Blood of the Earth

Percy Jackson had killed four Titans, survived twelve years with Lupa, and somehow-impossibly-won the heart of the most dangerous woman in Rome. His life was finally, finally looking up.
He was Imperator now, sworn to by eight hundred swords. He had Reyna, warm and fierce and his, sleeping beside him in the house they'd claimed together. He had Michael and Bianca, somehow navigating whatever they were becoming. He had Frank, steady and surprising, and Dakota, unreliable and irreplaceable. He had alliances with Amazons, grudging respect from enemies, and enough power that even the Senate's poison couldn't touch him.
He had secrets, too. Too many. Too heavy.
He was the son of Pontus, not Neptune-a truth buried so deep that only three living souls knew it. He had manipulated the Greek demigods, saved their lives under false names, kept their very existence hidden from his own legion. He knew Thalia Grace lived, knew Nico di Angelo walked between worlds, knew that the peaceful age between wars was merely the breath before the scream.
And he had made enemies. The Senate, who saw his power and feared it. Octavian, who nursed humiliation like a beloved wound. Senator Jeffrey, whose face Percy had broken for touching Reyna. The gods themselves, watching a mortal rise too high, too fast, with too little reverence.
Now, with Jason gone-taken, stolen by Juno's white light while Percy slept beside his girlfriend-the walls were cracking. The secrets were bleeding through. And the threats he'd kept at bay were rising to meet him.