"Threads in the Dark"
A vast black hole stretched before Percy, devouring every trace of light as if trying to consume life itself.
The boy stood motionless, his face frozen in utter confusion, a faint tremor of fear flickering in his eyes. He seemed to be inside a massive, silent cavern, swallowed by a darkness so thick that even the echo of his own breath refused to return.
The abyss pulsed faintly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own. Around him, gray mist-creatures drifted slowly, their distorted shapes barely visible within the shadows. They surrounded him, shifting and gesturing frantically, as if trying to warn him of something.
Percy, however, paid them no mind; his eyes were locked on the black void, drawn to it by a force he couldn't resist.
And it was calling him.
From the depths came a voice—dark, low, and resonant, so deep it seemed to vibrate inside his chest. It was chilling, almost tangible, and at the same time filled with a power that demanded to be heard.
Some of the specters, the spirits born from that gray mist, clutched at Percy's clothes in desperation, trying to pull him away from the edge.
But he, entranced, continued forward—step by step—until he stood right at the rim of the abyss.
Something was moving down there, something ancient that sought to rise from the bowels of the void. And then, suddenly, Percy felt it—a gaze, invisible yet suffocating, fixing upon him from the depths below.
A shiver raced down his spine.
The air thickened, heavy and alive, and then a wicked laugh rolled out from the darkness, echoing off the stone walls.
"Heh... the little hero," whispered the voice, its tone dripping with amusement.
The echo repeated endlessly, rumbling through the cavern like thunder.
"Too weak... too young... but perhaps you could still be of use to me," the voice said again, cold and deep, wrapping around Percy's mind like a serpent slithering through his thoughts.
"They've lied to you, boy," it continued, now softer, hypnotic. "Make a deal with me... I can give you what you want most."
At those words, an image began to form above the abyss.
Percy's eyes widened in shock.
It was Sally Jackson.
She was encased within a crystal of ice, sleeping peacefully at first—until her eyes suddenly opened. She looked straight at him, saying nothing, but the plea in her gaze was unmistakable. She was begging for help.
"Mom!" Percy tried to shout, but no sound came out. His throat was sealed by the darkness, though his mouth moved desperately. He screamed with all his strength, so much that he thought his voice would tear his throat apart.
"Muahahahaha," the voice laughed again, filled with cruel delight. The entire abyss trembled as an invisible force pushed Percy forward, dragging him slowly toward the edge.
"Help me escape, boy!" the voice roared. "Bring me the lightning bolt... steal it from those traitors!"
"Wake up."
The word slipped into his mind—different, foreign.
"Come now, boy, make the deal," urged the shadowed voice.
"Wake up... now," repeated the other voice, closer this time, real.
"Do it. Those cursed gods will pay!" the abyssal voice hissed, its tone turning frantic.
"I said wake up, brat!"
The impact came like thunder.
A sharp pain burst across Percy's head, forcing him upright as he clutched his skull with a groan.
"Ouch," he muttered, rubbing his forehead, feeling a lump already forming beneath his fingers. He blinked rapidly, scanning the area in confusion, searching for whoever had hit him.
He was lying on a makeshift bed of fabric and dried grass. Nearby, a small campfire crackled softly, warming the damp night air and drying the clothes they'd hung to the side.
They had taken what they needed from Medusa's house, which stood only a few meters away, but none of the three had wanted to spend the night inside. So they'd set up camp just beyond it, in a small clearing under the trees.
Annabeth slept peacefully a few feet away, while Grover—who was supposed to take the first watch—was fast asleep on a tree branch, hugging his reed pipes lovingly as a thin line of drool hung from his mouth.
Percy's reflexes kicked in. He unsheathed his sword in one swift motion; he could feel someone behind him—the likely culprit of the blow.
He swung backward sharply, but a hand caught the blade with effortless precision.
And then Percy saw him.
His master, Miraak, stood there, towering and silent, his expression so stern that even the fire seemed to dim under his gaze.
"Didn't I tell you not to make deals with whatever thing shows up in front of you?" he said flatly, his voice firm—a mix of irritation and restrained anger. Yet something in his eyes told Percy that the fury wasn't truly directed at him.
"What?" Percy asked, confused, though a flicker of relief crossed his face at the sight of his teacher. That relief vanished the instant he noticed Miraak's serious expression.
"I already told you how I ended up in Apocrypha," Miraak said darkly. "You'd better not even think about trying it, unless you want to end up surrounded by ancient books and rotting tentacles."
Percy kept rubbing his head, still aching.
"My two favorite things," he muttered sarcastically.
Another hit came, right on the same spot.
"Ouch! Master, you're the one who says I seem a little stupid. If you keep hitting me, don't you think that might become true?"
Miraak regarded him silently for a moment, then replied calmly,
"Mmm... you're right. Maybe that hit actually fixed your brain."
Percy sighed, feeling that those words hurt even more than the blow. Well... almost. The blow still hurt like hell.
"Take this," said Miraak, tossing him a small vial filled with a golden liquid that shimmered softly in the darkness.
