Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Death by Dad. Not exactly the way you imagined going out. You always figured it’d be something cooler, maybe a battle with a monster, or saving the world in some epic, slow-mo explosion. 

But no. Turns out, the biggest threat to your life wasn’t some ancient curse or rampaging hydra. It was your own father.

And if you hadn’t made it through that night, your gravestone would’ve read something like, 'Here lies [Name], betrayed by blood, gone too soon…

But alas, only you believed your theatrics, so that was indeed not what happened.

Look, you were already tucked in bed, freshly washed sheets you practically wrestled clean over a bucket of water, fuzzy socks you liberated (read: shamelessly hijacked) from a child of Hypnos. 

You'd even pulled off the miracle of staying warm, despite the camp's excuse for heating.

The last thing you expected to hear was a hushed murmur, so soft and gentle, you nearly drifted right back to sleep. But even through your grogginess, curiosity got the better of you.

It was only 7 p.m., and most of camp was still wide awake, roasting s’mores and swapping ghost stories by the fire. 

You, on the other hand, had spent the entire day trudging through a humiliating list of completely nonsensical chores. All thanks to a prank war that, apparently, “went too far.” Or so Chiron claims.

Personally? You completely beg to differ.

You glanced around cautiously as you gently peeled the sheets off your body. 

The murmurs rose just a pitch, barely noticeable in a noisy room, but your cabin was dead silent.

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly through your nose as you listened. “What if it’s a monster…”

Your eyes flicked to the throw blanket at the end of your bed, the one that loudly declared, “CAMP’S NUMBER ONE PRINCESS!” A gag gift from Connor, who you’d thoroughly berated for it. 

It usually lay half-haphazard across your bed, forgotten. But tonight, your hand reached for it instinctively. Like it was a piece of armor.

Now wrapped in its familiar weight, you took a step toward the noise, your grip on the fabric tightening.

If it really was a monster, what would you do? Would you fight back, or freeze and let it kill you? You shook the thought away, brows knitting together.

It was way too soon to die. Death before your first kiss? Absolutely not.

Fueled by a sudden, twisted burst of courage, you threw the blanket off. 

“I don’t need this junk!” you declared, only to immediately yelp as the cold air hit your skin.

“Cold, cold, cold!” you squeaked, hopping in place.

Scrambling back down, you wrapped the blanket tightly around yourself once more. “Okay, maybe I was wrong. But what’s a warrior without a little armor?”

The murmurs had gone silent now, and you scratched your head. Was this a prank?

Prank wars had totally ended in your favor, you wouldn’t put it past Connor and Travis to stage some elaborate revenge. 

After all, you had locked Connor in a room with Katie Gardner, a child of Demeter. In your mind, it was sweet, innocent matchmaking.

How were you supposed to know she’d give him poison ivy?!

“I know you’re out there, Connor and Travis,” you said, arms crossed. “It’s cute that you think you could scare someone as powerful as me.” You sighed, mournfully. 

“When will you boys ever learn…”

You paused, waiting a few seconds, eyes scanning the dark corners of the room with growing unease. No one jumped out. No laughter. No smug grins.

It became clear that no one was coming out any time soon. At least, not anyone you’d want to see.

A tight knot twisted in your stomach, and you braced yourself to make a beeline back to the safety of your bed.

Your bed was only a few feet away. You lunged for it, fingers grazing the edge of your pillow, when something smacked you square in the face. The impact knocked you flat on your back.

Dazed, you groaned and looked up… only to be greeted by a pair of wings hovering above you.

Your scream hit a pitch you didn’t even know you were capable of.

“Back off!” you shouted, yanking the blanket from your shoulders and flailing it like a weapon. “I’m warning you—I did Karate for a week! I know moves!”

“Relax!” a rich, deep voice commanded, calm but firm, as a hand closed around your wrist.

Your breath hitched. Nope. Absolutely not.

You clenched your eyes shut tighter, every muscle in your body locking up in panic.

You were not about to die like this. Not on your bedroom floor. Not in a blanket burrito. And definitely not before your first kiss.

“Please don’t kill me!” you blurted out, voice cracking. “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet—give a guy a break! Have some mercy, will you?!”

The figure let out a sigh, long, tired, and oddly human. The grip on your wrist loosened, then shifted, their hand moving up to rest gently on your shoulder. 

It wasn’t threatening. If anything, it felt… steadying.

“[Name],” the voice said again, softer this time, almost exasperated. “Open your eyes.”

You shook your head so hard it nearly gave you whiplash. “Nope. Not happening. I refuse to look. I’m not gonna stare into the glowing red eyes of some death harpy before I die. Just—just do it quick, alright? Spare me the tragic build-up.”

There was a pause. Then a quiet sigh that sounded suspiciously like someone trying very hard not to laugh.

“I swear,” the voice muttered, “you are so silly, hm?”

There was a bit of shuffling and the hand on your shoulder rubbed gently against your shoulder. “I would send myself to Tartarus before laying a finger on my son.”

His…son?

Your head tilted at the revelation, curiosity outweighing fear. Slowly, cautiously, you cracked one eye open.

When you weren’t immediately turned to ash, you opened both eyes, and your breath caught in your throat.

The figure standing before you wasn’t just a man. No, that would be far too simple. 

He was a god.

Undeniably so.

He appeared only a decade or so older than you, yet there was an ancient elegance in the way he carried himself, like the weight of centuries rested easily on his shoulders.

His skin glowed with a soft, sunlit warmth, like he’d been kissed by light itself.

Not the harsh light of noon, but the golden hour kind, the kind that made everything look like magic.

His eyes swirled with liquid gold, shifting like melted metal, aglow with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, something between curiosity and gentle amusement.

His lips were full, with the kind of effortless pout that made them look perpetually kiss-soft, and his cheekbones were high and dusted with the faintest rosy hue. 

His jaw was sharp but not harsh, framed by tousled hair the color of rose quartz, glowing subtly in the dim light.

Your eyes drifted past his face, past the glow of his skin and the quiet intensity of his gaze, until they landed on the wings unfurled behind him.

They were massive.

Fully spread, they nearly grazed the cabin walls, arching high above his shoulders in a graceful curve. Each feather was flawlessly white.

They shimmered subtly, not with glitter or flash, but with a kind of stillness like moonlight on still water, soft but impossible to ignore.

The wings were pristine, impossibly soft-looking, yet you could sense the strength woven into them. They were not delicate. 

They were divine. Crafted for flight, for protection, for war if needed.

The light around them bent slightly, as if even reality itself hesitated to touch something so pure.

You couldn’t imagine the damage they might cause if he moved with full force. If he had arrived in his complete divine form, the cabin wouldn’t have stood a chance. 

It would’ve splintered like matchsticks beneath the sweep of those wings.

And yet, despite their sheer size and power, there was a strange comfort in them. Like being wrapped in a blanket that had existed since the dawn of love itself.

They were terrifying. Awe-inspiring.

And beautiful beyond belief.

This was the first time you had ever seen your father.

He had claimed you the moment you arrived at camp, and your mother had told you countless stories about him. 

About his kindness, his strength, the way he loved like no one else could. But no matter how vivid her words were, you’d never seen him face to face.

Not until now.

You’d imagined this moment for years, rehearsed conversations in your head, practiced what you’d say, even thought about whether you’d cry.

But now, with him standing right in front of you in all his impossible beauty and presence… everything you’d ever planned to say vanished.

Your heart pounded so loudly it felt like it echoed through the room, and before you could stop yourself, a high-pitched squeal burst out of you, louder than you’d ever made in your life.

You launched yourself at him.

Arms wrapped tightly around his neck, legs hooking instinctively around his torso, you clung to him like you never wanted to let go.

Beaming, you squeezed him tighter and laughed breathlessly. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you! I mean—it’s you. You’re my father.”

Anteros held you for a long moment, longer than most people would expect from a god.

There was nothing hurried or distant in the way his hands gently pressed against your back. Just quiet reassurance, like he was memorizing the way you felt in his arms.

You stayed there, cradled against him, heart still racing but finally slowing, bit by bit. 

His wings folded in just slightly, wrapping around you like a shield. Like the world outside could wait.

“You’re so much like her,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Your mother she… she never apologized for how much she loved. I see that in you.”

Your throat tightened. “She always said I got my heart from you.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips. “She had a poetic way of putting things.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. He studied your face like he was trying to commit every detail to memory.

His hand came up, fingers brushing gently along your cheek as though he were still trying to convince himself you were real.

Until, without warning, something shifted in his eyes.

His smile faltered. The light in his gaze dimmed, just slightly.

“Oh,” Anteros whispered, voice thinning as realization crept in. “I… I almost forgot.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

He hesitated.

“I’m not just here to see you,” he said softly, the joy from just moments ago draining from his expression. “I wish I were. But I—” He swallowed, as if it hurt to say the words. “I’m only here to give you something. That’s why they allowed me to come.”

They. Whoever they were, the bitterness in his voice when he said it made your stomach twist.

Anteros slowly stepped back, one arm slipping from around you as the other reached into the folds of his robes. 

His expression was distant now, heavy, like he was bracing himself for the inevitable end of something fragile.

“This… this wasn’t meant to be a visit,” he admitted, his voice low, almost ashamed. “It was a delivery.”

From within the shimmering fabric, he drew out a small object. Delicate and glowing faintly in the light. 

It was a glass dome, no taller than your hand, and inside it rested a single flower.

Its petals were pale, almost ghostly white, with the faintest blush of pink toward the tips.

The stem curled gently beneath it, and there was something about it that felt impossibly frozen, like it had been waiting a long, long time.

He held it in both hands. But his eyes didn’t leave yours. And they looked heartbreakingly human now.

“I hate that this is all I get,” he whispered. “Just one moment.”

And for the first time since he arrived, you saw it. An ache in his expression that no god should have. Not pity. Not regret.

Love. Grieving the time he never had.

You glanced down at the flower again. Something about it made your chest tighten.
It was beautiful, yes, but it also carried a softness tinged with sorrow. A promise never fulfilled. Or something meant to be laid gently in remembrance.

Whatever it was… it mattered.

And he had chosen to give it to you.

In that moment, words felt insufficient. So you held the dome close, letting the unspoken emotions pass between you, bridging the gap of years and realms.

“You must protect this,” Anteros said, his voice firm, almost commanding. “Swear to me you will.”

“Yeah… yeah, of course I will, Dad,” you replied instinctively, the urgency in his tone leaving no room for hesitation. 

You didn’t understand what the flower meant, not fully, but something in his eyes told you it wasn’t just a gift. It was a burden, too.

You glanced down at the glowing bloom beneath the dome, its soft light reflecting in your eyes.

“...Can I ask what it’s for?” you said, quieter now. “I mean, it’s beautiful, but… what does it do?”

Anteros’s jaw tensed, and after a long pause, he exhaled slowly. “I cannot tell you,” he said, voice low and heavy with restraint.

You blinked, taken aback by the weight behind those four words. It was just a flower. At least, it looked like one. Nothing about it screamed danger or power.

But judging by the strain in your father’s voice, this wasn’t just some divine houseplant.

He knew something you didn’t. Of course he did. 

That was the norm when you were a demigod. Adults keeping secrets “for your own good” until the world was already halfway on fire.

Still, whatever this flower was, it clearly mattered. And if he trusted you with it… then maybe this was your chance to prove yourself. To make him proud.

So, you forced down the million questions burning on your tongue and flashed him a bright, unwavering smile.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it, Dad!” you said, lifting the dome with both hands like it was a crown. “You can count on me.”

Anteros’s shoulders eased at your words, the tension in his frame melting away. His eyes softened, full of that same gentle pride from before.

“I thank you for your willingness to trust me, beloved,” he said warmly. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Though only with papa, okay? What is it mortals say? Danger stranger?”

Your lips twitched, amusement bubbling up. “It’s ‘stranger danger,’ Dad.”

The natural pink in his cheeks deepened. “Ah, right…Anyway,” he said, gently shifting the moment as he reached up to rest his palm against your cheek. His touch was warm and comforting. “I’m so happy I got the chance to see you, my love. You’re growing up beautifully.”

The words hung in the air. Tender, but heavy. They sounded too final, too much like the beginning of a goodbye.

Your smile faded slightly as you leaned into his hand. “Are you… leaving?”

Anteros didn’t answer.

His golden eyes, so full of light and sorrow all at once, flicked away from yours, gaze drifting toward the floor. His hand lingered on your cheek, but his silence said more than words ever could.

You felt your chest tighten, but you didn’t press him.

Instead, you reached up and gently took his wrist, holding it in place as if you could keep him here just a little longer. 

Maybe you couldn’t stop him from leaving, but you could show him that you understood.

“It’s okay,” you said softly, offering a small, steady smile. “I know you probably have rules… or duties… or some kind of godly curfew. And oh boy, do I get hating a curfew!

He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, but still didn’t meet your eyes.

“I’m just glad you came at all,” you continued, voice growing quieter. “Even if it’s only for a moment. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get.”

That got him to look back at you.

And the way he looked at you, like you were the most precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on, made your heart twist.

“I’ll be okay, Dad,” you whispered, giving his hand a small squeeze. “I promise.”

A soft, bittersweet smile tugged at Anteros’s lips. He gave a single, solemn nod before murmuring, “Pray to me. I’ll be here. Please… be safe, [Name].”

With a final wave, he began to fade, light folding around him like mist until he was simply gone.

You blinked rapidly, trying to push back the wetness gathering in your eyes. 

The cabin fell silent once more, and a familiar emptiness settled in his absence, as if the air itself missed him already.

Exhaling quietly, you looked down at the object in your hands.

You lifted the dome, inspecting the flower inside. It hadn’t bloomed yet, still curled in on itself. 

You figured once it did, that would mean you’d done something right. That you’d made him proud.

The drowsiness from earlier began to return, tugging at your limbs like gentle waves.

You made your way back to your bunk, already letting your mind wander, this time to lighter things. Like whether Mariah Carey would ever release another album.

Hopefully with fewer holiday tracks.

You slipped under your covers, tugging the sheets up over your head like a cocoon. The last thing you saw was the soft glow of the flower dome on your nightstand.

Finally, sleep took you.

The night passed without incident, and you slept soundly, until sunlight crept through the cabin window and landed squarely on your face, forcing your eyes to crack open.

Squinting against the light, you slowly sat up, momentarily disoriented. As your vision adjusted, you glanced around the cabin.

What had been empty bunks the night before were now filled with your many cabinmates, all still sound asleep.

You scanned the cramped room, taking in the clutter and chaos, until your eyes landed on something, or rather, someone new.

In the far corner, wedged into a small bed that looked hastily added, was a figure wrapped tightly in blankets. 

They were practically buried, cocooned like a human burrito.

You could only see a sliver of their face, half-shadowed by the covers, but it was enough to guess they were a boy. And definitely not someone you recognized.

The one time you actually go to bed early, and a new camper shows up in the middle of the night?

Major FOMO.

With a sigh, you kicked your blanket off and swung your legs over the side of your bed.

There was nothing you could do about the mystery person until they decided to wake up, assuming they ever did with how tightly they were wrapped up in those blankets. 

For now, your morning agenda had other priorities.

After your usual routine, teeth brushed, hair mostly tamed, and the most decent outfit you could manage before 8 AM, you stepped out of Cabin 11 and jogged across camp to your next destination: the Aphrodite cabin.

Its pastel-pink exterior practically sparkled in the morning sun. 

You poked your head through the heart-shaped doorway, half-expecting chaos or a cloud of perfume, but instead found the room unusually quiet. Only one person was awake.

Silena.

That wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was the scowl etched across her usually serene face as she paced the plush pink carpet, muttering under her breath like she was ready to declare war.

“Stupid Hunters,” she hissed, waving a brush in one hand like a sword. “I’ll show them love isn’t some meaningless fluff. Maybe then they’ll learn some actual respect.”

You paused at the doorway, shifting your weight awkwardly. “Uhh… good morning?”

Silena glanced over as she passed you, barely slowing. “Oh, hey, [Name] Morning,” she said with a distracted wave.

You took a cautious step inside and pointed at the hairbrush she was gripping hard enough to crush diamonds. “Are you okay? You look… kind of upset.”

She blinked, pausing as if she was only just becoming aware of her own feelings, then followed your gaze to her hand. M

“What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” Her voice dropped into a growl. “Those awful Hunters.”

Right on cue, the brush snapped clean in half in her hand.

Silence.

You both stared at the broken handle, the only sounds in the room now the faint snores of the other Aphrodite kids and the gentle breeze whistling through the open window.

Silena sighed, sheepishly rubbing the back of her neck. “Ahem. Okay, maybe not fine, exactly.” She casually tossed the ruined brush behind her. Then she turned to you with a forced smile—trying for grace, but clearly still fuming beneath it. “So. What brings you here this early?”

You strolled farther into the room, settling onto the pink velvet stool in front of one of the many heart-shaped vanities. “I came to see if Drew was awake.”

Silena followed your gaze across the room to one of the beds, where Drew lay sprawled out like a diva in hibernation—satin mask over her eyes, mouth slightly open, and a silk robe slipping off one shoulder.

The corners of your mouth quirked up as you stared at the sight in front of you. You wished you had a camera to capture it forever.

For someone who swore up and down that she needed beauty sleep, Drew certainly didn’t look all that beautiful at the moment.

Silena, ever the graceful older sister, simply sighed and walked over to her, gently closing Drew’s mouth with two fingers. Her expression was part fondness, part exasperation.

You let out a quiet groan and slumped against the nearest vanity, resting your cheek against its smooth surface. Your eyes flicked lazily across the mess of cosmetic products—lip gloss tubes, half-open palettes, serums in tiny, overpriced bottles.

Still bored.

Still no one awake except Silena.

Still not enough drama.

You groaned softly into your arms, the weight of morning monotony pressing down until—click—your brain recalled something Silena had said earlier.

Something about... Hunters?

Lifting your head, you twisted in your seat to glance at her.

She was now elbow-deep in a ridiculously overstuffed duffel bag, pulling out pastel tops and heart-print skirts.

“Hey, Lena?” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room.

She hummed in acknowledgment, not bothering to look up.

“That thing you mentioned earlier—about Hunters. What was that about?”

That caught her attention. Her hands paused mid-fold, fingers tightening around a pale pink crop top. Her expression soured like she’d just smelled something rotten.

“The Hunters of Artemis,” she said, her voice full of something between disdain and disbelief. “They arrived last night while you were getting your beauty sleep.”

Your brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re basically a bunch of teenaged immortals who swore off guys and emotions forever.” She dropped the crop top back into her lap and crossed her arms. “They think love is some kind of weakness. Isn’t that insane?”

You blinked at her. “I’m sorry, back up. They don’t believe in love?”

Silena gave a tight-lipped nod, her jaw clenched like the phrase physically offended her.

You let out a dramatic gasp and clutched your chest. “What kind of cult rejects love? That’s—That’s like... treason.”

“I know,” she said, eyes flaring. “They act like they’re above it. As if falling in love or caring deeply makes you weak. It’s ridiculous.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” You dramatically slumped against the dresser again. “What do they even do in their free time? Drink herbal tea and talk about how much they hate Valentine’s Day?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “Well, clearly, we have to fix that.”

She smiled at you—one of those warm, real ones that reminded you why she was Camp Half-Blood’s favorite older sister figure.

“Exactly. We’ll show them love isn’t weak. It’s strong. Fierce. And when you care about someone, you’ll go to war for them.”

You nodded solemnly, feeling the fire of purpose ignite in your chest. “We’ll fight the no-love propaganda. One glitter heart sticker at a time.”

That finally cracked Silena’s serious facade. She let out a light, melodic laugh, the kind that made the room feel brighter. “You’re a funny little guy, you know that?”

You raised a hand, brushing the air like you were above such compliments. “Please. No need to flatter me. ”

One last question lingered in your mind like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. You tilted your head toward Silena, curiosity tugging at your tone. “But…how’d you even see these hunters?”

She didn’t pause in her task—still gracefully moving from wardrobe to wardrobe, tucking in perfectly folded tops and smoothing out silken scarves. “Oh, right,” she said with a glance over her shoulder. “They arrived sometime after dinner. Cabin Eight’s hosting them for now. You’ll probably run into them at breakfast.”

You blinked, lips forming a silent “oh” as realization dawned. Somehow, you felt both intrigued and mildly betrayed by your own need for sleep.

First a newcomer in your own cabin, now a whole squad of man-hating immortal girls just waltzing into camp without your knowledge? Just how much did you miss?!

Pushing yourself off the vanity stool with an exaggerated sigh, you gave the perfume-scented air one last inhale before stretching your arms overhead.

“Well,” you said, heading for the door, “guess I’ll go harass Travis now. That always cheers me up.”

Silena chuckled as she gently shut one of the wardrobe drawers. “Try not to break him, alright?”

You glanced over your shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Who? Me?”

She laughed again and her voice followed you out like a hug. “Bye, [Name].”

You stepped back into the golden morning sunlight, the warmth brushing your skin and casting long shadows behind you.

The scent of roses faded with each step away from Cabin Ten, replaced by pine needles and the remnants of campfire smoke.

You stuffed your hands in your pockets and started back toward your own cabin, already plotting whatever chaos you were about to unleash on an unsuspecting Travis.

On your way back to the cabin, you crouched down and scooped up a handful of snow, packing it tight between your palms until it formed a solid, satisfyingly cold snowball.

You pushed open the door as slowly as you could, flinching at the long, drawn-out creak it gave—like something out of a cheesy horror movie.

You tiptoed forward, weaving through bags and half-folded clothes, pausing every few steps when the floorboards groaned under your weight.

Honestly, at this point, you were convinced Camp Half-Blood was held together with duct tape and hope.

You finally made it to Travis’s bunk. He was still out cold, sprawled diagonally across his bed like he had no concept of personal space even in sleep.

His mouth hung open slightly, a faint snore rumbling out of him. You stared. He looked so peaceful. Innocent, even.

It almost made you feel bad for what you were about to do.

Almost.

You grinned, lifting the snowball high—

“What are you doing?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

Behind you stood the boy you’d noticed earlier—the unfamiliar one tucked away in the corner bunk. He was now wide awake, eyes fixed on you with a kind of eager curiosity that made you feel like you were the strange one in this situation.

He had warm olive-toned skin, still soft with the kind of smoothness you only saw on kids who hadn’t been in a proper camp brawl yet.

Light freckles dusted his cheeks and nose, and his big brown eyes—so round and bright—blinked up at you.

His dark hair was tousled, one side flattened from sleep. His whole energy practically buzzed with questions.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Are you going to hurt him?”

You blinked, then cracked a grin and gently nudged him in the chest. “Of course not, silly.”

Lifting your hand, you showed him the now half-melted snowball dripping between your fingers. “It was just a snowball. Keyword: was.”

“Oh, cool!” he said, eyes flicking down to it with sudden interest. “Did you make that just now?”

“Yeah, but it's completely melted,” you sighed, tossing the wet remains aside, “so I’ll have to get a new one.”

You raised a brow at him. “And you have to come with me.”

He blinked. “What? Why?”

“Well,” you said matter-of-factly, stepping closer, “you’re now a witness to my crimes. The only way to guarantee your loyalty is to make you an accomplice.”

Before he could object, you grabbed his arm and started dragging him toward the door.

“Wait—!” His boots stuttered across the floor as he tried to keep up, surprise written all over his face. “W-wait! Don’t I get a choice in this?”

“Nope,” you chirped. “It’s called peer pressure. You’ll get used to it.”

He stumbled after you, clearly torn between protesting and laughing. “Wouldn’t we get in trouble?”

You snickered as the two of you made it outside. The cold air hit your cheeks, and the snow crunched satisfyingly beneath your boots. “Mmm, fifty-fifty shot. Depends on who’s awake. Are you a wuss?”

“What? No! It’s just—”

“You can’t be a wuss at this camp, you know that, right?” you teased. “You’d get chewed alive. That’s, like, rule number three.”

“I’m not a wuss,” he said quickly, puffing out his chest a little. “I just don’t want to get my sister in trouble…”

“Aha—” You suddenly stopped, throwing your arms wide. “And here we are!”

You turned to gesture at the snow-covered field like you were unveiling a grand stage. The boy gave you a bewildered look, still catching his breath.

“Time to train for camp survival,” you said with a wicked grin. “Lesson one: aim for the face.”

You crouched down, scooping up a pile of snow and shoving it into the boy’s arms without warning. “I’m [Name], by the way,” you said, grinning as he scrambled to hold the mess.

He startled, but caught it, if a little awkwardly—snow spilling from the edges of his arms. ““N-Nico. My name’s Nico

Nico…Definitely haven’t heard that name around here before, you thought.

“So,” you said casually, “where’d you come from? I heard the Hunters of Artemis rolled in last night, but,” you glanced at him. “You’re a boy…I thought those were forbidden.”

Nico’s face lit up with his usual curiosity, but the moment the word Hunters left your mouth, everything shifted.

His posture stiffened. His smile faded.

“We… bumped into them,” he said, voice lower now, the spark in his tone dimming.

“We?” you echoed, remembering what he’d said earlier. “You mean you and your sister?”

He nodded, gaze falling to the half-formed snowball in his hands.

“Yeah. But I don’t know whose sister she really is now—mine or theirs.”

You blinked, taken aback by the sharpness in his voice.

“What happened?” you asked, softer now.

“The Hunters happened,” he said flatly. “They filled her head with all this… ‘greater purpose’ stuff. Told her she was meant for something bigger, something noble. Like family didn’t count anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, genuinely.

Nico didn’t answer, just stared down at the snow, his fingers clenched so tightly the ball started to crumble.

“But,” you added, nudging him with your elbow, “she clearly made a dumb choice. No offense. I mean, come on—who trades snowball fights for silver bows and eternal grumpiness?”

That got a snort from him. A short, reluctant laugh.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Seriously.”

“Besides,” you grinned, holding up your perfect snowball, “we’ve got better weapons than arrows. These bad boys come with betrayal and brain freeze.”

He gave you a sideways glance, and that familiar spark returned to his eyes—the kind of mischief you’re slowly becoming accustomed to.

“Stick with me, Nico,” you said, slinging an arm around his shoulders as the two of you made your way across the field. “We’ll make a delinquent out of you yet.”

“Not sure if that’s a promise or a threat,” he muttered—then added with a smile, “but either way, it sounds like a good time.”

You grinned wider. “That’s the spirit.”

You eased open the door to Cabin Eleven, much slower this time, careful to avoid the telltale creak from before. The hinges groaned the tiniest bit, but you winced and froze—nothing stirred. Success.

Travis was still fast asleep, limbs tangled in his blanket. Across the cabin, Nico hovered silently over Connor’s bunk, snowball cradled in his hands. You crept closer to Travis’s bed and leaned toward Nico, your voice barely above a whisper. “On the count of three, okay?”

He gave a subtle nod, a growing anticipation lighting the dark of his eyes. You bit back a snicker.

“One…” you began under your breath, heart pounding with anticipation.

“Two…”

You glanced over at Nico. His arms were raised high. That small, no-good smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. For a moment, you just watched him—this kid stepped into chaos like it was second nature. He would do just fine here.

“Three!!”

Your snowball struck Travis square in the chest the same moment Nico’s exploded across Connor’s face. A chorus of groans followed, laced with colorful swearing as the brothers lurched upright in their beds.

“RUN!” you shouted through your laughter, grabbing Nico’s wrist as the two of you bolted out of the cabin.

“WHAT THE—?!”

“WHO—HEY!!”

“YOU SNOOZE YOU LOSE, SUCKERS!” You yelled.

The cabin erupted with groans and half-asleep cursing as the Stoll brothers flailed in their blankets, but the only thing that mattered was the sound of your feet running through the snow—and the breathless laughter you and Nico shared as you ran.

By the time you reached the edge of the woods, you were both wheezing and red-faced from giggling. You pointed to the thick tree line ahead. “Let’s hide in there until breakfast.”

Nico hesitated, glancing at the looming trees. “Isn’t it dangerous in there?”

You grinned. “Probably!”

“Then… we probably shouldn’t go in.”

You turned to face him, walking backward with a smug smile. “Then why are you still following me?”

“I—I was trying to be mature!” he said, voice pitched. His eyes met yours again, and there it was—that glint, bright and sharp, matching your own.

“Okay, you know what—shut up,” he muttered, but his smile was wide.

You laughed, tossing your head back before spinning to face forward again. Together, you slipped into the trees, sticking to the shadows just beyond the clearing. You led him to a tall pine nestled against a rocky slope—not too far from camp, but just deep enough that no one would bother looking.

Tapping the rough bark beside you, you turned to Nico with a crooked grin. “So… can you climb?”

He gave you a side-eyed look, then followed your gaze up the pine tree. “You want to go up there?”

You shrugged casually. “Why not? Better view, fewer witnesses.”

He glanced back at the tree again, sizing it up. His brows lifted slightly, like he wasn’t totally convinced this was a good idea, but something about your tone—or maybe your grin—made him relent.

“Yeah,” he said with a quiet exhale. “I can climb.”

The two of you made short work of it. The tree had plenty of knots and low-hanging branches, and the bark was dry enough to keep a grip.

You moved first, navigating upward with the ease of someone who’d probably done this dozens of times. Nico followed a little more cautiously, but not clumsily. His movements were thoughtful—efficient.

You found a branch wide and solid enough for the both of you to sit side by side, your legs dangling into the open air below. The moment you settled in, you exhaled deeply, gazing out through the snow-covered branches.

From here, the whole camp stretched out before you like a storybook illustration—the cabins, the Big House, the arena in the distance, all dusted in a soft layer of white.

The air was cold and sharp in your lungs, and your cheeks tingled from the wind, but you didn’t mind. Beside you, Nico sat perfectly still, his eyes scanning the landscape in quiet awe.

“This is…” he murmured, trailing off.

You turned to look at him. The red in his cheeks wasn’t just from the cold anymore. His eyes, wide and thoughtful, reflected the sky in that moment—soft and gray but full of unspoken things.

“Cool, right?” you said gently.

He nodded, lips parting just slightly as he breathed it in. “Yeah.”

You grinned and started swinging your feet idly, then reached out and scooped a bit of fresh snow that had piled up on a thick pine leaf above you. It clung together perfectly in your hand. You nudged him.

He turned toward you, expecting something maybe a little sentimental.

Instead, you tossed the snow directly in his face.

He flinched back with a surprised grunt, blinking as flecks of snow clung to his lashes. For a second, he just stared at you in stunned betrayal.

“Hey!” he spluttered, brushing cold slush off his nose. “I thought we were partners! You’ve betrayed the alliance!”

You couldn’t stop laughing. You doubled over on the branch, clutching your sides as your shoulders shook.

“I’m sorry!” you gasped between giggles. “It was too perfect.”

Nico crossed his arms in an exaggerated pout, but the corners of his mouth twitched almost immediately. He didn’t even last a full second before cracking a grin. His attempt at a glare crumbled as your laughter set him off, and he burst out laughing too.

Not as loud, but just as full—quick and bright. It spilled out of him with ease, and it was impossible not to laugh harder right along with him.

Eventually, you wiped a tear from your eye and leaned back against the trunk, still catching your breath.

“I’m watching my back now,” he said, still smiling.

“You should,” you replied, grinning over at him. “War changes people.”

“You threw snow in my face. That’s not war; that’s just an abuse of power.”

You nudged his boot playfully with yours. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Frosty.”

And to your delight, he laughed again.

Once the laughter faded and the last wisps of your breath curled into the cold air, a quiet calm settled between you. The kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward or heavy—just easy.

You both sat still for a while, watching snowflakes drift lazily down, the kind that didn’t seem in any rush to land.

Eventually, curiosity tugged at you again.

You turned slightly, resting your cheek against the bark behind you as you glanced over at him.

“Hey, Nico,” you said, your voice softer now. “How did you end up here, anyway? With the Hunters and all that, I mean.”

He sighed, “It’s a long story.”

“We’re runaway fugitives.” You joked before nodding reassuringly. “We have all the time in the world.”

Nico hesitated, picking at the rough bark beneath his fingers. His dark eyes flicked to the ground, then briefly toward the trees like he was searching for the right words there.

“My sister and I… we were at this school. Westover Hall. It was awful. Old building, creepy teachers. We didn’t really fit in. But then monsters started showing up—actual monsters. Like, a manticore.”

Your eyebrows rose. “A manti what?”

He huffed a laugh, finally glancing at you.

“A manticore. It’s got the body of a lion, a human face, and this crazy scorpion tail. Spikes that shoot out like darts.” His eyes lit up for a moment, voice gaining momentum. “Honestly? It was kind of awesome. In a horrifying, ‘wants-to-eat-you’ sort of way. I’d only heard about them before, but seeing one? That was… pretty amazing.”

You tilted your head. “It wasn’t terrifying at all?”

“Oh, totally. But still—kind of cool.”

His smile faded slowly, and his fingers stilled against the bark. “It attacked us. Right there at the school. And these demigods—Percy, Thalia, and a girl named Annabeth—they showed up to help. Tried to get us out. There was this huge fight on a cliffside during a snowstorm. It was insane. And then…” He paused, swallowing hard. “Annabeth jumped. Off the cliff.”

That made you blink, startled. “Why would she jump off a cliff?”

“That’s what I said! She jumped! Like , full-on, no hesitation, right off the edge,” he said, throwing his arms out. “I thought she was crazy.”

You bit back a laugh. “So what happened?”

He went quiet for a moment, his jaw clenching. “That’s when everything changed. Artemis left her lieutenant, Zoë in charge, and the Hunters took us in. They told Bianca… they said she had a choice. That she could join them. Leave everything behind.”

He finally looked at you, and his voice was tight. “She said yes. Just like that. She promised she’d always be there for me, and then she chose them.”

You were quiet for a moment, trying to imagine how that must’ve felt. How small he must’ve felt. 

You leaned back against the tree, letting the cold bite at your skin for a second before saying, “That’s seriously messed up. I’m sorry, Nico.”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but the scowl on his face betrayed him. “She said it was for me. That she couldn’t take care of me anymore. That I’d be safer here.”

You watched him for a second longer before swinging your legs.

“Well,” you said slowly, “for what it’s worth, I think you’re better off here. With me.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. 

“Yeah,” he said. “You might be right.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “Of course I’m right. I’m always right. Ask anyone.”

He huffed, but the scowl was gone.

“What about you?” he asked, glancing sideways. “How did you end up here?”

“Oh, I was kidnapped by one of my instructors,” you said breezily.

Nico blinked. “What?”

You leaned back against the tree, eyes drifting upward, reminiscing. “Yeah. My mom’s always been super paranoid about public schools. I figured she was just a little... y’know, eccentric? I mean, I turned out fine, so clearly she wasn’t completely wrong.”

Nico raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting you continue.

“Anyway, I was homeschooled. Every subject. Even gym. Which meant I had a rotating cast of tutors coming through the house all the time. One day, I’m sitting in our dance room, waiting for my Zumba class to start—don’t judge—when my ‘instructor’ walks in. This guy? Couldn’t salsa to save his life. I ended up teaching him half the steps. He had all the grace of a soggy sandwich.”

Nico snorted. “Okay, and then?”

“Then,” you said, holding up a finger, “a freaking drakon crashes through the mirror wall, like something out of a tacky horror film. My Zumba teacher starts screaming and rips off his sweatpants—he had hooves, Nico. Hooves. Turns out he was a satyr the whole time. The two left feet? Suddenly made sense. But my flabbers? Completely ghasted.”

You earned a full, hearty laugh from him.  

You grinned at the sound. “So yeah. Turns out my mom wasn’t paranoid, just well-informed. The satyr was supposed to bring me to camp earlier, but the monsters beat him to it. Honestly, I still don’t know if I should feel betrayed or impressed.”

Nico chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Only you could turn a monster attack into a comedy routine.”

You sighed happily. “It’s a talent.”

“Well,” he said, a little more relaxed now, “your satyr sounds more useful than mine was. Ours froze and nearly got us both killed.”

