Chapter 25 – The Oracle of Apollo
The desert had grown too quiet.
Weeks had passed since Ivar freed the wolf for Artemis, since moonlight had wrapped around him like judgment and reluctant favor. He had returned to his path among men — patrolling roads with soldiers, escorting convoys through ambush-laced valleys, walking streets where children begged for bread. The wars of mortals never ended.
And yet, in every moment of silence, he felt eyes on him. Not the watchful stares of soldiers or spies, but something greater. The gods were not finished. He could feel it.
The summons came with the sun.
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The Blinding
He was crossing a dry stretch of land outside Jalalabad when it struck. One moment, the horizon shimmered with heat. The next, light consumed everything.
It was not the blast of bombs. It was not fire. It was sunlight — pure, unrelenting, brighter than any dawn. It seared his vision, blinded him, until he fell to one knee, hand over his eyes.
When he looked again, the desert was gone.
He stood in a field of golden wheat, the sky impossibly blue, the air warm with music that seemed woven into the breeze itself. And before him, radiant, stood Apollo.
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Apollo Appears
The god was tall, his golden hair catching light, his features sharp and beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. He wore no armor, no crown — only a simple white tunic, but power radiated from him more than any general or king Ivar had ever seen.
"You've done well," Apollo said. His voice was music, each word flowing like a note that lingered in the air. "My sister has tested you. My brother has weighed you. Now you will hear what the Fates whisper. You must go to Delphi."
Ivar's brows furrowed. "Delphi?"
"The seat of prophecy still breathes," Apollo said. "Mortals think it dead, a ruin for tourists. But the Oracle remains, hidden, waiting for those chosen to hear. And you, storm-born, are chosen."
"Chosen for what?" Ivar asked, though the question felt heavy even on his tongue.
Apollo's smile was both kind and cruel. "To endure. To decide. To stand at the end of storms that even I cannot see clearly. Go. And listen."
The field of wheat dissolved. Ivar stood once more in the Afghan dust, but the sunlight burned hotter on his skin, as if Apollo's hand lingered there.
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Journey to Greece
He traveled quietly, slipping from military convoys to the web of routes that carried men across continents. Flights, false papers, shadowed allies who owed him debts — Ivar had long learned how to move unseen.
By winter, he stood in Greece.
Delphi lay in the mountains of Phocis, perched above the Gulf of Corinth, its ruins famous to scholars and tourists. But Ivar did not come for ruins. He came for what still lived beneath them.
At night, when the last buses left and the valley lay silent, he climbed past crumbled columns and broken stones, following instinct more than sight. He found a narrow path, half-hidden by brush, leading down into shadow.
The air grew thick, musty, filled with the scent of old incense. Torches lit themselves as he passed, one by one, guiding him deeper underground.
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The Oracle
At last, he entered a cavern where mist swirled like smoke. The walls dripped with moisture, though no spring was near. And in the center sat the Oracle.
She was a young woman, eyes clouded white, her body trembling as if strings unseen pulled her limbs. Her lips moved silently at first, then words poured out, each one layered with a thousand voices.
Child of storm, child of sea,
Chains of fire will follow thee.
Wars unending, skies of flame,
Storm to storm, yet never claim.
At the world's dusk, choice will stand:
Sword for gods, or sword for man.
The words echoed in the chamber, each syllable sinking into Ivar's bones.
He stepped forward, fists clenched. "What does it mean?"
The Oracle's head turned toward him, though her eyes saw nothing. "You will walk longer than empires. You will bleed longer than wars. You are storm given flesh. You will decide who breaks at the end."
Her voice shifted, almost human for a moment. "You are not prophecy's slave. But prophecy will always follow you."
Then the mist thickened, choking the chamber. Ivar stumbled back, coughing, his blades half-drawn out of instinct. When the fog cleared, the Oracle was gone.
Only silence remained.
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Visions in the Mist
But silence was not mercy.
As Ivar stumbled through the tunnels back to the surface, the mist clung to him, showing visions.
He saw himself in ancient Rome, chained, fighting in the arena. He saw himself in steel helmets on beaches, in trenches of mud, in cities of fire. He saw himself in deserts yet to burn, jungles yet to rot, skies filled with machines he could not name.
And beyond it all, he saw faces. Faces of gods. Faces of mortals. Faces he had not yet met but somehow knew he would.
A girl with dark hair and storm in her veins. A boy with sea-green eyes like his own. A huntress with defiance in her gaze. A warrior with scars and fire in her hands.
The mist whispered names he could not yet hear.
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The Choice
When at last he emerged into the night air, the stars above Delphi burned too bright, as if they had been waiting for him.
He stood among the ruins, his chest heaving, his hands trembling against the hilts of his swords.
The words of the prophecy echoed endlessly:
Sword for gods, or sword for man.
It was not the first time he had been bound by gods. It would not be the last. But this was different. This was not a single quest, a single storm. This was a path stretching far beyond his sight, and at its end, a choice that even the gods feared.
He whispered thanks, as he always did, though his voice shook. Thanks for survival. Thanks for strength. Thanks for endurance.
But beneath it, for the first time in centuries, was something new.
Fear.
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Apollo Again
At dawn, Apollo appeared once more. He stood on the broken stones of the old temple, watching the light rise over the mountains.
"You heard," he said softly.
Ivar nodded. "The prophecy was not meant to comfort."
Apollo's eyes glimmered with something between pride and pity. "Prophecies never are. But remember this — storms are not chains. They are choices. Even for you."
Ivar turned to leave. "Then I will keep walking."
Apollo's smile returned, faint but true. "And that is why the Fates still watch you."
The god faded into sunlight, leaving Ivar alone among ruins.
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Return to the Mortal War
When he returned to soldiers in Afghanistan weeks later, no one noticed he had been gone. War had its own rhythm, endless and unchanging. Convoys still rolled. Guns still fired. Children still begged.
But Ivar was changed. The prophecy weighed on him, even as he hid it behind silence. He fought. He endured. He whispered thanks.
And in the back of his mind, he knew this storm was only beginning.
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Would you like me to move straight into Chapter 26 – The Choice at the Crossroads (Hermes' test of Ivar's will), or expand Chapter 25 with a longer vision sequence — showing glimpses of Percy Jackson's world and his harem-to-be woven subtly into the prophecy without revealing too much yet?