Chapter 40: Shackles of the Damned
Pain.
It was the first thing Percy registered when consciousness crept back into his mind. His body felt like it had been torn apart and crudely stitched back together—raw, burning, and aching in ways he hadn't thought possible.
He tried to move, but chains dug into his wrists and ankles, heavy with celestial bronze and something darker—something that sapped his strength the longer he remained bound. He could feel the oppressive energy of Tartarus pressing down on him, suffocating, endless.
How long had he been here?
He forced his eyes open, blinking against the dim, reddish glow of the cavern. Jagged obsidian walls surrounded him, their surfaces slick with some dark, viscous substance that he didn't want to think about. The air was thick with the scent of blood, sulfur, and something ancient—something rotten.
A deep chuckle echoed through the chamber.
"So, the mighty Percy Jackson finally wakes."
The voice sent a shudder down his spine, not just from the sound but from the sheer malice laced in it. Slowly, Percy lifted his head.
Kronos stood before him.
No—not Kronos. The Titan King had been defeated, shattered, his remnants scattered across time itself. But the presence before him still carried the same overwhelming sense of power, the same commanding air.
Hyperion.
The Titan of the Sun smirked down at him, golden eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You took something from me, boy," he said, stepping closer, his molten armor radiating blistering heat. "You humiliated me in battle. And now, I intend to return the favor."
Percy forced a grin despite the pain lancing through his body. "Wow. I gotta say, I didn't expect a Titan to be so obsessed with me. Should I be flattered?"
Hyperion's smile faded, replaced by a scowl. In an instant, fire erupted from his hand, searing hot and wild as it slammed into Percy's chest.
Percy gasped, biting back a scream as the flames burned through his already tattered shirt, leaving blistering heat in their wake. His body arched against the chains, but the restraints held firm.
"Still defiant," Hyperion mused, tilting his head. "Let's see how long that lasts."
From the shadows, another figure stepped forward, and Percy's stomach twisted into a knot of dread.
Krios. The Titan of Constellations, his black-and-silver armor gleaming like the void of space itself. He regarded Percy with a detached, almost clinical expression, as if analyzing a particularly interesting specimen.
"You are strong," Krios admitted. "But strength alone will not save you here."
"Yeah? Well, I've gotten out of worse places than this," Percy gritted out. "So forgive me if I'm not shaking in my chains."
Hyperion's grin returned, but this time, it was something far more sinister. "Oh, but you will be, Jackson. Before we're done, you'll be begging for an end to your suffering."
Percy swallowed hard, refusing to let his fear show. He had been tortured before, had endured the worst Tartarus had to offer. But something about this—about the sheer hatred in Hyperion's eyes—made his skin crawl.
And worst of all, he knew he was alone.
No Annabeth. No Grover. No help coming.
But even as the Titans closed in, Percy clung to a single thought, a single thread of hope that kept him from falling into despair.
Artemis.
If anyone could find him—if anyone would find him—it was her.
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