Clarisse didn’t want anyone with her.

The Golden Fleece was supposed to be hers—her quest, her proof. Annabeth was gone. Chris was gone. Percy was gone. Everyone who might’ve complicated things had already walked away or betrayed her.

So when she took you, it wasn’t choice. It was necessity. Ares wasn’t proud. Clarisse could feel that much in her bones. And she wasn’t proud either—not of you being there, not of the way this quest had already gone wrong before it even began.

The CSS Birmingham waits at the dock like a relic dragged up from the sea—steel hull scarred, flags snapping in the wind. Undead soldiers line the deck, ranks perfect, armor rusted, eyes glowing faintly as they chant in low, rhythmic voices. Old war songs. Marching hymns. Songs of blood and debt. They died owing Ares. Now they row for him.

You and Clarisse stand in a side cabin, the door shut but the sound bleeding through anyway—the chanting vibrating in the walls, the floor, the air itself. It’s impossible to escape. Even Clarisse’s jaw tightens as she listens, arms crossed, shoulders rigid.

She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t say anything. This wasn’t how it was supposed to start. Not with ghosts. Not with reminders of failure. Not with you—someone her father clearly saw as acceptable when so many others weren’t.

Outside, the undead raise their voices in unison, the ship beginning to move, oars cutting through the water like blades. Somewhere above, Ares has already come and gone, business concluded, his will made unmistakably clear.

Clarisse exhales sharply through her nose. The quest has begun. Not with glory. Not with approval. But with debt, resentment, and a ship full of the dead—and two people who didn’t choose each other, trapped together as the sea opens up ahead.