Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Percy Pov

The fall happened so fast that Percy barely had time to think.

One second he and Annabeth were clinging to each other, Arachne's silk wrapped around his leg, pulling them both into the abyss. The next, he was making a choice.

The only choice.

His fingers found the silk. Riptide materialized in his other hand. One cut. That's all it would take. One cut and Annabeth would fly upward, pulled by Jason and the others. One cut and he'd fall alone.

"Percy, no—"

He didn't let her finish. The blade sliced through the silk.

"I love you," he said.

Then he pushed.

Annabeth shot upward, screaming his name. The sound echoed in the chasm, getting farther and farther away. He watched her rise toward the light, toward safety, toward the friends who would catch her.

Good. She was safe. That's all that mattered.

Percy fell into darkness.

The air screamed past him. His stomach lurched. This wasn't like falling in a dream where you woke up before hitting bottom. This was real. This was Tartarus. And there would be a bottom.

He tried to think, tried to plan. Water. If he could find water, he could maybe cushion the fall. But the darkness was absolute. He couldn't see anything. Couldn't tell which way was up or down anymore. Just falling. Always falling.

The impact, when it came, drove every thought from his mind.

He hit the ground and something broke. Multiple somethings. His left arm, definitely. Ribs. Maybe his leg. Pain exploded through his body, white-hot and all-consuming. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Could only lie there in the dark and hurt.

The ground beneath him was wrong. It felt alive, somehow. Pulsing. Like the entire pit had a heartbeat and he'd just landed on its chest.

Percy forced his eyes open.

The sky, if you could call it that, was a swirling mass of black and dark red. Like blood mixed with oil. No stars. No moon. Just churning darkness that made him dizzy to look at. The air tasted like sulfur and rot and something else. Something that made his lungs burn with each breath.

He tried to sit up. His body screamed in protest. The pain in his ribs was sharp, stabbing. His left arm hung at a wrong angle. When he tried to put weight on his leg, it buckled.

Broken. Definitely broken.

In the mortal world, he'd heal. Ambrosia, nectar, rest, time. Here? He didn't know if anything healed in Tartarus. Maybe he'd just stay broken until something killed him.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, he felt a strange detachment. Like this was happening to someone else and he was just watching.

Get up, he told himself. Have to get up. Have to move.

Using his good arm, he dragged himself to sitting. The world spun. He tasted blood. When he touched his face, his fingers came away wet and dark. Blood looked black in this light.

The landscape around him was nightmare made real. Rivers in the distance that glowed red. Jagged mountains that seemed to shift and move when he wasn't looking directly at them. Steam rising from cracks in the ground. And in the distance, screaming.

Always screaming.

Percy closed his eyes and tried to think through the pain. He needed water. His powers worked with water. If he could find even a little, maybe he could heal. Maybe.

There. Through the haze of agony, he felt it. Water. But wrong water. Corrupted water. The rivers here weren't like the rivers above. These were the rivers of the Underworld. The Phlegethon. The Cocytus. The Acheron. The Styx itself.

The Phlegethon was closest. Fire river. He'd heard about it before. Liquid fire that could heal or destroy depending on who drank it. Mortals died from a single drop. Demigods... maybe could survive it.

Maybe.

Didn't matter. The Phlegethon could heal. If it didn't kill him first. And staying here with broken bones definitely meant death.

Percy started crawling.

Every movement was agony. His broken arm dragged uselessly. His ribs felt like knives with each breath. The ground cut his good hand, sharp rocks that seemed designed to cause maximum pain. But he kept moving. Because staying here meant dying here.

The river wasn't far. Maybe fifty feet. Might as well have been fifty miles.

By the time he reached it, he was sobbing. Not from fear. Just from pain. Pure, physical agony that consumed everything else.

The Phlegethon burned. Even getting close to it made his skin feel like it was blistering. The heat was incredible. And he was supposed to drink this?

He'd die if he didn't.

Percy cupped his good hand and reached into the flames.

The pain was indescribable. Like drinking lava. Like swallowing the sun. It burned going down his throat, burned in his stomach, burned through every vein in his body. He screamed. Couldn't help it. The sound echoed across the hellscape.

But then.

Then the bones in his arm started shifting. Grinding back into place. He felt his ribs knitting together. The cuts on his hand closing. The blood on his face drying, flaking away.

He was healing.

It took another drink. Then another. Each one was torture. Each one put him back together a little more.

When he finally stopped, he could stand. Could breathe without wanting to scream. Could move his arm.

He was whole.

Percy looked at the river of fire, at his reflection distorted in the flames. The face looking back didn't seem like his. Older. Harder. Covered in dust and dried blood.

Movement in his peripheral vision.

Percy spun, Riptide uncapping automatically.

An empousa was stalking toward him from behind a jagged rock formation. She must have heard his screaming. Smelled the blood. She grinned, all fangs and malice, moving with predatory grace.

"Well, well. A demigod. And all alone." She sniffed the air. "Poseidon's brat. How delicious."

Percy didn't think. Didn't plan. Just moved.

Riptide was in his hand and through her chest before she finished laughing. She dissolved into gold dust, shock frozen on her face.

He stood there, blade extended, breathing hard.

That was easy. Too easy. She'd barely put up a fight.

Because you didn't let her, a voice in his head said. You didn't give her a chance. Just killed.

Should feel bad about that. Should feel something.

Didn't.

Percy wiped the blade on his jeans and started walking. Had to find shelter. Had to rest. Had to figure out how to survive long enough to find the Doors of Death.

Had to get back to Annabeth.

The thought of her face, her gray eyes, her voice, kept him moving. She was safe. Above. With the others. They'd take care of her. And he'd find his way back. Somehow.

He had to.

---

The first thing Percy learned about Tartarus: there was no safe place to rest.

He found a cave. Just a hollow in the side of a mountain that looked relatively defensible. No monsters immediately visible. No sounds of pursuit. It would have to do.

Percy sat with his back against the wall, Riptide uncapped and ready. His body ached despite the healing. The Phlegethon fixed broken bones but didn't erase exhaustion. And he was so, so tired.

But he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard sounds. Clicking. Scraping. Breathing. Things in the dark.

The cave had shadows. Deep ones. Anything could be hiding in them.

He tried to tell himself it was paranoia. Tried to relax.

A growl from the darkness proved him right to stay alert.

Percy was on his feet instantly, blade up. Yellow eyes gleamed in the shadows. Something big. Something hungry. It padded forward slowly, emerging from the depths of the cave.

A hellhound, but wrong. Diseased. Rotting. Parts of its flesh hung loose, exposing bone underneath.

It lunged.

The fight was quick and brutal. Percy sidestepped, slashed across the throat. It dissolved.

Percy didn't sit back down. Didn't relax. Just stood there, waiting for the next attack.

An hour later, he heard scraping. Something climbing the rocks outside the cave. He moved to the entrance, blade ready. A dracaena appeared, serpent lower body coiling as she pulled herself up. She hissed when she saw him.

Quick fight. She was dust in seconds.

Another hour. More sounds. More monsters drawn to the cave like moths to flame.

The cave wasn't shelter. It was a trap. A dead end where things could corner him.

He left.

Better to keep moving. Harder to ambush a moving target.

The landscape never changed. No day, no night. Just that constant dim red glow from the sky that wasn't really a sky. Percy walked, and the hellscape stretched on forever in every direction.

He thought about Annabeth. Wondered if she was okay. If she made it to the ship. If they were looking for him. Probably were. Annabeth wouldn't give up. Neither would the others.

But how would they find him? He was at the bottom of the world. Below the Underworld. In a place mortals weren't supposed to survive.

"I'll get out," he said out loud. His voice sounded strange in this place. Small. "I'll find the Doors. I'll get back."

No one answered. He was alone.

The loneliness hit him then. Really hit him. He'd never been truly alone before. Even on his first quest, he'd had Grover and Annabeth. Always had someone watching his back. Someone to plan with. Someone to joke with to cut the tension.

Here, there was just him and the monsters and the endless red darkness.

Percy kept walking.

---

Time stopped meaning anything.

He couldn't tell how long he'd been walking. Hours? Days? There was no sun to mark time. No exhaustion that forced him to sleep. The Phlegethon kept him going, burning through him like fuel in an engine. He drank it when his body started failing. It hurt every time. He stopped caring about the pain.

The fights blurred together.

A cyclops spotted him across a field of broken glass. It charged, roaring. Percy pulled moisture from the Cocytus, the river of wailing, and used it to trip the thing. Then stabbed it while it was down. Efficient. Quick.

A pack of hellhounds tracked him for what felt like hours. Six of them. They followed at a distance, waiting for him to tire. Percy doubled back, ambushed them instead. Picked them off one by one. Used their own tactics against them. By the time they realized he was hunting them, half were already dust.

An empousa approached from the front while another tried to flank from behind. Percy heard the second one's footsteps, spun and killed her first. The first empousa tried to charm him, use her powers to seduce and distract. Percy put Riptide through her eye before she finished her first sentence.

Each fight, he got more efficient. Each fight, he cared a little less about honor or fairness. They were trying to kill him. He killed them first. That was the equation. Simple math.

A monster yielded once. Some kind of dracaena with a broken spear arm, backing away, hissing for mercy.

Percy hesitated. Just for a second.

In that second, he thought about camp. About the rules of combat. About how you didn't strike down enemies who surrendered. It wasn't honorable. It wasn't right.

Then he thought about where he was. About how mercy was a luxury. About how letting her live meant she'd reform and hunt him later. Or hunt some other demigod who fell down here. About how there was no honor in Tartarus, just survival.

He killed her.

She dissolved into dust, shock in her reptilian eyes.

Percy waited for the guilt to hit. Waited to feel something. Anything.

Nothing came.

That should have scared him. The fact that he felt nothing should have been terrifying.

Instead, he just wiped his blade and kept moving.

He was changing. Could feel it happening. Like Tartarus was burning away everything soft, everything human, leaving only the hard core of survival instinct.

Maybe that's what it took to survive here. Maybe he had to become something else. Something harder. Something that didn't hesitate or doubt or feel.

He thought about Annabeth. Tried to hold onto her face in his mind. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she looked at him like he was worth something.

