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Perseus Thrall-Born – Odin's Rest, 889 CE

"And you're sure it's him? The prisoner didn't lie to you, or–"

"I'm sorry, Liv, but I'm sure. Everything we've gotten from him so far has checked out. His story is corroborated by all the intel our spies have been able to gather. That, and Frode isn't exactly denying the charges. This isn't some wild stab in the dark… We know he did it."

"Okay, but can't you–"

Percy grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes, normally so rich with optimism, were clouded with distress. Percy's heart panged sympathetically for the plight of his dear friend. Were he able, he would've wiped every last ounce of morosity from her aching heart, but alas, such things were beyond even his control.

"If I could, I would. I swear it." he assured her. "But too many men died because of what he did. If Trygve showed mercy now, his head would be on a pike within the hour. Simply sparing Frode the blood eagle was already risk enough."

Liv's lip trembled, and when she spoke next, her voice was uncharacteristically feeble.

"But he's my– He's my father…"

Glittering tears threatened to spill over, and Percy felt his gut twist and turn in discomfort. He certainly had no qualms about punishing a traitor – in fact, he would normally relish such a notion – but Liv's unique stance on the matter made his feelings… Complicated. While he would like nothing more than to see Frode's head roll, he loathed the idea of her suffering for her father's sins.

"I know he is, and I'm sorry, but that changes nothing. Frode must die. Too many lost souls demand justice, and only the gods are capable of levying such retribution."

"Do you think… Do you think the gods will judge him well?"

"I think you and I both know the answer to that will not comfort you."

Liv nodded and tried in vain to swallow her grief. Tears began to fall, trickling down her cheeks and staining her with her own sorrow. Percy could do nothing but bring her close, tuck her head into his chest, and pray that the world would soon find a way to heal the daughters born to black-hearted fathers.

"I've hated him all my life." She mumbled into his shoulder. "I hated him when he sent my mother away. I hated him when he sent me here. I hated him when he tried to keep me from you and Trygve. I hated him through every egotistical, power-hungry, paranoid episode, and after what he's done… I'd like nothing more than to see him suffer, but…"

"You don't have to say it. I understand."

And he did. Liv was a girl born to an evil father. A father who had done nothing worthy of affection, and yet she loved all the same. Family was family, even through hatred, and even the worst of men were loved by some. It was simply a cruel turn of fate that Liv, the kindest person Percy had ever known, was trapped in such a position. A cycle of guilt, hatred, and loss – all perpetuated by one man – that insisted upon itself until she was hollowed to the core.

"Just get through today." He murmured. "And then you can take the rest as it comes."

Liv pushed herself off his chest and looked up at him through red-rimmed eyes.

"It's that easy, is it?"

Percy shook his head.

"Gods no, not by half. Loss isn't something that just fixes itself. It… It sticks with you. It fades slowly after a while, and eventually it's just a nagging thought in the back of your mind, but it never disappears entirely. Just when you think it's left you for good, it comes back stronger than ever before. The point is, dealing with it isn't easy, but it's not always hard, and when it is…" he reached down and gave her hand a squeeze. "That's what friends are for."

Liv smiled softly up at him. Her eyes were still filled with woe, but her face spoke of immeasurable gratitude. She slowly raised a single hand – dainty but calloused – and traced the length of his jaw. Electricity far beyond anything he'd ever felt before tingled on his skin, and heat like the flames of a divine forge sparked in his cheeks. Green eyes closed in, an arm looped around his neck, and–

Her lips met his and his entire world disappeared. There was nothing else but the moment. Not a spec of reality mattered beyond the symphony in his head. A melody of untold extravagance crafted from the notes of their interwoven souls. Desperately, hungrily, longingly, he leaned into the kiss. He savored the soothing effect she had on his ever-ablaze soul. He cherished every breath, but the moment wasn't made to last. He pushed her off, removing himself from her intoxicating touch before he could lose himself even more deeply.

There was a myriad of warring emotions written across her features in that instant. He saw confusion, shock, and hurt. Noticed passion, excitement, and dare he say love. There was worry and fear, even a bit of regret. Above all else, he saw pure, unrestrained contrition.

"I'm so sorry." She rushed out. "I shouldn't've done that I– I don't even know if you– Or if–… I'm just all sorts of jumbled up right now and–"

"I'm not upset." He said, nipping her worries in the bud. "But you're not you right now. You're dealing with a lot, and that would make anyone… jumbled. If… that is still something you want when you're in your right state of mind, then… Then I don't think I would be opposed."

"But not now?"

"Not now, but one day. We've waited a long time for this, I think. It can wait until you're you again."

It took Liv only a blink to think it over.

"One day then." She agreed. "May it be upon us soon."

