Section II – The Silver Huntress
The moonlight always answered to her.
Wherever Artemis walked, the silver glow deepened, pouring across leaves and river-stones like spilled milk. Deer raised their heads as she passed, unafraid. Wolves trailed her silently, their eyes glowing pale in reverence. Maidens followed her with bows and laughter, swearing vows to hunt in her company and never bend to man's desire.
She was the untouched one, the eternal maiden, the Huntress crowned in silver. To mortals she was freedom incarnate; to gods, a reminder of promises they could not sway.
Her Domains
Artemis' power was not of thrones or storms—it was of wild spaces, where civilization's walls crumbled and the night sang with living voices.
The Hunt. Her arrows never missed, for the forest itself bent to guide them. She was the thrill of the chase, the silence of the predator, the mercy of a clean kill.
The Moon. Her light washed over earth in silver, calming tides, stirring lovers, guiding travelers. The moon was her mirror, ever waxing and waning, untouchable yet always present.
Protector of Maidens. When girls prayed to escape unwanted hands, Artemis answered. A whisper in the night, a sudden misstep of their pursuer, a path that opened into safety. She was their guardian, fierce and unyielding.
The Wild. She walked where no cities could tame, where rivers carved new paths and animals claimed dominion. Civilization bored her; marble walls felt like cages. She was the goddess of untamed breath.
To Olympus, she was purity made divine. To mortals, she was mystery. To herself… she was restless.
The Hidden Longing
For millennia, Artemis had kept her vow. No man's touch. No lover's embrace. Her Hunt was her family; her bow was her constant companion. But vows, like steel, can rust beneath the weight of centuries.
There were nights when she lingered too long beneath the moon, feeling its cold light on her skin and wondering why it did not warm her. There were hunts where, after victory, she felt the emptiness of triumph unshared.
And sometimes—though she would never confess it—she dreamed.
Not of mortals, fragile as reeds. Not of gods, who were too tangled in their own vanity. But of something else. Someone who could walk beside her without trying to chain her. Someone who would not cower before her strength, nor try to break it.
Someone timeless.
The Meeting
It was in a silver forest that she first saw him.
Percy stood beneath an ancient oak, hand pressed to its trunk. The tree glowed faintly, its roots drinking deep of some unseen river. Around him, wolves sat quietly, tails curled, as though they had found their alpha.
He was not handsome in the vain, polished way of Apollo or Hermes. He was something rarer—steady, enduring, with eyes that seemed to hold centuries behind them.
Artemis drew an arrow. Her vow demanded it. No man was to stand in her woods unchallenged.
"Leave," she commanded, her voice ringing like silver. "This forest is mine."
Percy looked up. His gaze met hers, not defiant, not pleading—merely patient.
"I know," he said softly. "And yet, here I am."
The arrow trembled in her hand. For the first time in all eternity, Artemis felt no certainty in her shot. The forest itself seemed to hush, waiting.
The Cracking of the Vow
Something stirred in her chest. It was not anger. It was not disdain. It was… recognition.
He did not lust after her as men did. He did not sneer at her vow as gods did. He stood as though he understood—her wildness, her solitude, her endless duty.
And in his eyes she saw no thread of fate, no destiny pulling him like a puppet. He was outside, like her. Free.
That night, the moonlight shone brighter than it ever had, and Artemis, for the first time in millennia, wondered if vows could bend without breaking.