For as long as history could remember, the Kingdom of Solis had never bowed to famine, plague or the old gods when they demanded blood from daughters and called it the supposed duty of women.

And certainly not to the seas.

Your kingdom stood where the sun touched first. At the highest crest of the southern cliffs, where the mountains broke into gold-veined stone and warm rivers ran like melted amber through the valleys below, Solis rose in white marble and sunlight. Its palace—Helion Keep—sat upon the highest point of the capital, carved into the mountain itself, where your family had decided it belonged accordingly.

From your chambers, the entire kingdom unfolded beneath you.

Terraced gardens spilled down the cliffs in levels of jasmine and ivory roses. Long bridges of pale stone connected towers crowned with the gold of the sun. Markets below shimmered with silks dyed saffron, crimson, and royal blue. Even the guards looked as though they had been painted there— with bronze armors polished beneath the afternoon and spears gleaming like second sons of the sun.

Nothing in Solis fitted the word subtle. Your mother used to say that subtlety was for kingdoms with something to hide.

Solis had power and power deserved spectacle.

Which was why your bedroom ceiling had been painted like the heavens themselves.

You stared at it now from your chaise lounge, one silk-slippered foot dangling over the edge, a book forgotten in your lap as your ladies fluttered uselessly around the room.

“My lady—” “No.”

“Just hear—” “No.”

Lyra, your longest-suffering handmaid, pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You have not even heard what I was going to say.”

“I know enough from your face to know I dislike it.”

“But my lady—.”

“Maybe I'll ask Father to cut off your head if you keep talking,” was your last reply before opening again the neglected book.

Beyond the open balcony doors, warm wind stirred the gauze curtains, carrying the scent of orange blossom from the lower gardens. Somewhere in the palace courtyard, musicians were rehearsing for the evening banquet.

As soon as your ears heard your mind translated it to nobles and diplomacy matters which = your father was about to ruin your day.

You sat upright. “Who has arrived?”

Lyra hesitated and immediately, your stomach dropped.

“My lady—”

In a second you were crawling between the no-longer-so-tidy sheets of your enormous bed, trying to escape any responsibility that might be placed on your shoulders that very night.

“Tell Father I have died.”

The door to your chambers opened.

Your father, King Helios III of Solis, entered with those golden robes that didn't help to walk, ceremonial rings and the expression of a ruler carrying the weight of six hundred years of war and at least three immediate headaches. (Mind you, you were one of them.)

“Father.” You said, voice muffled by the sheets.

He sat next to you, uncovering and holding your cheeks. “My sun flower.”

“Before we begin, I would like it noted that I may be against this conversation.”

“That saves us both time.”

Wasn't that wonderful? Your kind father wasn't going to torture you for long, only as long as necessary.

You narrowed your eyes. “Who is here?”

He did not answer, a bad sign already. Instead, he studied you with the same expression he wore over battlefield maps.

“The delegation from Atlantis arrived this morning.”

Your father continued, because tyranny now extended into parenting. “Their High Council has requested formal peace negotiations.”

“No.”

Well, that was your favorite word today, wasn't it?

“And proposed a political union between our kingdoms.”

His voice remained maddeningly calm but across the room, even Lyra looked like she wanted to flee.

Marriage to Atlantis.

To the kingdom that had spent centuries raiding your ports, destroying your fleets, and sending awful diplomats.

Your father stood by the open balcony doors, where the last of the evening light poured gold across the marble floor and turned the edges of his robes to fire, and for a long moment he said nothing at all, as though he were deciding which version of the truth a daughter deserved—the one told to princesses, fit for history books, or the one reserved for kings, heavy with graves and numbers and the kind of silence left behind after battlefields emptied.

You didn't need to hear the histories again.

For as long as memory had been kept in ink, the Kingdom of Solis and the Kingdom of Atlantis had belonged to one another only in violence.

No historian could agree upon where it had begun.

Some claimed it was the pride—that ancient kings, both too proud to bend and too convinced the gods themselves favored their bloodlines, had turned a bunch of differences into a holy inheritance of hatred. Others insisted it had been love, which was to your eyes eugh; a Solis princess promised to an Atlantean prince centuries ago, drowned before the wedding could take place, her death blamed upon betrayal, her body never returned. There were old songs still sung by servants in the lower kitchens that spoke of storms swallowing ships in mourning and the sea refusing to calm for an entire year.

Your tutors preferred politics.

Trade routes, they said, while pacing before maps stretched across classroom walls, fingers pressing into painted oceans and mountain borders. Salt and grain. Ports and taxes. Control of the eastern coast. Access to the southern straits. Men liked to call war honorable when it was always about ownership.

As a child, you had preferred the pride story. It felt more according to your personality .

Less pathetic than admitting entire kingdoms had slaughtered one another for generations over shipping rights or over the incident of a princess.

Regardless of how it had begun, by the time you were born, hatred was tradition and lived in the palace walls as naturally as sunlight did.

You learned it in stories told by your nursemaid while she brushed your hair before bed, tales of sea-born princes with smiles like sharpened knives and queens who lured sailors into drowning with songs sweet enough to make men forget they had lungs. Or in the way servants spat over their shoulders whenever Atlantean ambassadors were mentioned, as though the very name invited misfortune.

You learned it in your first history lessons, seated far too straight at ten years old while your instructor, old and severe and permanently offended by joy, pointed to battlefields on maps and recited casualty numbers as though they were scripture.

You too knew your great-uncle had died on the western fleet before you really understood what fleets were. You knew your grandmother still refused pearls because they reminded her of Atlantean royal gifts sent during failed negotiations thirty years before. You knew there were entire wings of the palace where portraits had been removed because the people in them had been lost to the war and your mother could not bear to look at the empty spaces their absence left behind.

Even celebration was about that hate.

Victory festivals filled the capital with gold banners and music and dancers in the streets, but always there was the undercurrent—that joy only existed because somewhere else, someone had been defeated.

Atlantis—always Atlantis—remained something distant and monstrous, less a kingdom and more a threat given architecture.

You imagined it often as a child.

Not as it truly was, but as children imagine enemies when they have only stories to build from. A place of endless storms and black oceans, where the sky was always bruised and the people had blue blood.

Their cities were rumored to be carved from the ocean floor itself, their palaces built into cliffs black with salt and age, their people born from sea water and tempers to match.

As a child, you had believed every ridiculous whisper.

That they slept in flooded chambers beneath the moon. That their royal family could call hurricanes with prayer alone. Even that if an Atlantean kissed your hand, your lungs would fill with seawater and scales would sprout all over your body!

You were embarrassingly old before you stopped half-believing Atlanteans did all this stuff.

Outside, a thunder rolled softly somewhere beyond the southern mountains.

Your father had been talking and you heard nothing, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The war has lasted longer than your grandmother’s reign. Our soldiers are exhausted. Trade routes are broken. We can't rebuild villages faster than they can be burned. Every season costs us more lives.”

You crossed your arms resigning yourself to listening to your father's words.

“And who, exactly, is the unfortunate sea creature demanding my hand?”

“Prince Perseus Jackson.”

Prince Perseus Jackson—the heir of Atlantis, called the Tide Prince by enemies and far less flattering names by your generals. Commander of fleets. Breaker of the Eastern Siege.

Oh merciful gods, this could still be a bad joke!

You had believed, with certainty at thirteen, that Prince Perseus had the head of a fish, and not in the metaphorical way.

You remembered announcing this with confidence at breakfast, explaining to your mother that it was the only reasonable explanation for why no formal portrait of him had ever reached Solis, and if the Sea Kingdom was so determined to hide their prince, clearly it was because he had scales and unblinking eyes and perhaps gills where a proper neck ought to be.

Your brother laughed so hard he nearly choked on fruit.

Your mother, with the kind of patience only queens and saints possessed, had simply informed you that royal diplomacy would be significantly more difficult if you insisted on addressing the foreign prince as trout.

Finally the King moved toward the door.

“The formal announcement will not be made until tomorrow evening. You have tonight.”

“For what?”

“To decide whether you will make this difficult with dignity,” He opened the door to get going. “…or dramatically, which I assume is your preference.”

Lyra approached carefully, like one might approach a wild animal considering arson.

“My lady?”

You turned slowly. “If I throw myself from the balcony, do you think they will still make me attend dinner?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

This was tragic.

You walked to the balcony, gripping the stone rail.

Far beyond the golden city, beyond the cliffs and the rivers and the sunlit valleys of Solis, the sea stretched blue and endless toward a kingdom you had never seen.

Somewhere beyond that horizon was the man who apparently intended to marry you.

That same afternoon you were given a letter with the Jackson house seal. It was a deep blue color with subtle marine details embedded in silver ink.

You opened the seal with a small knife, considering at some point using it to tear the paper and send it back to him like that.

The parchment was expensive, thick and smooth beneath your hands, edged in so much silver ink it felt unnecessarily elegant. Even his stationery was smug.

You unfolded the letter slowly, suspicious already.

You expected some beautifully phrased threat disguised as diplomacy, or even the arrogance a lot of men used.

What you did not expect was this:

Dear future wife,

I was informed—repeatedly, and with great suffering on all sides—that it would be politically beneficial for me to write to you before our families force us into the same room. Apparently silence is considered poor courtship over Solis.

I argued that forced marriage should excuse a lack of romance, but your future in-laws are, unfortunately, optimists.

So.

Hello.

By now, I assume your father has explained the arrangement, and I imagine your reaction was somewhere between dignified outrage and the active consideration of murder. If so, I find that deeply reassuring. I would be concerned if you accepted this.

I am told you dislike my kingdom.

In fairness, the feeling is mutual, so at least we begin with honesty.

I know what Solis says of Atlantis. I imagine I have horns by now. Possibly scales. Someone, somewhere, has likely informed you I keep drowned sailors in the palace walls and sharpen swords on their bones.

For the record, only one of those things is true.

I will not insult you by pretending this marriage is romantic.

It is political, inconvenient, and being treated by every advisor around me as though it is the personal triumph of diplomacy itself, which should tell you how unbearable my week has been.

But it may also keep our kingdoms from spending another hundred years trying to bury each other, and I am selfish enough to think that sounds preferable.

