𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐚; percy jackson

𝟎𝟖 | fight in the arena

"Percy, are you sure? Don't you want to choo—" Luke began, but was abruptly cut off.

"He made his decision," Meara declared sharply, her gaze piercing enough to silence the entire arena. If her stare could kill, Percy would have been six feet under, pierced by a hundred invisible daggers.

Luke had never seen Meara like this. He knew of her power, of course—that's why he kept her close. But he hadn't anticipated her fierce, almost feral demeanor in this moment. Deep down, he wanted them to fight; he wanted to witness the full extent of her skills.

Around them, every camper watched in a mix of horror and awe. Meara had always demonstrated her prowess through tricks and examples, but they had never seen her in a one-on-one duel. None of them were foolish enough to challenge her; they didn't need proof of her capabilities.

Percy had chosen her not just to prove he wasn't afraid of her, but also to demonstrate his bravery. After all, if he could face one of the best fighters in camp, wouldn't that earn him glory? The idea of being noticed by his father, of earning a claim, drove him forward.

But Meara felt a storm brewing inside her. She was furious that he even had the audacity to choose her as his opponent, as if to say she wasn't formidable enough. She had learned to project calmness, yet a battle raged within her, fueled by her earlier conversation with Aire.

Luke spoke, trying to maintain a serious demeanor. "Okay, here we go. Meara, step forward." She complied, eyes locked onto Percy's. "Now, stand across from each other."

They moved into position, and Luke's voice rang out: "Get your swords ready..."

Percy activated his pen, a sword morphing into his hand. Suddenly, the gravity of his choice hit him; there was no backing down now. But he had slain a Minotaur; he had some experience.

But when Meara drew a sharp sword from her scabbard, her focus unyielding, he felt the certainty drain from him. The moment her gaze locked onto his, he couldn't look away; her eyes, once a deep brown, transformed into a stormy gray. They pulled him in, trapping him in their depths.

"...and fight!" Luke shouted, the command breaking their eye contact for a second.

Meara struck first, swift as a lightning bolt. Percy barely managed to parry, feeling the blade whip past him, slicing his protective vest. A shock ran through him—she could have easily driven the sword deep, but she chose not to. Instead, she was playing with him, showcasing her prowess.

The sound of raindrops echoed ominously around the arena, an unusual occurrence for Camp Half-Blood, as if nature itself recognized the intensity of their duel.

Percy fought defensively, his heart racing as Meara danced around him, each strike a reminder of how ill-prepared he was. Despite his efforts, she landed several cuts on his vest, and he realized with dread that he was no match for her skill.

But it was the sudden crack of thunder that shook him from his thoughts. All around him, campers watched, breathless. Yet he and Meara were locked in a different battle, eyes locked like two storm fronts about to collide.

Meara circled him with predatory grace, her movements fluid and calculating. He could see her enjoying the moment, savoring his struggle. It was a lesson, a warning, and he felt the sting of humiliation and frustration mingling with something else—admiration.

He was exhausted, the adrenaline fading, and as if sensing his fatigue, Meara prepared to finish the duel. In a swift, decisive motion, she plunged her sword toward him, the tip meeting his vest with enough force to make him stumble to his knees.

The crowd gasped collectively, but Percy barely registered it. The vest was durable; it had protected him. But the sensation of defeat lingered, more potent than any physical pain. As he looked down at the sword embedded in his vest, he realized he had grossly underestimated her.

Meara stood over him, her expression inscrutable, yet something flickered in her eyes—triumph? Anger? Perhaps both. She was no ordinary camper; she was a force to be reckoned with.

Minutes passed in stunned silence before she finally spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Come here," she commanded, lifting his chin with the sword, forcing him to stand up as thier glare connected.

In that moment, the world around them faded away. They were no longer in an arena full of campers; it was just the two of them, locked in a battle of wills. Percy couldn't look away from her eyes as they turned back to brown again.

Once he stood up, Meara asked "Did you see how I made this cut?" Gesturing to one of the various marks on his vest. Her tone was almost clinical, detached from the intensity of their earlier encounter.

Percy looked at her, then back at the vest, feeling a strange mix of anger and admiration.

"That's what we'll be learning tomorrow," she stated, as if she hadn't just captivated the entire audience with her display of skill.

As the campers slowly began to disperse, Luke approached, his expression a mix of concern and amazement. "What were you thinking, bud?" He asked, glancing between Percy and the entrance Meara had just exited.

"I didn't know she'd be like this," Percy muttered, unable to fully articulate his thoughts.

"Look, I hate to say it, but I tried to warn you," Luke replied, shaking his head. "At least you've got some survival instincts. They showed in the fight."

Percy's eyes remained glued to the entrance, where Meara had vanished. Parts of his body stinging with pain, Meara made sure to leave some marks in the few places the vest barely protects. A part of him wanted to flee, to escape the shadows of her power. But the other part? The part that admired her, that felt alive in the chaos she created? It was still reeling.

"Come on, let's get out of here before it gets dark," Luke urged, guiding Percy gently with a hand on his back. But as they walked, Percy couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a much larger battle, one that would test not just his skills but his very understanding of strength and vulnerability.