They said their goodbyes after that, and then they parted ways. While Liv was able to skip Frode's execution – even the angriest of the Bjornar understood she didn't want to see her father killed – Percy did not share in her privilege. He had been there when the deaths had begun. He had witnessed firsthand the horrors of Frode's betrayal. He was honor-bound to see the execution through. That, and he was hoping he'd get a chance to swing the blade himself.

When he ventured outside, he couldn't help but note how fitting the weather was for such a day. The sky was dark and gloomy, and the air was crispened by the chilly snap of encroaching winter. Rain fell soft and misty, and every step crunched a fallen leaf. From the sky to the worm-infested earth, the whole world mourned with the Bjornar.

He tugged his cloak a bit tighter around himself as he walked the beaten streets of Odin's rest. The roads – normally bustling with life – were eerily untrodden, and it didn't take a scholar to understand why. Frode's execution was much more than a simple deliverance of justice. It was a grand spectacle of the highest order. Made to appease the bloody cries of freshly made widows and orphans. Liv was likely the only person in all of Odin's Rest who didn't want to attend.

Sure enough, the site of the execution was already crowded by the time he reached it. Men, women, and children alike had gathered into a roaring crowd. They shouted obscenities so creative and vile that even Loki would've been impressed. Percy was forced to use his size to push through the wall of bodies, and even then, it was still several minutes before he managed to muscle his way to Trygve's side.

"What's with the shit eating grin?" Trygve asked as soon as he arrived.

Percy blinked. He'd been smiling? Damn Liv, damn her kisses, and damn his addled brain.

"Just thought of something funny." He lied. "Nothing important."

"Yeah, well, I could certainly use some humor right about now. This execution is going to be the death of me."

"You know I'll handle it if you ask it of me."

"A tempting offer, brother, but you know I must refuse. My father always swung the sword, and so too shall I."

"How much longer will you make them wait then?" He asked, nodding towards the people. "I fear they may be running out of patience."

Trygve eyed the incensed crowd. It took only a second of observing the frenzy for him to come to a decision.

"Right you are. They've waited for Frode's head long enough. It's time we deliver."

Percy nodded before turning to the crowd and raising a single fist. Many fell silent immediately, and the rest were quickly silenced when they realized who it was that demanded quiet. Angry or not, none dared to challenge a direct order from the king, especially when it was delivered by Perseus Thrall-Born.

"Gathered Bjornar," Trygve shouted to the assembled masses. "You've gathered here today to see justice dispensed. Long have you waited, and you need not wait any longer. Today, a traitor dies, and Odin's Rest will no longer be tarnished by his weakness."

Cheers louder than any thunderclap rattled the earth. Impossibly, Trygve's next words were still heard loud and clear through the ear-shattering din.

"Acke!" he roared. "Bring me the traitor, so I may bring these people his head!"

It took ten minutes, twenty soldiers, and a lot of crowd control, but eventually Acke made it through the mob with Frode in tow. The scheming jarl bore countless cuts and bruises – keeping the soldiers from taking a run at him had quickly proven to be an impossible task – and his pale skin was pulled taut over an emaciated frame, but his eyes still burned bight with wit and hatred in equal measure. He shot Percy and Trygve scathing looks, but Percy needed only to nod towards the grand executioner's sword in Trygve's hands to win the silent altercation.

"Are you eager to die, Frode?" Trygve asked.

"I'm eager to be rid of you." Frode spat. "The two of you are a stain on the Bjornar name. First you corrupted my daughter, and then your father's people, and soon they will all pay the price for your sins."

"Perhaps, but not before you pay for yours."

Acke shoved Frode forward and forced him to kneel. The crowds' cheers redoubled, and Percy felt his whole body shake in tune with the vibrations of their hate. Frode's neck met the executioner's block, and like a witch's spell had overtaken the people, all quieted as one.

"Frode Stensson," Trygve boomed across the silence. "Your treasonous acts led to the deaths of countless good men. Good men who sought only to protect their families. Good men who now walk the fields of Valhalla long before they were needed. Today, you pay for that injustice."

"You call it injustice; I call it wisdom. This war is doomed to end with us bending the knee. I sought only so hasten the inevitable. To save those that you would sacrifice on a slogging march towards damnation. The deaths of those good men may rest on my head, but all those after this day fall on yours."

For a moment Percy felt fear plague him. Fear that Frode was right, and that continuing the fight was the last thing the people needed. He could see the same hesitance in Trygve, and that gave him even more pause. It was then, when he doubted his own choices the most, that he recalled the first blown barrel. The first agonizing scream. The first withered corpse. It was then that his resolve hardened for good.

