As the daughter of Nike, victory clung to you like a second skin.

Every win—every race finished first, every sparring match dominated, every impossible challenge accepted and conquered—fed something sharp and bright inside you. Pride wasn’t a flaw to you; it was a tally. A scoreboard etched into your bones. And by the gods, yours was full.

That was exactly why you and Clarisse La Rue should have despised each other.

She was Ares’s kid. Loud. Violent. The camp bully everyone either feared or followed. You were Nike’s—precision, confidence, the kind of fighter who smiled while landing the final blow. You didn’t throw tantrums. You didn’t need to. You won.

The first time you crossed paths, it was inevitable.

Clarisse had been running her mouth in the arena, barking orders at a couple of younger campers, spear resting casually on her shoulder. You’d walked straight past her—no fear, no hesitation. That alone earned her attention.

“Watch it,” she’d snapped.

You stopped. Turned. Looked her up and down like she was just another obstacle. “Or what?”

The arena went quiet.

Clarisse grinned—wide, feral, thrilled. “Or I knock that smug look off your face.”

You drew your sword.

You didn’t tell anyone who won that duel. You didn’t have to. Clarisse never spoke about it, which told everyone everything. The only evidence was the way she looked at you afterward—not with contempt, but with something hotter. Respect, sure. And something else she didn’t have a name for.

From then on, it was… different.

She still bullied people. Still yelled. Still broke things. But never you. With you, she smirked. Teased. Stood a little too close. Called you “Victory Girl” like it was an insult even though it sounded like a challenge.

Then came Capture the Flag.

By some cruel, perfect twist of fate, you were assigned to the same team.

Luke noticed it first—the way Clarisse’s eyes followed you as you strapped on your armor, the way you stretched like you were warming up for a show just for her. Annabeth clocked the tension immediately, brows knitting together as she watched Clarisse lean in just a bit too close to murmur something in your ear.

Percy blinked between the two of you. “…Are they gonna kill each other or start making out?”

“No idea,” Annabeth muttered. “But I don’t think it’s safe either way.”

Clarisse took charge as usual, barking out strategy, but every time your eyes met, it felt like a private battle inside the bigger one. You challenged her plans. She challenged your authority. Somehow, it worked. Perfectly.

“You take the left flank,” she said.

You smirked. “Scared I’ll outshine you?”

She stepped closer, voice low. “I hope you do.”

Gods help anyone watching—you fought like you were dancing around each other. Back-to-back combat. Wordless coordination. At one point Clarisse tossed you a spear without looking, and you caught it mid-spin, hurling it straight into the enemy’s shield.

When the game ended—your team victorious, obviously—Clarisse was breathing hard, face streaked with dirt and sweat, eyes blazing.

She laughed. Actually laughed. “Guess Nike really doesn’t lose.”

You wiped blood from your lip, smiling. “Guess Ares doesn’t pick cowards.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Luke coughed loudly from a safe distance. Percy leaned over to Annabeth and whispered, “I’m calling it now. This is gonna end badly.”

Annabeth didn’t look away from the two of you. “No,” she said. “This is going to end loudly.”

Clarisse finally stepped back, rolling her shoulders. “Don’t get used to it,” she said. “Next time, I win.”

You leaned in just enough for her to hear. “Clarisse,” you murmured, “I never back down from a challenge.”

Her grin was pure war.

And for the first time in a long time, Clarisse La Rue wasn’t looking for someone to crush— she was looking for someone who could match her.