The Curse of Time

by percysbluecookiesq

Summary:

Thrown back in time to Ancient Greece by Kronos’ curse, Percy Jackson is reborn from olive and seawater as the Athenide. In a world that she can't trust, she must carve and earn her place among the gods, while her bond with Apollo begins to burn brighter than fate intended.

Notes:

• Inspired by Of The Fountain by Chaotic_Dumbass_Rogue
• Inspired by [Restricted Work] by Anonymous (Log in to access.)

hi this first fanfic lmk if theres any mistake and i will welcome any ideas :D

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The knife trembled in Percy’s hand.

Luke’s eyes, his eyes, not Kronos’, shone with desperation, with a plea she could not ignore. The weight of the prophecy pressed down on her shoulders, heavier than Riptide had ever been.

“You’re the hero,” Percy whispered, pressing the blade into his hand. “Not me.”

For an instant, the world held its breath. Then Luke drove the dagger into himself.

Light. A scream that rattled Olympus to its bones. Kronos was ripped away, his essence unraveling into nothing—except for the part he flung at her.

“You’ve denied me victory,” his voice hissed, centuries grinding like stone. “Perhaps then I will grant you what you will hate most. You will be torn from those you love—your friends and your precious mortal mother.”

The air folded in, and Percy fell into darkness.

When she woke, she was felt like she was drowning, the sensation odd for the daughter of Poseidon.

Her chest burned with saltwater, lungs screaming until she spat it onto pale marble. Gasping, she pushed herself upright—and froze.

She wasn’t in New York. She wasn’t even in the modern era.

The air was warm, rich with brine and olives. Before her, an olive tree rose from the ground, roots still trembling with life. Beside it, a pool of saltwater glistened, waves lapping as though stirred by an unseen tide.

She blinked. A contest. Athena and Poseidon’s contest—the myth Annabeth had drilled into her head on their first quest, the start of Athena's and Poseidon's rivalry.

But something had gone wrong. The olive branch bent under its own weight, snapped, and fell into the fountain. Olive essence seeped into salt. The water foamed. The essence of Athena and Poseidon fusing and merging together, until it formed something, actually no, someone.

Her.

Percy staggered out of the pool, dripping seawater, olive leaves tangled in her hair, yet from mortals' point of view, she still looked divine. She coughed, the taste of brine still sharp on her tongue.

The mortals gossiped and whispered with curiousity.

The earth shook. The sky cracked with distant thunder.

And in a blaze of light, the gods appeared.

Zeus first, ozone crackled. Hera beside him, regal and cold. Hades, shadow at his heels. Hermes, Artemis, Demeter—more and more, drawn by the disruption. Even Apollo, golden and curious, tilted his head as he regarded her.

“What is the meaning of this?” Zeus thundered.

Poseidon studied her silently, gaze unreadable. At last he spoke, low and thoughtful: “She has my sea.”

“And my wit,” Athena added.

Athena’s eyes narrowed, “Not trickery. An essence-born child of olives and the sea.”

The gods murmured, shifting uneasily, but none spoke of Kronos. She realizes it was the doing of not just Kronos, the Fates. Perhaps the Fates were cackling at her new situation. But to the gods, she was something new—a goddess born of accident, of essence.

Percy met their stares. Her body trembled with exhaustion, but she refused to bow. She had faced Titans. She would not cower now.

Athena’s voice rang with finality. “She will be called Athenide.”

Percy’s throat burned, her voice hoarse but steady. “No. My name is Perseus," now just realizing she could undersand and speak Ancient Greek, silently thanking Chiron for drilling those Greek vocabulary into her head.

The gods fell silent. The olive leaves dripped seawater at her feet.

And though Zeus’ storm rumbled with unease, Poseidon’s lips curved with the faintest flicker of pride, recognizing his defiance in her, but also wary as to why she was named after Zeus half-godly son.

Chapter 2

Notes:

the Olympians bring Percy to Olympus, deicdes and maps out her life with which parent etc etc.

"My name is Perseus."

The Olympians studied her, a half-circle of divine power and suspicion. She felt naked under their gazes—dripping seawater, olive leaves tangled in her hair, her mortal name clutched like a shield.

Zeus was the first to recover. "I will not discuss such matters in the eyes of mortals, we shall go to Olympus to discuss these matters at hand.

At the throne room, “Perseus.” Zeus said the name, unsure what to make of it. ”

Hera’s gaze was flickered to her, wary, “You stand, essence-born. The question is whether you are a gift—” her eyes turning back to Zeus, “—or a threat.”

The word threat made Percy want to laugh, she basically save Olympus. She wanted to argue, to scream, but her chest already ached too much with hurt. Her friends. She missed her mom and her laugh, the smell of blue pancakes in the kitchen, and Annabeth always steadily at her side. All of them gone.

Kronos’ voice rang in her ears: "You will be torn from those you love."

She bit her lip hard enough to taste what should've been a metallic taste of blood, but ichor instead, forcing the sob down. She would not break down infront these gods. Percy had faced the gods before, modern gods, clad in business suits or glittering armor, powerful but contained. They had felt powerful, but dulled, their tempers kept in check by the fading strength of belief in the modern era.

But here—here in ancient Greece—the gods were raw storms, unfiltered. Poseidon’s voice alone shook the marble beneath her feet, Athena’s presence pressed on her skull like a blade at her throat, and Zeus’ gaze alone made her knees weak. Even Apollo’s laughter wasn’t just sound—it was sunlight burning her skin, filling the courtyard with warmth and heat that demanded worship.

They weren’t metaphors anymore. They weren’t stories. They were the weight of mountains, the fury of oceans, the brilliance of fire.

In her own time, she’d learned to argue with gods, to push back, to stand her ground. Here? Standing before them in their prime, she wasn’t sure she even fight one of them, even with the Curse of Achilles.

A slender bronze hairpin gleamed faintly against her dark hair, unremarkable except for the way it seemed to pulse faintly in the torchlight. She knew it was Anaklusmos, her sword, but the gods didn't know that.

The curiosity and wary rippled through the gods like a stone dropped into water. Hera tilted her head, curious. Apollo’s eyes gleamed with interest. Poseidon’s jaw tightened, though he said nothing.

Athena stepped forward, her gray eyes steady. “She will know through me. I will name her Athenide, a proper name for my daughter, born of wisdom and sea. I will look after her. She is mine.”

Percy blinked. Daughter? Athenide? The words rang false in her chest, but Athena’s tone was iron, a declaration not to be challenged.

Poseidon’s voice rumbled like the tide. “Yours? Do not presume, Athena. She was born of fountain. She have never set foot in the land of Athens. I will not have her stolen from me.”

The air bristled with tension. Zeus’ lightning crackled. Hera’s lips pursed in discontent at the quarrel. Artemis narrowed her eyes, already impatient with the squabbling.

Athena’s voice was cold steel. “You have many children, Lord of the Sea. She is unique. She is mine.”

“And mine,” Poseidon growled, the ground trembling faintly at his feet. “I will not yield her.”

The gods erupted into argument, voices overlapping, thunder booming and waves crashing in unseen resonance. Percy hugged her arms to herself, feeling sick, they weren’t even asking her.

Finally, Hera’s clear voice cut through. “Enough. We have seen such conflict before. Demeter and Hades fought over Persephone until balance was struck. Let it be so again.”

Demeter shot Hera a dirty look.

Zeus’ eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly. “So be it. Every 60 moons, she will pass from one to another.

Percy’s heart sank. Passed around like a prize. A pawn in their games.

Apollo, lounging on his throne, let out a low whistle. “Poor girl. A goddess, yet already the rope in a tug of war.” His gaze softened slightly, and for the first time, Percy thought she saw pity in his golden eyes.

