𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʏ-ᴛᴡᴏ

To Fight or Not to Fight.

🧶

The gates creaked open with a menacing groan, and a dracaena slithered into the arena. Her scaled body glistened under the harsh torchlight, her serpentine tail coiling with dangerous grace. In one clawed hand, she gripped a long trident, its barbed tips glistening with some dark, oily substance. Poison, maybe. In the other, she held a weighted net, its cords shimmering like strands of a spider’s web. Rory recognized the weapons immediately—classic gladiator style, the weapons of a retiarius. This was a fight meant for spectacle as much as brutality, a twisted performance designed to entertain the bloodthirsty crowd above them.

She tore her eyes from the dracaena and focused on Percy, standing calm but alert in the middle of the sand-strewn floor. Riptide gleamed in his hand, steady despite the roars of the audience.

It had been a long time since she’d seen him fight. A long time since she’d seen him at all.

The last time had been only in passing—on Mount Tamalpais, the night Maddie had died. Rory clenched her jaw, shoving the memory down before it could consume her. Before that, the last time she had truly watched, Percy fight had been at Camp Half-Blood… two years ago.

Now, she was watching again.

The dracaena struck first, jabbing at him experimentally with her trident, testing his reflexes. The attack was quick, deliberate, but Percy barely moved. He shifted back just enough to avoid the strike, his feet light in the sand, his eyes never leaving his opponent. The dracaena hissed, adjusting her grip, and then she made her move—hurling the net straight for his sword hand.

A classic maneuver. If she could trap his weapon, the fight would be over in seconds.

But Percy was faster.

He sidestepped at the last possible moment, his movement so fluid it looked almost lazy, like he’d seen the attack coming a mile away. The net fell harmlessly to the sand. The dracaena snarled, recoiling, but she had no time to react before Percy lashed out.

In a single motion, his blade flashed through the air, slicing through the trident’s shaft like it was nothing more than driftwood. The weapon clattered to the ground in two useless halves. The dracaena let out a furious screech, her tail coiling as she prepared to lunge—but it was already too late.

Percy pivoted, and with effortless precision, Riptide found its mark. The blade slipped between the scales at the base of her throat, sliding through a chink in her armor like it belonged there.

A wail tore through the arena, high and keening. For a moment, the dracaena’s form twisted, writhing in place. Then she dissolved into golden dust, her screech echoing into nothingness.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The crowd, so loud before, faltered. Their cheers wavered, confused, hesitant. And then, they stopped altogether.

From his throne, Antaeus surged to his feet, his massive form trembling with fury. His voice thundered across the coliseum, shaking the very foundations beneath them.

“No!” he bellowed, his face contorted in rage. “Too fast! You must wait for the kill. Only I give that order!”

“Nice job, Percy.”

The voice drew Rory’s attention to Luke, his smirk was as sharp as a blade, a thin line that barely concealed the amusement in his eyes. “You’ve gotten better with the sword,” Luke said, his tone laced with both mockery and a begrudging approval. “I’ll grant you that.”