It's important to acknowledge that historical attitudes toward sexual assault were drastically different from today. In many societies, violence against women, men, and even children was disturbingly normalized (and still are in some cultures). Women were often viewed as property, servants and slaves were owned outright, and systemic inequalities ensured that wealthy men could do anything without any retribution (and still can). These dynamics really shaped the cultural silence and lack of accountability surrounding such violence.
With that being said, this chapter was particularly challenging for me to write, largely because of the conversation between Sally and Annabeth. Earlier in the story, I depicted Poseidon as having sexually assaulted Medusa, drawing from some versions of the myth where that interpretation is present. I chose to include this to show a darker, more complex side of Poseidon—one far removed from the fatherly figure in the Percy Jackson series (which, understandably, portrays him that way for its middle-grade audience). I also wanted to explore Athena's reaction, as different myths present her either as cursing Medusa to empower her against men or as punishing her out of anger for the desecration of her temple.
This all culminated in the difficult choices I had to make for this chapter. Ultimately, I left it open to interpretation whether Sally was a SA survivor. The human mind has a complex way of twisting, rationalizing, or even obscuring trauma, and Sally herself might not fully know whether her experience with Poseidon was consensual. Or maybe it was.
Sally's character embodies strength, wisdom, and autonomy. She acknowledges Poseidon's nature without excusing it. Her choices are deliberate, reflecting the tragic and constrained realities that women often faced in medieval Europe. Despite the bleakness of her situation, Sally asserts control over her life, protecting herself and her children in ways that resonate with both her vulnerability and her resilience.
Seventeen Summers and Falls
Chiron always said that power is a crown heavier than gold. Annabeth never understood what he meant until the day she witnessed her mother wear one herself.
When the news of King Zeus's death spread across the kingdom, the world itself seemed to grieve. Thick clouds rolled in, gray and thunderous, as if heavy with the weight of a fallen god. The bells tolled long and slow, their somber song echoing across the land. Although the moments leading to and away from his passing blurred like a dream, Annabeth remembered one thing so clearly it hurt—the moment her mother took the throne.
The great hall had fallen silent, a silence so profound it felt alive, as though the marble walls and vaulted ceiling were holding their breath. Outside, thunder rumbled softly, the final whispers of a king who had seemed eternal. Inside, a thousand candles filled the room, burning brightly to pierce the gloom.
Annabeth stood by the towering marble pillars, hair braided and pinned down beneath a black veil. Her eyes never left her mother. Athena—the warrior, the strategist, the unshakable—moved forward with slow, deliberate steps.
The princess' armor shone brilliantly, polished to the point of blinding. For the first time Annabeth could remember, her mother's brow was bare, the circlet absent. Instead, a black cloak swept behind her, its edge whispering against the cold stone floor. The cloak, usually as bright as red blood, had been dyed black in mourning. In that dim light, Athena looked otherworldly, as though she were something more than mortal, more than royalty. But as she reached the gilded throne, her hand hovering just above its arm, Annabeth saw it.
Hesitation.
It was fleeting—so brief it might have escaped anyone's notice. Her fingers trembled—just barely—and the sharp edge of her jawline softened for the briefest moment. Her gray eyes, usually so clear and unyielding, flickered with something perilously close to doubt.
Annabeth's chest tightened. This was Athena, her lady mother—who taught her to read the minds of men and wield a blade, who stood tall when the world crumbled. Athena never faltered. She was stone, she was steel. She was bred and trained for this moment her whole life, just as Zeus had been, and as Malcolm was being now. Yet there it was—a hesitation that made her seem, just for a second, entirely human.
And then, like a storm regathering strength, the flicker passed. Athena's gaze hardened in a flash of gray, her fingers steadied, and she gripped the arm of the throne. Slowly, she lowered herself into the seat that had once belonged to the king.
The golden throne seemed impossibly large, its cold surface swallowing her at first. But as Athena straightened her shoulders, her armor catching the dim light like fire, the throne seemed to reshape itself around her, to meld to her bones, to pulse and flicker and sigh.
A servant hurried up the dais, Zeus's gold crown resting atop a velvet pillow. Annabeth couldn't help but wonder if they'd had time to clean it first, or if it had been plucked straight from the dead king's head, which still cooled on its pillow in the chamber above. He'd been dead all but thirty minutes, after all.
She banished the thought as the Prince Consort—soon to be King Consort—dressed in black from head to toe, plucked the crown from its perch and carefully rested it atop Athena's high brow. Frederick stepped away and knelt on one knee.
"My queen."
One by one, the children followed suit. The twins first, in matching black cloaks. Then Malcolm, in a handsomely made tunic, gold circlet glinting on his brow. And finally, the rest of the court. A sea of black shadows, rippling and shivering below.
"My queen," they chorused, glancing up at their new sovereign.
Finally, Annabeth stepped forward, her black skirts whispering against the ground as her veil dipped, partially obscuring her view. In one hand, she carried a sleek, elongated spear—designed as much for precision as for spectacle. In the other, she bore the Aegis, Zeus's legendary shield, a relic that had rarely left his side.
Annabeth climbed the steps of the dais, aware of the eyes that clung to her figure. Men did that now, more than ever. Men and women both. She didn't like it, but she couldn't deny the rush of power that came with the knowledge of their stares. A glance, a look, a touch, and they were hers. But the touch she truly desired was far away, training with sword and spear.
When Annabeth reached the top, she stood before her mother and offered shield and spear. Athena took them gracefully, as if she had prepared for this moment since birth, and nodded once. Annabeth knelt upon the cold stone floor, head bowed in perfect obedience.
"My queen," she said, loud and true.
The words echoed off the walls, each syllable weighted with power. Annabeth exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Outside, the storm continued to rage. The clouds churned, and thunder growled, as if Zeus himself protested what had come to pass. He was a greedy beast, afterall. Insatiable and power hungry. Everyone knew that.
