Chapter Text
Luke gasped for air, his mouth straining wide as he fought to drag oxygen into searing lungs. Fire coursed through him, shredding him from the inside out. His guts twisted with such violence it felt as though they were knitting themselves into wet, slick knots.
A kaleidoscope of fragmented shards flashed behind his failing eyesight: worms burrowing through the bloody crevices of his viscera, stacking atop one another until the pressure became unbearable. Then, the image snapped into agonizing focus. His stomach seemed to burst into a macabre eruption of gore. White, sightless worms wiggled free from the wreckage, spilling onto the ground with heavy, rhythmic splashes. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. One trembling hand flew to his midsection, pressing desperately against it to keep his insides from escaping.
I'm dead, Luke thought. A warbled, hysterical sound bubbled past his lips, more of a wet gurgle than a laugh. I'm dead, and my meat is already crawling with maggots.
Yet, he still breathed. Each lungful was a punishment, the air slicing through his nostrils like shearing knives.
Dead men don't breathe, he told himself. He focused on the thought, using it as an anchor to pull his mind back from the writhing hallucinations.
He tried to push himself up, his arms shaking with a violent tremor. The movement was agonizing, like balancing his entire weight on needles that pierced deep into the muscle. He gritted his teeth against the scream and forced his body to obey. His vision was useless; a thick haze of black spots and warped silhouettes that refused to coalesce. He blinked hard, but the world stayed a jagged blur.
A dry, violent cough hacked through the air to his right.
Luke's head snapped toward the sound. He ignored the fire crawling at his throat, forcing his mind to pierce through the dizzying spin of shadows dancing across his vision. His jaw set. Blind and suffocating, he was nothing more than a stationary target. His fingers twitched. Instinct screamed at him to move, to crawl into the dark and hide before he was gutted. He had to run. But he was a wingless bird; how could he fly?
The cacophony inside his skull was deafening, nearly drowning out the faint, hitching gasps of labored breathing. It was coming from the same direction, but it was closer.
Two threats! his hindbrain shrieked. One is right there! Run! Hide!
Flight or freeze collided. Luke went rigid, straining to track the proximity of the breathing over the thudding of his own heart. His fingers dug into the ground, but the surface was wrong. Rough grains scratched harshly against his skin, making him flinch.
Sand?
He'd just been in New York, dying at the feet of the gods. A half-corpse sullying the spotless floor with dirty, mortal, red blood. A jagged jolt of satisfaction curdled low in his gut; he hoped it would stain. He wanted this meat to paint the marble before his father's golden throne—a last fuck you to the god who had never protected him. The ultimate insult: his traitor son's corpse, rotting at the center of his power.
But Luke was alive. The soft, rhythmic crash of waves told him that he was somewhere else, far from the high palace above.
Then he heard it: the soft rustle of feet against the sand. To his hypersensitive ears, the noise was a deafening roar. He catalogued the sound with the cold efficiency of a man who had killed and cheated death more times than he could count, even as animal panic thrashed in his chest.
The gait was uneven. Someone injured, favoring one side and dragging a foot. They were light-footed, but dense—a man. Luke licked his dry lips. A man was dangerous. In his experience, women might leave him be, but men played with the weak with a gleeful cruelty he'd learned to fear as a child.
He hissed, ducking low. He flattened himself against the sand, forcing his body into the earth even as his limbs screamed in protest. With an effort that made him snarl in shame, he scuttled backwards. He focused his will, flicking like a faulty bulb as he tried to dim his presence—a trick that had kept him alive on the streets long before he had ever met Thalia.
The man kept the same steady pace, either toying with Luke or unaware of his presence. Luke continued to drag himself toward what he hoped was a treeline.
"Annabeth," a familiar voice called, thick with worry.
Luke froze. He knew that voice. He had reached out to that boy—no, that man—with his final, pathetic breath.
“Annabeth, are you okay?”
