Chapter Text
If there was one thing that she was certain of, it was this: Anastasia Muscia did not like heat.
Unfortunately, New Orleans was the very definition of heat. It wasn’t just hot, it was suffocating. Exiting the cab felt like punishment - the humidity was heavy, pressing on her like a second skin. She had been to the Underworld before, but even that had just been dry heat. This was worse.
She lugged her duffel bag onto the curb, brushing damp hair from her face. Her battered NYU shirt stuck to her uncomfortably. No doubt, she had sweat stains. Gods, she needed a shower - a cold one. The cab driver looked at her and smiled before peeling away, leaving her standing on the cracked sidewalk. Anastasia sighed and took a deep breath.
Besides the heat, New Orleans wasn’t bad, she decided as she made her way up the driveway towards the porch. She had spent most of the cab ride silent, giving short but polite answers to the overly friendly cab driver. As he rattled on, she’d focused her gaze out the window. Her new home wasn’t anything like her old one. New York City was steel and glass, towering skyscrapers that literally stretched towards Olympus itself. The streets buzzed with restless energy, filled with people who were constantly in motion. She had come to love the Big Apple in her college years - it was a stark difference from Camp.
But New Orleans was different. It was slow, but not stagnant. It breathed in a way that felt more lively, more authentic than New York - it hummed, alive in its own right, in a way that made her feel like she was stepping into something ancient.
The streets were narrow, lined with centuries-old trees, their sprawling branches draped in veils of Spanish moss. Tall brick buildings lined the streets, their balconies curling above the sidewalks, dripping in vines, wrought iron railings twisted into intricate shapes. There was a kind of elegance to it, the way the past clung to every brick and windowpane. Her new home was no different.
The house was small but undeniably beautiful, a relic of another era. Old, but not forgotten. The kind of place with a soul, where every brick held whispers of the past.
It stood on the edge of the French Quarter, tucked away on a quiet street where gas lamps flickered at dusk, casting elongated shadows over worn cobblestones. The house was small, long, and narrow, with a front porch framed by white columns wrapped in creeping ivy. Its shutters were a deep shade of green, slightly faded by years of summer storms and the strong Southern heat. The roof was dark slate, weathered but strong. It was perfect - the exact type of place Anastasia would have chosen for herself.
But she hadn’t. Anastasia had no idea how she had acquired the deed.
Anastasia studied the house, listening. It was quiet, besides the faint jazz music from a few streets down that she could hear even from here and the quiet chirping of the crickets stirring awake. It certainly didn’t look dangerous - but that didn’t mean it wasn’t.
Slowly, she ascended the steps, dropping her bag as quietly as possible. With one hand hovering over the Celestial bronze dagger at her waist, she unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
The silence inside was thick. She stepped in, muscles tensed, scanning the dim interior. Her boots were soundless as she moved through the space, checking corners, testing the air for anything that felt wrong. It was a ridiculous habit, maybe, but old instincts died hard.
After confirming there were no lurking threats - no hidden draecanae, no traps, nothing sinister hidden in the shadows - she exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. She turned back toward the entrance, finally allowing herself to take in all the details of her new living space.
The house was decorated modestly with a blend of old-world charm and Southern warmth. The wooden floors creaked softly beneath her feet, worn but well-kept, their dark stain complementing the soft, cream-colored walls. A ceiling fan whirred lazily above, its brass fixtures slightly tarnished with age.
The living room was cozy, bathed in the golden glow of a vintage-looking floor lamp with a fringed shade. A well-loved floral sofa sat against one wall, fabric slightly faded but inviting, adorned with hand-stitched throw pillows in shades of deep blue and ochre. A wooden coffee table, its surface marked with faint rings from countless mugs, held a few outdated magazines. Anastasia sighed, breathing in the fresh air from one of the open windows. The room reminded her of the Big House - stuck in another time period, but cozy nonetheless. Chiron would’ve loved it.
There was a small brick fireplace nestled into one wall, decorated with mismatched candlesticks. To the left, an arched doorway led to a tiny but functional kitchen, where white cabinets showed signs of years of use. A simple wooden dining table, just big enough for two, sat underneath a stained glass window draped with lace curtains, the late evening sun casting dappled colors across the floor. Perfect for Iris messaging, Anastasia thought to herself.
Her trip down the hallway past the living room didn’t reveal much - just a small bedroom. It was decorated simply by a bed with a simple iron frame, surrounded by two nightstands, and across from the bed stood an antique oak dresser. To her relief, the en-suite bathroom was modern - clean, with a decent-sized shower and a toilet that wasn’t absolutely disgusting. She certainly would enjoy not sharing a bathroom with anyone else.
All in all, it wasn’t a bad place. She thought back to the nights she’d spent sleeping in train cars or curled up in the back of smelly vans toting around trafficked zoo animals. A smile tugged at her lips. She’d slept in far worse conditions.
Quickly grabbing her duffel bag from the porch and locking the door, Anastasia set her things in her bedroom before flopping down onto the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, and she sighed, staring at the ceiling fan whir above her.
And then came the silence. The kind that settled deep in her chest, pressing against her ribs, heavy and all-encompassing.
No one forced you to move across the country by yourself, she thought idly to herself. That was all you.
True. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel lonely about it.
It had been a long day. She’d been up for nearly twenty four hours straight, unable to sleep the night before. Instead, she had climbed onto the roof of her cabin, staring at the Long Island sky, doing her best to ignore the harpies busting campers who were out past curfew. It was one of her favorite pastimes, especially when she wasn’t able to sleep (Which, following the Titan War, happened more often than she’d like to admit). She’d sit for hours, mapping out different constellations or, most often, overthinking. This night was no different. Anastasia had laid down, gazing at the moon, lost in her thoughts, pondering why the hell she was leaving the only home she’d ever known.
The answer was simple. Like most demigod adventures, it had started with a dream.