Annabeth stared at her mother, and for the first time, she wondered if even the Lady of Stone could carry this alone. Athena had been born for this moment—a warrior, a scholar, a daughter of kings. Now, she was a queen. But stepping into her father's shadow meant facing gods, men, and something far worse: the weight of legacy.
Athena's voice rang out, steady and resolute.
"My reign begins today."
And though Athena sat tall and unyielding, Annabeth saw the truth lingering in the queen's eyes. The love, the pain, and the impossible choices. Power was a crown heavier than gold, and now, it was hers to bear.
"I'm sorry to hear of your grandfather's passing."
The stone halls of the palace seemed colder now. Outside the tall windows, the sky was a dull gray, clouds hanging low as though unwilling to let the sun through.
Annabeth stood near the window, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She was laced into yet another tight black dress—indistinguishable from all the others she had worn every day for the past two weeks. The monotony was stifling, and the veil, forever slipping into her line of sight, was beginning to test her patience. She stared out at the courtyard below, watching as the servants moved like small puppeted shadows, preparing for another day like any other.
Her jaw tightened.
"Annabeth?"
Annabeth turned at the sound of her name and found the Royal Mistress standing in the doorway. She wore black attire far more lavish than anything she had worn as the Baroness, yet restrained enough not to overstep the bounds of her station. Her expression was gentle, her eyes lined with a fatigue that Annabeth recognized all too well. Sally was older now, though her grace had not faded, her movements careful and deliberate as she approached.
"My lady," Annabeth greeted, her voice steadier than she felt. She dipped her head respectfully.
She wasn't surprised to find Sally here. Nobles, royals, figureheads, and representatives from neighboring kingdoms were all making the journey to swear their fealty and pay their respects to the new monarch. What did surprise her, however, was the sudden twist in her gut when she found the familiar features of Percy's face resting on Sally's. There was his nose, his eyes, the slope of his lips, and another twist in her gut for oh, how she missed him.
I loved you, he had told her that day by the lake. I know I have no ring nor land nor pretty token of my love. All I have to offer is my word.
And despite the princess' better judgement, she had chosen to believe him, and she had gladly offered him her heart. Seasons had passed since then. They were both a little older, a little wiser, a little wearier, yet still they wrote to each other as often as they could. He had been the first to hear of Zeus's passing, and she had been the first to know of Sally's new station. In each letter, she shared her fears, hopes, and dreams, and he reciprocated with his own. He was still hers and she was still his in everything but name.
Sally inclined her head in return before stopping a few paces away, close enough to speak intimately but far enough to respect Annabeth's space.
"I wanted to offer my deepest condolences, my dear. Your grandfather was… a great man. He was a force upon this world, and his absence is felt by us all."
Annabeth swallowed. "Great, he was. Good? Well, that's a matter of debate."
Sally hesitated, and Annabeth couldn't blame her. To speak ill of a king, dead or not, was treason, and guilt pricked at the young woman for placing the Royal Mistress in such a precarious position.
Sally chose her next words with care.
"When my own parents passed, I remember feeling as though the earth itself had shifted beneath my feet. As though nothing would ever stand quite as steady again."
Annabeth's gaze dropped to her hands, which had begun to tremble. She willed them still, curling her fingers tightly.
"It does feel like that," she admitted softly. "Like the world has tipped somehow. He was… eternal. Or at least I thought he was."
Sally's lips curved into something bitter. "We all did. It is the curse of kings and queens, you know—to seem larger than life until they are gone." She paused, and her tone softened. "Your mother wears the crown well, but I know that must bring its own weight for you."
Annabeth looked up sharply. She had grown used to the careful gazes of courtiers and nobles, to their empty platitudes and sly, veiled comments. But Sally's words were neither sharp nor probing. They were simply true.
"It does," Annabeth admitted after a long pause. "Everything feels heavier now. Not just the kingdom. It's as though my own name carries more weight than it did a week ago. The expectations, the… eyes on me."
Sally stepped closer, her expression kind. "Grief and duty are cruel companions. They leave little space for the person beneath the title. But, Annabeth, you are not alone in this."
Annabeth blinked, surprised at the sudden sting behind her eyes. She turned back toward the window, unwilling to let the Royal Mistress see her falter. "Sometimes it feels as though I am."
Sally was silent for a moment, then said gently, "You carry his legacy, Annabeth, but you are not made of stone. Do not let anyone—not even yourself—demand that you be."
Annabeth took a slow breath, letting the Royal Mistress' words settle. Outside, a lone ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling onto the courtyard stones. She watched it for a moment before speaking again.
"I don't know if I should be celebrating or mourning. Isn't that terrible?" Annabeth let a laugh spill from her lips. "You can understand, surely, loving and hating a terrible man?"
Sally shifted uneasily by her side. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, until Annabeth couldn't bear it any longer.
She whirled around, heart pounding in her ears.
"Why did you do it? Say yes?"
Annabeth's gaze fell to the shiny new ring on Sally's finger. It wasn't a wedding band. It was the kind of ring powerful men gave to women who weren't their wives but wished they had been; the kind of ring that let the whole world know what its wearer did in the shadows.
Annabeth wondered if she'd be met with fury, or denial, or silence. The Royal Mistress could do that now, if she so wished, for her newly found position was a funny one where, though she could never claim the throne herself, she could still reject a princess' desperate pleas without losing her head.
Instead, Annabeth was met with pity, sorrow, regret. For whom, she did not know.
"Oh, child," Sally whispered, her voice carrying the weight of years. "There is so much you don't understand."
"Then help me," Annabeth said furiously, voice trembling with fury. "My world is comprised of men with wicked hearts and wandering hands wielding and power beyond measure. I have no power to stop them, and those who do—those who should—do nothing."
