Chapter 3: Whispers of the Divine
The night didn't want to let me sleep.
I lay there staring at the ceiling of the Athena cabin, the shadows from the moonlight stretching across the rafters like quiet watchers. My mind kept looping through everything—the dream, Athena's warning, the Oracle's prophecy. Each replay felt sharper, heavier.
"Son of Wisdom, Reborn of Memory…"
I couldn't get those words out of my head.
Outside, crickets sang softly. Somewhere down by the lake, I heard the faint crash of a wave. Camp Half-Blood was alive even at night—but inside, everything was still. My cabinmates were asleep, calm, like this was just another night under the stars.
It wasn't for me.
The owl coin on my desk gleamed faintly again. Not glowing exactly—more like it was breathing.
I sat up. "Don't tell me you're haunted too," I muttered.
The coin pulsed once, in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Then again.
A low hum filled the air, like a string being plucked somewhere deep inside my chest. The world around me began to fade—the sounds, the light, even the feeling of my bed beneath me. My body stilled. My breath caught.
And then… I heard her.
A whisper. Soft. Warm. The kind of voice that wraps around your name like a memory.
> "Ethan…"
My pulse spiked. The sound wasn't external—it was inside me. Like someone had spoken straight to my soul.
"Who—who's there?" I whispered.
> "Do not be afraid."
Her tone was gentle. Familiar. A note of sadness lingered in every word, like she was smiling through tears.
My throat tightened. "I… I know that voice."
> "You should," she said softly. "You once called me by name."
The world around me flickered. For a heartbeat, I wasn't in the cabin anymore. I saw flashes—rain on a city street, a girl's laughter, the touch of her hand as everything went dark.
Her.
The last person I saw before I died.
My heart ached. "No," I breathed. "It can't be."
> "Ethan Vale," the voice continued, a note of divine calm settling into her tone. "You walk between worlds. You carry a gift not meant for this realm—a remnant of what was left behind."
A light formed in front of me—a gentle swirl of gold and white, like sunlight trapped inside water. From it came a faint hum that resonated deep in my chest.
> "I am Elysia," she said. "Your guide, your whisper in the dark. The last fragment of what once was… and what may yet be."
The name hit me like thunder wrapped in silk. My breath trembled. "Elysia…"
The light pulsed, as if nodding.
> "In your old world, I gave you what little power I could before the end. When you crossed the veil, I followed—what remained of me bound to your soul. I slept… until now."
I swallowed hard. My thoughts were a mess of disbelief and hope. "So you're… not just a memory?"
> "No," she whispered, voice like wind through the leaves. "I am the echo of a promise. The wisdom of two worlds, intertwined. And I will guide you, as long as your heart remembers."
The warmth of her voice seeped into me. It felt like standing in sunlight after a long winter. But under that warmth was something else—grief.
"You sound… sad."
For a moment, she didn't answer. The golden light dimmed.
> "Every rebirth carries loss," she finally said. "But it is not my sadness that should concern you."
The air around me shifted. The cabin blurred again, fading into a strange in-between space—a place made of light and memory. I stood in the middle of it, weightless.
"Where… am I?"
> "Inside the threshold of your soul," Elysia said. "The space where memory and divinity meet. This is where our connection exists."
Golden motes drifted around me like fireflies. In the distance, I could see shapes—echoes of my past life, flickering like forgotten dreams. A classroom. A storm. Her smile.
My chest tightened. "Elysia… why me?"
> "Because your death was not an ending," she said softly. "It was a crossing. You were chosen by wisdom, but marked by something older—something that even the Fates cannot name."
Her words sent a chill through me. "The Fates. They called me a deviation."
> "Yes. You are not written in this world's pattern. You are an anomaly—an echo carried across time. That is why Athena watches you… and why others will soon take notice."
I shivered. "Others?"
> "The gods remember their champions. But not all who watch are gods."
Her tone had changed—less warmth, more distance. Something ancient stirred behind her voice.
"Elysia," I said quietly, "what am I supposed to do with this? I don't even know why I'm here."
> "You will," she said. "In time."
The golden light around me shifted again, drawing into faint runes that hovered before my eyes—beautiful, intricate, written in divine Greek.
I couldn't read them, but somehow… I understood.
Each symbol pulsed with meaning—memory, wisdom, rebirth, balance.
It wasn't a system window. It was a message written on my soul.
> "These are the marks of your connection," Elysia explained. "Wisdom is your lineage, memory your curse, and choice your weapon. You were not meant to walk either world alone."
Her voice wavered slightly. That 25% sadness lingered.
> "Even now, I am incomplete. My power is… fragmented. Some of it remains sealed beyond your reach. The rest is bound to your growth. As you learn, as you endure, you will awaken more of me."
I took a slow breath. "So… you're saying I get stronger as I survive?"
A small hum, almost like laughter.
> "You always did have a way of simplifying things."
I smiled faintly. "Guess some habits don't die with the body."
For a while, there was silence between us—comfortable silence. The kind you could sit in without needing words.
Then the warmth in her voice softened again.
> "Ethan… do you remember what I said to you before the end?"
My chest tightened. "Yeah. You said—'I'll find you again.'"
The light pulsed softly.
> "And I did."
The simplicity of it broke me a little. I closed my eyes, and for a second, I wasn't a demigod. I was just a boy who'd lost someone he loved and somehow found her again in the most impossible way.
But then her tone changed. The warmth dimmed, replaced by something older—something that made the air around me hum with power.
> "Ethan," Elysia whispered. "There is something you must hear."
I opened my eyes. "What is it?"
The golden light darkened, twisting into streaks of silver. The motes stopped moving. Even my breath felt caught in my throat.
> "Your soul carries two lights," she said slowly. "One born of memory, one born of wisdom. When they meet, a door will open. Through that door, fate will bleed."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
> "It means the gods are not the only ones who can fall."
Her words echoed, sharp and haunting, like the toll of a distant bell.
"Elysia—"
> "The threads are moving, Ethan. The pattern is breaking. You were reborn not by accident… but by design. And when the truth comes, it will demand everything from you—your mind, your courage, your heart."
The light began to fade, her voice fading with it.
"Wait—Elysia, don't go! What truth? What are you talking about?"
For a heartbeat, everything went silent. Then her voice came one last time, softer than a breath, full of warmth and sorrow.
> "When the owl forgets its wisdom and the storm forgets its sea, you will stand where gods once stood. And you will decide what remains."
The light vanished.
I gasped, jerking upright in my bed. The cabin was still. The coin lay beside me, cool and dull now, as if nothing had happened.
My heart pounded in my chest. I stared at the ceiling, her words echoing in my mind like the aftertaste of a dream.
> You will decide what remains.
I didn't know what it meant.
But I knew one thing for sure—
This world was about to change.
And somehow, I was the reason why.