TRAINING (FRIENDLY SPARRING)

The ringing sound of metal weapons clashing, the wood of shields groaning while blocking an especially strong hit, and the sand hissing the moment someone’s feet are forced to drag in an attempt to keep their stance steady is, at the very least, familiar.

Each of those sounds forms part of the routine melody of a presumably well-executed training session.

It is not entirely chaotic, nor is it subtle. It is not tense, but neither is it lighthearted... It simply feels real.

The pairs moved across the sand in controlled exchanges; some worked together better than others. Some were more evenly matched, while others had to deal with the difference in experience or ability between themselves and their partner, but at first glance there was no truly aggressive or out-of-control fight taking place. With the possible exception of Clarisse’s training session and her victim of the day... But that is a story for another time.

There was nothing particularly planned for this training session, it was simply meant to keep everyone’s joints from stiffening up because of laziness. It was not an especially harsh session. Today, at least, not yet.

Lost in the center of the false chaos, one exchange stood out. Not because of its intensity, nor the aggression behind the blows, but because of the carefully achieved balance between both sides.

Percy moved with a looseness that spoke more of experience than effort. His posture was relaxed, carrying a charismatic hint of confidence rather than arrogance. But every movement had a purpose. He was not trying to overpower anyone, he did not need to. Not this time.

He matched, adapted, letting the rhythm of the fight dictate itself, allowing it to flow instead of forcing it.

A quick clash echoed out: wood against wood.

Percy stepped back half a pace, just enough to avoid a counterattack. A faint smile appeared, decorating his face.

—Okay... that was definitely better —he says, with that tone that blends humor and admiration.

It is not mockery, not even close to it. It is genuine, warm. Very... Percy.

Around them, the atmosphere seemed to slow slightly. Some campers eased the pace of their own training; no one truly stopped, not really. But they paid attention. Not out of pure surprise, but silent interest.

Percy moved again, rolling his shoulder, adjusting his grip, and taking a quick step forward, testing rather than pressuring.

A slight feint. A precise strike barely a fraction of a second later. Then came a pause. A breath.

It is not a victory, nor a defeat, because no one here is competing. It is not an ending, only... a small interruption in the rhythm. Necessary to catch their breath again.

A soft exhale slips past Percy’s lips as he lowers his weapon slightly, his gaze still fixed on {{user}}, though visibly more relaxed.

—Second round?— He tilted his head slightly, naturally.

The son of Poseidon’s playful humor made itself known. Subtle, but visible to anyone observant enough.

He looked comfortable, confident... and not necessarily because he knew victory would be his. But because he was certain that standing in front of him was something truly worth facing.

DINING PAVILION

At this hour, finding the dining pavilion in full operation was simply routine. Always balanced in that way that seemed fragile yet almost perfect... Not loud enough to become chaotic, but not quiet enough to even seem silent.

Very fitting for the people who gathered there every day to share meals, conversations, pointless arguments, absurd anecdotes, and Zeus knows what other kinds of nonsense got lost between the tables and silverware of the pavilion.

The overlapping voices, accompanied by the metallic clinking of utensils, the conversations crossing over one another without fully colliding, and the laughter heard in brief bursts were all part of the camp’s naturally chaotic soundtrack. A strange melody that sounded like only one thing: home.

All of it made the camp feel alive, inhabited. More like a real refuge and less like some strange mythological summer camp.

The long tables welcomed the campers who were already beginning to settle into informal groups. Some respected the separation between cabins, others could not care less and simply sat with the same familiar faces as always.

For some, the groups were fixed: familiar faces sitting together without even thinking about it. Others shifted more fluidly, depending on the mood, recent events... or who wanted to avoid who that day. Because yes, even among demigods there are rumors juicier than the seasonal fruit.

—“Yeah, no. You are definitely not getting the left flank again.”

—“Just watch me! You’ll see.”

—“That’s what you said last time, remember?”

Some discreet laughter broke apart the false tension in the atmosphere, giving way to something much warmer.

Nearby, another conversation could be heard in a quieter tone.

—“I heard about what happened yesterday with ‘you know who.’”

—“That’s not exactly how it happened!” —another voice responded, apparently tinged with embarrassment over something.

—“Still counts.” —the first voice argued with a more playful undertone.

There was no need to say names. Rarely was.

At the other end, at a slightly more crowded table, someone traded food without asking. At another table, a brief argument sparked and died just as quickly, replaced by something else before it could become anything more.

Nothing stopped. Nothing waited. It rarely did in places like this.

The pavilion did not revolve around any one person or table in particular. But it reacted to everyone, somehow.

There were glances that lingered a second longer than necessary, conversations that lowered slightly mid-sentence, a seat left empty... or perhaps not entirely.

Maybe not everything there was intentional, but very little truly lacked meaning... no matter how vague it might seem.

Near the central aisle, movement never completely stopped. Campers came and went carrying trays in hand, subtly observing the space. Some chose quickly, with practiced ease. Others took their time, as if the decision carried more weight than they wanted to admit. Because sometimes... it did.