You should also know that I did attempt to refuse.

This was received badly.

Mostly because I offered no convincing reason beyond “I would rather not.”

Apparently that is not how treaties work, my future queen princess.

So here we are.

I know enough about you to suspect you are proud, difficult, and entirely too intelligent to tolerate fools for long, which means we may survive this if I am careful and if you are feeling unusually merciful.

I will offer one promise, since everyone else seems determined to offer you expectations.

I do not intend to make a prisoner of you.

If this marriage happens—and it will, because neither of us is being consulted nearly enough—I will not ask for sweetness where there is none, nor obedience where it is not deserved.

That feels, at the very least, like fairer warfare.

Until we meet,

Prince Perseus Jackson.

P.S.

If anyone has told you I have the head of a fish, I regret to inform you the rumor is false. I am unfortunately very handsome.

—

Well, that last part was reassuring if we ignored how narcissistic those last words were. So your future husband was going to be the enemy army general? This could cause a scandal throughout the kingdom.

The next morning arrived with all the grace of an execution as the formal announcement was to be made by sunset which meant, according to the women of the palace, that your suffering needed to begin at dawn.

You were woken not by sunlight, nor birdsong, nor any peaceful luxury afforded to a princesses in a sentimental poem, but by the violent betrayal of curtains being thrown open and six women entering your chambers.

You opened one eye.

“Noooo, five more hours.”

“It is too late for no,” Lyra informed you, crossing the room with the merciless efficiency of a woman who had planned your downfall in advance. “The ambassadors have arrived, your father has requested your presence by evening, the entire court talking about the most scandalous political arrangement of the decade, and Lady Cassandra has already selected your gowns.”

You pulled the pink silk sheets over your head. “Tell them I drowned in cushions.”

“Given the circumstances, that may be interpreted as an insult.”

Fantastic.

You emerged from the blankets with all the dignity of a martyr and stared at the room now transformed into your own personal execution.

Your dressing table had disappeared beneath brushes, combs, perfumes, pins, ribbons, jewels, and enough cosmetics to prepare five royal engagements. Two younger maids were carrying in fresh basins of steaming water scented with lavender and orange blossom. Another stood near the wardrobe, holding garments draped over both arms like ceremonial offerings to an unwilling goddess (you).

At the center of it all stood Lady Cassandra, the royal dressmaker, who regarded human emotion as a minor inconvenience beneath the importance of her tailoring.

An hour later, you were regretting every decision that had led you to birth.

Your hair had been washed in rosewater and combed until your scalp hurt. Your skin had been rubbed with oils that smelled faintly of jasmine. Someone had forced tea into your hands while another woman debated with Lady Cassandra about the dress options.

You sat before the great mirror of the room while half the palace adjusted your existence around you.

“I don't like this,” you muttered as one maid fastened a bracelet around your wrist while another argued over pearls.

You met your own reflection.

Princesses, you had decided long ago, were merely decorations for the palace too.

Everything about the royal presentation was important. From the colors you wore, the stones at your throat, the embroidery at your hem— they were literally selling you out in the eyes of the enemy kingdom.

Unfortunately, Lady Cassandra agreed on that.

She approached carrying the gown and for one terrible moment, you forgot how to speak.

It was blue.

Not the pale blue of spring skies or harmless ribbons, but the deep, impossible blue of the sea just before a storm—the kind sailors prayed to and feared in equal measure. Rich silk spilled like water between her hands, layered with silver-thread embroidery that caught the light like moonlight on waves.

At the bodice, delicate patterns of curling foam and cresting tides had been stitched so finely they seemed alive, winding around your waist and ribs. Tiny freshwater pearls had been sewn into the design too—not enough to seem excessive, but enough that when you moved, they shimmered like drops of sea spray.

The sleeves were long and sheer, trailing at the wrists in translucent silk, while the skirts fell in heavy folds that whispered over the marble floor. At the neckline, subtle silver beading formed the shape of stars and compass points.

The maids moved quickly after that, slipping the gown over your shoulders, fastening hidden closures, smoothing every line until the dress sat against you like a second skin.

It was beautiful and that made you hate it immediately because it suited you.

The blue made your skin glow warm beneath the sunlight and turned the gold in your jewelry brighter and the silver embroidery made you look like a princess being offered to make peace.

Lyra stepped beside you, adjusting the final necklace at your throat—a collar of moonstone and white gold, elegant and cool against your skin.

“Well,” she said softly, studying your reflection with the satisfaction of an artist admiring finished work, “if Prince Percy does not fall in love with you tonight, I shall consider it a insult to the crown.”

You gave her a flat look.

“If Prince Perseus falls in love with me tonight, I will push him into the nearest fountain.”

“That's a romantic beginning.”

“A necessary drowning.”

She laughed, and for a moment, so did you until the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor met your doors, by the sort of hushed excitement that only meant one thing.

Someone important had arrived.

You were seated before your mirror while two women debated whether your sleeves required more silver threading when the youngest maid in the room, Elia, abandoned all dignity entirely and rushed toward the balcony windows.

“He’s here.”

“Who,” you asked dryly, though everyone knew exactly who we were talking about.

Elia turned, eyes wide with scandal and delight.

“The Atlantean prince. Their carriage just passed the east gates.”

Half the maids abandoned all pretenses of professionalism and hurried toward the balcony like birds fleeing toward gossip, gathering at the stone rail with urgency. Even Lyra, who prided herself on dignity, and Lady Cassandra, who claimed not to care and still somehow arrived there first.

You remained seated for precisely three seconds before your own curiosity betrayed you.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, standing while your hands worked on your hair.

“Completely,” Lyra agreed, already pulling you with her. “Move.”

The balcony overlooked the eastern approach to Helion Keep, where the long marble road curved upward from the city gates through the royal gardens and into the palace courtyards below. From here, on clearer days, you could see nearly half the capital— with gold rooftops, white towers and fountains catching the sunlight.

Now, all you could see was a gathering.

Guards lined the lower courtyard in ceremonial armor; servants moved like frantic ants between columns; even stable hands lingered near the entrance steps, pretending not to stare.

And there, at the center of it all the carriage.

It was impossible to mistake.

Dark as stormwater, polished to a shine that reflected the palace walls around it, the royal carriage of Atlantis stood waiting beneath the archway like a threat wrapped in elegance. Silver detailing curved along its sides in patterns like waves and sea serpents, and the crest upon its door gleamed unmistakably.

Sea-blue banners shifted from its frame in the warm wind with the house mark and the horses were enormous, black and restless, their bridles silver-chained and immaculate.

“I expected something with more fish.”

“Perhaps the fish are inside.”

Elia gasped. “Do you think he really has scales?”

Below, palace officials were gathering near the carriage entrance. Your father stood at the front of them, beside him stood your brother, looking far too entertained by the entire affair.

What a traitor of a brother you had.

One of the younger maids whispered reverently, “Do you think he is handsome?”

Another replied, “I think if he survives meeting her highness, that will be impressive enough.”

One way or another, you didn't get much closer to the balcony like the rest of the maids; only one thought entered your head.

You imagined him inside.

Prince Percy Jackson, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, a professional nuisance before even introduction. Perhaps he sat there, enjoying the spectacle, fully aware that half your father’s court was holding its breath for the privilege of watching him step onto stone.

It felt like something an arrogant man would do. That decided immediately if true, you disliked him even more.

You got out of the thought when some of the girls screamed as one of the carriage doors unlatched, the silver handle turning.

And at that exact, divinely cursed moment, the wind changed. Strong mountain wind swept suddenly across the upper terraces, rushing through the balcony in a warm gust that sent every curtain in your chambers billowing like sails. The heavy balcony shutters—usually held open against the stone—slammed inward with violent force.

One struck the marble wall with a crack like thunder and the other shut directly across your line of sight.

Gasps filled the room.

“By the gods—” “Open it!” “I can't see anything—”

By the time the maids reached it, fumbling with the polished bronze latches and silk sleeves and collective despair, the moment below had already passed.

The royal family of Atlantis—whoever they were, however they looked, however much of your immediate future stood among them—were already hidden beneath the palace arches, swallowed whole by marble before your court could properly devour them with its eyes.

The maids stared in open heartbreak, the open doors of the carriage and people below starting to move again. However, you felt strangely calm; you really didn't know if you wanted to see your potential future husband.

The rest of the day went with going from one place to another just to actually prepare you until you were summoned to the Hall of Crowns. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the western cliffs, pouring molten gold through the palace windows and setting the entire world ablaze.

Helion Keep had always been built for this type of spectacle, but nowhere was that more obvious than the great hall.

It stretched the length of the central palace—vast marble columns veined with gold, ceilings painted with the victories of dead rulers, chandeliers of crystal and sunstone hanging high above like captured stars. The floors reflected everything: candlelight, silk hems, polished armor, ambition.

But today the halls of Helion Keep had been transformed for the evening.

Gold lanterns hung from the archways, casting warm light over the polished floors. Musicians played softly from the upper gallery, low harp notes mixing in the environment, it was elegant enough to soothe any temper and expensive enough to remind everyone who was paying all of it.

The long banquet tables stretched through the center of the hall beneath the banners of Solis and Atlantis hanging side by side in what looked, frankly, like a threat.

The sun crest and the sea crest. Gold and blue. Fire n' tide.

At the highest table, beneath the vaulted ceiling painted with gods, sat your father.

On the other end the Queen of Atlantis was exactly what you expected and somehow worse for it—beautiful in the cold way winter storms were beautiful, dressed in silver-threaded navy silk with pearls at her throat like captured moonlight. She looked like a woman who had never raised her voice because she had never needed to.

Beside her sat the King, taller than you expected, broad-shouldered and sharp-faced, wearing his own crown.

And then there was him.

At first, you almost missed him—not because he was a forgettable face, but because he was doing everything in his power to appear as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

He was not watching the room, the musicians or ladies laughing between them in a corner.

No, he was looking at his plate with total interest. As though the roasted figs before him had insulted his bloodline and he was deciding whether they deserved to survive being eaten.

For one brief moment, standing at the entrance of the Great Hall with the court pretending not to watch your reaction, you simply stared.

