The roaring in the audience could not be more distant, nor could his quaint cottage in the Village of the Fire Rat or the brief anxieties that had caused him fret the night before. As his sword clashes against his opponent's in the throes of deft advances and sharp pivots, Percy knows that he is in element—a place where the wrath of battle courses through his blood and stirs his practiced skill into masterful execution.

It had been quickly apparent that Ethan, though admirable for all the passion that went into his swings and jabs, was far less proficient in the arena than he was. Percy's movements were quick and seamless, putting shame to way Ethan carried himself on the area—to be frank, it didn't seem like he had much experience. Even Percy was not so reckless as to run in a straight line at a man with his sword clearly pointed outwards in defense; he threw himself at Percy in a manner that could only be described as overzealous at best, and suicidal at worst. There were multiple moments where Percy had to intentionally divert the path of his sword to avoid dealing a critical blow, something that he really hadn't anticipated needing to do here.

For the tournament rules had ended up being nothing like he'd expected. First and foremost, it was not an ordeal of hand-to-hand combat like Frank had theorized, but a sword fight between men seemingly aged anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. While injuries were inevitable, the officials had expressly discouraged intentional brutal maiming, and to kill your opponent would carry the lofty punishment of immediate disqualification. It had actually been a concern of Percy's that the competition would be more of a classic gladiator affair, where fighting to the death was the crux of the competition... but based on his developing impression of the citizens of this pristine and glorious village, they didn't seem the type to favor brutal and gratuitous violence. It was all the same to Percy, though—he certainly wasn't eager to kill a fellow human, something that he'd never done before.

Furthermore, the eliminations were not so cut and dry as "winner moves on to the next bracket." They could end a round very early if they readily determined that a competitor was unworthy of continuing. In fact, if the officials weren't impressed with either fighter's performance in a given round, both could be eliminated from the tournament.

Thus, there was gossip among the competitors that showing off was implicitly encouraged. Percy didn't like that. He'd much rather fight a good and honest battle, and not go out of his way to humiliate his opponent in front of a big crowd. He hoped that the officials would discern his promise in the arena without going out of his way to employ needlessly flashy techniques.

But the end of Percy's fight, the very first fight of the tournament, ended not in a dramatic triumph of valor and glory, but a quick and anticlimactic fizzle. Percy had just lunged at Ethan with a fake-out, diving towards him with his sword raised—Ethan lifted his sword to deflect the attack—only for Percy to drop into a slide across the floor with his leg aimed at the other's feet. In the blink of an eye he swipes Ethan clean off of his footing, causing him to fall forwards. Percy grabs him as he plummets and briskly flips positions so that Ethan is on the ground and he is above. As he lifts his sword to his opponent's breastplate—not to harm, but to keep him from getting back up—the match suddenly ends, having lasted merely two minutes total.

"Halt the fight!" cries a tourney admin, with a booming voice that echoes through the arena like thunder. "Perseus Jackson is the winner!"

His ears are filled with cheers and applause. It takes a moment for Percy to extract his mind from battle-mode, slowly lifting his head to observe the audience that surrounds them in awe. His lips curl into a smile. Although he'd like to relish in the acclaim, he first makes sure to stand up and acknowledge Ethan.

"Hey, good fight, man." He begins to sheathe his sword, and extends a conciliatory hand towards the other man. "And your sword is cool, too—

"—Don't patronize me." Ethan ignores Percy's hand, a sour look on his face as he carries himself to his feet on his own.

His smile falters. "... I... wasn't?" Did he say something rude? Or was it his tone? Also, he's never really been sure what exactly "patronize" means. A monster hunting warrior living in the middle of nowhere had no use for such a word, though he can discern through context that he'd offended Ethan one way or another.

The interaction ends awkwardly. Ethan dusts himself off, provides Percy with one final unhappy scowl, and marches off the arena platform. The crowd continues cheering, and in their sea of watching eyes he searches for Frank's face, Franks voice—until he finally spots his friend, the only person in the crowd who exhibits his excitement by jumping up and down and waving ecstatically.

"Percy! Wooooo!" Frank yells.

"Frank!" Percy waves back joyously. "I did it!"

"WOOOOO!"

—

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.

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—

As the tournament continues, Annabeth's paranoia heightens.

The hired officials had been carrying out the tourney proceedings quickly. Unless a fight was particularly thrilling or evenly matched, they allowed no one more than five minutes to prove their worth. On one hand, she couldn't deny that this was efficient; well over a hundred men had signed up to compete, and the sooner weak warriors were weeded out, the sooner she could zero in on the most likely prospects and analyze them carefully. On the other hand, it made her feel even more trapped, even more unlikely to somehow escape this fate. It was like watching someone dig her grave at a maddeningly fast pace, with the intent to bury her alive alongside some stranger for the rest of her life. With this dark and morbid image in her head, a troubled frown rises to her face. It's all gotten very serious, her future is materializing right before her eyes.

But unfortunately, the tournament is not the work of some cruel, anonymous gravedigger—it is her own orchestration. She can blame her father all she wants for forcing her to marry, but she understands quite plainly that, as both a princess and a cursed woman with an obligation to produce an heir, marriage was inevitable. This charade was all her attempt to take some control over her fate, and redefine the sort of man that would be forever tied to her. She doesn't need a frivolous, old nobleman for a husband. She needs a fighter... but any awful brute could win this. Only the gods can help her now. And pray they do. They never have before.

Annabeth inhales through her nose slowly. Over the course of about ninety minutes, the competition had been halved. One match remains of the tournament's first round, a match that is now about to begin.

"Wait, Annabeth—!" Hazel stands up suddenly and approaches the guardrail that surrounds the perimeter of their tower. "I think that's him!"

