The journey to Pearl Moon took five days of on-foot travel, and over the course of those wearying days, an uncomfortable notion had wormed itself into Percy's thoughts.

'What if I'm not as good as I think I am?'

It was not some single, minor thing which had summoned this unwelcome thought into his head, for in fact, knuckle-headed overconfidence was something well-embedded in his identity; it was the exact trait that had pushed him to pointlessly carry that boulder from the deep forest to the front yard of their cottage. Percy had always been the sort of person who, in general, did not hesitate much, diving headfirst into whatever whim or danger arrived at his feet. This lack of hesitation made him hotheaded, reckless, and often foolishly brave. Sometimes, it would backfire on him—like the time when he was training just outside his home, when all of the sudden, he had heard the screams of a young girl in the neck of the surrounding forest. Without thinking, he'd charged into the woods with his sword in hand, searching for the girl with intent to destroy whatever beast was assailing her. He'd arrived at an open clearing, and found the little girl wailing as a chortling little pig-like monster laid atop her stomach, wiggling its front and back feet in the slosh of mud beneath them.

Percy had dashed forward, the flat side of his sword prepared to smack the miniature pig creature off of her belly and stab into its side if necessary—but then the girl saw him, yelped in fear, and begged him to get away from her. 'Don't hurt Tootie!' she'd pleaded, quickly repositioning to shield the monster behind her frail, trembling arms. As it turned out, 'Tootie' was actually her little friend, and while the two were happily playing around with each other in the mud, Percy had been in the process of permanently traumatizing a child by almost ripping her beloved monster into pieces. Upon a later reflection, he realized that those screams hadn't actually sounded terror-stricken at all. Her yelling had immediately activated his defensive impulses, failing to discern between screams of fear and screams of laughter.

After a slew of embarrassed apologies, he had left the interaction feeling unfathomably stupid. Someone like Frank would have approached the situation more carefully. But Percy knew himself well, and he knew that if a similar situation were to arise again, he would react all the same. The instinct to protect others always ignited a fire inside of him, with flames that superseded the more mature compulsions of caution and logic. Suffice to say, Percy was not one to cower and recede from dangers, challenges, or fear-inducing mini-monster pigs.

And so, rather, it couldn't have been some single, minor thing to have drawn a veil of doubt over his confidence. What had stirred him so was a series of chance encounters during their excursion to Pearl Moon, which had forced him to wonder just how strong and capable he could really be in the face of a strong opponent. One night, he and Frank found themselves in a delightfully shoddy tavern, packed full of rough-looking men and swathes of forest nymphs trying to charm them in exchange for drinks. As the two enjoyed their non-alcoholic beverages quietly, Percy had overheard two gentlemen discussing the tournament, and eventually, the conversation arrived at an interesting talking point.

"I heard Jason is gonna be there," said one adult patron, a gruff-looking older man with an impressively storied beard that Percy could never hope to grow himself.

"You don't mean the Jason," replied his companion, gulping after his jug of frothy beer.

"Oh, I do mean that Jason." He rubbed the handle of his beer mug remorsefully. "And if that ends up being true, I'm telling ya, we're doomed to all hell."

"Damn it. I need that woman, Earl."

'Is Jason a woman?' Percy thought to himself in surprise. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him once that a woman might enter the competition—and if that did happen, what the hell was he going to do about it? He'd fought against sentient female monsters, sure, but that couldn't be compared to actually laying his hands on human women. It just wasn't something that was done. In his head, he imagined facing off with a female warrior of similar strength, and how it would maybe be insulting if he held back against such an opponent, but the thought of slamming his fist into a woman's jaw or butting her stomach with the hilt of his sword made him shiver in discomfort and revulsion. At that moment, Percy decided that if he were made to face off against a woman, he would simply have to forfeit then and there. Not even his knuckle-headed, act-first-think-later tendencies would allow him to raise his hand against the fairer sex. And not even against this so-called "Jason," who was apparently so formidable that her fabled attendance at the tournament made adult men groan in disappointment.

Later on that same evening, Percy raised this issue with Frank, asking what he would do if forced to fight against a woman. Predictably, and without hesitating, Frank declared that he would much rather die.

The following day, that person's name had found a way of traipsing into his ears once again, although this time, it came from the lips of two young ladies perusing the selection of produce at a Farmer's Market.

