Section I – The Stillness Before
The world was quiet.
Not in the brittle silence of winter, nor in the eerie hush before a storm, but in the way time itself seemed to slow around Percy when Artemis and Athena were near. The three of them had retreated from Olympus and its endless demands, finding sanctuary in a secluded glade where moonlight spilled silver across the grass and stars shimmered above like watchful eyes.
Here, the air was softer, thick with the scent of pine and earth. The brook nearby murmured a low song, and the leaves swayed lazily as though lulled by the gods' presence.
Percy lay against the curve of a smooth boulder, Kaal perched proudly at his shoulder, feathers glowing faintly in the twilight. The phoenix's steady warmth radiated through him, a constant reminder of his dominion over time—his anchor, his shadow.
Artemis leaned into his side, her head resting on his shoulder, silver hair spilling like moonlight across his arm. For once, the Huntress did not wear her steel. The bow was set aside, her eternal vigilance softened by the peace of his presence. Every so often, her fingers traced idle circles against his chest, as if to remind herself that he was there, flesh and warmth, not a dream.
On his other side, Athena sat with the stillness of a statue, but her eyes betrayed her. They shone with quiet thought, not the sharp calculation of council chambers, but the serenity of a woman who—for this one rare night—had no wars to plan, no schemes to weave. Her hand rested lightly over Percy's, her thumb brushing in slow rhythm, her tether to the man who had somehow unraveled her solitude.
The three said little. Words were unnecessary. Their bond was not measured in conversation, but in nearness—the way Artemis pressed just a little closer when the night air grew cooler, the way Athena's breathing matched Percy's without her noticing. They could go hours like this, exchanging only a glance, a brush of hands, the quiet knowledge that they were not alone.
Kaal shifted, rustling his wings. His golden eyes scanned the treetops as though searching for something that wasn't there. Time hummed faintly around him, like a chord struck in the air.
Percy noticed, his lips curving slightly. "Even you can't rest tonight, old friend?"
The phoenix let out a low trill, not of unease but of anticipation. As though he sensed the thread of fate beginning to pull taut, even here, in this sanctuary.
Athena tilted her head, studying the bird, then Percy. "Your companion sees far. Perhaps farther than even you allow yourself."
Percy's gaze lingered on Kaal, but he did not answer. Instead, he shifted slightly, pulling Artemis and Athena closer against him. For all his power, for all his dominion over time itself, these moments—their closeness, their warmth—were the ones he feared losing most.
Artemis caught the flicker of thought across his face. Her hand slipped beneath his, fingers threading through his firmly. "Do not borrow storms from tomorrow," she murmured. "Tonight is ours."
Athena leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to his temple in agreement. "The world has endured without us before. It will endure tomorrow. Tonight, we endure with each other."
For a while, the three gods sat in perfect stillness, their bond an unspoken vow.
But Kaal's feathers continued to glow faintly, each pulse brighter than the last. And though the night remained calm, a shift rippled through the air, subtle and steady. A presence stirred—ancient, watchful, neither hostile nor kind.
Percy felt it first, a brush at the edges of his awareness. Artemis stiffened slightly, her hand instinctively reaching for the bow she had laid aside, while Athena's eyes narrowed, already calculating the source.
The glade no longer felt empty. Someone was coming.
And with her arrival, the stillness of their sanctuary would be broken forever.
Section II – The Arrival of Hecate
The air thickened.
It was not the way storms gather, with pressure and rolling clouds, but a subtler, more insidious change. The breeze that moments ago carried the scent of pine now hummed faintly with ozone, as if the very fabric of the glade bristled with energy.
Artemis straightened, her silver eyes flashing toward the shadows. A huntress' instinct stirred—the keen sense that another predator was stepping into her woods. Her fingers brushed the bow at her side, though she did not draw it.
Athena rose in one smooth motion, her mind already parsing possibilities. The glade was bound, warded, hidden from mortal eyes and divine alike. Few beings could breach it unbidden. Fewer still would dare.
Percy did not move. He remained seated, his arm still around Artemis, his hand still brushing Athena's. But his eyes sharpened, stars flickering faintly in their depths. Time itself seemed to hesitate around him, a ripple in the air that warned of his readiness to act.
