Fearless¹ Percy Jackson

-𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞 𝕺𝖓𝖊

༉‧₊˚♰🕯❀༉‧₊˚

The sun was just beginning to rise over Camp Half-Blood, casting a golden hue across the training arena.

A small crowd of demigods had gathered around the sandpit, eager to watch the morning's sparring match between Lyric and Sherman Yang, the son of Ares. Sherman was known for his brash attitude and skill with a sword, and Lyric—well, everyone knew how skilled she was, so she had agreed to spar with him.

Hence the crowd.

Lyric adjusted her grip on her sword, the cool metal familiar in her hand. She hadn't felt at ease in the arena for a while—not since Tartarus. She could feel the stares of the other campers, but she tried to block them out. She wanted to prove she hadn't lost her edge.

"Come on, Lyric, don't hold back on me!" Sherman called out with a grin, twirling his sword. "I want the real deal, not some watered-down version!"

Lyric nodded, tightening her grip. "Alright, Sherman. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

They circled each other for a moment before Sherman lunged, his sword aimed at her midsection. Lyric parried easily, the clash of metal ringing through the air. The crowd murmured in appreciation as the two exchanged blows, the sound of their swords echoing in the morning quiet.

"Is that all you got?" Sherman taunted, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Lyric ducked beneath it, her eyes narrowing.

"Stop taking it easy!" Sherman yelled, frustration evident in his voice. "You think I can't handle it?"

Something inside Lyric snapped. The memories she had fought to bury surged to the surface—endless nights in Tartarus, every shadow a threat, every moment a battle for survival. The blood, the screams, the terror. Her vision blurred as the arena around her began to twist into something darker, more menacing.

Without warning, Lyric launched herself at Sherman with a ferocity that caught him off guard. Her movements became faster, more precise, each strike aimed with deadly intent. Sherman's grin faltered as he struggled to keep up, his usual bravado replaced with a look of concern.

"Lyric, hey—" he started, but she didn't hear him. Her mind was trapped in the horrors of Tartarus, and Sherman was just another enemy standing in her way.

Sherman managed to block a particularly vicious strike, but the force of it drove him to his knees. Lyric didn't stop. She moved in close, knocking his sword from his hand with a brutal strike. Before he could react, she had him pinned to the ground, her knee digging into his chest, her sword pressed against his throat.

The crowd gasped. For a moment, no one moved. Lyric's eyes were wild, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Her grip on the sword tightened, her knuckles white.

"What the fuck, Lyric!" Sherman's voice was strained, his eyes wide with fear. "What's wrong with you?!"

His voice finally broke through the fog in her mind. Lyric blinked, the arena slowly coming back into focus. She looked down and saw Sherman beneath her, vulnerable, the tip of her sword poised to strike. Her heart pounded in her chest as she realized what she had almost done.

Lyric quickly withdrew her sword, stumbling back as if she had been burned. The weight of what had just happened crashed down on her, and she felt sick to her stomach. The crowd was silent, all eyes on her.

Sherman scrambled to his feet, his usual cockiness gone. He stared at Lyric, disbelief and anger written across his face. "What the hell was that? You nearly—"