They had arrived at the Village of the River Spirit, a sleepy oasis of a town where humans and nymphs and all kinds of friendly creatures live together in harmony. This struck him as peculiar, because his home town, the Fire Rat village, was solely inhabited by work-minded peoples and the livestock they cared for. It wasn't like there was anything Fire Rat could offer that would appeal to any kind, non-hazardous monster or spirit, anyway.

Frank and Percy had strolled into the River Spirit Farmer's Market, hoping to find some sturdy fruit or non-perishables to hold them over for the remaining days of the trip, when in the midst of their browsing, Percy happened upon the two ladies discussing something of such interest that he couldn't help but eavesdrop.

"Hey, Minnie, are you gonna go to the tournament in Pearl Moon?"

"Ugh, I wish, but no. It's too far, too much trouble."

"I wasn't gonna go, either, but there's rumors floating around that a certain powerful guy is gonna be there..."

"Who?"

"Who else? The legendary Jason."

"Oh—!" 'Minnie' gasped excitedly. "Shoot, now I have to go."

"Come with me, we can see him together!"

"... On second thought, maybe I shouldn't go. Obviously, he's gonna wipe the floor with all the other competitors. I would die of disappointment if I had to see him get married..."

The two women wandered off elsewhere. Percy was left to ponder the conversation distractedly.

So Jason was a guy after all. That much was clear. And here was another person reiterating that Jason was so strong that it was a given he would decimate the competition. That final bit about a marriage was more uncertain—and Percy didn't really care, maybe the guy had just gotten engaged or something—but he couldn't deny, even to his overconfident self, that this information was unsettling. Was Jason some legendary warrior that everyone knew of? If so, why hadn't Percy ever heard of him? Was the Village of the Fire Rat that much of a far-removed hick town, to the point that the rumoring winds of a renown hero like Jason hadn't blown through it ever before?

But what had finally brought an anxious sweat to his brow was an emotional scene between a young adult man and his father, just as he and Frank were spending their final night before the tournament in a handsome inn just two miles away from Pearl Moon. With still high hopes that Percy would earn a splendid sum of money from the competition, he'd decided to splurge on their lodgings for once, having either camped or spent in the night in the cheapest motels available for the entire journey. The two were lounging in a hot spring, something that Percy absolutely adored, when he heard the sound of a door slamming open elsewhere in the facility with angry footsteps to follow it.

"Come back, father!" goes one distressed voice, a man with a voice higher in pitch than himself. Percy locks eyes with his friend on the opposite side of the spring, making a face that says, 'Oof. Drama.' Frank sinks further into the water, his disconcerted frown a clear sign that he feels awkward, uncomfortable overhearing this personal dispute.

The voice that replies is more hoarse, withered like old leather. If he had to guess, he would say that this must be an adult on the elderly side. "I won't stand by and witness this foolishness!" Another door slamming sound. "I don't recall raising my son to be this bullheaded!"

Percy hears more heavy footsteps. The voices are becoming more faint; wherever they are, they're moving further away from the hot spring.

"I thought you wanted me to compete!" whines the son, who Percy now realizes is yet another competitor in the tournament tomorrow.

"Not anymore! Do you expect me to stand by and watch my own son get brutally maimed by that Jason fellow?" Although no emotion is more apparent in the father's voice than anger, the frightened distress of a concerned parent hangs off of every word he speaks, drenched in paternal heartache. "I cannot stop you, but I don't have to bear witness to your humiliation!"

"I'm doing this for us, father!"

The voices trail off into nothingness. By this point, they've moved beyond earshot.

"Okay—who the hell is Jason?" Percy exclaims, splashing his hand throughout the water in frustration.

Frank squints, receding a bit from the stray droplets cast his way. "... 'Jason'?"

"Frank—haven't you heard people bringing up his name all the time? They keep talking like he's the toughest guy in the entire world." His fingers surf through his wet hair, and he tilts his head backwards as he leans further against the rim of the hot spring. "He's coming to the competition. And apparently, he's gonna mop the floor with all of the participants. Including me."

"Whoa, calm down, Percy." Frank is surprised by this fervid agitation. "Why would you be worried about a couple rumors of some guy? You already know how strong you are."