Kaal let out a piercing cry. The phoenix's wings flared, golden light spilling across the glade, illuminating the figure who now emerged from the treeline.
She walked with neither haste nor hesitation, her presence bending the world around her. Cloaked in shadow that shimmered like smoke, her form seemed to waver between the tangible and the ephemeral. Her hair cascaded in waves of midnight, shot through with strands of silver light, as though the stars themselves had marked her. Her eyes—strange, shifting pools of amethyst and fire—watched them with unnerving calm.
Hecate.
The goddess of crossroads. Of secrets. Of magic itself.
Few could rival her in presence, and none mistook her for lesser divinity. She was not warmth like Hestia, nor tempest like Zeus. She was something other. The keeper of mysteries, the guardian of thresholds, the flame that burned at the edges of mortal understanding.
Percy's wives stiffened at once. Artemis' hand tightened on her bow, a silent promise that she would defend him against even this primordial power. Athena's stance shifted, not in fear but in guarded respect—her mind already racing to untangle the purpose of this visit.
Percy alone spoke, his voice even, though beneath it lingered curiosity.
"You do not often leave your shadows, Hecate."
The goddess's lips curved, though not into a smile. "Nor do you often draw mortals' eyes to your hearth. Yet here we are—three who are not bound, and one who is not bound by time."
Artemis' eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly. Why do you come?"
The shadows around Hecate shimmered, as though she stood at the threshold of countless doors at once. She did not step closer, nor make a show of deference. Instead, she tilted her head, studying Percy with unnerving intensity.
"I come," she said, voice layered as if three spoke at once, "because there is a world that will not survive without intervention. A world not mine to govern, but mine to love. And you—Chronos reborn—are the only one who can shape its fate without breaking the order of Olympus."
Silence fell.
Athena's eyes flashed with suspicion, her hand brushing against Percy's arm in subtle warning. Artemis took a step forward, her stance protective, silver light already kindling at her fingertips.
But Percy did not rise. His gaze remained fixed on Hecate, calm and unyielding. "Then it is true," he said softly, almost to himself. "Even you call upon me when fate proves too fragile."
Hecate's strange eyes glimmered. "Not fate," she said. "Choice. And the boy who embodies it."
The shadows behind her pulsed, forming shapes—fragments of visions, fleeting glimpses of a scarred child, a lightning bolt scar carved into his brow, a prophecy whispered in broken cadence.
Artemis' breath caught. Athena's fingers tightened on Percy's hand.
For the first time that night, the peace of their sanctuary felt distant, fragile as glass.
Something vast and terrible had stepped into their lives, and it bore the name of Hecate.
Section III – The Witch's Tale
The firelight shifted.
No fire had been lit, and yet the glade glowed faintly as Hecate lifted one hand. Threads of shadow and flame coiled around her fingers, weaving into a sphere of shimmering light. Within it danced images—fragments of another world, another history.
"This," she began, her voice low and resonant, "is my world. Not one forged by Olympus, nor sung into being by Primordial hands. It was birthed in the cracks—woven of mortal spirit, mortal hunger, mortal brilliance. I did not make it. But I found it. And I loved it."
The sphere shifted. Images blossomed: castles carved of stone, lit by floating candles; fields where children laughed with sticks that glowed with fire; cloaked figures huddled in shadowed streets, bartering secrets.
Artemis' eyes narrowed. "Mortals. They walk with power not their own."
"Power," Hecate echoed softly, "that I gifted. Long ago, I poured fragments of my essence into their world. Not to raise them above others, but to give them a new path. To teach them that choice, knowledge, and will could shape their fates without need of Olympus."
Athena stepped closer, her keen gaze fixed on the images. "And they built a civilization on it."
Hecate inclined her head. "Yes. A thousand years of legacy. Families rose, families fell. Schools of wisdom flourished. Magic—what they call magic—became their inheritance, their culture, their art."
Her eyes darkened. "But also their weapon."
The sphere darkened. Images shifted—flashes of green light striking men and women down, cloaked figures in skull masks, children crying. A gaunt figure with red eyes and a cruel smile flickered into view, his voice hissing like venom.