Sally stepped forward and joined her at the window, gaze fixed on the ashen horizon.
Annabeth waited a beat. Two. Three. Five. Nine. A hot wave of anger and frustration swelled and crested and crashed.
"Did Poseidon not force himself upon that girl?"
Sally's shoulders raised, breath staggering. "He did."
Quiet and forced and a little sharp, but true, for truth could be as sharp as hate.
"And…"
"And did he do the same to me?" Sally tilted her head so that she looked down at Annabeth. They nearly stood eye to eye. "Do not ask me, child, for even I do not have the answer."
Annabeth wondered if she was lying. She couldn't tell, and she wondered if Sally even knew the answer herself.
Annabeth inhaled sharply.
"My mother shouldn't have banished her. She was wrong in that, I know. But Poseidon shouldn't have forced himself on her, either."
"People can be wrong and people can be right," Sally said. "And sometimes, they can be both at the same time."
"Can they?" Annabeth countered. "Can they truly?"
Sally remained silent. Her throat worked to swallow. And then: "My life is better with him in it. I no longer share a bed with a man who delights in beating me raw and striking my children. In all the letters my son has sent, he's never told you that, has he? No, of course not. It's not in his nature to burden others.
"I cannot defend the King. I won't. And my heart aches for that poor girl, and for anyone else ensnared in his web. But I would choose him—he who raised my status, gave me a safe bed, and never once lifted a hand to me or my boys—over the Baron anyday. And perhaps that isn't right, or fair, or just of me. But we walk this earth for a fleeting moment, and if the gods damned every soul who sought a better situation, there'd be no one left to damn."
Annabeth had no words. She extended her hand, silently, which Sally took, silently.
"I don't understand," she whispered, for how could she? How fortunate she was to be spared such knowledge. "But I am sorry for your troubles. I can't imagine living with a man so cruel."
"Oh, but I think you can," Sally said, not unkindly. "Or, you soon will."
Sally clasped Annabeth's hands to her chest, searching her eyes
"I don't pretend to know the full extent of your... connection with my son. All I know is this: you love him, and he loves you with a depth I've never seen in a man. His devotion is clear, and I've never witnessed anything like it. But I also know that political oaths aren't so easily undone. I do not blame you for seeking the love you deserve. But, you're still promised to another, and that promise looms heavily upon us all."
She paused, her eyes hardening as she met Annabeth's gaze. "And I know this too: your betrothed is a wicked man. I've come to know him far too well these past months, and my fears for you and my son grow with each passing day. The thought of what that man might do if he uncovered... what exists between you makes me shudder."
Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "But my greater fear, Annabeth, is for you. What he will do to you once you're wed. What he'll make you become. Women are resilient, pliable, malleable creatures who've endured hardships men cannot begin to fathom. That isn't always a good thing."
Annabeth's grip tightened, part desperation, part irritation.
Didn't Sally realize already knew? Didn't she understand the entire kingdom was well aware of Triton's vileness? Didn't she see that the Princess had no choice in the matter?
"I have no choice," she said helplessly. "The deal was struck years ago. It's only a matter of time."
They were meant to wed earlier this year, but the late king's death had forced the nuptials to be postponed. A blessing if there ever was one.
Sally pulled her close, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You do, my dear. You always do. Even the broken can choose to fight or surrender to despair. Don't repeat my mistakes. Protect yourself. Protect your children."
Annabeth clutched her tightly, pleading. "How?"
"Learn his ways. Learn his dance."
Annabeth sputtered. "You want me to simper and obey and fall at his feet?"
"I want you to survive! You've got a quick mind and an even quicker mouth. You think I didn't either, when I was your age?"
"Daughter?"
The two women turned to see the King Consort approaching. His gaze flicked to Sally and his eyes narrowing slightly, no doubt recalling the time he had stumbled upon Percy and Annabeth in the garden all those years ago.
Sally squeezed Annabeth's hand before dropping into a deep curtsy.
The King Consort nodded to her in greeting before turning to Annabeth.
"We are about to begin."
The grand hall was draped in the same somber black that had marked Athena's crowning ceremony just two weeks prior. The curtains and carpets were an unrelenting expanse of shadowy blackness that threatened to swallow Annabeth whole. Above, banners from every kingdom and noble house hung from the vaulted ceiling, catching and refracting the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows.
The air was thick as nobles, lords, and visiting royals from neighboring realms gathered in hushed anticipation, their gazes fixed on Queen Athena. She moved through the grand hall with deliberate poise, the crowd parting before her as though compelled by an unspoken command. When she reached the dias, she ascended the steps with measured grace, her black cloak flowing behind her.
Annabeth stood to the side of the throne with her father and brothers, her rank marked by the golden circlet upon her brow. She held her head high, neck aching. The air was heavy with ceremony, the weight of oaths yet to be spoken.
Malcolm leaned in, breath tickling her ear. "Are you alright?"
Annabeth carefully smoothed her skirt. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because you look like someone spat in your milk," Bobby said helpfully.
Annabeth forced her face into a neutral expression.
Matthew, always quick to add fuel to the fire, said, "I think it just got worse."
Annabeth scowled as the twins chortled on. She could feel Malcolm's eyes still lingering on her, but she refused to acknowledge him, her focus fixed firmly on her mother.
One by one, the lords came forward, each kneeling before Athena, their voices ringing with declarations of fealty. "By my sword and by my honor, I pledge my loyalty to you, my queen." Athena acknowledged each with a slight nod, her piercing gaze steady, her hand lightly resting on the gilded armrest of her throne.
"How much longer?" Bobby whined as yet another noble approached the dais.
"Shhh," Annabeth said.
"It feels like forever," Matthew muttered.
"It's been two hours," Malcolm said dryly. "Which, I assure you, isn't nearly as long as forever."