He was, annoyingly, very handsome. Well that was unfortunate.

His dark hair fell slightly untidy despite every visible attempt of the palace staff to make it look presentable with the prettiest sea-green eyes you've probably ever seen.

His face was sharp, with a marked jaw and perfect symmetry, the kind sculptors would spend lifetimes trying and failing to reproduce without accidentally starting religions. Maybe he was some sort of godl— anyways.

There was sun still left on his skin despite the sea kingdom’s colder reputation, bronze against navy silk and silver fastenings.

Beside you, Lyra made a sound suspiciously close to suppressed laughter.

You did not look at her. “Say nothing.”

“I said nothing.” “You were thinking loudly.”

“I am merely relieved for you, my lady. Marriage to a trout would have been very complicated.”

Suddenly there was no more room for private irritation, because your father had moved from his chair and stepped forward from the throne dais and the performance had begun.

“Her Royal Highness,” the herald announced, his voice carrying through the marble, “Princess of Solis, heir of the Sun Court.”

Every eye in the room found you as descended the staircase beside the hall entrance with all the serenity of someone not imagining murder.

The blue gown swept behind you like tidewater, the silver embroidery making soft sounds. The moonstone at your throat felt colder now. Every noble in the room watched as though trying to calculate exactly how much peace cost and whether you looked expensive enough to satisfy the other kingdom.

At the end of the hall, your father extended a hand as you took your place beside him.

Across from you stood the royal family of Atlantis and Percy.

Dear Gods up close was worse. Much worse!

Why couldn't you tear your eyes away from that man? Perhaps it was the surprise of not seeing any scales on his neck or hands. You weren't sure if it was 100% real, but hus skin had freckles on cheeks and hands. What you were certain of was that the skin peeking out from his neck showed a single dark freckle.

The banquet endured for what felt like several consecutive lifetimes. You smiled when required, spoke when demanded, and spent the rest of the evening discovering that there were very few things more exhausting than being discussed as though you were both present and decorative.

Every noble in Solis seemed to have developed an urgent and deeply insincere interest in your happiness.

Every lord from Atlantis looked at you with the politeness of men trying to determine whether you would eventually become their future queen or their prince’s most elegant mistake.

Neither possibility appeared to reassure them.

And at some point, beside you, Percy performed no better.

He was civil, which somehow felt more irritating than open hostility as he answered questions with practiced ease, nodded at all the correct moments, and wore the expression of a man enduring a hostage situation with remarkable restraint.

You caught him staring at the doors more than six times.

But you sympathized because the moment dessert arrived, you briefly considered setting something on fire simply to create an exit.

Unfortunately, your mother had raised you better than that. Your father, regrettably, had not.

It happened just after the final toast. The musicians softened into quieter melodies, wine had made several ambassadors far too confident, and the court had settled into that dangerous part of evening where everyone believed themselves subtle.

Your father leaned toward you with the expression parents wore when they were about to ruin their children’s lives.

“Walk with the prince.”

You turned slowly. “What? No.”

Across the table, Percy’s father was having what appeared to be the exact same conversation.

Percy looked up at you and also said no.

Two kings, separated by kingdoms and centuries of conflict, exchanged the silent understanding of fathers united by mutual disregard for their children’s preferences.

Your father smiled. “It was not a request.”

Naturally.

And so, several minutes later, you found yourself walking with your hand over the arm of Prince Percy Jackson through the western corridors of Helion Keep in a silence so pointed it deserved its own poem.

Two guards followed at a respectful distance, to pretend privacy existed.

Moonlight spilled through tall windows, silver against the marble floors. The evening had cooled; the palace breathed softer at night, its grandeur less performative in the quiet hours.

Your shoes clicked against the stone and his did too.

It felt like an argument waiting to happen.

At last, Percy stopped near one of the smaller receiving rooms overlooking the lower terraces and pushed the door open with the resigned courtesy of a man offering someone the chance to murder him indoors rather than publicly.

You entered first.

The room was big— with velvet chairs no one actually sat in, books no one read, a fireplace large enough to roast tension over properly. The balcony doors stood open to the warm night air, white curtains shifting softly in the breeze.

Behind you, the door closed.

And finally you guys were actually alone. There was no court, no musicians and no parents controlling all your interactions.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke until you turned to look at him.

“I am not marrying you.”

The words left your mouth without mincing words, like finally drawing a blade after hours of polite smiles.

Percy, leaning one shoulder against the door as though preparing for impact, nodded once.

“Yes,” he said. “I had assumed that might be your opening line.”

He had an annoyingly pleasant voice too.

He crossed the room slowly, stopping near the fireplace, hands folded behind his back like a prince would do.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am also not particularly eager to marry you.”

“Good.” “Excellent.”

You stared at each other, it was going to be a problem if you two talked at the same time like that.

This, at least, felt honest.

You moved toward the balcony instead, needing distance, air and needing the moon to witness your suffering.

“I refuse to believe,” you said, looking out over the gardens below, “that two entire kingdoms have looked at centuries of bloodshed and decided the solution was forcing me to attend dinner with you forever.”

Behind you, Percy gave a quiet sound that might have been an agreement.

“I offered several alternatives,” he said. “Most involved gifting a bunch of ships.”

“How dare yo—” “And yet here I am.”

You turned back.

He had removed the formal mask, or perhaps simply grown tired of wearing it. Without the performance of the court, he looked younger and somehow more dangerous for it—less princely in a portrait and more like an actual man.

You folded your arms. “You wrote a very irritating letter.”

He sighed. “I was forced to write that letter under direct maternal supervision.”

“I could tell.”

“That should concern you. Imagine what I would have sent unsupervised.”

“I assume a blank page and an apology as PS.”

“You are optimistic, princess.”

Despite yourself, your mouth moved in a small smile that formed small dimples.

“You are still arrogant.”

“And you,” he said, with maddening calm, “are exactly as difficult as advertised.”

You narrowed your eyes.

There it was again—that infuriating ease, that careless confidence like he had never once in his life doubted his ability to survive the consequences of his own mouth.

You stepped closer.

“Let us be clear, Prince. I do not care how beloved you are in your charming sea kingdom. I do not care how many poets have embarrassed themselves over your face. I do not care how many battles you have won. I have no intention of becoming another admiring audience member in the Percy Jackson tragedy of excessive self-regard.”

He blinked as you talked and slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Oh,” he said softly, “you do have a vicious mouth.”

You frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

He stepped closer too, close enough that you could possibly count his freckles and your breaths could mingle if you both exhaled with your mouth.

“For a princess,” he said, voice low with an unmistakable amusement, “you are remarkably unladylike. I had expected elegance and grace.. Perhaps even a soft smile and some very refined passive aggression.”

You stared at him. He continued, clearly enjoying his own survival far too much.

“Instead, I find myself alone at night with a woman who looks like she might stab me with decorative cutlery.”

Your expression did not change. “Do you want me to prove it?”

“See,” he said, almost warmly now, “that. Exactly that. Very concerning. Not at all lady-like.”

“Percy.”

Your first time calling his name and it sounded like a warning in your mouth!

He seemed to like that far too much because he just leaned into your space. “Yes?”

“If you call me unladylike again, I will throw you from my balcony and tell both our kingdoms diplomacy simply failed.”

Private notes of Prince Percy Jackson.

Not intended for royal archives, review, or my mother’s deeply invasive curiosity.

If found, kindly throw it into the sea.

—

I was told, very firmly and by several people, that keeping a written record of this process might be “good for perspective.”

My mother said reflection builds character.

Annabeth, who I am increasingly convinced enjoys watching me suffer, said if I was going to be insufferable about this entire arrangement, I should at least be insufferable on paper where historians could mock me properly.

So here we are.

For the record, I hate it. I hate arranged marriages. And I hate political banquets.

And, perhaps most urgently, I hate the Kingdom of Solis.

That last one should probably be written down with some honesty, since this journal is meant to be useful and not simply an expensive place for me to complain.

In Atlantis, children are taught early that the sun burns just as easily as it warms.

I was raised to distrust them long before I was old to understand why and I'm pretty sure her highness the princess learned just the same way as I did.

In any case, I had heard rumors about the nobles who lived in the city where the royal family resided and how they looked non-human.

Dear journal, the truth is that I was expecting my future queen with fiery hair.

I have met her.

Unfortunately after weeks of council meetings, endless negotiations, and being informed by every living adult that marrying the Princess of Solis would be “historically significant” and “a stabilizing force for the future of both kingdoms,” I can now confirm that history is a malicious thing and should not be trusted.

I had, over the years, heard enough stories about the Sun Princess to build at least six entirely different women in my head.

Depending on who was speaking, she was either impossibly beautiful or terrifying enough to be a monster.

As a child, I was told she probably had claws! Which was fair, considering Solis spent most of my adolescence convinced I had the head of a fish.

Do I look like a trout? Do not answer that.

Still, when I looked up tonight and finally saw the woman I am apparently expected to spend the rest of my life married to, my first thought was not diplomatic at all.

It was, very specifically:

Oh, that is deeply unfortunate. She is beautiful.

Which is a disgrace, I would have preferred her hideous.

She looked like Solis itself had decided to become a person purely to be insufferable about it—elegant in that polished, sunlit way their entire kingdom seems to be, like she has been designed with the sole purpose of making the rest of us feel underdressed.

Beauty, in theory, should not matter. Entire kingdoms are not held together by bone structure and eye contact. Political alliances are not to become more complicated because the person across from you happens to look like the kind of mistake poets ruin themselves over.

And yet she walked into that hall wearing blue, looking like the best mistake to commit ever and for one brief moment I forgot what my mother had just asked me to pay attention to.

I suspect I am going to enjoy arguing with her and I also suspect it may eventually kill me.

The worst part—and I resent writing this—is that I understand why this marriage might work personally.

She would never disappear into someone else’s court, never let herself become ornamental or let anyone mistake the marriage for surrender of her house.

I would hate a wife I could intimidate.

She, I think, would hate a husband who tried.

So at least there is that.

Still, I remain opposed on principle. She is proud, difficult, and probably dangerous, very likely already planning how to murder me to escape this...

