I'm just starting to read the Percy Jackson books, so if I made any mistakes involving characters who show up later on, I apologize in advance. I do have a few major spoilers (like the Fates), but I'm sure there are far more dedicated fans out there who'll notice things I've missed… Please be kind!
Now, back to what matters.
One chapter isn't enough for a fair vote, so I'll be sharing another chapter from both stories.
Don't forget to go to the voting post and pick your favorite! The winning story will take over once HPDC ends… and trust me, we're getting very close to that moment!
The Silence Among the Crowd
People walked without paying attention, each lost in their own thoughts, until a subtle chill—barely perceptible—ran down their spines like a cold breath from the void. Some stopped, glanced around, looked up at the sky… but saw nothing.
Only silence.
And then they continued on, unaware of what had disturbed them.
No one knew that, at that very moment, an invisible figure was walking the streets with steady steps and a sharp gaze. No one perceived it. No one sensed it. It was like a shadow that cast no shadow.
Miraak.
The First Dragonborn.
He moved among mortals unaware of his presence, analyzing each structure, each piece of technology, every word printed on glowing signs. He wasn't confused. For someone who had spent centuries trapped in Apocrypha—where all knowledge converged—deciphering a new plane wasn't difficult. It only required observation.
He already understood the language. Hermaeus Mora had granted him the gift of absorbing knowledge innately, and languages—no matter how foreign—unraveled before his mind. He grasped them instantly. The words of this world felt simple to him. Almost primitive in structure.
He passed by a concrete wall… and walked through it. He didn't need doors. He entered a random residence as easily as a thought crosses the mind.
There, toward the back, he found what he was looking for: clothing.
Garments hung from a clothesline. He examined them coldly, selecting those that matched his size. He took a gray shirt, black pants—soft, elastic, made of a fabric unknown to him—and a heavier item he assumed was a short cloak.
But once he put it on, he realized it was different. A kind of enclosed outerwear, with an attached hood. On the back, a symbol: a stylized skull, and just beneath it, the word "Death."
Miraak read it easily. He understood its message.
A direct statement. Crude. Honest.
He liked it.
"Curious design for a common garment," he murmured as he pulled the hood over his head. It wasn't like his dragon priest mask, but it at least concealed his face. Walking with his head uncovered felt wrong. Too exposed.
He left the residence as he had entered—without a trace—and walked among the crowd. His gaze scanned the weak bodies around him. Their gestures, their habits, the glowing objects they held so tightly. Lifeless devices. All of them seemed inferior to even the simplest villagers of Solstheim.
And yet… this world remained standing.
"There are no records of this plane," he thought as he walked. "None."
Not even Hermaeus Mora had spoken of a world like this. And that only made it more interesting.
He soon reached a clean, modern building with glass doors and sleek columns. Through the windows, he saw endless shelves, lined with books.
A library.
Perfect.
He entered unnoticed. He moved like a whisper, like a breeze no one feels. No one saw him as he picked up a book, opened it, and read each page with precise movements. His speed was inhuman. Every word was locked into his memory the moment his eyes touched it.
He took one. Read it. Returned it. Then another. And another.
Hours passed without trace. Then days.
When he finally closed the last book, the light of dawn was filtering once again through the windows. The library, closed for hours, now lay in shadows.
And he was done.
Every text. Every page. Every story.
"One week," he murmured, placing a book titled World War II and Its Consequences back in its place. "That was all it took to destroy themselves…"
He turned toward a shelf in the back. The word Mythology was written in golden letters.
He took a step forward… then stopped.
He remembered the lightning.
It wasn't magic. Not as he knew it. It had no structure. No form. It was something simpler… and far more absolute.
Will.
He touched his chin, thoughtful.
The lightning that struck him when he arrived in this world didn't match any school of sorcery. Too fast. Too precise. As if an unseen presence had marked his arrival and decided to act.
There was no proof.
Only suspicion.
And for him, that was enough.
But something on the street caught his attention. He turned to the window.
There it was.
A massive creature, with a single horn curved forward and a body clad in golden armor, walked down the center of the street. Gigantic. Monstrous.
And no one seemed to notice.
Miraak watched it intently.
"What are you?"
He didn't know. He had read every book in that place, and not one mentioned anything like it.
This wasn't hidden information. It was invisible information. The mortals simply couldn't see it.
He left the library in silence.
The creature stopped. It raised its head and began sniffing the air like a beast sensing a predator it couldn't see. Its golden eyes slowly turned in Miraak's direction.
Even though he remained in an ethereal state.
