"Absolutely not."
Will Solace stood between me and the infirmary exit, arms crossed, looking like a very determined teenager who'd been given far too much authority.
"I just need—"
"Bed rest," Will interrupted. "Light movement only. No training, no combat, no border patrol, and absolutely no sneaking out to 'check on things.'"
"I wasn't going to—"
"Yes, you were." He pulled out a vial. "See this? Nectar. The sleepy kind. I will use it if you don't cooperate."
I stared at him. This blonde Apollo kid was threatening to drug me.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
We had a staring contest.
He won.
"Fine," I muttered, lying back down. "How long?"
"A week. Your body is still fighting off the venom. You have three broken ribs, a cracked collarbone, muscle damage, and more injuries than I can list before dinner."
I looked around the infirmary. The other beds were empty now. Percy and Grover had been discharged yesterday—moved to the Hermes cabin while they waited for... whatever came next.
At least they were safe.
"Fine," I said again. "Bed rest."
Will smiled. "Good. Now eat your breakfast. Doctor's orders."
He left.
I waited exactly five minutes before attempting my first escape.
Escape Attempt #1
I made it approximately ten feet before a voice stopped me.
"Going somewhere?"
Will appeared from behind a curtain, arms crossed, somehow looking both amused and annoyed.
"Bathroom?" I tried.
"Bathroom's the other direction."
"I got lost?"
"You have a concussion, not amnesia. Back to bed."
Damn it.
Escape Attempt #2
The next day, I waited until Will was treating another patient.
Made it to the door this time before he materialized out of nowhere like some kind of medical ninja.
"WHAT are you doing?"
"Just... stretching my legs?"
"You can stretch while SITTING."
"That's not how stretching works—"
"Back. To. Bed." He gave me a stern look. "And in case you're planning something, your sword is hidden. You're not getting it back until I clear you for combat. Beckendorf's orders."
I died a little inside.
Escape Attempt #3
Day three. I had a plan this time.
Waited until afternoon. Pretended to sleep. Heard Will leave.
Perfect.
I slipped out quietly, moving through the infirmary. My legs were shaky, but I could manage. Just needed to get outside, breathe some fresh air—
"Going somewhere?"
I froze.
Will leaned against the doorframe, eating an apple. How long had he been there?
"I..."
"Back to bed, or I'm telling Chiron you're not cooperating with medical treatment." He took a bite of the apple. "Your choice."
I went back to bed.
Four Days Later
"You look like a caged wolf."
I turned to see Beckendorf approaching, carrying what looked like freshly forged daggers. He was grinning.
"I'm going insane," I said. "Four days. Four days of nothing but lying in bed and being force-fed ambrosia."
"Could be worse." Beckendorf sat beside me on the infirmary steps. Will had finally cleared me for "light outdoor activity," which apparently meant sitting on steps. "You could be Clarisse."
"What about Clarisse?"
"Oh, you didn't hear?" His grin widened. "She tried to welcome Percy—the new kid you saved—with a toilet swirly. Apparently it didn't go well for her."
"What happened?"
"According to the Stoll brothers, every pipe in the bathroom exploded. Water everywhere. Clarisse and her siblings came flying out soaking wet, and Percy walked out completely dry." Beckendorf laughed. "She's been in a foul mood ever since. Won't talk about it."
I couldn't help but smile. "Water powers. Makes sense if he's Big Three."
"That's what Annabeth thinks too." He handed me one of the daggers. "Made these while you were sleeping. Thought you might want something smaller. For when Will finally lets you have your greatsword back."
The balance was perfect. Beckendorf's work always was.
"Thanks, Charles."
"Don't mention it." He stood. "Oh, and there's a Capture the Flag game tonight. Big one. Luke's already planning strategies. You're benched, obviously."
"Obviously," I muttered.
"Chiron's orders. Will backed him up." Beckendorf's expression turned sympathetic. "But you can watch from the sidelines. Better than the infirmary, right?"
I supposed it was.
After he left, I tested the dagger's weight. It felt good to hold a weapon again, even a small one.
Tonight. Capture the Flag.
At least I'd get to see how Percy fought when he wasn't facing a Minotaur.
Capture the Flag
The entire camp was buzzing with excitement.
I sat on a hill overlooking the forest, under strict orders from both Will and Chiron to stay put. "Watching only. No participation. If I see you stand up during combat, you're back in the infirmary for another week."