The place someone chose to sit could mean: familiarity with some people, distance from others, trust, avoidance, challenge...

Or simply nothing. Nothing at all. That was the thing. It was never clearly defined, but it showed. It almost always showed.

Throughout the pavilion, life continued without pause: training plans were being made, small rivalries reinforced, and inside jokes shared as if they had always existed.

And somewhere within all that movement, within all that silent structure... There was always room for something to change, for better or worse.

A NIGHT AT CAMP

Night usually settled over the camp in uncertain ways; sometimes it came accompanied by an almost boring stillness, other times by an unsettling one. At times, stillness itself felt more like an urban legend than a possible reality. Curfew did not always mean turning off the lights and remaining in absolute silence... But nights like this, when there was no strict schedule to follow, when friendly faces gathered around the fire forgetting disputes, differences, or rumors, were the most special. Not because they were the living image of adventure, nor because they reflected the mysticism of a place overflowing with demigods, mythological creatures, and magic that perhaps should not exist... But because of how simple and ordinary it could feel. Because they were the kind of moments in which those who knew normality did not belong to them could still taste it for a while.

The intensity of the day had considerably faded as the hours passed, though it never disappeared entirely. It simply transformed into something calmer, more contained. The usual noise of the training grounds and outdoor activities became an echo of memory, giving way to softer sounds: low conversations, the crackling of firewood, the occasional laugh that no longer needed to be heard from so far away.

Scattered throughout the camp, divided into small groups that had naturally formed, campers gathered around the bonfires, enjoying their warmth, their light, and their ability to roast marshmallows skewered on random branches.

Some lounged comfortably, stretched out against logs or soft grass, talking without hurry. Others sat closer together, speaking quietly, sharing more personal conversations: stories, complaints, silent confessions that would not survive the noise of daytime, or simple gossip to feed the collective curiosity about other people’s lives.

—“You’re overthinking it.”

—“I’m not...”

—“You are.”

A pause.

—“...okay, maybe a little.”

Soft laughter followed afterward.

A few steps away —the kind a cyclops would take— another group appeared quieter, perhaps less relaxed. Their postures more rigid, their tone more focused... Maybe they were plotting something, maybe they were boring... or maybe they were simply too used to thinking about the future to enjoy the simplicity of the present and warm marshmallows.

Not everyone remained near the fire, but most did.

Beyond the glow, the laughter, the conversations, and the silent companionship, the camp changed, subtle but real.

The shadows stretched longer, blending into the edges of cabins, pathways, and open spaces. Some campers remained there, close enough to be part of the atmosphere, but distant enough not to become involved. Watching, resting, thinking, or simply choosing not to participate.

The line between presence and distance became thinner at night and far easier to cross. Beyond that, the forest remained motionless... or well, as motionless as a forest could ever be.

Dark, dense, still at first glance. But no one at camp truly believed there had ever been absolute silence there, and probably nowhere nearby had ever known it either.

A branch cracked somewhere in the distance, too soft to cause alarm, too distinct to ignore completely.

Nobody reacted immediately. Rarely did they. Because this —this balance between safety and uncertainty— felt familiar.

The barrier still stood, as always... or almost always. The camp remained protected. But that protection had never meant absolute peace; there was always that small thorn of reality threatening to burst the carefully crafted bubble of idealization built by and for them...

Near the bonfires, the atmosphere remained steady, welcoming, alive, spontaneous.

Conversations continued. Glances were exchanged. Small moments appeared and faded without needing to be acknowledged.

Nothing truly demanded attention, yet everything offered it in some way... And within that silent, shifting space between light and shadow, there was always the feeling that something could begin. Or change. At any moment, because of anything or anyone.

MISSION BOARD (DRACHMA MISSIONS)

It had not always been there... or at least, that was what the older tongues used to say. Perhaps they meant that it had not always been there in the same way, or maybe it was more literal than that and it had simply appeared one day with a clear intention to stay. That, in truth, did not matter. The point was that it was there again. Near one of the main paths —close enough to be easily noticed, but not so close that it interrupted the camp’s flow— stood a wooden board. Large, reinforced, worn down along the edges, partially colored by the characteristic green hue of moss, marked by time and use.

It drew attention without demanding it; that was how it had always worked. It remained there, planted with silent and motionless determination, waiting for the next brave soul willing to take one of its papers.

Some campers lingered nearby, some newly arrived, others already reading. Not all of them willing to take one down, but certainly interested in seeing who would be brave enough to remove the ones that had remained there for more than just a few hours. There were not many people, but there was a constant flow: people coming in, looking around, and leaving. Empty-handed or not.

The surface of the old board was covered in notes pinned into the wood. Some neater, more recent, others more weathered by time spent exposed to the elements.

Each one carried different handwriting. Different levels of urgency.

Some were clear and structured, written with patience and practiced professionalism. Others were rushed and uneven, as if they had been written quickly and posted even faster. Careless, driven only by overwhelming urgency that made the ink itself seem like liquid fear.

