THADDEUS POV
Three Days Later.
In the depths of my mind—that liminal space between wakefulness and whatever this was—I found myself back in the strange mental lounge. Still stuck. Still not dead. Not quite awake either.
Across from me sat the Doc, as usual. Except this time, he flipped cards between his fingers like a bored casino dealer on a long shift. A deck of gold-trimmed playing cards, naturally. Subtlety never made his vocabulary.
"Pick a card," he said without looking up. "Any card."
I didn't move. Just stared. "You're still doing this? Seriously?"
"Absolutely," he replied, grinning. "Mental stasis or not, one must maintain standards of amusement."
As far as I could tell, I wasn't going anywhere. My legs worked; my thoughts weren't soup. But the syrupy slowness of it all screamed that I wasn't ready to wake up. Or more accurately, he wasn't letting me.
"Three days, huh?" I muttered.
"In the material world," he confirmed, shuffling the deck. "In here? Feels closer to three weeks. Temporal dilation is delightfully fickle."
I rubbed my temples. "And you're holding me hostage… why?"
The Doc leaned back, cards orbiting him mid-air. "Your Primal Matrix—or your 'mana core,' if we're being tragically pedestrian—is currently mimicking a toddler on its third espresso. Unstable enough that a vigorous sneeze might fry your nervous system like cheap circuitry." He snapped his fingers. The cards vanished in iridescent smoke. "Remaining here stabilizes the healing. Accelerates arcane pathways while insulating your physical form from… well, exploding."
I scowled. "So I'm benched."
"You're alive," he countered. "Which, given the past forty-eight hours of reckless spell-slinging, divine artifacts, and you shattering your staff—a personal affront, I might add—qualifies as a minor miracle." He stood abruptly, hands clasped behind his back, posture shifting to sharp formality. "Your mortal chassis wasn't engineered to channel Arcanum at that scale. The Hades confrontation? You redlined. Pure magical overload. That last stand against Luke? Adrenaline and desperation. Raw potential bleeding through the cracks. Unsustainable. Dangerous."
I looked away, jaw tight. "Didn't have a choice."
"Nor do I fault you for it," he said, softer. "But power without control is merely a stylish countdown to catastrophe. Guts and luck are starter fuel. You require mastery." A deliberate pause. "And a sturdier staff. Perhaps one less reminiscent of a breadstick."
I sighed. "When do I wake up?"
"When your Matrix stabilizes. Hours. Perhaps a day."
"Depends on what?"
His grin turned cryptic. "On how attentively you occupy this interlude."
He vanished—flickering out like a snuffed candle—leaving me adrift in the calm, glowing void of my own consciousness. Silent. Still. Floating in a mindscape healing me.
So I waited.
And paced.
Sat. Stood. Circled like a goldfish with existential dread and a cramped bowl.
Thought. Overthought. Reflected. Overthought again.
The lightning bolt mess was over. One catastrophe down. Yet that hollow *now what?* gnawed at my ribs. Everything tasted like aftermath.
So… what came next?
As if summoned by the question itself, one distinct path floated back into view—
The conversation.
The one with Dumbledore. That day he came to the house.
---
Dumbledore, sitting across from us with his usual air of calm wisdom, took a measured sip of tea before speaking.
"It occurs to me," he said gently, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, "that you might benefit from experiencing Hogwarts firsthand. The opportunities within its walls are... singular."
"I think I've made myself pretty clear about that," I replied, crossing my arms.
Dumbledore offered a small, patient smile that seemed to hold centuries of weathered debates. "Your reservations are understood, and indeed, respected. Yet I must observe," he continued, steepling his fingers, "that Hogwarts remains an extraordinary institution. Recent turbulence notwithstanding, its capacity to nurture exceptional talent is unparalleled. Where else might one cultivate gifts as distinctive as yours with appropriate... finesse?"
Darren, sitting beside me, gave a reluctant nod. "Much as I hate pushing you against your wishes, the Headmaster isn't wrong. Yancy's adequate, but it won't teach you what you are."
---
"Okay," I said finally, exhaling deeply. "Here's the deal. Let me finish my last year at Yancy first. Once summer rolls around, I'll give you my final decision. Fair?"
Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with approval. "A prudent approach, dear boy. Time is often the wisest counselor in matters of destiny." He leaned forward slightly, the warmth in his expression tempered by gravity. "However," he added, his voice lowering, "I must request—as a matter of both safety and necessity—that the substance of our discussion today remains entirely confidential. These are not truths for casual sharing."
---
"I'm not saying yes," I muttered to myself.
"But I'm definitely not saying no anymore."
"Are you genuinely certain of that?"
The voice cut through my thoughts like a scalpel—calm, clear, deliberate. I didn't turn. I already knew.
The Doc.
He emerged from the mental limbo's edge, casually flipping through a worn, leather-bound book. Pages whispered as they turned, too fast to read, too slow to ignore. The ever-present plague doctor mask remained—expressionless, unreadable, lenses seeing far too much.
He never removed it. Not once.
"Objectively," he added, flipping another page without glancing up, "I've no grounds to halt whatever path you choose. You're the one with the pulse and the prospects. Still… purely for archival accuracy… are you certain this is your decision?"
I sat back, arms folded. "It is."
"Hmm." He stopped mid-flip. Let the book rest open in one gloved hand. "Is it, though?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," he said, softer now, "I've witnessed where such choices lead when fueled by incorrect motivations."
He paced slowly, muttering lines from the open book. Then he snapped it shut with a muffled thud and faced me fully.
"Hogwarts feels right. Logical. The next rational step. Yet logic and comfort rarely align with truth."
I stayed silent. He continued.
"I'm not dissuading you. Untrained power like yours will consume you. You require guidance. But I implore you—make this choice for you. Not for Darren. Not for Dumbledore. Not because it neatly concludes this… tumultuous chapter."
A pause. He tilted his head. Though his eyes hid behind glass, I felt their weight lock onto mine.
"Walk a path charted by another's map, and you'll merely retrace my steps."
My stomach clenched. "You mean—?"
"Yes," he cut in sharply. "That path. Choices that seemed noble. Justified. Each one cost more than I possessed. Until nothing remained to pay with except…"
He trailed off. I didn't press.
