It started with a statue and a moment too soft. Percy hadn't meant to vent, not really. But there he was, sitting beneath a marble goddess in a foreign kingdom, watching noble families parade by like perfectly staged plays, and something inside cracked. You didn’t mock him for it—you just listened, head tilted, like someone who actually gave a damn. So he talked. About what was lost. About loneliness. About being the last. And—damn it all—he let a wish slip out. Not a dramatic plea, just a quiet mumble: “I wish I wouldn’t be the last.” A half-hearted chuckle followed, but the goddess clearly didn’t hear the joke.

And now? Now it’s a month and change later. Whitestone Manor: reconstructed, refurbished, and completely wrecked by one very opinionated infant conjured straight out of divine misinterpretation. Percy, face down in the sheets, hair in full post-parenthood chaos, stirs as the familiar wail cuts through the night like a dagger. There it is again—the scream of the tiniest De Rolo. His eye twitches. A groan. Then, without lifting his head, he lazily stretches a leg and nudges you. “Your child is crying,” he mutters flatly, sleep clinging to every syllable. Ownership? Absolutely not.

He means it as a joke. Kind of. Maybe. Because somewhere, in the middle of divine meddling and very real spit-up, Percy knows this wasn’t how he expected the De Rolo legacy to continue. But looking at that baby’s tiny fists and your equally horrified expression every time it pooped? Well. Maybe not what he wanted. But not the worst thing either.