SECTION ONE: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤.
INTRODUCTION—0000.

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PERCY ALWAYS GRABBED HIS HAND AS IF WISHING HE COULD TEAR IT AWAY. As though harboring a hideous need to flay off the skin of Micah's hand and unravel it entirely, purging it of bone to make space for his own—to lift each ligament and every tendon and interweave Micah's veins with his veins, muscle and sinew melding seamlessly until it was impossible for them to separate without killing one another. He knew Percy was afraid. It was caustic, corroding through the son of Poseidon like maggots devouring filth. He was terrified that they would be forced apart, and his fear conveyed itself in the hushed brutality of his grip and the way his fingers dug into Micah's flesh with a disturbing fervor. He refused to soften his grasp on the possibility that Micah would fall apart like rotten meat off a sun-burnt ribcage, leaving behind nothing of him but a hollowed carcass and a sense of emptiness that would consume them both completely

He couldn't be blamed for his fear.
It was not irrational or ill-founded; Micah was the one who instilled it in him through his actions, after all, so the son of Hypnos will continue to reach out first in penance—even if it means carrying bruises on his knuckles and scratches on his body that reminded him of serrated blades traced on the fat of his palm. It was a small price to pay for the reassurance that they were still connected, still whole, in spite of everything.

Winter yielded to spring, which in turn withered away as well. The scorching summer heat had become insufferable. Micah is still unsure whether or not they won the war.

The sound of construction echoed in the distance; in his ear, Percy's breath lulled him, gentle as his chest rose and fell like the flow of tides. Micah closed his eyes, finding grace in the rhythmic movement in the same way Percy found his in wounded skin.

He shifted; although asleep, the son of Poseidon grew restless in his arms.

"He has grown up well." Phantasos voiced his approval, acknowledging Percy's maturation with a hint of enchantment. His brother's hair resembled coils of polished sterling silver, or perhaps melded stars, blinding white under the light of the moon as it framed his amethyst-colored eyes in gentle curls. An embodiment of hypnotic grace, he draped himself in a flowing, loose-fitting robe of immaculate white with a necklace of celestial metal clasped against his throat, casting a soft glint in the surrounding darkness. He struck Micah as a panther—sleek and powerful, poised to pounce at any given moment.

Leaning forward with an amused demeanor, the god of surreal dreams observed the son of Poseidon; the fabric of his robe slipping off his shoulders, revealing the bronzed glow of his skin beneath.

"The hero of the prophecies," his brother said with a smile, a mocking tone tainting his words. "You know, I used to personally deliver his dreams—just for a while, when he didn't know his heritage and couldn't comprehend our world. They always left him reeling, even as a child. But here he is now, standing before me in the flesh."

"What do you want, brother?" Micah replied tiredly.
The god chuckled, casting a gaze at Micah through half-lidded eyes embellished with feather-like white lashes. "Am I not allowed to pay my youngest brother a visit?"

"With pure intentions," the youngest son of Hypnos countered. "I'll tell Phobetor that you've been antagonizing me."

Phantasos huffed, throwing his head back; the metal of his choker pressing into the sharp point where his neck met. "Fine," he acknowledged with an air of boredom. "Father is missing."

"You're only noticing now?" Micah asked.
Phantasos puffed his cheeks with annoyance.

"Not at all, brother." The god denied it. "I was simply ensuring you were informed too. After all, you've been too preoccupied to keep up with the gossip of the underworld, haven't you?"

If by that Phantasos meant decaying in his childhood bedroom, consumed by his own nightmares and boundless, inexplicable pain devouring his body, then Micah couldn't argue. But his brother didn't attempt to provoke him further; instead, he began to stare at the rising sun with an affectionate smile. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of Hemera as she dispersed her mother's mists, bathing the earth once more in the light of the ether.

In the emerging daylight, his amethyst eyes resembled crushed gemstones, glittering with a melancholic beauty. "We can't keep hiding you any longer, brother." Phantasos told him in a hushed voice. "It is time."

