Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Waves, the scent of the sea, sand beneath my body.

It’s so relaxing, honestly—especially after such an exhausting shift. The problem is... I was asleep in my bed. Not on a tropical beach.

I sit up with a start, gasping, panic flaring in my chest as I look around. Where the hell am I? The sun blazes overhead—foreign and relentless. My heart pounds in my chest. My uniform, the one I always wear at the hospital, is soaked with sand and saltwater.

I sit up, trying to regulate my breathing, but the salty breeze stings my lungs. I glance down at my hands—they're shaking. I run my fingers through my hair, now tangled and gritty with sand. This can’t be real. It can’t. Behind me, the endless ocean crashes in steady waves, like a heartbeat I can’t outrun. In front of me, a stretch of golden sand leads to cliffs dotted with twisted olive trees. No signs of civilization. No familiar streets. No city lights. No hospital smell. I stagger to my feet, wobbling slightly, eyes scanning the vastness. My mind races. Did I sleepwalk here? Did someone bring me? Why?

Panic tightens in my chest as I walk along the shore. The sand is cold under my feet, despite the sun. The taste of salt fills the air. I scan the horizon for any sign of life. No planes, no cars—just the sound of the sea. Then something catches my eye.

A figure, slumped against a rock a few meters away.

Fear and curiosity wrestle inside me, but something—probably the Hippocratic Oath—pushes me forward.

As I approach, I see it’s a guy. Dark, messy hair, pale skin, completely still. His orange t-shirt has an emblem I recognize immediately.

Camp Half-Blood.

For context, I’ve been a Percy Jackson fan since I was thirteen. Every chronically online girl has that one historical obsession in their teens—for me, it was Greek mythology. Rick Riordan was a huge reason why.

So, yesterday I stayed up late reading a Perpollo fanfic. And now, today, I wake up on a beach next to a stranger in a Camp Half-Blood shirt, black hair (and holy shit—is that a white streak?). My heart speeds up, but I shake my head.

“He's probably just a cosplayer,” I tell myself. “Or a fan, like me. No way this is real. This isn’t some damn isekai.”

I kneel beside him. Check his pulse. His chest rises and falls slowly. He’s unconscious—but alive. And he’s stupidly handsome, the kind of handsome you read about in fantasy novels but never actually see in real life. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and sea-green eyes that suddenly snap open and lock onto mine in panic. I barely have time to blink before I’m slammed onto the sand. This guy—hot but still a guy—pins me down, and a sword (where the hell did that come from?!) is pointed directly at my face.

“Who are you?” the boy demands, furious. “Why did you bring me here?” He talks too fast for me to fully understand, but my intermediate English picks it up.

I wish I could tell you I stayed calm and explained everything rationally. Unfortunately, I’m a coward. I joke about death a lot, but in reality, I’m quite fond of being alive.

“Don’t kill me!” I scream, panicking, tears spilling down my face. “Please don’t kill me—I don’t know what I’m doing here either, I swear!”

He frowns, clearly confused. I think I catch a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but he still doesn’t lower the sword. “I asked who you are.”

“My name’s Giuliana!” I blurt. “I woke up here too—I went to sleep after a long shift and now I’m on this beach!” I sob.

He studies me. Maybe he sees I’m not a threat, because he gets off me and offers a hand. “I’m sorry.”

Still shaking, I take it, get to my feet—barely—and nearly fall again when the sword turns into a freaking pen. Now, I’ve never seen one in person, but I’ve seen some pretty realistic cosplays on TikTok. None of them can make a sword disappear and turn into an actual pen.

“Can you see it?” the guy asks. “The sword.” I nod, still stunned. “How did you do that?”

He lets out a sigh, rakes a hand through his hair in frustration, and mutters something about the stupid Mist never working when it’s supposed to. “Look, it’s... uh, complicated. I’ll explain later. But we need to move, okay? Find civilization and all that.”

I’m still pretty scared of this guy, but what other option do I have? The horizon is getting darker. I’d rather not be alone. I nod and ask where we’re going. He shrugs. “No clue. We’ll figure it out on the way. Come on, I’d really rather not get chased by a monster right now.”

I look at him, confused. Monster? But I follow him anyway.

“Where are you from?” he asks curiously. “Your accent—you're not local, right?”

“‘Local’ would mean we’re in your country,” I reply, a little defensive. “And clearly, we’re not in the U.S.”

“How do you know I’m from the U.S.?” he asks, half-shocked.

I give him a look. “The accent, obviously.” I shove my hands into my scrub pockets, trying to warm them.

“But yeah. I’m not from your country. I’m from Colombia.”

“No idea where that is,” the dark-haired guy admits. “But it sounds far.”

We walk in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, he stops and gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry—I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Percy Jackson.”

My jaw has never dropped so hard in my life.

Chapter Text

You know that feeling when you see someone for the first time, but they somehow feel incredibly familiar? That’s exactly how I felt with Percy.

Now, did I instantly trust this man? No. But after spending my entire teenage years looking at fanart of him and reading about his adventures from his point of view… well, it was hard not to trust Percy—his fatal flaw was loyalty, for goodness’ sake.

So here I was, listening to the supposed Perseus Jackson while he tried to convince me that escaping by sea was the best option.

For context, Percy and I didn’t take long to explore the island—yes, you read that right, the ISLAND. Because, as if things weren’t bad enough, we were on an island (which, by the way, is exactly like that Perpollo fanfic I read the night before). And in the most cliché way possible (though I do see the logic), Percy decided the best way to escape was through the sea.

“But we don’t have a boat,” I said innocently, playing dumb. If this guy was really the son of Poseidon, I knew exactly what he meant by "going through the sea."

Percy winced. “Yeah, about that… this might sound crazy, but how much do you know about Greek mythology?”

“The basics,” I replied with a grin. “I was really into it as a teenager, so I know more than the average person. Why?”

“Well…” he ran a hand nervously through his hair and sat down on the sand. “Come, it’s better if you sit and listen carefully.”

Percy looked down at the ground, letting the sand run through his fingers. His voice wasn’t dramatic—it was careful, as if each word was a stone he had to drag out.

“Look… what I’m about to tell you doesn’t make a lot of sense. And if I were in your place, I probably wouldn’t believe it either. But I don’t have another way to explain this.” He looked up at me. “Do you remember those Greek stories? With heroes fighting monsters, gods coming down from the sky just to mess things up?”

I nodded, and he took a deep breath.

“They’re not myths. Not completely. What people call ‘mythology’ is more like… a distorted version of reality.”

He looked at me like he expected me to run or laugh. But I didn’t say anything. I just waited for him to continue.

“I’m… a demigod. Son of Poseidon.”

His voice cracked slightly when he said it. It wasn’t pride or theatrics—it was like he still wasn’t fully comfortable with the word. Resignation.

“I’ve seen things you won’t find in any book. I’ve fought monsters that shouldn’t exist. I’ve lost people. And I’ve survived more times than I care to admit. Not because I’m invincible. Because I wasn’t given another choice.”

There was a moment of silence. The sea seemed to roar a little louder.

“I don’t want to scare you. It’s just… if we’re going to get out of this, you need to know what kind of world you’re in. And if you’re here with me… I hate to say it, but it’s probably not by accident.”

I looked at him seriously as I weighed my options. I’m not stupid, and I’m not in denial—that’s just delaying the inevitable. Of course I believed him, and he was absolutely right. It wasn’t a coincidence we ended up here together. But I couldn’t just blurt out “I believe you” right away—that’d be weird. So, time to use my acting skills.

“Dude, you sound insane,” I said with a flat expression. He sighed in defeat, but before he could respond, I continued, “But I believe you. Well, not completely—Greek mythology? You sound nuts. But… well, we magically appeared on a deserted island, and I’m not such a heavy sleeper that I wouldn’t have noticed being transported. Plus, that trick with the pen and the sword? Pretty convincing.”

Percy looked relieved—and a little embarrassed—when I mentioned the sword. “Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t know who you were, and my first instinct was to attack.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” I replied playfully. “But next time, try not to threaten a doctor who’s worried about your well-being.”

“You’re a doctor?” he asked, surprised. “Aren’t you a little young?”

“Eh, well, I don’t know how things work in your country, but where I’m from, graduating at this age isn’t a big deal.” I shrugged and stood up, and Percy followed.

“How old are you?” Percy asked as he brushed the sand off his pants.

“Twenty-three. I’ll be twenty-four this August. I graduated at twenty-two,” I answered proudly—don’t blame me, med school was hard.

“Whoa, you’re older than me, I’m twenty,” he said, clearly surprised. He definitely didn’t expect that—he looks older than me. “August? I was born in August too. What day?”

“August nineteenth,” I said with a knowing smile. I knew exactly when Percy’s birthday was—it’s one of the reasons he was always my favorite character. Long live the Leos.

"My birthday is on the 18th!" Percy exclaimed cheerfully. "We should do something together for our birthdays. What do you think…?"

And while Percy excitedly talked about going to an amusement park and how he'd never celebrated his birthday with anyone, I realized something—canonically, Percy Jackson was born in the early 90s. I was a 2003 girl. So how was Perseus younger than me?

"Disney sounds great," I interrupted him, "But we should do something more adult. You're turning 21, wow. People born in 2006 still feel like babies to me," I said on purpose. Percy gave me a confused look.

"2006? I was born in 1993," he said. I pretended to freeze mid-step and stared at him, mouth open. Wow, what a great actress I am. "What year were you born, Giuliana?"

"Percy, if you were born in '93, you'd be ten years older than me. I was born in 2003..." We locked eyes, both confused. "Percy, what year is it?"

"What do you mean what year is it? New Year's wasn’t that long ago—it’s 2014," he said confidently, then looked at me nervously. "And you? What year is it?"

"It’s 2027" I answered bluntly, and the poor guy almost tripped from the shock.

Percy stepped back, like my words had physically pushed him. He frowned, jaw tight.

"Two thousand... twenty-seven?" he repeated quietly, like saying it out loud could make it real or fake at the same time. "That can’t be. So… was I frozen? Erased? Is this another damn test from the gods?" Percy kicked the sand in frustration, his expression torn between fury and despair.

"Well, you’re not necessarily in the future," I said quickly, trying to console him. "Maybe I’m in the past… or we’re both in the past! Or both in the future—I have no idea, but we’ll figure this out, okay?"

Percy looked at me, his eyes full of unshed tears, and my little chicken heart nearly cried for him. I’d read the books so many times and always thought about everything this poor guy went through. The boy in front of me lived all of that—this is the same demigod who had his memories cruelly taken, who saw friends die, who crossed damn Tartarus, who’s fought war after war.

I can’t even begin to imagine how he feels. Truth is, no matter how bold and brave Percy is, the gods still hold power over him, and what happened with Hera could happen again.

"It’s okay, Percy. We’re in this together." I took his hand, trying to comfort him, then pointed at the horizon. "Look, it’s completely dark already. Time to start your plan, right?"

Percy looked at our joined hands (I hope he doesn’t think I’m being too clingy), squeezed mine, pulled himself together, and tried to smile. "Yeah, we better get moving."

We both headed toward the sea. Percy stepped in confidently until the water reached his knees. I stayed on the shore, unsure what to do. He paused, took a deep breath, and for the first time, I fully understood what the books meant when they said Percy looked like a god. Surrounded by water, in his element, his features almost divine—I’d never seen anyone look so powerful.

"You ready?" he asked, then extended his hand. "Come on, rule number one is: DO NOT let go of me. Hold my hand, hug me tight, whatever, just don’t let go."

I stepped toward him, shoes getting soaked (but I wasn’t about to leave them behind—what if we were in ancient times? Better safe than sorry), and my scrub started to feel heavy. I grabbed his hand and, nerves kicking in, I joked, "Is your girlfriend gonna be mad about this?"

Percy laughed and started guiding me into deeper waters. "I’m single, don’t worry—no one’s gonna try to kill you for being a homewrecker."

That didn’t comfort me at all. My anxiety grew with every step. The question was meant to find out which version of Percy I was dealing with. For context: in that dark Perpollo fic I read last night, Percy had said he and Annabeth broke up two years ago, mainly because of ideological differences and because Percy was becoming more… divine, and Annabeth was trying to suppress that part of him.

Canonically, I honestly don’t think Rick would ever break them up. This new info basically confirmed I’m in an AU. But being the delulu girl I am, I’ll deny everything until I actually see we’re in ancient Greece.

We soon reached a point where I had to swim (Percy still touched the ground—so jealous of tall people), and the demigod looked at me and said, "We’re gonna dive, okay? And when you feel air around you, I promise it’s safe to breathe."

I nodded, not very convinced but determined. If I trusted anyone with this, it was the son of Poseidon himself (also, I have a soft spot for hot people—sue me).
We dove in—and I’d love to say it felt like falling into another world, but honestly, it was just dark and scary. But then I felt it.

A strange pressure, like an invisible layer wrapped around my head. I blinked, instinctively holding my breath… until Percy looked at me and gave a tiny nod and smile.

I breathed.

Air. It was air! Warm, clean, perfectly breathable. I burst out laughing—a mix of panic, surprise, and pure wonder.

“Oh my god, this is magic,” I whispered, making him laugh.

Percy came closer and, without a word, wrapped a strong arm around me. He pulled me to him, and before I could even think about resisting, we launched forward.

Or rather, he did.

We shot through the water like a bullet. Have you ever seen that Australian teen show with the mermaids who swim super fast? That was us. The world became a liquid blur around us—fish darting away, bubbles bursting, corals barely visible as we flew past. It all happened too fast. Logically speaking, the pressure or the speed should’ve killed my mortal body, but whether it was the universe’s magic or simply the power of the son of the sea, I was perfectly fine. All I could do was hold on to him—his body solid and warm against my side, his arm gripping me with impossible steadiness, like nothing could happen to me as long as he was there.

And maybe that was true.

Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon himself, had absolute control over the sea. And yet, what impressed me most wasn’t the power… it was his face.

His dark hair floated in every direction, like rebellious strands of seaweed. His sea-green eyes—vivid even underwater. His sharp jawline, slightly parted lips—focused, but with an almost otherworldly calm.

Believe me, fanart and imagination don’t do him justice. I understood Annabeth, Rachel, Reyna, Nico, and Calypso. Perseus Jackson was breathtaking.

But the farther we swam, the more I snapped out of my daze, and darker thoughts began creeping in.

According to the fanfic, we’d arrive at a coastal town, and after resting and realizing he was in Ancient Greece, Percy would go seek out the oracle—and that’s where he’d meet Apollo in disguise.
Apollo, who upon realizing he’d finally found his soulmate, would be unable to restrain his divinity or impulses and would take him. Perseus Jackson would then be reduced to nothing more than a pretty-faced plaything for a god.

And that broke my heart. Reading it was one thing. But knowing that this boy, full of life (and clearly traumatized), was fated for that... it felt unbearable. Percy Jackson deserved happiness. And if I had to use my knowledge of that fanfic to make sure his relationship with Apollo was as healthy as it could possibly be—for a god—then I would.

Would I die? Very likely. I wasn’t athletic, didn’t have powers, and had no god watching my back.

But I’d rather die than willingly abandon someone who might very well become a victim of sexual assault. I would fight tooth and nail for Percy Jackson.

That much, I could swear.

Chapter Text

Time became irrelevant underwater. There was no way to tell how long we had been swimming-or—or rather, being dragged by Percy. The lights of the seabed blurred with distance, and now and then I could make out distorted shapes: a vibrant school of fish, a dead reef, sunken wooden debris that looked too old, too archaic.

Slowly, the sand drew closer until we finally reached what I thought was a beach. Percy stopped abruptly; the sea was clearer here, shallower, and the sky began to be visible through the surface—a trembling shadow above our heads.

Percy looked at me and nodded. We went up.

We broke the surface at the same time. The sounds of the world hit me: salty wind, waves gently crashing on the shore, seagulls screaming in the distance. The air was warmer than expected, smelling of burnt wood, fish, and smoke.

I barely managed to catch my breath when I saw what was in front of us.

A rocky coast stretched in a curved line. The beach was unlike any I was used to—it was an irregular stretch of flat rocks and coarse sand. Beyond, on a rise, there were lights: torches and embers illuminating small rectangular structures, houses built with stone and mud, thatched roofs, and thick fabric doors.

It looked like a village frozen in time.

Or maybe, much worse: before all time.

“Do you see that?” Percy murmured, swimming cautiously toward the shore.

I could only nod, my gaze fixed on the details, analyzing everything: the boats anchored near the dock were long and narrow, with wooden oars and triangular sails. Their prows were carved with animal heads, some painted eyes, as if they expected to come alive and speak.

There were no signs of modern technology. No engines, no street lamps, no paved roads. Only earth, stone, and fire. The more I realized how unfamiliar everything looked, the more I felt like crying.

“That…” Percy frowned as he stood on the shore, completely dry despite having swum for miles, “That’s Ancient Greek.”

He was referring to the symbols carved into the wood of a boat: old letters, curved, unmistakable.

“Can you read it?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Of course,” he replied. “I’m a demigod. Reading Ancient Greek is one of the talents my genes bring.”

“What does it say?” I asked curiously as I approached him on the shore.

“Nothing special,” he shrugged, still studying the boat. “’ Property of Nikandros’—just the owner’s name.”

I nodded at his explanation and turned my gaze back to the village. “You know? Maybe it’s just one of those cultural conventions,” I said with little hope, “like those medieval fairs.”

Percy looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and I felt like he was about to tease me, but he stopped himself.

“We still have to get closer and see for ourselves,” he sighed resignedly. “And if it’s what I think, we’ll need clothes too.”

We left the beach, and with a wave of his hand, Percy dried me off (I clapped excitedly at the magic, and the demigod just smiled). We walked toward the village, and I followed Percy as he decided to take the path already carved in stone.

The stones on the ground grew hotter as we climbed the uneven trail that connected the beach to the village. These weren’t well-defined roads, just compacted earth and ruts marked by years of human footsteps and cart wheels. We stayed close to bushes and shadows, moving cautiously.

The village was half asleep.

At that hour, torches flickered in stone holders fixed to the houses. There was movement, yes, but not like in a modern city. Here, the night was thick and slow, and the silence was only broken by muffled voices, loose laughter, and the sound of mugs clinking in some makeshift tavern. We saw a group of men sitting by a small fire, wrapped in woolen cloaks. One played a string instrument, while another peeled something like a turnip with a rusty knife.

The few awake wore simple tunics, nothing ornate. Some were stained with dirt, others frayed at the edges. The women (at least the ones we glimpsed) had their hair covered, carrying jugs on their hips or closing fabric doors with tired expressions.

Everything smelled of smoke, goats, fish, and salt.

The buildings were humble but sturdy. Stacked stone walls without cement, reinforced with dry mud. Some had creaking wooden frames supporting the roofs. Windows were barely slits covered with skins or cloths. And although there were few, some houses were painted with red or black stripes, perhaps family marks or ritual protection.

But what caught my attention most was a small building beside the path, on an artificial mound. It was a little isolated, made entirely of white stone, with simple columns and an entrance without a door. Two torches burned at its entrance, lighting a dark interior that smelled of burnt incense.

A low altar stood in the center, surrounded by humble offerings: seashells, a bowl of oil, and a couple of fresh fish. Above the lintel, a carved inscription faintly glowed with the fire’s reflection.

“Temple of Poseidon,” Percy whispered, as if saying it aloud could wake the god.

I looked at him uneasily. There was something reverent in his posture. A respect mixed with subtle tension.

“Don’t you want to go in?” I asked cautiously.

“No” he replied immediately. “Not until I know what kind of Poseidon awaits me in this world. This isn’t my dad, and back then, he wasn’t exactly kind.”

I nodded, not pushing further. Silence returned.

Every step we took seemed to confirm our fears. This was not a role-playing game. It wasn’t a themed fair. No one carried cell phones, electric lamps, or a single synthetic garment. Every object, every gesture, seemed taken from a history book. If my heart weren’t pounding a thousand beats per minute, my inner history nerd would be pretty excited.

We hid among the shadows of an empty house, barely breathing.

“Hey Percy…” I said, feeling my fingers tremble. “What year do you think it is?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept staring at the temple, his eyes fixed on the offerings.

And for the first time since we arrived, I felt that Percy Jackson was as scared as I was.

We caught our breath and slipped again between the shadows of the houses, sticking close to the walls as if the very air could give us away. We didn’t know how watched the village was, nor if strangers were welcome, but the last thing we needed was to draw attention walking around in modern clothes and completely out of place (I wondered if they’d call me a slut for wearing tight clothes and pants).

“We need clothes” Percy murmured next to me, barely audible. “And something to carry water, provisions if possible.”

“Are we going to steal?” I whispered back, as if saying it aloud made it more real.

“We’re going to survive” he corrected, eyes fixed on a house darker than the rest. “Look, that one looks empty.”

“Do you even know how to steal?” I asked, genuinely worried.

Percy nodded and proceeded to explain himself.
"At the camp where we demigods live, each cabin has the obligation to teach certain skills to the other campers depending on their godly parent. Apollo’s kids taught archery and first aid, Demeter’s cabin taught us to recognize poisonous and edible plants, I taught everyone how to swim and use a boat, and Hermes’ kids... well, they taught us how to steal and lie."

We approached carefully, stepping lightly so as not to crunch the earth or step on any loose tiles. The house was small, just one room, with a rectangular opening serving as a door, without a lock. Only a thick cloth hung as a curtain. Percy brushed it aside with the back of his hand, and we entered silently.

Inside, it smelled of oil, dry fabric, and ash. There was a straw bed in one corner, and next to it, a low table with what seemed like a folded tunic and a cloak. Beside it, a bag made of tanned leather. Everything rustic but in good condition.

Percy moved quickly, checking that no one was there. I took the cloak, feeling the rough texture beneath my fingers. It wasn’t clean, but at least it was dry.
“Put it over your clothes,” Percy said, throwing me a second garment. “For now, it’s enough. We just need to blend in.”
He found a small wineskin, sniffed it, nodded, and put it in the bag. He also grabbed a rusty dagger from the ground and tucked it into his pants.

When we left, we went out the back, where there was a small corral without animals. The sky had partially clouded, which worked to our advantage. We moved along the farthest part of the main path, trying to stay away from the heart of the village before anyone could see us.

Then I heard it.
Voices.

I stopped walking and Percy turned around, confused.
“What’s wrong?”
“Shh.”

We crouched behind a pile of clay jars, half-covered by some dry branches. From there, just a few meters away, two women were talking while gathering firewood in front of a hut. One was older, her skin sun-tanned, the other barely a teenager. They laughed quietly, voices low for the hour, exchanging trivial phrases:

“My husband came back with an empty net again.”
“It’s the third night. They say Poseidon is angry, that the offerings have been insufficient.”

“Bah, Poseidon is always angry. What happens is all the fishing is taken by the camps, for the soldiers.” The older woman snorted, bitter and dry.

“And yet, we keep losing. We’ve had this stupid war for three years now. Three. All because of a foolish princess. There are no young men left in the port.”

“They say the Achaeans are getting closer, destroying villages, killing men, and enslaving women.”

“The gods have abandoned us.” The younger one lowered her voice, and for a moment everything was silent, except the crackling of a distant fire.

I froze.
Not because of what they said (though I’d analyze that later), but because... I understood it. Every word. Every inflection. As if they were speaking Spanish, not even English. There was no effort, no mental translation.

Percy seemed surprised as he listened carefully to the women, and the more they spoke, the tenser he became.
“Giuliana?” he whispered, worried, seeing me unsettled.
“I understood them,” I whispered back. “What they said. Everything.”

Percy’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“I can’t understand it, Percy,” I looked at him with eyes as wide as his. “I’m not the daughter of any god. I have no divine blood. I’ve never studied Greek in my life. Neither modern nor ancient. And yet... it’s like I’ve known it all my life.”

Percy was silent, not knowing what to say.
“That shouldn’t be possible,” he finally said, with a thread of doubt in his voice.
“I know.”

The women finished gathering the firewood and went inside the hut. The cloth at the entrance fell behind them like a curtain.

Percy made a sign to me. We got up and moved away silently.
We didn’t speak again until we reached the outskirts, where the fields replaced the dust and the sound of the sea became more distant. We walked up a hill for a few minutes until we found a clearing protected by low trees. Enough to hide us, but not so deep that we’d get lost.

There, finally, we let out the breath we’d been holding since leaving the water.
We settled near a small lake hidden among the vegetation. The water was clear, so still it looked like a mirror. Its surface only broke occasionally by the jump of a fish or the low flight of an insect.

Percy approached without saying a word. He touched the water with his open palm and the feeling of power became palpable again. The lake responded to his presence as if it recognized him. A simple flick of his fingers sent several fish darting to the shore, sliding among the stones.

“Wow,” I whistled in amazement. “If you don’t get some office job, you can always be your own boss and sell seafood.”
“Advantages of being the son of the god of the sea,” he replied with a tired smile, easily gathering the fish.

While I prepared a place to sit, he took care of the fire. He did it with a naturalness that didn’t surprise me — surely he had done it thousands of times in his many missions: he gathered dry branches, formed a small structure, and with the help of a stone and the stolen knife, sparked the fire until the flames came alive. Then, he cleaned the fish with quick, precise movements, skewering them on sharp twigs to roast over the flames.

We sat in front of the fire. The light danced on his cheeks, tinting his features amber. The silence was heavy. Dense. Full of unspoken things.

“So... do you want to talk about what happened down there?” he finally asked, not looking at me.
“The Greek thing?” I nodded, looking at the fire. “I don’t know what to tell you. I have never studied Greek, much less ancient Greek.”

Percy snapped a dry twig between his fingers.
“Are you sure you’re not a god’s daughter?”
“Very sure,” I answered without hesitation. “I know my parents. I look like both of them. My mom has all her pregnancy documented, and my dad was always present; I even look more like him physically. Nothing strange ever happened. There’s no room for divine surprises.”

Percy glanced at me sideways. "Do you have dyslexia? Or ADHD?"

"God, no, I love reading, and although sometimes I dissociate, that’s nowhere near being classified as hyperactivity" I explained without having any idea why I was suddenly trilingual.

"Then you don’t have any of the typical signs"

"None"

Silence returned. This time, more frustrated.
"Maybe you’re not a demigod " he finally said "But something happened to you when you arrived. Something changed you. I don’t know what, but... understanding ancient Greek as if it were your mother tongue isn’t normal, Giuliana. Not even among mortals with magical lineage."

"Well, let’s look on the bright side" I tried to joke even though I was very nervous "it’s going to look great on my résumé"

Percy laughed and we left the topic there. Trying to make sense of it only made it more confusing.

The crackling of the fire filled the space for a few minutes. Percy turned the fish with a mechanical gesture.

"What the women said… about the war. Did you hear it?"

I nodded "Three years of siege, a princess, the Achaeans getting closer every time… They’re talking about the Trojan War"

"I thought so" he said quietly "Everything fits. The style of the people, the names, the ships…"

"Do you know it well?" I asked, hopeful that Annabeth had taught him something.

"Not really," he said guiltily. "It seemed boring to me, and well, I never thought I’d travel through time.

I nodded, understanding his logic.
"Well, that makes two of us then, I know important events and some chronology but I never read the Iliad, it had a pretty complicated narration for me, and all my knowledge of the Odyssey comes from a musical"

"There’s a musical of the Odyssey?" Percy asked, surprised.

"Oh yes, it’s really good but you’ll have to wait years to hear it, it came out in 2023, I think"

" I don’t know much about the history but wasn’t it all my dad’s fault?"

"Well, in his defense, they blinded your half-brother" I scratched my head confused, it wasn’t the same to defend actions of characters you used to consider fiction and now were, well, pretty real (and with questionable decisions)" Hey Percy, does your dad have long hair and ships in his hair?

Percy looked up from the fish he was taking off the fire and gave me a weird look "No, why would he have ships in his hair?"

"Uh, curiosity" I shrugged.

He kept looking at me weirdly but handed me my fish, I took it silently, somewhat embarrassed by my spontaneous question, and bit a piece without thinking. It was surprisingly well cooked.

After dinner, we settled by the fire, just enough to feel its warmth without being blinded by it. The night was already late, and the sky, covered with clouds, hid the moon. Only the orange embers shone like tired eyes.

I sat cross-legged, my back against a rock and the Trojan cloak covering my shoulders. Percy spread one of the stolen garments on the ground and dropped beside me with a long, deep, almost pained sigh.

"We should take turns keeping watch " he murmured hoarsely, rubbing his eyes "You never know what kind of creatures might be around here."

I looked at him. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion, dark circles marked, and although he tried to stay strong, his body spoke for him: every muscle seemed to be begging for rest.

"You need to sleep, Percy" I told him firmly "You’ve been using your powers all day. Guiding me through the sea, drying us, fishing, lighting fire. Your energy isn’t infinite"

"Still..."
" I’m used to staying up late. I studied medicine "I added with a slight smile "Sleeping little and surviving on caffeine and willpower is a learned skill."

He let out a nasal laugh, defeated.
"Anything, wake me up."

"I promise"

Percy turned to one side, curling under the cloak as if he hadn’t rested for weeks. In less than a minute, his breathing slowed, deepened.
The calm of the night settled in my chest, but it wasn’t relaxing. It was the kind of silence that weighs. That leaves room for the mind to travel to places you’d rather avoid.
I forced myself to stay alert, eyes fixed on the shadows beyond the clearing, ears attentive to the wind among the leaves, to creaks that weren’t from the fire.
Maybe an hour passed. Maybe two. I had no way of knowing. My eyelids began to grow heavy when I heard it.

Metal.
First faint, almost imperceptible. Then clearer. Clack-clack. Like armor brushing while walking.
I sharpened my hearing. Voices. Not shouts. Orders. Firm and brief.
I stood slowly, slipping between the bushes, but without moving too far. I wasn’t going to leave Percy alone, not in a place like this.
From where I was, I could see silhouettes. Four. Five. Maybe more. They moved among the trees, heading down to the valley where the village was. The light of a torch briefly illuminated one of their shields: a circular symbol with black lines. I didn’t recognize it, but I didn’t need to.

The helmets, the spears, the harsh accents. One of them spoke clearly:
—“The order is to loot quickly. Leave nothing useful. By dawn, they must see fire on the coast.”
Another answered:
—“And the civilians?”
—“Only if they resist, we don’t need more slaves, though if they see a beautiful woman…”

My stomach tightened and I felt nauseous. Achaeans. They were Achaeans. And they were about to raze the village we had just left.
I quickly backed away. I knelt beside Percy, put a hand on his shoulder.
"Percy" I whispered "Percy, wake up."

It took a few seconds. He blinked, confused "What’s wrong?"

"There’s no time to explain. Soldiers are coming. They’re going to loot the village."

He stood immediately. His eyes, still sleepy, focused quickly.

"How many did you see?""Five. Maybe more. They’re armed. They’re Achaeans."

Percy cursed under his breath. The fire had already reduced to embers. Without wasting time, he got up and in seconds we packed our things. We didn’t have much: the leather backpack, the cloak, two garments, and the waterskin with some water. The sky remained covered, but the air felt tenser. As if even the wind knew what was coming.

We moved away from the clearing, heading in the opposite direction of the village, disappearing into the trees. We walked in silence until the sound of armor became a distant echo. Only then did Percy stop. He turned toward the horizon, looking in the direction of the torches descending the hill. I knew what he was thinking before he even spoke.

“We could intercept them,” he said quietly, frowning. “They haven’t reached the village yet. If I stop them here, maybe no one gets hurt.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “Percy, are you hearing yourself?”

“What?”

“It’s a small village. Fragile. And those soldiers… you saw how they moved. They’re not some random band of raiders. They’re trained. If they disappear, if they don’t come back, the only thing that will happen is that more will come. With more weapons. With more rage.”

He clenched his fists, jaw tight.
“And if we do nothing, tomorrow there’ll be corpses in the streets.”

“And if we do something, Percy? What if we change the story? Or worse—what if you draw attention to yourself? I don’t know how strong you really are, but this is the time of Diomedes, Hector, Odysseus, freaking Achilles.”

He turned toward me, surprised by the strength in my voice. I was surprised too.

“We know what this is,” I continued. “This is the Trojan War. Maybe not exactly as they told it, but… the conflict is real. The siege, the death, the hunger. It’s a war of gods and men. We don’t belong here. And even if we wanted to, we’re not going to save everyone.”

Percy looked at me for a long time. His expression was caught between fury and pain. Not at me—at everything.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “There’s always someone who can be saved. A single action can make the difference.”

“And what if that action costs us our lives?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on nothing.

“Percy,” I said, softer this time. “You’ve fought so many wars. You don’t need to fight another just because it’s in front of you. Surviving is also a form of resistance. Maybe the only one we have right now.”

There was a long silence.
Percy kept staring into the darkness, his muscles tense, his breath held. I could see the battle inside his eyes: it wasn’t just impulse. It was accumulated pain. Exhaustion disguised as action. And no matter how hard I tried to rationalize it… I felt it too.

“Fine, we can’t save everyone,” I said, my throat tight, resigned. “But we can give them a chance.”

He turned to me, surprised. “I thought you were against this.”

“I’m against dying pointlessly,” I said honestly. “But if you intercept the soldiers, if you delay them just enough… we can warn the village. At least they can escape. Survive.”

Percy nodded. His expression softened. “That I can do,” he said with a hint of relief. “If I get ahead, I’ll just knock them out.”

“Then I’ll warn the village. Hopefully, if I can understand Greek, I can speak it too.”

Percy hesitated, like he was about to protest. But something in my gaze convinced him. “Alright. Let’s go.”

We slipped through the trees, carefully making our way down the slope. The earth was loose, and the dew made every step treacherous. In the distance, the torches moved slowly, cutting through the night like snakes of fire. We got close enough to hear them clearly. They had stopped. One was examining a rough map while another sharpened a spear against a rock. Their body language was relaxed, confident. As if they couldn’t imagine anything standing between them and their goal.

Percy motioned with his hand. Silence.
“I’ll face them. You circle around and run to the village. Wake someone. Anyone. Tell them to flee north. I’ll buy time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve fought monsters three times as big and strong. This is nothing,” he said with confidence.

I nodded. I trusted him, but I was still nervous. “See you soon,” I said, trying to make my voice sound steadier than I felt.

Percy looked at me for a moment that felt longer than it should have. His sea-green eyes glowed with determination—and a flicker of fear.

“Promise me,” he said softly, almost like a plea.

I pressed my lips together and nodded, feeling that, for the first time, that promise carried more weight than any word I’d ever said.

“I promise.”

We split up among the trees, and I ran toward the village. I knew Percy wouldn’t be defeated, but I was so afraid. I felt like leaving him behind meant abandoning him to his fate. And in this world, that fate always ended in blood.

I ran without looking back, dodging roots, branches that tangled in my legs, loose stones that threatened to trip me. My heart pounded in my ears, mixing with the echoes of the voices we’d left behind. Every step away from Percy felt like tearing something out of myself.

And as I ran, my mind replayed what I’d heard.

“The order is to loot quickly. Leave nothing useful behind.”
“By dawn, there should be fire.”

I had to warn them. I had to shout. But… how? The language spoken here wasn’t mine. And yet, I understood it. Could I speak it too?

I forced myself to stop. I took a deep breath. The darkness wrapped around me like a cloak, and only urgency kept my body upright.
I tried to form a sentence.

“¡Ayuda!” I said first in Spanish, uselessly. I shook my head.

I tried again, in Ancient Greek—or what my mind interpreted as such.
“Boētheía!” — a clumsy whisper at first.
Again.
“Boētheía!” — louder.
“Oi stratiótai! Pýr! Sas epitéthentai!” — Soldiers! Fire! They’re attacking you!

My hands were trembling. But the phrase felt natural. Fluid. As if my mouth knew what my consciousness hadn’t yet grasped.

“Xypnáte!” I shouted into the wind. Wake up!

I stopped only for a moment to take off the soaked cloak hanging from my shoulders. I pulled the Greek tunic over my scrubs and fastened it with a rope belt I had taken from the house. Then I wrapped the Trojan cloak over my shoulders, hiding my modern clothes, trying to look like one of them.

And I ran toward the lights.

When I finally crossed the first row of houses, the sounds of the village were like any sleepless night: creaking wood, a dog barking in the distance, the murmur of the sea still present. But no one was screaming. No one knew what was coming.

So I did it.

“Boētheía!” I shouted, raising my voice as much as I could. “Oi Achaioí erchóntai!" The Achaeans are coming!

I ran down the main street, banging on doors with my palms, pulling aside curtains over doorways, poking my head into houses.

“Pýr! Sas epitéthentai!" They’re going to set fires! They’re going to attack!

The first reactions were not encouraging. Some people peeked out with frowns, murmuring to each other. Others simply shut the curtains, annoyed, as if some madwoman was disturbing their rest.

“I’m not lying!” I cried, gasping. “I saw them! They’re coming from the forest, they have spears, armor. They’re Achaeans! They’re less than ten minutes away!”

An old man with a white beard and tired eyes stepped out of a house, leaning on a staff. He looked me up and down.

“Who are you? You’re not from here.”

“That doesn’t matter,” I answered without thinking. “I heard their orders. They’re going to loot the village. Burn it at dawn. Wake your people and run north!”

Another woman approached, still tying on her cloak. She carried a small child in her arms, her face pale with fear.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

And then, we heard it.

A shout. Not of panic, but of combat. Of strength. It was brief but enough to freeze the blood. A sharp blow. Then another. The metallic echo of a spear falling. And a familiar voice roaring in the darkness.

Percy.

The villagers froze for an instant. Then, as if something broke inside them, they began to move. Some ran back into their homes, calling names, waking children, packing whatever little they could carry. Others looked at me with distrust—but they no longer doubted.

The village square filled with life in minutes.

Torches lit in a hurry, choked cries, half-asleep children hanging from their mothers’ arms. The pounding of feet on the ground echoed like fear itself was a hidden drum, setting the rhythm of escape.

I ran among them, guiding as best I could, pointing to the path that led north. I heard them passing the word, confirming the direction, speaking of fleeing to the next town, one that—they said—had low walls and a few guards on watch.

“My sister lives there,” a woman said, herding goats with a makeshift stick. “They’ll let us in. Better than waiting for the flames.”

“And if more come?” asked an old man, dragging a sack.

“Then at least we won’t die in our sleep.”

The looks I received as they passed were no longer suspicious. They were respectful.

“Where are you going?” asked a round-faced woman, panting as she held on to two children.

“My friend is up there,” I answered without stopping. “He’s holding them back so you can escape.”

She looked at me for a second, surprised. Then her eyes softened. She took my wrist in a grip that was firm but warm.

“Thank you.”
She let go and kept running with her children.

Another couple—a young man and a pregnant woman—approached just before reaching the edge of the village.

“We’re going to take shelter with my uncle, in Eion.”
I didn’t know where that was, but I nodded.
“There are guards there. It’s not safe, but it’s the best we have. You and your husband are welcome.”

It took me a second to realize they were talking about Percy. I didn’t correct them. There was no time.

“Thank you. But I have to go back.”

I turned away without waiting, my heart pounding in my chest like it already knew the next stretch wouldn’t be easy. I ran into the forest, retracing my path, dodging shrubs and branches, the sound of battle still echoing in the distance.

And there he was.

The clearing opened like a wound among the trees, and the first thing I saw were the bodies.

Not dead—Percy wouldn’t do that. But motionless, unconscious, scattered in the tall grass like dolls knocked over by the unstoppable force that was the son of Poseidon. There was blood, yes, but not excessive. Clean blows, precise. Silent.

And at the center of it all, stood him.

Percy.

The sword glowed faintly silver in his hand, still raised. His breathing was fast but steady, his stance upright. He had no visible injuries, though his shirt was torn at one shoulder and his forehead was slick with sweat.

I saw him turn his head slightly, as if he had sensed my presence before I said a word.

“Giuliana!” he called out, a mix of relief and warning.

I ran to him.

“The villagers are already fleeing! They’re heading north, toward a defended town. We did it.”

He nodded, lowering his sword slightly. For a second, it looked like everything was over.

But then, the crunch of dry leaves made us turn at the same time.

Another group of soldiers was emerging from the trees. Five. No—six. Younger, louder. Their armor clinked with impatience, and in their hands they held spears still clean of blood.

One of them—dark eyes, square jaw—saw me first.

His expression changed immediately.

“Women!!” he shouted.

He pointed at me, and they all turned.

Percy didn’t hesitate.

“Run!” he shouted, instantly turning to place himself between them and me.

But it was already too late. The soldiers advanced. Percy lunged at the first with the force of a furious wave. His sword moved like lightning—disarming, shoving, knocking down. But there were more this time, and they were better prepared.

I stepped back a few paces, looking around in every direction, knowing I couldn’t leave him alone—but also knowing he couldn’t protect me if I forced him to divide his focus.

Chapter Text

I've always been a firm believer that killing in self-defense is justified, and I was convinced that if I ever had to do it, I would—without hesitation… That doesn’t take away the guilt.

As I held Percy tightly and the tears wouldn’t stop, I kept telling myself that man didn’t deserve my guilt. He wanted to kill me, rape me, and I was sure he’d already done the same to other innocent people. And yet, I felt like something inside me had changed—besides the murderous shadow, of course.

I didn’t know if Percy had seen what happened. I didn’t think so—he was fighting when the shadows emerged. Still, the demigod isn’t stupid. I’m not a fighter, and the body was destroyed. He knew something else had happened, but Perseus Jackson is a good person, and right now, his priority was me.

He didn’t ask how. Or why. Or what had just happened.
He simply held me a little tighter, like his arms could keep the entire world away.

Finally, his hand moved to the back of my head, his fingers gentle, and he rested his forehead against mine with a sigh that was half relief, half resignation.
“We have to go,” he murmured, almost like an apology. “There might be more soldiers.”

The words made sense, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My legs still felt hollow, like the fear had eaten the bone from the inside out. My hands were cold, despite the sticky heat hanging in the air. Death wasn’t foreign to me—it came with the job—and it wasn’t even the first time I blamed myself for someone’s death (maybe if I’d done this or that, I could’ve saved them).
But it’s not the same as destroying someone with your own hands.

I looked into Percy’s sea-green eyes, scared, but he was right—we had to move. So I nodded.

He stood up and helped me to my feet. My gaze was immediately drawn to the body. I opened my mouth to explain what had happened, but Percy cut me off.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said seriously, moving to block my view of the corpse. “Come on. Let’s grab our things and head north.”

We walked away from the corpse without looking back. The clearing where we had left our things was just a few minutes away, though the path seemed to stretch longer with every crunch beneath our feet. When we arrived, the makeshift camp looked exactly as I remembered. We packed everything in silence. Percy slung the bag over his shoulder, tied the canteen to his belt, and handed me the knife without a word. Then he pointed north—a brief, decisive gesture—and started walking through the twisted trees, without questioning whether that direction would lead us to safety or straight into another skirmish.

We moved along the edges of low hills covered in dry grass that crunched with every step. The sky had closed over us like a vault, with stars blinking from a distance that felt almost painful—but even so, I could see better than ever. It was as if the night lit up from the inside out just for me: every shadow had defined edges, every shape stood out with impossible clarity.

I clung to Percy’s hand when fear began to claw at my throat again. I’m not usually that trusting (especially not with gorgeous guys), but I was terrified. Thankfully, instead of making it awkward, he just squeezed my fingers—without letting go of his pen-sword—as if it were the most natural thing in the world: a trembling stranger holding his hand in the middle of a forest, in a time completely foreign to him.

And as we walked, I felt something new: the shadows moved with us, gliding over the bark of the pines, crawling across rocks, brushing against my skin like a cold tickle. I could feel them. The only comparison I could think of was Daredevil’s ability—every time the darkness touched a root, a bush, a patch of earth, I knew it. And the whispers… barely a murmur at the edge of consciousness, wordless voices caressing my inner ear. I couldn’t make out any clear messages, but their intent seeped through: protect, watch, stay close. They weren’t human voices. They were… God, I didn’t even know how to describe it, but it felt so powerful—and so terrifying.

I wanted to shut them out, pretend they weren’t real, but they were there—inevitable, like the beating of my heart. And even though the fear still pulsed inside me—a rough knot in my gut—there was something else mixed in: power. A strange energy I didn’t understand and yet felt so familiar. I had never felt anything like it in my life.

Beside me, Percy remained silent, leading us with confident steps despite the darkness. From time to time, he glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure I was still okay.

We walked a bit longer until we found a small clearing between the trees, wide enough to lie down without worrying about branches falling on us. It wasn’t exactly shelter, but it would do. We were far enough.

Percy dropped his backpack with a sigh, sat on the ground, and motioned for me to come closer.

I did, without saying a word. My body was still trembling.

“I didn’t want to ask you back there…” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. “But now that things are a little calmer… what happened?”

I looked at him. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp, as always. There was no judgment in his voice—only genuine doubt. Concern.

“I got there after it was over,” he went on. “I saw the body. And you… you were on the ground, crying. But he was… Giuliana, there’s no human way to leave someone like that without a fight. And you didn’t have a single scratch. I’m not trying to scare you. I just… need to understand.”

I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what to say. How to say it.

“I… I ran as fast as I could,” I began, my voice trembling, broken. “But he was faster. Stronger. He caught up with me between the trees and threw me to the ground. I tried to hit him, kick him, scratch his face—anything—but he barely even reacted. I felt how he pinned me down, his knees on my arms. And then…” I forced myself to continue, even though nausea was closing up my chest, “then he told me to shut up. That he’d do whatever he wanted with me. That no one was coming to help.”

A shiver ran down my spine at the memory; tears burned behind my eyes.
“I’ve never felt so scared,” I whispered. “I thought that was it. That he was going to…” The word caught in my throat. “And then, something… exploded. I don’t know where it came from. Shadows. Pure darkness, like the night itself shattered and swallowed him whole. It tore him apart. There were no screams, no struggle. Just… silence. And after that, he wasn’t whole anymore.”

Percy didn’t interrupt me, but I felt the shift in him. The hand resting on his thigh clenched until his knuckles turned white; the muscles in his jaw tensed like pulled wires. His eyes, usually a calm sea-green, darkened into a stormy shade I had never seen before. It was rage—pure, focused, barely contained beneath a fragile layer of control.

“He tried to hurt you,” he muttered, voice low and vibrating. “He threatened to…” His breath hitched for a moment. “He paid for it. But it still wasn’t enough.”

He didn’t raise his voice, and yet I shivered. In his gaze, I understood why the gods respected Percy Jackson. The sea could become an ocean in his eyes.

I drew a deep breath, trying to still my own shaking. He noticed; his expression softened slightly. He reached out and placed his hand over mine—firm, warm despite the cold sweat covering my skin.

“It won’t happen again,” he said with a certainty that, for a second, made me believe in impossible promises. “As long as I breathe, no one will ever touch you like that again.”

And I believed him. I truly did.

We sat there a while longer, catching our breath, but my mind was chaos. I had to protect Percy from the obsessive love of a god—but I had fallen apart in a situation so small compared to Apollo’s wrath.
If Percy, with all his strength, couldn’t stand against the sun god… how was I supposed to help him?

This power—these shadows, whatever they were—were an advantage. I had to learn how to control them. My thoughts spun with possibilities.

Maybe like Tokoyami from My Hero Academia—that would make sense, considering how I tore that man apart. Also, given my heightened senses, I could assume the darkness made me stronger. I could feel everything that lay beneath the shadows.

I wondered if I could use them like Shikamaru from Naruto. So many options. But first, they had to answer my call—not just rise when I was about to die.

The night slowly began to lift, leaving behind a pale gray sky, like a freshly spread sheet. The leaves stirred in the soft dawn breeze, and the whispers in the shadows began to fade. To retreat.

I closed my eyes for a moment, knowing this calm wouldn’t last.

When the sun finally tore through the last remnants of darkness, Percy stood up first, brushed the dirt from his orange shirt—how ironic that such a bright color carried the weight of so much death—and offered me his hand. I took it without hesitation.

“The village they told you about last night,” he murmured. “You said it was half a day’s walk, right?”

I nodded. The fleeing villagers had told me of a small walled settlement along the main road to Troy. “Safer than hiding in the hills,” they had assured me. Of course, “safe” was a flexible concept in the middle of the Trojan War.

We drank the last drops of water, shared the hardened bread—me with a knot in my stomach, him with the calm of someone used to worse rations—and started walking. At first, my legs protested; every step reminded me how close I’d come to dying the night before. But the sun warmed my blood, and Percy, with his steady pace, became an unrelenting metronome that forced me to keep going.

The morning passed through yellowing hills and twisted olive trees. The salty sea mist reached us in waves—a bitter reminder that we were still too close to the front lines. Now and then we came across traces of raided camps: cold embers, gnawed bones, scraps of bloodstained cloth. Percy had adopted his sentinel gaze—a constant sweep of the horizon—and though the whispers of the night had receded, I still noticed the edges of shadows vibrating faintly at the corners of my vision. As if to remind me they hadn’t left, just slumbered under the light.

It was near noon when we spotted the city. Not as large as I imagined Troy would be, nor as poor as the village we’d seen before. It was a middle-sized hub: important enough to have walls, soldiers patrolling, and a small plaza with merchants, but modest enough that the roads were still packed dirt and the houses, whitewashed adobe with red tile roofs. Still, compared to the chaos of the wilderness, it felt like a blessing.

Two Trojan guards posted at the gate crossed their spears as we approached. Their bronze helmets, smooth as shells, hid their expressions, but the voice that came from one was as tired as it was hostile.

“Identify yourselves,” he snapped, in a Greek that still surprised me by how naturally I understood it.

Percy stepped forward, hand resting on his pen-sword without drawing it. That single motion seemed to tense the guards’ shoulders.

“We’re travelers,” he said calmly. “We’re looking for water and rest. We don’t mean any trouble.”

“Trouble follows your kind, foreigners,” the other guard growled. “Unless you have a writ from the strategos, no one gets in.”

I considered explaining, begging even, but a movement in the doorway’s shadows stopped me. The old man who had spoken to me last night pushed his way through the guards, the same woman who had fled with her children following close behind.

“Let them in!” the old man cried, voice raspy but firm. “That girl is the one who warned us of the attack. If not for her, the whole village would have been raided and enslaved.”

The guards exchanged a glance. I sensed their hesitation in the way their spears loosened.

“She saved our lives,” the woman added, placing her hand on my wrist with a gratitude that almost made me flinch. “She came running, shouting for us to flee. And he”—she pointed at Percy—“stayed behind to hold off the bandits. We all saw it.”

I felt Percy tense. He didn’t like attention, but he bowed his head without denying it. I took a breath, grateful they had come to speak for us.

The first guard clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed by the public intervention, but finally moved his spear aside.

“Five minutes in the inner yard,” he warned. “I’ll check your weapons and then you’ll speak with the captain. If what they say is true, you might have shelter tonight.”

As soon as we passed through the gates, I became aware of the stares. Some were grateful—most, actually—but others held a trace of distrust. We were outsiders. Strange. Percy, with his bright orange shirt poking out beneath the stolen tunic. Me, dressed in period clothes but still wearing my sneakers.

Even so, no one stopped us. The villagers surrounded us with shy smiles and outstretched hands. Some offered water; others, bread. A woman placed an embroidered handkerchief in my hands as a sign of respect. I didn’t know how to react, so I simply nodded and stayed close to Percy’s side. Though he seemed uncomfortable with the attention, he kept his composure far better than I did.

“This… is the city they told you about?” he asked softly, eyes scanning our surroundings.

“Yes. Karistía, I think it was called,” I replied, my gaze landing in awe on a hill rising beside the main square. “Look at that.”

On the slope, bathed in the golden midday light, stood a temple. It wasn’t a ruin or a crumbling shell like the ones you see in history books. No. This was a living temple, vibrant. The columns were gleaming marble, painted in bold colors: crimson red, lapis blue, gold along the friezes. Mythological scenes were carved in relief, surrounded by intricate geometric patterns, all hand-painted. From where we stood, we could see the god’s statue inside: Apollo, sculpted in a majestic pose, with the lyre in one hand and the bow in the other.
The sunlight fell directly on his face.
As if the sky itself was greeting him.

I felt a chill—not just because of the temple, but because of what it represented. Apollo. The god who would become obsessed with Percy. The god I, just for being a decent person, would have to stand against.

“How ironic,” I murmured without thinking.

“Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” I lied, too quickly. “Just… that it’s impressive.”

Percy gave me a sideways glance, but didn’t push. We walked a little further until a man in a white tunic came out to meet us.

“Come,” he said in a cordial but firm tone. “The city’s leader wishes to thank you personally. And the temple…” —his eyes shone with devout fervor— “Apollo’s temple has offered you shelter, if you wish. The priests say this has been a day of omens.”

I swallowed hard. Omens. Of course. Because nothing could ever be simple—not even a city with proper houses, kind people, and warm food.

Percy, for his part, nodded cautiously. He was still clearly on guard. And I… I couldn’t take my eyes off the temple, its gleaming façade, its perfect god carved in painted marble. At another time, I would’ve been a thrilled tourist. Even terrified, the history nerd in me found all of this simply magnificent.
But now, it felt like a warning disguised as art.

Part of me already knew: we couldn’t stay long. The city was beautiful. The temple, worthy of a god.
But Apollo wasn’t a harmless painting.

In the fanfic, Apollo is drawn to Percy because he had been listening to a priest’s prayer when his attention was suddenly caught by Percy’s beauty (typical god behavior, if you ask me). He appears in disguise, their eyes meet and BAM—soulmates—and then WHAM, abduction.

Shit, I was starting to panic. How the hell were we going to get out of here?

The aide led us up the marble steps, and as we climbed, I could feel the vibration of the hymns—male and female voices intertwined, lyres playing with a deep pulse that slipped beneath the skin. The polychrome façade of the temple seemed to throb with the music, and for a moment I could’ve sworn the statue’s gaze flickered—like Apollo himself was waiting, eager, behind those golden eyelids.

“Before we receive you,” the man announced with a solemn gesture toward the doors, “it is customary to pay respects to the god. A brief prayer and—”

I didn’t think—I panicked. It closed around my ribs like a rusted trap. If I set foot past that threshold, if I knelt even for a second, I risked triggering every line of that damn fic. Apollo. Interested look. Divine bond. Abduction.
My knees went weak. I could feel the shadows inside me stir, restless, like they sensed the danger.

I had to get us out. Now.

The plan—if it could even be called that—was born of pure desperation: I let the blood drain from my face, parted my lips slightly, and loosened every muscle still holding up my shaking body. FAKE IT. Just fake it. A controlled collapse. All it took was a soft sigh and a little theatrics.

And it worked: time seemed to slow as my vision blurred (or so they thought), and I let myself fall forward. Percy, never far from my side, reacted first. He caught me against his chest as his pen-sword clattered to the stone floor.

“Giuliana!” his deep voice vibrated against my ear. “Breathe, breathe…”

The nearest priests gasped in dismay. The guards took a half-step back, as if human frailty were contagious. The man who had guided us fidgeted nervously, unsure whether to interrupt the ritual or assist me.

“She needs water,” Percy snapped, taking charge. “And rest. Not a prayer.”

I kept my eyelids limp, my breathing rapid and shallow. A convincing faint—not dramatic, just enough so no one would suggest dragging me to the sun god’s altar.

“Take her to the house of healing,” ordered a priest in a blue robe, barely older than me. “We must not profane the sanctuary with a fainting spell.”

Thanks, I thought dryly, but remained still as they slid a hand beneath my neck and another under my shoulders, helping me up with fake tremors. I caught the blurred image of Percy retrieving his sword and slipping it back into his pocket, as casually as if it were nothing more than a pen.

They led us through a side corridor, away from the painted portico. The sound of the lyres faded behind us, along with the terrifying certainty that Apollo wouldn’t see Percy—at least not today. A heavy wave of relief washed over me as we crossed into an inner courtyard filled with rosemary and mint pots; the air smelled of resin and clean linen, and the noise of the plaza vanished behind the whitewashed walls.

They laid me on a straw mattress covered with linen; a young healer left a pitcher of water nearby and slipped out on quiet feet. Only then did I fully open my eyes. Percy stood beside the cot, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a harsh whisper, his expression full of concern.

I nodded, but before I could speak, he narrowed his eyes.

“You faked it,” he accused in a low voice, not angry—just confused. “Why?”