Percy straightened, her voice trembling but clear: “My name is Percy.”

No one answered.

And so the council ended, her fate decided—not by her own choice, but by gods who had already named her, claimed her, and split her life apart.

Poseidon came to her, his’s expression softened, just barely, though his voice carried the weight of the tide. “She will come with me first. Salt birthed her—let the sea steady her.”

Athena’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she gave a curt nod. “Very well. I will take her after. Perhaps then she will learn more than tides and storms.”

The decision struck Percy like cold water. Neither of them had asked her what she wanted. No one ever did.

But Poseidon’s hand, when it touched her shoulder, was gentler than she expected. “Now come, child.” His sea-green eyes flickered—pride? Regret? She couldn’t tell. “You belong to the ocean before anything else.”

Percy bit her tongue against the instinct to argue. She didn’t belong to any of them.

Still, as she followed Poseidon from the council hall, she couldn’t deny that the pull of the sea already in to her blood, that is now ichor.

Chapter 3

The sea here was brighter. Stronger. Alive in a way Percy had never felt before. Back home, the ocean had always comforted her, but it had been muted, scarred by centuries of pollution. Here in ancient Greece, every current was fresh and radiant, humming with power.

Poseidon’s palace shimmered in the depths. The god of the sea walked beside her, vast and commanding, every step bending the currents. Percy had always known him as distant, storm-worn, unsure of him as he was unsure of her. But here, in the age of heroes, he was powerful and practically unstoppable.

Yet when she looked at him, all she could think of was Sally. Her mom would never see this sea—never know how beautiful it had been, she would never see her mom again. The ache in Percy’s chest was almost unbearable.

It was Amphitrite who noticed her first.

The queen of the sea appeared in a rush of bubbles and light, her crown of shells glimmering. Her beauty was sharp, regal, commanding—and when her eyes fell on Percy, they narrowed.

“You brought me another,” Amphitrite said coldly to Poseidon. “Another child not my own?”

Percy flinched, her cheeks burning. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t asked to exist here at all.

But Poseidon’s gaze was steady. “Not a child of flesh. She is an essence-born, of my fountain and one of Athena's olive branches.”

Amphitrite’s frown lingered, but something in her expression shifted. An essence child. Not a rival, not a betrayal—something else entirely. Her voice softened, uncertain but no longer cold. “So she is a child of the sea, yes… but also of wisdom.”

Her eyes returned to Percy, searching. For a long moment, Percy felt pinned in place. Then Amphitrite reached forward, fingertips brushing her chin, and the queen’s expression melted.

The warmth in her eyes, sudden and unexpected, made Percy’s throat tighten. Mom. Amphitrite’s kindness, the gentleness that peeked through the regal mask, reminded her achingly of Sally Jackson. Percy’s heart twisted, but for the first time since Kronos cursed her, the grief didn’t feel as unbearable.

“You are welcome here,” Amphitrite said at last, her tone firmer now, the weight of a queen behind it. “No matter what you were born from, you are sea-born. And I am willing to guide you.”

Percy could only nod, afraid her voice will betray her, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat.

“That pin of yours… it almost hums,” Amphitrite murmured, fingers hesitating before she tucked a stray curl behind Percy’s ear.

Percy shrugged. “It’s always been mine.”

Amphitrite let it drop, though her eyes lingered.

Triton’s arrival was less welcoming.

He strode into the chamber with the confidence of a prince, trident gleaming. His eyes fell on Percy—and for a heartbeat, his regal mask shattered. He froze.

Turning to Poseidon, his voice dropped, raw in a way Percy had never heard before.
“Father… she looks like her. Like her.”

A silence rippled through the water. Amphitrite stiffened beside her. Poseidon’s jaw tightened.

Percy blinked, unsure if she should speak. She didn’t know who Pallas was, or why the name carried so much weight, but she felt it sink into the room like a stone into deep water.

Triton’s gaze lingered on her face, studying every detail as though trying to convince himself it wasn’t true.

He said nothing more. Not to her, not yet. But the distance in his eyes carried both suspicion and something else Percy couldn’t name.

Before the heaviness could drown them, Rhode swam forward, radiant as sunlight on waves. She clasped Percy’s hands warmly. “Ignore my brother’s brooding. You’re with us now. I’ll show you the gardens—roses can bloom even undersea, if you know the trick.” And then, before Percy could respond, a blur of motion. Kymopoleia swept in, eyes sparkling with mischief, hair wild like storm clouds caught underwater. “A new sister?” she crowed, circling Percy like a shark before grinning. “Oh, this will be fun. Don’t think you’re getting away from me, little wave. You’re mine for games and storms.” Percy let out a startled laugh, something loosening in her chest. Benthesikyme, standing tall and composed, finally spoke. Her tone was measured, not unkind but cool. “Games have their place, Kymopoleia. But responsibility waits, too. Percy, the sea is not just joy—it demands strength, and restraint.” It was both warning and welcome.

Together, the siblings filled spaces Percy hadn’t realized were hollow. Rhode’s warmth reminded her achingly of Sally. Benthesikyme’s wild laughter was like Thalia’s, daring her to break the rules and live a little. And Triton—though she may never say it out loud—he reminded her of Luke, watching from a distance, cautious and sharp.

For the first time since she’d been thrust into this ancient world, Percy laughed freely. Not because she had forgotten her grief, but because, for a moment, even just for a moment she felt like she belonged.

Notes:

It was kinda hard to write about triton because first time he meet Percy in last olympians, he was kinda closed off and nonchalant, which I can't really make out his character from just reading other Athenide AUs. :(

Chapter 4

Sixty moons passed like a blur in Poseidon’s halls. Percy laughed with Kymopoleia until her stomach ached, learned Rhode’s quiet patience in the gardens, and even softened Benthesikyme’s stern lessons into something like respect. Amphitrite became steady as a tide, firm yet gentle, the mother Percy hadn’t realized she still needed.

But time always moves. And now it was nearly up.

The family gathered as Percy prepared to leave for her time with Athena. The hall was quieter than usual, the water hushed as though listening.

Amphitrite stepped forward first, her hands resting on Percy’s shoulders. “You have been… a gift. It has been nice to guide you along, even if only for a while. Remember what I’ve told you, child. You are not alone in these depths—or anywhere.”

Percy’s throat tightened, but she nodded, pressing her forehead briefly to Amphitrite’s hand.

Rhode darted forward next, wrapping her in a hug that smelled faintly of salt and roses. “Don’t forget us, Percy. Write in the waves. I’ll hear you.”

Kymopoleia whooped and swooped around her like a whirlwind, laughing. “Try not to be too boring up there, little sister! And if Athena gets too serious, start a storm in her halls!”

Even Benthesikyme allowed a rare, faint smile. “Joy has its place, but remember your strength. The surface can be far harsher than the sea.”

Finally, Triton stepped forward. His trident gleamed faintly, and his gaze was steady—no longer haunted, but still cautious.

“Be careful, sister,” he said simply. “Athena’s halls are full of clever eyes. Do not let anyone mistake kindness for weakness.”

Percy met his gaze, and for the first time, he didn’t look away.

Poseidon placed a hand on her back, his voice low, protective, carrying the weight of a father who didn’t often get to be one. “Beware the gods, Percy. Especially the men. They can be charming, yes, but charm often hides sharp teeth. Keep your wits about you. And remember—though Athena watches you above, the sea is always yours to return to.”

The words sank deep, not as warning alone, but as promise.

Percy’s chest ached with gratitude. She didn’t know if she deserved all this love, all this belonging. But it was hers now.

And as Hermes arrived in a flash of golden light to take her to Athens, Percy looked back at her family in the waves, her heart heavy.

