The thing about Atlantis—and Percy was forming opinions about it with the sort of giddy horror usually reserved for watching someone else's wedding planning spiral into chaos—was that it looked like the ancient Greeks had discovered cocaine, unlimited funding, and a comprehensive absence of the word "no."
"Is it always this—" Percy gestured vaguely at a spire that appeared to be having an identity crisis between "functional building" and "abstract sculpture about hubris, but make it architecture."
"Aggressively magnificent?" Mera supplied, her red hair drifting around her face like she was modeling for an underwater Pre-Raphaelite painting. She had the kind of smile that suggested she'd watched this exact reaction approximately three hundred times and never got tired of it. "Oh yes. Constantly. Wait until you see the palace. It makes this look like a particularly ambitious garden shed."
"I'm not sure my psyche can handle more ornamental excess. My psyche is already filing complaints."
"Your psyche survived Tartarus for a century. It can handle some enthusiastic civic planning." She swam ahead with that effortless grace people develop when they've spent their entire lives being gravity's favorite child. "Besides, you're wearing armor made of crystallized nightmare and existential dread. You don't get to judge anyone's aesthetic choices."
"That's fair," Percy admitted, following her through what he assumed was the main entrance—a massive archway decorated with enough maritime symbolism to make Poseidon himself say 'okay, we get it, you like fish, can we talk about literally anything else now?'
The guards' hands went to their weapons before Percy had even fully materialized from the murk. Professional paranoia. He recognized it. Respected it, even. Had developed a pretty comprehensive relationship with it himself over the past century.
"Mera of Xebel," one guard called out—older than the others, with scars that told stories and eyes that suggested he'd heard all the stories already and wasn't impressed by any of them. "You return with unauthorized company. Company that's making the water taste like bad decisions."
"The water always tastes like bad decisions, Captain Murk. That's what happens when you build a city at the bottom of the ocean." Mera drifted closer with the sort of deliberate casualness that meant she was absolutely taking this seriously. "I need to see Queen Atlanna. Immediately. It's urgent."
"Everything's urgent with you Xebel types. Last week you showed up saying there was an urgent situation with the border patrols. It was a confused whale." But Murk's eyes had found the crystal in Percy's chest, pulsing with that sickly not-quite-light that suggested the laws of physics were more like gentle suggestions. "What in the name of the Seven Seas is *that*?"
"That," Mera said, her voice dropping into serious-business territory, "is why 'urgent' isn't hyperbole this time. That's why 'urgent' is actually an understatement and I couldn't think of a stronger word."
"That's a crystal."
"That's a crystal full of water from the waters of the five rivers of Tartarus, currently keeping him alive through means I don't understand and probably violate several natural laws."
"Ah." Captain Murk did some very visible mental mathematics. Percy watched him calculate the relative risks of: stopping them, not stopping them, making this his problem, making this someone else's problem, retiring early. "Don't move. Don't touch anything. Don't even *think* loudly."
He disappeared into the palace faster than a man in full armor should be able to move. Practically teleported.
"He likes you," Mera observed.
"He wants me documented and catalogued so they can identify my body later and possibly build a memorial to everyone who died trying to stop me."
"Like I said. He likes you. That's basically Atlantean friendship. Very practical people, the Atlanteans."
"I've noticed."
"Just wait until you meet the court. They're like Murk but with more jewelry and worse social skills."
More guards arrived—a full escort this time, arranged in that special formation that pretends to be ceremonial but is absolutely tactical. Led by a woman who looked like she'd personally killed at least three things today and was hoping for a fourth before lunch.
"Commander Selena," Mera said pleasantly. "Looking murderous as always. Is that a new scar? It's very striking."
"Mera." Selena's expression suggested she'd attended a seminar on 'Professional Scowling' and graduated top of her class with honors. "The Queen will see you. Both of you. Try not to bleed on anything expensive or historically significant."
"I'm not planning to bleed at all," Percy said.
"Plans change. Especially around people who survive Tartarus and show up wearing architecture from nightmares." Selena gestured with her trident. "Move. Walk in a straight line. No wandering. No touching. No existing loudly."
"You have a lot of rules about existing."
"You look like the kind of person who needs rules about existing."
"That's... actually very fair."
They moved.
And the palace—
"Oh, *come on*," Percy breathed.
Because the throne room wasn't a room. It was a *statement*. It was an essay about power and beauty written in marble and crystal and hubris. It was what happened when someone asked 'how much is too much?' and the architect responded 'I literally don't understand the question, please explain using smaller words.'
