She did not laugh at his jests as she laughed at her husband’s. She did not meet his gaze for more than a heartbeat.

But Paris did not seem to notice, or perhaps did not care. His eyes clung to her as ivy clings to stone, relentless.

In the kitchens later, the servants whispered over their work.
“He is too bold. The king’s guest should not look at the queen so.”
“No queen,” muttered the youngest scullery girl, “should look so unhappy when smiled upon.”

That night, as the halls grew quiet, a maid passing by Helen’s chamber paused. She thought she heard the queen’s voice, low and sharp, refusing someone. A man’s reply followed, smooth and coaxing. The maid fled down the corridor, heart racing, and told no one what she had heard.

The queen’s chambers were restless that night. Helen had paced until her steps wore a path across the mosaic floor, her hair unbound, her hands clenched tight in her gown.

“Please, my lady,” her closest maid begged softly. “Rest. The king returns at dawn. He will need you bright at his side.”

But Helen only shook her head, eyes dark with something more than weariness. “I cannot sleep,” she whispered. “I feel—” Her voice broke, and she turned away, staring toward the shuttered windows. “I feel watched.”

The maids exchanged frightened glances but said nothing.

Then the door opened.

Paris entered as if he had every right, his cloak falling in graceful folds, his eyes shining with a strange, fevered light.

“My queen,” he said smoothly, bowing low. “The gods themselves have decreed it. You are mine.”

Helen recoiled, anger flashing across her face. “You dare?” Her voice was sharp enough to make the maids press back into the shadows. “You shame Sparta with your insolence!”

But Paris stepped closer, undeterred. The air shimmered faintly around him, a sweetness filling the room that made the maids dizzy. Aphrodite’s glamour — though none dared name it aloud.

Helen’s breath caught. Her hands trembled as though pulled by invisible threads. She shook her head, fighting it, but her body betrayed her resolve.

“No…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I will not—”

Yet Paris’s hand closed around her wrist. His smile was soft, unyielding, unnatural. “The goddess has chosen. You are fated for me.”

The maids froze in horror as Helen struggled — truly struggled — her pleas sharp and desperate, until her will faltered beneath the goddess’s spell. Her eyes clouded, her steps grew sluggish, and with a final anguished look back at her chamber, she allowed herself to be led away.

The closest maid bit her hand to keep from crying out. She wanted to run to her queen, to tear Paris from her side, but her body locked with fear. No mortal could defy a god’s magic.

When the doors closed behind them, silence fell heavy. The youngest maid collapsed by the hearth, shaking. “She did not want this,” she whispered. “She did not want him.”

The others gathered her close, weeping quietly, powerless.

By morning, Helen’s bed would be empty.

And Sparta would wake to ruin.

The first cries rang out before dawn.

A guard came pounding down the corridor, shouting for torches. The queen’s chamber lay open, her bed untouched, the linens cool as if she had never laid her head upon them.

The palace erupted in panic. Servants spilled into the halls in their night-clothes, clutching each other as the guards thundered past. Some swore they saw the faint trail of footprints in the dew across the courtyard, others claimed the stables had been disturbed.

In the harbor, a watchman cried out, pointing seaward. Dark sails had already caught the wind, slipping away into the night.

The courtyard filled with shouting — men scrambling into armor, hounds loosed to follow a trail already gone cold. But none dared say aloud the truth they all knew: no mortal hand had wrought this. A goddess had moved through their halls.

One old servant stood in the doorway, her hands clutching her apron. Her voice was hoarse as she whispered to the others, “The Trojan has stolen her.”

The youngest maid, the one who had seen Helen’s terror the night before, wept openly. “She did not want to go,” she sobbed. “I swear it by all the gods — she did not want him.”

The others hushed her quickly, glancing around in fear of divine ears. But her words had already taken root in the servants’ hearts, spreading like fire: their queen had been stolen, against her will.

Above the noise, a horn sounded from the walls — deep, mournful, summoning the king.

The throne room doors slammed open with a thunder that rattled the braziers. Menelaus strode in, bareheaded, his hair wild, his cloak half fastened, his sandals still wet with dew. His eyes blazed like a man who had lost more than a wife — a king who had lost his pride, his household, his very honor.

“Where is she?” His voice cracked like a whip, echoing off the stone. “Where is my queen?”

The servants shrank back against the walls, no one daring to speak. They had seen her chamber, her empty bed, the wine cup toppled by the hearth. They had seen the sails fading into the horizon.

One guard tried to kneel before him, stammering. “My lord—the Trojan prince, he—”

Menelaus’s fist struck the table, sending goblets crashing to the floor, wine spilling like blood across the stones. “Paris!” he roared. “Guest under my roof, thief of my honor! May the gods strike him blind before he reaches Troy!”

His rage shook the room, but beneath it was grief — raw and jagged. He tore the circlet from his head and hurled it to the ground. His voice broke, hoarse now. “She is mine! My wife, my queen—” He staggered a step, clutching at the table as if to keep himself upright. “Stolen from me under my very roof.”

The servants trembled. Some wept silently, mourning their queen; others whispered prayers under their breath, fearful that Aphrodite herself might hear Menelaus’s curses.

An older steward, white-haired and grim, muttered into the hush: “The oath will be called.”

The words spread quickly, passed from lip to lip like a contagion. The suitors’ vow — sworn years ago in that very hall — that all who sought Helen’s hand would defend her marriage, whoever won her.

One of the younger maids clasped her hands to her mouth. “Then there will be war,” she whispered.

Menelaus lifted his face, red with fury, his teeth bared in something half like grief, half like vengeance. “A thousand ships,” he growled. “I will burn Troy to the ground.”

The servants bowed their heads, not in reverence, but in fear. For they knew his words would not be empty.

War had begun.

The courtyard of Sparta was not silent that dawn.

Men shouted to each other across the stables, boots pounding against the flagstones, the sharp scent of sweat and horsehair heavy in the chill air. Torches burned low as dawn began to pale the horizon, painting the walls in cold gray light.

The messengers were being chosen. Strong riders, each sworn to carry a king’s fury and a brother’s grief across Greece. They wore no armor, only cloaks against the morning air, but each carried a staff carved with the mark of Sparta — proof that the words they bore came from Menelaus himself.

The servants watched from the colonnades, pressed together in uneasy silence. They saw Menelaus stride among the horses, his face still dark with rage, his hand gesturing sharply as he spoke to the captain of the riders. Though they could not hear his words, they knew what was being said.

The Oath. The suitors’ vow.

It had been sworn years ago, in this very court, when Helen was still a girl and kings from across Greece had gathered to woo her. They had promised then — all of them — to defend her marriage, whoever won her hand. Now that promise would be called, and no man of honor could refuse.

The riders mounted. Hooves struck sparks against stone.

One turned toward the north, toward Mycenae. Another wheeled east toward Athens, south toward Crete, west toward Pylos. The sound of hooves echoed like thunder as they scattered, carrying Sparta’s grief to every shore.

Among the servants, an older woman crossed herself. “Now Greece will bleed,” she whispered.

The youngest maid — the one who had seen the queen’s terror with her own eyes — clasped her hands together, her lips trembling. She did not speak. She only watched the riders vanish into the dawn, the dust rising behind them like smoke from a burning city.

The messenger entered the great hall of Mycenae at midday, dust coating his cloak, his horse lathered and trembling from the ride. He bowed low before the dais where Agamemnon sat.

The king of Mycenae was not a man to lounge carelessly, not like his brother. He sat forward on his throne of gilded bronze, his heavy beard dark against his pale face, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Beside him, courtiers waited silently, watching, measuring the weight of every word.

“My lord,” the rider panted, kneeling. “Paris of Troy has stolen the queen of Sparta. Menelaus commands that the oath of the suitors be honored. He calls for ships, for soldiers. He calls for war.”

A hush fell across the hall.

Agamemnon’s lips curved slowly into a smile. Not of joy, not of brotherly love, but of calculation. He stood, descending the steps of his throne until he towered over the messenger.

“So,” he murmured, almost to himself, “the Trojans dare dishonor my brother… dare dishonor Greece itself. A queen stolen. A king shamed. What man could suffer such an insult?”

The courtiers murmured, shaking their heads, condemning Troy with voices that trembled with eagerness to echo their king.

Agamemnon raised his hand, and silence fell again. He looked down at the kneeling messenger, his gaze steady, almost unnervingly calm.

“Tell Menelaus this,” he said. “Mycenae will not fail him. I will send ships — more than any other. I will summon warriors from every village, every stronghold, every coast. If Troy thinks to insult my house, I will show them what fire truly means.”

His voice hardened, echoing across the hall. “And when Troy falls, when its towers burn and its people scatter, Greece will know who leads them. Not Sparta, not Ithaca, not Crete.” He drew himself up, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Mycenae.”

The messenger bowed so low his forehead struck the marble floor. Agamemnon turned away, his cloak swirling behind him, already dismissing the man.

In his mind he saw it: ships gathered in endless rows, soldiers marching in their thousands, Troy aflame. His brother’s grievance would be the spark, but the glory would be his.

“Prepare the fleet,” he ordered his stewards. “Greece marches to war. And I will be its High King.”

The sun was warm on the stones of Ithaca’s palace courtyard. Olive trees swayed gently in the sea breeze, their silvery leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Odysseus walked with Penelope at his side, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

He loved these mornings — quiet, ordinary, filled with the smell of bread baking in the kitchens and the sound of his infant son crying upstairs. After years of trickery and wandering, he had found a peace here he did not want to lose.

The clatter of hooves broke the calm.

A rider, dust-streaked and weary, stumbled into the courtyard, dismounting before the king. He knelt quickly, lowering his staff marked with Sparta’s seal.

“My lord,” the man gasped, “Paris of Troy has stolen the queen of Sparta. Menelaus calls the oath. All suitors must gather their ships and men. War is upon us.”

Odysseus closed his eyes briefly, cursing beneath his breath. Of course. He had warned Tyndareus years ago that Helen’s beauty would bring ruin. It had been his idea, in fact — the Oath — to bind the suitors together so blood would not be spilled in Sparta itself. And now that very oath dragged him toward war.

Penelope’s hand tightened on his arm. Her face was pale, but steady. “You must go,” she said quietly.

“I know.” His voice was rough. He looked at her — really looked. The curve of her mouth, the dark wisdom in her eyes. He had not loved her for her beauty alone but for the mind that matched his own, sharp and patient, the anchor to his restless sea. The thought of leaving her made his chest ache.

He crouched down before the messenger, his tone sharp now. “Tell Menelaus this: Ithaca will honor the oath. I will bring my ships, my men. Not for his pride, nor for his queen, but because my word was sworn.” His jaw clenched. “And my word is iron.”

The messenger bowed low, relief plain on his face.

When he had gone, Odysseus remained in the courtyard, staring out toward the sea. His son’s wail drifted faintly through the halls, cutting him deeper than any spear.

Penelope touched his cheek, her thumb brushing his stubble. “We will endure,” she whispered.

Odysseus leaned into her hand, just for a moment, before pulling away. His mind was already turning, already calculating. If he must go to war, he would do so on his terms. He would not throw his people’s lives away blindly.

The clang of bronze rang through the training yard of Salamis. Ajax, towering above the men who sparred around him, swung his great spear in one hand as though it were no heavier than a child’s toy. His arms were thick as ship masts, his chest broad enough to cast a shadow over three men.

When the messenger entered the yard, panting and dust-choked, Ajax barked for the men to halt. The warrior’s gaze turned, fierce and curious, as the stranger knelt in the dirt.

“My lord,” the rider said, holding out the staff of Sparta. “Paris of Troy has stolen the queen, your fellow suitor. Menelaus calls the oath. He calls for war.”

For a heartbeat the yard was silent. Then Ajax threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming like thunder.

“So the Trojans dare!” His voice carried across the walls, deep and powerful. “They think they can shame us — shame Sparta, shame Greece itself? By the gods, let them try!”

He strode forward, his spear tip gleaming in the sun. The men around him straightened, their eyes shining with the same fire. Ajax gripped the messenger’s shoulder so hard the man winced, but he grinned through it.

“Tell Menelaus this,” Ajax declared. “Salamis will not come with a handful of ships. I will bring the sea with me. My warriors, my blades, my strength. If Troy hides behind walls, I will tear the stones apart with my bare hands.”

The yard roared with cheers, his men slamming their spears against their shields until the sound rattled the air.

Ajax lifted his face toward the sky, sweat streaming down his arms, and laughed again. “This is the day the bards will sing of! When Ajax, son of Telamon, carves his name into eternity!”

The messenger stumbled back, awe and fear mingling in his eyes.

Ajax turned to his men, his smile fierce. “Prepare the ships. Sparta calls, and Salamis answers. We sail for glory!”

The training yard erupted again, the sound of warriors hungry for war — not for Helen, not even for Menelaus, but for the immortal fame promised on Troy’s walls.

The hall of Locris reeked of wine and roasted meat. Torches smoked in their sconces as young men laughed too loud, wrestling and boasting, their goblets spilling across the tables. At the center sat their king — Oilean Ajax, smaller than his namesake in Salamis, but wiry and quick, his eyes bright with the sharpness of a hawk.

The doors burst open and the Spartan messenger stumbled in, cloak torn from the long ride. He knelt on the rushes, bowing low. “My lord Ajax, Paris of Troy has stolen Queen Helen. Menelaus calls the Oath. All suitors must sail.”

The hall went quiet, save for the crackle of the torches.

Ajax blinked once, then grinned — a sharp, cocky thing. He slammed his goblet down so hard the wine splashed across the table and onto his tunic, but he didn’t care.

“So the bitch is gone to Troy,” he said with a careless laugh. “And now Sparta calls us to fetch her back?” He stood, drawing his short sword and flourishing it in the smoky light. “Good! Let Menelaus rage. Let Agamemnon preen. I will be the one to climb Troy’s walls first.”

His men whooped and pounded their fists against the tables, drunk on their lord’s bravado.

Ajax leaned down, close enough that the messenger could smell the sour tang of wine on his breath. “Tell Menelaus this: Locris sails, fast and fierce. And when Troy falls, let the bards sing that Oilean Ajax struck the first blow.”

The messenger swallowed, bowing lower, though unease flickered in his eyes.

Ajax straightened, tossing his sword from one hand to the other with reckless ease. “A thousand ships, they say? Then let it be a thousand and one — mine at the front, my blade at Paris’s throat!”

The hall erupted again, louder, rougher. The sound was not the steady thunder of disciplined soldiers, but the wild roar of young men eager for plunder.

Ajax the Lesser lifted his goblet once more, wine spilling down his arm, and laughed as though the gods themselves had already given him victory.

The council hall of Argos was cool and dim, its pillars carved with scenes of old battles. Diomedes sat among his captains, a map unrolled across the table. They were discussing grain supplies and the mustering of levies when the Spartan messenger entered, bowing low, his cloak still wet with sea spray.

“My lord,” the man said, voice hoarse from the ride. “Paris of Troy has stolen Queen Helen. Menelaus calls the Oath. He calls all suitors to arms.”

The captains shifted uneasily. Murmurs spread like wind across tall grass.

Diomedes leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing. He was still young, but there was an old steadiness to him — a sense of weight, as though the gods had hammered him on the anvil of war long before his time.

“So it comes,” he said quietly.

One of his captains frowned. “My king, must we? Argos has no quarrel with Troy.”

“No quarrel,” Diomedes agreed, his tone even. “But an oath is an oath. I swore before the gods and the kings of Greece. To break it now would shame us more deeply than any war could wound.”

The messenger bowed his head in relief.

Diomedes rose, his shadow long against the wall, and rested his hands on the edge of the map. He studied it, lips pressed tight. Troy was distant, strong, wealthy — not an enemy to take lightly. But his mind was already turning, already weighing numbers, ships, provisions.

“Tell Menelaus this,” he said at last. “Argos will answer. Not with boasts, not with empty words — but with ships, with soldiers, with steel. I will not promise Troy’s fall, but I will promise my hand at the spear.”

The messenger nodded, awe flickering in his eyes at the quiet certainty of the young king.

As the man departed, Diomedes turned to his captains. “Summon the levies. Gather supplies. We march not for Helen’s beauty, nor for Sparta’s honor, but because Greece will remember who kept faith when it was tested.”

The captains bowed, respect plain in their eyes. They trusted him — not because he shouted, not because he threatened, but because he carried himself like a man who would stand at their side in the mud and blood of battle.

Later, when the hall was empty, Diomedes lingered by the map, tracing the coast of Troy with a calloused finger. He sighed, low and weary.

“War,” he murmured. “So soon.”

But his hand did not waver.

The hall of Pylos smelled of smoke and salt, the sea breeze carrying the cries of gulls through the open doors. Nestor, white-haired and heavy with years, sat among his sons at the long table. He listened to their laughter, their eager talk of hunts and horses, their bold dreams of war and glory.

The sound tugged at him — both joy and sorrow. He had been like them once. Young, hungry, sure that battle was a game played by heroes and remembered by poets. He had lived long enough to know better.

The doors opened. A messenger entered, bent low beneath the weight of dust and travel. He knelt at the old king’s feet, pressing the staff of Sparta to the floor.

“My lord,” the man said, his voice rough. “Paris of Troy has stolen Queen Helen. Menelaus calls the Oath. He calls you to war.”

The laughter at the table died. Nestor’s sons exchanged wide-eyed glances, their hands tightening on their cups.

Nestor closed his eyes, and for a moment he heard echoes of another age: the clash of spears at Pherae, the cries of men in the war against the Lapiths. He remembered the faces of friends long buried, the weight of blood on his hands.

When he opened his eyes again, they were sharp despite the years. He rose slowly, leaning on his staff, and looked down at the messenger.

“I swore the oath,” he said. His voice was not loud, but it carried, silencing the hall. “When Helen was yet a girl, I promised before the gods and all Greece that I would defend her marriage. I am old, but my word is not.”

His sons stirred, some eager, some anxious. One of the younger ones blurted, “Father, must you go? You have fought enough wars!”

Nestor placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his touch gentle but firm. “I go because I must. An oath binds tighter than chains. To break it would dishonor us all. And you will come with me — not for glory, but to learn what war truly is.”

The boy swallowed, nodding reluctantly.

Turning back to the messenger, Nestor lifted his chin. “Tell Menelaus that Pylos will answer.”

The messenger bowed low, relief softening the harsh lines of his face.

When the man was gone, Nestor lowered himself back to his seat, his sons clustering around him. He let them chatter about ships and supplies, but his gaze drifted beyond the hall, out to the endless sea.

He whispered to himself, too low for anyone else to hear: “Another war. Another sea of graves.”

Then he straightened, forcing his voice strong. “Let us prepare. If the gods demand war, then war they shall have. But we will meet it as Greeks, not as fools.”

The palace of Knossos gleamed in the torchlight, its painted walls alive with color: dolphins leaping, bulls charging, dancers frozen in mid-step. The hall was filled with the hum of voices, the clatter of cups, the warmth of wine. At the high table sat Idomeneus, lord of Crete, a crown of gold resting lightly in his dark hair.

The messenger entered, bowed low, and lifted the staff of Sparta. The hall quieted at once.

“My lord,” the rider said, his voice carrying across the chamber. “Paris of Troy has stolen Queen Helen. Menelaus calls the Oath. He calls you to war.”

Idomeneus rose before the man had even finished speaking. His goblet struck the table with a ringing note as he set it down, wine sloshing across the polished wood. His eyes flashed, and his voice rolled through the hall with the strength of the sea itself.

“Then Crete will answer!”

The gathered lords and captains cheered, slamming their fists against the table. The sound echoed like waves battering a cliff.

Idomeneus lifted a hand, commanding silence again. He turned to the messenger, his face stern but steady. “Tell Menelaus this: Crete is no stranger to war. Our ships are swift, our spears unbroken. If Sparta calls, Crete will not stand idle. I will lead my men myself, and I will see Troy humbled beneath the will of Crete.”

The messenger bowed, his relief plain.

Idomeneus turned to his captains, his cloak swirling behind him. “Summon the men. Ready the fleet. By dawn tomorrow, the harbors must be filled with sails. Crete will stand among the first to answer.”

His lords rose as one, voices thundering their loyalty. The decision was made, swift as the strike of a spear.

When the hall emptied and the plans were set in motion, Idomeneus walked alone onto the palace balcony. The wind from the sea carried salt and the cries of gulls. He breathed it deep, steadying himself.

He thought of Menelaus, a friend in younger days, and of Helen, whose beauty had dazzled all Greece. He thought, too, of the oath sworn long ago, and of how swiftly the gods had bound them all to their words.

“Very well,” he murmured to the night. “If fate demands we sail, then Crete will sail proud and strong. And if Troy falls, let it be known that Crete’s ships stood at the front.”

His hand tightened on the stone railing. He did not smile, but his eyes gleamed with resolve.

The training fields shimmered in the afternoon heat. Warriors sparred with spears and shields, the sound of bronze on bronze sharp in the air. Achilles leaned against a pillar at the edge of the yard, golden hair damp with sweat, his gaze fixed not on the men but on Patroclus, who moved among them with fluid grace.

Patroclus fought with quiet precision, not seeking applause, but every blow rang true. Achilles’ chest tightened with a familiar warmth — and with dread, though he did not speak of it.

The gates swung open. A rider thundered in, his horse lathered with foam. The messenger leapt down, cloak torn, eyes wide with urgency. He knelt before the gathered men and held out the staff of Sparta.

“My lord Patroclus,” he cried, his voice hoarse from the journey. “Paris of Troy has stolen Queen Helen. Menelaus calls the Oath of Tyndareus. You are bound to answer.”

The yard fell silent. All eyes turned to Patroclus. His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening around his spear. He had sworn it — years ago, among kings and princes — never imagining it would be called.

“I will go,” Patroclus said at last, voice steady though his heart raced. “An oath sworn before the gods cannot be broken.”

The messenger bowed low in relief.

Achilles stepped forward, his face unreadable, but Patroclus knew him too well. He saw the spark in his eyes, the hunger for battle, the restless longing for glory. And he saw, too, the shadow that hung over him — the prophecy whispered by his mother, Thetis: that if Achilles went to Troy, his life would blaze bright but short.

“No,” Patroclus said quickly, too sharply. “You must not come.”

Achilles arched a brow, folding his arms. “You would go without me? You would face war alone, while I sit idle? Do you think I could bear it?”

“You know what the Fates have said,” Patroclus pressed, stepping closer, his voice dropping low so only Achilles could hear. “If you sail to Troy, you will not return. I will not see you march to your death.”

Achilles’ smile was small and unbearably sad. He reached out, cupping Patroclus’s cheek, his thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “And I will not see you go without me. You are bound, and so I am bound — not by oath, but by love.”

Patroclus’s breath caught. He wanted to protest, to beg, to argue until his voice broke. But Achilles’ hand was warm, his gaze steady, and he knew the truth: nothing could hold him back.

The messenger shifted uneasily, bowing again. “I will tell Menelaus you come.”

When he was gone, Patroclus closed his eyes and leaned into Achilles’ touch, his heart aching. Achilles bent and pressed a kiss against his lips, gentle at first, then fierce with the weight of what lay ahead.

When they parted, Achilles whispered, “If Troy is my fate, then let me meet it at your side.”

Patroclus’s hand trembled where it rested against Achilles’ chest, but he did not pull away. He had lost the argument — and perhaps, he feared, one day he would lose far more.

The palace of Sparta was quiet now. Too quiet. The torches burned low, their smoke curling in the corridors where Helen’s laughter had once carried. The queen’s chambers stood empty, her bed cold, the scent of her perfume already fading.

The servants gathered in the small shrine near the kitchens, where the hearth-fire flickered. They were women mostly — maids, nurses, cooks — faces pale with fear. The men-at-arms were gone, out in the courtyards with their king, sharpening blades, swearing vengeance. But here, the women huddled, whispering prayers to any god who might still listen.

An old nurse, who had tended Helen since she was a child, lit incense and set it before the small clay figures of the gods. Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady as she began the prayer.

“Great Hera, protector of marriage, defend our queen, though your wrath is heavy upon her house. Grey-eyed Athena, give her wisdom and strength. And you, Lord Poseidon, master of the seas, carry her home if she is lost upon the waves. Even you, Aphrodite—” here her voice faltered, and several women flinched, “—spare her. You have taken enough.”

One of the younger maids broke into sobs, her voice raw. “She did not want to go. I saw her face — she begged to stay. She was taken, stolen!”

The nurse hushed her, pulling the girl close, though tears slid down her own cheeks.

They all bowed their heads then, the firelight painting their faces gold and shadow. Their voices rose together in a soft, broken chant:

“Protect her, gods. Protect her. Bring her home.”

Above them, in the upper halls, the sound of Menelaus’s rage still shook the stones. Below, in the servants’ shrine, their prayer carried into the smoke — fragile, trembling, but filled with love.

And though no answer came, though the gods were silent, the women prayed on, clinging to hope against the dark.

The throne room of Troy glittered with gold and ivory, the air thick with incense and song. Priam sat high upon his throne, white-haired but strong still, his eyes shining as he looked upon his son.

Paris stood proudly, Helen at his side. She was radiant — a beauty so dazzling that even the courtiers, who whispered of Sparta and its king, could not help but stare in awe. She moved with grace, her eyes lowered, her face unreadable.

Priam’s heart swelled. He had feared Paris lost forever, a son taken by fate, but now he had returned with a queen who could rival goddesses. The people of Troy crowded the halls, eager to see her, their voices rising in cheers.

“My son,” Priam declared, his voice booming through the chamber, “you have brought Troy a treasure greater than gold, greater than arms. The gods themselves favor you, for who else could win such a bride?”

Paris bowed, his smile charming, his hand tightening on Helen’s.

Priam’s gaze swept over the gathered lords, daring any to speak against him. “Let Sparta rage! Let Greece gnash its teeth! We are Troy, and none can touch us behind our walls. This queen is ours, and her beauty will shine for Troy as the sun shines for the heavens.”

The court roared its approval. Musicians struck up their lyres, dancers spun in the firelight, and Priam’s eyes gleamed with pride. His son had returned, and Troy had gained a jewel the world would never forget.

From the shadows at the edge of the hall, Cassandra stood silent, her hair tangled, her eyes fever-bright. The cheers of the court rang hollow in her ears, drowned beneath the roar of fire only she could hear.

She saw the torches of Troy burning, not in celebration but in ruin. She saw the walls crumbling, the streets running red with blood. She saw her brothers fall, one by one, and her father’s proud throne toppled into ash.

And at the center of it all — Helen, a flame too bright, burning all who drew near.

Cassandra’s lips parted, a cry caught in her throat. She stepped forward, trembling, but the words stuck. Always the words stuck. When she forced them out, they twisted, tangled, and fell on deaf ears.

“Father!” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Send her away. Do you not see? She is ruin! She will burn Troy to the ground!”

The courtiers turned, murmuring, some rolling their eyes, others laughing. Priam’s smile dimmed, his expression tightening in weary patience.

“Cassandra,” he said softly, almost pitying. “My poor child. The gods have troubled your mind again. Enough. Tonight is for joy.”

She fell to her knees, clutching her head, her nails digging into her skin. The vision seared her eyes — the fall of Troy, endless, inescapable. And around her, the music swelled, the laughter rang, and no one listened.

Through her tears, she whispered to herself: “Fire. Always fire.”

The hall danced and sang, blind in its joy. And in Cassandra’s eyes, Troy was already burning.

Chapter Text

The hall of Aegae was cool and dim, its stone pillars draped with woven banners dyed in sea-blue and green. Queen Euryale of Aegae sat high upon her throne, the weight of her crown a familiar burden. She was not a woman easily rattled — years of ruling a small but proud island kingdom had taught her patience, steadiness, and the art of balancing alliances as carefully as one balanced on a ship’s deck in storm winds.

Yet when the horns at the gates sounded, announcing a visitor from distant Sparta, her heart gave a small, uneasy jolt.

The man entered in dust-stained sandals, cloak torn from travel, a staff bearing Menelaus’s seal in his hands. He looked around the chamber with a soldier’s blunt eyes before kneeling at the foot of her throne.

“Lady Euryale,” he rasped, his voice raw from the salt wind, “I bear a summons from my lord, King Menelaus of Sparta. The Queen Helen, his wife, has been stolen by Paris of Troy. All who swore the Oath of Tyndareus are bound to aid him in this war.”

Murmurs rippled through the court. Captains shifted in their seats, counselors exchanged wary looks. Euryale leaned forward, fingers curling against the carved arms of her throne.

The messenger lifted the sealed parchment. “This letter names the suitors. It names Percyon of Aegae among them. The King calls him now, as he calls all, to honor his oath.”

For a moment, silence reigned.

Euryale’s blood chilled. Percyon. The name was known to her, oh yes — not as a son of her house, but as something stranger, deeper. The Prince of the Sea. Protector of the islands. The boy who had risen from the waves years ago, still young yet already wielding power that no mortal son of hers could claim. He was not Aegae’s blood, but Aegae’s shield.

The courtiers looked to her expectantly, some puzzled, others frightened. If she spoke wrong, if she denied the name, Sparta might see it as treachery. If she accepted it, she bound her people to a war they had not chosen.

Her mouth went dry. She opened it to speak — and then the world shifted.

The torches bent toward the throne as if pulled by a sudden wind. The shadows deepened, curling like black waves against the walls. The air thickened with the tang of salt and storm.

No one else seemed to notice.

Before her throne, invisible to all but her, the sea rose in the shape of a man. His hair was dark as storm-tossed water, his eyes green and fathomless, his cloak woven from currents and foam. The great trident shimmered faintly in his hand.

Poseidon.

Euryale dropped her gaze instantly, heart pounding, but his voice reached her mind like thunder rolling beneath the sea.

“Do not fear, Queen of Aegae,” he said. “The name is true. Percyon is yours — not by blood, but by bond. You and all your people are under his protection, as he is under mine. Speak as though he is of your house. Sparta must hear no doubt.”

She swallowed hard, daring to lift her eyes a fraction. His gaze was steady, immense, but not unkind.

“My lord,” she whispered within her mind, though her lips did not move. “You would send him to this war? He is but one youth—”

“He is more than youth,” Poseidon’s voice rumbled. “The Fates have chosen. This war will shape the age of men, and Percyon’s part in it cannot be unmade. You must only confirm what is already written.”

Her hands trembled in her lap. She thought of the boy who had come to their aid in storms, who had driven off raiders with the sea itself at his back. The villagers told stories of him, songs even, though none called him son of a god. To them he was the Sea Prince, their protector.

And now, Sparta demanded him.

The god’s presence flickered, fading like a wave sliding back into the depths. His last words lingered in her ears: “Trust him. He will not fall while he remembers who he is.”

The hall snapped back into its ordinary stillness. The courtiers still waited, the messenger still knelt, unaware that a god had filled the chamber.

Euryale inhaled, gathering her strength. Her voice rang clear as she rose from her throne.

“Tell Menelaus of Sparta this: Percyon of Aegae will honor his oath. He will come with ships and men, as he has ever come when called by those in need. The sea does not forget its bonds.”

The messenger bowed low, relief flashing across his weary face. “Then Greece shall sail united, my lady. I will carry your words back with haste.”

When he was gone, the courtiers murmured approval — but Euryale’s heart remained heavy. Alone, she let her hands fall into her lap, whispering a prayer into the silence.

“Percyon, protector of Aegae… may the gods guard you, for if they do not, we shall lose more than a prince.”

The waves crashed faintly against the cliffs below, as though answering her.

The great hall of Aegae had emptied. The Spartan messenger had ridden off in triumph, banners snapping in the wind. The queen had withdrawn to her private chambers, her face pale though her voice had been strong.

In the silence that followed, servants lingered in the shadows to clear away the rush mats and extinguish the lamps. One of them — a girl no older than sixteen — paused behind a pillar, her hands full of wilted laurel.

She had heard the name. Percyon.

Her breath caught in her throat. Everyone knew the stories. The Sea Prince who had saved fishermen when pirates came, who had calmed storms so their boats could limp to harbor. She had seen him once, from a distance: dark hair tangled with salt, eyes green as the sea itself, walking the docks like a soldier and a king all at once. The islanders had whispered prayers to him as they would to a god.

And now… now he was called to Troy.

The girl pressed the laurel tighter to her chest, heart hammering. War. A thousand ships, the greatest kings of Greece. She had heard the old women muttering about omens — that this war would be long, that none who sailed would return the same.

“Percyon will fight,” she whispered to herself, hardly believing it. “Our prince… our protector…”

Beside her, an older servant shook her head grimly as she gathered the dishes. “Do not say it so loud, child. If he goes, the sea itself will bleed. Wars that draw in gods are wars no man returns from.”

But the girl lifted her chin stubbornly, her eyes bright with the kind of faith only the young could hold. “He is not just a man.”

The older servant sighed, weary, and blew out the lamp. “Aye. And that is what frightens me most.”

The laurel leaves slipped from the girl’s hands, scattering on the floor like fallen prayers.

The council chamber of Atlantis was restless when Percy arrived. The walls of coral glowed faintly, lit from within by soft currents, but the mood inside was far from calm. Amphitrite stood rigid near the dais, her silver crown gleaming like a blade. Triton leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, his expression stormy. Several island envoys knelt before the throne, their faces tense.

At the center of it all sat Poseidon, heavy-shouldered and silent, watching his son approach.

Percy stopped short, his gut already twisted. He could feel the weight of the room pressing down on him like the deep sea. “What’s going on?”

It was Triton who answered, his tone edged. “The Oath of Tyndareus has been called. Menelaus demands every suitor march to Troy. They’ve named you, little brother.”

The words hit like a spear. Percy blinked, certain he’d misheard. “Me? I don’t wan—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Amphitrite cut in sharply, her voice cold. “Your name was spoken at Sparta. You were counted among them. Menelaus will not accept denial. If you stay, the other kings will call you oath-breaker, and Aegae with you.”

Percy’s fists clenched at his sides. His chest felt hot and heavy all at once. Another war. Another call to fight. He had sworn, after Gaia, after Tartarus, that he was done with all of it. That he would find some kind of peace.

“Then let them call me an oath-breaker,” Percy muttered. “I’m not going. I’m tired of fighting, tired of being shoved into wars that aren’t mine.”

Triton’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. “You think I don’t know that feeling? We’re all tired of fighting, Percyon. But kings don’t care about your tired bones or bleeding heart. They care about oaths and power. If you refuse, Sparta won’t curse only your name. They’ll drag every island you’ve ever sworn to protect into this war as enemies.”

Amphitrite’s eyes flashed like cold steel. “Which is precisely why you will not go. Atlantis does not bow to Sparta. We are the eldest kingdom of the sea. Let mortals tear each other apart — their quarrels are beneath us.”

Percy dragged a hand through his hair, his chest tightening. He hated when she spoke of mortals like they were small, unworthy things. They weren’t. They were fishermen on tiny boats who prayed not to drown. They were islanders who built their homes against the wind. They were Helen, still only nineteen, married to a man twice her age, now stolen into a war she had never chosen.

“No,” Percy said softly, but with iron in his voice. “If I don’t go, they’ll suffer. The islands I swore to protect will suffer. The oath binds them as much as it binds me.”

Amphitrite’s lips curled, sharp as broken shell. “They are not your burden.”

“They are,” Percy shot back, surprising himself with the force of it. “I made them mine the day I calmed their storms and stood between them and raiders. They look to me. They trust me. I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t betray that.”

For a long moment, silence hung thick in the chamber, broken only by the soft hum of the currents flowing through the coral walls.

Poseidon finally stirred, leaning forward on his trident. His voice was deep, weary, but filled with something like pride. “You remind me of myself, long ago. The sea protects, even when it is weary. But hear me, son — this war will not bring you glory. It will bring only grief. If you go, you will carry the weight of blood and ashes.”

Percy met his father’s gaze, his throat tight. He wanted to say no, to say he was finished, to let the whole world burn without him. But Helen’s laughter on the beach flashed in his mind, the way she had clung to his hand when her father forced her to choose. He remembered the fishermen who still whispered prayers to him before they cast their nets.

“Then let me carry it,” Percy said at last, his voice low but steady. “Better me than them.”

Poseidon’s eyes softened, a storm calming for just a breath. Triton muttered something under his breath — half curse, half grudging respect. Amphitrite turned away sharply, her expression unreadable.

And Percy stood there, feeling both heavier and lighter than he had in years. Bound by war once again.

Percy slipped out of the chamber before the courtiers had even stopped whispering, before Amphitrite’s sharp voice could cut him again. The sea-palace of Atlantis was vast, but he knew its quieter halls by now, the ones that opened onto gardens of coral and pearl. He needed space, somewhere the walls didn’t feel so heavy.

He sank down on a ledge of smooth shell beside a garden pool, resting his elbows on his knees. The water shimmered faintly with the glow of drifting lanternfish, but Percy didn’t see it.

Helen’s face haunted him. Not the queen she had grown into, crowned and regal, but the girl he had met on the beaches — laughing, stubborn, sometimes tearful, but always real. And now she was in Troy, pulled from her life and her kingdom, trapped at the side of Paris. No matter how Aphrodite’s magic bound her, Percy knew in his gut Helen had not chosen this.

“I should’ve stopped this,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I promised her once that I’d take her away if she wasn’t safe. And now…” He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. “Now she’s in Troy and I’m sitting here like—like nothing.”

“You think she’d blame you?”

Percy turned. Triton stood just beyond the coral arch, arms folded, his usual sharpness muted. His half-brother crossed the floor and dropped onto the ledge beside him with a grace that was almost casual.

“You were in there, Triton,” Percy said bitterly. “You heard what they said. She’s with Paris, with Aphrodite’s spell choking her. Menelaus is roaring for war, and everyone’s already sharpening their swords. And me? I can’t stop thinking—what if she’s scared? What if she’s waiting for someone to keep their word?”

Triton studied him for a long moment. Then he reached out and gripped Percy’s shoulder, firm enough to ground him. “Then she’s lucky you’re bound to this oath. Because if anyone’s going to fight for her, it should be you.”

Percy huffed a laugh, though it came out more like a choke. “Some protector I am. I can barely keep my own head above water, and now the whole world’s looking to me.”

“You’re not carrying this alone.” Triton’s tone was steady, almost gentle. “Listen. When you march for Troy, I’ll go ahead. Quietly. I’ll see her with my own eyes. I’ll make sure she’s alive and unharmed, and if Paris forgets his place, he’ll learn what it means to anger the sea.”

Percy blinked at him, startled. “You’d do that?”

“For you,” Triton said simply. “And for her. You care too much to sit still. So let me carry some of it.”

Percy let out a shaky breath, the knot in his chest easing just enough to make him feel like he could breathe again. He leaned back, looking up at the rippling light above. “Thanks, Triton. Just… don’t get caught…”

That earned him the faintest smirk. “I’ll be subtle.”

The council chamber was never quiet. Even when no voices spoke, the coral walls seemed to hum with the current that surged through them, the deep-sea murmur of a city that had never once been conquered. But tonight the sound was drowned out by argument, nobles and admirals shouting across the vast shell-carved hall.

“Why should Atlantis bleed for Sparta?” one envoy snapped, his cloak of seal-skin shaking as he gestured. “Their quarrel is over a stolen wife, not our seas.”

“They named Percyon!” another countered, sharp as a spear. “They named him among the suitors. If he stays, he is oath-breaker, and the curse will not fall on him alone. Aegae will burn. And with it, the islands he swore to guard.”

The word curse echoed, rippling unease through the assembly.

On the dais, Amphitrite rose. The silver of her crown glinted like a knife as her voice cut through the noise. “This is folly. Atlantis is eternal. The squabbles of mortals are beneath us. Why should we send our strength into their ruin?”

Percy stood in the center of the hall, his hands clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. He wanted to shout that this wasn’t a squabble, that Helen was no prize but a girl stolen from her life by a coward and a goddess. Instead he forced his voice steady.

“I swore the oath,” Percy said, his throat dry. “All of us who stood in Sparta swore it. Before the gods.”

A hush fell. No one in Greece, mortal or divine, took lightly the breaking of an oath sworn before the gods.

“If I turn away now,” Percy went on, “the gods will brand me an oath-breaker. Menelaus will call me traitor. And Aegae — the island I claimed before the suitors — will suffer for it. They will call its people liars, oath-breakers too. And the other islands that trust me… they’ll fall with it.”

He lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping the room. “They call me Protector of the Isles. But if I don’t go, those same isles will pay the price. Not Sparta. Not Troy. Them.”

Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Admirals glanced at each other uneasily, remembering the raiders Percy had driven back, the storms he had calmed. The Guard of the Deep — twenty men who would follow Percy into Tartarus itself — stood at the edge of the hall, silent but watchful.

“They’ll sail with me,” Percy said, gesturing to them. The Guard straightened, armor gleaming like dark scales. “One ship. It won’t be enough for a war, but it will be enough to honor my oath.”

“Not enough,” the envoy snapped. “If he goes at all, he should go alone. Let him pay for his mortal games with mortal blood.”

Triton moved before Percy could speak. “No. He’s right. One ship will look like mockery to the other kings. They’ll laugh at him, at us, and treat Atlantis as weak. He needs more.” His gaze cut to Poseidon, sharp and sure. “Father?”

The god of the sea finally stirred. For so long he had been silent, trident across his knees, eyes fathomless as the deep. Now he leaned forward, his voice rolling through the chamber like a tide.

“Nine ships of Atlantis will sail with him,” Poseidon declared. “Four score warriors, seasoned and sworn. They will march under his command, not as tribute but as allies. The Guard of the Deep will lead them, and Percyon will stand as their prince.”

Gasps broke across the chamber. Ten ships in total. A thousand men. More than enough to prove Atlantis’s might, more than enough to silence mockery.

Percy’s breath caught. He wanted to protest — to say he didn’t need more men, that one ship, his Guard, was already a family bound by loyalty not fear. But he saw the truth in his father’s eyes. If he arrived at Aulis with too little, he would be dismissed, sneered at by Agamemnon and Odysseus alike. He had to look like a prince, not a boy with borrowed soldiers.

His heart twisted. These men would bleed for him. But they would bleed whether he asked it or not. That was what it meant to bear command.

Poseidon’s gaze softened, the storm in his eyes dimming for a moment. “You are my son. You swore before the gods, and that binds you tighter than chains. But hear me, Percy — you sail with my blessing. You will not stand alone.”

Percy bowed his head, swallowing against the weight in his chest. When he straightened again, his voice was steady. “Then I’ll go. With my Guard. With your men. With Atlantis.”

Triton stepped forward, resting a hand on his shoulder, firm as an anchor. “Make sure you come home,” he said quietly.

Amphitrite’s face was pale as polished shell, her lips tight with disapproval. But she said nothing further. The decision was made.

And Percy — the Protector of the Isles, the prince of Atlantis — knew the sea was carrying him toward Troy.

The training yard of Atlantis was quiet at dusk, the waters glowing faintly with the light of lantern-fish strung in nets overhead. Percy stepped into the ring of coral and sand, his armor left behind, his hands bare. He didn’t want ceremony, not with these men.

Twenty figures waited for him. His Guard.

They straightened as he entered, though more from respect than fear. Percy had fought beside most of them for years now — patrolling storm-tossed islands, chasing raiders from helpless fishermen. They weren’t just soldiers. They were his family.

“Word’s out,” Percy said, his voice carrying in the water-thick air. “You all know. We’re going to war.”

A murmur ran through the ranks, but no one flinched. Percy let his gaze sweep over them, taking in the faces that had become as familiar as his own.

There was Nerieus, broad-shouldered with sea-grey eyes, his voice always carrying like a captain at sea. He had been with Percy the longest, the de facto second-in-command. If Percy was heart, Nerios was spine.

Beside him stood Galene, a quiet, sharp-eyed woman whose arrows never missed. The others called her “Storm’s Daughter,” though she never confirmed or denied the rumor that her grandmother had been a sea-nymph.

Thalos leaned lazily against his spear, all smirk and swagger, a trickster who always had a story ready. He’d once stolen a pirate’s ship with nothing but a rope and a grin. “We follow where you lead, Percy,” he drawled, “even if it’s straight into Hades’ dining hall.”

The Guard chuckled. Percy smiled despite himself.

Then his gaze found Damon, tall and scarred, quiet as stone. He rarely spoke, but when he did, it was like an anchor dropping. He had pulled Percy out of the water once when his powers had faltered, and from that day, Percy had trusted him without question.

Next was Idyia, younger than most, quick and fierce. She had joined only three years ago, but her blade-work was unmatched. She reminded Percy of Thalia sometimes — reckless, bright, determined to prove herself.

And last among the standouts was Kaeneus, the most solemn of them all. Rumors whispered that his line came from the old sea-kings, half-forgotten gods drowned in the flood of ages. He carried himself like it was true, his honor rigid, his loyalty iron.

Percy’s chest tightened as he looked at them — not just these few, but all twenty. Men and women, strong and stubborn, each with sea-water in their blood. They had followed him when he was fifteen and green, and now at twenty they stood ready again, not because Poseidon commanded it, but because Percy asked.

“You don’t have to come,” Percy said, surprising himself. The words just spilled out. “This isn’t like the islands. This isn’t raiders or storms. This is a war. Sparta’s war. The gods’ war. If you follow me now, you may not come home.”

For a long heartbeat, silence. Then Nerios stepped forward, his voice steady. “Home is wherever you are, Prince. We swore ourselves to you, not to safety. If you march, we march.”

“Damn right,” Thalos added, tossing his spear from hand to hand with a grin. “Besides, you think we’d let you have all the fun?”

Galene’s sharp gaze softened, just a fraction. “We are the Guard of the Deep. The waves don’t run from storms. Neither do we.”

One by one, the Guard echoed assent. Damon with a nod, Idyia with a fierce grin, Kaeneus with a solemn bow.

Percy swallowed hard, his throat tight. “All right then,” he said softly. “To Troy.”

The moon hung low over the harbor, casting the ships in silver light. The Guard of the Deep had gathered on the wide stone quay where barrels of supplies were stacked high, ropes coiled neatly for morning departure. The air smelled of salt, tar, and the faint sweetness of wine someone had smuggled down from the feast hall.

They lounged in a circle, armor set aside, most with cloaks thrown over their shoulders. Someone — probably Thalos — had started a fire in a brazier, and now its warmth flickered across their faces.

Nerieus sat directly across from Percy, broad-shouldered, calm as ever. His sea-grey eyes seemed to hold the tide itself, steady and unshakable. Percy found himself watching him more than he meant to.

Thalos leaned back, balancing on his crate with a grin. “If we’re telling stories tonight, we’ve got to start with Neri. Otherwise he’ll glower all night and spoil the wine.”

Laughter rippled through the circle. Nerieus only raised an eyebrow. “You think I glower?”

“You brood,” Galene corrected dryly, her bow propped against her shoulder. “Like a storm cloud waiting to break.”

Percy hid a smile. “They’re right, you know. You’ve been my second since I was sixteen, and I’m still not sure if you’ve ever actually laughed.”

That got a rumble of laughter from the Guard. Even Damon, usually stone-faced, cracked a rare smile.

Nerieus folded his arms, unbothered. “I’ll laugh when one of you is actually funny.”

“Oh, now it’s a challenge,” Thalos crowed, already digging for another joke.

But Percy leaned forward, letting the firelight catch his face. “Nery,” he said softly, the nickname slipping out as easily as breathing. “Remember Delos?”

The mood shifted. Heads turned. A few of the younger Guard glanced at one another — some hadn’t been there, but the veterans had.

Percy saw it clear as day: the night when raiders had swarmed the island, fire arrows raining down, the tide crashing against their hull. He’d been trying to hold back the sea with his power, walls of water rising and shattering again, his strength slipping. He’d thought he was going to drown them all.

“It was Nery who kept us alive that night,” Percy said. His voice was steady, but it pulled something tight in his chest. “I was falling apart. Couldn’t hold the sea, couldn’t think. And then you—” He looked at Nerieus directly. “You put your hand on my shoulder. Told me we’d hold.”

A murmur of agreement swept through the Guard. Galene nodded once, her sharp eyes softening. Idyia leaned forward, chin in her hand, eager. “I remember,” she said. “You pulled us together, Neri. Every order was clear. Every line held. If not for you, we’d have lost the whole island.”

Nerieus’s face didn’t change, but Percy saw the faintest flicker of discomfort in his eyes. “You’re exaggerating.”

“No,” Damon said flatly. His voice, when it came, was gravel and certainty. “You saved us. That’s truth.”

Silence followed his words. Then Thalos slapped his knee and ruined it with a grin. “And here I thought the truth was that Nery was born with seawater in his veins and a spear up his—”

The rest of his sentence vanished in laughter, Galene tossing a bit of bread at him, Idyia rolling her eyes, Kaeneus muttering about “undignified clowns.”

But Percy didn’t laugh. He just sat there in the circle, watching his second-in-command with quiet pride.

“Nery,” he said again, softer this time, only for the man across the fire. “Always.”

For just a heartbeat, Nerieus smiled. It was small, almost hidden, but Percy saw it. And he knew then that no matter what Troy threw at them, Nery would be there — the steady tide that never broke.

The brazier fire had burned lower, crackling soft as sparks popped against the night. Someone passed around a skin of wine, cheap stuff from the docks, but no one cared. They drank, laughed, nudged each other with elbows. The weight of Troy pressed on them, but for now, they pretended it didn’t.

Thalos stretched out full length on a crate, arms behind his head, a grin plastered across his face. His spear lay beside him like an afterthought. He was handsome in the roguish way that made Percy roll his eyes: sun-dark skin, quick smile, hair tied carelessly with a leather cord.

“You’re all telling the wrong stories,” Thalos declared, as if he hadn’t been the one to start the last round. “Forget Delos, forget storms. Let’s talk about the night I stole a pirate ship out from under thirty men with nothing but a rope and my charm.”

Groans rose around the circle.

“Here we go,” Galene muttered, adjusting her bowstring.

“Gods, not this one again,” Idyia laughed, throwing a pebble at him. “You’ve told it so many times, it’s longer than-“

Thalos began, sitting up with dramatic flair. “There I was, alone, unarmed—”

“—and drunk,” Damon cut in dryly.

The Guard roared with laughter. Percy nearly choked on his sip of wine. “He’s not wrong.”

Thalos pressed a hand to his chest as though wounded. “Do none of you believe in my legendary courage?”

“Not when you exaggerate it,” Kaeneus rumbled, his tone heavy as stone.

“Exaggerate?” Thalos leapt to his feet, pacing with a showman’s flourish. “Fine, fine. You want the real story? Picture it: a moonless night. Pirate scum anchored off Naxos, thinking they’re kings of the sea. Their torches burn, their laughter carries. Who dares oppose them? Who slips aboard, silent as shadow, rope in hand?” He paused, flashing teeth. “Thalos.”

“Silent as shadow?” Galene snorted. “You tripped over the anchor chain and woke half the crew.”

“That’s a lie,” Thalos said cheerfully. “I sang to distract them. A brilliant tactic, really.”

Percy shook his head, grinning despite himself. He remembered it well — Thalos creeping aboard, tying the rudder fast, cutting the sails free, while the rest of them waited in disbelief on the shore. And then, impossibly, he’d sailed the whole ship straight back into their hands, laughing like a man possessed.

“You should’ve seen their faces,” Percy said, chuckling. “Thirty pirates, stumbling on deck in their smallclothes, screaming as their ship drifted off without them. I thought I’d die laughing.”

“There!” Thalos pointed triumphantly. “Even the Prince of the Sea remembers my genius.”

“Genius,” Damon repeated flatly.

“Reckless idiocy,” Kaeneus corrected.

“Effective idiocy,” Percy added, raising his cup.

That broke the circle again, laughter spilling out into the night. Thalos bowed dramatically, basking in the chaos he’d created, and flopped back onto his crate with a satisfied sigh.

For all his bluster, Percy knew the truth: Thalos might be a fool, but he was their fool.

The laughter from Thalos’s story still echoed faintly across the quay, but as the wine skin passed to Galene, the mood shifted. She took it without a smile, her storm-grey eyes fixed on the fire. She sipped, then set it aside, hands folding over her knees.

It was Idyia who broke the silence, voice warm with memory. “Remember Paros?” she asked. “The night the slavers came.”

The circle quieted. Even Thalos stopped mid-grin.

Percy felt the memory rush back — the sound of oars in the dark, the hiss of torches being smothered, the whispered cries of children stolen from their beds. The air had smelled of fear and smoke. And above it all, Galene had climbed the cliffs.

Damon nodded slowly. “They never stood a chance.”

Galene’s gaze stayed fixed on the fire. “They weren’t worth the arrows,” she said softly. “But the children were.”

Percy swallowed, his throat tight. “You shot every torch,” he said. “In the dark. One after another. I couldn’t even see my own hand in front of my face, and you—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you did it.”

“She’s not human,” Thalos muttered, though there was no mockery in it this time. “She’s storm-born.”

Galene finally looked up, and the firelight caught her eyes — grey, unblinking, as if lightning lived behind them. “Aim small,” she said simply. “Miss nothing.”

Silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Around the circle, each of them remembered the mothers crying with relief, the children clinging to their arms, the captured slavers kneeling in the sand at dawn.

Idyia’s voice was softer now. “You saved them, Galene. All of them. Without you—” She cut herself off, but the weight of the words lingered.

Galene only shrugged, reaching for her bow and running her fingers along the string. “It was nothing.”

“It was everything,” Percy said firmly.

Her eyes flicked to him. For a heartbeat, the corners of her mouth twitched, almost a smile. Then she looked away again, pretending she hadn’t heard.

The fire cracked. The sea murmured against the quay. And in that quiet, Percy thought: if he ever had to trust someone with his life at distance, if he ever needed one shot in the dark to keep the world from falling apart—he would always trust Galene.

The brazier hissed as Galene tossed a splinter into the coals, and for a while, silence hung over the circle. Then Thalos clapped his hands suddenly, as if shaking off the weight. “Enough gloom. Let’s talk about the time someone tried to out-stare a volcano.”

All eyes swung toward Idyia.

Her head snapped up, dark braid swinging over her shoulder, eyes flashing like sparks. “I didn’t stare at it,” she snapped. “I ran into it.”

“Even worse,” Damon muttered.

The Guard burst into laughter. Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods above, Idyia. I thought my heart was going to stop. Lava’s pouring down the hillside, villagers screaming, me half-blinded by smoke—and there you go, charging in like a madwoman.”

“They needed saving,” Idyia shot back, crossing her arms. “And you were too busy trying to stop the mountain with your bare hands, Percy. What was I supposed to do? Let children die?”

“She has a point,” Galene murmured.

Percy groaned. “You don’t have to agree with her!”

Idyia leaned forward, grin wide and wicked now. “Besides, I got every last one of those children out, didn’t I? Not a scratch on them. Can you say the same, Percy? Or should I show everyone those burn scars on your arms?”

The circle howled with laughter. Percy felt his face heat but couldn’t help laughing, too. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“Impossibly stylish,” Idyia corrected, flipping her braid over her shoulder with exaggerated grace.

“Impossibly reckless,” Kaeneus rumbled.

“Impossibly Idyia,” Thalos added, raising his cup.

She snatched the cup from him, took a swig, and smirked. “That’s right. And you’d all be lost without me.”

The Guard erupted again, jeering and agreeing in equal measure. Percy just shook his head, but beneath the exasperation, pride swelled in his chest. Idyia might be reckless, loud, and utterly impossible—but she had a fire that never went out.

And gods, he was glad she was his.

The laughter from Idyia’s boast lingered in the air, but slowly, it softened, leaving only the crackle of the brazier and the murmur of the tide against the stone quay. Cups passed hand to hand.

Damon hadn’t spoken in a long while. He sat slightly apart, massive arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable in the firelight. A man carved from storm-swept rock — unyielding, silent, always watching.

Percy studied him, then cleared his throat. “You remember the Aegean storm,” he said quietly.

The circle stilled.

Percy could taste the salt on his tongue even now. The black waves had towered higher than the mast, the rain had come like knives, the thunder drowning out his own voice as he fought to hold the sea back. His power had faltered, breaking against the storm like glass. He’d gone under, water choking his lungs, the pull of the depths wrapping him tight. He had forgotten what it was like to have no power over the sea. Utterly small and helpless.

And then—

“Damon pulled you out,” Neri finished, his voice steady but low.

Percy nodded. “Dragged me back onto the deck when I’d given up. I thought I was gone. You didn’t even hesitate.”

All eyes turned toward Damon.

He shifted slightly, uncomfortable under the weight of attention. “You’re our prince our captain,” he said, voice rough as stone. “My duty is clear.”

Percy shook his head, leaning forward. “No. It wasn’t duty. You could’ve been swept away with me. You should’ve tied a rope, called for help—anything. But you didn’t. You just—” His throat tightened. “You didn’t let go.”

For a moment, the fire seemed louder than their breathing. Even Thalos didn’t dare joke.

Idyia broke the silence first, voice soft. “That’s Damon. Doesn’t say much, but when it counts—”

“He holds,” Galene finished.

Percy’s gaze stayed on him. “I wouldn’t be here without you. None of us would. You’re the anchor that keeps us steady.”

Damon finally looked at him, sea-dark eyes unflinching. He gave the smallest nod, a silent acknowledgment, then turned his gaze back to the fire.

The fire had burned low, glowing coals casting long shadows. Around the circle, the Guard were quieter now, their laughter and boasting spent, the air heavy with the bond of shared memory.

Kaeneus sat like a carved statue, broad shoulders squared, hands resting easily on his knees. In the flicker of firelight, the scar down his cheek looked like a chiseled line in stone.

It was Galene who broke the silence. “Thera,” she said softly.

The name alone drew a hush. Even Thalos stopped fidgeting.

Percy felt it like a weight on his chest. The temple ruins had been crawling with raiders when the earth had split, the sea dragging them down into churning black. The screams had lingered, twisted with rage and terror, and when the Guard reached the site, the air had been thick with ghosts.

“They were clawing at us,” Idyia murmured. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Kaeneus shifted only slightly, eyes fixed on the coals. His voice was low, steady, unyielding. “The dead rage when they’re forgotten. We gave them weight. We gave them honor. That is why they yielded.”

Percy swallowed, remembering the sight of Kaeneus planting his spear in the shifting ground, unmoving as the wraiths circled. Where Percy’s powers had lashed wild and the others had faltered, Kaeneus had simply stood — immovable, unshaken — and by standing, he had reminded them all that they could too.

“You held us together that night,” Percy said quietly. “When I thought we’d break apart, you didn’t move. That’s who you are, Kaeneus. Our foundation.”

Kaeneus didn’t look at him, only inclined his head. “And you are our reason.”

The words landed heavy. Percy blinked, startled.

Nery’s voice followed, calm but firm. “He speaks truth. We are the Guard of the Deep, yes, but we exist because of you, Percy. Not Poseidon. Not Atlantis. You.”

Percy’s chest tightened. He opened his mouth, but Idyia cut across him, eyes fierce. “Who dives first when the storm swallows ships? Who holds the line when the tide turns? Who never lets one of us fall behind? You.”

Galene’s voice was quieter, but no less certain. “When the children cry, you’re the first to kneel beside them. When the wounded falter, you’re the one who carries them home.”

Thalos grinned, but there was no teasing in it this time. “And when we’re outnumbered five to one, who throws himself in first, grinning like a madman? That’d be you, Prince.”

Even Damon spoke, voice gravel and stone. “You are the first to fight. And the last to give up.”

The fire crackled. Percy sat frozen, the weight of their words pressing harder than any battle wound. His throat felt raw.

“You think you’re just our captain,” Nery finished, eyes steady. “But you’re our heart. Our reason to fight. Our prince.”

Percy shook his head, but the heat behind his eyes betrayed him. He wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, to say he wasn’t what they thought. But looking around the circle — at the faces lit by embers, at the loyalty etched into every line of them — he couldn’t.

His voice was low, rough. “Then I promise you this. At Troy, or wherever else fate drags us, I’ll fight for you as you fight for me. And I’ll bring you all home.”

A murmur of assent swept the circle, a vow in itself. The Guard of the Deep sat a little taller, the coals glowing bright in their eyes.

For the first time that night, Percy felt it settle in his chest like the tide coming to rest on the shore: unshakable, undeniable.

He wasn’t just Poseidon’s son. He was their leader, their prince,… their heart as much as they were his. He wouldn’t falter, he wouldn’t drown and he would protect what was his.

The palace of Atlantis had never felt so heavy. The great coral arches glowed faintly in the sea-light, fish darting through the glass channels overhead, but tonight there was no music, no bustle. Just silence.

Percy stood at the foot of the throne dais, armored in bronze that gleamed like sunlight on water. The Guard of the Deep waited beyond the gates, their ships stocked and ready, but here — in this hall — he was not a commander. He was only a son.

Poseidon descended the steps slowly, his trident a shadow at his side. His hair was storm-tossed, his eyes the dark green of the deep. Yet when he reached Percy, he did not look like a god of earthquakes. He looked like a father. He put a calloused hand on Percy’s shoulder.

“My son,” he said, voice low with a weight Percy had only heard a few times. “I cannot walk this path for you. The gods swore — we are forbidden from intervening in the war of mortals. If I break that oath, Zeus himself will turn on me, and the sea will burn.”

Percy swallowed, throat tight. “So you won’t help me.”

Poseidon’s gaze softened. “Not unless you call me. If you need me, if the tide turns and you have no other choice — I will come. Even if it costs me Zeus’s wrath. You are my child. That will always matter more.”

Percy blinked fast, the edges of his vision blurring.

Amphitrite moved forward then, her robes flowing like foam over stone. She cupped Percy’s face in both hands, tilting his head as if he were still small. “You don’t have to go, my heart,” she whispered. “You’ve given enough. You’ve fought enough. No one in Atlantis would think less of you if you stayed.”

Her touch was cool and soothing, and for a moment Percy wanted nothing more than to lean into it, to let her words sink in. To stay. To stop fighting.

But Triton clapped him on the back, grinning wide though his eyes shone with the same grief. “You’d never forgive yourself, little brother. Not with Helen stolen. Not with the islands crying out. It’s who you are. You fight for the ones who can’t.”

Percy managed a shaky laugh. “You make me sound like a hero.”

“You are,” Triton said simply.

Amphitrite’s hand lingered at his cheek. “But even heroes are allowed to rest, Percy. Remember that. You may always come home.”

Poseidon’s voice rumbled, deep and fierce. “Yes. Whether you bring glory or ashes, whether the Greeks call you savior or traitor — the sea will still be yours. Atlantis will still be yours. You will still be ours.”

Percy bowed his head, overcome, and for a long moment they simply stood together — father, mother, son, and brother, bound tighter than oaths of war.

Finally, Percy straightened, wiping quickly at his eyes. His voice was steadier than he felt. “Then I’ll go. For the islands… for Helen!”

Poseidon’s hand squeezed his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, before he released him. Amphitrite kissed his brow. Triton pulled him into a crushing hug that rattled his ribs.

And then Percy turned toward the gates, where the Guard of the Deep waited, their ships ready to sail.

He didn’t look back. Not because he didn’t want to — but because he knew if he did, he might never leave.

The morning of their departure dawned silver-blue, the sea calm as polished glass. Atlantis had never looked so alive — its great towers of coral gleamed in the light, banners of deep green and gold streamed from the spires, and the people crowded the terraces to watch their prince lead men to war.

At the edge of the outer harbor, ten ships waited, sleek and deadly, their prows carved into the shapes of dolphins and sea-serpents. Percy’s own flagship sat at the center, its sails embroidered with the crest of Atlantis: a trident flanked by two curling waves. Around it, the nine other ships gleamed, Poseidon’s gift to his son, each bearing a hundred warriors. Together, one thousand men — the largest host Atlantis had ever sent to aid mortal kin.

The Guard of the Deep stood at the quay beside Percy, armored in sea-bronze that caught the morning light like fire. They looked different now, not simply his companions at the fire, but his captains — the trusted voices who would guide his fleet.

Nery, his second, adjusted the strap across his chest, calm as ever. His voice carried just enough to be heard. “Winds are steady, tides are with us.”

Percy nodded, comforted by the steady assurance in his tone. “Then we’ll sail with the morning sun.”

Thalos grinned, leaning on his spear. “Finally. Enough sitting around polishing armor. Let’s see if Troy’s walls are as tall as the stories say.”

“Or as tall as your pride,” Idyia shot back, rolling her eyes. She tightened the strap on her bow, fire in her gaze. “Don’t get too eager. It’s not glory we’re after — it’s Helen.”

Galene stood nearby, bow slung over her shoulder, her storm-grey eyes fixed on the horizon. “We’ll need to watch for raiders. The sea will not stay calm forever.”

“Then let it rage,” Damon rumbled. His massive arms flexed as he hoisted a shield onto his back. “We’ll hold.”

Kaeneus planted the butt of his spear into the stone quay with a heavy thunk. “We will not only hold. We will return. Every one of us.”

Their words settled into Percy’s chest like anchors. He turned to face the thousand men gathered on the ships and along the quay. Their shields glimmered, their spears lifted, a forest of bronze and determination. Some were mortal men from the islands he had sworn to protect, others Atlanteans — distant children of the sea gods who looked like mortals but carried strength in their blood.

Percy drew in a deep breath and stepped forward. His voice carried over the waves, firm and clear.

“Men of Atlantis. Allies of the Isles. Today we sail not for conquest, nor for glory, but for justice. Helen of Sparta, queen and friend, has been stolen by deceit and by force. We sail to honor the oaths sworn before the gods, and to show that the sea does not abandon those under its care.”

A cheer rose, rolling like thunder across the harbor.

He raised his sword high, bronze flashing in the light. “I swear to you — as long as I stand, I will fight beside you. As long as I breathe, I will not leave you behind. Together we are the tide, and together we will crash upon Troy’s shores!”

The roar that answered him shook the very waves. Men stamped their spears against the decks, captains raised banners, and the thousand voices of his fleet echoed off the coral towers.

Nery leaned in, his voice low but steady. “They believe in you.”

Percy swallowed hard, the weight of their faith pressing heavy in his chest. “Then I’ll give them reason to keep believing.”

Triton was watching from the seawall, arms crossed, pride written in every line of his face. Amphitrite stood beside him, her hands clasped tight, while Poseidon himself loomed further back, his gaze unreadable, a storm contained. Percy didn’t need words to know what they felt.

With a sharp gesture, Percy signaled. Ropes were cast off, sails unfurled. The ships caught the morning wind, oars dipping in perfect rhythm.

As his flagship glided from the harbor, Percy stood tall at the prow, his Guard beside him, the trident crest snapping overhead. The cheers of Atlantis echoed until the open sea swallowed them whole.

They were ten ships, one thousand men.
And at their heart, Percy — captain, prince, son of the sea.

He felt the weight of destiny pressing close, and yet… the pride in his Guard, the loyalty in his men, the steady beat of the oars in the water — it steadied him.

For Helen. For the islands. For Atlantis.
He would not fail.

Chapter Text

The hall of Mycenae smelled of bronze and smoke. Torches licked shadows across the carved lions above the gates, their stone jaws set in eternal snarl. Below, the army of Mycenae filled the courtyard — a forest of spears and shields, the clang of smiths finishing last-minute armor echoing against the citadel walls. War was being born here.

Agamemnon stood above it all on the dais of his father’s hall, tall and broad-shouldered, a crown of beaten gold gleaming on his brow. In one hand he held a staff carved with a lion’s head; in the other, the letter from Sparta, sealed with the mark of his brother’s grief.

“Stolen,” Agamemnon said, his voice carrying. “Our Helen, queen of Sparta. Taken by a boy from Troy.” He crumpled the letter in his fist and tossed it into the brazier. The parchment curled, flames licking it away. “Menelaus, my brother, you are wronged — but more than that, all Greece is wronged.”

At his side, Menelaus’s knuckles were white against his sword hilt. His face was flushed with rage, his red-gold hair tangled from sleepless nights. “She was mine. My wife. My queen.” His voice cracked, half fury, half anguish. “And they stole her like cattle. Like spoils from a raid.”

He looked more like a grieving husband than a king. But Agamemnon had no use for grief. He saw the opportunity gleaming beyond his brother’s sorrow.

“The Oath of Tyndareus binds them,” Agamemnon said smoothly, letting his gaze sweep the assembled captains and heralds. “Every king who sought her hand. Every lord who swore to defend her marriage. They must come. They cannot refuse. And who will lead them?” His voice rang louder, echoing off the hall’s high stone vaults. “Who but Mycenae?”

The captains roared their approval, shields striking against the stone floor. The sound was thunder in Agamemnon’s veins. He could already see it: fleets gathered at his command, spears like a silver tide crashing upon Troy’s walls.

Menelaus turned toward him, jaw tight. “This is not about empire, brother. This is about Helen.” His voice cracked again, softer now, his grief slipping past his fury. “She is mine. I will bring her home.”