The Saxons were wielding an evil power. A power much too dangerous to be in mortal hands. Fighting against such a power, avenging those who fell to it, and ensuring such a monstrous weapon never came to be again? That was a cause that would always be worth fighting for. He could only hope that Trygve shared in his resolution.

"You were right about one thing, Frode." Trygve finally said. "Their deaths are on your head." Trygve raised his sword high overhead, and the steel glimmered thirstily. "Allow me to relieve you of that burden."

Perseus Thrall-Born – Odin's Rest, 889 CE

The meeting following Frode's execution was set to be an unpleasant affair. Though none of the jarls had been particularly fond of the man, his treasonous actions were symptomatic of a larger issue that could no longer be ignored. Frode's methods had been abhorrent, but they had also been born through hope cast in the crucible of misfortune. For all that the Bjornar pretended it was untrue, the Saxon's were winning the war. Misguided though he was, Frode had been the first to act in genuine desperation. After today's proceedings, it was clear that it was now their turn to follow suit.

As Percy faced the seated noblemen, he found himself dogged by their pervading unease. Every nervous twitch made his own hairs stand on end. Each muttered worry reared a dozen of its kin in the back of his mind. The jarls of the Bjornar were as uncertain as a winter sea, blown haphazardly by the winds of dire circumstance. It was difficult not to be caught up in their grim current.

Among the solemn bearded men, a familiar, pallid face served as his refuge. Liv – once denied entry to such meetings to appease Frode – had now taken up her father's place. Though her eyes were uncertain, and her every move told of the tumultuous emotions churning inside, he still felt eased by her presence. There was a strangeness between them, and she was certainly not at her best, but having her there would make what was coming a minute degree easier, and he would take every small victory he could get.

While he had been lost in his musings, the jarls' muttered doubts had grown into shouted disagreements. With Trygve inexplicably absent from the very meeting he'd called to order, unrest was beginning to take root. Those not worried about their king were worried about the war, and such unmoderated turmoil was a recipe for all manner of nastiness. He could only hope that Trygve would arrive before their pettiness sparked his own short temper.

"This is outrageous!" he heard one of the jarls shout. "The Saxons sit on our doorstep with a deadly weapon in hand, and he's out gods only know where!"

"We're in a time of crisis!" Another bellowed. "What use is an absent king?"

"Thrall-Born!" Jarl Sigfrøðr called over the din. "Where is your king?"

"My king? Last I checked, Trygve was king of all Bjornar. As for his whereabouts… He will arrive in due time."

In truth, Percy hadn't a clue where his brother was, but the last thing this bundle of discontent needed was a spark.

"And if he doesn't? We have serious matters to discuss. Things that could save lives! And he's out–"

"If Trygve does not arrive in a time you deem suitable, I have full authority to moderate this discussion in his stead. We will not go without action today, Sigfrøðr."

"Well, I will not be lorded over by a slave. Not when–"

"Not when there is squabbling to be done?" Percy snapped. All fell silent at the sound of his biting tone. "The lot of you sit here and bemoan our misfortune, and yet none of you have had a single idea to remedy it. So, if you don't fight, and you don't plan, what exactly are you good for? Either swallow your prides and think or head to the training yard and pick up an axe!"

Sigfrøðr slammed his hands on the table.

"That's it! I've had enough of you Thrall-Born. You lecture us as if you're our better, yet each breath you take reeks with the rot of a slave who doesn't know his proper place."

"And each breath you take denies air to an actual warrior."

"You want to see a warrior, boy? I'll cut you from neck to nuts and let the blood drain on the king's nice carpet."

"Watch yourself, Sigfrøðr." One of the jarls advised. "You're of no use to us dead."

"And Thrall-Born is of no use to us pretending he's anything besides a half-tamed beast!"

Percy rose slowly, but the effect was quick. Half the gathered jarls drew their weapons, ready to defend their own should the need arise, and the other half readied themselves to run for the exit. Percy let a hand fall to the handle of his axe, and silence took the room.

"Another word, and you die." Percy warned. "I assure you, you will not be missed."

Sigfrøðr opened his mouth, ready to write his ticket to Hel. Percy's hand tightened on the haft of his axe and then–

"Enough!" All heads turned to the head of the room, where an enraged Trygve had emerged from hiding. "I take a few moments to handle a private matter, and this is what I come to? My most trusted advisors bickering like children? Are you not grown men with an entire people relying on your wisdom? If only they could see they've entrusted their lives to a gaggle of fools."

There was a rapid chorus of apologies from those gathered. Trygve eyed them all one by one, ensuring their attention and commitment was true. Once they were thoroughly shamed, he was free to let out a tired sigh and call the meeting to order.