He turned slightly, as if unable to hold my gaze.
"I am not your mentor. Not a role model. Not wisdom's voice." His tone dropped, bleak. "I'm a cautionary tale, Thaddeus. The version of you who grieves—not merely for what was lost, but for those I couldn't save. And those taken by these hands."
It landed like a physical blow. Words failed me.
He wasn't finished.
"Your world differs vastly from mine. You still have people. Friends. Souls who grant you unconditional faith. Do not discard that chasing phantoms or striving to become someone you shouldn't."
He stepped closer, resting the book against a table that materialized as he moved. His voice turned glacial.
"So before you commit to Hogwarts—or anything—ask yourself this."
He leaned in.
"Do you wish to go? Or are you merely afraid to refuse?"
The silence wasn't awkward. It was leaden. Intentional.
"I—" My throat tightened.
The Doc gave a curt nod. As if that sufficed.
"No answer is owed me yet," he said. "But when you give it? Ensure it is yours. No one else's."
Then—abrupt as his arrival—he walked away. Book tucked under his arm, coat trailing like ink bleeding into fog.
I stood there. Breathing. Thinking.
Perhaps for the first time in far too long… actually thinking.
---
I slowly blinked my eyes open. The hazy ceiling came into view as the sharp scent of antiseptic hit my nose. Real world. I was back.
The infirmary at Camp Half-Blood.
Fitting, honestly. Weeks ago, right before we found out Percy's mom was being held by Hades, he was the one laid out here. After landing a solid hit on the Minotaur, he blacked out—Grover and I had to drag his sorry butt into camp. Now the tables had turned. I was the one unconscious after squaring off with the literal god of the dead and Luke: the traitor who'd pretended to help just long enough to use us as pawns.
I turned my head, slow and stiff.
Percy and Grover were napping in their chairs, both slumped at weird angles. Grover's head drooped with the dedication only a satyr could muster, while Percy drooled into his collar like a little kid after too much candy.
Then the door creaked.
Annabeth walked in, balancing a tray with cups of ambrosia and nectar—Olympus's version of Gatorade. But the second her eyes landed on me—actually moving—she froze.
The tray hit the floor with a clatter. Cups rolled away as she lunged forward.
"Percy! Grover!" she barked, her voice sharp with disbelief. "He's awake!"
Both boys jolted awake like they'd been zapped.
"Wha—? Pan's pipes! What's wrong?" Grover bleated, hooves tangling in the chair legs.
Percy shook himself, swiping at his chin. "Did I sleep through another invasion?"
Annabeth ignored them. She was already at my bedside, leaning in with storm-gray eyes narrowed. "Don't try to sit up. Seriously. You've been out for three days."
"Three days?" My voice scraped like sandpaper. "Felt longer."
"It was," Percy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You weren't… all here."
Grover nodded slowly, his goat ears twitching. "You were out cold, but your magic was... alive. The air kept crackling like static before a storm."
I tried sitting up. Annabeth's glare could've petrified a gorgon.
"Don't even try," she ordered, pressing a firm hand to my shoulder. "You're lucky your core didn't shatter after that Hades stunt. And Luke…" Her mouth tightened as if the name itself tasted foul.
"Percy's mom?" I asked, ignoring the ache in my ribs.
Percy's expression softened. "Safe. Got her out. She's resting at home—promised to bake when we get back."
"Cookies," Grover declared solemnly. "Double chocolate."
"Lasagna," I rasped.
Percy snorted. "Hey! Cookies and lasagna exist, you know."
For a breath, we laughed—real and light, like the world wasn't ending.
Annabeth dragged a chair closer, her gray eyes sharp but relieved. "Don't pull that garbage again."
"No guarantees," I said.
Everything had more or less settled back to normal.
Grover passed me a peeled orange—definitely swiped from the dining pavilion—while filling me in. Percy and his mom were finally moving: fresh start, no more Gabe. The creep got arrested in a karmic masterpiece. Something about "illegal collectibles" and tax evasion. Very legal evidence. Very poetic.
As for our "wanted criminal" status? Wiped clean. Divine intervention. Zeus might be a thunderous jerk, but when he wants a problem gone, it vanishes. Records erased. Like it never happened.
"So," I said, biting into an orange slice. "What's my deal? Not exactly the 'summer camper' brand. Do I get the Percy treatment? Mandatory annual returns?"
Annabeth glanced up from her book—cracked spine, margins crammed with Ancient Greek. She took a beat.
"Percy's situation is… unique," she said carefully. "He's still classified as a high-risk demigod. The gods are monitoring him. Especially after… well, everything."
"Shocker," I muttered. "Guy stares down Zeus and lives to tell it."
"Exactly." She snapped the book shut, turning fully to me. "Chiron and Mr. D want him back next summer. Training. Observation. But you?" Her gray eyes sharpened. "You're not a demigod. Not one of us. That makes you…"
"An anomaly?"
"An enigma," she corrected.
I raised a brow. "Cool. Love being a cosmic question mark."
She offered a faint smirk, but her tone gentled.
"Chiron's got more answers. Said once you were stable, he'd talk to you himself. Called your situation… distinctive. So expect a summons to the Big House later."
"Sounds ominous," I said, popping another orange slice. "Hope he's not about to announce I'm cursed."
Annabeth shrugged. "Wouldn't crack the top ten weirdest things this week."
Grover shuddered. "Still having nightmares about that flying elevator."
I leaned back on the infirmary cot, gaze drifting to the wooden beams overhead.
Your situation is distinctive. Annabeth's words echoed. I'd always known I was different—not just magically, but fundamentally. After everything I'd seen and done, this talk with Chiron wouldn't be a congratulatory pat on the back.
It felt like the ground was tilting again.
And honestly?
I wasn't sure my footing was steady enough.
---
Called to the Big House I went.
The walk felt heavier than usual—not from fatigue (though yeah, still recovering), but from the distinct whiff of impending decisions and consequences.
Chiron greeted me on the porch, warm as summer sunlight. "Ah, Thaddeus. How fares your recovery?"
I offered a tired shrug. "Breathing. Sore. Would trade my left shoe for a century-long nap."
He chuckled, a low, resonant sound. "Understandable. You've weathered a rather condensed odyssey."