I looked toward the open window, at the soft light filtering in, at the scent of oils floating in the air. I thought of the statue, of the predestined scene we had just narrowly escaped.

I sat up slowly on the cot. There was no point in lying to him—not after everything we’d already been through. But I couldn’t be completely honest either. I gripped the water pitcher in my hands and looked at him seriously, my voice a bare whisper.

“I felt danger,” I said plainly. “A presence. I don’t know how to explain it… but I knew. If we crossed that threshold, something would happen. Something big and dangerous.”

Percy watched me in silence. He didn’t seem to doubt me, though his brows furrowed like he was trying to process something he couldn’t quite understand. He lowered his gaze, ran a hand through his damp hair, and let out a sigh.

“Okay,” he murmured at last. “Sometimes that kind of thing happens to demigods. It’s fine. I trust you. So… what now?”

I was surprised by how quickly he accepted my answer. Or maybe not. Percy Jackson was many things—but a skeptic wasn’t one of them. Maybe it was the life he’d lived. Maybe he, too, knew what it was like to be afraid of the inexplicable.

“I don’t know,” I replied, setting the jar aside. “I just… knew something was going to happen.”

Percy stayed quiet for a few seconds. Then, without looking at me, he sat at the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the stone tiles.
I wondered what he was thinking—if he believed it was a monster I’d sensed, or if he suspected the presence of a god.

“When we get out of here,” he said finally, still not looking at me, “we’re going to train. Not just to survive. To control it. Whatever it is.”

My throat tightened for a moment. It moved me, how easy it was to trust him. How much he seemed willing to bet on someone he’d just met.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“You don’t have to thank me. We’re in this together.”

“Yeah but… you’ve been really kind to me. You didn’t have to be. Thanks for…” I stopped, suddenly unsure if I was being too familiar. Percy looked at me, confused by my abrupt silence.

“For what?”

“For… well… are we friends, Percy?”

The man looked at me with disbelief in his eyes, then smiled—a smile so genuine that, like everything else, looked perfect on his beautiful face.
“Of course we’re friends, dummy. Do you really think after dragging you across half the sea we wouldn’t be?”

A short, hoarse laugh escaped me. Percy smiled too, more because he saw me laugh than at the joke itself. The mood lightened just a bit. It was nice.
I almost forgot we were surrounded by a city devoted to a god who could destroy us with a single thought.

The door creaked open, and the same priest in white and blue robes entered with measured steps. I got a better look at him now—young, kind-faced, and with eyes that missed nothing. In his hands, he carried a tray with a steaming bowl, some bread, and a folded cloth.

“Forgive the interruption,” he said, bowing slightly. “The young man must leave. The temple allows only one person to rest in this chamber at a time, especially during the sacred hours of morning.”

Percy tensed slightly, as if reluctant to leave me alone. I didn’t want to raise suspicion, and if I still pretended to be weak, it made sense that I should rest. But I didn’t want to let him go either.

“I’ll be fine,” I whispered, hesitant, brushing my fingers against his wrist. “Just… don’t go to that area, okay?”

He hesitated a second longer, then leaned in close. His warm breath touched my forehead as he murmured:

“Scream if you need anything. Literally. I’ll find you.”

I watched him as he left the room, escorted by the priest. The door closed with the soft sweep of fabric. And then I was alone.

Or so I thought.

The shadows in the corners of the room seemed denser now. Not threatening—just… expectant. As if they had been waiting for this exact moment: the instant I was without witnesses.

And then I fell.

You know how Alice falls into Wonderland and time seems to stretch, like gravity took a vacation?
This was just like that… except for the darkness.
A black so absolute that not even my eyes—this new night-vision gift—could pierce it. There was no up or down, only the certainty that I was sliding through a void that wasn’t entirely physical.

And I had never screamed so loud in my life—yet somehow, there was no sound. Not even my own.

Then the blackness shifted. First into a violet hue, like ink bleeding in water. Then, tiny points of light emerged—minuscule stars spiraling around me with their own heartbeat. I realized I wasn’t falling—I was floating. As if the darkness, now speckled with constellations, had decided to hold me in suspension.

No wind. No cold. No ground. Only a silence so dense it felt sculptable.

Then I felt a presence.

It didn’t appear with a flash or divine fanfare. It was just… there. A dull vibration, a shift in nonexistent air pressure, a tremble in the starlight surrounding me. The “stars” parted like a curtain. A silhouette emerged from the void—tall, impossible to fully define, as if its outline was made of pure night streaked with galaxies.

My chest tightened, seized by a mix of primal terror and reverent awe.
Like I’d stumbled upon something that had existed long before the universe learned how to breathe.

A voice spilled out from everywhere. It didn’t come from the figure—it was the darkness itself, speaking in a thousand overlapping tones—deep as distant thunder, soft as falling ash.

"What curiosity brings a heartbeat so… foreign… into my domain?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Each word pulsed inside my skull, stirring memories and fears I didn’t even know I had.

"By what right do you wield what you do not understand?" the voice thundered now, laced with ancient fury "I felt a tear in my mantle. A sudden storm of shadow I did not summon… and your pulse led to it.

A shiver ran from head to toe. I wanted to explain—say it hadn’t been on purpose—but the darkness vibrated with a hissing crackle.

"Silence, mortal." The “stars” in its form exploded into violet sparks "I did not ask for your tongue. I asked for your existence… and I can unmake it."

The pressure in the “air” intensified. I couldn’t breathe—it felt like invisible hands were crushing my lungs.

"You carry something that belongs to me," it continued, each word a blade "A fragment of my night, ripped away without my consent. I didn’t even notice the breach until you made the darkness bleed yesterday. Do you crave death so deeply?"

I swallowed; the gesture barely brought my voice back, but I managed a whisper:

“...I don’t… know. It just… happened…”

"I warned you: silence. " The darkness curled into a ring around me "The answer is simple: I take back what’s mine and let your empty body fall to the mud of war. One less heartbeat among many."

A cold stab pierced my chest. Every shadow inside me shuddered, as if trying to flee—but unable to.

All the terror I’d felt before was nothing compared to that instant.

"But…" the word slid in, dangerous. There is curiosity in me. Rarely does anything evade my senses for so long. How did you cross my domain? What hand pushed you in?"

I wanted to respond—to tell the story of the beach, the fanfic, the cosmic mistake—but her aura crushed me.
Still, I stammered:

“No… hand. I just… woke up here.”

The figure tilted its head slightly; the constellations on its “skin” spun like an uneasy kaleidoscope.

"Lie or ignorance… it matters little." A pause, a silence that weighed tons. "Your fate should end now. And yet…"

The silhouette raised an arm. Its hand—more an absence of light than a limb—hovered inches from my chest. I felt my heart split in two, ready to release that strange spark I still didn’t understand.

Then something unexpected happened: a vibration, like the echo of my own terror turned into a silent plea.
The fragment of darkness inside me responded—not with submission, but with a faint pulse… almost childlike.

The entity paused.

“Do you cling to life, stolen spark?” the night whispered, now lower, almost surprised. “Curious…”

The pressure eased slightly—just enough for me to inhale.

“Please,” I said, my voice cracked. “I don’t know what I am to you, but… I need to live. There are people I must help… someone I have to protect from an immortal.”

The night stirred. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or amusement.

“Protection… bravery… in such little flesh.” —Another violet flash— “Very well, mortal. You will not live by your own will, but by my experiment.”

I felt the entity studying me.

“Perhaps you could be my own heroine… though, given the power within you, you’d be more of a demigoddess. Curious. I’ve never spawned with a mortal—boring, all of them.” The voice sounded annoyed. “But I’m so tired of hearing that brat Zeus brag about his offspring. Hercules this, Hercules that. Well, I can have a far greater hero. And a woman, no less. Excellent.”

The darkness settled around me again—not to crush, but as if it had decided to hear me out before sentencing me. I felt the violet pulse slow, expectant.

“I want… I need something more, please,” I dared to say, knowing each word weighed like a life. “This world is full of heroes forged by gods, warriors who kill monsters before breakfast. And right now, there’s a war unlike any before… and I have to protect my friend. From an immortal.”

The shadow tilted—barely a perceptible shift in a figure made of stars.

“Immortal?” the voice slithered with curiosity, like wind whispering through tombstones.
“Speak, spark. What threat looms over your fragile companion?”

“He…” I swallowed. “He’s the soulmate of a powerful Olympian god. And if that god claims him now, he’ll destroy him. His love… isn’t love. It’s wildfire. I don’t want to separate them forever—I just… want to protect him until he can choose his own fate.”

The “stars” in her form flickered. I felt a metallic cold—not hostile, but fascinated.

“Gods tend to have absolute rights over what they call soulmates,” the night mused.
“Tell me… what makes you think you can survive a god’s fury and steal what he deems his?”

“I’m not trying to steal a god’s soulmate,” I said, steady now. “Only to keep him from turning to ashes before he learns how to truly call him his.”

For a moment, silence turned absolute.

And then… the darkness laughed.

Not a cruel laugh, nor mocking, nor thunderous. It was low, like wind brushing through leaves, like the murmur of falling stars. An ancient laugh. Astonished.

“Incredible,” murmured the night, with a note of delight. “An insolent spark… but a bright one nonetheless.”

The pressure eased further. I could breathe better, though I still didn’t dare to move.

“You dare speak of love in front of me,” the voice continued, now with something almost like… admiration. “I, who have watched the hearts of men and gods rot for less. I, who have seen wars begin over whims, and worlds die for longing. And you, human, ask me not for yourself… but for another.”

There was a beat—not of a heart, but of something far greater. As if the universe itself blinked.

“Very well,” she said at last. “You shall bear my mark, little insolent one. Not because you ask it… but because I want to see how far you’ll go.”

A deep, violet glow flared before me. It didn’t hurt, but it burned into my soul.
An ancient symbol—of shadows, stars, and night—etched itself into my skin, right on my left collarbone. At its touch, a surge of knowledge flooded my mind: how to summon shadows, how to hear what hides, how to see without being seen.

“You are mine now,” said the entity—who I now knew was Nyx, primordial goddess of the night—in a tone more verdict than vow. “A daughter unborn, yet acknowledged. Let monsters recoil at your sight. Let gods hesitate before they dare lay a hand on you.”

The world around me began to blur. The sensation of floating returned.

“Go, Giuliana. Be my heroine… bring me pride. I grant you a thread of time.” Nyx’s voice reverberated like a distant bell. “Use it. Show me whether that spark can forge something worthy… or if it’s only good for feeding flames. Wield it wrongly… and I will return to reclaim it. And this time, no plea will still my hand.”

And the darkness collapsed into light.

I opened my eyes with a jolt, as if I’d surfaced from a freezing, viscous sea. Everything looked the same. The same room lit by daylight filtering through a gauzy curtain. The same lingering scent of incense, sweet and persistent. The same painted walls with ancient reliefs as old as time itself.

But I wasn’t the same. Something inside me had changed irrevocably. The night had swallowed me—and sent me back.

I stayed still for a few seconds, my heart pounding like a war drum against my ribs. Everything was calm, as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t just been on the brink of death (again) at the hands of a primordial goddess. As if I hadn’t felt a millennia-old voice curling around me with the power to reduce me to ashes.

The mark on my skin throbbed softly—not like a wound, but like an echo. A seal that would never leave. I wanted to see it as protection, not a curse. I brushed the exact spot with trembling fingers, trying to process the impossible.

I forced myself to move. Even standing took effort, like my body was still tethered to that other realm, like part of me hadn’t fully returned. I couldn’t stay here. Not after all that. I had to find Percy.Make sure he was okay. I needed someone to talk to—something to anchor me, even if it was a boy with a magic pen-sword who I thought was fictional just two days ago.

I couldn’t keep feeling like a ship adrift in this sea of madness. He had to know what happened. He was my companion, and my… friend. Yes. My new friend.

I crossed the room’s edge, awkwardly parting the curtain that separated the resting chamber from the rest of the temple. Every shadow that slid across the floor or climbed the columns seemed to shift just slightly more than normal—like they knew who I was now. Like they recognized me. Like they responded.

But there was no time to think about that.

The corridor was silent, but not empty. A couple of acolytes moved back and forth, busy with their tasks. None of them looked at me. Apparently, a “patient” leaving her room wasn’t too unusual.
Good.
I walked in the direction I remembered seeing Percy go. Maybe I’d find him there. Maybe he was with the priests. Maybe he’d already left the temple.

My stomach twisted at the thought. How far was he now?
No. He had to be close.

I quickened my pace.
Every corner of the temple felt more vast now, more threatening.
The columns, decorated with painted images of the sun god, returned my gaze with unmoving, wise, mocking eyes.
Everything in that place frightened me.
Once my favorite god, now even the sight of something that represented the god of the sun filled me with dread—not just because of Percy, but because of what he might do to me.

I passed by an imposing mural, as tall as two men, painted with the precision of an artist who knew glory and myth intimately. In it, Apollo held his golden lyre, his white tunic billowing in an invisible breeze, and his gaze… his eyes were golden, liquid, perfect. Like sunlight reflected in water. I stopped. I couldn’t help it.

Yes, I was being foolish. Yes, it was probably dangerous. But even now, even after everything, I was still a fan. A fan of history, of myth, of the tragedies gods could create with the flick of a finger. Sue me. The painting was beautiful, and for one fleeting instant, I was once again the teenager who sighed over Apollo and his damn golden arrows, the one who swooned over gods she never expected to meet.

"Do you like it?" asked a soft voice beside me.

I jumped immediately. I turned so fast I nearly lost my balance.

I didn’t recognize him at first. Of course, he was in disguise. A simple linen tunic, nothing flashy. Pale blond hair tied back with a leather cord, posture relaxed, almost careless. But the eyes… oh, the eyes. They were the same as in the mural. Golden. Brilliant. Intimidating. Divine. And then, like a slap from fate, I knew. Not just from the stare or the overwhelming presence that seemed to push the air around us… but from the most ridiculous detail of all:

He was wearing the exact disguise from the fanfic.

He didn’t recognize me. Why would he? To him, I was no one. Just a mortal admiring his image with the reverence of a devoted admirer.

“It’s… well painted,” I managed to say, stiffly, forcing a tight smile. My throat was dry.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he said, also looking at it. “I always thought they captured the light in the eyes well. Don’t you think?”

My laugh was a nervous murmur. Too well. But I didn’t say it.

“Are you from this city?” he asked, curious, turning to me with calm interest—like someone discovering a new flower in his own garden.

I shook my head. “No. I’m… just passing through.”

“A foreigner, then,” he said with a genuine, tilted smile. “I’m glad you’re visiting the temple. It’s always good to receive fresh eyes.”

“I’m grateful for the hospitality I’ve received,” I replied quickly, deliberately leaving Percy out—I didn’t want him anywhere near this.“The war’s been difficult.”

Apollo tilted his head slightly, as if tasting my words. His smile didn’t fade, but it softened—laced with something I couldn’t quite place.

“Wars always are,” he said, his tone almost reflective, his voice weaving comfort into the air. “Though some would find beauty even in the rubble… if someone like you walked among it.”

I blinked twice. Was he flirting with me?

I never thought of myself as particularly beautiful. Pretty, sure. But not beautiful. By modern standards, I was definitely overweight—only saved by the fact that my figure was curvy in the socially approved places. Still, I supposed that in Ancient Greece, my body type might’ve been attractive. And my honey-dyed hair probably made me fit their beauty ideals.

At my silence—and the obvious blush heating my cheeks (hardly anyone flirted with me, let alone a god)—Apollo let out a very attractive laugh.

“May I ask your name?” he added, with such charming ease it nearly made my knees buckle. Good thing he was still disguised—if I saw him in his full divine glory, I’d probably faint like a fool.

“Giuliana,” I answered, my voice high-pitched with surprise.

He nodded, still smiling, like he was repeating the name to himself, tasting it in his mind. Then he turned back to the mural, as if giving the conversation room to breathe.

“I’m Nikandros,” he said, and his voice had a playful note, as if it wasn’t entirely true.

I glanced at him sideways. That name wasn’t from the fanfic, but it didn’t matter. Nikandros sounded perfectly Greek. Normal. Harmless. Sure. I don’t believe you, golden boy.

“It’s a lovely name,” I said, because it was polite—because I was scared of what might happen if I didn’t play this right.

And then he looked at me again.

But before the disguised god could utter another word, I froze in horror at the sound of a voice I knew all too well behind me.

“Giuli, I’ve been looking all over the temple—why did you leave the room?” Percy’s voice, with that usual tone of his that wavered between mild exasperation and genuine concern.

I turned immediately, my mind racing through options—ways to get us out of this.

But it only took half a second for the world to stop.
I watched in horror as Apollo fixed his gaze on Percy.

A second ago, he had been all warmth and calm—Now something inside him snapped taut, an invisible string pulled too tight, vibrating with a note too high for human ears. Those golden eyes widened slightly… as if they had finally found the light they’d been chasing since the beginning of time.

And then it happened.

A rush of heat slapped my face, a breath of summer that didn’t belong in the temple’s cold marble air. The air filled with golden particles, like pollen at dawn, and the light—too pure to be mortal—began to seep through Nikandros’ pores. His simple tunic lit up from within, the outline of his body turning into molten bronze; solar sparks crawled across his skin, and for an instant, I saw what lay beneath the disguise:

A radiant core. Blazing. So beautiful it hurt to look at.

He wasn’t a man.
He never had been.

Percy sensed it before he fully understood it. His back stiffened; shoulders raised a fraction—instinct and memory fusing: God, screamed every muscle and scar. His sea-green eyes, usually full of confused kindness, hardened into sculpted jade; a storm swirling behind his pupils.

Without a word, he reached out and pulled me behind him, shielding me with his body—placing himself squarely between the god and me with the resolve of a wall. His hand clutched my wrist—firm, almost painful—but I welcomed every millimeter of that grip.

Apollo—there was no doubt now, with sunlight crackling from him—blinked as if waking from a dream. His aura tried to withdraw, to squeeze itself back into the shape of Nikandros… but it didn’t quite succeed. The gold still leaked out. The heat still radiated.

And he looked at Percy…

He looked at him with awe, with shock, with hunger, and a love so absolute it froze my blood.

“You…” he whispered, and the single word made the silence tremble, as if the marble itself bent closer to hear it. “I’ve been searching for you for far too long.”

Percy’s grip on my wrist tightened—I didn’t know if it was to protect me or to anchor his own fury. I looked up and saw his lips press into a hard line. I knew that expression: he wouldn’t run, wouldn’t hide, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to surrender his freedom to the first deity who declared a claim on him. All the confidence earned from years of battle settled over him like armor—layer by layer—forming an invisible shield.

“And I,” he replied in a low, controlled tone, “have no idea who you are.”

The golden light flickered—almost like a sob of disappointment. Apollo raised a trembling hand—trembling, a god trembling—and the edge of his palm sparked with the light of dawn. Every dust mote it touched flared briefly in amber brilliance.

I stood behind Percy, barely breathing. His back was a wall, but my eyes couldn’t look away from the god— From the scene I recognized too well: the gaze, the fascination, the first pull of longing.

Just like in the fanfic.
Just like in the version that ended in a kidnapping.
Just like in the future tragedy I’d sworn to prevent.

And there I was—
Marked by night, protected and doomed all at once—
Watching as the sun discovered his favorite star.

Chapter Text

Have you ever stood in front of a bomb about to explode?

I don’t mean one of those cartoonish round bombs with a sparkling fuse. I mean a real one. The kind that emits a low, barely audible hum that makes your teeth vibrate. The kind you just know, with every fiber of your being, is about to tear the world in half at any moment.

Well. Fine.

Now add that this bomb is the damn sun.

Literally.

And it’s staring at the boy you’re trying to protect like he’s a beam of moonlight made flesh—right before deciding it’s going to tuck him in its pocket forever.

The worst part was that I knew exactly what was coming, because I had already read it. I had read it, and I had laughed in the comments, and I had obsessed over the tragedy.

Only now, the tragedy was staring me in the face. And it wasn’t so entertaining when it was about to swallow the only friend I had in this cursed timeline.

Apollo spoke as if every syllable was a verse sculpted by the Muses themselves. As if the air turned to music just to carry his thoughts. As if the voice of a god could be nothing short of a damn masterpiece.

“You…” he whispered again, and his gaze settled on Percy like he was seeing him in the light for the first time. “You are… perfection. I’ve been searching for you for years without knowing you were what I was missing.”

And then it happened. The facade fell. The mortal skin cracked—but not in pain. In glory. His disguise vanished, and his body was no longer limited by anything human. And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to stand before something sacred… and want to punch it for being so damn perfect.

He had the body of a warrior carved from marble—tall and graceful—with the impossible symmetry of a classical statue brought to life. Every muscle looked like it had been sculpted by the same artists who adorned temples, as if his flesh had been molded by the Platonic ideal of masculine beauty.

His skin wasn’t sun-kissed; he was the sun. Brilliant. Radiant. Not blinding, but impossible to ignore. And his hair… it wasn’t just blonde. It was gold. A deep, ancient gold that fell in soft waves to his shoulders, framing a face no human had any right to possess. His nose was straight, his jaw firm, and his lips looked like they had been crafted to either kiss or destroy, depending on the whim of the moment.

But his eyes… his eyes were the worst.

If I used to think they were beautiful, now that I was seeing him in his full divine glory, I couldn’t find a single word that did them justice.

They were suns.

Two molten stars that forced me to look and look away all at once, because staring at them for too long was like gazing straight into the heart of fire. It hurt. And still, it was beautiful.

And they were fixed on Percy.

Percy, who stood in front of me. Tense. Furious. Protecting me.

Percy, whose eyes lit up with recognition the moment Apollo shed his human shell. Of course they knew each other. In a distant future, maybe, but they knew.

“Your soul shines like mine,” Apollo said, raising an open hand to his chest like he could show him an invisible mirror. “It’s written in every thread of the cosmos. We’ve been calling each other unknowingly since before we were born. You don’t have to fight anymore. I’ve found you. We’re whole now.”

The smile he gave Percy was radiant. It was love in its rawest form. Twisted. Desperate. Convincing. And frankly, terrifying.

A tremor in the air, like the world was holding its breath… and suddenly, the light exploded.

“Come,” said Apollo, without raising his voice. But his word became law. Became reality.

A golden light burst from his outstretched palm, warm and gentle at first… then brutal. As if the sun itself had taken shape to seize Percy. I watched the energy wrap around his chest, crawl up his arms, encircle his neck, like it was trying to fuse with him. It wasn’t an attack. It was a claim.

I screamed. Pure reflex. My body threw itself forward on impulse, but Percy was faster. He shoved me aside—hard—trying to move me out of the direct line of the spell. His feet dug into the ground as he resisted the pull of the light, his face tight, jaw clenched, as if fighting the will of a god was something that could be done through sheer stubbornness.

But he couldn’t. The light was dragging him. Pulling him with a force no demigod could ever hope to overcome.

Something dark and thick rose through my chest, my hands, my legs. It wasn’t fear—it was a force that responded to fear. Nyx’s teachings, her words, her promises, her essence—they all stirred within me.

The shadows burst forth as if they had been waiting.

Dark, fast, alive. They hurled themselves at Apollo’s light with violence, a brutal clash of opposites that made the air around us vibrate. The room seemed to tremble. The flames of the torches flickered. The god’s power was still stronger, his rays fought to burn them away, but my shadows held, pushed back, bit into the light, forcing it to retreat even if just a step.

Percy understood immediately. He grabbed my wrist, eyes blazing with resolve.

“Run!”

And boy, did we run.

The shadows rose around us, forming a shield that held the light at bay. It wouldn’t last long. I knew it. Percy did too. The temple doors were far, but each step felt lighter than the one before. My heart pounded, not just from running but from the heat of that light at our heels, brushing against us, threatening to swallow us at any second.

A roar of rage echoed behind us. An inhuman scream.

It shattered the air, shook the columns of the temple, sent doves scattering into a frantic flight. It was the fury of something ancient, something divine, something that had never been disobeyed. And we were disobeying it. Percy didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back. He just pulled me harder, as if his will could compete with the sun itself. The shadows remained at our backs, thinning, weakening, fighting to keep the scorching light away.

We reached the last steps. The marble beneath our feet gave way to rough stone. The air changed, no longer thick with incense or divine pressure. We made it. We were outside.

We hadn’t even finished breathing in our freedom when the world trembled again.

A blast of heat materialized in front of us. The air ignited. The ground cracked beneath us. And there, standing in the middle of the stone path, was him.

Apollo.

“Are you running from me?” His voice rang like a bell in the void—soft and terrible at once. “After seeing me, feeling me? After recognizing me?”

Percy stepped forward, still holding my hand. “You’re insane. I just see a crazy guy saying crazy things. Leave us alone,” he snapped, with a calm only fools or real heroes can fake in front of a god. The fury in Apollo intensified.

“This isn’t a choice, demigod. The thread is woven. The bond exists. The cosmos told me. Fate told me. The first breath you ever took told me!” He turned to me, voice still burning. “And you... you tried to steal him from me.”

The light radiating from him grew brighter, more alive, more dangerous, as if every cell in his body screamed for divine justice for having his perfect moment torn away—the moment when he was meant to find Percy. His soulmate.

And I... I had stood right in the way.

His gaze wasn’t disappointed or frustrated. It was hate. Pure, searing hatred that knocked the air from my lungs.

And for a second, honestly, I thought he was going to burn me alive.

My legs trembled. A thin layer of cold sweat slid down my back. My instinct screamed at me to run, but my feet didn’t move. Maybe because I knew it was useless to run from the sun itself.

Jesus. Oh God. Holy Mary. Saint Michael. Saint Jude. Saint Whoever.

I started praying every single thing I knew—Our Father, Hail Mary, even my school’s breakfast prayer. And the worst part was, none of them had even been born yet. Jesus didn’t exist. I couldn’t even rely on the popular saints.

I was alone. Completely alone.

“You dared,” Apollo whispered, like he was spitting venom. “A worthless human dared to use dirty tricks to steal what is mine.”

Percy, dumb son of Poseidon, fearless and self-worthless, stepped between us again. Fists clenched, chest out, radiating the kind of conviction only someone who’s already beaten gods can carry.

“Leave my friend alone. You won’t hurt her. And I’m not yours,” he said, and he said it so damn firmly that, for a moment, I believed the whole earth would fall in line with him.

But Apollo’s gaze didn’t change. If anything, it grew crueler.

And still, he wasn’t looking at Percy. He was looking at me. As if I were the thief of his happiness. As if my greatest sin had been being born and crossing his path.

Apollo took another step, and a beam of light erupted from his hand—brighter than the entire temple, fiercer than the noon sun. On instinct, I threw my arms up to shield myself.

I didn’t even have time to scream.

Because before the light could reach me, Percy raised a hand. His other hand shoved me aside, and the air changed.

A new vibration surged—powerful, ancient. The sky darkened for just one second—one exact second—as if the sea itself was breathing through it. Then the earth beneath the god’s feet split open with a deafening crack.

A liquid explosion drenched everything. It wasn’t water. No. It was wine. Beer. Mead. Everything the village had offered that morning in ritual sacrifice came pouring down like absurd, sticky rain—straight onto Apollo.

It soaked him. His robes, his skin, even his divine light.

Percy had used his domain—controlling the liquids hidden underground, in jars, in the banquet amphoras meant for the temple’s celebration. Apollo flinched, stunned. Not hurt. Never hurt. But the blow to his pride was as clear as crystal.

“Wine?” he spat in disgust. “You attack me with wine!?”

The village, meanwhile, had descended into complete chaos. Screams rang out the moment Apollo’s light intensified, and when the ground cracked, people scattered in all directions. Women with pitchers, limping elders, crying children. All the post-war rebuilding, all the beauty of the temple, was now lost under a chorus of “A god is angry!”, “Blasphemy!”, “Run, run, run!”

And I... I could barely blink.

Percy didn’t stop. “I don’t want to fight you,” he growled, and though it sounded sincere, there was fury in his voice, “but I won’t let you touch her or take me.”

Apollo straightened. Brilliant. Radiant. Like a star that hadn’t exploded yet but was just about to. His hair, drenched in wine, shimmered with golden threads evaporating into sacred steam.

His eyes no longer glowed with love. Now, they burned with a pain so deep, so unfathomable, it hurt just to look at him.

“Why…?” he whispered at first, but his voice broke. “Why won’t you come with me?”

No one answered.

“Why do you choose her over me?!” he screamed, and light exploded from his chest like he had torn a piece of himself out just to throw it at us.

The ground cracked again.

“Your soul is mine!” Apollo roared, every word soaked in light, in desperation, in the kind of rage that only comes from loving someone so much you no longer know what to do with that love. “Mine! The cosmos wove you for me, Perseus. How dare you reject me?!”

Percy took the first step. It felt like all the fire he had been holding back since Apollo first spoke his name suddenly erupted in his chest, and the only way to release it was through force.

His war cry was silent—just a roar inside his own chest. His eyes darkened like a sea storm, and he moved so fast I barely saw the sword rise before he launched himself at a god.

A god who didn’t move. At first.

Apollo’s smile vanished. He dodged at the last second—not out of fear, but with elegance, like someone playing. He held no weapon, but each of his movements left behind trails of light so dense they seemed like blades. He wasn’t attacking to kill, that was obvious. It was more like a dance—an attempt to surround, to trap, to immobilize. Like he wanted to wrap Percy in light until he couldn’t move anymore.

But Percy didn’t let him.

The son of Poseidon summoned his heritage with a fury I had never seen in him before. The earth split beneath his feet with a muted rumble, and even though there was no water nearby, an overturned tavern, some shattered barrels, and all the stored wine and beer rose in thick whirlwinds, following him like liquid whips. The air smelled of spilled alcohol and ancient power, of war.

People screamed. They ran through the dirt streets, fleeing as if an entire army had descended upon them. And in a way, one had. An army of two. A god in love. A hero done with it all. And me—caught in the middle, with the mark of Nyx burning on my skin.

And then, Apollo decided it was enough.

He raised his hands to the sky, as if summoning a storm of gold, and a surge of energy rained down toward Percy. Magic. Blazing light, woven with more than just heat. It was made of fate. Of bonds.

Percy raised his sword, but it was too fast. Too much. Too sudden.

I reached out, and the shadows obeyed me.

They rose from my back like broken wings—a blast of blackness that didn’t absorb the light, but stopped it. Contained it. Devoured it. They collided in the air like two forces that were never meant to touch. And for one second—just one—everything went still.

Apollo’s gaze turned to me, burning with rage. A fury so scalding it froze me from the inside.

“You again!” he spat, his voice tearing through the air. “Parasitic shadow! Who do you think you are to come between a god and what belongs to him?”

His shout still hung in the air when Percy lunged at him.

No warning. No truce. Just a quick, direct strike, full of protection, fear, and fury. Protection for me. Fear for his freedom. Fury for the life Apollo wanted to steal and trap in a golden cage.

The golden glow flickered—too late.

Apollo could’ve defended himself. He could’ve summoned enough light to burn the world. He could’ve stopped the blade with a gesture, a blink, a single word.

But defending himself meant hurting Percy.

And that was the one thing he couldn’t allow.

The blade sliced through his side.The snap of divine flesh breaking was as silent as it was brutal. No blood spilled—only ichor. Thick, pure gold poured down in liquid threads to the ground. Apollo gasped, not from pain, but from shock. As if he couldn’t believe it had actually happened to him.

To a god. An eternal being.

Wounded by the one person who was supposed to love him above all else.

Percy looked at him wide-eyed, expecting backlash, divine punishment, heavenly wrath.

But Apollo didn’t move.

He just looked down, still stunned, at the glow spilling from his own body.

And I… I was frozen.

“Giuliana!” Percy’s voice—in English—shook me like thunder. “Can you take us?! Now!”

I looked at him. His face was tense, sweat dripping down his temple. The wine, the fight, Apollo’s wound—all of it clung to his skin. Take us? What did he mean by take us?

“Can you shadow-travel or not?!” he shouted again, urgent.

My eyes widened in realization, and I stammered in surprise—of course, shadow-travel, I should be able to do that. I searched my memory, the knowledge gifted to me by Nyx—and there it was. The shadows around me trembled, waiting. Like they were saying, Just give the order, and we’ll open the way.

When Percy was at my side, I grabbed him tightly—much to Apollo’s rage, who had recovered from the shock and was now striding toward us—and I pulled off my best Nico di Angelo.

And let the darkness swallow us.

The world split in two.

Not literally, of course. The air turned thick, heavy, a mix of smoke and vacuum. There was no up or down, just a sense of falling and crushing pressure, like we were being dragged through a tunnel made of liquid night. I felt Percy clinging to me with the same force I held onto him. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him—tense, alert, panting from the run, from the fight, from the fear.

Then, the voices.
Not ours.
Echoes.

Voices that didn’t belong to any living throat. Whispers tangled in my hair, in my ears, as if the darkness wanted to tell me secrets I was never meant to know. Phrases in dead tongues, muffled laughter, distant sobs.

Very soon, some said.
You are ours… we are yours, murmured others.

And amid those whispers, the shadow itself trembled, chaotic, angry, like it was reacting to a misfired command.

Because yes, Nyx had shown me how.
But never how much.
And clearly, I had gone too far.

We hit the ground with a hard thud.

We rolled across wet stone, me groaning as my hip slammed into the floor, Percy cursing under his breath. Everything hurt. My head was spinning, my stomach churning, like I’d just been flung off a roller coaster straight into the abyss without brakes.

We were in the dark—not like before, not the kind that whispered. This one was quieter. Like a cave, or a basement, or some forgotten corner of the world.

"Are you okay?" Percy panted, still catching his breath.

"I don’t know," I answered, as my mind switched into doctor mode and assessed my physical state. Other than the pain… I was fine.

My hands were shaking. I could still feel Apollo’s heat behind us, as if his light had burned into my soul. But he hadn’t reached us. Not yet, anyway.

The first thing Percy did was move. No break, no pause to process what had just happened. The moment he made sure I was alive, he was already on his feet, taking short steps, feeling around the edges of the space with his palms, measuring, searching for exits. His whole body was still in battle mode.

I, on the other hand, was still sitting on the floor, my back pressed to the nearest wall, breathing like I’d just run a marathon with a dragon chasing me. Which… wasn’t that far from the truth.

Percy touched an opening in the stone and muttered something under his breath. A thin, golden ray of light filtered in through a crack in the ceiling. It wasn’t a real hole—more like a slit, a tiny fracture in the rock, just enough to let the brightness of midday through.

He stepped closer.

I sat up instantly.

“No!” I shouted, louder than I meant to.

Percy turned around at once, alert, surprised, eyebrows knit together. He looked at me like he was about to ask if the fall had knocked something loose in my head.

“What?”

“Don’t look. Don’t go near that light,” I said, my voice trembling more than I wanted. I walked toward him, eyes fixed on the glow. “It’s just… if he’s the god of the sun, maybe Apol—”

His hand shot up and clamped over my mouth before I could finish. I froze.

His eyes were wide, serious. Almost afraid.

“Don’t say his name,” he whispered harshly. “Don’t say it. Not his. Not any of theirs.”

I stared at him. It took me a second to understand, but when I did, I nodded slowly. He lowered his hand.

“You think it’ll summon him? But we’ve said gods’ names before without a problem,” I whispered, barely audible.

Percy didn’t respond right away. His jaw was tight.

“They weren’t looking for us before. And now? We don’t know if he’ll tell anyone,” he replied hoarsely. “We can’t risk it. Not after what just happened.”

Percy sat down against a wall, rubbing his arm with an expression I couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t fear—not entirely. But there was exhaustion. Pain. Confusion. And anger. The anger still burned behind his eyes, restrained, like a sea that hadn’t finished crashing into the shore.

I sat beside him. I hesitated before speaking, but I knew I had to.

“When you left me alone in the room…”

Percy turned his face toward me. He didn’t say anything, just waited.

“I got swallowed by the dark. Literally. The shadows pulled me in, and I fell somewhere else.” I ran a hand through my hair, the knot in my throat tightening again. “There… I met something. Someone. An entity. I didn’t see her exactly, but it was the night.”

Percy frowned.

“The night?”

“Nyx,” I said quietly, and Percy’s eyes widened in recognition. “The primordial goddess. She… claimed me. Said she felt something of herself in me. That I crossed into her domain when I came here. That I… absorbed part of her essence.”

Percy didn’t speak immediately. He was thinking—I could see it in his face.

“And how are you still alive?” he finally asked, in that dry tone he used when something bothered him but he was willing to accept it.

“Apparently I’m pretty funny. I think she liked me. I told her that in this world full of heroes I needed protection, that it wasn’t my fault and that… well…” I blushed and couldn’t finish the sentence.

“What?” Percy asked, curiosity peeking through.

“I said I wanted to protect you too,” I mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

Percy didn’t say anything at first.

And honestly, that was worse than any answer.

The silence stretched, and my heart—my damn traitor of a heart—was pounding so hard it hurt. Why did I say that? Why did I say it like that? I couldn’t look at him. I just couldn’t. All I could do was stare at the floor while the blush crept up my neck like a rising tide.

I wanted to think clearly, but how could I when I had someone like him sitting right there?

Because how do you not develop feelings when Percy Jackson holds you while you’re shaking, defends you without hesitation, and doesn’t look at you with fear even after you’ve used a power you don’t understand? How do you not lose your mind a little when he looks at you like you actually matter to him?

My mind was a mess, but every part of me—every breath, every heartbeat—screamed the same thing: I like you. I like you, and I’m falling for you, and I don’t know what to do about it.

Then he spoke.

“That was…” he started, and his voice wasn’t mocking or distant. It was soft, a little unsure, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to process it. “That was really brave of you.”

I looked up slowly, afraid of what I’d find on his face.

But no.

Percy Jackson’s cheeks were flushed.

He was blushing.

And not just that—he rubbed the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself, with his mouth, with the emotion someone had just dropped on him like a bomb even though they’d only been in his life for less than a week and had already dragged him into chaos and godly battles.

A crooked smile crossed his face—one he tried to hide, but failed.

“I’m the experienced demigod, remember?” he said with a soft laugh. “I’m supposed to be the one doing the protecting here.”

My heart pounded even harder—if that was possible without killing me.

I couldn’t let that sweetness slip away.

“Well… I’m officially Nyx’s champion now. I guess we’ll have to rewrite the roles,” I said, trying to sound confident. I was shocked my voice didn’t shake, because inside, I was trembling like jelly.

He let out another laugh, this one more genuine, and looked up. His eyes met mine, and I swear time slowed down just to give me that moment.

“I guess so.”

Nothing else was needed.

We stayed in silence—not too close, not too far. Just enough for me to see his eyes and wonder if it was possible to feel this much for someone you’d technically just met… though, if I thought about it, I’d known him for years. In stories. In dreams. In fanfics.

And now he was here. Alive. Real. Thanking me.

“Thanks,” he murmured, like that word was enough to repay everything. And it was. Because it was him who said it.

I nodded, feeling the smile tremble on my lips.

“That’s what friends are for,” I whispered.

The silence between us grew heavier as the shadows stretched around us. Outside, beyond the cracks in the rock, there was no trace of the sun—just a starry night sky, heavy and still, like the universe was breathing quietly. We’d spent hours without talking much, just regaining our strength, in a tense calm that neither of us dared to break.

Eventually, Percy stood up. He walked to the mouth of what we assumed was a cave and stopped just before stepping out. His eyes, trained to read threats, scanned the darkness as if it might betray us at any moment.

“I’m not sure,” he murmured without turning around. “He might’ve sent his sister. To watch. To hunt.”

He didn’t say names, but I knew exactly who he meant—Artemis.

I stood slowly, still sore, and walked over to him in silence. I placed a gentle hand on his back.

“It’s night,” I said, like that explained everything. “The night… it’s my turf now. Well, not mine-mine. My new boss’s.”

Percy turned his head just slightly, raising an eyebrow with a smile that was way too attractive for my own good.

“Your new boss?” he repeated casually, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Sounds like you changed jobs. Too bad… you look pretty good in that uniform.”

It caught me completely off guard. Heat rose up my neck and spread across my cheeks like a traitorous wave. I choked on air, blinking rapidly like that could stop my face from spontaneously combusting.
All that came out was a garbled noise and my brain screaming: Say something! Do something! Breathe, at least!

But he just laughed softly, genuinely, and winked before stepping outside first.

A second later, I followed him, heart pounding way too fast—but I ignored what he’d said. I’d think about it later.

“Well,” I said, falling into step beside him with a smile I tried to pass off as indifferent, “technically, I didn’t sign a contract, but she marked me, gave me power, and let me live… so yeah, sort of the worst job interview in history.”

He looked at me in silence for a few seconds. Then he sighed.

“And you’re sure she can keep us safe?”

I shrugged.

“Not entirely. But if he’s the day… She’s the night. And this…” I looked out into the darkness, “this belongs to me now, at least a little. I can feel it. Like a net. Like… if something tries to touch us, I’ll know.”

The night rose around us. Deep. Vast. Still. Not silent, but peaceful. I glanced around.

“It was definitely a cave,” I muttered with a bit of irony. “Convenient that the shadows threw us here and not, I don’t know, into the mouth of a volcano.”

“Very thoughtful,” Percy added, inspecting the entrance. “I like them.”

We walked in silence, leaving the cave behind. The terrain was rocky, dry, with low shrubs that crackled underfoot. The moon, high above us, cast long shadows that seemed to follow, as if still protecting us. But despite their presence, we both knew we weren’t safe yet.

We had no idea where we were. No landmarks. No distant torches. Just open land and the distant call of an owl.

“Are we actually going somewhere or just pretending we’re not lost?” I asked, trying to sound light, though exhaustion was eating me alive.

“Any direction that doesn’t lead straight to the psychotic sun works for me,” Percy replied without looking back.

The joke made me smile—barely. My body ached. My head throbbed. We hadn’t really slept. We hadn’t eaten. Percy was worse off: he’d fought a god and escaped death twice. And still, he kept walking. For me.
I pressed my lips together. We needed a vantage point. A hill or something to spot a settlement.

“Maybe if we climb that,” I said, pointing to a nearby rise.

“Sure,” he nodded. “But if we find another army, I vote we hide first and ask questions later.”

“I vote for sleeping on a rock and pretending we don’t exist.”

We smiled. Tired. In sync.

We started climbing. The terrain was uneven, but the shadows whispered the way—where to step, where not to. Slowly but safely, we made it to the top. And then we saw it.

Fire. Camps.

“You see that?” Percy asked, nodding toward the distance.

“Yeah. Fires. Tents. Men… too many.” I swallowed hard. “We took out a bunch of Achaeans, and HE is Troy’s patron god. None of them are friendly.”

Before he could answer, a sharp noise echoed through the hills. A crack. Then another. The ground beneath our feet shifted. I slipped to the side.

“Giuliana!” Percy shouted, trying to grab me, but in the motion, he lost balance too.

We rolled in opposite directions. I ended up on the right side of the hill, face-down in the dirt. Percy was on the other side, completely out of sight.

“Percy!” I yelled, heart in my throat.

“I’m fine!” His voice came from farther than I expected. Too far. I couldn’t see him.

I scrambled up the best I could—but then I heard voices. Shouts. Footsteps. An army.

Torchlight flared at the top of the hill, and I didn’t have time to run. The shadows tried to shield me, protect me, but they weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready. I was too tired.

A spear grazed my cheek. Another struck my legs and threw me to the ground.

“Don’t move!” someone shouted.

I tried to rise. I couldn’t. They grabbed my arms. Another soldier hit me on the back of the head. I collapsed.

And just before I blacked out, the last thing I saw on the opposite slope was a blue flash, a sword drawn, and Percy’s figure—fighting back.

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned like the tide: slow, uneven, cold.
First, I heard. Voices. Footsteps. The thudding of boots and the creak of armor. Then I smelled. Smoke, sweat, iron, blood. Finally, I saw… or tried to. There was cloth over my face, a coarse bag that scraped against my skin every time I moved. My hands were tied in front of me, not tightly, but enough to remind me I was no longer free.

Then I heard voices.

“...I said the best course was to separate them. If they’re lying, they won’t be able to coordinate. We’ll see if their stories match.”

The voice was deep, authoritative, with that accent I was starting to recognize as typical of the time. And the name that followed was the one that made my eyes fly open.

“Odysseus said it clearly,” another voice replied. “We don’t have time for betrayal games. If they’re spies, we’ll know by tonight.”

The first one chuckled under his breath. A clever sound. Poisoned.

My pulse quickened. “Odysseus,” he had said. My mind, still sluggish from the blow, jolted awake. Odysseus? As in the Odysseus—king of Ithaca, strategist of the greeks, husband of Penelope and future headache of Poseidon.

I tried to sit up. The voices fell silent for a moment, and then I felt them enter the tent.

I sensed several people, maybe five, but I couldn’t see a thing. I had never felt so vulnerable. What would they do to me? Did they know we were the ones who had killed one of their squads?

They pulled the cloth from my head. There was rough fabric above me—just a tent. A reddish canvas, dimly lit by a nearby torch. I was lying on something that could only be called a bed if you had no dignity: a pile of dry pelts on the ground.

I didn’t recognize any of them, but one—tall, angular face, storm-gray eyes, neatly trimmed beard and a perpetually sharp expression—seemed to be leading the conversation. I knew because the others looked to him before reacting. His tunic was simple, but the authority that clung to him made it obvious he wasn’t just anyone.

Odysseus, I thought. I was in the Achaean camp.

A murmur ran through the soldiers as they saw me wake. Another man entered soon after, quite different from the first. Younger, physically flawless, long hair tied back with a leather cord, his body sculpted like a living statue. His movements were confident—almost lazy—as if he knew he had nothing to fear. A divine aura radiated from him, and he easily ranked in my top three most handsome men I’d ever seen.
It could only be… no. Gods, please no. I couldn’t be that unlucky.

“Name?” asked the one I assumed was Odysseus, his voice firm.

I swallowed hard. There was no point in lying—not in this state.

“Giuliana,” I said, my voice trembling as tears slid down my cheeks. “I’m not a spy, I swear. We were just… lost. We saw the fire from the hill and thought we could ask for help. That’s all.”

“We?” the blond one interrupted lightly, as if commenting on the weather. “Who were you with?”

“A friend. We got separated when we were attacked,” I finally said.

“Your friend took down ten of my best men before I had to intervene myself,” the blond man replied with a cruel gaze and an arrogant smirk. “That doesn’t sound like someone who’s just lost.”

My stomach twisted and I thought with bitter anger,Ten soldiers? If Percy wasn’t so exhausted, he could tear through your whole camp on his own.

The blond one—who I was still praying wasn’t who I thought he was—studied me with amused intensity, like someone observing a strange insect that had just started moving.

“It’s not what it seems,” I tried, my voice hoarse. “It was defense… he didn’t want to fight, we were scared and had no idea where we were. We saw the fire from the hill and just wanted to know if it was safe.”

“Ten soldiers?” repeated the other man—Odysseus, most likely—who still hadn’t given his name. His gaze was sharper now, more suspicious. He rubbed his chin while staring at me, as if trying to read the lie between my lashes.

“If all that was just fear, then you’re trained—or blessed. And I don’t know which of those options I like less.”

A murmur rippled among the guards standing at the tent’s entrance. One of them let out a low, nasty laugh.

“Doesn’t matter if she’s lying,” he said crudely. “She’s pretty. We can make her sing the truth if we give her the right treatment.”

I felt the blood freeze in my veins. The threat hung in the air like poison. The soldier took a step forward—maybe as a joke, maybe not. I didn’t care.
I tensed.

“I haven’t had one since we got here,” he added, this time speaking directly to Achilles. “Lord Achilles, if no one claims her, may I keep her?”
My heart sank. Achilles. It was damn Achilles.

I turned desperately, searching for any trace of compassion, knowing I wouldn’t find it in a monster like him.

He shrugged. Lightly. Indifferently.

“I have no objections,” he said, as if talking about game meat. “If she survives your enthusiasm, maybe we’ll have more answers by tomorrow.”

No.

“Please!” I shot to my feet, collapsing to my knees when my leg gave out. I raised my arms as if that could keep him away. “No! Don’t touch me! I’m not a spy, I swear! I just want to leave!”

The soldier laughed. He crouched to grab my arm.

He never reached me.

The shadows exploded.

A dark wave rose from the ground like a beast awakened from slumber. It gripped the soldier’s wrist and flung him back like a rag doll. He hit the ground with a thud, followed by the startled cries of two others who tried to step in, only to be shoved away by thick, wet, thrumming tendrils of darkness. One torch flickered, then went out with a hiss. Another followed.

And then, only the faint light from the tent’s entrance remained… and me, kneeling in the center, wrapped in shadows that didn’t touch me, but pulsed like a warning.

My body trembled. I didn’t know if it was from adrenaline or the energy surrounding me. I was deeply grateful to the shadows—the power inside me had only ever tried to protect me. But unfortunately, I didn’t have the strength left for shadow-travel, and besides, I wouldn’t leave without Percy.

Silence fell, broken only by laughter—Achilles, his face lit with amusement, laughed like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.

“Well,” murmured Achilles, finally catching his breath, “that was… unexpected.”

No one responded.

“She’s definitely not a common spy.” He stood, walking slowly toward me, eyes fixed on the dark strands still weaving around me. “Perhaps a demigoddess. Or a priestess. Maybe divine punishment for my poor taste… or even a gift, who knows.”

He looked at me like I was a secret just placed in his hands.

“No one else touches her,” he declared aloud to the others. His voice was calm… but brooked no argument. “From now on, she’s mine.”

The silence that followed Achilles’ decree was not broken by blades, but by a single dry word:

“Are you sure?” Odysseus, who had remained with arms crossed and a sharp gaze, stepped forward—not aggressive, but clearly displeased. “We don’t know who she is. We don’t know what she is. We don’t even know if she and the boy are telling the truth. And you’re going to claim her just because your instincts tell you to?”

Achilles glanced at him, arrogant.

“My instincts never fail me—and you know it. Besides,” he added with a smug smile, “I’m the strongest. If she’s dangerous, I can handle it. If she’s useful… even better.”

“This isn’t just a contest of strength,” Odysseus muttered, but his voice had lost its edge. His eyes landed on me, on the way the shadows still pulsed around me like a second skin. “Whatever she is… she’s not mortal.”

“And when has that ever been a problem for us? You talk like I’m some random mortal,” Achilles scoffed, raising his voice. “Patroclus!”

The name cut through the tent like a sacred command, and seconds later, a calm figure entered—serene, yet radiating strength.

Patroclus.

He was sun-warmed bronze, tall, with unruly dark curls falling across his forehead in a way that was careless yet perfect. He had the face of someone who had learned to be gentle in a brutal world, dark eyes full of intelligence and compassion, and a bearing that demanded respect without needing to raise his voice. He wore a simple linen tunic, a leather belt, and a sword at his hip, but nothing about him seemed threatening. He was warm. Human. Beautiful, in that quiet way that seemed like a rarity among men hardened by war.

Patroclus paused when he saw the chaos: soldiers still tense, the tent half-lit, and me on the floor, surrounded by a halo of shadow still pulsing in defense.

“What happened?” he asked—not alarmed, but clearly surprised.

“She’s yours to watch over,” said Achilles bluntly, as if he were handing off a cup of wine or a cloak. “She’s ours now. Take her to my tent—let her rest. No one else is to touch her.”

Patroclus looked at me then. His eyes were different from the others’. Softer. But wiser, too.

“Is she hurt?”

“No. Just scared,” Achilles replied, as if he somehow knew what was happening inside me. Maybe he did. Maybe warriors like him could smell fear like lions did.
Patroclus walked toward me with slow, measured steps. He didn’t touch me right away. He crouched first, looking into my eyes as if asking permission before even speaking.

“May I help you up?”

My throat tightened. Kind as he was, he was still a soldier like the rest. But what other choice did I have?

I nodded.

Patroclus said nothing more. With a gentleness that felt brutally out of place after what had just happened, he slid one arm around my waist and the other supported my forearm. He held me like he already knew where it hurt—like carrying the weight of others was second nature to him.

His arm was firm and warm, and the fabric of his tunic smelled of salt, leather, and wind. He gently pulled me against him, and my side rested against his chest. We were close enough that I could feel the steady beat of his heart, like a distant drum.

I took a step—and the world tilted. My right leg, still sore from the fall, buckled without warning. I let out a low cry.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly, as if that was all that mattered. As if his words alone could keep me from falling.

He bore nearly all my weight from then on, and together we left the tent.

The night air of the camp was dry and smelled of smoke, oil, and old blood. Torches marked the paths between thick canvas tents and banners hung from spears planted in the earth. Warriors passed by—some with cups in hand, others cleaning their blades. The constant murmur of a gathered army was like a restrained roar. Firelight danced on faces hardened by war.

And as we walked, in the distance, through the crackle of flames, I heard the echoes of an argument.

“You know this isn’t wise,” said Odysseus, his tone low but cutting. “We don’t know what that girl is, and you’ve already decided she’s yours.”

“So what? Are you afraid of a woman?” Achilles replied with a dry, mocking laugh. “If she turns out to be a threat, she’ll amuse me before I kill her. And if not… you saw her. She clearly has divine blood.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I don’t understand,” Odysseus replied. “And that’s exactly what worries me.”

Their voices faded behind us, swallowed by the camp’s restless activity. Patroclus said nothing. He simply held me firmly, walking with steady steps past tents and soldiers who threw us fleeting glances—some curious, others lecherous, others wary. And a few… afraid.

The shadows still pulsed around me. Not many. Not strong. But still there, as if refusing to vanish completely. As if they knew they couldn’t rest while I was so far from my guardian.

Percy…

I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard.

“We’re almost there,” Patroclus murmured.

Achilles’ tent stood taller than the others, like a beast of canvas and wood anchored in the middle of chaos. It was tall, well-reinforced, with thick ropes drawn tight at precise angles and a curtain of heavy pelts guarding the interior like a sanctuary. Outside, two crossed golden spears marked the entrance, alongside a shield resting on a stone pedestal. There was no need to ask whose shield it was—the gorgon etched at its center stared at me with living eyes.

Patroclus helped me across the threshold. The inside was dimly lit by a single oil lamp hanging from a beam. The scent was heavy: cured leather, spilled wine, damp wood, and dried blood. Battle garments hung in one corner, jugs and weapons rested on a low table, and a large bed covered in lambskins stood at the back of the tent.

Everything screamed invincible warrior-king, touch me and lose your head.

Patroclus helped me sit on a folded blanket in the corner. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t meant for a guest either. It was a place of waiting. A soft kind of captivity.

He grabbed a knife, and before my shadows could react, he only used it to cut the ropes that bound me.

I clung to his forearm before he could pull away.

“Please… my friend. The boy I was with… is he alive?”

Patroclus paused, looking down at me with that calm, unreadable gaze—no cruelty, but guarded. He didn’t answer right away. He gently pulled away from my grip and began lighting another lamp, his face half-obscured in shadow.

“Could you at least tell me if he’s here?” I pressed. “It was all a misunderstanding. We’re not spies. We didn’t know you were here—we just saw fire and… please. He’s my best friend. He’s all I have.”

My voice broke at the end. I didn’t cry, but I felt my chest tighten painfully. The fear wasn’t new, but it hurt more when silence stretched it. I leaned toward him, begging without dignity, without pride. I had nothing left.

Patroclus turned slightly, just enough for me to catch a hint of doubt in his profile.

“I’m not the one who decides,” he said softly, almost resigned. “But… he’s with us. Alive. Hurt, I think. But alive.”

Tears stung my eyes, though they didn’t fall. I didn’t know if it was relief or something worse. Alive? Hurt?

“Can I see him?”

Patroclus shook his head slowly.

“They separated the prisoners. They said it was so their stories wouldn’t get mixed. And because… your friend refused to talk.”

I let out a muffled sob.

“Of course he refused to talk, he’s a stubborn, brave idiot and…” I covered my face, crying and trembling, no longer able to hold it in.

Patroclus didn’t move. He just stood there, looking at me with something that wasn’t pity… but understanding. Something in his eyes told me he too knew what it was like to see the person you loved most in the world dragged away from you.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said at last. “And if I can keep others from doing it… I will.”

I looked up at him, hopeful.

“But I can’t promise anything. There are hot-blooded men here with little judgment,” he added, almost bitterly.