Luke pushed himself up, his forearms trembling under the weight. The shroud over his presence fluttered away. He blinked rapidly, desperate to clear the haze, but the world remained a smear of color and shadow. Annie was here. And Percy sounded worried. But where was here? Why was he still breathing? And… and if he was dead, did that mean Percy and Annabeth were, too?
His breath hitched. No. Please, no.
"I'm… I'm fine," Annabeth answered. Luke strained to listen, searching for the slightest tremor of pain in her voice. She sounded unharmed. Relief made his shoulders sag for a fleeting second before the agony in his gut forced them tight again. "But this isn't any beach I know. The trees… they aren't native to America. Percy, where are we?"
A ghost of warm fondness cooled the pained fury in his veins.
Just like when she was small, Luke thought, a faint smile tilting his lips. Even when she was out of her depth, her mind was already three steps ahead, hunting for order in the chaos.
“I don’t know,” Percy replied. The faint rustle of sand suggested he was helping her to her feet. “We were at Olympus, and then… you know. I saw everything glowing gold. He was glowing gold. Then I blacked out. Next thing I know, I’m waking up on a beach when we were nowhere near the coast.” His tone was characteristically casual, but a trace of concern cut through the bravado. “You're sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes, but this place…” Annabeth murmured. Her voice dropped, becoming distant as she shifted into her analytical headspace. “The beach… the sea… none of this makes sense.”
Luke tried to stand, but his legs buckled instantly. He had to know, he had to see if she was truly whole. But the animal in him screamed to run, to use his speed and vanish before the man buried a blade in his gut. His mind swam as pain whited out his vision. A sharp hiss tore through his clenched teeth, his thighs spasming as his feet sank into the shifting sand.
“It's Luke!”
A shape lunged toward him. Panic surged immediately. Luke whipped around, lashing out with flailing, desperate hands. He couldn't see the threat, but he knew it was there. In his world, you either fought or you died, and Luke Castellan had always, always fought to survive.
“Hey, hey! Calm down!" Percy's voice broke through. "Jezz, you're in no shape to fight anyone. We're not going to hurt you, okay?"
The words stoked the dying embers of his rage. Luke's mouth curled into a snarl, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
You’re pathetic, the ghost of a raspy voice whispered. It was a lingering poison, dripping with disdain. Look at you, boy. Shaking and whining like a whipped dog. A failure. You can't even manage to die right.
"Am I?" Luke forced his tongue to shape the words, ignoring the sting in his throat. "You want to test that… kid?"
"I'm not one to kick someone while they're down," Percy said, his voice dropping an octave. "But if you try anything…"
He trailed off, letting the threat hang. Luke heard the familiar clack of Riptide being uncapped. For a moment, the sun caught the celestial bronze, bright enough to pierce even Luke's failing eyesight. Then, the light dipped. Percy lowered the sword—a clear truce.
Luke snorted. The disdain was weak, even to his own ears, but he clung to it like a life-raft. "How noble. Does it make you feel like a hero, Percy?"
"It makes me feel like I don't want to beat up someone who's already bleeding out on a beach," the boy retorted.
Annabeth stepped closer then. He heard the faint shift of sand as she moved, but she remained cautious. She didn't reach for him—smart.
“Luke, do you know what happened?” she asked.
“I died, that’s what happened," he rasped, a mocking laugh bubbling up and turning into a wet cough. He waved a hand vaguely toward them. "I remember the dagger. I remember the pain. And I remember I did it for you, for all of you."
He forced a jagged smile.
Annabeth hummed softly. “So you don’t know either,” she sighed, her voice weary. "I suppose I should have expected that, given… everything."
Luke could feel the pity.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. He ground his teeth together, forcing himself to look away. His vision swam with indistinct shapes; the blonde of her hair was clear enough, but it was the gray of her gaze that truly pierced the fog. Those eyes cut through him with the same cold precision as the bronze blades they had spent a lifetime carrying.
A faint shuffle of fabric followed. A hand moved toward him, and Luke flinched instinctively. The reaction sent a spike of hot, immediate anger through his veins.