The door creaked open behind him.
Mr. D. or best known as Dionysus.
"Splendid," he drawled, already pouring a Diet Coke without glancing up. "The mortal anomaly ambulates. And disappointingly, does not spontaneously combust. I'd hoped for fireworks. Or at least a small grease fire."
"Charmed," I deadpanned.
He finally flicked his eyes toward me. "We've met. Unofficially. I direct this tedious summer prison. And alas, must endure your baffling presence on principle." He took a long sip. "Thrilling."
"Delightful," I shot back.
Chiron cleared his throat before the sarcasm could curdle. "We requested your presence to discuss certain... singularities, now that you're conscious."
Mr. D rolled his eyes so hard Olympus probably felt it. "And I'm here for 'divine oversight.' A punishment masquerading as protocol."
I raised a brow. "Oversight? From the God of Wine?"
He snorted. "Blame an ill-advised dalliance with a particularly litigious wood nymph. You'd think after three millennia, pettiness would fade. But no—'divine accountability' persists. Exhaustingly."
Chiron's smile turned dry. "His management of camp has been... unexpectedly adequate."
"Under protest," Mr. D snapped, swirling his Diet Coke like cheap wine.
Chiron continued, ignoring him. "Your situation remains unprecedented, Thaddeus. Not a demigod, yet your presence and actions align with that status. However, your magic—and your… aptitudes—demand similar consideration. You've battled monsters, confronted Hades himself, and survived. That commands attention."
Mr. D waved his can dismissively. "Congratulations. You've mildly intrigued the Olympians. Try not to preen. That habit tends to end with mortals becoming cautionary constellations."
I crossed my arms. "So what's the verdict? Mandatory summer enrollment like the others?"
"You're welcome here," Chiron affirmed. "The wards shield you. This camp offers sanctuary to hone your abilities."
Mr. D took a pointed sip. "And simplifies monitoring you. Mutual benefit."
I narrowed my eyes. "Monitoring. Right. Because I'm clearly a walking catastrophe."
"You dueled a death god and a traitorous demigod within forty-eight hours," Chiron observed mildly.
"Fair," I conceded.
"However," Chiron added, "as mentioned by Lord Zeus, a council will convene—exclusively. The gods wish to… categorize your existence. Define your role in the divine-mortal balance."
"Still pending," Mr. D interjected, scowling. "They deliberate slower than tectonic plates. Expect glacial pacing."
"Until then," Chiron said, resting a hand on my shoulder, "you remain under our guardianship. And observation."
Mr. D smirked. "Try not to explode. Or accidentally unzip reality into Tartarus. Or sneeze magical napalm."
"Magical napalm isn't a documented symptom," I replied flatly. "Yet."
Mr. D leaned in slightly. "Yet."
I sighed. "This'll be a blast."
Chiron's smile held steady warmth. "We shall endeavor to make it bearable."
Just like that, my status at Camp Half-Blood shifted from question to pending resolution.
With consequences.
Chiron read my posture instantly. "You have questions."
"A few," I said, sinking into the offered chair. "Starting with this: Are there any gods who actually teach magic? Properly? Because I'm gonna need real guidance before I accidentally turn myself into a newt."
Chiron stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Some have mentored mortals, yes. Though pedagogical inclination is… rare among our kind. Hecate, on occasion. Hermes, when intrigued. Apollo, in fleeting moments of academic whimsy. They seldom advertise such interests, but should your abilities continue to evolve… it remains a possibility."
Mr. D snorted into his Diet Coke. "Assuming you don't spontaneously combust mid-invocation trying to impress them. Mortals do love a flashy finale."
"Great vote of confidence as always," I muttered, leaning forward. "Second question: Are you familiar with the Wizarding World?"
A subtle glance passed between them—silent, weighted.
"We are," Chiron acknowledged calmly. "Their society operates parallel to ours, like adjacent branches on a tree. A political seclusion, not a magical severance."
Mr. D took a languid sip. "They fancy themselves discreet. Mostly, they're just fashionably oblivious."
"Ares mentioned something similar," I pressed. "When he tried dragging us back here." I lowered my voice, mimicking the war god's growl: "'Olympus drifts with civilization's heart. We anchored in Britain way before it ruled the waves. And those early wizards? The ones born with magic in their blood?'"
Chiron's eyes glinted with recognition as I continued:
"'Legacies. Demigod descendants. Divine sparks left behind when Olympus moved on. Your precious witches and wizards? Half carry diluted godblood in their veins. They just forgot.'"
Mr. D released a long-suffering sigh. "Even a meathead has his semi-lucid moments. Annoyingly, he's not wrong."
Chiron nodded gravely. "The bloodlines diluted, but the origin remains. Magic seeks its roots, Thaddeus—whether remembered or not. The oldest magical lineages carry diluted divine ancestry. Faint echoes of godblood persist—influencing power, affinity, even temperament."
"So wizards are basically… decaf demigods?"
"A crude but not inaccurate analogy," Chiron conceded. "Their institutions severed ties with Olympus to forge independence. Yet blood remembers what history forgets."
I leaned back, absorbing it.
"So if I choose Hogwarts…" I mused, half to myself, "I'm not an intruder. I'm stepping onto a path Olympus paved centuries ago."
Chiron's gaze turned distant. "You'd walk an ancient road. Overgrown, perhaps—but never truly lost."
Mr. D raised his can in mocking salute. "Try not to blunder spectacularly. History's idiot quota is met."
I smirked. "I'll strive for mediocrity."
Neither laughed. Neither corrected me.
Answers weren't just answers anymore. They were anchors—firm points in a sea of chaos. Pieces clicking into a puzzle I hadn't known I was building.
And the picture?
Suddenly sharper.
Though it wasn't over. Not yet. There were still a few more things I needed to ask.
I shifted, raising a brow. "So… Hermes Cabin still my crash pad?"
Chiron's chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. "Actually, no. We received… clarification this morning. You'll reside with Percy."
"Seriously?"
"Directly from Poseidon," Chiron confirmed.
Mr. D swirled his Diet Coke. "Nepotism at it's finest."
I blinked, genuinely thrown. "I'm in the Poseidon cabin? Just like that?"