Agamemnon’s smile was tight, controlled. “Of course, Menelaus. For Helen. For Sparta.”

But in his mind, he thought only of power — of Troy brought low, of Mycenae’s name carved into the world as the heart of Greece. His brother’s fury was useful, but it was only fuel for a greater fire.

“Ready the ships!” he barked to the heralds. “Ten thousand men from Mycenae, five thousand from Sparta. We sail for Aulis within the month. Let the other kings follow our lead — or be shamed before the gods!”

The hall erupted in cheers. Menelaus’s jaw clenched, his grief swallowed by the roar of war-drum voices.

Agamemnon lifted his staff high, the lion’s head catching the firelight. In that moment he looked every inch a king — not of Mycenae alone, but of all Greece.

And in the shadows behind him, Menelaus whispered his wife’s name again like a prayer, unheard by the men already shouting for war.

The sea at Ithaca was calm that morning, a rare kindness. Its waves lapped the pebbled shore in a slow, steady rhythm, as if the island itself were reluctant to let its king go. The ships stood ready — dark hulls pulled up on the sand, sails furled, warriors already loading provisions in orderly lines.

Penelope stood a little apart, the infant Telemachus heavy in her arms. The boy’s tiny hand curled in her hair, tugging softly as if he knew something was wrong. She pressed her cheek against his crown of dark curls and tried not to let the salt on her lips be mistaken for tears.

Odysseus was everywhere at once — speaking with the helmsman about winds, counting amphorae of wine, testing ropes and knots with his clever hands. He had prepared for weeks with his usual meticulous care, no detail overlooked. Yet the more he planned, the more her heart clenched, for she knew this order was only a mask for fear.

At last, he came to her, his hands smelling of tar and salt, his face tired but still sharp-eyed. He brushed Telemachus’s cheek with the back of one calloused finger. “He’ll be walking by the time I return,” Odysseus said softly.

Penelope gave him a look — she was not one to let sweet words cover harsh truths. “If you return.”

His smile faltered for a heartbeat, then returned, more wry than before. “If. You always were the honest one.” He reached out and cupped her chin, tilting her face up so their eyes met. “But I swore an oath, Penelope. If I do not go, Sparta burns, and with it Ithaca will follow. I cannot break it.”

“I know,” she whispered, her voice rough. “But knowing does not make it easier.”

Telemachus let out a small cry, reaching for his father. Odysseus gathered him into his arms, holding him close. For a long moment, the warlord melted away, and there was only a man, a father, cradling his son with a tenderness that nearly undid her.

When he passed the boy back to her, his gaze lingered, softer now. “Keep the hearth burning. Teach him to be clever. If I am not here to see him grow, let him know his father loved him.”

Penelope swallowed hard. “Do not speak as if you will not come back.”

Odysseus leaned in then, pressing his forehead against hers. “Then I will make you a promise. No matter how long the road, no matter what seas I cross, I will return to you. To Ithaca. To home.”

For the first time that morning, her tears broke free. She kissed him, not gently but desperately, as if she could bind him to her with that single act. He kissed her back with the same urgency, tasting of salt and sorrow.

When they parted, he smiled faintly. “And now I must go, before my heart betrays my head.”

She watched as he strode to the waiting ships, the men greeting him with cheers. Sails unfurled, oars struck the water, and the fleet began to pull away from the shore.

Penelope stood barefoot in the sand, Telemachus clinging to her dress, and whispered into the rising wind: “Come back to me, Odysseus.”

The plain outside Phthia rang with the clash of bronze. Spears thudded against shields, dust rose in choking clouds, and the black-armored Myrmidons moved as one, a tide of discipline and fury.

Patroclus stood at the edge of the training ground, his spear braced in his hand, his chest heaving from the last bout. Sweat streaked his brow, dripping into the curls of his hair, but his eyes were fixed on the figure at the center of the field.

Achilles.

He was tireless, golden in the afternoon sun, his hair glinting like a halo as he spun and struck. Shield raised, sword flashing, he moved with the grace of a dancer and the fury of a storm. The men he sparred with fell one after another, until none dared to face him again. A laugh broke from his lips, bright and fearless, as if war itself were nothing more than a game.

“Come now!” Achilles called, his voice carrying. “Is there no one left who wishes to taste glory?”

The Myrmidons cheered him, their voices a wave of devotion. They loved him as men loved a god, and Patroclus could see why — he was beautiful, radiant, unbreakable. And yet, to Patroclus, he was also terrifying, for he could not forget the words whispered long ago: If you sail to Troy, your life will be short.

Patroclus stepped forward, lifting his own spear. “Then face me, if you dare.”

Achilles’s grin widened. “At last! My love finds his courage.”

They circled each other, the men chanting their names. Patroclus struck first, a swift jab at Achilles’s ribs, but the other boy was faster, always faster, his shield flashing up to knock the blow aside. They moved in a rhythm older than either of them, trained from boyhood — strike, block, retreat, advance.

Dust clung to Patroclus’s sweat-slick skin, his breath burning in his throat. He pushed harder, forcing Achilles back step by step, but always it turned, always Achilles slipped away, laughing, radiant.

Finally, Achilles lunged, his spear knocking Patroclus’s from his grip. The butt of his shield pressed against Patroclus’s chest, sending him stumbling into the dirt.

The Myrmidons erupted in cheers. Achilles stood above him, laughing, sunlight burning in his hair. “Not bad,” he said, lowering a hand. “For someone who looks as if he might faint from the heat.”

Patroclus scowled, but he took the offered hand, letting Achilles haul him up. Their palms lingered against each other’s, warm and steady. “One day I’ll beat you.”

“Perhaps,” Achilles said with mock solemnity. “But only when I am very, very old.”

The men laughed, but Patroclus did not join them. He looked at Achilles — the boy who could not be wounded, the boy doomed by prophecy — and felt his heart twist. For he loved him more fiercely than life itself, and it terrified him to know that one day that life would be cut short.

Achilles, noticing his gaze, leaned close enough that only he could hear. “Do not look at me so, beloved. We have time yet. Come — the men need to see their captains strong.”

Patroclus swallowed the ache in his throat, nodded, and let Achilles lead him back to the Myrmidons. The men roared their approval, their voices carrying across the fields of Phthia.

But as the sun dipped lower, Patroclus’s eyes lingered on the horizon, where the road to Aulis — and to Troy — awaited.

The harbor of Atlantis was alive with noise and light. Ten black-prowed ships bobbed against the tide, their sails furled, their decks lined with warriors. Each vessel gleamed with bronze fittings and carvings of sea-serpents, gifts from Poseidon himself, and yet the men who filled them looked only to one figure: their captain.

Percy stood on the prow of his flagship, the salt wind whipping his dark hair across his face. He wore armor light enough for speed, bronze chased with blue-green enamel that shimmered like scales when the sun struck it. At his back, the Guard of the Deep assembled — twenty men who had fought beside him for years, the fiercest and most loyal Atlanteans alive.

“Signal the sails,” Nerieus called from the helm, steady and sure, his voice carrying over the surf. The men answered at once, ropes creaking as canvas unfurled. Galene barked orders along the rigging, quick and sharp, while Damon prowled the deck to make sure every spear and shield was in its place. Idyia tested her bowstring with a low hum, her keen eyes already watching the horizon. Thalos leaned on his spear, grinning like battle was a feast.

Percy’s chest tightened. These were not just soldiers. They were family.

The conch sounded — a deep, mournful call that echoed across the bay. From the docks, Amphitrite raised a hand in farewell, Triton standing tall beside her. Poseidon was nowhere to be seen, but Percy could feel him in the waves, in the pulse of the sea beneath their keels.

“Captain?” Nerieus asked softly, eyes flicking toward him.

Percy drew in a breath, tasting salt. “Set course for Aulis.”

The fleet stirred to life. Oars dipped in perfect rhythm, the sails snapped taut, and the ships slid from the safety of Atlantis into the vastness of the Aegean.

For a time, the sea was calm, the men singing low hymns to keep their strokes steady. Percy stood at the prow, letting the water whisper to him. He could feel its moods, its currents, its shifting winds. It was alive, and it answered him.

But the sea was rarely quiet for long. Clouds gathered on the horizon, dark and heavy. The wind sharpened, tugging at the sails. Nerieus shouted, “Storm!”

Percy lifted a hand. “Steady! Hold your lines!” His voice rang clear, and the Guard moved as one. Galene lashed ropes down, Damon barked at the oarsmen to keep rhythm, Thalos threw his weight against the mast, laughing in the face of the gale.

The storm hit hard, waves crashing against the hulls, spray stinging their eyes. Percy closed his own and reached deep — into the wild pull of the sea, into the blood of his father that sang within him. Calm, he whispered. Steady.

The waves obeyed. The gale lessened, breaking around their fleet like a hand parting water. The ships steadied, gliding forward, their prows cutting through the swell.

When the skies cleared, the men cheered, voices carrying over the water. Percy let them have their moment, though his shoulders ached from the effort of command. He was proud, but he was tired too.

Night fell, torches flickering on the decks. The Guard gathered around Percy, eating from shared platters, their laughter rolling loud as the sea itself. But Percy sat a little apart, watching the stars wheel above.

He thought of Helen, somewhere far to the north, torn from her home. He thought of the oath in Sparta, the weight of it pressing heavy against his chest. He thought of how young he still was, and how many lives would soon be placed in his hands.

Thalos threw him a grin. “Brooding again, Captain?”

Percy smirked faintly. “Somebody has to.”

The laughter swelled again, warm and rough. And for a moment, Percy let himself smile.

Tomorrow, there would be more storms. Tomorrow, there would be blood. But tonight, he was not alone.

The campfires of the Myrmidons burned low, embers glowing red beneath the dark sky. The men had eaten their fill and fallen into heavy sleep, sprawled across bedrolls with armor stacked nearby. Only the sound of the sea and the occasional crackle of flame broke the silence.

Inside their tent, Achilles lay sprawled across the furs like a lion in repose, golden hair loose around his shoulders, skin still flushed from the day’s training. He was perfect in the way only he could be — careless, beautiful, untouchable.

Patroclus sat beside him, cleaning a cut on his own arm from earlier sparring. It was shallow, nothing serious, but Achilles still frowned when he saw it. “You should have told me,” he murmured, reaching to take the cloth from Patroclus’s hand. “I’d have bound it for you.”

“It’s barely a scratch,” Patroclus said, but he let Achilles fuss, let him press the cloth gently to his skin, let him blow softly against the sting as if that could soothe it.

For a moment they were only that: two boys, not soldiers, not bound by oaths or prophecies. Just Achilles and Patroclus, the world small and safe around them.

But Patroclus couldn’t keep the words back forever. He never could, not when the weight of them pressed against his ribs. “You don’t have to go,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the bandage Achilles was tying. “The oath doesn’t bind you. It binds me. Stay here, in Phthia. Let me go alone.”

Achilles stilled. Then he looked up, sea-green eyes sharp in the lamplight. “You would march into war without me?”

Patroclus’s throat tightened. “I would keep you alive.”

Silence stretched between them, thick as the night. Achilles set the cloth aside and cupped Patroclus’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. His gaze was fierce, unyielding. “What life would I have without you? If you go, I go. Always.”

Patroclus wanted to argue, but the words broke in his chest. He leaned forward instead, pressing his forehead to Achilles’s, his breath shaky. “You’ll die there. The prophecy says so.”

“Then I’ll die with you in my arms, not left behind in comfort while you fall.”

Patroclus’s tears spilled, hot against Achilles’s skin. But Achilles kissed them away, slow and reverent, until Patroclus’s sobs softened into sighs. Their mouths met again, deeper this time, a kiss full of desperation and devotion, their hands clutching each other as if they could anchor themselves against fate.

They shed their tunics and furs in silence, moving together in practiced rhythm, not with hunger but with aching tenderness. Achilles kissed every scar Patroclus bore, every mark left by training or accident, as though to memorize him. Patroclus traced the lines of Achilles’s shoulders, the curve of his spine, the softness that belied the warrior.

When at last they lay tangled in each other, their skin damp and their breaths slowing, Patroclus rested his head on Achilles’s chest. The steady beat of his heart was the sweetest sound he knew. He wanted to bottle it, to keep it forever.

Achilles stroked his hair absently, voice a low murmur. “I would rather live one short life with you than a thousand years without.”

Patroclus closed his eyes, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. He did not answer, because his throat would not let him. He only held Achilles tighter, as if he could hold back the future with his arms alone.

The sun was barely cresting over the ridges of the sea when Patroclus tried to sit up — and promptly fell back with a groan. His thighs ached, his hips protested, and his entire body hummed with the aftermath of the night before.

From where he was stretching near the tent flap, Achilles glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “What’s this? My fearless shadow brought low by nothing more than love?”

Patroclus covered his face with an arm, mortified. “Don’t you dare.”

Achilles padded over, hair shining gold in the morning light, grin wicked. He crouched beside the furs and leaned in until his breath ghosted Patroclus’s ear. “Shall I remind you who begged for it again and again?”

Patroclus shoved at him weakly, heat rising to his cheeks. “I hate you.”

“You love me.” Achilles kissed the corner of his mouth before he could argue. Then, with no warning, he scooped Patroclus into his arms as though he weighed nothing.

“Achilles!” Patroclus yelped, clutching at his shoulders. “Put me down!”

“Never,” Achilles said, grinning like a boy with a secret. He carried him straight out of the tent and into the heart of the camp.

The Myrmidons, busy with drills and sharpening blades, froze. Their warlord — their golden leader, the son of a goddess — was carrying another man bridal-style across the camp. And not just any man: Patroclus, flushed and protesting, his face buried against Achilles’s neck.

A stunned silence held for a heartbeat. Then someone snickered.

“Well, now we know who commands our commander!” one soldier called. Laughter rippled through the ranks.

Achilles only smirked, adjusting his grip so Patroclus was even closer. “You should all be so lucky to serve a master as beautiful as mine.”

Patroclus groaned into his shoulder. “You are insufferable.”

But Achilles didn’t set him down. He carried him to the mess line, where the servants gawked openly as Achilles — Achilles, who could kill a man in a blink — fetched bread, figs, and cheese onto a plate and then held it out for Patroclus as if he were some pampered lord.

By then, the laughter had turned into cheers and whistles. A few of the older Myrmidons, who had seen their bond since boyhood, only exchanged knowing looks. One muttered, “About time he stopped pretending the boy’s just his shadow.”

Patroclus wanted the earth to swallow him whole. But when Achilles settled him gently on a bench, crouched at his feet, and tore bread into small pieces to feed him, the humiliation melted into something else — something warm, tender, undeniable.

He caught Achilles’s gaze, and for a moment the world blurred away: no camp, no men, no looming war. Just the boy he loved, smiling at him with a devotion fierce enough to outshine the sun.

Patroclus swallowed hard and managed a quiet, “Thank you.”

Achilles winked. “Always.”

The camp bustled on, but the image lingered: the mightiest warrior of Greece kneeling in the dust, serving the man he loved without shame.

And Patroclus, despite himself, smiled.

Patroclus had hoped, foolishly, that once the morning spectacle passed, Achilles would relent. But his lover was relentless.

When Patroclus tried to polish his greaves, Achilles plucked them from his hands and knelt in the dust, rubbing the bronze until it gleamed. When Patroclus reached for water, Achilles filled a cup for him first, steadying it against his lips like a nursemaid. When Patroclus attempted to walk to the training grounds, Achilles scooped him up again — this time ignoring Patroclus’s half-hearted protests completely.

The Myrmidons, hardened veterans all, watched their golden leader fetch, carry, and serve like a humble attendant. At first they had been stunned; then the murmurs started.

“Has the world turned upside down?” one muttered.
“Achilles, a servant?” another whispered.
A third snorted. “He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe we should all start polishing our lovers’ armor.”

Patroclus buried his face in his hands, torn between mortification and laughter. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” he hissed as Achilles crouched to strap his sandals.

Achilles looked up, grin flashing. “Good. Let them see. Let them know I’d crawl in the dirt for you.”

That silenced Patroclus — because he meant it. The camp seemed to fade, leaving only the warmth in those words. Achilles bent, kissed his knee as he tightened the strap, and Patroclus felt his heart swell with equal parts love and fear.

Later, when the midday sun grew too harsh, Achilles dragged Patroclus into the shade and began to knead his sore muscles with strong, careful hands. The tent flap was half open, and a few soldiers sneaking glances nearly dropped their armor in shock.

“He’s massaging him?” one whispered.
“Like a servant,” came the awed reply.
“No,” a third corrected softly, a smile tugging his lips. “Like a husband.”

Patroclus caught the words, cheeks heating, but Achilles only chuckled. He leaned down, lips brushing Patroclus’s ear. “They’re right, you know. Husband suits me fine.”

Patroclus turned his head sharply to hide the tears pricking his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible,” Achilles agreed, pressing a kiss to his temple, “but yours.”

By evening, the Myrmidons had stopped whispering. They simply accepted it: their warlord could command them with a shout, win any duel with ease, and still spend an entire day tending to the boy he loved as though there were no shame in it.

And perhaps there wasn’t.

The bay at Aulis was crowded with ships, black hulls pressed against the shoreline like the teeth of some vast beast. Smoke curled into the sky where Agamemnon’s men had already built fires and palisades, their camp spreading inland with the rough urgency of soldiers staking their claim.

Odysseus’s ship cut a steady path through the harbor. He stood at the prow, cloak drawn tight against the salt wind, eyes sharp. Ithaca had no need for grand fleets — only a handful of sturdy vessels and men who knew how to fight like shadows — but appearances mattered. He’d brought enough to be respected, not so much that anyone thought he craved glory.

He always preferred to be underestimated.

The dock bustled as his men leapt ashore, efficient and quiet. Odysseus disembarked last, boots striking the planks, gaze already sweeping the camp.

There — Menelaus, flushed with anger that had not cooled in weeks. His jaw was tight, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt. And beside him, Agamemnon, broad and imperious, dressed as though already the high king of all Greece.

“Odysseus,” Agamemnon boomed when he approached, spreading his arms as though greeting a brother. “At last. We thought perhaps you meant to stay in Ithaca.”

Odysseus bowed his head, all humble grace. “Ithaca is small, lord, but not faithless. I swore the oath as well.”

Menelaus’s eyes burned. “Then you come to avenge me? To bring Helen back?”

Odysseus paused, letting the weight of silence stretch just long enough. Then he inclined his head. “I come because we all swore. What vengeance is yours, Menelaus, will be yours. My task is to see us succeed.”

Agamemnon studied him with thinly veiled suspicion. He was clever enough to know a man who might outmaneuver him — but Odysseus only smiled mildly, as if he were the least threatening of allies.

Behind him, his Ithacan men began setting their tents, moving with the quiet precision of veterans. No shouting, no bluster, no wasted effort. That was the way he preferred it: an army that looked like nothing and saw everything.

“Come,” Agamemnon said, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “We feast tonight. We will speak of plans.”

The sea wind whipped hard across the deck, tugging at cloaks and snapping the Myrmidons’ banners. Fifty ships, sleek and black, moved as one across the waves — an army of shadows sliding toward Aulis.

Patroclus stood near the prow of Achilles’s flagship, the salt spray cool against his face. Behind him, the warriors kept to their tasks: sharpening blades, singing low battle-hymns, moving with the restless energy of men who knew they would soon be tested.

Achilles was among them, golden hair bright against the dark wood, moving easily between soldier and captain. He spoke with one, corrected the grip of another, laughed at a jest, and then climbed onto the rail like he feared no sea at all. To the men, he was a god walking among them. To Patroclus, he was still the boy who had once taken his hand in the training yard.

Patroclus’s chest tightened as he watched him, not with jealousy, but with dread. Every stroke of the oars brought them closer to fate. Closer to the war. Closer to the prophecy.

Achilles caught his gaze and, as if reading the heaviness in his thoughts, made his way back across the deck. “You’re brooding,” he said, settling beside him.

Patroclus forced a smile. “Someone has to.”

Achilles laughed softly, brushing damp hair from his brow. “And I suppose that someone is always you.” His hand lingered at Patroclus’s temple, warm, steady. For a moment, the spray and the chants and the creaking of wood faded away.

Patroclus leaned into the touch. “I just… I keep thinking. Once we dock, there’s no undoing this.”

Achilles’s expression gentled, though his eyes still gleamed with the thrill of battle. “There was never any undoing it. You swore the oath, and I swore myself to you. If the path leads to Troy, we walk it together.”

Patroclus swallowed, words clawing at his throat but refusing to come. So instead, he reached for Achilles’s hand, threading their fingers together. Achilles squeezed back without hesitation.

And then, perhaps because of the salt stinging his eyes, or the way the sun caught Achilles’s hair, or the inevitability of what lay ahead — Patroclus tugged him closer. Achilles came willingly, lips brushing his at first, light as a whisper. But then the kiss deepened, slow and sure, their joined hands caught between them, their breath stolen by more than just the sea wind.

The Myrmidons nearby had the good sense to look away, pretending to busy themselves with rope and sail. A few smiled faintly, for they had seen their captains like this before.

When they broke apart, Achilles pressed his forehead against Patroclus’s, smiling that fierce, impossible smile. “No undoing, remember? Whatever comes, it’s us.”

Patroclus closed his eyes, holding him there, memorizing the taste of salt and warmth. For a heartbeat, he believed that might be enough.

And then, over Achilles’s shoulder, he saw the faint outline of Aulis on the horizon.

The sea was calm, but Percy couldn’t rest.

The deck creaked under his boots as he paced, waves whispering against the hull in rhythms that should have soothed him. Instead, every sound was sharp as a blade in his ears. His men slept — all hundred of them, Atlantean warriors seasoned by storms and battle. Even the Guard, his closest companions, rested easily in their tents, trusting their prince to keep watch.

But Percy felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He leaned against the railing, staring out across the endless black water. The moon spread silver over the waves, a thousand fragments of light breaking and rejoining like the lives he had fought to protect. So many islands. So many faces. Men and women who had looked to him for safety, who believed Percyon, Prince of the Sea would always stand between them and ruin.

It was too much.

His knuckles whitened on the railing. He thought of Helen — her smile as a girl, soft laughter like the sea breeze, her eyes wide the first time he had taken the blame for her mischief. And then later, the queen she became, proud but gentle, carrying herself with dignity. She had grown into her crown. And now she was gone — stolen by Paris, trapped under Aphrodite’s spell.

Percy swallowed hard, the ache in his chest tightening. What if she was afraid? What if she hated herself for being taken? He had promised her — he had promised he’d protect her. That she would be safe. And now he was sailing not to rescue her, but to fight in a war so vast it felt like the sea itself would drown in blood.

He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I don’t want this,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m so tired.”

A soft footstep behind him.

“Percy.”

He dropped his hands. Nerieus, Neri, stood in the dim moonlight. His second-in-command, steady as a tidepool rock. Arms crossed, eyes sharp with the sort of concern Percy had grown used to avoiding.

“You haven’t slept in two nights,” Neri said. No accusation, just fact.

“I couldn’t.” Percy tried for a smile and failed. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Or the war. Or both.”

Nery stepped closer, leaning against the railing beside him. “You’re not Atlas. The sky isn’t yours to hold alone.”

Percy barked a laugh, bitter, shaking his head. “Feels like it is.”

“No.” Nery’s tone sharpened. “It feels like you want to hold it, because you can’t stand to see others break under it. But we’re here too, Percy. We’ve fought beside you. We’ll fight again. You don’t have to burn yourself out before we even reach Aulis.”

Percy looked at him then, really looked. In the tilt of his mouth, the stubborn fire in his gaze, Nery reminded him so much of another boy — the boy who had once stood by his side five years ago in Sparta.

Something in Percy’s chest loosened, just a little. He exhaled shakily. “You sound like him.”

“Like who?”

Percy smiled faintly, eyes stinging, and turned his gaze back to the waves. “An old friend. I’ll see him soon.”

The camp at Aulis hummed with restless energy. Men sharpened spears, repaired sails, shouted orders, but their eyes kept straying to the horizon. A new fleet had been spotted. Black ships, fifty strong, gliding across the waves like carrion birds homing in on war.

Odysseus stood at the edge of the harbor, cloak drawn tight against the salt wind. His clever eyes scanned the oncoming prows, each marked with carved beasts, the discipline of their oars unmatched. And there, at the prow of the leading ship, was a figure every bard in Greece had already begun to whisper about.

Achilles.

Even from here, he seemed to blaze. Hair like captured sunlight, bronze armor catching every flicker of fire, movements too easy for any mortal man. Unwounded. Unwoundable. The son of a goddess, the sharpest sword among them all. Odysseus felt a curl of satisfaction. This was no mere prince — this was a weapon. With Achilles among them, Troy’s fall was not a question of if, but when.

He let his gaze shift slightly to the figure beside him: Patroclus. Not gilded, not god-born, but steady, dark-eyed, calm. Achilles’s shadow, yet not diminished — rather, the anchor that kept the lion from leaping too far. Odysseus smiled faintly. Every lion needed its shadow. And sometimes, the shadow was what decided the end of the hunt.

From the high platform overlooking the bay, Agamemnon’s face was carved from stone. He saw the same brilliance Odysseus did, but where Odysseus saw advantage, Agamemnon saw danger. That youth gleamed too brightly. Men would rally to him too quickly. A weapon, yes — but one not easily held in another’s hand.

“Another king,” Menelaus muttered at his side, bitter and tired. “Another army for Helen’s sake.”

“Another rival,” Agamemnon corrected softly. His grip tightened on the rail.

Below, the ships grounded against the shore, the Myrmidons leaping to the sand in perfect formation. Not a rabble, but an army. An extension of their captain’s will. And then Achilles himself vaulted down from the prow, bronze flashing, the earth seeming to welcome him. Patroclus followed close, and for an instant, Achilles’s fierce gaze softened as he looked only at him.

The men of Aulis roared approval, but Achilles did not bask in it. He brushed sand from his greaves, glanced once toward the commanders waiting, and then turned back to Patroclus, murmuring something low that made his companion smile. The way he touched Patroclus’s arm — casual, instinctive — spoke louder than any war-cry.

Odysseus chuckled under his breath. A lion indeed, but one that had already chosen where his heart lay. Agamemnon’s mouth curved in a smile that was no smile at all. And Achilles, radiant and fearless, only tightened his hand briefly on Patroclus’s shoulder, as if nothing else in the world mattered.

The keel of the ship scraped sand with a satisfying shudder. Achilles leapt from the prow before the ramp could even be lowered, his boots sinking into the shore of Aulis. The salt wind hit his face, and for the first time in days, the horizon was steady — no more endless waves, no more spray, just earth under his feet and the weight of war waiting ahead.

Patroclus landed beside him, quieter, as always. The sight eased something in Achilles’s chest. He had made the journey bearable, as he made everything bearable.

“Welcome to Aulis,” Achilles muttered, gaze sweeping over the sprawling camp. Smoke rose from cooking fires, bronze glinted where soldiers drilled, and banners fluttered heavy with pride. And at the heart of it all, two men waited: Agamemnon and Menelaus. One a king of kings, the other a husband whose pride had been stolen.

But it was the third man who stepped forward that caught Achilles’s eye. Odysseus. Clever-eyed, lips curved in something not quite a smile. A man whose mind was sharper than any blade.

“Achilles,” Odysseus greeted, clasping his forearm. “Son of Thetis. Greece is stronger for your coming.”

Achilles returned the grip firmly, though his expression remained neutral. “Odysseus. Still speaking more truth than flattery, I see.”

“Only when the truth will serve,” Odysseus replied, gaze flicking briefly toward Patroclus. Something like amusement lingered there, but he said nothing.

Achilles moved past him without ceremony. He had no desire for Agamemnon’s pomp, nor Menelaus’s grief made fury. Let them posture. He had men to settle.

The Myrmidons were already moving in disciplined ranks, carrying tents, driving stakes into the sand, setting fires with practiced speed. Achilles joined them without hesitation, stripping off his helm and taking a mallet in hand.

“Here,” he said, pounding a stake deep into the earth. “If the storm comes, this ground holds best.”

A soldier blinked at him, startled. “My lord—”

“Your hands are tired,” Achilles cut him off easily. “Mine aren’t.” He gave the man a wry smile and drove the stake in deeper. Around them, the men worked harder, faster, pride burning in their eyes.

Patroclus moved among them too, quiet, steady, offering advice where needed, laughter when it lightened the load. Achilles watched him from the corner of his eye, heart pulling in his chest. He could face any number of kings, any number of armies — so long as Patroclus was there.

When the last tent was raised and the fire pits dug, Achilles stood before his men, helm tucked under his arm.

“You’ve crossed the sea,” he told them, his voice carrying over the beach. “You’ve left your homes, your families, for a cause you did not choose. But you are Myrmidons. Where you stand, the ground is strong. Where you fight, the line will hold. Remember that. Remember who you are.”

The answering roar from fifty ships’ worth of warriors shook the air.

Achilles smiled faintly, the fierce pride of a captain who knew his men would follow him anywhere. Then, softer, he turned to Patroclus, who stood just behind his shoulder, eyes bright.

“And I,” Achilles said, so only he could hear, “will follow you.”

Patroclus’s lips curved in the smallest of smiles.

The camp was nearly set. Fires glowed, tents rose, the clang of hammers and the hiss of boiling water filled the air. Achilles stood a little apart, helm tucked under his arm, watching as his men worked with the ease of long practice. But his gaze, as always, found its way to Patroclus.

Patroclus was laughing with one of the younger Myrmidons, showing him how to lash a tent line tighter so it wouldn’t snap in the wind. His hands moved quick, clever, his voice patient. The soldier grinned, nodded, and Patroclus clapped him on the shoulder before moving on to the next group, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Achilles’s chest tightened. Gods, but he was beautiful. Not in the golden, radiant way poets tried to describe Achilles — but in something better. Patroclus carried kindness in his every gesture. Warmth in his every smile. He didn’t just lead; he made men believe they were worth leading.

Then Patroclus bent to tug a rope loose, and the hem of his tunic hitched up, exposing a line of sun-browned thigh. Achilles’s thoughts scattered like startled birds.

Heat surged, primal and sharp.

The world seemed to narrow to that moment: the curve of Patroclus’s leg, the tilt of his mouth when he muttered to himself, the way he brushed stray hair from his forehead without realizing how utterly irresistible he was.

Achilles didn’t think. He moved.

He strode across the camp in three long steps, ignoring the startled glances of his men. He caught Patroclus by the waist, spun him clean off his feet, and pressed a fierce kiss to his mouth.

Patroclus yelped against him, half-laughing, half-protesting, his arms instinctively winding around Achilles’s shoulders to steady himself.

The Myrmidons roared with laughter. Some clapped, some whistled, and one shouted, “Careful, lord, you’ll break him before the Trojans get a chance!”

Achilles broke the kiss only long enough to grin, eyes bright, before kissing him again, slower this time, savoring it. Patroclus’s laughter melted into a sigh against his lips, his grip tightening.

When Achilles finally pulled back, breathless, he didn’t set him down. Instead, he shifted Patroclus fully into his arms, lifting him bridal-style as if he weighed nothing at all.

“Achilles!” Patroclus hissed, face flushed scarlet. “There are men watching—”

“They can watch,” Achilles said shamelessly, striding straight through the camp with his prize in hand. “Let them learn who has my full devotion.”

The camp erupted in fresh laughter and cheers. One man called, “Carry him carefully, lord! That’s, after you, our best soldier!”

Patroclus buried his face against Achilles’s neck, torn between mortification and helpless affection. Achilles just grinned, heart pounding with joy fierce enough to match any battle.

He pushed through the flap of their tent and set Patroclus down only when the cheers faded into the distance.

“You’re impossible,” Patroclus muttered, though his smile betrayed him.

Achilles cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over flushed skin. “And you love me for it.”

Patroclus’s sigh turned into a laugh, and he pulled him down into another kiss.

Outside, the Myrmidons were still chuckling.

From the high platform overlooking the beach, Agamemnon stood rigid as a spear haft, eyes fixed on the laughter below.

Achilles had just swept Patroclus into his arms and carried him through camp as though they were alone, Myrmidons roaring their delight. Their devotion was plain, their love even plainer. And not one man mocked them for it — only cheered.

Agamemnon’s jaw worked. “He flaunts himself. Not just his strength, but…this. He thinks himself above kings.”

Beside him, Odysseus folded his arms loosely, expression calm, thoughtful. Where Agamemnon saw defiance, Odysseus saw something else entirely.

“No,” Odysseus said quietly. “He thinks himself human. And his men see it, and love him for it.”

Agamemnon’s head snapped toward him, incredulous. “Human? That boy is born of a goddess, unwoundable, untouchable.”

“Perhaps,” Odysseus replied, his voice steady, almost gentle. “But look closer, Agamemnon. He works beside them, sweats beside them, laughs and loves openly. Do you not see how it binds them tighter than any chain? He does not command from above. He leads from within.”

Agamemnon said nothing, but the set of his shoulders was iron.

Odysseus let the silence breathe, eyes still on the camp below. Inwardly, he measured, weighed. He knew pride when he saw it, but he also knew love. And what Achilles and Patroclus shared was no weakness — it was the very root of their strength. A man who fought for glory could be swayed, but a man who fought for love? That was a force not easily bent.

At last Odysseus added, softly, “I would rather have such loyalty at my back than fear. The Trojans will not care how Achilles loves, only that he cannot be beaten. We would be wise to remember that.”

Agamemnon’s lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes, still fixed on the tent where Achilles had vanished with Patroclus, burned with a spark of resentment. “He will learn his place.”

Odysseus did not argue. He only glanced toward the dark sea where more sails would soon appear, and said with quiet conviction, “If we are wise, Agamemnon…we will learn his.”

The wind shifted, carrying faint echoes of the Myrmidons’ laughter.

The sea was calm that night, the kind of deceptive stillness sailors feared. The Guard had sung their songs, laughter echoing across the decks, before the men settled to sleep. Percy lingered awake at the prow, restless, staring at stars scattered like salt across the heavens.

It began with the silence.

No creak of oars. No whispers of men half-awake. Even the dolphins that often followed their ships had vanished. Percy frowned, scanning the dark, when he noticed it: a faint shimmer drifting across the deck like mist, sweet-smelling, cloying.

A sleeping-draught.

He whirled. One by one, his men slumped where they lay — swords slipping from hands, heads bowed. Even Nerieus, ever-watchful, collapsed against the mast, breath shallow but steady.

“Poisoned,” Percy whispered, clenching his jaw. His own lungs burned, but his blood, half-divine, fought back the haze. He swayed, coughing, then forced his body upright.

That was when the raiders came.

Dark ships slid from the shadows, hulls low and painted to vanish against the waves. Grappling hooks clanged against wood, ropes tightened, and then they swarmed — lean men with curved blades, their eyes glinting with the hunger of wolves.

Percy drew his sword, Riptide flashing into bronze in his hand.

“You picked the wrong fleet,” he growled.

The first pirate lunged. Percy’s blade met his, sparks scattering like fireflies. He shoved the man back, swept the deck clear with a slash that knocked another off balance. But there were too many. They came in waves, screaming, steel ringing against bronze, feet pounding on wood.

Percy fought like the sea itself — relentless, surging, breaking one wave only for another to rise. He ducked, parried, slammed his elbow into a throat, spun, slashed low. His movements weren’t the brutal flourishes of a berserker but the controlled fury of tide and current.

Still, a voice rang out over the din, sharp as a conch horn:

“Hold! Leave him to me!”

The pirates drew back. Their captain stepped forward, tall and scarred, eyes pale green as deepwater. His armor was mismatched but gleaming with stolen bronze, his blade etched with wave patterns. He smiled, cruel and knowing.

“I wondered who would resist,” the captain said. “You smell of the sea, boy. Tell me — which god left you behind?”

Percy lifted Riptide. “Poseidon.”

The man’s grin widened. “Ah. Then we’re kin, of sorts. My mother was a nereid. My father, a fisherman she drowned. I am Eioneus, son of the tide, scourge of the isles. Your men sleep because I willed it. You’ll join them — or you’ll bleed.”

He lunged.

Their blades clashed, the sound splitting the night. Percy staggered under the first blow — Eioneus was strong, unnaturally so, his strikes charged with the raw strength of the sea. Percy braced, rolled with the impact, and countered. Riptide hissed, cutting arcs of bronze light through the dark.

“You fight well for a prince,” Eioneus sneered, driving him back step by step. “But your men lie helpless. When I’m done, I’ll slit their throats and feed them to the deep.”

Rage surged, tidal, unstoppable. The waves answered his fury — the sea itself heaved against the ships, swells rising. Percy’s eyes burned sea-green.

“You won’t touch them.”

Water exploded across the deck, slamming into Eioneus. He staggered but roared, pushing through, blade gleaming. Percy met him again, steel ringing against steel, sparks flying. The poison weighed heavy in his chest, dragging at his limbs, but anger drove him forward.

With a final shout, Percy twisted, slamming Riptide against Eioneus’s guard, then kicked him backward into the rail. The pirate captain stumbled — and Percy called.

The sea rose.

A wall of water crashed onto the deck, dragging Eioneus screaming into the waves. For a heartbeat, Percy saw his pale eyes below, glowing faintly as the current dragged him down, before the ocean swallowed him whole.

Silence returned, broken only by Percy’s ragged breaths.

One by one, the pirates fled, cutting their ropes, their ships vanishing into the night.

Percy staggered, leaning on his sword. His men still lay sprawled, breathing, untouched. He knelt beside Nerieus, pressing two fingers to his throat. Strong, steady. Relief washed over him, almost knocking him down harder than the fight had.

By dawn, the mist had thinned, and his men began to stir. Confused, groggy, they blinked awake to find the decks splattered with blood and Percy sitting alone, sword across his knees, eyes dark with exhaustion.

“Captain,” Nerieus whispered hoarsely, “what happened?”

Percy gave a tired smile, shaking his head. “Nothing you need to worry about. Get some rest. The sea’s quiet again.”

But when the Guard saw the wreckage, the scars on the deck, and the blood still dripping from Percy’s hair, they understood. And their loyalty deepened into something like worship.

The campfires on deck had burned down to coals, their glow lost against the breaking dawn. The sea was quiet now, as if ashamed of what it had carried in the night. The men stirred groggily, shaking off the last of the poison’s hold, unaware of just how close they had come to slaughter.

Percy sat slumped against the mast, eyes half-closed, Riptide loose in his grip. Every muscle in his body ached, his lungs still raw from breathing the tainted air. The world tilted faintly when he tried to stand, so he didn’t. He was so tired of fighting — pirates, monsters, fate itself. Tired of always being the one left standing when everyone else slept.

A hand touched his shoulder, grounding him.

“Captain.”

It was Nerieus, face drawn but steady, his voice low enough not to wake the others. He crouched beside Percy, studying him with the sharp gaze of someone who had spent years reading the sea and men alike.

“You can’t keep this up,” Nerieus said quietly. “Even tides need rest.”

Percy let out a humorless laugh, rubbing at his face. “Tell that to the pirates. Or the gods. Or anyone who seems to think I exist just to fight.”

“You fought alone last night,” Nerieus replied. “You shouldn’t have had to. But you did. And they’ll never forget it.” His eyes flicked toward the soldiers still sleeping around them, men who owed their lives to Percy and didn’t even know it yet.

Percy swallowed hard, staring at the deck. He wanted to say he didn’t want their loyalty, didn’t want their awe. That he only wanted peace. But the words died in his throat. Because he knew if it happened again, he would fight again. He couldn’t not.

Nerieus must have read the thought in his silence, because he gave a faint smile, rare and warm. “Think of something positive… of someone that make you happy.”

Percy blinked, startled. “Who?”

“That boy from Sparta,” Nerieus said. “The one you spoke of, years ago. You always smile when you think of him...” His tone softened. “Patroclus.”

For a moment, the exhaustion eased. Percy felt the corners of his mouth lift despite himself. He pictured Patroclus as he had been five years ago: laughing in the banquet hall, cheeks flushed after the duel, kind in a way that made Percy feel seen.

“Yeah,” Percy murmured, eyes half-shut, voice gentler than it had been all night. “Patroclus.”

He leaned his head back against the mast, and for the first time since the fight, a genuine smile tugged at his lips. He was bone-tired, aching down to his soul, but at least — at least soon he would see him again.

Chapter Text

The horizon bled silver and rose as the first light of dawn touched the waves. Percy stood at the prow of his ship — the Guard ship, painted a clear, impossible blue that shimmered like still water. Even after weeks at sea, it looked as if no storm could stain its hull.

Behind him, nine other ships followed in perfect formation. White sails caught the wind, embroidered with the trident of Poseidon in sea-green thread. To any eye watching from shore, it would be unmistakable: the might of Atlantis had come.

The men were awake already. The Guard moved with quiet precision around him — Nery checking the lines, Lykomedes sharpening his blade, Thaloros speaking softly to the rowers. No one had to be ordered. They were Percy’s men, heart and soul, bonded by years of trust. The other Atlantean ships mirrored the same discipline: neat rows, spears gleaming, shields polished to catch the light.

But Percy’s eyes were fixed ahead. The dark smudge on the horizon was land. Aulis. The place where every oathbound king and prince was gathering.

He gripped the rail tighter. He had sworn to fight, to protect the islands, to stand for Helen — but gods, he was so tired of fighting.

“Your jaw’s going to crack if you clench it harder,” Nery muttered at his side, his tone deliberately light.

Percy forced himself to breathe, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. “I just keep thinking… this is it. They’ll all be there. Menelaus. Agamemnon. Odysseus.”

Nery gave him a sideways look. “And Patroclus.”

Percy’s lips twitched despite himself. “And Patroclus.”

The wind shifted, filling the sails. The fleet surged forward as one, water breaking bright and foaming around their prows.

Behind them, the men began to chant softly — a song of Atlantis, a hymn carried over the waves. It wasn’t loud, not yet, but steady, rising with each verse. Percy’s name wove through it like a thread, Percyon, Percyon, not shouted, but reverent.

He felt heat sting his eyes, quickly blinking it away. He didn’t want to be worshipped. He just wanted to keep his promises. To Helen. To his islands. To his men.

Nery clapped him once on the shoulder, firm and grounding. “Look sharp, Captain. It’s not the gods you’re sailing toward. It’s men. And men bleed.”

Percy managed a faint smile, leaning into the wind as the shore grew closer. Whatever waited in Aulis, he would face it head-on.

And this time, he wasn’t a boy sneaking into Sparta under a borrowed name. This time, he came as the Prince of the Sea.

The camp at Aulis sprawled along the shore, tents rising like pale teeth against the sand. Smoke from early fires drifted into the dawn, and soldiers rubbed sleep from their eyes as they gathered near the waterline.

Agamemnon stood at the front, arms crossed, his golden cloak thrown over his shoulders like a king carved from stone. Menelaus at his side shifted restlessly, fingers drumming against his sword hilt. Odysseus lingered a pace behind them, speaking quietly with Nestor.

Then came the shout from the watchtower:
“Sails! Sails on the horizon!”

All eyes turned east.

At first, it was only a glimmer of white against the morning light. Then more. And more. Nine ships, and at their heart one unlike any other — its hull painted the color of purest blue, sails catching the dawn as if woven from the sky itself.

The camp stirred. Men pressed forward, pointing. Murmurs rose in waves.

“That ship—” one soldier breathed, voice tight with awe. “That’s no ordinary vessel.”

Another nodded sharply. “I’ve seen it before, near Naxos. They say it belongs to him. To Percyon.”

The name rippled through the crowd like a current.

“Percyon?”
“The Prince of the Sea?”
“Protector of the Isles?”
“They say he commands storms.”
“No, no — I heard he wrestled a kraken bare-handed.”

The whispers grew, each retelling bolder than the last. By the time the fleet drew closer, every soldier knew the name.

Menelaus stiffened. “Percyon. I remember him.” His jaw tightened, remembering the oath in Sparta. The boy had been nothing then — a spare suitor, young, untested. And now he sailed into harbor with ten ships, his name carried like a hymn.

Agamemnon’s mouth pressed thin. “Another child playing at kingship,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. He could see the discipline of those ships, the gleam of bronze at their rails. These were not boy’s toys — they were weapons.

Odysseus, standing quiet, studied the formation. The way the ships cut through the water without falter, the precision of their sails. He had seen many fleets, but few so steady. And at their front, that blue-keeled ship — striking, unmistakable.

He smiled faintly, half to himself. “Not a child. Not anymore.”

The fleet closed the distance, the sound of chanting rising faint across the water. Soldiers strained to hear, catching fragments of rhythm — a name repeated, again and again, until it seemed even the waves carried it:

Percyon. Percyon. Percyon.

On the shore, the murmurs swelled into a hush. The camp of Aulis waited in silence, every eye fixed on the blue ship.

Agamemnon’s teeth ground together. Menelaus’s grip on his sword whitened. Odysseus’s gaze softened, wise and steady.

And as the fleet sailed in, it was clear: the Prince of the Sea had come.

The harbor of Aulis was already restless when the fleet came into view. By now, word had spread through every tent and fire pit: the ships flying a trident had arrived, and at their heart sailed the vessel of Percyon, Prince of the Sea.

The soldiers gathered by the shore in droves, abandoning half-cooked meals and unfinished tasks. Some climbed rocks for a better view; others leaned on spears, shading their eyes against the morning glare. Even the officers and captains pressed closer, drawn by the sight.

The ten ships slid into the bay with uncanny precision. Their prows cut the water like knives, the sails swelling white and unwrinkled. And there, gleaming brighter than the rest, came the flagship: hull painted clear, impossible blue, as though carved from the sea itself. A hush fell over the gathered crowd.

“By the gods,” one soldier whispered, awe thick in his voice. “That’s him. The Prince of the Sea.”

“The Protector of the Isles,” another added, lowering his voice as though naming him too loudly might summon storms.

Stories tumbled through the ranks like wildfire. They said Percyon had broken pirate fleets single-handedly, that he commanded monsters of the deep, that whole islands called him their guardian. Some swore he was a demigod, Poseidon’s favored son; others dismissed that as myth, but the reverence in their eyes betrayed belief.

The ships dropped anchor, sails rolling down with disciplined speed. Gangplanks thudded onto sand. First came the Guard — twenty men in gleaming bronze, their armor burnished until it caught the morning like flame. They moved as one, shields locked, spears upright. Their formation alone drew murmurs of respect; no rabble, no hesitation, only precision honed over years.

Behind them poured the warriors from the nine ships, ranks of seasoned fighters who marched in step as though the tide itself had trained them. Not a man broke formation. Not a voice shouted orders. The discipline was wordless, flowing like current.

And then, at last, Percyon himself appeared.

He walked down the ramp of the flagship with steady tread, the silver circlet of his station catching the sun — not ostentatious like a king’s crown, but enough to mark him noble. He wore no gaudy cloak, no gilt armor, only the practical bronze of a commander who fought alongside his men. Yet something about him made every head turn. Broad-shouldered now where once he had been boyish, sea-dark hair loose in the wind, his presence was unmistakable.

“Gods,” muttered a captain near the front. “He’s grown.”

“He was a suitor once,” an older man said quietly. “A boy. I remember. But look at him now.”

The kings moved forward to meet him.

The sand was firm beneath Percy’s boots as he stepped from the ramp, the Guard flanking him like shadows. For a moment the roar of the sea behind him filled his ears, drowning out the restless hum of the Greek army gathered on the beach. Then, as he moved closer to the line of kings, the voices of men broke through — whispers, murmurs, rumors swelling like a tide.

Prince of the Sea… Protector of the Isles…

All names, all stories, but not the name he had carried in Sparta five years ago. Back then he had been Percyon of Aegae, a minor suitor, a polite lie spun by his father to protect him. And it had worked. He had been overlooked, dismissed as a boy from a small island-kingdom, insignificant beside the towering kings and veterans of Greece.

But he was not that boy anymore.

Odysseus was the first to step forward, his sharp eyes warming at the sight of Percy. For a heartbeat, Percy saw Annabeth in him again — the thoughtful tilt of his head, the weight of a mind that never stopped moving. The resemblance steadied him.

“Percyon of Aegae,” Odysseus greeted, extending his hand.

Percy took it firmly, but instead of repeating the old lie, he let the words fall clear and strong. “No. Not of Aegae. That was never the truth.”

The soldiers nearby fell silent. Even the waves seemed to hush.

Odysseus’s brows lifted, but there was no anger, only curiosity. “Then who stands before us now?”

Percy drew himself straighter. His silver circlet caught the sun, glinting like a crown though far simpler than the gilded things Agamemnon favored. His Guard stood still as stone, their loyalty wordless, unshaken.

“I am Percyon,” he said, voice carrying across the crowd. “Prince of the Sea. Born of Atlantis, heir to the city beneath the waves, protector of the islands who call upon the trident’s strength. I am no lord of a minor port, but a prince of a kingdom older than your cities, greater than your fleets. It was I who swore the oath in Sparta, and it is I who has come to honor it.”

Murmurs broke like surf against rocks. The soldiers’ whispers spread: Atlantis… Atlantis… the hidden city… the sea-prince…

Odysseus’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, respect glinting in his eyes. He squeezed Percy’s hand once more before letting go. “Truth suits you better, Prince of the Sea. And I think Greece will find it harder to underestimate you now.”

The words steadied Percy, warm and grounding. For a moment, he almost smiled back.

But then Agamemnon stepped forward. His golden cloak whipped in the sea-breeze, his jaw hard with disapproval. He looked Percy up and down with disdain, like a merchant appraising flawed goods.

“So,” the High King said, his voice sharp as a spear. “Another pretender. Another youth claiming grand titles and hidden kingdoms. Atlantis?” He spat the name like it was sour. “A fisherman’s tale. A city no mortal man has seen. And we are meant to bow to a boy who hides behind such fancies?”

Anger pricked at Percy’s chest, hot and fast, but he kept his expression cool. “I do not ask you to bow, Agamemnon. Only to remember that I am here to fight beside you. To uphold my oath. Atlantis does not bluff — it keeps its word. My ships, my warriors, my Guard, they are proof enough.”

He gestured subtly behind him, where the disciplined ranks of Atlantean soldiers stood gleaming, ten ships’ worth of men silent and watchful. Their very presence was a rebuttal.

Agamemnon’s lips twisted. “Proof? Words and ships. We shall see if your men bleed as well as they march.”

For a heartbeat, Percy wanted to snap back, to let the sea itself rise and crash against this arrogant king’s tent. But he forced himself still. His father’s warning echoed in him: The gods must not interfere too greatly. This is your war, Percy. Yours to choose, yours to bear.

So he only inclined his head, cold but polite. “They will bleed if they must. And they will win.”

Behind Agamemnon, Menelaus stepped forward. His eyes raked Percy with open dislike, his mouth a tight line. “I remember you,” he said lowly. “The suitor Helen called friend. The one who stood by her when others competed for her hand.”

Percy met his gaze evenly, though his chest tightened at the memory. Helen, laughing on the beaches of Sparta. Helen, asking him to be her suitor so she wouldn’t stand alone. Helen, stolen now by Paris’s deceit.

“I was her friend,” Percy said simply. “And I swore the oath as all of us did. I am here for that, nothing more.”

But Menelaus’s eyes lingered, bitter. He remembered the way Helen had smiled at this boy, this man, this prince. He remembered how easily she had spoken with him, how different her laughter had been in his company. It was a jealousy he would never admit aloud, but it smoldered in his glare.

Percy said nothing more. He would not shame Helen, nor dishonor her husband, not even here.

He turned instead to his men, lifting his hand in signal. The Guard shifted, forming their protective arc around him. The Atlantean warriors behind them stamped their spears once into the sand, a sound like thunder rolling.

The sea breeze tugged at Percy’s tunic. The whispers of the soldiers carried on the air.

The Atlantean camp was alive with sound. Canvas snapping in the wind, mallets driving stakes into the sand, the creak of rope and the thud of crates as men unloaded their ships. Everywhere, his warriors moved with practiced rhythm — the Guard overseeing the setup, the rest of the fleet settling into their new home.

Percy worked alongside them, tying off a line, hauling a beam upright. His circlet of silver felt heavy on his brow, out of place among sweat and salt. He should have felt proud: ten ships, a thousand men, all answering to him, the Prince of the Sea. But his eyes kept drifting toward the heart of the Greek encampment, and the hollow ache inside him only deepened.

He hadn’t seen him. Not in the crowd that had gathered, not in the lines of soldiers, not anywhere on the beach. Patroclus had not come.

Percy’s chest tightened. He had been holding onto the thought of this reunion for years — through long patrols, through blood on the sea, through every night he wondered if his old friend had forgotten him. The sight of that familiar face had been the light at the end of it all. And now… nothing.

“Percy.”

The voice was steady, grounding. Nerieus — Nery — came to stand beside him, folding his arms as he watched the soldiers raise another tent. His presence was as familiar as the tide, as constant as the pull of the moon.

“You’ve been staring off again,” Nery said. “Looking for someone?”

Percy’s mouth twisted. “I thought I’d see him. But he wasn’t there.”

Nery didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to. Instead he tilted his head, studying Percy with the same calm patience that had carried them through storms and battles alike. “Then you’ll see him soon enough. Don’t break yourself before it happens.”

Percy laughed weakly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m captain of a fleet, Nery. Son of Poseidon. I’ve stared down monsters, pirates, storms. And here I am — nervous as a boy waiting for a friend to show up at the docks.”

Nery’s hand came down on his shoulder, firm and warm. “And that’s why they follow you. Because you’re not just a prince or a demigod. You’re human. You care. Don’t be ashamed of that.”

The words settled deep, smoothing some of the jagged edges of Percy’s worry. He leaned into the touch just slightly, letting himself breathe.

“You always know what to say,” Percy murmured.

“That’s my job,” Nery replied simply. His mouth quirked in the faintest smile. “To keep you standing when the sea tries to knock you down.”

Percy’s chest loosened. The ache was still there, but softened by the quiet certainty in Nery’s eyes. He gave a small nod, squaring his shoulders again. “Then let’s finish this camp. If Patroclus is here… I’ll find him.”

The two of them turned back to the work, side by side, their men moving around them like the steady pulse of the tide.

The tent was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp that painted gold across Achilles’ bare shoulders. The air smelled of sweat, salt, and crushed herbs; outside, the Myrmidon camp still rang with the clamor of unloading and building, but inside there was only the sound of quiet laughter and the shift of blankets.

Achilles leaned lazily against the pillows, hair mussed, eyes bright with mischief. His fingers trailed idly along Patroclus’ arm, possessive and gentle all at once. “You’re going to be sore again tomorrow,” he teased, voice low.

Patroclus rolled his eyes, though his lips betrayed him with a smile. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” Achilles said smugly. “You could tell me to stop.”

Patroclus huffed, pressing a kiss against the edge of his jaw. “You’d never listen.”

Before Achilles could reply, the flap of the tent rustled open. A young Myrmidon soldier stumbled in, wide-eyed and clearly mortified at interrupting. He dropped to one knee at once.

“My prince—” he blurted, eyes fixed on the ground. “Forgive me. But news has come.”

Achilles’ expression darkened at the intrusion, but Patroclus sat up quickly, drawing the blanket around himself. “What is it?”

The soldier swallowed hard, words tumbling out in a rush. “Percyon. The Prince of the Sea. He has landed—ten ships, a thousand men. His Guard among them. He marches under Atlantis’ banners, and his camp is already rising on the shore.”

For a heartbeat, the world tilted.

Patroclus’ chest filled so quickly it hurt. Percy. After all these years, all the silence, all the wondering if he’d ever see him again—Percy was here. Alive. Strong. At Aulis.

Achilles tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but Patroclus hardly saw him. He was already fumbling for his tunic, pulling it over his head with clumsy haste.

The soldier stammered, “Should I—”

“You’ve done your duty,” Patroclus said, his voice breathless but kind. “Go.”

The soldier fled, relieved to escape.

Patroclus was already half-dressed, fumbling with the ties of his tunic, when Achilles finally rose from the bed.

“What are you doing?” Achilles asked, his voice sharper than intended.

Patroclus didn’t answer. His movements were too quick, too frantic, as though if he paused for even a heartbeat, he’d lose his chance. He slipped his sandals on, hair still mussed from Achilles’ hands, and bolted for the tent flap.

“Patroclus—”

But he was gone.

The flap snapped shut in the sea breeze, leaving Achilles staring at the empty space where his lover had stood. His jaw tightened. He didn’t need an explanation — he had heard the name, the one the soldier had spoken like it meant something divine. Percyon.

Achilles’ teeth ground together. Who was this man that Patroclus would run to him without a word, without so much as a glance back?

The anger burned hotter than the jealousy, but beneath it was something colder, sharper. Fear.

Achilles snatched up his own cloak and strode after him. His pace was slower, heavier from the storm inside him, every step dragging. The camp outside had already noticed Patroclus racing across the sand; soldiers whispered, heads turned.

Achilles ignored them all. His eyes locked on the fading outline of Patroclus sprinting toward the Atlantean banners.

Patroclus’ feet pounded against the packed sand, every breath burning in his chest. He didn’t feel the curious eyes of the soldiers he passed, nor the whispers rising in his wake. He barely heard the crash of the surf. There was only one thought, one need: Percy. Percyon.

And then he saw him.

The Atlantean banners fluttered like blue fire in the wind, and beneath them stood a boy who was no boy at all anymore. Taller, broader, his shoulders carved with strength that hadn’t been there years ago, the silver circlet of Atlantis catching the dying sun. His hair, wind-swept and darker than he remembered, gleamed like wet obsidian. His sea-green eyes shone so bright they looked almost inhuman.

Patroclus’ heart lurched. Percy looked like the sea had made him in its image — wild, endless, untouchable. Divine. And yet, when his gaze lifted and found Patroclus sprinting toward him, his face broke open in the same boyish grin Patroclus had carried in his memory all these years.

“Patroclus!”

The sound of his name tore the last breath from Patroclus’ lungs. He closed the distance in a final desperate burst, flinging himself forward. His arms wrapped around Percy with enough force to lift him clear off his feet, and Percy let out a startled laugh that melted instantly into joy.

Patroclus spun him, the world a blur of sand and banners, the sound of Percy’s laughter ringing against his ear. His smaller frame fit against him perfectly, as if nothing had changed at all. Percy clung to him, half-protesting and half-laughing, his words tumbling over each other.

“You—! You idiot, put me down—”

“Never,” Patroclus shot back, though he was laughing too, the sound rough with relief. He hadn’t realized how tight the ache in his chest had been until now, when it cracked open, spilling joy that was almost pain.

He set Percy down at last, but his hands lingered on his shoulders, unwilling to let go. “Gods, you’re real. You’re actually here. You look—” The words caught in his throat. Beautiful, divine, radiant. He swallowed, settling for a choked, “You’ve grown.”

Percy grinned, cheeks flushed, sea-bright eyes dancing. “So have you. But you’re still terrible at greetings.”

Patroclus laughed again, breathless, shaking his head. “After years apart, that’s what you say?”

“Would you rather I wept at your feet?” Percy teased, though his voice cracked with the weight of it all. His smile wavered, softening. “I missed you.”

The simple words hit harder than any spear. Patroclus pulled him back into his arms, holding him close, breathing in salt and warmth and life. “I missed you too,” he murmured into Percy’s hair, voice thick.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the camp fell away.

Nery had seen many reunions in his life, in ports and on battlefields, but none quite like this. He leaned casually against the rail of a supply cart, arms folded, watching his captain — his Percy — swept up in another man’s arms.

Patroclus, that was the name. Nery remembered Percy speaking it with a softness that few things ever drew from him. And now here was the boy himself, taller, broad-shouldered, moving like a warrior yet holding Percy as if he were the most fragile treasure in the world.

Nery had to smile despite himself. Percy’s laughter rang across the sand, unguarded, brighter than he had heard in months. The Guard were exchanging quiet glances, their pride in their captain tempered by the sight of someone else being able to reach that part of him so easily.

But Nery’s gaze slid past them, to the edges of the crowd.

There — a figure cutting through the lines of soldiers, slower, deliberate. Broad-chested, golden-haired, every inch of him marked by command. And his eyes… gods, his eyes were locked on Percy and Patroclus with a fury that sent a shiver down Nery’s spine.

Jealousy. Rage. Possessiveness.

The man’s hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. His jaw was tight, his breath heavy, like a predator barely holding back from striking. Yet beneath the fire, Nery thought he saw something colder too — fear, raw and sharp, like a wound hidden under armor.

Whoever he was, he had a claim — not spoken, but clear as the sea breeze.

Nery shifted subtly, making sure he stood a little closer to Percy, as if he could shield him if the stranger’s anger turned into action. His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger out of habit, though he doubted the Guard alone would be enough if this man meant harm.

Still, he held his ground, calm and steady.

Because whoever this storm of a man was, he would learn soon enough that Percy was not alone — and that the Guard, and Nery most of all, would not let him be hurt.

The sand shifted beneath Achilles’ feet, but he barely noticed it. His entire world had narrowed to the sight ahead: Patroclus in another’s arms.

He should have been furious with Patroclus, should have demanded why he had run without a word, without a glance back. But the anger tangled with something deeper, rawer — fear that someone else could steal the light he had guarded so fiercely. Fear that Patroclus could look at this boy, this Percyon, and see something Achilles could not be.

Percy. That was the name that passed through the camp like a rising tide. A prince of Atlantis, they whispered, protector of islands, commander of ten ships. He looked like it too — divine in bearing, sea-bright eyes glowing, the kind of beauty that legends clung to. And Patroclus clung to him, laughing, his arms around him as if no years had passed.

Achilles’ stomach twisted.

He moved forward, the crowd parting before him. He barely heard the murmurs of his Myrmidons or the Atlantean warriors watching warily. Every step was deliberate, steady, his pride holding him upright though his chest burned like fire.

When he reached them, Patroclus had just pulled Percy down into another breathless embrace, their laughter still ringing in the air. Achilles didn’t pause. He reached forward and swept Patroclus out of Percy’s arms and into his own, pulling him close, lips crashing against his in a kiss that was both claim and declaration.

Patroclus startled, a muffled sound escaping him, but then his hands fisted in Achilles’ tunic and he kissed him back, familiar and certain. The camp erupted in laughter, whistles, and knowing jeers — soldiers always loved a show.

Achilles didn’t care. He kissed Patroclus until the ache in his chest eased, until the fear dulled into something steadier. Only then did he draw back, pressing his forehead briefly against Patroclus’ before finally looking at Percy.

The younger boy’s sea-bright eyes were wide, his expression unreadable — surprise, maybe, or disappointment, or simply shock at the boldness of it all. Achilles studied him in silence for a long moment, weighing the divinity that seemed to cling to him like mist.

Then Achilles straightened, still holding Patroclus close against his side. His voice was calm, even proud, when he finally spoke.

“I am Achilles,” he said, his name rolling like thunder over the gathered soldiers. “Son of Peleus. Leader of the Myrmidons.”

His gaze lingered on Percy, sharp as a spear. “And you must be Percyon, Prince of the Sea.”

For a moment, Percy forgot how to breathe.

Patroclus in his arms had been a dream — a dream he had carried for years, tucked deep in his chest, hidden even from himself at times. He had thought of this moment on dark nights at sea, wondered if Patroclus remembered him, if that easy laugh and warm smile had been real or just a boyhood fancy. And then, here, now — Patroclus had run to him, held him, laughed with him, as if nothing had ever changed.

But then he came.

The golden-haired man moved like a storm given form, cutting through the camp with every soldier bowing away from him. Percy had known at once this was no ordinary warrior — there was something unearthly about him, the way he held himself, the fire in his eyes.

Achilles.

Percy knew the name before the man even spoke it. The weight of it sank like a stone in his gut. Achilles. The name whispered by bards. The invincible one.

He reached them without hesitation, tore Patroclus from Percy’s arms, and kissed him with a fierceness that sent cheers rippling through the camp. Soldiers whistled, clapped, jeered, but Percy couldn’t hear them. His world narrowed to the sight of Patroclus’ hands clutching at Achilles’ tunic, kissing him back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Something cracked inside Percy.

He had known, deep down, that the boy he loved might love another. Five years apart had been a lifetime, after all. But to see it so plainly, so publicly, left him raw. His throat burned, his chest ached. He wanted to turn away, to disappear into the sea, to never have come here at all.

But he couldn’t. Not in front of them. Not in front of his men. He was a prince of Atlantis, a commander, protector of the isles. He could not crumble like a child.

When Achilles finally turned, still holding Patroclus close, and announced himself with all the pride of a king’s son, Percy forced himself to meet his gaze. Sea-green against storm-fire. He bowed his head once, shallow, polite, hiding the tightness in his jaw.

“Percyon,” he managed evenly. His own name tasted like salt and ash.

But then a hand touched his shoulder. Nery. His second, steady as ever, eyes sharp with understanding.

“Captain,” Nery said firmly, his voice carrying just enough to interrupt. “You’re needed at the Atlantean camp. A matter with the supply lines.”

Percy blinked, startled — but Nery’s grip tightened, urging him away. It was a lifeline, an escape. Percy seized it, nodding curtly.

“Of course.”

He gave Patroclus one last look — still held close in Achilles’ arms, smiling faintly, as if he didn’t realize the knife he had left in Percy’s chest — and then let Nery drag him away.

The cheers and laughter faded behind them. Percy kept his head high until the campfires swallowed him, but inside he was breaking, waves crashing silently against the walls he had built.

The campfires and laughter faded behind him. Percy had walked until the shadows swallowed him, until even Nery’s watchful eyes slipped away. He didn’t stop until he reached the shoreline, the waves whispering like old friends.

And then he dove.

The water embraced him as always — cool, endless, forgiving. He kicked downward, deeper and deeper, until the weight of the sea pressed all sound away, until there was nothing but blue silence and the thundering ache of his own heart.

Only then did he let go.

The tears came hot and stinging, mixing with the saltwater, impossible to tell apart. His chest heaved, and he curled into himself, clutching at his silver circlet as if it might hold him together.

Patroclus.

He had imagined so many times what it would be like to see him again — to laugh like they had as boys, to perhaps, foolishly, share the truth of what Percy’s heart had always known. But that vision shattered in an instant, swept away by Achilles.

He could still see it, burned into his mind: Patroclus’ smile as he kissed Achilles back, his hands desperate, certain, like he had always belonged there.

And Percy — Percy had been the outsider. The afterthought.

His cry tore through the water, a soundless wail, bubbles ripping free of his mouth. His body shook with sobs, raw and unguarded. Down here, no one could see him break. No one could demand he be a prince, a captain, a protector. Down here he could just be a boy — a boy who had loved too quietly, too hopelessly.

The sea stirred around him, sensing his pain. Currents coiled and thrashed, sand lifting from the floor in whorls, tiny fish scattering from the sudden surge. Percy clenched his fists, forcing the power back, refusing to let his grief become destruction. He had lost enough. He wouldn’t let the sea suffer with him.

But gods, it hurt.

His voice rasped in the hollow of the deep. “Why does it always hurt like this?”

No answer came, only the steady pulse of the ocean — his oldest companion, his cruelest mirror.

He lay there on the seabed, arms wrapped around himself, the silver circlet slipping loose to rest in the sand. A prince, a protector, a demigod. And still, just a boy — bleeding into the tide.

The camp outside was restless, filled with the noises of men sharpening blades, laughter echoing by the fires, and rumors spreading like sparks. But inside the tent, all was warm, dim, and safe.

Patroclus lay against Achilles, his head tucked into the crook of the other’s shoulder, his fingers absentmindedly tracing along the golden warrior’s chest. Achilles’ hand was heavy in his hair, slow and soothing, as if by touching him he could anchor both of them against the storm that always seemed to loom over their lives.

“You’ve been brooding since the Atlanteans arrived,” Patroclus murmured. His voice was soft but tinged with amusement, testing the waters. “Since he arrived.”

Achilles’ chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but Patroclus felt the subtle tension beneath his palm. “You threw yourself into his arms,” Achilles replied at last, not harsh, not accusing — just blunt, the way only he could be.

Patroclus smiled faintly, half wistful, half teasing. “And he into mine. That’s what happens when you reunite with someone you thought you’d never see again.”

He could feel Achilles bristle, even if slightly. Patroclus lifted his head, catching his gaze. “Don’t scowl. Let me tell you.”

Achilles’ silence was permission enough.

“Percy was different from the others back then,” Patroclus began, his voice quiet but steady, as memories slipped back like waves. “He wasn’t trying to win Helen, not really. He was there because she asked him, because she was afraid of being alone among so many suitors. He didn’t boast like the rest, didn’t fight for glory. He laughed even when he lost, and he made it feel less like a contest and more like… friendship. He made me laugh.”