And I—sadly—am looking forward to seeing her again.

This is humiliating.

If anyone reads this, I will deny the part where I admitted she was is??? was pretty.

I would rather return to the fish head rumors.

—

The days that followed should, by all political expectation, have been the beginning of something graceful.

The royal betrothals were not promises of love between two people—they were negotiations, alliances and kingdoms trying to teach two unwilling heirs how to stand beside one another without looking as though they planned to commit murder before dessert 

And so your parents, in all their wisdom and complete disregard for your peace, would insist upon time spent together. 

Walks through the palace gardens beneath careful supervision for some bonding time, lessons on courtly customs and each other's culture or meetings with advisors who would explain, with grave importance, how one properly ruled beside someone they had known for six days and considered a trial sent by the gods.

You'd be made to sit beside him during council, to dine with him, smile beside him while old noblewomen whispered about some invented future heirs as though your body had become the public property.

And worst of all, to walk with him.

It would begin in the lower gardens of Helion Keep, where the white roses climbed the marble walls and the fountains had an incredible amount of decoration dedicated to the sun.

The Queen of Atlantis, Sally, suggested it first, with that serene expression she always wore and your father would agree immediately, because fathers were traitors by nature.

And before either you or Percy could invent a convincing plague, you would find yourselves dismissed beneath the late afternoon sun, sent walking together like characters in one of those terrible romantic poems old ladies adored.

He would offer you his arm because etiquette would demand it and you would take it because both your families watched from afar.

And for several long moments, you walked through the gardens of your childhood in a silence so stiff it might have qualified as architecture.

The sun hung low over Helion Keep, warm and golden against the white stone, turning every fountain to liquid fire. Jasmine climbed the walls in pale blooms, and somewhere beyond the terraces musicians practiced for some other noble event that with no doubt eventually will become your problem.

Beside you, Percy would walk like a man and not like a boy that gave you a headache every 30 minutes. His hand, where your fingers rested lightly at his arm, remained warm.

At last, he would speak.

“I have been informed,” he said, his voice carrying that calm, low amusement you were already beginning to distrust, “that I am expected to learn your favorite flowers.”

“How thrilling for you.”

“I thought so. Apparently this is considered courtship.”

The gardens opened wider here, into a terrace of columns and trailing vines. Below, the cliffs dropped toward the sea, and the wind carried salt even this high, threading through the warmth.

You slowed, so did he.

Percy stood a little apart from you now, though not by much, for the space between you had the uneasy quality of something negotiated rather than chosen, and even that small distance felt fragile beneath the weight of everything neither of you had yet said aloud.

When he spoke again, it was not with haste or provocation, but with a kind of careful deliberation that made it clear he was choosing each thought as though it might be later examined in a court of law.

“In Atlantis,” he began, gaze briefly shifting toward the horizon before returning to you as if measuring your reaction more than the view, “courtship is spoken of in far less poetic terms than I imagine your tutors have taught you here. It is not a matter of flowers, nor music, nor the pleasant illusion that two people might be gently guided toward affection by sufficient candlelight and well-timed conversation. It is instead spoken of as a kind of assessment, wherein one is placed in proximity to another and observed for signs of either compatibility or ruin, and from what I have gathered since arriving in your kingdom, Solis does not seem so different in its practices, only in the way it addresses it.”

You listened without interrupting, though your posture had already begun to harden in response, not because of insult alone, but because there was something irritatingly precise in the way he spoke—as though he had taken the time to learn your world and was now describing it without permission.

He continued, voice conversational in its restraint.

“I was told before arriving that your customs would require me to learn your preferences, and I admit I expected something far simpler, ornamental even, but what I find instead is that nothing here is truly ornamental at all, not your words, not your court, and certainly not you.”

That last part landed differently, though he did not emphasize it, and perhaps that was what made it worse.

You turned slightly toward him, the light catching the embroidery at your sleeve.

“In Solis,” you replied after a pause, your voice quieter now, though no less firm, “we are taught that endurance is not a performance, but a form of loyalty. That one does not measure affection by ease, but by whether something remains standing when ease is gone. It is not meant to be comfortable.” 

“For what it is worth,” he said at last, more subdued than before, “I did not expect you to be what you are.”

You glanced at him again, wary now, though not openly so.

“And what, precisely, did you expect me to be?”

Percy seemed to consider this with far more seriousness than the question deserved, “At first,” he said, “I expected red hair.”

You blinked once. “What?”

He nodded once, entirely unashamed.

“Yes, a hair that looked as though it might set curtains ablaze if left unattended. I was told your temper entered rooms before you did, and I thought it only courteous that your appearance should offer a similar warning.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the terrace stones, warming the marble beneath your slippers, and behind you the palace stood bright and watchful, undoubtedly full of nobles who would have paid obscene amounts of money to witness this exact conversation.

“And who,” you asked at last, with dangerous calm, “told you such stupidity?”

“A diplomat from the western coast. Though in fairness, he also insisted I had gills and slept upright in seawater, so perhaps his judgment was not flawless.”

“That man was my uncle.”

Percy let out a slow breath.

“That explains a great deal.”

You should not have found that amusing.

Instead, you folded your arms and resumed walking, forcing him to follow as the path curved past white roses and sun-warmed stone benches built for noblewomen to sit prettily and discuss each other’s ruin.

“And besides the red hair?” you said. “What else did your vast intelligence lead you to expect?”

Percy fell easily back into step beside you, hands clasped behind his back with the infuriating ease of a man too comfortable while offending people.

“I expected someone softer, perhaps more inclined toward performance. Instead, I find someone who speaks like a knight denied wine.”

You gave him a look.

“How devastating for you.”

“Profoundly. I was hoping for an actual bride. Instead I seem to have been promised a very well-dressed goblin.”

You stopped walking again this time so abruptly he nearly took another step before catching himself.

The fountain beside the terrace murmured softly as you turned fully toward him.

“And what, precisely, makes you believe I would ever concern myself with being your bride?”

Percy tilted his head slightly.

“Your father. My mother. Approximately six kingdoms and one old priest.”

There it was again—that calm, infuriating smile, as though he found your temper not alarming but entertaining.

It made you want to commit crimes.

“And you,” you said sweetly, which was always a bad sign, “are far too pleased with yourself for a man who arrived in my kingdom looking like a little kid.”

He placed one hand over his heart in mock injury.

“You’re cruel, my lady.”

“I believe the word is accurate.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer with that easy confidence that made you want to throw things, “accurate would be observing that for all your pride, you are still only a very elegant little tyrant with the disposition of a churl.”

Silence fell as the fountain continued its cheerful betrayal.

You blinked once. “A churl... How dare you.”

He seemed, for the first time, to realize perhaps he had wandered too far but it was too late now. He continued anyway, because his self-preservation was not a skill taught.

“Yes, certainly, sharp-tongued, suspicious, and trying to look like royalty.”

You stepped forward.

“And you,” you said, with a voice low and terribly calm, “are a loggerhead in expensive boots.”

Percy opened his mouth, likely to make it worse, and you did not allow it.

With one sharp movement, both hands planted firmly against his chest, you shoved him backward. There was a brief, glorious second in which surprise overtook princely dignity entirely.

Then Prince Perseus, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, terror of the eastern sea fell directly into the fountain.

Water erupted upward in a magnificent, deeply satisfying splash that also dampened a little of your poor clothes.

For one perfect moment, there was only silence.

Then Percy surfaced, soaked, hair falling into his face, staring at you with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him here.

Water ran from his sleeves, hiis boots and his now wounded pride.

You stood at the edge of the fountain like divine judgment.

“Well,” you said, smoothing your skirts with composure, “at least now you may feel more at home. Do try not to call for dolphins. The palace staff is already overworked.”

For once—miraculously—he had nothing to say.

You inclined your head with all the grace expected of a future queen.

“Sleep well, Your Highness. Do give my regards to the fish.”

And with that, before he could recover either dignity or a reply, you turned and walked back toward the palace.

Your spine remained perfectly straight but your heart was beating far too fast.

Behind you, somewhere between outrage and shame, Percy shouted your name across the gardens.

Servants moved through the corridors with the discretion of people who absolutely knew everything that happened. Noblewomen spoke in soft voices behind jeweled fans. Somewhere, without question, your aunt had received three separate and wildly inaccurate versions of whatever unfortunate spectacle had occurred in the western gardens.

You had pushed the Prince of Atlantis into a fountain.

In your defense, he had deserved it entirely.

You sat before your mirror while Lyra adjusted the final fastening at the back of your gown, her silence was talking for her.

Finally she said, very carefully, “I hear His Highness required assistance returning from the lower terraces.”

You met her gaze in the mirror. “I am sure the fish were delighted to have him back.”

She pressed her lips together. “My lady.”

“He called me a churl.”

Lyra nodded solemnly, as though discussing matters of state. “A grave offense.”

That, apparently, was the end of the sympathy, because moments later she stepped back, satisfied with your appearance, and said with the merciless calm of a woman, “Try not to drown him again before dessert. It would create paperwork.”

“No promises.”

Tonight’s gown was softer than the first, though no less beautiful—ivory silk threaded with pale gold and your hair pinned back with pearl combs, your jewelry lighter.

The problem with dignity, you had discovered, was that it was very difficult to maintain when one was still remembering the exact look on a prince’s face as he disappeared into a fountain.

You should not have been pleased, but you were.

By the time you entered the Great Hall, dinner had already begun.

The chandeliers burned warm above the long tables, scattering gold across polished silver and crystal goblets. Music drifted from the gallery overhead, soft for you to be ignored and the banners of Solis and Atlantis still hung together in stately disapproval, as though even fabric objected to the arrangement.

At the high table, your father was already seated, speaking quietly with the King and Queen of the other kingdom. And Percy was not there.

That was interesting, and a minor annoyance since your site was still next to his, if he wasn't there it would be very noticeable and you would be bombarded with questions.

But lucky you were, Percy entered as you took your seat.

Changed, thankfully, into dry clothes, though whoever had assisted him clearly deserved a raise for attempting to restore dignity to a man recently defeated by the decorative architecture that was the fountain.

