Pjo cyoa new Chapter 2: 2, a 17776 fanfic

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Sacrificial hero blessed by primordial luck (PJO/ Celestial Grimoire SI)

Thread starter Magus explorator Start date Apr 2, 2025 Tags celestial grimoire (cyoa) percy jackson and the olympians self insert

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Threadmarks Chapter 11-Trauma bonding. New

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Apr 8, 2025

#490

With the adrenaline burned off and no one actively trying to murder anyone, the forest felt... almost calm. For once.

The Huntresses took a few steps back from "on-edge murder squad" and started to look more like what they probably were: a tight-knit, elite unit trying to complete a divine assignment, and now stuck dealing with a chaotic demigod road trip.

We sat in a loose, lopsided circle by the fire — the coals still warm from breakfast. Rhea sat on a log sharpening her knife again, not because she needed to, but because it gave her something to do while being watched.

Which, to be fair, she was.

The four Huntresses kept sneaking glances at her.

Not the angry kind.

The evaluating kind.

I noticed it, Jasper noticed it — he kept shooting me little "is this happening?" side-eyes — but Rhea didn't seem to clock it at first. Or she was just ignoring it.

Finally, the one with braids — her name was Lyla, I think — broke the quiet.

"You fight well," she said, addressing Rhea directly.

Rhea blinked. "I sharpen things well."

"That too," Vala added. "But you didn't flinch when we woke up. Most people would've run."

"I'm not most people."

"No," said the scarred one. "You're not."

Rhea narrowed her eyes. "Are you guys... hitting on me, or recruiting me?"

"Depends," another hunter said with a smirk. "Would it work?"

Rhea snorted. "Not unless your forest girl club hands out big checks."

That got a few low chuckles, even from Vala.

Then another leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now. "We serve the Lady Artemis. We don't age. We hunt monsters. We live free."

Rhea blinked. "...Okay. You're going to need to back up and start with what the hell Artemis deal is."

"She's a goddess."

"No kidding."

"And she offers a place. For girls like you."

Rhea tilted her head. "What, sharp girls with mommy issues and a love of knives?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

The hunter with the earrings smiled. "You'd fit."

Rhea leaned back a little, eyes wary but curious now. "Thanks, but... I made a promise. To my mom. I said I'd make it to Camp Half-Blood. Said I'd try. So I'm doing that."

Vala nodded slowly. "Honorable."

"Also," Rhea added, "I'm not a joiner. Not without knowing the fine print."

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, careful. They don't let you date or anything. You basically get moon-powered celibacy and a lifetime subscription to monster hunting."

Jasper winced. "Lucas."

"What? I'm helping."

The one with the earrings rolled her eyes, but the tension was gone now. They weren't angry. Just... intrigued.

"Offer stands," she said to Rhea. "You ever change your mind."

Rhea gave a small nod, then went back to sharpening her knife like nothing had happened.

I leaned over to Jasper and whispered, "They totally want her."

He nodded. "And she has no idea what kind of resume she's sitting on."

"Sharp things, stubborn streak, deadpan comebacks…"

"...Yeah, she'd be terrifying."

Then one of them — the youngest-looking, with a short silver cape and sharp, watchful eyes — stood up.

"Need a bottle of water," she said, almost offhand, not looking at anyone in particular.

I pick it from a bag before she finished her sentence and underhand tossed it toward her.

"Still sealed," I said. "We only drink the good stuff out here."

She gave a tiny nod and stepped off into the trees, not far, just out of direct sight. But not sneaky enough to make me think she was going for a walk. She was still close. Just... not near us.

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "She's not coming back with a bow, right?"

Jasper leaned back on his hands. "Nah. That's an Iris-call setup."

Rhea blinked. "A what?"

"Iris. Goddess of the rainbow, messenger of the gods. If you know the spell, and you've got water and a coin, you can make a kind of divine message."

I scratched my chin. "So, what, like a magic payphone?"

"More or less," Jasper said. "But a lot less reliable if the gods are in a bad mood. Or if you don't have good reception. Which, in this case, means weather."

I glanced up. The clouds were low, but a beam of sunlight filtered through the trees near where the Huntress had gone.

"Looks like she's got a signal."

"Yup," Jasper said, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. "She's calling Artemis. Gotta check in. Or report."

"On what?" Rhea asked.

Jasper glanced at me. "Either the drakon being dead... or the dude in crocs who tied up her squad."

"Hey," I said, holding up a finger. "I didn't kill any of them. That's personal growth."

Rhea gave me a flat look. "The arrow wound in your neck says otherwise."

"I survived. Not the same thing."

The Huntresses didn't say much. Just listened from their side of the fire, letting the conversation roll around them. Eyes on the trees. On me. Still watching, still evaluating.

A bird chirped somewhere overhead. The air felt… still. Like something was holding its breath.

Rhea leaned toward me. "What happens if Artemis gets mad?"

Jasper gave a quiet, honest answer.

"Hope you're fast."

The younger Huntress returned to the clearing, bottle half-empty, gaze sharp.

Vala turned toward her as she gave a single, silent nod.

Something unspoken passed between them — quick, practiced. Then Vala turned back to me.

"You're clear to go."

I raised an eyebrow. "That easy?"

She didn't smile. "Don't mistake silence for forgiveness."

Rhea shifted beside me. "So... what's the word? Do we get cursed? Followed? Hunted?"

Vala's eyes flicked to her, and for a second — just a second — her expression softened.

"No. Not hunted."

Then her eyes settled back on me. Cool. Measured.

"But you've drawn attention."

I sighed. "Yeah, that tends to happen."

"My Lady," Vala continued, "is in Arizona. Tracking something bigger."

"Bigger than a drakon?"

"She believes so."

Rhea gave a low whistle. "Awesome."

Vala ignored that. "She'll be returning east soon. And when she does... she's expressed interest in stopping by Camp Half-Blood."

That made me pause. "…Why?"

Vala tilted her head slightly. "To see the new demigods."

I didn't say anything.

But I felt Rhea shift next to me, suddenly a little less relaxed.

Jasper whispered under his breath, "Oh, gods…"

"She wants to see who made such a mess," Vala added. "And who managed to survive it."

There was no threat in her voice.

But there didn't need to be.

I gave her a dry smile. "Well. We'll make sure to tidy up before she drops in."

Rhea muttered, "I am not cleaning the cabin for moon royalty."

Vala stepped back toward her squad. "Travel safe. Try not to die."

"No promises," I said, slinging my pack over my shoulder.

As we started packing up camp, I glanced over one last time.

The Huntresses were already fading into the trees like silver shadows.

Gone before the breeze even shifted, they really needed to change their body wash, could smell them from miles.

The Harley howled under me like it was born angry.

The road stretched ahead, long and sun-bleached, with heat shimmering off the pavement and not a single cop in sight. Rhea was behind me, calm as always, and Jasper was still latched onto the back seat like a sweaty backpack with anxiety issues.

We were somewhere between Boise and Fort Collins, and the highway was ours.

Then Rhea leaned in and yelled through the wind.

"WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH MOON-LADY?!"

I opened my mouth to say something like 'Goddess of having commitment issues and cool arrows,' but Jasper beat me to it, screaming into the chaos:

"ARTEMIS! ONE OF THE BIG TWELVE! MOON, HUNTING, WILDLIFE — NO PATIENCE FOR MEN!"

"Oh!" I shouted back. "So she'd LOVE me, huh?"

"ONLY IF SHE WANTED TO THROW YOU OFF A CLIFF!" he yelled.

I nodded. Fair.

Rhea shouted again, "AND THE WEIRD GIRLS IN SILVER WHO TRIED TO RECRUIT ME?!"

"THOSE ARE THE HUNTRESSES!" Jasper yelled. "HER SWORN FOLLOWERS! IMMORTAL, MONSTER-KILLING, NO-DATING RULES! KIND OF A VIBE!"

I laughed. "THEY DON'T EVEN LIKE ME!"

"NO, BUT THEY REALLY LIKE RHEA!"

Rhea barked a laugh, raising a middle finger toward no one in particular.

"THEY SAID I'D FIT IN! I TOLD THEM I HAD PLANS!"

"YEAH!" I added. "LIKE RIDING ACROSS AMERICA WITH THE WORLD'S MOST STRESSED SATYR AND ME!"

"I'M NOT STRESSED!" Jasper shouted.

"You're vibrating like a stressed-out squirrel!"

He didn't answer that.

A few miles passed before Rhea leaned in again, hair whipping across my shoulder.

"CAN'T BELIVE WE ALREADY SCREWED UP WITH ONE OF THE OLYMPIANS!"

I groaned loud enough to hear even with the wind. "GREAT! LOVE BEING EVALUATED BY AN IMMORTAL STRANGER!"

"JUST DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT! STRANGER DANGER." Jasper called.

"I'M NOT GONNA STARE AT HER LIKE SHE'S A LUNAR TAX AUDITOR!"

"JUST SAYIN'!"

I adjusted my grip on the handlebars and leaned into a curve, the wind slicing past like it was trying to push me back.

The roads were wide open — no traffic, no cops, no reason not to open it up.

So I did.

I twisted the throttle, and the Harley roared like it had a vendetta. The wind slammed into us like a wall, and the engine responded with a deep, almost gleeful growl. The cyclops tune-up back in Seattle? Yeah. He really hadn't been kidding when he said he "tweaked the limiters."

We were going way too fast.

Jasper was screaming something behind me. Could've been "slow down," or "I hate you," or maybe just pure mortal terror. Rhea? She was laughing. Of course she was.

Trees blurred by. Road signs became suggestions. My hair was being torn in every direction and I was pretty sure one of my earpods flew off somewhere near Nebraska.

I didn't care.

The bike felt like it was made for this — like it wanted to run. So I let it.

By the time we slowed down, the sun was dipping low, and the Des Moines city sign came into view like a divine checkpoint.

I coasted into the first gas station that didn't look haunted.

Brakes squealed, the bike groaned like it was mad about stopping, and we finally came to a shaky, screeching halt near a pump. I cut the engine, and suddenly everything went quiet — or maybe that was just my ears ringing.

"I think I saw God," Jasper added, wobbling toward the convenience store.

Rhea hopped off, stretching her arms and cracking her back. "That was awesome. We should do that more often."

"Absolutely not," Jasper coughed.

I popped the gas cap and started filling the tank. "Told you the upgrades paid off. Feels like flying, right?"

"It felt like death," Jasper groaned from inside the store.

"Same thing."

With the tank full and snacks secured — Rhea grabbed a jumbo bag of spicy chips and a bottle of something neon blue that was probably illegal in some countries — we rolled into the city proper, cruising slow now, letting the buildings guide us.

Des Moines wasn't huge, but it had that middle-of-the-country calm — like it wanted to pretend nothing weird ever happened here.

Too bad we'd ruin that by sunrise.

Eventually, we found a decent-looking motel with glowing red letters, a flickering "VACANCY" sign, and no visible blood stains. Close enough.

I parked the Harley, pulled off my helmet, and exhaled.

"Alright," I said, turning to the crew. "We've got gas, shelter, snacks, and none of us exploded at 120 mph."

Rhea tossed her chips over her shoulder and gave me a grin. "You're growing up."

"Thanks," I said. "Let's go make some motel clerk's night weird."

The motel looked normal from the outside.

Flickering red neon, two stories, the kind of place you'd expect to find roaches doing backflips in the ice machine.

But the second we stepped into the lobby?

Too Greek.

Like… aggressively Greek.

Columns. Murals. Gold trim on everything. A carved statue of Hermes holding up a bowl of breath mints. A full-on fountain burbling in the corner — with actual wine flowing out of it.

I blinked.

Rhea stopped walking.

Jasper took one look around and muttered, "Oh no. No, no, no. This is god-owned. Definitely god-owned."

The front desk was made of marble. A guy in a spotless white tunic and a name tag that said "Phil—Night Manager" gave us a very cheerful wave, like this was all perfectly normal.

"Welcome to The Golden Stag Inn! You're just in time for complimentary olives and poetry hour!"

I squinted. "Do… normal motels do that?"

"Nope," Jasper said, grabbing my arm. "And neither do safe ones."

Phil smiled wider. "Don't worry! No monsters. Divine-neutral ground. You'll be perfectly safe under our patron's protection."

Rhea leaned in. "Which patron?"

Phil's grin widened just a little too much. "Oh, you'll feel it."

The air smelled faintly of olive oil and ambrosia. There were soft panpipes playing in the background from no visible source. A nymph — I'm pretty sure that was a nymph — floated past in a hotel maid outfit, humming to herself while carrying an armful of fresh towels that steamed like they'd been blessed.

Jasper was pale. "I think this is one of Apollo's projects."

Rhea looked around. "Either that or Dionysus got really into hospitality."

Me?

I dropped my bag on the floor and grinned.

"I don't care whose place this is," I said. "If the bed is soft and the wine is free, this might be the best thing that's happened all week."

Jasper whispered, "It's a trap."

"Cool," I said, spinning the keycard Phil handed me. "Let's go check it out anyway."

The elevator ride up had harp music. Not even a recording — we passed an actual harpist in the lounge on the way, strumming lazily while wearing a toga and sunglasses.

"Yeah," Jasper muttered, "this is definitely Apollo's place."

"Could be Demeter's," Rhea said. "Smells like bread and incense had a baby."

The elevator dinged.

We stepped out into a hallway lined with glowing sconces shaped like sunbursts, and mosaic tiles on the floor forming constellations. Our room? 315 — The Mykonos Suite.

I swiped the keycard.

The door opened.

And I nearly dropped dead from how nice it was.

"No way we paid for this."

It had marble floors. A bed big enough for six people. Satin sheets. A minibar glowing faintly gold. A balcony with a view of… was that a labyrinth-shaped pool in the courtyard?

There was a lyre mounted on the wall like a guitar from a rock star's retirement tour. The lights were soft and golden. The pillows were embroidered with constellations.

"Oh no," Jasper said again, staying in the doorway like a raccoon deciding whether to enter a trap.

Rhea didn't even hesitate — she walked straight in and went for the minibar, popping the little fridge open with a grin. "There are grape leaves. Actual roasted olives. Is that… ambrosia in jars?!"

"Mine," I called, diving backward onto the bed like a Roman emperor.

It was absurdly soft. Like laying on a cloud made of smug. I sank in like the mattress wanted to cradle my soul.

Jasper still hadn't moved.

"This is bait. This is classic divine bait. Too comfortable. Too clean. Too catered to our exact tastes."

Rhea popped the lid on a tiny pot labeled "Nectar – Lemon & Pomegranate," tasted it, and actually made a happy little hum. "Okay but it tastes like comfort and victory."

I spread my arms across the giant bed, one leg dangling off the side like I owned the place. "You're all so paranoid."

"You tied up Artemis's Huntresses like luggage," Jasper said. "And now we're in what might be a five-star god-trap."

"Worth it," I said, grabbing a pillow shaped like a laurel wreath and tucking it behind my head. "I'm sleeping like a cursed prince tonight."

Jasper finally stepped inside, shut the door, and sighed. "Just… don't eat any glowing fruit."

Rhea tossed him a jar of olives. "Too late."

The night passed in a haze of comfort.

Soft sheets. Warm lighting. The faint scent of olive trees and clean linen. Rhea took the couch, sprawled like a starfish with a half-eaten jar of olives on her chest. Jasper curled up in a nest of pillows like a particularly tired woodland creature. And me? I was fully horizontal, halfway convinced this bed had healing properties.

Then, sometime around 3 a.m., something woke me.

Music.

Just a few soft notes, played by invisible fingers.

I sat up slowly, blinking sleep from my eyes. The lyre mounted on the wall — the decorative one — was playing itself.

A simple tune.

Light. Familiar.

Then silence.

I rubbed my face. "Okay... spooky magical hotel thing. Great."

I was about to lay back down when I froze.

Because a few hours later, it happened again.

This time quieter. Almost like it wasn't for the room. Almost like it was just for me.

The same melody. But incomplete. Cut short, like a whisper before the end of a sentence.

And something inside me stirred.

I sat up again, slower now. Eyes adjusting to the moonlight spilling through the balcony.

I got up without waking the others, crossed the room, and knelt next to my backpack.

Reached in.

My fingers found the golden lyre I'd been hauling ever since that party with Despoina — Apollo's lyre, apparently. Not that I had a manual or anything.

I pulled it out.

It shimmered faintly in the dark — not glowing, just... reacting. Breathing with the air. Warm.

I looked at it.

Then I looked at the wall-mounted lyre across the room.

Then, almost without thinking, I ran my fingers lightly across the strings.

Pling. Plong. Trrrm.

The notes flowed out of me like instinct.

And the rest of the melody just... completed itself.

The wall beside the bed gave a quiet click.

Then part of it slid open, revealing a narrow stone corridor lit by golden sconces, vanishing into shadows.

I stared.

Then looked down at the lyre in my hands.

"…You've gotta be kidding me."

I looked at the wall.

Then at the lyre.

Then at the glowing hallway full of golden sconces and ancient secrets I probably wasn't supposed to know existed.

Naturally, I did the only responsible thing.

I stepped inside.

"Totally not a trap," I muttered under my breath, lyre slung over my shoulder like an expensive ukulele. "Secret passages always mean friendship and treasure. Never curses. Never wrath."

It was dark — dim, golden, but not enough for me to see clearly.

So I leaned into one of my newer, flashier talents.

I exhaled and let the venom swell behind my teeth.

Not enough to spit, just a warm pressure — and then, with a soft burp, a flicker of flame danced from my mouth and hovered in the air like a tiny, angry lantern.

I did it again. Another soft jet of fire.

By the third time, I had enough light to see where I was going — a low, winding corridor carved out of polished marble and veined gold, with symbols glowing faintly along the walls. Greek, mostly. Some Egyptian. And something else I didn't recognize at all.

It wasn't just a passageway.

It was a vault.

No… not even that.

This place had the feel of something old and sacred. Not forgotten — just private.

As I stepped further in, the air shifted.

It got warmer.

Not hot like a furnace. Just… sun-warmed stone, the kind of heat you only felt in places made to honor the sky.

The hallway opened into a chamber, round and domed, with a ceiling painted like the sky at dawn — purples and pinks and oranges bleeding together in impossible, glowing pigments.

And at the center?

A sunburst carved into the floor.

Benches circled the room in tiers, like a miniature amphitheater. Cushions were scattered on the seats. A golden chalice sat alone at the center, catching the firelight and throwing it back like a sparkler.

It hit me all at once — not just the heat, not just the smell of saffron and citrus in the air.

But the vibe.

This was personal.

This was a god's private lounge.

"A… what do you call it," I whispered to myself, stepping onto the sunburst. "Man cave."

It was for the Sun God.

Apollo's andron.

And I had just walked into it with a lyre and fire breath like I owned the place.

"Yep," I muttered, slowly spinning in place. "Definitely trespassing on divine property now."

The music faded.

The golden chamber settled back into silence, but I didn't move. I was still standing dead-center on the sunburst pattern, lyre slung across my back like I had a right to be there. Which I didn't.

Then I heard a door open — not the secret stone one I came through, but an actual door, tucked off to the side, hidden behind golden paneling.

And in walked a man.

Tall. Relaxed posture. Robe half-wrapped around a wrinkled band tee that said:

"Live Fast, Worship Loud."

He looked like a surfer got lost on his way to Olympus. Blond curls tousled from sleep or some godly party, sunglasses still on even though the only light came from the sconces.

He froze when he saw me.

"Oh," he said. "You're… not a nymph."

I blinked. "You're… not housekeeping."

He winced as he stepped in, like the air was just slightly too loud. "Gods, who designed this lighting? It's like being kicked in the face by a sunbeam."

He pulled the sunglasses down just enough to peer at me. His eyes were bright — like sunrise and warmth and firelight all mashed together.

Then he smiled.

"Hey. Don't freak out."

I just stared.

"You're Apollo."

"Bingo," he said with a small bow. "God of music, sun, archery, healing, prophecy, poetry, the occasional plague, and bad decisions made with good intentions. Speaking of which—" He rubbed his temple, groaning slightly. "Olympus throws awful afterparties. Too much nectar. Not enough water."

He looked me up and down, tilting his head. "And you're... Lucas."

My heart hiccuped. "How do you know my name?"

He smiled, friendly but unreadable. "Let's just say I keep tabs on interesting people. You're definitely interesting."

I narrowed my eyes. "Should I be worried?"

"Nah. If I wanted you zapped, you wouldn't have made it past the wine fountain."

"That's… comforting."

He walked past me and flopped onto a cushion with a dramatic sigh. "Man, I forgot how nice I made this place. You like it?"

I glanced around. "Honestly? It's weirdly cozy for a god's goon cave."

"Thank you." He grabbed a grape from a dish and popped it into his mouth. "Used to host poetry slams here back in the day. The Muses hated it. Said my metaphors were 'obnoxiously radiant.'"

I let that sit for a second. Then: "Why did it open for me?"

He looked at me over his shades, suddenly a bit more focused. "Because you played the song."

"I didn't know the song."

"No," he said, smiling gently. "But you still played it."

I swallowed. There was something too familiar about him — the way he sat, talked, grinned like he knew the punchline before I even told the joke.

"You've got good instincts," he said, standing again. "Bit rough around the edges... Very rough, but... it suits you."

I didn't respond. I was too busy trying to figure out if I'd seen him before. In a dream. In a memory that wasn't quite mine.

Apollo gave me a light clap on the shoulder. Warm. Comforting. Like the sun through a car window in the morning.

"Alright, I've gotta bounce. Still got a hangover and a prophecy backlog to sort through. Maybe a bath. Or a nap in the sun."

He turned, headed for the same door he came in from, then paused, glancing back with a lazy grin.

"Oh—and Lucas?"

I blinked. "Yeah?"

He gave me a wink. "Keep playing. You're better than you think."

Then he walked through the door and vanished into golden light.

I walked back through the hidden passage in a daze, the lyre still strapped across my back like it had always been there. The stone wall slid closed behind me with a soft click, as if nothing had happened.

The hotel room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Rhea was awake, sitting up on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders, eyes sharp and locked on the wall I'd just stepped out of.

Jasper was perched by the balcony, peeking through the curtains like someone expecting a SWAT team to drop from the clouds.

They both turned to me at once.

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "So… what did you do?"

I stepped forward, blinking as I adjusted to the light.

"You know how hotels have weird plumbing? Or like, creepy vents?"

"Uh-huh…" Jasper said slowly.

"Well," I said, yawning and stretching like I hadn't just walked out of a divine fever dream, "Apollo lives in the walls."

They stared.

I flopped back on the massive bed like I was dropping into a beanbag chair of secrets.

"Swear to the gods. Like, actual Apollo. Sun guy. Lyre guy. 'Oops I made a plague' guy. He's here. Or was. I think he was sleeping off a divine hangover in his private sun bunker."

Rhea blinked. "...Come again?"

I pointed lazily toward the wall. "There's a hidden room. Opened up when I played that lyre. Big gold chamber. Cushions. Ceiling looks like a sunrise had a baby with a mosaic. He just walked in like it was his place, because, I mean—"

"—It is?" Jasper finished, pale. "You met Apollo? Like face-to-face?"

"Yup." I stretched again. "Super chill. Bit fried. Had party hair. Wore sunglasses inside. Said I had 'good instincts.' Then left through a glowing door after calling me interesting."

Rhea sat up straighter. "He didn't try to kill you?"

"Not even a little! Gave me a shoulder pat. Very cool."

That made them both pause.

Jasper's eyes narrowed. "Wait. He knew your name?"

"Yeah."

"He said you had good instincts?"

"Yeah."

"And he patted your shoulder?"

"Uh-huh."

They exchanged a long, slow look.

I raised an eyebrow. "Okay. What now?"

Rhea said it first.

"Lucas… are you his kid?"

I sat up, suddenly a lot less chill. "What? No. I mean… I dunno. He didn't say that."

Jasper was already pacing. "But he let you into his private sanctum. His lyre that you somehow got opened a wall. He called you by name. And you've got fire breath, a divine instrument, self-healing, and the emotional stability of a daytime soap opera."

I frowned. "Wow. That's… rude. But also not a no."

Rhea grinned. "I dunno. 'Sun Dad' kinda suits you."

"I don't have a sun dad."

"Sure, Lucas," Jasper muttered. "And I'm not allergic to goat milk."

I squinted at him. "Wait—you're actually allergic to goat milk?"

He gave me a deadpan look. "I'm a satyr, Lucas. You think that's funny?"

"I think that's poetic," I said, grinning. "Like, what, are you cursed to sneeze at your own kin?"

"It's a digestive allergy," he said with way too much dignity for a guy who once got headbutted by a hellhound and cried about his lute.

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "So wait... what do you even eat?"

Jasper slumped into the armchair like all of this had personally offended his ancestry. "Oats. Fruits. Non-goat cheese. Basically, I survive on trail mix and depression."

"Explains the mood swings," I muttered.

"You just found out who your dad might be," he shot back. "Don't throw stones from your shiny sun-glass house."

Rhea pointed a chip at me. "To be fair, this does explain a lot."

"What, like the fire breath? Or the fact that I'm covered in tattoos that glow when I stab things?"

"All of it," she said, popping the chip in her mouth. "The musical instincts, the showboating, the dramatic entries, the hair."

"Hey," I said, offended. "My hair is a gift."

"From your probable dad," Jasper muttered.

I sighed and slumped back into the ridiculously soft bed, staring up at the ceiling, where tiny stars flickered like they were winking at me.

"Okay," I said finally. "Let's say I am Apollo's kid. Hypothetically."

"Right," Jasper said. "Hypothetically."

"What does that mean?"

They were both quiet for a moment.

Then Rhea said, "Well, for starters... you're probably gonna get claimed. Like, officially. Soon... at least that's what my satyr said."

"Cool," I said. "Do I get a badge or something?"

Jasper nodded solemnly. "You get a shiny symbol above your head in front of your peers. Hope you're not shy."

"Sounds horrifying," I muttered. "Can I opt out?"

"Nope," they said in unison.

We didn't do much the rest of the day.

After several weeks of fighting monsters, sleeping on dirt, and nearly being set on fire by various gods and cryptids, a Greek-themed divine hotel suite with magically warmed floors and room service was the closest thing to a vacation we were going to get.

We ordered food. Real food.

Jasper found some enchanted order-scroll thing in the room's nightstand, and thirty minutes later a dryad in a fetish maid outfit knocked on our door with a tray of ambrosia-glazed lamb skewers, lemon potatoes, honey-drizzled feta, and pita so soft it practically wept when you tore it.

We ate like royalty.

I sprawled across the couch, completely horizontal, gnawing on a skewer like a dog with a bone. Rhea sat cross-legged on the floor, picking at her plate but mostly watching the golden light fade through the window. Jasper was halfway into a food coma, slouched in the chair with his feet up.

For a while, nobody said anything.

And then, Rhea broke the silence.

"Y'know," she said quietly, "I had a satyr too. cool guy. Like Jasper."

I blinked. That caught my attention.

She wasn't looking at us, just staring at her plate.

"His name was Theo," she said, voice soft. "He found me back in Spokane. Middle school. I didn't even know I was a demigod. Just thought I was angry and weird and liked punching things."

"You do like punching things," I said, gently.

She gave a tiny smile. "Yeah. Well, back then, I was worse. Got kicked out of two schools for fighting. Theo was the only person who didn't treat me like a freak."

"What happened to him?" Jasper asked, already knowing, from the way she said his name.

Rhea's shoulders tensed. She took a breath, like dragging the words out hurt.

"We were just outside of Coeur d'Alene. Got jumped by a chimera on the trail. I tried to fight it, but I wasn't strong enough yet. He held it off so I could run."

She looked down at her hands.

"He didn't make it."

The room was quiet again. A different kind of quiet.

Not awkward — just heavy.

"I told him I didn't need help," she added. "That I was fine on my own. I was pissed that he kept trying to protect me, like I was breakable."

"You weren't," I said.

She shook her head. "No. But I was wrong, too."

I sat up a little, chewing on my last bit of lamb, unsure what to say.

But she kept going, and I didn't stop her.

"We'd been on the road for weeks. Sleeping in shelters. Hitching rides. I thought it was annoying, all the rules he gave me, the rituals, the offerings, the safety lectures. But... he wasn't just some goatman with a flute. He cared. And I never really said thank you."

Jasper gave a small, respectful nod. "He'd be proud you made it this far."

Rhea didn't cry. She didn't even flinch.

But there was a tightness in her jaw. That look people get when they're holding everything in with duct tape and spite.

"Anyway," she said after a moment, "that's why I'm going to Camp. For him. I told my mom I'd get there, no matter what."

Then, like she hadn't just cracked herself open in the middle of a hotel room, she reached forward, stole one of my lemon potatoes, and popped it in her mouth like nothing happened.

"Also," she added, "I hate school. If I have to go back, I might actually snap and throw someone out a window."

"Remind me never to mess with your locker," I said.

"Good plan."

The room was warm, quiet, and full of leftovers. The kind of stillness that made you realize how tired you actually were — not just in the body, but in the bones.

Rhea had just cracked herself open a bit. The room was heavy from it.

Then Jasper shifted in his chair and let out a sigh that sounded like it had been sitting in his lungs since Alaska.

"…I wasn't supposed to make it either."

I looked over. He wasn't looking at either of us, just sort of watching the empty plate on his lap like it might grow a map out of guilt.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't chosen for this gig because I was good. They sent me north because I messed up. I missed a call last year — didn't pick up on a pattern. A demigod got jumped. Didn't make it. She should've."

His voice was flat, but his hands were clenched around his knees.

"After that, nobody said it to my face, but I could see it. Around camp. The way the other satyrs looked at me. Like I wasn't trustworthy anymore."

He finally glanced up.

"So when the lead came in about a possible demigod in Alaska, they gave it to me. One name. No escort. No plan. No support. Not even a drachma to make a call."

Rhea frowned. "They just shipped you off?"

"They didn't expect me to find anything," Jasper muttered. "Probably figured I'd get eaten by a yeti or turn into a popsicle. And I was kind of… okay with that."

There was a beat of silence.

Jasper was quiet.

Then Rhea, who apparently didn't believe in letting awkward silence breathe, looked over and asked, "So how'd you two actually meet, like officially?"

Jasper groaned immediately.

I grinned.

"Oh," I said, "that's a great story."

"I hate this story," Jasper muttered, covering his face.

"No no no, you owe her now," I said. "We've all trauma-bonded. You're part of the overshare club. Tell her how I made my grand entrance into the world of monster hunting."

Rhea leaned forward, very interested.

Jasper sighed. "Fine. But I'm telling it my way."

He pointed at me. "It was after hours. At the school gym. There were rumors going around — some teachers were reporting weird behavior, janitors quitting, that kind of thing. Magical signature pinged high enough that I was sent to check it out."

He glanced at Rhea. "What I found... was Lucas."

"Naked," I added helpfully.

Rhea blinked. "Naked?"

"Naked," Jasper confirmed, with a pained look. "Well. Naked eventually."

I threw my arms out dramatically. "It was supposed to be a normal night!"

Jasper continued, voice flat. "He'd been lured in by three Empousai pretending to be cheerleaders. They'd turned on the charm. You know — the usual glamor, sultry eyes, slow talking, touching his arm, the classic we're-not-here-to-devour-you-just-kiss-you routine."

"I'm only human," I said.

"They'd already gotten his shirt off. Then his shoes. Pants went next. He was standing there like the day he was born, swaying like he was in a trance, clearly seconds away from becoming monster chow."

"I thought it was about to score big," I said defensively.

Rhea was barely holding in her laughter. "Oh my gods."

"Then," Jasper said, leaning forward, "one of them went for the throat."

"And that's when bam!" I slammed my hand on the arm of the couch. "Claws. Popped out of my knuckles like—snikt! Instant buzzkill."

Rhea's jaw dropped. "Wait—your first transformation happened during a seduction?!"

"Yup."

"They triggered it by trying to eat me!" I said. "Not kiss. That's important."

Jasper shook his head. "He blacked out for most of it. Just claws and instinct. He tore through them like a blender on legs. Blood, ash, screaming—turned the gym depot into a monster smoothie bar."

"When I stop my relflexes I was covered in glittery monster dust," I added. "Still naked. With him bashing on a locked door like I was his last lifeline."

"You were," Jasper said.

"And you stuck around?" Rhea asked.

He shrugged. "I figured if he was still alive after that, maybe the Fates were trying to tell me something."

"Like what?"

"That I was doomed to survive this quest whether I liked it or not."

Rhea laughed so hard she had to steal one of my water bottles.

"Best origin story ever," she said between gasps. "You're like... a budget Wolverine who got tricked by sexy vampires."

I smirked. "Budget? Rude. I'm at least mid-tier Marvel."

Rhea was still chuckling, the kind of low, teasing laugh that made me regret ever telling that story. She leaned back, shaking her head.

"So," she said, eyes glittering, "be real with me — have you ever actually said no to a flirty monster?"

I frowned. "Okay, first off — rude. Second — that was one time. And they were Empousai. Literally designed to seduce people and eat them. That's their whole deal!"

"Just making sure," Rhea said, holding back another grin. "Because if you start falling for monsters every couple of towns, we're gonna need a leash."

Jasper snorted from his corner. "One time, huh?"

I shot him a look. "What now?"

"I'm just saying," he said, with a smug little smirk, "you got real cozy with Despoina at that roadside party. Sat next to her all night, shared her bong, gave her a solo on your lyre—"

"That was different," I said quickly. "She wasn't trying to kill me."

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Wait. Who's Despoina?"

Jasper looked over at her, expression suddenly more serious. "Minor goddess. Daughter of Demeter. Goddess of winter and autumn. Sister to Persephone."

Rhea blinked. "Winter and autumn?"

"Yup. The parts of the year that don't come with flowers and pastel dresses," Jasper said. "She's... less known. People forget about her. But she's powerful. Old. And not someone most demigods just hang out with casually."

They both looked at me.

I raised my hands. "She was chill! Literally! There was music! She called me 'Demi' in a weirdly nice way. I think we had a moment?"

Rhea shook her head. "You've got this thing with goddesses, don't you?"

"I don't mean to," I muttered.

Jasper muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Son of Apollo," and suddenly I wanted to throw a pillow at him.

"Okay, okay," I said, trying to steer the conversation back to not-me. "So I have weird luck with divine women. At least I didn't get eaten."

"Yet," Rhea said, grinning again.

The teasing finally simmered down, the room falling into that soft kind of quiet where no one really wants to say the next serious thing out loud.

Outside the window, the sky had shifted to a deep, velvety blue. The enchanted lights in the room had dimmed a little, casting long shadows on the walls. The city beyond the balcony twinkled peacefully — blissfully unaware that three half-mythical weirdos were holed up in a divine hotel suite talking about seduction-by-goddess.

I leaned back in my seat, the warmth from earlier still lingering in my chest.

Then, from the table where the lyre rested, a note hummed.

Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

It wasn't loud — not even enough to make Jasper flinch or Rhea jump — just one quiet string, strummed like a memory you didn't know you had.

We all turned toward it at the same time.

Rhea tilted her head. "That's not creepy at all."

"It does that sometimes," I said quietly. "Like it's got a mind of its own."

"Does it always hum when you're thinking about a certain goddess?" Jasper asked with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes. "No, it's not a divine dating alert."

He looked unconvinced.

I stood and walked over to the lyre, fingers hovering just above the strings.

It pulsed once — faint golden light blooming between the threads of divine metal. The same warmth from before, the same feeling I'd had that night when Despoina called me Demi and smiled like she could see all the forgotten corners of me.

For a second, I remembered her voice.

"Remember the little ones."

I didn't know if she meant the lesser gods, or people like us. Or maybe both.

Behind me, Rhea said, quieter now, "You think she'll come looking for you?"

I didn't answer right away.

I ran one finger across the string.

A second note joined the first — deeper, steadier.

"I think," I said slowly, "if she wanted to find me… she already could."

That made both of them quiet.

Then Jasper shifted again, clearing his throat. "So, uh. We going to bed? Or is the lyre gonna keep serenading us?"

"I'll talk to it," I said, patting the wood like it was a sleeping dog.

Rhea watched me for another moment, eyes searching, before finally pushing off the couch and stretching. "Alright. Wake me if it starts glowing and summoning woodland nymphs again."

"No promises," I said.

We each drifted toward our respective sleeping spots. The bed. The couch. A huge nest of pillows Jasper had claimed like a nesting bird.

But the lyre?

It stayed quiet now.

Just two faint notes hanging in the air like something waiting to finish its song.

CP Bank: 400cp

Perks earned this chapter: none

Milestones reached this chapter: Meet your dad: you're a special little demi aren't you? 400cp

Last edited: Apr 8, 2025

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Magus explorator

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Apr 8, 2025

#528

Author note: Hey, I got a hell shift at work today, so instead of releasing the next part at night or early the next day here you go.

I woke up to light on my face.

I sat up groggily, rubbed my eyes, and blinked toward the window. The balcony door was open. I was pretty sure I'd closed it.

The breeze coming in wasn't cold, though. It smelled like wildflowers and warm stone and distant music — like a festival a mile away.

And then I saw it.

Floating just outside the balcony, suspended in the golden air, was a coin.

It hovered there like it had been waiting. No string. No shimmer of magic. Just... there, catching the sun and gleaming like a tiny, divine spotlight.

I stepped toward it, barefoot on the cool marble. No wind, no noise. Just the soft whisper of morning.

The coin didn't fall or dodge when I reached out. It simply drifted into my hand like it belonged there.

The moment my fingers touched it, a tune bloomed in my head.

Not a voice. Not words. Just...

Music.

Like something I'd known once and forgotten.

I turned slowly and picked up the lyre from the side table.

I sat on the edge of the bed, still in pajama pants, sun creeping across the floor like gold ink, and ran my fingers across the strings.

And suddenly…

I knew what to play.

One song. Then another. Then a third.

They weren't complicated. They weren't flashy. Just little melodies — one bright, one sad, one so calming it made my chest ache.

They played like I'd known them my whole life.

And when I finished, the coin in my palm pulsed once — warm.

Then crumbled into golden dust, scattering into the morning air.

I sat there for a while, lyre resting in my lap, watching the sunlight creep higher through the glass.

A little musical nudge from a god who might be my dad.

I looked down at the lyre resting in my lap, the strings still warm from my fingers.

The melodies — those soft little fragments that had been gifted to me — still buzzed faintly in the back of my head, like a dream that hadn't quite ended.

The coin's dust had long since disappeared into the morning air.

And then Rhea spoke.

Her voice was quieter than usual. No sarcasm. No bite.

Just... real.

"You should keep playing."

I looked up.

She was sitting upright now, the blanket pooled around her waist, one hand resting on the arm of the couch. Her hair was a wreck, and there was a soft pillow line across her cheek — but her eyes were clear.

"What?" I asked.

She shrugged, glancing toward the window. "It's nice. Calming."

She looked at me again, and this time her voice dipped lower.

"I like it."

Something about the way she said it — no bravado, no walls — hit different.

I gave a small smile, then looked back down at the strings.

"Alright," I said, adjusting the lyre.

I didn't think too hard.

I just played.

A slow, soft tune. Something that felt like warm sun on cold skin. Like waking up somewhere safe.

It wasn't perfect. I missed a few notes, and my fingers were clumsy in places.

But Rhea leaned back into the couch.

Closed her eyes.

And listened.

The morning light stretched a little farther across the floor, bathing the room in gold.

And for a little while — just a little while — the world didn't ask for anything more from us.

The notes from the lyre spilled gently into the air, curling like smoke, lingering in the corners of the room like a lullaby.

Rhea shifted once on the couch, settling into the cushions.

Then her breathing slowed.

Steadied.

Eyes closed, her expression softened — not just from sleep, but from safety. No tension in her jaw. No fists clenched. Just stillness. Like the fight had finally left her for a little while.

And then…

She smiled in her sleep.

A small one. Barely there.

But real.

I didn't stop playing. My fingers found the notes on their own, letting the melody roll out smooth and soft.

Whatever dream she'd slipped into, it wasn't filled with monsters.

She deserved that much.

The sun had climbed a little higher when I finally let the final note fade out.

Rhea mumbled something under her breath, still asleep, and shifted again — pulling the blanket up over her shoulder without ever opening her eyes.

I leaned back, resting the lyre beside me.

Just for a minute, I let the silence hold.

Then—

"MORNING, WEIRDOS!"

I flinched so hard I almost dropped the lyre.

Jasper, freshly awake and entirely too loud, stumbled out of his pillow nest with his hair pointing in six directions and his shirt half inside-out.

Rhea sat bolt upright, disoriented and not thrilled.

"Did you get stabbed?" she asked, confused and squinting. "No? Then why are you yelling?!"

Jasper blinked at her. "I was greeting the day?"

"You're lucky I don't throw you off the balcony," she muttered, rubbing her face.

I groaned, laying back onto the bed. "You ruined the vibe, man."

"I didn't ruin anything," Jasper said, walking straight to the snack tray. "You two were having a little post-apocalyptic folk concert. I just brought balance."

"You brought a migraine," Rhea muttered, still blinking sleep from her eyes.

Jasper popped an olive into his mouth. "You're welcome."

We eventually dragged ourselves out of our morning haze.

I tucked the lyre back into the padded case I'd made out of an old travel bag, Rhea washed the sleep off her face in the sink, and Jasper — after consuming roughly half a jar of honeyed nuts — finally changed his shirt and stopped acting like a gremlin.

We packed up our things, rechecked our supplies, and took one last look at the suite.

Honestly, I was going to miss it. Warm beds. Good food. No monsters kicking in the walls.

Too bad we couldn't just live here forever.

We headed down to the lobby — a towering atrium of white marble and golden columns, statues of minor gods I couldn't name lining the walls. It smelled like lemon and cedar and luxury I absolutely couldn't afford.

