SECTION ONE: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤.
CHAPTER THREE—0003.

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SHORTLY BEFORE THE DAWN OF THEIR QUEST, MICAH REMEMBERED ONE THING: NATIONS WAGE WAR FOR WOMEN LIKE SILENA BEAUREGARD.

It was just as expected—a daughter of Aphrodite, born with a beauty that was worthy of launching a thousand ships, crowned with an allure so compelling that even the gods themselves would give in to her charm. Like Helen of Troy, femininity was a weapon more powerful than any sword or bow, and Silena wielded it effortlessly. She did not need to be destructive like Percy or wise like Annabeth; Silena's presence was enough to spark jealousy and desire in the hearts of people, driving them to fight for her favor.

It is why Luke tried to use her as a pawn, and this is why he failed, too, the exact moment Silena's tear-stained lashes fluttered as she begged Micah for help all those years ago.

He only helped her once. That was all Silena needed to realize her own strength.

Micah could see the change in her without looking at her face. Her shoulders, originally weighed down by coercion, became straight with demure confidence. Her eyes no longer teared up with guilt or helplessness, no matter how close she came to breaking. Silena is strong. She is the chosen dove of the dule, and she will rise above it all—he knows that very well, but a part of him is still... fearful.

Micah is afraid.

He knows that Silena is able to fly higher and further than he ever could, but Ethan had the same potential, and they had to bury him without a body to mourn. No matter the lies Hera whispers, fate does not favor demigods; no amount of prayer has ever changed the outcome. Micah made no difference in the end, for all he tried and tried. He could insult his patreon, rage against the gods, and think of himself as some sort of messiah, but it meant nothing when others would continue to suffer because of his failures.

Toppling thrones didn't change the inevitable. He couldn't bring back Ethan or Bianca.

He did not protect Percy when he knew they were coming for him.

Nyx did not allow failure, so he never failed, but his grandmother isn't here to uphold that standard anymore. Now, he doubts he could save Silena if her wings faltered. His Queen of Sparta, despite all her beauty, was just as vulnerable as the inexperienced son of Hephaestus and Jason without his memories—just as fragile as Micah with his sickly condition. But without Percy, he was alone, with no one to stand as his equal. The responsibility of being the great protector now weighed purely on his shoulders.

He could be leading all of them to their doom right now, the same way he had led Ethan.

The looming threat of losing everything—it all amounting to nothing—persisted in his mind far more than any title or prophecy ever could. It scared him more than anything else he had faced before.

But, like a dove drawn to the fragrance of wishes perfumed in the wind, Silena turned to face him and grinned, her hair tousled by the breeze, oblivious to the burden he bore. Her smile unfurled like the soft breath of dawn, gently illuminating her face; above, the sun bestowed upon her a golden caress. She appeared as though she embodied life itself, emanating vibrancy and a presence that felt otherworldly. Her laughter danced amid the howling wind, a joyful melody as Leo used the reins to steer the dragon higher. The clouds split apart as they soared towards the horizon, and for that twinkle of joy in her eyes, Micah allowed himself to entertain the idea that, against all odds, they could survive—that he could protect her just like the River Styx shielded Percy. Perhaps, at the war's end, Silena's own Menelaus would come for her, carrying her to safety, while Micah stayed to fight alongside his Percy until the very end, whatever it may be.

If he could just do that, maybe there was hope for a happy ending after all. Even with his greed, and his avarice, and his damned idolatry—if it is just Percy in the end for him, it would be enough. The son of Poseidon could assume the leadership needed to save the entire world, while Micah could return to his own role, safeguarding his world within Percy and nothing more.

Being the good, selfless one who wished for the betterment of humanity never seemed to work out for him, anyhow.

As the dragon maintained a steady flight, effortlessly gliding through the horizon while the coastline faded into a faint haze behind them, Jason finally spoke up, his voice barely audible. "Where are we headed?"

"Aeolia," Micah answered. "It drifts around America, but I know a way to track its location. Head towards Chicago, for now. I need to meet with Aeolus, the Master of the Winds. If we earn his favor, he might grant us safe passage. We'll need it, since you all thought flying a rust bucket through the clouds was a brilliant idea."

Leo let out a crushed sound, as if he had been hit in the gut. "Festus is not a rust bucket!" He denied it vehemently. "Or—well, it is not his fault that they left him to fall apart in that bunker for so long! Don't listen to him, my precious. You're the best bronze dragon out there!"