His dark hair was still slightly damp, curling at the edges and he wore deep navy tonight, embroidered in silver at the collar and cuffs, the color making the bronze of his skin warm beneath candlelight.

His mother looked up at him once, only once.

Her eyes moved from his still-damp hair to the faint scrape at one cuff, then toward you.

At last she said, in the calmest voice imaginable, “Did you enjoy the gardens?”

You looked very carefully at your plate and your father suddenly found his wine fascinating.

Percy, without breaking, replied, “Immensely.”

That was all, the queen gave a small smile, nothing more.

He sat beside you, the chair making the smallest sound against marble. You did not look at him and he did not look at you.

The dinner resumed for approximately twelve seconds.

Then your aunt— a menace and a professional destroyer of peace—leaned forward from halfway down the table and said, far too brightly, “It is so lovely to see young people spending time together before the formal engagement. There is such a difference between duty and genuine affection, is there not?”

You closed your eyes briefly as Percy took a very slow sip of his drink.

Queen Sally, bless her terrifying soul, replied, “Indeed. I find mutual understanding far more reliable than charm.”

Your aunt sighed dreamily. “And did the two of you enjoy your walk?”

Percy set down his glass, without turning his head to look at you, he said, “I found it refreshing.”

You kept your own smile perfectly in place.

“How wonderful. I thought you looked more relaxed afterward.”

“I nearly drowned.”

You ended up talking.  “And yet, bravely, you survived.” 

“Your disappointment wounds me.”

“Be patient. I am sure another opportunity will present itself.”

Across the table, your aunt clasped her hands.

“They are already teasing one another. How sweet!”

Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.

To be kept far from my mother, the royal council, and any servant. Should this be discovered, I will deny its existence, and possibly fake my own death. 

—

There are many ways in which a prince imagines humiliation may arrive.

One thinks of battles lost, of treaties broken in full view of rival courts, of saying the wrong thing before kings who remember such errors for decades and repeat them at every feast thereafter. One does not, generally, imagine that dignity will be destroyed by being pushed bodily into a decorative fountain by the woman one is expected to marry.

And yet, here we are.

I feel it important to record the event with complete honesty, if only because history has a terrible habit of making fools appear noble, and if I am to suffer, I would prefer future generations understand precisely how undignified the suffering was.

The fountain was cold... Needlessly cold.

It was also shallow and deep, which I suspect was an architectural decision made by someone who hated princes and wished to leave opportunities available for women with good aim.

There were swans nearby.

I do not know why this detail feels important, only that it does. There is something especially offensive about public humiliation occurring beneath the judgment of birds.

I had called her a churl.

In fairness, she had earned it.

In further fairness, I had perhaps underestimated how quickly a Princess of Solis might choose violence when presented with minor provocation. She did not argue nor threaten. She simply looked at me with the expression of someone reaching a deeply personal conclusion and then removed me from dry land.

Well, I was looking into those beautiful eyes and forgot I just insulted her.

There was one brief moment—one single, sacred second—where I understood exactly what was happening and had time only to regret my mouth and the long history of choices that had shaped it.

Then water and her.

She looked magnificent.

This is, perhaps, the root of the problem.

She stood there in all that royal composure, with sunlight on her dress, pearls catching the light, looking less like a princess and more like some old god of vengeance who had grown tired of patience and decided it was my time.

She told me not to call for dolphins.

And the worst part—the truly humiliating, soul-damaging part—is that I nearly laughed.

Not immediately, of course. At first there was outrage and a wounded pride. There was the cold and dripping indignity of climbing out of a fountain while two palace guards looked at the horizon in an effort to preserve everyone’s future.

But on the walk back, with my boots ruined and my dignity somewhere beneath a stone, I found myself trying not to smile like a complete idiot.

There is something alarmingly attractive about honesty when it arrives wearing pearls.

I dislike writing that and I dislike thinking about it even more.

The truth is that she is, for my disgrace, a little too much my type, which feels like a betrayal arranged by the gods for their own amusement.

I had hoped—sincerely and desperately—that she would be easier to resent.I wanted that the marriage could become little more than duty and I could respect from a distance and never think about after dinner.

Instead, I have been presented with a woman who looks at me like she is deciding whether I would improve the landscape as a corpse.

And apparently, for reasons I would rather not examine too closely, that is doing something to me.

She is proud and clever. She has pretty eyes, a beautiful smile and a lovely laugh.

This is not ideal in a future wife.

It is, however, very much ideal in the sort of woman one writes terrible poetry about.

I am trying not to be that man but it is not going well.

Every person in this palace speaks of the wedding as though it has already happened.

They discuss fabrics, who’s coming, the ceremonies, the joining of courts, the endless practical machinery of binding these kingdoms together, and all of it with that tone nobles use when speaking about your future as though you are not sitting directly in front of them holding a knife.

And then comes the matter of having heirs. I won’t enter in detail for my own good tonight. 

Thanks to my own terrible mind, I cannot hear it without thinking of her and is unacceptable.

I would like to return to simpler concerns, such as war because now I find myself in the middle of council meetings wondering absurd things, like whether she would teach our children to be crazy like her or whether they would simply inherit it naturally. Whether they would have her eyes when she is angry, or my talent for making situations worse.

This is madness.

I have known this woman for what feels like six minutes and one attempted murder.

I need to stop writing now, it's late and im writing strange things.

This journal is becoming evidence.

—

Time, unfortunately, did what time always did—make things more complicated.

It would have been far easier if Percy Jackson had remained insufferable in simple and obvious ways.

If he had been nothing more than a boy wrapped in expensive silk, with every conversation ended in some sort of offense and every shared glance in the mutual certainty that history had been correct and your kingdoms were better kept apart.

But Percy, infuriatingly, insisted on becoming a person that actually thought of you.

Weeks passed after the fountain incident, and with them came back the machinery of royal expectation. Walks through the gardens became routine rather than punishment, the shared dinners were unavoidable, but got ordinary. You sat beside one another during council meetings where old men argued over the borders as though none of them had created the problem.

You learned of his silence a lot, he grew quieter when he was truly angry.

He also had the infuriating habit of leaning back in his chair during council as though he were bored, only to speak once and somehow say the most sensible thing in the room.

He was kinder to servants than most princes bothered to be and he laughed rarely, but when he did it was sudden and unguarded, you kinda liked hearing it.

And worse was that he listened and not because the courtship required it.

When you spoke of Solis, of the southern provinces,even of the people your father’s council liked to reduce to numbers, Percy listened like he was trying to really understand you rather than simply waiting for his turn to be right.

You hated how much that mattered deep inside.

Well, he still annoyed you constantly.

He still smiled at the wrong moments and said things purely to test your patience or walked through your palace one poor decision away from being banned permanently.

The western library was one of the oldest rooms in the palace, built in stone that held the warmth of the day long after sunset. Tall windows opened toward the cliffs, beyond them the sea stretched and it smelled of old paper, candle wax, and the kind of silence only old places knew how to keep.

Percy was standing by one of the long tables near the windows, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading through one of your father’s maritime records with an offended expression because of poor naval strategy.

You sat opposite him, pretending to read when you were actually watching him be irritated by other people’s incompetence.

It had become embarrassingly easy.

Weeks ago, you would have called him stupid for correcting your generals…

Now, you were beginning to suspect he was often right, but it was intolerable.

The room was quiet enough that the turning of a page sounded significant and outside, the sound of the sea seemed to be loud even when it was miles away.

Inside, Percy frowned at a map.

“This,” he said at last, tapping the parchment with the disapproval of a priest condemning sin, “is either the worst trade route I have ever seen or a very elaborate attempt of suicide.”

You looked up from your book. “It was designed by Lord Cassian.”

Percy glanced at you. “Wow, that explains everything.”

“Be careful,” you said. “If my father hears you insulting his council again, he may decide peace was a mistake.”

“Your father has watched me survive three formal dinners with your aunt. I believe he considers me battle-tested.”

“That is fair.”

He smiled then, faintly, and the way your heart jumped unsettled you in ways you were not prepared to name.

When did it become so easy? The arguments are softer and the silences easier in a way.

You had learned how he thought about some cultural things from your land or how when he was truly tired, he rubbed at the scar near his jaw without noticing or how his sarcasm came off when he was uncomfortable.

You had not meant to notice these things, really! You had certainly not meant to care.

And yet you do care and you do notice.

The candles burned lower, the sky outside was darkening as you two relied on the presence of the other.

Then came footsteps— fast and uneven. They weren’t the soft, practiced silent ones from the servants moving through the halls as though they were part of the walls themselves, nor the steady, unhurried tread of guards who carried all that armor. These steps were hurried, careless with panic, striking against the marble with force enough to pull both of you from the fragile stillness of the library.

A messenger appeared in the doorway, breathless and pale, his face drained so completely of color that for a moment you thought he saw a ghost. It was remarkable, the way fear could enter a room before a single word came.

Both of you stood at once.

That was another thing about being raised in courts—you learned young that there were expressions more powerful than announcements, that sometimes a single look could deliver catastrophe long before anyone dared say it aloud.

Something had happened and it was bad.

The messenger bowed quickly, the movement clumsy with urgency.

“My lady… Your Highness.” His voice was strained, and already your stomach had begun to turn.

“There has been word from the eastern coast.”

The silence got worse over the library, heavy and awaiting, even the crackling candles seemed to quiet. Percy straightened beside the table, every trace of ease disappearing from his posture, and you felt your own hands tremble a bit where they rested against the polished wood.

The eastern coast, close to the disputed waters.

The messenger swallowed hard, and in that small movement you could see how much he wished not to be the one delivering this.

“One of the Solis patrol ships near the border was attacked at dawn. It was intercepted near the reefs beyond Thalor Point.”

Your pulse slowed but not with calm, but with the kind of dread so deep it made everything inside you go frighteningly still.

“By whom?” you asked, though the answer was already gathering like a storm behind your ribs.

The messenger hesitated.

“Survivors report Atlantian sails.”

The sentence landed like steel driven through bone.

For a moment, no one moved. The room itself seemed suspended around those four words—the library, the candles flickering low, the endless sea beyond the windows, all of it held in place by that single sentence.

