Section I – The Weight of Decision
The glade was empty now, but the silence left behind did not feel empty. It pressed close, heavy with promise and consequence. The brook gurgled on as though nothing had changed, yet to the three who stood there, everything had.
Percy's hand lingered on the faint sigil that had sunk into his chest. The warmth had already faded, but he could still feel its echo beneath his skin—like a tether, pulling him toward something unseen.
Artemis moved first. She leaned against his side, her silver eyes soft but resolute. "You've carried the weight of the loneliness before," she murmured. "This will be lighter."
Percy almost smiled. "Will it?"
Her fingers tightened on his wrist. "You're not carrying it alone this time."
Athena stepped to his other side, brushing her hand across his shoulder, grounding him. Her voice was calm, but there was steel underneath. "Hecate has given us more than a task. She has given us a battlefield we do not know. That is the part that unsettles me."
Percy's gaze drifted upward to the canopy, then higher still, to the faint stars beyond. "A battlefield made of people, not monsters."
"And people," Athena said softly, "are often the most dangerous monsters of all."
The three stood together for a long moment, hands brushing, touches anchoring them. None spoke of fear, but all felt it. Not fear of battle—they had fought Titans and gods and won—but fear of the unknown. A world of fragile lives, ruled by arrogance and corruption, where their strength could not simply be unleashed.
Finally, Percy broke the silence with a quiet, steady voice. "Then we learn their world before we step into it. We prepare."
Artemis tilted her chin up, her smile sharp and bright. "And when the time comes, we walk into it as one."
Athena's lips curved faintly. "As always."
The brook whispered on. Above, the stars watched. And beneath the canopy, the first steps of preparation began.
Section II – Forging the Mask
They left the glade behind, returning to the quiet sanctuary of their hall—a palace neither on Olympus nor in the mortal world, but suspended between. Its columns shimmered with star-metal, its floors were veined with living roots, and its windows opened into shifting skies. It was here, surrounded by the fragments of his three domains—earth, stars, and time—that Percy gathered with his wives to plan.
Athena spread scrolls across the long table of obsidian and oak. Her hand traced diagrams, symbols, and words pulled from mortal records, both magical and mundane. "Hecate promised us names, houses, and histories," she said, her voice crisp. "But façades are only as strong as those who wear them. If we are to walk among them as purebloods, we must understand the story we are to embody."
Percy leaned back in his chair, arms folded. His expression was thoughtful, though a little grim. "You're saying we have to play their game."
Athena's eyes flicked to his. "I am saying we must win their game before it begins. A family too rich, too old, too bound in their own legacy for even Dumbledore to twist. Our power must be their intimidation. Our mystery must be their leash."
Artemis gave a low chuckle, perched casually on the table's edge, bow resting across her knees. "And all without firing an arrow. I suppose that means letting them whisper themselves into knots."
"Exactly," Athena said.
Percy frowned. "So what's our story, then? Where do I fit?"
"You," Athena said, pointing her quill toward him, "are the heir of a line so ancient it defies memory. A dynasty of necromancers and elementalists, wielding powers that shun wands and rituals. You are the sole survivor—your inheritance both a treasure and a curse."
Percy grimaced. "That sounds… dramatic."
Artemis smirked, her silver eyes glittering. "It sounds effective. Mortals fear wealth and power, especially when wrapped in tragedy. They will want to use you. They will fail."
Athena's gaze sharpened as she continued, "Your wives—" she glanced at Artemis and herself with no trace of hesitation "—are enigmas. Figures of immense magical strength, with no lineage to trace. To purebloods, you will be scandal. To Dumbledore, a threat. To the boy—" her eyes softened, just slightly "—a beacon."
Percy's brows furrowed. "But mystery invites challenge. Won't that make them pry harder?"
"They will pry regardless," Athena said. "Better to control the narrative than to leave it in their hands."
Artemis leaned closer, brushing Percy's arm. "And let them think what they want. Lovers. Manipulators. Strangers with strange magic. Their gossip will be nothing compared to what we are."
Percy shook his head with a wry smile. "You two sound far too comfortable with being everyone's favorite scandal."
Athena's lips curved. "If scandal protects Harry, then scandal is a small price to pay."
For a time, silence settled as the three studied the scrolls, weaving fragments of truth into lies that would hold. Names older than Rome. Houses that had vanished from mortal record centuries ago. Wealth traced not to vaults or accounts but to veins of earth and stores of timeless knowledge.
