Chapter 3: The Kind of Problem You Don’t Find in School (Part 2)
A special shoutout to @hauntedwizardtree — as we agreed, here’s the next chapter! If the story keeps getting support, I’ll gladly start working on Chapter 5.
If this story reaches 20 reposts, I’ll create an AO3 account specifically for it and start uploading there too.
And hey — if we hit 200 likes, I’ll release the next chapter today! Huge thanks to all the new followers and the amazing messages — you’re all incredible!
My inbox is always open for questions, feedback, or just to chat. I’m also available for writing and art commissions, so feel free to reach out!
If you missed it, here’s Chapter 3: (Part 1)
See you in the next chapter!
“I’m going to kill her,” I muttered. Grover tried to calm me down. “It’s okay. I like peanut butter.” He dodged another piece of the snack Nancy threw, trying to pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it looked. “That’s enough.” I started to stand up, but Grover pulled me back into the seat. “You’re already being watched,” he reminded me. “You know you’ll be blamed if anything happens.” But in that moment, on the bus, Grover just shrugged and tried to pretend the peanut butter and ketchup sandwich bits Nancy kept tossing into his curly hair weren’t bothering him. But I could see his ears twitching. I saw that and thought, “Hold it together, Percy. Don’t mess this up now.” “What he needs,” a low, drawn-out voice murmured from my left, with a slightly thick accent that seemed to slip between the words, “is a distraction. Before he ends up biting her bait.” The voice came from Eiri, leaning against the window corner, chin resting on his clenched fist, watching Nancy like she was a still target in the middle of a snowstorm. His voice always sounded like it came from somewhere colder, older. A monotone, tangled tone that silenced everyone for a moment without them even realizing it. I never quite figured out where exactly the accent came from—it was like a mix of Russian, Polish, and Irish, with a steady rhythm and weight that made you pay attention.
My other best friend, like since childhood, was Eiriklod Pärlavakt — but I just called him Eiri. He was different from anyone I’d ever met. Way taller than his age, with a swimmer-gymnast build, and that kind of distant yet protective look, like he was always on the lookout for some invisible enemy. When I asked where he got all that size from, he just said, “heritage from the northern seas.” I thought he meant the High Land islands — like Iceland or Russia — but nowadays... I’m not so sure.
His skin was pale, almost ghostly, and his hair, a mix of blond and gray, fell in soft waves that always looked a bit messy but never careless. The eyes? A sharp blue, like frozen waters from some place where the sun barely dares to show up. His ears had a subtle point, almost imperceptible, but enough to stir rumors in the hallways. And he never smiled showing his teeth — which made sense, since his canines were a little sharper than normal.
Eiri was sparing with words, direct, and sometimes seemed cold. But he had this strange kind of fierce loyalty for those he cared about — especially the younger or weaker ones, even if his intimidating vibe said otherwise. He was the one who dragged me into the fencing club, saying I needed “a more productive outlet for all that chaotic energy.” And I went. Of course, I went. When Eiri spoke, people listened.
He used to call me "Captain" or "Little Pearl," thanks to a joke that started at an adventure club camp. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a pirate captain and conquer the oceans. I found this ridiculous old leather hat my mom had sewn, with tiny pearls stitched into the brim. I wore it right in the middle of a storm. Eiri saw me and was dead serious for exactly five seconds... then let out that silent laugh of his. The nicknames stuck ever since.
Even after we found out I had thalassophobia — an irrational fear of the sea and what lies beneath it — he never stopped using those nicknames. But I could tell it changed for him too. It was like he was mourning a version of me he had hoped would exist. Back then, he became a thousand times more protective — strange, even. One day, I swear I saw him actually growl — for real — at one of the guards’ horses in Central Park.
But it wasn’t just any horse — it was the horse. A massive black stallion with glowing green eyes and a temper that made anyone think twice before approaching. He was as stubborn as a mule, but for some reason, he liked me. Lived in the park and always showed up whenever I was there. We even had a little routine: I’d share my blue cookies with him, he’d accept them like some enchanted forest king, and just stand there, watching me.
I called him Hip. Don’t ask me why. Eiri, of course, never explained what he had against the horse. He just gave it that freezing stare of his and stood between me and the animal for almost an hour.
"Or maybe a battering ram," Eiri added, his voice as slow and heavy as the look he threw at Nancy, still resting his chin on a closed fist, as if she were a target standing in the middle of a snowstorm.
"Not a battering ram, Eiri!" Grover grumbled, nearly choking on his own indignation. "The last thing Percy needs is you being you. And seriously? He’s already got enough distractions... right here." He pointed at my head with one finger. "His brain’s basically a fireworks show in the middle of a thunderstorm."
Then I felt a light tap on my arm — this time from Eiri. His lips were curved in one of those rare, closed, enigmatic smiles of his, while those icy blue eyes sparkled with that kind of quiet amusement and affection you only see when you look at your mischievous little brother after a perfectly executed prank. It wasn’t mockery. It was his rare, silent way of saying: I’m here, Captain.
"Focus, Captain. You’re drifting again."
And he was right. I totally was.
It was true — I was already gone.
