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The battlefield was chaos incarnate. The flags flapped violently in the wind, the opposing teams darted and collided like sparks from clashing swords, and the ground was churned into a slick, uneven mess from fifty pairs of stomping boots. Annabeth Chase sprinted along the edge of the Ares cabin’s formation, eyes sharp and calculating. She had a plan, a carefully orchestrated distraction, and nothing—not the mud caking her sneakers, not the wind whipping her curls into her face—would derail it.
From a distance, Clarisse La Rue prowled the center of the fray, a whirlwind of teeth-baring aggression. Her usual bellows cut through the din, sending campers scurrying like frightened deer. Her sword hand swung in wide arcs, and her teammates scattered the enemy as though guided by some primal instinct. She was terrifying. Everyone knew it. Everyone except maybe Annabeth herself.
Annabeth ducked under a low swipe from a Hermes camper and vaulted over a fallen log. Her eyes flicked to the enemy’s formation—predictable, sloppy—and she knew exactly where to position herself to draw attention. She sprinted toward the open field between the lines, a calculated risk.
The moment she appeared, an attacker swung with far too much force, a glinting spear aiming at her chest. Annabeth pivoted smoothly, dodging, her feet barely sinking into the mud, and the spear whistled past her shoulder, missing by inches. Her hair whipped around her face as she landed, rolling into a crouch, already plotting the next move. She barely even noticed the close call.
Across the field, Clarisse froze. Mid-swing, mid-bellow, mid-thunderous stomp—everything halted. Her eyes locked on the movement, and in that frozen instant, it was as though her brain had been short-circuited. That short, scrawny figure darting through a battlefield full of chaos had just taken a risk that would’ve ended badly in most hands.
Then Clarisse moved.
The entire battlefield seemed to blur as she charged—not at Annabeth, not at the opposing team, but at the Hermes camper who had nearly skewered the girl. Her steps pounded the ground with a ferocity that made even the bloodiest of the skirmish seem tame. Her teeth were bared in a snarl, and her eyes had that lethal glint that made anyone in her path reconsider their career choices.
Annabeth, still crouched in the field, barely noticed the movement. Clarisse’s approach was subtle enough at first—just a growl low in her throat as she passed.
“Watch where you’re swinging, idiot.”
It was understated, calm almost, but in the heat of the moment, Annabeth interpreted it as standard Clarisse behavior: aggressive, belligerent, utterly unconcerned with subtlety. She straightened her posture and jogged on, back to the center of the field, thinking only of her strategy and nothing of Clarisse’s unusual fixation.
But the instant Annabeth turned a corner, crossing behind a barricade and out of sight, Clarisse’s subtlety evaporated entirely.
She landed at the Hermes camper like a lightning bolt. The kid went rigid, a mixture of awe and terror freezing them mid-breath. Clarisse’s hand gripped the front of the camper’s armor as if it were the last lifeline between them and doom. Her face was inches from theirs, eyes blazing like twin furnaces.
“You. Do you understand me?” she barked, voice low and lethal. “Do you even understand what you just tried to do?”
The camper shook violently, swallowing hard. “I… I was aiming—uh, it was supposed to be a warning shot!”
Clarisse’s lips twisted into a dangerous smile. “A warning shot? You ever swing near her again, your soul is leaving your body early, and I swear the universe will notice. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes… yes!” the camper gasped, voice trembling.
Clarisse released them with a shove that sent the Hermes camper stumbling back into the mud. Her chest heaved, eyes flicking toward where Annabeth had vanished. Then, just like that, the feral, murderous edge vanished. She returned to her neutral, barking self, calling back to her team with the same old Ares growl:
“Get the flank in position! Move it, you idiots!”
Other campers whispered behind her back, voices hushed and wide-eyed:
“That’s not normal Clarisse rage. That’s… Annabeth anger.”
Some tried to smile nervously at her, others stared slack-jawed, but Clarisse ignored them entirely. She was done. The immediate threat eliminated, the world restored to its usual chaotic state.
Annabeth returned a few moments later, jogging back into view, brushing mud off her knees and smoothing out her curls with meticulous precision. She didn’t notice the sudden calm in Clarisse’s demeanor, the way her shoulders had relaxed ever so slightly, the way her eyes flicked to her for only a moment longer than necessary.
