Chapter Text
Percy
“Percy, sir, Lady Jackson asked me to wake you up.”
The curtains rasped open, and the bright, intrusive sunlight flooded the room.
I groaned and rolled onto my side, dragging a goose-feather pillow over my head, desperate to shield myself from the blazing dawnlight. The fabric was cool against my cheek, slightly damp, probably from drool. Despite my efforts, the early glow still bled through my eyelids, turning everything an annoying shade of red.
“Five more minutes,” I mumbled into the pillow.
“I’m afraid Lady Jackson was quite adamant that you rise immediately, sir,” the servant replied, polite but with a hint of steel. “You are already eight minutes behind schedule."
“Unghh, fine.”
I shoved the pillow off my face and pushed myself upright. In the faint reflection of the window, I caught my sea‑green eyes shining back at me and my dishevelled jet-black hair sticking up in about a hundred different directions. The servant gave a small, satisfied nod.
“Very good, sir. I will inform the good lady you're awake.”
He bowed sharply, then turned and slipped from the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the blinding morning light and the crushing realisation that today was a school day.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, towelling my hands dry after finishing my morning routine, the Major‑domo was already waiting in the corridor. Manes, an exquisitely dressed and unfailingly cheerful young man, somehow always managed to correctly predict when I was done.
The guy must have a photographic memory.
“Breakfast is ready, sir,” he said. “Unfortunately, Lord Ugliano has been called away on an urgent senate matter.” He delivered the last part with just enough dryness to make it clear what he thought of the man.
“He won’t be joining you.”
“Thanks, Manes,” I said, relieved. “If only the fates could keep him busy like that more often.”
The corner of Manes’s mouth twitched, the closest he ever came to outright disapproval or agreement. “One never knows what misfortunes the day may bring.” he replied smoothly.
A faint, conspiratorial smile flickered across his face. He reached out for my towel, then turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with the rare promise of a peaceful breakfast.
After a few twists and turns, I arrived at the dining room. Like most rooms in my villa, it was quite extravagant.
Tall, plain Doric marble columns lined the perimeter. Above, the ceiling soared high, coffered in deep recessed squares painted in muted blues and rich golds. Each panel was bordered with delicate tesserae mosaics depicting famous giants of history; the consul Scipio Africanus, the hero Perseus.
At the centre of the room stood the table: a twenty-foot slab of African hardwood, polished to a mirror sheen. Its surface gleamed beneath the morning light, veins of dark grain running like rivers through its length. According to Manes, it had cost more than most people’s houses, something Gabe made sure every guest knew whenever he hosted a grand dinner party.
Soft light streamed in from windows on either side of the hall, spilling across the marble floor and converging at the centre, creating a natural spotlight over the table.
“Good morning Percy,” my mom said, setting a newspaper aside with a gentle rustle. She gave me a fond, effortless smile that made the early glow in the room feel even softer.
“Hi mom.” I yawned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “What's for breakfast?”
“Mithaecus prepared some blueberry pancakes with some figs and black grapes.”
I grinned, good old Mithaecus, always spoiling me.
She gestured for me to sit next to her. As I approached, my eyes flicked to the newspaper she had been reading. The headline leapt out at me in bold, angry letters:
Boeotian Confederation Begins Mobilisation!
My mother noticed my eyes lingering on the headline. “That’s why your stepfather was called into the Senate today,” she said, her voice calm but edged with concern. “He was asked to vote on whether Athens should start preparing for war or seek diplomacy."
I let out a long sigh. Tensions had been rising for months, and it felt like the spark was always just around the corner. “What happened this time? Did some Peltasts get killed in a border skirmish again?”
She shook her head, her expression grave. “Worse. A major fort in Symmachia was attacked. The Hoplite garrison… wiped out.”
The words hit like a punch to the ribs.
I sucked in a breath. Since I was young, I’d dreamed of one day joining the Hoplites, who were the heavy infantry of the Athenian Ground Force. Highly disciplined, rigorously trained, and armed with the most modern kit, they were among the finest soldiers in the world.
“And that’s not even the worst part,” she continued, her voice dropping. “New intelligence suggests the Boeotians’ success was due to demigods.” She paused, letting the weight of the words settle before locking eyes with me. “A big three demigod.”
That was news.
There hasn’t been a known child of the big three since the Great Crusade, and that was two decades ago. Apparently, according to rumours, this was because Zeus, Poseidon and Hades swore an oath on the Styx to never have children with a mortal again.