"What's this?" asked Percy, examining the bottle curiously. As soon as he held it, he felt a faint energy coursing through his hand, as if the liquid itself were alive. On the label stuck to the side, he managed to read something that looked like "Soma"… or maybe it said "Toma." He wasn't sure.
"It's so you'll stop being so stupid. You can drink half," Miraak replied without further explanation.
"Is this some kind of brain booster? Master, you really shouldn't trust those crooks who sell fake tonics. You'll just end up with a stomachache. Trust me, I tried one once to get rid of my dyslexia," said Percy, eyeing the bottle with deep suspicion.
Miraak stared at him for a few seconds, then said calmly,
"Better drink it all."
The look on his master's face was enough to convince him. Percy understood that if he kept talking, he'd probably get hit again, so he just nodded and gulped the liquid down in one go.
The bottle was left completely empty, not a single drop remaining. Percy waited for a moment, trying to taste or feel something, but it was like drinking pure, transparent, golden water.
Other than that… he didn't feel anything special.
"I told you, master, you shouldn't trust—"
Percy didn't get to finish his sentence. A strange heat began to rise from his stomach, spreading rapidly through his entire body.
He opened his eyes wide, lifting his hands as they began to glow softly. Then he felt the light shifting, flowing upward, gathering in his head—until, suddenly, it was as if a veil had been torn away from his mind.
He felt it.
A clarity unlike anything he had ever experienced flooded through him. Every thought became sharp, every idea bright and perfectly aligned. His senses sharpened—his vision especially. The ash rising from the campfire drifted before him like tiny silver flakes, and even the insects crawling along the nearby trees seemed clear, vivid, almost luminous.
But that wasn't the strangest part.
When he turned his gaze toward Miraak, he noticed something he had never seen before. His master stood upright as always, posture perfect and commanding, yet there was something off. A minute detail, imperceptible to anyone else but him. Miraak's balance seemed to shift subtly from one leg to the other—a barely visible sway, as if he were… wobbling.
Percy blinked.
Was that even possible?
"Master... are you drunk?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.
Naturally, that was the first thing that came to his mind. After all, Percy knew someone who wobbled exactly like that—Gabe Ugliano. And besides, he had seen Miraak drink an absurd amount of alcohol without ever being affected. For him, wine or mead was the same as water.
Miraak watched him for a moment, then, for the first time, seemed slightly amused.
"Yes," he replied calmly. "It seems I drank something unusual. For a while, I'll have this curious effect that grows stronger over time. Although, to be honest, it's not unpleasant. I haven't felt like this in thousands of years, so I'll enjoy it for a bit before purging it from my body."
A faint smile curved his lips.
Percy looked at him, baffled, then just shrugged. If his master said it was fine, then it probably was... though that smile was definitely the most unsettling version of "fine" he had ever seen.
Still, something else caught his attention. When he glanced toward Annabeth, who slept a few feet away, he saw a faint golden thread rising from above her head—barely visible. He rubbed his eyes, thinking it was just exhaustion playing tricks on him. Then he looked at Grover and saw the same thing, another thread, thin and shimmering, stretching upward into the night. But when he blinked again, both vanished as if they had never been there.
"Good," Miraak said suddenly. "It seems your magicka has increased as well."
"Magicka? You mean mana, right? You said I couldn't use magic because I didn't have enough," Percy replied, recalling his training—and the time he'd tried to avoid sword practice by declaring he wanted to be a wizard. Miraak had shut him down immediately, with a lecture about discipline that lasted half an hour. "So, can I use magic now?" he asked, his tone bright with curiosity.
Miraak didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled out two old books, their covers made of hardened leather and marked with strange hues. Each bore a rune engraved in its center, faintly pulsing with a life of its own. He tossed them to Percy, who caught them awkwardly.
"Study these for now. They'll serve you in your… childish adventure."
"Childish? You do realize we were attacked by Furies from the Underworld and a cursed Medusa, right?" Percy protested indignantly.
"Yes," said Miraak calmly. "That's exactly why I said it."
He then extended one hand toward Percy without saying another word.
Percy blinked, confused, and—thinking his master wanted help standing up—offered him his hand.
Miraak gripped it firmly, meeting his gaze for a long, silent moment.
"Hmm... seems that potion wasn't entirely effective," he muttered in a thoughtful tone. "I'll have to find more."
He sighed lightly, then continued,
"Give me the black soul gems. I'll forge armor and enchant it for you."
"Soul gems?" Percy repeated, frowning as he tried to remember. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out three dark crystals with faint violet gleams. "You mean these?"
"Yes. Though that was only a test," Miraak said, taking them carefully. He studied them under the firelight, as if he could see something hidden within. "I wonder if these can connect to the Soul Recaller..." he murmured under his breath before tucking them away.
"Can I pick the design of my armor?" asked Percy eagerly, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes.
Miraak glanced back at him.
"No."
And with that, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the forest.
"Stingy master," Percy muttered, though a smile crept onto his face. Still, the idea of having armor crafted by Miraak was more than enough to make him feel thrilled.
He sighed, staring at the fire for a while before walking over to Annabeth to wake her for the next watch. He planned to get some more sleep—at least until his "realigned" brain stopped throbbing.