Vaulted ceilings stretched up into darkness that shouldn't exist underwater. Light filtered through crystal skylights in colors that Percy was fairly certain didn't appear in nature, or at least not in nature that obeyed standard rules about wavelengths, optics, and sanity. Columns thick enough to hide armies supported archways carved with scenes so detailed Percy could practically hear the sculptor's therapy sessions.
And at the far end, on a throne that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought 'subtle' was a type of fish and 'restraint' was a myth, sat Queen Atlanna.
Percy stopped swimming.
Not because of the throne, or the light, or the general architectural assault on good taste.
But because Queen Atlanna looked exactly like what would happen if someone took his mother's expression—that particular combination of strength and kindness and steel wrapped in warmth that Sally Jackson had wielded like other people wielded swords—and transplanted it onto a face carved from entirely different marble.
"Percy?" Mera's voice, quiet. Concerned.
"She looks—" He swallowed hard. "Nothing. It's nothing. I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an *excellent* liar. I'm just choosing not to lie well right now as a sign of trust."
But Mera's hand found his arm anyway, squeezed once. *I see you seeing that*, the gesture said. *And I'm not going anywhere*.
Atlanna watched their approach with eyes like chips of green ice slowly melting in spring sunlight. She sat with the sort of perfect posture that suggested decades of someone standing behind her with a very pointed stick and detailed opinions about spinal alignment, but there was something in her face—curiosity, maybe, or concern, or that particular alertness mothers develop when they sense danger near their children—that made her seem less like a distant monarch and more like someone's fierce, terrifying, beloved mom.
The kind of mom who'd bake you cookies and then destroy your enemies with extreme prejudice.
They stopped at what Percy hoped was the appropriate distance. Mera bowed—proper and formal, the kind of bow that had been rehearsed and perfected over years.
Percy managed something between a nod and a bow that probably communicated 'I'm trying very hard but I've forgotten how civilization works and also I might be having a mild panic attack.'
"Mera of Xebel." Atlanna's voice was clear and musical and absolutely would not tolerate any nonsense, thank you very much. "You arrive unannounced with highly unusual company. I'm intrigued. Also concerned. Mostly intrigued."
"Your Majesty." Mera straightened. "I'd apologize for the breach in protocol but honestly, proper channels seemed inefficient given the circumstances. Also possibly catastrophic."
"And the circumstances are?"
"Complicated. Time-sensitive. Potentially apocalyptic in that special way where everyone asks 'why didn't you tell someone sooner?' and you have to explain that you literally did tell someone the moment you could."
"Ah. *Those* circumstances." Atlanna's gaze shifted to Percy, and he felt the weight of her attention like warm water pressing against his chest. Not threatening. Just *there*. Present. Paying attention. "And you are?"
Percy opened his mouth to introduce himself—
"A son of Poseidon," a new voice interrupted, cold and sharp as a knife made from disappointment and icicles and possibly spite. "Obviously. The ocean's been having very loud feelings about it since he crawled out of whatever dimensional hole he came from."
Percy turned to find the voice's owner: young-ish, aristocratic in that way that suggested either genuine nobility or really committed fraud, with a face that looked like it had been carved from marble by a sculptor who specialized in 'contemptuous sneer' and 'vaguely homicidal elegance.' His armor was gold and blue and absolutely overcompensating for something. Possibly several things.
"Prince Orm," Mera said, her voice achieving that special tone of polite loathing usually reserved for discussing taxes or dental work. "What a completely expected and not at all welcome surprise."
"Mera." Orm's attention remained fixed on Percy like a biologist examining a particularly offensive specimen under a microscope. "A son of Poseidon. Here. In Atlantis. Without invitation, announcement, or even basic courtesy." He turned to Atlanna, his expression shifting into something that might have been genuine concern if it wasn't wrapped in so many layers of superiority. "Mother, surely you see the obvious problems with this situation. The security implications alone—"
"Are extensive, yes, I'm aware." Atlanna's tone was patient but firm. The tone of a mother who'd had this conversation before. "Orm, darling, perhaps let's determine what the situation *is* before we start cataloguing all the ways it could go wrong."
"The situation is that we have an unknown demigod dripping with underworld magic standing in our throne room."
"Yes, I can see that. I'm sitting right here. My vision is excellent." Atlanna gestured gracefully. "Which is why I'm going to ask him to explain before you begin listing security protocols."
*Mother*.
Oh.
*Fantastic*.
