PROLOGUE: THE HUNTRESS'S GAME
The full moon shone with unusual intensity that night, as if Artemis herself had decided that her favorite celestial body should illuminate every corner of Camp Half-Blood. Its silver rays filtered through the pine branches, casting dancing shadows over Cabin Three, Poseidon's cabin. Inside, oblivious to the celestial surveillance, Percy Jackson slept deeply, with a small thread of drool escaping from the corner of his lips. An eighteen-year-old demigod shouldn't drool while sleeping, but Percy had never been particularly conventional.
At the top of Half-Blood Hill, partially hidden among the trees, a slender figure observed the cabin with an intensity that would have concerned any casual observer. Her eyes, the color of liquid silver under the moonlight, had not turned away from that structure for the past three hours. The goddess Artemis, patron of the hunt, protector of maidens and eternal sworn virgin, was on a personal mission that contradicted centuries of her own mythology.
"Pathetic," she murmured to herself, as a twisted smile formed on her face. "The great hero of Olympus, drooling like a baby."
However, there was something in the way her eyes softened as she pronounced these words that betrayed a feeling much more complex than simple disdain.
With a fluid movement, Artemis descended from her position, moving with the silent grace of a predator. The early morning dew dampened the grass beneath her feet, but left no trace; the goddess was too skilled to leave tracks. She stopped just a few meters from the cabin, inhaling deeply as if she could capture the scent of the sea that always surrounded Percy, even through the walls.
"You held the sky for me," she whispered to the night. "Now I hold your destiny in my hands."
Artemis's mind traveled back years, to that crucial moment on Mount Othrys. She could remember with perfect clarity Percy's tense face, his muscles trembling under the weight of the firmament, his green eyes, the color of a stormy ocean, fixed on hers as she escaped from her prison. In that instant, something changed within the goddess of the hunt, something she had tried to deny, suppress, and finally accept.
"A mortal who sacrifices himself for a goddess," she murmured, shaking her head. "The noblest stupidity I've witnessed in three millennia."
Since that day, Artemis had begun to observe Percy Jackson with an interest that transcended simple divine curiosity. At first, there were small interventions: a silver arrow that "accidentally" found its target when a monster was about to attack him from behind, a sudden burst of moonlight illuminating his path in Daedalus's Labyrinth, or the strange absence of nocturnal creatures around his camp during missions.
As the years passed, Artemis discovered in herself a disconcerting desire to better understand this demigod. What began as observation became surveillance, and surveillance evolved into a constant presence, invisible but undeniable, in the most critical moments of Percy's life. And now, years later, what she felt for him had mutated into something that ancient stories had never attributed to the Huntress: possession.
"It's ironic, isn't it?" said Artemis, addressing the moon as if it could answer her. "The goddess who has rejected love for eons, caught in her own trap."
The irony did not escape her divine comprehension. She, who for millennia had defended the independence of maidens against the yoke of marriage and sentimental relationships, now found herself traversing the boundaries of an obsessive feeling toward a simple demigod. But Percy Jackson had never been "simple," and that was precisely the problem.
With a sigh, Artemis drew a small silver dagger from her belt. The blade gleamed under the moonlight as the goddess approached the outer wall of the cabin. With meticulous precision, she began to carve a symbol into the wood: a crescent moon intertwined with a trident, surrounded by the ancient Greek rune for possession.
"Mine," she whispered, running her fingers over the freshly completed carving. "Though you don't know it yet."
The symbol glowed faintly before fading into the wood, now invisible to any mortal or divine eye that didn't know exactly where to look. It was a mark of divine territoriality, a silent declaration of intentions that only she fully understood.
Inside the cabin, Percy stirred in his dreams. His forehead wrinkled slightly and his lips murmured something unintelligible. He was dreaming of silver forests, of deer with brilliant antlers, and of moon-colored eyes watching him from the shadows. It wasn't the first time he'd had these dreams, nor would it be the last. Artemis smiled, satisfied with her nocturnal work.
