Our Unbreakable Vow

The campsite felt almost too normal, like stepping into a photograph of a life they’d both imagined and never really believed they’d get to keep. Grover hummed under his breath as he sorted kindling, his cap pushed back so his horns slipped through without ceremony. Hazel and Frank were arguing gently about tent stakes versus rocks, and Reyna, already finished with her neatly aligned bedroll, had commandeered the camp stove with a level of focus that would’ve made a legion proud.

“Civilian life looks good on you,” Annabeth told Percy, bumping her shoulder into his as he wrestled with an uncooperative tent pole. The late afternoon sun filtered through the pines, catching in her hair like a secret. She looked lighter out here, quiet and watchful, the way she got when she didn’t have to look for every possible exit.

“I’ll have you know I’m an expert in basic shelter construction,” he said, letting the pole finally click into place. “I’ve passed many rigorous tests. Mostly involving duct tape.”

She hid a smile and tugged the tent fabric taut. His hand brushed her wrist; it was nothing, a passing touch, but he felt her breath hitch before she smoothed it away and leaned into the work. The tent rose in a lopsided arc, and she circled to fix it without comment. He watched her in that patient way he did now, as if he could map the day by the curve of her mouth.

“Reyna’s got the water boiling,” Hazel called, waving a wooden spoon like a baton. “Which is impressive considering the stove just tried to mutiny.”

Reyna didn’t look up. “It was a minor rebellion. I quelled it.”

Frank, crouched over the fire pit, glanced up at Annabeth. “You want me to double-check those guy lines?”

Annabeth arched a brow. “I’m not offended you asked,” she said, then tugged one and smiled at Frank. “Maybe just the back corner.”

“On it.” He shifted with that effortless bear-cat grace, muscles moving under his T-shirt. He and Hazel had a rhythm that made Percy’s chest go warm—easy and sure, like they had decided together it was safe to laugh today.

“You’re staring,” Annabeth murmured, coming to stand beside him. Her fingers slipped into his. Their friends wouldn’t notice; and if they did, nobody would tease. Not much, anyway.

“Just making sure you have the right vantage point for judging my excellent tent skills,” Percy said. He squeezed her hand lightly. She squeezed back.

Grover set down an armful of kindling and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. “Okay, seating log acquired.” He patted a fallen trunk. “I know this place doesn’t have a listed nymph population, but if anyone hears humming, please don’t answer. It’s probably me, but just in case.”

“No monster lore,” Reyna said. “We agreed.”

“Right.” Grover’s smile softened. “Right.”

They moved through the simple work together. Food packets in a neat line. Bedrolls unfurled. The sound of zip ties and laughter and pine needles crunching underfoot. Annabeth knelt to secure their sleeping bags side by side in the tent and Percy crouched beside her, watching the concentration settle over her face. He brushed a pine needle from her cheek and didn’t move his hand. She met his gaze, steady, and the soft sound she made when she leaned into him had more power than any oath he’d sworn.

“Public displays of affection are not banned,” Reyna said dryly without looking up from the stove, “but keep them below a level that will make me confiscate the chocolate.”

“We’ll behave,” Annabeth said, not moving away. Percy kissed her temple anyway, quick and sincere, and her eyes fluttered closed. When she opened them, he saw the same light he always looked for: gratitude, mischief, a promise she would always keep.

They ate around the crackle of the new fire Reyna had allowed Frank to build. Hazel passed around mugs of cocoa, shaking the mini marshmallows like she was casting a spell. Grover launched into a long, very detailed story about a family of owls he’d met near a ranger station in Oregon and how one of them had very firm opinions about the proper placement of leave-no-trace signage.

“So,” Hazel said, nudging Annabeth when Grover paused for dramatic effect, “are we doing ghost stories later or no?”

“No,” Reyna said, at the exact moment Grover said, “Absolutely,” and Percy said, “Only if mine involve a haunted vending machine.”

“Compromise,” Annabeth decided. “Ghost stories with comedic relief.”

“That’s her,” Percy murmured to Hazel, tipping his head toward Annabeth with a grin. “Queen of compromise.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes but leaned against him, her thigh pressed to his. Heat pooled under his skin where she touched him, slow and certain, like embers banked for later. The talk went dim around them. He watched the firelight flicker over her mouth. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and glanced at him. The look had weight; it said they were here, they were safe, they could want things without the earth shifting underfoot.

