Prologue

A half-blood of the eldest gods

The sky roared with thunder, and jagged bolts of lightning split the dark storm clouds above as Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus, was at the precipice of destiny.

Here, at the very heart of divine majesty atop Mount Olympus, the daughter of Zeus was thrown from combat and laid amidst the shattered vestiges of once lofty pillars and statues, remnants of the gods' own making. She had been flung down not by the strength of warring forces, but by the singular, titanic upheaval dealt by Kronos—a force that had not only thrown her to the ground but had threatened the bedrock of Olympic authority itself.

As her back met the ground, the reverberations of the impact traveled through her, and a sharp pain flared across her body. She could feel the cool touch of marbled floors, its chill seeping into her, stealing the warmth from her battered form. The sky above unleashed its wrath, a tempest of lightning and thunder mirroring her inner turbulence. Dark clouds churned, as if the heavens themselves were bearing witness to the final act of an aeon-old play.

Shall reach sixteen against all odds

The verse, laden with the weight of destiny, became her anchor as she lay overwhelmed. Each echo of her sixteenth year was a crescendo of all that had come before: every skirmish, every impossible victory, every breath drawn in the face of unspeakable odds. These were not just memories flashing across her mind; they were the fibers of a lifeline woven by fate itself, leading her to this critical juncture.

At this moment, under the threat of imminent defeat, it became undeniably clear to Thalia that her entire existence—every drop of blood spilled, every whisper of guidance from the gods, every friend's encouragement and every enemy's curse—had led her to this point. Her life was not a series of aimless adventures but a saga with its verses mapped in the stars. She was the living testament of prophecy, her very essence the embodiment of the line 'against all odds'.

Kronos, the ancient and merciless lord of time, approached with the steady pace of inevitability. His progress towards her was methodical and chilling, the embodiment of the inescapable. Thalia's body ached, with every bruise and ragged breath urging her to stay down, to accept the futility of resistance. It was not just the physical pain that pinned her; a deep, gnawing sense of defeat encroached upon her spirit. The visceral struggle to rise, to challenge the titan once more, was shackled by a despondency that whispered seductively of an end to striving, an end to the fear, an end to the relentless march of duty. An end to everything.

And see the world in endless sleep

There, upon the unforgiving marble, Thalia's grasp of the prophecy's words deepened, the cryptic mask falling away to reveal a stark reality. The endless sleep was no allegory; it spoke of death's final dominion, not confining itself to the individual or the battlefield but an all-encompassing quiet that threatened to still the heart of every living thing across the globe. With this harrowing insight, Thalia understood that the promise of the prophecy was a global silence, a universal shroud that would quench the vibrancy of life in every corner of the world.

Such knowledge bore down on her with the weight of the skies. It was a sobering realization that what hung in the balance was far greater than any one life, any one city or nation—it was the collective breath of the world itself. Every act of courage, every defiance of fate had been leading to this point, where the endless sleep loomed as the ultimate conclusion, threatening to cast the world into unyielding shadow, with humanity and nature alike languishing under its stillness.

Doubt, dense and impenetrable as Tartarus's darkest corner, shrouded her thoughts. The flickering flame of conviction that she held the power to alter this inexorable course dimmed, overshadowed by the magnitude of what lay before her. Engulfed by the gravity of their plight, it felt as if she, along with the entire world, might soon succumb to that endless sleep, with no hero left to awaken it from its nightmare.

The hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap

That singular line from the prophecy reverberated through Thalia, each word slicing into her more cruelly than the sharpest of blades. Just moments ago, she had been there—immobilized, her body ensnared in Kronos's temporal grip, as if time itself conspired against her. She'd watched, screaming internally against the invisible shackles that bound her, as the cursed blade found its tragic destination.

The emotional torment was acute, a serrated knife that twisted deeper with the knowledge of her own helplessness. The pain of her impact against the marble paled in comparison to the sting of knowing that when the prophetic moment came, she had been rendered powerless, her desperate will ensnared by the caprice of Kronos's twisted time. And now, all she could do was replay the agonizing image in her mind.

All this, while the ancient Titan Kronos, unmoved by the audacity of the young demigods before him, proceeded with his relentless march toward dominion. Percy, spirited as ever, had risen in a surge of desperate valor, shouting with anger and tenacity while lunging towards the dark lord with the fury of a storm, his sword an extension of his unyielding will. However, the outcome was as swift as it was grim. With an effortless gesture, cold and dismissive, Kronos repelled the assault, sending Percy careening through the air to land with a thunderous thud beside Thalia.

The very stones seemed to quake under Kronos's every step, a rhythmic drumming that resonated with the ebbing hopes of the once-resolute heroes. His towering presence drew in the remnants of light, an encroaching void that threatened to engulf any spark of resistance. And as the tainted air around him bent and twisted, it was as though reality itself was warping under the strain of his corruptive aura.

Kronos's malignant presence weaved almost palpable dread through the air. Thalia felt its icy touch creep over her, an insidious lullaby that tempted her towards surrender. Percy, laying upon the cold marble, met Thalia's eyes, his own reflecting the same sense of defeat that shadowed her spirit.

A single choice shall end his days

Thalia turned the dire words of the prophecy over in her mind, their haunting cadence reverberating against the backdrop of the storm. Laid out before her, Percy's chest rose and fell in tandem with the thunderous symphony above. The sight stirred within Thalia a reservoir of emotions, deep and vast as the ocean he embodied.

She thought of Percy, not just as the fearless leader or the indomitable warrior, but as the person who had, somewhere along their shared journey, become irrevocably intertwined with the beat of her own heart. The weight that the prophecy could be referring to Percy—the end of his days, precipitated by a choice—struck Thalia with profound dread and intensity.

The chilling thought gripped Thalia with an icy dread. The choice, heavy with sacrifice, might be Percy's to seize in a rush of heroism, propelling him toward a destiny as relentless as the sea from which he hails. Or worse, it might be her own burden to shoulder, the heart-wrenching decision to either grasp him back from the precipice or let him slip away into the chasm of his fate. The enormity of such a decision bore down upon her, each potential choice casting a long, indelible shadow that would etch itself into her essence and ripple through the fabric of the world itself.

Olympus to preserve or raze.

The final line of the prophecy, first whispered by the breath of fate, now roared in Thalia's ears as the clash of destiny approached its crescendo. Olympus stood, as it had never before, on the brink of annihilation or salvation. As Kronos prepared his malevolent scythe, the world held its breath, waiting for the tides to turn or to crash forth in ruin.

Thalia Grace, the daughter of Zeus, child of the Great Prophecy, found herself cast in the role of the last defender, a solitary figure upon whom the hopes of the gods and the cries of humanity converged. The future of the celestial and the terrestrial was the burden that weighed on her shoulders, setting her heart racing against the pounding of the storm.

Would she rise to preserve the glory of Olympus? Or would she falter, and with her, watch the world be consumed by the endless sleep and be razed to the very foundations? Each outcome loomed as vast and uncertain as the gulf between stars—two paths veiled in the fog of war, hers to determine but not to foresee.

With her pulse synchronizing to the rhythm of impending battle, Thalia faced the abyss of fate. And as the heavens crackled with ominous energy, the next moment poised to tip the balance, the final line of the prophecy unfurled like a dark banner in her mind's eye, enshrouding the future in its shadow. The choice was near, the end—or a new beginning—was nigh, and the world watched, waiting for the harbinger of its destiny to act.