"Dreams are the threshold between realms, Percy Jackson," murmured the goddess. "And I am very patient."
The manipulation of dreams was a subtle art that few gods mastered. Artemis had spent centuries perfecting this ability, primarily using it to communicate with her Hunters when they were separated. Now, that same ability served a different purpose: planting seeds of curiosity, restlessness, and yes, desire in Percy's subconscious mind.
The goddess extracted a small crystal vial from among the folds of her silver tunic. Inside, a luminescent liquid the color of the new moon swirled gently. She uncapped the vial and, with a fluid movement, spilled three drops over the threshold of the door.
"Dream of moons and forests, of hunters and prey," she intoned in an ancient Greek dialect. "Seek me in your dreams as I have sought you in my vigils."
The liquid evaporated instantly, leaving a brief silver flash before disappearing completely. Inside, Percy stirred again, this time with more force. His eyelids trembled as if he were about to wake up.
Artemis retreated, hiding once more among the shadows. It was time to leave, but she had one last pending task. From a small leather pouch she carried on her shoulder, she extracted a golden envelope, sealed with wax of the same color and marked with Hermes' caduceus. The invitation to the messenger god's birthday party, which would be celebrated on Olympus in just three days.
The goddess contemplated the envelope with a calculating smile. In her left hand, five identical envelopes suddenly appeared, each addressed to a different deity. One of them, the one addressed to Eris, the goddess of discord, disappeared between her fingers with a flick of her wrist.
"Oops," said Artemis with false innocence. "It seems I forgot to deliver some invitations. How careless of me."
The absence of Eris at any divine celebration was an almost absolute guarantee of trouble. The forgotten goddess of discord did not tolerate slights, and even less deliberate slights. Her typical revenge involved sowing chaos among the guests, usually through magical objects designed to provoke disputes.
"A golden apple for 'the fairest,'" murmured Artemis, remembering the beginning of the Trojan War. "History, are you ready to repeat yourself?"
Artemis's plan was meticulous and encompassed much more than a simple repetition of the judgment of Paris. This time, however, the judge would not be just any Trojan prince, but Percy Jackson himself. And the competitors would not be solely Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite.
"The three will offer the usual," continued the goddess, speaking to herself while visualizing the future scene. "Hera will offer him power and royal status. Athena, wisdom and strategic victory. Aphrodite..." her face tensed slightly, "will offer him love and eternal beauty by her side."
Artemis kept the remaining invitations, making sure that Percy's was at the top of the pile. Hermes would deliver them tomorrow, and the plan would be set in motion.
"But they all make the same mistake," she added with a satisfied smile. "They all try to manipulate him openly. And if there's one thing that characterizes Percy Jackson, it's his instinctive rejection of being manipulated."
The trick, Artemis had understood after years of observation, was to make Percy believe that the choice was completely his own. To give him the illusion of control while subtly guiding his steps in the desired direction. It wasn't very different from how she hunted her most astute prey: letting them believe they had an escape route, only to lead them directly toward the main trap.
"I will be the only one who offers him nothing," whispered the goddess. "The only one who will seem to be above those power games. The only one who has never lied to him."
The irony that her apparent honesty was the greatest manipulation of all did not escape Artemis. It was a game within another game, a hunt within another hunt.
In the distance, the first rays of dawn began to appear on the horizon. Apollo would be starting his daily journey, and the last thing Artemis wanted was an encounter with her meddlesome twin brother. Of all the gods, he was the one who could best read her intentions, and this particular plan required absolute discretion.
With a final glance at Cabin Three, Artemis vanished in a flash of silver light, leaving behind only the whisper of leaves moved by a sudden breeze.
Somewhere in the confines of the cosmos, beyond the reach of the Olympian gods, the three Fates observed the fabric of destiny with their ancient eyes. Clotho, the spinner, drew from her distaff a thread of a peculiar oceanic green hue.