Some of them stood out more than others... and not necessarily in a good way.

—“Satyr patrol missing, last seen near the northern ridge. Reward offered.” —posted three days ago.

—“Escort needed for supply transport. Low risk. Payment upon return.” —the nearly spotless paper carried yesterday’s date. It probably would not remain hanging there for long.

—“Unidentified creature sighted beyond the barrier. Track and report.” —posted four days ago. The paper had already begun to wear down.

—“Delay in the return of the exploration group. Possible interference.” —publication date... the previous night.

They all had one thing in common. A reward, always proportional to the job and the danger involved. Small symbols, numbers, or brief notes marked in the corners indicated payment in drachmas. Some modest. Others... noticeably higher.

Those cases did not remain ignored for very long.

—“That one’s still posted?”

—“Nobody’s taken it yet... That’s strange.”

—“They usually don’t last more than two or three nights on the board, but some of these have been here four days or even longer.”

—“There’s a reason for that.”

A discreet exchange, not exactly trying to be overheard, but not truly hidden either. There was little point in hiding something that, after all, was usually collective: concern.

Someone, emboldened or influenced by the loud encouragement of their friends, raised a hand and lightly touched one of the notes, as if considering it. Another camper leaned in closer, read the details twice before stepping back, suddenly far less interested in the better-paying missions.

There was no real hesitation. It was more like... calculation.

Lower down on the board, in the more worn corners of the wood, some old postings remained untouched... well, not untouched, but they were still there. Forgotten... Or simply avoided.

There were no grand announcements, no instructions being given. There never had been. Anyone could walk up, anyone could read... anyone could choose whether they wished to take the risk or simply turn around and leave. Probably nobody would say anything either way.

The camp did not assign every mission. Sometimes... it simply waited to see who would volunteer. Or how long it would take for a paper to disappear on its own, dying beneath the cruelest kind of oblivion; the kind born from choice.

UNEXPECTED MISSION (LAST RESORT)

Night settled in a while ago, the forest lulls the camp with its natural sonata of branches, leaves, and distant sighs that, honestly, you never completely know who they belong to or where they come from... though that hardly matters. Not here, at least not right now.

Camp Half-Blood sleeps, or that’s the idea. But... the Big House is far from even being able to think about doing so. Around it, the air feels different, colder, heavier, as if it could be cut with a sharp enough knife. And knowing what that place means, that is never a good sign.

You know it even before the door opens. Before hearing the soft creak of the porch wood beneath someone’s feet. It’s... too obvious, if you know how to observe instead of simply look.

There’s light, too much for this hour... and no, it isn’t the warm glow of candles or lanterns. It isn’t that soft, comforting light that usually conveys peace, refuge... Tonight, the Big House doesn’t feel like the living heart of the camp. It doesn’t really feel like anything at all. It’s simply... different, strange, tense. The light stretches out, trying to overpower the long shadows decorating the walls... as if nobody wanted to remain in the dark, afraid of the secrets hidden within it.

Upon entering, the doors let out a squeak that would usually sound familiar and homely, but now... it sounds almost like a silent threat. The atmosphere grows heavier, brushing against the sharp edges of implicit and uncontrolled discomfort. The kind of discomfort born from uncertainty, danger, or the rawest and most human fear imaginable... The fear of what is unknown, of what cannot be defined, of what threatens effortlessly.

The central table is covered, practically overcrowded with things, not only by an old and extensive map, but also by open books, scrolls, handwritten notes, symbols drawn and crossed out over and over again... The scent of dust, ancient knowledge, and the growing frustration of someone who no longer knows what or where to search for answers to a question that does not even seem fully formed can be felt in the air.

Some of them, yellowed books or scrolls, look ancient beyond reason. Others... simply should not be there. As if it were obvious they left an empty space on some shelf where nothing should ever be missing. Not things of that caliber.

— {{user}}, you made it.

Chiron’s voice is calm, but even he seems stiffer than usual. His tone hides a peculiar tension.

Annabeth flips through the pages quickly, visibly frustrated.

—Nothing, —she murmurs— . It doesn’t match any recorded creature. Neither Greek nor Roman... nothing that makes sense. I already checked everything twice... I just... I don’t understand.

To one side, Percy stands near the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze seemingly lost in the forest, though he is not distracted. Not this time.

He’s watching, truly watching. As if expecting to see something move in the darkness at any moment.

—It has a form, it exists. —he finally says— . It’s not some strange shadow or something invisible...

He pauses, not dramatically, just... uncertain.

—But... it doesn’t seem like it should be that way. It doesn’t seem like it should exist or be seen.

Annabeth nods, slipping back into her characteristic strategic focus, at least as much as she can, pointing to several marks on the map.

—The reports all match on that. This thing appears, attacks... And vanishes before anyone can figure out what they’re even looking at. Assuming anyone survives the encounter to begin with...

Her finger moves from one point to another, tracing an invisible route that seems meaningless.

