The City That Burned
Miraak looked at the fragments of his sword for a moment.
"It seems I'll need sturdier materials—ones that can withstand more powerful souls," he said calmly, waving his hand as the fragments began to float toward his satchel; they could be reused.
"Now it's best to clean this place up," Miraak added as he looked around. Through the mist, he could feel the presence of hundreds—perhaps thousands—of monsters moving about; they were sniffing, searching desperately for Echidna's blood that had drawn them there.
More beasts kept arriving with every passing second, losing themselves in the thick fog.
Miraak shed his transformation. He let out a sigh; for a moment, he felt the weakness of having lost his draconic form. Pulling a flask from his magical pouch, he drank it down in one gulp.
"Tsk, that form consumes far too much energy and magicka," he said calmly before tossing the flask aside. "Let's finish this quickly," he added, raising one hand slightly, gathering a vast amount of power in his palm.
His hand glowed like a beacon amid the fog; some beasts seemed to notice the light and charged toward it at full speed. Miraak listened to their approaching footsteps while waiting for more creatures to enter the mist.
Then he slowly lowered his hand toward the ground, brushing it with his palm.
The greatest explosion of fire, a zero point where Miraak stood, erupted. The nearest beasts saw only a flash before turning to dust in an instant. Even the fog, which moments ago had been still and white, turned red before dispersing from the sheer heat.
It was as if the earth's core—or rather a volcano—had burst to the surface for an instant right beneath Miraak's feet.
The fire spread with tremendous speed, incinerating everything in its path; it burned the grass and filled the air with the stench of charred flesh and wood. It even pierced through the mist into the nearby streets; fortunately, people had already hidden in their homes or fled, because in moments the streets were ablaze.
The beasts that hadn't fully entered the fog, lingering at its edges, were also consumed, reduced to dust.
Even the Mississippi River ignited instantly; the water vaporized, rising as steam into the sky once the fire had passed.
Miraak stood in the center of it all, surrounded by scorched earth. The great nearby arch was now blackened; parts of the ground had turned to glass from the heat. The smell of burning filled the air, and ashes drifted down like a soft rain.
With the mist dispersed, a completely charred landscape came into view; car windows and house glass had melted slightly—and that despite the fire lasting only one or two seconds.
Miraak examined his work, now free of creatures, and nodded before walking away calmly.
…
Not far away, atop a building, two figures seemed to watch the entire scene with interest.
"Ha ha ha ha!" A deep laugh echoed; it came from what looked like a giant, shirtless, with a great hammer strapped to his back, clutching his stomach between bursts of laughter. "That guy actually did it—he killed an immortal being! Hahaha! I'd love to see the faces of those stupid Greeks," he said with amusement.
Meanwhile, a man clearly shorter than the giant stood beside him, his expression serious as he followed the path Miraak had taken. In his hand he held a spear that shimmered faintly; an eyepatch covered one of his eyes. His stern gaze turned toward the other man—his son—with a look of quiet accusation.
"The material of that sword… why does it seem familiar to me?" he asked, looking at his son. Upon hearing him, the giant stopped laughing and looked at his father somewhat nervously.
"Ahem. I—I don't know, old man. Maybe one of the gods he helped gave it to him," the son said, glancing aside and scratching his beard, playing dumb.
The old man narrowed his single eye and fixed his stare on him. "Thor," he whispered. The giant—tall, broad, and muscular—flinched at the sound of his name.
Quickly he raised both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry! I gave it to him. We sparred; if he wounded me, I'd give him some uru, and if he made me get serious, bark from the World Tree," Thor confessed, fearing his father's wrath.
Odin stared at him intently; his gaze carried many questions, but the most pressing one was, "How much?"—as if that were the only thing that mattered, given how rare and valuable that material was. Besides, his son—the god of thunder and one of the finest warriors of their pantheon—had been injured by Miraak in battle.
When Thor heard the question, he averted his eyes; he tried not to meet his father's face and stayed silent.
"How many?" Odin asked again.
"One per wound," Thor said quietly.
"That's not an answer," Odin replied once more. "You know very well that material is meant for the Einherjar to arm themselves and prepare for war; it's extremely difficult to obtain right now. So, how much?" he pressed, wanting to gauge both the deal and the damage.