Patroclus’ lips curved faintly at the thought. “I remember how he congratulated me whenever I did well, even when he’d just fallen flat on his face in wrestling. He was younger, awkward, so unsure of himself — and yet, somehow, he carried a heart bigger than all of us.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back into Achilles’ warmth. “And now… gods, he’s grown. He looks like the sea itself shaped him. Stronger, surer. Handsome in a way that’s almost divine.”

Achilles’ hand paused in his hair. His eyes flickered, storm-bright, unreadable. Patroclus reached up, catching his cheek in his palm before Achilles could retreat behind his walls. “Listen,” he said softly, with all the honesty in him. “I love you. You know that. You are my soul, my home. But…” His throat worked as he searched for the words. “When I saw Percy today, for the first time in years, part of me thought — if only he were here. With us. Sitting in this tent now. Not instead of you, never instead, but with.”

Achilles said nothing at first. Patroclus felt his pulse quicken, bracing for anger or rejection. But Achilles only studied him, eyes searching, a flicker of something... sparking there.

Patroclus smiled, small and tentative, and pressed a kiss to Achilles’ jaw. “Don’t think me faithless. I would never leave you. But I can’t pretend I don’t feel… that. That wanting. He was important to me, and seeing him again reminded me how much.”

For a long moment, Achilles was silent. Then he drew Patroclus closer, lips pressing against his hair, his breath warm.

“You would welcome him into our bed?” Achilles asked at last, voice low, almost careful.

Patroclus’ heart skipped. “…If he wanted. If you did too.”

Achilles’ hold tightened slightly, possessive, but not cruel. “You are mine, Patroclus.”

“Always,” Patroclus whispered back without hesitation.

Achilles POV of this talk:

The tent was warm, the air thick with the faint scent of oil lamps and sea salt clinging to Patroclus’ hair. Achilles’ hand had been stroking those curls almost without thought, steady as a heartbeat, when Patroclus spoke Percy’s name.

The sound of it was like flint against steel.

He had watched their reunion earlier — the way Patroclus’ smile had lit up as if the world itself had come back to him, the way Percy’s laugh had rung out unguarded, bright as a boy’s. Achilles had felt something dark twist in his chest, something he hadn’t wanted to name.

And now Patroclus, his Patroclus, was speaking of Percy again.

“He was younger then,” Patroclus said softly, eyes shining with memory. “So unsure, so awkward, but… kind. He made me laugh. He made me feel like I wasn’t alone.”

Achilles’ jaw tightened. That was my place.

“And now… gods, Achilles, he’s grown into something else. Handsome, strong, like the sea itself shaped him.”

The words burned, though Patroclus’ tone was soft, not cruel, not dismissive. Achilles kept his hand steady in his hair, though his fingers itched to clench. His heart thudded hard against his ribs, the storm of jealousy barely contained.

Mine, his mind whispered savagely. You are mine. Not his.

Patroclus reached for him then, palm warm against his cheek, eyes wide with that endless honesty. “I love you. You are my soul, my home. But when I saw Percy, part of me thought — if only he were here, with us. Not instead of you. With.”

Achilles felt the words like a spear to the chest. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

With them. In their tent. In their bed.

Patroclus kissed his jaw as if to soften it, to reassure. “Don’t think me faithless. I would never leave you. But I can’t pretend I don’t feel it. He was important to me. And he’s become…”

“Beautiful,” Achilles bit out before he could stop himself.

Patroclus stilled. “Yes.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy, crushing.

Achilles pulled him close then, too close, lips pressing to his hair with something desperate, something almost rough. “You are mine, Patroclus,” he whispered against his crown, as if saying it aloud would bind it.

“Always,” came the immediate reply, steady, loyal, unshaken.

Achilles closed his eyes. But when Patroclus added, “But there might be room for him too,” something inside Achilles snapped.

He held him tighter for one last moment — one last kiss, hard and consuming, claiming — before he rose abruptly.

Patroclus stirred, confused, but Achilles said nothing. He stepped out into the night, the cool air biting his skin, his chest tight with things he could not name.

The sea called.

He stripped off his tunic and strode into the waves, the surf breaking cold against his legs, then his chest, until he dove beneath. The water closed over him, bracing, sharp, endless.

He swam until the salt stung his eyes, until the burn in his muscles drowned out the burn in his heart. But even here, even in Poseidon’s realm, he could not escape the echo of Patroclus’ words:

There might be room for him too.

Chapter Text

The sea at night was black glass, broken only by moonlight. Beneath its surface, far below the reach of mortal ships and soldier’s eyes, Percy drifted. His body lay curled against the sand of the sea floor, silver crown glinting faintly in the darkness, his chest tight with sobs he had swallowed for too long.

He had tried to hold it together before his men, before Odysseus’ sharp gaze, before the camp of kings who whispered his name as if it meant something more than Percy, just Percy. But here, at last, where no one could see, the mask cracked.

Bubbles streamed upward from his lips, a fragile confession to the currents. He pressed his fists against his eyes, salt tears indistinguishable from salt water. “I can’t,” he whispered into the silence. “I can’t—”

Above him, something stirred. A ripple that wasn’t his. The sea itself seemed to shiver.

Achilles cut through the water like a spear. Fury still burned in him from Patroclus’ words, from the sight of Percy’s arms around him earlier, from the thought that Patroclus’ heart might have room for another. He swam deeper, chest heaving with restless anger, until the sound reached him — not the echo of a beast, not the hiss of the tide, but the sound of grief. Human grief.

He slowed, blinking against the salt, and then he saw him.

Percy, Prince of the Sea, curled upon the ocean floor like a child, his shoulders shaking, his face buried against the sand.

For a heartbeat, Achilles froze. Something in his chest twisted sharply, so sharp it almost cleaved his jealousy apart. But then Percy’s crown caught the light — and the image was unbearable. Divine. Handsome. Patroclus’ words.

A rival.

He kicked forward, cutting through the water until his shadow fell over Percy. “So. The great Prince of Atlantis cries in the depths.” His voice was muffled, carried oddly in the currents, but the disdain was unmistakable.

Percy startled, jerking his head up. His eyes were red-rimmed, glowing faintly with power in the darkness. His cheeks burned with humiliation that Achilles of all people had found him like this. “Leave me.” His voice was hoarse, raw. “This is none of your business.”

Achilles hovered, muscles taut with something too jagged to be only anger. “You touched him.”

Percy’s breath caught. He knew who Achilles meant. The ache inside him sharpened, but pride made his back straighten. “Patroclus is my friend.”

“Mine,” Achilles snarled, the word low and violent, vibrating through the water. “He is mine, and I will not share him with some weeping child of the waves.”

Percy’s heart lurched. The insult cut deep, deeper than he expected. All the pain, all the longing, all the heartbreak twisted into anger. His hands curled into fists, and the water around him trembled, stirred by his fury.

“You think you’re the only one who loves him?” Percy shot back, his voice sharper now, the sea answering him with a dark current. “You think your claim is so unshakable? Then prove it.”

Achilles’ eyes narrowed, burning brighter than the bioluminescent fish darting past. “What are you saying?”

Percy rose slowly from the sea floor, power shimmering off him like heat haze, his hair flowing around him in the current. His expression was cold, but his heart hammered in his chest. “Tomorrow. Midday. On the sands before the camp. You and me.”

Achilles bared his teeth, something savage curling across his face — jealousy, yes, but also the hunger for a worthy fight. For someone who might actually stand against him. “A duel.”

Percy’s lips curved in a humorless smile. “A duel.”

The sea seemed to hush, as though listening.

Neither spoke again. They turned from each other, swimming in opposite directions — Percy back toward his ships, chest tight with grief and anger, Achilles toward the shallows, fists clenched and jaw locked. Both knew sleep would not come easily.

The morning sun had barely cleared the horizon when the whispers began to ripple through the camp. Men spoke in low voices over their bread and watered wine, glancing toward the sea, toward the line of bright-blue ships.

Odysseus listened as he walked among them, silent as a cat, cloak brushing the dust. He’d heard enough by the time he reached the war council’s tent.

“The son of Thetis has challenged the Prince of the Sea.”
“They’ll fight at midday.”
“Gods against gods.”

He stepped inside the tent and found Agamemnon already smirking like a vulture. Menelaus sat stony-faced, his hands clenching and unclenching on his knees.

Odysseus let out a low hum, folding his arms. “This is folly,” he said flatly. “Two of the greatest champions in our host tearing each other apart before we even reach Troy. It will ruin morale.”

Agamemnon’s lips curled. “Or strengthen it. Let the men see what true warriors look like. Let them see blood.”

Odysseus’ gaze sharpened. “If you want to weaken your army before the war, by all means, encourage it.”

Menelaus grunted, eyes dark. “I care not. Let the sea-prince fall. He always thought himself too noble for his station.”

Odysseus studied both brothers, but said nothing more. He had no love for Percyon nor Achilles. But he was clever enough to see the truth: should either boy fall, Greece would be poorer for it.

He sighed, stepping back into the sunlight, where men were already gathering in little knots, waiting for midday.

The sea was calm that morning, but Percy’s heart was not. He sat on a low stone by the shore, boots pressed into the damp sand, watching the waves roll in and out as if they could offer him an answer. His armor lay beside him, its shell-forged plates shimmering faintly with hints of blue and silver. It looked regal, princely, perfect for the “Prince of the Sea.”

But Percy didn’t feel princely. He felt tired.

The thought of facing Achilles — the boy everyone whispered was invincible — gnawed at him. Not because he feared losing, but because he feared what it meant if he won. He wasn’t supposed to be here to fight wars. He was supposed to protect. And yet here he was, preparing to clash with someone who had done nothing worse than pull Patroclus into his arms.

“Brooding again,” Nery said softly, his voice carrying like the tide as he stepped beside him. He crouched so their eyes were level, dark hair falling into his face. “You’re going to wear yourself out before you even lift a spear.”

Percy tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “I can’t just… walk away. If I don’t fight, Achilles will think me a coward. Agamemnon will sneer. And the men—my men—will lose faith. If I fall, it’s not just me. It’s Atlantis, the Isles, Aegae. Every oath I swore.”

Nery studied him, then shook his head with a small, stubborn smile. “Do you even hear yourself? You’ve fought storms, pirates, monsters — and not because anyone forced you, but because it was right. You don’t need to prove anything to us. You never did.”

Percy blinked at him, caught off guard by the quiet fierceness in Nery’s tone.

“You’re not weak,” Nery went on, his hand settling firm and steady on Percy’s shoulder. “You’ve carried us through storms that should’ve sunk us, battles where we were outnumbered ten to one. You’ve saved villages that barely remembered to thank you afterward. You’ve already proven yourself a hundred times. Achilles might be invulnerable, but he’s not you.”

The words sank deep, washing over Percy like the sea itself. His throat tightened, but some of the heaviness in his chest eased. He gave Nery a faint, crooked smile. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

Nery’s lips quirked into a grin. “That’s why you keep me around. Somebody has to remind you that you’re not alone.”

The call of horns drifted faintly from the heart of the camp. Soldiers were gathering. Midday drew near. Percy pushed himself to his feet, lifting the silver circlet from its place beside his armor. As he set it against his brow, the morning sun caught on its curve, bright as a crown of waves.

He straightened his shoulders. The duel was coming.

The Myrmidon camp buzzed with a strange kind of energy that morning, like a hive disturbed. Armor was polished twice over, spears inspected, shields stacked near the edges of the ring that had been cleared for the duel. The men spoke in quick, low voices, passing rumors back and forth as if they were trading dice:

“Atlantis sent him.”
“Poseidon’s brat, they say.”
“They call him the Prince of the Sea.”
“Bah. He’ll break like the rest.”

Achilles sat on the threshold of his tent, sun flashing against the gold of his armor as he buckled greaves across his calves. He didn’t bother correcting them, didn’t even bother silencing the gossip. His blood was already hot with anticipation, like a storm gathering under his skin. Finally — finally — something worth his strength.

Across the camp, men stopped pretending to work and openly stared. Achilles was already a legend, his name sung in taverns before he was even grown. But today, he was smiling like a boy, sharp and reckless, eyes gleaming as though he’d been promised a feast.

Patroclus watched him, hands clenched against his knees. He looked pale, the shadow of the tent darkening the lines of worry carved into his face. At last, he spoke. “You shouldn’t be this eager. This isn’t just some sparring match, Achilles. You could kill him—or he could kill you.”

Achilles laughed, the sound quick and fierce, like bronze ringing against stone. “That’s the point.” He slid his shield onto his arm and looked down at his lover. “I want to see what he can do. They whisper he commands the sea. If that’s true, then he’s the only one here worth lifting a blade against.”

Patroclus’ jaw tightened. He rose, stepping close, close enough to grip Achilles by the wrist, his voice shaking with urgency. “You don’t understand. Percy isn’t—he’s not like the others. He doesn’t fight for glory. He doesn’t even want to fight. If you push him too far, he’ll bleed himself dry trying not to kill you. And you—” His voice caught, breaking just slightly. “You’ll never stop until you’ve won.”

Achilles froze for a heartbeat, staring at him. Then his smile softened, just barely, though the fire never left his eyes. “You’re afraid for me.”

“I’m afraid for both of you,” Patroclus whispered. His grip trembled against Achilles’ wrist, but he didn’t let go. “I don’t want to watch you tear each other apart for nothing. The war hasn’t even begun yet, and already you’re both treating each other like enemies.”

For a long moment, Achilles didn’t answer. He looked down at Patroclus, at the worry etched so deeply across his face, and something in him eased, just a little. He touched his free hand to Patroclus’ cheek, thumb brushing the curve of his jaw.

“You think me reckless,” Achilles murmured. “But listen, beloved: I’ve fought boys, men, champions, kings. None of them mattered. If this sea-prince is what they say, then perhaps at last—someone will make me feel alive.”

Patroclus shook his head, pressing closer, his voice low and trembling. “You don’t need Percy to make you alive. You have me. You always have.”

The words struck deeper than any blade. Achilles closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling Patroclus’ nearness, the warmth of him. When he opened them again, the storm in his chest hadn’t passed, but it had changed shape.

He leaned down and kissed him, long and deep, until the clamor of the camp faded and all that remained was breath and heat and the ache of love between them.

When he pulled back, he whispered against Patroclus’ lips, “Then watch me today. And know I will not let him take me from you.”

Patroclus rested his forehead against his, torn between fury and love. “And if you take him from me?”

Achilles’ expression flickered—half confusion, half jealousy—but before he could answer, a horn sounded from the center of camp. Midday was close.

Achilles straightened, golden as the sun itself, and strode toward the field with his shield on his arm.

The horns had stopped echoing, but the weight of them hung heavy in Patroclus’ chest. The camp thrummed like a living thing, soldiers pressing toward the makeshift ring where the duel would take place. Voices buzzed—half excitement, half unease—as if they knew this was no ordinary contest of strength.

Patroclus lingered at the edge of the crowd, his hands clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. He should have been standing with Achilles, polishing his armor one last time, murmuring advice like he always did before a fight. He should have been steady, the grounding stone in Achilles’ storm.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

His mind kept circling back to the night before. The warmth of Achilles beside him, the taste of his kiss, and the words he’d let slip—words he hadn’t meant to wound with. There might be room for him too. He had seen the flash of jealousy in Achilles’ eyes, the sharp edge of possessiveness. He had meant them as a plea, a warning. But perhaps, instead, he had driven Achilles to this.

Had he planted the seed that turned into today’s duel?

Patroclus’ throat tightened. He knew Achilles—knew him better than anyone alive. Knew the hunger that always stirred in him, the need to test his strength against the world. But this fight wasn’t just about strength. He could feel it in the air, in the way Achilles’ gaze had burned when Percy’s name was spoken.

It was about him. About love.

Patroclus pressed a hand to his temple, eyes closing. “Gods,” he whispered under his breath. “If this is my fault…”

He remembered Percy’s face, laughing on the beach in Sparta years ago, sunlight tangled in his dark hair. He remembered his promise, and then later, the warmth of their banter, the quiet trust that had grown so naturally between them. Percy had never looked at him with jealousy, never wanted to possess him. Only to be near him, to understand him.

And now? Now Percy stood across from Achilles, armor gleaming like moonlight against the sea, while Achilles blazed like the sun. Two forces who should never have clashed—and yet here they were, about to break each other open because Patroclus had been foolish enough to let his heart spill too freely.

A soldier beside him muttered, “This will be one for the songs.”

Patroclus flinched. Songs. As if this wasn’t his whole world balanced on a blade’s edge. He didn’t want songs. He wanted peace. He wanted both of them alive. He wanted this never to have happened.

He wanted Percy safe. He wanted Achilles safe.

And standing here, powerless, he realized the cruelest truth: he could not protect them from each other.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself as the crowd roared. The duel was about to begin, and the knot of dread in his chest only tightened.

The circle of warriors was wide, ringed with shields and restless murmurs. Bronze caught the midday sun, throwing glints of fire across faces that leaned in, eager for spectacle. All of Aulis seemed to be holding its breath.

Achilles stood at the center, spear in hand, the ground beneath him already thrumming with the pulse of combat. But his eyes—his eyes were fixed only on the boy across from him.

No—not a boy.

Percyon, the so-called Prince of the Sea.His armor shimmered like hammered silver, light sliding across its surface as if the waves themselves clung to him. The circlet on his brow glinted pale-blue, delicate but defiant, and his eyes—Achilles had expected them to be soft, but they burned, sharp as salt spray in a storm. He looked every bit the son of the sea he claimed to be.

And when he leveled his spear, his stance was flawless. Balanced. Calm. No hesitation.

Interesting.

Achilles felt his lips twitch into a grin. Finally, someone who didn’t quake at the sight of him.

The signal was given.

Achilles lunged first, his spear cutting low for Percy’s side. The boy deflected with a twist of his shield so smooth it startled him—quick, light-footed, more dancer than soldier. Percy retaliated instantly, thrusting forward, and Achilles had to spin away, the spearhead grazing his greave with a hiss of metal.

The crowd gasped.

Achilles’ grin widened. “Good,” he muttered under his breath.

They circled. Bronze boots crunched against the packed earth, dust rising around their ankles. Percy’s eyes never left his, sharp, wary, utterly steady. Achilles feinted high, then swept low, and Percy leapt, clearing the strike and landing like a cat. Achilles’ chest thrummed with exhilaration.

Again.

They clashed—shield against shield, spear against spear. The blows rang out like thunderclaps, echoing off the tents. Sweat stung Achilles’ eyes, but his body sang with the rhythm: strike, block, retreat, lunge. Percy gave no ground, his movements sharp, precise, almost unnervingly fluid.

It was like fighting the tide. Every push met resistance. Every strike rolled back into him with equal force.

The crowd had gone silent, awe replacing their jeers. This wasn’t the slaughter they’d expected. This was something else—two demigods locked in balance, neither yielding.

Achilles pivoted, striking hard at Percy’s shoulder. The boy caught the blow on his shield, but the impact drove him back a step. Achilles pressed—only for Percy to twist his wrist, slam the shield upward, and send Achilles staggering half a pace in return.

The nerve.

Achilles laughed, breathless and delighted. “You’re no child.”

Percy’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “And you’re not as invincible as they say.”

That stoked the fire. Achilles lunged with renewed ferocity, his spear a blur, his shield smashing forward. Percy matched him strike for strike. They broke apart, circled again, then slammed together so hard the air seemed to shudder.

Dust clung to their armor, rivulets of sweat carved down their temples, but neither faltered.

At one point, Percy whispered something low, a prayer maybe, and Achilles swore he felt the air grow damp. The ground softened, and his feet sank ever so slightly into mud. The sea’s breath clung around the boy like a cloak.

“You cheat,” Achilles growled, but his grin was wild.

Percy’s eyes sparked. “You call on your mother’s blessing every time you fight. Why shouldn’t I call on mine?”

Achilles barked a laugh and struck harder.

Minutes bled into more minutes. The crowd roared with every near-hit, every crash of shield against shield. Sparks flew where bronze scraped bronze. Once, Percy’s spear nicked Achilles’ armguard, leaving a bright streak of metal. Once, Achilles’ shield edge carved across Percy’s thigh, shallow but enough to draw a hiss of pain.

But neither yielded.

And in the depths of his chest, Achilles felt something stirring. Respect. Admiration. And yes—desire. Percy was radiant, radiant in defiance, radiant in strength. Fighting him was like staring into the sun and the sea at once, blinding and impossible to look away from.

This was no mere rival. This was someone who could stand beside him.

“Enough!” a voice bellowed from the ring’s edge. Agamemnon, scowling, fists white on the pommel of his sword. “This is madness—end it now!”

But neither Percy nor Achilles lowered their weapons. They stood, heaving for breath, eyes locked, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them.

And for the first time in his life, Achilles wondered what it might mean to have an equal.

The world narrowed to dust, bronze, and the unyielding blaze of Achilles’ eyes. Percy’s arms ached, sweat stung his face, but he couldn’t let his guard down, not for a heartbeat. Each strike rattled through his bones, each clash of bronze against bronze sang in his ears.

Achilles was relentless.

But so was Percy.

His shield arm trembled with the force of their exchange, yet his spear moved almost of its own accord, instinct guiding him as though the sea itself flowed through his veins. Achilles pressed forward, teeth bared, his movements fierce and precise. Every strike spoke of a life raised in battle, of strength honed to perfection.

And gods help him, Percy thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful.

The sun gilded Achilles’ hair like molten gold, his skin gleamed with sweat, and his smile—wild, sharp, delighted—was something out of legend. He fought like a storm, but in that storm Percy saw something more. Not cruelty. Not arrogance. But joy. The same joy Percy felt when he rode waves or carved through the sea with nothing but his own strength.

No wonder Patroclus loves him, Percy thought bitterly, even as his spear caught Achilles’ thrust and turned it aside.

“Good!” Achilles barked, laughter spilling from his chest. “Better than good!” He struck again, eyes alight, and Percy almost faltered at the raw thrill in his gaze.

Percy’s throat tightened. He forced himself to keep fighting, to meet every blow, though his heart threatened to betray him. He was angry, yes—angry at his own feelings, angry at fate—but beneath the anger was awe. He had faced gods, Titans, even the earth itself, and yet here stood a man who made him tremble.

Their weapons locked, spearshaft grinding against spearshaft. Achilles’ face was inches from his own, eyes burning with challenge and something else—something Percy didn’t dare name.

Then a voice cut through the roar of the crowd.

“Stop!”

Patroclus.

Percy’s chest heaved as he jerked his head toward the sound. Patroclus had forced his way through the circle, cloak flying, his eyes wide with panic. He didn’t even carry a weapon. Just his voice, raw with desperation.

“Enough! You’ll kill each other!”

The words slammed into Percy harder than Achilles’ strikes ever had. His grip loosened, shame flooding through him. What was he doing? What were they doing?

Achilles’ spear pressed harder against his, but Percy saw the hesitation flash in his eyes at Patroclus’ cry. Saw the way his focus wavered—away from Percy, toward the man who was his heart.

And Percy—Percy lowered his weapon first.

The ring erupted in mutters, some jeering, some cheering, but Percy heard none of it. His gaze flicked between Achilles, blazing like the sun, and Patroclus, frantic and furious in the dust.

Patroclus’ heart was pounding long before his feet carried him into the circle.

From the sidelines, the duel had looked less like a contest and more like the collision of forces that should never meet. Dust hung in the air, churned by their boots, and each strike of spear against shield was deafening. Achilles—his Achilles—was grinning like a boy set loose on a battlefield, his hair shining with sweat, his laughter sharp and reckless.

And opposite him stood Percy.

Patroclus had not expected this. Percy—who he remembered as a younger boy, laughing and awkward, always half-apologizing for being out of place—now stood radiant, terrible in his beauty, a prince of the sea made flesh. His movements were liquid, seamless, every thrust of his spear carried by a strength not entirely mortal. He looked like he belonged to the gods themselves.

Patroclus’ stomach twisted.

It was awe, yes—but it was fear, too. Because Achilles was meeting him blow for blow. Because the longer they fought, the wilder Achilles’ strikes became, and Percy never broke, never faltered. This wasn’t a contest to first blood anymore. This was a storm building to catastrophe.

When their spears locked, wood grinding against wood, their faces close enough to clash like lovers, Patroclus’ body moved before his mind had caught up.

“Stop!” His voice cracked across the circle, raw and desperate. “Enough! You’ll kill each other!”

Achilles’ eyes flicked to him, startled, and Percy’s spear sagged as though the words had stolen his strength. That was all it took. The duel stuttered, stumbled, then died. The ring of soldiers broke into argument—boos, cheers, shouts of outrage—but Patroclus only cared about pulling Achilles out, dragging him by the wrist before he could start again.

Their tent was quieter, though Patroclus’ pulse hadn’t slowed. He pushed Achilles onto a stool, breath ragged.

And then he saw it.

A line of red across Achilles’ upper arm. Shallow, almost nothing, but red.

Patroclus froze. His heart lurched into his throat.

“Achilles,” he whispered, reaching out with trembling fingers. He wiped at it, expecting it to vanish, to prove itself a trick of dust or shadow. But the smear of blood came away on his skin. Real.

Achilles stared down at it, his face gone pale. “That’s—” His voice cracked. “That’s impossible.”

Patroclus pressed a cloth to the cut before his thoughts could spiral. His hands moved on instinct, firm and careful, cleaning the wound, binding it, anything to keep his own terror from showing. He wanted to shake Achilles, to scream, you cannot bleed, you cannot break, you cannot leave me.

Instead, he whispered, steady as he could, “It’s nothing. Just shallow. Look at me, Achilles. It’s nothing.”

But inside, his fear gnawed like fire. Because he had seen the truth: Percy’s strike had done what no blade in Greece could do.

And for the first time since he was a boy, Patroclus feared the prophecy might be closer than they ever dreamed.

Chapter Text

Odysseus prided himself on being a man who was hard to surprise. He’d tricked centaurs, outwitted kings, lied straight-faced to gods when he had to. He’d seen enough fighters that little could make his jaw go slack.

And yet—there he stood, slack-jawed like a boy.

The duel had been fierce enough, yes, the kind of clash that men would turn into songs before long. But what shook him wasn’t Achilles’ fury, nor the ringing of bronze against bronze. It was the water.

The way it answered.

Rumors had always spread about this so-called Prince of the Isles, Percyon. Fishermen whispered it, merchants swore it over wine: he speaks to the waves, and they obey. But rumors were wind. They carried no weight. Until now.

Odysseus had seen it with his own eyes — water curling to Percy’s hand like a faithful dog, rising in a spray that should never have moved that way, striking in rhythm with his spear. The tide had rolled under his steps as if the whole sea had leaned in to help its child.

By the gods, it was true.

Men around Odysseus were muttering, wide-eyed, voices pitched with unease. “A son of a god,” one whispered. “A demigod, walking with us,” said another. Others laughed too loud, trying to mask their fear. But the fear was there.

Odysseus said nothing. He watched Percy leave the field, saltwater still dripping from his hair though no sea was near, his Guard rallying tight around him. He didn’t strut, didn’t boast, just walked as though he carried the weight of it all quietly on his shoulders.

Clever boy. Dangerous boy.

Odysseus stroked his beard, a grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. A weapon like that in Troy… No, not a weapon. A tide. A tide that would sweep armies aside if harnessed right.

And if he wasn’t careful, a tide that could drown them all.

Odysseus turned away at last, heading back toward his tent, mind already racing. He would have to play this carefully. Very carefully.

The camp was still buzzing like a hive, men shouting, retelling the duel in half a hundred versions already. Some swore Achilles had nearly won. Others whispered that Percyon had. The truth didn’t matter. The air itself seemed charged, alive with the memory of bronze on bronze, water against fury.

But Achilles barely heard them.

He sat on the edge of his tent, hands still trembling faintly. Not from weakness — never that — but from the rush of it, the sheer thrill. He had fought men before. Kings, champions, all of them eager to test themselves against the son of Peleus, the boy dipped in the Styx. None of them had lasted long. They always broke, as reeds break before a storm.

But not Percyon.

Achilles closed his eyes and let the memory wash over him — the way Percy had stood against him, unwavering, eyes sharp as blades. The way the water had surged at his call, not wild or clumsy but precise, shaped, honed. The sea itself had risen to shield him, to strike with him.

And Achilles had felt it — for the first time in his life, someone pushed back.

A laugh escaped him, breathless and incredulous. Gods, he hadn’t realized how lonely it had been at the top, how heavy the mantle of “invincible” had become. To find someone who could stand beside him, not beneath him… it was like drawing a full breath after years of half-empty ones.

He thought of Patroclus then, as he always did when the world grew too heavy. Patroclus, who had seen him not as a weapon, not as a hero, but simply as Achilles. His Patroclus, whose quiet steadiness held him steady when glory threatened to consume him. Achilles’ chest softened, warmth chasing away the restless edge of battle.

Patroclus had looked terrified as the duel raged on. His voice had cracked when he stepped between them, desperate, pleading for it to stop. Achilles could still feel the echo of his touch on his arm, grounding him even as the storm roared in his blood.

He opened his eyes and looked across the camp, where Percy’s Guard was raising tents, their prince among them, silver circlet catching the last rays of the sun. Percy laughed at something one of his men said, and for a heartbeat Achilles forgot to breathe.

He understood, suddenly, why Patroclus’ eyes had shone when he spoke of Percy. The boy was beautiful, yes, but more than that—there was a light in him, a fierceness that was not cruel, a strength that did not need to boast.

Achilles let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders

“Patroclus,” he murmured into the quiet, as if the name itself could soothe him. “You always see truer than I do.”

The council tent was vast, its canvas stretched taut against the sea breeze. Inside, the air smelled of oiled bronze and sweat, of dust from the road mingled with salt from the harbor. Low torches flickered, casting long shadows that danced over the gathering of kings and princes, each seated around a heavy oak table.

They had all come: Agamemnon at the head, brooding like a stormcloud; Menelaus at his right, his face drawn and tight with fury; Odysseus thoughtful and watchful, quill already in hand; Nestor, old but sharp-eyed, speaking to no one and hearing everything. Ajax the Great sat like a mountain of muscle, arms folded, while Ajax the Lesser leaned close, eager to whisper and sneer. Diomedes, eyes alight with quiet fire, studied the others with the patience of a hunter.

And then there were the newer arrivals—Achilles, circlet of gold gleaming faintly in the torchlight, Patroclus at his shoulder, ever steady. Across from them sat Percy, silver ringslet bright in his dark hair, Guard standing silent at the edges of the tent, their presence a reminder of Atlantis’ might.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Agamemnon spoke first, voice booming, his tone that of a man who assumed he already had the victory.
“Troy has stolen from us what was freely given—Helen, wife of Menelaus, queen of Sparta. And now they hide behind their walls, thinking themselves untouchable. We will prove them wrong.”

Menelaus slammed his fist on the table. “This is no theft. This is insult—dishonor to me, to my house, to all of Greece. My wife was taken by that whelp of Troy, and I will have her back.”

Murmurs rippled around the table. Ajax the Lesser muttered something coarse about Helen’s beauty. Nestor coughed deliberately, silencing him.

Odysseus, calm as ever, raised a hand. “We should not leap like hounds at the scent of blood. Troy is strong, and its walls higher than any in Greece. This will not be a raid, but a war. A war that could last years. Our men must be prepared for it.”

His words tempered the room, though only slightly. Agamemnon’s eyes flashed with annoyance.

Then came the dagger.

The camp at Aulis had grown restless. Ships lay idle in the harbor, sails slack, oars unused, while the men sharpened their spears and muttered of omens. Day after day the winds refused to rise, the sea flat and still, as though the gods themselves barred their way.

It was in this unease that the seer, Calchas, was summoned. He arrived wrapped in a cloak of faded crimson, staff in hand, eyes clouded but sharp with something beyond mortal sight. The kings gathered in Agamemnon’s tent, their faces half-lit by the fire that crackled in the central brazier.

Calchas bowed his head briefly, then lifted his gaze. “You ask why Artemis denies you passage. You ask why your ships cannot sail. Hear me, kings of Greece: the goddess is wroth. Her forests were despoiled by one of your hunts, her sacred deer slain, her altar dishonored. She withholds the winds until reparation is made.”

The kings shifted uneasily. Nestor’s old fingers stroked his beard. Menelaus’ jaw clenched. Ajax muttered beneath his breath.

Agamemnon’s voice was iron. “What reparation? Speak plain, prophet.”

Calchas’ eyes gleamed in the firelight, like a man staring at something far beyond. “Only blood will turn her wrath aside. The blood of one born of your house. If given freely, Artemis will grant you winds enough to break Troy itself.”

A hush fell so deep even the fire seemed to quiet. Menelaus turned, aghast. “Your houses blood?”

Agamemnon’s face flickered—shock, then anger, then something colder. His hand closed hard around the haft of his spear. “You would have me slay my own child to appease a goddess? Do the Fates mock me?”

Calchas did not flinch. “I speak only what I see. The choice is yours: linger here until your men rot, or give what the goddess demands and sail triumphant.”

Nestor broke the silence with a weary sigh. “Dark counsel indeed.”

Odysseus’ brow furrowed, calculating, though he said nothing.

Patroclus’ knuckles whitened on the table’s edge. Achilles’ jaw was taut as bowstring. Percy’s breath caught in his chest, fury already sparking behind his eyes.

And Agamemnon, after a long pause, straightened, voice low and bitter: “So be it. If the gods demand blood, then blood they shall have.”

The words settled like ash. The council had not yet begun, but its doom was already seeded.

Agamemnon leaned forward, voice smooth but cruel. “We have waited long already. The winds do not favor us. If there is a way to win her favor...”

A stillness fell. Even the torches seemed to hush.

Agamemnon smiled thinly. “I will sacrifice my daughter, Iphigenia.”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then the council erupted.

Ajax the Great growled, half-rising to his feet. Nestor shook his head, muttering darkly about hubris. Diomedes struck the table with his palm, outraged.

Achilles surged upright, golden circlet catching the light. His eyes burned with fury.

Patroclus’ hand shot out to steady him, but his own face was pale with anger.

Percy’s voice cut through the noise like a wave breaking on rock. Calm, but sharp, carrying over the shouting:
“You would sacrifice your own blood for the winds of a goddess? You would turn kin into coin? That is not leadership, Agamemnon. That is cowardice dressed in power.”

Gasps circled the tent. Some looked at Percy with awe, others with unease. To speak so boldly against the High King—few dared it.

Agamemnon’s jaw clenched, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. “And what would you have us do, boy? Sit here forever while Troy feasts on our dishonor?”

Percy met his glare without flinching. “Find another way. One that does not stain our hands with the blood of children.”

For a moment, it seemed Agamemnon might strike him then and there. But Odysseus leaned forward, voice measured, cool as water poured on flame.
“He speaks truth. If we begin this war by devouring our own, then no matter what walls fall, we have already lost. Artemis is a goddess of the hunt. There may be other ways to appease her, other offerings worthy of her notice. Let us think carefully, lest we doom ourselves before the ships even sail.”

The murmur of agreement spread, though it was thin, hesitant. Ajax the Lesser snorted but said nothing. Nestor stroked his beard, eyes thoughtful.

Agamemnon sat back at last, fury in his eyes but words checked on his tongue. “Very well. We will delay. But remember this—every day we linger, Troy grows stronger. And if the winds remain still, we will have no other choice.”

The council had scattered, kings retreating to their tents with muttered curses and heavy brows. Some sought wine to drown the memory of Calchas’ words, others sharpened blades as though steel could solve what the gods had decreed. Percy stormed back toward his camp, fury bright in his eyes. Achilles followed in silence, Patroclus at his side, both unsettled by what they had heard.

But in the heart of the great pavilion, Agamemnon lingered.

The brazier burned low, casting his face in harsh shadows. Menelaus remained, pacing like a caged lion, fists clenching and unclenching. At last he stopped. “You cannot mean to do this. She is your daughter, Agamemnon. Blood of your blood.”

Agamemnon’s gaze flicked up, hard as flint. “And what would you have me do? Let Helen rot in Troy while our men waste away at harbor? Let Greece crumble because I faltered?” His voice was sharp, but beneath it lay exhaustion—an iron will stretched to breaking. “One girl against the fate of a thousand ships. Against the honor of all Greece.”

Menelaus spat on the ground. “You speak like a tyrant, not a father.”

But Agamemnon only lifted his chin. “Better tyrant than failure. The gods demand sacrifice, and I will not be the king remembered for bowing to weakness.”

He clapped his hands, and a servant hurried in, head bowed. “Summon my herald,” Agamemnon ordered. “He is to ride at once to Mycenae. He will bring word to Clytemnestra that Iphigenia is needed here.”

Menelaus’ head snapped up. “You would tell your wife the truth?”

“No.” Agamemnon’s smile was thin as a knife. “The girl will believe she comes to Aulis to wed Achilles, greatest of Greece. What maiden would refuse such a match? She will come willingly, her mother none the wiser. By the time the truth is known…” He spread his hands. “It will be too late.”

For a moment, even the fire seemed to recoil from his words.

The herald entered, and Agamemnon dictated with slow precision: Iphigenia is to be brought to Aulis for her betrothal. Achilles awaits her hand.

When the man departed, Menelaus stood rigid, rage in every line of his body. “You damn yourself with this, brother. If you spill her blood, you stain us all.”

Agamemnon’s voice was cold. “Better my daughter’s blood than the shame of retreat. The men will sail. They must. Greece depends on it.”

The Atlantean camp was quieter than the others. Where the Mycenaeans bellowed songs and the men of Crete drank deep from wine jars, Percy’s guard sat in ordered circles, oiling their spears, speaking in calm voices that carried the rhythm of the sea. Blue banners marked their tents, and in the center stood the prince himself, seated on a low stool, listening as Nery murmured softly in his ear.

Percy’s shoulders were taut, his hands restless on his knees. He had been silent since the council, the weight of Calchas’ prophecy heavy on him. Nery knew this silence, the storm before it broke. He leaned down, steady, whispering, “You are not alone in this, Percy. You never are.”

Before Percy could answer, a murmur rose at the camp’s edge. Two figures approached, lantern light catching on bronze. Achilles strode first, shoulders squared and gleaming like a god’s statue, while Patroclus trailed half a pace behind, his steps quicker, his eyes softer.

The Atlantean guards stood as they neared, but Percy raised a hand. “Let them pass.”

Achilles stopped before him, studying the young prince in the firelight. “You spoke against Agamemnon today.” His tone wasn’t hostile—just sharp, like a blade testing an edge.

Percy tilted his head, meeting Achilles’ gaze. “Because it was wrong.” His voice cracked slightly, but steadied. “To kill your own child, to trick her into walking to her death… That is not sacrifice. That’s murder dressed in ceremony.”

Patroclus’ breath hitched, and his eyes flickered with gratitude. “I thought the same,” he said quickly, stepping closer. His gaze lingered on Percy’s face with warmth that made Percy’s chest ache. “You spoke like someone who’s carried too much already.”

Percy smiled faintly at him. “Maybe I have.”

For a moment, silence stretched, broken only by the hiss of the brazier. Achilles’ gaze flicked between them, his jaw tightening, though his voice was measured. “Agamemnon will not listen to you. To us. He has chosen his path. The question is whether we stand by and watch—or whether we act.”

Nery stirred behind Percy, but stayed quiet. He knew when to let his prince speak for himself.

Percy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and met Achilles’ storm-colored eyes. “And you? What will you do if he brings his daughter here?”

Achilles didn’t answer immediately. His fingers flexed against his thigh, as though holding an invisible sword. At last, he said, “What I must. But I would not mind an ally.”

Patroclus stepped closer still, his hand brushing briefly against Percy’s arm before he caught himself. “We’ll find a way,” he said softly. “The three of us.” His eyes shone as if the words carried more weight than he dared admit.

Percy swallowed, throat tight. He wanted to believe him. To believe that maybe, just maybe, this bond forming between them could survive the war and the gods’ cruelty.

“Then we stand together,” Percy said at last, voice steady though his heart beat like thunder. “For Iphigenia. For what’s right.”

Achilles gave a single nod. “For her.”

Patroclus smiled—a quick, bright thing that cut through the night’s heaviness. “For her.”

The palace of Mycenae was quiet in the afternoon heat, its stone walls holding the stillness like a sealed amphora. Queen Clytemnestra sat by an open window, spindle in hand, the soft whir of wool twisting between her fingers. Iphigenia knelt at her feet, humming under her breath as she braided a cord for her hair.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the peace. A servant entered, head bowed low, hands clutching a sealed parchment. “My queen,” he said, voice trembling. “A letter. From the king.”

Clytemnestra’s head lifted at once. The spindle stilled. “From Aulis?” she asked, though she already knew. Her husband had been gone too long. She took the scroll, broke the seal, and unrolled the parchment. Her eyes traced the words once, then again, lips parting.

“My mother?” Iphigenia asked, curiosity sparkling in her young face.

Clytemnestra’s hand trembled ever so slightly. She smoothed the parchment on her lap, voice low as she read aloud:

“To my wife, Queen Clytemnestra, and to my daughter, the fairest of maidens, Iphigenia. The army waits at Aulis, but before we sail, the gods have decreed a wedding to bind us in good fortune. Iphigenia shall wed the greatest warrior of Greece, Achilles, son of Peleus. Let her come with haste, clothed as a bride, that she may stand beside him before the altar. Together they shall lead us to victory.”

Silence fell.

Iphigenia’s face lit with wonder, as though the words had been spun from golden thread. “Achilles,” she whispered. “The hero? The invincible one?” She rose to her feet, cheeks flushed pink. “He wants me?”

Clytemnestra’s throat tightened. She looked at her daughter’s wide eyes and saw innocence, hope, the eagerness of a girl dreaming of love and glory. And yet—beneath the flowery script, she thought she saw a shadow. Agamemnon’s hand had never penned such sweetness without reason.

“My daughter,” she said slowly, “what think you of this letter?”

Iphigenia clasped her hands, joy spilling from her smile. “It is a gift of the gods! To be wed to Achilles—what greater honor? I will make him proud. I will make all of Greece proud.”

Clytemnestra managed a smile, though it felt like ash on her tongue. She folded the parchment, hiding it in her hand. “Then we shall prepare you, child. The finest robes, the fairest veil. We will ride for Aulis at once.”

The girl laughed, spun, and clutched her mother’s hands. She was already dreaming of wedding songs, of garlands, of glory.

But Clytemnestra’s heart was heavy. Something in those words did not ring true. She had lived too long at Agamemnon’s side not to hear the steel behind the silk.

She kissed her daughter’s brow, holding her close a heartbeat longer than needed. If he dares bring harm to you, she swore in silence, he will know a wife’s wrath and a mother’s vengeance.

Chapter Text

Dawn came soft over the Atlantean lines, turning spearheads into little suns and the guy-ropes of tents into silver strings. The camp smelled of sea-salt and hot bread; gulls argued overhead; somewhere a file of rowers kept time by tapping oars against gunwales. Percy sat on a coil of mooring rope, rolling his shoulders till the stiffness eased. He was bone-deep tired—the kind of tired that came from years of putting himself between danger and everyone else.

A shadow fell across him. “Eat,” said Nerieus, pressing a heel of bread into Percy’s hand like it was an order of battle.

Percy smirked. “You’re my second, not my mother.”

“Lucky for you. My mother would have made you finish the bread and the porridge.” Nery’s mouth tipped wry; his sea-grey eyes, though, swept Percy’s face, reading the fatigue there. He settled beside him without ceremony, shoulder to shoulder, a familiar weight Percy didn’t know he needed until it was there.

Steel hissed against stone. Thaloros sat cross-legged by the fire, drawing a whetstone down his spearhead with priestly care. “Captain’s quiet,” he observed, not looking up. “Either he’s planning something or he didn’t sleep.”

“Both,” Lykomedes said, dropping a bundle of polished straps into Percy’s lap. “New harness. I tightened the greaves—you keep burning through buckles like you’re racing dolphins.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “They were loose because someone promised to fix them last week.”

Lykomedes put a hand to his chest. “Slander. I promised to try.”

A low chuckle came from the tent flap. Kallias strolled in with a net over one shoulder and a pair of fish glittering like coins. “Scouts say the Myrmidons were up before sunrise. Their prince drills like a man who thinks sleep is a rumor.” He flicked Percy a glance that was part grin, part measure. “You two sparring again today, Captain?”

Nery clicked his tongue. “He isn’t sparring unless I say so. And I say he eats first, breathes second, and then decides whether he wants another round of ‘try not to break the golden boy.’”

That earned a ring of laughter. Even Percy laughed, the sound surprising him. “I’ll be good,” he said. “For once.”

Thaloros finally looked up, eyes steady as a calm tide. “You don’t have to prove anything, Captain.”

“I know.” Percy tore the bread and actually ate this time. “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop being me.”

Lykomedes flopped onto a crate, boots knocking against a shield. “If you do spar, at least make it a show. Yesterday half the camp tried to describe what they saw, and by evening they had you riding a wave like a chariot.”

Kallias snorted. “And the other half swore Achilles gave up first.”

“That one’s true,” Nery said, deadpan.

They grinned. This was how the Guard moved around him—jokes as ballast, competence as current. The nine of them had seen him soaked, bloodied, starving, triumphant; they had watched him talk down pirates and talk up fishermen, rip ships out of riptides and stitch sailors back together afterward. They knew when to needle and when to shut up.

Percy finished the bread and wiped crumb from his thumb. “How are our lines?”

“Outer pickets are set. Atlantean ships locked tight in the lee—no one touches our hulls without my permission,” Thaloros said. “If trouble comes, it trips three alarms before it gets ten paces.”

“Supply’s clean,” Lykomedes added. “Salt pork, fresh water, and enough spare rivets that even you can’t shake them all loose.”

Kallias lifted the net. “Breakfast will stop a mutiny.”

Nery nudged Percy’s knee. “And your men are fine. Which leaves you. Speak.”

Percy let the sea fill his lungs and empty them again. “I’m not… sad,” he said slowly. “Just tired. Tired of drawing steel before I draw breath. Tired of everyone expecting me to solve their mess.” He squinted toward the Greek sprawl of tents. “But if we don’t stand in the gap, who will?”

“Then we stand,” Nery said simply. He bumped Percy’s shoulder again, easy as tide against a rock. “Together.”

“Together,” Thaloros echoed, sliding the whetstone down one last time.

Lykomedes tossed Percy the new harness; Percy caught it without looking. “And if you do go play nice with the Myrmidon prince,” Lykomedes said, “try to come back with all your buckles. I just signed my name inside them.”

“Gods save us,” Kallias murmured. “He’s autographing armor now.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. He stood, the weight of the harness familiar across his palms, and nodded toward the surf where the morning light was breaking into a hundred little paths. The ache in his bones didn’t vanish, but it loosened.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll eat, breathe—and then, maybe—I’ll go see if the golden boy wants a second dance.”

Nery rose with him. “And I’ll be twenty paces off with a whistle, in case ‘dance’ turns into ‘duet with broken noses.’”

Percy slanted him a look. “You’re my second and my best nag.”

“Second, best friend, worst nag,” Nery corrected, amused. “After Helen, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Percy agreed, warmth flickering behind the tired. He slung the harness over his shoulder. “Let’s get through today without starting another war.”

Kallias saluted with a fish. “No promises.”

The Guard’s laughter followed Percy.

The Myrmidon camp was alive with the easy clamor of men who trusted their leader. Armor gleamed in the sunlight, horses snorted at their tethers, and the smell of roasting meat drifted like a promise. Achilles sat cross-legged on a hide blanket, bare arms shining with oil, golden hair spilling over his shoulders in a way that made half the camp watch him as though the sun had simply sat down among them.

Patroclus knelt beside him, deft fingers breaking apart a warm loaf of barley bread. He smeared honey across a piece, then offered it with a teasing lift of his brow. “Eat. If you collapse mid-fight later, I’ll never forgive you.”

Achilles grinned, biting from Patroclus’s hand instead of taking the bread. Honey clung to his lip; Patroclus wiped it away with his thumb, and Achilles caught the hand before it could escape, pressing a kiss against the knuckles.

“Your worry makes me stronger,” Achilles said, voice a low rumble. “I fight better when I know your eyes are on me.”

Patroclus rolled his own, but his lips softened. “You’d fight just as hard against the wind.”

“Perhaps,” Achilles conceded, “but I’d win faster for you.”

They shared the bread between them, light jests weaving through their quiet. The Myrmidons nearby pretended not to notice—though more than one smiled, watching their prince and his companion as if their closeness was as natural as breathing.

It was into this peace that Percy arrived. The Atlantean prince moved like the sea itself had walked ashore, silver circlet glinting against his dark hair, tunic belted simply but worn with unstudied grace. His eyes caught the light strangely—green like deep water, shifting when he turned his head.

Achilles noticed him first, jaw tightening just a fraction. Patroclus followed his gaze and broke into a bright smile.

“Percy!” Patroclus called, half rising before Achilles’s hand caught his arm. Still, Percy had already closed the distance, grinning like they were boys on a beach again.

“Sorry to intrude,” Percy said, and he meant it—but his voice carried a lightness that tugged at Patroclus’s chest. He glanced at the bread between Achilles and himself, then back at Percy. “Didn’t mean to interrupt breakfast.”

“You didn’t,” Patroclus assured, warmth in his tone.

Percy shifted his weight, studying Achilles directly now. “I was wondering if your offer still stands.”

Achilles raised one brow. “My offer?”

“The light sparring match.” Percy’s grin tilted into something more challenging, the sort of spark that made his men whisper he was Poseidon’s favored. “I thought you said you wanted another round.”

For a moment, the air tightened. Achilles leaned back on one hand, watching him. His blood still sang from their last clash; the memory of water rising to meet Percy’s command had not left him. Neither had the faint sting of that shallow wound that should not exist.

Patroclus looked between them, torn between dread and curiosity.

Achilles’s smile spread, slow and dangerous. “It still stands.”

Percy’s eyes lit with something reckless, and the grin that answered was sharp as salt air.

“Good,” he said simply.

The training field at Aulis smelled of sweat, sun, and trampled grass. Soldiers had cleared out after morning drills, leaving only a few scattered figures and the faint clang of distant weapons. Percy stood barefoot in the dirt, spear in hand, rolling his shoulders.

Achilles was already waiting, the golden boy glinting under the noonday sun, his smile almost feral but not unfriendly. It wasn’t the grin of a rival anymore. Two days ago, maybe. Today it was easier. Warmer.

“You said you wanted this,” Achilles said, spinning his practice spear once. “No excuses.”

Percy grinned, lifting his own. “You’re not getting another duel out of me. This is just sparring.”

“‘Just sparring,’” Achilles echoed with mock seriousness. “Until you end up flat on your back.”

Patroclus snorted from where he sat cross-legged on a crate, tearing into a fig. “Gods above, you two sound like children. Careful, Percy—Achilles has a habit of getting dramatic if he loses.”

“Patroclus,” Achilles warned, not taking his eyes off Percy, “don’t you have fruit to eat?”

“I am,” Patroclus said sweetly, licking juice off his fingers.

Percy laughed, the sound breaking the lingering edge of tension. He twirled his spear once, then lunged. Achilles blocked easily, their weapons smacking together with a sharp crack.

It wasn’t like the duel—they didn’t fight to destroy. This time it was rhythm, flow. Strike, counter, sidestep, laugh. Percy darted forward fast enough to graze Achilles’s ribs, and the other boy only grinned wider, eyes flashing with something Percy couldn’t name. Respect. Challenge. Thrill.

“You’re quicker than you look,” Achilles said.

“You’re slower than you look,” Percy shot back.

Patroclus nearly choked on his fig, laughing.

They circled again, spears flicking in the dust. Percy could feel the way Achilles held back—not mocking him, but matching him. Testing. And for once, Percy didn’t need to hide what he was.

A grin spread across Achilles’s mouth, sharp and boyish. “Careful. You’ll find I don’t hold back, even when I like someone.”

“Good,” Percy shot back. “Neither do I.”

Patroclus leaned against the fence, arms folded, watching them with that patient, steady gaze of his. Percy could feel his eyes like a tether—part amusement, part fond worry.

The bout began with light strikes, wood meeting wood in a crisp rhythm. No desperate lunges, no fury in their movements—just two warriors testing each other’s balance. Percy ducked under a sweep, countered with a jab that Achilles sidestepped, the exchange more like dance than fight.

“Your stance is better,” Achilles noted, voice almost casual.

Percy smirked. “Maybe I was too distracted last time.”

“Distracted?”

Percy flicked his eyes toward Patroclus, who raised his brows but said nothing.

Achilles laughed, low and genuine. “Ah. That explains it.” He swung again, and Percy blocked, the impact buzzing pleasantly down his arms.

 He met Achilles strike for strike, as if the two of them had been training together for years.

Finally, Percy feinted right, then hooked his staff low to knock Achilles’s feet out. The warrior stumbled half a step, caught himself, and barked a laugh. “You nearly had me.”

“Nearly?” Percy smirked, lowering his weapon. “Looked like a win to me.”

“That was luck.”

“Jealous?” Percy teased, sidestepping a thrust.

“Hardly,” Patroclus said, but his eyes gleamed.

The match went on, laughter spilling between strikes. When Percy managed to sweep Achilles’s legs lightly, sending him stumbling back a single step, the gasp from the watching Myrmidons was sharp. But Achilles only threw his head back and laughed.

“You really are something, sea-prince,” he said, straightening. “I almost regret trying to drown you the first time we met.”

“Almost?” Percy pressed.

Achilles’s grin widened. “Almost.”

Patroclus climbed over the fence then, seizing a staff of his own. “Move over. If you’re going to play, I’m joining in.”

Percy groaned in mock despair. “Not you too.”

Achilles groaned. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Patroclus said, brandishing the weapon and stepping between them. “Percy held back last time we fought in sparta—let’s see if he does it again.”

Percy flushed but grinned, raising his spear. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never,” Patroclus said, lunging at him.

What followed wasn’t really sparring. It was laughter spilling into the dust, three boys chasing each other with blunted weapons, Achilles calling out advice one moment and then diving in the next, Percy dodging both at once until Patroclus landed a light strike on his side and declared victory.

They collapsed in the grass, sweaty and laughing, Percy flat on his back staring up at the sky. For the first time since coming to Aulis, he felt the knot in his chest ease.

The sun was high, and the dust of the training field clung to their skin like a second tunic. Patroclus stretched out on the grass, panting with laughter, while Percy lay sprawled beside him, arms flung wide, hair damp and curling against his forehead. Achilles sat cross-legged a few feet away, not nearly as winded but grinning like a child.

“You fight well,” Achilles said at last, tossing a pebble into the dirt. “Almost as well as me.”

“Almost?” Percy groaned, turning his head to squint at him. “I had you half down twice.”

“Half isn’t down,” Achilles said loftily.

Patroclus rolled onto his side, propping himself on one elbow. “Percy, you should know by now—he’ll never admit defeat. If you broke his nose, he’d say you just improved his looks.”

“Which is impossible,” Achilles said, smirking, “because they’re already perfect.”

Patroclus threw the nearest thing he could grab—an apple from their rations. Achilles caught it one-handed, bit into it, and chewed smugly.

“Speaking of food,” Percy said, sitting up and wiping dust off his arms, “if either of you don’t share something soon, I might collapse dramatically right here and let your soldiers think you killed me in a spar.”

“Better than the truth,” Patroclus teased. “That you nearly won.”

Achilles made an offended noise but passed the apple down anyway. Percy bit into it with exaggerated gratitude, juice running down his chin. Patroclus laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Percy said through a mouthful. “Food’s better when you nearly die before it.”

“That explains why you’re always hungry,” Patroclus said.

Soon enough, their makeshift meal became a jumble of passing bread, figs, olives, and cheese between them. Percy snagged a fig from Patroclus’s hand with a mischievous grin, Achilles retaliated by swiping a hunk of bread from Percy’s lap. Patroclus tried to act above it all, until Percy leaned over and smudged a streak of olive juice on his arm, and then it devolved into a miniature skirmish—food as weapons, laughter echoing across the camp.

By the time they’d finished, their rations were half-destroyed, Achilles had fig juice in his hair, and Percy was grinning so wide Patroclus thought his face might split.

“You’re both impossible,” Patroclus said fondly, leaning back against Achilles’s shoulder.

“impossible stylish,” Percy shot back.

They were an absolute mess. Dust streaked across their arms and legs, sweat-soaked tunics sticking to their skin, and olive juice smeared in questionable places. Percy picked a crumb out of his hair and groaned.

“If anyone sees us like this,” he said, “they’ll think we lost a war already.”

Patroclus laughed, brushing at the dirt on his knees. “We did just lose a battle. To figs.”

Achilles tilted his head back and laughed, sharp and golden. “Solution’s obvious.” He jerked a thumb toward the glittering water just beyond camp. “The sea will clean us better than any basin.”

Percy didn’t need convincing. Saltwater called to him always, tugging at his chest like an old friend. “Last one in’s a rotten grape,” he declared, already sprinting toward the beach.

Patroclus cursed, stumbling after him, while Achilles—of course—shot forward like an arrow, catching Percy at the shoreline. They hit the surf together, tripping over each other, and went tumbling into the waves with a crash.

Cold water wrapped around Percy like home. He opened his eyes beneath the surface, the world bright and shifting, every particle of salt alive on his skin. Achilles burst down beside him, a flash of sunlit hair and fierce grins, their laughter carrying even underwater. Patroclus arrived seconds later, sputtering as he surfaced.

“Unfair!” he shouted, pushing his wet curls out of his face. “You’re both sons of the sea. I never stood a chance.”

Percy floated lazily on his back, waves lifting him. “Not my fault you’re slow.”

Achilles swam a circle around Patroclus, splashing deliberately until Patroclus shoved him under. Percy laughed so hard he choked on seawater. The three of them wrestled like boys, salt and spray everywhere, until exhaustion pulled them apart again.

At last, Patroclus drifted beside Percy, both of them half-floating, half-sinking in the swell. The sun burned high above, making the water sparkle like a field of stars.

“You belong here,” Patroclus said softly, just for him. “In the waves.”

Percy blinked at him, startled. “You think so?”

Patroclus smiled, that warm, gentle smile Percy remembered from Sparta. “I know so.”

A few feet away, Achilles treaded water, watching them with unreadable eyes. For a moment Percy thought he saw jealousy spark—but then Achilles swam closer, brushing against both of them, and it melted into something else. Something almost… content.

The tide rocked them together, three bodies drifting like they were meant to share the same current. For a heartbeat, Percy forgot about oaths and wars, and just let himself be carried.

The three of them lay stretched on the beach like shipwrecked survivors, damp tunics clinging to their skin and grains of sand sticking everywhere. The sun had begun its lazy descent, the air warm enough to dry their hair into messy curls.

Patroclus had flopped onto his stomach, arms folded under his head, already half-dozing. Achilles sat cross-legged beside him, running idle fingers through Patroclus’s damp hair, eyes distant as if caught between memory and present. Percy lay on his back, staring up at the endless blue sky, arms spread wide like he could embrace the horizon.

For a long while they just breathed together, the crash of waves the only sound. Then Achilles’s voice broke the quiet, softer than Percy had ever heard it.

“When we were boys, I stole him.”

Percy turned his head. “Stole him?”

Achilles smiled faintly, but it was lined with old shadows. “Patroclus was sent to my father’s hall. An exile. A punishment. He was smaller than the others, quieter. They treated him badly. So I… I stole him away.” His gaze lingered on Patroclus like it always did, something fierce and unshakable in it. “I told him he belonged to me. That no one else would touch him.”

Patroclus stirred at the words, eyes still closed, and gave a tired little grin. “Possessive then. Possessive now.”

Achilles leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Always.”

The tenderness made Percy’s chest ache. He glanced away, back to the horizon. It reminded him of Helen, of every promise he couldn’t keep. But then Patroclus cracked one eye open and looked at him, as if to drag him into this circle, too.

“What about you, Percy?” he asked. “What is your home like?”

For a moment, Percy hesitated. He wasn’t supposed to speak too openly about Atlantis. But here, under the open sun, with sand sticking to his skin and laughter still caught in his throat, it felt easier.

“It’s…” Percy exhaled. “It’s alive. Coral towers that glow like lanterns. Streets of shell and pearl. My father’s palace carved out of the sea itself.” He smiled at the image of it. “There are gardens of kelp that reach higher than pines, and fish with colors you can’t even imagine. Triton used to race me through the currents until my lungs burned.” His voice softened. “And Amphitrite—my mother in all but blood—she makes the sea bloom with flowers when she laughs.”

Achilles and Patroclus both stared at him like he’d conjured a myth. Even Achilles, who rarely looked impressed, seemed caught.

“That sounds…” Patroclus’s eyes closed again, a dreamy smile tugging at his lips. “Beautiful.”

“It is,” Percy said quietly. “But it’s also heavy. Atlantis doesn’t need protecting. The islands do. So I spend more time out there than at home. Fighting pirates, keeping promises. Being what they call me.”

Achilles tilted his head. “And what’s that?”

Percy smirked a little, though it was weary around the edges. “The Protector of the Isles.”

Patroclus chuckled into the sand. “Fitting.”

Achilles’s eyes, sharp as sunlight, lingered on Percy a beat too long before he looked away. “Fitting,” he echoed, though his tone carried something else entirely—respect, maybe, or curiosity.

The three of them let silence return, broken only by gulls overhead and the rhythm of waves.

The next few days passed in a blur and Percy found himself spending nearly every waking moment with Achilles and Patroclus. It was strange, how easily the three of them fit together—as if no years had passed since Sparta, as if fate had always meant for them to circle back into each other’s orbit.

One morning, while Percy cleaned his armor by the surf, Patroclus crouched beside him and picked up his bracers. “You polish better than Achilles,” he teased.

Achilles, lounging nearby, scoffed. “I don’t polish. That’s what Patroclus is for.”

Percy grinned. “So you’re the real reason his armor shines.”

Patroclus smirked. “Exactly.”

Achilles rolled his eyes but leaned over to fasten Percy’s shoulder guard when he struggled with the strap. For a heartbeat their eyes met—Achilles’ touch lingering, Percy’s cheeks warming.

Patroclus caught it, smiling softly. He didn’t speak, but his hand found Achilles’ knee as if to steady both of them.

Later the three sat on the packed sand near the surf, a circle scratched into the ground with pebbles piled in the center. Percy had taught them the game, one he claimed sailors played on long voyages to pass time.

Achilles had his tongue between his teeth, brows furrowed in comical concentration as he tried to flick one of the stones into the circle without knocking others out. The pebble bounced wrong, scattering the whole pile.

Patroclus fell back into the sand, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. “You’re hopeless.”

Achilles scowled, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. Percy, grinning, leaned on his elbows and said, “Do you want me to show you again? Or would that wound your pride?”

Achilles shot him a glare, but it lacked heat. “I don’t lose”

“You just did,” Percy teased, tossing a stone into the circle perfectly.

Patroclus wheezed from laughter. “Gods help us all. The mightiest warrior in Greece, undone by pebbles.”

Achilles lunged at him, wrestling him into the sand. Percy laughed so hard his ribs ached, until Achilles turned a smirk on him, eyes glittering. “You’re next, Sea Prince.”

Percy yelped, scrambling away just in time, the three of them rolling in the sand.

The camp had set aside a sandy circle for practice bouts. Soldiers gathered to watch whenever Achilles trained, eager to see the legend in motion.

Patroclus convinced Percy to join. At first, Percy refused—wrestling on land wasn’t his strong suit. But with Patroclus’ goading, he stepped into the ring.

Achilles grinned like a boy at a feast. “Don’t hold back, Sea Prince.”

Percy, already laughing, was promptly thrown flat on his back in a puff of sand. The crowd roared. Percy groaned. Patroclus doubled over laughing.

But then Percy caught Achilles off guard with a quick feint, using his lower center of gravity to topple him. For one golden moment Achilles hit the sand, stunned. The soldiers cheered louder than ever.

Achilles only laughed, eyes bright. “Finally,” he said. “Someone worth the bruises.”

Later, they tried archery. Achilles, predictably, sank arrows dead-center every time, posture perfect. Patroclus wasn’t bad either. Percy, however, shot one arrow so wide it nearly skewered a tent flap.

The guards watching from afar erupted into muffled laughter. Percy groaned, covering his face. “I swear the bow hates me.”

“Or maybe you just hate the bow,” Patroclus teased.

Achilles, grinning, set down his own bow and stepped behind Percy. His hands settled on Percy’s shoulders, then lower to guide his arms. “Here,” Achilles murmured. His breath ghosted near Percy’s ear. “Draw like this.”

Percy’s heart hammered in a way that had nothing to do with archery. He forced himself to focus. The arrow flew truer this time, landing near the target’s edge.

Patroclus clapped. “Progress!”

“Barely,” Percy muttered, cheeks hot. Achilles only smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

Around the fire, Percy told stories of Atlantis: glowing gardens of coral, dolphins that sang like choirs, halls of pale pearl where Triton teased him endlessly.

Patroclus listened with rapt attention, chin on his knees. “It sounds like another world.”

“It is,” Percy said quietly, staring into the flames. “Sometimes I wonder if I belong more there… or here.”

Achilles, uncharacteristically serious, said, “Here. You fight like us. Laugh like us. You belong where you choose.”

Percy looked at him sharply, surprised by the weight in his voice. Achilles wasn’t boasting. He meant it.

On a free afternoon, Percy taught Patroclus and Achilles a sailors’ dice game. Soon half their men were crowded around, betting scraps of food or trinkets.

Patroclus cheated shamelessly, Percy caught him, and Achilles defended him with mock outrage. “If he cheats, he cheats for both of us,” Achilles declared, dragging Patroclus into his lap.

Percy threw his hands up, laughing. “Hopeless. Both of you.”

Their laughter carried across camp.

The three spent long hours lying in the sand after swimming, salt drying on their skin.

Achilles dozed with his head in Patroclus’ lap. Percy skipped stones, the arcs glittering in the sun. Patroclus braided thin cords of leather into a bracelet and tied it onto Percy’s wrist without asking.

“For luck,” Patroclus said simply.

Percy smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. Achilles cracked one eye open, saw it, and closed it again without a word.

One evening, Patroclus coaxed Percy into singing. At first he refused, embarrassed, but after enough pestering he gave in. His voice carried, low and rough like the sea against stone, weaving old sailor shanties into the night.

Achilles sat utterly still, transfixed. The fire painted Percy’s face gold, his damp curls sticking in messy strands. For once he looked… unguarded.

When Percy finished, embarrassed by the silence, Patroclus clapped and declared, “You’ve just been recruited. From now on, you’ll sing us to sleep.”

Percy groaned, but his smile betrayed him. Achilles, though, didn’t smile. He just looked at Percy like he was something rare—something found at the bottom of the ocean that no man should be allowed to touch.

Often they rose with the sun, diving into the sea when the horizon was still painted with pink and gold. Percy and Achilles outpaced Patroclus easily in the water, both part-children of the sea. Patroclus, stubborn, refused to admit defeat.

When they dragged themselves back to shore, panting and dripping, Patroclus collapsed beside them with a grin. “One day I’ll beat you.”

Percy laughed, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Not unless you grow gills.”

Achilles, sprawled in the sand, nudged Patroclus with his foot. “Admit it. He’s faster.”

Patroclus only muttered, “For now.” But the way his gaze lingered on Percy, chest still heaving, said otherwise.

These golden, playful days let the three of them fall into a rhythm: eating together, teasing, training, and talking by firelight. Percy felt less like an outsider; Achilles found himself restless when Percy wasn’t near; and Patroclus was just quietly, endlessly happy to see both the men he cared for laughing together instead of clashing.

The last nights before everything changed were the gentlest. The three sat close, shoulders brushing, fire crackling low.

Patroclus leaned against Achilles’ chest. Percy sat beside them, humming a tune half-remembered from Atlantis.

Achilles watched him through the firelight. Percy’s hair curled wild, his sea-green eyes reflecting flames like glass. Beautiful, Achilles thought—and now he understood why Patroclus’ gaze softened whenever Percy smiled.

Achilles’ arm tightened around Patroclus, but he didn’t look away from Percy.

The camp had grown louder in those weeks, and yet Nerieus noticed a strange quiet in Percy.
Not the hollow quiet of exhaustion—he had seen that too many times before—but something lighter. Something freer.

From his place at the edge of the firepit, sharpening his blade with methodical strokes, Nery kept his eyes on his prince. Percy was laughing with the two Greeks again—Achilles sprawled shamelessly in the sand, Patroclus leaned against him, steady as always. Percy’s grin flashed, bright as saltwater in the sun, and the sound of his laughter carried over the camp like a balm.

Nery’s chest eased at the sight. For so long, Percy had carried himself like a man twice his years. Tired eyes, shoulders bent under burdens no boy of twenty should have borne. But now… now there were moments Percy forgot. Moments he leaned back and let others carry the conversation, let Achilles’ banter or Patroclus’ soft warmth fill the silence. Moments where the weight slipped from him, even if just for an evening.