I stepped up to the reception desk, trying not to look like someone who regularly wrestled hellhounds in gas station bathrooms.

The nymph receptionist looked up from her enchanted scroll.

"Room number?"

"306," I said.

She checked her scroll, squinted, then tilted her head. "You're all set."

I blinked. "What, like… set as in good to go?"

"Bill's been paid. Room cleared. No extra charges." She gave me a half-smile. "Your patron covered it."

I paused. "My… patron?"

She nodded, clearly done explaining. "Have a lovely journey, Mr. Walker."

Jasper leaned in, whispering behind me. "Wait, you have a patron now?"

"I guess?"

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't me."

"Wasn't me either," Jasper said. "And I steal from vending machines."

I looked down at the polished floor, then back at the massive golden statue of Apollo near the entrance — perfectly positioned, subtly radiant in the morning light.

"Right," I muttered. "Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious."

We walked out through the grand double doors into the fresh morning air, the road calling again like it always did.

The sun was still low when we rolled the bike out of the alley next to the hotel.

The engine rumbled like it'd missed us.

It was a tight fit again — three people, one over-packed motorcycle — but we'd done worse. I had the lyre strapped across my back, Rhea settled in behind me, and Jasper clung to the back with a silent prayer to whatever gods hadn't written us off yet.

We hit the road, tires humming against the pavement.

The city thinned fast — Des Moines slipping behind us in a blur of glass and concrete. The farmland rolled in slow, open and quiet, with the sun rising over low hills and silos like it hadn't watched us survive monsters and gods the past few weeks.

I didn't turn the music on.

The wind felt good. So did the silence.

Rhea tapped my shoulder and leaned close, yelling over the wind:

"So! Where's our next apocalypse stop?"

"East!" I shouted back. "Somewhere between corn and monster territory!"

"Specific!" she called. "Love that confidence!"

Jasper's voice came faintly from behind her. "Please no more vampires!"

"NO PROMISES!"

We kept moving — long stretches of nothing but trees, sky, and open road.

Then, maybe thirty minutes out from the city, I started to smell something weird.

Not wrong, just… strange.

Fresh.

Like pine needles. Rain on dry dirt. And something sweet — not floral, not decay — just clean.

I squinted up the road.

And there it was.

Just off the shoulder of the highway, standing half-hidden in the tall grass, watching us pass — a deer.

Big. Graceful.

But its eyes were glowing.

Not just reflecting light — glowing.

Gold.

I didn't slow down — just kept my eyes locked on it as we sped past.

It didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Just stood there.

Watching.

Rhea leaned up again. "Did you see that?"

"Yup."

"Eyes?"

"Yup."

"Totally normal deer?"

"Not even close."

Jasper groaned behind us. "Can't we ever just see a squirrel or something?"

The bike hissed as I killed the engine, the smell of hot metal and road dust mixing with the faint scent of gasoline and bad coffee.

We'd pulled into a Wawa about some hour outside of Chicago. Nothing fancy — pumps, a squat convenience store, a few faded picnic tables under a tarp that flapped lazily in the breeze. The sun was already dipping toward the edge of the sky, giving everything that golden-hour glow that made even trashcans look poetic.

Rhea hopped off the bike with a groan. "I swear my spine's fusing to the seat."

Jasper slid off next. "I told you we should've rotated seating—"

"Yeah yeah," she said, waving him off. "Come on, I need soda and maybe something deep-fried enough to kill me."

They headed inside, already arguing over flavors and who was paying.

I stayed behind, topping off the tank.

That's when I saw it.

Tucked off to the far side of the lot, past a busted chain-link fence and half-covered by kudzu, was a little store I swore hadn't been there when we pulled in.

Whitewashed walls, red tin roof, a faded wooden sign above the door that read:

"GENUINE GOODS & ODDITIES — EST. ???"

There were rocking chairs out front. A couple of wooden crates stacked like someone had planned to sell peaches and forgot. The windows were tinted with dust, but not abandoned dusty — more like the kind of dust that says, yeah, we've been here a long time, sugar, take your shoes off and stay a while.

I should've turned around.

But the little brass bell over the door was already jingling as I pushed it open.

Cool air hit me immediately — smelled like pipe smoke, cedar, and lemon polish.

And behind the counter, standing proud as anything, was a man who looked like someone had pulled Colonel Sanders out of a commercial and set him to "cryptid curator."

White suit. Black string tie. Carefully oiled white mustache. A pair of gold-framed glasses sat low on his nose. His smile was full of southern charm and just the faintest tinge of knowing too much.

"Well now," he drawled, folding a cloth slowly in his hands. "Ain't every day a child of the gods walks through my door."

I paused halfway through a step.

"...Excuse me?"

He chuckled. "Oh, don't get your hackles up, son. You're not the first divine blood to come wanderin' in here. I get one or two every few decades."

His eyes twinkled. He set down the cloth and leaned on the counter, gesturing around the store.

It was packed with neatly arranged rows of strange goods: glass jars with preserved herbs, bundles of thick cotton marked "REAL CAROLINA," belts, boots, charms, and silver trinkets that definitely hummed if you looked too long.

"I sell only the finest," he said proudly, "crafted by hand, infused by tradition, and stitched with a hint of the old ways. Southern-grown. Southern-blessed."

I blinked. "You... run a magical roadside stand?"

He grinned wider. "That I do. Got things for monsters, things for travelers, and things for those stuck in-between."

He reached under the counter and pulled out a battered shoebox.

"Now then, Lucas Walker... let's see if anythin' in here's got your name stitched into it."

The Colonel-lookin' man slid the old shoebox across the counter with the kind of casual grace that made me immediately suspicious.

"Well now, Mr. Walker," he said with a smooth drawl, "you strike me as the type who's gonna need a little edge on the road ahead. Strength. Grit. That old-fashioned American stubbornness wrapped up in sinew and bone."

He popped open the lid, revealing a single object nestled in worn, folded cloth:

A pipe.

Short, stout, made of dark-stained wood with a thick ivory stem. The kind you'd expect a retired sailor to chew on while telling stories about sea monsters and bar fights. It was carved with swirling lines that didn't look decorative—they looked powerful, a anchor on it stamped with gold.

"Wh– Is that—?" I leaned closer. "Is that enchanted?"

"Sure is," he said, eyes twinkling. "Came off a good man. A sailor. Short fella. Had forearms like tree trunks and a left hook that could knock a minotaur bald. Served in the war—the good one, mind you. Knew his way around the world."

He tapped the box reverently. "You use this right, and it'll put some muscle on your frame. Strength when you need it. Not fancy magic. Honest magic. Real American made."

I raised an eyebrow. "Okay. And what's the catch?"

He smiled wider. "No catch, son. I'll take drachma for it."

My brows lifted. "You take divine currency?"

"Course I do," he said, like I'd just asked if he accepted the concept of air. "Good Western money. From the right kind of people. Always appreciated it."

I glanced down at the pipe.

It pulsed faintly in the box, like it knew I was thinking about it.

I reached into my pack, fingers brushing the small pouch of drachma I'd been building since Anchorage. I was about to offer one—

"Lucas?!"

I turned at the sound of Rhea's voice.

And just like that—

The store was empty.

No bell jingled.

No wind.

No scent of lemon polish or cedar.

Just...

Dust.

Shelves, bare and sun-faded.

The counter? Gone.

The lights? Flickering and old.

No pipe. No Colonel.

Just me, standing alone in an abandoned shack that definitely hadn't looked abandoned a second ago.

Rhea's head popped through the door a second later. "Dude, what are you doing in a haunted Hobby Lobby?"

I didn't say anything when Rhea called the place "haunted."

Didn't argue when Jasper peeked in after her and mumbled something about ghosts and "absolutely not going in there."

I just gave a casual nod, tossed a "yeah, nothing weird, just checking it out," and waited until they both wandered back toward the bike with their sodas and snacks.

Then I turned back to the inside of the shack.

It looked empty. Barren. Like no one had been there in decades.

But the counter was still there for me.

Old wood. Dusty. Quiet.

I reached into my bag, pulled out a handful of drachma, and laid them gently on the wood.

"I don't know who you are," I said quietly, "but thanks for the offer. I think I'm gonna need it."

The coins didn't shimmer.

Didn't vanish.

They just sat there.

I turned, left the way I came, and caught up with the others like nothing had happened.

We hit the road again, the engine rumbling under us, asphalt blurring into farmland and old fence posts.

It wasn't until we stopped a few miles later — Jasper had to pee again — that I unbuckled my pack to grab something and found it:

The pipe.

Sitting right on top of my things.

Coiled like it had always been there.

Same carved stem. Same polished wood. Still warm to the touch.

And tucked underneath it?

Three of the drachma I'd left behind.

I blinked.

"Guess he gives change," I muttered.

Jasper called out something from the trees. Rhea was kicking rocks by the ditch.

I zipped the bag shut.

We got back on the bike, rolled out, and picked up speed down the quiet highway.

And just as the wind picked up in my ears, I heard it —

A whistle.

Do-do-do-do-do-do…

I looked over my shoulder.

Nothing there but open road and cornfields.

I turned back around, gripping the handlebars, and couldn't help the grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.

Chicago pulsed behind me — headlights on the freeway, neon reflections in puddles, sirens way off in the distance. But back here, behind the Holiday Inn, it was almost quiet.

Just a cracked slab of concrete, a few faded plastic chairs, and a rusted ashtray filled with cigarette butts that hadn't moved in days.

I sat down slowly, pipe in hand.

It still felt warm. Not hot. Not magical. Just... like it had a pulse.

I packed a bit of Jasper's "herbal stash" into the bowl — earthy and sharp, smelled like sage and pine needles and whatever else he kept bundled in those tiny paper packets.

Then, remembering what the Colonel had said, I leaned forward, raised an eyebrow—

And spit.

Fwoomp.

The herbs ignited instantly, a soft gold flame curling in the bowl. Contained. Controlled. Like it had waited for me.

I took a breath.

The smoke filled my lungs with heat — not harsh, but thick, weighty — and when I exhaled, three perfect rings drifted into the air. Crisp. Stubborn. Like they had places to be.

And I felt it.

Not a jolt. Not a spell.

Just... strength.

It crept into my shoulders. My chest. My hands.

Not something new—something familiar.

Like my muscles remembered a version of me I'd never been.

Like I'd spent a lifetime lifting anchors and hauling ropes and knocking out sea monsters before breakfast.

Old sailor strength.

I looked down at the pipe still glowing softly in my hand.

And I smiled.

The smoke drifted around me like lazy halos, hanging just above my head before slipping off into the night.

I wasn't in a rush to move.

The pipe felt good in my hand. Familiar. Like it belonged there. I took another slow drag, let it settle in my lungs, then exhaled — another ring, wide and steady, floating up and breaking gently against the glow of a flickering streetlamp.

That strength in my bones? Still there. Not burning. Just... coiled. Ready. Comfortable.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Breathed in.

Exhaled.

Then something—just barely—shifted in the corner of my vision.

A movement. Slow. Deliberate.

I opened one eye and turned my head slightly.

She moved like a dream someone had on purpose.

Perfect hair, moonlight skin, curves engineered for poor decisions — the whole package. But I didn't even blink.

Not anymore.

Monsters always came dressed like trouble you wanted to chase.

This one? Lamia. No question.

The way she moved? Like her hips were trying too hard. The way her feet didn't quite press the gravel. The way the shadows didn't seem to stick to her like they should.

I didn't tense. Didn't react.

Just took another drag from my pipe, let the smoke curl out the corner of my mouth like this was just another Tuesday night, for some reason it filled me with … confidence.

She stopped a few feet from me, eyes glinting with something sharp under all that fake warmth.

"Evenin', handsome," she said, voice dipped in syrup. "Mind helping a girl out?"

She held up a slim cigarette — pale paper, probably perfumed. A lighter was tucked between two fingers, but she made no move to use it.

I raised an eyebrow. "Yours broken?"

She smiled. "Yours looks more fun."

I didn't answer. Just took one last breath from the pipe, let it settle, then let a little shift happen.

A curl of heat bloomed under my tongue. My throat tickled.

Venom pooled.

I leaned forward slightly, focused on the tip of her cigarette, and let out a controlled puff of air.

Fsssh.

A small burst of flame flickered from my mouth — enough to light the end clean and quick without singeing her fingers.

The cigarette caught immediately.

She blinked.

I held it out to her, smoke drifting lazily from between my lips. "There you go."

Her smile flickered. Just for a second.

Monsters don't usually get surprised.

She took the cigarette, brought it to her mouth.

But I saw the twitch in her cheek. The tightening around her jaw.

She was recalculating.

Good.

I let the pipe rest in one hand and tapped ash into the tray beside me.

Then I looked up at her, fully calm, voice even.

"So," I said, lazily tapping ash off the edge of my pipe. "You come around these parts often, or just when someone's dripping monster bait?"

She smiled. The wrong kind of smile. The one that said I think you're meat, and I like how cocky you taste.

"Oh honey," she said, stepping closer, her voice dropping into something silkier. "I come around for the fun ones."

"Good," I said, meeting her halfway. "'Cause I was getting bored."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're not scared."

I shrugged. "Of what? A little venom? A scratch here, a nibble there?"

I leaned in, tone dropping with a grin. "I've lived through worse."

Truth was, I wasn't bluffing. If she tried to bite me, I'd regenerate. If she tried to tear into me, I'd heal.

And hey — if it went there, I was at least gonna enjoy the opening act.

She tilted her head, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Interest? Hunger? Confusion?

Didn't matter.

She was studying me now. Trying to figure out if I was bluffing.

I blew a slow smoke ring between us.

"You gonna keep staring," I said, "or are we gonna test whose teeth are sharper?"

Her smile turned slow and wicked.

And I knew right then—

I was absolutely going to regret this.

But I was also definitely going through with it.

Her lower half — long, smooth, scaled in a deep iridescent blue — coiled forward through the parking lot gravel like it weighed nothing. Her movements were effortless, hypnotic, quiet.

Predatory.

She didn't pretend to be human anymore. Not fully. Not for me.

Didn't have to.

I just leaned back in the cheap plastic chair, pipe still glowing faintly in my hand, and watched her close the distance.

"You're either very brave," she purred, circling me like a snake around a firepit, "or very stupid."

"Little bit of both," I said, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the sky.

She made a soft, amused sound, then wrapped herself around the base of the chair — coiling once, twice, her massive serpentine form cold and smooth against my crocs. Her human torso leaned in close, pressing her weight into my lap, forearms resting lightly on my shoulders.

Every part of her moved with confidence. Her eyes glowed faintly in the motel's buzzing yellow light.

"You're not afraid," she said, nose brushing mine.

"Not of you," I replied.

She tilted her head, smiling wide — just shy of showing the fangs.

"You know what I am."

"Lamia."

"You know what I do."

"To people who don't heal like I do? Yeah."

She ran one hand up my chest — claws barely grazing skin.

"You're tempting fate."

I took another puff from the pipe, let the smoke drift up between us, and said flatly:

"Fate flinched first."

Her smile cracked into something more feral — almost a challenge.

And that's when she shifted fully into my lap, her cool scales pressing against my legs, weight coiling more snugly around the chair. Her claws trailed along the back of my neck as she leaned in, face inches from mine.

"You don't taste like fear," she whispered again, voice like a threat wrapped in silk.

I let a flicker of flame crackle in the back of my throat, just enough to let her see it behind my grin.

"Keep talking," I said. "You might work up my appetite."

She hovered there for a moment — breath on my lips, her clawed fingers gently tracing the edge of my jaw.

Waiting.

Testing.

Looking for the crack in the armor.

But I didn't pull back.

Didn't tense.

Didn't blink.

I just sat there with a soft curl of pipe smoke drifting from my mouth and eyes locked on hers like I was watching a lion decide whether to bite or purr.

Her smile widened — fangs slipping into view now, elegant and gleaming.

Then she kissed me.

Warm.

Wrong.

Her lips were soft, sure, but behind them? There was tension. Hunger. A subtle coil of something ancient, something starved.

Her claws gripped my shoulders just a little tighter, just a little too sharp.

And for a moment, it felt like I was falling through layers of intent — lust, power, dominance, death — stacked on top of each other like cards in a gambler's hand.

But I kissed her back.

Calm. Controlled. A true gentleman.

Like I wasn't worried about the outcome.

Because I wasn't.

I could already feel her venom trying to seep in — something slick against my gums, something thick and designed to stop hearts.

And I could feel my body shrug it off, mine was worst after all.

The healing factor rolled like a wave under my skin, chewing through poison like it was breath mint strength.

She pulled back slowly.

Eyes searching mine.

She looked… surprised.

Her lips were still parted. A single strand of smoke curled up between us from the bowl of my still-lit pipe.

I held her gaze, let the corner of my mouth lift into something dangerously casual.

"Gotta admit," I said, voice low, "I was expecting a little more bite."

Her claws flexed.

Then she smiled again — darker now.

Amused.

Challenged.

"I like you," she said, voice like a slow-drip knife.

"Oh honey," I said, tapping ash into the gravel, "everyone does at first."

She didn't hesitate this time.

No teasing.

She kissed me again, hard.

Her hands slid into my hair, claws pressing just shy of breaking skin. Her weight shifted, coiled tighter, the cold press of her serpentine lower half wrapping around the legs of the chair and me with deliberate slowness. Her mouth moved against mine with purpose, venom humming just beneath the surface of her tongue.

But it didn't matter.

That same heat rolled through me again, not fire — not just — but strength. Whatever poison she was trying to use burned out as fast as it arrived, like my blood didn't have time for weakness.

My hand slipped around her waist, the other still loosely holding the pipe like we weren't currently defying every rule in a Greek monster manual.

And I kissed her back.

Not soft.

Not shy.

Her breathing hitched, and I felt something like a purr rattle through her chest — low, serpentine, involuntary.

She bit my lip lightly. Testing.

It broke skin.

For a second.

Then closed.

Her eyes widened the tiniest bit.

"You're full of surprises," she whispered, pulling back just enough to speak, lips still ghosting mine.

"And you," I said, voice low and steady, "have no idea what you're doing."

She grinned — breathless and sharp.

"Then teach me."

I leaned forward, brushed her hair back behind her ear, and whispered:

"I hope you don't mind when things get rough."

Her lips stayed on mine longer this time — needier, deeper.

She wasn't kissing anymore.

She was tasting.

The shift was subtle, but I felt it.

The way her hands gripped tighter, claws dimpling my skin.

The way her tongue moved differently — slower, more deliberate — like she was trying to find something underneath my skin.

And the way her lower half, that massive, cold coil of scaled muscle, began to tighten.

Not just to hold me.

To trap.

I didn't stop her.

Not yet.

My breath was steady, but I was watching now — not just her face, but the small twitches in her jaw, the tiny way her nostrils flared, how her pupils had narrowed into slits.

She was losing the game.

To herself.

One of her hands slid down my chest — slow, searching — and then stopped at my side, where my ribs met my gut.

Her fingers flexed.

And for just a second, I felt intent behind the touch.

Not seduction.

Precision.

Like a butcher picking the softest spot to make the first cut.

I pulled back — only slightly — enough to speak, lips still brushing hers.

"You gonna make a mess of this, sweetheart?"

She didn't answer.

Her throat flexed.

She was salivating.

I felt it — the full-body twitch. That moment when hunger starts overriding charm.

Her eyes burned golden.

Then flicked to my neck.

"You smell…" she whispered, breath shaky now. "Like heat. And copper. And… power."

Her voice had changed — huskier, almost strained.

Like the predator was trying to speak through a human-shaped cage that was failing fast.

"You're not afraid," she breathed, teeth brushing my jaw now.

"Nope," I said, still calm, still steady, the pipe resting warm in my hand. "But you're starting to be."

Her eyes snapped back to mine.

And for a heartbeat, I saw something that wasn't hunger.

It was confusion.

She didn't understand why this wasn't working.

Why she wasn't in control.

Why her prey wasn't afraid.

And underneath that confusion?

A little bit of fear.

We didn't say much after that.

Her hunger hadn't faded — if anything, it was stronger now — but she was trying to hold the reins again, trying to bring the seduction back under control like a predator pretending not to salivate.

I let her guide me, just enough to keep the tension hot.

We made our way back into the Holiday Inn, through a side door she somehow already had access to — and up a flight of stairs that creaked just once.

She slid a keycard into a door that shouldn't have existed, and sure enough, the room inside was dark, quiet, empty. No luggage. No voices. Just the soft hum of AC and a too-clean bed.

"I told you," she whispered, "no one here but us."

I just smirked and stepped inside.

We barely made it to the bed before we were on each other.

It was rough.

It was fast.

It was... wild.

Her scales were cold, her skin hot, and her kisses burned like poison that my body refused to take seriously. She clawed, I bit. She hissed, I growled. It was a tangle of power and ego and the kind of reckless intimacy that came with knowing you could both survive the worst of each other.

She kissed down my chest, trailing her lips lower, tongue tracing patterns like ritual.

Then—chomp.

She bit into my belly, deep and sudden, fangs sinking just below the ribs. Blood spilled instantly, my guts flopped out.

I winced, but only for a second — my healing already kicking in.

I looked down at her, breath steady, and grinned.

"Baby," I muttered, voice low, "what about the foreplay?"

Her eyes flashed with a wicked smile.

I woke up with the taste of copper in my mouth.

The air was thick — warm, humid, laced with iron and sweat and something feral.

The light creeping through the hotel curtains was pale, muted… the kind of morning that didn't ask questions.

I didn't move right away.

Just blinked. Breathed.

And took in the scene around me.

The bed — if you could still call it that — was soaked through. Sheets red. Mattress red. Pillows red. The floor was no better. Smears and splatters stretched across the carpet, up the walls, across the dresser, and even up onto the goddamn ceiling fan.

It looked like a crime scene.

A warzone.

Or the punchline of a very, very specific joke.

And right beside me, coiled around my legs and half across my chest, lay the Lamia.

She was fast asleep.

Hair a mess, blood across her chin, her scaled body looped lazily across the ruined bedspread. Her claws rested near my collarbone — just barely not piercing skin — and she had this... smile.

A small one. Soft. Content.

Like she'd just eaten her favorite meal and was now dreaming of the sun.

I glanced down at myself.

No wounds.

Not anymore.

My belly — where she'd taken that monster-sized bite? Fully closed. Skin smooth, maybe a bit pink around the edges, but that was probably some dry blood, other wound also were closed, some I was rather glad it did.

I exhaled.

And couldn't help it — I let out a quiet, slow laugh.

Because I felt…

Good.

Like my body had just run a marathon, fought a bear, and wrestled a god — and somehow walked away stronger.

I should've been freaked out.

But instead?

I just lay there.

Warm.

And deeply, almost primally satisfied.

She sat up slowly, the sunlight catching the edges of her tangled hair and the shimmer of dried blood across her collarbone. Her coils shifted lazily across the soaked mattress, the motion like silk over stone.

"Gods," she murmured, exhaling like she'd run a marathon. "You're the first since…"

She trailed off, eyes distant for just a moment, before she focused back on me — a glint of amusement behind the exhaustion.

"Since I was mortal."

I raised an eyebrow, still half-sprawled across the mess we'd made. "That long, huh?"

She gave a lazy smile, one fang just visible between her lips. "Mmhm. You don't forget a night like that, Zeus was a character back then. I'm warning the others, by the way."

That made me pause. "Others?"

"My kind. You know. The usual murder-hungry, soul-sucking sisterhood." She gave a half-shrug, scales rippling. "Takes a special kind of stupid to try and seduce a Lamia and walk away breathing."

"And you're gonna tell them not to mess with the blond guy?"

"Oh, the reverse." She grinned wider. "I'll tell them you're fun… and dangerous."

I looked her over, noting how sluggish her movements had become — how her hands rubbed her stomach like she'd just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner for twenty.

"You're not gonna go after my friends, right?"

She waved a hand lazily. "Please. No. I had my fill."

Her voice dipped into something low and warm.

"I haven't been this full since… gods, I don't know. Probably before Rome even had sidewalks. You?" She let out a satisfied sigh. "You're a feast, in more ways than one."

"I aim to please," I said, letting the smugness bleed into my grin.

She flopped back onto the bed, arms sprawled out dramatically.

"I'm gonna have to hibernate after this," she groaned. "Digesting you is gonna take months. Might skip spring entirely."

"Was I that much?" I said, stretching my arms over my head.

She turned her head, that same pleased little smirk playing on her lips.

"You were everything."

The bathroom light flickered softly as I stepped inside, pipe still hanging from my lips and dried blood crusting across my chest and stomach like war paint.

The mirror didn't judge me.

It just reflected a guy who looked like he'd survived a horror film and come out smug on the other side.

I turned the water on hot — steaming, nearly scalding — and stepped into the shower.

The blood ran fast.

Down my arms, off my hands, from my hair.

Red swirled into pink down the drain like we'd slaughtered something divine.

In a way, I guess we had.

I stood there a while, letting the water work, letting the night settle. I felt good. Not just physically — though yeah, healing like a demigod cheat code helped — but something deeper. Something content.

When I finally stepped out, steam rolling off me in waves, I grabbed the clothes we'd tossed aside before things had gotten... mythic. They were rumpled but mostly intact. Mostly.

I toweled off, dressed, and stepped back into the room.

She was already out cold.

Coiled lazily, tangled in bloody sheets, hair draped across her face. That smug, dreamy smile still tugged at her lips.

I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and paused at the door.

"Bye," I said quietly.

She mumbled something — soft and drowsy. I couldn't make it out.

But I figured it wasn't don't come back.

I slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me.

The silence of the corridor pressed in — pale carpet, stale air, vending machine humming down the way.

Then—

The suns came back.

That familiar flicker across my vision.

Black suns, pulsing behind my eyelids like they'd always been there, just waiting for me to close my eyes.

Four of them flared.

Like the stars themselves were clapping.

Like the universe just hit "level up."

I just grinned.

"Yeah," I muttered under my breath. "I figured that might happen."

A cloak appeared draped over my shoulders like it had always been there.

Light as air, smooth as midnight fog, the color shifting slightly with the flickering fluorescent bulbs. At first glance, it was nothing — a hooded thing, unassuming, almost forgettable.

But that was the point.

The longer I stood still, the harder I was to see — like the shadows clung to me with affection. I caught my reflection in a nearby window, and I swear, even I had to focus to see myself clearly.

It wasn't hiding scars — I didn't have any.

It was hiding presence.

If I didn't want to be noticed?

I wouldn't be.

And it would never tear. Never wear down.

I pulled the hood up and the hallway seemed to... hush.

The second gift arrived in my hands.

Not literally — more like my fingers just knew things they hadn't five seconds ago.

I flicked my wrist and suddenly I was rolling a coin over my knuckles like a street magician with years of practice. Another flick — imaginary card fan. A trick shuffle. My fingers moved too fast to follow.

And somewhere tucked inside that new muscle memory?

Locks.

Pockets.

Watches.

Anything I could hold, I could make disappear.

I chuckled quietly. "Okay. That's dangerous."

Then came the click of metal.

Not imagined. Real.

At my hips: two holsters. Sleek, cross-drawn. Custom.

I didn't have to check the names.

I already knew.

Ebony. Matte black. Heavy. Precision-made for long shots, deadly ones.

Ivory. Polished white. Quick. Light. Made for movement, rhythm, momentum.

I could feel it just standing there — how they balanced on me perfectly.

And I knew, somehow, they'd never run dry.

Then the hallway… shifted.

Not physically. Spiritually.

I turned.

And there she was.

A wolf pup, already the size of a fully grown saint Benard, sitting in the center of the hallway tile like she'd been waiting all along.

Eyes intelligent, unreadable. Grey fur like twilight mist. Muscles coiled under puppy clumsiness.

She stared at me.

Then padded forward — graceful, deliberate — and nudged her head under my hand.

I looked down at the collar.

Sif

"…Well," I muttered, ruffling her ears. "Guess we're officially a pack now."

She wagged her tail once. One deep, soft bark.

I opened the motel room door like nothing had happened.

Jasper looked up from where he was hunched over a paper plate of vending machine trail mix.

Rhea was sprawled across the bed, flipping channels with half-lidded eyes and a half-eaten bag of Doritos resting on her chest.

Both of them turned to me.

And then to what was now following me in.

Sif padded in like she'd lived here her whole life — calm, quiet, head held high. The light caught the grey in her coat, and her paws made little thump thump sounds as she crossed the carpet.

Rhea sat up immediately, the chips spilling off her.

"Okay," she said. "Where did you find the Direwolf?"

"She found me," I said, shrugging off my new cloak like I'd just picked it up at a gift shop.

"She has a collar," Jasper said, squinting. "Wait, is that nameplate in runes?"

"It says Sif," I replied, tossing my bag into the corner like it hadn't just been carrying pistols of questionable legality and unending ammunition. "She's chill."

Rhea was already on the floor, kneeling, arms out.

Sif sniffed her hands, gave one little chuff of approval, and immediately flopped over to let Rhea rub her belly.

"I love her," Rhea declared, absolutely serious.

"She'll grow," I said, sitting down and digging through my stuff casually. "Eventually the size of a small building, probably. But you can have her like this for a while."

"She's gonna ride with us?" Jasper asked.

"She doesn't have a choice," I replied, grinning. "She's mine. Bonded, or whatever you wanna call it. Guess the universe thinks I needed backup."

Jasper gave me a long look.

Then his eyes dipped to my belt.

To Ivory and Ebony, holstered and shining even in the dull motel lighting.

Then up to the cloak still half-draped over the chair.

Then back to the wolf being cuddled by Rhea on the floor.

"…Lucas, what the actual hell happened while you were outside?"

I blew a slow breath.

Pulled out my pipe.

Lit it with a luggie.

And exhaled a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling.

"Nothing weird," I said.

I leaned back in the chair, Sif curling up at my crocs.

"Y'know. Tuesday."

Sif had just finished destroying a plastic water bottle Rhea gave her as a chew toy when I stood up and stretched.

"Alright," I said, casually brushing Dorito crumbs off my cloak. "Gonna need to hit town for a bit."

Rhea looked up from scratching behind Sif's ears. "For what?"

I jerked a thumb toward the wolf, who was now gnawing on a chair leg like it had personally offended her. "She's not exactly built for the back of a motorcycle."

Jasper blinked. "Wait, are you seriously—"

"Yup," I said. "Time to get a sidecar."

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Like... an actual sidecar? For a wolf?"

"She's already bigger than a backpack," I said. "Give it a week, she'll be the size of a couch. Unless one of you wants to try riding with her pressed between your knees."

Jasper opened his mouth, then closed it with a wince.

"Thought so."

I grabbed my jacket — the cloak was slick, but not ideal for shopping in broad daylight — and pulled the door open.

"I'll see if I can find a shop that'll work with me. Probably need some custom welding, maybe reinforce the frame..."

"You're actually going to mod the bike for your dog," Rhea said, deadpan.

"She's not a dog," I said without turning. "She's family."

Behind me, Sif let out a little proud woof, tail wagging.

Rhea melted on the spot. "Ugh. She's gonna make me soft."

I smirked over my shoulder.

"I'll be back in a couple hours. Don't let her eat anything she can't digest. Like Jasper's dignity."

Jasper was about to protest when Sif barked again and bumped him with her nose — hard enough to knock him backward into the bed.

Rhea laughed.

And I stepped out, the door clicking behind me, already scanning the town for someone with a welding torch and no questions, not knowing the town I went to ask someone who knew, someone who I got quite close to yesterday.

The shop didn't look like much from the outside — just another grease-stained building squatting between a pawn shop and an abandoned bakery. The kind of place that screamed discount repairs and motorcycles that haven't seen a tune-up since Bush Sr. was in office.

But the moment I stepped inside?

That illusion cracked.

Hard.

The air was cool. Filtered. The lighting adjusted automatically as I walked in. No grime. No clutter. Every tool glinted from perfectly organized walls — like someone had arranged them with intent and pride.

And the woman behind the obsidian-black counter?

Definitely not your average grease monkey.

She wore a white silk blouse under a tailored charcoal vest, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal copper-accented jewelry — subtle, sharp. A tablet hovered next to her on a suspended arm. Hair in a tight twist, not a flyaway in sight. Manicured nails. Focused eyes. Not bored. Just already several moves ahead.

Her gaze locked on me before I even reached the desk.

"You smell like wolf," she said matter-of-factly. "Divine wolf, bonded. You must be Lucas Walker."

I blinked. "Uh… yeah. That obvious?"

"You tracked in the scent of steel, blood and wet fur," she said, swiping her hand through the air. The hovering tablet rotated smoothly, displaying a blueprint — a bike schematic with rough additions already being sketched in.

"Let me guess. You need a sidecar."

"That obvious?"

"Yes," she said again, tone neutral. "And before you ask: yes, we can accommodate rapid growth. Reinforced enchantments. Stabilized runes. Weight redistribution. You're going to need armor plating, obviously, and a sealing enchantment for weatherproofing."

"You're really on top of this," I muttered.

"I'm always on top of it."

She walked out from behind the desk, heels clicking with precision across the polished tile floor.

"I'm Euthenia. Daughter of Hephaestus. Goddess of abundance, success, and prosperity. I run the forges."

She gestured broadly as massive garage doors rolled open to reveal a colossal workshop behind her — forge fires glowing in the distance, automated systems moving enchanted parts through divine assembly lines. Hammers crashed in rhythm somewhere deeper in the building.

"All of them."

I stared. "Wait. You run all the forges?"

"My father builds," she said, turning to face me. "I coordinate. I scale. The divine manufacturing network — from Olympus to Tartarus — flows through me."

I let out a low whistle. "And here I thought I was just looking for a garage."

She smirked faintly. "You are. This just happens to be the headquarters."

She turned, walking deeper into the forge, clearly expecting me to follow.

"Come on, Walker. Let's get your mutt a throne on wheels."

Euthenia led me through a massive, open-air hallway. The further we went, the more it became clear this wasn't a garage — this was an industrial temple.

Machinery glided silently on ceiling rails. Forges burned white-hot in sealed glass domes. Magitech platforms levitated crates marked with ancient runes and QR codes. I swear I saw two cyclops arguing over torque ratios.

"This way," she said, gesturing me toward a wide holographic worktable. A 3D wireframe of my Harley hovered above it — already scanned, mapped, and waiting.

A slot opened on the side. She slid in a golden key, and the wireframe came alive.

"Now," she said, all business. "Let's design a sidecar fit for a divine wolf."

The basic frame of the bike elongated slightly on the hologram. A curved platform extended outward with a placeholder shell.

"You'll need reinforced axles," she said. "Runed for weight fluctuation and kinetic dispersion. That wolf is going to hit kaiju-size eventually, yes?"

"Eventually," I said, nodding. "Right now she's like… Doberman-sized. But meaner."

Euthenia didn't blink. "We'll future-proof it."

A glowing menu popped up — options spinning in midair.

Enchanted shock-absorption

Expanding rune-etched compartment

ummoning tether (returns to bike if separated)

Glass canopy (magically tinted, retractable)

Fireproof interior padding

Auto-targeting defensive wards (toggle-able)

"What are you feeling?" she asked, arms crossed, watching me like a consultant eyeing a high-value client.

I tapped the air and selected:

Fireproof interior padding

Expanding compartment

Tether recall enchantment

Retractable canopy

Shock-absorption (because I enjoy surviving)

I hovered over the auto-targeting defensive wards, then looked at her.

"That one's optional, but you'll need a control charm. Otherwise it'll vaporize anyone who makes eye contact."

"…Tempting," I muttered. Then clicked it.

Added.

The hologram flickered, adjusting in real time. The new sidecar — angular, armored, sleek but somehow wolfish in its design — looked like something Batman and a Greek general would co-sign.

"Looks amazing," I said, stepping back.

"It will be," she said, already drafting the build.

I gave her a half-grin. "Can we paint flames on it?"

She looked at me for a long beat.

"...Yes. But they'll be enchanted flames. I have standards."

The hologram vanished with a hiss of light as Euthenia tapped her tablet. The workshop's firelight reflected off her copper-toned jewelry as she turned back to me, her arms crossed like a CEO preparing to drop a bomb.

"Build starts today. Sundown tomorrow, you'll be riding in style," she said.

"Great," I said. "So… what's the damage?"

She smiled — but this one wasn't the polite kind. It was sharper. Calculated.

"You can't afford it."

"Didn't think so," I muttered.

She stepped forward, slow and precise, heels echoing in the forge's polished floor.

"I don't want drachma," she said, voice lowering. "I want a favor."

"Of course you do," I sighed. "Mystery task to be named later? Soul-binding pact? Classic gods' nonsense?"

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head. "I'm being very specific."

She pulled up a file on her tablet, rotated it toward me. A satellite image. A warehouse.

Logo glowing bright orange.

Amazon.

"You've got to be kidding," I said.

"I'm not." Her tone was steel. "This particular distribution center is run by the Amazons."

I blinked. "Wait. Like… Amazons-Amazons? Warrior women?"

"Former warrior women," she said dryly. "Now corporate tyrants with enchanted forklifts, militarized HR, and anti-union death squads."

"Charming."

"They've been poaching forge-tech. Buying low-tier enchantments on the black market, selling them under the guise of 'two-day delivery.' It's insulting."

"So what, you want me to go in and steal something? Sabotage the mainframe?"

She smiled sweetly.

"I want you to firebomb it."

I stared.

She was completely serious.

"No survivors?"

"I'm not asking you to kill anyone," she said casually. "Just level the infrastructure. Cause chaos. Burn the warehouse to the ground. The Amazons can rebuild. That's part of their myth. But they'll know who sent the message."

"You sure you're not a daughter of Ares?"

"Please," she scoffed. "I'm the goddess of prosperity. I just know how to handle competition."

I looked at the tablet again. That Amazon logo was really pissing me off now, but maybe it was because I was being paid to be a gremlin.

"…Do I get to pick the fire?"

"Absolutely."

I grinned. "Then we have a deal."

She held out her hand.

I shook it.

Euthenia didn't speak. She just turned on her heel, walking with clinical purpose across the forge floor to a reinforced vault carved directly into the wall — thick stone and celestial bronze edges, sealed with a glowing sigil in the shape of a burning warehouse.

No lock. Just intent.

She placed her hand on the sigil, whispered something in ancient Greek, and the door unsealed with a low, grinding thoom.

Inside?

A single black duffel bag, nearly bursting at the seams.

She grabbed it with both hands and hoisted it like it was full of bricks.

Because it was.

Magic bricks.

"Here's your kit," she said, dropping the bag at my feet. The floor shuddered.

I unzipped it a few inches — immediately, heat spilled out. Not warm. Not cozy. This was volatile heat. Like the bag was holding back a miniature volcano with attitude.

Inside?

Enchanted dynamite.

Dozens of sticks. Classic red-paper style — but with glowing runes etched along the length in gold and iron. They hissed faintly, like they were whispering to each other. I could feel the pressure from them, even sealed.

Next to them?

Four matte black canisters of Greek Fire — each labeled in Ancient Greek with warnings like "DO NOT DROP" and "FOR EXTERNAL CONFLAGRATION ONLY."

The kind of stuff that doesn't go out.

Ever.

I pulled one out. The metal was warm — too warm — and it felt alive, like it wanted to burn something now.

"You weren't kidding," I muttered.

Euthenia stood with her arms crossed, unbothered.

"That's enough to vaporize a fortress," I said.

She nodded. "Good. Then you won't have to go back twice."

I zipped the bag shut carefully and slung it over my shoulder. It dragged me down a bit — not just with weight, but with intent. That bag wasn't just explosives. It was vengeance.

"You burn that warehouse down," she said, her voice firm but almost… pleased, "and I'll have your sidecar enchanted for maximum comfort, I'll even throw in some pet supplies."

"Sweeten the deal, why don't you," I said, smirking.

She smirked right back. "I always do."

And felt something click in the weave of the world.

She leaned in slightly, copper eyes gleaming. "One building. Tonight. Get creative."

CP Bank: 100cp

Perks earned this chapter:Free: Grey Pup (Dark Souls: Covenants) [Control] Legends tell of how Artorias the Abysswalker had a grey wolf companion he raised since birth, one he trained in order to aid him in combat. Like him, you now have your own wolf pup, who will turn out to be easy to train, undyingly loyal to you, and eventually grow to the size of a building. Alternatively, this could be the Abysswalker's trusted wolf herself.

100cp:Sleight of Hand (DC Occult) [Illusion]

You've had a good deal of practice at stage magic, street magic, or something in between. In addition to great skill at card tricks and various other illusions, you're none too shabby at picking locks and pockets. With some practice, you may even be good enough to do things like steal a watch right off of someone's wrist.

200cp: Ebony and Ivory (DMC 5) [Destruction]

Ebony and Ivory are a pair of personally customized, semi-automatic pistols, designed to rapidly fire bullets instilled with your demonic power if you have any. The white gun, Ivory, is custom built for rapid firing and fast draw times, while the black gun, Ebony, is modified for long-distance targeting and comfort. The pistols are also created so that they never run out of ammo. Uniquely, this set also has the ability to be turned into fully automatic, allowing you to hold in the trigger to constantly fire.

100cp: Elven Cloak (The Lord of the Rings) [Illusion]

You are warmed and protected by a cloak sewn and imbued by the Elves of Lorien. It will hide you from the sight of enemies, and will never fray or tear. Additionally, when worn it will seem to naturally cover scars or any bodily features which you would like concealed.

Milestones: Lady killer: Become a sex haver: 100 cp

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Magus explorator

Apr 8, 2025

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Apr 9, 2025

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I kicked the motel room door open with my boot.

Sif perked up immediately, tail wagging and ears alert. Rhea was on the bed doing push-ups for some reason, and Jasper was halfway through typing something on an ancient notepad like it mattered, the nerd.

Both of them froze when I stepped inside.

I didn't say a word at first.

The bag hit the bed like a dead body, and Rhea's eyes immediately lit up like a kid on Christmas morning with a firework fetish.