Notes:

I'm kind of deciding whether if I should sometimes use Persephone orrr should I change the first few chapter to tell the gods that her name is Persephone or Perseus and only her close ones use Percy, but this chaper was kind of short because I didn't know how to space it out:P

Chapter 5

Percy had never been very good at waiting. Back in her own time, because of her ADHD, she’d tap her foot in lines, pick at the edge of her camp beads, or doodle on paper until something finally happened. But waiting in Athena’s halls? That was a whole different game.

The goddess was busy. Of course she was — Athena was the goddess of wisdom, strategy, and about a hundred other things Percy couldn’t even keep track of. And Percy, well… she was just kind of sitting there, trying not to touch the enormous books stacked on polished tables, or the half-finished maps and battle plans scattered like puzzles across the marble.

That was when she saw it — an owl.

The bird was perched on the back of a chair, golden eyes fixed on her, unblinking. Percy froze for a moment, then tilted her head. The owl tilted back.

“Uh, hey,” Percy said quietly, raising a hand like she was greeting a camper. “Did Athena leave you in charge of babysitting me?”

The owl gave a soft hoot, fluttering down from the chair to land on the edge of the table. Percy grinned despite herself. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Before long, she found herself talking to it — nonsense, mostly. About how strange this world felt, how the gods here seemed so much bigger, sharper, than the ones she’d known in her time. The owl blinked, solemn as if it understood everything. When Percy reached out tentatively as if to pet it, it didn’t shy away. Its feathers were softer than she expected, and some of the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding began to slip away.

That was the scene Athena teleported into.

Percy jumped, yanking her hand back like she’d been caught stealing cookies. The owl stayed perfectly calm, swiveling its head toward its mistress.

Athena arched a brow, the faintest curve of amusement on her lips. “I see you’ve met Glaukos. He rarely takes to strangers so quickly.”

Percy rubbed the back of her neck. “Guess I got lucky.”

The goddess crossed the room, her robes whispering like moving parchment. She studied Percy for a moment, then asked, “Tell me, child — do you know how to weave?”

Percy blinked. “Weave? Like… baskets?”

Athena’s mouth twitched. “No. Cloth, patterns, stories. The loom is not so different from battle strategy, though its victories are quieter. Come.”

Percy hesitated, but followed. The loom waiting in the corner looked ancient and complicated, all wooden beams and taut threads that seemed one wrong tug from collapsing. She sat awkwardly, hands hovering.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Percy admitted.

“That is no failing. Few do, without guidance.” Athena’s hands moved deftly, showing her how to thread the shuttle through, how to pull the yarn taut. Her movements were precise, practiced, but not unkind.

As Percy clumsily copied her motions, Athena spoke again. “You introduced yourself to the council as Persephone. But names hold power. To mortals, to the other gods, you must carry a name that ties you to Olympus — to me. They will understand you as my daughter, my kin. Athenide.”

Percy glanced up, surprised. “So… I’d be Athenide to everyone else, but Percy to me?”

Athena’s grey eyes softened, just a little. “Exactly. You may hold both truths. One for the world, and one for yourself.”

Percy stared down at the weaving. The threads didn’t look like much yet, but the pattern was there — hidden, waiting. Like she was.

“…Okay,” she murmured at last. “Athenide it is.”

Athena inclined her head in approval. Glaukos hooted from his perch, as if sealing the agreement.

Percy’s weaving looked more like a tangled fishing net than anything Athena might display, but at least she hadn’t broken the loom yet. She sighed and leaned back, brushing stray threads off her lap.

Athena studied her quietly, then asked, almost casually, “Have you found your chambers yet?”

Percy shook her head. “Not really. I’ve just been kind of… waiting around.”

The goddess nodded, thoughtful. “Then it is time you chose. You will not live in my library or sit at a loom all day. You are to be at home here. Tell me, child — what sort of room would you like?”

Percy blinked, caught off guard. No one on Olympus had asked her what she wanted before. Percy blinked at Athena’s question. “Uh… I don’t need much. A place to sleep, maybe near a window so I can see the sea. And blue, if that’s possible.”

Athena raised a brow. “Blue?”

Percy hesitated. She couldn’t say because my mom loved blue. The memory pressed sharp and sweet in her chest, but she swallowed it back. “It just… makes me feel calm. Like the sea, I guess.”

Athena studied her a moment longer, then gave a slight nod. “Blue, then. What else?”

Percy hesitated, then added, “And maybe… a space for training? Like a corner to practice with a sword. Not that I’ll, y’know, fight anyone here, but…”

“Preparation is never wasted,” Athena said, finishing smoothly. “Yes. We will arrange it.”

Percy found herself smiling, warmth blooming in her chest. It wasn’t like being with her mom, but it wasn’t distant, either. Athena might be a goddess, but in that moment, she felt almost… motherly.

The owl hooted softly, as if to approve.

Notes:

Athena’s sacred animal is the owl, and in Greek tradition the little owl is called the glaux (γλαῦξ). That’s why I used “Glaukos” — it’s derived from that word, which literally means “gleaming/bright-eyed” and became shorthand for “owl.” which I think it;s pretty fitting for Athena's owl.

OKAY GUYS i heard you guys out, im not going to lie, im going to keep it as percy/perseus thhough i am going back to maybe fix some stuff in the first few chapters!!

tysm guys for the love and kudos <33

Chapter 6

Sixty moons had passed faster than Percy ever thought they would. Under Poseidon’s watch, she’d grown comfortable in the sea. But Athens was something else entirely — it breathed, hummed, and shone in ways the ocean never could.

One morning, as Athena worked through a pile of petitions from mortal envoys, Percy fidgeted at the threshold of her chambers, trying not to stare too obviously at the city below. Finally, she cleared her throat.

“Athena?”

The goddess did not look up immediately. “Yes, Percy?”

“Can I… roam? Just for a little while? Around Athens, I mean. I want to see it. The streets, the people, all of it.”

Athena’s quill stilled. For a long moment, Percy thought the answer would be no. But at last the goddess raised her gaze, sharp and assessing. “You must remember: mortals will see what they wish to see. To them, you are mine. You are Athenide. They will treat you as such.”

Percy tried not to grimace. “Right. Got it. Don’t trip on my own name.”

Something like amusement flickered in Athena’s eyes. “Go, then. But keep your wits about you. A goddess who forgets herself is a dangerous thing.”

 

The streets of Athens were louder than Percy expected. Smiths hammered bronze into blades and helmets. Vendors cried out their wares. Children darted between stalls, chasing each other with laurel branches. The Acropolis towered above it all, white marble gleaming like a beacon.

Percy drank it in with wide eyes. Compared to the world she’d known, everything here felt sharper — the sun hotter, the smells stronger, the people more alive. For a moment, she forgot entirely that she wasn’t supposed to belong.

“Bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

The voice was warm, golden, with the lazy confidence of someone who knew exactly who they were. Percy turned to find a tall figure leaning casually against a column, lyre slung across his back, golden hair catching the sunlight. His smile was bright enough to rival the sun itself. Well, probably because he is the sun itself.

Percy blinked. “Uh… who are you?”

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me. Not to know me, here in my own half sister’s city? I’m Apollo. God of sunlight, music, poetry, prophecy, healing, archery, et cetera, et cetera.” He gave her a wink. “But you can call me Apollo.”

Percy raised a brow. “That’s… a lot of titles.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said with a shrug. “And you must be the famous Athenide.”