The gods considered them too dangerous, too unpredictable. A single demigod was worth a thousand men, but a child of the big three… that could decide the outcome of an entire battle.
“The Boeotian foreign minister denied responsibility, claiming the attack was carried out by an extremist terrorist organisation fighting for the independence of Symmachia,” she explained. “But the forensic evidence tells a different story.”
She lifted a thin china coffee cup, its ivory surface painted with delicate blue cranes drifting through pale clouds, a fine ring of gold circling the rim. She took a slow sip before setting it carefully back onto its matching saucer. “Enough of politics. Start eating before you’re late to school, Atticus will take you in eight minutes.”
As I wiped syrup from my mouth clean with a tissue, a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in, please,” my mom called.
The door opened to reveal Atticus, a tall, well built middle aged man from Attica minor. His neatly trimmed brown hair was cleanly swept to one side. He wore a plain dark suit with a pristine white shirt and a scarlet red tie that added just a smudge of colour to his otherwise achromatic appearance.
He wasn’t just our head of security, nor a former Enomotarch; commander of a platoon. He was my mother’s confidant, the man entrusted with the quiet, ruthless work the nobility required. Her right hand. And somehow, despite that, he was also my close friend. One of the very few people who could stop me before my recklessness became a scandal.
“The Alector is ready, Ma’am.” he reported.
She gave a curt nod. “And the third squad?”
“Looking sharp. I knocked them into shape, they’re now a solid bunch of lads. Picked the leader myself. A veteran of fifteen years."
“Good work. Percy, get moving before you're late.” my dare old mother said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And remember you got after school mathematics today.”
I grumbled some curses under my breath, already dreading the idea of an extra two hours of maths. Sometimes it really sucked having Athena as this nation’s patron goddess. Why couldn’t we have some less academic minded deity?
Poseidon seemed like a cool dude.
I followed Atticus through the villa, my footsteps echoing softly against the lustrous marble floors. The sound carried in the high-ceilinged corridor, fading into the gentle, relaxing, rhythm of fountain water falling somewhere in the inner courtyard. I drew in a slow breath, the cool mineral scent of freshly swept stone blending with the faint sweetness of flowers carried in from the gardens.
We passed beneath a row of triumphal archways carved from pale Parian marble, their columns fluted and crowned with gilded capitals. Sunlight spilled through the glassed atrium above, catching in the engraved golden letters cut deep into the stone. An inscription ran across the central arch, the words chiselled in bold, uncompromising script:
GABE CORNELIVS VGANLIO, PRAETOR, QVAESTOR II, AEDILIS, TRIBVNVS II, PRAEFECTVS ASTYNOMIAE II
If only the people knew the truth behind them.
My mother had told me that Gabe only achieved prominence and high offices due to his family connections. I believed her, my stepfather was exactly what you would expect from a pompous aristocrat, so far stuck up his own ass that he couldn’t see past his delusions of grandeur. He wore those titles like medals won in battle, when in reality they had been handed to him polished and ready for display.
I highly doubt Gabe had even fired a weapon before, let alone fought on the front lines.
The Republic had adopted the Roman cursus honorum when it was founded in 1 AR (After Revelation), nearly seventy years ago. The offices remained political in form, but Athens had preserved its own military heritage, distinct and fiercely proud. In theory, advancement required both civic service and martial credibility.
In theory.
In practice, as Gabe found out, there were always loopholes. Strings to pull. Favours to call in behind closed doors.
Further along, a well groomed servant handed me my simple school backpack, already prepared. We passed a couple of quiet sitting rooms, their cool interiors a sharp contrast to the rising heat outside. I could feel the warmth creeping in through the open doors, and by the time we reached the main exit, the sun hit me full on, blurring the edges of the villa in a shimmering haze.
Today was so hot I could see the heat waves in the air.
“What's the temperature?” I asked.
“Thirty-seven Celsius, and climbing, sir,” Atticus replied, fanning himself slightly. “Looks like Apollo’s doing overtime today.”
Great. The only thing worse than maths was doing maths in a boiling classroom with no air conditioning.
We walked down a flight of burnished porcelain stoneware stairs to where an Alector armoured car waited.
The vehicle was low‑slung, its hull shaped in sloped contours and reinforced with steel plating thick enough to shrug off small‑arms fire. Set on oversized hard‑rubber wheels built to absorb shrapnel and debris.
