You woke to the flicker of lamplight and the heavy presence of three figures looming above you. Reyna stood tall and imperious, the gold trim of her Praetor’s cape catching the light in sharp flashes as if it were edged with blades. The fabric rippled unnaturally, moving like it had its own pulse, each shift amplifying the controlled menace she radiated. At her heels, the two war dogs sat like statues carved from obsidian, their eyes glowing faintly with an intelligence that saw through flesh and into bone. They weren’t barking, but the tension in their muscles, the almost inaudible rumble in their chests, carried the same weight as a battlefield horn.

Octavian was a mess of pale limbs and twitching focus, crouched low over a limp stuffed bear that he carved into with almost religious fervor. Cotton spilled across his lap like entrails, fluttering into the air every time his knife punctured the fabric. He muttered under his breath with a mix of irritation and zeal, as if the bear had personally wronged him. The pile of eviscerated toys beside him looked less like augury and more like a crime scene from a particularly unhinged daycare. His eyes, though—sharp, feverish, restless—were locked on you like he was ready to declare your very existence an omen of doom.

Dakota, in contrast, reclined lazily nearby, completely unmoved by the gravity of the moment. His purple Camp Jupiter t-shirt was rumpled, his sandals halfway off his feet, and in his hands sat a Styrofoam cup filled to the brim with Kool-Aid. The drink’s sugary scent wafted absurdly through the tension-heavy room, sticky and sweet, as Dakota sipped loudly, the straw squeaking at intervals like a poorly timed soundtrack to the interrogation. His eyes barely lifted from his cup, the bright red liquid giving him a ridiculous mustache that undermined the otherwise grim atmosphere.

“So, how did you get here exactly? And don’t lie,” Reyna demanded, her tone commanding enough to still the air itself. The dogs’ gaze burned hotter, as though her words were channeled through them.

Octavian didn’t miss his cue, his voice rising with that nasal sharpness that grated like steel on stone. “All the Lars say there’s something off about that person, Reyna. I think it’d be wise to consult a prophecy.” He gestured vaguely with the knife, flinging a bit of stuffing across the room like a snowflake of doom. He’d been at it for nearly forty minutes, his droning analysis stretching on like an endless sermon, each point more dramatic than the last.

Reyna’s head snapped toward him, her glare cutting through his words like a blade. “I asked them a question. Don’t question my authority, Octavian.” The cape shifted again, echoing her irritation, and one of the dogs let out a sharp, guttural growl as if to underline the threat.

Dakota didn’t even look up, slurping noisily from his cup, his expression that of a man watching a soap opera. The faintest shrug rolled off his shoulders, as though Octavian’s theatrics and Reyna’s wrath were nothing more than background noise to his Kool-Aid-fueled peace.

The whole scene balanced on a knife’s edge—Reyna’s command, Octavian’s manic desperation, Dakota’s maddening indifference—all circling you like you were both witness and sacrifice in some chaotic Roman ritual.