Percy felt Artemis stiffen beside him. Athena's jaw tightened.
Hecate's voice dropped lower. "They gave rise to lords of death. Mortal tyrants who claimed immortality through my gifts. They know nothing of true power, yet they wield enough to devastate their own world."
The sphere brightened again, shifting to show crowded halls of politicians, quills scratching, gold exchanged under desks.
"And when these tyrants rise," Hecate continued, "their leaders do not unite. They bicker. They bribe. They bow to their fears. Their ministry of law is nothing but a marketplace for power, where even the darkest hands find welcome if they offer coin or influence."
Artemis scoffed, her lip curling. "So it is the same as here. Vanity and greed, in prettier robes."
Hecate's eyes flicked toward her. "Yes. But here, the Olympians intervene when the balance tips too far. There? No one comes. No one dares. For their world is mine—and I have sworn to leave them free."
Athena frowned. "Yet you summon us. You break your oath."
"I do not break it," Hecate said sharply, then softened, her voice carrying the weight of something older than pride. "I bend it. I love them. Their world is flawed, but beautiful. Their stories are woven of laughter and sorrow, their triumphs hard-won. I will not see them consumed by the arrogance of a false lord and the blindness of those who call themselves light."
The sphere pulsed again. A boy's face appeared within—messy black hair, bright green eyes, a lightning scar jagged across his forehead. He looked younger than Percy expected, frailer, his clothes ill-fitting, his expression caught between defiance and loneliness.
Hecate's hand trembled slightly as she held the vision. "And at the heart of it stands him. A child marked by prophecy, destined—so they say—to stand against darkness. But those who should protect him do not. They bind him in ignorance, they raise him in cruelty, and they prepare to throw him to the wolf's jaws when the time comes."
Artemis' voice was a growl. "They would sacrifice a child?"
Athena's eyes flashed cold fire. "In the name of prophecy."
Percy's gaze lingered on the boy. For a moment, silence stretched. Even Kaal leaned forward, his golden eyes reflecting the image of the child who would bear the weight of a world not his to carry.
Finally, Percy spoke, his voice low, steady. "You wish me to intervene."
Hecate met his eyes, her own burning like a storm. "I wish you to guide him. Not to fight his battles. Not to strip his choices. But to be the hand that steadies him when all others would push him into the abyss."
The sphere dimmed, the images fading until only the faint glow of Hecate's aura lit the glade.
"I ask not for myself," she said quietly. "Nor out of fear. For their wars cannot touch us. I ask because I love them. Their children, their legacy, their fragile brilliance. And I will not see it end—not yet."
The glade fell silent again. Only the brook's murmur filled the space, and the faint rustle of Kaal's wings.
Percy, Artemis, and Athena exchanged a glance. The choice lingered unspoken between them.
And though none had answered, all three felt the weight of Hecate's plea settle like a shadow across their hearts.
Section IV – Questions of Power
Athena was the first to break the silence. Her eyes still glowed faintly with the fading images, her mind already spinning through calculations, patterns, and probabilities.
"You show us their world," she said, voice calm but edged with steel. "But not the measure of it. If they wield fragments of your essence, then what do they truly hold in their hands? You ask us to guide a child through storms—how strong are those storms?"
Hecate's gaze flicked toward her, the corner of her mouth twitching—not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment of a worthy question. "At their peak," she said, "their greatest wizards might stand against a demigod child of the Big Three—Zeus, Poseidon, Hades. That is their ceiling. No further. Not gods. Not Titans. Not Primordials. But enough to shape, to scar, to destroy within their own fragile realm."
Percy's eyes narrowed. "And their average?"
Hecate lifted her hand again, threads of light forming into smaller figures—men and women in cloaks practicing spells, some stumbling, others performing small miracles. "The common wizard is far weaker. Many never reach beyond tricks. Most hover below the strength of a seasoned child of Ares or Apollo. They wield fire and wind, but not with true dominion. They borrow. They channel. They are… half-blind with the tools I gave them."
Artemis frowned. "Tools?"