You tilted your head. “Hm. Maybe we should form a support group. 'Demigods With Useless Chaperones.'”

Nico smiled, and leaned back against the trunk. “You might be onto something. Are you a child of Hermes?”

“Gods, no!” you blurted, face twisting in. “Don’t you ever make that assumption again. Me? Related to the likes of Connor and Travis? I’d rather be claimed by a pothole. Not even in my next life—not ever!”

You crossed your arms.“For your information, my father is Anteros.”

He blinked. “Eros?”

“No.” You shook your head, correcting him. “Anteros. Brother of Eros. God of requited love.”

Nico tilted his head, eyebrows rising.  “That’s… oddly specific.”

“I prefer niche,” you corrected with a grin. “God of mutual affection, unspoken feelings returned, avenger of unrequited love. All that gooey stuff.”

“That’s why the hunters bother you so much?” Nico guessed.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah… there’s a lot when it comes to love. It’s more than just romance, you know? It’s loyalty. Sacrifice. Friendship. Family.” You glanced down at your hands, brushing a bit of snow off your sleeve. “If love really meant nothing like they say—if it was just weakness—then why are they so ready to die for each other? Why risk everything for people if not because they love them. That is my father’s doing.”

Nico didn’t say anything at first, but his eyes softened. You could see something turning over in his head. 

“My father only exists because Eros was wreaking havoc on Olympus as an eternal toddler,” you said with a snort. “Total menace. Aphrodite couldn’t control him, and eventually Zeus got sick of the chaos and ordered her to figure something out. The solution?”

You paused, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “She was told to give him a playmate. Someone who could return the love he threw at everyone. So she created Anteros.”

You looked out over the trees, your voice softening. “Eros finally started growing up after that. Because love, real love... it can’t just be given. It has to be returned to mean anything at all. Eros is the spark, but Anteros is the reason the love stays alive.”

Nico sat with your words for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

“...That makes sense,” he murmured. His eyes drifted back out over the campgrounds, watching the soft flurries fall over the roofs of the cabins. “I don’t really know much about love and all that. My Eros attack card never did much damage anyway.”

“Attack card…?” You echoed, confused.

Immediately, his whole face lit up, brighter than you’d seen it all morning.

“Mythomagic,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s this card game—kind of like monster trading cards, but based on the gods and mythological creatures. Each card has stats, lore, battle points. I used to play it all the time before I got here.”

He was sitting forward now, excitedly. “Eros has this really cool design, long red cape, golden bow, the whole thing, but his battle rating isn’t that strong unless you pair him with certain cards. Like Psyche, or if you boost him with an Ambrosia card. But even then, he’s more of a support type than offense.”

You blinked, stunned at the sudden info dump, but you couldn’t help the smile creeping onto your face. “You’re kind of a dork.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah, well… Mythomagic is awesome. The cards are really detailed, and it helped me learn a lot about the gods, actually. Like, before I knew what any of this meant for real.”

You watched him, the way his eyes sparked with genuine passion, and you felt something shift between you. 

The beginnings of a great friendship.

“I’d love to see your deck sometime,” you said.

He glanced at you, then looked away quickly, ears turning just a little pink.

“Maybe I’ll show you,” he mumbled. “If you’re lucky.”

You grinned, pouncing on the opening. “Oh, so now we’re trading secrets?” you said, nudging his arm. “Great, we’re best friends already!”

Nico blinked at you, stunned. “We are…?”

You gave him a look of offense. “Uh, obviously. You conspired in a snowball ambush with me. That’s basically a sacred oath.”

The thrill of it all, the tree, the cold, the prank, him, hit you all at once. Before you could think better of it, you flung yourself at him in a burst of joy, throwing your arms around his shoulders in a tight hug.

“Whoa—!” was all Nico managed before gravity reminded you both of its existence.

The two of you toppled right off the branch.

There was a thud, a pair of overlapping groans, and an explosion of snow as you crashed into the ground below. The powdery layer softened the blow, but not enough to spare your dignity, or your backs.

You lay there for a second, blinking up at the gray sky, snowflakes melting against your cheeks. Nico groaned beside you.

“Okay,” you wheezed, “maybe not my smoothest moment.”

You rolled over, wincing, and pushed yourself to your feet. After brushing snow from your jacket and shaking out your hair, you turned and extended a hand to Nico, who was still lying there like he was reassessing his life choices.

He squinted up at you. “I think you broke my ribs.”

“You’re fine,” you teased. “Don’t be dramatic; that’s my job.”

He huffed, but the corners of his mouth twitched as he took your hand. You hauled him up, both of you still dusted in white. He swayed slightly once on his feet, then looked at you with a crooked smile.

“You’re definitely a force to be reckoned with,” he said.

“And you are officially stuck with me now,” you shot back, nudging him with your shoulder.

His smile widened, and a little surprised flickered in his eyes. He didn’t say anything right away, but he didn’t let go of your hand either.

You swore your cheeks were going to be sore from how much you'd laughed that morning. Camp hadn’t felt this fun in weeks, maybe months.

With most campers gone for the winter, it had been quiet, kind of boring, and honestly, a little lonely.

You could keep yourself entertained just fine, and sure, you could talk to anyone. You always had a way of filling silence, starting conversations, making people laugh when you needed to.

But the truth was, most of the campers who stuck around this late in the year were older. You could keep up with them in a conversation, yeah, but it never felt like you belonged in it. Only like you were just visiting their world.

But Nico? Nico was different. He felt like someone your age. He was someone your age.

Well, probably. You actually... didn’t know.

“Nico,” you started, glancing over at him. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Ten,” he said easily. “You?”

Your eyes lit up. “No way—me too! That’s perfect! Oh, this is definitely fate!”

You were about to launch into more excitement when a low rumble cut through the air. It took a second to register before you blinked and turned to Nico, eyebrows raised.

“Wait… was that your stomach?”

His eyes widened a bit before he pressed a hand over his midsection, rocking from foot to foot. “Yeah. I guess I’m hungry.”

The blush that had lightly dusted his cheeks earlier was now a full-on cherry red. You couldn’t help but giggle.

You gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Breakfast should be starting soon.”

He nodded, and to your surprise, his hand found yours again. This time without hesitation. A simple, steady warmth between your palms as he guided you out of the woods.

The snow continued to fall gently as the two of you walked side by side toward the dining pavilion. Unlike earlier, when everything was blanketed in sleepy stillness, the camp had begun to stir.

Doors creaked open. Campers emerged in jackets and scarves. Laughter echoed through the cold air as conversation bubbled up all around.

You and Nico slipped into the pavilion, weaving through the scattering of demigods already finding their seats.

Nico led you over to the Hermes table. It was still empty, which made you breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

Most days, it was packed shoulder to shoulder, elbow to the ribs waiting to happen.

If you got stuck at the end, you were basically hanging off the bench, and the last time that happened, you’d walked away with a bruise that took a week to fade.

You slid onto the bench beside him, grateful for the space while it lasted.

“See?” you said, bumping your knee gently against his. “Perfect timing.”

Nico smirked. “Guess we’re good at that.”

He looked around the pavilion, scanning every other table before turning to you. “Are you always up before breakfast?”

You shrugged, fingers playing with the fabric stretched across the table. “Sometimes.”

He watched your hand idly twisting the cloth before reaching out to hook his arm around yours. His touch was becoming familiar. “So what do you usually do until then?”

“Nothing really.” You shrugged again. “Sometimes I play cards with Mr. D if he’s not in one of his moods, or I’ll mess around with the nymphs. Once I tried to start a snowball war with Chiron but he called it ‘juvenile nonsense.’”

A gust of wind blew through, and instinctively you scooted closer to Nico. 

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “So what I’m hearing is… you’d be bored without me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, pretending to consider. “Hmm. That is what it sounds like, huh?”

He nodded matter-of-factly. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Well,” you said, nudging him. “Now that you’re here, guess I don’t have to be bored anymore.”

He smiled, a little shy but proud of himself, and gave your arm a playful squeeze. “Good. Because I was planning to make your mornings way more interesting.”

Before you could reply, something heavy and blunt smacked you on the back of the head.

“OW—!” You fell forward, grabbing your skull as a sharp pain pulsed through it. “Are you kidding me?!”

Behind you, obnoxious laughter rang out.

Nico’s eyes widened, and he immediately started biting back a laugh. The Stoll brothers, of course, stood behind your bench looking far too pleased with themselves.

Travis slid onto the bench across from you, grinning like a child. “Morning, sunshine! Little jumpy, are we?”

You groaned, rubbing the back of your head. “You could’ve given me brain damage!”

Connor leaned over and peered at you. “But you’re okay, right?”

You turned your body away from them and crossed your arms, pouting. “I swear, I’m going to find a way to get you both back. You won’t see it coming.”

“Oh, come on,” Travis said, chuckling as he propped his chin in his hand. “This is just karma. You and your little sidekick declared war this morning.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Nico said quickly, hands raised. “I was recruited by force.”

You shot him a look. “Coward.”

He leaned toward you and grinned. “I’m choosing my alliances wisely.”

You were ready to hurl more dramatic accusations of betrayal, when the distant hum of footsteps began to swell. 

Your words trailed off as your attention shifted to the group approaching from the direction of the cabins, specifically, Cabin 8.

The Hunters.

You straightened slightly, eyes narrowing as they came into view. Even from a distance, they radiated quiet dominance. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if they could take down a hellhound without breaking stride, or just as easily flatten you for looking at them wrong.

They moved like a unit, synchronized and silent, with piercing gazes and zero patience. Intimidating? Absolutely. But you didn’t flinch.

Not after what Silena told you.

Still, your eyes lingered a little too long. Their expressions were unreadable, some bored, others vaguely annoyed. Not exactly the warmest crowd.

You didn’t blame them, but it didn’t make them any less unnerving.

Behind you, Nico leaned in just a little, his voice bitter.

“Who do you think they’re gonna brainwash next?”

“Hopefully not me,” you muttered. “I like my brain just the way it is.”

The sound of plates clinking and chairs scraping across stone picked up as more campers filed into the pavilion, their voices bouncing off the marble columns.

The morning chill was beginning to lift, golden sunlight stretching longer across the table.

You were about to nudge Nico again. maybe tease him a little, get him to loosen up, when movement from the Artemis table caught your eye.

A girl with tousled dark hair had broken formation.

She stood a little apart from the other Hunters, tray in hand, scanning the tables.

Her silver jacket glinted faintly in the light, and she looked… unsure, for just a moment. Like she wasn’t quite sure if she was allowed to smile.

Then her eyes found you, or rather, Nico.

Her expression softened, her mouth curling into a small, cautious smile.

She lifted her hand in a wave. Hesitant. Hopeful.

You didn’t even have time to turn toward Nico before he sighed sharply through his nose and looked away.

His eyes dropped to his plate, jaw tense. “Great,” he muttered. “Here we go.”

You blinked, surprised. “That was your sister, right?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just picked up his fork and stabbed at nothing on his plate.

“She waved,” you offered gently, trying to read his face. “She looked… I don’t know. Like she wanted to say something.”

“She shouldn’t have to say anything,” Nico said flatly. “She made her choice.”

The words hit harder than you expected, not because of what he said, but how he said it.

Like the conversation had been had a thousand times in his head already, and every time, it ended the same.

You watched Bianca out of the corner of your eye. She hesitated for another heartbeat longer, hand still slightly raised, as if waiting for him to look up.

When he didn’t, she lowered it quietly and turned back to her table.

You frowned slightly and glanced at Nico, but his eyes were glued to the table. You debated on saying something, but you were quickly distracted by the smell of fresh food reaching your nose, warm and comforting. 

Crispy bacon, buttered toast, warm syrup over thick waffles, and a glass of orange juice to the side. 

As if by magic (well, literally magic), a plate was placed neatly in front of you.

Around the pavilion, the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of morning chatter took over.

Campers dug into their food like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. You leaned over your plate and picked at a waffle piece, popping it into your mouth and chewing contentedly

Nico, who was sitting quietly, fork in hand, eyes scanning the table like he still wasn’t quite used to being here. 

He picked at his food at first, small bites, slow chews, but eventually, hunger won out, and he started eating faster.

You leaned closer. “First real breakfast in a while?”

He nodded, mouth full. “It’s better than the school cafeteria.”

You snorted. “That’s not hard to bear.”

He gave a tiny laugh, then looked down at his plate again. In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Percy sitting at table three. Alone.

“Hey…” Nico said quietly, nudging you with his elbow. “Why’s Percy all by himself?”

You looked up from your food, still chewing, and followed Nico’s gaze. You didn’t know Percy well—not really.

You’d only been at camp for about four months, and in that time, you’d spoken to him maybe twice. He wasn’t rude or anything, just... distant. 

A little too busy, a little too important.

People talked about him like he was some kind of half-blood celebrity. The forbidden kid who retrieved Zeus’s lightning bolt and successfully navigated the Sea of Monsters.

There were stories, sure. But you hadn’t lived them. You weren’t part of that circle. To you, he was more myth than reality.

Still, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

His crush had gotten kidnapped.

And yeah, maybe “crush” was putting it lightly. You didn’t need to be the child of a love god to catch the way he looked at Annabeth, like she hung the stars, like every breath he took depended on whether she was around to see it. 

He hadn’t said it outright, but gods, it was so blatantly obvious it hurt to watch.

So yeah, Percy looked miserable. And who could blame him?

But it wasn’t really your business. You weren’t close. You didn’t have much of an opinion about him at all. 

He was just one of those people you knew that existed in the same space.

You swallowed your bite and leaned in a bit, lowering your voice.

“He’s a child of Poseidon,” you explained. “There aren’t any others. He’s the only one in that cabin.”

Nico frowned. “Why? There are so many of you at the Hermes table.”

You sighed, glancing around to make sure no one was really listening. “Because he wasn’t supposed to exist. A long time ago, after the Second World War, the Big Three—Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades—made a pact. They agreed not to have any more kids with mortals. Their children were too powerful, too dangerous. It caused too much chaos. They all swore an oath.”

Nico’s brow furrowed. “But Poseidon broke it.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “And so did Zeus, technically. That’s how Thalia was born. But Percy was the one they couldn’t ignore. He’s the reason so many monsters are after him. He’s literally not supposed to exist.”

Nico turned back toward Percy, watching him quietly. There was a subtle shift in his expression, like understanding… or maybe sympathy.

“That’s got to be really lonely,” he said after a moment, his voice lower. “Having a whole cabin to yourself. Knowing your dad broke a promise just by having you. That everyone’s kind of waiting to see if you mess up.”

You didn’t say anything, letting him sit with the thought.

“But still…” Nico added, almost to himself. “He’s so cool. He doesn’t even act like it bothers him. He saved us, you know? Me and Bianca. He was scared too, I could tell, but he never let it stop him. He just… kept going.”

There was a melancholy in his voice, like he couldn’t decide if he admired Percy or pitied him more.

A thought suddenly crossed your mind, making you pause mid-bite. 

How had you not noticed Nico wasn’t claimed? 

With everything going on, the snowball fight, the tree climbing, the breakfast ambush, you hadn’t even thought to ask.

Ironically, you just sort of assumed he was a son of Hermes, probably ecause of how quickly he jumped in to help you get back at the Stolls.

“Nico,” you started, curiously. “You're not claimed yet…are you?”

He blinked, and looked down at his plate, poking at a piece of toast. “No. Not yet.”

There wasn’t any bitterness in his voice, but there was a quiet weight to it. The question had most likely been on his mind too.

You leaned in slightly, resting your elbow on the table. “Huh. I just figured you were already claimed. You’ve got the whole misfit vibe.”

Nico huffed a small laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” you grinned. “You pulled off a successful prank on the Stolls your first day here. That’s legacy material.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t think I belong to any of them,” he said quietly.

You frowned, the lighthearted air fading just a bit. “Do you want to be claimed?”

Nico shrugged. “I guess. I mean, everyone talks about how things make more sense once you know who your godly parent is, right? Like… why you are the way you are. I just… don’t know what that would even look like for me.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that. It’s like… having an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful. “Exactly.”

For a moment, the two of you just sat there in the low hum of breakfast chatter. Then, in typical Nico fashion, he shifted gears without warning.

“Whoever it is, I hope they don’t like group hugs or, like, interpretive dance.”

You laughed, relieved at the return of his humor. “Well, that rules out Dionysus. Definitely not a theater kid.”

“Thank the gods,” Nico muttered.

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Hey, whoever claims you? They’d better know how lucky they are.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a second, his eyes shone softly. “Thanks,” he said quietly before adding, “I hope it’s not Demeter, either.”

“What’s wrong with Demeter?”

“I don’t have the best luck with plants.”

“That makes sense. Plants are not my thing either—”

Plants.

The word hit you like a lightning bolt.

You totally forgot about the flower.

You shot up from your seat so quickly that Nico flinched, nearly toppling over.

“I’ll be back!” you called over your shoulder, already sprinting toward the cabins. “Meet me at the arena!”

Nico blinked after you, looking uncertain, but gave a small nod.

You bolted across the camp, the cold air stinging your cheeks as you ran.

Reaching the Hermes cabin, you pushed the door open, stumbling slightly as you entered.

Inside, the cabin was quiet.

You rushed to your bunk, yanking the sheets aside.

Relief flooded you when you saw the flower, still safely encased in its dome, resting on your pillow.

You picked it up gently, holding it close.

“It’s my first day, and I’m already doing an awful job,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the glass.

Failing your dad on day one? Yeah, not exactly a glowing start to your half-blood resume.

You imagined him frowning from Mount Olympus, a disappointed sigh escaping his lips, his divine hand rising in judgment. 

Boom—frog. 

No trial, no defense. Just one flash of godly irritation and you'd be ribbiting away in some marsh behind Cabin Four.

…Unless a cute son of Ares happened by. Broke the curse with a kiss.

Then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

You tilted your head, considering your reflection in the smudged mirror hanging next to your bunk.

“I’d make a cute frog,” you said aloud, holding the flower dome up beside your face for comparison. “Green’s not really my color, but I could pull it off. Add a little charm, maybe a bowtie…”

The flower, still vibrant in its glass sanctuary, blinked at you, or that could’ve just been your tired eyes. Either

 way, you knew it wouldn’t stay that way forever.

You needed a better setup. Something more… planty. And sustainable. Something that didn’t scream, “My guardian left me in a pillow fort and forgot to water me.”

You sighed and cradled the dome. “Okay, okay. Time to be serious.”

You stepped outside, greeted by the cold once more. 

The wind carried tiny flurries across camp, brushing against the bare trees and dusting the pathways with a fresh layer of snow that you ruined as you hurried toward the Demeter cabin.

Thankfully, the chill had kept most of the greenery at bay. 

Normally their cabin’s exterior looked like a jungle. Good for ambiance. Bad for your sinuses.

You reached the polished wooden door and knocked three times. A beat passed. Then another. You leaned toward the frosted window, cupping your hands around your face to peek in.

Inside, you spotted Katie Gardner crouched beside a cluster of potted herbs, whispering. 

Her hands moved delicately as she adjusted a vine with the gentleness of someone tucking a child into bed.

You wondered if she was complaining to the fern about Connor again. 

“Photosynthesize faster or I swear I’ll strangle that boy with your vines,” you imagined her saying. You’d support it. Honestly, she should’ve done it weeks ago.

The door slammed open so suddenly you jolted back. A blur of motion shoved past you. Billie, face flushed with rage, storming through the snow like a wrathful spirit.

“Move!” she snapped, shoulder-checking you without even a glance.

“Rude—hey!” you started, but she was already halfway to the Apollo cabin. Behind her trailed Miranda, breath puffing in the cold, frantically whispering, “Billie, wait! It was just a clipping! You said you’d share your thyme this week—”

You were left sprawled in the snow, stunned. The glass dome had stayed intact, thank the gods, but your pride had definitely cracked on impact.

You let your head fall back with a sigh, snow crunching beneath you.

“That’s it,” you muttered. “The universe has it out for me. This is the fourth time I’ve been attacked today. I should be in a coma.”

Snowflakes drifted into your mouth as you groaned and wallowed.

A moment later, the cabin door creaked again.

“[Name]?” Katie’s voice called out, light and curious. She stepped into view, saw your snow-covered form on the ground, and blinked. “Are you... are you okay?”

You lifted a hand weakly in the air, still sprawled. “Define okay.”

Katie tiptoed closer, nudging your shoulder with her boot. “Did Billie run you over?”

“She did,” you said, your voice muffled by the snow. “Add her to the list of people who’ve tried to kill me.”

Katie snorted and knelt down beside you, helping you sit up. “One of the Apollo kids cut one of her rose stalks to use in a healing salve. She hasn’t calmed down since breakfast.”

“Of course it was Apollo,” you mumbled, wiping melting snow from your face. Your cheeks were numb, your lips chapped, and now your knees were soaked through your jeans.

Katie snorted as she led you into Cabin 4, draping a soft, herb-scented blanket over your shoulders. The warmth seeped through your jacket almost instantly.

“There,” she said, smoothing the blanket over your shoulders. “Now you look slightly less like roadkill.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mumbled, clutching the blanket tighter, even as your nose scrunched from the smell of pine and soil. 

It was warm and comforting. So was she, in her own stubborn way.

Katie raised an eyebrow. “You tripped over snow, you knocked on my cabin like the world was ending, and you were crying into the ground. So either someone insulted your outfit, or you need something.”

You hesitated before pulling the glass dome out from under your jacket. 

“I need a favor,” you said softly. “And no questions.”

Katie’s eyes flicked down to the flower, and the teasing in her expression vanished instantly. Her hands came up, gentle but firm. 

“Give it here,” she said. “Let me see.”

You handed it over, biting your lip. “It’s really important. Like... top-secret-magic-important.”

She examined the dome carefully, fingers moving slowly around its base. “Looks like it’s been blessed already. There’s enchantment residue. It’s not just magical, it’s... tied to you.”

Your heart thudded. She had a way with her intuition.

Katie glanced up at you, the way a sister does when she already knows you’ve gotten yourself into something. “You didn’t steal this, right?”

“No!” you gasped. “I’m not that irresponsible.”

Katie huffed a short laugh, but her eyes softened as she turned the dome over in her hands. “You’re lucky you brought this to me when you did. Another day or two in this thing and it would've started wilting. It’s not built for long-term preservation.”

That made you pause. Her words tugged at something unsettled in your chest.

The dome had been a gift, directly from your father. A divine blessing, wrapped in clear glass and bad instructions.

If your whole quest was to protect the flower… Why would he give you something that couldn’t even do that?

You frowned. “But this came from my dad,” you said, more to yourself than to Katie. “Why would he give me something that… doesn’t work?”

Katie didn’t answer right away. She just looked at you, her face more serious than usual.

“Gods don’t always make sense, [Name]. Even the good ones.” She hesitated, then handed the dome back gently. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be permanent. Maybe he wanted you to figure things out on your own.”

You clutched the flower closer, heart tightening a little. That didn’t feel like a comforting answer, but it did feel like the truth. 

If that was the case, you would have to be extremely careful here on out.

Katie turned and walked toward the far side of the cabin, where the scent of rosemary and mint hung heavier in the air.

You trailed behind her like a little duck, watching as she opened a chest tucked under a stack of gardening manuals and carefully pulled out what looked like another dome. 

But smaller, lighter, with a chain attached.

You blinked. “Uh, Katie? I already have a dome.”

She gave you a look that said, You sweet idiot, and gently plucked the flower from its current casing. “This one is portable. It’s spell-locked. Only you can open it. And the charm inside will keep the soil fresh and the flower fed. It’ll last ten times longer, and it won’t shatter if you inevitably trip again.”

Katie carefully transferred the budding flower into the other dome, her hands steady. 

Once it was nestled safely, she turned back to you and clipped the chain around your neck, the pendant sitting just over your heart.

“You don’t have to wear it all the time,” she said softly. “But if you’re going to keep running around camp like a lunatic, it’s safer this way.”

You smiled, chest already lighter. “Thanks, Katie.” Before she could reply, you threw your arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

Katie let out a small, exasperated laugh as she hugged you back. “Try not to die today, okay? I just fixed you.”

“I’m trying my best!” You called over your shoulder as you bolted for the door, your feet already pounding across the wooden floor of cabin 4.

“[Name]” She shouted after you, her voice laced with fond irritation. “If you break that flower or that necklace, I swear—”

You were already too far gone to hear her, running straight for the arena.

Your breath was visible in the crisp morning air as you scanned the wide stone steps and training circles. A flicker of worry tickled your chest. 

What if Nico had decided you were too much and bailed?

But there he was.

Perched on the lowest step, knees tucked close to his chest, Nico was frozen like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time.

His eyes were locked on the ongoing sparring lesson, completely absorbed. 

A daughter of Ares swung a sword that could’ve cleaved through a car, and the boy she was sparring with barely dodged in time, stumbling with a yelp. 

Nico didn’t blink.

You practically skipped over to him and pulled him into a tight hug. “I’m backkkk!”

Nico blinked up at you, wide-eyed. “Where’d you wun awf to,” he mumbled, voice muffled under the force of your enthusiasm.

“Why do you sound like that?” you asked, tilting your head.

“You’re squishing my hwead,”

You gasped and immediately let go, patting his cheeks like that would somehow fix it. “Oh no—sorry! You okay?”

He rubbed his jaw and gave a little shrug. “It’s fine. Where’d you run off to?”

You pressed a finger to your lips. “Classified. Top secret. I’ll tell you someday. Maybe.”

He gave you a flat look. “Don’t best friends tell each other everything?”

“Nico!” you gasped. “We have to keep the mystery alive! How else are we supposed to keep this friendship exciting?”

Nico gave a small, crooked smile. He’d been developing a fondness towards your dramatics.

“Well, while you were off being mysterious,” he said, still smiling a little, “I went back to our cabin and grabbed these.” He pulled out a few tiny figurines and a worn deck of cards and held them out with a hint of hopefulness.

“They’re my Mythomagic cards and figures.” His voice softened just a little. “...If you’re still up for learning how to play.”

“Are you kidding?!” You gave Nico a light smack on the shoulder, eyes lighting up at the sight of the cards and figurines in his hands. “I’m so down! Teach me!”

Nico’s shoulders loosened like he’d been holding his breath and didn’t realize it. He looked relieved. 

And then, almost instantly, excited again, grinning like he couldn’t wait another second.

Before you knew it, the two of you were climbing up the stone seats of the arena, settling in side by side, knees bumping, as Nico laid everything out between you.

He started explaining the rules, half distracted by sorting his deck, and yet totally in his element.

Gods, he really loved this game.

It lit something up in him, something unmistakably bright. And it was kind of… awesome to see. Addicting, even.

His enthusiasm tugged you right in, made you want to lean closer, listen harder—not just because you wanted to win (though, let’s be clear, you did), but because it clearly mattered to him.

And okay, maybe the little figurines were kind of cool. The details were actually impressive, miniature swords, tiny swirling cloaks, little gold paint on armor. You could see why he liked them.

Nico was patient, but not in a boring way, he was quick to tease, smug when you made a bad move, but not mean about it.

Honestly, you picked it up fast. Faster than either of you expected.

Somewhere between your first awkward turn and your third rematch, the rest of the world sort of... disappeared.

The wind stirred through the empty arena, birds swooped lazily above the stone columns, and none of it touched you. 

You were cocooned in this tiny pocket of time, surrounded by laughter and the satisfying clack of cards on stone.

“This one’s Hecate,” he said at one point, holding up a sleek, violet-edged card. “She boosts magic attacks by five points, but only if you’ve got a minor god in play.”

You squinted. “So not Poseidon?”

“Definitely not Poseidon. She’s cheeky like that.”

You accused him of stalling. He claimed it was strategy. You groaned dramatically every time he beat you with Demeter. 

Seriously, how could the goddess of crops be that overpowered?

“She’s underrated,” he said, proud. “Respect the wheat.”

By the time you looked up, the sun had started to set and your legs had gone slightly numb from sitting on cold stone for so long. 

And yet, you couldn’t remember the last time a day had flown by so fast. So easily.

You were just about to place your next card, Hades, a perfect counter to Demeter, when a voice shattered the bubble of focus around you.

“Hey! Capture the Flag is starting soon!” Travis hollered from across the arena.

You froze, mid-move, your whole body instantly sagging with dread. Ugh. Of course. That stupid game again.

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to hit him with a “absolutely not,” complete with a tirade about how the game was overrated, exhausting, and essentially glorified tag.

But before you could get a word out, Nico turned back to Travis and shouted, “Capture the Flag in a magical camp? That sounds out of this world! Count me in!”

He looked at you with a face you couldn’t possibly say no to. “You’re playing too, right?”

You blinked. “Well… of course I am.” Your voice cracked and you coughed to cover it. “Ha ha. What kind of camper would I be if I didn’t partake in such a…fun, sacred tradition?”

Nico grinned. “Awesome!” He called back to Travis. “[Name]’s playing too!”

That made Travis pause mid-step. He tilted his head like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.

Approaching slowly, he asked, “I’m sorry—say that again. [Name] is playing?”

“Yeah?” Nico turned toward him, brows furrowed. “Why? Is he not allowed to or something?”

Travis scratched the back of his neck. “No, it’s just… he never does.”

Nico turned to you, puzzled. You could feel the weight of his questioning stare, and panic rose like a fire in your throat. 

There was no way you were going to look like a coward in front of your new best friend.

“Well, Travis,” you spat his name, shooting him a glare. “That’s because I’m so good at Capture the Flag, I figured I’d let everyone else have a chance.”

Travis raised a brow, ready to call you out, but you steamrolled right through.

“And since Nico’s new and this is his first game, I figured…” You shrugged. “I’d bless the field with my presence. Just this once.”

Nico looked delighted. Travis looked skeptical.

You? You were already seething at the thought of it.

“Well,” Travis muttered, “the Aphrodite cabin is playing tonight, so I guess it makes sense that you are too.”

That made you freeze. “Wait. The Aphrodite cabin is playing?” You blinked, stunned. “Am I dreaming?” Without warning, you reached over and pinched Travis hard on the arm.

“OW—what the—?!” he yelped, jumping back.

You ignored him entirely. “Wow. Not dreaming after all.” Your eyes narrowed. “Why is Cabin Ten playing?”

Still rubbing his arm, Travis frowned. “Silena’s got a bone to pick with the Hunters. Apparently, she’s sick of them acting like love is some tragic, world-ending flaw. So now it’s vengeance. Cabin Ten’s out for blood.”

Oh.

That changed everything.

A spark lit in your chest, hot and thrilling. You shot up from the stone seat. “The Hunters are playing? Why didn’t you lead with that?!”

Travis opened his mouth, probably to remind you that he literally tried to, but you’d already spun around to Nico.

“Come on, Nico,” you said, fire in your eyes. “Tonight, we prepare for war.”

Without hesitation, you let loose the most dramatic war cry you could muster.

“FOR CABIN TEN!” You bolted down the stone steps like a man on a mission, arms flailing like a half-blood banshee.

Nico blinked, stunned for a second before grinning. 

“FOR CABIN TEN!” he echoed, sprinting after you at full speed, Mythomagic cards flapping in his pockets.

That left Travis alone on the arena steps, watching the two of you disappear into the distance.

“…What just happened?” he muttered to no one, still rubbing his arm.

The woods buzzed with energy, twilight casting long shadows between the trees as campers shuffled into position.

You and Nico stood just beyond the treeline, half-dressed in borrowed armor that hung off your shoulders like it had been made for someone twice your size. Because, well—it had.

“Hold still,” you muttered, tugging at the straps of Nico’s chest plate. The thing kept slipping sideways.

“I am holding still,” Nico grumbled, wriggling in place as the shoulder pads drooped. “Maybe the armor’s just cursed.”

“Don’t joke about that,” you said quickly, giving the strap one last pull before stepping back to admire your (barely passable) handiwork.

Nico looked up at you, amused. “Yours is worse. You look like a turtle.”

You gave him a pointed look. “A very dangerous turtle.” You patted his shoulder. “Alright, help me—my shin guards are chewing my ankles alive.”

He snorted but crouched to help, and between the two of you spinning and fumbling around like you had no clue what you were doing, the armor eventually looked… functional. 

Not heroic, exactly, but passable.

“Okay. Focus up,” you said, straightening, your voice sharpening with sudden purpose. “This isn’t just a game. The Hunters don’t mess around. They’re fast, organized, and completely merciless. We can’t afford to slack off.”

Nico nodded immediately, his expression going serious as he absorbed your words.

“Got it. No mercy. No distractions.” His helmet promptly slipped down over his eyes, and he moved quickly to shove it back up again.

You folded your arms behind your back, adopting your best general voice as you began to pace. “They’re gonna expect us to hang back because we’re new. Young. That’s how we catch them off guard.” You squared your shoulders. “We don’t let them treat us like little kids.”

Nico grinned, eyes glinting beneath his crooked helmet. “We’ll show them exactly what we are.”

You spun toward him, deadly serious. “This is vengeance, Nico. The Hunters insulted Cabin Ten. They called love a distraction. A weakness. But love is powerful. Love is war. And tonight—we fight for romance.”

You slapped your chest with such passion that your breastplate slipped sideways. “We fight for dramatic declarations and awkward camp crushes. We fight for Silena!”

Nico didn’t follow half of what you just said, but your energy was infectious. “We’re going to shock them with our unmatched strategy, our iron will, and the sheer unpredictability of our tiny limbs!”

“Exactly!” you cried. “Let’s make them regret ever underestimating the power of underdogs and hormonal chaos!”

You threw your arm around his shoulder as the two of you marched toward the treeline with the confidence of kids who were either about to change the game, or fall flat on your faces. Probably both.

Your team, the blue team, was made up of Cabin Ten, Beckendorf, the Stoll brothers, Percy as co-captain, and Thalia as captain.

As you waited for Chiron to step out and announce the start of the game, Nico lit up beside you the moment Percy strolled into view.

You stood beside Nico, half-armored and hyped, helmet slipping every few seconds. 

Nico’s was worse. His looked like it had been forged for a particularly large watermelon. Still, he was very content.

“Percy, this is awesome!” Nico chirped, bouncing on his heels. His sword, far too big for him, wobbled in his grip as he raised it. “Do we get to kill the other team?”

You didn’t even give Percy a chance to answer.

“Or maim?” you added hopefully. “Is maiming on the table?”

Percy gave you a very tired look. “Guys, no.”

“But the Hunters are immortal, right?” Nico continued.

“Yeah, so technically—” you started, before Percy cut in.

“That’s only if they don’t fall in battle,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “Besides—”

“It would be so cool if we died and came right back like video game characters,” Nico said, eyes sparkling. “Respawn behind enemy lines, maybe with upgraded weapons—”

“Guys,” Percy groaned. “This is serious. Real swords. These can hurt.”

You blinked. “So... no respawning?”

Nico’s face fell in disappointment, and yours wasn’t far behind. 

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, disheartened ten-year-olds in oversized armor, dreams of magical gladiator chaos crumbling to dust.

Percy sighed, very deeply, and patted you both on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s cool. Just follow the team. Stay out of Zoë’s way. We’ll have a blast.”

You saluted, poorly. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep Nico from stabbing any immortals. Or himself.”

“I’m not that bad,” Nico mumbled.

“You almost sliced your own boot during warm-up,” you reminded him.

“I was learning!”

You grinned and threw an arm over his shoulder. “Anyway, it’s fine. We’ve got passion, enthusiasm, and unrelenting vengeance in the name of love. We are unstoppable.”

Nico looked up at you, eyes gleaming. “Let’s make history!”

Travis, passing behind you, muttered, “We’re gonna die.”

Just then, Chiron trotted into the clearing, his voice carrying over the buzz of anticipation.

“Heroes!” he called out. “You know the rules. The creek is the boundary line. Blue team—Camp Half-Blood—will take the west woods. Hunters of Artemis—red team—will take the east. I will serve as referee and battlefield medic. No intentional maiming.”