Pathetic.
Annabeth froze, her hand pulling back slowly. She recovered quickly, clearing her throat and holding a small pouch directly in his line of sight, seemingly realizing his struggle to focus. She had always been perceptive, his little sister.
“This is ambrosia," she said, her voice steady despite the tremors Luke could hear underneath. "I always carry some for emergencies. I can give it to you."
"But?" Luke prompted.
He had half-raised this girl; he knew that there was no such thing as a free lunch in her world. It was a lesson he'd hammered into her himself, lecturing a seven-year-old with eyes too big for her face to never accept food from anyone but him or Thalia.
She paused. Luke felt her gaze settle on him again. “But you have to promise on the River Styx. Promise that you won’t try anything against us. Do that, and I’ll give it to you.”
He laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound, a mix of cold bitterness, a jolt of pride in her survival instincts, and a deeper, raw hurt that he couldn't quite stifle.
"And why would I do that?" He forced himself forward, wobbling on legs that felt like jelly. He locked onto the shape of the girl he had once called sister. "I died already, Annabeth. Isn't that enough for you?"
Annabeth remained silent, her jaw set. She kept the pouch close to her, out of his reach.
A dark, devouring wave of anger crashed against his ribs. He had done it for them. He had taken the blade to his weak spot. He was the hero of the prophecy; he had finally proved his worth. And it still wasn't enough? He tried to quicken his pace, to close the distance and demand an answer, but his muscles failed him. He lurched, nearly hitting the sand before righting himself with a snarl of shame.
Suddenly, the cold edge of Riptide was at his throat, pressing into the skin of his neck.
"Stay back," Percy warned.
"Percy," Luke drawled, fighting to hide the way his pulse thudded in his throat.
"I said stay back," the boy growled. He leaned into the blade, and a sharp, stinging heat sliced through the skin. A wet, sliding sensation followed.
Luke froze.
Percy went rigid, too. "Blood?" he whispered, his voice thick with the same shocked confusion Luke felt.
Pain. Luke felt actual, searing pain. The blade hadn't bounced off; it had bitten deep. The realization hit him hard: he wasn't invulnerable anymore.
The Curse of Achilles was… gone.
"Percy!" Annabeth hissed.
She grabbed Percy's wrist, wrenching the blade away from Luke's neck. Her gray eyes snapped to Luke's face, flickering with a desperate urge to shove the ambrosia down his throat, yet she held back.
Good, a younger version of himself whispered in the back of his mind. Don't lower your guard when the enemy is down, Annie. That's when they're most desperate. That's when they strike.
"Luke. Do you swear?" she asked again, her voice tighter, bordering on a plea.
Luke stayed quiet for a long moment, the warmth of his own blood trickling down his collarbone. Then, he whispered, "I swear on the Styx. I won't try anything against you."
Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and ominous, sealing the oath. Luke could almost feel it settle around him: a collar cinched tight around his throat.
Annabeth exhaled, a long, shaky breath of relief. She pressed the ambrosia into his palm, her fingers brushing against his for a fraction of a second before she jerked back as if he were made of live embers. Luke's hand closed around the pouch. Was he so wretched? The thought stung worse than the cut on his neck. He forced his gaze away from her and tilted his head back, swallowing the godly food in one gulp.
The taste hit instantly, soothing and sweet. The cheap ice cream he used to steal for Thalia and Annie on summer days. And beneath that, faint but unmistakable, was the charcoal-and-sugar tang of his mother's burned cookies.
Slowly, the world stopped spinning. The static at the edges of his vision receded, and the distorted shadows sharpened into the shoreline. The pain didn't vanish, but it dulled, retreating into a manageable ache.
For the first time, he could actually see where they had been dumped. It was a rugged stretch of coast, the sand gritty and peppered with smooth stones. The vegetation was unfamiliar to his eyes, and the sea was a deep wine-red—nothing like the murky waters of New York.
Inside his mind, his inner compass spun wildly, clicking like a broken machine. The coordinates didn't make sense.