Will's threat had been very clear.
So I sat, frustrated and restless, as teams assembled below.
Blue team: Athena cabin leading, with Annabeth directing strategy. I could see Percy among them, looking nervous with a shield and sword that seemed too big for him. He'd filled out a bit in the last few days—camp food and training doing their work—but he still looked like a kid who'd been thrown into the deep end.
Red team: Ares cabin, led by Clarisse, who looked hungry for revenge.
The teams were gathering their armor and weapons when I noticed someone climbing the hill toward me.
Percy Jackson.
He stopped a few feet away, looking uncertain.
"Hi," he said. "You're Aditya, right? The guy who... on the road?"
"That's me." I gestured to the grass beside me. "You're Percy. How are you settling in?"
He sat down, keeping some distance. "It's... a lot. Everyone keeps staring at me. Asking questions. I don't know half of what's going on."
"Welcome to Camp Half-Blood."
"Annabeth keeps saying I'm probably Big Three. That my dad is one of the major gods." He pulled at the grass. "I don't feel powerful. I just feel lost."
"You killed a Minotaur with your bare hands," I pointed out. "That's pretty powerful."
"I got lucky. And you—" He looked at me. "Will told me what you did. Twenty-three monsters. While poisoned. You saved our lives."
"You saved your own life. I just bought you some time." I watched the teams below. "Your mom saved you. She stood between you and that monster. That took more courage than anything I did."
Percy was quiet for a moment. "They told me she's... gone. But they don't know where. If she's alive or—" His voice cracked.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I tried to stop it. Wasn't fast enough."
"Don't." Percy's voice was firm. "Don't apologize. Grover told me what you did. You fought a whole army alone so we could escape. If you hadn't been there..." He wiped his eyes. "Thank you."
Below, Chiron was calling for teams to take their positions.
Percy stood, adjusting his armor. "I should go. Annabeth has this whole plan about guarding the creek."
"Go show them what you can do."
He grinned—nervous but determined—and jogged down to join his team.
I settled back to watch, ignoring the ache in my ribs.
This should be interesting.
The Creek Fight
The game began with a horn blast.
Chaos erupted. Teams charging into the forest, battle cries echoing through the trees.
I tracked Percy's position. Annabeth had stationed him at the creek, exactly as he'd mentioned. Border patrol duty—keep the enemy from crossing.
Smart. Keep the new kid away from the main action but still useful.
Twenty minutes in, I saw Clarisse break off from her team with four siblings.
Heading straight for Percy.
Revenge for the bathroom incident.
I couldn't hear what they said, but I could see it play out.
Clarisse and her siblings surrounded Percy. He backed up, shield raised, trying to defend himself.
They attacked.
Five against one. Percy blocked, deflected, tried to fight back. He was better than I'd expected—natural instincts, quick reflexes—but he was outmatched.
Clarisse's spear caught him in the arm. Blood. Then again in the ribs. He stumbled backward.
Into the creek.
And then something changed.
The cuts on his face—healed. Just closed up. Gone.
Percy's eyes widened. He stood up, steadier now. Stronger.
And the water responded.
It rose around him, swirling, responding to some unspoken command. A wave built, grew, crashed over Clarisse and her siblings, sending them flying backward.
They hit the ground fifteen feet away, soaking wet and stunned.
Percy stood in the creek, surrounded by water that moved with him, for him, like it was part of him.
I smiled despite myself.
Poseidon's son. Has to be.
The game continued. Blue team won eventually—Annabeth was smart enough to use the distraction.
But nobody cared about the flag anymore.
Because a hellhound appeared.
The Claiming
It came out of nowhere.
Black fur, red eyes, slavering jaws. A hellhound, massive and terrifying, charging straight at Percy.
Campers scattered. Screamed. Some ran for weapons.
I started to rise—instinct demanding I help—but a hand on my shoulder stopped me.
Chiron. In his wheelchair form, somehow having appeared beside me without me noticing.
"Watch," he said quietly.
Percy didn't run.
He raised his sword—awkward, untrained, but determined—and met the monster head-on.
The fight was brief. Percy dodged, struck, moved with an instinct he shouldn't have. The sword found vital spots.
The hellhound dissolved into dust.
Percy stood there, breathing hard, covered in monster remains.
And above his head, a symbol appeared.
A trident.