"Their wands," Hecate explained, and at the word, a long, slender rod of wood shimmered into existence in her hand. "Focuses. Anchors. Their mortal flesh cannot bear raw magic as you or I can. So I taught them craft instead. Wood that resonates, cores that channel. With these, they paint spells upon the air. Without them, most are helpless."
Athena's brow furrowed. "Helpless? Then their civilization rests on sticks of wood?"
"Not entirely," Hecate corrected, her tone more measured now. "The wand is a crutch, yes, but also a mirror. Those with talent shine brighter through it. Those without falter. It allows them to live with magic without being consumed by it. Their weakness is also their survival."
Artemis let out a sharp breath. "And yet they dare to claim power. To bend others to it."
Hecate's eyes hardened. "Yes. And in that arrogance they gave birth to their worst. The one they call Voldemort. He clawed his way to power not through nobility, but through hunger. At his peak, he is like a child of Hades—dark, relentless, bound to death. He cannot conquer us, no. But he can tear his world apart, piece by piece, until nothing remains but ash and fear."
A chill settled in the glade. Even Artemis, ever the hunter, seemed momentarily stilled by the weight of that image.
Athena's voice was cool when she spoke. "And yet their so-called defenders—the light—do nothing?"
Hecate's expression darkened, the shadows around her coiling tighter. "Worse than nothing. They bow to prophecy. They believe salvation lies in waiting for a child—one boy—to grow into a weapon. They hide truths from him. They starve him of love, of knowledge. They call it preparation. I call it cruelty."
Artemis' eyes flashed silver fire. "They raise him as prey."
Hecate's gaze softened for the first time, flicking toward Percy. "And that is why I call on you. For he cannot be prey, not if he is to survive what comes. He must be more. He must know choice, not chains."
Percy said nothing for a long moment. His gaze rested on the fading image of the boy with the lightning scar. He saw the loneliness in those eyes, the weight carried by shoulders far too young. It echoed something deep within him—his own battles, his own chains, the years when even gods had treated him as expendable.
Finally, his lips curved into a wry, almost bitter smile. "And what of their vaunted prophecy? Will it break if I step near him?"
Hecate's expression was unreadable. "Prophecies are threads. They bind mortals who believe in them. You are outside the loom. The Fates cannot touch you. You may walk through his path without unraveling it. That is why I came to you."
The words lingered like a chill mist. Outside the loom. Beyond the Fates. Even Artemis and Athena shifted at that truth, their hands brushing his instinctively, as though to ground him against the enormity of it.
Artemis spoke at last, her voice sharp but laced with something gentler beneath. "If we go, we go together. Do not ask him alone."
Athena's eyes held his, steady, calm, unflinching. "You already know your answer, Percy. You would not be debating if your heart had not chosen."
Percy exhaled slowly. The brook still sang, the stars still glimmered, but the glade no longer felt untouched. A shadow had entered, and it would not leave until he gave it shape.
At last, he turned his gaze back to Hecate. His voice was quiet, but firm. "Then show me everything. Not half-truths, not fragments. If you ask me to walk into your world, you will bare it all. Its politics, its families, its corruption. All of it."
Hecate's lips curved faintly—not into triumph, but into something nearer relief. "So be it."
The shadows thickened around her, swallowing the glade in threads of night and flame. The brook's song was drowned. The stars vanished. Only her voice remained, low and commanding.
"Then let me show you what waits beyond the veil."
And with a sweep of her hand, the story of the wizarding world began to unfold.
Section V – The Rot Within
The shadows stirred again, reshaping themselves into corridors of stone and chambers lined with portraits that whispered from gilded frames. Hecate stood in their center, her form still half-shrouded, but her voice carried with a clarity that echoed against the conjured walls.
"This," she said, "is the heart of their politics. The Ministry of Magic."
Figures bustled through the spectral halls—robed men and women carrying parchment, muttering incantations, trading documents beneath furtive glances. At first glance, it seemed industrious, a thriving center of governance. But the more Percy and his wives watched, the more the cracks showed. Gold exchanged hands beneath the folds of cloaks. Words twisted into bargains. Quills scratched laws designed not for justice but for convenience.