"The son of Poseidon," she murmured with a voice as old as time itself. "His pattern grows complex."
Lachesis, who measured the length of lives, extended her golden rod over the cosmic loom, where millions of threads intersected, forming the tapestry of existence.
"His measure was taken long ago," she responded. "We should not see alterations."
However, before their immortal eyes, something unexpected was happening. A silver thread, bright as moonlight, began to intertwine with Percy's oceanic green. It wasn't a casual convergence; it was a deliberate pattern that altered the original design.
Atropos, the inevitable one, who cut the threads when the final moment arrived, observed with an indecipherable expression.
"The Huntress plays a dangerous game," she finally said. "She attempts to rewrite what is already woven."
The three sisters contemplated in silence how the silver thread intertwined ever more closely with the green one, forming a pattern that defied the original designs of fate.
"Should we intervene?" asked Lachesis.
Atropos, against all odds, sketched an enigmatic smile, the first in eons.
"No. The threads of this destiny were already dancing among the stars even before their names were whispered by time," she replied. "This... could be interesting."
Morning came to Camp Half-Blood with the usual activity. Satyrs played their flutes while chasing nymphs among the trees, campers from the Ares cabin were already embroiled in their first fight of the day, and Apollo's children launched arrows at dawn with superhuman precision.
Percy Jackson woke with a start, sitting up in bed with a racing heart and ragged breathing. Fragments of his dream still fluttered in his mind: a silver forest, the sound of hooves on dry leaves, a distant musical laugh, and eyes... eyes that looked at him with an intensity that made him feel simultaneously hunted and protected.
"Gods, how strange," he murmured, running a hand through his tousled hair.
It wasn't the first time he'd had similar dreams, but they had never been so vivid, so... real. He got up, noticing with disgust the drool stain on his pillow.
"Great, Percy. Eighteen years old and you're still drooling like when you were twelve. Quite the hero."
Self-directed sarcasm was his default defense mechanism. After all he had faced—titans, giants, primordial gods, and death itself—the ability to make fun of himself remained his anchor to normality.
He approached the small saltwater fountain that bubbled in a corner of the cabin, a gift from his father for his Iris message communications. For an instant, as he leaned over the water, he thought he saw a reflection that wasn't his: a female face framed by silver hair. He blinked, and the image disappeared.
"Now I'm having hallucinations too. Perfect."
He washed his face with cold water, hoping to clear his mind of the remnants of the strange dream. Upon leaving the cabin, an inexplicable sensation made him stop at the threshold. He looked back, examining the interior with distrust, as if expecting to find someone hidden among the shadows. No one. Just him and the persistent feeling of being watched.
"You're becoming paranoid, Jackson," he told himself, closing the door behind him.
As he walked away toward the dining pavilion, his fingers unconsciously brushed the outer wall of the cabin, right over the place where Artemis had carved her invisible mark. An imperceptible spark of silver energy jumped to his fingers, but Percy noticed nothing beyond a slight tingling that he attributed to static.
The camp buzzed with activity. In the distance, Percy could make out Annabeth directing a group of new campers from the Athena cabin. Their relationship had ended amicably the previous year, when both recognized that their paths were separating: she toward divine architecture on Olympus, a convenient excuse to hide the true reason—Tartarus had destroyed all the love they felt for each other—and he still searching for his place in the world. They remained close friends, but the transition hadn't been easy.
"Percy!" Grover's voice interrupted his thoughts. The satyr trotted toward him with an expression of enthusiasm. "You have mail!"
Percy frowned. He rarely received correspondence, and when he did, it generally didn't bring good news.
"Please tell me it's not another cryptic prophecy implying my imminent death."
Grover laughed nervously, shaking his head.
"No, no, this time it seems like something good." He handed him a golden envelope. "It's an invitation. From Hermes."
Percy took the envelope cautiously, as if it might contain a bomb. After years dealing with gods, paranoia was more a survival mechanism than a disorder.