Jasper, however, just stared at the duffel like it might explode from eye contact alone.

I unzipped it slowly.

First came the glow. Then the heat. Then the soft, whispering hum of runes vibrating with barely contained magical violence.

"Alright," I said, casually pulling out a stick of enchanted dynamite and twirling it between my fingers like a pencil, "here's the deal."

Rhea leaned in, fully focused.

Jasper did not.

"We're gonna break into a local distribution center."

Rhea perked up. "Amazon?"

I smirked. "The Amazon. Actual Amazons. Warrior women. Corporate empire. They're running the place out of a 'secure logistics node' on the edge of town. Heavily enchanted. Guards. Possibly chariots."

She grinned. "This already sounds amazing."

"Euthenia wants it gone. Completely. No recovery, no repair. She gave us the fun bag." I kicked the duffel. It hissed.

"Why?" Jasper asked, deadpan. "Why do the gods care about two-day shipping?"

"Brand theft," I said. "They've been selling low-grade enchanted knockoffs using forge magic. That ticks off Olympus HQ, and Euthenia doesn't like competitors — especially when they've got the audacity to offer free returns on stolen divine artefacts."

I pointed at the canisters. "That's Greek Fire. As in: burns underwater, eats through magic, doesn't stop until it's done."

Rhea picked one up reverently. "Gods, I've always wanted to see this stuff in action."

"We go in after dark," I said. "Rhea and I plant the charges. Light up the place. Cause a distraction big enough to make the media think it was a meteor strike."

"Jasper?" I turned to him.

He held up his hands.

"Nope. I'm out. I don't do fire. I don't do explosions. And I definitely don't do Amazons."

"I'll bring you back a T-shirt," I said. "Maybe some magic bubble wrap."

He walked into the bathroom muttering something about early graves and job reassignment requests.

Rhea tossed a canister from one hand to the other, practically vibrating with excitement.

"So what's first?" she asked.

I pulled my pipe from my coat, lit it with a spark off one of the dynamite runes, and blew out a perfect smoke ring.

"We scout," I said. "Then we party."

The bike roared beneath us as we cut through the edge of the city, the last light of sunset bleeding out behind us. Rhea sat in the sidecar, one hand gripping the rim, the other casually resting on the bag of enchanted dynamite and Greek Fire strapped between us like it was a picnic basket.

"Alright," she shouted over the wind, "we're just scouting, right?"

The streetlights blurred past. The weight of the bag behind me was alive, humming with divine anticipation. I could feel the heat bleeding through the canvas. Each turn we made, each mile we passed, felt like a countdown ticking lower.

I finally called back, loud and clear:

"Scouting with intentions."

Rhea grinned wide. "So we're doing it tonight?"

"We're doing it tonight."

She gave the bag a loving pat, like it was a sleeping pet. "Best. Road trip. Ever."

We parked the bike a block away, stashing it in the shadows of a half-abandoned strip mall where nobody with a working sense of self-preservation would snoop around after dark, not in chicago.

The Amazon facility loomed in the distance — low, wide, and humming with magic under the veil of night. The logo glowed faintly like a warning. Even from here, I could see the shimmer of active wards, and a few armored silhouettes pacing the perimeter. Amazons. Armed. Alert. Probably bored, but not sloppy.

I pulled the bag of divine-grade destruction off my shoulder and crouched behind a dumpster, motioning for Rhea to do the same. She slid into place beside me, all adrenaline and excitement, her grin barely contained.

"Alright," I said, "entry point's the loading dock. Rear gate has the weakest light and fewest patrols."

"Got it," she whispered, checking the zipper on the duffel. "How do you wanna split it?"

"I'll hit the front and fuel area. You take the back end—support walls, loading corners, server hub if you see it."

"Boom-boom duty," she said, nodding. "Love it."

She was about to zip up the duffel again when I stopped her.

"Wait," I said, reaching into my coat.

I pulled out the cloak.

She blinked. "Uh… why are you undressing right before we commit arson?"

I smirked and held it out to her. "This thing makes you a ghost — they won't see you if you don't want them to. It'll blend with the shadows, dull your scent, and muffle your steps."

She eyed it, then looked at me. "You're giving it to me?"

"You're on point for planting. You'll be closer to their gear than I will. And you're the quieter one."

Rhea blinked, and for once, didn't have a quick comeback. She just took it, quietly, slipping the cloak over her shoulders.

It fluttered once — too big for a second — and then tightened, adjusting itself around her frame until it fit like it had been tailored for her by a divine seamstress.

"Whoa," she said under her breath, brushing her hand across the fabric. "This is… sick."

"You look like a witch," I muttered.

"I feel like a battle mage."

I gave her a nod, then gestured toward the treeline that bordered the compound.

"We go in, place the charges, light the place up, and disappear into the night. If things go wrong—"

"Blow it anyway," she said, flashing a grin from beneath the cloak's hood.

"Atta girl."

We slipped in through a maintenance door that I popped open with a hairpin and a little help from my enhanced hearing to guess the tumbles. I followed her in, staying low, senses stretched tight.

Inside?

It was a whole other world.

Rows of conveyor belts snaked through the building, glowing softly with low-level enchantments, floating packages levitating with gentle pulses of light. Automated sorters buzzed and clicked, some powered by ancient runes, others clearly tech-augmented. Each belt hummed like a vein in some massive, magical beast.

And the workers?

Half of them were mortals — tired-eyed temps, most with noise-canceling headphones or that blank, thousand-yard stare of someone too far into the shift to care anymore.

The other half?

Amazons. Warrior women in corporate-branded armor, checking tags, scanning cursed blades, logging divine returns. Swords. Talismans. A few boxes literally hissed or screamed when handled — one of them kept trying to gnaw through its own cardboard. It got dunked into a rune-marked return bin like it was just another toaster.

One row of stations caught my eye: worker cages.

Not metaphorical.

Actual cages — reinforced with sigils, enchanted glass, and rotating mechanical arms that picked up each item and held it out for inspection. Inside each was a solitary worker seated at a bench, analyzing returned artifacts while safe from their magical effects.

A few looked catatonic.

One was laughing hysterically while marking a clipboard.

Another just stared blankly ahead while a possessed tiara floated three inches from their face.

In the far corner, against a wall covered in motivation posters and enchanted HR compliance seals, sat a Mental Health Booth — a literal, soundproof glass box.

There was someone inside.

Screaming.

Rhea leaned toward me, whispering from beneath the hood, "Holy crap… this is worse than Walmart."

I nodded slowly, scanning the space. "Yeah… this isn't just grim."

She grinned. "Good thing we brought the fire."

We stuck to the shadows, slipping behind stacks of overstocked inventory — crates marked "Blessed Blades- Minor deities," "Cursed Decorative Mirrors (Do Not Open)," and "Bulk synthetic Ambrosia – Unflavored."

I whispered, "Split up. Plant everything fast. Meet at the bike in ten."

Rhea gave me a mock salute, her cloak already rippling as she vanished into the maze.

I turned toward the direction of the loading dock and server tower.

This place was about to go up in flames just like the rainforest.

Rhea slinked through the maze of inventory and half-enchanted forklifts like she belonged there, her cloak making her more shadow than substance. The fabric rippled against the faint glow of runes in the floor, keeping her perfectly invisible unless you were standing right on top of her.

The worker cages were worse up close.

Each one looked like something OSHA would break into tears trying to describe. Reinforced with steel and magic, they isolated the humans from the worst of the magical contamination… but not all of it. Rhea crouched behind a rack of enchanted kitchen knives as one poor worker tapped nervously on a stone tablet while a floating dagger hummed angrily outside the glass.

She didn't say anything. Didn't make a sound.

Just slid a stick of divine dynamite underneath the cage, clicked the rune to arm it, and whispered:

"You deserve a union."

Then she moved to the next one.

And the next.

I climbed the maintenance ladder two rungs at a time, claws dug into the steel when my boots slipped on the enchanted condensation pooling along the edge. The roof was lined with cables and pulsing pipes — clearly pumping magical airflow through the facility.

Perfect.

I crawled out along the upper catwalk like a saboteur in an old spy movie, duffel swinging at my side. Below me, Amazons paced, scanning inventory while cursed packages jittered on conveyor belts.

I pulled out two sticks of dynamite, armed the runes with a slow hum of power, and wedged them behind a support beam.

Pipe still clamped in my mouth, I muttered:

"This one's for Euthenia."

Another stick. Planted above the enchanted server cluster.

I couldn't resist.

I gave the servers the finger before dropping back down the ladder like a ghost.

As I made my way through the final row of crates, almost outside the warehouse, I passed a stack labeled:

"Returned: Item nonfunctional. Possibly cursed. Pending review."

The box was plain. Cardboard. A little beat-up. No glow. No seals. No movement.

And then—

It blinked.

There were eyes in the box. Deep-set. Not human. Not mortal.

And a voice came out.

"Ἑτέρος…"

It meant other.

Outsider.

I took a step back, hand sliding to the detonator.

The eyes narrowed.

The box twitched. Once. Then stopped.

Just as Rhea reappeared beside me, breathing hard, the cloak flickering.

"All set," she whispered. "Everything's planted."

I didn't take my eyes off the box.

"…Good," I said.

Rhea stood beside me, still cloaked, breathing a little heavy from planting half the building's doom. But all of her attention, like mine, was locked onto the box.

It wasn't just staring anymore.

It was opening.

The flaps of cardboard peeled back slowly, curling like flesh instead of paper. What looked like corrugation was actually gums, stretched wide around a gaping, black mouth.

And inside?

Teeth.

Not nice, human teeth.

These were jagged, broken, shard-like things — bronze-tipped, ivory-cracked, pitted with green corrosion and old blood.

Rhea hissed through her teeth. "That's not cursed. That's cursed-cursed."

And then — it spat.

One of the jagged teeth fired out like a bullet, slamming into the concrete near a pallet of enchanted armor.

Then another.

And another.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The teeth hit the ground and sank into the floor, almost like they were being planted.

"Oh no," I said, heart thudding.

Rhea blinked. "Wait. Is that—?"

The ground cracked.

Stone split.

And from each buried tooth, something began to rise.

First: hands. Bone. Bronze. Wrapped in tattered war banners from a thousand dead legions.

Then helms — twisted, corroded, shaped like long-dead city-states' final battle cries. Spears. Shields. Empty sockets filled with green flame.

Dragon-teeth warriors. Spartoi.

Rhea took one step back.

"Lucas?" she asked.

More teeth shot from the box. More warriors began clawing their way out of the concrete, silent and murder-ready.

I didn't answer.

I yanked the detonator from my belt.

Rhea didn't hesitate.

She pulled her own.

"You light your side," I growled. "I'll light mine."

"Together?"

"Together."

And then—

CLICK.

The moment our thumbs pressed the detonators, the world lit up.

First came the flash — blinding orange-white fire roaring through the enchanted halls of the fulfillment center, the Greek Fire canisters igniting with a scream of liquid magic that burned hotter than sunlight.

Then came the sound — a concussive shockwave that rattled buildings a block away. Windows cracked. Wards shattered. Ancient sigils blinked out like dying stars.

And then?

The warehouse exploded.

A plume of enchanted flame shot fifty feet into the air, painting the skyline with mythic destruction. A metal chariot got thrown clean over a shipping container. Boxes full of cursed toasters spun into the night like cardboard fireworks.

Rhea and I hit the ground running, lungs burning, cloak trailing sparks behind her as we sprinted back toward the alley where the bike was stashed.

Behind us?

Absolute chaos.

Screaming Amazons. Flaming crates. Pieces of possessed office chairs rolling down the pavement.

And something else—

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Rhea skidded into cover beside a dumpster. "We nailed that."

"Warehouse is done," I panted, pulling my jacket straight.

Then I heard it.

Metal.

Dragging.

Clink.

I turned.

From the edge of the crater — the flaming wreckage that used to be the loading dock — something was crawling.

Armor blackened. Bones cracked. Helmet half-melted into its scorched skull.

A Spartoi.

Still moving.

It dragged itself on one arm, shield melted to its other, broken spear clutched tight.

Its mouth — still burning green — hissed something in Greek I didn't understand.

But I knew what it meant.

It meant it wasn't finished.

Rhea followed my gaze.

"…Are you freaking kidding me?"

I stepped forward, claws sliding free with a quiet snikt.

"I really hate leftovers."

I took a step forward, claws ready, but Rhea held out a hand.

"I got it," she said.

I hesitated, then stepped back.

The Spartoi lunged, its scorched spear aimed at her center mass. She didn't flinch. She moved with confidence, deflecting the strike with her dagger, metal grinding as the tip scraped off in a shower of sparks.

While it stumbled from the parry, Rhea shifted her weight, reached low, and ripped the sword right from the sheath strapped to its hip. She twisted with it like she'd been doing this her whole life.

The Spartoi tried to recover.

She didn't let it.

Her free hand brought the pommel of the blade crashing down onto its exposed skull. The brittle bone cracked on impact. It staggered back, reeling—

—and she stepped forward, grabbed the side of its helmet for leverage, and slammed her boot down on its head. Once. Hard.

The light in its eyes flickered, then went dark.

The body collapsed, armor clattering on the pavement.

Rhea stood over it, breathing steady, watching just long enough to make sure it didn't get back up. She gave the sword a quick inspection, then nodded to herself and slid it through a loop in her belt.

"Mine now."

I raised an eyebrow. "That was terrifying."

She grinned. "You're welcome."

I looked at the scorched crater behind us, still glowing faintly in the distance, then at the half-shattered remains at her feet.

"Let's get out of here before this turns into round two."

She didn't need to be told twice.

We headed back toward the bike, shadows swallowing us up again as the flames flickered behind us.

The engine thundered beneath us as we peeled out of the alley, tires screaming across cracked pavement, smoke curling behind us from the burning remains of the Amazon warehouse.

I didn't look back.

Didn't have to.

The fire was big enough to light the skyline behind us in orange and gold — a divine middle finger to enchanted capitalism. We'd done what we came to do.

Rhea sat low in the skeleton of the sidecar, gripping the frame with one hand and resting the other on the hilt of the bronze sword she'd pried from a Spartoi's corpse like it belonged to her. She didn't speak. Just stared ahead, wind ripping through her hoodie, the fire still reflected in her eyes.

I kept the speed up, the wind in my face, the road stretched wide and dark ahead of us.

Then the air shifted.

Not wind. Not heat.

Pressure.

That same charged weight I'd felt before — like the moment before a lightning strike or the instant before a fight begins. It rolled over us in a slow wave, thick with the scent of metal, dust, and sweat.

I looked down.

Rhea was staring straight ahead — but something had changed.

On her forehead, just above her brow, a symbol began to burn itself into existence. Not painfully — no screaming, no drama. Just quiet, inevitable power.

A spearhead.

Dark red, almost black.

Flanked by jagged, tusk-like arcs curling around it.

The symbol of Ares.

It pulsed once. Then again.

And then, like fire cooling to embers, it faded into her skin.

Rhea blinked.

"Did I… get claimed?" she asked, confused.

"Yep," I said, not taking my eyes off the road. "You've officially got god-daddy issues."

She frowned. "Seriously?"

"Spear on the forehead," I said, tapping the spot on my own head. "Red glow. Whole war-god vibe. Guess he is a fan."

Rhea leaned back a little, one hand running through her hair like she was trying to feel something left behind.

Just her, the road, the sword, and that sharp-edged smile she was already trying to hide.

"Well, that explains a lot," she muttered.

"You good?"

She looked at the sword again. "Better than good."

And just like that, she leaned into the turn as we took the next curve on the open highway, first stop? The Forge.

The motel door creaked open with a dry groan as we stepped inside, trailing soot, ash, and victory in equal measure.

Jasper was sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, chewing on a bag of trail mix and watching the Weather Channel like it was a horror movie. His eyes locked onto us immediately — and then narrowed as he took in the scorched sleeves, the black smudges on our faces, and the fresh dents in Rhea's boots.

He blinked. Slowly.

"You blew it up tonight, didn't you?"

I kicked the door shut behind us and dropped the still-warm duffel onto the floor.

"Yup."

Jasper sighed like he aged five years on the spot. "You said scouting."

"We scouted," Rhea said, casually drawing the xiphos from her belt and inspecting the edge like she was checking her nails. "Then we improvised."

Jasper's eyes snapped to the blade. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"From a bone soldier that I killed with my boot."

He blinked. "You what?"

"Oh!" I chimed in, dropping onto the bed opposite him with a grin. "And she got claimed."

That got his full attention. He stared at Rhea like she'd grown antlers.

"You got—wait—by who?"

Rhea leaned slightly to one side and tapped two fingers to her forehead.

"Big red spear. Curved tusks. You do the math."

Jasper paled. "Ares?"

She nodded once, smug. "Apparently so."

He stared, mouth open, trail mix slowly falling out of his hand like a Greek tragedy.

"I need to sit down," he muttered.

"You are sitting," I said.

"Then I need to lie down."

Rhea flopped onto the second bed with a dramatic sigh, sword still in hand. "Best night ever."

Jasper rubbed his temples. "Do you two ever take a break?"

I stretched out, kicked off my crocs. "Sure. Usually between explosions."

Rhea flopped onto the motel bed like she just came back from gym class instead of, y'know, detonating a divine warehouse and getting claimed by the god of war. She still had the sword — the one she yoinked off a skeleton soldier — casually lying across her chest like it was a throw pillow.

Jasper sat on the edge of the other bed, shoulders tense, sipping from a lukewarm plastic motel cup like it was aged wine and not probably-tap water.

Me? I was lying on my back, arms behind my head, watching them from across the room, still faintly soot-covered.

Then Rhea, still not looking away from the cracked ceiling, asked, "So… what happens now?"

Her voice was quieter than usual. No punchline. No snark.

That got Jasper's attention. He lowered the cup, blinked once, then looked at her like she'd just asked where babies come from.

"You mean now that you're claimed?" he asked.

She nodded, just a little.

He exhaled. That satyr kind of exhale that said I hate that I know the answer to this.

"Well… first of all, congrats," he said. "You're officially in the system. No more guessing games. Ares put his mark on you — that means something."

"Like what?" Rhea asked, finally sitting up, still clutching her new sword like a favorite blanket.

Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. "Like attention. From other demigods. From gods. From monsters who really hate your dad."

"Good," she said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Let them come."

"See?" Jasper muttered. "Classic Ares kid."

I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you call me a walking death flag, like, two days ago?"

"You still are," he said. "Now there's two of you."

Rhea smirked. "Maybe we'll start a club."

I shifted onto my side, propped myself up on one elbow. "So what, does she start getting war quests now? Rage problems? Spontaneous shirtless arm-wrestling matches?"

Jasper didn't laugh. "Honestly? Wouldn't rule it out."

Rhea leaned back again, tossing the sword lightly up and catching it by the grip like she was born with it. "Kinda into it."

I let out a short breath. Amused. Maybe impressed.

She didn't look scared. Or confused.

She looked like a girl who just found out her bloodline came with a war manual.

And somehow, that made sense.

The sword had been sitting across Rhea's lap for the last ten minutes, and I was finally tired of pretending I wasn't staring at it.

It wasn't just some chipped xiphos from a dead Spartoi. Up close, I could see the bronze was etched with a faint pattern — something too clean to be just battle scars. The hilt was wrapped in deep red leather, worn smooth from years of use, but still firm. It had weight to it. Not just physically — but mythically.

"Gimme that for a sec," I said, reaching across from my bed.

Rhea arched a brow but handed it over. I turned it slowly in my hands, holding it near the light of the cheap motel lamp.

There.

Along the base of the blade, near the crossguard — a name, inscribed in Greek. Old, but not rusted. More like it had been waiting for someone to notice.

Ασκάλαφος.

I squinted at it. "Ascalaphus."

Rhea leaned forward. "Who?"

Jasper froze.

Like — full body freeze.

He set his cup down like it was suddenly very important not to spill it.

"You're kidding," he said, voice low. "That sword?"

I looked at him. "You know the name?"

Jasper rubbed his face with both hands. "Yeah, I know it. Ascalaphus was a demigod — son of Ares. One of the old war heroes. Led armies. Fought in the Trojan War. Guy was a monster on the battlefield — and not in a 'you'll grow into it' way. In a 'this dude killed twenty men before breakfast' way."

I turned the sword again in my hand. "So this was his?"

"Probably buried with him," Jasper said, sitting up straighter. "Which means that Spartoi you fought — wasn't just some grunt. You took down an undead war champion, but that doesn't make sense, as Spartoi aren't meant to pull spirits from the underworld."

"That's probably why it was being sent back, malfunctioning." I said out loud.

Rhea stared at the blade, then at the fading mark on her forehead, then back at the blade again.

And then, slowly, that grin crept back onto her face.

"So… family heirloom?"

Jasper groaned. "Please don't treat it like a toy, he was a Argonaut, that's big deal."

Rhea reached out and took the blade back from me. It seemed to fit her hand better now — like the name had recognized her.

"Hey, if the sword wanted to be in someone else's hands," she said, twirling it once, "it should've resisted the curb stomp."

I just shook my head.

Of course the war god's daughter walks off with a legendary blade and a cocky smirk like she earned both.

And honestly?

She kinda did.

Jasper let out a long, exhausted sigh — the kind that comes from knowing he was about to say something important and neither of us were going to take it seriously.

"Alright," he said, dragging the desk chair over and spinning it around to sit in it backwards, like a guidance counselor with hooves, "since you're both now officially on the radar — Rhea especially — we need to talk about what happens when we actually get to Camp Half-Blood."

Rhea was still admiring her newly acquired legendary sword, now resting across her knees like a sleepy cat.

I sat up a little, only halfway paying attention. "Is this the 'don't pick fights' talk?"

"Yes," Jasper said, "but also the 'please don't ruin everything for me' talk."

He pointed at me first. "Lucas."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Pay attention," he said flatly. "This applies to both of you."

I gave him a very mature thumbs-up.

He ignored it. "Camp Half-Blood isn't just a place where demigods train to fight monsters. It's home for a lot of us. We've got cabins — one for each god, usually — and you'll be assigned to yours once you're claimed."

Rhea nodded. "Guess I'm heading to Ares then."

"Yup," Jasper said. "And that comes with... baggage."

"Let me guess. Hotheads?"

"And reputational blood feuds. But yeah, mostly hotheads."

He turned to me again. "Lucas, you're unclaimed. Still. That's gonna raise eyebrows."

"Cool," I said. "I'll just write 'mystery meat' on my bunk."

Rhea snorted.

Jasper didn't. "That's not a joke. Camp politics are intense. Unclaimed kids get shoved into Cabin Eleven — Hermes's cabin — and until you get claimed, that's where you'll stay. You're all lumped together. It's... crowded. Chaotic."

"Sounds like public school," I muttered.

"It's worse," Jasper said. "It's public school with monsters trying to eat you during dodgeball."

He stood up, pacing a little now. "But look — Camp is the safest place you'll be. Magical borders. Training. Food. Shelter. You'll learn how to survive out there. And considering the kind of attention you two have been racking up—"

He paused. Looked at both of us.

"—you need it."

I leaned back, watching the ceiling. "And you think we'll be... welcome?"

Jasper shrugged. "I think you'll shake up the place."

Rhea grinned. "Good. I like shaking things."

He groaned. "You're going to fit right in with your siblings."

I was still chewing on everything Jasper said when something gnawed its way out of my mouth before I could stop it.

"What happens if I never get claimed?"

That made the room go still for a second.

Rhea blinked, her grin fading just a touch. Even she seemed surprised I'd asked.

Jasper stopped pacing.

He turned slowly, looked at me like I'd asked if the sun was planning to quit its job.

"That's not gonna happen," he said, like it was fact, not hope.

I raised an eyebrow. "You sure? We've been dodging monsters, blowing up warehouses, I've got claws, fire breath, whatever's going on with those suns I keep seeing—" I tapped my temple, "—and still nothing. Not even a postcard."

Jasper walked over and leaned against the dresser, arms crossed.

"Lucas," he said. "No way Apollo's leaving you hanging."

That gave me pause.

I looked at him. "You're that sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I've been watching you since Anchorage. The lyre. The healing. The guy might be slow on the formal paperwork, but he's not blind."

I cracked a grin. "So I'm being performance-reviewed by gods now?"

"Yes," Jasper said. "And I think you're nailing it."

Rhea raised a hand like she was in class. "Can I nominate him for 'Most Likely to Accidentally Seduce a Goddess'?"

"Please don't," Jasper groaned.

Rhea kicked her feet up on the motel nightstand and gave me a side-eye smirk.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Lucas," she said, "but you don't exactly scream Apollo. You're more like… chaotic gremlin energy with a side of murder."

"Rude," I muttered, but I didn't disagree.

She leaned forward, twirling her new sword like it was a drumstick. "Ares is loud. Athena is sharp. Artemis is... well, girl-only, so out, even if you fit all the hypothetical criteria. But Apollo? He's music, light, medicine, poetry. You? You're claws, fire, and bad impulse control."

"I play the lyre," I protested, sitting up straighter.

"You also set a vampire on fire with your spit." she continue.

I turned to Jasper. "You wanna jump in here?"

Jasper was already rubbing his temples like this conversation had cost him several years of his life.

"Okay, okay," he sighed. "Let's take a step back. You both clearly need some actual education before we reach camp, or you're gonna get stomped during orientation. So, listen up. Class is in session."

He stood up and began pacing like a teacher who's given this lecture way too many times.

"There are twelve Cabins at Camp Half-Blood. One for each of the major Olympian gods — the Big Twelve."

He ticked them off on his fingers.

"One: Zeus. Thunder guy, king of the gods. Empty."

"Two: Hera. No campers — she's the goddess of marriage and kind of picky. Her cabin's ceremonial."

"Three: Poseidon. Was empty until last year, got a guy there, but It might be just a rumor. Think water powers."

"Four: Demeter. Farmers, plant magic."

"Five: Ares." He gestured toward Rhea. "Warriors, rage problems, sometimes actually nice when they're not stabbing someone."

She gave a proud little salute.

"Six: Athena. Strategy, logic, nerds. Probably the best at Capture the Flag."

I raised a hand. "What's that?"

Jasper sighed. "Later. Seven: Apollo — music, healing, sunlight, archery, prophecies. Possibly you," he added, pointing at me.

I blinked. "Thanks for the 'maybe.'"

"Eight: Artemis. Hunters only — and girls only. Sworn to maidenhood. Don't flirt, don't ask, don't breathe wrong near them."

"Nine: Hephaestus. Forge, fire, machines. Tech-heads."

"Ten: Aphrodite. Love, beauty, drama, and far too many enchanted mirrors."

Rhea leaned toward me. "You'd make a great Aphrodite kid."

"I will set your socks on fire."

"Eleven: Hermes," Jasper continued, unfazed. "Messengers, travelers, thieves. That's where all unclaimed kids go. Crowded. Chaotic. Actually kinda fun."

"Sounds like an orphanage run by raccoons," I muttered.

"Pretty much," Jasper said. "Twelve: Dionysus. Party god. Wine, madness, theater, emotional damage."

"And thirteen," he finished, "Hades. he doesn't have a cabin."

He let that hang there for a beat.

"And you," he said, pointing at me again, "could land in any of them."

Rhea grinned. "Except Artemis."

Jasper looked at her. "You'd be surprised."

Rhea leaned forward, the sword now resting casually against her shoulder like it was part of her spine.

"Okay, real talk," she said. "Who's the worst cabin to piss off?"

Jasper didn't answer right away. He gave her a long look, then turned slowly toward me.

"Are we talking worst in a 'they'll embarrass you publicly' kind of way, or worst in a 'they'll literally feed you to something with hooves and too many teeth' kind of way?"

Rhea shrugged. "Yes."

Jasper sighed. "Alright, here's the short version: all of them are dangerous if you poke the wrong buttons. But if I had to pick?"

He held up three fingers.

"One: Ares. Obvious. Start a fight, they'll finish it, and probably film it. Most of their siblings think 'apology' is a type of combat move."

Rhea grinned proudly.

"Two: Athena," he said, finger dropping. "Not because they'll punch you, but because they'll ruin you. They hold grudges, they fight smart, and they know every loophole in the camp's rules. You don't even realize you've lost until they're three steps ahead and you're failing history class for the rest of the summer."

"I respect that," I said.

"And three?" Jasper paused for effect. "Dionysus."

That made both Rhea and I raise our eyebrows.

"Party god?" I asked.

"Yeah," Jasper said, nodding. "Party god. Madness god. Chaos. Wine. Theater. Their campers? Unstable. Super nice until they're not. Their cabin is all vibes until someone breaks a guitar string, then it's emotional whiplash and accidental hexes until someone's speaking fluent penguin."

Rhea blinked. "Fluent penguin?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Jasper muttered.

"So," I said slowly, "don't start fights with the rage kids, don't try to outsmart the smart kids, and don't mock the art kids?"

"Correct," he said, relieved I was finally absorbing something.

"Good," Rhea said, leaning back. "I'll fight anyone else then."

"Perfect," Jasper said flatly. "We'll be popular."

I sat up straighter on the bed, resting my elbows on my knees. "Alright, so you've mentioned it twice now. What's the deal with this Capture the Flag thing?"

Rhea perked up from where she was braiding a piece of string through the hilt of her new sword. "Yeah. You keep saying it like it's war."

Jasper gave us both a deadpan look.

"That's because it is."

I blinked. "...Come again?"

"Capture the Flag," he said, dragging his chair closer like he was preparing for a dramatic retelling, "is the single most chaotic, blood-soaked, limb-bruising, ego-destroying tradition at Camp Half-Blood. Happens every week, rain or shine. Two teams, full gear, real weapons—blunted—and a stretch of enchanted forest that changes just enough to mess with everyone's plans."

Rhea whistled low. "So, a live combat trial."

"Exactly," Jasper said.

I raised an eyebrow. "And this is recreational?"

"It's also how cabins earn bragging rights, alliances, and settle grudges. You'll see Hermes and Apollo team up against Ares and Athena, and sometimes Demeter just shows up with a freaking vine monster."

"And what, there's a flag in the middle?"

"There's a flag in each team's territory. You guard yours, and try to steal the other team's. Simple. Except there are wards, booby traps, illusion spells, secret tunnels—"

"Someone fell into a pit trap last year, I had good money on him" Jasper added, almost to himself.

Rhea leaned forward, interested now. "Did they make it out?"

"Eventually."

I scratched my chin. "So it's capture the flag, if it were designed by wizards, gladiators, and kids with trauma."

"Exactly," Jasper said, pointing at me. "Also the med tent gets real busy."

I smirked. "Sounds fun."

Rhea was already grinning. "We're gonna dominate."

Jasper looked like he aged another five years.

The room had been quiet, almost peaceful.

Sif was flopped on the floor, chewing on an old sock like it owed her money. Rhea was tossing one of the motel pillows in the air and catching it like she was warming up for combat drills. Jasper, for once, looked relaxed — leaning against the headboard, eyes half-closed like he might actually nap.

And me? I was starting to believe this was what normal felt like.

Then the rainbow shimmer sparked in the corner of the room, cutting the air like a blade of sunlight. The prism glimmer spread outward in a smooth vertical line.

Jasper groaned. "No. Nope. I refuse."

Rhea looked over. "You didn't even answer it yet."

"I can feel the customer service energy radiating off it."

The message solidified. And standing there in the rainbow light, in a shop apron and flame-proof gloves, was not Euthenia — but one of her Cyclopes. The guy had one big eye, a headset that was way too small for his head, and a clipboard he probably didn't need but was holding anyway.

He gave us a big, toothy grin and spoke in a warm, professionally cheerful voice like he'd been trained by an enchanted call center spirit.

"Hello, is this Mr. Lucas Walker?" the Cyclops asked.

I blinked. "Uh... yeah?"

"Fantastic! This Iris Message may be monitored or recorded for customer service and quality assurance purposes. My name is Doro, and I'm calling on behalf of Hephaestus Divine Forgeworks and Logistics Hub, Western Division. I'm happy to let you know that your requested motorcycle upgrade is now complete."

Rhea leaned over and whispered, "Did he just say 'Western Division'?"

Doro continued like he hadn't heard her. "Your vehicle has been reinforced with a celestial bronze-core sidecar, fitted with divine-grade fireproofing, monster-resistant plating, and all mechanical components tested and certified to godly standard 42B."

"...What happened to A through 41?" Jasper muttered.

"Additionally," Doro said, flipping a page on his clipboard with ceremonial flourish, "Euthenia would like to remind you that the modifications were done as part of a 'favor exchange agreement' and any misuse may result in poetic retribution at her discretion."

I raised a hand. "Define misuse."

"Firing it into the sun," Doro said without hesitation. "Or turning it into a weapons rack for monster heads. Or trying to gift it to a Muse."

Rhea nodded. "That one makes sense."

"Thank you for choosing Divine Forgeworks," Doro said, giving a cheerful bow. "Your ride awaits. You may pick it up at your earliest convenience. This concludes our communication."

The rainbow light blinked out instantly.

Silence returned.

I exhaled slowly. "Man... even the Cyclopes have better customer service than the mortal world."

Rhea cracked her knuckles. "Sidecar's mine."

Jasper just lay back and groaned. "You're sharing it with the dog."

Sif flopped in the middle of the room, tongue lolling out, tail wagging in slow, lazy arcs.

Across from her, kneeling like a commander with a secret stash of dog treats, was Rhea.

"Okay," she said, holding up her hand like a traffic cop. "Sif. Sit."

The wolf blinked, head tilting.

"Sit," Rhea repeated, more firm this time.

Sif sat.

"Ha!" Rhea grinned wide. "You see that?"

Jasper looked up from his book. "She probably just likes the acoustics of the word."

"Quiet, goat boy." Rhea turned back to her new fuzzy disciple. "Alright, next up: roll."

Sif blinked again.

Rhea made a spiraling motion with her hand.

Sif flopped dramatically onto her side, rolled once, then looked vaguely proud of herself.

Rhea gasped like she'd just witnessed a miracle. "She's a genius."

"Smarter then a lot of kids out there," I said, grabbing my jacket from the chair.

Rhea didn't hear me. She was already testing out advanced commands.

"Go here," she said, pointing to the space next to her. Sif padded over and plopped down like a good soldier.

"Pick up sword."

The wolf padded over to the corner, carefully grabbed Rhea's xiphos by the leather-wrapped hilt, and trotted back with it gently clamped in her jaws.

"Oh my gods," Rhea whispered. "She's perfect."

Jasper finally looked up. "Please don't teach her 'smack people with it.'"

"That was going to be next."

I cleared my throat and slung the duffel over my shoulder. "Alright, I'm heading to the forge. Picking up the beast."

Rhea gave me a two-finger salute without looking away from Sif. "Tell the Cyclops he's getting a five-star review if she learns to do donuts."

I gave Jasper a nod. "Keep her from burning the hotel down."

"She's actually well-behaved," he said.

"I meant Rhea."

He sighed. "No promises."

The air still smelled faintly of ozone and divine grease when I stepped through the front entrance of the forge.

It was hotter than last time — not in a furnace kind of way, but in a sun-baked iron left in a war god's garage kind of way. Sparks flew in distant corners, cast in strange glowing hues: gold, celestial bronze, a kind of ghostly green I wasn't sure belonged to any mortal element.

And in the middle of it all?

There she was.

My bike.

Still scratched, still bruised from the road — but now... armored. Sleek. Dangerous.

The matte black frame had been reinforced with thin lines of gleaming bronze, etched with soft, glowing runes. The engine looked newer, cleaner, but still roared like something alive when I stepped closer. The sidecar sat flush with the chassis — low, fireproof, sealed at the bottom with what looked suspiciously like monster-leather lining.

It was, in a word, beautiful.

"Welcome back," came a rumbling voice.

I turned to see the Cyclops, Doro, stepping out from behind a rack of enchanted mufflers, wiping his massive hands on an oil-slicked rag.

He gave me a one-eyed grin. "Looks good on you already."

"Does it come with a kill count?" I asked, circling the bike like I was checking for traps.

He chuckled. "It might. We installed a reinforced mana core for prolonged magical exposure, an adaptive suspension for combat terrain, and a protective spell woven into the leather. Your sidecar's rated for minor explosions, projectile resistance, and large canine occupants."

"So it's Sif-proof?"

"To a point."

I ran a hand along the handlebar, feeling the faint pulse of divine energy thrumming beneath the metal.

"Anything else I should know?"

He shrugged. "Euthenia added a hidden compartment for supplies — and maybe a surprise or two. But she said you'd figure it out when you needed to."

"Cryptic."

"She's a goddess of logistics. It's part of the brand."

I swung one leg over the seat and gave the throttle a light twist. The bike growled in response.

Felt good.

Felt like mine.

I popped the kickstand, revved it once for good measure, and gave Doro a small salute.

"Tell Euthenia she's got my thanks. And my future business."

He nodded. "Ride fast, demi."

The city blurred around me, lights flickering off the polished bronze trim of the bike as I cut through traffic like a whispered secret. The forge was long behind me now, and the streets of Chicago were settling into that slow afternoon rhythm — cars idling, crosswalks ticking, horns honking not in anger, but out of habit.

I rolled to a stop at a red light, engine purring beneath me like a sleeping predator.

It felt good.

The reinforced frame, the way the sidecar hugged the pavement — the whole ride felt tighter, smoother, stronger. Euthenia hadn't just upgraded the machine. She'd tuned it to me.

And that's when it hit me.

A flash.

The black sun came back. Not all at once. Not in a wave. Just... there.

And then one of them shined.

I sucked in a breath, fingers tightening on the throttle—

—and the bike shifted beneath me.

It didn't move forward. It didn't jolt.

It changed.

The red light hadn't changed, but the bike sure as hell had.

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

Where once sat a war-torn, patched-up Harley with some divine hot-rodding slapped on top, now hovered something else entirely.

The wheels were gone — replaced by smooth, circular anti-grav plates glowing faint blue, humming just barely as the bike hovered inches above the pavement. The sound was cleaner now. Sleek. Like the quiet thrum of something too advanced to be making noise at all.

The body — the old steel frame — was now celestial bronze-fused alloy, polished with a shine that caught sunlight in lines like blade edges. The seams were seamless. Runes pulsed faintly along the fuel tank — no, not fuel anymore — probably mana, or sunfire, or divine power bottled in something that looked way too smooth to be ancient.

The seat was no longer just stitched leather. It was gold-lined, ergonomic, somehow molded perfectly to my posture. There was even a raised pedal angled at the back — like a brace for the rider's feet in a full-tilt hover sprint.

And at the front?

Two angled prongs jutted forward just ahead of the engine block — deep purple, faintly crackling with energy, like a tuning fork for a god's thunder. Between them, the engine itself glowed faintly.

And off to the side?

A floating sidecar, now held to the main body not by bolts and bars, but by a thick blue energy tether, humming with power. It bobbed slightly in the air, perfectly synced with the bike's center of gravity — light as a dream but looking durable enough to take a hit from a manticore.

The whole thing looked like it had been designed by Hephaestus during a caffeine bender while watching Tron and ancient war dramas on repeat.

I just stared at it, slack-jawed behind my visor.

I didn't move.

"...Daddy likes, daddy likes very much."

The light turned green.

And I twisted the throttle.

The response was immediate.

Not fast. Not "wow, this accelerates nicely."

I mean divine.

Neck-snapping, stomach-in-your-throat, the-world-stretched-out-around-me kind of fast.

The bike launched forward like it had been yanked by a celestial slingshot. My vision tunneled as wind screamed past me — or it would have, if the damn thing didn't seem to control the airflow itself, curving it smoothly around my body like I was riding in a pressure bubble.

I veered to the side instinctively, headed toward a parked car—

—but the bike shifted.

I didn't even have to think about it.

The frame subtly tilted.

The anti-grav plates pulsed.

And just like that, I missed the car by a whisper without even feeling the edge of the turn.

I looked down — the tires weren't on the road anymore.

I was floating. Hovering, just above the surface.

I angled the bars slightly and pushed up.

The bike rose.

Not high — just enough to clear traffic.

Cars honked below me like angry ants as I skated across the tops of the lanes, a streak of bronze, purple and divine power.

This thing wasn't just a motorcycle anymore.

It was a damn miracle.

Every movement responded like it was wired directly into my thoughts. Tilt. Rise. Shift. Dodge. Accelerate.

The city became a blur.

Stop signs? Gone.

Red lights? What red lights?

Traffic? Didn't know her.

The wind rushed around me in a perfect cone of silence, the sidecar floating weightlessly beside me like a satellite tethered by starlight.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

And then I did the only logical thing.

The only thing a sane mind could do in my situation.

I gunned it.

CP Bank: 0cp

Perks earned this chapter:

100 cp The Sparrow ( The Destiny Universe) [Magitek] High-speed flying bikes, Sparrows are the rides of choice for Guardians seeking to cover a lot of ground in a little time. You can choose from any Sparrow available in Sol, for 100 CP you can even select from the Exotic Sparrows. (always on time)

Milestones: none.

Last edited: Apr 9, 2025

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Magus explorator

Apr 9, 2025

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Magus explorator

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Apr 10, 2025

#832

Author note: This chapter has been edited to make it less gory, the unedited version is in another site.

I pushed the throttle again.

Not gently.

Hard.

The world stretched.

Everything blurred. The buildings, the cars, the sky — they smeared into streaks of light and color. My stomach stayed in place about three blocks back. Even my thoughts had to play catch-up.

It wasn't just fast.

It was too fast.

And yet the bike held.

Balanced. Stable. Silent.

The air around me shimmered with energy. The anti-grav plates adjusted seamlessly with every shift in momentum. I wasn't just driving this thing — it was moving with me, anticipating the turns, adjusting to every lane change before I even committed.

I darted across rooftops, floated over traffic, zigzagged between signs and power lines without a scratch.

Then I saw the street where the motel sat — a familiar square of cheap asphalt, faded yellow lines, and a wolf pup the size of a small ATV sitting at the edge of the curb.

