The café bell gave a faint chime as the door shut behind the newcomer.
Bast's arms stiffened slightly around Percy's shoulders. Her ears twitched like a cat catching the whisper of a hunter's footfall.
Percy, still seated, tilted his head and gave a half-smile.
"Lancelot," he said. "What are you doing here?"
The man approached with measured steps, his polished shoes silent on the café's wood floor. A shadow of wind followed him, though the air inside had not stirred. The glowing pale-blue markings across his temple and neck shimmered faintly, like runes traced in starlight. He looked like someone carved out of myth and given a new suit.
"My lord," Lancelot said, bowing his head slightly, "forgive the intrusion."
"You're not intruding," Bast said, her tone pleasant, but her fingers flexed just slightly along Percy's collarbone. She could feel it too—something was off.
"You rarely leave Avalon," Percy continued, folding his arms. "And you even more rarely find me when I don't want to be found."
Lancelot gave a small nod, as if conceding the point. Then he reached into his coat and pulled free a scroll, sealed in silver and humming with wild, elemental energy.
"I would not have come if it weren't urgent," he said, voice low. "Someone is stirring near the southern perimeter of Avalon—someone that should not be there. Something's... wrong."
"What is it?" said Percy, his tone serious, "It's Loki sir... with 10 jötnar generals of his army, they don't seem pacific" It wasn't the number of jötnar the problem, it was their rank, most importantly...who led them, while the original Loki was imprisoned, his projections were still...well him, maybe less powerful but... Loki was still Loki, if he wanted to he could raze a city, and him being in his territory was not how he expected his morning to go.
Percy got up and turned facing Bast, "I have to go..." he said, sour in his voice, then put a hand on her cheek and kissed her, "Sorry if our date wasn't longer... i'll make sure to make up".
"Don't worry dear, i won't go anywhere...unless Sadie and her grandparents decide to go live in malaysia that is" she said, her tone joking, trying to better his mood, "now go... maybe he just wants to share a pizza..."
Percy took a deep breath, he could not use excalibur, the other one had it, "Lancelot could you do a favor and open a portal?" The less energy he used the better it was in case of a fight,"Certainly" at this Lancelot waved his hand and a crack seemed to appear in reality, a bit like shattered glass, as they both touched the crack, Percy and the knight found themselves travelling through the mist itself, arriving in the throne room, there he found someone unexpected,
"Hey... huh what are you doing here?" he asked the red haired goddess with an awkward tone, "I could ask the same to you... husband" she said the last part with a soft tone, almost as if not wanting to be heard, "So... i get that you got your memories from the future, uhm... soo.. are you coming with me to the border?" she nodded his eyes locked in the pavement,
Percy wasn't sure what to say. What could you say to a goddess who once vowed eternal maidenhood, only to know finding herself married to someone, because she was married to them in the future, their souls were bound, and percy guessed she was really shaken about it,
*cough* *cough* Percy turned toward Lancelot, the knight's gaze said all that needed to be said, 'resolve these matters later, border, now',
Percy gave a short nod. "Right."
He turned away from the throne room and toward the inner chambers—the place most never ventured unless called. The Furnaces. If Loki was at the border, with ten generals, he'd need more than Mist, he needed a good sword and fast. As he passed into the corridor, he muttered, "Won't take long."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Artemis POV
She walked beside Lancelot in silence.
Their boots echoed against the glassy stone path carved from moonlight and petrified star roots. Above them, Avalon's skies churned—silver clouds moving like ocean tides caught in thought.
She didn't speak.
But inside? She was a hurricane.
I didn't ask for this.
Soul-bonded.
The memories were like oil bleeding into water—foreign, but irreversible. She remembered holding his hand in battle. Remembered dancing with him beneath the apple blossoms. She remembered choosing him. Loving him.
But those were her memories. Not now-her.Not yet-her.
She wanted to fall in love slowly. To know him in this life, not just in fractured echoes of what might be.