Micah took a deep breath, apprehension throbbing in his veins like the scorch of ambrosia. In a moment of fragility, he concealed his face against the soft strands of Percy's hair, fantasizing that his body could belong to him—that his skin would become his as well, trapped within his bones, slowly dissolving into the son of Poseidon's blood like a drop of water merging with the ocean, pulsating along to the beat of his heart forevermore. It would be the greatest form of salvation God could offer him.

But he exhaled; Phantasos seemed to pity him.
"Alright," Micah agreed.

He left Percy at the steps of the entrance to Goode High School with a lingering kiss.

The son of Poseidon held his wrist when Micah tried to leave, digging nails into skin unconsciously; Paul Blofis waited patiently. "Come over tonight?" Percy asked, suppressing the question that hovered on the edge of his tongue. Uncertainty clouded his ocean-green eyes. He was anxious. He didn't know how to take it away—if it was even possible now.

"I'll tell Sally," Micah reassured him, his voice gentle. "I won't forget."

Percy nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He released Micah's wrist and stepped back, grudgingly letting go. Paul placed a hand on his shoulder. They waved before entering the building.

Micah gazed down at his wrist; the crescents where Percy's nails had pierced his skin bubbled with specks of red-tainted gold.

He stepped into Marutsuke with reluctance, engulfed by a persistent sense of gnawing nostalgia, akin to a wrenching headache that seemed only remedied by a bullet to the brain. Vague memories of the music store lingered from his childhood, but they were elusive and distant, similar to fragments of a dream dissipating in the morning light. Back then, it had felt colossal—walls adorned with an array of floating instruments, grand pianos and drum sets towering over him, elegant harps that seemed to embody a symphony of endless possibilities. Hisa's delighted humming as he practiced the violin, accompanied by the soft strumming of his brother's guitar. Scrapped sheets of papers with half-written lyrics scattered across the floor, An Ode to Hypnos etched above all of them in broken crayons. Chasing his brother through the labyrinth of their musical haven, his father—

It did not matter.

Micah has seen real palaces now, sojourned with gods in celestial realms; walked among giants, and flew through the skies enough times to provoke Icarus into another suicide. In the music store, the familiar scent of wood and rosin still lingered in the air, yet Micah no longer harbored the same enchantment that had captivated him in his youth.

Everything appeared so plain and unremarkable, as if time had gradually eroded away his affection for Marutsuke and all the memories it held. He entered.

Naoki sat on the counter next to the register, absentmindedly strumming a guitar. He glanced up as Micah entered, a flood of disbelief crossing his face—as if he still couldn't believe he was back—before being replaced by a distant look.

"Mom!" the twenty-year-old hollered. "The literal definition of a bastard and a mogrel is back!"

"Your dad is dead." Micah replied curtly; Naoki scruched his nose. "Touché, ugly bastard."

The son of Hypnos stiffed at the word ugly. He was above petty arguments, accustomed to dealing with the gods' capriciousness and volatile temper, but his mortal brother agitated him like no one else could. Micah grinned as he turned to face his brother, vitriol between his teeth as he replied, "Aphrodite herself has tried to fuck me; on the other hand, you can't even get her daughter to—"

Their mother cleared her throat. "Welcome home, Hiroki," she acknowledged as she stepped out of the management office from behind Naoki, her voice poised as she interrupted their exchange. The woman had slashed her hair off to rest above her wiry shoulders, infuriatingly precise in the way it framed her face, accentuating her sharp features like a sculpture carved by a scornful artist.

Her piercing gaze bore into Micah, silently demanding things that he could not provide.

"Right," he replied through gritted teeth. "Thank you, Hisa," he said, his voice strained but polite.

Naoki strummed a fast-paced victory tune with a sly grin.

He did not give the mortal the satisfaction of a reaction. Sickened, he ventured to the back of the store, where the entrance to the apartment was located. Hisa followed after him, stubbornness in her steps. Before he could enter, she stepped in front of him and crossed her arms over her chest. Micah felt a flicker of annoyance, but he kept his composure. She is tall and favored close-fitting dresses to elongate her silhouette even further, her long limbs giving her an elegant grace as she stood her ground, but in the end, she was still built slender like a crane; she would snap easily if Micah didn't hold back.

Mortals bothered him the most when they acted like Hisa—like he could not ruin their lives with a single glance. It bothered him even more that he had to let them believe that they were in control.