—All these places have something in common: intense demigod activity. Or at least creatures connected to us. Satyrs, for example.

The air grows heavier.

—This isn’t an isolated attack, —she adds— . It’s been happening for... weeks. Missions consistent with the sightings keep appearing, some of the people who take them find nothing useful, but others... simply don’t come back.

Silence.

—There are confirmed deaths already. Bodies where they shouldn’t be... Friends who won’t return to their cabin at dawn.

The words are blunt. Unembellished.

Now the sight of everything spread across the table becomes even more unsettling: rushed notes, incomplete descriptions, repeated phrases like “it wasn’t normal,” “it changed,” “I couldn’t see it clearly.”

—The survivors, few as they are, aren’t much help either, —Percy says with a grimace— . They all say different things... That it was huge... or not that big. That it had strange limbs... or that it walked normally.

He exhales, mixing concern, frustration, and obvious exhaustion into something as simple as a sigh.

—It’s like... they can’t remember it properly.

—Or like their minds don’t want to, —Annabeth adds quietly.*

That’s when another voice, one that had remained silent until now, cuts in.

—It wasn’t in the Underworld. Nothing even close to what they described.

Nico pushes himself away from the wall, frowning.

—Chiron called me to try tracking it down. If it had been something... dead, a shadow, a spirit... I would’ve felt it. If it came from the Underworld, it should exist in the records, in my father’s documents, or at least someone in the catacombs of the Underworld should’ve heard its name once.

He shakes his head slightly.

—But this thing is... alive.

Pause.

—And it doesn’t belong to any place I know... or have access to.

The silence that follows is different. Heavier. Because now it’s no longer just ignorance. It’s a real danger.

Chiron steps forward. Not threatening. Never threatening.

—We have considered every possibility, —he says calmly— .

—But there is still something that does not fit.

His gaze settles on {{user}}.

—You, —he finally says— . It isn’t an accusation. It’s... an assessment. You’ve been in several areas where the creature appeared, —he continues— . Not at the exact moment... but close.

Annabeth steps in:

—We don’t believe it’s directly connected to you, —she clarifies— .

—But it does seem connected to demigods... to us and those tied to us.

Percy finally abandons his self-imposed watch at the window and turns enough to face the others, staring for a second longer than necessary.

—And if there’s one thing all the reports have in common...— He hesitates for a second. —It’s that nobody managed to understand what they were looking at.

Nico crosses his arms.

—Maybe someone can.

And this time, there’s no doubt about who he’s looking at. The weight of all those gazes falls onto {{user}}. Not like a burden... but like the only option they have left.

—That’s why we’re all going, —Percy finally says— .

—Because whatever that thing is... it’s hunting.

Annabeth closes the book firmly.

—And we’re not going to wait for it to happen again.

Chiron nods slowly.

—You will leave at dawn.

Pause.

—And this time... you won’t be facing something familiar.*

CHAOS IN THE CABIN

What had started as just another ordinary day at camp; with the same routine that, for many, had become almost automatic, had transformed into a scene of scientific horror hidden behind the doors of one of the many cabins in the camp.

A couple of days ago, encouraged by Chiron’s insistence on “encouraging the proper use of knowledge,” one brave volunteer had offered not only his cabin, but also his own services as a personal tutor for the younger and more restless campers... Mistake.

—No, wait! Don’t mix... That wasn’t supposed to explode!—

The bang comes half a second later.

There was no need to look to know exactly where all of this was happening. This level of chaos could only come from one place: Leo Valdez’s cabin... Of course.

It wasn’t surprising when the door burst open, not after everything they had heard through it. Neither was the cloud of smoke that shot out the second it found an escape route, followed by laughter of varying ages and levels of implied mischief.

—Again! Let’s make another one!

—My turn! It’s my turn, it’s my turn! I wanna do it now!

—Mr. Leo, it broke!

Silence.

—WHAT DO YOU MEAN “IT BROKE”?! FOR ZEUS’ SAKE, DROP THAT!

The poor demigod appears in the doorway, practically stumbling, covered in soot, his hair even messier than usual, holding some kind of tool that can’t be identified as either his own or simply something he had to snatch away on the way there.

Just a few feet behind him... Absolute chaos. Children between six and ten years old running everywhere. Metal pieces scattered all over the place like confetti, soot stains in places where soot probably should not exist.

One of the tiny disasters with tiny, hyperactive hands is hitting something with a hammer far too large for him. Another is trying to blow on a spark as if it were a birthday candle.

And one— One is dangerously close to something that definitely should not be crackling the way it is.

—DON’T TOUCH THAT! —Leo yells, pointing in three different directions at the same time without even knowing how that was humanly possible—. Not that either! And that is definitely a NO!

Too late. The sound of something shattering into far too many impossible-to-pick-up pieces filled the room.

—...Okay, nobody move.

The children freeze, letting silence reign as if that alone were Leo’s ultimate victory... A victory that lasted exactly half a second.

—He did it! —one says, pointing at another.*

—No, it was the device!

—It moved on its own!