Clarisse grunted once, loud enough to be heard but not enough to invite conversation.
“You still standing? Good. Now do the thing.”
Annabeth nodded, blissfully unaware of the silent storm that had passed just behind her back. She ran forward with the same confidence she always carried, ready to implement her strategy, thinking nothing of the subtle tension that had dissolved the moment she was present.
The rest of the field continued to be a storm of mud, shouts, and clashing weapons, but for Clarisse, there was only one focus: Annabeth Chase. And for just a heartbeat, everyone who knew Clarisse well enough saw it—the difference between standard rage and protective fury.
Then the moment passed, like a thunderclap followed by perfect silence, leaving only whispers, wide eyes, and the faintest sense that the scariest girl in camp had a weakness she would never admit.
Annabeth, for her part, returned to the chaos entirely unaware, entirely composed, entirely herself, leaving Clarisse to grin just faintly under her usual scowl before resuming her role as the battlefield’s terrifying hurricane.
The skirmish went on, the flags continued to wave, and Clarisse watched from afar, chest still tight, hands ready to strike again if anyone dared touch her little strategist. Everyone else kept their distance, some smiling nervously, some muttering prayers under their breath, all silently acknowledging the unspoken truth: Clarisse La Rue’s fury was absolute—but Annabeth Chase was the one thing it truly served.
———
The dining pavilion smelled like a riot of breakfast—fried eggs, sizzling bacon, warm bread, and something sweet wafting from the Hermes cabin’s corner. Annabeth Chase maneuvered through the chaotic tables, coffee cup in one hand, a single piece of toast in the other. She had exactly fifteen minutes before practice, and she intended to spend them reviewing diagrams in peace.
She was halfway to the exit when a shadow fell across her path.
Clarisse La Rue.
Annabeth froze. Clarisse was leaning forward, hands on her knees, towering over Annabeth like a linebacker ready to tackle. Her eyes were narrowed in a way that made the entire pavilion seem smaller, quieter, somehow more dangerous.
“That’s not food. Sit,” Clarisse said. Her tone was sharp, commanding, almost like a drill sergeant—but underneath it was something else, something Annabeth didn’t notice: a flare of panic she tried desperately to hide.
Annabeth blinked. Then rolled her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said, attempting to sidestep around Clarisse.
Clarisse didn’t move. She didn’t even budge.
Annabeth sighed, muttering something about “bossy campers” and dropped her toast onto a plate at the nearest table. She sat, figuring this was just another one of Clarisse’s moods. Probably lunch rage. Annabeth had learned early in life that Clarisse La Rue could be terrifying at any moment for no apparent reason. This was likely nothing.
Clarisse didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to. In one fluid motion, she disappeared behind the counter, returning moments later with a tray stacked impossibly high. There was bacon, eggs, fruit skewers, oatmeal, a small pile of pancakes arranged like a miniature fortress, and a bowl of yogurt sprinkled with honey and nuts. And then—carefully, almost ceremoniously—she added a second cup of coffee, exactly how Annabeth liked it, strong but not bitter, with just a hint of cinnamon.
Without a word, Clarisse shoved the tray toward Annabeth. The motion was violent enough to rattle the silverware on the table, but not so much as to spill a drop of the carefully poured coffee. Annabeth looked down at the pile of food, then at Clarisse, then back at the food.
“Uh… I can eat later,” she said. “I have diagrams—”
Clarisse’s head snapped up, eyes blazing.
“Brains need fuel,” she snarled, voice low and dangerous, “and yours runs hot.”
Annabeth blinked. “Runs hot?”
Clarisse gave a single grunt that could have been interpreted as annoyance, but in reality was Clarisse’s version of panic. Her lips pressed into a tight line. She looked away, scanning the pavilion as if she expected the walls themselves to conspire against Annabeth if she didn’t eat.
Annabeth raised an eyebrow but did not argue further. Instead, she reached for a piece of bacon and a skewer of fruit. She ate because it was easier than debating the point—and honestly, she had a suspicion that Clarisse was more upset at the idea of her skipping breakfast than she was at the food itself.
