Part I: The Infection
We didn't go to a hospital. You can't explain to a triage nurse why a twelve-year-old has crushed ribs, a shattered arm, and burns that smell like sulfur.
Instead, we dragged ourselves to the nearest airport.
In the bathroom of the terminal, I tried to clean up. I looked in the mirror and almost punched it.
I looked like a corpse that had been dragged behind a car. My face was a map of bruises. But the real problem was my chest and left arm.
The cuts from the skeleton legionnaire and the road rash from the fight with Ares weren't healing. Usually, a demigod heals in hours with Nectar.
But where the Styx water had touched my open wounds, the skin hadn't knitted back together. It had turned black.
Not bruised black. Void black.
I poured Nectar on my arm.
HISSS.
Steam rose from the wound. It felt like pouring alcohol on a raw nerve. I bit down on a towel to stop from screaming.
The Nectar—the food of the gods—was fighting the Styx water. Life against Death.
The blackness didn't fade. It just settled, looking like a spiderweb of dark veins running up my shoulder toward my neck. It was cold. Ice cold. It pulsed with a dull, throbbing ache that made my teeth chatter.
"Great," I whispered, shivering. "I'm necrotic."
I pulled my shredded shirt back on. I hid the black veins. I didn't want the others to know that part of me was technically dead.
Part II: The Turbulence
The flight to New York was pure psychological torture.
Percy slept. Poseidon had claimed him; the sea was his safe space, but he seemed fine in the air because he was returning the Bolt.
I sat by the window, staring at the clouds. Every time the plane bumped, I gripped the armrest so hard the plastic cracked.
I was the son of the Lord of the Sky, and I was terrified.
He could blast me right now, I thought. One stray bolt. 'Oops, mechanical failure.'
I felt the presence of my father outside the window. It wasn't comforting. It felt like walking on eggshells in a minefield. The static in my blood—usually my power source—felt agitated, buzzing under my skin, reacting to the altitude.
"You okay?" Annabeth asked from the middle seat. She was looking at my arm, which I was cradling.
"Just turbulence," I lied. "I prefer the ground. Or the subway. Anywhere but here."
Part III: The 600th Floor
We landed at JFK. We took a taxi to Manhattan. The sun was rising on the Summer Solstice.
The Empire State Building stood tall and gray in the morning light.
We walked into the lobby. I marched up to the security guard.
"600th Floor," I said. "Delivery for the landlord."
The guard looked at us—ragged, bloody, and carrying a backpack that hummed with electricity. He didn't argue. He gave us a key card.
The elevator ride was silent. The music was terrible—some instrumental version of "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head."
Mockery, I thought.
The doors opened.
I had expected a cloud city. I expected harps and guys in togas.
Olympus was a city. A real, breathing city suspended on a mountain peak that shouldn't exist.
There were mansions of gold and marble, sure. But there were also parks, marketplaces filled with satyrs and minor gods selling ambrosia on sticks, and muses playing lyres that sounded like electric guitars. It was a mashup of Ancient Greece and Modern New York.
It was beautiful. And it made me feel incredibly small.
We walked up the winding path to the main palace. The Hall of the Gods.
I looked at my reflection in the polished gold columns. I didn't look like a hero. I looked like a street rat who had broken into a palace.
Part IV: The Throne Room
The doors to the throne room were fifty feet high. I pushed them open with my good arm (my right).
The room was the size of Madison Square Garden. The ceiling was a dome of constellations that moved in real-time.
Twelve thrones were arranged in an inverted U.
Only two gods were there.
Poseidon sat on the left. He wore fisherman shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He looked like a beach bum who could drown a continent.
Zeus sat in the center.
He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit. His beard was trimmed. His eyes were storm clouds. He was radiating so much power that the air tasted like pennies.
We walked to the center of the room. The sound of our footsteps echoed loudly.
Percy stepped forward. He knelt.
"Father," Percy said. He unslung the backpack. He pulled out the Master Bolt.
He laid it at Zeus's feet.
"The Master Bolt," Percy said. "Returned."
Zeus looked at the Bolt. He didn't smile. He levitated it into his hand. He inspected it, the metal crackling as it touched his skin.
