The Moon And The Sea

The forest was quiet. Too quiet.

Somewhere in the deep wilds of Northern California, where the trees whispered old secrets and the stars could still be seen through cracks in the canopy, a god hunted.

Artemis moved like moonlight over still water-silent, untouchable, and resolute. The silver glow of her bow shimmered in the darkness, the string drawn taut with celestial bronze. Around her, the leaves barely rustled. Not even the wind dared disturb her hunt.

She didn't need to look behind her to know her Hunters flanked her, spread out like ghostly sentinels, their eyes sharp and unblinking. Tonight, they tracked something unnatural-a drakon whose blood had seeped into the soil, turning the roots black and the air bitter. Another horror let loose by Kronos' growing power.

But Artemis felt something else in the woods.

Something familiar.

"Hold," she whispered, and the command rippled through the trees. Every Hunter froze.

That was when she heard it-the faint crack of a branch behind her. Not the sound of prey.

The sound of someone following.

A heartbeat later, the trees parted, and out stumbled a figure she had not seen in nearly a season.

Percy Jackson.

Soaked, scraped, half-frozen, and bleeding from a cut above his brow. His sword, Riptide, was clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He looked like he'd swum through Tartarus and barely lived to tell about it.

"Artemis," he said, voice hoarse. "We need to talk."

She didn't lower her bow.

She didn't blink.

But her eyes-those silver, ancient eyes-narrowed slightly.

"You should not be here, son of Poseidon."

"I know," Percy said. "But I didn't have a choice."