"Hermes is inviting me to something?" he asked, examining the golden wax seal with the caduceus symbol. "The last time a god invited me to a 'party,' I ended up fighting sea monsters in the North Atlantic."
Grover shrugged, nervously nibbling on the corner of an aluminum can he had pulled from his pocket.
"It's his birthday party, apparently." The satyr lowered his voice. "Although gods don't have birthdays in the traditional sense, you know, being immortal and all that. But Hermes loves any excuse for a celebration."
Percy broke the seal and opened the envelope. Inside, a card glowed with its own light, the letters changing color every few seconds.
"To Perseus Jackson, Son of Poseidon, Savior of Olympus, Praetor of New Rome (retired), and General Headache of the Gods: You are cordially invited to the celebration of Hermes' 3,567th (or was it 4,982nd?) birthday, God of Travelers, Messengers, Merchants, Thieves, and Athletes. Date: Day after tomorrow (did you expect more notice from someone as busy as me?) Time: When Zeus finishes his speech on the importance of punctuality Place: Main Hall of Olympus (follow the sounds of divine arguments) Dress code: Something you can stain, burn, or lose in a bet. P.S.: If you bring a gift, make sure it's not something stolen by myself. It's embarrassing. P.S. 2: This invitation will self-destruct in 3...2..."
Percy barely had time to drop the card before it transformed into a small cloud of golden confetti that dispersed with a gust of wind.
"Typical of Hermes; I won't waste my time and I won't go," he muttered, shaking off the remaining confetti from his hair. "At least this time I had time to read it completely."
Grover nodded, finishing chewing his can.
"They say half of Olympus will be there," commented the satyr. "Including all the major goddesses."
Something in the way Grover emphasized "all" made Percy look at him with suspicion.
"Why do I feel like there's something you're not telling me?"
The satyr blinked innocently, though the slight trembling of his lower lip betrayed his nervousness.
"Me? Not at all. It's just a normal divine party. With normal gods. Doing... normal god things."
Percy narrowed his eyes.
"Grover, our friendship is based on honesty and your inability to lie convincingly. Spit it out."
The satyr sighed in defeat.
"Fine, but you won't quote me as a source." He looked around to make sure no one was listening. "There are rumors that Eris wasn't invited."
Percy blinked, processing the information.
"Eris? The goddess of discord? The one with a history of ruining divine parties because she's not invited?"
Grover nodded gravely.
"The same one who started the Trojan War with a golden apple, yes."
A feeling of unease settled in Percy's stomach. His experience had taught him that gods rarely learned from their historical mistakes.
"Are you telling me that Hermes consciously decided not to invite the only goddess who is specifically famous for taking revenge when she's not invited to parties?"
"Well..." Grover grimaced, "according to rumors, it wasn't exactly Hermes' decision. Apparently, some invitations were 'misplaced' in the delivery process."
Percy let out an incredulous laugh.
"Fantastic. The god of messengers lost a message. That's like Poseidon forgetting how to swim."
However, something about this situation didn't fit. Hermes could be many things—impulsive, prankster, occasionally amoral—but never careless with his primary duty. If an invitation had been lost, especially one as potentially problematic as Eris's, there was something else at play.
"Grover," asked Percy, as an idea began to form in his mind, "who usually handles the guest list for Olympian parties?"
The satyr scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"Usually it's the host's responsibility, but with so many divine feuds, sometimes they ask someone neutral for help to avoid offending anyone."
"Someone like...?"
"Like Artemis," completed Grover. "She's one of the few who doesn't have personal conflicts with most deities. Well, except with Aphrodite, but that's more a philosophical difference than an enmity."
Percy felt a shiver run down his spine upon hearing the name of the goddess of the hunt. Immediately, fragments of his dream returned: silver eyes, forests bathed in moonlight... He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.
"Are you okay?" asked Grover, perceiving his unease through their empathic link. "Your aura just fluctuated like crazy."
"I'm fine," Percy responded automatically. "Just... had a strange dream last night."