His mother isn't Nyx; no one holds his leash anymore.

"Nico found a dead bird on the rooftop." Hisa informed him, searching his face for a sign that he had gone and slaughtered the animal. "He said it was a bad omen. What have you done, Hiroki Matsuoka?"

"It was a long-eared owl," Micah corrected her; he could've smiled if he wasn't so disgusted. "But don't worry, your porcelain child hasn't cracked and turned into a psychopath yet. It is one of Father's sacred animals. It must've sensed me and decided to pass away near by as one last tribute. I haven't done anything, but thank you for your concern."

Hisa could continue to guard the door until her death; he went to the rooftop.

Nico remained crouched before the carcass. He had plucked each feather and wiped away the grease clinging to the bones; he compelled the flesh and organs to decay at an unnerving speed. It was a compulsion for the son of Hades—meticulously arranging each delicate bone, repairing the fractured ones, reconstructing the owl's skeletal form like a macabre puzzle. 

"Will you reanimate it?" Micah asked curiously.
"No," Nico responded. "Unless you want me to."

Since becoming a part of the Matsuoka family, the son of Hades has gained weight—he was still somewhat undersized for his age and height, but he had become significantly healthier after Hisa took it upon herself to guarantee that he received proper nutrition and care. In the absence of the dull, lifeless fatigue that once consumed him, Micah could now see Nico's resemblance to his mother; it was the warmth of Maria contrasting with the coldness of Hades, reflected in the gentle rose hue gracing his pale cheeks and the luster that gleamed within his obsidian eyes.

Micah placed a hand on Nico's head, trying to immortalize how the silken black strands felt beneath his fingertips. "Sure," he told the son of Hades. "You can play with it when you miss me."

"I wouldn't miss you," Nico denied without volition; then he looked up, panic widening his eyes. "You're doing somewhere?"

Micah smiled, his heart swelling with affection for the young boy. "Yes, just for a little while."

"A while can be anything!" The son of Hades argued; the bones beneath him trembled like worms writhing without dirt. "It could be days, weeks, or even months! I don't want you to leave."

Once, in a question full of desperation, Percy demanded a proper reason as to why Micah couldn't afford to love others. The son of Poseidon had viewed his affection as a finite resource, something that would run out if given to anyone else. He hadn't understood that to Micah, love felt like bone ruptured through skin, an excruciating pain that he couldn't bear to experience again and again. He had lived a life of duty and cruel servitude beneath the Olympians and Nyx; it was a heaviness that was poised to destroy him, a cross doomed to crush him, one he bore alone in fear that sharing it would only amplify the agony. No one appeared to care that it had already—that it had crushed him like a dog beneath a tire, disfigured and spilt open on the asphalt.

They all demanded so much of him still, relentlessly ripping further into a body that was slowly wasting away—expecting him to carry the burden of their love when all he wanted was to sleep.

"I promise it won't be long," Micah responded, attempting to sound sincere. "I'll be at Percy's tonight before I leave. It won't take long—two days at most."

The son of Hades wrapped his arms around himself. "And I can't help you?"

"No, Nico." Micah shook his head. "You can't."

Nico still looked miserable, and his pain was his own, like a heavy cloak that he couldn't shed. It was a hurt that a simple goodbye couldn't alleviate—but it was all he could offer. He has seen the resentment that grows when he walks away without saying anything.

Micah does not commit the same mistake twice.

He pressed a kiss to the back of Nico's head.
He left through the fire exit; he had nothing to say to Hisa or Naoki.

Children of chthonic deities were bonded to the underworld in the same way a shadow is bound to its owner. It was inescapable, a tether that held them tightly, even when they longed for freedom. The son of Hypnos had tried to break free from the weight of his heritage before, but it always found a way to pull him back.

He didn't have to search for an entrance into the underworld; it was always there, lurking, patiently awaiting his acknowledgment. Amid the dreariest corner of an alleyway and a dimly lit underpass, Micah approached a wall—it caved inward like a gaping maw, unveiling a staircase encased in ancient stone.