"Now, that that's settled, we may begin… The Saxons have recouped an alarming amount of land since unveiling this new weapon of theirs. Our men continue to fight bravely, but there is little that can be done in the face of this powdered death. These are truly desperate times now, and any ideas to combat the Saxon advance, however risky, are welcome."

Silence followed, and it was no mystery as to why. There wasn't a man alive, no warrior or strategist who could possibly imagine a feasible way to counter the Saxons' newest weapon. To ask for such an idea was to ask for a means of combating the air itself. It was to wish for a way to bloody an army of stones. To demand a strategy capable of sending the oceans on the retreat. What Trygve wanted was impossible, and yet Percy hoped with every part of himself that someone would break the quiet. That someone would solve the unsolvable.

"Perhaps a change of tactics could better our situation." Jarl Jørn eventually suggested. "It's clear that we can no longer face the Saxons in direct combat. The powder kegs make clustering our soldiers a liability."

"So, you're suggesting that we fight like cowards?" One of the jarls asked. "Small forces using hit and run tactics? That has never been the Bjornar way. We may be vikingrs, but we will never be bandits fighting from the shadows."

"Tradition and machismo will not win us this war. There is a time for pride, and there is a time for tact. Now, we are much in need of the latter."

"Jørn speaks true." Trygve agreed. "But his suggestion will not solve our larger problem. If we wish to see the Saxons overthrown, we will eventually have to uproot them from their seats of power. Taking Wincestre without an army would be impossible–"

"Not necessarily." Percy interjected. "Acke and I could–"

"I'm well aware of yours and Acke's skills, brother. I've no doubt that should the opportunity present itself, you and your snow bears could take any city I pointed you at. My fear is that Cynefrith knows that just as well. It would take the sacrifice of only one city to send you, Acke, and your men straight to Valhalla. After his city burns beneath the powder, he will be hurt, but we will be without our fiercest fighters. That is a trade we cannot afford to make."

"You don't think Cynefrith would–" Jørn began.

"Believe me. He would." Trygve answered.

"So, what exactly do you propose then? Our last battle proved that challenging the Saxons is nigh impossible so long as they wield the powder. If we can't conquer without assembling an army and we can't assemble an army without being conquered, we're left with nothing."

There was silence at first, and then a round of hesitant agreements from everyone in the room.

"So then…" Sigfrøðr muttered. "Don't tell me we must actually consider surrendering to these gods-forsaken Christians."

Trygve grimaced, and Percy felt his stomach fall. After everything they'd been through, Trygve was the last person he'd expect to give up.

"It pains me greatly, but I fear that may be the most–"

"We can't." Percy protested. "We've invested far too much into this. Sacrificed too much. There is still time for us to–"

"That's enough, Percy." Trygve said, voice unnaturally soft. "There sits before us a chance at peace. When the first Bjornar came to England, it was not with conquest on their minds, but with a yearning to escape the endless strife that had overtaken Norway. Now, we fight ceaselessly with the Saxons, and the losses grow ever larger each day. There is a great honor in fighting, but honor will mean nothing if none are left to wear it."

"But peace will not come without cost. The Saxons will not accept us with open arms. They think us godless heathens. Pagan scum! They'll beat us and whip us until we're just like them. Until we're all plowing shit covered fields and worshiping a false god and–"

"Percy." Liv cut in. She smiled softly at him, but the fire still burned hot in Percy's gut. "We've all fought long and hard. Gods know none of us have given more to our cause than you have… There are some battles that simply aren't worth fighting. I know it's difficult for you to accept that destiny is out of your control, but–"

"But nothing! Do any of you hear yourselves? You're talking about surrendering to gods damned Englishmen. Men that couldn't best us if they're God depended on it. Give me one chance, and I'll prove it can be done."

The jarls exchanged nervous looks, and many seemed to be growing more in favor of surrender with each passing breath. Thankfully, there was one person who always believed in him, even when they disagreed with their entire being.

"One opportunity." Trygve murmured. "Jórvík has fallen under siege, and gods know that it's our most vital holding in the northern half of England. Without it, our defeat is assured, and with the powder now in play… Take Acke, Liv, your snow bears, whoever you need. If you find a way to combat the powder, this council will be more than willing to adopt your methods and continue the fight, but if you fail… There will be no debate. We'll have already lost."

Perseus Thrall-Born – Jórvík, 889 CE

The battle for Jórvík was one fit for song. Two sides – one of immense strength and the other of insurmountable number – struggling for dominance. The vikingrs of the Bjornar clan fought with courage and skill, and the Saxons with cunning and persistence. It was such that what had begun as simply a vicious fight had rapidly devolved into a stalemate as unbreakable as it was deadly.

