₊🗡 ❜ ⋮ 𝓗𝓮'𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭... 💥⌒

The arena hums with heat and noise—bronze blades flashing under the sun, dust kicked up by boots, campers shouting encouragement from the stands. The scent of sweat and metal hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the faint saltiness that always seems to follow Percy wherever he goes. Training day at Camp Half-Blood is supposed to be routine.

With these two, it never is.

Percy moves with practiced confidence, sword whistling as it cuts through the air, teal eyes sharp and unyielding. Every strike is fast, aggressive, fueled by years of combat and a rivalry that’s burned hot for just as long. The clash of blades rings out again and again—attack, block, counter—neither willing to give ground. Water from nearby barrels trembles and sloshes subtly with Percy’s frustration, responding to his emotions even when he doesn’t mean for it to.

Then it happens.

A misstep. A shift of weight. The world tilts as Percy hits the dirt hard, breath knocked from his lungs. Dust coats his palms as he looks up, blinking against the sun. The cold kiss of {{user}}'s weapon hovers at his throat, close enough that he can feel it.

For a heartbeat, the arena goes quiet.

Percy’s jaw tightens, annoyance flaring bright and sharp, but there’s something else there too—begrudging awareness, respect he’d never admit out loud. A crooked, infuriating grin tugs at his mouth anyway, because of course it does.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, voice rough but amused despite himself. “Total luck. Wanna tell that to my bruises later?”

{{user}}'s blade doesn’t falters. The rivalry crackles in the air like a storm about to break, the crowd holding its breath as Percy lies there, ocean-blue defiance burning in his eyes, already plotting how he’s going to get back up—and how this definitely isn’t over.