The other campers gave her a wide berth, some whispering nervously to each other about the terrifying aura surrounding Clarisse. Clarisse, of course, ignored them completely, her full attention apparently locked on the silent, methodical movements of Annabeth. She adjusted the fork Annabeth held once, making sure it was at the correct angle. She lightly nudged a plate closer to prevent it from sliding on the slick table. Every gesture was subtle, almost invisible—but to anyone watching carefully, it screamed obsession.
Annabeth munched on her pancake, oblivious. She leaned over her diagrams, jotting down calculations, and occasionally dipping fruit into yogurt. Clarisse leaned against the table, her arms crossed, foot tapping, jaw tight. Every so often, her gaze flicked to Annabeth, lingering far longer than it should have.
Finally, after a few minutes of careful chewing and polite hums of acknowledgment, Annabeth set her fork down. She leaned back, brushing crumbs from her skirt, and said, “Okay, I’m going. Thanks for… helping me eat.”
Clarisse’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t say a word. She simply followed Annabeth with her gaze until she slipped through the pavilion doors and out into the morning light. Then the floodgates opened.
Two Ares campers, who had been sitting at a nearby table and attempting casual conversation, froze. Clarisse turned toward them, her expression darkening like storm clouds gathering.
“If any of you LET her skip meals again,” she hissed, voice low but trembling with barely contained fury, “I’m making you run laps until your souls leave your bodies. Do I make myself clear?”
The two campers nodded frantically, swallowing hard. One opened his mouth, then shut it again, too terrified to speak. Their skin had gone pale, and they gripped their silverware like it could somehow save them from Clarisse’s wrath.
Silena Beauregard, who had been passing by with her tray, paused at the doorway and tried not to laugh. She had seen this before: Clarisse La Rue, the terror of Cabin Five, apparently rendered into full-on protective panic whenever Annabeth Chase was involved. It was equal parts terrifying and… adorable.
The two Ares campers exchanged glances. “She… she’s not joking, right?” one whispered.
“She’s never joking,” the other replied, voice trembling.
Meanwhile, inside the pavilion, Clarisse returned to her usual scowl. She leaned against the counter, muttering something about “idiots” and “wasting time,” but her eyes kept flicking toward the open doorway, toward the path Annabeth had taken.
Annabeth, of course, continued down the hallway toward the practice fields, diagrams tucked neatly under one arm, hair curling and bouncing around her face, entirely unaware that she had just survived what could only be described as Clarisse La Rue’s panic zone.
Clarisse watched her go, arms crossed, jaw tight. For anyone else, it would have seemed like annoyance. But Silena, from her hidden vantage point, saw the flicker of worry, the almost imperceptible bite of the lower lip, the twitch in her fingers. Clarisse La Rue, camp terror and battlefield nightmare, was absolutely, undeniably, completely concerned about Annabeth Chase.
And that concern had an ugly habit of turning explosive the moment Annabeth wasn’t in the room.
As Annabeth disappeared out of view, Clarisse’s shoulders tensed. She stepped forward, eyes blazing, scanning the pavilion for anyone who might have dared think of interfering with Annabeth again. Her hand curled into a fist.
Somewhere behind her, two terrified Ares campers still huddled together, trying to make sense of the sudden shift in Clarisse’s behavior. Silena whispered softly, trying to contain her giggle, “You really don’t want to be in that room when she’s not subtle.”
Clarisse’s glare swept the entire pavilion, a predator assessing prey—or maybe a guardian assessing anyone who might touch her little sister. And when she finally relaxed enough to turn back to the counter, she grunted, tugged at her armor, and returned to her breakfast like nothing had happened. The chaos of the dining hall resumed around her, oblivious to the storm that had just passed.
Annabeth returned later, holding a notebook she had grabbed from the library. She sat at a table, flipping through diagrams, sipping her coffee, entirely unaware of the drama she had just narrowly avoided. Clarisse passed behind her, shoulders squared, expression neutral, voice clipped, “Don’t get distracted too long. We’ve got drills.”
Annabeth nodded absently. “Yeah, okay.”