Glowing green, shimmering with power, hovering above him like a crown.
The camp went silent.
Chiron stood—his wheelchair transforming into his full centaur form—and his voice carried across the field with ancient authority.
"POSEIDON," he announced. "EARTHSHAKER. STORMBRINGER. FATHER OF HORSES. HAIL, PERSEUS JACKSON, SON OF THE SEA GOD."
As one, every camper dropped to one knee.
Luke knelt, head bowed.
Annabeth knelt, expression complicated.
Clarisse knelt, looking furious about it.
The entire camp knelt, showing respect to a son of one of the Big Three.
I didn't.
I stayed sitting on my hill, arms crossed, watching.
These weren't my gods. Poseidon wasn't my deity. Percy was someone I respected—but that didn't mean I bowed to his divine parent.
I saw heads turning. Campers noticing. Shocked expressions.
Why isn't he kneeling?
Annabeth's eyes found me. Calculating. Analyzing.
Chiron saw me too. His expression unreadable.
Luke's eyes flicked to me, then away.
But I stayed as I was.
Percy looked up, saw everyone kneeling, looked confused and scared.
The moment passed. Campers stood. The trident faded.
Percy was officially claimed.
Son of Poseidon.
The official Big Three child in camp.
And I had just made a very public statement.
That Night
I couldn't sleep.
The day's events kept replaying. Percy's claiming. The fact that I hadn't knelt. The looks from other campers—shocked, confused, some angry.
I'd made a statement, yes. But what would be the consequences?
My ribs ached. My shoulder throbbed. The venom was gone, but phantom pains remained—my body remembering the hellhound fangs, the lamia bite, the empousai fire.
I'd nearly died.
And for what? I'd failed to stop the Minotaur. Failed to save Percy's mother. All I'd done was buy them a few seconds.
I wasn't strong enough.
That was the truth that burned more than any wound.
I tossed and turned, unable to find rest.
Finally, exhaustion dragged me under.
And I found myself somewhere else entirely.
The Space Between Threads
I stood in a place that shouldn't exist.
Not white nothingness. Not a void. Something... other.
Imagine standing inside a tapestry, threads stretching in all directions around you—above, below, left, right, dimensions that had no names. Each thread glowed with its own light, some bright, some dim, some pulsing, some steady. They wove together in patterns that hurt to look at directly, too complex for mortal comprehension.
The air—if it could be called air—felt thick with potential. With destiny itself made tangible.
And in the center of this impossible space sat three figures on a dais that seemed woven from the threads themselves.
Three women. Ancient, hunched, withered. Between them, a loom that existed in too many dimensions at once, and they worked it with practiced ease, passing a single milky-white eye between them to see.
The Fates.
My heart hammered against my healing ribs.
"Aditya," one of them said—Lachesis, the Allotter. Her voice was like stone grinding on stone. "You have been brought here so that we may speak plainly."
I swallowed. Tried to find my voice. "I... honored to meet you. I think."
The eye moved to Clotho, the Spinner. "You do not sound certain."
"Not many mortals are summoned by the Fates and live to tell about it," I admitted.
"True," Atropos, the Cutter, said as the eye passed to her. "But you are not merely mortal. Are you?"
She gestured, and one of the threads pulled free from the weave, floating before me.
It was wrong.
Every other thread I could see was smooth, consistent, predictable in its pattern. This one was thick and complex, intertwined within itself like a rope. The colors shifted—gold, red, white, back to gold—and it pulsed with its own rhythm, independent of the tapestry around it.
"This is your thread," Lachesis said.
"It does not belong here," Clotho added.
"It disrupts our pattern," Atropos finished.
I stared at it. "I... I didn't ask to be here."
"We know." The eye moved between them as they spoke in sequence. "You were cast into this tapestry from another. Thrown by forces beyond even our reach."
They paused, and for the first time, I sensed something like... uncertainty in them.
"The Hindu pantheon," Lachesis continued carefully. "The Trimurti and their aspects. They wield power on a scale that transcends our authority. Forces that predate destiny itself—Dharma, Karma, the eternal cycles of creation and destruction."
"We Fates weave mortal destinies," Clotho said, her voice tight. "But the gods of that realm... they do not bow to our patterns. They are the pattern in their domain. Beyond our weaving. Beyond fate as we know it."
"When they cast you here," Atropos finished, "it was not that they failed to understand our tapestry. Our tapestry simply holds no authority over what they create."