"It shouldn't be able to perceive me…"
The creature clawed at the ground, lowered its head, and tensed its limbs. Ready to charge.
Miraak exhaled slowly. His form began to solidify, gradually, like a shadow gaining substance.
He glanced at the sky, just briefly, wondering if judgment would fall again.
Nothing.
And then the beast attacked.
The ground shook. Its charge was relentless.
But before impact, Miraak raised a hand and grabbed the horn with absolute control. The earth cracked beneath him from the force of the blow… but he didn't move.
The creature roared, struggled, tried to break free. Useless.
With a clean motion, Miraak ripped the horn out—then drove it through the creature's forehead.
The body fell silently.
Moments later, it began to dissolve into golden dust, floating briefly before vanishing completely. Only the horn remained, resting on the ground.
Miraak picked it up.
He studied it closely.
"Interesting," he said simply. His tone was neutral, but his eyes held genuine interest.
This world was strange.
And he had only begun to understand it.
…
Inside a vast museum filled with polished columns and gleaming display cases, dozens of small mortals ran in every direction. Voices, laughter, and footsteps echoed among the statues, as if that sacred place were just another playground.
Miraak entered in silence, invisible to all eyes. He walked slowly, his gaze fixed on every detail, carefully analyzing the explanations describing the so-called gods. His eyes paused slightly longer on one particular figure—a man of stone holding a bolt of lightning in his hand. He didn't know why, but the image stirred something uncomfortable inside him.
Then he moved on, examining the panels one by one. Each one recounted the feats of supposed heroes.
Some were interesting. Others—simply ridiculous in comparison to what he had lived through.
And a few... were disturbingly familiar. Feats he had accomplished himself in the past, or that he had witnessed in the last Dragonborn—Einar.
"Fascinating, isn't it?"
The voice came from behind, calm and curious. Miraak had already sensed the presence approaching, but since it lacked any hostile intent and did not trigger his blood instinct, he ignored it. Still… there was something strange about the energy. It wasn't magic as he knew it, but it was definitely not normal.
He turned slowly.
An older man in a motorized wheelchair looked at him with a neutral expression. Miraak studied him in silence for a moment, analyzing every detail.
"The heroes," the man continued, gesturing toward the statues, "performed impossible feats. They earned fame. Power. Some became legends."
There was a brief pause before he added:
"But there were others too. Heroes no one ever heard of, or who chose to hide from the world."
Miraak shifted his gaze toward the figure of the god holding the lightning bolt, and then slowly raised his arm, pointing at it with a slight motion.
"Tell me about him."
"Zeus. Father of all. Chief of the Greek pantheon. Lord of the lightning," the man said without hesitation. "His power lies in controlling the skies. Or more precisely—the lightning."
The guide's voice was firm, as if he had recited that speech a thousand times.
"His father, Cronos, devoured all his children at birth to avoid a prophecy. But his mother, Rhea, saved Zeus. He grew up, returned, and tricked Cronos into vomiting, freeing his siblings. Together, they defeated him. And ever since, the three great ones rule the world: Poseidon over the sea, Hades over the dead… and Zeus over the sky."
Miraak listened in silence, never taking his eyes off the statue.
Then he spoke.
"Why would he attack without warning?"
The man frowned slightly, as if the question was somehow inappropriate. Then he looked more intently at Miraak.
"In many stories, Zeus is just. Brave. A protector. But... he can also act on impulse. Sometimes he's described as paranoid. There isn't always a clear reason."
His words faded into the air as he turned his head, glancing toward a nearby hallway.
"I'm sorry. My group needs me," he said, and began to roll away without looking back.
Miraak continued observing the statue. The lightning. The face of stone. The authoritative posture.
"A paranoid god, hmm…" he murmured calmly.
"Then… it was you."
For an instant, the air around him shifted.
His battle instinct awakened—not as a conscious act, but as an ancient reflex. Pure. Primal. Like a wolf sensing blood on the wind.
Several nearby visitors shuddered without knowing why. The guide, now several meters away, abruptly turned back with a serious, slightly alarmed expression, scanning the crowd for something… or someone.
But Miraak was already gone.
…
He walked away from the museum at a calm pace, avoiding the constant noise of the human children who still ran through the corridors. Until he stopped.
A few meters ahead, a boy was walking alongside another who moved strangely. Miraak immediately recognized an energy similar to the man from before—concealed, difficult to perceive.
But that was not who caught his attention.
It was the first one.
Black hair. Green eyes.
