[Third person POV]
Night had fallen over Camp Half-Blood, a thick curtain of darkness broken only by the soft glow of the campfires. The air was heavy—thick with grief and the faint scent of incense. Lucian leaned silently against the rough bark of an old oak, his tired red eyes fixed on the gathered campers. They were huddled together near the pyre, faces shadowed by sorrow as they mourned the fallen.
At the center of it all stood Nico. The son of Hades carried himself with a quiet, solemn authority, his every movement deliberate. Nico, being now a Mortician, was the perfect person to handle the situation.
As a Mortician Nico had an ability called Funerary Rites: which allowed him to Perform sacred rites that grant the dead peace, ward off curses, and keep malevolent spirits from returning.
Although it was a little morbid, it was the perfect acting situation for Nico as he was performing and being acknowledged by the entire camp.
Lucian's attention shifted when a faint pulse of crimson light caught the corner of his eye. His ring flickered, the gemstone glowing brighter until it gave off a sharp red flash—the unmistakable signal of an incoming call.
He exhaled a long, quiet sigh and stepped away from the tree. Walking toward Thalia and Annabeth, he spoke in a low, matter-of-fact tone. "I need to take a call. I'll be retiring to my cabin. I'm leaving the rest in your hands."
The two girls exchanged a quick glance and nodded without question.
Lucian's form melted into the ground as shadows curled up around his feet, swallowing him whole. In the next instant, he emerged just outside the door of his basement. The air here was colder, heavier—less touched by the life of the camp above.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Another sigh escaped him as he took in the sight before him. Nebula's touch was everywhere—the once stone walls now lined with massive containment cells. Each one held something that looked like it had crawled straight from a nightmare: twisted limbs, jagged teeth, eyes that blinked in unsettling patterns. The cells were soundproof, a mercy to anyone who might have heard the constant, maddening shrieks.
Lucian ignored the prisoners and made his way to the large, high-backed chair at the far end of the room. Sitting down, he rested his elbows on the armrests and took a moment to mentally steel himself. When the crystal ball shimmered into existence before him, he reached out and accepted the call. The sphere expanded, the mist within swirling until a familiar face appeared.
"Well, if it isn't my beautiful, most amazing, one-of-a-kind mother dearest," Lucian greeted, his voice bursting with exaggerated cheer. "How have you been?"
Medea's eyes narrowed immediately. "Lucian… are you by chance retarded?" she asked flatly.
"Okay… ouch. Uncalled for," Lucian muttered, rubbing the back of his head like he'd been physically struck.
"Uncalled for?!" Medea's tone sharpened into incredulous outrage. Her eye twitched, the look on her face one of utter disbelief. "From what I've heard from your father, you willingly absorbed the miasma from the Abyss. Do you realize what you've done? You've effectively doomed yourself! I think calling you a retard is putting it lightly."
"It wasn't for no reason," Lucian said, rubbing one eye in exasperation. "And I'm not dooming myself."
Medea's gaze narrowed into a dagger's edge, scrutinizing him as if she could peel away his secrets by sheer force of will. "You're planning something… What are you planning?"
Lucian's lips curved into a slow smile. "Let's just say my mother is one of my greatest inspirations… and her journey is the guide I intend to follow very soon."
Her brows furrowed in confusion. "What? I'm not in the mood for riddles—" She stopped mid-sentence, the realization dawning in her eyes. They widened. "You're going after the Golden Fleece."
Lucian didn't speak. He only kept smiling, and that was answer enough.
Medea brought a hand to her forehead, massaging it slowly as if the thought physically pained her. "Alright… well, at least you have a solution to your problem. That's something. But Lucian—" she leaned forward slightly, her voice edged with frustration, "—it was still unbelievably stupid. You're smarter than this."
His smile didn't fade, didn't shift in the slightest.
Her expression changed again—this time a faint, knowing smile tugged at her lips. "...There's more to this, isn't there?" She tilted her head, her tone a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "You devil child… what exactly are you planning?"
"Not exactly planning," Lucian replied, his tone carrying a vague sense of mischief, "but just know this—this entire ordeal won't be pointless. I'll be weakened for a while, sure, but when it's all over… I'll be much stronger than I was before it."