The second Eiri opened his mouth, my brain kicked into turbo mode. First, I imagined a plan straight out of “Trojan Horse stuffed with mashed potatoes”, then a lightsaber duel on the school rooftop — Nancy on one side, me on the other, dramatic wind blowing, epic theme blasting in the background. All this while real life kept moving right in front of me. Because that’s how my head works. It’s like a browser with fifteen tabs open, two games running in the background, and somehow a radio playing three songs at once. Except no one else can hear it.
When Grover reminded me of that, I honestly would’ve preferred just hitting Nancy Bobofit right then and there. Getting suspended would've been nothing compared to the mess I was about to stumble into.
Mr. Brunner led the museum tour.
He wheeled himself ahead of us through the huge echoing galleries, past towering marble statues and glass cases filled with ancient black-and-orange pottery.
He gathered us around a twelve-foot stone column with a massive sphinx on top and started explaining that it was a grave marker — a stele — made for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides.
I was trying to listen, because it was kind of interesting, but everyone around me kept talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other teacher with us — Mrs. Dodds — shot me a death glare.
Mrs. Dodds was that math teacher from Georgia who always seemed like she’d walked straight out of an action movie — with her black leather jacket and that vibe that hovered somewhere between villain and sheriff.
She was around fifty, but no one in their right mind would’ve doubted that she could ride a Harley straight through her own closet door without even scratching it. She’d arrived at Yancy halfway through the year, after our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown (which honestly didn’t seem so far-fetched, considering the kind of atmosphere Mrs. Dodds created).
From day one, Mrs. Dodds had a clear mission: protect Nancy Bobofit — her obvious favorite — and make me believe I’d been born straight from the devil himself. The old lady would point that crooked finger at me and say, ever so sweetly, “Now, dear,” which really meant I was about to spend the rest of my life in detention.
It didn’t matter what happened — she always managed to get me in trouble. And even her wildest accusations somehow didn’t seem out of place. One time, she even claimed I was responsible for the rats that had started invading the school building. Yeah — things were getting way out of hand.
One time, I told Grover — half-joking, half-serious — that Mrs. Dodds must’ve come straight from hell just to torment me. He gave me that serious, slightly scared look — the kind of look someone gives when they already know something — and simply said, “You’re absolutely right.” And it felt like he was talking about something way bigger than just a math teacher.
Of course, I wasn’t alone. Eiri was always nearby whenever Mrs. Dodds was around. I’m not sure if he was watching over me out of some protective instinct, or if there was more to it, but he never looked comfortable around her. Whenever she accused me of yet another dumb thing or tried to embarrass me, he’d smile — and it wasn’t exactly a polite smile. It was more like... a subtle warning.
As if he was silently saying that none of it would go unanswered. People said he acted that way because he didn’t like how the teacher treated the students, but the way he smiled at her — with all his teeth showing — gave me the feeling that he was more ready to defend everyone there than to play nice.
It was obvious he didn’t like her, and I wasn’t wrong to think that toothy grin was just a mask for something much more serious.
The rumor that started spreading around school was that Mrs. Dodds was in Nancy Bobofit’s family’s pocket. They said she would do anything to stay in Nancy’s good graces, and apparently there had even been a formal investigation after it came out that five teachers were being bribed by influential families.
And of course, that was when Mrs. Dodds began focusing more on Eiri — in a weird way. She spent most of her time trying to catch him making some kind of mistake, but Eiri, of course, stayed exactly the same — quiet, watchful, always ready to protect others, no matter how hard she tried to chip away at his composure. And that just made things more tense between them.
While Mr. Brunner continued his lecture about Greek funerary art, my head was completely somewhere else. Eiri’s stare and Mrs. Dodds’ behavior were more than enough to knock me off track. I was in trouble — and whatever was going to happen next, it definitely wasn’t going to be good.
Finally, Nancy Bobofit, barely holding in her laughter, made some comment about the naked guy on the stele. I couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, I turned to her and said:
It came out louder than I meant, and the whole group immediately burst into laughter.
Mr. Brunner, who was clearly running out of patience, cut off his story.
"Mr. Jackson," he said, giving me that usual serious look. "Did you have something to say?"
I turned bright red. I wanted to sink into the floor.
"No, sir," I answered quickly, trying to sound as calm as possible.
But Mr. Brunner didn’t look convinced at all. He pointed to one of the carved figures on the stele.
"Perhaps you can tell us what this figure represents."
I looked at the image carved into the stone, and for a second, I felt a wave of relief.
I recognized the scene from somewhere — something I’d read about in Greek mythology class.
I took a deep breath and, with more confidence than I actually felt, said:
"It’s Cronos eating his children, right?"
Mr. Brunner watched me for a moment, his eyes gleaming as if he were truly sizing me up. Then he nodded slightly, as if my answer had passed some sort of test. Of course, my relief didn’t last long. I was still stuck dead center in the spotlight, feeling like I was completely exposed in front of the class — and I could already bet they’d be teasing me for my little unexpected speech.
"Correct," Mr. Brunner said, though his tone made it clear he still expected more. "And he did this because...?"
