Am I troubled?

Was Percy a troubled godling? Some might say so. Others, those with more enlightened minds, might call him a prodigy—perhaps a bit much to handle, but isn't that how lesser minds often label genius?

Technically, he's two years old. In terms of maturity, that's accurate. But his mind? It already surpasses that of many mortal adults. Childlike to the gods, perhaps, but still vastly more advanced than others his age. After all, he's the only godling known to exist.

And his body? That's another story. Physically, he appears eight years old, though his aging has begun to slow. For gods, time isn't a straight path—it's fluid, nonlinear. He could age a year in a week, then spend a decade barely growing another day.

But where was I? Ah, yes... troubled.

Zoe PoV:

The farther north we journey, the dimmer the light of Olympus becomes. Each step feels like a surrender to this frozen hellscape. But what choice do we have? If Artemis is discovered...

She was forbidden, long ago, to ever leave the light of Olympus. I remember the day Zeus decreed it. He had been flabbergasted at needing to make such a rule in the first place.

"Why, in the name of the Fates, would you go somewhere your power weakens and drains?" Zeus had thundered. "If not for your brother Apollo, you could have spent centuries in Tartarus, reforming! Do you even comprehend what the Titans would have done to you?" His voice shook the heavens, and when he spoke of Tartarus, his fury deepened. His fingers curled so tightly around the Master Bolt that the universe itself trembled under the weight of his rage. I remember fearing for all of us in that moment, standing in the storm of his wrath.

That was the last time Artemis ventured so far. She spent the next hundred years confined to Olympus, with us, her Hunt, bound to her side. One hundred years of boredom. No hunts. No wilderness. Our only amusement came from chasing off suitors too stubborn or too foolish to take a hint.

And now? Now she's gone. She said she was bored, that she needed to stretch her legs. She went north—too far north—and disappeared. The council is growing suspicious, their questions more frequent and pointed. We even brought Selene out of retirement to try and buy time, but it's a ruse that won't hold.

We have until the Winter Solstice. Two weeks. If we don't find her before then, if we fail to bring her back... it will be the end of us all.

The Hunt has been run ragged. Frantically combing this godless land, we grow weaker with every passing day. Our powers fade, our strength drains. This cursed north saps at us, gnaws at our resolve. But we press on. Because we have no other choice.

Zoe's PoV: One Week later:

We were running out of time. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the endless snowfields in an eerie twilight, we set up camp. Exhaustion weighed on us like the bitter cold, seeping into our bones. We huddled around the faint warmth of the fire, too tired to speak—until Atalanta broke the silence.

"She's gone, isn't she?" Atalanta's voice wavered, a quiet admission of despair. It was almost unforgivable to speak such a thought aloud, but it was born from exhaustion and fear.

"How dare you!" Phoebe's roar shattered the fragile quiet. She shot to her feet, hand flying to her dagger. Her eyes blazed with fury, her breath a plume of frost in the frigid air.

"Enough!" My voice boomed, cutting through the tension like a blade. I stepped between them, glaring first at Phoebe. "Stow that blade, before I stow it in your heart," I commanded, my tone sharp as steel. Her hand hesitated, then slowly fell away from the hilt, though her anger still simmered.

I turned to Atalanta, softening my voice. "I understand your fear, your sorrow. We all feel it. But remember your duty, sister. Do not fail our Lady now. We will find her. We will not stop, not for anything. We will do everything we can, and we will succeed—just as she would for any of us."

The fire reflected in their eyes, and I saw resolve begin to replace their doubt. My sisters rallied, their shoulders straightening, their expressions hardening with renewed determination. For a moment, I felt hope stir in the cold.

And then, we heard it.

A sound carried on the icy wind, faint but distinct. A distant howl—low, mournful, and utterly unnatural. It sent a chill deeper than the cold, freezing the blood in our veins.

All eyes turned to the darkness beyond the fire's glow, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Whatever it was, it wasn't mortal. It wasn't even natural.

They came at us in a blur of fur and fangs—massive wolves, their snarls echoing across the icy expanse. They charged with unrelenting fury, their eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. Instinct took over as we drew our bows, unleashing a volley of arrows. The shafts flew true, striking the beasts in vital places. One by one, they fell, their massive forms collapsing into the snow.

But then, before we could catch our breath, they began to stir. Their bodies shimmered unnaturally, wounds knitting together as if time itself had been reversed. In moments, they stood again, as powerful and deadly as before.

"Not possible!" Phoebe shouted, loosing another arrow with precision. "That's moon-silver! No wolf of Lycaon could survive that!" Frustration and disbelief colored her voice, even as she nocked another arrow.

Then we heard it—a laugh, deep and guttural, rumbling through the frozen air like a storm.

