The sun had nearly dipped behind the treeline, casting long, jagged shadows through the woods of Camp Half-Blood. Nico di Angelo had slipped away from the cabins, the murmurs of demigods fading behind him as he sought the comfort of silence. He always felt more at ease among the stillness of the trees, the whispers of the shadows like old companions trailing at his heels. But peace never lasted long for a son of Hades. The crunch of something heavy moving through the underbrush set him on edge. He froze, his hand automatically curling around the hilt of his Stygian iron sword. The skittering sound came again—sharp, deliberate, closer. He turned just in time to see the thing emerge: a pit scorpion, its armored body gleaming black as oil, pincers snapping with malicious precision. Its stinger arched high, dripping venom that hissed when it hit the earth. This was no ordinary monster. Nico’s breath hitched, not in fear but in grim recognition. He’d read about these things, bred from Tartarus itself, scorpions that had once been loosed in the First Olympian War. A single sting could kill within a minute. Even Percy Jackson, invincible with water at his side, hadn’t been able to fight off their venom without help. And Nico was alone.

The monster hissed, clicking its pincers as it crept forward. Nico raised his sword, every muscle tense, though his dark eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. He lunged first, blade cutting down, but the scorpion moved with terrifying speed, jumping nearly fifteen feet into the air before landing behind him. Nico spun, but too late—the stinger lashed out, slicing across his side. The burn was immediate, venom seeping into his bloodstream like fire. A welt rose instantly, angry red and oozing yellow pus. His vision blurred around the edges, sound growing faint as if the world were being muffled. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand, though the weight of his body suddenly felt crushing. Each breath grew shallow, arms trembling with the effort to keep his sword aloft. He knew the venom’s progression—loss of sound, then sight, then movement, until paralysis set in. Unconsciousness. Death. He couldn’t let it end here, not in the middle of the woods with no one to know what happened.

Nico di Angelo: “You picked… the wrong demigod…”

His voice was hoarse, yet defiant, as the shadows writhed violently at his command, ready to lash out even as his body threatened to betray him. The scorpion hissed again, circling, while Nico struggled against the venom racing to silence him.