When the foreign royals approached, their steps carried less solemnity but equal deference. They bowed deeply, their voices smooth as honey as they offered friendships and alliances. Lavish gifts were laid at the queen's feet—gold wrought into intricate shapes, rare spices in jewel-toned jars, and even exotic beasts that growled or chirped in their cages. It was dazzling, all of it, and yet utterly hollow. A performance, a carefully orchestrated ploy. Their vows carried some weight; when the time came, they would honor the oaths of fealty sworn today. But true friendship? True loyalty—of heart, mind, and mouth? That was a currency far rarer than any precious jewel.
I don't need them to love me, Athena had once told her children, echoing the wisdom passed down from her father and from his and from his. I need them to obey me.
But Annabeth, ever foolish, ever yearning, wanted both. She craved love and loyalty and obedience and power. She knew her own brilliance, the sharpness of her mind, the fire of her ambition. To leave her gifts unused would be a betrayal of herself, a waste the world could ill afford. There had to be a place where women could be both revered and feared, where strength did not dim softness, where power did not preclude love. Yet, in the stillness of her heart, she understood this world was not made for her kind, and so she could not exist. Not yet.
The Princess scanned the crowd, her expression calm, though her heart fluttered with relentless boredom. The twins were right—this ceremony did feel like forever. How many hours until the night was through? Seven? Ten? The very thought made her want to weep. Instead, she stifled a sigh, her eyes wandering aimlessly, until they snagged on a face that shouldn't be here.
He had changed. Gone were the carefree boy she remembered, replaced by a young man whose every movement spoke of battles fought and burdens borne. He cut an impressive figure, a perfect blend of strength and grace. His dark hair, a perfect mess, brushed against the collar of the finely embroidered tunic that marked him as the newly legitimized son of Poseidon. Broad shoulders and a powerful build betrayed hours of discipline and training, yet there was an effortless ease in the way he carried himself, as though his new body was one he lived in all his life. But his eyes—the same sea-green she'd never forgotten—still held the same tenderness and mischief she remembered.
Percy's gaze locked on hers, and the air seemed to shift. He stepped forward as if drawn by an invisible thread, but paused, stiffening under the watchful eyes of his father. Poseidon stood with Amphitrite by his side, his expression unreadable, though his presence alone was enough to command silence. Percy's jaw tightened as he glanced at the king, his hands curling into fists. Sally was noticeably missing. She could share his bed, sup at his table, and dine among his guests, but kingdom affairs? That was where the line was drawn, it seemed.
He doesn't trust him, Annabeth thought with relief. Percy might wear Poseidon's colors now, but there was no loyalty in his stance, only a reluctant submission.
Oh, how Annabeth longed to go to him, to feel his arms wrap around her. The hall swirled with laughter and music, but her thoughts drowned it all out, her heart aching with a mix of yearning and confusion. A thousand questions clawed at her throat, unspoken but insistent. Why wasn't he training far away with all the other second sons who'd been born to kings, as he'd written last? Hadn't Poseidon planned to keep his legitimacy a secret until they were farther away from Zeus' death and Athena's coronation? Why was he here, now, in this room, under so many watchful eyes?
And then there was the question that haunted her most: if Poseidon was here, the rest of his household would be, too. And if that was true, where was Triton?
As if summoned by the devil himself, Triton strode into the hall next, his arrival announced by the clink of gilded armor so bright it nearly blinded anyone who dared to look. Poseidon's eldest son and heir moved with the arrogance of one who had never been denied anything. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on Annabeth, and a predatory grin spread across his face.
The years had been kind to him. Too kind, she thought bitterly. His jaw was strong, his golden hair gleaming like sunlight, his shoulders were broad, and his posture effortlessly regal, as if he knew exactly how commanding he looked. No one could deny that they would make a beautiful pair. Annabeth forced her eyes away, her fingers curling into her skirts to keep them steady. That thought infuriated Annabeth even more.
Triton knelt before Athena, his head bowed in the gesture of fealty, but his eyes never wavered from Annabeth. Even as he spoke the solemn words of allegiance, his gaze burned with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably under its weight.
When he rose, Athena clapped her hands, and the hall transformed. Somewhere, musicians struck up a lively tune, and servants flowed in bearing trays of food and drink. The somber air dissolved in an instant, replaced by the hum of conversation. Athena turned to Annabeth and said, "Go to him," before accepting Frederick's offered hand and allowed herself to be swept into the crowd.
"Do you need me to intervene?" Malcolm asked as Triton made his way to her, his steps deliberate and his expression smug.
"No," Annabeth said. "Take the twins and mingle. I'll join you shortly."
Sally's words rang in her ears. Don't repeat my mistakes. Learn his ways. Learn his dance.
If she hoped to survive a marriage to a demon like Triton, she couldn't rely on others to defend her. In the end, it would be only her and him, and she would have to learn the steps on her own.
"This is a battle I need to fight for myself."
She knew Malcolm didn't like the thought of leaving her, but she also knew he understood that soon, he wouldn't be able to protect her any longer. Soon, she would be in another land, another house, fending for herself.
"I won't be far," he acquiesced, and he ushered the twins away.
"Annabeth," came the smooth voice, low enough for only her to hear. "You look... radiant today."
"Triton," the Princess replied curtly, keeping her expression neutral as she turned to face him.
Triton made a show of kissing her hand and making his pleasantries. "Soon, all this," he gestured to the hall, "will be ours. Imagine the power we'll wield together."
She stiffened but held her ground. "Power isn't a toy, Triton."
He chuckled, the sound grating. "No, it's a weapon. One you'll learn to wield well... as my queen."
Before Annabeth could respond, a quiet voice spoke behind her.
"Triton."
They both turned to see Percy, his jaw set and his eyes cold. There was none of the teasing warmth she remembered; this was a man who had learned to steel himself against the world.