"Who?" She joins her friend's side in a hurry, but the sight of the man that's entered the arena answers her question. Although she's never seen him before, she can tell who this person is.

"The competitors for the final round will now enter the arena—Jason Grace and Earl Matsone!"

A hush falls over the audience. A shared, unspoken reverence as he walks towards the arena with a readied sword in hand.

She can feel his aura even from the perch of the tower. A man with neat, blonde hair, a scar on his face, and confident stance that speaks to his quiet power. This is him, the hero of countless legends. Jason, who had single-handedly rescued an entire village from an endless swarm of monsters. Jason, who had defeated armies of ogres and rescued hundreds of innocent civilians. The Jason who brought his each and every foe to the ground, for whom no one could stand on equal footing. Some had even said that Jason was descended from a god, and plenty more had said that he'd received special blessings from ancient powers that made him far stronger than the average mortal.

... At least, that's what the rumors say; Annabeth herself is obliged to be skeptical, and with good reason. There is so little information to bind this "Jason" character to fact—a warrior of such storied and heroic exploits should be very well-documented, but he isn't. You'd be hard-pressed to find two people telling the exact same story about him. To Annabeth, it's more suspicious than inspiring.

Regardless, this was unprecedented. No warrior of his known caliber had ever set foot in Pearl Moon before. Did a man of Jason's mythos really want to compete to be her husband? Really? Why?

"I guess that's your husband... There's no way these other fighters will beat him." Hazel says, echoing Annabeth's own thoughts. "—Ah, um, sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Don't apologize, Hazel." By this point, the reality of her situation is painfully clear. There's no point in sugarcoating. "... If he's as good as everyone says, then the competition is already over."

"Isn't someone like him what you were hoping for?"

"..." Annabeth doesn't respond. And then Jason's match begins.

The man named "Earl", likely twice Jason's age, doesn't hesitate to get things going. Without moving from his side of the arena, he raises his arm and points his sword at Jason like a referee wielding a flag. "You don't look so tough. You're just a boy."

"..." Jason is silent. He only concentrates. His sword is ready but he doesn't make a move. So Earl goes for it first.

Bellowing, the older fighter races forward. His feet are fast and his eyes are wild. Both hands gripping the hilt, he slashes at Jason's body with what must be daunting force—the man is bigger and broader than Jason, with arms that could toss mountains like pebbles—but the path of his swing is halted by the flat side of Jason's sword. Strain appears on Earl's helmeted face, grunting gutturally as he continues to push his blade against his opponent's block. It's a standstill of adamant force versus adamant force. Any weakness in either's resolve will be overtaken readily.

Everyone's eyes are glued to the match. Those who were so sure of Jason's victory feel a twinge of doubt in their stomachs. Earl is bigger. He does look stronger. Maybe this match won't be so predictable. It feels like it's taking forever. Can Jason even fight back?

Tension churns in Annabeth's veins. This is fate unfolding right in front of her.

Throughout this standstill so far, Jason had seemed terribly focused on his opponent. So it startles the life out of her when he looks upward and makes eye contact with Annabeth in her tower in the midst of this struggle. His expression doesn't say anything—and against the massive force that is Earl's sword and brute strength, he doesn't look troubled at all. Not the slightest sign of strain or trouble. Annabeth grips the guardrail a little tighter. She doesn't blink. All she does is stare back at him with knitted brows and frowning lips. She is not intimidated—at least, she's making an effort not to be.

'If you're going to win—if you're as tough as they say—then do it already,' she thinks. And as though he read her mind, the frozen battle unthaws instantly.

You'd miss it if you chose to blink. Jason pushes back up against him with a harsh thrust of his sword and Earl's feet drag up dust as he's swatted backwards. In the moment that he's trying to gather his bearings, Jason sprints forward and unleashes an impossibly fast barrage of strikes. A brutal clash against Earl's armor. A slash that draws blood on his cheek. Earl roars with pain and anger but he's too slow to fight back—for in a final act of prowess, Jason knocks the man's sword clean out of his hand, jumps in the air, and smacks the face of his sword against Earl's head. The sheer force sends his helmet flying across the battlegrounds like a slingshotted rock. Earl howls like a thwarted beast. The audience gasps. As the bigger man begins to stumble on his feet, dizzy like a spinning top, there's no question as to the match's result. He flounders onto the arena floor with a tumultuous thump, and lays there defeated, unmoving. Ouch. That must have hurt.

The people start cheering. They jump in the air and shout Jason's name. Who wouldn't, watching a guy successfully take on an older warrior more than twice his size? And so efficiently too—even with the standstill, that was the shortest match yet.

Well, Annabeth wouldn't.

She claps for him like she's clapped for everyone else so far. For the first time, a competitor had actually been knocked out—healers arrive onstage and work together to load Earl's massive body onto a gurney.

"Wow..." Hazel mutters with quiet awe, her eyes still on Jason. He's not attempting any crowdwork as the officials announce his victory. Instead, he's just making his way off of the platform, back into the quarters that he'd emerged from. This is the end of the first set of matches, and now, things will get truly serious.

She would like to know what this guy is doing here. The famous Jason, whose lack of known origin to any village or kingdom made it fairly clear that he doesn't stay in one place. Marriage is all about staying in one place with one person, especially a princess whose husband would someday be king. What sense does it make...? What improvement did he think would come upon his life by marrying Annabeth? Generally speaking, it's not absurd to lust after power or wealth. She assumes that's the main motivation of every single man in this competition. But Jason already has power. Practically any kingdom would gladly marry off their princess to someone like him if he were to put himself on the table.

So, why her? Why Pearl Moon? Does he know about her curse? Shouldn't that turn him away? Or is she overthinking?

But the tournament will proceed regardless of her internal conflict. After a ten minute break, the next round will begin.