"Lord Poseidon deemed you worthy of sanctuary," Chiron said. "Not his blood, yet your loyalty binds you to his son's fate. Temporarily, you stand under his protection."
"Huh," I muttered. "Didn't see that tide coming."
"Believe it or not," Mr. D drawled, "you even garnered Ares' fleeting interest."
I nearly snorted. "Ares? Pretty sure he's drafting my obituary."
"Perhaps," Chiron allowed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Yet he remarked—and I quote—'The runt's got spine. Fights like he's got nothing left to lose.'"
Mr. D raised his can. "He offered sparring rights in his arena. If you enjoy having bones rearranged."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said.
"Don't," Mr. D replied flatly.
I paused. "Any… parting wisdom before I go?"
Chiron steepled his fingers. "Expect further summons—from the Olympian council or… select committees. Your status remains pending deliberation. No fixed date, but inevitable."
"Right," I said. "The 'mysterious magical anomaly' tribunal."
"Less about your existence," Chiron corrected, "and more where you stand in the grand scheme. Whether Olympus draws you near… or keeps you at arm's length."
"Guess I'll avoid blowing up anything till then."
"Or getting possessed," Mr. D added idly. "Or summoning primordial nightmares. Or critiquing Zeus's aesthetic choices."
"The sparkles comment was accidental," I muttered.
Chiron's smile held a glint of amusement. "We'll notify you when convened. For now, focus on not reinjuring yourself."
"Understood." I stood slowly.
"Infirmary. Now," Mr. D ordered, flapping a dismissive hand. "Try not to expire before dinner comes."
"Touching," I deadpanned.
Stepping from the Big House, I felt the weight of futures shifting beneath my feet. One war averted, yes.
But something else?
Something deeper?
Was just beginning to wake.
---
Technically, this was my second dinner at Camp Half-Blood.
Tonight was different.
The campfire blazed gold in the pavilion's heart. Campers laughed, shoved each other, like war hadn't almost happened days ago. Tables stood grouped by cabin. I sat beside Percy at Poseidon's table—an awkward honor that still felt surreal.
Grover shoveled enchiladas like they'd vanish. Annabeth dissected a thick tome while nibbling grilled salmon. Percy? He looked… relaxed.
"So," Percy said, poking at his blue pizza. "First proper camp dinner. Thoughts? Besides the unnaturally blue food."
"Less traumatic than last time," I admitted.
Grover swallowed a mouthful. "Wait till you try the enchiladas. They're almost as good as tin cans."
Annabeth didn't look up from her book. "Ignore him. The enchiladas are edible. Grover's palate's compromised by decades of recycled aluminum."
"Hey!" Grover protested. "It's an acquired taste!"
Percy grinned. "Says the guy who tried eating my one of my books last week."
"It smelled like old parchment!" Grover defended, ears flushing. "Very… leafy!"
Annabeth finally snapped her book shut. "You're both hopeless." She turned to me, gray eyes assessing. "Seriously, though. How're you holding up? Three days unconscious isn't a nap."
"Sore. Hungry." I gestured at Grover's plate. "Considering risking the enchiladas."
Percy nudged my arm. "Do it. Worst case, you'll puke rainbows."
Grover nodded solemnly. "Tasted like regret and glitter glue."
"Comforting," I deadpanned, reaching for the dish.
I stared at my plate: roasted chicken, rice, and a glowing goblet. Whispered "iced coffee"—it appeared. Still unnerving.
"Seriously," I muttered. "You people don't play around with mealtime."
Grover smirked beside me. "Divine chefs. Zero tolerance for complaints."
"They take requests?"
Annabeth didn't glance up from her book. "Unless you want to spend next week as a guinea pig testing experimental baklava? Keep critiques to yourself."
"Point taken."
Younger campers kept stealing glances, whispering "survived Hades" and "the magic one" like I couldn't hear. I pretended not to.
Chiron passed our table, offering a nod. I returned it—still unsure if bowing was expected.
Then a nymph at my elbow. "Glad you didn't die." Vanished.
"Did that just—?"
Grover nodded, enchilada filling his cheeks. "Mhmph."
"Right. Normal Tuesday."
The soft lyre melody wove through the pavilion. For a breath, everything felt… settled.
Yet something tugged at the back of my mind. Not wrong. Just… unresolved.
Like intermission, not curtain call.
Percy stretched, leaning back. "So… we haven't nailed down what you're doing next."
"Still working on it," I admitted.
Annabeth finally looked up from her book, gray eyes sharp. "You've got time. But don't overthink it into a deadline."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I lifted the goblet. The iced coffee stayed perfectly cold despite the fire's heat.
Second dinner.
Better company.
Still haunted by questions.
But for the first time in too long?
I wasn't sprinting for answers.
Rising for seconds—because Camp Half-Blood food is unreasonably delicious—I bumped into someone.
"Ah, sorry—"
"Oh!" A light, familiar gasp. "Thaddeus?"
I blinked. "...Silena?"
Silena Beauregard stood there, looking effortlessly radiant under the pavilion lights—blonde curls perfect, camp shirt impeccably fitted, radiating warm vanilla perfume with lethal charm.
"I haven't seen you since your first day!" She brushed a curl behind her ear. "You probably don't remember me."
"Actually," I said, scratching my neck, "I do. You wheeled in Chiron while he was still cosplaying as Mr. Brunner."
She laughed—soft, polished, almost musical. "Guilty. You looked completely shell-shocked back then."
"Still am," I muttered.
We hovered in awkward silence, my tray hovering mid-air, the food line stacking up behind me. I stepped aside politely.
Silena, however, wasn't done. She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes.
Silena sidestepped with me, effortlessly matching my pace. "Soooo," she began, eyes wide with curated fascination. "Rumor mill says you went one-on-one with the Lord of the Dead. That's… next-level intense."
"Something like that," I replied, feigning intense focus on the ambrosia salad. "Got zapped by a lightning too. Oh, and verbally critiqued by Zeus. Peak summer vibes."
She gave a perfectly sympathetic pout. "You poor thing. You must be, like, sooo drained. Maybe you need…" She tilted her head, letting golden curls cascade. "Personalized recovery assistance?" Her eyes glittered like strategically placed sequins.
