Prologue: The Sea Witch's Return
The skies above Camp Half-Blood twisted in unnatural colors. The soft orange of the sunset bled into a deep, haunting gold, mingling with the blues and purples of the night sky. The sea near Long Island Sound churned without cause, the tides rising and falling in patterns no mortal could understand.
The campfire flickered erratically, reacting to a presence that had been absent for months. The demigods, once at ease, tensed at the strange energy creeping over the camp like an unseen tide.
Then, from the crest of Half-Blood Hill, he appeared.
Percy Jackson—or at least, what remained of him.
Gone was the carefree son of Poseidon in his orange camp T-shirt and jeans. In his place stood something otherworldly, theatrical, untouchable.
He wore an elegant witch's coat, black and deep ocean-blue, embroidered with golden accents shaped like crashing waves. A cravat, delicate and pristine, rested against his throat, giving him the air of an aristocrat from another time. A long, deep-blue cape draped over his shoulders, flowing unnaturally even without wind, as if moved by unseen currents. His hair—once seaweed-black—now had an unnatural sheen, as if woven from liquid gold and stardust. His eyes, once vibrant green, now gleamed like polished gemstones, shifting between gold and blue as if reflecting a vast and endless ocean.
In one hand, he idly twirled a golden cane topped with an intricate design of swirling ocean waves, like a witch's staff, though the aura it emitted was far beyond anything mortal.
Chapter 1: A Witch's Arrival
Chiron was the first to step forward, hooves clopping nervously against the ground. "Percy…?" He studied him as if he were looking at a stranger. "You've returned."
Percy tilted his head, a small mirthful, almost teasing smile curling his lips. "Ah, Chiron, old friend, how long has it been? A summer? A century? Time flows so differently when one ascends beyond the constraints of mortal fate."
The way he spoke—his tone smooth, confident, theatrical—sent a chill through the campers.
Annabeth stepped forward, her stormy-gray eyes narrowing. "Percy, what happened to you?" Her voice was sharp, demanding, but there was hesitation beneath it.
Percy's smile widened, eyes flashing gold for a brief moment. "Oh, Annabeth," he cooed, stepping forward, his movements unnaturally graceful, effortless, like he floated instead of walked. "Still so inquisitive. You always loved answers, didn't you?"
He flicked his cane, and suddenly, golden butterflies erupted from nowhere, fluttering around him like an ethereal spectacle. They weren't real butterflies—not in the mortal sense—but manifestations of something beyond reality.
The demigods tensed, hands drifting toward their weapons.
Percy let out a soft laugh—light, airy, but undeniably powerful. "My, my, such hostility! Is that any way to greet an old friend? Perhaps I should reintroduce myself."
He tapped his cane against the ground, and reality itself seemed to shudder.
"I am Percy Jackson, Witch of the Endless Tide. A being who transcends fate, truth, and the limits of mortality." His voice carried an undeniable weight, as if the very world had no choice but to acknowledge his existence.
The sky darkened, as if responding to his presence. The ocean roared in the distance, waves crashing with unnatural force.
Chiron staggered slightly, as if feeling the weight of something beyond his understanding.
Annabeth clenched her fists. "You're talking like a god. That's not you."
Percy's smile didn't falter. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, and suddenly, the entire atmosphere of Camp Half-Blood changed.
The wind stopped.
The fire at the campfire circle froze mid-flame, as if caught between moments of time.
The very concept of movement halted, leaving only Percy untouched, standing in the center of it all like a being untethered from reality.
"You misunderstand, dear Annabeth." His voice was gentle, but laced with something unknowable. "I am not a god. Gods are bound by their domains, shackled to their roles in the grand play of existence."
He raised his cane, twirling it playfully before pointing it at her.
"I, however, have become the author of my own tale."
With a snap of his fingers, the world resumed—but for a single instant, it was as if Percy had demonstrated absolute control over reality itself.
Chapter 2: The Truth of a Witch
"Percy, what happened to you?" Grover whispered, his goat legs trembling.
Percy's eyes softened, and for the first time, the theatrical, enigmatic aura around him faltered—if only slightly. "I took a vacation," he said simply. "A rather… eventful one."
He turned his head, glancing toward the sky with a wistful smile.
"I met some fascinating people," he continued. "Beatrice, the Endless Witch. Battler, the one who denies magic. Bernkastel, the Witch of Miracles. Lambda, the Witch of Certainty…"
His golden eyes glowed faintly, as if remembering something beyond mortal comprehension. "And I learned… that our world is just one gameboard among many."
Annabeth's fists clenched. "Are you saying… our lives are just a game to you now?"
Percy laughed, the sound lighthearted yet strangely mocking. "Oh, my dear, dear Annabeth, you wound me!" He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. "Of course not. I cherish this gameboard more than any other. It's just…"
His expression darkened slightly, and for a brief moment, a shadow of something vast, cosmic, terrifying flickered behind his eyes.
"I now see the strings that pull us. The fate that binds us. And I—" His cane slammed against the ground, sending a small shockwave rippling outward. "—am no longer a piece to be moved by gods or Titans or prophecies."
His voice rang with absolute certainty.
"I am the Witch of the Endless Tide. The narrative bends to my will."
A silence followed.
A silence so deep that even the gods themselves, watching from Olympus, felt it.
To Be Continued…