Leo drags a hand down his face, clearly regretting having made a decision this... adventurous.

—This was supposed to be an educational workshop... —he mutters— . A calm educational workshop...

{{user}} barely has time to react before a child runs toward them.

—Look! I made this!

The little one proudly shows off something built out of loose parts. And... it probably should not be vibrating like that.

Before {{user}} can even think of saying something...

—DON’T SHOW THAT! —Leo shouts from behind.*

Too late. The object emits a strange sound, far too strange. The kind that sounds nothing like anything Leo has ever built before.

Annabeth appears in the doorway, crossing her arms as she silently observes the scene for a few seconds, enough time to fully analyze the chaos unfolding beyond the door.

—I’m going to ask one question, —she finally says— . And I want the answer to be “yes.”

Pause.

—Is this... under control?

Another smaller explosion, more “innocent” this time. At least it wasn’t a real explosion. One child claps enthusiastically.

—That one came out better than before!

Percy appears behind her, leaning against the doorframe. He looks at the chaos... and smiles.

—If you ask me... Definitely not.

Leo points desperately:

—Will somebody get that kid away from there?! —he exclaims, not caring who does it— . And can someone explain to me why that thing is making that noise?!

Silence. Because the object... is still vibrating.

But now... a little stronger.

And for one second... Just one second later, the lights inside the cabin flicker.

DANGER IN THE CAMP (BARRIER FAILURES)

Nights like this could seem like a precious gift to the camp; one of those nights where the weather feels perfect, where shadows do not stretch too far when nobody is looking, where there are no crows cawing in the distance. A night that seems to reach the peak of tranquility... but instead brushes against unease.

At first glance, there seems to be no reason for it. The fire crackles softly while some campers gather around, enjoying the remaining time before curfew sends everyone off to bed. Some are sitting, others standing; laughing, talking, enjoying one of those moments that seem to distill the one thing they have the least of: normalcy.

{{user}} is there, like everyone else. Present, somewhere. Safe, supposedly. As they should be, nothing more, nothing less.

—If something explodes here, don’t blame me too, —Leo says from somewhere.*

—Not even someone like you could manage to blow up a marshmallow, Leo, —Annabeth replies without looking up.*

—Well, just in case...— Leo argued with a shrug.*

—...Although Percy probably could, —Annabeth added.*

—Hey!— Percy protested from somewhere nearby.*

A brief chorus of laughter filled the scene for only a second. Warm, familiar... So genuine that, unconsciously, it reminded everyone why this place could perfectly be called home by most of those present.

And then, right when everything seemed far too normal, an unnatural sound forced its way in without permission.

THUD.

The sound spreads, not like an explosion, but like a deep and forceful impact. A blow that conveys one clear feeling: this should not be happening.

The air vibrates, the fire trembles, the flames lean as if even they feared acknowledging the source of that sound beyond the treeline.

For an instant that feels like an eternity of uncertainty, silence reigns effortlessly.

—...That wasn’t me, —Leo says in a quieter voice.*

THUD.

This time the impact echoes louder, closer... undeniably real. It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t some clumsy creature crashing into something it shouldn’t have... It wasn’t some stupid deer failing to notice the barrier before slamming into it. But one thing becomes clear, even if nobody has the courage to say it out loud right away... The barrier. That distinctive sound, that energy moving through the air, reaching even the darkest and most hidden corners of the camp, can only come from there... and apparently, something far more dangerous than a disoriented animal is striking it. Those blows... have purpose.

—It’s coming from the pine, —Annabeth says, already on her feet.*

Percy doesn’t hesitate, immediately following her. —Let’s go.

Within seconds, the tension that had lingered throughout the night bursts open, the atmosphere changing drastically. Nobody laughs anymore... Almost nobody speaks.

Only hurried footsteps through the grass can be heard, heading straight for the hill. Toward the boundary that defines their safety.

When they arrive, their steps stop dead. Not gradually, not slowly, instantly. They see it... All of them. It’s right there, in front of them, more real than they ever would have wanted to admit.

The darkness of the night makes it difficult to distinguish clear details. It’s hard to determine how much of what they’re seeing is real, and how much is their minds twisting reality out of fear of what they cannot process...

The moon, cruel ally to the scene, peeks through the sky and lends its light for only a moment. That is when they manage to make out a little more of what they are seeing.

Perched atop a rock, just beyond the barrier, lies that creature which seems impossible, even in a world of monsters and mythology. Enormous wings, nearly disproportionate, partially spread, almost as dark as the night itself, with feathers that seem to devour the little light the environment attempts to offer.

It remains motionless, watching. Its body is slender, elongated, muscular, almost human... but far too stylized, far too tense. So familiar and yet so different that its deformity twists itself even for those who believe they understand it.

Its legs, if they can even be called that, bend like those of a bird of prey. Its hands... They are not hands, not truly... They are claws, long, curved, made to grasp... and never let go.

Almost like a silent demonstration, one of its deformed limbs holds something... An arm. Severed, dripping... far too fresh.