Grover looked at him with concern. Demigod dreams were rarely "just dreams"; they were usually visions, warnings, or messages.
"Want to talk about it?"
Percy was about to respond when a golden flash appeared before them, materializing into the winged figure of Hermes. The messenger god wore his usual postal worker outfit, though complemented with a tilted party hat and a t-shirt that said "It's my birthday, give me nectar."
"Percy Jackson!" exclaimed Hermes with excessive enthusiasm. "My favorite troublemaking demigod! I see you received my invitation."
"Literally two minutes ago," replied Percy with a crooked smile. "Great advance notice, by the way."
Hermes waved a hand carelessly.
"Time is relative when you're immortal. Besides," he added with a wink, "for someone with your record of attendance at Olympus, I thought short notice would be better. Less time for you to reconsider."
Percy couldn't help but laugh at this. Of all the Olympian gods, Hermes had always been one of the most bearable, probably because they shared a similar sense of humor and a certain situational moral flexibility.
"Look, I appreciate the invitation, but I think I'll pass this time," said Percy, surprising both Hermes and Grover. "The last divine party I attended ended with half the Ares cabin turned into ornamental plants."
The snakes on his caduceus, Martha and George, stirred with evident disappointment.
"'Does that mean no rats for me at the party?'" asked George, his voice resonating in Percy's mind.
"'George! Percy has every right to decline,'" Martha reprimanded him, though she sounded equally disappointed. "'Although it will be a shame not to see you, dear.'"
Hermes observed Percy with an expression that oscillated between amusement and something else, something calculating that he didn't normally associate with the messenger god.
"Interesting choice, to decline an Olympian party," commented Hermes, studying him with unusual intensity. "Especially considering that a certain goddess of the hunt will be present without an escort."
Percy felt his heart skip an inexplicable beat, but maintained his resolution.
"Artemis?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound casual. "I thought she always went with her Hunters."
"This time she's decided to come alone," replied Hermes, closely watching Percy's reaction. "Something about 'maintaining neutrality in a potentially volatile environment.'" The god leaned slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Between us, I think she simply wants a break from the eternal talk about bows and arrows."
For a moment, Percy hesitated. The idea of Artemis attending alone to a party provoked a curiosity that he himself didn't fully understand. But the memories of his recent disturbing dreams, added to his experience with divine manipulations, reinforced his decision.
"Sorry, but I'm still passing," Percy responded firmly. "I have plans for a quiet night. Maybe clean my cabin, practice with Riptide, you know... boring demigod stuff."
Hermes' smile tensed imperceptibly, showing too many perfectly white teeth to seem completely sincere.
"As you wish," he said, with forced lightness. "But remember, Olympian invitations are rarely extended twice."
With these words and a golden flash, the god disappeared, leaving behind a faint aroma of burnt caramel and... disappointment?
Grover looked at Percy with evident concern.
"Are you sure about this, friend?" asked the satyr, nervously chewing the edge of his shirt. "Hermes seemed unusually interested in you attending."
"Exactly why I'm not going," replied Percy, running a hand over his face. "Every time a god shows special interest in me, I end up fighting monsters or holding up the sky."
"He specifically mentioned Artemis..." murmured Grover, as if this should mean something important.
"Who apparently helped with the guest list," completed Percy, connecting the dots. "All of this smells like a divine trap, and for once, I refuse to be the centerpiece."
A shiver ran through both friends as understanding settled in.
"I hope you know what you're doing," said Grover with a tense voice.
Percy sighed deeply.
"I hope so too."
That night, Olympus shone with the light of a thousand concentrated stars. Hermes' birthday party was in full swing: nymphs danced with satyrs, minor gods exchanged millennial gossip, and nectar flowed as freely as divine laughter.
In a secluded corner of the great hall, Artemis, dressed in an elegant silver dress that captured and reflected light like the surface of a nocturnal lake, scanned the crowd with growing irritation. Her eyes, the exact color of the full moon, systematically reviewed each group of attendees.
