Mjolnir

The Last Will of Olympus

^{#f8d296 ....|..... outfit .....|..... near the strawberry fields}

Lux stepped out of the infirmary into the unrelenting brightness of a summer afternoon. Sunlight poured through leaves that hung from trees high above, bathing her in a warm glow that felt stark in comparison to the chill and the darkness of the storm the night before. She vaguely recalled how the entire atmosphere changed the second they stumbled through the borders of camp the night before. But it didn’t fully register until that moment.

Outside, in the real world, it was on the cusp of fall: cool breezes that didn’t quite bite, leaves had begun falling, and pumpkin everything everywhere—a discovery she made the moment September hit. While a great many things were different after the thirty years she lost, for some reason, the pumpkin obsession was the most… odd. Not that she could entirely blame anyone, she tried a pumpkin spice something or other when they were in Pittsburgh and secretly enjoyed it a little too much. But inside Camp Half-blood there were no changing leaves or excessive pumpkins, just the bright untameable warmth of a summer, mid-July. Lux had never been much of a summer person, but here it felt… different, like the safety of a hug after waking from a nightmare, like she could finally breathe and rest after years on the run.

She squinted and raised a hand to her brow to try and diffuse the luminous rays. Her eyes had just barely adjusted in time for her to quickly step aside as half a dozen children no older than twelve ran past in bright orange shirts that matched her own. They laughed, shoving and pushing each other as they went with no regard for the people around them. And there was one that trailed behind, a young girl with hair so blonde it was nearly white, panting with every step, who stopped for half a beat to flash her an apologetic smile. "Sorry!" She gave a small wave before continuing after her friends.

Lux laughed, finding an unspoken joy in the simplicity of demigod children playing and running from each other, not monsters or whatever horrors hunted them. She raised her hand to wave in return, but a new foreign ache tore through her left arm and ripped her pack from her grasp. There was a soft thud as the bag hit the wooden deck beneath her. Her gaze fell to the gashes that marred her forearm, somehow more gruesome and startling in the brightness of the sun. She flexed her hand a couple times, grimacing through the wave of new sensations she’d have to get accustomed to. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath as she stepped forward and sat on the top step of the porch.

She took a second to pull on her combat boots, not wasting time with fastening the laces knowing the longer she lingered outside the infirmary, the more likely she’d be caught by Beckett or Violet before she could put some distance between them. Lux needed to clear her head, organize her thoughts, and figure out what the fuck she was actually going to tell Beckett when he inevitably asked her to fill the gaps in his memory. So, in typical Lux fashion, she dug around her bag and pulled out her CD player. She put on her old headphones, with the ancient foam that flaked and threatened to break off with each use, and blasted Pearl Jam… promptly drowning out her thoughts rather than working through them.

With her good arm, Lux tossed her pack over one shoulder and stood back up. She descended the remaining stairs and turned down the dirt path, following in the direction the other kids ran off in. She wasn’t in a hurry, and her legs were still struggling to remember how to work, but she tried to walk as fast as she could, if only to put more distance between herself and—

As Lux looked back over her shoulder, expecting to see some kind of medical building of some sort, she was surprised instead to be faced with a massive Victorian style mansion. It was as blue as the sky, four stories—maybe more—with a wrap-around porch, the kind her grandpa always talked about wanting: white railings, ornate spandrels, and a porch swing off to one side. The memory twisted and coiled in her chest, aching in her bones in a way her arm never could. It was an old pain, something raw, and frayed around the edges like the remnants of her nightmare that clung to the memories of her grandfather’s face and Beckett’s lifeless body.

She closed her eyes tight and shook her head, trying to erase the images before they were burned into the back of her eyelids. Lux continued forward, with measured steps and a tight grip on the strap of her pack. She took a deep breath, then another and another, before opening her eyes, grounding herself in the brightness of reality as she continued onward, breaking through the treeline, and emerging out into the sunny expanse of the valley below.

Lux imagined Camp Half-Blood was the picture perfect, hallmark greeting card summer camp every kid had ever dreamt of. It was startling in the way that everyone there just… lived, something that felt so foreign to her that being faced with it now, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was just another dream, a glimpse into a life she could have before the nightmare of reality stripped it from her. There were cabins bursting with demigods of all ages, a large pavilion with columns and everything like it was teleported directly from Greece, various training grounds, a stable, a lake—that she was going to stay far from—and a strawberry field at the heart of everything.

Before she knew where to go, her feet had already started carrying her to the far side of the valley to a small clearing of grass nestled between the blossoming strawberries and the thicket of forest that surrounded the valley. Lux found a large boulder that was out of the way in a little niche that no one seemed to wander near. Perfect. She set down her bag beside it, and sat on the ground before it. She crossed her legs beneath her and let out a deep sigh as she leaned back against the rock, letting the cool stone ground her and sooth an ache along her back that she hadn’t realized had taken root. Her head lulled back, the sounds of Even Flow deafening her to the world around her.

Her mind had just started wandering back to the night before, scripting her answer for Beckett before he asked… weighing if she should tell him everything or not, when something gentle and featherlight brushed her knee. Lux started, eyes snapping open as she sat upright. Programmed for the worst over the past three—thirty-five years—her body immediately went into fight or flight mode until she was met with a pair of brown eyes, wide like saucers.

Before her stood a young girl who couldn’t have been more than six years old. She looked like a living Cabbage Patch Kid with curly strawberry blonde hair in two high ponytails, freckles speckled across her cheeks and nose, and a big smile with a noticeable gap where her two front teeth should be. She wore the same orange t-shirt Lux did, but several sizes too big. The sleeves went halfway down her forearms while the hem brushed the tops of her knees, which were dirty and bandaged with two neon pink bandaids. Clutched in one hand was a small wicker basket overflowing with plump, ripe strawberries while the other waved enthusiastically toward her with spread fingers and all the excitement of a child face to face with their favorite Disney character.

Lux paused her music and pulled the headphones from her ears to hang around the back of her neck just in time to be met with a cheerful, "Hi! I’m Harper!"

She had wanted to be alone to gather her thoughts and clear her mind, Harper had the type of effervescence that was contagious, all smiles and warmth like a ray of sunshine. While Lux could tell a teenager to fuck off as easily as the next person, this little girl before her radiated pure, untainted happiness. She refused to be the rain cloud that dampened her spirits. And maybe she could use a distraction with bouncy pigtails and a squeaky voice.

"Hi, Harper. I’m Lux," she replied, a little quiet and tentative but welcoming all the same.

Without invitation or ceremony, Harper plopped down on the grass right in front of her, sitting crisscrossed, nearly knee to knee, with her freckle dotted arms wrapped around her small basket that rested in her lap. "I’ve never met someone with the name Lux before," she admitted with a curious smile.

"My mom told me it means ‘light’ in Latin."

"Oh!" The girl beamed and bounced like she solved the puzzle before it was posed. "Is your dad Apollo?"

Lux’s smile was small with a faint sadness that weighed it down. "I don’t know who my dad is," she confessed, although it was a lie… A lie to herself and to Harper. For so long she had been convinced her father was Apollo. Her name, the archery, it all made sense. But after last night and the lightning… there was a heavier truth that tugged at the back of her mind that she refused to face. Something in her gut told her it was something to keep hidden. She didn’t know why, but her intuition hadn’t steered her wrong so far…

"That’s ok," Harper reassured her with a warm smile, all gap-toothed and light. "There’s a lot of demigods who haven’t been claimed yet. My mom’s Demeter, the Goddess of—" Her face scrunched and contorted as she tried to recall what her siblings had taught her. "—Harvest… agriculture... and something with an ‘F’ but I can’t remember. My sister says I’ll understand when I’m older." She shrugged her shoulders with a giggle, light and airy like a bird’s song.

There was a pause, just for a beat or two, before Harper continued. "Are you new?"

Lux nodded her head. "I arrived last night."

"My sister said there were new campers." Harper nodded her head causing her curly pigtails to bounce around like small springs.

"News travels fast around here," Lux mused with raised brows and a weak smile.

Like she had been offered the holy grail, Harper’s eyes sparkled with an exciting realization. "Have you made any friends yet?" she asked, bouncing where she sat like she could hardly contain herself as her follow up question barely waited for her to breathe before spilling out. "Can I be your first friend?"

Lux couldn’t fight the soft laugh that bloomed at the sight of seeing the young girl beaming so bright she was bursting at the seams. Her smile grew, just a fraction, still laced with an unseen heaviness, but growing lighter with each passing moment. "Well, camp is pretty overwhelming," she mused a little dramatically. "It’d be nice having a friend."

"Oh, oh. That’s ok. I know everything about camp!" The little girl, elated beyond words, looked back at the strawberry field where a young woman in overalls and a straw hat tended the field close by, occasionally sparing them small glances. "Clover! Clover! I made a new friend all on my own!"

The woman stood up, dusting off her hands with a smile nearly as bright as Harper’s. "That’s wonderful, sweet pea!"

Harper scooted closer, filling what space remained between them until the neon bandaids on her knees pressed against the torn jeans over Lux’s knees. "Wanna strawberry?" she asked, tilting the basket forward in offering.

"I’d love one." Lux extended her left hand without thought, grabbing the top berry, plump and ripe and perfectly red.

As she brought the piece of fruit to her lips, Harper’s eyes went wide. "Oh no. What happened to your arm?" she asked, genuine concern creasing her brows and pulling her small mouth into a frown.

"Oh…" Lux’s right hand reflexively fell to her arm, covering it like it was something to be embarrassed or ashamed of, something new she’d have to get used to people asking about, and a lie she’d have to fabricate if someone who wasn’t part of this world asked. "My friends and I had to fight a monster on our way to camp."

The admission didn’t surprise Harper, like it was a fact most demigods were aware of, even when they were far too young to be worried about monsters and beasts. "Does it hurt? Is that why you look sad?"

A weak laugh hummed behind Lux’s lips, touched by the girl’s concern and caught a little off guard at how intuitive she was. "It’s not too bad. Your healer did a good job patching me up." She forced a small smile before finishing her strawberry.

"Oh, I like Daphne!" Harper’s smile grew, curls bouncing with delight. "She gives me pink bandaids and a sucker whenever I scrape my knees." As she spoke, her fingers instinctively brushed one of the bandaids.

If Lux had to guess, there was no injury beneath them. Daphne probably healed the young girl in about two seconds. But knowing how happy something as simple as a bright pink bandaids made Harper, she probably humored her anyway.

"So... Why are you sad?" Harper asked softly. "Can I help?"

Lux’s laugh was warmer, not derogatory, but surprised at how much unbridled kindness children possessed before the harshness of the world ruined it. "You’re sweet." Her gaze drifted over toward the big blue house that sat on top of the hill and her thoughts found their way back to Beckett… The anxiety immediately knotted in her stomach. She turned her attention back toward Harper, studying the girl’s face who waited patiently for an answer and some way to help. While Lux was horrible when it came to talking about her feelings… Maybe someone like Harper, an impartial party who couldn’t understand the gravity of half of it, would bring a small piece of comfort to the storm that plagued her mind.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms against her thighs as her voice dropped to a whisper. "Can you keep a secret?"

Harper’s eyes grew even wider as she nodded her head up and down several times.

Lux pursed her lips in thought before holding out her pinky, wanting a silent promise before continuing, which the girl quickly snatched with her own plump finger. "It’s because of a boy."

"Ooooh." Harper’s eyes brightened with new excitement until she connected the dots that Lux looked sad, not happy. Then her smile fell and her brows pulled together into a small grimace. "Oh, wait… If he was mean then boo. I don’t like mean boys."

"No, he’s not mean." She paused and remembered their arguments or the way they always butted heads. There was never any maliciousness behind it, more of an unspoken need to protect each other which, coincidentally, also made them both look pretty gung-ho about getting themselves killed. "Not on purpose," she corrected. This time Lux’s smile grew, warm and soft with a light that had been lost for far longer than she could remember. Her gaze fell to her hands as she idly toyed with the frayed bit of jeans around her knee.

"I just… don’t think he likes me the way I like him," Lux confessed like that hyper little girl was her therapist. She looked up, her smile shifting to something more guilty and bashful. "I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t be talking about this with you."

Harper stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry, brushing off Lux’s attempt to deter the conversation. Little girls enjoyed girl talk as much as grown women did apparently.

"But you’re nice and pretty," Harper replied simply, with her head cocked to the side in confusion like she couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t like her. "Maybe... You need to smile bigger?" she asked rhetorically. She then leaned forward, gently pinching Lux’s cheeks between plump fingers sticky with the juice from her berries.

The gesture alone was enough to make Lux laugh and her smile widen, without the additional encouragement. One of her eyes scrunched at the stickiness, but she didn’t pull away. There was a strange comfort in being seen, even by someone so tiny and innocent. It was small moments like that, which made the struggles, running, and fighting feel a little more worth it. Like maybe… just maybe, camp could be home. She could get used to a life in perpetual summer, surrounded by easily excitable demigods, Violet and…

"And you can give him strawberries!" Harper practically shoved the basket into Lux’s lap. "Everyone likes strawberries!"

Lux looked down at the cluster of berries now perched between her legs with a smile she could no longer fight, but remained bright and unyielding. "I didn’t realize I befriended the resident dating expert," she mused with a playful glint behind her eyes, likely lost on the innocent but it still made her chuckle.

"Oh! Oh!" Harper clapped her hands together like she was on the edge of genius and jumped to her feet. "I can make you a flower crown! You’ll look like a Princess! Boys love Princesses." Before she got confirmation, the little girl scurried off, scouring the clearing and the edge of the forest for dandelions. Her brows were furrowed with a furious determination, nose scrunched and the tip of her tongue curled out of the corner of her mouth. Focused.

Lux watched her in silent admiration, letting out a soft sigh as she settled back against the rock like another weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her gaze slowly drifted from Harper to scan the rest of the camp that laid out before her. She watched campers sparring near an intimidating climbing wall, demigods racing to the lake and pushing each other in, and the woman named Clover filling baskets with strawberries. It was the playful peace of summer, hidden away from the world in its own time capsule. Safe.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… She could breathe.

^{interactions ....|.... harper & clover ............... mentions ....|.... beckett, violet & daphne ............... collabs ....|.... none}

The Last Will of Olympus

^{daphne .....|..... outfit .......... nero .....|..... outfit .......... lux .....|..... outfit .......... beckett .....|..... outfit .......... camp half-blood infirmary}

Lux lulled in and out of consciousness like the tide, floating through a trance-like state as the world moved around her, slow and lethargic like trying to wade through mud. Her eyelids felt heavier than the sky every time she tried to open them. She caught glimpses of orange illuminated by firelight, bright against the black void of the night sky. There was a pressure against her chest from a weight she couldn’t wrap her mind around as she floated, weightless. Then there were muffled, frantic voices, followed by hands against her back and arm. To her left she saw flashes of crimson between waves of orange, slick with the tinge of iron.

But it was his strangled breaths that pulled her from the fog like a lighthouse guiding her home. Her hand reached out to bridge the gap, mangled flesh extended where her arm should have been, shredded and disfigured to the point she didn’t know what she was looking at. "Beck…" Blood soaked fingers tried to reach him but fell short in the expanse between them.

Daphne had been pulled from sleep by shouting and pounding feet and the sharp, unmistakable sense that something fragile was about to be lost if she did not move fast enough. She barely remembered dressing, only that she’d tugged on the first things her hands found. An oversized T-shirt with a fading veterinary hospital logo stretched thin across the front, soft with age and too large for her narrow frame, and a pair of plaid pajama shorts that brushed her thighs as she ran barefoot through the chilled night air. Her hair was wrenched into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, though loose strands clung to her temples and cheeks, damp from her shower earlier in the night.

She found them in a chaos of torches and rain-slicked footprints, blood darkening the grass, campers shouting for help as she got closer to the infirmary, calling out for her. And then she saw the girl—half-conscious, reaching with what remained of her arm, whispering someone's name like a prayer being torn apart mid-breath. Daphne did not hesitate. She slipped forward through the bodies and noise as if guided by starlight alone, catching Lux’s ruined hand with both of her own, warm and steady, light blooming softly beneath her skin like sunrise trapped in human form. Her touch was feather-gentle where the wounds were not, reverent where pain ruled, grounding where terror tried to swallow. Beneath her palms, Lux’s skin began to knit itself back together.

"No…" she croaked, voice dry and raw like flesh dragged across shards of glass. The weight against her chest and her face half buried into a pillow made it nearly impossible to push through the exhaustion and find words. "Is he… Will he…"

Lux fought against the darkness that closed in around her like a cocoon of shadow enveloping her from the edges one blink at a time. "Please." The word was heavy with everything unsaid, a desperate plea and prayer through the night that threatened to take her. A tear escaped from the dam of her lashes, trailing over the bridge of her nose and falling to the pillow pressed beneath her right cheek.

"Easy… I’ve got you," she murmured, voice low, threading calm through the storm of Lux’s fear. "He’s alive. You both are. You’re safe now—Camp has you."

She glanced wearily over her shoulder when someone called her name, looking between the man who looked like he’d lost a fight with a wood chipper and the other girl who was pale and shivering so hard she looked on the cusp of convulsions. They were all alive though, and it would be a long night for Daphne. "I need ambrosia, and bandages, someone go wake up Kiarra, I’m going to need help healing. John, go tell Chiron but…don’t disturb Mr. D if you can help it." No one moved, and a wave of agitation rose up inside of her, making her usually soft tone turn sharper. "Don’t just stand there, go!"

She turned back toward the blonde girl, face drawn tight as she moved her other hand up to her bicep. They’d all have scars, if she was going to bounce between them to keep them alive that couldn’t be helped. "Father," she murmured as the glow of her hands grew in intensity, pushing the healing faster than she usually would. "Give me strength."

* * *

Beckett slept like something pulled from the ocean floor—heavy, distant, wrapped in a pressure so deep it erased the shape of dreams. The infirmary existed around him in fragments only, the hush of white curtains stirring in a draft, the muffled rhythm of distant footsteps, the clean, sharp scent of crushed herbs and nectar lingering in the air like lightning after a storm. Pain hovered at the edges of him, not sharp anymore, but vast and dull, a tide held back by unseen hands. Time did not move correctly here. It pooled. It drifted. It forgot itself.

Once, only once, he surfaced.

It was the middle of the night, though he did not know how he knew that. The light was wrong for day, too soft, too sacred, a quiet blue-gold glow cast from a handful of lanterns and the figure leaning over him. At first he thought he was dead.

A girl sat at his bedside, close enough that strands of her dark hair brushed his shoulder when she leaned in. One of her hands was pressed flat to his chest, and it glowed, not harshly, but steadily, like sunlight filtered through water, warm and patient and impossibly gentle. The other hand held a cup with a ridiculous little bendy straw, angled carefully to his mouth, and…was that a paper umbrella?

“Drink,” she whispered, voice low and fierce with command, as if the word itself were a spell. He tried to turn his head away. Tried to spit the straw out with what little dignity he had left. His body barely listened.

She made an irritated sound in the back of her throat—sharp and feral, like an alley cat cornered in the rain. “Don’t,” she snapped softly, shoving the straw back between his lips. “You drink or I swear I will haunt you personally.”

Too tired to fight. Too hollow to argue. He obeyed. The liquid slid into his mouth, warm and sweet and devastating.

It tasted like the cake his mother used to bake every year on his birthday, even when money was tight and the frosting was uneven and she pretended not to notice how he scraped the bowl clean with his fingers. It tasted like the strawberry candies his grandmother kept hidden in her coat pockets, the ones she swore were only for emergencies but somehow always became his. It tasted like salty air and sunburned boardwalks and sea salt taffy pulled too long until it turned soft and perfect.

