Siren of the Night

by CarDesign

Summary:

In some worlds, Poseidon is a god who will place family above everyone else. A god who would sink the world to protect his progeny. This is not that world. In this world, he did not dare to risk the lives of his immortal family for that of a mortal. In this world a child with far to much potential finds himself alone in the dark making enemies he did not earn and Misery he does not deserve. Expect most of the gods to chose the darker or more chaotic choices that were presented or used in PJO, though it will vary greatly.

Notes:

I do have a summary for the rest of this work plotted out which wraps up the two big bads, though it may be a little bit until I get that converted into readable chapters. Debating on how many of a certain 12 individuals are going down the ship feel free to cast a vote in the comments. For those wondering, I am not planning on a pairing throughout the story. However, I will likely end with a setup for Perzoe. Zoe will be featured heavily in the plot as by her nature and purpose in the canon world, she will face conflict and choices which set in motion large events and thus gets dragged into it.

I am not Rick Riordan. While I did create this new plot, I do not own PJO or its characters.

Chapter 1: The Promise of Peace

Deep and brilliant green eyes stared back at the man. Only a few days old, and yet it would be hard to deny the child had his eyes and the full head of jet black hair wasn't helping. A subtle inkling of guilt welled up in him, family. He always protected his family. Prophecy aside, he held no doubts that his brothers would declare war for its head. A war between the sky, the sea, and the earth. Could he endanger the rest of his family for this… mortal? He squashed the feeling back down, kings and gods do not feel guilt. This boy heralded war. This prophecy proclaimed the destruction of Olympus.

“Perseus.” A soft voice called from behind him. “I named him perseus, in the hopes that he too could build a life unmarred by tragedy.”

The man let out a low hum. “I cannot say I favor the name of one given to my nephew prior.”

The retort came back quickly. “Then you should have come sooner and voiced your ever veiled thoughts.”

“Perseus.” He tested letting the name roll around like sampled wine. “I do hope you have some years before my world finds you”

Turning to the woman who was watching over him, a soft light behind her in the kitchen of the small apartment gave her a light halo. If only, she were a god he mused melancholically. He couldn't bring himself to take away everything from her. Not here, not so soon. Not himself.

“I must go.” He said tersely. “Our laws forbid further interference.”

She scowled at him, but she knew this was coming. It was of little secret that Olympians do not linger in the presence of mortals. “Is there nothing you can do to protect him from your world?”

He thought for a moment, the pin in his hair heavy. He was resolved, he was not going to… had he decided this mortal's life was worth risking everything. Worth an entire pantheon…

“This sword is of the sea. Wielded by great heroes before him.” The presentation did little to lessen her scowl…

To further ease the woman he cared for he added, “With it goes my promise that as long as he lives, he will be protected by the power of the sea.”

He handed the elegant bronze hairpin to the woman. Once in her grasp, it elongated into a xiphos. “Will it back into a pin. It will always return to you.”

He turned to leave, but paused. “Goodbye Sally.”

And with that he disappeared into a swirl of mist leaving the apartment empty but for the newborn and the woman who twirled the pin whilst looking over her son.

“I only hope that for you, Perseus, he can keep that promise.”

Chapter 2: The Plotting of Serpents

The smoke of a roaring campfire clung to the treetops, curling upward into the night sky pierced only by silver light from the moon. The clearing sprinkled in a coating of golden dust and littered with bones and scales of the drakon that lay broken only hours ago. The flames of the central fire licked at the carcasses of lesser prey to feed the feast. 

For once, the Hunt was loud with mirth. Laughter carried through the night as goblets of mead were raised, the hunters boasting of whose arrows had met more spectacular marks. Who had dodged death when its fangs came snapping dripping with poison that could fell even the largest of beasts. The smell of roasted flesh— seared and spiced—mingled with the smoke. A feast worthy of Olympus, though it was born of hardship and blood of their sisters.

In the center, Artemis sat apart, her silver eyes reflecting the firelight while her mind wandered and kept watch. She allowed her children this brief revelry. They had earned it. Drakons of this size were no trivial prey, and this one had fought savagely to the last breath. The goddess herself had loosed an arrow that pierced its eye, but she had not robbed her hunters of the glory. Tonight, they celebrated not her divinity, but their mortal courage.

Beyond the circle of song and flame, great leathery eggs lay piled in the reptiles nest. Further spoils of their hunt. Come dawn, they would be cracked and fried into meals to dull the ache of her brother’s wine. 