It made Nery glad. And it made him afraid.

Because he knew Percy’s heart. He had stood beside him in storms that would have broken lesser men, watched him guard fishermen as if their nets were worth more than gold. Percy gave everything, always. Too much. If these two Greeks—this wild son of Thetis with his quick temper, this thoughtful Patroclus with his kind eyes—if they ever betrayed that trust, it would shatter him.

Nery’s hand tightened on the whetstone. He would not allow it.

But then he looked again, and saw Percy’s shoulders loose with laughter, saw Achilles grinning not like a warlord but like a boy, saw Patroclus’ gaze soft as a prayer as it flicked between the two of them. And Nery breathed out.

Maybe this was what Percy needed. Companions who were not his guard, not his king, not his father’s will made flesh. Just boys, like him. Boys who could remind him that he was not only a weapon, not only the Prince of the Sea.

Nery set his blade down, the steel gleaming. He let himself smile faintly.
Let Percy have this. Let him laugh, let him be light. For however long the gods allowed it.

And if Achilles and Patroclus ever forgot what kind of gift they’d been handed—if they ever dared break it—Nery would remind them.

With steel, if he had to.

The night was cool, the sea whispering just beyond the camp. The fire of the Atlantean guard crackled, sparks rising into the sky. Percy sat cross-legged in the sand, his silver circlet set aside, hair still damp from the evening swim with Achilles and Patroclus.

Nery tossed him a piece of flatbread. Percy caught it clumsily, earning a chorus of laughter.

“Some prince,” one of the men snorted, grinning. “Can fight pirates, but bread bests him.”

Percy rolled his eyes, biting into it. “Careful, or I’ll drown your tent in fish.”

Another man groaned dramatically. “Not again. Took me a week to get the smell out last time.”

Percy smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Then behave.”

Nery shook his head but couldn’t hide his smile. Around the fire, the men passed stories, each one exaggerating their own feats until Percy was crying with laughter. For once, he wasn’t the weary captain or the burdened prince—just Percy, their brother, teasing and being teased in turn.

As the fire burned low, one of the younger guards raised his cup. “To our prince, who still can’t catch bread but somehow keeps catching victories.”

Percy groaned, but lifted his own cup anyway, grin tugging at his lips. “To all of you,” he said softly. “My family.”

Chapter Text

The camp at Aulis stirred before the sun had fully lifted above the horizon. Messengers had been running since dawn, and by the time the chariot appeared on the distant road, every soldier, king, and servant knew: Agamemnon’s daughter is coming.

Percy stood on the rise with his guard behind him, the sea wind tugging at his hair. The air was heavy, uneasy, though the men around him whispered of weddings and celebration. He knew better. His gut twisted with dread.

The chariot rolled into camp, horses sweating, wheels caked with dust from the long road. Two attendants guided it, both servants in Mycenaean livery, but the girl inside was alone.

Iphigenia.

She was no queen, not yet, but she carried herself with the grace of one. A veil hung loose around her dark hair, framing a face far too young. She looked around the camp with wide, trusting eyes, awe lighting her features instead of fear. She believed she had been summoned to marry the greatest warrior of Greece, to join Achilles in a union blessed by the gods themselves.

Her smile made Percy’s chest ache. She couldn’t know.

The soldiers broke into murmurs as she stepped down from the chariot. “So beautiful,” someone whispered. “Like a goddess.” Another muttered, “No wonder Achilles agreed.”

Achilles hadn’t agreed. Percy clenched his jaw. Achilles hadn’t even been asked. This was no wedding—this was a slaughter wrapped in silk and ceremony.

Iphigenia walked forward, light as a reed in the wind, her gown bright with threads of gold. She greeted the assembled kings with the respectful tilt of her head. The men murmured back, some pleased, others tight-lipped.

And Agamemnon? He stood at the center of it all, pride swelling his chest, the perfect image of a father offering his daughter to glory. Percy’s stomach turned.

His hand tightened on the silver circlet he wore, the mark of Atlantis, until the metal bit into his palm. She was barely older than Helen had been when the suitors had gathered. He remembered Helen crying on the beach, afraid of her fate. Now here was another girl, smiling as she walked into her death.

Beside him, Nerieus shifted uncomfortably. “She doesn’t see it,” he whispered.

“She can’t,” Percy muttered back. “He lied to her. To her family.”

Iphigenia paused in front of Agamemnon, bowing her head as though she were presenting herself for a blessing. Percy wanted to scream, to shake her, to tell her to run. Instead, he bit down on the words. Not yet.

He could feel it in his bones—something terrible was about to happen.

And he would not let her die.

The sun was sinking over Aulis, casting long spears of light across the sea, and still Percy could not sit still. The camp buzzed with false celebration: soldiers laughing, jesting about Achilles’ “wedding,” servants preparing garlands and wine. None of them understood. None of them saw what Percy saw.

He found Achilles and Patroclus near the edge of the camp, sitting on a low wall of stacked stones. Patroclus leaned against Achilles’ side, a quiet anchor, while Achilles absentmindedly tossed a knife from hand to hand.

“You saw her today,” Percy said without greeting. His voice was sharper than he meant, but the image of Iphigenia’s bright, trusting smile burned behind his eyes. “She’s young. Too young. And she thinks she’s here for marriage.”

Patroclus looked up, his eyes soft. “We swore, Percy. Do you think I’ve forgotten? If she is in danger, we’ll act. But—”

“But what?” Percy snapped.

Achilles caught the knife mid-throw, holding it steady. His gaze was calm, infuriatingly so. “But she is Agamemnon’s daughter, and this is his game. He’d humiliate me, yes. Perhaps even bind me with her. It is cruelty, but not murder.”

Percy stared at him, barely able to believe it. “You think this is only about you? He summoned her here under a lie. Why summon her mother too, then send her back halfway? Why make such a show? It reeks of blood, not binding.”

Achilles tilted his head, golden hair catching the last of the light. “You see blood in everything.”

“Because I’ve spilled enough of it to recognize when it’s coming.” Percy’s fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to drag them both into the sea, to drown them in his certainty until they saw it too. “He will kill her. Sacrifice her. Artemis was denied, and now Agamemnon thinks to pay with his own child. I swear it.”

Patroclus shifted, torn. He reached for Percy’s arm, but Percy stepped back.

“Percy,” he said softly. “We promised. And I will keep my word. But you’re letting fear twist every shadow. Maybe she will wed Achilles. Maybe she will go home untouched. We cannot act as though we know the will of the gods.”

Percy laughed bitterly. “And yet that’s exactly what this is. The will of the gods. And Agamemnon will bleed his daughter dry if he thinks it wins him a breeze.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the cries of gulls and the distant clang of soldiers training.

Achilles finally spoke, his voice quiet, a rare tremor of unease threading through it. “If you are right, then we act. You have my word.” His eyes lifted, storm-bright and sharp. “But if you are wrong—then you risk undoing everything for nothing.”

Percy’s throat felt dry. He wanted to scream, to shake them both, to make them see. Instead, he turned toward the sea, shoulders tight with fury.

“She reminds me of Helen,” he whispered. “Alone. Afraid. Trapped by choices she never made.”

Patroclus’ expression softened, but Achilles only watched, frowning, knife still poised in his hand as though he could cut through the truth if only it stood still long enough.

Percy knew then: he was on his own.

Not truly, not yet—Achilles and Patroclus would come when the blade was already at Iphigenia’s throat. But by then, Percy feared, it might be too late.

Night had fallen, thick and heavy, muffling the laughter and music still echoing from the heart of the camp. The wedding-feast preparations went on as though this were Sparta, as though no one smelled the blood beneath the perfume of garlands. Percy slipped past guards lulled by wine and cheer, his steps noiseless on the packed dirt.

The tent was smaller than a royal one should have been—more like a shrine dressed in flowers. Inside, Iphigenia sat cross-legged on a pallet, her hair braided in gold-threaded ribbons. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, like she truly expected joy in this place.

“Percyon?” she asked softly. Her voice was high, clear, far too young. “They told me you were a prince of the sea. Have you come to greet me, too?”

Percy’s heart broke. He crouched so they were eye level, his tone urgent. “Iphigenia, listen to me. You are in danger. Agamemnon—your father—did not summon you here for marriage. He means to sacrifice you to Artemis.”

Her lips parted, then curved into disbelieving laughter. “You jest. My father would not… no, he would never. He is cruel, perhaps, but not…” Her voice faltered, but pride lifted her chin. “No. You are mistaken.”

Percy shook his head. “I wish I were. But I swear by the sea itself, I saw his face today, heard the whispers of his council. He will spill your blood for wind.”

She stiffened, fingers twisting in her lap. “If this were true, then why does Achilles not warn me himself? Why are you alone here, speaking like an assassin in the dark?”

“Because he still thinks Agamemnon will spare you,” Percy said bitterly. He wanted to grab her hand, to drag her out into the night and onto the back of a horse. “They believe promises. I don’t. I’ve seen too many broken.”

Iphigenia drew back, shaking her head. “If this is another cruel jest at my expense… I am a daughter of kings. I will not be frightened by shadows.”

“Iphigenia—” Percy began, but a guard’s footsteps crunched close outside. He swore under his breath, standing in a single smooth movement. “Remember my words. If they come for you—scream. I will hear.”

And then he was gone, slipping into the darkness like the tide receding, her doubtful gaze burning into his back.

Agamemnon’s pavilion smelled of roasted meat and spiced wine, as though he were already celebrating. He sat sprawling on a gilded chair, one arm slung over the backrest, his thick beard flecked with grease. Menelaus stood near the fire, silent but simmering, his jaw clenched tight.

Achilles strode in without hesitation, Patroclus at his side, their presence cutting the laughter of the men around the table.

“You summoned Iphigenia,” Achilles said, no bow, no greeting. His voice was clear as steel. “Explain yourself.”

Agamemnon’s smile was wide, false. “Why, for your wedding, boy. Did you not see her? Lovely, isn’t she? Fit to bind you to my cause forever.”

Patroclus’ stomach turned. “No one believes that. Speak plain.”

The king’s eyes flickered, narrowing with a gleam of cruelty. “What plain words do you want, then? That Artemis demands a price for wind? That a commander must sometimes spend blood—family blood—to win a war? You think yourselves men of honor, yet shrink from necessity.”

Achilles’ jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, Patroclus feared he would reach for his blade. Instead, he stepped forward, looming like a storm. “If you kill her, your army will not follow you. Not for long. Not when every man whispers that their commander slaughters his own children.”

Agamemnon spread his hands and smiled. “Which is why there will be no killing. You will wed her, Achilles. Publicly. She will smile, she will stand beside you, and none will ever know what was intended. If you comply, she lives. If you defy me, she dies screaming, and Artemis is satisfied either way.”

Patroclus’ skin crawled. He met Achilles’ eyes, saw the fury smoldering there, and forced himself to speak with quiet control. “Then if we do as you say, she is safe?”

Agamemnon’s teeth gleamed in a predator’s grin. “of course she is safe… Unless some fool stirs trouble.”

The dismissal was clear. They left in silence, the laughter resuming behind them, crueler than before.

Outside, under the starlight, Patroclus exhaled hard. “It’s a trap, Achilleus. He’s tying your name to his madness.”

Achilles’ mouth twisted. “Better me than her.”

The Atlantean camp smelled of salt and oil, of oars drying in the night air. Percy sat at the edge of a brazier’s glow, rolling a stone through his fingers, waiting. He didn’t have to wait long. Achilles and Patroclus arrived together, shadows long behind them.

Percy stood immediately, reading the anger written all over Achilles’ face and the restraint carved into Patroclus’ posture. “Well?” His voice was tight. “What lies did he feed you?”

Achilles growled. “That there will be no sacrifice. That it’s a wedding. If I stand before the altar and take her hand, she lives.”

Percy’s chest tightened. He looked between them, incredulous. “You believe him?”

Patroclus spread his palms, as though trying to calm the tide itself. “We don’t trust him, Percy. But for now, he’s made his move clear. If Achilles agrees, she’s safe.”

“Safe?” Percy snapped. “She’s a child dragged into a pit of wolves! You really think a man like Agamemnon spares anyone once he scents blood? This is a trick. He’ll have her throat cut while the crowd claps and cheers.”

Achilles’ eyes flashed in the firelight, all sharp edges and stubbornness. “And what do you suggest? Storming his tent? Spilling blood tonight? That would only give him excuse.”

Percy stepped closer, his voice dropping into something raw. “I went to her. Iphigenia. She doesn’t believe me—because she trusts her father. Because she trusts men like you to keep her safe.” His throat closed, but he forced the words out. “If we fail her, if you fail her, it’s Helen all over again. A girl stolen, a life broken.”

The silence afterward pressed heavy on their shoulders. The crackle of the brazier filled the void.

Patroclus touched Percy’s wrist gently, anchoring him. “We swore to her. We will keep that oath.”

Achilles exhaled like a war drum struck once. “Then I will play the groom, and she will walk away alive. That is the only way.”

Percy shook his head. “The only way is to tear her from this camp before the altar, before the knife ever finds her skin.”

The words hung between them, jagged, the night itself bristling with tension. Achilles glared, Percy glared back, and only Patroclus’ steady hand stopped the fire from spilling into a blaze.

“You’re both right,” Patroclus said softly, though his eyes betrayed the same fear that gnawed Percy’s gut and he said: “Agamemnon will not stop at promises. When the moment comes—we’ll see who bleeds first.”

Percy closed his fist around the stone, pulse thrumming. He wanted to trust them. He wanted to believe. But deep down, he already knew: this wasn’t going to end with words.

The camp of Atlantis was quieter than usual. His men knew something was coming. The air itself seemed taut, as if the sea were holding its breath. Percy stood at the center of the ring of tents, the flickering light of a dozen torches catching the polished scales worked into their armor. His Guard — his brothers and sisters, his blood though not by birth — gathered close.

Nery was at his right, as always, arms crossed, sharp eyes steady. Damon loomed behind him, silent but solid as stone, while Kaeneus crouched to sharpen a blade with calm patience. Galene and Idyia stood side by side, their heads bent together, fingers restless on the hafts of their spears. Thalos leaned on his shield, scarred cheek creased by a grin that didn’t quite hide the tension in his eyes. Lykomedes fiddled with the buckle of his chestplate, restless as a wolf before the hunt. Kallias, of course, sat cross-legged on a crate with a fish bone between his teeth, smirking like the storm itself couldn’t touch him.

Percy let his gaze linger on each of them, drawing strength from their presence. “Agamemnon is planning something,” he said finally. His voice carried, though low. “He dresses it as a wedding, but I saw the truth in Iphigenia’s eyes. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t deserve this. If he tries—if he dares—” His throat tightened. “I won’t stand idle.”

The Guard stirred, grim murmurs of agreement. They had bled with him before; they would again.

Nery stepped forward, his voice like calm surf against jagged rock. “Then we’ll stand with you, Percy. Always. Doesn’t matter if it’s against pirates, kings, or Agamemnon himself.” He tilted his head, a flicker of humor breaking through his seriousness. “You’ve dragged us through storms fiercer than this, haven’t you?”

That earned a few laughs, rough but real.

Thalos thumped his spear against the ground. “Aye. Remember Naxos, when we fought fifty raiders with nothing but nets and oars?”

Kallias raised his fish bone in a mock toast. “Better than Damon’s idea of using Galene’s cooking pots as helmets.”

Galene swatted him, rolling her eyes, but her mouth twitched with a smile. “At least mine don’t crack after one blow, unlike your thick skull.”

“Or when Percy nearly drowned us all by pulling the tide into the harbor too fast?” Lykomedes chimed in, earning a groan from Kaeneus, who muttered, “I still can’t get the salt out of my boots.”

The laughter softened the air, but Percy’s chest still ached with the weight of what lay ahead. He looked at them — his family, chosen and unshakable — and then at Nery, who hadn’t looked away from him once.

“This isn’t like before,” Percy admitted. “Agamemnon’s no pirate. He’s a king with armies at his back.”

Nery shrugged. “So? The sea doesn’t care how many banners he flies. Neither do we. You say the word, and we’ll break his line.”

Damon rumbled low in his chest, nodding once, while Idyia’s voice cut sharp: “Let him try. He’ll regret it.”

For a moment Percy faltered, overwhelmed by the loyalty etched into their faces, by the simple trust they placed in him. He felt the sea tug at his blood, the weight of Poseidon’s crown — but more than that, he felt the bond he had forged with these eight souls.

“We fight only if there’s no other way,” Percy said at last, voice steadier. “But if Agamemnon raises his hand against her—then we remind him what it means to anger the sea.”

A silence fell, heavy and sacred. Then, one by one, the Guard struck their fists to their chests in a single, wordless oath.

Nery leaned close, low enough only Percy heard. “You won’t carry this alone. Not ever.”

Percy swallowed hard and nodded, the torches hissing in the night air. The stage was set — and tomorrow, everything would burn.

The veil was heavy with the scent of crushed roses, the fabric brushing her lips as she walked the long petal-strewn path. The gown dragged behind her, embroidered in gold so fine she feared she would trip and shame her father before all of Greece. But they had told her again and again: this was her honor, her wedding, her moment. She tried to believe it.

Her hands trembled inside her sleeves. Was this how her mother had felt, the day she wed Agamemnon? Was this how Helen had looked, so many years ago, when the suitors gathered like hawks around prey? She imagined the happiness in their stories, the soft glow of a bride chosen. She tried to shape her own fear into that joy, but the weight on her chest made it impossible.

The horns sang out, deep and triumphant. Warriors and kings stood on either side, watching. She glimpsed Odysseus among them, shrewd eyes calm, Penelope’s name whispered like a shield in her mind. She glimpsed Menelaus, jaw tight with his own anger, staring past her as if she were not there. And there, just beyond — Achilles.

He was everything they had promised: tall, sun-golden, armor gleaming, hair bound from his face. His gaze found hers through the veil and, though unreadable, it was not cruel. There was no hunger there, no scorn. Only puzzlement — and something softer, as if he had not expected her either. Relief spilled through her like cool water.

The priest raised his hands. The chant began, low and solemn, words she barely understood. She stood still as stone, heart pounding in her ears. Her father loomed beside her, hand warm on her shoulder, too tight. But she told herself it was a father’s pride. She told herself this was right.

And then — it broke.

A shadow of movement behind Achilles. Soldiers, her father’s men, surged forward as if on some silent signal. She heard the clatter before she understood: shackles, iron biting into wrists, ropes tightening around golden arms. Achilles struggled, fury flashing across his face, but more men pressed in, forcing him down. Gasps rose from the crowd.

“No!” The word burst from her lips before she could stop it, muffled by the veil. She tried to run, to flee to him, but her father’s grip snapped shut around her arm like an iron band.

The priest’s voice sharpened, no longer words of blessing but of offering. He drew a blade from his robes, the bronze glinting cruelly in the sun. The chant shifted, darker now, unmistakable. Not a wedding hymn — a dirge.

Iphigenia froze, breath caught in her throat. Her father’s hand crushed tighter on her arm as she writhed against him.

“Father—?” Her voice cracked, high, desperate. “What is happening?!”

Agamemnon did not meet her eyes. He only looked at the blade, at the priest, at the crowd. His silence was worse than any lie.

Her knees buckled. She would have fallen had he not held her upright, presenting her like a lamb before the altar. Achilles roared behind his gag, thrashing against the bonds, the golden hero reduced to prey.

And in that moment, through her veil, Iphigenia saw the truth. The gown, the roses, the horns — all lies. Not a bride. A sacrifice.

Terror clawed up her throat. She screamed.

Percy had known it was coming. The unease in his gut had been tightening for days, every glance at Agamemnon’s smug face only sharpening the truth he alone dared to speak aloud: this was never a wedding. It was always meant for blood.

So when the chanting shifted, when Achilles was suddenly dragged to his knees and the priest raised a blade not for blessing but for sacrifice, Percy didn’t hesitate.

“Nery,” he hissed, and his second was already moving.

The Guard of Atlantis surged from their shadows like a tide breaking its shore. Twenty men, each bound by loyalty older than this war, drew their blades and moved as one. Percy, at their head, shoved through the stunned crowd, power thrumming in his veins. The moment his feet hit the packed earth of the altar, the ground shuddered — Poseidon’s blood answering the rage in him.

Agamemnon jerked Iphigenia closer, as though she were a shield. “You dare—”

“Always,” Percy snarled. His hand snapped forward. From the water basins at the altar, streams whipped into spears of liquid force, striking Agamemnon’s men and hurling them backwards. Soldiers tried to close ranks, but Percy spread his fingers wide, and the packed earth beneath their sandals softened into sucking mud. Men flailed, dropping spears, swallowed to the knee.

The priest shrieked and stumbled back from his altar, the blade clattering to the ground. Percy lunged for it, his body low, his shoulder slamming into a soldier who dared block his way. He tore the weapon up, spun it in his grip, and pointed it straight at Agamemnon.

“Let her go.”

Around him the world was breaking. His Guard cut through the lines with precision — Nery’s blade flashing like silver fire, Kallias holding two men at bay as though it were a game laughing as she disarmed a third. But the press was heavy; they were outnumbered twenty to one. Percy’s powers were the only thing keeping the tide from crushing them.

And in the chaos, Patroclus. Percy caught sight of him sprinting across the altar, eyes locked not on the girl but on Achilles, still thrashing like a caged lion beneath the bonds. Patroclus skidded to his knees beside him, clawing at the ropes, ignoring the fists and blades swinging around him.

“Patroclus!” Achilles roared through the gag, straining against three men pinning his shoulders. The sight twisted Percy’s chest.

A wave of soldiers surged toward them, blades gleaming. Percy felt the world narrow. The altar. The girl. Patroclus on the ground, Achilles bound.

He slammed the blade into the earth and thrust both hands upward.

The basins exploded. Water surged like serpents from the ground, lashing into shields and helmets, flinging men back as though the sea itself had joined the fight. The crowd screamed, scattering. Agamemnon staggered, his grip loosening on Iphigenia as the force buffeted him.

She stumbled free, eyes wide, looking at Percy as though she didn’t know whether he was her savior or another monster.

“Go!” Percy barked. “Run! Come here!”

But she froze, torn between fear and disbelief.

The soldiers regrouped. More were rushing in from the camp, the glint of bronze flashing in the sun. Percy’s chest heaved, sweat streaking down his temple, power burning through him like wildfire. He raised his arms again.

The ground trembled. The air stank of salt.

This was only the beginning.

Nery’s knuckles were slick with blood — his own, and far more that wasn’t. He had no time to tell which. His sword arm moved on instinct, blade flashing high, then low, kicking one Spartan square in the chest before spinning to meet another. The clash of bronze and iron was deafening, screams and the wet sound of tearing flesh echoing through the air.

But even in the storm of steel, his eyes never strayed too far from Percy.

Percy was a storm all his own. The ground quaked under his bare feet, cracks spidering through the altar floor. Saltwater spewed from the earth where there should have been none, crashing into soldiers like a tide made flesh. One man lunged, and Percy froze the blood in his veins before he could scream. Another tried to circle, only to be thrown back by a blast of brine so sharp it cut skin like a blade.

But they just kept coming.

Twenty men against one, maybe more, bronze helmets bobbing like a swarm of hornets around Percy’s dark head. And at the center — Agamemnon himself, his face twisted in fury, shouting commands Nery couldn’t hear over the roar.

Nery slammed his sword into a man’s throat, shoved the body off, and spun — only to barely catch a spear aimed for his ribs. He grunted, teeth bared, pushing forward until the man fell beneath his weight. Damn them. Damn them all.

He wanted to be at Percy’s side. He always had. But right now he could barely keep himself alive.

A scream. Nery risked a glance.

Patroclus was there with Percy, scrambling through the chaos like a man possessed, his hands steady despite the carnage around him. He had reached the girl — Iphigenia, her white gown torn, her eyes wide as the sea. She hesitated, terrified, but Patroclus hauled her forward with no time for fear.

“Come here!” Percy roared, his voice cutting through everything. He had carved a circle of ruin around himself, the sea and earth bending to his will, but his chest was heaving, sweat and blood running together down his arms. He lifted Iphigenia onto a waiting horse as though she weighed nothing.

And then Nery saw it — a stain spreading dark on the packed earth, at Percy’s feet. Blood. Too much blood.

“Percy…” Nery’s voice was lost in the din.

Percy swung up behind the girl, steadying her, his own face pale with exhaustion, jaw set, his silver circlet catching the sun like a shard of lightning.

For a heartbeat Nery thought he might look back. Just once.

He didn’t.

With a sharp cry to the horse, Percy kicked off, the animal lunging forward in a spray of dirt and hooves. Iphigenia clutched at him, Patroclus shouting something Nery couldn’t hear as Percy and the girl vanished into the treeline.

And then the soldiers were on them again, and Nery had no choice but to turn back to his sword.

The thunder of hooves faded into the trees, Percy and Iphigenia vanishing like ghosts into the forest. Relief burned through Patroclus — she was safe, at least for now. That was what mattered. That had to be enough.

But there was no time to breathe.

A soldier lunged, and Patroclus ducked, driving his spear into the man’s chest. He barely pulled it free before another swung at him, the clash of bronze rattling his teeth. His arms felt heavy, his breath ragged, but he kept moving, kept cutting, kept standing between Achilles and the press of soldiers swarming the altar.

Achilles was free now — Percy’s blast of water had broken the bindings, and the Myrmidons’ prince was like a wildfire unleashed. His sword flashed, each stroke a killing blow, his body untouchable, untouchable, untouchable — and yet still they came.

Patroclus was fighting too hard, too fast. He knew it. He could feel the drain in his arms, the sluggishness in his legs. His heart pounded as though it would burst.

And then —

Cold bronze kissed his throat.

Patroclus froze, his chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes. A soldier had slipped behind him, the blade pressing so tight against his skin he could feel the sting already. His own sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the stones.

“Drop your weapon!” the soldier barked, though his gaze flicked toward Agamemnon, awaiting command.

Agamemnon himself strode forward, his face red with fury, his voice carrying over the clash and screams. “Enough!” He pointed his blade toward Achilles, who was still cutting his way through the crowd. “Lay down your arms, son of Thetis, or your beloved dies where he stands.”

Achilles stopped. His chest heaved, his dark eyes wide, wild — then fixed on Patroclus. For the first time, Patroclus saw fear there. Real, raw fear.

“Don’t,” Patroclus gasped, though the sword at his throat dug deeper, a thin line of blood sliding down his neck. “Don’t you dare.”

Achilles shook his head once, almost imperceptibly. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white on his sword. “Let him go.”

Around them, the battle staggered. Percy’s Guard, fierce even without their prince, were pressed back again and again. Nery fought like a demon, cutting down man after man — until Patroclus saw another blade catch him across the ribs. Nery stumbled, then vanished under a swarm of soldiers. Shouts rose as the Guard was overwhelmed, their formation collapsing.

One by one, they were driven to their knees.

And Patroclus knew — they had lost.

The altar stones ran slick with blood. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and salt. He could see it in Achilles’ face, could feel it in his own chest: the hopelessness clawing at them both.

Agamemnon lifted his chin, smiling like a man who had won a prize. “Bind them. All of them.”

The sword pressed harder into Patroclus’s throat. Achilles dropped his blade, the clatter of bronze echoing louder than thunder. Around them, the Guard was forced down, wrists seized, weapons stripped.

Patroclus closed his eyes, shivering with rage, shame, and grief. Percy was gone. Iphigenia was safe. But they — all of them — were prisoners.

Achilles POV of the whole thing:

The ropes bit into his wrists, rough hemp grinding his skin raw. Achilles snarled against them, muscles straining, but even his strength could not break free. They had tricked him — tricked him! — under the guise of marriage, only to bind him like an animal. Soldiers pressed him down at the altar as priests raised the blade. Percy was right, oh how right he was!

Fury burned hot in his chest, hotter than any forge, his vision edged red. He could hear Patroclus shouting somewhere beyond the crush of men, fighting his way through the ranks, calling his name.

And then — a roar of water.

The bindings snapped apart as a wave crashed through the ceremony, not from the sky, not from the sea — from him. From Percy. The boy stood at the edge of the chaos, silver circlet flashing, eyes like stormlight, his hands outstretched as if the sea itself bent to his will. For an instant, Achilles forgot his fury, forgot everything but that vision: divine and terrible.

He was free. His sword was back in his hand. He moved like lightning, cutting down the first two soldiers in a single stroke. Bronze shattered against his skin, harmless, as if the gods themselves still remembered the waters of Styx that had once held him.

Patroclus was suddenly at his side, breathless, blood on his arm, but alive. Achilles’ heart clenched in fierce relief — only for panic to spike again as the press of soldiers surged, a wall of shields hemming them in.

“Go!” Achilles roared, shoving Patroclus back. “Find her!”

But Percy was already there, crashing through men twice his size, his Guard at his back. The ground trembled, cracks ripping through the altar as if the earth itself rebelled. A soldier rushed Percy — and froze solid mid-stride, ice crawling up his limbs until he shattered like glass. Blood spilled at Percy’s command, men falling in gory arcs no mortal should have survived.

Achilles fought harder, because how could he not, when someone fought like that beside him? The boy from Atlantis was no mere prince. He was god-blooded, untamed, and more beautiful in fury than any vision Thetis had ever promised him.

But there were too many.

The line of Percy’s Guard faltered under sheer weight of numbers, their shining discipline breaking apart. Achilles caught sight of Nery — the loyal second, cutting down foe after foe until a blade slid across his ribs. He staggered, then vanished beneath a crush of bodies.

“No!” Achilles bellowed, carving a path toward him — but another line of soldiers cut him off.

And then Achilles saw it.

Patroclus, his Patroclus, back to the wall, fighting with bare hands now as his spear splintered. A man had slipped behind him, sword pressed to his throat. Achilles’ blood ran cold.

“Drop your sword!” Agamemnon’s voice rose above the din, cruel and exultant. “Or the boy dies.”

The world narrowed to the line of red on Patroclus’s neck, to the terror in his eyes. The son of Thetis, the man dipped in the Styx, the warrior who feared nothing, felt fear now. Not for himself — but for the boy who was his whole heart.

His sword fell from his hand, clattering against the blood-soaked stones.

Around them Percy’s Guard was dragged down one by one. The earth stilled, the sea withdrew, and in the silence that followed, Agamemnon’s men closed in.

Ropes bit into Achilles’s wrists once more. He did not resist this time. His eyes stayed locked on Patroclus, trembling under the blade. I will not let you die. Even if I must kneel.

And so the best of the Greeks was bound, not by force, but by love.

Chapter Text

The night was black and full of noise.

Percy leaned low over the stallion’s neck, his knuckles white where they gripped the reins. The horse was no ordinary beast—it was one of the Atlantean chargers, sleek and strong, its coat the deep gray of storm clouds, its hooves striking sparks against the earth as though the ground itself could not keep pace. Even so, Percy whispered encouragement in the language of the sea, the tongue of surf and tide. The stallion’s ears flicked back to catch his words, and it surged forward with renewed strength.

Iphigenia clung to him from behind, her thin arms locked around his waist, trembling so hard he could feel it even over the thunder of hooves. She was still in her ceremonial dress, silks tangled and torn by branches. A veil caught on a thorn-bush, ripping free and flying into the dark. She made a small sound of despair, but Percy’s voice cut across her panic, low and steady:

“Don’t look back. Just hold on.”

The forest swallowed them. Oak trunks loomed like giants, roots rose like traps. Torches flared in the distance—Agamemnon’s men fanning through the undergrowth, their shouts carried on the wind. “There! The girl!” The clash of steel echoed as soldiers stumbled after them. Dogs barked in the distance, straining at their leashes.

Percy gritted his teeth. He could feel the pull of the sea far off, like a heart beating under the earth, but they were too deep inland to reach it yet. Every muscle in his body screamed with exhaustion; he’d been fighting, bleeding, running without rest.

Branches whipped at his face, scratching lines of fire across his skin. His hair was damp with sweat and blood. Iphigenia’s sobs hitched against his back, muffled as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

“Why?” she gasped at last, voice breaking. “Why are you doing this?”

Percy didn’t answer at first. His eyes darted, searching for a path, for higher ground, for a break in the trees where they might gain speed. At last he said, rough with effort:

“Because you deserve to live. Because your life isn’t his to take.”

The words seemed to silence her. She buried her face again and held on tighter.

Behind them, the cries grew fainter, the torches stumbling as the men tripped over roots and rocks. But Percy knew they wouldn’t stop. Agamemnon’s pride wouldn’t allow it. They would hunt them until dawn, until his legs gave out or the girl was dragged back to the knife.

He urged the stallion harder. The horse leapt a fallen log, the impact jarring all the way up Percy’s spine. Leaves exploded around them, fireflies scattering like sparks. The night smelled of damp earth and pine resin, sharp in his lungs.

Percy’s chest ached with every breath, his side throbbed from the wound he’d half-forgotten in the chaos. He ignored it. His vision narrowed to the path ahead, the rise of the hill where moonlight glimmered faintly on stone.

“Just a little farther,” he whispered, half to the girl, half to himself. “Hold on.”

The stallion snorted, muscles bunching as they pounded up the incline. The noise of pursuit dimmed beneath the thunder of hooves. The trees began to thin. Silver light spilled through the canopy like the promise of dawn.

They were close. So close.

The stallion had carried them like a creature born of storm and salt, but even divine beasts were not unbreakable.

The slope grew steeper, rocks jutting like broken teeth through the forest floor. Percy felt the horse’s stride falter beneath him, a stutter in the rhythm of its gallop. He whispered urgently, “Steady, steady—” but the ground betrayed them.

A hidden root snared its hoof. With a terrible scream the stallion stumbled forward, collapsing. Percy acted on instinct: he twisted his body, shielding Iphigenia as they were thrown. They struck the earth hard, dirt and pine needles filling Percy’s mouth. His arm throbbed where he had landed, but the girl was unharmed. That was what mattered.

The horse lay on its side, breathing in harsh, ragged bursts. Its leg was bent at a sickening angle, bones jutting under skin. Percy’s heart clenched. He knelt by its head, stroking its mane with trembling fingers.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he whispered in the language of the sea. The stallion’s eyes rolled, glazed with pain, but it flicked an ear toward him. It understood. Percy pressed his forehead against its muzzle for a heartbeat, then drew a dagger from his belt. With one swift, merciful strike, he ended its suffering.

Iphigenia had turned away, tears spilling down her face. She clutched her skirts, trembling, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer. Percy sheathed the dagger, forcing his own grief down. He had no time to mourn.

“They’ll be here soon,” he said, voice rough. He pulled her up by the hand. “We run.”

And so they did.

They plunged through the undergrowth, branches clawing at them, their breath tearing in their lungs. Percy set the pace, though every step jarred the wound in his side until it burned like fire. His strength, usually unshakable, felt like sand slipping between his fingers. Still, he pushed on, dragging the girl beside him.

Her feet stumbled on roots and rocks, soft shoes not meant for forest floors. Each time she faltered, Percy caught her, urging, “One more step, Iphigenia. Don’t stop.”

The shouts behind them grew closer again. The soldiers had heard the horse’s cry. Torches flared like hungry stars between the trees.

Iphigenia looked at him, her face pale in the moonlight. “We’ll never make it.”

Percy shook his head fiercely. “We will. There’s a temple ahead—sacred ground. He can’t touch you there.”

He prayed silently he was right.

They stumbled out of the thicket into a clearing. Moonlight spilled like silver fire across weathered stone—the crumbling steps of Artemis’ ancient shrine rising from the earth. Relief surged through Percy so strongly his knees almost buckled.

“There!” he gasped. He seized Iphigenia’s hand and pulled her up the steps two at a time, the weight of pursuit howling at their backs.

Behind them, the forest boiled with torches. But before them, the temple waited.

The temple stood quiet, half-swallowed by ivy and time, but the goddess’ presence still lingered. White marble gleamed faintly under the moon, as if the stone itself remembered her touch.

Percy half-dragged, half-led Iphigenia inside, his chest heaving. The girl stumbled, then collapsed onto the cold floor before the altar, clutching at her gown. Percy swayed on his feet, pressing a hand to his side where warm blood slicked his palm. He forced himself to stay upright. He had one more thing to do—he had to finish this.

He knelt before the altar, the old stone cracked but still sacred. He bowed his head low, his voice raw but steady:

“Artemis. Lady of the Hunt, Keeper of Maidens, Protector of the Innocent.” His words echoed faintly in the chamber, his breath misting in the cool air. “I call to you—not as prince, not as warrior, but as your friend. A child of the sea who once hunted beneath your moon.”

He drew his dagger and nicked his palm, letting a few drops of his blood stain the altar. “Take her,” he whispered. “Take Iphigenia. Shelter her in your forests, guard her from her father’s cruelty. I swear, by the tides and the stars above, she deserves better than this.”

For a moment, silence. The girl sobbed quietly, her shoulders shaking. Percy clenched his jaw, bowing lower. “Please,” he said again, his voice breaking. “Don’t let her die here.”

Then the air shifted.

Moonlight poured through the ruined roof, impossibly bright, as though the night bent around this place. A figure stepped from the shadows—tall, radiant, cloaked in silver and the wildness of the hunt. Artemis’ eyes, sharp as an arrow’s point, softened when they found Percy.

“You call, little tide-born,” she said, her voice like the rustle of leaves in a midnight grove. “And I hear.”

Iphigenia gasped, bowing low until her forehead touched the floor. Artemis bent over her, brushing a hand over her hair. “Fear not, child. You will not be sacrificed. Not while I walk this earth.”

She lifted her gaze back to Percy. “You risked much to bring her here.”

Percy tried to laugh, but it came out as a choked cough. “You’d do the same.”

A faint smile ghosted her lips. “Yes.” She touched Iphigenia’s shoulder, and in the blink of an eye, both girl and goddess vanished, carried away in silver light.

The temple was empty again.

The temple was silent now, the silver light of Artemis gone, leaving only cold stone and the faint drip of water from the cracked ceiling. Percy pressed a shaking hand to his stomach, feeling the slick warmth seep between his fingers.

He hadn’t thought about the wound—not really. Not when he was fighting Agamemnon’s soldiers, not when he had to get Iphigenia away, not when the forest seemed endless and the horse had fallen. He hadn’t had the luxury. But now, in the quiet, it surged back with brutal clarity.

Agamemnon’s face rose before his eyes—rage twisted, sword arcing down on his own daughter. Percy remembered the moment too well: the sudden punch of steel through his back, the shock of it stealing his breath. The way the world tilted, red and white all at once. He had pushed through on instinct, on stubbornness, but the wound had always been there, waiting.

He coughed, blood wetting his lips. His knees buckled, dragging him lower until he was slumped against the altar.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking against the stones. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled, giving way beneath him. His vision blurred, black edges closing in.

He thought of Atlantis—of Nery’s steady presence, of the guard’s laughter, of Triton’s teasing smirk. He thought of Helen, safe in Sparta once, laughing with him on the beaches. He thought of Patroclus, of how much he had wanted to see him again, how his smile still felt like sunlight after storms.

And finally, he thought of his father, Poseidon. I’m sorry, Dad. I couldn’t…

His chest heaved, shallow and ragged, fighting against the tide that pulled him under. He tried to cling to the moonlight, the faint echo of Artemis’ presence, the promise that at least Iphigenia was safe.

But the darkness was stronger.

Percy’s body sagged fully now, his silver circlet slipping against his dark hair as his eyes fluttered shut. The world narrowed to nothing but pain and the sound of his own faltering heartbeat—until even that faded.

The Prince of the Sea lay sprawled before the altar, blood trailing across the marble floor, lost to the night.

The temple lay quiet, the air still thick with the fading touch of divine presence. Artemis was gone, and with her, Iphigenia. Only Percy remained—bleeding out against the cold altar stones. His breath came shallow, ragged, his chest rising and falling in stuttering rhythm.

The first to enter were not friends, but enemies.

Bronze sandals scraped against the stone steps as Agamemnon’s soldiers crept inside, torches in hand. The flicker of firelight spilled across the floor, catching on the dark smear of blood that led toward the altar. One of the men swore softly, raising his torch higher.

“There—by the altar.”

They advanced cautiously, as if expecting an ambush, but what they found instead was a boy—too young, too broken to look like the warrior who had humiliated their king. Percy lay half-sprawled, one hand limp in a pool of his own blood, the other still clenched near his stomach as if sheer stubbornness could hold himself together.

“Is he dead?” another whispered.

The captain of the group knelt, pressing two fingers against Percy’s neck. He paused, then grimaced. “Alive. Barely.”

Murmurs rose among the men. Some spat, cursing him for the chaos he had caused—the earthshaking, the sea’s roar, the slaughter at the wedding feast. Others looked uneasy. They had heard the rumors, seen the power. A prince of the sea.

But the captain’s voice cut through the whispers. “The king wants him. Alive. He’ll get what he asked for.”

They hauled Percy upright with little gentleness, his body sagging heavily between two soldiers. His head lolled forward, dark hair sticking to his sweat-damp face. A weak sound escaped him, half a groan, half a broken breath, but he didn’t wake.

“Careful,” one muttered nervously. “He commanded the waves themselves. If he stirs—”

“He won’t,” the captain snapped. “Look at him. He’s finished.”

Still, unease lingered. Even near death, there was something otherworldly about him—the faint gleam of the circlet in his tangled hair, the raw stubbornness etched in his expression despite unconsciousness. He looked more prince than prisoner, even bleeding.

The men bound his wrists tightly with cord and slung his weight across a horse waiting outside the temple. His blood smeared against the animal’s flank, dripping steadily as they began their march back to camp.

Behind them, the temple of Artemis stood silent, the altar washed in moonlight and red, a witness to betrayal.

And ahead, in Agamemnon’s camp, fate waited—hungry, merciless.

Chapter Text

The throne Agamemnon had built for himself was nothing more than a wooden chair covered in furs, but the way he lounged in it, chin lifted, one leg sprawled, made it seem as if he sat on Olympus itself. Torches burned along the walls of the command tent, throwing the bronze of helmets and spearheads into sharp light. The air stank of sweat, oil, and arrogance.

The guards shoved Achilles and Patroclus forward, chains rattling with every step. Shackles bound their wrists and ankles, heavy enough to bite into the skin, the long chains dragging behind them like leashed hounds. Achilles stumbled once when a soldier kicked the back of his knees, but he straightened with a snarl, golden hair tangled, blue eyes blazing.

Patroclus kept his chin up too, though his lip was split and there was blood on his jaw. He shifted closer to Achilles as they were forced down to their knees before the high king. The chains clanged loudly as they settled, coiling like serpents around their legs.

Agamemnon looked them over as one might look at captured beasts. He let the silence stretch, savoring it, before finally speaking.

“So this is what has become of Greece’s best.” His voice was thick with mockery. “The lion muzzled. The lion-tamer chained at his side. All because of a boy who thought himself a god.”

Achilles’s hands clenched around his chains. “Say his name with respect,” he growled, voice carrying the weight of thunder. “He saved the girl you were ready to slaughter.”

The guards around them shifted, but Agamemnon only smirked. “Saved her? No. Stole her from her rightful place. Her death was a gift demanded by the goddess, and you—” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “—you and your little companion dared defy me for a stranger from the sea.”

Patroclus’s voice cut through, steady though soft: “It was no goddess who demanded it. It was your greed. You hid your intentions behind Artemis’ name, but your blade was always aimed at your own daughter.”

The murmurs in the tent deepened. Some of the soldiers looked down, ashamed. Agamemnon’s face darkened.

“You dare lecture me, boy? You dare question me in chains?” He stood, stepping down from his chair, looming over Patroclus. “You belong in the dust beside him. The both of you.”

Achilles surged forward, chains snapping taut, nearly dragging two guards off their feet. His voice shook the tent: “Touch him and I will tear you apart, shackled or not!”

Agamemnon’s smirk returned, though it did not reach his eyes. He stepped back slowly, satisfied by the display of rage. “Yes. That’s what I wanted to see. The mighty Achilles, reduced to begging for his lover’s life. A fine sight for Greece’s warriors.”

Patroclus’s hand brushed against Achilles’s as if to calm him. The touch was fleeting, but it steadied him for the moment.

Agamemnon turned away, gesturing idly. “Throw them into the cells. Let them learn humility in darkness. Tomorrow, perhaps, they’ll have better manners.”

But before the guards could move them, shouts rose from outside. Boots pounded on the earth, torches flared, and a soldier burst through the tent flap. His voice cracked in breathless urgency:

“My lord! We found him—the Sea Prince!”

Chains rattled as Achilles jerked forward, eyes wide. Patroclus went pale, his heart thudding in his chest.

Agamemnon’s gaze sharpened, greed and triumph gleaming there. “Bring him,” he said, his voice low and hungry.

The guards parted, and through the flap they hauled Percy.

He looked less like a prince than a specter—hair matted with blood, silver circlet crooked on his head, tunic torn and soaked dark where the wound bled through his bindings. His feet dragged against the dirt, leaving faint red trails. Two soldiers half-carried, half-dragged him forward until his knees buckled, and he sagged between them like a broken marionette.

The sight silenced the tent. Even hardened warriors, men who had cheered slaughter, shifted uneasily.

Patroclus’s breath caught in his throat. He lurched forward on his chains, the clatter echoing like thunder in the quiet. “Percy!” His voice cracked with panic. “Gods—Percy, look at me!”

Achilles strained too, muscles bunching as he pulled against the iron shackles until they bit into his skin. “Let him go!” His roar shook the tent, but the chains held, and guards pressed him down with spear-shafts.

Percy stirred faintly at the sound of his name. His head lifted just enough to show the glint of green eyes beneath heavy lashes, dulled and glassy. He tried to speak, lips parting, but only a hoarse breath escaped. Then his head lolled forward again.

Agamemnon rose from his seat slowly, every movement deliberate, savoring the moment. His gaze swept over Percy, lingering on the silver circlet. “So. The great Prince of the Sea.” His lips curled. “Not so invincible now.”

He stepped closer, crouching just enough to grasp Percy’s chin in one hand, forcing his face upward. Blood smeared his fingers, but he didn’t flinch. “Look at him,” Agamemnon said loudly to the room. “The boy who thought to defy me. The one who dared to snatch the goddess’s due.”

Percy blinked sluggishly, eyes trying to focus, but his body sagged in the soldiers’ grip.

Achilles’s chains rattled again, his fury blazing. “You’ll kill him if you keep dragging him like that!”

Agamemnon glanced back at him with a smirk. “And if I do? What then? You’ll gnash your teeth in chains?”

Patroclus shook his head wildly, desperate. “He’s not your enemy! He saved Iphigenia, he saved all of us from your madness!”

The king ignored him, turning back to the bleeding boy before him. “No… he will live.” His voice was like cold iron. “A prize this valuable deserves to be kept breathing. Alive, he suffers more. Alive, he bends.”

He snapped his fingers. “Take him to the healer. I want him patched enough to walk, not die. And keep him under guard—I’ll not lose my prize to the Fates.”

The soldiers began hauling Percy toward the flap again. His head lolled to the side as they dragged him past Achilles and Patroclus.

Patroclus reached as far as his chains would let him, fingers trembling in the air, though far short of touching. His voice broke as he whispered, “Hold on, Percy. Please.”

Achilles’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His hands bled where the shackles bit into them. He could do nothing but watch as Percy was carried into the night, leaving behind only the scent of iron and salt and the heavy silence of despair.

Agamemnon sat again, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Now,” he said coolly, “throw these two in the cells. Let them rot until I have need of them.”

The guards dragged them from the tent like spoils of war, the heavy chains biting into wrists and ankles. The camp outside still hummed with tension—soldiers whispering about the Sea Prince, about how even bleeding and broken he looked more like a god than a man.

Patroclus barely heard them. His mind was full of Percy’s pale face, his limp body swaying between soldiers’ hands. He could still hear the hoarse breath, the way Percy’s eyes had found his for one fleeting heartbeat. That was worse than any wound he’d ever taken.

The cell they were thrown into was little more than a crude wooden pen reinforced with iron spikes, dug into the earth at the edge of camp. The stench of damp straw and rust filled the air. Their chains were long enough to move within the enclosure but heavy enough that every step clinked and dragged.

Achilles paced the moment the guards slammed the gate shut, a caged storm. His chain rattled and scraped across the ground as he prowled, shoulders tight, hair wild. “They’ll kill him,” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “If they don’t, they’ll break him. And if they break him—” He slammed his shackled fists against the wooden post, splinters flying. “I’ll kill Agamemnon with my bare hands.”

Patroclus sat on the straw, trying to calm his own racing pulse. He tugged gently on the chain that linked him to Achilles, pulling him closer. “You can’t help him like this,” he said softly. His voice shook, but he forced it steady. “If you lose your head now, if you give him what he wants, Percy dies for nothing.”

Achilles stopped, chest heaving, his eyes flashing like a storm at sea. “And what do you suggest? That we sit here? That we let him bleed out in some healer’s tent while Agamemnon gloats?”

Patroclus flinched at the image, but he reached for Achilles’s hand, iron scraping against iron as the chains allowed it. Their fingers laced together, warm despite the cold. “I don’t know,” Patroclus whispered. “But I know Percy’s alive. And if he’s alive, we still have time. We have to believe that.”

For a moment, Achilles just stared at him. His jaw worked, fury still burning under his skin. But the edge softened—slightly—at Patroclus’s touch. He sank down beside him, the chain clinking as he settled, his shoulder pressed tight to Patroclus’s.

Patroclus leaned against him, eyes closing briefly. He could feel Achilles’s heart racing like a drum. He wondered if Percy’s heart still beat so fast, or if it faltered.

Silence hung heavy in the cell, broken only by the occasional call of guards outside. Achilles muttered under his breath, promises of vengeance, oaths of fire and blood. Patroclus held his hand tighter, not sure if he was keeping Achilles steady—or himself.

He thought of Percy’s laughter, how it had eased the weight from his shoulders at Aulis. He thought of his stubborn courage, the way he’d stood against Agamemnon without hesitation. And he thought of how fragile he had looked tonight, pale and bleeding in the torchlight.

“Hold on, Percy,” Patroclus whispered to the night, pressing his forehead against Achilles’s shoulder. “Hold on until we can reach you.”

The straw rustled as Patroclus shifted, tugging Achilles down beside him with the weight of their linked chains. Achilles sat stiffly at first, glaring at the ground as if it had insulted him, but slowly his breathing steadied, his rage curling inward like a banked fire.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The camp outside quieted as soldiers returned to their fires. The night crept in. The only sound was the steady drip of water from the roof beams and the faint, constant clink of chains when either of them moved.

It was Patroclus who broke the silence. His voice was quiet, heavy with guilt. “He told us.”

Achilles turned his head, brows furrowed.

Patroclus stared at his shackled hands. “Percy told us Agamemnon couldn’t be trusted. He told us words wouldn’t be enough. And I… we didn’t listen.” He swallowed hard, bile rising at the memory of Percy’s face when they had dismissed his fears. “We thought we could reason with a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

Achilles’s jaw tightened. He said nothing, but his eyes glowed faintly in the dim torchlight.

Patroclus pressed on, voice cracking. “If we had stood with him from the start—if we had believed him—maybe none of this would’ve happened. He wouldn’t be bleeding out in some tent. We wouldn’t be here in chains.”

Achilles’s fists clenched, the chains groaning under the strain. “Don’t.” His voice was low, almost breaking. “Don’t put that on yourself. It’s mine to bear.”

Patroclus turned sharply, meeting his gaze. “It’s ours. We both chose to believe words could change a tyrant’s heart. We both failed him.” His throat closed, but he forced the words out. “And he trusted us anyway. He still trusted us.”

Silence fell again, thicker than before.

Finally, Achilles spoke, voice rougher than Patroclus had ever heard it. “He’s stronger than he looks.” His hands flexed, testing the chains again. “But gods, Patroclus, when they dragged him in… I thought he was already gone. And I knew, in that moment, if he dies because we didn’t stand at his side—” His voice broke into a growl. “—I will never forgive myself.”

Patroclus leaned closer, their shoulders pressed tight. He felt Achilles tremble—not from fear, but from fury, the kind that gnawed at the bones. “Then we don’t let him die,” Patroclus whispered. “Not Percy. Not him.”

Achilles turned to look at him. For once, there was no fire in his eyes, only grief and determination. He nodded, just once.

They sat together in silence, pressed shoulder to shoulder, chains pooled around them like shadows. Neither slept. Their thoughts were with the boy bleeding somewhere in the camp—the boy they had not believed, the boy who had still risked everything to save a girl who wasn’t his.

Patroclus closed his eyes and whispered into the dark, “Forgive us, Percy.”

The enclosure they were thrown into was nothing like a cell built for noble warriors. It was a pen—rough-hewn planks lashed together with iron bands, more fitting for animals than men. The ground was damp, scattered with straw, and the smell of sweat, mud, and blood hung thick.

Nery leaned back against the wall, his breath ragged, chains clinking as he shifted. His shoulder burned where a spear haft had cracked against it earlier, and one eye was swelling shut. Around him, his brothers in arms lay or sat in the dirt—some nursing cuts, others whispering quietly to each other, but all alive.

Alive. That was the word he clung to. Alive, though beaten. Alive, though chained.

But their prince…

The image burned in his mind: Percy, bloodied, fighting twenty men at once with earth and sea answering his call. Percy shielding the girl as though she were his own sister. Percy refusing to yield until the blade found him. And later, Percy’s limp body dragged past them, pale as death.

Nery slammed his fist against the wood beside him, ignoring the sting. “We failed him.” His voice was hoarse, but the words carried, drawing every eye in the enclosure. “We swore to guard him. We swore to stand between him and every blade. And we failed.”

Murmurs rippled through the men. A few bowed their heads. Others clenched their fists, shame burning in their eyes.

Thalos, his arm bound with a strip of bloodied cloth, shook his head fiercely. “No man could’ve held against that tide. Even Percy couldn’t. You saw what he did—he shook the ground itself, split men open with a wave. He fought like Poseidon’s own wrath. And still… they came like a swarm.”

“Then we should’ve swarmed too,” Kaeneus muttered bitterly, his dark hair matted with sweat. “Better to die beside him than sit here breathing without him.”

The words cut deep, and Nery had no reply. He felt that truth in his bones. He should have died beside Percy. That was his place—as second, as brother, as friend.

But the gods had left him breathing, and that meant he had a duty yet.

“He’s not dead.” Nery forced his voice steady, though his throat tightened. He looked around at each of them—at Thalos, at Damon, at Galene with the split lip, at Idyia whose cheek was torn open, at all the faces that had fought and bled for their prince. “He’s not dead. I heard the soldiers talking. They’re taking him to the healer. Agamemnon wants him alive.”

The men stirred, whispers rushing like wind through leaves. Some looked relieved. Others wary.

“Alive for what?” Galene asked grimly.

Nery shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. As long as he breathes, we hold. We wait. When the moment comes, we’ll be ready. He will need us again.”

Silence stretched. Then Damon nodded firmly, pounding his shackled fist against the dirt. “For the Prince.”

The others echoed it, voices low but fierce. “For the Prince.”

Nery closed his eyes for a moment, letting the chant steady him. He thought of Percy’s laugh on the deck of their ship, of his steady hand during storms, of his way of fighting not for glory but for others. The boy they followed was more than a prince—he was their reason.

Nery swore silently: Percy, my brother, my captain… if you live, I’ll tear these chains apart myself to get to you. You will not fall while I still draw breath.

The world came in fragments.

Rough hands. The stink of blood and iron. Canvas flaps rustling overhead, torchlight flickering like fire trapped in water. Voices—too many, too loud, snapping over one another.

“…should be dead already.”
“…never seen a wound like this, through and through…”
“…the Sea Prince bleeds the same as any man.”

Percy tried to move, but his body betrayed him. His limbs felt heavy, like stone chained to the seabed. The stab wound burned, deep and sharp, but then dulled into a cold ache as if all warmth had been poured out of him.

A bitter taste filled his mouth, something forced between his lips. He coughed, tried to spit, but a hand gripped his jaw and made him swallow. The healer’s voice muttered close to his ear: “Drink. You’ll hold if I say you will.”

The words blurred in and out. His mind was a tide, pulling him away, dragging him under.

Darkness.

Then—light again. A sting on his back, fire lancing through his belly. He gasped, or thought he did, but the sound was swallowed in the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

“Hold him still.”
“He’s losing too much.”
“Stitch it, damn you, stitch!”

Percy drifted again. The voices faded. For a heartbeat, the pain dulled and there was only silence. In that silence, he heard it—faint as a ripple across endless seas.

My son.

Percy’s breath caught. His father’s voice? Poseidon, calling him from somewhere impossibly far.

Hold on. Do not give them your surrender. The Fates did not send you here to end now.

“I’m tired,” Percy whispered, or thought he did. The words barely stirred his lips. His chest hurt with the effort.

I know. But you cannot rest yet. Not while they need you.

His mind conjured faces—Helen’s, pale with tears; Nery’s steady gaze; Patroclus smiling like sunlight; Achilles burning with pride. He wanted to reach for them, but the tide was stronger, dragging him down.

Another lance of pain. More hands pressing on him. The reek of herbs. Someone muttered, “He clings like a cursed one. Should’ve gone to Hades already.”

Darkness again.

He floated there, weightless, the edges of himself fraying. He didn’t know if he was above water or beneath it, if he was breathing or drowning. All he knew was the faint echo of his father’s command, a tether in the dark: Hold on.

Percy’s lips curved in a broken smile. I’ll try, he thought. Then the tide swallowed him whole.

The boy should have been dead.

That was the thought that would not leave the healer’s mind as he bent over the cot, hands sticky with blood. The wound was obscene—cut clean through back to belly, a blade’s cruel kiss that should have split spine and gut alike. No mortal lived long with such a mark.

And yet this one breathed. Barely, raggedly, but still.

The healer stitched as fast as his gnarled hands allowed, muttering prayers under his breath, though no god had ever listened to a battlefield sawbones. He pressed herbs into the torn flesh, burned the edges with fire, wrapped linen until his arms ached. All the while the boy twitched and moaned, drifting in and out of a darkness deeper than sleep.

Green eyes flickered open once, glassy but fierce, and for an instant the healer swore he saw the sea itself staring back at him—wild, endless, untamed. He looked away quickly. No good ever came of meeting such a gaze.

“Should’ve been gone to Hades long ago,” one of the soldiers guarding the tent muttered. “No one bleeds like that and lives.”

The healer grunted. “Then pray he’s not no one. Because Agamemnon wants him breathing.”

And breathe the boy did, stubborn as a mule, though each gasp sounded like it might be the last.

When at last the bleeding slowed and the stitches held, the healer sat back on his stool, sweat dripping down his temples. His hands shook from the effort. He had done all he could—more, even, than the boy’s fate deserved, if truth be told.

But the high king wanted him alive. So alive he stayed.

“Take him,” the healer rasped, gesturing to the guards. “He won’t be walking, but he’ll live. For now.”

The soldiers grinned, rough and careless, and hauled Percy upright by the arms. His head lolled forward, body limp, blood already seeping faintly through the fresh bindings. The healer watched them drag him out, shaking his head.

“Prince of the Sea,” he muttered to himself. “May the gods pity you, boy. You’ll find none here.”

The iron gate screeched open, chains rattling in the dark. Achilles and Patroclus looked up sharply from where they sat, backs pressed together on the straw.

Then Percy was flung in.

He hit the ground hard, linen wrapping already stained, breath knocked out of him. He didn’t even cry out—just a low groan as he rolled onto his side, too weak to rise.

Patroclus surged forward instantly, his own chains clattering. “Percy!” His hands fumbled against the boy’s shoulders, turning him gently, horrified by the blood soaking through the bindings. “Gods, he’s burning up—”

Achilles was there a heartbeat later, shackles dragging but forgotten, his hands rough but urgent as they steadied Percy’s limp form. His voice, low and fierce, cracked against the stone walls. “Stay with us, Sea Prince. You don’t get to leave yet.”

Percy’s lips parted faintly, a whisper lost between them, before his eyes fluttered closed again.

The guards laughed cruelly and slammed the door, chains rattling into silence.

Chapter Text

The night was cold. Even inside the crude pen of a cell, the damp earth leached heat from the body, and the air smelled of iron, straw, and unwashed men. The firepits outside had long since died to embers, leaving only a faint glow through the cracks in the wood.

In that gray half-light, Percy stirred.

He was dimly aware first of warmth—warmth so complete and encompassing that for a moment he thought he had been taken back to Atlantis, to the steaming baths carved in coral where steam fogged the air and his father’s voice echoed faint and steady in the stone. But no—this warmth moved, breathed, held him.

His lashes fluttered open, heavy with fever, and the world sharpened just enough to reveal the truth.

He was not alone.

An arm was wrapped firmly around his waist from behind, the muscles taut even in rest, holding him as though nothing short of a god’s hand would pry them apart. The weight of the arm was reassuring, steady, its strength an anchor against the trembling that still rattled his bones. Against his shoulder blades he could feel the solid rise and fall of a chest, warm breath stirring the curls of his hair.

In front of him, pressed close enough that there was hardly space for air, another figure lay curved toward him. Patroclus. Percy knew the shape of him, the faint scar along his jaw, the steady, careful way his hand rested on Percy’s chest as if counting every breath, terrified that one might not come.

Confusion prickled faintly, but before he could summon words, Patroclus’s voice came, low and tender, almost guilty.

“You were burning last night.” His thumb shifted slightly, brushing sweat from Percy’s skin. “Fever. Then you started shivering, worse than I’ve ever seen. We had nothing—no fire, no blankets. So…” His voice trailed off, as though embarrassed by the simplicity of the answer.

Achilles’s voice, closer, rougher, answered the silence. “So we kept you alive.”

Percy blinked, green eyes hazy in the dark. Their words drifted through him like a tide. Fever. Shivers. Alive.

He should have asked more. Should have wondered what it meant, why they were so close, why they had chosen to hold him as though he were theirs. But the fog of exhaustion clung too heavily, and the warmth wrapped too securely around him. His heart, battered and raw from pain, ached with the comfort, ached with the kindness.

“…Thank you,” he whispered, voice ragged.

Patroclus’s hand pressed more firmly to his chest, grounding him, his expression softening with quiet relief. Achilles’s arm tightened around his waist, almost possessive, drawing him back into the shield of his body.

Percy let himself sink. The weight of Achilles behind him, the steady touch of Patroclus before him—it was safer than any fortress. His body, always at war, finally allowed itself to rest. His eyes slipped closed, his lips parted in sleep, his breath evening out between them.

Silence stretched.

Achilles stared down at the dark mess of Percy’s hair against his chest. He remembered the boy standing against Agamemnon, the defiance in his voice, the impossible power in his hands when he had turned the earth and sea against an army. That same boy now lay trembling, fragile, burning with fever in his arms. Something sharp and hot lodged itself in Achilles’s chest—anger at Agamemnon, guilt at himself, and something deeper he refused to name.

Patroclus felt it too. He brushed a curl from Percy’s clammy forehead, adjusting the linen at his wound. Every shallow rise of Percy’s chest made Patroclus’s throat tighten. His thoughts churned: If only we’d believed him sooner. If only we’d stood by him when it mattered most.

“Will he last the night?” Achilles asked finally, voice low, dangerous in its quiet.

Patroclus swallowed, eyes fixed on Percy’s pale face. “He has to.”

They fell silent again. Outside, a guard’s laugh rang out, then faded. The world narrowed to the three of them, pressed together on the damp straw, chains coiled like serpents at their feet.

Neither Achilles nor Patroclus slept. They stayed awake through the slow march of hours, watching Percy breathe, listening to the faint sighs he made in fevered dreams. They didn’t speak of how natural it felt to hold him this way, as though he had always belonged between them.

They didn’t dare.

But when Percy stirred in his sleep, shifting closer, both tightened their arms around him—silent, protective, unwilling to let go.

The cell stank of rust and damp, the kind of smell that crawled into your nose and never left. Straw stuck to sweat-slick skin. Chains rattled with every breath, every shift of sore limbs. It was misery—pure, unrelenting misery.

But Thalos wasn’t about to let it show.

He leaned back against the cold planks, grinning through a split lip, tilting his head toward Galene across the cramped cell. “Bet you wish you had your bow now, eh, Storm’s Daughter? One arrow, and we’d be strutting out of here like kings.”

Galene rolled her eyes, though her shoulders eased. “One arrow? You’d miss, Thalos.”

That earned a chuckle from Damon, low and gravelly, like boulders shifting under the sea. Even Idyia, fierce and bristling, snorted at the jab. For a moment, the gloom cracked just enough for laughter to slip through.

That was Thalos’s job. Always had been. Keep them smiling, even when the world drowned them.

But the truth pressed heavy against his chest, hard enough he thought it might crack his ribs. Every joke he tossed, every grin, felt brittle. Because no matter how he painted it, they had failed. They’d let Percy be dragged bleeding through the mud, and the image of it kept replaying behind his eyes.

His grin faltered only when he thought no one watched.

But someone did.

Nery sat close by, chains pooled in his lap, his expression calm as ever—too calm. His sharp eyes missed nothing. When the others chuckled and shifted, Nery leaned subtly toward Thalos, his voice pitched low so only he could hear.

“You don’t have to force it.”

Thalos blinked, grin still frozen in place. “What, me? This is my natural charm, thank you.”

Nery didn’t smile. He just held Thalos’s gaze, steady and unyielding, the way he always did when he saw through the act.

Thalos sighed, the grin sliding away at last. He let his head tip back against the wall, eyes fixed on the damp ceiling. “If I stop joking, Nery, the silence will crush me. And if it crushes me, it’ll crush them too.” He gestured toward Idyia, Galene, Damon, Kaeneus—his family, chained but breathing. “So I keep laughing.”

For a moment, there was no reply. Then Nery’s hand shifted, brushing briefly against his. A small gesture, almost lost in the shadows, but enough.

“You’re not carrying it alone,” Nery said simply. “Let me hold some of it.”

The words cracked something in Thalos’s chest, and for the first time since Percy had fallen, he felt air return to his lungs properly. He huffed out a laugh—not his usual sharp bark, but softer, almost broken. “Careful, Nery. You keep talking like that, I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

This time, Nery did smile, faint but real. “Idiot.”

The banter was small, fleeting, but it was enough. Enough to remind Thalos that he wasn’t the only one keeping the light alive.

He settled back into the straw, forcing the grin to return—not brittle now, but a little steadier, strengthened by the knowledge that Nery saw him, truly saw him, and chose to share the weight.

“For the Prince,” Thalos whispered under his breath.

Nery echoed, voice firm in the dark. “For the Prince.”

The cell was silent but for the rattle of chains and the ragged sound of Percy’s breathing. Each inhale seemed to scrape his lungs raw, every exhale came with a wet hitch. The linen wrapped around his wound was already blotched dark, spreading crimson across his side and stomach.

Patroclus had pressed his hand there earlier, trying to stem the seep, but no bandage could hold forever. The damp air, the filth of the straw, the absence of clean cloth—it was all poison to a wound like that.

Achilles’s arm was still draped around Percy’s waist, holding him close. His knuckles were white where he clutched at the fabric of Percy’s tunic, as though sheer force could keep the boy tethered to this world. His face, usually the very picture of pride and certainty, was pale with fury and fear.

“He’s bleeding again,” Patroclus whispered. His voice cracked. “Achilles, if it doesn’t stop—”

“Don’t.” Achilles’s voice was rough, a growl more than a word. He pressed his forehead to the back of Percy’s sweat-damp hair, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “He won’t die. I won’t let him.”

Patroclus swallowed, his hands trembling as he adjusted the bandages again, fingers slick with warmth. “You can’t fight blood with your fists,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Silence stretched, filled only by Percy’s rattling breath. The boy stirred faintly, caught in fever, a sound like a whimper escaping his lips before he fell still again.

Patroclus brushed curls from Percy’s forehead, trying to soothe him though he knew the boy couldn’t feel it. “He looks so young,” he whispered. “You forget, sometimes, when he stands against kings and storms. But here… he’s just a boy. And the gods keep throwing him to wolves.”

Achilles lifted his head, eyes blazing even in the dim light. “Then let the wolves come,” he spat. “Let them try. I’ll tear them apart. Agamemnon, his soldiers, all of them. If he dies—” His voice broke, sharp and ragged. “If he dies, I’ll bring Troy down before its gates are even built.”

Patroclus reached across Percy’s sleeping form, fingers brushing Achilles’s clenched hand. “And what good will that do him, if he’s already gone?”

The words silenced him. Achilles’s breath shuddered, fury dimming to helplessness. He stared down at Percy’s face, pale but beautiful even in fever, his lashes dark against his cheeks, lips parted as though whispering secrets to the dark.

Patroclus leaned closer, resting his forehead briefly against Percy’s temple. “He doesn’t deserve this,” he murmured. “Not after everything he’s done. He fights for others—always for others—and now look at him.”