Home, in a thousand small forgotten pieces. His throat worked around another swallow. And another. His eyes burned, and something traitorously hot slipped down his cheeks. The girl watched him with sharp concentration, glow steady beneath her skin, her hand never leaving his chest as though she were afraid his heart might slip away if she did.

When the cup finally emptied, she pulled the straw back and set it aside. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision again, thick and gentle. But he fought it. His eyes fluttered. His lips moved. "Lux," he croaked, voice hoarse.

The girl’s expression changed instantly, softening, easing, the sharp edges melting away into something kind and human. She brushed her thumb once, gently, against his collarbone. It was soft and reassuring in the way only someone that was born to be a healer could be.

“She’s okay, both the girls you were with are,” she murmured. “Stubborn. You’ll see her soon.”

Relief rushed through him, warm and heavy and complete, flooding his veins like blood returning to a frozen limb. He let go. The world slipped under again. Somewhere far away, a door banged open. Footsteps. Voices. He barely heard them.

Only the girl’s tired sigh drifted after him into the dark. “Seriously? Where did he pass out this time?” A pause. The faint sound of shuffling, another voice answering. “Yeah, yeah—just put him over there.”

And then—

Nothing at all.

* * *

Beckett dreamed.

At first, it was the ocean.

He stood on the deck of a small ship that creaked like an old bone beneath his boots, its wooden ribs groaning as waves rose around it, walls of water, vast and black and crowned with white fury, taller than houses, taller than memory. The storm had swallowed the sky whole. Wind tore at his coat, salt burned his eyes, thunder cracked the world open again and again, yet beneath it all, beneath the violence and the noise, there was a strange, impossible calm coiled inside his chest. The kind that came only when you had already accepted whatever end was waiting for you. The sea hurled itself at the hull, the mast bowed like it might snap, but he only stood there, steady, breath slow, heart quiet, as if the storm were nothing more than weather passing through him instead of something that could drown him.

Then a voice cut through the gale.

It shouted his name—not in fear, not in command, but in urgency threaded with something older and deeper. The sound did not come from the deck behind him or the rigging above. It came from the water.

He turned.

The ocean folded inward like a closing eye.

And suddenly the ship was still beneath his feet, but it no longer floated.

It hung suspended in darkness, buried impossibly deep beneath the earth. No stars. No sky. Only stone pressing in from every direction, walls sweating heat, air thick and metallic, heavy enough that each breath scraped his lungs raw. Sweat slid down the column of his throat despite the chill that lingered in his bones from the storm that was no longer there. The ship groaned again, but this time it was not from waves, it was from pressure, from the weight of a world stacked mercilessly above him.

This time, it was a woman’s voice calling out to him.

It echoed through the stone like a bell rung inside his skull, powerful enough to make his teeth rattle in their roots. The earth trembled with every syllable. Dust sifted down from unseen cracks in the ceiling, peppering his shoulders, his hair, the deck at his feet, whispering of collapse, of burial, of being swallowed whole by something ancient and patient.

He tried to listen. Tried to understand the shape of her words. She called his name again, softer this time, almost tender, like a tide pulling gently at shore, but before he could answer, before he could lift his voice or even draw breath enough to try—

He blinked.

And the world tore itself apart.

Rain slammed into his face, cold and violent. The air smelled of smoke and wet earth and blood. The ground was a mire of mud and broken leaves beneath his hands as he dropped behind a tree, heart thundering in his chest, rifle slick in his grip. Gunfire stitched the air around him in bright, screaming lines. Men shouted. Someone was crying out in pain. The jungle roared back with thunder and rot and life too loud to be holy.

Vietnam.

Again.

Always.

Water soaked him to the bone, uniform clinging to his skin like a second, heavier body. Bullets chewed bark from the tree inches from his head. He pressed his shoulder into the trunk, breath ragged, vision narrowing, the rhythm of survival snapping into place like an old, rusted machine that still remembered how to function.

War never changes.

And neither, it seemed, did he.

* * *

Twigs and underbrush crunched beneath Lux’s boots as she climbed the mountainside behind her grandfather. The trees stretched high into the sky, narrow pines blocking the sun and blanketing them in a veil of shadows. Everything around them felt still like the world was holding its breath… bracing for something to come. A breeze with a biting chill, strange for a Montanan summer, cut through the forest like the kiss of death and caressed the back of her neck.

Her grandfather held up his hand, fist closed and she froze out of instinct, following his silent command like a second language learned before she could form words. He crouched before her, aged fingers sweeping pine needles aside to reveal a track larger than his hand. "Bear."

Lux stepped beside him, tips of her fingers running along the fletching of her notched arrow in a pensive silence. It was the largest print she had ever seen, nothing like the bears that often roamed around their home. Her head tilted to the side, studying with an unsettling curiosity… Something was… off. She squatted beside him, slipping her hand from the bowstring—a mistake she could not fix in hindsight. She could never change the memory, only watch it play out time and time again—Her index finger dipped into the crevice of each toe pad, counting. "Four," she whispered. Bears had five.

The creature—massive, covered in black fur, and snarling—appeared between the trees as if it materialized from the shadows themselves. It lunged, her grandfather moved and Lux was thrown backwards into a tree. She blinked and the summer sun was replaced by the darkness of night where the rain was falling like a deluge upon her head. Pines shifted into a forest of oaks and maples. Then standing between her and the beast was Beckett.

"Not her. Me," he shouted at the mass of fangs and fur, taunting and baiting it to go for him.

She shifted to her knees, reaching out her hand. "No!"

She blinked again and was thrust back into the blinding sunlight. Before her lay her grandfather, chest torn open, blood staining his lips with every cough. Tears burned her eyes. Emotions stirred in her, building and twisting as it was reflected in the sky above. The clouds darkened as she scurried across the forest floor for her bow. Trembling fingers nocked an arrow and fired it after the retreating monster. A bolt of lightning sliced through the air and crashed into the creature the moment her arrow pierced its hide. She flinched and turned away from the flash.

When Lux's eyes opened, water covered her from head to toe. Her body trembled from the cold and adrenalin as she sat waist deep in a puddle alongside a road. Where her grandfather had been left torn open now laid Beckett, the same coughs and gasps racking his body, a familiar flood of crimson poured from him. She hurried to his side, shaking hands pressing against a geyser of blood to try and stem the bleeding.

She blinked away the tears and her grandfather was beneath her. His weathered and calloused hands cupped her cheeks like he was trying to memorize her face as the darkness came for him. "They found you."

Lux closed her eyes tight and shook her head, not wanting to listen, not wanting to accept his parting words… Not wanting to accept the truth. When she opened, it was Beckett who held her face, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. She could see the light fading from his eyes, melting his resolve along with it as a smile, foreign and warm, grew like a phantom of something she’d never have. "Beautiful."

Blink.

"They know about your father…"

Blink.

"I couldn’t…"

"Run…"

"Couldn’t let you die…"

"Firefly… Run!"

"...Care too much."

Night and day, her grandfather and Beckett, blood and more blood flashed before her eyes. Every blink betrayed her. Tears blurred her vision and sobs tore at her lungs. The warmth of their lives pooled against her hands and slipped through her fingers. Sunshine and rain, hot and cold… life then death. Her chest heaved from gasps as sharp as blades that destroyed her from the inside out. Their eyes rolled back and faces turned pale… dead because of her.

Lux blinked again and again as if it would erase the memories, the images… the guilt. Slowly the scenes bled together until she was trapped in Montauk looking down at Beckett. The thunderstorm covered them in a blanket of rain as she sank to her knees beside his lifeless body. Then time froze, droplets hung suspended in the air around her and the dull tailend rumble of thunder lingered like white noise. Beckett’s head rolled to the side, facing her with hollow eyes. Then his mouth started moving like a puppet as a voice that wasn’t his surrounded her like a dense fog, all consuming and unavoidable.

"Yield." The ground beneath her started to tremble, rippling and shifting around her like waves with every word. "Or I will swallow the ocean and him along with it." Beckett’s body sank into the earth like an anchor in water, devoured by mud, grass and rain until nothing remained but the red tinged puddle where he laid.

"No… No, no, no!" Lux lunged forward, fingers slipping into the damp void left behind in his wake, digging and clawing as if he existed just out of reach. She acted and the earth answered, drawing her in like a breath before burying her in darkness.

* * *

Nero’s eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly. His chest heaved, gasping like he had been drowning and just tasted air before death took him. Sweat covered him from head to toe, beading across his brow, clinging to the fabric of his shirt and leaving behind a damp shadow along the cot where he laid. He swung his legs over the edge of the narrow bed, letting the feeling of his feet flat on a stable surface ground him. In dreams it always felt like he was walking in water or on clouds, it was always off… wrong. The earth never betrayed him, firm and unyielding. The rigidity of it always brought him back like a beacon in a storm.

He scooted forward to the edge of the cot, resting his elbows on his bent knees. His body hunched over like sleep somehow left him more exhausted, dark circles still prominent, and the permanent tiredness that lived behind his dark eyes unwavering. Nero pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

While there was nothing normal or uniform about dreams, he had gotten used to the same handful of nightmares he had the misfortune of slipping into since he joined camp. But these were… different. They didn’t just leave him drenched in a cold sweat, but thrust him into a new level of horrors he wasn’t prepared for. Blood and war and trauma... So much fucking trauma. But weirder still, faces he had never seen before and people he didn’t know. He might have questioned his own sanity if he hadn’t looked up and recognized those foreign faces unconscious in cots on the opposite side of the infirmary.

Three strangers rested in a row on the opposite side of the room from where he sat while Apollo kids continuously milled around them as if their lives hung in the balance between life and death. The one on the far left was a dark haired girl. Her side was bandaged and one of her legs was wrapped and elevated by a pile of pillows. Next to her was a man with his entire torso covered in blood stained bandages from the waist up. He was the face from the war dreams. Dude must have played way too much Call of Duty or watched a lot of M.A.S.H. reruns with his dad. Nero couldn’t explain why that would scar him so deeply, but it was the only thing that made sense. Men around his age who went to war had dreams in the heat of the desert, not drenched in the jungle. Then on the right was a blonde woman, lying on her stomach with her back dressed similar to the guy’s chest. Her wrapped left arm hung in the space between her cot and the guy beside her as if she passed out reaching for his hand. Her dreams were more normal… Or as normal as dreams could be, by being weird as shit. Hellhounds made sense, especially considering the state the three of them were in… More sense than C.O.D. 360 no scope over there.

Nero groaned, running his hands over his face before pushing sweat damp hair back from his face. Great. More fucking nightmares. He looked down, catching sight of a glimmer of light that reflected off the amethyst rosary that dangled from his neck. Tattooed fingers wrapped around the chain, bringing the cross to his lips before tucking the chain beneath his shirt. It wasn’t out of reverence for a Christian God he never believed in, but for Abuela… always for Abuela. He leaned to the side, slipping a hand into his back pocket to fetch his flask. He untwisted the cap and took a long drink like its contents were his life blood and he couldn’t function without it. A habit that drew stares and whispers from other campers, but he rarely cared what anyone thought of him.

Daphne returned to the infirmary with the quiet persistence of someone who had learned that exhaustion was not permission to stop.

She had gone to her cabin only because blood did not belong on the living. Not on her hands. Not on her clothes. Not on the things her mother had once folded warm from the dryer and pressed into her arms before Daphne had known what monsters were. She had peeled the pajama shirt from her skin with careful fingers, heart aching at the dark stains spread across the faded veterinary logo, and for one small, private moment she had nearly cried over it. Then she had set her jaw and filled a basin with warm water and soap and sunlight-bright magic, working the fabric again and again between her palms until the red loosened, faded, vanished. It had taken nearly an hour. Worth every second. She had hung it to dry like a fragile offering and whispered a promise to it, before dressing with hands that trembled from fatigue.

Now she wore a black tank top tucked into a brown buttoned skirt, soft and worn at the hem, the familiar weight of her cardigan settling around her shoulders like a gentle shield. Her amulet lay warm against her sternum, the sunstone at its heart glowing faintly through the thin fabric, a quiet pulse of living gold. Converse were shoved onto her feet without ceremony, laces uneven, hair still twisted into a bun that had loosened into soft rebellion around her face. She had slept perhaps an hour. Maybe two. Her body had tried to beg her for more. She had refused.

Inside the infirmary, lamplight breathed softly against white curtains and rows of occupied cots. The air smelled of nectar, crushed herbs, damp earth, and iron. Lives suspended between heartbeats.

And there, near the edge of the room, sat Nero.

She noticed him the way healers noticed fractures before screams, by instinct, by pattern, by the way pain shaped the body when it thought no one was looking. The hunch of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The tremor of exhaustion pressed so deeply into him it had become part of his silhouette. The flask in his hand did not surprise her. Neither did the rosary.

Daphne slowed her steps as she approached, cardigan brushing softly against her thighs, the glow of her amulet answering the quiet ache in the room like a candle leaning toward other flames. She did not startle him. She never did, if she could help it. Instead she stopped beside his cot and lowered herself to sit on its edge, presence gentle as snowfall.

"You’re awake," she said softly, not a question, not an accusation. Just a truth offered like warm water. Her eyes flicked briefly to the three injured demigods across the room—the girl with dark hair, the battered man, the blonde woman curled around pain, and something solemn passed through Daphne’s expression, old and tender and heavy with responsibility.

Nero noticed her approach, eyes tracking her movements while the rest of him remained unmoving like a tired gargoyle that couldn’t be bothered to raise his head. He didn’t know if he was surprised or humbled when she didn’t hesitate to settle into the space beside him on his cot, sitting close enough that her presence warmed the air between them and soothed the small space where her knee brushed his. He could have pulled away, maybe he should have, but he didn’t flinch or shift, remaining stoic and unmoving, rigid in the ways most at camp had come to associate with him.

He watched the demigods that slept on death’s doorstep for a long moment in silence before turning his head a fraction toward Daphne. The shift was subtle, just enough that his dark gaze was visible beneath the shadow of his brows and sweat damp bangs. "I’m always awake," he replied, sardonic, but with a warmth like a flickering candle that was fading, only visible to those who sought it.

Daphne let her gaze follow his own, lingering on the three unfamiliar forms for a moment longer, committing their injuries to memory the way she did with constellations, quietly, reverently, as if knowing them better might help keep them tethered to the world. Then she exhaled, slow and tired, and her shoulders dipped a fraction, the weight of the night finally showing through the careful stillness she wore like armor. One hand rose to her face, rubbing gently at her brow, smudging away fatigue that had long since settled too deep to truly be touched.

"They came in last night," she said, voice low and steady, the cadence of someone used to delivering fragile truths without breaking them. "Barely breathing. Blood everywhere. It was… close. Too close."

Her fingers slid down from her face to rest loosely in her lap. She shook her head, slow and thoughtful, eyes drifting again toward the strangers as if trying to see something beneath the bandages.

Nero didn’t placate her with empty words or find a need to fill the silence. He simply… listened, nodding his head to show he didn’t just hear her words, but acknowledged them. He tapped the inside band of one of his rings against the metal of his flask, the sharp tink tink carried throughout the quiet room like a metronome, counting the seconds patiently as they passed. He twisted open the cap with a deep sigh, then held it out toward her. There was no ceremony or pomp behind the gesture, just a kind offering because she looked weary and in need of a boost that his words wouldn’t give.

Daphne hesitated before taking the flask, her fingers closing around the cool metal with the same care she used when handling fragile things—bones, wings, healing. She lifted it closer, curious despite herself, and drew in a small breath through her nose.

Coffee. Not bitter alcohol. Not smoke or spice or anything sharp and dangerous. Just coffee, dark, rich, familiar. The scent startled her enough that her brows knit together faintly, confusion flickering across her face as she tipped it higher and took a cautious sip.

Instant regret.

Her expression collapsed inward all at once; nose wrinkling, lips pulling thin, eyes squinting as if she’d just swallowed liquid lightning. It was straight espresso, brutal and unapologetic, the kind that could probably wake the dead or resurrect small gods. She coughed once, softly, then quickly handed the flask back to him like it had personally offended her.

"That’s—horrible," shaking her head, half laughing despite the fatigue in her bones. "Where in the world did you even get that?"

Nero laughed, rough and unguarded, rumbling somewhere deep with his chest like something that had been hibernating was startled awake. He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected, but watching her cough and flinch like it was actual alcohol in his flask was far more entertaining than anything else he could have imagined. He didn’t smile, not really. It was more of a sly smirk, sharp and lopsided, only curving upwards on one side as he watched her with moderate amusement. He fumbled for the flask when she shoved it back at him. His fingers brushed against her skin as he gripped the cool metal. His touch was rough and calloused, where hers was soft like suede. Her hands were fragile tools used to heal and mend, and his were just… there, inked and coarse from a life too rough for a child to suffer through, but he suffered through it all the same.

"Camp goblet," Nero offered up the answer as he stared down at the metal clutched lazily in his hands. "I… might have stolen one. I keep it hidden near my bunk in the Hermes cabin." He took another sip of the espresso, letting the caffeine dull the permanent exhaustion that ached in his bones. He spared her a sidelong glance, silently studying her expression and waiting for the pearl clutching that inevitably followed confessions of robbery or similar crimes.

Daphne’s brows lifted before she could stop them, a small, instinctive flicker of surprise that softened her features and loosened the careful gravity she usually wore like a second skin. Stolen, he’d said—so plainly, so casually, like it was nothing more scandalous than borrowing a book. She looked at him for a heartbeat, then deliberately tipped her chin upward, eyes drifting to the rafters of the infirmary as if the ceiling itself had suddenly become fascinating, as if the wooden beams might whisper judgment down upon them both.

There was a pause.

Footsteps padded past, one of her younger brothers, arms full of fresh linens, dark curls damp, he liked to go for a swim in the mornings. He slowed just a fraction, curiosity sparking in his eyes as he glanced between Daphne and Nero, no doubt trying to catalogue this strange, quiet moment between the camp’s most severe healer and its most persistent insomniac. Daphne didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Only when his footsteps faded into the far end of the infirmary did her shoulders ease, the tension slipping from them like a held breath finally released.

She lowered her gaze back to Nero.

While Daphne’s attention was focused solely on the beams above, Nero’s own gaze flitted between her and the other Apollo kid. Jackson? Jerome? Jeremiah? He couldn’t remember. There were too many people at camp and none of them talked to him. It was hard to keep straight. He gave the kid a small nod of acknowledgement, if only because it felt like the right thing to do considering the awkward drawn out silence and Daphne’s inability to make eye contact with either one of them. When J—that’s what he was going to call him—had wandered far enough away and Nero noticed his present company relax, he couldn’t help but wonder if her strange shift was because of him.

"Worried about being seen with me?" he asked, plain and calm like it was something he had heard before, something he was used to. Nero wasn’t ignorant or deaf. He heard the whispers about him around camp and knew the image he gave off. He was also aware of how most of the campers heralded Daphne as a paragon amongst demigods. Reputations and all that were a bitch. While the resident healer was expected to be kind and helpful to everyone, that didn’t mean she was also expected to chat up the local asshole, loner, ‘alcoholic.’