I leaned in.

The bike dipped, curved into a spiraling descent, and landed so softly that the only thing that touched pavement was the sudden thrum of its gravity plates settling into idle.

Damm I'm starting to love this bike.

Rhea was standing just outside the room, her sword casually slung over one shoulder, talking to Jasper about something — probably how to train Sif to do cartwheels — when she turned around.

And froze.

The conversation died on her lips.

Her jaw quite literally dropped.

Jasper rubbed his eyes like they just popped off his skull.

I cut the engine. The sidecar hovered next to me in perfect formation. The frame shimmered faintly under the fading sun.

I lifted my helmet visor just enough to flash a grin.

"Delivery for Camp Half-Blood," I said. "Next stop: wherever the hell we want."

"Shotgun," Rhea said, already halfway to the sidecar before I could even get the helmet fully off.

"I figured," I muttered, watching her vault over the glowing tether like she was mounting a war chariot.

Sif padded up right behind her, tail wagging in rhythmic excitement. She gave the sidecar a quick sniff, then hopped in like it had been built for her. Which, honestly, it was. The two of them together looked like the cover of a fantasy metal album: barbarian daughter of war and her magical wolf, ready to ride into the apocalypse.

Rhea grinned. "Sif fits perfectly. She's already claimed the side. That means I drive the sword side."

"She can't actually drive, you know."

"She can learn."

Jasper approached more slowly, cautiously, as if the bike might explode from divine overengineering.

"Where… exactly do I sit?" he asked.

I pointed behind me, then realized… no. Wait. That wouldn't work.

He followed my gaze.

We both looked at the tiny sliver of seat space between me and the tail end of the hovering frame. Technically it was part of the structure. Technically it was a seat.

Barely.

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Too late," I replied, tossing him a helmet. "Come on, Goat Legs. No time like the present."

He groaned, hoisted himself up awkwardly, and settled behind me like an extremely reluctant backpack. His hooves thumped against the footrest, and his arms kind of hovered in panic like he didn't know where to put them.

"This is undignified."

"This is fast."

He grabbed my jacket. "If I die, I'm haunting you."

"If you fall off, I'm not stopping."

Beside us, Rhea banged her palm on the rim of the sidecar like a rallying cry.

"Let's roll, boys!"

I kicked the bike to life.

The engine purred — no, sang, smooth, low and smug.

Then I hit the throttle.

And we were gone to our last stop in Chicago.

The smell hit us before we even stepped inside — a mix of sawdust, hamster feed, and vaguely fishy dog shampoo.

Pet Emporium.

Rhea was the first one through the glass door, dragging Sif behind her with a leash made from my spare belt we absolutely did not need — mostly for show, since Sif listened better than most trained dogs and could probably throw down with a hellhound if she wanted to.

"I'm serious," Rhea said, holding the leash proudly, "if we're traveling with her, she needs gear. Treats. Toys. Tactical chewables."

Jasper followed us in, rubbing the shoulder he'd bruised climbing off the back of the hover bike. "Can she even fit in a tent?"

"We're getting her her own tent, a doggy tent" I muttered, already heading toward the back aisle.

The store was surprisingly quiet. Clean. Normal.

Painfully normal.

While Rhea disappeared into the toy section — loudly testing squeaky toys with zero shame — I grabbed the essentials:

Two boxes of eco-friendly poop bags (the satyr approved of the smell they had).

A leash for show.

A brush for her coat along other bathing supplies.

A couple cans of something that claimed to be "bison-flavored" but probably wasn't.

Sif sat patiently the whole time, watching the automatic door open and close like she was reading the flow of the world.

I knelt beside her, rubbed behind her ears. "You're a good girl. You know that?"

She wagged her tail, then gently took the bag of treats from my hand and held it like a prize.

Outside, I ducked into the shop next door and grabbed a small canvas hunting bag — something sturdy, with leather straps and compartments for tools. Perfect for what I had in mind.

I slung it over my shoulder and made a quiet mental note.

Hunt something soon. Real meat. Real protein.

No way this pup was gonna live off compressed kibble and fake bison.

She was a wolf.

My wolf.

I had just finished stuffing the last of the essentials into my new hunting bag when I heard the first squeak.

Then the second.

Then a full-on symphony of honks, crunches, jingles, and something that sounded like a duck in its final death throes.

Rhea rounded the aisle with a shopping cart so full it was creaking under the weight of a dog mom using another person money.

"Alright," she said proudly, "I think I got the basics."

Sif barked once — happy, approving — and immediately tried to climb into the cart like it was her new mobile throne.

I blinked. "What... is all of that?"

Rhea started listing off items with the enthusiasm.

"I swear to the gods," Jasper said from behind her, "if that thing starts playing war drums, I'm jumping out of the bike."

I just stared at the cart.

"Where is this all going?"

Rhea gave me the most innocent look I've ever seen on someone with that much murderhobo energy.

"The sidecar," she said.

Jasper groaned. "We're going to die."

I patted Sif's head, who looked way too proud of herself.

"Nah," I said. "We'll just be very well accessorized when it happens."

The cashier looked like he was trying to figure out if we were prepping for the Westminster Dog Show or an interdimensional war.

Sif stood at the counter with her tongue hanging out and her paw gently placed on the counter like she was waiting for a receipt.

Rhea grinned the whole time like this was a normal Tuesday.

"Is, uh…" the cashier started, eyes drifting to the collar that now softly pulsed like it had WiFi, "...your dog in some kind of... show?"

"Yup," I said. "Touring circuit. Very competitive."

Rhea elbowed me. "Specialty class. Mythic-class obedience trials."

The cashier did not understand but accepted our money like his job depended on ignoring customer behavior.

Which, to be fair, it probably did.

Sad part of this whole operation was that I was now officially broke.

Once everything was bagged, strapped to Rhea's half of the sidecar, and Sif was loaded in like a queen on her throne, we climbed onto the bike.

The anti-grav plates hummed softly, lifting us just above the concrete. The bronze frame gleamed in the daylight. The sidecar glowed with its faint blue tether. It looked like a cross between a war machine and an off-brand space chariot.

Jasper awkwardly climbed up behind me again, muttering about how he missed normal transportation.

"You've got a goat stomach," I said. "This should be your thing."

"I was built for hills," he grumbled. "Not warp speed."

I looked over my shoulder.

"You ready?"

Rhea threw on a pair of shades. "Sif's ready."

The pup let out a bark.

I cracked my neck, twisted the throttle, and leaned forward.

The engine purred beneath us.

Then we took off, leaving behind the confused cashier, a long receipt, the brief illusion of normalcy.

We were flying.

The hoverbike roared beneath us with a sound halfway between a whisper and a growl.

Detroit was already a memory.

Ohio came and went in a blur of green signs and confused rest stop tourists.

And the way we were moving?

"We'll be in central Pennsylvania by nightfall," I muttered to myself, watching the trees whip past.

Behind me, Jasper had long stopped protesting. I think somewhere around 140 miles an hour, he just gave up. He sat perfectly still now, hands gripped to the back of my jacket like he'd reached his final spiritual form: numb goat backpack.

Rhea, on the other hand, was thriving.

She had one foot kicked up on the side of the sidecar, leaning back like she was sunbathing on the edge of a starfighter. Sif sat next to her, wind whipping through her fur, squeaky toy clenched firmly in her jaws like a trophy.

The pup let out a bark that sounded like pure victory.

"We are hauling!" Rhea shouted over the wind, though it barely reached me through the bike's bubble of controlled airflow.

I grinned under my helmet.

The speed didn't feel dangerous.

I had a need... a need for speed.

It felt right.

At this rate?

We could be at Camp Half-Blood in a day and a half — if we didn't get sidetracked by monsters, divine weirdness, or whatever else the Fates were cooking.

The sun was sliding low, staining the sky in deep orange and bruised purple when I pulled the bike off onto a dirt patch off the highway. Trees loomed ahead — thick, dense, perfect hunting ground.

The moment the engine shut off, the quiet wrapped around us like a cold sheet.

Rhea stretched as she stepped out of the sidecar, groaning as her boots hit the gravel. Sif hopped down beside her with a little bounce, sniffing at the air like she already knew what time it was.

Jasper looked around. "I don't see a gas station, or a diner, or... anywhere to get food."

"Exactly," I said, rolling my shoulders.

He frowned. "So… dinner plan is…?"

I popped my claws with a casual snikt and gave them a sharp grin. "Me."

Rhea raised a brow. "You cooking or catching?"

"Both. But first—" I pointed toward the treeline. "You two gather firewood. Enough for a proper spit-roast. Sif stays with you."

The pup let out a tiny whine, but I gave her a look and she sat with an exaggerated thump, tail wagging like a generator.

Jasper made a face. "You really think there's anything out here to hunt?"

"Oh yeah," I said, stepping onto the brush and sniffing the air. "I smell it already."

The stench hit me hard and fast — wet fur, musky and sour, like sweat and rot and brute strength stuffed into a four-legged battering ram.

Wild hog.

Big. Mean. Maybe four of them.

I dropped lower to the ground, letting the stealth gift take over. My boots didn't crunch a single leaf. The shadows wrapped around me like old friends. The wind carried every scent, every shift of the underbrush, straight to me.

I glanced back.

"Keep the fire going," I said. "I'll bring the meat."

Then I vanished into the woods, the scent of wild hog thick on the wind, claws itching for the kill.

Dinner was about to get real fresh.

The forest got quiet.

Too quiet.

The wind didn't rustle the trees. No crickets. No birds. No small scurrying animals bolting from my path.

That's when I knew something was off.

I followed the stench. It was so strong now it felt like it was coating my tongue — sweat, mud, musk, and blood. I crouched low, slid between some roots, and parted a wall of brush.

That's when I saw it.

And I stopped breathing.

It wasn't just a wild hog.

It was the wild hog.

Massive.

Monstrous.

Its body was the size of a freaking land rover, all muscle and thick, bristled hide the color of dried blood. Its tusks were bigger then me, curling and jagged, like they'd been carved from obsidian and sharpened by centuries.

Its eyes?

Burning red.

It wasn't rooting in the dirt like a normal pig. It was pacing — angry, stomping, snorting steam from its nostrils like a pissed-off freight train waiting to go off the rails.

I stared, frozen.

tonight's special.

I felt my instincts kick in — that low, electric buzz in my nerves.

This wasn't just a hunt.

This was a challenge.

I gritted my teeth and slid my claws free.

"Okay, miss piggy," I muttered, heart pounding but hands steady. "Let's dance."

I moved in slow.

Low to the dirt.

Silent. Ghost-stepping through the underbrush like the wind itself.

The boar had its head lowered, snorting, nostrils flaring. Maybe it smelled me. Maybe it didn't care.

I stepped around the roots, angled to go for the flank — quick slice to the throat, fast kill. But then—

My claws went for the swipe, but It hit nothing, just superficial fat and skin, its hide too thick for a quick strike.

Its head whipped around, and that was all the warning I got.

The beast charged.

It was like a truck hitting the forest at full speed. Trees snapped. Earth tore. The sound of hooves pounding the ground hit my chest harder than thunder.

I dove left—

Not fast enough.

The tusk caught me, right through the side, and kept going. The force yanked me clean off my feet. My body lifted, and before I could even scream—

SHUNK.

The tusk impaled me.

Through the lower back, up into my gut, bursting out my shoulder like some twisted kebab.

Pain exploded in my brain like white fire.

But I didn't scream.

I grabbed it.

One hand on the tusk.

One hand on my own blood-slick claw.

I pulled myself in.

"Nope. Not done."

I wrapped myself around its thick, muscled neck like a human parasite, claws digging into bristle and flesh. My body screamed. My back popped. Blood poured from the wound.

But I was still moving.

Still stabbing.

Slash—

Dig—

Stab again.

Over and over, tearing into the meat of its shoulder, its neck, its jaw. Blood — not mine — sprayed out, hot and steaming.

The boar roared, reared, slammed against trees and rocks trying to shake me off. It rammed into bark, thrashed, but I held on with claws, teeth, and sheer rage.

"You stabbed me," I growled through bloody teeth. "I'll make your kids into a fucking belt!"

It squealed, louder than thunder.

I stabbed again.

And again.

I could barely hear anything over the pounding in my skull. My heart thudded like war drums. Blood poured from the wound in my side, painting my chest red and hot, but I didn't care.

The boar thrashed like a beast on fire, tree branches stabbed into my back while sharp broken stones teared into me..

But I held on.

One claw buried deep into its bristled hide. The other?

Stabbing.

Over.

And over.

It roared again — some unholy, ancient sound that shook the birds from the trees. Its glowing eye turned back toward me, hate and pain boiling in that molten-red pupil.

And in that second—

I took a deep breath.

The venom glands beneath my tongue pulsed.

My mouth filled with liquid heat.

"Say ahh," I growled.

Then I opened my mouth and unleashed.

A stream of burning venom lit the air — not just liquid, but fire. A concentrated arc of green-tinted flame blasted out from my throat, hitting the boar square in the eye.

WHOOOMPH.

It screamed.

Stumbled.

Its head jerked, tusks tearing sideways through my gut — new wound, same rage — and still I didn't let go.

"STAY—"

Stab.

"—DOWN—"

Stab.

"YOU—"

Slash.

"PORK-FACED—FUCK!"

With one final bellow, the boar staggered forward, crashed into a tree hard enough to snap its trunk—

—then collapsed, body twitching, legs kicking once… and stilled.

The forest went quiet.

I lay on its back, still impaled, chest heaving, blood dripping from my mouth as my claws finally unclenched.

I winced, yanked myself off the tusk, and hit the dirt hard.

"...ow."

The healing factor kicked in immediately, knitting muscle, sealing arteries, closing that ragged wound inch by inch. It hurt like hell.

But I was alive.

And the Boar?

Was dinner.

The healing was still working overtime, muscle knitting beneath torn skin, ligaments sliding back into place with sick little cracks under the surface. It stung. Bad. But that wasn't gonna stop me.

I stood there for a second, staring at the massive corpse in front of me. My breathing still ragged, steam rising off my shoulders.

"Well… guess I'm carrying this."

The boar was the size of a small car. Easily over a ton of gristle, hide, and mythic meat. Dragging it wasn't gonna be easy — but I'd already been impaled, so what the hell was a little cardio?

I reached under its front leg, locked my arms, planted my feet—

—and heaved.

Muscles screamed.

My veins stretched and popped.

But the carcass started to slide.

I got it moving.

Inch by inch.

Through the brush.

Back the way I came.

The forest floor was littered with broken trees and shredded undergrowth from the rampage. I followed the destruction like a trail of breadcrumbs. My claws left bloody handprints in the dirt. The air stank of blood, pine, and roasted pork.

I was halfway back to the clearing when I heard voices.

Jasper.

Rhea.

And then I stepped out from the treeline like a revenant, dragging the mythic corpse behind me, drenched in blood, shirt shredded, and probably looking like something that crawled out of Tartarus with a bad attitude and a butcher's bill.

Rhea stood up from where she was sharpening her sword.

Her jaw dropped.

Sif barked once, wagging her tail like I'd just brought her a birthday cake made of steak.

Jasper just blinked. "What the hell."

I let the boar stop with a wet thud in front of the firepit.

"Dinner," I said, wiping blood off my lip. "Hope someone brought seasoning."

Jasper didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Just stared at the giant slab of bacon I'd dropped in front of the fire like it was a nuclear warhead.

Rhea whistled low. "That thing's massive. You sure it's dead?"

"It better be," I said, wiping blood off my neck. "If it gets back up I'm feeding it to Sif in pieces."

Sif, for her part, was sniffing around the corpse like she'd just found her favorite chew toy on steroids.

Jasper stepped forward slowly, like it might still lunge at him.

Then he crouched near the boar's head — just behind the blackened patch where I'd melted its eye — and traced one finger along the curling tusks.

"Oh no," he muttered.

"Oh no what?" Rhea asked.

Jasper looked up at me, eyes wide.

"Lucas," he said, voice weirdly reverent, "do you have any idea what this is?"

I squinted at the giant carcass. "Uh. A boar? A really pissed-off one?"

"This is the Erymanthian Boar."

I blinked. "...Like, capital letters?"

"Capital E, capital B," he nodded, now pacing around the thing. "One of the Twelve Labors. Heracles was ordered to capture this thing alive. It was said to be so dangerous it terrorized whole villages and even scared other monsters out of its territory."

"Neat," I said. "Well, it's less terrifying now. It's dinner."

Jasper stared at me like I'd just insulted Zeus's fashion sense.

"You don't just kill a creature like this."

"I didn't get a vote," I said. "It ran me through. I improvised."

Rhea grinned while examining the carcass. "He breathed fire into its skull and stabbed it like twenty times."

Jasper looked back at the body, still processing.

"I can't believe you found it here. In Pennsylvania. That's like finding Medusa at a Starbucks."

I dusted my hands off and dropped to sit on a log, blood still drying on my shirt. "Well, here we are."

He looked at me again. "Lucas. This is legendary. People write epics about killing stuff like this."

I leaned back with a sigh.

"Yeah? Then someone better bring me a plate when they're done writing."

Rhea and I knelt beside the boar, sleeves rolled, knives out. She had her xiphos out, using the flat to break through hide and muscle like she'd done this before — which, of course, she had apparently. Probably not on a car-sized pig, but still. Girl had range.

Sif sat nearby, tail sweeping the dirt like a metronome, tongue lolling and eyes laser-focused on the pile of meat we were peeling out of this thing. Every now and then, she'd let out a low, hungry whine and lick her chops so dramatically it echoed.

"Chill, girl," I said, elbow-deep in pork. "You're getting the first bite."

She barked once, like she understood — and also wanted to remind me of that promise.

Rhea grunted, sawing through a tendon with pure tomboy fury. "This might be the most metal dinner prep I've ever done."

"I feel like we need a cooking montage and a screaming guitar solo."

Then, from behind us, Jasper cleared his throat with all the gravity of someone about to read aloud from the rulebook of life.

"Ahem," he said. "Before you two turn this thing into a full-on luau, I should probably explain how sacrifices work."

Rhea looked up. "You mean like, for the gods?"

"Exactly," Jasper nodded, brushing some dirt off his tunic. "In the old days, mortals would burn the best cuts — fat, meat, spices — as offerings to the gods. It wasn't just symbolic. The smoke carries the essence of the food up to Olympus."

I raised a brow. "So... barbecue is how you mail stuff to Zeus?"

"In a way, yes," he said. "It's polite. Also practical. Keeps them off your back. And considering you just killed a literal Labor of Heracles, this? This is prime real estate for divine goodwill."

Rhea gestured at the boar with her knife. "You think they're hungry?"

Jasper looked at the mountain of meat we were cutting through and gave a little shrug.

"I think there's enough pork here to feed Olympus, half the minor gods, and still have leftovers for us and the wolf."

Sif woofed once, in agreement.

"Alright," I said, wiping blood off my arm and giving Rhea a nod. "Let's divvy it up. Best cuts go to the gods. Rest is ours."

Rhea grinned wide, like this was all a party.

"And who gets the snout?"

Sif barked again, louder this time.

"Fair enough."

The fire crackled low and steady, fed by the thick logs Jasper had prepped and the fat that dripped from the meat as it sizzled. The sky had gone indigo above us, stars blinking through the fading light.

We moved one by one, piece by piece.

Jasper led it, half-prayer, half-history lesson.

"To Zeus," he said, as a thick slice of seared boar shoulder went into the fire. "Lord of the sky, father of the gods. May our journey be watched."

The flame flickered gold, just for a moment.

"To Hera," Rhea followed, dropping in a lean flank cut. "Protector of family, strength, and stubborn women everywhere."

"To Poseidon," I offered, sliding a rib in slow, "For the long roads, the big storms, and keeping things from trying to drown us."

We went down the list, respectful. No jokes. Just the weight of each name and the hiss of the fire.

"To Hades, for not letting me die" I said. Giving him tenderloin

"To Aphrodite, for making our lives interesting" went Jasper

"To Dionysus, so the parties never stop" I offered.

"To Demeter," with a salted cut and a handful of herbs Jasper insisted on.

"To Athena," with a perfectly trimmed slice, Jasper saying something about wisdom and strategy I barely caught over the crackle.

"To Apollo," I said, giving a honey-glazed strip with a smirk. "For music, medicine, and… whatever else you've got going on lately."

Rhea side-eyed me. I shrugged.

We kept going.

"To Artemis," Rhea said, quieter now, her gaze drifting toward the trees. "For the hunt."

"To Hermes," Jasper added, dropping in a piece with a note tied around it — no idea what it said. "For safe travel. And maybe looking the other way."

"To Hephaestus," I said, holding up a charred, bone-heavy chunk. "Forge-master. Thanks for the wheels."

"To Despoina, Hope you like pork" I say offering part of the chuck.

Then came Rhea's moment.

She stood without being told, holding a gnarly rib soaked in its own juices. She crouched, held it over the fire, and tossed it in.

"To Ares," she said, eyes locked on the flame. "Dad. Hope you're watching."

The fire flashed red. Hotter for a breath. Then calmed.

"To Pan," Jasper held up a flank and threw it to the fire." Guardian of the forest"

We went on, putting pieces to every minor god we could think off, jasper filling the gap for once mine and Rhea combined brain cell failled.

The I took one final piece, a filet mignon— and placed it in the center of the firepit.

"And to Hestia," he said, softer than the rest. "First and last. For warmth. For the home. For the hearth we build, even out here."

It just steadied.

Brighter. Clearer. Like it exhaled.

We stood there in silence for a moment. Sif sat patiently, tail sweeping the dirt. The boar sizzled behind us.

For a moment, the fire didn't react.

And then it did.

It didn't explode.

Didn't flare.

Didn't roar.

Instead, the flame shifted, subtly — a slow swirl of deep red, like burning coals glowing under a layer of ash. Rich. Warm. Steady. It pulled the shadows in close, and the light stretched long and soft, wrapping around us like a blanket.

Then, out of the flame, something formed.

Just a soft puff of rising sparks and a low, smoky shimmer.

A bowl.

It floated for a second, then gently descended into the dirt beside the fire.

It was a deep ceramic thing — simple, earthy, beautiful in its own way. The glaze was warm orange and faded red, like it had been fired in the same hearth we'd just used. And inside?

A generous pile of roasted meat — perfectly seared, fat glistening, already cut into bite-sized chunks — resting on a bed of something that looked suspiciously like wild rice and torn herbs.

We all stared at it.

Sif stared harder.

Jasper stepped forward, blinking. "That's… definitely a gift."

Rhea grinned. "She cooked for the puppy."

"She cooked better than us," I muttered.

Sif let out one bark and looked at me, ears perked.

I gestured to the bowl. "Go ahead, girl. That's all you."

She lunged forward with the eagerness of a child unwrapping a birthday gift and dug in, chomping and tail-wagging like the divine meal was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Honestly? Might've been.

"Guess we're officially blessed," Rhea said, tossing a slab of sizzling meat onto a wooden plate she'd rigged out of bark.

"Yeah," I said, smiling faintly. "By the goddess of leftovers and warm vibes."

"The most important one," Jasper added, dead serious.

We all sat down, finally.

Two demigods, a satyr and a wolf pup, huddled around a fire. Night rising. And food — hot, fresh, earned — crackling on the spit.

I was halfway through my second chunk of fire-roasted boar, leaning back against a log, finally starting to feel full — that rare, holy kind of full that comes after a fight and a feast.

Rhea was picking at the ribs, humming something with her mouth full, while Jasper tried to teach Sif the command using strips of fat as bribes.

And then everything shifted.

Just a glow.

Soft. Steady. Bright.

A golden light bloomed above me — no heat, no sound — just a slow-burning sun, floating like a crown of light over my head.

Rhea's chewing stopped mid-bite.

Jasper dropped his snack. "Whoa."

Sif barked once, not scared — just surprised, tail thumping.

The golden sun shimmered, and I felt something like pressure behind my eyes — not pain, not exactly — just a rush of warmth in my chest, in my bones, down to my nails.

It was like standing under sunlight for the first time after a long storm.

The glow pulsed once, then slowly faded, rising upward like embers in the night.

"...well," I said, staring at the spot where it had vanished. "Guess that settles the paternity test."

"Son of Apollo," Jasper said, softly. "Called it."

Rhea whistled. "Explains the hair. And the ego."

I grinned. "Explains the lyre, too."

We went quiet for a minute, just listening to the crackling fire and Sif chewing loudly on a divine rib bone.

Then Rhea spoke again, not looking at me.

"You think we'll still be together once we get there?" she asked. "Camp, I mean. I know they split us up by god and all. You'll get Apollo. I'm probably getting tossed in with the blood-and-violence crowd."

I looked at her — her face, calm but tense around the eyes. The edge in her voice she was trying to play off.

"I don't care what cabins they stick us in," I said. "You're mine, arson girl."

She rolled her eyes, but she smiled anyway.

"You too, goat boy," I added.

Jasper groaned. "I'm literally a satyr. That's racist."

"Speciesist," Rhea corrected.

We all laughed, loud and easy, under the stars.

The fire had burned down to red coals, the heat low and steady. Jasper had kicked off his shoes and curled up on the far end of the clearing, already halfway asleep, one hand still resting on Sif's back like she was a living heater.

Rhea and I stayed by the logs, still upright, still watching the fire like it had more stories left to tell.

She nudged me with her shoulder. "So. Before all this demigod crap… what was your life like?"

I let out a breath through my nose. "You want the short version, the snarky version, or the depressing one?"

"Combo platter," she said. "Chef's choice."

I stared into the glowing coals for a moment, then spoke.

"I was… weird. Always felt a little off. Smart enough to scare teachers. Strong enough to break stuff without meaning to. And all the meds in the world couldn't truly convince me that the monsters I saw weren't real."

Rhea stayed quiet, nodding.

"My mom got sent to a clinic when I was a kid," I added, voice quieter now. "They said she saw things too. So I figured… it was genetic. Or bad luck. Or both."

"What about you?" I asked.

Rhea leaned back on her elbows, looking up at the stars.

"Tomboy. Grew up in Spokane. Got in fights. Never really fit in with the cheerleaders or the nerds or the jocks, so I just kind of made my own thing, hunted with mom, she put me to try burn my energy in sports. Hung out with my satyr — the one that didn't make it. Taught me how to survive in the woods. And then… monsters came. Burned my school down with everyone inside."

I winced. "Damn."

She shrugged. "Wasn't that nice of a school."

We both laughed, tired and honest.

"What about Goat Boy?" I asked, glancing at Jasper's sleeping form.

"He said this was a punishment," she murmured. "That the higher-ups didn't expect him to come back. Just gave him a vague mission and sent him north."

"And now he's stuck with us."

"Poor bastard."

We sat there a bit longer, the stars spinning above us, the embers glowing underfoot, the forest quiet.

CP Bank:500cp

Perks earned this chapter: None

Milestones: 12 Labors: Well aren't you an overachiever, welp little demi ... 11 more to go: 500cp

Last edited: Apr 10, 2025

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Apr 11, 2025

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The morning hit soft and cold, like most forest mornings do — dew on the grass, mist hugging the trees, and that faint smell of pine needles and dirt that never really goes away, the fire was just coals now. Sif was already up, tail high and proud, patrolling the perimeter like the world's most enthusiastic security system.

She paused every few steps to pick a tree and, claim it as her own.

"Mark it all, girl," I muttered around the stem of my pipe. "It's your kingdom."

The pipe crackled softly as I gave it a lazy puff. Still the same sweet, herbal smoke — courtesy of the sailor pipe I bought from the KFC warlock, or whatever that guy was. It warmed my lungs, settled my head, and gave me something to do with my hands while the rest of the team ran on caffeine and divine dysfunction.

Across the clearing, Rhea was already halfway through her push-up pyramid, grunting like war was coming in exactly five minutes and she wanted to be ready to punch it in the face.

"Fifty-one," she muttered.

"Rhea," I said, smoke curling from my lips, "you're aware we killed a mythological boar yesterday, right? You don't have to prove anything."

She didn't look up. "Routine matters."

"Yeah, well… so does rest."

"Rest is for corpses."

"Can't argue that," I said, taking another puff.

Jasper, meanwhile, was crouched just past the tree line, poking around with a satchel and muttering to himself as he collected herbs.

I watched him squint at a patch of moss.

"What are you even looking for?"

"Ginger root, red sage, maybe wild thyme," he said without looking up. "Also something to make Sif stop farting in her sleep."

Sif, bless her, barked at a squirrel and returned to her tree duties.

It was all so stupidly domestic. Two semi-functional demigods, an anxiety ridden satyr and a wolf pup playing house in the woods.

And honestly?

I kinda liked it.

The map crinkled as I unfolded it across a patch of dry earth, the corner weighed down with a rock so it didn't flap in the morning breeze. The old-school paper kind — thick, laminated, smeared with ink, dirt, and smudged pen notes.

Jasper crouched beside me, pointing out a few turns on the squiggly red line we'd been carving across the country like a scar.

"Alright," he said, tapping the edge of Pennsylvania. "If we push hard, we could make it to camp today."

I stared at the spot and nodded, but my brain was somewhere else. In the side pouch of my pack, tucked next to a ripped-up hoodie and some dried monster jerky, were two objects I hadn't touched since we left Chicago.

Ebony and Ivory.

Sleek, custom, built for war.

Twin semi-auto pistols that never ran out of ammo. Elegant, brutal, divine.

And the thing is… I hadn't used them.

Not once.

Claws? Sure. Fire-breath? Constantly.

But guns?

I never pulled the trigger.

And maybe it was pride.

Or maybe it was just… not me.

I stood, grabbed my bag, and walked over to where Rhea was strapping her sword back to her belt. She raised an eyebrow as I dropped the twin pistols into her open hands.

"What's this?"

"Guns," I said, lighting my pipe casually like this wasn't a big deal. "Magic ones. Never run out of ammo."

She turned one over, testing the weight. Her eyes lit up instantly. "These are beautiful. Balanced. Holy crap."

"Yeah."

"And you're… giving them to me?"

I nodded. "You're the ranged fighter now. I'm going melee full-time."

Rhea blinked, her expression shifting to something just a little softer.

She just nodded once and holstered them across her back.

"I'll keep you covered," she said. "You just keep jumping on giant boars and ripping their throats out."

"That's the plan."

"Lucas?"

"Yeah?"

Rhea grinned. "Thanks. This is... kind of a big deal."

I nodded once, quiet, then gave Sif a little scratch behind the ear as she trotted past.

"Let's ride," I said. "New Jersey's not gonna hate itself."

We stopped just outside a dusty gas station somewhere in the middle of New Jersey's least scenic exit. Concrete, dead grass with a small forest area behind, cracked asphalt,and a few mangled road signs. It smelled like gasoline and that big city charm.

Perfect place to shoot some bullets to drop the local housing prices.

Rhea stepped off the bike, stretched her arms, and reached for Ebony and Ivory, now comfortably holstered across her back like they'd always belonged there. She twirled one in her hand like a movie assassin and grinned.

"Mind if I make some noise?"

"Just don't hit the pump."

She found a rusty road sign leaning off in the distance — looked like it used to say "EXIT 14B" before time and graffiti claimed it. She paced back, locked her stance, and fired.

BLAM—BLAM—BLAM!

The sound cracked the air like thunder.

Three shots.

Three hits.

One clean grouping, dead center of the sign.

"Damn," I muttered. "Guess you are the ranged one."

"I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for something this cool."

Jasper winced behind the bike. "I'm just saying, maybe we could've found a range or a clearing or—"

BLAM!

Another perfect shot.

He ducked.

"I rest my case," she said.

But before we could crack a joke, before Sif could finish tearing apart a chew toy from the cargo hold of the bike…

They came back.

The world dimmed — just a little — like a filter slipped over the sun. In the back of my mind, I felt it: that familiar pressure, that slow pulse, like stars forming behind my eyes.

I looked up, even though I didn't need to. I could see them in my head.

The black suns.

Dozens of them. Still. Waiting.

Three of them flared.

When the third sun dimmed behind my eyes, I didn't feel a punch of power or a rush of adrenaline.

I felt… music.

Like distant chords rising through the bones of the world.

Low. Ethereal. Like the beginning of a song before the first note is played.

It wasn't loud, but it was everywhere.

And then it settled in me — like the sun setting behind my ribs. Warm. Steady. Deep.

Something shifted, and with it… came understanding.

The first gift came like a breath of wind through trees.

I looked at my lyre — my father's, I guess. The golden lyre of Apollo, still strapped to my bag. I reached out, strummed a few notes.

And the world… listened.

It wasn't just sound. The notes vibrated with magic. Even the birds in the trees paused to tilt their heads. Somewhere in the forest, a squirrel actually stopped mid-run and turned around to face me.

I didn't just play the music anymore.

I was the music.

I knew, without knowing how, that I could pull songs from other magical instruments — not just the lyre. If I learned the tune, if I felt the rhythm deep enough?

I could bend it to will.

Sing the spell.

Shape the world.

The second gift came deeper

A concept. A theme. Something mythic and foundational.

Music.

I felt the world answer.

Every melody. Every rhythm. Every beat of a heart or crackle of a fire suddenly felt understandable. Not just noise. Pattern. Emotion. Power. Influence.

I didn't just sing now.

I understood how the world sang back.

Animals. Weather. Magic. People.

Everything has rhythm.

Everything has a song.

And I could hear it.

And somewhere in that deep well of knowledge, I also knew:

Songs that change the weather.

A song to make time my bitch.

I opened my eyes.

Rhea was reloading. Jasper was scribbling in his notebook. Sif was chewing on something.

I stood there, lyre in hand, the last notes of a divine awakening still humming in my veins.

"Hey," I called out, still holding the lyre. "Try again."

Rhea raised an eyebrow, already pulling Ivory from its holster again. "Trying to see if I can split my own bullet?"

"Something like that."

She took position, cocky smirk in place, lining up her shot at the already wrecked road sign. One hand steady, the other curled around the grip. Her stance was perfect.

But this time?

I was the variable.

I took a breath and sat back against the bike, pulling the golden lyre into my lap. I didn't think too hard — didn't try to remember notes or keys or chords.

I just played.

It started soft — a low, humming rhythm like breath on glass. And as my fingers moved across the strings, the sound grew.

Not louder.

Deeper.

The music didn't just fill the clearing — it filled the world.

I felt it vibrating under my skin, pulsing in the dirt, echoing inside the trees. It was in everything — rhythm in the wind, tempo in the heartbeat of the forest, melody in Rhea's finger on the trigger.

The notes slid into place like I'd always known them.

The lyre shimmered as the last note rang out.

And something in the air around Rhea shifted — almost like it pulsed, once. Not visibly. But the world leaned in.

She pulled the trigger.

BLAM.

The bullet screamed across the clearing, struck the target — and punched cleanly through the center of her previous grouping.

Like threading a needle.

"Holy sh—" she started, lowering the gun.

"Yeah," I said, fingers still on the strings, the last hum of the song fading into the wind. "Thought I'd try something new."

She turned to look at me, her face half-sunlit, half-shocked.

"That was…"

"Bardic inspiration," I said with a grin, twanging one last note. "Courtesy of Dad...I think?"

Jasper, halfway through eating a cracker, just whispered, "We are so going to break reality."

After the whole bullet-stacking magic show, I sat down in the grass with my lyre across my lap again, chewing the inside of my cheek.

There was something else bubbling up inside me — a song, but different from before.

Something more… wild.

More feral.

I plucked at the strings without thinking — slow, plodding notes, round and earthy. Something lower, heavier. Like I was pouring something out of myself. A bowl emptying one ladle at a time.

Speak with Animals.

The music left me like breath in winter — slow, full, and final. I felt… lighter. Not in a good way. Like I'd taken a part of me and burned it for fuel.

I looked up at Sif, who was chewing a stick like it owed her money, her head tilted when she noticed me staring.

"Hey, Sif," I said.

She understood.

She perked up immediately, tail sweeping hard enough to kick up dirt.

"YOOOUUU TALKS LIKE HEAD VOICE!!!"

I blinked. "Like what?"

She got up, bounced in place once. "Head voice!! Not bark voice! Not 'NO, SIF! DROP THAT!' voice! But words-in-the-bone voice!"

"Right," I said, rubbing my temple. "Why did I think you would be smart."

She flopped onto her back, paws kicking at the air. "Stick taste like crunchy tree and I bite it and now my mouth is WET. Why mouth wet?"

"…That's spit."

"SPIT! YES! GOOD!"

I tried not to laugh. "Hey, Sif—"

"FOOD???"

"No—Sif. Focus."

Her eyes crossed slightly. "Focus is the brown chewy one?"

"No. That's jerky. Focus is—" I sighed. "Listen, I'm not gonna explain the English language to you."

She got back up, spinning in a circle before sitting with a plop.

"I likes when you do the string thing. Makes my tail wiggly and the trees stop yelling."

"The trees yell?"

She leaned in. Whispered, "Only when the owls lie."

"…Okay."

The magic was already fading. I could feel it — the connection unwinding, the bridge between us sinking back under the water.

Sif stared at me, eyes wide and dumb and weirdly trusting.

"I likes you, Alpha-Not-Alpha," she said.

"...That's probably the nicest thing anyone's said to me today."

Then she paused. Tilted her head.

"…can I eat the goat's socks?"

"Only if he isn't wearing them."

"OKAY!!!!"

The spell ended.

Sif went right back to trying to bury her face in the stick.

And me?

I just sat there, stunned, trying to figure out what part of that conversation was the most concerning.

That feeling — like music still humming in your bones but no longer playing — lingered, like I had half a song stuck in my throat. My limbs felt a little light, like I'd run a sprint but forgotten the start or finish.

Sif, meanwhile, was chasing her own tail.

Successfully.

I sighed. "Well. That explains a lot."

Behind me, I heard a voice.

"So… you just talked to the wolf."

I turned.

Rhea stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow halfway to Olympus.

"Ok doctor dolittle, what was that?."

"Yeah," I said, casually tapping the pipe against my knee. "Magic song. Temporary spell. Very advanced, very mythical. Completely professional."

"And?"

"She's… nice."

Rhea gave me the look of someone who expected something far more profound.

"And dumb," I admitted. "Very, very dumb."

Rhea snorted. "How dumb?"

"She asked if she could eat Jasper's socks. Thought 'focus' was a chewy meat stick. Referred to me as 'Alpha-Not-Alpha.'"

That got a full laugh out of her — one of those rare, open ones.

"Alpha-Not-Alpha? You do give that energy."

"I'm pretty sure she thinks the trees are talking behind her back."

"To be fair," Rhea said, "with your life? They probably are."

We both watched Sif try to bite a rock like it had personally insulted her.

"…She's lucky she's cute," I muttered.

"She's loyal," Rhea said, her voice softer now. "That's more important."

I looked down at the lyre in my hands. Still warm. Still humming.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess it is."

Rhea was still grinning at me when Jasper stomped out of the tree line, holding a handful of herbs like he was one camera crew short of being a nature documentary host.

"Found some thyme, mint, and maybe something that's either wild oregano or poison ivy," he said, dead serious. "We'll know by lunch."

I gave him a thumbs-up, still seated, still watching Sif try to bury the "crime scene" under loose dirt like a tiny, furry fugitive.

Then Jasper froze.

Looked down.

"Where. Are. My. Socks."

I blinked. "What?"

"My socks. The clean pair. The ones I tucked inside my boots this morning so I didn't get leaves in them."

Rhea coughed into her hand. "Yeah, about that—"

"I just saw her with a sock!" he gasped, spinning to face Sif. "Sif! No! Not again!"

Sif paused mid-dig, sock dangling from her jaws like a sad, sacred trophy.

She blinked.

Then bolted into the woods with a bark of pure chaotic joy.

Jasper sprinted after her like his dignity was on the line. "THOSE WERE COTTON!"

Rhea and I just stood there, watching the satyr vanish into the brush.

"Should we help?" she asked.

I shook my head, puffing my pipe. "If he comes back barefoot, we'll know how it went."

Thirty minutes later, Jasper returned, sulking, sockless, and covered in dirt. Rhea handed him a piece of roasted boar from a ziplock in sympathy. Sif wagged her tail like nothing had happened.

We packed up the camp, doused the fire, and loaded back onto the bike, playing tetris to fit everything in the bike compartment, roomy but not too much, if Jasper complained anymore I'm fitting him in there.

The new ride, glinting faintly gold in the morning sun, purred under my fingertips like it knew the road ahead.

Rhea climbed into the sidecar with Sif, tossing her sword across her lap. Jasper wedged himself in behind me, grumbling the whole time.

"You ever going to teach her not to eat my stuff?"

"She's a wolf," I said. "Not a miracle worker."

I revved the engine. The hum of celestial machinery whirred under my boots, and with a twist of the throttle—

We shot forward.

Trees blurred past. The road stretched ahead like a ribbon of fate pulling us east, toward something that was finally starting to feel like an endpoint.

The bike roared beneath us — smooth, fast, and gliding just above the road now, thanks to the floating upgrade. We'd been running for hours, the cities growing denser, the trees less wild, and the sky starting to take on that weird smog-filtered gold you only see near the coast.

Then I saw it.

A green road sign whipped past on the right, weather-beaten and a little bent.

"WELCOME TO NEW YORK."

That was it.

Not some divine trumpet sound, not a golden light on the horizon, just a piece of metal bolted to a pole.

I eased off the throttle just a bit, not enough for Jasper to complain, but enough to feel it.

The shift.

The air was different here — thicker. Older.

Like the ground knew what was coming.

Rhea sat up straighter in the sidecar, gripping her sword a little tighter. She didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

Even Sif lifted her head, ears perked, sniffing the wind like it was whispering something to her.

Jasper leaned in from behind me. "We're close."

I nodded, but my fingers curled tighter around the handlebars.

"Yeah," I said. "I feel it too."