“Now what?” Luke asked. He watched the foam hiss over the sand before the churning sea dragged it back into the depths. He shifted his gaze between Annabeth and Percy, his eyes lingering on the way they stood together.
"You will come with us," Annabeth declared, her gaze pinning him in place.
"Annabeth…" Percy muttered.
The two of them locked eyes. A long, silent conversation passed between them, one of those wordless exchanges that made Luke's lips tilt into the ghost of a knowing smirk. Percy folded first. He let out a frustrated sigh, but he cast a glance at Luke before turning his back to watch the horizon.
"So I'm—the traitor—coming with you?" Luke probed. He watched Percy's thumb ghost over the cap of his pen. Back on the floors of Olympus, Luke had dropped his sword; now, he felt naked, his hands twitching for a safety that wasn't there.
His eyes fell to Annabeth's hand. She was fidgeting with her bronze knife, the blade still streaked with blood—his blood.
He tore his gaze away.
"Yes," Annabeth said curtly. She shielded her eyes and looked toward the sky. Luke followed her line of sight; by the angle of the sun, it was late afternoon. "First, we need shelter. We have to move before night falls. It isn't wise to linger here, not when we don't know where we are, or what might hunt us. We find a place to rest, then we figure out the rest."
She was right. Three demigods, with one being a child of the Big Three, would attract monsters like a beacon in the dark.
"A good plan," Luke hummed.
Annabeth's lips quirked up for a fraction of a second, a ghost of the girl who used to crave his approval, before she whipped around and began to march. Percy stayed at her heels. Luke followed behind them. He was slower, each movement a battle against his own nerves, but he grounded his teeth together and forced his legs to obey.
Keep moving. Don’t fall behind.
Survive.
The landscape remained a monotonous stretch of sea, but Percy squinted, catching a flicker of movement on the horizon. It was a smudge against the sky at first, but as he focused, shapes began to form: a cluster of people, and more tellingly, the masts of ships bobbing in the distance.
Percy halted, sticking out an arm to stop Annabeth. Luke stumbled to a stop a few paces behind them.
It was awkward.
Just moments ago, they had been at each other's throats, and now… what were they? Not friends. Not even companions. They were forced allies at best, connected by necessity. Percy glanced back at Luke. The guy looked like he was one strong breeze away from dropping dead. His skin was the color of curdled milk, and deep circles hollowed out his eyes. His hair was longer than it had been when he was the charming counselor welcoming a twelve-year-old Percy at Camp Half-Blood.
At least, Luke… seemed a little better than when he had a Kronos-shaped parasite in his soul? Well, his eyes were blue again. That was a start.
Percy turned his attention back to the shoreline. "Those ships look… old."
Annabeth didn't answer for a long moment. Her mouth was pinched tight, her fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against her forearms.
"They are," she agreed, her voice thin. "I remember Chiron's collection of models. He showed them to me back when I was obsessed with the temples miniatures. He had one of those ships, too." Her brows furrowed as she locked eyes with Percy, her gray gaze filled with a dawning dread. "Those are penteconters, Percy. Ancient Greek galleys."
"Ancient… Greek?" Percy repeated. He looked back at the wooden hulls bobbing in the distance. "Like, they're re-enactors? A theme park?"
“We haven't seen a single hint of civilization since we got here,” Annabeth pointed out, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “Not a speck of a road, much less power lines. And look at this coastline, on a day like this, there should have been dozens of people sunbathing right here.”
A cold weight dropped into the pit of Percy's stomach. He cast a subtle glance at Luke, who was studying the horizon with the same dawning dread.
“You don’t think something happened when he... when he did it?” Percy whispered, his voice rushed and low. “I mean, Kronos wouldn’t just go quietly. What does a desperate immortal do when he’s losing? The guy controls time, Annabeth.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, crossing her arms tightly. “Or maybe it was the Fates. There’s too little information to be certain.”