“Come on,” Apollo said, pushing off the column. “Let me show you the city before you get lost in the maze of stalls. Consider it… an introduction, from one god to another. Though…” His eyes flicked over her, curious, almost sharp in their brightness. “You don’t feel like the rest of us. Not quite. You’re… new.” Percy shifted uncomfortably. “New’s one way to put it. My name’s Perseus. Or Percy, if you don’t feel like tripping over syllables.” “Perseus,” Apollo repeated, tasting the word like a line of poetry. Then his grin broke wide, brilliant. “Bold. Strong. But Percy…” He rolled the nickname on his tongue and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “That one fits you better.” Despite herself, Percy laughed. “Don’t let Athena hear you say that. She’s big on the whole Athenide thing.” Apollo’s grin only widened. “Oh, I really hope she hears me.”

For a moment, Percy just looked at him. He was nothing like Athena — where she was precise and measured, Apollo seemed to overflow with warmth and light. Quite laid back as well. And yet, standing here, Percy felt something she hadn’t since being thrown back in time. A spark of familiarity, but much more... brighter and sunny-ier (?).

“Come on,” Apollo said, pushing off the column. “Let me show you the city before you get lost in the maze of stalls. Consider it… an introduction, from one god to another. Though…” His eyes flicked over her, curious. “You don’t feel like the rest of us. Not quite. You’re… new.”

Apollo smiled, but it wasn’t mocking — it was interested, like she was a puzzle he wanted to figure out. “New’s not bad. Sometimes it’s exactly what Olympus needs.”

Chapter 7

Athens was alive in a way Percy had never seen before. The streets pulsed with voices and color — vendors calling out prices, children weaving between their parents’ legs, the scent of olives and honey drifting from open stalls.

Apollo walked at her side, hands clasped behind his back like he owned the whole city. In a way, Percy thought, maybe he did.

“Don’t stare too long at the amphorae,” he said casually as they passed a potter’s stall. “They’ll double the price if they think you’re smitten with the craftsmanship.”

Percy snorted. “You sound like you’ve been ripped off before.”

“Once. Never again.” He flashed her a grin, the kind that could probably buy half the city if he aimed it right.

They turned into a small square, where a few men sat under a fig tree strumming lyres. The music carried sweetly above the chatter, and a little circle of people had gathered, clapping in time. Percy slowed, listening.

“They just… stop everything for music?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Apollo’s voice was warm with pride. “Music’s how they remember who they are. You hear a song, you feel a story — even if you don’t know the words.”

Percy tilted her head, watching a young boy join in by clapping off-beat, the crowd laughing good-naturedly. “It feels… bigger than just sound.”

Apollo bumped her shoulder lightly. “Careful, Athenide, you’re starting to sound like a poet. That’s dangerous. Next thing you know, you’ll be begging me for a lyre.”

She made a face. “Oh gods, no. I’d break it in five minutes.”

“You say that like it’s a tragedy,” Apollo teased. “Some of my best performances ended in broken strings. The trick is looking like you meant to do it.”

That earned him a laugh, small but genuine, and Apollo’s smile softened. He didn’t press, didn’t lecture, just walked beside her as the music drifted behind them.

After a moment, Percy admitted, “I kind of like it here. The city feels… awake. Like everyone’s connected somehow.”

Apollo’s eyes gleamed, but all he said was, “Good. Athens should be seen with wonder the first time. Just promise me when it gets noisy and crowded, you won’t blame me for tricking you into liking it.”

Percy rolled her eyes, but her grin lingered. For the first time, the streets didn’t feel quite so foreign.

They passed through a shaded courtyard where a family offered bread to weary travelers. Apollo gestured with a flourish. “See that? That’s Xenia — the art of hospitality. Feed your guests, give them water, and don’t stab them until after dessert.”

Percy choked on a laugh. “That’s a rule?”

“An unspoken one,” he said with mock solemnity. “But still important. Hospitality keeps the world from falling apart. Who knows when a wanderer at your table might turn out to be Zeus in disguise? He loves pulling that trick.”

She raised a brow. “Zeus… sneaks around disguised as mortals to score free meals?”

“And worse,” Apollo muttered.

They rounded a corner where musicians plucked strings, children played knucklebones, and old men argued about politics with all the ferocity of warriors. Percy slowed, watching again. “Everything feels… shared here. Like people belong to each other in some way.”

Apollo tilted his head, studying her. “That’s Athens for you. It’s built on the idea that community makes you stronger. Food, music, stories—they’re never just yours. They belong to the polis.”

Percy kicked at a loose stone, pretending to frown. “So if I steal honey cakes, I’m really just borrowing from the community?”

Apollo threw his head back and laughed, the sound bright as sunlight. “Exactly! Though I recommend eating fast before the polis demands them back.”

Their path took them past a temple where a priestess offered figs to passing children. Percy caught herself smiling, and Apollo caught her smile.

“You’re starting to like it,” he said, tone teasing but eyes warm.

Percy tried to shrug, but the truth slipped out. “It… feels alive here. Like I can breathe a little easier.”

Apollo slowed his steps, softer now. “Then keep breathing, Athenide. Athens has plenty to give—and plenty to take. The trick is knowing which to hold onto.”

For a fleeting moment, Percy thought he might be speaking of more than Athens. But then he winked, sweeping his hand toward the next street. “Come on. I know a baker who owes me half his stock. Best honey cakes in the city.”

And Percy followed, her laughter carrying down the sunlit streets.

Notes:

Percy and Apollo are friends first though, it's going to be SLOW slow burn, BUT i will try to get as much chapters out as possible for someone with lots of homework. To be fair I should be doing homework instead :(

Chapter 8

Night wrapped Athens in quiet shadows, the city below glowing with scattered firelight. Apollo had dragged Percy up a hill outside the walls, promising her the “best view in all of Greece.”

“Second-best, technically,” he corrected himself as they crested the hill. His grin was pure mischief. “Delos is obviously first. Birthplace of the sun god? You can’t top that. But Athens—Athens tries.”

Percy rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “Wow. Humility really isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?”

“Of course it is,” Apollo said, sprawling dramatically onto the grass. “It’s just a word I never use.”

Percy dropped down beside him, hugging her knees. The heavens stretched endlessly above them, sharper and brighter than any night sky she remembered from her own time.

Apollo pointed upward. “See that one? Orion. Arrogant giant. Thought he could hunt anything. Artemis proved him wrong.”

Percy smirked. “Sibling rivalry?”

“Sibling justice,” Apollo corrected, grinning. Then he gestured to another cluster of stars. “And over there, the Great Bear. A poor nymph loved by Zeus, cursed by Hera. Family drama—written in light for eternity.”

Percy laughed softly, but the sound caught in her throat. Her eyes traced the constellations, searching instinctively for the one that should have been there.

Zoë Nightshade.

She was alive somewhere in the world right now—still Atlas’s daughter, not yet a Huntress. Her fate hadn’t found her. The stars hadn’t claimed her. And Percy’s chest ached at the absence, knowing what was to come.

Apollo noticed her silence. He rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand, golden eyes curious. “You’re quiet. That’s unusual. Normally you’re ready with some clever quip about my brilliance.”

Percy forced a smile. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the view.”

Apollo’s grin widened instantly, his ego snapping back into place. “Well, of course you are. I am lying right here, after all.”

Percy snorted, shoving his shoulder lightly. “I meant the stars, you idiot.”

“Mm, stars, sun—semantics.” He leaned back with a smug sigh. “But admit it, Athenide: the view got at least ten times better when I showed up.”

Percy laughed for real this time, shaking her head. Somehow, with Apollo, even the night sky felt less overwhelming.

Apollo stretched, clasping his hands behind his head. “Well, as much as I’d love to keep dazzling you with my company, we should probably head back. Athena might start getting the wrong idea if I keep her daughter out past moonrise.”

Percy rolled her eyes. “You make it sound scandalous.”