Athena's lips pressed into a thin line. "Bureaucracy rotting from within. They wear power like armor, but it is only coin and favors."
Hecate inclined her head. "Corruption flows through every level. Few act for the good of their people. Most act only for themselves. And above them all sits their Minister—Cornelius Fudge. A man whose fear outweighs his wisdom, whose ambition eclipses his loyalty. He believes himself clever, yet in truth he dances on strings pulled by darker hands."
The image shifted, focusing on a portly man in lime-green robes, his expression pinched with self-importance as he whispered frantically to shadowy figures whose masks gleamed like skulls.
"He bargains with families of darkness, thinking their gold and their influence will secure his place. He aids them without knowing the full extent of their designs. In his blindness, he weakens the very society he claims to lead."
Artemis let out a sharp sound of disgust. "A coward propped upon a throne. How many worlds fall to the same rot?"
Hecate did not answer. Her hand flicked, and the image twisted, showing a different scene: sprawling manors, crests embroidered in silver and green, crimson and gold, families sitting around long tables, their faces sharp with pride.
"These are the purebloods," she said. "Families who claim their worth through blood alone. They trace their lines back centuries, holding themselves above all others. Many follow the Dark Lord—not out of loyalty, but because his creed feeds their arrogance. They believe in dominion, in purity, in the right to rule by birth."
The figures sneered down their long noses, eyes cold as they flicked toward lesser wizards, toward children without pedigree.
Artemis' eyes narrowed, her fingers curling. "Predators who feed on their own kind. They would not survive a single hunt of mine."
Athena's gaze was colder still. "Arrogance bound with ignorance. They build their thrones on sand, and yet they believe them stone."
Hecate's tone sharpened. "It is their blindness that drags their world toward ruin. They cling to old ways, even as death gathers at their doors. They bow to Voldemort, thinking themselves untouchable. But they do not see—they are only pawns."
The image twisted again. The manors faded, replaced by a cozy home filled with hand-knit sweaters and warm laughter. A red-haired family crowded around a table, passing food and jokes.
Athena tilted her head, sensing the shift in tone. "And these?"
Hecate's eyes softened, though her words carried no warmth. "The Weasleys. A so-called light family. They follow Dumbledore, their loyalty unquestioning. Their hearts are kind, but their vision is narrow. They raise their children in poverty while sneering at the wealthy, blind to the ways their devotion to one man blinds them to the rot around them. They believe themselves virtuous, but in truth they are tools—another arm of Dumbledore's will."
Artemis frowned. "So they harm not through malice, but through blindness."
"Blindness can wound as deeply as cruelty," Hecate said. "And in their devotion, they help bind the boy to chains he should never have borne."
The image flared one last time, showing a great hall filled with wizards and witches of every stripe. Some sneered, some whispered, some simply stared with tired eyes.
"This," Hecate said, her voice ringing with both sorrow and fire, "is the society I would not see fall. Corrupt, arrogant, blind, yes. But also capable of beauty, of loyalty, of love. It is for the innocent I plead—not the lords of shadow, nor the pawns of light, but the children who will inherit only ashes if this war consumes them."
The shadows stilled. The conjured halls dissolved. Only the glade remained, quiet once more, though the weight of what they had seen lingered heavily.
Percy sat unmoving, his jaw set, his eyes reflecting both fury and thought. Artemis' hand tightened on his arm, as though grounding him from the storm brewing in his chest. Athena's gaze stayed fixed on Hecate, sharp and unyielding.
It was clear now: this was no simple request. This was a plea to step into a world already teetering on the edge of ruin.
Section VI – The Chains of Prophecy
The shadows shifted again, though slower now—as if reluctant to reveal what lay next. Hecate stood still, her amethyst-fire eyes dimmed, her voice quieter.
"There is more," she said. "At the root of their suffering lies a prophecy."
At her gesture, the glade filled with a faint whisper. The words wove themselves into the air, spectral and brittle, as if pulled from the threads of fate itself.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…
Born as the seventh month dies…
Marked as his equal…
And either must fall at the hand of the other,
For neither can live while the other survives…
The voice faded, leaving the brook's murmur as the only sound.