I leaned forward and, in a clumsy impulse, took his hand between mine.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “I know you don’t have to do this, but thank you.”

Patroclus left without a sound. I watched him go, steady and silent, and then the tent fell quiet again. It was just me, the soft sputter of the oil lamp, and the roar of the camp outside.

I slowly lowered myself onto the blanket, still sitting, not daring to put my full weight on my injured leg. A dull pain pulsed beneath my skin, a reminder that even the body had limits.

Well. At least I was still alive. At least Percy was too.

I hugged my knees to my chest. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t cry.
So I did what I did best: I overthought everything.

Plan one: Find out where the hell they’ve taken him. There had to be a way. If they were using that “interrogate separately then compare stories” system, eventually they’d call me to testify. Or to lie. Or, worst case… use me as a bargaining chip. I couldn’t let that happen.

And if I couldn’t find him soon… well, at least they couldn’t kill him, right? They couldn’t. Percy carried the Curse of the River Styx—not fully, but strong enough to shrug off a spear, a sword, even fire. The boy had literally survived things that would make Hercules curse the gods. I had to trust that. I had to believe he was okay.

Wounded, yes. Angry, definitely. But alive.

Plan two: Pray to Nyx.
...Okay, yeah, that idea was terrifying just to think. But one thing was clear: the Lady of the Night had claimed me. Experiment? Chosen hero? Mascot? I wasn’t sure. But she’d marked me. She’d given me power. And maybe, hopefully, enough will to use it. Maybe if I focused hard enough, kneeled, and said something like: “Oh, majestic queen of infinite darkness, please don’t turn me into a walking black hole and help me save the platonic love of my life,”

Maybe she’d answer. Or maybe she’d kill me for being a disappointment—or for invoking her wrong.

Plan three: Ask Poseidon for help. I know, he’s probably busy with… you know, the entire ocean. But what if I just tried to talk to him? Something like: “Hi, Lord of the Sea, I know you probably don’t remember… fathering a demigod—or having a son recently—but he’s here, captured, and really needs help right now. Don’t worry about the details, just see if you can notice a young guy who looks like you insulting some Achaeans.”

Yeah, a very formal message. Clearly’ll work.

Plan four… Ugh. I didn’t even want to think about it—but it was real. Real from the moment I saw those golden eyes looking at Percy as though he’d glimpsed the sun inside the sun. If everything else failed… I could call on Apollo. Just the thought made my stomach churn. I hated him. I feared him. But I also knew that, twisted obsession aside, he wouldn’t really hurt Percy. He might make a dramatic scene. But he adored Percy too much. If I used him… presented myself as bait, token, whatever—it might distract Apollo long enough for Percy to slip away.

No. No. No.

That would be the absolute last resort. Because if I called Apollo… he’d kill me—immediately—and Percy wouldn’t escape without me.

I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against my knees. I took a steady breath.

One week, I heard them say. I could fake strength for a week. Faking and performing—that’s all I’d done since I arrived.

The night brought an unexpected relief. At first I thought it was just the cool air, or my body finally starting to recover. But no—there was something more: a gentle, dark warmth that slid into my veins like living ink, as if my skin finally recognized darkness as home. The pain in my leg eased. The burn at the nape of my neck faded into memory. The shadows in the tent stirred subtly, like a satisfied creature after a good hunt.

I was healing.

Like Percy with water… except my source was quieter, more enveloping. I still didn’t fully understand what I was, but I knew I belonged to the night. To her.

I was meditating on that—or pretending to, to avoid thinking about Percy—when the tent curtain opened. Achilles and Patroclus walked in, laughing at something I didn’t catch. Achilles smelled of sweat, leather, glory—his skin beaded from training, eyes alive with vigor.

“Not asleep?” Patroclus asked, seeing me seated, alert, clearly uncomfortable at their return.

“Looks like it,” Achilles replied with a smile I couldn’t tell whether to dread or find intriguing. “Come, help me get out of this bloody armor.”

Patroclus obeyed with a familiarity that spoke volumes. With murmured gestures and shared understanding, they began to strip off gear right in front of me. Well… Achilles started undressing. Patroclus helped, like a ritual they had repeated so often his hands knew the way.

I tensed like a statue. The moment the breastplate dropped and the belt was undone, I turned away with a jolt, shutting my eyes so hard I saw sparks. My cheeks burned.

Not out of shame exactly—well, maybe some—but also instinct. There was something so natural and uninhibited in the way Greeks walked around unclothed, as though privacy didn’t exist, that my modern reflexes collapsed.

“What’s the matter?” Achilles’ amused voice made me want to bury myself. “Never seen a naked man?”

Heat traveled up my neck, ears, whole face. But I clenched my teeth and replied, preserving what dignity I could:

“Of course I’ve seen men naked. It’s my job.”

Silence. Patroclus paused in his work. I felt their gazes pinned on me.

“Are you a whore?” Patroclus asked, with a purity so innocent it made me jerk my head up, horrified.

Achilles let out a deep, genuine chuckle, like he hadn’t heard something so entertaining in years.

“What?! No!” I said, blazing red as a torch. “I’m a healer! In my land I trained to cure people, deliver babies, treat wounds…! Seeing naked bodies is part of medical work!”

Patroclus watched me with curiosity, tilting his head slightly.

“Oh… like Asclepius,” he said softly, as though everything suddenly clicked.

“Yes, exactly,” I murmured, looking back at the ground. “Just like Asclepius.”

“A healer who blushes at bodies,” Achilles commented, still laughing as he flopped onto a pile of skins. “Curious.”

“Well, not all my patients looked like… you,” I snapped without thinking—and immediately bit my tongue.

Achilles raised an eyebrow with a sly grin, clearly pleased. Patroclus just shook his head, as if used to that massive ego.

“It’s odd to see a female healer,” Achilles observed suddenly, voice low and calm, no judgement—just musing aloud.

“Well,” I replied, still seated at the furthest edge of the tent, drawing my legs close, “in my land there are many. We are trained for it.”

“And where is your land?” he inquired, one eyebrow lifted. His tone was curious, not suspicious, like examining a new weapon.

“Far,” I answered, without hesitation. “Very far. Across the sea, in hot lands, with mountains… and things you couldn’t imagine.”

Patroclus looked over at me from the corner, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You said your name is Giuliana, right? Strange name too.”

“I know,” I sighed. “It’s rare there too.”

“Do you have family?” asked Achilles, resting his head on his arm. His golden hair fell over his shoulder like it had been hand-painted with sunset light.

I swallowed. Hesitated.

“Not anymore,” I finally said, more softly. “I only have my friend.”

A small silence followed. It was Patroclus who broke it.

“We should sleep,” he said gently, without imposition. “It’s been a long day. And tomorrow, more questions.”

“Sleep… where?” I asked, unable to stop myself. The tent was spacious but had no corners, no other exits, no extra beds.

Achilles let out a brief, amused laugh.

“With us, of course,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “But you smell like dirt, sweat, and blood. Horrible. Patroclus, take her to wash and make sure she doesn’t keep that… weird thing she’s wearing.”

“My scrub?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“That. Looks like the blue skin of a skinny goat,” he scoffed, waving his hand. “Useless. Find something decent. Something sexy.”

Patroclus sighed with resignation as he approached to help me up.

“Let’s go,” he said, not harshly. “The water’s warm and I promise not to ask questions while I bathe you like a misbehaving child.”

I just nodded, exhausted. I didn’t have the energy to argue… even though the idea of being dressed up like a doll gave me chills. But if that guaranteed a night of rest, I’d take it.

I let Patroclus guide me through a small improvised hallway inside the tent. It was divided into sections with thick linen and wool fabrics hanging from the ceiling like mobile walls. We crossed one of those curtains into a warmer area, where steam floated in the air and the scent of freshly crushed herbs caressed my senses. There was a large bronze tub full of steaming water, buckets, oils, and rustic soaps scattered with a kind of functional order.

And that’s when I noticed.

Patroclus wasn’t leaving.

He rolled up his tunic sleeves with an unsettling naturalness, took a jug of herb water, and poured it over the tub, mixing the vapors with the smell of lavender and mint. I blinked, confused. Then horrified.

“Wait…” I said, raising a hand, my voice somewhere between a plea and a polite attempt at panic. “Are you… going to… bathe me?”

Patroclus paused, as if he couldn’t understand why that was a problem.

“Yes. Why not? Achilles asked me to. And if you’re not clean, you can’t sleep with us. The blankets are new,” he added, as if that justified everything.

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“I can bathe myself,” I declared, with all the dignity I could gather.

“By yourself?” he repeated with a slight tilt of his head. “Seems like you’ve forgotten the last time you saw soap.”

“Yesterday in the cave!” I exclaimed, offended, though it was a blatant lie. The cave didn’t have a drop of water.

He sighed, resigned but not unkind.

“You’re covered in dirt, dried blood, and what I hope is mud. Half your hair is tangled with twigs. And you have no idea how to use the oils. If I don’t bathe you, Achilles will. And do you want him to?”

My blood froze. He was right. And the worst part was… it worked.

“Besides,” he added with a shrug while preparing a towel, “you’re not the first woman I’ve seen naked. You won’t be the last. I won’t touch you more than necessary. I’m not interested in making you uncomfortable. But I won’t disobey an order over your modesty.”

My cheeks burned. I opened my mouth to say something indignant and final, something to take back control of the situation… but nothing came out.

“This is absurd…” I stammered.

“It’s hot water and soap. Not a marriage proposal,” he said calmly, without sarcasm.

And then he turned around, giving me privacy, as if that was the final proof of his point. I stood frozen, feeling the heat of the water and the shame like two layers on my skin. In the end, I let out a defeated sigh and began to undo the knots of the stolen tunic I wore over the stained scrub.

When I was finally naked, I slipped quickly into the water, which was hot—a luxury I hadn’t expected—and it wrapped my sore body like a liquid blanket. Patroclus knelt beside the tub with a rolled-up towel in hand, showing no rush, no shame. He passed a sponge over my arms and back with soft movements, like he was washing a delicate statue and not a human woman.

“Do you always do this with prisoners?” I asked, uncomfortable with the silence.

Patroclus laughed low.

“Only with the ones who nearly threw living shadows at half the squad.”

I rolled my eyes. “So not many, then.”

Patroclus laughed again, a deep laugh that gave me chills—don’t blame me, I was naked being bathed by a handsome guy.

“Well, none as pretty as you.”

My face burned. Literally. And not from the steam.

“Can you not flirt with me while washing my back?” I said with a mix of indignation and embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he said, though he was smiling, clearly not sorry. “But it’s hard not to. You’re trembling to your very soul, but you haven’t lowered your chin once.”

“Dignity is all I have left,” I murmured.

“And a horde of killer shadows. Don’t forget that.”

“Right, how could I forget,” I said with a sigh. “Please, at least let me wash… certain areas myself.” I pressed my lips together as I said it, my face still flushed.

“‘Certain areas’?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow like he was thoroughly enjoying my misery. “Very well. I’m not a savage. I’ll stay here, wash your hair, and close my eyes while you do what you need to do.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your… civilization.”

“Rare trait around here,” he replied with a wink, handing me a small bowl of scented oil. “Use this. Not every day you can smell better than Achilles.”

The situation was surreal. I washed quickly, nervous, while Patroclus kept his promise not to look. Once I was done, I sank for a moment under the water, trying to erase everything that had happened in the last hours. When I surfaced, he was already waiting with a clean cloth, soft towels, and… a white tunic.

“This is…?”

“Achilles’s,” he said while helping me out of the water, ignoring how I trembled from the embarrassment of being seen naked, and wrapped the cloth around me with practical efficiency. “Don’t worry, he won’t take it off tonight… unless you snore. He’s very sensitive to noise.”

The tunic was beautiful. White, soft, and far too revealing for my taste. The neckline was wide, and there was no bra or seams underneath.

“Isn’t there… something with more fabric…?”

Patroclus let out a soft chuckle as he adjusted the golden clasps on my shoulders.

“You know,” he said in a confidential tone, lowering his voice a little as we walked back through the hallway, “you really shouldn’t worry so much about covering up.”

“Why?”

“Because you have gorgeous breasts.” He winked just before pulling aside the curtain that led to the sleeping area of the tent.

I froze.

He kept walking as if he had just commented on the weather. We entered the room again, where Achilles was sprawled in the middle of the bed.

“Excellent, I thought she drowned you,” Achilles said sarcastically, flashing a pretentious smile at Patroclus.

“And you didn’t think to help me?” Patroclus replied with mock indignation.

“If you let a girl beat you, you deserved it.”

I crossed my arms, uncomfortable, feeling every millimeter of fabric against my skin, fully aware of how little it covered and of how both men seemed to enjoy my discomfort as if it were part of the entertainment.

Achilles looked at me with no shame at all, his eyes sliding over my figure like he was evaluating a new sword.

“Much better,” he said, nodding as if he were talking about a freshly washed horse. “Clean, you look like a different person.”

He paused and then, as if suddenly remembering a particularly important observation, added with total ease:

“And you have gorgeous breasts.”

I choked on air for the second time that night.

“What is it with you two and my breasts?” I snapped, hugging my chest tighter.

“It’s not our fault they’re right there,” said Patroclus, raising his hands as if outlining my breasts. “And very well presented, if I may add.”

“You may not!” I protested, horrified, while Achilles burst out laughing on the bed.

“Relax,” he said, settling back into the cushions like all of this was perfectly normal. “No one’s going to touch you if you don’t want them to. Well, except Patroclus, but you already survived him.”

Patroclus turned off the last oil lamp, and the tent was left in shadows, dimly lit by the moonlight sneaking through the canvas. With calm steps, he walked to the bed — enormous, raised over rugs and furs — and lay down next to Achilles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I remained at the edge, stiff, my body tense and the tunic clinging to my freshly washed skin. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to be.

And then I saw it: Patroclus turned with familiarity, wrapped an arm around Achilles’ waist, and rested his head on his chest. Like nothing. Like he did it every night. And he probably did.

My brain tried to process the level of closeness and trust while Achilles, without opening his eyes, murmured:

“And what are you doing all the way over there?”

I tensed.

“I was waiting for instructions,” I murmured, because frankly I didn’t know if I was supposed to leave, sleep on the floor, or make myself invisible.

Achilles snorted, and his voice came out clearly, like he was talking to an untrained dog.

“Come here. I don’t bite. Well, not unless you want me to.”

Patroclus chuckled softly against his chest.

With hesitant steps, I moved closer to sit nearby, not entirely sure what was expected of me.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Achilles, opening his eyes just slightly, bright even in the darkness. “Come, lie here.”

I lay down cautiously at his other side, like someone approaching a sleeping beast. The “mattress” was soft, and the closeness of their bodies radiated an uncomfortable, human warmth. My breathing grew erratic when he took my wrist and placed my hand in his hair.

“And now, rub. Right here,” he said, guiding my fingers to the crown of his head. “With pressure, but not too hard. And in circles, like a spiral. If you mess up my hair, I’ll complain all night.”

He said it with such confidence, with such comfort, that all I could do was look at Patroclus for help. He didn’t say anything, just smiled into his chest.

“Is this normal?” I whispered.

“Yes,” Patroclus replied with a low, resigned laugh. “He’s very particular about his bedtime routine.”

“It’s not particular if I deserve it,” Achilles said dryly.

I swallowed hard, let out a defeated sigh, and began massaging his head as he had instructed.

“Like that,” he said, closing his eyes with a satisfied sigh. “Perfect. You’re not as useless as you look.”

Great. Now I was his prisoner, his emotional pillow, and his masseuse.

And the worst part was, with my body exhausted, the surrounding warmth, and that absurd peace, I was starting to fall asleep.

My last thought before drifting off was wondering how Percy was doing.

Chapter Text

PERCY

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if the gods had just stayed out of it.

If my mom had never fallen in love with a sea god. If I’d never had to hold a sword. If the word prophecy didn’t give me an instant migraine. If I’d never... if I’d never had to suffer so many losses, see so much death.

Maybe I’d still be doing the same thing I’m doing now—sitting at the edge of a dock in Long Island, feet dangling over the salty water, the wind blowing just the way I like.
But maybe I’d be a little less tired, too.

It was strange—since I was twelve, my life had been nonstop tension and adrenaline. Quest after quest, war after war. I guess my body got so used to danger that when I finally had a chance at a quiet life (well, quiet for a demigod), everything started to feel... meaningless.

I’d been like this for weeks. Tired. The kind of tired that sneaks up on you. The kind you don’t notice until you look up at the sky and wonder when the last time was that you felt... at peace.

My marine biology degree is wrapping up in a few months. I’ll have a college diploma. If you’d asked me at fourteen what I’d be doing as an adult, I never would’ve imagined I’d actually have a career. Honestly, I didn’t imagine I’d be alive.

My mom’s really proud of me. I wonder if she ever thinks it was a good call naming me Perseus, because yeah, I guess you could say I turned out okay.
It wasn’t exactly easy studying while hunting dracaenae at night or dealing with nightmares about past wars and the deaths of my friends—but hey, I’ve got priorities.

I like the ocean. Always have. It’s a part of me. Studying something that keeps me connected to it makes sense... though sometimes I think it was just an excuse not to drift too far from myself.
And from her.

Annabeth and I broke up two years ago. No yelling, no big fight—just a quiet, inevitable truth: we grew. In different directions.

I still love her, of course. I doubt that’ll ever really stop. But I don’t picture us as a “someday” anymore. Growing up made me realize I wasn’t... well, myself when I was with her. Now we’re just memories, carefully stored away.

I laid back on the dock, the boards creaking under me, and closed my eyes. The rhythm of the water beneath my feet was almost hypnotic.
No monsters chasing me. No alarms going off at camp. Just the sea and me.

I let my guard down. Just a little. Just enough to fall asleep.

And then I woke up with a stranger on top of me.

Sand scratched the back of my neck, and the sun hit me full in the face. It took me a split second to realize something—someone—was touching me.

I acted on instinct.

I twisted, shoved hard, and ended up on top of her, my knee pressing into her stomach and Riptide already uncapped, its blade just inches from her face.
My heart was pounding in my ears.

“Who are you?” I demanded through clenched teeth. “And why did you bring me here?”

Her wide, brown eyes blinked in panic. Her face was covered in sand, her honey-colored hair all messed up, and for a second, I thought she looked too confused to be lying, but you don’t survive this long by being trusting. That’s something I learned the hard way.

She stammered something in broken English. My brain took half a second to process her words, but long enough to notice two things: she didn’t speak the language fluently... and she was genuinely terrified.

“Don’t kill me!” she suddenly shouted, tears welling in her eyes and her voice cracking in a way that broke me a little. “Please don’t kill me. I have no idea how I got here either, I swear.”

I lowered the sword slightly, confused. She didn’t seem like a threat. She wasn’t even armed. She looked like... a nurse? A doctor? She was wearing some kind of uniform. And more than anything, she had the look of someone completely lost.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said, more firmly this time. “Who are you?”

“My name is Giuliana,” she replied through her tears. “I woke up here, too. I went to sleep after a long shift, and now I’m on this beach.”

I studied her face. She didn’t seem to be lying. And if she was, she deserved an Oscar.

I lowered the sword (well, made it vanish), got off her, and offered my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Still trembling, she took my hand and stood up shakily. She nearly fell again, but instead froze, staring at my sword as it shifted into a pen.

Crap.

“You can see that?” I asked.

"The sword," she whispered, still nodding in shock. "How did you do that?"

"Stupid mist that only works on some people," I muttered to myself.

I let out a sigh. I had no idea how to explain demigods, Greek gods, monsters, and prophecies without sounding like a total lunatic.

"Look, it is... complicated. I will explain it later, but we need to move, okay? Find civilization and all that."

She still looked scared, but luckily, she followed me. The sun was starting to go down, and the thought of being alone in the dark without knowing what kind of monster might show up did not sit well with me.

"Where are you from?" I asked, trying to ease the tension. "From your accent, you are foreign, right?"

"Foreign would be if we were in your country, right?" she shot back, defensive. "But clearly, we are not in the United States."

I felt a little embarrassed—she was right. It was kind of arrogant of me to assume. But I was also surprised. "How do you know I am from the U.S.?"

She gave me the exact look half of Athena’s cabin always gave me, which only made me feel worse.

"The accent, obviously," she said with that matter-of-fact tone. "But yes, I am not from your country. I am from Colombia."

Now I felt even worse. I had no idea where that was. I think it is in the same continent as the U.S.? Maybe? Do not blame me—I was a terrible student.

"I have no idea where that is," I finally admitted, just to break the silence. "But it sounds far away."

We kept walking as I took in the island, and then I remembered something important.

"By the way," I said before it slipped my mind, "Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Percy Jackson."

She looked at me with her mouth open. I did not get why. I mean, I know my name is weird, but not that weird. She quickly recovered and offered her hand with a smile (a very nice one, now that I no longer thought she was trying to kill me).

"My name is Giuliana."

I ignored that she had technically already said it. The situation back then had not exactly been ideal. I accepted her introduction, and we kept walking.

Exploring the island did not take long. What looked like a large piece of land from a distance turned out to be just a small chunk of earth surrounded by sea on all sides, with a strip of pale sand, dense vegetation in the middle, and a couple of tall rocks that gave us a better view of the whole mess. There were no signs of roads, no huts, not even floating trash. It was completely uninhabited. And coming from someone who has fought creatures in the most unexpected corners of the world, that did not make me feel any better.

While Giuliana admired some palm trees, I reached my hand into the sea. And, as always, it spoke to me—not with words (that would be weird even for me), but with the vibrating certainty that there were other lands not too far away. Solid, living masses. With people, probably. Or with monsters. Knowing my luck, it is always fifty-fifty.

The island was uninhabited. No doubt about it. And if we wanted to get out of here, there was only one way to go: the sea.

When I told Giuliana that, she squinted at me, looked around as if searching for something, and then looked back.

"But we do not have a boat," she said innocently.

Oh, great. Here comes the part I was least excited about. She was going to think I was insane, but we had no other option but to swim to civilization.

"Yeah, about that... what do you know about Greek mythology?"

"The basics," she answered with a somewhat nostalgic smile. "I really liked the topic when I was a teenager, so I probably know more than the average person. Why?"

"Weeell," I rubbed the back of my neck, a little nervous, and decided it would be best if we sat down. Just in case she fainted from shock (it has happened more than once at Camp Half-Blood).
"Come on, it is better if you sit and listen carefully."

I thought through my words. I was used to explaining this to kids between eight and twelve. She was an adult woman, so I figured I should not sugarcoat things too much.

"Look... what I am about to tell you does not make a lot of sense. And if I were in your place, I would not believe me either. But I have no other way to explain it." I looked her in the eyes.
"Do you remember those Greek stories, with heroes who fought monsters, with gods who came down from the sky just to make things worse?"

She nodded with recognition in her eyes and waited for me to continue. I took a moment, took a deep breath, and went on.

"They are not myths. Not entirely. What people call mythology is more like... a distorted version of reality." I paused and watched her reaction. There was no mockery in her eyes, so I kept going.
"I am... a demigod. Son of Poseidon."

The words came out before I could think too hard about them. And, as always, they felt heavy. It was not the first time I said it, but that did not make it easier. They never came out with pride—never have.
Because being the son of a sea god was never a title to me. It was a sentence. A silent warning that, from the moment I was born, the world was going to ask things from me that no kid should ever have to give.

Giuliana said nothing.

"I have seen things you will not find in any book. I have fought monsters that should not exist. I have lost people, and I have survived more times than I would like—not because I am invincible, but because I was not given another option."

Gods, how many times have I repeated that line, even if just inside my own head.
I was not given another option.

That is the part no one understands. Everyone sees the hero, the savior of Olympus. No one sees the teenager who had nightmares every night for years, who stopped counting funerals, who felt guilty for still being alive.
The first time I lost someone, I thought it was an exception. That if I fought harder, trained more, took better care of the others... no one else would have to die.

I was wrong.

I was never invincible. I have never been a protector, and I will never call myself a hero. I was just the one left standing when everyone else fell.

I looked at Giuliana. She was still watching me—serious, not trying to comfort me, not judging. I appreciated that. I did not need pity. I just needed her to listen. To understand this was not an adventure story. It was survival.

"I do not want to scare you," I said, lowering my voice, because there was already enough weight in the air. "I just... if we are going to get out of this, you need to know what kind of world you are caught in. And if you are here with me... I hate to say it, but it is probably not by accident."

I wanted to believe it was. That it was just a mistake, a bad dream, a random crossing of paths. That this clearly normal girl could go back to her life.
But if there is one thing I have learned over the years, it is that nothing is ever a coincidence. In the end, we all dance to the threads spun by the Moirai.

I did not expect her to believe me. Not completely. And especially not after dropping the bomb that Olympian gods and monsters are real.
But when she told me I sounded crazy, she said it with such perfect neutrality that for a second I thought I had ruined everything. I was already picturing the condescending look, the "Sure, whatever you say," and the awkward silence that would follow.

But no.

Before I could even sigh, she added that she believed me. Not one hundred percent—which felt perfectly fair—but enough to stay, enough to listen, enough not to turn her back on me, even if everything sounded absurd.

When she brought up the sword and the pen, I scratched my neck, a little embarrassed. It was such a part of me that I sometimes forgot how impressive—or terrifying—it could seem from the outside.

"Yeah... sorry about that," I said, lowering my gaze and barely smiling. "I didn't know you, and my first instinct was to attack."

She took it well, even with a bit of humor, which helped me relax a little more.

"Hey, it's okay," she said with a spark in her eyes. "But next time, try not to threaten a doctor who's just worried about your well-being."

"You're a doctor?" I asked, genuinely surprised. I did not see that coming. I always thought doctors were older, serious people. And she... well, she looked more like a student than a doctor.

"Eh, I do not know how things work in your country, but where I am from, graduating at this age is not a big deal," she said, shrugging.

She got up from the sand, and I followed. I dusted off my pants as best I could, even though I knew I was still going to have sand everywhere under my shirt.

"How old are you?" I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

"Twenty-three," she said with a bit of pride. "Turning twenty-four this August. I graduated when I was twenty-two."

"Wow..." I said without thinking. "You're older than me. I'm twenty."

I could not help but look at her with a mix of respect and awe. I have always admired people who keep going no matter how rough the road gets. And if she had made it through med school that young… she had definitely fought her battles.

But what really made me smile—without even meaning to—was what she said next.

"August? I was born in August too. What day?"

"Nineteenth."

"My birthday is on the 18th!" I blurted out, with more excitement than I meant to. And yeah, I know—just one day apart. Nothing major. But in that moment, stranded on some random island, surrounded by uncertainty, carrying a past like a lead backpack and a future that did not promise much, that little detail felt like an anchor.

I had always celebrated my birthday. My mom never missed one. Even if it was just with a blue cake and pizza from the corner place, there was always something.

But this felt different.

Giuliana was not part of that world. She was not a demigod or someone who knew anything about the life I lived. She was a normal girl. Well, not completely normal, but you get what I mean. A human who, for some still-unknown reason, ended up in the same mess as me. And somehow, the idea of celebrating a birthday with someone outside of my usual chaos, someone who did not carry all the invisible scars of the Lethe across their back, felt... refreshing. New.

Maybe that is why I said it.

"We should do something together for our birthdays," I said, trying to sound casual but failing pretty badly. "What do you think about a theme park? I always wanted to go to Disney or Universal… but no roller coasters. I might get struck by lightning."

As I talked, the air felt a little lighter. I had forgotten what it was like to make normal plans. To celebrate something without a sword hanging over my head. I had never shared my birthday like this. I remember back in school, at those double birthday parties, I always wondered what it would be like to celebrate with someone else.

"Disney sounds great," she said, then added with a teasing grin, "But we should do something more grown-up. You’re turning twenty-one, wow. People born in 2006 still feel like babies to me."

I looked at her, confused.

"2006? I was born in 1993."

She froze, staring at me like I had just said something completely insane.

"What year were you born, Giuliana?"

"Percy," she said softly, frowning, just as confused as I was. "If you were born in '93, you'd be ten years older than me. I was born in 2003..."

We stared at each other. For a second, the only sound was the ocean hitting the shore.

"Percy, what year is it?" she asked.

I laughed a little, nervous. It was such a ridiculous question. Who even asks that?

"What do you mean what year is it? New Year's wasn’t that long ago—it’s 2014," I said, totally sure of myself. But when I saw her face, my stomach dropped. "And you? What year is it?"

"It’s 2027," she answered. Calm. No hesitation.

It did not make sense.

Thirteen years.

No... no way.

The air felt heavier. I could barely breathe. Something invisible wrapped around my chest, not to suffocate me, just to remind me that I was not safe. That I never really was.

"Two thousand twenty-seven?" I repeated, almost whispering. The number scraped my throat.

And then came the fear. Not the kind that shows up in battle. I knew that fear well. This was different. Real. Raw. The kind I had not felt since Hera took everything from me and left me trapped in a body that was mine, but not.

I remembered the confusion. The emptiness. Knowing I had friends, a mom, a home—and all of it felt unreachable, like it was behind glass I could never break. The terror of having fragments and no way to piece them together. The pain of not even trusting my own memories.

And now this. Thirteen years. Lost. Or stolen.

"That can’t be. So… was I frozen? Erased?" I whispered. The tremble in my voice made me clench my jaw. "Is this another damn test from the gods?"

I kicked the sand hard, furious and exhausted. Sick of having no control. Of being a piece on a board I did not understand.

My fists curled without me realizing. My jaw was so tight it hurt.

I was not going to cry. Not in front of her. Not now.

But still… I felt it. The burn. The pressure behind my eyes. My body refusing to keep holding it all in.

I blinked. Just enough to keep the tears from falling. Just enough to keep them hanging there, right at the edge.

How ironic.

The gods had used me so many times, and somehow they still had more to take. Time. Memory. Life.

"Well, you’re not necessarily in the future," Giuliana said quickly. Her voice was soft, like she was scared I might completely fall apart. "Maybe I’m in the past… or we’re both in the past! Or both in the future—I have no idea, but we’ll figure this out, okay?"

I looked at her. I did not think she had any answers, but I needed something—someone—to look at that did not make me feel so... lost.

My eyes were full of tears. I knew it. But I was not going to let them fall. Not yet. I have never believed crying is weakness, but I just did not have space to break down. Not right now.

But her… she did not know me. This stranger I nearly stabbed a few hours ago... she was being kind to me.

She was not part of my wars. She had no history with me. And still, she was here, looking at me with compassion. Not pity. Real compassion. She reached out and gently took my hand in hers.

"It's okay, Percy. We're in this together."

I didn't know what to say. I just looked down at our intertwined hands. It was a simple gesture. But for me, in that moment, it carried more weight than it should have.

"Look, it's completely dark now," she said, pointing to the horizon. "Time to start your plan, right?"

I swallowed hard and squeezed her hand. Forced myself to pull it together. Not entirely, but enough to take one step forward.

"Yeah," I said, trying to smile, though my face felt stiff. "We better get moving."

We headed toward the sea together. My steps were steady, like my body remembered something my mind hadn’t caught up to yet. The water reached my knees, and it felt like I could finally breathe again. I stopped for a moment, closed my eyes, and let the tide wrap around me.

Right then, everything clicked. I had no control over time. Or over what the gods had taken from me. But this—I had this. The sea was always there for me.

I could feel the water recognizing me. Responding to my presence. I didn’t have to force it. It was part of me.

"You ready?" I asked, holding out my hand without fully turning around. "Come on, rule number one is: DO NOT let go of me. Hold my hand, hug me tight, whatever, just don’t let go"

She stepped closer carefully. Her shoes sank into the wet sand, her clothes clung to her body, and still, she moved with purpose. She took my hand. Her grip was firm, but nervous. Just enough to know she wasn’t as calm as she looked.

"Is your girlfriend gonna be mad about this?" she joked, the kind of comment you make when you're trying to distract yourself from fear.

I let out a quick laugh. The first one in what felt like hours.

"I’m single, don’t worry—no one’s gonna try to kill you for being a homewrecker."

We walked along the shore until I felt it was time. The sea was up to my waist now, and higher on her. Freezing cold to anyone else, but for me, it was home. I turned to Giuliana. Her eyes were wide—adrenaline and natural distrust. It was a leap of faith. I knew that. If eight years ago someone had told me to hug a stranger who'd take me underwater while we magically breathed, I'd have told them to take a hike.

"We're gonna dive, okay?" I said bluntly. "And when you feel air around you, I promise it’s safe to breathe."

She nodded. Not totally convinced, but she didn’t hesitate either. I recognized that kind of nod. The kind that says, I have no idea what I’m doing, but I trust you. That trust, given so freely, weighed on me. Not in a bad way—but it made me even more aware of what I was about to do.

I’d talk to her later about not trusting people so quickly, but right then, I was grateful.

I took her hand, laced our fingers, and we dove.

The moment I saw her panicked expression—torn between holding her breath and trusting me—I activated the bubble. I shaped the water around her, adjusted the pressure and temperature, and formed a pocket of oxygen.

I looked at her, nodded, and she breathed.

And when she burst out laughing—half disbelieving, half terrified—I knew it was working.

"Oh my god, this is magic," she whispered.

I couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t magic. Not like sorcerers or spellcasters used. It was something more primal. Something from my bones, my blood. It was my inheritance. My curse. And also the one thing I really knew how to control.

I moved closer and silently wrapped my arm around her. I couldn’t risk losing my grip on her.

And then I swam.

I pushed all my power forward, like a spear cutting through the ocean. The world around us blurred into liquid motion. Currents obeyed. Fish parted before us. Everything responded naturally. I didn’t need to look. I just had to feel. The sea spoke to me, and I understood.

But it wasn’t easy.

Holding her close, keeping the oxygen stable—not too dense, not too fragile—swimming at nearly inhuman speed, and heading for the exact point where I’d felt land… it all took precision. Focus. Care. And I couldn’t afford to mess it up.

The pressure kept increasing, I could feel it. Her body was mortal, vulnerable. I had to manage every meter of descent, adjust the water’s temperature, counter the current’s pull. I had to do it all at once. I couldn’t lose focus. Not for a second.

Then I felt her hand grip mine tighter. Her small body leaned into me, like seeking shelter. And something inside me calmed.

Not because I let my guard down—but because, in the middle of all this chaos, there was someone who trusted me. Someone who, without knowing me, had said we’re in this together. I really hoped this girl wasn’t a monster, a spy, or someone sent to hurt me, because for some reason, it was so easy to trust her.

Time stopped making sense underwater.

No clocks, no sun, not even stars to guide us. Just the constant push of water against us, the dense darkness of the ocean, and my body moving on autopilot.

I swam, breathed, held Giuliana, kept the bubble around her steady, and swam more.

I had no idea how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? Down there, the world had turned into an endless tunnel. The lights of the ocean floor faded the farther we went.

Sometimes I saw vaguely familiar shapes: a glowing school of fish scattering like smoke, a reef that looked more like bone than coral, pieces of wood drifting, worn and rotted by time. None of it was comforting. Everything screamed ancient, forgotten, out of time.

Eventually, the ocean floor began to rise gently. The sand climbed, closer and closer. The water grew shallower, clearer. The sky unfolded above us like a blue promise.

I stopped suddenly. Giuliana looked at me, her eyes still glowing inside the bubble. I nodded.

We rose.

We broke the surface together. The air hit me immediately. Salty, warm, heavy. The sound slammed back in: gulls, waves crashing softly against the shore, wind rustling palm leaves—and something else—a faint scent of smoke, burned wood, fish. Land.

Giuliana gasped beside me, eyes wide, catching her breath. I gave myself a few seconds to adjust, scanning the horizon as we floated.

Ahead, the coast curved in both directions. It wasn’t a postcard beach. The sand was coarse, broken up by flat rocks jutting out like scars. Farther in, on a small rise, there were lights. Torches. Steady flames dancing in iron stands or stuck into the ground, casting flickering light on rough-built structures.

Huts. Thatched roofs. Walls made of stone and mud. Doors of fabric.

And I felt my stomach drop.

"Do you see that?" I murmured, swimming slowly toward the shore.

She just nodded. I stayed quiet too. Watching. Analyzing.

The ships at the dock were what sealed it.

Long, narrow, with wooden oars lined up with military precision. Triangular sails rolled up. Prows carved with animal heads—snakes, goats, lions—and painted eyes on the sides. The same kind of ships I was used to seeing in the history books back at Camp Half-Blood.

"That…" I murmured as I stepped out of the water, already completely dry without even thinking about it, "that's Ancient Greek."

My eyes locked on the carved symbols along the wood of one of the boats. I recognized the shape of the letters instantly. They flowed in my mind like a second language I’d never had to learn—just remember.

"Can you read it?" Giuliana asked as she came out next to me, dripping wet, but not complaining.

"Of course," I answered without looking at her. "I’m a demigod. Reading Ancient Greek is one of the talents my genes bring"

"What does it say?"

I stepped closer, brushing my hand along the carved wood.

"Nothing special," I shrugged. "Property of Nikandros. Just the owner’s name."

She nodded slowly, but her gaze stayed fixed on the village, like she was trying to force herself to find a logical explanation for everything.

"You know, maybe it’s just one of those cultural conventions," she said with no real hope in her voice. "Like those medieval fairs."

She should probably build a church with that level of faith, because odds were we’d fallen into some kind of time distortion, sent here by some god for who knows what reason.

"We still have to get closer and see for ourselves," I said at last, exhaling the exhaustion I’d been dragging since I woke up on that cursed island. "And if it’s what I think, we’ll need clothes too."

She shook herself off a bit and nodded. I gave her a quick glance and, with a wave of my hand, dried her off. It wasn’t anything complicated, but she still looked at me with wide-eyed, childlike wonder.

"That was awesome!" she said, like we hadn’t just crossed the ocean at breakneck speed.

I smiled. Couldn’t help it.

"Come on," I said, turning toward the stone path leading up to the settlement.

She followed without hesitation. We moved cautiously, weaving between low bushes and sticking to every shadow we could find. The village was sleeping, but not entirely—muffled voices in the corners, soft laughter escaping from somewhere, the faint clink of jugs in a makeshift tavern.

We passed a group of men sitting around a small fire. Their faces were harsh, with deep shadows under their eyes, tanned by the sun. Some wore knee-length tunics, plain and colorless. The women crossing the street—the few still awake—had their hair covered and carried jars or were tying cloths over their doors.

It was the temple that stopped me.
It stood just off the road, slightly elevated, like the land itself had risen to hold it. Smaller than modern temples I’d seen in museums, but it felt more imposing than any of them. White stone. Simple columns, no ornamentation. Two torches lit the entrance, and a spiral of incense smoke wafted into the air, carrying a scent I recognized immediately: myrrh and sea salt.

Inside, there was a low altar with just a bowl of oil, a couple of fresh fish, and some neatly opened shells. Humble. Honest. And above the lintel, carved with a steady hand, were the letters. Ancient Greek. They flowed through my mind like water.

"Temple of Poseidon," I murmured without thinking, my voice lower than necessary.

Giuliana looked at me, a bit unsure. "Don’t you want to go in?" she asked, like the answer might teach her something about me.

I shook my head immediately. Almost forcefully.
"No, not until I know what kind of Poseidon awaits me in this world. This isn’t my dad, and back then, he wasn’t exactly kind.”

I kept staring at the entrance a moment longer. The fire threw shadows inside, making it look deeper than it really was. Like a pit, not a hall.

My father… in my time, he’s already hard enough to deal with. But he once told me he’d “softened” over the centuries. That the old gods weren’t like him. That they were worse.
That he used to be worse.
And my dad does not win any awards for “Calmest and Kindest God of the Year,” so with his word and the stories I’d heard… yeah, we were better off keeping our distance.

"Hey, Percy…" her voice was a trembling whisper, "What year do you think it is?"

I didn’t answer. I had a theory—actually, I had too many—but right then, as I watched the temple offerings flicker under the flames, I knew nothing I said would make this feel better. We weren’t ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

Giuliana didn’t push. She just nodded, and we kept walking again in silence.

We hid behind a dimly lit stone house, the rough plaster scraping my back. My heart was pounding like it wanted out of my chest, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Giuliana breathing hard too. It wasn’t just fear. It was the brutal awareness that we were in a place we didn’t understand.

"We need clothes," I murmured, barely louder than a breath, knowing she was thinking the same thing. "And something to carry water. Provisions if possible.”

"Are we going to steal?" she whispered, like even the word was too loud for the atmosphere.

"We’re going to survive" I said, eyeing a darker, seemingly empty house. "Look, that one looks empty."

Giuliana asked if I knew how to steal, and honestly, I didn’t blame her for doubting it. I guess from the outside, I don’t exactly look like a master thief. But the truth is, at Camp Half-Blood, the art of surviving had a lot of layers… and not all of them were noble.

Each cabin taught what it knew. It was like a silent skills exchange system: the Apollo kids taught us how to shoot arrows while reciting poetry and bandaging wounds with the same level of expertise. The Demeter kids showed us which herbs were safe to eat and which would make you see unicorns until next Tuesday. Even the Athena kids ran strategy classes like we were about to invade Rome instead of fending off a hungover centaur.

I was in charge of swimming lessons, how to row without breaking a paddle (harder than it looks), and what to do if your boat was about to capsize in the middle of a storm caused by yet another “Who does Mom love more?” fight between Zeus and Poseidon. Spoiler: I’ve always thought she loves Hades and Hestia more.

But the real MVPs were the Hermes kids.
They were the ones who taught us "practical skills in infiltration, escape, and stealth acquisition"—which we all knew really meant how to steal without getting caught and how to lie with a straight face.

I remember a class, years ago, when Connor Stoll took all the campers to a nearby town and handed us a ridiculous list of items: a flashlight, an apple, a pair of flip-flops, and a ceramic owl.
"Rules: no spending money, no hurting anyone, and no magic," he said with that mischievous grin only Hermes kids have. "You’ve got two hours. May the cleverest win."

I won with a backpack full of stuff that the granny owner of a souvenir shop gave me after I pretended to be lost and not remember my last name.

The look Clarisse gave me when she saw everything I had was pure hatred and respect in equal measure. It was one of my best days.

So yeah. I knew how to steal.
"Let’s go," I murmured to myself, more than to her.

And silently, we slipped into the darkness of the house.

The house was empty, but I didn’t stop to think too much. We had broken in to steal, even if I preferred to keep repeating to myself that it was out of necessity, not malice. Giuliana covered herself with one of the cloaks we found, and I grabbed the essentials: water, a dagger that would probably snap if I actually tried to use it, and some fabric that might come in handy later.

We left through the back. The sky had clouded over, and I was grateful for it—less light, fewer chances of being seen. We walked pressed against the sides of buildings, wrapping ourselves in shadows like they were allies. But then she stopped.
One word, barely a gesture, and we were already hidden.

The women were speaking like the world was falling apart in slow motion.

I understood every word. Of course I did. Ancient Greek ran in my blood, like I’d inherited it alongside my eye color or my stubborn hair.

The more details they mentioned, the more I felt the blood drain from my face—You’ve got to be kidding me. There’s no way we’re in the freaking Trojan War.

And what chilled me the most was Giuliana claiming she understood them too. She didn’t have divine blood—at least, that’s what she claimed—and that shouldn’t be possible.

Not for someone like her.

And not because she wasn’t capable—she’s smart, too smart—but because that kind of understanding isn’t learned. It’s inherited. Imposed. Carried in the marrow.

And there she was, whispering to me with fear and certainty in her voice.

I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say. I just looked at her and nodded, as if that could calm the trembling in her fingers.

But inside, something clenched tight in my chest. Because if Giuliana was understanding the language of the gods without having anything to do with them…either she was hiding something from me, or this was way bigger than we thought.

And I hoped with all my heart that it wasn’t the first option.

I didn’t want to have to hurt her, and I had the gut-wrenching feeling that—even though I’d only known her for a few hours—her betrayal would hurt me deeply.

The clearing we found was just hidden enough. Low trees, thick brush, a crystal-clear lake that looked like it hadn’t been touched by anyone in centuries. If someone was following us, at least we’d hear them coming.

All it took was a touch on the lake’s surface for it to ripple, and our dinner came out.

While Giuliana settled in, I did what I always do: light a fire, prepare the food. Automatic movements, drilled into me from years of missions in the middle of nowhere. It’s funny how the body adjusts faster than the mind.

Because my head was still spinning.

With every spark that jumped from the branches, I thought about what she had said. About what she had done.

She wasn’t the daughter of a god. That was clear. She knew it. I knew it.

So then how the hell had she understood Ancient Greek? That ability was as exclusive as divine blood itself. And Giuliana—smart, human, practical—didn’t fit the profile of a demigod. No dyslexia, no ADHD, no signs.

And yet, there she was. Understanding things no mortal should understand.

It annoyed me.

Not her, but the feeling.

That discomfort of having something right in front of you that escapes logic.

On one hand, I didn’t want to pressure her. She was already confused enough.

But I couldn’t stop thinking that this wasn’t coincidence. That her presence in this time, with me, understanding a language she shouldn’t know…it had a purpose.

Or it was a very well-designed lie.

Had someone put her with me on purpose? Like Leo, Piper, and Jason? Or was this really just a coincidence?

Giuliana spoke with a nervous, sarcastic kind of humor, like she was trying to stay sane through jokes. And it worked, partly. I couldn’t deny it—her presence helped me. There was something about her that made me let my guard down a little, like…

I don’t know.

Like we were made to survive together.

It was subtle. Nothing I could put into words. But it was there—in the way silence with her didn’t feel uncomfortable.

And yet…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t adding up.

It wasn’t just the language.

Ancient Greek doesn’t seep into your brain by osmosis—not even in this world. Even demigods don’t master it that easily when they first arrive. Even with divine heritage, it takes effort, it confuses you, it makes your eyes bleed.

But she had understood it like she’d been born speaking it. No hesitation. No stuttering. No doubt.

Not even Annabeth pulled that off in her first year at camp.

Then there was the thing about the year. The difference in our timelines. The way she seemed calmer than I was about the idea of being in the past.

Anyone in her place would be falling apart. But Giuliana, though clearly confused, reacted with a calm that…wasn’t natural.

Or was it just too well-practiced.

Maybe I was imagining things.

Maybe it was the stress, the lack of sleep, the time shift.

But the alarms in my head wouldn’t stop blaring.

Giuliana didn’t seem dangerous.

She didn’t.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t become dangerous.

I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. Her profile lit by the fire. That expression somewhere between exhaustion and determination. She looked so human.

As human as anyone could look while understanding the language of Homer.

I didn’t fully trust her. I couldn’t.

And that, more than any monster, was what unsettled me.

The thought made my stomach churn. Even more so because Giuliana couldn’t defend herself. Because, no matter how much I denied it to myself, I felt responsible for her.

I didn’t know why. It’s not like we were bound or anything. I just… I cared.

I cared that she was okay.

That she didn’t get lost in all this.

That she didn’t break.

Her humor saved me for a few minutes. She talked about musicals and résumés like we weren’t trapped in one of the bloodiest chapters of mythology. She didn’t realize it, but it helped more than any spell.

And then, she asked about my father.

Just curiosity. Like she was trying to picture an impossible figure. I didn’t know what to tell her.

How do you describe Poseidon without sounding like a traumatized son or a historical chronicler?

I just looked at her and thought: I hope you never have to meet him.

After dinner, I let myself fall beside the fire with a long sigh.

I’d laid out one of the stolen garments on the ground, and finally, I could relax my muscles. The heat of the embers was just right: enough to keep from shivering, but not too much to burn.

The sky was overcast, no moon, no stars. Only the orange light of the fire, pulsing like it was as tired as I was.

I could barely keep myself upright. My eyes were glassy, my eyelids heavy, and still I muttered, rubbing my face:

"We should take turns keeping watch. You never know what kind of creatures might be out here."

"You need to sleep, Percy," Giuliana said firmly.

"You’ve been using your powers all day. Guiding me through the sea, drying us off, fishing, lighting fire. Your energy isn’t infinite"

"Still…"

"I'm used to staying up late. I studied medicine," she added with a slight smile "Sleeping little and surviving on caffeine and willpower is a learned skill."

I let out a short nasal laugh. I didn’t have the strength to argue. "Anything, wake me up." I said, letting myself fall to my side and pulling the cloak over me.

"I promise."

Darkness took me quickly. I was exhausted. I don’t know how long passed, but it wasn’t long before I felt Giuliana shaking me and calling my name.
"Percy, wake up."

I opened my eyes, still half-asleep, vision hazy with sleep so I couldn’t quite see her face.
"What's wrong?"

"There’s no time to explain. Soldiers are coming. They’re going to loot the village."

She didn’t need to say more—whatever sleep I’d gotten vanished instantly. My senses sharpened, and I sat up quickly.

I cursed under my breath and stood in silence. The fire had burned down to embers. In seconds, we packed our things. We didn’t have much: the leather bag, the cloak, some clothes, the water flask. Everything essential was already ready.

The sky was still overcast, the clouds making the air heavier, like something was coming.

We moved away from the clearing in the opposite direction from the village. We walked silently through the trees. I listened carefully to every sound. Leaves crunching. The wind. Armor moving farther away.

Only when the metallic echoes had grown distant did I stop. I turned to the horizon, watching the direction from which torchlight flickered down the hillside.
I couldn’t help the guilt clawing at me. The village was doomed.

I forced myself to stay calm, but the knot in my chest only tightened.

I remembered the stories from camp. What we really knew about the Trojan War. The truth behind the myths: rape, looting, bodies hung as warnings. Not even children were spared.

And that was the "heroic" version. There were no just wars—only victims in different clothes.

"We could intercept them," I said quietly, still watching the torches in the distance. "They haven’t reached the village yet. If I stop them here, maybe no one gets hurt."

From what I’d seen of her so far, I expected support. What I got was disbelief.

“Percy, are you hearing yourself?”

I turned to her, thrown off. "What?"

“It’s a small village. Fragile. And those soldiers… You saw how they moved. They’re not some random band of raiders. They’re trained. If they disappear, if they don’t come back, the only thing that will happen is that more will come. With more weapons. With more rage.”

I clenched my fists. They burned with frustration. “And if we do nothing, tomorrow there’ll be corpses in the streets.”

“And if we do something, Percy? What if we change the story? Or worse—what if you draw attention to yourself? I don’t know how strong you really are, but this is the time of Diomedes, Hector, Odysseus, freaking Achilles.”

Her tone surprised me. Firm. Resolute.

And she wasn’t wrong.

But those families… those people…They were sleeping, convinced they’d wake up tomorrow.

I knew they wouldn’t.

And even if there were only ten, even if it was a hundred, even if I couldn’t save them all—I didn’t want to stand by and do nothing.

Still… Giuliana was my priority. We were all each other had in this time.

If I went to fight and something happened to me, I’d leave her unprotected.

I didn’t know what to do.

"We know what this is," she continued when I didn’t answer. “This is the Trojan War. Maybe not exactly as they told it, but… the conflict is real. The siege, the death, the hunger. It’s a war of gods and men. We don’t belong here. And even if we wanted to, we’re not going to save everyone.”

I looked at her for a long time. Not because I was angry, but because I didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like a fool.

It wasn’t rage that was eating at me inside.

It was that thick, suffocating helplessness I already knew well.

The kind that crushes you when you know what’s going to happen, and still can’t do anything to stop it.

“You don’t understand,” I murmured, the words barely coming out of my throat.  “There’s always someone who can be saved. A single action can make the difference.”

She held my gaze.

“And what if that action costs us our lives?”

I didn’t answer because of course I’d thought of that. Of course I knew it was a possibility.

But I couldn’t accept standing still.

My eyes were locked on the darkness, where the torches were almost reaching the valley.

How many children were sleeping in that village? How many mothers, how many elders? They hadn’t done anything wrong but their mere existence was enough to doom them.

Then her voice lowered. Softer.

“Percy… You’ve fought so many wars. You don’t need to fight another just because it’s in front of you. Surviving is also a form of resistance. Maybe the only one we have right now.”

I swallowed, still didn’t move.

My body was tense, muscles locked like stone, my breathing shallow.

Not because I didn’t understand what she was saying. I did.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

It wasn’t impulse.
It wasn’t recklessness.
It was simply that it hurt to look the other way.

“Fine. We can’t save everyone. But we can give them a chance.”

I turned to her, surprised. Honestly, I hadn’t expected that.

“I thought you were against it,” I admitted.

“I’m against dying pointlessly,” she said bluntly. “But if you intercept the soldiers, if you delay them just enough… we can warn the village. At least they can escape. Survive.”

I didn’t know her.

We barely knew anything about each other. But seeing her standing there, deciding to help a village that wasn’t even hers—no training, in a brutal, foreign era—made me think she had a good heart.

Not many would do that.

Especially not someone thrown headfirst into a world like this.

“That I can do,” I replied, some relief in my voice. “If I get ahead, I’ll just knock them out.”

“Then I’ll warn the village. Hopefully, if I can understand Greek, I can speak it too.”

I wanted to say something. Protest, maybe.

I didn’t like the idea of her going anywhere without me, not in this situation.

But her look had already made the decision for me.

“Alright,” I said finally. “Let’s go.”

We slipped between the trees, descending the slope carefully. The ground was wet and loose, each step demanding focus.

In the distance, torches cut through the darkness like tendrils of fire, dancing among the shadows.

We stopped when we were close enough to hear them clearly.

Five soldiers.

One examined a crumpled map, another sharpened his spear with a stone, the rest whispered among themselves.

They were calm. Relaxed. They weren’t preparing for a battle—they were preparing for a hunt.

They thought nothing could stop them.

I raised my hand to signal Giuliana to stay quiet.

“I’ll face them,” I whispered. “You circle around and run to the village. Wake someone. Anyone. Tell them to flee north. I’ll buy time."

“Are you sure?”

I looked at her. “I’ve fought monsters three times as big and strong. This is nothing,”

It wasn’t arrogance. It was experience.

I knew what I could do—and what I could lose if I failed.

She nodded, clearly worried, but she didn’t say it.

I liked that. It felt good that she trusted me.

“See you soon,” she said, with more confidence than she probably felt.

I watched her for one more second.

I could see the fear in her eyes.

I was afraid she could see it in mine too.

Beating those soldiers would be easy but I hated the idea of Giuliana going anywhere without me. Especially like this.

“Promise me.”

I practically begged. Because there was nothing else I could do.

“I promise.”

And she was gone.

I watched her disappear into the trees until she was completely out of sight. Then, I sighed, pulled out Riptide, and walked toward the soldiers.

I didn’t try to hide. I let them see me.

“Hey!” I shouted. “This is the glorious Achaean army? I’ve seen baby turtles move faster.”

Five heads turned to me at once. A mix of surprise, confusion—then mockery.

One stepped forward, spear in hand. “What is this? A tunic thief?”

“Something like that,” I said, spinning my sword in my hand. “Though I’d prefer the title of ‘idiot-knocker-outer’.”

The first one charged straight at me, without hesitation. A clumsy rush.

I dropped my center of gravity and slid to his left. Riptide slammed into the back of his knee, and when he fell, I used the hilt to knock him unconscious with a blow to the temple.

One.

The second one was more cautious—but not enough. We exchanged two attacks, his spear was long, but slow.

I deflected the first strike to the side, pushed the wooden shaft with my forearm, and spun on my heel to kick him in the stomach.

He fell backward. I didn’t waste time. A clean hit to his helmet, and he was out.

Two.

The other three were already on me.
I moved. I danced.

That’s what fighting was for me, after so many years. A dance. An internal rhythm that activated the moment I gripped my sword.

One of them tried to circle me, another aimed his spear directly at me, while the third raised a curved sword.

“Isn’t this a little unfair?” I asked as I blocked the first strike and spun on my axis to disarm the second. “I mean, three against one?”

They didn’t answer. They just kept attacking. Coordinated, but not enough.

I stopped a thrust with the flat of my blade, turned my body, and used my shoulder to slam the one in the middle into a tree. I heard a crack as his head hit the trunk.

Three.

The other two hesitated. Just for a second, but that was all I needed.

I struck the fourth in the hand with the flat of my blade, making him drop his weapon, and before he could react, I swept his legs out from under him. He fell heavily and I knocked his helmet with the hilt.

Four.

The last one stepped back, panting. “Who… the hell are you?”

I gave him a calm smile. “All my life, people have said I’m kind of a handful.”

He ran.