Finally, Athena leaned back, satisfied. "It is done. Percy Chronos—last scion of the House of Chronos, wielder of earth, stars, and time. Artemis and Athena—mysterious partners, whose magic no wand can command. That is the mask. When the world sees you, that is what they will believe."
Artemis smirked, brushing her hand against Percy's shoulder. "And when the world gossips about us, I will enjoy every moment of their confusion."
Percy rolled his eyes, but the storm in his expression had eased. He glanced between them, his voice low but resolute. "Fine. Let them whisper. Let them scheme. As long as Harry's safe, I don't care what masks we wear."
Athena's quill stilled. She met his gaze, and for once her sharpness softened. "Masks are dangerous things, Percy. But if anyone can wield them without being consumed, it is us."
And with that, the story of the House of Chronos was born—a fiction strong enough to rival truth, ready to be worn when the veil finally opened.
Section III – Strength and Restraint
The hall of stars had been turned into a training ground. Not for war, not for battle—but for restraint.
Percy stood in the center, his hand stretched outward. Beneath his palm, a pebble floated in the air, trembling faintly. His eyes narrowed, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. Not because it was heavy—he could split mountains with a thought—but because he was forcing himself to treat it as if it was.
Artemis watched from the steps, her bow resting across her knees, her silver eyes bright with amusement. "You look ridiculous," she teased.
Percy let out a breath, lowering the pebble gently onto the floor without a sound. "That's the point, isn't it? To look like I'm not holding back a storm every time I pick up a stick."
Athena stepped forward, wand in hand. She twirled it between her fingers with practiced ease before flicking it toward the pebble. The stone hopped once, clumsily, into the air. "They bind themselves to these sticks," she said dryly. "Channeling what little magic they have through wood and words. If we are to walk among them, we must learn their dance."
Percy eyed the wand. "It feels… wrong. Like trying to eat soup with a fork."
"Then learn to eat soup with a fork," Athena replied, thrusting the wand toward him. "You do not need it, but they do not need to know that."
Percy grimaced, but he took the wand. It felt light, brittle, useless. He muttered a word—Wingardium Leviosa, the simplest spell Athena had dug out of the texts Hecate had left them—and the pebble floated again. Uneven, awkward, but floating.
Artemis clapped slowly, smirking. "Bravo. You've mastered pebbles. Shall I bring a boulder next?"
Percy shot her a look, but couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching.
The days that followed were filled with this strange new kind of training. Not the honing of power, but the taming of it. Percy practiced wandwork until his motions were clumsy but passable, then practiced hiding the spark of his true magic beneath mortal limits. Artemis tested herself with spells of illusion, blending her silver light into glamours subtle enough to be mistaken for charms. Athena, sharp-eyed and meticulous, studied wandcraft and incantations until she could mimic a scholar who had mastered them all.
It was not easy. More than once, Percy snapped a wand in frustration, its wood unable to contain even a fraction of his essence. More than once, Artemis sneered at the slowness of mortal magic, muttering that a bowstring would be faster. More than once, Athena bit her tongue bloody holding back her disdain for their crude systems.
But they persisted. Because Hecate's warning echoed in their minds: Be their equals, not their rulers. Walk as they walk, or you will shatter the very world you seek to protect.
One evening, after hours of practice, Artemis collapsed backward into the grass of their courtyard, laughing breathlessly. "Do you realize," she said between gasps, "that I, a goddess of the hunt, have spent three hours today trying to make a feather duster clean itself?"
Percy dropped beside her, wand dangling uselessly in his fingers. "And I've been trying to light candles without accidentally starting a forest fire."
Athena sat nearby, parchment in her lap, her hair falling loose from its braids. She gave them both a long look, her lips curving in a rare, wry smile. "If the mortals could see us now, they would not believe it. Gods fumbling with schoolchild spells."
Percy lay back, staring at the sky. "Maybe that's the point. If they saw what we really are, it would break them."
Artemis turned her head toward him, her silver eyes softening. "Then let them see only what they can bear."
Athena nodded, her gaze sharpening again. "And let us wield their own limits against them. Power hidden is often more feared than power flaunted."
The three sat there in the twilight, exhaustion mingling with quiet amusement. It was strange, humbling, even a little frustrating—but it was necessary. They were learning not how to be gods, but how to pretend not to be.
Section IV – Love in Waiting
The year stretched before them not as a trial, but as a kind of borrowed eternity. They had no battles to fight, no thrones to defend—only time. And for once, time was theirs to savor.