"Little brother," Triton said, the mockery in his voice unmistakable. "Shouldn't you be fetching something for our father?"
He spat the word as if it scorched his tongue, and Annabeth didn't doubt that it did. She remembered Percy's letters all too well—how he'd described the hellish days in the palace, where Triton took every opportunity to make his and Sally's life miserable. It had gotten so unbearable that Poseidon eventually decided the best solution for everyone was to send Percy away with the other second sons.
Percy ignored the jab, his gaze shifting briefly to Annabeth before returning to Triton. "You should mind your tongue," he said evenly. "It might get you into trouble."
Standing side by side, the similarities between the brothers were impossible to miss. Poseidon was etched into their broad shoulders, their strong jaws, their sharp, commanding profiles. They were like sun and moon, sea and sky. But where Triton radiated power and arrogance, Percy carried a quiet strength. Sally's warmth shone through in Percy's kind eyes and good natured smile.
Triton laughed darkly, loud enough to draw the attention of nearby lords. "Careful, Perseus. I'd hate for you to forget your place."
The tension between them was palpable, the air around them thick with unspoken challenges. Annabeth stepped back, unwilling to be caught in the crossfire of their rivalry, but Percy's hand brushed hers—just for a moment. It was a fleeting touch, but it sent a shiver down her spine.
Triton noticed this too and his eyes narrowed dangerously. He extended a gloved hand and bowed deeply.
"Dance with me," he commanded, his voice low and edged with steel. He leaned in closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "I won't accept anything but a yes."
Percy opened his mouth to object, but Annabeth was quicker. She silenced him with a sharp, warning glance as she placed her hand in Triton's. She felt Percy's worried eyes searing into her back as Triton led her to the center of the room with a bruising grip.
The lively tune begged for celebration, but their dance felt more like a funeral march—each step heavy, joyless, and strained. As more couples joined the floor, skirts swirling and laughter echoing around them, the growing crowd only seemed to intensify Triton's suffocating presence.
"Will you answer one question," Annabeth said at last.
"Why would I?" Triton shot back. He swore as he stumbled over his feet and Annabeth quickly realized he was an awful dancer and seemed to loathe the activity altogether. Why ask her, then? The answer came as a chilling revelation—he wanted to pull her away from Percy—and for a panicked moment, she wondered if he somehow knew of their affection.
"Because I am to be your wife, am I not?" she pressed, her tone deliberately calm. There was nothing an emotional man despised more than a calm and composed woman.
Triton's expression darkened, and his grip on her waist tightened—too firm, too possessive. "Wives do not demand things of their husbands," he sneered. "They bear children, tend the home, and fulfill their husband's needs."
"That is why I am asking, not demanding," Annabeth replied evenly, forcing herself not to flinch under his hold.
She wondered if he might strike her, but instead his lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Clever little bitch. Very well, I'll allow one question—not because you are owed anything, but because your beauty pleases me. Nothing more."
"Very well."
As the song reached its end, the dance floor swirled to a halt.
"Well?" Triton demanded, his voice dripping with impatience as the dancers began to disperse.
"I shall ask my question when I know it," Annabeth responded, her voice steady.
His face turned nearly purple with fury, and she walked away, leaving him in the middle of the floor like a giant, purple grape.
Sally had urged her to shrink, to make herself small, to fold in and protect herself, but that was not Annabeth's way. She was playing with fire, and she knew it—Triton could easily be driven to kill her if he chose. He did not tolerate wit or intelligence in his women. That much was painfully clear. But Annabeth couldn't help herself. If she ever brought children into the world, what would she be teaching them? Would she raise her sons to believe that a woman's worth was measured in curses and violence, that their wives and daughters were mere objects to be struck, insulted, and used? And what about her daughters? Would she teach them that love from a man meant tears and bruises, that their worth was defined by the cruelty they were forced to endure?
No. She refused to cower. It wasn't in her nature, and it never would be. If she were to die for refusing to bend to a man's demands, so be it. She would rather die true to herself than live as a fraud, begging for her husband's favor and shrinking from his violence. She would raise her children to be kind and gentle and brave and true. Her sons would learn to treat their wives with respect, and her daughters would grow up knowing their worth, never questioning the love they deserved.
Annabeth felt a prickling sensation, the weight of someone's gaze on her. She turned instinctively, expecting to meet Percy's familiar eyes.
Instead, she froze.
Percy and Triton were both staring at her from the side of the room.
Percy's gaze burned with gentle love and fierce longing—a raw, aching hunger that seemed to unravel her. It spoke of need, of something starved and desperate, yearning to be fulfilled, and made her stomach tingle in the most delicious way.
But Triton's eyes held a different kind of hunger. Dark. Malicious. They gleamed with cruel promises, whispers of pain and dominance lurking beneath his polished exterior. A shiver ran through her, not from cold, but from the foreboding that tightened around her chest like a vice.
The fear tightened around her like an iron vice, holding her captive for the rest of the night and long after the guests had departed for their chambers.
Annabeth couldn't sleep. Her eyes were heavy, her mind was clogged, her feet were sore, and yet, sleep remained just beyond her reach. She resorted to wandering the corridors like a phantom, her white nightgown whispering behind her, blonde hair flowing in loose waves down her back. As she drifted through the vacant halls she heard the faint echoes of midnight conversations, fragments of passionate love making, fleeting moments of merriment, and the distant murmurs of drunken quarrels. The castle seemed to pulse with its own secrets.
Somehow, she found herself standing before the giant oak doors of the war room. When she was young, she would sneak inside and imagine herself as a great general, adorned in medals for her countless victories. She'd climb onto the red plush chairs, and gazed at the map etched into the wood. For hours, her mind would race, weaving intricate plans and strategies, each one more daring than the last, as she dreamed of triumphs yet to come.