Apollo materialized beside her, holding two cups of celestial nectar.
"Looking for someone, little sister?" he asked with a smile that suggested he already knew the answer.
Artemis's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Jackson isn't here," she declared, ignoring the question and the offered cup. "Hermes assured me he would attend."
Apollo took a sip of his nectar, observing his sister over the rim of the cup.
"First time in three millennia I see you wearing a dress, and the object of your attention decides to stay home. Ironic, don't you think?"
The temperature around Artemis dropped several degrees.
"This complicates things," she murmured, more to herself than to her brother. "The board was prepared. The pieces, in position."
Apollo let out a musical laugh.
"Who would have thought that the little hero would have the audacity to reject an Olympian invitation? Almost makes me admire him more."
Artemis remained silent for a moment, her fingers drumming a hunting rhythm against her crossed arm. Finally, her lips curved into a slow, predatory smile.
"A small setback, nothing more," she said with disturbing calm. "If the prey doesn't come to the huntress..." her eyes shone with renewed determination, "the huntress will go to the prey."
"Do you have a plan B?" asked Apollo, genuinely intrigued.
Artemis's smile widened, revealing an almost imperceptible flash of sharp fangs.
"I have plans all the way to Z, brother," she replied, as she extracted a small enchanted mirror from a dimensional fold. "Percy Jackson may avoid a party, but he won't escape his destiny."
On the mirror's surface appeared the image of Percy in his cabin, oblivious to the divine surveillance as he practiced carelessly with Riptide.
"The real hunt barely begins," whispered Artemis. "And this time, not even my prey suspects that every move he makes, even avoiding me, is perfectly aligned with my designs."
With a fluid movement, the goddess put away the mirror and headed toward the exit, her dress rippling like silver mist in her wake.
"Aren't you staying for the cake?" asked Apollo behind her.
Without turning around, Artemis responded with a voice that promised both danger and determination:
"I have a hunt to prepare."
The board was set. The pieces, in position. The most ancient divine game was about to repeat itself, but this time, with an unexpected twist. This time, the virgin goddess had her own plans for the judgment, the judge, and the prize.
As Artemis vanished into the outer shadows of the great hall, her lips still curved in that predatory smile, none of the immortal celebrants noticed the subtle inclination of her head toward a distant figure, half-hidden behind a column. A gesture so imperceptible that it would have been impossible to detect even for divine eyes not specifically trained to look for it.
The party continued at its peak, divine wine flowing like golden rivers, the music of the muses rising toward the vaulted ceiling where magical constellations danced to the rhythm of the celebration. Zeus laughed thunderously alongside Dionysus, who had just transformed a particularly insistent satyr into a temporary vine. Hephaestus showed a group of admiring nymphs his latest mechanical invention: small bronze butterflies that spat fire in chromatic patterns.
No one noticed the exact moment when it happened.
A blinding flash illuminated the center of the hall, followed by a silence so abrupt and absolute that it seemed like a physical entity. There, materializing in a whirlwind of perfumed chaos, appeared a female figure of disturbing beauty. Her golden hair moved like liquid flames around a face too perfect to be reassuring. Her eyes, of a deep brown that constantly changed in shade, gleamed with calculated malice while a smile that promised disaster spread across her crimson-painted lips.
Eris, the goddess of discord, had arrived at the party to which she had deliberately not been invited.
Between her long, elegant fingers she held an object that immediately captured the attention of all present: a golden apple, polished until it shone like a miniature star, so perfect in its form that it seemed to contain all the temptations of the cosmos within its metallic skin.
"FOR THE FAIREST OF ALL GODDESSES!" announced Eris, her voice resonating with a power that made the columns tremble as she threw the apple in a perfect arc toward the center of the hall.
The forbidden fruit spun in the air in slow motion, golden sparks leaving a trail in its trajectory while all eyes followed it as if hypnotized.
