The Tyrant's Tomb

I now have a plan
To make a plan concerning
The plan for my plan
NORMALLY, WHEN I’M ABOUT to perform, I wait backstage. Once
I’m announced and the crowd is frenzied with anticipation, I burst through
the curtains, the spotlights hit me, and TA-DA! I am A GOD!
Reyna’s introduction did not inspire wild applause. Lester
Papadopoulos, rise and address the senate was about as exciting as We will
now have a PowerPoint about adverbs.
As soon as I started making my way to the aisle, Lavinia tripped me. I
glared back at her. She gave me an innocent face, like her foot just happened
to be there. Given the size of her legs, maybe it had been.
Everyone watched as I fumbled my way through the crowd, trying not to
trip on my toga.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.”
By the time I made it to the rostrum, the audience was whipped into a
frenzy of boredom and impatience. No doubt they would’ve all been
checking their phones—except demigods couldn’t use smartphones without
risking monster attack, so they had no alternative but to stare at me. I had
wowed them two days ago with a fantastic musical tribute to Jason Grace,
but what had I done for them lately? Only the Lares looked content to wait.
They could endure sitting on hard benches forever.
From the back row, Meg waved at me. Her expression was less like, Hi,
you’ll do great, and more like, Get on with it. I turned my gaze to Tyson,