Percy felt his brow twitch. He watched the way Annabeth’s gaze lingered on Luke, a tentatively protective look that made an ugly feeling crawl up Percy’s throat. He shoved it down. It was as if she didn't want to blame him, as if the guy hadn't just started a war to try to tear down the world.
“And what about that camp over there?” Percy asked, gesturing toward the distant shapes.
“We’ll approach,” Annabeth decided, her chin lifting.
“It’s better we don’t approach at all,” Luke countered instantly. His brows drew together in sharp frustration. “We don’t know this territory, and that looks like a camp prepared for war. We’re exhausted, we’re under-equipped, and I’m half-dead. It's suicide.”
“Not right now,” Annabeth added, her tone firm but measured. “We don’t know enough. But that camp might have some hints about where we are.” And when, Percy heard in the unsaid silence. “If we’re careful, we can figure out what we’re dealing with before deciding anything. Rushing in blind will get us nowhere.”
Luke’s expression curdled. He looked ready to fight her on it, his posture locked in that same hunched, half-feral tension he’d held since they’d woken up choking on sand.
Percy gave a slow shrug. “Makes sense. I could watch from the water, maybe get close to the ships without being seen.” A faint grin tugged at his lips. “Maybe even ask the fish if they’ve seen anything.”
Luke blinked at him, incredulous. “Ask the fish?”
“Hey, it works,” Percy replied with a half-shrug. “Sometimes.”
Luke shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching with a flicker of weary disbelief. But the momentary truce was short-lived.
“And then what? Kidnap a sentry? Interrogate them?” Luke let out a snort. “We’ll end up getting interrogated at this rate, and believe me, there are a thousand ways to make a person talk. Some less pleasant than others.”
“You’d know, wouldn't you?” Percy snapped.
Luke seemed to recoil, his blue eyes widening with a raw vulnerability Percy had never seen—a glimpse of the boy behind the monster. Then, just as quickly, the shutters slammed shut, the emotion vanishing beneath a familiar, defensive sneer.
“The camp is for later,” Annabeth interjected, her voice sharp, physically slotting herself between them. She pointed upward. “Right now, we need shelter. It’s getting dark.”
The sky was bruising fast, a deep indigo streaked with fading gold and bleeding violet. The stars above were startlingly bright, vivid pinpricks that felt closer and more numerous than any Percy remembered seeing before. Without the orange glow of a city to dampen them, the heavens felt massive and indifferent. With every passing minute, the air grew noticeably colder.
“Fine by me,” Percy muttered, casting one last wary glance at Luke.
"Fine," Luke echoed a moment later, his voice tight.
The landscape shifted as they moved inland, trading the soft give of the sand for uneven ground choked with scraggly brush and gnarled clusters of trees. The air smelled less of salt here, replaced by the scent of dry earth, though the breeze still carried the ghost of the sea behind them.
When they reached a shallow dip in the plain, where a trickling stream wound its way over rocks and dry earth, Percy paused. He scanned the clearing for monsters, watching the way the sparse shrubs cast gnarled, faint shadows across the ground. A tense minute passed. Annabeth juggled her dagger with forced casualness, while Luke seemed to hunch into himself—and for a second, Percy blinked, finding it strangely hard to pinpoint exactly where Luke was standing, as if he were melting into the twilight.
Percy shook his head to clear it, his shoulders finally relaxing when nothing jumped out at them.
"Clear," he said, tucking Riptide back into his pocket.
Luke stumbled forward immediately. That strange, blurred quality slipped from him as he dropped heavily next to the stream, the sound of him gulping down water the only noise in the quiet clearing.
Percy’s jaw worked. He turned to Annabeth, who was already watching him, her brows raised in anticipation of the argument.
“What are we supposed to do with him?” Percy whispered, his voice edged with sharp frustration.
“Look at him, Percy. He’s not fine,” Annabeth murmured, her tone faltering as she watched Luke's trembling hands. “Maybe… maybe he’s different now.”