"Well..." I began. "Cronos was the god... I mean, the Titan king." I quickly corrected myself. "And he didn’t trust his own children — the gods. Like... when his father, Uranus, died, he made this cursed prophecy that said Cronos would also be defeated by one of his own children. So Cronos got paranoid, scared all the time. The prophecy, along with all that fear, made him decide the best solution was... well, to eat each one of them as they were born."
"But his wife hid the baby Zeus and gave Cronos a rock wrapped up to look like the baby. Cronos ate the rock. Later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his father and made him throw up his brothers and sisters."
"Gross!" one of the girls behind me exclaimed.
"…and then there was a big war between the gods and the Titans," I went on, "and the gods won."
There were a few muffled laughs in the group.
Behind me, Nancy Bobofit didn’t miss the chance to whisper to a friend:
"Like that’s ever going to be useful. Imagine at a job interview: 'Please explain why Cronos ate his own children.'”
Before I could think of a response, Mr. Brunner turned slightly, wearing a smile I couldn’t quite read.
"And why, Mr. Jackson," he said, picking up on Ms. Bobofit’s “excellent” question, "is this relevant to real life?"
To my left, Eiri — who until that moment had been perfectly still, as always — subtly shifted his weight from one leg to the other. It was a small movement, but on him, it was almost a warning sign. His ice-blue eyes narrowed slightly in Mr. Brunner’s direction, watching him closely.
I caught the small movement out of the corner of my eye, and that was enough to snap me back to reality. Eiri never moved without a reason. If he thought that question mattered, maybe I should pay attention too.
The truth? I didn’t like this kind of topic at all. There was something about the words “prophecy” and “destiny” that made me... tense. A deep unease, like an invisible knife slowly turning in my stomach. And worse: it gave me a strange — irrational and sudden — urge to react, to fight, to attack. As if somewhere in the back of my mind, an old voice was whispering: Never trust a game you don’t control.
So I took a deep breath, looked up, and answered:
"Because sometimes," I said, my voice steadier than I expected, "it’s exactly the fear of what might happen that makes people do the worst things. Cronos tried to stop fate — and ended up creating it."
For a second, the room seemed quieter. Eiri didn’t move, but I noticed the faintest tilt of his head — like he was approving the answer.
Mr. Brunner smiled again — deeper this time.
"A point for you, Mr. Jackson," Mr. Brunner said. "Zeus, in fact, gave Cronos a special mixture of mustard and an ancient fermented drink, which made him vomit up the other five children who, of course, being immortal gods, were alive and growing inside the Titan’s stomach, undigested. The gods then defeated their father, cutting him to pieces with his own scythe and scattering the remains in Tartarus — the darkest part of the Underworld."
He closed an imaginary book with a soft snap of his fingers.
"And with that cheerful note... it’s time for lunch. Ms. Dodds, would you lead us back?"
The class started filing out in a whirlwind of nervous giggles and hushed comments — the girls pulling faces and clutching their stomachs, the boys shoving each other and whispering like they’d just watched a horror movie in the middle of class.
Grover and I were about to follow the flow when Mr. Brunner’s voice called out again:
And I knew right then: I hadn’t gotten away just yet.
“Go ahead,” I murmured to Grover and Eiri. “I’ll meet you outside.”
He gave me a sympathetic look, then left. I turned to face Mr. Brunner.
Mr. Brunner had that look that didn’t let you slip away. Old brown eyes, almost unfathomable — eyes of someone who could be a thousand years old and who, somehow, seemed to have seen everything the world could offer… and take away.
He leaned a little more into his wheelchair, as if that simple movement carried some invisible weight.
“You need to learn how to answer my question,” he said, his voice low and deeper than usual.
He didn’t smile. Just tilted his head slightly.
“About real life. And how what you learn here applies to it.”
“Ah.” I swallowed hard. That sounded less like homework and more like… a warning.
For a moment, his eyes looked tired — not of me, but of time. Of time and everything he carried. An almost imperceptible crack in that mask of impeccable erudition. The look of someone who had already seen many young people like me... some who got lost, others who rose and paid dearly for it.
It was subtle, but I saw it. And for some reason — which didn’t come just from me, but maybe from a deeper part inside — I understood. And I fell silent.
He noticed. The corner of his lips lifted, for a brief moment — a half-smile that was both pride and a kind of deep fatigue.
“What you learn from me,” he continued, with a slight tone that was not just demanding but almost pleading — “is of vital importance. I hope you treat it as such. From you, Mr. Jackson… I will accept only the best.”
I wanted to be angry. That guy always pushed me harder than the others. But that little crack in his shield disarmed me. He wasn’t just a teacher picking on me. He was someone carrying much more than he was saying.
For a second, a strange phrase passed through my mind, coming from nowhere — like a forgotten echo:
“The true master trains with the weight of the future on his shoulders.”
I shook my head, as if that would chase the thought away.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, more serious than I expected.
He nodded, just once, and dismissed me with a slight gesture.
When I turned to leave, I felt his eyes still on me. Not with irritation, but with hope — and a weariness I couldn’t explain.
Next > Chapter 3:(Part 3)