As the sun lowered, the sky turned a pale lavender that made the edges of the pines look sharper. The burn of late summer drifted in with the breeze, warm sap and dry needles, and somewhere, water moved unseen. Percy reached for Annabeth’s hand under the cover of his jacket draped over both their knees. She traced his knuckles with her thumb, each pass careful, like memorizing him by touch.

Frank tried to twist open another packet and failed. “This one’s defective.”

“Or you’re too strong,” Hazel said, stealing it and popping it open with unfair ease.

“I am both,” Frank said, and everyone laughed, the kind of laughter that loosened something tight inside.

When the first stars pricked through the canopy, Reyna’s shoulders eased a fraction. “This is good,” she said softly, not to anyone in particular. “We should do normal more often.”

Annabeth nodded, her head tipping to Percy’s shoulder. He let his cheek rest in her hair. She smelled like sun and pine and the familiar salt that never left them. He wanted to keep this hour for later, save it like a precious spare.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. “You see the map earlier? There’s supposed to be an overlook not far. Sunset might be decent.”

She tipped her head back to look at him, lips curving. “Decent,” she echoed. “Your sense of direction and optimism in one sentence. Bold.”

“Brave,” he corrected. “Trust me?”

He felt her smile against his shoulder. “Always.”

She pushed off his shoulder and rose, brushing pine needles from her jeans. “Show me this spectacular sunset. If we miss it because you took us the scenic way to nowhere, I reserve the right to mock you for at least a week.”

“Your faith buoys me.” He stood and slung his jacket on, already reaching for his small pack. Habit had him checking for a canteen, a flashlight, the little utility knife Annabeth had picked out for him in a hardware store aisle in New Rome. He caught her watching his hands and lifted a brow. “Prepared?”

“Obviously,” she said, patting her own pocket where her phone and a folded trail map rested. The corner of paper stuck out, creased from her fingers. “One of us has to be.”

Grover’s ears perked. “Where are you two going?”

“Overlook,” Percy said. “Half hour, tops. We’ll be back before Reyna begins her closing arguments for hot chocolate round two.”

Reyna turned from the stove, her mouth a stern line that didn’t hide the worry in her eyes. “Take a whistle. And text if the trail looks off.”

Annabeth nodded, leaning over to snag a bright orange whistle from the supply pile. She looped it around her neck, the plastic cool against her skin. “We’re not going far. Promise.”

Hazel glanced at the sky, where the last light was silvering the tops of the trees. “Be careful.”

“Always,” Percy said. He gave Frank a two-finger salute and squeezed Grover’s shoulder. “Guard the chocolate.”

“On my life,” Grover vowed.

They stepped away from the fire’s glow, the camp behind them dimming to a warm hum. The path out of the campsite was soft with needles and firm where roots crossed like old bones. Percy walked close enough that their arms brushed. It seemed small, but the contact steadied him in a way nothing else did.

“So,” Annabeth said, democratic. “Left at the fork or right?”

“Right,” he said. “The map showed a spur that way.”

“Oh,” she said, thoughtful. “The famous Percy Jackson ‘I glanced vaguely at a map’ method.”

“I studied it. Thoroughly. For at least thirty seconds.”

“That explains the confidence.” She hid a smile. “Do I get to navigate when your instincts start arguing with the trees?”

“Only if we want to get there with no detours.”

She bumped him with her hip, light, her laughter too soft for anyone else to hear. He soaked it up like heat. They fell into an easy rhythm, the kind of step-in-step that had come from years of fighting and walking and simply living side by side. Birds clicked in the high branches, and somewhere water still moved, steady and sure. The air cooled, lifting the fine hairs on his arms. He looked at her profile—the way she narrowed her eyes at the trail, the way her mouth tipped up when the wind brought the scent of something familiar.

“You’re thinking,” he said.

“I’m always thinking,” she returned. Then, softer: “About how quiet it is. I like it.”

He slid his fingers along hers until they were laced together. She squeezed once, quick and firm. Her thumb brushed over the callus at the base of his finger where a sword had lived for most of his life. He skimmed his thumb along the inside of her wrist, feeling the jump of her pulse. It steadied and then slowed, answering something in him.