His eyes landed briefly, and pointedly, on you. Uh-oh. He definitely overheard that little comment you made earlier. 

You curled in on yourself and quickly shuffled a step closer behind Percy.

“All magic items are allowed,” Chiron finished, tone firm. “To your positions!”

Your team followed close behind Thalia as she led the charge to Zeus’s Fist—the massive pile of boulders smack in the middle of the western woods. 

Naturally, that’s where the blue team set their flag, perched right at the top, dramatic and daring like a giant “come and get it” sign.

Almost immediately, Percy turned and pointed. “You two—guard duty! Go with Beckendorf and the Stolls.”

You gave a mock salute and grabbed Nico’s wrist, already half-dragging him toward the boulders.

Honestly? You were relieved. Guarding the flag meant fewer chances of getting ambushed or accidentally stabbed in the face. 

And hey, showing up was half the battle, right? You were allowed to be slightly cowardly.

You and Nico found your spot near the base of the rocks, tucked between two jagged ledges with a good view of the trees below.

Beckendorf gave you both a nod before heading off to check the other side of the ridge, leaving you and Nico to hold down your corner of the fort.

You crouched low, squinting into the shadows of the woods. 

“Okay,” you whispered like it was a covert mission, “If anyone so much as breathes in our direction, we ambush them.”

“With what?” Nico asked excitedly, eyes wide. “Rocks? A net trap? You didn’t bring a net trap?”

You gasped. “Wait, you didn’t bring a net trap?! I thought we agreed you were in charge of surprise contraptions!”

“No one told me there’d be homework!” Nico shook his head, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Okay, okay. Plan B. Total chaos.”

“Good,” you said seriously, glancing out toward the trees again. “Because the Hunters don’t play around. We stay sharp, we stay hidden, and if we go down—we go down screaming.”

Percy slid down from his post, his eyes scanning the treeline like he already had a plan as he jogged up to Beckendorf. “Can you guys hold down the fort?”

Beckendorf gave a confident nod. “Of course.”

“I’m going in.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

But Percy was already off, bolting toward the boundary line. The trees swallowed him up in seconds. 

You and Nico stared after him, stunned, then, naturally, you both popped out from your hiding spots behind the rocks and exploded into cheers.

“GET ‘EM, PERCY!” Nico screamed, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“SWIM IN THEIR TEARS!” You added.

“UNLEASH THE SEAWEED WRATH!” Connor joined in.

Travis continued, “DROWN THEM IN REGRET!”

“Eyes up!” Beckendorf yelled.

You barely had time to look up before a silver blur moved like lightning through the shadows. 

Zoe Nightshade emerged from the trees with terrifying grace, her bow already drawn. Her silver cloak shimmered under the moonlight, and her face was as cold and unreadable as steel.

“She’s here!” Beckendorf barked, grabbing his hammer.

Everything exploded into motion. Connor and Travis lunged forward with swords drawn, yelling nonsense battle cries, while you and Nico scrambled to your feet. Beckendorf turned to you both.

“Go! Protect the flag!”

“But—!” you started, already grabbing Nico’s sleeve.

“Go!” he ordered again, swinging at Zoe, only for her to dodge him effortlessly and whip her bow around.

The two of you bolted up the hill, clunky footsteps thudding against the earth, hearts racing. From halfway up, you looked back just in time to see Beckendorf stumble back with a grunt, clutching his shoulder where a silver arrow had thunk solidly into his armor and knocked him off balance. 

Connor went down a second later with a sharp cry, tripping over his own sword, and Travis, bless him, managed a twirl before being disarmed and tackled to the ground.

That left just you and Nico.

You both reached the top of Zeus’s Fist, gasping, and stood your ground before the flag. 

Nico unsheathed his sword, hands shaking slightly, and you clutched your borrowed blade with fingers slick with sweat.

Zoe approached, slow and steady like a predator who knew exactly how the hunt would end.

“Stay back!” Nico warned, voice cracking. “We’re armed!”

Zoe didn’t reply. Her stare alone was enough to send a tremor down your spine.

You stepped forward instinctively, placing yourself between her and Nico, and raised your sword like you even remotely knew what you were doing.

Until your eyes met.

It was just for a second. But something surged.

A tightness gripped your chest. 

A weight dropped into your ribs like a stone. Your throat constricted, like you were choking on old tears you hadn’t earned. 

A dull ache buried itself beneath your ribs.

You couldn’t name it. Grief? Regret? Loneliness? Whatever it was, it rooted you in place.

The world dimmed. 

Zoë’s face twitched. A flicker of something came upon her as she faltered. 

And in that beat, you felt it.

A heartbreak that wasn’t yours, so old and bitter it hummed in your bones, like it had always been there.

“What… what’s happening?” You whispered, dazed, pressing a hand to your chest, a weak attempt at soothing your aching heart.

Just as suddenly, the moment cracked like thin ice.

Zoë shook her head once, clearing whatever fog had slipped in, and her eyes sharpened with renewed fury.

She lunged.

Nico ran ahead, sword in hand. It was dark in the woods, so you couldn’t be sure, but the shadows seemed to move with him. The air thickened, heavy and cold.

The ground beneath Zoë’s feet cracked with a low, shuddering rumble. A bitter wind curled out from the impact. 

Zoë paused again. Her stance tightened, eyes flicking to the shadows as if they’d whispered something she didn’t like.

Her expression shifted, unreadable but no longer untouched. For a heartbeat, she looked almost… unsettled.

But then she blinked, drew in a sharp breath, and shook it off.

She pressed forward. Relentless.

With inhuman precision, she disarmed Nico and swept your legs in one clean motion, sending both of you tumbling down the back of the hill.

You hit the ground with a grunt, leaves crunching beneath you, limbs tangled with Nico’s.

“Tell me we still have the flag,” you gasped, blinking stars from your vision.

“Do we look like people who still have a flag?” Nico groaned, clutching his side.

Above you, Zoë stood at the peak of Zeus’s fist like a statue carved from moonlight and victory, your team’s flag in hand.

You scrambled up, dragging Nico with you. “Okay. New plan. Find Percy?”

“Find Percy,” Nico agreed, already limping after you.

The two of you ran off, battered, breathless, and completely outmatched.

Chapter Text

It was safe, except maybe around Thalia, to say your team had been utterly wrecked by the Hunters. 

Not only had Zoë Nightshade single-handedly annihilated your defenses, but the rest of her squad brought psychological warfare to a whole new level.

You and Nico had been running (bravely escaping) when they unleashed their most feared weapon. The Fart Arrows.

You weren’t prepared. 

The moment the gas hit, you staggered to a stop, gagging. It was as if a thousand gym socks had died, fermented in a sewer, and come back for vengeance. 

Your lungs burned. Your eyes watered. Your will to live wavered.

With a wheeze, you dropped to your knees.

“This is it,” you rasped. “Tell my story.”

Nico spun around, panicked. He crouched beside you, grabbing your shoulders. “What happened? What’s wrong?!”

He looked perfectly fine. Of course he did. 

His helmet, too big for his head, had slipped low enough to cover his nose. He was protected.

Lucky him.

You coughed again, weakly gripping his collar. “Nico… don’t forget me.”

Nico blinked. “Are you seriously—”

“I said tell my story!” you groaned, flopping to the ground.

There was a beat of silence before Nico sighed and muttered, “You died bravely. Death by stench. I’ll etch it into your gravestone.”

“Make it smell-proof,” you croaked.

“I’ll ask cabin nine,” he smiled, tugging you back onto your feet. “Come on, drama king. We’ve got to regroup.”

You staggered forward, leaning on him with a groan. “I see the light, Nico…”

“That’s the moon.”

“Tell it I love it.”

He kept dragging you along.

Thalia was yelling at Percy for leaving your base undefended, which, frankly, you found personally offensive. 

Sure, the defense had crumbled in record time, but that wasn’t the point.

Still, you weren’t about to argue with the girl who had literal sparks crackling from her fingertips and lightning practically simmering in her irises. 

Luckily, Percy handled it himself, standing his ground and, rightfully (why wasn’t he captain?), defending his decision. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t end there.

Thalia, never one to back down gracefully, shoved Percy—okay, flung him—straight into the creek. 

Percy, to no one’s surprise, responded by sending a wave crashing into her face.

A weird, tense power standoff commenced. Sparks crackled in the air. Water rippled at their feet. 

The temperature dropped by about ten degrees, and your skin prickled like you were standing between two natural disasters.

You sighed internally. Great. Everyone’s going to die because these two are asserting their dominance. 

Nico tugged your arm. You turned, and his voice came in an uncertain whisper.

“Hey…what is that…?”

You followed his gaze, and immediately your stomach dropped.

Something was moving in the woods.

A shape, half-obscured by a curling green mist, drifting like smoke through the trees. 

The air around it shimmered strangely, the space itself was warping. 

Goosebumps erupted across your arms.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the game.

“This is impossible,” Chiron said, his voice trembling. “She… she has never left the attic. Never.”

The smoke swirled and parted, revealing a withered, mummified figure, and you instantly paled. 

You’d heard about the Oracle in the attic, the dried-out woman who did nothing but spew ominous prophecies from her cobwebbed corner of the Big House. 

But you always assumed you were safe from ever having to see her, so long as you stayed far, far away from the attic.

Seemingly, the universe had other plans.

Beside you, Nico suddenly clutched his ears, and you turned to him, ready to ask what was wrong? until a voice entered inside your skull, sharp and echoing. 

“I am the Spirit of Delphi. Speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python.” 

You covered your ears, but it didn’t help. The Oracle turned to Zoë, its hollow voice calling out, “Approach, Seeker, and ask.” 

Zoë stepped forward. Her jaw was set, but her eyes wavered. “What must I do to help my goddess?”

Your brow furrowed. Her goddess? What was she talking about? What happened to Artemis?

The answer came fast and unpleasant. The sharp stink of sulfur hit your nose, making you gag and raise a hand to cover your face. 

The mist swirled and reshaped, revealing an image of a young girl. 

At least, she looked young, but the power rolling off her form was strong and wild.

You leaned toward Nico and whispered, “Is that Artemis?”

He nodded slowly, his expression tight with concern. “Yeah… but what happened to her?”

The vision sharpened. Artemis was bound in chains, tethered to a jagged mountainside, straining against her restraints with raw defiance. 

She was in pain, but even so, she fought, glowing with that fierce, untouchable light.

The oracle’s voice boomed, “Five shall go west to the goddess in chains, 

      One shall be lost in the land without rain, 

      The bane of Olympus shows the trail, 

      Campers and Hunters combined prevail, 

      The Titan’s curse must one withstand, 

      And one shall perish by a parent’s hand.” 

In one second, the green smoke drifted back into the Oracle’s mouth. Its body stilled, joints locking in that unnatural way, and it settled once more on the rock. 

Like it had never moved at all. 

 A heavy tension coiled through the clearing. No one spoke. Not Chiron. Not Zoe. Not even the Stolls, who usually couldn’t stay quiet for more than a few seconds.

For once, you didn’t feel the urge to crack a joke or ease the silence with a snide comment. The air didn’t feel breathable enough for humor. 

What you’d just seen… it wasn’t like anything you’d encountered before.

You’d seen monsters before, been attacked, even, on your way to camp, but this was different.

You had never seen a prophecy spoken aloud, never imagined what it would feel like to watch the future unravel in cryptic lines and haunting images. 

And you definitely hadn’t anticipated the silence it would leave in its wake. The kind that felt less like peace and more like pressure. 

A storm on the horizon, waiting to break.

“[Name].”

Nico’s voice cut through the fog in your brain, grounding you just enough to blink out of the beginnings of a cold sweat.

“Huh?” you mumbled, still dazed.

He frowned, worry etched deep into his face. 

“Everyone’s leaving,” he said gently. “Percy and Grover are taking the Oracle back up to the attic.”

You hadn’t even noticed the others moving. Your eyes flicked toward the path, where Percy’s shoulders were tense as he and Grover carried the motionless figure away.

Nico’s hand found yours, his thumb rubbing slowly across the back of your knuckles. The motion was soft and careful. 

It was the same gesture Bianca used on him whenever he was afraid.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly. “You look like you’re about to hurl.”

You swallowed hard, the pressure in your chest stubborn and unshakable. “Yeah… I just…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain the heavy weight on your chest. 

“Come on,” Nico said, tugging you gently toward camp. “We missed dinner, but maybe we can still find you a snack. You’ll feel better.”

You didn’t argue. Your legs moved on autopilot, following his lead like a rag doll while your thoughts swirled uselessly in a fog.

You’d just made it to the edge of the woods when—

“Nico, wait!”

Both of you froze and turned at the sound. Bianca was sprinting toward you, her brows pinched.

Nico’s face hardened instantly. Without a word, he turned back around and tried to pull you along faster. 

You barely had time to process the change in pace before Bianca caught up and grabbed his arm.

He recoiled like she’d burned him.

“Move, Bianca,” he demanded, his voice sharp in a way you weren’t used to hearing. 

Bianca huffed, her grip on his arm tightened, and her feet remained stubbornly in place. “I’ve been trying to talk to you, but you’ve been avoiding me!”  

“You’ve got a whole cabin full of new sisters—go talk to them!” Nico snapped, his voice rising. “You don’t need me anymore. You chose them. You left me. Now let go!”

Bianca let out a sigh. “Nico, that’s not true. I didn’t leave you. I’ll always be here. But I can’t take care of you the way you need. The way you deserve to be cared for.”

“That’s such garbage!” Nico snapped. “You joined the Hunters because you were done with me! You saw them as your way out. We were fine before they ever showed up!”

His voice wavered near the end, and you felt the tremble in his hand where it stayed locked with yours. 

In the faint glow from camp, his eyes shimmered with unshed tears, which he stubbornly blinked away.

“Just admit it, Bianca,” he said, quieter now, but no less raw. “I’ve only ever been a burden to you.”

The words sat heavy in the air. That kind of pain—gods, you knew it. 

The ache of believing you were too much for the people you loved. Too loud. Too sensitive. Too complicated. 

You remembered the way your mother’s eyes used to tighten when you asked too many questions. The way she’d sigh, exhausted, like even your presence was something she had to manage. 

You weren’t stupid. You’d heard the whispers at family gatherings, before she cut them off completely. 

Heard how they talked about you like a burden. How they wondered why she “put up with all that,” like loving you came with a manual she’d chosen not to read.

You didn’t know exactly what happened, only that one year, the holiday cards stopped arriving and the phone stopped ringing. 

Your mother said it was better that way, that they didn’t deserve you. But a part of you still wondered if she was just tired of defending you. 

If she wished you’d come out quieter, easier. 

Normal. 

And now, watching Nico, shoulders tight, voice cracking, hand trembling in yours like it was the only steady thing left, you recognized that pain like an old bruise. 

The fear of being someone’s reason to leave. 

Bianca stood just a few feet away, but it might as well have been miles. And you, caught between the girl who raised him and the boy who was breaking right in front of you, didn’t know what to say. 

What could you say, when every word Nico spoke sounded like something you might’ve said once, too?

So you stayed where you were. Silent and steady. 

Trying to hold together what little you could, your hand in his, your presence the only offering you had, and wished that love alone could be enough to undo this kind of hurt.

“Nico,” Bianca said, barely more than a whisper. Her voice wavered, eyes wide with hurt. “How can you say that? I do love you—but I… I need space to live my own life too. I have a right to.” 

Nico’s face went still. 

“Then go,” he said, coldly. “Go and don’t come back.”

Here is when you decided to open your mouth, ready to say something, anything, to soften the sharp edge of Nico’s words. 

But before you could speak, a faint jolt pulsed from the chain around your neck. It was subtle, like static against your skin, but enough to startle you. 

Your hand flew to your chest, where the glass dome lay, and you noticed the small flower inside beginning to tremble, its petals quivering unnaturally. 

Confused, you blinked down at it, only for a wave of sorrow to slam into you like a tide. It filled your lungs like water, thick and drowning. 

The ache was overwhelming. Grief that didn’t have a name, powerful and endless. 

Your knees buckled slightly, and the world tilted, the conversation around you slipping into a distant hum.

Bianca paused, the instincts of an older sister kicking in as she caught sight of you swaying. She stepped away from Nico, quickly closing the distance to steady you by the arm. 

“Nico, what’s wrong with your friend?” she asked, concerned. 

You blinked at her, but her face was already starting to blur, smeared at the edges.

“Hey,” she said more gently. “Are you okay? Do we need to get someone?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The weight in your chest had become unbearable until your lungs forgot how to breathe. Then your legs gave out.

Nico lurched forward with a panicked shout, catching you just before you hit the ground. “Bianca—go! Call for Chiron!”

But his voice was already drifting away. The last thing you saw was his wide, frightened eyes staring into yours. Then the world slipped out from under you like the ground itself had vanished.

And everything went dark.

Tick. Tock.

“Psst…” 

Tick. Tock.

“Hey, kid.” 

Tick. Tock.

“D’aww, well, isn’t he a sweet little thing!” 

Tick. Tock.

“Should we pinch him?” 

Tick. Tock.

“No, that’s rude!” 

Tick. Tock.

“Well, got a better idea to wake him up?” 

Tick. Tock.

“He’s fine. Sleeping like a baby!” 

Tick. Tock.

“We don’t have time for this. Wake him up now.” 

Tick. Tock.

“Well, I would’ve if I was allowed to pinch him!” 

Tick. Tock.

“ No pinching!” 

Tick. Tock.

“You—!”

Tick. Tock.

“Enough. Look—he’s stirring.” 

Tick. Tock.

Why was it so loud?

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Was that a clock? Who buys a clock anymore?

The sound gnawed at your ears like a slow, deliberate countdown. Your eyes snapped open, but the world didn’t greet you like it should’ve. 

Everything was warped. Like you were staring through water or frosted glass. 

Shapes hovered at the edge of your vision, twisting and settling with every blink.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

You flinched. That sound again. 

As you lay there trying to orient yourself, you realized you weren’t alone. There were voices. 

Quiet, hushed whispers, just above your head.

“Is he awake?”

“No, no, look at his face. He’s still got drool. That’s the face of someone deeply asleep.”

“Should we poke him?”

“Do not poke him. We’ve talked about this.”

“Look at him. He’s taking ages just to focus.”

It wasn’t a voice you recognized. Smooth, but rough. It had the kind of hostility you’d usually expect from an Ares kid right before a fight.

Then came a second voice, bright and airy with a scratch of rasp like laughter. 

“Would you quit being so hard on the kid, Phobetor? Oh, I just want to pinch his cheeks!”

Phobetor . The name was unfamiliar. 

The first voice, Phobetor, apparently, hissed  in annoyance at the scolding but fell quiet. 

You blinked slowly, trying to will your vision into focus. 

Were they new kids?

That was your first thought. Maybe after you passed out and they dragged you to the infirmary, this was some weird welcome party for new campers. 

Though the ticking and phantom voices didn’t exactly scream hospitality .

Your vision finally cleared, revealing a ceiling you didn’t recognize. 

The ticking, constant and sharp, seemed to come louder now, pressing in from every direction. 

You shifted, expecting the familiar comfort of your cabin bunk, but the surface beneath you creaked ominously.

It was stiff. Definitely not a mattress.

And it wasn’t just the bed that was missing. You shivered, suddenly aware there was no blanket draped over you, no pillow under your head, just a thin chill crawling up your spine.

Did I fall out of bed? You blinked, trying to piece things together. 

That didn’t explain the aches pulsing in your back or the growing unease in your gut.

You slowly sat up and froze.

This wasn’t the Hermes cabin. It wasn’t any part of Camp Half-Blood at all.

The walls around you were lined with clocks. Dozens of them. No— hundreds . All cuckoo clocks. 

They ticked in a discordant symphony, out of rhythm with one another. None of them matched. 

One was shaped like a cathedral with golden spires. Another, like a lily pad, had a frog tongue swinging in and out with each tick.

You turned to the nearest one, squinting. A figurine of a boy tugged endlessly on a girl’s braid, over and over in a loop. 

“…Is this a prank?” You muttered, unsettled. The clock boy gave another mechanical yank, the girl’s painted face forever frozen mid-scream. 

Weird didn’t begin to cover it.

Turning away from the bizarre clock, your eyes landed on a nearby shelf. Toys were scattered across each tier, huddled together like they were whispering among themselves. 

But they weren’t modern toys, no bright plastics or screen-faced gadgets. These were vintage.

One in particular caught your attention, an antique porcelain doll that looked uncannily similar to the one your mother kept on her bedside table when you were younger.

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t thought of that doll in years.

Carefully, you reached out and picked it up. Its skin, if you could call it that, was smooth but fragile and the slightest pressure could’ve cracked it. 

The doll wore a delicate Victorian dress with hand stitched lace and a glassy, unblinking gaze stared straight through you.

A sound reached your ears. Faint, distant… music?

You turned, drawn to the source.

A wooden dresser stood tucked into the corner of the room, its surface lined with ornate music boxes. Like the dolls, they were clearly vintage. 

Each one handcrafted with the same intricate care you remembered seeing when you had to bunk in the Apollo cabin for a week. 

Back when Connor had accidentally let in a swarm of stink bugs, and you’d ended up watching Lee Fletcher fiddle with the tiny gears of his latest project.

With Beckendorf helping him, the two of them had built something beautiful from scraps. 

The craftsmanship now in front of you reminded you of that. Only these music boxes felt more… haunted.

Each one was unique. One featured an angel suspended mid-spin, surrounded by tiny, gleaming stars that winked in and out like real constellations. It was almost mesmerizing.

But then you caught sight of the next one, and snorted.

A baby Eros, all pudgy cheeks and wings, sat in the middle of a pink pedestal, wearing nothing but a golden diaper. 

Typical mortal interpretation of the gods, either eerily accurate or hilariously off the mark. 

“Oh, Figaro! Would you look at this hat!”

The sudden voice made you freeze. You'd been so absorbed in the music boxes and the strange trinkets around you that you hadn’t heard anyone enter. 

That didn’t alarm you at first, because the voice was familiar. Comfortingly so.

You turned with a smile already forming. “Hey, Chiron—”

But the rest of your sentence collapsed the second you laid eyes on him.

That wasn’t Chiron.

Or at least, not your Chiron. The figure before you looked like a discount version, an uncanny Chiron knockoff fresh off a thrift store shelf. 

He had two human legs instead of hooves, no sign of his horse half anywhere. 

And he was dressed like someone’s fashionably confused great-grandfather, high-waisted trousers, stiff suspenders, and a pinstripe vest that screamed 1920s.

You blinked, trying to make sense of it. Had the Mist scrambled your brain?

“Oh, he’s even cuter when he’s confused!” said a voice, smooth and teasing.

Your head whipped around, scanning the room. “Who said that?!”

“We’re right next to you,” came the raspier, growling voice, Phobetor again. 

“I don’t see you.” You crossed your arms.

“You don’t have to,” he replied coldly. 

A new voice spoke, soft and warm, completely different from the others. 

It drifted through the air like silk, wrapping gently around your ears. “You are confused. I understand.”

You swore you felt a hand settle lightly on your shoulder. There was a calm power to it, soothing but impossibly deep. 

“Yeah,” you muttered, your voice quieter now. “Apparently I’m missing a lot lately.”

Your thoughts flickered to your father. To everything you didn’t understand, everything that hadn’t been said.

And to the growing sense that none of this was random.

As expected, the dreamy voice turned cold and unhelpful.

“Now is not the time for questions,” he said. “We will explain, but first, you must pay attention.”

Something shoved you with enough force to spin you back around to face… Grandpa Chiron. 

You scoffed under your breath. The voices had gone silent. 

No guidance. No explanation. Were you going crazy and hearing things? Or worse, was this Kronos messing with you? 

You grimaced. 

The world didn’t need another power-hungry psycho. Luke already filled that role. 

You hadn’t known him personally, but from what you’d heard, he wasn’t exactly Camp’s pride and joy. 

Still, something weird was obviously going on. Even if this Chiron was some imposter in your grandfather’s closet, he might be the only one around to help. 

Swallowing your pride, you marched over and raised your voice. “Chiron, I’m being haunted!”

He didn’t react. Just strolled right past you like you weren’t even there.

Your jaw dropped. 

Rude. 

How could he ignore you? You were, like, obviously his favorite camper. 

Who else willingly spent time listening to his longwinded Greek history rants?

You waved your hand in front of his face, annoyed.

“Chiron! It’s me—[Name]! I tried to dye your tail pink last month, remember?!”

Nothing.

He kept moving forward, lost in his own little world.

…Wait. Was he walking through you?

Oh gods.

Your stomach dropped.

Were you dead?! 

This was horrible. Chiron was dressed like someone’s great-uncle Larry and you were dead. 

And those voices? Probably other ghosts, doomed to hang around creepy doll rooms and cuckoo clocks.

Panic began to simmer in your chest.

No one to talk to. No one to see you. Just you, some haunted furniture, and the terrifying possibility that you were stuck in this dream forever, cursed to watch Chiron in suspenders.

With a long, defeated sigh, you sank onto the floor and stared blankly at a nearby trash pail.

“Guess I’m dead,” you mumbled.

Your shoulders slumped. “When Drew dies, she is so making fun of me for this.”

Just as you were contemplating your ghostly afterlife, your eyes caught on the cat weaving around Chiron’s feet. 

Something about its face made you tilt your head. It looked weirdly familiar.

...Was that Percy?

Before you could fully process that horrifying concept, the Percy-cat leapt onto the workbench Chiron had been fiddling with.

“Figaro!” Chiron scolded lightly, though his voice was full of fondness. “What did I say about jumping on the workbench?”

He reached out to scratch behind the cat’s ears. You watched, dumbfounded.

Figaro. 

That name. You’d heard it before.

But where?

Figaro purred beneath Chiron’s smooth strokes, nuzzling into his palm like he’d just been given the world.

“Okay, okay,” Chiron chuckled. “I’ll excuse it this one last time.”

The cat’s purring only grew louder as he curled tighter around Chiron’s hand, tail flicking contentedly. 

With one final pat, Chiron nudged Figaro aside and pulled something small from his pocket. A child-sized hat.

You frowned. Maybe it was meant for the other dead kids. 

Even in the afterlife, you were doomed to suffer Chiron’s horrific fashion sense. 

Chiron placed the tiny hat on something resting on the table. You leaned to get a better look, but his body blocked your view.

“Oh, doesn’t he look great, Figaro?”

The cat’s tail twitched as if in agreement.

“Let’s give him a name,” Chiron murmured, stepping aside at last.

There on the table sat a puppet. A wooden one. Plain, but detailed. Hand-carved.

Huh. A strange old man, a cozy cluttered shop, a puppet...

Something in your memory stirred.

You tilted your head. “This is… familiar…”

You squinted at the hat-wearing puppet. A name danced at the edges of your brain. 

Pinok? No. Piney? Definitely not.

Then it hit you.

“ Pinocchio! ”

“Oh yes,” Chiron (Geppetto , you guessed now) echoed with a wide grin. “His name shall be Pinocchio.”

He swung the puppet gleefully in his arms, completely unaware of the existential crisis you were now having.

This had to be a joke. A dream. A punishment?

But as Chiron twirled around with the puppet, you caught a better look at its face, and your heart stopped.

It wasn’t just a puppet.

The carved brows, the cheeks, even the upturn of the mouth…

Your breath hitched. “Nico…”

This was the afterlife? Living a twisted and reimagined version of a fairy tale? 

Fairy tales used to be your escape, back when you were a kid. Your mom would read you every single one. 

But now? You were in one. Literally. And with no sign of escape, it seemed like you were stuck here... forever.

Figaro hissed, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts, as Geppetto chased him across the floor with the puppet in hand.

You couldn’t help it, you snorted. Percy, scared of Nico? That was rich. Nico wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

Maybe glare a fly into oblivion, but still.

“Oh, he’s a cheeky boy, isn’t he, Figaro?” Geppetto cackled.

Figaro did not agree. The cat darted beneath a stool in protest, his ears flattened with clear disdain.

Before the puppet parade could continue, a deep bell rang out.

The sound echoed once, twice, the  multiplied.

Every clock in the room began to chime, one after the other in rapid succession. 

It wasn’t just a ring, it was an overwhelming, chaotic chorus of cuckoo-clock cacophony.

You clapped your hands over your ears, wincing as the sounds swallowed the room whole.

This was no choir. This was a clockocalypse 

Geppetto pulled out a pocket watch, because apparently, the orchestra of clocks ringing wasn’t enough. 

He frowned as he checked the time. “Looks like it’s time for bed, Figaro.”

The small cat let out a meow and crawled out from under the stool, looking thoroughly unamused.

But before anything else could happen, your vision abruptly went black.

“AH!” You stumbled back, clutching your face. “Am I blind ? Oh no, no, no—”

You’d take being stuck in this bizarre puppet play over blindness any day.

Thankfully, your sight returned just as quickly as it vanished. 

Light filtered in again, and once everything stopped spinning, you realized you weren’t in the workshop anymore.

Now you were in a bedroom.

Compared to the crowded, whimsical chaos of the workshop, this room was calm. 

Just two beds, a large one in the center, and a smaller one beside it. “Figaro” was carved on the tiny headboard of the small one.

Which meant this was Geppetto’s bedroom.

The abrupt darkness made sense now. You were transitioning scenes. Like flipping pages in a storybook.

Yes. That was the explanation you were sticking with. 

It was simple, it was logical, and it prevented you from spiraling further into the “am I actually dead and hallucinating?” debate.

Geppetto entered through the door, Figaro close behind. 

Still carrying Pinocchio, he crossed to the dresser and propped the puppet upright against the wall with a gentle pat to its head, like a father tucking in his son. 

Then he turned to get himself and Figaro settled into bed.

Figaro was already halfway to dreamland, his limbs limp, tail flicking lazily over the blanket.

Geppetto paused, eyes drifting back to the puppet sitting upright, facing them with its lifeless wooden stare.

“Look at him, Figaro,” he murmured, lying back on his pillow. “He almost looks alive.”

The cat meowed in drowsy agreement, or maybe just protest at being kept awake. Either way, his eyes were already closing again.

Geppetto smiled faintly at his sleepy companion, his gaze softening as it returned to Pinocchio. 

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” he whispered, “if he were a real boy? A boy who could talk and play without strings…”

His voice trailed off, the sentence unfinished as he slipped into a quiet daydream. 

For a moment, he looked impossibly hopeful, like someone hanging on to the last edge of a forgotten wish.

He blinked and shook himself out of it. With a sigh, he turned and blew out the candle beside his bed, forcing the room into darkness.

But not even a full second passed before he spoke again.

“Figaro,” he said suddenly, “I forgot to open the window. Would you mind?”

The cat lifted his head slowly, his face practically screaming yes, I do mind , but he still got up, reluctantly, dragging his paws, climbed onto Geppetto’s bed, and leapt to the windowsill.

Figaro slipped through the small crack and tugged the window open with his back legs. The moonlight spilled into the room, bathing everything in silver.

Geppetto gasped.

“ Look! ” he exclaimed, sitting up and pointing skyward. “A wishing star!”

You looked up too, and sure enough, there it was. The highest, brightest star in the sky. You'd never seen one glow so intensely. 

Geppetto clasped his hands, and in a voice full of innocent wonder, began to speak.

“Starlight, star bright,
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I make tonight.” 

Without meaning to, you whispered along with him.

It was a reflex, muscle memory from your childhood. Back then, you used to whisper that same rhyme to the stars outside your window, thinking maybe they were listening.

Geppetto turned to Figaro and hooked a finger under his chin. 

“Do you know what I wished for?” he asked.

Figaro, basking in the attention, gave a slow blink.

Geppetto’s eyes drifted to the puppet, then back to the cat. “I wished for my Pinocchio to be a real boy. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He sighed and let himself fall back into the pillow, clearly drifting. Figaro curled up at his feet without complaint.

“Goodnight, Figaro,” Geppetto murmured.

A pause.

“Goodnight, Pinocchio.”

Once Geppetto’s eyes shut, he started snoring immediately—and was that a horse neigh?  

You had half a mind to go shut his mouth for him… but you didn’t want to risk suffocating the old guy in his sleep. 

A soft twinkling played through the room. Moonlight poured through the open window, growing brighter by the second. 

A white-blue shimmer blanketed the bedroom, and the star in the sky began to descend, pulsing with light.

You recognized this part. It was the Blue Fairy’s grand entrance.

You watched without much enthusiasm… at first.

The glowing silhouette forming in the center of the room wasn’t tall and graceful like you remembered. No elegant, adult figure in a flowing dress. 

No… this one was shorter . Younger. 

As the light dimmed and revealed the figure underneath, your jaw hit the floor.

Standing in the middle of the room, drowning in a dress several sizes too big, was—

“ Drew?! ”

You barely managed to choke back the laughter, though giggles still slipped out, bubbling up uncontrollably. 

Of course your borderline evil best friend had been cast as the Blue Fairy. 

The Stolls would've lost their minds over this. Why did you never have a camera when you needed one?

Fairy Drew strutted into the room, wand in hand, her face already bored out of its mind. 

She stopped beside Geppetto’s bed and cleared her throat. 

“Good Geppetto, you have given so much happiness to others—” she paused, lifting her palm and squinting at badly scribbled words, “you deserve to have your wish come true—blah blah—let’s just get this over with.”

Watching her stomp over to Pinocchio made the whole thing even more absurd. Your friends were fairytale characters now. 

Incorrectly cast , sure, but that somehow made it even better.

You turned your eyes toward Nico, or a wooden version of him. Unmoving and dull-eyed. It creeped you out more than you expected. 

Seeing him like that felt… wrong. Like he was lifeless. Dead. 

The thought made your stomach twist, and you quickly shifted your gaze back to Fairy Drew.

She lifted her wand, obviously uninterested in dramatics.

“Little puppet made of pine, wake.”

With a spark of blue light, her wand tapped the puppet’s head. The glow pulsed once, and suddenly, his eyes blinked open.

He looked around in wonder, slowly lifting his arms. “I can move!” he exclaimed.

He gasped and pointed at his mouth. “I can talk! ”

Drew grabbed his hand and helped him wobble to his feet, more out of obligation than compassion. 

“I brought you to life because Geppetto wished for a real boy,” she said. Then under her breath, “For some reason .”

Pinocchio didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. He was too busy spinning around and admiring his arms like they were made of gold.

“Am I a real boy?” he asked eagerly.

Drew blinked. “No.”

The puppet’s smile faltered. “Well then, how do I become one?” 

“You have to prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish to make your father’s wish come true.”

Drew’s expression shifted.

“Or,” she added, lowering her voice, “I’ll turn you into a ghost .”

Pinocchio’s eyes widened. “Oh no!”

“You’ll be stuck in this workshop forever,” Drew continued, dead serious. “Haunting your dad. Wandering the halls. Crying wooden tears. Forever.”

He looked horrified. You couldn’t blame him.

She stood back, letting the horror set in before bursting into laughter. “I’m kidding ! You should’ve seen your face!”

She tossed her head back and let out another loud laugh, hands thrown up to mock him. 

“Oh no!” she cried, mimicking Pinocchio’s earlier panic. “I’m a ghost now!”

You arched a brow, watching as she practically doubled over from laughing at her own joke. 

No doubt in your mind, this was Drew in all her chaotic glory.

What shocked you more was that Pinocchio started laughing too. 

You cringed. The poor boy was too innocent to know he was being emotionally terrorized.

After what felt like forever, the fairy’s laughter finally subsided, her smile dropping. 

She pointed her wand back at the former puppet, frowning. “But I will turn you back to wood if you misbehave.”

Pinocchio hastily nodded, not wanting to go back to being a lifeless puppet. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

Fairy Drew patted him on the head, her not-so-comforting smile hovering above him. “We both know that’s not true. You can’t tell right from wrong, silly Pinocchio.”

She turned and walked away, her oversized dress sparkling more with every step. 

Reaching the window, she stuck a hand outside, searching for something. When her hand came back in, it held a small cricket perched nicely on her palm.