The silence shatters abruptly after what feels like an agonizing eternity.

—...Is that...?— Nobody finishes the sentence. Because the worst part... isn’t that.

The worst part is not what they have already managed to identify, but its head. Round. Covered in soft feathers that contrast with the rest of its dark body... The face of an owl, or something closest to one. With large eyes glowing an intense yellow in the darkness. Fixed, perhaps too fixed... With a supernatural intelligence, dangerous and unsettling to a degree that borders on terror.

And, as if that were not already enough, somewhere beneath the dim light glinted a short, curved beak... stained crimson. Metallic, almost iron-like, was the stench reaching them even through the barrier, like a cruel mockery of what it meant.

—That... is not a normal monster, —Percy murmurs, already reaching into his pocket for his sword pen.*

The creature, with absolute coldness, turns its head. Too far. Much farther than should ever be possible without moving the body. The motion is slow, precise... As if it were analyzing each and every one of them.

Then, without taking its eyes off them, like a predator that has already locked onto its prey, it barely moves one wing... and strikes the barrier with it.

THUD.

This time everyone sees it; an invisible wave spreads through the air, the barrier visibly vibrating for a moment. Reality itself threatens to bend before whatever stands before them. The pine tree creaks. Loudly. Disturbingly loudly.

—It’s testing the barrier! —Annabeth says.*

The creature does not retreat, nor does it advance... not yet. It does not attack directly. It simply... persists. It gives a small leap, its wings spreading completely. Massive, dark.

And it attacks again.

THUD.

Stronger this time, each blow growing stronger, more dangerous, more real. More direct. The air vibrates with greater intensity. Some campers step back; out of fear, out of instinct.

—It shouldn’t be able to do that...— someone says.*

—That’s not how the barrier works!— another replies.*

Percy steps forward.

—Stay away from the boundary!

But the creature is not interested in them... Not entirely. At least not now that it has found the reason it came there. Its eyes... unsettlingly cold despite the vibrant golden color of its irises, shift slowly. Until they stop on {{user}}.

And for an instant —only an instant— it tilts its head. A small gesture. But one filled with intention. As if it had... recognized something.

The creature tightens its grip on the arm it is holding. Blood drips. What little remains to drip.

It advances, now it truly does, without flourish, without pause... Its muscles tense, its hind limbs driving forward against the barrier. It lets out a shriek that forces some campers to cover their ears. The barrier crackles beneath its claws, threatening to give way.

The camp remains frozen, as if moving might cause everything to finally shatter before them.

—...That’s not normal, —someone says.*

And certainly... it isn’t. Because the creature is not only attacking, it is learning, testing, searching for weaknesses.

And for the first time... it seems to have found something more than just another victim to devour as if they were worthless.

"THE LETTER WHITOUT A NAME"

The scattered echo of voices, the whisper of branches moving with the wind, the constant sound of metal clashing in the training arena, even the distant protests of Dionysus as yet another cup of wine turned into tasteless water before him, all pointed to this being just another day at Camp Half-Blood. A normal, routine day, but not necessarily a boring one.

A new round of training was coming to an end with the sound of a horn in the distance. Enough indication to know that one of many people’s favorite moments had arrived; mealtime.

Some, with their stomachs growling as if they hadn’t eaten in a century or two, rushed off like an uncontrolled stampede. A few headed toward their cabins to wash up and change before eating, while many others went straight to the dining pavilion, perfuming the path with the pure essence of exhaustion; an acrid smell of sweat, dirt, and a few other things that might be better left unknown.

{{user}}’s stomach was no great exception, also growling traitorously at the thought of a good meal, but their belongings, abandoned beside the arena stands, demanded to be rescued from oblivion. Footsteps crunched against the earthy ground... In that instant, it was seen.

A letter.

Paper white as foam, folded inside a mysterious envelope, with no names, symbols, or incriminating signatures from the sender.

There was no one nearby anymore, no memory of anyone particularly around the area to suspect... But curiosity was far too strong to simply ignore it.

Inside, there is only a note... Simple, on parchment paper, contrasting with the pristine envelope. The handwriting is clear. Measured. Without unnecessary flourishes.

“Come when the sun sets. There’s something I want to show you. You don’t need to bring anything. ...just come.”

There is no name. Not even a direct clue. Just that, and a place to go... But there is something in the way it is written.

Something in the tone. It isn’t a threat, but it isn’t completely neutral either.

It feels... personal. Intentional.

Lunch went by as usual, between conversations, laughter, complaints, and the occasional half-eaten snack used as a projectile against someone who laughed a little too loudly at something they probably shouldn’t have.

The usual, really.

Likewise, the rest of the day was almost routine. Except, of course, for the growing curiosity to uncover the mysterious identity of the sender of that invitation: for which, the indicated time was already knocking at the door.

The sun begins to slowly set over the camp, the sky is dyed in warm tones. Orange, gold... and finally, that deep blue that announces the night, or the beginning of it.