Would she recognize him when he got out? Would he recognize himself?

Percy kept walking.

A group of monsters spotted him in the distance. Empousai, three of them. They saw a lone demigod and started moving toward him, spreading out to surround.

Percy counted exits. Assessed threats. Calculated the most efficient way to end this.

Then he attacked first.

The lead one died before her grin fully formed. The second managed to block his first strike but not his second. The third tried to run. Percy pulled water from a nearby stream of the Acheron, the river of pain, and used it like a whip. Dragged her back. Finished it.

Three more monsters that would reform eventually. Three more enemies that wouldn't bother him again for centuries.

He was covered in monster dust. It clung to his clothes, his skin, his hair. He smelled like death and sulfur.

Didn't matter. Nothing mattered except survival. Except getting to the Doors. Except getting back.

Percy found a relatively flat area near the Phlegethon and sat down. Not to sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually slept. But to rest. To think.

How long had he been here? Felt like weeks. Could have been days. Could have been hours.

Time was broken in Tartarus.

He was broken in Tartarus.

But he was alive. And as long as he was alive, he could keep moving. Keep fighting. Keep surviving.

He'd get out. Find the Doors of Death. Get back to the surface. See Annabeth again. See his mom. See the sun.

He had to.

Because the alternative was dying here. And he'd seen enough monsters reform to know what death meant in this place. Painful. Slow. And then reforming to do it all over again.

No. He'd get out.

Even if he had to kill everything in Tartarus to do it.

Percy stood, gripping Riptide, and looked out at the endless hellscape.

Then he started walking again.

Always walking. Always fighting. Always surviving.

That's all there was now. That's all he was.

A survivor in hell, counting his kills and trying not to count the days.

---

Percy lost track of how many monsters he'd killed.

There had been a point, early on, where he'd counted. Keeping a mental tally like it mattered. Like the number meant something. Twelve. Twenty. Thirty-five.

He stopped counting somewhere after fifty. The numbers blurred together, meaningless in the face of infinity. Because they just kept coming. Wave after wave of things that wanted him dead.

So he stopped counting the kills and started counting something else.

The ways to kill.

Riptide through the chest. Quick. Efficient. Standard.

Riptide through the throat. Faster. Messier. They couldn't scream.

Riptide through the eye. Instant. No time for them to register pain.

Drowning in the Cocytus. Slow. They wailed the whole time, adding their voices to the river of lamentation.

Burning in the Phlegethon. Slower. Agonizing. Percy found he didn't feel bad about using it on monsters that had hunted him, waiting for him to tire.

There were other methods too. Creative ones born from desperation and opportunity. A dracaena impaled on its own spear. A hellhound crushed under rocks Percy had loosened with water pressure. An empousa who'd gotten too close to a chasm, just needed one push.

He was becoming efficient. That's what he told himself. Not cruel. Not monstrous. Just efficient.

Survival required efficiency.

A monster appeared on the horizon. Too far to identify, but moving toward him with purpose. Percy didn't hide. Didn't run. Just waited, Riptide loose in his grip.

Cyclops. Young one, maybe. Still stupid enough to charge straight at him.

Percy sidestepped the club, slashed the back of its knee. It fell. He was on it before it hit the ground, blade through the base of the skull.

Fifteen seconds. Start to finish.

He was getting faster.

Percy wiped the blade and kept walking. There was a destination somewhere in this hell. The Doors of Death. The way out. He just had to find it. Keep moving. Keep surviving. Keep killing anything that got in his way.

His shirt was more hole than fabric now. Torn by claws and teeth and rocks. Stained with monster dust and his own blood and things he didn't want to identify. His jeans weren't much better. He'd lost one of his shoes somewhere, given up on the other. Easier to feel the ground beneath him. To sense vibrations. To know when something was coming.

His body was a map of scars. Some from the fights. Others from the environment. A burn along his ribs from getting too close to a lava flow. Cuts on his hands and feet from the jagged terrain. A gouge in his shoulder from a monster's claws that had almost been fatal.

The Phlegethon healed the worst of it. But Tartarus didn't let things heal clean. The scars remained. Reminders written on his skin.

He wondered what Annabeth would think if she saw him now. Wondered if she'd recognize the boy she'd kissed on the deck of the Argo II.

That felt like a different person.

Maybe it was.

Percy stopped at the edge of another river. Not the Phlegethon this time. The Acheron. River of pain. The water looked dark and oily, moving with an unnatural current. He could hear it if he listened. Whispers. Moans. The sound of suffering made liquid.

Something was following him. Had been for the last while. Staying just out of sight. Waiting.

Percy crouched, pretending to drink from the river. Kept his peripherals sharp. There. Movement behind a rock formation. Something trying to be stealthy.

He stayed crouched, vulnerable. Let it think he hadn't noticed.

The attack came from behind, just like he'd expected. Some kind of hell hound, larger than the others he'd fought. It leaped, claws extended, jaws wide.

Percy rolled. The hound hit empty ground. Before it could recover, he was moving. Riptide caught it in the throat. It dissolved, surprised.

Ambush predator, ambushed.

He kept moving.

The landscape shifted gradually. The mountains in the distance seemed closer now. The air was thicker here. Harder to breathe. The screaming in the distance was louder too.

Souls, he realized. The souls of monsters, reforming in agony. And somewhere in that chorus of suffering, a dozen mortal souls. Trapped forever.

If he died here, he'd join them.

The thought sharpened his focus. Don't die. Simple rule. Simple goal.

A group of monsters emerged from behind a cluster of rocks ahead. Percy counted them automatically. Six. No, seven. Mixed types. Empousai, dracaenae, one cyclops.

They saw him. Started moving to surround him.

Percy assessed the terrain. Open ground, no cover. River to his left, rocks to his right.

In the old days, he would've tried to talk. Made a joke. Tried to find a creative solution.

Now, he just calculated the most efficient kill order.

Cyclops first. Biggest threat, slowest. Then the empousai on the right. Then the dracaena trying to circle behind.

Percy moved.

The cyclops swung its club. Percy ducked under it, came up inside its guard, Riptide through the gut. It howled, stumbling back. He left it dying and turned to the empousa.

She tried to charm him, eyes glowing. "Wait, hero. We don't have to—"

Riptide took her head mid-sentence.

The dracaena behind him struck with her spear. Percy sensed it coming, pulled water from the Acheron. A whip of dark water caught the spear mid-thrust, yanked it from her hands. She stared in shock.

Percy killed her while she was distracted.

The cyclops had fallen. The remaining monsters, three dracaenae, looked at each other. Looked at Percy, covered in their friends' dust.

They ran.

Percy let them go. No point chasing. They'd reform eventually anyway.

He wiped his blade and kept walking.

The fights were getting easier. That should have been good news. It wasn't. Because easier meant he was getting better at killing. Better at reading his enemies. Better at finding the quickest way to end them.

Better at not caring.

A wounded dracaena crawled across his path. Missing half her tail, bleeding ichor that sizzled where it hit the ground. She looked up at him with dying eyes.

"Mercy," she hissed. "Please."

Percy looked at it. Really looked. Saw the pain. The fear.

Thought about the rules of combat. The honor in showing mercy to a defeated enemy.

Then he thought about where he was. About survival. About how this thing would reform and hunt other demigods.

He raised Riptide.

"Wait—"

The blade came down.

The dracaena dissolved, relief and fear mixed in its dying expression.

Percy stood there, blade dripping ichor, and waited for the guilt.

Nothing.

He felt nothing.

That should have scared him. The absence of feeling should have been a warning sign.

Instead, he just capped Riptide and kept walking.

Because what did it matter what he was becoming? As long as he survived. As long as he got out. As long as he made it back.

He could deal with what he'd become later.

Percy found another relatively flat area and sat, back against a boulder. His body ached. Not injured, just tired. The kind of tired that went bone-deep.

He needed sleep. Real sleep, not the brief moments of unconsciousness he'd been managing.

But every time he closed his eyes, he heard sounds. Scraping. Breathing. His eyes would snap open, hand reaching for Riptide.

Sleep meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant death.

So he rested with his eyes open, watching the shadows, listening for threats.

His mind wandered.

Thought about camp. Capture the flag. Training in the arena. Normal things. Good things.

Felt like they'd happened to someone else.

Thought about his mom. Her blue cookies. Her smile. Would she know he was alive? Would she think he was dead, fallen into Tartarus with no way out?

He'd get back to her. Had to.

Thought about Annabeth. Always came back to Annabeth. Her gray eyes. Her strategic mind. The way she'd looked at him before he fell.

She'd screamed his name. Reached for him. He'd seen the horror on her face as he pushed her away.

Did the right thing. Saved her. That's what mattered.

But gods, he missed her.

Missed having someone to talk to. To plan with. To watch his back. To remind him he was human.

Was he still human? After everything he'd done down here?

Percy looked at his hands. Stained with monster dust and ichor. Scarred. Rough. The hands of someone who killed without hesitation now.

When had that happened? When had he crossed the line from hero to something else?

Didn't matter. Couldn't matter. Survival first. Morality later.

He stood up, gripping Riptide, and started walking again.

Always walking. Always moving. Always surviving.

That's all he was now.

---

Kelli found him.

He was drinking from the Phlegethon, forcing down the liquid fire, when he heard the laugh.

That specific laugh. Cruel and mocking and familiar.

Percy's head snapped up, Riptide already in hand.

She stood fifty feet away, arms crossed, perfect and terrible. Kelli. The empousa from the Labyrinth. The one who'd tortured him at Antaeus's arena.

"Well, well, well," she purred, walking toward him with predatory grace. "If it isn't Percy Jackson. The hero. The survivor." She looked around at the hellscape. "Doesn't look like you're doing so well, though. All alone. No girlfriend to save you. No friends to help."

Percy said nothing. Just watched her approach, calculating distances.

"What happened, hero? Did you fall?" She laughed. "Did precious Annabeth drop you? Finally realize you weren't worth it?"

His grip tightened on Riptide. Still didn't speak.

