Chapter 10: The Quest Announcement
The summer solstice deadline hung over Camp Half-Blood like a guillotine blade. Two weeks until Zeus's ultimatum expired. Two weeks to retrieve a stolen Master Bolt or watch the gods go to war. The tension was palpable—campers trained harder, argued more, watched the sky like it might start raining lightning any moment.
When Chiron called a full camp council meeting, everyone knew what it meant.
The amphitheater was packed. Counselors from each cabin sat in the front rows, their formal positions making them look older, more serious. Unclaimed demigods filled the back—Alaric among them, trying to project calm while his mind raced through everything he knew about what came next.
Percy would volunteer. The Oracle would speak. The quest would begin.
Unless his presence had changed too much already.
Chiron stood at the amphitheater's center, his centaur form restored, and spoke with the weight of three thousand years behind his words.
"Zeus, King of the Gods, has accused Poseidon of stealing his Master Bolt," Chiron announced. "The summer solstice deadline approaches. If the bolt is not returned, war will begin. Olympus will burn, and mortals will suffer the consequences of divine conflict."
Whispers erupted. Everyone knew this already—rumors spread fast at camp—but hearing it officially made it real.
"A quest must be undertaken," Chiron continued. "Someone must journey west, retrieve the bolt, and return it before time runs out. The Oracle will choose."
Percy stood.
The movement was simple. Twelve years old, skinny from a childhood of poverty and Sally's irregular work schedule, still wearing the orange camp shirt that hung loose on his frame. But when he stood, every eye turned toward him.
"I'll go," Percy said. His voice cracked slightly—puberty and fear mixing—but the determination underneath was steel-solid. "My dad's being accused. My mom's being held hostage. I'll take the quest."
The amphitheater exploded in whispers.
"He's only been here a week!"
"Suicide mission."
"At least he's brave."
"Son of Poseidon going to retrieve Zeus's stolen property? That's asking for disaster."
Chiron raised a hand for silence. "Percy Jackson volunteers. The Oracle must be consulted."
Two Apollo campers carried the Oracle down from the attic. She sat on a palanquin, mummy-dried and lifeless, her tie-dye shirt faded beyond recognition. They placed her in the center of the amphitheater, and everyone waited.
Green mist poured from her mouth.
The voice that emerged was layered, ancient, carrying the weight of prophecy spoken since before Rome fell.
"You shall go west and face the god who has turned," the Oracle intoned. "You shall find what was stolen and see it safely returned. You shall be betrayed by one who calls you friend. And you shall fail to save what matters most in the end."
The mist retreated. The Oracle slumped back into lifelessness.
Silence.
Alaric mouthed the words along with the Oracle's speaking—he'd memorized this prophecy years ago, in another life, reading it over and over because it was the moment everything started. Hearing it spoken over his actual friend made his chest tight with anxiety.
"Betrayed by one who calls you friend. Luke. It's always been Luke. But does Percy know? Can I warn him without revealing too much?"
"The prophecy is given," Chiron declared. "Percy Jackson, you may choose two companions. Who will accompany you?"
Percy didn't hesitate. "Grover Underwood."
Grover bleated from the crowd—surprise and honor mixing on his face. "Me? Really?"
"You're my friend. I want you with me."
"Annabeth Chase," Percy added.
Annabeth stood smoothly, like she'd been expecting it. "I accept."
"Then it's settled," Chiron began. "Three questers will—"
"I volunteer as fourth companion."
Alaric was standing before he'd consciously decided to move. The words came out loud, clear, and the amphitheater went silent again.
"Quests are three people," Dionysus said from his seat. The god looked mildly annoyed, like someone had interrupted his nap. "That's tradition, boy. Not negotiable."
"I've dreamed this quest," Alaric said. The lie came easy now, polished through repetition. "Seen it from multiple angles. There are dangers coming that three questers won't be enough for. My weapons could make the difference between success and catastrophic failure."
"Or you could be a liability," someone shouted from the back. "Unclaimed freak with glowing eyes?"
Murmurs of agreement. Fear and suspicion bleeding through the crowd.
But Percy's voice cut through it all. "I want him."
Every head turned.
"Alaric saved my life before I even got to camp," Percy continued. "Fought the Minotaur with me, saved me from the hellhounds during Capture the Flag. If he says there's danger, I believe him. He comes with us."
"Quest traditions exist for a reason," an Ares kid argued. "Three people. Always three. That's how it works."
"Traditions can change," Annabeth said. Her grey eyes were calculating, fitting Alaric into her tactical plans. "More assets increase success probability. And his prophetic abilities could provide critical intelligence. I support the addition."
"As do I," Grover added. His empathy sense must have picked up something from Alaric—sincerity, maybe, or genuine desire to help. "Four questers is unusual, but these are unusual circumstances."
Chiron looked troubled. His ancient eyes moved from Percy to Alaric, weighing options, considering consequences.
"This is highly irregular," the centaur said finally. "Quests have been three companions since the age of heroes. Breaking tradition invites unknown consequences."
"But you're not saying no," Alaric pressed.
"I'm saying..." Chiron trailed off. Looked at Mr. D, who shrugged with divine indifference. "I'm saying the decision ultimately rests with the quest leader. Percy Jackson, this is your quest. Your choice."
"Alaric comes," Percy said immediately. "Final answer."
The vote was called. Counselors argued for twenty minutes—tradition versus practicality, fear versus tactical advantage. But in the end, Chiron's authority combined with Percy's absolute certainty carried the day.
Four questers. First time in camp history.
"Very well," Chiron declared. "But understand—all four of you share responsibility for the quest's success or failure. You leave at dawn."
The council dissolved into chaos. Campers arguing, placing bets on their survival chances, already planning the memorial if they died. Alaric stood in the center of it, feeling the weight of what he'd just done.