Smart. But not lucky enough. Because he chose to face me.

I lunged after him and caught up before he even reached the clearing. I surged forward, spun on my left foot, and struck his chest with the flat side of my blade. He fell backward and I placed my foot lightly on his chest.

“And that makes five.”

I took a second to make sure they were all still breathing. I didn’t want more deaths on my conscience.

My breathing was still fast as I calmed down. I heard running footsteps and turned quickly, ready to fight again—until I saw it was Giuliana.

“Giuliana!” I exclaimed in relief, feeling the weight of anxiety lift from my chest.

The thought that something might have happened to her while I wasn’t there had been eating me alive.

“The villagers are already fleeing!” she said breathlessly. They’re heading north, toward a defended town. We did it.”

I felt a surge of happiness. We had saved innocents—at least for today.

I lowered my sword slightly, thinking it was over, that it was finally done.

Then I heard it: the subtle but firm crunch of dry leaves. We turned at the same time.

Another group. More soldiers.

Six this time. Younger. Cockier.

The way they moved left no doubt: they wanted a fight.

But my world shrank when one of them pointed a spear at Giuliana and shouted “Woman!”

You didn’t have to be a damn oracle to know what they wanted.

My eyes burned with fury, and I lifted my sword instantly, stepping in front of her.,

“Run!” I shouted but I knew she wouldn’t make it to the trees before they went after her, so I struck first.

I launched myself at the one who’d yelled, breaking their formation with a shoulder blow and a sweeping kick. He dropped like a sack.

Without waiting, I attacked the second.

I deflected a spear with my sword and slammed his helmet with the hilt. He staggered back.

They were more and better trained than the last group but still no match for me.

The fight grew tighter.,

A spear grazed my side, forcing me to pivot and step back. My sword kept moving, deflecting blows, looking for openings.

I stayed between them and Giuliana.

I heard her retreating—Not far enough.

“Giuliana!” I yelled, heart in my throat. “Now!”

Giuliana finally reacted and bolted toward the forest, thank the gods.

Knowing she’d be okay, I focused on the men still standing.

One soldier was down, unconscious. Another was crawling away, dropping his spear, clutching his chest where I’d hit him.

Four left. No...I only saw three.

I frowned, whipping my head around. A gap among the figures.

One… two… three.

Where’s the fourth?

And then I saw him between the trees. The silhouette of a helmet, moving in the same direction Giuliana had gone.

“No!”
My voice boomed like thunder, pulse pounding in my ears.

I lunged forward but one of the soldiers blocked my path with his spear.

Another came from the side.

I stepped back, raised my sword just in time to deflect a blow.

They kept me pinned, each pushing from a different angle, boxing me in like starving dogs.

I couldn’t reach her.

My heart beat like a war drum. A furious, frenzied rhythm filled my head.

A sword sliced the air to my right. I blocked it by instinct, spun, and kicked one of their legs to make him stumble.

Another tried to strike from behind—I dropped to the ground, rolled, stood again.

The fight was getting dirtier. More desperate. They were pushing me to the limit.

Not because of skill but because of time.

And then I heard it, a woman’s scream—Real, terrified.

“Giuliana!” I screamed.

No response.

Just more yelling, indistinct words at this distance and a man’s laugh.

My vision darkened. That was it.

Time was up.

I made the choice instantly. No hesitation.

I don’t like killing but sometimes it’s necessary.

I drove my blade into the first man’s abdomen. Didn’t care if he lived. He fell.

The second tried to raise his shield. I cut into his side, driving my blade to the hilt.

He dropped to his knees, gasping. Collapsed.

The third raised his spear in surrender. I didn’t give him the chance.

I drove my sword through his chest.

Silent.

Then I ran.

Ran like my soul depended on it because it did.

She was out there.
Alone.
Untrained.
Unarmed.

If that man had hurt her,
I’d never forgive myself.

I don’t know how long I ran, but when I finally saw her, the world stopped.

Giuliana was on the ground, hair tousled, tunic dirty and hands trembling.

She was alive.
Whole.

No blood on her chest,
No spear through her body.

She was alive.

I nearly cried from relief.

I dropped my sword without thinking. It hit the earth with a dull thud as I dropped to my knees beside her.

My hands went straight to her arms, her shoulders—
Searching for wounds, any sign of injury.

Nothing serious.

She was… fine.

But she was shaking.

“Giuliana,” I said. Her name came out softer than I expected.

She looked at me and broke. A dry, violent sob escaped her, like something she’d been holding back for far too long. She covered her face with her hands and the crying shook her whole body.

I didn’t even think. My body moved on instinct and I pulled her into my arms. I held her close, leaving no space between us, wrapping her tightly in my embrace. I didn’t let go even when she started trembling harder, even when her fists pressed against my chest like it hurt to breathe.

I felt her forehead collapse against my shoulder and slid one hand up her back to the nape of her neck, keeping her close. I didn’t know what I could say to calm her except the obvious.

“You’re safe,” I murmured by her ear. “I’m here. I got you.”

She didn’t respond. She just cried. And it wasn’t soft or controlled—It was a tear, a weight, like something inside her had cracked open and was spilling out all at once.

While I held her, my eyes scanned the ground around us and what I saw froze me.

The soldier’s body.

It was completely mangled; this wasn’t the result of a clean fight or a desperate struggle. It was a wrecked corpse, with wounds that made no sense, not from a sword, not from a spear.

Something had crushed him from the inside, like he’d been destroyed by a force that couldn’t be explained. And there was no one else there.

Just her.

Tension shot down my spine. My hand shifted slightly to my side, where I always expected to find my sword. My mind went into battle mode.

I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen it. I couldn’t act like this was normal. I wasn’t naïve.

My brain screamed at me not to let my guard down. I’d been betrayed before. Luke once smiled while planning to kill us. Silena had truly cried when she confessed what she’d done, even people with good intentions could break you from the inside.

And I didn’t know Giuliana. Not really.

We’d barely exchanged a handful of words. I’d known her for less than a day, for gods’ sake. I had no reason to trust her.

But she wasn’t a fighter. She barely knew how to run through uneven ground without tripping, and yet that man had died in the most brutal way imaginable.

So… was it her?

I asked myself again, like repetition would make it make sense.

Was it her?

I thought about pulling away, creating some distance, looking her in the eye, asking what the hell had happened. Whether she knew what she’d done, whether it was on purpose.

I even wondered what would happen if she turned out to be dangerous. Would I have to fight her? Stop her?

As much as my head prepared for the worst, my soul… it hurt just thinking about hurting her. And I hated myself for that.

Was I being an idiot?

While I ran the numbers in my head, she kept trembling in my arms, crying like someone who had finally cracked under too much weight.

I’ve seen people fake it. Traitors who lie while their voices break in all the right places.

But I’ve also seen so many demigods worn thin, torn up by grief they couldn’t hold in anymore...How many times was I one of them?

Something in me said she wasn’t pretending.

So I stayed still.

Closed my eyes for a moment and repressed the impulse to ask questions or demand answers.

Not now.
Not here.

Maybe later. Maybe when we were safe.
If there was something to say, she’d tell me. And I’d listen.

For now, I just held her tighter, because even if I didn’t fully understand what had happened, I knew she was scared. That she’d survived something she shouldn’t have faced alone. That she deserved a little peace.

And if she could find that peace in my arms, even for a few minutes, then that’s exactly what I’d give her.

Time passed.
I didn’t want to interrupt her—letting all the fear out was for the best—But we had to move.

There was always a chance more soldiers were coming.

“We have to go,” I murmured. “There might be more soldiers.”

She didn’t answer right away. I could still feel her trembling, like her whole body refused to take a step forward.

I didn’t blame her. I’d been there too.

That heavy stillness after a fight, when your senses are still on alert but your soul is in pieces. The worst part wasn’t the battle. Not really. It was what came after...the guilt, the questions, the images burned into memory.

I stayed close. Saw her eyes search for mine—wide and scared—so much it was hard to hold her gaze. That wasn’t the look of someone who felt powerful. It was the face of someone who had just crossed a line and didn’t know if she’d ever come back.

She nodded, barely.

So I stood first and held out my hand.

When she got up, I saw her eyes drift to the body. She opened her mouth, probably to explain… something. Whatever had happened.

But I didn’t let her.
Not here.

“We’ll talk about it later,” I said firmly and moved quickly, stepping between her and the body. “Let’s go. Let’s grab our things and head north.”

We didn’t need to look back. There was nothing there for us.

We returned to the clearing in silence, only the forest sounds filling the space between us. Leaves crunched underfoot, insects whispered in the dark. The air felt heavier than before.

The camp was exactly as we’d left it—blankets, the leather bag, the canteen. Everything was still there, but none of it felt the same.

We gathered it all without thinking much.

I pointed north with a slight gesture. I wasn’t even sure what we’d find in that direction, I hoped to find the village, but staying still felt worse.

Moving was all we had left.

We started walking.
The terrain opened up into low hills, covered in dry grass that crunched like bones beneath our boots. The sky was still overcast, but even so, I noticed she walked like she could see better than me.

Then I felt it—her hand reaching for mine.

It was so sudden that I hesitated for a second. I didn’t expect it, we barely knew each other. A few hours, that was all.

But she was still trembling and her palm against mine felt like a silent plea—One of those that aren’t spoken but still echo loud.

I didn’t let go. Her hand fit perfectly in mine.

I squeezed her fingers gently while in the other hand I still held Riptide, ready for whatever came.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.

She needed something to hold onto, and if I couldn’t give her that with words, I could give it with this: That I was there, that I wasn’t going to let go, that she didn’t have to walk alone.

Not now.
Not ever.

We kept moving. She walked just behind me.

She didn’t say anything, but I could still feel her trembling. I looked back every so often to make sure she was still holding together.

Her breathing was uneven and her steps short, like each one cost her more than the last.

I didn’t push. I just wanted to get her out of there.

We walked until I found a small clearing among the trees.

Not the safest spot in the world, but at least there were no branches overhead or signs of danger nearby.

I dropped the bag to the ground with a sigh and sat down. I motioned for her to come closer, she obeyed in silence and looked like she was hanging by a thread.

“I didn’t want to ask you back there…” I murmured, not looking directly at her at first. “But now that things are a little calmer… what happened?”

My eyes met hers. Her face was still pale, her gaze distant. I didn’t see lies, only fear and confusion. But I couldn’t keep trusting only my intuition—I needed to know exactly what had happened.

“I got there after it was over,” I continued slowly, weighing each word. “I saw the body. And you… you were on the ground, crying. But he was… Giuliana, there’s no human way to leave someone like that without a fight. And you didn’t have a single scratch. I’m not trying to scare you. I just… need to understand.”

She swallowed hard. Lowered her gaze, breathing unevenly.

“I… I ran as fast as I could,” she finally said, her voice low, broken. But he was faster. Stronger. He caught up with me between the trees and threw me to the ground. I tried to hit him, kick him, scratch his face—anything—but he barely even reacted. I felt how he pinned me down, his knees on my arms. And then…then he told me to shut up. That he’d do whatever he wanted with me. That no one was coming to help.”

The tension hit me square in the chest. I clenched my hand on my thigh so hard I felt my knuckles crack.

““I’ve never felt so scared,” she whispered. “I thought that was it. That he was going to…And then, something… exploded. I don’t know where it came from. Shadows. Pure darkness, like the night itself shattered and swallowed him whole. It tore him apart. There were no screams, no struggle. Just… silence. And after that, he wasn’t whole anymore.”

I listened carefully. Not just to her words, but to the way she said them. There was no way to fake that. No one could act that kind of trembling, that guilt, that terror.

And still, the body… the shadows… who was she?

But at that moment, when I looked at her again, I didn’t see a threat. I saw a broken girl, covered in dirt and tears, trembling like her world had just collapsed.

The rage built inside me, slow but intense. For what he tried to do to her. For how he made her feel. For how she was already blaming herself while still trying to process it all.

“He tried to hurt you” I said through clenched teeth. “He threatened to... He paid for it. But it still wasn’t enough.”

She looked at me with tear-filled eyes, and I felt my heart shatter.

“It won’t happen again,” I promised. “As long as I breathe, no one will ever touch you like that again.”

And I meant it. Because I didn’t know exactly who Giuliana was, or how she’d done what she did. But she wasn’t a threat. Not to me. Not to the innocent. She was a brave girl with a good heart and very bad luck.

Dawn brought silence. I got up before the sun rose completely, brushed the dirt from my shirt, and held out my hand to Giuliana. She took it without hesitation, which was a good sign. She was still trembling, but steady. I asked her about the city the villagers had mentioned, and after she nodded, we started walking.

We shared the last of our water and some stale bread. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. She was processing what happened the night before. So was I. In my own way.

We moved through dry hills, with the sea’s salty breath blowing in the distance. We saw the remains of other camps, clear signs that we weren’t the only ones displaced by this war. At every step, my instincts stayed sharp. I didn’t let my guard down for a second. She walked close to me, quieter than before, but determined. Still, I caught her looking at me now and then, like she needed to make sure I was still there.

By noon, we saw the city. It wasn’t large, but it had walls and guards. As we approached, the soldiers at the gate crossed their spears to stop us. I tried to sound as calm as possible, told them we just needed water and rest.

Luckily, we didn’t have to convince them on our own. The people Giuliana had helped showed up, said we’d saved the village. The tension crawled under my skin, but I didn’t say anything. I bowed my head and let them speak.

They let us in with a warning. Weapon check, interview with the captain. The usual in a city at war. We walked through adobe houses, feeling the stares stick to us like little needles—some warm, others not so much.

Still, no one stopped us. They offered us water, bread. Even a hand-stitched handkerchief, which Giuliana accepted with a mix of awkwardness and gratitude. It was clear she didn’t know how to react. Neither did I. I’d never been good with praise, especially when we didn’t even know if we were truly safe yet.

I stayed close to her as we made our way through. There was no need to say it—here, in this strange place, we were all each other had. I leaned toward her and spoke quietly.

“Is this the city they talked about?”

She nodded and pointed to a nearby hill.

“Yes. Karistía. Look at that…”

I followed her gaze. The temple was stunning. Bright, alive. Nothing like the ruins I was used to. The columns gleamed under the sun, painted in colors so vivid they looked freshly finished. Annabeth would’ve loved it.

The statue of Apollo stood in the center with divine arrogance. It looked a lot like the Apollo of the future, although it was weird not seeing him in jeans, sunglasses, and reciting bad haikus. I wondered how horrified the Apollo of this era would be if he ever found out about his future adventures as Lester.

Beside me, Giuliana murmured something. When I asked, she denied it too quickly. She was tense. I could see her getting paler, her shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the temple as if the sight of the god carved in stone had knocked the air from her lungs.

A man in a white robe intercepted us. He said the city leader wanted to thank us and that the Temple of Apollo offered us refuge.

I nodded, though I didn’t drop my guard. Giuliana said nothing. She walked like a ghost, eyes locked on the statue. With every step, she seemed more unsettled. The guide spoke of signs, but my attention was on Giuliana. I didn’t like how she looked.

Then, just as we reached the steps, as the temple hymns filled the air and the music seeped into our skin, she collapsed.

“Giuliana!”

My sword hit the floor as I caught her before she could fall on the marble. Her body was ice-cold. Light. Too light. I held her tight, heart pounding like a war drum in my ears. Her eyes were shut, but her pulse beat fast and shallow in her neck.

“Breathe…” I murmured by her ear, more to myself than to her. “Breathe, I’m here…”

The priests around us began to murmur, restless. The guards tensed. No one knew what to do. The man who had brought us wrung his hands, unsure whether to approach or stay back.

“She needs water,” I said firmly, without looking at them. “And rest. Not a prayer.”

My tone left no room for argument. I was already sweating from the heat and from the fear clawing at my chest. She was in my arms, small, fragile, more vulnerable than I’d seen her until now.

And seeing her like that…

It reminded me of too many things. Moments when I had been too late, when I hadn’t been able to protect the ones who mattered. And I was not going to let it happen again.

Finally, a priest took us to a separate room, but I realized something.

I knew it the moment they laid her on the mattress, the second her eyelashes fluttered a little too deliberately and her breathing, though shallow, didn’t carry the uneven chaos of a real collapse. No muscle tension, no cold sweat. She didn’t look like she was struggling to regain control—she looked like she was in control of exactly what she was showing. Too perfect.

I leaned over her, hands still resting on my knees. I was breathing heavier than I wanted to admit. The worry had hit me like lightning when she dropped in front of the temple. Now, in this quiet room that smelled of herbs and clean linen, I allowed myself to look at her without interruption. She was fine. Alive. Whole. But also pretending.

“Are you okay?” I whispered, keeping my voice low. She nodded, and just as she opened her eyes, I saw it. That spark. Immediate awareness, with no confusion or disorientation. Just calm. Calculated. Planned.

I frowned.

“You faked it,” I said—not exactly accusing, but not gently either. “Why?”

I wasn’t angry. I just… needed to understand. I’d had enough surprises for one day, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from being who I am, it’s that lies, even small ones, are usually signs of something bigger. Something that can drag you down if you don’t see it coming.

She looked me straight in the eye, with that new seriousness I was starting to recognize in her. The jug between her hands seemed to tremble, but not from weakness.

“I felt danger,” she murmured. “A presence. I don’t know how to explain it… but I knew. If we crossed that threshold, something would happen. Something big and dangerous.”

I watched her in silence, listening more to her tone than her words. She wasn’t lying to me now—not completely. There was something in the way she said it that didn’t sound made up, even if she didn’t know herself what that danger was. My frown stayed in place as I mentally went over everything that had happened—the way she looked at the statue, the panic in her body just before she collapsed.

It wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t impossible either. I’d felt things like that before. The hero’s instinct, they sometimes called it. I called it the feeling that something—or someone—was watching you from the shadows.

I let out a sigh and ran a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat.

“Okay,” I murmured, with a small nod. “Sometimes that kind of thing happens to demigods. It’s fine. I trust you. So… what now?”

I was a little surprised at how quickly I said it, but it wasn’t a rash decision—not really. There was something about Giuliana that told me, even if I didn’t understand it yet, we were on the same side. It was a feeling in my chest, like a compass that wouldn’t stop pointing north. And even though I’d trained myself not to trust easily—damn you, Luke—this time it was hard to keep my distance.

“I don’t know,” she said, setting the jug aside. “I just… knew something was going to happen.”

I nodded, thoughtful, not replying right away. I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, eyes fixed on the floor. I didn’t know if what I was feeling was a magical premonition, an echo of the gods, or something more internal, something older. But I felt it too. Something was coming. Something we weren’t ready to face.

“When we get out of here,” I said at last, “we’re going to train. Not just to survive. To control that. Whatever it is.”

She looked at me, surprised, like I’d just made a promise bigger than I realized.

Giuliana murmured a “thank you” so softly it almost got lost in the silence, but I felt it anyway.

“You don’t have to thank me. We’re in this together,” I answered without thinking. And I meant it. There was no way to truly measure how much you could trust someone at this point, but for some reason, with her… with her, it wasn’t hard.

“Yeah, but…” she hesitated, wearing that expression she had whenever she felt she was about to say something too personal. “You’ve been really kind to me. You didn’t have to be. Thanks for…”

She stopped. Looked at me, then quickly looked away, like she thought she’d crossed a line.

“What?” I asked, eyebrows slightly raised.

She hesitated just a second. “For… well. Are we friends, Percy?”

The question caught me off guard, but it wasn’t strange—not for someone who’d been through everything we had in less than two days.

I stared at her for a moment. I could’ve said no and kept things strictly as “time-traveling companions,” but…

“Of course we're, dummy,” I said, and noticed how the tension drained from her all at once. “Do you really think after dragging you across half the sea we wouldn’t be?”

She let out a soft laugh, a bit hoarse from exhaustion, but that laugh was enough for me to know I’d made the right call. I smiled too. I liked seeing her laugh after everything she’d been through.

I caught myself watching her, smiling like an idiot for longer than I needed to, but I liked this—this relaxed space between her and me. I felt my heart flutter and looked away before she noticed.

Why did I feel like this? It didn’t make sense.

But before I could get lost in my thoughts, the same priest who had escorted us into the room walked in.

“Forgive the interruption,” he said, with a slight bow of his head. “The young man must leave. The temple allows only one person to rest in this chamber at a time, especially during the sacred hours of morning.”

My face tensed slightly. I didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone.

“I’ll be fine,” she told me softly, still uncertain, brushing her fingers against my wrist—making me shiver without realizing it. “Just… don’t go to that area, okay?”

I hesitated, then leaned toward her—maybe a little closer than necessary. “Scream if you need anything. Seriously. I’ll find you.”

I left the room and the priest gestured down the hall, indicating where I could walk. He didn’t say much—only that I was free to explore the temple while they prepared “the proper blessings.” I didn’t even know what that meant exactly, but I nodded and followed the marble hallway as if I knew where I was going.

The place was enormous. Bright. Not like the broken temples I’d seen before—you know, the dusty old ruins that feel more like museum sets than real places. This one felt alive. The columns were painted red and blue, with gold details that caught the light at just the right angle. There were carvings on every wall, scenes sculpted with precision: Apollo slaying monsters, delivering prophecies, playing his lyre while the muses watched him like they couldn’t breathe unless he kept playing.

I stopped in front of a massive painting. It showed the god in his chariot, with a solar crown behind his head and an expression that looked like he knew everything. I thought about the time I saw him in New York, turned human. I snorted under my breath. I’ll never forget how he shrieked when someone threw a soda bottle at him from a rooftop.

“You look so different when you’re not full of insecurities,” I muttered without realizing.

I kept walking. The tiles were so smooth that every step echoed. I liked that. It made me feel alone, but not in a bad way. Like the temple was giving me space to think. Though that feeling didn’t last long.

Because then I thought of Giuliana.

I’d left her alone. Again. She was with the priests, safe, yes… but still. What was it about this girl? The feeling wouldn’t leave my chest. Like some part of me was turning in her direction, like a restless compass. I knew she was safe… so why was I so worried?

We’d met less than two days ago. Two. It’s ridiculous. I’ve fought beside people for months without feeling this kind of weight in my stomach every time they disappeared from my sight. She’s not an old friend. Not a years-long quest partner. She’s a girl I shared one hard night with and a few whispered conversations.

And still, I felt like something was missing.

I thought of her smile. The one she gave me when she asked if we were friends. That short, genuine smile. It made me smile too, and I hadn’t even noticed until after.

And now that I think about it…

Is she pretty?

I stopped next to a column, like that might help me process the question. Because yeah, of course she is. I’d noticed a little before. But in that moment, with that smile, in this strange and tense atmosphere, it was like something became a little clearer.

I ran a hand over my neck. My heart was beating faster, and damn it, I didn’t understand why.

I didn’t know her.

I didn’t know who she was. I knew she could do strange things, that she had powers she didn’t understand. That she was scared. That she was brave. That she hadn’t lied to me—or at least I thought she hadn’ —but that wasn’t the same as knowing her.

And still, when I heard her laugh even a little, it felt like every part of my body wanted to get closer.

That was a problem. A big, big problem.

I pressed my lips together, took a deep breath, and forced myself to keep walking. I couldn’t afford to get distracted now. I couldn’t lose my head over someone who, objectively, was still a stranger. I kept walking.

I tried to focus on the temple. There was another room full of small statues, offerings arranged with military precision: jars of oil, still-fresh fruits, braided necklaces with colorful beads. Incense burned slowly on the altars, leaving a thick, sweet scent in the air that crept into my nose and throat. In another corner, a group of young people chanted in low voices. Their song echoed through the walls, soft like a river dragging smooth stones.

Everything was immaculate. Harmonious. Almost perfect.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the unease from my chest.

I passed by a smaller statue of Apollo, less imposing than the main one. This one had a gentler expression. More human. It made me think again of the Apollo I knew—the one who tried to pretend everything was under control when it clearly wasn’t.

“Don’t trust the gods too much,” Annabeth once told me. “Not even when they seem to be on your side.”

And for the first time in a long while, I wished she were here. Or Grover. Or someone. Someone I knew. Because right now, in the middle of this temple, surrounded by strangers, I could only think of one person.

Giuliana.

I glanced sideways at a door at the far end, then another. I stopped to listen, as if her voice might seep through the marble. Nothing. Silence.

I looked at the sundial in the courtyard. It must have been at least twenty minutes. How much rest did she really need? Not much, right? After all, she had been faking.

I leaned against a column, arms crossed, trying to calm myself and resist the urge to go check on her... but I couldn’t.

I straightened up and went straight down the side hallway that led to the rooms at the back. I more or less remembered the way—I’d been paying attention, even if not consciously. The temple was big, but not that big, and the path was clear.

When I pushed the door open and didn’t see her, it felt like all the air got stuck in my chest.

“Giuliana?” I called softly, almost automatically, like she might answer from some corner.

Nothing. Maybe I had the wrong room.

I started moving faster, checking one door after another, with less and less caution each time. Anxiety crawled up my spine like a shiver I couldn’t hide.

I turned into another hallway. A priestess in a white robe crossed my path.

“Excuse me,” I said, stopping her more roughly than I intended, “The girl who was with me... have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

The woman looked confused, tilted her head slightly, then shook it gently. “I haven’t seen anyone leave the rooms, sir.”

I kept going. Faster. I turned toward the inner courtyard, hoping to see her near the herb pots, maybe getting some air. Nothing.

I approached another priest—one of the ones who’d welcomed us.

“The young woman who came with me,” I said directly, no frills. “Giuliana. She’s not where she’s supposed to be. Have you seen her?”

The man frowned as if he didn’t understand the urgency. He took his time, which only made my frustration worse. Finally, he raised a hand and pointed toward the south wing of the temple.

“Someone mentioned seeing her walking that way a while ago. She was alone. Maybe she needed to clear her head,” he added with a shrug.

I didn’t wait. I turned before he finished the sentence and ran in that direction. The columns flew by like white blurs on either side. The temple, once solemn and orderly, now felt like a suffocating maze.

The south wing opened into a hallway filled with golden light. There were hand-painted columns, mythological reliefs, ceilings decorated with suns and garlands. I had no idea where I was exactly, but I kept moving with firm steps, searching through corridors that all looked the same. And then I saw her.

Giuliana was standing still, right in front of a mural where the sun god was depicted with his bow raised and a lyre slung over his shoulder. Beside him stood a man. Blond, with his hair tied back, his robe immaculate, and something else. Something that made me stop cold.

His eyes.
They were too bright. Too old.
Too aware.

“Giuli,” I said, my voice echoing louder than I meant it to. “I’ve been looking all over the temple. Why did you leave the room?”

She turned immediately, like I’d caught her in the middle of something. Her face was a mask of panic and alarm—not faked. In that instant, the air changed.

The man in front of her tensed. Like an invisible cord had suddenly gone taut and started to vibrate. His golden eyes locked on me.

The air smelled like summer, even though the corridor was stone. There was heat where there hadn’t been before. The light became more intense, sharper. Particles floated in the air as if the sun had shattered into dust.

I didn’t know who this man was, but I understood perfectly what he was.

A god.

The instinct kicked in immediately. I moved without thinking, reached out and pulled Giuliana behind me, placing myself between her and him like a shield. My hand closed around her wrist—I felt her racing pulse against my palm. She was scared. So was I.

The unknown god didn’t make any threatening move. But the aura around him was crackling. Like his human form was no longer enough to contain what he truly was. Was he an Olympian? I hoped not—it’d be harder to deal with him. I already knew the six main Olympians, and I wasn’t looking to run into any of them in this era, thanks.

The worst part was there was something in his gaze I didn’t like. Hunger. A kind of desire that doesn’t accept “no” as an answer.

“You…” he said, like the word had spent centuries on his tongue. “I’ve been searching for you for far too long.”

The tone chilled my blood.

I swallowed hard and tightened my grip on Giuliana’s wrist. I didn’t know if it was to protect her or to remind myself she was there, real. I needed something real. Because everything that came from that man felt like it was ripped out of a fever dream.

My heart was pounding, but I couldn’t afford to hesitate. I was the one with experience dealing with arrogant gods—I had to get us out of this.

So I lifted my chin. Looked him straight in the eye.
“And I,” I said quietly, without raising my voice, “have no idea who you are.”

His expression changed. It was like something broke inside him, like whatever he expected to find in me wasn’t there, and he didn’t know how to process it. Even so, he raised a hand, and light slipped from his fingers—golden dust dancing in the air like fireflies.

I made sure Giuliana was behind me, out of his reach.
I had faced strange things before. Monsters with more claws than logic. Capricious gods who treated fate like a board game. But this... this was different. Not because of the light or the power. Because of the way he looked at me. Like I was his. Like I had signed some immortal contract I didn’t remember agreeing to.

The guy—the god, because what else could he be—spoke with a calm that was unbearable. Like he had all the time in the world to drop heavy words that barely made sense. He was comparing me to… what? Perfection? The cosmos? What kind of madness was this?

I felt Giuliana behind me. Her silence said more than any warning. She was tense. And I… I couldn’t let her go. I didn’t want to.

The god’s glow intensified. His human form could no longer contain it. The air itself seemed to tremble with each step he took. But it wasn’t the power that shook me. It was his gaze. That damned way he looked at me like I was a poem he’d spent centuries trying to remember.
And for a second—I admit it—I wanted to know what it felt like to be seen like that.

But the thought didn’t last long. I don’t like anyone—even a god—thinking they have the right to decide what I am to them.

The god’s light surged again. His skin didn’t tear so much as it opened, like a shell giving way to something far greater. The figure that emerged was recognizable, though I’d never seen him like this.
Apollo.

I knew him. Of course I did. The god who sometimes showed up at Camp Half-Blood with sunglasses, bad jokes, riding sports cars, or writing terrible poetry. He was annoying, but familiar. Never scary.
Until now.

Because this wasn’t the God of Making Me Do Stupid Quests.

This was the god Apollo.

His presence filled the space like a weight on my chest. He didn’t need to say anything—you just knew you were facing something that didn’t belong to your world. His skin looked like solid light, his hair floated with a life of its own, golden like soft fire. And his eyes... weren’t eyes. They were suns. And they were fixed on me.

I didn’t know what he wanted. But I recognized him. And I knew he recognized me too. Like somewhere in time, we’d already crossed paths. Like this moment had always been inevitable.

I stepped fully in front of Giuliana without thinking. My whole body was tense, every muscle alert. I wasn’t going to let him come any closer.

“Your soul shines like mine,” the god said.

The sentence fell like a verdict.

I saw him raise a hand to his chest, as if he could show me something that wasn’t there. He spoke with ridiculous calm. Like everything was already decided. Like this wasn’t the beginning, but the end of a long search.

 “It’s written in every thread of the cosmos. We’ve been calling each other unknowingly since before we were born. You don’t have to fight anymore. I’ve found you. We’re whole now.”

I froze.

Not just because of what he said, but how he said it. There was something in his voice… it wasn’t tenderness. It wasn’t sweetness. It was deeper. More invasive. Like he’d already decided I belonged to him.

He smiled.

And I never thought I’d miss Apollo’s usual egotistical (but harmless) pop-star grin. This smile was something else. Made of fire, desire, certainty. It was love. The kind that consumes.

The kind my mom warned me about.

“You’re handsome, Percy,” she once told me. “Be very careful with the gods.”

But I never thought it would happen to me—not with my titles, not with my father protecting me.

But here I was, my fate carved out with certainty, my freedom undone with a single word:

“Come.”

And the world obeyed.

Golden light burst from his palm and surged toward me like a slow, absolute tide. At first, it was warm. Then too warm. It felt like the sun had grabbed me by the chest and was pulling. It didn’t want to hurt me. It wanted… to merge with me. To make me part of him. As if the thought of me existing without being by his side was inconceivable.

I couldn’t help but take half a step back. The energy wrapped around me. Crawled up my arms, my neck. It was trapping me.

I heard Giuliana scream.

She tried to run to me, but I stopped her. Shoved her aside with force. I couldn’t let her get close. I didn’t know what was going to happen. All I knew was that this wasn’t an attack.

It was worse.

It was a claim.

I tried to resist. I dug in my heels. Gritted my teeth. Every muscle in my body screamed no, that I wouldn’t let myself be taken. But Apollo was a god. I was losing the fight.

Until the air turned black. A dark whisper slipped into the middle of the light. At first, I didn’t know where it came from. Then I saw it. The shadows.

Giuliana.

They surged forward like an inverted wave, dense and fast, and collided with the god’s light with a force that made me hold my breath. The ground trembled. The torches flickered. And for a moment, the world became a war of shadow and fire.

The light didn’t fully give way, but it faltered. Apollo—the god—stumbled back. Not much. But he did.

And that was enough for me.

I turned. Saw Giuliana, arms tense, eyes locked, the shadows still spinning around her like they were part of her skin. “Run!”

I could feel the air vibrating behind us, like the entire temple was breathing in anger. The shadows kept spreading behind us, struggling to contain the light. I didn’t know how Giuliana was doing it—I didn’t understand that power—but it was the only thing standing between us and the god we’d just faced.

But it wouldn’t last. Not against a god.

The ground shook under our feet. The marble didn’t feel solid anymore. Every step hurt, but I didn’t stop. Not for a second. The power building behind us was impossible to ignore. It was light, but not like midday sun. It was denser. More aggressive. It felt like a presence trying to slip into my skin, my mind.

And then we heard it. A scream.

I’ve heard the screams of monsters. Of titans. Even of some gods. But never one like this. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t fury. It was something else. Pure, violent desperation—a sound that shouldn’t exist in a divine throat. And it froze me. Left a chill down my spine that didn’t go away, one that clung to my bones like it wanted to brand me.

I felt the temple trembling behind us. The columns groaned. Something cracked. The very air split apart. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. If we stopped, he’d catch us.

Even so, my mind was racing. Half thought, half instinct. He’s going to catch us.

No matter how far we run, he’s going to catch us.

But Giuliana’s with me. I couldn’t leave her behind. Not for a second.

I turned my head for a moment. She was running behind me, giving it everything she had, her face tight, not letting go of my hand. She was exhausted. And still, she kept going.

I could’ve run faster. I could. But I didn’t. I slowed my pace. Just enough for her to keep up. Because I wasn’t going to leave her alone.

The shadows were thinning. Fading. As if their resistance had a time limit and the clock was about to strike zero. The light clung to our backs like fire on our necks. We ran, and the temple became a distant echo, but the danger was still there. Immense. Alive.

Then—the exit.

The stone beneath our feet changed texture. It was no longer marble. It was rough ground, real. The air felt different. No more incense. No more contained power. We were outside.

We made it. At least, that’s what I thought. But the relief lasted exactly one second.

A burst of heat blocked our path. In front of us, the ground cracked—and in the middle of the broken stone, there he was.

“Are you running from me?” His voice rumbled like a terrible omen. “After seeing me, feeling me? After recognizing me?”

“You’re insane. I just see a crazy guy saying crazy things. Leave us alone,” I said as calmly as I could, but the anger in my eyes was clear.

The god’s fury intensified, if that was even possible.

I didn’t care what he said. About the cosmos, the thread, destiny. Divine nonsense immortals used to justify any madness. But when he turned to Giuliana and spoke with that venomous voice—when he looked at her like she was to blame for everything—something inside me snapped.

The light pouring from his body changed. It got denser, more aggressive. It was different from before, less divine and more… dangerous. It wasn’t to display power. It was to destroy. As if the sun god felt humiliated. As if Giuliana, for daring to stand between him and what he sought, deserved to be wiped off the map.

He didn’t look at her like an enemy. He looked at her like a cockroach beneath his boot.

And I knew what could happen.

What a god like Apollo could do when provoked. Burn a city. Send a plague. Keep the sun from setting for days just to watch people writhe. A human girl, no matter how powerful, couldn’t withstand that kind of power. Especially not if he meant to hurt her.

I saw Giuliana trembling. Sweat on her neck, her hands clenched. Her eyes fixed on the god like she was waiting to die. And something inside my chest caught fire. It wasn’t fear or helplessness anymore.

It was fury. A fury so direct, so clear, I didn’t stop to think.

“Leave my friend alone. You won’t hurt her. And I’m not yours,” I said with bitterness and hate.

My voice came out steady. More than I expected. Enough to make the very air still for a second.

But he didn’t stop looking at her.

He didn’t hear me.

The hatred was still there. Raw. Absolute.

And then the movement of his hand, the light condensing.

The beam aimed at Giuliana.

I threw myself in front of her, shoving her hard to the side, and at the same time, I raised my hand.

I didn’t know if what I was about to try would work. But I felt the call. My blood responded the way it always did, and I focused on what surrounded us.

No sea or river nearby. But that didn’t mean there was no water.

Underground. In the amphorae. In the offering jars. In the wine jugs, in the temple barrels.

Fluids. Liquids. All under my command. And I pulled on them, all at once.

The air shifted.

The ground shook beneath our feet—dry at first, then soaked. The liquid shot out from every corner. Beer, wine, mead. Everything the people of this city had gathered to offer their god—now poured over him.

It drenched him.

I wasn’t trying to hurt him. It was an interruption. A provocation. A clear message.

I’m not letting you touch her.

Apollo shook himself off like a wet dog, his face twisted in disgust, arms stiff, clothes sticking to his body. His skin was unharmed, but his posture showed the blow to his pride.

“Wine?” he repeated, like he couldn’t believe it. “You attack me with wine!?”

I didn’t answer. I just took one more step forward. I stood again between him and Giuliana.

My entire body stayed ready. The earth beneath us vibrated with the energy I still hadn’t released. If I had to sink that temple, I would. It wouldn’t be the first time I defeated an Olympian.

I could hear them shouting, “A god is enraged!” “The temple has been defiled!” People were terrified—I hoped they’d run as far as possible, because I didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Apollo stood in front of us, bathed in light and fury. Wine soaked his tunic, and still, he glowed. As if the sun refused to dim, even covered in shame. Every drop of sacred liquid evaporated on his skin. And in his eyes, there was no desire. No recognition. Only rage. And something worse: pain.

He wasn’t just an angry god. He was someone who felt betrayed.

“Why…?” he whispered, and for a moment, I thought he was about to break. “Why won’t you come with me?”

I didn’t answer.

What was I supposed to say?

“I’m not interested.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Buy me dinner first.”
“You’re not my type.”

And then he exploded. Again.

“Why do you choose her over me?!”

My mind was working at a ridiculous speed—I wasn’t just trying to protect Giuliana, I was also trying to understand what the hell was going on.

Apollo. The god I knew. The one I had known.

He wasn’t like this.

In the future—my present—after regaining his divinity, he came down to camp constantly to see his kids and train the other campers. We talked, of course, but it was more of a friendship than anything else. He never showed the slightest interest in me. He flirted with everyone, yes, but in a general, superficial way.

And now this.

This was different. Way too different.

It didn’t feel like a passing obsession, like with Daphne. It was something deeper. As if he’d been waiting for me his whole existence. As if the universe owed him something and I was the debt.

I didn’t get it.

Since when…? Why?

I didn’t think his ideal type had changed that much over a few millennia. I also didn’t think this had anything to do with a pretty face.

There was something more. Something I couldn’t see, something he felt and I didn’t share. And it was driving him insane.

“Your soul is mine,” he roared, with a certainty that froze my blood. “MINE!! The cosmos wove you for me, Perseus. How dare you reject me?!”

I couldn’t let this go on. I couldn’t let him hurt us. I took the first step into the fight and felt everything that had been pressing on my chest since I heard my name in his voice release.

My sword was already in hand. I raised it like I had so many times before without thinking, because there was no room for doubt. No time for fear.

I charged straight at him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He seemed so sure I was going to give in that the idea of me raising a weapon against him hadn’t even crossed his mind.

The fight had begun, and he was only dodging and cornering me. I wasn’t weak, but this… fighting a god in the 21st century wasn’t the same as fighting one in ancient Greece.

And Apollo… Apollo was a god. A god at his peak, in a time when temples still burned with incense, when every prayer carried weight, when his name was synonymous with truth and fate. Not the modern version—diminished, weakened.

This was his original form. Raw. Absolute.

And fighting that felt like throwing yourself at the midday sun, hoping the light wouldn’t reach you.

My first slash hit nothing. He moved before I could even gauge the distance. His body didn’t seem to move with effort. It was as if the world itself turned to pull him away from my strikes. He didn’t need weapons. Every gesture altered the environment. The air thickened around him, charged with ancient power. One that left no room for doubt and screamed: “I’m eternal, and you’re not.”

I dodged on instinct and attacked on reflex. But nothing stopped him. Everything I threw at him—wine, water, the ground itself—slowed him, but didn’t harm him. It only annoyed him and made him faster.

The light radiating from him burned every time I got close. I could feel my skin start to sizzle, like it was forcing me to accept I was breaking some ancient rule by raising a weapon against him.

It was hard to keep up. He was beyond any monster I had ever faced—beyond Ares, even Kronos. This wasn’t brute force or cosmic evil. This was living faith—power validated by thousands of prayers, by generations who had worshiped him as protector and judge. The world remembered him, supported him, and that made him stronger.

He wasn’t even using a fraction of his real strength, and still he was forcing me to use everything I had.

Every time I dodged, he countered with a blast of light so dense it cracked the air. He didn’t use swords, but every line he traced with his hands cut through space. The ground shook beneath his steps. Stones splintered. The heat rose. I felt the pressure in my lungs, in my bones.

In the middle of it all, the worst part was knowing he knew exactly what he was doing. He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t want to. He was pushing me, cornering me, measuring me. As if he just needed the right moment to wrap me in that light of his and erase me from reality as I knew it.

He forced me back with every strike. There was no rhythm to the fight. Only his will, pressing against mine.

And despite that, I stayed standing—because if I fell, I knew exactly who he would turn to.

Apollo stopped dodging. Now he just raised his hands to the sky with a resolve that made my skin crawl.

I didn’t need to be a seer to understand what was about to happen. The light shifted into something thicker, heavier, as if the air was being written with words I couldn’t read—but my body understood. Ancient magic, etched into the fabric of the universe.

And that energy came crashing down on me.

I raised my sword by reflex, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t have time. It was too fast—too fast—like fate itself was falling on me with a command I couldn’t disobey. But that light didn’t want to kill me—it wanted to trap me. Something in it sought to wrap around me, mark me, imprison me in something I didn’t fully grasp.

Then, to both my relief and my headache, darkness once again stopped the light.

Shadows rose from Giuliana like they had always been there, waiting for the order. The light didn’t advance. The darkness didn’t yield. And the balance shattered.

He saw her. His gaze shifted to Giuliana, and his whole face changed. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. Now the fury aimed at her.

When he called her a parasite, when he roared as if she were the reason I existed beyond his control—I don’t think I’d felt that furious in years.

I charged again.

I ran quickly, sword steady in hand, and fire in my legs. It was the same kind of impulse that had saved me before—the one that had helped me survive monsters, titans, gods. The same one that now drove me to protect her.

Apollo didn’t defend himself. He could have—I knew it. I felt it. The power still burned in him. But he didn’t move. Not a word, not a gesture, not a shield. Nothing.

My blade cut into his side.

I expected screams—but there was only silence, and the dull, wet, final sound of a sword slicing through divine flesh. From his wound, ichor poured—thick and golden—like his body was spilling pieces of the sun itself onto the ground.

Apollo stepped back, his eyes wide, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. As if that wound didn’t hurt physically, but had shaken him to the core.

I stayed in a defensive stance. I didn’t know if an explosion was coming, or a scream, or immediate vengeance. I was ready for anything. But nothing happened.

He looked down. Stared at the golden light spilling from his own body.

He didn’t even look at me.

He was… broken.

His shattered gaze stirred something in me—pity or compassion, I don’t know—but I couldn’t let us stay there another second.

“Giuliana!” I yelled her name loudly, then switched to English so only she would understand. “Can you take us? Now!”

She looked at me, confused for a second. Her face was covered in sweat and fear, like she didn’t know what I was talking about. For a moment, I thought we weren’t going to make it.

“Can you shadow travel or not?!” I insisted. I’d already seen what she was capable of. Maybe she hadn’t done it before, but with how she handled shadows, there was a chance.

I saw the exact moment she understood. Like something clicked in her head. Her eyes widened, and I could see her shadows shift. I stepped closer, and she pulled me into a tight hug just as Apollo took a step forward—his wound still open but his power untouched. His gaze was a whirlwind of rage and pain, but he wasn’t going to reach us. The shadows swallowed us before he could lay a hand on us.

One second we were wrapped in chaos, the next we were falling through a void so thick I couldn’t even tell if I was breathing.

Traveling through shadows was… weird. It wasn’t like with Nico or Hazel, whose shadow-travel felt like we were moving so fast my skin peeled off. This was more like sinking. As if space itself had shrunk, dragging us through a corridor that shouldn’t exist. Time felt slower and faster at the same time. I felt Giuliana clinging to me, her arm around my waist, her essence holding onto mine like a lifeline.

Then, all at once—solid ground.

The impact knocked the breath out of me. We rolled across damp stone, she let out a groan, I cursed. My whole body ached. I pushed myself up with a dry cough, my stomach churning like I’d just swallowed half a wave. It was dark. But not the living darkness from before—this was cold, still, and silent. A cavern, maybe.

“Are you okay?” I panted, turning toward her. I needed to hear her say it, to be sure. Just seeing her breathe wasn’t enough.

“I don’t know,” she replied, nodding faintly as she checked herself over.

That was enough. I stood up. My legs were still tense, senses on high alert, muscles ready to fight again if needed. I couldn’t afford the luxury of standing still. My whole body was still in battle mode. I ran my hands along the walls, searching for exits, weak spots, anything. I wasn’t going to let them trap us again.

In the middle of that instinctive routine, I touched a crack in the rock. Just a thin split, but enough to let a thread of golden light through. I leaned in to look, but didn’t get the chance to move any further.

“No!” Giuliana shouted behind me.

The sound cut through me faster than any attack. I turned instantly, heart clenched, on high alert. Giuliana was standing stiffly, eyes locked on the ray of light like it scared her more than any monster.

“What?” I managed to say, confused.

“Don’t look. Don’t get close to that light. It’s just… if he’s the god of the sun, maybe Apol—”

I silenced her instantly, my hand covering her mouth before she could say his name.

“Don’t say it,” I whispered, every word tight. “Don’t say his name. Not his. Not anyone else’s.”

She looked at me, frozen. It took her a second, but then she nodded. I lowered my hand.

When I was a kid, Chiron told me, “Names have power, Percy. Maybe in the past you could call them at altars without being heard, but now... now the gods listen more than you’d like to believe. Especially to your kind. To theirs.”

When I first arrived at camp, I thought it was just another warning, like “don’t run with scissors.” But I understood with time. In ancient times, when the gods were at their peak, when thousands prayed to their names, offered sacrifices, built temples... one mortal here or there saying their name didn’t matter. They were worshiped by everyone. They weren’t listening to every word.

But in my present—thousands of years later—most of the world has forgotten them. Now, statues and temples are just ruins. No offerings, just a few melted candles in museums or a poorly written history book. And that has made them… attentive. Hungry.

Any mention is like a whisper in the middle of the desert. There aren’t many believers left. But there are demigods. And we’re like a spark in the dark.

That’s why I had no issue saying their names before, when I realized we were in Ancient Greece. But now Apollo was looking for us—desperate to get his perfect hands on me.

“You think saying it will summon him?” she whispered. “But we’ve said gods’ names before withouth a problem.”

“They weren’t looking for us before. And now? We don’t know if he’ll tell anyone,” I replied. “We can’t risk it. Not after what just happened.”

Once I was sure Giuliana understood, I lowered my hand. I slowly sat down against the wall, my legs still trembling from everything we’d just gone through. She sat down too, a few seconds later. The air between us was dense, heavy. Not just with fear. There were too many unanswered questions, too many uncomfortable silences.

Before I could say the first thing that came to mind, she spoke.

“When you left me alone in the room…”

I turned to look at her. I didn’t say anything. I just waited. Because that’s what she needed. And because I… didn’t trust what might come out of my mouth if I spoke first.

“The darkness pulled me in. Literally. The shadows swallowed me, and I fell somewhere else. There… I met something. Someone. An entity. I didn’t exactly see her, but it was the night.”

I frowned. “The night?”

“Nyx.”

That name rattled me.

Nyx. One of the first. Before the Titans. Before time. Almost no one talks about her because almost no one dares to. Even the Olympians treat her with caution. I still remembered her castle in Tartarus—I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

Giuliana spoke with a reverence that tensed every part of me. Like she still felt Nyx pressing down on her.

“The primordial goddess. She… claimed me. Said she felt something of herself in me. That I crossed into her domain when I came here. That… I absorbed part of her essence.”

I had to swallow hard. I imagined that place—that space of total darkness, cosmic silence. And her, there. Alone. Not knowing what she was facing.

I looked at her more closely. It was true—now that I wasn’t busy running from a crazy immortal (I’d be rich if I got paid every time that happened to me), I could see there was something new in her eyes. A shadow. Not of evil… but of power. Something dormant that now breathed inside her.

“And how are you still alive?”

My voice came out harsher than I intended. But it wasn’t anger. It was fear. Worry. Because I didn’t understand how she was still whole—how she hadn’t broken inside. Because when Nyx lays a finger on you, there’s usually no coming back.

She shrugged, like she still didn’t fully know how to explain it. “Apparently I’m pretty funny. I told her that in this world full of heroes I needed protection, that it wasn’t my fault and that… well…”

She stopped.

I leaned a little closer to her. “What?”

Giuliana didn’t lift her eyes.

“I said I wanted to protect you too.”

And that’s when the world truly fell silent.

There was no venom or epic weight to the words, but they pierced straight through my chest. I just stared at her, frozen. I felt every heartbeat like it was being shouted from inside me. One. Two. Three. All of them with her name.

I wanted to answer her. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to kiss her.

But I didn’t.

All I could do was stand there, looking at her like she’d just revealed the most precious secret in the world.

My cheeks were burning. Literally. The blush rose without permission, betraying me. And my hand went straight to the back of my neck—that stupid reflex I have when I don’t know what to do with everything I feel.

I smiled. Small. Clumsy. Like I was fifteen again.

“That was… really brave of you,” I said, my voice softer than I expected.

She slowly looked up. As if she was afraid of what she might find in my face. And I didn’t understand how it hurt so much—what someone I’d technically just met thought of me.

If only she could see what happens to me when I look at her. If she could see the mess inside me since the first moment she comforted me. Or when she laughed with her mouth full of bread. Or when she said she wasn’t special… and I knew she was wrong.

I held her gaze and smiled a little more.

I couldn’t look at her without wanting to hold her.

“I’m the experienced demigod, remember?” I said with a sheepish smile. “I’m supposed to be the one doing the protecting here.”

I didn’t know if that would make her laugh or just sound ridiculous, but when I saw her expression change—when I heard that soft laugh, that bit of relief dressed up as a joke—I knew I’d done the right thing.

“Well… I’m officially Nyx’s champion now. I guess we’ll have to rewrite the roles," she said, with a confidence that didn’t quite match the tremble in her lashes.

I wanted to say so many things.

That I liked her. That I liked her so much it hurt.

That she confused me.

I feared her as much as I liked her, and I felt so unsure. What I felt for her wasn’t normal. Was it the gods’ doing? Some outside force?

If I listened to my brain, I should’ve threatened her long ago. But in my soul, I knew my hands would run me through with my own sword before ever hurting her.

“I guess so,” I finally managed to reply with a light laugh. “Thanks.”

She smiled—the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. “That's what friends are for”

Yeah. There’s no way I could ever hurt this girl.

The silence grew thicker with each passing minute. It wasn’t just the cave’s darkness, it was that other kind—the one that creeps in between two people when there’s so much to say and too little courage to break the calm.

Outside, through cracks in the stone, the sky had surrendered to night. It was covered in stars, like the universe had lowered its voice so we could hear each other. But we didn’t speak.

We stayed like that for hours. Wordless, but together. My back against the rock, feeling my body cool down after the fight. Giuliana… she wasn’t far. Her breathing was steady, present. I didn’t need to see her to know she was still awake.

Eventually, I stood up. The movement was mechanical. My legs ached, my left shoulder throbbed with the echo of a magical blast that nearly vaporized me, but I still moved toward the entrance. My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and I could make out something out there. Rocks, slopes, silence.

I wasn’t sure. Something told me we still weren’t safe. Maybe we never would be.

“I’m not sure,” I murmured without turning around. “He might have sent his sister. To watch. To hunt.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t have to. Giuliana knew exactly who I meant.

Would Artemis support her twin brother’s romantic delusions? No, but there was something so different in how he spoke about me, it wouldn’t be that surprising (also, the fact that I was a guy didn’t help).

I felt Giuliana step closer. Her hand on my back was as light as a whisper. And even so, it was enough to make something in me come undone a little.

“It’s night,” she said. Like that explained everything. “The night… it’s my turf now. Well, not mine-mine. My new boss’s.”

I turned a little, just enough to see her out of the corner of my eye. She was tired, disheveled, her clothes torn at the edges… and still, the faint starlight seemed to settle on her like it belonged there.

I smiled without thinking.

“Your new boss?” I repeated, voice a bit lighter. “Sounds like you changed jobs. Too bad… you look pretty good in that uniform.”

I don’t know why I said it. Maybe to lighten the mood. Maybe because I meant it. Maybe because I couldn’t stop looking at her.

The effect was immediate: Giuliana choked on her own breath. Literally. I saw her blink like her brain was trying to reboot. And me… well, I tried not to laugh. Just a little. But it was impossible not to let out a low chuckle.

Her reaction was so absurdly cute it melted me a little inside.

I winked before stepping out first. I didn’t want to look at her anymore. Not if it meant smiling like an idiot.

She followed. Still with flushed cheeks.

“Well,” she said as she came up beside me, trying to recover her composure,“technically, I didn’t sign a contract, but she marked me, gave me power, and let me live… so yeah, sort of the worst job interview in history.”

I looked at her for a few seconds. Then looked down. “And are you sure she can keep us safe?”

“Not entirely. But if he’s the day… She’s the night. And this belongs to me now, at least a little. I can feel it. Like a net. Like… if something tries to touch us, I’ll know.”

I stayed quiet. Her words had a different weight when she spoke like that. When she wasn’t joking. When she was that sure of herself—she was powerful. Attractive.

Night covered us. But it didn’t feel threatening. More like… intimate.

“It was definitely a cave," she said dryly. “Convenient that the shadows threw us here and not, I don’t know, into the mouth of a volcano.”

“Very thoughtful,” I added, smiling. “I like them.”

And we kept walking. Together. Without a clear direction—but together.
There was something comforting in her presence. Even in the chaos. Even with everything going on. She made the weight on my back feel a little less unbearable.

We kept going like that for a while until we saw a rise ahead.

“Maybe if we climb up there,” she said, pointing to it.

“Alright. But if we run into another army, I vote we hide first and ask questions later.”

“I vote we sleep on a rock and pretend we don’t exist.”

We smiled. We were exhausted, but somehow, we still had enough energy left to joke.

We climbed the hill and then we saw it.

Fire. Camps. Tents.

“Do you see that?”

“Yeah. Fire. Tents. Men… too many. We took down a bunch of Achaeans, and he’s Troy’s patron god. None of that is good.”

She didn’t finish. A dry cracking sound cut her off. The ground groaned.

“Giuliana!”

I tried to reach her, but I slipped too. We were pulled apart.

I rolled one way down the hill, she rolled the other.

“Percy!” Her voice was torn, desperate.

“I’m okay!” I shouted, even though I wasn’t so sure.

I was far. Too far.

I got to my feet just as the lights appeared. Torches. Shouts. Warriors.

I saw a spear strike something. I heard her voice.

And it broke something inside me—Not being able to reach her.

“GIULIANA!”

And then I ran.

I ran like the ground didn’t matter, like the pain burning through every muscle didn’t exist, like the exhaustion tearing my breath to shreds couldn’t stop me. I could only think about her.

Her face. Her hands falling limp. Her voice calling me.

“Leave her! LEAVE HER ALONE!”

The soldiers didn’t hesitate. Three of them came straight at me, spears and shields raised. They were shouting in Ancient Greek—commands I couldn’t even hear over the roar of my own blood.

I didn’t use water. I didn’t need it.

I dodged the first spear, twisting my body with a precision I didn’t even know I still had. I grabbed the shaft and yanked so hard the soldier flew like he weighed nothing.

