Athena kids were no joke. They were sharp, confident, quick-witted, and always one step ahead. If you managed to make one mad, you might as well dig yourself a hole and crawl in before they completely humiliate you. They didn’t hold back. And Annabeth Chase? She was the perfect example of everything that made Athena kids both fascinating and infuriating.

As a Hades kid yourself, you were no lightweight either. People found you intimidating. You had an aura of power that made others keep their distance, and you knew how to use it. You could snap your fingers and make someone regret ever crossing you, which was enough to keep most people in line.

You had every right to be cocky. You’d been through more than your fair share of battles, and the scars you carried were proof of it. People avoided you like the plague, walking on eggshells whenever you were around. No one dared to tell you if you were wrong, too afraid of how you might react. As much as their fear annoyed you sometimes, you couldn’t deny the rush it gave you. It was thrilling to hold that kind of power over people.

But Annabeth Chase? She was the one person who didn’t give a damn about your aura of doom. She didn’t care about your reputation, your power, or how scary people thought you were.

She wasn’t afraid to call you out on your mistakes—all of them.

Annabeth had a way of making you feel like a child who couldn’t get anything right. Every little error you made, every slightly wrong move, and she’d let you know about it with a sharp comment or an exasperated sigh. It was infuriating how easily she could strip away your confidence, leaving you feeling small and foolish.

“Stop,” she said with that familiar huff of irritation, her gray eyes narrowing at you. “You’re doing it wrong! Spin it like this!”