Inside, rough canvas seats were stretched tight over bare metal frames, and an open metal framework enclosed the cabin. With no windows except a thin, bullet‑resistant vision port at the front, the interior had a protected, almost bunker‑like feel despite being exposed at the top. Other variants of the Alector could mount a turret with a mini‑artillery cannon or machine guns, but this one was stripped down to its transport configuration, able to carry seven people.
It was a machine built for rough, shell-pocked terrain rather than comfort, easy to repair and stubborn as a mule. Militaries and private contractors favoured it for its reliability, and ability to crawl over ground conditions that would have stopped most vehicles. There was no decoration save for a small dark-blue trident set within a seashell on the front and sides, the insignia of my family, the gens Nautia.
Our family, although noble and once highly respected, hadn’t fared well after the Great Crusade, twenty years ago. Too many of our most distinguished members had fallen in battle, including our pater familias, my uncle. By the time peace arrived, our power was fading and our coffers were empty.
We claimed heritage from Nautius, a wise Trojan elder best known for advising Aeneas after a group of Trojan women, encouraged by the goddess Iris, burned the fleet. It was a proud lineage, even if pride was one of the few things we still possessed.
Another guard, a former Hoplite, stood at attention beside the vehicle, a Pentephoros rifle—an accurate, five-magazine bolt-action rifle and standard issue for the Athenian army—slung across his broad shoulder.
He pulled the heavy door open in one smooth motion, stepping aside so I could climb in before Atticus and the guard followed. I climbed into the nearest seat, dropping my backpack into the cramped gap between it and the seat beside me, feeling the taut canvas press against my legs. Atticus slid into the driver’s seat. The guard unslung his rifle, resting it across his knees as he eased into the passenger spot, the barrel angled safely down but ready to lift in an instant.
“Do you know what unit was destroyed at the fort?” I asked, hoping Atticus had some information.
He started the engine and drove us out of the parking area, “Yes sir, it was the 7th Lochos of Hoplites. A mate of mine was a ranker in it.”
Once we hit the main road, Atticus slammed the accelerator, and we raced off, the wind knifing over the open top and giving us a moment's relief from the sweltering heat. Dust and the faint smell of burning oil stung my eyes as I gripped the edge of the rough leather seat, feeling the engine’s vibrations rattle through my bones.
“I heard rumours the bloody quartermasters refused them heavy artillery. No wonder the fort fell.” Atticus muttered, his shoulders stiffening as he drove
“Typical rear-echelon bastards,” the other guard growled under his breath. “Pardon my Persian, sir.”
“It’s fine,” I said, smirking. “My mother isn’t around to hear it.”
I poked my head up and looked out at the breath-taking scenery around us. We were on the outskirts of New Athens, where villas and houses were scattered across the landscape. Olive groves and cypress trees lined the winding roads, and the sun glinted off terracotta roofs, casting warm, golden highlights across the peaceful hills. A murder of ravens wheeled overhead, croaking sharply, their black silhouettes stark against the bright sky.
In the distance, the city’s skyscrapers pierced the skyline, a reminder of the bustling streets and markets just beyond this quiet, sun-drenched fringe.
I fidgeted my toes nervously. “Do you guys think Boeotia actually has a big three?”
“Yes sir, it would make sense,” Atticus replied evenly. “A stronghold with four thousand men doesn’t just fall in less than three hours. Isn’t that right, Josh?”
The other mercenary turned to face me, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “Aye,” he said, voice rougher, less polished. “You don’t crack a Hoplite fort that size that quick without somethin’ big. Would take at least a division, heavy kit to smash the defences, mortars, howitzers, the lot. And you don’t just march twelve thousand men across the countryside without folk seein’ the dust cloud from miles off.”
He shrugged. “If nobody saw an army… then there wasn’t an army.”
A chill crept up my spine. “Then what chance do we stand?”
Atticus didn’t look too worried. “We’ve got demigods of our own,” he said firmly. “And I doubt this turns into a full-scale conflict. The bums in the Senate are too scared to commit to open war, even with the destruction of a lochos.”
Josh gave a low grunt of agreement. “Politicians love shoutin’,” he muttered. “Just not when it’s them that has to bleed.”
“The Senate’ll probably send a very strongly worded condemnation of the attack." Atticus added. “Even those peacocks know Army Group South, hell, or any army group, ain’t ready for a fight."
I frowned. “So… our army isn’t ready for war?”
Josh laughed, a low, bitter sound. “Not even close. Those bureaucratic parasites put on a show of strength, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. In reality, only the Navy and the Epilektoi are combat-ready, the real backbone of the Republic. The Ground Force? Half-trained wannabe soldiers stuffed into armour, led by officers who don’t know which way is up.” He hesitated, unsure if he should continue.