Atlantian sails.

Four words, and suddenly you were not standing in the palace library but sitting as a child in the history rooms, listening to your tutors show wars across faded maps with ink-stained fingers, marking coastlines where your people had drowned, where fathers and brothers and sons had vanished into the sea and never returned.

Atlantian sails.

Stories of burned ships with skeletons on black water and southern tides running red from the blood of your people.

Atlantis.

Beside you, Percy had gone very still.

He was no longer the man with you in the gardens, sunlight in his hair and teasing he pretended not to mean. Now he was simply that prince from Atlantis.

And suddenly, you hated how much that mattered to you.

The messenger continued, his voice low, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter what little peace remained.

“Three confirmed dead. Several wounded. The ship barely made it to port. The council has already been summoned.”

Every fragile month of peace—every dinner, every forced alliance, every diplomatic smile—is already beginning to splinter beneath the weight of that old suspicion.

You turned to Percy just to look at him.

At the navy silk draped over his shoulders and that impossible green of his eyes and suddenly it felt absurd—how easily you had let yourself forget what his name meant.

His gaze met yours, and there it was the same terrible understanding.

You still were enemies, maybe with better manners and almost let you forget you were enemies at all.

Your voice was colder than you intended, but perhaps honesty did that to you.

“Were they under your banners?”

Percy’s jaw tightened, and for the first time since you had met him, he looked like someone standing on the edge of a war he could not stop. “I do not know.”

You swallowed against the bitterness rising in your throat. “But they were yours.”

Something changed in his face then—not anger but for sure hurt.

You could feel the slow rebuilding of walls you had foolishly believed were coming down, stone by stone.

“They may have acted without orders,” he said, his voice controlled. “There are captains in disputed waters who still don't know about the new peace we are trying to create.”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “How convenient.”

His eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

You stepped forward, your fury demanded movement and standing there with his gaze trying to read you was too much.

“No,” you said, your voice cutting through the room with more force than you intended. “My people are dead.”

His answer came low and stripped of every softness you had come to know in him.

“And mine have died in those same waters for generations. By the Gods, do not speak to me like I don’t know.”

You folded your arms, it was the only way to stop your hands from shaking. You held his gaze and forced the question out.

“Then tell me honestly, Prince—if your council decides this was justified, if Atlantis claims those waters again, if this peace fractures the way everyone always said it would… where exactly do you stand?”

He did not answer immediately and to be honest, since you had met him, this was the first time you were afraid of what he would say.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it felt like a blade pressed carefully between your ribs. “Where I have always stood. With my people.”

Of course he did. What else had you expected?

All your conversations in the gardens could outweigh centuries of blood? That one prince could become something other than the sea he came from?

You nodded once. “As do I.”

You turned toward the door, if you looked at him one moment longer, you might say something unforgivable or ,even worse, you would cry.

To say that you walked to your quarters is something, because if anyone was to ask a servant about your wing, they would say that they heard muffled screams.

Your pillow is wonderful for screaming and letting out all your feelings.

The council chamber had been built for war a long, looong time ago so it's normal it sat beneath the oldest wing of the palace, part of the room was carved into the stone of the mountain, the walls were thick to keep secrets and you never saw windows open there, it was probably one of the darkest places in the whole kingdom. 

By the time you arrived, nearly everyone was already there.

Your father stood at the head of the great oak table, one hand braced against its edge. Beside him, your generals were gathered. Lords from the eastern provinces spoke in low, urgent voices.

Across from them stood the royal family of Atlantis.

King Poseidon looked exactly as powerful men did when forced to defend things they had not broken but would be expected to answer for all the same. The queen sat beside him, composed and still.

And Percy stood near his father, shoulders straight and the expression guarded.

You took your place beside your father.

The captain of the attacked patrol ship stood near the center of the room, arm bound in fresh linen and he looked exhausted.

Your father nodded once. “Speak.”

The captain swallowed.

“At dawn we were running patrol near the eastern reefs, close to Thalor Point. Visibility was poor, there was a lot of fog over the water, heavy enough to swallow the distance to the port. We spotted sails before we heard them.”

His voice roughened.

“Atlantian sails, they closed fast and were armed. There wasn't a signal offered bir request for passage.”

Your hands curled against the table.

One of your generals slammed a hand against the wood.

“Pirates do not fly royal banners.”

“No,” another lord said darkly, “but princes do.”

Across the table, King Poseidon’s expression hardened.

One of the eastern lords stepped forward, the grief making him brave and foolish in equal measure.

“For generations Atlantis has called those waters disputed only when it wished to steal them. How many treaties must we sign before your captains learn they do not own every place they can reach?”

Poseidon’s reply came like stone.

“And how many times must Solis build fortresses along shared waters before you stop calling expansion defense?”

The argument erupted with that, the voices rose, accusations started to fly over your head, some maps were unrolled and the borders stabbed at.

You had grown up watching councils like this from doorways, hidden behind the pillars while adults argued over the shape of your future.

Through all of it, Percy remained silent with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the maps and his jaw tight betraying what the rest of him refused to show.

When he finally spoke, it cut cleanly through the noise.

“If my father had ordered an attack,” he said, voice steady, “you would not be debating whether it happened.”

Every eye turned to look at the boy as he continued.

“This was not sanctioned by Atlantis. If we intended war, you would not be receiving apologies. You would be receiving fleets.”

One general sneered. “Don't be conceited, kid.”

“I’m honest,” Percy said. “That’s something both our kingdoms claim to value when convenient.”

Your father watched him carefully. “And what do you propose, Prince?”

Percy stepped toward the table.

“Find the captain responsible before this becomes an excuse for every man in the room to indulge a war already wanted.”

One of your lords laughed sharply. “And we are simply to trust Atlantis to investigate itself?”

“No,” Percy replied. “You are to trust that I would not stand here defending cowards. If an Atlantian captain attacked under our banners without command, then he has endangered not only your men but my kingdom. I will not protect him.”

Your father studied him for a long moment and then looked at you not as king but as your father.

He wanted your judgment because everyone in this room had seen the walks, the dinners and the fragile attempt at peace between heirs. Your opinion mattered.

You looked at Percy and you realized with sudden, miserable clarity that both things were true.

He was the enemy and he was not.

Your voice, when it came, was measured. “If this was unsanctioned, then the guilty should answer for it.”

The dark-haired young man gave a small smile while you were speaking.

“If Solis answers blood with blind blood, then we are not defending peace. We are merely admitting we never wanted it.”

One of the generals muttered, darkly with the suspicion of a man who had buried many friends. “And if Atlantis lies?”

Your father said nothing, King Poseidon’s expression didn't give away his thoughts and several lords shifted, preparing for another round of arguments. 

But to your surprise Percy stepped forward.

The prince of Atlantis stood beneath the torchlight, shoulders straight, gaze steady, looking not at the general asking but at you.

When he spoke, his voice carried cleanly through the chamber. “If Atlantis lies, then let the blame fall first upon me.”

Percy did not look away.

“I stand with my people,” he said, now it was only the truth stripped bare to hurt. “I always will. I am the son of Atlantis before I am anything else. Its blood is mine, its burdens are mine, and if war comes, I will stand before it, not behind.”

Your breath had been expelled from your lungs, this mattered because that was his answer.

Yet he continued.

“But do not mistake loyalty for blindness.”

His eyes remained on yours.

“If one of ours has done this—if an Atlantian captain sailed beneath our banners and spilled Solis blood for vengeance, or for the comfort of hatred—then I will not defend him. I will drag his name into the light myself.”

Percy’s voice lowered but no less steady for it. “I did not come here to inherit another century of graves.”

You opened your mouth to give an answer but he didn't let you talk.

“And I did not come here to ask for peace only to betray the woman I intend to have beside me.”

The words struck harder than the shouting of men in the room and across the table, your aunt nearly stopped breathing from joy.

Percy, apparently, had chosen violence against your heart.

Indeed your heart was betraying you in ways you intended to punish later.

“When I say I stand with my people, Princess, understand that I do not separate you from that future.”

Your throat felt dangerously tight.

“This marriage was meant to quiet kingdoms. Fine. Let it begin there. Let duty open the door if it must. But I will not stand in this chamber and speak of alliances as though you are merely another clause written into a treaty.” 

It's not like the room has disappeared, your father was still there, everyone was still there and somehow at the same time none of it existed.

It was only him and his softening voice.

“If you become my wife, you will not be an obligation I endure for peace. You will be my queen. Mine to honor before courts and councils, mine to protect when kingdoms are against us, mine to stand beside—not behind, you'll never be behind.”

You felt like you were going to faint when your brain reacted: he was in front of you and, and painfully slowly, knelt on one knee to take your hands, which were trembling like leaves.

“And if I must choose between disappointing old men who worship war and disappointing the woman I would ask to rule beside me, then let the gods hear me plainly now—”

His gaze held yours like a vow was being made.

“—I would sooner let kingdoms burn than fail her.”

Terrible, magnificent silence.

And you— you stood there with your trembling hands and jumping heart, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.

Because Percy Jackson, prince of Atlantis, had just declared such love words in the middle of a war council.

Like an idiot! A beautiful, infuriating idiot.

Your father cleared his throat once, but his mouth showed a small smile and King Poseidon looked at the ceiling, perhaps asking the gods for quieter sons.

“Your Highness,” you said, “that was either the most persuasive political argument I have ever heard…or the most elaborate public courtship attempt in history.”

At last—finally—Percy smiled.

“Can it not be both?”

By the time the council chamber had finally emptied, the palace had fallen into a peculiar silence only the deepest hours of night could create, when even the walls seemed exhausted by the weight of the day and every corridor felt longer than it had in daylight.

You were walking quickly to your chambers with your cheeks getting deep in color.

It wasn’t like you were fleeing, you refused even in your own mind to call it that! 

If you slowed and allowed yourself even a single moment of stillness—you would have to think, and thinking, after what had happened in that council chamber, would have your head spining.

Your pulse had not yet remembered to behave like normal.

Your father had said nothing as you left, which was infinitely worse than if he had chosen to give you both a talk.

