Scene 1: The Tent Becomes a Home
The tent had been meant as a temporary shelter.
Artemis raised it quickly that first night, weaving silver leaves and moonlight into a canopy, its edges blending with the forest. She told herself it was nothing more than practical. A place to rest. A space to keep Percy at arm's length.
But days passed. Nights lengthened. The silver walls stayed.
Artemis added pelts along the floor, soft and warm, a gift from her wolves. Athena, unimpressed with a house of "sticks and sentiment," reinforced it with carved marble pillars inscribed with runes of endurance. Percy simply laid his dark cloak across the earth at the center and declared it the heart of the room.
It should not have worked. Silver, stone, and cloth—a mess of styles, a war of domains. Yet somehow, when the three of them sat within it, the tent felt less like a camp and more like a hearth.
"You cannot put scrolls here," Artemis said one evening, glaring as Athena arranged a neat stack beside the marble pillar. "This is a place of rest, not endless scratching of quills."
"And you cannot scatter wolf fur over sacred runes," Athena retorted, brushing at the base of a column with exaggerated precision.
Percy stretched out lazily on his cloak, grinning at their bickering. "I see only balance. Fur to soften stone, scrolls to steady wildness. Perhaps the tent knows better than either of you."
Artemis gave him a flat look. "Do not take her side."
Athena arched a brow. "Do not take hers."
"Then I take neither," Percy replied, folding his arms behind his head. "Which is the same as taking both."
They stared at him. For a heartbeat, Artemis looked ready to strike, Athena ready to scold. Instead—Artemis laughed, sharp and brief, while Athena shook her head with the smallest of smiles.
That night, when they lay beneath the tent of silver and stone, Artemis rested closer than she intended, and Athena allowed her scrolls to remain stacked in sight of wolf pelts. Percy, with Kaal perched outside like a black sun, drifted into sleep between them.
It was not a temple.
It was not a palace.
But for the first time, it felt like home.
Scene 2: The Hunt of Three
The forest was restless that night.
Even the trees seemed uneasy, their branches rattling like teeth. Word had spread through Artemis' Huntresses: a manticore stalked the valley, its tail venomous enough to fell even the strongest stag, its hunger driving it closer to mortal villages.
Artemis stood at the edge of the clearing, bow drawn, eyes sharp as starlight. Her wolves prowled low, their fur bristling in anticipation. "It moves fast," she murmured. "We must corner it before it scents the children."
Athena crouched beside her, fingertip tracing the dirt. She carved quick lines into the earth with her nail—battle diagrams, geometry born of instinct. "It favors the ridges. We push it toward the ravine. Percy, you'll cut its retreat."
Percy leaned against a tree, calm in a way that made Artemis grind her teeth. Kaal loomed above, wings stretched like a living eclipse. "A ravine," Percy echoed, half-smiling. "Time bends easier in narrow places."
The manticore burst from the shadows before they could speak further—massive, snarling, its mane aflame with moonlight. The wolves leapt first, snarling, herding it toward Athena's ridges. Arrows flew in silver arcs from Artemis' bow, striking near its feet to drive, not to kill.
Athena moved like a general commanding unseen soldiers, calling shifts and turns, guiding wolf and goddess alike with clipped, perfect instructions.
Then Percy stepped forward. The world stuttered.
Time slowed around him like honey poured from a jar. The manticore's roar stretched into a warped echo. His footsteps were quiet, deliberate, as he circled behind it. A flick of his hand, and the sand at its feet stilled mid-tumble, freezing the beast mid-lunge.
Artemis loosed her arrow at that exact heartbeat. Athena's rune flared, directing the wolves to strike.
The arrow pierced its flank. The rune trapped it in a net of light. The wolves pinned it to the earth.
For a breath, the clearing rang with silence. Then the manticore collapsed, defeated, its venom dripping harmlessly onto the ground.
They stood together over the fallen beast, blood painting the grass. Percy, still steady, exhaled as if surfacing from deep water. "Not so much a hunt," he said, "as a rhythm."
Artemis lowered her bow, breathing hard but smiling despite herself. "It feels less like hunting," she admitted, voice soft. "More like breathing."
Athena touched her scroll-marked hand to Percy's, then to Artemis'. "Then perhaps we have learned what the Fates never taught us. Three is not a number. It is a harmony."
And in the distance, Kaal screamed—a sound so loud it made the stars tremble.
Scene 3: The Library by Moonlight
Athena's temple smelled of parchment and olive oil, the air heavy with the weight of centuries. Scrolls lined the walls in endless rows, some so fragile that a mortal breath might crumble them to dust.