“This’ll do,” she muttered, nose scrunched as she carried it back across the room and placed it down on the dresser.

That’s when you realized, someone important had been missing.

With a twirl of her wand, the once-chirping cricket shimmered in a flash of indigo light and transformed into a furious little bug in a miniature pinstripe suit. 

He adjusted his lapels like he'd been rudely summoned from a high-stakes meeting rather than a moonlit leaf.

“You’ve got some nerve yanking me out of my late-night stroll!” he barked, pacing in erratic little circles and waving his arms. 

His antennae twitched with irritation, and his bulbous eyes narrowed on her as if she’d committed some unspeakable offense.

His voice, dry, and dripping with disdain, sounded suspiciously like Mr. D on a bad day. 

You know, the kind of tone that could make a satyr cry and a camper rethink every decision they’d ever made.

Pinocchio gasped, hands flying to his mouth before scooping the bug up. 

“Hey! Put me down! You’ve all got sweaty hands!”  the cricket shrieked, kicking his tiny legs.

Fairy Drew rolled her eyes and flicked the bug lightly. “He’s not a real boy. He can’t have sweaty hands. And quit complaining, or I’ll zap your mouth off.”

That ended the cricket’s tantrum real fast.

“What’s your name, cricket sir?” Pinocchio asked, lifting him closer to his face with wide eyes.

The cricket turned to shoot one last scowl at Drew, who returned it with an exaggerated, sugar-sweet smile and a sarcastic little wave. 

The cricket sighed deeply before crossing his arms. 

“It’s Jiminy,” he muttered. “Jiminy Cricket.”

Jiminy Cricket. The wise, moral compass. The voice of reason. That Jiminy Cricket was Mr. D . 

Grumpy, snarky, passively-hostile Mr. D. The one who ran Camp Half-Blood like he wished it would burn down so he could finally take a nap.

This version of Pinocchio had to be completely deranged.

“Well, Jiminy ,” Drew sneered, dragging out his name. “you’re going to be his conscience. He’d be a menace without one.”

“What is a menace?” Pinocchio asked, tilting his head.

“It’s what you’ll turn into if this bug doesn’t take the job,” she said plainly.

Jiminy grumbled something under his breath, his whole body shaking with irritation as he stomped across the top of the dresser. “If you think I’m going to be the conscience of a walking bobblehead, you are seriously mistaken.”

Pinocchio frowned and gently touched his head, suddenly unsure if it really did wobble like that.

Before Jiminy could jump off the edge, Drew flicked her fingers, blocking his path with her hand. “You don’t get a choice, bug.”

The tip of her wand lit up, casting a warm glow that made it clear she wasn’t bluffing.

Jiminy froze. He looked at the wand, then at Drew before immediately taking a few shaky steps back toward Pinocchio. 

“Alright, alright, fine! ” he snapped, glaring up at the glowing wand. “I’ll do it, okay?”

The light on the wand faded.

“Good!” Drew said, smug and satisfied.

At this point, you’d completely zoned them out. Your eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room, beyond the glitter and puppet strings. 

They were going through the motions like actors in a play you’d seen one too many times. The plot spun on rails, predictable as clockwork.

You knew this story. Every twist, every beat. All the characters were here, rearranged, sure, twisted in tone, some more unhinged than you remembered, but the story was the same. 

“Didn’t I tell you to pay attention?” a voice hissed suddenly in your ear.

You jolted like someone had dumped cold water down your back. Your head whipped around, scanning wildly for whoever was behind you. 

But no one was there.

“You already know you cannot see us,” said the chirpy, singsong voice from earlier.

You scrunched your nose. Of course. 

Them again.

“Oh, it’s you ,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “Because this wasn’t annoying enough already.”

A sudden breeze brushed across your face, too deliberate to be natural. 

You flinched, instinctively folding in on yourself like it could protect you from something invisible.

“Now, now, don’t be rude. I do have a name,” the voice said with a laugh.,

“Yeah? Then maybe try introducing yourself next time instead of creeping around whispering in people’s ears.”

Silence.

Typical. Couldn’t even give you a name. Just a voice and some cryptic nonsense. 

The background noise of Fairy Drew’s glitter-fueled threats and Pinocchio’s head poking continued like nothing had happened. 

The havoc hadn’t paused for your moment of discomfort.

You sighed and tried to shake it off, turning your attention back to the scene, just in time for a piercing, high-pitched screech to explode through the air. 

The sound was sharp and immediate, like a siren made of nails on a chalkboard. It slammed straight into your ears, making your whole body tense.

You clapped your hands over your ears, teeth clenched.

 “What now? ” you shouted, voice half-lost under the screeching.

No answer.

With a sharp snap , the sound cut off.

“I’ll ignore your attitude this time,” the voice said, clipped, “but consider this a warning.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were too busy clutching your ears, the ringing still bouncing around your skull like someone had struck a tuning fork inside your head. 

Your vision swam at the edges, your balance slightly off. 

“Next time, make his ears bleed, ” someone else snickered, voice full of glee.

You winced. Next time? ! 

If these were the ghosts you were stuck with in the afterlife, you honestly wouldn’t mind dying again. 

Preferably into the company of someone quieter. Or at the very least, less sadistic.

An irritated groan slipped out before you could stop it. “Look, all I want to know is what’s going on. Why am I in Pinocchio ? Who even are you three? And am I dead or what?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a loud, wheezing snort came from somewhere off to your right. “Kid thinks he’s dead!” the voice howled with laughter.

You could practically see him doubled over, wheezing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, completely delighted by your confusion.

You took a slow breath. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

You were not going to lose your temper. Not with whatever these things were. 

Instead, you forced a tight smile onto your face and kept your voice as calm and polite as possible.

“I am so sorry for my brothers,” came a third voice, this one soft and clear, like chimes in the wind. 

It had an elegance the others lacked, layered in a kind of practiced gentleness.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly,” the voice continued. “I am Morpheus. The one who nearly shattered your eardrums is Phantasos. And the one you probably want to strangle is Phobetor. We are the Oneiroi, spirits of dreams.”

“…So I’m not dead?” you asked slowly, still half-expecting someone to scream welcome! and yank you into a tunnel of light.

“You are not dead,” Morpheus confirmed, calm as ever. Then, after a pause, added dryly, “Although with how often you bring it up, one might think it’s something you want. ”

“No!” you yelped, clearing your throat and glancing around. “No. I don’t want to die. I just… thought this was the afterlife.”

Phantasos’s laugh came sharp and unsettling “Either way, we’re not here to kill you—” 

“Unfortunately,” Phobetor muttered darkly. “

“We get it, Phobetor, you’re edgy,” Phantasos said with a groan. 

“What’s being edgy got to do with me wanting him dead?” 

“Can you not? All you ever spout is nonsense.” 

“Nonsense? You’re the father of nonsense!” 

“Lalalala, not listening!” 

“Oh, wait till I get my hands on you—”

A loud cough snapped them into silence.

“Now… where was I?” Morpheus asked, sighing tiredly. 

You raised a finger. “You were about to mention why I’m being harassed in my dreams.”

“Ah, yes,” Morpheus said. “As I explained, we are the Oneiroi. Think of us as… guides.”

“ Guides? ” 

Before he could explain further, everything around you shifted.

Frozen. 

The air stilled. Sounds dropped out like someone had hit mute. Fairy Drew was stuck mid eye roll. 

Jiminy’s foot hovered above the floor, never landing. 

Even the clouds above had stopped drifting, painted on the sky. Geppetto slept statue-still, chest unmoving.

“Wait—what’s happening—?”

You paused. You felt it. Something behind you. A presence. A shadow pressed against your back just waiting for you to notice.

Fingers settled gently on your shoulder. You went rigid, breath caught in your throat.

A teasing snicker found its way into your ear.

“Don’t be afraid,” the voice whispered, smooth. 

Slowly, with every nerve in your body screaming, your eyes trailed down to the hand on your shoulder, then followed the arm upward.

Until paused on the face.

Morpheus was not what you’d expected. He wasn’t horrifying or monstrous, but he was... ethereal. 

His skin was pale like moonlight filtered through gauze, with a faint shimmer beneath the surface, as if dusted in sleep-sand. 

His eyes glowed faintly lavender, drowsy yet all-seeing. 

Waves of soft black hair fell around his shoulders like velvet curtains, and his robe flowed around him. 

He looked like someone you could trust, someone who had lived in dreams for so long, he had become one.

Your body relaxed the second you got a proper look at him.

“Huh,” you muttered. “I thought you’d be… you know, hideous. No offense.”

His smile faltered and the glow in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly, narrowing with restrained annoyance.

“None taken,” he said, calmly but tense enough to say some offense was definitely taken.

He cleared his throat with a half-hearted cough and withdrew his hand from your shoulder. 

“Brothers, you may come out now.”

The room shuddered, like something had tugged at the edges of the dream itself. 

A tremor ran beneath your feet, the air vibrating with anticipation, but nothing else moved. Nothing except you.

Your knees wobbled suddenly, your balance thrown off by the unnatural pause in gravity, time, whatever this even was . 

You stumbled, reaching out on instinct, and grabbed hold of Morpheus’s sleeve.

He flinched at the contact, startled, but his hand shot out by reflex, steadying you. 

For a second, neither of you moved. His arm tense beneath your grip and your hand clenched tighter than you meant to.

“ Finally! I was getting claustrophobic!” A voice shouted, loud and chaotic.

“I hate you,” another voice rumbled darkly. 

Still steadying you, Morpheus let out a  sigh, eyes fixed on the scene past your shoulder. 

“This has been the longest introduction ever ,” he muttered, and with a light push on your shoulder, gently turned you around to face the others.

You blinked, and immediately wished you hadn’t.

The two gods towered over you.

Phobetor was shaped like fear itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp around every edge, his entire form seemed sculpted from dark stone. 

His skin had the grayish-blue hue of midnight shadows, and his hair hung like black smoke, constantly shifting. His eyes were pitch-black with pinpricks of glowing red in the center. 

Like the eyes you imagined monsters had under your bed. 

His lips were pressed into a deep scowl, his brow furrowed. There was something very not okay about the way he looked at you.

Phantasos, by contrast, looked like a dream wrapped in a nightmare’s grin.

He had deep, smooth skin the color of polished obsidian It shimmered subtly under the strange dreamlight. 

His features were striking, otherworldly even. 

High cheekbones, a narrow nose, and lips curled in an ever-shifting smile that danced between warm and wicked. 

His hair was a dense halo of soft coils, the same dark hue as his skin, though streaks of dream-dust clung to the strands like dew on grass. 

Feathers, silver, gold, violet, were threaded sporadically into his curls, and they shimmered when he moved. 

There was beauty in him. Beauty that made you want to look longer than you should. But the longer you looked, the more your stomach curled. 

Not because he was ugly, far from it, but because he was a living paradox. 

Comforting and uncanny. A lullaby sung in reverse.

“He looks terrified,” Phobetor noted with dry disdain.

Phantasos scoffed and rolled his eyes so hard you were shocked they didn’t fall out of his head. “Because you scared him with that ugly mug of yours.”

Shoving past his brother, he skipped toward you.

“Don’t worry! Phobetor’s just a grump,” he sing-songed, leaning in far too close for comfort. “ I’ll protect you!”

You flinched, instinctively pulling back.

Somehow… this was worse.

Sure, Phobetor looked like he wanted to skin you alive. but at least he was consistent. 

There was something unsettling about Phantasos’s unhinged energy, the way his expression flipped from joyful to menacing in a blink. 

He looked like he might hug you or vaporize you, and honestly, you didn’t want to find out which.

He bent down to your level, grinning widely 

“Anteros sure made a cutie! I could just eat you up! ” he squealed, then proceeded to squish your cheeks with both hands. 

Eyes wide, you leaned hard into Morpheus, silently cursing your father for passing on whatever trait made you so tragically pokeable.

Morpheus, visibly fed up with the whole performance, reached over and pushed Phantasos’s face aside with one hand. 

“You both scare him,” he muttered. 

He straightened your shoulders with a small sigh, then moved to stand between his brothers, swiftly taking charge before one of them sent you into shock.

“Now. Proper introductions,” he said, laying a hand on Phobetor’s shoulder. 

“This is Phobetor; he is the personification of nightmares. Every horror, chase, monster, you name it, was him.”

Phobetor barely spared you a glance. “Ironically, this is a nightmare.”

Morpheus turned to his other side, gesturing toward Phantasos, who wiggled his fingers at you. 

You averted your gaze immediately.

“Phantasos is the personification of fantasy dreams. Think surreal. Dreams that are strange, metaphorical, and often prophetic. His visions may hold glimpses of the past, present, or future.”

You pointed vaguely around at the frozen, uncanny dream version of the Pinocchio cast . “Weird, like… this?”

“Correct,” Morpheus said.

You squinted at Morpheus. “And you?”

He stood tall again, folding his hands behind his back. “I am the personification of dreams. I serve as a messenger of divine will, passing along information from the gods through dreams. Prophecies. Warnings. Visions.”

Cool. So… dream mailmen. Invasive dream mailmen.

“Alright, that’s neat and all,” you said, hands on your hips, “but why now? I’ve had dreams before. None of you have ever shown up. So why this time?”

That ticked Phobetor off. He blew a sharp breath through his nose, and you swore the air temperature dropped five degrees.

“Careful, kid. Curiosity killed the cat.”

But you weren’t backing down. 

“Satisfaction brought it back,” you retorted with a shrug.

Phobetor’s fist twitched. You grinned.

You: 1 — Phobetor: 0.

Phantasos let out a wild snort and slapped both hands over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Morpheus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You know what,” he muttered, dropping his hand with a tired flick. His gaze snapped back to you, suddenly sharp. 

“We’ve wasted enough time. The story has to move forward. We can’t tell you everything now, but next time, we’ll explain more. Just…”

He stepped closer, and spoke firmly.

“ Pay attention. ”

“Wait, hold on—” you tried, but he clapped his hands.

Poof, they were gone.

Figures. Some guides they were.

You huffed, arms crossed. “Fine,” you muttered. “Didn’t want answers anyway.”

You turned back toward the frozen dream-world with a pout. 

You were a growing, independent ten-year-old man who didn’t need the help of three ancient gods who know more about this than you do. 

The sound of chatter pulled you back toward the now-unfrozen scene. Everyone was moving again like nothing had happened.

“...And now I’m done here,” Fairy Drew announced, dusting glitter off her skirt as she headed for the window.

She paused just long enough to give Pinocchio a once-over. “Remember—follow the rules and you’ll be fine.” She ended with an eye-roll aimed straight at Jiminy. 

Her wand sparked blue, and with a shimmer of light, she vanished.

“Good riddance,” Jiminy said, folding what counted as his arms—legs? limbs? 

He spun around and nearly jumped out of his tiny bug skin when he found Pinocchio staring at him.

“Oh, you’re still here.”

Pinocchio tilted his head with a big, wooden grin. “Of course I am! I don’t have magic like the Blue Fairy, silly Jiminy.”

“You sure don’t. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t be such a bobblehead.”

“I do not have the bobblehead that you keep speaking of.”

Jiminy sighed and started pacing across the table. “Your head’s empty enough to be one.”

The back and forth was already starting to wear thin. You’d seen this act before, and besides, you had better ideas. 

What better way to pass the time than by doing something absolutely not allowed?

Grinning to yourself, you grabbed a plain white sheet draped over a nearby chair and threw it over your head like a ghost.

Sure, they couldn’t see you. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t make your presence felt .

And hey, no harm in having a little fun with it, right?

You spotted a plain white blanket sitting in the corner. Perfect.

Grinning, you threw it over yourself and crept behind Jiminy, who was stomping across the tabletop, muttering incoherently under his breath. 

Pinocchio trailed him with his gaze, eyes flicking back and forth. 

But his attention didn’t stay there for long.

His gaze shifted, past Jiminy, to you.

To the floating sheet.

He blinked. 

“Jiminy,” he called out, pointing subtly.

But Jiminy, still wrapped up in his muttering, didn’t even hear him.

The sheet was thin enough for you to see through in patches. Peeking through the fabric, you caught Pinocchio’s wide-eyed stare. 

You slowly raised one arm under the blanket and gave a gentle wave.

Pinocchio jumped slightly before smiling. He waved back.

Encouraged, you leaned in closer, directly behind Jiminy now, and began mimicking his exaggerated movements. 

Pinocchio giggled, hand over his mouth, as he watched you give the cricket a pair of bunny ears.

Jiminy paused and squinted up at him. “Are my struggles amusing to you?”

Pinocchio shook his head quickly, pointing. “No! There’s—”

“Listen, kid, you don’t make fun of adult struggles.”

“But look—”

“No no, I get it. You’re still green to this whole life thing. I’ll let it slide—”

The wooden boy huffed, spinning Jiminy around to face you. The cricket froze. 

Not a twitch.

You blinked. Oh no. Did you actually scare him stiff? You hadn’t meant to traumatize him. Just mess with him a little.

You reached forward and gently poked his head.

Nothing.

Another poke.

Finally, Jiminy twitched, followed by a horrified scream as he thrashed around screaming, “GHOST!!”

He landed on Pinocchio’s shoulder, clawing at the puppet's shirt. “RUN, KID! GET US OUT OF HERE!”

You burst out laughing. Loud, unfiltered, delighted laughter. If Mr. D could see this, if Nico could see this, you’d never live it down. 

Pinocchio scrambled down from the dresser, almost colliding with you. Jiminy was practically steering him like a horse, shouting, “THE DOOR, KID! THE DOOR!”

You watched, wheezing, as the two of them tore across the room, skidding on the floorboards, only to trip over the rug beside Geppetto’s bed. Pinocchio went sailing. 

Dolls clattered to the ground in a heap. Jiminy let out a shrill scream. 

Geppetto bolted upright. “What was that?!”

“IT’S A GHOST!” Pinocchio shouted, flailing on the ground.

Geppetto turned toward your corner of the room.

You dropped the sheet.

Silence.

“There is no ghost, Pinocchio,” he said calmly, rubbing his eyes and lying back down. “You must’ve imagined it.”

Three seconds later (you counted), he bolted upright again, realization crashing in hard.

“Pinocchio!”

He dove off the bed, scooping the puppet into his arms.

“You’re alive! My son! My wish—oh, my dear boy!”

The scene melted into instant sap. Geppetto sobbed. Pinocchio giggled. They spun around in a slow, clumsy circle that nearly ended in disaster as they stepped on Figaro’s tail. 

The cat yowled and launched off the bed like a missile.

Eventually, the pair collapsed into the sheets again, Geppetto tucked around the little wooden boy.

“Why do I have to go to bed?” Pinocchio asked, wide-eyed and confused.

“Because you have school in the morning,” Geppetto replied gently.

School? Already? Pinocchio had been alive for, what, fifteen minutes? Was there no puppet pre-K? No wooden toddler phase?

The scene dissolved and reformed around you again.

Now you stood in the sunshine, outside Geppetto’s workshop. The door creaked open behind you as Pinocchio stepped out, a book clutched to his chest.

“Are those real boys?” he asked, watching the group of children pass by.

Geppetto hummed, turning Pinocchio’s head in his direction and fixing his hat. “Yes, those are real boys. They’re your classmates.” You watched as he stood up, urging his son to follow the rest of the kids. “Go on, follow them to school.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Pinocchio ran down the steps of the workshop, cheeks stretched wide in a smile.

Geppetto chuckled as he watched Pinocchio run off, going back inside of the workshop after his son had left his sight.

You followed behind the puppet-boy, not exactly eager but keeping your situation in mind. 

Just observe the dream. Don’t interfere. Let it play out. Just another weird, nonsensical sequence. 

It was basically a free movie, if that movie came with zero logic and questionable casting choices.

Pinocchio was closing in on what looked like the schoolhouse now, humming and skipping along the dirt path with all the carefree energy of someone who didn’t notice when he was being preyed on. 

You, however, weren’t nearly as oblivious.

You spotted them instantly. Two shapes hiding behind a very skinny tree. Big guys. Broad shoulders. Not exactly subtle. 

Even dream logic couldn’t cover for that terrible camouflage job.

Their backs were turned, but something about the way they moved, especially the one fiddling with a cane, set off alarm bells. 

“And that’s when I told her…”

You narrowed your eyes. That voice. You knew that voice. That smug, irritating tone could only belong to—

Pinocchio, meanwhile, walked right into the cane that had been conveniently “forgotten” in his path and promptly faceplanted.

The two figures gasped in unison, very theatrically, might you add, and scrambled to help him up. 

One of them nudged the other aside as he reached for Pinocchio’s pockets.

Finally, you caught a glimpse of his face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Travis Stoll. And, of course, where Travis went, Connor was never far behind.

Sure enough, there he was, Connor Stoll, getting knocked back with a groan, holding onto his hat. 

No surprise here. The Stoll brothers, cast as the con men in Pinocchio. 

“A man of letters, I see,” Travis said, picking up Pinocchio’s book and holding it upside down like it was a foreign object. 

Somehow, he managed to sound both impressed and illiterate.

Pinocchio, of course, beamed. “I’m going to school!”

Travis snorted under his breath, but Connor swooped in smoothly, wrapping an arm around Pinocchio like a seasoned salesman who smelled fresh meat. 

“School? Pfft. Let me guess—you haven’t heard about the easy way to success?”

“Easy way?” Pinocchio echoed, wide-eyed.

Connor spun him around. “ A theater! ” he declared, throwing his hands into the air. “Bright lights! Music! Applause! Fame! ”

“Fame?” Pinocchio repeated again, completely hooked now.

Connor leaned in, smiling wide. “Oh yeah. With that physique and profile? You’re a natural-born star!” Behind him, Travis nodded along.

“You’re going straight to the top, my little wooden boy! I can already see your name in lights—” Connor paused. “Wait, what is your name?”

“Pinocchio!”

“Pinocchio!” Connor repeated, recovering with a flourish. “In big, bright letters! P-I-N-O-K-I—um... Yeah! A star is born!”

You dragged a hand down your face. This was just embarrassing. Nico would never fall for something this dumb. 

Pinocchio was single-handedly tanking your new friend’s reputation. 

You sighed heavily, watching as Pinocchio lit up. He skipped into the arms of the con artists, swept away in their fantasy of stardom without so much as a second thought.

Part of becoming a real boy should include developing basic common sense, you thought grimly, trailing after them as the trio disappeared down the road.

This was when you noticed something, or rather, someone, was missing.

Where was that deranged cricket? Jiminy should’ve been hovering somewhere nearby, nagging Pinocchio about responsibility and school bells. 

In the original story, he’d followed the puppet all the way to class. So where was he now?

Weird. But you didn’t have time to dwell on the bug’s mysterious absence.

That now-familiar pull returned, the world dimming. 

When your vision cleared, you were somewhere new, facing a large, looming stage.

Right away, you could tell something was off.

The audience was packed, but they sat in perfect, eerie stillness. Rigid spines, unmoving heads. 

Their faces looked blank. Expressions, like porcelain masks staring forward without focus. 

A big, bulky man stood in front of the stage, mic in hand. Unlike other characters, you knew who this was as soon as you saw him. 

It was Stromboli, the puppeteer. He wasn’t someone you knew in reality. 

Strangely, he was the same person he was in the original story. 

Although it was weird seeing your friends throughout your dream, it was fun. You couldn’t help but frown when you saw his face.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! I hope you’ve enjoyed the show so far!” His voice boomed, a thick Italian accent going into the crowd. 

His words caused a chain reaction of cheers and clapping.

Looking around, your brows furrowed at the lack of movement from the surrounding images. There was noise? music, cheers, but none of the audience members moved. 

They were just still images. Photos with sound. Which, yeah, okay, dreams were weird, but this was weird even for dreams.

It didn’t seem to bother Stromboli. He stepped into the spotlight like nothing was wrong, his shadow stretching long behind him. 

“Today,” he boomed, sweeping his arms wide, “to conclude this magnificent show, I present a miracle! The only puppet who can sing and dance without strings—PINOCCHIO!”

The red curtains peeled back, and there was Pinocchio, standing stiffly on a narrow staircase set in the middle of the stage. 

He blinked at the frozen crowd, visibly uncertain, but when the music started, he forced a smile and took his first step down.

And immediately missed it.

He tumbled in a clatter of limbs and painted wood. You winced, secondhand embarrassment heating up your cheeks.

Stromboli was on him in an instant, yanking him up by the collar like a dog that had peed on the rug. 

His face turned tomato-red as he launched into a tirade in angry, rapid Italian. Words you couldn’t understand but didn’t need to. His spit practically steamed.

Until someone in the audience let out a snort.

In an instant, the tone flipped. Stromboli froze, dollar signs reflected in his eyes. 

His face smoothed into a grin. 

“Such a cute kid,” he laughed, patting Pinocchio’s head with sudden affection. 

The music swelled, and Pinocchio, ever the good puppet, bounced back into a dance, eyes glittering.

Now this was more your speed. A performance. Something to actually enjoy. No scamming, no sappy father-son bonding. Just a musical number. 

You could vibe with that. You even caught yourself humming along. And, well… Pinocchio did look like Nico. 

That alone made it hard to look away.

“Oh, I love music. Don’t you?”

You jolted as a hand brushed yours. You nearly punched whoever it was out of pure instinct, but they caught your arm before contact was made.

“Was that your attempt at assault?”

Your heart sank.

Of course. Him again.

Phantasos lounged next to you, one leg hooked over the other, wild eyes with unreadable delight. 

You snatched your arm back. The skin tingled where he’d touched you. “You scared me.”

His smile dipped.

“I’m not Phobetor,” he said softly. “I’d never scare you.”

You stared at him. “I’d rather him than you.”

He clutched his chest “Truly, you wound me, young one. Such a tragic little attitude, wasted on such a beautiful face. But I suppose that’s puberty for you.”

With a sigh, he melted into the seat beside you and crossed his ankles. 

His gaze slid back to the stage, where Pinocchio was dancing under golden light.

 “I meant what I said before,” he said. “About music. Especially when the lyrics wear two faces.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean… double meanings?”

Phantasos grinned, nodding slowly. “Exactly. Hidden truths. Wrapped in melody. The best lies always sing sweetly.”

Onstage, Pinocchio twirled as the lights started to glow brighter around him. 

“I’ve got no strings
To hold me down
To make me fret
Or make me frown…” 

“Pretty literal,” you muttered. “He’s a puppet. No strings. That’s kind of the whole thing.”

Phantasos made a tsk sound, wagging a finger an inch from your face. “Are you sure ? This is a dream, sweetheart. Nothing is ever just what it seems.”

You sighed, exhausted already. “So I’m supposed to interpret it like a riddle?”

“You’re supposed to see , not just look ,” he said, smiling again. “It’s not that hard, really.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He beamed. “Thank you.”

You rubbed your face, deciding, against your better judgment, to actually try. 

The song kept playing as the lights flickered. The audience was still frozen, masks grinning wider than before.

“I had strings
But now I’m free
There are no strings on me…” 

You frowned. The word free didn’t sound triumphant. It sounded forced. Like someone had shoved the line into his mouth and told him to mean it.

That’s when things got… stranger.

The stage began to stretch, the floorboards curling upward like paper caught in wind. 

The stairs behind Pinocchio multiplied, spiraling upward into nowhere. 

A second Pinocchio appeared. Then a third. All dancing in sync. One blinked wrong. One smiled too wide.

The music sped up.

Then slowed.

Then reversed.

You recoiled. “What—” you choked out, clutching the edge of your seat.

Reversed violin’s shrieking backward, the beat stuttered, repeating the same broken bar of melody over and over until it felt like your brain was skipping like a scratched record.

The spotlight split. A thousand tiny beams like a thousand tiny eyes, all blinking, all watching. 

They swept the crowd, but the crowd didn’t move . They weren’t even people anymore. 

Porcelain masks shattered under the light, leaking nothing but black ink and static.

The confetti stars above began melting,  dripping into the stage and sizzling on contact.

Stromboli laughed, but his face was gone. A blank void with teeth. A soundless howl beneath the music.

The curtain behind him bled ink.

You stumbled out of your seat, breath catching in your throat. Your body wanted to run, but the floor was soft now, like foam or carpet underwater. 

You wobbled, knees buckling, balance tilting with the shifting geometry of the room.

One of the audience’s masks slid off, clattering to the ground.

Behind it, a mirror.

Another fell off.

It showed your face.

Another one, blank. No face at all. Just smooth flesh, like clay waiting for a sculptor. Your stomach dropped.

“I—I don’t—what is this?” you gasped, your voice small, barely heard over the distorted music. The air was too thick and everything felt wrong .

Phantasos looked at you. 

“You poor, precious thing,” he said, almost fondly. “Still clinging to the idea that freedom means no rules .”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

But Phantasos only sighed and leaned in, tapping you lightly on the nose. “I’m not here to carry you. I’m here to nudge .”

“No wonder demigods die young,” you muttered. “The gods talk in riddles when they could just warn us.”

That seemed to amuse him. His smile curved, dark and knowing. “Oh, I have warned you. You just weren’t listening.”

His expression dimmed, snuffed out. 

“Farewell,” he said quietly. “Maybe one of my brothers will get through to you.”

He raised a hand and snapped. Gone.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was empty. 

You stood there, alone on the surreal stage, surrounded by melting stars and blank-eyed audience members. If they were even still there at all.

Were you supposed to be relieved?

Or was this sense of dread, tight, gnawing, like a pulled string on the verge of snapping, your sign that you’d just missed something important?

Your head spun. This didn’t feel like a dream anymore. It felt like a message with most of the letters blacked out.

The song. Was that the key? A warning hidden in a child’s lullaby?

You didn’t want to think about it too hard. 

If you did, you'd start spiraling, and once you fell, you weren’t sure you could climb back out.

Luckily, or maybe not, something small and green hopped past your feet.

Jiminy Cricket.

He came to a halt and looked toward the stage with an unimpressed glare. “This kid gave up school for fame. How cheap.”

His frown deepened when he saw Pinocchio basking in the applause.

“I guess the bobblehead doesn’t need me anymore,” Jiminy muttered, deflated. “Time to exit stage left, I suppose.”

He turned and began hopping away, shoulders slumped.

You stared after him, baffled. “Seriously? You’re ditching him because he can sing?”

The applause on stage faded as Pinocchio took his final bow. Next, the scene melted. 

When it reformed, you were somewhere else. Inside a lavish carriage. Velvet-lined walls. Gilded trim. 

The heavy scent of wine and sweat. A table overflowing with coins.

Stromboli hunched over it, counting money.

“Two hundred…”

Across from him, Pinocchio beamed, eyes wide as he held open a sack. Stromboli shoveled coins inside, muttering feverishly.

“People love me!” he barked, ecstatic. “Three hundred!”

“You were amazing, Pinocchio!” he shouted, half to the puppet, half to the heavens. “A natural ! An icon ! A goldmine !”

Pinocchio lit up. “Does that mean I’m an actor?”

“Yes! A star! Your name on every tongue!” Stromboli crowed, puffing out his chest.

He pulled a fake gold coin from behind his ear and dropped it into Pinocchio’s hands. “For you, my boy!”

Pinocchio clutched it. “Gee, thanks! I’ll go straight home and tell my father!”

Stromboli, mid-swig of wine, choked.

He spat everywhere. (You recoiled. Gross. )

“Home?” he wheezed, wiping his chin. He started laughing. Booming and mean. “You are a comedian, too!”

Pinocchio blinked. “You mean it’s funny?”

“Hilarious!”

Pinocchio laughed along, still trying to read the room, still trying to fit in and mimicking emotions he didn’t fully understand.

And suddenly, it hit you.

Maybe you and Pinocchio weren’t so different.

He thought he was free. No strings. No rules. Just applause and promises. But his conscience had already walked out. 

And he didn’t even realize he was trading one master for another

You, too, were following something you couldn’t quite name. Something deeper, harder to untangle. Dreams, omens. 

You told yourself you were in control, but were you? Or were you just dancing, too?

The song hadn’t been about freedom.

It had been about illusion.

No strings didn’t mean no control. Sometimes, it meant the control was invisible. The hand pulling the strings was just clever enough to hide.

And before Pinocchio could even process his so-called triumph, Stromboli grabbed him.

The man’s grin had vanished.

He held the puppet tightly by the collar, muttering something venomous before he threw him into a small iron cage bolted to the corner of the carriage.

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

“This will be your home!” Stromboli bellowed.

Pinocchio scrambled to his feet, clutching the bars. “No!”

Stromboli didn’t flinch. His voice only grew more triumphant. “We’ll tour the world. Paris, London, Moscow! Your name on every billboard, every tongue.” 

He swept a bag of coins off the table, turning with a glint of greed in his eyes. “You’re mine now, little puppet. The show goes on.”

He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Pinocchio rattled the cage, frantic. But it was no use. 

“Let me out!” he cried. “I want to go home! I don’t want to be famous!”

No answer.

He rattled the cage harder, calling out for Geppetto, for Jiminy, for anyone, but the only thing that answered was the muffled creak of the carriage rocking slightly with movement. 

The wheels were already turning. They were leaving.

He slumped back, wooden knees hitting the floor with a hollow clack. His hands fell from the bars, limp and trembling.

The reality sank in.

No cheers. No spotlight. No applause. Just four walls of cold iron. Finally, he wept.

Not like a puppet. Like a child.

Sympathy was such a pain in the butt. 

You wanted to be mad at him, call him stupid, yell “you should’ve known better!”, but he was just a kid. 

A wooden, naive, hopeful kid who trusted the wrong people. He didn’t know any better.

While Pinocchio cried, a faint rustling came from the carriage door. His head shot up, eyes wide with hope. “Jiminy!”

“Oh, you wooden idiot,” the little cricket huffed, running to the cage. “What did he do to you?!”

“He locked me up! He said he won’t let me go home to my father!”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, and he said he’d put my name on everyone’s tongue! ”

“ Really? ” 

“Uh-huh!” Pinocchio pointed desperately at the lock. “Please, Jiminy, please help me!”

Jiminy let out a sigh and cracked his knuckles. “Oh, I’d love to strangle that fairy right now.” He launched himself at the lock.

From inside came muffled mumbling, the occasional metallic clank , and a few PG-rated curses. 

Eventually, Jiminy popped back out, covered in soot, antennae frazzled.

He glared at the lock. “Must be one of the old ones.”

“You can’t open it?” Pinocchio asked, horrified.

Jiminy shook his head, brushing ash from his coat. “It’ll take a miracle to get us out of here.”

“Gee…” Pinocchio deflated. He sank down again, his wooden shoulders drooping.

The two of them sat in silence, the carriage wheels clattering beneath them. 

“Wow,” you muttered, arms crossed as you watched them mope. “They give up faster than I do during capture the flag.”

Still, you weren’t that worried. This was the part of the story where the Blue Fairy showed up, right? All sparkles and salvation. 

That was the pattern, Pinocchio cries, Jiminy whines, and then poof, wish-granting lady descends.

...But what if she didn’t come?

The thought slipped into your mind. You blinked, suddenly less sure. 

What if the story didn’t unfold like it used to? What if the dream wasn’t just a retelling, but a test ?

What if you were meant to be the one who saved him?

Your gaze drifted back to Pinocchio, his wooden hands gripping the bars like they might bend if he just believed hard enough. 

Yes, he was a dumb kid. Naive, unlucky, easily led, but that didn’t mean he deserved this. And Jiminy, annoying as he was, clearly cared.

You straightened up, a new energy building in your chest.

This had to be it. The reason the dream spirits brought you here. Not to be an observer. Not to be some passive background character. 

You weren’t here to follow the script. You were here to rewrite it.

This was your moment, your chance to do something.

To be a hero.

With new resolve, you scanned the carriage. It wasn’t much, just old boxes, rotting wood, and the smell of something sour, but you weren’t the one stuck in a cage. 

You could make something happen.

As you paced, you remembered what happened next in the original story. 

Geppetto should be nearby, calling for Pinocchio, just barely missing the carriage as it passed.

