𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐚; percy jackson

𝟎𝟗 | don't act like you care

By now, everyone knew. Meara could feel eyes glued to her and whispers following wherever she went. For a moment, she'd thought this was what she wanted—to show people what she was capable of.

But she hadn't expected it would take beating Percy Jackson, an inexperienced boy, to achieve that.

They hadn't spoken since the fight.

Everyone saw Percy as "the boy who killed the Minotaur," which made her a fair opponent by association. But to Meara, the fight had been anything but balanced. He was still new, still learning.

But after all, he had been the one to choose her as his opponent.

"What are you thinkin' about, crazy girl?" Chris Rodriguez asked, plopping down across from her at breakfast.

Meara blinked, pulled from her thoughts as she looked down at her untouched plate. She hadn't eaten a single bite, too lost in the whirlwind of yesterday's events.

"Crazy girl?" she echoed, her brows narrowing but her tone still sharp with energy.

"Yeah, that's what I've heard." Chris chuckled.

They didn't talk much, but for some reason, he seemed keen on starting a conversation today.

Odd, given they weren't exactly close.

"What are they saying?" she asked, genuinely curious about how the camp had interpreted her fight with Percy.

"You're the camp's most talked-about topic, you and your 'little boy,'" he teased, grinning.

"My little boy?" she snapped, instantly defensive. "Okay, Chris—"

"Right, right, I forgot. You two aren't exactly friends, huh?" He cut her off mockingly. "Anyway, some kids are saying you could probably beat Luke."

Meara's gaze drifted to the other side of the table, where Luke sat, laughing with Percy.

Of course Percy was sitting with him.

"Come on, those are just dumb rumors," Meara muttered, looking back at her plate.

But the truth nagged at her.

Had Luke heard these rumors? Was he angry with her? She hadn't wanted to prove herself by dragging Percy into the middle of camp gossip.

The thought was interrupted by a loud clap from Chiron, silencing the mess hall.

He was announcing the teams for tomorrow's Capture the Flag game. Meara glanced around, catching Annabeth's intense stare—she was probably plotting out their strategy already.

Meanwhile, Percy felt the weight of humiliation settle over him like a storm cloud.

The raw sting of yesterday's fight lingered, a phantom in every scratch etched across his skin. He buried himself in a hoodie, the fabric a flimsy shield against the evidence of his defeat.

Yet, it wasn't the pain of his wounds that gnawed at him most—it was Meara.

She had won, triumphant in a duel that left him exposed before the whole camp.

And yet, her victory seemed hollow. She wore no pride, only a veil of discontent.

It was Percy who bore the scars, Percy who walked the camp as a shadow of himself. So why did it feel like she, too, carried a wound no one could see?

At breakfast, Luke was a welcome distraction, but the tension hadn't fully left. Everyone seemed focused on tomorrow's game.

As dusk fell, Percy decided a shower might help wash away some of the stress.