"Your presence creates ripples," Lachesis continued. "Events that were meant to unfold one way..."
"Now unfold differently," Clotho said.
"Or not at all," Atropos finished.
The threads around me seemed to shiver. Some pulled taut. Others loosened.
"I don't understand," I said. "What do you want from me?"
"We want you to understand the truth," Lachesis said, her voice carrying weight. "The boy, Perseus Jackson. His thread is bright, important, woven with great care. He has been given a quest. He will go west. He will face challenges. He will grow."
"This is his story," Clotho said. "His journey. His destiny."
"Not yours," Atropos finished.
The eye focused on me—all three of them seeing through that single ancient gaze.
"We did not bring you here to threaten," Lachesis said. "But to show you reality."
She gestured, and the threads around us shifted, showing Percy's quest unfolding ahead—trials, dangers, choices.
"And you," Atropos said, the eye fixing on me, "do not belong in that story."
Something in my chest tightened. "Why not? I want to help him. Protect him."
"We know." Lachesis's voice turned cold. "But your presence would shatter everything. In every future we see where you join this quest, the pattern breaks. The boy's thread frays. Ends."
The image shifted. I saw Percy's thread stretching forward—and then I saw my golden thread moving closer, touching his path.
The moment they connected, everything collapsed.
"He dies," Clotho said simply. "Every time you interfere in this quest, the boy dies."
"So I just... stay behind?" My hands clenched. "Do nothing while he faces danger?"
"You stay behind," Atropos said coldly, "because you do not belong in his story."
The eye fixed on me with utter certainty.
"You are a foreign thread," Lachesis said. "Cast into our tapestry by powers beyond our reach. Every moment you exist here, you unravel our work."
"The boy's quest is ours," Clotho added, and there was venom in her voice. "Woven with precision over centuries. Every trial, every choice, every outcome—designed."
Atropos leaned forward. "And then you appear. A thread that does not belong. Touching our carefully laid patterns. Disrupting. Ruining."
The realization hit me.
They didn't care about helping me find my path.
They hated that I existed here at all.
"You want me gone," I said quietly.
"We want you contained," Lachesis said. "Since we cannot cut you out."
"Stay in your corner," Clotho's voice was sharp as scissors. "Do not touch our work."
"This quest is not yours to interfere with," all three said as one. "You have already disrupted enough."
I looked at my thread—that thick, golden-red rope that pulsed with its own light. Foreign. Wrong. Unwanted.
"What happens if I don't listen?" I asked. "If I go with him anyway?"
The threads around me shifted. The tapestry rippled.
"Then you will watch him die," Atropos said flatly.
She gestured, and the space changed. I saw—not visions, but the actual threads themselves. Percy's bright blue-green strand wove forward through trials and dangers, flexing and straining but holding. Strong.
Then my golden thread touched his.
And Percy's thread frayed. Weakened. Snapped.
The pattern collapsed. Other threads nearby—Annabeth's gray, Grover's brown—tangled and broke. A cascade of failures spreading outward from that single point of contact.
"Your presence overwhelms the design," Lachesis said. "Not because you are weak. Because you are wrong. A foreign element in a carefully balanced formula."
"The quest was designed for three demigods of this world," Clotho continued. "Challenges calibrated to their strengths, their weaknesses, their growth. You would tip the scales. Break the pattern. And without that pattern..."
"The boy fails," Atropos finished. "And when he fails, war comes. Gods fall. Thousands die."
The images faded, leaving just the threads again.
"All because one foreign thread," Lachesis said, "could not stay in its place."
Silence hung in the space between threads.
I understood now. This wasn't about me being too weak or too strong. It was about me being other. A variable that didn't fit their equations.
"The Hindu pantheon," I said quietly. "That's where I come from, isn't it? That's why you can't control my thread."
The eye moved between them, and for the first time, I saw something like reluctance.
"Yes," Lachesis said finally. "The Trimurti—Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva. They wield forces that predate our weaving. Creation, preservation, destruction on a cosmic scale. They do not bow to fate because they are fate in their realm. Dharma. Karma. Cycles beyond our authority."
"When they cast you here," Clotho added, her voice tight, "they cast something we cannot fully touch. Your thread carries their mark. The blood of Karna, son of Surya, warrior who defied destiny itself."