Unless… you changed that.

“[Name], you genius,” you whispered, already heading to the door.

You swung it open and jumped out, completely missing the wide-eyed stares of Jiminy and Pinocchio as the door moved seemingly on its own.

“Ew, ew, ew!” you yelped, hopping around the mud. “Not the shoes, not the shoes!”

Amid your panicked dance, you caught the distant sound of Geppetto’s voice, calling for his son. 

Your head snapped up, heart racing. There, just at the crossroads.

You ran, boots squelching, until you were close enough to shove him right in front of the moving carriage.

“Whoa!!”

The carriage screeched to a halt. Stromboli leapt down, livid.

“Are you blind , old man?! You trying to get yourself killed?!”

Geppetto raised his hands defensively, scrambling to his feet. “I—I didn’t mean to! My apologies, sir. I want no trouble.”

Stromboli sneered, looming like a villain. “You look weak.”

“I’m looking for my son. He’s gone missing.”

“Your son?” Stromboli’s eyes narrowed, a wicked gleam flickering to life. “You mean… Pinocchio ?”

Geppetto stepped forward, hope lighting up his face. “Yes! Have you seen him?! Is he alright?”

Stromboli threw his head back and laughed, a booming sound that shook the air. “ Seen him? He’s mine now! My little puppet star!”

“He is not a puppet!” Geppetto shouted, his voice cracking with fury and heartbreak. “He’s my son ! Give him back, you twisted monster!”

Stromboli sneered. “Son? He’s made of wood , old man. He’s not meant to be free . He’s meant to be controlled . That’s all puppets are good for.”

Something inside you snapped.

Who the heck did this guy think he was? Who gave him the right to decide what Pinocchio could be? He wasn’t a guardian or a father. He wasn’t kind or wise or even decent. He was just a big, hairy tyrant with a god complex and no heart.

You were done watching him get away with it.

Without even thinking, your hand closed around a rock on the ground. It was rough and solid. 

Exactly what you needed.

You hurled it.

The rock soared through the air and smacked Stromboli square in the temple.

His eyes bulged in surprise and rolled back before he crumpled like a sack of potatoes, hitting the dirt with a satisfying thud.

You let out a breath. “Take that , loser.”

Unable to help yourself, you stuck your tongue out at his unconscious body and did a little victory shuffle. “Gods, I’m amazing.”

Geppetto flinched at the sound of Stromboli’s fall but quickly shook off the shock and bolted toward the carriage. 

You followed close behind, pausing only to dig through Stromboli’s pockets. (Ugh. Greasy and linty. Gross.) Still, you managed to snag a set of rusted keys. 

Score.

“ Pinocchio! ” Geppetto’s voice rang out.

“ Father! ” Pinocchio’s face lit up behind the bars.

Geppetto rushed forward, clutching the iron cage. “I’m here now, my boy. I’m here. Let’s get you out of there.”

“We tried!” Pinocchio said.“There’s no way without a key!”

“ We? ”

“Me and my friend Jiminy! He’s really nice!”

Jiminy, now perched proudly on Pinocchio’s shoulder, gave a shy little wave, his cheeks tinged pink. “Aw, go on…”

Geppetto gave a grateful nod, his eyes warm and full of relief. “Thank you for looking after him, Jiminy.”

The cricket rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, just doin’ my job.”

You rolled your eyes. 

Doing his job? Please. He only showed up after things hit rock bottom. More like the world’s tiniest supervisor.

“ Father, the key! ” Pinocchio reminded, practically bouncing inside the cage.

“Ah—right, right…”

You “accidentally” tossed the keys in Geppetto’s direction. They nailed him in the forehead with a solid clonk .

“ Papa, the sky is falling! ” Pinocchio yelped, hands to his cheeks.

Oops. Wrong story

Geppetto blinked, rubbing his scalp with a frown as he glanced suspiciously at the ceiling. 

“Must’ve fallen from one of the hooks,” he muttered, scooping the keys off the floor like this kind of thing happened to him regularly.

He turned his attention to the lock. It took some fiddling, the keys scraping and jamming a few times, but then— click. 

The metal creaked, and the cage door slowly swung open.

Pinocchio didn’t wait a second. He threw himself into Geppetto’s arms, wooden limbs wrapping around him with surprising force.

Geppetto let out a breathy laugh, holding him close. “It’s okay, Pinocchio. I’ve got you now.”

It would’ve been a perfectly sweet moment.

If the world hadn’t gone pitch-black.

Another shift.

The world flickered.

Light returned, but colder now. 

You blinked, squinting against the dimness, heart ticking in your chest like the rows of clocks around you.

Geppetto’s shop.

But not quite.

The wooden walls leaned inward, warped and sagging like they were made of wax. The floorboards groaned with every shift, like the house itself was holding its breath. 

Shelves drooped, their contents slouched and slumping. Puppets missing eyes, tools rusted in place, spools of thread tangled in impossible knots.

The clocks ticked on, but not together. Some sped up. Some lagged. One let out a soft, high-pitched chime then fell dead silent.

You frowned. 

No. 

You’d done everything right. You freed him. Stromboli was gone, the cage was open, the boy was safe.

So why were you still here?

“Good morning, son!”

You turned, startled.

Geppetto sat at the table, smile painted on like a mask. His eyes gleamed with artificial warmth.

“Morning!” Pinocchio chirped from across the room, bright and sunny, as if the last hour of terror had never happened.

Geppetto handed him an apple. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened yesterday? Why didn’t you go to school?”

Pinocchio hesitated. His small hands turned the apple over and over. It glistened wetly, redder than any fruit had a right to be. 

“I… I met somebody,” he began. “Two enormous monsters.”

SNAP.

His nose shot forward like a spring-loaded blade. You flinched. Jiminy gasped. 

Pinocchio froze, hand flying to his face.

Geppetto leaned in, concern creasing his brow. Gently, he tilted his son’s chin to examine the growing wood.

“Oh no… your nose,” he said softly. “Did they do this to you?”

“I wasn’t scared!” Pinocchio blurted, rushed and shaky, the words tumbling out in a panic. “But they tied me up in a big sack!”

CRACK.

His nose jerked forward again. Longer, now, curling faintly at the end. 

The tension in the room twisted tighter. The clocks ticked faster.

“What about Sir Jiminy?” Geppetto asked.

Jiminy raised both hands and started inching back. “Oh no. Don’t drag me into this—”

“They tied him up in a little sack,” Pinocchio added. 

SNAP.

The nose lengthened again. It stretched past the edge of the table now, an awkward wooden bridge he couldn’t undo. 

The room seemed to lean into it, shadows gathering around its base like mold creeping along a wall.

“My nose!!” Pinocchio wailed, gripping the length of it. “Make it stop!”

Geppetto stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. “Don’t worry, my boy! We’ll get the doctor. Just sit tight.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The door opened with a low creak, less like hinges, more like something groaning and alive, and then he was gone. 

As the door shut, Jiminy hopped down, arms crossed.

“Why did you lie, Pinocchio?”

A new voice answered.

“That’s an interesting question. Why did he lie?”

You froze. That voice. Phobetor.

Great. Another dream spirit. At this point, their surprise entrances were starting to feel less like divine intervention and more like bad customer service.

Without turning around, you kept your eyes on the puppet and the cricket. “What do you want?”

He strolled up beside you, arms folded behind his back and chin tilted slightly upward.

“To torment you,” he said breezily. “But, unfortunately, I’ve been ordered to”—he gagged, visibly repulsed—“help you.”

You didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll. “You sound very enthusiastic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The excitement’s just radiating off you.”

He chuckled, puffing out his chest. “Well, I have been working on my temperament.”

You squinted at him. “Right. Anyyyway. What are you actually here for? Because, no offense, you guys suck at your job.”

His expression twitched and a flicker of irritation cracked through his polished facade. .

He muttered to himself through clenched teeth, “Patience, Phobetor. Patience…”

With a sharp exhale, he refocused on you, eyes narrowed but voice still smooth.

“Why did he lie?” he repeated, nodding toward Pinocchio, who was now quietly sobbing over his grotesquely lengthened nose.

He began to circle you. Slow, deliberate steps, like a predator sizing up its prey. 

“Why do people lie, do you think?”

You narrowed your eyes. Was this a test? Did he think you were stupid?

Please. Everyone knew why people lied.

“Because they’re scared,” you said.

Phobetor paused in front of Pinocchio, thoughtful. “True.”

He raised a hand and laid his fingers gently on Pinocchio’s wooden shoulders. Time froze. 

Jiminy hung mid-gesture, face locked in worry. Pinocchio’s eyes stayed wide and glassy, caught between guilt and confusion.

Phobetor’s voice dropped. 

“Do you know what most people fear?”

Your first instinct was to say you, but you bit it back. Snarking your way into Tartarus wasn’t on your to-do list.

And truthfully… you weren’t sure anymore.

You thought about answering seriously. You tried to picture it, other people’s fears. 

But the only fears you truly knew were your own. The fear of being left behind, of never being enough, of loving too much or not at all. 

The fear of being forgotten. The fear of knowing exactly what you are.

You stayed silent.

Phobetor didn’t seem surprised.

“Most people,” he continued, circling slowly, “fear the truth. Not the monsters. Not the dark. The truth. The shame it carries. The way it strips you bare and leaves you exposed. It changes how people look at you. How you look at yourself. Truth doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t reassure. It takes, and it leaves.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough to make your skin prickle. His hand reached for yours before you could flinch away.

“When you’re afraid,” he said softly, “fear starts making your choices for you. It whispers in your ear, changes the shape of the world. You doubt your memories. You doubt the people you love. You lie, not to protect yourself, but to preserve the illusion that you’re still in control.”

His grip tightened just enough to sting. “You start to believe that lie. And then… you live by it.”

You yanked your hand back. His cold lingered, like winter buried in your skin.

“Why are you telling me this?” you snapped. “Pinocchio’s the liar, not me.”

Phobetor didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head. “Oh, child. There are liars all around you.”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only pity.

“One day, you’ll see the truth. The bravest ones...”

He leaned in. “...are often the biggest cowards.”

Phobetor stepped back and turned you gently toward the frozen scene. Toward the unmoving boy, the trembling nose, the ticking silence.

“Heads up,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Wait—what does that—”

But he was gone.

Just when you might’ve actually needed him.

Seriously, what were these gods good for? Besides showing up uninvited, speaking in riddles, and spinning your brain like a carousel powered by dread?

The dream resumed.

Pinocchio and Jiminy picked up mid-conversation like nothing had happened. But before Pinocchio could answer, the front bell chimed. 

In stepped a man. Or something like a man.

He was dressed head-to-toe in black, movements too smooth, limbs just slightly too long. 

His face was hidden by a ski mask, but the eyeholes were wide, dark. Deep. Not just Classic robber, you told yourself. But it felt wrong.

“Father—?” Pinocchio began brightly, still beaming with naïve hope. Until he paused, tilting his head at the newcomer. “Oh, hello! I thought you were my father.”

The figure didn’t answer immediately. His stare bored into the boy like he was measuring something inside him. 

His voice, when it came, was as flat and cold. “Your father?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation wearing the mask of curiosity.

He wasn’t from the story. Not Stromboli. Not Connor or Travis. This man, this presence, was something else entirely. 

An intruder.

Pinocchio gestured innocently to the empty coat rack. “He went to get the doctor. My nose won’t go down.”

The figure gave no indication he’d heard. He was already moving, gliding across the warped wooden floor, fingers dragging over the counter. Wherever he touched, the wood darkened, warped. 

Like his touch was spoiling it.

You took a step forward instinctively, but didn’t intervene. Something about the scene rooted you in place. 

“I’m an old friend,” he said smoothly. “Your father owes me.”

“Owes you what?” Jiminy asked sharply, stepping forward.

The man ignored him.

He crouched to Pinocchio’s eye level, and suddenly, the walls seemed closer, the room too small. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“He took something. Something precious. A name, maybe. A promise.”

Pinocchio shifted uncomfortably. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he lies.” The man rose again, drifting toward the cluttered shelves. “Not with words. With love . That’s the most dangerous kind.”

You felt your own pulse falter. The shadows behind him seemed to breathe.

Pinocchio tilted his head. “But… he loves me.”

The masked man laughed, almost pitying. “Does he?”

He reached for the register and pried it open. The drawer coughed out coins and bills like it wanted to be rid of them.

Jiminy flailed. “Hey, hey! Hands off the till!”

“Just collecting what I’m owed,” the man said, slipping the money into a black bag that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “But I can offer something in return.”

He turned, stepping forward again. A glint in his palm.

A diamond.

Huge. Flawless. Not shining, but glowing , pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

“Here,” he said. “For your honesty.”

Pinocchio stared, mesmerized. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s truth ,” the man replied. “And it’s heavy, isn’t it? Isn’t it strange, how you’ve never received anything so lovely… from him?”

Pinocchio’s expression dimmed.

“He makes toys for everyone else. Repairs clocks for strangers. But when was the last time he carved something just for you?”

Jiminy’s voice cracked. “Kid, don’t listen to him. He’s twisting you around.”

“Is it twisted,” the man asked softly, “to notice when you’re not wanted?”

Pinocchio flinched. His nose grew another inch with a jolt that made him wince. But he didn’t respond.

The masked man kneeled again, that pale stare burning through the holes in his mask. 

“You are made of lies,” he whispered. “And every time you try to be good, you only become more false. Do you know why?”

Pinocchio shook his head.

“Because he made you in his image.”

Silence.

A snap. 

The long, hanging clocks on the wall all jerked to midnight at once. They rang with no chime. Just dull, metallic thuds , like teeth snapping shut.

“I should go,” the man said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ve already said too much.”

“But—” Pinocchio clutched the diamond. “Wait. Was it true?”

The man tilted his head as if listening to something far away. 

With the faintest smile, he murmured, “Truth is just a beautiful lie we all agreed to believe.”

The man turned to leave out through the door but it didn’t open normally this time. 

It simply folded away, like paper curling in firelight. Halfway through the threshold of that flickering, flame-eaten doorway, the man paused.

Your breath caught.

It had already been a nightmare.

But now the nightmare saw you .

He turned.

Right toward you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

No one in these dreams was supposed to see you. Not the characters. Not the illusions. Only the dream spirits.

You were a visitor. An observer.  A ghost moving through someone else’s grief.

But this man didn’t just see you.

He looked through you.

His pale eyes locked with yours, and in them, something powerful stirred.

Something that reminded you, with chilling clarity, of your age.

Small.

Powerless.

Exposed.

The air in the room shifted. Grew sharp, like it had been threaded with glass. He tilted his head as he raised a hand and waved. 

Not friendly or mocking. 

Intimate. Like he knew you. 

Something cold unspooled in your gut. But he was gone in the next second. He stepped through the burning-paper door, vanishing like smoke behind a candle. 

And that’s when you realized, you weren’t breathing. You drew in air slowly. 

Around you, the dream had resumed, unbothered. Pinocchio sobbed quietly, his nose curling. 

Jiminy trembled, visibly shaken, his antennae twitching like nerves in a lightning storm. But you stood apart. 

Because he had seen you. He knew you didn’t belong here. 

And he’d acknowledged it. 

Which meant one thing, this wasn’t just a dream. 

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t stitched together by your subconscious. 

It was pointed. You were being watched. You wiped your palms on your pants, but they were still clammy. 

Your mouth felt full of ash. Like a fire had been lit inside you.

Pinocchio turned to Jiminy. His voice was small, cracked.

“Jiminy… was he right?”

“Of course not!” Jiminy barked, but his voice wavered. “He was just trying to scare you. Twist your strings.”

Pinocchio nodded slowly, but his eyes didn’t follow.

“I never know who to believe. I try. But it’s always wrong. I’m always wrong. I’ll never be the boy he wants.”

The diamond shimmered in his lap like it was listening.

He sobbed, harder than before. His nose hung down past the table’s edge now. 

The clocks ticked again, but none in rhythm. One bled ink. Another spat sawdust.

The door creaked open. 

“Pinocchio, I’m home—”

Geppetto stopped cold at the sight of his son crumpled in tears. He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside him.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Pinocchio looked up through the veil of his own crying. His voice came out cracked and distant.

“Father… are you a liar?”

Geppetto blinked. “What? Of course not—!”

“Where’s the doctor?”

“He… couldn’t make it—”

“You went to give toys to other kids, didn’t you?”

“What? Now, Pinocchio—”

“No!” Pinocchio shoved his hand away and stood, fists balled at his sides.

“You lied! You said you’d get a doctor, and you didn’t!”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“Liar! Liar! Liar!”

The word struck like glass each time.
Even the house reacted. Lights dimming, walls groaning, a chair leg snapping under invisible weight.

Wow. Who knew Pinocchio had it in him?

Even Figaro peeked out from the stairs and darted back immediately, tail low.

“I hate you!”

You could almost hear Geppetto’s heart crack.

And honestly? Pinocchio was seriously starting to get on your nerves.

You stepped forward, half-tempted to snap him out of it—when a knock echoed from the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

The room shivered.

Geppetto sighed and stood. He looked older. 

He opened the door.

“Officer?” he asked, confused. “What’s wrong?”

The man on the threshold wore a uniform, sure. But it didn’t fit right. Too crisp. 

“There was a robbery at the jewelry store down the street,” he said. His voice was monotone. “We received a tip. Said the stolen diamond is here. With you.”

Geppetto chuckled nervously. “Me? That’s ridiculous. There’s no diamond here.”

“I’m going to have to search the shop.”

Geppetto stepped in front of the door. “You’ll need a warrant.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. They didn’t blink. 

“You telling me how to do my job?”

“If you knew how to do it,” Geppetto said tightly, “I wouldn’t have to.”

…Okay. Geppetto might actually be Chiron-level cool.

The officer didn’t respond.

His face didn’t change, but the room did .

The floor sagged. The walls rippled like fabric in wind. Even the shadows looked wrong, no longer matching the shapes that cast them.

“I’m done playing games,” the officer growled.

But he didn’t move like a man. He glided forward.

Geppetto held his ground.

“I said, you need a warrant.”

Behind him, Pinocchio shrank, the diamond clutched in his puppet hands like a lifeline. Jiminy tugged on his pant leg, frantic.

The clocks on the wall began to spin backward.

You wanted to move. To help. To do something.

Without thinking, you grabbed the pepper spray from a nearby shelf—was it always there?—and leaned around Geppetto, firing directly into the officer’s face.

He shrieked. Reared back. Clawed at his eyes like they were melting.

“MY EYES!”

Just to be sure, you kicked him once in the shin, muttering, “Dream or not, that’s for being a jerk,” before everything around you twisted.

Geppetto didn’t waste the opening. He grabbed Pinocchio and bolted, vanishing into the woods behind the house.

The scenery around you bled and folded, like the world itself was being turned inside out. 

Then, silence.

A sharp jab to your thigh yanked you back into yourself.

“Rude,” you grumbled, rubbing the sore spot and tossing aside the twig that had jabbed you. Your surroundings had changed.

You were in a forest now. A real one. Sort of.

Ahead, you spotted the bent tree the Demeter kids had once half-transfigured into a cucumber patch during Capture the Flag.

For a split second, you almost relaxed.

Until Geppetto shot past like a hunted man, Pinocchio slung awkwardly under one arm like a sack of flour. 

They collapsed into a small clearing, panting hard. Leaves scattered. A nearby owl blinked twice and promptly disappeared into the ether.

“Father! Are you okay?” Pinocchio scrambled upright.

Geppetto waved him off, his voice hoarse. “Did you steal that diamond?”

“No!” Pinocchio cried, holding out the gem with trembling fingers. “A man gave it to me. He said he was your friend.”

Geppetto stilled. “My… friend?”

“Yes. He said you helped him once. That you owed him.”

Geppetto’s face shifted, but not with recognition. With dread.

Before he could answer, sirens split the quiet. The trees started to lean in and the clearing felt smaller.

Geppetto stood, gripped his son’s shoulders. “Pinocchio, listen to me. You have to give the diamond back. It’s not yours.”

Pinocchio shook his head. “No! It was a gift. He gave it to me.”

“He manipulated you. This isn’t the time for stubbornness—”

“It’s not fair!” Pinocchio snapped. “You give toys to all the other kids. Why not me?”

“Because you’re—” Geppetto stopped himself. His jaw clenched. “Because you’re my son. And I would never give you something stolen.”

“I don’t care!” Pinocchio screamed. “I never want to see you again!”

You took a step forward, fury spiking. “Alright, that’s enough—”

—and smacked into something solid.

You stumbled backward, dazed. An invisible wall rippled before you You reached out again. Blocked.

“What the Hades—?”

You pounded on it. It hummed beneath your fists.

Whatever this part of the dream was, you weren’t allowed in. Not anymore.

You turned, just in time to see the officers pour into the clearing, solidifying into form. They moved mechanically, faceless behind mirrored sunglasses. 

The same officer from before stepped forward, flanked by the others.

“Don’t play dumb, carpenter. We know you and the boy have the diamond.”

Geppetto didn’t flinch. “You’ve made a mistake. We don’t have any stolen property.”

The officer’s expression didn’t change. “Arrest them.”

“No, wait!” Pinocchio darted forward, holding the diamond out. “Here! My father made me carry it!”

You froze, too stunned to move.

He’d lied.

Flat-out lied.

Geppetto gaped at his son’s words, but only for a second. The shock flickered across his face, then vanished behind a mask of calm. He turned back to the officer.

“He’s telling the truth,” he said quietly. “I stole the diamond.”

The officer didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown or blink. He looked like a man reading from a script he hadn’t written.

“Good enough for me,” he said with a shrug. “You heard him. We’ve got our culprit.”

His fellow officers shrugged, then broke into cheers like this was some kind of victory parade. 

It left a bitter taste in your mouth. You could only watch as the lie curdled into reality.

Geppetto had done nothing wrong. But he was the one paying for it.

Even Pinocchio, who you’d once believed was just a confused puppet with a conscience, had proven himself no better than the one who dragged him into this.

You reminded yourself it wasn’t real. Just a dream. Just another twisted illusion meant to shake you.

But that didn’t stop the burn in your chest. The betrayal felt real. The injustice, the helplessness. 

The cuffs snapped shut around his wrists. The click echoed through the clearing like a final judgment.

One of the officers shoved him forward, and he stumbled. But he didn’t fight. He didn’t resist. Just walked. Calm. Steady. Proud, even now.

As they neared the trees, Geppetto glanced back over his shoulder.

His smile was soft. 

“I love you, Pinocchio,” he said.

That was it.

No anger. No blame. Just love.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the woods.

Pinocchio stood frozen, staring at the space where his father had just been. His shoulders sagged, puppet joints gone limp. 

His lips trembled like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

You watched him.

Watched as the silence thickened around him. Watched as his chin quivered. As he blinked too fast. As guilt bloomed across his face.

Too little, too late.

You scoffed, arms crossed, voice ice-cold.
“Oh, boo hoo. You did this to yourself.”

Sympathy? Not happening. Not this time. He might’ve looked like Nico, same dark curls, same big dark eyes, but that didn’t matter anymore. 

Not after what he’d done.

If he wanted forgiveness, he could go complete all twelve labors of Hercules barefoot, blindfolded, and dragging that diamond behind him the entire way.

You turned your back on him.

“I guess it’s time to go home,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

But his feet refused to move.

He glanced down, confused, then screamed.

His legs were turning to wood.

“No—no, no, no—MY LEGS!” he cried, crumpling to the ground with a thud that didn’t sound like flesh but lumber hitting soil. 

He grabbed at his shin, only to recoil in horror. His fingers were stiff, splintered.

“My hand!!”

The change was accelerating now, crawling up his limbs. His knees locked. His elbows bent at odd angles. 

Wood replaced skin in smooth waves, erasing movement.

You staggered back as the panic hit you.

He was becoming a puppet.

He flailed helplessly, kicking up dirt and leaves, his body twitching as if it could shake the transformation off. But it only spread faster. His legs, wooden. His hands, rigid. 

His cries rose into choked sobs as his chest began to stiffen, his voice faltering.

“Somebody help me! PLEASE!” he shrieked.

No one answered.

The forest, moments ago filled with sirens and voices and crunching boots, was now still. Not even the wind dared stir.

Pinocchio’s pupils shrank as the transformation climbed his throat. His voice cracked into something thin and unnatural. 

He clawed weakly at his face as if he could save it, preserve the last bit of himself.

You couldn’t watch. You shouldn’t have watched.

You shut your eyes, hard. Pressed your fingers into your temples like you could squeeze the sound out. 

You even pinched your arm, hard. Again and again. Hoping, praying, pleading to wake up.

But nothing happened.

His screams only grew louder, more distorted. A terrible blend of wood splintering and a child begging for mercy.

You turned away, hands clamped over your ears, heart pounding, because if you watched any longer, you might scream, too. 

You focused on the nearest tree. Counted the whorls in its bark. 

Inhale. Exhale. Again. Focus.

You’ll wake up soon, you told yourself. It’s just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
It was the only thing keeping you upright.

Then—

A soft twinkle. Like wind chimes. 

A blue light bloomed behind you, painting shadows across the forest floor.

You turned.

Floating just above the ground was Fairy Drew.

Gone was the sharp, almost teasing edge she wore earlier. Now, her expression was unreadable. And the glow that surrounded her didn’t feel warm. 

She drifted forward, her wings a slow pulse of blue light. Pinocchio lay still, his body rigid, puppet-like. 

His arms locked at his sides. His knees were now fully bent in a way that suggested pain, even if they no longer felt it. 

Only his face remained untouched. Human. Tear-streaked. 

His eyes, wild with terror, found hers.

“Help me,” he rasped. The words cracked from his throat. 

Fairy Drew didn’t flinch. She simply lowered herself until she hovered just beside him, her expression neither cruel nor kind, only resolute.

“The only person who could help you,” she said softly, “was you.”

She brushed her fingers against his temple. Not a caress. A farewell.

“I gave you a task. And you failed. You were selfish. A coward. And worst of all—a liar.”

Her words hit like hammer strikes. “You will never be a real boy, Pinocchio.”

He opened his mouth to protest. “I—”

But the word never finished.

His lips stiffened mid-syllable. His jaw froze. The wood crept higher, sealing him from the inside out.

The last thing to change were his eyes, still wide, still desperate, still staring at the same distant wishing star he’d once been born from.

A single tear welled at the corner of his eye and slid down the curve of his now-carved cheek.

It left no trail.

You stood frozen, a knot forming in your chest, unsure what you were supposed to feel. Grief? Relief? You didn’t know. You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

But the world didn’t give you time to decide.

Instead of fading to black, your vision... dimmed. The forest dissolved. The sky, the trees, the stars, gone.

And in their place, nothing.

You stood alone in a vast, silent void.

“Phew. Talk about a grand finale.”

The voice drifted in, too casual for what had just happened. You turned only to immediately collided with the speaker.

Morpheus blinked as you wrapped your arms around him in a crushing hug, your face buried in the folds of his robe. 

His shoulders stiffened as you burst into loud, hiccuping sobs.

“WAHHHHH!!! There was an officer—and a diamond—and then Pinocchio lied —and then he turned into wood ! He was crying ! WOOD TEARS! ” Your words blurred together in a single, snotty avalanche of despair.

Morpheus glanced around the empty void, clearly uncomfortable. “Oookay, that’s a lot of feelings. Right into my cloak, huh?” He gave you a few awkward pats on the back. “There, there. Let it all out. Cry it out of your subconscious.”

You pulled back and stared up at him, red-eyed and furious. “Why would you show me that?!”

He gave a sigh and shrugged. “Why do we do anything? Why do birds sing? Why do dreams turn to nightmares? Why do villains lie and boys become wood? Who knows.”

“Don’t get all mysterious with me!” you snapped. “You knew that would hurt! You planned it! You and that dumb dream logic—I trusted you!”

Morpheus raised a single brow. “Hey now. I am just doing my job.”

“Don’t talk to me,” you muttered, spinning on your heel. “We’re not friends anymore.”

Behind you, he sighed again. “Well, if you’re going to pout, I guess that means it’s time for you to wake up.”

You froze. “No,” you said, whipping around. “Absolutely not. I have questions. What did the diamond mean? What happened to Gepetto? Where was Jiminy? I can’t wake up now!”

But Morpheus just gave you that lazy, infuriating smile. “You’ll figure it out. That’s half the fun.”

“Don’t you dare —”

He saluted you with two fingers. “Rise and shine, kid.”

And with a snap of his fingers, the void shattered like glass.

You barely had time to scowl before unconsciousness surged upward and dragged you out by the ankles.

Still, as everything faded, you managed one last glare, aimed right at Morpheus’s smirking face.

If this was all some lesson, you were going to find the moral and stab it.

Chapter Text

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound had been constant for hours. A mechanical drip of time, counting out each moment that you didn’t wake up. 

The monitor hooked up to your chest chirped dutifully, as if trying to reassure the world you were still here.

It didn’t help.

On the chair beside your bed, Nico glared at the machine like it had personally offended him. 

“Beep beep, be quiet,” he muttered under his breath, a tired scowl tugging at his mouth.

As if obeying his command, the machine abruptly fell silent. The absence of sound was instant and jarring. And in that silence, Nico’s stomach dropped.

His heart jumped into his throat. He straightened so fast the chair creaked beneath him. 

Quickly, he was leaning over you, grabbing your wrist, fingers desperate and too cold as he searched for a pulse.

He told himself not to panic. That it was just a coincidence. A glitch. That the monitor was dumb and not prophetic.

But what if it wasn’t?

His chest clenched. His thoughts turned dark, spiraling into the worst-case scenarios. If he’d somehow cursed you—if you were gone—

“Beep.”

The machine resumed with a single, sheepish chirp. Nico froze before exhaling.

He slumped back in the chair, one hand still resting on your wrist, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Not cool,” he grumbled, shooting the monitor a final, exhausted glare. He didn’t let go of your wrist right away.

He shuffled in his chair, bones groaning in protest after hours of sitting in the same cramped position. 

It had been a full day since you passed out in front of the woods. An image Nico couldn’t get out of his head. 

One moment you were upright, joking, full of life. The next, you collapsed like nothing.

The memory made his stomach twist.

Your lips were drawn into a frown even now, and Nico wished he knew what you were dreaming about. Or if you were dreaming at all. 

He remembered the Apollo cabin rushing in, their faces taut with concern as they loaded you onto a stretcher. He’d trailed behind them without question, practically on their heels.

Lee Fletcher had tried to reassure him. Said your body was just reacting to a lack of sleep, that you were “catching up” on rest. But Nico didn’t buy it. 

You’d been fine the day before. Energetic. Talking his ear off, even. It didn’t feel right.

His eyes drifted back to your wrist, where his hand still rested. Your pulse had returned to a steady rhythm. Your skin had warmed up.

The clammy sweat was gone, replaced by a damp towel the Apollo kids had laid gently across your forehead. 

You looked…better. But not exactly peaceful.

Your brows were still furrowed, like you were fighting something in your sleep.

A nightmare, maybe?

Nico bit his lip, then glanced at your hand. He wanted to reach for it. To comfort you. Maybe let you know, somehow, that you weren’t alone. 

The idea made his heart flutter and his face burn, but he didn’t pull back.

Instead, he steeled himself, drew in a breath, and slipped his fingers into yours.

Your hand was warm and familiar. It fit in his like it belonged there, and despite himself, Nico smiled. A small, quiet thing.

But then, your expression shifted.

The tension in your brows eased, your lips relaxed. You didn’t wake, but something in you settled. And Nico’s smile grew.

He tucked his knees up to his chest, still holding your hand. Resting his chin atop them, he let his eyes stay on you, content just to watch your chest rise and fall.

Some might’ve gone off to find distractions, something to pass the time. 

But not Nico. This was enough. You were here. You were breathing. That was all he needed.

Minutes passed.

His eyelids began to droop, the room softening at the edges. His head dropped from his knees to rest on his arms, eyes fluttering shut.

Sleep was almost upon him when the infirmary door creaked open.

He jolted upright, instinct snapping him back to alertness. 

Quickly, too quickly, he dropped your hand, letting it fall limply off the side of the bed. 

In the doorway stood someone Nico didn’t recognize. A boy who looked to be around his age. 

He had sun-bleached blonde hair that curled a bit at the ends, like he spent a lot of time outside, and clear blue eyes that seemed too bright for a place like this. 

His skin was tanned, and the orange Camp Half-Blood shirt he wore looked well-worn, faded at the shoulders from long hours in the sun.

He looked more like someone who belonged on a beach than in an infirmary, but the moment he stepped inside, his posture shifted into something focused and practiced. 

When their eyes met, the boy smiled. “Oh—hi. You’re Nico, right?”

“Yeah.” Nico confirmed, his voice tighter than he wanted it to be. He hoped the strain wasn’t obvious, though he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. 

Something about the boy’s easy confidence made him feel suddenly self-conscious, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Nico watched him warily as he walked toward your bed and pulled out a clipboard from under his arm. 

He glanced down at you, lips pressed in concentration, scribbling something quickly in neat handwriting. 

Then he checked your forehead with the back of his hand, lifted your wrist briefly to feel your pulse, and nodded to himself before updating the chart again. 

His movements were swift, but gentle. 

“I’m Will, by the way,” he added, peering up at Nico from beneath his bangs with a soft, friendly smile.

Nico gave him a small nod, unsure what else to offer. A part of him wanted Will to leave. 

To vanish back through the door so Nico could take your hand again without anyone watching. 

It was selfish. He knew that. But something about holding your hand had made everything else less overwhelming.

Still, the silence that followed wasn’t exactly pleasant. It pressed against Nico’s shoulders like a weight, until he couldn’t help but say something.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out sharper than intended, and Nico flinched, shrinking in his chair. “Um—sorry, I just…”

Will held up a hand to stop him, shaking his head lightly. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” He smiled again, this time more understanding than amused. “You’re new here, right?”

Nico nodded, not trusting his voice.

“What a welcome, huh?” Will gave a quiet laugh that filled the room with a little warmth. Not forced, just something soft and melodic. “Emergency pass-outs, emotionally exhausted campers. Pretty classic.”

Something in Nico eased at that. Will didn’t seem fazed by any of it, and that made his presence oddly reassuring. 

“I see you’ve made a friend already,” Will said, nodding at you. “[Name] is one of the camp’s most resilient people. He has a striking ability to bounce back quickly. But then again… most people at this camp are stronger than they think.”

Nico’s eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t said anything about you. Not out loud.

Will caught the look and offered a small, knowing smile but chose not to comment on it. 

Instead, he reached casually into his pocket and pulled out a lollipop wrapped in crinkled red plastic. “Lollipop?”

Nico blinked at him.

Will waved it a little. “You’d be surprised how many medical problems can be temporarily solved by sugar. Or at least distracted from.”

Nico hesitated, then slowly reached out and took it. “…Thanks.”

Will’s smile grew. “Anytime.”

For a moment, the tension in Nico’s shoulders softened. He didn’t unwrap the lollipop. Just held it in his hand, unsure why the small gesture meant so much.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Will said with a nod, already turning toward the door. He stuck his head out into the hallway and called for his brother. 

It was barely a few seconds before Lee appeared in the room. He gave Nico a curt nod before gesturing toward the bed. “How’s he doing?”

Will handed over the clipboard, his fingers drumming along the edge. “Vitals are steady. Heart rate’s normal, no fever. No signs of infection or any kind of magical interference—at least not the kind I can see.”

Lee flipped through the notes, his brow knitting tighter with each page.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That’s strange.” He looked up at Nico. “You were with him all day yesterday, right? Did he seem off at all? Any weird behavior, dizziness, anything?”

Nico shook his head. “No, he was fine—laughing, talking, eating. He even beat me at Mythomagic.” He frowned, more to himself than anyone else. “There was nothing weird.”

He spoke too soon when the monitor shrieked to life.

It started as a quickened beeping, typically annoying but bearable. Then it spiked. The sharp, rapid beeps tore through the room like sirens. 