"I see… that's good, at least." Medea's voice softened, and for a moment the sharp edge of her usual tone dulled into something unmistakably maternal. Her eyes lingered on him, catching the way his skin seemed just a shade too pale, the way his irises seemed clouded, dulled by pain he wasn't willing to admit out loud. There was nothing a mother hated more than seeing her child in pain.
"How are you doing currently?" she asked quietly, her voice almost gentle.
"I'm okay—Blergh—" Lucian's words were cut short as he suddenly lurched forward, coughing up a thick stream of black blood that stained his chin like ink.
Medea's eyelid twitched. Her scowl returned instantly. "I know you're doing that on purpose, Lucian. Don't play games—I'm being serious here."
"Sorry, sorry," Lucian said with a weak chuckle, casually wiping the black streak from his chin with the sleeve of his armor. "In truth? I'm physically weakened. The blessing Heracles gave me is what's slowing the miasma's progress and keeping me from outright dying. My magical abilities are mostly fine, but I'd have to concentrate a lot harder to use them effectively." He glanced at the gauntlet on his arm. "Not to mention… I now have to wear this armor piece permanently unless I want to risk affecting the people around me."
Medea's frown deepened, but she didn't interrupt as they continued talking late into the night. They discussed his plan in detail, her hopes for his recovery, and her thinly veiled warnings not to overreach. At one point, Lucian was caught completely off guard when Hades himself joined the conversation, not to interrogate him or insult him like Medea had, but simply to thank him for what he had done for Hestia. The sheer unexpectedness of the Lord of the Dead offering gratitude sent a strange, uneasy chill down his spine.
By the time morning came, the air around camp was still heavy. The previous day's losses lingered in the expressions of every demigod moving through the grounds. Even the usual morning bustle felt muted, voices hushed, movements subdued.
Lucian emerged from his cabin with Thalia and Annabeth flanking him. Their boots crunched against the dew-damp grass as Annabeth handed him a scroll of parchment.
"Here," she said, "I didn't bother you last night since you looked wiped out, but Charles couldn't find you and gave me this instead. It's a list of everything that was destroyed. He wanted to know if you had any upgrade ideas before repairs start."
Lucian reached for the list but didn't immediately take it. "I'll look at it in a minute," he said, his gaze drifting toward the heart of camp. "I want to do something else first."
Thalia's brow furrowed. "Something else?"
Lucian sighed. "I'm going to speak to the spirit of Delphi. I want to see what she has to say."
Thalia and Annabeth exchanged a quick glance. There was concern in their eyes, but neither voiced it. Instead, they simply fell into step beside him as they made their way toward the Big House.
Inside, they found Chiron and Dionysus. The latter didn't so much as glance at Lucian, but Chiron's eyebrows rose slightly when Lucian stated his reason for being there. After a brief pause, the centaur gave a resigned nod.
"Go ahead," Chiron said with a weary sigh. "Now is as good a time as any for a quest, I suppose." The tension in camp was nearly tangible; even he couldn't hide his apprehension.
Lucian ascended the stairs at a steady pace, each creak of the wood under his boots sounding louder in the stillness. At the top, he opened the attic door to a space that felt suspended in time.
It was cluttered—piles of missing or discarded items stacked high, almost like an abandoned lost-and-found. In the middle of the room sat a desiccated corpse slumped in a rocking chair, its empty eye sockets staring at nothing.
Lucian stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The air was thick, stale. He walked forward until he stood before the chair.
"So," he said evenly, "is there actually a quest waiting for me? Or am I just winging it under the pretense of one?"
From the corpse's mouth and eye sockets, green fog began to seep, curling through the air before coalescing into a spectral form. It was the image of his mother, her expression carved from solemnity.
Lucian let out a dry laugh. "Heh… how poetic. Or maybe 'ironic' is the better word."
The construct's voice carried an ancient weight as she spoke:
> "A cursed Knight shall rise once more,
Upon the path his mother once bore.
Through trials and seas where fates entwine,
He meets the sorceress of bloodline divine.
Yet glory's grasp, though close at hand, will seal his final breath,
For in his quest to claim his prize, he meets a destined death."
Lucian stood in silence for a moment, the words settling in like a heavy fog. Then he exhaled slowly, scratching the back of his head with a half-smile.
"Well, Mom… looks like I'm coming home for summer vacation after all."
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