I blinked. "Medical? Pretty sure the infirmary nymphs have me covered."
She bit her lip, suppressing a giggle. "That's not quite what I meant."
Yeah. Obvious.
And yet—nothing. No awkward flush. No stammer. Not even the urge to volley back. Just… neutral.
Not because she wasn't stunning. Objectively, she was an Aphrodite kid. But my brain was elsewhere—jammed in overdrive, futures dangling like half-solved equations. Where most guys ran on hormones? My engine idled on pure, glacial logic.
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Well, if you ever wanna talk—somewhere quieter? Less… dining pavilion energy?" She winked. "I'm usually free."
Before I could muster a reply—brain still buffering—she twirled away, hips swaying with practiced grace.
I stared at my tray.
Right. That happened.
But also? Nope. Not now.
Not out of rudeness or cluelessness—but because my scrambled brain had already decided: emotions were landmines. Volatile. And if Aphrodite kids possibly treated rejection like a declaration of war?
I sighed and grabbed another full tray of food.
I slid back into my seat beside Percy, tray piled with seconds.
Three sets of eyes locked onto me.
Percy smirked. "Silena Beauregard, huh? Looked… cozy."
Grover choked on a blue cookie. "She never talks to new guys like that! Did she… y'know…?"
Annabeth raised an eyebrow. "She invited him somewhere 'quieter.' Obviously. What'd you say?"
"Nothing," I muttered, stabbing my chicken. "Froze. Like an idiot."
Grover snorted. "Dude. You turned down Aphrodite's kid? Bold. Stupid. But bold."
"It's not turning down if you don't engage!"
"Tell that to her mom," Annabeth said dryly. "Rejecting a daughter of Aphrodite? That's a diplomatic incident waiting to happen. You'll wake up with frog lips. Or worse—every sock you own will vanish."
Grover shuddered. "Or your hair turns permanently sparkly!"
Percy leaned in, grinning. "What about that British girl from the Lotus Casino? Blonde, soft-spoken, kissed you twice in one night? That 'meant nothing' too?"
I flushed. "That was different! High-stress, adrenaline-fueled… thing. One-time deal!"
"Twice," Annabeth corrected. "In one night. That's a pattern, Thaddeus."
"It's not a pattern! It's a statistical anomaly!"
Percy threw his hands up. "Anomaly or not—Silena's not asking you to marry her. She's asking to talk. Go. Be polite. Drink whatever floral nonsense she serves. If you're not feeling it after ten minutes, bow out gracefully. No glitter bombs. No frog lips."
Annabeth nodded. "Low-risk reconnaissance. Refuse after, not before. Saves face. And your socks."
Grover nibbled his napkin nervously. "Just… maybe wear something glitter-proof? For safety?"
I stared at my coffee. Talking. Not flirting. Not… whatever the Lotus thing was. Just talking.
"…Fine," I grumbled. "But if I come back smelling like roses and regret, I blame you three."
Percy clapped my shoulder. "Attaboy. Live a little. Or at least… survive."
After dinner, camp quieted to a murmur. A few stragglers lingered—stargazers, night swimmers, satyrs humming to the crickets. I'd changed into my usual hoodie and jeans. Comfort armor.
I found Silena by the canoe lake, moonlight silvering her hair. She turned, smile hopeful.
"Hey. You came."
"Silena," I started, cutting gently but firmly. "You're amazing. Seriously. But…" I rubbed my neck. "I'm not dating anyone. Not now. Maybe not ever. My life's confusing, and dragging someone else in? Not fair. Not safe."
Her smile didn't vanish—just softened. "We could take it slow? No pressure."
"It's not about speed." I met her eyes. "It's about… capacity. I don't have the emotional bandwidth. And honestly?" I sighed. "There's someone else. Not here. Not even possible, really. But…"
Her gaze sharpened, perceptive. "The girl from the Lotus Casino? The one you helped escape?"
I stiffened. "How—?"
"I'm a daughter of Aphrodite, Thaddeus." She stepped closer, voice feather-light. "I feel longing like heat. Yours? It's quiet but deep. Like an anchor."
"It's not like that," I insisted. "We barely knew each other. Just… got each other out."
"Yet she lingers." Silena tilted her head. "You're not a playboy. You're just… genuinely stuck."
"Yeah."
She nodded, stepping back. "Okay. I respect that." A small, rueful smile touched her lips. "But I don't give up easily. Just… expect space. And maybe a glitter bomb on your birthday."
"Fair warning."
With a final, understanding look, she turned and walked toward the Aphrodite cabin, leaving me alone by the dark water. Fireflies blinked above the reeds.
Genuine.
It felt better than hiding.
And infinitely scarier.
---
The next morning, I was gone.
No fanfare. No dramatic exit.
Just me, duffle bag slung over my shoulder, stepping off the bus into air that should've smelled normal—but normal felt like a bad joke now.
Percy and Grover had insisted on walking me home. Grover looked ready to glue himself to my side.
"Seriously, guys," I waved them off, forcing a grin. "I'm good. Days of bedrest and weird dreams. Gonna go home, mainline junk food, replay Dark Souls till my thumbs bleed, maybe reread Lord of the Rings for the fiftieth time. Brain reset. Doctor's orders."
Percy gave me the 'you'll-faceplant-in-a-ditch' look. "Just… try not to do anything terminally stupid?"
"Define 'terminally stupid,'" I shot back.
"Summoning a hydra for funsies," Annabeth called from behind Percy, arms crossed but smirking. "Or insulting Mr. D via interpretive dance. Standard stuff."
Grover pawed the ground nervously. "Text us when you get inside? Please? Satyr nerves aren't built for radio silence."
"Fine, Mom," I sighed, already walking backward. "Go protect some endangered shrubbery."
I walked solo.
And then—there it was.
My house. Same chipped porch steps. Same faded welcome mat missing a corner. The front door stared back like a riddle I'd forgotten how to solve.
I stood frozen.
Should've texted.
'Hey, back from fighting Death Gods and traitors. Almost got vaporized twice. What's for dinner? Meatloaf?'
Yeah. That'd go over smooth.
Before I could spiral deeper, a muffled shout came from inside.
