"The first thing I'll chop off is that nasty mouth of yours," Eternity growled, her voice like grinding stones.
"It's pretty clean, actually," I said, flashing what I hoped was a winning smile. "I make sure I brush my teeth twice every day. Floss, too. Even while questing. You'd be surprised how much gingivitis can ruin the vibe of a journey. I actually have this magical toothbrush in my bag that plays Top 40 hits while you scrub—"
I was interrupted by a sharp snap of Eternity's fingers. A sheath materialized in her arms.
Well, I thought, at least she uses a weapon I'm familiar with. Swords I can do. Swords don't usually explode or turn me into a hamster.
Both the hilt and the metal sheath were forged from something deeper than night black. It reminded me of the heavy, suffocating fog that had obscured the primordial on her throne earlier. It wasn't just dark; it was the absence of light. Silver engravings pulsed through the metal's grain, looking less like decoration and more like a nervous system. They stretched and reconnected in shifting geometric patterns, breathing with a life of their own.
It was terrifying, but in that train-wreck sort of way where you can't look away. It pulled at the corners of my vision, a hypnotizing void that seemed to whisper promises of quiet and cold. It felt ancient. Not 'museum ancient,' but 'before the concept of time' ancient. Standing near it made my skin prickle, like the air pressure had suddenly dropped before a tornado touched down.
I was definitely jealous.
Then, Eternity unsheathed it.
It was a four-foot monstrosity. A double-bladed nightmare made of a sheet of metal that looked as thin as printer paper. But my gut told me that the blade would never break. It would never chip, never dull, and never scratch. It was immortal.
But the craziest part? The entire blade glowed a radioactive red. It hummed in the silent air, a low frequency that rattled my teeth, demanding to be the center of the universe.
"Nice weapon," I quipped, though my throat felt dry. "But . . . isn't it a little . . . too much? Kind of overcompensating for something?"
The tip of the blade hovered a good few inches above her head. For anyone else, that would be unwieldy, like trying to swing a stop sign. But she held it comfortably with one hand, the way I'd hold Riptide in pen form.
Of course it's not her size, End's voice growled in the back of my mind. Because it's my weapon.
I was about to ask why End, a cosmic entity, would use such a cruel-looking cheese slicer. But then I paused.
The thought of her wielding a normal weapon—something mundane like bronze or steel—felt ridiculous. It would be like a lion trying to use a fork. End was more aggressive than Zeus could ever be.
Weapons weren't just a tool; they were an extension of your will. And looking at it now, in the hands of her sister, felt wrong. Like seeing a stranger wearing your best friend's favorite hoodie, only the hoodie can sever souls.
You said she's only strong because of your weapon, I projected the thought inward. So if I disarm her, I'll have a better chance, right?
One hundred percent, she replied, her mental voice tight with suppressed rage. Get Thanakrys back.
Thanakrys. The Death Blade. Subtle naming conventions clearly weren't a priority for Primordials. It really sounded like a heavy metal band.
It has to have some kind of power, I thought. Anything I should be careful of? Or should I just wing it and hope for the best, which is my usual strategy?
YOU ARE READING
The Spirits of the Universe (PJO)
Fan-FictionPercy Jackson is tired. Tired of the frivolous battles. Tired of all the quests. Tired from the countless deaths. But when something devastating hits home, he knows he's tired of another thing: the entire Greek world. And when two voices appear, he...
