The ancient wooden floors creaked beneath their feet as Chiron led them into the Big House's war room. Maps and artifacts cluttered the walls—millennia of Greek history condensed into a single overcrowded space. Medea's ears twitched at the sound of the door closing behind them, separating their little group from the curious whispers of camp.

  "World Runes," she repeated, rolling the unfamiliar term across her tongue like sampling a new vintage. Her clawed fingers traced the edge of the war table as she circled it, keeping Chiron in her peripheral vision. "Interesting name for something you claimed not to recognize."

  Chiron's tail flicked with uncharacteristic agitation. "There are secrets I am bound to keep, even from my students."

  "Clearly." Her voice remained neutral, but her eyes gleamed with predatory interest. The rune pulsed against her hip where she'd tucked it, warm and alive. It sang to her in wordless power—a sweet, seductive melody only she could hear.

  "I suppose none of you recognized what Fafnir truly was," Medea said, breaking the tense silence. Her claws traced idle patterns on the war table's weathered surface.

  Percy frowned, one hand unconsciously drifting toward his pocket where Riptide waited. "A dragon. We've faced dragons before."

  "Not like this one." Medea's ears twitched with amusement. "Fafnir wasn't one of our Greek monstrosities. He belongs to a different pantheon entirely." Her eyes locked with Chiron's. "Don't you think they deserve to know, Chiron?"

  The centaur's tail swished in agitation, hooves shifting against the wooden floor. "This is not a matter for casual discussion."

  "Norse," Medea continued, ignoring his warning. "Fafnir was a Norse dragon. Guardian of cursed gold, according to their legends." She examined her claws, feigning disinterest while monitoring the impact of her words. "Interesting that he found his way to a Greek sanctuary."

  Clarisse's hand tightened around her spear. "Norse? As in Thor and Loki?"

  "Wait." Jake straightened, brow furrowed. "That can't be right. The gods—our gods—they're the only ones who are... real." His voice faltered as he looked to Chiron for confirmation.

  The centaur's ancient eyes had darkened, his expression a mask of carefully controlled frustration. "Medea," he warned.

  "Are there really Norse gods too?" Percy's question cut through the tension, his sea-green eyes widening with realization. "I thought it was just the romans. Is that what you've been keeping from us?"

  Medea's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Oh, it's far more delicious than that. Norse, Egyptian, Celtic, Hindu..." She counted them off on her clawed fingers. "So many pantheons, all carefully avoiding each other's territories. All bound by ancient pacts of non-interference."

  "That's enough." Chiron's voice sharpened with authority.

  "Is it true?" Clarisse demanded, turning to face him. "Have you known about this the whole time?"

  Chiron's shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of millennia. "The divine realms are separated for good reason. Knowledge of one another only leads to conflict."

  "Conflict?" Jake echoed. "You mean wars between... different gods?"

  "The last divine war scorched continents," Chiron said quietly. "It's why the pantheons agreed to remain separate."

  Percy ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than before. "So there are Norse gods. And Fafnir—this dragon—he's from their world. What would bring him here?"

  "I don't know," Chiron admitted, his ancient eyes clouding with rare uncertainty.

  The wooden floorboards creaked beneath Medea's weight as she shifted, leaning forward. Her lips curved into a cold smile that never reached her eyes—not amusement but calculated triumph.

  "Yet here we are, with a Norse dragon dead in our forest and I hold something older than the sky in my hand" She fixed Chiron with an assessing stare. "You want me to surrender it."

  "It would be the wisest course." The centaur's voice softened into the persuasive tone he'd no doubt perfected over millennia of teaching. "These runes are fragments of primordial magic, Medea. They predate the gods themselves. Even Zeus treads carefully around their power."

  "Hmm." She produced the rune, letting it catch the light. Its magenta surface shifted and swirled, symbols rearranging themselves like living script. The air around it shimmered with potential. "Something that makes Zeus nervous? Now I'm definitely interested."

  Clarisse snorted, breaking the tension. "Of course you are."

  Jake remained silent, his fingers twitching with the mechanical urge to examine, disassemble, understand. His eyes never left the rune, tracing its contours with almost feverish intensity.

  "Think of the camp's safety," Chiron pressed, voice low and urgent. "Think of what entities might come searching for it."

  Medea's tail swished thoughtfully behind her. She made a show of considering his words, weighing them against the whispered promises of the rune against her skin. Power recognized power—and this tiny stone held oceans of it, waiting to be claimed.

  "And which god would you have me surrender it to?" She asked, arching an eyebrow. "Your precious Olympians? The Norse? Or perhaps we should advertise more broadly—I'm sure the Christian God would make a competitive offer."

  Percy's head jerked up. "Christian—?"

  "Medea." Chiron's voice held a warning.

  She shrugged, unrepentant. "Cat's out of the bag now." Her eyes—fuschia and entirely alien—glittered with something between mischief and malice. "Or rather, cats plural. How many pantheons are there, teacher? How many gods are squabbling over the same little planet?"

  The silence that followed held weight. Jake and Clarisse exchanged uneasy glances while Percy's fingers tightened around Riptide's disguised form. The revelation of Norse gods had shaken their worldview; the casual mention of more had cracked it open entirely.