"It is genuine," Zeus rumbled. His voice shook the floor. "You have done... well."
He looked at Percy. "You have saved me a war, nephew. I will let you live."
"Thank you, Lord Zeus," Percy said, keeping his head down.
Then, Zeus turned his gaze to me.
Part V: The Assessment
The temperature dropped.
"Valerius," Zeus said.
I didn't kneel. My Styx-infected leg was too stiff, and my fatal flaw—that damn pride—wouldn't let me. I stood there, swaying slightly, holding my broken arm.
"Father," I said.
Zeus looked me up and down. He saw the bruises. He saw the way I favored my left side. He saw the dirt and the dried blood.
He didn't look concerned. He looked like a mechanic inspecting a car that had been in a demolition derby.
"You look broken," Zeus noted.
"I fought an army," I said, my voice raspy. "And a God. I kept them busy so Percy could get the Bolt here."
Zeus leaned forward. His electric blue eyes bored into mine.
"You fought Ares?"
"We both did," I said. "I loosened the jar. Percy popped the lid."
Zeus's eyes narrowed. He looked at my left arm—the one with the black veins hidden under the sleeve.
"Step forward," Zeus commanded.
I stepped closer.
"Show me the arm."
He knew. Of course he knew. He was the King.
I rolled up my shredded sleeve.
The black veins were pulsing against my pale skin. It looked like ink injected directly into the bloodstream. The skin around it was gray and dead.
Poseidon winced. "Styx water," the Sea God murmured. "Nasty business. He fell in?"
"He jumped," Zeus corrected, not looking away from the scar.
Zeus reached out. He touched the black mark with one giant finger.
A jolt of agony shot through me. It felt like being electrocuted and frozen at the same time. I gritted my teeth, refusing to cry out.
Zeus pulled his hand back. He looked... intrigued.
"The River hated you," Zeus mused. "But it did not kill you. It marked you."
He sat back on his throne.
"A weaker boy would have burned to ash," Zeus stated. "You absorbed it. Now you carry the cold of the Underworld in your veins."
He looked me in the eye. I waited for a 'Good job, son' or 'I'm proud of you'.
"You survived," Zeus said flatly. "Adequate."
That was it. Adequate.
I felt a crack in my chest that hurt more than the broken ribs. I had fought Chimeras, Furies, Medusa, and the God of War. I had jumped off the Arch. I had nearly died a dozen times.
And I was adequate.
"Thank you, Father," I said, my voice dead.
"Do not mistake this for affection," Zeus warned, his voice booming again. "You are a weapon, Valerius. A weapon that chips is a weapon that needs to be reforged. Go back to camp. Heal. If you can."
He waved his hand. Dismissed.
Part VI: The Sea God's Contrast
As we turned to leave, Poseidon spoke.
"Percy."
Percy turned back.
Poseidon didn't look at him like a weapon. He looked at him with sadness and pride.
"You did well, my son," Poseidon said gently. "I am sorry you were born into this burden. But I am proud of you."
Percy smiled. A real, genuine smile.
I looked away. The jealousy burned in my gut, hot and toxic. It mixed with the Styx water in my veins.
Must be nice, I thought bitterly. To be a person, not a tool.
Part VII: The Descent
We took the elevator back down.
Annabeth and Grover were celebrating. "We did it! We stopped the war!"
Percy looked happy. "My dad... he said he was proud."
I stood in the corner of the elevator, leaning my forehead against the cool metal wall. My arm throbbed. The black veins felt like they were tightening, constricting my muscle.
"Val?" Percy asked. "What did Zeus say to you?"
I looked at them. I forced a grin. It felt like a mask.
"He said I was adequate," I said. "High praise from the Big Guy."
"That's..." Annabeth hesitated. "That's good, right?"
"It's great," I lied.
The elevator dinged. We walked out onto the streets of New York.
The quest was over. The world was saved.
But as I walked into the crowd, clutching my dead arm, I realized something.
Valerius the corporate drone died in an office, unappreciated and overworked. Valerius the demigod was heading down the exact same path.
Fine, I thought, staring up at the stormy sky. If you want a weapon, Father, I'll be the sharpest one you've ever held. But be careful. Sharp things cut the hand that wields them.