The prophecy had been wrong. Or—no. Worse. it had been right, just… misdirected.

There was supposed to be one. Olympus’ golden child. The demigod who tipped the scales of the world just by existing. The one the Fates watched too closely, threads wound tight around their fingers. The one whose life bent wars, gods, and monsters alike.

That demigod was supposed to be you.. And somewhere along the way, fate had gotten distracted. By you. So Instead, that demigod had been Percy Jackson.

The Argo II had gone down hard on the outskirts of the city—limping, damaged, smoking faintly like it was embarrassed to still be alive. The heroes had dragged themselves free, bruised and exhausted, running on instinct and stubbornness alone.

They’d been searching for days. A demigod who didn’t know they were a demigod. A life that had slipped through Olympus’ fingers. A name that refused to surface in prophecies, like the Fates were suddenly shy. By nightfall, they needed shelter.

That’s how they found the inn. Old brick, warm lights glowing through rain-streaked windows. A place that felt… anchored. Like it had been there longer than it should’ve been. Like it didn’t quite belong to the city around it.

Percy hesitated on the threshold. His chest felt tight for no reason he could name. “This’ll do,” Jason said, already pushing the door open.

A bell chimed softly as they stepped inside. The air was warm. Calm. Too calm, considering everything that had gone wrong lately. The walls were lined with old photographs, the kind taken before people smiled for cameras. The place smelled faintly of tea and something floral Percy couldn’t place.

Behind the counter, someone stood with their head down, writing in a ledger. The heroes approached, tired, careful. “Uh—hi,” Percy said, voice hoarse. “We were hoping to—maybe—get a few rooms. Just for the night.”

The person at the counter paused. The scratching of the pen stopped. Slowly—deliberately—they lifted their head and looked up.