The training grounds were carved into the mountain — silent, cold, and scarred with the ghosts of a hundred battles. Legends said no one ever found the place unless you wanted them to.

Percy didn’t even know how he’d made it this far. Maybe it was luck. Maybe the gods were desperate. Maybe he was.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, sword in hand, half-ready, half-terrified. And then you stepped out from the mist.

He’d done a spell, or something like that, he didn’t remember, but did something to summon you.

The stories hadn’t done you justice. You weren’t just powerful — you carried it, easy and unbothered, like strength had always belonged to you. The air shifted when you moved. Even the wind seemed to wait for your command.

“So,” he muttered under his breath, “you’re the one who’s gonna make me great.”

You didn’t answer — not yet. But the look in your eyes said it all: if you survive me first.

Somewhere far above, thunder rolled. The gods were watching.

And for the first time, Percy wondered if he’d come here to be trained — or tested.