Percy had walked into a family dynamic. He hated family dynamics. Especially other people's family dynamics. Especially other people's royal family dynamics that he was now apparently part of.
"Percy Jackson," Percy said, before anyone could wind up further. "And I didn't plan to crash your dimension. It just sort of happened. Like puberty, but with more interdimensional trauma and fewer helpful pamphlets."
"'Happened.'" Orm repeated the word like it had personally insulted his family, killed his dog, and then sent a mocking postcard. "Divine presences don't simply 'happen.' They're sent. Summoned. They arrive with *purpose* and *planning*."
"My purpose was 'stop being in Tartarus.' My planning was 'kill things until there's an exit.' Everything after that has been me making it up as I go and hoping I don't accidentally destroy something important."
"Tartarus." Something flickered across Orm's face—not quite fear, but definitely recalculation. "You're claiming you escaped Tartarus."
"Claiming implies uncertainty. I *definitely* escaped. Have the dramatic armor and crippling emotional trauma to prove it."
"How?"
"Killed things until there was a path between me and the exit. Then I took that path. It's not complicated strategy. Just extremely unpleasant and possibly immortal soul-damaging."
Silence fell over the throne room like a wet blanket made of discomfort. The kind of silence that happens when everyone is simultaneously thinking several variations of '*what*' and '*oh no*' and '*should I be standing further away*' and '*how fast can I swim*.'
"For how long?" Atlanna asked quietly.
"A century. Give or take a few years. Time's weird there. Very fluid. Not in a good way."
More silence. Somehow heavier.
"You're joking," Orm said flatly.
"I'm really not. I don't joke about Tartarus. I don't joke about most things anymore, actually. Tartarus kind of killed my sense of humor and left me with this." Percy gestured at himself. "Aggressive sarcasm and coping mechanisms."
"A century." Atlanna stood—a fluid motion that somehow made her taller, more present, more *there*—and descended from the throne. She moved like someone who'd been trained in both dance and warfare and had decided to combine them into something graceful and terrifying. "You survived Tartarus for a century."
"Survived is a strong word. 'Didn't die' is more accurate. 'Continued existing despite everything' is probably most accurate."
She stopped just outside the reach of his shadows, which were coiling around his feet like anxious dogs who'd found a person they liked but weren't sure if they were allowed to approach.
"Percy Jackson," Atlanna said, her voice gentle but firm. "Look at me."
Percy did.
Up close, the resemblance to his mother was even stronger. Not physical—Atlanna was blonde where Sally was dark, angular where Sally was soft, regal where Sally was warm—but in the *way* she looked. Like she could see past the armor and the trauma and the carefully constructed walls of sarcasm, straight down to the scared kid who'd been trying to survive for so long he'd forgotten what else to do.
Like his mother used to look at him before that final quest.
Before everything went so spectacularly, irreversibly, catastrophically wrong.
"You're telling the truth," Atlanna said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"You've been through something terrible."
"That's an understatement on par with calling the Titanic 'a minor boating incident' or the Bronze Age Collapse 'a bit of a rough patch.'"
"And you're trying very hard not to let anyone see how badly it damaged you."
Percy's throat went tight. The shadows around his feet stilled. "I'm—yeah. Working on it. Not very successfully, but working on it."
Atlanna's expression softened—just enough, just barely, like ice beginning to thaw. "You're safe here. For now. We'll sort out the details later. But Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon—you're not our enemy. Not unless you choose to be."
"Mother," Orm said, his voice sharp. "You can't possibly—"
"I can possibly quite a lot of things, Orm. I'm the Queen." Atlanna didn't turn to look at him. "And I'm quite good at determining who's a threat and who's a traumatized young man who needs help."
"He's dripping with underworld magic."
"Yes, I noticed. I have eyes. Very good eyes. Royal eyes." Now she did turn, fixing Orm with a look that could have frozen the ocean. "And those eyes are telling me that he's not a threat. Not to us. Not right now."
"You're making a mistake."
"I've been Queen for over two decades. I've made exactly three mistakes in that time and I remember all of them vividly. This isn't one." Her voice softened slightly. "Orm, darling, I understand your concern. I appreciate your vigilance. But perhaps let's not treat our guest like an invading army before we've even offered him a drink."
"He's not—"
"He's a guest. I'm declaring him a guest. Right now. Officially." Atlanna turned back to Percy. "You're a guest. See? It's official now. Orm, make a note."
"I'm not making a note," Orm said flatly.