“Everything’s scandalous if you’re charming enough,” Apollo shot back with a wink.

He stood and offered her a hand, helping her up from the grass. Together, they wound their way down the hill and through the quiet city streets. Apollo, ever the performer, filled the silence with small jokes about Athens’ crooked statues and noisy market stalls, as if guiding her back was a kind of show.

When the marble columns of the Acropolis finally came into view, glowing in the moonlight, Percy felt her chest tighten with something she couldn’t quite name.

Apollo’s grin spread wide, his voice warm and teasing. “And here we are—Athena’s shining jewel, brighter than half the constellations we just saw. Not a bad way to end the night, huh?”

Percy smiled despite herself. “Not bad at all.”

Percy gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Please,” he scoffed, back to himself in an instant. “What kind of god of light would I be if I let the stars outshine me on your way home?”

Chapter 9

The sun had dipped behind the Acropolis, turning the sky bronze and violet. Percy sat cross-legged on the polished floor of Athena’s chamber, fidgeting with a strand of wool that had been left from their weaving practice. She hadn’t expected to enjoy it—loom-work sounded about as exciting as sitting through one of Chiron’s history lectures—but the rhythm of it was calming, and the quiet company of Athena had become something Percy found herself looking forward to.

So when the goddess set down her own shuttle and fixed her with a measured look, Percy knew something serious was coming.

“You’ve settled here well,” Athena began, her voice calm as ever. “Too well, perhaps.”

Percy blinked. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Not bad,” Athena said slowly. “But dangerous. You’re a new presence in this world. Young, untested, and”—her eyes sharpened—“very noticeable. Some will seek to win your favor. Others may try to take advantage.”

Percy stiffened, her fingers tightening around the wool. “You mean gods.”

Athena inclined her head. “Yes. Gods are powerful, cunning, and not always restrained by… good intentions.” For just a moment, a flicker of something softer passed over her face. “You are lovely, child. That will not go unnoticed. It already hasn’t.”

Percy’s cheeks flushed. “So you’re saying I should just… what? Hide?”

“No.” Athena’s eyes narrowed, the steel returning. “I’m saying you must be careful. You must learn to hold your ground, to say no without fear, to strike if you must.” She leaned forward slightly. “There is strength in you, Persephone. But strength unused is nothing but potential. And potential can be preyed upon.”

The words settled heavy in Percy’s chest. She thought of her mother—Sally, with her quiet resilience—and of the friends she’d lost in her old time. She hated the idea of being powerless again, hated the thought of anyone forcing her into something she didn’t want.

Athena seemed to read the shadow in her expression. She picked up the wool Percy had dropped, winding it neatly back into a skein. “I will guide you. Teach you. Not only weaving and wisdom, but how to fight, how to protect yourself. You must not rely on others alone.”

The Acropolis grew quiet in the golden haze of twilight, the last warmth of the day clinging to the marble. Percy sat on the steps of the temple, twisting a simple bronze hairpin between her fingers. To anyone else it was nothing more than an ornament. But in her hand, it pulsed faintly with a life of its own—a blade only she knew how to summon.

She turned it once, twice, letting the cool metal calm her racing thoughts.

“You seem troubled.”

Athena’s voice drifted across the courtyard, steady and precise. Percy jumped a little and closed her fist around the pin.

“Not troubled,” Percy said quickly. “Just thinking.”

Athena approached, her gray eyes scanning the girl with the same careful calculation she reserved for enemies and battlefields. “Thinking is good. But you are too… restless. I can see it in the way you sit, the way your hands never still.”

Percy’s lips twitched. “Guess I’ve never been very good at sitting still.”

Athena gave her a long look. “Then we must find better ways to use that restlessness. You will need training—combat, defense, control. The world is not gentle, Athenide. You cannot afford to be unprepared.”

Athena’s gaze flicked down to Percy’s hand. “You fidget with that trinket often.”

Percy hesitates before reaching for the hairpin. It slips easily into her hand, lengthening into the celestial bronze sword.

Athena froze, eyes narrowing. “That blade… where did you get it?”

Percy swallowed, but forced her voice steady. “Father gave it to me.”

Athena studied her closely, then nodded once. “So Poseidon has armed you. Fitting.”

Percy exhales in relief — not a lie, not really. Just not the whole story.

Athena turned away, seemingly already calculating tomorrow’s drills. Percy let out the breath she’d been holding, her grip tightening around the hairpin. One lie, one neat explanation—and Athena hadn’t questioned further.

For now.
Percy froze, her thumb brushing the edge of the hairpin. Training. She already knew how to fight—how to parry, how to dodge, how to survive. But Athena thought she was new, untested, fragile. And Percy didn’t know how to explain that the instincts she carried came from another life the gods knew nothing about.

So she only nodded. “Alright. I’ll learn.”

Athena tilted her head, as though gauging the truth of her words. “Good. And more than fighting—you must learn caution. There are those, even among my kin, who would look at a young goddess and see only a piece to be moved on their board. Some will flatter you. Some will charm you. All will seek to use you.”

Percy shifted uncomfortably. “Not everyone’s like that.”

“Not everyone,” Athena agreed softly. “But enough.” Her hand, firm and cool, settled on Percy’s shoulder. “Do not mistake kindness for safety. Do not mistake smiles for truth.”

Percy let out a breath, staring at the hairpin in her hand. “Guess I’ll have to get good at telling the difference, huh?”

Athena’s expression softened—barely, but enough. “You will. I will see to it.” She straightened, her presence as commanding as the Parthenon itself. “Tomorrow, we attend a gathering on Olympus. You will observe. Listen. And afterward—perhaps—I will see how steady your hand truly is.”

Percy hid a smile, rolling the pin between her fingers. “Fair warning, I’m a quick learner.”

For the first time, Athena’s lips curved in something close to amusement. “We shall see, Athenide.”

Athena was not a goddess who wasted words. When she summoned Percy into the Acropolis courtyard at dawn, Percy expected a lecture, perhaps another weaving demonstration. Instead, Athena handed her a short spear.

Percy blinked. “…I’m guessing this isn’t for weaving.”

A rare smile tugged at Athena’s mouth. “You are quick. Good. You will need to be.”

What followed was an hour of drills. Athena moved with precision, guiding Percy through stances and strikes. But though Percy tried to fumble, to pretend she was as green as Athena thought her, her body betrayed her. The motions came too easily, too instinctively. Her grip was steady, her footing strong.

Athena’s eyes narrowed. “You move like one who has fought before.”

Panic prickled up Percy’s neck. Her hand went to her hair, pulling free the slender bronze pin that always seemed to warm at her touch. With a practiced flick, it lengthened, unfolding into the familiar celestial bronze blade she had carried for years—Riptide.

Percy dipped her head, hiding the relieved breath that slipped from her. “Yes, Athena.”

Athena lingered, as though measuring unspoken questions, then shifted the subject with her usual clarity. “Another matter awaits. The Festival of Victory approaches.”

Percy straightened, still clutching Riptide. “Festival?”

“The city of Athens will honor the contest that secured my patronage,” Athena said, pride ringing in her tone. “Offerings will be made. Mortals, minor gods, even Olympians will gather. And you—” she looked directly at Percy, eyes bright with meaning—“will stand with me. As my daughter, my protégé, a symbol of this city’s future.”

Percy’s throat went dry. Crowds. Gods. Eyes watching her, weighing her. She shifted her grip on Riptide, as if its bronze steadiness could ground her. “…Do I have a choice?”

“You always have choices,” Athena replied, her voice softer than expected. “But not without consequences. This will be your first true step into Olympus’s gaze. Do not shrink from it.”

Percy nodded, though nerves coiled tight in her stomach. She had faced monsters, titans, even time itself. But parading in front of gods and mortals, expected to shine like she belonged?