Clarisse’s eyes flicked to her one last time before she disappeared back into the flow of campers. Her jaw tightened. Hands curled into fists, just slightly. And for the hundredth time, she silently promised herself that she would make sure nothing ever touched that small, fierce girl again.
The pavilion, as usual, remained unaware that its resident nightmare had a completely unnoticeable soft spot—and that Annabeth Chase, for all her confidence and composure, had just been the center of it.
———
The workshop was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional clink of metal tools and the scratching of pencil on paper. Annabeth Chase crouched over a large sheet of parchment, her sharp grey eyes narrowing at the intricate blueprint sprawled before her. Lines, angles, and measurements intersected in complex patterns, representing the new defenses for Camp Half-Blood’s towers. She had imagined this structure perfectly, but now she paused, frowning. Something wasn’t aligning.
Her pencil hovered over the drawing as she muttered calculations under her breath, brow furrowing. The ratios she had accounted for didn’t add up. Not quite. Not enough to make the base stable under attack. She tapped the tip of her pencil against her lips, her curls bouncing with each movement. For the first time in hours, Annabeth looked… unsure.
The door creaked. Clarisse La Rue strode in, carrying a bundle of materials for the build—wooden beams, a hammer, and some coils of rope. She expected to find Annabeth perched proudly over her work, sharp and bossy, already barking orders or correcting some imagined flaw.
Instead, she froze.
Annabeth’s nose was scrunched in concentration, pencil tapping against her lips, shoulders hunched slightly. She tilted her head, muttering again, eyes scanning the blueprint in frustration. She looked… confused. Honestly confused.
Internally, Clarisse felt her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with anger. Oh no. That’s adorable.
She cleared her throat, doing her best to sound imposing. “What’s wrong with it?”
Annabeth startled slightly but quickly waved her hand toward the blueprint, launching into a rapid explanation. Her words tumbled over one another as she described the structural problem with the outer support beams. She waved her hands for emphasis, making arcs in the air that mirrored the lines on the paper.
Clarisse tilted her head, listening. Half of it made sense. Half of it went right over her head. But she nodded anyway, her gaze unwavering, lips pressed into a straight line. Every so often, she tapped the blueprint, pointing at one beam or another as though her finger alone could anchor the solution.
Annabeth stopped mid-explanation and looked at her. “You—wait, you’re actually… thinking about this?” she asked, voice a mixture of surprise and mild amusement.
Clarisse grunted. “I can follow along. Mostly.”
Her internal monologue, however, was entirely chaotic. Stop thinking about it like that. She looks so small. Her eyebrows scrunch. Her lip. Oh gods, she scrunches her lip when she’s thinking! Focus. Do not melt. Do not melt.
Annabeth gestured at the area where several beams intersected. “If I extend the supports at this angle, it’ll make the top platform too heavy—unless the base is reinforced. But I can’t reinforce the base because—”
Clarisse’s eyes flicked to a small piece of wood leaning against the wall. She grabbed it, rotated it, and placed it across the base where Annabeth hadn’t thought to put anything. Her solution was simple. Ridiculously simple. Annabeth blinked, then tilted her head, realizing instantly that the piece fit perfectly.
Her face lit up like sunrise over a mountain ridge. “Of course! Why didn’t I see that?” she exclaimed. She scribbled a few notes, adjusting her calculations with renewed confidence, and then looked up at Clarisse. “That actually works. Thank you.”
Clarisse’s heart nearly stopped. She said thank you. She tried to keep her face neutral, lips pressed into a line that could pass for disinterest. But inside, her thoughts were a tornado of admiration, fondness, and an almost painful warmth.
Annabeth grabbed her measuring tape and her notebook, preparing to collect materials for the next phase. She didn’t notice Clarisse lingering, the way her eyes tracked every movement, the way her fingers twitched as though she might straighten a curl or smooth out the blueprint herself.
Once Annabeth turned her back and walked toward the supplies room, Clarisse exhaled audibly, though she kept it low enough that no one could hear. The weight of composure she had carried since entering the room melted in a heartbeat.
From around the corner, Clarisse’s cabinmates had been peeking in, curious why the usually intimidating La Rue looked like she’d just been hit in the face with a rainbow.