But the joyousness stilled when the air shifted. Artemis noticed the presence first, but it made itself known quickly. The fire hissed, guttered, as a figure strode into the camp. The scent of brine and storm rode before him.

The messenger.

The sea god’s presence was an intrusion, arrogance dripping like the saltwater from his every movement. The hunters’ hands went to their bows. The bravest among them snarled low, like wolves protecting their den. God or not, few men dared step foot in Artemis’ domain and fewer still left unscathed.

Artemis herself rose, her expression unreadable. “Triton,” she said coldly.

Triton inclined his head mockingly, his trident gleaming in the firelight. “Artemis. Your camp reeks of victory. A shame I missed the spectacle.”

“You are not welcome here,” her lieutenant snapped, rising to her feet. The hunters bristled in unison.

“I will not stay long,” Triton replied, voice smooth as the tide. “I come with a request.”

A silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hiss of the roasting meal. Artemis met his gaze. “Speak.”

Triton approached closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “It would be better to speak of this in private.”

Artemis’ face did not move, though her hunters shifted uncomfortably, sensing the weight of the conversation. “There has been a… mistake. A child of the sea has been born.”

“Near Montauk,” Triton continued. “A boy who visits the ocean often. I presume you understand what is at stake, from both prophecy and the threat of your father.” 

The god let the words sink in. “The sea does not wish to court war with your father. This mistake must be corrected before it grows.”

Artemis’ features remained stoic. “Why not see to it yourself, if this child so threatens Olympus?”

Triton’s mouth curled, despising the implication that he is weak. “I am the messenger, we require a hunter. One whose involvement in the mortal world and the punishment of its inhabitants is far from unusual. Should any other go, it would draw too much attention. The kings’ ire even in his victory. But you—” He let the word linger before baiting the hook. “You shall be owed a favor. Equally discrete if you wish.” 

Artemis’ eyes flicked toward her hunters, their faces lit in silver firelight, young and fierce and loyal. The thought of sending them after a child made her stomach twist. “How, when?” she asked quietly.

“I would not presume to tell you how to hunt. It need not even be your hand. You have your ways.” Triton said. “He is five already. He must not reach sixteen, obviously.”

He continued “Though… he feels powerful. I believe letting him age long would be dangerous”

Artemis’ face was held straight though her inner turmoil was breaking through.  

Fortunately, with his message delivered, he straightened. The gods' voice rose so the whole camp could hear. “May the Hunt continue its revelry.”

He turned, but not before his eyes locked with one of the girls at the fire. Green-eyed. A flicker of something passed between them. She scowled, muttering under her breath as he vanished back into mist and spray.

The girl rose, fists clenched, and strode to Artemis and her lieutenant. “What did he want?” she demanded. “My half-brother never brings good news and never on land.”

Zoe’s lips pressed thin. “Nothing good,” she said.

Artemis laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Atalanta,” she said softly, her voice carrying over the dying flames. “Collect the largest egg from our hunt. We have an errand to run.”

The hunters stilled, their merriment forgotten in the wake of the sea god. Atalanta bowed stiffly, then disappeared toward the spoils.

Artemis watched her go, her silver eyes dark with thought. To strike at a child—her heart recoiled from it. If the boy had been a daughter, she would have offered her hand, her bow, her eternal protection. But he was male, history had carved its scars deep into her. Male heroes brought ruin, again and again. A prophesied one would be no better. 

Still, she whispered into the night, words no hunter heard: May the Fates be kinder than I. For if not, then when the drakon prowls his home, his life will end by my arrow. Perhaps he will know a few years of innocence before we gods strip it from him.

The fire popped. The hunters' conversations started up again, though softer now. Artemis sat back amongst them, her mind heavy with the knowledge of the war that would one day come—born not of men or monsters, but of the gods’ own fear.

Chapter 3: Broken Promises

The night had been gentle. The kind of evening Sally cherished—the salt-scented breeze threading through the trees, the sound of the surf rolling endlessly against the sand, and her boy, laughing as he chased sparks from their little fire near the porch of the cabin. Perseus had spent all day running along the beach, collecting shells, daring the waves to catch him. His cheeks were flushed with salt and sunlight, his hair wild, his brilliant green eyes alight with mischief.

Now, in the firelight, those same eyes glowed softer, content. The cheap radio she had dragged out hummed with old songs, tinny through the static. Sally hummed along, nudging her son to mimic the melody, both of them laughing too hard to finish the tune. These moments, she thought, were worth everything—worth the danger, worth the secrecy, worth the burden she carried in silence.

