(Might remake this so it cuts off before the camp attacks, so uhm.. check for that!!)

The campfire burned lower than usual that night. No music. No laughter. Just the sharp edge of silence cutting through the crowd.

You stood on the other side of the flames, every face turned toward you. The traitor. The spy. The one who’d handed Camp Half-Blood over to the enemy — at least, that’s what everyone believed.

Percy knew better. He knew you hadn’t wanted it. Knew the deal you’d made wasn’t for power — it was for mercy. For him.

But no one wanted to listen to Percy Jackson tonight.

The circle closed in. Swords drawn, whispers snapping through the air like dry twigs. Someone shouted, “Drop your weapon!”

You didn’t. You just looked across the flames — straight at him.

And then, gods help him, you lifted your sword. Pointed it right at his chest.

For a heartbeat, no one breathed. The world held perfectly still.

And Percy thought: You blasted fool.

They don’t know you’re only bluffing.

“{{user}},” he said, low, desperate. “Don’t—”

But the crowd moved first.

Light flashed. Metal rang. Shouts drowned the night. By the time Percy broke through the chaos, it was already over — smoke curling up from the scorched ground, the air thick with dust and disbelief.

You were on your knees, the sword still clutched in your hand, the faintest smile on your face.

You’d gotten what you wanted. The camp was safe. The lie had worked.

And Percy could only stand there, heart breaking, as he realized you’d never really been the traitor.