Evening Rituals
At twilight, when the sky bled violet and the stars first began to stir, Percy often walked with Artemis along the edges of their sacred wood. She would slip her hand into his, an uncharacteristic softness in her grip. No bow slung across her shoulders, no quiver at her hip—just her, bare of all the trappings of the hunt.
"Do you miss it?" Percy asked once, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
Artemis tilted her head, the silver of her hair catching the last of the light. "The chase? The wilderness untamed?" She paused. "Yes. But not as much as I feared. You… distract me well enough."
Percy laughed, leaning in to kiss her forehead. She did not resist. If anything, she leaned closer, breathing in the warmth of him.
Shared Study
Meanwhile, Athena often claimed the long nights. She would set herself at the library table, scrolls and mortal spellbooks spread out like a general's maps. Percy would wander in, feigning disinterest, only to end up sitting beside her, chin propped on his hand as she murmured incantations and corrected her own notes.
"You're not listening," she teased once, catching his eyes drooping.
"I'm listening to you," Percy countered, voice low, "which is better than any spell."
Her cheeks colored faintly—not often did Athena let her composure slip. But in those nights, when his hand found hers beneath the table, when his lips brushed her temple, she allowed herself to be something other than strategist. She allowed herself to be a woman who was loved.
The Hearth
Some evenings belonged to all three. They would curl before the fire, Artemis stretched lazily across Percy's lap, Athena's head resting on his shoulder as she read aloud from a scroll. Kaal, the great phoenix of time, perched above them on the mantle, feathers shimmering like starlight with every slow beat of his wings.
In those moments, the world outside did not exist. No wars. No prophecies. No fragile societies waiting to be guarded. Only laughter, the crackle of the hearth, the warmth of bodies pressed close.
Percy often thought to himself that the Fates had not woven this. They could not have. This was theirs alone—life stolen from eternity.
Dreamscapes
At night, their dreams wove together. Percy would find himself standing beneath endless constellations, Artemis at his side, silver bow in hand. Athena would walk out of the stars themselves, her eyes sharp and knowing, yet soft when they fell upon him.
They did not speak in those dreams. They didn't need to. Their hands would find each other, their lips would meet, and the stars themselves seemed to bend, rearranging as though to bear witness.
A Quiet Confession
One night, as the fire dimmed low, Artemis lifted her gaze from Percy's chest, her voice hesitant.
"I never thought I would want this," she admitted. "A life not of duty, not of command… but of love. And yet—" she pressed closer, her lips brushing his skin—"I cannot imagine being without it now."
Athena, listening quietly, added her own truth. "I spent centuries believing love was weakness. But you…" she reached out, tracing the line of his jaw, "…you turned it into strength."
Percy looked at them both, his heart swelling. "Then let us keep it. Whatever comes next—war, prophecy, darkness—we hold this first."
Their lips met, first soft, then deep, all three bound together in the kind of silence that speaks louder than vows.
And so the year passed—not wasted in waiting, but lived in fullness. They trained when needed, studied when asked, but mostly… they loved. It was a season of stillness before the storm, the kind of peace that would later feel like a dream.
Section V – Whispers of the Mortal World
A Flicker in the Veil
It began with Kaal.
The phoenix stirred one night, feathers glowing faintly with threads of shadow woven through his usual starlit brilliance. Percy woke instantly, Artemis shifting against him, her senses sharp.
Kaal's voice filled the chamber, low and resonant in Percy's mind. The veil trembles. Not torn, not yet—but something presses against it from the other side.
Athena sat up, her hair falling loose around her face, eyes narrowing. "The wizards," she said. "Their turmoil bleeds through even here."
Percy stroked Kaal's neck, calming the bird's shiver. "It seems the storm won't wait for us forever."
Hecate's Shadows
In the days that followed, visions began to stir. Not sent deliberately by Hecate, but echoes of her world slipping into their dreams. Percy found himself walking through narrow cobbled streets lit by lanterns, strange shops pressing close on either side. He would glance down, and children in black robes with wands clutched to their chests rushed past him, laughter mingling with unease.
Artemis dreamt of cold stone halls echoing with chants, a boy with a lightning scar standing alone at the center. She reached for him, but every time she did, the walls swallowed him.
Athena's visions were darker: a masked figure raising his wand, emerald light spilling across crowds that cowered instead of fought. She always woke with her jaw tight, her hands clenched in the sheets.