We passed another sign.

"Long Island — 45 miles."

And I knew it in my bones.

This was it.

The pine tree was visible now — standing tall on a hill, its branches catching the light just right. I could see the shimmer of the barrier around Camp Half-Blood. It was so close I could taste the safety in the air, thick and golden, like warm sun on skin.

And then came the scream.

High-pitched.

The sound of feathers and blood and something that used to sing to sailors right before it tore them apart.

A Siren.

But not the kind from cheesy cartoons. No fish tails, no glitter. This one flew.

Wings of black and brown, claws as long as my forearm, and a face twisted into something between beautiful and terrifying — a woman's features, gaunt and sharp, with glowing yellow eyes and a smile like a knife.

She dropped out of the sky like a bomb, claws aimed at the bike.

"SIREN!" Jasper shouted.

"Of course it is!" I snapped, leaning hard to the right.

The Siren sucked air, prepared to bellow her song.

It was music. Twisted music.

The kind that tried to crawl into your ears and melt your bones with promises of everything you ever wanted. I felt it drag along my spine like barbed wire.

"Rhea!" I shouted. "Cover your ears!"

But Rhea was already on it. She shoved bits of cloth into her ears and fired one shot after another, barely missing as the Siren swooped.

Sif barked wildly, trying to jump out of the sidecar again, the monster playing hell on her canine ears.

The bike screeched as I yanked the handlebars sideways and killed our momentum, skidding us to a full stop just before the base of the hill.

The shimmering barrier of Camp Half-Blood flickered on the ridge above us.

"Everyone off," I said, already stepping off the bike. "Let's shut her up first."

Rhea jumped out of the sidecar, both pistols drawn. Jasper scrambled behind her, grabbing his reed pipe like he was about to summon every bird on the East Coast. Sif stood between us and the highway, hackles raised and tail straight like a spear.

The Siren circled above, wings slicing the air, her voice warbling as she dove for another pass.

"Alright," I muttered, setting my feet and unslinging the lyre from my shoulder. "Let's see if this actually works."

I strummed a few notes, just loud enough to spark the magic. I could feel it — like a snap in the air, the song on my tongue curling up sharp.

The melody was sour.

A little mean, it tasted like snark and stage presence.

I looked up at her.

"HEY, CHICKEN WING!"

The Siren's head jerked toward me, fury blazing in those glowing eyes.

"You've got the face of a goddess, sure — if that goddess was the ass of a giant."

The magic snapped like a whip.

A sharp, psychic pulse slammed into her skull.

The Siren screeched, veering hard to the side mid-flight, feathers ripping from her wings as she flailed, blood trickled down her nose.

Vicious Mockery.

Rhea blinked. "Did you just hurt a monster by roasting it?"

"Not yet," I grinned. "But she's definitely in her feelings."

The Siren was still spiraling through the air, shrieking and flapping like she couldn't decide if she was enraged or embarrassed.

I could've let Rhea shoot her midair. It would've been fast, clean.

But something inside me clicked.

I reached for the lyre again, strumming out another quick melody, short and sharp, something trickster-like. A tune that felt like slipping on a banana peel with malicious intent.

"You sing like a kazoo choking on a kazoo," I said as the magic surged.

She flinched mid-flight. Then twitched. Her wings locked for a second. And she laughed.

Hard.

A deep, cracked, uncontrollable laugh that sounded more like an animal gasping than a human voice. Her whole body spasmed. She dropped out of the sky like a sack of bricks and slammed into the dirt in a puff of feathers and screeches, still laughing.

Tasha's Hideous Laughter

She clawed at the ground, trying to stand, but her limbs betrayed her. Her mouth was stretched wide, her body heaving with laughter so fierce it left her breathless. Her voice caught in her throat. She wheezed, still trying to drag herself away.

Rhea didn't hesitate.

She walked over with slow, deliberate steps. The barrel of one pistol pointed at the sky. The other at the ground.

The Siren's eyes locked on her. She choked on another laugh, coughing now, tears in her eyes.

Rhea stopped just short of her, crouched down, pressed the barrel of her gun against the side of the Siren's temple.

"Shut up."

One shot. Clean. The monster burst into golden dust.

Silence followed.

I slung the lyre back across my back. Rhea holstered her gun and turned to look at me, dead serious.

"You are never allowed to talk about my temper again."

I took a drag off my pipe and gave her a crooked grin.

"My insults kill. What can I say?"

Jasper groaned behind us. "Please don't make that a catchphrase."

The golden shimmer of the barrier stretched across the hilltop like heat haze on asphalt—just barely visible, just barely real. We were still a few yards out when I fired the engine back up. It purred under me like it knew we were done running.

Rhea climbed into the sidecar with Sif, who was panting that her ears survived this battle. Jasper threw himself onto the back of the bike with less enthusiasm.

The second the front of the bike passed through, everything changed.

I heard it before I saw it.

Laughter.

Hoofbeats.

The clink of armor and kids yelling .

We crested the hill, and Camp Half-Blood rolled out below us like a painting that had been waiting for us to show up.

Cabins in a semicircle.

A climbing wall spitting lava in the distance.

A big, sprawling house with a blue roof.

And dozens of kids, demigods like us, doing everything from sparring with bronze swords to chasing a pair of satyrs who had apparently stolen a pie.

Rhea let out a low whistle.

Jasper just said, "We made it."

I pulled the throttle one more time, slow and smooth, coasting down the hill toward the heart of the camp.

And yeah—I'll admit it.

We looked damm good.

The bike rumbled gently as we rolled through the center of camp, kicking up a little dust, the golden glow of the enchantments still clinging to the bronze and steel like it belonged here. We weren't trying to be loud.

But the thing was loud, fast, shiny.

And carried a wolf the size of a small bear in its sidecar.

So yeah, we drew a crowd.

Kids started to drift out from behind cabins, from the forge, the armory, even the strawberry fields. Most were our age. Some younger. A few older. Everyone had that look—half wary, half curious. Like they weren't sure if we were some kind of monster trap or the best entertainment they'd seen all week.

One kid with curly black hair and a spear resting on his shoulder raised an eyebrow.

"Uh… what the hell is that?"

Another leaned over to a friend and whispered, "Is that a manticore or something? It has exhaust pipes."

Rhea stood up in the sidecar, one hand casually resting on the hilt of her sword.

"Chill," she called out, smirking. "We're new."

I killed the engine. The silence it left behind was weirdly loud.

Sif hopped out, sniffed a half-eaten sandwich someone had left on the grass, and then immediately tried to roll in it. Jasper climbed off the back of the bike.

Me?

I swung a leg over and stretched. Looked at the growing group of demigods around us.

"Hey. We brought a war puppy and trauma. Who's in charge?"

That got a few snorts. One or two laughs. One very concerned stare from a centaur off to the side, who I was 80% sure was judging me specifically.

Someone was already running toward the Big House.

Camp had noticed us.

And now we were here.

The centaur watching us finally stepped forward. Big dude, tall even without the horse part, with a look that said "I've seen it all"—but also that he was already mentally filing a report.

He trotted over, slow and calm, not like we were a threat, just… a surprise. Which, fair.

"You must be the demigods we've been hearing about," he said, voice calm, steady, and somehow louder than everyone else without trying.

He gave each of us a once-over. Me, Rhea, Jasper, and then a long look at Sif, who had now stolen the half-eaten sandwich and was aggressively chewing it in the grass like she'd earned it.

"I'm Chiron," he said, holding out a hand. "Camp activities director. Also the centaur."

I shook his hand. Firm grip, not crushing. Kinda reassuring.

"Lucas Walker," I said. "This is Rhea, Jasper, and the not so little one is Sif. She's smarter than she looks."

Rhea snorted.

Jasper coughed. "She ate one of my socks."

Chiron nodded politely, like that wasn't even in his top fifty weird introductions this week.

"And… this?" He gestured toward the bike.

"Divine motorcycle. Now hovers. Runs on ego and monster blood, mostly," I said.

Chiron exhaled through his nose. "Of course it does."

He gestured for us to follow him toward the Big House, that massive blue-roofed building at the edge of camp. A few more kids trailed behind, whispering, a couple waving or staring openly.

"I received word from the Huntresses," Chiron continued. "Artemis was made aware of your journey. So was… your father, Lucas."

I felt that last bit land in my chest like a plucked string.

"Right. That makes it official, then," I said.

Chiron gave a small smile. "Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. We've got some paperwork, but I promise we keep it light on the paperwork and heavy on sword training. Come—let's get you situated."

We followed him toward the Big House.

The Big House looked like an oversized farmhouse mixed with a museum, a place that had survived way too much history and was still standing out of pure spite. White columns. Blue shingles. Porch swing that creaked just a little too perfectly, Inside, it smelled like old books, lemon polish, and warm bread. Cozy.

We were led through a short hall, past some dusty portraits of people with sharp cheekbones and judgmental eyes, and into a side room with a long table. Chiron gestured for us to sit while he moved toward a stacked pile of files and binders, flipping through them like he already had this whole thing prepped.

"Let's see," he said. "New arrivals. two demigods, one divine wolf, a hovering motorcycle, and… several monster corpses in your wake."

I smiled. "We aim for overachievement."

He slid a file across the table with my name on it. A second later, Rhea got hers. Jasper? He didn't get one. Just a nod and a "Welcome back."

Chiron clasped his hands. "Normally, unclaimed demigods go to Hermes Cabin until their parent claims them, but… that's already been resolved, and I have been informed of this by Mr D ."

He glanced at me.

"Apollo," I said, like saying it out loud wouldn't still make me feel like I'd swallowed sunlight.

Chiron nodded. "Yes. And a rather direct claim at that. You'll go to Cabin Seven."

He turned to Rhea, whose file was thinner and slightly singed.

"And you, Rhea, cabin Five for you. You'll fit in just fine."

"And the wolf?" I asked.

Chiron raised an eyebrow. "We'll discuss her arrangements, but she can stay in the Apollo cabin for now. Assuming she doesn't eat the furniture."

"She prefers socks," Jasper said flatly.

Chiron gave us a little map of camp, but I barely glanced at it. I could hear the direction I needed to go — not like voices or some divine GPS or anything — more like a hum in the back of my mind. A rhythm. Like the cabins themselves were calling, and mine just happened to be playing in C major.

I followed the pull across the green toward a cabin near the middle of the semi-circle. It wasn't the biggest, but it was definitely one of the prettier ones. Columns out front, painted gold and white. Laurel carvings above the doors. A sunburst etched right over the entrance. The whole place had golden hour energy, even in the shade.

Cabin Seven. Apollo's place.

I stood outside for a second, taking it in. Jasper had peeled off to help someone carry supplies near the armory, and Rhea had stomped toward her cabin like she was expecting to fight it before sleeping in it. So it was just me.

The door was cracked open, so I stepped inside.

It was… busy.

A couple kids were tuning guitars. Someone was restringing a bow on a bunk bed. Another was adjusting a pair of mirrored sunglasses indoors like it was normal behavior.

And then they all noticed me.

One guy — tall, older, tan with a thousand-watt smile — stood up from his bunk and gave me a once-over. He clocked the lyre first, then the pipe clipped to my belt, then my face.

"New blood," he said.

"Guess so."

"You the one that rolled in on the hover bike with the wolf?"

"That'd be me."

He nodded, then offered a hand.

"Lee. Senior camper. You'll figure out the rest."

I shook it. Firm. Friendly. No weird flexing. That was rare.

"I'm Lucas."

"You sing?"

"I try."

"You shoot?"

"With words."

Lee grinned. "You'll fit right in."

He pointed to an open bunk near the back. "That one's free. We rotate chore duty, healing shifts, and jam sessions. And don't touch anyone's instruments unless you want to get pranked."

"Got it."

As I dropped my bag and sat on the edge of the bunk, the lyre on my back gave a faint hum. A few heads turned.

I barely had time to sit before I heard the soft click of claws on the wooden floor behind me.

I turned just as Sif trotted into the cabin, tail wagging like she owned the place.

She paused in the doorway, sniffed once, twice, then locked eyes with the bunk I'd just claimed. Her ears perked up. She let out a low huff that sounded dangerously close to "mine," then launched herself forward.

Thud.

All forty-something pounds of divine wolf pup landed square on the mattress, spun in a tight circle, and flopped down with a huff that shook the sheets.

The Apollo campers stared.

One of them, a girl braiding her hair with golden thread, blinked.

"Did that dog just claim your bed?"

"She's not a dog," I said, slinging my bag down next to the bunk. "She's family."

Sif let out a boof and rolled onto her side, tongue lolling out as if to say, "You heard him".

Lee raised an eyebrow, smiling. "You bringing emotional support murder wolves into the cabin now?"

"Better than emotional support poetry," someone muttered.

"She doesn't bite," I said. Then added, "Unless you're a monster."

There was a beat.

Then someone laughed.

Just like that, the tension dropped a little.

Lee pointed to a hook on the wall. "You can stash your gear there. We've got evening free time soon. You'll probably get swarmed with questions."

I nodded, still eyeing Sif as she snored gently on my new bed like she'd been waiting her whole life to sleep there.

I wasn't sure if I felt home.

But I felt safe.

And that? That was a damn start.

CP Bank:100cp

Perks earned this chapter:Free Bard ( Baldur's Gate 3 ) [Modus] Scholars, skalds or scoundrels, you have a way with words so that you can even bend reality to your whims. Your talent in manipulating the Weave comes from rhythms, words, songs or even dances. You can inspire your allies, manipulate your foes and pretty much do anything a magic user can accomplish. Not only that, but your skill repertoire is also quite vast too. You are the most versatile class there is, a jack of all trades truly. (Forced by Me)

200cp: Memories of the Music (The Silmarillion) [Lore] The Ainur listened to and were a part of the music which foresung the world, and through this and the words of Eru know much of the world. Pick a particular concept, from craftsmanship to light to fire to plants to animals to the sky. Concepts should have more a mythic resonance than precise materialism; a concept of 'spacetime' or 'atomic bonds' doesn't fit thematically with Tolkien's work.

Whatever your chosen concept is, you have deep knowledge and understanding of things relating to that concept. A Maia who chose animals intuitively understands the behaviour of beasts, birds, fish and more, while one who chose craftsmanship is a master of everything from architecture to smithcraft to basket-weaving. Additionally, any magical or spiritual abilities you use related to this concept are uplifted in profundity and strength. Exactly what this means in any given case is fluid, but broadly speaking a Maia will have an easier time and get greater results from doing things with their chosen concept.

This perk may be purchased up to 3 times total. If you have the Arisen in Might perk, you may purchase this perk as many times as you wish. If you are not a Maia, this perk instead represents deep tutelage from a Maia, or one of their students in turn.

May be Purchased Multiple Times

200cp A Song For The Ages (Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Ages) [ Modus ] As it turns out, Nayru is actually a really great singer. Like, woodland creatures come out and gather around to hear her sing. And then don't run away when normal people show up to listen as well. Seriously, this is some disney princess level stuff. But, beyond just having the perfect voice for song and several heaps of talent at singing, you also have a semi-unique skill. See, the songs that are supposed to be played on the Harp of Ages in order to control its power? Nayru can use those songs without the harp. You can now pull this off with any magical instrument, not just Nayru's harp. Now, in order to pull this off you do need a level of familiarity with it, maybe permission from its owner, but after that? Go wild and please don't break time.

Milestones: none

Last edited: Apr 11, 2025

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Magus explorator

Apr 11, 2025

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Magus explorator

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Apr 11, 2025

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I didn't mean to crash, but between the miles, the fight, and the psychic murder songs, the moment I hit the bed, it was over, I rolled onto my side at some point, arms wrapped loosely around Sif, her thick fur warm against my chest. She let out a snore that shook the mattress a little. A paw twitched. Probably chasing a dream sheep.

I let myself drift, just for a while. Not quite sleep, not quite awake. My hand resting on her side, her tail occasionally thumping against the sheets like she was reminding me she was still there.

When I opened my eyes again, the cabin was dim. Most of the beds were empty. One kid near the front was passed out with a book covering his face. But through the window, I saw it—light flickering, fire crackling, music floating on the breeze.

The campfire.

I rubbed my eyes, sat up slow. Sif yawned, rolled onto her back, then thumped her head down dramatically like how dare you move.

"Come on," I whispered, grabbing the lyre from the wall. "Time to see if I'm just a guy with good timing or the real deal."

She huffed.

I patted her side. "And tomorrow, I'll hunt something for you. You're getting that look in your eyes again. The 'I might eat someone's shoes' look."

She wagged her tail.

I slipped on my jacket, slung the lyre across my back, and stepped out into the night.

The campfire was alive.

Warm light danced over the clearing, and half a dozen demigods lounged on logs and rocks, instruments in hand. Someone strummed a guitar. Someone else tapped rhythm on a box drum. Laughter, off-key singing, and a few harmonies drifted into the sky like smoke.

Music.

It felt… good.

I hovered at the edge for a second, watching. No one stopped. No one stared. Someone even waved me in without missing a beat.

I sat down near the edge of the firelight, letting the noise and laughter wash over me. Sif lay down beside the log, her ears twitching occasionally, head resting on her paws. Nobody paid me much attention — not at first.

I pulled the lyre into my lap, fingers resting against the strings.

I closed my eyes.

And something floated up.

Not a full song. Just a rhythm. A melody. Half-forgotten — like a tune from a dream you remember long after forgetting why you dreamed it.

It felt old, but not unfamiliar.

A soft, dancing melody. Playful. Whimsical. Like it belonged in some enchanted glade filled with leaves that never stayed still and lanterns that always hovered just out of reach.

Lost Woods.

A tune from another world. Another life.

My hands moved before I told them to. The notes slipped out of the lyre like water over stone — clean, smooth, alive. The firelight seemed to flicker in time with it, sparks jumping a little higher.

Conversations started to quiet.

The box drum fell silent.

One by one, heads turned.

The campfire crowd leaned in. Some didn't even realize they were doing it — just pulled, like the song itself was a thread tied to their ribs.

I kept playing.

Each note pulled something deeper from me. That feeling, that other soul buried in the back of my brain — the old one, the one that sometimes made me pause when I looked at reflections too long — recognized the tune.

It had heard it played before. Long ago.

When I opened my eyes again, the camp was still. The flames flickered low and warm. Someone let out a long breath, like they hadn't realized they'd been holding it.

Sif looked up at me.

Then let out a low, content boof.

A few kids stared, a young girl tending the fire clapped excitedly.

The final note faded into the air like smoke, soft and still, when I heard someone approaching through the shadows. The crackle of a chip bag gave it away before I even looked.

Rhea strolled into the campfire light like she was stepping into a victory parade.

She had a fresh black eye, one side of her face swollen, but she wore it like war paint—head high, grin sharp. In her arms was a loot pile: bags of chips, jerky, some godawful bright blue drink, and something suspiciously wrapped in tin foil that I was pretty sure had teeth marks in it.

She plopped down beside me, dropped the bag between us, and grabbed a chip like it was payment for conquest.

"Liberated these from my lovely siblings over in Ares cabin," she said, chewing proudly. "Made one of 'em kiss my foot for trying to hide the stash."

I blinked. "You made someone kiss your foot?"

She shrugged, licking chip dust off her fingers. "He was drawing a fake tattoo with a sharpie, Lucas. He deserved it, besides my councilor got me good too, some bitch named Clarisse, fresh off a quest, she has a mean left hook."

Around the fire, a couple campers stifled laughs, others just shook their heads like, Yeah, that tracks.

"You know there's a dining pavilion, right?" I said.

"Yeah, and it closes. This? This is called late-night taxation. War god privilege."

Sif perked up and immediately tried to nose her way into the snack bag.

Rhea gave her a strip of jerky without hesitation. "You earned it, fluffy, oh before I forget, here you go."

She pulled the cloak I gave her off her shoulders, it was wet with something…Gonna have to put it on the spin cycle.

I leaned back, lyre across my lap, letting the warmth of the fire settle into my bones. The music had faded from my fingers, but it still hovered somewhere just behind my ribs, soft and content.

This felt like something I hadn't had in a long time.

Not just rest.

But peace.

Even if the peace came with a bruised war child, a divine wolf, and chips probably stolen under threat of a suplex.

I could get used to this.

"Alright, rockstar," she said with a yawn. "That was actually nice. Don't let it go to your head."

"It's already there," I replied with a smirk. "Camp's not ready for my mixtape."

She snorted. "Camp's barely ready for your wolf."

Sif, now sprawled belly-up next to the fire, the young girl from earlier patting her belly, sneezed like she'd heard her name. She thumped her tail against the dirt a few times before flipping upright, ears perked.

Once everyone peeled off and the fire died down, I gave Sif a scratch behind the ear.

"Alright, girl," I muttered. "Let's get you something real to eat."

She perked up immediately, tail wagging. That got her attention more than any spell or song ever had.

We slipped away from the camp's glow, into the shadows between the trees. The air shifted the moment we passed the outer lanterns — cooler, denser, filled with wild smells and distant rustling.

The lyre stayed strapped across my back, untouched. I didn't need music now.

I crouched low, Sif padding ahead of me in practiced silence. Her head lowered, nose twitching. I let her do the leading.

With a thought, a feeling more than a command, I felt it again — that sharp, internal click.

Three claws snikted out from between my knuckles, smooth as breath. Metal met moonlight with a faint shimmer. The adamantium sang in my bones.

My other hand followed suit.

Sif stopped.

Ears flat. Eyes forward.

A rustle in the brush. Low, heavy breathing. A shape moving through the undergrowth.

Perfect.

I nodded to her. She sank low.

I took one slow step forward, claws ready, and let instinct take over.

Time to eat.

We moved like shadows between the trees, my boots barely brushing fallen leaves, Sif just ahead of me, ears up, nose twitching with purpose.

The deeper we went into the woods, the stronger the scent of life became — wild, real, untamed. It wasn't like the forests we'd passed during the trip, where something always felt off or too quiet. This place? It was alive. Breathing with the same rhythm I'd played hours ago on the lyre.

Sif stopped dead in her tracks and let out a low, short chuff. Her head tilted to the left, and I followed her gaze through the branches.

That's when I saw them.

A herd of white-tailed deer.

Six, maybe seven of them, half-shrouded by brush and moonlight. Grazing in a small clearing, peaceful, unaware. One lifted its head — a young buck — and flicked an ear before returning to chewing lazily.

They didn't smell us yet.

I knelt beside a tree, claws already drawn, the cool weight of the adamantium resting easy in my hands. I wasn't breathing hard. My heartbeat was steady. The tension that had been wound up in my spine for days had eased.

This was clean.

Sif stayed low, eyes locked on a smaller doe to the right. Her muscles twitched with every move it made. I placed a hand on her back — not to stop her, but to keep our rhythm synced.

I picked the buck. Bigger, stronger, enough meat to last days. Sif could gnaw bones for a week off that one.

One breath.

Two.

My legs tensed. The claws hummed.

Then I moved.

I moved like I'd done this a thousand times before—maybe I had. Maybe the instincts weren't just mine anymore.

The moment my foot touched the earth, the world narrowed.

I closed the distance in a handful of silent steps, every ounce of weight controlled, every breath drawn in slow.

The buck turned its head slightly, ears flicking.

Too late.

I lunged, left hand catching its neck, claws already extended. My right arm swept through in one clean motion—sharp, fast, deep. The adamantium sliced through fur and muscle like silk.

It staggered, legs buckling before it could even think to run. No cry, no struggle. Just a clean fall, heavy and final. I knelt beside it, hand on its side, feeling the last heartbeat slow.

A good kill. No panic. No waste.

I looked up. The rest of the herd was already gone, vanished into the trees, nothing but a rustle left in their wake.

Sif padded up beside me, her tongue lolling slightly, but her eyes respectful. She didn't dive in, didn't tear or yank. She waited.

Good girl.

I took a slow breath. Not for show — for thanks.

"Thank you," I muttered to the buck, more ritual than prayer.

Then I got to work.

I had just made the opening cuts along the deer's side, claws now slick with blood, when Sif froze.

Ears forward. Tail stiff. Her breath caught in her throat like a growl waiting to happen.

That's when I smelled it too.

Not deer. Not dirt. Something else.

Musty. Wet. Fungal.

Like mold growing on rotting bones in a place sunlight forgot.

I looked up, slow. Let the quiet settle. The forest didn't breathe.

And from the corner of my eye, I saw it.

Crouched low in the brush, maybe ten feet back.

Short. Pale. Wrong.

Its skin was sickly gray, splotched with moss and filth, and its teeth were far too large for its skull. Long, pointed ears twitched under a red, soaked cap that dripped something far thicker than rainwater.

In one hand, it held a blade.

No — a dagger. But for something its size, it looked more like a damn sword. Rusted, jagged, and stained the color of liver.

But where there's one…

Sif let out a low growl, teeth bared. I held out my hand to her — a warning.

She whined. She wanted to rip its throat out.

I didn't blame her.

The redcap smiled.

It licked its teeth.

Didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched.

Waiting.

I reached behind my back and pulled the lyre forward.

The strings were already humming, like they knew what was coming.

I strummed three sharp notes — high, fast, dissonant.

The air around the redcap shivered.

Then—

BOOM.

Thunderwave

The bush exploded in a concussive blast of sound and force. Leaves, dirt, and splinters of bark shot into the air, scattering like shrapnel. The redcap let out a shriek, flung backward through the underbrush like a rag doll.

But I didn't get the satisfaction of watching him land.

Because that was the signal.

Four more redcaps burst from the trees.

Two from the left, one from behind, one dropping from a low-hanging branch like some grotesque goblin piñata. All of them short, fast, and grinning like this was their birthday.

Each held a dagger that looked like it had been used too many times.

I didn't hesitate.

The lyre slid back onto my shoulder as I dropped into a crouch.

Snikt.

Three claws slid from each hand, warm and familiar, already gleaming red with deer blood. No time to clean. Didn't matter.

One of the redcaps lunged.

I met him halfway, driving my shoulder into his chest and slicing upward in a brutal arc. His momentum carried him straight into my claws. He let out a hiss — not a scream — before his body went limp and puffed into golden dust.

"Alright," I muttered through clenched teeth. "Round two, then."

I turned to face the others.

The second redcap barely had time to hiss before Sif crashed into it like a wrecking ball in fur.

They hit the ground in a tumble of snapping jaws and claws. She latched onto its throat and wrenched, the creature's rusty dagger clattering to the dirt as it turned to golden dust beneath her.

I didn't stop moving.

Another came at me from the left — fast, teeth bared, blade overhead like it thought it could land a killing blow on a demigod.

I ducked under the swing and drove my claws up into its gut, twisting hard. It let out a gurgle, eyes wide, and then burst into ash as I kicked its body off me.

The last two came together, trying to flank me. Classic move. Would've worked on someone slower.

Too bad for them, I wasn't just some punk kid anymore.

Sif growled and barreled into the one on my right. Her jaws clamped around its leg and yanked — hard. It howled, flailing wildly, until I put it down with a clean slash across the throat.

The final redcap tried to bolt.

I didn't give it the chance.

I leapt forward, planted a foot on a stone, and launched myself at it, claws-first. We hit the forest floor together, and I pinned it under me.

It snarled something in a language I didn't know — sharp, guttural, too fast for my brain to catch.

But I understood the look in its eyes.

It was scared.

I didn't ask questions.

I ended it.

Another puff of gold, and then… silence.

Sif let out a low whine, circling the clearing, nose to the ground. She was still tense, hackles up, waiting for more.

But nothing came.

No more footsteps.

No more rot-smell.

Just broken branches, disturbed earth, and deer blood.

I straightened, claws sliding back into my arms with a faint metallic hiss. My breath came in slow, steady pulls. No wounds — not this time.

But something was off.

I scanned the brush, eyes narrowing. There — where the first redcap had been blown apart by the Thunderwave spell, I spotted something strange in the dirt. A faint outline. Bootprints.

I knelt, touching the edge of the print.

Fresh.

Sif padded up beside me and sniffed it.

She growled low, soft and steady.

We weren't alone out here.

The bootprints led deeper into the forest, cutting through bramble and leaf litter like they belonged here—like whoever made them wanted to be followed. Sif stuck close to my heel, nose low, tail still high and twitching.

We moved fast but quiet.

This wasn't about meat anymore.

This was something else.

The farther we went, the colder the air got. The scent of deer and blood faded into something subtler—earthy, damp, the unmistakable smell of mushroom rot and magic left too long in the shade.

After maybe five minutes of following, I stopped short.

Sif did too, freezing in place, a low whine building in her throat.

There, in a small hollow between three gnarled trees, was a ring of mushrooms.

A near-perfect fairy ring.

Twelve toadstools, each the size of my fist, caps a bruised purplish-red, glistening faintly in the moonlight. The grass around them was too green, the soil too dark, and the air above the ring shimmered like heat haze despite the cold.

I didn't need Jasper here to tell me what this was.

There were prints around the ring — boots, bare feet, clawed feet. A few deep impressions like something had leapt or disappeared. Even the leaves nearby had curled in, like the forest itself was trying not to touch the thing.

I crouched down, claws half-extended just in case, and sniffed the air.

Must. Iron. Blood.

Sif growled again, quieter this time.

I crouched beside the fairy ring, hand hovering over the mushrooms, the back of my neck itching like a whisper was brushing against it.

Sif gave another growl — lower this time, more guttural. Warning me without needing words.

I looked at the ring again. Perfect circle. Mushrooms practically pulsing with magic. It reeked of invitation.

I stood up slowly. Took a breath. Felt the pressure build under my tongue, behind my teeth.

The venom glands next to my salivary ducts flared with heat. Familiar now. Natural.

I leaned forward — just slightly — and spat.

A thick, greenish glob hit the center of the ring.

And ignited.

The fire bloomed instantly — not a normal flame, but that burning-oil-meets-hellfire kind of magic. It raced around the edge of the ring, following the circle like it had been soaked in gasoline.

The mushrooms sizzled and popped violently, spewing tiny puffs of sickly yellow smoke as they shriveled.

Sif backed up, tail low, watching the fire roar to life.

Within seconds, the ring was gone. Charred earth, scorched leaves, and a blackened scar in the shape of a perfect circle were all that remained.

The pull?

Gone.

Whatever door that ring led to, I slammed it shut.

Sif wagged once — slow, but satisfied — and we turned back.

No need to go chasing Fae into their little traps. Not tonight.

I still had meat to harvest.

The deer was right where we left it, and I still had a hungry wolf to feed and a god or two to thank. I popped the claws back out, knelt beside the carcass, and got to work.

I worked in silence, claws slicing clean through muscle and tendon. The deer was still warm, steam curling into the cold night air. I took only what I needed for now—clean cuts, best pieces—and left the rest intact.

Sif sat a few feet away, tail thumping softly, eyes locked on every move I made like a kid watching a buffet come together.

"Almost," I muttered, flicking a bit of blood off one hand.

Once I had enough meat packed in a roll of cloth, I hoisted the rest of the carcass onto my shoulder and carried it back through the trees. I found a thick, high branch not far from camp—a good spot, hidden from the main trail, just outside the scent range of most curious predators.

With a little effort and a lot of grip strength, I hauled the body up and lashed it in place using some cord from my belt and the natural notches in the tree. It hung cleanly, no drag marks, no easy reach for scavengers.

"Sif's stash," I muttered. "Wolf girl buffet."

She circled the base of the tree, tail high now, eyes bright with pride.

"You earned it," I said, handing her a cooked portion from the fire I'd built nearby. She chomped into it like it owed her money.

I took a smaller piece of meat—cleaned, seasoned with whatever herbs I had left from Jasper's stash—and skewered it above the fire until it was charred just right.

Then I made another small fire. Just off to the side.

I placed the cut on a flat stone, knelt beside the flames, and whispered, "For Hestia."

I watched the flames rise as the offering smoked gently into the air. The fire took it calmly, no divine response, no booming voice.

Just warmth.

Comfort.

Thanks.

CP Bank:200cp

Perks earned this chapter None

Milestones: Get to camp: Step 2 on demigod-hood: 100cp

Last edited: Apr 11, 2025

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Apr 12, 2025

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Morning in Cabin Seven had a vibe.

Not the slow, lazy kind. More like organized chaos with good hair and suspiciously glowing skin.

I rolled out of bed, careful not to step on Sif, who had somehow managed to take up the entire lower half of my mattress during the night. She blinked at me, yawned wide enough to show all her teeth, then rolled back over and started snoring again.

I stretched, cracked my neck, and grabbed a towel from the hook beside my bunk.

The line for the bathroom was already forming.

Half the cabin was milling around in various states of sleepwear—shirts inside-out, hair sticking up like lightning victims, some brushing their teeth while pacing like they were mentally preparing for a battle.

Classic cabin morning.

I took my place in line, towel slung over my shoulder, and listened to the usual camp chatter.

"My socks are gone. Like, just one of each pair. Who does that?"

"Someone left their lyre in my bunk last night. I don't even play lyre."

"Bro, I woke up in a different shirt. A tighter shirt."

"That's not even the weirdest part. Kyle over there pissed himself."

There was a collective groan. One of the younger campers in the back went red and tried to hide behind a pillow.

"Not like I meant to! Something sat on my chest while I was dreaming!"

Another kid nodded, pulling open his trunk. "My lotion's missing. Again."

I kept quiet.

This was camp.

Weird stuff happened. Kids misplaced things, had bizarre dreams, sleepwalked, maybe got pranked. I wasn't about to start shouting about shadow demons over missing briefs.

Yet.

When it was finally my turn, I stepped into the bathroom, took a long, hot shower—praise the gods for functioning plumbing—and got myself halfway presentable.

As I stepped out, toweling my hair dry, a few more muttered complaints echoed around the room.

Something was off.

But nothing that couldn't be solved with breakfast.

And maybe a walk through the woods.

I stepped out of the cabin, hair still damp, towel slung around my neck, and instantly ran into a guy who looked like he'd walked out of a cologne ad for "sunlight and abs."

He wore a orange camp T-shirt, shades despite it being early, and had a smile so polished it could reflect sunlight.

"You're Lucas, right?" he said, arms folded, a kind of natural charisma rolling off him like summer heat. "I'm Alex. Cabin Seven's assistant counselor. Heard the music last night—nice touch."

Someone in the back yelled " Assistant to the counselor Alex". His smile dropped a little.

"Thanks," I said, trying not to sound too awkward under his megawatt grin. "Still figuring out what the strings do."

Alex chuckled and nodded toward the trail. "Come on, I'll show you the layout. Breakfast's at the pavilion."

I whistled low and gave Sif a light tap on the side. "Go on, girl. You know where your stash is."

She wagged once, licked my hand, and trotted off toward the woods like she had business to attend to. I didn't doubt it.

As we walked down the gravel path toward the heart of camp, Alex gestured at the world around us—the cabins, the woods, the distant fields.

"This place? Protected," he said. "There's a magical barrier that keeps monsters out. Comes from Thalia's tree—long story, she's a pine now—and it keeps us safe."

I raised an eyebrow. "Keeps being the operative word?"

He glanced at me, all smile gone for a second. "Yeah. It's… weakening. Something got to the tree last. Poisoned it. So the barrier's not as airtight as it used to be. Monsters are getting bolder."

"Let me guess—quest underway?"

Alex nodded. "Yeah. A group left to find the Golden Fleece. It arrived last night ahead of the questing group, so it might take a little for the tree to get to full power again."

"And until then?"

He tapped a silver whistle hanging from a chain around his neck.

"If you hear this blown anywhere in camp? It means something got in. You grab a weapon, find a safe zone, or if you're one of us..."

"...you grab a weapon and start slicing," I finished for him.

Alex smiled again. "You'll fit in just fine."

We crested the hill and reached the dining pavilion—massive marble columns, open-air view of the forest, long tables lined with campers already piling plates with eggs, orange juice, waffles, bacon, and something I couldn't identify but smelled like warm sugar.

Alex clapped me on the back. "Find your table, grab your food. If you see someone suspiciously glowing? Just ask how their godparent's doing. It breaks the ice."

I nodded, eyes drifting toward the Ares table where Rhea was already stabbing her pancakes like they owed her money.

The Apollo table had a vibe, and it was exactly what I expected — like sitting with a bunch of golden retrievers who all majored in music, sports, and sunburns. I slid into an open spot halfway down the bench, tray in hand, claiming a massive cheeseburger that looked like it came straight out of a divine food commercial. Crispy bacon, double cheddar, onions grilled to sweet perfection. The works.

Across from me, a younger kid with a mop of sunny blond hair looked up from his plate. He had an open, friendly face, and was sipping from a mason jar full of Coke, the kind that has too much ice.

"Hey," he said. "You're the Alaska guy, right?"

"Yeah," I nodded, setting down my tray. "Lucas."

"Will," he said. "Nice to meet you. That your wolf that tried to eat the Demeter kid's squirrel last night?"

"Yep. She doesn't really recognize camp property rules yet."

He grinned, then took a sip of his Coke.

I winced. "How can you drink it like that?"

"Like what?"

"With all that ice. It's basically soda-flavored water now."

He looked at his drink, puzzled. "Isn't that how you're supposed to—?"

"No," I cut in, dramatically lifting my own bottle. "Too much ice, all of that will melt and put too much water on it."

Will laughed into his cup, nearly spilling it. "You know? never thought of that."

Around us, the usual Apollo-table chatter hummed. Someone was tuning a small lyre, another was arguing with their bunkmate over whether modern instruments are better then the ancient ones, that one was turning quite heated.

Further down the dining pavilion, I caught the edges of other table gossip floating through the air like static.

"Someone TP'd the climbing wall again—like, twenty rolls. Dionysus is furious."

"Okay but my strawberries? They're growing back spicy. Like, jalapeño-spicy."

"No, you don't get it, Madison. The entire drawer was gone. Underwear. Makeup. Perfume. Just… vanished."

"I heard it's a harpy in disguise. Or maybe the satyrs are finally going feral."

I leaned back, taking a big bite of my burger.

Once the pavilion cleared out, a camp counselor with a clipboard and a "seen-it-all" expression rounded up all the newer kids — which included me — and sent us off with a chirpy, "Time to see what you're good at, sunshine!"

We marched to the archery range, a nice open field with targets lined up in neat rows and some straw dummies with very punchable faces. Bows were racked like this was some sporting goods outlet, and there were demigods already letting arrows fly like they were born with quivers on their backs.

"Alright, campers!" a younger Apollo kid shouted, way too enthusiastic for someone not even out of puberty. "One at a time. Line up, nock your arrows, and let's see what you've got!"

By the fourth arrow that plowed face-first into the white of the target like it had a personal vendetta against me I was spent, I was always hitting it, every shot I made hit the target, white, the black, the center every once in a awhile, I could feel eyes on me.

And not the friendly kind.

A couple kids were trying not to laugh. Someone at the edge of the range muttered, "He's Apollo's kid?" like I'd just insulted their entire bloodline.

The bow in my hand felt weird. I knew what I had to do, academically that is... but It felt wrong.

I drew another arrow, lifted it—

—and froze.

Nah.

I let out a long breath, stepped back, and dropped the bow with a soft clunk against the grass.

"Okay, fine," I muttered. "Let's try it my way."

I reached behind my back and pulled the lyre off its strap.

A few people stopped what they were doing. Will tilted his head from the sidelines, brows raised.

I didn't say anything. I just positioned the lyre in front of me, fingers already dancing along the strings.

The melody came sharp and quick, like a ripple in still water — not loud, but precise. Just a few notes casting Shatter.

Then the sound rippled forward — fast.

It hit the target with a low whoomp.

And then it exploded.

Straw, wood, and shattered splinters rained across the field, the sound of the blast echoing through the trees.

Everyone went dead silent.

One Apollo kid dropped his bow.

Another just whispered, "Holy crap."

I slung the lyre back over my shoulder and gave them all the best deadpan I could manage.

"Turns out I'm more of a sound-based projectile guy."

Will clapped once, real slow.

The sparring ring buzzed with campers—half the crowd genuinely curious, the other half definitely here just to watch someone get flattened.

And from the looks of it, they all expected that someone to be me.

Rhea stood in the middle of the ring like she owned it—bronze chestplate catching the sunlight, sword slung over her shoulder, expression sharp enough to cut. Someone had even handed her a helmet, which she wore like a crown. All she needed was a cape and a warhorn.

One of the Apollo kids leaned on the rail, frowning at me. "Hey, uh… where's your armor?"

Another camper chimed in, "Do you even have a weapon?"

I could hear Rhea snort from the center of the ring.

"She didn't even grab a blunted sword," someone else muttered. "That thing looks real."

"Yeah," someone whispered behind me. "He's gonna die."

I stepped into the ring wearing just my camp tee, boots, and shorts. Nothing special. Nothing flashy. Just a pair of leather wraps tight around my hands and wrists, freshly fastened.

No armor.

Just fists.

I cracked my neck, took a deep breath, and gave my wrists one final tug to tighten the straps.

"You sure about this?" Rhea called, rolling her shoulders like she was warming up for a gladiator match.

I just gave her a small smirk.

"Worried?"

She grinned. "A little. But I'm going to give my all."

I took my stance—nothing fancy. Legs spread, fists raised, weight on my toes. I could feel the earth under me, solid and steady. My heartbeat was calm.

I was here to punch a war god's kid into submission.

The crowd held its breath.

The whistle blew.

Game on.

The whistle barely finished echoing before Rhea was on me.

She moved fast—no hesitation, no warm-up swings. Her sword came in a wide arc aimed straight for my ribs, and most people probably thought that'd be it. One clean cut, maybe a trip to the infirmary.

Too bad for her… I wasn't most people.

I twisted low, the blade whiffing inches above my shoulder, and came up inside her reach with a tight right hook to her gut.

WHUMP.

The sound of my fist slamming into bronze rang out across the ring. She staggered, just half a step, but it was enough.

The crowd gasped.

"Did he just—?"

