It starts as a dare.

A group of older demigods—confident, loud, already scarred in the way that makes them seem untouchable—laugh when Percy hesitates. Someone calls you both scaredy cats. Someone else says if you’re really brave, you won’t stick so close to the cabins.

You go because you don’t want to be the weak one.

Percy goes because he never backs down when someone doubts him.

You follow them past the familiar borders of camp, deeper into the woods where the air gets thicker and the light thins out. They talk easily, like this is routine, like they’ve done this a hundred times. Percy tries to match their confidence, shoulders squared, sword gripped a little too tight. You walk beside him, heart racing, telling yourself fear doesn’t count if you keep moving.

Something feels off. The jokes stop. The path narrows. The woods go quiet in a way that isn’t peaceful—like everything living has stepped back to watch. The demigods spread out, subtle, deliberate, cutting off the way back without announcing it.

Percy notices too late.

You feel it before you see it—the shift in the air, the wrongness settling heavy in your chest. These aren’t kids trying to prove something. These are kids who already decided what you’re worth.

Percy glances at you, confused, then alarmed, realizing at the same time you do: This wasn’t about bravery. It was a trap. And you’re both very young, very far from camp, and suddenly very alone.