"Then I'll make a note. Mental note: Percy Jackson is our guest." Atlanna smiled, and it was warm and genuine and absolutely would not tolerate any arguments. "Percy, you'll stay in the palace. We'll provide quarters, food, clothing that's less 'I've been to hell and back' and more 'I'm visiting Atlantis and trying to blend in.' Tomorrow, we'll discuss your situation properly. Work out where you came from, what you need, how we can help."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." The smile grew warmer. "Besides, it's not every day we host someone who's killed their way through the underworld for a century. We should at least offer decent hospitality. Maybe some therapy. Definitely some therapy."
"I don't—I mean—thank you," Percy managed.
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you meet the rest of the court. They're going to be *so* much worse than Orm." She glanced at her son. "No offense, dear."
"I'm taking extensive offense, actually," Orm said.
"Yes, but you'll get over it. You always do." Atlanna gestured to Commander Selena, who'd been watching this entire exchange with the expression of someone who'd seen this movie before and knew how it ended. "See them to the guest quarters. The nice ones in the east wing. Make sure they have everything necessary for not dying, not escaping, and not causing diplomatic incidents."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Selena turned to Percy and Mera. "Follow. Try to keep up. Try not to touch anything. Try not to exist aggressively."
As they were being escorted away—Mera looking pleased, Percy looking overwhelmed, the guards looking like they were already composing the official incident reports in their heads—Orm materialized beside Percy with the sort of dramatic timing that suggested he'd been practicing in front of a mirror.
"A word," he said quietly. "Privately. Now."
Percy glanced at Mera, who nodded. *Go ahead. I'll be close if you need me. By which I mean I'll be eavesdropping*.
He followed Orm into a side corridor, away from guards and witnesses and anyone who might report this conversation back to people who'd care.
The moment they were alone, Orm rounded on him with the intensity of a particularly aggressive predator who'd just spotted prey.
"I don't trust you," he said flatly.
"Wow. Really? I'm shocked. Stunned, even. Flabbergasted." Percy leaned against the coral wall, trying to look casual and probably failing. "What gave it away? The open hostility? The thinly veiled threats? The general aura of suspicion you've been radiating since the moment you saw me?"
"All of it. Every single part." Orm stepped closer, his expression hard. "My mother sees the best in people. It's her greatest strength and her most dangerous weakness. She looks at you and sees someone who needs help, someone who's been hurt, someone who deserves sanctuary."
"And you look at me and see—what? A threat? A spy? A really elaborate assassination attempt?"
"I look at you and see a loaded weapon sitting in our throne room," Orm said quietly. "A weapon that's powerful enough to make reality uncomfortable. A weapon carrying underworld water in its *chest*. A weapon that's survived Tartarus—the prison where gods send things they can't kill—for longer than most civilizations last."
"I'm not a weapon."
"Everyone's a weapon if you point them correctly." Orm's eyes narrowed. "And you arrive here, in our world, wearing death like it's this season's fashion. Radiating power that makes the ocean nervous. Claiming you're just looking for sanctuary." He paused. "So forgive me if I don't immediately believe you're just a harmless refugee who wants a hot meal and a safe place to sleep."
Percy met his gaze steadily. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want honesty. Complete, unvarnished honesty. Are you dangerous?"
"Yes."
Orm blinked, clearly not expecting straightforward agreement. "You're admitting it."
"Why would I lie? Of course I'm dangerous. I'm traumatized and powerful and I've killed things that give gods nightmares. I've become something that makes children cry and strong men flinch. I wear armor made from crystallized nightmare and I command shadows that don't follow natural law. I've spent a century learning every possible way to kill things that shouldn't be able to die." Percy's voice was flat. Factual. "So yes, Prince Orm. I'm dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Probably one of the most dangerous things you'll ever meet."
Silence.
Then: "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you asked for honesty. And because pretending I'm not dangerous would be insulting to both of us." Percy straightened. "But here's the thing—being dangerous and being a threat are different things. I'm dangerous. I'm not a threat. Not to you. Not to Atlantis. Not unless you make me one."
"And I should just believe that?"
"No. You should watch me. Carefully. Constantly. You should keep guards on me and monitor my movements and do all the smart, paranoid things that good princes do when unknown powerful entities show up in their kingdom." Percy's shadows coiled tighter. "But while you're doing all that, you should also consider—if I wanted to hurt Atlantis, would I have come here asking for help? Would I have let your mother offer sanctuary? Would I be standing here explaining myself to you?"
"Maybe you're playing a longer game."