Before anyone could finish the thought, she snarled and came back swinging, a downward slash meant to split the earth in half. I pivoted, slid to the side, and answered with a left jab to her shoulder, right into the seam of her armor.

She grunted. That one hurt.

Rhea was strong, don't get me wrong—brutal, all aggression and instinct. But I was something else.

I was precise.

Every punch had purpose. I didn't waste a step. I didn't flinch. And most importantly?

I didn't stop.

She kept swinging, pressing forward, trying to crush me down with weight and fury. But I slipped around her strikes, ducking under a shield bash, sidestepping a spin-kick like we were dancing.

Except this was a dance where I planned to drop her.

Another punch to the ribs. One to the side of the thigh. A quick jab to her armored shoulder that forced her guard high.

I fainted left.

Then—

CRACK.

Right hook to her jaw. Not full force. Just enough to rattle her.

Rhea stumbled.

And the crowd?

Lost it.

"What the—he's unarmed!"

"Is this guy a boxer or something?"

"How's she not crushing him?!"

Rhea spat into the dirt, face flushed, breathing hard, eyes wide with a mix of fury and something else.

"You're holding back," she growled.

"So are you," I shot back, grinning. "Still time to change that."

The fight had gone from a spar to a straight-up brawl.

Rhea wasn't holding back anymore—not even close. The air cracked with every swing of her sword, and her footwork was tight, aggressive, relentless. She wasn't fighting to win anymore.

She was fighting to burn something out of her system.

Whatever weight she'd been carrying—grief, guilt, rage—it poured out with every strike. And I took it.

Dodged when I could. Blocked when I had to. Gave back as much as I got.

Sweat dripped into my eyes. My knuckles were starting to ache. Her blade came within inches of opening my cheek, but I was already moving—ducking, twisting, letting my body take over while my mind just… flowed.

It was brutal.

Beautiful.

Then she came at me low, fast—too fast—and I saw the angle. The opening. She wasn't swinging this time.

She was stabbing.

Straight for the gut.

I could've dodged.

Could've twisted aside.

I didn't.

The blade slammed into me, straight through the abdomen. Not deep enough to kill, not that she could, but deep enough to be real.

The crowd gasped in a chorus of panicked "Oh my gods!"

But I didn't drop.

Didn't stumble.

I just leaned forward.

Rhea's eyes widened. She tried to pull back.

Too late.

I was inside her guard. I reached back, tightened my fist, and—

BAM.

My punch hit her square in the breastplate. Right in the center of mass.

The sound was like someone smashing a gong with a sledgehammer.

Her whole body launched backward, feet lifting off the dirt, arms flailing. She hit the ground outside the ring, a fist-shaped dent planted firmly into the bronze across her chest.

She lay there for a second, gasping, the wind knocked straight out of her lungs.

The crowd? Dead silent.

All eyes snapped back to me.

Still standing.

Sword still impaled in my gut.

"Holy shit," someone whispered.

"Why is he not screaming?!"

"Why is he still standing?!"

I looked down at the blade, blood oozing around the edges of the wound.

"Ow," I muttered.

And then I yanked it out with one sharp pull and tossed it to the side like it was an annoying splinter.

A few campers looked like they might throw up.

I turned to Rhea, still on the ground, wheezing and stunned, and gave her a lopsided grin.

"You done?"

Rhea lay there for a few long seconds, staring up at the sky like it had personally offended her. Her chestplate had a full-on dent where my fist had landed—deep, almost cartoonish, like someone had socked a bronze drum. Her sword was halfway across the dirt. Her braid had come loose, and dust clung to her armor and cheek.

Then she laughed.

A full, breathless, belly-deep laugh.

"Heh—hahaha—you absolute bastard," she wheezed, still catching her breath. "You let me stab you."

I stepped up and offered her a hand.

"Hey, you needed to let something out," I said, pulling her up. "Figured I'd soak it for a good cause."

She groaned as I helped her to her feet, still laughing through grit teeth. "You hit me so hard my soul briefly left my body."

"Glad it came back," I smirked.

The crowd was still dead silent.

People were just staring—at me, at her, at the dark red bloodstain on my shirt where the blade had gone in.

I dusted off my hands, gave the ring one last glance, and stepped over the edge, officially ending the match.

Rhea followed, shoulder bumping mine. "Okay," she said, trying to hide the limp in her stride, "next time, I'm aiming for the neck."

"If you can hit it," I said, cracking my knuckles.

As we walked off the field together, I could feel the shift behind us.

The whispers had started.

"He tanked a stab like it was nothing..." "No armor. No weapon. What is he?" "Is he even human?"

I didn't look back.

We were halfway back toward the cabins, me and Rhea walking like two battered gladiators after a particularly spirited "training session," when Will came running up, wide-eyed and very much in panic healer mode.

"Oh gods—Lucas, are you okay? You got stabbed! Like, actual sword-in-the-guts stabbed!"

Rhea snorted beside me. "Yeah, he took it like a champ. Then he punched me into next week."

Will ignored her, already circling me like a caffeinated hawk. "You could've hit something important! That blade was sharp! It could've clipped a kidney—"

I raised a hand, smiling like the cat who'd swallowed the sun.

"Relax, Solace. Wanna see something cool?"

He blinked. "What? No—wait—what are you doing—?"

Snikt.

I popped one claw from my right hand. Will's eyes nearly fell out of his head.

Rhea just groaned. "Oh, he is doing that again."

"Dude—what is that—"

I took the claw and dragged it across my throat in one clean motion.

Slice.

Blood spilled down my neck in a thick line.

Will actually screamed.

"WHAT THE HADES, LUCAS—"

The wound closed.

The skin knit back together in less than two seconds. No scar. No mark. Nothing left but a smear of blood on my collar.

Will stared. Jaw dropped. Hands still hovering like he didn't know whether to bandage me or pass out.

"…My blood pressure just spiked, think I'm getting dizzy" he muttered, voice cracking.

I wiped my neck with my sleeve and winked.

"And yet? Alive."

Rhea was laughing again, hands on her hips. "Okay, yeah, you're a jerk—but you're a funny one."

Will just rubbed his temples. "You need to warn people before doing horror movie stunts in broad daylight."

"I did warn you," I said.

"You said you'd show me something cool. Not that you'd casually decapitate yourself."

I shrugged. "Tomato, tomahto."

The rest of the day?

A solid mix of humbling and hilarious.

First was kayaking, which I assumed would be chill. I mean, how hard could floating be? Sit down, paddle, maybe race a few campers for fun.

Except the second I climbed into the kayak and shoved off—

Splash.

The thing tipped instantly.

I surfaced, gasping and flailing, and immediately tried to float.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I sank like a rock. A fast, angry, why-does-my-blood-feel-metallic kind of rock.

"Lucas, are you okay?" someone called from the dock.

I just stood up.

Literally stood up.

The lake was shallow where I fell, but still—there I was, walking my way back onto land like some soggy cryptid in a Camp Half-Blood T-shirt.

"I think water doesn't like me anymore," I muttered.

A camper laughed until they fell off their kayak.

Later, at the rock climbing wall, I figured I'd redeem myself.

I didn't even ask for a harness. Just waited until nobody was watching, popped the claws for half a second, and—

Snikt-snikt-snikt—climb.

Let's just say I hit the top before most people finished tying their shoes.

"Wow, that's a new record!" the instructor said.

I gave him a thumbs-up and very much did not mention that my fists could spring claws out.

Then came the dryad.

I was passing through the strawberry fields near the Demeter cabin when I saw her — a dryad lounging lazily in the shade of an oak tree, legs made of bark and hair full of green leaves. She looked bored. Sunlight filtered through the branches like glitter.

So I stopped, slung the lyre off my back, and played a little tune.

Simple, but upbeat. Something warm. Natural.

I wasn't even trying to impress—just playing what I felt.

The grass around us thickened. Grew taller.

Flowers bloomed. Vines stretched lazily toward the sun.

The entire tree canopy breathed.

Plant Growth.

The dryad gasped. Literally clapped like an excited kid at a magic show. Her leaves fluttered in delight as she reached over and kissed my cheek, giggling as she disappeared back into the bark.

That's when I noticed the Demeter kids staring.

Half their jaws were on the ground.

One guy's watering can hit the dirt.

I waved awkwardly and backed away, still holding the lyre.

"Hey, sorry, wasn't trying to, uh—photosynthesize your girl."

They glared at me like I'd just keyed their tractor.

After the dryad and becoming the plant-caster public enemy number one look from the Demeter kids, I decided I'd pushed my luck enough for one day and made my way back to Cabin Seven.

The sun was starting to dip, casting warm gold over the camp, and most kids were off doing evening drills or prepping for dinner.

Peaceful.

Nice.

I should've known better.

The second I opened the cabin door, I was greeted with the distinct sound of growling. Not aggressive, more like annoyed frustration mixed with slobber.

"Sif…?"

I stepped in and found my giant murder puppy on my bunk, one paw planted firmly on someone's pillow. Said pillow was halfway shredded, the other half stuffed in her mouth.

Will, who had apparently just walked in behind me, stopped cold at the sight.

"Is that the Hermes kid's pillow?"

I stared. "How do you know it's his?"

Will pointed to the embroidered name tag barely still clinging to one corner: "Property of Tanner Howard – DO NOT STEAL."

"Ah."

Sif looked up at me, tail thumping, pillow guts all over her snout.

She was very proud of herself.

"Great. You've committed a crime," I muttered, walking over and pulling the remains out of her jaws. "We talked about this. No eating other campers' stuff."

Sif sneezed, then happily sat back down on the bed, like she had done a good deed for the day.

Will sighed. "You know, at some point, someone is gonna try and report your dog."

I gave Sif a good scratch behind the ears.

"She's not a dog. She's a large, fuzzy problem I love very much."

He didn't argue.

Instead, Will leaned against the bunk and gave me a long, sideways look.

"You're… kind of blowing up around here, you know that? Sword fight, music magic, the not-dying thing. People are talking."

"Yeah, I noticed," I muttered, tossing what was left of the pillow into the corner. "Kind of hard to blend in when you punch armor into a concave bowl."

He snorted. "Just… try not to set anything else on fire until dinner, okay?"

"No promises."

Midday sun. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfect time for a wolf bath.

I had dragged Sif over to the outdoor wash station after lunch, bribed her with a slab of leftover boar meat, and now she was sitting grumpily in a huge metal basin like she was being punished by the gods.

Which, to be fair, she kind of was. She reeked. Like dirt, smoke, wet fur, and blood.

"Stay," I muttered, holding her steady with one hand while squeezing a big blob of dog shampoo into the other. "If you try to jump out again, I swear to all the Olympians I'm trading you in for a pegasus."

Sif huffed but didn't move.

Progress.

I'd tossed my shirt onto a nearby bench — it was already soaked anyway — and was now elbow-deep in wet fur, scrubbing her like she was a greasy pan.

Didn't take long to notice I was getting looked at.

Not subtle glances, either.

Campers walking by slowed down. Some stopped altogether. I caught a nymph half-hidden behind a tree, just... staring. A pair of Hermes kids nudged each other and tried to act like they weren't both clearly checking me out. One Aphrodite boy didn't even try to hide it — just openly admired me like I was on the cover of a Camp's Hottest Half-Bloods calendar.

I ignored them all.

They weren't staring at the faint blue tattoos across my arms and back. But the muscle? That was new.

Between punching monsters, my previous sporty life, and surviving cross-country on canned beans and hunted meat, I'd put on some size. I was easily seeing the top of almost all other demigods' heads here. Shoulders a bit broader, arms a bit more defined, and — not to brag — I had actual abs now. Not the airbrushed kind. Real ones. Earned through near-death experiences and stress.

I kept my head down, lathering shampoo into Sif's fur.

"Don't let it go to your head," I muttered to myself. "You're still washing dog butt."

I was wrist-deep in soggy fur, practically swimming in suds, and Sif was finally giving up the fight. She lay in the big tin basin like a massive, moping pile of wet dog, occasionally groaning as I scrubbed behind her ears. The smell was fading, slowly — replaced with some bullshit smell like "Enchanted Forest".

And then I felt it.

Not a monster.

Worse.

Social attention.

I glanced up and, sure enough, two Aphrodite kids were making their approach. One boy, one girl — both objectively way too attractive for casual camp life. Shiny hair. Flawless skin. Matching accessories like they were coordinated by a fashion demigod marketing team.

"Heyyy," the girl started, her tone bright and far too casual as she leaned against the nearby fence. "That's your wolf, right?"

"Sure is," I said, not stopping my scrubbing. "This is the beast of the hour."

The guy chimed in, stepping up on the other side of the basin. "She's... majestic. Really. I've always loved dogs. Big dogs. You know, the kind that could maul a monster or a mortal. Super into that."

I narrowed my eyes slightly.

They both stared at Sif like she was a live grenade.

"Right," I said, rubbing shampoo into her haunches. "She's all cuddles, really. You just have to survive the part where she tries to eat you."

Sif let out a loud, unladylike snort, then let her tongue loll out the side of her mouth like she was in on the joke.

The girl giggled. "You're really good with her. That's... hot. The whole rugged, shirtless, animal-handler thing? Very wilderness chic."

I blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"

The guy stepped closer, trying for smolder. "And hey, after you're done washing up the killer fluffball, maybe you wanna grab lunch? Just, you know, debrief. Real casual."

"Or," the girl said, "we could go find one of those picnic spots by the strawberry fields. I make amazing sandwiches."

They stared at each other.

Competitive smiles.

I blinked again. "Are you guys... tag-teaming this flirt or competing?"

"Competing," they both said at the same time.

Sif chose that moment to stand up abruptly, splashing water everywhere. Both Aphrodite kids yelped and scrambled back as wet fur and soap flew in all directions.

I kept a straight face.

"Well," I said, "Sif says no."

"RUDE!" the girl laughed, wiping suds off her top.

"I'm soaked!" the guy hissed, staring down at his now-ruined sandals. "These were enchanted!"

Sif sneezed once, loud and gross.

The girl gave me one last flirty wave and backed off. "Maybe next time, then, wilderness boy."

The guy didn't say anything, just sulked off muttering something about backup tunics and frizz prevention.

I patted Sif on her damp head.

"If you keep cockblocking me like that we will never find you a mother."

She licked my hand, satisfied.

The rest of the day slipped by, weird chores, and a suspicious amount of other campers pretending to walk by me for completely unrelated reasons. Rhea had teased me, Jasper rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might detach, and Sif stayed unusually smug for a creature who ate rocks every once in a while.

By sunset, I needed some quiet.

I wandered out of the main camp paths, past the armory, past the fields where kids still sparred in the golden light, until I found myself in front of Thalia's tree — perched atop Half-Blood Hill, standing proud and silent like it had been there for a thousand years.

The pine was tall, strong, and humming with the faintest kind of magic. A little grey, with the bark still soft and new leaves growing from branches.

I settled at the base of the trunk, Right next to the glowing tarp, the Golden Fleece looked… cheap honesty, expected more.

Sif curled up a few feet away, head resting on her paws, already starting to snore. A breeze rolled through, carrying the scent of pine needles and the faint, electric taste of ozone.

I didn't think.

I just started to play.

The tune that came out wasn't one I knew — not really. It just… was. Like it had been waiting in my chest for the right time to come out.

Something slow.

Something warm.

The strings hummed, and the melody drifted into the air, soft as smoke.

The grass swayed around me.

The branches above shifted gently.

And for a moment, Thalia's tree — the one protecting the entire camp — looked just a little bit greener. A little brighter. Like the bark itself breathed deeper.

I kept playing until my fingers slowed.

The song of Healing flowing from the lyre.

Until my breathing evened.

Until I was slouched comfortably against the base of the trunk, eyes half-closed, the lyre resting against my side.

I was out cold.

Thalia's tree made for a surprisingly comfy headrest, and between the late sun, the soft wind, and the song I'd played earlier still buzzing somewhere in my bones, I had the best sleep I'd had in weeks. No nightmares, no weird visions—

Grrrrrrr...

A low growl stirred me from sleep, rumbling near my hip.

Sif.

My eyes cracked open to see her ears perked, fur bristling, teeth barely bared in a warning growl. She was staring down the hill toward the camp.

Something was off.

That's when I smelled it.

Earthy.

Not just dirt. Potting soil, blood, mushrooms, wet moss. Mixed with the faintest trace of... glitter? And peppermint?

Then I heard it.

A catchy little tune drifting through the air — plinky, tinny, like it was being played on broken music boxes all out of sync. The kind of thing that would be adorable if it wasn't already setting off my fight-or-flight response.

I stood slowly, brushing pine needles off me, and squinted toward camp.

And that's when I saw them.

Gnomes.

A lot of them.

Short, lumpy, bearded little weirdos wearing tiny red caps, thick glowing cloaks and carrying sacks, pipes, something hanging from their necks, and even a wheelbarrow full of shiny junk. They moved without a purpose, like drunk squirrels with a to-do list. One was tiptoeing past the Ares cabin with a bronze breastplate twice his size dragging behind him. Another was literally swapping the shoes of two sleeping campers.

And then…

I froze.

At the campfire ring, where some poor Hermes kid had fallen asleep mid-marshmallow roast, a gnome was standing — pants around his stubby ankles — peeing on the poor kid's leg.

I blinked.

Rubbed my eyes.

Looked again.

Yup.

Still happening.

"Holy shit," I whispered to myself. "Maybe I do have schizophrenia."

Sif growled again, louder this time, her eyes tracking a gnome that was trying to unscrew the faucet on the wash station with a spoon.

I reached for my lyre slowly, just in case this required the kind of magic that came with background music.

I moved down the hill like I was chasing a raccoon through a dollar store.

Sif flanked me, ears perked and hackles raised, tail low but twitching—the good twitch, the "I might bite something today" kind.

One of the gnomes had just shoved a Camp Half-Blood hoodie into a bag three times too small for it. Another had a whistle in its mouth and was blowing it constantly for no reason.

I singled one out—short, even by gnome standards, with a crooked red cap and something that looked suspiciously like my sunglasses strapped to his head like ski goggles.

"Alright, buddy," I muttered, stepping in his path. "Where do you think you're going?"

The gnome froze.

We stared at each other, I saw what he had on his neck, a little tube filled with a red liquid that If I had to bet was blood.

He squinted up at me.

Then, from a pocket, he slowly pulled out a tiny dagger.

Like... letter-opener sized.

He waved it once, hissed like a pissed-off teapot, then turned and sprinted away with the kind of high-speed shuffle that made his legs look like egg beaters.

"Oh you little—!"

I took off after him.

What I didn't expect was that every other gnome followed suit. Like there was a built-in emergency escape protocol.

They scattered like cockroaches—scrambling toward the camp's magical border, chirping and shouting in high-pitched nonsense, their bags of stolen socks, spoons, and underwear jingling like loot from a viking raid.

I sprinted after them—but then I saw it:

They were messing with the barrier.

One by one, the gnomes threw something from their pockets—dull red powder, sparkling faintly, like crushed ruby mixed with glitter. As soon as it hit the shimmering golden dome of the camp's boundary, it sizzled—

Fzzzzzzzzt.

A hole opened.

A literal, gnome-sized hole.

They dove through.

Dozens of them, squealing with laughter, tossing acorns behind them like grenades. One even saluted me with two middle fingers before vanishing into the trees.

"You little fungal bastards."

The holes in the barrier slowly sealed behind them, like a wound scabbing over. But not before the last one tossed what looked like someone's underwear up into a tree.

Sif sat beside me, tail wagging.

I looked down at her, exasperated. "You couldn't have tackled one?"

She sneezed.

I sighed.

Most of the gnomes had made their escape, darting into the woods like sugar-fueled gremlins on Black Friday.

But one was slower.

Maybe the bag of stolen junk on his back was too heavy. Maybe his stubby little legs couldn't keep up. Either way, he broke from the pack, charging deeper into the trees — heading right toward a stretch of forest I recognized.

The burned-out fairy ring.

"Oh, hell no," I muttered, slinging the lyre off my back.

Sif growled beside me, matching my pace as we sprinted through the trees.

I strummed a few sharp, pulsing notes — a snappy little dissonant thing.

"Freeze."

The magic hit like a drumbeat.

Hold Person.

The gnome locked mid-step, one foot still in the air, arms stretched out like he'd just seen a squirrel he wanted to mug. He wobbled slightly but stayed frozen, magic rippling around him like invisible chains.

I slowed down, heart racing, steps crunching on leaves as I approached. Sif stalked forward, sniffing warily, tail low.

The gnome's eyes twitched to look at me.

He was grinning.

Not a good grin.

A "you messed up real bad" grin.

"You know," I said, panting slightly, "I've had a long week. So if you could just sit tight and explain what the hell you freaks are doing, I promise I won't—"

PFFFFFT.

The gnome spat a puff of shimmering golden powder right into my face.

Sif barked once—then coughed— as the same glittery mist hit her muzzle.

"Aw, c'mon, seriously?"

I stumbled back.

Everything started to bend.

The forest warped. Colors smeared like someone had messed with the saturation slider. The trees swayed, pulsing with light, and the ground beneath me felt like it was trying to breathe.

Sif let out a confused yowl and sat heavily, her pupils blown wide, tongue lolling, tail wagging like she was hearing dubstep.

"Oh no. Ohhhh no."

I looked down at my hands — now glowing. Like... actual glowing. Like sunbeams were leaking out of my skin.

I looked at the gnome again.

He winked.

I looked at the sky.

It was melting.

"Okay," I whispered, swaying slightly as the gnome vanished into swirling flowers and laughter,

"Maybe I really do have schizophrenia."

I blinked once.

Twice.

And then the ground wasn't ground anymore — it was a river made of glowing sheet music, flowing uphill, notes popping like bubbles as they drifted through the air. Sif was floating beside me, paws bicycling through nothing, tail leaving a trail of sparkles like some unholy dog-unicorn hybrid.

"Sif?" I called, voice echoing like I'd shouted into a church made of jello.

"You seeing this too?"

She barked once, but it came out as a guitar chord.

Right. Totally fine. This is fine.

Around us, the trees had turned into giant forks. The sky was cotton candy being spun by a cloud shaped like Apollo's face, grinning smugly. The fairy ring I'd burned earlier had reappeared, now a neon sign that read "DO NOT STEP HERE (again)" in glittering, cursive Greek.

I staggered forward, trying to get my bearings, but the ground bounced like a trampoline every few steps. My hands were still glowing, and the lyre on my back was strumming itself, each note leaving behind little musical butterflies.

"Sif, I think we're high on gnome magic."

She barked again, tail wagging so fast it created a helicopter noise.

A herd of pinecones wearing sandals jogged past me, chanting "You dropped this, you dropped this," and throwing acorns at my feet. I bent down, picked one up, and it winked at me before bursting into confetti.

I started laughing. I couldn't help it.

The laugh came from deep inside, the kind that shook my chest and made my stomach hurt. And then I was laughing and crying at the same time because I was a shirtless demigod bard tripping on forest gnome drugs with a giant hallucinating wolf, and nothing in the world made sense anymore.

"I hate magic," I said to nobody, tears in my eyes. "And I love magic."

In the sky above me, one of the black suns I'd seen before pulsed.

It shined.

Everything slowed.

Sif stopped floating.

The trees steadied.

As everything slowed and the kaleidoscope chaos started to settle, I noticed something new.

A trail.

Glowing footprints, soft yellow-gold, shimmered just ahead — like someone had dipped their feet in starlight and tiptoed into the woods. Each step sparkled gently, then dimmed behind me as I passed, guiding me forward like a musical breadcrumb trail.

Sif followed at my side, eyes still a little too wide, tongue still lolling, but no longer floating like a bass-boosted balloon. She sniffed the glowing prints, let out a quiet "boof," and kept moving.

So we followed.

Through a forest that no longer looked quite real.

The trees around us were too tall. Their bark hummed faintly with music. Some had eyes — kind ones, blinking slowly, as if watching but not judging. A fox made of falling leaves watched us pass. A great owl, carved entirely from wood and moss, turned its head and hooted a sound like a harp being plucked.

Eventually, the glowing trail turned gold — actual gold — forming into a path of bricks. Not cobblestone. Not dirt. Full-on Wizard of Oz, yellow brick road nonsense.

I stared at it.

Sif stared at it.

We both looked at each other.

"Well," I said, shrugging. "When in tripping-forest-Oz."

So we walked.

The road wound between trees that slowly faded, the light shifting from dreamlike haze to something crisp, clean, and real. One step after another, like waking from a nap that you weren't sure was real until the pillow was gone.

At the very end of the path, where the last glowing brick met solid earth again…

There it sat.

A pot of gold.

I blinked.

I kept staring at the pot of gold, watching it shimmer like it was trying to hypnotize me. And then, right on cue, a faint glimmer cut through the dark canopy above—

A rainbow.

Faint, barely there. But definitely not natural.

I tensed, waiting to see him—the pointy-hatted, emerald-eyed little bastard I knew had to be behind this.

But… nothing.

No sneaky three-foot gold goblin creeping into view.

Just the gold, and the lingering scent of peppermint.

"Figures," I muttered. "Wouldn't leave the prize out and show up the same day. Amateur move."

Where there was a pot of gold, there would eventually be a rainbow, and eventually a leprechaun. That much I knew.

Which meant I had time.

"Alright, you shiny little freak," I said to the air. "Next time you pop in, you're getting caged."

Sif sneezed in agreement.

I scratched her behind the ears and backed out of the clearing, careful not to disturb anything. No need to spook the magic.

All I needed now was one thing:

A really good trap.

And for that?

Time to make a stop at the Hephaestus cabin.

Then It's time to capture a leprechaun,

CP Bank:200cp

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Apr 12, 2025

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Apr 13, 2025

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Authors note: Hey, just passing in to warn that there's very little chance of a chapter coming out tomorrow, got a crazy shift at work, But on a good news Grammarly is back... even if I had to finally give it money.

The next afternoon, I sat at the pavilion, chewing through a slab of meatloaf while Sif lounged under the table, lazily swatting at a camper's sandal with one paw. Across the rows of benches, voices were raised in escalating complaint.

"My shoes were filled with glue!"

"Someone switched all the swords with fish!"

"Why was my cabin filled with glitter that smells like mint?!"

"Who the Hades stole every left sock I own?!"

The Aphrodite table looked especially distressed. One poor kid sat stiffly, syrup in his hair and trauma in his eyes, clearly the victim of a shampoo-related betrayal. He was sticky, wide-eyed, and emotionally ruined.

And me? I just quietly sipped my drink.

Because yeah, I knew exactly what happened. But try explaining that to people that "magic gnomes," redcaps, and the sparkle-induced hallucinations I'd stumbled through last night. Tell them that the real menace haunting Camp Half-Blood last night was a three-foot-tall leprechaun, probably breakdancing on their roofs while pouring glitter into their laundry, and they'd throw me in the Hermes cabin with the prank kids and call it a day.

So, I kept quiet. Polished off my waffle. And once breakfast wrapped up, I made my way to the Hephaestus cabin.

Clank — the guy I commissioned to throw together my little project — had done quick work. Good thing the design was simple and iron was plentiful. I stood next to the finished cage like a proud dad at a science fair, arms crossed, trying to keep my expression neutral while I took it all in.

It didn't look like much at first: sturdy frame, about three feet tall, welded from iron with reinforced joints and thick lock. The real trick was the network of thin plastic tubes woven through the bars, filled with softly glowing, ever-flowing water that shimmered faintly. Magic practically whispered from it: No funny business.

"You sure this'll work?" I asked, tapping one of the water tubes. It pulsed — warm to the touch.

Clank grinned, wiping his hands on a rag. "Unless you're planning to trap a minor god or anything with a physical legend to its name, this'll hold just about anything small, tricky, and magical. Water's from a Naiad spring—blessed to loop forever. don't know why you asked for it but just like the Hermes and Dionysus cabin, I don't ask questions."

"Good," I nodded. "That's… exactly what I need."

I didn't say why I needed it. No mention of rainbow roads. No pot of gold. Definitely no leprechaun revenge mission. Just a vague, mysterious "I need a cage for something magical and probably annoying."

Clank gestured toward the cage. "So. Payment?"

I gave him a flat look. "You want me to sign something?"

"Nah," he said. "Favor. Easy one."

"Define easy."

"You've got a bike," he said, like that somehow answered the question. "I've got a supplier. Philly-adjacent. Guy's got an extra shipment of Celestial Bronze we need — backup stock."

"And you want me to go fetch it?"

"Exactly. Quick trip. No monsters, no drama. Just pick up and go. You'll be in and out."

Which, in camp lingo, practically guaranteed drama. Still, I could use a drive. And I really needed that cage.

I clapped a hand on the top of it. "Deal. I'll bring your shiny metal home."

Clank grinned. "Try not to die."

"No promises."

I left the trap tucked away in the Apollo cabin, safely covered under a tarp and wedged between a bunk and a half-eaten granola bar stash. The enchanted water in the tubing still flowing in quiet loops. On top of it, I left a note that simply read:

Do Not Touch — Will Explode. Probably.

I wasn't planning on using it yet, and dragging it to Philly would've raised too many questions I didn't feel like answering. Like: "Hey Lucas, why do you need a cold iron cage full of enchantments?" Yeah. Hard pass, but if they do Ill just lie through my teeth saying its fetish shit.

Sif, of course, was less thrilled about being left behind. She followed me all the way to the edge of camp, her big eyes wide with betrayal. I knelt down, scratched behind her ears, and gave her a firm head-bonk.

"Less then a day, girl. You stay here. Guard the cabin. Eat someone's jerky stash if you get bored."

She huffed and slumped down like I'd grounded her for life. Dramatic little menace.

Back at my bike, I strapped down the last pouch on the saddlebag. The sun had barely crept past the treeline. Philly wasn't far, and at the speed I could hit, I'd be there, loaded, and back before the eggs on the breakfast buffet went cold.

I fired up the engine, pulled out onto the path heading east, and let the steady whirr of magic fill the morning air. A soft pulse of blue light shimmered under the frame as the bike sliced down the road like a ghost.

The landscape blurred — trees, road signs, the occasional confused squirrel. I leaned forward, letting the wind push against me, cool and sharp. The sidecar, currently empty, glowed faintly with its own power tether, bobbing slightly in sync with the bike's motion.

The sun climbed higher behind me, painting the road in gold. For once, nothing was going wrong. No monsters. No explosions. Just the rhythm of the ride and the cold air slicing across my face like a promise:

You got this.

I was soaring. Not metaphorically — literally. The bike hovered a good fifteen feet above the highway, gliding on its antigrav plates like a golden arrow through open sky. Below me, traffic crawled. Cars honked. A trucker flipped someone off. The usual.

This? This was the way to travel. No potholes. No red lights. Just air and the hum of magic-fueled tech keeping me aloft and ahead of schedule.

Philly was coming up fast. The wind whipped around me, the sun warming the back of my neck, and for a second, I let my mind drift. I thought about the lyre strapped to my back. About Sif, probably stealing someone's pillow. About the pot of gold. About how weird my life had gotten in such a short—

CRASH.

A blur of feathers, talons, and screeching fury slammed into me from above like a feathery missile.

"What the—!"

I didn't even have time to react. The harpy collided with the front of the bike, wings flailing, claws scraping wildly at the plating. The impact sent her spiraling backward, flipping through the air like a tossed ragdoll. She hit the road behind me with a wet thud, bounced once, then burst into golden monster dust.

The bike wobbled. I nearly lost control — swerved, overcorrected, floated sideways for one terrifying second — then straightened out. My heart was pounding.

"Okay," I muttered, breath sharp. "Rude."

I glanced down. Traffic rolled on, blissfully unaware. A minivan passed below with a bumper sticker that said "I Brake for Bigfoot." Then the next sign zipped past:

WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA.

Clank's directions were old-school — no GPS, no magical beacon. Just a piece of notebook paper that read: "Chestnut Street, corner of 49th. Ask for Grumbles."

I'd expected a scrapyard. Or a mechanic's garage. Something with a weird lock or a glowing ingot shelf.

What I got instead? A block of row houses and boarded-up bodegas. A busted laundromat with no windows. And one guy — person? — standing on the corner like he was trying to get mugged on purpose.

He wore a trench coat at least three sizes too big. The sleeves hung low, the shoulders were misshapen, and the whole look screamed three raccoons in a hoodie. His hat sat at a weird tilt, and I could swear his eyes weren't even aligned — one watching me, the other scanning for exits.

"Okay," I muttered, easing the bike down onto the sidewalk and cutting the hover plates. "That's not unsettling at all."

Sif would've been barking already if she were here.

The guy perked up — or adjusted his lean. His arms didn't swing when he moved. He sort of shuffled. Like a shopping cart with one jammed wheel. He raised a hand, sleeve sagging halfway down.

"You... Grumbles?" I asked.

He grinned. Or at least, exposed teeth in a way that technically counted as a smile, all molars.

"That's me," he rasped. "You must be the pick-up boy."

"Sure," I said, eyeing the nearest fire escape. "You got the stuff?"

He turned and gestured to a battered steel door behind him. "Round back. Basement. Real nice and cool. You'll love it."

Yup. Totally normal. Absolutely above-board. Definitely not walking into a horror movie.

I gave him one of my best fake smiles — the kind that said "I'm playing along, but I will absolutely throw hands if this gets weird." The teeth probably didn't help, he flinched a little. Then I stepped off the bike and followed him down the cracked concrete path beside the building.

The alley stank of cigarettes, wet bricks, and a hint of crack. Trash cans lined one side, overflowing and buzzing with flies. Someone had tagged the wall with a crude drawing of what might've been Poseidon surfing a Philly cheesesteak.

Respect, Real artistic talent that one, probably related to me.

Grumbles didn't so much walk as lurch forward, the oversized coat swaying like something inside it was constantly adjusting its weight. I kept one hand near the lyre strapped across my back, fingers twitching—not to play yet, just a silent reminder that I could. If this went from "sketchy delivery of maybe drug " to "oh, look, monsters," I was going to light up this alley like the finale of a battle-of-the-bands showdown.

We stopped at a rusted steel door, the keypad beside it smeared in something unidentifiably sticky. Grumbles gave it a solid knock. Not a code. Not even a pattern. Just a loud bam-bam-bam like he was trying to beat snacks out of a vending machine, not even touching the keypad.

There was a pause. Then a soft click, and the door creaked open on its own, revealing a narrow concrete staircase lit by flickering fluorescents.

"After you," he said.

I didn't move.

He blinked, waiting. His too-wide eyes caught the light in a way that made my skin itch.

"Yeah," I said, "I've seen this movie. You go first."

He grinned again—more teeth this time—and turned without protest, trench coat flapping behind him as he descended the stairs with that same clunky, off-kilter gait.

And I followed him in.

The basement air hit like a wall. Hot, dry, metallic. The kind of heat that sticks to your skin and whispers that you shouldn't be here.

But I kept going.

The stairs opened into a wide, open room that looked like a scrapyard had exploded inside a forge. Smoke hissed from massive furnaces in the corners, venting through fat metal tubes bolted to the ceiling. One wall was stacked with rusted celestial bronze weapons—broken swords, shattered shields, dented helmets—piled like discarded war trophies. In another corner stood racks of old relics: cracked staffs, armor, relics full of dust, and a busted lyre that made my stomach twist for a second too long.

"Reclamation center," Grumbles rasped behind me, shrugging off his coat to reveal... another trench coat. Slightly smaller. Maybe.

He waved a hand like a magician with a dollar-store budget. "People don't realize how much junk demigods leave behind. Broken blades. Failed quests. Oaths made with bad timing. All comes here eventually. We melt it down. Strip the curses. Make it useful again."

At the heart of the room bubbled a massive basin of molten celestial bronze. It glowed like lava, casting a warm orange light that made every shadow flicker. Around it, workers moved with practiced rhythm—silent, rough-looking types in soot-covered aprons, no gloves, so definitely supernatural. One pulled a bent axe from the pile, muttered a prayer, and dropped it into the forge, where it hissed and dissolved.

Grumbles wandered to a nearby crate, pried it open with a grunt, and gestured inside. "This is the stuff Clank's boys want. Fresh bars. Smelted this morning. Still warm."

I stepped closer and peeked in. More then a dozen neatly arranged bars of purified celestial bronze, stamped with a blacksmith's sigil, each one faintly steaming.

"You gonna need a receipt?" I asked.

Grumbles snorted. "Tell 'em Grumbles said: Don't screw up the next forge job. They'll know what it means."

I nodded and reached for the pouch I'd brought. Nearby, I snagged a pair of heavy leather gloves off a bench—no way I was cooking my fingers over delivery work—and started loading the bars. They were heavier than they looked. Dense. Buzzing with magical vibration, the kind that made your bones itch if you held them too long.

"Clank's gonna lose his mind," I muttered, stacking them with care. "Thirty bars? Guy's gonna start naming furnaces after me."

I zipped the pouch closed, made sure nothing was glowing aggressively, and gave Grumbles a nod. He'd retreated to a crate, munching on something that may have been a burnt hot dog. Or a cursed sausage.

"Appreciate the goods," I said, slinging the pouch over my shoulder.

He gave a lazy two-finger salute, still chewing. I didn't wait around.

I zipped through the Philly streets, saddlebag packed tight with thirty freshly forged bars of celestial bronze. The bike hovered smooth and silent, but the weight tugged slightly on the frame—just enough to remind me I was basically hauling the magical equivalent of a tank's lunchbox.

Job: done.

Stomach: growling.

Throat: dry as Tartarus.

After the heat of that forge, I needed something normal.

So, when I spotted a diner that looked like it hadn't changed since the '60s—chrome siding, big windows, neon sign that read "Pat's Place"—I pulled over and floated the bike down to a soft stop out front.

Heaven.

I stepped inside, the bell above the door giving a friendly little ding. The place was half-full, buzzing softly with regulars and clinking plates. No monsters. No ancient runes. Just a tired waitress pouring coffee and some guy in a booth locked in mortal combat with a crossword puzzle.

I slid into a booth by the window, grabbed a menu, and grinned. Pancakes, eggs, and a soda bigger than my head? Yes, please.

The soda came first—big glass, no ice, perfect. I took a long sip, letting the carbonation burn away the leftover forge-heat clinging to my throat. Real sugar, too. Not that fake syrupy stuff. It hit like a blessing from Hestia herself.

Then came the complimentary garlic bread—still warm, buttery, served in a wax paper basket. I tore off a piece, dipped it into the marinara the waitress dropped off without a word, and took a bite.

Heaven.

I was halfway through my second slice, finally relaxing into something dangerously close to peace, when the bell above the door jingled again.

Except this time, it wasn't a tired trucker or a hungover breakfast crowd.

It was two guys.

Ski masks. Nervous energy. One held a duffel bag. The other, a very real-looking shotgun.

"Nobody move! This is a robbery!"

The entire diner froze. Forks hovered midair. A coffee cup hit its saucer and cracked. The waitress dropped her notepad, eyes wide.

I sighed—audibly.

"Seriously?" I muttered, leaning back in my booth. "I'm just trying to eat."

I took another bite of garlic bread. Sipped my soda. The two robbers were jittery—amateurs. Shotgun guy gripped the weapon like it was part of a Halloween costume, and his buddy was shouting orders like he'd rehearsed for a heist movie and forgotten half the script.

They were loud. Sloppy. Too keyed up to notice anything except the duffel bag resting on the floor beside my booth—the one stuffed with glowing bars of celestial bronze.

And sure enough, Mask #2's eyes locked on it.

"Yo! Bag. Slide it over!"

I looked at him. Really looked. He didn't see a demigod. Didn't see the runes hidden under my shirt or the lyre slung across my back. Just some punk kid in a cool jacket with a heavy bag.

I wiped my fingers, leaned back, and said, "Nah."

Shotgun Guy spun toward me, weapon raised. "What'd you say?"

I nodded toward the bag. "You don't want that."

"Don't test me, kid!"

"Trust me," I said, voice calm. "I'm doing you a favor."

He stepped closer, still not getting it. Everyone else had hit the deck or frozen in place—but me?

I popped the last bite of bread into my mouth and swallowed.

"What's in the bag, man?" the other asked, still pointing. "Cash? Jewelry? Drugs?"

I smiled slowly. "You don't want to mess with it."

Shotgun Guy snarled. He was sweating through his mask now, twitchy and half-panicked.

"Last warning, man—slide that bag over, or I'll—"

BOOM.

He didn't wait.

The blast hit me square in the chest. Buckshot punched into my lungs through the space between my ribs, and I dropped like a sack of bricks, the shot pushing me back into the booth. Screams echoed around the diner. A glass shattered. Someone sobbed. My soda hit the floor and exploded in fizz.

The guy with the shotgun exhaled hard and stepped toward the booth.

"Told you not to test me," he muttered.

His buddy—still watching the duffel—moved to grab it.

Bad move.

My hand, resting on the lyre, twitched. I wasn't dead. Not even close. The pain faded as fast as it came. Warm magic buzzed beneath my skin, cartilage reknitting, buckshot already shifting out.

I strummed one low, vibrating chord—like a bass drop from the depths.

Dominate Person.

The second robber froze mid-reach. His eyes glazed like static was playing behind them. Breath slowed. Muscles loosened.

I pointed lazily, still half-sprawled on the floor. "Shoot your friend."

He didn't hesitate.

BOOM.

The second shot was louder. Messier. Shotgun Guy spun, slammed into the floor, and screamed as his legs gave out under him.

Panic broke. Someone cried out. Chairs scraped. Silverware hit the floor.

I sat up, brushed off crumbs, and muttered, "Told you."

My ribs ached, shirt shredded and soaked in blood. I let out a breath—coughed—

clink

ting

Buckshot pinged out of my mouth and bounced off the floor.

I rolled my jaw, worked my shoulders. "Gods, that tastes awful…"

The dominated robber stood like a mannequin in shutdown mode, gun loose in his grip. His buddy lay twitching in a puddle of bad decisions.

