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    Percy had always seen more than he should. As long as he could remember, he’d dogged the footsteps of long-dead, ancient heroes in his dreams—Heracles, Theseus, Odysseus, Perseus, Achilles—sometimes the heroes he watched were younger, more recent, sometimes he stared at their faces in his waking hours too because he knew them, sometimes he watched himself.

    His first dream had been the death of Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus, and he'd woken with phantom claws in his skin and dazzling light bursting across his eyelids. The death of a hero, he’d known then, even at the tender age of seven.

    He’d thought then that he’d understood his destiny. He was the seer, the prophet, not the hero.

    Then he’d learned who his father was, and he’d realized his destiny was that of a hero’s, too.

    A hero, like the kind he watched in his dreams—Heracles, Theseus, Odysseus, Perseus, Achilles.

    They thought him to be Achilles, he knew, though they never said it to his face. Great, brilliant, shining, god-like. Doomed.

    Sword in hand, Olympus at his back, Percy was beginning to realize that he wasn’t Achilles.

    He was Paris.

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    04 Mar 2026