missarcanee
"Long before the first blade was raised, the Fates had already drawn blood."
Serena Vale comes to Camp Half-Blood beneath a sky that feels too heavy with meaning, as though the air itself remembers wars long forgotten. The borders still stand and the fires still burn, but the land hums with unease, threads of destiny pulled too tight, stretched thin by the hands that wove them.
The gods remain distant, their voices scattered like echoes across centuries. Monsters stir where they once slept. Old loyalties begin to erode, not through open conflict, but through silence and doubt, where even truth feels unreliable.
Percy has survived prophecy and defied expectation, yet this time the future refuses to reveal its shape. The signs are not carved into stone or whispered in dreams, they surface slowly, in fractures and omens, in the growing realization that some paths are set in motion long before anyone chooses to walk them.
As mortal will and divine design begin to blur, Serena and Percy stand at the center of a gathering storm, not as champions summoned by fate, but as witnesses to its slow unfolding. What binds them is not certainty, but the understanding that every step forward carries a cost already accounted for.
This is not the story of when war begins.
It is the story of how it has always been waiting.
Because some destinies do not arrive with thunder or flame.
They move quietly, patiently, through the veins of the world, until there is nothing left untouched.