That was a different kind of battle entirely.

Notes:

I think its fitting to keep Riptide as a pin, but I don't know how would I explain it if like Zöe still has it, just pretend when Percy traveled back in time, Riptide basically duplicated itself..?

Chapter 10

The city of Athens shimmered that night. Lanterns hung from marble columns, strings of laurel and olive leaves draped across streets and temples. Mortals filled the agora, singing hymns to Athena and cheering for the victory of their goddess. But there was another reason for the revelry, one whispered with equal fervor in every corner: the celebration of Athena’s new daughter, Perseus.

Percy.

Some mortals swore they had seen her emerge from the fountain weeks ago, water spilling like diamonds over her shoulders. Others claimed she was Poseidon’s, others Athena’s, some said both. Whatever the truth, the mortals could not stop gossiping. They spoke of her beauty, of how she carried herself—not quite mortal, not quite goddess.

Athena stood tall beside Percy at the start of the ceremony, every inch the proud guardian, though her cool expression made more than one minor god back away without daring to approach. Poseidon was there too, trident glinting in torchlight, his presence a storm contained. Percy’s siblings—Triton, Rhode, and Kymopoleia—hovered close, all protective in their own ways.

And Apollo… well, Apollo had chosen to place himself right at Percy’s side, grinning like the sun incarnate.

It was supposed to be a celebration, but Percy felt her nerves twist as hundreds of eyes followed her every step. Mortals bowed, minor gods whispered, and Olympians lingered at the edges like wolves circling.

“You’re smiling too much,” she muttered sideways to Apollo.

“That’s impossible,” Apollo said. “The sun can never smile too much.”

Percy rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Poseidon leaned closer then, his voice low but firm. “Daughter—remember what I told you. Be wary of these halls. Some gods are… opportunistic. Especially the men.” His gaze cut toward Apollo, and the air seemed to thrum.

“Uncle, you wound me,” Apollo said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “I am merely keeping her company.”

“You’re hovering,” Poseidon rumbled.

“And yet,” Apollo said, not budging, “she seems less nervous with me here. That’s called being helpful.”

Athena’s sharp glance silenced further bickering, and Percy bit her lip, fighting the laugh bubbling up in her chest. For the first time all evening, she felt almost at ease.

The festival carried on with music, dancing, offerings. Mortals came forward to lay olive branches and woven garlands at Athena’s feet. Minor gods attempted to strike up conversation with Percy, but one look from Athena was enough to scatter them.

Still, Percy slipped away for just a moment, needing a breath away from the endless gazes. She wandered past a column, where the noise dimmed, and there—half-hidden in the shadows—she found a child.

The boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, his tunic ragged, his eyes wide with fear. He looked at her as though caught between bolting and begging for help.

Percy crouched. “Hey,” she said softly, “are you lost?”

He nodded, clutching at his small satchel. His words tumbled out nervously. “I… I don’t belong here. My father—he isn't an Olympian, no one know or even care for that matter. Everyone says I don’t fit.”

Percy’s heart twisted. She remembered—what it felt like to be on the outside, to not belong anywhere. She reached out, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“You belong,” she said, voice steady. “You don’t have to be Olympian or mortal to matter. You’re both, and that makes you special. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

The words carried more weight than she intended. A warmth stirred in her chest, pulsing outward, gentle as a tide. The boy’s eyes widened, the fear melting into calm. He stood taller, steadier, as if her words had anchored him.

And the crowd noticed.

Mortals nearby fell quiet, staring. A ripple went through the minor gods, murmurs rising: Did you feel that? She spoke like a goddess.

Percy blinked, suddenly aware of the weight of every gaze again—but this time it wasn’t gossip or curiosity. It was recognition.

Apollo had appeared behind her, golden brows raised but smiling widely. “Well,” he murmured so only she could hear, “looks like you just claimed your first domain.”

Her breath caught. “Domain?”

“Demigods,” Apollo replied simply. “The protector of Demigods. You saw him, and you guided him. That’s your spark, Percy.”

Percy swallowed, cheeks warming. She hadn’t meant to claim anything—it was just instinct, just compassion. But when she thought of the all of the kids in the Hermes cabin, all those faces, she felt… right. Like this was what she was meant to do.

From across the courtyard, Poseidon’s gaze found hers, pride fierce but shadowed by worry. Athena’s expression was unreadable, though her eyes lingered on Percy for a long, long moment, as though she were fitting puzzle pieces together.

The boy’s presence faded into the crowd, but Percy felt the connection remain. A promise.

Apollo leaned closer, grinning. “See? Told you the festival would be fun.”

“Fun?” Percy whispered, incredulous.

“Sure,” he said with a wink. “A little divine revelation never hurt anyone.”

She swatted his arm, but couldn’t stop smiling, not with the warmth still glowing inside her chest.

But Percy stayed still a moment longer, heart tugging in a way she couldn’t ignore. The boy’s frightened eyes, his hesitant voice—it reminded her of them.

All the kids who’d crammed into the Hermes cabin back at camp. The unclaimed ones. The ones who felt like afterthoughts, who slept on the floor while others had godly parents waiting to acknowledge them. She remembered their laughter, their forced bravado, the way some nights they just curled in on themselves and tried not to cry.

And Percy remembered how she used to sit among them, pretending she belonged, wishing someone would just say she mattered.

Looking at the boy, she realized something: she could be that someone. Not just for him, but for all of them.

“Behold!” he declared, throwing his arms wide so everyone would hear. “The moment is witnessed by all — a domain revealed! Athenide, daughter of Athena and Poseidon, goddess of demigods!”

The crowd rippled with gasps, whispers sparking like fire through the mortals and even some of the minor gods. Percy flushed as hundreds of eyes fixed on her, but Apollo only grinned, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Athena’s expression was unreadable, though Percy thought she caught the faintest flicker of pride. Poseidon, meanwhile, crossed his arms with a smirk that was both smug and protective, as if daring anyone to disagree.

And just like that, the festival carried on — but now with her name and title threaded into every conversation: Athenide, goddess of demigods.

Chapter 11

The marble courtyard of the Acropolis was cool beneath Percy’s sandals, but her palms were already slick with sweat and gods don't even sweat. She stood in the center of the training circle, Riptide’s bronze blade gleaming in her hand, trying not to fidget under Athena’s piercing gray stare.

“This will not be easy,” Athena said, her voice steady as a drawn bowstring. “Skill in battle is forged, not gifted. Percy, today we begin.”

Percy nodded, though her throat was dry. She wasn’t sure what she had expected — maybe a few drills, a lecture, something she could bluff her way through. But Athena drew a her spear, and her stance was flawless.

Oh gods. She’s actually going to fight me.

The first strike came fast, precise. Percy barely managed to bring Riptide up in time. The impact rang through her bones, her wrist buzzing from the force.

The marble courtyard of the Acropolis was cool beneath Percy’s sandals, but her palms were already slick with sweat. She stood in the center of the training circle, Riptide’s bronze blade gleaming in her hand, trying not to fidget under Athena’s piercing gray stare.

“This will not be easy,” Athena said, her voice steady as a drawn bowstring. “Skill in battle is forged, not gifted. Athenide, today we begin.”

Percy nodded, though her throat was dry. She wasn’t sure what she had expected — maybe a few drills, a lecture, something she could bluff her way through. But Athena drew a practice sword, its edge blunted but still dangerous, and her stance was flawless.

Oh gods. She’s actually going to fight me.

The first strike came fast, precise. Percy barely managed to bring Riptide up in time. The impact rang through her bones, her wrist buzzing from the force.

“Too slow,” Athena said, circling. “Your wrist is lazy.”