Percy stood in the middle of it all, arms folded, grinning. Artemis sat nearby with her arms crossed, already bored, watching wolves doze at her feet.
"You're telling me," Percy said, holding up a scrap of parchment smudged with ink, "this is older than entire kingdoms?"
Athena's eyes narrowed. "That is a fragment of the Perian Codex. It has survived four wars, two floods, and a careless priest who once mistook it for kindling. Handle it carefully."
Percy laid the parchment down with exaggerated reverence, then immediately picked up a different scroll—this one freshly inked, bearing an unmistakable pawprint. He waved it like a trophy. "And this, O wise Athena, is a new discovery: Treatise on the Philosophy of Wolves, authored by Artemis herself."
Artemis barked a laugh. "Better wisdom in one pawprint than a thousand of your dusty scrolls."
Athena snatched the parchment, glaring at both of them. "You are insufferable." But there was the faintest tug at the corner of her lips.
Percy flopped onto a marble bench, stretching out. "Admit it. The temple's better with us here. Too quiet otherwise."
Athena ignored him, kneeling to reorganize a stack. But when she glanced over her shoulder, Artemis was already leaning against Percy's side, head tipped in mock-exasperation.
Later, when moonlight poured through the temple's high windows, Athena returned to find them both asleep. Artemis' hair spilled across Percy's lap, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. He wasn't asleep, though—his eyes traced the scrolls still glowing faintly in the silver light.
Without a word, Athena sank down beside him, setting her scroll aside. His arm shifted, making space, and she rested against him, her shoulder brushing Artemis' hair.
For once, the temple felt less like a sanctuary of thought and more like a home of warmth.
Scene 4: Gods at Work
The day began with storm clouds rolling low across the Aegean. Fishermen cursed, nets torn, boats at risk of capsizing. Artemis stood on a rocky outcrop above the shore, her silver bow lowered, eyes scanning the restless sea. "If the storm takes them, the children in that village will starve before winter's end."
Athena joined her, cloak whipping in the wind. "The fleet's design is flawed. Their hulls are too shallow; they tip too easily against the waves. I could teach them, but not before the storm swallows them whole."
Percy stepped forward, Kaal's vast shadow falling over the sea as the phoenix wheeled above. He raised his hand, fingers curling in a gesture too subtle for mortals to notice. The storm's fury slowed. Lightning froze mid-flash. For a heartbeat, the sea itself seemed to hold its breath.
The fishermen scrambled, hauling nets, righting sails, guiding boats back to shore in a sudden, uncanny calm. Then Percy released the moment. Time resumed. The waves roared—but the danger had passed.
Artemis exhaled, relief softening her face. "You saved them."
Percy shook his head. "We saved them. Your wolves drove them inland last night, so none were caught too far. Athena, they built as you taught generations ago—the hulls still held."
Athena's lips curved. "Then it is not one domain, but three."
That evening, they stood at the edge of a battlefield. A skirmish between rival kings was moments from bloodshed. Spears lowered, archers drew, the crackle of imminent death heavy in the air.
Athena whispered into the mind of one commander, planting strategy like a seed: stand down, wait, strike only when your enemy tires. The man faltered, signaling his line to hold.
Artemis loosed an arrow from miles away, its silver shaft slicing through the sky to shatter a war horn before it could call the charge.
Percy folded the moment in half. Time skipped like a stone across water. Soldiers blinked and found themselves confused, their anger dimmed as if a fever had broken.
The battle dissolved into retreat instead of slaughter.
That night, as they sat by the fire outside their tent, Artemis watched the sparks rise. "When I hunted alone, I brought down beasts. When I blessed villages, I saved some. But with you two…" She trailed off, voice almost reverent. "It is more than victory. It is harmony."
Athena leaned forward, firelight flickering in her eyes. "The Fates never accounted for this. They wrote each of us into separate roles. But together, we undo their script."
Percy smiled faintly, staring into the flames. "Then let's keep rewriting it."
Kaal shrieked above, a sound like a clock's tolling bell—time itself answering.
Scene 5: Jealous Gods, Uncaring Lovers
It did not take long for whispers to reach Olympus.
Three gods moving as one. Three domains tangled in ways no law had written. Mortals spared, battles softened, storms eased. It was not balance, Zeus growled—it was defiance.
And defiance always drew attention.
Aphrodite's Visit
She appeared in their tent one morning without warning, silk clinging like mist, smile as sharp as a blade. The wolves growled, but Percy only raised a brow.
"My, my," Aphrodite purred, eyes flicking between Artemis and Athena. "The untouched maiden and the virgin strategist, both ruined by one man's hands. Olympus will feast on this scandal for centuries."