Your aunt, on the other hand, had looked radiant with a kind of joy usually reserved for coronations and public scandals, and you had no doubt whatsoever that by morning she would have transformed Percy’s words into some elaborate thing involving grandchildren.

You intended never to forgive either of them.

Percy had stood in the middle of a war council, before your father and his own, before generals and men and all the hatred your kingdoms had spent centuries perfecting, and had looked at you as though vows were so simple.

As though loving you was not about the war.

You hated him for that but hated yourself more for the terrible, humiliating truth that part of you had wanted him to say it again.

Behind you, footsteps were approaching.

You already knew the sound of his damned boots, the irritating calm of a man who had just dismantled your entire peace of mind and still believed he had the right to continue speaking.

“Princess.”

You kept walking. “No.”

There was a brief silence behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of him quickening his pace, and then his voice again, closer now.

“Unfortunately, that is not specific enough to be useful.”

You reached the turn of the corridor with every intention of continuing, of disappearing into your chambers and locking the door firmly and condemning every poor decision your life had made as suddenly his hand closed around your wrist.

The movement stopped you so abruptly your breath caught and your pulse betraying you in one violent, humiliating motion.

“Let go.”

Percy stood close enough now that the corridor seemed smaller for it and his voice, “No.”

The sheer audacity of him!

You stared at him with all the fury you could still afford.

“In case the council chamber was not sufficient humiliation for one evening, have you now decided that physically restraining foreign princesses is the next great strategy in mind?”

“I decided,” he said, “that if I let you walk away now, you would spend the entire night being furious and I would spend the entire night with no rest, so I find both possibilities intolerable.”

Your fingers curled tightly at your side. “You should have considered that before declaring yourself like some mad knight in front of everyone.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping half a pace closer, “strangely enough, I do not regret it.”

“That makes one of us.”

His gaze searched yours, he had the prettiest gems as ocular globes… and those puppy eyes…

“No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t.”

You tried to pull your hand free as he did not tighten his grip, but neither did he release you.

“Look at me.”     “I am looking at you.”

“No,” he said, “you are trying very hard not to.”

“How dare you.”

Percy’s thumb shifted slightly against your wrist, a small movement, barely anything, and somehow it felt more intimate than if he had kissed you then and there. Why did your brain think of kissing him so bad?

“I am beginning to think,” he was giving a small laugh away, “that is how most of our important conversations begin.”

“In the council chamber, in front of both our kingdoms, you spoke as though—”

His expression changed then, the prince receding and the man remaining.

“As though what?”

You lifted your chin. “As though I mattered to you beyond treaties and borders and that noble performance you were attempting to offer your audience.”

For a moment, he just looked at you as he released your wrist.

“Did you truly think I would say those things for politics?”

Your throat felt tight with the answer and your voice lowered despite yourself as if you were scared someone heard.

“Did you mean it?”

Percy held your gaze with no wit left between you to hide behind.

“Yes.”

Your heart betrayed you immediately.

You hated it and hated him for making the truth sound reachable.

So like a fool, you made it worse. “Which part?”

His brow moved faintly.

“The peace? The alliance? The declaration dramatic enough to shorten my father’s life by several years?”

You stepped closer despite yourself, because if you were to be ruined, you would at least be honest in it.

“No,” you said, quieter now. “Not that. Me… Did- Did you mean me?”

“You are the only part of this I’m certain about, my lady.”

He lifted his hand again, slower this time, but it didn’t go to your hand or wrist, oh no, his fingers touched your jaw.

“I would stand with my people,” he said. “I would fight for them, bleed for them, carry every duty they place upon my name. But none of that changes what I know when I look at you.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, and gods, if you really kissed him would it be so bad?

“I did not expect you and I certainly did not want this. It would have been simpler if I disliked you. Simpler if you were merely beautiful, or merely cruel, or merely someone I could survive beside without ever truly seeing.”

His fingers caressed your cheek. “But you are none of those things.”

Your voice was barely yours. “And what am I, then?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth like he no longer intended to fight.

“You are the woman I would choose even if peace didn’t demand it. You are the person I find myself thinking of when I should be thinking of fleets and the thousand practical things princes are meant to care about.”

Your mouth gave a smile as your hands went to his chest, “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, his forehead nearly brushing yours now, “you are still holding.”

That was enough. You kissed him first.

It was a kiss with weeks of restraint collapsing under its own weight, anger and relief and want and the unbearable certainty that somewhere between hating him and understanding him, you had become hopelessly and disastrously attached.

His hand moved to your waist, yours caught at his collar.

Someone—perhaps both of you—made several decisions neither kingdom would approve of and history would likely judge harshly.

It was absolutely inappropriate for a palace corridor three floors from your father’s chambers but it was perfect.

And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested lightly against yours, and for a moment neither of you spoke, because some things, once they happened, made language feel smaller than it had before.

If it weren't for the fact that your entire body and mind were so focused on the prince in front of you, you would have sworn it was a lie when Percy exhaled softly “I love you”.

Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.

To be kept far AWAYYY from my mother, the queen. 

—

This was meant, when first I began it, to be a record of my path to discipline and thought, of the observations expected of a prince who intends one day to rule without error, and yet tonight I find that it has become something far less dignified, for I am writing not of things involving this nor even of the fragile peace that holds our kingdoms apart, but of her. 

We kissed. 

I attempt to write it with composure, to frame it as an event of little consequence, an impulsive misstep best forgotten by morning, but the truth refuses this, and so I am left with the plain, humiliating admission that we kissed in a corridor and now has become a place I will not be able to pass again without remembering it in full. 

She smiled, and I find that I cannot write that simply and move on, for it was not the smile she offers in court nor the sharper one she uses as a weapon.

It felt—  No, I will not write that.

I told her that I would choose her, that even if peace had not demanded this union, even if our kingdoms had never thought to bind us together in the hope of ending centuries of bloodshed, I would still choose her, and I said it without calculation, without weighing consequence, as though the truth of it required no consideration at all.

This is not how I have been taught to speak and is not how I have been taught to think.

And yet it is how I spoke, and worse, it is how I meant it.

At one point, in what I must classify as a complete collapse of discipline, I found myself writing—

my wife, my wife, my wife

I find the word returning with an ease that suggests this is not a passing thought but a developing problem. 

my future wife

No, that is worse, for it implies expectation rather than an actual thing happening, and I refuse to grant my own thoughts that level of confidence.

the woman I am to marry

This is correct but insufficient because she’s going to be my queen.

I may have developed the need to have her by my side forever.

—

How did you end up in this situation? I mean, yes, it was your wedding night and the marriage was supposed to be consummated, you got prepared for that, but you were hoping to have a few drinks, talk to your dear parents and family, and... Seriously, all because of a tradition? 

One moment there was the ceremony still clinging to the air like heavy perfume— with the oaths spoken and the weight of a thousand watching eyes pressing down—and the next, everything broke into motion, into sound, into laughter and applause.

Men and women of the court, soldiers and even the attendants who only moments before had been standing like statues, now moving with a jubilanty as though this had always been the point of the entire affair.

Someone spoke your name in celebration and suddenly the ground left you.

The sudden loss of ground startled something unguarded in you, your hand instinctively catching at the nearest solid thing—which, to your immediate and profound irritation, was Percy.

He, too, had been taken by surprise, though he hid it better, his posture adjusting as several men hoisted him upward with far less ceremony than you had been granted, the contrast not lost on anyone present.

Some women tried to take the various fabrics and pearls you were wearing, but they were only able to take out shoes and accessories in your hair.

A roar of approval rose through the hall.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice carrying to reach you over the noise.

You held his gaze, refusing to let the situation unbalance you further than it already had.

“If I fall,” you said, your tone even despite the circumstances, “I shall ensure you are blamed for it.”

There were petals on the way—scattered, thrown, caught in your hair and on your dress, their scent sweet.

The doors ahead grew fewer, more private.

And then, at last, you reached it; your shared chambers.

The doors were thrown open with force, the room beyond lit in warm gold, prepared in a way that left very little to the imagination of anyone who had arranged it.

You were carried inside first and set down with far more care than you expected, your feet meeting the soft bed.

A moment later, Percy was lowered beside you.

The noise lingered at the threshold as the last of the laughter and well-wishes spilling inward before the doors began to close, as though savoring the final moments of public presence before sealing you both as newly weds.

Your eyes really didn't know if they could meet those of your now husband; the room felt warmer than the fireplace should been able to bring.

Percy pushed himself up, his breaths heavy from the rough handling, and for you saw his body. The suit, a tailored thing of midnight wool with silver accents, had already been loosened during the toasts, all the buttons undone at the chest, exposing the tanned planes of his torso.

He moved first, sliding off the bed to kneel at its edge and moving you with him.

Your now husband caresses the fabrics; the wedding dress is heavy on velvets, rich wools, golden embroidery, and pearls. The truth is, it's not very easy to remove.

The bed was high, so you basically could see him, and damn, why was he on his knees fiddling with your silky clothes? 

His fingers tugged at the layers of the dress, bunching the velvet skirts up your thighs. The fabric was so pretty on you but he wasn't sad about taking it off if he could connect with your body and you. 

His fingers, callused from sword hilts and rigging sails, tugged at the laces of your gown, but the thing was a fortress of fabric, heavy with wools and pearls that resisted his impatience.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots. 

He wasn't gentle about it, yanking at the bodice until the golden threads strained and exposed the swell of your breasts to the cool air. You gasped, but he didn't stop, his hands roaming lower, bunching the skirts up to your hips. 

God, he didn't have enough patience right now to take all your clothes off properly so the poor wedding dress stayed half-on. 

His mouth was on you before you could catch the breath, hot and insistent, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You felt the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your dressed core, making your pussy clench in anticipation. 

Percy Jackson, the man you hated so much, was now parting your legs with those strong hands, his eyes dark with want. 

He hooked one arm under your knee, spreading you wider, and then his fingers were there—the rough fingerpads brushing against your underwear and finally swollen folds. 

You were a soppy mess, slick from the tension of the day and the way he'd been staring at you during the vows, like he was undressing you with his gaze alone. 