They crested a small rise and found a sign half-swallowed by fern that, to Percy’s vindication, read Overlook Spur, 0.4 mi. He stopped and exaggerated a bow. “You may begin composing your apology.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she warned, but she laughed. She stepped past him, and he couldn’t help his eyes dropping to the line of her back, the way her ponytail swayed, the curve of her shoulders under her T-shirt. He let his hand slide to the small of her back, warm through the cotton. She leaned into it, barely there.

“I’m glad we did this,” she said. “All of it. Not the potential wrong turns. The quiet. The normal.”

“Me too.” He swallowed. “And I am going to deliver the sunset I promised.”

She hummed, skeptical but indulgent. “Let’s see the product before we evaluate your delivery.”

The forest pressed around them in a companionable way, needles brushing their shoulders when the trail narrowed. He ducked a low branch and held it for her. She stepped under, close enough that her hair skimmed his jaw. The faint salt of her skin, even here, pulled at him. His fingers found her hip, brief, and she turned, eyes finding his like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“We should have more afternoons like this,” she said.

“Deal,” he said. “Weekly sunset audits.”

“With metrics,” she agreed. “Ninety percent accuracy on direction. Ninety-five on view quality. And at least one kiss per quarter mile.”

He grinned. “I love your standards.”

“Good,” she said, and tugged him by their joined hands. “Because we’re starting now.”

She rose on her toes and kissed him, quick and sure. It tasted like cocoa and something warm and right. He chased it when she pulled back, but she put a hand on his chest and smiled. “Sunset, Seaweed Brain.”

“Right. Sunset.” He was not sorry his voice sounded a little rough.

They rounded another bend; through the trees, the sky opened in a pale wash of color. He felt her breath catch, that little inhale he knew as well as his own. He didn’t look ahead. He watched her. The way her fingers tightened around his. The way she lengthened her stride without letting go.

Behind them, the woods dimmed a shade, the day thinning toward evening. He didn’t notice the way the air cooled in a way that wasn’t just weather, or how the scent of sap sharpened, almost metallic. He only noticed the way her hand fit in his, the promise in the way she walked beside him, and the last slice of light waiting somewhere just beyond the trees.

“Almost there?” she asked.

“Almost,” he said, and meant more than the view. He meant the feeling of arriving somewhere they could keep. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and pointed toward the thinning trees. “Come on. Let’s see if I got this right.”

The spur narrowed in a way that felt deliberate, like the forest had changed its mind about letting them pass. The soil went from tamped earth to a litter of needles so thick their boots sank with a soft hush. The sounds they’d been walking through—the easy thread of water, the chitter of something in the canopy—thinned until there was only the whisper of their steps and the slow pull of their breathing.

Annabeth slowed. Percy felt it in the way her hand tightened. She turned in a small circle, scanning. The faint blue blazes he’d noticed on a few trunks were gone. The trees ahead crowded closer, their bark darkening as if a shadow had been laid over them. Even the light seemed to fold back, grey where it should’ve been gold.

“Do you hear that?” she asked, voice low.

He listened. The answer was a clean kind of nothing. The kind that made you feel like you’d opened a door to a quiet room and realized it wasn’t empty.

“Yeah,” he said. He pretended he wasn’t already measuring their options like a battle map. “Could just be the time of day.”

She didn’t buy that. He could tell by the way her mouth angled. “The markers are wrong,” she murmured. She moved to the nearest trunk and ran her fingers over the bark. No paint. No scar from an old blaze. Nothing but a skin that felt older than the hillside.

He stepped closer to her, shoulder brushing her arm. That small contact grounded him in the way it always did. “We can turn around. The fork’s right back there.” He made it light. “You can log my first detour.”

“Good,” she said, but her eyes were still moving, cataloging angles, counting steps. They pivoted together and headed back.

The trail behind them was not the trail they’d walked.

A wall of trees had grown—or had been waiting and only decided to show themselves. Trunks thick as pillars, their roots braided tight, rose shoulder to shoulder in a line so clean it was wrong. There was no gap to slip through, no brushy edge to push aside. The space where their footprints should’ve been was a mat of undisturbed needles, no trace of where they’d come from. Percy’s stomach dipped.

He reached out and touched the nearest trunk. The bark had a slickness to it, cool and damp, like stone left in shade. The texture wasn’t right for any pine he knew. Intricate lines interlaced under his fingertips in a pattern that made his eyes want to slide away. Old, he thought. The word came with a taste like iron. He pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers, and glanced at Annabeth.

