Clash of Wills
"Your student, or whatever he is, has a mission, and you are not the one who decides whether he fulfills it or not."
Dionysus's words dripped with the arrogance of a god, as if the man before him had no right to interfere in what the Olympians had already decreed. As if Percy were nothing more than property, forced to obey divine orders.
"And who will force him? You?" Miraak asked, his voice growing colder, his eyes sharpening like blades.
Chiron felt a chill run down his spine. He knew that Dionysus's next words would determine the course of what came after. If he answered poorly, the clash could erupt into a battle that might tear the camp apart. The centaur trusted the god he had worked with for so long, but for the first time, he sensed that the figure before him was not ordinary. No, that man was anything but simple.
He was a master of demigods and heroes, and he could sense the hidden power in others. And in Miraak, he sensed it with terrifying clarity.
The difference was stark: gods like Dionysus could break anyone with the sheer weight of their divine presence, pushing mortals to their knees by instinct alone. Miraak, on the other hand, needed no such thing. To be under his gaze was to feel the eyes of thousands of dragons upon you, all deciding whether to devour you or burn you alive. It was the look of a predator that forced you down, not through reverence, but through raw fear of being prey.
Not even Hercules himself had ever made him feel that way.
"And if I did, do you think you could stop me? I am a god, mortal. You have no voice here," said Dionysus, unable to contain the anger boiling at the sight of a mere man showing no respect to his divinity.
Miraak held his gaze and, after a brief silence, smiled. A smile filled with battle instinct, as if those words were exactly the excuse he had been waiting for to unleash a fight.
"Wait, please!" Chiron interrupted, sweat running down his brow. His voice trembled with urgency. "We are not looking for a fight. And Percy cannot be forced to accept a quest if he does not want it."
The centaur fixed a firm look on Dionysus. The god frowned, visibly irritated, and finally turned his eyes aside in annoyance.
It was true: they could not force a demigod to take a quest. But in practice, none had ever refused. There were plenty of reasons. Many accepted them to grow stronger, others for the promise of adventure… but, deep down, the true motive was something else: the hope of forging a bond with their divine parent.
Abandoned children, desperate for even the smallest sign of affection. That was the cruel truth. Many risked their lives, even died, just to earn a glance or a word of acknowledgment from those who had left them half-orphaned.
Chiron knew this better than anyone. Most of these youths had come to camp after losing everything, without family or home. To discover that a god was their father or mother was, for them, a flicker of comfort—though it came wrapped in danger.
The centaur decided to change the course of the conversation before Miraak and Dionysus said something that would push them all straight into disaster.
"Percy, listen. This is important. The whole world is in danger. And it's your father… It's also possible that if you uncover the true culprit, Zeus himself will realize his mistake in accusing you and leave you in peace."
His gaze was serious, but at the same time carried a trace of hope. Miraak, however, looked on with a faint smirk, as if the idea of placing such a burden on a child's shoulders were laughable.
Miraak stayed silent for several seconds, and at last spoke calmly:
"If the world needs a twelve-year-old boy to be saved, then the world is weaker than I thought."
Percy, without breaking eye contact, replied with quiet determination, certain his master would be there to support him.
"Fine. Then let all mortals die and be swallowed by war. A brat like you doesn't care about any of that, right? My only concern will be that there will be no more wines to taste."
Dionysus's voice oozed indifference, as if he were speaking of a trivial inconvenience.
Chiron could only sigh. Though he tried to hide it, he hoped those words would plant something inside Percy.
The boy furrowed his brow. Having the fate of all humanity rest on him was too much, even if he tried to hide it.
Miraak watched him silently. The brat, he thought, was easy to manipulate. He let out a sigh: he would not interfere with his decision. He was not a nanny, not there to shield him from every scratch. He was a teacher—his task was to instruct, to strengthen, to pass on what he knew. If Percy chose poorly and died, then that would be the lesson he deserved.
Yet, as the thought formed, a flicker of irritation pierced Miraak's chest. Something uncomfortable, strange, as if the idea of losing his pupil was not as meaningless as he wished it to be. For a fleeting instant, he even considered that, if it came to pass, he could simply bring him back. Turn his death into part of his training. Not even Miraak realized how contradictory that thought was.
Percy, meanwhile, was trapped in his own indecision.
"You can think it over, Percy, before rejecting it. We will not force you. We cannot," said Chiron firmly.
The boy pressed his lips together, then nodded. "I'll think about it," he muttered at last, before turning around and leaving the Big House.
Miraak followed him with his eyes until he crossed the threshold. Then he turned back toward Dionysus. The god held his gaze, sharp and unyielding, like a silent challenge. But Miraak, instead of responding, simply lost interest. He turned on his heel and walked away.
There would be time later. After all, he had just returned from a battle against none other than the Norse god of thunder.
—
Percy held his head in both hands, elbows resting on the table inside Poseidon's cabin. Silence wrapped around him, broken only by his own sighs. He finally lifted his gaze toward Miraak, who was calmly observing the interior, turning over some dusty, dirt-stained objects in his fingers as if they were worthless trinkets.
"Master… what do you think I should do?" Percy asked at last, his voice tired. The weight on his shoulders was so heavy that even his eyes seemed dimmed.
Miraak turned slightly, with that same unshakable calm that defined him.
"Mmm. I don't care," he answered coldly. "Decide whether you want an adventure or not. The rest can die without consequence. They are not of your importance, nor are they worth your life. Only you give value to what you are, and only you can decide what to spend it on. I am your master, the one who guides you… but you have enough freedom to choose your own steps."
He said it without drama, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
Percy clenched his teeth and lowered his head again. "But… if the world really is in danger because of my father and that man…"
The boy never finished the sentence. Miraak watched him in silence for a few seconds before letting out a short sigh.
"You think too much," he muttered. His eyes, however, showed no harshness—only boredom. To him, mortals were less than dust, disposable pieces on a larger board. Whether they lived or died meant nothing. If the gods wanted to fight, let them fight. What did the fate of such a weak world matter to him?
And yet… Percy was half mortal. That half tied him down. Perhaps, Miraak thought, he should at least give him a sliver of perspective.
He remembered then something he had grasped during his conversations with Thor.
"Gods draw their power from their believers, or from those who still remember them. If a war destroys them all—if mortals die—then the gods themselves will weaken… they might even vanish."
The words fell into the cabin like an echo.
"What?" Percy lifted his head, startled, but instantly realized his master was gone. As always, he had vanished without warning, leaving him alone with the thought.
"Ah… he left again," Percy muttered in frustration. Still, that clue was enough to set his mind in motion.
The boy began pacing in circles, repeating Miraak's words over and over until finally his lips formed a conclusion:
"Then… if they fight and endanger mortals, they themselves would be in danger. They won't let that happen. It's just a bluff."
He said it with seriousness, as if he had uncovered a hidden truth.
On the roof of the cabin, Miraak heard every word. He rolled his eyes, somewhere between tired and amused.
"Close… but not the wrong path," he murmured under his breath, granting his student a trace of approval.
He rested his hand on his chin, thoughtful.
"If other pantheons exist, they will not allow the Greeks to unleash chaos that ruins their own faithful. These Olympians are stepping straight into the eye of the storm. Although…" A slow smile crept across his face. "If a great battle truly breaks out, it will be… interesting."
His gaze drifted toward the invisible horizon beyond the cabin walls. In his eyes gleamed a dark interest—not in saving the world, but in witnessing its destruction and measuring the strength of each god in the clash.
To Miraak, the Greeks were, so far, the loudest and most troublesome among all pantheons. Perhaps, he thought with disdain, they were not even respected by the others.