She snorted softly, shaking her head. No, she wasn’t. It wasn’t like Daphne had gone out of her way to cultivate the reputation she now held at camp, it was something that had happened naturally. She supposed it could be considered the fruits of her labor, the thing that proved all her hard work was worth something, but she hadn’t chosen it. Being seen with Nero didn’t bother her, and she’d be more likely to punch one of her brothers if they made a snide comment about the insomniac beside her than to pretend they hadn’t. No, it was her own shame and embarrassment that made her pause. "No, it’s just…I might have borrowed one too," she admitted softly.

The words felt small but dangerous, like stepping onto thin ice. She shifted where she sat, cardigan sleeves tugged a little farther over her hands, suddenly shy in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being seen. Her mouth curved into something faint and apologetic, a near-smile that barely existed but meant more than a dozen confident ones.

"I just—" she hesitated, then gave a tiny, helpless shrug, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I really like root beer. And it’s the only way I can have some when I’m trying to relax in my cabin." Her gaze flicked briefly away, toward the cots, toward the sleeping strangers and the long night stitched into their skin, before returning to him again. "I… take it with me when I go on vacation. It just tastes better than the store bought stuff." she added, and it was clear from her soft tone and fidgeting hands that Nero was the first person she’d confessed this to.

"Root beer..." Nero mulled the words over in his mouth. A smirk, warm and guilty tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced over at her from the corner of his eyes. It was like he was given a peek behind her carefully curated curtain, seeing a glimpse of the woman behind the healer. "So… Daphne isn’t perfect after all," he mused, followed by a quiet chuckle, rough and warm like gravel beneath the summer sun. There was no teasing or judgement behind his tone. If anything there was a tiny part of him that softened, almost imperceivable like the flicker of a candle that had nearly burnt out.

"Don’t worry," he reassured her with a gentleness that sounded foreign coming from him, a tiny glimpse behind the mask like she had given him. Nero gave her elbow a light bump, brief and featherlight, as his gaze fell back to the metal that had grown warm in his grasp. "Your secret is safe with me." After all, it wasn’t like he really had anyone to blab to. But even if he did… He wouldn’t. Nero was a great many things, but a gossip was not one of them. Anything told to him in confidence remained there.

Daphne felt the heat climb into her cheeks before she could stop it, a soft, betraying warmth that had nothing to do with healing light or exhaustion. She ducked her head a little, fingers tugging absently at the edge of her cardigan as if it might anchor her back into composure.

"Objectively," she said, trying for calm and landing somewhere just shy of it, "There’s no such thing as a perfect demigod. Or… a perfect god, for that matter." The words slipped out too easily, and as soon as they did, she stilled. Her lips pressed together, thin and thoughtful, and a faint crease appeared between her brows as she stared at the floor, clearly wishing she could gather the sentence back up and fold it neatly away where it belonged. The truth lingered between them anyway, quiet, heavy, undeniable.

Nero laughed, something mixed with a sigh: light, breathy and laced with subtle disbelief. "And she blasphemes." His brows rose as his head turned slightly to look over at her with raised brows and a teasing smirk. There was no love loss between him and the Gods. He’d probably be the first one to shit talk about any one of them if given the chance, but hearing Daphne call their parents out… surprised him, pleasantly, like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs or a nun cuss.

"Subjectively," he dragged out the word, tilting his head a fraction toward hers. "You are like a saint compared to me. So… perfect adjacent." Nero’s smile grew just enough that there was a glint of his white teeth, bright and warm, peeking out from behind his crooked grin and the dark aura that seemed to hang over him like a cloud.

Then, as if embarrassed by her own honesty, Daphne inhaled, lifted her head, and deliberately changed the shape of the moment. She leaned just enough to bump her shoulder against Nero’s, light and quick, a small rebellion against the weight of divinity and expectation and everything that pressed too hard on her ribs.

"A secret for a secret, actually," she said, a hint of mischief softening her voice. She offered him a small, crooked smile, impish, fleeting, and breathtakingly real. "So I think that makes us even."

"Ah, yes," Nero mused, smile fading slightly as his gaze fell to the flask in his hand and the rings that clung to his fingers. "What a plot twist, the guy who looks like a criminal is a thief!?" He gasped, playful and dramatic, while pressing one hand to his chest. He then leaned a little closer, shoulder brushing hers as his tone dropped to a whisper, deep, low and conspiratorial. "Next thing you’re gonna tell me is people are scared of me or something." His smile grew, unguarded and warm in a way that almost felt foreign compared to his usual brooding. He held her gaze for a beat or two, intense, but with the smallest glint behind his darkness.

A secret for a secret.

Had Nero ever made a trade like that? Hell, his secrets were only secrets because… no one ever thought or cared enough to ask and he definitely wasn’t forthcoming enough to share anything willingly. But he just did… In the quiet heaviness of the infirmary, in the shared exhaustion and weight on the cot beside him. The realization struck him like a blade slipping between his ribs, smooth and effortless, but with a sharpness that pooled and spilled over his core, a false warmth that turned cold like a piece of himself that had been locked behind that rib was pried free. He cleared his throat and sat back upright. His gaze drifted over toward the unconscious demigods on the other side of the room, his expression unreadable as he mentally tried to gather up the pieces of himself that tried to slip free and shove them back into the void in his chest.

"There’s something about them," she murmured. Not fear. Not awe. Something quieter. Something unsettled. Then she turned back to Nero, really looking at him now—the hollows beneath his eyes, the tension wound tight into his frame, the familiar defiance wrapped around exhaustion like a second skin. Her tone softened, but the firmness remained, gentle as hands guiding someone back from a ledge.

"You don’t sleep enough," she said simply. "If you need a tonic, you just have to ask. I’d make one." A pause. A breath. "You’re starting to worry me, you looked dead when they brought you in last night in the middle of all of that."

Not dramatic. Not scolding. Just honest. They weren’t friends, though they’d known each other for a while, Daphne just cared in a way that was unique to her, worrying over the campers as if the health of everyone at camp rested on her shoulders.

He scoffed, blowing out a puff of air that made a soft raspberry noise as his lips flapped together dramatically. "Didn’t you see… I just got like eight hours. I’ll be good for another week, easy." Nero glanced over at her with a knowing smirk that said, not that he got away with a shitty lie, but that she wasn’t going to fall for it. "I know it’s crazy, but your siblings could just… leave me where they find me. It’s not like I’m going to be caught in the rain."

His fingers rubbed along his forehead before slipping back through his short dark locks with a sigh. Daphne’s worry felt… misplaced, like something sacred that should be saved for someone more deserving, like the three demigods that stole both of their attention. Nero cleared his throat, eyes squinting slightly as his jaw tensed. "I’ll be fine, doc. I think hellhound attacks warrant more concern than my sleep schedule." He nodded his head toward the bandaged and unconscious trio.

It wasn’t until the silence grew a little heavier that he noticed the small slip, something that could maybe go unnoticed by others, but he doubted she’d miss it. Daphne mentioned nothing about an attack—which those dots could be easily connected, unless he was blind or stupid—but more specifically… hellhounds. She never mentioned hellhounds or what happened. Hell, she might not even know since they’re all unconscious. The visions of massive black furred beasts from the blonde’s dream were dragged to the forefront of his mind, reluctantly, making the hair stand on the back of his neck. He usually tried to forget the dreams. The memories, no matter how innocent, were like wishing a hangover or fever chills upon himself. It was unsettling, discomforting, and nausea inducing.

He cleared his throat, looking down at the silver rings that hugged his pallid fingers as he tried to forget. While his eyes were a window to his thoughts, he was practiced at diverting them and keeping his face indifferent. It was better that way… Letting people think he was some spawn of Hades, an emo fucker given a wide berth and avoided like death. If people stayed away then he was less likely to slip into their dreams when exhaustion took him. It also meant less questions… less concerns.

Daphne did not interrupt him.

She let his words move through the quiet between them, let the humor and deflection and practiced indifference settle where they would, while her own gaze drifted back across the infirmary. Her siblings moved in low, careful orbits around the three cots—lifting bandages, replacing them with fresh ones they did not truly need anymore, straightening sheets, checking pulses out of habit more than necessity. From where she sat, Daphne could already see what the others were tentatively monitoring… the injuries had closed. The bleeding had stopped. The bodies had chosen to live.

She had seen to that. With Kiarra.

The thought of her made something ache softly behind Daphne’s ribs. Kiarra was younger, still rough around the edges of her gift, but bright with it, brighter than most. The closest thing Daphne had to an equal in the quiet, terrifying art of stitching bodies back together when the injuries were more grievous. Together, they had held the line between breath and silence last night, hands glowing until their arms shook, voices hoarse from whispered prayers to a god who had never once needed convincing.

It had not been enough.

One of her brothers peeled back the bandages along the blonde girl’s back, careful, reverent. The sunlight cascading in through the open window caught on new skin, too pink, too raw, the delicate color of something only just born into pain. Scars, already written there in soft furious lines, permanent as constellations.

Daphne lowered her eyes to her hands. They were alive. Clean. Whole.

Guilt flooded her all the same, vast and cold, dragging at her lungs like undertow. If she had been stronger. If she had been better. If she had reached deeper, burned brighter, given more of herself than she already had, maybe there would have been nothing left behind but smooth skin and fading memory. Instead, three strangers would carry last night with them forever, etched into skin and muscle, into the way weather would ache inside them long after the monsters they’d faced became stories.

Her chest tightened. She did not realize she had gone so still until Nero spoke again. Hellhounds. The word slid into her awareness like a blade through silk. Her head lifted slowly at first, then all at once, eyes snapping to him with quiet, startled precision. For a heartbeat she said nothing, searching his face—not accusing, not frightened, just suddenly very awake.

"How did you know it was hellhounds?" The question was gentle, her voice soft, but it carried weight.

Nero’s shoulders tensed, his breath catching in his chest like he was caught red handed doing something he wasn’t supposed to. The tips of his fingers rapped against the side of his flask as he tried to quickly sift through his thoughts for some answer or lie that was halfway convincing rather than making himself look guilty, like he somehow had a part to play in all of that. Which would be fucking nonsense but he couldn’t very well be like ‘Oh yeah, the blonde over there had a pretty vivid dream about them. I connected the dots.’ He had heard about demigods and their prophetic dreams, had some of his own, but he imagined dipping into other people’s dreams was not common. The last thing he wanted was to be poked and prodded like a science experiment or stared at like a freak, rather than being ignored. He’d rather just… be invisible.

His gaze found hers out of the corner of his eyes and he sighed. "I—"

"...No..." The fear from Lux’s dream pushed through until the words fell from her lips, little more than a mumble, but there… pained, raw, and real. Her eyelids were heavy, weighed down like wet fabric sinking beneath the ocean. Her body felt like it was laced with lead dragging her down with a fury that made every attempt at movement fail before it started. The earth was pressing against her chest as she laid face down on a platform? A bed? A cot? She didn’t know. She only knew the strain to breathe beneath her weight, the ache in her back with the expansion of her lungs, and the warmth against her right cheek from where her head rested on a pillow.

Lux forced her eyes open, greeted with a soft golden glow and a blurry haze. It took several blinks before she could see clearly and focus. Her gaze started at her shoulder, following the bare pale skin down until she was met with bandages wrapped from her elbow to her wrist. Her eyes squinted, focusing on her hand that hung over the edge of the cot, dangling in the space between her and the bed beside her. At first she watched intently as she willed her fingers to move, slowly wiggling in the air as if to check and make sure they were still a part of her, that they still worked. Her eyes trailed along the tip of her finger, flicking from dark crimson stuck under her nails to the body beside her, unconscious and unmoving.

Her mind took too long to catch up, too long to register what she was seeing… Beckett. He was shirtless, with nearly every part of him from his neck to waist wrapped in red stayed bandages. The sight sent a jolt through her body like the electricity that danced along her skin the night before. One minute Lux was laying face down, the next she was bracing her trembling hands against the frame of the cot and pushing herself up. The air was cold against her chest where it had been pressed against canvas a moment earlier. She didn’t recall the extent of her injuries or think to check if she was covered until she propped up on her elbows and tried to rise. Her shirt was gone, replaced by cotton bandages that wrapped around her ribs.

She slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting her bare feet fall like cinder blocks to the cold ground below. Her breaths came heavy and labored as the fingers of her right hand gingerly ran the length of the foreign wraps up her left forearm and then along the bottom of her ribs. Lux had to fight through the fog that clouded her mind to recall the hounds, the claws down her back and the fangs bearing down on her arm. She remembered the sound of bone snapping and the unnatural way her arm moved, but staring down at it… it looked… normal? The tips of her fingers hovered near the edge of the white cotton, tempted to unravel it and see what was underneath… just a peek—

Beckett drew in a deep breath, snapping her out of it and immediately drawing her attention. Lux didn’t think, just acted, pushing off the bed and attempting to stand. Her knees hadn’t locked before her head started spinning and gravity tugged on the lead that still lingered in her bones, drawing her back down to the cot with an exasperated sigh.

Daphne had still been looking at Nero, mid-breath, mid-question, mid-worry, when Lux’s voice slipped from the fog of sleep. It was soft. Broken. Barely there. But Daphne heard it the way sailors heard bells through storms. Daphne’s head snapped toward the voice instantly, instinct overriding exhaustion, duty overriding thought. For a single heartbeat she remained frozen between worlds, between Nero’s unfinished confession and the fragile sound pulled from the blonde girl’s chest.

Then she was moving. Three hurried steps carried her away from Nero’s cot before she stopped short, spun back, and lifted one finger at him like a hastily planted boundary between now and later.

"Go rest more," she said quickly, not unkind, but firm in the way only healers learned to be. "You don’t have to sleep—just… just relax. No one’s in my cabin for a few more hours. You can stay there, if you want. I’ll—" She shook her head once, cutting off her own sentence, already unraveling from it as urgency reclaimed her spine, and then she turned fully away from him and hurried across the infirmary.

Lux was sitting up, pale as bone, trembling like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. Daphne reached her side in seconds, one hand lifting instinctively to her shoulder, not yet touching, just hovering close enough to promise warmth. Her mouth opened to speak reassurance, to anchor her, to say you’re safe you’re safe you’re safe—

—and then the room changed.

A groan rasped from the cot beside Lux. A sharp, wet cough followed from the other. Daphne’s breath caught. Daphne turned, heart stuttering. For one terrible second, the room felt too small. Three wounded souls stirring at once. Three fragile threads tugging against the same breath of life. The fear bloomed suddenly and viciously in her chest—there is not enough of me, there is not enough of me, there will never be enough of me—

And then the man surged upright.

He jerked upright like he’d been yanked from deep water, eyes wide and unfocused, chest heaving beneath layers of fresh bandages. His gaze tore across the room, too fast, too sharp, searching for threats that no longer existed, for jungles that were not there, for monsters that had already turned to dust.

He saw Violet first. Relief flickered across his face like lightning through a cloud. He twisted toward her, already halfway to standing, muscles locking and unlocking in confused obedience to old battle commands—

Then he saw Lux.

The motion drained out of him all at once. His shoulders sagged. His back hit the cot again. A breath left his body like he had been holding it for years. And when he spoke, his voice was raw as torn skin. "They’re… okay," It was meant for them. But it sounded like it was meant for him.

Nero had remained seated, at first, staying out of Daphne’s way and listening to her commands before other demigods demanded her attention more than his own struggles with sleep. Her offer for him to rest in her cabin landed somewhere in his chest, behind his ribs, but even so… he wasn’t going to take her up on it. The last thing he needed to do was explain himself to the J and the other Apollo kids. He got his eight or so hours. He’d be good for three to four days easy, five if he kept his flask full and took cold showers twice a day.

He had planned to slip out during the whirlwind, pushing off the cot and slipping the flask into his back pocket. He had reached the exit when the unconscious man snapped to life. Between his dark, haunting dreams of war and the violent glint in his eyes as they darted around the room, Nero stopped dead in his tracks, abandoning his retreat for something unbidden that dragged him a step closer to the chaos. He didn’t know a thing about the man aside from the plague of traumatic dreams that preyed upon him in the night. But there was a dangerous air about him, enough so that Nero didn’t feel comfortable leaving Daphne behind to face it alone, outnumbered three to one. The dude looked like a fucking MMA fighter, so he’d get his ass kicked if it got to the point of a fight, but still… better him.

Nero crossed his arms lightly over his chest and leaned his shoulder against the wall beside him, watching like an exhausted, sentinel cast in shadow. To everyone else it likely looked like he was being nosy. But he didn’t care. They could think what they wanted… It wasn’t like he had anywhere better to be.

Daphne, spotting how Nero lingered rather than retreating fully, whilst the rest of her siblings quietly and collectively pulled back, let out the breath she had been holding and softened her posture. There was a strange and overwhelming sense of relief, knowing she wasn’t fully alone in this, and it helped her think clearly enough to ease closer to the edge of Beckett’s cot so he would not feel crowded, so the room would not become another battlefield in his mind. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and steady, woven with the same careful gentleness she used on shattered bones and frightened children.

"You’re all okay now," she said quietly. "You’re at Camp Half-Blood. We found you last night, right at the border, just inside the barrier. You were… in bad shape. But you made it." She gestured softly, almost apologetically, to the other cots, to Lux sitting pale and trembling, to Violet still coughing weakly into her hand. The lamplight caught in the sunstone at Daphne’s throat, a small warm glow rising and falling with her breath.

"My siblings helped me," she continued. "We stabilized you three. Closed the wounds. Stopped the bleeding. You’re safe here."

Then she hesitated. It was subtle—the slightest hitch in her shoulders, the smallest lowering of her eyes, but guilt moved through her like a shadow passing over water. She glanced between the three of them, at bandages, at raw pink skin, at the places where pain had already begun to fossilize into memory.

"I’m… sorry," she whispered. "I couldn’t heal everything perfectly. You’ll have scars." The words were barely louder than breath. But they carried the weight of a healer who had given everything she had, and still wished it had been more.

Lux nodded along with the healer as she spoke, taking in her words slowly like they were being filtered through a haze. There was a moment, it didn’t last more than a breath, but Beckett’s gaze met hers and she felt the rush of heat build in her chest, flood up her neck and bloom across her cheeks. As the night came back in pieces, his ocean blue eyes brought back a memory that slammed into her ribs so hard it stole her breath. Her lips… his lips… She wheezed, chest caving under the weight of memory, heavy moments, and a kiss given on death’s doorstep.

Her hands trembled more violently as she went from being bathed in fog to thrust into the sunlight. Where her vision was once tunneled, she now could see, hear, and feel… everything. There was the concerned brunette woman, hovering and radiating warmth, a shadow of a man, lurking on the edge of the room like a silent guardian, Violet’s wet coughs hidden somewhere behind a wall of flesh and bandages… behind Beckett. Lux’s eyes were wide and uncertain as she studied him like she was seeing him for the first time, desperate for some sign, some acknowledgement… something.

Then there was a subtle brush of air upon her exposed skin. Her gaze fell, taking in her bandaged torso anew. Her modesty was preserved, but even beneath the bandages she felt exposed. Lux looked around for her bag, but didn’t see it. Her eyes locked onto a folded orange t-shirt that rested on the table beside her cot. She could only assume it was for her. Rather than asking, she reached over and grabbed it, pulling the fabric over her head and covering herself quickly before anyone noticed… hopefully.

As she tugged the cotton hem down to her waist, her gaze finally settled on the girl beside her, letting her final words really sink in. "We would have died if it wasn’t for you." Lux’s words came out with conviction, with a strength that had been absent a moment earlier. "Scars are a small price to pay for life."

