The next eight hours were the most arduous of Percy's entire life.

Tyson was inconsolable every time he tried to hold the iron to Percy's chest, so it never got done. Finally, after many failed attempts, blown noses, and heart-to-hearts that left Percy emotionally drained, Tyson swapped places with one of the Cyclopes standing guard. Well, that Cyclops, who apparently was just called "Guy," suffered from short-term memory loss and what Percy dubbed Long Rambling Story Syndrome, so every time he got distracted by his own talking, he would forget what he was supposed to be doing. Percy ended up having to basically stand over his shoulder and force him to hold the iron in the furnace long enough, then apply it to his chest.

However, once they had gotten that far, they encountered another problem: Percy's skin wouldn't burn. In fact, the branding iron just felt really warm to him.

"Is that supposed to happen, boss?" Guy asked him. It really irked Percy that his captor was calling him "boss" and obeying his every command–like some sort of cruel irony.

"It must not be hot enough," he grumbled.

So, they resolved to hold it in the furnace twice as long. This took several tries to accomplish because Guy liked to talk with his hands, and he seemingly could not go that long without telling a story, but eventually, they tried it again. Guy held the iron to Percy's chest for several seconds, then removed it. What remained looked like a bad sunburn.

Guy blinked rapidly. "That doesn't look right."

Percy slammed his fist on the table. "What the fuck!" Guy jumped back, and the dolphins outside the door squealed in unison. Percy held his forehead with one hand and waved the other in the air. "I'm sorry, guys, I'm fine. It's fine." He took a deep breath. "I think something might be wrong here."

"Should we call Daddy?" Guy asked.

"No. I don't know." Percy crossed his arms and scowled. "I just don't understand why this is so f–" He stopped himself. "So damn hard." He grabbed fistfuls of his hair. "I just want this to be over. I want to leave. I want to go home. Is that too much to ask?" He threw his hands up and looked at Guy. "Is it?"

Guy stopped twirling the rod and looked at Percy. "Is what what?" he said.

Percy slammed the heel of his hand onto his forehead.

They were trying again, Guy promising to hold the iron in the furnace for thrice as long, when Triton came barging in.

"It's been hours. Why is Tyson at the door? Why hasn't he blown the conch?" he said coolly, his tone suggesting that Percy had done something incorrectly, like an incompetent fool.

Percy bristled. "We're having a slight issue. The iron won't get hot enough."

Triton shook his head. "That's impossible. We always use these furnaces, and it works just fine." He sat down at the table and waved his hand. "Show me what you've been doing."

So, they went through the motions again. When Guy removed the iron, Percy's skin was red and dry and bubbling, like a nasty sunburn, but not branded by a long shot. Scowling, Triton approached Percy to examine more closely.

"See?" Percy said. "It's just not working."

Triton nodded. "The temperature isn't the problem," he said, as if it should be obvious. "Our father's nature is protecting you from burning."

Percy blinked. "Oh." He waited for Triton to say something, but he seemed lost in thought. "Well, could Poseidon maybe…un-protect me or something?"

Triton rolled his eyes, and Percy felt flush with embarrassment. "No, he can't make you not his child. Unfortunately." Crossing his arms, Triton looked off into the distance again, thinking hard. Percy studied the older boy's face. He looked so serious right now, so mean. He had that same brooding look that their father had, and that Percy had. He wondered what else, if anything, the two of them had in common. Percy wondered what Triton would be like if they hadn't gotten off on the wrong foot.

"Okay, I have an idea," he said suddenly. "Cyclopes, to the forges. Perseus, you'll be going to a different boiler room. We're going to try Greek fire."

Percy's eyes grew wide. Greek fire was an incredibly dangerous chemical weapon that couldn't even be stopped by water. He wasn't sure he loved the idea of holding it against his skin.

But he didn't get a say, so he was escorted by his dolphin guards to a different chamber while Triton took the Cyclopes to the forges to craft some sort of special branding iron. Percy paced the new room, wondering how long it would take. This chamber was brighter, and actually filled with water, and it was completely empty save for a copper furnace in the center. Percy walked up to the furnace and looked down inside. Through the clear top, he could see the trademark green flames of Greek fire flickering inside. It looked like the top was made of glass or something similar. Tentatively, Percy slowly reached his hand toward the surface and touched it as delicately as he could. Gasping, he realized the top felt like the surface of a bubble; the barrier between the fire and the water was the same as the invisible barrier that kept the last boiler room he was in airtight. He backed away slowly, not wanting to accidentally let the fire out somehow.

Anticipation always made waiting harder. Percy wished he had some way to tell time down there. It felt like he was waiting for ages, and at the end of his waiting would come an incredibly dangerous punishment. He tried not to wallow in his hurt feelings, but what else was there to do? He thought about his father, who so coldly and callously had condemned him without even giving him a proper chance to defend himself. He thought about Triton, who seemed to think Percy was scum under his heel (figuratively, of course). He thought about the gods, who wanted to keep this whole ordeal under wraps just to avoid the appearance of a scandal. Did they really think so little of him that he was just another potential Luke in their eyes? Did they even care about anything beyond their own image, their own self-interests?

