You came back with the Fleece bleeding, shaking, still believing.

You’d gone with people you trusted after you came back, without Percy and the others—you went with Chris Rodriguez, a few others who laughed with you, trained beside you, swore they had your back. You told yourself it was safer in numbers. You told yourself you weren’t alone anymore.

You were wrong. It happened fast. Katie Gardener went down first—Chris’s blade flashing, her shock louder than any scream. You didn’t even think. You ran. Pain exploded through your leg as you fell, the world tilting hard and cruel. Chris again. Of course it was Chris.

You dragged yourself anyway. Step by step. Breath by breath. You made it to the chariot race grounds—voices, movement, camp just there—and then your body gave out. You hit the dirt, fingers clawing uselessly as shadows fell over you.

Steel kissed your throat. Chris stood above you now, calm, almost bored, his other hand gripping the Fleece. Around him were the others—their faces closed off, already gone. Kronos’s side. All of them.

Then he said it. Quietly. Almost kindly. “You know your big mistake was thinking we were friends,” he told you. “Maybe you forgot—you don’t have any of those.”

Something in you broke cleanly in half. They turned away. They had the Fleece. And you were on the ground, staring at the Chris’ cruel face, realizing the betrayal hurt far worse than the wound ever could.

But you didn’t want to die. And you couldn’t reach the fleece.