His descent felt like homecoming; the darkness enveloped him like the embrace of a long-lost friend. The air grew stale with each step, the scent of decay and forgotten souls permeating his senses. As he reached the bottom, a chilling breeze whispered through the corridors, carrying echoes of tortured whispers and distant cries. Tartarus beckoned him closer, yearning for his return—he was close. Too close. It's why he steered clear of the tempting openings; one day, they'd grow impatient and hurl him back into the abyss from which he had escaped.

Micah would rip his own heart out before he would ever succumb to the call again.

"Fuck off," he told it bitterly. Obeying, the paths of the underworld shifted and reformed, the earth trembling beneath his steps as it readjusted to his defiance. Tartarus ceased its summons; he distanced himself. The absence of his wings stung him as deeply as it does now.

He traced the path of the rivers. The sound of rushing water intensified as he delved deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels; a faint radiance emanated from phosphorescent moss, lighting the path and casting unsettling shadows on the damp walls. He didn't rely on them to see; he possessed his grandmother's eyes, bringing vivid clarity to the darkness and exposing secrets concealed in the shadows.

When the gravel beneath his feet turned into soft, squelching mud and the river Lethe came into view, his heart skipped a beat. His grandmother had allowed him to play in the poppy field back then—she braided him a crown of blossoms and held him to her chest as she told him stories of the Amelēs potamos and the shades of the dead.

When tiredness had overcome him, Nyx gently laid him to rest within the waters of the river. There was no cruelty in her actions. The exploitation Hypnos and Percy tried to warn him against never existed. Nyx loved him. He could not blame his grandmother for what she had done; it did not hurt him.

It did not hurt him, even though there were moments when it felt like he was drifting away from the world he knew. Even if the sight of poppies drove him to question if he was still alive.

Regardless of what others said, Nyx loved him.

He entered his father's cave with a heavy heart. Darkness enveloped him, and the scent of crushed poppy seeds filled the air, lingering for months after the god of sleep's disappearance. It was dark and cold, the silence broken only by the faint sound of his own footsteps echoing off the walls. Blood-crusted bandages from his time in the underworld remained strewn across the floor, evidence of his father's rush that he had forgotten to clean up.

Micah approached the bed where he had peacefully slept for countless nights, now vacant and undisturbed. The quilt remained rumpled on the sheep-wool mattress, untouched since the last day the son of Hypnos had rested there. The room felt eerie, as if frozen in time, preserving the memory of Micah's absence. His father's love had been palpable in every corner of the cave, but now it felt distant and unattainable.

He lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, yearning for the warmth and comfort that had once embraced him. The silence in the room felt deafening; eventually, he drifted into sleep, allowing himself, for the first time since his father's disappearance, to dream.

In Lemnos, island in the northern Aegean Sea, the fallen queen of Olympus met the son of Sleep. Hera formed a resplendent sight with her crown forged with the purest gold, her regal figure graced with jewelry that glistened under the sunlight. Swathed in flowing robes and a cloak of peacock feathers draped over her unyielding shoulders, each iridescent plume gleaming with vibrant hues, the queen proved breathtaking. "You made me wait," she said, her voice carrying a hint of disappointment.

Micah inspected the shackles encircling the queen's wrists, a stark contrast to her regal demeanor. He could discern the fatigue in her eyes—a glimpse of the weight she bore. "It doesn't matter," he replied, leaning against the bars of her cage. "It doesn't look like you were going anywhere."

"Mock me all you want," the queen replied, her tone laced with defiance. "But I am the reason you remain free, Son of Hypnos. The ex-wife of my husband has been on a quest to find you, and she won't cease until you are held accountable for your crimes."

Micah's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Oh, thank you, my queen, for your heartfelt concern and warning. I suspect, however, that you might be the reason I couldn't step out of my mother's apartment without feeling like my body would crumble every time I considered surrendering myself to Themis."

Hera turned her nose up in disdain. "Family is a gift, child. It's through flesh and blood that we learn and grow, even if the lessons are harsh. You needed a reminder of what you stand to lose if you persist on this path of disobedience."

The radiant sun bathed the Aegean Sea in its golden light, creating a dazzling scene as the reflections played upon the undulating waters. The atmosphere tightened with the unspoken pain as Micah told her, "I know what I stand to lose—I've already lost plenty, my queen."