"Anyone would feel worried," A juvenile pout appears on his face. For whatever reason, he feels a need to justify his concern to Frank, so that he doesn't think Percy's fretting came out of nowhere. "I mean, the guy is tearing fathers and sons apart with how scary he is. Isn't that... unnerving?"

"For all you know, Percy, people talk about you the same way," Percy immediately scoffs, but Frank continues, "And if they don't, it's because word of you can't reach as far, because Fire Rat isn't a well-known village. Plus, think of it this way—isn't it kind of an advantage if people don't know what to expect from you?"

As Percy considers this, his shoulders ease their tension. Could what Frank says really be true? There is some merit, he supposes, to the notion that Jason's fame is relevant to whatever place he comes from. After all, no one in their home village has ever heard of him before.

"... You're always hyping me up, Frank." He finally responds, gazing towards the starry sky overhead in thought. "I'm starting think you're an enabler."

"In this case, it's encouragement." He smiles a smile that would disarm any warrior with its immeasurable kindness. "I only say all of the things I say because I know how good you are. You don't need to worry about some other guy—the other guys should be worried about you."

"Well, just so you know, you're crazy strong, too, buddy. I bet you'd hand Jason's ass to him on a silver platter."

Frank frowns, despite expressing gratitude. "Thanks, man." He surrenders eye contact, looking to the stars instead.

Percy raises his hand above the surface of the hot spring. Effortlessly, he gathers power into his fingertips and channels a stream of water to float in the air above his palm, morphing it into the shape of a sphere. Slowly, it spins, like a globe with no landmasses, overtaken by the grandiose oceans of the world. Doing so helps him think; sometimes, he imagines pouring every morbid and miserable feeling into the water, pretending that it drains him of the more depressing thoughts that his mind can conjure. It's a habit that he probably takes part in more often than he employs his control over water in any useful or meaningful way.

But he can, and has used this power to fell many beast in battle. Although he loves and prefers to fight with his favored weapon, Percy is not only a competent swordsman. Of course, he highly doubts that special abilities like his control over water are permitted means of combat for the tournament. It's not exactly fair to those without them. He wouldn't have it any other way; he'd much prefer to take this Jason down whilst operating on an equal playing field.

And so, in the final throes of the lofty venture from their home, the humble Village of the Fire Rat, to the far more grand and wealthy Village of the Pearl Moon, Percy creeps into his bed for the night, and he lays his cheek to his pillow with the thought swirling in his head that his self-confidence is maybe earned. There are thousands of monsters on his lengthy resume of triumphs in battle—and not just weak or non-threatening creatures, but entire herds of them, and even monsters of legends and nightmares. He's worn their rotten ichor like a second coat of armor, emerging in battle with his valiant sword drenched in their nauseating golden colors. He does so with ease and he'll do it over and over again, so that the world becomes a safer place than it would be before his sword is drawn.

He can take on this Jason, he knows he can. Maybe he had been born, randomly, and without explanation, in possession of a powerful reign over the innocent waters of the gods, but his skill with his sword and his fists, they were achieved through endless blood and miseries, through paralyzing injuries and failures. He is a warrior through practice and suffering. Percy can still remember every time in the past that he's broken down in tears, begging the holy skies for answers as to why he wasn't strong enough, why he couldn't save everybody, why did he have to be so alone in the world? Now, he is twenty-three years old, and his most recent defeat is an artifact of the distant past. He has a home and a person to cherish like Frank, a loyal brother in the skin of a friend. Percy's come a long way from the trials of his wayward youth. He has a good life. And such are the reasons that he questions why his desire for something more out of life plagues him like a sickness.

But that doesn't matter, at least not right now. Tomorrow, he will attempt to satisfy his yearning, and it isn't without some nerve-wracking excitement that he fantasizes scenes in his head of triumph and glory in the upcoming tournament. Man or monster, he will have his perfect victory.

—

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—

After an uncomfortable period of silence, Annabeth's father finally opens his mouth, but only to state something so uselessly obvious that she wonders if the sky gods want the air spent on his words returned to them.

"You are angry," he says, not making eye contact.

The tournament is about to begin. About one hundred and twenty warriors had arrived, and frankly, it left a sour taste in her mouth that so many men were willing to battle for a chance to win her hand in marriage. Because what kind of person would do that? Not a sensitive, feeling man, and probably not an intelligent one, either. From where she sits, the prospects don't look very promising.

