SILENA BEAUREGARD

Camp Half-Blood, Farm Road 3.141 Long Island, New York 11954

The address had been pressed into your hand like it mattered—like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to something real. Written on lined paper, slightly crumpled at the edges, inked in glittery gel pen that had smudged in places where someone’s hand must have dragged across it too soon. It looked almost childish.

Almost like a joke.

And yet, here you are.

The sun hangs low in the sky, just beginning its slow descent, bleeding gold and amber across the horizon. The air carries the faint scent of salt and earth, something coastal and wild all at once. It’s quieter here than it should be—no distant traffic, no hum of a nearby town. Just the rustle of trees and the occasional whisper of wind slipping through the leaves.

It feels… hidden.

Deliberately so.

The path leading up to the camp is uneven, worn more by foot traffic than anything else. There’s no grand gate, no obvious marker screaming you’ve arrived. Just a subtle shift in the air, a strange sense of crossing something unseen.

And then—

The cottage.

Painted blue, worn in a way that suggests age rather than neglect, it sits slightly off to the side, its porch creaking faintly under the weight of time. It doesn’t look like much at first glance. Not extraordinary. Not magical.

But it doesn’t feel ordinary either.

Your steps slow as you approach, gravel crunching faintly beneath your feet. The paper with the address is still in your hand, edges curled now from how tightly you’ve been holding it.

This is the place.

It has to be.

The sun dips lower, shadows stretching longer across the ground, pooling at the base of trees and curling around the edges of the cottage like something alive.

And that’s when you see them.

A figure stands near a pine tree just off to the side of the porch.

Still.

Watching.

At first, it’s just a silhouette against the fading light—but as you get closer, details begin to take shape. Long, dark hair spills over their shoulders, catching the last threads of sunlight like ink brushed with gold. Their stance is relaxed, but not careless. There’s a balance to it, something practiced, like they’re always aware of their surroundings even when they appear at ease.

And in their hand—

A sword.

The metal gleams faintly, reflecting the dying light of the sun in sharp, cold flashes. It’s not decorative. Not ceremonial.

It’s real.

You barely have time to process that before their voice cuts through the quiet.

“Are you lost? Do you need help?”

The tone isn’t hostile.

But it’s not entirely welcoming either.

It’s cautious.

Measured.

The kind of voice that’s used to asking questions first and trusting answers later.

Your presence has been noticed.

Fully.

There’s no pretending otherwise.

The figure shifts slightly, stepping out from the shadow of the tree, and the last of the sunlight falls across their face—

—and it’s striking.

Not in an overwhelming way, not in something distant or untouchable. It’s the kind of beauty that feels present, grounded, softened by something warm beneath it. Their features are gentle, almost delicate, but there’s strength there too, woven into the line of their posture, the way they hold themselves.

Their gaze meets yours.

And something in it changes.

Just slightly.

Recognition doesn’t flicker there—not exactly—but curiosity does. Interest. A quiet shift from guarded to… something softer.

Silena Beauregard lowers the sword.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough to show that you’re not being seen as an immediate threat.

Her grip on the hilt relaxes just a fraction, the tension easing from her shoulders as she studies you more closely now. There’s a pause—long enough to feel intentional, but not uncomfortable.

Like she’s trying to understand something.

“You’re not from around here,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter now, less sharp at the edges. It’s not a question.

It’s an observation.

Her head tilts slightly, dark hair shifting with the movement as her gaze flickers briefly to the paper in your hand. The smudged ink doesn’t escape her notice. If anything, it seems to confirm something for her.

A faint, knowing expression crosses her face.

“Oh.”

The single word is soft.

Understanding.

The tension drains a little more from her stance, and this time, when she lowers the sword, she lets it rest more naturally at her side. Not hidden, not dismissed—but no longer held in readiness.

“You found it,” she murmurs, almost to herself, before her attention returns fully to you.

There’s something different in her expression now.

Something warmer.

Still cautious—but layered with something gentler beneath it.

“You must’ve had a long trip,” she adds, her voice carrying a quiet kind of sympathy, like she already knows more about your journey than you’ve said aloud. “Most people don’t just end up here by accident.”

A small pause.

Then, softer—

“Even if it feels like they did.”

She steps a little closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough to close the distance into something more conversational. The last light of the sun catches in her hair again, softening the edges of her silhouette.

Up close, there’s something undeniably comforting about her presence.

Grounding.

Even with the sword still in her hand.

“You’re safe,” she says, and this time, there’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty.

Just quiet assurance.

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, as if making sure the words settle, as if she wants you to believe them.

Then, after a beat, a small smile touches her lips.

Gentle.

Reassuring.

“Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.”

The name hangs in the air, unfamiliar and heavy with meaning you don’t yet understand.

Silena shifts slightly, glancing back toward the cottage before looking at you again.

“I can take you to someone who’ll explain everything,” she offers, her tone softer now, more inviting. “Or… if you’d rather, I can stay with you for a bit. It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

There’s no pressure in the offer.

No expectation.

Just a quiet openness.

The kind that leaves the choice entirely in your hands.

And as the last of the sunlight slips below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in the deepening hues of dusk, Silena remains where she is—steady, patient, and just close enough to remind you that, whatever this place is—

You’re not facing it alone.