One morning, as they shared bread and honey at the long table, she said quietly, "The boy… he is already suffering. Even before we set foot in his world."
Percy's hand stilled halfway to his mouth. He did not speak, but the set of his jaw said everything.
The First Intrusion
A ripple of magic broke into their sanctuary three moons later. It came not as a threat, but as a plea—weak, trembling, like a whisper carried on the wind.
A wand. Old, cracked, discarded. It appeared at the edge of their temple grounds, humming faintly with leftover power. Artemis picked it up, her lips curling in distaste.
"It feels… wrong. Like a cry for help carved into wood."
Athena studied it with keen eyes, murmuring incantations under her breath. "It belonged to one who died," she said finally. "Slain not in battle, but in fear. This world leaks its grief."
Percy took the wand, holding it lightly. His fingers closed around it—and for a brief moment, he saw. A young witch cowering, wand raised, green light swallowing her. Her last thought not of herself, but of the child she tried to shield.
When he opened his eyes again, his wives were watching him. He said nothing, but gently set the wand back down. They burned it together, releasing the echo into flame.
The Tension Between Them
The whispers of another world did more than disturb their sleep—they pressed against their unity.
One night, Artemis stood by the balcony railing, staring into the distance where the stars seemed dimmer. "Why should we care?" she asked, voice low. "We owe them nothing. They have their own gods, their own heroes. Let them fight or fall."
Athena joined her, though her gaze was softer. "You speak as though you do not dream of the boy. The scarred child."
Artemis's lips tightened, but she did not argue.
Percy came up behind them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. "We don't do this because we owe them," he said quietly. "We do it because we can."
Silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of Kaal's wings. In that silence, both goddesses leaned into him—two forces of strength bending to something greater than pride: love, and the man who bound them together.
The Year Tightens
As the year wound on, the whispers grew sharper. More wands appeared, all broken, each carrying echoes of terror. More dreams plagued their nights. Even Kaal, timeless and steady, grew restless, pacing the temple grounds with wings half-spread.
Athena, pouring over scrolls, muttered late one evening, "This waiting… it is no longer patience. It is cruelty."
Artemis snapped an arrow in half, jaw clenched. "Then let the waiting end."
Percy looked between them, his own heart heavy. "It will. When Hecate calls again."
And though he said it with certainty, even he began to feel it: the world beyond was pulling, tugging them out of their sanctuary, toward a child who had already become the axis of prophecy.
Section VI – The Summoning
The Omen
It began with silence.
Not the usual peace of their sanctuary, but a hollow silence that stripped away the sound of the wind, the rustle of leaves, even the heartbeat of the earth. Percy rose from the fire, every sense sharp, Artemis and Athena flanking him in an instant.
Kaal launched from the mantle with a shriek, wings blazing in light and shadow, the air trembling beneath each beat. His feathers fell like sparks, vanishing before they touched the ground.
"Something comes," Artemis whispered, her bow already in her hand though she knew no arrow would be needed.
Athena's eyes narrowed. "No. Someone."
The Veil Tears
A seam split open in the air before them, not jagged like a wound but deliberate, like a door unlocked by ancient hands. From it poured a glow neither mortal nor celestial, woven of midnight and flame.
And then she stepped through.
Hecate.
Her presence was not thunderous like Zeus or searing like Apollo—it was deeper, more unsettling, as if the shadows themselves had decided to take form. Her cloak trailed behind her like flowing ink, her eyes gleaming with twin lights of moon and fire.
"Chronos," she said, her voice carrying not just sound but echo, as though spoken by many mouths at once. "Huntress. Strategist. You kept your vigil."
Percy inclined his head. "You've taken your time."
Hecate's lips curved faintly. "And you have learned patience."
The Formal Meeting
They gathered in the hall of stars, firelight reflecting off marble and silver. Hecate sat across from them, her hands folded, her gaze as sharp as a blade yet softened with something almost maternal.
"The veil thins," she said without preamble. "Your year of waiting ends tonight."
Percy leaned back, arms crossed. "We've felt it. Echoes of fear, of death. A world breaking on itself."
Artemis's eyes flashed silver. "Why us? Why not step in yourself? It is your world."
Hecate's gaze did not waver. "Because it is mine, I cannot. The rules bind me. I may touch it only in whispers, in blessings, in fragments of power. But you—" her eyes lingered on Percy, then his wives—"you stand outside the weave of Fate. You are bound to nothing but choice."
Athena's brows drew together. "And choice is more dangerous than prophecy."