“You're soaked,” he growled, a hint of approval lacing his tone as he slid one finger along your slit, teasing the entrance before pushing in slowly. 

The stretch was immediate, his touch firm but not rushed, circling your clit with the thumb while that finger curled inside you. 

Oh gods, his mouth was so close now, lips brushing your thigh as he licked a stripe up the soft skin, tasting the salt of your anticipation. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the heat, and he chuckled against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. 

Then finally, you felt the first lick of his tongue—flat and broad, dragging over your pussy with such slowness. His tastebuds rasped against your sensitive flesh, the slightest inch of his tongue squeezing in alongside his finger, probing deeper. 

It was messy, the sounds of his breath filling the room as he lapped at you, sucking gently on your clit before delving back down.

To say that you were euphoric at this moment would be an understatement because you had possibly just opened the gates of heaven.

But still… still you felt nervous, with a million thoughts going on when his mouth connected your most intimate zone and so the words blurted out theirself.

“Wait.. I'm not,” a small moan comes out. “I’ve never done this before..”

His mouth, pink and wet with your juices, lets out a small sigh, “I’ve never participated in these activities either.”

His cheek rests against your thigh, looking up before muttering against your folds. “I learn as I wend.”

And unfortunately, the only thing you can do in response is with your hips, moving them slightly against him as a new wave of slick follows.

Percy won’t make you wait.

In no time his tongue has lapped all those juices and entered your cunt alongside his finger, trying to get more and more of the sweet flavor you are giving him, maybe he’s just getting addicted.

Again and again, you find yourself dragging out desperate pushes of your hips against his mouth— riding your sensitive cunt down his straight nose and making it push on the button of your swollen clit. 

You mewled, the pressure building fast, maybe too fast and he responded with a tiny slap to the cute nub! Even a glob of his spit mixed with your slick, and he rubbed it nice and good with your cunt, fingers circling and thumb pressing sloooow until you feel your walls fluttering around another invading finger— stretching you wider, his pads pressing against your squishy g-spot  making stars burst behind your eyelids. 

“Be honest with me,” Percy murmured against your skin, his voice muffled and lips slick with you. “Like your pussy is…Tell me when you're close.”

Gods, why couldn't you just say it? The words stuck in your throat as he worked you relentlessly, dragging out your orgasm so lengthily, his tongue tickling your constantly throbbing clit while his fingers pumped in a rhythm that had you arching off the bed. 

“How are you so good at this?” you gasped finally, voice breaking as the edge rushed up. “Is this your first time? Are you kidding me?”

He pulled back and gave a grin, chin glistening and eyes wicked. “First time, princess. But I've dreamed about eating your cunt plenty.” No joke in his tone, just raw truth that made your core tighten. 

“You do kiss- ah.. you do kiss your mother with that mouth…”

“As of now I'm kissing something sweeter.”

He dove back in, sucking harder, and you shattered, waves crashing through you as your pussy clenched around his fingers with slick gushing out. Percy didn't let up, milking every pulse until you were trembling, oversensitive and boneless.

You laughed breathlessly, pulling him up for a kiss that tasted of you. 

But the heat didn't fade; it built. 

Percy stood, shedding the rest of his loosened suit with quick, impatient jerks. Finally, you saw it—his cock pulsing, fat with red veins snaking along the length. A sensitive slit at the tip, already beading, and heavy balls hanging low. 

He wasn’t just needy, he was ravenous, the angriest reddened tip flushed like it had a grudge.

He manhandled you onto the bed properly, moving you onto your back with hands that gripped your hips hard. 

It was both of your first times, and lord, he was just using his tip to fuck you—rubbing the head along your slit, teasing the entrance without pushing in. 

He was big, there was no way that would enter your poor pussy.

The stretch was immediate when he tried to push into your orifice, a burn that made you whine, but it mixed with the ache he'd already stirred.

You didn't know who was more pussy-drunk or cock-drunk—you, with the way your walls fluttered greedily, or him, groaning like a man possessed as he nudged in. Just a few more inches out of the numerous ones eased inside your cunt with the most lecherous sounds as if your clingy walls were trying to suck him up and weren't able. 

You were addicted to the way his girth was molding your channel to him, stretching wide, the burn blending into pleasure that had you clawing at his shoulders.

You guys started fighting a bit then—playful, your hands pushing at his chest as he tried to sink deeper, him pinning your wrists with one hand while the other guided his cock. 

“Stop squirming,” he laughed breathlessly, but you twisted, half-protesting the overwhelming fullness, half-pulling him closer. 

“It's not- Oh fuckkk- It's not going to fit-!”

Percy looked down, seeing that there was still some way to go, his cock was screaming in agony, needing to feel you squeeze him to oblivion, and that's how his hands released your wrists.

But it wasn't until you felt his hands on your legs that you understood what he was doing, lifting them up to his shoulders and beeeending you until your legs were giving him the perfect space.

“It has to fit, fit, fit, fit...” His hips moved like a piston, trying to fill you up until the sound of a resounding wap! echoed.

He finally made it fit, bottoming out with a shared groan that left you both dumb at the feeling, brains short-circuiting from the tight, hot clasp and his balls slapping your skin.

Percy started pumping then with no intention of giving a small break, the thick, vein-puffed length of his cock from tip to base to thwack! and plap! your cervix wetly. 

The man was breathing heavily as his hips continued to make the luxurious bed creak over and over again, letting out small grunts that matched your joyful moans.

Your vision blurred when a hand wandered down to give tiny slap slap slaps to your reddened clit, body arching as pleasure bordered on too much, slick coating his shaft and dripping down your thighs.

Percy watched you, transfixed, his own control fraying in a matter of seconds—when he saw the tears streak your cheeks, the way your mouth fell open in silent pleasured cries, he couldn't hold it. 

“Shit—you're—” He really couldn't hold it, hips stuttering as he filled you, hot spurts of cum flooding deep. Your cunt leaked out in both slick n’ his seed, the mess dripping onto the sheets.

The poor guy was trying to pull that high out of you, trying to wrench it as he gave you a puppy look, he just needed you to cum again. And you did, crashing over the edge with a big cry you muffled by biting his shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle as your walls spasmed around him, milking him dry. 

Percy was fucking you sloppily, the rhythm erratic as his cock dragged through the mess he'd made. His fingers reached down, joining to plug you up. 

Aah, lucky you both were married because for sure he bred you, and in this moment, you were drooling into the cushions, dumb on it, your body limp and buzzing. 

He laughed, dizzy and breathless over your look, collapsing half on top of you, his weight a grounding heat. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, affectionate even in the haze as you rolled onto your stomach, expecting him to rest next to you, catch his breath but oh no no no—he was playing with his cum between your legs, fingers scooping the leaking seed and rubbing it back in, making you whimper. 

Your man pushed up your hips, ass in the air, and you felt the blunt press of his cock against your stuffed cunt again. “Can't just stop at one,” he said, voice teasing as he eased in, the stretch easier now with the slick mess. 

You moaned into the cushions, face buried, as he started thrusting shallowly. 

He even joked, breathing hot against your ear, “Ship's arriving at the port—hope it's ready for round two.”

You managed a weak “Don't mess around,” but it dissolved into a gasp as he fucked deeper, his cock pushing out globs of his own cum, mixing it with your fresh slick. 

Your pussy was red from the smack of his hips against your ass, swollen and tender, and his pubic zone was also messy with your fluids, dark curls matted, and you heard the wap! plap! plap! sounds echoing—wet, obscene, driving you both wild.

Percy was so loving even when teasing you, one hand stroking your back while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him. 

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, pace quickening, the lewd squelches growing louder as he chased his release. Your body responded despite the ache, walls clenching around him, drawing him in deeper as he came inside once more, hard and sudden, flooding you until it was just an overspilling mess, thick ropes leaking down your thighs in rivulets.

The citadel's bells tolled midnight outside, but in the chambers, the real merging had just begun. Percy pulled out slowly and you both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and rumpled sheets. 

His arm draped over you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “Think we can skip the morning feast?” he asked, voice muffled against your shoulder.

You chuckled, turning to face him and a hand coming up without thinking, brushing a loose strand of his hair back from his forehead.

“The court would consider that a declaration of war.”

Percy shifted slightly closer, as though the space between you had become completely unnecessary. There was none of the earlier tension left in him now, none of the heat or provocation—just a look of love in his eyes.

“Then we are already off to an excellent start as a married couple,” he said.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The bells outside faded into silence, the palace beyond your chambers distant and irrelevant, as though the world had politely stepped away to allow this peace to exist without interruption.

You studied him in that quiet—the way the torchlight softened the features of him, the way he looked at you now without challenge or the distance between kingdoms that had defined everything between you.

Your fingers drifted from his hair to his cheek, resting there lightly.

“They will expect us,” you said after a moment.

“They can expect whatever they like,” Percy replied, his gaze soft on yours. “We’ve already done everything they required of us.”

Your hand slipped from his face, but he caught it before it could fall away entirely, threading his fingers through yours. 

You exhaled softly, letting your forehead rest briefly against his.

“Just this once,” you said quietly, “we stay.”

“A generous decree,” Percy murmured, his voice low with sleep and softer, it did not sound like the prince who argued in the council chambers or provoked you in gardens. “I should thank my wife for such mercy.” 

“Do not grow accustomed to it,” you replied with a small laugh. “I grant it only because you have ensured that walking tomorrow would be… unnecessarily difficult.” 

“I see,” he said slowly, as though considering this with more seriousness than it deserved, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Then I must accept this kindness with proper gratitude, my queen.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Careful,” you warned, though it lacked the bite it once would have carried. “You will make a habit of saying things you cannot take back.”

“I do not intend to take them back.” His thumb moved faintly against your hand, absent and thoughtful. “We could go for a walk in the morning to see your favorite flowers.”

“Sleep,” you said. “If you insist on embarrassing us both in the morning, you will at least require the rest.”

A faint breath of laughter escaped him at that as his arm tightened around you.

“As you command,” he murmured. “My love.”

♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

💭: Guys this is not proofreaded LIKE 70% sooo hopefully you won't find many weird typos or stuff TT Still I'm reallly happy because I don't tend to write such long oneshots, yippieeee!!