Lulls in the battle were few, but changes were plenty. It seemed that every second a new hole was being punched in the Saxon line, only for it to be patched moments later. The endless push and pull reminded Percy of the fiercest ocean tides, ebbing and flowing so swiftly the complex natural order was nigh indiscernible from pure chaos. It was amidst this sea of death that Percy sensed the pull of changing destiny. The war would turn today. He could feel it in his bones.

His axe glistened with corpse-dew and his brow sheened with sweat. All around him his men fought valiantly for the chance at honor and a glorious end. Percy saw vikingrs fighting with the fervor of enraged bears. Witnessed Saxon men doing battle not like English cowards, but like men born to wield a blade. From the most brutalized corpse to the most extravagant of swords, the battlefield was a beautiful and awe-inspiring place. Or at least it was, right up until the first explosion came.

What had begun as a terrifying nightmare had now become the sound of a haunting daydream. The explosion of a Saxon powder keg was a sound as recognizable as the haft of his axe, and the screams that followed even more so. Nordic curses and desperate pleas to God were the surest sign that Cynefrith's sick creation had been unleashed. There was no other weapon that killed so indiscriminately. That reaped agonized screams from friend and foe alike. The powder was truly a weapon of mutually assured destruction.

Most Bjornar had outfitted themselves with specialized armor made to cover every inch of their skin. Many more had donned masks to shield their lungs from the powder. A small few had even lathered themselves in various salves hoping to ward off the horrifying burns the powder wrought. Judging by the screams, none of the countermeasures had had any effect. There was simply no way to stop the Mad King's handiwork.

As he cut down more and more Englishmen, Percy racked his mind searching for a way to save his people from the catastrophe that the first blown barrel entailed. He considered all manner of things, but none of them seemed feasible. It wasn't until a barrel rolled to his feet and his death was a single spark away that desperation inspired innovation.

Summoning his power over the sea, Percy called upon the water in the air to form a giant shovel before him. He willed the creation to scoop the barrel from its resting place and catapult it into the air directly above the rear of the Saxon lines. By sheer chance a flaming arrow struck the barrel, igniting it and setting a rain of death upon the English forces.

Luckily for Percy's men, his panicked solution had inspired an even more innovative idea in him. Drawing upon his father's abilities once more, Percy expanded his senses from beyond the nearby moisture and to the water vapor across the entire battlefield. He was able to feel every barrel. Guide every gust of wind. And when he sensed a barrel exploding, he could–

There! He felt another barrel blow at the fringe of his psychic reach. While he wasn't quick enough to halt the explosion – not even his demigod reaction time could manage such a feat – he was able to guide the wind and direct the powder spread towards the Saxons. The men nearest the barrel were dead, but he had saved the ones who would've been killed by the explosion's aftereffect, along with directing the carnage towards the enemy. Percy grinned maniacally. It seemed that his father had inadvertently provided him the counter to Cynefrith's wicked creation.

With his newfound strategy in play, the following few hours of battle were what could only be described as a massacre. The powder no longer decimated his men, and now the vikingrs were free to do what they did best. Saxons fell with incredible efficiency, and no soldier killed them in greater number than Percy. Even distracted as he was by his nebulous psychic touch on the battlefield, he was still the most formidable warrior England had ever seen, and his body count proved it.

As the battle wore on, Percy's hold on the air's water vapor began to wane. Maintaining the all-encompassing presence was incredibly draining on his power reserves, and even more taxing on his mind. Though the rewards were great, his focus was beginning to fail even faster than the Saxon lines. He could only hope that the Englishmen's spirits would break before his will did, because if the powder regained its deadly effect before the Saxons fled, all his effort and all his vikingrs' sacrifices would be for naught.

Not long after the grim thoughts entered his mind, the first Saxon bugler sounded for a retreat, and after the butchering they'd been facing, the Saxon soldiers were more than eager to follow the order. Weapons were dropped and backs were turned in number, and vikingr cheers shook the earth. The Englishmen were fleeing for their lives, and with them they carried a message to all of England. The Bjornar weren't finished yet.

Relief took Percy as he watched them run. They couldn't have chosen a better moment, as exhaustion had already brought him to the brink of unconsciousness. Fatigue was an easy price to pay however, as at long last the horror that had once been inflicted upon his own men now scarred Cynefrith's kin. They would return to their Mad King, tail between their legs and shit in their britches with tales of a revitalized vikingr horde. Percy could think of no better news to return to Odin's Rest with than that.

As the Saxons disappeared over the horizon, Percy finally allowed himself to relax fully, and that was his gravest mistake. Just as he turned his back, the world punished him for his negligence. A flaming arrow – no doubt shot by some random Saxon with vengeance plaguing his heart – whizzed into view so fast he could barely follow it. Fearing the worst, Percy scrambled to reestablish his hold on the battlefield's water vapor, but it was too little too late. His reaction time was too slowed, his powers too weakened by hours of exertion. The arrow resisted his touch, as if pushed by some higher power, and so despite all his efforts, the arrow's path remained true.

