Prologue – Storm Before the Sea
The world had changed, but storms never ended.
Ivar had walked through the fall of Rome, the ashes of Pompeii, the fire of Stalingrad, the dust of Kabul. He had freed Artemis' wolf, carried Ares' spear, endured Apollo's prophecy, and chosen Hermes' storm at the crossroads. He had fought in wars mortals wrote down in history books and in battles they never knew existed.
And still, he survived.
He had learned not to question why. Survival was worship enough.
But in the spring of the new century, as planes streaked the skies and soldiers patrolled deserts, the gods whispered more urgently. The prophecy he had heard in Delphi throbbed like a wound refusing to close.
Child of storm, child of sea,
Chains of fire will follow thee.
At the world's dusk, choice will stand:
Sword for gods, or sword for man.
For centuries, Ivar had walked alone. Now, the Fates promised, he would no longer be alone.
---
New York, 2005
The city roared louder than any battlefield. Cars honked, crowds surged, towers of glass and steel scraped the sky. For mortals, it was ordinary life. For Ivar, it was camouflage.
He walked unnoticed through the throngs, black jacket hanging open over casual clothes, sea-green eyes scanning everything. To the untrained, he was just another young man. To those who knew how to look — gods, monsters — he burned like a beacon.
He had been waiting. Watching. Because he could feel it. The storm was coming again. A new war.
He'd seen the signs: monsters stirring where they had been silent, whispers of Zeus' bolt stolen, rumors in Olympus of a boy not yet grown whose fate stretched across the world.
The gods had not told him everything. They never did. But they had told him enough.
The age of demigods was rising again.
---
The Last Whisper Before the Storm
On the night it began, he stood on the roof of an old warehouse in Brooklyn, watching a thunderstorm gather over Manhattan. Lightning split the sky, thunder cracked like a spear hurled by Jupiter himself. Rain hammered the city, soaking him to the bone.
And then he felt it.
A ripple. A shift. A call in his blood as old as Olympus.
The prophecy at Delphi whispered louder, overlapping with the storm itself. He saw flashes:
A boy with sea-green eyes standing against monsters in a museum.
A girl with storm in her veins, lightning dancing in her hands.
A huntress in silver armor, aiming her bow at the sky.
A camp in the woods, filled with demigods training for a war they didn't yet understand.
And through it all, his own swords gleamed. His path would cross theirs. Not as rival. Not as savior. But as storm walking beside storm.
---
End of the Prologue
Ivar whispered thanks into the rain, as he always did. For survival. For endurance. For the storm that never let him rest.
Then he sheathed his swords, turned from the lightning, and walked into the city.
Because the story was beginning.
And this time, the storm was not his alone.
Prologue II – The Storm Arrives at Camp Half-Blood
The world still burned with the smoke of wars men thought they had won. Afghanistan smoldered, Iraq cracked open, New York rebuilt its skyline with trembling pride. But beneath the noise of mortals, the old gods stirred.
And when the gods stirred, they whispered one name.
Ivar.
---
The Arrival
He came not in fanfare or prophecy's trumpet, but in silence.
One evening, as twilight bled across Long Island, Chiron stood at the borders of Camp Half-Blood, his human disguise fading in the solitude. The wards shimmered faintly around him, protections older than America itself. He was waiting. He did not often wait.
The air shifted. The wind carried the tang of salt, the crackle of ozone. And then Ivar stepped through the tree line, sea-green eyes glowing faintly in the dim. He looked like a boy of seventeen at most — lean muscle, black hair clinging to his temples — but Chiron, who had taught Achilles and Hercules, knew better.
This one carried centuries in his gaze.
"You've walked long," Chiron said quietly.
Ivar inclined his head. "And I will walk longer still."
---
The Gods' Hand
The campers whispered as he entered. A new arrival always caused a stir, but this was different. He didn't look bewildered, like demigods plucked from mortal lives usually did. He carried himself like he had been born for war.
Some swore they saw lightning flicker in his eyes when he looked their way. Others swore the ground seemed to tremble faintly beneath his boots.
And then came the claiming.
It was not subtle. The sky split with thunder, though no storm was scheduled by Zeus. Lightning arced down, striking the amphitheater stone at his feet. At the same time, the sea at Montauk roared louder, waves crashing high as if Poseidon himself had spoken.
Above his head, two sigils burned together — Jupiter's eagle and Poseidon's trident. Impossible. Unheard of.
The campers gasped. Chiron's face tightened. And in Olympus, the gods themselves leaned forward.
---
The Reaction
That night, around the campfire, murmurs spread like wildfire.
"He's the son of Jupiter—"
"No, grandson of Poseidon—"
"Both? That's impossible!"
"He's… perfect."
But perfection carried weight. He sparred in the arena, twin blades flashing, and no one could match him. He walked past the cabins, and campers felt both awe and unease. He bowed his head in silence before every meal, whispering thanks not to one god, but to all.
And though he smiled faintly when spoken to, there was something distant in him — as though he had seen storms these children could not yet imagine.
To Ares' children, he was a rival.
To Athena's, a puzzle.
To Artemis' Hunters, a curiosity.
To Chiron, a warning.
Because if this boy was what he seemed, then the old prophecy was bending toward him.
---
The Hidden Meeting
That night, Chiron sent a message to Olympus. And the gods answered.
In the Big House, by firelight, Ivar stood before them — or rather, their voices, shimmering forms burning in the air.
Zeus' voice thundered. "My blood runs in him. He should not exist."
Poseidon's voice surged like waves. "Yet he does. He is mine as much as yours."
Athena's eyes narrowed. "He is dangerous. Too skilled. Too willing."
Ares laughed. "He's perfect. Let him fight."
Artemis' voice was soft, but steady. "He understands balance. He has my respect."
Hermes smirked. "He made the right choice. He always does."
Apollo only sighed. "He's already bound to prophecy. You can't change it now."
Through it all, Ivar said nothing. He only bowed his head. "Every battle I've won, I won because of you. I will not curse your silence. I will endure it."
The gods fell quiet. Even Zeus.
---
Closing the Prologue
When dawn came, Camp Half-Blood was awake with gossip and awe. But Ivar? He sat by the shoreline, sharpening his swords, the ocean lapping at his boots, the sky rumbling faintly overhead.
He whispered his thanks once more, as he always had. Not for power. Not for glory. For survival.
Because storms never end. They only wait.
And soon, another storm would walk into camp — a boy with sea-green eyes, as unaware of his destiny as Ivar was prepared for his.
The stories were about to collide.
---
⚡ Do you want me to now start Chapter 1 of Ivar's Percy Jackson arc at Yancy Academy with Percy, weaving Ivar's perspective into the Lightning Thief events, or would you prefer a Camp Half-Blood opening chapter focused just on Ivar before Percy arrives, showing how he interacts with the other campers and establishes his place?