He shook his head violently, as if that could expel these thoughts from his brain, and beat his fists against his temples. He had to stop that. He didn't want to start sounding like Luke and risk making any of the gods think they were right.

Glancing at the furnace, he wondered if this is what his dream from last week had meant when he had heard Triton's voice.

You can't escape punishment that easily, half-blood.

Thinking of the dream made him think of Anastasia, and he felt a pang of fear. He had let himself get so swept up in the complications of the traitor's mark and his sibling drama that he had pushed his latest dream to the back of his mind. He sat on the floor and rested his head on his knees, covering himself with his arms, and reflected on what had happened.

Her father and his wife had cursed her, and both of them together, to eternal torment. It was such an egregious overstep that the Fates themselves had intervened. Those old hags had made the two titans disappear, but to where, Percy had no clue. Maybe they were gone for good–hopefully. But Percy, ever a bit of a cynic, felt like that would be too good to be true.

Then, the Fates had done something terrifying. They had turned to Anastasia and him and given them directions, a prophecy of sorts. The unwitting duo had a jumbled mess of rhyming, perplexing instructions to untangle full of words Percy didn't understand. And then, the Fates had cut the string.

At least this time, it seemed pretty clear whose string they had cut. They had essentially told Anastasia she had to die on her sixteenth birthday, and not a moment before. She had to survive that long so that she and Percy could fix the wrongdoings that their fathers had committed, those wrongdoings being having children they were not supposed to have. Percy and Anastasia were mistakes, and they were being held responsible for it. He wearily decided to just add that to the long list of unfair developments in this whole mess.

Anastasia had disappeared at the end of the dream. He had no idea what had become of her. What if she was already dead, and they had already failed? He was supposed to help her until the end, but he couldn't seem to get out of his father's dungeon.

Squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating, he reached out to her with his mind. Hey, princess, are you there?

Silence.

Please, please say something.

Nothing.

The tingle he had felt before in the back of his head was gone, and he knew in his heart that he wouldn't be able to reach her. Sitting up, he tried to take a couple of deep breaths, but his anger was rising, nonetheless. In frustrated helplessness, he punched the floor. He hated being able to do nothing.

He paced around the furnace in circles; he walked on the ceiling; he laid on the floor. He even tried making conversation with the dolphins, but they mostly only gave him one-word answers, so he kept to himself. He felt the coppery outside of the furnace; it was cool to the touch. Sitting against it on the floor and softly tapping the back of his skull against it, he silently willed his mean brother to return if it meant an end to the agony of waiting.

Finally, Triton did return.

He was flanked by Tyson and Guy, and Guy was holding a new branding iron. The image of a trident itself was made of iron, but it was outlined in copper, and the rod was also made of copper. The iron seemed to be glowing, as if already hot.

"A bit of magic," Triton said by way of explanation, "to ensure it inflicts maximum damage."

Percy balled his fists. What was this guy's deal? Why was he so intent on making Percy suffer?

"Calm down," Triton said boredly, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. "It's just to make sure you actually get marked. It'll only be held against you for a few seconds." He waved his hand, and a whimpering Tyson held Percy by the arms while Guy stuck the branding iron into the furnace. Percy tried to calm his breathing.

It's okay. It's okay. It's not that bad.

Triton smirked at Percy. "If you thought you were going to get out of being punished that easily, think again, half-blood."

Percy felt that the pain of what happened next was indescribable. It was like something supernaturally hot was searing away his skin, tearing its way through his chest. It was the worst pain he'd ever experienced. He saw spots, and his vision went blurry. He was unaware of when Guy removed the iron, only realizing it was over when Tyson let go of him, and he dropped to his knees. Triton spoke over him, and Percy, moaning and gasping and digging his nails into his chest, could barely focus on what he was saying. It didn't seem to matter, though; the few words he thought he caught sounded like ancient Greek. Percy was suddenly jerked back up to his feet, and his vision momentarily went black. He was surprised to glimpse Anastasia behind his eyelids, sneaking a banana under her shirt in the middle of what looked like a bodega. He couldn't make out any of the signs around her–they seemed to be in Russian. Just as quickly as it appeared, the image was gone, and his eyes came back into focus on Triton in front of him, ordering him to repeat certain oaths. He was shaking and disoriented, and he could barely feel his tongue, but he must have done what Triton wanted because the older boy eventually nodded and turned to leave with Guy.

"When he calms down, explain what just happened," he called over his shoulder to Tyson, "then kick him out."

Percy stood, motionless and catching his breath, while Tyson wrapped his arms around him and cried into his shoulder for a long time. The bigger boy started blubbering apologies, and Percy wordlessly patted his back while he did so. Finally, Tyson drew back and took a few shaky, shallow breaths.

"I'm so sorry, Percy. You are in pain," he said pitifully.

Percy shrugged. Without looking down, he dragged his pointer finger along his chest, just outside of where he knew the mark to be. He couldn't bring himself to touch it, or to look at it.

Tyson stared directly at it, however. "It will look better once it heals," he eventually said. "They always look like scars."

He seemed to be waiting for Percy to say something. Percy simply shrugged again.