He'd broken tradition. Changed canon fundamentally. Four questers instead of three meant different group dynamics, different solutions to problems, different outcomes he couldn't predict.
"I'm doing this," he thought. "Really doing this. No going back now."
They gathered at the beach that evening—four demigods about to journey into legend or death.
Percy sat cross-legged in the sand, nervous energy radiating from him like heat. Grover paced, hooves clicking on stones, muttering about "this is it, this is my chance, can't mess this up." Annabeth had spread a map across a flat rock, already plotting routes and contingencies.
And Alaric stood slightly apart, watching them, feeling like an imposter.
"Okay," Annabeth said. "We need a clear plan. The bolt is west—probably in the Underworld based on prophecy interpretation. That means crossing the country, dealing with monsters the entire way, and confronting whatever god 'has turned.'"
"Hades," Percy said. "Has to be. He's god of the Underworld, Zeus's brother. If anyone would steal the bolt to start a war..."
"Maybe." Annabeth tapped the map. "But we can't assume. The prophecy says 'the god who has turned,' not 'the god of death.' Could be a different deity entirely."
"What do your dreams say?" Grover asked Alaric. "You've seen this quest, right?"
All three of them looked at him. Waiting for prophetic wisdom, for certainty in the chaos.
"I could tell them everything. The whole plot. Luke's betrayal, Ares's involvement, the Underworld trip. But if I do, they'll know I'm not just prophetic. They'll know I'm something else."
"I see moments," Alaric said carefully. "Not the whole story. A museum that feels wrong. A voice speaking in dreams. A betrayal from someone we trust." He met Percy's eyes. "The prophecy says you'll be betrayed by a friend. Take that seriously."
"Who?" Percy's voice was small. "Luke? He's been training me."
"I don't know specifics. Just... be careful who you trust completely."
"That's uselessly vague," Annabeth said flatly. "If you've seen dangers, give us details. Routes to avoid. Monsters to prepare for. Anything actionable."
"Prophecy doesn't work like that." Alaric's frustration was genuine. "I see possibilities, not certainties. If I tell you to avoid a specific route, maybe that causes the danger to appear somewhere else. Maybe trying to prevent something makes it happen anyway. The future is fluid."
"So your prophetic dreams are basically useless for planning."
"They're useful for general awareness. But yes, strategically limited."
Annabeth's grey eyes narrowed. "Fine. Then here's how this works: I plan the route, Percy makes final decisions as quest leader, Grover handles navigation and monster detection, and Alaric provides backup with his weapon arsenal. Everyone clear?"
"Crystal," Percy said.
Grover nodded nervously.
Alaric just looked at the map, at the line Annabeth was drawing from New York to Los Angeles, and thought about all the deaths that happened along that path in the original story. All the near-misses and close calls.
All the tragedies he was trying to prevent.
"We leave at dawn," Annabeth said. "Pack light, bring weapons, and for gods' sake, try not to die in the first twenty-four hours."
She rolled up the map and left. Grover followed, bleating about needing to say goodbye to the nymphs. Percy lingered, staring at the water like it held answers.
"You okay?" Alaric asked.
"Scared," Percy admitted. "The prophecy says I'll fail to save what matters most. What if that means my mom? What if I can't get her back?"
"Then we'll figure out another way."
"You can't know that."
"I can choose to believe it." Alaric sat beside him in the sand. "Percy, prophecies are self-fulfilling sometimes. If you go into this expecting to fail, you probably will. But if you fight for every choice, every moment, you change the odds."
"Is that from your prophetic dreams?"
"No. That's just advice from someone who's seen what giving up looks like."
Percy studied him. "You're weird, Alaric Bond. But I'm glad you're coming."
"Someone has to keep you from doing something stupid."
"Hey!"
They grinned at each other. Two kids about to save the world, pretending they weren't terrified.
Chiron found Alaric after midnight, standing at the camp boundary, staring at the pine tree.
"Couldn't sleep?" the centaur asked.
"Too much to think about."
They walked the boundary in silence. The camp's magic hummed beneath Alaric's feet—protective enchantments woven by gods and heroes, keeping this small piece of land safe from the chaos outside.
"You carry a heavy burden," Chiron said finally. "Knowledge of futures that may never come. The weight of trying to save everyone."
"Someone has to try."
"But remember, Alaric—prophecy exists not to be prevented, but to be understood. By trying to change fate, we often fulfill it in unexpected ways." Chiron's ancient eyes reflected starlight. "The Oracle called you a paradox. A variable. Someone who breaks patterns. That suggests your very presence alters outcomes in ways you cannot predict."
"What if the fate I'm creating is worse than the one I'm preventing?"
The question hung in the air. Chiron didn't answer immediately—just walked in silence, considering.
"Then you'll deal with those consequences when they come," the centaur said eventually. "But Alaric, the alternative is paralysis. Seeing danger and doing nothing because you fear making it worse. That's not heroism. That's cowardice disguised as wisdom."
"And if people die because of my choices?"
"People die regardless of your choices. The question is whether you tried to save them."
They reached the pine tree. Thalia's sacrifice, frozen in wood and magic, keeping camp safe. A reminder that heroes made impossible choices and lived with the consequences.
"Get some rest," Chiron said. "Dawn comes quickly, and the quest will test you in ways you cannot imagine."
He left Alaric alone at the boundary.
The transmigrator stared at the tree, at the Golden Fleece glowing softly in its branches, and whispered to the night:
"I'm going to save them. All of them, if I can. And if I break fate doing it, then fate was broken anyway."
No answer came. Just the wind and the stars and the weight of a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
But he'd try.
Heroes didn't get to choose their battles. They just had to fight them.
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