Percy Jackson: An Endless of All

After my very passionate and hot few hours with Henry in London, I left the handsome Bri. His name is still on my lips and his touch on my skin. As I stepped into the cool night, he followed me to the door wearing nothing but his underwear and confidence, his hairy, muscular chest and carved abs bathed in moonlight.

"Will I see you again?" he asked softly, hope lingering in his voice.

I touched his cheek, kissed him gently, and said, "One day… and in your dreams."

"See you, Dream," he waved at me before closing his door completely. 

Then, I walked for a while urgently until the street was still and no mortal eyes lingered, I unraveled into stardust and sand, reforming in an instant within the grand main hall of Potter Castle that was located on Naxos, and i arrivied during Midnight the stone arches, moonlight through stained glass, the scent of age and magic humming in the air.

Waiting for me in the entryway stood Apollian Henry Potter, current head of house of Potter line, in 1794, descended from Eirenaios and Orpheus, father to Orpheus Hardwin Potter II, 13 year 13-year-old boy, who clung sleepily to his mother's gown. All three bore anxious faces that cracked further at the sight of me.

"What's happened?" I asked, dread already blooming in my gut.

Apollian stepped forward. His jaw was clenched, and his usual calm was frayed."Someone breached the wards of Naxos, my lord. Their name is not in the Warding Scheme Book. We don't know who."

"How can they happen when this place is heavily warded by magic and some of my powers?" I said worriedly. 

"I don't know, my lord," said Apollian.

"Was anything taken?" I asked questionably.

"We… we're still checking. The house-elves and temple caretakers are combing every artifact and sacred scroll."

Before I could reply—A howl split the night.

Not just any howl.Leukos.

The immortal dire wolf, sacred to Apollo, gifted to Eirenaios himself, guardian of the Potter bloodline. The wolf's sorrowful, anguished cry echoed across the castle grounds, trembling through stone, air, and blood. It was a howl I had only heard once before—the night Eirenaios died.

My heart sank like iron.

The howl had come from Orpheus's temple.

Without another word, I sprinted, the Potters close behind. My cloak trailed stardust, my boots barely kissed the ground. The island itself felt tense, like the marble cliffs were holding their breath.

We arrived at the temple to find priests and priestesses in disarray, faces pale, tears brimming. No one dared meet my gaze. The air was heavy with incense and fear.

"What happened?" I demanded, voice edged with divine weight.

Silence. Only the flicker of torches.

Then, an elder priest, whose family had served since the days of Orpheus himself, stepped forward. His face was drawn tight, as though each word cost him years.

"My lord Dream… the unthinkable has happened… Orpheus's head is gone."

The temple seemed to sway.

I didn't speak. I brushed past him, through the great carved doors, into the inner sanctum where the head of Orpheus—my son, my singer of legends—had rested for centuries.

The pedestal stood empty.

The wards were untouched. The space around the shrine was eerily clean, as if the thief had left no trace. Not even my senses—those older than gods—could catch a whisper of magic.

Rage simmered under my skin.

A thousand worlds away, mortals shivered. Trees bowed. Dreams darkened. My rage even reaches Mount Olympus. 

I turned to Apollian. "Strengthen the wards. Double them. Triple them. I will add my own... this time, with even more power than before of an Endless."

As we worked, the runestones on the warding monolith glowed brighter than they had in centuries. I called to the roots of Naxos, the sand, the sky, and the bones of long-dead titans buried deep below. My sigil burned into the earth.

"Little Orpheus, watch me work in all. A person and a being, who was told stories about me ever since he could read and walk."

Still, my mind reeled. Who would do this? Who would dare take my son's head?

There were few capable… fewer bold enough. A mortal? Impossible. This required divine cunning. But not all gods would want Orpheus's head. Most feared the power of his voice, even in death.

So who?

Hades, whose rule was once broken by Orpheus's song?

Hera, always spiteful of any Olympian's legacy born of love and defiance?

Or… someone newer. An upstart, a forgotten god, or something far worse?

I stared out into the dark horizon beyond the temple.

This was not just a theft. This was an act to spite me or lure me out for some reason. A reason I will find out if it is the last thing I do.

I'm always ready for a fight and to put people or gods in their place.

Meanwhile, on Mount Olympus ....

Far above the mortal world, where marble meets the sky and clouds form thrones of old, the gods of Olympus stirred.

The air grew thick.

The wine soured in golden chalices. The dancing nymphs fell silent. Fires that once danced joyfully in bronze braziers flickered, dimmed, and then burned blue.

A tremor ran through the very bones of the mountain—not of the earth, but of something older.

From her throne of peacock feathers, Hera narrowed her eyes. Her golden goblet cracked in her hand. "What… is this?" she hissed.

Ares had been laughing with his war-spirits when he paused, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword. His pupils flared crimson. "I know that power."

Artemis, in the forested archways of Olympus, felt her hunt freeze mid-movement. Her bow arm faltered. Even the wild stags stopped running, their eyes lifted to the sky.

Athena, in her library of strategy and stars, closed her scroll with trembling fingers. The quill snapped in her hand. "He's awake," she whispered. "Or rather… he is enraged."

Apollo, sun god and seer, stood upon his balcony, face pale and drawn. His lyre, strung with light itself, had fallen silent. His gaze turned east—toward Naxos, toward the temple of Orpheus, toward you.

"It's him," Apollo said quietly. "Dream. The Endless. His fury stirs the very dreamscape of gods."

Then came the sound.

A thunderous heartbeat echoed in the sky above Olympus. Once. Twice. It did not belong to Zeus.

It belonged to Dream, and the gods knew it.

The Fates paused their weaving.The Moirai dropped their scissors.Even Thanatos held his breath.

A deep voice rumbled from the throne of storms—Zeus himself, standing slowly, his gaze fixed on the changing winds. His scepter hummed with divine tension.

"Someone has wronged the Dreamlord," Zeus said, the words heavy with memory. "And they have done so… foolishly."

He looked to the gathered gods.

"You all feel it. That was not a mortal's rage. That was the burning wrath of the one who shapes dreams, the one who walks between realities, who spoke first to Chaos."

Hermes, usually flippant, looked rattled. "What could provoke him?"

Apollo finally turned from the balcony. "Only one thing. Orpheus."

Gasps and whispers rippled through the chamber.

Apollo clenched his fists, face contorted with grief and dread.

"His head has been stolen."

The wind howled across the peak of Olympus.

And in that moment, every god—no matter how proud, how ancient, or how terrible—felt something they had not felt in centuries:

Fear.

For if Dream of the Endless was truly angered… not even Olympus was beyond his reach.