"Remember where you are girl!" the voice boomed, each word laced with menace.

The wolves paused, their snarls subsiding as the presence behind them made itself known. A figure loomed in the shadows, and the air grew colder still.

"We are not weaklings like that half-breed of Lycaon," the voice sneered, dripping with disdain. "We are the sons of Fenrir, the great wolf, he who tore the hand from Tyr, god of war. Our father devoured gods, and we shall devour you."

But then, cutting through the menacing rumble of the wolf's voice, we heard it—a giggle. Light, musical, and entirely out of place amidst the snarls and tension. It rang through the woods like a bell, sharp and crystalline, carrying an unexpected warmth that seemed to cut through the icy air.

The wolves froze mid-step, their growls faltering. Their massive forms, so fearsome and untouchable just moments before, seemed to shrink back into the shadows. Even the largest of them—the supposed leader of the pack, his red eyes blazing with fury just moments ago—took a hesitant step back. His gaze darted nervously into the darkness, his once-dominant posture faltering.

Then, to our shock, he lowered his head, his red eyes wide with something that looked an awful lot like fear. Slowly, almost reverently, the massive beast bent his forelegs and sank to the snow. He… bowed.

The air around us shifted, a palpable energy crackling through the frozen expanse. My sisters exchanged bewildered glances, their weapons still raised but their hands trembling with uncertainty. Whatever power had elicited such a reaction from these creatures was beyond anything we had expected—or prepared for.

And then, in the stillness, the giggle came again. Closer this time. Carefree. Dangerous.

Zoe PoV: We meet a friend… yes I guess you would call it a friend….

The voice slipped out of the darkness like a blade hidden in velvet, soft and playful, yet sharp enough to cut. "Oh, Fastulfr, my dear friend, what are you up to?"

From the shadows emerged a pair of glowing eyes—one sea green, swirling like a tempest in the depths of the ocean, the other frost white, glinting with the chill of a frozen tundra. They glowed with an unnatural power, the kind that gripped you by the throat and refused to let go.

The air grew heavier as the figure moved closer, each step rippling through the snow like a silent drumbeat. "I missed you," the voice continued, carrying the false warmth of a predator toying with its prey. "So did Mother. Our hearth yearns for you, and yet... you were absent. Why?"

Fastulfr stiffened, his bold arrogance crumbling under the weight of those words. His head dipped slightly, his ears flattening against his skull, but he couldn't quite mask the unease that crept into his voice. "My lord," he stammered. "We are hunting. We sensed intruders—"

The figure cut him off, their tone cooling to a blade's edge. "That's not what Eyrir and Augr were telling me."

Fastulfr bristled, his hackles rising as his red eyes flickered with defiance. His voice wavered, a poor mask for his fear. "Careful who you accuse of lying, boy," he growled, the words shaky despite their attempt at authority. "For boy is what you are. I am Fastulfr, Fife to the—"

The sentence shattered as a white blur slammed into him with devastating force, sending snow spraying in every direction. The impact was thunderous, silencing even the biting wind. A massive wolf, its fur as pristine as fresh snow and its mismatched eyes ablaze with fury, pinned Fastulfr beneath its crushing weight.

The beast wasted no time. Its jaws clamped around his neck, and with a violent shake, the sickening sound of snapping bone echoed through the frozen forest. Fastulfr's body fell limp, crumpling into the bloodstained snow.

The remaining wolves dropped, their massive forms shrinking into submissive postures. Heads bowed, tails tucked, they pressed their muzzles to the ground as though offering themselves to the mercy of the beast.

The white wolf rose, blood dripping from its maw, and stood tall, its fur shimmering in the faint light. Then, slowly, its form began to shift. Bones creaked and reshaped, fur melted away, and the massive creature shrank until, standing in its place, was a boy.

He couldn't have been more than eight years old.

Two ravens descended from the night sky, their wings cutting through the silence. They landed on his shoulders, their dark feathers stark against his pale skin. They cawed, their tones sharp and scolding, and the boy tilted his head, listening.

"Yes, in poor taste if I don't help them find her," he muttered, responding to their cries as if it were the most natural conversation. "Yes, I think Mother would approve. No, I won't get too involved. You don't need to tell Mother on me, okay?"

He turned to face us then, his bloodstreaked face illuminated by the dim light. One eye was sea green, wild and untamed; the other was frost white, cold and unrelenting. They locked onto us with a gaze that pierced deeper than any blade.

There was nothing childish about him despite his size. He was something raw, something feral. The primal power that radiated from him made the air feel colder, and heavier.

Then, he smiled—a small, eerie curve of his lips that sent an icy shiver racing down my spine. "Well?" he asked, his voice calm, undercut with a feral wildness. "What are you waiting for? Shall we find her?"