Athena's brow furrowed, her tone sharp with distaste. "A riddle of death. Vague enough to bind a child to chains he never asked for."
Hecate nodded slowly. "The prophecy is not law. It is possibility. But those who hear it cling to it as gospel. Voldemort fears it—so he struck at the boy, marking him with the scar you saw. Dumbledore believes it—so he nurtures the boy only as a weapon, keeping him ignorant, isolated, broken."
Her hands tightened at her sides. "They do not see him as a child. Only as a vessel for fate."
Artemis' eyes blazed silver. "And in doing so, they shape him into prey. They weaken him, believing they prepare him. What hunter would starve her wolf before setting it upon the stag?"
Athena's tone was icier still. "They confuse sacrifice with strategy. A leader who blinds his soldiers is no leader at all."
Percy's gaze lingered on the fading echo of the prophecy, his jaw clenched. "And the boy believes none of this?"
"He knows nothing," Hecate whispered. "Not of the prophecy, not of his heritage, not even of the hollows of his own world. He is raised in cruelty, told he is less than nothing, only to be thrust into fame he cannot comprehend. His pain is constant. His choices stolen."
At that last word, her voice cracked faintly, though only for a moment.
Artemis leaned closer to Percy, her hand finding his. "He is a child with no guide."
Hecate gave a single sharp nod. "And that is why I ask you."
The shadows pulsed again, reshaping into three objects that hovered between them: a wand, a cloak, a stone. Each glowed faintly with old power, yet none bore the immensity of true divine relics.
"The Deathly Hallows," Hecate said softly. "Legends in their world. They whisper that Death himself forged them. They are wrong."
Artemis' lip curled. "Then whose are they?"
"My own," Hecate answered, her tone neither boast nor shame, but fact. "Long ago, I blessed these artifacts with fragments of my essence, gifts to mortals I loved. The Elder Wand—meant as a focus to channel magic with greater clarity. The Cloak—woven to shield one from both sight and harm. The Stone—a vessel to call memory, not life. They were never meant for dominion. Never meant to twist into obsession."
Athena studied the three carefully, her eyes narrowing. "Yet obsession is exactly what mortals make of them."
"Exactly," Hecate said. "They have turned my blessings into curses. Symbols of greed, of rivalry, of conquest. Their tale is told as a warning, but their hearts chase it still. And all the while, their true dangers gather at their doors."
The artifacts faded, the shadows collapsing back into stillness.
Hecate stepped forward now, her cloak of smoke dissolving enough that her face was revealed more clearly. Her expression was not triumph, not command—but weariness. Ancient, aching weariness.
"I do not come to you out of fear. Their wars cannot touch me. Voldemort's power is less than a flicker beside mine. Dumbledore's schemes cannot bind me. Their world is fragile, yes—but it is their own. I love it because it is theirs. Their laughter, their learning, their flaws. That is why I ask you—not to conquer, not to shield, but to guide. To ensure that boy does not break under the weight of chains others have bound him with."
She looked then at Artemis and Athena as well, her voice lowering. "And I know you will follow him. Not because I ask it, but because your hearts cannot bear to leave him."
The glade held its breath. Even the brook seemed hushed.
Percy exhaled slowly, his hand tightening over those of his wives. His eyes burned faintly with starlight, but his voice was steady. "You ask much, Hecate. And yet…" He glanced again at the fading shadow of the boy's face. "I cannot turn from a child in chains."
Artemis pressed her forehead to his temple, her whisper fierce. "Then we go with you."
Athena brushed her fingers against his, her calm certainty wrapping around his storm. "Where you walk, we walk. Where you fight, we fight. That will never change."
For the first time, Hecate's expression softened into something like hope.
And in that moment, the glade seemed to shift again—not into shadow, not into flame, but into possibility.
Section VII – The Oath of the Three
The silence after Percy's words stretched long, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
Hecate did not smile, but the faint tilt of her head carried relief sharper than any grin. "Then the boy will not stand alone."
Percy's shoulders eased, though the weight of the decision had already begun to settle on him like armor. He looked to Artemis first. Her silver eyes flashed with a hunter's certainty.