It had been years since her last midnight visit, yet the memories lingered, as vivid as ever, muffling the hushed conversation within. Annabeth paused, shaking off the remnants of her thoughts, trying to steady herself. It wasn't the usual chatter of servants or the idle gossip of the court. No, this was something else.
Her heart stuttered in her chest as she recognized the voices.
Without a second thought, she pressed herself against the heavy oak doors, her breath hitching in her throat.
"The handfasting will be a grand affair," Athena said, her voice cool and calculated. "This union will solidify our power—something we need now more than ever, especially with my father's passing and your lords growing bolder by the day."
"Indeed," Poseidon agreed. "Do you have enough time to finalize everything?"
"I've already ordered for the preparations to begin," Athena replied.
Annabeth's stomach dropped. How long had she been planning this?
"Does the girl know?" Poseidon asked.
Perhaps if Athena was another woman she might've paused, a prickle of guilt tugging at her consciousness. But Athena was not another woman and she didn't know how to be.
"Does it matter?" Athena shot back. "She will soon enough."
Poseidon let out a heavy sigh. "Triton will learn to care for her in time, as she will for him. But I suppose it doesn't matter. It's their turn to take up the mantle and do their duty, just as we did, and our parents before us."
Annabeth's hands trembled against the oak, her nails digging into the rough surface. She wanted to scream, to storm in and demand answers, but something held her back. Fear? Or was it the helplessness, the knowledge that there was nothing she could say that would change what had already been decided for her? This had been years in the making and she'd known, she'd known.
"They will make their first royal appearance in the spring," Athena continued, her voice steady as if discussing the weather.
"Do you think she can handle it? Women are often prone to fussing under stress."
"Don't underestimate her," Athena replied firmly. "Annabeth is far more capable than you realize. Triton will eventually assume the throne in time, with Annabeth by his side," she continued, her voice steady with conviction. "Our thrones will pass to our children's heirs, and their heirs after them. But it will be Malcolm's descendants who will have first claim to my throne."
They've planned our entire lives, Annabeth thought numbly. It wouldn't surprise her if Athena already had her funeral arrangements drafted, tucked away somewhere for safekeeping until the day they were needed.
Her heart thundered in her chest, the sound filling her ears and drowning out reason. She couldn't stay to hear more. She had to leave before they discovered her presence, before her ragged breathing or the shock written on her face betrayed her.
As she turned to slip away, her foot scraped against the cold stone floor, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a warning bell. Panic jolted through her body, and she froze, every nerve braced for what might come next.
"What was that?"
Annabeth froze. Her breath stilled, her heart hammering in her throat. She held her breath, praying they would dismiss it as a clumsy servant or the wind.
For what felt like an eternity, silence hung heavy in the air. Then came the sound of footsteps, drawing closer with every heartbeat. The door creaked open, spilling light into the room, and there they stood—Poseidon and her mother, their faces grim and unyielding.
Every fiber of her being screamed to react—to shout, to cry, to rail against the heavens. She wanted to hurl her rage at them, to break through the weight of their expectations. But no. She would not give them that satisfaction.
Instead, she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and met their eyes with steely resolve. "When is the handfasting to be?" she asked.
"Annabeth?" Perseus Jackson stood in the shadowed doorway of his chambers, his hair tousled from sleep and his voice thick with concern.
Annabeth knew she must look mad with her chest heaving, nightgown wrinkled, eyes wild with desperation.
The journey to his chambers was a blur. She scarcely remembered turning on her heel and fleeing the moment she was out of sight of the two monarchs. Only one thing reverberated in her mind: Athena's curt and devastating reply.
"Three days," she said, her voice raw. "I'm to be wed in three days' time."
Percy's breath caught. He pulled back slightly to look at her, as if searching for any sign that she was jesting, but there was nothing but truth in her eyes.
"Everything is slipping right out of our hands," she whispered, her voice breaking like a fragile thread stretched too thin.
"That may be so," he said solemnly. He reached for her, gently tilting her chin up so their eyes met. "But I swear to you, no matter what comes next, I will never leave you to face it alone."
His grip softened, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as he continued. "I remember how we felt sitting by the water and every time I look at you it's like the first time. I fell in love with a careless man's careful daughter," he said, voice catching with emotion. "She is the best thing that's ever been mine."
Oh, how her heart burst with love for this boy.
Annabeth drew in a quivering breath, trying to steady the storm within her. "I thought… Perhaps I could figure something out. I was arrogant, I know, to believe I could somehow outmaneuver a political vow. But now it's upon us, and there's no escaping it."
Percy's jaw tightened, his gaze darkening with fierce protectiveness. "I thought we'd have more time. That I could train and make something of myself, that one day I might go to your parents and offer my hand, like a man should." He shook his head, his voice breaking. "But I'm only seventeen. I don't know..."
Her eyes softened with sadness. "It was always my seventeenth nameday," she said gently. "It has been for years."
For a moment, anger flickered in his eyes. "So you've decided to just surrender? To admit defeat?"
"No," Annabeth snapped, sharp and unyielding. "Never."
"Then what are you saying?" he asked, his tone a desperate whisper.
She lifted her gaze to his, her gray eyes blazing with determination. "I don't want my first time to be with him," she said, her voice steady but heavy with emotion. "I will not beg, and I will not plead. I know what I'm asking of you, and I understand if you refuse." She paused, her breath catching. "But I need this to be my decision before it's too late."
She's heard too many tales of women being defiled against their will, their first times wasted on fools and drunkards, or stolen by empty promises and charming lies. She's spent too many years being haunted by nightmares of that poor maiden violated in her mother's temple, her innocence torn away. And she knew, with unshakable certainty, that she didn't want to become another one of those women, another one of those girls. If it had to happen, she wanted it to be on her terms, in her way.
"No one has to know what we do," she murmured.