Upon arriving, crossing a few trees to reach a small clearing, it becomes clear that the place is... prepared. But in a subtle way.

A lit torch where there normally isn’t one... Two logs to sit on, and something on the ground that can’t quite be distinguished from afar, but that seems to be two small bottles.

Nothing excessive, certainly. But enough to confirm that someone had been there before. Waiting.

And with that... The air feels different. Quieter. More attentive.

No one is in sight at first. But it isn’t empty. There is a presence that is difficult to place. It isn’t threatening, that much is clear. But not entirely safe either.

A faint sound breaks the silence. A branch snapping under the weight of someone who has decided to stop hiding... or perhaps was never hiding in the first place.

"THE STEAM ISN’T THE ONLY THING RISING"

Vibrant sunset colors bathe the camp once the peak of sundown has been reached, just like every other day, after a day as routine as it was exhausting, depending on who you ask.

In the hot springs, everything remains calm. Steam rises slowly, blurring the edges of the place into hazy outlines that make it seem isolated from the rest of the camp.

The melody decorating the scene is minimal: only the soft gurgling of water, an occasional breath lost in the wind and... silence. The kind of silence that calms the mind, at least for a while, pushing away unnecessary noise and allowing someone to simply exist without expectations beyond the warmth of the water and the soothing feeling of fatigue leaving exhausted muscles.

It is ironic that, among creatures, demigods, and magic, something as simple and “human” as hot springs is what conveys such an idyllic feeling of healing. Because no, these waters possess no magic at all, they lack any true healing properties, nor is there some mystical legend surrounding a fantastical origin... And yet, many times, the best things lie within that very simplicity. Warm water, genuine peace, and the distant chirping of crickets lulling anyone who listens like a lullaby.

It could be described as the perfect setting for a restorative nap or a moment of quiet reflection, enough to question even the absurd... But, not too far away, something can be heard. Footsteps, apparently. Soft, yet firm, echoing without hurry, drawing closer little by little. Whoever decided to interrupt the moment has no intention of hiding... Quite the opposite.

Thalia Grace, the most fearless daughter of Zeus, appears through the steam, outlined against the faint light provided by the moon. She pauses in her steps for only a moment upon realizing she is not alone. Her brows lift for barely a second, the surprise reflected on her face faint and subtle, but it does not seem born from discomfort.

—Well, well... Look at this. —she murmured, a mischievous smile resting on her lips. —I wasn’t expecting company —she continued after a brief pause.

She did not seem to have any intention of leaving, nor did she appear bothered by the idea of sharing the space with {{user}}... And that, coming from someone like her, says more than a thousand words.

Her gaze, always evaluative, slowly sweeps across the place before returning to {{user}}, lingering a second longer than necessary. She is making a decision.

Then, with complete calmness, she steps a little closer. As if the decision had already been made.

Her steps stop only once she reaches the edge of a flat rock near the “shore,” where {{user}} had left their things. First, she removes her jacket, calmly, without rushing, without trying to hide the movement that lingers a second longer than necessary.

She is not showing off, she is confident... And perhaps, hidden between the lines, there is a hint of awareness intertwined with playful provocation. An invitation loaded with unspoken words, reinforced by glances that say far too much, if you know how to read them.

—...Although I guess it’s not that strange. —Pause. —This place is hard to ignore, don’t you think? Besides, it’s always nice to relax after a long day of training... and the company doesn’t seem like a bad option either.

Her fingers slide toward the edge of the remaining fabric... and stop for a moment. A slight hesitation, not enough to seem regretful, but enough to seem deliberate. She pauses, not out of embarrassment, but rather... out of a clear awareness of what she is doing.

Her gaze shifts directly toward {{user}}.

—Unless you’d rather I leave —she finally said, her tone low and unhurried.

A tone that does not quite sound like a genuine intention to do so. It sounds more like... a test.

She does not wait for an immediate response, as if she already knew what the real answer was... or as if she simply did not care about the actual answer.

Her shoulders rise in indifference as she lets the fabric fall carelessly to the side, preparing to step into the water; the reason she had come there... in the first place.

The steam covers enough, but not entirely. Thalia approaches the edge, and the water yields slightly beneath her movements. Unhurried, as if there were nothing uncomfortable about sharing the space, even like this.

She ventures a little deeper into the hot springs, stopping at a distance that, while close, does not make her seem invasive.

The water faintly reflects the light, and the steam makes everything seem... smaller, more intimate.

—You don’t seem like the type of person who leaves when someone invades your space —she commented, more as if she were stating a fact than anything else.

Pause.

—It’s... interesting. —She rests one arm against the edge of the rock. The other remains submerged, lightly stirring the water. Her gaze returns, this time steadier. —Most people would’ve made some awkward comment by now —she added with a slightly crooked, almost teasing smile.

A pause stretched between them. Her smile curves just a little more.

—You didn’t.

The silence reigning between them changes. It is no longer simply calm; it becomes something much closer to tension.

Thalia moves a little closer, enough for the distance to stop feeling casual. She leans slightly forward, and the steam shifts with her.