Her face had gone a shade paler, but her jaw was set. “Okay,” she said, breath steady. “Not good.”

“Not normal,” he agreed. He looked up, trying to follow the branches, but they tangled into a ceiling that closed off the strip of sky he’d been tracking. His instincts pressed at him like a tide. He adjusted his grip on her hand.

“We could try to go around,” Percy offered. He took a step left; the line of trunks continued, perfect as a ruler.

She matched him. Right, then. The same. The trees thickened as if in answer.

Annabeth’s free hand went to the cord around her neck. The whistle bumped against her chest. She didn’t lift it. Instead, she pulled out the folded trail map, smoothing it against her thigh. The paper looked absurd here, a bright, regular thing in a place that had shrugged off regular. Her eyes moved over the lines. “This shouldn’t be here. None of this should be here.”

“Which suggests it isn’t,” he said, trying for the kind of dry that made her smile. He didn’t quite manage it. “You feel it too?”

She nodded. “Something’s wrong with the space. It’s…shifted.” Her gaze snagged on his, and the humor she usually used to prop them up flickered. He squeezed her fingers in response, more an answer than an assurance.

“We’ve gotten out of worse,” he said, softer.

“We were younger then,” she said. “And stupider.”

“Speak for yourself.”

She huffed. “I am. I’d like to be a little more boring and old today.”

He shifted so they were shoulder to shoulder, both facing the not-path. “We could try to cut through.” He patted the small pack at his hip like it could help him hack through ancient magic with a utility knife. “Or—”

She shook her head. “No. We don’t force a maze when it’s watching.” The phrase landed between them like a rule neither of them had said out loud in years. Her eyes were bright with it. “We think.”

He looked back toward the spur. The way ahead was no more welcoming, but it wasn’t barred. The air there had a faint shine to it, like heat over asphalt, though the temperature had gone down. His skin prickled. The smell had shifted too. Under the sap was a hint of salt and something dry—paper long kept in the dark.

He slid his thumb along the inside of her wrist, felt the quick beat there and, under it, trust he didn’t deserve but had anyway. “Forward?”

“Forward,” she said, agreeing with the decision they always made. She folded the map and tucked it away like a talisman. She lifted her chin. “We mark as we go.”

He watched her pull the pocketknife he’d bought her from her jeans. She paused at the nearest tree that wasn’t part of the wall and scratched a neat, shallow arrow low near the ground, where it wouldn’t yell hey, demigods here, to the entire forest. He felt better just seeing it.

They started walking again, slower than before, every step measured. They moved close enough that the swing of her ponytail brushed his arm. He fell into the habit of glancing left-right-left, listening for anything. The quiet pressed at them in a way that felt like a held breath.

“Percy,” she said, after a few dozen paces, voice barely more than a whisper. “Don’t let go.”

The request went through him. “Not happening,” he said. He tightened his grip so she’d feel it, constant as a heartbeat, and together they stepped deeper into a place that had decided to change the rules.

The first curl of it slid across the path like a low cloud, silver in the dim, and he would’ve called it fog if the hairs on his arms hadn’t lifted at the same time. The air thinned, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. Ozone, like the sky before a storm. Under it, a drier scent, brittle as library stacks left closed too long. And threaded in, a tug that was his. Salt. Home and warning in the same breath.

Annabeth stopped so suddenly his hand tugged. He felt her turn, scanning. The mist thickened with a quiet that wasn’t quiet at all—it hummed, a faint static, as if the space around them had switched on.

“Do you see that?” she asked.

He nodded, eyes on the way the shimmer moved against the tree trunks, not like wind but like thought. The temperature dropped, a clean slice through his sweatshirt, through the heat he was keeping for both of them by staying close. He watched his breath ghost out.

He didn’t think about it. Riptide was in his hand, familiar weight, the click of the cap rolling like a reflex. Bronze flared in the silver air. Beside him, her knife flashed, her knuckles steady. They shifted, steps in sync, shoulders almost touching. The way they always had when a hallway got too narrow or a monster was about to turn the corner.

“Okay,” he said, low. “This is not a scenic overlook.”

“No,” she said. Her tone was clipped, but he knew that rhythm. She was thinking fast—angles, exits, what this was and wasn’t. She lifted her free hand and pushed her sleeve up, baring the braided cord on her wrist like a comfort. “It’s deliberate.”