  "This is bigger than your curiosity," Chiron finally said, his hard eyes fixed on hers. "The rune must be surrendered before it draws more attention. Before it consumes you."

  Medea tucked it away again, her movement deliberately casual. "I'll consider your counsel," she lied smoothly. The weight of it against her hip felt right—as though it had been waiting for her specifically. As though it belonged to her already.

  "In the meantime," she continued. "Perhaps you should prepare your campers for the possibility of more… unexpected visitors. Fafnir was disappointingly easy to dispatch, but his master might send something more entertaining next time. And unless you enjoy surprises, I’d start asking why he came at all."

  The implied threat hung in the air—not that she would bring danger, but that she alone stood between the camp and whatever might come hunting the campers next. A subtle repositioning from threat to asset.

  Chiron recognized the maneuver, irritation bleeding through his careful composure.

  "We'll continue this discussion later," he conceded, knowing he'd lost this round. "For now, I suggest you all clean up and rest. The events of today have been… taxing."

  Medea's smile showed too many teeth. "Indeed." She turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "One last question. This master Fafnir mentioned—any guesses as to their identity?"

  "None that I care to voice in present company." Chiron's gaze flicked briefly to the other demigods.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "How convenient." Medea's tail curled with satisfaction as she slipped from the room.

  This was no simple riddle—it ran deeper than her reach.

  She would need whispers from the dark places, voices only monsters could provide.

  The sun hung low over Camp Half-Blood as Medea slipped away from the Big House, the afternoon's revelations simmering in her mind. Campers parted before her like water around a stone—their whispers following in her wake, rumors of the forest battle already spreading. She ignored them, her thoughts circling the weight of the rune against her hip and the knowledge that Chiron had hidden from his precious demigods.

  Multiple pantheons. Such a simple truth, yet it changed everything.

  She made her way toward the lake, seeking solitude. The water stretched before her, copper-gold in the late afternoon light. Finding a secluded spot partially hidden by pines, she settled on a large rock, ensuring no one was within sight before producing the rune again.

  It throbbed in her grip, hot and alive. Destruction. That was the name she had decided to give it.

  The power it exuded was not divine—it was older than divinity itself.

  Older than gods. Older than titans. Older than fear.

  "What secrets are you hiding?" she murmured, turning it over. The rune warmed in response, as if acknowledging her question.

  Nidhoggr stirred at her hip, It recognizes you as kin to destruction.

  Medea smiled, running a claw gently along the rune's surface. "And is that what you are? Destruction incarnate?"

  The symbols realigned, briefly forming the shape of a constellation—an echo of order—before collapsing into chaos once more.

  This wasn’t just destruction. It was creation reborn through ruin.

  The first and oldest magic. The collapse before the Big Bang.

  "You understood me, didn't you?"

  The rune—Destruction—pulsed, like hot coals beneath her skin. She tasted iron on her tongue. Blood.

  Strange, how something so fragile could feel so real.

  She laughed—madly, breathlessly. This was a novel sensation.

  She hadn’t even tapped into Destruction’s power yet, and already it was making her bleed.

  Unbelievable.

  Her ears twitched as she caught the sound of approaching footsteps. With practiced smoothness, she slipped the rune back into her pocket as a young camper wandered into view—one of Apollo's, judging by the bow slung across his back. He startled upon seeing her, recognizing her instantly.

  "S-sorry," he stammered, already backing away. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

  Medea waved a dismissive hand. "You're not interrupting anything important." The lie fell effortlessly from her lips. "Just enjoying the view."

  The boy nodded awkwardly before continuing along the shoreline, glancing back once with obvious relief when he'd put significant distance between them.

  Once alone again, Medea withdrew a small golden drachma from her pocket, turning it thoughtfully between her fingers. Camp Half-Blood might have answers about Greek monsters, but for information about a Norse dragon serving an unknown master, she needed different resources.

  The lake's surface rippled invitingly in the fading light—perfect for an Iris message. But not here, not with curious eyes potentially watching. Tonight, after dark, she would make her inquiries.

  Lamia owed her a favor, and the ancient monster had connections across pantheons. If anyone knew what Fafnir had been doing so far from Norse territory—and who might have sent him—it would be her.

  Medea slipped the coin back into her pocket.

  Night had settled over Camp Half-Blood, wrapping the cabins in velvet darkness.

  The Big House stood silent, its curtains drawn against the moonlight. Inside, Chiron slept heavily, his snoring the only sound in the stillness.

  Of the wine god, there was no sign.

  Perfect.

  Medea slipped from her bed, moving with silent precision. The centaur wouldn't wake—she'd crushed a mild sleeping herb into the Big House's evening air freshener. Nothing harmful, just enough to ensure deeper sleep and fewer interruptions.

  The bathroom offered the privacy she needed. She locked the door behind her, then turned the shower to its hottest setting. Steam billowed upward, creating a makeshift screen in the air. Medea positioned herself before it, withdrawing a golden drachma from her pocket.

  "O Iris, goddess of the rainbow," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rushing water. "Accept my offering."