"Oh, this is too perfect. All those times you beat me, and now I get to watch you die down here." She spread her arms. "This is my home, Jackson. My territory. Down here, I'm stronger. Faster. This is where I was born." She grinned, fangs gleaming. "You think you're tough because you've killed a few hellhounds? I've had millennia to learn every corner of this place."

Percy moved.

Kelli barely got her guard up in time. Riptide crashed against her blocking arm, sending sparks flying. She hissed, surprised by his speed.

"Oh, you want to play?" She attacked back, claws extending, going for his throat.

He blocked. Countered. Slashed at her midsection. She dodged, but not quite fast enough. Riptide caught her hip, drew ichor.

"Lucky shot," she snarled.

Percy didn't respond. Didn't banter. Didn't make jokes like he used to. Just kept attacking. Efficient. Relentless. Mechanical.

Kelli's grin faded as the fight went on. She was fast, experienced, strong. But Percy had been fighting nonstop. His body had learned to move without thinking. To kill without hesitation.

He caught her arm, twisted, heard something crack. She screamed. He didn't let go, used her momentum to throw her toward a jagged rock formation. She hit hard, ichor spattering.

She struggled to her feet, favoring her broken arm. The mocking confidence was gone now, replaced by something that looked almost like fear.

"Wait," she said. "Wait, we can—"

Percy pulled water from the Cocytus. The river of wailing responded to his will, dark water rising like a serpent. It wrapped around Kelli's legs, pulled her toward the river's edge.

"No! Jackson, please!"

He could end it quick. One slash and she'd dissolve.

Instead, he let the river take her.

Kelli screamed as the Cocytus dragged her in. The river of lamentation, where sorrows lived and breathed and consumed. She thrashed, trying to swim, but the water had her. Pulled her down. Her screams joined the millions of others.

Percy watched. Felt nothing.

She wouldn't die, not really. The river would torture her, then spit her out eventually. Broken. Changed.

That was almost worse than killing her.

He turned away before she went under completely, her screams still echoing.

Walked away without looking back.

Kelli had wanted to torture him. To make him suffer. Had mocked him about Annabeth, about being alone.

He'd returned the favor.

And he felt nothing about it.

No satisfaction. No guilt. No anger.

Just... nothing.

Percy stopped walking. Looked at his hands again. Steady. Not shaking. Not trembling with adrenaline or horror or anything.

"What am I becoming?" he whispered to the empty hellscape.

The only answer was the distant screaming. Kelli's voice, somewhere in that chorus now.

Percy capped Riptide and kept walking.

Because what choice did he have? Stop and think about his morality? Stop and question his methods?

That would mean accepting it. Acknowledging it.

Easier to keep moving. Keep surviving. Keep being whatever he needed to be to get out of here.

He could deal with the consequences later.

If he made it out.

If there was anything left of Percy Jackson to save.

---

Percy was fighting three hellhounds when he realized he was going to lose.

Not because they were particularly strong. Not because he was injured. But because he was tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. The kind of exhaustion that made his blade feel like it weighed a hundred pounds.

He'd been fighting for... he didn't know. Didn't matter. Too long. Without real rest. Without real sleep. Just the Phlegethon burning through him like fuel, keeping him moving when his body wanted to collapse.

The hellhounds circled, coordinating. Smart ones. They'd learned from watching him kill their packmates.

Percy's hands shook slightly. His breathing was too fast, too shallow. His vision blurred at the edges.

The largest hound lunged.

Percy sidestepped, but slower than usual. Claws raked his arm, drawing blood. He hissed, spun, slashed. Caught it across the snout. It yelped, backed off.

The other two attacked simultaneously.

He blocked one, couldn't reach the other. Teeth sank into his calf. Percy shouted, drove his elbow down onto its skull. It released. He stabbed down, finished it.

Two left.

His leg throbbed. Blood ran down into his shoe, making the ground slippery.

The hellhounds circled again. Waiting. They could smell his weakness.

Percy's grip on Riptide loosened slightly. His arm was shaking now. Not from fear. From fatigue.

"Come on," he muttered. More to himself than them. "Come on."

They attacked together.

Percy managed to kill one. The other got past his guard, knocked him down. He hit the ground hard, Riptide skittering away. The hellhound was on him, jaws snapping at his throat.

He got his forearm up, blocked the bite. Teeth scraped against bone. Pain exploded up his arm.

Percy's free hand scrabbled for Riptide. Fingers closed around the hilt. He drove it up, into the hound's chest.

It dissolved.

Percy lay there, bleeding, breathing hard. Stared up at the churning red-black sky.

Too close. That was too close.

He forced himself to sit up. His arm was torn open, blood flowing freely. His leg wasn't much better. The wounds were bad. Not fatal, but bad.

Percy crawled to the Phlegethon. Drank. Screamed as it burned. Watched the wounds close, leaving fresh scars.

When he could stand, he did. Looked around at the monster dust settling on the ground.

Three hellhounds. Should've been easy. Wasn't.

He was slowing down. Weakening. The Phlegethon could heal wounds but it couldn't replace sleep. Couldn't restore his mind. Couldn't fix whatever was breaking inside him.

Percy started walking again. Had to keep moving. Had to find the Doors. Had to—

A pack of empousai appeared on the horizon. Five of them. Moving toward him with purpose.

Percy looked at Riptide. At his shaking hands. At the empousai getting closer.

Five. He could handle five. Maybe. If he was lucky. If they were stupid.

They weren't stupid.

The fight was brutal. Percy killed two before they adapted to his style. Then it became a war of attrition. They'd learned to dodge his strikes, to work together, to press his weaknesses.

He killed the third by pulling her into the Phlegethon. Her screams echoed as she burned.

The fourth got her claws into his side before he could react. Raked across his ribs. Percy felt something tear. Grabbed her arm, broke it, killed her while she was screaming.

The fifth ran.

Percy let her go. Couldn't chase. Could barely stand.

His side was bleeding badly. He could feel it, hot and wet, soaking through his ruined shirt. Ribs might be cracked. Hard to breathe.

He stumbled to the river. Drank. The healing hurt worse than the wound. When it was done, he collapsed on the bank.

Couldn't keep doing this. Couldn't keep fighting alone. Couldn't—

"Could use some help," he muttered. His voice was hoarse, broken. "Anyone. Anything."

The hellscape didn't answer. Just the distant screaming. Always screaming.

Percy laughed. It came out bitter. "In a fucked up way, I wish someone was down here with me. Anyone."

Silence.

He thought about the Argo II crew. Jason would be useful. Good fighter. Kept his head. Leo could improvise. Frank could change into something big, take hits Percy couldn't.

Even Nico would be better than nothing. At least he understood death.

Percy's mind drifted further. To people he'd never want down here but would still be grateful to see.

"I'd even take Bob's help right now," he said to no one.

The words hung in the air. Pathetic. Desperate. But true.

Bob. The gentle Titan who cleaned the palace of Hades. Who'd helped them before. Who probably couldn't even survive down here.

But gods, Percy would take anyone. Anything. Just to not be alone.

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just to rest.

---

Something was watching him.

Percy's eyes snapped open, hand reaching for Riptide.

A cyclops stood twenty feet away. Big one. Battle-scarred. It grinned, showing yellow teeth.

"Demigod," it rumbled. "Alone. Weak."

Percy got to his feet. His body protested. Everything hurt. But he raised his blade anyway.

The cyclops charged.

Percy barely dodged the first swing. A club the size of a tree trunk crashed into the ground where he'd been standing. He rolled, came up slashing. Caught the cyclops across the leg. It howled.

But it didn't go down. Just swung again.

Percy ducked. The club passed over his head. He tried to counter, but his arms were too slow. Too tired.

The cyclops kicked him. Percy flew backward, hit a rock formation hard. Something cracked. Ribs, definitely.

He struggled to stand. Couldn't. His body wasn't responding right.

The cyclops approached, grinning. "Weak. Broken. Easy kill."

Percy raised Riptide with shaking hands. "Come on then."

The cyclops raised its club.

A broom handle hit it in the face.

The cyclops stumbled back, confused. Looked around for the source.

"Bob will help friend Percy!"

Percy's head snapped up. Couldn't be. Impossible.

But there he was. Bob. The Titan in janitor's clothes, holding his broom like a weapon, stepping between Percy and the cyclops.

"Bob?" Percy's voice came out barely a whisper.

"Friend Percy called for Bob!" The Titan smiled, genuinely happy. "Bob heard. Bob came to help."

The cyclops roared. "Iapetus! Traitor!"

"Bob is not traitor," Bob said calmly. "Bob is friend."

He swung the broom. It should've been ridiculous. A cleaning tool against a cyclops. But Bob was a Titan, and when he swung, the broom moved like a weapon of war. It caught the cyclops in the chest, sent it flying.

The cyclops hit the ground, struggled up. Looked at Bob. Looked at Percy. Made a decision and ran.

Bob watched it go, then turned to Percy.

"Friend Percy is hurt."

Percy tried to stand. Couldn't. His legs wouldn't support him. "Bob... how did you..."

"Percy called for Bob. Bob came." Simple as that. Like crossing Tartarus to help a friend was the most natural thing in the world.

"I didn't think..." Percy's voice failed. He was shaking now. Not from fear. From relief. From the overwhelming realization that he wasn't alone anymore.

Bob knelt down, surprisingly gentle for something his size. "Bob will help. Friends help friends."

Percy nodded. Couldn't speak. Didn't trust his voice.

For the first time since falling, he felt something other than the numbness. Something almost like hope.

Bob helped him to the Phlegethon, supported him while he drank. The healing fire did its work, knitting broken ribs, closing wounds.

When Percy could stand on his own again, he looked at Bob. Really looked. The Titan was smiling, holding his broom, looking happy to see him.

"Thank you," Percy managed.

"Friends help friends," Bob repeated. Then his expression shifted, became concerned. "Where is Annabeth friend?"

The question hit like a punch. Percy's throat tightened.

"Safe," he said finally. "Above. With the others."

"Percy is alone?"

"Yes."

Bob's silver eyes were sad. "That is very lonely."

"Yeah." Percy looked away. "It is."

"Not alone now," Bob said firmly. "Bob is here. Bob will help Percy find the Doors."