But peace, she knew too well, was fragile.

The forest shifted. Leaves trembled though no wind stirred them. A silence spread, so sudden the crackle of the fire seemed to roar in its absence. Perseus froze mid-laugh, his small hand tightening in hers.

From the tree line, it stalked. Hunting the smell of divine blood intruding on its territory.

The drakon was young, but youth for such creatures was still monstrous. Fifteen feet of scaled muscle, eyes glowing faintly, venom dripping from its fangs. Its hide shimmered like tarnished bronze in the firelight, and the earth seemed to recoil as it advanced. To Sally’s son, it was horror made flesh.

“Inside,” Sally whispered, pushing him toward the cabin, her voice steady though her heart thundered.

Perseus stumbled, half-crying already, his small body stiff with fear. The beast hissed, a sound that shook his bones, and began to follow.

Sally tore the pin from her hair. It shimmered, lengthened, and in her grip the xiphos gleamed bronze. She stood between the monster and her son as he scrambled into the cabin.

The drakon lunged. She dodged and swung. The blade struck, but the scales were like iron, the impact ringing instead of biting. Sparks danced where bronze scraped hide, the weapon skittering off leaving nothing but a scrape in the scales.

“Poseidon—” she gasped, swinging again as the drakon advanced, “please!”

But the sea was silent.

The creature reared back, tail coiling. Then it struck. The whip-like motion caught her squarely in the side, slamming her into the wall. The breath left her in a ragged cry. She slid down, the sword slipping from her hand.

“Mom!” Percy’s voice cracked as he saw her fall.

The drakon roared, opening its maw. A blast of venom surged forth, corrosive acid hissing as it ate through the floor, the furniture, half the cabin itself. The air filled with smoke and the stench of burning wood and rot. Sally did not rise.

Perseus’ hands fumbled over the floor reaching for the sword whilst trying to avoid the burned ground. He clutched it closer to him, his arms shaking under the weight. His breath came shallow, fast, as the drakon’s bulk shadowed over the ruined room.

He rolled beneath the dining table, heart pounding so hard he thought the beast could hear it. The wood groaned as claws pressed down, cracking the frame above him. The monster’s head lowered, slow, deliberate, until its fanged maw hovered just above him. It sniffed, the air thick with the scent of divine blood.

Its jaws opened.

Percy screamed—not aloud, but inside—as he slowly pointed the sword upward with both hands. The drakon lunged, impaling itself. The bronze blade tore through its mouth, punching out the back of its neck. For one suspended heartbeat, Percy locked eyes with the beast as its death rattle shuddered through it. Then the monster collapsed forward, its full weight crashing down.

Dust. Scales. Acid. The body dissolved into dust, coating him in suffocating layers of gold. Poison dripped from the maw even while the beast disintegrated, splattering against his arms, searing the flesh. He screamed now, voice raw and shrill. He raised his hands instinctively, desperate for it to stop.

And it did.

The poison in the air, all the venom on his body and strewn about the cabin seemed to recoil. It lifted, as if expunged like water from a sponge, and streamed outward–fleeing into the forest and across the beach. The cabin was left hollow, open to the night air.

Perseus collapsed onto his side, tears spilling hot down his cheeks. The salty liquid tingled faintly against his skin, yet soothed too, knitting shut the worst of the burns. His eyes, though—his eyes were clouded, blurred. He could barely make out the shapes of the room, everything dim and shapeless but the faintest glow of the stars above through the ruined roof.

“Mom?” His voice broke. He crawled, feeling through splintered wood and stone. His hands found nothing. No warmth. No breath.

He sobbed, shaking, clutching at the floor. “Mom! Please—”

No answer.

The boy’s body gave way, trembling with exhaustion, pain, and terror. As his sight dimmed further, he became aware of movement. A presence, dark and immense, entered the wreckage. To his weak eyes it was a shadow cut against other shadows, taller than men, shrouded in mist… or wings.

It bent low, reaching into the rubble. When it rose, Perseus thought he saw her—Sally, her outline shimmering in faint, luminous blue. Her spirit, limp in its grasp.

“No…” His voice was cracked, weak, but he forced it out. “Don’t take her…”

The figure paused. Slowly, its head turned toward him. Its voice was deep, mournful, resonant with power:

“You can see me? Most cannot, little godling.”