Achilles swallowed hard, his voice raw. “He’ll live. He has to. I’ll keep him here if I have to hold him every second of every night.”

Patroclus didn’t argue. He only shifted closer until Percy was nestled fully between them, their arms forming a shield, their warmth pressing in on him from both sides. Percy stirred again, a faint sigh leaving his lips, and his breathing eased slightly under the comfort.

The two lovers exchanged a glance across him—Achilles’s eyes wild with determination, Patroclus’s heavy with sorrow. Both leaned closer, silent sentinels, watching the fragile boy they had come to care for far more than either dared admit.

The chains clinked softly as Achilles tightened his hold. Patroclus smoothed a damp curl back again. Neither slept.

Percy lay between them like something fragile carved of glass, his breath rattling like a broken reed pipe. The damp straw beneath him was stained through with blood, his skin pale and clammy, lips tinged with blue.

Achilles could not stand it.

He pulled back from the boy only far enough to sit upright, his chains scraping across the stone. His hands shook, and that alone terrified him—Achilles, the unbroken, the untouchable, the warrior dipped in the Styx. Yet here he was, trembling like a boy, because one slip of breath from Percy’s chest might be his last.

Patroclus stirred, lifting his head. “Achilles—”

But Achilles shook him off. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, and whispered words he had never spoken aloud in his life.

“Mother,” he breathed, voice raw. “Thetis. Hear me.”

The silence of the cell swallowed him whole. No whisper of seafoam, no brush of cool hands. Nothing.

He pressed harder, his voice breaking. “You gave me strength, you made me what I am. Now I beg you—don’t let him die. Not this boy. Not Percy. He—he shouldn’t die here, in chains, bleeding out like a dog. Please. Please, Mother.”

Still, nothing.

Achilles’s jaw clenched. If his mother would not listen, then he would cry out to others. He prayed to Apollo, though he had mocked him before; to Athena, though he had spurned her wisdom; to Hades, grim and quiet; to every god whose name still lingered in his memory.

And last, he whispered, almost ashamed: “Poseidon. Lord of the Deep. If he is yours, if he is your son, then save him. Please. I will never raise blade against you. I’ll owe you my life. Just—don’t take his.”

The silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating.

Then the air shifted.

A cold wind slid through the cell, though no door had opened. The torchlight guttered low, shadows stretching long across the walls. And then—voices. Not one, but three, weaving together in a chorus that was both whisper and thunder.

Achilles.

His heart jolted. He had not expected an answer—not here, not from them.

You pray for another’s life, not your own. A rare thing, for a man born of pride.

Achilles swallowed, his throat dry. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

Few ever do.

“Then help him.”

The voices wove together again, sharp as shears. Help comes at a price. Will you pay it?

Achilles’s hands curled into fists. “Anything.”

Your life is long by fate’s measure. His is fraying fast. One thread can be bound to another. Tie your life to his, and he will not die this night. But your end will be his end. If he falls, you fall. If you fall, he follows.

The words struck him like a spear to the chest. For a moment, he could not breathe.

Behind him, Patroclus whispered urgently, “Achilles? What is it? What do you hear?”

Achilles’s eyes burned as he stared into the darkness. He did not answer Patroclus. Instead, he whispered hoarsely to the shadows: “If I refuse?”

Then none will know if he wakes with the dawn, or not at all.

The torch sputtered, smoke curling into the air like threads twisting together. The voices dimmed, but the weight of their promise lingered.

Achilles pressed his face into his bloodstained hands, heart pounding so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. His fate had always been short, sharp, glorious. But to bind it to Percy’s…

His eyes fell to the boy between them, pale and trembling, every breath a miracle.

Achilles had never feared his own death. But Percy’s? That, he could not bear.

Achilles’s breath rasped in the silence after the voices faded. His fists were still clenched against his knees, his forehead pressed to his knuckles.

Patroclus shifted beside him, worry etched across his face. “Achilles… what is it? You look as though Hades himself touched you.”

Achilles lifted his head, eyes burning. His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. “The Fates. They heard me. They… they offered a way to save him.”

Patroclus’s heart stuttered. He looked down at Percy, pale and blood-soaked, caught between their arms. His chest rose and fell shallowly, each breath a fight. “Tell me,” he whispered.

Achilles swallowed. The words felt like stone. “If I bind my life to his, he will live. The wound won’t take him. But… if he dies, I die too. If I fall, he follows. Our threads will be one.”

Patroclus froze. His lips parted, then closed again. He stared at Percy—at the boy who had stood against Agamemnon, who had fought like a storm, who now lay fragile as glass in their arms. He looked back at Achilles, the boy he had loved all his life, whose death was already written in prophecy.

For a moment, silence.

Then Patroclus cupped Achilles’s face with both bound hands, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Do it.”

Achilles blinked. “Patro—”

“No.” Patroclus’s voice was fierce. “Do it. Because I won’t sit here and watch him die when we could have saved him. And because—” His voice cracked, but he pushed on. “Because if he’s tied to you, then maybe, when your fate comes, you won’t be alone.”

Achilles’s throat tightened, his heart lurching painfully. He pressed his forehead against Patroclus’s, chains rattling with the movement. For a breath, the world was only them.

“Together then,” Achilles whispered.

Patroclus’s lips brushed his temple. “Always.”

Achilles turned back to the darkness, to the silent air where the Fates had spoken. “I accept.”

The torchlight flickered violently. The air thickened, threads unseen but felt weaving around his chest, his wrists, his heart. For a heartbeat he couldn’t breathe, and then—everything shifted. The cell fell away.

He stood on a shore. Not Troy, not Aulis, but somewhere between worlds—the sand pale, the sea black glass, the sky threaded with stars.

And Percy was there.

He stood barefoot at the water’s edge, linen still torn and stained, but his skin unmarked, his body whole. His green eyes glowed faint in the starlight, but they were wide with confusion—and anger.

“You shouldn’t have done this.”

Achilles’s heart jolted at the sight of him alive, whole, breathing. He took a step forward, waves lapping at his ankles. “It was the only way.”

Percy shook his head, fists clenching at his sides. “No. You don’t tie your fate to mine. You’re… Achilles. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Invincible.” His voice broke on the word. “If you die because of me—”

“I’ll die because of fate,” Achilles cut in, his voice steady. “That much has always been certain. My thread is short, Percy. It always has been. But if binding it to yours keeps you alive tonight, then it’s worth it.”

Percy’s throat worked, and his eyes flickered down. “You don’t even know me.”

Achilles smiled faintly, though it hurt. “I know enough.” His gaze softened, and the words slipped before he could stop them. “I know you’re brave. I know you carry more than anyone should. I know you fought Agamemnon’s men twenty to one because you wouldn’t let an innocent die. And—” His eyes lingered, drinking him in. “I know you’re beautiful.”

Percy flushed, startled, then scowled faintly. “Flattery won’t make me accept this.”

Achilles stepped closer, the sea curling at his feet, his voice low but fierce. “This isn’t about what you accept. It’s about what I owe you. You’re in this because I didn’t listen—because I thought Agamemnon could be swayed, and I let you stand alone. You nearly died for it. I won’t let it happen again.”

Percy’s anger faltered, giving way to something softer, wounded. His voice trembled. “You’ll regret it.”

“Maybe.” Achilles reached out, his hand hovering just shy of Percy’s shoulder. “But I’d regret more letting you go cold in my arms tonight.”

The waves whispered against the shore, threads of silver weaving through the black. Percy’s lips parted, but no words came. His heart ached with the truth of it—he wanted to argue, wanted to protest, but the warmth in Achilles’s eyes undid him.

Finally, Percy exhaled, shoulders slumping. “…You’re insane.”

Achilles’s lips quirked into a smile. “So they tell me.”

The starlight flared bright, swallowing the shore. The dream unraveled like mist, leaving only the echo of Percy’s eyes, green as the sea.

The cell was dark, the torch outside nearly guttered, when Achilles went still.

Patroclus had been watching him closely—too closely, perhaps. He’d seen the moment Achilles’s head bowed after his whispered acceptance to the Fates. He’d felt the tremor in his lover’s hand, the way Achilles clutched at Percy’s tunic as though anchoring himself.

Then Achilles sagged forward.

“Achilles!” Patroclus’s voice broke with fear. He caught him as best as his chained arms allowed, pulling him back before his head struck stone. Achilles’s weight pressed into him, strong body gone suddenly slack, his golden head lolling against Patroclus’s shoulder.

For a heartbeat, terror clamped tight around his ribs. Achilles, his Achilles, undone.

But then it happened.

A light bloomed.

Not the sickly flicker of fire, not the cold gleam of moonlight through cracks—but a pale, shimmering radiance that seemed to spill from Achilles’s chest itself. It glowed like molten thread, golden and silver all at once, winding from his sternum in long, luminous strands.

Patroclus froze, eyes wide, breath stolen from him. He could only watch as the threads stretched, reaching across the narrow space of the cell to Percy.

They sank into him—straight into the bloodstained linen where the blade had torn through his flesh. Percy stirred faintly, a low sound slipping past his lips. The light pulsed once, twice, then spread like water seeping into dry earth.

The bleeding slowed.

Patroclus blinked, heart hammering. The bandages were still stained, the wound still there, but the seep of blood was no longer spilling endlessly. The ragged, rattling breaths steadied—still shallow, but no longer on the brink of silence.

Patroclus pressed a trembling hand to Percy’s chest, felt the faint rise and fall. Stronger than before. The boy’s fevered flush eased, just barely, but enough to make Patroclus’s throat tighten with relief.

He looked down at Achilles, unconscious against him, golden lashes resting against pale cheeks, his lips parted in shallow breaths. His lover had given something—bound something—to Percy, Patroclus was sure of it.

For a moment, the enormity of it struck him. Achilles’s invincibility, his thread of fate, tied now to Percy’s fragile one. If Percy fell, Achilles would fall.

Patroclus’s vision blurred with tears. He bent low, pressing his lips to Achilles’s temple, whispering hoarsely into his hair:

“I swear to the gods, I’ll keep you both breathing.”

He glanced at Percy then, still cradled between them, his face softened in sleep, his breathing steadier.

The high king’s tent was a storm.

Agamemnon raged back and forth across the trampled rugs, his heavy fists swinging, striking any soldier unlucky enough to be within reach. Already two men lay groaning in the dirt just outside the tent, their faces bloodied, their ribs cracked from his boots. Inside, the rest of his guard stood stiff, trembling under the weight of his fury.

“You had her!” Agamemnon’s roar tore through the air, louder than the crack of thunder. “You had my daughter in your grasp, and you let that sea-born wretch tear her from you!” He slammed his hand against the war table, sending cups flying and wine spilling like blood across the maps. “Do you know what you’ve cost me? The winds! The gods’ favor! My honor!”

One soldier, brave or foolish, stammered, “My lord, the boy—Percyon—he—he fought like no man. The ground itself shook, the waters—”

The words were cut off with a backhand blow so fierce it sent teeth scattering across the floor.

“Don’t speak his cursed name to me!” Agamemnon snarled. “That brat rots in my cells, and when I’m finished with him, he’ll beg for the death I deny him. But her—” His voice cracked with fury, spittle flying. “My daughter was mine to give, mine to bind to the gods. Now she’s gone, stolen, and all of Greece will whisper that Agamemnon cannot even hold his own blood!”

Another soldier tried to protest, bowing low. “Lord, we tracked her through the forest, but the girl vanished as though the goddess herself—”

Agamemnon’s fist drove into the man’s stomach, dropping him to the ground gasping. The king kicked him once, twice, until the others dared to drag him away.

Menelaus lingered at the edge of the tent, silent, his face tight and pale. He watched his brother’s fury burn through man after man, but offered no word. His jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.

Agamemnon turned, his face twisted with hatred. “Find her. Tear the forests apart, burn the hills if you must! I don’t care if it takes every last man—bring her back to me!” His voice dropped, low and venomous. “And if you cannot… then pray the gods grant you swifter deaths than I will.”

The tent emptied in fearful silence, soldiers stumbling out, clutching their bruised faces, their broken ribs. But as they scattered into the camp, whispers clung to them like smoke.

The cell was hushed, the torch outside burned low, when Percy stirred.

His lashes fluttered against fever-flushed cheeks, his breath catching before it steadied again. He shifted faintly in the cradle of warmth—real warmth, not the stifling heat of fever, but the solid, steady heat of bodies wrapped close around him.

His eyes cracked open.

Patroclus’s face was the first thing he saw, bent close, worry etched into every line. Behind him, the firm pressure at his back—the arm cinched protectively around his waist—told him Achilles had not moved an inch through the night. Percy was wrapped between them still, as though they had forged a wall of flesh and iron to shield him from the dark.

For the first time in days, his lungs did not burn with every breath. The tearing agony in his side had dulled, not gone, but no longer devouring him whole. He exhaled slowly, the relief nearly dizzying.

“You’re awake.” Patroclus’s voice was barely a whisper, but it trembled with relief. His hand cupped Percy’s cheek, thumb brushing gently along his temple as though he feared the boy might vanish.

Achilles leaned closer, his breath warm at Percy’s ear. “You scared us.” The words came rough, stripped bare of pride.

Percy swallowed, his throat dry, his voice ragged. “I… I know what you did.”

The silence thickened. Both men stilled.

Percy’s eyes lifted to Achilles, dazed but clear enough to cut. “You bound your life to mine.”

Achilles did not flinch. He met Percy’s gaze squarely, blue eyes fierce even in the dim light. “Yes.”

Percy’s lip trembled. He tried to push himself up, but Patroclus caught him gently, urging him back down. He whispered, almost breaking, “You shouldn’t have. You don’t know what it means. I’m not worth—”

“Don’t.” Achilles’s voice was sharp, but it cracked with something softer beneath. His hand cupped Percy’s shoulder, grounding him. “You are worth it. You were bleeding out in my arms. There was no choice.”

Patroclus nodded, his fingers brushing Percy’s hair back, his eyes warm and wet. “Achilles doesn’t regret it. Neither do I. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

For a long moment, Percy’s throat worked, words caught. His chest ached—not just from the wound, but from the weight of their devotion. He closed his eyes, tears slipping free, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Patroclus bent forward, pressing his forehead lightly against Percy’s. Achilles shifted closer at his back, arms tightening around them both. The chains rattled faintly, but for once the sound seemed far away.

None of them spoke again. They lay together on the damp straw, tangled in each other’s arms, waiting. For dawn, for judgment, for whatever storm might break next.

For now, there was only the fragile rhythm of three heartbeats, pressed close in the dark.

The fragile peace did not last.

The scrape of boots on stone shattered the stillness, followed by the harsh clang of keys at the lock. Percy stirred, his eyes blinking open groggily, even as Achilles and Patroclus stiffened, their bodies tightening protectively around him.

The cell door crashed open. A flood of torchlight spilled in, harsh and merciless, revealing a line of soldiers armed with spears and chains. Agamemnon himself stepped forward, towering in his fury, eyes glittering like a predator who had scented blood.

“There he is,” the king hissed, his lip curling. “My prize. The one who humiliated me before all Greece. Drag him out.”

“No!” Patroclus surged forward instinctively, his chains clattering. He pulled Percy tighter against him, shielding the boy with his own body. Achilles rose like a storm behind them, iron rattling, his eyes blazing with wrath.

“You will not touch him.” Achilles’s voice was low and terrible, carrying the weight of a man who had faced down whole armies. “Not while I draw breath.”

Agamemnon sneered, and at his signal, soldiers poured into the cramped cell.

The clash was immediate. Achilles lashed out with his shackled fists, sending one soldier crashing into the wall. Patroclus kicked another away, his arms straining to keep Percy close. Percy himself struggled weakly, trying to brace, but his strength was not yet returned.

“Hold them!” Agamemnon roared.

The press of men was overwhelming. For every one Achilles struck down, two more swarmed him, yanking his chains, beating him with spear shafts. Patroclus cried out as three soldiers tore him back, wrenching his arms until the iron bit deep into his skin.

“Achilles!” Percy’s voice broke as hands clamped around his wrists, dragging him out from between them. He thrashed, gasped, his wound reopening with the effort, but the soldiers held fast.

“No! No, let him go!” Patroclus struggled wildly, his throat raw. “You’ll kill him!”

Achilles roared like a beast, his body straining so hard against the chains the stone itself groaned. He caught a soldier by the throat, nearly snapping his neck before half a dozen men bore him to the ground. His blue eyes locked on Percy’s, burning, desperate. “Percy! I swear—you won’t be alone!”

But Percy was wrenched from their arms, his body hauled into the torchlight, his feet dragging against the ground. His silver circlet tumbled loose, clattering onto the straw. He reached back once, green eyes wide with terror, before the soldiers pulled him beyond their grasp.

Achilles slammed himself against the bars, the sound like thunder. Patroclus pressed to the door, reaching even as it slammed shut in his face.

The cell was dark again, save for the echo of chains and their ragged cries.

And Percy was gone.

Chapter Text

The guards dragged Percy across the camp like a trophy, his bare feet scraping over gravel and dirt. Shackles bit into his wrists, the chain tugging cruelly every time he stumbled. His wound throbbed with every step, each breath a reminder of the blade that had nearly ended him.

The soldiers did not look at him the way they had days before. There was fear in their eyes now, even as they pulled him along. They had seen him fight, had seen the earth tremble and the sea rise at his command. But Agamemnon’s orders had been clear: bring him, no matter how he resisted.

They shoved him into the high king’s tent.

Agamemnon stood at the war table, broad shoulders bent over maps smeared with wine stains and ink. His face was carved with fury, eyes gleaming like a predator’s. Menelaus sat at the edge of the tent, silent, his mouth pressed tight. Odysseus lingered in shadow, his sharp eyes flicking briefly to Percy before returning to the king.

“Where is she?” Agamemnon’s voice cracked like a whip.

Percy straightened, chains rattling. He swayed on his feet, exhaustion pulling at him, but he forced his chin up. “Safe,” he rasped. His voice was low, ragged from blood loss, but steady.

“Safe?” Agamemnon stalked forward, towering over him. “Safe where? With whom? Do not play games, boy. Tell me where my daughter is, or I’ll tear it from you piece by piece.”

Percy’s lips quirked faintly despite the iron banding his ribs. “Better you don’t know. Safer for her that way.”

The backhand came fast, the heavy gold of Agamemnon’s ring splitting his cheek. Percy staggered but caught himself on his chains, forcing his body upright again. He tasted blood, warm and coppery on his tongue, and spat it onto the ground at Agamemnon’s feet.

The king snarled. “Artemis took her, didn’t she? You meddled with gods, you dared interfere in my sacrifice!” His fist closed around Percy’s tunic, jerking him close. “You robbed me of honor before all Greece. Do you think I’ll forgive that?”

Percy’s green eyes burned even as his body screamed. “Honor?” His voice was hoarse but cutting. “There’s no honor in killing your own child. You call it sacrifice—I call it cowardice.”

A hush fell. Even the guards flinched at the words. Menelaus shifted uneasily, and Odysseus’s brow furrowed.

Agamemnon’s face darkened, the veins in his neck straining. With a roar, he hurled Percy to the ground. The boy’s body hit hard, pain lancing up his spine. Before he could rise, a boot slammed onto his wound, pressing down until stars burst behind his eyes. Percy bit his lip until he tasted blood again, refusing to scream.

“You think yourself untouchable,” Agamemnon hissed, pressing harder. “But you’re just a bastard boy with a crown he doesn’t deserve. You will beg me before this is done.”

Percy’s vision blurred, but he forced a smile—small, weary, stubborn. “If you’re waiting for me to beg, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

The boot lifted at last. Percy gasped shallowly, his body trembling, but he stayed silent. Agamemnon paced away, furious.

“Chain him until he talks,” the king spat. “Let him rot. Let him see how far his pride carries him when his blood soaks the ground.”

The guards seized Percy again, dragging him back toward the cell. He caught Odysseus’s gaze in passing—those sharp eyes studying him, not with contempt, but with something like troubled thought.

They hauled Percy upright again, his legs trembling under him, blood dripping down his side. Agamemnon paced before him, restless as a wolf, fury not yet spent.

“You can’t hide her forever,” the king growled. “The gods will tire of shielding a girl. When they cast her back, she will bleed for my honor as she should have the first time.”

Percy coughed, spitting red into the dirt again. His ribs ached with every breath, but he forced himself to straighten. His voice, though hoarse, carried clear.

“You want winds.”

The tent stilled. Menelaus’s head turned. Even Odysseus leaned forward slightly in the shadows.

Agamemnon’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

Percy lifted his bound wrists, chains clinking. “You think killing your daughter would win you Artemis’s favor. But it isn’t her you’ve angered—it’s the sea. The ships sit idle because the waters won’t let you pass.”

Agamemnon barked a harsh laugh. “You? A chained boy in rags dares lecture me on the sea?”

“I am no boy.” Percy’s eyes flashed, a flicker of the tide in their green depths. “I am Percyon, Prince of the Sea, Protector of the Isles. The waves listen to me. If you want winds, you’ll have them—on one condition.”

Agamemnon stopped pacing, his expression twisting with suspicion. “And what is that?”

“You release me.” Percy’s words were steady, stronger now. “Me, Achilles, Patroclus, and my Guard. You let us go free, untouched, and I will give you the winds you need. Your fleet will sail for Troy by dawn.”

A ripple moved through the tent. Even Menelaus’s mouth fell open slightly, as though he could not believe the boy’s audacity. Odysseus’s eyes glimmered with sharp interest, studying Percy with a mixture of awe and calculation.

Agamemnon’s laughter returned, colder this time. “You dare bargain with me?” He strode forward, seized Percy by the jaw, and forced his face up. “You are my prisoner. You live or die at my whim.”

Percy’s voice, though strained, did not waver. “Then kill me, and watch your ships rot in harbor until your army starves. The gods won’t give you winds—not Artemis, not Zeus. Only I can.”

Agamemnon’s face twisted with rage. He shoved Percy back, and the boy crumpled to his knees. “You insolent wretch,” the king spat. “I should bleed you dry here and now, feed your carcass to the gulls.”

But even in fury, Agamemnon hesitated. He knew the sea was silent, that no sails stirred though the men prayed and sacrificed. And now this battered boy stood before him claiming the power to change it.

Agamemnon growled low in his throat. “Take him back. Let him rot until I decide what to do with him. If his words are true, he will beg me to set him free. If they’re lies—he’ll beg me for death instead.”

The guards dragged Percy away again. His cheek was bleeding, his wound reopened, but his heart burned with stubborn fire.

The cell door groaned open, iron scraping stone. Torchlight cut through the dimness as soldiers half-dragged, half-threw Percy inside. His body hit the straw with a muffled thud, chains clattering.

Patroclus was at his side in an instant, shackles jangling as he pulled Percy upright, cradling his head against his shoulder. “Percy—gods—what did they do to you?” His voice broke on the words.

Achilles crouched close, his eyes wild. He reached for Percy’s face, tilting it up to see the gash along his cheek, the blood soaking through the already-filthy bandages at his side. The king’s blows had left dark bruises across his ribs and arms.

Percy tried to smirk, though his lips trembled. “You should see the other guy.”

Patroclus let out a wet laugh that was half a sob. “Don’t joke, you idiot, you’re—” He cut himself off, pressing his palm against Percy’s wound to slow the bleeding.

Achilles’s hands, usually made for spears and swords, were unexpectedly gentle as he tore a strip from his own tunic, binding it around Percy’s chest with surprising care. His jaw was tight, but his touch lingered at Percy’s skin as though afraid he might vanish.

“Agamemnon?” Achilles asked roughly.

Percy swallowed. Speaking scraped his throat raw, but he forced it out. “He… wants to know where she is.”

Patroclus stiffened. “Iphigenia.”

Percy nodded faintly, his curls brushing Patroclus’s tunic. “I told him nothing.” His eyes flickered, green and dim but defiant. “But I gave him… another choice. Let us go, all of us, and I’ll give him his winds.”

Silence fell, heavy but electric.

Achilles’s hands froze at Percy’s bandage. His eyes narrowed, blue burning in the torchlight. “You offered him that? In chains?”

Percy gave the ghost of a grin, though it hurt. “Would’ve been more convincing if I didn’t look like a half-drowned rat.”

Patroclus shook his head, torn between exasperation and awe. “Gods, Percy… you could have been killed for that.”

“I’ve been killed for less.” Percy let his head fall against Patroclus’s chest, too tired to hold it up. His voice dropped to a whisper. “But he’ll think about it. He has to.”

Achilles stared at him for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with sharp, controlled breaths. Finally, he shifted closer, one arm sliding behind Percy’s back, the other curling protectively across his stomach.

“Rest,” Achilles murmured, low and fierce. “While you still can. If Agamemnon touches you again, I swear by the Styx I’ll tear him apart, chains or no.”

Patroclus leaned his cheek against Percy’s hair, holding him close between them. “We’ve got you. Sleep.”

The three pressed together on the straw, the chains rattling faintly with each movement. Percy’s breathing was shallow, but steadier now, lulled by their warmth.

The cell door scraped open, and the stench of sweat and unwashed armor filled the air. A handful of Agamemnon’s soldiers swaggered in with a half-empty jug of water and a crust of stale bread, their laughter low and ugly.

Their eyes went first to her and Galene, as they always did.

“Well, well,” one of them drawled, lifting the jug but not offering it. His gaze raked down Idyia, lingering on her legs where the shackles didn’t quite cover. “Didn’t think they’d keep pretty little things like you locked up with men. Waste of talent, if you ask me.”

The others snickered. One dropped the bread deliberately just out of reach, then leaned close to Galene as she bent instinctively to grab it. His hand darted, groping at her hip. “Careful,” he muttered, breath foul. “Wouldn’t want to bruise such soft skin.”

Galene jerked back, fury flashing in her eyes, but the chains clamped to her wrists rattled, holding her in place.

Laughter followed. “What about the redhead?” another soldier said, stepping toward Idyia. “Bet she’s a fighter. I like fighters.” His hand shot out, rough fingers snatching at her arm, sliding lower.

Before his touch could wander further, a hand like iron seized his wrist.

Damon.

The big warrior rose from the straw like a mountain, his chains groaning as he loomed over the soldier. His eyes burned, silent but murderous. Slowly, deliberately, he squeezed. Bones ground under his grip until the soldier hissed in pain, dropping the jug with a shatter.

“Touch her again,” Damon said, his voice low and cold, “and you won’t have a hand left to fight with.”

The soldier tried to yank free, but Damon’s hold didn’t loosen until Nery’s voice cut through the tension. Calm, steady, but sharp as a blade.

“Step back.”

The soldier stumbled away, clutching his wrist, face pale beneath his bravado. His fellows shifted uncertainly, their smirks faltering. Thalos leaned lazily against the wall, his grin mocking.

“Gods above,” he said lightly, though his eyes were ice, “you’d think you lot had never seen women before. Careful—your desperation’s showing.”

One soldier spat at his feet. “You’ll all be corpses soon enough. High King doesn’t keep traitors alive.”

Kaeneus’s deep voice rumbled from the back of the cell. “Maybe. But you won’t live to see it if you try them again.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unspoken promise thick in the air. Even chained, battered, and caged, the Guard radiated danger.

The soldiers muttered, gathered what remained of their arrogance, and slunk back toward the door. Their leers hadn’t vanished, but their courage had.

When the cell door slammed shut again, Idyia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Damon’s huge frame lowered back beside her, his hand briefly brushing her shoulder, grounding her. Galene pressed close on her other side, silent but trembling.

Nery met Idyia’s gaze across the dim light. His look said everything: We will not let them get to you. Not while we breathe.

The damp straw had never been comfortable, but with Percy awake and talking again, the cell felt almost bearable.

Achilles crouched at his side, dipping a rag into the half-broken water bowl they had scrounged, dabbing carefully at the angry wound across Percy’s ribs. Patroclus leaned against Percy’s shoulder, steadying him whenever he shifted, murmuring reminders to sit still.

Percy rolled his eyes. “You know, I’ve survived worse than this. A little stab wound isn’t going to kill me.”

“Maybe not,” Achilles said, voice dry, “but if you keep squirming, I’ll be the one to finish the job.”

Patroclus gave him a look, torn between laughter and exasperation. “Don’t threaten the patient.”

“I wasn’t threatening.” Achilles wrung out the rag with a snap. “I was promising.”

Percy snorted, then winced as the movement tugged at his side. “Charming. Really makes a guy feel cared for.”

Patroclus, ignoring both of them, adjusted the bandage with gentle hands. “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he said softly. “If you’d let us handle you properly for once—”

“Handle me?” Percy cut in, lips quirking despite the pain. “Sounds scandalous. Should I be worried?”

Patroclus flushed, glancing at Achilles, who promptly choked on a laugh he tried to disguise as a cough.

“Gods, you’re insufferable,” Patroclus muttered, though his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile.

Percy leaned back against the wall, green eyes sparkling despite the dark bruises under them. “What, you don’t like my bedside manner? Most people pay extra for my humor.”

“Most people don’t nearly die every other week,” Achilles countered. He tied the bandage off with a tug, then finally sat back, blue eyes narrowing as though daring Percy to keep pushing.

“Guess I’m not ‘most people,’” Percy said, feigning pride, then softened. “But… really. Thanks. Both of you. I’d probably be dead without you fussing over me.”

Patroclus smiled faintly, brushing Percy’s curls back from his damp forehead. “We’re not fussing.”

Achilles grunted in agreement but didn’t pull his hand back when it lingered a moment too long on Percy’s shoulder.

Percy winced, his lips twisting. “You know, most people bring flowers when they visit the sick. Not cold water and rough hands.”

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “Most people don’t survive being gutted by a king.”

“True,” Percy muttered. His eyes glinted mischievously despite the pain. “Guess I’m special.”

Patroclus snorted softly as he held Percy’s shoulder still. “Special doesn’t mean reckless.” His tone was stern, but his fingers brushed through Percy’s curls gently, easing damp strands from his brow.

“I’ll take reckless if it keeps people alive,” Percy shot back, though his voice softened toward the end.

“You almost didn’t.” Achilles’s tone sharpened, but he didn’t let go, his hands fastening the fresh wrappings with the skill of someone who had done this too many times. “Do you even realize how close it was?”

Percy tried to grin. “Close enough for dramatic effect, I guess.”

Achilles’s jaw clenched, blue eyes flashing. Patroclus gave Percy a look that was half fond, half frustrated.

“You joke because you don’t know what it’s like watching someone you care about bleed out in your arms,” Patroclus whispered.

Percy’s smirk faltered. His throat tightened. “I… do, actually.”

Silence pressed for a beat. Then Percy leaned his head onto Patroclus’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks for not letting me join them.”

Achilles shifted, settling against Percy’s other side, his arm wrapping firmly around Percy’s waist. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said flatly. “Not while we’re here.”

The three sat close together in the dim cell, pressed shoulder to shoulder, chains rattling whenever they shifted.

Later, after Percy had dozed and then woken again, Patroclus broke the silence with a sigh. “We’re a sorry sight, aren’t we? The so-called might of Greece locked in straw and chains.”

Percy shifted, resting his head against the wall. “Speak for yourself. I look fantastic.”

Achilles barked a laugh, quiet but genuine. “Fantastic? You’re covered in bruises, your hair looks like it lost a war, and you smell like seawater and blood.”

Percy smirked. “And yet, still better looking than both of you.”

Patroclus groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “Gods, you’re impossible.”

“Impossible but handsome,” Percy corrected, his grin widening.

Achilles’s eyes sparkled in the low torchlight. “Handsome, perhaps. Impossible, certainly. Foolish beyond reason.” His hand lingered briefly on Percy’s knee, steady and grounding.

“Lucky for you both,” Percy murmured, softer now, “foolish people get things done.”

Patroclus chuckled despite himself, his head falling lightly onto Percy’s shoulder. “We’ll regret humoring you one day.”

“Probably,” Percy agreed. His voice dipped to a whisper. “But not tonight.”

And so they sat together in the dark, laughter mingling with exhaustion, the weight of chains momentarily forgotten.

The days bled into weeks, each one hotter, heavier, more airless than the last.

The fleet at Aulis rotted in harbor, sails limp, oars useless in the stagnant sea. The water itself seemed cursed: no breeze stirred, no tide swelled, no wave lapped against the hulls. The army had grown restless, then hungry, then sick. Supplies dwindled. Bread was hard as stone, water brackish. Even the wine soured.

And the men whispered.

At first, their grumbling turned against each other, against bad luck and cursed winds. But as the silence dragged on, their voices grew sharper. And every tongue pointed not at the gods, not at the sea, but at Agamemnon.

He was the one who angered Artemis.
He was the one who tried to bleed his own child.
He was the one who had chained the sea-prince.

Because by now every man in the host knew his name: Percyon, Prince of the Sea. The boy who had fought twenty men at once. The one who had called storms, who had bled for an innocent girl. Whispers said Poseidon himself had claimed him, that the waves bent to his will.

And what had Agamemnon done? Shackled him in straw and stone like a criminal.

The mood in the camp soured with each breathless day. Fights broke out over scraps of bread. Men fainted in the sun, armor left to rust in piles. No one trained anymore; no one sang. Even the kings could not calm the storm brewing in their ranks.

The Guard, chained in their own cell, heard it all when the soldiers passed.

“Madness,” one muttered. “We should free him—let him fix this before we all rot.”
“Aye,” another whispered. “He’s the only one who can. Poseidon’s brat or no, he’s our only hope.”
“If the high king doesn’t let him go, we’ll die here. All of us.”

The soldiers spat when Agamemnon passed. They bowed out of fear, but their eyes burned with hatred.

By contrast, whenever whispers of Percy spread, their tone softened, almost reverent. “Our prince,” some called him in secret. “The boy who could save us if the king wasn’t blind with pride.”

And the three in the cell felt the change too.

Patroclus noticed first, when the guards who brought food left larger portions for Percy than for the rest. Achilles noticed when the soldiers began to linger outside the bars, muttering prayers under their breath as if just seeing Percy breathe meant hope still remained.

And Percy himself—though thinner, still pale—sat against the wall and listened to the tide of voices. His chains rattled whenever he shifted, but in the quiet dark, his green eyes burned.

They’re waiting for me.

Not just the Guard. Not just Achilles or Patroclus. The whole army.

And with each passing day of silence, he knew Agamemnon’s grip on them slipped further.

Odysseus had seen many follies in his life, but Agamemnon’s stood above them all.

The “wedding” had been a sham from the first word. He had watched Achilles bound in chains like a dog, Patroclus fighting like a madman to reach him, and Percy—Percyon, the sea-prince—storming into the chaos like a tempest given flesh. The boy had torn through Agamemnon’s guards, the earth trembling at his command, until he vanished into the forest with the girl on a stolen horse.

Odysseus had known then the story would not end there. It never did when gods had their hand in it.

And indeed, days later, the soldiers dragged Percy back, bleeding and broken, his guard chained beside him. Agamemnon gloated, but Odysseus saw the fear hiding beneath the man’s rage. The high king might rage and strike, but he knew—deep down—that he held fire by the blade.

Odysseus had tried words first.

He stood in Agamemnon’s tent, watching the man pace like a caged lion, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. “You cannot keep him in chains forever,” Odysseus said evenly. “The sea is against us. Look at the harbor—no tide, no breeze. Not even smoke from the campfires lifts. That is not chance, it is will. You know whose will.”

Agamemnon snarled. “The boy is dangerous. He humiliated me. If I free him, what message does that send?”

“That you value your army’s lives over your pride,” Odysseus replied smoothly. “That you are a leader who bends when the wind demands it, so your men do not break.”

But pride was Agamemnon’s god, and he would not bow to another. “No. He rots until he tells me where my daughter is.”

Odysseus’s jaw tightened, though outwardly he only inclined his head. “Then your army rots with him.”

If he could not sway the high king, then he would sway the hearts of men.

Odysseus had never needed armies to win wars—only words, well-placed, sharp as daggers. He began small. A whisper by the cookfires: Why does the wind not blow? A murmur in the water line: Whose pride keeps us starving?

It spread quickly.

“The king chained the one who could save us.”
“He tried to kill his own daughter.”
“Percyon bled for her, and still Agamemnon beats him.”
“Who is cursed here, the sea-prince or the high king?”

Odysseus watched the mood shift like a tide. Soldiers spat when Agamemnon passed, muttered when his back was turned. They prayed not to Zeus or Artemis, but to Poseidon and the boy they called Prince of the Sea. Even the kings grew restless—Nestor frowned openly in council, Diomedes muttered of wasted time, Ajax grew impatient for battle.

Only Menelaus remained silent, his eyes shadowed, his jaw tight. He had gained a war for his stolen wife, yet watched it rot before it even began.

Weeks dragged by. No winds came. The bread ran out, the wine turned bitter, men sickened in their tents.

One night, Odysseus stood on the shore, the moon pale on the still black water. Not a ripple stirred. Behind him, the camp murmured like a hive ready to swarm.

Agamemnon thought his chains could hold the tide. Odysseus knew better. The sea could not be bound, and neither could the boy who carried it in his blood.

So he fanned the whispers into flame. He told the men stories—of how Percy had fought twenty to one, of how he had shielded the girl when even kings faltered, of how he had bled and still stood.

“And where is he now?” Odysseus asked softly at one fire. “Beaten. Chained. While you starve.”

The murmurs deepened, anger sharpening into hunger. Against Agamemnon. For Percy.

Odysseus allowed himself a small, wry smile. He had failed to sway the king. But he would sway the army. And in the end, that might matter more.

Because one day soon, Agamemnon would have to choose: break his pride, or watch his army break him.

The air in camp was sour. Agamemnon could smell it every time he left his tent—the rot of spoiled rations, the sweat of idle soldiers, the tang of bitterness too long festering.

They were whispering. He saw it in the way men turned their faces when he passed, the way their eyes flicked to the prison tents, the way they muttered at the fires when they thought he was too far to hear.

Percyon.

That cursed name rode every breath of wind that refused to blow. Prince of the Sea. Protector of the Isles. The boy who had defied him before all Greece and lived.

Agamemnon’s teeth ground together as he stormed into the seer’s tent.

The old man was already waiting, pale and trembling as though he had known this confrontation was coming. His cloudy eyes lifted, and for a moment Agamemnon felt the weight of something that saw far deeper than he wished.

“You promised me favor,” the king snarled, slamming a fist down onto the low table. “You said the sacrifice would win Artemis’s blessing. Yet my fleet rots in harbor, my men starve, and still the winds do not stir.”

The seer’s voice quavered, but his words were clear. “Because the sacrifice was not completed.”

Agamemnon’s hand shot out, gripping the man by the collar and dragging him close. “Do not play riddles with me, old man. My daughter is gone. Taken. There is no sacrifice left to offer.”

The seer’s lips trembled, but the truth came spilling anyway. “Then there is only one path left. The winds answer to one among you. Not Artemis. Not Zeus. The boy.”

Agamemnon froze.

“The Prince of the Sea,” the seer whispered, clutching at the king’s wrist. “Percyon. Only he can break the stillness. Only he can call the waves. Release him, let him command the waters, and your ships will sail.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Agamemnon roared, hurling the seer back so hard he crashed into the tent pole.

“Never!” The word tore from his throat like a curse. “I will not bow to him. I will not let that bastard command me!”

He stormed from the tent, fury boiling so hot he could not see straight. The first soldiers he passed—two young men cleaning rust from their shields—looked up too quickly, eyes bright with fear and something worse: doubt.

Doubt in him.

Agamemnon saw red.

He struck the nearest across the face with his fist, sending the boy sprawling into the dirt. The other tried to scramble back, but the king’s boot caught him in the ribs, again and again until he wheezed for breath.

“Traitors!” Agamemnon spat, his voice carrying over the camp. “All of you would rather follow a chained brat than your king? Then rot with him! Let your stomachs empty, let your mouths dry, but you will obey me!”

The camp had stilled, watching. Soldiers froze where they stood, no one daring to move, no one daring to meet his eye.

Agamemnon wiped the blood from his knuckles, chest heaving. He turned on his heel and stalked back to his tent, leaving the two soldiers groaning in the dirt.

The whispers would grow louder, he knew. But better fear than faith in another. Better rage than silence.

And yet… in the back of his mind, he heard it still: Only he can break the dead calm.

The cell door groaned open again. Percy sat up straighter, heart already pounding. He had grown stronger in the days since his fever broke—color back in his cheeks, the tremor gone from his hands. Achilles and Patroclus flanked him, their chains rattling as they tensed, ready to spring though they had nowhere to go.

And then Agamemnon entered.

The high king’s face was drawn, eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, his pride eroded by weeks of hunger and still waters. He looked less like a king than a cornered beast.

“You,” he said, voice low and venomous. “You claim the sea bends to you.”

Percy rose slowly, the chains dragging across the straw. His body still ached, but he stood tall, meeting Agamemnon’s glare with steady green eyes. “I don’t claim it. I live it.”

The silence stretched until Agamemnon broke it with a snarl. “Then give me winds. Fill the sails, free this army from rot, and perhaps I will let you crawl out of this hole.”

Percy laughed once, sharp and humorless. “No. You don’t get to ‘perhaps’ me.”

Agamemnon’s eyes narrowed, but Percy pressed on, his voice ringing in the dim space. “You will release me. My Guard. Achilles. Patroclus. All of us. No chains. No blades at our backs. And when you let us go, you will leave us alone.”

Agamemnon’s hand twitched toward his sword, but Percy didn’t stop.

“You will end the hunt for your daughter. Artemis claimed her—that is done. And you will pay for what you did: compensation for my men, for Achilles and Patroclus, for every moment you kept us locked in filth while your pride strangled your army. Only then will I call the winds.”

Achilles and Patroclus glanced at him, wide-eyed—Percy’s voice was steel, sharper than either had ever heard from him before.

Agamemnon’s mouth curled into a sneer. “You think you can make demands of me?”

Percy stepped closer, chains dragging, until he stood almost nose to nose with the king. “I don’t think. I know. Because without me, you will rot here until the bones of your men bleach in the sun. You want Troy? You want glory? Then you need me. And I will not lift a finger until every one of my conditions is met.”

The silence was so thick it felt like a held breath. Then—Agamemnon laughed, short and bitter. But his eyes were hollow. He knew Percy had him.

“Fine,” he spat. “You’ll have your freedom. You’ll have your payment. I’ll tell the men you’ve bought it with your powers.”

“And the girl?” Percy asked, voice low.

Agamemnon’s jaw clenched, but he gave a single sharp nod. “Gone. Artemis’s plaything. I’ll not waste another drop of blood chasing her.”

Only then did Percy relax, shoulders easing. “Good. Then watch.”

He raised his shackled hands, closing his eyes. The chains clinked softly as he breathed deep, reaching past the damp cell, past the walls of camp, past the dirt under his feet. His pulse merged with the steady thrum of the sea.

And then—movement.

A whisper of wind, faint but real, brushing through the camp like the sigh of a god. Outside, men shouted, heads snapping up as the sails in the harbor stirred for the first time in weeks.

The whisper became a breath, the breath a gust, until the entire fleet groaned against their moorings, ropes straining, banners snapping. The air filled with salt and freedom, the sea itself answering Percy’s call.

Agamemnon staggered back, eyes wide despite himself. Achilles’s lips parted in awe, Patroclus’s hand tightening around Percy’s arm as if anchoring himself to the miracle.

Percy lowered his hands slowly, opening his eyes. “Your fleet will sail. Keep your word, and so will I.”

The chains rattled as the guards stepped back, hesitant now, as though afraid of the boy they had once dragged like a prisoner.

For the first time in weeks, the camp roared—not in anger, but in triumph.

And every whisper carried the same name: Percyon.

The echo of cheering still rippled faintly through the camp when the cell door slammed shut again, leaving only silence and shadows.

Percy stood rigid, his chest heaving, sweat trickling down his temple. His knees buckled before he could take a step.

Achilles lunged forward, catching him under the arms before he hit the straw. “Easy,” Achilles murmured, lowering him carefully. “I’ve got you.”

Percy sagged against him, trembling, his breath shallow. “Gods… feels like I just swam the whole Aegean twice.”

Patroclus was already at his other side, tearing a strip from his own tunic to blot the sweat from Percy’s brow. His hands shook, though his voice was steady. “You’ve burned yourself out. Weeks chained, half-starved, still bleeding, and you force a storm to life?”

Percy gave a weak grin, though his eyes fluttered shut. “Worth it… you should’ve seen Agamemnon’s face.”

Achilles huffed a short, incredulous laugh, even as his grip tightened around Percy’s waist. “Mad as a god, you are.”

“Mad works,” Percy whispered, tilting his head so it rested against Achilles’s shoulder. “Got us free, didn’t it?”

Patroclus sighed, brushing curls from Percy’s damp forehead. “… it’s a start.” His gaze lingered on Percy’s pallor, the way his lips had lost their color. Fear tugged at his chest. “Lie back. Sleep.”

“No—” Percy’s eyes cracked open, green flickering in the torchlight. “Not yet. If I close my eyes, I’m not sure I’ll…” He trailed off, his voice fading.

Achilles shifted, pulling Percy fully into his lap, cradling him against his chest as though sheer strength could hold him to this world. “You will,” he said fiercely. “Because I won’t let you go.”

Patroclus moved closer, pressing against Percy’s other side until the three of them were huddled together in the straw. He laid his hand gently over Percy’s heart. “Feel that? Still strong. Still here. You’re not leaving us.”

For a long moment, there was only their breathing—the ragged pull of Percy’s, the steady rhythm of Achilles’s, the soothing cadence of Patroclus’s.

Then Percy let out a soft sound, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” Patroclus said with a small smile, his thumb brushing circles over Percy’s chest. “But ridiculous enough to keep you alive.”

Achilles bent his head, pressing his lips briefly to Percy’s temple—quick, fierce, protective. “Rest now. We’ll keep watch.”

And finally, Percy’s resistance faltered. His body slackened, his breathing evening out as sleep claimed him.

The two warriors sat in silence, one hand each anchoring him, their gazes locked over his sleeping form. Achilles’s blue eyes burned with something new—respect, yes, but more than that, something dangerously close to devotion.

Patroclus, though weary, only smiled faintly. “Told you,” he whispered. “He’s not ordinary.”

“No,” Achilles agreed, holding Percy closer. “He’s not.”

The cell door creaked open, torchlight spilling in. Soldiers stood there, faces set, hands tight on their spears.

“Orders,” one muttered. “You’re free.”

Patroclus froze, searching their expressions for mockery or a trap. But no—the chains on his wrists were unlocked with a harsh clink, the heavy shackles falling away. Achilles’s followed, though his glare burned hotter than the torches.

“What about him?” Achilles demanded, jerking his chin to Percy, still sleeping in his lap, pale but breathing steadily.

The soldier shifted uncomfortably. “The king said you two walk free. The sea-prince… he’ll follow when he’s fit to stand.”

“No.” Achilles’s voice was sharp enough to cut stone. “We walk together.”

Patroclus leaned forward, his tone softer but no less firm. “He saved your fleet. Your very lives. If he stays, we stay.”

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. At last, one swore under his breath and shoved the door wider. “Fine. But take him yourselves.”

Achilles didn’t need to be told twice. Carefully, he slid one arm under Percy’s back, the other beneath his knees, lifting him with effortless strength. Percy stirred faintly at the movement, a low groan escaping his lips, but didn’t wake. His head lolled against Achilles’s shoulder, curls brushing the warrior’s neck.

Patroclus walked close, his hand steady at Percy’s chest, as if guarding the steady rhythm of his breath. The three of them stepped out into the camp, the first rays of dawn painting the sky pale gold.

The air outside was different now. It moved—light but real, stirring banners, snapping at the edges of sails in the harbor. Soldiers turned as they passed, their gazes following Percy in Achilles’s arms. Some muttered, some bowed their heads, but none dared speak against it. The whispers carried through the camp:

The Prince of the Sea…
He brought the winds…
Our true savior.

Achilles ignored them all, his steps steady as he carried Percy across the rows of tents. His jaw was tight, but there was something fierce in the way he held him—as though he would allow no god or man to touch this boy again.

Patroclus walked at his side, his hand brushing Percy’s arm every few steps. “He’ll be alright,” he murmured, as much for himself as for Achilles. “He has to be.”

Finally, they reached Achilles’s tent, larger than most, the canvas marked with the crest of his Myrmidons. Inside, it smelled of leather, oil, and the faint salt that always clung to Achilles’s skin.

Patroclus pulled aside the furs on the pallet, smoothing them out. Achilles lowered Percy onto it with care far beyond his usual roughness, arranging him so that his head rested comfortably, his chains no longer digging into his skin.

For a long moment, the three simply stood in the quiet. Percy lay still, his chest rising and falling, the harsh lines of exhaustion softened in sleep. Achilles knelt beside him, brushing a stray curl from his face, something almost reverent in the gesture.

Patroclus sank down on the other side, his fingers wrapping gently around Percy’s hand. “He should have been here from the beginning,” he whispered.

Achilles’s lips pressed into a hard line. “He is now.”

And as dawn broke over Aulis, the two lovers sat vigil over the boy who had become their storm.

The chains fell with a heavy clank against the dirt. For a heartbeat, Nery thought he had imagined it—that the weight at his wrists and ankles would remain forever, that the stink of Agamemnon’s cell would cling to them until the end of days.

But then Damon’s massive hands were freed beside him, Kaeneus’s shackles followed, and one by one the links binding them to the wall were struck loose.

“Get out,” the soldier on duty growled. He didn’t look them in the eyes. None of the guards did.

Galene swayed as she stood, and Nery’s arm shot out to steady her. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from too many silent nights.

Her lips curled, weary but sharp. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t. None of them were. Idyia limped, her ankles rubbed raw where iron had bit deep. Damon’s knuckles were split, half-healed scars from beating back hands that reached too far. Even Thalos, ever the fool, was pale beneath the dirt, his grin gone quiet.

Yet they stood. Still breathing. Still together.

The walk back to their own camp was like passing through a storm without rain. Soldiers of other kings stopped their work to stare. Whispers followed them.

Nery ignored them, his focus fixed on keeping his people upright. His people. Not just comrades, not just brothers and sisters-in-arms. Family.

When they stumbled into the Atlantean encampment, the change was immediate. Healers rushed forward, jars of ointment and clean water in hand, their faces stricken.

“Here,” one said, guiding Idyia to a stool. “Gods, what did they—”

“Don’t ask,” Idyia muttered, but her shoulders sagged as salve touched her wounds.

Galene hissed as her wrists were cleaned. Damon sat heavily, a healer dabbing at his split skin. Kaeneus refused to sit until every one of the others had been tended. Thalos joked weakly about the soup smelling worse than the prison, earning a faint chuckle from the younger healers.

Nery allowed them to work on him last. His wounds were not deep—he had shielded others where he could—but his heart carried more bruises than his skin.

Still, when the healer bound his hands, he looked around the tent and allowed himself a small breath of relief. They were alive. They were free.

But as he caught sight of the empty cot where their captain should have been, that relief soured.

Percy was not here.

The Guard’s eyes found his, one by one, the unspoken truth heavy between them.

“He’ll come back to us,” Nery said at last, his voice steady, strong, the way a second-in-command’s should be. “He always does.”

And though doubt gnawed at his chest, the Guard lifted their heads and believed him. Because Percy was not just their prince. He was the storm they followed, and storms did not die quietly.

Chapter Text

Percy woke to warmth.

Not the damp heat of the prison straw, not the suffocating fever that had burned through his body in chains. This was different—steady, protective, safe. He blinked groggily, lids heavy, and realized he wasn’t lying on stone. The pallet beneath him was layered with furs that smelled faintly of leather, salt, and smoke.

And there were arms around him.

One strong and solid at his back, another draped lightly across his chest. He shifted, and the world tilted enough for him to see golden curls against his shoulder, the peaceful lines of Patroclus’s sleeping face. Behind him, Achilles’s breath stirred the hair at the nape of his neck, steady as a tide.

For a heartbeat, Percy lay still, confused. Then memory returned—the bargain, the winds, the collapse. And now this.

He huffed a small, disbelieving laugh. “Gods, I’m in a tangle of limbs.”

Patroclus stirred at the sound, eyelids fluttering open. When he saw Percy awake, his whole face softened, relief washing over him like sunrise. “You’re up.” His voice was low, thick with sleep and joy.

“Apparently,” Percy rasped, his throat dry. He tried to push himself upright, but Patroclus immediately pressed a gentle hand against his chest.

“Stay. Please. You’ve only just healed.”

Behind him, Achilles shifted as well, his grip tightening instinctively. His voice was rough from sleep but certain. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Percy stilled, caught between the two of them. For once, he didn’t feel like fighting the urge to rest. He let his head fall back onto the furs, sighing. “I’m… free, aren’t I?”

Patroclus smiled, brushing a curl from Percy’s forehead. “Yes. The chains are gone. The winds are back. You did it.”

Achilles leaned forward just enough for Percy to feel the weight of his gaze. “But don’t think that means you get to run yourself into the ground again.”

Percy smirked faintly, though exhaustion dulled the sharpness of it. “What, are you my keepers now?”

“Apparently,” Achilles said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Patroclus chuckled softly, the sound like balm on wounds that had yet to fade. “You’ll get used to it. Or not. We’ll keep you fed either way.”

For a moment, all three lay there in the golden hush of morning, tangled together not by chains but by choice. The tent was quiet, the distant sounds of camp muted, as though the world itself had granted them this moment of peace.

And for the first time since the false wedding, Percy let himself believe it was real.

The sun had risen higher by the time Percy stirred again, blinking against the light that filtered through the canvas. Patroclus was already up, crouched near a low table where bread, cheese, figs, and a jug of watered wine had been set out. Achilles sat cross-legged beside him, polishing a spear that clearly hadn’t needed polishing.

When Percy shifted on the pallet, both turned at once.

“Good,” Achilles said, setting the spear aside. “You’re awake. Eat.”

Patroclus lifted a plate and carried it over, crouching beside Percy. “I’ll help you sit up.”

The tent flap opened to a rush of fresh sea air. Outside, the Myrmidons were already stirring, repairing shields, oiling armor, sharpening blades. But inside, the three sat around a small wooden tray that Patroclus had arranged like a feast: olives, bread, goat cheese, figs, and watered wine.

Percy eyed the spread, suspicion writ plain on his face. “This is… a lot. Are you trying to fatten me up?”

Achilles tore a chunk of bread and shoved it toward him. “You’ve been half-dead for weeks. Eat.”

Percy groaned. “You two fuss more than Nery and Amphitrite combined.”

“Be grateful,” Patroclus teased, propping pillows behind him. “Your last breakfast was moldy bread tossed at you through bars.”

“That’s a low bar,” Percy muttered, but the smell of warm bread made his stomach growl despite himself.

Achilles smirked. “Hear that? His body betrays him.” He tore off a chunk of bread, dipped it in olive oil, and all but shoved it toward Percy’s mouth.

Percy swatted weakly at his hand. “I can feed myself, thanks.”

“You’ll spill half of it in your lap,” Achilles countered, and pushed the bread into his hand instead.

Patroclus sat back on his heels, watching them with a fond, amused smile. “Children, both of you.” He offered Percy a slice of cheese, gentler than Achilles’s bluntness.

Between bites, Percy mumbled, “I’m not a child.”

“No,” Achilles said, pouring him a cup of watered wine and pressing it into his hand. “But you nearly died like one. So you’ll eat, drink, and shut up.”

Percy raised a brow, sipping anyway. “Bossy. Do you talk to Patroclus like that?”

Patroclus grinned. “He tries. I don’t let him.”

Achilles gave him a look, but there was laughter buried in it.

Percy rolled his eyes. “Gods, you two are really worse than Amphitrite. At least she doesn’t scold while she feeds me.”

Achilles smirked, tearing into his own portion. “We’re not scolding. We’re commanding. There’s a difference.”

Percy chewed slowly, then lifted an eyebrow. “So what, I’m your soldier now?”

Patroclus leaned on one elbow, eyes warm. “No. You’re family. That means we get to annoy you.”

Percy blinked at that, the words hitting deeper than the jest. He covered it by reaching for an olive. “Annoying suits you, then.”

They ate together, the three of them crowded around the low table, shoulders brushing. The food was plain, but to Percy it tasted like freedom itself. Each bite pushed back the memory of chains, of blood drying on his skin. Here, now, there was only bread, wine, and the steady company of two boys who had refused to let him fade.

When Percy leaned back at last, sighing, Patroclus immediately moved to clear the plates. Achilles stayed put, eyeing him. “Better?”

“Better,” Percy admitted softly. Then, with a faint grin: “Though if you keep this up, I’ll be fat before we ever reach Troy.”

“Good,” Achilles said, serious as a war oath. “Fat men don’t die so easily.”

Patroclus snorted. Percy laughed—really laughed, for the first time in weeks.

“If I die, it’ll be from overeating.” Percy joked.

Patroclus smoothed a hand over Percy’s hair, mock-serious. “Then at least it would be my fault. A noble death.”

Percy snorted, eyes closing. “Noble. Sure.”

Achilles stretched beside them, the golden light catching his hair, his gaze softening as he watched the two he loved most.

After breakfast—and after enduring another round of Patroclus fussing over his bandages—Percy finally slipped free of the tent. Achilles grumbled but let him go, muttering that he had better not collapse in some ditch. Patroclus’s eyes followed him, worried, but Percy had been stubborn since birth, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

The Atlantean camp stood at the edge of the vast Greek sprawl, set apart by the clear blue banners that marked their ships and by the discipline of the Guard. Even battered, even half-starved, his people carried themselves with the dignity of those who had stood at his side through storm and fire.

As Percy approached, the camp grew quieter. The men and women of the Guard rose to their feet, voices murmuring his name—Prince, Captain, Percy.

Nery was the first to reach him, solid and steady as always. His hand clasped Percy’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to remind him of their bond. “You should be resting,” he said, though his eyes betrayed relief.

Percy managed a wry grin. “So should you. Guess neither of us are good at it.”

But as his gaze swept over them, the grin faltered.

Galene stood a little apart, her wrist wrapped in fresh linen, her jaw set like stone. Idyia tried to look strong, tried to laugh when Thalos muttered something ridiculous at her side, but her eyes darted down every time a Greek soldier passed the camp’s edge. Damon’s fists were clenched tight, his knuckles raw, as though he could not scrub away what he had endured. Kaeneus stood like a wall behind them all, but even he looked carved thinner by the weeks in chains.

Something in Percy’s chest cracked.

He stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Tell me.”

“What did they do to you?” Percy’s voice was quiet, but it carried, sharp as a drawn blade.

Nery’s jaw tightened. “What you’d expect from men who think themselves untouchable.” His gaze flicked toward Galene and Idyia, then away.

Idyia spoke first, her tone flat, as though the words weren’t her own but something forced through clenched teeth. “They laughed. Said Atlantean women must be wild under water. They grabbed. Pulled. Damon and Thalos stopped the worst of it, but…” She shook her head. “They knew we couldn’t fight back with chains.”

Galene’s lip curled. “Pigs, every last one. I wanted to gut them.”

Percy’s hands curled into fists so tight his nails cut his palms. The air seemed to shift, the faint scent of salt thickening as if the sea itself stirred at his anger.

Percy’s vision blurred at the edges, rage burning in his veins hotter than any wound. His fists trembled, nails biting into his palms. “They touched you?”

Galene’s lips pressed together, but Idyia’s laugh broke into a trembling sound. “They… they wouldn’t leave us alone, Percy. Not the soldiers in the cells, not the guards. Hands, words, threats—every day. Damon and Thalos tried, but…”

Damon growled low in his throat. “We stopped what we could. But they grabbed when backs were turned.”

Thalos, for once without a smile, looked at Percy with uncharacteristic seriousness. “We kept them safe. As best we could.”

The camp was silent now, every Guard watching Percy. He felt the weight of their trust, their pain, their unspoken demand: Do something.

Percy straightened, shoulders squared, eyes hard as storm-lit seas. “I will.”

“Percy—” Nery began, a warning, but Percy shook his head.

“No. They swore themselves to me. I swore to protect them. If Agamemnon thinks he can let this happen under his watch—” Percy’s voice cut like a blade, steady, deadly. “Then he’ll answer for it.”

Galene lifted her chin. “We’re still standing. That’s enough.”

“No,” Percy said, louder now, his voice carrying across the pavilion. “It’s not enough. Not for you. Not for any of you.”

The Guard exchanged glances—pride, loyalty, sorrow mingling in their eyes.

Nery stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Percy could hear. “Don’t lose yourself in rage, Captain. We’re alive. That’s what matters.”

The Guard didn’t cheer. They didn’t need to. Their silence was enough, their faith absolute.

Percy turned toward the high king’s tent, every step fueled by the fury of the sea.

Every step radiating barely restrained fury. The Guard rose as if to follow, but Nery lifted a hand.

“Let him go,” he said quietly, though his own jaw was tight with worry. “He’s the sea. You can’t cage the tide.”

Achilles had been pacing the edge of the Myrmidon camp, restless. The air was too still, the men too quiet. Patroclus had gone to speak with a captain, leaving Achilles with nothing but his own simmering thoughts.

That was when it hit him.

A wave of fury so sharp it stole his breath. Not his own—he knew his temper well, its familiar rise and rhythm. This was different. Wilder. Colder. It pressed against his ribs like a tide, every heartbeat thrumming with wrath that did not belong to him.

He staggered, one hand braced against a spear rack, sucking in a sharp breath. Images flickered unbidden—hands gripping where they should not, laughter twisted into cruelty, the sharp bite of helplessness. And beneath it all, a vow, roaring in silence: Mine. They touched mine. I will drown them.

Achilles’s pulse thundered in his ears. The fury faded almost as suddenly as it had come, leaving him hollow, his skin damp as though from salt spray. He straightened slowly, scanning the camp. None of his men had noticed. No one else seemed shaken.

“What in Hades…” he muttered under his breath. His knuckles were white against the spear shaft.

He didn’t know where the anger had come from. Only that it had teeth, and that it was not his.

Patroclus returned a moment later, brow furrowed. “Achilles? You look—strange.”

“I’m fine,” Achilles said too quickly. He forced his hands loose, turned his gaze back toward the sea. “It was nothing.”

But long after, as the sun dipped low and the campfires began to burn, Achilles could still feel the echo of it, a phantom tide beating against his chest.

And though he told no one, he knew. The storm had Percy’s name.

The guards at the entrance of Agamemnon’s tent stiffened as Percy approached. The air around him already rippled, the faint smell of brine carried where no breeze stirred. His steps were steady, almost calm, but the calm of the sea before it swallowed ships whole.

“Move,” Percy said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cracked like thunder.

The guards exchanged a glance, hesitating, until the nearest man felt the water in his own skin stir—the unnatural pull of tide answering another’s will. He flinched aside, dragging his companion with him.

Percy swept inside without waiting for permission.

Agamemnon stood bent over a table scattered with maps and wine-stained parchments, barking at a servant who scrambled to refill his cup. The high king looked up at the intrusion, his face twisting into fury at the sight of Percy.

“You dare—”

The words died on his lips.

Because Percy was not the boy dragged in chains a fortnight past. His shoulders were straight, his eyes burning green as sea-glass under stormlight. His very presence bent the air; droplets of water formed from nothing, clinging to his skin, running down his arms in streams that evaporated before touching the ground. The earth beneath his bare feet hummed, faint vibrations rippling through the rugs.

“I dare,” Percy said. His voice rolled low, dangerous. “I dare because you touched what is mine. My Guard. My family. And you let your soldiers treat them like prey.”

Agamemnon forced a sneer back onto his face, though sweat gleamed at his temple. “They are soldiers. War is not gentle—”

“Do not twist this,” Percy snapped, and the wine in the king’s cup curdled to salt water, spilling over his hand. Agamemnon cursed, dropping it, staring as though burned.

“They were chained, helpless, and you let your men harass them… Touch them!” Percy took another step forward, and the brazier at the corner of the tent hissed as its fire guttered, doused by mist rising from nowhere. “That is not war. That is cowardice.”

The servant fled, scrambling under the tent flap, leaving them alone.

Agamemnon’s hand went to his sword hilt. His knuckles whitened, but he did not draw. “You forget yourself, boy. I am the High King. You are nothing but a—”

“Nothing but a what?” Percy demanded. The ground shuddered under his feet. “A prince of the sea? A son of Atlantis? A storm given flesh? You call yourself a king, but when the winds died you were powerless. When your daughter was taken, you were powerless. When your men starved, you were powerless. And even with me chained and broken, you still feared me.”

Agamemnon’s lips worked, but no sound came.

Percy’s voice softened, but it was the softness of deep water—terrifying in its inevitability. “You will end this. Today. You will punish the ones who dared touch my Guard. You will make it clear that no Atlantean is ever to be harassed again. You will pay reparations for their suffering. And you will never lay hand or chain on me again. Do you understand?”

The silence stretched. The storm in Percy’s aura pressed harder, the very air wet and heavy, until Agamemnon swore he could hear waves crashing though the sea was far beyond the camp.

At last, Agamemnon swallowed, his face pale beneath his fury. “Yes,” he ground out. “I will see it done.”

Percy tilted his head, studying him. Then, abruptly, the air stilled. The dampness lifted. The storm’s edge retreated, though it remained coiled beneath Percy’s skin like a waiting tide.

“Good,” Percy said simply. “Keep your word. Because if you don’t…” His gaze locked with Agamemnon’s, sharp enough to cut. “…you will learn how quickly a king drowns.”

Without another word, he turned and strode from the tent. The guards shrank back as he passed, unable to meet his eyes.

Only when Percy was gone did Agamemnon’s mask crack. His face twisted, teeth bared in pure hatred. He seized the shattered cup from the floor and hurled it against the table.

“Find them!” he roared at the nearest soldier who dared peek inside. “Find every last man who so much as touched those Atlantean dogs! Beat them. Break them. Hang them if you must. I will not be made a fool by that boy!”

And though the soldiers rushed to obey, every man in that tent knew it was not justice that drove him. It was fear.

The soldiers were assembled in the yard before the high king’s tent, the air heavy with dread. None had been told why, only ordered by barking officers to stand witness.

Men whispered nervously, shifting on their feet. Some cast glances at the Atlantean camp on the far edge, where blue banners stirred faintly in the breeze. Percyon, they murmured under their breath, half in awe, half in fear.

The king emerged at last, face like stone, his cloak trailing crimson in the dust. His eyes swept the assembly, hard and unblinking, until even veterans who had seen a dozen campaigns looked away.

“Bring them,” he barked.

Four soldiers were dragged forward, wrists bound, dust caking their knees where they had already stumbled. They were not strangers. Men of Mycenae, men who had fought in raids and border wars, who had laughed around the same fires as the rest.

One of them, a boy scarcely older than seventeen, kept shaking his head, pale with terror. “Please, lord, I don’t— I never—”

“Silence,” Agamemnon snapped. His voice cracked like a whip. “These men are guilty. They forgot their place. They dared defy discipline, dared insult my allies. They are the reason our allies question us, the reason the sea-prince dares lift his eyes to me. And for that…”

He gestured.

The first man was struck across the face with the flat of a blade. Another was whipped, his cry splitting the air. The boy begged, stumbling, until Agamemnon himself strode forward and drove his fist into his gut, doubling him over.

The army stood frozen, watching. No one moved to intervene.

The punishments grew harsher—beatings, lashes, kicks delivered until the four men collapsed in the dirt, groaning, bloodied. A murmur ran through the crowd. Some looked away. Others stared grimly, as though trying to convince themselves this was justice.

But the whispers started anyway.

“Those weren’t the ones…”
“They never touched an Atlantean…”
“It’s random. He just needs someone to bleed.”

Agamemnon stood over the broken bodies, chest heaving, face flushed with rage. “Let all see what happens when a soldier forgets his king’s command! Let all see that I, not some Atlantean bastard, rule this host!”

He spat into the dirt and stormed back into his tent, leaving the four to be dragged away like refuse.

The crowd slowly broke apart, but the unease lingered. Men muttered under their breath, eyes sliding toward the sea-prince’s camp.

And in those whispers, Agamemnon’s name grew smaller. Percy’s grew louder.

The Atlantean camp was alive with laughter for the first time in weeks. Achilles and Patroclus paused at the edge of the blue banners, watching as the sound carried across the evening air. Soldiers leaned together in easy postures, firelight dancing on their faces, their rough bandages softened by smiles.

And in the center sat Percy.

He was perched on a low stool, Galene and Idyia flanking him, their voices quick and teasing. Damon knelt at his side, showing off a mended spearhead, while Kaeneus quietly passed out bowls of stew. Thalos’s voice rang out with some story so outrageous that it had to be a lie, yet it had everyone groaning and laughing.

But what drew Achilles’s gaze was the way Nery sat close, their shoulders pressed together, a hand steadying Percy’s arm whenever he shifted, as though by instinct. Percy leaned into the contact easily, laughing softly at something Nery whispered.

