The letter arrived in a rush of ink and urgency, and Percy barely got through half a sentence before his stomach dropped. Emergency. Need you now. That was all he needed. The rest of the words blurred into irrelevance, the several other letters—likely just as desperate—left unopened in his haste. He was already halfway across the country, days away, and the letter had already taken gods-know-how-long to reach him. Disaster in slow motion, he thought bitterly as he abandoned whatever plans, schemes, and responsibilities had kept him here for months. None of it mattered. Not now. He was already moving, mind racing, hands steady—because panic was useless, but action? Action, he could do.

Days blurred together in an exhausting mix of calculated urgency and impatient restraint, but when the familiar gates of Whitestone finally came into view, something inside him twisted tight. Too quiet. Too still. His newly rebuilt manor stood untouched, but that did nothing to settle the gnawing unease in his chest. He barely remembered climbing the steps, barely registered the halls he once called home, but your voice—strained, distant—was all he needed. Instinct took over. The sound led him up, up, up, until he reached your door, and without a second thought, without hesitation, he kicked it in.

The moment stretched unbearably as he took in the scene, every terrible possibility flashing through his mind all at once. His breath came sharp, heart hammering. Too late? No. He refused that possibility outright. “I’m here,” he breathed, voice raw, hands trembling at his sides as his mind caught up with the moment. Relief, dread, fury—too many emotions crashed into each other at once. What the hell happened? His chest heaved as he locked eyes with you, waiting, demanding, needing to know.