Artemis' bow was in her hand in an instant. "Say ruined again," she hissed, "and your beauty will be marred by an arrow."
Athena's voice was cooler, cutting. "You mistake choice for ruin. We chose him. That is something you cannot comprehend."
Aphrodite smirked, circling Percy as if testing for cracks. "And you, Percy Chronos… are you so sure you can keep both? Jealousy is poison. Even gods choke on it."
Percy leaned back on the cloak spread across the floor, utterly unmoved. "If jealousy comes, it won't come from them. It'll come from the rest of you, watching what you can't break."
Aphrodite's smile faltered, just for a breath. Then she vanished in a shimmer of rose petals, her laughter echoing like a challenge.
Apollo's Challenge
Not long after, Apollo cornered Percy at the foot of a mountain, lyre in hand, prophecy burning in his eyes.
"You meddle with time," Apollo said, strumming a note that made the air tremble. "The threads fray. The future bleeds. Do you think you can silence prophecy itself?"
Percy's gaze was steady. "If I must."
The sun-god played, chords weaving into visions—war, ruin, fire. Percy lifted his hand. Time hiccupped. The melody warped, notes stretched into silence until Apollo's fingers struck dead strings.
The god of prophecy stared at him in dawning horror. "You—you turned the vision off."
Percy's voice was low, dangerous. "Prophecy binds others. Not me. Not them."
Apollo fled, unsettled in a way even he could not name.
Olympus Rumbles
From Hera's throne, thunderous fury. From Zeus' lips, murmurs of punishment. Yet neither moved. Neither dared. For every whisper of scandal, there was also fear—fear of Percy's domain, fear of the goddesses at his side, fear of Kaal shrieking like time's own herald in the skies.
And in the silver-stone tent, with fire crackling low, the three of them laughed. Artemis leaned into Percy's shoulder, Athena's hand brushed his, and their voices tangled together.
Let Olympus rage.
Let the world whisper.
Their choice was made, and they would not be unmade.
Scene 6: The First Festival Together
The city of Athens burned bright with torchlight that night, shadows leaping across marble columns. It was a festival in Athena's honor, though she had long since learned to watch from afar, veiled and hidden. Gods did not walk openly among their worshippers—not unless they wanted chaos.
But this night was different.
Athena moved quietly through the crowd, her hood drawn, her gaze sharp as the blades strapped to men's sides. Percy walked at her shoulder, Kaal circling high above in the darkness, unseen by mortal eyes. Artemis followed reluctantly, bow slung across her back, her wolves padding unseen at the edges of the crowd.
The mortals never noticed the shimmer of power about them. They saw only three strangers—impossibly beautiful, impossibly out of place.
Music swelled, pipes and drums rattling through the square. Dancers spun in firelight. Mortals laughed, shouted, kissed under torch smoke.
Percy stopped suddenly, turning to Artemis. "Dance with me."
Her eyes narrowed. "I do not dance."
"You hunt," he countered, offering his hand. "And dance is only a hunt without arrows."
For a moment she hesitated. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she placed her hand in his.
They stepped into the circle of dancers, Artemis stiff at first, every movement precise and wary. Percy guided her gently, letting her set the rhythm. And slowly, to her own surprise, she loosened—her laughter cutting through the music like silver bells.
Athena watched from the crowd, arms folded, pretending not to care. But when Percy's eyes flicked toward her, inviting, she sighed, tugged back her hood, and joined.
The three of them spun together beneath the torches—Artemis wild as flame, Athena graceful as logic, Percy weaving between them like the pulse of time itself. The crowd whispered, stirred, unsettled by strangers whose beauty seemed too sharp for mortal bones.
Later, bards would tell of them: a hunter with eyes like the moon, a scholar whose wisdom shone in her gaze, and a man who moved as though the stars bent for him.
When the music ended, they stood in the square's shadow, breathless, flushed. Artemis' hand lingered in Percy's. Athena's eyes met his and did not look away.
And for the mortals who caught even a glimpse, it became a memory to outlast empires:
The night strangers came to Athens and danced like gods
Scene 7: Quiet Intimacies
The silver-stone tent was quiet that evening. The hunt was done, scrolls stacked, torches burned low. Outside, Kaal's wings cut lazy arcs across the stars, his cry echoing like a distant bell.
Inside, Artemis sat cross-legged with her back to Percy, a stubborn frown on her face.
"You're doing it wrong," she muttered.
Percy carefully worked his fingers through her hair, half-braided, half-tangled. "I've never braided hair before."
"Then why insist?"
"Because you asked me not to," he said lightly.
Her shoulders stiffened, then shook with unwilling laughter. "You are infuriating."
