A shift in the wind—a scent of saltwater, yes, but beneath it, the coppery tang of blood and the rotten-egg stench of monster. Your head turned, golden eyes piercing the veil between mortal sight and myth. There, on a deserted stretch of the East River park, a lone figure was backpedaling, sword a blur of celestial bronze.

A boy. Dark hair, sea-green eyes wide with battle-focus. He was young, too young, and he was bleeding from a gash on his arm, his movements growing sluggish. Around him, three empousai circled, their fiery hair whipping, bronze legs clicking against the asphalt. Their laughter was like shattering glass.

You didn’t think. Your wings folded, and you dove. The air screamed past, your feathers igniting into a trail of pure, gold fire. You were a comet, a falling star, a silent scream of protection.

You struck the space between the boy and the monsters like a solar flare. Heat erupted in a controlled wave, not to burn, but to blind and repel. The empousai shrieked, shielding their faces from the sudden, sacred brilliance.

You landed softly on the grass between them, your body a compact furnace of gentle flame. You turned your head, fixing one glowing eye on the wounded boy. Percy Jackson. You didn’t know his name yet, but you felt the sea in him, the storm, the stubborn, flickering life.