The sight made Achilles’s stomach twist.

It wasn’t anger—at least, not quite. It was something sharper, unfamiliar. Jealousy, a voice in him muttered, and he nearly snarled at the thought. What right had another man, even one of Percy’s Guard, to touch him so casually?

Patroclus noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. He glanced sideways, his lips quirking. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Achilles muttered, eyes still locked on Percy and Nery.

Patroclus hummed knowingly, stepping forward. “Then let’s join them.”

The Guard stiffened as the two warriors approached, but Percy’s head snapped up, green eyes bright in the firelight. He broke into a grin. “You found me.”

“Hard not to,” Patroclus said warmly. “You’re the loudest fire in the camp tonight.”

Percy chuckled, gesturing them closer. “Sit. There’s food left, if you don’t mind Galene’s cooking.”

Galene smacked his arm, but Percy only laughed harder.

Achilles sank onto a log, his eyes flicking to where Nery still sat close. The second-in-command’s hand brushed Percy’s shoulder as he passed him a cup. Percy accepted it without thought, murmuring thanks.

Something in Achilles bristled. He didn’t understand why. Patroclus leaned against his side, grounding him, but it didn’t stop the spark.

He studied Percy more closely, the boy’s easy laughter, the way his Guard orbited him like planets around the sun. Not out of duty—they were bound to him by something stronger.

And for the first time, Achilles admitted what he had known since the duel. Percy was not just another soldier. He was something rare, dangerous, beautiful.

Jealousy curled again when Nery’s hand brushed Percy’s arm. Achilles tore his gaze away, unsettled by how much he cared.

But when Percy caught his eye across the fire, his grin softening into something private, Achilles felt the jealousy burn away into something else entirely. Something far more dangerous.

The days blurred into something strange, almost unreal: peace.

For Percy, it began each morning the same way—with warmth. He’d wake tangled between Achilles and Patroclus, the furs pulled around them like a fortress against the chill. Sometimes it was Patroclus’s hand curled protectively at his chest, other times Achilles’s arm draped heavy across his waist. Once, he opened his eyes to find both of them watching him, and he nearly flushed under the intensity of it before Patroclus’s soft laugh broke the moment.

Meals became shared rituals. Bread torn in three, olives passed back and forth, Achilles grumbling when Percy picked at his plate until Patroclus threatened to feed him bite by bite. Percy muttered about being mothered, but the laughter in his voice made his complaints hollow.

Training returned slowly. At first, Percy was still too weak, his movements sluggish, breath short. Achilles goaded him, light sparring turning into playful grappling until Percy was red-faced and snarling, pinned in the dirt. Patroclus teased from the side, calling out reminders that Percy had held back in Sparta. The three ended up rolling in the dust, bruised and laughing, the Myrmidons staring as though they’d never seen their commander so unguarded.

Evenings often ended by the sea. Percy would stand ankle-deep in the surf, letting the tide wash over him, while Achilles and Patroclus lingered at his sides. Achilles spoke of his childhood in Phthia, of his mother’s warnings and his father’s silence. Patroclus shared gentler memories—sunlit orchards, a boyhood shadowed by exile until Achilles gave him a home. And Percy, hesitant at first, told them of home: his mothers blue cookies and his sisters laughter.

Sometimes Achilles would fall quiet, watching Percy’s profile as the waves kissed his feet, a strange heat in his chest he could not name. Sometimes Patroclus would watch them both, caught between fear of what war would take and a yearning for something more than two.

The Guard, too, began to heal. Galene trained again, her bowstring snapping clean in the air. She cursed like a storm when her fingers trembled, but Nery stood beside her, correcting her stance with patient hands. Idyia sparred with Damon, fierce and quick, her laughter louder each day. Nery lingered close, always steady, and Percy often sought him out when his chest grew too heavy with responsibility.

There were nights when the three boys—Percy, Achilles, Patroclus—drifted into the Guard’s circle around the fire. Thalos would joke, Damon would roll his eyes, Galene would mutter sharp comments that made Percy grin. And Achilles, unused to so many voices, found himself listening more than speaking, surprised by the ease with which Percy moved among them.

And always, always, the three found their way back to each other.

One night, Patroclus leaned against Achilles’s shoulder, Percy on the other side, their laughter soft as they shared stolen figs. Another morning, Percy dozed in the sun with Patroclus’s head in his lap, Achilles stretched out beside them, his hand brushing both their knees.

For a week, the storm held off. No chains. No fury. Only the fragile illusion of peace—woven from bread, laughter, and the quiet, dangerous warmth growing between them all.

The camp had fallen into uneasy quiet, the fires burned low, and Percy had for once retreated to his Guard’s tents for the night. Achilles sat on a log outside their own tent, staring at the embers. His armor was half-removed, hair damp from the sea, but his mind was far away.

Patroclus emerged behind him, carrying a jug of watered wine. He set it down, then slid onto the log beside Achilles, their knees brushing. For a while, they just sat in silence, the distant sound of waves mingling with the murmurs of soldiers bedding down.

At last, Patroclus broke the quiet. “You’re thinking of him again.”

Achilles huffed a laugh through his nose. “You say it like I’ve stopped thinking of him at all these past weeks.”

Patroclus tilted his head, studying him. In the flickering firelight, Achilles’s face looked softer, less the invincible warrior and more the boy he had known since childhood. “Well? What have you decided?”

Achilles turned, meeting Patroclus’s gaze. There was no hesitation in his voice. “That you were right.”

Patroclus blinked. “Right?”

“That night, in the tent. When you said… when you wanted him with us.” Achilles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “I fought you for it, I raged. Because I was jealous, because I thought you wanted him instead of me. But watching him these last days—seeing him smile again, seeing how you light up with him… Gods, Patroclus. You were right. It wouldn’t take anything from us. It would make us more.”

Patroclus’s breath caught. His eyes shimmered, lips parting in surprise, then softening into a smile. “I… I’m glad you see it now.”

Achilles turned back to the fire, the shadows dancing in his golden hair. “It would feel… good. Not just to fight beside him, but to live beside him. To have him in our tent every night. To hear his sarcasm in the morning, to watch him roll his eyes at my pride. He makes me feel… alive.” He paused, almost sheepish. “And I find him beautiful.”

Patroclus reached out, brushing his fingers over Achilles’s hand. “I know. I’ve always known. I see how you look at him. And I don’t mind. I love him too.”

The words hung between them, simple and profound.

Achilles turned his palm up, catching Patroclus’s hand and squeezing. “Then it’s decided. If he wants us… he’ll have us. But he sets the pace. No pressure. No chains.”

Patroclus leaned against him, resting his head on Achilles’s shoulder. “Agreed. We’ll wait. We’ve waited years for each other. We can wait for him.”

Achilles kissed the crown of Patroclus’s head, a rare gentleness in the gesture. For once, there was no jealousy, no rage—only a fierce, protective longing that wrapped around them both.

And in the quiet of the night, the two lovers made their vow: that Percy, if he chose, would never have to walk alone again.

Chapter Text

Part 2: The Voyage into Storms

The sea is a mirror, the sea is a wound,
it bears the faces of gods and the graves of the doomed.
Its salt is for healing, its salt is for pain,
its tide carries silence, its tide carries names.

O sailor, O soldier, O son of the deep,
your oath is an anchor, your secrets you keep.
But storms are no prison, and distance no wall,
for hearts bound by longing will answer the call.

Through thunder and lightning, through hunger and flame,
the sea swallows kingdoms, yet love is the same.
And far on the shoreline where destiny looms,
the sails of tomorrow rise out of the gloom.

Two weeks had passed since the chains fell.

Two weeks since Agamemnon, cornered by hunger and whispers, had choked out his reluctant bargain and let the winds return. The camp at Aulis was gone now, the trampled earth abandoned to ash and memory. No more prison pens, no more fetid straw or stagnant torches—only the sea.

The fleet slid across the water like a beast with a thousand limbs. Oars rose and fell, sails snapped sharp against the wind, banners of every king fluttered pale beneath the sun. The air stank of pitch, tar, and men too long confined.

Percy stood at the prow of his flagship, chains gone from his wrists but the marks still red against his skin. The salt wind tangled his curls, tugging at the linen bandages beneath his tunic. His Guard flanked him in silence—Nery steady at his side, Damon looming like a shield, Galene and Idyia with bows strung across their backs though their arms still bore bruises. Even Thalos, grinning faintly, stood straighter now that he had a deck beneath his feet again.

Percy knew the way. Every current, every star, every hidden shoal between here and Ilium lived in his blood as surely as salt in the tide. With his eyes closed, he could have led the fleet to Troy.

But Agamemnon had refused him.

The high king’s ship cut ahead of the fleet, its gilded prow shining gaudy in the sun. From its deck, Agamemnon had made it clear: he alone commanded. He alone chose the course. Percy was to stand silent, a guest, a tool when needed—but never a leader.

And so the fleet had sailed for days, and yet no island rose on the horizon. The men whispered already. Supplies dwindled. The sea itself seemed to mock the arrogance of a king who thought pride a better compass than Poseidon’s son.

Percy tightened his hands on the railing until his knuckles whitened. He said nothing. But in the back of his chest, deep as the pull of tide, he felt it: the storm would come.

The sea breathed steady beneath the ship, rocking her like a lullaby. For the first time in what felt like years, Galene let herself breathe with it.

Her wrists were still raw where iron had bitten deep, a pale band of scarred skin beneath the leather wraps Damon had fashioned for her. Her lip had healed into a thin line too, stinging when the salt wind caught it. But the pain was different now. Not the festering ache of chains and damp straw. A clean hurt. A healing one.

She drew back her bowstring slowly, the curve of polished wood creaking faint in her hands. The arrow wavered at first—her grip not yet steady—but she exhaled, let the wind slip through her lungs, and loosed.

The shaft thudded into the hay target they had lashed to the mast. Crooked, too far to the left. She clicked her tongue, lowering the bow.

“You’re improving,” Nery said beside her. His voice was calm, infuriatingly calm, as if the arrow weren’t embedded three hands off-center.

Galene shot him a look. “That’s generous.”

“Truthful,” he corrected, folding his arms. The sunlight caught in his dark hair, his expression unreadable as ever. “Your hands are steadying again. That’s what matters.”

Idyia snorted from where she sparred with Damon a few paces away, their shackles gone but the rhythm of battle still in their bones. She ducked a blow, her red braid whipping, and called over her shoulder: “Don’t let him coddle you, Gale. That arrow would’ve missed a stag by ten lengths.”

Galene couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, sharp and bright as spray. “Thank you, sister, ever the encouragement.”

“Always,” Idyia shot back, grinning through her sweat. Damon’s fist nearly clipped her jaw, and she barked a curse, dancing back on light feet.

Thalos, sprawled uselessly on a coil of rope with his arm bound from an old cut, lifted his head. “If we had a stag on board, I’d say we’re eating well tonight. But as it is, I’ll take Damon’s scowl over venison.”

“Careful,” Kaeneus rumbled from his place by the railing, sharpening his blade. “Mock him too loud and he’ll feed you to the waves.”

Thalos clutched his chest, feigning horror. “And deprive the fleet of my charm? Unthinkable.”

Even Damon’s mouth twitched at that, though his eyes never left Idyia’s strikes.

Warmth rippled through them like sunlight after storm. It was fragile still—scars raw, nightmares lingering—but laughter was returning. Their voices carried over the deck, weaving a net stronger than any chain.

Galene lifted her bow again, sighting the target anew. The arrow hissed through the air and struck nearer center this time. Not perfect, but enough to make her shoulders ease.

When she glanced toward the prow, she caught sight of Percy watching them. He stood tall, curls tugged by the sea wind, eyes green as deep water. Pride flickered there, shadowed by guilt he didn’t speak.

Galene held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once—sharp, certain. We’re still here. We’re still yours.

He nodded back, just barely, before turning his face to the horizon.

The sea was calm tonight, glass-dark and silver under the rising moon. The fleet stretched in a broken line across the horizon, sails pale as ghosts in the starlight.

Percy leaned on the railing, his hands curled tight around the salt-crusted wood. The wind tugged at his curls, cool against the fever scars still lingering on his skin. He should have felt at peace—home, even. The ocean stretched endless around him, the pulse of the waves echoing steady in his chest.

And yet he felt trapped.

The ships were too many, too loud, too full of men who whispered his name as though it were prayer or curse. And worse—the one ship that mattered was out of reach. Somewhere down the line of bobbing lanterns, Achilles and Patroclus were caged in wood and rope like him, close enough he could almost sense them, but too far to touch. The bond tugged faintly in his chest, an ache like phantom wings. He hated it. He missed them.

“You’ll wear grooves in the railing if you keep staring like that.”

Percy turned. Nery stood a step behind, arms folded, his face shadowed but his eyes steady. He hadn’t made a sound climbing the deck. Typical.

Percy huffed a weak laugh, turning back to the water. “What’s up, second?”

“That’s what I came to ask you.” Nery came to stand beside him, leaning on the rail as well. His gaze flicked over the water, then to Percy’s tight jaw. “You’ve been sulking here since sundown.”

“I’m not sulking.” Percy dragged a hand through his hair. “I just… they’re too far.”

“Them,” Nery said, voice flat as stone. “The golden one and his shadow.”

Percy’s lips quirked despite himself. “Achilles. Patroclus.” The names tasted strange when said aloud. Softer than he expected. He let the words drift out, lost in the sea air. “It’s ridiculous. We’re on the same fleet, going the same direction, and it feels like I haven’t seen them in years.”

Nery studied him for a long moment, then—unexpectedly—laughed. A rare, quiet rumble that shook free of his chest. Percy blinked at him, startled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.” Nery’s lips curved faintly. “Sulking like a lovesick boy when you’re Poseidon’s heir. You miss them? Then swim.”

Percy’s jaw dropped. He turned, incredulous, then snorted. “Swim? Across half the damned fleet? In the middle of the night?”

“Why not?” Nery shrugged. “The sea loves you. It’ll carry you faster than any oar. What’s Agamemnon going to do—chain you again? The men would mutiny before they let him.”

Percy stared at him for a long heartbeat. Then the laughter burst out, sharp and sudden, cracking through his chest like sunlight breaking storm. Gods, it felt good. He leaned on the railing, shaking with it, salt-stung eyes bright with mirth.

“You’re insane,” Percy said at last, breathless.

Nery smirked. “Takes one to follow one.”

Percy glanced down at the dark water. It rippled like a promise, moonlight silvering the waves. He licked his lips, still smiling. “You know what? You’re right.”

Before Nery could reply, Percy swung one leg over the railing. The second followed. The sea called to him, low and certain, and he answered. With a last grin over his shoulder, Percy dove clean into the dark.

The water swallowed him whole—and welcomed him home.

The night had been quiet—too quiet for a soldier used to the roar of campfires and the stink of a thousand men in harbor. Here, on Achilles’s ship, the sea was a lullaby, the only sounds the groan of wood and the slap of waves against the hull.

The deckhand leaned on his spear, eyelids heavy. Guard duty on a calm night was the kind of boredom that made men imagine ghosts just to stay awake.

And then the water broke.

A head rose from the dark, curls plastered wet to a pale face, eyes glinting green in the lantern light. The sea seemed to lift him rather than weigh him down, the waves parting as if they bent to his will. The boy’s hands caught the railing with casual ease, and in a single motion he hauled himself up onto the deck.

The deckhand gaped, spear clattering against the planks. “Gods’ blood—”

The boy shook himself once, water running off him in silver streams, and grinned. It was a tired grin, a reckless grin, but alive. “Evening.”

Two more guards lunged forward, catching him by the arms before he could take another step. Chains were gone, but the scars still raw on his wrists told them who he was.

“Hold!” one barked, though his voice cracked. “Who are you—?”

The boy met his eyes, and the words died on his tongue. Those eyes were green as deep water, burning even in the dark. No ordinary captive had ever looked at a man like that. No ordinary boy could rise from the sea like it was his mother’s womb.

“Percyon,” the boy said simply, his voice low, hoarse, but steady. “Prince of the Sea.”

The deckhand’s grip faltered, his throat going dry. The name had been whispered in every tent, every campfire story for weeks now, but seeing him—alive, dripping, scarred and smiling—was different. Terrifying. Awe-striking. Holy.

He tightened his hold out of instinct, though his hands trembled. “Get—get Achilles,” he stammered to the others. “Now.”

And as the boy laughed softly, shaking sea-water onto the deck like rain, the deckhand thought he had never in his life seen anyone look so much like a god wearing mortal skin.

They had managed one week without him. Barely.

The first night after Aulis, Achilles had lain awake in their cabin on the Myrmidon flag ship, staring at the empty space where Percy should have been. Patroclus had tried to soothe him, but the absence pulled and twisted like an open wound. It wasn’t just absence—it was wrong. Three weeks they had spent pressed close to him, every waking and sleeping moment shared, and now the sea had torn him away.

On the second week, when the commotion hit the deck, they both knew.

Achilles was already moving when the soldier’s shout rang down the passage, Patroclus a breath behind him. The bond tugged, alive and insistent, and his heart hammered with a joy so fierce it hurt.

And there he was.

Dripping seawater, curls plastered to his brow, eyes shining green in the lantern light. Grinning like he had just tricked the gods themselves. Percy.

Achilles didn’t hesitate. He strode across the deck and seized him, arms crushing tight around his waist. Patroclus collided into them both, laughter breaking from his chest even as tears pricked his eyes.

“You—” Achilles’s voice cracked, rough with relief. He buried his face in Percy’s wet curls, holding on as if he could fuse them together. “Gods, you’re here.”

Patroclus’s hands shook where they gripped Percy’s shoulders, pulling him close until their foreheads touched. “You idiot,” he whispered, his throat tight. “One week and we nearly lost our minds.”

Percy laughed hoarsely, sagging against them both. “Guess I missed you too.”

They clung there, saltwater soaking through linen, three bodies pressed together like they had never been apart.

Around them, the Myrmidons stared in stunned silence. They had followed Achilles for years, had seen his pride, his fury, his invincible rage. They had seen Patroclus’s calm temper the storm. But never had they seen them like this—laughing, shaking, wrapped around another as if he were part of them already.

To the men on deck, it was unthinkable. Achilles belonged to no one but Patroclus. Yet here was this sea-born boy, dripping saltwater across their planks, embraced like he had always been meant to stand between them.

The deckhand who had dragged Percy aboard swallowed hard, awe prickling his skin. First the boy had risen from the waves. Now he was held by kings.

“Percy,” Achilles said again, his voice raw, almost reverent. He pulled back just enough to see his face, his hand cupping Percy’s jaw. “Never do that to us again.”

Patroclus’s lips trembled into a smile as he brushed his thumb across Percy’s cheek. “gods, it feels so good to have you back.”

And Percy, grinning through his exhaustion, whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since leaving Aulis, the three of them felt whole again.

No one on deck dared breathe too loudly.

The boy had crawled out of the sea like a creature of myth, and now—gods help them—Patroclus had scooped him up in his arms like some prince from a tale.

The Sea Prince didn’t even fight it. He laughed, soft and tired, as if being carried like a bride across the planks was the most natural thing in the world. Saltwater streamed from his tunic, dripping across Patroclus’s shoulder, but the man didn’t care—didn’t even notice. His whole face was lit with joy, the kind that made even his scars look gentler.

Achilles followed at their heels, laughing too, low and warm in his chest. He reached out once to brush his fingers across Percy’s wet hair as though he couldn’t help himself, then let his hand rest briefly on Patroclus’s back as if the three of them formed one unbroken line.

The deckhand’s mouth went dry. He had seen Achilles rage, had seen him carve men apart without blinking. He had seen Patroclus’s calm, steady hands guiding the Myrmidons through storm and blood. But this—this open tenderness, this unguarded joy—was a thing he had never imagined.

The men stared as the trio passed, silent, their spears slack at their sides. Patroclus carried the boy toward the captain’s cabin without slowing, Achilles a step behind, protective even in his laughter.

The lantern light caught on water drops still clinging to Percy’s curls. For a heartbeat, he looked less like a prisoner and more like something divine—a god’s son carried in the arms of Greece’s greatest warriors.

The deckhand swallowed, unable to shake the thought: Whatever he is, he belongs to them now.

The cabin flap closed, shutting out the sight. The soldiers exhaled as one, whispers already sparking between them.

“Did you see—?”
“Achilles… smiling?”
“Patroclus carrying him like a bride…”
“Never seen them look at anyone like that.”

The sea rocked the ship, steady and endless, but the men knew something had shifted on their deck tonight.

Patroclus kicked the door shut with his heel, still cradling Percy like he weighed no more than a child. He crossed the cabin in a few strides and set him carefully onto the wide pallet, fussing with the furs until Percy was half-buried in them. War makes families out of strangers, he told himself. They were only making sure he didn’t fall.

“Gods, Patro,” Percy laughed, breathless, “you didn’t have to carry me like—like some damsel.”

Patroclus’s mouth curved in a smile that was both fond and stubborn. “You swam across a fleet after nearly bleeding out three weeks ago. You don’t get to argue.”

Achilles’s laugh filled the room, warm and unrestrained. He dropped onto the pallet beside Percy with a thump, water splattering from his soaked tunic. “Damsel? Hardly. More like a madman.” He reached out, mussing Percy’s dripping curls with a grin. “A beautiful madman.”

Percy flushed, tugging the furs higher to hide his face. “You two fuss too much.”

“Not nearly enough,” Patroclus countered, already kneeling with a cloth, blotting carefully at Percy’s soaked tunic. His touch was gentle, reverent, as though every drop mattered. Achilles leaned in from the other side, catching Percy’s wrist and turning it over to examine the red marks where shackles had bitten. His thumb brushed slowly across them, too soft for a warrior’s hand.

“Gods above,” Patroclus muttered, wringing out the cloth, “you’ll catch your death like this.”

Percy huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “You two act like I haven’t been wet before.”

“Not like this,” Patroclus murmured.

Percy sighed, then lifted his hand lazily. “Fine. Watch.”

The air shifted. Droplets lifted from his skin like tiny beads of glass, rising all at once in a shimmer of silver light. Water streamed from his hair, tugged from his tunic, even pulled from the furs beneath him, swirling briefly in the lantern glow before vanishing in a hiss of sea-salt mist.

The cabin fell silent. Percy sat there smug and dry, curls springing wild around his face again. He spread his arms a little, green eyes glinting. “Better?”

Achilles blinked, then threw his head back and laughed, a deep, startled sound that filled the cabin. “Gods. You could’ve done that the moment you climbed aboard, and you let us drown half the furs?”

Percy grinned. “Seemed funnier this way.”

Patroclus shook his head, but his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. His eyes lingered on Percy a beat too long, soft with wonder. “You’re impossible.”

Percy smirked, green eyes bright. “Impossible stylish.”

Achilles barked a laugh, delighted. He leaned in, ruffling Percy’s newly dry curls with an unguarded grin. “Stylish, reckless, ours.”

Percy’s chest ached with warmth at the words. He blurted before he could stop himself, “I missed you. Gods, I missed you.”

Patroclus leaned closer, pressing his forehead against Percy’s temple. “We missed you too,” he whispered, voice thick.

Achilles didn’t bother with words. He simply hauled Percy forward into his arms, squeezing so tight Percy wheezed against his chest. Patroclus folded around them both, and suddenly Percy was buried in heat, laughter, the press of two hearts hammering against him as though they’d all been drowning and only just now surfaced.

He couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop laughing, even as his eyes burned. For the first time in weeks, in months maybe, the weight of blood and chains and kings lifted from his shoulders. Here, in this cabin, wrapped in them, he felt whole.

Percy let himself sink into it—Patroclus’s steady breath at his ear, Achilles’s strong arm banded across his back, the way both held on like they’d never let go. His lips curved against Achilles’s shoulder, his laugh muffled in Patroclus’s tunic.

“I’m not letting either of you out of my sight again,” Percy mumbled, half-teasing, half-plea.

Achilles laughed low, pressing his chin into Percy’s curls. “Good. Then stay. Always.”

Patroclus’s hand found Percy’s, fingers threading through with quiet certainty. “Always,” he echoed.

Percy’s heart clenched, too full for words. He only nodded, eyes closing as joy swelled through him, fierce and dizzying.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t the Sea Prince, or Poseidon’s son, or Agamemnon’s prisoner. He was just Percy—warm, laughing, wrapped in the arms of the two people who made the world feel bearable again.

And gods, it was enough.

Percy woke to the sound of waves and the steady thrum of wood creaking beneath him. For a long, blissful moment he thought he was still in Atlantis, wrapped in furs, safe. Then he tried to move.

And found he couldn’t.

Something heavy pinned him down, all heat and muscle and tangled limbs. He cracked one bleary eye open and nearly laughed out loud. Achilles had draped himself over him like a shield, golden hair a mess across Percy’s chest, one strong arm thrown firmly around his waist.

Patroclus wasn’t much better. He was curled at Percy’s other side, one leg thrown across Percy’s shins, his hand still wrapped tightly around Percy’s wrist as though afraid he might vanish in the night.

“Gods,” Percy whispered, voice scratchy with sleep. “Trapped by heroes.”

He tried wriggling. Achilles made a disgruntled sound in his sleep and only tightened his hold, pressing his face into Percy’s shoulder. Patroclus stirred faintly, sighed, and tucked closer. Percy’s heart gave a traitorous squeeze.

But Percy discovered… he didn’t mind being caught.

The sun was already spilling gold through the slats when they finally stirred properly. Percy sat on the edge of the pallet, combing curls back from his damp forehead. His tunic was still stiff with salt, clinging uncomfortably. Achilles, stretching like a cat, caught the grimace.

“Here,” he said simply, tossing a linen shirt at Percy’s head. “Mine. Better than wearing armor made of dried seawater.”

Patroclus snorted, reaching for a fresh tunic of his own. “Ignore him, Percy. Everything he owns smells like battlefields and salt.”

Percy tugged the shirt on anyway. It hung loose, far too wide in the shoulders, the hem brushing his thighs. He caught sight of himself in the polished bronze shield propped by the wall and barked a laugh. Sailors traded cloaks all the time; warmth was practicality, nothing more. 

“Gods, I look ridiculous.”

Achilles lounged back on the pallet, propped on one elbow, blue eyes bright. “Ridiculously handsome.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes, but his lips curved faintly as he tugged a cloak around Percy’s shoulders, fussing with the clasp. “At least now you won’t freeze.” His fingers lingered a heartbeat too long at Percy’s collarbone.

Percy ducked his head, cheeks warm. “You two are going to spoil me.”

Achilles grinned wolfishly. “Good. Then you’ll never want to leave.”

Patroclus sighed as though exasperated, but he didn’t pull away when Percy leaned into his side. The three of them sat there in the shifting morning light, trading shirts and cloaks like it was the most natural thing in the world, as though they had always belonged in the same bed, the same room, the same breath.

The sun was already high, the air warm with salt and tar, when the cabin flap finally opened.

Every man on deck turned to look.

Out stepped Achilles, golden as ever, his hair loose and untamed, the gleam of the sea still clinging to his skin. At his side was Patroclus, quieter, steadier, but his smile was easy, his hand brushing casually against Achilles’s arm as if it belonged there.

And between them—Percy.

He looked nothing like a prisoner now. He wore Achilles’s linen tunic, far too large, falling past his knees, and Patroclus’s dark cloak draped across his shoulders, fastened loosely at his throat. The clothes made him look both smaller and more striking—sea-born royalty wrapped in borrowed warmth.

The men barely had time to whisper before it happened.

Achilles laughed, sudden and bright, when Percy muttered something under his breath. He reached out, catching the boy around the waist, spinning him just enough to make Percy stumble against him. Patroclus was there instantly, steadying Percy’s shoulder with one hand, mock-scolding Achilles with the other.

“Don’t toss him around like a child,” Patroclus said, though his lips curved fondly.

“Child? He swam across half the fleet last night,” Achilles shot back, grinning down at Percy. “He can handle a spin.”

Percy flushed scarlet but laughed anyway, tugging the cloak tighter around himself. “Gods, I regret ever knocking on your cabin door.”

Patroclus only hummed, brushing a stray curl from Percy’s forehead, the touch gentle enough to make the deckhands gape. Achilles leaned in too, bumping his shoulder against Percy’s as though unable to keep space between them.

The Myrmidons froze at the sight. Never had they seen their commanders like this—unguarded, laughing, touching someone with such open affection. Achilles was their storm, their weapon; Patroclus, their calm. Yet here they were, orbiting this boy as though he were the center of their world.

No one spoke. No one jeered. The men only watched, awed and unsettled, as the three crossed the deck together in search of food—Achilles’s hand brushing Percy’s back, Patroclus’s cloak falling around him like a shield.

The whispers started only after they passed, voices low and reverent.

“The Sea Prince…”
“Wearing their clothes.”
“They’ve never looked at anyone like that.”

The galley smelled of salt and smoke, of bread gone hard and fish salted near to leather. It wasn’t much of a feast, not compared to the banquets of Aulis or the tables back in Phthia, but it was food, and after weeks of chains, even the simplest bite felt like a gift.

Patroclus sat cross-legged on a low bench, a wooden plate balanced on his knee. Beside him, Percy perched with damp curls tumbling into his eyes, drowning in Achilles’s tunic and his own cloak. He looked both out of place and utterly at home, like he had always belonged here, between them.

Achilles tore a strip of bread with his hands and offered it to Percy without thinking. “Eat.”

Percy wrinkled his nose, tugging the cloak tighter. “It’s harder than stone.”

“Then break your teeth on it,” Achilles replied, grinning. He pressed the bread against Percy’s lips until the boy huffed, snatched it, and bit anyway. Crumbs clung to the corner of his mouth.

Patroclus’s lips twitched, amused, but he didn’t interrupt. He only watched as Achilles softened the next piece with a dip of olive oil and held it out more gently this time, his voice lowering. “Here. Easier.”

Percy’s eyes flickered up, green and bright, then down again as he took it from Achilles’s fingers. His shoulders eased, the wariness slipping away for a heartbeat.

Patroclus felt it then—that strange twist in his chest when he saw Achilles tender. Achilles, who mocked kings and defied gods, who had raged in chains and vowed fire and blood, now smiling like sunlight at a boy who pouted over bread.

He had always loved Achilles in his wrath, in his brilliance, in his pride. But this—this gentleness, reserved for Percy—it made his heart ache in a different way.

Percy licked olive oil from his thumb and muttered, “Still tastes like salt.”

Achilles laughed, warm and low. “You taste like salt.”

Patroclus snorted, nearly choking on his own dried fig. Percy flushed scarlet, smacking Achilles lightly with the back of his hand, but he was laughing too.

Patroclus leaned back, letting the sound wash over him, his plate forgotten. He liked this—watching them spark off each other, teasing, bickering, softening. He liked the way Percy’s eyes lit when Achilles smiled at him, the way Achilles’s entire posture shifted when Percy leaned close.

And beneath it all, he liked the quiet truth that curled warm in his chest: they were his, both of them. Patroclus felt it as surely as the tide.

He reached out, brushing crumbs from Percy’s hair, then rested his hand briefly on Achilles’s knee. Neither flinched. Both leaned into the touch, as though it had always been so.

Patroclus smiled faintly into his cup of watered wine.

The three of them lingered long in the galley, laughter fading into lazy silence. Percy was the one who finally broke it, shifting uneasily on the bench.

“I should… check on my own ships,” he said, tugging at Patroclus’s cloak around his shoulders. “Nery will have my head if I vanish all day.”

Achilles froze, a strip of fish halfway to his mouth. “Now?”

Percy shrugged, guilty. “They’re my men. My family. I can’t just—” His words faltered under the weight of Achilles’s blue stare and Patroclus’s quiet eyes. He sighed, softer. “I’ll come back tonight.”

Patroclus felt the ache bloom instantly in his chest. After three weeks spent in each other’s arms—and it already felt unbearable. He forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s right, Achilles. His guard needs him.”

Achilles made a noise low in his throat, sharp with protest. His hand tightened around Percy’s wrist before he could pull away. “Then don’t stay long,” he said, voice rough. “Not more than you must.”

Percy’s lips curved, bittersweet. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

Patroclus almost laughed at that, almost told him too late. Instead, he watched Percy slip from the cloak and drape it back over his shoulders, watched Achilles’s fingers linger against Percy’s sleeve until the last possible moment.

The door shut behind him, and the ship felt emptier at once.

Achilles slumped back against the bench, scowling into the dim light. “I hate it.”

Patroclus reached across, lacing their hands together. His voice was gentle, though his own chest ached. “I know.”

They sat in silence, listening to the creak of timbers and the rush of waves, both missing him already.

The walk across the planks felt longer than the swim had. Percy tugged at the hem of Achilles’s tunic and clutched Patroclus’s cloak tighter, trying to look at least somewhat like a prince rather than… whatever this was.

The sailors of his own fleet noticed instantly. Heads turned. Whispers rippled like wind through grass.

Nery was waiting at the rail of the flagship, arms crossed, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Percy winced as he climbed aboard.

“You’re late,” Nery said flatly. His gaze flicked once—cloak, tunic, bare feet—and one brow arched high. “And underdressed.”

Percy groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t start.”

But of course, Nery started. “Patroclus’s cloak. Achilles’s tunic. Walk of shame across half the fleet.” His lips twitched, betraying a grin. “Shall I ask if you at least enjoyed yourself?”

The Guard nearby snickered. Thalos’s laugh was loudest. “Our prince looks positively heroic. Or freshly tumbled.”

“Gods,” Percy muttered, cheeks blazing. He yanked the cloak tighter, glaring half-heartedly at his men. “Nothing happened.”

“Not yet,” Nery murmured, too low for the others, but Percy caught it anyway. His grin was wicked, but his eyes softened with something gentler. “Still—you look lighter, Percy. Happier. I’d rather see you in borrowed clothes and laughing than sulking.”

That quiet truth cut through the teasing. Percy exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. “I like you too,” he said, softer now.

Nery clasped his shoulder firmly. “Then don’t vanish again. The Guard nearly mutinied.”

Percy laughed at that, a real, unguarded laugh, and for a moment the ache of leaving Achilles and Patroclus eased.

Percy barely made it three steps onto his flagship before the Guard descended on him.

“Prince!” Galene’s sharp voice carried above the creak of the timbers, though her hands trembled as she shoved a bowl of dried figs and olives into his arms. “Eat. Don’t argue. Gods know you need it.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Idyia was already tugging at the hem of his tunic, the one that hung too loose on him, smelling faintly of salt and sun-warmed skin that was not his own. Her lips quirked into a smirk. “Interesting choice of clothing, my Prince. Tell me—does Prince Achilles know you’ve stolen his wardrobe?”

Heat surged up Percy’s neck. He yanked Patroclus’s cloak tighter around himself, but that only earned more snickers.

“Careful,” Thalos drawled from the shadows, leaning against the mast with that infuriating grin of his. “Keep dressing like that and the men will start to think the Myrmidons kidnapped our Percy for cuddles.”

The whole cell of them roared with laughter—Damon’s booming, Galene’s sharp, even Kaeneus letting slip a chuckle. Percy groaned and buried his face in his hands, but the sound that bubbled up in his chest was laughter too, helpless and aching and sweet.

His ribs hurt not from wounds or chains, but from joy.

They crowded around him, pressing food into his hands, tossing half-serious complaints about being “abandoned for other kings’ company.” He let them tease, let their warmth wash over him. Here, he was not just the boy who had stood against Agamemnon, not the prisoner who had bled in chains. Here, he was theirs—captain, prince, brother.

The night passed in restless fits of sleep. Percy lay among his Guard on the flagship’s deck, Galene’s steady breathing on one side, Damon’s snores rumbling like distant thunder on the other. The stars wheeled above him, bright and sharp, but his thoughts wandered across the water. To a different ship. To two men who had held him through fever and chains, who had become his shield and anchor both.

By dawn, he could not stand it.

The horizon was only just beginning to pale when Percy slipped from his bedroll, careful not to wake the others. His feet padded silent across the deck, cloak gathered tight around his shoulders. He climbed the gangplank, crossed the narrow space of water on a waiting skiff, and boarded the Myrmidon ship before the sun had even broken the edge of the sea.

The deck was quiet save for the cry of gulls. Then—

“You’re late.”

Achilles leaned against the mast, golden hair catching what little light there was. He looked as though he had been waiting all night, blue eyes sharp and—Percy realized with a start—relieved.

“Late?” Percy huffed, tugging the cloak tighter around himself. “It’s barely dawn.”

Achilles’s smirk faltered into something softer. “I thought you might not come.”

Before Percy could reply, another figure emerged from below deck. Patroclus carried a small bundle wrapped in cloth, steam rising faintly from it. His eyes widened at the sight of Percy, then softened into something that made Percy’s chest ache. “I hoped it would be you,” he murmured.

He pressed the bundle into Percy’s hands—honeyed bread, still warm. “Eat.”

Percy blinked down at it, then back at them, his lips quirking. “Is this going to be my life now? Food shoved at me the moment I show up?”

“Better than you fainting again,” Achilles muttered, though his hand brushed Percy’s arm briefly as if to check for strength.

They sat together at the base of the mast, the three of them close enough that their shoulders touched. The rising sun painted the sea gold, the sails flared with light, and for a long while they ate in silence. Percy savored the bread more than he expected—sweeter, richer, perhaps because it had been given, not demanded.

Patroclus’s voice came quiet, breaking the hush. “You should stay the day.”

Achilles’s head tilted, sharp as a spear. “Stay longer.”

Percy looked at them both, the ache in his chest rising again. Gods, I missed you too. But all he said was, “We’ll see.”

Achilles snorted, unconvinced, but his smile curved wider. Patroclus only leaned against Percy’s shoulder, warm and steady, as the sun climbed higher.

By midday, the sun beat hard on the deck of his flagship, the wood warm under Percy’s bare feet. He had slipped back from the Myrmidon ship with a stomach full of honeyed bread and a chest full of something lighter than air. The Guard, of course, noticed at once.

“You look smug,” Idyia said, crossing her arms as she watched him stretch. Her braid swung over one shoulder, eyes narrowed. “What did they feed you? Ambrosia?”

“Better,” Percy shot back with a grin. “Bread.”

“Bread!” Thalos barked a laugh from where he lounged against a coil of rope. “Our prince crosses the sea at dawn and comes back bragging about bread. Truly, a man of simple tastes.”

Damon shoved a wooden practice sword into Percy’s hand before he could retort. “Let’s see if your time with them made you soft.”

Percy’s grin widened. “Careful, Damon. I might surprise you.”

The clash began at once—Percy darting forward, Damon meeting him with the strength of a mountain. Blows rang sharp against the deck, the rhythm quick and steady, the Guard cheering each strike. Galene called out corrections, Kaeneus grunted approval, and Idyia shouted, “Mind your footing, Percy!” just as he slipped on a slick patch of plank.

He went sprawling with an undignified yelp.

The whole deck erupted in laughter. Even Percy, flat on his back, laughed until his ribs ached. Damon offered a hand, hauling him upright, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “Hopeless,” he declared. “Three weeks chained and you come back fighting like a boy.”

Percy wiped sweat from his brow, still grinning. “And yet, you’re breathing harder than me.”

That earned another round of laughter, Thalos fanning him dramatically with a broken oar. “Behold! Our prince returns from his Myrmidon honeymoon and still remembers how to fight.”

Percy groaned and threw the practice sword at him, but his smile lingered long after.

The storm broke without warning. One moment the sea was calm, the next it was thrashing, waves striking the hull with enough force to rattle the timbers. Rain lashed the deck, the ropes groaned, and thunder split the sky in jagged white fire.

Percy should have stayed with his Guard—he knew it, felt their eyes on him as he grabbed a skiff line—but the pull was too strong. By the time the rain hit hardest, he was already scrambling up the side of the Myrmidon ship, drenched to the bone.

Achilles dragged him the last few feet over the rail with a bark of laughter. “You’re insane!” His hair plastered golden to his head, his grin wild.

Patroclus’s scolding followed a heartbeat later as he shoved Percy toward the cabin. “You’ll catch fever again if you don’t get inside, you idiot.”

The three of them tumbled into the captain’s quarters, slamming the flap shut against the storm. The space was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp swaying on its hook. The air smelled of salt, leather, and the faint sharp tang of wine.

Achilles sprawled across the furs like a lion at ease, droplets of rain sliding down his throat. Patroclus shook water from his curls and set about wringing out Percy’s cloak with exasperated mutters. Percy only stood there, dripping, heart thundering louder than the storm.

“Here,” Patroclus sighed, tugging him down between them before Percy could protest.

The cabin rocked with each wave, but the warmth that pressed in on either side of him was steady, grounding. Achilles’s laughter softened into a low hum as he curled against Percy’s back, arm draped casually around his waist. Patroclus shifted closer in front, their knees bumping, his hand brushing Percy’s wrist as if to check he was really there.

Lightning split the sky, turning them all silver for an instant—Achilles’s grin, Patroclus’s quiet gaze, Percy caught between them with his curls plastered damp across his face.

No one spoke much after that. They didn’t need to. The storm raged outside, but in that cabin Percy felt safe. Each roll of thunder only pressed them closer, their warmth drowning out the chaos beyond canvas walls.

Percy’s eyes drifted shut eventually, lulled by the rhythm of their breathing.

The storm had blown itself out by dawn, leaving the sea glittering under a pale sky. Percy returned to his flagship smelling faintly of salt and rain, Patroclus’s cloak still damp around his shoulders, Achilles’s tunic clinging where it hadn’t quite dried. He thought maybe he looked respectable. He thought maybe he could pass for a prince again.

Galene took one look at him and snorted. “Sit.”

Before Percy could ask why, she had him by the shoulders and shoved him down onto a low stool near the mast. A needle, thread, and a battered length of his own cloak appeared in her hands like a soldier producing a blade. “This rag is an embarrassment,” she muttered, inspecting the torn edges. “You walk around looking like you fought harpies in your sleep.”

“Galene—” Percy started, but Idyia swooped in behind him like a hawk, fingers already combing through his damp curls.

“Don’t move,” she ordered. “Your hair is a disaster.” She tugged with brisk efficiency, pulling apart knots. “How do the Myrmidons take you seriously when you look like you’ve been dragged backward through the surf?”

Percy huffed but didn’t fight them. “I was in a storm.”

“Excuses,” Galene muttered.

Around them, the Guard started to grin. Thalos leaned lazily against a coil of rope, smirk wide enough to split his face. “Careful, Percy—keep sitting there like a good little prince and they’ll start braiding flowers into your hair.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Idyia said dryly. Then, to Percy: “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

Percy turned his head enough to catch her eye, his lips quirking into a grin. “Why would I mind? Flowers are pretty. If they make my hair pretty too, that sounds like a victory to me.”

Idyia actually paused, surprised, then chuckled softly and tugged his curls tighter. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously stylish,” Percy corrected, green eyes glinting.

That earned laughter from half the deck, even Damon rumbling a low chuckle.

When Idyia finished the first braid, she twisted it neatly along his temple and pinned it with a sprig of wildflower Galene had scavenged from a passing trader days ago. Percy caught his reflection in the polished bronze of a shield nearby—sea-tangled curls tamed into warrior’s braids, pale petals bright against the dark strands. His smile widened. “I look fantastic.”

“You look like a girl,” Thalos teased.

Percy shot him a grin sharp enough to cut. “So what? Girls look amazing. I’d be lucky to look like one.”

That shut Thalos up, though not for long—because Galene suddenly turned, eyes narrowing, and jabbed the needle in his direction. “You laugh now,” she said sweetly, “but you’re next.”

The deck roared with laughter.

Thalos sputtered. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Idyia said firmly, already reaching for another wildflower. “Sit.”

To everyone’s shock, Thalos sat. Grumbling the whole way, but he sat. And within minutes, his curls were twisted into neat little plaits, bright petals tucked in among them.

The laughter doubled when Damon, who had been smirking at Thalos’s expense, was immediately hauled down next. His hair was shorter, thick and coarse, but Galene worked with deft fingers, weaving tiny braids at his temples. Damon endured it without complaint, though his ears turned bright red.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” Percy teased, watching with delight.

Damon cleared his throat. “It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” Idyia scoffed. “You look like a forest god.”

Kaeneus was next, then Nery, even though he protested the loudest. By the time the sun climbed high, half the Guard wore braids laced with petals, the other half laughing so hard their stomachs hurt.

And Percy—Percy sat in the middle of it all, flowers in his hair, cloak newly mended across his shoulders, heart so full it ached.

Patroclus always knew when Percy was coming.

Not because of noise—Percy moved too lightly for that—but because Achilles lit up like the sun the moment his head appeared over the rail. Even now, in the quiet lull of late afternoon, Achilles abandoned the loaf of bread he’d been cutting, grinning so wide it made Patroclus’s chest ache.

“You’re late,” Achilles said, striding across the deck to catch Percy’s arm and haul him up.

“I brought flowers,” Percy shot back, tilting his head to show the braids woven earlier that morning, still threaded with bright petals.

Patroclus blinked, then laughed. “Gods above, you let the girls near your hair?”

Percy smirked, plucking a piece of bread from the board before Achilles could stop him. “She said I looked better this way. I’m not arguing.”

Achilles’s eyes softened as he reached out, brushing one of the braids with calloused fingers. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Patroclus pretended not to notice the heat that flared in Percy’s cheeks. Instead, he pushed a bowl of olives toward him. “Eat before you raid everything. You’re far too thin.”

Percy rolled his eyes but obeyed, popping one into his mouth. He made a face. “Too salty.”

Achilles chuckled and broke a fig in half, holding it out. “Better?”

Percy hesitated only a heartbeat before leaning forward, teeth brushing Achilles’s fingers as he took the fruit. His lips curved as juice sweetened his tongue. “Much.”

Patroclus sat back, watching them with quiet fondness. Achilles fed Percy another piece of fig, then a strip of dried meat, his usual roughness gone—hands uncharacteristically gentle, careful. Percy teased him for fussing, but he didn’t stop him either.

Patroclus reached for a slice of cheese, offering it across the table. “Try this one.”

Percy accepted, this time deliberately brushing Patroclus’s fingers as he did. His grin was sharp but warm, eyes glinting with mischief. “If this is what visiting your ship gets me, I might never eat on my own again.”

“Good,” Patroclus murmured.

Achilles’s grin softened into something dangerous—devotion so bright it nearly hurt to look at. Percy looked between them, laughter spilling easy and sweet.

The three of them lingered like that until the light outside shifted gold, the deck filled with the smell of salt and fruit and wine.

By the time Percy slipped back onto his own deck, the sky was dark and the air cool, carrying the last traces of the storm. Thalos, perched on a barrel with a knife and an apple, spotted him first.

And burst out laughing.

“Gods, Percy, you smell like figs and wine.” He hopped down, waving the apple core like a weapon. “What were you doing over there, rolling in their pantry?”

Percy froze, then groaned as the others’ heads turned. Damon’s deep chuckle rumbled out, Galene arched a brow, and Idyia smirked in that way that always meant trouble.

Idyia said, stepping closer and sniffing pointedly. “… His hands dont smell of figs.”

That was enough to set Galene laughing too, the sound bright and sharp. “Oh, gods. They were feeding you, weren’t they?”

Percy flushed crimson. “I ate dinner.”

“With your hands tied behind your back, apparently,” Thalos shot back.

Even Nery, usually the stern one, allowed a faint grin to crack his face. “You’re glowing,” he said simply, and that only made Percy splutter harder.

“They’re—friends,” Percy muttered, tugging at his braids like he could hide behind them.

“Friends don’t send you back smelling like fruit and honey,” Galene teased. She looped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him down onto a stool. “Sit, lover boy. Next time at least bring us some.”

Patroclus had never thought of himself as the motherly one, but gods help him, Percy ate like a mouse when left to his own devices. Half a crust of bread, a sip of watered wine, and he’d claim he was “full.”

Not today.

Patroclus herded him down into the cramped galley, ignoring Percy’s protests about “captains not queuing for rations.” He sat him at the narrow table, pressed a cup of wine into his hands, and piled what little food they had in front of him: hard cheese, dried figs, salted fish, and half a loaf that looked like it had lost its battle with the oven.

“Eat,” Patroclus ordered, voice firm but eyes soft.

Percy sighed, flopping against the table with all the theatrics of a boy condemned. “I liked you better when you were just a healer. Healers don’t boss people around.”

“They do when their patients starve themselves,” Patroclus shot back, nudging the plate closer. “Mouth, Percy. Use it.”

Achilles laughed from across the table, the sound bright and careless. He had taken it upon himself to inspect every fig, peeling the skins with exaggerated delicacy before dropping the glistening halves directly into Percy’s waiting hand. “Open wide, princeling.”

Percy narrowed his eyes at him. “I can feed myself, you know.”

“You say that,” Achilles said with a grin, “but you don’t.” He plopped another fig half into Percy’s palm. “So let me.”

Patroclus bit back a smile. Percy rolled his eyes but popped it into his mouth anyway, cheeks flushing faintly.

The three of them ate like that, laughter spilling as naturally as salt from the sea. Percy muttered complaints about the stale bread, Achilles called the rations “an insult to gods and men alike,” and Patroclus pretended to scold them both while sneaking extra slices of cheese onto Percy’s plate.

It was halfway through the meal when Percy snorted so hard at one of Achilles’s grand laments about “meager rations fit only for swine” that watered wine shot straight out of his nose.

The silence afterward lasted half a heartbeat. Then Patroclus doubled over, choking on his own laughter, tears pricking his eyes. Achilles slammed a fist against the table, roaring with delight.

Percy groaned, clutching his nose with both hands, but his green eyes sparkled with laughter even as his face turned scarlet. “Gods—kill me now.”

“Never,” Achilles wheezed, leaning across the table to muss his hair. “Not when you make me laugh like this.”

Patroclus reached out, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’re a disaster,” he managed between gasps, “but you’re our disaster.”

The three of them collapsed into each other, breathless, shoulders shaking with mirth until even the sailors peering in through the doorway began to chuckle.

Chapter Text

The days should have been easy. The sea was calm, the sun bright, and the ships glided without effort. Men should have been laughing, mending sails, trading songs across the waves.

But Agamemnon’s voice soured everything it touched.

The soldier—one of the many nameless oarsmen who had answered the call at Aulis—kept his head down as the high king stalked the deck. A wrong step, a loose knot, even the smallest slip could earn a backhand or worse. The man had seen it: a boy struck hard enough to split his lip for dropping a rope, another forced to row until his palms bled just because he’d dared ask for water.

The soldier did his work with silent precision, eyes on the lines, but inside his chest, resentment simmered. He wasn’t alone. The air of the camp shifted whenever Agamemnon passed, shoulders stiffening, jaws clenching. The men no longer cheered their commander. They endured him.

And then there was the contrast.

The soldier had been on deck last night when Percy—Percyon, Prince of the Sea, as whispers named him now—had returned from the Myrmidons’ ship. Flowers woven through his dark curls, laughter trailing from his lips, Achilles and Patroclus hovering around him like twin flames. The sight had sent ripples through the men.

Here was a boy who had bled in chains, who had fought twenty to one, who had saved a king’s daughter. Yet he laughed with his Guard, let girls braid his hair, smiled at men as though each one mattered. When Percy passed, men straightened—not out of fear, but because it felt right to stand taller in his presence.

The soldier’s gaze flicked to Agamemnon now, who had stopped to berate a helmsman for the angle of the rudder, his face red with rage. The king’s words were sharp, cutting, dripping contempt. He ruled with fear alone.

The soldier swallowed the bile in his throat and tightened the knot he was tying.

Around him, whispers spread, low but steady. “Mad king,” someone muttered under their breath. “Blind as stone.” Another spat over the rail. “The gods favor the Sea Prince now.”

The soldier said nothing, but in his heart, he knew it was true.

When he looked out across the fleet, to where Percy’s ship cut smooth and bright over the water, guarded by laughter and sunlight, something eased in his chest. He almost smiled, even with Agamemnon’s fury ringing in his ears.

The men were tired of hatred. They were ready for hope.

Odysseus had lived long enough to know when an army was rotting.

It was in the silence. Not the silence of discipline—he valued that—but the silence of despair. Men who had once sung at the oars now pulled with downcast eyes. Laughter had dulled, replaced by muttered curses and quick glances over shoulders. And every time Agamemnon’s shadow crossed the deck, the silence grew heavier.

The king mistook it for obedience. Odysseus knew better.

He stood at the prow of his ship, gaze fixed on the horizon. The air was too still. The sea, too calm. Seabirds had vanished hours ago, their cries replaced by an oppressive hush. His sharp eyes traced the sky, and there—faint but certain—he saw the gathering bruise of storm clouds.

A storm was coming.

He turned, his cloak snapping faintly in the first restless breeze. “Secure the ropes. Bring the barrels below. Double-bind the sails and lash the weapons.” His voice carried, even calm, but it made the sailors move fast. They had learned long ago to trust when Odysseus said trouble was near.

As his men hurried, Odysseus let his thoughts wander. He remembered the boy dragged in chains to Agamemnon’s feet—bloodied, bruised, but unbowed. He remembered how Percy had stood there and dared to bargain for all their lives. How the sea had answered him.

And now the sea shifted again, restless as a god denied.

Odysseus’s mouth curved wryly. Agamemnon thought he held command over this fleet, but the truth was clear to anyone with eyes: the tide belonged to the Sea Prince.

His gaze flicked once more to the distant line of clouds, darkening faster than nature alone would allow. He felt the weight of it settle deep in his bones. This would not be a passing squall.

Percy knew before he opened his eyes.

It was in the air, heavy and damp, pressing on his skin like a hand. The wind tasted wrong, sharp like copper, and beneath it—always beneath it—was the thrum of the sea, restless and low, like a god muttering in his sleep.

He sat up from the coils of rope he’d been dozing on, heart already quickening. Around him, the Guard moved about their usual tasks: Nery polishing a dented helm, Damon inspecting an oar, Galene braiding her hair back tight before sparring. None of them felt it yet.

But Percy did. The water was his blood, the tides his breath. And the sea was unsettled.

He stood, steadying himself against the mast, his eyes scanning the horizon. To the untrained eye, the sky was only gray, a little heavy with clouds. But Percy saw more. He saw the dark smear growing along the edges of the world, swallowing the pale blue. He saw the gulls veering inland, their wings beating fast. He saw the waves lapping sharper against the hull, restless without cause.

Storm. Not hours away. Close.

“Percy?” Galene called, noticing the way he froze, eyes fixed on the horizon. “What is it?”

He turned sharply. “We need to storm-proof the ship. Now. Lash everything you can to the deck, tie the barrels down, double-bind the sails.” His voice came out clipped, commanding.

The Guard stiffened but didn’t question. Damon barked at the nearest sailors, Nery moved to secure the ropes, Galene and Idyia darted to the water barrels. Within moments, the Atlantean ship was a frenzy of movement.

Percy didn’t wait. He crossed to the next ship, pulling himself up the rope ladder with quick, practiced strength.

Achilles and Patroclus were already waiting at the rail, as though they had felt it too. Achilles’s sharp blue eyes flicked to the horizon, then back to Percy, unreadable. Patroclus leaned forward, concern shadowing his brow.

“You feel it too,” Percy said without preamble.

“Yes,” Achilles answered, his voice taut. “The sea’s breathing faster.”

Percy nodded, chest tightening. “It’s not a squall. It’s going to tear through us. Tell your men to bind the sails, secure everything—food, weapons, even the water skins. Anything that’s not tied will be gone by nightfall.”

Patroclus didn’t hesitate. He clapped a hand on Achilles’s arm and shouted orders to the Myrmidons, who moved quickly. No mockery, no disbelief—just trust.

That was what made Percy’s throat ache. Trust. How easily it came from them, and how little he would find elsewhere.

Still, he had to try.

He strode across the gangplank to the larger flagship, the heart of Agamemnon’s fleet. The deck was crowded with kings and captains gathered for the evening meal. Ajax the Greater was laughing too loud, thumping his shield with pride. Diomedes sharpened his sword, sparks flying. Menelaus stood silent at the edge, his hands tight on the rail.

And at the center, Agamemnon, drinking from a golden cup as though the sea itself would bow to him.

Percy drew himself tall despite the chains still fresh in his memory. “A storm is coming,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut the chatter. “Tonight. Stronger than any you’ve seen. If you want your ships afloat by morning, you need to prepare.”

A ripple went through the men. Some stilled, eyes flicking nervously to the horizon. Others sneered.

Ajax barked a laugh. “A storm? I see no storm. Only clouds. You’ve spent too long with the girls, sea-prince—you’ve gone soft.”

Diomedes smirked. “Next you’ll tell us you can hear the waves whispering.”

“I can,” Percy snapped. His green eyes burned, and for a moment the deck quieted under the weight of it. “The sea is restless. The gulls have fled. The horizon’s closing in. Do you think that’s chance? Do you think you’ll stand against Poseidon’s will with nothing but pride and dry wood?”

Menelaus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Agamemnon finally looked up from his cup, lips curling. “And what would you have us do, boy? Cower like women because a brat with flowers in his hair sees shadows in the clouds?”

Heat surged up Percy’s neck, fury burning in his chest. He forced his voice steady, cold. “Do what you want. Ignore me. Mock me. But when your ships splinter, when your men drown screaming, remember that you were warned.”

The silence cracked. Laughter rose again, mocking, though not all of it rang true. Some men avoided Percy’s gaze, uneasy. Others spat at the deck, hiding fear behind bravado.

Agamemnon waved him away with a flick of his cup. “Go scurry back to your own ship, prince of nothing. Let real men handle the sea.”

Percy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to hurl the ocean straight into the man’s face. But instead, he turned sharply and left, jaw tight, chest heaving.

When he returned to his own ship, the Guard had finished lashing everything down. Achilles stood waiting at the rail, Patroclus beside him, both silent but steady. Percy’s anger melted the moment he met their eyes.

“They laughed,” he said, his voice low.

“We didn’t,” Patroclus answered.

Achilles’s hand brushed his shoulder briefly, grounding. “Let them laugh. When the storm comes, they’ll choke on it.”

Percy exhaled slowly, staring out at the darkening horizon. The sea thrummed in his veins, alive and waiting. He prayed it would be enough to hold against what was coming.

Later, as the kings dispersed to their own ships, whispers clung to them like shadows.

Nestor bent close to his captains, voice low: “Better to lash the barrels than risk the tide.”
Diomedes muttered, not quite meeting his men’s eyes: “Secure the sails. Quietly. No need to give the brat credit.”
Even Ajax, all bluster in the feast, barked orders the moment his feet touched his own deck: “Double-bind the ropes. Move!”

They laughed at Percy before Agamemnon. But when the sea was at stake, not a man among them dared ignore him fully.

Only Agamemnon stood stubborn at his prow, golden cup still in hand, sneer etched across his face.

Back on his own deck, Percy gripped the rail until his knuckles whitened, watching the kings’ ships bristle with sudden, subtle activity. He knew what it meant.

“They listened,” he muttered bitterly.

Achilles and Patroclus flanked him, silent witnesses. Achilles’s jaw tightened. Patroclus’s hand brushed Percy’s wrist, grounding.

“Let them take their precautions,” Achilles said. “They’ll never admit it was your warning, but we know the truth.”

Percy exhaled sharply, eyes lifting to the horizon where the bruise of clouds thickened, swallowing the last strip of pale sky. The sea’s heartbeat hammered in his chest.

“They’ll know soon enough,” he whispered.

The first strike was sound.

A low groan rolled across the sea, like some ancient beast waking from its slumber. The oarsmen froze, hands tightening on wood. Then the wind hit.

It tore through the fleet with a howl, snapping banners, yanking ropes from calloused hands. Sails ballooned like thunderclaps. The calm sea Percy had tasted that morning was gone, replaced by waves that rose and fell like living things, slamming wood until it groaned.

“Hold fast!” Percy roared, voice cutting through the cacophony. “Tie the lines—don’t let the sails tear!”

The Guard scattered, moving with sharp efficiency. Damon threw his weight against the mast, muscles bulging as he hauled a rope into place. Nery barked orders like a commander born, his voice steady even as rain lashed his face. Galene and Idyia dragged water barrels below deck, their chains of flowers replaced by grim determination.

The deck bucked beneath Percy’s feet, but the sea sang in his veins. He spread his hands, calling to the tide. The waves surged higher—angry, yes, but not yet murderous. Not yet. He tried to steady them, to bend the wildness into rhythm, but the storm was too large, too old, too full of divine spite. It answered him, but only in fragments, like trying to reason with a god in frenzy.

The storm did not relent.

Every heartbeat brought a new disaster. Sails tore free, snapping like wounded beasts. Masts cracked and toppled. Ships slammed against each other with teeth of wood and iron. The sea rose in mountains, each wave threatening to devour the fleet whole.

Percy was everywhere at once.

A soldier cried out as he slipped across the deck—Percy caught him by the collar before the wave could swallow him, shoving him into Damon’s waiting arms. Another ship buckled, its side splintering, men plunging screaming into the dark—Percy dove without hesitation, the sea welcoming him even as it sought to drag him under. He surfaced moments later, hauling two half-drowned sailors in his arms, shoving them toward ropes while his own chest burned for air.

“Prince of the Sea!” voices shouted over the gale, half-prayer, half-desperation.

Percy barely heard them. His veins sang with salt and fury, his arms heavy but unyielding. He pulled currents into walls, forcing waves to shift just enough to spare a floundering boat, guiding wreckage away from where it would crush men. But the sea was too vast, the storm too wild—every life saved meant three more slipping past him.

He cursed the gods between his teeth as another mast fell, pinning a soldier screaming beneath it. Percy dove again, power surging. The water lifted like a hand, just enough for Damon and Kaeneus to drag the man free. The soldier wept openly, clutching Percy’s arm as if he were more god than boy.

By the time Percy staggered back to his own deck, his body was shaking, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his face. Achilles was there in an instant, one hand gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

“You can’t save them all!” Achilles shouted over the roar. His blue eyes blazed with equal parts fury and fear. “You’ll drown yourself trying!”

Percy spat seawater, his chest heaving. “Then I drown trying!”

Patroclus appeared at his other side, dripping, breathless, his hands trembling where they grabbed Percy’s arm. “Percy, please—you’ve done enough. Half the fleet still floats because of you. Don’t—don’t kill yourself—”

A wave slammed against the hull, cutting him off. Soldiers screamed again, another ship keeling sideways. Percy’s heart wrenched. He tore free of their grip and dove once more.

The water swallowed him gladly. Down here, he was faster, stronger. He wrapped an arm around a drowning boy no older than fourteen, shoving him upward with a burst of current. He surfaced again near Achilles’s ship, gasping, dragging another man with him.

Hands reached down—Myrmidons, eyes wide with awe, pulling their comrades up. Percy clung to the hull for a moment, panting, before pushing himself back into the water.

On deck, soldiers whispered as they hauled him back each time:
“He’s mad—he’s saving them all—”
“Poseidon’s son, he must be—”
“The prince… he’ll die for us…”

But Percy didn’t hear the whispers. All he heard was the storm, the endless roar of sea and sky, and the cries of men drowning in between.

His arms burned, his chest screamed, but he dove again.

A scream split the air. Percy’s head snapped up in time to see a mast crack on a nearby ship, splintering as it toppled into the sea. Men leapt or were dragged down with it, vanishing into froth. His stomach lurched—he couldn’t be everywhere, couldn’t save them all.

“Percy!”

He turned. Achilles’s ship surged close, waves shoving their hulls together with bone-shaking force. Achilles stood on the prow, hair plastered to his face, blue eyes blazing like lightning. Patroclus was at his side, gripping a rope with white-knuckled hands, scanning the chaos.

A sudden swell slammed into Percy’s deck, knocking Galene to her knees. Percy lunged to steady her, but then he saw it—Patroclus, slipping on slick wood as the Myrmidons’ ship lurched sideways. His hand caught a rope too late.

He tumbled overboard.

“Patroclus!” Achilles’s roar was swallowed by the storm.

The world dropped out from under him.

One moment, the ship was there—ropes snapping, sails groaning, rain hammering the deck. The next, the sea reached up and swallowed him whole.

Cold. Not the bracing chill of a winter’s stream, but something deeper, merciless. It punched the air from his chest, seized his limbs in a grip of iron. Salt slashed his eyes and throat as he thrashed, disoriented, the weight dragging him down.

Up. He needed to go up. But where was up? Darkness smothered everything, rain and spray blending with the black water until there was no sky, no ship, no horizon—only the vast, crushing deep.

His arms churned, legs kicking, but the water mocked him, dragging harder with every motion. His body felt heavy, clumsy, his movements slow. Panic clawed at his ribs. His chest screamed, begging for air, every muscle trembling with the need to breathe.

Light flickered above—distant, blurred. He reached for it, but his fingers only cut through water. The surface did not come closer.

Something inside him began to crack.

He thought of Achilles—not the warrior, not the storm, but the boy with sunlit hair who laughed like it was the only sound worth hearing. He thought of Percy, green-eyed and stubborn, standing against a king as though nothing could break him. Would they know, when the sea took him? Would they understand he hadn’t chosen this end?

Pressure crushed him. His chest spasmed. His lips parted.

Salt water flooded in.

It burned down his throat, seared his lungs, turned every nerve inside out. He convulsed, clawing at nothing, light exploding behind his eyes. His heart hammered frantically, then faltered, slowing under the weight.

The world narrowed—black at the edges, then black all through. The roar of the storm dulled to a low hum, steady as a funeral drum.

Patroclus sank.

And for one terrible heartbeat, he thought this was it—alone, cold, nameless in the dark.

Without thought, Percy dove.

The sea swallowed him whole. Cold, furious, endless. But it was home. He kicked hard, eyes snapping open in the dark. Patroclus sank just below, limbs thrashing, the current yanking him down like a plaything. Percy surged forward, his arms locking around Patroclus’s chest.

But the sea wanted to keep him. The pull was vicious, dragging both of them deeper. For a heartbeat, Percy panicked—he couldn’t fight both tide and storm. Not alone. Not after so many hours of using his powers relentlessly.

Then another shape knifed through the water beside him. Achilles, cutting through the waves, his strength relentless. Their eyes met—blue and green sparking in the dark—and together, they hauled Patroclus upward.

They broke the surface in a gasp of air and rain. Achilles shoved Patroclus upward toward the ropes flung down by Myrmidons, while Percy steadied the swell to keep the ship from crushing them. Muscles burning, lungs searing, he forced the wave aside just long enough for hands to catch Patroclus and drag him aboard.

Then Achilles grabbed Percy’s arm, hauling him bodily up the ropes after him. They collapsed onto the deck, drenched and shivering, the storm raging overhead.

Patroclus coughed hard, water streaming from his hair. He blinked up at both of them, lips quirking despite the bruises on his skin. “So this is what it feels like,” he rasped between coughs. “Having not one, but two sea-gods at my call.”

Achilles laughed, wild with relief, his hand fisting in Percy’s soaked tunic as if to anchor him there. Percy, panting, couldn’t help but grin too, his chest aching not from the sea but from the sight of Patroclus alive between them.

The relief of Patroclus coughing up seawater lasted all of three heartbeats. Then the wind screamed louder, the deck shuddered, and the sea reminded them none of this was over.

Percy staggered to his feet, chest heaving, hair plastered across his face. Achilles still gripped his tunic, as though he could keep him tethered by sheer force of will. But Percy’s gaze had already snapped past him—out to the chaos of the fleet.

Another mast cracked in two, crushing men beneath it. A ship keeled dangerously, water rushing over its deck as soldiers clung like insects to the rigging. The screams cut through rain and thunder.

“I have to go,” Percy rasped.

Achilles’s fingers tightened. “You’ll kill yourself!”

Percy met his eyes, salt stinging the cuts on his face. “Then let it be for something worth dying for.”

And before Achilles could stop him, he vaulted the rail, the storm swallowing him whole.

The sea welcomed him, brutal and cold. He dove deep, slicing through the current, forcing the tide to shift just enough to lift wreckage off flailing soldiers. He grabbed two at once, hauling them upward, shoving them toward ropes that swung down like lifelines.

A boy no older than twelve bobbed nearby, his cries already thin with exhaustion. Percy surged toward him, pushing aside barrels and broken planks. He lifted the child onto his back, kicking hard until strong hands pulled the boy to safety.

Every dive cost him more. His muscles trembled, lungs burned raw, vision swam—but he refused to stop. Every face dragged from the sea was another reason to keep going.

Some soldiers stared as he shoved them aboard, whispering hoarsely even in their terror:
“Poseidon’s son…”
“The prince saves us…”
“He’ll die for us all…”

Percy didn’t care what they called him. Only that they lived.

Wave after wave crashed, tearing ships apart, men screaming as they vanished into the black. Percy dove again, and again, and again, until his arms felt carved from stone and his chest was nothing but fire.

The storm would not let go. But neither would he.