"Exactly."
Revealing the Stakes
Hecate lifted her hand, and the air rippled with images:
Voldemort, wand raised, emerald light splitting the dark.
Harry, small and thin, alone in a cupboard, shadows pressing on him.
The Ministry, its golden walls hiding rot and corruption.
Dumbledore, watching with calm eyes as a child was sent into a storm.
Her voice cut through the visions.
"This is the war I ask you to enter. Not because it threatens me. Not because their power rivals yours—it does not. But because I love them. Their clumsy wands, their fragile rituals, their arrogance and their brilliance—I shaped it all, and I will not watch it die in silence."
The visions faded, leaving only her steady gaze. "Help them. Guard the boy. Guide the prophecy without letting it consume him. Be what I cannot."
The Bond Sealed
The silence stretched.
Artemis was the first to speak, voice sharp. "If we do this, we walk among them as mortals."
Hecate inclined her head. "Yes. Your masks are ready. You will bleed, you will hunger, you will taste weariness. But your essence will remain. Your strength, should you call upon it, will be unmatched."
Athena leaned forward, her eyes like steel. "And in return?"
Hecate's lips curved, faintly sad. "In return, you ask nothing but your own hearts. For love, for compassion. Nothing more."
Percy stood then, tall and steady. He looked at Artemis, then Athena. His wives met his gaze, their bond unspoken, their choice already made.
Finally, Percy turned back to Hecate. "We'll go. Not for prophecy. Not for your rules. But for the boy who doesn't yet know he matters."
Kaal shrieked above them, wings fanning out in a blaze of starlight.
And so the pact was sealed.
Section VII – The Farewell to Eternity
The Gathering of Relics
The halls of their sanctuary glowed softer now, as if the place itself knew they were leaving. Percy walked its length, palm trailing across carved stone, every mark a memory.
Kaal followed silently, feathers dimmed, the phoenix's usual brilliance muted in reverence.
They gathered what they could take into mortal life—not weapons of divine ruin or relics of eternity, but subtler things. Artemis packed a silver clasp shaped like the crescent moon, a gift from Percy on their first night of union. To mortal eyes, it was only jewelry; in truth, it bound her glamour with seamless ease.
Athena carried scrolls she had written by hand, filled with her careful analysis of wizarding magic. "I will not walk blind into their world," she murmured, sliding them into a satchel.
Percy chose nothing at first. He stood before the star-forged blade that had never left his side, the weapon of his true domain. At length, he turned from it. "No," he whispered. "This time, not a weapon."
Instead, he took a simple stone from the temple floor. Small, unremarkable, save that it hummed with the echo of their home. A reminder, not a tool.
The Mortal Masks
Their disguises were ready, woven from months of practice, but tonight they sealed them in ritual. Hecate herself traced each glamour, her hands weaving silver threads that sank into their skin.
Percy's ageless presence dulled into the form of a boy of fourteen, strong but not overwhelming, his dark hair falling across eyes still bright with galaxies hidden behind them.
Artemis, her beauty softened into the sharp grace of a girl his age—slender, silver-eyed, carrying the aura of mystery she could never quite shed.
Athena became a scholar in youth's frame, her wisdom veiled in the shape of a clever girl, her gaze sharp but not unbearable.
Kaal, impossible to conceal, shrank into a phoenix barely larger than an eagle, though even dimmed he gleamed brighter than any mortal bird.
"You will not fool all of them," Hecate warned. "Dumbledore will look too closely. The Dark Lord will sense what should not exist. But most will see only students."
Percy smirked faintly. "Then let them try to look deeper."
The Last Feast
That night, they shared one final meal in their sanctuary. Bread, honey, roasted fruits, wine pressed from starlight vines—simple, yet fitting.
Artemis leaned back on her elbow, watching Percy and Athena debate over some minor spellwork. She smiled faintly, though her voice was soft. "It feels like the end of something."
Athena paused, tilting her head. "Or the beginning."
Percy raised his cup. "Both."
They touched their cups together, silent in the toast, the weight of their choice pressing heavier than the food in their bellies.
Private Vows
Later, when Hecate withdrew, leaving them in peace, the three retreated to the balcony overlooking the starlit woods.
Artemis pressed her forehead to Percy's, her hands clutching his tunic. "I swore once never to bind myself to anyone," she whispered. "But I will follow you into any world, even theirs."
Athena came to his other side, slipping her hand into his. "I never thought to give my heart. But it is yours, and wherever you go, it follows."
