[Third Person PoV]
Lucian sat cross-legged at the head of the ship, the salty breeze tugging at his cape as waves crashed rhythmically against the hull below. His eyes were shut tight, brow furrowed in deep concentration as he focused on the growing storm of curse energy swirling between his palms.
The power was volatile — alive, unstable, and rebellious. The air around him seemed to hum, vibrating faintly as dark wisps leaked from his fingers like smoke from a dying flame. He tried to maintain control, but the energy only grew heavier, pressing down on him as if testing his will. His face twitched, the muscles in his jaw tightening—then, all at once, the energy burst apart, dispersing into thin black mist that quickly vanished into the wind.
Lucian's shoulders slumped in irritation. He exhaled sharply through his nose, or rather, tried to — but the effort only made the tissues stuffed in his nostrils crinkle. Part of the white cloth was stained pitch black, a sharp contrast to his pale face. He took a deep breath and muttered a few words under his breath, trying to center himself. Again, he gathered the energy, forcing it into shape, condensing it into a dense, dark-red orb that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat in his hands.
For a brief second, he thought he had it under control. Then his concentration slipped.
The orb fizzled out with a soft pop, and his patience vanished right along with it. "Would everyone please stop staring at me?!" Lucian suddenly snapped, throwing his hands up and glaring at the deck. "You're driving me insane!"
His nasally tone made the outburst less threatening and more absurd, considering the tissues sticking halfway out of his nose.
Around the deck, every single person aboard Percy's ship froze mid-motion — all of them, without exception, were facing forward, eyes unmistakably on him. Even the ship's figurehead seemed to be silently judging him.
"Lucian," Thalia began, trying to sound casual despite the twitch at the corner of her mouth, "you're sitting at the very tip of the ship. We have to look in your direction if we want to see where we're going."
Lucian's glare sharpened. "Don't insult my intelligence, Thalia. You think I wouldn't know if your attention was actually on the sea and not on me?" His voice dripped irritation as he rose to his feet, wiping at the corner of his nose. "I wasn't born yesterday, and I'm not so damn weak that I can't tell the difference."
Annabeth crossed her arms, her tone cool and logical but edged with genuine concern. "Lucian, what do you expect? You suddenly started bleeding from your nose. Forgive us if we're a little worried." Her gray eyes narrowed. "Sorry that we care about you."
Lucian's expression softened for half a second — barely noticeable — before he turned away, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like an apology. "Worry about yourselves," he said instead, his voice low and clipped. "As you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
He hopped down from the ship's figurehead, landing with a soft thud on the wooden deck. His boots echoed as he made his way toward the cabin, each step heavier than the last. The door shut behind him with a firm slam, followed by muffled grumbling from the other side.
A tense silence fell over the deck.
Everyone exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether to follow him, call out, or just pretend nothing had happened.
Clarisse leaned lazily against the railing, breaking the quiet with her usual bluntness. "He's clearly hiding something," she muttered, crossing her arms. "Has he told any of you what his prophecy said, anyway?"
Thalia and Annabeth shared a look — one of those wordless, sharp exchanges that spoke volumes. Both shook their heads, though their eyes darkened.
Clarisse scoffed, brushing her hair out of her face. "Well, that just confirms it. The prophecy must've foretold his death. I mean, what other reason—"
"Clarisse," Thalia said quietly.
The air around them changed.
Clarisse froze as she met Thalia's gaze — cold, narrowed eyes glowing with an almost electric light, her tone low and dangerous. The scent of ozone tingled faintly in the air.
"Stop talking," Thalia warned.
Clarisse hesitated, realizing that Annabeth, too, was staring at her with that same unnerving stillness. They didn't need to say anything. Clarisse could tell. They both knew. They'd already figured it out — and they didn't want to hear anyone else speak it aloud.
Percy cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped in, breaking the tension. "Come on, you two. Lay off her, will you? She didn't mean anything by it."
Thalia huffed, her body crackling with faint static before she vanished in a streak of lightning, reappearing high up by the crow's nest. Annabeth only rolled her eyes and turned, disappearing silently into the far end of the ship, her expression unreadable.
Both Tyson and Scylla looked unsettled, the thick tension in the air almost suffocating. Tyson's single eye flicked nervously between Thalia and Clarisse, unsure if he should say something, while Scylla's gaze lingered toward the cabin door Lucian had disappeared behind. A worried frown creased her face.