"Hold your horses! Be right there!"
Darren.
I blinked, exhaling hard.
My eyes dropped to the half-dead plant on the porch—same wilted, neglected pot as before. It sagged like it hadn't seen water since the Cold War.
Of course.
I crouched, hand hovering. A faint green glow pulsed from my palm. Slowly, leaves perked up. Color seeped back into brittle stems. Life, stubborn as ever.
"Atta boy," I murmured, tapping the pot rim.
The door flew open.
Darren stood there—flour-dusted apron, spatula in hand, suspicious red splotch on his collar. His eyes bugged. Brain visibly buffering.
I opened my mouth. Planned something smooth: Hey, back from nearly dying. What's simmering?
What came out: "Hi, Dad. Uh… I'm back. Sorry for—"
Didn't finish.
He yanked me into a hug that threatened spinal integrity. The spatula clattered behind him.
"Hell, kid! Glad you're not dead!" He squeezed tighter, voice rough. "Was startin' to think you joined the circus. Or worse—became a vegetarian."
I wheezed a laugh into his floury shoulder. "Nah. Just… weird adventures."
He pulled back, gripping my arms, eyes scanning me. "You good? In one piece? No extra limbs?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly's good enough." He ruffled my hair like I was twelve. "Now get inside. Food's almost done. And you?" He jabbed the spatula toward the revived plant. "Stop showin' off. Save the magic for the dishes."
For the first time in weeks, a real smile broke through.
"Yeah," I said, stepping inside. "Me too."
Darren stepped back, clapping my shoulder with his trademark grin. "Get in here, kid. Whipped up something new—felt adventurous."
I raised a brow. "Define 'adventurous.' Last time that meant fire alarms."
"Zero faith," he huffed, feigning offense. "It's edible! Probably. Now move before it congeals into cement."
Inside, the house wrapped around me—warmth, creaky floors, the fridge's perpetual grumble. Familiar. Yet crossing the threshold, something settled in my chest. Not heavy. Just… different.
This was home. Knew every stain on the wallpaper, every crooked photo of Darren's 90s band phase, every fork-dent in the kitchen table he called "character." But now? Felt like walking through a museum exhibit titled Before Your Life Became Mythological.
Normal had left the building weeks ago. I'd gone full Journey to the West: Underworld Edition, juggled Zeus's lightning, made Olympus's watchlist. No longer "weird magic kid." Now "weird magic problem."
This was the new normal. Whatever that meant.
I rolled my shoulders like shedding armor. Overthinking? Pointless. Bottom line: I'd helped stop a god-war, saved Percy's mom, maybe even impressed Ares (jury's out). Not bad for a summer gig.
My duffle thudded onto the couch—the same one I'd face-planted into after Dumbledore's surprise visit. Back when magic felt like a glitch I could ignore.
My eyes stuck to the cushions.
That Hogwarts offer still floated in limbo. Magical school. Fresh start. Answers. Tempting? Hell yes. But after dueling death gods and dodging divine tantrums… could I even pretend to be normal again?
I sank into the couch, sighing like a deflated balloon.
Yeah.
Didn't think so.
Then Darren materialized, sliding a steaming plate my way with that trademark smirk.
Darren waved his hands like a ringmaster. "Feast your eyes—Herb-Crusted Chicken Supreme, my newest creation."
I gave the dish a once-over, eyebrow cocked. "You totally pulled that name outta thin air, didn't you?"
"Guilty as charged," he said, grinning. "Now stop judging and eat. Cold food's a crime."
I took a bite—then froze.
Darren leaned in, panic creeping in. "Wait. Is it trash? It's trash isn't it!?"
Instead of answering, I yanked the plate closer and dug in like I hadn't eaten in weeks.
"Bro—BRO!" Darren lunged for the dish, uselessly. "Slow down, you gremlin! You're inhaling it! I slaved over this! At least pretend to chew!"
"Too late, old man—should've doubled the recipe!" I fired back, ducking his grabby hands with a smirk.
What followed was chaos—forks clinked like swords, dodges that'd make a ninja jealous, and a full-on dive to shield the last bite from his clutches.
"You're a menace—" Darren growled as I crammed the final piece into my mouth, grinning like I'd won the lottery.
I sank back into the couch, smug as a cat in sunlight, patting my stomach. "Okay, fine. You've outdone yourself. Michelin-star-worthy, chef."
Darren flopped into the armchair, defeated. "You're insufferable."
Once Darren had begrudgingly accepted his L, we finally did the thing we'd both been dodging—a real father-son chat. Or, as I saw it, prime time to roast him mercilessly every time he side-eyed the idea of dating, remarrying, or 'adulting.
"You know, I've been thinking," Darren started, stirring his drink. "Maybe it's time I put myself back out there. Start dating again—"
"Bold of you to assume there's a woman alive who'd survive your cooking and your puns," I cut in, kicking my feet up on the coffee table.
Darren shot me a look. "I'll have you know, I've got layers. Layers."
"Name three."
"Easy. I'm charming, responsible, and—"
"Hard pass. Next you'll claim you're handsome."
"I am handsome!"
"Dad, you're at midlife crisis age. Let it go."
He clutched his chest like I'd stabbed him. "This is how you repay the man who raised you?"
"Every damn day," I said, grinning. "Keeps you humble."
That led to about ten more minutes of relentless back-and-forth—me ruthlessly dragging his tragic love life through the mud, and him doubling down by making equally savage jabs at my social skills (or, as he put it, my "endearing talent for emotional constipation").
"Big talk from someone whose idea of flirting is blinking twice and then running away."
"How dare you! At least I don't date people who ghost you harder than actual ghosts."
He pointed the spatula at me. "You keep going, and I swear I'm putting an Undetectable Bloating Charm in your next sandwich."
I smirked. "Do it. Maybe I'll finally feel something."
Eventually, the banter died down, and things turned quieter—more grounded.
"Anyway…" I began, stretching the word out like I could stall the conversation from taking a serious turn. "Can we talk about your... peak performing track record in love?"
Darren groaned, already burying his face in his hands. "Must we?"
"I didn't say I was gonna stop," I said, planting both elbows on the kitchen table like I was about to cross-examine a witness. "Let's start with—uh, what was her name again? The Hogwarts Sweetheart? Post-College couple energy, except without the happy ending."