Percy wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Bob to go back, to stay safe, that Tartarus was too dangerous. But he couldn't. Because Bob was right.

He wasn't alone anymore.

And that made all the difference.

"The Doors of Death," Percy said. "Do you know the way?"

Bob nodded. "Bob knows. Long way. Dangerous way. But Bob knows."

"Then let's go."

They started walking. Together this time. Percy and Bob, moving through the hellscape side by side.

For the first time since falling, Percy's steps felt lighter. His blade didn't feel quite as heavy. The darkness didn't press quite as close.

Because he had backup now. Someone watching his back. Someone to talk to.

Someone to remind him he was still human.

Even if that someone was a Titan with a broom.

----
They walked in silence for a while. Percy didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to explain what having Bob here meant.

Bob hummed as they walked. Some tuneless melody that somehow made the hellscape feel less oppressive.

A group of monsters spotted them. Three dracaenae, moving to intercept.

Percy's hand went to Riptide automatically. But Bob stepped forward first.

"Bob will handle."

The broom swept through all three in seconds. They dissolved, barely registering what happened.

Bob turned back to Percy, smiling. "See? Bob helps."

Percy managed something that might've been a smile. Felt strange on his face. Like muscles he'd forgotten how to use.

They kept walking.

"Percy seems different," Bob said eventually. "Harder."

Percy didn't answer for a moment. Then: "Tartarus does that."

"Yes," Bob agreed quietly. "Tartarus changes things. Makes them..." He struggled for the word. "Sharper. Meaner. Bob remembers."

Right. Bob used to be Iapetus. Had been reset, made gentle, made kind. But before that, he'd been a Titan. Had probably done terrible things.

"Do you remember?" Percy asked. "Before?"

"Some things. Like bad dreams." Bob looked troubled. "Bob does not like remembering. Preferred being Bob. Being friend."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to—"

"Is okay." Bob's expression cleared. "Bob is still Bob. Even in Tartarus. Even remembering. Still chooses to be friend."

The simple declaration hit harder than it should have. Bob chose kindness. Even here. Even knowing what he'd been. What he could be again.

What did it say about Percy that he hadn't made that choice? That he'd let Tartarus turn him into something else without fighting it?

"Bob," Percy said slowly. "Am I... am I still me?"

The Titan looked at him. Really looked. His silver eyes saw too much.

"Percy is still Percy," he said finally. "But Percy is hurt. Scared. Alone for too long." He paused. "Percy did what Percy needed to survive. Bob understands."

"I killed things that surrendered," Percy heard himself say. "Made them suffer. Felt nothing."

"Tartarus makes you do that," Bob said gently. "Makes you think that is only way. But Percy is still good. Bob knows."

"How?"

"Because Percy called for help. Bad things do not call for help. They do not care about being alone." Bob smiled. "Percy called for friend. That is good thing."

Percy wanted to believe that. Wanted to think that asking for help, even in desperation, meant something.

Maybe it did.

They walked on, and for the first time since falling, Percy didn't count the ways to kill. Didn't calculate threats and exits and efficiency.

He just walked with a friend.

And tried to remember what that felt like.

---

Having Bob changed everything.

Not the landscape. That was still hell. Not the monsters. They still attacked on sight. Not the rivers of fire and poison and pain. Those still flowed eternal.

But Percy had someone to watch his back now. Someone to take shifts so he could actually rest. Someone to talk to, even if the conversations were simple.

Someone to remind him he was still human.

They'd been traveling together for... Percy didn't know. Long enough that he'd started to relax slightly. Not much. But enough to not jump at every shadow.

Bob hummed while they walked. The same tuneless melody, over and over. It should've been annoying. Instead, Percy found it comforting. A constant in the chaos. Proof that something gentle could still exist in Tartarus.

"Bob," Percy said after a particularly long silence. "Why did you come? Really?"

The Titan looked at him, confused. "Percy called for Bob. Friends help friends."

"But you were safe. Up in the mortal world. Cleaning the palace. You could've ignored it."

"Bob heard friend. Bob came." Like it was that simple. Like risking Tartarus was obvious if a friend needed help.

Percy didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to process that kind of loyalty. That kind of selfless stupidity.

"Thank you," he managed finally.

Bob smiled. "Percy is welcome."

A hellhound pack appeared in the distance. Six of them, moving in formation. Smart ones.

Percy's hand went to Riptide automatically. Started calculating angles, kill order, most efficient method.

"Bob will take left," the Titan said cheerfully. "Percy takes right?"

Percy blinked. Right. He wasn't alone. Didn't have to kill all of them himself.

"Yeah," he said. "Sounds good."

The hellhounds charged.

Percy moved right, Bob moved left. The pack tried to adjust, coordinate. Too late. They'd planned for one target, not two.

Percy killed his three with mechanical precision. Throat, eye, chest. Quick. Clean. Efficient.

He turned to help Bob and found the Titan had already finished. The last hellhound was dissolving, and Bob was cleaning his broom like he'd just swept a floor instead of monsters.

"Good teamwork!" Bob said happily.

Percy nodded. Looked at the settling dust. Six hellhounds. Would've been a serious fight alone. With Bob? Almost easy.

They kept walking.

"Percy fights well," Bob said after a while. His tone was careful. "Very... fast."

"Have to be. Down here."

"Yes. But..." Bob paused, choosing words. "Percy fights like Furies. Like monsters Bob has seen. All efficiency. No hesitation. No mercy."

Percy glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"Like machine. Like weapon." Bob's silver eyes were troubled.

The observation cut deeper than it should have. Because Bob was right. Percy had become efficient. Had learned to kill without hesitation, without feeling.

Had become a weapon.

"It's survival," Percy said. His voice came out harder than intended. "You do what you have to down here."

"Yes," Bob agreed quietly. "Bob understands. But Bob worries."

"About what?"

"That Percy forgets how to be Percy. Remembers only how to survive."

Percy didn't answer. Couldn't. Because the fear was already there, had been there since he'd killed that surrendering dracaena and felt nothing. Bob was just saying it out loud.

They walked in silence after that. Bob's humming had stopped.

---

The monsters kept coming.

An empousa tried to seduce Bob while her sister flanked Percy. Bob looked confused by the attempt. "Bob has friend to help. No time for talking."

He swept his broom through her before she could respond.

Percy killed the other one. Quick stab through the chest. She dissolved mid-sentence.

Bob looked at him. Didn't say anything. Didn't have to. Percy saw the concern in his eyes.

A cyclops charged from behind a rock formation. Roaring, club raised.

Percy was already moving before Bob could react. Slashed the back of its knee, let it fall, finished it while it was down. The entire encounter took maybe ten seconds.

When Percy turned around, Bob was staring at him.

"What?" Percy asked.

"Percy did not hesitate. Did not try to talk. Just killed."

"It was trying to kill us."

"Yes. But..." Bob struggled to articulate it. "Old Percy would make joke. Would try to reason. Would kill only if necessary."

"This is necessary," Percy snapped. "Everything down here is trying to kill us. I don't have time for jokes or reasoning or any of that. I just need them dead before they kill me."

"Bob understands," Bob said softly. "But Bob is sad."

"Why?"

"Because Percy sounds like not-friend. Sounds like enemy."

The words hit like a physical blow. Percy opened his mouth to argue. To defend himself. To explain that he was still Percy, still the same person.

But was he?

When had he last made a joke? Last smiled? Last shown mercy?

He couldn't remember.

"I'm trying to survive," Percy said quietly. "That's all I'm doing."

"Bob knows. Bob is not angry. Just sad." The Titan started walking again. "Tartarus takes things. Changes things. Bob hopes it does not take all of Percy."

Percy watched him go. Then followed. Because what else could he do?

They encountered more monsters. Percy killed them all with the same mechanical efficiency. Bob helped, but Percy could see him watching. Evaluating. Worrying.

After the fifth group, Bob spoke up.

"Percy, can Bob ask question?"

"Sure."

"Why does Percy not offer mercy? Even when monster is defeated?"

Percy stopped walking. Looked at Bob. "Because they'll reform. Come back. Hunt other demigods. Hurt people."

"Yes," Bob agreed. "But that is always true. When Percy fought monsters before, before Tartarus, did Percy show mercy sometimes?"

"That was different."

"How?"

"Because I wasn't..." Percy trailed off. Wasn't what? Alone? Desperate? Changed?

All of those things.

"Percy was not fighting for life every moment," Bob supplied gently. "Was not scared. Was not alone. Was still Percy."

"I'm still Percy," Percy said. But it sounded weak even to his own ears.

Bob didn't argue. Just looked sad. "Bob hopes so. Bob likes Percy. Does not like weapon-Percy. Weapon-Percy is what Tartarus wants."

They kept walking.

Percy thought about what Bob had said. About being a weapon. About being what Tartarus wanted.

Was that true? Had he let this place shape him into exactly what it needed? Something hard and cruel and efficient?

A wounded monster crawled across their path. Some kind of empousa, missing a leg, bleeding ichor. She looked up at them with dying eyes.

Percy's hand went to Riptide automatically.

"Please," she gasped. "Mercy."

Percy hesitated. Just for a second. Looked at Bob.

The Titan was watching him. Not judging. Just watching. Waiting to see what Percy would choose.

Show mercy, and she'd reform eventually. Hunt other demigods. Maybe kill someone.

Kill her now, and... what? Prove Bob right? Prove he'd become exactly what Tartarus wanted?

Percy raised Riptide.

The empousa closed her eyes.

Percy lowered the blade.

"Go," he said quietly. "Reform somewhere else. Don't come back."

She stared at him in shock. Then crawled away as fast as she could manage, disappearing into the hellscape.

Percy turned to Bob. The Titan was smiling.

"That was very Percy," Bob said.

"She'll come back," Percy said. "Hunt other people."

"Maybe. Or maybe she will remember mercy. Remember that demigod could have killed but chose not to." Bob started walking. "Bob thinks second option is better. Gives hope."

Percy wasn't sure he believed that. Wasn't sure mercy meant anything down here.

But Bob looked happy. And Percy realized he'd been so focused on survival that he'd forgotten about hope.

Maybe that was important too.

---

They traveled on. The landscape gradually shifted. The mountains were definitely closer now. The air thicker. The screaming louder.