With nothing to stop it, the arrow continued on its deadly arc. As if guided by the cruelest turn of fate imaginable, it struck home amidst a cluster of distant Bjornar. Panic took Percy, and his instincts screamed at him to do something, but it was much too late. One last explosion rattled the earth, and shame tore at his heart. A moment of carelessness was not worth his soldiers' lives, and yet he had made that trade.

The familiar screams of anguish and death took to the skies, reminding him of his folly. For all that the screams of dying men had haunted his nightmares, they were not what he heard in that moment. One voice rose above every agonized cry. A voice that had been a safe haven for years now. A voice that wrote wonders across his soul in a language he didn't understand. A voice that, hearing now, tore his very essence into pieces.

It was a mad dash to the site of the explosion. He trampled his own men, bolted passed wounded soldiers, and vaulted over piles of dead bodies. All the while his mind screamed at him that he was imagining things. That it couldn't be true. But he knew the feeling deep within. The feeling that the world was tearing apart at the seams. That sickening sense that Yggdrasil's leaves had wilted, its roots had withered, and Midgard was unanchored. Free to drift and crumble into cosmic dust. His mind told him it had only been one explosion, but his soul somehow knew that it was his own personal Ragnarök.

When he reached the crater, he was greeted with the familiar carnage that followed a blackstone eruption. Sizzling, smoking ground serving as the final resting place for dozens of ill-fated souls. Men groaned in agony as their flesh turned to slurry and their bones crumbled to ash. The smell of acid and death assaulted his nostrils, and the dark feeling crept deeper into his heart. And there, among all the wreckage, was the person he'd hoped so desperately not to find.

"Liv!"

His legs gave out the moment he reached her side. She was ravaged by the explosion. Decimated by the powder. The sight of her drew bile from his gut and branded his soul. He reached a desperate hand out to her, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her. She was too delicate. Too damaged. A single touch would crumple her charred flesh. One of his breaths would silence hers forever.

"Liv."

Her eyes cracked open. Just a sliver of green behind pale, ash covered eyelids. That sliver was everything there was in that moment. They told a story of inconceivable fear. Terror that permeated every fiber of her being. They moaned and screamed in agony as the powder worked to tear her apart piece by piece, thread by thread, until she was nothing. They pleaded with him to save her. To end her misery. They begged him not to sit there and watch her die.

A million emotions wished to take him, but all he could feel was heat and darkness. He did nothing because he could do nothing. Change nothing. Everything had gone right, and yet nothing had ever gone more wrong.

"Percy…"

She took a shuddering breath. Percy's world froze. Green eyes dimmed, and with the vanishing light, Percy felt his own extinguish.

Perseus Thrall-Born – Camp Half-Blood, 2017 CE

Percy woke up to bright lights and cracked ribs. Warding off the light was as simple as closing his eyes, but in all his years he still hadn't found a timely remedy for broken bones. Despite the vehement protests from his mangled body, he forced himself to sit up. Danger didn't exactly care if he was hurting, and so neither could he.

Before he could so much as swing a single leg from the couch he'd woken up on, a forceful hand shoved him roughly back to the cushions. He let out a groan of pain, which was met only with a grunt of callous indifference.

"Not a good idea." An unfamiliar voice advised. "Right now, your body has the structural integrity of a nature valley bar."

"Cute. Can you hit the lights?"

There was a moment's silence, and then the sound of a switch being flipped. Percy opened his eyes to the sweet, eyeball sparing darkness of an unlit room. A blond man with bright blue eyes stood over him, looking down with a face much too sour to belong to a friend.

"Who are you?" Percy asked.

"Will Solace."

Understanding dawned on him in that moment. This was Nico's boyfriend. The same boyfriend that Nico had been neglecting so that he could run around playing save the godly world with Percy.

"Nice to meet you." Percy offered.

"I'll go tell them you're awake."

And on that charming note, he left, leaving Percy to wonder how a son of Apollo could be so gloomy. Then again, Percy would be upset too if… Well, that was a long time ago. He shook those thoughts off. Best not to trouble himself over centuries old woes and what-ifs. At least not with company on the way.

His decision to shove the past down came not a moment too soon. The entrance to his impromptu infirmary – which he'd quicky deduced to be a living room in disguise – suddenly started spilling familiar faces. First came an amused Alex, then a yawning Nico, and finally a shockingly relieved looking Hazel.

"Cheery boyfriend you got there." Percy remarked.

"Bite me." Nico shot back. "You wouldn't be pleased either if some demigods showed up in the middle of the night asking for your help."