Percy drew them close, one arm around each. "Then we go together. Into their halls, into their wars. No fate, no prophecy, no Dumbledore, no Dark Lord—nothing breaks this bond."
Kaal cried once above them, a note that rang like both sorrow and promise.
Departure
At dawn, the sanctuary stirred one last time. The stars above dimmed as if bowing farewell, the stone halls humming with a low, mournful song.
The seam in the veil reopened, silver light pouring through. Hecate stood waiting, her staff gleaming.
"It is time."
Percy took Artemis's hand in his right, Athena's in his left. Together, with Kaal soaring above them, they stepped forward—out of eternity, and into the fragile world of wands, prophecies, and a boy named Harry Potter.
Section VIII – First Steps into the Wizarding World
Through the Veil
Crossing was not like moving from one land to another. It was like falling sideways through time.
The seam of silver light rippled around them, bending their bodies into fragile frames of fourteen-year-old mortals. Percy felt the weight of gravity clutch him harder than it had in centuries. His breath came shorter, his pulse faster. The bond of mortality was clumsy, heavy—yet real.
Artemis stumbled once, catching herself with a hiss. "I feel… small."
Athena steadied her with a hand, though her own gaze was clouded. "Not small. Mortal. There is a difference."
Kaal shrank as he passed, wings brushing against the veil. His cry echoed, not in the vast tones of eternity, but in the sharper voice of a great bird. Even dimmed, his feathers shone brighter than the dawn.
When their feet touched earth, the world was different. The air carried the bite of coal smoke. Streets wound narrow and uneven. Voices shouted, wheels rattled on cobbles, dogs barked in the distance. Magic hummed here, faint and fractured, like an old harp string plucked out of tune.
"This," Percy murmured, "is Hecate's world."
London in Shadow
They appeared in the shadow of an alley, their glamours holding steady. Percy adjusted his cloak, feeling the strangeness of fabric not woven from starlight but stitched by mortal hands. Artemis pulled her hood tighter, her silver eyes already drawing stares even from passersby who couldn't name why. Athena, ever poised, kept her expression unreadable.
The city pressed around them—gas lamps flickering, old brick walls crowding narrow streets, the scent of damp stone and smoke. Somewhere nearby, a clock tower chimed.
"London," Athena identified softly. "The heart of their empire. And yet…" Her gaze swept the worn faces hurrying past. "So fragile."
Percy scanned the crowd. Men in cloaks moved with subtle purpose, wands hidden beneath folds of fabric. Mortals with no magic brushed shoulders with them, never noticing. "Two worlds sharing one street," he said. "Blind to each other."
Artemis snorted softly. "Blindness is survival. If they looked too closely, they would break."
The Wizarding Echoes
Their first true taste of wizarding life came as they turned a corner.
An argument flared outside a dingy pub—two men in cloaks, wands half-drawn, their voices sharp. The word Mudblood spat like venom. The crowd of non-magical Londoners walked past as if nothing existed. A glamour hid it all, the pub shimmering faintly at the edge of vision.
Artemis's hand twitched toward her bow, though no weapon hung there now. "They flaunt their cruelty in public, even veiled?"
Athena laid a hand on her arm. "Restraint. Remember the masks."
Percy's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He only memorized the scene, the look of arrogance, the sneer of superiority. A taste of the disease Hecate had warned them of.
First Shelter
That night, they found lodging in a hidden quarter of the magical city. Not the grandeur of Olympus, not the serene sanctuary they had left behind, but a crooked house tucked between twisting shops. The innkeeper eyed them with suspicion but asked no questions when gold changed hands.
The room was cramped—low ceiling, narrow beds, a single window overlooking cobbled alleys. Percy stood in the center, feeling the weight of the world pressing close. Artemis opened the window, letting in air tinged with rain. Athena sat at the desk, already scratching notes about what they'd seen.
"It begins," she murmured.
Percy drew them both into his arms. "Yes. But not tonight. Tonight, we rest."
The Night Whispers
As sleep crept closer, the world itself seemed to murmur around them. Percy dreamed of Harry again—alone in his cupboard, small hands folded over knees. Artemis dreamed of forests burning under green light. Athena dreamed of prophecy whispered in riddles, a snake and a child bound together.
They woke in the same moment, hearts heavy.
Kaal stirred on the windowsill, feathers dim in the moonlight. His voice brushed their minds: The storm has already begun. You walk in it now.