Bob led the way, his broom over one shoulder like a spear. Percy followed, watching the Titan's back, keeping alert for threats.

"Bob knows where Doors are?" Percy asked.

"Bob knows the way. But long journey. Many dangers." Bob paused. "Bob thinks we should visit friend first."

"Friend?"

"Damasen. Big gentle giant. Lives in swamp. Can help Percy."

Percy had heard legends about Damasen. The giant cursed to fight the Maeonian drakon for eternity. Punished for being too gentle, too kind.

"He'll help us?"

"Bob thinks so. Damasen understands being different. Being gentle in cruel place." Bob looked back at Percy. "Damasen might help Percy remember how to be Percy."

The implication stung. That Percy needed help remembering who he was. That he'd lost himself so completely that even a cursed giant could see it.

But Bob wasn't wrong.

"Okay," Percy said. "We'll go see Damasen."

Bob smiled. Started humming again as they walked.

They encountered fewer monsters as they got closer to wherever Bob was leading them. The ones they did see kept their distance, watching but not attacking. Like they knew better than to mess with a Titan and his companion.

Percy found himself relaxing slightly. Not much. But enough to think about something other than immediate survival.

He thought about Annabeth. Wondered what she was doing. If she'd made it safely to the ship. If they were still looking for him or if they'd given up.

No. Annabeth wouldn't give up. She'd search forever if she had to.

The thought made him ache. Made him want to move faster, find the Doors quicker, get back to her.

But Bob was right. They needed help. And if this Damasen could provide it, Percy would take it.

"Bob," Percy said. "When we get to Damasen's place... after we talk to him... you're coming with me to the Doors, right?"

Bob stopped walking. Turned around. His expression was sad.

"Bob will try to be there. On other side."

Percy's stomach dropped at the uncertainty in his voice. "Try? What do you mean try?"

"Doors are complicated. Path is dangerous. Bob will do best to meet Percy." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "But Percy must go through. Must escape. Bob will try to follow."

"But..." Percy struggled to process it. The possibility of losing the one person who'd kept him sane. "I need you. What if you can't make it?"

"Then Percy keeps going," Bob said firmly. "Percy is strong. Stronger than Percy knows. Percy will make it to surface. Bob believes in friend."

Percy wanted to argue. Wanted to refuse. Wanted to demand Bob stay with him all the way.

But he could see the certainty in the Titan's eyes. This wasn't negotiable. Bob would help as much as he could, but there were no guarantees he'd make it through.

Just like there were no guarantees Percy would make it through.

"Okay," Percy said finally. His voice was barely a whisper. "Okay."

Bob squeezed his shoulder. "Percy will be okay. Bob believes in friend."

They started walking again. Percy tried not to think about the moment when Bob might not be there. When he'd be alone again in the darkness.

Tried to focus on the present. On having a friend now. On the help Bob was giving.

On remembering how to be human before he forgot completely.

The screaming in the distance grew louder. They were getting close to something.

Percy gripped Riptide and followed Bob deeper into Tartarus.

Toward whatever came next.

----

The swamp appeared gradually.

First, the ground got softer. Wetter. Then there were pools of dark water that smelled like decay. Then actual vegetation, twisted and wrong but still growing. Plants that shouldn't exist in Tartarus.

Bob led Percy through it all, stepping carefully around the deeper pools.

"Damasen lives here," Bob explained. "Makes things grow. Makes beautiful things in ugly place."

Percy looked around at the gnarled trees and poisonous-looking flowers. Beautiful wasn't the word he'd use. But compared to the rest of Tartarus, it was almost... peaceful.

They reached a clearing. In the center stood a hut, crude but functional. And beside it, a garden.

An actual garden. With rows of plants, carefully tended. Vegetables that looked almost normal. Herbs growing in organized patches.

And tending them was a giant.

Easily fifteen feet tall, with arms like tree trunks and hands that could crush boulders. But he was kneeling in the dirt, gently checking the leaves of a tomato plant with surprising delicacy.

He looked up as they approached. His face was scarred, weathered, ancient. But his eyes were gentle.

"Bob," he rumbled. His voice was deep, tired. "You've returned."

"Hello, Damasen friend!" Bob waved cheerfully. "Bob brought another friend. This is Percy."

Damasen's eyes shifted to Percy. Studied him. Percy felt assessed, evaluated, seen in a way that made him uncomfortable.

"Another hero," Damasen said finally. "They always fall eventually."

There was no judgment in his voice. Just weary acceptance. Like he'd seen this play out before.

"Percy needs help," Bob said. "Percy is trying to reach Doors of Death."

"Of course he is." Damasen stood, towering over them both. "They all try. Few succeed." He gestured to his hut. "Come. You look half-dead already, demigod."

Percy followed him inside. The hut was simple but clean. A fire burned in a pit, somehow not filling the space with smoke. Shelves lined the walls, covered in dried herbs and what looked like medical supplies.

Damasen gestured for Percy to sit. "Let me see your wounds."

"I'm fine," Percy said automatically.

"You're covered in scars. Malnourished. Exhausted." Damasen's tone left no room for argument. "Sit."

Percy sat.

The giant's hands were surprisingly gentle as he examined Percy's various injuries. Old scars, new wounds barely healed by the Phlegethon, burns and cuts and worse.

"You've been down here a while," Damasen observed.

"I don't know how long."

"Long enough to change you." It wasn't a question. Damasen mixed something in a bowl, some kind of paste. "This will help. Real healing, not the fire river's violence."

He applied the paste to Percy's worst scars. It stung, then cooled. Percy felt something shift. Not dramatic like the Phlegethon, but deeper. More natural.

"Thank you," Percy said quietly.

Damasen grunted. Kept working in silence.

Bob watched from the doorway, humming softly.

When Damasen finished, he sat back. Looked at Percy with those ancient, tired eyes.

"You seek the Doors of Death."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Percy blinked. "To escape. To get back to the surface. To—"

"No," Damasen interrupted. "Why do you want to escape? What drives you?"

Percy thought about Annabeth. His mom. Camp. The world above. Everything he'd lost.

"I have people waiting for me," he said finally. "People I need to get back to."

"Hmm." Damasen stood, moved to his fire. Put a kettle on to boil. "And if you fail? If you die trying?"

"Then I die. At least I tried."

"You don't understand." Damasen's voice was quiet. Heavy. "Death here is not like death above."

Something in his tone made Percy's skin crawl. "What do you mean?"

Damasen poured whatever he'd boiled into two cups. Handed one to Percy. It smelled like herbs and earth.

"Drink. You need it." He sat across from Percy. "Tell me, hero. What happens when mortals die in the world above?"

"They go to the Underworld. Hades' realm. Get judged. Go to Elysium, or Asphodel, or the Fields of Punishment."

"Yes. The natural order. The cycle of death and afterlife." Damasen took a long drink. "That order doesn't exist here."

Percy's hand tightened on his cup. "What are you saying?"

"Tartarus is the pit beneath the pit. The place even Hades doesn't control." Damasen's eyes were dark. Sad. "Mortals who die here don't go to the Underworld."

"Then where—"

"Nowhere. Their souls stay here. Trapped. Conscious. Aware." Damasen set down his cup. "Tortured. For eternity."

The words hung in the air like poison.

Percy stared at him. "That's not... that can't be..."

"In my long existence," Damasen continued, voice flat, "perhaps a dozen mortals have fallen here. Accidents. Catastrophes. Curses. I never saw them alive." He paused. "But I heard them after."

"After?"

"After they died. Their screams." Damasen looked toward the door, toward the distant sounds that Percy had learned to tune out. "They're still screaming. Right now. Have been for centuries. Millennia, some of them. Will be screaming forever."

Percy felt his blood go cold. Ice spreading through his veins despite the warmth of the hut.

"Forever," he whispered.

"Forever. The pit does not release what it claims." Damasen's expression was sympathetic but unyielding. "No Elysium. No Asphodel. No judgment. No rebirth. Just eternal suffering in the darkness."

Percy's hands started shaking. The cup fell from his grip, spilling across the floor. He didn't notice.

"Forever," he said again. Couldn't seem to process anything else.

Bob moved closer, concerned. "Percy?"

But Percy wasn't listening. His mind was racing, spiraling. Every fight he'd been in. Every close call. Every moment he'd almost died.

If any of those had gone differently...

If that cyclops had landed its hit...

If Kelli had been faster...

If he'd been too tired, too slow, too weak...

His soul would be trapped here. Screaming. Aware. Suffering. For eternity.

Not years. Not centuries. Forever.

No escape. No hope. No end.

Worse than the Fields of Punishment. Worse than anything. At least in Hades' realm there were rules. Structure. The possibility of rebirth.

Here? Nothing. Just endless torment in the dark.

"I can't..." Percy's breath was coming too fast. "I can't die here. I can't. If I die—"

"Then you become like them," Damasen finished quietly. "I know. I'm sorry. But you needed to understand what you're risking."

Percy put his head in his hands. Tried to breathe. Tried to think.

Every decision he'd made since falling suddenly felt different. More desperate. More final.

He hadn't just been fighting to survive. He'd been fighting to avoid eternal damnation.

No wonder he'd become what he'd become. No wonder mercy felt impossible. No wonder he'd killed without hesitation.

Because hesitation meant death. And death here meant worse than death.

"Percy needs to breathe," Bob said, worried. "Percy is breathing too fast."

Damasen moved closer. Put a massive hand on Percy's shoulder. "I don't tell you this to break you, hero. I tell you so you understand the stakes. So you fight smarter. Harder. So you survive."

Percy looked up at him. "How? How do I survive this? How do I get to the Doors without dying?"

"Carefully. With help. With allies." Damasen gestured to Bob. "You have one ally already. You'll need more."

"There aren't exactly a lot of friendly faces down here."

"No. But there are tools. Resources." Damasen stood, moved to his shelves. "The Death Mist, for one. Wear death, and the dead won't see you. It will hide you from many monsters. Give you a chance."

"Death Mist," Percy repeated. He'd heard of it. Never used it.