Not the steady rhythm of rest—no, this was panic. A body fighting itself.

Lee’s eyes snapped to the machine. “His heart rate is spiking!”

The tension exploded into motion. Will bolted from the room before Lee could even finish barking orders.

But Nico didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His blood turned to ice. All he could hear was that awful, frantic beeping. All he could see was you, pale and still, your body tense under the sheets like it was caught in some invisible storm.

Without thinking, Nico reached forward and grabbed your hand. This time with no hesitation, no second-guessing. 

His fingers laced tightly through yours. He squeezed hard, like his grip alone could anchor you.

“Come on,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Come on, [Name], stay with me. You’re okay. Just hold on.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him. He didn’t know if it mattered. He just needed to do something.

He closed his eyes.

For once, he wished he knew who his godly parent was. Not just for identity. For belief. For prayer. 

Who did you ask for miracles when you didn’t know who was listening?

He didn’t care.

He prayed anyway.

Please. Just let him be okay. Please. 

He squeezed your hand again, a little tighter. “You’re not allowed to die on me. Got it?”

Finally, you gasped.

Your whole body jolted upright as if yanked from the depths of some unseen ocean. You sucked in air, chest heaving, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

The heart monitor steadied behind you, the beeping falling into a calm rhythm.

Nico exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He slumped slightly forward, the adrenaline draining from his limbs.

He glanced up, toward the ceiling. Toward the gods, or the stars, or whatever had just intervened.

Thank you… whoever you are. 

Lee was already beside the bed, crouched at your side with practiced efficiency. His voice was gentler now, though still laced with urgency.

“[Name], can you hear me? Are you okay?” 

Your eyes stayed wide, locked onto Lee’s face. You looked dazed, disoriented, like you weren’t sure if this was still part of a dream. 

Your body shifted slightly under the blanket, like you wanted to sit up, but then your gaze dropped, and your attention went to the boy beside you. 

Nico could feel the weight of your stare, like you were trying to memorize every detail of his face, trying to make sense of something unspoken.

“You’re… Nico?” you asked, your voice fragile.

Nico’s brows furrowed. He looked over at Lee, searching for some kind of guidance. Lee only gave a small, reassuring nod.

“I am,” Nico said finally, carefully. 

As soon as he confirmed it, the tension in your shoulders loosened. Your breathing began to steady, and you let your head fall gently back onto the pillow. 

Lee stepped forward to check you over, running through a series of simple reflex tests and asking the usual barrage of clinical questions. 

Nico watched, uninterested in most of it, until something in your expression changed.

“…I was having this awful dream,” you muttered.

Lee paused mid-check. “A dream? What was it about?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no sound came out. 

You blinked, confused, and tried again. “Well, I—” But once again, your voice was stolen. 

Your lips moved, but the words refused to leave.

Lee tilted his head. “You…?”

“I—” Nothing. Your voice failed again. A quiet panic began to rise in your face.

“I’m not lying,” you said quickly. “I’m trying. Every time I try to talk about it, I just—can’t!”

Your frustration was raw, on the verge of desperation. Lee didn’t say anything right away. He just studied you with a skeptical squint.

“Okay,” he said after a beat, exhaling sharply. “Look, I’ve got an Ares kid with a gash that won’t stop bleeding, and according to every test we’ve run, you’re fine now. We’ll monitor you for the rest of the day—but let’s not waste anyone’s time with weird jokes, alright?”

You bit your tongue and nodded silently, the weight of being dismissed pressing hard into your chest.

Once the door clicked shut behind Lee, the air in the room felt heavier.

You turned your head toward Nico again. Your expression had changed, softer now. Sad, almost. “You believe me, right?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I believe you,” he said simply. Because he did. The haunted look in your eyes wasn’t something you could fake. 

That wasn’t confusion or some elaborate joke. It was something real. Something that had shaken you.

You looked at him for a long moment before, slowly, your features shifted again. Your lips tugged upward. 

Your smile, small and still a little tired, hit him harder than he expected. It looked good on you. 

And the realization that he might’ve helped bring that out warmed something in him he didn’t know he’d left exposed.

Your fingers curled more tightly around his.

“I swear,” you said, voice a little raspy but sincere, “you’re awesome.”

The words took him off guard.

Nico’s breath hitched. His ears flushed red, the warmth creeping all the way to his neck. He turned his head, hoping you wouldn’t notice the smile threatening to break across his face.

 “Let’s—uh—let’s get you something to eat,” he mumbled, still avoiding your gaze. “The sooner you eat, the sooner you can get out of here.”

Your stay in the infirmary was short-lived, just one night, but it wasn’t unbearable, mostly thanks to Nico. He stuck by your side the whole day, and you were beyond grateful. 

You guys played hours of Mythomagic, argued over which stats were better, and shared enough candy to make the Apollo medics side-eye your sugar levels.

Without him, you would've had to endure Michael Yew’s infamous get-well-soon song solo, and frankly, you weren’t in the mood to hear anything about “kissing your boo-boos better.” Nico had saved your life. 

Twice, if you counted emotional damage.

At some point, between games and stolen snacks, you brought up a comfort movie. “You know what this reminds me of? That scene in Spider-Man 2 when Peter loses his powers and passes out in an alley.”

Nico blinked. “Spider-Man?”

You stared at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m… not?”

You nearly sat up in bed again. “You’ve never seen Spider-Man?!”

“No” Nico said, confused. “Is Spider-Man a monster or…?”

“He’s a superhero!” you gasped. “He gets bit by a radioactive spider and—okay, no. Never mind. That’s it. Next summer? I’m bringing DVDs, and we’re having a movie marathon in the Big House. All three movies. No arguments. Do you have a favorite superhero?”

Nico thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Superman’s pretty awesome. He’s strong, but he’s not cruel. He doesn’t use his power to scare people.”

You lit up. “Classic choice. Truth, justice, cape that somehow never gets dirty.”

A small smile tugged at Nico’s lips. “My mom actually got me the first edition of Action Comics when Superman debuted.”

You blinked. “Wait—the first edition? Like, the one with him lifting the car?”

He nodded. “Yeah. She surprised me with it after school one day.”

“Whoa.” You sat up straighter. “Did you get it off eBay or something?”

“eBay?” Nico repeated, brows furrowing. “No… she bought it at the store. What’s eBay?”

You stared at him, stunned. “…Nevermind. That must’ve cost a fortune.”

“It was just a few cents.”

The two of you locked eyes, confusion bubbling between you. 

“That’s… crazy lucky,” you muttered, unsure of how else to respond.

Nico shrugged. “I guess so?”

You leaned back against your pillow, chewing over that weird little interaction. There was something odd about him, just slightly off, but not in a bad way. 

You almost asked another question when footsteps echoed from the hallway. 

One of the Apollo kids was making their nightly rounds, and Nico was told to leave the infirmary.

It bummed you both out. So naturally, you came up with a plan.

Nico would hide under your bed while the Apollo camper did their final sweep of the night. A brilliant plan. Flawless, even. 

Except for the part where you almost gave it away trying to hold in your laughter when Michael peeked his head through the door.

“Goodnight, [Name],” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

You did your best to play it cool. “Goodnight!” you chirped, your voice cracking halfway through.

Michael’s squint deepened. “You okay?”

“Yes! I’m just… tired. See?” You threw in a fake snore for good measure.

“…Right,” he said flatly, not buying it, but too tired to deal. He backed out of the room, still squinting.

You waited until the door clicked shut before whispering under your breath, “Okay, coast is—”

BANG.

The door swung open again.

You nearly leapt out of your bed in shock. “What?!”

Michael stepped inside, looking around the room like a cop in a bad TV drama. Slowly, suspiciously, he turned back to you.

“…Nothing,” he said. “Just making sure you don’t pull any tricks.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes, and turned them toward you. “I’m watching you.”

You nodded solemnly. “As you should.”

Once he was finally gone, silence returned, and a head popped up from beneath your bed.

You and Nico broke into muffled laughter, hands clamped over your mouths.

Flawless plan.

The rest of your night was spent in hushed chatter, scattered mythomagic cards, and whispered stories. 

The infirmary lights dimmed to a soft glow, and for once, everything felt calm. 

But as the quiet stretched on, your thoughts wandered, back to before you passed out.

Back to the argument.

You remembered it now with painful clarity, Nico and Bianca, voices raised, that hurt embedded deep into Nico’s face.

You glanced over at him where he sat cross-legged at the foot of your bed, carefully reorganizing his deck of mythomagic cards. He looked relaxed. 

There was a light in his eyes, gentle and unguarded. And that made it harder.

You didn’t want to ruin the peace. But you wouldn’t be much of a friend if you just pretended it hadn’t happened.

“Nico,” you said quietly.

“Hm?” he replied without looking up, still focused on the placement of his cards.

You hesitated. “Before I passed out… the argument between you and your sister Bianca.”

His hands stilled.

You sat up a little straighter. “I—I just wanted to check in. Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

For a moment, Nico didn’t say anything. The silence pressed in

 He let out a breath. “I don’t know.”

His voice was soft, but not hesitant. Honest in a way that made your chest ache.

“It’s okay,” you said. “To not know, I mean. Look at me—I barely know anything, and I’m still kicking.”

That coaxed a faint, tired laugh out of him. He glanced at you, brighter. “I don’t think that’s true. You know more than you think. You know how to make me smile… and how to make me laugh even when I’m trying my hardest not to.”

You felt your face warm instantly. “That’s not really a skill,” you mumbled, tugging at a loose thread on the blanket. “That’s just… me being dumb. I guess I’ll take it. Better than knowing all the state capitals or whatever.”

Nico tilted his head, teasing. “Do you even know all the state capitals?”

“I know at least… three,” you said proudly, which made him snort.

There was a pause, a comfortable one this time. And then Nico’s expression shifted, his smile fading, eyes growing distant.

“I didn’t mean to say all those things to her,” he said quietly.

You looked up. 

“To Bianca,” he clarified. “While you were asleep, she was chosen to go on the quest that the oracle mentioned. Zoe volunteered her.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes fixed past the infirmary walls. “They’re going to rescue Artemis. There’s this monster no one’s ever seen before, one that even the gods are worried about. Thalia, Grover, Zoe, and… Bianca. They left earlier today.”

His voice cracked at the end, so soft you almost missed it.

“She didn’t even look for me before she left. After everything I said… I don’t know if she even wanted to say goodbye.”

“She does love you,” you said gently. “Anyone could see that.”

“I know,” he replied, almost a whisper. “But I think I hurt her. I was angry, and I felt abandoned, and I just let it all out without thinking. And now…”

He trailed off.

“Now you’re scared it’ll be the last thing she remembers you saying.”

Nico’s eyes met yours again, startled.

You shrugged. “I get it.”

The blanket shifted as Nico leaned back slightly, as if the weight of his thoughts was too much to sit under.

“She said she needed space,” he murmured. “That she couldn’t take care of me the way I needed. But I never asked her to. I just wanted her to stay.”

You reached out and touched his hand gently. “That doesn’t make you a burden, Nico.”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “I hope I get a chance to tell her that,” he said after a long beat.

“You will,” you said. “And she’ll be lucky to hear it.”

“Percy said he would try his best to look out for her,” Nico murmured.

“Oh? Percy went on the quest too?” you asked, surprised.

“Yeah, but it’s a secret—he wasn’t supposed to. He snuck along.”

You leaned back against the infirmary headboard, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “That makes sense.”

Nico tilted his head. “Why?”

You hesitated. “I mean… it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?” But the moment you saw Nico’s blank expression, you stopped yourself.

Right. He probably doesn't see it like that. 

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to find a way to explain it, then gave up with a wave of your hand. “Nevermind.”

Still, the thought lingered. 

Percy Jackson, slipping away under cover of night just to make sure the girl he cares about doesn’t face danger alone? 

Gods, if that wasn’t straight out of some old-school romance film, you didn’t know what was. It was reckless, yeah—but it was oh, so romantic. 

The kind of thing you had always imagined love would be like. Being so hopelessly in love, your lover would walk straight into a death trap for you. Not perfect, but brave. 

Stupidly brave. 

What a dream.

Shaking yourself out of your daydream, you turned to Nico and asked, “What if Chiron finds out? Percy stowing away like that... that can’t go over well.”

“He won’t,” Nico said quickly. “I told Chiron Percy was helping Argus look for something out by the cabins—some issue with a missing weapon. I even left one of Percy’s shoes half-buried in the dirt for proof.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “You planted evidence?”

“It was convincing,” Nico said, a tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Argus doesn’t talk much, and no one really questions him. Chiron just assumed Percy volunteered to help and lost track of time.”

You stared at him but couldn’t help the laugh that burst out. “You’re diabolical.”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “You’re a bad influence.”

The rest of the night passed in a blink. Your hushed conversations keeping time suspended. 

Neither of you noticed the golden streaks of morning sunlight slipping through the infirmary windows until it was too late.

When one of the Apollo kids finally came to check on you, Nico didn’t even bother to hide this time. 

To your surprise, Lee didn’t seem fazed at all by his presence. He just gave Nico a casual wave before turning his attention to the chart at the end of your bed.

“So… Michael didn’t say anything, right?” you asked as Lee wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your arm.

He smirked. “You think Michael would rat you out? Please. We all sneak into each other’s cabins. It’s basically an unspoken rule. Mind your business, or your next prank war will be brutal.”

You blinked, mouth parting. “Seriously?”

Lee laughed. “You really didn’t know?”

How would you have known? You weren’t like these reckless, mischief-making demigods. You were a sweet, rule-abiding kid. 

The kind people liked because you never caused trouble. The kind who wouldn’t dream of breaking curfew. The kind who, frankly, had no idea there was an entire underground camp culture dedicated to breaking the rules.

“[Name]! When I catch you, I will strangle you to death!”

Clarisse’s voice thundered through camp like a war drum, shaking the ground as she tore after you. 

You sprinted past cabins at full speed, gasping out rushed apologies to every camper you nearly bowled over in your panic.

“Sorry! Sorry—oh gods, sorry!”

You weaved through the pavilion like a man possessed, leaping over chairs, and shoving one behind you with your foot in a last-ditch effort to slow her down.

No such luck.

Clarisse hurdled over it with terrifying ease and, in one smooth motion, flung the chair back at you. 

It narrowly missed the head of Connor, who ducked with a squeak and yelled, “Hey! Innocent bystander here!”

(Well, “innocent” was debatable.)

“Oh, come on!” you shouted, not daring to slow down.

You shot past the Pegasus stables just as Silena and Beckendorf were stepping out, deep in conversation. 

Silena had a woven basket balanced on one hip, full of what looked like treats or tools, you had no time to tell. 

You zoomed past them, nearly knocking the basket from her hands.

“Sorry!” you called over your shoulder.

The basket didn’t stand a chance. Seconds later, Clarisse barreled through like an oncoming train. 

The moment the basket hit the ground, she skidded to a stop, doubled back, and gently picked it up, brushing it off before returning it to Silena with an apologetic grunt. 

Then, without a word, she charged off again.

Beckendorf crossed his arms as he watched the chaos unfold. “Someone’s feeling better. Should we maybe help him before Clarisse grinds him into dust?”

Silena didn’t look the least bit concerned. In fact, her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Nah. He has a weird talent for weaseling out of things. Remember when he blew the back off the Hermes cabin because he wouldn’t stop poking at the Hecate kids’ potions?”

Beckendorf groaned. “Don’t remind me. I spent three weeks rebuilding it. And as punishment, he agreed to be their potion test subject for a month.”

Silena giggled. “And then he came crying to me about it every night like he was cursed.”

They both broke into laughter, the kind that came easy after weeks of watching you dig your own grave with reckless determination.

You, meanwhile, were still screaming and running like your life depended on it. 

Because, well… it did.

You briefly considered pleading for your life. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was technically a plan.

No, what you really needed was a distraction. 

Your eyes darted around in search of salvation, and like a gift from the gods themselves, salvation walked right out of the infirmary.

“Hey, Clarisse!” You shouted over your shoulder. “Michael told me he could totally beat you in a one-on-one. Oh—and he’s the one who stole your favorite chest plate. You know, the one that’s been missing for weeks?”

She skidded to a halt so fast it sent dust flying. Her whole face turned red like a cartoon villain. “HE DID WHAT?!”

She turned and roared Michael’s name so loudly that birds took off from nearby trees. 

Michael, mid-scroll, jumped about three feet in the air before launching into a panicked, half-coherent defense.

You didn’t stop to admire your genius diversion for long, but you did throw a very smug smile over your shoulder as you strutted away.

“I saw that.”

You nearly launched yourself into the clouds.

“By the gods, Nico!” you gasped, clutching your chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack! This is the second time you’ve done that. It’s like you materialize out of thin air.”

Nico only laughed. “Don’t be silly. And anyways, this isn’t about me. Its about you and why Clarisse is trying to rip your spine out.”

You gave a sheepish grin. “She caught me putting itching powder in her pants. I lost a bet to Drew.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but his eyes flicked to something over your shoulder, and the smile dropped from his face.

“What?” you asked warily.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he just pointed. “You might want to start running again.”

You turned, and there she was.

Clarisse was storming back your way like a vengeful monster straight out of a myth, Michael now crumpled behind her on the ground like a forgotten prop.

You turned back to Nico with a sigh. “Yeah, that tracks. Join me?”

He raised a brow. “Why? So you can sacrifice me next, like you did poor Michael?”s

You gasped, hand to your chest. “Excuse me? I would never sacrifice you. I happen to like you way more than I like Michael.”

Nico snorted. “That’s not saying much.” He reached for your hand. “Honestly, where would you be without me?”

“Dead, probably.”

Nico scrunched his nose and bumped your shoulder. “Don’t say that. C’mon. Let’s get you out of this mess.” With zero explanation, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of marbles.

You blinked. “What—”

Before you could even process it, Nico flung the marbles behind you in Clarisse’s direction. You heard the shatter of glass, a sharp curse, and what sounded suspiciously like someone slipping.

But you didn’t wait to check. Nico took off, and you bolted after him, doing your best not to trip over your own feet.

Between your ragged breaths, you called, “Why do you even have marbles in your pocket?”

“Travis said it made good insurance,” Nico answered simply. “I guess he meant for moments like these.”

You huffed. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?”

Eventually, he slowed down in front of a tree. The same one you’d run to the first time you met. 

“Can you climb?” Nico asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a knowing grin. 

It was the same question you’d asked him the day before, and somehow it landed softer this time, more like an inside joke than a challenge.

It was strange how comforting that memory felt. It had only been a day ago, but it already felt cemented. Like the kind of moment you tuck away and keep replaying long after it passes. 

And it was clear from the way Nico looked at you, like he was already halfway remembering it, that it meant something to him too.

You smiled back at him, breathless but content. “I can.”

You hoisted yourself up with a grunt, gripping the same branch as before, and reached for Nico’s hand. 

His fingers closed around yours without hesitation, steadying you until you both collapsed into place. 

Once he settled beside you, the silence between you was companionable easy. You didn’t feel the need to fill it with anything but your presence.

“Is this where we hide out now?” Nico asked after a moment, glancing around the space 

You tilted your head, amused. “What do you mean?”

He lightly patted the branch under your legs. “This tree. We keep ending up here after we’ve caused some kind of chaos. I don’t know, it’s starting to feel like our hideout.”

You looked around again, really taking it in this time. The bark beneath you was rough and scarred with old initials, the leaves above rustling with the occasional winter breeze. 

Bits of sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken gold patches, flickering across Nico’s dark hair and the delicate look in his eyes.

“Oh,” you said, suddenly fond. “Do you want it to be?”

Nico shrugged, but his voice gave him away. “I don’t mind.”

You bumped your knee against his. “Neither do I.”

He leaned back against the trunk, arms folded behind his head and sighed.

 “Then it’s settled,” he said with a smile. “This is our spot.”

That marked another special day. 

From then on, the tree became your place, a quiet little world for just the two of you. 

Whether it was playing small games, sharing snacks swiped from the pavilion, or simply talking until the sun dipped behind the trees, that branch always brought you closer by the end of the day.

Four days had gone by since you’d claimed it as yours. Five since you’d met. 

And in that short span, the routine had formed naturally. 

Meet early, before most of camp was awake, when everything was still quiet and unhurried, just the chirping of birds, the rustle of wind, and the sound of his voice.

“I see four birds,” you said, lying back on the branch with your arms folded beneath your head, eyes following a small flock overhead.

Nico mimicked your posture and squinted at the sky. “I see six.”

You followed his gaze and noticed two birds a few feet behind the rest. He frowned. “The other birds are leaving them behind.”

You shook your head, lips quirking. “No. The two birds are flying slower than the rest.” You pointed lazily at them. “Maybe they’re in love and the others disapprove.”

Nico turned his head toward you, brows scrunched. “In love?”

“Sure,” you said. “They’re flying slower on purpose, waiting for a chance to break off and go their own way. That way, they don’t have to follow the flock’s rules anymore.”

There was a beat of silence before Nico spoke again, cautious. “You think… people in love do that? Leave everything behind?”

You blinked at him, then shrugged lightly. “Sometimes. If being with each other means more than staying where they are… yeah, I think they do.”

Nico was quiet. “That sounds… hard.”

“It probably is,” you admitted. “But love’s supposed to be worth something, right? Like, real love. It should make you brave. Even if it’s terrifying.”

His eyes flicked back to the birds. “So... is that why people do dumb things when they’re in love? Like sneak off on quests and throw themselves into danger?”

You grinned, immediately picturing Percy. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because love makes you stupid and impulsive. But a little bit of stupid isn’t the worst thing.”

Nico looked at you again, this time with an unreadable gaze.

“...Have you ever... have you ever been in love?”

You paused before letting out a small laugh. “Nico, I’m only ten! Of course not… But I’d like to be one day.”

He flushed, a faint pink blooming across his cheeks. His tongue moved before he could stop it.

“What would that be like… for you, I mean?”

You blinked, a little caught off guard by how soft and genuine his voice sounded. But you smiled, warm and easy, like the question didn’t scare you at all. 

Tilting your head, you gave it real thought.

“I don’t know,” you said, swinging one leg off the branch’s. “If it were me, I’d want something really sweet. I’m kind of a sap. But I’d also want to make them happy, not just be made happy. I don’t think I could love someone if it was all one-sided. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a child of Anteros.”

Nico didn’t respond right away. He just nodded slowly, like he was taking mental notes, committing each word to memory. 

“And,” you added, your voice softer, “he wouldn’t mind if I talk too much or get things wrong sometimes. But we’d still love each other through the hard parts too. Even when things weren’t easy.”

You didn’t even notice when you said “he.” It was natural. So naturally you didn’t look over to see Nico freeze, his eyes flicker in confusion, surprise… maybe even fear.

“ He? ” Nico echoed, voice quiet. “You mean… you’d want to be with a boy?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath. You turned toward him, your face open, unflinching.

“Yeah,” you said simply. You weren’t ashamed. You hadn’t even thought to be. But Nico… Nico looked like he’d just heard something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to believe.

His eyes flicked down, then back up.

“Can… can you do that?”

You blinked, tilting your head.

 “Why not?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t help who I like. And boys are cute…”

You meant it playfully, but the silence that followed was heavy. Nico stared ahead, the smallest crease forming between his brows.

You glanced at him, more tentative this time. “What about you?” you asked quietly. “What do you like?”

Nico blinked. Slowly. As if you’d asked a question in a language he barely recognized.

“What do I…” he echoed under his breath, his voice trailing off.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

His fingers tightened slightly around the branch beneath him. His posture stayed the same, but his eyes shifted. 

What did he like?

It was a question that should’ve been simple. But it wasn’t, not for him.

Because he had thought about it. In the dark, alone, in quiet moments when no one was looking. He’d wondered. He’d felt things he didn’t have names for, things he’d pushed down so deep, they nearly stopped existing. 

But now, here you were. Saying it aloud. So casually. So freely. And it made something ache in him, something that wanted to reach out and match your ease, but couldn’t. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally. And it came out too quickly. A conditioned deflection.

You didn’t press him. You didn’t laugh or tease. You just nodded, like that was okay. Like not knowing was still a kind of answer. 

And somehow, that made the knot in his chest pull tighter.

He looked at you again, uncertain. And he wondered what it would be like, to be like you.

To speak without shame. 

To say what you felt. 

To know what you wanted.

And not be afraid of it.

He was still tense and unsure. 

But you were swinging your leg absently, staring up through the branches like the conversation hadn’t cracked open something raw in him. Like it hadn’t just shifted the ground beneath his feet.

It made him want to say something. To try something.

“I want to,” he said quietly.

You paused mid-swing. “Hmm?”

“What I like,” he clarified, voice tight. “I want to know… what I like.”

You turned your head fully to face him, eyebrows raised, but your voice stayed soft. “You don’t have to know right now.”

“But you do,” Nico said. It wasn’t accusatory, just... a little awed. A little envious. “You’re so sure of it. You say things like it’s nothing.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” you replied. “Liking someone... it’s not wrong, Nico.”

He looked away sharply, his fingers digging into the bark. “How did you know…?”

A long silence stretched between you. The breeze shifted the leaves overhead. 

“I didn’t always know,” you admitted after a moment. “And I was scared too, for a while. Not because I thought it was bad, but because I didn’t think anyone would ever get it. But my mom, she’s great. Weird and stubborn and kind of loud sometimes, but... great. She’s always had this way of seeing people, even when they didn’t know how to say what they were feeling yet.”

A small smile tugged at your lips at the memory.

“One day, I kind of blurted it out. Told her I thought maybe I liked boys, and that I was scared that meant something was wrong with me. She didn’t even blink. Just looked at me and said, ‘Love’s never wrong. Anyone who tells you otherwise has forgotten what it’s for.’ Then she hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe, bought me cupcakes, and made me sit through two awful rom-coms just so we could poke fun at them together.”

You snickered, the memory warm and whole in your chest. “She made it feel like the biggest thing in the world, and the most normal thing, too.”

Nico stared, like he couldn’t quite picture it. Couldn’t imagine a world where saying that didn’t end in disaster.

You glanced at him, noticing the look on his face. “She said the way I feel, that love I carry, it’s not something to fix or change. It’s part of me. And one day, someone’s going to be lucky I love the way I do.” 

Your eyes met his, wide and gleaming. “I think she was right.”

The words settled between you. Nico didn’t look at you right away, but something about his expression shifted. 

From what you’d said, it was clear to him why Anteros had chosen your mother. 

There was a lightness in the way you spoke about love, as something you knew how to hold without fear. The envy he felt stirred again, but alongside it, a quiet, gnawing curiosity.

“I think so too,” he said softly, though the tips of his ears were turning red.

You couldn’t help but frown at his sudden seriousness. Nudging him playfully, you scooted a little closer.

“Nicooo,” you sang, wiggling your brows at him, trying to cut through the tension. “Of course someone will love me! Look at me. I’m a beauty in the making!”

Nico rolled his eyes, but there was a small, helpless smile on his lips now.

“And you!” you added, pointing at him. “Someone’s gonna be lucky to have you, too. And when you have your first kiss, it’s gonna be sooo romantic. It’ll be—” You made loud, exaggerated smooching noises, leaning closer and flopping your head onto his shoulder with a laugh.

Nico rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were burning now, unused to this kind of teasing. Still, he didn’t pull away when your head rested lightly on his shoulder.

“That sounds gross,” Nico muttered.

“What? Kissing?”

He nodded, looking mildly horrified.

“Oh, it is gross,” you said. “Disgusting. Saliva. Mouths. Ugh. But only if it’s with the wrong person. Trust me—Silena gave me the talk. Like, capital T.”

He gave you a confused look, and you sat up straighter.

“‘[Name],’” you said in your best imitation of Silena’s voice, “‘don’t you dare waste your first kiss on someone lame. It should be sweet, like candy. And you better mean it. Otherwise, it’s just awkward and wet.’ I swear she would’ve interviewed applicants if she could. ‘Hi, do you meet the standards for [Name]’s magical, emotionally meaningful first kiss?’” 

That finally earned you a reluctant snort from Nico. You dropped the act with a grin and nudged him lightly. “But yeah. What she said stuck with me. Make sure it’s with someone you won’t regret. Then it won’t be gross. It’ll be… I don’t know. Sweet, like she said.”

Nico went quiet again. His fingers played with the hem of his coat. “Knowing me,” he muttered, “I’ll have horrible luck and mine’ll be awful.”

You glanced at him, unsure if he was joking or actually believed it. The silence that followed stretched a bit longer than you expected.

And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you spoke up.

“Well,” you said, quieter this time, a little more bashful. “Maybe we could… I don’t know. Just get it over with?”

Nico turned to you slowly, eyes wide.

You hurried to explain, your face warming. “I mean—not in a bad way. Just… like an experiment. No pressure. Just so it’s done and neither of us has to have a terrible first kiss later with someone who doesn’t get it.”

You tried to smile, but Nico was still staring. Not horrified. Just stunned.

“Okay,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

You both stood there for a moment, unsure. A little afraid. Then, slowly, almost at the same time, you leaned in. Tentative. Awkward. Barely breathing.

Your noses bumped.

“Sorry—” you both said at once, then quickly ducked your heads, flustered.

“You can lean in first,” you offered, only to hear him say the exact same thing.

You froze, eyes wide. But, slowly, the tension cracked, and you both laughed. Quiet, breathy, nervous, but it helped. It made the moment feel easier.

You tilted your head, and this time, your lips met.

The kiss wasn’t anything like the movies. No perfect music or magical spark.

It was short. Hesitant. Barely there.

But it was soft and sweet. And it made your heart pound loud enough to echo in your ears.

A part of you couldn’t believe it had just happened, but the other part, the louder part, was practically buzzing. 

You’d just had your first kiss. Yours. Something you didn’t think would happen anytime soon, let alone with someone like Nico.

You wanted to scream into a pillow. You wanted to run straight to Drew and tell her every ridiculous, fluttery detail.

When you pulled back, you offered a tiny smile. “See? Not gross.”

But Nico wasn’t smiling. His eyes had gone distant, like something had been breached inside him that he hadn’t meant to touch.

Abruptly, he stood up, hands clenched at his sides. “I—I have to go.”

“What’s wrong?” You asked despite your stomach beginning to twist.

But he was already climbing down from the tree, like he was trying to run away from something chasing him.

You stayed where you were, stunned, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on your lips.

“…Oh,” you whispered.

The feeling in your chest wasn’t excitement anymore. It had turned tight and aching.

At first, you just sat there in the tree, still and blinking, hoping maybe he’d come back. That maybe he’d just panicked and would reappear with an apology or a nervous joke. 

But the minutes dragged. Nothing but the rustle of leaves. The wind. 

He was gone.

You swallowed hard, trying not to cry, not here. The air felt cold against your skin now, sharper. 

The branch you were sitting on suddenly didn’t feel like yours anymore. You climbed down stiffly, not even noticing the bark scraping your hands.

The second your feet hit the ground, you wanted to run after him.

But where?

You didn’t even know where he would go. And even if you did, what would you say? 

You didn’t know why he left. All you knew was that he had, and that something you thought had been safe and special now felt broken in your hands.

By the time you reached the dining pavilion, breakfast was already underway, but you didn’t feel hungry. 

You didn’t even bother grabbing a plate. Your eyes scanned the crowd desperately.

Nothing. No dark hair. No big, curious eyes. 

You wove through the tables anyway, pretending you were just looking for a seat, but every step was another pit in your stomach.

You finally asked one of your cabinmates, voice barely above a whisper, “Have you seen Nico?”

They shrugged without looking up. “Nope.”

You forced a smile and moved on.

Another kid. Another shrug. A different table. Another shake of the head.

You kept your voice steady each time, like it didn’t matter. Like you were just casually wondering. 

But your fingers had curled into your shirt without you noticing, twisting the hem tight in your fist.

You sat down eventually, because standing felt too exposed, but you didn’t eat. Your eyes just kept drifting toward the woods, toward the empty seat where he might’ve been.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was just a kiss. Just a dumb, silly little kiss.

But it had meant something to you.

You’d felt…happy. Nervous, but happy. Brave, even. You’d wanted to share something, and you thought he wanted it too. That maybe it had been special for him, just like it was for you.

But the way he looked after, like he couldn’t get away fast enough, it stuck in your mind.

What if it had been a mistake? What if he didn’t want it? What if he regretted everything?

What if you were just stupid for thinking you could share something like that with someone you’d barely been friends with?

You pressed the heel of your palm hard into your chest, a weak attempt at stopping the tight, spiraling feeling inside. 

But it didn’t. It just kept growing.

You didn’t know what you’d done wrong. You didn’t know how to fix it.

You just knew Nico was gone. And you weren’t sure if he was coming back.

The day had zoomed past in a blur. Every activity felt half-done, every conversation muffled by one thought circling relentlessly in your mind. Nico. 

It was impossible to focus. 

During archery practice, you shot arrows too far left. At one point, you somehow managed to trip over your own bow and shot someone’s foot—

“ Ow! My foot!”

“ I’m so sorry! ”

You cringed at the sight of Travis being half-dragged to the infirmary, an arrow sticking comically out of the center of his foot. 

Great. Just what you needed, another thing to feel guilty about.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, you still hadn’t caught even a glimpse of Nico.

You tried not to panic, but your imagination was starting to spiral. 

What if he’d gone past the borders? What if he left camp? What if he hated you now?

You dragged your feet through the dust back toward Hermes cabin, shoulders slumped and throat tight with a feeling like rejection, but worse. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was a loss. 

But, just ahead, a flicker of movement near the dying campfire.

You froze.

He was there.

Alone. Sitting stiff and quiet on the far bench, staring into the flames. 

Your heart jumped. Hope rushed in before you could brace for it.

“Nico!” you called before you could second-guess it, and jogged up beside him, sliding onto the log with too much energy.

He flinched.

The moment his eyes met yours, he felt his insides lock up. He shifted away, subtle but unmistakable, his entire body leaning to put space between you.

Your stomach twisted.

You tried to hide the sting and paused in your tracks. You just sat there beside him, feeling the distance.

“I’ve been looking for you all day,” you said, softly. “You vanished on me.”

Silence. He didn’t even blink.

You swallowed and pressed forward, the words rushing out faster now that they’d found a crack to escape through.

“Anyway, I just… I wanted to know if you were okay. And to say I’m sorry. For kissing you. I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything—I mean, maybe I was weird, but not like bad weird—” you let out a breath, trying not to talk yourself into a spiral. “I just… I like being your friend, Nico. And I don’t want one tiny kiss to ruin that.”

Still nothing.

He just stared straight ahead, shoulders tight, face half-lit by the fire. 

You searched for some sign, some flicker in his expression, but there was nothing there for you to hold onto.

You shifted awkwardly. “We can still be friends, right?” you said, quieter now. “I mean… we’re still us, aren’t we?”

That one seemed to strike something. Nico exhaled sharply, jaw clenching. 

It was like he wanted to say something, like there was a whole war going on behind his eyes, but whatever it was got swallowed. 

“I just…” His voice was thin. “I need to be alone right now.”

The words hit you like a slap you hadn’t braced for.

“Oh.” You blinked. “Okay.”

You smiled automatically, the way people do when they’re trying to prove they’re fine even when they’re dying inside. “I’ll go, then. See you later?”

He nodded. Didn’t look at you.

You stood slowly, hoping he’d say something, anything. But the silence stretched too long.

The walk back to your cabin felt colder than it should’ve. 

Even with the fire at your back, even with the night air still warm on your cheeks, you felt chilled down to your bones.

“It reeks in here.”

The voice cut through your haze like a dull blade. Tissues were scattered in a loose halo around your bed. Chocolate wrappers clung to the sheets. 

Your hair stood up in clumps, pointing in every direction as if trying to flee the mess themselves. 

You hadn’t looked in a mirror, but judging by the hot sting in your puffy eyes and the steady trail of snot gliding down your upper lip. You already knew you looked feral.

Drew stood in the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the chaos with visible disgust. 

“This is how people live when they’re, like… really depressed.”