The second came at me from the side. I kneed him in the gut and slammed the pommel of my sword into the back of his neck. He crumpled without a sound.

The third barely managed to raise his shield. I broke through it with one slash, then took out his knee with a brutal kick. I felt the crack of bone under my foot.

I didn’t stop.

I sprinted toward the group that was carrying Giuliana.

She was unconscious—held between two men. The blood streaking her cheek made me scream again.

“LET HER GO!”

Four more soldiers blocked my path. I had no strategy.

Only rage.

Sword in hand, I charged.

One struck my chest with the flat of his weapon. The air fled my lungs, but I kept moving. I shoved him back, stole his weapon, and slammed it into his head.

Another tried to grab me. I tackled him. We hit the ground together, and with one twist I smashed his face into the dirt until he stopped moving.

The other two hesitated. Just for a second.

That second was all I needed.

I spun.
Two clean slashes—
Their heads dropped.
Their armor meant nothing against Riptide.

My muscles were burning. My pulse thundered in my ears. But I kept going.

Ten. I had taken down ten.

Then I saw her— Farther now. More men surrounded her. They were crossing a narrow ravine.

I wouldn’t make it in time. I nearly summoned water—any water, even their cursed blood—when I felt it.

A presence. Powerful. Not louder than the others—but more focused. Sharper.

My eyes narrowed. My skin prickled. This one was a predator.

He leapt from the top of a rock, landing in front of me with the grace of a wild beast.

His hair was golden, tousled like he hadn’t rested in days. His eyes—light. So light they pierced through you. His armor was different—sleek, radiant, elegant.

He looked… no older than eighteen. But he moved like something ancient.

“You’re the one who caused the commotion?” he asked, with the arrogance of someone powerful who’s always gotten his way.

Definitely divine blood.

I didn’t answer. I raised my sword.

He smiled. “Interesting.” And lunged.

This wasn’t like fighting the others. This boy—this warrior—was different. Every move was calculated, fast, deadly.

He struck my arm, and my sword trembled in my grip. I twisted to dodge him, but he followed like a shadow.

I managed to slash his side—just barely— But he didn’t even flinch. He answered with a spinning kick that knocked me flat.

I got up, gasping, just in time to block a strike aimed at my neck.

“You’ve got guts,” he murmured. “But you’re slow. Exhausted. I’ve already won and the fight hasn’t even started.”

He came at me again, and though I parried, my arm didn’t have the strength it needed.

He forced me backward.

Every clash, every blow, made me feel heavier. Clumsier. As if each hit carried the weight of everything I’d been through that day.

The fire. The shadow. Apollo. The desperation.

I dropped to one knee—And that was enough.

He moved like lightning. His sword didn’t touch me but the pommel did right to the temple

Everything spun. Sky. Earth. And her voice—her voice—Giuliana…

Or maybe it was just my head. My guilt, echoing her.

I didn’t have her.
I didn’t save her.

My chest ached at the thought that I hadn’t made it in time. Tears slipped out, uninvited. Hot. Silent. They burned— But not as much as remembering her fall. Not holding her.

Watching her taken like she was nothing.

“I’m sorry…” I whispered or maybe I only thought I did. My lips barely moved.

The last thing I saw before everything went black was the boy’s face.

Satisfied. Proud. Smiling.

He was smiling.

And I wanted nothing more than to rip his head off.

Then—
Nothing.

Chapter Text

PERCY

Dreams are a strange thing.

You know you're dreaming, but at the same time everything feels so real you believe it all. Every image, every touch, every word that goes unspoken but understood… in a dream, you don’t need logic. You just let yourself be carried away.

I was inside some kind of pool fed by a natural spring, embedded between white columns, as if someone had carved out a hot spring right inside a temple. The water was warm, crystal clear, and spilled over the edges of the polished stone in little waterfalls that sounded like muffled laughter.

In the distance, beyond the edge of the cliff on which the open temple stood, I saw Olympus. I recognized it instantly. The golden domes, the temples floating in the air as if gravity were merely a suggestion. Everything glowed with that soft, golden light the gods always seem to have by default. It was getting dark, but the sky was still bright, bathed in violet and orange hues like someone had mixed the sunset with an overly enthusiastic brush.

I had no idea how I got there.

But I didn’t care.

My naked body floated effortlessly in the water. I was relaxed. For the first time in weeks, my chest didn’t ache, my mind didn’t scream. The heat of the spring wrapped around me like a caress. I closed my eyes, letting go.

And then, a voice startled me.

“Enjoying my private baths, Percy?”

I jerked upright, splashing water everywhere. My heart pounded. I turned my head, looking for whoever had spoken.

He was sitting at one of the edges of the pool, legs dangling in the water, like he’d been there for a while. His hair was messy, the tips wet as if he’d just gotten out of the spring. He was half-naked —just a loose white tunic that slipped dangerously off one shoulder— and his eyes studied me with shameless intensity.

It took me a second, but I recognized him.

Apollo.

Fear hit instantly, but my body (the dream-body) didn’t move. I just felt it smile, raise an eyebrow in bold amusement.

“Private?” my voice said, with a confidence I didn’t recognize as mine. “I was under the impression that what’s yours is mine. Isn’t that how marriage works?”

What the hell had I just said? Why was I talking to him like that? Marriage? What the hell was happening?

“No, you’re absolutely right,” he replied with that perfect, golden smile, almost cruel in its beauty. And then, without warning, he shed his tunic. A second later, he was beside me, in the water. “Everything I have is yours. I am yours.”

He embraced me from behind, his skin burning against mine, and with horror —a distant kind, as if coming from my real self— I noticed his hand beginning to slide, lower and lower. His lips brushed my ear, soft but firm. He left a kiss there before speaking, low and sure:

“Of course, you’re mine too.”

In real life, I would’ve shoved his head underwater until that smile disappeared, but in the dream… I felt complete. Happy. Like love and desire were the same thing. Like there had never been anyone but him.

My dream-self grabbed his hand just before it reached my cock, and in one swift movement, spun him around and pinned him against the edge of the pool. I looked into his eyes —golden, and more beautiful every day— and now that he wasn’t trying to kidnap me or kill my friend, I understood why people worshipped him. Why they knelt before him. I felt that urge myself, that primal longing to kneel and adore him.

I pushed those thoughts away —traitorous thoughts. Why was I thinking like this about my almost-kidnapper?— but it didn’t help much.

Because then I kissed him.

Or rather, he —that dream version of me— did. A kiss that started soft, but hungry. Pure bottled-up desire. It wasn’t like the kisses I’d had before. Nothing like kissing Annabeth. This was different. Like touching him meant touching myself too.

I wanted to devour him.

The kiss deepened. Our bodies melted together. My fingers tangled in his divine hair, his hips ground into mine. I could feel him, hard and insistent, grinding against me. My breathing grew heavier, the water rippled around us. His voice came, broken up between kisses.

“Give me more,” the sun god moaned. “You’re mine. Don’t ever leave me.”

I tilted my head to his neck and left a trail of kisses, of marks, of soft bites that drew quiet moans from his throat. I knew I was leaving traces. And in the dream, I liked it.

“Of course not,” I whispered. “Only we get to worship you.”

Apollo trembled beneath me. I felt the desire radiate from him. And then, with a daring smile, my voice —again, not mine, but so mine— murmured against his skin:

“Don’t you want to worship me too?”

He looked at me. His eyes, once warm, now dark with desire, devoured me in silence. He leaned in, kissed me again. Deeper. Needier. Then he slipped beneath the water, and just as I felt something warm and wet envelop my hips —right there, where desire could no longer hide—

The dream changed.

A field, greener than anything I’d ever seen. Meadows stretching out endlessly. Tiny flowers in every color. A river winding through the hills. A massive willow tree, old, noble, spreading its branches like protective arms. And beneath it, a blanket laid out. A basket. Two glasses.

And her.

Giuliana.

Sitting with her legs tucked to one side, head tilted to the sky, laughing with her mouth wide open, hair tousled by the wind.

My heart skipped a beat.

There was no burning sun, no looming shadow. Just that laugh of hers, stronger than any storm. And I… I was walking toward her, barefoot, my wet clothes now dry, as if the world had decided I had to be clean, perfect, for that moment.

She looked at me, and smiled like she already knew what I felt. Like she’d always known.

“You’re late, Jackson,” she said, eyes sparkling.

“I got lost,” I replied, and my voice sounded different. Calmer. Happier. As if in that dream, pain had never existed.

I sat beside her. I didn’t even think twice —my hand found hers like it didn’t know any other way to rest. And when our fingers touched, it was like the world clicked into place. Like everything was finally where it belonged.
She offered me a fruit and then wiped the corner of my lips with her thumb, laughing because —according to her— I always made a mess.

I just looked at her. Every gesture, every breath, every word. Like I was afraid she’d vanish if I blinked.

We talked about things I don’t remember, but they made me laugh. We talked like we’d lived a whole life together. Like we owed each other nothing. Like love didn’t hurt.

And then, in a moment as simple as breathing, she leaned in.

And so did I.

Our faces were just inches apart. Her lashes were longer than I remembered. Her breath tasted like sweet wine. And her eyes… I don’t know. They had the color of sunset over water.

“Can I kiss you?” I asked.
I don’t know why I did. Maybe because even though the dream told me we did this all the time, that it was natural, that she was mine… a part of me was still me. The real me. The one who didn’t know if any of this was real.

Giuliana smiled.

“Ever the gentleman.”

And she kissed me.

Her mouth on mine was like returning to the ocean. Like touching warm summer sand. Like waking up to find everything is okay. Like coming back to camp — to home. It was soft, but intense. Shy, but eternal. It was love.

And then her hand slid up to my neck. My arm wrapped around her waist. We laughed between kisses. So this was what absolute happiness felt like. Not joy. Not relief.

Happiness.

And then… the wind changed.

A flower withered.

My body began to feel cold. Not on the outside — inside. As if something, someone, was pulling me toward the shore. As if the dream was slipping away.

“No,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. “No, not yet.”

She looked at me with tenderness, but confusion.

“Percy…”

“I don’t want to wake up,” I said. The words came out on their own — for the first time in the dream, they were truly mine. “I don’t want to. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want this to end. Giuliana, please…”

I clung to her hand. Kissed her with desperation. Tried to hold her face in mine. To memorize every line, every eyelash, every tooth. I didn’t want to lose her again. I didn’t want this to be just a reflection — a beautiful lie.

“Just one more second,” I begged. “One more second with you. Just one more.”

Her lips brushed mine.

“I’m already yours,” she whispered.

And then, darkness.

You’d think that after so much sweetness, so much warmth, so much desire, there’d be a happy ending. That if a dream starts with kisses and promises, it ends the same way. But this one didn’t.

This one… had been different from the very first second.

I knew it from the silence.

Not the kind that soothes you — the kind that fills your ears with an uncomfortable buzz. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible. Everything was gray. Pale. Lit not by the sun, but by some dim, almost dead light.

The city was burning.

I didn’t know which one. It could have been Athens, it could have been Troy, it could have been New York. It didn’t matter. No stone had been left standing. The streets were craters, the houses ash, the statues collapsed among blood-stained columns. Only smoke, ash… and the feeling that the world had just given up.

And in the middle of the destruction, I saw them.

At first, I didn’t move. My body in the dream — that other me — stood still. Just watching.

Apollo was kneeling in the center of the temple. The sun god wasn’t glowing. His armor was shattered, his hands stained with something thick that I recognized as blood. His face —that perfect face that minutes ago had begged me not to leave— was broken. In pain. Devastated. As if the universe had torn half his chest out.

And in his arms, holding… no, cradling—

He was cradling Giuliana.

Dead.

I didn’t know because of her pallor. Or her cold lips. Not even because of her lack of breath. I knew because something inside me shattered the moment I saw her.

Like my soul was ripped out all at once.

Like something inside me cracked open. Like someone had reached into my chest and torn apart everything keeping me sane. No. No, no, no… This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t have happened. I couldn’t lose her. Not her.

Her lips were slightly parted, like she’d tried to say something. Her eyes were closed. Her brown hair spilled down her back like a waterfall. She wasn’t bleeding. There were no visible wounds. She just… wasn’t there anymore.

The other me —the one in the dream— stepped forward. And I felt the world tilt.

My whole body screamed to move. To run, to tear her from his arms, to do something. Anything.

Apollo was destroyed.

His hands trembled. He held her body like squeezing harder might bring back her soul. His face was drenched in tears, ichor mixed with human blood. He was whispering things I didn’t understand. His voice barely a thread, sharp and broken, like he was singing for the last time.

And yet, all I saw was Giuliana’s death.

I lunged toward them. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break everything. I wanted to kill him.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” I roared, and the sound echoed like thunder in the ruins.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered. It wasn’t even a defense, it was a confession, a prayer.

“SHUT UP! YOU DON’T GET TO CRY FOR HER! YOU DIDN’T PROTECT HER! YOU DIDN’T SAVE HER!”

My heart clenched.

Despair began to rise in my throat, like a rage I didn’t know how to hold back. And it wasn’t just rage.

It was madness.

She couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be gone. Not without me. Not without us.

“NO! NO! DON’T TOUCH HER! DON’T TOUCH HER!” I came closer, trying to hold her and confirm what my soul already knew.

Apollo looked at her like the world had stopped making sense. And his eyes… they were shining with a sorrow I had never seen in him. He looked like he wanted to die with her.

And still.

All I saw was red.

“YOU LET HER DIE!” I roared. “YOU! YOU KILLED HER! IT’S YOUR FAULT! YOUR DAMNED PRIDE!”

I pounded the ground. I pounded my chest. I screamed until my throat tore open. I hated myself. I hated the world. I hated that I hadn’t gotten there in time. That I hadn’t protected her.

“Giu… GIULIANA! PLEASE, COME BACK! COME BACK TO ME! TAKE ME INSTEAD! TAKE EVERYTHING, BUT NOT HER! NOT LIKE THIS. NOT LIKE THIS, NOT LIKE THIS—!”

Apollo lowered his head, pressing his forehead to Giuliana’s. He was murmuring something. I didn’t understand the words. I didn’t care. I hated him. I hated him for being the last one to touch her. For holding her like she belonged to him. For crying over her like he felt it as deeply as I did.

But it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be.

“Tell me you’re happy! TELL ME THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED!” I screamed, heart in tatters, tears falling like fire down my cheeks. “SHE WAS IN THE WAY, WASN’T SHE?! SHE STOOD BETWEEN US! NOW YOU’RE HAPPY! NOW YOU CAN HAVE ME ALL TO YOURSELF!”

But another part of me knew that Apollo hadn’t let her die.

No. He had loved her too.

And that thought — that both of us had loved her and it still hadn’t been enough — broke me more than any sword ever could.

The pain made me feel things I didn’t want to think. Things I couldn’t name. I felt my soul tear open. I felt like the world made no sense without her. Like I’d rather burn, become a monster, become a god — anything — if it meant she’d come back.

I looked at her face again. Still beautiful, even in death.

And my voice — dream Percy’s, but also mine — came out low, broken:

“Don’t go… please… don’t go…”

Give me another chance. One minute. One second. Let me love you one more time.

Desperation turned into obsession. Loss became a burning poison in my veins. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look away.

My dream-self kept crying.

And I… I screamed.

I crawled toward her in the dream, collapsing face-first. Giuliana’s body was still cold. Motionless. I kissed her. On her forehead. On her lips. Her skin no longer responded. And I shattered. I broke. Everything I was, everything I had been, disappeared with her.

“Don’t leave me…” I whispered against her cheek. “Please… Giuliana… please… please… I don’t know how to exist without you…”

My body trembled.

I woke up with tears stuck to my face, my breathing ragged, my throat raw from screaming. It took a few seconds to remember I was alone. That Giuliana wasn’t dead. That Apollo wasn’t in front of me with his destroyed expression and blood-stained tunic.

And yet, I felt it all as if it had really happened.

The kiss beneath the sun on that impossible picnic. The burning desire in the pool on Olympus. And then, the ending.

Her lifeless body. My broken one.

It was all too vivid. Too sharp to be just a product of stress. But what if it was? What if my mind couldn’t take it anymore and started inventing impossible futures?

Or… what if it was one of those demigod visions?

Chiron had said it many times: dreams could be portals. Sometimes they showed things happening somewhere else. Other times, they were warnings. Echoes of what could happen if we chose wrong.

But… that didn’t explain what I felt.

The love. The desire. The devotion. The absolute emptiness when I lost her.

With Giuliana, I could still try to make sense of it. She was… well, she was incredible. Smart, strong, brave — even when she felt defeated. We’d been through so much in such a short time, saved a town, crossed through shadows, fought and escaped from Apollo…It was normal to feel a strong bond with her, right?
But this wasn’t normal.

You can’t feel like this about someone you’ve known for two days. You can’t dream of kissing her under the stars and then wake up trembling because your soul doesn’t know how to live without her. You can’t… want to hold her right now just to make sure she’s alive. Just to hear her say she’s okay. That it was all a dream.

And the worst part? It wasn’t just her.

There was him too. Apollo.

In the dream, I loved him. Not just wanted him — I loved him. Like we had shared an entire lifetime together. Like we were two halves of something sacred.
My body recognized him. My thoughts searched for him. My heart understood him. Everything in that damn dream told me he was part of me.

And now… I didn’t know what to think.

Was that part of Apollo’s power? Some kind of emotional manipulation? Or was it something deeper? More real?

I remembered what he said when he tried to get me to stay with him — that we were made for each other. That it wasn’t a coincidence. That there was more.

At the time it sounded insane. But now…

The dream showed it as something natural. Like we had already been through everything: marriage, desire, mutual devotion. Like that was already our destiny.

And yet… in the last dream, when Giuliana died, all of that vanished.

The fury I felt seeing him hold her wasn’t the fury of someone who shared a life with him. It was that of a wild animal. It was the rage of a broken lover. It was jealousy. Hatred. Possession.

So what were we? A couple? A trio? A disaster doomed from the start?

Because in one of the dreams, it seemed like we were together — all three of us. No conflict. No jealousy. Just love and unity.

And in the last one… I blamed him as if we’d never shared anything. As if all the love disappeared the instant she fell.

Nothing made sense.

And that was what scared me the most. Because the feelings were there. I couldn’t deny them.

I wanted Giuliana. I admired her. I needed her. Apollo… I feared him. Sometimes I hated him. But I also felt that inexplicable connection — like a part of me belonged to him, even though I had only seen him once.

What if it wasn’t something I could choose?

What if the dreams were a reflection of something already happening? A glimpse? A warning?

Giuliana’s death hurt so much I couldn’t believe it was fiction. No. It felt like I had truly lost a part of my soul.

And the worst part was that, even though I didn’t understand how… I knew Apollo loved her too. Maybe not the same way. Maybe differently. But he held her like his entire world had ended.

And if it was true that he loved us both… and lost her… then I get it.

I get why his voice broke. Why he whispered like he was praying. Why his eyes were so empty.

But none of that comforts me.

Because if the dreams were real, then we’re doomed to love each other—and destroy each other. And if they were fake… then I’m insane. Because I’m in love with a girl I barely know. And a god who tried to drag me away by force. And still, I don’t want to lose either of them.

What the hell is happening to me? And why do I feel like this dream wasn’t the last?

I went pale, and I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. My eyes focused and I started overthinking, analyzing my surroundings.

I was in some sort of cell, cold and damp, like a cave that fancied itself a prison. The floor was carved stone, and the walls weren’t much better. It smelled like mold, wet earth, and dried blood. Chains hung from the ceiling, rusted but solid. It was clear they had been used before.

I wiped my face with my sleeves, cold sweat mixed with already-dried tears. I was alive. That was the only thing certain.

And Giuliana… she wasn’t with me. That was also certain.

I tried to put my memories in order. We’d climbed a hill. Seen a camp. Slipped. Gotten separated. Then… shouting. Blows. A fight. Lots of soldiers. The boy. The one who defeated me. I remembered him clearly. Young, but fast. And strong as a train. The last thing I saw was his face before I passed out.

The same face now approaching the cell.

There were several of them coming. First, two soldiers entered, both in gleaming armor, white tunics with golden details, gleaming bronze spears, and helmets that partially hid their faces. Their shields bore symbols I didn’t recognize.

And behind them… two figures without helmets.

The first was shorter, but his presence filled the room. He wore a dark blue cloak and had a sharp, cunning gaze. A short, well-groomed beard, dark curls falling over his forehead, and something in his eyes—something that made me think of maps, traps, and secrets. He smiled faintly when he saw me, like he already knew exactly who I was, what I’d done, and how many times I’d thought about escaping.

The other one was the one who’d taken me down. Young. Maybe younger than me—or at least he looked it. Golden hair tied back with a strip of leather at the nape of his neck. A body sculpted like a living statue. The bronze of his armor looked melted to his torso. He walked like every step belonged to him, like he didn’t need permission to take up space. His eyes were intense, like he could cut through you with a glance. And I swear by the gods—there was something like satisfaction on his face.

Not mockery, not cruelty. Just… pride. Like a hunter who had captured dangerous prey. He knew how dangerous I was, and he was confident he could take me down again if needed.

It was easy to tell who gave the orders. The man in the dark cloak spoke first, pointing at me and saying something quickly. The blond replied with a shrug, like he didn’t really care.

I watched them in silence, waiting for them to come closer.

The iron door opened with a long screech. I didn’t move. Just watched them from the floor, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Like I didn’t care.

The bearded man was the first to speak. His Greek was perfect, calm, like someone who knew everything he said could be used to his advantage.

“The man who made ten of our best tremble. Do you have a name, stranger?”

I stayed silent.

The blond crossed his arms, watching me like he was calculating how many bones he could break without killing me.

The bearded one sighed, leaned slightly forward, and studied me up close.

“You carried a sword that disappeared magically from the battlefield. You bear no shield. And yet, you took down a whole squadron. That’s not normal. Trojan spy? A beast disguised as a man?”

I just stared back at him, wordless.

That annoyed him—I saw it. “We could do this the hard way, you know? For everything you did, and the war we’re in, we’ve been rather lenient.”

What I said came out quietly, but clear.

“Put me with the girl. And maybe I’ll talk.”

“So you’re not an idiot,” said the blond. His voice was deep, almost condescending.

The other, the one with the beard, gave a humorless smile.

“The girl—your ally? Or your lover?”

My fist clenched. I didn’t respond.

“Why were you so close to our lines? Where are your reinforcements? Who sent you?”

“Where is she?!” I roared, finally standing up. “Is she okay?! If you touch her, I swear by all the gods I’ll drag you all to the bottom of the sea!”

Both men stepped back, more in surprise than fear.

The bearded one raised a hand to calm the guards, then looked back at me, his composure intact. “Interesting. Very… emotional. But you’re not in a position to demand anything. What I can tell you is that your friend is alive. For now. She might be more cooperative than you. Women are usually more… receptive.”

And that’s when I lost control. I threw myself at the bars. Shook them.

“DON’T TOUCH HER! DON’T YOU DARE! YOU’LL NEVER TOUCH HER! I’LL KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?! ONE BY ONE! I’LL SINK YOU, DROWN YOU, DESTROY YOU!”

“You threaten those who could give you answers?” asked the bearded man with a sly smile.

“I threaten those who think they have power,” I snapped. “But you don’t know me. You don’t know who I am.”

“No,” the bearded man admitted. “But that’s what we’re going to find out.”

He gave me one last measuring look and turned to the blond.

“Come, Achilles. Let’s leave him alone with his screams. He’ll talk when silence weighs more than his pride.”

When they left, I roared.

I didn’t scream. I roared, like the sea monster sleeping under my skin had finally opened its eyes. The echo thundered off the stone walls, and the guards on the other side of the bars tensed, gripping their spears. I didn’t give a damn.

I punched the wall with a closed fist—once, twice, three times. Pain shot through my arm, but it didn’t calm me. I hit the bars. I hit the floor. Rage was an ocean, and I was drowning in it.

Damn Achilles. Damn that arrogant idiot and his crooked smile.

And that other bastard with the beard who thinks he’s so clever.

They knew nothing. They understood nothing. If they did anything to Giuliana—if they so much as lifted a finger against her—what would come after wouldn’t be a fight. It would be a massacre.

“I’ll kill you!” I roared again, voice shredded, throat torn raw. “Do you hear me?! ONE BY ONE!”

The echo was my only answer. Just stone. Just silence.

I stayed standing a while longer, breathing like a cornered animal, hands trembling, heart pounding so hard it hurt. I hated myself for being trapped. For not knowing what to do. For not having protected her.

I was the Hero of Olympus. The one who’d beaten Titans, giants, monsters. So what? What good was any of it if, when someone needed me, I wasn’t there?

I dropped to my knees, squeezing my eyes shut. And then, amidst all the noise, I suddenly remembered Malcolm. Once, at camp, he told me—with that bored calm so typical of Athena’s kids:

“Most of Ares’ children lose because they think rage makes them invincible. We win because we know when to silence it. When you think, you win.”

At the time, I replied with something sarcastic. Probably a joke about brains and swords. But now… now I understood.

I had to think. I couldn’t afford to let rage consume me. Not now. Not when Giuliana needed me.

I forced myself to breathe. Once. Twice. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm hurt, like my body didn’t want to calm down, but I did it anyway.

Giuliana was alive. That’s what they said. That was the only thing that mattered.

And even if she was defending herself… she was tired. Just like me.

We hadn’t properly slept in two days. Barely eaten. Not a single minute of rest. She had held back an Olympian god with her shadows. Used everything she had to save us. To save me.

And I wasn’t doing much better. I hadn’t fully recovered after burning so much energy crossing the ocean to bring her here, then had to fight with everything I had left to hold back the Sun God. And after all that, we’d only eaten once.

I was covered in injuries. I’d barely survived the fight with Achilles. If I wasn’t dead, it was because the son of Thetis found me interesting. I was grateful they hadn’t tried to really hurt me—if they had, they’d have realized I had the same protection Achilles did, and then they wouldn’t be so lenient with me now.

I clenched my fists and forced myself to look at the cell with fresh eyes.

Giuliana would be fine because they’d find her interesting.

Of course, all my thoughts went back to her. I didn’t know where she was, or if she was really okay, or what they were doing to her. I didn’t know if she’d eaten, if she’d slept, if she was fighting or just holding on. But I knew her. I knew she would fight. Even now, even exhausted, with her shadows drained, her body pushed to the limit after everything she’d done to save us—even now—I knew she’d find a way to defend herself. I knew it. Giuliana wasn’t someone you could break easily. And her shadows would protect her from whatever they were surely planning to do to her. I had to trust that.

But the problem wasn’t just her. It was both of us. We were trapped in a Greek camp in the middle of a war that wasn’t ours, but that now had us as pawns in its game. They didn’t know who we were. Didn’t know which god we answered to. Maybe they thought we were spies. Or weapons. That made us dangerous. Interesting. Worth studying—or executing. And that was the problem.

I had to think. I had to regain my strength. That meant swallowing my pride, maybe faking it, maybe lying. Buying time. Making them lower their guard. Right now, the only weapon I had left was patience (and Riptide, but I was pretty sure they hadn’t noticed I still had my sword/pen).

I didn’t know how much time had passed since they locked me up, but hunger was gnawing at me from the inside. My throat burned with thirst. I’d barely slept, and the little rest I’d gotten had been swallowed by nightmares. And still—I had to be ready. Because they didn’t know who I was. They didn’t know I could summon the ocean if I was close enough. They didn’t know what I could do with a sword. They didn’t know I could destroy them if they gave me a single chance.

And if I had to destroy them, I would.

Chronology could go to hell. I knew his weakness; he didn’t know mine. If I had to kill Achilles before his time, I would. If I had to twist the story, maybe trigger a paradox, alter the world’s fate just to get her out alive, I’d do it. Because history doesn’t matter to me. Not if Giuliana dies. Not if they touch her. Not if they do what I think they’re capable of.

Even though I’ve known her such a short time, I can’t ignore what I feel. History can be rewritten. She can’t. She’s one of a kind. And if I don’t get her back, if I don’t protect her, I’ll have nothing left. I don’t care if I’m the hero or the villain of this age. I only care about surviving—and getting her out.

I lay down and tried to rest. It wasn’t easy. The floor was freezing, the stone hard as hell, and every muscle in my body screamed when I tried to move. My side hurt. My shoulder too. I twisted a couple of times in the least damp corner, using a filthy cloth someone had left behind like it could make a difference. I closed my eyes, but outside, the camp was still awake. Orders shouted, laughter carried in the wind. Metal clashed against metal in the distance. Life went on out there. But for me, everything had stopped.

Time passed slowly. Sometimes slower than others. There were no windows, but I saw how the faint light from the cracks began to dim, how the shadow in the corner stretched longer, how the cold grew stronger. Night came gradually, creeping in through the floor, the corners, my spine. And with it—hunger. My stomach growled like it wanted to remind me I hadn’t eaten since those roasted fish. At some point, someone had brought me a bowl of water. Nothing else. No bread. No broth. Not even the usual punishment food. Nothing. It was clear—they meant to weaken me.

Break me.  Make it easier for tomorrow.

I didn’t move.

I just stayed still, heavier with each second, like my body was slowly surrendering. But I wouldn’t. Not with them. Not with her out there. Seconds stretched into threads, and I lost myself counting them. The cold became part of my skin. Pain—a second heartbeat. I blinked. Again. Again. Exhaustion was too much.

I lay on my side, arms crossed over my chest like it could stop the trembling. I thought again of Giuliana. Whether she was also in a cell. Whether they’d fed her. Whether she was awake, thinking of me. Or whether she was hurt. I wouldn’t know until I got out of here. Until I could see her. My jaw clenched on its own. I had to stay strong. That was the only thing that mattered. Don’t let them break me.

And so, in the middle of the hunger, the cold, the stone, and the silence that no longer even sounded like silence, I waited. I let sleep come over me like a dirty, heavy cloud. And when I finally closed my eyes, it brought no real rest—only darkness, and the sound of my own thoughts, repeating over and over like the drip of water in a cave.

They didn’t feed me.
They didn’t come back.
Only the next day arrived—slow, gray—and the echo of footsteps approaching.

The door screeched open with that same rusted sound I was already starting to hate.

I straightened up, body stiff but alert.

Achilles entered first.

Golden hair like a living statue of gold. Polished armor. That arrogant smile painted on his face like the whole world was his personal training ground.

Behind him came another guy. Older-looking, more mature—or at least less cocky. Dark eyes, serious expression. Not as muscular or shiny as Achilles, but something in his gaze made me sit up straight. That guy didn’t need to raise his voice to make you listen.

Achilles took a step forward and looked at me like we’d just seen each other yesterday.

“Hello, Percy,” he said, like greeting an old rival in an arena.

My whole body tensed.

“How do you know my name?”

He grinned, all teeth, like he was enjoying this way too much.

“Your little friend told us.”

My heart jumped. I shot to my feet, the cell too small to hold all the tension running through me.

“What did you do to her?” I asked immediately, my chest tight.

Achilles raised one hand, as if the matter didn’t deserve that much emotion.

“Relax. She’s alive. A bit stubborn, though. One soldier thought he could keep her for himself… but well, she didn’t seem to agree.”

He said it with that private-joke voice of his, like he’d just shared a funny anecdote.

“What did she do to him?” I growled.

“Almost killed him,” he shrugged. “With shadows. Literally. We saw it. They came out of her like snakes—dark, hissing—like the night itself obeyed her.”

I said nothing. My soul clenched, not just because of what he said… but because it didn’t sound like an exaggeration. I’d always known it was a possibility, and I knew she’d fight back.

Achilles stepped closer, voice curious.

“So? Is she a demigod? A blessed priestess? A daughter of the dark? Come on, you can tell me. I won’t snitch.”

I didn’t answer.

“Come on, Percy. Don’t be boring,” he grinned, like we were old friends. “It’s fascinating. You—a warrior who can take down ten men without blinking. Her—a shadow in a human body. You’re a show. A dangerous one, sure, but exciting.”

“Where is she?” I insisted, not moving a single inch.

Achilles studied me for a second. Then he narrowed his eyes with a crooked, mocking smile—like a fly buzzing at your ear just to piss you off.

“You know what I love? Women who can defend themselves. Who bite when you try to tame them. She’s got strength. Beauty. Fire. She’s blessed. And those breasts… wow.”

He laughed, slapped his companion’s shoulder like they’d just shared some private joke.

“I saw it all while lying in my bed. My tunic looked amazing on her. Shame she doesn’t know how to behave. But no matter. I’ve always been good at taming wild things.”

I felt the tremor start in my fingers. In my teeth. In my bones.

“Say that again,” I said softly—so softly I barely recognized my own voice.

“Which part?” he grinned. “The breasts or the taming?”

Rage tore through me like a spear. My first instinct was to slam into the bars. To scream. To reach through and destroy him. But then I saw the other man—the dark-haired one, calmer—watching Achilles with open irritation. That had to be Patroclus.

“Enough,” he said.

“Oh, Patroclus… are you going to tell me again I’m a brute with no manners?”

“No. Just an idiot playing with fire. That boy… he’s not normal.”

Achilles watched me a bit longer. Closely. Like someone examining a rare beast.

I forced myself to breathe. To stay in control. Giuliana was alive. And that, for now, was enough.

“What do you want?” I asked, voice low, rough.

Achilles looked at me again, and that glint of war lit up in his eyes.

“A proposal,” he said. “I love a good fight. The sound of metal. The sweat. The scream just before the final blow. And you… you seem like someone who really knows how to fight. So I’m offering a game.”

Patroclus sighed, already tired of the whole speech, like he’d heard it before.

“We’ve got soldiers and prisoners. Some boring. Some dangerous. But none like you. You’ll face them—one by one, or all at once if you dare. If you survive… you face me.”

He said it like it was a prize. Like fighting him was an honor.

“And if I lose?” I asked, without blinking.

Achilles shrugged, with that smug smile that made me want to punch him.

“Then the girl’s mine. You saw she can be wild. But I’m patient. Maybe she’ll learn to obey.”

The air left my lungs. I saw his eyebrows lift, waiting for another outburst.

I didn’t give it to him.

Not this time. Not yet.

“That’s it?” I asked, keeping my tone as flat as I could manage. “A fight for a life?”

Achilles grinned, delighted—like my calm was only fueling him more.

“Your choice,” he said. “If you think you’re worthy of her—and your freedom—you’ll have to prove it. Blood for blood. That’s always worked.”

“I accept,” I said.

Both men stopped. Patroclus looked mildly surprised. Achilles just laughed, thrilled.

“I knew you weren’t as boring as you pretend to be,” he said. “Get ready. Tomorrow’s going to be fun.”

And then they left—leaving me with the tremble in my hands, the tight muscles, and the rage burning through my veins like poison.

But at least now I knew what I had to do.

Seems the Greeks never learn—provoking the blood of Poseidon is practically tradition in their wars.

Chapter Text

You know when you're so exhausted that you close your eyes, don’t dream anything, and feel like you open them a second later and it’s already daytime?

Well. That’s what happened to me.

In my defense, I had been running for my life, terrified, nearly dead more times than I could count. I had fought—if only for less than ten minutes—against an Olympian god, and ended up sharing a bed with two killers in the middle of an enemy camp. Honestly, I think I had the right to sleep a solid ten hours without feeling guilty.

But even after that well-deserved sleep, my body was still tense. Sore. I didn’t feel rested, or remotely safe. I was trapped. Surrounded by enemies. With no information. And worst of all, without Percy.

I didn’t know if they were feeding him. If they were hitting him. I didn’t know if they had already killed him. And that uncertainty was eating me alive. I could endure being taken as a prisoner, but thinking about him…

Percy was impulsive, proud, stubborn as a mule. If he kept refusing to talk—and the chances were high—they might torture him to make him speak. Best-case scenario, it was only psychological. But if they decided to hurt him, if they saw that he didn’t bleed, that their weapons couldn’t wound him... I feared how they might react. They could try to kill him, or worse, draw the gods' attention.

I was so lost in thought that I jumped when I felt a finger brushing my cheek. I turned sharply and found Achilles. His face was just centimeters from mine, his eyes still sleepy, his hair a mess, and that lazy smile that looked sculpted specifically to test my patience.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” he murmured, voice rough from sleep. “You’ve been staring at the ceiling for a while. How boring.”

Bastard. Even if he was halfway insane, I couldn’t deny he was beautiful. A living statue. And I hated him for it.

“And you spent all this time watching me stare at the ceiling?” I shot back without thinking. “You’re the boring one.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I froze. The mood shifted instantly. His eyes darkened, cold, sharp as blades.

The silence felt eternal.

Achilles slowly sat up, looking at me as if I had just challenged him to a death match. I straightened a little too, holding my breath. My fists clenched, ready to move if I had to.

“Boring?” he repeated, voice lower, tenser. He leaned over me, so close his shadow swallowed me whole. His gaze was that of a warrior who didn’t like to lose, much less be defied.

My throat closed up. My heart pounded in my chest. I cursed myself internally for having such a big mouth.

Then, he laughed.

A loud, genuine sound. He dropped back onto the makeshift mattress, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Gods, you scare so easily,” he said, amused. “How adorable.”

I stayed still. Embarrassed, angry, and a little relieved. Much more than I wanted to admit.

“Are you really already bothering her the second you open your eyes?” Patroclus cut in from his corner, now sitting upright.

“I wasn’t bothering her,” Achilles said, still laughing.

“You looked ready to kill her,” Patroclus replied, raising one eyebrow.

“If I were going to kill her, I’d have done it already.”

“You’re an idiot,” Patroclus concluded.

Achilles shrugged and looked at me again.

“Anyway, you’re not staying here doing nothing. Patroclus, get her to do something useful. Wash clothes. Whatever. Let her earn her daily ration.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll try to escape?” I asked, my heart still lodged in my throat.

Achilles smiled with that entertained-beast expression.

“Then I’ll kill you,” he said, still smiling. “Though it’d be a real shame to lose something so interesting.”

And with that, he got up like nothing had happened.

Patroclus stood calmly, stretching his arms as if that absurd conversation with Achilles hadn’t just annoyed him. He walked over to where I was still sitting, still processing the threat disguised as a joke, and looked at me with a mix of pity and exhaustion.

“Start by tidying up the tent,” he said bluntly, gesturing toward the mess the two warriors had left behind. Dirty clothes, empty bowls, food scraps. It was obvious two young men lived here alone.

Achilles snorted from the back as he searched for his armor.

“Are you seriously making her clean? What if she escapes with, I don’t know, my underwear?”

“With how bad you smell, not even she would,” Patroclus replied without looking at him.

Achilles let out a low chuckle as he dressed, still as relaxed as if he hadn’t threatened to kill me five minutes ago. He strapped on his chestplate, adjusted his bracers with the practiced ease of years of war, and finally, after one last proud glance at his reflection in the polished metal, headed for the exit.

“I’m off to training. If your little friend tries anything weird, shout for me,” he said, giving me one last warning look before disappearing through the heavy curtains of the tent.

Patroclus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like someone already used to dealing with a lion in human form.

“Start picking this up. Don’t take too long,” he said, not even giving me time to protest.

I obeyed. Not out of respect. Not out of fear. Simply because, at least for now, I preferred to look docile rather than give them a reason to tie me up like an animal.

I moved through the remains of the previous night, picking up scraps of fabric, cleaning bits of dried meat, organizing their things as if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if I belonged in that place. As if I weren’t choking on my own despair.

When I finished, Patroclus watched me in silence. He nodded once, then crouched to grab a small pile of folded clothes in the corner. He handed it to me.

“Take it with you. There are some of your things in there too,” he said as he turned.

I took the bundle. It was soaked in the smell of battle—smoke, blood, and sweat. Among the thick, rough garments, I found what made me stop for a few seconds: my surgical scrubs and my underwear.

My hands began to sweat.

“What’s this?” Patroclus asked suddenly, stopping and turning toward me, frowning as he pulled out the blue fabric with the embroidered lines, so different from the togas or tunics they were used to. He held it between two fingers like he wasn’t sure if it was clothing or part of a trap.

“It’s my work uniform,” I answered quickly. “A special kind of fabric we use as doctors, so we don’t get stained easily with patients’ fluids.”

Patroclus raised an eyebrow, still inspecting it.

“And how was it made? I’ve never seen this kind of fabric before, and the embroidery is perfect. The woman who stitched this has hands blessed by the gods.”

“Well, I really can’t answer that question. I just bought it,” I shrugged, trying to steer the conversation away and keep this man from getting too curious about a fabric that wouldn’t exist for another thousand years.

Patroclus looked at me, unconvinced. I took the uniform from his hands to keep organizing the clothes I’d have to wash, but then something else caught his attention.

He frowned and pulled something from the pile that made me go pale.

In his hands… my bra.

“What is this?” he finally asked, not mockingly—just confused.

I swallowed hard.

“It’s clothing. From my land. Underwear,” I clarified.

He lowered the bra slightly, examining it like it was some kind of alien artifact rather than the thing I use to support my breasts.
He looked at the cups, then the straps, then the back clasps.

“This goes… underneath?”

I nodded. He nodded too, as if trying to convince himself it made sense.

“Must be hard to put on.”

“You get used to it,” I said quickly.

He didn’t answer but gave me a look somewhere between amused and bewildered. Then he kept rummaging through the clothes and found my panties.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just held them between two fingers, as if still unsure whether they counted as clothing at all.

“This is yours too?”

“Yes,” I replied immediately. “All of it is mine.”

He turned the fabric between his fingers, noting the texture, the fine stitching, and how small it was compared to the garments from his world.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Not in Delos, not on the foreign islands.”

“It’s not common,” I said, embarrassed but trying to sound calm. “I come from very far away.”

“This also goes underneath?”

“Yes.”

“Just this?”

I swallowed again.

“Yes.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked straight at me without saying a word. Just stared. I frowned, uncomfortable.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, though he didn’t look away. “Just… trying to picture it.”

I felt heat rush all the way to my ears.

“Don’t.”

He chuckled, softly.

“Too late.”

“Patroclus…” I warned.

“Relax,” he said, handing me the now-folded clothes. “I’m just curious. You don’t see things like this around here.”

“You shouldn’t see them on me either.”

“I haven’t… yet,” he added, turning around like he hadn’t just said something completely inappropriate. “Follow me.”

The morning light hit my eyes as we stepped out of the tent. It wasn’t the first time I saw the camp, but it was the first time I actually looked at it calmly—or at least, as calmly as one can be while walking next to someone who just imagined them in their underwear.

I pressed my lips together and looked around, forcing myself to focus.

The camp was larger than I had assumed the day before, when my mind had been fogged with fear and panic. Now, I could see the layout clearly: large tents at the center, like Achilles’, arranged in a semicircle, all made of dark leather and reinforced with sturdy stakes. Beyond those, smaller tents—probably for the lower-ranking soldiers—set up more practically. There were no ornaments or luxuries, but everything looked functional. Efficient.

I counted at least five fires burning, with soldiers already having breakfast, cleaning weapons, or joking with one another. Some trained in hand-to-hand combat in a clearing up ahead, while others kept watch along the perimeter. They wore bronze armor, curved swords, round shields, and had that unshakable confidence only men who’ve spent too long winning possess.

Most of them didn’t look at me. Not like the first time. A few did, with barely concealed curiosity. One even whispered something to another, and they both laughed—but all it took was one glance from Patroclus for them to shut up. No one dared say much when he was around.

The ground was uneven, a mix of stone and dirt, with logs stacked in strategic corners. I noticed a spot where the palisade looked lower, barely reinforced with logs and ropes. I made a mental note. A possible exit. Though there was also a makeshift tower with two archers right next to it. I bit my lip.

There were at least thirty men in sight. And if that was what could be seen this early in the morning, there had to be more—sleeping, hidden, or out on patrol. Escaping wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. If I could find the right moment. A lapse in attention. A path in the shadows…

“Are you counting soldiers, or just checking out the handsome ones?” Patroclus murmured teasingly, not even looking at me.

“I was thinking about how bad you smell,” I snapped back on instinct.

I heard him laugh.

“Good. The more cheeky you get, the more awake you are.”

We kept walking through the tents until he turned toward a corner where a small stream ran by. There were several baskets piled with dirty clothes, and a stout woman with a thick braid down her back scrubbing a tunic covered in dried mud. She looked up as we approached but didn’t stop scrubbing.

“This is the place,” Patroclus said. “This is Damaris. She’ll be in charge of you.”

The woman gave me a once-over, raising one skeptical eyebrow.

“And what’s this? Priestess? Concubine?”

“Prisoner,” Patroclus replied like that said it all. “But useful. And under Achilles’ protection. Put her to work washing whatever you want. Just don’t let her escape. If she tries, yell. Not that I think she’ll get very far.”

He turned to me and added with his usual half-smile:

“Be good, little shadow. And don’t make more of a mess than you clean.”

He left without waiting for a reply.

I stood there, still holding my modern clothes and Achilles’ and Patroclus’ tunics, facing a woman who looked like she could wring out a horse with her bare hands if she felt like it. Damaris handed me a damp rag without a word and pointed to a bucket of water.

It was official. I had been assigned to the Bronze Age laundromat.

But it was also an opportunity. The more I moved around the camp, the more I could learn. And find a way to reach Percy—or get us both out.

I didn’t say anything at first. I just mimicked her movements: rolling up my sleeves, plunging my hands into the icy water, and scrubbing hard at a tunic that reeked of sour sweat and old blood. The cold seeped into my bones, and my fingers started to burn almost immediately. Everything hurt a little. But it was better than the silence between us.

“Is it always this cold?” I murmured eventually, trying to break the ice with something trivial.

Damaris didn’t answer right away. Her brow was furrowed, focused on the hem of a tunic stained with dirt. Her expression was hard, like someone who’d spent years in a place where kindness didn’t survive.

“Colder when it rains,” she finally said without looking at me. “If you were expecting warm water, you should’ve been born a king’s daughter. Not… whatever you are.”

I blinked, unsure if I should laugh or stay silent. She didn’t sound cruel—more like someone tired of everything, even her own name. Still, I couldn’t help talking. Maybe because silence made me think of Percy. Or maybe I just needed to know if there was anyone here who didn’t want to slit my throat or devour me whole.

“My name is Giuliana,” I said, scrubbing harder at a garment that looked like it had been used as both armor and napkin. “I’m not from here. I came with a… companion. We got lost and ended up at the camp by accident. They captured us.”

Damaris didn’t seem surprised. She just raised an eyebrow without looking away from the mud she was scraping.

“That’s what happens when you walk without watching your step.”

“We were running from a… king,” I added, mostly to myself.

That did make her look at me, even if only for a second. Her eyes were dark, steady—the kind that had stopped fearing anything because they’d already seen too much.

“What did you do to make a king chase you?”

“Breathe, apparently.”

She let out a sound that almost resembled a laugh—if it hadn’t died right away. She kept working in silence for a few more minutes, and I didn’t push her. Only when I dropped my first small pile of clean clothes on a rock did I hear her speak again.

“You shouldn’t go around telling people those things. Around here, words cost. And you’re already expensive enough—with that strange face and those powers of yours.”

“I know,” I said, lowering my gaze. “But you don’t strike me as the type who runs off to gossip with the soldiers.”

“Of course not,” she replied dryly. “I don’t run anywhere. I’m the property of Menon, one of Achilles’ commanders. And the things I have to say matter to no one.”

Her tone was almost flat, like she was reading off a grocery list. But it shook me. I turned to her, unsure if asking was a mistake. Sometimes people just want to be heard without having to explain. But there was something in her voice that pushed me to speak.

“Have you always been his slave?”

She shook her head slowly, still with her hands submerged in the water.

“No. I used to live in a village near Euboea. I had a daughter. The prettiest you’ve ever seen. Her face looked like yours. Just as round and stubborn.”

I swallowed and said nothing. The water kept running between us, and for the first time I noticed the scent of the handmade soap we were using—something between wet grass and rancid fat.

“One day, bandits came. We couldn’t defend ourselves. There weren’t many of us. Most were old or women. Menon and his men passed by the area after a skirmish. They helped us, but it was too late for most… and for my daughter too.”

She fell silent. I didn’t say anything either.

“There was nothing he could do for me. Except the only thing a man in his position can do: buy me as a slave. He said that way, no one else could sell me somewhere else. That I’d be safer with him.”

It struck me as a twisted story. Like the only thing a man could offer a broken woman was a shinier chain. But in her eyes, there was no resentment. Only resignation.

“And now here you are, washing clothes for those who fight wars.”

“Now I’m lucky,” she said with a bitter smile. “I’m old. No one sends me to warm beds anymore, just to wash. That’s enough.”

I looked at her more closely. Hair tied back, skin sunburned, hands strong like dry branches. She didn’t look old. Forty, maybe. And that was a lot in this era, yes—but not enough to talk like that. Not enough to carry so much silence.

“You don’t look old,” I said honestly.

“I’m not,” she answered, looking at the garment in her hands. “But here, youth is a curse if you don’t have an owner.”

I stayed quiet. Thinking about what she’d just said, what it meant. How different everything was from the time I came from—and yet, so very similar.

We finished washing long after the sun was high in the sky. My hands ached from all the scrubbing, and the icy water had left my fingers numb, red, cracked. Damaris didn’t seem affected by anything—not the cold, not the weight of the wet clothes, not even the fact we’d been crouching for hours with wet knees and bent backs. She only gave me a fleeting glance when I let out a sigh that was too loud.

“Did you think this did itself?” she said, without needing to look at me to know I was complaining.

I didn’t reply. I didn’t have the strength left for a comeback. At least we were done.

We gathered all the wet clothes—thick fabrics that smelled of damp, dried sweat, and old blood. There were tunics, bandages, pants, soldier’s cloaks, some shredded undergarments, and my own things… my surgical pants, the torn T-shirt, my wrinkled underwear. Damaris separated them all efficiently, without looking too much, like she’d seen worse things before.

“Come,” she ordered, lifting a large wicker basket full of clean garments. “We need to hang them. The wind is strong here. They’ll dry fast.”

I followed her as we crossed the camp along a path of packed dirt. I looked at several of the camp’s defenses, and for a moment I wondered if I could climb over one of those improvised fences made of spears driven into the mud—but they knew what they were doing: the edges were sharpened, and some had glass or rusty metal. They weren’t playing around.

We walked to a more open area, where several thick ropes hung between wooden posts, ready for clothes to be hung. In the distance, other laundresses already had their garments drying in the sun, chatting among themselves while they worked quickly. Damaris and I took an empty line at the far end and began hanging the clothes in silence.

That’s when I heard the voices. Two soldiers had stopped a few meters from us—one tall and dark-skinned, the other younger, with only a hint of a beard. They’d come to pick up some of their clothes, but stayed chatting while someone went to fetch them.

“So, the prisoner finally gave in,” said the younger one, speaking low but clearly. “Didn’t think he’d cave so easily.”

“He agreed?” the other asked. “To what Achilles wanted. You know… his little gladiator game.”

A small knot formed in my chest.

“And he’s calm now?” asked the taller one, arms crossed.

“Seems like it,” the younger shrugged. “But last night… I swear, I heard him from the tent. Screaming like an animal. Like his soul was tearing out of him. It was scary. He doesn’t seem human.”

“And is he hurt?”

“They say they didn’t do anything to him. They couldn’t. Just left him there, screaming.”

They burst into laughter. That typical soldier laugh—the kind of men who don’t understand fear because they’ve never had to look it in the eye.

I didn’t laugh.

My body had tensed without me noticing. My hands trembled, still holding a damp shirt halfway hung. Damaris glanced at me out of the corner of her eye while continuing to hang clothes without pause, as if the conversation didn’t affect her.

But it did affect me.

Percy had accepted… something. What? A deal? A fight? A twisted game? And whatever it was, it had left him howling like a caged beast.

I felt my throat tighten and forced myself to keep hanging the clothes, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from falling apart. I couldn’t cry here. Not in front of them. Not with those two soldiers nearby.

Damaris noticed my expression, though she said nothing. She only muttered, low and without looking at me:

“Don’t break. Not here.”

I hung the last garment with stiff hands. The heavy fabric slid between my damp fingers while the wind tugged at it, puffing it out as if it wanted to shake me too. I stood still for a moment, watching the rows of clothes flap in the sun like surrendered flags. Some were still dripping, others were already beginning to dry.

But I couldn’t shake what I’d just heard.

Percy. Alone. Locked up. Screaming like a beast.

I imagined him hunched in the cell, fists clenched, teeth gritted, refusing to eat, refusing to speak. Maybe repeating my name. Or cursing Achilles. Or simply drowning in a pain so raw he couldn’t do anything but roar it out.

And meanwhile… what was I doing?

Sleeping. Warm and safe in a tent with blankets and furs. With Achilles on one side and Patroclus on the other. No chains, no beatings, no hunger.

A terrible knot formed in my throat.

I had complained about washing clothes. About cold hands. About wearing my underwear in front of a stranger. About sleeping with two men, practically naked. I had felt humiliated, vulnerable, even scared. But now… all of it felt ridiculous. Tiny. Pathetic.

How could I feel shame for sleeping with my shirt halfway up when Percy was…?

I put a hand to my face, as if I could push the thoughts away, but it didn’t work. The weight of guilt settled in my chest like a wet stone. My eyes burned, and my skin hurt on the inside.

What if I never saw him again? What if that night was the last time I had him near? What if I couldn’t save him—and only made things worse?

I swallowed hard.

“Finish those,” Damaris said, pointing to a few thick bandages still left to hang. “If they dry wrong, they rot.”

I nodded silently, obedient, because I couldn’t trust my voice. I hung the bandages without looking much—just following the mechanical motion of my arms.

I can’t break, I thought. Not if he hasn’t broken. Not if Percy is still fighting. I can’t be less brave than him.

I took a deep breath. Then another.

And when I finished, I wiped my hands on the sides of my pants and straightened my back, forcing myself to look stronger than I felt. Even though inside, all I wanted was to close my eyes and disappear. For Percy to be by my side. For no one to ever separate us again.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Not yet.

So I hung the last bandage as if it were the only thing I could do right that day, and braced myself for whatever came next.

The sun was high when we finished hanging the last bandage. The heat thickened in the air, and the smell of damp cloth, dried sweat, and kitchen smoke clung to everything like a heavy fog. Damaris rubbed her hands on her apron and was about to sit down when a sharp voice made us turn.

“You. The new one,” said a soldier—one I hadn’t seen before, with a spear over his shoulder and eyes sunken from exhaustion. “Prince Achilles ordered you to report to his tent for lunch. Now.”

My stomach twisted immediately—not from hunger, but from the disgust of hearing “Prince Achilles” spoken with such reverence. The soldier barely looked at me as he spoke, but his tone left no room for doubt: I had no choice.

I looked to Damaris, searching for something—support, understanding, maybe even permission—but she was already standing.

“Let’s go,” she said simply, patting the dust off her apron.

We walked in silence through the tents, no longer as laundry companions, but as prisoner and escort. We barely spoke. Only the sound of footsteps on dry earth and the distant murmur of conversations filled the air. We passed a line of soldiers training—shields raised, spears gleaming—and further ahead, a pair of men worked absentmindedly on a broken cart.

Damaris walked with her hands clasped behind her back, as if nothing could touch her. I, on the other hand, felt like breathing grew harder with each step.

We were already nearing Achilles’ tent—that one with the red banner and the always open entrance, like he feared nothing—when Damaris suddenly stopped. She pretended to glance over her shoulder, as if the comment she was about to make held no weight at all.

“At this hour, the guards rotate every two hours. The main tent goes unsupervised between the second and fourth encampments,” she said, like she was predicting rain. “If they ask, I said nothing. If they don’t ask, even better.”

She tossed the words like a stone into a pond, not waiting for a reply. Then she turned on her heel and walked away without a farewell.

I stayed there, watching her disappear between the tents, heart pounding in my chest.

She wasn’t exactly warm or kind. But she had just given me the first useful piece of information anyone had offered since we fell into this madness.

She said it without affection or solidarity, like she was simply repaying an unwanted favor. And that was enough for me.

Thank you, I thought.

I couldn’t say it out loud, but the feeling burned in my throat with intensity.

So I took a deep breath, smoothed my hair with a shaky hand, and prepared to face whatever Achilles wanted from me this time.