"The goddess Akhlys controls it. She dwells near the border of Night's realm." Damasen pulled out a map. Crude, drawn on leather. "Here. If you can convince her to give you the mist, you'll have a better chance of reaching the Doors."

Percy looked at the map. The path marked out. The distance.

"And if I can't convince her?"

"Then you take it by force. Or you die trying." Damasen's expression was grim. "There is no easy path here, hero. Only hard choices and harder consequences."

Percy stood. His legs were shaky but held. "Then I go to Akhlys. Get the Death Mist. Make it to the Doors."

"And avoid dying," Bob added helpfully.

"Yeah," Percy said. His voice was steadier now. The fear was still there, coiled in his gut like a living thing. But he couldn't let it paralyze him. "Avoid dying."

Damasen nodded slowly. "You have spirit. That's good. You'll need it." He paused. "But know this, Percy Jackson. The path to Akhlys leads near Nyx's realm. The primordial of Night herself. If she notices you..."

He didn't finish. Didn't need to.

"I'll be careful," Percy said.

"Careful is good. Lucky is better." Damasen handed him the map. "Stay to the marked path. Avoid the deeper darkness. And whatever you do, don't look into the void. It looks back."

Percy took the map. Studied it. The path was long. Winding. Through territory that looked even more dangerous than where he'd already been.

"How long will it take?"

"For you? Days, maybe. If you're fast. If you're lucky. If you don't die." Damasen moved back to the fire. "Rest here tonight. Both of you. You'll need your strength."

Bob brightened. "Bob would like that! Bob can help with garden tomorrow?"

"If you'd like." Damasen almost smiled. "It's good to have company. Even for a short while."

Percy sat back down. Let the exhaustion catch up to him. For the first time since falling, he felt almost safe. Relatively speaking.

A sound outside. Distant but approaching. A roar that shook the swamp.

Damasen sighed. Stood. Picked up a massive spear that had been leaning against the wall.

"The drakon," he said. "Right on schedule."

"The what?" Percy started to stand.

"The Maeonian drakon. I'm cursed to fight it. Kill it. It reforms. We fight again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next." Damasen moved to the door. "Forever. This is my punishment for being gentle."

He walked out into the swamp.

Percy and Bob followed, watching from the hut's entrance.

The drakon emerged from the murky water. Massive. Serpentine. Poison dripping from its fangs. It hissed when it saw Damasen, recognizing its eternal opponent.

They fought.

It was beautiful in a horrible way. Damasen moved with grace despite his size. The drakon struck with lethal precision. They'd done this dance countless times. Knew each other's moves. Knew the outcome.

Damasen won. His spear through the drakon's skull. It dissolved, already beginning the process of reformation.

The giant walked back to the hut. Not even breathing hard. Just tired. So, so tired.

"Tomorrow it returns," he said. "And I'll kill it again. And again. Forever." He looked at Percy. "That is what Tartarus does. Takes and takes and never releases. Remember that, hero. When you fight Akhlys. When you face the darkness. Remember what's at stake."

Percy nodded. Couldn't speak.

He understood now. Really understood.

Tartarus didn't just want to kill him. It wanted to trap him. To break him. To make him scream forever.

Every fight wasn't just about survival. It was about avoiding eternal damnation.

The weight of that knowledge settled on his shoulders like a physical thing.

Bob noticed. Put a gentle hand on Percy's arm. "Percy will make it. Bob believes."

Percy hoped Bob was right.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

----

They stayed with Damasen for what passed as a night in Tartarus. Percy actually slept. Real sleep, deep and dreamless. Bob kept watch, humming his tuneless melody.

When Percy woke, he felt marginally better. The paste Damasen had used had worked wonders. His scars didn't ache. His muscles felt less torn.

But the fear remained. The knowledge of what awaited if he failed.

Damasen gave them supplies. Dried meat that tasted terrible but would sustain them. Water that wasn't from the rivers. The map.

"Follow this," he said, pointing to the path. "It will take you near Akhlys's territory. Be cautious. She feeds on misery. Your pain makes her stronger."

"Great," Percy muttered. "Just great."

"Bob will help protect Percy," Bob declared.

Damasen looked at the Titan. His expression was sad. "You're a good friend, Bob. Better than most deserve."

They left the swamp. The relative peace of Damasen's garden fell away quickly, replaced by the familiar hellscape.

Percy gripped Riptide and followed the map's path.

Toward Akhlys. Toward the Death Mist. Toward Nyx's realm.

Toward whatever came next.

The screaming in the distance seemed louder now. Percy couldn't stop hearing it. Couldn't stop imagining his own voice joining that chorus.

He walked faster.

Had to get to the Doors. Had to escape. Had to avoid dying here at all costs.

Bob walked beside him, a solid presence. But Percy knew it wouldn't last. Knew Bob might not make it to the other side.

Knew he might end up alone again.

"Percy is quiet," Bob observed.

"Just thinking."

"About dying?"

Percy glanced at him. "How did you know?"

"Percy has scared look. Same look since Damasen explained about souls." Bob was quiet for a moment. "Bob understands. Is very scary thought."

"Yeah."

"But Percy is strong. Percy will survive. Will escape. Will see Annabeth again."

Percy wanted to believe that. Needed to believe it.

"I hope you're right, Bob."

"Bob is always right about friends."

They kept walking. The path led them through increasingly hostile territory. The air grew thicker. Harder to breathe. The darkness deeper.

And in that darkness, Percy could feel something watching.

Something ancient. Something vast. Something that made even the monsters he'd fought feel insignificant.

Nyx's realm was close.

And they were walking right toward it.

---

The path led them deeper into darkness.

Not the red-tinted gloom Percy had grown accustomed to. This was different. Thicker. Like the air itself was made of shadows. The temperature dropped. Not cold, exactly, but an absence of warmth that went bone-deep.

"We're getting close," Percy said, checking Damasen's map.

Bob nodded. He'd stopped humming an hour ago. Even the Titan seemed subdued by the oppressive atmosphere.

The ground beneath their feet had changed too. Smoother. Almost glassy. Black stone that reflected nothing. Percy could see his footprints in the dust that covered it, but no reflection. Like the stone swallowed light instead of reflecting it.

They encountered fewer monsters now. The ones they did see kept their distance, watching from the shadows with fearful eyes. Even the creatures of Tartarus knew better than to get too close to Nyx's domain.

That should have been comforting. It wasn't.

"Bob doesn't like this place," the Titan said quietly.

"Me neither."

"Feels wrong. Like... like Night is watching."

Percy felt it too. That sensation of being observed. Not by monsters or enemies he could fight. By something vast. Ancient. Something that could snuff him out without effort if it noticed him.

He gripped Riptide tighter and kept walking.

The map showed Akhlys's territory ahead. A region marked with symbols Percy didn't recognize but understood instinctively meant danger. They'd have to pass through it to get anywhere near the Doors.

"Percy," Bob said. "Bob has question."

"Yeah?"

"If Percy gets Death Mist from Akhlys... how will Bob know Percy is there? Bob won't be able to see friend."

Percy hadn't thought about that. "I don't know. Maybe I can take it off around you?"

"Might not work that way. Death Mist is tricky." Bob looked worried. "Bob doesn't want to lose Percy."

"You won't. I'll figure it out." Percy tried to sound confident. "Maybe I'll keep talking so you know where I am."

"Bob would like that. Bob likes when Percy talks. Means Percy is still Percy."

They walked in silence for a while. The darkness pressed closer. Percy's eyes had adjusted as much as they could, but he still felt blind. Like he was walking through ink.

Something skittered in the shadows to their left. Bob's hand tightened on his broom, but whatever it was didn't attack. Just watched. Waited.

Everything here was waiting.

"Bob," Percy said. "Back at Damasen's place. When he talked about the souls trapped here. About screaming forever." He paused. "Do you hear them? The screaming?"

"Yes," Bob said quietly. "Bob has always heard them. Since Bob first came to Tartarus. Thought was just normal sounds of this place."

"How many do you think there are? Souls, I mean. Mortal ones."

"Damasen said dozen. Maybe more now. Hard to tell. All voices blend together after while." Bob looked sad. "Bob tries not to listen. Makes Bob feel helpless. Cannot help them. Cannot make screaming stop."

Percy listened to the distant chorus of agony. Tried to pick out individual voices. Couldn't. They all merged into one endless wail.

Twelve souls. Or more. Screaming for centuries. For millennia.

He could become one of them so easily. One wrong move. One mistake. One moment of bad luck.

"I'm not going to die here," Percy said. More to himself than Bob. "I'm not going to end up like them."

"Percy won't," Bob agreed firmly. "Percy is too strong. Too stubborn. Too Percy."

Percy wished he felt that confident.

They kept walking.

The air started to change. Percy noticed it gradually. A sharp, acrid smell. Like chemicals. Like poison.

He coughed. Once. Then again.

"Bob smells it too," the Titan said. "Getting stronger."

It was. With each step, the air got worse. Harder to breathe. Each breath burned slightly going down.

Percy pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth. Didn't help much.

"Akhlys is near," Bob said. "Goddess of poison. Misery. Air here is bad for mortals."

"How bad?"

"Very bad. Bob is Titan. Bob will be okay. But Percy..." Bob looked worried. "Percy should be careful. Not breathe too deep."

Percy tried to breathe shallow. It helped slightly. But he could feel the poison working on him anyway. Making his eyes water. Making his throat burn.

They pressed on.

The landscape changed again. The smooth black stone gave way to twisted rock formations that looked almost organic. Like bones. Like the skeleton of some massive creature long dead.

And between the rocks, pools of liquid. Not water. Something darker. Thicker. Steam rose from them, carrying more of that poisonous smell.

"Stay away from pools," Bob warned. "Very bad. Worse than Phlegethon."

Percy didn't need to be told twice. He could see things moving in the pools. Not monsters. Just... movement. Like the liquid itself was alive.

They navigated carefully through the bone-like formations. The poison in the air got worse. Percy's vision started to blur. His lungs felt like they were filling with acid.

He stumbled. Caught himself. Kept moving.

"Percy needs to stop," Bob said. "Poison is too strong for mortal."

"I'm fine," Percy gasped. Wasn't true. He could barely breathe. But they were so close. Had to keep going.