And yet… when he looked at her…
Her heart beat faster.
Stupid heart.
Lancelot glanced at her, but said nothing. Good man.
They passed through the veil of moonlight that marked the southern border encampment—and the sight ahead sobered her instantly.
Dozens of fae warriors stood ready—The Mistwalkers, veiled in shifting glamours, stood at the center, flanked in both sides by jotnar, at the center the towering figure of Sir Geraint, whose silver blade was already glowing.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Percy POV — The Heart of the Forge
The Furnaces of Avalon were never quiet.
Even now, as Percy descended the obsidian stairwell wrapped in carved roots and storm-forged iron, the air trembled with a low, constant thrum—like a dragon sleeping beneath a mountain, exhaling steam with every breath.
He passed beneath a gate of molten brass and bone-white ash wood. Immediately, the scent hit him—burning salt, ancient flame, and cold iron. The flames here didn't burn red or orange. They shimmered seafoam blue, flickering like underwater lightning trapped in bellows.
he needed a sword just his own.
He stepped up to the main forge platform. The anvils were carved from frozen basalt, inscribed with words of Old Magic that even Thoth probably hadn't deciphered. Percy rolled up his sleeves.
"Alright," he muttered, laying the raw materials before him—a shard of Leviathan scale, a fragment of dragon bones, and a block of Fae-forged midnight steel.
The last piece he summoned from his own pocket of divine magic: a sliver of his own ichor, crystallized under pressure. His memories of failure. Of sacrifice. Of endurance.
That would be the core.
He struck the steel with a hammer kissed by Hephaestus himself—and the forge sang.
Not screamed. Not roared.
Sang.
Like ocean waves over stone. Like steel whispering its birth into the world.
Percy poured himself into the process.
He wasn't a blacksmith by trade—but Avalon taught him that a god didn't need training when he was aligned with what he created. He didn't just shape metal. He guided the memory it would carry.
Sweat beaded on his brow. Sparks danced like fireflies.
Shape it like a current, he thought.
Not a brutal cleaver. Not a heavy broadsword. He wanted a blade that moved like he did—sharp, fast, decisive. A sword that twisted through gaps in armor, turned with the tide of combat, and vanished before retaliation.
When he lifted it—
It gleamed like the ocean beneath moonlight.
The blade was narrow but fluid in design. Slightly curved, like a river caught mid-turn. The steel was the color of storm clouds streaked with deep sea green. Small, ancient runes shimmered along the fuller.
The crossguard resembled two gently arching waves meeting in the middle. The grip was wrapped in sea serpent leather, dyed midnight blue and traced with silver thread. The pommel held a piece of polished coral.
It was sleek. Modest. Fast.
It didn't need a name written by gods.
But it had one, now burned into his blood.
Undertow.
A blade that didn't announce itself. A weapon of hidden depths and unrelenting pull.
Percy held it up. It was light. Lighter than Riptide. But it felt like an extension of his body.
A companion.
He sheathed it at his side with a satisfying click, just as a horn sounded from the outer gate. Time to meet the Trickster.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The young king appeared in front of his troops, is jeans darkened and tightened, becoming seamless with the greaves forming over his shins. Boots adjusted themselves around his feet with a soft click, laced with silver along the seams. The gloves crept over his hands, smooth and sure.
A white fur mantle settled around his shoulders, not heavy—just warm, like it had always been part of him. The cloak trailed behind without drag, a symbol more than armor. Not for show, but for presence.
Percy's boots made no sound on the black basalt as he squared his shoulders before the assembled jotunn and fae. The air above the southern gate shivered with their presence—and then a voice, soft but all too familiar, drifted from the mist at his back.
"Well, well, well," Loki drawled. "You are quite young, aren't you?Avalon's southern defenses look… lively. Tell me, young king—how long have you held this throne?"