“Bastards like your stepfather…” He spat on the road, eyes narrowing. “…they gutted the funding. Crap pay, never enough supplies, barely any drills. Every damn coin went straight into their fat pockets. You would think about the trashing Arcadia gave us last time there would be reforms, but no. When the fight comes, our enemies are gonna see just how weak we really are.”
“Heck, even Rusadonian might try their luck at us again.” Josh muttered, shaking his head.
Atticus nodded grimly. “Frederick Chase is the only sensible politician left these days. He's been pushing hard for rapid rearmament and modernisation, especially mass funding for the Dominatus program. He argues demigods are the best way for power projection, and his right. Without them, our forces will crumble before they even reach the frontline.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of it settling in. Everything I’d grown up taking for granted suddenly felt fragile. It seemed like if nothing changed, only the gods could save us.
“Back when I served,” Josh said, a faraway, almost dreamy look in his eyes, “the Hoplites used to be a proper force. Well supplied, trained… a real pain in the arse for anyone dumb enough to take ’em on.”
We arrived at a traffic intersection, scores of cars packed in every direction. The heat of the day pressed down on everyone, making drivers sweat, wipe their brows with ragged sleeves, or fan themselves with whatever they could find. Horns blared impatiently, engines idled with a low, throaty growl, and the faces behind the wheels were tight with frustration and rising anger. As if Dionysius himself had driven them mad, a few men had already climbed out of their cars, shouting accusations and hurling curses at one another, each blaming the other for the snarl of traffic.
“The heat’s making people ratty,” Atticus whispered from the driver’s seat, eyes scanning the scene. His tone was calm, but alert. “If there’s trouble, there’s live kit in the back."
Civilians were not permitted to carry weapons under the Lex Armis Publicis, the public arms statute passed after the Great Crusade. The law was meant to prevent unrest in the cities, to ensure that only the military, and licensed security, could bear arms within urban limits.
If it came to a fight, we would technically have the advantage. But laws only worked on the people who followed them. And judging by the shouting outside, not everyone at this intersection seemed the law-abiding type.
As if on cue, a man in rolled-up sleeves shoved another hard against the side of a car. The impact made the metal door rattle with a hollow clang.
“What d’you think you’re doin’?” the first man barked, face red and slick with sweat.
“I didn’t cut you off!” the other shot back, his accent slipping through as he stumbled before regaining his footing. He shoved back, not as hard, but enough to escalate things.
The first man’s eyes narrowed, and suddenly his lips curled into a sneer. “Wait…” he muttered, stepping closer. “You’re a bloody Boeotian, ain’t ya? No wonder you drive like a savage!”
That was all it took.
Nearby Athenians, overhearing the accusation, surged forward, circling the lone foreigner like wolves. “For the fort!” one spat, fists raised. “You attacked our men, now you pay, ya filthy, rat-blooded barbaros!”
The man flailed desperately, thrashing his fists at the nearest Athenians, every punch fuelled by animalistic panic, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. A boot slammed into his stomach, doubling him over, and someone’s elbow caught him square in the jaw. He stumbled back, spitting blood, only to be shoved face-first against the hood of his car. The metal groaned under the impact, the sound swallowed by the mob’s ugly laughter.
“Get him, boys!” someone yelled. Hands grabbed his arms, dragging him to the pavement. Fists rained down from all sides, catching him in ribs, kidneys, and jaw. Dust and sweat mixed with blood and spit, sticking his plain brown T-shirt to his back.
“You Boeotian pigs think you own the world!” another shouted, hammering punches into him. The helpless man swung weakly to defend himself, but a muddy boot stomped on his arm, wrenching a raw scream from his throat.
“Go to Hades!” someone roared, and a boot connected with the side of his head, forcing him to curl up like a ball. The attackers circled him, relentlessly, dragging him back to his feet only to pummel him again.
“Poor bastard,” Atticus muttered under his breath. “But well deserved.”
Josh gave a grim nod. “Justice for our lads.”
I was sick to my stomach.
How could people be so hateful? The unfortunate man hadn’t done a single thing wrong, and yet he was paying for the actions of his government. My chest tightened, anger and helplessness twisting together tighter than the Gordian knot. I was seconds away to step in to do something, anything to help him, when the wail of sirens cut through the chaos, growing louder by the second.