You sniffed hard, burrowing deeper into your blanket burrito. “So maybe I am really depressed.”

“And I’m ugly,” She rolled her eyes, stepping over a crumpled granola bar wrapper before reluctantly sitting beside you, grimacing as she nudged aside a pile of empty chocolate wrappers. “So what’s with all the doom and gloom? Why are you being so... funky ?”

“It’s Nico,” you muttered, blowing your nose into another tissue. “He hates me.”

You launched into the entire tale. How you’d been looking for him all day after he vanished. How you found him at the campfire and tried to patch things up. 

How he barely spoke, barely looked at you. How today, he’d ignored you completely, but not others. 

That part stung the most. He was talking to other campers just fine. Laughing. Acting like nothing had happened. Like you didn’t even exist.

Drew’s expression didn’t change. “What’d you do?”

You stared at her. “Why do you assume I did something?”

“Because you’re you.”

You sighed, curling deeper into the covers. There was no way you were going to tell Drew what actually happened. She’d never let you live it down.

“…I might’ve broken one of his mythomagic cards.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Those little paper things?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s better off without them.”

You threw the used tissue in your hand onto the floor, ignoring the yelp from Drew. “The point is he’s mad at me and I have no idea how to fix it.”

“Glue the card back together or something,” she suggested lazily.

You groaned and dropped your head back into your pillow. “You are useless. I could get better advice in therapy.”

“I don’t think any therapist wants to unpack your abandonment issues,” she said sweetly, patting your head like a dog. “Especially not while you’re a blanket-dwelling goblin.”

Nothing says best friend like brutal honesty. You knew she meant well, somewhere deep, deep in her black heart, but you were also pretty sure she existed just to spite you.

“Drew, is [Name] okay—”

Silena paused at the doorway of the Hermes cabin, immediately assaulted by the chaos inside. 

Her nose wrinkled as her eyes swept over the discarded tissues, candy wrappers, and general gloom that had claimed your bed like a second skin.

“You are so lucky it’s not time for inspection,” she muttered, stepping inside. She plucked a chocolate wrapper off your nightstand like it might have been biohazardous. “Did a monster attack in here?”

You groaned and tightened the blanket cocoon around your body. “It’s worse. I’m officially experiencing my first heartbreak.”

Silena arched an eyebrow. She exchanged a look with Drew, one of those unspoken girl-to-girl translations that made you feel like a child, and then rolled up her sleeves.

“Okay,” she said. “Emergency protocol. Shower. Hairbrush. Clean clothes. And please, let’s get you some socks that match. We’re fixing this.”

You squawked as she yanked back your blankets without hesitation. You flailed to pull them back, holding on to them like they were a lifeline.

“What if Nico hates me forever?” You whined, voice small.

“Then you’ll be heartbroken,” she said matter-of-factly as she started dragging you upright, “but at least you’ll be clean. No one mourns in chocolate-stained pajamas, [Name]. Have a little pride.”

You clung to the bedframe like your life depended on it, feet digging into the mattress while Silena tugged insistently at your arm.

“Drew!” you cried. “Do something!”

But Drew had already cracked open the window and was waving a hand in front of her nose. “Where do the Hecate kids sleep? I’m going to steal some of their sage. We need to cleanse this heartbreak fog before it seeps into my pores.”

“You guys are mean,” you muttered, finally letting go as Silena pried your fingers off the wood.

“Nope,” she said, guiding you up with a strength that was both infuriating and comforting. “We’re honest. And we love you too much to let you rot in here.”

Silena didn’t shout. She just moved with confidence, as she has pulled people out of darker places and made sure they stood again. 

Even as she smoothed your hair and fussed with your shirt, her touch was warm, grounding.

Eventually, after you’d thrown on the freshly ironed shirt Silena had picked out, and sat back down on the now perfectly made bed she’d put together for you, complete with hand-knit sheets that smelled faintly of vanilla, you told her what you’d told Drew.

The same lie. 

“I broke one of Nico’s Mythomagic cards,” you muttered, eyes on the floor. “Like, one of the rare ones.”

Silena didn’t immediately scoff or roll her eyes like Drew had. She just tilted her head, folded her arms, and listened. 

You risked a glance at her. “Now he won’t talk to me. He’s pretending I don’t exist.”

She let the silence hang just long enough for her to process before she  let out a soft sigh and sat next to you on the bed, careful not to wrinkle the new sheets she’d taken such pride in.

“Well,” she said gently, “if that card meant a lot to him, I get why he’s upset.”

Your heart sank a little. But then she nudged you lightly with her shoulder.

“But I also know you. And I know you didn’t mean to hurt him.”

You blinked at her, lips parting to say something, but the words caught behind the knot in your throat.

“You’ve only been at camp for four months,” she went on, “but every single person who’s come after you? You’ve welcomed them like they’ve always belonged. No hesitation.”

She gave you a small, fond smile. “You’ve got a huge heart, [Name]. And for some people... that takes time to get used to. Especially here. Life isn’t exactly kind to us half-bloods, and a lot of us learn to keep our guards up.”

Silena looked past you for a moment, as if remembering something of her own.

“So Nico probably doesn’t hate you,” she said finally. “He most likely just doesn’t know what to do with someone who sees him without expecting anything back. Maybe he’s still finding his footing, figuring out who he can be, and where he fits. And you... you’re a lot to figure out.” She smiled again. “But eventually, he’ll see what I see.”

“A sensitive little kid?” you muttered.

Silena scoffed, playfully offended. “No. A rare kind of brave,” she said. “The kind that feels things fully and still chooses to share them. The kind that doesn’t shut people out, even when they’re scared. That’s something special, [Name]. Don’t make light of it.”

Before you could respond, she reached over and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. The kind of hug that squeezed all the breath out of your lungs but somehow made your chest feel lighter at the same time. 

You let out a soft laugh against her shoulder without meaning to.

That was the thing about Silena. She always knew exactly how to make you feel better. She had no magical fix, just love. Steady, unshakable love.

You adored her for that.

When you’d first arrived at camp, wide-eyed, alone, and completely unsure of where you fit, everyone had assumed you’d be claimed by Aphrodite. 

Honestly? You had, too. Love, beauty, and charm, it all sounded like her domain. 

And Silena... Silena had been the first to greet you with open arms. She didn’t wait for confirmation. She’d practically adopted you on the spot, already claiming you before the gods did.

But then the sky lit up.

And the symbol that glowed above your head wasn’t Aphrodite’s.

It was of a god you’d barely heard of. Anteros.

Half the camp didn’t even recognize it. And in that moment, your heart sank. Not just from confusion, but from fear.  Fear that you’d lose the person who had made you feel welcome. 

That Silena, with her perfect smile and open arms, would decide you weren’t what she thought after all.

But she didn’t flinch.

She clapped the loudest. Pulled you into the tightest hug. Told everyone Anteros must be proud to have a kid like you.

She still checked in with you before bed every night that first week, even when you pretended you were fine. 

You’d roll over with your back to the door, biting your lip and willing yourself not to cry, but Silena always knew.

She’d knock softly, peek in, and ask if you needed anything. When you didn’t answer, she’d leave a mug of hot cocoa on your nightstand anyway.

When you got sick a week later, she didn’t just send someone from the infirmary. She showed up with her hair tied back and sleeves rolled up, carrying a tray with soup she made herself. 

So now, curled up in her hug, the edges of your hurt finally began to dull.

“Why don’t you make Nico something?” Silena said softly, rubbing your back.

“What do you mean?”

“A gift,” she said. “Something from your heart. To show how genuinely sorry you are. I’m sure Nico would be touched by it, and the two of you will be friends again in no time.”

“I don’t know,” you mumbled. “What if it just makes everything worse?”

“Or,” she said gently. “What if it makes things better?”

Across the room, Drew was snooping through people’s bunks. “Or not, and he’ll hate you forever.”

You glared at her. “Wow. Thank you, oracle of doom.”

Silena turned to scold her sister. “ Drew. ”

Drew shrank half an inch. “I mean… good luck.”

You’d fumbled around for hours, wracking your brain over what to give Nico. Something that would give him comfort. 

So stitching, patterning, and the occasional jab of a needle to the finger, and many, many hours later, you and Silena finally stood back to admire what you’d created. 

What had started as a vague idea was now something real. 

“Anddddd—done!” Silena announced, adding the last careful touch to the black jacket displayed proudly on the mannequin.

You stared, jaw slack. It was perfect.

Silena had always mended clothes for campers who didn’t arrive with much, especially in the colder months. 

She was known for her winter coats, and when it came time to design your gift for Nico, she didn’t hesitate to help, sketching beside you for hours.

At first the designs felt wrong. They weren't you or Nico. But then there was one, sleek, dark, effortlessly cool, and you knew.

An aviator jacket.

You and Silena threw yourselves into the work, barely stopping to sleep or eat. 

One and a half days of needle pricks, tangled thread, and a cursed amount of seam-ripping later, you were finally done. 

You weren’t sure how your fingers were still intact, but gods, it was worth it.

Practically buzzing, you flung your arms around Silena in a bone-crushing hug. “Lena, thank you, thank you, thank you! I love it. I think Nico will too!”

She laughed, hugging you just as tightly. “You’re welcome, [Name]. I think he’s going to love it too.”

She turned to her sister, lounging on the floor and casually filing her nails.

“What do you think, D? Is it cute?”

Drew glanced up, gave it a once-over, and shrugged. “It’s alright.”

You grinned. “So, she likes it.”

Silena chuckled and rolled her eyes. “High praise, coming from her.”

With the same care she used on everything she made, Silena gently slid the jacket off the mannequin and folded it neatly. 

She placed it inside the box you’d wrapped earlier, your favorite color, because Nico might not care about the packaging, but you did. The lid matched, complete with a satin bow Silena had tied herself.

Usually, you liked receiving gifts more than giving them. But this time was different.

This was for Nico. And the thought of seeing his face when he opened it sent a tiny thrill blooming in your chest.

The box practically vibrated in your hands, your heart pounding with every step toward the door, already halfway out when Silena’s firm grip caught your arm and pulled you back.

“Lena, come on! Let me go—I’m going to burst waiting!” You protested, trying to tug free.

She gave you a stern look and started fussing over your hair, smoothing down every flyaway and brushing invisible dust off your jacket. “No way. You’re not giving Nico a gift looking like you just rolled out of bed. It’s just... rude.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I’m  almost eleven. I can manage myself, thank you very much.”

She shook her head. “Sure you can. But you’re still my little mess, and I’m making sure you look the part.”

You were two seconds from escaping when, by some miracle, Connor strolled into the cabin. Something you usually didn’t count as a blessing, but this time, however, he came bearing gold.

“Hey, Percy, Grover, and Annabeth are back!” 

You and Silena perked up immediately, though for very different reasons.

“They’re back?” Silena repeated, her hands falling from your shoulders. “That’s great! So they found Annabeth? Is she okay?”

Connor shrugged. “Didn’t look like they lost a limb, so… probably?”

Silena immediately launched into a stream of chatter with him about the quest, what they fought and if the rescue went according to plan.

But your mind had already wandered. Straight to Nico.

If the group was back, then that meant the quest had been a success. 

Which meant Bianca must be safe. Which had to mean Nico was in a good mood. A really good mood.  

The kind of mood where he might not immediately reject you or your apology gift. 

Hope fizzled in your body as you clutched the wrapped box tighter. This was your chance!

You turned to Connor, heart thudding. “Where is everyone?”

“They’re at the Big House—”

But you were already gone before he could finish, sprinting across the campgrounds with the box hugged tightly to your chest. 

This was it. Everything was going to be okay again.

You barely noticed the people you passed, the clamor of activity as news of the returning quest spread. 

You just kept running, closer and closer to the Big House—

But then, just as you passed the edge of the pavilion, you heard it.

“You promised you would protect her.”

You froze.

That voice.

It was Nico’s, but not the one you knew, the one that laughed quietly at your bad jokes or followed them up with an even worse one until you were both in tears. 

No, this voice was shattered.  

Your feet slowed to a stop. Curiosity prickled at your skin as you crept toward the sound, the box still clutched tightly in your arms. 

You peeked around the corner.

There he was. Nico. Standing with his back to you, fists clenched at his sides. 

And facing him was Percy, brows drawn tight with something between guilt and exasperation. 

“I tried, Nico,” Percy said quietly, but you could hear the strain in his voice. “I did everything I could. But Bianca gave herself up to save the rest of us. I told her not to. She—”

“You promised!” Nico screamed, and the sound cracked through the air like a whip.

You flinched hard.

You’d never heard him like that. You’d never heard anyone like that.

Your grip on the box tightened, and for a second, you thought about running to him, throwing your arms around him and just holding him, because that’s what your mind screamed to do. 

But your legs wouldn’t move. Something rooted you to the spot. 

It was like the air itself had changed, denser and colder. Not in the way wind bites or fog chills, but in a way that reaches straight into your heart. 

A slow, aching weight that pressed down on your chest until you felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

It was like in your dream, when you were in the woods and couldn’t pass through. A boundary between you and Nico, and you weren’t allowed on the other side. 

“You lied to me! My nightmares were right!” Nico shouted 

“Wait—what nightmares?” Percy asked, his tone stumbling over confusion and panic.

Nico ignored him and flung something from his hand, small, metallic maybe, it skittered across the ground and vanished into the snow. “I hate you!”

Percy stepped forward, hands raised. “She might be alive,” he said, desperate now. “I don’t know for sure—”

“She’s dead.” Nico’s voice was barely a whisper. His eyes clenched shut, his body trembling with a fury that looked too big for him. “She’s in the Fields of Asphodel, standing before the judges right now, being evaluated. I can feel it.”

“What do you mean, you can feel it?”

A sudden hiss sliced through the air like steam escaping from under pressure.

You turned sharply. The sound was brittle, like bone scraping against bone.

Figures emerged from the snow-dusted shadows. Skeletons, clad in rusted armor, swords gleaming with frost and rot. Their eyes burned with a sickly green light.

Your breath caught.

One raised its sword toward you, and you froze again. Panic twisted your guts, and there was a feeling rising in your throat. 

A terrible knowing, your body recognizing something your mind didn’t yet understand.

Nico spun toward Percy, eyes blazing. “You’re trying to kill me! You brought these… these things ?”

“No!” Percy yelled, exasperated. “I mean—yes, they followed me, but no ! Nico, run. They can’t be destroyed!”

“I don’t trust you!”

The skeletons move forward. You barely had time to scream before it slashed downward, and you fell backward, heart thudding violently in your chest. 

The gift box tumbled from your arms and landed with a soft thud in the snow, paper crinkling beneath the weight.

Your hands hit the icy ground as you scrambled back, breaths coming in short gasps. The skeleton stepped closer, lifting its blade for another strike.

But before it could hit, Percy’s sword came down in a flash of celestial bronze, knocking the blade aside. “ [Name]?! ” he shouted, eyes wide with shock. “What are you doing here?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer. Three more skeletons closed in.

Percy swung again, he sliced one in half, but the bones rattled and knit themselves back together as if mocking him. He took off another’s head, but it still clawed toward him, relentless.

“Run, Nico!” Percy shouted, voice straining as he blocked another strike. “Get help!”

For a moment, Nico stood frozen too. His eyes met yours, briefly. He looked worried, like he wanted to run over to you. But his face twisted, and he looked away.

“No!” he yelled instead, backing up. He pressed his hands over his ears, shaking his head. “No, no, no!”

More skeletons emerged, rising from the ground like the earth itself was birthing them.

You stared in horror as Percy fought them off again and again, even as exhaustion began to show in his shoulders.

You wanted to help. Gods, you did. But you were locked in place by fear. 

“No!” Nico screamed again, louder this time. “Go away!”

And for a moment, everything stilled.

The air turned thick. And the ground rumbled under your feet, just a shiver at first, but it grew fast. 

The skeletons froze, their rattling bones falling quiet, the eerie clatter replaced by a strange, trembling stillness. 

You staggered back as a long crack split the stone floor of the pavilion, snaking toward the middle like lightning.

Boom!

The earth split open with a roar. A crater tore itself into the ground, deep and jagged, fire licking up from the darkness below. 

The skeletons screeched as they were pulled in, weapons and limbs flailing. One tried to dig its fingers into the stone, but the pit didn’t care. 

It dragged them all down, swallowing them one by one.

And just as suddenly, it was gone.

The ground sealed itself shut with a loud crack , leaving only a scorched mark behind, charred across the polished floor of the pavilion like a scar.

You gasped for breath, chest heaving, hands shaking. You turned slowly, your eyes landing on Nico.

What…what was that?

How had he done that?

Percy must’ve been thinking the same thing, because he stepped forward and asked, “How did you—?”

“Go away!” Nico shouted, spinning toward him. His face was twisted in fury, eyes glassy. “I hate you! I wish you were dead!”

The words hit you like a slap, but it wasn’t just that.

Something thudded hard against your chest.

Your breath caught as a sharp, vibrating pressure hit your collarbone. You looked down.

The dome.

It was shaking.

You stumbled a step back, hand flying to the chain around your neck. The little glass dome pressed hard against you, like it was trying to leap free. 

Inside, the flower was trembling, its petals shivering violently, the glass fogging slightly from the sudden surge of heat.

Your heart pounded. Not again. 

Back in front of the woods, it had been a subtle jolt. Just a pulse, like static. Odd, but harmless. But this?

This felt stronger.

“Stop,” you whispered, clutching it. “Stop, stop, please. What’s happening?”

But it kept trembling. The petals shook like they were scared. Or breaking. You didn’t know which was worse.

You looked around, hoping for someone to tell you what this meant, to explain what the flower was, what you were supposed to do. But there was nothing. 

 Something rushed past you. Nico, running, face pale. He didn’t look at you.

Percy chased after him, but his foot caught on something, and he fell. Hard.

If you weren’t so stunned, you might’ve laughed.

But you couldn’t move or breathe.

Your gift still lay in the snow, forgotten. The bow was crushed. The box had split open, the jacket slightly exposed and already dusted with frost.

“What is that…?” you asked, your voice dry and hoarse as you watched Percy push himself to his feet, something small and dark clutched in his hand.

“It’s… a figurine,” he said slowly, staring down at it like it weighed more than it should. “Bianca gave it to me. She told me to give it to Nico. To complete his Mythomagic collection, but…”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

You frowned, stepping closer. “Percy… what’s wrong?”

He looked at you, eyes uncertain, and turned the figure around.

Your breath caught when you saw it.

“It’s Hades,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“Your formation was weak. This is the fifth time this week! Your morale was low, your flanks exposed, and your response time pathetic!”

The cutthroat voice of Clarisse cracked through the training field. She paced in front of Cabin Five, boots thudding against the dry earth. 

Her siblings stood in a rigid line, shoulders squared, backs straight despite the punishing weight of their armor and the relentless sun baking down on them.

Clarisse’s eyes swept across the group like a predator scanning for weakness. Her gaze landed on one in particular.

“Ellis.”

At the far end of the line, Ellis’s spine somehow stiffened further. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sweat slid down the side of his face, but he didn’t flinch.

Clarisse folded her arms. “Tell me, what’s more important in battle, strength or discipline?”

Ellis didn’t hesitate. “Discipline, ma’am.”

“And why?”

“Because strength means nothing if the line breaks.”

Clarisse’s expression didn’t change. But she gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “Correct. Then show it. Next drill, flank formation. And if I see one more stumble, we’re running the perimeter until dinner.”

There was a collective, silent exhale. But no one moved.

“Move!” Clarisse barked.

In one swift motion, the Ares kids were off again, boots pounding in rhythm, armor clanking like war drums.

After drills, they stumbled toward the showers in a chaotic, sweaty mass, shoving and jostling for who got to go first. 

Ellis tried to elbow his way through at first, but most of his energy had drained with the sun. He ended up trapped like a pinball between his older brothers, Mark and Sherman.

The stench of sweat, testosterone, and damp leather filled the air.

“Move it, Ellis!”

“You’re in the way! Go shower with the hose!”

They cackled as Ellis was squeezed out of the crowd and promptly dumped onto the floor. His helmet slid down over his eyes as he let out a huff and a tired sigh.

If he wasn’t slacking in one thing, it was another.

That’s how it had been for the past few weeks, he was always too slow, too imprecise, too distracted. If his formation was solid, his reaction time was off. 

If his swordplay was sharp, his posture slipped. He couldn’t seem to get everything right all at once. And Clarisse had noticed. She always noticed.

She’d never been soft, but lately, she’d been downright relentless. Every drill came with twice the yelling. Every mistake earned him a pointed glare or a barked-out demand to “do it again.” 

She held the entire cabin to high standards, but Ellis felt like he was always under the sharpest edge of her blade.

He figured it might have something to do with the looming battle. She could’ve easily been just on edge. Or the pressure was getting to her too. 

‘Or ,’ he thought grimly, she just expected more from him, but he kept coming up short.

That thought stung more than anything else. Clarisse had been the one who vouched for him when he first came to camp. 

The one who taught him how to stand tall, how to take a hit and not flinch. If she thought he was slipping now, that he wasn’t ready… then maybe she’d been wrong to believe in him in the first place.

And if she was wrong, what did that make him?

He shoved the helmet back up and sat there a moment longer, catching his breath, the sting of sweat in his eyes mixing with something else he was determined to ignore.

Eventually, he willed himself to his feet. He didn’t bother heading to the showers. 

Instead, he made for the Ares cabin. When he got there, he went straight to his bunk, consciously choosing not to sit on his bed and covering it in sweat. 

He just grabbed one of his blades and started sharpening it, slow and patient, the metal grinding quietly under the whetstone.

A few minutes later, the cabin door banged open. The rest of the Ares kids piled in, all noise and boots stomping across the floor. 

Sherman was still drying off, towel slung around his neck as he tried to shake water from his ear. 

Mark was complaining about someone stealing his good socks again. Someone else was already digging through a drawer for snacks.

Sherman caught sight of Ellis by his bed and snorted. “Ellis, you can stop looking like a dejected puppy. The showers are free now.”

That got a ripple of snickers from the others. Ellis didn’t look up. 

“Seriously, Ellis,” one of his sisters added, wrinkling her nose. “You’re gonna stink up the cabin in that armor.”

He didn’t bother pointing out that the cabin already had a fine medley of stenches brewing. 

Old socks, sweat, monster trophies, which was exactly why they kept the windows cracked open, even in winter.

“Leave him,” Sherman said, flopping onto his bed and folding his arms behind his head. “If he wants to be stinky, who are we to tear down what makes him confident?”

More laughter followed, but this time Ellis spoke up. “There’s no point in taking it off. I’m going back down to the arena anyway.”

“Why?” Mark asked, tugging on a pair of mismatched socks, one covered in stars, the other sporting a faded, warped SpongeBob. “’Cause Clarisse yelled at you?”

Ellis’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to snap back, something about how he wasn’t the only one who got scolded today, when the door creaked open.

“That Clarisse what ?”

The room fell silent. Clarisse stood in the doorway, steam still rising from her damp hair, a towel slung over her shoulder, and eyes sharp.

The cabin collectively froze.

She scanned the room, her eyes cutting from bunk to bunk before she rolled them and made her way to her bed. “I hope you’re not all sitting around gossiping after how awful training went today. You’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“We weren’t,” Sherman said quickly, sitting up. “We were just wondering why Ellis is heading back down to the arena.”

Clarisse looked at him, then shifted her gaze to Ellis. He immediately wanted to punch Sherman in the arm.

Her brow lifted, waiting.

“Well, I—uh.” Ellis coughed, trying to play off the sudden dryness in his throat. He straightened a little, forcing his voice steady. “I’m training someone today.”

Sherman snorted. “ You’re training someone—”

Clarisse lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Who?”

Ellis hesitated. “[Name].”

That earned a ripple of exchanged glances around the cabin.

Clarisse’s mouth twitched, nearly frowning.“That brat?”

“He asked me,” Ellis said quickly. “Said he wanted to learn how to hold his own.”

“He can barely stand on his own two feet,” Mark snickered. “And with Ellis as a teacher? Gods, he probably won’t even have feet anymore after getting them eaten by a monster.”

The cabin erupted into laughter again.

"Better teach him how to scream first."

"Or how to run—oh wait, he’d trip over a pebble."

"Do we need to build him a little training sword out of wood? Or maybe, foam?"

“Make sure he signs a waiver!”

Ellis’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. Normally, his siblings’ teasing rolled off him, but this time, it grated. 

He thought of what you'd said the day before, the way you defended him even with Clarisse nearly one punch away from knocking your teeth out. 

You had more guts than he’d given you credit for. And maybe that’s why their jabs irked him now, because he knew they were talking out of nowhere, and you, at least, hadn’t.

The laughter echoed, but his focus didn’t waver.

“Shut it,” Clarisse said.

The cabin fell quiet instantly.

“At least Ellis is doing something useful with his time,” she added, crossing her arms. “He’ll get more training out of it, too.”

Ellis blinked, caught off guard. Clarisse? Backing him up?

For a moment, it almost felt like a win, until he realized half the cabin was now looking at him like he’d just been promoted. The blade in his hand suddenly felt heavier.

“[Name] is a brat,” Clarisse said bluntly, her gaze locking onto his. “He needs discipline. So if you’re going to train him, I expect you to do it right.”

“Yeah…” Ellis coughed. “Yeah, of course. I’ll go now—I want to get started immediately.”

He moved fast, scooping up his things in a hurry. The helmet went back on, the strap tugged too tight under his chin, but he didn’t bother adjusting it. 

He just needed to move. Get out. 

As he stepped outside, the air hit him, cooler than inside the cabin, but not enough to ease the heat building under his armor. 

His boots struck the ground with a quickening rhythm, nearly a run by the time he hit the path toward the arena.

He tried to focus on the task: drills, techniques, how to start slow so you didn’t get overwhelmed. But his mind kept looping Clarisse’s words. 

Do it right.  

That wasn’t just a suggestion. It was a command, a warning. And if he failed, if you made a fool of yourself, or worse, if Ellis made a fool of himself, it would reflect on you both. 

Mostly him.

It was painfully easy to spot you as Ellis neared the arena. Your armor gleamed in the sunlight, but that was the only impressive thing about you. 

You were swinging your sword with no aim whatsoever, grunting out little “ha!”s and “hmph!”s.

In other words, you looked like a total idiot.

“What in Gaea’s green earth are you doing?” Ellis called as he approached.

You turned, beaming, sword still flailing. “You came!” You swung again, badly. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been practicing a bit without you. I think I’m really getting this formation down!”

“Maybe if it was the formation of a startled duck,” Ellis muttered, stepping forward to grab the hilt of your sword before you took someone’s eye out.

You frowned. “You mean it’s not good?”

“It’s… not the best.”

“So it’s complete garbage.”

Ellis paused, considering. “Well—”

You stomped your foot and swatted him on the chest. “Ellis!”

He snorted, raising your sword in your hand and stepping behind you to adjust your posture. “There. That’s more like it. This”—he nudged your elbows into place and shifted your feet—“is what a correct form looks like. Knees bent, shoulders back, core tight. Less flailing, more control.” 

“Does this make me one step closer to becoming a warrior?” you asked hopefully.

“Sure. If the battle is marching in place.”

“Ellis, I’m serious!”

“What? I’m being supportive.” He gave a small laugh, but stopped when your expression didn’t budge.

“Alright, alright.” He stepped a few paces back and dropped into his own stance, blade at the ready. “Come at me. Let’s see what all that solo training got you.”

You hesitated, lowering your sword slightly. “I—well—just like that?”

“War doesn’t wait for anyone to be ready, [Name]. You don’t get a countdown. You just have to know what you’re doing.” He flicked his fingers at you. “Now come on.”

Your grip tightened. A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. What if you actually sliced Ellis’s head off? 

That’d be a real problem. Clarisse would hang your ribs in the Ares cabin as wind chimes.

But Ellis was right. No more games. This mattered to you. It was time to grow up. Or at least fake it convincingly.

You charged forward, sword clenched, aiming a clean jab at Ellis’s chest plate.

He sidestepped with infuriating ease. The flat of his blade struck your ribs, and the air whooshed out of your lungs as you hit the dirt.

For a moment, you just lay there, gasping. But your pride refused to let the moment linger. You shoved yourself up, ignored the ache, and lunged again.

Ellis barely blinked. He caught your wrist mid-swing, and his knee slammed into your chest plate. 

The sword flew from your hand as you dropped, dazed and breathless, the sky above spinning wildly.

Gods, you thought, fighting nausea. Please. Just leave me in Kansas.

Ellis stood over you, the sun behind his head like some smug war god halo. He offered his hand.

You didn’t take it.

Instead, you swept his legs out from under him with a sharp kick and scrambled up, swaying as the dizziness returned. 

Now your movements were wild, messy. Slashes without aim. Punches without balance.

You heard Ellis rising behind you and whirled, too slow. His blade was already at your throat.

“Youre too slow.” Ellis said. “Are you asking for death?”

 You moved your neck away from the sword and shoved the hilt aside. “The only thing I’m asking for is to beat your butt!”

You went for a kick, swift and sharp, but Ellis sidestepped like it was nothing. Your breath was already coming hard, armor heavy against your ribs.

“You’re losing your temper?” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Good. That’s good. Direct it at me.”

In a flash, he advanced. There was no warning, only an alarming pressure. 

His blade clanged against yours with more force than before, each clash jarring your arms to the shoulder. You barely managed to block, much less counter. 

He was faster now, sharper. Something in him had clicked into place and decided you weren’t here to practice. You only had the choices of keeping up or failing. 

“Keep your guard up,” he snapped, when your elbow dipped.

You tried. Swung. Missed.

“Too slow.”

Another blow came, this time low and fast. You barely dodged.

“Stop hesitating!” he barked. “You can’t ask the enemy to wait while you think!”

You gritted your teeth and lunged again, but he caught your blade mid-swing and twisted it from your grip. It hit the ground with a heavy thud.

“Again.” His tone was flat.

You retrieved the sword, chest heaving. Every breath scraped your lungs like sandpaper. Sweat dripped down your back beneath the armor, pooling at the base of your spine.

“Again.”

You struck. He blocked. Parried. Shoved you back.

“You’re too open!”

You swung wide, frustrated. He stepped in close, grabbed your wrist, and twisted. Pain flared, and your knees buckled before you hit the dirt once more.

“Get up,” he growled.

Your muscles screamed. Your hands were trembling. But still, you pushed to your feet.

Ellis was pacing now, jaw clenched, eyes hard. “You think they’re gonna care if you’re tired? If your knees hurt? They’ll rip you apart. They won’t wait for you to catch your breath, or find your balance, or ask for a time-out.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already lunging. You had to scramble just to avoid him.

His strikes were ruthless now, meant to rattle. You blocked one, two, then missed the third, his boot caught your ribs and sent you crashing to the side.

“Get. Up.”

“I’m trying!” 

“Try harder!” Ellis yelled, his sister’s words ringing through his head. “You asked me to train you, so I am. This is how it’s going to go. Or do you want to be weak forever?!” 

“I’m not weak!” you yelled, trembling . You squeezed your sword tighter. “You’re just being a jerk.”

“I’m being a jerk?” Ellis scoffed. “I’m doing you a favor. And you’re sitting here making me look bad because you can’t get it together—”

“It’s my first day!” you shot back. “I’m sure you weren’t the best fighter your first time learning sword formations either!”

Your words hit their mark. Hard. Because it was true. 

When Ellis first started, he was sloppy, wild with emotion, and couldn't hold a sword right if it were glued to his hand. 

He used to get knocked down every five seconds by Clarisse, and she’d yell until her throat went raw. 

He’d hated it. Hated feeling small. And now here you were, throwing that same mirror in his face.

But he wouldn’t admit that to you . Of all people.

“I definitely wasn’t as incompetent as you!” he snapped, turning sharply. “You know what? Forget it.”

“Where are you going?!” you shouted.

“This sucks! You’re a horrible student and I don’t have patience for dummies!”

You were teetering on the edge of furious, but you still ran after him, sword raised toward his retreating back. 

Not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you couldn’t stop. Not with the fire tearing through your chest. 

Not with Nico’s voice still echoing in your skull. Weak.

You weren’t the one who ran. You weren’t the one who left. He was.

You were going to show him what weak really looked like.

Your blade cut the air behind him. Ellis’s eyes widened. He caught the glint from the corner of his vision and spun fast, yanking your sword from your grip with one swift motion.

“Are you insane? ” he barked.

“You said you’d train me,” you hissed. “So do it. Don’t wuss out just because I said a couple of mean words to you!”

That got under his skin.

Ellis stiffened. His jaw flexed. Something flashed in his eyes, irritation. It was too close to what his siblings had said to him and. 

The way they looked at him like he was soft. 

“Fine,” he said tightly. He tossed your sword to the side with a clang . “Hit me.”

“What?”

“You want to fight so bad?” he said, arms open, daring. “Hit me. With your fists. I’ll even go easy. You might be able to actually land a punch.”

Your lip curled at his condescending tone. You said nothing, just dropped low in a feint. Ellis’s arms lowered instinctively to guard his ribs. His first mistake.

Your fist snapped upward, catching him square across the cheek.

Both of you froze.

Ellis staggered a step back, blinking. You stared, equally stunned you’d actually landed the hit.

Slowly, Ellis brought a hand to his cheek, patting it like he wasn’t sure it was still attached. He looked... almost impressed.

“Well, I’ll be damned—” he broke into a grin. “You hit me. With your actual hand. Wow. Talk about a historic moment.”

You didn’t smile. Your eyes were locked, twitching slightly.

“The punch wasn’t super strong,” he added, flexing his jaw, totally unaware of the doom about to hit him. “But hey, everyone’s gotta start somewhere. I’m proud of you.”

Your eye twitched harder. “It wasn’t strong?” you echoed.

Ellis nodded. “I mean—technique? Solid. Force? Ehhh—”

WHAM!

Your second punch landed so hard it echoed through the empty arena, a satisfying crack that filled your veins.

Ellis let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squawk as he hit the dirt flat on his back, limbs sprawling, eyes wide with disbelief.

The silence afterward was glorious.

You stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles throbbing in the best way possible. The rush had barely settled before you lunged again.

Ellis’s eyes blew wide, and he rolled just in time. “What is wrong with you?!”

“You said I was weak! So I’m going to prove I’m not—by beating you up! ”

You swung again, and Ellis barely dodged, scrambling to his feet.

“Oh, great ,” he muttered, backpedaling, “I get it now. You’re crazy. ”

You threw another punch, he ducked.

“You—” he grunted, catching your wrist as you turned it into a wild backhand, “are—” he shoved you off with more force than needed, just enough to make you stumble, “ ridiculous! ”

You didn't stop. You charged again, landing a clumsy hit to his shoulder. He groaned and swatted your arm, trying to push you off.

“Seriously?! What are you, possessed?!”

“Fight back!” you snapped.

“I am —barely! You’re like a—like a rabid squirrel!”

You ducked his swipe and tackled him low around the waist. The two of you crashed to the dirt in a tangle of limbs, dust clouding up around you.

You both wrestled for dominance, Ellis swearing, you snarling. He rolled on top of you, tried to pin your wrists. You headbutted him. He yelped and rolled off. 

You pounced again.

That’s when a shadow fell over the arena.

“What in Hades is going on here?!”

Lee stood at the edge of the arena ring, mouth open, eyebrows raised high.

“[Name] Down! Bad! Very bad! ” Lee shouted, rushing over. “Get off of him!”

You were mid-swing when Lee grabbed you around the waist and physically lifted you off Ellis, dragging you a few feet back while your legs still kicked air.

Ellis groaned, flat on his back again, arms spread. 

“He’s nuts,” he wheezed.

“Fight me!,” you snapped, still thrashing against Lee’s hold.

“ See ,” Ellis said, glaring. “Absolutely unhinged.”

Lee held you by the collar like a cat being lifted by its  scruff. “What is this? Training? Gods, if I didn’t come out here, one of you could’ve been severely injured.”

