𝓟𝓻𝓪𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓪 - (𝓟.𝓙𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼𝓸𝓷)

02.

vol i
➵ chapter two ➵

For Percy Jackson, the next few days are torture. He can't help but feel...embarrassed. Ashamed even. The comments from other campers have affected him greatly. Suddenly, he isn't the cool guy who'd retrieved Zeus' lightning bolt last summer. Now he was the poor schmuck with the ugly monster for a brother.

Annabeth had tried to make him feel better. Suggesting they team up for the chariot race to take their minds off their problems. And yet their conversations had only led to more, ending only in arguments.
He couldn't understand her dislike for Tyson. Or Cyclopes' in general. And so ended their partnership.

There were only two people at camp who had no problem with Tyson at all. The first was Beckendorf from the Hephaestus cabin. The blacksmith god had always worked with Cyclops in his forges, so Beckendorf took Tyson down to the armoury to teach him metalworking. The boy claimed he'd have Tyson crafting magic items like a master in no time.

The other was, surprisingly, Helia. The girl seemed to have respect for Tyson due to his actions on Half-Blood Hill. In her eyes, he was a hero, having inadvertently helped in saving the camp (even though the cyclops had only really been interested in saving one person).

The daughter of Apollo made a conscious effort to berate those who made any comments about the Cyclops, and the obvious standing she had at the camp made a difference in how often Percy received them.
He'd taken to training with her cabin; even though he should have been testing himself against the Ares and Athena, he had no interest in doing so.

It was clear that certain Apollo children were more inclined to combat than others. And even then, none of them were adept at swordplay, their obvious strength being archery.

Well, apart from Helia. There's no doubting she's the best archer at camp; her aim is impossibly perfect—frustratingly so, the girl never misses, but Gods, can she do everything.
She moves like she's born to hold a sword. Or any weapon. You could confuse her for a child of Ares with how adept she is at warfare.

Her pace is unbeatable, and the speed of her movements is so completely incomprehensible. You can't even get anywhere close to her. Her feet beat the ground like a dancer but are never entirely still.

Every time Percy works out in the arena with the Apollo cabin, he leaves sweating profusely. He just can't understand her—a complete marvel.
Lee Fletcher had caught him once, after he had only just beaten the girl in their latest bout. "You look exhausted."
"I am. She's just–"
"Incredible. Believe me, we know. There's never been a demi-god child of Apollo like her. We aren't meant to be warriors; we're far more suited to other avenues. But with the blood flowing through her veins, it's no surprise."

Percy stands, eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Lee stares back at him, confused. "Well, practically her entire family line is made up of warriors. You know who her ancestor is, right?"
Percy shakes his head. Had he missed something?
"Percy, she's descended from Achilles."

The son of Poseidon stills. "The Achilles? Aristos Achaion. The best of the Greeks."
Lee laughs, "The very same. She has his miraculous speed and battle prowess."
Well, that explains everything.

"It's funny, really. Our father had a part to play in his death—he directed Paris' arrow. And now the sun god has been blessed with a daughter from his line. The most like him, no less. The very first demi-god with the ability of photokinesis."