"You do not," Hera replied sharply, her frustration evident in her voice. "You underestimate your own ignorance. There is still much that can be taken from you—you are loved, son of Hypnos, more than you realize. It's both a blessing and a responsibility. I know we did not treat you as we should have, but this transcends us now. If you can't act out of love, then do it out of the sense of duty we have ingrained in you. You have a role in this war beyond your own welfare. The fate of our realm hangs in the balance, and your actions will determine the outcome. You must fight to protect those under your care."

Micah stared down at the fallen queen of Olympus, remembering all those times when he had stood by her side, tending to her in silence—quiet amid her jealousy and rage, her tears and sorrows. From a young age, he had witnessed her vulnerability and strength, her flaws and her virtues. The son of Hypnos was always obedient to Hera—even when she would hand him her husband's bastards, ordering him to dispose of them without any semblance to the values she was supposed to uphold. Even when she would praise him like her own child or slap him to the ground like a whipped dog, Micah remained loyal. As the ambassador of Olympus, it was his duty to be what the gods needed of him, but now he was tired.

He is tired.

"I do not care anymore," Micah told the queen, speaking his truth plainly. "If the world is destroyed, at least I will die with those I love. Won't I, my queen? That is already more than I deserve."

The ox-eyed goddess gazed at the son of Hypnos through the bars of her prison cell, her expression veiled, conveying no discernible emotions. "The Doors of Death have been opened," she disclosed, her words carefully measured. "If I cannot sway your heart, then I will offer you something else in return for your loyalty. One soul, son of Hypnos. I will bear the wrath of Hades and ensure the survival of your chosen until your victorious return. But you will serve me, bound to my will, until my family is united. Speak now; will you embrace my offer and pledge your fidelity to me?"

Like a whispered echo in the breeze, a familiar laughter swirled around, sending a shiver down Micah's spine. He tightened his fist, willing to drop dead rather than let the goddess witness his trembling hands. "He has no body," he told her. "It was destroyed—"

"With my power, I will restore Ethan Nakamura to his physical form," Hera interjected, her voice resonating with triumph. "There are no tricks. He will return as you knew him, stronger and more resilient than ever before. With him by your side, you will have the strength to face any challenge that comes your way. Do you accept?"

Micah faltered, his mind entangled in conflicting thoughts. He was well aware of the perils that came with accepting Hera's offer—a caution he had repeated to Percy and Nico numerous times, having personally endured the repercussions of trusting a god. Yet, amidst the caution, he couldn't dismiss the blossoming hope that surged within him, sweet and intoxicating.

Inhaling deeply, the son of Hypnos sensed his heart racing within his chest. He permitted himself to fully experience it all, from the sensations within his lungs to the ache in his bones. The mere prospect of his cousin's return eclipsed any potential hardship; the yearning to hear Ethan's voice, saying his name as if it were a blessing, overshadowed everything else.

Ethan could come back.
"Alright," Micah agreed.

Upon reopening his eyes, he discovered Phantasos lying beside him, casually tearing the petals off their father's sacred flowers. "She pestered me for months," his brother told him. "Insisting that I deliver her visions to you, as if you were one of those demigods who willingly accepted any impure visions that came their way. You bear her mark now, so I suppose all that was for naught."

Micah bit out a laugh, feeling his brother's elbow digging into his side. "I'm greedy," he confessed to Phantasos. "I can't seem to settle, brother. It's just in my nature."

"Did she strike a deal with you?" The god inquired with curiosity, his amethyst eyes glittering with intrigue.

Micah nodded, tucking the feeling of hope alongside all the filth within his soul. "Yes," he told him. "Something priceless. It might get me killed, but it'll be worth it."

"You've always been more insatiable than most," Phantasos remarked, a hint of approval in his voice. He kept tearing the poppy petals one by one, his fingers moving with careless precision, as if he had done it a thousand times before. Chuckling at his own musings, the god discarded the stem. "Ah, I suppose she doesn't love me. No matter, brother. If you face death, then at least we have found Uncle." He sat up on the sheep-wool bed, a mischievous glint shining in his violet eyes as he turned to Micah, relishing the anticipation of the unknown.