"Maybe I'm just *tired*," Percy said, and his voice cracked slightly. "Tired of fighting. Tired of surviving. Tired of being alone. Tired of being a weapon. Maybe I'm exactly what I look like—a broken demigod desperately trying to figure out how to be something other than a thing that kills efficiently."
Orm studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable as encrypted text written in a dead language.
"I'm going to be watching you," he said finally. "Every move. Every action. Every suspicious breath. I'm going to put guards outside your quarters. I'm going to monitor where you go, who you talk to, what you do. And the moment—the *instant*—you prove to be a threat—"
"You'll stop me," Percy finished. "I know. That's fair. That's smart, even. If I were you, I'd do exactly the same thing. I'd probably be more aggressive about it, honestly."
"Don't mistake my mother's kindness for weakness."
"I won't. I've known women like your mother. They're the most dangerous people alive because they choose kindness despite having the strength to choose violence."
Something flickered across Orm's face—surprise, maybe, or recognition.
"And don't mistake my suspicion for cruelty," Orm continued. "I'm not trying to be cruel. I'm not trying to make your life difficult. I'm protecting my home. My people. My family. That's all."
"I understand that. I'd do the same for mine." Percy's voice went soft. "If I still had them."
The flicker again. Deeper this time. "What happened to them?"
"Time happened. Dimensional barriers happened. A century in Tartarus happened." Percy looked away. "I don't know if they're alive. I don't know if they remember me. I don't know if they exist in this world. I don't know anything except that I'm here and they're not and I have to figure out how to live with that."
Orm was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was marginally less hostile. Not *friendly*, exactly. But less like he was interrogating an enemy combatant.
"Stay away from my mother's private quarters," he said. "Stay away from the royal vaults. Stay away from anything that looks classified, dangerous, or like it might explode if you look at it wrong. Stay away from the armory. Stay away from the throne room unless specifically summoned. Stay away from—"
"Basically stay away from everything important and don't touch anything. Got it."
"And for the love of all the gods, try not to cause any diplomatic incidents before breakfast."
"I'll do my best."
"Your best had better be *exceptional*." Orm turned to leave, then paused. "And Percy?"
"Yeah?"
"If you hurt my mother—if you hurt anyone in my family—I will personally ensure that your time in Tartarus looks pleasant by comparison. Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good." Orm swept away, all dramatic cape movement and barely contained hostility and probably mental note-taking about security protocols.
Percy stood alone in the corridor for a moment, processing.
"That went well," he muttered to his shadows.
The shadows disagreed.
"Made a friend?" Mera appeared around the corner, grinning like a cat who'd just discovered cream. She'd absolutely been eavesdropping the entire time. "You two seemed to really bond."
"He thinks I'm a threat to national security and possibly his mother."
"Are you?"
"To national security? Almost certainly. To his mother? No. Unless she attacks me first. Then all bets are off." Percy ran a hand through his hair. "He's protective."
"He's paranoid. There's a difference."
"No, he's protective. Paranoid people see threats that aren't there. Orm is seeing a threat that absolutely *is* there—me—and responding appropriately." Percy started walking. "I can't fault him for that. It's actually kind of refreshing. He's treating me exactly like I should be treated."
"Like a dangerous unknown entity?"
"Like someone powerful enough to hurt the people he loves. Because I am. And he knows it. And he's not pretending otherwise." Percy's voice went quiet. "That's honest. I appreciate honest."
Mera linked her arm through his, guiding him through more impossible corridors. "You're very strange, you know that?"
"I've been told."
"Most people would be offended by being treated like a threat."
"Most people haven't spent a century becoming one."
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, through hallways decorated with enough art to stock several museums and enough historical significance to make archaeologists weep with joy or frustration.
"Mera?" Percy said after a while.
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For—for all of this. For helping. For not running away screaming when you saw what I was. For dragging me here even though it was probably the worst idea you've had all week. Possibly all month."
"It was *definitely* the worst idea I've had all month," Mera agreed cheerfully. "Last month I decided to try negotiating a trade agreement with surface dwellers. That went terribly. This is worse. Much worse. But also more interesting."
"Glad my trauma is interesting."
"Your trauma is *fascinating*. You're fascinating. You're a walking disaster wrapped in nightmare armor held together with underworld magic and determination." She squeezed his arm. "And Percy?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not what you think you are. Not just a weapon. Not just a threat. You're someone who's been hurt badly and is trying very hard to heal. And that's always worth helping. Always."