The mist rolled again, a soft, tidal movement. The path behind, the line of impossible trunks, blurred into a wash of grey. The markings she’d carved smeared into nothing. He took a breath that tasted like old paper and brine and wanted to cough it back out.

“Labyrinth?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t feel like—like crafted corridors. This is older. More…rooted.” Her eyes flicked up into the black lattice of branches that had knitted themselves together, blocking out the last pieces of sky. Their world shrank to the breadth of their joined palms and the reach of their blades. “Percy.”

“I know.” His fingers shifted to lace with hers. The coolness of her skin told him how fast the temperature had fallen. He wanted to pull her against him, cover her, but the mist pressed at the edges of his vision, asking for attention. He angled himself just a little in front of her without thinking and felt the immediate correction of her shoulder bumping his—equal, always.

Something moved in the fog, not a shape but a memory of one. The air stirred. A whisper that wasn’t sound slid past his ear—sea waves, pages turning, a blade scraping stone. He pivoted, sword tracking an arc. Nothing. He forced himself not to burn what moisture he could pull from the air. This wasn’t fire. This was quiet with teeth.

“Magic,” Annabeth said. She didn’t waste the word. “Old. Genius loci.”

He glanced at her, a quick cut of relief that their brains were in the same place. “A place with a personality. Great.”

“And teeth.” She pointed with the knife tip at the way the mist clung to one root, then another, like fingers testing, then retreating. “It wants us to move.”

“Which is convenient,” he said, because laughing in the face of the weird had gotten him this far. He flicked his gaze to her mouth, then away. “But to where?”

The mist responded to their voices, tightening, then loosening, like breath. He had the sudden, absurd thought that they were inside a creature’s lungs. He squeezed her hand again so he’d know the difference between his pulse and the forest’s.

“Announcements?” he said, raising his voice just enough to make his breath plume. “General complaint box? Hey, ancient forest, we’re on a schedule.”

“Seaweed Brain,” she said, but the reprimand had fondness in it. Her eyes were fierce and bright, the way they got when she refused to give fear a place to sit down. She angled them so their backs weren’t exposed to the same piece of empty space for longer than a count of three. “It’s not going to talk.”

“Then we do.” He kept his sword low, ready to come up. “Rules of mazes. We don’t split. We mark what we can. We don’t trust what looks easiest.”

“And we remember what we are,” she added, that steel he loved threading through. “We’ve done gods and titans and a lot of bad architecture. A patch of woods is not going to—”

A pulse ran through the mist, a ripple of cold that reached bone. He cut himself off with a breath. The taste of salt sharpened so abruptly he could almost feel waves breaking against his ankles. For a heartbeat he was on a beach at night, stars punched into the sky, her hand in his, the sound of the ocean a steady drum. The old paper smell slipped a page forward—Camp books, the ones she used to drag him through when she was working out a plan. The scents braided, a single thread tugging both of them.

His stomach dipped again. “It’s using us.”

She nodded. “It knows what to show.” Her hand squeezed his hard. “So we don’t let it.”

“How?” His voice came out softer than he intended.

“We pick each other,” she said simply. “We watch. We don’t let it push us into the story it wants.”

He let the words settle under his ribs like a weight that helped instead of hurt. He shifted closer, the heat of his body a small shield between her and the cold. He could feel the tremor in the air where the mist met his skin, a static prickle. “On it.”

The mist pressed in again, thicker, collapsing the trees into outlines and then into nothing. The world narrowed to a circle of silver and the edges of their blades. He breathed, slow, counting because it gave him a rhythm that wasn’t the forest’s. One, two, three—Annabeth’s breath matched his, the smallest coordination, the kind they’d always fallen into when everything else fell apart.

“Whatever this is,” he said, voice steadying with hers next to him, “it’s not just a walk in the woods.”

“No,” she agreed. She tilted her chin, a dare at the fog. “But we’re not just anyone.”

He felt it before he saw it—the shift, like a curtain deciding to drop. The shimmer thickened, magnetized, and the temperature fell again, this time with intention. The smell of ozone raised the small hairs at the base of his skull. The old-paper scent deepened until it tasted like dust. The salt rolled through his senses, a tide that promised and threatened.

He closed his fingers around hers, firm enough to ground both of them. “Don’t let go,” he said again, not a promise this time but a command to both of them.

“Never,” she answered, and the fog surged, swallowing the trees, swallowing the path, and swallowing them.