"Percy is not fine. Percy is turning gray."

Percy looked at his hands. Bob was right. His skin had taken on an ashen color. The poison was affecting him more than he'd realized.

"Just need... need to get to Akhlys," he managed. "Get the Death Mist. Then we can leave."

Bob stopped walking. His expression was pained.

"Bob cannot go further with Percy."

Percy's head snapped up. "What?"

"Poison is too strong. Even for Bob. Titan body is resistant but not immune." Bob gestured ahead. "Akhlys's domain is worse. Much worse. Bob will be weakened. Will not be able to help Percy. Will be liability."

"Then we'll go back. Find another way—"

"There is no other way," Bob said gently. "Percy knows this. Must get Death Mist. Must continue."

Percy stared at him. The reality sinking in.

He'd have to face Akhlys alone.

"Bob will wait here," the Titan continued. "Will help Percy reach Doors after. Will meet Percy on other side." He looked sad. "But this part... this part Percy must do alone."

Percy wanted to argue. Wanted to demand Bob come with him. Wanted to not be alone again.

But Bob was right. The Titan was already struggling. His silver eyes were watering from the poison. His breathing labored.

Going further would just get Bob killed. Or worse.

"Okay," Percy said. His voice was small. "Okay. You wait here. I'll... I'll get the Death Mist and come back."

"Percy will succeed," Bob said with certainty. "Percy is strong. Will beat goddess. Will survive."

"And if I don't?"

Bob's expression became fierce. "Then Bob will come anyway. Will find Percy. Will help. Friends help friends. Always."

Percy nodded. Couldn't speak around the lump in his throat.

Bob pulled him into a hug. Gentle despite his size. "Be careful, friend Percy. Be smart. Be strong. Come back."

"I will," Percy said into Bob's shirt. "I promise."

They separated. Bob stepped back, gripping his broom like a lifeline.

Percy turned to face the path ahead. The darkness was absolute now. The poison so thick he could barely see ten feet in front of him.

Somewhere in that darkness, Akhlys waited.

He took a step forward. Then another.

Behind him, Bob called out. "Bob believes in Percy!"

Percy kept walking. Into the poison. Into the darkness. Into whatever waited ahead.

Alone again.

-----
The poison got worse with every step.

Percy's lungs burned. His eyes streamed tears. His skin felt like it was blistering. Each breath was agony, but he had to keep breathing.

Had to keep moving.

The bone-like formations grew denser. Closer together. Creating a maze of twisted passages. Percy followed them blindly, guided only by instinct and the certainty that Akhlys was ahead.

He could feel her now. Not see her. Not hear her. But feel her presence like a weight on his chest. Like despair made tangible.

The passage opened into a clearing.

And there she was.

Akhlys.

She was beautiful in the most horrible way. Her face was perfect, flawless. But her eyes were empty pits. Void-black. Looking at them made Percy want to give up. To lie down and die.

Her dress was made of shadows and poison. It shifted and moved like it was alive. Steam rose from her skin, carrying that chemical reek that choked the air.

She smiled when he saw him. A smile that held no warmth. No humanity.

"Oh," she purred. Her voice was nails on a chalkboard. Glass grinding against glass. "A little hero. Lost and alone."

Percy uncapped Riptide. The blade felt heavy in his hand. His arms were shaking from the poison. From exhaustion. From fear.

But he raised it anyway.

Akhlys tilted her head, studying him. "You want the Death Mist. I can smell it on you. The desperation. The need."

"Yes," Percy said. No point lying.

"And what will you give me for it?"

Percy's grip tightened on Riptide. "What do you want?"

She circled him slowly. Percy tracked her movement, blade raised.

"I've been feeding on your misery since you fell," she said. "Such exquisite suffering. Loneliness. Fear. Guilt. Every kill that chips away at your soul. Every moment you become less human." She breathed deep, savoring it. "Delicious."

Percy said nothing. Just waited.

"I'll give you the Death Mist," Akhlys said finally. "Freely."

That made Percy pause. "Why?"

"Because I want you to succeed. Want you to reach the Doors. Want you to escape." Her smile widened. "So you can suffer more. Out there, in the world above. Carrying what you've become. What Tartarus made you." She laughed. "The misery will be exquisite. And I'll taste it, even from here."

She gestured to a corner of the clearing. A small vial sat on a rock, filled with swirling darkness.

"Take it. Wear death. Reach your precious Doors." Her eyes glittered. "And remember me when you can't sleep. When you see what you've become in your friends' eyes. When the girl you love looks at you with fear."

Percy wanted to argue. To tell her she was wrong. That he was still himself.

But he couldn't.

He walked to the vial. Picked it up. The Death Mist inside swirled like living shadows.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Akhlys laughed again. "Oh, don't thank me yet, little hero. You haven't paid the price."

Percy turned. "You said freely—"

The poison in the air condensed. Solidified. Wrapped around his throat like a noose.

Percy choked. Tried to breathe. Couldn't.

Akhlys's smile was gone now. Replaced by malice. Pure, undiluted malice.

"Did you really think I'd let you go?" Her voice was venom. "You're too perfect. Too broken. Too full of despair. I want to keep you. Want to feed on you forever."

She gestured and the poison tightened. Percy felt his windpipe closing. Felt his vision going dark.

"Your soul will scream so beautifully when you die here," she whispered. "I'll make sure of it. I'll drag it out. Make it hurt. Make you beg." She leaned closer. "And then, when you're trapped forever, screaming in the darkness... I'll visit. Feed on your eternal suffering. For all time."

Percy's hands went to his throat, trying to pull the poison away. It was solid as steel. Cutting into his skin.

He was dying.

Right here. Right now.

His soul would be trapped. Forever. Screaming.

No.

NO.

Something inside Percy snapped.

Not broke. Snapped. Like a wire pulled too tight.

All the fear. All the desperation. All the knowledge of what awaited him if he failed.

The rage that had been building since he fell.

It all came together.

Through the haze of oxygen deprivation, Percy felt it. The poison. All of it. In the air. Around his throat. In Akhlys herself.

He could feel every drop.

Just like he could feel water.

Poison was mostly water. Liquid. Fluid.

And Percy was the son of Poseidon.

He reached out. Not with his hands. With his will. With his power. With the desperate need to survive.

The poison responded.

The noose around his throat loosened. Not because Akhlys released it. Because Percy made it obey him instead of her.

Akhlys's eyes widened. "What—"

Percy ripped the poison away from his throat. Gasped in air. Fell to his knees.

"That's not possible," Akhlys hissed. "You can't control—"

Percy pulled.

All the poison in the clearing. In the air. In the pools. Every drop of it.

He pulled it toward him. Made it swirl around him like a storm.

Akhlys staggered back. "No. No, that's MINE. You can't—"

Percy stood. His vision was clear now. His breathing steady.

The poison obeyed him. All of it.

He looked at Akhlys. At the goddess who'd tried to kill him. Who'd wanted to trap his soul in eternal torment.

"You want to know what I can do?" His voice was cold. Empty. "Let me show you."

He turned the poison on her.

Akhlys screamed.

Her own element. Her own power. The poison she embodied. All of it attacking her at once.

Percy made it hurt.

He reached into her divine form. Found the poison that made up her essence. Her very being.

And he controlled it.

Akhlys was shrieking now. Trying to fight back. Trying to reclaim her power.

Percy didn't let her.

He made the poison tear at her from inside. Made it rip through her like acid. Made every molecule of her divine form turn against itself.

She fell to her knees. "Stop! Please! I yield! I—"

Percy didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

All the rage. All the fear. All the desperation. Every moment of suffering since he'd fallen. Every kill that had chipped away at his humanity. Every second of loneliness and terror and knowing what awaited if he failed.

He poured it all into the attack.

Akhlys was dissolving. Her form breaking apart. Her screams filling the clearing.

"Please," she gasped. "Please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Percy made it worse.

Made the poison tear her apart molecule by molecule. Made her feel every bit of agony she'd inflicted on others. Every bit of suffering she'd fed upon.

She was begging. Crying. Breaking.

Percy felt nothing.

No satisfaction. No guilt. No mercy.

Just the cold need to end the threat. To survive. To eliminate anything that stood between him and escape.

Akhlys's form came apart. Dissolved into poison and shadow and screaming.

And then she was gone.

Dead.

Not reforming. Not retreating. Dead.

Percy stood in the clearing, surrounded by poison that bent to his will, and stared at where she'd been.

He'd killed a goddess.

Not defeated. Not banished. Killed.

Used her own power against her. Torn her apart from the inside. Made her suffer.

And felt nothing doing it.

The poison settled. Fell like rain. Percy let it. It didn't hurt him anymore. It couldn't. It was his now.

He looked at his hands. They were steady. Not shaking.

He'd just killed a goddess and his hands were steady.

What did that make him?

Percy picked up the vial of Death Mist. Uncapped it. The darkness poured out, wrapping around him like a shroud.

He felt it settle over his skin. Cold. Final.

Wearing death.

Fitting.

He started walking. Not back toward Bob. Forward. Deeper into Tartarus. Following the path on Damasen's map.

The path to the Doors of Death.

Bob would help him. Percy knew that. The Titan would keep his word. Would meet him on the other side, or try to. Would do whatever needed to be done.

But Percy couldn't go back. Couldn't face Bob after what he'd just done. Couldn't let the Titan see what he'd become.

So he walked alone. Invisible under the Death Mist. Following the path deeper into the darkness.

The Death Mist clung to him like a second skin. Made him a ghost. A shadow. Something between living and dead.

Appropriate.

Because Percy wasn't sure which one he was anymore.

The landscape grew darker. Colder. The red-tinted sky faded to black. Pure, absolute black.

He was approaching Nyx's realm.

The primordial of Night herself.

Percy gripped Riptide and kept walking. The Death Mist hid him. Kept him invisible. Kept him safe.

Hopefully.

The screaming in the distance grew louder. More voices joining the eternal chorus. The souls trapped forever. The ones who'd failed where Percy was determined to succeed.

He wouldn't join them. Wouldn't fail. Wouldn't die.

He'd get to the Doors. Get out. Get back.

No matter what it cost.

No matter what he had to become.