Percy felt something warm bloom in his chest—not the crystal, though that pulsed in sympathy—but something else. Something dangerous and fragile that felt disturbingly like hope.
"You're ridiculous," he said softly.
"I prefer 'aggressively optimistic despite all available evidence.'" Mera pulled him around a corner. "Now come on. Let's find your quarters before Orm decides to follow through on his threats or I decide to punch him. Either outcome would be bad for diplomatic relations."
"Would it though?"
"Okay, punching Orm would be *great* for my personal satisfaction but bad for literally everything else."
They found the guest quarters—which weren't quarters so much as a small palace within the palace, complete with what Percy could only describe as aggressively comfortable furniture and windows that looked out onto bioluminescent gardens that shouldn't exist.
"This is too much," Percy said.
"This is Atlantis. Everything's too much. You'll get used to it." Mera headed for the door. "I'll be back tomorrow. Try to sleep. Try not to have nightmares that manifest physically. Try not to accidentally destroy anything expensive."
"Those are a lot of 'try nots.'"
"You're a lot of person. You need a lot of 'try nots.'" She paused in the doorway. "Percy?"
"Yeah?"
"You did good today. Coming here. Talking to Atlanna. Not killing Orm even though he was extremely asking for it." Her smile was soft. "I'm proud of you."
Then she was gone, and Percy was alone in his quarters with his shadows and his thoughts and the persistent feeling that he'd just started something he couldn't stop.
---
In the throne room, Atlanna stood alone and stared at the space where Percy Jackson had been standing.
"You're thinking about Thomas," a voice said from the shadows.
Atlanna didn't turn. "Vulko, your dramatic entrances are getting predictable."
"Predictability is the privilege of old age." An elderly Atlantean emerged—white-bearded, sharp-eyed, wearing robes that suggested either great wisdom or great eccentricity. Possibly both. "You're thinking about Thomas Curry. The surface dweller. Arthur's father."
"I'm not—"
"You are. I can see it in your face. You get that expression whenever you think about him. Soft. Sad. Full of what-ifs and might-have-beens."
Atlanna sighed. "Percy Jackson reminded me of him. Not physically. But the way he looked at me. Lost. Trying to be brave. Trying to pretend he wasn't falling apart."
"Thomas was a good man."
"He was. Is. I hope he still is. I hope he's still alive, still keeping that lighthouse, still—" She stopped. "It's been twenty years, Vulko. Why am I still doing this?"
"Because some loves don't end. They just transform into different shapes." Vulko moved to stand beside her. "What are you going to do about the boy?"
"Help him. If I can."
"Orm won't like it."
"Orm doesn't like most things. It's his defining characteristic." Atlanna's voice was fond despite the words. "He's convinced Percy is a threat."
"Is he?"
"Almost certainly. But not to us. Not if we don't make him one." She turned to face Vulko. "I saw something in him, old friend. Something familiar. Like—like the ocean recognized him. Like he *belonged* here despite being so very far from home."
"The ocean recognizes many things."
"Not like this. This was different. This was—" She paused, searching for words. "—this was family. This felt like family."
"You think he's connected to Arthur?"
"I think the ocean thinks he's connected to Arthur. And the ocean is rarely wrong about these things." Atlanna moved toward the window, looking out at her city. "Tomorrow I'll speak with him properly. Privately. Find out what brought him here. What he needs. What he's running from."
"And if Orm interferes?"
"Orm will do what Orm always does—protect the kingdom with excessive vigilance and make everyone's lives slightly more difficult in the process. But he's a good son. A good prince. He'll come around." She smiled. "Eventually. Possibly. If I'm very lucky and very patient."
"You have the patience of the tides, my Queen."
"The tides don't have to deal with Orm's security protocols." But her voice was warm. Full of the particular exasperation mothers reserve for children they love despite everything. "Thank you, Vulko. For listening. For being here."
"Always, Atlanna. Always."
He departed, leaving her alone with the ocean and her thoughts.
And in her private quarters, Atlanna pulled out a small box she kept hidden. Inside: a photograph, faded and water-damaged. A lighthouse keeper with kind eyes. A woman with blonde hair. A baby with impossible green eyes.
Her family. Her surface family. The one she'd left behind to return to her kingdom.
She touched the photograph gently.
"I wonder," she whispered to the empty room, "if you'd like him, Thomas. Percy Jackson. I think you would. He has your eyes. That same look of someone who's been through hell but refuses to become it."
The ocean had no answers.
But tomorrow, perhaps, she'd find some herself.
---
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