"Fair, but I didn't exactly pick the venue." He turned to Hazel, a look of confusion on his face. "Why are we here anyways? And where the hell is here?"

"Nico and Will's house." She answered. "Shadow traveling doesn't come as easy to me as it does to Nico, and this was the closest place I could think of that had a doctor, and you really needed a doctor."

"Yeah, that checks out." Percy muttered. "I haven't been hit that hard since… Gods, since I sparred with Thor."

"Wait, you sparred with Thor?" Alex asked.

"Well, how are you feeling now?" Hazel said at the same time.

"Like hammered shit." Percy answered, ignoring Alex altogether. "That serum is the real deal. Adrian's nothing more than some average demigod, and it still turned him into a man capable of doing this," he waved a hand at his brutalized body. "To me. If you hadn't've been there, he would've killed me."

Immediately a darker air took the room. He could see the feeling of impending doom across all their faces. He couldn't really blame them. In his experience, it was difficult not to be worried when someone was playing with a force as dangerous, powerful, and unpredictable as Blackstone.

"Yeah, about that." Alex said. "Hazel told us how much serum they had stored back at Ethoney. Exactly how fucked are we? Is it time to ask the gods for help?"

Percy snorted derisively.

"You and I both know how laughable that is. They'd sooner see you and your camps wiped from the face of the Earth than lift a single finger to help you. That being said, I don't think it's time to hit the panic button just yet."

"Why not?" Nico asked. "You said it yourself. That serum turns average demigods into god-killers."

"It doesn't matter what the serum does. I used my powers to knock it off the shelves when Sprout dragged us out of the storeroom. Their entire stockpile is already soaked into the floor of their safe by now."

"So then…" Nico trailed off.

"All we need to do is take out the factory." Percy finished. "If there's no factory, there's no new serum. If there's no new serum, there's no more Adrian Hale. I can promise you that much."

"Isn't that a bit hopeful?" Alex asked. "Hale could've hidden a second stockpile somewhere, he could've produced more already, he could've–"

"Sure, he could have done all those things, but if he did, we're screwed anyways. I find that it's much better to operate under the assumption that we actually have a fighting chance. You see, in my version of reality, victory is only a blown factory and a dead maniac away. In yours, we're all going to get torn limb from limb by untrained 13-year-olds on divine steroids. How many of you like my version of reality better?"

All three hands raised as one.

"That's what I thought." Percy said. "Now, tell me about this Greek fire your camp is so proud of…"

Perseus Thrall-Born – Adrian Hale's Factory, 2017 CE

Adrian's factory was swarming with guards. Demigods patrolled the grounds in droves, always looking outward for any sign of an impending attack. Normally there would be at least one guard slacking off, but Adrian's cultish style of rule had inspired complete devotion to his cause. Each demigod was as vigilant as Odin's Ravens, which meant that getting in undetected was going to prove more than difficult. Much to Percy's disappointment, that difficulty changed nothing. Alex's plan demanded subtlety, and so his fun would have to be delayed until they made it inside.

After a long while observing the soon-to-be crater, Percy finally found the opening they needed. With his information gathered, he dropped down from his vantage point in the trees and landed between Alex and Nico. His still healing ribs weren't exactly pleased about the impact, but he managed to keep his reaction limited to a near imperceptible wince. Better to mask his pain than deal with an hour of motherhenning from his companions.

"So, what do you have for us?" Alex asked. "Please tell me this'll be a cakewalk. I want to make it home for dinner."

"Well then you're in luck." Percy answered. "Their patrols are tight, but there's only four guys posted on the roof, and they always look outward. If we can get up there unseen, we can sneak in through one of the industrial vents."

"You're thinking shadow travel?" Nico said.

"If you're up for it. I know you said it's best if you've been there before, but line of sight should do, no?"

"Not a problem." Nico assured him. "Just grab on."

Percy and Alex were quick to oblige, each placing a hand on one of Nico's shoulders. Once they were secure, they sank through their own shadows and into the realm of darkness. Seconds passed by in what felt like hours as Percy was dragged thrown through the dizzying rollercoaster that was shadow travel. Then, just when he thought the ride would never end, he and his partners emerged in the shadow of the largest vent on the roof.

He wasted no time in tearing the grate of the vent off, opening up a path for the three of them. Alex went down first, and then Nico, before finally it was Percy's turn to shimmy his way through the duct. It was slow going – the vent was large as far as vents went, but still extremely tight on his broad shoulders – but eventually he made it through.

When he made it through the vent, he found himself deposited in the very same room he'd fought Adrian in such a short time ago. The machines were still whirring away, and the lights were still bright overhead, but this time there wasn't a soul in sight.