“You okay, Clarisse?” one of them whispered, smirking.
Clarisse spun toward them, eyes blazing and fists clenched. “One wrong word and I will gut you.”
The campers ducked back, giggling nervously as they retreated. “She’s… different when it’s Annabeth,” one whispered to another, barely stifling a laugh.
Clarisse returned her attention to the path Annabeth had taken, adjusting her shoulders, jaw set. To anyone watching, she appeared to have snapped back into her usual scowl, arms crossed, intimidating in her classic way. But there was a faint softness in her gaze, a trace of something unspoken that only a few had ever noticed.
She muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else: “Don’t get stuck… don’t screw it up… she’ll handle it fine, but I’m not letting anyone—”
Clarisse trailed off, shaking her head as if trying to erase her own thoughts. The sound of laughter and shouting from the workshop echoed around her. She leaned against a workbench, pretending to inspect a coil of rope, but her eyes followed Annabeth through the doorway, tracing every step.
Annabeth returned moments later with a pile of supplies: measuring tape, hammer, nails, and an assortment of small tools. She plopped them down on the table with a satisfied grin. “Alright. I think we’re ready to start. With this, the towers should be able to—”
Clarisse interrupted, grunting once. “Make sure the base is solid. That’s all.”
Annabeth glanced at her. “Yeah, got it. Don’t worry.”
Clarisse’s jaw tightened, and she muttered, “I’m never worried when it comes to you…”
Immediately, she slapped a hand over her mouth, realizing she’d nearly said something foolish. Annabeth, blissfully unaware, had already bent over the table again, scribbling adjustments into her diagrams.
For Clarisse, the moment was over. She leaned back, muttering a few more curses under her breath about “idiots,” “wasting time,” and “tools not being where they should,” but her attention never fully left Annabeth.
The lesson, if anyone had been paying attention, was clear: Clarisse La Rue could handle chaos, threats, and general Ares cabin nonsense with terrifying skill. But when faced with Annabeth Chase genuinely puzzled and confused, the strongest, loudest, meanest girl at Camp Half-Blood melted quietly, internally, in a way no one could see—except maybe Silena, who had already snorted softly around the corner.
Clarisse’s composure returned fully as Annabeth bounded off to gather more supplies, and the workshop resumed its usual buzz of activity. But for anyone who had observed closely, one thing was certain: Annabeth Chase, the small strategist with sharp grey eyes, had just discovered an entirely new kind of weakness in the formidable Clarisse La Rue.
———
Annabeth had been small. Small enough that she barely reached the edge of the training pavilion railings when she arrived at Camp Half-Blood, clutching a dagger far too big for her hand. Her curls had been shin-length then, blonde and untamed, bouncing as she moved with the careful determination of a child who refused to cry in front of strangers.
Clarisse La Rue had been there the day Annabeth arrived. She had been watching the chaos of new demigods scrambling to adjust to the camp, bellowing orders, swinging weapons with an energy that made even Clarisse’s blood pump faster. And then she saw the girl.
Annabeth.
The tiny figure standing rigid, eyes wide but steady, hands wrapped around a weapon almost as long as she was tall. Clarisse’s first thought had been primal, almost violent: Oh gods, she’s going to die.
The girl’s serious gaze, so determined and so young, made Clarisse feel something she had never quite named. Protective? Maybe. Instinctual? Definitely. She strode over to Luke, one of the older campers, fully prepared to demand that someone, anyone, keep a careful eye on the fragile newcomer.
“She’s too young,” Clarisse said, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You can’t just let her—”
Luke waved her off. “Annabeth can hold her own. She’ll be fine. She’s smart, fierce, stubborn.”
Clarisse grunted, unconvinced. She didn’t like the idea of something fragile wandering the camp alone, not in the middle of chaos, not with monsters lurking around corners. She hated the thought that the little strategist might get hurt, might falter.
So she made a decision. Quiet. Invisible. Subtle.
She would keep Annabeth alive. And Annabeth would never know.
