Charon drops them off without ceremony.

The boat scrapes against black stone, and suddenly Percy, Annabeth, and Grover are standing in front of a looming castle that looks less built and more grown—spires twisting upward like claws, windows dark and watching. The air tastes like ash and old promises.

They step inside. The doors slam shut behind them. The growls come first—low, vibrating through the floor. Then the hellhounds emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing, teeth bared, bodies rippling with smoke and muscle. Grover freezes. Annabeth reaches for her knife. Percy raises his sword with hands that feel way too small.

And then—A voice cuts through the darkness. Sharp. Commanding. Ancient. You step out from a side archway, eyes blazing, and shout something in Ancient Greek—old words, older power. The sound echoes through the hall like a decree. The hellhounds skid to a halt, whining, ears flattening as if struck.

Then they turn and flee, claws scrambling against stone, vanishing back into the dark. Silence crashes down. Percy stares. Annabeth forgets to breathe. Grover’s mouth hangs open. They’ve faced monsters before. They’ve just never seen anyone like you.