Rumors were a living thing.

They crept along stone streets and over worn camp walls, whispering in kitchens and halls, twisting into shapes that no one dared to ignore. By the time the name child of Zeus had reached mortal ears, the world had already begun to pivot toward it. Chiron had said it himself, though no one fully believed: Zeus demanded the child’s return. Olympus would have its claim. The words were meant to impress, to intimidate, but they carried an undeniable weight. When a god of thunder set his eyes upon something, even fate bent to witness it.

No one, not even the most careful of demigods, could doubt the ripple that a single Olympian command could cause.

The Romans had not waited for rumors to gather dust. They had scoured forests, watched rivers, combed through the outskirts of settlements. The Senate sent only those certain of their mission, their bronze armor polished to gleam under the late sun, their spears upright, faces carved in the expression of justice—or hubris, it was hard to tell which. They came prepared. They had been briefed, trained, and ordered: locate the unclaimed child, retrieve them, and return.

{{user}} had been walking home through a shortcut, the cobbled alley narrow, sunlight soft on the brick, books still clutched loosely in one hand. The world was quiet. Peaceful, almost, in a way that made the approaching noise feel heavier than it had any right to be. Then it came: the clatter of boots on stone, the sharp metallic echo that could not be ignored.

The Romans appeared from the far end like statues come to life. Bronze glinting with the late sunlight, spears raised in idle readiness, their steps deliberate and synchronized as if the ground itself obeyed them. Their faces were set, unreadable, but the aura of command and expectation radiated from them in waves.

“The unclaimed child,” one spoke, voice steady, careful, authoritative. “By order of the Senate.”

Then another sound split the tension, faster, lighter but no less forceful: footsteps from behind.

Percy Jackson appeared first, Riptide drawn, the familiar grip steady but impatient, eyes flashing between the approaching Roman legion and the mortal child they had promised to protect. Annabeth was at his side, calculating and poised, already mapping the space with every muscle ready to move, her mind faster than any blade. Piper’s stance was taut, her fingers brushing against the dagger she always carried. Nico lingered at the edge, shadow blending into shadow, eyes narrowed, waiting for the precise moment to strike, or to protect, whichever came first.

The alley contracted under their presence, the air heavy with expectation. Dust swirled at the edges, caught in the faint breeze, as though the world itself were holding its breath. The sun dipped slightly behind a cloud, casting long, sharp shadows that made spears and swords alike seem to point directly at {{user}}.

Neither side moved yet, but both understood. This was a stand. A claim. A challenge. Rome would not leave without the child. Olympus’s champions would not surrender them. And somewhere between the narrowing walls and the closing boots, {{user}} stood, caught between gods and men, ordinary yet extraordinary.

For a heartbeat, the alley seemed suspended in time. The bronze of the Romans gleamed against the steel of demigod weapons. Eyes met, minds calculated, every heartbeat measured, waiting for the first move, the first spark.

And then the first words fell from Percy’s lips, sharp with irritation and concern:

“Move, now. We can’t let them take them-”

Annabeth cut in, her tone just as firm, colder, precise: “Percy, don’t let them corner him. Not a step closer.”

Both sides had crossed borders, both had broken unspoken rules, and both knew that the first motion would ignite a battle from which there would be no retreat.