Micah contemplated the aftermath of a body falling from such a height, imagining its transformation upon hitting the ground. Would there be any identifiable remnants left—a stray curl of hair or a fragment of jaw, he wondered—or would it be an indistinguishable, gruesome mess of meat? He could easily find out with a single push, but Jason interrupted his thoughts, half-turning his head toward him.

"We never thanked you," Jason said. "For saving us at the Grand Canyon."

Silena's hand tightened on his forearm, eager for more details, but Micah shook his head. "You should have been able to save yourself," he countered Jason's attempt at gratitude. "Lupa taught you better than that, whether you remember it or not."

"But I don't remember," Jason replied. "And you didn't know that, but you still chose to help. Even if you say that we were not friends, that counts for something."

Micah's tongue flicked over his teeth. "Not as much as you'd like," he finally conceded.

And then, the worst conceivable outcome occurred—Jason smiled, a genuine expression of gratitude that reached his eyes, causing Micah to notice how perfectly they matched the sky around them. "Thank you either way," he repeated, his voice filled with sincerity. "I might not understand our history, but I won't forget this, at least."

Below them, land stretched out endlessly; Micah remained silent.

Laughing at his lack of response, Silena's shoulders shook with a knowing giggle. "He means 'you're welcome, friend'," she clarified. "He hasn't learned how to say it yet."

Micah tolerated her teasing words; Percy, he imagined, would disapprove. Maybe he doesn't say it to you often, his boyfriend would defend, but he does to me. Because Micah is capable of being polite, given how well his grandmother instilled manners in him, but etiquette held little significance in servitude. He was taught to say "Yes, my Lord," and "Of course, my Lady." Denial was forbidden, and silence was expected. His world was one of duty and obedience, where respect was conveyed through gritted teeth and gazes averted in submission. "You're welcome" would imply equality, breaching the forged hierarchy that governed his existence. Between Micah and Jason, there was no parity. For what reason, then, should he tell him that?

No matter how blue Jason's eyes were, they couldn't change the fact that he was the son of the god who owned Micah.

Words stayed uncomfortably within his throat, ensnared by bare thorns.

"There's still a long way to go," he croaked out. "You should all sleep now."

Whether they listened or not, Micah didn't give them a choice.

They fell asleep slowly, one by one.

It would be better this way, he knew.

Dreams swarmed him incessantly, akin to flies circling a decaying carcass.

It was more than an annoyance—it was maddening. He gained nothing from memories of a fair-haired child, his sister pleading with their drunken mother, or the revolting scent of motor oil and burnt rubber mingling with the stench of scorched flesh clogging in his nostrils. The sound of Charles Beckendorf's rumbling laughter echoing in his ears disgusted him, as did the lingering sensations of roughened hands on skin that wasn't Micah's, leaving him feeling like a poltergeist in his own body. No matter how viciously he scratched, how deeply he dug his nails, or how hard he tried to control his abilities, the dreams of those around him continued to invade his mind. Nothing could thwart the unwelcome invasion penetrating his thoughts. He dared not sleep, fearing the nightmares that awaited him. He abstained from eating, refusing to taste the pervasive bitterness that seemed to seep into everything around him. He did not speak, either, when his companions arose in the morning.

Micah gazed at the snowflakes instead, watching them drift languidly down from the sky. Winter always made him feel like a severed limb lost among browning leaves—an ugly, mutilated appendage that no longer served a purpose or fit into the world around him. Something meant to be discarded alongside all those withered things too fragile to survive, yet forced to drag itself through the driven snow, pretending to be human while feeling utterly disconnected from the world. Winter made him feel so lonely, so forgotten; it comforted him in a way April and May never could.

The frigid air filled his lungs, sending a piercing chill down his spine. If he fell ill from the numbing cold, at least he wouldn't have to endure another day of pretending to be whole.

He closed his eyes, letting the snowflakes land softly on his face.

At his side, Silena begged him quietly. "I know I'm not him, but you can talk to me."

Micah's eyes slowly opened. He considered whether Piper might have been different—more reserved, less inclined to push, faithfully remaining by Jason's side like Clytie to Helios, forever gazing at the sun but never able to reach it. Had he spared her from that destiny by choosing Silena instead? Or had he unwittingly condemned her to a different kind of loneliness, one where she would never truly know him?