Scars. Tangible and real… anchors that carved skin and grounded her in the truth that this all wasn’t a dream but real. She needed to know, needed to see the memories that were going to be etched in her skin for eternity. Lux’s gaze scanned the room until they landed on a mirror that hung over a white porcelain sink. Without a word, she pushed off her cot a second time. She was still a bit wobbly, but managed to remain on her feet. Her hand slipped beneath the hem of her shirt and started tearing at the bandages. Then she took one step and another and another, until she reached the sink, discarding the stained wraps into the basin, then gripping the edges tight beneath her trembling hands.

The chill of the porcelain leached into her skin, like cool water on a burn, soothing and uncomfortable at the same time. Her brows knitted and she drew in a deep breath before she turned her back to the mirror. She grimaced as she pushed past the aches in her muscles to reach behind her shoulders. Her fingers slowly started bunching the orange fabric, drawing the hem of the shirt up until it was held in her grasp. Lux remained frozen like that for a drawn out few seconds before looking back over her shoulder at her reflection. Pink raised flesh, angry and raw stared back at her. Four jagged and rough slashes dragged diagonally across her pale skin, not a trophy, but a mar, a memento to carry through the rest of her life.

She sighed, releasing the fabric, letting it fall lazily around her waist as she pulled her eyes from the mirror. A mark on her back was something out of sight and out of mind, forgettable. But… Lux’s gaze fell to her left arm. A vision of razor sharp fangs shredding into her flesh made her flinch and turn her head away as she forced herself to rip away the bandages. She didn’t look as she pulled away the wraps, didn’t look as her remnants were revealed, didn’t look as she discarded the bandages in the sink behind her.

Lux exhaled before forcing herself to look down at her forearm. Where her skin used to be smooth and speckled with freckles, it now looked as if it was Frankensteined back together. Tattered gorges and peaks rose and fell across her arm, in various shades of pale ivory to raw pink. It looked like someone shoved her arm in a garbage disposal then tried to stitch it back together, like she was a long lost cousin of Freddy Krueger… but only her arm. She sighed as her thumb absently traced the grotesque souvenir. "Well… It wasn’t like I was going to be entering any beauty contests." She slumped back against the sink, relying on it to support her weight where her knees couldn’t.

Daphne had not moved from Lux’s side. She stood a few steps behind her now, hands folded at her waist as if in prayer, watching the girl in the mirror with the quiet devastation of someone who knew exactly how every scar had been written. Each jagged line across Lux’s body felt like a personal failure carved into Daphne’s own skin. Her throat tightened, eyes stinging, and for a moment the room blurred, not from magic, but from the simple, unbearable weight of wishing she had done more.

Her fingers curled unconsciously, light stirring faintly beneath her skin. The sunstone at her chest, hidden beneath cotton and knit, went cold. Not metaphorically. Painfully. A sharp, winter-deep chill stabbed through the pendant and into her sternum, a silent warning from Apollo himself—you are draining yourself, you are burning too bright, too long. The sensation stole her breath for half a heartbeat, but it was not the first time, and it would not be the last.

Daphne did not let it show, she stepped forward instead, voice gentle, steady, threaded with quiet resolve. "I can… try again tomorrow," she said softly, gaze fixed on Lux’s reflection rather than the wounds themselves. "Your arm, I mean. I won’t promise miracles. Healing that kind of damage takes time, serious time. Weeks. Months."

She lifted her eyes to meet Lux’s in the mirror, something earnest and apologetic shining there. "But if you don’t mind coming back to the infirmary… often… I can reduce the scar tissue. Little by little. It will help with flexibility. Pain, too. You’ll feel better in fights if the muscle isn’t bound up in knots of old damage."

"No," Lux interjected, then took a breath and repeated herself, softer and more reassuring in her tone. "No… You shouldn’t waste your time and skills on… scars." Her gaze fell to her arm, studying it like it belonged to someone else as she ran her finger tips along the gashes. "It’ll just take adjustment. Add it to the list," she added with a smile that was almost light, like someone who looked her struggles in the eyes with an unsurprised acceptance. "There’s been a lot of that recently," she mused under her breath as her gaze found its way over to Beckett. Her chest tightened at just the sight of him, the fact that he was alive and the millions of unanswered questions that twisted behind her sternum. She drew in a sharp breath, then her eyes quickly fell to her bare feet upon the cold tile.

Daphne’s shoulders eased, just a little, as Lux spoke, but the sadness did not leave her eyes. It softened instead, settling into something quieter and more resolute, like coals beneath ash. She stepped closer, careful, reverent, as if approaching a skittish animal rather than a wounded girl, her cardigan whispering against her skirt. The cold from her amulet still pulsed faintly against her skin, a private ache she ignored. Her voice, when she answered, was low and steady, stripped of ceremony.

"It wouldn’t be a waste," she said gently. "Not if it helps. Even a little." Her gaze dropped briefly to Lux’s scarred arm, not with pity, but with a healer’s quiet respect for what pain had written and survival had kept. Then her eyes lifted again, soft but unflinching.

A reluctant smile pulled at the corner of Lux’s lips as she looked up at the healer from beneath wild blonde hair that hung in her face. "I’ll… See how it feels today, test it out and let you know." She flexed her arm, then extended it like she was holding a bow. Luckily, it was her right arm that did most of the heavy lifting while her left just had to rest. She was more aware of the twisting and flexing of her muscles, feeling them shift beneath her skin in ways she hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t… painful but it wasn’t comfortable either, like gravel and grit had somehow wormed its way between her muscle fibers and she could feel it grinding when she moved. "But you can ask Beckett—" Her gaze flicked over to him for a second, his words replaying in her mind like an echo of a dream. You’re stubborn… and beautiful. "—I’m stubborn."

Beckett sat upright on his cot with a quiet, pained grunt, fingers already working at the edge of his bandages. He peeled them away slowly, jaw clenched, breath hissing between his teeth as fresh air touched scars that had not yet decided whether to ache or burn. He glanced down only once. His chest was a map of old wars. Scars layered over scars, silver and white and dull pink, crossing muscle like forgotten roads. The new ones did not stand out. They simply joined the rest. It did not matter. Still, he reached for the ugly, folded orange shirt and dragged it over his head, tugging the hem down as if cloth could erase history.

He hesitated as Lux’s voice and her words swam in his foggy brain. He needed food, and caffeine, because he could become a kinder version of himself, and yet… the relief of seeing her alive, of having made it somewhere safe. Well, he figured he could extend the proverbial olive branch, just this once. "Slade," he said, voice hoarse, raw from sleep and the pain of last night.

He cleared his throat once. "Scars don’t diminish beauty." Four words. Uneven. Blunt. Earned. He did not elaborate. The moment hovered, fragile and exposed, then slipped quietly away. Beckett turned toward Daphne, shoulders stiff, pride making the simplest of things difficult. "Thank you," he added, low and sincere. "For keeping them alive."

And for a heartbeat, in the sterile glow of the infirmary, surrounded by linen and lantern light and the soft breathing of survivors, the war inside him loosened its grip, just enough to let something gentler exist in its place.

The words cut straight through the knotted bramble of her emotions, like an arrow shot true that pierced something tender and fragile that Lux kept locked away and hidden. He called her Slade… not Lux, which had a weight to it that dragged the arrow down. But he also called her beautiful—or as close to it as he could without death breathing down his neck—which gave it flight. Beautiful. Twice within a day. She wanted to go to him, take his stubborn and infuriatingly handsome face into her hands, and kiss him… Without the fear of losing him tearing her open or the looming threat of death weighing down on their shoulders. If only to make sure it was real and that she hadn’t dreamt… to gauge if he meant it too or if he was only placating her last wish before his life slipped through his fingers.

But she couldn’t. Not when she was broken and felt like a shell of herself. Not when others lurked just outside the tunnel vision she had for only him… Not when she couldn’t handle the possibility of rejection after everything.

"Thank you for keeping all of us alive," Lux corrected when the tailend of Beckett’s words finally made its way through the thicket of her emotions and pulled her out of her head. She cleared her throat as she tried to rub the exhaustion from her eyes. "I’m Lux," she filled the silence, offering up her name because… Well, they had made it to camp and they were safe… Right? She had to accept that or what was it all for? "That’s Violet and Beckett," she added while pointing to the others.

After being polite and doing her best to make introductions that didn’t feel completely awkward, Lux slowly crossed the room. She lowered herself onto the edge of her cot, hands tucked beneath her thighs and her knees only inches away from Beckett’s. There was a long and heavy silence where she tried to find words and form some kind of sentence. She wanted to unpack… everything. The shit he did with the rain, the lightning, what he said… the kiss. But she couldn’t talk freely with strangers around and there was a deeper part of her that was terrified of the answers.

She drew in a sharp breath as her foot subconsciously inched closer to his, just a fraction, almost imperceivable. "Thank you... for coming after me." It was quiet and small, a whisper lost beneath tired breaths, shuffling feet, and the creaking of cots. Lux didn’t open the door on last night, but cracked it, letting a small glimpse slip free like she was testing the waters to gauge his thoughts and feelings before diving in.

Beckett listened to her in silence, the sound of his name landing somewhere deep and unsettled in his chest. When she moved closer, when her knees drew near his own and the space between them thinned to something fragile and charged, he felt it like a change in pressure before a storm. He did not pull away. He didn’t lean in either. He simply sat there, shoulders heavy, breathing slow, eyes too tired to hide anything anymore.

He lifted a hand and dragged it down his face, fingers catching briefly in his beard, pressing into his eyes as if he could rub the ache out of them, out of his bones, out of his head, out of the hollow place where the end of the night should have lived. "I don’t… really remember most of it," he admitted quietly, voice rough with sleep and blood loss and something older than both. The words seemed to cost him more than they should have. "After we ran. After… I chose to follow you, instead of stay with Violet."

His hand dropped back to his knee. He didn’t regret it, he realized distantly. He’d do it again, if he had to, because here she was. Alive.

Lux froze, blindsided, like she had been struck but the hellhound all over again. While her heart hadn’t been calm since she woke up, it thundered against her sternum like it was trying to break free and run out of the room before it could be broken. The rush of blood thrummed in her ears, deafening her to everything around her as she tried to swallow the dry lump that formed in her throat. Maybe it was all a dream, or maybe it was fate’s fucked up sense of humor. You lived. You saved him. But the cost was the one thing that almost dying gifted you. She didn’t know what was worse, the fear of his rejection or having something she had been yearning for given and then taken away.

"I remember… rain," he continued, brow furrowing. "And you—" His gaze lifted to her then, unguarded in a way that felt almost accidental. Vulnerable. Searching. "I think you… zapped the dog." The corner of his mouth twitched faintly, not quite a smile. More disbelief than humor.

"That might be wrong," he added, softer.

There was something in his eyes now she hadn’t seen before, not just exhaustion, not just pain, but a thin thread of quiet hope, tentative and unsure, like a man standing at the edge of water he didn’t trust not to drown him. The missing pieces of the night gnawed at him, left him feeling unmoored, as though something important had been taken while he wasn’t looking.

"You don’t have to—" he started, then stopped. He swallowed. "But… if you remember, can you…help me fill in the blanks?" he finished, barely above a breath.

She forced herself to meet his gaze every time he looked toward her, pushing past the burning that stung her eyes and the water she could feel welling against her lashes. "Of course," she replied without thought, without considering what filling in the blanks truly meant. A single tear slipped free, betraying her attempt at resolve as it cut a wet trail down her cheek. Lux quickly wiped it away like it was more an irritant than another crack in her armor that she was barely holding in place.

"Just…" she started, voice strained and raw like her throat was coated in sand and her lungs couldn’t draw in enough air to speak. "Not here," she added, sparing a quick glance around the room, toward the healer, her busy helpers and dark guardian, and Violet who remained silent but attentive as she always did. "I don’t want to…" Lux’s voice trailed off as she tried to find the words. "Not with an audience." She would answer his questions, fill in the gaps—most of them anyway—but it all still felt so… fragile. It would be hard enough admitting half of it to him alone. Spectators would only make it all worse.

Then it twisted in her… the panic.

The fear of knowing that their looming conversation could change… everything—for good or bad—burrowed deep and hooked its claws where she couldn’t tear it free. Both Lux and Beckett’s lives had been upturned and destroyed at the whims of the Gods and a fucking hotel. Everything had slipped through her fingers like smoke. She could feel the ghost of its touch but could never grasp it and keep it from fleeing. What if she told him and he laughed in her face? A delusion of blood loss and almost dying. What if she told him and it no longer was a memory, but became a reality? Both terrified her. No matter what course it took, one thing was for certain… He’d never look at her the same. Beckett and Violet were the last constants in her life, and ruining that would destroy what was left of her. Was it worth burying her desires just to keep him… close?

Lux was on her feet before his lingering gaze looked for too long and saw the truth behind her eyes… the fear, the panic… the love. She needed to remove herself from the equation, run away from her emotions and her truths because it was easier to repress it all rather than face it and the storm that followed. She was going to just walk out, barefoot and all. But when she reached the end of her cot she noticed her pack and mud-caked combat boots resting on the ground at the foot of the bed. She leaned down, hooking two fingers into the heel loops of her boots and snatching up her bag in the other hand. The weight made her arm burn in protest, but she ignored it through gritted teeth and a sharp breath.

"I need air," she confessed to the room, the air… to no one in particular. Lux weaved between beds, past wandering Apollo kids, her bewildered healer and the man in the back who lingered on the edge of everything. "Thank you again." She spared the brunette one final glance and soft spoken gratitude, before disappearing out the door.

Nero had been watching and observing everything with silent scrutiny. He probably could have left awhile ago, but his own intrigue got the better of him. It was hard not to be curious about three demigods that stumbled into camp in the middle of the night on the edge of death. It wasn’t a new or uncommon story, but everyone would be whispering about it outside of the infirmary, he was just more straight forward when it came to his own interest. He watched as they came to terms with everything and assessed their new scars, but what really caught his attention was everything unspoken.

The tension between the blonde and Mr. M.A.S.H. reruns was palpable. He found himself looking around at everyone else in the room to make sure he wasn’t connecting the dots when there was nothing between them. But when his gaze landed on the third of their party, a woman with dark hair and an expression that was equal parts nausea and frustration, he knew his assumptions weren’t off base. While Nero wasn’t much of a people person himself, he saw more than his fair share of romantic entanglements and de-entanglements during his time at camp that he could see the signs from a mile away… the lingering glances, the ‘beauty’ comment, or the way when they sat almost knee to knee, everything else around them melted away.

When the blonde—Lux was it?—quickly got up and vanished out into camp, he had to try his best not to chuckle. Still, a knowing smirk and a quirk of his brow showed he was onto something, even if everyone else was playing dumb… Especially the love birds themselves. "Oh, she’s got it bad," Nero filled the silence with a passing comment he probably should have kept to himself, but he gave it life nonetheless. He shrugged. Someone had to say something because it was very apparent that those two were going to dance around each other for months until one of them gave up on hoping or died. He was doing a public service really.

Daphne had watched it all happen, the way Lux fled like a startled bird, the way Beckett stayed sitting there with something unfinished in his eyes, the fragile space they left behind humming with words that hadn’t found their shape yet. She didn’t need prophecy or divine intuition to understand what that was. Some things were older than gods. Some things were just… human.

She had been drifting closer to Nero without realizing it, drawn by the same quiet gravity, the shared stillness of two people who stood on the edges of things and noticed what others missed. So when he spoke, casual, sharp, accurate—

She startled hard enough to inhale wrong. A soft, inelegant gasp caught in her throat, and before her mind could intervene, her hand lifted and swatted his arm. It wasn’t hard. Barely more than a reflex. A featherlight reprimand. The moment her palm connected with the steady muscle of his bicep—and wow, what a nice bicep that was—reality rushed back in.

Nero scoffed, then snorted out a laugh as his hand reflexively moved to grip his arm where she smacked him. He looked down at her with an incredulous glint behind his eyes, but his smirk was bright with a mischievousness that sparked something strangely warm… for being hit. He tilted his head down toward her, looking at her from beneath his prominent brow and dark locks that dangled along his forehead. "Ow," he whispered dramatically, making a show of rubbing his arm like she actually hurt him… She didn’t.

Her eyes widened. Her hand froze midair, then dropped as if it had burned her. Color bloomed across her cheeks, warm and unmistakable, creeping up the line of her neck as she fumbled for composure. "I—I’m sorry," she blurted, mortified, fingers twisting into the hem of her cardigan. "That was—I just—"

She stopped, took a breath, tried again—softer this time, more healer than flustered girl. "That wasn’t very polite," she said quietly, glancing in the direction Lux had disappeared, then back to Beckett’s cot. Her voice gentled. "Some thoughts are… inside-thoughts."

He rolled his eyes, almost a little disappointed she was taking it back so quickly. "Are you serious?" Nero asked, still close enough that his hushed tone brushed against her forehead like a warm breeze. He went to motion toward the army boy bandaged navel to neck, but quickly clenched his fist, trying to heed a fraction of her advice at least, and not draw more attention to it. Instead, as if needing a reason to busy his fingers so it was less obvious, he gently grabbed the collar of Daphne’s cardigan and pulled it a little higher up onto her shoulder.

"It was pretty obvious, Daph." But then Nero held up his hands, surrendering to her moral superiority, although his smirk still lingered, silently amused at the small cracks in her perfection. The last thing he wanted to do was add to her stress or worry lines. He rolled his eyes a second time, then crossed his heart. "No more interfering in other people’s love lives. Got it," he whispered, making sure his voice was quiet enough that the dense meat head didn’t hear him… Olympus forbid he let the cat out of the bag.

Daphne forgot how to breathe. It was not dramatic at first, just a small, unremarkable failure of her lungs to remember their purpose when his fingers brushed her cardigan and tugged the soft fabric higher along her shoulder. The touch was gentle. Practical, even. And yet it might as well have been lightning for how sharply her body reacted to it. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed and momentarily unguarded, lashes fluttering as her mind scrambled to catch up with what her nerves had already decided was important.

Too close. He was too close. Close enough that she could see the faint crease at the corner of his mouth where his smirk lived, close enough to count the dark lashes shadowing his eyes, close enough to notice, absurdly, inconveniently, that he was actually… quite attractive. In a rough, crooked, ruin-of-a-poem sort of way. Then… Daph. The nickname landed somewhere beneath her ribs and detonated quietly.

Her stomach did something traitorous and acrobatic, flipping once, twice, like it had decided her internal organs were negotiable real estate and her lungs could share. Heat crept up her neck, blooming into her cheeks, the kind of warmth no amount of divine lineage could rationalize away. His low voice didn’t help. Neither did the solemn little gesture of crossing his heart, nor the way his smirk softened just enough to suggest he was enjoying her reaction far too much.

She tore her gaze away with great effort, fixing it on a nearby tray of bandages as if it had personally offended her. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s sufficient,” she said, aiming for sharp and landing somewhere near flustered sarcasm. “As far as promises go though, crossing your heart only counts if you do the full pinky promise, so.”

What on Earth was she even saying? Hades could open the ground beneath her feet right now and it wouldn’t come soon enough.

A shadow passed over the far side of the infirmary. One of her brothers, tall, light-haired, eyes perpetually rimmed with playfulness, slowed mid-step as he took in the scene. Daphne standing far too close to who everyone politely assumed was either an unclaimed son of Hades or Dionysus, with a reputation, her face pink, her mouth tilted in a way that was not clinical professionalism. His brows drew together, concern and confusion warring openly on his face.

Daphne noticed.

She did not move.