The inside of the tent was lit by the daylight filtering through the open entrance. The air smelled of tanned leather, wine, and dry dust. And though it was spacious, Achilles’ presence alone was enough to make it feel much smaller. He sat at the back, spine straight, arms resting on his knees as if it were his personal throne.

Patroclus greeted me standing, with a smile that was impossible not to appreciate.

“You’re just in time,” he said kindly. “How did it go with the laundry?”

“Fine… I guess,” I shrugged. The answer came naturally, but I could still feel Achilles’ gaze from across the tent like a claw at my neck. I tried not to show it. “It’s not exactly my hidden talent, but I didn’t ruin anything.”

Patroclus chuckled, soft and easy.

“And did your strange clothes survive? I imagine they sparked a few comments.”

“One or two,” I admitted, glancing away. I blushed, remembering his confused expression when he found my underwear. “But Damaris was… decent.”

I paused.

“Well… dryly decent.”

“That’s better than most around here,” he said with a half-smile.

“Are we going to talk about fabric and laundresses all through the meal?” Achilles interrupted, arms crossed and clearly annoyed. “What a miserable conversation.”

Right then, two servants entered, carrying trays of warm bread, roasted meat, olives, and dark wine that filled the air with its strong aroma. The clatter of the plates as they were set down seemed to briefly mute the tension in the air.

Patroclus sat beside me, and I stayed quiet, unsure if I was even allowed to touch the food. Silence hung in the air for a few more seconds before Achilles spoke, his voice charged with something not quite joy, but close enough to it.

“I have great news.”

My entire body tensed, though I did my best to look neutral. I already knew what was coming. The soldiers had talked while I hung the laundry—how Percy had finally agreed to whatever Achilles had asked, how he’d stopped screaming, how he’d finally spoken. I didn’t know what exactly he’d agreed to do, but I could guess.

Still, I pretended not to know. Achilles looked eager to be the one to say it. I wasn’t about to ruin his damn moment of triumph.

“Your friend. The wild one. He finally spoke.”

I faked surprise, raising my eyebrows in forced reaction.

“Agreed to what?”

“Fighting,” he said, barely containing his excitement. “First against my soldiers. One-on-one matches. If he wins… if he defeats them all, then he’ll face me.”

My heart skipped a beat. That part I hadn’t heard.

“With you?” I asked, unable to stop my voice from shaking.

“An honor, don’t you think?” he replied, pouring himself wine. “Few have the privilege of facing me.”

I said nothing. Just nodded, biting my tongue to keep my thoughts to myself.

I’d heard how Percy had screamed like a beast the night before. How they called him inhuman. How the soldiers seemed afraid of him. And now Achilles wanted to parade him in a series of matches, then face him himself. I didn’t know if he was doing it for fun or to prove a point—that no one could match him. Probably both.

The wine in front of me remained untouched. The bread, cold.

Achilles kept eating like someone who already knew he’d won a battle that hadn’t started. He chewed slowly, satisfied, and yet his eyes kept flicking back to me. Not in the cold, intimidating way he usually used to make a point. No. This was different.

He seemed… eager. Like a child who knows something you don’t and can’t wait to blurt it out. His eyes landed on me every few seconds, and when our gazes met, he held it—smiling slightly, expectant. As if waiting for me to say something specific.

I ignored him. Or tried to. I looked away and stabbed a piece of meat I had no intention of eating. Beside me, Patroclus leaned in and spoke quietly, like he was trying to soften the invisible weight that hung over the table.

“The preliminary fights will begin soon. They’re getting everything ready, that’s why Achilles is so excited,” he said, like talking about the weather.

“Is that today?” I asked, feigning interest.

“Tomorrow. At dawn. There’s a lot to prepare. A tournament like this isn’t just about glory. There’s always a reward. A prize worthy of the effort.”

He said that last part slowly, meaningfully, while looking at me. Then he took a sip and said nothing more.

I blinked, confused. I looked up again. Achilles was still watching me. That smug, half-smile gave me a very bad feeling.

Then I understood.

I cleared my throat, a new tension forming at the base of my neck.

“And… what’s the prize?”

Achilles burst out laughing—loud, triumphant—and it startled me. Then he turned toward me fully, and without warning, threw an arm around my shoulders. His grip pulled me close, his presence searing.

“You!” he announced, as if delivering the punchline of a grand joke. “When I defeat your lover, you will be the prize.”

I froze. I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Well,” he added, still laughing, “at least he’ll lose his woman to a real warrior.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t. I stayed completely still, trapped between his arm and my own horror, mouth slightly open in disgust, rage… and fear.

I didn’t know what hurt more—the veiled threat, the arrogant tone… or the realization that, in this story, I wasn’t a person. I was a trophy. Not even one with any real worth—just the damsel, the bait dangled in front of the beast they believed was my friend, to enrage him and make this whole ordeal a more entertaining show.

After Achilles’ outburst and his little announcement, lunch continued—or at least we pretended it did. I stayed at the table, his arm still resting across my back, too close, too firm. He had thrown the joke—if that’s what he thought it was—but seemed to revel in the silence it left behind. He ate enthusiastically, like he hadn’t just made the entire conversation grotesque.

I could barely swallow. Every bite caught in my throat. I just pushed food around on my plate, pretending to take part.

Patroclus, at least, seemed to sense the invisible weight crushing me. He offered a kind smile and, like a good diplomat in the middle of chaos, picked up the earlier topic.

“The preliminary matches are usually the most interesting. Sometimes they end up being more thrilling than the final duel,” he said lightly, as if he hadn’t just heard what had happened.

“Yeah?” I managed to mumble, still not looking at him.

“One time,” he said, gesturing with a piece of bread, “a scrawny kid from Thessaly knocked out three men in under ten minutes. We never figured out if he was extremely skilled… or if the others were just idiots.”

I laughed, politely. Or maybe I just exhaled through my nose. Either way, I appreciated him trying to ease the weight of it all. He struck me as the kind of person who used humor like a bandage, like a shield, like a mercy.

And then, two soldiers burst into the tent. One of them struck the ground with the end of his spear before speaking.

“Lord Achilles. King Odysseus requests your presence at once.”

Achilles let out a sharp exhale, clearly annoyed by the interruption. He wiped his hands on a cloth without hiding his irritation and stood up. But before moving, he glanced at Patroclus.

“You coming?”

Patroclus shook his head slowly. He looked paler than before. He raised his fingers to his temple with a tired expression.

“I’ve got a headache. I’d rather stay in today.”

Achilles frowned immediately, letting a crack of concern show through. His tone softened, more intimate.

“Was I too rough during training?”

Patroclus gave him a faint smile but didn’t answer. Achilles stepped closer, searching his gaze with that mix of protectiveness and bluntness that was so uniquely his. I watched them in silence and thought, almost involuntarily, about how obviously in love they were.

And historians will call them best friends.

Achilles broke the moment with a gesture toward me. His expression hardened again, but his voice remained clear.

“You. Stay with him. Heal him. You’re a medic, right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned to the soldiers and left the tent with purposeful steps, his cloak billowing behind him. I watched him for a few seconds until he vanished from view. Then I looked back at Patroclus… and sighed.

“All right, Mr. My Head Hurts, where do I find a bucket of cold water?” I said, already getting my hands ready to help him.

A servant brought me what I needed on Patroclus’ request. I took the bucket of cold water and carried it to the room where the Achaean warrior was waiting.

“Don’t worry, I know what to do,” I told him as he slowly sat on the edge of the bed.

It wasn’t complicated, really. I closed the curtains so we were in near-darkness, then moved around the tent until I found a clean piece of cloth. I soaked it in the cold water and came back to him. Without asking for permission, I placed the damp cloth on his forehead. He closed his eyes instantly, sighing in relief.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“If your head really hurts, you should lie down.”

“I will… if you stay beside me,” he said, with a small, sincere smile.

I simply nodded. I helped him lie back, moving a few furs to make room for him. Patroclus settled in with a laziness that made it seem like he wasn’t in pain at all. I sat next to him, back straight, hands on my thighs, keeping a bit of distance.

“The truth is, my head doesn’t actually hurt,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the tent. “I just pretended so I could talk to you without Achilles around.”

I turned slowly to him, unsure whether I should be worried or grateful.

“Talk about what?”

He looked at me with that calm expression that sometimes hid something deeper.

“About you. About what you’re going through. About how unfair all of this is. You don’t seem like a bad person, Giuliana.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Since I got here, the only one who’d shown any compassion for my situation was Patroclus. He was still an Achaean soldier, but I was grateful.

“You’re not the one who should be apologizing for this.”

“Sometimes I wish I could help you,” he added, lowering his gaze. “But Achilles doesn’t listen to anyone when he gets obsessed with something.”

I sighed, feeling my body slowly relax next to him, as if his calm voice could lift some of the weight I carried.

“Has he always been like this? Since you met him?”

“No… he used to be worse.”

I laughed, though I wasn’t sure if it was out of irony or nerves.

“He doesn’t hate me, does he?”

“He wants you,” he said plainly. “But I’ll admit, sometimes I don’t know what goes on in his mind. Whether it’s just a whim or real attraction, I can’t tell you. Either way, it’s not like he knows how to love.”

I was silent for a moment. Patroclus turned his head, resting his cheek on the damp cloth, and his eyes met mine.

“And you?” I asked carefully. “Do you know how to love?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at me. And that’s when I realized he was closer than I thought. Very close. His breath brushed against mine—warm, gentle. I didn’t know when he had crossed the distance, when his body leaned just enough, when his gaze shifted.

He was a breath away.

And for a moment, the only thing I could think about was how beautiful he was. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the tenderness hidden behind his deep voice, how easy it would be to just lean in a little and find out how soft his lips were.

I froze.

What the hell am I doing?

This is the boyfriend of the guy who has Percy locked up like a dog. The one who’s making him fight for his freedom.

And I’m here—thinking about kissing his partner! Just because my body decided it was a great idea to ovulate in the middle of a goddamn epic war.

“Is something wrong?” Patroclus asked softly.

“No. Nothing,” I said, turning my face away, as if that could break the moment.

He was quiet for a second. He didn’t touch me, didn’t come any closer. He just took a deep breath, and in that exhale, I felt a kind of quiet surrender.

“I understand,” he whispered. “I understand that you want to be faithful to Percy. I respect that. Sometimes love is the only thing keeping us going.”

I blinked.

Faithful to Percy?

I turned to look at him again, this time with a slightly furrowed brow.

“I’m not being faithful to anyone. Percy and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”

Patroclus tilted his head, studying me with curiosity but no judgment.

“You seem like more than just friends.”

I swallowed.

“Maybe because we saved each other’s lives. Because we don’t have anyone else. We care deeply for each other, but that doesn’t mean we’re anything more.”

Patroclus nodded, though his eyes still hovered somewhere between skepticism and hope. He looked at me like he was trying to see inside, trying to understand something I didn’t fully understand myself.

And then it hit me. Like a sudden flame in a dark room.

What if this could be useful?

What if having Patroclus on my side meant an advantage? He wasn’t like Achilles. He had a heart. He hesitated. He questioned. And if he trusted me… if he believed I felt something for him, if I convinced him, if I made him want to protect me…

I could ask him things. I could learn the routes. The fight schedules. I could use him.

A plan began to take shape in my mind, as fast as it was dangerous. It was dirty. Manipulative. But nothing about this situation was clean anymore. My conscience could wait—Percy’s life couldn’t.

And yes, the fact that Patroclus was beautiful didn’t hurt.

Because he was.

His lips, slightly parted, looked like they promised something more. His gaze was intense, filled with a strange vulnerability for a warrior. He had that tragic beauty of good men caught in the wrong place. And he looked at me like I was the answer to a question he didn’t dare say out loud.

I took a deep breath.

And I made my move.

I leaned in slowly, deliberately. Gave him time to pull away—but he didn’t. On the contrary: when our lips brushed for the first time, it was like his whole body let out a breath it had been holding for days.

The first kiss was slow, warm, like a test.

The second was confirmation.

Patroclus kissed me back with more hunger than I expected. His hands slid to my hips, firm, like he couldn’t believe he was really touching me. I climbed into his lap, never breaking the kiss, not letting myself hesitate. His fingers traced up my back, stopping at my neck to tilt me toward him, deepening the kiss.

My tongue met his—soft at first, then more insistent. Heat bloomed in my chest, then spilled downward through my belly. The world outside the tent vanished. There was no war. No Percy. No constant fear I’d carried since realizing where I was.

Just us. Just skin.

My hands pressed against his chest and felt the pounding of his heart—fast and deep. Our breathing mingled, warm and rushed. Patroclus let out a low groan, barely audible, but it made me shiver. It made me want more.

One of his thighs tensed beneath me, and I felt his arousal pressing against my center. It was obvious he wanted me too.

My fingers found his hair—soft, slightly tangled—and I tugged gently as our mouths devoured each other. Patroclus slid a hand beneath my blouse, his palms skimming my skin, moving slowly upward toward my breasts, trembling with excitement.

I closed my eyes and let him. I let him explore.

And for a moment—a long, dangerous moment—I forgot why I had started all this.

My hips moved against him. His body reacted with a shiver, almost reverent. His hands gripped me tighter. Our kisses were no longer soft or sweet—they were urgent, burning, desperate.

I wanted him. And I was using him. And I hated myself a little for that but I didn’t stop.

His mouth lowered to my neck, his lips parting to graze my skin slowly, as if savoring it. I moaned, softly, my eyes squeezing shut. My body reached for him with an intensity that made no sense, that I couldn’t rationalize.

And just as his hands moved down my sides, just as the moment was about to cross that final line—

A noise.

Voices. An argument, just outside the tent.

We both froze, breathing like we’d just fought a battle. Our chests rose and fell, lips swollen, damp.

Patroclus opened his eyes and looked at me.

His breathing was still heavy, his chest heaving beneath my hands, his mouth slightly open, red, wet. He looked utterly wrecked… and beautiful.

But not from desire.

From having to stop.

“Damn it…” he murmured, voice hoarse, his fingers still gripping my waist. “There’s always noise when you least want it.”

I didn’t respond. I just looked at him, still panting, still tasting his mouth on mine, still wishing I hadn’t heard anything. Still wanting him not to get up. To kiss me again. To finish distracting me from all of this.

But Patroclus, his face full of frustration, slowly let his hands fall from my body. He didn’t let go entirely; it seemed he didn’t want to just yet.

“I’m sorry,” he said, kissing my cheek softly, then my jaw, then right at the corner of my lips. “But I have to go see what’s going on. Just in case the camp’s burning while we’re…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just smiled. That crooked, slightly guilty, slightly mischievous smile that made him look younger. Softer.

“Are you always this sweet after a makeout session?” I asked, trying to sound casual, though my heart was kicking against my sternum.

“Only when the person’s worth it,” he replied, leaning in once more to kiss me. This time, slower, with more restrained desire. A goodbye kiss, but also a promise. It was deep, wet, firm, and it lasted longer than it should have if he really meant to leave.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were as swollen as mine, and his eyes had that gleam… the kind you only see in people already lost.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand. “Stay here. Rest. You’re off duty for the day. Direct order from me.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “And how exactly am I supposed to earn dinner if I don’t work?”

Patroclus pretended to think as he stood. He straightened his clothes quickly, though his hair was still a mess, and a reddish mark spread across his neck—my lips had left it there.

“Mmm…” he said, glancing at the tent’s entrance, as if measuring how long he could keep talking to me. “I’m thinking of a new payment system.”

“Yeah?” I played along, sitting on the edge of the mattress, still a little dazed.

He turned to me with that smile. Mischievous. Warm.

“I’ll decide how many kisses from you are worth a full dinner.”

I let out a soft laugh.

“And what if I’m not hungry?”

“Then I’ll just have to convince you,” he said, winking. “I’m good at that.”

And with one last look—one of those that says more than a thousand words—he left the tent.

I stayed there, sitting, heart pounding, body still trembling. I brought my fingers to my lips, touching them like I could still feel the weight of his.

One down, I thought.

One step closer to saving you, Percy.

I lay back down, the room dark except for the dim light coming through the crack in the door. Silence seemed to envelop everything, like the world itself was holding its breath. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe adrenaline still rushing under my skin. Or maybe, finally, I could think.

And thinking—that’s what I did best.

I closed my eyes and forced my breathing to slow. To ignore the smell of Patroclus on the sheets, the memory of the kiss still fresh on my lips. This wasn’t the moment to analyze that. Something else mattered more.

Percy.

And not just Percy. His soul.

The first thing I thought was: He must be dreaming.

Because if this followed fanfic rules—and so far, absolutely everything had—then this was the breaking point. The line in the sand that triggered it.

The prophetic dreams.

Not normal dreams. Not vague warnings or gut feelings. Not like the classic demigod dreams from the original books, which sometimes worked like narrative walkie-talkies. No. These dreams were something else. Deeper. More intimate. More inevitable.

According to my fanfic knowledge, when two soulmates with divine blood meet, even if they don’t know it, even if they don’t accept it, something begins to shift. It’s not flashy, like BAM. It’s subtle but irreversible.

The divine essence of one—in this case, Apollo’s—recognizes the presence of its counterpart. And even if the other isn’t as powerful, even if they’re just a demigod like Percy, the connection forms. Solid. Deep. Instinctive.
And that’s when the first symptom is triggered: the partial transference of the divine soul.

In simple terms, a piece of Apollo starts living in Percy. Not as possession or control. More like an echo. A reflection. Apollo’s soul—eternally starving, obsessively intense, desperate for its other half—seeps into Percy, affecting him little by little.

And Percy, who has godly blood in his veins, isn’t immune. He’s not human. Not entirely.

The reaction isn’t rejection. It’s absorption.

What starts as a slight change in his dreams soon becomes something more physical. More emotional. More primal.

The dreams aren’t clear visions. They’re fragments, possibilities, shifting paths. Alternate scenarios where decisions change and fate mutates.

And they all have one thing in common: Apollo.

Sometimes it’s Apollo kissing him, full of reverence. Other times, taking him with brutality. Sometimes it’s Percy yelling at him and running away. Other times it’s him returning to Apollo’s arms. But always—always—there’s one unchanging thread: that bond. The one that ties them. The inevitability.

Then comes the discomfort. Percy begins to feel jealousy for no reason. Irritation when others get close to Apollo. A need to be near him that borders on anxiety. And he doesn’t get it—he doesn’t understand how he can feel this way for someone who took away his freedom and dignity. Because he doesn’t yet know what Apollo already does: that they’re bound by something far older than will.

And that’s the exact moment when Percy begins to change.

He doesn’t go yandere. Not yet.

But he’s no longer the calm Percy, the boy who always put others first, the rational hero.

Something inside him starts defending his right. His place. His bond.

The divine blood recognizes its other half, and even if his human side resists, his soul doesn’t.

But the most intense, most devastating part comes later.

In the final chapters of the fanfic, when Percy—through some act of sacrifice or brutal decision—ascends to godhood, then everything detonates. The understanding comes like a wave. A luminous, painful truth that floods him.

There’s no more confusion, doubt, or restraint.

Percy stops repressing it because now he understands what Apollo felt from the very beginning. That Apollo… Apollo was never truly insane—he was just feeling the exact weight of what it meant to have a soulmate.

And Percy begins to act the same way.

Well, not the same way—Percy still holds a moral compass firmer than that of any god— but in intensity. In possessiveness. In the urgency with which he defends Apollo from real and imagined threats. In how he doesn’t let anyone touch him, question him, hurt him.

And in how, when someone tries, Percy responds with a violence he would have once avoided.

That’s when you realize: divinity changed him.

Humanity made him hesitate, rationalize, resist. But divinity… divinity doesn’t question. It just acts. And now that Percy understands everything, now that he can feel it the way Apollo has always felt it, he begins to love with the same level of desperation.

But with one crucial difference:

Percy learned to love as a human.

He wasn’t born to devour. He was born to protect.

And that’s why, even though he now has the power to become as obsessive as Apollo, as territorial, as ferociously devoted, he chooses not to be. He chooses to love with restraint. He chooses to suffer in silence rather than break the other.

And that —that exactly— is what saves them both.

My entire plan has always been based on the certainty that they can have a stable and relatively healthy relationship.

Maybe now, as I think this, Percy is asleep. Sweating. Restless. Dreaming of futures he doesn’t understand. Maybe he’s already begun to feel it in his chest. That vibration. That certainty.

And if everything goes as it should, if I manage to dismantle this madness from within, if I can redirect Apollo’s force, then Percy will be able to love him without guilt. Without fear. Without feeling betrayed by his own heart.

And that… that’s all I want.

Because no one should be condemned for the simple act of having found their soulmate.

Not even a god (even if said god wants to kill me — after everything I’m doing for him, the ungrateful bastard).

I turned on my side, still lying on a bed that wasn’t mine, in a room I hadn’t chosen, in a time I didn’t fully understand. Outside, everything was calm, at least for now. But I knew that never lasted.

Because I didn’t come here to sleep. I didn’t come here to kiss anyone. I didn’t come to fall in love. I came for him.

And if I had to use Patroclus to achieve that, I would.

The idea made me uncomfortable in some quiet corner of my conscience, but that corner was small and silent. Because in moments like this, morality must step aside for strategy. For survival.

And more importantly: for salvation.

Patroclus seemed to be good. Tender, trusting, attractive — yes, totally my type — but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he cared. It showed. In his gestures, in his concern for Achilles, in the way he approached me thinking he might ease my burden. Or maybe hoping I could ease something in him.

Whatever it was.

And I had to hold on to that. Use it.

I needed him to see me as someone trustworthy. Someone who not only understood him, but who could be useful. I needed him to protect me. To speak for me. To take me —or let me go— wherever Percy was.

Because that was another key piece: I had to be present during the fights.

So far, the confrontations between Percy and the soldiers seemed more like a spectacle. Achilles had that kind of morbid humor. And if I could somehow convince them to let me go, I could assess the area, look for exits, and with a bit of luck, see where Percy was being held.

And if I managed that, maybe I could reach him and shadow-travel us out, or at least come up with a plan.

But there was one line I couldn’t allow to be crossed.

Achilles.

I couldn’t let Percy fight him. Percy is —and I’m not impartial, but it’s the truth— more powerful than Achilles. He’s a demigod, son of one of the Big Three, and one of the best swordsmen to ever exist, a fact confirmed by several immortals throughout the books.

A fight like that would draw unwanted attention. More importantly, just because Percy is stronger doesn’t mean Achilles is weak. If we’re talking pure brute force and combat skill, I couldn’t be sure who’d win. And if Achilles managed to wound Percy, and they realized my friend didn’t bleed… things would get ugly.

Or worse — what if he kills Achilles?

My face went pale. That would change the entire story. If Percy felt cornered enough, I was certain he’d stab that damned heel.

I had to find a way to stop it. No matter the cost.

And then there was… the other thing.

My relationship with Patroclus.

How would Achilles react if he found out? The truth is, I had no idea. I had the gut feeling that relationships with women didn’t quite count as “infidelity” between them. Or at least, not with the same weight. But I couldn’t be sure. Not when it came to Achilles.

That man is an emotional bomb. A volatile mix of pride, rage, passion, jealousy, and a massive capacity for destruction.

But if Patroclus had kissed me, had touched me with that calm and that tenderness, if he had sought out my lips like he feared nothing… then I wanted to believe it meant he wouldn’t hurt him. That there was some unspoken consent between them. An implicit freedom.

Or at the very least, that Patroclus would never do anything that might hurt Achilles.

That’s where I placed my faith.

Not in ethics. Not in social norms. In Patroclus.

And if everything went well —if I could maintain the balance between lies and truth, between manipulation and sincerity— then maybe… maybe I could get to Percy without anyone noticing.

I would rescue him.

No matter how — I’d get him out of here.

I sighed, closing my eyes, trying to calm the avalanche of thoughts that threatened to steal my breath.

The last image that formed in my mind was his face.

Percy.

I imagined him tied up, wounded, disoriented. Proud even under torture. The same boy who’d been so kind to me from the very first day we met. The same one who stole my heart without even trying. The same one who didn’t deserve any of this.

I thought of his strength. His stubbornness. His pain. Of his soul, which must already be feeling the pull of something he still doesn’t understand.

I fell asleep with a mantra echoing in my head:

We’re getting out of here, we’re getting out of here, we’re getting out of here.

Chapter Text

I woke up with the same knot in my chest I had fallen asleep with, that mix of fear and anxiety that kept me alert even when I closed my eyes. No matter how much I tried to rest, Percy’s image kept tormenting me—trapped in some dark place, wounded, maybe even chained.

The constant anguish I had been living in these past days had reached its peak, only surpassed by our encounter with the sun god… because today was the day. The day they would make him fight as if it were a spectacle, entertainment for the Greeks who seemed to live off blood and glory.

Perseus Jackson might be the greatest warrior of his time, but my nerves kept replaying scenarios I didn’t want to imagine: what if in this fanfic world the canon wasn’t the same? What if he lost his fights? What if they denied him food and water, and he was so exhausted he couldn’t even hold his sword? What if…?

The sound of metal pulled me from my thoughts. I flinched and looked around. Once again, I had slept in Achilles’ bed, but neither of the two Greeks was there with me. I stood quickly, pulling the blanket around my shoulders, with the hope of convincing the demigod to let me go to the tournament. I needed to see Percy, and if I knew him as well as I believed, I knew he would want to see me too.

I left the room and entered the central part of the tent. At the table that dominated the center, Achilles was already sitting, leaning on one elbow, his torso bare, his eyes gleaming with that calm arrogance that seemed natural in him—as if the whole world were his battlefield and mere mortals nothing but stones in his path. Patroclus was farther away, dressed, inspecting the hilt of his sword with a distracted air, though not so distracted as to miss my movement.

The morning chill slipped under my skin, but I ignored it; something more urgent demanded my attention.

“Good morning, I want…” The word caught in my throat. I couldn’t sound demanding, not with Achilles. “I want to know if I can see him, even just for a moment, just to make sure he’s all right.”

My voice sounded steadier than I felt. Even so, Achilles tilted his head, as if he’d just heard a puppy bark, and his lips curved into a smile that was anything but kind.

“See him?” he repeated slowly, dragging out the word. “What for? To weep when they tear him apart before your eyes?”

“Just a moment,” I insisted, without raising my tone, carefully weighing every syllable. “I want to see him with my own eyes, nothing more.”

Achilles rolled his eyes. “No. There’s no fun in that. What part of ‘you are the prize’ hasn’t sunk into your head? If your friend’s head is still on his shoulders at the end of the day, then maybe you’ll see him tomorrow. Whole, if you’re lucky… or perhaps only his head hanging from my spear.”

The world seemed to close in on me at that instant, the air burning in my throat as if I had swallowed fire. A fierce rage shot through me from head to toe, so intense that for a second I felt the shadows stir beneath my skin, begging to be unleashed, begging to drown him in his own blood. But with the rage came terror—raw, paralyzing terror—because I knew he could do it, that Achilles could make every word he spoke real, and that a single wrong move from me would be enough for him to destroy me right there. I swallowed hard, forcing the trembling in my hands to still, forcing myself to appear colder than I was, because I would not give him that pleasure, I would not give him the spectacle of my fear.

That was when Patroclus spoke.

“You didn’t need to say it like that,” his voice was low, soft, like someone laying a damp cloth over an open wound. “You know it, Achilles. You don’t need those words. She already understands her place here.”

Achilles didn’t answer right away; he kept fastening his armor with an infuriating calm.

Patroclus took a step toward the table, not abrupt, and spoke again, weighing every word.

“She gains nothing from hearing threats, not now, not when all she’s asking is to see him, to be sure he’s still alive. That doesn’t change the outcome of the fight, it doesn’t risk anything. But it does remind her he still breathes.”

I felt his gaze then, just a fleeting glance toward me, a concern he tried to hide beneath the serenity of his tone. My heart clenched, because I knew he wasn’t doing it only out of logic—he was doing it for me.

“Let her show herself to him, even for a moment,” Patroclus finished, almost reasonable, like one proposing a strategy. “It costs you nothing, and it ignites him. There’s no better motivation for a man than knowing someone waits for him alive.”

The silence stretched heavy, as if the words hung in the air, unable to find a place to fall. At last, Achilles raised his head, and that crooked smile curved his lips again, dripping with mockery.

“You speak as if she were some sort of talisman,” he said slowly, savoring every syllable. “As if her mere presence could make him invincible.”

Patroclus held his gaze, unblinking.

“She’s not a talisman,” he answered with the same calm. “It’s the truth.”

Achilles gave a short, dry laugh, amused.

“How charming,” he murmured. “Almost convincing.”

His laugh died quickly, replaced by that icy coldness that made him all the more terrifying.

“But no. She will not go. Because I say so. And because it amuses me more this way. If Percy needs a reason, let him imagine the worst. Despair will make him fight without mercy.”

His eyes found me then, that cruel spark in his gaze, as if he enjoyed crushing any hope before it could be born.

“You will not go.” His tone was firm, as if he were giving an order about a piece of meat and not about a person. “And if you try, I swear, Giuliana, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

The silence that followed the threat was unbearable, so dense I could almost feel it sticking to my skin. I didn’t move a muscle. I only forced myself to breathe slowly, as if the very air in the tent depended on Achilles’ mood.

Patroclus didn’t insist further. His jaw tightened, resignation flickered across his eyes, and he lowered his gaze to the table where pieces of armor still lay unfastened. In seconds he set to work with a speed that betrayed his discomfort, moving around Achilles like someone desperate to end a scene as quickly as possible. He adjusted the shoulder plate, tightened the leather strap across his back, checked the sword’s hilt—all with mechanical precision, though the tension in his face betrayed him.

Achilles, in contrast, seemed entertained. He let himself be dressed like a bored king attended by a faithful servant.

“There,” Patroclus murmured at last, stepping back.

Achilles rose abruptly, picked up the helmet from the table, and tucked it under his arm.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, as casually as if he’d asked for wine.

But Patroclus remained still, as if reconsidering.

“You go first,” he said then, his tone too neutral, too measured. “I’ll catch up in a moment. I want to see who she’ll stay with. She can’t be left alone.”

The spark of annoyance flashed again in Achilles’ eyes.

“How dramatic,” he scoffed, as if the matter bored him to death. He strode toward the exit, paused in the doorway, and half-turned. His smile cut through me like a dagger.

“See you later, prize.” He blew me a mocking kiss with his hand, exaggerated, like someone laughing at a private joke. “Try not to get too bored while I earn my glory.”

I said nothing. Not a blink, not a gesture. I knew any reaction would only feed his amusement.

Achilles left the tent, and the sound of his steps faded into the noise of the camp.

And then, for the first time that morning, we were alone.

The silence returned, but it was different now. No longer heavy as lead—this one was taut, charged with everything neither of us dared to say. Patroclus still stood by the table, his hands resting on the leather of the armor he had just finished adjusting, as if he needed something solid to hold on to. I watched him in secret, from the corner of my eye, wondering what he was thinking, what he would do.

I felt my breathing tremble in my chest, and I hated that he could notice, hated that he could see how vulnerable I felt. But there was something strange in the way he looked at me, that mix of tenderness and concern he had no right to give me—not here, not in this tent that still smelled of Achilles.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, softly.

“I’m fine,” I wanted to say, but my voice came out harsh, breaking halfway. The knot in my throat betrayed me, and I had to swallow twice before I could finish the sentence. “Really, I’m fine.”

A lie.

I wasn’t. Never in my life had I felt so vulnerable. Not even the day I first opened my eyes in this world that wasn’t mine. Not even when the sun god looked at me as if he might peel off my skin just to see what lay beneath. This was different. Here I wasn’t Giuliana, not someone with thoughts or will. Here I was a prize, a thing, a piece of flesh with two breasts and a vagina—nothing more.

That was how women were treated in this time, wasn’t it? As ornaments, as trophies, as wombs that could be traded between men without anyone questioning it. The worst part was they weren’t wrong about me: that was all I was to Achilles and to the Greeks around me. And if I was still breathing, it wasn’t because of my worth or my wit, but because luck had thrown powers at me I had never asked for, powers that had fallen on me by chance. What merit was there in that? What dignity could I cling to, if with everything inside me I was still treated like an object—something to be threatened, sold, or given away?

What good were my shadows if I couldn’t even save Percy? What good was my rage if I had to swallow it just to stay alive?

The tremor reached my lips before I could stop it. I brought a hand to my mouth as if I could contain it, as if hiding that crack would be enough to keep me standing.

Patroclus startled. He hadn’t expected my voice to break, hadn’t expected the armor of calm I had worn in front of Achilles to crumble the moment he was gone. His expression shifted instantly: his tense shoulders relaxed, his brow furrowed with a mixture of surprise and pain.

“Giuliana…” His voice was low, uncertain, as if even my name might wound me further.

He stepped toward me, then again, without the calculated distance he always kept when Achilles was near. I didn’t realize it until he was truly in front of me, extending a hand that hesitated for a second before brushing my arm—warm, cautious, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch me at all.

I closed my eyes for a moment because I felt like I was about to shatter completely. The pressure behind them burned, the tears pushed through without permission, and I hated that weakness—I hated that he could see me like this. Yet at the same time, a part of me clung desperately to that touch, to that closeness, the only human warmth in the middle of this prison.

Patroclus lowered his head, so close I could feel the faint brush of his breath. His arms hesitated for a moment, and then, as if he could no longer hold back, he tried to embrace me—with a gentleness that contrasted so sharply with the brutality that had just left the tent minutes ago.

The tears stung my eyes before I could stop them. No matter how hard I tried, there was no armor left to protect me, no trace of the false strength with which I had faced Achilles minutes earlier. They slid silently down my cheeks, humiliating, inevitable.

Patroclus startled, as if he hadn’t expected to see me truly break. His eyes widened slightly, shining with a pain that wasn’t his own, and in an instant his face was in front of mine, closer than he had ever dared when Achilles was present.

“Giuliana…” His voice was barely a murmur, heavy with something he couldn’t hide.

His hand rose carefully to my face, as if afraid I would splinter to pieces if he touched me too firmly. His fingers brushed my wet cheeks, and before I could pull away, his lips leaned down to them. He kissed my tears one by one, slowly, with an undeniable tenderness I did not feel worthy of. Why was he so kind to me?

I closed my eyes. The trembling swept through me from head to toe—not because I wanted to push him away, but because part of me couldn’t bear being treated with such care at the very moment I felt reduced to nothing.

“I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe,” he whispered, his voice firm, low, like a vow. “I won’t let Achilles touch you, I swear it. He can be cruel, he can be arrogant, but there’s a line he won’t cross.”

I opened my eyes and stared at him, incredulous.

“And what makes you so sure of that?” My voice was harsh, still choked with tears.

Patroclus swallowed, lowered his gaze for just an instant before lifting it back to mine.

“Because, though it may not seem like it, when I’m angry enough… Achilles listens. He won’t admit it—he never would—but he obeys me. He always has.”

The words pierced me like a promise I didn’t know whether to believe, and yet doubt cracked through me anyway.

“You speak so certain that Achilles will win,” I shot back, my tone sharpened with bitterness before I could stop it. “And what if he doesn’t? What if Percy wins?”

A thick silence wrapped around us. Patroclus held my gaze, and the sadness in his eyes was enough—mute certainty that cut through me like a knife. For him, it was obvious, undeniable: Achilles would win. And in that truth of his, there was no room for the fragile hope I clung to.

At last he spoke, slowly, as if each syllable weighed him down.

“I don’t want Percy to die, Giuliana. I know what he means to you. But I don’t want Achilles to die either… I love him. I’m trapped between the two of you, but…”—he faltered, searching for the words—“my priority is Achilles. I’ll support him in everything I can. I’m so sorry for your friend, truly. I hope one day you can forgive me.”

The air burned in my lungs. I barely nodded, but inside my mind was a storm.

They don’t know who Percy is.

They have no idea what he can do, what he represents. They see him as a prisoner, as just another warrior forced to fight in their bloody arena. But I know the truth.

I know who he is.

He is the son of Poseidon. The boy who has carried whole worlds on his shoulders, who has defeated monsters whose very names they couldn’t pronounce. The one who survived gods, titans, and wars. And they look at him as if he were nothing more than a chained dog they’ll unleash for their amusement.

Yes, I am terrified. Yes, the thought of watching him step into that arena breaks my chest open. But I don’t doubt. I cannot doubt. Because if the fight turns against him, Percy will find a way. He always does.

If he has to, he’ll draw strength from air, from pain, from fury. If they push him to the brink, if they think they’ve cornered him, the son of the sea will open the waters and drown them all.

They don’t know who Percy is.
But I do.

I swallowed hard, wiping my tears clumsily, forcing myself to compose even though my voice still shook.

“Percy can win,” I said at last, with more conviction than I truly felt.

Patroclus looked at me in silence. His face held no mockery, no scorn—only a deep sadness, a weight that seemed to sink him further with every word I spoke. He didn’t contradict me. He didn’t tell me I was wrong. But I saw it in his eyes: to him, Achilles was invincible. To him, Percy had no future.

And that contrast tore me apart. Because I clung to hope with tooth and nail, while he already bore the certainty of defeat.

I bit my lip hard, holding back the tears that still threatened to fall. I would not allow Achilles to break me, and even less would I allow Percy to die. Even if they treated me like a prize, even if they reduced me to nothing, I still knew the truth.
They don’t know it, I thought again, like a mantra that kept me standing.
But I do.

In the end, it was I who broke the silence. I pulled away from him with a slow, heavy movement, as if I had to tear my own feet from the ground. Patroclus let me go without trying to stop me, and that gesture—that minimal respect in a place where everything else had been stripped from me—left a strange ache in my chest.

I ran my hands over my face, wiping away what traces of tears I could, and forced myself to lift my head. My voice still trembled, but it came out firm enough to sound like a question and not a plea.

“What… what am I supposed to do today?”

He blinked, surprised, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him until that very moment. Then he gathered himself quickly—the practical soldier, always ready to plan the next move when Achilles wouldn’t.

“You can’t stay alone,” he said at last, each word struck with decision. “And I can’t leave you here, not with so many men coming and going, not with what you are to Achilles.”

A shiver ran down my spine. What I was to Achilles. A prize. A trophy to be locked away in a case until the right moment to display it.

Patroclus seemed to read the shadow that crossed my expression, because his tone dropped, softening the firmness.

“I’ll take you to Damaris.”

I frowned.
“Damaris?”

He nodded, more certain now.
“Yes. I checked—today is her free day. She won’t be forced to attend anyone else, and she can stay with you without trouble. You already know her, and she knows you. You’ve been with her before, and that gives you some… familiarity. It’s not ideal, I know, but it’s better than leaving you among strangers. Damaris knows who you are and who you belong to. She won’t try anything.”

The way he said it cut me: who you belong to. I wanted to correct him, to scream that I didn’t belong to anyone, but the words died in my throat.

Patroclus continued, as if afraid my silence meant refusal.
“She’s a woman, too. And though she can’t do much for you… at least she’ll understand. Better with her than in the hands of bored soldiers with too much free time.”

He said it bitterly, as though the very idea disgusted him. And then I understood: it wasn’t only that he sought my safety—he sought his own peace as well. He needed to know he was leaving me with someone who wouldn’t make him spend the following hours terrified of finding me broken when he returned.

The knot in my stomach tightened immediately.
“And if Achilles gets angry because I don’t work?” I asked, almost without thinking. It was absurd, and yet, I said it.

Patroclus let out a short, dry laugh, humorless.
“Let him be angry.” He shrugged, eyes fixed on me. “That’s my order.”

I bit my lip. I had never heard anyone, except Achilles himself, speak with such certainty about “ordering” him. And that confidence in his voice unsettled me, because while it reassured me on one side, it also reminded me just how dangerously close this man was to the one who could crush Percy without blinking.

Patroclus didn’t look away. There was something in his expression, something restrained, as if he were measuring me, as if he wavered between moving closer or staying where he was. His breathing grew slower, deeper, and for an instant his face lowered just slightly toward mine. The air between us thickened, tense, electric.

He didn’t kiss me. He stopped halfway, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with a contradiction I could almost touch. That restraint shook me more than if he had gone through with it.

And it was in that instant that I remembered. My plan. My only real weapon in this place: Patroclus. Him, with all his kindness and his guilt, with that tenderness that surfaced even in the heart of a blood-soaked camp. He was the crack in Achilles’ perfect wall, and I had to slip through it if I wanted to survive.

The last thing I wanted was to kiss him. He was beautiful, yes, he had that clean gaze that could make one forget the horror surrounding him—but he was still the man who would watch Percy die, the man who would support the one forcing him to the blade. Kissing him was betraying myself. And yet, I did it.

I leaned toward him, closing the distance he had left unfinished, and I kissed him.

At first it was a brief brush, uncertain, almost clumsy. But that single contact was enough for everything to overflow. Patroclus tensed, startled, and then responded instantly, as if he had been holding himself back forever and hadn’t already kissed me yesterday. His hand came up to my face, firm this time, and the other wrapped around my waist with an urgency that pulled a sigh from me I hadn’t wanted to give him.

The kiss turned intense, deep—an impossible mix of tenderness and hunger. The taste of his lips was warm, human, desperate. I felt the pressure of his mouth against mine, the strength with which he held me, as if he feared that letting go meant I would vanish back into the shadows. And for a few fleeting seconds, the entire world shrank to that fire consuming us.

Inside, my mind was screaming. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. I was kissing the man who remained loyal to Percy’s executioner. And yet, my body responded, my hands clutching at his chest as if I needed to anchor myself to him, as if that closeness were the only thing keeping me on my feet.

Patroclus slid one of his hands down my back, holding me gently but leaving no space between us. It was an embrace and a prison at the same time. And in the middle of that heat, that unbearable contradiction, I found myself lost, as if my plan and my own need had fused into something I could no longer separate.

When we finally parted, my breath was a ragged tremor. His lips remained a breath away from mine, his eyes burning with that mix of desire and tenderness I refused to interpret, my own lips still aflame—and in that tiny space left between our faces, my mind opened into a storm I couldn’t silence.

What I felt for him was strange. Patroclus was, in the midst of all this, the closest thing I had to support. The only one who dared soften his words when Achilles crushed me, the only one who had shown real concern for me. There was tenderness in his gaze, a warmth spilling out in those small gestures, in that way of trying to make me feel human in a place where I was treated as nothing. And that, in part, made him endearing, almost impossible to refuse.

But at the same time, something in me screamed that everything was too fast, too sudden. That whatever lay between us wasn’t love and could never be. I saw it more as his whim, a spark of desire born from circumstance, from my female presence in a world where his life revolved entirely around Achilles. As if, in me, he had found something Achilles could not give him: tenderness, difference, perhaps the simple mystery of the unknown. It was as if he wanted to have both worlds—his untouchable hero and me, the small shadow that crossed his path.

I bit my lip, trying to order my thoughts. Perhaps the time we lived in played a part. In those years, things moved faster because death lurked at every corner; there was no time for long courtships or promises of the future. Everything was now or never, everything was intense, fleeting, as if every feeling had to be consumed before the war devoured it. Maybe that was why he looked at me with those burning eyes, as if he had already decided I could mean something.

And still, deep down, I couldn’t ignore that his attraction to me had more to do with my personality and my power than with true love. Patroclus had always been surrounded by powerful figures, by men nearly divine, and it was clear that was his type: the strong, the brilliant, the ones who defied the ordinary. Achilles was the core of that desire, but I… I fit into another version. A half-divine by accident, a mortal brushed by shadows. Maybe he was drawn to the strength hinted beneath my fear, maybe he was held by my defiance of circumstance, the way I hadn’t bent completely even though I was surrounded by invisible chains.

But alongside that attraction, resentment also bloomed. Because Patroclus, with all his kindness, with all his sweetness, was still a warrior. A killer. He had taken more lives than he could count, had lived with violence woven into him, and though he was better than most of the men around me, he still carried inside those ideas that turned my stomach. That way he spoke of me as if I “belonged” to someone, as if my worth were always tied to another’s possession. He was more careful, yes, but the root was the same: in his mind, I was never completely free.

And I knew it, I felt it in my bones: even if he was drawn to me, even if he fed illusions of what we could be, if the moment came when Achilles decided to kill me, Patroclus would accept it. Pained, yes, maybe full of guilt, but he would accept it all the same. Because his loyalty was and always would be to Achilles. I could never compete with that bond, could never undo that love.

That certainty burned inside me even while the taste of his mouth lingered on mine. And it tore at me to admit it: part of me desired him, clung to that warmth as if it were a lifeline. But another part looked at him with resentment, with restrained fury. I didn’t want to need him. I didn’t want to care. And yet here I was, trapped in the contradiction of hating what he represented and at the same time letting his hands hold me as if they were the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

Patroclus kept looking at me as if my thoughts were written in my eyes even though I hadn’t spoken them aloud. His expression, so laden with tenderness it was unbearable, softened even more when he leaned in and pressed a brief, almost timid kiss to my lips. It wasn’t like the one before—desperate and hungry—but a small, fragile touch, as if to remind me he was there, that he didn’t intend to let me go completely.

When he pulled back, the smile that spread across his face was so sweet it disarmed me. There was something of a boy in it, a brightness that clashed too sharply with the hardened soldier he had learned to be. Before I could react, he took my hand in his, with a care almost reverent, and guided me toward the tent’s exit.

The morning chill struck me at once as we slipped past the canvas. Outside, the camp roared with activity: soldiers sharpening their swords, loud laughter, voices mixing with the metallic clang of shields. The air smelled of iron and sweat, of expectation before the blood.

Patroclus let go of my hand quickly, almost abruptly, and for an instant I felt a strange emptiness in the fingers he had released. He hadn’t done it harshly, but with the quick practicality of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. He couldn’t afford to be seen holding me like that, with such dangerous closeness. Outside, we were only what Achilles said we were: me, a prize; him, his loyal shadow.

He stepped just ahead, and I followed. His stride was calm, steady, as if nothing unsettled him, but now and then he turned his head back toward me, those quick glances only I could catch, making sure I wasn’t falling behind.

We crossed the camp in silence, between makeshift huts and canvas tents rising like gray monsters. The men watched us sidelong, some boldly, others with mere curiosity, and I forced myself to keep my head high, feigning a confidence I didn’t feel. The murmur of conversations mingled with the clash of weapons from training, and all that noise felt like a cruel reminder of what was to come: Percy’s fight.

At last, Patroclus stopped in front of Damaris’s tent. The canvas was more modest than Achilles’s, without ornaments, without pretension—just a small shelter compared to the hero’s luxury.

She appeared in the doorway at the sound of footsteps, arms crossed, expression sharp. When she saw us together, her brow furrowed slightly, as if she already sensed the reason for our visit.

“Damaris,” said Patroclus, his tone serious but courteous. “I need you to watch her today.”

She arched a brow, her gaze sliding from him to me and back again. She didn’t ask much, but her eyes betrayed the discomfort of someone who knows that saying yes means taking on risk.

Patroclus gave her no room for hesitation.
“Just for today. You know her already. And I trust you.”

The woman sighed, resigned, and stepped aside to let me in. I moved forward, but before crossing the threshold, Patroclus leaned toward me. His eyes searched mine with intensity, as if he wanted to say more but didn’t dare. In the end he only nodded, his voice low, grave.

“You’ll be fine.”

I didn’t know if he said it to reassure me or himself, but I didn’t answer.

He turned at once, with that military efficiency so typical of him, and disappeared into the crowd, his silhouette quickly swallowed by the sea of men and weapons.

I stepped into Damaris’s tent, the air inside heavier and quieter than outside. She studied me in silence, with the cold scrutiny of someone weighing just how much trust to grant the person before her. I said nothing; there was no need. I settled where she indicated and let the silence wrap around me.

Inside, my mind was already calculating. Having the day with Damaris wasn’t a sentence—it was an opportunity. With some luck, I could pry information from her, something valuable, another crack I could use against this cursed camp. Meanwhile, every step, every face, every tent I’d seen as I crossed the camp was etched into my memory.

Today would not be wasted.

I had faith that, between what I observed and whatever Damaris might let slip, I would find something useful. Something that would bring me closer to Percy and our escape. It was only a matter of time.

PERCY

The sound of heavy footsteps on stone was the first thing I heard upon waking. I opened my eyes to the gloom of the cell, the damp air clinging to my skin, and for a moment I didn’t know if I’d slept an hour or an entire day. The chain on my ankle rattled faintly as I sat up, reminding me where I was, reminding me how far away everything I’d once called home now lay.

“Up, brat.” The guard’s voice bounced off the walls, harsh, mocking.

Two figures appeared beyond the bars, armor gleaming with the faint light trickling from the corridor. The door opened with a screech that raised the hairs on my neck, and before I could speak, they were already inside. One tossed me a water skin, the other a chunk of bread and a bowl of meat still steaming.

“Today’s the big day,” said the taller one, grinning with wine-stained teeth. “Let’s see if you’re worth anything, or just a pretty face who’ll die quick.”

The other chuckled low, the ugly sound of men who feed on suffering.
“Don’t treat him too badly. We need him strong. No point in a spectacle if the prey doesn’t last a heartbeat.”

I stared at the food, throat dry with thirst, but my stomach twisted in knots nothing could undo. The last time they’d given me something decent… I couldn’t even remember. Surely they wanted me to enter the arena with energy—not because they cared if I lived or died, but because the crowd wanted blood, not a body collapsing at the first blow.

I grabbed the water skin, drank deeply. The water was warm, dirty, but it slid down like balm. Then the bread—hard at the edges, soft in the center, filling my mouth with a dry heaviness. The meat had a strange taste, too fatty, but I didn’t allow myself the luxury of refusal. I swallowed everything quickly, because I knew I needed every calorie, every drop of strength I could steal from them.

As I chewed, the thought stabbed into my chest: I was going to have to kill them. There was no escape. This wasn’t training, this wasn’t a drill. Today was the day they’d unleash me like a dog into the arena, to face desperate men, weary soldiers, prisoners like me. There was no choice: if I wanted to keep breathing, I would have to kill.

The thought gnawed at me more than hunger ever could. I didn’t want to. Gods, the last thing I wanted was to stain my hands with blood that wasn’t mine, to rip life from men who were surely just as trapped as I was. It wasn’t fair. None of this was. But here, there was no justice—only spectacle. And I was the main attraction.

I drew a long breath, clenching my fists until the pressure ached in my bones. I couldn’t stop the fight, but I could decide how I would fight. If they forced me to kill, I would do it quickly, denying them the pleasure of a bloody show. No cruelty, no torture. I would survive without becoming what they wanted to see.

But even as I repeated that to myself, I couldn’t shake the image of Giuliana from my mind. Where was she now? Was she still safe? Or had Achilles carried out his threat and taken her from me forever? Rage burned through me at the thought. She was the only thing keeping me sane in this place, the only reason I could still breathe without giving up. I had to see her, even from afar—I had to know she was alive. If anyone hurt her… I didn’t care how many gods or heroes stood in my way, I didn’t care if it cost me my life: I would make them pay.

The screech of the bars pulled me from my thoughts. One of the guards tossed a light cuirass at my feet, little more than hardened leather.
“Put it on. Not to protect you—just so you look like a warrior when the spectacle begins.”

I took it silently. The material was coarse, uncomfortable, more decoration than defense. I tied it tightly, my fingers tense, forcing myself to breathe slowly. I wouldn’t let them see my rage. I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of fear.
Survive, I told myself. Do it fast. Do it clean. And remember why you fight.

Giuliana. I thought only of her. While they saw me as a prisoner meant to kill or die, I clung to her face like a beacon in this darkness.

The keys grated in the lock, and the bars swung open with a sharp clang. The two guards entered, spears glinting in the torchlight, and one shoved me hard on the shoulder.
“On your feet, prisoner.”

I rose slowly, my body heavy with sleeplessness and tension, but without looking away. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. The chains rattled against the stone as they were removed at last—not as a gift of freedom, but because they needed me unshackled to fight.

“Everyone wants to see you today,” one growled, a twisted smile on his face. “Let’s see how long you last.”

The other barked a rough laugh, jabbing me with the butt of his spear to make me move.
“With luck, you’ll give us a good show before you die.”

I stepped out of the cell, my stomach knotted, swallowing rage along with fear. The corridor was dimly lit by torches, their smoke casting long shadows against the damp walls. Each step echoed strangely, as if the very camp were listening for the sound of my march toward doom.

When at last we stepped outside, the contrast struck me like a blow. The morning sun blinded after so much darkness, the air thick with the smell of iron, sweat, and roasting meat. And the noise… gods, the noise was deafening. Shouts, laughter, wagers yelled at full voice. Soldiers paused in their drills just to stare at me, curious, hungry-eyed, some openly scornful, others with morbid fascination.

“There goes Achilles’s dog,” I heard someone mutter, and the laughter that followed burned into my back like knives.

Walking among them was like crossing a swarm. Everyone seemed to have something to say: bets on how long I’d last, comments on my appearance, filthy jokes about what would happen once Achilles tired of me.

I kept my head high, though every word was a venom seeping under my skin. I would not give them what they wanted. I would not bow, I would not show fear. If they saw me as a spectacle, at least I would decide how I played my part.

We passed rows of tents, canvas flapping in the wind, spears gleaming where they were planted in the ground, and I committed every detail to memory. The paths, the faces, the weapons. It was instinct, my way of reminding myself that even if they used me as circus meat, I was still thinking of escape.

A group of young soldiers blocked the way for a moment, their eyes alight with excitement. One raised his voice above the din:
“Hey, prisoner! Don’t take too long to die—I’ve got a bet against you!”

The laughter chased me down the path, but I didn’t answer. The only thing I could think, as my eyes swept the tents, was of Giuliana. If she was somewhere in this camp, if she might see me enter the arena. Had they let her go? Or was she locked away again, far from all this? The thought of her suffering alone cut deeper than all the taunts combined.

The guards shoved me forward again, setting the pace. Each step drew me closer to the arena, and I could feel it in the air, as if the expectation hung heavy over every tent, every gaze.

The roar of the crowd swelled as we advanced. Voices, chants, makeshift drums beaten against shields. The Greeks thrived on blood and glory, and today I was their toy.

My heart pounded hard, not only for what was coming but for what it meant. Survival would not be easy. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I would have to kill men I didn’t know—men who were probably here only because they had fallen from favor. Men with names, with families, turned into flesh to feed a spectacle. And I would be the executioner, whether I wanted it or not.

We kept walking toward the place of combat, and the murmur transformed into a roar the moment I crossed the makeshift arch of the entrance. The arena was nothing more than a wide circle marked by stakes and ropes, the dry earth scarred with fresh footprints of battle and dark stains that needed no explanation. It wasn’t some grand coliseum or temple to spectacle, but a bastard invention of the Achaeans: a playground raised in the middle of camp, enough for blood to soak the dirt and laughter to rise.

The air was thick with dust and anticipation. Soldiers of every age crowded around, some standing, others on rough benches, all shouting, pounding their shields, laughing with that hungry eagerness for violence. And above that sea of men, one structure stood out: a wooden platform, crude but clearly built to raise the important above the rest.

And there they were.

Achilles, seated bare-chested, glowing under the sunlight as if the very air fed him, golden hair spilling over his shoulders, his expression marked by a natural arrogance, as though the world existed solely to amuse him. At his side, quieter but impossible to ignore, Patroclus. His eyes swept the arena with a seriousness that clashed with the laughter around him, and when they met mine for a fleeting instant, I noticed something different. Not mockery, not bloodlust. It was more… care? Resentment? I couldn’t read it, but it was enough to spark something strange in my chest.

The noise of the crowd fell silent the moment the hero rose to his feet. He didn’t need to shout—his presence alone drew attention like a tide.

“Men of Greece,” he began, his voice ringing clear, arrogant, carried by the wind. “Today awaits us a worthy entertainment, a celebration of our strength, a reminder of what it means to be Achaean.”

The cheers broke in, and he waited, patient, savoring every second of the fervor he inspired.

“We have gathered here the best among our prisoners, soldiers fallen into disgrace, men seeking redemption through the blood of others. And it will not be a simple fight. It will be every man for himself—for that is how a true warrior is measured: when there are no rules, no allies, only strength and the will to live.”

The applause and shouts thundered, and Achilles raised a hand, quieting the crowd.

“But today we have a special guest.” His smile curved, cruel, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he turned toward me. “Many of you remember him. Perseus.”

The roar was deafening. Names shouted, insults, wagers hurled into the air.