Did it matter at all, if they all died before reaching Rome?

"I wouldn't speak to him either," Micah responded with a faint smile.

"Because you are stubborn," Silena accused; within the same breath, her expression thawed. "But that's okay, because Percy always manages to reach you in the end. I am sure he's out there right now, battling a few gods just to come back to you."

Not if Percy didn't remember him.

Micah's gaze shifted. "You don't have to reassure me, Silena."

The daughter of Aphrodite smiled gently, her hand briefly touching his cheek before pulling away. "I know," she said, "but it's important to hear it from someone who cares. You can trust me with anything, whether it's missing Percy, the quest, or whatever else is on your mind. I'm here to listen."

His words dripped with resentment as he said, "You're not here to—to act as my emotional crutch. I might not know your role in the prophecy, but there's a reason you were chosen. I don't need you to coddle me. If Chiron told you to—"

Silena gently interrupted him with a shake of her head. "I know that, Micah," she insisted. In the frozen landscape, her sable hair took on an auburn hue, contrasting beautifully with the white surroundings. Her cheeks blushed like roses in snow-covered bloom as she gazed at him with a tender smile, her eyes reflecting only him. "I can be strong and capable, and all those things a hero needs," she continued, her voice sincere. "And still be your friend. It isn't coddling, Micah. It's just being there for you in the way that feels right to me."

She paused, the weight of her thoughts hanging distinctly in the air, her eyes momentarily distant as she sifted through a labyrinth of emotions. After a quiet moment, she let out a soft exhale, as if releasing a secret, and confessed, "After Luke, I promised myself I'd do whatever it takes to make things right. I want to make amends—to Charlie, Clarisse, everyone else I've hurt. I know you don't consider me guilty of anything, but I need to make things right for myself." Silena didn't well up with tears as she might have months earlier; instead, her jaw hardened like a taut bow. "I'm done hiding behind you. It's time to confront my mistakes and take responsibility for my actions. If my role in the prophecy is just to be pretty, I'll accept it, as long as I can stand by your side—because I believe in your dream, and if I can help make it a reality, then maybe I can find redemption for myself."

It always bothered Micah that Helen bore the blame for sparking the Trojan War. As if she had asked for Paris to choose her over the goddesses—as if a woman treated as a trophy to be taken from an enemy could be held responsible for the actions of men blinded by desire. She never commanded those thousands of ships to sail to Troy; she never asked to be the cause of so much destruction and loss of life. Beautiful Helen—beautiful Silena—had wept for both sides of the battle. I wish I had died before, she stayed hidden deep in the woods, before ever I brought your life such pain, your lost life. They never spoke of her love or of her empathy for those caught in the crossfire of war. Where was her humanity, in the eyes of those who only saw her as a catalyst for war?

How could she be blamed when her heart had never been given a choice?

His hand raised to his face, froze-bitten fingers covering his eyes as he breathed out heavily. "It was never your fault," Micah insisted uselessly. Penance only seemed to fall on the shoulders of the less deserving. He pressed his palm harder against his shut eyes, frustrated. Silena—Helen—Silena shouldn't have to bear the burden of blame for a war that was not of her making. His wanting only ever ended up hurting others. "I got Ethan killed for that dream," Micah's truth tore itself apart as a gasp, his voice choked with guilt and regret, and his eyes snapped towards Jason and Leo, paranoid and afraid, because they did not deserve to know about Ethan yet—and his head buzzed, filled with flies circling a decaying carcass, swarming him—because he should've done more—

Silena rose to the tips of her toes, stretching to place both hands over his ears.

Her fingers flattened against his skull, smoothing black and white strands of hair under her touch as she replied, "I got Charlie killed for something I didn't even believe in." Her smile was frail, helpless, but still there, with all the hope of a kingfisher caught in her gaze. "To me, it seems like we have two people to make things right for. So let's do it together, okay?"

Together, because they had no one else but each other.

If he had known back then that it would come to this—just the two of them in the end, shadowed by their ghosts at every turn—would he have knelt beside Silena and taken her hand with the same faith? Would he have vowed with the same certainty that he could make it all alright in the end?

He didn't know. But Percy would, his heart told him.

Percy would. Over and over again, until he made the world right for all of them.

Micah wanted to be good, too.

"Okay," he relented. "Okay,"

Micah parted his lips.