Nero, on the other hand, held his ground, occupying her space like he didn’t have a claim to it, but seized it all the same. He couldn’t help but find enjoyment in the way her perfection unraveled like a ball of yarn. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as he watched her try to gather up the loose strands and force them back into a messy ball like she hadn’t slipped, like he hadn’t seen the glimpses behind the healer everyone else saw. The tip of his tongue pressed against the edge of his teeth as his smirk grew, amused and crookedly devious.

Before he could respond one way or the other, he noticed the movement on the opposite side of the room, felt the lingering attention as the boy’s pace slowed. Nero’s gaze never shifted or moved from looking down into her eyes, dark and warm like fresh brewed coffee, even when she couldn’t bring herself to look back. He cleared his throat to keep the kid’s attention, but never looked toward him, instead focused on the soft pink that colored Daphne’s cheeks or the loose strand of brown hair that billowed with every word he spoke. "Calm down, Sparky. I’m not asking her to join a cult." His voice was initially loud enough to carry toward the curious Apollo kid, before dropping to his previous whisper, deep, quiet and mischievous. "Not yet."

Daphne snorted before she could stop herself, the sound soft but utterly undignified, slipping past her lips like a betrayal of composure. She rolled her eyes at him, but there was no real heat in it, only the glint of amusement she usually kept hidden behind calm professionalism when in the clinic, the kind of amusement that warmed her gaze and loosened something careful in her posture. "If you ever find a cult that could tolerate you sleeping wherever you please," she said lightly, sarcasm dripping sweet and bright from every word. "Please, by all means, send me the brochure. I’d love to study their psychological resilience." Still, she didn’t move away.

His smile grew at her snort, softening something imperceivable in him, like a small light was visible beneath his every present shadow. "Cute," Nero muttered, the word nearly lost in the heavy silence of the room.

Color bloomed along the ridges of her cheeks, and though she refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge that word, her shoulders relaxed just a fraction. Her hands, traitorous again, did not shove Nero away. And when she finally glanced back at him, there was a softness in her expression she hadn’t given herself permission to wear before, a quiet, almost accidental smile, small and real and undeniably there. Her brother shook his head once, slowly, as if witnessing the early stages of a medical emergency, and walked on. Daphne remained where she was. Too close. And, gods help her, not entirely inclined to fix that. He was truly infuriating.

When they were no longer being watched, Nero straightened slightly but did not sacrifice ground. He looked down at her with a raised brow, studying the waves of change that played across her face. She was proving to be far more interesting than the uptight healer he had assumed she was… stealing, smacking, brazenly standing in his presence when her siblings openly noticed. There was a little rebel in there somewhere, hidden behind her layers of decorum and cardigans. Daphne surprised him… it was because of that and that alone that his hand slowly raised into the small space between them with his pinky held out in a silent offering.

She turned toward the movement, eyebrows climbing, but her smile changed into something a little softer, an expression that was reserved usually for when she was in her cabin surrounded by her siblings. Daphne reached out, hooking her pinky with his for a moment, a little surprised by how warm his hand was. It took her a second longer than it should have to move away, after that. The space between them suddenly felt colder when she finally stepped back. She smoothed her skirt absently, clearing her throat as if to anchor herself again to reality. "You really should rest more," she added, voice even softer now. "Before you collapse somewhere inconvenient again and I have to heal you out of spite."

Then, with a soft sigh, she gestured vaguely toward the far end of the infirmary. "I’ve got an Ares kid to heal, he got into a fight with a water nymph after he threw his spear into the lake… again. We haven’t seen many of the nymphs around lately, he probably thought he could get away with it." She rolled her eyes at the mere thought of it, because pausing, her gaze flicked back to meet Nero’s, lingering for just a heartbeat too long. "But… I’ll see you at dinner."

She turned before he could answer, walking away with a lightness in her step that hadn’t been there before, a quiet and private smile curving at the corner of her mouth like a secret she hadn’t yet decided how to keep.

Beckett watched it all with the distant confusion of a man who had woken up into the wrong chapter of his own life. Nero’s comment, Daphne’s startled gasp, the quick, almost ceremonial swat of her hand against his arm, the bloom of red across her cheeks, none of it assembled into anything meaningful in his mind. It played out like a scene in a foreign film, one without subtitles, the emotional weight obvious to everyone else but him.

And then there was the door. The one Lux had disappeared through. His eyes drifted back to it slowly, as if the wood grain might rearrange itself into an answer if he stared long enough. Something hurt behind his ribs, sharp and sudden, the same place the hellhound had torn into him, the same place the rain had burned cold through his bones. But this pain was different. Quieter. Hollow. Like a fist closing around empty space. He didn’t know why it was there, only that it was, and that it had been a result of watching Lux leave the room.

A soft sound reached him, muffled, imperfect, almost a laugh trying not to be one. Beckett turned his head toward it, movement slow, shoulders still heavy with fatigue and bandages. Violet sat propped against her pillows, dark hair loose around her shoulders, one leg elevated and wrapped, her face pale but awake. She had her hand lifted halfway to her mouth, as if she’d meant to hide the expression that betrayed her, but hadn’t quite managed it in time. When he looked at her, really looked, she met his gaze without flinching. There was something in her eyes that unsettled him—not mockery, not cruelty, but the kind of knowing that made him feel like he’d arrived late to a story everyone else had already read. She shook her head slowly, the motion small and gentle, as if to spare him the force of it.

"It’s okay," she said, her voice soft but certain, settling into the quiet like falling ash. "You’ll understand someday."

The words only deepened the furrow in his brow. His confusion thickened, coiling in on itself, tightening in his chest. He opened his mouth as if to ask her what she meant, then closed it again, the question dissolving before it could take shape. The world felt tilted in a way he couldn’t correct, like standing on the deck of a ship after months at sea. So he reached for something solid instead. Something he did understand. Guilt had always been easy to hold. It had edges. Weight. A shape he recognized.

He lowered his gaze to his hands, rough and scarred and resting uselessly in his lap, and spoke quietly, the words scraping out of him like stones dragged across bone. "I’m… sorry," he said, breath uneven, throat tight. "For leaving you. Back there. For her." The admission carried no drama, no justification. Only the blunt truth of it, heavy as wet sand.

Violet’s expression shifted at once. Not sharply, not with anger, but with something gentler and far more dangerous to him. Sadness touched her features like a passing shadow, softening the lines of her face, dimming the faint humor in her eyes into something older and quieter. Still, she smiled. Not the kind meant to reassure herself, but the kind offered deliberately, carefully, as if she were placing something fragile into his hands and trusting him not to drop it.

"I know," she said, barely above a breath, the words steady and sincere. "Really. I do." She paused, letting the silence settle around them, then added, softer still, "It’s okay, Beck."

The ache in his chest deepened at that, spreading in a slow, unfamiliar way that made it hard to draw a full breath. He nodded once, stiff and reflexive, like a soldier acknowledging an order he didn’t fully understand but would obey anyway. He didn’t trust himself to speak again. The words would come out wrong, or not at all. So he stayed silent, staring at the place where Lux had stood moments before, while the quiet pressed in around him and the wound in his chest remained, unseen, unnamed, and stubbornly real.

^{interactions ....|.... violet & various apollo kids ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Sleepy Tani}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#86a8ad ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

"Sent is… a generous word." River shook his head, more to himself in silent disbelief that he couldn’t even be trusted enough to do something without a babysitter. What could she even do if he fucked up somehow? Would she replace him or just go tattle to daddy? "My father—" He scoffed and did his best not to roll his eyes. "—our father doesn’t tend to waste breath on instructions when outcomes speak for themselves. As you may already know."

She smiled, but it felt… wrong, forced. Like something someone taught themself to do because it was polite or what others did. But it lacked any warmth or light that made it feel like some uncanny valley type shit, like someone who was pretending to empathize or connect... An alien.

"You’re not wrong about my purpose here. I believe it may be more accurate to say that I observe because it is effective. It provides clarity unclouded by… sentiment."

Well, River was right, as much as he wanted to be wrong in this one instance. He didn’t need another set of eyes scrutinizing his every move. Poseidon put enough stress on his shoulders and now this sister he never met was going to… observe him. Why? Because daddy dearest said to? Oh, wait, no. He ‘doesn’t waste breath on instructions.’ Maybe not for her. River sure as hell got plenty of them. If their father didn’t trust him so much, then why didn’t he just make her the leader and leave him out of it? Could have saved them all a lot of trouble.

Regardless of his own… opinions, a proper introduction felt like the right thing to do, and she seemed haughty enough to expect it, or judge him if he didn’t meet that standard among the list of other expectations she likely kept. But she didn’t take it at first, just studied him like he was a science experiment, not a person. It was a long and painful pause that made him shift uncomfortably under her scrutiny, but he held her gaze and kept his hand extended until she took it.

To no surprise, her touch was just as cold and harsh as she was, rigid and unmalleable. "Maylisse."

He at least had a name.

Then in a move he hadn’t expected, Maylisse sat down beside him, using her coat as a small barrier between them, but still close enough to be considered… near. His brows furrowed, creasing his forehead in a confused and frustrated pensive silence. She sat there, quiet and unbothered like a mannequin sentinel, watching and waiting for him to fuck up in someway. River wasn’t even finished with his first day and now this. His whole body went rigid, muscles tensing across his exposed back, jaw clenched, knuckles flexed and white in the space between his legs. If he was meant to relax in her presence, it was highly unlikely. It was like she had given him his own assessment, but didn’t have the decency to share the parameters.

He tried his best to keep his attention locked on the demigods who were running the course a second time, while sparing glances towards the few who chose push ups in lieu of another run. It worked for a time, but it was hard to focus when River felt like every breath and movement was being studied. It was when he started getting restless that he noticed Iliana approaching. Not a saving grace, per se, but a welcome distraction or diversion. It was a surprising choice to approach the pair of pissy looking Poseidon kids, but he’d take anything over a heavy silence that was the only thing more tense than he was.

"River, I just wanted to thank you for staying. You didn't have to do that," Iliana started once she reached them.

It took a surprising amount of self control for River not to let his confusion become plain across his face. Of course he had to stay behind. Beyond the fact that a good leader would make himself available if someone needed help and stay until the last person finished… He wasn’t stupid enough to assume everyone would run the course a second time without him watching. They don’t owe him anything nor has he earned their respect. He’d be disappointed if they didn’t try skirting around doing it if he wasn’t there.

"I hope I can get better over time. One of my biggest reasons for coming here was to train, the other being to meet others like me besides my adopted brother, Heath. Anyway, sorry for interrupting you two. I just wanted to thank River. Both of you have a nice day."

River didn’t know how to respond, lost between an unknown sister he didn’t know about and the judgement that came with her, and then Iliana thanking him for doing the bare minimum. If nothing else, at least her heart was in the right place? One person at camp who wouldn’t hate him for enforcing training? He gave her a parting two finger wave, trying his best not to piss off one of the few people who didn’t seem to hate him so far. He had a feeling that was going to be rarer as time went on.

"She’s much too genial." Maylisse’s voice pierced the silence when Iliana was out of ear shot, drawing his attention back to the pressing weight of… whatever the fuck this was.

While River, for the most part, agreed with her comment, there was a part of him that was growing more prickly the longer she lingered and tossed her judgements around without prejudice. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and softly clapped his hands together. "Some people didn’t get coal for Christmas," he replied passively, his comment mirroring her same cool indifference rather than the subtle insult laced beneath it.

Whether the meaning hit or not, he couldn’t tell as she turned to face him directly, removing the opportunity for him to let his attention focus on anything but her. He sighed, conceding to whatever questioning she was preparing to unleash on him, and met her gaze. His expression wasn’t cold or inquisitive, but painted with prominent annoyance and frustrated reserve.

"But what do you gather? About everyone. So far?"

River parted his lips to answer, but it seemed she wasn’t in the questioning mood as much as a lecturing mood. Lucky him.

"I gather that they are grateful. For any thoughtfulness or leniency you show, like allowing a celebration the night before training, for instance. Which, frankly, love, tells me more than anything Father chose not to say about you." There was a pause, brief, just long enough for her to size up the campers who still remained on the course before she got her second wind. "However...outcomes speak. Actions speak louder still. And what I observe is not the foundational softness in you that Father claims to disdain, but the cultivated conditions under which softness is already being rewarded."

River tried to keep up, he did. He never thought of himself as an idiot by any means, but Maylisse talked like she was intentionally trying to confuse people, pretentious in the way she was unnecessarily long winded, stacked big words like tetris, and didn’t just get to the damn point. He kept up the best he could, tried to pull the context out of the word soup, but mostly sat there, attentively waiting for her to shut up.

"Now, whether that goodwill becomes the bedrock of your authority, or the very substrate that erodes it remains to be seen. A fascinating test, truly, and potentially fatal."

He waited a beat or two, just to be certain that her ramblings had ceased, before he finally got a chance to speak. And what broke the silence first wasn’t a response, or defense, or whatever else she might have been expecting, but a laugh tinged with dry amusement and disbelief. "You really like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?" River asked, his question as rhetorical as her own, which he also promptly answered before she could. Gods he was a little petty today. "Can’t deny you’re his." He shook his head, running his hands along his thighs until they rested on the caps of his knees and shifted to sit a little more upright. "He also talks too much."

River drew in a deep breath before continuing. "You toss around a lot of words that mean nothing." He held her gaze, fairly emotionless aside from the furrowing of his brow. "If you’re wanting your barbs to cut then you’ll have to dumb it down for the simpleton. But frankly… love, I don’t give a shit about your opinions of me. It’s not my job to please you."

He wasn’t doing this, leading, to get her approval. Hell, there were some days where he wondered if he was even doing it for his father’s approval, maybe part of it was proving to himself he could do what he’s been training his whole life for. But there was something about someone no better than River, looking down her nose at him like she had the right to judge him with the same level of scrutiny as their father… a God. He understood that judgements and resentment came with the territory, but it was just her. How she presented herself, spoke, almost seemed to talk down to him, it all rubbed him the wrong way like walking around in wet clothes all day.

"He chose me to lead, not you. I don’t know why. Maybe you didn’t cut it or maybe our father is a misogynistic piece of shit. I don’t really care. Judge and observe me all you want. I can’t stop you… But I also don’t answer to you."

As River finished, he noticed a dark hair girl who had been lingering around them stepped into view off to the side. When their eyes met, she made sure he knew that it was intentional and she wanted his attention or time by giving him a nod, tight smile and an awkward wave. He clenched his teeth, muscles tensing along his jaw as he drew in a deep breath. Then he motioned his hand for her to come closer. If Maylisse was going to observe him, he imagined many of his private conversations that happened outside of cabins would be far less private going forward. There was no point in trying to talk elsewhere, so he’d just suffer through questions or judgements from both sides. Who wouldn’t want to spend their day like that?

"Need something?" he asked the girl, trying his best not to sound as prickly as he had grown throughout his conversation and failing. Well, River wasn’t getting any brownie points for approachability but whatever. It wasn’t like he turned her away.

^{interactions ....|.... maylisse, iliana & rosalia ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... none}

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^{#667c0c ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

"Oh," was Trinity’s only response at first. Maybe she wasn’t ready to talk or needed more time apart or a million other things that ran through Wes’s head in that silence, torturing him until she spoke up again. "Yeah, no, we can talk at lunch. Which is where you’re off to now, right?" She moved her hands around animatedly as she talked, waving them from the arena, toward the main hall and back with a nervous energy like she didn't know exactly what to say or do.

He couldn’t help but watch, enamored with her as he always was, even when she rambled and flailed and whatever else. Wes’s smile only grew, patiently waiting for her to settle on her response. "Let’s walk," she finally concluded and pulled on her jacket.

"Sure." He chuckled, putting on his own coat and following after her.

It was a little weird having a coat on with nothing on his chest underneath. He could have put his shirt back on, but he was covered in enough blood, and Wes didn’t really want to make it worse. Plus the walk wasn’t too bad. Although the wind still found unique and creative ways to slip beneath the hem of his jacket and brush along his bare chest, which sucked. So he definitely wasn’t going to complain when Trinity walked shoulder to shoulder with him to conserve heat. And, in his infinite wisdom, regardless of how much more air it’d let in, he still wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in closer. He never really mastered the art of caring about his own well being when hers was always more important… He could warm up later. It was fine.

Wes wasn’t able to hide the sigh of relief that slipped out when they finally entered the main hall and were enveloped in its warmth. The stark difference in temperatures sent an involuntary chill down his back as he let his arm slip from Trinity’s shoulders. He followed her over toward the food, accepting the offered plate and promptly filled it with… a bit of everything really: meat, meat, more meat, carbs, and cheese. Really all a man needed. He tucked a bottle of some kind of juice into his pocket and started after her toward a table that was a little more secluded.

As he walked by Tapeesa, who was of a similar mind with stuffed cheeks like a chipmunk, he gave her a nod—since his hand was full—and a warm smile. He did the same for Evelyn and Daniel, then set down his plate on the opposite side of the table than Trinity. Before he sat down, he took off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. It… felt a little weird eating in the cafeteria, in the middle of winter… shirtless. But he didn’t want to deal with his bulky coat either. Whatever. If someone got all goo goo eyed, Trinity would handle it anyway. It’d be fine.

Wes had made a decent dent into his meal when he noticed the way she pushed around food but never took a bite of anything. His brows creased, tugging together with an unspoken question as he set aside his fork and waited for whatever it was she was building up the nerve to say. "I haven’t had someone ask me to move in before," she finally confessed, filling the silence with her most immediate thought, rather building up to it. There was one thing for certain, she never skirted around the truth which he appreciated… No deciphering.

His smile was warm and patient as he held her gaze from across the table. "Well… You’re young," he initially joked with a weak laugh, trying to ease the tension that was plain to see in the way she didn’t eat and the stiffness in her posture. Wes’s smile faded to something softer and more sincere. "I never asked anyone to move in with me before… New territory for both of us." He shrugged his shoulders like her admission was no different than sharing her favorite color.

"I freaked out. Stupidly. And I mean really stupidly. I’ve only known two homes and I’m territorial and…" She sucked in a breath, trying to stop her rambling, but he didn’t mind. He remained patient and attentive, listening for as long as she needed to speak. "Wherever you are feels more like home. And that’s where I wanna be."

"God, that’s corny."

While she might have cringed at her words, that small confession was enough to erase every other negative thought and emotion he had wrestling around in his head since he got up that morning. Wes knew how he felt about her. He’d known it before she was his, before she could hardly stand to be around him. But he waited… He always told her he’d wait and be there when she wanted him, whenever or however that was. He meant that, truly, in all aspects of everything that formed their relationship. It was a slow journey, but every milestone and every confession made his heart soar. And while nothing quite compared to when she finally said she loved him, admitting that he was her home was a pretty fantastic second place.

"I think you mean romantic," he corrected her gently as he slowly extended his arm across the table, reaching out his hand to take hers.

But just before he managed to take it, Trinity was moving again, filling her fork with a mountain of food and shoving it into her mouth. His brows rose in light hearted disbelief as he watched her. Wes didn’t stop her or argue, figuring she had more to say. He just left his hand there, open and available, halfway toward her if she decided she wanted to take it.

"But, I had a really crappy sleep last night," she continued, looking up at him briefly before her gaze fell back to her plate like she was scared to see what was staring back at her.

Wes sighed as the guilt of telling her he wanted to be alone last night ate at his insides like acid. He swallowed and sighed softly. "I… didn’t sleep," he offered up his own confession in turn. "The bed felt empty and cold… and eerily quiet without you snoring in my ear." He grinned over at her, even if she wouldn’t meet his gaze, and lightly bumped his foot against hers to hopefully draw her attention away from her food.