  The coin arced through the steam, disappearing with a faint shimmer. The mist twisted, coalescing into an image: a dimly lit chamber with walls that seemed to shift between stone and scales. A woman's figure moved within—beautiful from the waist up, serpentine below.

  "Medea." Lamia's voice carried the dry rasp of centuries. Her eyes—green with vertical pupils—flicked up from the ancient text she'd been studying. "What an unexpected pleasure."

  "Lamia." Medea inclined her head, a gesture between equals rather than supplicant to superior. "I require information."

  The monster-woman's lips curved into something adjacent to amusement. "You always do." She set aside her reading material—something bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin. "What will you offer in exchange?"

  Medea's eyes flickered with calculated impatience. "I still hold your debt from Detroit. Consider this a partial collection."

  Lamia's expression soured slightly, but she nodded. Ancient monsters respected the bonds of debt, especially ones written in blood and sealed with magic. "Ask your questions."

  "Fafnir." Medea watched Lamia's reaction carefully. "A Norse dragon serving an unknown master. Carrying a particular artifact and seeking an unknown agenda."

  Interest flickered across Lamia's ageless features. "Fafnir is dead?"

  "Exceptionally so." Medea's lips curved. "I reduced him to component atoms earlier today."

  The monster actually looked impressed. "That would explain the ripples I felt." Her serpentine lower half coiled and uncoiled thoughtfully. "Fafnir was bound to the Ginnungagap centuries ago. If he walked free, someone of significant power released him."

  "The Ginnungagap?"

  "The primordial void separating Niflheim and Muspelheim." Lamia's voice took on a lecturing quality—the academic she'd been before her transformation still evident. "A prison for beings too dangerous to kill but too powerful to leave unchecked."

  Medea leaned closer to the mist image. "And who would have the authority to release prisoners from this void?"

  "Very few. Odin himself. Perhaps Freya, though it would cost her dearly. There are whispers of older powers stirring beneath Yggdrasil's roots…"

  "Names," Medea pressed.

  Lamia's eyes narrowed. "This exceeds a small favor, little godling."

  From her pocket, Medea drew the World Rune, and even the thin light piercing the steam bent toward it.

  Magenta light shimmered across its surface as ancient symbols danced—alive, restless, barely contained.

  The monster went perfectly still, her yellow eyes fixed on the rune with naked hunger. "Where did you get that?"

  "From Fafnir's remains." Medea tucked it away again, satisfaction curling through her at Lamia's reaction. "Now you understand my urgency."

  Lamia's tongue—forked and inhumanly long—flicked out to moisten her lips. "There are… rumors. A being calling itself the Night Lord. Neither Norse nor Greek nor any known pantheon, but something older. Something that remembers the time before gods claimed their territories."

  "And this Night Lord seeks the runes?"

  "It seeks to unmake creation." Lamia's voice dropped to a whisper. "Return all to the void from which it came. The runes are tools toward that end—each containing a fragment of primordial power."

  Medea's claws tapped thoughtfully against her thigh. "Where would I find information about these runes? Their capabilities, their limitations?"

  Lamia hesitated, then sighed in resignation. "There is a codex—the Hollowed Verses. It contains knowledge of the World Runes and the beings that seek them. Last I heard, it was in the possession of Jormungandr."

  "The World Serpent," Medea murmured. "And where might one find such a creature in the modern era?"

  "He slumbers beneath the Great Lakes, in North America." A calculating gleam entered Lamia's eyes. "I could arrange an introduction… for a price."

  "The remainder of your debt to me."

  "And something more." Lamia leaned forward, her face filling the misty screen. "A drop of ichor from that remarkable blood of yours."

  Medea's ears flattened slightly—the only outward sign of her wariness. "My blood is my own."

  "A single drop," Lamia pressed. "For access to knowledge that gods themselves have sought for millennia. A bargain, by any measure."

  This bargain benefits us, Nidhoggr silently conveyed.

  "Arrange the meeting," she decided. "If the information proves valuable, you'll have your payment. I also want you to uncover Fafnir’s interest in Camp Half-Blood—discreetly. The dragon may be dead, but his master isn't."

  Lamia's smile showed too many teeth, too sharply pointed. "I'll send word when preparations are complete. Three days, at most."

  "Good." Medea raised her hand to sever the connection.

  "One last thing," Lamia called, her voice carrying a note of genuine concern. "Whatever you do, don't attempt to activate the rune. Not until you understand its purpose. The consequences would be… catastrophic."

  The mist dissolved before Medea could respond, leaving her alone with the hissing shower and the weight of new knowledge. She turned off the water, listening to the last droplets patter against the tile.

  The Night Lord. World Runes. Jormungandr.

  She withdrew Destruction again, studying its shifting surface. What power lay dormant within its crystalline depths? What could it do if fully awakened?

  More importantly—what could she do with it?

  Three days until her meeting with the World Serpent. Three days to prepare, to research, to plan.

  In the silence, Medea smiled—magenta fire mirrored in her gaze. The game of gods and great powers was unfolding, and she would carve her name into its heart.

  Her search for worthy prey was almost at its end.