She’s running. She’s running and she’s running and for some reason, there’s a small old woman on her back, clinging to her neck, ragged nails digging into her skin. “Keep running,” the old woman hisses into her ear, pressing her nails even deeper into the girl’s neck. So she runs faster.

She trips on something- a root stretching out from the ground- but doesn’t falter much. Why is she running? What is she running from? To? When she hears a deafening screech, she braves a spare look back and realizes that the question shouldn’t be who she’s running away from but rather what. She narrowly avoids a slash of talons and falls out of the way of a burst of flames and runs faster and faster until she trips. And trips and trips until her body slams into the water. Her head breaks up through the surface of the water and she frantically searches around for the old woman but stops when she feels the tell-tale sensation of scraggy nails digging into the skin of her neck.

“Sorry,” the girl apologizes quietly, chest heaving and legs kicking as if they’re trying to remember how to swim.

“Just keep going,” the tiny woman wheezes out, pointing a crooked finger east. The girl doesn’t know why she follows her orders, doesn’t know why she trusts this person, but she does and she swims.

She swims until her limbs ache and her lungs burn and spares a look back to see the griffins (Were those what they were called? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything.) circling the cliff that she had fallen off of and feels a rush of relief when she realizes they were no longer following her- following them- for whatever reason.

The relief doesn’t last long when she hears the whistling of arrows soaring through the air and straight at her. She immediately dives deep under the water in an attempt to avoid the arrows, but couldn’t quite dodge all of them, desperately holding back a pained scream as two of them pierce her calf.

She keeps swimming, now more fervently than ever, and feels a heavy weight lift off her chest once she touches solid land- a cliff. Another cliff, albeit one a lot smaller than the cliff she had fallen off of earlier. She pulls herself up over the edge and closes her eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of the wind and the blood rushing in her head. But only for a moment as her eyes snap open and she lifts her head up to see a figure looming over her, clad in shimmering golden and armor, the tip of her battered yet sharp blade grazing the underside of the girl’s chin. Standing on guard behind her was a troop of soldiers, all dressed in matching armor, bows and arrows ready to draw.

Both of the girls- along with all of the soldiers- turn their heads to the side as they feel a ripple of power surge in the air. The girl feels the absent weight on her back all too strongly as she gazes up at the ethereal figure.

“Juno*,” the other girl breathes out.

“Child of Apollo**,” Juno addresses the other girl, “lower your weapon.” The child of Apollo grips the handle of her sword tightly before scowling and lowering it away from the younger girl’s chin. “This girl,” Juno starts, “consider her as my gift to the Romans- the hero I have chosen as my own.” The child of Apollo starts to open in protest but Juno cuts in, “You wouldn’t dare reject a hero I have personally delivered to your doorstep, would you?” she asks, an edge to her voice. “Or should I say a hero who had personally delivered me to your doorstep,” she says, looking at the younger girl with a conspiratory twinkle in her eyes, as if they're sharing a secret no one else knows.

The child of Apollo bites her lip in contemplation before looking at the younger girl. She outstretches her hand out in a handshake, the golden gauntlet clasped to her arm glinting in the light. “Park Chorong, Praetor*** of the 12th Legion****. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she greets reluctantly.

The other girl gets up slowly, faltering as pain from the arrow wounds shoot up her calf, before standing up to her full height, towering over Chorong by a couple of centimeters. She looks over to Juno for a sign of approval before hesitantly placing her hand in Chorong’s, grasping it lightly. “Son Naeun.”