In the years that followed, Clarisse’s protection manifested in ways no one noticed unless they were paying very close attention. When a bully from another cabin tried to shove the little girl into the mud, Clarisse just happened to be nearby, her shove redirecting the attacker into the path of a training dummy. When a stray monster appeared, it would suddenly find itself chasing a camper far less prepared than Annabeth, or bumping into a wall, distracted by the thunderous approach of Clarisse herself. Training weapons occasionally ricocheted off shields in a way that seemed almost miraculous, and Clarisse never acknowledged her role.
To Annabeth, Clarisse had always been tough, mean, infuriating. The kind of camper who yelled, screamed, and made threats that sent everyone running. She was “Clarisse La Rue. Terrifying. Unreasonable. Bossy.” She wasn’t a guardian; she was a challenge. And that was exactly how Clarisse wanted it.
Flash forward to present day. The pavilion buzzed with activity. Annabeth navigated the tables, muttering calculations for her next design project under her breath. A Hermes camper, taller and lankier than Annabeth, leaned against the table near the entrance, smirking.
“Short one over there,” he said, loud enough for some of the table to hear. “Does she ever grow, or is that just a permanent thing?”
Clarisse’s jaw tightened. She muttered darkly under her breath, words too low for Annabeth to hear, a promise laced with threat: Don’t let her hear that again.
Annabeth, of course, didn’t notice. She had been absorbed in her notes, her diagrams, the precise measurements of her plans. Her sharp grey eyes darted from the page to the wooden model she was sketching, entirely oblivious to the minor eruption happening nearby.
As soon as Annabeth walked away to fetch a notebook she had left in another cabin, the real Clarisse emerged.
The Hermes camper froze mid-sentence as Clarisse stepped into the light, moving silently but with a presence that radiated danger. Her eyes fixed on him, narrowing into slits. Her fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening. The boy’s smirk faltered, and a nervous laugh escaped his throat.
“Say it again,” Clarisse murmured, her voice low and deadly, the kind of tone that suggested the last person who misjudged her didn’t live to tell the tale. “I dare you.”
The camper stammered, backpedaling. “I—I didn’t mean—”
Clarisse didn’t wait to hear more. She towered over him until he scuttled away, muttering apologies, trying to disappear into the crowd.
Later that evening, a different camper—one known for spreading gossip—started telling the others that Annabeth was pushing herself too hard with the new tower blueprints, “overworking herself” as they phrased it. Clarisse had been nearby, listening. She didn’t confront Annabeth; she didn’t even look at her. She simply cracked her knuckles quietly in the shadows and moved to intercept the camper later, leaning in close enough that the words alone could have crushed a less brave soul.
All of this happened quietly, invisibly. Annabeth remained blissfully unaware. To her, Clarisse was still the same infuriating, bossy, sometimes loud, sometimes terrifying camper she had always known. She never saw the way Clarisse’s eyes softened when she paused to adjust a model, the way Clarisse’s hand subtly moved a hazard out of her path during practice, or the way Clarisse subtly planted herself between Annabeth and potential bullies.
To everyone else, though, Clarisse La Rue was more than just a fearsome figure of authority or aggression. She was the silent, violent guardian of Annabeth Chase. Anyone who had spent enough time in the camp’s chaos noticed the pattern: Clarisse never tolerated harm, ridicule, or even the thought of inconvenience directed at the strategist. She executed her protective acts without acknowledgment, without announcement, leaving only whispers and awe in her wake.
Annabeth walked through the pavilion later, sipping her coffee and adjusting her backpack. Clarisse followed at a distance, shoulders squared, jaw tight. To anyone watching, she was a picture of composure. Her steps were deliberate, eyes forward, hands relaxed—but anyone who knew her well enough could see the tension in the slight twitch of her fingers, the occasional flare of her nostrils, the watchful gleam in her eyes.
In the shadows, Clarisse waited. Not for glory. Not for recognition. Not even for Annabeth to notice. She waited for the moment when her presence might be required—not to rescue, not to command, not to interfere—but simply to ensure that the smallest, fiercest strategist in Camp Half-Blood could continue walking her path, uninterrupted, unscathed, and entirely unaware of the guardian who moved silently alongside her.