"Triton said the magic made it this way," the Cyclops continued, filling the silence. "Because water heals you. But it should get better, I think."

Percy kept staring into space, not wanting to look at his brother, or himself, or anything. He felt empty, like all the feelings he had been battling this whole time had drained out of him through the wound on his chest, like he would never feel an emotion again.

Tyson sniffled, but he held it together this time. "Will you come with me before you go?" he pled. "I have some burn cream in my bedroom."

The next thing Percy knew, he was sitting on the edge of Tyson's bed, staring at the floor. He had mentally checked out for the entire walk over to the Cyclopes' dormitory. It was weird to walk around with his shirt stuffed in his back pocket–he felt naked, almost. People stared as he passed by, but he didn't look at them. Tyson shouted at anyone who tried to approach them, which Percy appreciated.

The Cyclopes had a million questions when they walked in the door, but Percy tuned them all out. Tyson was more than capable of fielding all their inquiries. After a while, Tyson knelt beside Percy and held out a vat of cream to him. Cyclopes were able to withstand extreme heat, even lava, which is why they were ideal forge workers, but if something became too hot for even them then this cream was designed to ease the pain. Percy dipped his fingers in and, without looking, smeared the cream on his chest. The cold sensation against his blistering skin made him cry out, and he balled his other hand into a fist.

"Take a look?" Tyson asked gently, pointing to a mirror against the wall. Steeling himself, Percy decided he would have to look at it eventually, so he stood and trudged over. He told himself not to react, no matter what he saw, so he prepared himself for the worst.

It was better than the absolute worst he could imagine, at least. It looked like a trident, alright, and it began about a centimeter below his collarbones and ended at about the end of his sternum. It looked like an indentation in his skin, and the inside of the wound was red and pus-filled and raw. Turning slightly, he could see how deep the wound was, and he grimaced.

"It will get better," Tyson said hopefully. "When it heals, it will look raised. Like a scar."

Percy stared at the mark for a long time without speaking. Tyson eventually took it upon himself to fill the silence.

"Daddy and the other gods said what you need to do on land," he began. "That's what Lord Triton was saying. Down here, you gotta show it." He held up his hand in a flat, horizontal line and pointed below it. "Below surface, shirt comes off!" He waited for a reaction, but getting none, he continued. "On land, though, you need to hide it. Alone, you can take your shirt off, but if a mortal is close enough to see you, then you gotta cover. That way, the other demigods won't see it and get sad."

Percy nodded curtly.

Tyson dropped his gaze to the floor and shifted uncomfortably. "If you mess up, it punishes you." Percy waited for Tyson to elaborate, but Tyson seemed to be waiting for Percy to ask. Finally, he said, "Just don't mess up. Take your shirt off in water and keep it on around land people. That's all."

Percy crossed his arms. He was going to have to drag it out of Tyson. "I need to know what will happen," he said grouchily.

Tyson brought his eye up to meet Percy's momentarily, then sighed. "It'll hurt. Owie."

Percy scowled. "That's all?"

"A lot. Like a warning. To get you to do what you're supposed to do. If you don't fix it, it'll get on fire." Tyson mimicked an explosion with his hands, completed with sound effects.

Percy raised his eyebrows. Oh, is that all?

Tyson walked Percy through all the Stygian oaths he had made next. Percy wasn't allowed to utter to a single soul that he had been found guilty of treason by his father, or that he bore the traitor's mark, or what punishment awaited him if he did not comply with the rules surrounding the mark. Lastly, most annoying of all, he couldn't tell anyone that he had taken these Stygian oaths. So, basically, he couldn't say shit to anyone. He felt his anger boiling over again, so he bit his tongue. He didn't want to make Tyson feel bad.

"And, last thing," Tyson said, pouting slightly. "You're not allowed to talk to that girl ever again."

Percy shrugged. He figured as much. Then, Tyson did something that surprised Percy. He suddenly grabbed him fiercely by the shoulders and brought his face close to his, whispering with manic intensity.

"Listen, brother, things are not good," he said. "The gods don't trust you anymore. Daddy barely got to keep you alive. One bad move, and they will want to say bye-bye to you." Percy nodded, eyes wide, taken aback by Tyson's sudden change in demeanor. "Prove your loyalty to them, Percy, please. Can't lose you."

"I–I will, Tyson."

"Swear it!"

"I swear!"

Tyson squeezed Percy into another bone-crushing hug, then dropped him and turned away, wiping his eye. Percy felt like that was one promise he'd be made to keep, oath or not.

It was high time for Percy to go. He was no longer allowed to be in Atlantis. Tyson made him take the burn cream with him, despite Percy's protests.

"You need it more," he said firmly.

Tyson took Percy outside and looked up, forlorn. "I have to throw you out," he said. "When people get thrown out of Daddy's kingdom, they could land on any shore in the world. I can try to aim you toward Manhattan."

Manhattan. Home. Percy wanted nothing more than to hug his mom and sleep in his bed, but he knew he had one last thing to take care of.

"Actually, buddy," he said, looking around and lowering his voice, "just between you and me, could you aim me toward Russia?"