Octavian is screaming at the front of the Roman line, the golden knife gleaming in his hand, eyes locked on Percy like he’s already dead.

Percy barely has time to react.

One second he’s standing— the next he’s slammed to the ground, Octavian’s knee on his chest, knife raised high.

The Greek line erupts. Annabeth screams his name. Jason swears and reaches for his sword.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You sprint across the field, shoving past Roman soldiers, Octavian shouting something furious as you tackle him sideways. The knife skids across the dirt. Percy gasps for breath.

Octavian snarls, scrambling up, eyes full of hatred—for Percy, yes, but mostly for you.

“You traitor,” he spits. “You dare—”

He lunges for the knife again.

Percy struggles to sit up, still winded, mud on his cheek, shock in his eyes.

Had a Camp Jupiter kid just saved a Camp Half-Blood kid while at war..?