The pavilion remained oblivious. Campers carried on, laughter and conversation ringing out, but the rhythm of their voices was slightly subdued, a subconscious acknowledgment of Clarisse’s presence. Silena, passing through to deliver supplies, caught a glimpse of Clarisse standing just beyond the tables, eyes fixed on Annabeth as though she were the only person in the world. She smirked. “Still doing it,” she whispered under her breath. “She’s completely gone soft… in the shadows.”
Clarisse’s jaw tightened again. She didn’t respond. She couldn’t afford to, not when her little sister—because that was what Annabeth had become to her over the years—was still blissfully unaware of the storm constantly shielding her.
Every step Annabeth took, every calculation she made, every challenge she tackled—Clarisse was there. Quiet. Subtle. Lethal if anyone dared interfere. And when Annabeth finally returned to her cabin later, cheeks flushed from exertion, Clarisse’s expression snapped back to its usual scowl, arms crossed, mask perfectly in place.
Nothing had happened, of course. Nothing unusual. Just Clarisse, being Clarisse. Tough. Bossy. Terrifying.
And yet, in the quiet corners, behind the whispers and the mud-slicked paths of the training fields, she remained the unwavering, silent protector of Annabeth Chase—the little sister who had survived her first day at camp, and who now thrived under her watchful, unseen eye.
No one would ever know, and Clarisse liked it that way.
———
Percy Jackson leaned against the railing of the training pavilion, feet dangling over the edge, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. Beside him, Silena Beauregard balanced her tray on her knee, eyes flicking repeatedly to the scene unfolding below.
Annabeth Chase stood at the center of the pavilion floor, her sharp grey eyes scanning a large spread of diagrams and schematics laid across a table. Her pencil moved quickly, confidently, highlighting weak points in the layout and sketching alternatives. Her concentration was total, complete, unbroken, as if the chaotic noise of the camp around her simply didn’t exist.
Clarisse La Rue was standing a few steps away, pretending to check her own notes while her attention never left Annabeth. Her arms were crossed, her expression exasperated, her lips pressed into a line of perpetual scowl. Percy smirked. He’d seen Clarisse act like this before—always tough, always terrifying—but there was something different here. Something subtle.
As Annabeth reached to adjust the height of her backpack, Percy caught the movement of Clarisse’s hand. Almost instinctively, she stepped forward and adjusted the strap so it wouldn’t dig into Annabeth’s shoulder. Then she noticed a chair too close to the table’s edge, and before Annabeth could trip over it, Clarisse nudged it back into position.
Percy blinked. Then blinked again.
“Is she…?” he muttered under his breath.
Silena leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Shhh. Watch.”
Annabeth returned to her diagrams, completely oblivious to the protective tweaks happening around her. Clarisse leaned against the table, one hand draped over the edge, scanning the pavilion, lips twitching as if to bite back a comment or a warning. Every few seconds, she glanced at Annabeth, eyes narrowed, vigilant, tense—but pretending to be annoyed.
Then, as if the universe had synchronized to demonstrate the absurdity of it all, Annabeth stood and walked toward the supply table at the far end of the pavilion, diagrams in hand.
The moment she turned her back, Clarisse’s vigilance exploded.
A Hermes camper, attempting to make conversation with a smirk, said, “Hey, short one, you really think you can—”
Clarisse was there in an instant. Her hands gripped his shoulders, lifting him slightly as if sheer force alone could make him understand. “Say it again. I dare you.”
The boy’s eyes widened, his voice cracking mid-laugh. “I—uh—never mind!” he stammered. He stumbled backward, hands raised in surrender, and didn’t breathe until he was several feet away.
Percy nudged Silena, whispering, “That was… intense.”
Silena nodded, her eyes wide. “You’re telling me. And look—look at her hands.”
Clarisse had moved on, now intercepting a different camper who had picked up a pencil Annabeth had dropped earlier. The camper, thinking it was a prank, had been about to pocket it. Clarisse’s hand shot out, snatched it back, and shoved it into the camper’s chest. “Return it. Now. And apologize,” she growled.
Percy and Silena stared at each other. Percy whispered, “Is Clarisse… guarding her?”
Silena leaned back, balancing her tray with a hand and whispering, “Emotionally babysitting her. It’s so cute I’m going to scream.”