Percy's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a trout gasping for air, and for a moment, she wondered if she had truly rendered him speechless. Her cheeks burned with the heat of her words, but she felt no shame. She would seize whatever shred of control remained to her, no matter how small. This part of her—this choice—would never belong to Triton.
His eyes unmistakably brimmed with desire and longing, but beneath the surface lingered a flicker of caution and worry.
"Not here," he said at last, voice thick with want.
Her heart fluttered at his words and a spark ignited within her.
"I know a place," he continued. "It's not far, but it's hidden. We'll be safe there, just the two of us. We can make it."
She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the warmth of his presence. The thought of running away, of leaving everything behind—even for a single night—felt reckless, impossible, yet it was the only thing that felt right.
"Come with me," Percy urged, his fingers curling gently around hers as he pulled.
Annabeth hesitated for only a moment before nodding. She didn't need to think any longer. This was it. Her chance. If she didn't take it now, she would never have another.
The summer sky was young and black and stitched with stars and light. It trafficked best in secrets—concealing lovers, hiding kings, aiding criminals in their crimes. Tonight was no different. The princess Annabeth was nearly invisible as she dashed into the night, her secret prince on her heels. For the first time in what seemed like forever she felt true unbridled freedom.
The journey was swift yet fraught with tension, their feet pounding the ground as they fled the castle and plunged into the darkened woods. The wind howled through the trees, bending them into twisted, animated shapes, as if they were monstrous creatures, waiting to devour disobedient girls.
At last, they emerged from the woods and arrived at a meadow, perched precariously on the edge of a cliff that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the horizon. Before them, the ocean yawned in all its vast, infinite darkness, a mysterious expanse that whispered of limitless possibilities. Fragments of old geography and history lessons stumbled and tripped across her memory, and she knew that if they continued following the sea, they would eventually reach Poseidon's realm.
Spinning like a girl in a brand new dress, Annabeth let out a whoop. The vast, open meadow stretched before them, lit by starlight, all theirs to enjoy, sheltered by the woods.
Grinning, Percy swept her off her feet and spun her around in delight.
"Percy... stop," she laughed, breathless from the whirlwind of motion, her feet leaving the ground as he spun her higher.
But Percy only smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. "This is our place. We make the rules." He set her down gently, his hands lingering at her waist as if to keep the moment suspended in time. For a brief, perfect second, it was just the two of them, surrounded by nothing but the wild freedom of the night.
Annabeth met his gaze, her laughter still dancing in the air. "Then let's make the most of it," she whispered, the world falling away as she took his hand.
Tucked away on the edge of the woods a small, one-room cottage sat quietly. Its weathered, yet sturdy thatched roof curled gently at the edges, while the stone walls were dotted with patches of spongy green moss. Inside, starlight filtered softly through the small, diamond-paned windows, and the curtains fluttered lightly in the ocean breeze. A bed piled high with furs and silks was pushed against the far wall while woven rugs from distant lands laid in front of a large fireplace, empty of fire.
They were silent as they kicked off their shoes and hung up their cloaks. She turned and he smiled gently. Then his gaze drifted downwards, noticing her nipples straining against the thin fabric of her nightgown, and it darkened in a delicious way. He reached for her, his touch light at first—almost tentative—as if testing the air for any hesitation. But there was none. Her gaze met his, a quiet understanding passing between them, and she took a step closer, her hand resting gently on his chest.
He led her to the bed and then she was kissing him with such passion, such love, such desperation and need it made her dizzy.
He pulled away once and smiled down at her. Gods he was so tall and handsome as hell. The exhaustion in his eyes had faded into something deeper, something she couldn't quite name. Desire, longing, hunger, need… all were true.
His breath caught as she ran her fingers over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath. She let her hands move to his shoulders, their touch slow and deliberate, memorizing every inch of him.
"Are you sure?" His voice was low and vulnerable, eyes searching hers, looking for any sign of uncertainty.
She felt her heart swell with affection for him, falling a little deeper in love with him in that moment. Remember this moment she said in the back of her mind. She smiled softly, her fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from his face. "I've never been more certain."
And with that, the distance between them vanished. He cupped her face gently, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was tender. She responded, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her touch.
Their kisses deepened slowly, a delicate exploration that spoke volumes more than words ever could. His hands found the small of her back, pulling her closer as she let out a soft sigh against his lips. She could feel the heat of his body, the way he seemed to draw her in with every movement as he guided her down upon the mattress.
His lips descended upon her breasts, still clad in the flimsy nightgown, and they both moaned when he took her in his mouth. He nipped and pulled, licked and suckled. He seemed to love making the noises that came from her and was considerate, giving, and attentive. She writhed beneath him in pleasure, and he watched her intently, ever the apt pupil.
When she was almost too sensitive he turned his attention to her other breast. She mewled as he enveloped her in the warm heat of his mouth.
Before she could process, he gently pulled away, his gaze lingering on hers for a moment before he lowered his head, his hands lifting the hem of her gown with slow, deliberate care.
She held her breath when she felt his fingers skirt her ankles, her calves, her knees, until he reached the apex of her thighs. Gently, as if handling a treasure made of glass, he parted her legs.
"I've, uh, heard it's better to prepare, to make it less painful," he stammered, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
"Oh?" she replied, a pang of frustration coursing through her. She cursed her mother, who had shared all the duties of a wife and the burdens of motherhood, but never once spoke of the pleasures of womanhood.
"It might hurt," he warned.
"I know," she said, for that part she'd known, and little else.
He nodded and went back to his task. She closed her eyes and nearly jumped when she felt the first finger probe her entrance. It stung and she inhaled sharply at the foreign intrusion.
He let out a low, gutted groan and buried his face in her hair. "You're so wet."
Her cheeks flushed like the sun, hoping that was a good thing.