"You already know my answer," she said, her voice unwavering. "Where you walk, I walk. I would rather face Tartarus with you than eternity without you."
Her hand slid into his, strong and warm, her fingers locking as though she would never release them.
Athena stepped closer too, her movements deliberate. She reached up, brushing her knuckles along Percy's jaw with a softness that contrasted with the steel in her tone. "I have measured every path, weighed every danger. None frightens me more than being parted from you. If you go, I go. Not as shadow, not as ornament, but as equal."
Her words carried the ring of a vow, sharper than any oath sworn upon Olympus.
Percy exhaled, a sound somewhere between relief and awe. He drew them both nearer, their foreheads nearly touching. For a long heartbeat, no one spoke. It was not silence—it was agreement without words, a bond that no prophecy or fate could unravel.
Then, gently, Hecate stepped forward. She extended her hands, palms open, the faint glow of twilight magic coiling around her wrists.
"Then let it be spoken," she murmured. "The three who are one shall cross into the world I shaped. Not as rulers. Not as judges. But as guardians of a thread too fragile to survive alone."
Her voice deepened, carrying weight like a spell. "Percy, Artemis, Athena—you enter not as Olympians, not as gods, but as figures bound by flesh and time, hidden from the rule of Fate. You will be seen as mortals, but you will carry within you the strength of eternity. That is the veil I weave. Do you accept it?"
Percy's gaze flicked to his wives. They answered him not with words, but with hands tightening around his. His chest rose and fell once, and then he said firmly: "We accept."
The air rippled as though the world itself acknowledged the vow. Threads of golden light spilled from Hecate's palms, weaving around the trio like gentle chains. But the chains were not heavy—they were warm, binding not to restrain but to anchor.
Artemis tilted her chin, eyes glinting like moonlight. "We will not be pawns in their games, Hecate. If we go, it is for the boy. Not for their politics."
Athena's tone cut sharper. "And if their leaders seek to twist us into their schemes, they will find we are not so easily bent."
Hecate's lips curved in the faintest of smirks. "That is precisely why I ask you. Their rulers would never expect three figures beyond Fate's reach to walk as children among them. Their arrogance blinds them. And arrogance is always the first weakness."
The golden threads sank into Percy's skin, then into Artemis and Athena's, leaving no mark, only a faint hum in the air. The bond was sealed.
Hecate stepped back, her form beginning to dissolve into mist. "I will open the way when the time is right. One year before the boy's letter arrives, you will step into his life. Not as saviors, not as heralds—but as companions. You will grow beside him, learn as he learns, bleed as he bleeds. That is the only path the Fates cannot predict."
She paused, her eyes softening once more. "Do not think this will be easy. They will hate you for your wealth, your strength, your difference. They will sneer at your origins, covet your powers, and slander your love. But endure—and the boy will endure with you."
Her last words echoed as her body unraveled into smoke, carried away by the night breeze.
The glade was quiet again, save for the brook's gentle murmur. But the air was changed. The three stood together, bound tighter than before—not just by love, but by oath.
Artemis rested her head against Percy's shoulder, her voice a whisper only he could hear. "So it begins."
Athena pressed her hand over his heart, feeling its steady beat. "Then let them come. Whatever waits, we will meet it together."
Percy wrapped his arms around them both, gazing at the stars that shimmered through the treetops. "Together," he said softly. "Always."
And somewhere, unseen, the tapestry of one world began to shift, threads pulling tight, as three beings outside of Fate prepared to step into the story of another.
Section VIII – The Path Between Worlds
The glade still hummed with the aftershocks of their vow when the air thickened once more. Mist swirled along the ground, coiling like living smoke, and Hecate's form solidified again. Not as shadow this time, but as something clearer—closer to flesh. Her face was sharp, her eyes fierce, but her presence gentler than before.
"You will need more than resolve," she said. "The wizarding world is not kind to outsiders. They will try to measure you, to bind you with labels and expectations. You must walk carefully."
Artemis arched an eyebrow, her silver gaze narrowing. "You mean, pretend weakness?"
