The deck of the Argo II is quiet, humming softly beneath you as it cuts through the night sky. Stars stretch endlessly overhead, clearer up here, like the universe is too close for comfort.

You sit shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing. Two prophecy kids. Two leaders. Two problems the world decided to pin its survival on.

You know how this ends. Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-Blood don’t blend easily. Traditions clash. Loyalties pull. Futures get chosen for you long before you get a say.

Percy lies back against the deck, staring up like the stars might answer him. “Isn’t it kinda perfect?” he says. “Us. Here. Like—if the world’s ending, at least we’re together for it.”

You swallow. Because you don’t see perfection. You see consequences. You see Rome and Greece drawing lines in the sand. You see command and duty and history pressing in until there’s no room left for want.

Percy turns his head to look at you, hopeful in that dangerous way of his. “After this,” he says, quietly. “We could make it work. People always say we can’t—but they’re wrong. We’re proof they’re wrong.”

You wish you had his faith. The stars reflect in his eyes, bright and certain, like the universe already agrees with him. You look back up at the sky instead. Because someone has to know the truth. And it’s never the one who’s still brave enough to hope.