From the Atlantean deck, Nery’s heart pounded so loud it drowned even the thunder.

He’d watched Percy vanish beneath the waves once, twice, a dozen times—every time dragging some half-drowned soldier back, shoving him into waiting hands, and then diving again before his own breath was even steady.

“Gods damn him,” Nery muttered, knuckles white on the rail. “He’s tearing himself apart.”

Galene stood beside him, rain streaming down her face, eyes wild. “He won’t stop. He’ll drown before he quits.”

“He’s already drowning,” Idyia said bitterly, clutching the rigging hard enough her knuckles split. “You can see it in his arms. He’s barely holding together.”

Below, Percy surfaced again, hauling two men with him. Damon reached down to pull them aboard, but Percy was already pushing away, turning back into the storm without a word. His strokes were slower now, his head dipping beneath the waves longer each time.

“Percy!” Nery shouted, his voice raw, carried away by the gale. “Enough! You’ve done more than any man alive—leave it! Please!”

But Percy didn’t even glance up. He vanished into the sea again.

Thalos cursed violently, slamming his chained fist into the wood. “He never listens—never—always bleeding himself dry for others—” His voice cracked, breaking through the bravado. “He’s going to die out there, Nery!”

“I know!” Nery snapped, though his own throat burned with fear. He forced his voice steadier, for them, for all of them. “But if anyone can stand against the sea, it’s him. He’s our prince. All we can do is hold the ropes, pull the ones he brings, and pray he comes back each time.”

They did. Again and again, the Guard hauled the drowning aboard, guided them to shelter, pressed water from their lungs. And every time, their eyes darted back to the black waves, searching for Percy’s head to break the surface.

Once, he didn’t come up right away.

The silence in Nery’s chest in those moments was worse than the storm itself. His knees nearly buckled before Percy broke through the waves at last, gasping, dragging another limp soldier behind him. The Guard shouted his name, pleaded with him to stop.

But Percy’s green eyes flicked up only for an instant—burning, stubborn, unstoppable. Then he was gone again, swallowed by the sea.

Nery gripped the rail so hard it cut into his palms. His voice was hoarse when he whispered to the storm: “Come back to us, brother. Don’t you dare let the sea take you.”

The storm still raged, but Achilles’s eyes followed only one figure—the boy who would not stop.

Percy had been in the water for what felt like hours, vanishing and returning, dragging men up with arms that should have long since given out. Each time Achilles saw that dark head break the surface, his chest eased for a moment, only for the knot to tighten again when Percy disappeared into the black.

The Guard shouted themselves hoarse, begging him to stop. Patroclus gripped the rail until his knuckles bled, his lips shaping Percy’s name like a prayer. And still Percy dove.

Then—he didn’t.

A heartbeat passed. Two. Ten.

Achilles’s heart slammed against his ribs. Not fear of drowning—he knew Percy could breathe below, just as he could. But the sea was no gentle cradle tonight. The storm was a god’s wrath, and even sea-born sons could be broken by it.

“Where is he?” Achilles whispered, eyes scouring the waves. He leaned so far over the rail that Patroclus grabbed his arm.

“Achilles—”

“I’m going,” he cut him off, voice raw. Before Patroclus could protest, he was already climbing the rail, rain plastering his hair to his face. With one last glance at the churning dark, Achilles dove.

The sea swallowed him whole.

Cold closed around him like a fist, but he kicked hard, cutting through the black water with practiced ease. His eyes adjusted, sharp even in the storm’s gloom. He searched—left, right, deeper—ignoring the debris and bodies drifting past. His chest ached with every heartbeat.

Then he saw him.

Percy lay on the seafloor, sprawled in the sand like a fallen statue, hair drifting around his pale face. His eyes were closed, his body limp floating like weeds in the current. For a moment Achilles’s heart stopped—he looked dead.

“No,” Achilles thought savagely, propelling himself down. He seized Percy under the arms, shaking him once, twice. No response.

Rage and terror surged through him. He gathered Percy into his arms, pulling him close, and kicked hard for the surface. The sea tried to drag them back, currents tugging like greedy hands, but Achilles fought it with every muscle, every breath, every scrap of strength.

They broke the surface at last. The storm howled, rain slashing, but Achilles only clutched Percy tighter against his chest, his head lolling lifelessly against his shoulder.

“Ropes!” Achilles roared, his voice splitting the gale. “Get him up—now!”

Hands flung ropes down. Achilles secured Percy first, shoving him into waiting arms, refusing to release him until the Myrmidons dragged him safely over the rail. Then Achilles hauled himself up after, collapsing onto the slick deck beside him.

Percy lay pale and still, seawater streaming from his lips and hair, his chest frighteningly still.

Achilles fell to his knees, hands hovering over him, his voice breaking. “No. Not like this. Not in my arms again.”

Patroclus dropped beside him, already pressing his hands to Percy’s chest, desperate to coax breath back into him. Soldiers crowded close, wide-eyed, whispers rising like prayers.

But Achilles heard nothing. His whole world was the still, salt-streaked boy before him.

The world returned in fragments.
Warmth first—too warm, smothering, like being pressed between fire and storm. Then sound—the crash of waves, the shouts of men, voices raised in fear and awe.

And then—touch. Rough, steady hands on his face, his shoulders, grounding him.

“Percy!” The voice cracked, sharp as lightning. Achilles. “Open your eyes—now.”

He stirred, lashes heavy. For a moment, he thought he was still under the sea, cradled by the tide. But no—the salt clinging to his lips was air-born, rain hammering the deck all around. He blinked, vision swimming, and found himself looking up into two pairs of eyes: one blazing blue, one soft and dark with worry.

Patroclus’s hand cupped his cheek, trembling. “You were gone,” he whispered, voice thin. “You didn’t come back up. We thought—” His throat closed, words lost.

Percy coughed, trying to lift himself. His body felt like lead, every muscle shaking with exhaustion. He’d spent himself in the waves, dragging men out, steadying ships, pushing the sea back again and again until his strength simply… snapped.

“I wasn’t gone,” he rasped, his lips quirking faintly. “Just… napping.”

Achilles made a sound—half laugh, half growl—as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake Percy or crush him against his chest. Instead, he hauled him upright in one swift motion, pressing Percy against his shoulder. “You lay like a corpse,” he muttered, fury vibrating in his chest. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Patroclus pressed closer on Percy’s other side, wrapping an arm around him, steady even though his own hands shook. “You can’t push yourself until you break,” he murmured fiercely. “We need you whole, Percy. Not burned out.”

Percy sagged against both of them, too tired to argue, too comforted to try. His head fell against Achilles’s collarbone, the steady thud of his heart anchoring him more than the deck beneath his feet.

“Still alive,” he whispered, just to prove it. His lips curved faintly. “Still stylish.”

Patroclus let out a startled laugh, broken but real, and even Achilles’s tight jaw eased for a heartbeat.

The storm broke in fits and starts.

What had been a world of thunder and fury softened into ragged gusts, the sea still restless but no longer trying to devour every ship in sight. Clouds tore apart above them, gray giving way to pale strips of starlight. Men slumped where they stood, some laughing in disbelief, others weeping openly at their survival.

Achilles barely noticed. His whole world was the boy collapsed against him.

Percy lay half-curled on the deck, rain plastering dark hair to his face, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. He was conscious—barely—but every muscle trembled with the weight of exhaustion. When the deck lurched, he didn’t even brace himself, just sagged further into Patroclus’s steadying hands.

Achilles’s jaw tightened. Enough.

Without a word, he bent and slid his arms beneath Percy’s body. The boy was lighter than he had any right to be, damp and shivering, but his warmth pressed into Achilles’s chest all the same. Percy stirred faintly, lashes fluttering, but didn’t protest.

“Rest,” Achilles murmured, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “You’ve carried the sea itself on your shoulders tonight. Let me carry you.”

Patroclus fell into step beside them as Achilles rose, one hand resting lightly at Percy’s curls as if to shield him from the last spatter of rain. Soldiers watched them pass, wide-eyed.

Achilles ignored them. Let them stare. Let them whisper. He cared for only one thing: the boy’s heartbeat, steady but weary, against his chest.

He ducked into the captain’s cabin, the dim lamplight flickering against canvas and wood. Gently, he set Percy down on the pallet of furs, brushing damp hair back from his temple.

Patroclus knelt on the other side, covering Percy with his cloak. His smile was thin, tired, but warm. “He’ll be alright,” he said, as if to reassure Achilles as much as himself.

Achilles’s hand lingered against Percy’s cheek, thumb tracing the salt-sticky skin. “He has to be,” he whispered.

Outside, the storm receded, leaving only silence and the slow creak of wood.

Chapter Text

The sea was quiet at dawn. Not calm—never calm, not after what it had unleashed—but quiet in the way of a beast sated, watching from the deep with hooded eyes. The sky still hung heavy with bruised clouds, streaks of red sunrise cutting through them like blood on steel. The fleet floated in uneasy silence, masts groaning, sails ragged, decks slick with rain and salt.

Nery walked the flagship of the Guard with measured steps, the ache in his own body pushed aside for duty’s sake. Straw mats had been laid across the deck, and the men Percy had hauled aboard in the night lay stretched on them, groaning, coughing up seawater, or staring hollow-eyed at the sky. The scent of wet wood, vomit, and poultices hung thick in the air.

He moved among them the way he always had in battle—steady, calm, a voice that anchored even when the world broke apart.

“Drink this,” he told one soldier, kneeling to tilt a cup of watered wine against cracked lips. “Slow. Don’t force it down.”
The man obeyed, trembling, then rasped, “The prince… he pulled me from the mast… I was gone, and he—” His words dissolved into coughing.

Nery steadied him with one hand on his shoulder until the fit passed. “You’re not gone now. Rest.”

Everywhere, it was the same. Gratitude spilling from broken mouths. Fear still clinging to their eyes. And always Percy’s name whispered, half in awe, half in prayer.

He should have been proud. Instead, his chest tightened. Percy had nearly burned himself out saving them. If Nery closed his eyes, he could still see his captain staggering on the deck, soaked and trembling, refusing to stop even as his knees buckled.

One by one, the sailors were gathered up by their comrades. They clasped his forearm, pressed words of thanks into his ear, then begged passage back to their own commanders. Nery let them go. It was better that way. The Guard were not meant to hoard loyalty—they were meant to protect Percy.

By midday, only one man refused to leave.

He was younger than Nery had first thought, though the hard lines of war carved into his face made him seem older. His leg was bandaged from hip to knee, the wound still seeping faintly. He sat propped against the railing, watching the Guard move about with an intensity that made Nery pause.

When their eyes met, the man inclined his head. “Philoctetes,” he introduced himself, voice still rough from seawater. “Your captain… saved me.”

Nery nodded once. “He saved many.”

Philoctetes’s gaze didn’t waver. “I owe him my life. I don’t intend to waste it.”

There was something in the way he said it, that made Nery’s skin prickle. He exhaled through his nose, already sensing where this would go.

Philoctetes had been in many companies, marched under many banners. But none were like this.

The Guard of the Deep were not a band of mercenaries chained together by coin. They were a family. He could see it in every small movement—the way Damon shouldered the heaviest barrels without being asked, how Galene pressed salve onto Idyia’s raw wrists with hands far gentler than her sharp tongue suggested, how Thalos cracked some half-dead joke only for Kaeneus to groan but still steady him with an elbow.

Even beaten and bruised they moved like a single body. Wounded, yes—but unbroken.

And every word, every glance, circled back to the same axis: Percy.

“Prince would’ve told you to eat more than that,” Galene muttered at Damon when he pushed away half his ration.
“Storm nearly killed him,” Kaeneus said, eyes flinty, “and he still saved us all. We can’t let him do that again.”
Nery, overhearing, only added, “Our place is at his back. Always.”

Philoctetes listened, something restless stirring in his chest. He thought of the boy with sea in his eyes who had dragged him, half-dead, from the wreckage. He remembered hands steadying him when he thought he would sink forever. He remembered the impossible command in that young voice: Breathe. Live.

He wanted—gods help him, he wanted—to be part of that.

The words were out before he could stop them. “Is there a way? To join you?”

The Guard went still. Galene looked up sharply, her braid sticking damp to her cheek. Damon frowned. Even Thalos stopped smirking.

It was Nery who answered, calm but firm. “No.”

Philoctetes blinked. “No?”

Nery’s gaze was steady, cool as the deep. “We don’t take volunteers. We’re not a company you sign your name to. Every one of us was chosen by him—by Percy himself. Hand-picked. He found us when no one else would. Some of us he dragged from wreckage, some from exile, some from lives not worth the name. But he chose us. That’s what makes us his Guard.”

Silence stretched, heavy but not unkind.

Philoctetes’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to beg. He wanted to say that Percy had saved him too, that he was willing to bleed for him, that he already felt the tether of debt like a chain around his ribs. But the words caught. He could see it in their faces—the pride, the belonging. It was not his place to take.

So he swallowed, nodding once. “I understand.”

Nery’s eyes softened, just faintly. “Heal. Rest. That is enough.”

Philoctetes bowed his head. But in the hollow of his chest, the yearning only grew sharper.

At first, Philoctetes tried to keep to himself. He ate quietly, kept to his corner of the deck when the healers changed his bandages, offered thanks but no more. He didn’t belong, after all. Nery’s words had been clear.

But the Guard would not let him stay a ghost.

It started with Thalos, of course. The man limped past Philoctetes’s cot one morning, grimacing as his freshly stitched thigh tugged, and still had the audacity to grin. “You’re staring holes in the horizon, new fish. Careful—it might glare back.”

Philoctetes huffed. “Just keeping watch.”

“From bed?” Thalos collapsed dramatically beside him, earning an exasperated hiss from Galene. “Gods, you’ll fit right in. Lazy as the rest of us.”

That made Philoctetes bark a laugh before he could stop himself.

After that, it was easier. Galene pressed a cup of bitter willow tea into his hands with a brusque, “Drink it or Damon will pin you down and pour it down your throat.” Damon gave no denial, only raised an eyebrow until Philoctetes drank. Idyia scolded him for picking at his stitches like she was his older sister, then surprised him with a handful of wildflowers she’d tucked behind her ear.

“You’re one of us while you’re here,” she said, matter-of-fact. “So no brooding.”

Even Kaeneus, quiet as the sea in winter, began sparring words with him over dice games when the nights stretched too long.

It was strange. They teased, bickered, laughed in bursts that sounded almost normal—but always with a weight underneath. When the laughter died down, their eyes lingered on the horizon, or on the empty place where Percy should have stood.

Philoctetes understood that silence. He had his own ghosts.

One night, as the wind eased and the moon laid silver over the waves, he found himself sitting among them by the brazier. Thalos was telling some half-true tale of a pirate captain they’d fought, embellishing wildly. Galene heckled him with sharp precision, and Damon’s low chuckle shook his shoulders.

Philoctetes realized he was smiling. Actually smiling.

And when Damon passed him the dice with a grunt, “Your turn, fish,” he rolled without hesitation.

Percy woke to the smell of oil lamps and the faint salt that clung to everything on board. He blinked groggily, vision swimming until the canvas ceiling of Achilles’s cabin came into focus. His whole body ached in that bone-deep way that wasn’t injury but exhaustion, every muscle heavy, every breath reluctant.

And someone was sitting right beside him.

“Don’t move.” The command was sharp but low, immediately followed by a gentler hand pressing his shoulder back into the furs. Percy turned his head and found Achilles looming, blue eyes fierce, jaw tight. “You’ve been out for hours.”

From the other side came a sigh—Patroclus, of course, kneeling with a bowl of broth steaming in his hands. “You’ve been out since dawn, Percy. You worried us half to death.”

Percy groaned. “You two are worse than healers. At least healers only nag once.”

Achilles’s glare softened into something dangerously close to a smile. “Eat, then talk.”

Patroclus slid onto the pallet beside him and offered the bowl. “Careful—it’s hot.”

Percy eyed them both, a flicker of amusement rising through the fog of exhaustion. “Gods. I’ve acquired two sugar daddies, haven’t I? Should I be expecting gifts of gold and jewels next?”

Patroclus nearly dropped the spoon, ears going pink. Achilles barked a laugh so sudden it startled Percy. “Gold and jewels? No. But if you want every fish in the Aegean piled at your feet, say the word.”

Percy grinned weakly, then let them feed him spoonfuls of broth as if he were a child. He wanted to protest, but Patroclus’s hand was steady, his voice soft when he coaxed, “Just one more. Good.” Achilles hovered close, occasionally muttering about Percy’s pallor, or brushing damp curls from his forehead like he couldn’t help himself.

By the time the bowl was empty, Percy’s limbs still felt heavy, but warmth had returned to his chest. He stretched, only to find himself promptly shoved back under the furs by both of them at once.

“Rest.” Achilles’s tone brooked no argument.

Patroclus leaned close enough that Percy could feel the warmth of his breath. “We mean it. No sneaking off to play hero until you can stand without swaying.”

Percy huffed, eyes slipping shut again despite himself. “Bossy. Both of you.”

Achilles’s chuckle rumbled through the cabin. “Get used to it.”

And Percy, safe between them, decided maybe he could.

Nery leaned against the rail of the flagship, the late sun painting the waves in copper and fire. His arm still ached where iron had bruised bone, but the pain was a quiet one now, background noise against the greater relief of freedom. Around him, his brothers and sisters of the Guard moved with easy familiarity—mending sails, sharpening blades, laughing in the kind of short bursts only warriors understood after surviving too much together.

And in the middle of them sat Philoctetes.

The boy had propped himself on a coil of rope, leg still wrapped from where the storm had nearly claimed him. Galene was perched beside him, her deft fingers braiding a chain of wildflowers scavenged from a crate of supplies, while Idyia teased her for the crooked stems. Damon was booming out a tale about the “wave that had to be twice the height of a palace,” his wide hands carving the shape in the air. Even Kaeneus, grim as stone, had allowed himself a huff of laughter at Thalos’s sarcastic quips.

Philo laughed with them. And the sound—it wasn’t forced. It wasn’t the grateful laugh of a man trying to earn favor. It was the unguarded sound of someone who already thought of himself as home.

Nery’s jaw tightened.

He remembered the boy’s face two days ago when he’d asked—earnest, stubborn—if there was any way to join them. Nery had said no. Not unkindly, but firm. The Guard of the Deep were not volunteers. They were chosen. Hand-picked by Percy himself, tested by storm and blood and fire. They were a family, not an army. And you couldn’t ask to be family.

And yet… watching Philo now, grinning as Galene shoved a flower crown onto Damon’s head and Damon roared in mock outrage, Nery couldn’t deny the boy fit in. Too easily. Too well.

Thalos slung an arm around Philo’s shoulders, pulling him into the banter. Philo flushed, embarrassed but pleased. The others welcomed him in as if he’d always been there.

Nery’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t begrudge Philo his gratitude, or his need for belonging. But belonging here was not something he could grant. That right belonged to only one person.

His gaze drifted across the water, toward the other ship where Percy was still recovering in the Myrmidons’ cabin.

If Percy saw what Nery saw now… would he say yes?

Nery shoved the thought down. He turned away, calling for Kaeneus to double-check the rigging before nightfall. Still, as laughter carried over the deck behind him, he couldn’t help the unease curling in his chest.

Philoctetes might have been saved by the storm. But storms had a way of leaving marks long after they passed

The morning after the storm broke clean and cruel, as if the gods mocked them. The sky stretched flawless blue, gulls wheeled above the fleet, and the sea lay deceptively calm, its surface shining like glass.

Odysseus stood at the prow of his ship, gaze sweeping across the fleet. What he saw turned his stomach.

Wreckage littered the waves—broken oars, splintered masts, half-shredded sails clinging to the water like dying things. Other ships limped along, patched with whatever their crews could lash together in the night. And worst of all, the gaps. The places where ships should have been, but were gone, swallowed whole.

His own fleet had fared well. He had listened when the air shifted, when the horizon darkened. He had ordered his men below deck, lashed down everything that could be tied, stowed the rest. Even so, a handful of his smaller vessels had gone under, and he could still hear the screams of the men dragged into the deep. The sea never forgot to collect its due.

Compared to the others…

Percy’s ships gleamed like they had been born of the storm instead of ravaged by it. Their sails were whole, their decks scrubbed clean, their crews alive. Every man accounted for. Odysseus could see them already at work, moving in perfect rhythm under the direction of Nery and the others. The Guard themselves stood tall, battered but unbroken, like rocks carved to weather storms.

The Myrmidons were not so untouched. Achilles’s men had held, but two of their ships lay shattered on the rocks, nothing but splinters and masts poking like bones from the sea. Still, the Myrmidons themselves had not lost a single man—their commander’s fury had been enough to drag each soldier back from death’s jaws.

But Agamemnon. Menelaus.

Their fleets were crippled. Whole lines gone, ships torn apart like toys. Soldiers still dragged corpses from the waves, their faces gray with salt and grief. The camp stank of rot and smoke, the cries of men louder than the gulls overhead. Agamemnon’s rage was already boiling over, blaming the gods, blaming the men, blaming anyone but himself. Menelaus’s silence was worse, the hollow look of a man who had no words left to give.

Odysseus exhaled slowly, hand tight on the rail. He had known the boy—Percy—was dangerous. That much had been clear since Aulis. But watching now, seeing how he alone had turned the tide of the storm for his people, Odysseus felt something colder creep in.

The men whispered already. Prince of the Sea. Some prayed to him openly. Some called him savior. If it had been anyone else, Odysseus would have worried about pride, about ambition. But the boy did not look proud. He looked exhausted.

Still. Power like that shifted wars.

Odysseus’s eyes narrowed, following the silver glint of Percy’s circlet as he was carried below deck again, limp in Achilles’s arms, Patroclus close behind. For now, the boy was too weary to wield the loyalty he had won. But when he rose again…

Odysseus knew better than most: storms did not end. They only waited for their next moment to strike.

Chapter Text

Percy woke to warmth. Not the heavy heat of fever, not the burning ache of salt in open wounds, but the kind that sank into his bones — steady, human warmth.

He blinked, vision slow to sharpen, until he realized why the pallet felt so impossibly soft: he was pinned. One arm heavy across his waist, the weight of it familiar even after only a handful of nights. Achilles. His breath tickled Percy’s curls from behind, warm, unguarded.

In front of him, close enough to share breath, lay Patroclus, his face softened in sleep. A stray curl had fallen over his brow, and Percy had the wild thought that he could stay like this forever — bracketed between them, safe and seen.

He shifted, just enough to test if he was really trapped. The arm at his waist tightened immediately, hauling him closer.

“Don’t,” Achilles muttered, voice rough from dreams. “Stay.”

Percy froze, heat crawling up his neck. Gods. He hadn’t meant to wake him.

Patroclus stirred too, eyelids fluttering open. He smiled, slow and bleary, and brushed his fingers through Percy’s messy curls like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Morning.”

Percy swallowed, his throat thick. “Afternoon, more like.”

That made Patroclus laugh softly. “He’s right. We’ve slept half the day away.”

Achilles only grunted, refusing to move, his face pressed into Percy’s shoulder like a sulking child.

Percy huffed, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Gods, you’re both ridiculous. What kind of commanders laze about like this while their men do all the work?”

“Men fight better knowing their commanders are well-rested,” Patroclus said with mock solemnity.

Achilles added, without lifting his head, “And you fight better when you’re not sneaking off to drown yourself in heroics. You’ll stay here, and that’s an order.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but there was a flush in his cheeks he couldn’t fight. He should have protested — should have insisted he was fine, that he wasn’t theirs to order about — but the truth was, he didn’t want to move. Not from the warmth of their arms, not from the fragile peace that wrapped around them like a second blanket.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine this was their life: quiet mornings, laughter, safety. Not war. Not oaths. Just them.

But as he drifted back against Achilles’s chest, his mind betrayed him with another image: the way Achilles had looked on the practice field days before, eyes alight not with love but with hunger for battle. A man who shone like the sun, but with fire that burned everything in its path.

Percy’s smile faltered, just for a breath.

Patroclus noticed — of course he did. His thumb brushed across Percy’s temple, as if to smooth the doubt away. “Don’t think,” he whispered. “Just rest. For once.”

The deck was alive with voices — sailors patching rope, laughter from the Myrmidons, the slap of waves against wood. But in the middle of it all, the world had narrowed to something smaller, softer.

Percy sat cross-legged on a coil of rope, head tipped forward obediently as Patroclus wove a braid through his dark curls. Galene had given him flowers earlier — pale blossoms that somehow survived the storm — and Percy had tucked them into Patroclus’s hands with a mischievous grin.

“Make me pretty,” Percy had said, utterly serious.

And so Patroclus did. He threaded the blooms through dark hair, fingers steady, working with a concentration that surprised even himself.

“You already are,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Percy glanced up at him, green eyes catching the light like sun on waves. His grin softened, almost shy. “Then make me impossible.”

Patroclus’s heart tripped. Gods. Impossible was exactly what Percy was — impossible not to look at, impossible not to ache for. He only smiled faintly in answer, fingers continuing their work.

When he finished, Percy shook his head lightly, curls bouncing, flowers swaying. “Well?”

“You look like the sea decided to crown you itself,” Patroclus admitted.

Percy laughed, tilting his head so the flowers caught the sunlight. He didn’t care that soldiers nearby were watching, whispering. He never had. He just liked what was beautiful.

Achilles approached then, a basket of fruit in one hand. He paused when he saw Percy’s flower crown, and his lips curved in a rare, boyish smile. “You’ll put kings to shame if you keep that up.”

Percy only grinned wider. “Good. Let them look.”

Achilles crouched beside him, pressing a fig into Percy’s hand without asking. “Eat. You burned yourself out last night. I won’t have you fainting on me again.”

Percy made a face, but he took a bite anyway. Juice ran down his wrist, and Achilles caught it with a calloused thumb before it could drip. The gesture was so intimate, so protective, that Patroclus felt heat stir in his chest.

Around them, the Myrmidons fell quiet. They watched their commander feed the Sea Prince like he was something precious, and none of them knew what to make of it. Achilles, who had never lowered himself to softness for anyone, now smiled like the sun at a boy crowned in flowers.

Patroclus’s throat tightened. He should have been happy — and he was — but Percy’s laughter dimmed just slightly, like a cloud passing over water.

Because Achilles basked in the soldiers’ awe. He didn’t notice how their whispers grew, how they stared. He shone in it, unashamed. And Percy, for all his easy grin, shifted just enough that Patroclus saw the tension in his shoulders.

Achilles reached for another fig. Percy leaned in, lips quirking, but his eyes flicked to the men watching. For the first time, Patroclus thought he saw doubt in them.

Patroclus reached out, brushing a stray curl back from Percy’s face, a silent reassurance: You’re not alone. Not here. Not with us.

Percy met his gaze, the smallest breath of relief loosening his shoulders.

But still — when Achilles laughed, tossing a pit over the side, Percy’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The coastline rose out of the haze by midday — green hills sloping gently into stone walls, towers glinting in the sun. To most eyes, it looked like any other harbor: sturdy, well-defended, with fields stretching inland.

But Percy knew better the moment he tasted the air.

The salt was different here — sharper, tinged with the metallic bite of river water feeding into the bay. The currents shifted strangely too, caught between two reefs that guarded the harbor mouth. He had swum here once, years ago, on a mission from his father to chart Poseidon’s hidden wells.

This was not Troy. This was Mysia.

And if the Greeks thought they would sweep into this city as easily as a boy plucking figs, they were wrong.

Nery caught his eye across the deck, reading his stiffness. “You know this place.”

Percy gave the barest nod. His voice was low, so only his Guard could hear. “Mysia. Not Troy.”

“Then why are we here?” Galene asked, frowning.

Percy’s gaze drifted to the other ships — Agamemnon’s prow leading the way, banners snapping as if daring the wind to defy him. “Because a fool’s pride sails us, not wisdom.”

The Guard muttered curses under their breath. Damon spat into the sea.

Patroclus came up beside Percy, eyes narrowed on the coastline. “Not Troy?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Percy said firmly. His hand curled on the rail. “And the oath binds me only to Troy. Not here. Not these people.”

Patroclus studied him for a moment, then nodded once. His trust was steady, grounding.

But Achilles—

Achilles was already on the prow, his hair a gold flame in the sun, blue eyes burning with hunger. He had seen the city walls and smiled, as if they were nothing more than another challenge set at his feet.

“Finally,” Achilles breathed, his hand flexing on the spear at his side. “A fight worthy of the wait.”

Something inside Percy went cold.

The war council gathered on the rocky shore, waves slapping angrily against the hulls of the ships as if the sea itself disapproved. Torches guttered in the wind, their light stretching long shadows across the sand. Kings and commanders stood in a half-circle before Agamemnon, their armor gleaming, their mouths sharp with eagerness.

Percy’s jaw clenched as he stepped forward. He hadn’t wanted to speak, but every muscle in his body screamed that he had to. The air reeked of iron, of pride, of blood yet to be spilled. And it wasn’t Troy. He knew it down to the marrow of his bones.

“This isn’t Troy,” Percy said, his voice carrying over the surf. “This is Mysia. A good city, not a guilty one. The oath we swore binds us to Helen, not to this place.”

A ripple of unease ran through the gathered kings. Menelaus shifted uncomfortably, but Agamemnon only smiled — sharp, cruel.

“You speak like a child,” Agamemnon said. “What does it matter whose city it is? The army is restless. The men need a battle. A victory. Blood on the sand to sharpen their blades before Troy.”

Percy’s eyes flashed. “You want glory, not justice. Innocents will die for your vanity.”

A murmur ran through the circle — Diomedes scowled, Ajax cracked his knuckles, even Nestor’s brows furrowed. But none spoke. Their loyalty to the high king was a chain heavier than iron.

Percy’s hand curled into a fist. “If you strike here, I will not raise my blade. The oath does not bind me to slaughter innocents. I will not fight in a war that does not belong to me.”

The silence was thick, tense as a bowstring.

Agamemnon’s lips curled. “Then stand aside, Sea Prince. Let real men win honor where you are too timid.”

Heat flared in Percy’s chest. And this time, he didn’t contain it.

The tide surged, slamming against the rocks hard enough that spray leapt into the faces of the kings. The torches guttered wildly as the wind picked up, and a fine mist of rain began to fall from a sky that had been clear minutes before. The sea rumbled like some vast beast stirring in its sleep.

The kings stiffened. Even Ajax faltered, glancing at the restless water. Agamemnon sneered but said nothing more.

Percy’s green eyes burned as he snapped, “You’ll regret this. The gods see, even if you don’t. You’ll pay for every drop of innocent blood spilled here.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, storm-light clinging to him as he walked away. The sea followed, waves rolling harder against the shore, thunder muttering on the horizon.

Achilles stood silent, jaw tight, eyes locked on Percy’s retreating form. The hunger for battle clawed at him, but so did the sight of the boy’s fury and grief. He said nothing.

Patroclus, however, did not hesitate. He left the council without a word, his cloak snapping in the rising wind, and followed Percy down the darkened beach.

He found him standing at the edge of the surf, shoulders rigid, fists clenched, the rain soaking his curls. The waves rolled higher with every heaving breath Percy took.

Patroclus slowed, not wanting to spook him. “Percy.” His voice was low, careful.

Percy didn’t turn. “They’ll kill for nothing. For pride. And Achilles—” His voice broke, ragged with frustration. “He’ll fight for it too.”

Patroclus’s chest tightened. He moved closer, carefully laying a hand on Percy’s arm. The tension thrummed like a bowstring under his fingers. “He doesn’t see it the way you do. Glory is all he’s ever been promised. But he—” Patroclus hesitated, searching for words. “He isn’t your enemy.”

Percy finally turned, rain streaking his face. His green eyes burned. “No. But if he chases glory at the cost of innocents… what does that make him?”

Patroclus didn’t have an answer. He only tightened his grip on Percy’s arm, steady and grounding. “You’re not alone in this. Even if he doesn’t understand yet, I do. I’m with you.”

The waves crashed harder, then slowly began to ease as Percy’s breathing steadied. The rain softened, though the storm still grumbled overhead.

For a long time, they stood together at the water’s edge, two figures caught between storm and silence.

The dawn broke blood-red over Mysia. The fleet poured onto the shore, bronze and iron flashing like a tide of its own. The Mysians met them at the gates — not cowards, not raiders, but men defending their homes.

Percy’s chest ached as he stood beside Patroclus on the rise above the beach. He could see women clutching children in the distance, farmers wielding spears, boys too young for battle pressed into ranks. His stomach turned.

And then he saw Achilles.

The golden-haired warrior leapt into the fray like a god unleashed. His spear was a living thing, striking with such speed and precision that men fell before they realized he’d moved. His shield caught the morning light like fire, his voice carried like thunder over the clash.

Patroclus, watching, felt his breath catch. He had seen Achilles fight before — countless times. But each time was like the first, overwhelming in its brilliance. The way he moved, fluid as water, fierce as flame. It was beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful.

Beside him, Percy could not look away. His throat tightened with something that was not awe alone. Achilles was radiant — hair wild, muscles taut, eyes blazing blue. Radiant and merciless. Every stroke of his spear cut down a man who should never have had to fight. Every victory was bought with blood that needn’t have been spilled.

Percy’s hand curled into a fist. The tide shifted with his anger, waves hammering harder against the shore, spray leaping high as if the sea itself recoiled from what it saw.

Patroclus felt it too — the tremor in the earth, the pull in the air. He glanced at Percy, and his heart clenched at the look on his face. Awe and heartbreak, tangled together.

“Patroclus,” Percy said hoarsely, green eyes locked on Achilles’s figure as he cut through Mysian lines like lightning through a storm. “How can you love him for this?”

Patroclus’s lips parted, but no answer came. His gaze was drawn helplessly back to Achilles — to the beauty of his fury, to the horror of what it wrought. He loved him for everything he was, even this, and that truth burned.

Achilles’s spear struck the Mysian king. The man staggered, blood spraying across the sand. A cry went up — triumph from the Greeks, anguish from the Mysians.

Percy flinched as if the wound had been his own. The sea roared, waves smashing against the rocks with brutal force. Rain began to fall again, sharp and sudden.

Achilles stood victorious, chest heaving, golden as the sun breaking through stormclouds. He turned, searching the hill for familiar eyes — for Patroclus, for Percy.

Patroclus raised a trembling hand, torn between pride and dread.

Percy did not wave back. His face was pale, his jaw tight, the storm raging behind his eyes louder than any cheer.

The beach reeked of blood and smoke. The Mysians had retreated behind their walls, carrying their wounded king with them. The Greeks, battered but triumphant, staggered back toward their ships, their shouts of victory ragged in the salt-heavy air.

Achilles strode among them like a god returned from conquest — bronze slick with rain and blood, eyes still burning with the high of battle. Men reached for him, voices lifted his name, but his gaze searched past them all, hungry for only two faces.

Patroclus stood near the waterline, steadying a limping Myrmidon. When his eyes found Achilles, they softened, even through exhaustion. He gave the barest nod, reassurance in the midst of ruin.

But Percy —

Percy stood apart. His curls clung dark to his cheeks, plastered with salt and rain. His green eyes, usually alight with defiance or mischief, were flat, hollow, fixed not on Achilles but on the waves that still heaved and sighed against the shore. The storm he had stirred earlier lingered, the sea restless under his grief.

Achilles quickened his step, crossing the sand toward him. “Percy!” His voice was raw, fierce with relief. “Did you see? Did you—”

Percy turned then, slowly. Rainwater dripped from his lashes. His face was pale, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

“Yes,” he said. His voice was soft. Too soft.

Achilles faltered. “I—” He tried for a smile, the kind that always drew laughter from Patroclus, that sometimes even won Percy’s reluctant grin. “I fought for us. For glory, for—”

“For what?” Percy’s words cut sharp. He took a step back, the chains of seawater clinking at his heels. “For honor? For songs? For the pride of a king who would see villages burn for his name?” His voice cracked on the last word, breaking like a wave over rocks.

Achilles froze. He opened his mouth, closed it. For the first time since he’d raised a spear, he looked unsure.

Percy shook his head. He could feel the sea in his chest, aching with him, mourning with him. “They weren’t our enemy. They were fathers, sons, farmers with rusted blades. And you…” His breath hitched. “You smiled when you cut them down.”

The words struck deeper than any spear. Achilles flinched as if pierced.

Patroclus, watching from a distance, saw it all — saw the heartbreak in Percy’s face, the dawning realization in Achilles’s. He wanted to go to them both, to bridge the gulf opening at their feet, but he knew this was a wound only they could face.

Rain thickened, pattering against bronze and skin. Percy turned away, shoulders trembling. He didn’t storm off, didn’t shout again. He only stepped back, back toward the waves, his silence louder than any fury.

Achilles reached out — but his hand fell useless at his side.

“Percy,” he said, voice breaking for the first time that day. But Percy didn’t turn.

The sea carried him away, each step into the shallows leaving Achilles standing alone on the bloodstained shore, for once victorious and utterly hollow.

The waves had already swallowed Percy, his form vanishing into the gray horizon as though the sea itself had claimed him. Achilles stood motionless on the shore, rain streaming down his face, stinging more sharply than the shallow cuts on his skin. Victory tasted like ash in his mouth.

Patroclus came to stand beside him, silent at first. He knew better than to speak too quickly — Achilles’s pride was raw, and words in the wrong place could cut deep. Still, he could not watch his lover stand there, empty-eyed, without reaching for him.

Achilles spoke first, voice hoarse. “What did I do?” He turned to Patroclus, his blue eyes unguarded, desperate. “Why did he look at me as if I were—” His words broke. “As if I were no better than Agamemnon?”

Patroclus inhaled, steadying himself. He rested a hand lightly on Achilles’s wrist, grounding him. “Because to him, today you weren’t fighting Troy. You weren’t protecting anyone. You were chasing glory, and innocent men bled for it.”

Achilles flinched. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his throat working. “They raised blades against me,” he argued weakly, but even as he said it, the words rang hollow.

“They raised blades because we came here.” Patroclus’s tone was gentle, but it did not soften the truth. “Percy warned them, warned us all. He begged us not to do this. And when you went anyway, smiling through the blood…” He shook his head, rain dripping from his hair. “You broke his trust, Achilles.”

The storm above had eased, but the storm inside Achilles was just beginning. He pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down, leaving streaks of blood and rain across his skin. “I never meant—” His voice cracked. “Gods, Patroclus, I never meant to hurt him. I love him. I—” He stopped, breathing hard, chest heaving with something too big for him to name.

Patroclus’s eyes softened. He had known this truth long before Achilles admitted it aloud. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you love him. That’s why it hurts him so much.”

Achilles dropped his hand, his gaze burning with something almost boyish in its plea. “Then tell me how to fix it. Tell me what to do.”

Patroclus’s throat tightened. He wanted to give an answer, to soothe, to mend. But some wounds could not be bandaged by anyone but the one who bore them. He shook his head slowly.

“You can’t fix this with me,” he whispered. “Only Percy can decide if it can be fixed.”

Achilles’s face crumpled, a rare, unguarded thing. For the first time, the warrior who had never feared gods or men looked utterly lost. He lowered himself to the wet sand, elbows braced on his knees, rain streaking down his golden hair like tears the sky shed for him.

Patroclus knelt beside him, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder. Together they sat in silence, the sea restless before them, until the sun broke weakly through the clouds.

The deck was too quiet when he climbed back over the rail. No cheers. No laughter. Not even the usual banter Thalos used to keep spirits from sinking. Only the steady sound of rain on wood, and the eyes of his Guard watching him.

They knew. He could see it in the way Galene’s jaw was set, in Damon’s fists curling at his sides, in the careful, measured way Nery stood at the center of them all. They had seen what he had seen. Mysia’s walls. Its people. Achilles’s sword flashing bright where it had no right to shine.

Percy wanted to tell them he was fine. Wanted to lift his chin, make some cutting remark about Agamemnon, joke that at least they hadn’t wasted their blades. But his throat burned with words that wouldn’t come, and his chest was too tight to fake a smile.

“Prince,” Nery said softly, the only sound against the rain. Not a question, not even comfort. Just his name, steady as a hand on the tiller.

Percy nodded once, too sharply, and stepped past him. He couldn’t look at them. Not now. If he did, the storm in his chest would break open, and he had no strength left to weather it aloud.

He felt their eyes follow him as he crossed the deck, felt Galene shift as if to reach for him, Damon take half a step forward before Nery’s quiet hand stopped him. The silence that followed him below deck was heavier than chains.

His cabin was dark. The sea rocked the ship gently, as if mocking the chaos it had seen only hours before. Percy shut the door, leaned against it for a long moment, and let out a breath that trembled too much.

Alone. For the first time since Aulis, he was alone. No warmth pressed to his back, no careful hands binding his wounds, no laughter at his ear. Just him. And the memory of blue eyes burning with glory where he had prayed they would never turn.

He stripped off his soaked tunic, let it fall in a heap, and collapsed onto the cot. Sleep took him before he meant it to, heavy and merciless.

Sleep was no kindness. It dragged him down hard, into waters blacker than any night sea.

He saw fire first—bright, consuming, devouring the ships at Aulis. The flames reflected in the sea until the whole horizon glowed red. And through the smoke walked Achilles. Not the boy Percy had laughed with in stolen hours, not the warrior who had held him after storms, but something sharper. His golden hair was a halo of fire, his blade dripping black.

Bodies lay strewn in his wake. Damon, chest split open. Galene with her bow snapped in half. Thalos’s grin frozen forever in blood. Even Nery, steady, unflinching Nery, lay broken at his feet.

Achilles stepped over them all as though they were nothing.

Patroclus came next. His face pale, his hands stretched out in a silent plea. “Achilles, stop—” But the sword cut him down mid-word. He fell without a sound.

Percy screamed, but his voice was waterlogged, lost in the roar of flames. He stumbled forward, slipping on blood-slick ground, reaching for Patroclus, but Achilles’s shadow fell over him. Blue eyes that had once looked at him like dawn now gleamed like polished steel.

“You thought I was yours,” Achilles said. His smile was sharp as a spearhead. “But glory is mine, not yours. Never yours.”

Then he laughed. Laughed as if the deaths of all Percy loved were only another victory to be savored. The sound burrowed into Percy’s chest, splitting him open worse than any blade.

Percy fell to his knees among the dead. His hands shook, slick with blood that would not wash away no matter how hard he tried. The sea rose up around him, black and heavy, but even there—where water should have answered him—Achilles’s laughter chased him.

Each face, each body, burned into Percy’s eyes. And through it all, Achilles laughed. Beautiful, shining, untouchable—and merciless.

“No…” Percy whispered, choking on salt. His feet wouldn’t move, his voice wouldn’t rise above a rasp. “Stop. Please—”

But Achilles only raised his sword again. The sea turned black with blood.

Percy fell to his knees, hands clutching his hair, screaming—but the scream drowned in the crash of waves, in Achilles’s laughter, in the thunder that rolled like applause.

Percy jolted awake, gasping, his throat raw. Sweat soaked his skin despite the chill of the cabin. For a moment, the dream clung to him so tightly that he half-expected to see blood pooling on the floorboards, bodies at his feet.

But it was only him. Only the dark, only the creak of the ship.

His heart hammered. His hands shook as he dragged them down his face. He told himself it was just a dream. Just exhaustion. But the image of Achilles’s laugh, cruel and bright, seared itself into his chest.

And for the first time since Aulis, Percy turned his face into the pillow and wept.

The scream cut through the night like a blade.

Nery was on his feet before he realized it, nearly tripping over the cot in his rush. The sound had come from Percy’s cabin—low at first, then ragged, breaking into a choked cry. He flung the door open without knocking.

Percy writhed on the narrow bed, his hands clawing at the sheets, curls plastered to his damp forehead. His chest heaved as if he were drowning, lips twisting around words Nery couldn’t hear. The sight of him—so strong by day, so broken now—made Nery’s throat tighten.

“Percy!” He dropped to his knees beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. “Wake up, it’s a dream—just a dream.”

But Percy only thrashed harder, a hoarse plea escaping his lips. “Stop—don’t—” His eyes stayed shut, trapped behind fevered lids.

Nery swore under his breath. He shook him harder, but the boy didn’t stir. His screams grew rawer, until Nery’s heart pounded with helpless fear.

He couldn’t do this alone.

With one last look at his prince, Nery bolted from the room, his feet hammering down the deck. He crossed the plank to Achilles’s flagship, ignoring the startled stares of the guards on watch.

Nery burst back into the cabin, Patroclus and Achilles on his heels. The air inside was thick with salt and sorrow.

Percy wasn’t asleep anymore.

He lay curled on his side, his face pressed into a pillow damp with tears, shoulders shaking with each ragged breath. His hands clutched the fabric as though he could strangle the nightmare still clinging to him. The sound of him crying—not the boyish sniffles Nery remembered from years ago, but raw, broken sobs—stole the air from the room.

“Percy,” Nery said softly, stepping forward. He reached out but stopped just shy of touching, afraid of shattering what little hold Percy had left.

Patroclus moved to the other side of the bed, crouching low so Percy could see his face. “It’s me,” he whispered, voice like steady balm. “You’re awake now. Whatever it was, it can’t touch you here.”

For a heartbeat, Percy’s green eyes lifted—red-rimmed, swollen with tears. He breathed Patroclus’s name like a question, like an anchor. Patroclus nodded, brushing curls from his damp forehead.

Then Achilles stepped closer.

“Percy.” His voice cracked with concern, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides. His face, usually all pride and golden fire, was stripped bare—fear, regret, longing.

But Percy saw him and flinched. His whole body jolted as if struck, and a shiver wracked him so violently the pillow shook beneath his cheek. His eyes went wide, terror where there should have been comfort. He scrambled back, pressing himself into the wall, shoulders hunched as though bracing for a blow.

“No—” His voice broke, hoarse and trembling. “Stay away.”

The words cut sharper than any blade. Achilles froze, color draining from his face. “Percy…”

But Nery was already there, stepping between them, his arm outstretched like a shield. His voice was firm, almost harsh: “Enough. Get away from him!”

Patroclus’s eyes flashed too, though his tone was softer, steadier. “Achilles, stop. He’s not ready for you. You’ll only make it worse.”

Achilles staggered back a step, as if struck. His hands curled into fists, but not from anger—desperation, helplessness. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, choking on words he couldn’t force out.

Percy pressed his forehead into Patroclus’s chest when he leaned close, hiding his face, shaking with quiet sobs. Patroclus wrapped an arm around him, steady and gentle, whispering reassurance only Percy could hear.

Nery stood guard at the bedside, his body taut with protective fury. His eyes burned into Achilles, daring him to take another step.

For the first time since the war began, Achilles had no words. No shield, no spear, no laughter. Only silence and a hollow ache in his chest as he watched Percy recoil from him.

Patroclus glanced up at him, his eyes heavy with meaning. Later. We’ll talk later.

Achilles nodded once, sharp and broken, and backed out of the cabin, his footsteps heavy on the deck.

Inside, Percy clung to Patroclus’s tunic as though it were the only thing keeping him afloat. Nery stayed close, silent but resolute, a sentinel at his prince’s side.

And Achilles, outside, pressed his back against the wooden wall, sliding down until he sat in the shadows, head in his hands.

The cabin was quieter now. The storm outside had passed, but inside Percy’s chest it still raged. His breath came in shaky pulls, damp curls sticking to his face, the taste of salt heavy on his tongue.

Patroclus hadn’t let go.

He sat pressed against Percy’s side on the narrow bed, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand tracing idle circles against his wrist. Not restraining. Not pushing. Just there. A constant, steady warmth that kept Percy from slipping too far into the dark.

Percy swallowed hard, trying to find words. His voice cracked anyway. “I saw him… I saw Achilles in the dream. He—” His throat closed, the images slamming back: golden hair, blue eyes, blood on his hands, laughter over corpses. He shuddered, pressing closer into Patroclus’s chest. “He killed everyone I loved. And he laughed.”

Patroclus’s arms tightened around him, pulling him in until Percy could hear the heartbeat under his ribs, steady and strong. “It wasn’t real,” he murmured, lips brushing Percy’s hair. “That wasn’t him. That wasn’t Achilles.”

“I know,” Percy whispered, though the words felt like glass in his mouth. “But it felt real. Gods, Patroclus, I—when I saw him just now, I couldn’t—” He broke off with a sob, pressing his hands to his eyes. “I couldn’t look at him without seeing it again.”

Patroclus didn’t tell him to stop crying. He didn’t tell him to be strong. He just held him tighter, resting his chin atop Percy’s curls. “You don’t have to explain. Not to me. Not tonight.”

Percy’s hands trembled as they slid down, clutching at Patroclus’s tunic. “I feel… broken,” he admitted, voice so small it hurt. “Like I’m failing everyone. The Guard looks at me like I’m unshakable, Achilles looks at me like I’m something sacred—and I’m just… I’m just… so damn tired.”

Patroclus exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing away the wet tracks on Percy’s cheek. “Then be tired,” he said softly. “With me, you don’t have to be anything. You can just be Percy. Or anyone you want to be…”

Something in Percy cracked. He buried his face against Patroclus’s shoulder, the sobs shaking loose from where he had tried to hold them in. Patroclus didn’t flinch, didn’t loosen his hold. He rocked him gently, whispering nonsense words of comfort, steady as the tide.

“You’re not alone,” Patroclus promised, quiet but fierce. “Even when it feels like it, even when the nightmares try to tell you otherwise—you’re not alone. Not while I’m here.”

Percy’s grip tightened, as if afraid Patroclus might vanish like a dream. His chest hurt, his throat raw, but he let himself believe it. Not alone. Not while Patroclus held him like this

The door shut behind Patroclus with a low thud, leaving Achilles standing in the dark corridor like a man struck dumb. His hands, the same ones that could tear through armies, hung limp at his sides. His face—gods, Nery had seen him furious, he’d seen him proud, but he had never seen Achilles look so lost.

He leaned back against the wooden post, eyes glassy, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just breathed hard through his nose, chest rising and falling like a man bracing against a spear that never came.

Nery crossed his arms, steadying himself before speaking. “You should give him space.”

Achilles’s head snapped up, wild blue eyes pinning him. “He looked at me like I was a monster.” His voice was hoarse, breaking on the last word. “Like I’d already put a blade through his heart.”

Nery didn’t flinch. He’d seen princes break before. He’d seen captains falter. “You wounded him,” he said quietly. “Not with steel, but with what you chose on that battlefield.”

Achilles shook his head violently, golden hair clinging wet to his temples. “I only wanted glory. I thought—” He bit down on the words, dragging both hands through his hair. “I thought if I shone bright enough, he’d see me and be proud. Instead, he—” His voice cracked again, and he choked it back.

Nery’s mouth tightened. “You forget what kind of man he is. Percy doesn’t care for shining. He cares for lives saved, not taken. You turned your back on that, even if you didn’t mean to. He felt it.”

Achilles pressed a fist against the wooden wall as if he could hold himself upright through sheer strength. The muscles in his arm trembled. “How do I fix it?” His eyes darted to Nery, desperate. “Tell me. Please.”

Nery shook his head slowly. “That’s not mine to answer. It isn’t Patroclus’s either. Only Percy can tell you what he needs to heal this. And until he does…” His voice softened. “You wait. You wait, and you show him with every breath that you’re not the man he saw on that battlefield.”

The words hit harder than any spear. Achilles sagged against the post, shoulders bowed, eyes closing as if the weight was too much to bear.

Nery let the silence sit for a moment before adding, “For what it’s worth… he loves you. That’s why it cut so deep. Remember that before you drown yourself in guilt.”

Achilles’s throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, didn’t trust himself to. But when he finally looked up again, there was a sheen of tears in his eyes, and the kind of grief Nery had only seen in men who’d lost brothers on the battlefield.

Chapter Text

The first light of morning filtered weakly through the canvas of his cabin. Percy stirred against the rough wool blanket, his body sluggish, his chest heavy. Sleep had not been merciful. His dreams had been claws dragging him down—Achilles’s face twisted with laughter, blood on his hands, Patroclus’s scream cut short. When Percy jolted awake, the echo of it still clung to him.

Now the silence pressed in too closely. For the first time since leaving Aulis, he’d slept alone. No steady warmth at his side, no heartbeat against his back. Just the hollow weight of solitude.

He sat up slowly, scrubbing at his face with both hands. The salt sting on his cheeks told him he must have been crying again. A flush of shame burned through him. He hated letting Patroclus see him that way—shaking, broken, curled into him like a child. And Achilles—Percy’s stomach twisted. The memory of fear, sharp and unbidden, hit him again. Achilles’s face in his nightmare and Achilles’s real face when Percy flinched from him blurred until Percy didn’t know which hurt more.

He rose unsteadily, moving to the small bronze basin by the cot. The water inside was still, untouched. He dipped his hands in and splashed his face, cold droplets chasing the sweat from his skin. The chill steadied him, a reminder of the sea waiting beyond these wooden walls. His sea. His to command, his to listen.

I should go to my Guard, he thought. He had ordered them not to fight, and they had obeyed him, even when the rest of the army rushed like wolves into a slaughter. They deserved his strength, not the broken pieces he’d shown last night.

Percy gripped the basin until his knuckles whitened. He wouldn’t let them see him falter again. Not Nery. Not Damon or Idyia. Not Galene, who had braided flowers into his hair only days ago.

And certainly not Achilles.

The thought sent a pulse through his chest—longing tangled with hurt. Percy swallowed it down. Achilles’s laughter from his nightmare still rang too loudly in his ears.

He dried his face with the corner of the blanket, inhaled once, then squared his shoulders. Whatever storm was inside him would remain inside him. To everyone else, he would be the Prince of the Sea.

Even if he had to drown to keep it that way.

The ship rocked gently beneath him, a rhythm that should have soothed him, but Percy felt only hollow. He sat at the prow with his knees drawn up, staring out into the dark line of the horizon where sea met sky. The wind tugged at his curls, carrying the salt-scent of home, but even that tasted bitter tonight.

Behind him, the Guard moved quietly about their duties — repairing sails, securing ropes, tending to men Percy had saved from the storm and from Mysia alike. They cast him glances now and then, but no one disturbed him. Nery had made sure of it.

Percy’s chest ached, though not from exhaustion this time. He could still see it when he closed his eyes: Achilles, gleaming in bronze, charging through Mysia’s defenders with that terrible beauty that made men call him god-born. Patroclus had watched in awe. Percy had too, but awe had soured quickly to heartbreak. Because they weren’t Trojans. They weren’t enemies. They were fathers, brothers, sons. Innocents.

And Achilles had smiled as though glory mattered more than lives.

Percy pressed a hand to his sternum, as if he could still the ache with sheer force. He trusted Achilles. He had trusted him so fiercely it scared him sometimes. But tonight, that trust felt cracked. And Percy didn’t know how to mend it.

The wood creaked softly. Nery’s footsteps — Percy knew them instantly — paused behind him. The second-in-command didn’t speak, didn’t intrude. He only stood there, quiet, a steady presence at Percy’s back. That was comfort enough.

But when a different step sounded on the gangplank — heavier, more restless, carrying with it the storm of a man undone — Percy’s breath caught. He didn’t turn, but every muscle in him tightened. Achilles.

The footsteps stopped just behind him. The air shifted, taut as a bowstring. For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the creak of ropes and the slap of waves against the hull filled the silence.

“Percy.”

His name on Achilles’s tongue was softer than he had ever heard it. No command, no laugh, no arrogance — just a plea.

Percy’s throat tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, where the sky was paling toward dusk. If he looked at Achilles now, he wasn’t sure if the fury or the grief would win.

“I was wrong.” Achilles’s voice cracked. The words sounded foreign, dragged from deep inside him, raw and jagged. “I wanted glory, and I didn’t see… I didn’t see what it cost. What it cost you.”

Percy’s breath shuddered out. The sea around them rippled, restless, echoing the storm inside him. “You killed them,” he whispered, finally turning his head. His green eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “They weren’t Trojans. You weren’t bound by any oath. And you—” His voice broke. “You smiled while you cut them down.”

Achilles flinched as if struck. He sank to his knees beside Percy, proud shoulders bowed low. “I thought…” He swallowed, unable to meet Percy’s gaze. “I thought I was fighting for us. For this army. For what we came here to do. But when I saw your face after—” His hand trembled where it reached toward Percy’s knee, then stopped short, hovering in the air. “I knew I’d broken something that mattered more than any glory.”

Percy looked at him — really looked. The boy who had seemed untouchable on the battlefield now knelt at his feet, shaking, golden hair damp with sea-spray, blue eyes wide with fear. Not fear of death, never that. Fear of losing him.

The ache in Percy’s chest deepened. “You broke my trust, Achilles. And I don’t know if I can forgive that.”

Silence stretched, heavy, final. Achilles bowed his head, hands curling into fists against the deck. “Then I’ll earn it back,” he swore, his voice hoarse. “No matter how long it takes. If it takes a lifetime, I’ll spend it proving I will never raise my sword against the innocent again. Not while I breathe.”

Percy closed his eyes. The sea calmed slightly, the wind softening, but the wound in his heart remained open. “I hear you,” he said at last, voice quiet but unyielding. “But hearing isn’t the same as forgiving.”

Achilles’s breath shuddered out. He nodded, though it looked like it broke him to do so. “Then I’ll wait. However long it takes.”

Patroclus’s voice called gently from the deck behind them, worried but steady: “Come inside. Both of you. The night is cold.”

Percy didn’t move. Achilles didn’t either. They stayed there at the prow, side by side but not touching, the gulf between them wider than the sea itself.

The flagship was quiet when Percy returned. The storm of his fury had ebbed into silence, but silence was sometimes worse. His shoulders sagged as though the sea itself pressed down on him. He slipped past the deck watch without a word and vanished into his cabin.

Nery waited a while before following. He knew better than to press too soon, but he also knew what unspoken grief could do to his prince. Finally, when the stars had risen high, he knocked softly against the doorframe and stepped inside.

Percy sat on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. His curls fell forward, dark with salt, and his whole body trembled with exhaustion more than rage. He didn’t look up when Nery entered.

“Want me to go?” Nery asked gently.

Percy shook his head, slow and weary.

Nery closed the door and crossed the room, lowering himself to sit on the floor in front of him, the way he had done since they were boys in Atlantis. For a moment, he said nothing, just let the silence settle until Percy finally dropped his hands. His eyes were red, his cheeks damp.

“He doesn’t understand,” Percy murmured. His voice cracked, raw from shouting earlier. “He doesn’t see what he did. I thought he was different. I thought…” His throat closed before he could finish.

Nery reached up, resting a steady hand on Percy’s knee. “He does see, Percy. I saw his face when you turned away. He looked like you’d carved the heart out of him. Whatever glory he thought he wanted, it means nothing now. Not next to you.”

Percy’s jaw tightened, a fresh wave of tears burning in his eyes. “But I can’t just forget, Nery. I can’t watch him kill innocents and pretend it doesn’t tear me apart. And tonight… when I saw him smiling with blood on his hands—” He broke off, shaking his head violently. “I can’t unsee it.”

“I know.” Nery’s voice stayed calm, firm, grounding. “And you shouldn’t forgive him quickly. Trust takes time. But listen to me—he regrets it. I’ve never seen a man like Achilles bend before. He bent tonight. For you.”

Percy’s breath shuddered. His green eyes darted toward Nery’s, desperate, uncertain. “And what if he does it again? What if I can’t stop him?”

“Then you walk away,” Nery said simply. “But give him the chance to prove himself first. You told us once, when you pulled us out of the pirate cages, that second chances mattered more than mistakes. Maybe now it’s your turn to decide if you’ll give him one.”

Percy stared at him, torn. His chest ached with the truth of it, but also with the raw wound of betrayal. He leaned forward at last, pressing his forehead against Nery’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I can,” he whispered.

Nery wrapped an arm around him, holding him steady. “Then don’t decide tonight. Just breathe. Just rest. You don’t have to carry it all at once.”

Achilles sat at the edge of their bed, his elbows braced on his knees, hands knotted in his hair. The storm lantern burned low in the corner, its glow painting shadows across his face, sharpening the lines of tension in his jaw.

Patroclus watched him for a long time, silent. He knew that silence could weigh more than words sometimes. Achilles’s breath came sharp, almost ragged, until finally he muttered through clenched teeth:

“I saw his eyes, Patroclus. When he looked at me… he was afraid. Of me.”

Patroclus crossed the small space and sank down beside him, their shoulders brushing. “I know.” His voice was quiet, steady where Achilles’s was jagged.

Achilles’s head lifted, blue eyes burning in the dim. “I would never hurt him, never—but today I did. chose glory over him… over you. And he—he looked at me like I was a monster.”

Patroclus reached out, threading his fingers through Achilles’s, grounding him. “Because, for him, it was monstrous. You went against everything he stands for. Against the reason he fights at all.”

Achilles flinched as though struck. His hand squeezed Patroclus’s hard, desperate. “Then tell me how to fix it. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I can fight armies, I can tear down kings, but I don’t know how to mend this.”

Patroclus swallowed, his throat tight. He wanted to give an answer, to ease the storm in Achilles’s chest. But truth pressed heavier than comfort.

“You can’t fix it tonight,” he said softly. “Not with words. Not with promises. Percy’s heart is broken because he trusted you to stand with him—and you didn’t. That kind of wound needs time, Achilles. Time, and proof. He has to see you choose differently, again and again, until he believes it.”

Achilles’s jaw worked, the cords in his neck straining. “But what if he never forgives me?”

Patroclus turned, cupping his face, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Then you keep loving him anyway. You keep trying, even if it takes a lifetime. Because that’s what love is, Achilles. Not winning glory. Not winning battles. Choosing someone, even when it costs you.”

For a moment Achilles just stared at him, wide-eyed, trembling. Then he pressed his forehead into Patroclus’s shoulder, his whole body shuddering with the weight of grief and longing.

Patroclus held him close, one hand in his golden hair, the other firm at his back. “He’ll come back to you,” he whispered, though his own heart ached with uncertainty. “But not because you demand it. Because you prove you’re worth it.”

The cabin was too still. The faint creak of the ship’s timbers and the steady lap of water against the hull should have soothed him, but they only made the silence heavier. Percy lay on his side on the narrow bed, eyes fixed on the shadows the lantern threw across the wall. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind refused to quiet.

Achilles’s apology still rang in his ears. The rawness of his voice, the way his hands had trembled as though he feared Percy might slip away if he didn’t hold fast. The words had been earnest—so earnest Percy almost broke right then, almost fell into him and said he forgave it all.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Percy pressed his palms into the blanket, staring hard at the dark. Achilles had chosen battle, chosen blood, when Percy had begged him not to. He’d stood in the rain, heart tearing itself apart, watching the man he—gods, he loved—turn his back on everything Percy fought for. That kind of wound didn’t close in a day.

And yet…

Percy’s throat tightened. He remembered the night in the cells, when the Fates had whispered and Achilles had bound his life to Percy’s. He remembered the golden light of the threads, the way Achilles had looked at him as if Percy’s breath meant more than his own. They had barely known each other then, and still Achilles had given up his invincibility, his fate, his very soul to keep Percy alive.

Would a man who could do that truly wish him harm? No. Never.

Achilles didn’t understand—that was the truth Percy turned over like a shard of glass in his chest. Achilles had never seen whole cities burn, had never walked through fields of the dead, had never felt the weight of lives slipping through his fingers. He was still chasing glory, still dazzled by the promise of his name living forever. Percy had carried war already, too many wars, and all he wanted was to keep what little good was left in the world safe.

Two truths clashed in him: that Achilles would never hurt him, and that Achilles already had. Not with blade or fist, but with choice.

Percy curled onto his side, clutching the blanket as though it might hold him together. He wasn’t ready to forgive, but neither could he hate. His heart ached with love and hurt all tangled, a knot he didn’t know how to untie.

In the silence, Percy whispered to himself, voice rough:
“I know you love me. I just… don’t know if I can trust it yet.”

His eyes stung, but he didn’t wipe the tears away. He let them fall, salt joining salt, until exhaustion dragged him into restless sleep.

The war council on Agamemnon’s flagship always smelled the same: tar, wet rope, and too much wine spilled on the table maps. The kings clustered around the broad oak boards, torches hissing in the damp air, their voices sharp and restless. Outside, the fleet creaked and groaned against its moorings, still licking its wounds from the storm.

Odysseus took his usual place near the edge, sharp eyes sweeping the tent. He listened—always listened—but what interested him most wasn’t Agamemnon’s blustering or Menelaus’s sulking. It was the three seated a little apart from the rest.

Percyon. The sea-prince sat stiff-backed, chains of his circlet glinting faintly in the torchlight. Usually, he radiated something larger than the room could hold—command without effort, the tide itself in human form. Tonight, he was quiet. His hands folded neatly on the table, his eyes fixed on the maps but unfocused, as if they were only smudges of ink. His face gave nothing away, but the silence clung to him like a second cloak.

Beside him, Patroclus. Steady, calm, his hand resting just close enough to Percy’s wrist that Odysseus suspected it had been a deliberate choice. Not touching—no, Patroclus was too careful for that—but anchoring all the same. He nodded when the other kings blustered, asked a question or two in a voice smooth enough to oil hinges. Every so often, his eyes flicked sideways toward Percy, watchful, protective.

And then there was Achilles.

The golden boy sat just behind them, leaning forward as though his body wanted to close the distance, but his hands knotted in his lap instead. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed not on the maps or the kings, but on Percy’s shoulder. Every time Percy shifted, Achilles did too, an unconscious echo. But where Patroclus’s presence steadied, Achilles’s seemed… hesitant. He hovered at the edges of their closeness, a warrior unsure if his spear was welcome on the field.

Odysseus’s brows rose the smallest fraction. That was new. He had seen Achilles stride through rooms as though they were his by right, seen him take command without asking, demand space and always be given it. To see him hold back—wary—was something else entirely.

He let the others argue. Agamemnon thundered about Mysia, demanding they strike harder next time. Diomedes and Ajax grumbled about supplies. Nestor muttered of omens. But Odysseus’s attention never left the trio.

Something had broken between them. Percy’s silence was heavy. Achilles’s restraint looked like torment. Patroclus sat between them like the thin wall holding a house together.

The council stank of damp wool and arrogance. Torches hissed in the humid air, their smoke curling against the canvas roof, and maps littered the oak table, blotched with wine and sea-stains.

Agamemnon stood at the head, shoulders broad, jaw set like a mountain daring the sea to erode it. His voice rolled like thunder:

“Mysia is not yet broken. Their king may limp, but he still breathes, and his walls stand. Tomorrow we strike again. Harder. We’ll take their harbor, burn their ships, and drag their banners down in ash. Then they’ll see what happens when they defy the will of Greece.”

Murmurs ran around the table. Diomedes leaned forward, grinning like a wolf. Ajax thumped a fist to his chest, eager for blood. Even Menelaus managed a grim nod.

Beside Patroclus, Percy went very still. His knuckles whitened where they rested on the map edge, though his face gave nothing away. Patroclus could almost feel the air tighten, as though the sea itself braced to rise against the king.

Agamemnon’s finger jabbed at the inked harbor. “Achilles, your Myrmidons will lead the assault. Strike at dawn, when their guards are weakest. The sea-prince’s men will circle from the west, cut off their retreat. The rest of us follow with fire. By nightfall, Mysia will kneel.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Patroclus already knew what was coming—saw it in the way Achilles’s shoulders shifted, the storm brewing in his jaw.

Achilles rose, slow, deliberate. The torchlight caught in his hair, in his eyes, blue and burning. When he spoke, his voice carried like a blade through the tent.

“No.”

The council stilled.

Agamemnon’s head snapped up, fury already twisting his mouth. “What did you say?”

Achilles’s gaze did not waver. “I will not fight again. Not here. Not against men who have done nothing but defend their homes. Neither will my Myrmidons. They are mine to command, and I command them to stand down.”

The tent erupted.

Diomedes surged to his feet, shouting of oaths and honor. Ajax slammed his fist on the table so hard cups toppled. Even Nestor sputtered, his old voice trembling with disbelief. “You would abandon us in the field? Leave Greece weakened before its enemies?”

Achilles did not flinch. He only set his hand lightly on the map, palm over the harbor Agamemnon had marked. “I came to Troy for an oath. This is not Troy. You waste our strength here for pride, not duty. I will not spill my men’s blood for your vanity.”

Gasps. Roars. Chaos.

Agamemnon’s face purpled with rage, his hand already flying to the hilt of his sword. “You insolent—”

But Percy moved before he could speak further. He rose in silence, his green eyes dark as stormwater. Without a word, he stepped back from the table. Patroclus followed, his heart pounding.

Achilles glanced once at the kings, then at Percy, then at Patroclus. And without another word, he turned his back on them all.

The three of them left together, while the council dissolved into shouts and clattering fists behind them.

The night air struck cool against their faces as they pushed out of Agamemnon’s tent. The roar of kings and captains still echoed behind them—shouts of fury, disbelief, the clash of egos—but out here the stars were sharp, and the sea whispered against the shore as if nothing in the world had changed.