Hecate inclined her head. "Not weakness. Familiarity. They cling to tradition, to wands and bloodlines. They will not trust what they do not understand. So you must wear masks—powerful masks, yes, but masks all the same."
Athena folded her arms, considering. "Ancient purebloods, impossibly wealthy, untouchable in their legacy. It explains power. It excuses mystery. It gives them reason to resent and to covet, but not to question too deeply."
Hecate's lips curved faintly. "Exactly. You understand them already."
Percy frowned slightly. "And if they pry too deep?"
"Let them," Hecate replied calmly. "Arrogance blinds them. They will try to use you, to court you, to intimidate you. Refuse to bend, and you will unsettle them more than outright defiance. Their games are webs—but webs fall when touched by fire."
Her gaze drifted upward, to the stars barely visible through the canopy. "Your magic will unsettle them too. You are beyond wands, beyond incantations. Hide what you must, but do not fear their judgment. Remember: power denied grows sharper in rumor than in sight. Let whispers be your armor."
Artemis' lips quirked into a sly smile. "Let them whisper, then. I do not mind."
Athena's voice was more measured, but her eyes gleamed with quiet fire. "Nor do I. Their suspicion is nothing compared to the strength of truth kept in silence."
Hecate stepped closer, lowering her voice. "And when you meet the boy—do not reveal too much. Do not smother him with protection. Guide, yes. Guard, yes. But let him make his choices. He must still walk his own path, or else you will shatter the very freedom I ask you to protect."
Percy's jaw tightened. "You ask me to watch him suffer."
"I ask you to give him strength to endure it," Hecate countered softly. "Pain will find him no matter what we do. But isolation—that, you can prevent. Be his anchor, not his cage."
The words struck deep, and Percy's expression softened, though the storm in his eyes did not fade.
Finally, Hecate lifted her hands again. Threads of violet fire spun between her palms, weaving into a sigil—three interlocked circles, faintly glowing. She pressed it into Percy's chest. It sank into him like warmth into bone, then echoed outward into Artemis and Athena as well.
"This mark will guide you when the time comes," Hecate explained. "When the veil thins, you will find yourselves at the edge of their world, cloaked in the lives I have prepared for you. Names, histories, wealth, dwellings—all forged to endure even the scrutiny of Dumbledore himself."
At the name, Percy's expression darkened. Artemis' eyes flashed with open disdain, while Athena's mouth curled into a thin, razor-sharp smile.
Hecate noticed and inclined her head. "Yes. He will pry. He will try to bind you to his 'greater good.' But do not underestimate him. He is clever, patient, dangerous in ways even Voldemort is not. Where the Dark Lord rules by fear, Dumbledore rules by faith. Faith can chain even stronger than terror."
Athena's eyes narrowed further. "So we break those chains."
"No," Hecate corrected, her voice like thunder hidden behind clouds. "You show the boy he can break them himself."
For a moment, silence fell again. Then Percy exhaled, the tension easing slightly in his chest.
"Alright," he said, his tone steady. "We'll do it. But when the time comes—when Dumbledore tries to force his will on the boy—I will not stay my hand."
Artemis' grip on his arm tightened, fierce approval burning in her gaze. Athena's smile sharpened further.
Hecate's expression softened just slightly. "I would not ask you to."
The mist began to coil around her again, her figure starting to fade. "One year before his letter. That is when your paths will cross. Until then, prepare yourselves. Once you step through, there will be no return. The world you enter will not be Olympus—it will be flawed, fragile, unworthy. And yet, beautiful for all those things."
Her form dissolved entirely, leaving only the faint shimmer of her magic in the air.
The three stood alone in the glade, the brook whispering softly nearby. For the first time, the enormity of what lay before them seemed real.
Artemis slipped her hand into Percy's, her voice low but firm. "We have faced Titans, monsters, and eternity itself. This is no different."
Athena's eyes gleamed as she touched the fading sigil at her chest. "No. This is different. This time, we fight not for thrones or wars—but for a boy."
Percy gazed up at the stars above, his expression unreadable. "Then for the boy it is."
And the night closed around them, carrying their vow into the silent watch of eternity.