Annabeth Chase had always trusted her instincts. Her mind worked like a battle map, every detail cataloged and analyzed before most people even noticed something was wrong. That was why she didn’t ignore the sudden silence in the woods. No birds. No crickets. Just a strange, heavy stillness pressing against her ears. She slowed her steps, shifting her dagger into her hand, her gray eyes sharp and wary. Then she heard it—the unmistakable clack, clack of pincers, echoing faintly through the trees. Annabeth’s blood ran cold. She had read about that sound, studied it in histories of the First Olympian War, whispered among the old legends. Her worst suspicion materialized in the clearing ahead: a pit scorpion.

It was massive, its obsidian carapace glinting in the faint shafts of moonlight, pincers snapping open and shut like guillotines. Its tail curled high, dripping venom that hissed when it struck the ground. Annabeth froze, mind racing with a dozen possible strategies, counterattacks, and escape routes, but none of them were reassuring. She remembered what Chiron had told her once in passing: even Percy couldn’t heal from a pit scorpion’s sting. Which meant if she got stung… she had a minute. Maybe less.

The monster let out a shrill, ear-piercing screech and lunged, its bulk moving far faster than it had any right to. Annabeth dove to the side, rolling into a crouch, dagger flashing. She struck at one of its legs, celestial bronze biting into the armored joint, but the scorpion’s pincer slammed into the dirt beside her, spraying soil like shrapnel. She gritted her teeth, calculating every move, every weakness. But the scorpion was stronger, heavier, relentless. She ducked again, narrowly avoiding the stinger—until it whipped around with terrifying speed. The barb sliced across her side, just under her ribs. The sting was instant. A searing white-hot agony burned through her, leaving behind a swollen red welt that oozed yellow pus. Her hand trembled as she pressed it against the wound. Already the forest seemed to dim, sounds distant, her vision tunneling.

Annabeth Chase: “No… not like this. I am not going to be outsmarted by a bug.”

Her legs shook, her breath came ragged, but she forced herself upright, dagger ready even as paralysis clawed its way up her body. The pit scorpion’s pincers clicked again, and Annabeth knew she had only moments left to turn the tide—or die trying.