Tendrils of golden sand seeped from between his teeth, cascading to the ground below. It pooled at his feet, shimmering in the moonlight like liquid gold. Grain by grain, hypnotically, the sand began to coalesce, forming a cage.

Inside it, storm spirits raged and howled, trapped and contained by Micah's will.

"Is your dad, like, actually the Sandman or something?" Leo asked, his eyes wide with awe.

The son of Hypnos tilted his head. "Something like that," he answered. "We'll be in Aeolia within two hours, by the way. If you want to avoid falling, hold on to Jason. There's no need to worry if you don't, though. I finally figured it out—it makes no difference how far you drop a body. Either way, you'd suffocate mid-air before hitting the ground."

Leo didn't bother arguing when Micah took Festus's reins.

He was too busy trying to crawl under Jason's shirt.

When Micah snapped his fingers, two things happened simultaneously.

First, the golden cage shattered, freeing the Ventī.

Second, Festus launched off the ground like a rocket.

The dragon shot upward with explosive force, its mighty wings pounding against the air with relentless power. The wind screamed past them in a frenzied torrent, tearing at hair and clothes as they propelled higher and higher into the sky.

Half-hidden beneath Jason's shirt, with cheeks trembling and eyes half-shut, Leo yelled, "You're outta your mind! You—you—you—you're completely insane!"

His words barely carried over the howling wind.

If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn Micah was laughing.

They remained still in the air, weightless and free, for a second.

Breaking through the clouds, the skyline of Chicago came into view.

The city sprawled out beneath them, a maze of buildings and streets that seemed to stretch on forever.

But Micah did not let them dwell on the view for long, adjusting their course sharply.

Leo's stomach lurched as they began to spiral downward, the ground rushing up to meet them. He signaled to the left, and Festus obeyed. To the right, and they turned sharply in that direction, only just avoiding a collision with a tall skyscraper. Any time Leo thought he had caught sight of what they were chasing, it slipped out of view again, darting through the maze of buildings with ease.

Micah pointed ahead. "There!"

Briefly, for a fleeting moment, a hazy silhouette of a horse appeared.

Festus pounced forward.

The storm spirit reared up in terror, its hind legs thrashing wildly as it attempted to flee. It was close enough for Festus to seize its tail with his teeth—but it did not happen. Instead, they chased it as it fled away, its frightened gallop carrying it far from the city and into the vast wilderness beyond the horizon.

Any time it veered off course, the son of Hypnos would steer Festus in the right direction, guiding him towards their elusive prey. The chase persisted for hours, the relentless pursuit weaving through valleys and across vast plains until finally, a towering barrier emerged on the horizon: a jagged mountain range, its peaks crowned with glistening snow and sharp cliffs casting long shadows in the fading light of day.

Micah did not stop; instead, they rose higher and higher, the air growing thinner as they ascended towards the rugged peaks. It felt as if they were chasing the very edge of the world, where the sky met the stars and everything around them was shrouded in white , cold silence.

It was only when the storm spirit dissolved into a swirl of icy vapor, merging with the wind and vanishing from sight, that Festus slowed, his wings beating with a controlled clamancy.

Leo wheezed, his breath strained in the thin air.

"What," he managed to say between gasps, "the heck was that about?"

"A scared child always runs back home," Micah responded absently, his gaze drawn toward the mist-hidden ground below. "We're a little higher than I anticipated, but I suppose all of you might enjoy the view. Breathe a little, Valdez. You don't want to miss this."

The frost-tinged clouds parted in the wake of Festus's wings.

What he saw made him forget the need for oxygen entirely.

Below them stretched the drifting island, a magnificent amalgamation of earthen crags interlaced with shimmering amethyst formations, suspended in the sky and softly illuminated by the waning daylight. Its jagged cliffs harbored myriad caves, from which sporadic gusts of wind emanated, echoing like distant trumpet calls. Wisps of ethereal vapor meandered and twirled around the floating landmass, weaving through the four gardens like playful spirits dancing through the seasons.

At the heart of it all stood a citadel, its towering spires ascending towards the heavens with the opulence of a palace, encircled by walls of burnished brass that safeguarded the structure from any intruders seeking to breach its sanctity.

Micah, with a palpable eagerness, seemed determined to be the one to do just that.

"Welcome to Aeolia," he announced, waving a hand dismissively. "Festus, skip the security check. Looks like they've left a window open for us."

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