I flicked out my claws with a low snikt, stepped forward, and—shhk—one clean swipe across the throat. Fast. Quiet.

He dropped like a sack of flour.

Claws retracted with a snap. I looked around the diner—everyone still frozen under tables, eyes wide like they'd just watched a horror film unfold at brunch, a little glassy.

"Sorry about the mess," I muttered.

I pulled a crumpled twenty and a few singles from my jacket, dropped them next to the marinara cup, and slung the duffel back over my shoulder.

"Great garlic bread, by the way."

The bell above the door jingled like it hadn't just watched a double homicide, and I stepped back into the Philly sunlight.

The bike was right where I left it, floating a few inches above the pavement like it thought gravity was beneath it. I tossed the duffel into the side compartment, zipped it up tight, and gave the bronze bars a solid pat. They thrummed beneath my fingers, a steady magical purr like they were pleased to be in one piece.

"Still warm," I muttered. "Nice."

I swung a leg over the seat, gave the handlebars a quick check, and powered up. The antigrav plates flared softly, and the hum deepened as the engine came alive. The wind tugged at my jacket as I pulled out onto the road, the city already blurring behind me.

"Guess I'm not leaving a Yelp review," I said, twisting the throttle. "Do they have those yet?"

No sirens behind me. No gods in front of me.

Just open road.

The bike purred beneath me, floating smooth and sure. Philly shrank in the rearview, the duffel of celestial bronze nestled like sacred cargo, and for once I dared to think: maybe—maybe—I'd get a peaceful ride back to camp.

Of course Murphy law activates.

The smell of ozone, that weird, electric pressure that makes your skin buzz and your instincts snap to full alert. A shift in the sky. The kind of heaviness that said: you are not alone.

I glanced up.

Something was flying above me.

Big. Too big to be a normal bird. Its wings stretched wider than a semi-truck, gliding effortlessly overhead in slow, silent strokes. I couldn't see much—just a dark shape against the clouds, cruising like it had nothing better to do than haunt my ride.

The wind didn't push it. It parted for it. Like the sky was making room.

It didn't dive. Didn't shriek. Just... watched. Circled. Always just out of focus.

"Well that's comforting," I muttered, tightening my grip on the handlebars.

The air crackled faintly under it—like the tension before a lightning strike. The longer it hovered, the more my instincts screamed.

I stayed under its shadow.

RRRRRRMMMMMM.

A low, deep rumble rolled through the sky. Not thunder exactly. It didn't boom. It growled. Heavy. Slow. Longer. Like the sky was flexing.

I looked up again. It was still there, gliding, massive wings barely moving, just drifting above me like it had all the time in the world.

The air got heavier. My chest tightened like I'd taken a breath and forgot how to let it go. The hair on my arms stood on end.

I eased the bike onto the shoulder, let it drift to a quiet hover, and powered down. The hum of the engine faded until it was just me and the wind. I swung off the seat and stepped away, eyes never leaving the sky.

The kind of presence you didn't call to. Didn't yell at.

But maybe...

Maybe you played for it.

I reached back, unstrapped the golden lyre, and let my fingers settle onto the strings like they belonged there. No hesitation. No setlist. I didn't think—I just played.

The first few notes whispered into the air, soft and steady.

The Song of Storms.

It rose slowly, building like a breeze sneaking in through an open window. Then the rhythm shifted—gentle like rain, then faster, heavier. My fingers danced across the strings, calling the sky like it remembered me.

RRRMMMMM—BOOM.

Thunder answered. Closer this time.

And then... I heard it.

Wings.

The Thunderbird dropped through the air.

It landed beside me with impossible grace for something that size, its talons sinking slightly into the pavement. Its wings—massive, wide enough to cover the road—folded slowly. Feathers shimmered with streaks of blue lightning. Its eyes glowed like electric fire.

And it looked at me.

I kept playing. Slower now. Softer. The thunder eased with it, like the storm itself had curled up beside us to listen.

The Thunderbird stayed still, just watching. Wind curled around us in lazy spirals. For a moment, it felt like we stood in the center of something sacred.

"You came to listen, huh?" I muttered.

It blinked once. Didn't move.

I let the last note fade out, soft and low. The wind stilled. The sky quieted.

The Thunderbird took a slow step closer. Its body radiated power, the electric kind.

Then, it did something I didn't expect.

It lowered its head.

Not a bow. Not submission.

Just... recognition.

And in front of its beak, like it had been carrying it all along, rested a small bundle wrapped in rough hide. Carefully, it placed it at my feet.

I blinked. "...For me?"

No response. Just that intense gaze.

Then, without a sound, it spread its wings, pushed off the ground with a gust that shook my bones, and soared back into the clouds. One beat. Two. Gone.

I stood in the silence it left behind.

Inside the bundle: a single feather—storm-gray, with bright blue veins pulsing just under the surface—and a smooth stone that sparked gently when I touched it.

A gift.

I tucked the feather carefully into my jacket.

And then, because the universe has timing like a sitcom—

WHOOSH.

The sky didn't drizzle. It dumped.

Sheets of rain slammed down like Zeus himself was wringing out a cloud for fun. I hunched forward, the bike slicing through the storm, floating steady despite the downpour. My shirt clung to my chest. Water streamed off my jacket. The wind stung against my face like a thousand little slaps.

"Awesome," I muttered, blinking through the flood.

Still, I smiled. Somewhere behind me, a mythical storm bird had decided I was worth not frying. And left me gifts. That had to count for something.

By the time I coasted through the Camp Half-Blood gates, I looked like a demigod disaster. Water poured off me in actual streams. The rain hadn't let up—in fact, it felt like it had doubled down the second I hit the hilltop.

Campers stared.

Some huddled under awnings and the edge of the pavilion, dry and smug. Others just watched me roll in like a wet ghost. I got more than a few what the Hades is that? expressions as I floated up to the Hephaestus forge.

The building billowed steam and smoke, glowing warm and loud and blessedly dry. I cut the engine, let the bike hiss to a stop, and stepped off. My boots squelched in the mud. My shirt was plastered to me like it was trying to become skin. My hair? Don't ask.

With a soaked thud, I dropped the saddlebag on the stone steps.

"Delivery from Philly," I muttered. "Thirty bars. Still humming."

A few Hephaestus kids looked up from their workbenches—older campers, hammering at swords and half-assembled armor. One of them raised an eyebrow.

"You serious? Clank only asked for ten."

I shrugged, water dripping from every inch of me. "Overachiever. Comes with the blood."

They exchanged looks, already moving to grab the bag. Impressed. Confused. Probably a little scared. I didn't wait around for praise.

I turned and squished my way toward the Apollo cabin, rain still battering my shoulders.

Job: done.

Loot: delivered.

Me: soaked, sore, and in desperate need of a towel.

I hadn't even made it twenty feet when I heard the telltale thud-thud-thud of oversized paws slapping through mud.

"No. Nonono—"

WHAM.

Too late.

A blur of fur and joy slammed into me like a cannonball made of teeth and betrayal. Sif, all sixty pounds of muddy wolf menace, tackled me straight into the grass with a war cry and a snorf to the jaw.

I hit the mud with a splat and groaned as she began enthusiastically licking my face like I was made of steak.

"Sif! Personal space! I'm already soaked, you animal—"

She barked happily and doubled down. Her tail thwacked my stomach like a war drum. Her fur was caked in mud, her collar was crooked, and she had a stick in her mouth that definitely wasn't from camp.

By the time I got up—wetter than when I arrived—I looked like I'd gone swimming in a swamp with a portable thunderstorm strapped to my chest.

A few Apollo kids laughed from the porch.

"She's the size of a bear now," one said.

Another pointed. "That wolf's gonna need her own cabin soon."

Sif plopped her muddy butt beside me like she'd just saved the world and wanted praise. Her tail wagged like she was revving up a helicopter.

I scratched behind her ears and sighed. "You are absolutely the worst best thing to ever happen to me."

She boofed proudly.

Still peeling mud off her ears, I caught sight of Jasper sprinting across the lawn, dodging puddles like they were pressure plates.

"Lucas!" he called, waving. "Big camp announcement—after dinner. Once the storm clears."

I looked up at the still-grumbling sky. "Let me guess. Hades is throwing a rager in the underworld?"

Jasper rolled his eyes. "No, it's Percy. Percy Jackson's coming back."

I blinked. "Right... who?"

He stared at me like I'd just asked if Zeus was a Marvel character, he was... probably.

"How do you not know who Percy Jackson is?"

"Easy," I said. "I was busy hitchhiking across the country, punching monsters, and eating questionable diner food. Been here just for a full day, a pretty busy one, no time for gossip."

Jasper exhaled. "Short version: Percy's the only known child of the Big Three running around right now. Son of Poseidon. Basically stopped the gods from going to war last year. Long story. Olympus drama. Big deal."

"Ah." I nodded. "Son of Big Ocean. Broke up a god fight. Got it."

"He's been out on a quest—looking for the Golden Fleece. Supposed to heal Thalia's tree. You know, the one holding up our monster-proof barrier?"

"Yep, makes a great sleeping spot."

"Anyway," Jasper said, "rumor is he's arriving tomorrow night. Chiron is away but Mr. D wants everyone at dinner tonight for an update."

I looked back up at the rumbling sky, lightning curling behind the clouds like Olympus itself was pacing in the clouds.

"Dramatic return with bonus thunder," I muttered. "Very on-brand."

I slipped out of the cabin while the rest of camp was heading toward the pavilion. Sif, belly full and tail twitching, stayed curled under the porch, watching me with one eye open and zero intention of moving.

I veered off the path, boots quiet against the damp forest floor, until I reached a familiar clearing—the cursed one. The pot of gold still glinted faintly under a sunbeam like it was waiting for me. The scorched fairy ring nearby hadn't regrown.

Good.

I pulled out the cold iron cage. Heavy. Solid. Laced with enchantments and water tubes that shimmered like they knew something was coming. I set it down just off the ring, right where the leprechaun would most likely appear.

"Alright, you little red-hatted menace," I muttered. "Let's see if you show up for your shift."

I double-checked the trap's seals. Pressure trigger: armed. Water flow: steady. Iron mesh: solid. Everything was set.

From my back I pulled the lyre, Focused. Tried once—just grass. Twice—some wildflowers. Third time?

Right next to the cage, a tiny stem pushed through the moss, stretching upward until a perfect, glinting four-leaf clover opened to the sun.

"Bingo."

I plucked it, placed it gently in the center of the trap, and locked the cage shut. Enchantments shimmered in response, quiet but sharp. The whole thing felt like it was holding its breath.

"Alright, paddy," I said, standing back. "Showtime's later. Dinner's now."

I slung the lyre back over my shoulder and turned toward camp.

Halfway to the pavilion, I felt it.

That familiar hum—buzzing behind my eyes like static. The black suns, one of them pulsed. Then another.

And then—one shined.

I stopped cold.

My lyre, resting against my back, began to vibrate.

I grabbed it instinctively and swung it around—

Just in time to watch it transform in my hands.

The sleek, golden lyre warped—curving, stretching, reshaping into something new. What I was suddenly holding was part bass guitar, part war axe.

The body was gold and angular, strung with strings that thrummed just from touching the air. Its frame had jagged blade edges along the side, dark sun motifs twisted through the gold like a holy tattoo done by a biker god.

I held it up, eyes wide.

"Ooooh," I breathed. "Daddy likes."

I gave it a test strum.

The sound it made growled like thunder married to a bass drop—low, deep. The kind of chord that makes monsters flinch and nymphs sway.

I grinned. "Gonna turn a lotta heads at band camp now."

The pavilion was already filling up by the time I strolled in, golden death-axe-bass slung across my back like it had always been there. The clouds had mostly cleared. Sunlight peeked through the remains of the storm, golden and calm.

Campers sat in their cabins' designated tables, food on plates, rumors flying. Sif lay sprawled under a table nearby, her tail thumping once when she saw me.

Rhea spotted me first. She blinked slowly, like she wasn't sure what she was seeing.

Then Jasper, sitting beside her, elbowed her and turned—

And immediately choked on his drink.

"What—what the hell is that?" he whispered, eyes locked on the instrument resting against my shoulder like it might bite him.

I gave them a casual two-finger salute and dropped onto the bench beside them, setting the new lyre down with a soft clunk.

Rhea leaned forward, eyes wide. "Wasn't your lyre, like... smaller?"

"Yeah," I said, grabbing an apple from the platter.

"Dude," Jasper muttered, "first, very cool, second, maybe a little impractical."

"Exactly," I said, taking a bite. "Good upgrade."

Rhea slid over like she couldn't help herself, eyes locked on the axe-bass like it was the last cookie in a war camp. She reached out slowly—carefully—and lifted it with both hands, holding it like a sacred relic forged by a divine blacksmith on a three-day caffeine bender.

Her fingers traced the curves of the string frame, the wicked blade edges, she gave one chord a soft strum.

The sound was pure musical violence.

A few campers near us flinched. One Hermes kid ducked like he thought the thing might explode.

"This is…" she whispered, deadly serious, "…the coolest thing I've ever seen in my life."

"I know, right?" I said, beaming. "Makes the old lyre look like a kiddie xylophone."

Rhea stared at it like she was calculating how many skulls she could crack with it before lunch. "You ever think about dual-wielding?" she asked, glancing between her sword and the axe-bass. "Like… sword in one hand, this in the other—full battle bard mode?"

"I'm more of a 'shred until the air explodes' guy," I said, smirking.

That's when I remembered the feather.

I reached into my jacket and pulled it out—a long, storm-gray quill, veined with lightning-blue light. It still hummed with faint static, like it was breathing.

"Anyone got some duct tape?" I called out.

A few heads turned. One Hermes kid—scrawny, curly hair, held up a roll.

"Found this in the tool shed," he said. "Says 'Property of Demeter Cabin,' but…" He shrugged. "It's tape."

"Perfect," I said, grabbing it. "Appreciate the theft."

I peeled a strip, pressed the feather to the back curve of the axe-bass, and wrapped it in one clean, quick motion—just above the handle.

The second the feather touched metal—

ZZZRRRRT.

A jolt of static snapped through the instrument. The strings vibrated violently. A low hum pulsed outward, deep and charged, like the entire instrument had just inhaled a thundercloud.

Rhea stared.

Jasper leaned away. "That's probably safe," he said. "Probably." he said while slowly sliding away from us.

The hum settled. The feather glowed faintly. The bass shimmered.

"Good girl," I whispered, patting the side.

I couldn't help myself.

The hum of the feather was like a dare.

One chord. Just one.

I swung the Bax into position, slung it low, fingers hovering over the strings. Rhea looked way too excited. Jasper looked like he was trying to mentally draft a will.

I strummed the guitar.

WHHRRRAAAAUUUNGGHH.

The sound tore through the air like a sonic boom. Plates rattled. Kids flinched. A satyr yelped and spilled his drink.

Then—CRACK.

Lightning ripped through the sky above the pavilion. A bolt so sharp and sudden it lit up the treeline like a camera flash.

KA-BOOOOOOM.

A second later, dark clouds and thunder rolled through camp.

Every conversation stopped. Campers stared upward, forks frozen midair. A hush fell like someone had yanked the volume knob on reality.

I slowly lowered the Bax.

"...Oops," I muttered.

Rhea leaned in, eyes wide. "Guess Zeus didn't like that?"

Jasper took a long, slow sip of his drink and whispered, "You're gonna get us all smited."

A older kid walked up to the front of the pavilion, scroll tucked under one arm like he was about to deliver a Monday memo.

"Campers," he said, calm and firm, "I hope you've all enjoyed dinner. Now, as some of you may have heard… A quest has been finished, a success."

Everyone leaned in. Someone dropped a fork.

"Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase are expected to return to camp by tomorrow night."

Murmurs rolled through the crowd. The Athena cabin table clapped. Half the Aphrodite table looked ready to swoon. An Ares girl snorted.

I kept chewing my apple.

"Still don't get the hype," I muttered under my breath.

Jasper leaned in with the solemnity of someone giving you a crash course in ancient prophecy. "You're gonna."

So there I was, minding my own business, just vibing with my new bass resting against the bench like a glorified conversation piece, when I noticed a stare burning across the pavilion.

One of the Ares kids.

Absolute unit. Buzzcut. Covered in scars like they were handed out as party favors. Big guy. Angry shoulders. Permanent jaw clench. The kind of dude who probably put a few kids into lockers.

His eyes drifted.

They landed on the Bax.

His mouth opened slightly. The hand holding what I think was half a turkey leg just… stopped. He stared at the weapon like it was Excalibur forged by Megadeth. The firelight caught the war-paint across his cheek in just the right way, and I swear to dad, his pupil dilated.

He looked like he'd just seen a vision of Ares riding a motorcycle made of bone and chain, shredding a Slayer solo across the sky.

I raised an eyebrow. Gave him a tiny, polite nod.

He nodded back. Slowly. Reverently.

Then set the turkey leg down like it was no longer worthy of being eaten in my presence.

Jasper leaned over, whispering, "What was that?"

"Don't know," I whispered. "But I think I just became the God of Metal in that guy's personal religion."

Rhea, not even looking up, muttered, "That's David, he is the guy I told you about the tattoo, he's gonna write your name on his forehead with paint later."

"Sick," I said. "As long as it's spelled right."

CP Bank:0cp

Perks earned this chapter

200cp Ax Bass (Adventure Time) [Making]

A battle-axe that's been converted into a bass guitar. Heavy and potently (albeit vaguely) magical, mostly just a good bass and a good axe. Does not dull.

Milestones: None.

Last edited: Apr 13, 2025

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Magus explorator

Apr 13, 2025

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Threadmarks Chapter 19 — Roll for stupidity. New

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Apr 14, 2025

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The second the thunder rumbled again, camp chatter shifted. People looked at me like I'd just farted in Zeus's personal elevator.

"You sure he's an Apollo kid?"

"What if he's Zeus's? Secretly?"

"He's cursed, you seen his teeth?"

"Maybe he's adopted."

"Apollo probably covered for his sister's secret lovechild."

I grabbed an apple on my way out and didn't bother defending myself. Let 'em talk. Let them guess. I wasn't about to lift my shirt and explain Norse war paint or my claws.

"Let 'em think I'm spooky," I muttered, heading toward the Apollo cabin. "Might keep the weirdos away."

Sif waited on the porch, tail thumping in that you did something fun without me rhythm. She sniffed me once, snorted, and flopped down across my feet like a living meat-weight. I leaned against the cabin wall, watching the clouds churn in the distance.

The music bash was still happening tonight.

I just had to keep my head down, play it cool, and hope I didn't wake up to a glitter-fueled revenge rainbow.

The campfire jam was already rolling when I arrived. Guitars, enchanted harmonicas, bongos. I slung the Bax over my shoulder the Thunderbird feather catching the firelight.

And I knew exactly what to play.

The corniest, most ironically iconic song I could think of.

I strummed once. The crowd turned.

"This one's for the romantics and emotionally unavailable half-bloods out there. You know the words."

Groans. Cheers. At least three people sang along unironically. Sif barked.

"Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you…"

It was a banger.

After that sleep hit fast, the dream hit harder.

I was in the woods. Still. Breath held tight.

Then—

Hoofbeats.

Distant. Then closer. Then thunderous.

Like the world itself was galloping toward me.

My ears ached.

I dropped to my knees, clutching my head—

And then… silence.

I woke up in a cold sweat. No covers. just the loud snoring in the cabin.

Morning came with a blue sky. The camp was buzzing — prepping for the official end of a quest. Banners, streamers, decorations. The Aphrodite kids were in color-coding.

Turns out they threw a pizza party when you completed a quest, Some girl called Clarisse was also going to tell her adventure in the pavilion before we all go to bed, shit prize in my opinion.

She is apparently Rhea's half-sister, "queen bitch of the Ares cabin", her words, not mine.

I tore through breakfast. Waffles, bacon, and coffee.

Then a camper appeared, clipboard in hand, curly hair, and in my little time here the only demigod with acne I seen.

"Lucas," he said, in a nasal tone, like he was going to go on a rant about Star Trek, "a word?"

"Lemme guess," I said, standing. "I'm in trouble for the weather?"

He snickered. "Ermm not officially. But the camp director wants a word with you."

We walked past campers tangled in ribbon and other party accessories, they were doing them by hand, with one of my half-siblings painting a banner with "totally real" exploits from the quest.

"Mr. D would like a word," he continued. "Before Jackson arrives and he gets busy again on Olympian business, apparently he will be stuck up there for a little while.'"

"Why me?" I asked.

"You've made quite the impression. The lyre. Completing one of Heracles labors. The lightning. The... axe." He said, his voice almost sounding lispy when he said "Axe".

"Let's call it a blessing." I said.

"Let's not." he shot back.

He gestured toward the Big House. "Go. Before he turns you into a goat."

Mr. D was already sipping Diet Coke when I entered, lounging behind a desk like a bureaucratic nightmare.

"Lucas," he said, gesturing. "Sit. Or don't, whatever."

I sat.

"You're the musical one. With the… axe? Guitar? Thingy, all your siblings look the same from where I'm sitting."

"Yeah." I said.

He winced slightly like something hit him behind the eyes. Pressure. It passed.

"So," he continued, "enjoying camp? Feeling heroic?"

"Got tackled by my wolf, exploded a practice dummy, scared the sky. Living the dream."

I tried not to stare too hard, but I couldn't ignore it—every now and then, something hit him. Like a pressure spike behind the eyes, almost like he was fighting something off.

Still, he kept on like nothing was wrong.

"Excellent. We do try to provide the best to our campers." he tried to say with a deadpan voice, but couldn't, his voice cracked halfway through.

I didn't ask about the pain. He didn't explain.

"Capture the Flag is this week," he added. "You're playing right, might even bet some drachma's on you."

"Flattered." I said back.

"Don't be."

He goes to chug the Coke can, cringes, spills some in a flurry of foam sighs, waves his hand and another can appear.

"You ok Mr. D? lord Dionysus? You seem... off, want me to get you some aspirins?"

He gives a quick laugh, then winces, "You don't need to, I'll see your father after this, so don't worry, things are just a little tense back in Olympus, the quest revealed some... disturbing things."

He took another sip, then waved me off.

"Don't get killed out there, Lucas. You're far too interesting, Oh also If you pass by my cabin tell the counselor to warn the kids to stop trying to make bootleg wine in the toilets, either get a commission from the Hephaestus cabin and do it properly or not at all, no kid of mine will be drinking toilet wine."

I gave him a snort, which I earned a smile, but that was quickly dashed by his eyes shutting and him grinning his teeth." I'll be out of the camp for a little bit, Olympus is calling an all-hands meeting, and those take a while, If you need godly intervention for any reason go look for Hestia, she usually tends the big campfire in the middle of the camp at night."

The trap worked.

The leprechaun was in the cage.

No boots. Hat crumpled. Beard frazzled. He looked like someone had tried to blend a lawn gnome.

Sif and I stood just far enough back to be polite.

His head snapped up. His eyes flared green — like moss and wildfire had a baby and taught it to hate.

He launched into his favorite activity so far: swearing.

"Ye twig-chewin', harp-humpin', woodland mistake—when I get outta this cage I'm gonna—!"

"Wow," I said, cutting him off. "Still mad? You've had, like, twelve hours to cool down."

He grabbed the bars with both hands and shook them like he thought brute force and rage would snap alloy.

"Let me out, ye cowardly camp-born fungus spawn! I'll not be kept like some pet!"

"Not a pet," I said, crouching down beside the cage. "More like… prisoner."

That earned me a scream that started in his throat and died halfway up, turning into a frustrated, wordless gnahhh sound.

"Question," I continued, resting my elbows on my knees. "Why were you poking around Camp Half-Blood? You and your gnome crew didn't exactly keep a low profile. The thefts? The barrier tampering? The gnome pissing on a Hermes kid? Just doing it for fun or is something more sinister going on."

He said nothing, just sat down, arms folded, muttering obscenities like it was a religious rite.

I sighed.

"C'mon man, I need something, you want to get out of there right? make it easier for both of us."

He muttered something, the tone so low that even my enhanced hearing couldn't hear him.

"What did you say? Talk a little louder please," I said going closer to the cage, Big mistake, he spit on me, hitting on my face.

"I said, when the queen comes she will turn this place into a funeral pyre, You boy loving fuck" said the little ball of anger.

I sighed again, "You could have threatened me, and you would be fine, but the campers, a bunch of the teens... you fucked up."

"Hey, Paddy…" I continued, pulling out my iPod. "You ever seen Reservoir Dogs?"

That made him look up — just a flicker of confusion behind all the hate in those radioactive green eyes.

I scrolled through the crusty interface until I found the right track. Stuck in the Middle with You came on.

I started swaying with the music, singing in a low tone, I think the little fucker never saw that masterpiece, he didn't realize what happens after.

A single blade of my claws popped out.

His whole posture shifted the second he saw it. Like he smelled something that made his blood run backward.

"Weeelll," I said, drawing the word out slowly, "I just know one thing for sure…"

I stepped closer.

"You in the wrong forest, my friend." I continued to shuffle towards him"...Let's see if you bleed green." I said.

And then I opened the cage.

He tried to scramble back, but there was nowhere to go.

I grabbed him by the collar, yanked him halfway out of the cage, and drove my knee into his back to pin him. He bucked, spat, thrashed — but the second the blade came down across his cheek?

He screamed.

The adamantium bit into his skin like fire dipped in vinegar, sizzling where it touched. Smoke rose in little tendrils. His skin blistered, then cracked, like wood left out in the sun.

He shrieked again, eyes wide, kicking uselessly.

Still no answers.

So I grabbed him by the ear.

And sliced.

The blade went through with a wet pop, and his scream broke into something hoarse and guttural. Gold-tinted blood sprayed the cage bars, already burning holes through the moss.

Sif growled, low and steady. She didn't like it.

Neither did I.

Then grabbed his collar again and forced him to look at me.

"Last chance," I said, voice cold as the knife still slick in my grip. "Talk. Or I start carving other parts."

He blinked, slow and dazed. His mouth moved, but no sound came out for a second.

Then, finally:

"She… she's taking the Hunt."

That got my attention.

"Who?" I asked.

He swallowed. Eyes wild.

"The new Queen. Of Autumn, vassal to Winter. The last one abdicated, the first time in all the history of the Fae. Took the crown. Claimed the court. And now she needs a Hunt to prove it's hers."

I stared at him, waiting.

"She wants a spectacle. A bloodsport worthy of the crown."

"And Camp Half-Blood's her idea of a good time?"

He nodded, slow and sick.

"I don't know man, Only that she sent us to scout, thousand other fairies are running around on the eastern seaboard scouting, turning it into a big hunting reserve, starting with New York."

I blinked. "When?"

He laughed.

"Time doesn't move right in the faewyld. Could be next month. Could be right now."

I stood, wiped the claw on his vest, then crouched back down, close — close enough for him to smell the metal and flinch.

Then I pressed the blade gently to the side of his throat.

His breath hitched. He didn't move.

I leaned in.

"Well," I said softly, voice like gravel, "I guess it's time to visit the feywilds."

The leprechaun was still shaking when I pulled the blade away from his throat.

He just slumped forward, one hand pressed to the side of his neck where the iron had hovered, the other still clutching the mess where his ear used to be. His blood was drying in thin, gold-crusted trails along the cage floor.

I didn't offer comfort.

I just reached forward, grabbed the back of his ruined vest, and dragged him back inside.

He didn't fight me.

Not anymore.

I shut the cage and locked it with a soft click.

Then I crouched down one last time, meeting his eyes through the bars.

He just stared at me like he hated every fiber of my soul — but under it?

Fear.

"Stay quiet. I'll be back," I said. "And when I come back…"

I tapped the bars lightly with my knuckles.

"…we'll be crossing."

I stood, tucked the claw away back into my fist, and turned on my heel. Sif was already waiting, tail still, body tense. She hadn't looked away once.

"Come on," I said.

She fell into step beside me.

The forest swallowed the cage behind us.

This was bad, I thought while making my way back to camp, the invasion force could come at literally any moment, any at all.

My thought was simple, gather camp and counter-invade the faewylds, but that got thrown in the trash fast, going into enemy territory with a lot of demigods was asking for trouble, especially the fucking land of the Fae.

Warn the gods was a must, but they probably won't do anything like invading another dimension? Wherever the faewylds are. More likely is that they will fortify the camp and let the fae go wild on the mortals... which was pretty bad.

So I have to turn back to my greatest weapon, human stupidity.

I slipped between cabins like I belonged nowhere. Hood up. Axe-bass strapped to my back.

Sif padded beside me, her paws silent on the stone path, nose twitching toward the scent of scrambled eggs.

We weren't staying.

I ducked behind the forge first.

The Hephaestus cabin always kept extra tools in the outdoor bins — the "we'll clean this up later" pile. I knelt, gave the lid a careful lift, and there it was: a coil of wire, a mini blowtorch, a canteen that looked enchanted enough to maybe not leak poison.

Nice.

I slung them into the duffel already getting filled on my back.

Then I stepped into the shadows, pulled out the axe, and gave it a low, slow strum.

Three fingers. Two chords.

Mage Hand.

A spectral, electric-blue hand fizzled into existence a few feet away, floating in the air like it was waiting for direction.

I pointed toward the Hermes cabin.

"Go shopping," I muttered.

The hand zipped off like a mischievous shopping cart on a mission.

I followed at a distance.

It slid open a window with practiced grace, zipped inside, and a few seconds later came drifting back carrying a pouch of gold drachmas and other survival Items.

Score.

"Thanks, losers," I whispered under my breath.

Next up: Apollo's cabin.

The mage hand floated through another window while I crouched behind a bush.

This time it came back with a salve for minor curses, and a pack of trail mix and other snacks labeled "DO NOT TOUCH (I SWEAR TO GOD TIMMY)."

Sorry, Timmy.

After that, I went to look around to get some stuff to write a letter, yoink went the hand in the Athena cabin.

It came back with some pages from a notebook and a couple of pens, so I went to explain my situation, Fae invading soon, and blablabla went out to buy some time, you guys should probably do something, love, Lucas, addressed to the Goddess Hestia.

After that, I went to hatch my plan, and found Rhea doing some arts and crafts stuff with the rest of her cabin near the strawberry fields, I went to her mostly because Jasper would keep pestering me to explain my madness.

"Yo Rhea, want to help your buddy out?" I asked, earning weird looks from her half brothers and sisters, who were cutting colored paper into the form of monsters, they were... let's say ok at it and leave it at that.

"Sure, what can I do for you," she said, her eyes shined with a bit of desperation, fair, a bunch of ADHD kids doing arts and crafts must be hell.

"So, when you are free, take this letter," I said handing it to her," And hand it to Hestia later today, Mr. D said you could find her tending the fires around the camp, very important, but don't read it," I said.

She gave me a questioning look, "Why don't you do it?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm about to do some stupid stuff, don't ask about it, just help a brother out."

She nodded, but it seemed that if she wasn't in front of her siblings she would have asked thousands of questions.

With that, I sent her a wave and went back to looting, now knowing that the Ares cabin was empty with the kids out here.

The bag was almost full when I hit the edge of the woods again.

Pre-packed food from Demeter.

Caffeine pills from Apollo.

Even snagged an extra hoodie from the Ares line — one that still smelled like sweat.

I slung the duffel over my shoulder, rolled my neck, and gave the axe one final, heavy strum — not magic this time. Just noise.

The sound echoed between the trees.

"Well," I muttered, stepping past the border.

"Let's go get lost."

Sif followed.

And we walk the trail back to the cage.

He looked worse. Pale, clammy, half-curled in the corner with one hand pressed to his missing ear. The blood had dried. The rage hadn't.

His eyes flicked to me the second I stepped into view.

"You," he hissed, voice hoarse.

"Me," I said, "Field trip time."

He didn't answer, just glared, that same pure loathing simmering under his skin.

I popped one of my claws out.

Adamantium caught the light.

The glare dimmed.

"Open the cage," he muttered.

I did — kicked the latch off with a heel, ripped the door open like I was popping a trunk. The hinges screamed. He didn't move.

So I reached in, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him out.

He stumbled. Sif growled. I pressed the claw to his throat.

"Fairy circle," I said flatly. "Now."

He hesitated.

I pressed just a little harder.

"You open it, or I finish what I started. And trust me — you don't have enough ears left for me to get creative."

He scowled, teeth grit, but finally… nodded.

Limping, furious, muttering gods-know-what under his breath, he staggered toward the center of the circle — the old ring of mushrooms, now black and cracked and mostly dead. He knelt beside one of the larger stumps, pulled something from his coat — a little pouch, tied with red twine.

Snapped it open.

The scent hit fast: moss, clover, copper, and peppermint.

He sprinkled it in a slow circle, mumbling something low and sharp in a language I didn't recognize.

The ground began to hum.

Not shake — hum. A low vibration crawling up from the dirt through my boots, setting my teeth on edge. The circle shimmered. Glowed faintly green.

Then split.

Right down the center — a vertical seam in the air, flickering like sunlight on water, until it tore open and showed something else.

The forest on the other side was wrong.

Too alive. Too green. Too watching.

I shoved the leprechaun through.

He stumbled as the portal sucked him in, legs kicking like he thought he could still fight it. The shimmer parted for him, swallowing him whole, and Sif followed without hesitation. Her fur bristled the second she crossed, hackles high, tail rigid—not fear, not quite. Something closer to disgust.

Then it was my turn.

I stepped through.

The faewylds hit like stepping into a hallucination designed by someone on too much floral tea. Light filtered through warped glass. Trees breathed. The air tasted like honey and lime. Everything shimmered just a little too brightly, like the forest couldn't decide if it was real or not.

The ground beneath my boots was soft, pulsing faintly like the heartbeat of something ancient. I looked down and saw moss arranged in spirals.

The leprechaun stumbled a few feet ahead, caught himself, and turned back to me with a slow, dangerous grin.

He thought he was safe now.

The look in his eyes said it all. Magic thrummed in the air around him like a coiled trap. He reached for something inside his coat—a charm, a glamour, some fae get-out-of-jail-free spell—and I didn't wait.

I stepped forward and drove one of my claws clean into his gut.

His eyes went wide.

No scream.

Just shock.

His body locked up. Magic sparked across his skin like shattering glass. He looked down at the blade, then back at me, and for the first time, he looked afraid.

I twisted.

Golden light exploded from the wound. No blood. No gore. Just ash and magic and a final, pitiful whimper as he crumbled to dust and scattered into the breeze.

Sif stood behind me, eyes locked on the drifting embers, tail stiff.

"One less problem," I muttered.

The trees around us shifted with interest. Vines curled slightly toward the space where his body had been. A ripple passed through the leaves above like a gust but localized.

I scanned the path ahead. If you could call it a path. It wound through the trees like something had dragged itself through the underbrush once and left behind warped roots and glowing mushrooms.

Sif took the lead. Her nose twitched. Ears flicked. No bark. No growl. Just motion. I followed, axe strapped across my back, every sense dialed up to eleven.

"Alright," I muttered, cracking my neck.

"Time to cause problems."

The trail curved west. We followed the scent. Like cracked bone and iron filings soaked in blood and booze.

We followed it like bloodhounds — weaving through roots and hollow stumps. I kept my breathing shallow, let my senses widen. Sight wasn't worth much out here. The trees all looked the same. The light kept lying to me — gold one second, green the next, pink for no reason at all.

We passed beneath trees trunks the size of small houses. Branches wept golden sap. Bark glowed faintly. A squirrel with too many eyes watched us from an arching root and clicked its teeth like a metronome.

We climbed over a hill, passed a tree with hanging bottles that chimed when we got too close, and slid into a shallow valley.

At one point, something small and bony darted past us. I didn't see it — I heard its ribs clicking and smelled its breath: pine, rot, ink. It didn't stop. Didn't challenge us. Just vanished into the ferns.

Good choice.

Sif growled once at something overhead — a bird the size of a cat with dragonfly wings and a second face on its belly. It hissed, blinked too many times, and bolted up the bark.

We didn't chase it.

A few minutes later we passed under a tree with fruit like glowing hearts. They pulsed faintly. I didn't get close.

Everything here was bait.

That's where we saw it.

A camp.

Half-hidden behind warped trees and thick smoke.

The fence around it was made of crooked logs and bone. The smoke rising from the fire pit was dark and greasy, curling into the sky like it didn't want to leave. Tents were patched together with whatever they could find — leather, skin, maybe worse.

And there were things moving inside.

Short, hunched little freaks with greenish skin and oversized teeth. They snapped at each other like dogs, fighting over food, slapping and snarling in some language I didn't understand.

Bigger ones too — tall, broad-shouldered, with arms like tree trunks and faces like squashed fruit. One was chewing on something that might have once been a person. Another laughed and tore the leg off some unidentifiable animal like it was jerky.

Then there were the ones around the fire.

Not quite human.

Animal faces. Too many teeth. Sharp, twitchy movements. They crouched low, yapping at each other and crunching on bones, drool running down their chins.

Sif gave a low growl beside me.

I raised my hand without looking.

"Stay," I whispered.

She went still, body tense.

I slipped forward alone, slow and careful, blending into the brush like I belonged there.

I moved with the trees. Let the shadows take me.

Let the forest hide me.

Up close, it was worse. I could hear them now — not just noise, but laughter, rough and nasty. Mocking. One of the big ones slammed a smaller one into a post just for fun. Another tossed a burning stick at something hiding in a cage and laughed when something inside squealed.

Just past the camp, I saw a clearing.

There were stakes in the ground, some still had ropes attached.

Something had been tied up there — recently.

I crouched behind a fallen log, heart thudding, fingers twitching toward the handle of my axe.

The closer I got, the louder it got — crackling fires, snarling voices, the sound of bones snapping between teeth. A pot was boiling something thick and awful. One of them was using a skull as a ladle.

I didn't flinch. Just kept walking.

Blended with the dirt. Let the smoke cover my scent. Waited for them to bark at each other, then slipped past behind crates and tents and warped wooden spikes.

No one saw me.

They weren't guarding well. Too cocky. Too distracted by fighting, eating, and whatever the hell passed for fun around here.

That was their mistake.

The cages were near the back, tucked into a corner where the noise died down and the stink turned sharp — blood, piss, something that had been dead too long and not buried deep enough.

Three cages.

The first two were empty, just scraps, chains and claw marks on the inside.

The third—

That one was occupied.

And I stopped.

Inside, crumpled against the bars, was a man.

At least, mostly a man.

Even from a few feet away, I knew he wasn't mortal. There was something about him that didn't sit right with reality. Like the world had to bend a little just to make space for him.

He was beautiful. The sharp kind. Lean frame, blood-slicked skin, silver-blonde hair matted against his face. His chest rose in shallow, painful breaths. Barefoot. Shirt torn halfway off. There were lashes across his back that hadn't healed right, I crouched just outside the cage, still in the shadows, watching.

He hadn't seen me yet. His head was down. Barely conscious.

The cage lock was rusted but solid — basic, no enchantments, just old steel.

I pulled a pick from my belt, slipped it in, and worked fast. Hands steady. Eyes on the man inside.

Click.

The door creaked open like it didn't want to.

He didn't react.

Didn't even look up.

His body was a mess of bruises, cuts, old blood. His skin was pale beneath it all — not just naturally, but sickly. Like they'd been bleeding him slow. Letting him stew in pain just for the sound of it.

His lips moved, but I couldn't make out the words. Something soft. Shaky. Language I didn't recognize.

"Hey," I whispered. "Hey, I got you."

Nothing.

So I crouched, slid an arm under him, and lifted. He was light. Too light. Bones and blood and magic barely holding shape.

I crept back through the camp the way I came — slow and steady, using every cover I could find, every distraction those beasts offered each other. One of the big ones was snoring by the fire, a half-eaten rib cage resting on its chest.

No one saw me leave.

Sif was still exactly where I left her — crouched in the brush, alert, watching the woods like a soldier with a loaded rifle.

The second she saw me, she stepped forward, sniffed the air, and then stopped dead when she saw what I was carrying.

I laid the fae down gently on a patch of moss. He mumbled again — a sound more breath than voice — and winced when the light hit his eyes.

Sif whined low.

"I know," I said softly, brushing her fur. "time to clean some filth."

Then I stood up.

And didn't say another word.

I turned back toward the camp, slow, measured steps, every sound in the forest dying in my wake.

When I reached the tree line, I stopped.

Closed my eyes.

Took a breath.

Then clenched my right hand into a fist.

And the shiny claws slid out.

I moved through the trees like I was half dryad.

The camp was alive with noise — grunts, laughs, metal clanging, bone cracking. Firelight flickered against twisted wood and sweat-slick skin. The air reeked of blood and smoke and breath that had never known a toothbrush.

Didn't matter.

I was already inside the perimeter.

The axe across my back pulsed faintly.

The first one went down with a whisper — my claws slicing across the throat, neat and fast. He slumped against a pile of firewood without a sound and started dissolving into dust. I ducked past him, boots silent in the moss, breath steady.

The second was near a broken wagon, half-drunk, muttering to himself and playing with a pouch of teeth.

I strummed the lowest string of my axe once, barely audible.

The magic rippled up through my hands, into the string, then the air.

Silence dropped around him like a curtain.

Then I lunged.

One swipe through the chest. Another through the spine.

Gone.

I moved deeper into camp, crouched low, scenting the air. I could smell them now — the whole place oozed filth. Spit and piss and dried blood. My tongue curled at the taste of it.

Ahead, two of them were sitting near the fire, passing around a skinned animal and laughing like pigs choking on their own laughter.

"New Autumn Queen's paying good," one of them grunted.

The other popped something into his mouth — round, wet, and too red.

"Can't believe we're getting paid to do what we were already doing."

Then he leaned back and spat a bone into the fire.

"—Heard the rest of the raiding party's headed into Summer territory."

He licked his lips.

"Lucky bastards. I always wanted a little fae girl for myself, I'll treat her nice, keep her face free of bruises."

Then he laughed.

