Poseidon stood silent, the ocean stilling behind him, waves caught between movement and fate. His sea-green eyes studied his son—no, the being before him. Percy was still his blood, still the boy who had once worn orange camp shirts and laughed in the waves.
And yet…
There was something unfathomable about him now. A presence that did not belong to this world.
A Witch.
Poseidon clenched his trident. "The gods will not accept this."
Percy smiled—mocking, amused, indulgent—as if this were all a predictable play. "Oh, Father," he sighed, tilting his head. "You say that as if I require their acceptance."
The sky rippled, the air twisting with golden energy as tiny butterflies of light flitted through the dark. They were not real—not in the way mortals understood—but fragments of something greater, something that bent reality around Percy like he were the center of a grand narrative.
Poseidon felt it, the pull of certainty, of a truth Percy had woven into the world.
The Witch of the Endless Tide was not asking for permission.
He had already rewritten the game.
Olympus Burns With Uncertainty
The moment Poseidon returned to Olympus, a storm erupted.
"He denies us?!" Zeus's voice shook the throne room, lightning crashing through the heavens. "That insolent child thinks he can defy Olympus?!"
Athena sat, her fingers steepled, expression unreadable. "He is not a child anymore."
"He was never a god," Hera snapped, her regal posture sharp and unyielding. "Nor a Titan, nor a Primordial. His existence is an aberration."
"He's a Witch now," Hecate corrected, stepping forward, her black robes flowing like a liquid shadow. "And that makes him something you cannot control, dear Queen of Olympus."
Zeus slammed his fist against the arm of his throne, but for once, his fury held no direction—because even he, the King of the Gods, did not understand what Percy had become.
He turned to Poseidon. "You stood before him. Tell me, does he still fear us?"
Poseidon hesitated. The words felt unnatural to say, but they were the truth.
"No."
A heavy silence settled over the gods.
"Then we must make him fear us," Ares growled, his red eyes flashing with hunger. "A demigod, a mortal—he is beneath us. Let me put him back in his place."
Hecate laughed, soft and mocking. "Oh, how precious. Do you really think you can best a Witch in their own game?"
She gestured, and suddenly, the center of the throne room shifted. A vision—**a fragment of a moment yet to come—**flickered into existence, playing out for the gods to see.
Ares lunged at Percy with his war spear, divine power crackling—
Only for Percy to raise his cane and tap the air, as if lightly dismissing a nuisance.
Ares' attack froze, his own power betraying him as his spear disintegrated into golden butterflies.
Percy sighed, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment.
"Ah, poor War God. Still charging into battles without thinking. Shall we try that again?"
Ares' own body dissolved, shattered into pieces of golden script, his existence rewritten like a story he no longer had control over.
The vision ended.
The gods sat stiff, unsettled by the implication.
"That," Hecate murmured, smiling slyly, "is the kind of battlefield you would be stepping into. A gameboard of his design. And in such a place…" She let the words hang in the air, watching them squirm.
"…even a god can die."
Chapter 7: The Witch's Throne
Back at Camp Half-Blood, Percy stood at the center of it all, watching as demigods cautiously gathered near the amphitheater.
News had spread.
Percy Jackson had returned—changed, transformed, ascended.
He smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips, golden butterflies scattering into the sky as he raised his cane. "My dear friends," he called, his voice smooth, commanding, dripping with confidence that bordered on arrogance.
"Camp Half-Blood has long existed under the watchful eyes of the Olympians, shackled by their rules, their expectations."
He twirled his cane, tapping it once against the earth.
The campfire roared, shifting from orange to gold, frozen mid-flicker, existing in a state between flame and illusion.
"I ask you this…" Percy continued, tilting his head. "What if you no longer had to play by their rules?"
The demigods whispered, unease and intrigue mingling in their expressions.
"You want us to go against the gods?" someone asked, incredulous.
Percy laughed, lighthearted and mocking, as if the very idea was a joke. "Oh, please. The gods are no longer the only ones who decide fate." His golden eyes gleamed.
"We now have a new option."
He stepped forward, and with a graceful flick of his wrist, a golden throne materialized behind him. Elegant, draped in velvet as deep as the midnight sea, embroidered with symbols of the endless tide.
He took his seat.
"I offer you a choice," he said, reclining in his throne, one leg crossed over the other. "Stay as you are—pawns, waiting for Olympus to move you like chess pieces."
His smile sharpened.
"Or stand beside me, and become players in a far greater game."
A hush fell over the camp.
Some looked to Chiron, expecting him to intervene—but the centaur, wise as he was, merely watched.
Because he knew.
Percy Jackson was no longer a demigod.
He was a Witch.
And no one—not even Olympus—could control a Witch's game.
To Be continued ******************************