“Different?” Percy’s voice dipped, the sharpness cutting through the silence. “He was on the other side, Annabeth. He betrayed Camp Half-Blood. And did you forget we only ended up here because of him? Because he started glowing gold? Now here we are, in gods-know-where, because he dragged us down with him.”
Annabeth hesitated, her brow furrowing. “It’s strange, I’ll admit. But he didn't seem like he knew any more than we did. He looked just as terrified as us.”
“Could be an act,” Percy shot back, though a flicker of doubt finally softened his tone. “Wouldn’t be the first time he fooled us.”
Annabeth exhaled, dragging her hands down her face. “Still, Percy... if he wanted to hurt us, wouldn’t he have done it by now? He’s had a dozen chances since we woke up.”
Percy paused, the logic hitting him, even if he didn't like the taste of it. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I trust him,” he grumbled.
“I’m not asking you to. I’m not sure I do either,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a weary whisper. “But we can’t just leave him like this. We aren't him, Percy.”
They both went quiet when Luke finally stood. He rose slowly, his limbs stiff and jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. He cast a single, unreadable glance their way before turning and walking toward the edge of the clearing.
Percy tensed, his hand instinctively twitching toward his pocket, and he would have followed if Annabeth hadn't caught his arm and shook her head. Luke stopped beside a jagged boulder at the very limit of their campsite, still within eyesight, but far enough away to make his intentions clear.
Great. A tantrum. Percy could already foresee the problems this would cause.
"Is he going to participate in the watch too?" Percy couldn’t help but snark, dropping to the ground and resting his chin on his palm. "Or is he just going to plot and lurk in the shadows like old times?"
Annabeth didn't look at him. She was already staring at the gnarled treeline, her thumb tracing the hilt of her dagger.
"Go to sleep, Seaweed Brain."
How curious. How very curious!
He balanced atop the rock, peering down at the pale, golden-haired man, tilting his head like a bird of prey. Then, he snapped his gaze upward. There were the other two curiosities. A girl who shouldn't exist, a sight that made a giggle bubble up in his throat, and the boy who carried the scent of the salt-sea.
The sea-boy had been alert, as was expected of the Earth-Shaker’s seed, but he was still hēmitheos. He had surrendered to the weight of sleep just as quickly as the owl-eyed girl.
Both had spoken in a tongue he did not know, a series of harsh, barking sounds, like the snapping of dry kindling mixed with the hiss of a snake. It was a rhythmic, nonsensical clutter of teeth. His greed had sparked at the sound, and so, he had reached out and stolen it from the air, tucking the clattering syllables into his own mind until they made sense.
The blonde man stirred.
The observer’s attention snapped back to him instantly. He hopped down from the rock, silent as a falling leaf, and crouched in front of the man. He stared, unblinking.
A pretty thing, he thought. He hummed a low, vibrating note, shuffling from side to side. The greediness that defined his very being made his fingers twitch restlessly. He could not help himself. He surrendered to the feeling.
He reached out, one hand rising to brush the fine, blonde hair out of the man's face. He studied the sharp contrast, his own bronze skin against the marble-like paleness of this foreigner. Where had he come from? He did not fit the sun-drenched features of the Kemet people to the south, nor the heavy-bearded traders of Phoenicia. Perhaps he was a mountain-stranger from the far Hittite lands of the north?
He wiggled his shoulders, leaning forward until he was almost touching noses with the blonde, pretty man. The barbaros was breathing slowly, lost in the heavy depths of sleep. The observer watched the rise and fall of the man's chest and imitated it once, a curious mortal habit.
This one was hēmitheos just like the sea-boy. They were grown men, yet they were not out in the world bringing glory to their names or the names of their parents.
He squinted, trying to read the lineage in the curve of the man's jaw or the scar that sliced through his elegant features, but he could not pinpoint the divine father. It was a puzzle that made his head tilt.
"He feels familiar," he whispered, the stolen words feeling smooth and natural in his mouth.
He broke into a grin that revealed far too many teeth for a human face. He leaned in closer and purred, echoing the name the other two had used.
"Luke."