A cheerful voice as he spoke with his friend. Smiling. Fragile. Completely unaware of what walked near him.
And an aura...
Barely perceptible.
But familiar. Too familiar.
Like Einar's.
Not in strength.
But in what it hid inside.
Miraak watched him closely as he passed by.
Neither the boy nor his companion noticed.
But something had stirred. A spark.
And Miraak, though he kept walking, would not forget that presence.
The one who might one day give him the thrill of battle again.
A worthy opponent.
…
Several children had gathered around a water fountain. It was recess, and the group ate while talking, laughing, or running between the shadows of the museum. Among them were the two who had caught Miraak's attention earlier.
A red-haired girl approached with a mocking gait, followed by two friends. She held what was left of her lunch and, without saying more than a sarcastic "well, well," dumped it onto one of the boys' legs.
The other boy stood up immediately, his face tense. He took a step forward, ready to intervene… but didn't have to. The girl suddenly flew backward, as if shoved by an unseen force, and landed straight into the fountain, soaking herself completely.
Everyone fell silent.
The girl screamed, her soaked hair sticking to her face in furious strands.
"Percy pushed me! It was him!"
The boy blinked, confused. "I didn't touch her!"
The group's teacher arrived in seconds, restoring order with sharp movements and a commanding voice. Her gaze locked on Percy with a strange calm—almost satisfaction.
"Mr. Jackson, follow me," she said, her smile oddly triumphant.
The other boy tried to step in.
"Wait… it was me," he said, taking a step forward.
But the teacher dismissed him without interest. She barely glanced his way.
"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood. You stay here."
Percy lowered his head and followed the woman as she walked away with surprisingly quick strides. When he looked up, she was already several meters ahead.
He glanced back at his friend. Pale. Waiting, perhaps, for the man in the wheelchair to intervene… but he kept reading his novel, completely unconcerned.
Percy turned to follow the teacher… but she was no longer there.
He saw her again further ahead, near the main vestibule.
Waiting for him in silence.
He quickened his pace.
They crossed a side corridor and entered a deserted gallery. No one else was there. Just the two of them.
The woman didn't move.
She made a low sound in her throat—something between a growl and a hiss.
Percy felt a chill run down his spine.
"You've been causing us trouble," the woman said without turning around.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Did you really think you could deceive us?" she muttered, and her tone shifted. It now sounded cold. Intentional. As if speaking to someone who had already been sentenced.
"I'll try harder…"
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"We're not fools, Percy Jackson. Finding you was only a matter of time."
She finally turned.
Her face no longer looked human. Her eyes glowed with an unnatural light.
"Confess, and you'll suffer less."
Percy swallowed hard. He tried to think—had he done something wrong? His mind raced, desperate for an answer.
"Ma'am, I—"
"It doesn't matter."
Her voice cracked.
And so did her body.
The transformation was sudden. Her clothes dissolved, replaced by leathery wings and elongated claws. Her skin turned gray. Her face twisted into a monstrous grimace full of yellow fangs.
A creature.
A monster.
Percy stepped back, trembling.
And then a voice echoed from the distance.
"Percy, catch!"
Something flew through the air. Percy caught it by reflex.
A pen.
But the moment his fingers wrapped around it, it changed. It elongated. It shimmered.
It transformed.
A bronze sword.
The monster shrieked and lunged at him.
Percy barely moved in time. The claws sliced the air where his face had been a heartbeat earlier. His heart pounded wildly. His legs shook. He held the sword awkwardly. He didn't know how to use it.
But he held it.
And he wouldn't let go.
"Die!" screeched the creature, lunging again.
Percy shut his eyes. Raised the sword.
And then… nothing.
He opened his eyes.
The monster was frozen in place.
A hand held it by the back of the neck.
A steady hand. Calm. Unyielding.
The man who held it stood with his face hidden in shadow, his hood drawn low. Only his gray eyes were visible… and a faint golden stubble on his chin. He didn't seem surprised. Not even curious.
He was simply observing.
"Looks like I might finally get some information on what kind of creature you are," he said calmly.
The monster thrashed. Screamed.
"Who are you?!" it shrieked, lashing out with both claws.
But the moment they touched the stranger's skin… they disintegrated.
As if they had tried to slash steel.
Percy could only stare. Still. Terrified.
The man turned his face slowly toward him, as if just now realizing he was there.
Then, his eyes shifted to the sword Percy still held.
"An interesting weapon," he murmured.
And in that instant—unknown to anyone—the thread of Percy Jackson's fate began to shift.
Right under the noses of the Fates.