Ugly. Loud. Like his throat was full of rot and spit and pride.

I stopped moving.

Four savage chords ripped from the strings of my axe. Fast. Ragged. Too sharp.

Magic cracked through the clearing.

Cloud of Daggers dropped straight into their circle.

The effect was immediate. Magic tore through the clearing like a blender. Shredded meat, bone, and snarling curses erupted as the swirling blades carved everything within range into a sloppy mist. One beast dove too late, taking a dagger to the spine. One tried to run and slipped on someone else's intestines. Another staggered into the maelstrom and came out missing half its face.

I didn't stop.

The axe came off my back with a smooth swing, glowing with barely-contained fury. I spun it once, then strummed a low, jagged chord that vibrated through the trees like the prelude to war.

The biggest one turned — thick, hulking, half-covered in bone armor and holding a spiked club like it made him king of the filth heap. His face twisted into a snarl.

He charged.

I didn't wait.

The axe came off my back with one clean motion.

The enchanted blade didn't need divine metal to do damage — the magic in it sang as it split him wide open, golden steel flashing through fat and muscle like it was butter. His guts spilled out in a steaming waterfall.

He screamed.

I let go with one hand, made a fist.

Snikt.

The adamantium claws burst from my knuckles.

He barely had time to blink.

I drove my claws up through his jaw and out the top of his skull.

Bone split. Blood sprayed.

His body went limp, dragging down my arm as it dropped.

I yanked my hand free with a wet crack, and with a poof he turned to dust.

Sif followed at my heels, a blur of snarling silver and white. Her fangs sank into the throat of the nearest raider while I brought the flat edge of the axe down on another. The crunch was satisfying.

More surged from the campfires, shrieking as they spotted us. Some grabbed weapons. Others just roared.

Too late.

I hit them like a rockslide.

My claws punched through armor, raked across flesh, left bone exposed and snapping. The axe played backup, screaming with each swing, a large cloud of golden dust was already forming.

Another strum—this time higher, faster.

Thunderwave.

The ground beneath their feet exploded in a burst of sound. Eardrums popped. Fire pits collapsed. Tents tore from their stakes. Half a dozen of the beasts flew backward like rag dolls caught in a hurricane.

"Come on, then," I growled. "show me what you got!"

I grabbed the axe by the neck and spun it into playing position.

Blood still dripped from the strings, but that didn't matter.

I raised my hand.

And strummed.

A raw, jagged riff tore through the clearing — low, grinding, electric. The rhythm of rock and roll.

The golden body of the axe glinted in the firelight, but it was the feather lashed to the head — the Thunderbird plume — that answered the call.

It sparked.

Then again.

Then it ignited.

Static rolled across the battlefield, crawling through the air like a living thing. My hair stood on end. Sparks danced up my arms. The strings lit up under my fingers — glowing with wild, barely-contained energy.

The monsters froze.

A few looked up.

Big mistake.

The first bolt of lightning hit like the gods themselves were slamming their fists down. It struck the middle of the camp — right into a cluster of snarling, filthy beasts trying to rally around a pallisade.

They exploded.

No other word for it. One second they were there — the next, nothing but fire, smoke, and ash raining down.

I kept playing.

Another bolt came down — then another. Blue-white streaks of fury ripping through tents, skewering anything too slow to run.

The ground shook.

The clouds roared.

And I was still strumming, fingers dancing over the strings, eyes burning, mouth pulled into something between a grin and a snarl.

They tried to run.

They tried to rally.

Didn't matter.

One of the creatures tried to crawl away, dragging a half-severed leg behind it.

I hit a new chord — a sharp one, dirty and fast.

A bolt of lightning turned him into a smear before he could scream.

The smell of ozone, blood, and burning fur filled the air. The survivors scattered — or tried to. Most of them just ran into each other or straight into another bolt.

I stepped forward, footfalls steady, rhythm unbroken.

Blood on my claws.

Lightning in the sky.

And thunder in my hands.

"Let's rock," I roared.

And kept playing.

They finally caught on.

A few of the bigger ones — dripping with gore, half-burnt, still dumb enough to think muscle could beat magic — let out war cries and charged straight through the smoke.

I didn't stop playing.

Didn't blink.

I shifted my grip, slammed my fingers down the fretboard, and tore out a vicious, screaming riff that echoed through the trees like the sky itself was shrieking.

The Thunderbird feather flared.

And the clouds answered.

Lightning fell.

Not a bolt — a barrage.

Crack–BOOM!

Five strikes hit the charging monsters dead-on like celestial artillery, turning them into blasts of fire and static. One was mid-roar when he vanished in a flash of light, his armor disintegrating, his skull popping like a grape.

The others didn't fare any better.

Smoke rolled out in rings from the impact, sending scraps of armor and twisted limbs flying across the camp.

Sif pounced on a rider twice her size and dragged it screaming into the underbrush. I didn't even look back.

And I laughed.

It was too easy.

I stepped forward into the blackened dirt, crocs splashing into puddles of blood and ash. My axe howled in my hands, strings glowing white-hot.

Snap.

From my side one of the half human beasts raised a spear. I turned, grabbed it mid-lunge, and sent a power chord ripping through the haft. The lightning blast vaporized the wood and sent his own weapon shrapnel into his face.

"Encore?" I muttered.

The survivors—what was left—tried to regroup by the fire pit, dragging each other back. Whimpering. Bleeding. Barking orders in tongues that cracked the air.

One of them, the biggest, raised something in the firelight—a horn, blackened and etched with runes.

He blew.

The sound warped the air.

The trees trembled.

The forest listened.

But before anything could answer?

I strummed one final time.

The note climbed high—higher—until it screamed out of the sky like a banshee riding a lightning bolt.

And the heavens cracked.

A bolt the size of a tree slammed into the horn-bearer. The blast split the earth. Fire erupted in a ring. The rest were caught in the backlash—sent flying, their bodies tumbling end over end before they hit the dirt, limp and broken.

Silence fell.

I took a deep breath.

Closed my eyes.

Then ripped the final chord, a full-body strum, fingers dragging hard across every glowing string, echoing like a war cry through the trees and into the heavens.

The forest shook.

The clouds snapped.

And the lightning fell.

An onslaught.

A curtain of raw, electric energy slammed into the camp in a single, apocalyptic pulse — a blinding flash of blue-white fire that swallowed tents, bone-totems, monsters, and the earth itself.

The sound was deafening — a crack that split the air and roared for miles, shaking leaves from the trees, setting fire to dry bark, blasting smoke into the canopy.

Just me.

Breathing.

Standing in the middle of a ruined camp, surrounded by smoking craters and twitching corpses.

I finished the song, raw rock and roll flowing from the bass.

Ash drifted through the air like snow.

And in that silence, I screamed toward a nonexistent audience:

"Good evening Feywilds!"

CP Bank:1000cp

Perks earned this chapter: None

Milestones: Quest start- Into the feywilds: 1000 cp

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Magus explorator

Apr 14, 2025

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Apr 15, 2025

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The remnants of the camp crackled and hissed under the weight of the storm I'd unleashed. Tents were gone, replaced by scattered bones. Smoke curled up through shattered trees, black and lazy, as if even the forest was unsure what to do with the silence that followed, the trees stopped swinging, and no animal made noise, just silence.

The path back wasn't long. Sif went back to guard the elf, crouched low in the brush. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark, watching the still form of the fae lying nearby. He was curled up on a bed of moss, wrapped in grass that seemed to have sprouted from the ground in the little time we left him alone. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He looked even worse now—paler, drawn tight with pain. Bruises bloomed down his ribs like flowers, and small iron pendants around his neck hissed faintly where they touched his skin.

He was mumbling again, words in a language that didn't belong in mortal throats. Sif looked up as I approached, her version of "You good?" a low, soft huff. I gave her a nod and sat down beside the fae, pulling a flask from my belt.

"Camp's gone," I said to no one. "Raiders won't be raiding anything else."

The fae shifted but didn't wake. His body flinched like something inside him had heard that. I leaned back against a tree, closing my eyes for a moment. The adrenaline was gone, so I was just crashing down, my limbs a bit heavy. Sif curled beside me, resting her head on her paws.

I reached over my shoulder and unslung the bass-axe, letting it settle across my lap. Its weight felt different now—not heavy, just full, like it was holding onto the lightning for me until I needed it again. I rested my fingers on the strings and began to play, not loud or hard, but something slow and gentle. The Song of Healing. The notes came hesitant at first, but they settled into a rhythm, It's sad that It doesn't have vocals, might have been good.

Something shifted deep inside me. The jumbled storm of noise that buzzed beneath my ribs moved. A note rang out inside me like a bell underwater, flowing down my arms, into my hands, through my fingers, and into the strings. The magic laced itself into the song. Healing Word took shape in the space between the chords, humming along with the lullaby like a second voice.

The air shimmered with faint baby blue light. The fae didn't stir, but his breathing steadied. The angry bruises across his chest faded like ink in water. Cuts vanished, tissue smoothing over without a scar. His fingers twitched once, and the tension bled out of his body all at once, like a thread had been pulled loose, and he'd finally relaxed.

Sif watched in silence, just lying still beside him, ears up, eyes soft. I kept playing for a few more minutes, letting the magic move, letting it work, letting the forest listen. When the last note faded into the trees, I whispered, "Rest up, Legolas. You've got some explaining to do when you wake up."

Then I leaned back again, the bass still across my lap. The air went still, and for a moment, it felt like peace. Then the light shifted, not harsh but gentle and slow, like a breath being held, then released. The black suns, shining like holes torn in the sky, dotting my vision. One, then three, then more. And then—the big one. It hung above the treeline like it had been watching the whole time, vast and writhing with silent fury.

It started shining, angry, golden like a supernova was going to happen. And then—nothing. The suns were gone. Just... gone. The trees rustled like normal. The fire popped softly behind me, burning the remains of the camp. A bird chirped—one of the weird ones with glass feathers and too many wings. Like it hadn't even happened.

I blinked and looked around. Everything was normal, no new knowledge, no new item... Nothing. Then I glanced up again and frowned. The sun hadn't moved since I got here. Still high above, still blazing down through the treetops at the exact same angle. A perfect noon glow, golden, harsh, direct.

I stared at it for a long second, then pulled out my watch—a cheap old thing I'd scrounged from the Hermes cabin. Digital, nothing fancy. The time read 12:00. I waited, one Mississippi, two, three. Nothing. The numbers didn't change. I looked at the sun again. No movement. No drift. Even the shadows under the trees weren't shifting, just locked in place like someone painted them there.

I stood slowly, eyes still on the sky, my muscles going tight. "It's not moving," I muttered. Sif looked up at me, ears perked, then turned her head toward the trees and let out a low, uneasy growl. She noticed too. Time wasn't passing. The forest was breathing. The fire still crackled. The fae was still healing, his chest rising and falling in that same quiet rhythm.

I couldn't sit still forever, even with everything... frozen. The sun hung overhead like a spotlight, and the air felt stuck—not heavy, just paused.

Sif and I waited. And while we waited, we played. It started small—a stick snapped off a half-glowing tree. I tossed it once. She blinked, tilted her head, then sprinted after it. She'd gotten bigger. It didn't register until I saw her jump—higher than she should've, smoother too. Her muscles were thicker, coat sleeker, almost shimmering with static. She brought the stick back and dropped it at my feet.

"Since when do you fetch?" I muttered, tossing it again. She tore off like a bullet.

Three old women—one with scissors, one with a spindle, one with thread-worn fingers—screamed in unison. The weave in their hands unraveled in sparks.

Atop a high mountain under northern stars, the Norns stood over their well and watched it boil.

In the duat, Shai dropped her reed pen and staggered back from the scroll. She was shaking. The words on the parchment rewrote themselves. Thousands of threads began tangling all at once—timelines folding, collapsing, rewinding.

Across the world... fate collapsed.

I leaned against the tree trunk again, still watching the sky like it owed me an apology. Sif lay beside me now, massive head in my lap, tail lazily flicking. She huffed, content. The fae still slept. Everything was still paused. And I? I just watched my own reflection in the polished metal of my axe, picked at a string now and then, and waited for the elf to wake up.

Time passed, or... it felt like it did. The sun never moved, still fixed overhead in that unblinking, golden blaze. The shadows never shifted. The air never cooled. I didn't know how long we'd been sitting there—an hour? Eight? It didn't matter. I didn't feel hungry. Didn't feel thirsty. Not comfortable, but not needing. Just... steady. Stuck in place with everything else.

Sif had passed out again beside me, curled around the moss like a very loyal, very oversized space heater. Her ears twitched in her sleep, paws occasionally flexing like she was chasing something in her dreams. Probably me.

Then, finally, he stirred. A twitch of his hand, a slow inhale through cracked lips. The fae blinked his eyes open, bright green, rimmed in silver. Even dulled by exhaustion and blood loss, they practically glowed in the faint light. He turned his head toward me, squinting like he wasn't entirely sure I was real.

"...You rescued me," he said at last, voice hoarse but smooth beneath it. "From the raiders, I presume?"

"Yeah," I said again. "They're mulch now. So's the camp."

He exhaled slowly, easing back into the moss with a faint wince. "Then I owe you more than I can presently offer."

He paused, gaze distant for a breath. Then added, "Whomever you may be... I am grateful." I nodded once. He shifted slightly, flexing his fingers, testing his limbs. There was still stiffness, but no open wounds. The bruises had faded, the worst of the damage undone, though he moved like he could still feel the memory of it.

"I hail from the Court of Spring," he said after a moment, his voice gaining strength. "One of its appointed sidhe. I was traveling on behalf of my Queen to attend the coronation of the new ruler of Autumn."

He paused. "That journey, as it happens, was ill-advised."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Turns out the scenic route was a bad idea."

A small huff escaped him—dry and amused. Then he winced and glanced away. "They intercepted me near the outer borderlands of Autumn's reach. I did not believe they would violate neutral territory so brazenly."

"They're not just raiding," I said. "They're working for her."

His head turned toward me again, sharp and assessing. "You are certain of this?"

I nodded. "Heard it straight from one of their own. Said the Autumn Queen's paying them very well to do what they were already doing."

The elf's expression tightened—a flicker of disgust beneath layers of restraint. "Then she is worse than I feared."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with things unspoken. Finally, I broke it. "You got a name, Spring boy?"

He hesitated for a moment. Then, with a touch of pride beneath the formality, said, "Thalien."

I raised a brow. "Of course it is."

A faint, wry smile touched his lips. "And you?"

I looked at him for a moment, then at the golden axe across my lap, at the scorched trees, and at the oversized wolf breathing softly beside me.

"Lucas."

He inclined his head. "Well then, Lucas... I am in your debt."

"True," I said. "And I would like answers."

He nodded slightly, acknowledging the point, and sat up with slow, deliberate care. He brushed dried blood and moss from his sleeves as though they had personally offended him.

"Something is... wrong," he said at last, his tone more guarded now, measured like someone giving a briefing before a court that might turn hostile. "Queen Aurelina has abdicated the Autumn Crown."

I blinked. "She quit?"

"She stepped down," he corrected. "Formally. Willingly—or so it is claimed."

"And that's not normal?" I asked.

"In all the long memory of the Courts," Thalien said, "no reigning monarch of the Seasons has ever relinquished power without death, madness, or conquest. The crown binds its bearer. It does not... pass."

"And yet it did," I said back.

"Yes," he said. "To her handmaiden. A fae named Sorrel. A quiet presence at court. Dutiful, unremarkable... unnoticed, even. Until now."

"And now she's calling herself Queen," I said.

He nodded once. "She occupies the seat beneath the Bladed Tree. She issues decrees. Her coronation is scheduled for the end of this week. Representatives from every Court have been invited."

I frowned. "To acknowledge her?"

"To witness," Thalien said. "Out of caution. No one knows how to proceed. There is no precedent. The laws of succession among the Seasonal Thrones are rooted in cycles—war, power, collapse. Not... this."

"And the warriors of Autumn?" I asked.

"A small number have not come to her banner," he said carefully. "Some remain loyal to Aurelina. Others have gone silent. And some..." he paused, "...some suspect the abdication was not a choice, but the result of... influence."

I felt my jaw tense. "You think she was compelled."

"I think something unnatural now wears the Autumn Crown," he said softly.

"And you were on your way there."

"As Spring's envoy," he confirmed. "To maintain diplomacy. To see for ourselves what Sorrel truly is."

"And the raiders found you."

"Yes." His voice dropped. "On land believed to be neutral. That should not have happened."

"Unless," I said, "it's not neutral anymore."

He didn't argue. He didn't need to. The silence between us wasn't awkward—just heavy, weighted with truths half-known and threats too big to name. I glanced back up at the unmoving sun overhead.

"So," I said, "where exactly are we?"

Thalien gave a soft, amused laugh. It was too elegant to be mocking, but it was close.

"You ask that as if the answer might be simple," he said, smoothing the front of his ruined tunic. "This is the Faewylds, my friend. You must understand—here, the concept of 'where' is more... philosophical than practical."

I raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," he said patiently, "that spatial direction, as mortals understand it, rarely applies. One might set off walking east and find themselves in Winter by nightfall—or in the same spot seven years later, having never left. The forest shifts. The roads rewrite themselves."

"So... no map, then."

Another faint smile. "Maps unless enchanted by powerful magics are vanity projects here. Beautiful, but irrelevant."

I sighed. "Can you at least tell me if we're near anything important?"

Thalien's gaze turned thoughtful. He looked out past the trees, as if he could see farther than the woods would ever allow me to.

"We are not far from the borders of the Summer Court," he said at last. "By Faewild standards, of course—perhaps a day's walk, if one is fortunate... or guided."

I frowned. "And that's important because...?"

"Because Summer is ruled by Queen Titania," he said with a subtle weight behind her name. "A monarch both ancient and... unflinchingly territorial. She is not one to overlook offenses, especially not those committed near her realm."

The way he said it made my skin crawl just a little. Like her attention was something dangerous in itself.

"If she learns raiders were staging camps this close to her domain..." He let that thought hang in the air, unfinished, but heavy.

"Noted," I muttered.

Thalien turned to face me more directly. "The sooner we move, the better. But you should know—navigation here requires more than footwork. In the Faewilds, we do not travel by road. We travel by will. By intention."

"That's vague."

"That is truth," he replied gently, but firmly. "Follow your heart, Lucas. That is how one finds the path here."

We walked. Or at least, our feet moved. Whether we were going anywhere was another question entirely. The path beneath us curved like it couldn't make up its mind—winding between trees that leaned too far inward, their branches whispering above our heads in a language neither of us chose to understand. The air shifted every dozen steps—spring-warm, then autumn-crisp, then suddenly filled with the faint scent of rose petals and distant thunder.

Thalien walked beside me with that same court-trained grace, hands clasped behind his back like this was just a pleasant garden stroll and not a journey through a realm that probably regularly ate people whole.

"You'll want to keep to the path," he said without looking at me. "As long as it remains visible."

"What happens if it doesn't?"

He gave a very slight smile. "Then we improvise."

I grunted. "Encouraging."

He nodded toward a patch of glowing mushrooms that had sprouted from a rotting log. "If any of those sing to you, do not respond. They're called Musecaps. They feed on inspiration."

I looked at the mushrooms. One of them wiggled a little.

"Neat," I muttered, and kept walking.

"The trees may change names if they're bored," he continued. "Don't take offense if they talk to you. Some of them like to be addressed as 'Your Grace' or 'Lord Pine of the Hundred Winds.' Others prefer to be ignored entirely."

Sif padded quietly beside us, sniffing the wind every now and then. She kept close—too close for a wolf her size. That alone told me she felt it too.

"This place feels like a fever dream," I said.

"That's because it is," Thalien replied. "The Faewilds are stitched together from intention, memory, and story. Some say we walk on the echo of every tale that was never finished."

"Doesn't that make navigation... complicated?"

"Profoundly," he said. "Which is why I recommend you speak only when necessary, eat nothing offered, and never, under any circumstances, accept an invitation to tea."

We stepped over a root that arched like a bridge, covered in moss that glittered faintly. Up ahead, the path split—one trail paved in checkerboard tiles, the other lined with thorny vines shaped like question marks.

I slowed. "Which one do we take?"

Thalien studied both, then pointed toward a third trail that hadn't existed a second ago—a narrow footpath that glowed faintly gold and smelled like honey and fresh bread.

"That one."

I looked at him. "You're just making this up."

"No," he said. "But the path is."

"Much better."

As we moved, he kept pointing things out with practice:

"That fog up ahead? It's not fog. It's a flock of glass-boned birds nesting in midair."

"Those trees with the red fruit? They're dreamgourds. Bite one, and you'll live a full lifetime in five minutes. Some never come back."

"The laughing flowers to your left? They'll tell you how you die. If you believe them, it becomes true."

I looked around. Everything here shimmered like it was halfway through becoming something else. Thalien kept walking, expression calm, voice smooth.

"We're skirting the edges of Summer's lands now," he said at last. "Feel that warmth? That hum? That's her court's presence—Titania's realm is strong, bright, and beautiful. But don't mistake that for mercy. She is not cruel, but she is not kind. And she remembers."

"Remembers what?"

"Everything," he said simply. "Every slight, every kindness, every name, I've seen lesser Fae get flayed for crimes committed centuries ago, something about speaking out of turn on the days-long court musical recital."

We kept moving. Sif let out a low growl as a patch of the ground wriggled beneath her paws—a trail of moss that blinked like a cat's eye and rolled away into the underbrush. Thalien didn't react.

"Best not to chase it," he said.

I sighed. "Of course not."

The path narrowed again, winding toward a forest of silver-white trees whose trunks were carved with thousands of tiny doors. Some were open. Most were not.

I didn't ask. Thalien just whispered: "Do not knock. Ever."

The temperature dropped like a curtain falling. One moment, the forest was warm with filtered sunlight and drifting golden pollen. The next, the air turned sharp and brittle, cold enough to sting the lungs. The light dimmed, not from clouds, but from something more deliberate. The shadows grew longer, thinner, hungrier.

Thalien stopped walking. His back straightened, shoulders squared. His entire presence shifted—from graceful wanderer to composed emissary, every movement suddenly calculated.

I opened my mouth—

He held up a hand. "Do not speak."

That alone shut me up. Sif growled low in her throat, ears flattened, fur prickling along her spine. Even she could feel it.

Ahead, they emerged from the trees. Four figures, tall and sharp-edged, like they'd been carved from wind. Their armor shimmered with frost but looked to be solid plate. Their eyes glowed faint blue in the gloom. One carried a spear that bled liquid snowflakes; another had antlers curling from his skull like petrified wood while carrying longbows. None of them looked particularly warm.

Winter Fae.

They moved like shadows pretending to be people. One of them smiled under their helmet—the kind of smile you see on a knife before it opens you.

"Well, well," he said, voice like wind under a frozen door. "A Spring sidhe in Autumn's tainted woods. Brave or stupid?"

Thalien bowed his head slightly. "Merely dutiful."

The Winter fae stepped closer, sniffing the air like a predator might. "And your companion?"

Thalien didn't hesitate. He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder and said, with absolute calm: "My pet."

I blinked. Slowly turned my head. He didn't look at me. His expression remained diplomatic, impassive.

The Winter fae raised a brow. "A curious pet."

"He is useful," Thalien said evenly. "Clever. Obedient, when reminded."

The lead fae tilted his head, those pale eyes never blinking. "And dangerous?"

"To those who offend me," Thalien said, all honey and threat.

The Winter Fae gave a slow smile. "How refreshing. Most of Spring's clutch travels with birds and songs. You bring something with teeth."

Thalien inclined his head. "We all adapt to the season."

There was a long pause. One of the others whispered something—the words vanished before they reached our ears. The antlered one simply stared, head cocked like he was trying to decide which of us would scream better.

Finally, the lead spoke again.

"Be careful, sidhe. These woods are... shifting. Sorrel's reach grows long."

"We tread lightly," Thalien said.

The Winter fae smiled once more, then turned—and in a gust of cold wind and falling frost, they vanished between the trees.

Thalien waited five full seconds. Then turned to me and said, very calmly: "You may speak now."

I stared at him. "My pet?"

He gave me a sharp look. "Would you rather I said snack? I was improvising."

"You didn't even flinch."

"One does not flinch before Winter," he said. "They smell it."

Sif gave an offended huff. I shook my head and kept walking. "You owe me for that."

"I shall write you a thank-you note in calligraphy."

"Bite me."

"I'd rather not."

The frost still lingered behind us. But we were moving again. The frost left behind by the Winter patrol clung to the edge of the trees, reluctant to melt. We walked on in silence for a while, the path slowly growing warmer beneath our feet—the kind of warmth that whispered of ripe apples and late harvests. A tangle of browning ivy crept along the trees now, and leaves the color of fire drifted down in slow spirals, despite there being no wind.

Autumn was near. Thalien moved with quiet certainty, but his gaze flicked toward the shadows more often now. The closer we got, the more aware he seemed.

"You said you were headed to witness the coronation," I said.

He gave a small nod. "That is correct."

"Well," I said, adjusting the strap on my axe, "that's not why I'm here."

That got his attention. He turned slightly, eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

"I'm here," I said, "because Sorrel—your new would-be queen—is preparing a Wild Hunt."

He stopped walking. Even the path hesitated beneath us, like it was waiting to see what he'd do.

"That," he said carefully, "is not something one declares lightly."

"I'm not declaring," I said. "I'm reporting. I got it from one of the raiders she was ordered to scout the woods."

"And this Hunt," Thalien said slowly, "has a target?"

"New York, then the entire eastern seaboard."

The words hung in the air, sharp and impossible. Thalien's expression didn't change at first. Then, ever so slightly, his jaw tensed.

He looked down at the ground. "You're speaking of the mortal realm. The human world. You're certain?"

"Very," I said. "And the worst part? She's got a fairy circle right outside the camp for Greek demigods. That's how she's starting."

That made him go still. Utterly still. The wind shifted—just a little—and the air carried the smell of drying leaves and metal.

"That," Thalien said, voice low, "should be impossible."

I waited.

"Only the High King himself can authorize a Hunt beyond the Veil. Not even a Season Queen may invoke the rite without permission. It is a sacred law, old as the Courts themselves. The consequences..." He shook his head. "To invoke it without sanction is to risk Oberon's wrath."

I shrugged. "I'm not a fae. Just a guy with a lightning axe and bad luck. But from where I'm standing? She's already started."

He looked shaken now. Frightened. Like someone told him the sun was exploding.

"If this is true," he said, "it is not just usurpation, that could be ignored once it was reprimanded. It is treason."

Sif growled. Not a warning—more like a note of attention. I followed her gaze. A crow sat on a low branch to our right, feathers sleek and dark as oil. It blinked once. Then again. No magic shimmer, no otherworldly glow. Just a crow. Ordinary. But it was watching us. And had been. For a while.

Thalien narrowed his eyes. "Do you often travel with familiars?"

"Not the winged kind," I said. "That one's not mine."

The crow cawed once—loud, sharp—and flew off ahead of us, down the trail that was slowly curling into deeper shades of rust and red.

Thalien stared after it. Then sighed. "Well. That's not ominous."

"Should we follow it?"

"It would be rude not to," he said, stepping forward, "And rude is fatal in this place."

We were following a bird. Black feathers, loud mouth, too many opinions for something without lips.

It cawed again. Loud. Sharp. Like it was calling my name in a tone reserved for people who forgot to feed it.

"You always this bossy?" I muttered.

It didn't answer. Just flapped ahead and perched on a low-hanging branch like it was daring me to keep up.

Thalien was still calm beside me, face unreadable in that fancy court-trained way. Meanwhile, the world around us was turning into a damn fever dream.

The trees changed again—taller, twisted, their trunks bent like they'd grown drunk and never sobered up. Leaves hung like velvet curtains, heavy and still, and every time I looked up, the sky seemed just a little farther away than it should be.

The path shifted under our feet. One second it was stone, then dirt, then black tangled roots that moved when you stepped on them. I stopped trying to guess what was real around the time we passed a deer made of wool and a rabbit that cloned itself when it jumped.

We were almost to Autumn. I could feel it in my bones.

And then—the woods snapped. A blur came from the brush, low and fast—snarling like a chainsaw wrapped in teeth. It was a hound. But the face—human. Distorted. Skin stretched over muscle, eyes too flat, mouth smiling like it had never meant a thing in its life. It leapt straight at Sif.

She didn't flinch. Didn't bark. Just moved. She met it midair and flattened it with a sound like wet paper hitting pavement. One bite, one shake—spine snapped like a twig. Half of it flew into the brush.

The second one came for me. Female face. Pale. Screaming. I didn't wait. Claws out with a snikt, I stepped inside the charge and jammed my hand into its ribs. It howled—high, human, like a woman begging. But it wasn't. Not really.

I didn't hesitate. Venom surged to the back of my throat—hot, oily, alive. I spat. The glob of fire hit the thing right in the chest. Whump. It lit up like an old rag soaked in gas, staggered three steps, then dropped, twitching.

I stood there, breathing hard, flames flickering off my boots. The smell was awful—charred flesh and hair and wrongness. Then—CAW. That damn crow again. Perched above us, staring like it'd seen all of it and judged my form a solid seven out of ten.

Thalien stepped up beside me, eyeing the body. "Chimeric facehounds," he muttered, like that explained anything. "They are not supposed to be created anymore."

"Yeah?" I wiped my claws on the grass. "Someone forgot to tell them."

CAW.

The trees thinned without warning. One blink we were in deep forest—gold leaves, whispering branches, all that moody fairytale nonsense—and the next, the ground got soft under my boots. Wet. Heavy. We were standing at the edge of... something. It looked like a swamp at first glance—dark water stretching out under low fog, the surface smooth like glass, the smell sharp and earthy. But it wasn't just a swamp. It was shifting. One second it looked like a puddle—shallow enough to step over. Next second, it went on forever, past the horizon, like the world had folded open and dropped into it.

I blinked. The shape changed again. I didn't move. Neither did Thalien. He stood at my side, hands folded neatly behind his back, expression unreadable.

"This place," he said, voice low, formal, "is called Namarenth."

It sounded like a name meant to be whispered.

I looked out over the still water again. "The hell is it?"

"A boundary," Thalien said. "The heart of the crossroad. Here, all four Courts meet—though none claim it. Summer, Winter, Spring, Autumn... they all end here. Or begin, You can take the long way... this is the faster one."

He stepped closer to the edge, boots not quite touching the water.

"But this swamp... it isn't just geography. It is where things fall—not from above, but from time. From thought. From potential."

I frowned. "You're losing me."

He gestured to the surface. And the swamp clarified. For a second, I saw something below the water. Huge, metal. Splintered in half, lights still glowing faint in the murk, I heard screaming.

"The Titanic," Thalien said softly. "Dreams of progress, shattered by pride. Echoes of its ruin drift here."

He shifted his hand. The water shifted too. I saw stone towers—broken, smoking—and the shape of a city that felt like fire and war. A crown of spears, walls tumbling.

"Troy," he said.

He turned again. I followed his eyes. A harbor, blackened. Ash floating through the air. The bones of elephants lying near sunken ships.

"Carthage."

My stomach twisted. "Wait—those are..."

He nodded once. "Histories. Lost futures. Paths the world might've taken, but didn't."

More images flickered across the surface. A city built from clean metal and glowing glass—something almost Roman, almost sci-fi. It vanished before I could blink. Blueprints. Cathedrals. Books that had no titles. Names I didn't recognize—names I could almost remember.

"Some of these," Thalien murmured, "are real. Some were never built. Some... were only dreamed of. But here, they exist. Namarenth remembers what the world forgets."

I swallowed hard. It wasn't a swamp. It was a graveyard. Not of the dead—but of what could've been. Ideas. Empires. People.

"Why here?" I asked.

"Because the Faewylds drink from the edge of the real," Thalien said. "And this place? This is the runoff. The overflow. All the pieces that never made it to the stage, prime fuel for the courts."

Sif let out a low, uneasy growl. I didn't blame her. Even the crow was quiet now—perched on a low, knotted branch arched like a gate over the water. Watching. Waiting.

"This is where the path crosses into Autumn," Thalien said, nodding toward the mirrored surface. "Step lightly. The weight of what was never meant to be can drag."

The moment we stepped onto the water, the ground disappeared beneath us. One second we were on the edge of the swamp. The next, we were walking on it—on the surface, like it was solid glass stretched tight over a canyon. The reflections below shifted with every step. Cities flickered in the deep: towers, ruins, broken statues, forgotten thrones. I tried not to look too long.

The air grew colder. Old cold. The kind that made your skin hot and bones cold. Sif growled beside me, steps sure, but slower. Thalien walked like this was just another hallway in a palace. I kept pace.

And then—

They started whispering. Soft voices. Velvet-slick. Whispering under the surface.

My name. Lucas. Lucas...

Not screams. Invitations. Tempting. Familiar. Like old friends I couldn't place.

I clenched my fists. Focused on the next step. Then the next. Don't stop. Don't look. I kept going. But the whispers got louder. Then the voice changed. Lower. Richer. A sultry voice, full of silk and passion.

"Lucasss," it said, just beneath the glass. "You could have so much more."

I felt it before I saw it—long fingers brushing the soles of my feet. They passed right through the rubber of my Crocs, cold as moonlight and wrong.

I looked down. That was a mistake. Realities bloomed beneath me—hundreds, thousands, millions. One where I was rich. Suits, penthouse, women laughing like I was the punchline and the prize. Another, poor and cold, sleeping in a subway tunnel with my hands wrapped around a knife and nothing else. One where I was French, wearing a long coat and smirking while drinking wine under the Eiffel Tower. Another where I was a woman, grinning with blood on my teeth and wings of fire rising behind me.

Then they got weirder. One where I had horns and ruled a city made of bone. One where I was twelve, screaming as my own shadow strangled me. One where I was happy. Married. Normal. Alive.

I couldn't breathe. I felt something grip my ankle—not hard, not painful, just... insistent. Like someone guiding me gently down. The swamp wanted me. My foot began to sink.

"Lucas."

Thalien's voice cut through the fog like a bell. I turned to him. He wasn't smiling.

"Clear your mind," he said. "Forget everything."

"What?" I gasped, pulling one leg free from the glass—it warped around my shin, trying to hold on.

"Forget," he said again. "If you think, it has teeth. If you want, it has claws. Forget."

But how? How do you not think? Not want? Not be?

Around me, the swamp cracked—not in the water, but in my head. Thoughts fell—like objects knocked off a shelf. Money. Cars. Fame. Friends I used to know. Songs I never finished. The voice of someone I hadn't heard since I was a kid.

Gone. Falling.

Each one hit the water with a splash and sank out of sight. Panic flared behind my eyes. The part of me that fought, that remembered, tried to grab something, anything—

Thalien stepped beside me and touched my shoulder.

"Let go."

The crow screamed overhead—not mocking now. Urgent. Fierce.

I tried. I tried to clear my mind. To forget. To let go. But I couldn't. The second Thalien said it—"Forget everything"—my brain did the exact opposite. Thoughts flooded in, one after the other, fast and loud.

My name. My face. Camp. That stupid fight with Jasper before this demigod thing started. My bunk. My dog. My axe. That girl in Anchorage with the bad tattoos. The song I never finished. My dad.

Every word, every memory, every stray neuron fired at once like a malfunctioning lightning storm. And the swamp responded. I felt it pull harder—not just on my legs, but on my self. Like it wasn't just drowning me—it was absorbing me.

My ankle vanished below the surface. Then my shin. The water didn't feel wet. It felt sticky. Screaming and whispering at the same time. Echoes of things I hadn't even lived.

A clown fell from the sky. Then a coffee mug. A neon sign that read "OPEN" buzzed past my face and exploded into origami birds. My second-grade math teacher, Mrs. Halpern, floated by in a swan boat made of bone china.

I started laughing. I couldn't stop. The swamp was inside my head now. And everything I thought of—started falling.

A car. My first one—beat-up Civic, blue as hell—crashed through the fog, windshield wipers flailing like broken wings. A golden trophy labeled "MOST FORGETTABLE DEMIGOD" splashed next to me and sank. Then a giant rubber duck. Then a cat. With my face.

"Thalien!" I shouted, voice cracking.

He was ahead of me, standing straight, watching—not moving, not blinking.

"You said forget!" I choked out. "I can't!"

The swamp was past my knees now. Thick. Pulling. The surface was glass only until it wasn't—now it was flesh, memory, heat.

Shapes moved below me. Not real ones. Ideas. My own thoughts, bubbling up—taking form. A version of me, tall and perfect, eyes glowing gold, smiling like a god. Another me, small and scared, curled in a corner. Another, older, bleeding, laughing, singing. Then monsters. Ones I'd imagined. Ones I'd drawn in doodles. Ones I'd killed.

They reached up. They knew me. The sky fractured. Books I never read. People I never kissed. A whole parade of regrets and dreams I didn't even remember having. It was too much. I was halfway down, up to my waist.

Sif was barking behind me—a sound raw and frantic, like she didn't know what to do either. The crow cawed again, louder this time. It hurt. A whipcrack in my skull. But it made something flicker—something stubborn, buried in the noise.

The swamp was up to my hips now. I couldn't feel my legs. I wasn't sure I had legs. My thoughts were screaming—each one louder than the last, crashing over each other like stampedes. I couldn't tell which ones were real anymore. Some were memories. Some were lies. Some were just noise. But they were me. Or they were trying to be.

Lucas isn't a name, it's the new one, what was my name?

My chest burned. My skull ached. The weight of everything I'd ever imagined was dragging me down, down, down—

And then something clicked. A reflex. I reached over my shoulder. Fingers trembling, slick with sweat, magic, and madness, I pulled the Bass-Axe from my back. I didn't think about it. Didn't plan it. I just let it slide down into my hands, the familiar weight grounding me, even as I kept sinking.

And with fingers that didn't feel like mine anymore, I strummed. Just a few notes. Nothing fancy. Nothing loud. Just a little flick of melody through the storm. And suddenly—just for a second—the noise hesitated.

I looked up. The sky wasn't a sky anymore—it was canvas painted with falling teeth and sideways clocks. But past it—in the distance—I saw something. The leaves were brown. Not gold. Not green. Brown. Rotting. Real. Autumn.

I locked my eyes on it. And I played. Fingers flew across the strings—not a song, not a battle hymn, just a burst of noise laced with one desperate command. Dimension Door.

The spell snapped to life—not neat, not clean, not like it was supposed to. The Bass screamed with static. Sparks shot off the strings. The sun carved into the body flared and nearly burned me. But the space ahead of me tore open. Like the air was a curtain, and I'd finally found the thread.

Brown leaves.

I fell through it. The swamp tried to hold on—I felt it clawing at my feet, my thoughts, my soul—

But I ripped free. And landed, hard, on dry ground. Gasping. Shaking. Alive. I rolled once, twice, came to a stop on my back, gasping like I'd been underwater for days. My head was ringing. My fingers were still twitching like the strings were glued to my nerves. The Bass lay across my chest, humming faintly, warm and alive like it had felt what I did.

The air here tasted like woodsmoke and iron. Leaves crunched under me, brittle and brown. Autumn. I made it. I made it.

The swamp was gone—no screaming, no images, no thoughts clawing at my skin. Just silence. Heavy. Watching. I didn't get up. Didn't speak. I just breathed. One second. Two. Three, trying to stop the coming panic.

WRAKTHMP.

A blur of white fur and muscle slammed into me, knocking the wind out of my chest. Sif. She stood over me, tail wagging, tongue out, eyes wide and frantic. Her entire body vibrated with tension, like she'd rip the world apart to find me again.

"Hey," I rasped, reaching up, scratching behind her ear. "I'm good. I'm good, girl."

She whined and nudged my face, then sat on my legs like I was the last piece of furniture in the apocalypse. I almost laughed. Then a new shape stepped through the air. Thalien. He emerged like he'd been walking through curtains, untouched, unbothered, cloak fluttering with the wind that hadn't been there before.

He looked down at me with that ever-calm face. "You were supposed to forget," he said mildly.

"Yeah?" I wheezed. "You were supposed to be helpful."

His lips twitched—almost a smirk. Almost. He glanced around. "You landed safely. That's more than most."

I sat up slowly, Sif huffing beside me like she didn't trust gravity not to betray me again. "Where are we?" I asked.

Thalien turned toward the trees—taller here, darker. Their leaves glowed faint gold along the edges, like each one remembered summer just a little too fondly. The light was dimmer. The air heavier.

"This," he said, "is the edge of her domain."

CP Bank:200cp

Perks earned this chapter: 800cp A Fate Apart (The Silmarillion) [Illusion] It is said that the twin gifts of Ilúvatar to men were firstly death, and its release from the boundaries of the world, and secondly freedom - freedom from fate, and the designs of the Music of the Ainur. You bear this freedom with you into future worlds; you have free will, truly free will, which can never be overridden by the dictates of fate and destiny. This doesn't guarantee that defying fate will be easy, but it will always be possible. By your hand, even a prophecy spoken by an omniscient being could be proven false.

But, on the other hand, fate is not always an enemy. Once per jump, you may choose to take a great destiny upon yourself. You won't know every detail of this destiny, though you may have hints, and it will not necessarily be a happy one for you, but if you bear it through to the end (and remember that you can choose to defy destiny as well) you can be assured that great changes will happen in the world which will, sooner or later, bring it further in line with your ideals. Just as Beren's quest to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth eventually brought about the destruction of the first Dark Lord, so too may your labours ripple out through fate to change the world.

Finally, there is the gift of death. Perhaps this will be cold comfort, but you can be assured that, should you die, your spirit cannot be captured, compelled or tormented after it leaves your body - at least, not forever. Any 'fate worse than death' you suffer cannot be eternal; there will always be a flaw in the prison, or a point of failure, or someone coming to rescue you. It may take an age, but there will always be an escape for you, one way or another.

Milestones: none

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Magus explorator

Apr 15, 2025

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