"I liked your plan and I really wish I didn't spoil it. Even down to the dancing." Trinity then dropped her silverware and rubbed her temple, the frustration with herself evident in her words and body language.

Wes pushed aside his plate and hers, then reached out to take her wrist gently before she worked divots into her temple. He pulled her hand close until he was able to lean forward and close the distance with a soft kiss to the center of her palm. "We’re not perfect… neither one of us." He held her gaze as he let his fingers envelope hers with a warm and tender comfort. "And there’s this crazy thing about dancing, you can do it anywhere, anytime." His hand squeezed hers like a gentle hug of reassurance. "At midnight on New Year’s Eve, in our cabin in our pajamas while listening to shitty oldies, or—if I knew you wouldn’t kill me from the embarrassment—right here, right now in the middle of the cafeteria with no music at all, for all of camp to see."

He laughed softly, raising his brows as he held her gaze like a quiet nudge to provoke a laugh or an eye roll… something from her. "We had a… I don’t even know if I’d call it a disagreement. But so what?" Wes shrugged his shoulders, like it was all water under the bridge. "I’ll upset you and you’ll upset me. And we still fight far less than Andy and Mason," he teased, giving her hand a little tug. "I’m not going anywhere because we had a fight. I love you and it’ll take a whole hell of a lot more to scare me away."

Wes released her hand and pushed up from his seat. He walked around the table and pulled out the chair beside her. He turned it to face her before sitting down. He then grabbed the lip of her seat and spun her around to face him, scooting her so close that her knees were in the space between his legs. "So… Xena." His voice was soft and deep, barely louder than a whisper so his words were for only her ears. "Will you move into my cabin with me?" he asked, his smile growing bright and unguarded with every ounce of love he felt for her plain across his face and glistening in his eyes. "I can make it way worse and get on one knee if you want," he teased as his smile turned mischievous and he quirked a brow in a playful challenge.

^{interactions ....|.... trinity, tapeesa, evelyn & daniel ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Mjolnir's Forge

Star Wars: Shadows of the New Republic

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ZFR-713 | Zefer

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ZFR-713 | Zefer...

.................................................... __________________________________________ F O R M E R . T I E . P I L O T ________________________________________________________ 31 | female | pansexual specialization | pilot / mechanic __________________________________________ ..................▹ species | dathomirian ..................▹ skin color | pale gray ..................▹ hair color | white ..................▹ eye color | silver ..................▹ height | 5' 6" ..................▹ build | lean / muscular ..................▹ homeworld | dathomir ( rishi ) ..................▹ force sensitivity | no __________________________________________

. S T R E N G T H S expert pilot .|. mechanic .|. technician .|. proficient marksman .|. proficient combatant .|. scrapper .|. novice bounty hunter .|. imperial knowledge .|. dual heart systems .|. enhanced resilience .|. environmental adaptation .|. survivalist W E A K N E S S E S water - In short, Zefer can’t swim. She might be able to tread water for a bit, but the empire never really bothered with teaching pilots how to swim. It was a waste of the empire’s time and resources to instill that skill. Their place was in space. If they weren’t there, then they were likely dead. carnivorous limitations - Dathomirians are a strictly carnivorous species. Their digestive systems are not designed to process vegetation. Ingesting plant matter could cause Zefer severe illness or even death. imperial past - The entirety of Zefer’s life, that she can remember, was spent in the empire’s service until its fall. She was raised by them, trained by them, and fought for them. While she has spent the past decade trying to erase that part of her life, it is likely to haunt her until the day she dies. E Q U I P M E N T K0-R3 - A refurbished KX security droid that Zefer scavenged from a crashed star destroyer. She rewired him and erased his imperial protocols, reworking him for her purposes. He is an imposing droid, highly mobile and stronger than the average person. He is able to operate a variety of tools, equipment and weapons. He is also equipped with a built-in comm and a data--spike in his fist, and Zefer installed a translator while reworking his security imperial programming. 434 deathhammer - Zefer got this pistol from the corpse of a bounty hunter that was after the same target as her and tried to kill her… He lost. Originally she took it to sell it for some spare credits, but she liked it so much she kept it. It has a slim grip which makes for easy concealment. It also has a vented shroud around the barrel which helps prevent overheating and a dial to adjust the power settings. amban phase-pulse rifle - This blast is a modified sniper. It has a fork-shaped resonator and a scope. It can deliver a paralyzing electrical pulse at close range, and at long range, it can disintegrate organic matter on contact. Zefer has modified this rifle so she can adjust the power so is capable of using it to hunt for food without disintegrating her prey. SF TIE fighter - A newer, more advanced model of TIE fighter in its infancy during the fall of the empire. Zefer spent over a year repairing, improving, and modifying an SF TIE fighter that was in the docking bay of the crashed Star Destroyer. Unlike original TIE fighters, this one has two seats, combat shields and a hyperdrive that doesn't sacrifice the ship's speed and maneuverability. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y cynical .... | .... analytical .... | .... impulsive .... | .... adaptable .... | .... haunted H I S T O R Y Born in the rugged wilds of Dathomir, Zefer’s life was altered forever when the Empire arrived to harvest the planet’s youth. They sought children touched by the Force to mold into Dark Side acolytes; however, when Zefer showed no affinity, she was discarded into the Imperial Academy’s infantry program. Rather than falter, she excelled. Her innate mechanical aptitude and lethal precision with a blaster saw her rise rapidly through the ranks, eventually earning a coveted seat in the cockpit of a TIE fighter as pilot ZFR-713. She served the Empire faithfully until its ultimate collapse, but her service didn't end with the Battle of Endor. Zefer found herself under the command of Moff Vaxillion Thray, a high-ranking official who refused to surrender and instead took his Star Destroyer and its crew into the lawless reaches of the Outer Rim. This rogue existence came to a violent end when the First Order intercepted Thray’s vessel over the planet of Rishi. As the Star Destroyer plummeted toward the surface, Zefer abandoned her post, incapacitated a superior officer to commandeer his escape pod, and narrowly survived the catastrophic impact that claimed the lives of most of her peers. Stranded on Rishi and officially "dead" to the galaxy, ZFR-713 shed her designation and claimed the name Zefer. She retreated to an abandoned Imperial outpost, spending over two years in isolation. During this time, she scavenged the wreckage of her former life to rebuild a heavily modified SF TIE fighter and reprogrammed a discarded KX-series security droid to serve as her only companion. Now back among the stars, Zefer lives on the fringes of the New Republic. She sustains herself by scrapping Imperial relics and hunting bounties—specifically targeting the former Imperial officers who once viewed her as an expendable asset. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #884949 ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Inara Vos

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Inara Vos...

.................................................... __________________________________________ J E D I . G U A R D I A N ________________________________________________________ 28 | female | pansexual specialization | explorer __________________________________________ ....................▹ species | pantoran ....................▹ skin color | blue ....................▹ hair color | white ....................▹ eye color | gold ....................▹ height | 5' 8" ....................▹ build | athletic ....................▹ homeworld | pantora ....................▹ force sensitivity | yes __________________________________________

. S T R E N G T H S force sense .|. force telekinesis .|. force agility .|. prima vitae .|. tai vordrax .|. master lightsaber combatant .|. battle tactics .|. intergalactic exploration .|. extensive astronomical knowledge .|. intergalactic pathfinder .|. competent pilot .|. extreme cold adaptation .|. enhanced resilience .|. superior low-light vision W E A K N E S S E S high temperatures - The strong resilience to extreme colds comes with the adverse problem of struggling when exposed to extreme heat. In desert environments, Inara can grow fatigued and dehydrated quite quickly. dark side pull - Like a lot of force sensitive individuals, there is always the fear of corruption and the pull of the dark side. Because of Inara's more liberal frame of mind and morally unorthodox approaches to many situations, there is a constant concern from those around her about where her allegiances lie. indigo blushing - Pantoran blood reacts strongly to emotional spikes. So whenever Inara experiences emotions like anger, embarrassment, or even exhaustion, her skin turns a dark indigo. As a jedi, any slip in her emotions could be detrimental, so she has to keep her feelings in check to avoid letting the truth betray her. E Q U I P M E N T dual lightsabers - Inara wields dual lightsabers that radiate with a warm glow from their orange kyber crystals. These weapons aren’t only a sign of her status as a Jedi Knight and guardian, but a symbol of her training with the Order, a reflection of the time, dedication, and perseverance it takes to become a Jedi. Compared to other sabers, her hilts are quite simple, silver in color with black accents and elegant engravings near the emitter. BD-4 - A companion droid designed for explorers, Bee Dee has been with Inara since she was a young Padawan. She is a curious little machine, designed to assist with operations in the most remote and dangerous locations across the galaxy. While she was programmed to be the ideal assistant for explorers, able to traverse all types of terrain with an extensive memory bank for notes and research, she is also a quirky little droid with a lot of personality in her circuits. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y reserved .... | .... liberal .... | .... diplomatic .... | .... confident .... | .... equanimous H I S T O R Y Inara Vos was raised in the shadow of the Empire’s collapse, coming of age as Luke Skywalker’s new Jedi Praxeum began to take shape. As a Pantoran with a natural wanderlust, she found her calling not in dusty archives, but in the uncharted reaches of the Outer Rim. Under the tutelage of her master, Kanan Jarrus,who taught her that being a Jedi was about people, not just principles, Inara developed into a formidable Guardian. Alongside her constant companion, a chirpy BD droid, she spent her Padawan years mapping forgotten hyperspace lanes and honing a lightsaber style built for the unpredictability of the frontier. Having ascended to the rank of Jedi Knight only eighteen months ago, Inara has already gained a reputation for her vocal, often unorthodox, views on the Order’s future. She remains a firm critic of the "Old Way," frequently arguing that the pre-Empire Jedi became stagnant, blinded by their own dogma and tethered too closely to political bureaucracy. To Inara, the near-extinction of the Jedi wasn't just a tragedy, it was a systemic failure. She believes the reformed Order must prioritize individual intuition and proactive justice over the rigid, detached neutrality that allowed the Sith to rise in the first place. This streak of independence is exactly why the Council tapped her for a high-stakes recovery mission. A fellow Padawan, Kaz Cordo, has vanished while investigating reports that Rothana Heavy Engineering has been surreptitiously flouting Republic embargoes by selling military-grade hardware to independent syndicates. Kaz’s last transmission was traced to the fringe of the Rishi Maze, a chaotic satellite galaxy where the law of the Republic holds no sway. With BD-4 at her side and her saber at the ready, Inara now ventures into the Outer Rim to find Kaz and uncover just how deep the corruption at Rothana truly goes. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #883f82 ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Star Wars: Shadows of the New Republic

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ZFR-713 | Zefer

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ZFR-713 | Zefer...

.................................................... __________________________________________ F O R M E R . T I E . P I L O T ________________________________________________________ 31 | female | pansexual specialization | pilot / mechanic __________________________________________ ..................▹ species | dathomirian ..................▹ skin color | pale gray ..................▹ hair color | white ..................▹ eye color | silver ..................▹ height | 5' 6" ..................▹ build | lean / muscular ..................▹ homeworld | dathomir ( rishi ) ..................▹ force sensitivity | no __________________________________________

. S T R E N G T H S expert pilot .|. mechanic .|. technician .|. proficient marksman .|. proficient combatant .|. scrapper .|. novice bounty hunter .|. imperial knowledge .|. dual heart systems .|. enhanced resilience .|. environmental adaptation .|. survivalist W E A K N E S S E S water - In short, Zefer can’t swim. She might be able to tread water for a bit, but the empire never really bothered with teaching pilots how to swim. It was a waste of the empire’s time and resources to instill that skill. Their place was in space. If they weren’t there, then they were likely dead. carnivorous limitations - Dathomirians are a strictly carnivorous species. Their digestive systems are not designed to process vegetation. Ingesting plant matter could cause Zefer severe illness or even death. imperial past - The entirety of Zefer’s life, that she can remember, was spent in the empire’s service until its fall. She was raised by them, trained by them, and fought for them. While she has spent the past decade trying to erase that part of her life, it is likely to haunt her until the day she dies. E Q U I P M E N T K0-R3 - A refurbished KX security droid that Zefer scavenged from a crashed star destroyer. She rewired him and erased his imperial protocols, reworking him for her purposes. He is an imposing droid, highly mobile and stronger than the average person. He is able to operate a variety of tools, equipment and weapons. He is also equipped with a built-in comm and a data--spike in his fist, and Zefer installed a translator while reworking his security imperial programming. 434 deathhammer - Zefer got this pistol from the corpse of a bounty hunter that was after the same target as her and tried to kill her… He lost. Originally she took it to sell it for some spare credits, but she liked it so much she kept it. It has a slim grip which makes for easy concealment. It also has a vented shroud around the barrel which helps prevent overheating and a dial to adjust the power settings. amban phase-pulse rifle - This blast is a modified sniper. It has a fork-shaped resonator and a scope. It can deliver a paralyzing electrical pulse at close range, and at long range, it can disintegrate organic matter on contact. Zefer has modified this rifle so she can adjust the power so is capable of using it to hunt for food without disintegrating her prey. SF TIE fighter - A newer, more advanced model of TIE fighter in its infancy during the fall of the empire. Zefer spent over a year repairing, improving, and modifying an SF TIE fighter that was in the docking bay of the crashed Star Destroyer. Unlike original TIE fighters, this one has two seats, combat shields and a hyperdrive that doesn't sacrifice the ship's speed and maneuverability. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y cynical .... | .... analytical .... | .... impulsive .... | .... adaptable .... | .... haunted H I S T O R Y Born in the rugged wilds of Dathomir, Zefer’s life was altered forever when the Empire arrived to harvest the planet’s youth. They sought children touched by the Force to mold into Dark Side acolytes; however, when Zefer showed no affinity, she was discarded into the Imperial Academy’s infantry program. Rather than falter, she excelled. Her innate mechanical aptitude and lethal precision with a blaster saw her rise rapidly through the ranks, eventually earning a coveted seat in the cockpit of a TIE fighter as pilot ZFR-713. She served the Empire faithfully until its ultimate collapse, but her service didn't end with the Battle of Endor. Zefer found herself under the command of Moff Vaxillion Thray, a high-ranking official who refused to surrender and instead took his Star Destroyer and its crew into the lawless reaches of the Outer Rim. This rogue existence came to a violent end when the First Order intercepted Thray’s vessel over the planet of Rishi. As the Star Destroyer plummeted toward the surface, Zefer abandoned her post, incapacitated a superior officer to commandeer his escape pod, and narrowly survived the catastrophic impact that claimed the lives of most of her peers. Stranded on Rishi and officially "dead" to the galaxy, ZFR-713 shed her designation and claimed the name Zefer. She retreated to an abandoned Imperial outpost, spending over two years in isolation. During this time, she scavenged the wreckage of her former life to rebuild a heavily modified SF TIE fighter and reprogrammed a discarded KX-series security droid to serve as her only companion. Now back among the stars, Zefer lives on the fringes of the New Republic. She sustains herself by scrapping Imperial relics and hunting bounties—specifically targeting the former Imperial officers who once viewed her as an expendable asset. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #884949 ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Inara Vos

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Inara Vos...

.................................................... __________________________________________ J E D I . G U A R D I A N ________________________________________________________ 28 | female | pansexual specialization | explorer __________________________________________ ....................▹ species | pantoran ....................▹ skin color | blue ....................▹ hair color | white ....................▹ eye color | gold ....................▹ height | 5' 8" ....................▹ build | athletic ....................▹ homeworld | pantora ....................▹ force sensitivity | yes __________________________________________

. S T R E N G T H S force sense .|. force telekinesis .|. force agility .|. prima vitae .|. tai vordrax .|. master lightsaber combatant .|. battle tactics .|. intergalactic exploration .|. extensive astronomical knowledge .|. intergalactic pathfinder .|. competent pilot .|. extreme cold adaptation .|. enhanced resilience .|. superior low-light vision W E A K N E S S E S high temperatures - The strong resilience to extreme colds comes with the adverse problem of struggling when exposed to extreme heat. In desert environments, Inara can grow fatigued and dehydrated quite quickly. dark side pull - Like a lot of force sensitive individuals, there is always the fear of corruption and the pull of the dark side. Because of Inara's more liberal frame of mind and morally unorthodox approaches to many situations, there is a constant concern from those around her about where her allegiances lie. indigo blushing - Pantoran blood reacts strongly to emotional spikes. So whenever Inara experiences emotions like anger, embarrassment, or even exhaustion, her skin turns a dark indigo. As a jedi, any slip in her emotions could be detrimental, so she has to keep her feelings in check to avoid letting the truth betray her. E Q U I P M E N T dual lightsabers - Inara wields dual lightsabers that radiate with a warm glow from their orange kyber crystals. These weapons aren’t only a sign of her status as a Jedi Knight and guardian, but a symbol of her training with the Order, a reflection of the time, dedication, and perseverance it takes to become a Jedi. Compared to other sabers, her hilts are quite simple, silver in color with black accents and elegant engravings near the emitter. BD-4 - A companion droid designed for explorers, Bee Dee has been with Inara since she was a young Padawan. She is a curious little machine, designed to assist with operations in the most remote and dangerous locations across the galaxy. While she was programmed to be the ideal assistant for explorers, able to traverse all types of terrain with an extensive memory bank for notes and research, she is also a quirky little droid with a lot of personality in her circuits. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y reserved .... | .... liberal .... | .... diplomatic .... | .... confident .... | .... equanimous H I S T O R Y Inara Vos was raised in the shadow of the Empire’s collapse, coming of age as Luke Skywalker’s new Jedi Praxeum began to take shape. As a Pantoran with a natural wanderlust, she found her calling not in dusty archives, but in the uncharted reaches of the Outer Rim. Under the tutelage of her master, Kanan Jarrus,who taught her that being a Jedi was about people, not just principles, Inara developed into a formidable Guardian. Alongside her constant companion, a chirpy BD droid, she spent her Padawan years mapping forgotten hyperspace lanes and honing a lightsaber style built for the unpredictability of the frontier. Having ascended to the rank of Jedi Knight only eighteen months ago, Inara has already gained a reputation for her vocal, often unorthodox, views on the Order’s future. She remains a firm critic of the "Old Way," frequently arguing that the pre-Empire Jedi became stagnant, blinded by their own dogma and tethered too closely to political bureaucracy. To Inara, the near-extinction of the Jedi wasn't just a tragedy, it was a systemic failure. She believes the reformed Order must prioritize individual intuition and proactive justice over the rigid, detached neutrality that allowed the Sith to rise in the first place. This streak of independence is exactly why the Council tapped her for a high-stakes recovery mission. A fellow Padawan, Kaz Cordo, has vanished while investigating reports that Rothana Heavy Engineering has been surreptitiously flouting Republic embargoes by selling military-grade hardware to independent syndicates. Kaz’s last transmission was traced to the fringe of the Rishi Maze, a chaotic satellite galaxy where the law of the Republic holds no sway. With BD-4 at her side and her saber at the ready, Inara now ventures into the Outer Rim to find Kaz and uncover just how deep the corruption at Rothana truly goes. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #883f82 ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Star Wars: Shadows of the New Republic

Reign of the Usurper

^{rowan ...|... outfit ........ valenya ...|... outfit ........ declan ...|... outfit ........ dorian ...|... outfit ........ maeve ...|... outfit ........ rhea ...|... outfit ........ the great hall}

The halls of the Black Citadel were eerily silent as Rhea navigated the labyrinth of corridors toward the sitting room. She was expected near the Great Hall at sundown, but judging by the warm shades of amber that spilled across the stone floor from the large windows… She was late. While there was a budding unease at her mother’s disdain, it truly was her fault. She chose a ridiculous gown that had at least two skirts too many, each one needing to be fastened differently and at the correct height so it all poofed out just so, allowing a small hint of navy blue to peek out beneath the top layer of ivory satin. But not too much. Gods forbid if the proper ratio of blue to ivory was skewed. Chaste, pure, virginal, her mother’s words rang in her ears with that judgemental tone, like a lie she was trying to convince herself of rather than the truth.