I twisted in my seat and spotted a pair of matte-black cars forcing their way toward the intersection, engines growling as they mounted the curb to bypass the gridlock. On each hood, the Titaness Themis, blindfolded and holding up her scales, the unmistakable insignia of the Astynomia, gleamed in the sun’s early glow like a warning, and beneath it, in smaller italic white letters, the motto: Hoi theoi panton epistatai—the gods are all knowing.
The sirens wailed again, louder this time, demanding attention. A few of the men in the street froze mid-strike. One of the fighters scrambled to his feet, suddenly far more interested in brushing dust off his jacket than continuing the assault.
Relief flooded through me, the police had arrived.
Maybe now, this madness would finally end.
Half a dozen armed policemen in neat black uniforms poured from the cars, Pentephoros rifles slung loosely across their shoulders. Their boots clattered against the asphalt as they fanned out, forming a tight line between the attackers and the Boeotian.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the commanding officer, a young, fit, handsome man in a service hat with the insignia of the Astynomia on the front. His baton raised, ready to strike. His eyes took in the raised fists, the furious faces, and the sole man sprawled on the ground, blood streaking his lips as he coughed up what remained of his breakfast.
“That Boeotian threatened us!” one of the men shouted, pointing with a trembling hand, sweat streaking his dirt-smudged face. “He—he attacked us first!”
“Boeotian, you say?” the officer muttered, mostly to himself, his jaw tightening. His eyes flicked to the battered man on the ground, dark rivulet trailing from his temple all the way down his bruised face, clothing torn and dust-caked.
He strode forward, holding up a hand. The man, exhausted and trembling, reached out gratefully and grasped it, eager for support. But before he could rise fully, the officer’s baton came down hard, striking him across the shoulder with a sickening crack.
“You hell-spawns killed my brother!” the officer roared, fury twisting his fine features. He slammed the baton down again and again, each strike punctuated by the metallic echo of impact on bloodied flesh and bone. The man staggered under the blows, collapsing onto the road, his arms drawn around his head, his cries of pain barely audible over the chaos of the street.
Around them, the remaining Athenians froze for a heartbeat, then erupted into cheers. Fists shot into the air, some slamming onto car hoods, others pounding the asphalt. The victim cowered under the officer’s blows, but the mob seemed only to feed off the violence, their collective fury making the moment feel alive.
This was madness. Pure, unbridled madness.
The man was going to die if this kept up.
“Come with me.” I ordered, pushing open the armoured door of the vehicle.
Atticus opened his mouth to protest, but froze when he saw the determined look on my face. He gave a short nod and fell in behind me, Josh close at his side, the three of us moving towards the beating.
“Stop!” I shouted, striding toward the officer.
He barely looked at me. “You better hurry or you’ll be late to school, kid.” he said, dismissively.
That set something off in me. My chest burned with indignation, my hands shook, and before I even thought, he raised his baton to strike the man again. Instinct took over. I lunged, grabbing it, trying to wrench it from his grip. His black-brown eyes widened in surprise… then he lashed out. The punch landed in my gut, knocking the air from my lungs, and I crumpled to the ground.
I could see him stepping forward, ready to strike the man again, and something snapped inside me. How dare he attack me, attack anyone, like this?
I scrambled to my feet, rage pouring through me, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. My hands moved before I could stop them, and I uppercutted him with everything I had.
The force shocked me.
The officer went flying, crashing into the same person who’d started this whole mess and sending them both sprawling in a tangle of limbs.
I froze, chest heaving, eyes wide. My mind screamed: What just happened? How did I do that? Disbelief and anger tangled together, and beneath them pulsed something warm and electric, like raw power waking up inside me.
The world seemed too loud, too bright, too sharp. My stomach churned, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I stared at the officer sprawled and unmoving on the ground.
Everything felt… different. I wasn’t just angry. It was something more, something I didn’t understand, and it scared me.
But the strangest part was the moment right when the punch landed.
I could’ve sworn the earth trembled beneath my feet.
“Hands up, where I can see them!” a policeman shouted, his voice shaky. “Now!”
Five others fanned out beside him, guns trembling in their grips as they trained on me. My heart slammed against my ribs. Huh? I couldn’t even form a word, my throat dry, my mind blank, everything inside me locking up.
Thankfully, my guards were already moving, stepping in front of me with their rifles raised. “Oi, you bastards!” Atticus barked, his voice cutting through the electric silence. “Lower your weapons, or do you want to be beaten till an inch of your life for threatening a patrician?”