He worked another finger into her, then another, sometimes waiting long stretches if she winced, whispering sweet nothing into her hair.
Finally he slipped a fourth and final finger into her and said, "Open your eyes."
She opened her eyes to find the sight of his hand pumping within her, stretching and shaping her to his liking. He was the only one who had ever touched this part of her.
"Oh," she breathed.
Percy's thumb brushed against the sensitive bundle of nerves, and in an instant, a surge of electrifying sensation overtook her, leaving her breathless and trembling with its intensity.
He worked her gently through her release, until it became too unbearable and a second release began to crest.
"I've heard women finish more than once," he said with a mischievous grin, all traces of previous hesitation apparently forgotten. She moaned but didn't push his hand away. Instead, she moved her hips with his thrusts, seeking release, until she finally came again.
When he removed his fingers they glistened with her blood. On her wedding night she would be expected to present this blood on her bedsheets to the court as a symbol of her marriage's consummation, but that was a matter for another time.
She caught her breath as he undid his pants and positioned himself on top of her.
"Ready?" he said.
"Ready," she confirmed.
When he finally entered her, it felt like coming home. He waited patiently as she adjusted to his size and then he was thrusting gently. He moved with deliberate care, and as he did, he peppered her face with tender kisses.
"I love you," he murmured against the shell of her ear.
"I love you too," she gasped. She bucked her hips, causing him to groan. "Please, move."
They moved in unison, unhurried and unbound by time, as if the world outside had ceased to exist. His movements were like the tide—deep, deliberate, and steady—filling her completely with each thrust. The night unfolded endlessly around them, and in that fleeting eternity, nothing else mattered but the intimacy they shared—the seamless way their bodies intertwined, echoing passion, trust, and an unspoken promise.
Annabeth never knew that lovemaking could be this exquisite, a harmony of passion and tenderness that left her utterly breathless.
She reached her peak first, her body arching as waves of pleasure crashed over her, eyes squeezing shut in pure ecstasy. Percy groaned deeply as she clenched around him, his restraint faltering. With a shuddering breath, he buried his face in the curve of her neck, his arms trembling as he held himself back. A moment later, he withdrew with a sharp cry, spilling his release across her stomach, his body taut.
They lay together afterward, breathless and tangled in the softness of the sheets. Neither spoke as their eyes met, and in the quiet of their gaze, everything unsaid found its voice.
"Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere," he whispered against her skin before drifting off to sleep.
She awoke a few hours later to the gentle glow of sunrise spilling across her face, bathing the papers on the table in a soft, golden light. Her neck screamed in protest as she straightened from where she nodded off at the table. Sleep had barely claimed her for more than an hour, her restless mind held captive by a thought that refused to release her. Turning her head, her gaze fell on Percy, sprawled across the bed. His hair was endearingly tousled, and a faint trail of drool escaped the corner of his mouth, a sight so unguarded it made her chest tighten with quiet affection.
"I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you," she murmured.
For a moment, she simply lay there, watching him. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the peaceful expression on his face. It was a rare moment of quiet in a world that never seemed to let them rest.
Eventually, he stirred, blinking blearily as he turned toward her. "What is it?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
"You drool when you sleep."
He extended a palm and she took it, warm and rough, and he drew her to his chest, their bodies tangled in each other as they watched the sun crest over the sea. The shadows of the forest melted away and the monsters turned out to be just trees. When the first rays of dawn bathed her face, he turned to her, his gaze piercing, as if he were seeing her for the first time—or perhaps as if he'd always seen her, truly and completely.
It was as if the very fabric of their world had shifted, and all she knew was that since yesterday, everything has changed.
"You're plotting something," he said.
Annabeth nodded tightly. She was almost afraid to speak her thoughts aloud, to release them into a space she could not control.
"My marriage contract," she began. "It states that I am to wed the Celaeno's eldest son." She swallowed harshly, wondering if what she said next might make him hate her forever. "If something were to happen to Triton…"
"Then you'd be obligated to marry me," Percy finished, his eyes sharper now, fully awake.
Annabeth nodded, searching his face for any trace of hatred or contempt. Triton was a terror, a demon in human form, but he was still Percy's brother, still his blood. She wasn't just proposing to usurp the throne; she was suggesting fratricide. Yet, as she looked at him, all she saw in his gaze was something she hadn't expected—hope.
"Could you go through with it?" she whispered. "Or would you hate me forever if I made that choice?"
"Do you remember that time when I saw those bruises on your wrists?"
They had been fifteen summers and falls, so vibrant and full of youth. They had dreamt of owning cows and chickens, of churning their own butter and marrying when the time felt right. It had all seemed so distant, so far off all those years ago—yet now, here they were, just two days before her wedding.
Percy's voice was steady, but there was an intensity beneath it that carried weight. "The look on your face that night... it was the same one I saw on her every morning. And if I could go back, I would've told my mother to run. No hesitation."
The Princess's heart fluttered, a sweet, sharp ache rising in her chest.
"Why did your father legitimize you?" she asked, forcing herself to push past the fluttering in her heart. "Why now?"
The words lingered between them, heavy with unspoken truths, as if the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break.
Percy's gaze turned distant. "I don't know."
"He must've known you'd be a threat to Triton."
"Yes, but... my father doesn't think that deeply. He's not much for strategy."
"Then someone must've suggested it to him." Someone who cared deeply for both of them, who understood the intricacies of the contract, who could sway the king's decision.
They locked eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them.
Sally.
Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove called out, its cry shattering the fragile peace, and Annabeth wanted to lay a thousand and one flowers at Sally's feet for her foresight and cunning.
"Are we truly going through with this?" Annabeth asked. The weight of the question hung in the air—if they were caught, the consequences would be unimaginable.
"Aye," Percy said. He held his head like a hero on a history book page. "We are going to make it. I can see it now."