"Believe me for once, would you?!"
Apollo scratched away at a scroll with a feathered pen, seated like a sulking poet trying hard to pretend he wasn't seconds away from losing it.
Poetry, self-control, and maybe a slice of redemption from the gods—this was his one big shot. He wasn't about to let a loudmouthed mortal ruin it.
"I assume you should be in your dormitory by now?" the god asked, not even glancing up.
"How's that important?" Victor snapped, voice harsh like static. "The academy is under attack."
"The academy is shielded by a dragon, the Mist, and, most importantly, a stunningly handsome young god." Apollo finally looked up with the kind of smile that said, you're lucky to witness my face today.
Victor gave him a look that could curdle milk. "Right. I'm sure this so-called 'god' has eyes on everything."
"I control everything in here, child. Now go back to your cabin."
"No."
Apollo's jaw twitched. He squeezed the pen, and the ink bled onto the scroll like his frustration was leaking through the quill itself. His eye gave the tiniest, most dignified twitch.
"What did you say?" His voice dropped lower.
"Not until you listen to me."
Apollo clenched his jaw until it hurt. His golden eyes flickered, glowing faintly with celestial rage. Fists curled on the desk. But he inhaled slowly—calm down, don't explode, not worth it.
He closed his eyes, sucked in the fury, and exhaled a slow breath.
When his eyes opened again, they were cold and sharp like twin suns behind clouds.
"Speak now, or I throw you out of my office."
Victor met the stare without flinching. "We're walking into a trap."
Apollo raised a brow. "And what would that mean?"
Victor leaned forward. "I think the attacks—those primordial monsters? They're just distractions. Someone's targeting the academy from within."
Apollo tilted his head, resting his chin lazily on his palm. "Evidence?"
Victor reached into his pocket and tossed an opened scroll onto the desk.
Apollo barely glanced at it. "What were you doing on mount Delphi?"
Victor hesitated. Trying to talk to the damn oracle, he thought, but saying that out loud would be like slapping a hornet nest.
"Not important," he said, deflecting. "What matters is the trap. You need to stop the execution."
Apollo gave a slow, exaggerated shrug. "Too late. They left an hour ago."
Victor's eyes went wide. "What?! You have to call them back!"
"Let me make one thing clear," Apollo said, his voice now cutting through the air like a knife. "I was the one Zeus banished here. *I run this academy. Not you. The rules? Mine. The decisions? Mine."
Victor scowled. "You don't know what kind of mistake you're making—"
"And you're not qualified to decide what counts as a mistake here," Apollo snapped. "If anyone gets to decide if this place is under attack, it's me. If anyone calls this a trap, it's me."
Victor opened his mouth again, but Apollo raised a hand.
"You will go back to your cabin, Victor. That's an order. And don't even think about climbing that hill again. You understand?"
Victor didn't reply.
"Acknowledge me, dammit!"
Victor stepped back, glaring daggers, then stormed out like a hurricane with shoes. The door slammed behind him with the fury of a drama exit.
Apollo slumped in his chair. He let out a groan and rubbed his face with both hands.
*How did it come to this?* he thought.
Once a golden god among gods, now babysitting mortal brats and writing poetry no one would read. Just a hundred years, he reminded himself.
Just one century of this cosmic detention, and he'd be free.
---
Victor stomped down the gravel path toward his cabin like the ground had personally insulted him.
The Hades Cabin sat near the Stream of Luck—a glittering waterline where sirens bathed and sang every morning. Amphitrite herself, goddess of the sea, had designed the stream like some divine piece of aesthetic.
The cabin was tall, eerie, and wrapped in Greek fire that shimmered blue at night. It looked like something ripped out of a gothic horror show, and most kids stayed far away.
Victor didn't hate the isolation. Being the only demigod son of Hades had its perks—like not having to share bunk space. But he *did* hate the sirens.
They weren't like the ones in stories. These ones looked vaguely human, but with scaly limbs and haunting eyes. Every morning, like clockwork, they'd sing.
According to legend, their voices were supposed to be enchanting. But for Victor? Their songs were like someone rubbing broken glass against his eardrums.
He groaned. "Thanks to Apollo, I have to put up with that torture for a whole month."
He reached for his doorknob, twisted it—and it snapped off like a cheap toy.
Bad luck much?
He growled and kicked the door open. It didn't swing open—it fell with a hollow thud. He didn't even flinch. Just stepped in, dragging the busted door back to half-cover the entry.
The cabin interior was all shadows and silence. A row of bunks lined the wall, each one bare except for a single mattress near the center.
Victor froze.
There was someone on his bed.
Correction: something.
Wrapped in tattered linen, like an ancient mummy plucked from a tomb, a figure sat perfectly still.
His pulse spiked.
He crept closer. "Oracle?" he said cautiously.
She didn't move, didn't blink. Her eyes glowed a low, pulsing purple. Even now, wide awake, it didn't feel like she was *present.*
She was just there, like a statue wired into some cosmic frequency.
Victor stared. "Why... are you in my cabin?"
Then she spoke.
"He's here."
Victor blinked. "Huh? Who?"
He glanced around like someone else might pop out of the shadows.
The oracle's voice layered—like many voices speaking at once. "The forbidden one. The one who will lead the world to destruction. The one in whom total darkness shall find redemption."
She locked eyes with him, and Victor took a shaky step back.
Her gaze pierced him like a prophecy knife to the chest.
"In you," she said, voice echoing with finality, "fate has resumed its mission."