Perseus trembled, clutching blind at the dust. “Don’t take her. Please.”

The figure’s form seemed to waver, its edges dissolving in and out of the dark. “I am sorry. It is too late for her. It is her time to pass to the next world.”

The boy’s eyes closed, the blur of shadow fading from his world. His small body slumped to the floor, overcome at last by the weight of pain and loss.

The cabin fell silent, broken only by the endless sound of the sea that had not headed their pleas.

Chapter 4: One is Never Alone in the Night

The Night was endless, as she had always been. Stars pricked her veil, faint lights clinging to her folds as she drew it over the fleeing light of day. An eternal chase of her children with Erebus while her own brood toiled in the darkness she so reveled in. Those less blindingly rebellious of her children had long ago fallen into their appointed realms, bound by duty to errands of the night. She looked upon them fondly—her brood of shadows endlessly instigating their own pieces of chaos around the world.

On this night, her gaze softened on Death.

Below her veil, her son knelt among the wreckage of a mortal home. Thanatos, gentle and solemn, worked his quiet task: drawing forth a soul that shimmered faintly blue. The mortal woman stirred once, her spirit catching like smoke in his hand. It should have been an ordinary moment—an inevitable one.

But the boy.

The child saw him. The child spoke to him. Don’t take her. Oh the surprise on his face, how rarely her son was caught unaware. How rarely he faltered.

Nyx’s laughter was silent, a ripple across the void. “So noble,” she whispered, though none but the stars could hear. Not many dared speak to Death, let alone plead with him. But then, the boy was not versed in fear of death, not yet. He was young enough to challenge inevitability, too young to understand the cruelty of Atropis’ shear.

Her smile faded. So young to lose all that tethered him to life.

Thanatos vanished with his prize, his wings folding back into the darkness as he departed for the realm of Hades. The boy now lay unconscious, curled like a broken bird amidst the ruins. Nyx watched him, her gaze trailing over the shattered cabin. A child had lived here, and now a child remained—but alone, forever changed.

She noted the scale-plates scattered on the ground. Bronze-green, thick, already turning to dust. A drakon, here of all places? Such beasts had no business in Montauk. Her eyes narrowed at the scars left upon the earth: timber seared and split, walls corroded as though drenched in fire. And yet there had been no flame.

Poison.

It bled through the ground in a near-perfect ring around the house, as if driven outward . Expelled. Forced away by something that should not be. Nyx’s thoughts brushed the edges of unease.

Achlys, daughter of sorrow, you would not dare bear a demigod…

And yet, she wondered.

Her gaze returned to the boy, sleeping in the wreckage of his life.

---

Perseus woke to darkness. A darkness that was not just night, but something thicker, something permanent.

For a moment he believed he had dreamed it—the monster, the acid, his mother’s silence. But when he rubbed his eyes, the world remained blurred, drained of color. His fingertips met scars that burned faintly, the edges of wounds healed too quickly, unnaturally.

The steady pater of water tapped against the floor beside him, rain dripping through the shattered roof. He turned his head toward the sound, searching blindly until his hands brushed against the wall. The wood was broken, eaten away. Scales, rough and brittle, scattered beneath his palm. The memories flooded back. The giant snake-thing. His mother’s scream. The tail striking her down.

He searched the house with fumbling hands. No warmth. No voice. No mother. Only ash and blood where she had fallen.

The grief came in waves, crushing, unrelenting. He sobbed until his throat was raw, until his chest ached with emptiness. But grief slowly hardened, curling inward, turning jagged. His mind replayed her last words—her prayer, her plea. Poseidon…

A god. The one who should have come.

“Where were you?” he whispered, trembling, though the storm outside swallowed his words. “Why didn’t you help her?”

The heavens rumbled. The rain fell harder, pounding against the broken roof, streaming down the walls. Lightning split the sky, thunder bellowing so close the cabin seemed to shake. His fury bled into the storm. Or perhaps the storm bled into him.

He almost let the darkness take him. Almost drowned in it. But then—

The radio.

It was still playing, absurdly, impossibly, the old melody humming through its battered speaker. A song from last night, when they had laughed by the fire. Percy pressed himself against the wall, listening, forcing his breath to follow the rhythm. He hummed along, voice shaking but steadying with every note.

Slowly, exhaustion overtook him. His tears stung, but the music dulled their pain, carrying him into a half-sleep.

---

Above him, Night leaned closer, her essence folding over the ruined home like a shroud.