The clang of celestial bronze against bronze echoed through the courtyard. Percy’s grip on Riptide felt steady, her stance firm—but Athena was faster, sharper, always two steps ahead. Every time Percy thought she’d landed an opening, Athena’s spear was already there, cutting her off.

But then it started happening. That strange focus Percy only ever felt in a fight—the rush, the hyper-awareness, the way her brain clicked into patterns before she could think them through. She caught the subtle tightening in Athena’s shoulders, the faint shift of her weight. Without realizing, Percy pivoted just before the spear struck, Riptide darting up to parry as if her body already knew what to do.

Athena’s gray eyes sharpened in interest.< p/> “Again,” she ordered.

They circled. This time Percy noticed the flicker in Athena’s gaze toward her left side. Before Athena even moved, Percy adjusted, deflecting the incoming sweep and countering with a quick strike. The move didn’t land—Athena blocked her easily—but her lips curved, just barely, in something like approval.
Athena’s blade knocked her flat on her back.

The goddess peered down, unruffled. “And too confident.”

Percy groaned, forcing herself up. Her arms ached, sweat dripped into her eyes, but something inside burned brighter with every mistake. She hated failing. She hated feeling small, clumsy, unworthy. Not after everything she’d already survived to stand here.

So she swung again. And again. Every block grew sharper. Every step came quicker. Athena pushed her, relentless, and Percy found herself meeting the challenge with a stubborn grin.

“You learn quickly,” Athena admitted at last, lowering her blade. “As if battle itself remembers you.”

Percy leaned on Riptide, chest heaving, but she smirked through her exhaustion. “Guess I’m a fast learner.”

The faintest curve tugged at Athena’s mouth. “We shall see. A sword is not all there is. You will try the spear, the knife, perhaps even the bow.”

Percy groaned. “Do I have to try the bow?”

“Yes,” Athena said firmly. “You must face every weapon, even the ones that do not suit you. A warrior who knows only her strengths is half-armed. A warrior who knows her weaknesses can command an army.”

 

Athena handed her a tall, balanced spear of celestial bronze. Percy tested its weight, the haft smooth and cool. She gave it a few practice sweeps, then thrust forward—too hard, nearly toppling over.

“Control,” Athena instructed. “The spear extends your reach, but it will betray you if you overcommit.”

Percy adjusted, trying again. Slowly, awkwardly, she began to find the rhythm, the way the spear could both keep an enemy at bay and strike with precision. Still, it felt… off. Like she was trying on shoes that didn’t quite fit.

Athena’s eyes narrowed. “Not natural, but not hopeless.”

Percy grinned weakly. “Thanks, I guess?”

 

Next came the knives. Percy picked one up, twirling it experimentally. Something about the short, sharp blade felt instinctive — too much like survival. Quick and brutal.

When Athena lunged with her practice sword, Percy dodged close and slashed. The move came so naturally, it startled even her.

“Better,” Athena said, voice cooler than the Aegean. “Much better.”

Percy tried not to think about why the knife felt so natural. She didn’t like the reminder.

 

And then came the bow.

Percy stared at the weapon like it was some kind of big joke. “You’re kidding.”

“Do not complain,” Athena said, handing her the longbow. “Archery demands patience, focus, and discipline. Qualities you are… still developing.”

Percy muttered, “That’s one way to put it.”

She notched the arrow, pulled back, and immediately the string slipped. The arrow clattered to the ground.

Glauke, Athena’s owl, hooted disapprovingly.

Percy scowled. “Don’t judge me.”

The second shot flew about three feet before smacking into the dirt. The third went sailing off to the left, nearly hitting a marble column.

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are… a disaster with the bow.”

Percy grimaced. "Thanks."

Above them, Glauke swooped down and landed beside her, tilting his head with what looked like approval.

Percy managed a tired smile. “At least somebody thinks I did okay.”

The owl hooted and hopped closer.

Athena stood with her arms folded, her expression unreadable. “You will improve. I will see to it. But for today—” her gaze flicked to the owl, then back to Percy— “you did not disgrace yourself.”

Chapter 12

Apollo lounged on a marble bench, parchment scattered everywhere, his lyre resting across his lap. He strummed a lazy chord, grinning the moment Artemis appeared.

“Listen to this one,” he announced. “Her laughter strikes truer than arrows, her eyes brighter than any dawn—”

Artemis groaned. “Another one? You’ve been at this nonstop. That’s what, your hundredth poem?”

“One hundred and seventh,” Apollo corrected. “Each a masterpiece.”

“You’ve lost your mind.” She leaned against a column, arms folded. “You barely know her.”

Apollo sat up, offended. “Barely know her? Sister, please. I know Percy quite well. I know she hates bows, favors her sword like it’s a heartbeat. She squints at the horizon when she’s thinking, but she always notices the little things—like the color of mosaics underfoot or the sound of lyres in the distance.”

Artemis raised her brows. “So you’ve been… watching her.”

“Observing,” Apollo corrected, plucking another note. “For poetry. For love.”

Artemis snorted. “You’ve fallen too fast, as usual.”

Apollo waved her off. “And what of it? Falling is what mortals call it, but for gods like us? It’s inspiration. A flame. A sun.” He flashed a grin. “Who better than me to notice brilliance when it shines?”

Artemis muttered, “One of these days, that brilliance is going to smack you in the face.”

“Worth it,” Apollo said without hesitation. He leaned back dramatically. “I’ve already begun planning the bride price.”

Artemis blinked. “The what?”

“Bride price!” Apollo said, grinning wider. “What would be fitting? A constellation of her own? Golden chariots? I could build her a theater in Athens, have mortals sing her name every dawn—”

“Or,” Artemis cut in dryly, “you could stop fantasizing about marrying someone who hasn’t even agreed to share dinner with you.”

“That,” Apollo replied, striking a bold chord, “is impossible.”

Artemis gave him a long look, equal parts fond and exasperated. “You’re already in too deep.”

“And yet,” Apollo said with a smirk, “you haven’t left. Which means you want to hear sonnet one hundred and eight.”

Artemis rolled her eyes. “I want you to shut up.”

“Not a chance,” he grinned. “I know Percy quite well, and every line only brings me closer.”

Apollo plucked at his lyre again, humming to himself, “Her hair like starlit tides, her steps as steady as prophecy—”

“Stop.” Artemis held up a hand, shaking her head. “I have one question.”

Apollo tilted his chin, expectant. “Go on, dear sister.”

“Does Percy…” Artemis narrowed her eyes, “…actually know about any of this? The poems, the sonnets, the bride price?”

Apollo froze for a beat, then gave her his most dazzling grin. “Not yet.”

Artemis groaned so loudly it echoed off the marble. “You’re writing your hundredth ode and she has no idea.”

“One hundred and eighth,” he corrected smugly. “And she will know—at the right moment. It has to be… perfect. The sun does not rise in secret forever, sister. Eventually, everyone turns to see the dawn.”

Artemis dragged a hand over her face. “She’s going to find out you’ve been—what’s the mortal word?—pining.”

“Ah, but I do not pine,” Apollo said, smirking, strumming a triumphant note. “I compose. I serenade. I adore. And when Percy hears these words… she’ll know I’ve known her all along.”

Artemis’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “You’re forgetting something, brother. Percy is new to all this—Olympus, godhood, the weight of names. She doesn’t need you smothering her with verses she never asked for. If you care for her, let her breathe. Don’t turn your adoration into chains.”

Apollo’s hands stilled on the strings. For once, he didn’t have a quick line ready. “Chains? Sister, you wound me.”

“I’m warning you.” Artemis’s voice sharpened. “Don’t mistake her kindness for invitation. Don’t mistake her blush for surrender. You may think you know her, but she’s still finding out who she is.”