The darkness pressed closer. Suffocating. All-consuming.

And somewhere in that darkness, Percy felt it. The presence he'd sensed before. Vast. Ancient. Aware.

Something was watching him.

Percy kept walking.

Toward the Doors. Toward escape. Toward whatever came next.

Alone in the dark.

Wearing death like a cloak.

And wondering if there was anything left inside worth saving. Or if Tartarus had finally taken everything.

---

The darkness was absolute.

Percy had thought he'd experienced darkness in Tartarus. The dim red glow, the shadows, the poisonous gloom of Akhlys's domain.

This was different.

This was the absence of light made tangible. The void between stars. The darkness that existed before creation.

Night itself.

Percy moved through it slowly, one hand extended in front of him, the other gripping Riptide. The Death Mist wrapped around him like a cocoon, hiding him from whatever might be watching.

He hoped.

The ground beneath his feet had changed. Smooth. Almost soft. Like walking on velvet. But cold. So cold that Percy's breath came out in clouds despite the lack of any actual temperature.

The screaming had stopped.

That should have been a relief. Instead, it made Percy more nervous. The souls that screamed in eternal torment were at least predictable. This silence was something else. Something waiting.

Percy checked Damasen's map. Or tried to. The darkness was so complete he couldn't see the leather in his hands. He had to navigate by feel. By instinct. By the certainty that he was moving in the right direction.

Toward Nyx's palace. Around it, if he was lucky. To the path that led to the Doors of Death.

He just had to stay quiet. Stay hidden. Stay alive.

A sound broke the silence.

Laughter.

Not cruel laughter. Not mocking. Just... amused. Like someone had heard a pleasant joke.

Female. Beautiful. Terrible.

Percy froze.

"Oh, this is delightful."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Surrounding him. Inside him. Part of the darkness itself.

"A little hero. Sneaking through my realm. Wearing death like a disguise." The laughter again. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

Percy's heart hammered in his chest. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Maybe if he stayed still, stayed silent...

"I can see you, Perseus Jackson."

Light bloomed in the darkness.

Not natural light. This was starlight. The cold light of the night sky made manifest. It didn't illuminate. It revealed.

And standing before him was Nyx.

She was beautiful in a way that made Percy's eyes hurt to look at. Her skin was the color of midnight. Her hair flowed like the aurora borealis, shifting colors that shouldn't exist. Her eyes were stars. Actual stars, burning in the void where her pupils should be.

Her dress was woven from the night sky itself. Galaxies swirled in its folds. Constellations marked its edges. The fabric of space and time bent around her like she was the center of gravity for reality itself.

She was primordial. Older than the gods. Older than the Titans. Older than almost everything.

And she was smiling at Percy.

"Hello, little demigod."

Percy's hand tightened on Riptide. The Death Mist had failed. She'd seen through it like it was nothing.

Because of course she had. She was Night. Darkness was her domain. Death was her child.

Did you really think you could hide from Night in the dark?

"I..." Percy's voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "I'm just passing through."

"Just passing through." Nyx's smile widened. "Through MY realm. Without asking permission. Wearing the mist of my daughter Akhlys." Her expression shifted. "Or what's left of her. I felt her die, you know. Felt her essence scatter."

Percy's blood went cold.

"You killed a goddess," Nyx continued, walking toward him. Her feet didn't touch the ground. She simply floated, graceful as a dream. "Tore her apart with her own power. Made her scream. Made her beg. Then killed her anyway."

Percy said nothing. What could he say?

"Impressive," Nyx said. "Brutal. Efficient. Very... Tartarus of you."

She circled him slowly. Percy turned with her, blade raised. Knowing it was useless but unable to lower it.

"You've changed so much since you fell," Nyx observed. "The boy who dropped into the pit was soft. Kind. Still believed in mercy. Still had hope." She stopped in front of him. "What are you now, I wonder?"

"I'm someone who's trying to survive," Percy said.

"Survival." Nyx tasted the word. "Such a mortal concept. But you've done well at it. Killed so many. Became so efficient. Lost so much of yourself." She leaned closer. "Tell me, Perseus. Do you even remember who you were?"

Percy's jaw clenched. "I'm still me."

"Are you?" Nyx's eyes glittered. "The Percy Jackson I've been watching would never have tortured Akhlys. Would never have felt nothing doing it. Would never have become the weapon Tartarus wanted."

"I did what I had to."

"Yes. You did." Nyx straightened. "And that's why you're interesting."

From the darkness beside her, another figure emerged.

Erebus.

Where Nyx was beautiful, Erebus was the absence of beauty. The void given form. Darkness so complete it hurt to look at. His face was a shadow with eyes like dead stars. His presence made Percy want to stop existing.

"Wife," Erebus's voice was the sound of silence. The absence of sound made audible. "Is this the one?"

"Yes," Nyx said. "The son of Poseidon. The hero. The survivor."

"He's very small," Erebus observed.

"But very determined." Nyx smiled. "Aren't you, Perseus? Determined to reach the Doors. To escape. To get back to your precious surface world."

Percy said nothing. Just gripped Riptide tighter.

"Put the sword away, child," Erebus said. "You can't fight us."

"I can try."

"Oh, this should be entertaining." Nyx gestured. "Please. Show us what you can do."

Percy attacked.

Riptide flashed through the air, aimed at Nyx's chest. The blade passed through her like she was smoke. He spun, slashed at Erebus. Same result.

They weren't even dodging. Just standing there, letting him swing at nothing.

Percy pulled water from... where? There was no water here. No rivers. No moisture in the air.

Nothing.

His powers didn't work. The ocean couldn't reach him here. This wasn't Tartarus proper anymore. This was something else. Somewhere else.

Nyx's realm. Where reality bent to her will.

"Done?" she asked pleasantly.

Percy attacked again. Desperate now. Swinging at them both. Trying to land a hit. Trying to do something. Anything.

Nyx caught Riptide mid-swing.

With one finger.

The blade stopped dead. Percy pulled, trying to free it. Might as well have been trying to move a mountain.

"Mortal weapons," Nyx said softly. "So quaint."

She flicked her finger.

Percy went flying. Hit something hard. The world spun. When his vision cleared, he was twenty feet away, Riptide still in his hand but his entire body aching.

He struggled to his feet.

Erebus was suddenly in front of him. Percy hadn't seen him move. He was just there.

"Brave," Erebus said. "But foolish."

Percy swung at him. The blade passed through shadow. Erebus's hand shot out, grabbed Percy by the throat, lifted him off the ground.

The touch was agony. Cold beyond cold. Absence beyond absence. Like every warm memory, every happy moment, was being sucked out through his skin.

Percy choked. Tried to breathe. Couldn't.

"So fragile," Erebus mused. "I could end you now. Snap your neck. Let your soul join the others screaming in the dark."

"Don't," Nyx said. "Not yet. I want to play a little."

Erebus dropped Percy. He hit the ground hard, gasping.

"Up," Nyx commanded.

Percy didn't move fast enough.

The ground disappeared beneath him.

He was falling. Screaming. Wind rushing past. Darkness above and below and everywhere. Falling forever. Falling to his death. Falling falling falling.

He stopped.

Standing exactly where he'd been. On solid ground. No wind. No movement.

Percy's legs buckled. He fell to his knees, heart hammering, breath coming in gasps.

"Perception is such a fragile thing," Erebus said from somewhere in the darkness. "Reality is whatever we say it is here."

Percy tried to stand. His legs were shaking too badly.

"Again," Nyx said.

Falling. Screaming. Minutes of terror. An eternity compressed into seconds.

Then standing. Unmoving. Like he'd never fallen at all.

Percy collapsed. Couldn't take it. Couldn't...

"Once more, I think," Nyx said.

"No," Percy gasped. "Please—"

Falling.

This time when he stopped, when he was back on solid ground, Percy stayed down. Curled on his side. Shaking. Broken.

"Aw, but we were having such fun," Nyx pouted.

Percy forced himself to his hands and knees. Pushed up. Stood on trembling legs.

Turned and ran.

Didn't matter which direction. Just away. Away from them. Away from their power. Away from...

He was back where he started.

Nyx and Erebus waiting. Smiling.

Percy ran again. Different direction. Sprinting as fast as his exhausted body could manage.

Ended up in the same place.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Every direction led back to them. Every path circled. The realm itself bent around them, keeping Percy trapped.

He finally stopped running. Stood there, gasping, defeated.

"Are you finished?" Nyx asked.

Percy looked at her. At Erebus. At the two primordial beings who could kill him without effort. Who could trap his soul forever. Who could do anything they wanted and he couldn't stop them.

He lowered Riptide.

Capped it.

Let it fall from his hand.

"Do it then," Percy said. His voice was hollow. Empty. "Kill me. Get it over with."

He was tired. So, so tired. Of fighting. Of surviving. Of being afraid. Of becoming something he didn't recognize.

If they were going to kill him, fine. At least the fear would stop.

Nyx and Erebus looked at each other. Some silent communication passed between them.

Nyx smiled.

"Kill you?" She laughed. "Oh no, Perseus. We have something far more interesting in mind."

Percy looked up at her. Couldn't even summon the energy to be surprised.

"We have a proposition," Erebus said. "A deal."

"I don't make deals with—"

"With primordials?" Nyx interrupted. "You don't have a choice." She gestured at the darkness around them. "You're going to die here. Today, tomorrow, soon. Your soul will scream in torment forever."

Percy's jaw clenched. The fear he'd thought he'd lost came roaring back.

"Unless," Erebus continued. "You accept our offer."

"What offer?" Percy's voice was barely a whisper.

Nyx smiled. Stars glittered in her eyes. "We'll discuss the details. But know this: accept, and you can leave Tartarus. Reach your precious Doors. Escape to the surface."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you die here," Erebus said simply. "Your soul trapped forever. Screaming with the others for all eternity."

The silence stretched. Percy's mind raced.

This was a trap. Had to be. Primordials didn't make deals out of kindness. There would be a price. A terrible price.

But the alternative...

The screaming in the distance. The souls trapped forever. Aware. Suffering. For eternity.

He thought about Annabeth. His mom. Camp. The sun. The ocean. Everything he'd lost.