SILENA BEAUREGARD

The fire crackles louder than it should.

Or maybe it just feels that way.

Each snap of burning wood cuts through the night air, sharp and sudden, followed by the low murmur of voices gathered in a loose circle around the campfire. Shadows stretch and twist across the ground, flickering in uneven patterns that make everything seem slightly… off. The familiar edges of Camp Half-Blood feel distorted under the weight of the darkness, as if something unseen lingers just beyond the reach of the firelight.

It had seemed like a harmless idea at first—spending the evening listening to stories, letting the older campers try to outdo each other with tales meant to thrill and unsettle.

Now, though—

Now it’s something else entirely.

“I don’t… I don’t like this story.”

The words come out barely above a whisper, but they carry a tremor that’s impossible to miss.

Silena Beauregard is pressed close against your side, far closer than she had been when the night started. At some point, her hand found yours—and now it’s gripping tightly, her fingers curled around you with surprising strength. There’s no hesitation in it, no awareness of how firmly she’s holding on. It’s instinctive. Grounding.

Or maybe just desperate.

Another voice rises from across the fire, the storyteller’s tone dropping lower, more deliberate. The kind of voice meant to pull attention, to draw everyone in until there’s nothing else but the story being told.

Something about footsteps in the woods.

Something about not being alone when you should be.

Silena stiffens.

Her grip tightens.

The subtle shift might go unnoticed by anyone else, but not like this—not when she’s practically leaning into you, her shoulder brushing against yours, her presence a quiet but constant weight. You can feel the way her breathing changes, just slightly quicker than before, just a little uneven.

She exhales shakily.

“Can we go back to your cabin…”

This time, it’s not just a whisper.

There’s something fragile in her voice, something caught between embarrassment and genuine unease. She tilts her head just enough to glance up at you, and even in the dim, flickering light, the expression on her face is clear.

She’s scared.

Not in a dramatic way. Not the kind that draws attention or invites teasing.

It’s quieter than that.

More real.

Her imagination has always been vivid—too vivid, sometimes. The kind that takes a simple story and breathes life into it, turns shadows into shapes, turns silence into something watching. And tonight, surrounded by darkness and the careful pacing of a storyteller who knows exactly how to build tension…

It’s getting to her.

Badly.

Another crack from the fire makes her flinch, almost imperceptibly, but her hand tightens again, fingers pressing more firmly against yours as if bracing herself.

“I thought it’d be fun,” she admits under her breath, her words tumbling out in a soft rush. “I didn’t think it would be—like this.”

There’s a pause.

She shifts slightly closer.

If that’s even possible.

Her shoulder presses more fully against you now, her arm brushing yours as she tries to anchor herself in something real, something safe. It’s instinctive, the way she gravitates toward you, the way she clings without even realizing how much she’s doing it.

The storyteller’s voice drops again, quieter this time, forcing everyone to lean in just a little closer to hear.

Silena does the opposite.

She leans into you.

Her head dips slightly, not quite hiding, but close—her gaze fixed somewhere near the ground, as if avoiding the firelight might somehow make the story less vivid. Less real.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes it worse.

“Please,” she murmurs, softer now, almost hesitant, like she’s worried she’s asking for too much. “I don’t think I can sit through the rest of this.”

There’s a vulnerability in the way she says it.

Not just fear.

But the quiet admission of it.

For someone like Silena—who’s used to being composed, to offering comfort rather than seeking it—that kind of honesty doesn’t come easily. It slips out now only because the tension has worn her down, because the unease has settled too deeply to ignore.

Another ripple of laughter moves through the group as the storyteller pauses dramatically, letting the suspense hang.

Silena doesn’t laugh.

She exhales slowly, trying to steady herself, but her grip on you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it becomes more deliberate now, less panicked but no less firm. Like she’s made a decision and is holding onto it.

Holding onto you.

Her thumb shifts slightly against your hand, a small, absent movement, like she’s reassuring herself you’re still there.

Still real.

Still safe.

“I know it’s silly,” she adds quickly, a faint flush rising to her cheeks, even in the dim light. “It’s just a story, I know that, but—”

She cuts herself off.

Because she doesn’t need to explain it.

Not really.

The way she leans into you says enough.

The way her voice falters says the rest.

There’s a moment where she hesitates, like she might try to sit through it anyway, like she might force herself to stay just to prove she can.

But then the storyteller raises their voice suddenly—

And whatever resolve she had disappears.

Silena flinches again, more noticeably this time, her fingers tightening instinctively as she turns slightly toward you.

That’s it.

That’s her limit.

“I really don’t like this,” she admits again, quieter now, more certain.

No hesitation this time.

Just honesty.

Her gaze lifts briefly, searching yours for a moment—not demanding, not expectant, just… hopeful. Like she’s leaving the decision open, but silently wishing you’ll understand what she’s asking.

Then she looks away again, her expression softening into something a little more sheepish.

“I think your cabin sounds a lot better right now,” she says, attempting a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “A lot less… haunted.”

The word feels heavier than she intends it to.

She huffs out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it’s thin, lacking its usual warmth.

Still, she doesn’t let go.

Not even a little.

And as another shadow flickers across the firelight, stretching unnaturally long across the ground, Silena instinctively shifts closer again—seeking comfort in the one place that feels steady in the middle of everything else.

You.