Apollo leaned back, feigning nonchalance though her words struck deeper than he’d admit. “Oh, have a little faith. I’m the god of prophecy, remember? I know she’ll come to me in time.”

“Or,” Artemis shot back jokingly, “you’ll drive her away before she even has the chance.”

Chapter 13

The festival had already ended 2 moons before the petitions began. At first, Percy thought the gifts left at Athena’s temple were just offerings of respect: baskets of fruit, carved statues, polished gems. But then came the scrolls. Formal requests. Promises of devotion. Marriage proposals.

By the time the council gathered again, the pile was absurd. River gods offered oaths of protection. Daimones of fortune promised wealth. Rustic gods vowed to build temples in her honor.

Zeus found it entertaining. “It seems to be that my granddaughter draws suitors like bees to nectar. Perhaps it is best to let her choose."

“Absolutely not,” Poseidon thundered. “She is not for barter.”

Athena’s voice cut like steel. “If any minor god thinks they can claim her, they will find themselves silenced. She will make her own choices.”

Percy standing aside her mother's throne, assessing every single scroll written for her hand in marriage.

Across the room, Apollo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He lounged on his throne, golden and radiant, but his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. He watched each new scroll brought forward with growing tension.

When Hermes teased, “Careful, cousin, you’ll have to start a queue,” Apollo’s jaw clenched. “She’s not some prize to be won,” he muttered, more sharply than intended.

Artemis tilted her head. “Strange. You’ve written a hundred poems about her, but now that others show interest, you bristle like a jealous hound.”

Apollo shot her a glare. “It’s different. They don’t know her. They only see… a new goddess, beautiful and unclaimed. They don’t know her as well as I do.”

Artemis smirked, too amused. “Mm. Then perhaps you’d better hope she prefers golden-haired poets to river spirits.”

Apollo didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he looked at Percy—who was fidgeting under the weight of all those stares, caught between her father’s roaring pride and her mother’s sharp defiance. She looked lost. Apollo felt something he hated.

Not smugness. Not poetry. But jealousy.

Jealous that someone else might win her before he had the chance to show her that she was already his muse.

Word of Perseus Athenide’s beauty and divine parentage spread like wildfire. Soon, just as Aphrodite once faced in her youth, suitors came knocking—Olympians, minor gods, daimones, each one boasting or preening, eager to claim her hand.

But Athena was not about to let her daughter be torn apart by Olympus. She silenced the crowd with one look, her voice carrying like a spear:

“You will not fight over Athenide as children bickering over a toy. If you truly believe yourself worthy, then prove it. You will face me in a trial of my choosing—and if you lose, you will swear upon the Styx to never harm nor pursue my daughter against her will.”

 

Ares strode forward first, cracking his knuckles, bronze armor gleaming. “Finally,” he growled, drawing his blade. “A real contest. Let’s see if you can fight without hiding behind clever words, sister.”

Athena only raised an eyebrow. “Gladly.”

Their blades clashed with a sound like thunder. Ares attacked with brutal strength, each strike meant to shatter, to overwhelm. Athena flowed around him—parrying, redirecting, striking when he left an opening. She anticipated every reckless swing, every furious thrust, until Ares was panting, red-faced, and snarling. With a single, elegant twist, Athena disarmed him. His blade clattered to the floor.

She pressed her own sword to his throat. “Strength without thought is weakness.”

The crowd roared with laughter and awe as Ares swore his oath, teeth grinding.

 

Hermes strolled in, staff in hand, eyes bright with mischief. “A riddle for a riddle, then?”

Athena’s smile was cool. “If you can best me in wit, you may try.”

The contest began. Hermes was quick, clever with wordplay and deception, twisting answers with charm. But Athena was patient, piercing through misdirection as if it were smoke. When he tried to trick her with paradox, she untangled it in a breath. Finally, she asked him her riddle: “What can fly without wings, strike without form, and yet bind even the gods?”

Hermes hesitated only a moment too long. “...Time.”
Athena inclined her head. “And time has just unmade your chances.”

Hermes laughed and yielded his oath.

 

Eros approached with his bow slung across his back, lips curled in confidence. “Love conquers all, wise Athena. Surely, even you.”

Athena’s eyes sharpened. “Then face me without your arrows. If you claim mastery of hearts, master your own.”

She conjured illusions—faces of beauty, voices dripping with desire, the kind of visions meant to ensnare. Eros stumbled, his composure cracking as the visions bent toward his own secret cravings. He tried to smirk it off, but Athena’s voice cut through:
“Love without discipline is slavery. You are undone by your own weapon.”

Defeated, Eros bowed and gave his oath.

 

Athena’s lips curved ever so slightly as Apollo approached, golden and confident. “A contest, sister?” he asked, half-smiling.

“Indeed,” she replied, her tone even. “But not of wit, nor of song. A race.”

Apollo’s eyes brightened. “At last! I am swifter than any god alive.”

Athena lifted her hand, and from the shadows stepped her owl, feathers sleek, amber eyes unblinking. Apollo, amused, summoned his raven with a flash of light. Its feathers gleamed, eyes sharp and cunning. The bird gave a proud caw, already strutting with long, deliberate steps.

“Not through the skies,” Athena continued, and Apollo’s grin faltered. “On foot.”

“On foot?” he repeated.

“Your raven against my owl. First across the marble courtyard and back again.”

Apollo laughed, waving off his unease. “Very well, sister. This will be quick.”

Athena only raised her hand, her owl hopping down with quiet dignity. Mortals often thought owls clumsy on land, but Athena’s gaze glittered with certainty.

“Their feet alone,” Athena announced. “No wings. First across the courtyard and back.”

At the signal, both birds started. The raven moved swiftly, long strides clever and efficient. For a moment, Apollo looked smug—until the owl stretched its legs and surged forward. To the watching gods, it was almost comical: the owl’s legs were far longer than they’d ever imagined, pumping like pistons as it dashed. Its speed was shocking, silent, relentless.

The raven squawked indignantly, trying to adjust, but the owl overtook it with ease and finished the course with unruffled calm.

Athena stroked the owl’s head. “Wisdom lies not only in strength, Apollo, but in knowing what others overlook.”

Apollo groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “You planned this. You knew owls could—could run like that?”

Athena’s smile was infuriatingly serene. “Naturally.”

He muttered, “I liked this contest better before I lost to a bird with stilts.

Apollo sighed, defeated, and raised his hand in oath. “Then I swear. Though I still say it was an unfair choice of animal.”

“Fairness was never the trial,” Athena said smoothly. “Foresight was.”

The crowd cheered. Apollo laughed lightly, but inside his chest throbbed with something heavier than defeat, his eyes straying to Percy.

And so it continued. Each suitor met with a trial that pierced their vanity: minor river gods failing feats of endurance, rustic daimones outmatched in songs they thought they owned. One by one, they fell and swore.

When the last vow echoed across the hall, Athena raised her hand.

“So it is sealed. Perseus Athenide belongs to no one but herself. Those who would force her will contend with me. Her choice is her own—and until she chooses, you will respect her will.”

A murmur of awe rippled through gods and mortals alike.

Percy flushed, feeling every eye on her. She wanted to vanish, but then Apollo caught her gaze. For once he did not jest or preen. His eyes were steady, pained, and yet gentle. Almost as if to say: He'll wait. He won't push.

And Percy, found herself smiling at that.

Notes:

I prewrote some of these chapters because I can't get them out of my head, that's why I'm releasing it so quickly, but my posting may become irregular because of school and unfortunately I have a job that pays minimum wage so I can actually afford things I want esspecially in this economy ;-;

Notes:

so what do you guys think!!!