“Yeah, [Name],” Ellis muttered, rubbing the side of his face.

You lunged. “Say that again, I dare you—!!”

A bolt of pain lanced up your wrist like someone had driven a nail straight through the bone. You gasped and doubled over, cradling your arm to your chest. 

The words stuck in your throat and came out as a sharp, involuntary cry.

Lee’s grip tightened, alarm snapping across his face. “Hey—what’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer, jaw clenched, trying not to let the tears rise from the sudden shock.

“Okay. You’re done.” He hoisted you up and turned to Ellis, who was still slightly winded and sported a blossoming bruise across his cheek. “You too, Ellis. We’re going to the infirmary before one of you actually loses a limb.” 

You sat on a padded bench, your wrist now thick with gauze and resting in a sling. The swelling had started to fade, but the dull, angry throb hadn’t.

Across from you, Ellis sat on another cot, a cooling pack pressed to his cheek. 

His legs swung slightly off the edge like a sulking kid, and he refused to look at you.

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. Just the occasional shuffle of supplies and the distant buzz of camp activity outside the window.

“I didn’t mean to—” you started.

“Yeah, you did,” Ellis cut in, then paused. “…But so did I.”

You glanced over. His eyes met yours for a secon before flicking away.

“I still landed the first hit,” you muttered under your breath.

Ellis snorted. “You scream like a baby when you sprain something.”

You flung a pillow at him with your good hand. He caught it.

Silence settled again.

Ellis glanced back at you. Despite the occasional wince when the cold pack pressed too hard against his cheek, he looked more intrigued than irritated. 

Honestly, he kind of wanted to start interrogating you. 

How long had you been hiding fists like that? And was your mother secretly an Amazon? 

Across from him, you sat stiffly, wrist wrapped, eyes still rimmed red. 

Every few seconds, you sniffled like a kicked bunny, small, pitiful, and just enough to make him feel guilty.

The bruise on his cheek throbbed, but it wasn’t the pain that lingered.

It was the way you’d looked at him right before you swung. Your eyes were high on pure, undiluted rage. 

He’d seen fury plenty of times. He was a son of Ares, it came with the territory. But with you, it was raw. 

A fire that, if stoked enough, could burn straight through someone.

Still… where in Hades had that strength come from? Adrenaline? Sheer spite?

He’d been poking at you, sure, but he hadn’t expected to get rocked into next week.

Ellis cleared his throat. “[Name]…”

You sniffled, wiping your face with your sleeve, though it didn’t do much. A few traitorous tears had already slipped free and you have the energy to pretend they weren’t there. 

Instead, you gave him a small nod to signal he had your attention. 

Ellis hesitated before asking, “What was that out there?” He was weary. “The punch, I mean.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes dropped to your wrist. You picked at the edge of the gauze. 

“I don’t know…” Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “Are you hurting really bad?”

“What, this?” He tilted his head and gestured to the bruise. “Please. You think I haven’t taken worse?”

But you didn’t smile. You just kept looking at him with those wide, watery eyes, all guilt and worry.  

Gods.

It tugged, annoyingly, at a certain part of him.

He cleared his throat again, less certain now. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

But you didn’t believe him. That much was obvious.

Before Ellis could brace for it, you reached over and took his hand, softly, like you thought he might pull away. 

You peeled the ice pack from his cheek and set it aside, then replaced it with your palm.

Ellis went still.

You weren’t being loud. You weren’t throwing a fit or cracking some dumb remark. 

Instead, you were silent.. Focused entirely on the bruise beneath your hand. 

Your brows pinched slightly, lips parted like you were going to say something but changed your mind at the last second.

The contrast was jarring. 

Ellis was used to you being fiery, impulsive, and over the top. But now, you were nothing like that. You were soft and worried. 

“Oh,” you murmured softly, thumb brushing the edge of the bruise, “look how I hurt you.”

Ellis didn’t know how to respond. Your hand was warm where the ice had been biting cold, as though you weren’t trying to soothe the pain so much as keep it company.

He told himself to crack a joke. To call you dramatic, or soft, or that there was no need for all this. 

Instead, his body betrayed him, just slightly. Just enough that he leaned into your palm, but it wasn’t a conscious decision at all. 

The movement was small, almost imperceptible. 

He could still smell the faint scent of ambrosia from your bandaged wrist, still feel the heat of your skin against his.

The silence stretched. Comfortable for you, maybe. Excruciating for him.

Then he realized your eyes weren’t on his bruise anymore.

They were on him. Bright and blazing. 

He wished he’d checked out again.

You said something, he could tell by the shape of your mouth, but whatever it was, it didn’t reach him. 

The blood rushing in his ears made everything sound muffled.  

His own silence must’ve annoyed you, because the next thing he felt was your thumb pressing, firmly. against the very bruise you’d just been so tender with.

“Ow!” Ellis jerked back, clutching his cheek with both hands like you’d slapped him. “What was that for?!”

“You were in La La Land,” you said flatly. “I had to get your attention somehow.”

“I wasn’t in La La Land,” he grumbled. “I was just… thinking about stuff.”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah. You know. It’s that thing people with functioning brains do.”

You gave him a look that said you weren’t biting. “Mm-hm. What kind of stuff?”

Ellis hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again. Honestly, what was he supposed to say? That your hand had felt… weirdly nice? 

No way. That was insane.

Instead he cleared his throat and leaned back with an exaggerated stretch. “Just, you know. Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Stuff. Things you don’t need to know about.”

“Oh, really?” You crossed your arms. “What kind of things?”

Ellis groaned and let his head fall back against the wall behind the cot. “When did you become a detective?”

“When you started acting sketchy,” you replied, eyes narrowed.

“I’m not sketchy,” he muttered.

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me tell me tellmetellmetellmetell—”

“Oh my gods, are you seven? ”

You didn’t respond, instead opting to scoot closer towards him. Ellis immediately looked alarmed.

 “Wait—no, don’t—what are you—you are not about to—[Name]—get off!!!”

But it was too late. You slung a leg over his and flopped onto him, pinning him in place. The ice pack hit the floor with a plop.

“ TELL ME, ” you whined, shaking Ellis’s shoulders. “You’re killing me!”

“ I ALREADY SAID NO, GET OFF ME— ”

“Not until you tell me!”

“You weigh more than you look— ow, my ribs— ”

“Secrets have consequences!”

“SO DOES SITTING ON SOMEONE’S LUNGS!”

“Then confess!”

Ellis flailed, trying to push you off without too much force. “This is harassment! I’m a patient!”

“A very shady patient.”

“I’m calling Chiron!”

The two of you fumbled around more, a tangle of limbs and yelling. 

“Ellis,” you gritted, your curiosity burning, “if you don’t tell me, I’ll punch you in your jugular—”

Thump—Thump — Thump

You froze.

The sound hit you mid-rant, low and deep. Like someone knocking softly from inside a wall. A fast-paced rhythm, steady but insistent

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It echoed faintly in your ears. 

Ellis paused too, sensing the shift.

“…What’s wrong?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. Too busy listening.

Thump. Thump.

Fast and close.

“…do you hear that?”

Ellis gave you a weird look and tilted his head, trying to listen. “I don’t hear anything…?”

You shook your head, your brow furrowing as you listened harder. That thumping, once frantic, was slowing now. 

Still not calm, but no longer panicked. “ That. That thumping sound.”

Ellis scoffed. “Are you sure you’re not the one who got clocked in the head?”

Before you could bite back, the infirmary door slammed open with a loud bang . Lee walked in, a bag of ambrosia in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

The thumping dulled instantly, like it got swallowed by the noise of the room. You blinked, disoriented.

Lee barely glanced up as he tossed you a cube of ambrosia. “Here. Eat this. You’ll be fine in like five minutes.”

You took it slowly, still distracted. “Lee… were you making some kind of sound just now?”

Lee handed Ellis his own bag of ambrosia and scribbled something onto his clipboard. “What do you mean?”

“It was like a weird thumping sound. Like a heartbeat.”

Lee didn’t even look up. “Nope. Haven’t heard any heartbeats. Not without a stethoscope. Want me to check yours?”

“No!” you said quickly. “I’m not imagining it—I’m actually… hearing it.”

That made Lee pause. He raised a brow and finally looked at you. “You’re hearing your own heartbeat?”

“No,” you muttered, frowning. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what it was. Just… it sounded like a heartbeat”

Ellis let out a groan and popped an ambrosia cube into his mouth. “Don’t sweat it, Lee. [Name]’s been hearing things ever since I knocked some sense into him.”

“You didn’t knock anything .”

“I knocked the air out of your lungs, didn’t I?”

Lee gave a tired sigh and set his clipboard down with a soft thud . “Alright, you two,” he said, firmly. “Let’s not turn the infirmary into round two.”

You glanced at him as he walked over, the tension in his voice replaced with a gentler note. He ruffled your hair on his way past. “I just restocked the bandages, and I really don’t want to wrap up another broken wrist today.”

He turned to Ellis, raising a brow. “That goes for you too, Ellis. Try not to provoke [Name] while he’s still recovering.”

Ellis made a half-hearted gesture of innocence, like, Who, me? but didn’t argue.

Lee gave you one last glance to make sure you were actually eating your ambrosia. You sighed loudly, then stuffed the piece into your mouth.

“Whatever,” you grumbled, chewing. “No one ever believes me, anyway. I could say I’m having a heart attack and you’d all be like—No, [Name], you’re just feeling emotionally constipated or something.”

Lee laughed quietly and leaned against the cot beside you, arms crossed, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips.

“Don’t be like that, [Name],” he said, warmly. “We do believe you. Your delivery’s just a bit…enthusiastic at times. Makes it difficult not to tease you a bit.” 

You shot him a look.

He raised both hands. “Hey, hey—teasing is not the same as disbelief. Very different categories.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your bandaged wrist, then returned to your face. “Look, weird stuff happens around here all the time. You say you’re hearing something? I believe you heard something.”

“You sure?” you asked quietly. 

Lee shrugged. “Sure. I mean, come on. We had a satyr accidentally summon a swarm of bees because he was worried about the flowers not blooming fast enough. Never seen so many people stung in the infirmary at once. Heartbeats in the air? That barely cracks the top ten.”

You let out a quiet laugh, and Lee’s lips formed into a gentle smile. Mission accomplished.

“And for the record,” he added, a little softer this time, “if something was wrong, I’d want you to come to me. First.”

You nodded seriously. “I’d definitely go to you,  before I’d ever go to Ellis.”

Lee smirked. “Yeah, well. That’s a low bar.”

“Hey!” Ellis said, voice muffled from the ambrosia in his mouth.

Lee chuckled, already reaching for his supplies to run more tests. 

“It’s no good if you two are at odds with each other,” he said lightly.

Both you and Ellis looked at him, confused. “Why not?” you asked.

Lee didn’t stop working, but his tone softened.

“Because there’s already a war going on,” he said. “And when you're young, it’s easy to forget that fighting with the people next to you chips away at the only thing you’ve got. Each other.”

You tilted your head, thinking over his words.“If there really is a war, then why aren’t the younger kids allowed to be part of anything?”

Lee paused before answering, glancing between you and Ellis like he was choosing his words carefully.

“But you are,” he said finally. “You’re the youth of camp. We’re counting on you to carry this place forward. To still laugh, train, make mistakes, be brave.” He glanced at Ellis, then back to you. “It’s our job, the older campers, to make sure you stay on the right path. Because we don’t have our parents here to tell us what to do. We only have each other.”

He smiled faintly. “So no pressure, but… try not to kill each other, yeah?”

Ellis leaned back in his cot, crossing his arms. “[Name] will get himself killed before I could ever do anything to him.” 

“Shut up!” 

Lee laughed, shaking his head. “Glad you’re both okay. Let me finish running a few more tests, and then you’ll be free to go.”

After a few more tests, you and Ellis were finally cleared to leave the infirmary. Physically, you felt better. Your wrist still ached, but the sharp pain had dulled. 

Emotionally, though, a heavy weight settled in your chest.

The anger that had driven you earlier simmered down, only to be replaced by a gnawing sadness that you couldn’t shake.

You didn’t understand why it hit you so hard. It was just a punch. Everyone at camp had seen worse. Far worse. 

Yet here you were, dragging your feet as you walked away from the infirmary, the shadows in your mind heavier than the armor weighing on your body.

“Wait, [Name]!” Ellis’s voice called out behind you. He fell into step beside you. “Where are you going? We haven’t even talked about when we’ll meet for tomorrow’s training.”

You barely looked at him, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t think I’ll be training tomorrow.” 

There was a pause, then a furrow in his brow. “Why not? You’ve shown a lot of potential. That fight in the arena—your form was reckless, sure, but your spirit? That was something.” He gave a crooked smile. “You’ve got fire.”

He said it like a compliment and that only made it worse. You stopped walking.

“I don’t want fire,” you muttered.

“What? If it’s because things got a little heated, don’t worry I’m not upset—-“

“It’s not that. I just don’t want to be some fighter everyone’s scared of. I just didn’t want to be fragile anymore. I didn’t want to be broken down easily.” You inhaled shakily. “But this—this strength—it doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like I’m turning into something I hate.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway. 

“I just don’t want to be a dumb, angry brute. Some short-tempered, blade-swinging Ares clone with more biceps than brain cells.”

Silence.

Ellis stilled, his smile disappearing. The air between you turned thick.

You turned to glance at him, and the look on his face wasn’t anger. At least, not the typical loud aggression. It was hidden beneath Ellis’s skin. 

When he spoke, his voice wasn’t raised. It was steady. 

“Is that what you think about me?”

You stiffened. “Ellis, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you did.” He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “You meant it.”

Your stomach churned. “That’s not—”

“You think because you cry after a fight, you’re somehow better than the rest of us?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Because you wear your guilt so openly and apologize after every swing, that makes you noble?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“Guess what?” Ellis said, taking a step forward. “I didn’t choose the way I was made either. I didn’t ask for this kind of strength. None of us did. But some of us actually try to use it for something. Some of us don’t have the luxury of falling apart after every fight.”

He tossed your sword at your feet. It landed with a dull thud.

“Lee told us we’re supposed to be there for each other!” you snapped.

Ellis paused mid-step. He didn’t turn around.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You should’ve thought of that before you called me an ‘angry brute.’” He kept walking.

You stood there, sword by your boots, the burn in your chest collapsing inward.

All that strength you’d feared only moments ago, the fire in your fists, the rage you thought you couldn’t control, it crumpled until you were small. 

The very thing you were trying not to be.

Pathetic.

Because now you understood. It didn’t matter how hard you could hit, how fast you could move, how sharp you’d grown in battle. 

Not if you couldn’t even make sense of what was clawing around inside your chest. Not if all your strength vanished the second things turned quiet.

You’d finally landed a punch. But somehow, it still felt like you’d lost.

With a heavy sigh, you wandered through camp.

You offered only half-hearted nods to the few campers who greeted you, not in the mood for conversation, not even for pretending.

Your feet moved on their own, so it shouldn’t have surprised you when they carried you here. To the tree.

Your tree.

His tree.

Just a few days spent here. But still those few days had carved themselves into you deeper than most people ever did. You hated that.

Nico di Angelo was a son of Hades, after all. Of course he’d haunt you.

You sat at the base of the tree slowly, your body aching. An ache that starts in your chest and spreads to your fingertips, to your breath, to your heart. 

It was almost shameful to admit how much he still affected you. How even now, after he left, after the argument, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

Truthfully, you’d only known Nico for a week before everything unraveled. 

A week . 

And yet, he took up so much space in your mind. 

Everything reminded you of him. Or maybe you were just looking for reminders.

It felt deeply unfair, how easily someone could become part of you, how quickly they could vanish and leave a hollow of themselves behind. 

You wondered if Nico felt the same. Or if this was just yours to carry, quiet and heavy and alone.

The sun chose that moment to strike, its rays bouncing off the dome hanging from your neck and straight into your eyes. 

You winced and fell back into the grass with a soft groan, one arm flung over your face.

“Stupid sun!” you yelled, bitter and childish and hurting.

“Careful. Wouldn’t want Apollo to hear you.”

You jolted upright, head whipping toward the voice.

Quintus stood beneath a tree a few yards off, casually flipping a dagger between his fingers. 

Your heart stuttered at the sudden intrusion. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, twirling the blade once before catching it by the hilt. “Just checking the perimeter. Making sure everything’s in order before nightfall.”

He paused. “Rough day?”

You let out a dry snort. “Might as well just tell me I look awful if it’s that obvious.”

Quintus’s laugh echoed between the trees. 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me what’s wrong?”

“Do you want me to?” He said, tilting his head. “We all have our struggles. No need for me to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You paused, thrown for a moment. Most adults would’ve followed that up with a soft “Do you need someone to talk to?” or something equally well-meaning but prying. 

It caught you off guard how easily Quintus let the moment pass. 

Strangely, you were grateful. You weren’t sure how you felt about him yet, about his weird calmness, his half-smiles, the way he watched everything. 

You definitely didn’t want to spill your guts to someone you didn’t quite trust.

You straightened up a bit.

“You should teach your dog that, you know,” you said, folding your arms. “I’ve had to wrangle her out of the Pegasus pen more times than I can count.”

Quintus chuckled. “Ah, yes. Mrs. O’Leary has a particular fondness for creatures with wings. I suspect she thinks they’re oversized squeaky toys. Thank you, by the way.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For looking after my dog. Even if it was only because I beat you in a sword fight.”

“You got lucky!”

“Ah, yes. Triple fortune,” he said dryly. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“So, you think I suck at everything too.” You tried to keep the edge in your voice, but it faltered. The usual defensiveness slipped away. “Who am I kidding? I’m useless… it just took me longer than everyone else to figure it out.”

“I don’t believe that’s what I said,” Quintus replied evenly.

“You don’t have to. It’s what everyone thinks anyway,” you muttered.

Quintus didn’t answer right away. His foot shifted outward, angled as if he might walk away. 

For a moment, he looked like he was weighing something, debating whether this was a conversation he wanted to get himself involved in.

Then he looked at your slumped shoulders, the way your arms hung loose at your sides. 

He exhaled quietly through his nose and turned his foot back inward.

“I’ve…I’ve been around for a long time, as you know—“

“Yeah,” you nodded solemnly. “You’re way past the half-blood expiration date.” 

He smiled loosely before continuing, “What I mean to say is, I’ve seen a lot. Been through even more. There’ve been moments of great failure. Moments I carry with me even now.” His gaze drifted somewhere just over your shoulder, like he was staring through time rather than space. 

“But there were also moments of success. Moments worth remembering. I try to hold onto those.”

The silence between you stretched a little too long before you broke it.

“I guess I’m just scared I’ll never have either,” you said. “No failure because I’ll never matter enough to make a difference. No success because… well, I’m not exactly built for glory.”

Quintus tilted his head slightly, studying you. 

“Think of it as an invention,” he said. “There’s a lot of trial and error when it comes to machinery. And more often than not, you break something before you build something better.”

There was something in his voice that shifted. 

And when you looked up again, you caught a glint in his eye. 

A flicker of excitement, but it vanished quickly. 

“But what happens,” you asked slowly, “when one of those machines ends up hurting people?”

Quintus went quiet again.

You didn’t mean it as an accusation. 

 You weren’t even sure who you were talking about. Him. Yourself. Both.

Your voice came quieter. “What if I’m one of those? Isn’t that why there’s a war? The wrong person is holding too much power.” 

“Smart kid,” Quintus muttered. He stared at you thoughtfully, almost gently. “It’s true. Power in the wrong hands breeds damage. Corruption. But here’s the thing, people don’t always see themselves as the villain. The ones who side with Kronos? I’m sure they think they’re right. That we’re the ones standing in the way of change.”

Your brow furrowed. You weren’t sure you bought that. 

Kronos was literally a cannibal god who wanted to dismantle time itself. 

Pretty textbook evil.

But Quintus went on.

“Still. Let’s say you do something wrong. Something that hurts people.” He paused. “Then you learn from it. You take responsibility. You change the design.”

Coming from an older half-blood, you nodded, trying your best to trust his judgment. But the thoughts in your head still spun loose.

“So… I’m not a total baby for being afraid?”

“No,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Fear is normal. In any world.”

That made you feel a little better. Safer, maybe. Safer to ask the next question.

“Then… what are you scared of?”

Quintus’s expression froze. The smile on his face slipped, and he coughed lightly, as if that would smooth the moment over.

“Typical half-blood stuff. Monsters. Gods.” He waved a hand vaguely.

“Yeah, but that’s everyone’s fear. I mean you, specifically. Is there something that still scares you ?”

Quintus glanced off toward the tree line, the set of his shoulders shifting just slightly.

“I’ve seen a lot,” he said finally. “Been through a lot. There have been moments of great failure… but also moments of great success.”

You didn’t miss how he repeated the same words as before. As if the answer was a script.

And you realized then that maybe the reason he didn’t say what scared him was because it terrified him too much to name. 

That thought settled heavy in your chest, and guilt crept in, not just for doubting him earlier, but for forgetting that adults carried their own fears too. 

They were just quieter about it.

So instead of digging, you softened. You stepped closer and held out your pinky.

“Hopefully one day we can both face our fears,” you said quietly. “Pinky promise?”

Quintus looked at your pinky, then at you, startled.

“What?”

“You don’t know what a pinky promise is?” You tilted your head with a small smile. “I know you’re old, but you can’t be that old.”

You reached out and gently hooked your pinky around his before he could protest. 

“It’s a promise you don’t break,” you said, firmly. “You link pinkies and seal it. To facing our fears. Even the quiet ones.”

A beat of silence passed before slowly, Quintus nodded. 

“To facing our fears,” he echoed, slowly.

From there, the afternoon passed in a blur. You ended up trailing after Quintus, not entirely sure if he minded, but he didn’t say anything about it. 

Just let you tag along, listening patiently as you filled the silence with whatever popped into your head. 

You felt lighter around him. Like you didn’t have to carry your thoughts alone.

Not being able to see your parents made moments like this feel rare. Talking to an adult, and connecting, being seen.

Eventually, you found yourselves by the lake. 

The breeze was calm, the surface of the water shimmering with late-day light. 

Mrs. O’Leary joined you, collapsing beside you with a happy grunt and chewing on a bone half the size of your torso. 

You scratched behind her ears, smiling.

At some point, your curiosity bubbled up again.

“Quintus, where are you from?”

He paused mid-motion, a rock balanced in his hand, then tossed it across the water. It skipped three times before sinking.

“Greece,” he said simply.

“Wait—really? Like, the Greece? That’s where it all started! That’s so cool.” You grinned. “How’d you end up all the way over here then?”

Quintus gave a small, unreadable smile. “Life has a way of pulling you where you’re needed. Or maybe where you owe something.”

That answer stirred something in you, but before you could ask more, another question leapt out instead.

“So how’d you learn to fight like that?”

He looked over at you, one eyebrow slightly raised. “You’re very curious.”

“I guess,” you admitted. “But I mean—isn’t curiosity a good thing?”

A flicker of something passed over his face. He turned back to the lake.

“I suppose… Curiosity keeps the mind sharp. Ideas grow from it. Change starts with someone asking a question no one else thought to ask. Sometimes curiosity is the beginning of survival.”

“Well then, how did you learn to fight so well?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Oh—wait. I guess that just comes with being a half-blood, huh? Fighting for your life all the time.” You laughed to yourself. “I hope I get to live as long as you. That would be so fun. Me as an old man? Can you imagine?”

You made a fake old-man groan and slouched over, scratching your back. “Better not let the monsters see my cane, or they’ll steal it.”

Quintus huffed a laugh under his breath, the barest curve to his lips as he shook his head. “I don’t think I can imagine that.”

You grinned, eyes sparkling. “Hey, I’d be a cool old man. I’d tell crazy stories to new campers just to freak them out.”

He gave you a side glance. “You already do that now.”

“Exactly! I’d just be a better narrator.”

Quintus chuckled softly. He went quiet, gaze drifting out across the lake. 

Eventually, he spoke again as though his tongue had gotten loose. 

“There are different types of strength, you know.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, earlier, when we were talking about machinery,” he said, eyes still on the water. “Most machines serve different purposes. Some lift. Some cut. Some measure or mend. You don’t compare a hammer to a compass, they’re made for different things. But both are essential. It’s the same with people.”

He picked up another rock, turning it over in his fingers.

“Strength isn’t always measured by how good you are with a sword or how loud someone yells in a battle. Some people…” he exhaled. “Some people are strong in the way they carry others. In the way they feel things deeply, and still stay kind. The ones who can sit with someone in their worst moment and not turn away. That takes a different kind of endurance.”

You were quiet, unsure why your chest felt suddenly full and tight.

“They’re the ones who keep the rest of us from unraveling when things get dark,” He glanced your way. “Camp Half-Blood’s a good place for that. You can lean on each other here.”

His words mirrored what Lee had told you in the infirmary.Then the memory of your fight with Ellis came rushing back, and you winced. 

Because you realized, Ellis hadn’t just been angry. That was how he spoke when things hurt.

Everyone at camp was carrying something.

And maybe you weren’t the best with a weapon. But if what Quintus said was true, strength didn’t have to look like that.

You could be the one who didn’t turn away.

“Quintus!” you said suddenly, standing so fast you startled Mrs. O’Leary. “I have to go!”

You didn’t wait for a response, only turning and running. You had someone to find.

Quintus watched you disappear down the path, his eyes distant. 

After a moment, he reached down and scratched behind Mrs. O’Leary’s ears.

“He’s a good kid,” he murmured.

Mrs. O’Leary let out a soft woof, tail thumping once against the grass.

You’d searched all over camp for Ellis. Finally, you spotted him sitting on the steps outside the Ares cabin, absently tracing circles into the dirt with a stick.

You hesitated at the sight of the massive boar’s head mounted above the doorway, then stepped forward.

“Ellis!”

He looked up and instantly scowled, rising to his feet to head back inside.

“No, wait!” You reached out and caught his arm.

“Let go of me, [Name]. I’m done with you.”

“But I wanted to say I was sorry!”

“I don’t care for your apology!”

“Well, tough. You’re hearing it anyway!”

Ellis tried to shake you off, yanking his arm, but you held on tighter. Both hands now, your feet dug stubbornly into the dirt like roots.

“Gods, you’re such a freak!” he snapped.

“Call me whatever you want,” you said, breathless but not budging. “But I need to say this.”

You took a deep breath, and then everything tumbled out in one long rush.

“I’m sorry. I was being defensive and prideful and dumb and I thought if I couldn’t fight like everyone else then I didn’t belong here and when you said that stuff during practice I thought you were just trying to hurt me but now I think maybe you were being honest in the only way you knew how and, I think you’re really cool, Ellis. Like, you’re strong, not just because you can fight but because you keep trying. Even when no one’s watching. Even when you get scolded. And that kind of strength… I was afraid of it. I didn’t understand it. But now I do. And I think you’re one of the strongest people I know and I still—” you swallowed, “I still really want you to train me.”

Silence.

Ellis just stared at you, dumbfounded.

You cracked open one eye. “…Did I say too much?”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.

You weren’t sure, but his ears might’ve been turning red.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it this time, just a reluctant softness creeping in.

He sighed, finally shaking your hands off his arm. “Fine. I’ll train you.”

Your face lit up. “Really?!”

“But,” he cut in quickly, holding up a finger, “you have to listen to me. No more talking back, no more running your mouth when you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You nodded eagerly. “Totally. Got it. 100 percent.”

“And I’ll…” Ellis looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll be less hard on you. Deal?”

You beamed, sticking your hand out. “Deal.”

With a grunt, he shook it. “You better not make me regret this.”

“I won’t!”  

Just then, footsteps crunched up the path. Sherman was approaching with Clarisse beside him, both seemingly fresh from sparring. Judging by the bruises on Sherman’s face.

Sherman raised an eyebrow when he saw you. “No way. You weren’t lying about taking this one on?” he said to Ellis with a crooked grin. “Guess miracles do happen.”

Ellis rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Sherman.”

But you stepped forward before he could say more. “Ellis actually works really hard. Maybe if you trained as seriously as he did, you wouldn’t get beat up by Clarisse every day. You might even win something for once.”

Ellis snorted, and Sherman looked flabbergasted. Clarisse glanced between the two of you, then gave Ellis a small nod.

Gruff, but approving.

“You—” Sherman started, but Clarisse shoved her chest plate into his arms.

“Go put this up,” she said flatly.

He blinked. “Wait, what—”

“Go,” she repeated, sharply.“I’ve got to head to the Big House.”

Sherman bit his tongue and stalked off, grumbling under his breath.

Clarisse looked back at the two of you, then at Ellis. “We’ll talk more later tonight.”

Ellis nodded slowly. “Okay.”

The both of you watched her turn and walk away toward the Big House.

You took a step forward, ready to follow. Ellis raised a brow and grabbed your arm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going after Clarisse.”

Ellis frowned. “Why? Are you out of your mind?”

“Because she’s going to the Big House. Something’s obviously happening. It’s been, what, a few days? A week? Since Percy, Annabeth, Tyson, and Grover went into the Labyrinth. Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”

You glanced past him, toward the hill where Zeus’s Fist loomed. You remembered the makeshift camps set up near it, the mines, and the guards that rotated shifts. 

For a while, you hadn’t paid it much attention. You’d been too tangled in your own mess. Nico’s absence, your guilt. 

But now, for the first time in weeks, your head was clearer. 

You weren’t all better, not by a long shot, but you were thinking again. 

Feeling something other than that heavy fog. And now that you were paying attention…you wanted answers.

“We’re not allowed in there,” Ellis said flatly.

“Well, yeah. I know that. But why not? We’re just as much campers as they are.”

“Yeah, but… but they’re older.”

“So?” You stared at him. “Isn’t it our fight too? Why do we always get left out of everything? Lee said we’re the youth of camp, that it’ll be up to us to keep things going in the future. Shouldn’t we at least know what we’re facing?”

Ellis’s grip loosened. He stared at you, hesitating, the gears turning behind his eyes.

“I guess…”

“They treat us like we’re clueless, Ellis. But it’s time we show them we’re not. So?” You tilted your head. “Are you spying with me or not?”

He let out a long sigh and finally released your arm. “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m ratting you out.”

“We won’t!” You grinned and waved him off, already heading up the path. “Come on!”

Ellis muttered under his breath as he jogged after you. “This is such a bad idea.”

The two of you moved quickly but cautiously along the edge of the path, ducking behind bushes and cabins whenever voices drifted too close. 

Most of camp was winding down from training or dinner, which made sneaking easier. 

So long as no one decided to take the scenic route.

As you neared the Big House, your heart started pounding. Not in fear—okay, a little in fear—but mostly in anticipation. 

For the past few weeks, you’d seen the way campers had been whispering, watched as some of the senior campers came and went with tight jaws and shadowed eyes. 

You were seeing the cracks in the walls of Camp Half-Blood for the first time. 

Something was coming. And you wanted to be ready.

“There’s a window open,” Ellis whispered, nodding toward the side of the Big House. 

Sure enough, one of the side windows near the back porch was cracked just enough to catch voices.

You crept toward it, crouching beneath the sill and motioning for Ellis to follow. He grumbled but dropped down beside you, shoulder brushing yours. 

“I’m telling you, we’re running out of time,” You heard Clarisse. “If Luke’s found another entrance, we can’t afford to keep playing defense.”

“I agree,” came Chiron’s familiar voice. “But sending more campers into the Labyrinth without knowing what we’re walking into is reckless. We need more information.”

Another voice chimed in. Calmer, steadier. Lee. “We can’t sit on our hands. We’ve been getting monster sightings along the border and even near the shoreline.”

Ellis sucked in a breath beside you. You glanced at him. He looked nervous. 

More voices joined in. 

Silena, sounding anxious but firm; Beckendorf, his deep voice quiet but unmistakable; and the Stoll brothers, who sounded uncharacteristically serious.

“We scouted the boulder again today,” one of them said, Travis. “The energy’s stronger. It’s like the entrance is awake now.”

“They’ve been gone a week,” Silena said softly. “Percy, Annabeth, Grover, Tyson… something’s wrong.”

Clarisse’s chair scraped loudly. “I’m done waiting around. We have to find someway to contact them.”

The conversation was heating up, and Ellis nudged your arm. “We can’t hear enough from out here.”

You nodded, then pointed toward the porch. A risky idea was already forming.

Ellis’s eyes widened. “No.”

You gave him a look. “We’re already this deep.”

He sighed, but didn’t argue, only followed as you crept toward the porch. 

The back door was ajar, the screen barely hanging on its hinges. Someone must’ve left in a hurry earlier.

You slipped inside as quietly as you could, Ellis right behind. 

The sound of conversation filtered from the main room, just down the hall. 

You flattened yourself against the wall, creeping along until you could glimpse the edge of the doorway.

There they were, clustered around the ping-pong table turned war map. 

Lee stood with arms crossed beside Clarisse, who looked like she was ready to punch the floor. 

Chiron towered behind them in centaur form, looming near the fireplace. 

Silena sat with her hands in her lap, worry clear on her face, and Beckendorf leaned over the map, pointing out something with a frown. 

The Stolls hovered behind him, exchanging glances.

You barely had a second to take it in before Ellis grabbed your wrist, eyes wide. 

“Footsteps,” he mouthed.

You turned. From the far end of the hallway. Someone was coming.

Panic surged.

Without thinking, you bolted for the basement door, yanking it open and dragging Ellis in with you. 

The door clicked shut just as footsteps rounded the corner upstairs.

Down the basement stairs you went, two at a time, into the cool, musty dark. 

It smelled like old paper, damp stone, and something strange. Iron and salt.

Ellis whispered, “This is a horrible idea.”

You pressed a finger to your lips and peered around. 

The basement was cluttered with boxes, old training gear, crates of nectar and ambrosia. A flickering lantern lit one side.

And then you heard a ragged voice, breathing hard.

You turned toward the far wall, where a curtain had been hung up across what looked like a makeshift storage space. 

But something moved behind it. 

Ellis froze beside you. “Is that—?”

You stepped closer, carefully parting the curtain.

There, hunched on a stained cot barely big enough to hold him, was someone you hadn’t met before, but heard a lot about from your cabin mates. Chris Rodriguez.

Or what was left of him.

His wrists and ankles were bound with glowing chains etched in celestial bronze script, twitching now and then like they pulsed with a heartbeat. 

His skin had a waxy, unnatural pallor, stretched too tight over his bones. His cheeks were hollow, eyes sunk deep into dark circles. 

His lips moved, but no sound came at first. Just breath, ragged and dry like paper tearing.

Ellis stumbled back a step. “What the—?”

Chris twitched violently, his eyes flying open, and that was worse. 

Because they weren’t looking at you. They weren’t looking at anything. 

Just wide, unfocused, blown with fear. 

His pupils were pinpricks, darting left and right as if watching invisible horrors crawl through the dark.

You couldn’t move.

Chris let out a sudden, broken gasp, then started muttering, the words slurring together like his tongue barely remembered how to form them.

"Dark... the walls... moving... I heard them breathing—they knew my name—they knew my name—they—"

“Stop,” Ellis whispered, hoarse. “Make him stop.”

But Chris didn’t. He flinched from something only he could see and began to rock, over and over, pulling at the chains.

“Wrong turns—always behind me—can’t breathe—can’t—” he shrieked.

You flinched so hard your back hit the shelf behind you. A bottle of ambrosia clattered to the ground and shattered.

Chris didn’t even notice. He was clawing at the air now, writhing like he was trying to rip something off his skin. 

His voice cracked, then collapsed into sobs, deep, ugly sounds that didn’t sound like they belonged to a hero. 

They sounded like they belonged to someone who had been wrung out.

“Gods,” you breathed. “What happened to him?”

Ellis shook his head. His face had gone pale, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were bone white. “That’s not—he’s not even really here, is he?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because nothing you’d seen, no monster, no nightmare, had ever made you feel this cold.

This… scared.

And Chris just kept whispering the same word, voice shredded like his mind had bled through it.

“Maze… maze… maze…”