After all, Lucian had been the one to save her — He was her hero in every sense of the word. The thought that he might die now…it didn't sit right with her. It frightened her more than she wanted to admit.
Inside the cabin, Lucian had collapsed onto the hammock with a heavy groan, the old ropes creaking beneath his weight. His legs and arms trembled faintly, muscles twitching from exhaustion. He plucked the bloodied tissues from his nose and set them aflame with a small flick of black fire — the ash rising and vanishing before it could even touch the ground.
Slowly, he began undoing his armor. Beneath it, his arms and legs looked…wrong. The skin was pale and lifeless, veins of pure black crawling up from his fingertips and toes like roots from a dying tree. The blackness thickened around his joints, creeping past his elbows and knees, the veins pulsing faintly as if something alive was spreading inside him.
Lucian stared at the sight, his face unreadable. "They're slowly going numb," he muttered to himself, his voice quiet and almost detached. "It won't be long before I lose function in both my arms and legs…"
He tried to make a fist — to feel some sense of control — but his fingers barely responded. His hand shook pitifully before falling limp against his thigh. A hollow laugh escaped him.
'Man,' he thought, watching his trembling hand, 'I'm really going to die, aren't I? How scary… Is this what old people feel like when their body starts betraying them? Like you're watching yourself fade from the inside out?'
He lowered his gaze, his hair falling over his eyes, shadowing his face. For a long moment, he said nothing — just listened to the faint creak of the hammock and the muffled sound of the waves hitting the ship's hull. The silence was heavy, filled with unspoken fear.
Then, as if forcing himself to move, he exhaled sharply and straightened up. "No point sitting around feeling sorry for myself," he muttered.
He resummoned his armor with a wave of his hand, the dark plates snapping back into place over his corrupted limbs. At the same time, he conjured a sphere of curse energy between his palms — the black and red mist swirling violently, radiating an oppressive heat.
Lucian extended both hands and summoned a second orb, smaller but denser, until he was holding one in each palm. His eyes narrowed. "Come on… just once. Fuse correctly this time…"
He brought the two orbs closer. They sparked violently upon contact, their opposing energies hissing and crackling like wild electricity. The air around him began to vibrate — then the orbs collided, detonating in his face with a thunderous boom.
Lucian stumbled back, coughing as black smoke filled the small cabin. His face was singed, but his glare burned hotter than the explosion. "Tch…" He gritted his teeth and wiped the soot from his cheek. "Again."
Two more orbs flared to life in his hands. He forced them together, his concentration razor-sharp. For a brief moment, it worked — the two spheres began to merge into one pulsing core of chaotic light. Then it destabilized, expanding rapidly before bursting apart, throwing him back into the hammock.
"Fuck!!" Lucian roared, slamming his fist into his thigh. His patience was gone. Everything — his pain, his exhaustion, his failing body — was grinding at him. He pressed a hand over his face and let out a frustrated growl.
"It's too damn late for this," he muttered, dragging himself onto the hammock. "I'll deal with it in the morning…"
He lay back, his body sinking into the netting, the rhythm of the rocking ship slowly lulling him toward sleep. The soft sound of waves mixed with the distant rumble of thunder outside. Before long, his eyes closed, and exhaustion claimed him completely.
…
By morning, Lucian was still sprawled across the hammock, one arm dangling off the side and his leg twitching faintly with each sway of the ship. The sunlight filtered through the small window, catching in his disheveled hair. He stirred when a loud bang echoed through the cabin door.
"Lucian! We're about to hit land!" Thalia's voice shouted from outside, her fist hammering the wood impatiently.
Lucian groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Coming…" His voice was hoarse and gravelly with sleep. Every movement felt stiff, like his body was made of stone, but he forced himself up, stretching his sore limbs before pulling his armor back into place.
By the time he stepped outside, the morning light hit him full in the face, bright and warm against the cold ache that lingered in his body. The rest of the crew was gathered near the railing, all eyes fixed on the horizon.
Ahead of them, an island came into view — lush and radiant beneath the morning sun. A mountain rose proudly at its center, surrounded by dazzling white marble structures that gleamed like pearls. Palm trees lined a golden beach, and a harbor below bustled with strange, beautiful ships of every shape and design.
Lucian's lips curved into a small, weary smile. 'Circe's Island,' he thought to himself.
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