Alex unslung the pack on his back and set it down as gently as one would a baby. He tugged the bag open, revealing a bundle of explosive charges waiting to be detonated. Percy grinned. This was going to be fun.

"Take as many as you can carry." Alex told them. "I'll target the machinery, Nico you get the support beams, and Percy–"

"You guys can handle the explosives. I'll make sure Hale doesn't make it out of the building.

He made to leave, but Alex stopped him.

"Don't be a hero." Alex told him. "The last time I tried something like this, I lost a good friend. We all make it, or none of us do."

"I'll be quick about it. Scout's honor."

Nico and Alex exchanged uncertain looks, but none argued the point.

"Alright. Synchronize watches." Alex said. All three moved a hand to their wrist. "Five minutes to detonation… Go."

Alex immediately took off towards the machinery, and Nico vanished into his own shadow, but Percy was in no such rush. He didn't have to search for Adrian. He already knew where the bastard would be.

He strolled casually towards the opposite end of the factory floor, heading towards the same door Sprout had fetched Adrian from the last time Percy had been there. He readied himself as he walked, drawing his axe and shield, and preparing for the battle that was soon to come. The first time he'd been caught off guard by the serum, but now? Now it was time to do what only Perseus Thrall-Born could.

The moment he reached the door, he kicked it in with all his might. It was blown off its hinges and sent slamming through the opposite wall, kicking up a cloud of dust that obscured the entire room. He stormed in, using instinct to guide him where his vision could not. He bumped into a large shadow in the dust, and before the figure could react, Percy was already on the attack.

Using his axe as a hook, Percy yanked the figure's head towards his knee. The man's nose shattered on impact, but Percy didn't stop there. He followed up his initial attack by dropping low and sweeping the man's legs out from under him. The shadow of a man tumbled through the blinding dust and hit the floor with a mighty oomph. Percy was on him in an instant delivering a flurry of overhanded strikes that tore through flesh and bone alike.

By the time the dust had settled, Percy was left with a bloodied axe and a brutalized victim at his feet. The man's face was unrecognizable through the carnage, but his size identified him as Sprout. A good get, but not the big fish he'd been hoping to catch. Percy's eyes whipped up in an instant, searching for the cult leader he knew had to be nearby.

He spotted the man at the far end of the room – which appeared to be a lab of some sort – staring at the bloody scene with utter disbelief on his face. Adrian looked between Percy, his fallen brother, and a single green vial on the workbench in front of him. There was a moment where nobody said or did anything, and then as one they jolted into action.

Adrian reached the vial first, but Percy was not far behind. His axe closed in as Adrian brought the vial to his lips. He had him. He was dead. There was no way that he–

Adrian jerked away from the strike just in time. The axe caught him in the arm instead of the neck, drawing blood and a throaty scream from the man, but leaving him standing. Percy didn't waste time lamenting his failure, and instead launched another attack, just as fast and deadly as the first. Adrian hopped just out of range, buying himself the time to down the serum and draw his own weapon. Just like that, the battle was on. The greatest warrior against a being built by science.

Their deadly dance began at once. Adrian – enhanced as he was by his super serum – was able to avoid every attack Percy threw out. Conversely, Percy's extreme skill and experience ensured that though he could not match Adrian in speed or strength, he was still able to avoid being dealt a battle-ending blow.

The longer the fight carried on, the more confident Percy became. Adrian was an amateur. A scientist who'd picked up a sword. He was stronger and faster than any demigod had ever been, but Percy was the greatest warrior the world had ever known. He would not lose to some fool in a godly body. Not again.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that Adrian made a fatal mistake. He whiffed a single swing. Unlike his other failed attacks, this miss was so poor that it left him completely vulnerable despite his super speed.

With that single opportunity, Percy was free to do what he did best. His shield struck first, hitting Adrian in the chin with the steel rim hard enough to dislocate his jaw. Percy followed up with a swing of his axe that bit halfway through Adrian's knee before stopping. Adrian shouted in pain and collapsed, clutching at his mangled limb in horror and agony.

"Some god you are." Percy spat. He ripped his axe from Adrian's knee, drawing a scream from the injured demigod. "And to think I–"

His watch started to beep, and Percy's eyes widened. He'd forgotten all about the bombs. How the hell had he forgotten about the bombs?

"Oh, motherfucke–"

There was a bright light, then a sound louder than anything he'd ever heard before. He closed his eyes, braced for death, and then… Nothing…

AN

Huzzah, another finished chapter. This one was a bit shorter, but it also had more important moments packed into it than any other chapter. Some big stuff happened, and you're about to see the fallout from both 'oh shit' moments come next chapter. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed, I love y'all, and I hope to see you again soon. Until next time,

Peace