"One and two ingots," Thor murmured softly, like a scolded child, though he was a massive and seasoned warrior.
"One and two? Are you saying you gave him three?" Odin said, nearly sighing; three wouldn't have been too many, but the way his son said it sounded suspicious.
"No—two; twelve," Thor corrected, glancing at his father, whose expression was darkening by the second.
Odin didn't rage or shout; for a moment, he closed his good eye and exhaled deeply.
"All right, all right," he said, though mostly to himself. "If he can make use of the materials, perhaps we can ask him to forge some weapons for trade with the dwarves," he added, trying to find a diplomatic way out. "And if they're good, we might arrange some exchanges," he continued before turning around and leaving—likely doing so to avoid giving his son a well-deserved beating.
The god of thunder scratched the back of his head slightly. Just as Thor was about to turn and leave, he suddenly drew the hammer from his back and looked toward a nearby building, as if ready to fight. His face became completely serious, and a warrior's aura—nearly tangible—radiated from him, filling the air.
On the other building, a figure stood watching him calmly. For a moment, the figure smiled, then vanished into the distorted air.
"That guy…" Thor muttered, frowning. "He's interested in Miraak."
His voice was a statement heavy with seriousness and a dangerous undertone that made his meaning unmistakable.
…
Percy, Annabeth, and Grover emerged from the water. They had been dragged by a sudden current that had carried them farther from where they had fallen. Percy, who had just discovered he could breathe underwater, was not only unharmed but completely dry. He grabbed his unconscious companions and pulled them to the shore.
"Cough… cough!" Annabeth and Grover spat out the dirty water they had swallowed, grimacing in disgust.
Percy looked at them calmly. He was perfectly fine, something the others definitely couldn't say. His clothes were completely dry, as if the water itself had rejected him.
He glanced down at his outfit with curiosity. He knew he hadn't possessed that strange ability before. It seemed like something new—perhaps an effect of Poseidon's acknowledgment. He also recalled the words he had heard in the depths, spoken by a female voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother's.
"Do not trust their gifts…"
He didn't fully understand who that voice referred to, but he could imagine. And it wasn't as though he was someone who accepted gifts easily… unless they came from his master. So, in that sense, he didn't see much of a problem.
"Are you two okay?" Percy asked seriously, watching his companions as they kept coughing up water.
Annabeth looked up at him, noticing he was completely dry and composed, which immediately irritated her.
"Shut up," she grumbled, annoyed.
At that very moment, a thunderous sound shook the air. All three of them turned at once.
In the distance, an enormous explosion of fire rose, expanding in every direction and consuming everything in its path. The heat was so intense that the water began to burn instantly.
White steam rose toward the sky, and dead fish floated slowly along the surface.
The nearby people began to run in panic, while Percy, Annabeth, and Grover stood still, watching the infernal spectacle. The explosion faded after a few seconds, but it had left behind a completely scorched expanse. Even from that distance, they could see the full scope of the devastation.
Grover looked toward the burning zone, then at the now-bubbling water, and finally at Percy. He walked closer to him with a grateful expression.
"Thank you so much, Percy," he said sincerely. If Percy hadn't pulled them out in time, they probably would have ended up like the floating fish.
Annabeth stood with her mouth slightly open, still staring at the distant flames. Then she glanced at Percy, who wore a mischievous smile, as if expecting someone to thank him. She, of course, decided to ignore it; that smile only annoyed her further.
"We'd better get going," Annabeth said curtly, her eyes scanning the surroundings. Although the explosion seemed to have wiped out most of the beasts, it was possible some had survived. The best thing to do was find a safe place before things got worse.
Percy nodded and followed her. However, before leaving, he turned back to look at the great arch, blackened by fire, and smiled faintly.
"Wait…" he murmured to himself. "That woman was an old lady too… Don't tell me they're going to start saying we're some kind of master-and-disciple duo who enjoy beating up old women, right?" he thought with a trace of genuine concern and a hint of absurd humor.
After all, he was already starting to earn a certain reputation. He hoped it wouldn't become a habit—fighting elderly opponents… although, thinking about it, nearly every being in the Greek pantheon was technically ancient.
And with that silly thought, Percy followed his companions while, in the distance, the wails of police, firetrucks, and ambulances began echoing throughout the city. What had just happened would undoubtedly be remembered as a national disaster.