"I feel like a doll," Rhea huffed as she adjusted the skirts… again. Gods they were so heavy. If she had the misfortune of falling into water she was almost certain she’d sink straight to the bottom like an anchor. Perhaps that was her mother’s goal, a metaphorical shackle to keep her still, weighed down by burden and expectations to behave. As if she had done anything but behave over the past two years. "And not even a cute one," she added with a scoff and a dramatic kick from beneath the skirts that barely caused a ripple through the sea of fabric.

"I look like one of those haunting porcelain faced dolls Maeve had." They were the type of dolls that were hard and cold, painted for display, too fragile to be cherished. They weren’t made to be enjoyed or shown love, but appreciated from afar… Trophies not playthings. That’s all Princesses were… prizes to whomever could pay the highest price. That was what Maeve wanted, not to just be a trophy, but the trophy, a beautiful porcelain doll on display like a rare gem everyone wanted but only one possessed. But that wasn’t Rhea, she didn’t want to be made of glass but cloth, worn and weathered, not fragile but malleable. Every popped seam, tear or stain would be a memory of being loved and treasured. She didn’t want to be out of reach on a shelf, but embraced. This gown… this charade, it wasn’t her. She was made of cotton, not clay.

"It is only for the night, Princess." Coren’s voice was gentle and reassuring like a hand upon her shoulder. It cut through echoes of ruffling fabric that pooled around her feet and the rhythmic clinking of his dark plate armor. He followed in pace behind her, ever watchful and present, even when she forgot she wasn’t alone and complained into the dense humid air because… It was the only thing within her power that she could do.

Rhea spun around to face him, the length of her skirts spinning outward with the momentum, extending so far they brushed his knees. "Until the tourney," she contradicted, holding out a single finger as if counting. "Or the Day of the Gods—" another finger shot up "—Or any other celebration my mother chooses to throw." With the third finger raised, she wiggled them before Coren until tripping on the abundance of fabric forced her to turn back around with a huff. How would she make it through an evening of dancing without falling on her face? She hadn’t a clue. "Perhaps I’ll be fortunate and catch no one’s eye, then I can dress as I please."

Coren’s brows rose like a silent challenge, as if he knew the conclusions she’d come to a second faster than she did. "Is that what you wish?"

She paused a few feet from the door, letting her head tip backwards with an exasperated sigh. "... No" Rhea needed a husband to get out of the Black Citadel and as far away from her mother as possible. She had love once and lost it. As unlikely as that was in the first place, she knew it was impossible to find it a second time. It was no longer about love, but an escape. Her fabric doll dreams died with Gareth, buried away with that last thread. All that was left was a porcelain face painted beneath her mother’s scrutiny, sewn in place over the remnants of what was. "Stop being so wise. You make it difficult for me to complain to you." A smile, forlorn but earnest, dipped into her cheeks in an attempt to match the levity of her tone.

"Apologies, Your Grace." Coren chuckled, just once, fleeting but warm as he approached the door at the end of the hall and took the handle in his hand. "I shall be in the Great Hall if you need me, Princess." He bowed before pulling open the door, revealing the quaint sitting room and her sister, poised and punctual, a trophy ready for the victor.

Maeve was on the far side of the room, standing before a mirror of polished silver as she fussed over her appearance. To Rhea’s eyes, her sister was the definition of what perfection strove to be. Her gowns were always immaculate, posture straight as a pin, hair a silken nest of crimson braids with her face painted like the very dolls she desired to be. Where Rhea’s dress was a curtain of ivory, almost childlike in its innocence, Maeve was dressed as a woman should be, pristine in every way that mattered, a Goddess personified for the Lords to feast their eyes upon. There was no way she could compete with her sister, the rose of Thornvale. She was everything a Princess was supposed to be. It was no wonder her mother always compared them, always wished more of her as she lived in her sister’s shadow. How could she ever compare?

"Sister," Rhea spoke up as the door shut behind her, dipping into a courtesy that wasn’t quite right but she knew her sister would expect it all the same, just as their mother would. "You look lovely," she added with a warm smile, like an olive branch of sisterly compassion extended over a ravine of differences.

Maeve’s hands were running along the rich silks of her skirts, willing any wrinkles from taking up residence when she heard her sister enter the room. She froze, head perking like a curious animal surprised to be met with her sister being almost punctual. With a raised brow and a scrutinizing gaze, her attention swept over Rhea’s ensemble as she lingered on the other side of the room. It was a blatant show of white purity, tight and conforming in the ways she knew were more like a prison rather than a show of familial solidarity. Delicate fingers tugged on the hem of her corset as if it was a hair askew, then pressed her palm against her abdomen like a practiced measure in breath control and aplomb.

"Did mother dress you?" she asked. Her hands continued to preen and press her gown just so, as if her own adjustments could somehow will her sister to do the same. Maeve’s gaze narrowed as she noticed the misalignment of Rhea’s skirts, the way her tiara tilted a bit more to the left, and how her corset could have been tighter… much tighter. Her sister’s hair was not perfectly pinned, but fell free in loose ringlets along her shoulders, a testament to their stark differences. One sister the image of grace and poise, everything in place where it should be, while the other was wild, untamed, looking formality in the face with a laugh.

Rhea’s shoulders, which were hopefully raised, slumped as the olive branch was snapped in two and fell into the chasm between them. She didn’t answer the question. There was no point when her sister already knew the answer and merely sought to widen the divide between them. Her own hand pressed against her stomach, but where Maeve’s was a habit of control, Rhea’s touch was like a claw desperate to rip the fabric from her body, if only to be able to breathe. "Have they all arrived?" she asked, redirecting the conversation as she crossed the room toward the large windows that looked out over the valley. She grabbed handfuls of fabric, lifting her skirts just high enough so she could kneel on the window seat without choking herself in the process.

Maeve watched with disdain, unable to withhold the sharp breath drawn from her at the thought of wrinkled silks. The sight alone was enough to make her smooth out her own gown, obsessive in her own perfection. "I have not been counting," she answered, curt in her passiveness… Also a lie. She did not look out the window or gawk, but had been listening to the creeks of approaching carriages, the procession of steps, and voices echoing up from the hall below. "Get away from there," she snapped, motioning her sister away from the window. "What if someone sees you?"

"What if they do?" Rhea sank onto the bench, unbothered by her sister's concerns or by her knees pressing into the wood through the thin cushion as she leaned forward at the site of a carriage crossing the bridge toward the entrance. "They all will know us soon enough." She watched curiously, as if it was a game to try and piece together which house was hidden beneath the shadows of the setting sun. They flew no colors, nor did their approach have much showmanship like she’d imagine from most of the houses. She assumed the entirety of the family would have ridden in the carriage until she caught sight of a black steed with a young man seated atop it. He was dressed in finery nearly as dark as the horse beneath him, likely decorated in colors and sigils of his house, but she couldn’t make it out from where she sat. He carried himself with the same air as her sister, chin held high with a posture of purpose, more erect and confident in his presence than anything Rhea ever did. Whomever he was, she was certain he and Maeve would make a good match. They could stand around their hold like statues, looking down their noses at those beneath them. "I think I found your future husband," she mused with a quiet chuckle.

While intrigue tugged at Maeve like an invisible thread, drawing her toward the window to peek and see if she could place a name to the face, she did not move. She knew her sister was baiting her to go look or show a childlike interest, but she knew better… She was better than naive curiosity. "He very well could be," she replied plainly. "I imagine our tastes differ quite substantially. If he doesn’t appeal to you then I imagine we’d be a smart match."

"Well, there are certainly similarities."

"Like what? Elegance?"

"... Rigidity," Rhea answered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as she kept her amusement hidden between herself and the pane of glass before her.

Maeve snorted and rolled her eyes. "You mean poise," she corrected as if the mere concept of being seen as rigid was deplorable and absolutely false.

Rhea shook her head and rolled her eyes, disregarding her sister’s comment as she leaned forward and rested her hands against the window’s frame. She watched as the carriage, mounted Lord, and their retinue entered the gates, coming to a halt in the stone courtyard outside the Citadel. They were all cast in heavy shadows, haloed by the golden glow of eventide like an omen of the months to come… Whether for good or ill, she did not know. The way the darkness clung to the man, even in the warmth of the setting sun and the flickering light of the braziers, filled her with a foreboding sense of dread that constricted around her lungs tighter than the corset already entrapping her.

He dismounted with the effortless ease of a man who found riding a horse to be an extension of himself, something Rhea often saw amongst warriors, not nobles. Another point for Maeve. She knew her sister valued strength, real and tangible, not through words—she had that part covered—but through muscles, presence, and purpose. He wore a blade at his hip as if a show of power or readiness, perhaps both. It could have been ornamental or ceremonial, but something about the way the Lord carried himself said he knew how to wield it with brutal efficiency. She might not be privy to her sister’s ‘list’, but if this man was not at the top, then he rightfully should be. Afterall, Maeve didn’t want love or compassion, she wanted protection, power, and—

There was a shift. It was subtle, missable by most who saw horses as tools. He did not turn from his dark steed but toward it, placing a hand upon the creature’s neck not in dominance but companionship. It wasn’t a stroke, but the grounding comfort of a presence. An act so human that it almost felt foreign in comparison to the way he carried himself. Rhea watched as the horse leaned into the touch, a sign of quiet respect and understanding. The Lord’s sharp edges softened in a way only she would notice. Not all cold. Good. Her and Maeve might not see eye to eye on many things, but she did not wish a life of misery upon her sister. A man capable of kindness towards creatures was capable of compassion, something her sister solely needed, even if she did not see it herself.

The creak of the carriage door drew his attention and hers alike. Rhea watched the first Lady take his arm and exit. A woman with hair as red as a fox, adorned in a gown of rich crimson and ivory. She was followed by another, younger woman, similar in every way down to the colors of their garments. Red and white. Rhea did not familiarize herself with the various houses and their sigils like Maeve. She knew enough to recognize they were house colors, similar to how their mother had them dressed in navy, ivory and silver. It was a show of family, unity and power.

Rhea tried to think back to her childhood education, recalling banners of red and white adorned in… A wolf? A lion?... No. A bear. The moment the realization struck, the two final Lords stepped out. The elder emerged austere and fierce, demanding respect through the scrutiny of his gaze and was followed by a familiar mess of red curls—Emil. Rhea paled, drawing in a sharp breath and pulled away from the window like the glass had burned her. She knew she couldn’t avoid him or the consequences of her actions forever, but there was a part of her that had hoped the insult of her insolence would have frightened him away. But there was no escaping it now, not when her mother knew and she had to face him in court.

"What?" Maeve asked, masquerading her piqued curiosity as feigned concern.

The click of the door unlatching and swinging open sliced through the tension of the room and pulled the girls’ attention toward the entrance. In strode Dorian, always tardy and always disheveled. He wore an ivory tunic embroidered in gold and silver with his navy coat draped over his arm and an ornate belt clutched in his hand. His brown locks fell in wild ringlets, still a bit damp, as they brushed the tops of his shoulders. He was no more pleased to be there than Rhea looked: uncomfortable, out of place, and like someone just walked over her grave. But nevertheless, he flashed them both a warm smile, pleased at their presence, knowing he wouldn’t suffer through it all alone, if nothing else.

"Evening, sisters," he said with his usual jovial tone—loud, warm, and laced with honey—contradicting his otherwise chaotic presence.

One of Rhea’s legs slipped from the window seat, followed by the other as she turned from the spectacle and stood up. She gave her brother a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before turning her attention toward Maeve. "It is House Járnbjørn," she answered the question indirectly, offering up her conclusions without bringing attention to her inner turmoil that left her uneasy and on edge.

"And how would you know that?" Maeve’s words came out sharp, almost insulting in the insinuation that Rhea was too oblivious, ignorant or stupid to know which house was which from a glance. There was one way and one way only that she knew the Járnbjørns apart from the rest. Another dark mark against the Storvane name—against her—because of the ignorance of her siblings.

"Don’t play coy," Rhea snapped, in no mood to trade thinly veiled insults or play into her sister’s mind games.

Dorian’s brows furrowed, glancing back and forth between them as he pulled on his navy velvet jacket and shrugged it into place upon his shoulders. Whenever his sister’s got like that he always struggled to follow. It wasn’t that he was dense, but he never mastered the silent language of sharp glances and hidden barbs that women were so fluent in. He found women, especially nobles, could carry entire conversations layered with meaning without ever speaking a word. He was just… too simple for that.

"What are you two conspiring about?" he interjected with a weary laugh, not wishing to feel excluded from the conversation but, more importantly, wanting to keep his sisters from arguing when they were minutes from being put on display before the most influential people in the kingdom. Dorian paused, cocking his head to the side, caught off guard by his own thoughts and concerns that almost aligned with what a Prince and heir should be concerned about. He snorted and shook his head. Declan must have hit him too hard and knocked some sense into him… Nothing some wine couldn’t fix.

"Nothing," Rhea replied, turning her attention toward him with her arms crossed lightly over her chest. Her thumb idly rubbed along her arm beneath the hem of her sleeve, saving herself from the incessant itching of the sheer fabric for a moment. "Maeve is playing chess and I, checkers." She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes in that resigned way a sibling accepted their torment.

"I never had a mind for chess," Dorian chuckled as he grabbed his ornate belt and wrapped it around his waist. It all started well enough, but the buckle proved to either be a new design or maybe he never fastened his own belts before? No, that would be nonsense. Of course he could dress himself… Right? His face contorted, gaze fixated on a small bit of embroidery on the seat in front of him. He could certainly recall undressing people plenty of times—and them undressing him—but he honest to the Gods could not remember if he ever dealt with belts. "When did buckles become so complicated?"

"And yet, you are heir," Maeve scoffed with a shake of her head as she turned her attention back towards the polished silver. Not only was he a lost cause when it came to dressing himself, but he lacked the mental fortitude for chess… A game based around the politics of war. That wasn’t a terrible omen for the future of Aethoria or anything. Her hands ran along the bodice of her dress as she stared at the reflection of blue fabric beneath her fingers. If she were but a man this never would happen. Declan was mad for stepping down and now the entirety of the Ninefold would suffer the consequences. She didn’t know what she wanted more, for her brother to step up and be the heir the kingdom needed… Or a husband with a conqueror’s mind and a warrior’s blade.

Rhea smiled, patient and warm as she crossed the room to her brother. Delicate fingers reached out, stealing the belt from his grasp. "Ignore her. I do," she mused softly for only their ears with a mischievous smile and a glint behind her eyes. One hand held the belt loose but steady around his waist, while her other hand straightened his tunic and jacket. When everything was as straight as possible she clasped the belt snug against his stomach and patted his chest. "There."

"Bless you." Dorian took her face in his hands. He cupped her cheeks tenderly and placed a kiss upon her forehead, dramatic with a noisy smack, but sincere in his gratitude.

She laughed softly and shook her head when his wild, unruly curls brushed her face and tickled her nose. Rhea pulled back with knitted brows and a playful sneer, then flicked one of his curls out of his face. "What is this hair?"

Dorian’s smile turned guilty and almost bashful. "I could not get it to cooperate." He pulled a small leather tie from his pocket and held it up between them, pinching it between a finger and his thumb. He slowly spun it like a silent question he already knew the answer to.

She sighed and shook her head, before reaching out and taking the small bit of leather. She could have told him no, of course, but Rhea was not the type of person to make her brother suffer through their mother’s wrath when she could help. While he used his sarcasm as armor, he often needed a gentle touch and understanding that no one gave him but her. People like their mother and Maeve often said her help was doing more harm than good, and he needed to struggle through life to find his footing, but Dorian and her were both black sheep in their own rights. It was something that connected them in ways others wouldn’t understand. In the end, he’d help her if she needed it, so she did the same… often with a huff and an eye roll, but love as well.

"You are too tall," she replied, nodding her head toward the chair beside them. "Sit." Once Dorian lowered himself onto the cushion beside her, she walked around to the back of the chair. "Here. Hold this," Rhea leaned forward, extending her arm over his shoulder so he could take the piece of leather. She then started running her fingers back through his dark hair, gently guiding the locks out of his face, being careful not to diffuse the prominent ringlets. The Storvane’s were known for their curls, especially her brothers, and while Maeve might try to tame them, Rhea found beauty in their wildness. So if the decision was hers—which it was—she intended to leave them untouched. Controlled chaos, like Dorian himself.

"Where is your valet? Should he not have handled this?" she asked as she started gathering the curls one by one.

A laugh, shrill and sardonic, cut through the quiet peace of the room as Maeve glanced over her shoulder toward them. "Did you not hear?" she mused, cocking her head as she finally stepped away from the mirror to give them her full attention. "Dorian lost another valet due to his incessant advances." Her gaze shifted from Rhea down to Dorian, a silent challenge daring him to tell her she was wrong... She never was.

Dorian sighed and started to slouch, but Rhea quickly stopped him with a "Ah ah," and a light tug against his hair.

"I would have stopped if he said he was not interested…" he grumbled, not meeting Maeve’s judgmental gaze. "I’m not a complete ass."

"And who would say no to a Prince?" Maeve asked, resting her hands on her hips in a way that was almost identical to their mother. The similarities were uncanny… The perfect posture, sharp eyes, and discerning tone. "You missed a curl."

Rhea scoffed, leaving that single dark spiral precisely where it laid along Dorian’s temple, like a subtle act of defiance. "That was intentional." With his hair held in place, she reached back over his shoulder to retrieve the piece of leather he held ready for her, then began tying back the top half of his hair, letting the remaining curls fall freely to his shoulders.

"Mother will want him perfect,"

Maeve took a step closer, reaching out with the intention to snag the stray curl, but Rhea smacked her hand away before she messed up her hard work. "But he is not perfect." Her fingers gently fastened the leather into a knot and tucked the tails beneath his hair. "Why force him to be something he’s not?" she asked as her hands fell to rest upon his shoulders and give him a reassuring squeeze. The entire Kingdom knew what Dorian was and what he was like, forcing him to be anything other than himself was more of an insult to their guests. They wouldn’t fool anyone by lying. Even Rhea was aware that her own truth would only remain hidden for so long. Secrets didn’t stay secret long in the Black Citadel… The less they had, the better.

"Perfect is—" Boring, he was going to say boring. "Far better suited for you, Maeve, than either of us." Dorian tilted his head back just enough to flash her a playful wink, to which she promptly shook her head and rolled her eyes disparagingly.

"If we are expected to marry someone beyond that door, should we not lead with authenticity?" Rhea asked with a curious tilt of her head.

"And those clothes are authentic?" Maeve rebutted as she reached out and pinched the sheer sleeve to her sister’s dress between her fingers. The gown was far more elegant than anything in Rhea’s wardrobe, perhaps a bit juvenile, but it was obvious their mother had it made from the same material as her own dress, not leaving anything to chance. And while Maeve agreed with their mother’s approach, she couldn’t help but find it comical that her siblings were preaching authenticity while being dressed and puppeted around like dolls. She supposed their rebellion and genuinity only went so far.