"That is why we cannot command you," Atropos said, and there was bitter resentment in her tone. "Why we can only... ask."
She made the word sound like poison.
"So I stay behind," I said. "Stay out of your carefully woven story. Let Percy face his trials alone."
"Yes," they said in unison.
"And what about me?" I asked. "What happens to the foreign thread? Do I just... exist here? Disrupting your tapestry by breathing?"
"You survive," Lachesis said. "Or you don't. We care not which."
"But stay away from our work," Clotho warned.
"Or we will find ways to make you regret it," Atropos added, "even if we cannot cut your thread."
The space began to fade.
But as it did, I understood something the Fates hadn't quite said aloud.
They couldn't control me. Couldn't command me. Could barely touch my thread.
Which meant...
If I was going to exist in a world where cosmic forces hated me for being here, where beings with the power to weave destiny itself saw me as an unwanted contamination...
I needed to become strong enough that their resentment didn't matter.
Strong enough to walk my own path regardless of their tapestry.
Strong enough to protect the people I cared about, even from the Fates themselves if necessary.
The realization settled in my chest like cold iron.
I wasn't going to disappear. Wasn't going to stay quietly in my corner.
But I needed power first. Real power.
Not to fight the Fates—that would be suicide.
But to be untouchable by them. To make myself so strong that their "ways to make me regret it" meant nothing.
The threads dissolved. The space between faded.
And their final words echoed as I fell back into sleep:
"Stay away from our work, foreign thread. This is your only warning."
Awakening
I jerked awake, gasping.
My room in the Big House. Dawn light streaming through the window. My sheets soaked with sweat.
I sat up slowly, ignoring the protest from my ribs.
The Fates. That had been real. Not a dream. A summoning.
And their message was clear: Stay away from Percy's quest. Your interference will kill him.
I looked at my hands. At the faint scars from hellhound bites that were already fading, courtesy of nectar and ambrosia.
I wasn't strong enough.
That was the core truth. I'd thrown myself at that monster battalion with everything I had, and I'd barely survived. Without Luke, Beckendorf, and Clarisse arriving when they did, I'd be dead.
The Fates were right about one thing: I needed to get stronger.
Much stronger.
If my presence here was going to cause ripples in their precious tapestry whether I wanted it or not, if I was going to be caught in conflicts between pantheons and cosmic forces...
Then I needed power. Real power. Not just enough to survive. Enough to protect. Enough to stand against threats I couldn't even imagine yet.
There was a knock on my door.
"Aditya?" Chiron's voice. "May I come in?"
I stood, pulled on a shirt. "Yeah."
Chiron entered in his wheelchair form, his expression serious.
"Percy is being given a quest," he said without preamble. "Zeus's master bolt has been stolen. Percy is accused. He must go west and retrieve it before the summer solstice, or there will be war among the gods."
My stomach dropped. "When does he leave?"
"Today. Within the hour." Chiron studied me. "He asked if you could accompany him."
"And you said no," I guessed.
"The Oracle's prophecy was specific. Three shall go west. Percy, Annabeth, and Grover." Chiron's eyes searched mine. "But I wanted to tell you myself. And to ask—why did you not kneel yesterday? When Poseidon claimed Percy?"
There it was. The question I'd known was coming.
"Because Poseidon isn't my god," I said simply. "Percy is my friend. I respect him. But I don't bow to the Greek pantheon."
"And why is that?"
I met his gaze. This ancient trainer of heroes. This immortal centaur who'd taught Achilles and Heracles and Jason.
"Because I serve different gods, Chiron. Walk a different path." I kept my voice steady. "And I think you've known that for a while now."
Chiron was quiet for a long moment.
"Yes," he said finally. "I have suspected. The way you move. The way you fight. Your armor, your powers—none of it matches any Greek demigod I've ever trained." He paused. "We need to talk, Aditya. About who you really are. Where you really come from."
"I know," I said. "But not today. Percy needs to leave. Needs to focus on his quest."
"Agreed." Chiron nodded. "But soon. This conversation is overdue."
He left.
I stood there in my room, watching the sun rise over Camp Half-Blood.
Percy was leaving on a quest that could start a war between gods.
The Fates had warned me to stay away or risk his death.
And Chiron was closing in on the truth of what I really was.
I needed to get stronger.
That was the only path forward I could see.
Train. Grow. Prepare.
END OF CHAPTER 8