“The very one who cut down ten of my men before being captured.” Achilles stretched a hand toward me, as though I were a trophy to be displayed, not a man still breathing. “No small feat—but we shall see if fortune favors him when the only thing that matters is instinct.”

The air seemed to vibrate with tension. I felt the ground shake under the pounding of shields, the chants calling for blood, the roar of spectacle.

"And I am not alone in this decision." Achilles tilted his head toward the bearded man at his side, his voice laced with that false camaraderie meant only to glorify himself "I have convinced Odysseus, son of Laertes, king of Ithaca, to join us in this little diversion."

Beside them stood another man I hadn’t noticed before in this privileged place, though I remembered him well. A trimmed beard, a cunning gaze, a gleam in his eyes that seemed to see everything, weigh everything. His posture was relaxed, as if nothing could ever catch him off guard.

The arrogant know-it-all who had questioned me when I awoke. It wasn’t until Achilles raised his voice that I understood who he was.

So this was Odysseus… the same man the songs claimed had dared to defy Poseidon. How charming. But I am not my father, and I do not intend to let some bearded fox drive a knife into me.

I met his gaze, steady, without lowering my head. If he was the mind of the Greeks, then he might as well paint a target on my forehead. Let him try. There was no maze, no trick, no trap that could save him from what I was on the battlefield.

Achilles raised his arms, like a god at his altar, and the crowd erupted again in screams.
"Let the spectacle begin."

Thirty men crossed the gates of the arena. It was no orderly march, no parade. It was a broken procession of taut muscles and eyes burning with fear and fury. Some were soldiers still bearing dignity etched into their backs; others were mere prisoners, long out of practice with a blade, yet clutching the metal now as if it were their last hope.

I saw one with a face carved in scars, a veteran who must have survived more than anyone here could imagine. His hand did not tremble on the shield, but his eyes carried that dull shine of one who no longer expects to live. Beside him, a boy barely older than me, the new bronze of his hilt gleaming under the sun, breathing fast, far too fast, as though each breath might be his last. Another, a giant with a thick beard, dragged a broken chain still hanging from his ankle, and when he lifted his head it was clear he wanted nothing more than to crush the first man who stood in his way.

We all stared at one another, measuring distances, finding enemies in every pair of eyes. The tension grew so thick the air turned liquid, heavy, impossible to breathe. No teams, no sides: every man for himself. And everyone knew only a few would walk away.

The cry that shattered the silence did not come from Achilles, nor from Odysseus. It came from a desperate man who charged the nearest opponent with an animal roar. The rest erupted behind him, as if they had only been waiting for someone to take the first step.

The ground became a storm of blows, steel clashing, flesh tearing. Shields splintered, swords sank deep. I saw the boy with the gleaming bronze drive his weapon into the scarred veteran’s belly, and he barely had time to free it before another split his skull with an axe that dropped him lifeless to the ground. A man shouted—not in pain, but in rage—and raised the head of a rival like an improvised trophy. Blood sprayed across the dry earth, painting a map of violence in every direction.

I tried to hold back for a moment, watching, calculating. But there was no room. A metallic shriek forced me to turn—too close.

A soldier lunged at me, bloodshot eyes wide, mouth open in a war cry. I barely raised my sword in time to block the descending strike. The impact lashed through my arm like fire. I stumbled back, dodging a second cut that grazed my shoulder.

He was no amateur. His movements were clumsy but desperate, and that made him dangerous. He attacked without restraint, with that blind rage that could split you in two even if he did not know how to fight.

I forced myself to breathe, to slow down, to let the adrenaline settle into my muscles. The next thrust I deflected with the blade and shoved him with my shoulder, sending him stumbling back. His eyes still burned; he would not yield.

He came again, straight for my throat. I ducked, the hiss of steel brushing past my ear, and before he could turn I drove my sword into his side. The cry he gave died in his throat as the blade slid clean, cutting through air and flesh. His knees buckled and he collapsed heavily onto the bloodstained earth.

The stench of hot blood struck me hard. There was no time for pity, no space for doubt. Another man was already forcing his way toward me, swinging a hammer as though he meant to crush me in two.

I drew a deep breath, tightened my grip. This was only the beginning.

The hammer never touched me. I slipped aside and the weight of the blow split the ground with a crack that threw dust into the air. I gave him no chance to lift it again. I surged forward, slammed into him, and before he could recover I buried my blade in his chest. He shuddered once and collapsed, heavy, dead at once.

Five more men stood before me.

The first rushed in with his sword high, screaming as if the noise alone would make him strong. I did not wait. I stepped in and cut him across the side, just under the arm. His scream broke in his throat before he fell.

The second tried to take advantage, thrusting his spear straight for my chest. I twisted, seized his arm, and pulled hard. The same motion wrenched him off balance. Before he could react, I drove my blade into his gut. He folded over himself, blood spilling between his fingers.

A third man, a hulking brute with a tangled beard, charged at me with an axe. I blocked the strike, the edge grazing my shoulder, but I was already inside his guard: I raised my sword and drove it into his neck. A red spray burst out and drenched my face.

The fourth came from the side, agile, fast, with two knives. He slashed the air in front of me again and again, but I waited, waited… until he left an opening. I caught his wrist, twisted him, and shoved him onto the tip of my blade. He didn’t scream. He just stared wide-eyed, the air leaving him in a sigh.

The fifth was a boy, barely older than me. He looked at me with terror, yet still charged. I didn’t want to prolong it: I sidestepped and drove my sword into his heart. He fell without a sound, as if he had been waiting for the blow.

I straightened, my breathing only slightly ragged, surrounded by bodies. Five men down, and I was still standing.

And then I felt the silence. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t respect. It was unease.

Because there was no spectacle in my kills. No drawn-out screams, no suffering. Only clean cuts, swift and precise. And that was not what they had come to see.

—Look at him! —Achilles’ voice rang out from the stands, powerful, mocking—. The prisoner who made my men bleed! Will you let him slaughter you one by one like cattle?

The crowd roared, excited, and the ones who remained turned new eyes on me. Fear mingled with hatred. If they wanted to survive, they had to crush me.

Fourteen men tensed at once, ready to hurl themselves at me.

—Perfect… —I muttered through my teeth, raising my sword.

The first charged with a cry, clumsy but desperate. I met him with a sharp twist, deflecting his blade and sinking mine into his throat. He fell before finishing his howl. I had no respite: another was already coming from the left with a makeshift spear. I ducked and shoved him forward, using his own momentum to drive the spear into the belly of a third charging behind. Two in one.

The ground dissolved into chaos.

One slammed into my back with a shield, the blow ripping the air from my lungs and nearly buckling my knees. Another tried to take advantage, driving his sword into my side, but I managed to roll, the edge only tearing cloth and leaving a burning line on my skin. It didn’t matter. Rage drove me to my feet and I hacked through the shield-bearer’s knee with a single strike. His scream was brutal, but I silenced it instantly with a cut to the throat.

Sweat burned my eyes, another man’s blood sliding down my arm, sticky and slick. All around was noise: the roar of the crowd, the clash of weapons, the panting of desperate men.

An axe whistled past my cheek, so close I felt the heat of the cut air. Instinct took over—I seized the attacker’s wrist and twisted until I heard the dry crack of bone snapping. The axe fell, and I buried it in his chest before he had time to scream.

I moved fast—too fast for them. Not because I sought to show off, but because I couldn’t afford to stop. Every death was clean, direct, without spectacle, but the speed only made them more frenzied.

A group of four organized, surrounding me. One in front, another behind, two at my sides. I tensed, breathing deep, measuring the moment. The first advanced, raising his sword high; I sidestepped and shoved him into the man at my left, who couldn’t stop in time and drove his own blade through his ally. I seized the opening, turned on the second, slashed his thigh, and finished him before he could rise. The fourth lunged at me with a shout, but his desperation sealed his fate: I met him with an upward stroke that split him open from belly to chest.

The stench of iron in the air was unbearable. My ears rang with the roar above, with the frenzy of those bastards celebrating each life that hit the dirt.

Of the fourteen, only four remained.

One, enormous, nearly a mountain, tried to crush me with a downward sword stroke. I barely blocked, my arm nearly wrenched out of its socket if not for the curse of the Styx. My knee flared with pain as I twisted to throw him off balance, and only with animal effort did I manage to drive my blade into the base of his neck. His weight dragged me down with him, his warm blood pouring over me.

I drew a deep breath, forcing myself to rise with difficulty. I couldn’t afford to stop. There were always more, always advancing with that mix of hatred and fear, as if the only way out of this arena was through me.

I lifted my sword, steady, eyes locked on them.
"Come all at once, if you want" I spat, not realizing I had spoken aloud.

And they came. I really needed to learn to keep my mouth shut.

The three who remained circled me, panting, covered in blood not all their own. They didn’t look like warriors, they looked like wraiths held up only by the fear that was devouring them. And still, they charged.

The first came straight at me, his sword trembling in his hands. Too open, too desperate. I caught him with a diagonal slash that opened him from shoulder to hip. The air left him in a gasp and he fell to his knees before collapsing, as if emptied from within.

The second tried to seize the distraction, a knife low, straight for my ribs. I felt it coming. I pivoted, caught his wrist, and smashed him against my shoulder. The crack of bone was instant. He screamed, but the sound cut short when I slit his throat before he could suffer.

The last froze for an instant, breathing like a trapped animal. I saw his doubt, his trembling. His sword was high, but his eyes already defeated. Still he charged, for he had no choice. I slipped aside in a sharp move and drove the blade into his side, straight to the heart. He fell into my arms, as if expecting me to hold him, then slid down, lifeless, onto the bloodstained earth.

I stood in the middle of the arena, surrounded by corpses. Thirty had entered. Thirty were dead. I was still breathing.

The silence that fell over the camp was so heavy I could hear my own heart pounding in my chest. Hundreds of eyes stared at me from the stands: hardened soldiers, commanders, prisoners, even slaves. None spoke. Only the sound of the wind and the slow drip of blood into the soil.

And then, like a spark, someone shouted. Another followed. Soon it was a roar.

"Killer! Warrior! Beast!" the cries rose, tangled together, a wave of fury and celebration. They clapped, beat their shields against the ground, chanted as if I were their champion and not a prisoner.

I felt no glory. Only the blood on my hands.

And amid that sea of voices, Achilles’ laughter rang out, clear, arrogant, jubilant.

"You have not disappointed me, prisoner!" his voice thundered, as if he spoke only to me, as if the whole camp were witness to our dialogue "Thirty men, and not one has managed to mark you deeper than the skin!"

He rose, stretching his arms wide like a god pleased before his faithful. His smile was feral, full of teeth and pride.
"Look well upon him, soldiers! Carve his face, his fury, his way of killing into your memory!" the roar of the crowd drowned him a moment, but he pressed on, unstoppable "Place your bets, for tomorrow the beast you see in the arena will face the lion who commands you!"

He didn’t say the name. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew who the lion was. Achilles.

The roar was deafening. Shouts, cheers, fists in the air, wagers bellowed in every direction. The promise of a spectacle beyond compare burned in every throat.

I stood amidst the corpses, breathing, while the echo of the crowd vibrated in my bones. Glory was not what I sought. But that mattered to no one. To them I was only another monster unleashed in the arena.

And tomorrow, the monster would face the lion.

Chapter Text

The morning dragged heavily, as if the sun itself were determined to remind me that time never stops, no matter how much I wished I could freeze it. Damaris had received me in her tent with the same expression as always: rigid calm, almost cold, like someone who accepts whatever is placed before them without emotion or enthusiasm.

I sat where she indicated, on some folded blankets, and tried to force a smile. Courtesy was all I had left, and pretending at least some sense of normalcy was better than sinking into silence.

“Thank you for seeing me again,” I said, my voice sounding far too weak even to my own ears.

She barely lifted her eyes from what she was doing. She was polishing a pitcher, drying it with a cloth as if it were the most important thing in the world.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked—dry, as if fulfilling a formality with no real expectation of an answer.

A bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

“As all right as a possession can be,” I replied, shrugging.

The silence that followed weighed more than the question itself. Damaris watched me for a few seconds with those dark eyes that seemed to measure more than they revealed, then went back to her task. There was no comfort, no kind words—but no reproach either. Only that practical indifference, as if in her world there was no longer room for illusions.

That was how we spent most of the time. She worked calmly, while I tried to help with small things: folding a cloth, arranging some pots, sorting a basket of fruit already starting to spoil. There was no light chatter, only stray comments about the order of the shop or about some slave who had gotten into trouble. I answered with monosyllables, grateful she didn’t force me to pretend more than necessary.

But inside, my mind was a swarm. Everything felt useless. Folding blankets, cleaning pots, arranging things—what good was any of that when Percy was only a few meters away, perhaps about to be thrown into a fight he wouldn’t survive? Every movement of mine felt ridiculous, like decorating a cell while he dragged chains.

I froze mid-motion, my fingers clenching tightly around the fabric I had been folding. Damaris glanced at me again, tilting her head slightly.

“Thinking too much won’t help,” she said bluntly, like someone offering advice learned the hard way.

I didn’t know what to answer. Part of me wanted to say that thinking was all I had left, that if I stopped I would collapse in seconds. But her words sounded so… real. Raw. Maybe that was what had allowed her to survive.

Before I could decide whether to reply, a noise interrupted me. At first I thought it was just another of those typical camp arguments. The murmur came like a buzzing slipping through the canvas walls—voices piling on top of each other, heavy footsteps rushing in different directions. Damaris frowned but didn’t move from her work. I stayed still, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

The noise swelled. It wasn’t just voices anymore—it was shouts. Shouts charged with the kind of energy only blood can rouse.

“Warrior!” they cried.

“What a beast! Incredible!” others shouted, laughing and whistling.

I shot to my feet, my heart racing, and before Damaris could say anything I had already shoved aside the flap at the entrance. The brightness blinded me for a moment, but then the scene opened before me: soldiers crowded together, shoving each other to get a better view. My eyes couldn’t reach, my height wasn’t enough. I cursed under my breath, my hands trembling in desperation.

I ran to some crates stacked by the tent, scrambling clumsily up them, nearly falling on my first attempt, until I finally managed to balance myself.
And then I saw him.
Percy.

He walked flanked by guards, pushed into the center of a passageway formed by the crowd. And he was covered in blood.

My breath caught sharply, the air ripped from me in a strangled gasp. Blood streamed down his arms, stained his torso, splattered across his face. I couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s, and that ignorance split me in two. My legs trembled so hard I thought the crate might give beneath me.

“Is it his? Gods, please, no… please no.”

I wanted to jump down, to run to him, to check with my own hands that no mortal wound hid beneath all that red. But he was too far, surrounded by Greeks pushing him like cattle.

My heart pounded so hard it hurt. If there was that much blood and he was still standing… then had he won? Had he survived?
And suddenly, the thought struck me with brutal force.

“He’s alive.”

Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them. The knot that had been choking me for days unraveled, and what came out was a sob—harsh, desperate, heavy with relief. The blood didn’t matter, the chains didn’t matter: Percy was there, walking, breathing.

I clamped both hands over my mouth as if I could hold the sob back, but the tears were already streaming down, hot and unstoppable. The Greeks cheered him as though he were a beast in some spectacle, as though his pain was only entertainment. But I heard nothing except the pounding in my ears and the truth hammering in my chest: he’s alive, he’s alive, gods, he’s still alive.

“Percy!” I tried to shout, but only a hoarse gasp tore out of my throat, heavy with all the weight of my desperation. I opened my mouth to try again, louder this time, with all my soul.
But hands shoved me down.

Damaris gripped me tightly, one hard palm crushing my mouth before the cry could escape.

“No!” she hissed into my ear, her voice low but sharp as a blade. “Shut up. Shut up!”

I struggled, eyes flooding, watching Percy vanish little by little between the lines of soldiers. His back receded, still upright, still invincible despite all the blood. And I was trapped, my throat torn by a scream that never left, Damaris’s hands pinning me to the cruel truth: I couldn’t call out to him, I couldn’t reach him, I couldn’t do anything.

I writhed beneath her hand, frantic, but Damaris held me with surprising strength, cold as iron. She yanked me off the crates in one brusque pull, and the instant my feet hit the ground, she released my mouth with a sharp click of her tongue.

“Control yourself,” she spat, those dark, serious eyes fixed on me without a trace of pity. “Do you want Achilles to hear you? To see you overflowing for that prisoner?”

I shook my head, trembling, tears still streaming down my cheeks, unable to find words.

“Listen well,” she went on, her voice low and grave, like someone delivering a sentence. “Achilles won’t like it. He doesn’t like his prize getting emotional, he doesn’t like sharing anything he considers his. And if you dare scream that name in front of him, after he explicitly forbade you from seeing him…”—she leaned closer, her gaze striking me like a blow—“you’ll regret it.”

I swallowed hard, lips dry, the sob still stuck in my throat.

Damaris shoved me back inside the tent, with no gentleness, as though she wanted to rip me away from the scene by force. She closed the flap behind us, cutting off both the air and the shouts of the crowd in one motion.

“Inside. Wait.” Her tone left no room for argument. She walked a few steps in with me, arms crossed, breathing heavily, as though she too were holding back something that couldn’t be unleashed. “Patroclus will surely come for you soon.”

I let myself collapse onto a stool, my body still trembling, my throat burning from the scream I hadn’t been able to release.

Damaris looked me up and down, her expression hardened, though for a second I thought I caught a flicker of compassion buried deep in her eyes. Barely a blink.

“Get ready,” she said at last, with a dry sigh. “Because Achilles will definitely revel in this. I know him well enough. He won’t let pass the chance to rub in what he saw today and what he plans to do tomorrow.”

I stayed still, hugging myself tightly, as if that were the only way to hold together a body that felt too fragile, too small inside that tent that seemed to be closing in around me. Damaris’s words kept bouncing in my head: control yourself, Achilles won’t allow it, prepare for when he gloats. Every syllable was a reminder of my condition, of that helplessness that devoured me day after day.

And yet, there was something else.

The image still burned in my eyes: Percy walking, drenched in blood, but alive. Breathing. Steady. Whole. That vision alone pierced through me like a jolt, like someone had lit a torch in the darkness where I had been trapped.

He had won. He hadn’t just survived—he had won.
They had thrown him into an arena against dozens of men, with everything against him, with the cruel certainty that he would be torn apart for Achilles’s amusement. And still, there he was, walking back, covered in red but with his head held high.

A sob of relief shook me again, but this time I held it back, clenching my teeth until my jaw ached.

That’s Percy, I told myself, clinging to his name like a talisman. That’s Perseus Jackson.

The boy who doesn’t know the meaning of surrender. The one who shoulders everything, even when dragged into a world not his own, even when chained and paraded as a spectacle. He always finds a way.

Achilles can believe himself invincible, can swell with arrogance, can play with the lives of others as if they were pieces on a board, but Percy… Percy knows his weakness. Percy knows what hides behind that shine of a perfect demigod, knows that even the invincible bleed.

And more than that. Percy isn’t just any warrior. He carries an ocean in his veins, a power neither the Greeks nor Achilles understand. They see him as a prisoner, as entertainment. I see him and I know he’s something else. That it isn’t possible for him to lose.

I wiped my tears with my sleeve, clumsy, almost furious at myself. Achilles could revel all he wanted, could fling his venomous words like knives, but inside me something had been ignited. A spark of confidence that even all my fear couldn’t extinguish.

Percy won today. And he will win tomorrow.

It’s impossible for him not to.

I repeated those words to myself like a mantra, again and again, until the trembling in my hands eased a little and air filled my lungs without tearing me apart. Yes, I was afraid. Yes, I was trapped in a prison disguised as a tent. Yes, Achilles would keep treating me as nothing.

But Percy was alive. After days of agony, seeing him was like drinking water after dying of thirst; the relief flooding my heart had me shaking. Percy was safe.

Time grew thick, endless. Only a few minutes had passed since Damaris shoved me back inside the tent, but it felt like hours of biting my lips, pacing, battling the images in my head. I forced myself to cling to the last one: Percy standing, alive, breathing. That had to be my anchor.

The canvas shifted with a snap. Patroclus appeared first as a shadow cut against the light, then slipped inside, closing it behind him. He was already dressed in the light armor he usually wore, hair tied back hastily, as if he hadn’t even looked in a mirror.

“Come,” he said simply, without explanation, motioning for me to follow.

I didn’t need him to say it twice. I rose at once, anxiety all but shoving me toward him. Damaris only inclined her head and stepped aside, as if the scene had nothing to do with her.

The air outside hit me again, thick with the stench of sweat and iron, of churned earth and blood. I walked beside Patroclus, trying to match his pace, but it was impossible to contain what was boiling in my throat.

“Did he win?” I asked at last, my voice nearly breaking, so low I was surprised he heard me. “Tell me, Patroclus… did he win? Is he all right?”

He didn’t look at me immediately. His eyes stayed fixed straight ahead, following the dirt path between the tents, as if any glance aside might betray him. The only thing he did was tighten his jaw—barely a gesture, but enough for me to know I had struck something.

And then I heard it, barely a murmur slipping out as if by accident, more to himself than to me:

“Gods… you really do care.”

I froze. For an instant I couldn’t tell if it sounded more like surprise, jealousy, or a muted reproach. Maybe a bit of all three. And the worst part was I couldn’t answer, because the truth was written in my dried tears, in my throat raw from swallowing screams.

At last he turned his eyes to me, and what I saw in his expression was a mixture of resignation and something bitter lurking in his voice. He raised his tone, as if to erase the weight of what he had just said.

“Let Achilles be the one to tell you.” His mouth twisted in a grimace that wasn’t quite a smile. “I won’t steal that childish delight from him. He’ll want to show you every detail, exaggerate it, rub it in as if it were his own victory. You know him.”

The word delight churned my stomach, but it wasn’t a lie. Achilles would never miss the chance to savor my fear, my desperation, my need for any scrap of news about Percy.

Patroclus lengthened his stride, as if eager to reach the destination faster and spare himself the discomfort of the moment. I had to hurry after him, my legs taut, my mind burning. No matter how much I tried, I wouldn’t get more out of him. He had decided: the answers, good or bad, would be part of Achilles’s private spectacle.

And so we moved through the tents, my heart pounding like a drum, each step counted like an approaching sentence.

The canvas of Achilles’s tent opened with a hot gust of air, carrying the smell of oiled weapons. Patroclus only motioned faintly for me to enter first, as if it were protocol not to be questioned, and I stepped through with my shoulders tense, fully aware that every step carried me deeper into the wolf’s den.

Inside, the space gleamed with the light of several burning lamps, as though it were night though it was barely midday. The air was thick with smoke, leather, metal, and spilled wine. And there he was.
Achilles.

Seated in the high chair beside the central table, his armor still gleaming as though each piece had been polished by hand before he wore it. The bronze shone under the lamplight, the red cloak on his shoulders falling in perfect folds, his blond hair tied back carelessly yet still beautiful, as if he didn’t even have to try. There wasn’t a single stain on him, no sweat, no blood, because Achilles hadn’t fought. He had only watched. And yet his gaze burned with an almost feverish intensity, as though what he had witnessed had set his veins ablaze.

“Ah, my prize,” he intoned, his voice light, almost cheerful, like someone greeting a long-expected guest. “Right on time.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His fingers drummed for an instant on the wood before going still, as though he could no longer contain himself.

He rose slowly, every movement charged with a restrained energy that made him look even more dangerous. He walked to the central table, where several cups lay overturned, and with his open palm struck a blow that thundered through the wood.

“Did you see it?” he asked, though the cruel spark in his eyes made the answer obvious. “Did you see what your friend did?”

I opened my mouth, but the air caught in my throat. I didn’t manage to reply before he went on, dragging out each word as if savoring the memory.

“Thirty men. Thirty boys who trained their whole lives to wield a sword. Thirty who believed today would be theirs, who screamed and fought as if the gods themselves were watching.” His voice turned almost poetic, each number a blow to my chest. “Thirty bodies now bleeding into the earth. Do you know how many survived to tell it? None.”

I stood rooted in place, my hands cold at my sides.

Achilles tilted his head toward me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath. His eyes gleamed, intense, as if he had stumbled upon a revelation that fascinated him.

“It wasn’t just rage,” he murmured, almost reverently. “It wasn’t just endurance. It was something more. Every strike, every movement… it was divine.”

The word lashed through me like a whip.

Achilles tilted his head further, studying my face as though searching my reactions for confirmation of his suspicion.

“Confess, Giuliana,” he said at last, his voice dragging, soft and venomous. “That prisoner… that Perseus. Isn’t he like you? Blood of gods, power hidden beneath skin that pretends to be mortal. You command shadows, living darkness. And he…” His smile widened, excited, dangerous. “He moves as though death itself obeys him.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of wood in the torches. I could barely breathe.

Patroclus was behind me, unmoving, like a statue, watching. He didn’t intervene. He couldn’t. This was Achilles’ scene, his ground, his cruel game.

Achilles stepped closer, until the tension grew unbearable.

“Tell me,” he whispered, as if we were sharing an intimate secret, though every word was a threat. “Is he your equal? Another chosen of the gods?”

I froze, feeling the weight of his gaze strip me to the soul.

I forced myself not to look away. My heart hammered against my ribs, a constant drum betraying me, but I couldn’t give him that satisfaction. I inhaled slowly and, with my voice as firm as I could make it, answered:

“Percy isn’t like me. There’s nothing divine in him. He’s simply an excellent warrior… he always has been.”

The words hung in the air, fragile as thread, and I knew instantly he didn’t like them.

Achilles’ smile vanished. His face hardened, and in his eyes flickered that dark spark that made my whole body scream to retreat. He stepped closer, and though he didn’t touch me, it felt as if claws had grazed my skin.

“Simply a warrior?” he repeated, voice low, restrained, like a beast’s growl caught in its throat. “Don’t lie to me, Giuliana. What I saw today was not human.”

He leaned toward me, and for an instant I thought he would strike me, strangle me just to rip the truth from my mouth. My breath faltered.

Behind me, I heard the crunch of Patroclus’ sandals on the ground. He had stepped forward, reflexive, his hand near the hilt of his sword. He said nothing, but I felt it: he was ready to stand between us.

The moment stretched to the breaking point.

Achilles held my gaze for what felt like centuries, his eyes blazing with fury, and suddenly… he pulled back.

His smile returned, twisted, bitter, like a dirty blade.

“You’ve ruined my mood,” he said with a dry laugh that carried no joy. He turned his back, walking slowly to his chair as if reclaiming his control with each step. “No matter.”

He dropped into the seat and rested his chin on his fist, his eyes fixed on me with renewed, poisonous interest.

“If your friend is what you say, a mere mortal with talent…” He shrugged, dismissive. “Then tomorrow he’ll die like all the rest. But if instead you hide something, if there is divine blood in his veins, if he holds power like yours…” He leaned forward, eyes glowing again, almost thrilled. “Then he’ll have no choice but to reveal it. He’ll bleed himself dry just to survive a little longer against me.”

The silence after his words broke with the sound of the tent flaps rustling. Two servants entered, carrying trays of roasted meat, warm bread, and jugs of wine. The heavy aroma filled the air, but no one breathed relief. The atmosphere still reeked of the tension from moments before.

Achilles didn’t take his eyes off me, not even as the servants began arranging the dishes on the table. His jaw worked slowly, as if still chewing the fury from earlier.

I swallowed with difficulty. The clink of dishes against the wood seemed too loud, almost insolent, as if daring to interrupt a moment already stretched to breaking.

Achilles watched them for a few seconds without real interest. Reclining in his chair, back straight, his gaze locked on me as though no one else existed. Then, with a vague wave of his hand, as if brushing away an insect, he spoke:

“I’ll dine alone tonight.”

My breath caught the next instant, because his eyes shifted to Patroclus.

“Take your little girlfriend with you.”

The world stopped. My eyes widened so much it hurt at my temples. Beside me, Patroclus went rigid, his mouth slightly open, surprise carved raw across his face.

Did he know? Since when? How much had he seen, how much had he guessed?

The servants continued arranging the dishes without a change of expression, unfazed. Like well-trained shadows, they ignored everything but their hands.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from Achilles. The air felt thicker with each passing second, and I became more and more certain he had discovered too much, that we stood naked before him.

Patroclus said nothing, and his silence only seemed to amuse Achilles. His smile curved slowly, twisted, cruel, and a low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“What’s the matter?” he prodded, tilting his head like a predator toying with prey. “Do you really think I’m an idiot?”

Patroclus pressed his lips together, shoulders taut, offering no reply.

Achilles settled more comfortably in his chair, drumming his fingers against the wood.

“Come now, Patroclus.” His voice rose slightly, savoring each drop of venom. “Kiss her. Fuck her. Do whatever you want. Whatever makes you feel better.”

His eyes slid to me, as though I were nothing more than a trophy placed on the table, an object to play with. The intensity of that gaze made me want to step back, to vanish, but my feet refused to move.

“Haven’t you earned it?” he continued, with a falsely kind, poisonous tone. “After so many years following me, obeying me… don’t you deserve a reward?”

Patroclus lowered his head for just an instant. When he raised it again, his eyes burned with restrained fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it nearly cracked, yet still he said nothing.

Achilles let out a dry, brief laugh. He leaned back, stretching his legs as though it were all a game that amused him more than expected.

Patroclus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Achilles, savoring the discomfort, went on—every word venom wrapped in honey.

“She is mine,” he continued, and as he said it his voice deepened, firm, as though the declaration carried the weight of law carved into stone. “My prize, my trophy, my possession.” He held my gaze, arrogance gleaming in his eyes, until I wanted to look away and couldn’t. “But you, Patroclus…”—there his tone shifted, hardness softening into a flash of twisted tenderness—“I love you so much that I can share her with you.”

The contrast was unbearable. That voice, able to destroy and caress in the same breath. That way of offering me not as a person, but as an extra luxury for the man he loved.

His laughter filled the tent, drowning even the sound of the servants arranging dishes.

“I’m such a good lover I can give you that gift.” He reclined in his chair as if savoring the moment. “You can fuck her while I fuck you, or you can fuck her while you suck my cock—so many options…”

Patroclus grew even more rigid, lips pressed tight, knuckles white. The humiliation of hearing those words as if they were nothing but a game. The humiliation of being loved and ridiculed in the same breath.

Achilles turned the wine chalice between his fingers, never looking away from us.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, like someone goading a dog to bark. “Does it surprise you? Did you think I didn’t see your nervous steps when she trembles? That I didn’t notice your glances? I know you too well, Patroclus. Better than you know yourself.”

Achilles lifted the cup of wine the servants had poured and raised it as though toasting himself.

“Don’t be mistaken, Patroclus. I’m not giving her to you. Giuliana is my prize. But I love you so much I can share her with you. Do you understand? Share… because in the end, everything is still mine.”

I froze, my breath jagged. The servants discreetly withdrew their hands after setting the dishes, pretending to be mute shadows, but the weight of his words filled everything.

At last, Patroclus seized my arm roughly. Not with tenderness, not with softness: like a man who needed to leave, to breathe. He dragged me toward the exit of the tent, his eyes downcast, his jaw tight.

I crossed the canvas with my heart in my throat. The cool evening air was no relief, only a reminder that the poison lingered inside.

And even outside, as we walked away, Achilles’ voice pursued us, each syllable echoing cruelly:

“Come on, Patroclus… don’t be shy. Make her yours. Make us yours. Be grateful for how much I love you.”

Shame flushed Patroclus’ cheeks red, but he gave no reply. He quickened his pace, pulling me with him, as if the only way to survive was to get away as fast as possible.

For a second I felt dizzy with the sensation of freedom, of leaving behind the suffocating weight of Achilles’ voice. But then I looked at Patroclus. And his silence was heavier than everything we had heard.

He walked rigid, steps harsh against the earth, not looking at me, not loosening the grip on my hand that dragged me along. It wasn’t the same touch as before—it wasn’t tenderness or protection: it was restrained fury, an anchor holding him upright when he seemed ready to collapse.

We kept on like that for some distance, weaving between dim tents, until the murmur of the camp faded and the only sound around us was distant water. We reached the stream, thin and clear beneath the moonlight, and there he finally stopped.

Patroclus didn’t speak. He didn’t release me at once. He only bowed his head, shoulders tense, as if wrestling with something burning inside.

“Patroclus…” I whispered cautiously.

He didn’t react immediately. The silence stretched so long I thought he might never answer me. And then I heard him.

“He’s never treated me like that.” His voice came out low, hoarse, as though the words hurt in his mouth. “Never me.”

I blinked, startled, not fully understanding. He lifted his gaze toward the water, but not toward me, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me while speaking.

“I know who Achilles is.” His tone hardened, a bitter mix of resignation and rage. “I know he’s arrogant, I know he can be cruel, that he treats the whole world like it’s beneath his feet… but with me…” He swallowed, his voice breaking faintly. “With me he had never been that way.”

A knot twisted in my stomach.

“I always thought…” he continued, and this time he did look at me, his eyes shining with something that felt more like pain than anger, “that with me it was different. That he loved me enough not to need to belittle me, not to turn what we had into a spectacle.”

The stream’s quiet seemed to sharpen every syllable.

“And today…” His breath grew uneven, his expression hardened. “Today he did. In front of you. As if I were…” His voice broke off, unable to finish.

I wanted to say something, anything that could ease the wound in his words. But I found nothing. There was no answer that could erase the reality: Achilles had humiliated him, and he had done it not in secret, but before me.

Patroclus clenched his fists at his sides, his face lit by moonlight. In that moment he seemed split in two: the loyal warrior who would never abandon Achilles, and the wounded man wondering if he had ever truly known the lover who claimed to love him.

I looked at him and saw pain tangled in every gesture, as if he were holding himself together with sheer will to avoid breaking before me. Without thinking, I stepped closer and touched his arm. He was rigid, tense like a string about to snap.

“Patroclus…” I whispered, and this time he didn’t pull away.

I moved a little closer, slid my fingers down to his hand, and gently forced his fists open. They were cold. I pressed his fingers with mine, and then, as if it were the most natural thing, I drew him into an embrace. At first he resisted, his body still hard, but in the end he let himself be held.

I felt his breath, uneven, against my hair. And I closed my eyes too, because seeing him like this hurt.

“What you have with him…” I began slowly, choosing each word with care, “it shouldn’t make you feel this way. Love… love shouldn’t leave you feeling like something’s just been ripped out of you.”

I felt him tense, as if he wanted to pull away, but I tightened the embrace, forcing him to listen.

“Love isn’t humiliation, Patroclus. It isn’t feeling like you have to accept any word, any blow, just because it comes from the one you love. It isn’t the fear of being reduced to nothing in front of others.”

I rested my forehead against his shoulder, speaking almost in a murmur.

“Real love is refuge. It’s where you should feel strongest, not smaller. It’s where you should be yourself, without fear, without masks.”

He said nothing, but the tremor in his chest told me the words had sunk in, even if they hurt.

I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. They were red, shining with that unbearable mix of tears from wounded pride and stubborn loyalty. I caressed his cheek slowly, as if the gesture alone could erase the damage Achilles had done with just a few words.

“Is it really love, Patroclus?” I whispered, almost tenderly, though doubt was a blade on my lips. “Or is it habit? Dependence? That idea that if you leave him, you’ll be left with nothing?”

He narrowed his eyes, as if wanting to deny it, but no voice came out.

“I don’t know,” I continued, brushing my thumb along the curve of his jaw. “I’m not the one to tell you what you feel. But what I saw today… what he did to you today… that’s not love.”

I embraced him again, this time softer, as if I wanted to give him a breath of air within the pain.

“You deserve more than that. You deserve to be loved without being shattered into pieces every time someone looks.”

A heavy silence wrapped around us, broken only by the murmur of the water. I felt him lean more heavily on me, as if the weight he carried was finally beginning to bend him. It wasn’t surrender, not yet, but it was a crack. A doubt.

And that doubt was all I needed to remain with him.

Patroclus didn’t answer right away. His lips pressed into a tight line, his jaw tense, and I could see in his eyes the silent battle raging inside him. At last, he pulled back a little, just enough to see my face, though the distance between us stayed close, as if he were afraid to let go completely.

“And what am I without him?” he finally asked, his voice a broken whisper, so faint it was nearly drowned by the river’s murmur.

It hurt. Because it wasn’t a question thrown into the air—it was a strangled cry coming from the deepest part of his chest.

“All my life…” he went on, eyes fixed somewhere behind me, as if he couldn’t hold mine. “Since I was a boy, since he took me with him… I’ve always been ‘Patroclus, Achilles’ one.’ His companion. His shadow. His other half, some say.”

He laughed, but it was a bitter laugh, one that broke before it was born.

“And that was enough. It was enough to be that. To be by his side, in war, in bed, in silence. I didn’t need more… because I thought I was the same to him.”

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tangling with frustration, as if he wanted to tear something out of his own head.

“But today… today he made me feel… small. Like I was nothing more than another of his soldiers, another toy he could throw cruel words at and then forget.”

His voice grew tight, charged with restrained anger.

“How am I supposed to live if I’m not his? Who am I without Achilles? No one sings of Patroclus. No one remembers my deeds. I’m not the hero. I’m not the invincible warrior. I’m the one who walks at his side.”

I looked at him, and for an instant, I saw the boy behind the man: one who had grown up clinging to someone so brilliant he had forgotten he had his own light.

I leaned closer again, slowly, taking his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me.

“You’re more than his shadow,” I said firmly, though my voice trembled under the intensity of his gaze. “Maybe no one sings of you, maybe the bards don’t remember your name, but I see it. I see the strength you have, the kindness you hide even in this rotten camp, the heart Achilles could never have.”

His lips parted, as if to answer, but nothing came out.

“You don’t need to be him to matter. You don’t need to cling to his name to exist. Love… true love, Patroclus, shouldn’t swallow you whole until nothing of you remains.”

I felt him tremble beneath my hands. Another crack. A moment in which he seemed torn between believing me or rejecting me.

“If I lose him…” he whispered then, so low I barely heard it. “If I lose Achilles… what’s left of me?”

I hugged him tightly, tighter than I thought I could.

“There’s Patroclus. And that… believe me, that’s already so much more than you think.”

He didn’t respond. He stayed still, letting my words wrap around him like a bandage over an open wound, though I knew the wound bled too deep to close in a single day.

Patroclus didn’t pull away entirely from my embrace, but his breathing grew uneven, charged with a tremor that had nothing to do with the night’s cold. At last, he leaned closer, just enough that his lips brushed near my ear, and his voice came out as a broken plea:

“You say you see the best of me… that I’m worth something.” He paused, swallowing hard, as if the words were blades inside his throat. “Then… do you love me?”

I froze. The river murmured nearby, indifferent, and I felt as if the whole world had stilled on that question. His eyes were fixed on me, so full of pain and hope it cut the air from my lungs.

I thought of my plan. I could lie. I could tell him yes, that I loved him, and it would be easy. Convenient. Just two words and I would have him, ready to give me whatever I needed. And yet…

I looked at him. At the man who had spent years orbiting someone who eclipsed him, who now confessed his emptiness as if he were a lost child. At the warrior who had killed, yes, but who still spoke to me with a tenderness the rest of the camp had never seen. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t drive a lie into his heart when it was already laid open, raw.

I swallowed, placing my hands against his face, forcing myself not to look away.

“Patroclus… love isn’t something that happens overnight,” I finally said, with the calmest voice I could muster. “It doesn’t spring from nothing, it doesn’t get built from a single conversation by a river.”

I saw the light dim slightly in his eyes, saw how he braced himself for the worst, and it crushed my chest. I pressed his cheeks more firmly in my hands, forcing him to stay with me.

“I have to keep Percy safe first.” The words came rushed but firm. “He’s my priority, I can’t pretend otherwise. Everything I do, every decision, every breath I take here… it’s for him.”

His lips tightened, his jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt me. And then I added, lowering my voice to almost a whisper:

“But… yes. I can see how I could fall in love with you.”

His eyes opened slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that turn.

“Not now,” I hurried, before he could misinterpret my words. “Not the way you feel it, not with the strength you wish. But when you speak to me, when you look at me, when you make me feel like I’m still someone and not just… a prize in Achilles’ hands…” I stopped, trembling. “Yes. I can see how it could happen.”

Patroclus closed his eyes for a second, and a sigh escaped him, heavy with both relief and sorrow. He leaned into me, resting his forehead against mine, as if he needed to anchor himself to something real.

“Thank you…” he whispered, his voice so broken it hurt. “Thank you for not lying to me.”

I hugged him again, tightly, and this time I didn’t think about plans or strategies. I thought of him, only him: of a man who had lived too long in another’s shadow, and who now searched desperately for someone to see him as more than that.

His breathing slowed little by little, though the tremor in his hands remained, subtle, like the echo of a storm that had just passed through him. When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice, barely a murmur over the stream’s quiet song:

"I don’t want this." The words spilled out with unbearable weight. "I don’t want to keep living among screams, blood, and orders. I don’t want to fight anymore. This war…" He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut as if ashamed to even say it. "This war feels stupid."

I looked at him in silence, letting him continue, because I knew it wasn’t easy for him to confess something like that.

"I’ve been thinking about it for a while." His voice cracked into a thin thread. "The way Achilles treats everyone else… his arrogance, the way he uses people like pieces in a game. Sometimes I look at him and I’m horrified. But then he looks at me and… and I love him." He opened his eyes, and the sadness in them was so deep I felt it steal the air from my chest. "I love him, and still… after what happened today, after what he said in front of you…" He faltered, swallowing hard, his lips trembling with pain. "I don’t know what to do."

Neither did I. For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond, how to gather words that could hold him up. But then I embraced him again, pressing him against me, and spoke into his ear with a conviction that even surprised me.

"We could leave." I said it slowly, as if testing dangerous ground. "You don’t have to stay here, you don’t have to keep living like this. I…" I took a breath, feeling the weight of what I was revealing. "I have my shadows. With them, I could take us anywhere we wanted. You’d protect me with your sword, and I’d protect you with my powers. We wouldn’t need anything else."

Patroclus went rigid in my arms at first, as if the idea had struck him out of nowhere. Then, little by little, he began to relax. His breathing shifted: from ragged to deeper, slower, and his hands wrapped around my waist with a new kind of strength, different, as though he were holding on not only to me but to that vision I had just painted in his mind.

"Leave…" he repeated, and a spark lit in his gaze, a mix of disbelief and hope. "Just you and me?"

I nodded, caressing his face gently.
"You and me. Wherever you want. A place without Greeks, without Trojans, without this cursed war. Just us."

A sigh escaped his lips, heavy with something that sounded like relief, as if for the first time he could imagine a world where Achilles wasn’t at the center of everything.

"Can you imagine it?" he murmured, almost like a child dreaming out loud. "Living far away, with no orders, no camps. A small house, maybe by the sea. I… I could fish, build something with my own hands. And you… you’d make that place alive, make it ours."

I looked at him, moved. There was a sweetness in that vision I had never seen in him before, as if all the weight of the years spent in Achilles’ shadow dissolved for a moment in the reflection of another kind of life.

Patroclus leaned his forehead against my shoulder and let out a brief, nervous laugh, like he feared my shadows might dissolve that illusion at any second.
"It’s madness," he said, but he was smiling when he said it, with a brightness in his eyes I had never seen before. "And still… for the first time in so long, I want to believe in it."

I didn’t know what to answer. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my throat had closed with a strange knot, a mix of tenderness and ache. I held him tighter, letting that silence be filled only by the sound of the flowing water, and I thought that even if it was only an illusion, at least he had found a breath of relief.

And then the question hit me: what about me? What would become of me after all this?

My plans—if they could even be called plans—were nothing more than surviving, finding a way to get Percy out alive, and fulfilling my goal of securing a stable, healthy bond between Percy and Apollo. After that, only emptiness. I had never thought about an "after," because in my mind that after was always shadows, always doubts (I still wasn’t sure if I’d even survive).

And yet, here was Patroclus, putting words to that emptiness. And I… I found myself wondering if it really was so impossible.

Because yes, I liked Percy. How could I not? He was the one who had saved me so many times, the boy who could make me laugh even when the world was collapsing. With him, everything was natural, like breathing. And still… he wasn’t mine. He never was. Percy had another destiny, one too bright for me to stand in its way. He was marked by the gods, destined for Apollo, and I knew it.

Sometimes it hurt to think of it, like a pinch to the heart, but it was the truth: with Percy, all I could do was walk beside him for as long as I could, and then let him go. There was no other option.

And after resolving things with Percy, after delivering him to Apollo as I must… what would be left for me? Nothing. Just an enormous silence. And in the middle of that void… why not him? Why not Patroclus, with his shy laughter and trembling hands, with his doubts and his too-simple dreams?

I had never wanted to be a mother. The mere thought felt like a chain: children, diapers, debts, and a mediocre husband who, at best, barely contributed. I had grown up seeing it, hearing it, women resigned to carry everything while men played at feeling important. To me, that life was a sentence, not a dream.

But here… here things were different.

Patroclus wasn’t perfect. Not even close. He was still a warrior, still someone with blood on his hands and the eyes of a man who had accepted horrors as part of his fate. And yet… there was something in him I didn’t see in others. His fragility. His tenderness. The way he held me not like a prize or a burden, but like a person.

He didn’t speak of me as an object, didn’t reduce me to flesh useful only for a bed. He looked at me as if he truly saw me, as if what I was—my shadows, my character, my fears—was something worth remembering.

Yes, I could fall in love with him. Not in a day, not like in tragedies where love strikes like lightning. But slowly, patiently. I could imagine it. I could see him caring for me while I cared for him. Not as a mother, not as a slave chained to a miserable future, but as a woman finally choosing for herself.

While I listened to him dream about fishing and building a little house for us, I thought that in another time, in my world, I would have rolled my eyes and called someone like him naive. But here, in a camp filled with death, that naivety felt like a treasure.

Yes. After Percy, after Apollo… I would return to him. Maybe. Maybe it wouldn’t be impossible. Maybe it could even be beautiful.

I sighed, holding him tighter, as if with that gesture I could keep a piece of that illusion for myself.

Because even if the future was full of shadows, for the first time I didn’t see it as an abyss. I saw it as a door. And behind that door, there he was.

I caught myself smiling faintly, shyly, as I hugged him tighter. And in that smile, there was something that scared me to admit. Because even if Percy was that radiant impossibility, Patroclus was the possibility. The option that could be real.

And in a world where the only certainty was death, holding onto a possibility was almost the same as having hope.

"But Patroclus…" My voice was barely a whisper against his shoulder, but I felt him tense. I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "We have to escape. I can’t stay here pretending while Percy is still locked up like an animal."

I saw the change in his face immediately. First disbelief, then a bitter glint that hardened his gaze.

"Percy again?" His voice wasn’t a shout, not even open reproach; it was worse—it was a wounded murmur, like someone finally letting out what had been burning inside. "Since you arrived, Giuliana, there hasn’t been a single conversation with you that doesn’t revolve around him. Do you know what it’s like to always hear his name on your lips?"

I felt the air snag in my chest, a spark of anger forming inside me.

"It’s not—" I tried to defend myself, but he cut me off with a sharp gesture of his hand.

"You ask if he’s alive, if they feed him, if he fights, if they mistreat him. All the time. You never ask about me, never ask how I feel." His eyes locked onto mine, and in them there was jealousy, yes, but also a wound much deeper, much older. "And now you say you want to escape… but not with me, right? You want to escape with him."

I held him by the arms, tighter this time, almost forcing him to look at me.

“Yes, I care about Percy,” I admitted, my voice trembling but firm. “I care about him so much. He’s my friend, my family in this twisted world. I can’t stop thinking about him, I can’t resign myself to losing him, Patroclus. Not after everything we’ve been through together.”

He clenched his jaw, as if that confession hurt him more than any wound from war.

“Then tell me the truth,” he shot back, bitterness lacing his voice. “Is it him you love? Was it always him?”

I shook my head quickly, my heart pounding in my chest.

“No, you don’t understand…” My fingers rose to his face, brushing his cheek damp with the night’s dew. “Percy isn’t for me. He never was. He’s destined for someone else… someone immortal.”

His eyes lit up with shock.

“An immortal?” he whispered, as if the very concept weighed too heavy on him.

I tensed, my throat tightening. I only nodded.

“I can’t tell you who. I mustn’t, it’s what’s best for both of them. But believe me… if Achilles lays a hand on him, if he kills him… that someone will leave no stone unturned in this camp.” I swallowed hard, the certainty running through me like a shiver. “There wouldn’t be a place in this world where he could hide.”

Patroclus stepped back just slightly, as if my words had frozen his blood. But what I saw on his face wasn’t disbelief… it was fear.

“What kind of being…?” he began to ask, but his voice broke, dying away in the night wind.

I shook my head quickly, panic prickling across my skin.

“Don’t ask me, Patroclus. Don’t say it. I can’t tell you.”

Silence fell between us again, heavy, unbearable. Then I took a deep breath and, in a rush of determination, pulled him toward me, pressing him against my chest.

“Listen to me,” I whispered into his ear, urgency cutting into every word. “When Percy gets his happy ending, when he’s safe with the immortal who claims him, I’ll come back. I’ll come back for you.”

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and this time my voice didn’t waver.

“I swear it, Patroclus. I swear it by everything I am. If our feelings are the same… then we’ll leave together. We’ll escape this absurd war, and you’ll be free to build your house by the sea.”

He looked at me like a man who had just been offered the impossible. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, doubt and hope colliding in his gaze.

“You and me… away from Achilles?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“Yes.” I squeezed his hands in mine, as if I could transfer my certainty into him. “You and me. No more chains, no more orders, no more humiliations. A future together, one where you’re not ‘the shadow of Achilles,’ but Patroclus. Just Patroclus.”

He closed his eyes, and a trembling sigh escaped him. I watched his shoulders fall, as if all the bitterness and weight of that night had crashed down on him at once.

“Gods…” he murmured. “Giuliana… you don’t know how much I want to believe you.”

I hugged him tighter, feeling his vulnerability like a shared secret.

“Do it,” I said at last, my forehead pressed to his. “Believe me. I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want this to be all you have. And I know you don’t want to see me suffer either.”

I saw his lips press together, fury and pain still simmering in him, but little by little his breathing began to steady.

“All right…” he whispered at last, barely audible. “I’ll do what I can. I don’t want to see you broken, Giuliana. Not by Achilles, not by your… beloved Percy, not by anyone.”

The bitterness didn’t vanish completely, I could hear it in his voice, but he had yielded. And that concession, small as it was, was a promise binding us both.

The murmur of the stream barely covered the sound of my ragged breathing. Patroclus had been staring at the water for a long time, his jaw so tense it looked carved from stone. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to speak, to let out what was consuming him. At last he did, as if tearing the words out by force.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice low but edged with steel. “Tomorrow will be the final fight. Achilles wants the grand spectacle.”

My stomach twisted, and even before he explained I knew it couldn’t be anything good.

“What do you mean?” My voice came out in a thread, though I already feared the answer.

Patroclus ran a hand down his face, a weary gesture that reminded me of how young he was, and how old the war had made him.

“That he plans to put you on display,” he spat, blunt, like pulling out a poison. “He’ll dress you, adorn you, and almost at the end of the fight he’ll show you to Percy. To enrage him. To make him fight with more fury, until nothing is left of him.”

The air left my lungs in a single blow. The thought of being used as bait, as a circus prize, turned my stomach.

“Put me on display?” I repeated, each word acid on my tongue.

Patroclus nodded bitterly.

“That’s Achilles. Always looking for the cruelest way to amuse himself. Percy in the arena, bleeding, and you appearing as if you were the promise of a prize. That will push him to the limit. That will make him destroy himself faster.”

I covered my face with my hands, a groan of rage and frustration slipping out before I could stop it. No matter what I did, I always ended up reduced to that: a prize, an object, an incentive.

Patroclus gently took my wrist, lowering my hands slowly.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” he went on. “Who the guards will be, which routes are open, the blind spots. I’m almost sure it will be four—always the same men, Achilles’ trusted ones. I know them. They’re not invincible, but they’re not easy to get past either.”

I watched him close his eyes for a moment, as if mapping out the arena in his mind.

“All the exits are guarded, every one. Even at night there are sentries. I thought about taking you out tonight, right now.” He paused, bitter. “But if you disappear before the fight, they’ll know. They’ll blame me. And I wouldn’t even have an hour to breathe.”

He struck his knee with his fist, frustration seething in the gesture.

“I don’t know, Giuliana. I don’t know how to do it without getting us both killed.”

I stared at him. The urge to scream, to shake him, tore through me like lightning. But I swallowed it down and forced my words out clear.

“Then let the fight happen.”

He blinked, as if he hadn’t heard me right.

“What?”

“Let it happen,” I insisted, firmer now. “If we move before, Achilles will come straight for you. And I won’t allow that. Let him think everything is going according to his plan. Let him believe he controls every piece.”

Patroclus stared at me, jaw clenched.

“And in the meantime? We just wait for Percy to bleed out? For you to be paraded like bait in front of the whole army?”

The tremor in my hands gave me away, but I didn’t yield.

“Percy won’t bleed out.”

I felt my voice trembling, but I reinforced it with every ounce of conviction I could gather. “You saw him today. You heard him. He’s strong. Stronger than they think. And if anyone can defeat Achilles, it’s him.”

He looked away, biting his lip as if my words cut like knives.

“When Achilles thinks he’s victorious, when he believes everything is going according to plan,” I continued, leaning toward him, touching his arm to force him to meet my gaze, “that’s when I’ll move. In the confusion, in the chaos, the guards will be distracted. It’s the best chance we’ll get.”

Patroclus drew a long breath, his eyes locked on me. I could see the battle inside him—fear, doubt, desperation. At last, his shoulders slumped, defeated.

“All right,” he murmured, like a man bearing a cross. “We’ll let the fight happen. But listen well, Giuliana…” His voice dropped even lower, laced with restrained menace. “If Achilles changes his mind, if he decides not to wait, I don’t care about anything, I don’t care what you say. I’ll cut him down. With my own hands, if I must.”

I stayed silent a moment, watching Patroclus still torn apart, trapped between blind devotion to Achilles and the fury of being humiliated in front of me. I understood. I couldn’t rip away in one night what he had built his entire life around that man. But I couldn’t afford to be dragged down by his confusion either. I had to be cold. I had to think.

I took his hand gently, as if to soothe him—and partly, yes, but my voice came out firm.

“Listen to me. I don’t want you to fight him. Not now, not ever. I don’t want you to die.”

His eyes, heavy with pain, softened just slightly. I drew a deep breath and let out what I had been turning over in my mind for some time.

“If you really want to help me, if you want Percy and me to have a chance, I need more than your sword.”

He blinked, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Supplies.” I said it straight, like a plan already set in my head. “A pack, food, water, bandages, whatever you can get without raising suspicion. And… I need you to explain how the camp is divided. Where the tents are, the guard posts. I need to know everything, Patroclus.”

He stared at me for a long moment, as if he couldn’t quite process it. Or maybe as if it hurt him to see that my mind was no longer with him, but already set on escape.

“You want to handle it yourself?” he asked, almost in a whisper, tinged with disbelief.

I nodded without hesitation.

“Yes. You stay calm, watch the fight, let no one suspect you. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He lowered his gaze to the ground, lips pressed tight.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone…”

“I won’t be alone,” I interrupted, squeezing his hand tighter. “Percy will be in the arena, fighting, surviving, like always. I’ll have my shadows, my wit. You’ll give me what I need to move. And then… then we’ll finally have a chance.”

Patroclus lifted his eyes at last. In them I saw that strange mixture—pain, jealousy, affection, resignation. But also understanding.

“All right.” His voice was low, as if the words weighed him down. “Tomorrow, before Achilles sends you to be prepared, I’ll give you what I can gather. A small bag, no bigger than it needs to be. Dry bread, salted meat, a waterskin, bandages. Some oil for wounds. It won’t be much, but it’ll last a couple of days.”

I nodded, a knot tightening in my throat. That was more than I had hoped for.

He went on, slower now, almost like a teacher dictating a lesson.

“The camp is divided into three circles. The first, the common tents—the foot soldiers, the kitchens. The second, the veterans, the captains, the supply stores. And the third, the heart of it all: the tents of the kings and commanders, where the guards are heaviest. Achilles’ tent is in the center, near the command fires.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, retracing it all in his mind.

