"When the Dragonborn Returns"
Dionysus kept his gaze fixed, watching as someone crossed the camp barrier with ease—the very barrier that prevented mortals from entering.
Percy, on the other hand, wore a smile that mixed mockery and excitement, happy to be sure that his master had returned.
Grover understood nothing; he stared at the hairs on his arms standing on end as the heavy steps drew closer, like the sound of death itself, ready to reap heads.
Some campers felt the same, especially the weaker ones, who began to tremble and hide. The stronger ones, though afraid, peeked out of their cabin windows.
Then they saw him. A figure in a black hooded jacket advanced toward the Big House. His steps seemed slow, measured, yet every time someone blinked they realized he had covered several more meters. On his back, the jacket bore the drawing of a skeleton with the word "Death" written beneath it.
Many grew nervous, unaware that this clothing was simply the first garment Miraak had found upon his arrival, and that he liked it so much he had reinforced it with enchantments the fabric barely endured.
The steps echoed until they reached the main door of the Big House. Dionysus watched him with seriousness, and Chiron placed himself in front of Percy and Grover as a protective shield.
Suddenly, the door exploded into splinters, forcing everyone to cover their faces. When they dared to look again, Miraak was standing there, hand raised as if he had struck the entrance.
Silence spread throughout the hall until Miraak broke it with calm.
"Hmm… for a place where demigods are trained, the doors are rather weak," he said with a slight sneer, his eyes sweeping across the room as if scanning every detail.
Percy remained kneeling on the ground, with Chiron in front of him and the satyr pressed close. Dionysus glared at them with irritation and caution, but Miraak fixed his eyes only on Percy, who had not yet risen, too happy and surprised by his master's return.
Miraak narrowed his eyes before glancing at Dionysus. Then he spoke directly to his student.
"What are you doing? My student never kneels before anyone. He will stand above all, and only beneath his master."
His voice thundered, shaking the Big House for an instant.
"Hello, master. You disappeared for a few days—I thought a dragon had swallowed you or something. And as always, your entrance is epic," Percy replied with a radiant smile, utterly oblivious to the tense atmosphere. "Very Viking," he added.
That last remark made Miraak narrow his eyes even further at him, displeased by the comparison.
Mr. D watched him closely, ready for a confrontation, but froze when he saw Miraak muttering words in an unknown language before vanishing right in front of his nose.
Dionysus widened his eyes in surprise: he could not sense him anywhere. He looked around, on guard.
A blink later, Miraak was beside Percy. He grabbed the boy's head firmly and lifted him from the ground without effort.
Dionysus hardened his expression further; Percy was far too close to that man, and he hadn't even felt him move.
"Master… a normal person's head is pretty fragile. And the neck too," Percy complained, rubbing himself in pain while his master held him up.
"Then train," Miraak replied simply.
"Train… my head?" Percy asked, confused.
"Train so I won't have to lift you by the head," Miraak retorted with a sigh, rolling his eyes at his student's nonsense, something he was already starting to get used to.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag tied with a cord. It looked old, worn, but still sturdy. He tossed it to Percy.
"What's this?" the boy asked, doubtful as he held it.
"Food," Miraak replied.
Percy opened the bag and his eyes widened: inside was a vast amount of dried meat, easily weighing thousands of kilos. He lifted the bag to examine it; it was barely thirty centimeters long, yet when he looked inside it was clearly much larger within. An enchanted bag, without a doubt.
With a happy smile, he gave his master a thumbs-up. Miraak thought to himself that the brat was truly too trusting, and once again grabbed his head, squeezing a little as if to check whether his screws were in place. Percy whined, though it didn't last long.
"Wait, master, I'm sorry—it was just a joke," Percy said in pain, though he still wore a silly grin.
Deep down, he was far too excited. During those days without communication he had been worried, carrying feelings that only worsened in this camp: the anger at being suddenly accepted by his father, Clarisse's bullying attempt, the capture-the-flag battle, the interrogation, and the pressure to take on a dangerous mission. All of it had built up… until this moment, when at last, his master had returned.
Percy was truly happy, as if his master had come solely to protect him. In Miraak he saw a fatherly figure, and that sensation filled him with intense joy.
For an instant, Miraak himself let slip a faint smile, almost imperceptible even to him, before letting the boy go. Percy rubbed his head with pain, yet stood behind his master with much greater confidence.
Meanwhile, the rest of those present in the hall continued to watch that interaction with surprise, vigilance, and growing concern.
Miraak then turned toward them, his gaze cold, lethal, his aura radiating danger. His attention fixed above all on the god of wine.