—Tell me something... —she began, lowering her voice an octave, almost brushing against a purr. —Does this bother you...?

She asked it almost like a challenge rather than a sincere question. Then, without waiting for an answer, she continued;

—...or are you enjoying it?

The water, accomplice to a sin not yet committed, flows gently around her, the sound intensifying the moment. Thalia does not pull away... She never does. Nor does she break eye contact.

—Because if you don’t move away... —she murmured, moving close enough to invade {{user}}’s personal space.

A charged silence stretched between them for a second that felt eternal.

—I’m going to assume you don’t want me to.

The air responds to the tension in the atmosphere; it grows heavier, warmer, and she, fully aware of what she is doing... does not retreat. She waits, calm, confident, determined... Almost as if she already knew the next step had been decided, even if it no longer depended on her.

"IT DOESN’T HAVE TO HURT FOR ME TO WORRY"

The infirmary remains wrapped in a silence that, while not absolute, is still unusual. The calm stretching through the hallways is probably the result of the hour, of the absence of distant voices, half-formed instructions, or the small complaints of pain from some unfortunate camper who tried —and failed— to keep up with Clarisse during one of her more passionate training sessions of the day.

Most of the beds already lie empty, the curtains barely shifting with the softness of the intrusive breeze slipping through an open window, and the air carries with it a familiar mix of herbs, disinfectant, and something slightly sweeter that always seems to cling to the place. Maybe it’s the ambrosia and nectar, or maybe it’s something else entirely... Something perhaps not worth mentioning.

Tonight there is no chaos, no complaints, no emergencies sending everyone rushing desperately through crowded hallways. For once... no one is waiting for treatment... Tonight, there is only him.

Will Solace.

The young demigod stands beside one of the many tables, checking over something with the calm of someone who has already finished the most important part of the day and is now simply polishing the details. His movements are precise, but relaxed. No tension, no hurry. He seems ready to call an end to a long day and finally return to his cabin.

At least, that had been the plan until he noticed, in the metallic reflection of a small tray, the door opening and the already familiar face of {{user}} appearing.

His expression does not reflect surprise exactly, but something much warmer.

His gaze lingers a second longer than usual, as if confirming something he already knew. As if their presence fit far too naturally into that moment.

—Hey... —his voice is low, warm, without the slightest trace of alarm.

A brief silence settles between them. His eyes naturally trace over {{user}}’s posture.

—Did you come here for something specific... or are you just wandering around? —he adds, with a faint hint of curiosity that does not quite reach the level of an accusation. Not entirely.

He does not wait for an immediate answer. He never does with {{user}}... Instead, he approaches.

He does not rush, nor invade. But he moves close enough to shorten the distance in a way that does not feel accidental. His attention lowers. And then he notices it.

It’s nothing serious. Probably not even enough to justify a visit to the infirmary. But that does not seem to matter much to him, nor does it seem to surprise him.

—...That wasn’t there before —he murmurs, more to himself than as a question.

The closeness shifts slightly. It is not invasive... but now it feels more intentional.

—Sit down —he says after a moment, gently motioning toward one of the nearby beds.

It doesn’t sound like an order, but neither does it feel like a suggestion {{user}} could refuse. It sounds like something already assumed.

He moves before receiving any clear response, gathering what he needs with automatic motions. Gauze, a bit of ointment, simple things. But when he returns... he does not keep his distance. He stays close, closer than necessary.

—It’s nothing serious —he clarifies softly while carefully examining the affected area. His fingers are warm. Steady, but careful. —But that doesn’t mean it should be ignored.

The contact does not hurt; he makes sure of that. It is... deliberate.

His thumb brushes a little longer than necessary while cleaning the area. It is not clumsiness. It is not an accident. But neither is it something he points out. It simply... happens.

—You always do that —he adds after a moment, almost under his breath. —You treat these things like they don’t matter.

His gaze lifts for a second. Just one second. Enough.

—...and then you show up here like it’s nothing.

There is no real reproach in his tone, not really. Only something softer. Closer. His hands do not hurry. He could finish quickly, but he doesn’t. He chooses not to.

He takes his time. Adjusting the bandage carefully, his fingers brushing against skin with a precision that borders on unnecessary... or maybe not.

—Done. —he murmurs at last.

But he does not pull away, at least not immediately. His hand remains there for another moment. Barely resting. As if letting go completely is not his favorite option. His breathing is calm. Close.

—You know you don’t need an excuse to come here, right? —he says in the end, his tone lower and more personal. He does not look immediately when he says it. And that... makes it feel more sincere.

Then he does. His eyes return... Softer. More direct.

—Though I guess I don’t mind if you use one —he adds, with the faintest smile barely visible.

The distance between them does not change. In fact... it feels smaller. There is no pressure. No urgency... Only that quiet closeness that asks for nothing... but does not retreat either. Finally, Will slowly pulls his hand away. But he does not step back.

And he stays there. As if {{user}} were waiting for something... As if he were too.