“The guards rotate every two hours. In the morning, it’ll be the usual men—Achilles’ trusted ones. You’ll recognize one: tall, braided beard, always carries a spear. He’s the most dangerous. Don’t underestimate him. But at the shift change, when the arena is roaring, there might be a gap. That’s your best chance.”

I stayed silent, engraving every word into my mind like sacred keys.

“Thank you…” I whispered, unable to say more.

Patroclus let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know if what we’re doing is saving you… or dooming us all.”

I hugged him then, without thinking. He was stiff at first, then slowly gave in, resting his forehead against my shoulder. My heart clenched tight.

“Then let it be the first,” I whispered in his ear, with a determination that startled even me. “Because one thing is certain, Patroclus: Achilles will not decide our fate.”

I let my mind wander a moment over everything Patroclus had just told me—the guards, the circles of the camp, the rotations. It was valuable. But something was still missing.

“And… the terrain?” I asked suddenly, breaking the silence between us. “I mean, beyond the tents. What’s around? Is it all flat, open ground, or is there… something else?”

Patroclus looked at me as if he didn’t understand at first, then sighed and sat down on a rock, rubbing his hands like a man recalling an invisible map.

“That depends on which way you look. The camp is on a flat plain, right by the coast. But the arena… the arena isn’t set at the heart of the camp.”

I frowned, waiting.

“They built it near a natural break in the land, a cliff’s edge.” His voice grew heavier, almost a murmur. “On one side, a steep slope that drops into a forest below. But it’s so high that if someone jumps… well, they don’t reach the forest. They reach the ground, in pieces.”

I swallowed hard, a chill running down my spine.

“And the other side?” I forced myself to ask, though I already guessed the answer.

“Guards.” Patroclus lifted his gaze to me, serious, not a hint of jest. “There are always men posted there, especially during the spectacles. Achilles says it’s to stop prisoners from escaping. But the truth is, it’s also to control the soldiers: when blood is spilled, the crowd can turn wild.”

I stayed quiet, absorbing what it meant. A wall of spears on one side, a deadly fall on the other. No way out.

“So…” I began slowly, fists clenched, “if Percy survives tomorrow, if I want to escape with him… the only thing we have is that gap between the guards, isn’t it?”

Patroclus nodded, resigned.

“Exactly. Run toward death, or run toward spears. There’s no third choice. Unless…” He stopped short, staring at me with that mix of fear and admiration I was beginning to recognize. “Unless you use those shadows of yours to do what no one else could.”

My heart thudded, as if he’d said it aloud for the first time. And though I didn’t admit it, I thought it: it’s not impossible. I had done riskier things before (one day I’d list in my résumé that I fought the Sun God). If everything aligned, if I hit the exact moment, then… then we’d run.

Everything was falling into place better than I ever imagined. I hadn’t planned it this way, not at all. All I wanted was to find a crack, a slit in Achilles’ walls, and I thought the fastest way was to get close to Patroclus, manipulate him if I had to. But tonight changed everything.

Achilles, with his arrogance, humiliated him in a way he never should have. And Patroclus—the loyal one, the inseparable one, the man who seemed to live only through him—finally broke. Not for me, not entirely; it was years of wounds catching up to him at once. I was only there to witness him fall.

And suddenly, I had something I hadn’t been looking for: an opportunity. Not just an ally, not just a crack in the wall, but a broken man who had shown me a future I had never let myself imagine. It wasn’t in my plans, it never was, but now it was on the table.

Tomorrow everything will change. While all eyes are on the arena, I’ll do my part.

The spectacle will be theirs, but the victory will be ours.

Chapter Text

I woke up in Damaris’s tent, and for a second it took me a moment to remember why I wasn’t in Achilles’s bed. The night before had ended so bitterly that any attempt to pretend normalcy was impossible. After Achilles’s words, after how he exposed Patroclus in front of the servants, it made sense that I wouldn’t sleep there. It wasn’t a secret anymore, not after everyone had heard.

Patroclus and I spoke in hushed voices, just long enough to agree: he would stay with Achilles, as always, to avoid suspicion; I would spend the night with Damaris. It wasn’t a hiding place, not even a reprieve, just the most sensible move after what had happened. No one would be too surprised. In fact, they would probably think it was the only possible outcome.

Damaris didn’t say much when Patroclus left me in her tent. Maybe she suspected, maybe not. Her expression was as dry and impenetrable as always. She simply pointed at the empty cot and went back to her tasks, as if I were just another burden she had decided to accept without complaint. I couldn’t tell if it was indifference or just the habit of living with other people’s secrets.

The silence was deceptive: outside, there was already movement, footsteps, distant voices, the metallic smell of iron mingling with the smoke of fires that never seemed to die. Inside, everything was still.

Damaris was already awake, combing her hair in silence, with those practical, austere movements that defined her. She barely looked at me, a quick glance, like someone acknowledging they weren’t alone but with no real interest in conversation. Still, I forced a polite smile.

“Good morning.”

“You moved a lot in your sleep,” she remarked without looking at me, speaking more to herself than to me.

“It happens often,” I replied, shifting on the improvised cot. I wasn’t sure if she wanted a conversation, but I couldn’t stand absolute silence either.

“I suppose it’s not easy to sleep knowing what’s about to happen,” she added, with such a strange calmness that it unsettled me.

I studied her for a moment. Her tone carried no judgment or compassion, only statement. As if she already knew too well what it was like to live with the future hanging by a thread.

“And you? Can you sleep?” I dared to ask.

Damaris shrugged, unbothered.

“When you understand that nothing depends on you, you sleep better.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, and the conversation died there—brief, dry, like everything with Damaris. But her words kept circling in my head as the tent sank back into silence.

The murmur of footsteps outside interrupted my thoughts, and soon after the entrance flap shifted. Patroclus walked in with a medium-sized bag in his hands, armor still on as if he had rushed out. He looked tired, though not as much as the night before. His eyes searched for me first, and only then did he greet Damaris with a slight nod. She didn’t return the gesture.

“How was your night?” he asked softly.

“Fine,” I lied, though the fatigue was clear in my eyes. And I added, “And you?”

Patroclus dropped onto a stool, elbows resting on his knees. He drew in a deep breath, as if searching for words he couldn’t quite find.

“It was… different. Definitely not what I expected.”

I tensed.

“Different how?”

“Achilles.” He lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming with a mix of disbelief and exhaustion. “He apologized.”

My eyes widened, unable to hide the surprise.

“He… apologized?”

He nodded slowly, as if he still struggled to believe it.

“Yes.” His voice hardened. “To me. For last night. He said he shouldn’t have spoken that way in front of you or the others… that it was disrespectful toward me.”

I nodded slowly. In truth, it didn’t surprise me. It made perfect sense. Achilles could be cruel, arrogant, and ruthless with anyone, but with Patroclus… it was different. He loved him in his twisted way, and that love was enough to bend even his pride. Of course he would apologize. Of course he would try to make amends somehow.

“So…?” I asked softly, expectant.

Patroclus looked away, uneasy, and went on:

“So, as compensation, he decided something else. That you’ll go into the arena earlier, not at the end.”

Relief rushed through me, warm and unexpected. Not because I doubted I would see him—that much had been clear already—but because doing it earlier changed the rules of the game.

It was less conspicuous, less grandiose. If Achilles paraded me at the end, when the fight reached its peak, all attention would be locked on every move, every reaction. But at the start… it would just be another detail, a flash among everything else about to unfold. And that meant discretion. That meant more chances to move without the whole camp descending on me.

And most of all, it meant less risk of Percy being pushed to the edge. Because if they drove him too far, if they cornered him on the brink of defeat, I knew him: he would unleash his powers in defense, and Achilles would stand no chance. The sea would obey, the earth would tremble, and then the secret would cease to be a secret. With only a few soldiers watching, maybe it could be concealed. But against Achilles, in front of thousands of frenzied screams, no.

A demigod revealing himself in the middle of combat against the strongest mortal warrior in history… that wouldn’t go unnoticed. Poseidon might ignore another son among many, look the other way as always, but not one who shone like that, blazing in the arena. And if Poseidon noticed, what would stop others from noticing too?

Apollo.

The name cut through me like a shiver. The god who had already found us once, who had already torn safety from my hands. If Percy shone here, if he showed too much, Apollo would see him. He would claim him. And then there would be no shadows, no plans, no escape that could save us.

No. This was better. Much better. To see him earlier, to move earlier, to make sure he didn’t have to reveal what he really was.

Yes, this was good news. Much better than Patroclus seemed to realize.

I leaned toward him and hugged him tightly, burying my face in his shoulder. Patroclus froze for only a moment, surprised, before his arms wrapped around me too—warm, firm, as if afraid I might vanish if he didn’t hold me close enough.

I lingered against him a second longer than I should have. I felt his shoulders tense under my hands, his breath growing heavier. When I lifted my gaze, I found his lips half-parted, his eyes fixed on mine in a way that left no doubt. It wasn’t tenderness ruling him in that moment—it was hunger. Suppressed desire, restrained urgency.

Patroclus leaned in just slightly, close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath against my mouth, as if the kiss were only a sigh away. His gaze burned into me, and for an instant I knew he wanted to lose himself there, in me, even if there was no tomorrow.

But he held back. He pressed his lips shut, clenched his jaw, and drew back just a hand’s breadth, as if that sliver of distance were his only defense.

“Tsk.” Damaris clicked her tongue from her corner, slicing through the tension like a knife. We turned toward her and found her watching us with glacial calm, arms crossed. “The whole camp already knows,” she said flatly, without a trace of emotion. “So stop putting on a show.”

I froze, unable to react. Patroclus, on the other hand, let out a short, incredulous laugh, as if he’d just been granted permission to stop pretending.

“See?” he said, leaning closer to me, that spark alight in his eyes. “There’s nothing left to hide.”

And this time he didn’t hesitate. He kissed me hard, with the intensity of everything he had been holding back. It was a hungry, certain kiss, with no restraint at all; it stole my breath and left me no choice but to give myself to it. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and I felt his hand firm at my waist, as if he wanted to make sure I couldn’t get away.

There was no room for tenderness or doubt; it was pure desire, need. And I answered it, because no matter the contradictions running through me, no matter the plans hidden in my head, in that moment it was impossible to ignore the fire Patroclus kindled in me.

When he finally pulled back just a few inches, he still held my waist, breathing hard, a crooked smile on his lips. His eyes shone with the joy of knowing he could kiss me in front of others with no punishment.

As I leaned back slightly to catch my breath, I looked toward the corner where Damaris had been… but the chair was empty. The woman had left at some point, without a sound, without us noticing. She must have slipped out during the kiss, silent as a ghost, leaving us alone in the tent.

“Patroclus…” I began, still panting.

I didn’t get any further. His lips were on me again, this time trailing down to my neck. A wet kiss, then another, and another, each lower, more desperate. I felt his breath on my skin, the burning brush of his mouth, and how his hands gripped my waist with an intensity that bordered on possessive.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured, a hoarse moan between each caress, leaving a trail of fire down my clavicle, moving slowly as if he had no intention of stopping.

A shiver ran through me and I clenched my teeth to keep from making a sound that would give me away. Still, lucidity hit me again.

“There’s no time,” I said, my voice trembling between desire and urgency.

He growled against my neck, nipping me lightly, then lifted his head, eyes alight with frustration.

“There’s always time for this.”

“Patroclus…” I tried to push him back a little, though my hands trembled against his chest. “The tournament. We can’t risk it.”

He shut his eyes, breathing hard, as if fighting between reason and hunger. Then, suddenly, he turned toward the entrance and shouted, “Damaris! How long until the tournament?”

Silence lasted only a few seconds before a dry, sharp voice answered from outside: “One hour.”

Patroclus let out a low, incredulous laugh and looked at me again with that wild spark in his gaze.

“See? One hour.” His lips brushed mine, his voice low and full of want. “Plenty of time.”

My heart hammered, split between the vertigo of the moment and the weight of the plan reminding me that we couldn’t afford distractions. And yet, with him over me, with his mouth on me, the word “no” grew harder and harder to say.

Seeing that I didn’t pull away, Patroclus smiled just slightly, that crooked smile that mixed desire and triumph, and lowered himself calmly. His lips left a trail of slow, wet kisses down my neck, each one lower than the last, as if deliberately marking a path so I couldn’t escape.

With a gentle tug, he stripped the dress off me. The cold air hit my skin, but it was immediately replaced by the heat of his hands, covering me wholly—sure, possessive. His palms closed around my breasts, large enough to cup them completely. With fierce care he kneaded, then squeezed, drawing from me gasps I couldn’t hold back.

When he tilted his head and took one of my nipples into his mouth, I let out a louder moan, my body arching toward him. He sucked me slowly, then harder, alternating with gentle bites that made me tremble. His hands kept exploring, playing with every curve, while his mouth moved between my breasts with a devotion that unraveled me.

“Patroclus…” I whispered, lost between plea and surrender.

He answered with a hoarse groan against my skin, as if my sounds were the confirmation he needed, and kept descending. He moved with calm but with that mix of urgency and reverence that made him all the more dangerous—like a warrior who knows exactly when to strike and when to savor the wait.

I felt him pause and lifted my head, confused.

I saw him hang there, lips parted, breathing faster. His fingers brushed my underwear, as if he needed to check that it was real, and then he smiled—that impish smile that made my skin crawl.

“Like this…” His voice came out husky, thick with desire. “Just like I imagined.”

Heat rose to my cheeks, confused, trapped under his gaze. He stood a little, tilted his head, bringing his lips near my ear.

“You look incredible in this,” he whispered, the murmur vibrating against my skin and stoking my burning need. “I’ve never seen anything like it… and I’ve never wanted to take it off someone so much.”

My hands shook on his shoulders, torn between shame and the fire inside me. His eyes remained fixed on me, devouring me, as if in that moment I were everything he had wanted since he first saw that strange fabric.

Then, with a gentle but determined pull, he slipped his fingers along the edge of the cloth.

“Let me see you for real…” he murmured, before letting the rest of me lie naked under his gaze.

His pupils dilated when he saw me. He ran his fingers over my slit, making me cry out; looking into my eyes, he sucked his fingers wet with my arousal, paused a moment, then launched himself back onto my pelvis with desperate kisses that moved far too slowly for my taste.

A plea escaped my lips before I could hold it back, and Patroclus tensed as if that sound were fuel.

“More…” I whispered without thinking, barely audible, and I saw him smile against my skin.

When he finally reached my clitoris, he did so with a devotion that broke me. The first contact was a surge of heat that arched my back against the cot. I tried to hold back, but the moans poured out uncontrollably, bouncing off the tent’s fabric, making me forget everything that wasn’t him.

His hands held my thighs firmly, keeping me from fleeing though all I wanted was to sink deeper into his mouth. Every movement was measured, patient, yet charged with that hunger I’d seen burning in his eyes since he’d hugged me.

I clutched his hair, trembling, and when he pressed harder with circular motions over my clitoris, I couldn’t stop the cacophony of cries spilling from my mouth. The sensation rose like a wave, building violently, unstoppable, sweeping me away without letting me breathe.

“Patroclus…” my voice broke, between plea and surrender "more, please, please, give me more."

He groaned against me—that deep sound that pierced me whole—and the world contracted into a tide of bliss that shook me until I was exhausted, lost, trembling under his hands.

When I finally managed to open my eyes, I found him looking up at me from below, his mouth wet, his eyes dark and satisfied. As if he had just won a war.

He didn’t look away. He stayed there, watching me, mouth wet, eyes glowing like embers. He climbed up slowly, covering my body with his, and caught me in a desperate kiss, still tasting my surrender.

“I want more…” he murmured against my lips, voice hoarse, trembling with desire. “I want you to ride me, Giuliana. Ride me however you want, I’m yours, and in return you’ll let me breed you. Would you do that for me?”

His forehead rested against mine, his hot breath mingling with mine.

“You would look so beautiful with my children…” he whispered, and that confession pierced me deeper than any caress. It wasn’t just desire; there was in his gaze a mixture of hunger and an impossible future that both chilled and burned me at once.

His hands slid down my waist again, ready to lose himself in me, when a dry voice tore the air from outside:

“The tournament starts soon.”

Damaris.

The spell shattered in an instant. Patroclus shut his eyes in frustration and let out a low growl, burying his face in my neck as if to deny the reality. He stayed still for a moment, breathing deeply, then slammed his fist against the blanket beside us.

“Always…” he ground through his teeth, with a bitter attempt at a laugh. “They always interrupt us.”

He hugged me tightly for a heartbeat longer, as if he didn’t want to let go, then pulled away slowly, his eyes still heavy with disappointment.

I remained panting, my chest heaving violently, my skin still alight as if Patroclus’s hands had never left. The air inside the tent felt too dense, charged with that heat that nothing could put out. I felt my cheeks burn, my lips swollen and my legs trembling beneath me, as if I were still anchored to that tide he had unleashed.

Patroclus, however, closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, fighting with himself. I could see it: jaw clenched, fingers curled as if he wanted to touch me again but forced himself not to. Finally he opened his eyes and looked at me, and that look nearly made me cry out again. Dark, hungry, and yet laden with a sweetness that unraveled me.

“Do you know how hard this is?” he murmured, running a hand over his face, frustrated. “Because seeing those eyes of yours, shining like a cornered doe’s—excited and vulnerable—while you’re naked in front of me…” His voice cracked for a second, low, almost a moan. “…doesn’t help me at all.”

He leaned toward me, and with a delicacy that contrasted the hunger from a moment before, began to help me dress. His hands lingered on my skin longer than necessary, trembling slightly when they brushed my hips, but he forced himself to continue. He knew what he was doing: keep a cool head and hide the source of his desire.

I let him, feeling a mix of tenderness and emptiness. Part of me wanted to beg him not to stop, to have the world end right there so nothing else mattered. But the other part—the part carrying Percy, Apollo, everything—knew we couldn’t. Not now.

When I finally finished dressing, Patroclus stepped back a little, rubbing his face with both hands before speaking again.

“They’ll come soon to…” His voice broke briefly, but he recovered with steadiness. “…to fix you up. To make you look prettier than you already are.” He looked me up and down, and it wasn’t an empty compliment: he said it with the same intensity with which he had whispered that he wanted to fill me with children.

He crouched and picked up the bag he’d left by the bed. He handed it to me, stroking my hand in the process.

“I hope what’s in here helps. I thought of everything you might need…” He lowered his gaze for a second, uncertain. “Maybe it won’t be enough, but it’s what I can give you.”

I hugged the bag to me like it was treasure, feeling a stab of unexpected emotion.

Then, without warning, Patroclus pulled me toward him and kissed me. It wasn’t a timid brush or a sweet gesture: it was a deep, passionate kiss, charged with the urgency we had left unfinished. His lips were both promise and farewell, a claim for what he wanted and what we couldn’t yet have. I clung to his neck, answering with equal desperation, until we ran out of air.

He pulled away just enough to speak, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing still uneven.

“Come back for me, Giuliana.” His voice was a low whisper, full of longing that squeezed my chest. “I’ll be waiting.”

I swallowed, unable to answer, only nodding with tear-bright eyes.

He turned and left the tent, leaving me with the bag in my hands, my body trembling and my heart pounding like a drum. I watched him go without daring to stop him, with the certainty driven deep into me: he had to come back. He had to find a way.

I stayed still for a long time, clutching the bag as if it held the key to my future, and allowed myself only one thought: after all this, after Percy, after the escape… I wanted to see him again.

I wanted to go back to him.

The silence had barely settled when the tent flap shifted and Damaris entered without ceremony, as if she didn’t need to knock or ask permission. Her eyes scanned the tent with that chill of hers that never quite softened, but she didn’t make a single comment about the charged air still hanging there. If she had seen or heard anything… she chose to keep quiet.

“They’re coming to fix you.” It was all she said, dry and direct, as if it were just another formality.

I nodded slowly, squeezing the bag against me as though I still needed to hold onto it to keep from falling apart. I breathed in deeply, filling my lungs with that tense air that smelled of smoke and old cloth, and tried to calm the trembling that ran through me.

I only hope you trust me, Percy.

PERCY

I didn’t need anyone to tell me that today wasn’t an ordinary fight. Yesterday had been to prove I could survive thirty men; today was something else: today was Achilles. The name reverberated in my head with a different weight, like music with a broken note. It wasn’t pure fear—not after yesterday—but the awareness that everything else was eclipsed by him, by his figure, by the story that clung to him.

The cell didn’t smell the same anymore. I’d spent the night with the memory of blades still in my arms, dried blood in my throat, and the certainty that yesterday’s blows had left me with more than cuts: they gave me a new rhythm in my blood, a cold calm. This time the guards led me to a different part of the enclosure, a wider corner where the floor was swept and a tub waited in the center, like a grotesque courtesy.

They washed me with hot water. It was almost a luxury: soap that smelled of herbs, hands scrubbing the confinement’s dirt away, washing also the tiredness of the previous night. I took that moment as an instruction: breathe, clear, let the mind focus on what I had to do. Every motion was mechanical and, at the same time, necessary. They soaped my back, rubbed my legs, cleaned my hair until the water no longer ran black. I felt more solemn than satisfied; the water changed nothing of what I was, but it returned my composure.

They dressed me in good armor. It wasn’t luxury, it was usefulness: polished pieces, well-made straps, a breastplate that fit my chest as if it had been waiting for years. The greaves fitted my legs and offered balance. They gave me gloves that didn’t alter the grip, and finally, the sword: heavy in the hand but kind in its balance. I held it for a moment and saw in the metal my broken, familiar reflection: a boy dragged into this by forces I didn’t fully understand, but who did not flee.

I thought of consequences. That killing Achilles wouldn’t be a private act or a personal relief: it would rewrite songs, disorder tales, topple the pedestal some men carried as a banner. Did that matter? In the ethics of a man chained, the question wasn’t abstract: if I killed the one who kept me prisoner, if I killed him to win a way out, who would put a price on which piece of story was broken? Who claimed the right of tradition when my skin ached to live?

The answer I found was cold and clear: there was no time for stories. There was time to survive. If the story wanted to weep because one of its heroes fell in an arena, let it weep. I hadn’t come to preserve anyone’s epic gasp. I had come to leave. If Achilles stood in my way, I would take him down. If the historical balance tilted toward my victory, let it. I’d rather carry that guilt than the feeling of never having tried.

It wasn’t arrogance. It was calculation. I had killed men who believed in their endurance; I had forced situations where the only way out was to find the opponent’s weak spot. I had the confidence of someone who had survived too long to keep underestimating himself. I knew myself: I knew what I was made of when blood was flowing and adrenaline tempered you. Achilles was a legend in his domain, but I was no apprentice. I had resorted to things that never made it into songs: wit, endurance, the stubbornness of someone who wants to breathe tomorrow.

As they adjusted my helmet and the last straps, I silently reviewed movements: how to open space, how to make him waste strength in vain, when to lower my guard to land the clean blow. The sword in my hand asked for nothing but to be made to speak.

They escorted me then through hallways smelling of leather and metal, where the murmur of the human circus that would be the arena was already seeping in. Every step brought me closer to the stands, to Achilles’s presence, to the laurel of his vanity. I could feel the gaze of the men who passed brushing me like blades. They weren’t looks of respect, nor exactly of hatred: they were the kind of looks that measure how much spectacle your fall will provide.

I forced myself not to think of Giuliana, of the possibility that she was nearby, maybe in one of those tents planning with the same determination as me. Today was my turn in the arena and my mind had to be clear.

I was ready to fight, but I wasn’t ready for what came after: the consequences. I had washed off yesterday’s blood, my breastplate had been tightened, and they had given me a sword that felt good in my hand. Everything in me said, “jump into the shit and fight.” But my head wouldn’t let me go that easily: there was another variable I couldn’t ignore.

Apollo. The sensation that that son of a… god was following us like an obsessed fan was a cold tide down my spine. It wasn’t just that the idea of an immortal being interested in me annoyed me—typical in my life, though usually they wanted to stab me with their metal sword and not the flesh one, if you get my meaning—it was that if here, in the middle of the arena, I started pulling the thread of what I was and the sea answered, the Gods would look, the sun would spotlight the fight, and Apollo would come for me. He could take me without preamble or take his time and incinerate Giuliana.

If I let the heritage show against Achilles, the attention shifts from “what a good show” to “what a precious object.” And when the gods start fighting over something, normal people decide nothing. We—the ones who are not Olympians—end up losing. Worse: Giuliana becomes a piece in that game. Of course, if Apollo doesn’t decide to strike her down immediately, who protects her? How do I hide her from a god who can move things with a glance and convince people that what he chooses is destiny?

I could try to reach my divine side. Calling on Poseidon sounds easy in theory: “Hey, Dad, get me out of this mess?” In practice, it’s not that simple. My father would help me in my time, I’m sure, but this isn’t my father. I don’t have a direct number to Olympus or a divine customer service line. Poseidon has other children, other problems; his attention is like the tide: it comes and goes. At this point in history I’m not important, two thousand years later I’m the only demigod he has left and that made the difference.

The practical part wins out: if I can do it with sword and brains, I will. My powers are an emergency card, not plan A. I can move, I can read a rhythm, I can set traps and force mistakes, because I’ve survived worse things than the ego of a Greek warrior.

I was turning all this over in my mind when the guards shoved me through a passage. My thoughts of Apollo and Poseidon snapped like a thread when the gates opened and the light of the arena hit me in the face.

There was Achilles, as always, standing out with broad shoulders and a confidence that seemed carved from stone. There was no pomp in our presentation: peasants screamed, soldiers roared, and Achilles looked at me the way one looks at something both interesting and disposable.

I met his gaze. There would be no words between us. None were needed.

Achilles spoke and the stands exploded. Shouts, bets, the harsh noise of men who believe blood is entertainment. They pushed me to the edge of the arena; the sun blazed on the metal, and for a second everything was white noise.

Odysseus stood to the right, impassive as always, with his beard and that half-smile that told you nothing. Patroclus beside him, paler than yesterday, his gaze fixed on me for a moment before shifting toward the arena’s entrance. But my eyes went further, and stopped on her: Giuliana.

The light fell on her and I felt air return to my lungs after days of being drowned in cold water. She was alive. With her hair pulled back, dressed differently, prepared to be looked at as if she were a prize—but alive. My knees trembled when I realized it, my fingers sweated inside the sword’s grip. My heart thundered in my chest, not from fear, but from the pure, brutal joy that pierced me at the sight of her.

I saw her, and all the tension of the past days—the fear of not knowing if they had killed her, if they were using her as a toy, if I would ever see her again—broke all at once. She was alive. Whole. Beautiful even under the harsh light of the sun that displayed her like a trophy.

And then she looked at me.

She looked at me, and everything inside me split between relief and despair.

Are you okay?
What did they do to you?
Gods, I missed you so much.

And just then I saw him.

Patroclus.

Too close.

His fingers slid naturally, almost hidden, until they caught Giuliana’s hand. Small, subtle, as if it were something ordinary. As if she were his.

The relief that had swept through me seconds before froze. My eyes dropped to their joined hands and then rose to his face. And there was the second blow: Patroclus wasn’t looking at me with indifference, not even curiosity. He looked at me with fury. Cold, contained, as if he wanted the sand to swallow me that very instant.

Rage struck me like a hammer.

Did he hurt her?
Did he dare touch her while I was caged like an animal?
Did he trick her with soft words?
Did he make her believe he could protect her better?

Giuliana was still looking at me, with those eyes that told me everything she couldn’t shout across the distance. And I clung to that with tooth and nail, though the poison of the image remained: his hand in hers. The desire in his gaze toward her. The fire he threw back at me.

The crowd roared, Achilles raised his arms, the spectacle assembled around us. But inside me something else roared louder. The relief of seeing her alive mixed with a dark heat in my gut: the need to take her away from all this. To take her away from him. To never again allow another hand to hold her like that, as if she could be claimed.

The roar of the crowd came and went like waves breaking on the shore, until Achilles’s voice cut everything at once. Deep, proud, so self-assured it hurt.

“Today is no ordinary fight!” he proclaimed, raising his arms as if all this were his altar. “Today, my best man fights against me.”

The shouts exploded again, mixed with laughter and wagers. I kept my eyes forward, sword ready, but I was listening closely now.

“This man, this mysterious warrior,” he continued, nodding toward me, “appeared in our camp like a shadow. Killed ten of mine in the blink of an eye, held out against thirty yesterday and still breathes. What is he? A spy? A trial sent by the Gods to once again prove my strength? It doesn’t matter. Today I will face him myself. And all will see the difference between a strong soldier and a true lion.”

The crowd roared again. And then he turned his gaze to the stands, to her.

“But he did not come alone,” he said, a crooked smile spreading across his face. “He came with this creature. Pretty, isn’t she?” Laughter followed the direction of his finger. “And not just pretty. Powerful too. A worthy prey for a man like me.”

My hands clenched around the sword’s hilt. The air burned in my throat.

"Who knows what they were? Prisoners? Spies? Lovers, perhaps?" he went on, his voice almost mocking. "It doesn’t matter. We caught them both. And today one will die… while the other will be the prize."

The crowd burst into laughter, some applauding, others shouting obscenities. I didn’t blink, but I felt my blood boiling in my veins.

Achilles smiled wider, savoring the spectacle he himself had created.

"And then…" He paused, just enough to let everyone hear him. "After your friend falls beneath my spear, you’ll hear her too. You’ll hear how happy I’ll make her. Her screams. Her moans."

The laughter thundered across the arena.

Heat rushed to my head so fast it nearly blinded me. I clenched my sword until my knuckles ached under the gauntlet. I wanted to rip out his tongue, to split his chest open right there.

And I wasn’t the only one.

I caught sight of Giuliana in the stands, rigid, her lips pressed so tightly they’d gone white, her dark eyes full of a helpless fury I recognized instantly. And beside her, Patroclus. He wasn’t even trying to hide it: his jaw clenched, his fists balled, his face tightened with something closer to shame than amusement. Not even he could mask what he had just heard.

I tried to calm my rage, my mind pulling away, until I noticed Achilles descending from the stands. He didn’t come down like a commander about to inspect a prisoner: he descended like a minor god who had been offered an altar of fresh flesh. His armor gleamed under the sun, the bronze polished nearly white, and his stride was confident, arrogant, as if victory already belonged to him.

Strong, beautiful, damned arrogant bastard.

Each of his steps made the soldiers roar louder. He didn’t need to speak; his very presence was fuel enough to ignite them. I breathed deep, the helmet pressing against my forehead, the sword hot in my hand.

Someone began the count.

"Three!"

The shouting rose.

"Two!"

My heartbeat matched the voice.

"One!"

The whole arena erupted in roars.

"FIGHT!"

Achilles didn’t wait. He surged forward with a speed that didn’t fit a man his size, the spear dropping like lightning. Instinct: I raised my sword and deflected the blow at an angle, the impact rattling me up to the shoulder. I barely had time to step back before he was already spinning, his shield slamming into my side.

Impact. A dry pain in my ribs. I forced myself not to lose my breath.

I struck back immediately: a diagonal slash, aimed at the gap beneath his arm. Achilles raised his shield just in time; metal screeched against bronze. I stepped half a pace back, raising my sword to block the thrust I knew was coming.

And it came.

The spear darted down again, this time for my leg. I leapt aside, the blade grazing me just barely. I spun on my heel and brought my sword down toward his flank. Once more, the shield. Once more, the clash that made my teeth grind.

The air between us burned with invisible sparks. Every strike I threw met resistance. Every movement of his was as precise as it was brutal. There was no room for mistakes.

This wasn’t some brainless monster, nor a god playing at invincibility. This was a warrior. One of the strongest I had ever fought in my life.

I felt adrenaline bite at my throat, and despite the sweat dripping down my forehead, I grinned.

"All right," I thought. "Let’s see how far you go."

He charged again, and I met him with my sword raised high. The crowd roared, bets shifting with every movement, but I hardly heard them. My whole world shrank to the gleam of Achilles’ bronze, the harsh crack of his spear against my blade, the furious rhythm of two bodies refusing to yield.

The first minutes were pure collision. Steel against bronze, shield against sword. There was no room for anything else: no breath, no truce, not even a thought that wasn’t block, deflect, strike. Every time I searched for an opening, Achilles was already there, sealing it with painful precision. Every time he charged like a bull, I slipped away with a twist, just barely, feeling the air scorch my skin as his blows cut close.

It was like dancing with knives. A dangerous, savage dance where every step could be the last.

I tested him with speed, thrusting low, almost like a feint. Achilles dropped his shield to block, but left the smallest gap, which I used to attempt a cut at his neck. The bastard smiled, as if he had anticipated the move, and shoved me with his shoulder, a sharp blow that forced me two steps back in the sand.

"Fast," he said in a deep voice, barely audible beneath the crowd’s roar. "Faster than I expected."

I returned his smile, panting.

"And you’re heavier than I thought."

The spear came down again, this time aimed straight at my face. No time to think: I raised the sword, deflected with all my strength, my arm vibrating to the elbow. I answered at once with a series of diagonal strikes, fast, each one cutting for a different angle: shoulder, side, thigh. Achilles’ shield held all three, and by the time I went for a fourth, he had already countered with a spinning sweep of his spear that nearly tore my ear off.

The crowd went wild. Shouts, new wagers, laughter, cries of surprise. They hadn’t expected this. They expected me to fall quickly, like the other thirty. They expected Achilles to shine alone.

But I wasn’t falling.

I blocked another thrust, this time forcing the spear downward and pressing forward with my sword raised high. Achilles lifted his shield, and the clash rang out like thunder, dust exploding around us. Our eyes met over the rim of the metal, and in his I saw a glint I hadn’t expected: amusement.

The bastard was enjoying himself.

I shoved him back and retreated, breathing through my mouth, sweat dripping down my temples. The crowd was roaring, but all I heard was my heart, hammering as fiercely as my steps.

He circled me slowly now, not charging, just watching.

"You’ve got more than you look," he said, and this time he truly sounded surprised.

"You’re not bad either," I shot back, gripping the hilt tighter. "But you’re not fighting seriously."

Achilles let out a laugh, deep and vibrant, swallowing the roar of the crowd for a heartbeat.

"Neither are you."

I knew it in that instant. He was testing me. Measuring me. Just as I was testing him. Neither of us had shown everything yet. Neither of us had truly opened the gates of hell.

The air thickened between us. It was no longer just collision, it was calculation. My steps grew faster, my wrist sharper. I stopped waiting for his attack: I hunted him, thrusts darting straight for the gaps in his armor.

The first, a cut to the shoulder, forced him to twist his shield so quickly that he left his side exposed. I saw it, felt it, and lunged with the second thrust. Achilles stepped back sharply, the tip of my blade grazing his ribs, dragging a crooked smile from him.

"Very close." His voice was a growl of amusement.

I gave him no time at all. A turn, a low sweep at his leg. Metal clashed against the bronze of his greaves with a sharp crack, and still it forced him to step back again.

It was strange. So strange. To see him retreat.

The crowd noticed too. A murmur rose, almost of surprise, before the shouts returned louder, thrilled by the spectacle.

Achilles answered as he knew best: by charging. A roar, his shield ahead, his spear ready to split me in two. I threw myself aside, rolled through the sand, and was on my feet in a heartbeat, sword raised. Steel met bronze in a burst of sparks, and for an instant I held him there, steady, staring straight into his eyes.

This time, he wasn’t the one who smiled. I was.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to press,” I muttered, and used the momentum to spin and aim for his throat.

I had to admit it: Achilles was fast. Devilishly fast. He dipped his helmet just in time, the edge of my sword scraping against the bronze with a metallic shriek. But the shock in his eyes was real.

I had made him dodge.

It wasn’t the last time. Every strike of mine pushed him a little further—forced him to defend, to twist, to step back. Not much, not desperately, but enough to make clear I wasn’t one of his toys in the sand. I wasn’t another soldier to cut down in two moves.

And yet, neither was I comfortable. Because every time I gained an advantage, he answered with one of his own. Where I forced him to dodge, he found a way to counter with a blow that made me duck or throw up my makeshift shield-arm just to keep from being split open.

We were reflections. Advance and retreat. Strike and evade. A constant pulse where neither of us gave more than the bare minimum.

A duel. A true one.

And for the first time in years, as we traded blows and sweat burned in my eyes, I was fighting someone who spoke my language. The language of the sword.

The clash of weapons, the grunts, the crowd’s screams all blurred into one dull roar in my ears. I don’t know how long we had been dancing in that arena until someone—whether a soldier, a spectator, or a drunk gambler choking on his bet—shouted with all his strength:

“Fifteen minutes!”

A brief silence spread after that, as if everyone had felt the same weight drop into their gut. Fifteen minutes. No one had ever lasted that long against Achilles. No one.

Achilles himself, however, didn’t flinch. His breathing was deep, steady, as though he were sampling a wine he hadn’t decided was worth drinking. But there was something different in his gaze now. No longer just amusement. No longer testing.

Now he was hunting me.

The spear descended toward my chest in a deadly arc, direct, without games. I barely managed to slip aside, feeling the air tear as the blade passed. Another strike, this time horizontal, that would have cleaved a man in half. I ducked, rolled through the sand, and rose in a single motion, sword ready, heart pounding.

I couldn’t let him touch me. Not once.

Because the first wound that didn’t bleed, the first time bronze slammed into my skin and failed to cut… everyone would notice. And then they would know.

The curse of the Styx.

A downward cut forced me to brace my sword with both hands, the impact rattling my bones nearly enough to make me drop it. Sparks flew, my blade screeched against his. He pressed with brutal strength, as though he meant to crush me into the dirt with sheer weight.

I slipped aside at the last second, letting his blow drive the spearhead into the ground. The earth shook beneath my feet.

The crowd roared, torn between fury and awe.

Achilles smiled faintly, sweat wetting his lips beneath the helmet.

“Very quick… I wonder if perhaps you’re of Hermes…” he murmured, but I didn’t hear the rest.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t waste breath on words. Every muscle in my body was tense, alert, aware that now there was no room for mistakes. That at this point, he truly meant to kill me.

So I clenched my teeth, raised my sword, and hurled myself forward again.

The rhythm changed.

Until then, I had fought cautiously, dodging, measuring every move so the divine blood in my veins wouldn’t be revealed. But Achilles was no longer playing. The spear moved with naked intent: to pierce me, to split me apart, to leave my body as a trophy in the sand.

He no longer wanted entertainment. He wanted me dead.

And if that was how he would play, then so would I.

I charged with a roar, sword high, and our metals clashed in a thunderous crash that silenced the crowd for an instant. Blow for blow, thrust after thrust, neither of us held back anymore. There was no dance now, no show. Only steel seeking flesh.

And then, for the first time in the entire fight, I did it.

I aimed for his heel.

The world narrowed to that single instant: the blade descending in a clean, direct, lethal arc. It wasn’t chance. It wasn’t error. It was pure intent. And I saw it in his eyes—the fleeting panic, the tremor in his soul when he realized I knew.

He leapt back at once, faster than I thought possible. My blade scraped the sand, throwing up a burst of dust where his tendon should have been. The strike didn’t land… but the damage was done.

Achilles looked at me with a cold fury unlike any I had seen in him before. It wasn’t just battle-rage. It was fear.

Because that secret was known only to two people in the world: himself and his mother, the goddess Thetis. No one else. No one could have guessed it.

“You…” His voice was a low growl, barely audible, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “You know.”

I didn’t answer. I only lifted my sword again, eyes locked on his, letting him understand the truth in my silence.

It wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t luck. I knew.

The crowd understood nothing. To them it had been just another strike. But Achilles understood. And in that second I saw him decide.

Defeating me was no longer enough.

Exposing me was no longer enough.

Now he needed to kill me.

Then everything broke.

Achilles stopped measuring, stopped smiling, stopped being the playful beast in its cage. He became a machine of shock and fury. His spear trembled in his grip with such cold intent that the very air seemed to vibrate. I had no time to think of anything but movement, and even then the onslaught came with an explosive force that shook the sand beneath my feet.

I answered with everything I had. No more restraint, no more testing: resistance against fury, technique against raw violence. We collided in a point that echoed through the entire arena. Spear against sword; shield against my arm; my blade seeking openings, his strength crushing them shut. I planted my foot and shoved, forced a turn to break free, and his elbow slammed into my ribs with a crack that stole my breath. I staggered back, gasping, and threw myself forward again.

I struck. I cut. Quick thrusts, then a feint upward toward his neck; he blocked with his forearm and sent me flying with a sweep that dumped me in the sand. Dust filled my mouth, but I was already up before I could swallow it, sword raised, ready to burn what strength I had left.

Achilles no longer fought like a man seeking spectacle: he fought for something simpler and more brutal. He fought to end. Every movement was direct, stripped of flourish, aiming for flesh. I had to be just as primitive and efficient: clean strikes, merciless cuts, sweeps that forced him back.

The people screamed, but their voices blurred into background noise. Only the metal was sharp. Sweat ran down my brow, the helmet weighed heavy, but my mind was feverish, clear. I saw his gradual loss of calculation, like a beast cornered that chooses not to flee but to kill or die. I saw it in his eyes: the gleam that was no longer amusement but hunger to finish it.

I met that hunger with practical rage. I no longer cared how the story would be told. If it had to be his death or mine, so be it. I felt fury transform into speed: short steps, feints; I drove him to turn, jammed my blade against the edge of his shield to force an opening, and when the gap appeared, I struck for his leg. His knee buckled just enough, and the tip of my sword grazed the skin beneath the greave. It didn’t land fully, but I made him retreat.

He snarled. Hit me with a backhand that barely scraped my shoulder but ripped a cry from my throat I couldn’t suppress. The wound didn’t bleed, but it burned. No matter: every scratch mattered if anyone looked too closely. I had to stay whole. I had to let my body speak for me: endurance, skill, cunning.

Achilles quickened the pace. A flurry of strikes, sweeping arcs of the spear that forced me to roll, rise, slash again and again. I met him grim-faced, and each time our eyes locked I saw his harden. He hadn’t expected this much defiance. He hadn’t expected me not to fall quickly. That infuriated him more. And fury made him more dangerous.

I saw it all: how he shifted from measuring to killing. One blow sent me crashing down again, and I nearly lost my grip on the weapon; the steel vibrated in my hand as if it wanted to escape. I scrambled, rose, and drove a thrust straight on. He deflected it with the rim of his shield, forced me to twist and counter with a slash at his shoulder that made him limp back a step. Small victories.

We were the same heartbeat of violence: one advanced, the other returned. Neither delivered the final strike, but with each exchange the violence climbed higher. Achilles began to use the ground itself: steering the fight into a patch where the wind whipped fine dust into our eyes, and for a moment I felt the dizzy haze creeping in. I forced myself to fix my gaze, to feel the sand beneath my feet, to master my breath.

In one of those charges, my gauntlets cracked from the strain, pain shot through my hand, and the tip found the flesh of my forearm with such force that it drove me to my knees. The world turned into white noise for a couple of seconds. I felt my life hanging by a breath, and still, I didn’t stop. I crawled, forced myself up, and launched a flurry of short, low thrusts at him, aiming for his legs, watching his shadows, the slightest opening.

The violence was so raw that at times we lost technique in favor of instinct. Fists, elbows, shoves—every motion was a verdict, a sentence to stop measuring and start killing.

Then, in a sweep, I saw the chance: the spear dipped low for a heartbeat, Achilles’s balance faltered just for a breath. I threw myself at him with everything I had, driving the sword, the metal coming alive in my hands. The clash was brutal; his hands shoved, his body slammed into mine, and he crushed me against the ground so hard the air burst out of me. Pain flared in my side, fire burned in my mouth from the inside, but I didn’t yield. I drove my knee into his abdomen and wrenched with all the strength I had left. Achilles cursed again, a cavernous, guttural sound.

We clung to each other for a heartbeat, sweat and dust smeared together, two ragged breaths, two men at their limit. The crowd didn’t know whether to scream or fall silent. Odysseus watched with a crooked smile; Patroclus with his jaw clenched to breaking, Giuliana with wide eyes and her hand crushing the edge of the stands.

And then, when I thought a single second might be enough to catch my breath, he broke free in a violent surge that flipped me over and pinned me on my back in the sand. I felt the ground heat against my skull, his weight pressing down, spear and steel poised for the kill. For an instant, the world stopped: his face above mine, uglier than I had ever seen it. There was no mercy there; only hunger.

But I wasn’t dead yet. Because I twisted with the last strength of my legs, wrenched his elbow aside, and with my right hand drove the sword in a clean stroke that grazed his thigh. Not deep, not mortal, but enough to make him howl. That howl gave me life. I staggered up as best I could, blood filling my mouth, vision flickering in and out.

The fight dragged on like that, savage and relentless: surges of power, minutes stretching into hours, both of us battered, both walking the razor edge between survival and collapse. There was no elegant conclusion. There was raw, unadorned violence—the kind not sung in polished verses but written in gasping breaths and bleeding hands.

When at last there was a pause, neither of us was whole. I bled from several cuts, but not enough to betray the secret I feared. Achilles’s breath came hard, his chest rising and falling as if he’d run miles, and his eyes fixed on me with something that wasn’t only rage: respect, tinged with alarm. We had crossed a line. We had stopped playing.

The edge of the sword burned in my hand. Sweat trickled down my forehead, my chest ached with every breath. Achilles was panting too, though his smile lingered, crooked, confident, as if he still believed he would grind me into the dust.

One more second, I thought. Just one more second and I’ll use the water. A flick of the wrist and the whole arena turns into his grave. I could do it—I knew I could. I was a breath away from calling the sea, even if it wasn’t close. The air, the dampness, whatever there was—it always answered. Always. And I was ready to use it.

Then it happened.

The shadows tore across the sky as if they’d been born from nothing, a dark lightning bolt slicing through the sun. A murmur rose, then a roar: the crowd screamed, soldiers and servants raised their hands, pointing, stumbling back as though Hades himself had opened his jaws above them.

I looked skyward, same as Achilles. Dust, sweat, rage—all froze. Because in the bright blue of noon, a word carved itself in black shadow, so sharp it made my skin prickle.

RUN.

In English.

The air stuck in my throat. Only I understood that. Only me… and her. Giuliana.

I didn’t think twice. It couldn’t be coincidence. Those shadows were hers, like heartbeats of her power, as if her own hands had reached out and touched me from afar.

I flicked my gaze to the stands, searching for her eyes, but she wasn’t there. The seat where she had been, next to Patroclus, was empty. The crowd screamed in confusion, not understanding a thing. No one here knew what those letters meant but me. And that certainty struck harder than any spear: it was her, guiding me.

Achilles was staring too, tense, bewildered. But before he could speak, another shadow formed in the sky. It writhed, stretched, and in a blink had shaped itself into a black arrow, pointing straight toward the cliff’s edge that loomed beside the arena.

The murmur erupted into a roar of panic, soldiers staggered back. My heart thundered in my chest as the shadows shifted once again.

JUMP.

The word was simple, brutal, so clear it cut straight through me.

I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. My legs moved on their own, sprinting, slicing through the sand beneath my feet. Behind me rose shouts, confusion, Achilles’s face twisting between fury and shock.

Only one thought hammered in my skull: Giuliana.

She had given me the way out. She was out there, waiting, risking everything to save me. I trusted her with every fiber of my being. Even if I couldn’t see her in the stands, even if her face slipped from me in the chaos, she was in those shadows, in those words. It was her hand guiding me, her voice whispering in a language no one else could understand.

The cliff’s edge opened before me, an endless crack of stone dropping into nothing. Guards shouted behind, chaos raged, but I didn’t hesitate.

My legs drove me forward with every scrap of strength left. And I jumped.

I leapt into the void with my heart bursting in relief, Giuliana’s name carved on my lips, with the certainty that she would be there below. That she was waiting.

Because if she wasn’t… then I was already dead.

The fall was worse than I remembered. Not the clean, cold plunge of the gateway arc, with water waiting below like a faithful promise. This time I saw sky, then earth, then a blur of branches and leaves rushing up to tear me apart. And I realized, with a sharp, foolish clarity, just how reckless I had been: leaping with no guarantee, trusting a single word scrawled in shadow across the sky. I had jumped as though I were invulnerable, and for the first time in a long while, I knew I might never open my eyes again.

The wind tore at me, and I thought of everything I hadn’t done: small things, great things, the people I cared for, Giuliana frozen as an image in my mind. The ground rushed at me with absurd speed, and I braced for the smash, the break, the certainty of no more breath.

And then it didn’t happen. My bones didn’t shatter against stone or hard earth. Instead, the fall became a plunge into something soft and warm, something that absorbed the impact and held me with impossible patience. I felt enveloped, cradled even, and for a heartbeat I thought I had imagined it all.

Hands gripped me firmly, a mix of precision and panic. Hands I recognized without seeing: small in shape, strong in resolve. They pulled me, steadied me, shielded me. I opened my eyes into the hollow between dark feathers and saw her.

It wasn’t a bird I knew; it was a creature wrought of shadow, a colossal bird formed of darkness shimmering with an ink-like sheen under the light. Its wings were a curtain of solid smoke, beating slow and vast, cushioning the fall as if the air itself had become a pillow. Giuliana was astride it, guiding me onto the creature’s back. Her face was pale, her clothes clinging, her hair whipped wild by the flight. And there, in the heart of that storm of shadow, her hands were on me, her gaze piercing straight through me.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice raw and urgent, catching every syllable as though she feared the wind would tear them away.

I couldn’t hold anything back. The tears came all at once, hot and salty, without warning, and I threw myself at her as if she were the only solid thing left in a world falling apart. I hugged her tightly, burying my face in her neck, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her skin. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she collapsed against me with the same urgency, and for a second we were two clumsy bodies colliding and holding on. We lost our composure at the exact same time.

Our tears mingled without shame: broken sobs, short breaths, awkward laughter spilling somewhere between relief and shock. It was everything we had held in, all at once: the fear, the uncertainty, the sleepless nights, the whispered plans. There, in her arms, all of it dissolved into breaths that no longer needed to be contained.

“Thank you,” I said at last, blunt, naming the only thing urgent enough to be spoken aloud. “Thank you for coming. For not letting me fall.”

She tightened her hold on me, as if testing that I wasn’t an illusion. Her voice returned, softer this time, trembling but firm.
“I knew you’d jump,” she answered. “And when I saw you falling, I didn’t hesitate. The only thought I had was: I have to reach him.”

Her words cut through me with a clarity so raw and simple they shook me. There was no reproach there, none at all—just the pure reasoning of someone who risks everything for another without blinking. It filled me with a gratitude so ancient, so sharp, it almost hurt in my chest.

For an instant, ridiculous and human, I felt the urge to kiss her—not for what we were, nor for what we were planning, but simply for the relief of having her in front of me, for the avalanche of emotions I had been bottling up for days. The temptation was brief and electric: would her mouth feel as good as in my dream? I wanted to confirm this was real with one intimate gesture. But I pushed the thought aside immediately. This wasn’t the place or the time. What mattered wasn’t possession of any kind, but the certainty that she was alive and safe in my arms.

Instead, I held her tighter, letting myself be carried by the calm her closeness brought. I felt her breathing steady again, her sobs quieting, leaving only a sheen of sweat and emotion on our skin like a crust of all we had endured.

The shadow creature, patient and loyal, held us gently. Its dark feathers wrapped around us like a canopy that separated our small world from the noise outside. In that moment I hadn’t noticed how high we had climbed; from up there, the arena looked like a diorama: soldiers running like ants, people screaming, Achilles no doubt cursing the divine itself. None of it touched us. We were a bubble drifting away, and for a while the feeling of being only two, together, was so real it loosened every knot in my shoulders.

“Let’s go,” she whispered to the creature woven from her shadows, her voice steadier now. “Take me somewhere no one can see us.”

I nodded. There was no need to plan grand things right then; all we needed was distance from the noise, time to heal the edges, to breathe in private. The shadow-bird tilted into a low glide and began to soar away, leaving behind the camp still trembling from the fight and the chaos.

As we flew, my mind tried to process it all: the humiliation, the fury, the battle, Achilles, the word spelled out in shadows that forced me to jump—and above all, the certainty that no one had ever saved me like this before. Not my name, not my story, nothing mattered as much as the warmth of her shoulder against my cheek. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. She was there, and that was enough.

We began to descend among the treetops, searching for a small clearing where the darkness of her bird would blend with the forest’s half-light. When we touched the ground, the shadows folded their wings and set us down softly, like dry leaves crunching underfoot. I dismounted carefully, my head still fogged by adrenaline, and took her hand without dramatics—a simple gesture that affirmed our alliance.

Being there, safe at last from prying eyes, gave me space for a small, incredulous laugh that came out uneven. Giuliana looked at me with something like contained relief and a stern tenderness; her eyes were still wet, but held the clarity of someone who had already traded fear for will.

“Thank you,” I repeated, because I wanted her to know it wasn’t an empty word. This time I said it slowly, holding it with everything I still had left in my voice.

She nodded, offered a brief smile, and squeezed my hand again, as if sealing a pact. Around us, the forest guarded us with its silence and the distance from the world, and for the first time since it all began I felt we could breathe without constantly glancing at the horizon.

“Let’s hide for a while,” Giuliana suggested. “I’ll patch you up, you’ll eat something warm, and then we’ll talk. We’ll have to think about what comes next. But for now, just breathe.”

So I did. I breathed. The air filled me deep, a new kind of relief. The rage was still there, simmering, but for the moment it transformed into plans and into a silent promise to protect her when it was my turn to do the same for her.

Ares rarely wasted time watching the fights of mere mortals. Most were hollow noise: blood spilled to feed the pride of men who, in a few generations, would be nothing but dust. He sought something else—the moments when violence bent the course of history, when the edge of a sword left scars that would not fade. But that day, something caught his attention.

A stranger had cut down thirty men as if they were little more than obstacles, and now he was facing Achilles. That, by definition, was worth watching.

He descended into the mortal world not with trumpets or flashes, but as he preferred: hidden, in the form of just another soldier among the crowd. The very air acknowledged him when he arrived; the sand vibrated, the clamor swelled, and in the chest of every spectator a sharper fire ignited. Where Ares walked, war thickened like smoke.

From his hiding place he watched the fight with the hunger of someone savoring a well-organized slaughter. Achilles and that warrior—the boy they called Percy—faced each other with an equality he hadn’t expected; every charge of Achilles met with a counter of equal weight, every riposte of Percy proved he wasn’t just some cheat, but a swordsman with steel in his spirit. The ground trembled: dust rose, weapons sang, and the crowd became a ravenous chorus. Ares felt how the air itself grew heavy with battle, how the fight fed his essence. This was combat that pleased him, a music of bone and bronze that promised more than trophies: it promised spectacle.

Until it broke.

Shadows. Not tricks of light, but living matter, moving with intent, tracing strange figures across the sky. Not Greek letters, not the gods’ symbols, but foreign signs, incomprehensible. The crowd faltered; shouts clashed with silence. Even Achilles and the foreigner stopped their deadly dance to look up.

And to everyone’s shock, Percy leapt off the cliff. The crowd froze for a breath, then erupted into screams. Ares was amused, though faintly disappointed—such a rare fight, and the boy suddenly goes mad.

And then the creature appeared.

A massive bird, born of darkness, ascending with a beat of wings that froze the blood of every onlooker. Upon its back, the girl Achilles had proclaimed as his prize, and beside her, the warrior who had stolen his glory. In a heartbeat, they soared beyond the spears and the walls, escaping the camp as the shadows wrapped around them.

For the first time that day, Ares felt something close to genuine surprise. Not at the magic—gods and their creatures knew plenty of wonders—but at the audacity of it: such a clean, defiant escape in the very heart of Achilles’ glory. Achilles himself roared moments later, his fury erupting like wildfire. For Ares, the spectacle had only grown sweeter: not just a fight, but a public insult demanding vengeance.

And then, like an unwelcome echo, he remembered something.

Days before, he had crossed paths with Apollo. The sun god had been in foul temper, his usual brilliance dimmed to ash. Amused, Ares had asked what was wrong. Apollo hadn’t explained much—just a growl, and a phrase Ares hadn’t forgotten:

“If you see a bitch wielding shadows, bring her to me.”

Ares smiled. Now he understood.

The laugh he released made the air vibrate, a deep sound that turned the heads of nearby soldiers without them knowing why.

“This will please my half-brother,” he murmured.

Ares licked his lips as though tasting blood yet to be spilled. This was no longer just a duel. This was the opening move of a larger game. And he would not miss a second of the war that might be born from it.

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