"Let's figure out what Hera and the Fates have in store for you, Ambassador of Olympus."

Micah sat alone on the steps of Goode High School.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a crimson glow over the deserted campus. He had found Paul Blofis unconscious in the school's courtyard; Percy's stepfather was lying motionless on the ground, along with a familiar backpack on the ground. Atop it rested a single peacock feather, its vibrant hues stark against the surrounding light. Without succumbing to despair, the son of Hypnos dragged the man to his car; he had even taken the time to gather all the scattered papers that had spilled out of Paul's briefcase, shoving them into the backseat.

He searched Percy's backpack until he found a drachma.

A need for retribution poisoned his mind; he summoned the Chariot of Damnation. Sensing his anger, the Gray Sisters, usually keen to converse with the son of Hypnos, remained silent as they swiftly transported him to Camp Half-Blood. They only spoke when Micah asked, "How much for the canister of gasoline in the back?"

Deino and Pemphredo exchanged glances. Persis urged him to simply take it.

As Micah crossed the camp, Chiron attempted to call out to him, but the son of Hypnos remained indifferent to the words. Ignoring the cautionary distance the other campers kept from him, he seized a torch of Greek fire hanging outside Hephaestus' cabin and headed to Hera's temple.

No one stopped him as he poured the gasoline onto the steps of the temple, dousing the pomegranates and flowers planted outside in reverence for the goddess. Unafraid, Micah entered the temple, leaving a trail of fluid with each step, his eyes settling on the statue of Hera. Her serene face mocked him; he splashed it with the remaining petrol before hurling the torch at it, watching as the green flames engulfed the statue in seconds. The crackling sound filled the air as Micah's twisted smile reflected in Hera's now-burning eyes. Fire rapidly engulfed the temple, crackling and hissing as it devoured the offerings and the tapestries that adorned the walls. It extended through the windows and up towards the ceiling, wrapping around graying columns as the heat grew vehement, provoking the air to wane and distort. Micah stood there, satisfaction coursing through his veins, as the temple became a blazing inferno, consuming each and every corner of the sacred space.

The acrid smell of smoke infested his nostrils, but he reveled in it.

He left it to burn; the campers stared at the flames in mute horror. If only Percy were here, he heard one of them lament. Micah resisted the urge to kick the child into the flames and sought Chiron.

"My father doesn't have a cabin." He told the centaur. "I'll need my old room back."

He granted them a single day before he set out to hunt them personally.

Upon their failure to appear, Micah summoned his hellhounds.

Chiron watched helplessly as hundreds of monsters poured into the camp, coming and going as the son of Hypnos commanded them in a search he refused to explain. When one of the beasts eventually caught the scent of his target, Micah departed without uttering another word, leaving Chiron and the camp as if he had never been there at all.

He discovered Jason Grace struggling against a storm spirit.

"How much more pathetic can you get without Reyna?" He sneered at the son of Jupiter, his voice dripping with disdain. Approaching the three half-bloods, he allowed his mouth to fall open, and tendrils of golden sand slithered out from between his lips. With deliberate urgency, the sand shot toward the girl hanging over the cliff's edge, wrapping around her ankle like a protective coil as they pulled her back to safety..

With a flick of Micah's wrist, the spirit plummeted from the sky like a comet, crashing into the ground with a deafening thud. The sand swiftly wrapped around it, ensnaring the spirit within as it congealed into a solid, shimmering prison.

The satyr began to dance around the confined spirit, hoofs clattering as he boasted of his victory.

Micah raised an eyebrow, annoyed, and the satyr went stiff, falling unconscious to the ground.

The three half-bloods stared at Micah as if he were some kind of demonic creature.

"Get up." The son of Hypnos ordered them. They did. Intimidated and bewildered, they scrambled to their feet.

"You know me?" Jason Grace asked, his voice laced with confusion and a hint of fear.

"Unfortunately," the son of Hypnos told him. "Now, pick up the venti. My hellhounds don't like waiting."

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𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

Sorry for the rush start, I'm just so excited to get to the Son of Neptune! I've been writing little scenes while re-reading. We'll get there soon enough! So excited!
Alright, until then, bye-bye!