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. The policemen’s rifles sat in their hands, unsure on what to do. Their eyes darted between me and my guards. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat louder than the last, and I could feel the heat of adrenaline crawling up my spine.
Josh’s grip tightened on his rifle, knuckles going white. Atticus’s stance was unflinching, daring them to act. I wanted to move, to run, to do something, anything other than standing like an idiot, but my body felt frozen, tethered to the street like a deer caught in headlights.
Then, a single finger twitched on one of the triggers. Time slowed. I could see the reflection of the sun on the gun, hear the faint hiss of their breath, smell the metallic tang of fear in the air. Every second stretched, thick and suffocating. One wrong move, one snap of a trigger… and it would all be over.
I drew in a steadying breath, summoning every shred of courage I had. If I didn’t act, my friends would die.
“I am Perseus Nautia Jackson of patrician stock,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension. “You will take the victim to a hospital. No harm must come to him. I want every perpetrator arrested.”
“NOW!”
Nobody moved at first, and for a heartbeat I feared they didn’t buy it. Then, after a breath that stretched into an eternity, one of the Astynomia slowly lowered his rifle. The rest followed, their weapons dipping in reluctant unison. Relief prickled through me, but I didn’t let it show, one wrong move and the whole thing could ignite again.
“Give the noble a goddamn salute!” Atticus yelled. “Before I beat it out of ya.”
The remaining policemen straightened and snapped to attention, saluting me before moving to carry out the arrests and help the injured man to his feet.
Cries of “traitor!” and “injustice!” erupted from my fellow countrymen, their voices raw with fury and disbelief that I would side with a foreigner, but I didn't let them deter me.
Because this was justice.
“Let's go.” I said, already moving back to the Alector. “If Tyche is on my side, I might just make it before Principal Barlos throws a fit.”
Fortunately, luck was indeed on my side. Atticus guided the Alector into the school’s crowded carpark, the vehicle looming above the surrounding civilian cars. He manoeuvred the car past a few honking, impatient parents who were cursing under their breaths as they rushed to work. I barely waited for the engine to die before vaulting out of the top.
“Remember after-school maths!” Atticus called, more a tease than a reminder, he knew how much I hated that revolting subject.
My polished leather shoes skidded slightly on the concrete as I sprinted toward the main building, almost forgetting to grab my backpack in my haste. The bell screamed through the corridors just as I reached the steps.
That was the first bell.
I still had one minute.
“Yo Percy, what's the rush?” a voice called from behind.
I turned and saw my best friend, Grover Underwood. He was scrawny and a little below average height for a twelve-year-old, with thick curly light brown hair and warm chestnut eyes.
I jerked my head toward the building, gesturing for him to follow, then broke into a run, narrowly dodging a sixth grader, who was busy stuffing something into his locker. The hallway was absolute mayhem. Hundreds of students wove around each other like a stampede of buffalos. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught one of my friends awkwardly trying to flirt with his crush.
“I’ve got just over thirty seconds to get into maths before Mrs Dodds sends me to Hades.” I called over my shoulder, my voice barely audible over the roar of chatter, laughter, and the occasional shrill bark by a hall monitor.
Grover laughed. “Good luck, bro! See you at break.” He peeled off down a different hallway toward his own class, which was Environmental Science or something like that.
He loved nature. Like, really loved nature. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to date a tree.
Twenty seconds.
I could still make it!
Despite the early commotion at the traffic stop, which I still haven't fully processed, I clung to hope. Today may actually not be a complete disaster. Maybe. Probably. Well… maybe.
Pandora didn’t open her box for nothing, after all. Trouble was clearly my default setting, and yet… I had this weird, stubborn feeling that things might actually go my way today. Maybe the fates were on vacation. Maybe they were laughing on a sunbed in a five star resort, sipping ambrosia cocktails, and telling tales on the funniest way they have screwed some mortal's life—letting me have a little break in between.
Ten seconds,
I could see the wooden red door to Mrs. Dodds’ classroom up ahead.
Victory was in inevitable—
BRRRRRRRR.
Gods. Fucking. Damn it!
The second bell rang.
I stumbled through the door and was greeted by the most ancient, mean-looking woman in the whole universe, her arms crossed like iron bars. Her eyes, sharp and cold behind her glasses, were like shards of ice, and her mouth was set in a permanent scowl. Wisps of grey hair framed a wrinkled face lined with centuries of frowns.
She looked exactly like how I imagined a Fury of Hades would.
“You are late, Percy Jackson.”