How strange, she thought, to hear a melody pierce her veil. A mortal child, humming against grief, and yet… there was power in the sound. Not woven like Apollo’s bright lyre, not sharp as the Muse’s chorus. Softer. Stranger. A resonance that pulled at even her.

She allowed herself to sink into it. The lull of his voice, the rhythm of rain, the faint hum of strings. For a moment, she indulged. For a moment, the Night was not endless emptiness, but music.

So hypnotizing.

So unusual.

So dangerous.

She did not notice, at first, the movement at the edge of her domain. In the forest, something stirred. A creature, vast and hungry, was sniffing its way through the trees.

Drawn by the scent of divine blood.

Chapter 5: All Dogs Go to Heaven… NOT A DOG!

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The heavy rain drops masks movements through the forest.

An ear flicks around, searching for a sound that does not belong in the misty forest. A screech had split the world not long ago—a desperate sound, silenced too soon.

The beast lifts its nose higher, steam coiling faintly from its breath in the night air. The ground reeks of rot and poison, but something else seeps through… 

Richer. Divine. 

It should not carry so far, yet it does. That only means one thing: the taste will be exquisite.

Gold seasoned crimson.

Its tongue slathers the edge of jagged teeth, saliva stretching in ropes that snap and patter to the ground. Muscles coil beneath a shadowy bulk the size of a car.

Red eyes burn like coals as they fix on the husk of a broken house. The scent leads there.

Lunch.

Silent as mist, the hellhound glides forward, each paw settling without so much as a crack of twig. But then—

A sound.

Not the rattle of dying. Not the scrambling of prey. Something else.

A melodious whisper..

One paw freezes above the dirt. Another step, softer still, head low, ears twitching as they drink the strange notes.

The hunger shrinks, shrivels, becomes nothing at all.

Dinner forgotten.

Dessert forgotten.

There is only the sound. A show.

Dinner and a show.

No… just a show.

The hellhound edges through the cracked wall of the ruin, lowering its massive head to the dust. Without a sound, it folds into stillness, placing its muzzle between its paws. The boy hums. The world fades. The hound sleeps.

---

Under a curtain of stars, Night watched. Her gaze without warmth, though curiosity stirring like errant wind rustling dead leaves. Her eyes sharpened to the forest edge. Something else stirred. Soon, like his ancestor, this child would be laid low by hunter of the night. 

And yet, the melodious tune persisted. She let the sound roll over her, sink into the darkness. It had weight, that hum, beckoning to be pulled into her veil and let loose across the stars. 

Strange. Dangerous. That power that does not belong in the hands of man, yet this child possesses enough to drown armies in endless sleep. 

He could be one of hers. Though she keeps better track of her brood. She knows her brood, every shadow that creeps, every nightmare that gnaws at mortal bones. He is not. Though he should be one of hers.

She hated the way flesh pressed together into being but she stepped into the wreckage regardless. A primordial being brought form from the scattered stars. Her presence should have broken the hound’s trance, should have demanded subservience. Yet the creature laid like a stone, spellbound in the boy’s ethereal tune.

She steps forward, dark eyes narrowed. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Not even a twitch. It simply… sits. Defective. 

That song. That insistent melody. It claws at her thoughts, nagging, unnatural.

A siren’s call.

Her lips purse. So a new prince of the sea finds his power. Crowned by Misery. Poseidon, what have you dared to create?  

No wonder the scent of this child drew creatures from miles away. Her concentration wavers. Wood snaps faintly under her foot.

The boy’s head jerks up. His humming halts. “Who’s there?”

The fog burns off in the hound’s mind. Hunger floods back in like a tide. Red eyes flash. Breath quickens. The scent of meat—so close. So close. The growl started deep in its chest.

MEAT’S BACK ON THE MENU.

“STOP!” Nyx’s voice cracked the air.

The command cracks like a whip, and the hellhound’s body betrays its desire. Slinking backward with its head low. The growl chokes into a whimper. A step back. Another. It dares not raise its eyes to the Mother.

The boy turned his face toward her voice. “Stop… what?”

She did not answer him at first. Her eyes stayed on the hound until its trembling stilled. Only then did she move, closer to the child. He flinched when her shadow fell over him.

“Do you not see?” she asked, her voice little more than a blade’s whisper.

“…No.” His voice was small. “I don’t see anything anymore… I cannot even see you.”

Something in her narrowed. She touched his forehead, soft stars burn into existence within his eyes. He gasped, blinking, and for the first time saw her. 

