A web of fates | Percy Jackson and the Olympians

XXII| the gods grant a new life

One thing you should know about Daphne Evans?

She despises death and all that surrounds it.

From a tender age, death had woven itself into the fabric of her life, not as a distant concept, but as a cruel, repeating pattern. The first sting had been the quiet passing of her beloved childhood dog, a fluffy golden retriever whose warm fur and unconditional gaze were suddenly, impossibly, gone.

Then, a deeper, more shattering blow: the slow, agonizing decline and eventual silence of her mother, leaving behind an echoing void that no amount of time could truly fill. Each loss, a fresh wound, layered grief upon pain, etching itself into the very marrow of her young, developing soul, fostering a bitter, deeply personal resentment for the inevitability of it all.

The cacophony and carnage of the Battle of Manhattan, however, had hammered her disdain into an iron-hard conviction. The city, once a vibrant pulse of life, had become a graveyard, echoing with screams and the metallic clang of swords.

The sight of fallen demigods, their eyes staring blankly at the smoke-choked sky, was an unending torment. It wasn't just the sheer scale of the casualties; it was the brutal, undeniable finality of each life extinguished.

Every still form, every fading breath, every choked sob of a survivor served as a stark, horrifying mirror, reflecting her own precarious mortality and the terrifying fragility of existence itself. It left her not just uneasy, but perpetually on edge, a raw nerve exposed to the biting wind of fate, an almost pathological fear of the ultimate goodbye.

And yet, in a paradox that gnawed at her very core, even as Daphne's fingers tightened around the hilt of the poisoned dagger – a weapon meant to bring about that very finality – she still despised death with every fibre of her being. The war, a relentless grinder of spirits, had utterly drained her, leaving her hollowed out, bone-weary, and infinitely fragile. All she craved was peace, an end to the ceaseless struggle, the constant threat. And hadn't death, in its own bleak way, promised just that?

Death.

The word itself was a stark, unadorned period at the end of a sentence. It was the ultimate cessation, the quiet surrender of breath, the abrupt severing of all earthly ties. A grim prospect, yes, but for a soul as burdened as hers, it held a perverse allure. For in its cold embrace lay the promise of absolute stillness, an escape from the relentless, grinding cycle of pain that had defined her existence.

For Daphne, death was the ultimate paradox: a hateful entity that was also a desperate solace. It was both an escape from the relentless pain and suffering of the mortal world and a profound, irreversible surrender to its finality.

It was an end to the clamour of battle, the gnawing anxiety of prophecy, the bone-deep weariness of constant vigilance. The silence death offered felt like a balm to her scarred spirit, a quiet harbour from the storm that had been her life, a final, definitive period mark at the end of a long, arduous sentence.

Yet, the very thought of embracing this peace also ripped through her with a profound, chilling emptiness. It meant extinguishing the possibility of future sunrises, the warmth of genuine laughter, the tender caress of love, the simple, quiet joys she had glimpsed but rarely fully grasped.

It was a final, irreversible farewell to the scent of pine, the taste of nectar, the vibrant symphony of existence. It was the surrender of the opportunity to experience life's unpredictable beauty, its fleeting moments of pure, unadulterated joy. It was a final goodbye to the world and all that it offered, a closing of the curtain before the final act.

But then, her gaze locked with Theo's – eyes that held the universe of what her aching heart yearned for – and swept across the faces of her remaining friends, their expressions etched with hope, fear, and defiant resolve.