Demeter, who had been enthusiastically explaining to a bored minor god the benefits of sustainable agriculture, was the first to react.
"Oh, please," she groaned, rolling her eyes with such dramatic exasperation that some grains of wheat fell from her crown. "This again? Has no one learned anything after three thousand years?"
Hestia, from her modest place beside the central fire, slowly shook her head, her kind eyes clouded with concern. As the eldest of the Olympians and the one who best understood the nature of the divine family, she perfectly recognized the signs of an imminent crisis.
The male gods, for their part, emitted a collective sigh that generated a small breeze in the hall. The last time Eris had thrown a golden apple, the result had been a decade of war, thousands of deaths, and millennia of divine resentments. None wished to be dragged again into such chaos.
But it was too late.
The golden apple, finally stopping in its trajectory, briefly floated in the air, as if deciding its own destiny, before gently descending toward the exact center of a small circle formed by three goddesses who had instinctively advanced toward the prize.
Hera, majestic and terrible in her regal beauty, extended an authoritative hand toward the apple, her expression mixing barely disguised ambition with the natural arrogance of one who considers herself deserving by right.
Athena, her gray eyes already calculating a thousand possibilities and consequences, extended her elegant fingers with the surgical precision that characterized all her actions.
Aphrodite, whose beauty shone with such intensity that several nearby satyrs spontaneously fainted, smiled with the confidence of one who has never doubted her aesthetic superiority.
The three goddesses touched the apple simultaneously, their fingers meeting on the golden surface in a contact that sent waves of divine power through the hall. Their eyes met, forming a perfect triangle of mutual hostility, each seeing in the others not divine relatives but rivals, obstacles, enemies to overcome.
"By right of marriage and royalty," declared Hera, her voice as cold as the gold of her throne, "this prize belongs to me."
"True beauty resides in wisdom," contradicted Athena, a tense smile curving her lips, "not in empty titles or ephemeral appearances."
"Darlings," intervened Aphrodite with a honeyed tone that concealed venom, "let's not confuse concepts. Beauty is MY exclusive domain. This apple practically has my name engraved on it."
None of the three noticed the small crack that appeared on the perfect surface of the apple at the triple contact, nor the subtle silver glow that briefly emanated from it before being absorbed back into its golden core. An enchantment so subtle, so perfectly executed, that not even Hecate's expert eye would have detected it among the chaos of confronting divine powers.
Nor did they observe the figure slipping through the outer shadows of the hall, moving away from the nerve center of the chaos she had just sown. Eris smiled as she discreetly exited the party, but not with her usual expression of malicious satisfaction. This smile contained a new element: complicity.
Because the goddess of discord, unlike all those present, knew perfectly well that she had just fulfilled her role in a script written by another hand. A hand armed with a silver bow that never missed its target.
In their rush to claim the golden prize, none of the three powerful goddesses perceived the underlying manipulation. They did not notice that Artemis's previous departure had not been a disappointed reaction to Percy Jackson's absence, but a calculated move to be conveniently far from the epicenter of the chaos, thus avoiding any association with what was about to be unleashed.
While the three goddesses argued increasingly heatedly, with Zeus uselessly trying to restore order and Hermes discreetly disappearing to avoid any association with the disaster at his own party, none understood the fundamental truth:
They were not players in this divine game. They were pieces. And the huntress had just moved her bishop.
In a distant temple, bathed in moonlight, Artemis observed the scene through her enchanted mirror, a smile of perfect satisfaction curving her lips as her fingers caressed another object hidden among the folds of her tunic: a second golden apple, identical to the one that was now the center of an Olympian dispute, but with a crucial difference.
This one was specifically destined for the hands of a demigod.
"Sleep well, Percy Jackson," she murmured to herself, as the image in the mirror changed to show the son of Poseidon sleeping deeply in his cabin, oblivious to the fate being interwoven around his existence. "Soon we will meet again, and this time..." her smile acquired a predatory edge, "...it will be you who comes to me."