They lock onto her form with new clarity. The endless dark wrapped in the shape of a woman.

“Who are you?” he whispers, awe threading through fear.

“I am Night,” she murmured, offering nothing more.

His mouth worked. “My… my mom prayed. Are you… are you who she asked for?”

She silenced him with a glance. He shrank back.

“No.” She said finally. “Few pray to the Night except to beg for mercy.”

His gaze drops, shame or uncertainty pulling at his shoulders. “… Mom named me Perseus. Percy, for short.”

Nyx tilts her head. “Ironic. You don’t seem all that lucky. And you are certainly not the king’s demigod. No…” She leans closer, studying him with an intensity that makes the air grow colder. “You are the sea. More so than any demigod of his before.”

The boy frowns. “Why do you call me ‘demigod’?” 

“Because you are one, child. Half god half mortal.” A hmm of deeper thought escaped her lips. “Perhaps not so evenly half.”

“A god… my father, do you know my father?”

“Yes. Poseidon. Though, you should be careful with that information. Names have power, and the sea is known for its wrath when summoned.”

Percy’s brow furrows. “My mother used that name… I thought it was just a strange god she prayed to.”

“Strange?” Nyx chuckles lowly. “There are stranger still than the temperamental god of the seas.”

In the silence between them Perseus’ gaze wanders while the deity sizes up the little mortal. Sifting through his thoughts and memories like one might peruse the details of a painting. She watched him. A child alone, still alive when he should not be. Fragile, yes—nearly broken, but ready to be remade.

His scream nearly finishes off the half fallen rafters. “WHAT IS THAT?!”

Nyx did not flinch. “One of mine,” she said flatly. “It would have eaten you... Still might.”

The hound licks its chops at the implication, fresh drool glistening.

He pressed back against broken wood, shaking. “Why would you make something like that?”

Her expression barely shifted. “So the world of man may know what it is to be hunted by shadows.”

He swallowed hard, lips trembling, but did not speak further. His hands curled into fists, small and weak.

Her fingers closed on the hound’s neck. Her own shadows bled into its fur, red eyes burned away into silver. It whimpered under her grip.

“Ash,” she named it. “You will not harm this one. You will serve.”

The boy watched as the hound bowed, subdued, and seemed to physically shrink down though it was still as tall as he was. 

Nyx turned to Perseus again. Her gaze weighed heavy. “She will protect you. For now.”

He looked at the dagger she drew from her dress. Black metal, cold as ice. She held it out.

He hesitated, only a heartbeat. Then his small hand closed around the hilt.

“You will serve as well, little Perseus,” Nyx said. “In life or in death, you will not be spared from purpose.”

The boy looked at the blade. His face was pale, his eyes too wide. But his voice—thin, uncertain—came anyway:

“…What do you want me to do?”

For the first time in several millennia, the lips of night bestowed a real smile on something that might survive its next moments.

---

The silence after a battle is always peculiar. It clings, thick, as if the very air shall be tainted forever. The acrid scent of destruction and death curled like incense into the morning.

Through the shattered remains of the mortal dwelling came a faint shift, salty breeze made way for the king of the seas. The waves miles away groaned against their shores as Poseidon stepped from the water and approached the wreckage of the dwelling.

His sea-green eyes scanned the ruin. His nose wrinkled. The scent of Death still lingered, oily-black against the edges of his senses. That was proof enough that his mistake has been erased.

After a moment he found what he was looking for, glinting faintly though half buried in ash. A small thing, bronze and ivory, beautiful in contrast to the carnage. Anaklusomos.

Poseidon bent, hand closing over the seemingly fragile metal. For a moment, he only stared. It still carried her scent. Mortal, gentle, fleeting. His jaw tightened.

So that was it. A casualty he would regret… for a while. Though the child he should never have let exist. He told himself he had come only to confirm, to ensure no loose ends remained. The hollow in his chest said his resolve was not quite as firm as he would like.

The god of the sea straightened, gaze heavy on the horizon. He closed his fist around the pin until it bit his palm. Then with a mighty throw, he hurled it westward.

The hairpin became a streak of light, arcing high over the broken landscape, carried by godly strength beyond mortal sight. It would fall somewhere far across the horizon, claimed by the endless earth where all cursed things should be forgotten. Out of sight, out of memory, never to feel the ocean again.

With that, he turned away and let the weight of the world leave his shoulders as he walked back into the sea.