"Then…" he murmured, his eyes locked on Mr. D with an intensity that radiated pure menace. A battle-hungry emotion poured out of his body, the very same Dionysus remembered from the day Percy had first arrived at the camp, when he thought they were under attack.
"What do you want from my student?" Miraak asked with a gaze so sharp that a single wrong answer would be enough to ignite a confrontation. Even if he didn't know whether he could kill the god or not, one thing was certain: the battle would be magnificently thrilling.
After all, Miraak was a warrior. Facing those deemed invincible did not intimidate him; on the contrary, it fueled the excitement in his blood.
And all the more after fighting Thor, the Norse god who shared so much of his ancient spirit: the love of battle, of alcohol, and of meat. They had exchanged words that had even managed to alter some of Miraak's points of view.
To face the strongest, to become the strongest. That was the path. The path that thrilled him the most.
…
Flashback:
A tall man, broad but muscular, with a slightly thick beard, sat beside an improvised bonfire. He roasted a heavy slab of goat meat while next to him rested an enormous barrel of liquor, whose aroma could tempt even the wine gods of different pantheons. The place was an open field, with trees in the distance and animals wandering peacefully. The only strange thing was a white door set to the side, out of place, but in truth the exit of that domain.
In front of him, Miraak stood waiting, his aura of battle overflowing, as he patiently let the man finish cooking and eating before the fight began.
The day they first met. Miraak had crossed the door of the Hotel Valhalla accompanied by Odin, and right at that moment he encountered Thor. Their warrior spirits flared instantly, shaking the surroundings and shattering glass with nothing but the clash of their auras.
The two of them instantly drew their weapons, thrilled at the prospect of battle, while the valkyries and the einherjar rushed in to stop them—right in the middle of the hotel's reception hall.
Odin stopped them before disaster struck, so they postponed the battle until Miraak had completed his mission. Now, at last, the time had come.
Thor raised his eyes, excited not only for the fight but also for the meal that was nearly ready.
"You really make me a bit envious," he said, taking a great swig of his liquor from a wooden cup. Then he poured another and tossed it toward Miraak.
Miraak raised an eyebrow, glanced at the liquid within the vessel, and after a sip accepted it with a firm nod.
"You have a freedom you still don't understand," Thor continued. "If I had that same freedom, I'd be challenging every god of battle I could find. Hahaha!" His laughter rumbled like thunder through the skies.
"Then just do it," Miraak replied coolly, as if it were nothing.
"If only it were that simple," Thor shot back with annoyance. "If one of us fell, it wouldn't just mean the loss of the loser's divinity. The pantheons, even if they pretended to accept it, would end up causing a war. None of them ever want to appear weaker than the other." He spat to the side in contempt. "Bah, politics. The only battles between gods you'll see in these times are empty threats… or outright an Apocalypse, or Ragnarök."
At those last words, his expression turned serious, conflicted. For a warrior to know his end even before the battle…
Then he changed his face again, and with boredom tore off a piece of meat and devoured it in one bite.
"That's why I say you're lucky," Thor added, fixing his eyes on Miraak while pointing at him with the piece of meat he held. "You're someone not bound to the destiny of this plane. Treasure that freedom. You still have much to learn."
He finished his sentence, swallowed the bite, and threw his cup into the fire, which flared with a crimson glow. Then he grabbed the hammer resting beside him. The moment he held it, it surged with electricity, and Thor's eyes shone with the same power that coursed through his body. A wide smile, brimming with excitement, lit up his face.
"Let's see if you can endure more than my dear brothers in battle," he declared as the sky, clear a moment before, darkened with storm clouds split by lightning that fell upon him.
Miraak flung his empty cup aside. Before him appeared a black greatsword, forged from dragon bones and reinforced with every enchantment he knew. The blade sank into the ground with ease, and Miraak gripped the hilt, raising it calmly.
"I'll set myself a simple goal for my first battle against a god: I want to see the color of your blood," he said with the same thrill in his voice.
Thunder roared across the heavens as the earth trembled at the imminent clash between a god and the power of the Voice—and the knowledge of an entire plane.
End of the flashback.
…
The memory of that battle still burned in Miraak's blood, an inextinguishable flame. His gaze returned to the present, fixed on Dionysus, with the same intensity he had directed at Thor that day.
The silence in the Big House was absolute. No one dared to move. The air was heavy, as if a storm were about to break.
"I'll repeat it only once," Miraak said gravely, each word echoing like a thunderclap. "What do you want from my student?"