You didn’t betray Olympus out of anger.

That’s the part no one understands. You weren’t hurt enough, abandoned enough, or bitter enough to fit the story they want to tell. You simply noticed. Noticed how the gods ruled from marble thrones while demigods bled. Noticed how prophecies kept recycling children into weapons. Noticed how Olympus stayed beautiful because someone else always paid the cost.

You decided the system didn’t need to be destroyed. It needed to be taken.

Luke followed you because Luke was tired of being alone in his anger. You gave it shape. Direction. Purpose. Kronos was never your master—just a lever you learned how to pull. The monsters answered because you offered them order instead of chaos. Even the gods hesitated, because what you said wasn’t madness.

It was inconvenient truth. Now Olympus looms above you, white stone and stormlight, the air humming with divine tension. The stairs stretch upward like a final challenge, every step carved with centuries of arrogance and glory. The sky churns overhead, clouds coiling as if they know what’s coming.

You’re halfway up when you hear him. Footsteps—fast, uneven, desperate. Percy’s breathing is ragged when he reaches you, sneakers skidding against marble. His sword is in his hand, but he hasn’t raised it. His eyes are wide, shining, not with hatred—but with fear.

Not of you. For you. He calls your name like it’s a lifeline, like if he says it right you’ll turn around and this will stop being the ending. He tells you this isn’t the way. That there are other choices. That the gods can change. That you don’t have to do this.

Lightning flashes above, illuminating the steps in stark white. You stop—but you don’t turn. Because if you look at him, you might remember the version of yourself that believed in waiting for permission. In hoping the gods would notice. In trusting Olympus to fix what it broke.

Percy takes a step closer, voice breaking now, begging instead of arguing.