3: The Cracks in the World

Nobody celebrated after the creature dissolved.

That’s how you knew things were bad.

At Camp Half-Blood, even after the worst fights, someone usually made a joke, or Clarisse challenged someone to a rematch, or Mr. D complained about paperwork like we’d just mildly inconvenienced him instead of nearly dying. But now? People just stood there, gripping their weapons, staring at the empty space where the thing had been—like it might come back if they blinked.

Chiron was already taking control. “Everyone, back to your cabins! Stay in groups of at least three! No one goes into the woods without permission!”

“And if it happens again?” someone called.

Chiron didn’t answer right away.

That scared me more than if he had said something honest.

Annabeth grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. Grover followed, glancing nervously over his shoulder like the shadows themselves might jump him. “Percy,” she said quickly, her voice low and sharp, “tell me exactly what you saw before you killed it.”

“I told you—I don’t know,” I said. “Everything kind of… glitched out. Like the world broke for a second.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she said. “You saw something. You reacted differently. Your timing was perfect.”

Grover nodded. “Yeah, man, you went all—whoosh—stab—done. Very heroic. Very terrifying.”

I hesitated. I didn’t like talking about it, mostly because I didn’t understand it myself. “There was a symbol,” I admitted. “Same one I saw in the city. It’s like… burned into stuff. Not physical. More like it’s part of reality.”

Annabeth’s eyes lit up—but not in a good way. “Describe it.”

“I can’t. Not really. Every time I try to focus on it, it kind of… slips away. Like my brain’s not supposed to remember it.”

“That’s consistent,” she muttered. “If it was erased properly, anything tied to it would resist recollection.”

Grover blinked. “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds horrible.”

“It means,” Annabeth continued, pacing now, “that something is undoing the erasure. Not completely—just enough for these things to start leaking back into existence.”

“‘Leaking’?” I said. “That sounds like something we should fix immediately.”

“Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious,” she said. “The question is how.”

Before I could respond, a slow clap echoed behind us.

We all turned.

Mr. D stood a few feet away, holding another Diet Coke, watching us like we were mildly entertaining TV. “Fascinating,” he said. “Truly. Children playing detective at the end of reality. I almost feel bad for you.”

“Do you know what’s happening or not?” I asked.

“Oh, I know enough,” he said. “More than you, certainly. But here’s the thing, Percy Jackson—this isn’t a monster you can stab, or a quest you can solve with heroic determination and a conveniently timed prophecy.”

“Then tell us what it is,” Annabeth said, her tone firm.

Mr. D tilted his head. “You still don’t understand, do you? It’s not just one thing. It’s a collapse. A fracture. Reality is—how shall I put it?—losing its memory.”

Grover made a small, panicked noise.

“That’s not a thing,” I said.

Mr. D raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are.”

Annabeth stopped pacing. “If reality is losing its memory… then anything that was removed could come back.”

“Yes,” Mr. D said. “And worse—it can come back wrong. Half-formed. Incomplete. Which explains your delightful new friend.”

I looked back toward the woods. The ground was still cracked where the creature had appeared. “And the big one in the sky?”

Mr. D’s expression darkened slightly. “That,” he said, “is not incomplete.”

For a moment, none of us spoke.

“Then what is it?” I asked.

He met my eyes. “Something that remembers everything.”

That feeling from earlier—the cold, crawling dread—came back stronger. “And it knows me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Why?”

Mr. D took a long sip of his drink, like he was deciding whether or not to ruin my life right then and there. “Because, Percy Jackson… you are a creature of both worlds. Mortal and divine. Past and present. You exist at the intersection of things that should not overlap.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Still not seeing how that connects me to a forgotten god.”

“It connects you,” he said, “because you are easier to reach.”

Annabeth’s head snapped toward him. “Reach?”

Mr. D didn’t elaborate.

Instead, he turned and started walking back toward the Big House. “Try not to die,” he called over his shoulder. “Paperwork is unbearable when the dead don’t stay properly dead.”

Grover swallowed. “I really hate him sometimes.”

Annabeth wasn’t listening anymore. She was staring at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle she didn’t like the answer to. “Easier to reach…” she murmured.

“Please don’t do the thing where you figure something out and wait ten minutes to tell me,” I said.

She hesitated.

Which meant she had figured something out.

“Annabeth.”

“If reality is breaking,” she said slowly, “then the barriers between things—time, memory, existence—they’re weakening. These erased beings shouldn’t be able to interact with us. Not directly. But you…” she stopped.

“But me what?” I pushed.

“You’ve crossed boundaries before,” she said. “The Underworld. Tartarus. You’ve survived things that should have destroyed you. If anything—anyone—was going to be sensitive to something like this…”

“It’s me,” I finished.

Grover let out a weak laugh. “Wow. That’s… not comforting at all.”

I stared at my hands. They looked normal. Just hands. No glowing symbols, no weird shadow-inky stuff crawling over them. “I don’t feel different.”

“That’s not the point,” Annabeth said. “If something is trying to re-enter existence, it might need an anchor. A connection. A way in.”

“And you think I’m that ‘way in’?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

Which was basically a yes.

Before I could process that, a horn sounded across camp—the emergency call.

Every camper froze.

Chiron’s voice rang out, louder than I’d ever heard it. “To positions! Now!”

The sky darkened again—faster this time.

The shadows weren’t just streaks anymore.

They were spreading.

I looked up, my stomach dropping.

“That’s not good,” Grover said unnecessarily.

“No kidding.”

Annabeth grabbed her dagger. “Percy… whatever happens, stay with me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Wasn’t planning on wandering off into the apocalypse alone.”

But even as I said it, that feeling came back.

That pull.

Subtle, but there.

Like something was calling my name—not out loud, but in a way I couldn’t ignore.

I clenched my jaw. “Do you feel that?”

Annabeth shook her head. “Feel what?”

Grover squinted at me. “Uh… Percy? You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re about to make a bad decision.”

“I’m not—” I stopped.

The pull got stronger.

Like a thread tightening around my chest.

And I knew, somehow, without understanding how—

It wasn’t random.

It was targeting me.

The shadows above twisted, forming that same broken, impossible symbol.

And the voice—the real one this time, not the fragments—whispered through my mind:

Come find what was forgotten.

I took a step forward before I even realized it.

“Percy,” Annabeth said sharply, grabbing me. “Don’t.”

I forced myself to stop.

“But it’s calling me,” I said.

“I know,” she replied, her grip tightening. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t go.”

The ground trembled again.

The cracks near the forest widened.

More creatures—half-formed, glitching, wrong—started dragging themselves into existence.

And above it all, the sky continued to tear.

This wasn’t just an attack.

It was spreading.

I looked at Annabeth. At Grover. At the camp behind us.

Then back at the sky.

Whatever was happening—whatever this forgotten thing was—

It wasn’t waiting for us anymore.

It was coming.

And somehow…

I had a feeling this was only the beginning.