Percy turned slowly. The Trickster stood framed by gray mist, ten jagged figures behind him in frost-hewn armor. Loki was tall, lean, and too symmetrical—like someone had sculpted him out of mischief and vanity. His cheekbones could've cut glass, and his smile was all teeth and intention.
His hair was a tousled cascade of golden-brown waves, as if a storm had styled it on its way out. But it was his eyes that drew the breath from the room—mismatched, one green and the other amber, both flickering like candle flames moments before they leapt free of the wick. And then there was the smile—curious, amused, always a step ahead.
He wore a charcoal-gray suit jacket over a black shirt, collar undone just enough to blur the line between divine menace and backstage mischief. Faint runes shimmered along his neck in soft, pale-blue light—too steady to be natural, too gentle to be safe.
"Long enough to know that borders are meant to be defended, not wandered through," Percy said, his hand settling on the hilt of Undertow. "Why march your giants here?"
Loki stepped forward, hands tucked into the pockets of a sea-green coat that billowed faintly, though no wind stirred. "Trespassing? Hardly. I thought this was the edge of your realm." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Tell me, young king—Percy Jackson, is it?—how does one claim a throne that was never his to begin with?"
Percy's fingers curled tighter around the blade. "Avalon chose me."
Loki chuckled, soft and sharp. "Chose you? Hm. Curious, how an island finds a new melody overnight." His laughter echoed like wind through glass. Cold. Clear. Cutting.
"Why are your generals here?" Percy asked again, this time his voice edged in steel. His stance shifted, ready to draw.
The trickster only grinned wider. "Strange," he mused, "I don't recall your name echoing through these halls the last time I passed through them." His voice was mock-thoughtful, but his eyes burned with amusement.
Then he laughed—a sudden, manic burst. "HAHAHA! You should've seen your face—so tense, so serious." He leaned forward, voice dropping into velvet mockery. "Relax. I'm only here to pay homage to the newest godlet in this delightfully dysfunctional pantheon of ours."
His grin was wild now. Unhinged. Like someone who'd already set the fire and was waiting for the scream.
Just as Loki leaned forward—his lips parting in what Percy could only assume would be another smug twist of words—a sudden thwip split the air.
An arrow, silver-bright and humming with divine resonance, slammed into the earth at Loki's feet.
The Trickster paused. His grin faltered, just a little.
From the shifting curtain of mist behind Percy, a voice rang out—measured and crisp, the cool calm of a huntress just before the draw.
"Enough."
Loki's gaze lifted. His smile reassembled itself with new interest, like a predator spotting another one across the treetops.
Artemis stepped forward, bow still raised, but her string relaxed. The silver in her eyes burned like moonfire as she stepped to Percy's side, flanked by two Mistwalkers whose glamours shimmered faintly beneath their hoods.
Loki tilted his head. "Ah. Her. Now this is getting interesting."
"You've trespassed far enough," Artemis said, her voice steady. "This is Avalon. Not Jötunheim."
"And you're far from Olympus, my dear." Loki's smile was razor-thin. "But I admit, it's refreshing to see the moon and tide stand side by side. How… poetic."
"I'll show you poetry," Artemis said, notching another arrow.
"Peace," Percy murmured beside her, his voice low. "Not yet."
Loki's eyes flicked between them—reading, measuring. Then he gave a low whistle, and the ten Jötnar behind him shifted slightly, their armor creaking like distant glaciers.
"Well then," Loki said. "No chaos today, I suppose. Just curiosity. But the next time you feel your power swelling, young king—remember: the sea can rise… but tides always turn."
And with a flourish of his coat, he stepped backward—into the mist.
One by one, the Jötnar vanished behind him, until only the shimmer of disturbed magic remained.
Percy let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Beside him, Artemis lowered her bow.
"I still don't like him," she said flatly.
"Good," Percy replied. "Because that wasn't a meeting."
He looked down at the arrow still humming faintly in the dirt.
"That was a warning."