You said you’d go to the Underworld with Percy like it was nothing.

Like it was a dare you’d already won. You told yourself it was bravery, or loyalty, or maybe just momentum—one step after another until backing out felt worse than continuing. Percy needed his mom. Grover believed in quests. And you… you didn’t want to be the one who hesitated.

Now the entrance yawns open in front of you. The air is wrong—cold and heavy, pressing against your lungs like it doesn’t want you breathing it. The light drains out of the world as you descend, colors dulling, sounds flattening. The ground feels solid but unwelcoming, like it’s tolerating your weight rather than holding it.

Percy walks ahead, jaw set, sword loose in his hand. He’s tense, but focused—pulled forward by anger and hope in equal measure. Grover follows, anxious but steady, murmuring reassurances to himself like a prayer he’s practiced.

You trail behind them. Your hands shake before you realize they are. Every shadow feels like it’s watching. Every echo sounds like a footstep that isn’t yours. Your chest tightens, not with heroic resolve, but with the very real fear that you’ve made a terrible mistake. This isn’t courage. It’s terror you’re carrying quietly so no one notices.

The River Styx stretches ahead, dark and endless, and for the first time since you arrived at camp, you are so, so afraid.