Along with her father, her two younger brothers, and Hazel, she is seated in a tall, grand structure that had been constructed for this occasion; a tower of sorts, whose peak is a white, fanciful gazebo, perfect for the noble family that rules Pearl Moon to watch the tournament in. It stands several feet above the seating area for the audience, and has a perfect view of the arena where her prospects for marriage will be dueling. From what she can tell, the last of them are signing up, providing their name, age, village of origin, et cetera, to the tourney's officiants. No one catches her eye in particular. It would take a lot for a man to catch her attention. Usually, she would avoid chatting with or being polite to any member of that sex, for fear that doing so would beg rumors of courting and romance that were simply not there, despite the village's apparent eagerness to see their princess finally marry.

She doesn't understand much about marriage, except that adults are usually supposed to be in one, especially women. In the majority of cases, it seemed to be a matter of business more than anything else. As the sole princess of the Village of the Pearl Moon, fate was always going to demand that Annabeth find a husband, and it was a miracle that she had made it to her current age without being married off already. She'd avoided it fervidly for several years, dodging every suitor that had been sent her way—to the extent that she'd earned a reputation for herself: Princess Annabeth, the girl whose heart cannot be won. Except now, in a bizarre and highly nontraditional turn of events, where her hand in marriage was literally to be won in a fighting competition.

If finding a husband to marry is a princess' natural duty, then maybe she should be grateful—happy, even, that she's gotten to live more independent years than the average young woman of nobility. But she isn't. This day is one to mourn. It's only positive quality is her desperate hope that, by arranging for her future husband to be a powerful warrior, she might find a strong, and at least partially pleasant companion who will help her through the impossibly difficult task that lies ahead.

But it is just a hope, one that she suspects is utterly in vain. Her reply is blunt and unfeeling. "It doesn't matter what I feel."

"My girl, this could have been much simpler—"

"—I already told you," she retorts, her words icier than any winter. "If you're committed to marrying me off, it will be to the best warrior in the land, not to any old charlatan from a noble family. This is the only way."

"Then, so be it."

Her father rises from his seat, smooths the fabric of his clothing, and heads towards the stairs. She doesn't look at him. Annabeth exhales tensely through her nose, her hands planted firmly in her lap.

"Annabeth?" chimes Hazel on her left. "Hey, I heard the Jason is going to show up. That's good, right?"

"..." Hazel is right, but it still fails to bring a speck of joy to Annabeth's face. She keeps her eyes trained on the arena. "It's the best-case scenario."

As her father emerges from the base of the tower and arrives in the center of the arena, she can feel waves of reverence for him rolling off of the crowd. Some lower their heads in deference to him, while others offer respectful, subdued applause. The man is a well-liked ruler, and always has been. Pearl Moon is a village whose central principles are decorum, order, and respect for one's fellow citizens. Aberrant behavior is unwelcome and disciplined swiftly. Its people were stiff, formal, polite—at least, so was the case as far as she could observe from her purview as their princess, unable to stroll through the massive village and interact with her citizens often.

Her feeling has been for a long time that, even as the Princess of the Village of the Pearl Moon, she doesn't matter very much. Do the villagers really care for her at all? Do they know anything about her except for the fact that she is unmarried at her ancient age of twenty-four? If so, it is her own fault; she knows that. The woman is not a very warm, caring princess, and there exists a great distance, both emotional and physical, between herself and her "subjects." She cares for their well-being, but that's where her emotions towards them end. Maybe a better princess would be more caring, and more beloved.

Annabeth's father delivers a rousing speech, thanking the villagers for their attendance and the fighters for their participation. Funnily, he doesn't draw much attention to Annabeth, despite the fact that her well-observed disdain for marriage is the source of this horrendous occasion. Still, she tries not to think of herself as a prize to be won. How could that be the case, when the winner of this competition is unknowingly doomed to share her astronomical burdens? In a rather twisted bit of irony, these warriors lined up to battle for her unattainable affections are, in fact, competing for the hand of a cursed woman.

But she can't tell them anything. All she can hope for is that, whoever the victor of the tournament is, they will be gracious, noble, and they will understand why she has doomed them to join her struggle for the fate of the world.

Her father finishes his speech, and ushers in the start of the tournament. The crowd cheers excitedly. First up, a duel between two men around her age—an "Ethan Nakamura" and a "Perseus Jackson."