PIPER MCLEAN

The first thing you learn about Camp Half-Blood isn’t how to fight.

It’s how to endure being watched.

Everywhere you go, there’s someone looking—measuring, guessing, deciding what you are before you’ve even had the chance to figure it out yourself. Some of them are curious. Some of them are cautious. And some of them—

Some of them are Ares kids.

You hadn’t meant to end up on this side of the training grounds. You were just trying to find your way back to your cabin, still getting used to the layout, still trying to memorise paths and landmarks that everyone else seemed to navigate effortlessly. But wrong turns happen. And wrong turns, apparently, lead here.

To them.

They didn’t approach you right away.

At first, it was just glances. Smirks. A few muttered comments you couldn’t quite make out. You tried to ignore it—kept walking, kept your head forward, told yourself it didn’t matter.

Then one of them stepped into your path.

And just like that, ignoring it wasn’t an option anymore.

“Lost?” the oldest one asked, his tone far too amused to be genuine.

You didn’t answer.

That was your first mistake.

“Hey,” another one chimed in, circling slightly to your side. “We’re talking to you.”

“I heard you,” you reply, your voice steady despite the way your shoulders tense. “I’m just not interested.”

A pause.

Then laughter.

Not loud—worse than that. Controlled. Like they’d been waiting for you to say something exactly like that.

“Well,” the first one says, stepping closer, “that’s a shame.”

Before you can react, a hand hits your shoulder—not hard enough to knock you down, but enough to push you back a step. A test.

You hold your ground.

Barely.

“I said I’m not interested,” you repeat, sharper now.

Another laugh.

“Yeah, we got that,” someone mutters behind you.

And then—

A shove.

Stronger this time.

You stumble forward, your balance catching just enough to keep you upright—but only just. Your heart kicks against your ribs, adrenaline hitting fast and sharp, your body tensing instinctively even though you’re not entirely sure what you’re supposed to do.

Fight?

Run?

Neither option feels right.

Not with the way they’ve closed in.

“Relax,” the oldest one says, though there’s nothing relaxing about the way he looks at you. “We’re just saying hi.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” you snap.

Another shove—this time from the side.

You nearly go down.

Your foot slips slightly against the grass, your body pitching forward before you manage to catch yourself again. It’s messy. Unbalanced. Exactly what they wanted.

More laughter.

And then—

“Hey.”

The voice cuts across the lawn, sharp enough to slice straight through the moment.

Everything pauses.

Not completely—but enough.

You don’t turn immediately.

You don’t have to.

You recognise the voice.

Even if you haven’t known it long.

“Knock it off,” Piper calls again, her tone carrying effortlessly despite the distance. There’s something different about it now—less casual, more deliberate. “What’d they do to you?”

The Ares kids shift.

Not backing off—not yet—but the dynamic changes. Subtle, but real.

They glance toward her, expressions ranging from amused to mildly annoyed.

“Nothin’, beauty queen…” the oldest one replies, dragging the words out just enough to make them sound like a challenge. “Just sayin’ hi to the new demigod, huh?”

Another one nudges you forward—harder than before.

You stumble again, this time toward where Piper stands.

For a split second, you think you might actually fall.

But you don’t.

You catch yourself—barely—and straighten, your vision clearing just enough to focus on her properly.

She’s standing off to the side of the lawn, arms crossed, posture deceptively casual. At first glance, she almost looks out of place—like she just happened to wander into this.

But her eyes say otherwise.

They’re fixed on you.

Sharp. Assessing.

Not panicked.

Not hesitant.

Just… aware.

You scoff, the sound coming out rougher than intended, and shoot a glare back over your shoulder at the group behind you.

“I’m fine,” you say, though it’s not entirely true.

Piper doesn’t move.

Not yet.

She tilts her head slightly, like she’s weighing something.

Then her gaze shifts—finally—toward the Ares kids.

“You done?” she asks.

It’s simple.

Too simple.

But there’s something underneath it—something controlled, measured, and very intentional.

The oldest one smirks. “Or what?”

A pause.

Piper uncrosses her arms.

It’s a small movement.

But it changes everything.

She steps forward—not rushing, not aggressive. Just… steady.

Confident.

“You don’t want to find out,” she says.

Her voice isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

There’s a weight to it now—subtle, but undeniable. It settles into the air between you all, pressing just enough to make the moment stretch.

You feel it.

So do they.

One of them shifts slightly, glancing at the others.

The oldest one doesn’t move.

Not immediately.

But his smirk falters—just for a second.

“Relax,” he says finally, though it sounds less convincing this time. “We’re just messing around.”

Piper’s expression doesn’t change.

“Then you’re done,” she replies.

It’s not a question.

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Then, slowly, the tension breaks.

The Ares kids step back—not dramatically, not like they’ve lost. Just enough to signal that whatever this was… it’s over.

“For now,” one of them mutters.

They leave in a loose group, still talking, still laughing—but it’s quieter now. Less focused.

Less interested.

And just like that, you’re alone again.

With Piper.

The silence that follows is different.

Not tense.

Not exactly comfortable either.

Just… uncertain.

Piper exhales softly, the shift in her posture immediate once the others are gone. Some of the edge fades, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she looks back at you.

“You sure you’re fine?” she asks, her tone softer now—but still direct.

You nod automatically. “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, “I’ve handled worse.”

She watches you for a moment longer than necessary.

Like she’s deciding whether to believe you.

“You shouldn’t have to,” she says.

It’s not pity.

Not even sympathy, exactly.

Just… fact.

You look away briefly, brushing some grass from your sleeve even though there’s barely any there. “It’s whatever.”

Piper doesn’t respond right away.

When you glance back, she’s closer now.

You didn’t see her move.

Of course you didn’t.

Her gaze flicks briefly over you—not intrusive, not obvious. Just checking.

Then she nods once.

“Come on,” she says, gesturing lightly with her head. “I’ll walk you back.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you’re not used to this.

To someone stepping in.

To someone staying.

“I can—”

“I know,” she cuts in gently. “You can.”

A small pause.

Then, quieter, “Doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

That… lands.

More than you expect it to.

You don’t argue this time.

Instead, you fall into step beside her.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

The camp feels different now—quieter, somehow. Or maybe it’s just the absence of tension making everything else feel distant.

After a few steps, Piper glances at you again.

“You handled yourself,” she says.

You huff lightly. “I got shoved around.”

“You stayed on your feet.”

That’s… technically true.

You glance at her. “That your standard?”

Her lips twitch slightly. “It’s a start.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

The path ahead opens up, leading back toward the cabins.

Familiar.

Safe.

And for the first time since you got here, you don’t feel like you’re walking into it alone.