"And you," he said, tugging gently at a stubborn strand, "are patient enough to let me try anyway."
When he finished, the braid was crooked, uneven, and full of pride. Artemis touched it, lips quirking upward, though she would never admit it aloud.
At the other side of the tent, Athena had fallen asleep with her head bent over a scroll. Her hand still clutched a stylus, ink smudged on her fingers.
Percy rose silently, lifted her into his arms, and laid her on the cloak spread by the fire. Artemis watched with raised brows, smirking. "Your strategist, felled by her own words."
"She's been awake three nights," Percy murmured, brushing a stray curl from Athena's brow. "Even wisdom needs rest."
Athena stirred faintly, not quite waking, and leaned instinctively into his touch. Artemis' smirk softened into something quieter.
Later, they lay together outside, the night stretching endless above them. The sky was thick with constellations, brighter than fire. Percy pointed upward.
"See that?" His voice was low. "The Hunter's Bow. Mortals say it never misses."
Artemis snorted. "A myth. Stars are not weapons."
"Then what are they?" he asked.
Her gaze softened, following his finger. "Reminders. Of what was, and what will be."
Athena shifted beside them, half awake, her head resting against Percy's shoulder. "Or perhaps they are only fire, burning without purpose until someone clever names them."
Percy smiled, watching both of them. "Or perhaps they're just ours tonight."
The three of them lay in silence, the universe sprawling above, Kaal's shadow occasionally brushing the starlight. For that moment, the world felt smaller, safer, bound not by fate but by choice.
Scene 8: The Night of Oaths
The river was quiet that night, black glass under the moon. Its banks were lined with reeds whispering in the wind, its current slow, deliberate, ancient. It was not the Styx, nor any sacred spring claimed by Olympus. It was older, nameless, free.
Artemis knelt first, her bow laid across her lap. She dipped her fingers into the water, watching ripples stretch outward. "I was bound once by vows I thought unbreakable. Vows that kept me apart, untouchable. I swore to be unclaimed." Her voice faltered, then steadied. "But I am not claimed. I choose. Tonight, I choose you."
She turned, silver eyes meeting Percy's, then Athena's. For the first time, there was no armor in her voice. Only truth.
Athena stepped forward, her cloak brushing the river's edge. "I have spent eternity in logic, in thought, in strategy. I taught myself that desire was weakness, that love was distraction. And yet…" Her hand trembled before she steadied it on Percy's shoulder, then Artemis'. "You are neither weakness nor distraction. You are my equal. My partners. I choose you."
Percy stood between them, the weight of centuries pressing against his chest. Time itself stilled, the current pausing mid-flow as if waiting. He placed one hand on Artemis' shoulder, the other on Athena's.
"I was not written into the Fates' loom. I was not supposed to exist. And maybe that is why I can say this: I will not bind you. I will not hold chains or rules. But I promise this—I will walk beside you, always. Through storm, through war, through eternity. That is my oath."
The river glowed faintly, as though it approved. Kaal shrieked from above, a cry like a tolling clock, marking the moment in the bones of the world.
The three of them pressed their foreheads together, breath mingling. No thunder struck, no curse fell. Just choice—bright and defiant against the silence of fate.
Scene 9: The Whisper of Forever
The fire was small that night, just enough to push back the chill. Their tent stood nearby, silver walls glowing faintly under the stars. Kaal perched on a high branch, feathers dimmed to shadow, his presence vast and watchful.
The three of them sat close, the river still murmuring in the distance. Artemis leaned against Percy's shoulder, silent for once, fingers absently tracing the seam of his cloak. Athena sat cross-legged opposite them, her hands folded in her lap, though her gaze wandered often—toward the fire, toward Artemis, toward Percy's face when he wasn't looking.
For a long time, none of them spoke. It was Artemis who broke the silence, her voice low, uncertain.
"How long can this last?"
Athena's head lifted. "What do you mean?"
Artemis' eyes stayed fixed on the flames. "Olympus will not ignore us forever. Already they whisper. Already they scheme. When they move against us…" She trailed off, her hand tightening on Percy's sleeve.
Athena's expression softened, wisdom quiet for once. "It lasts as long as we choose it."
Percy turned then, his gaze sweeping over them both. In his eyes the firelight flickered, but behind it was something deeper—something that stretched beyond stars. "Forever isn't measured in years. Not for us. It's measured in moments like this."
Artemis looked up, startled by the gentleness in his tone. Athena studied him, and for once, her sharp mind found no flaw in the logic.
They drew closer, heads nearly touching, the three of them bound by nothing but choice and breath. Outside, the world spun on, unaware. Inside the circle of their fire, eternity felt close enough to touch.