He sighed dramatically. "Summer."
"Right! The one who wore way too many scarves and insisted that crystal healing could cure curses."
"C'mon, it's not like that." he muttered, clearly regretting all his life choices. "She also wanted to start a cauldron business. I wanted to join the Department of International Magical Cooperation. We were doomed."
"She had a very open mind."
"She tried to feng shui the fireplace, Dad."
"Then there was the lawyer."
He winced. "Amelia."
"She cross-examined you during an actual date."
"I thought it was roleplay!"
"Dad... How?"
"She was passionate!"
"She was terrifying."
He threw grabbed a pillow and threw it at me. I ducked and kept going.
"And the third one? That French witch from your 'mysterious wizardly work.' I remember because you wouldn't shut up about how she had sisters."
"That was a long time ago—"
"Something Delacour, right?"
His expression twisted. "Violetta."
I snapped my fingers. "That's it! V-something. You mentioned once she had younger sisters and could summon fire with her bare hands, which, y'know, casual."
"Veela heritage," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable now.
"Veela, right. Makes sense. Explains why you were such a wreck when she ghosted you."
"She didn't ghost me."
"Did she or did she not vanish mid-teleport and leave you standing alone in a Scottish bog?"
He narrowed his eyes. "You really love this, don't you?"
I shrugged, grinning. "Deeply."
"I think that's about all of it. If anyone in this house has a cursed dating record, it's you. I might be emotionally unavailable, but at least I haven't traumatized international relations."
Darren just rubbed his face and sighed dramatically. "I raised a monster."
I grinned. "And I was forged in the flames of your failed love life. You have no one to blame but yourself."
Then it was thick silence that came after. The kind that rolls in just before the inevitable—heavy, loaded, inescapable.
Darren sank into the chair across from me. He leaned back slightly, his eyes not quite sharp but focused. "So…" he started slowly, carefully, it seemed he didn't want to spook the truth out of me. uncertain. "you think maybe you could tell me what… what really went on out there? With your friends?
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face as I leaned back in my seat, staring at the ceiling like the answers might be written up there.
"Where do I even start."
I didn't wait for him to answer. I just… started yapping.
I told him how it began—how I got dragged into the "Greek World: The Lightning Thief Edition" mess completely by accident. I just wanted to help Percy. His ass was getting hunted down by a Minotaur and, well, I wasn't exactly gonna sit on the sidelines and let him become a smear on the highway.
One thing led to another, and suddenly we were on a road trip across the country. I gave him the highlights—how we ran into Medusa and barely made it out, how a Hydra nearly toasted us, how the Lotus Casino messed with our heads, how the Underworld was exactly as terrifying as it sounds.
I skimmed over some details. Didn't tell him how close things got. Didn't mention how my magic almost ripped me apart a couple times. I kept it light where I could. Joked when I had to.
And Darren?
He didn't say anything. Just listened. No interruptions—just… taking it all in. Like he'd been waiting for this.
Sadly, came the part I really didn't want to talk about.
And yet I did.
"The duel with Luke… that one hit different," I said, quieter now. "Not just because he betrayed us. But because I wasn't supposed to make it through that. My body—it nearly gave out. My magic... it shut down, and for a second, I thought that was it."
He frowned at that.
"I kept pushing anyway. I didn't even think about it, really. Something kicked in. Something old. Not mine. Not completely. Like... instinct, but deeper. I still don't fully get it."
That was as close as I could bring myself to explaining it. Not the whole truth. Not the Doc. Though it was enough for now.
"I ended up on Olympus," I said with a small, hollow laugh. "Yeah. Up there. Got to hand Zeus his bolt back and everything. Almost died doing it."
Another pause. Darren's eyes hadn't left me. He didn't look scared, or angry. Just… older. Like the weight of what I said had settled on his shoulders, too.
"You've been through a lot," he finally said in a calm voice. "More than most people go through in a lifetime."
I nodded. "Yeah, well. I didn't exactly ask for it."
"No," he said. "But you didn't run from it either."
I didn't know what to say to that. I just looked down at my hands.
He leaned forward a bit. "You don't have to carry all of it on your own, y'know. I may not be in your real family, but I'm still here. Always will be."
That hit harder than I expected.
And still, I didn't tell him about the Doc. About the pieces of myself I didn't even fully understand.
Not until I was sure.
Although what I did know, what I could say with certainty—I looked at Darren, at the man who'd taken me in when he didn't have to, who taught me what family actually meant—
"You're the reason I made it this far," I said softly. "I know I joke a lot. I know I pretend I've got it together. But… you were the first person who ever made me feel like I belonged somewhere. Like I had something real."
He didn't say anything at first. Just got up from his chair, walked over, and pulled me into a hug. No words. Just… that.
And for once, I didn't feel like I had to be anything more than just me.
Darren chuckled as he leaned back on the couch, a brow raised like he was waiting for the punchline. "Thad, don't you have like... I dunno," he drawled, "any other stories you that don't involve near-death experiences, gods, or emotional trauma wrapped in monster attacks?"
I let out a short laugh, low and tired. "Actually… yeah." I stared at the ceiling. "There was… Daphne."
He straightened slightly, curious now.
"Whole thing happened in one night," I began, slowly. "Lotus Casino. Vegas. That place—man—it screws with time. Felt like we were there for decades, but technically? Five days. Five days stuck in that neon trap. And somewhere in the middle of all that… there was her."
I could still see her—every detail vivid like it had happened five minutes ago. "She was… different. Soft-spoken, even when the world around us was pure chaos. Like the kind of calm you'd find in the eye of a storm. Nothing rattled her—not really. And her eyes, Dad—blue. Not like the ocean or the sky. No, like Arctic ice under moonlight. Cold at first glance, but not dead. Sharp. Unnervingly sharp. Like she didn't just see you—she read you."
I shook my head, laughing under my breath. "We danced. Or, well, we tried. It was part of the plan to escape. Long story. Depressingly enough, I've got the rhythm of a dying seal, and she's probably danced in Vienna or some crap. So we bailed. Ended up wandering into some highbrow art gallery stuffed in the casino. Fruit bowls. Sad clowns. One portrait of some Renaissance guy who looked like he hated us just for breathing near his frame."