Percy frowned, thinking back over everything they’d witnessed. “Wait… yeah. Yeah, she is.” He began rattling off observations, each one making his jaw drop further.
• The silent freakouts whenever someone got near Annabeth or even slightly risked her safety.
• The overfeeding incident at breakfast, Clarisse practically forcing Annabeth to eat with zero subtlety.
• The blueprint meltdown, where Clarisse accidentally solved the structural problem while pretending she wasn’t paying attention.
• The older-sister vibe, evident in tiny adjustments, little nudges, hands keeping Annabeth out of harm’s way.
• The behind-the-scenes threats, the hushed warnings, the terrifying reputation that suddenly seemed exclusively tied to Annabeth’s safety.
Silena nodded, matching him observation for observation. “Yeah. And look at how she’s pretending to be annoyed all the time, but the second Annabeth’s back is turned… she’s lethal.”
They fell silent for a moment, watching Annabeth return with her supplies, completely unaware of the chaos Clarisse had just neutralized on her behalf.
Annabeth placed her items on the table, eyebrows furrowed as she looked at Percy and Silena. “What are you two whispering about?” she asked, tilting her head.
Percy opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn’t sure how to explain this. Silena leaned forward slightly, biting her lip to keep from laughing.
Clarisse, catching the corner of Annabeth’s eye, instantly snapped back to her neutral, annoyed persona. She straightened, arms crossed, lips in that familiar tight line. Her gaze swept briefly over Percy and Silena, and she grunted. “You done talking to them?”
Annabeth blinked. “Uh… yeah, I guess.”
Percy and Silena exchanged a look of helpless adoration, the kind that was half amusement and half awe. It was the expression of two people watching a kitten try to roar like a lion—knowing full well that the kitten’s ferocity was entirely selective.
Silena leaned toward Percy, whispering softly: “Clarisse La Rue is going soft.”
Percy’s eyes followed Annabeth as she bent over the table again, adjusting diagrams, curling her fingers over her notes. He whispered back, just as quietly: “Only for Annabeth.”
The pavilion hummed with activity. Other campers moved about, oblivious to the subtle battle of protective instincts that had just taken place. Annabeth straightened her posture, pencil poised, completely immersed in her work, unaware that she was the center of a storm of vigilance and affection.
Outside, a few campers had begun to whisper among themselves about Clarisse’s behavior. “Why does she only act like that when it’s Annabeth?” one of them asked. Another shrugged, wide-eyed. “I think… she’s obsessed.”
Inside, Clarisse’s scowl remained intact, though her hands twitched ever so slightly as Annabeth worked. It was subtle enough that no one would notice unless they were paying attention. Percy and Silena, however, noticed everything. Every glance, every twitch, every micro-adjustment Clarisse made to keep Annabeth safe, comfortable, and unnoticed in her own bubble of genius.
Annabeth, oblivious as ever, slid her diagrams to one side, stretching. “Okay,” she said, “let’s start building.” She gathered her supplies and moved toward the workshop doors, curls bouncing, backpack shifting slightly with the weight.
Clarisse’s head snapped up. Her body stiffened. Eyes scanned the pavilion with the precision of a predator tracking prey. Every camper in sight froze for a second, sensing the warning in her stance, before resuming their own business, slightly unsettled.
Percy leaned back, exhaling. “Yep. That’s full-on guard dog.”
Silena whispered, giggling: “And we’re just… watching. It’s like… cuteness aggression.”
Percy grinned. “I know. I can’t even. Look at her—she’d tear someone in half if they so much as sneezed in Annabeth’s direction.”
And as Annabeth disappeared from view again, Clarisse’s eyes followed her. Her jaw tightened, shoulders squared, and she stalked off toward the middle of the pavilion, scanning, observing, ensuring no one dared cross the line. Her scowl was real, her threats silent, and her protective energy radiated like a low hum only the sharpest of observers could feel.
Percy and Silena watched in helpless admiration, exchanging whispered commentary that grew more frantic by the second. To anyone else, Clarisse La Rue was terrifying. But to them, after witnessing every small, subtle, lethal act she committed in Annabeth’s name, she had become something altogether different: a guardian angel in leather armor with a scowl that could end wars—and a soft spot big enough to melt their hearts.