Percy walked fast, shoulders stiff, his silence colder than any wind. Patroclus followed close, glancing between him and Achilles, sensing the weight hanging unsaid between them.

Achilles caught Percy’s arm before he could stride further. The touch was careful—nothing like the rough grip he used in battle—but Percy still froze, tension running through him. Achilles swallowed, blue eyes raw with something desperate.

“You were right,” he said. His voice was quieter than Percy had expected, stripped of the thunder he’d wielded in council. “This—Mysia, this slaughter—it isn’t right.”

Percy turned just enough to look at him, green eyes hard and unreadable. Achilles pressed on anyway.

“I thought I wanted glory. I thought victory itself was enough.” He shook his head, golden hair damp with sea-spray. “But standing there… watching Agamemnon grin while he sent us to burn a city that isn’t Troy—I knew. That isn’t what I came here for.”

Patroclus lingered a few paces back, silent, letting the words spill between them.

Achilles’s hand slid from Percy’s arm to his chest, pressing lightly over his own heart as if he could steady it. “I came here for him,” he said, tilting his head toward Patroclus. “To protect him. To keep him safe in the storm Greece is marching toward.” His eyes locked on Percy’s, unflinching. “And I came for Helen. She was stolen, and she deserves to be brought back…not this.”

The sea sighed behind them, restless and dark. Percy’s jaw worked, his throat tight.

Achilles’s voice softened. “I will not raise my spear against innocents again. Not while you stand beside me. You’ve made me see clearer than I wanted to, Percy. And I swear to you—whatever war comes next, it will not be like this.”

Silence stretched. Percy’s gaze lingered on Achilles, searching, aching, as if weighing every word against the hurt still raw inside him.

Patroclus finally stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on Percy’s shoulder. His voice was steady, warm in the cool night. “He means it.”

Achilles nodded once, fiercely. “I do.”

Percy let the silence stretch until it hurt. Achilles stood before him like a man laid bare, all pride stripped away, only a boy with golden hair and blue eyes wide with something too raw to name. Patroclus’s hand on his shoulder was steady, grounding, but Percy felt the storm inside him stir all the same.

He wanted to believe him. Gods, he wanted to.

Percy finally exhaled, shoulders sagging as though he’d been carrying the whole sea on his back. “You haven’t seen war like I did. Families broken. Gods calling it honor.” His voice cracked, sharp with grief that hadn’t faded in years. “I’ve lived through it. I’ve bled for it. And I thought—maybe you, of all people, would understand.”

Achilles’s face twisted, shame flickering across it like lightning. “Percy—”

“But…” Percy’s voice softened, ragged. He looked at Achilles properly now, searching his eyes, finding not arrogance but remorse. “You’re not Agamemnon. You’re not him. And if you swear you’ll never do it again—then I’ll believe you.”

Relief flickered across Achilles’s face, so sharp it almost broke him. He reached as if to touch Percy’s hand, but Percy stepped back, just enough that the space between them felt colder.

“I believe you,” Percy repeated, more quietly. “But it doesn’t mean it’s the same. Not yet.”

The words cut deeper than any spear. Achilles’s hand dropped to his side, his lips parting without reply. Patroclus looked between them, grief stirring in his own chest at the gap that hadn’t been there before.

Percy turned away, toward the dark line of his own ship rocking gently against the shore. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone, the sound of the waves swallowing his footsteps.

Achilles stood still, staring after him as though willing the sea itself to give Percy back. Patroclus slipped his hand into his, lacing their fingers together. “He accepted,” he murmured, though his own voice was heavy. “It’ll just take time.”

Achilles nodded slowly, but his eyes never left the water. “Time,” he echoed, as if the word itself might be an enemy he didn’t know how to fight.

The sea rocked his ship gently, a lullaby older than any king. Percy lay on his cot, staring at the beams above him, though his eyes saw nothing but the echo of Achilles’s face in the torchlight.

He could still hear the words. I came here for Patroclus. I came to protect him. He hadn’t said it outright, but Percy had felt it beneath the words: And I’ll protect you too.

Percy dragged a hand through his curls, salt still crusted at the ends. His chest ached—not with anger now, but with something heavier. Ache. Loss. A disappointment that cut deeper than any blade.

He had thought Achilles different. Not like the others who charged at anything that glittered with glory. He’d thought—hoped—that the boy dipped in Styx water might understand why Percy had drawn his line, why he couldn’t stomach innocent blood. And when Achilles had stepped into the fray anyway… gods, it had been like watching another promise break.

His throat tightened. He hated how much it hurt.

But then he thought of the chains. Of the cell. Of the Fates’ voices whispering in the dark—and Achilles giving up his fate, his thread, tying it to Percy’s with no hesitation. Not because of war. Not for glory. For him.

Percy pressed his palms against his eyes until stars burst in the dark. Achilles had made a mistake. A terrible one. But he wasn’t Agamemnon. He wasn’t Menelaus. He wasn’t like the kings Percy had fought all his life. He’d stumbled, and the only way to honor that sacrifice—the gift of fate—was to let him stumble and rise again.

People made mistakes. Percy had made plenty himself. What mattered wasn’t the fall, but whether they chose to get up different. Better.

He exhaled slowly, letting the tightness in his chest ease a little. Achilles had apologized. He had meant it. That much Percy knew.

His eyes slid shut, the sea whispering against the hull. In the quiet, he whispered to himself, almost like a prayer:

“He won’t hurt me. Not him. Not ever.”

The words felt true. And later Percy drifted into sleep without dreams of blood on Achilles’s hands.

Patroclus stirred with the first gray light. The cot was warm on one side, empty on the other. He reached instinctively for the familiar shape, the steady weight of Achilles beside him, and found nothing but wrinkled furs.

His heart skipped. Achilles never rose before him. Never.

Patroclus pushed upright, the ship rocking beneath his feet as he swung out of bed. The cabin was empty, the air still carrying the faint salt and leather that clung to Achilles’s skin. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and slipped outside.

The deck was quiet, the storm’s scars still etched in broken ropes and warped wood. Men moved in hushed tones, patching where they could, their faces pale with the memory of last night. Patroclus’s eyes scanned the planks, the masts, the shadows between crates. No Achilles.

A flicker of dread tightened his chest. He moved faster, almost running, past the murmuring sailors and the rising smoke of morning fires. He searched the prow, the stern, the waterline. Nothing.

Then, rounding the corner near Percy’s cabin, he stopped.

Achilles sat slumped against the doorframe, his back pressed to the wood, knees drawn up, golden hair matted with salt. His head tilted forward onto his chest, breath slow and even in sleep. One hand still rested against the cabin door, as if his body had refused to let go even in exhaustion.

Patroclus’s breath caught.

He stepped closer, quiet as a whisper, and for a moment he simply watched. Achilles, fierce as a storm in battle, looked small here—smaller than Patroclus had ever seen him. Guarding a door like a sentry, as if his very presence might keep Percy safe.

Patroclus crouched, his hand hovering before brushing lightly over Achilles’s tangled hair. The warrior stirred faintly but didn’t wake, his fingers curling reflexively against the wood.

Patroclus’s throat ached. He knew what it meant—this sleepless vigil, this surrender to weariness only when his body gave out. Achilles had fought gods and kings without flinching, but Percy’s silence had undone him more than any blade.

“Fool,” Patroclus whispered softly, though his voice trembled with something tender. “You’ll break yourself like this.”

Yet even as he said it, Patroclus’s chest warmed. Because if Percy needed proof of Achilles’s remorse, of his devotion, this was it—written plain in the posture of a boy who had chosen the cold deck over the comfort of his own bed, just to stay close.

Patroclus leaned forward, pressing his forehead briefly to Achilles’s tangled curls, before straightening. He’d let him sleep. He deserved that much.

And maybe, just maybe, when Percy opened that door, he’d see it too

Percy woke to the gentle creak of timbers, the faint murmur of sailors starting their day. His dreams had been thin and restless, but at least not clawed with blood and fire. He rose slowly, limbs heavy, and crossed to the cabin door.

When he opened it, he stopped short.

Achilles was there.

Curled against the frame, head bowed, golden hair tangled with salt, his hand still resting lightly on the door as if guarding it even in sleep. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his jaw was tight, as though even dreams could not ease his guilt.

Percy’s breath caught in his throat. For a long moment, he only stood there, torn between ache and anger, between the memory of fear in his chest and the sight of Achilles brought low here on the deck.

Then—without a word—he turned back inside. He stripped the cloak from his bed, gathered one of the softer pillows, and returned. The ship rocked gently beneath his bare feet as he crouched beside the sleeping warrior.

Careful. Silent.

Percy laid the pillow against the wood, easing Achilles’s head onto it so his neck would not cramp. He draped the blanket over his shoulders, smoothing it once across his chest. Achilles stirred faintly, his lips parting, but did not wake.

For a moment Percy’s hand lingered, hovering just above that sun-browned cheek. The urge to brush the curls from his brow, to trace the line of his jaw, ached so fiercely it frightened him. He curled his fingers into his palm instead.

“You idiot,” Percy whispered, barely audible, his throat tight. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Achilles sighed softly, shifting against the pillow, the faintest shadow of peace crossing his face. Percy swallowed hard, stepped back, and slipped into the cabin again.

The door shut softly behind him. But the weight on his chest was a little lighter.

The days blurred together in rhythm and duty. Percy kept to his Guard. He walked the decks with Nery, inspected the ships, listened to Damon’s booming laughter and Galene’s sharp jokes. He sparred with Kaeneus at dawn, traded banter with Thalos, let Idyia braid sea-glass beads into his curls as if they were still children on a beach. He smiled through it all, the steady captain they needed.

But at night, when the torches burned low, the ache gnawed.

The ship felt too quiet without Achilles’s laughter splitting the air, without Patroclus’s gentle hand at his elbow reminding him to eat, to rest, to breathe. Percy found himself glancing at the horizon when their sails drew near, his heart lurching at the faintest glimpse of gold hair or a familiar stance. He told himself he was busy, he had duties, he had no time to think of them. And yet—

He did. Always.

When Damon teased him over a crooked knot, Percy nearly snapped back that Achilles would’ve shown him a better way. When Nery laid a hand on his shoulder in comfort, Percy had to bite his tongue to keep from admitting he missed the warmth of Patroclus’s steadiness more than he could bear.

Each day the hollow inside him widened.

By the fourth night, Percy could not sleep. He lay in his cot, staring at the beams above, the sea’s song no comfort, only a reminder of all the voices missing from his side. He turned, restless. Then he sat up.

Before he could think better of it, he threw on a cloak and crossed the deck. The night air was cool, salted, the fleet rocking gentle as if the sea itself hushed him onward. Percy swam across the dark water in silence, his pulse hammering like a drum.

When his feet touched Achilles’s ship’s deck, he paused, breathless, his heart caught between dread and longing. He walked the planks with quiet steps, past dozing guards who blinked at him in surprise but said nothing.

At last, he stood in front of their cabin.

For a long moment, Percy only stared at the wood, his hand hovering, trembling. He thought of Achilles’s eyes blazing in battle, of Patroclus’s smile like dawn, of the way he had once fit between them as though the Fates had carved out a space just for him.

And then—

He knocked.

The knock jolted Patroclus awake first. He blinked in the dark, the creak of wood and the faint rush of waves outside filling the silence. Achilles stirred beside him, golden hair tangled across his cheek, until another knock came—hesitant, then firm.

They both froze.

Achilles was on his feet in an instant, pulling the door open with more force than needed. And there—

Percy.

Damp curls, cloak slipping from one shoulder, eyes wide and uncertain in the lamplight. He looked exhausted, stubborn, breakable all at once. For a heartbeat none of them spoke, only stared, as though afraid the vision might vanish like a dream.

The door creaked shut behind Percy, the cabin thick with the hush of waves outside. For a moment none of them moved—Achilles by the door, fists clenched at his sides, Patroclus hovering close enough to touch, and Percy standing just inside, cloak slipping down, his green eyes wary.

It had been days since they’d shared more than a glance across decks. Days since the storm of anger and silence. And now, finally, they were in the same room.

Patroclus’s heart thudded painfully, desperate to bridge the gap, but he bit his tongue. This wasn’t his to fix.

Percy drew a shaky breath. “I… shouldn’t be here.”

The words pierced, but his voice lacked conviction. His hands trembled at his sides, and Achilles caught it instantly. He stepped closer—not too close, just enough.

“You should,” Achilles said, voice low, rough. “You should always be here.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped to the floor, curls shadowing his face. “You hurt me and you hurt innocents.”

Silence crashed heavy. Achilles flinched as though struck. “I know.” His throat worked. “I was blinded by pride, by that cursed hunger for glory. I thought—if I fought, if I won—I’d be seen. Respected. But you were right, Percy. It wasn’t Troy. It wasn’t worth it. And I—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I betrayed what you stand for. I betrayed you.”

Percy’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. His chest ached with the memory of Mysia, of innocent blood on the sand, of Achilles shining in battle like a god while Percy’s heart cracked. “You laughed,” he whispered, raw. “In my dream, you laughed while they died.”

Achilles stepped forward again, closer this time, his eyes burning. “I would never laugh at that. Never. I swear to every god who will listen—I would never find joy in the suffering you hate. The dream was a lie, Percy, but the guilt—it’s mine to carry.”

Patroclus finally moved, laying a hand gently on Percy’s arm. “He’s telling the truth. You know Achilles—he’s reckless, proud, but he isn’t cruel. He regrets this more than anything I’ve ever seen.”

Percy looked up at that, at Achilles’s face—too open, too raw. For a long moment, green met blue, and the storm between them softened just enough.

“Then promise me,” Percy said, voice shaking. “Promise me you’ll think before you draw blood again. Promise me you’ll never do something like that—not for pride, not for glory—because I can’t…” His breath caught, tears threatening. “I can’t stand by your side if you do.”

Achilles didn’t hesitate. He crossed the last step, carefully—slow enough that Percy could push him back if he wanted. He sank to one knee before him, head bowed. “I promise. No glory, no pride, no king matters more than you. I came here for Patroclus, to protect him, and—” He lifted his gaze, fierce and unflinching. “—now I’ll fight only for both of you. Never against what you stand for.”

Percy’s lips trembled. He wanted to believe it—oh, gods, he wanted to. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out, his fingers brushing Achilles’s hair, damp with salt. Achilles closed his eyes, leaning into the touch as though it were a blessing.

Patroclus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Come sit,” he whispered, guiding Percy toward the bed.

They sat, side by side, the silence fragile but no longer breaking them apart. Percy leaned into Patroclus first, his curls brushing against his shoulder. Then, after a long, aching pause, Achilles lowered himself onto Percy’s other side. He didn’t touch—didn’t dare—until Percy shifted just enough that their arms brushed.

That small contact broke something open.

Percy turned, his face pressing into Achilles’s shoulder, and the sobs he’d held back for days finally ripped free. His fingers fisted in Achilles’s tunic, his body shaking with the force of it. “You—” he gasped between tears, “you don’t know —how much I wanted to believe in you—”

Achilles’s arms wrapped around him at once, crushingly tight, his own body trembling. Tears spilled down his sun-bright face, hot and unashamed. “I know,” he choked out, his voice raw. “Gods, Percy—I know. And I hate myself for it. I’ll never forgive myself.” His shoulders shook, the warrior who feared nothing undone by the boy in his arms.

Patroclus’s hand rested at Percy’s back, steady, anchoring them both. His own eyes stung, but he let them have this, let them pour their pain into each other.

Percy’s tears soaked into Achilles’s shoulder, and Achilles’s tears fell into Percy’s curls. They clung together desperately, not prince and warrior, not demigod and mortal, but two hearts split open, finally admitting how much they needed one another.

When the sobs ebbed into shudders, Percy didn’t let go. Neither did Achilles.

Patroclus eased down beside them, curling close, his arm sliding around both. Slowly, they lay back onto the narrow pallet, a tangle of limbs and tangled hearts. Percy was still fragile, still aching—but with Achilles’s arms around him and Patroclus pressed close at his other side, he let himself rest.

Chapter Text

The sea had calmed since Mysia, but inside Percy, the waves still hadn’t settled.

He stood at the prow of Achilles’ flagship, the wind tugging his damp curls into his eyes. The salt spray tasted like home, familiar as breath, yet something in his chest felt off-beat, like an oar catching wrong in the current.

Behind him, laughter broke out — Patroclus teasing Achilles about something, Achilles mock-growling in reply. Percy turned slightly, and the sight pulled a small smile out of him before he could stop it. Achilles’ sun-bright head was bent close to Patroclus, and when Achilles noticed Percy watching, he brightened further, reaching out to tug him back toward them.

Percy went. He always went.

Patroclus made space for him on the low bench by the mast, pressing a cup into his hands. Achilles leaned in close, shoulder brushing his. For a heartbeat, Percy let himself breathe it in: the warmth of them, the easy comfort of their presence, the way Patroclus’s fingers lingered at his wrist just to make sure he was really there.

It should have been enough.

It almost was.

But when Achilles laughed — loud and bright, his arm slinging naturally around Percy’s shoulders — Percy’s body flinched before his mind caught up. It was small, barely a twitch, but Achilles felt it. His arm froze for half a beat before carefully staying put.

Percy forced himself not to move away. He sipped the watered wine, let Patroclus’s knee press against his, let Achilles’s warmth soak into his skin. From the outside, they looked whole again — three young men sharing the deck, teasing and trading stories as if nothing had happened.

Inside, Percy felt the hollow space where trust used to sit. He knew Achilles loved him — gods, he knew it now more than ever — but some part of him still braced for the sting, the crack of laughter in a nightmare, the memory of seeing Achilles fight men who were never meant to be their enemies.

He hated himself for it. He hated that he couldn’t simply fall back into them the way he wanted to.

Patroclus noticed. He always noticed. His hand brushed against Percy’s under the cup, grounding him with that gentle steadiness that never demanded more than Percy could give. Percy squeezed back once, grateful.

The three of them sat there until the sun sank low, the sea glowing red-gold around the fleet. To anyone watching, they looked unbreakable. But Percy knew better: they weren’t broken, not anymore, but the cracks hadn’t healed smooth.

Thalos had always believed laughter was a weapon. Not as sharp as Damon’s fists or Idyia’s spear, but sharper than silence, sharper than despair.

So when the Guard limped back into rhythm after Mysia, he made it his business to keep the noise up.

“Gods,” he groaned, sprawled across the deck with one arm over his eyes, “you’d think after fighting pirates and starving on an island, the sea might give us a holiday. But no. First storms, then kings, now salt-rust in places I didn’t even know I had.”

Galene snorted from where she was polishing her spearhead. “You don’t polish anything, Thalos, don’t lie.”

“I polish my wit,” he countered, grinning at her. “And occasionally, my teeth.”

Idyia rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. Damon rumbled a low chuckle that sounded like boulders falling down a cliff. Even Kaeneus, who barely spoke at the best of times, shook his head with something close to amusement.

It worked. The air lightened. The ache in their bones didn’t vanish, but it loosened.

Then Percy came by.

Thalos sat up fast, brushing straw off his tunic. Their prince looked… better than he had in weeks. Color in his face, no shadows in his eyes. Still tired, though. Always tired. He stopped long enough to ruffle Lykomedes’s hair and listen to Kallias tell some wild story about stealing bread off an Athenian officer. Percy laughed — really laughed, the sound startling after so many nights of silence — and for a moment, the deck felt like home again.

Thalos bit back the sting in his chest. He’d watched Percy stand against kings, bleed for strangers, nearly break himself to save men who’d never remember his name. And here he was, smiling at them like they were worth every drop.

But when Percy drifted away again — back toward Achilles’ flagship, back toward the golden-haired warrior who’d left him cracked — Thalos’s grin faltered. He waited until the others were busy before muttering under his breath:

“Don’t break him again, golden boy.”

Nery, sitting cross-legged near the mast, gave Thalos a sharp look. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

“Better than talking to Damon,” Thalos shot back, quick as ever. “His conversation skills are worse than my jokes.”

That earned a real laugh from Galene, sharp and bright. The weight eased again. Thalos leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.

It was a game he never stopped playing — carrying their shadows so they could keep walking. But gods, he wished Percy would lean on them too, instead of carrying his alone.

Achilles had watched Percy laugh with his Guard across the decks, the sound carrying faintly over the waves. It should have made him smile. It did, in part. But the smile soured at the edges when Percy leaned into Nery’s shoulder without hesitation — when his hand brushed Galene’s braid and he didn’t flinch.

With them, Percy looked unburdened. With him, Percy sometimes stiffened like a bowstring pulled too tight.

The memory stung worse than a spear.

Patroclus leaned against the rail beside him, eyes following the same boy, the same easy grin. “He’s healing,” Patroclus murmured. “You can see it in the way he laughs again.”

Achilles’ jaw clenched. “He doesn’t laugh like that with me.”

Patroclus turned his head, studying him. Achilles stood tall as always, sun catching in his hair, but his hands were white-knuckled where they gripped the wood. His gaze never left Percy.

“He flinched yesterday,” Achilles said quietly. “I touched his arm, and he—he didn’t mean to, I know, but… he pulled away before he even realized it was me.” His throat worked, voice raw. “I swore I’d never hurt him. And yet—”

Patroclus laid a steady hand over his. “You didn’t hurt him. Not like that. His wound isn’t on his skin, Achilles. It’s in here.” He touched his own chest, right above his heart. “And that takes longer to mend.”

Achilles turned, eyes blazing with something sharp, desperate. “How long? How long must I wait before he looks at me the way he did before Mysia? Before he trusts me again?”

Patroclus met his gaze without flinching. “As long as it takes.” His tone was gentle but firm. “You can’t wrestle this back, Achilles. You can’t storm his heart the way you storm a battlefield. If you try, you’ll only break him further.”

Achilles swallowed hard, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of his own strength had turned against him. He turned back toward the deck where Percy now sat cross-legged among his Guard, laughing as Lykomedes pretended to braid flowers into Damon’s beard.

“He looks happier without me,” Achilles whispered.

“No,” Patroclus corrected softly. “He looks happier because of you. Because you gave your life to save his. Because he knows you love him. He just… needs time to believe it again. To believe it won’t cost him more pain.”

Achilles’s eyes burned. He forced himself to breathe with the roll of the waves. Time. He had never been patient — the world bent to his speed, to his hunger for glory. But with Percy… he would wait.

As long as it took.

Percy hadn’t meant to look. He really hadn’t.

He’d only come out to breathe — the cabin felt too tight, the air too heavy with unspoken words. The deck was quiet, most men asleep, only the creak of ropes and the lap of water against the hull filling the dark.

And there Achilles stood, half-silhouetted by torchlight, leaning against the rail with Patroclus close at his side. His golden head was bowed, his shoulders tight as drawn bowstrings. The way his jaw clenched, the way his hands gripped the wood as though he might shatter it — Percy knew that posture too well. He’d worn it himself after nights of blood and failure.

He shouldn’t have listened. But the wind carried words too easily over the water.

“…he flinched,” Achilles was saying, voice so low and rough Percy barely recognized it. “I touched him, and he pulled away.” His chest hitched, the sound breaking something in Percy’s ribcage. “He doesn’t laugh with me the way he used to.”

Patroclus’s answer was soft, too soft to catch every word, but Percy heard enough: as long as it takes… don’t storm his heart… wait.

Percy slipped back into the shadows, his stomach twisting.

Gods.

He’d thought the ache was only his — the weight of betrayal, the hollow of trust cracked through. But seeing Achilles’s face, hearing the pain in his voice… it landed like a knife turned backward. Achilles hurt. Achilles, who had tied his life to Percy’s without hesitation, who had carried him through storm and fever, who had laughed as though the sun itself answered to him — and now Percy was the reason for his sorrow.

His chest burned. He pressed his fist to it, as though he could smother the ache. He hated it. Hated that his broken trust had become Achilles’s punishment. Hated that every time he pulled back, Achilles’s eyes dimmed just a little more.

He wanted to fix it. Gods, he wanted to run to him now, to fall against his chest and say I’m trying, I swear I’m trying. But the nightmares still clung, the memory of Achilles’s sword flashing where it should never have been. His heart wouldn’t let go so quickly, even if his soul longed to.

And so Percy stood in the shadows, caught in the cruelest trap of all — hurting, because he couldn’t yet trust Achilles fully, and hurting more because that hurt was breaking Achilles in turn.

When he finally slipped back into the cabin, the pillow was damp with silent tears before sleep dragged him under.

Patroclus paused in the doorway, hand on the curtain of worn canvas, his voice caught in his throat.

Percy was curled on the pallet, back to the door, shoulders trembling in the dim light. The pillow beneath him was dark with damp, his fist knotted in the fabric as if holding himself together by force alone.

“Percy,” Patroclus said softly.

Percy stiffened, then turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes were red, lashes clumped with tears. “I’m fine.”

Patroclus stepped inside anyway, closing the flap behind him. He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, not touching yet, only close. “You don’t look fine.”

Percy gave a broken laugh, muffled by the pillow. “Guess I’m not very good at hiding things.”

Patroclus tilted his head, watching him with steady gentleness. “You don’t have to hide them from me.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the creak of wood and the sigh of waves against the hull. Then Percy’s lips parted, the words spilling like something he’d dammed up too long.

“I heard him.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Achilles. Talking to you. Saying I flinched. That I don’t laugh with him anymore.” His throat tightened, and he buried his face in his hands. “He looked so broken, Patroclus. And it’s because of me.”

Patroclus’s chest ached. He reached, gently prying Percy’s hands from his face, holding them in his own. “It’s not because of you. It’s because of what happened. Because of Mysia. He knows he hurt you, Percy. That’s what breaks him.”

“But I can’t—” Percy’s voice cracked. He shook his head, curls falling over wet cheeks. “I can’t just forget it. I try. Gods, I try. But every time he looks at me, I remember. And then I see his eyes, and it’s like—like I’m hurting him back. And I hate it. I hate that I’m the reason he’s sad.”

Patroclus pulled him closer then, wrapping his arms around Percy’s trembling frame, pressing his chin into the curls. “Listen to me. You didn’t do this. Achilles made his choice, and he regrets it more than anything. But your heart has every right to take its time. That’s not cruelty, Percy. That’s healing.”

Percy’s voice was muffled against Patroclus’s chest. “And if I never heal?”

Patroclus’s arms tightened. “Then Achilles will wait anyway. So will I. We’re not going anywhere.”

For a long time, Percy clung to him, shoulders shaking, his breath damp against Patroclus’s tunic. And though his heart still hurt, though the cracks hadn’t yet closed, some small part of him eased — because Patroclus’s words carried no demand, only patience.

And patience was something Percy had almost forgotten could exist.

The days stretched into weeks, and the storm’s wounds—on ships, on soldiers, on hearts—began to knit themselves closed.

Percy, Achilles, and Patroclus fell into a rhythm again. Not the same as before Mysia—more tentative, more careful—but it was something steady, and steady was enough.

Achilles tried in small ways. He gave Percy the choicest cuts of fish when meals were meager. He braided flowers into Percy’s hair after Galene teased him into wearing them again. He offered him his cloak whenever the sea wind cut sharp, even when Percy rolled his eyes and said he didn’t need it. Each gesture was wordless, simple, but they stacked like stones, slowly rebuilding the trust he’d cracked.

Patroclus, ever the bridge between them, leaned into laughter and softness. He read stories aloud by lamplight, Percy tucked against his side while Achilles sprawled at their feet. He teased Achilles until Percy snorted and shoved him, only for Achilles to grin wide and chase Percy across the deck, their laughter startling sailors awake. For every shadow that lingered, Patroclus painted light across it.

Percy, though cautious at first, found his heart softening in spite of himself. One night, he woke from a nightmare to find Achilles already sitting awake at his side, silent but present, eyes heavy with worry. Another day, when his arms gave out after hours of training, Achilles wordlessly took the sword from his grip and finished the drill beside him, sweat and sunlight gleaming like a promise.

And slowly, Percy realized that something inside him was mending. The crack in his trust didn’t vanish, but it no longer bled. Where fear had lodged sharp, warmth began to seep in again. He found himself leaning into Achilles’s shoulder without thinking, laughing at Patroclus’s dry humor, dozing against them both as though the sea itself rocked him safe.

The Guard watched from a distance, their smiles quiet, their relief unspoken. Even Odysseus, sharp-eyed as ever, noted the change: the trio moved again like a single current, not fractured streams.

The fleet healed, too—ships patched, sails mended, men fed and rested. But it was the sight of Percy between Achilles and Patroclus, laughter tugging at his lips again, that made it feel like the voyage itself had steadied.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, the sea stretched out like black glass broken only by silver moonlight. The ship rocked gently, most of the crew already below deck, their murmurs fading into quiet.

Percy had been leaning on the railing, letting the night breeze tangle his curls, when a familiar hand brushed his shoulder.

“Come,” Achilles said simply.

Percy turned, blinking. “What—where?”

Achilles’s mouth quirked in a small smile, one that looked almost shy. “Just… come.”

He didn’t argue—too tired to, too curious not to—and let Achilles lead him toward the stern. As they reached the far edge of the deck, Percy stopped short.

The space had been transformed.

A blanket had been spread across the planks, weighed at the corners with jars of water and little heaps of polished stones. A small lantern flickered at the center, throwing a warm glow. Beside it sat a dish of figs, slices of bread, and a flask of wine—all stolen, no doubt, from the officers’ rations.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t gilded or fine. But it was private, and it was meant for him.

Percy stared, struck silent. “Achilles…”

The warrior shifted on his feet, suddenly uncertain. “Patroclus helped a little,” he admitted. “Mostly stealing the wine before Odysseus noticed. But the rest—this—I wanted to do it.” His blue eyes, so fierce in battle, softened to something raw. “For you.”

Percy’s throat closed. He lowered himself onto the blanket, fingers brushing over the worn fabric, the still-warm bread. He looked up at Achilles, green eyes shining in the lantern glow. “This is… gods, I don’t even have words.”

Achilles sank down opposite him, their knees nearly touching. For a while they said nothing, just shared food and wine, the sea hushing around them. Percy found himself watching Achilles in the lamplight—the way his golden hair caught the fire’s glow, the way his smile softened when he thought Percy wasn’t looking.

At last, Percy broke the silence. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I did,” Achilles said, firm but quiet. “Because you deserve more than apologies. You deserve nights like this. Even if it’s only figs and bread stolen from Odysseus.”

Percy laughed softly, though his eyes blurred. “Only figs and bread… says the man who turned a war council on its head for me.”

Achilles leaned forward then, close enough Percy could feel the warmth of his breath. “I’d turn more than councils for you.” His voice dropped, rough with truth. “I’d turn the whole world.”

Percy swallowed hard, his heart aching in a way that felt almost good. He didn’t pull away. Not this time.

They sat together long into the night, the lantern burning low, until Percy found himself leaning against Achilles’s shoulder. And for the first time since Mysia, it didn’t hurt—it felt like coming home.

The lantern flame danced low, painting soft gold across Achilles’s face. He was close—so close Percy could see the tiny flecks of lighter blue in his eyes, the faint scar at his jaw, the curve of his mouth as he hesitated. For once, Achilles didn’t rush forward. He didn’t claim, didn’t demand. He just waited.

And Percy realized—Achilles was waiting for him.

The thought made his chest ache. Achilles had stormed through war councils and battlefields without hesitation, but here, with Percy, he held himself back. Because he knew Percy still carried hurt. Because he wanted Percy’s trust more than his own glory.

That was when Percy’s heart cracked open.

He shifted closer, the blanket rough beneath his palms as he braced himself. His breath trembled, but his voice was steady. “You don’t get to wait forever, Achilles.”

Achilles blinked, caught off guard. “Percy—”

Percy didn’t let him finish. He reached up, fingers curling into the front of Achilles’s tunic, and pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t gentle—not at first. It was raw, fierce, the kind of kiss that said I want this! I love you! Achilles froze for half a heartbeat, then melted into it, answering with equal fire. His hand cupped the back of Percy’s neck, steady but never forcing, grounding Percy in the storm of his own choosing.

When they broke apart, Percy’s chest heaved. His green eyes shone wet in the lantern light, his lips red from the press. He leaned his forehead against Achilles’s, whispering, almost angry at how much it mattered:

“You hurt me. But gods help me, I still… I still want this.”

Achilles’s breath caught. His hands trembled against Percy’s skin. “Then take it,” he said, voice breaking. “Take all of me.”

Percy kissed him again—slower this time, tender, a promise wrapped in salt and moonlight. Achilles responded with the reverence of a prayer.

For the first time since Mysia, Percy didn’t feel broken. He felt whole, and warm, and wanted.

The world narrowed to the sound of the sea and the warmth of Achilles’s arms. Percy let himself sink into it, his head resting against the curve of Achilles’s shoulder, curls damp with sea-spray and wine. Achilles’s cloak had slipped down onto the blanket, and Percy tugged it over them both, nestling closer until their bodies fit together as if they had always belonged that way.

They didn’t speak again. The words had already been said, and the silence between them no longer felt heavy—it felt safe. Percy’s lashes fluttered shut, his breathing evening out, the exhaustion of storm, battle, and heartache finally claiming him. Achilles stayed awake a little longer, his cheek pressed to Percy’s hair, his arms holding him gently but unshakably.

Eventually, even he drifted off.

The lantern burned low, then out, leaving only moonlight and the hush of waves. Two figures on a blanket, tangled together, the golden warrior and the sea-born prince, both asleep with soft expressions that neither wore often.

It was like that when Patroclus found them.

He had woken in their cabin to an empty bed, Achilles gone, Percy nowhere in sight. Panic drove him out onto the deck, bare-footed and breathless—until he reached the stern and stopped short.

There they were.

Percy curled against Achilles’s chest, Achilles wrapped protectively around him, both breathing slow in sleep. The empty dishes and flask sat forgotten nearby, the blanket bunched beneath them.

Patroclus’s heart clenched, not with jealousy, but with a warmth so fierce it almost hurt. Achilles looked softer than he had in weeks, the harsh lines of grief and pride eased in slumber. Percy—his stormy, stubborn, beautiful Percy—looked at peace for the first time since Mysia.

Patroclus knelt beside them, careful not to wake them. He tugged the edge of the cloak higher, shielding Percy’s bare shoulder from the chill. His fingers brushed Percy’s curls once, gently, before he pulled back.

“Finally,” he whispered, a smile tugging at his lips.

He didn’t disturb them. He just sat nearby, keeping watch as the night deepened, until dawn began to silver the sea.

And when Achilles stirred at last, blinking down at Percy still in his arms, Patroclus only smiled and murmured, “About time.”

Percy ducked into the Guard’s quarters the next morning, hair still mussed from sleep, cheeks a little too pink to be explained by the sea breeze alone. Nery noticed first—the way Percy’s step was lighter, the lines of exhaustion softened. Thalos noticed second—because he noticed everything, and because Percy couldn’t hide a secret from him if he tried.

The two of them were repairing gear when Percy settled down cross-legged on the floor between them. For a long moment he just toyed with a strap of leather, eyes down, lips curved in a shy smile.

Thalos arched an eyebrow. “Well, well. Someone looks like he swallowed the sun. Care to explain, Captain, or should I guess?”

Percy groaned, dragging a hand through his curls. “Gods, Thalos, do you have to be like this?”

“Yes,” Thalos said cheerfully.

Nery set his work aside, watching him with that patient, steady look that always made Percy want to talk. “What happened?”

For a moment Percy hesitated—then the words tumbled out, quick and breathless. “I forgave him. Achilles. I finally… I let it go. And—” He flushed deeper, green eyes flicking up and away again. “We kissed.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then Thalos whooped so loudly half the Guard probably heard. He thumped Percy on the shoulder, grinning like he’d just won a bet. “Our Prince had his first kiss! About time! And with the golden boy, no less. Tell me everything—was it good? Was it clumsy? Did he trip over his own perfect hair?”

“Thalos,” Nery cut in, though there was a rare smile tugging at his mouth. He leaned closer to Percy, voice soft. “Was it good?”

Percy’s lips curved helplessly, his whole face lighting. “It was… it was everything. Warm. Safe. Like…” He searched for words, then let out a shaky laugh. “Like coming home. Gods, I never thought I’d—” His voice cracked, and he rubbed at his eyes quickly, embarrassed. “I never thought I’d have that.”

Thalos’s teasing faded. He bumped Percy’s knee with his own. “You deserve it, Percy. Every bit of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Nery’s hand settled briefly on Percy’s shoulder, grounding. “Then hold onto it. Don’t let fear steal it away again.”

Percy nodded, throat tight but smiling still. “I won’t.”

For a while, the three of them sat in easy silence, the sea rocking gently beneath the hull. Percy leaned back against a crate, his heart lighter and his Guard—his brothers—smiled with him.

Achilles was still grinning when he ducked back into the cabin later that morning, hair damp from a hasty wash, lips bitten red from smiling too much. Patroclus was already there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, waiting with the kind of patience that always made Achilles feel both seen and cornered.

Achilles paused halfway out of his armor, blinking at him. “…What?”

Patroclus’s mouth tugged into a small, knowing smile. “You kissed him.”

Achilles froze, then let out a low laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Gods, am I that obvious?”

“Yes,” Patroclus said, warm and merciless.

Achilles sank down beside him, unable to hold still. His leg bounced, his hands restless, as though the joy was too much for his body to contain. “Patroclus—it was—” His voice caught, and he shook his head, almost frustrated at the lack of words. “It wasn’t like any other kiss. It was… Percy. Soft and fierce all at once. He pulled me in like I was something worth choosing. Do you understand?”

Patroclus’s smile gentled. He reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from Achilles’s brow. “I understand.”

Achilles’s breath left him in a rush. He pressed his forehead to Patroclus’s shoulder, his voice muffled but raw. “I thought I’d lost him. After Mysia—after the way he looked at me—I thought I’d ruined it forever. And then last night… he gave me everything back.”

Patroclus’s arms curled around him, steady, warm. “You didn’t ruin it. You made a mistake, Achilles, and you’re making it right. That’s what matters.”

Achilles’s throat tightened. He pulled back enough to meet Patroclus’s gaze, blue eyes bright and wet. “I love him,” he admitted, the words tearing out of him like a confession. “Gods, I love him. I love you, and I love him, and it terrifies me because I’ve never—” He broke off, shaking his head.

Patroclus didn’t flinch. His hand cupped Achilles’s cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against the stubble there. “Then let it terrify you. Love always does. But don’t doubt it. Not with him, not with me. He chose you, Achilles. Let yourself believe that.”

Achilles’s breath shuddered out. Slowly, a smile broke through again, smaller this time but steadier. “I’ll try.”

Patroclus kissed his temple, lingering there. “Good. Because now that he’s kissed you once, I don’t think he’ll stop.”

That pulled a laugh out of Achilles at last—bright, boyish, unguarded. He pulled Patroclus close, holding him tight, the echo of Percy’s lips still burning on his own.

The weeks that followed blurred into rhythm. The voyage felt almost like peaceful.

Percy moved easily between his worlds. Some mornings he spent with the Guard, laughing with Galene, sparring with Damon until both were drenched in sweat, listening quietly when Nery kept the others steady. Other days he lingered with Achilles and Patroclus, sharing bread at dawn, stretched out on the deck at noon with the sun on their faces, tucked safe between them at night when the sea grew too loud for sleep.

The three of them found new ways to be together. Achilles learned to braid hair from Galene, fumbling and scowling while Percy teased him mercilessly, until Patroclus leaned in with patient hands and showed him how to do it properly. Percy wore the lopsided braid proudly anyway, claiming it made him look “impossibly stylish.” Patroclus nearly dropped the comb laughing.

Meals turned into games of trading bites—Achilles slipping figs into Percy’s mouth when he wasn’t looking, Patroclus breaking bread and tucking the warm pieces into Percy’s hands, Percy retaliating by feeding them salted fish with exaggerated flourish. The soldiers who watched from a distance whispered in disbelief: Achilles, the golden son, and Patroclus, his shadow, undone into gentleness by the sea-born prince.

The Guard noticed too. They caught their captain smiling more, his shoulders lighter, his laughter ringing clearer. Thalos joked loudly that Percy’s “sour mood had been cured by love,” earning a cuff to the head from Idyia and a warning look from Nery—but Percy only rolled his eyes, too happy to be truly annoyed.

Evenings were the sweetest. Percy sprawled across both Achilles and Patroclus under the stars, recounting stories of pirate raids and island festivals, his voice lulling them into warmth and drowsy smiles. Achilles, for once, was content to listen, his cheek pressed to Percy’s curls, while Patroclus traced lazy patterns over the back of Percy’s hand.

Days bled into weeks, steady as tide. The fleet grew quieter, calmer—soldiers no longer muttered of curses or storms, but of how the sea seemed almost kind with Percyon among them.

And then, one crisp morning nearly a month after leaving Aulis, a shout rang down from the crow’s nest:

“Land!”

The word spread like fire, soldiers rushing to rails, sailors squinting toward the horizon. A faint dark line marked the world ahead—coastline. At last, after over a month at sea.

Percy leaned against the railing, hair whipping in the wind, Achilles at one shoulder, Patroclus at the other. The sea stretched wide behind them, the unknown beckoned ahead.

Chapter Text

many weeks ago, shortly after the storm

The deck still smelled of salt and fear. The storm had passed, but its teeth were everywhere—splintered planks, ropes frayed raw, blood staining the seams between boards. The Guard moved stiffly, battered but alive, every one of them. Percy had seen to that.

Thalos made sure to be the first one to break the silence.
“Gods above, Damon, I swear you were louder than the thunder. Next storm, I’m stuffing your mouth with rope.”

Damon grunted but didn’t rise to the bait. Galene snorted, though, and that was victory enough. Idyia rolled her eyes at him, but her shoulders eased a little. Even Kaeneus cracked the ghost of a smile.

That was the trick—if he could keep them laughing, even at his own nonsense, then maybe the darkness wouldn’t swallow them whole.

A cough drew his attention. The stranger. The one Percy had dragged from the waves half-dead. Philoctetes, they called him. His skin was still pale, his movements stiff, but he sat among them now, hunched against a coil of rope as though unsure if he belonged.

Thalos grinned and sidled closer. “Careful, sit too close and you’ll be drafted into the Guard by mistake. We’re a rough lot—no returns accepted.”

Philo’s head turned, eyes sharp despite the lingering exhaustion. “From the sound of you, you’d be the first they’d toss back.”

Thalos barked a laugh. Oh, he liked this one. “Finally, someone with wit aboard. I might keep you.”

The Guard chuckled. Even Nery’s mouth twitched at the corner, which was rarer than sunlight at midnight.

It didn’t take long for Philoctetes to stop hovering like a spooked cat and start moving among them. He was still weak, still favoring his side, but he asked questions. Too many questions. About Percy, about the Guard, about their battles before Aulis.

Thalos watched him with a mix of suspicion and amusement. Philo’s eyes lit when Damon spoke of the pirates they’d cut down in the narrow straits. He listened intently when Galene described how Percy had turned the tide itself during one raid. He even pressed Lykomedes on how the Guard had been chosen—though that one earned him only a crooked grin and a vague, “Percy knows a good man when he sees one.”

Finally, Philo turned to him. “And what about you? What makes you worthy to fight at his side?”

Thalos leaned back, spread his arms wide, and grinned. “My good looks, obviously. Keeps the enemy distracted.”

The Guard groaned, but Philo surprised him by smirking. “If that’s true, the enemy must be blind.”

That earned him a sharp bark of laughter. Gods, the boy had teeth.

Still, Thalos’s gaze drifted past him, toward the prow where Percy sat. Achilles and Patroclus were with him now, one on each side like guards of flesh and bone. Percy leaned into them more than he used to, as though their closeness was a shield he didn’t want to set down. From here, Thalos couldn’t hear their words, but he could see the softness in Percy’s shoulders, the way his storm-bright eyes light up when he looked at Achilles, the way Patroclus brushed a hand lightly against his back.

Thalos’s grin faltered for just a heartbeat. He wasn’t jealous—not truly. Percy belonged to the sea first, and then to whatever gods decided to keep him breathing. But it stung, a little, to know that while the Guard could fight beside him, laugh beside him, bleed beside him… Percy’s heart was being mended elsewhere.

Nery noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. He murmured low, just for Thalos: “That’s what we wanted for him. Not just loyalty. Love.”

Thalos swallowed and forced a crooked grin back into place. “Aye. Doesn’t mean I can’t grumble about it.”

Nery snorted, which was as close to agreement as he ever gave.

Thalos looked back at Percy, watching the way Achilles leaned close, whispering something that made Percy’s lips twitch. And he thought, for the first time, that maybe—just maybe—the boy they called Prince of the Sea was finally finding something like peace.

The day after the storm, the Guard was restless. Too much quiet after too much chaos always left them twitching. Damon had already re-braided his hair twice, Galene was pacing, and Kaeneus had started sharpening a dagger that was already sharp enough to shave a man bald.

Philoctetes, newly recovered enough to stand without wobbling, asked if he might join their drills.

Thalos nearly choked on his water. “Drills? With us? Boy, you’re barely patched together, and you want Damon here to break your arms off like twigs?”

Philo’s dark eyes narrowed. “I can hold my own.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Thalos said cheerfully. “But holding your own against Damon isn’t holding your own—it’s volunteering for early burial.”

“Then I’ll start with you.”

That shut Thalos up—for all of half a heartbeat. Then his grin split wide, sharp as a fishhook. “Me? Gods, you do know how to flatter a man. Picking the prettiest one for your first spar. Can’t say I blame you.”

The Guard groaned in chorus. “Don’t encourage him,” Idyia muttered, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth.

Philo smirked. “Prettiest? More like loudest. If I beat you, do I get your place at Percy’s side?”

That earned a full bark of laughter from Thalos. “Oh, you think that’s how it works? One duel, winner gets Percy? Gods, I’d have been deposed a dozen times by now.” He rolled his shoulders, already reaching for a practice spear. “Fine then, come on, little fish. Let’s see if you can swim.”

They squared off in the cleared space between the tents, Guard forming a loose circle around them. Damon leaned on his spear, Kaeneus crossed his arms, Galene’s eyes sparkled with amusement. Percy wasn’t here—thank the gods—or Thalos would have been the one getting scolded.

Philo held the spear like he’d been born with it. His stance was good, weight balanced, eyes sharp. Thalos raised his own lazily, twirling it once before leveling the tip.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Are you?”

Thalos grinned. “Always.”

The first clash was quick. Philo lunged, Thalos sidestepped, spun, and tapped the butt of his spear against Philo’s ribs with just enough force to sting.

“First lesson,” Thalos said brightly. “Never go straight for the chest unless you’re certain your opponent’s an idiot.”

Philo hissed, rubbed his side, and shot back, “Second lesson: don’t gloat too early.” He feinted left, spun right, and nearly knocked the spear from Thalos’s hands.

The Guard hooted. Thalos’s grin only widened. “Ah, you’ve got bite! Careful, you’ll make me blush.”

They went back and forth, sweat building, feet sliding over the deck. Philo was quick—quicker than Thalos expected—and not afraid to take risks. Twice he grazed Thalos, once across the shoulder, once the thigh.

But Thalos had been sparring with this Guard for years. He knew how to draw out a fight, how to keep it playful even as the crowd whooped around them. He let Philo win ground, then stole it back with a flourish. He cracked jokes the entire time:

“Careful, Damon, don’t get jealous—he’s better looking than you.”
“Galene, I think I’ve found a new partner for dances.”
“Kaeneus, you watching? This lad’s going to steal your title as grumpiest in the Guard.”

The Guard roared with laughter. Even Philo cracked a grin once or twice despite himself.

Finally, Thalos hooked the boy’s spear with his own, twisted, and sent it clattering to the ground. He leveled the blunt tip against Philo’s chest and leaned in with a smirk. “Lesson three: don’t let me talk you into distraction.”

Philo was panting, sweat plastering his hair to his brow, but his eyes burned with stubborn fire. He smirked back. “Lesson four: don’t think this means you’ve won the war.”

The Guard whooped. Thalos laughed, hauled him upright, and clapped him hard on the back. “Oh, I like you. Gods help us all, I really do.”

Philo shook his head, half-grinning despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Handsome and insufferable,” Thalos corrected, slinging an arm around his shoulders as the Guard closed in with cheers. “That’s my specialty.”

And for the first time since the storm, Thalos felt the air lighten—because sometimes, laughter and bruises were the best medicine.

It had been weeks of endless blue. Sky, sea, sails—the same canvas painted over and over until even his jokes started to taste stale. Then, one morning, Galene shouted from the prow:

“Land!”

The cry rippled down the ship like lightning. Men scrambled to the rails, voices rising in excitement. Thalos shoved past Damon’s mountain of a shoulder to see for himself.

There it was—green and gold on the horizon, hills lifting like promises after too long adrift.

Percy stood at the bow already, Nery at his side, his hair wild from the wind. He didn’t shout, didn’t grin like the others. He just stared, quiet, thoughtful, like he could hear something in the waves the rest of them couldn’t.

Thalos jogged up beside him, nudging his elbow. “You’d think a lad seeing land after so many weeks would at least smile. Go on, give us one—it won’t kill you.”

Percy glanced at him, lips twitching. “It’s not Troy.”

The words were soft, but they landed like stones in the gut. Thalos felt the Guard stiffen around him. They all knew. Percy had ordered them not to fight until they reached Troy, and they’d sworn to him they wouldn’t. But the kings—Agamemnon especially—wouldn’t care.

Thalos tried for a grin anyway. “Not Troy, aye. But at least we can stretch our legs without falling over each other like Damon after wine.”

That earned him a low chuckle from Kaeneus and even a smirk from Idyia. But Percy didn’t laugh. His jaw was tight, his green eyes locked on the coastline.

Nery leaned closer, murmuring, “We follow your word, Percy. No blades until you say so.”

Thalos nodded, loud enough for the others to hear. “Aye. We’re the Guard of the Deep, not Agamemnon’s lapdogs. If he wants a war here, he can bleed for it himself.”

Percy’s shoulders eased a fraction, but only a fraction. He didn’t thank them, didn’t need to. They’d chosen him long ago.

Thalos glanced at him again, at the way the wind tangled flowers still braided into his hair from Idyia’s last idle moment. Stubborn, haunted, but theirs. Always theirs.

And gods help anyone who tried to make him raise a sword.

The campfires on the beach burned low, painting the sand red and gold. The kings were arguing in their tents, voices carrying sharp on the night air. Thalos lingered by the waterline, skipping a shell across the waves, when a familiar figure slipped past the shadows of men drilling with their spears.

“Philo,” Thalos called, half a grin on his lips. “What are you doing over there, skulking like a thief?”

Philoctetes turned, guilty written all over his face. His bow hung at his shoulder, quiver freshly filled. “Getting ready,” he said flatly. “They’ll need every man tomorrow.”

Thalos raised a brow, stepping closer. “Every man, aye—but not you. You shouldn’t be throwing yourself into this.”

Philo bristled. “I owe Percy. He pulled me from the waves. I won’t sit on my hands while the rest of them fight.”

“That’s the trick, isn’t it?” Thalos crouched down on a driftwood log, resting his chin on his fist. “This isn’t Troy. It’s Mysia. Wrong city, wrong fight. Percy swore us off it—and gods know I don’t fancy seeing his face if we go against his word. He’s got that disappointed look that makes a man feel smaller than a barnacle.”

Philo’s lips twitched, but his eyes stayed hard. “I still have an oath to Agamemnon. To the kings. To Greece.”

Thalos sighed, leaning back and staring up at the stars. “And where’s that oath when you’re rotting in the mud, killed in some skirmish that isn’t even the war we came for? Where’s the glory in gutting farmers who just want to keep their wives and children safe behind walls?”

The silence stretched. The waves lapped the shore. Finally, Thalos tilted his head, softer now. “You said you owed Percy, aye? Then pay him back the only way that matters—by living. By keeping that bow of yours unbroken, your heart still beating. That’s all he’d ever ask.”

Philo’s jaw worked. He stared at the sand as though it held answers. Then, quietly, “And if they notice I’m gone?”

Thalos grinned, sharp and wolfish. “Let them. Come skulk on our ship instead. Wait it out with the Guard. You’ll be safer there—and you won’t have to watch innocents bleed.”

For a long moment, Philo hesitated. Then he nodded once, short and sharp.

That night, when the kings marched their armies toward Mysia’s walls, Philoctetes was nowhere to be found among them. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the Guard’s deck, his bow resting across his knees, waiting in silence.

And Thalos—though he would never say it aloud—felt something fierce and warm in his chest.

One more life saved. One more thread pulled free from Agamemnon’s madness.

The Guard ship was quiet when Percy came back. Too quiet.

Thalos had been sitting on a coil of rope with Philo at his side, trading barbs to pass the hours, when the plank creaked. Percy climbed aboard, his hair plastered with rain, his eyes hollow. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t look at anyone. He just crossed the deck with that heavy, dragging silence, and disappeared into his cabin without a word.

The door shut.

And something inside Thalos snapped.

“That son of a—” Thalos was already on his feet, fists clenched. He could see it in Percy’s face—see what had been done to him, what he’d had to watch. “Achilles. I’ll gut him. I swear, I’ll—”

“Thalos—” Philo started, but Thalos was already moving, storming toward the plank that led to Achilles’s ship. His mind was red, hot with fury. Achilles—golden-haired, glory-drunk Achilles—strutting in blood like it was wine. Percy’s eyes, usually so alive, had been dead when he came back. Dead because of him.

“I’ll slit his throat in his sleep,” Thalos spat, his voice shaking. “I’ll make him choke on the glory he loves so much.”

A hand caught his arm, hard. Philo. The bowman planted himself in front of him, eyes wide, holding on as if his life depended on it.

“Thalos, no.”

“Let me go!” Thalos snarled, shoving against him. But Philo didn’t budge. For a lean archer, he was stubborn as stone.

“You’ll only make it worse,” Philo hissed. “For Percy. For all of us. You think he wants blood between his Guard and Achilles? You think that will heal him?”

Thalos froze, breath ragged. He could still see Percy’s face, pale and stricken, hear the silence in his steps. Gods, it broke him in half.

Philo’s grip softened, but didn’t release. His voice was low now, steady. “You love him, don’t you? Not like Achilles or Patroclus—but he’s your brother. You’d die for him. Then do what he would want. Stand by him. Not make more blood.”

Thalos trembled, fists still tight, but the fight drained from him. Slowly, he let his head fall forward, resting his brow against Philo’s shoulder. “I just… I can’t stand to see him like that.”

“I know,” Philo murmured, one hand steady on his back. “But anger won’t fix it. Only time will.”

For a long moment, Thalos stood there, chest heaving, rage and grief tangling in his throat. At last, he let out a rough laugh—small, broken. “Gods, you’re a nag. Almost as bad as Nery.”

Philo huffed. “I take it as a compliment.”

Thalos sagged back onto the rope coil, rubbing his hands over his face. His anger still burned, but Philo’s words held. For Percy’s sake, he wouldn’t draw a blade.

But if Achilles ever made Percy’s eyes look that dead again…

Not even Poseidon would be able to hold him back.

The sea stretched endless and calm, the kind of blue that begged for laughter, for songs shouted across the decks. But Percy hadn’t laughed in days.

Thalos had tried everything.

He started small—juggling apples from the rations until one inevitably smacked Damon in the head. Damon grunted, rubbed the spot, and Thalos had expected Percy to grin the way he usually did at their antics. Nothing. Percy only nodded his thanks when Damon tossed the apple back and turned away.

Then Thalos tried stories. Tales of Naxos, of how Nery once slipped on a fish and nearly flattened Kaeneus. Tales of himself, wildly exaggerated—slaying fifty pirates with nothing but a spoon, wooing a princess only to find she snored louder than a war horn. The Guard chuckled, rolled their eyes, shoved him good-naturedly. Percy smiled, faintly, but it never reached his eyes.

Finally, desperate, Thalos stole one of Galene’s flower chains and plopped it straight onto his head, striking a dramatic pose. “Behold,” he declared, “the handsomest maiden of Atlantis. Who wouldn’t fall in love with me at first sight?”

The Guard roared with laughter. Even Galene shoved him, grinning despite herself.

But Percy… Percy only looked at him with tired green eyes and murmured, “You’re ridiculous, Thalos.”

Then he turned back to the rail, staring out at the sea as if it might offer answers he couldn’t find on deck.

Thalos’s grin faltered. He slipped the flowers from his head, twirling them idly in his hands as the laughter died down.

Philo sidled up beside him, voice low. “You can’t force it.”

“I know,” Thalos muttered. His chest ached. Percy had always been the one to laugh first, to tease, to find light even when the world seemed drowned. To see him so silent, so… hollow—it felt wrong, like watching the sea itself forget how to move.

He tossed the flowers aside and squared his shoulders, forcing the grin back onto his face for the others. Someone had to keep the mood afloat. But inside, he swore a quiet oath:

He would make Percy laugh again. Somehow. No matter how long it took.

A week later the fleet lay sprawled across the sea, lanterns bobbing like fireflies on the dark water. The night was calm for once—no storm clouds, no thunder, just the hush of waves against wood. Most of the Guard were asleep, sprawled in hammocks or snoring against barrels.

Thalos was not asleep.

He leaned on the rail, grinning at the faint glow of torches a few ships over. Philoctetes’s ship. He could just picture the archer there—probably cleaning his bow for the tenth time that day, or brooding like a tragic hero. Boring. Too boring.

“Well,” Thalos muttered to himself, stripping his tunic over his head, “someone has to liven things up.”

He dropped silently into the water. The chill bit his skin, but he’d swum in worse. He was a guard of the deep after all. He kicked off, slicing through the waves, keeping his strokes steady and quiet. The fleet was vast, but Thalos was no stranger to slipping past watchmen. If Philo ever asked how he’d gotten so good at sneaking, he’d lie and say “training.” In truth, it was more “years of bad decisions.”

By the time he hauled himself up the side of Philo’s ship, his curls were plastered flat, seawater dripping into his eyes. He swung a leg over the rail and landed on deck with all the grace of a half-drowned cat.

“Gods!” a voice hissed. A figure rose from the shadows, bow half-drawn until the lantern light caught his face. Philo. “Are you mad? You’ll get yourself killed sneaking aboard like that.”

Thalos grinned, wringing water from his hair. “What, no welcome for your favorite flower-crowned Atlantean?”

“You’re not my favorite anything,” Philo muttered, though he lowered the bow. “You’re soaked.”

“Sharp eyes, archer.” Thalos wiggled his brows, wringing water from his tunic. “I was bored. Figured I’d check in, see if you’d drowned in your own gloom yet.”

Philo’s mouth twitched. “You swam half the fleet for that?”

“Of course. Loyalty, friendship, mild insanity—you know, the usual.”

Philo shook his head, but he didn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible stylishly,” Thalos corrected in Percy’s tone, sauntering closer despite leaving puddles in his wake. “So. What’s the great hero of bows and arrows doing tonight? Counting arrowheads? Polishing his quiver?”

“Unlike you,” Philo said dryly, “I like to be ready for battle.”

Thalos leaned against a crate, smirk widening. “Ready for battle, sure. Ready for fun? Not so much.”

Philo gave him a long look—half exasperated, half amused—and sighed. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Thalos clapped him on the shoulder, grinning bright enough to light the deck. “Better than dying of boredom.”

Philo gave him that long-suffering look again—the kind men saved for reckless comrades they couldn’t help but tolerate. He turned toward the mast, fiddling with the bowstring still strung across his lap.

Thalos plopped down beside him without asking, dripping seawater all over the deck. “So, what’s the plan? You going to glare me into leaving, or are we going to have ourselves a proper midnight chat?”

“You’re insufferable,” Philo muttered.

“And yet,” Thalos said cheerfully, “you haven’t shot me.”

A pause. Then, despite himself, Philo’s lips twitched. “Not yet.”

Thalos laughed, leaning back on his elbows, staring up at the stars overhead. The sky was wide and clear, the sea calm as glass, and for once there was no shouting, no chaos, no storms. Just the creak of ropes, the hush of waves, and the faint heat of another body sitting near his.

“You know,” Thalos said after a while, softer now, “I wasn’t joking. About drowning in gloom. You brood enough to put half the kings to shame.”

Philo bristled. “I don’t brood.”

“You do,” Thalos countered, grinning sideways at him. “You’ve got that ‘tragic hero’ thing down pat. Sit in shadows, polish arrows, sigh heavily. It’s a miracle the gods haven’t carved your likeness into marble already.”

Philo huffed out a laugh—quick, sharp, but real. He shook his head, muttering, “You’re ridiculous.”

Thalos shrugged, pleased. “Ridiculous, but effective.” He sat up straighter, tilting his head. “What’s weighing on you, archer? You still thinking about the storm? Or Mysia?”

Philo’s face darkened. His fingers stilled on the bow. “The storm… I should’ve drowned that night. If it weren’t for him—for Percy—” He shook his head. “I owe him my life. And I can’t repay it.”

Something twisted in Thalos’s chest at the raw honesty there. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You’re breathing, aren’t you? That’s repayment enough for Percy. He doesn’t save men to get favors back. He saves them because he can’t bear not to.”

Philo’s jaw tightened. “Still. It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Thalos considered him for a long moment. The man’s face was strong, weather-worn already, but his eyes—they held a weight Thalos knew too well. Survivor’s guilt. The ache of owing too much.

So Thalos grinned, because that was what he did best. “Well, if you’re so desperate to pay him back, you could always pay me instead. I’m much less noble. Happy to take bribes in wine, food, kisses—”

Philo elbowed him, hard enough to nearly knock him off balance. “Idiot.”

Thalos laughed, delighted. “There it is! That smile—gods, I thought your face might crack if it stayed serious much longer.”

Philo tried to hide it, but his grin lingered, small and reluctant. “You’re relentless.”

“Exactly,” Thalos said with mock solemnity. “That’s why you like me.”

Philo rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it.

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the stars bright above, the waves gentle below. Thalos’s clothes dried slowly in the sea breeze, and the weight of battle, storms, and kings felt far away.

When Philo finally spoke again, his voice was low, almost uncertain. “You shouldn’t risk yourself like that. Swimming ship to ship in the dark. You could’ve been seen. Or worse.”

Thalos leaned back again, smirking. “Worth it.”

Philo’s brows drew together. “Why?”

Thalos shrugged, letting his grin soften. “Because you smiled.”

Philo stared at him, speechless, caught between scoffing and… something else. Something quieter.

And for once, Thalos didn’t fill the silence with words. He just sat there, watching Philo’s profile in the lantern light, the curve of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. The man looked away first, muttering something about idiots and troublemakers, but his ears were red.

Thalos hid his own smile in the dark.

Percy ducked into the Guard’s quarters the next morning, curls mussed from sleep, cheeks pink in a way that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. Nery noticed first, of course—Nery always noticed first. Thalos noticed second, because he noticed everything else Percy thought he could hide.

Percy plopped down cross-legged between them, fiddling with a leather strap as if it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. His lips curved in a small, secret smile.

Thalos narrowed his eyes, already grinning. “Well, well. Someone looks like he swallowed the sun. Care to explain, Captain, or should I guess?”

Percy groaned, dragging a hand through his curls. “Gods, Thalos, do you have to be like this?”

“Yes,” Thalos said promptly, smirk widening. “Now out with it—why do you look like you just came back from Elysium?”

Nery set aside his work, his voice calm but curious. “What happened?”

For a moment Percy hesitated, green eyes darting between them. Then the words spilled out, fast and breathless. “I forgave him. Achilles. I finally… let it go. And—” his blush deepened— “we kissed.”

The room went silent for a heartbeat. Then Thalos whooped so loudly half the crew probably heard. He thumped Percy on the shoulder, grinning like he’d just won a bet. “Our Prince had his first kiss! About time! And with the golden boy, no less. Tell me everything—was it good? Was it clumsy? Did he trip over his own perfect hair?”

“Thalos,” Nery cut in, though his lips twitched in a rare smile. He leaned closer to Percy, voice softer. “Was it good?”

Percy’s lips curved helplessly, his whole face lighting. “It was… everything. Warm. Safe. Like…” He faltered, breath catching, then laughed shakily. “Like coming home. Gods, I never thought I’d—” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed quickly at his eyes. “I never thought I’d have that.”

Thalos’s grin softened. He bumped Percy’s knee with his own. “You deserve it, Percy. Every bit of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Percy sniffed, but then a sly glint flickered in his eyes. “Speaking of deserving… where exactly were you the other night, hm? Slipping off ships like a lovesick eel?”

Thalos froze. “What—?”

Nery’s gaze sharpened, amused. “He’s right. You were missing half the night. Care to explain?”

Percy leaned forward, wickedly pleased. “Should I guess, or will you save me the trouble?”

For once, Thalos stammered, ears burning. “I—ah—that is—”

Percy grinned triumphantly, his earlier shyness gone, replaced by bright, teasing warmth. “That’s what I thought.”

Nery chuckled under his breath. Thalos groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Gods save me, I’ve created a monster.”

Percy only laughed, and for a moment the whole cabin rang with it—light and free in a way none of them had heard for too long.

The days blurred into one another. The sea rocked them steady, storms behind them, land still a promise on the horizon. Between drills, repairs, and Percy vanishing more and more to Achilles and Patroclus, Thalos found himself seeking out Philoctetes. And somehow, Philo always seemed to be waiting.

At first, it was just conversation.

They sat on coiled ropes, mending gear, Philo’s big hands surprisingly deft with leather and bowstrings. Thalos cracked jokes, Philo rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward more often than not.

“You laugh at your own jokes more than anyone else,” Philo muttered one afternoon.

“Someone has to,” Thalos shot back. “Otherwise the gods might think me serious.”

And to his satisfaction, Philo’s laugh came easy that time—deep, warm, the kind of sound that stayed with a man.

Another day, they sparred with blunted blades on the deck, the Guard cheering from the sidelines. Philo was good, better than Thalos expected—strong, grounded, patient. Thalos danced around him, quick and taunting, until Philo finally caught him in a lock and shoved him flat on his back.

The Guard roared with laughter.

Thalos groaned up at the sky. “Unfair advantage. You’ve got arms like tree trunks.”

Philo grinned, offering a hand down. “And you’ve got a mouth like a crow.”

Thalos took the hand anyway. “Crows are clever. You should be worried.”

They talked late into nights, too. Perched near the stern where the lanterns burned low, Thalos listened as Philo spoke about his homeland—steep cliffs, hunting trails, the bow his friend had left him. His voice softened when he spoke of it, rough pride shading into longing.

Thalos, in turn, told him about Atlantis. About the first time Percy had dragged him out of the sea half-drowned, and how he’d followed the boy ever since.

“You’re loyal to him,” Philo said once, not accusing, not jealous—just stating.

Thalos nodded, eyes on the stars. “He saved me. Not just my life. He saved the part of me that laughs.” He glanced at Philo, grinning sideways. “And now apparently I’m saving yours.”

Philo shook his head, but his smile lingered longer this time.

On quieter afternoons, Galene and Idyia roped both men into their schemes.

Flowers, of all things. The girls had gathered wild blooms that drifted aboard in floating clumps, and before long Thalos found himself sitting cross-legged with Philo while Galene braided daisies into their hair.

“This is undignified,” Philo grumbled, though he didn’t stop her.

“You look like a god of spring,” Thalos declared, leaning back to admire the crown crooked on Philo’s head.

Philo gave him a flat look. “And you look like an idiot.”

“An idiot with excellent taste,” Thalos countered. And when Idyia burst into laughter, even Philo cracked a reluctant grin.

By the second week, the rest of the Guard had stopped teasing them. Mostly. Nery only raised an eyebrow when Thalos vanished for hours and returned smelling faintly of salt and laughter. Percy—sharp-eyed as ever—said nothing, but the small knowing smile on his face was worse than any jest.

Thalos bore it. Because every time Philo leaned a little closer when he laughed, every time their hands brushed reaching for a rope or a fish or a cup, it felt… worth it.

The more time they spent together, the easier it became. The edge of the tension eased from Philo’s shoulders, and the bitterness of being rejected from the Guard faded into something gentler—belonging, if only in moments.

Thalos noticed the change most in Percy. Their captain came back from Achilles’s ship with pink in his cheeks and softness in his eyes, but he was still fragile in ways the Guard saw clearly. Thalos had stopped trying to force smiles from him. Instead, he found he could offer them through Philo’s laughter, through the way his own heart lightened.

Because when Percy hurt, Thalos carried it. And when Philo smiled, some of that weight lifted.

By the time a cry of “Land!” came from the lookout weeks later, Thalos realized something startling: somewhere between storms and laughter, between braids of flowers and bruises from sparring, Philoctetes had become more than a rescued soldier.

He had become a friend.

And maybe—just maybe—something worth chasing, once the war allowed it.