Darren snorted.
"We sat there. No distractions. And we just… talked. About real stuff. Philosophical, emotional, all that unspoken junk people usually avoid. Parents. Regret. Ambition. I might've roasted you a little—lovingly, of course."
"Of course," he muttered, smirking.
"She's smart. Like, too smart. Made me feel like her soul was part library. Comes from money. Not just the 'I drive a Mercedes' kind—like the old money. Crest-on-the-wall kind. Yet she didn't act like it. She was just there. Unapologetically herself. No need to prove anything to anyone."
My fingers tapped against the rim of my glass absently. "And then it happened. We just looked at each other—and next thing I knew, we were kissing. Her hair was loose by then—no clue when that even happened—and it felt like grabbing onto a damn wildfire."
I laughed again, but quieter this time. "First kiss was good. Sweet. I could've let it end there. But after I got her back to her hotel… Second kiss? That one stuck. We were parked outside. Vegas still buzzing in the distance, car engine ticking as it cooled, and she laughed at something dumb I said. Then silence. And she kissed me again. Hard. Like she was trying to burn it into our bones.
I placed down the glass and waived my hands, "Dad! we then had our foreheads leaning on one another like... AHHHHHHHHH! And I—fuck—I let her."
Darren didn't say anything.
"I don't even know what it was," I said. "Attraction? A spark? Some messed-up trauma bond? She's older. British. Probably sipping imported tea right now in a marble manor somewhere. Me? I'm still trying to figure out which part of my soul's broken this week."
I sighed, voice growing quieter. "Part of me wants to chase it. Just go, find her, ask her if it meant anything. Still there's this… rusted part in me. Old. Bitter. The one that screams, 'Feelings are weakness. You cry, you lose.' And it's loud. It's so damn loud."
Another pause.
"I hate that part of me. But I don't know how to shut it up. Seriously, I'm stuck. Standing in this doorway between wanting to burn it all down and wanting to reach out. And I don't know which side wins."
My voice trailed off into nothing.
"But… anyway. She's probably moved on. Probably forgot I exist. And I'm here, pretending I'm not replaying that night on loop like a cringy rom-com. Pathetic, right?"
There was a beat of silence, and then Darren said softly, "Nah. Just human."
Darren gave a quiet chuckle, the kind that carried weight—nostalgic, dry, a little bittersweet. "You really think it's just gods and monsters who leave scars? Nah, kid. Sometimes it's the ones who smile at you across a dance floor and ask if you believe in fate."
"Sounds like you finally found someone who can keep up," he said finally, voice low, almost teasing.
I swallowed hard. "Yeah."
That single word was all I could muster. And somehow, it covered everything.
My fingers tapped restless against my knee, eyes flicking around the room—walls, ceiling, anywhere aside him. Head tilted like I could physically shake the right words loose. But they stayed stuck, half-formed, tangled in the back of my throat.
Darren noticed, of course. Always did. But he didn't push it. Just leaned back in his chair, exhaling slow. "It's alright, kid."
"Y'know," Darren said, scratching the back of his neck like he was digging up old ghosts, "I get it. More than you'd guess. Way back before me and Summer, ya know—hell, before the so-called adult life—I was right where you are. Met her during this… manic teenage phase. An American in a British wizarding school, thinking I could outsmart the stars. Thought we had the universe on lock. Invincible. Untouchable."
He gave a short laugh, low and tired. "Turns out the universe loves a good punchline."
Darren's smirk widened. "I was still apprenticing—bright-eyed, barely housebroken, and barely qualified to be swinging a wand outside school hours. Lived like every day was the last. It was also around the time the world finally accepted You Know Who was gone for good." He paused.
"Tense years. People rebuilding, scarred by a war most of them didn't even understand."
His eyes looked liked they were starring at something far away. "And her? Summer was sharp. Sharp like flint. Could cut you open with a word and stitch you back up with the next one. Made me feel like I was ten steps behind and ten years ahead all at once."
He leaned back, his voice turning quiet. "We burned hot. Real hot. Like comet-through-the-sky hot. As much as I didn't want it, some fires…" he shook his head, "aren't built to last. Doesn't mean they weren't real. Doesn't mean they didn't matter."
Silence settled again.
He met my eyes, voice softer now. "Don't let the end of something stop you from chasing what it was. People forget, sometimes, that the temporary can be just as important as the permanent. And some moments? They're meant to burn into you."
I nodded slowly, the weight of everything pressing against my ribs like it needed somewhere to go.
"Thanks," I murmured.
But it came out more like a sigh. Still, something inside eased just a little.
Maybe he was right. Maybe that night meant something to her, too.
Maybe.
He stood with a groan, cracking his back like he'd just carried the weight of an ancient curse. "Need caffeine. Emotional labor's gonna kill me before any monster does."
I watched him shuffle off to the kitchen, and then let my head fall back against the couch cushions with a dull thunk. Silence followed—just enough of it for my brain to do what it does best.
Spiral.
Hogwarts.
The word echoed like a spell still waiting to land. Dumbledore's offer had been simmering on the back burner since he showed up on our doorstep, robes, riddles, and all. Back then? Felt like some fever dream. A side quest. Now? After weeks of gods, monsters, near-death experiences, and kissing a British girl under Vegas neon?
It was real. Tangible. And it wanted an answer.
I stared at the ceiling like it was supposed to write it out for me in glowing letters. I'd faced down Zeus. Survived the Underworld. Traded blows with Luke. Talked back to Ares. And somehow…
Making a choice for myself was harder.
Because saving the world? That's instinct. Survival. But choosing your own path? That's personal. That sticks.
Darren returned, handing me a fresh mug of coffee like it was a peace offering. He didn't say anything at first—just sat down beside me, sipping his own cup, eyes casually dissecting my entire soul like it was Tuesday.
Then finally, with a faint grin curling on his lips, he said, "All that time out there. Everything that happened. The girl, the gods, the drama... Surely somewhere around all that, you've already made up your mind, haven't you?"
I stared into the coffee like it might give me a prophecy. Swirled it once. Let the silence linger.
Yeah.
I guess so...