Dorian pushed off the chair’s armrests and stood up. "Mother always gets what she wants." He reached over, gently taking Maeve by the wrist and removing her hold. It wasn’t forceful, but had an unspoken warning. His sister might have taken after their mother and adopted more of her qualities day by day, but just because they tolerated it from their mother did not mean she got the same leniency. Sister or not, when the barbs cut too deep, familial bonds no longer mattered.

"We hold onto ourselves where we can…" Rhea filled the silence, far more warm and patient than her brother. "Be that a loose curl or a bit of frayed thread." Her hands fell to rest upon the top of the chair, tapping the carved wooden frame that hugged the embroidered cushion. Unlike Dorian, she had grown so accustomed to their mother’s wrath that Maeve’s sharp comments were little more than an irritant, like bugs biting at her ankles on a humid day. It may have been naive, but she believed her sister still had love for them like she did as a child, even if it was buried beneath the burden of duty and nobility.

Dorian placed a hand upon her shoulder, reassuring in its warmth and tenderness. They shared a glance that spoke truths too fragile to say out loud, a silent understanding behind a piece of thread, their failures, and a prison they both shared.

Maeve’s gaze fell to Rhea’s left hand, noting the small indentation where the thread once lived, pale but bare. So… She had done it. She didn’t know if she should be impressed at her sister’s resilience, relieved that there was one more black mark against their family buried, or infuriated that it took Rhea years to be obedient, far past the point of redemption when the damage was already done. "Are you both so daft to think your actions do not also reflect upon me?" she snapped, words frayed at the end like her patience and that damn forgotten piece of thread her sister had clung onto for far too long.

"Do not fret, dear sister." Dorian’s words were laced with exaggerated sarcasm as he gently patted her shoulder while walking past. "You have more perfection in your little finger than Rhea and I do together." He stopped in front of the mirror to check Rhea’s work, lips curving downward into a half-impressed smile at the sight of himself staring back at him. For once he looked like a Prince… and a piece of himself still existed beneath the finery.

"Our inadequacies shall bolster your image. Your pool of suitors will be plentiful, where I shall survive off the remnants," Rhea mused, her words sounding more like poetry and less like reassurances, but even behind her thinly veiled jest, there was also truth. "I promise I will not get in your way." Her words fell softer, with a grave sincerity that she rarely revealed to her sister. The last thing she wanted was to stand in Maeve's way of happiness, but she was also pragmatic and knew that her sister had more to offer a man than she ever could. There was no contest, and strangely enough, she was not bothered by that.

The confession caught Maeve off guard. There was some semblance of gratitude… somewhere, but rather than respond with warmth or recognition or—Gods forbid—compassion, she gave a curt nod accented with her usual sharp edged words. "Good. You had your chance and squandered it. This is my opportunity."

Rhea wasn’t able to withhold the scoff that cut through the room, severing the small tether of understanding between them. She said nothing, didn’t take the bait or slip back into a match of barbs and wit. She simply pushed off the chair and walked back over to the window, preferring to watch the sunset or more Lords arriving than be near her incorrigible sister.

"Well, actually—" Dorian started, prepared to meet their sister’s attitude where she left it, with the truth… That this was more about him than it ever was about her. Really knock her off her high horse, if only for a moment. But the door creaked and opened, halting whatever argument was likely to brew.

Stepping into the room was the Queen, their mother, adorned in an ornate gown of ivory and navy blue that matched her daughters with a mature, timeless elegance that heightened her beauty, demanding respect and awe. Her dark hair was pin straight, cascading down her back and topped with an elaborate silver tiara encrusted with sparkling diamonds and sapphires. She carried herself with a powerful grace, expecting the world to bow and yield at her feet like it was she, not her husband, who had the Ninefold at her fingertips.

Following behind her with a hand leisurely resting upon the small of her back and a gait that wasn’t molded by nobility but by the labor of his back and sweat of his brow, was the King, their father. He may have looked the part, dressed in blue velvet, golden brocade and ivory, but he carried himself like any other man, a father and a warrior, with the weight of the world slowing his stride but not dimming his smile. Where the Queen was cold and hard like metal in the moonlight, he was warm and effervescent like the sunlight reflected off the Weave.

He walked in with a smile upon his face, a light behind his eyes and his arms extending toward his children as his true source of happiness. "Ah, my beautiful family."

The King made his way toward Dorian first, grinning nearly ear to ear as he clapped his son on the shoulders. It was not a hug, but an embrace man to man, strong and reassuring through the firm comfort of his fingers that resonated through the young man. He then moved to Maeve, cupping her face as if she was made of the most delicate crystal, placing a loving kiss upon her forehead, a warmth that was a stark contrast to the woman receiving it. Lastly, Rhea, who closed the distance to him before he had a chance to come to her and wrapped her arms around him tight like a child hugging their parent without a care for decorum, just wanting the comfort of her father. A jovial laugh rumbled in his chest where she rested her cheek and his arms curled around her, tight and affectionate. His hand cradled the back of her head as his kiss was lost in the ripples of crimson curls.

The Queen followed behind, rectifying every imperfection as she passed. She adjusted Dorian’s belt and tunic before tucking the loose curl back behind his ear, only for it to immediately slip free in defiance. Then she moved to Rhea, waiting for the embrace to cease so she could size up her appearance with a scrutiny reserved only for her. She centered the tiara upon her daughter’s head, calmed wild hairs that tried to break free, and tugged on the hem of the corset, shifting how it laid. "Could be tighter, but there is no time to re-lace it. Unfortunate." She sighed, disapprovingly, before her attention shifted toward Maeve and… she smiled.

It was a sight so genuine, so rare, that Dorian and Rhea exchanged brief glances of disbelief at the open display. They watched, silent with the unspoken weight of longing for a piece of that warmth to be for them. Had they ever made their mother smile like that, even as children? Neither of them could recall. Any memories of happiness or warmth were replaced with heavy expectations, harsh criticisms, and sharp words that cut deep and festered. Neither one of them could watch, turning their gazes towards each other, their father, the window… anything.

"Well… it will suffice. At least Maeve understands the gravity of this moment." The Queen did not adjust or fix a single piece of Maeve. Her pride and joy was nothing short of elegant perfection, a vision of herself as a younger woman looking back at her. While the desire to embrace was there, the women only clasped hands, not wanting to risk dishevelling their appearances in any way. Affection could wait until the night was over, when they join in shared celebration of the unions to come. They were patient. They could wait.

"Come now, my love," the King protested as an arm hooked around Dorian’s shoulders, pulling him close before doing the same with Rhea. His actions spoke louder than words, a quiet recognition of his wife’s favoritism. Where her love fell short, he filled in the gaps with his radiant warmth and compassion. "No one will be able to hold a flame to our children—" His smile broke, brows tensing as his gaze searched the room for an absence that stole the light and left the gathering feeling empty. "Where is Declan?"

The door on the opposite side of the room opened, letting in a flood of voices that echoed up the grand staircase. Lord Dunstan Farraday entered, dressed in his finest scholarly robes saved for such occasions. He was a pillar of slate and steel. The shimmering gray satin exuded elegance against the grounding simplicity of his pewter wool overcoat. A soft rustling of fabric contrasted the metallic jingle of his chains followed him as he entered the room and bowed. "Your Grace, all of the Lords have gathered in the Great Hall and are ready for your arrival."

"Where is Declan?" The King asked a second time, knowing his Uncle would have the answer where the rest of his family did not.

"He is in the Hall with the rest of the guard."

"Send for him."

The Queen spoke up, her voice filling the small room with her impatient and sharp edged tone. "My love, I do not believe—"

"Prince or not, Declan is a Storvane and my son," the King interjected, not in the mood to humor her arguments or disapproval. His voice had lost its warmth and casual lilt for something more serious and commanding, a King’s tone, not a lenient husband. "He shall be presented with us as part of our family… with honor." He held his wife’s gaze, intent and unwavering, waiting for her rebuttal or her compliance.

The way her face contorted showed her deep seeded criticism. The Queen still had love for her son, as she did with all of her children, but she also knew the importance of status, presentation, and one's station. Declan had forsaken his title and position. He was the Captain of the Guard, not the Prince and heir. His place was with the guard, not entering alongside them. She knew that, her husband knew that, but he refused to accept it, shunting tradition for familial bonds. If they were alone she would have argued it until he was red in the face, but regardless of how much she detested his softness, she knew better than to challenge him openly. He might lead with compassion, but there was still a sleeping bear within him, a hibernating warrior that could stir at any moment.

When she did not protest, the King turned his attention back toward the awaiting Lord. "Fetch him, then we shall be ready."

"Of course, Your Grace." Lord Dunstan bowed his head in deference, silently pleased with the King’s decision, hiding his smirk, and silencing a chuckle that wanted to burst free. He vanished beyond the door, following orders not only without complaint, but with a pride he could not vocalize.

The royals milled around the room, entertaining themselves. The Queen and Maeve cross referenced their extensive lists on possible suitors, comparing the benefits and setbacks to every Lord. Meanwhile the King, Dorian and Rhea stood near the window, watching the sun disappear behind Mount Briar, smiling and laughing in each other’s company.

It was several minutes before they heard the familiar clanking of metal approaching the door before it opened and in stepped Declan, fully adorned, an impressive show of strength and honor. Umber hair was pulled back from his face in a similar fashion to his brother’s, but where Dorian’s held loosely to his wildness, Declan’s was ordered, controlled. Even his beard was well maintained like anything out of place would reflect poorly upon his family. The warmth in his expression was more subtle, hidden behind the stoic seriousness of duty. Unlike earlier that day when he traveled through the Valley, he was not dressed in casual leathers, but in the notable black armor of the guard. He looked every bit a raven as they were more commonly denoted. Dark steel armor enveloped most of his body, polished, pristine and embellished with the Storvane owl across his chest. Black leather covered him where plate didn’t, oiled and cleaned for show, not for purpose. And his sword hung ready at his hip, half masked by the obsidian cloak that billowed behind him.

He stopped at a respectable distance, cupping his hands together before him as he bowed respectfully as one did before royals, not his own kin. "You called for me, Your Grace."

"Father," the King corrected him as he closed the distance and placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder, no different than he had with Dorian. Station or titles be damned, Declan was his son and would be welcomed, and treated as such until the day he died, much to the chagrin of his wife and advisors. "Your place is here with your family. You can escort Rhea, then rejoin the guard during the feast."

Declan’s shoulders eased, his smile growing to its normal warmth that mirrored his father’s note for note. "Yes, father," he conceded to his wishes, but only in private. While he cherished his father’s compassion, he did not desire to draw unnecessary attention to himself for the sake of appearances. He knew what he was and what that meant, and he’d perform his role properly around others as honor demanded. He nodded his head obediently, the Captain in him still present in his actions, even if it was less prominent in the company of his family.

He waited beside the door for Rhea, holding it open for her and her abundance of skirts. Outside of the sitting room, the roar of voices flooded up the grand staircase towards them. While they couldn’t see the gathering of Lords and Ladies awaiting their arrival, it sounded substantial based on the cacophony alone. She couldn’t discern the voices or make out what anyone was saying, but it was enough that it gave her pause as her heart immediately jumped into her throat. Her steps slowed as she approached her brother, fighting the urge to sneak toward the edge and steal a glance.

The soft spot Declan had for her was apparent in the warmth behind his eyes and the way his smile softened and became more reassuring as he held out his arm for her. She stepped up beside him, curving her hand beneath his forearm and lightly grasping the cold metal of his gauntlet. His other hand gently rested on top of hers in a kind gesture to show her that she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t much, but she would always have him no matter what she chose, if it was braving a staircase and a hall full of nobles, or trying to run away a second time, he’d be there. Her tension quickly became apparent in the way her fingers tightened around his arm and how her eyes kept darting toward the edge of the stairs. In an attempt to distract her, he dipped his head down beside hers and whispered, "That is an… interesting gown."

Rhea snorted followed by a laugh that eased the tightness across her shoulders. It was soft and wary, but forced her to breathe. She pried her eyes from the edge of stone that was the only thing that separated her from the mass of nobles down below, and looked up at him. Declan’s smile was playful but also sympathetic in that frustrating way when he always knew what she needed… Not necessarily what she wanted. "Mother’s doing," she replied as she pinched the ivory fabric between her fingers and made a show of waving it slightly.

"It is very…" his voice trailed off as he studied the skirts that pressed against the side of his leg. "White." Overall the gown seemed like it was made for someone half Rhea’s age. Sure, Declan didn’t know much about fashion, but comparing it to what Maeve and their mother wore, it did seem… intentional. He wouldn’t argue against the more modest neckline, but he was having a difficult time parsing if their mother wanted her to look so pure that it bordered on childish or if she wanted Rhea to find a husband. It almost felt like she was intentionally crippling her to give Maeve a better chance.

He cleared his throat and met her gaze with a sympathetic smile. "Your beauty can’t be dampened by a dress. A worthy man will notice that."

Rhea rolled her eyes, but even she couldn’t hide the subtle curvature that tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her brother was a romantic and his words warmed her heart, but she was more realistic than that. This was not about love, but a trade, the hand of a Princess for an escape. She didn’t have the luxury of holding out hope for a worthy man, but she did not have the heart to tell her brother otherwise. "Just… don’t let me trip on these ridiculous skirts." Her smile creased her eyes as she secured her hold on his arm, leaning on his support and strength to guide her to the bottom without making an embarrassment out of herself.

"Yes, of course… Your Grace," Declan teased, bowing his head dramatically for good measure.

Her jaw dropped, shock and deviousness twisting across her face as she went to hit him. Lord Dunstan stepped up beside them just as she smacked the back of her hand against Declan’s chest and immediately regretted it, forgetting he was wearing armor. Rhea drew in a sharp breath, her face scrunching as pain tingled along her fingers. "Ow." Her brows furrowed as she shook her hand, trying to wrest the discomfort away.

"Are you hurt, Princess?" Lord Dunstan asked, his words were tinged with a physician’s concern, but it did not mask the amused smile of a man accustomed to treating years of sibling induced injuries.

"No," she replied with a grimace and sidelong glance toward Declan, who was doing his best to refrain from laughing.

Dunstan reached out and took her hand in his, studying her fingers for a moment before releasing his hold. "I believe you will survive. But do try to avoid injuries for one night." Peppered brows rose in a silent challenge, as if the man knew better than to expect her or her brothers to behave for more than an evening at best. He was far too old and too wise to expect anything more. While the young Storvanes might be adults, he was fully aware of their childlike tendencies when they were left unsupervised, especially together. Dorian had more visits to his infirmary than the rest of his siblings combined.

"Yes, Uncle." Rhea sighed softly before nudging her brother with her shoulder, a far safer approach, although he didn’t budge. Not an inch. He just chuckled and looked down at her with a guilty grin.

"When you are ready, Princess," their Uncle offered as he waited, patient and composed for her signal. Once she nodded, he started down the stairs and descended into the hall.

Time crawled painfully slow as they waited for him to reach the opposite side of the hall and announce their names. Each second that passed, Rhea’s nerves churned in her stomach. She was thankful she hadn’t eaten prior, convinced she might have been sick if a shred of food rested on her stomach. "It is unfair that I have to go first," she grumbled as she adjusted her hold on her brother’s arm. "I hate being the center of attention."

"As do I. We can suffer together?" Declan offered as his free hand idly adjusted his armor and leathers.

"... Very well." She nodded just once, short and curt, as her heart hammered furiously on the inside of her ribs.

"Presenting Princess Rhea Storvane…" Hearing her name pulled a startled gasp from her lips as her attention snapped toward the edge of the stairs and the silence that was heavier than the murmur of voices that had filled the room a moment earlier. When Rhea’s feet refused to move, Declan guided them forward toward the edge of the grand staircase. Before them the Great Hall stretched out like a nightmare as countless unfamiliar faces stared up at them like a spectacle. Her hold on his arm tightened to the point her knuckles paled and she was convinced the steel would bend to her will. She held onto him like an anchor to keep herself from drowning in a sea of fabric and nobles as they took the first step. "Escorted by the King’s first born son and the Captain of the King’s Guard, Declan Storvane."

Neither of them spoke as they descended the stairs, focused on grace, balance, and for the love of the Gods not tripping on those damn skirts. While Declan’s face was stoic but relaxed with the comfort of a man who had made this walk countless times before, Rhea’s face was pale as snow and red as a bramble poppy all at once. She kept her head high as their mother had taught them, but her gaze was locked on the stairs extending before her, counting and pacing each step carefully.

When their feet met the flat unchanging floor of the Great Hall, Declan turned his head just a fraction toward her as he whispered, "You could try to look happy."

Rhea had been trying to force a smile, but it was all tight lips and hollow eyes. She looked frightened or in pain, nothing even close to resembling happiness or even acceptance. "I can’t breathe, I keep tripping on these damn skirts, and I’m being forced to marry…" she replied through gritted teeth and an empty smile. "Would you be happy?"

"Oh, yes. Of course." Declan nodded his head. "Best we just kill ourselves then. I hear throwing yourself from the tower is nice this time of year." They both managed to remain composed until they were halfway to the throne, then with one sidelong glance their poise crumbled. A burst of laughter, bright and unbidden slipped out between them. Declan was able to hold himself together, mostly, but one fit of laughter undid Rhea entirely. Her tension faded as her smile grew, curving up into her small dimples and sparkling behind her eyes. She quickly covered her mouth, hoping to muffle the sound even if the giggles still tickled behind her sternum and made tears glisten along her lashes. While she could feel the eyes of everyone on her and hear her mother’s stern words screaming in her head, for that fleeting moment she didn’t care. She was thankful for her brother’s humor and comfort when the bars of her prison felt like they were closing in around her.

Once their feet found the first step of the dais, their Uncle’s voice filled the hall a second time, loud and demanding attention. "Princess Maeve Storvane escorted by the Prince and the Heir to the Ninefold, Dorian Storvane." The next pair of Storvanes descended the stairs elegant, poised… and perfect, just as Maeve wanted. She kept her chin high, eyes forward without ever missing a step—she may, or may not, have practiced descending the stairs dozens of times for this exact moment. While she was focused on presenting herself as everything her mother taught her to be, Dorian walked—no, strode across the hall with an effortless charm. He didn’t look forward, but scanned the crowd, making eye contact with every young and beautiful Lord and Lady brazen enough to meet his gaze.

Then, finally… "All hail Rowan Storvane." The King and Queen emerged like regal paragons. They started down the grand staircase with a learned grace from years of practice. "The People’s King, Sunderer of Thrones, the Scion of Stonefallow, and the Iron Shield of the Ninefold. Alongside his wife and Queen Valenya Storvane, formerly of House Dorneth of the Phorian Coast." They were two sides of the same coin, summer and winter, day and night. The King was warmth and compassion, everything the common people wanted from their ruler. Someone with a kind heart and understanding. While the Queen was ruthless and cold, she was the necessary evil of power, the blade that cut away rot before it could spread. While they walked in unison, as a partnership, there was an invisible divide none could see, but they felt it as they stepped arm in arm.

They glided up onto the dais, taking their place between their children. The King in the middle, the Queen to his right, heir to his left, Maeve beside her mother, Rhea beside Dorian, and Declan resuming his place off to the side, a watchful guardian, out of sight and out of mind. King Rowan stepped forward, holding up his hand in greeting and in a silent bidding for everyone’s attention.

"Lord and Ladies of the Ninefold, welcome.

It has been too long since the banners of every hold flew together under one roof. Looking out at this hall, I see more than just old friends and trusted allies, I see the future of our kingdom reflected in the faces of our sons and daughters.

We have weathered tyrants, loss and seasons of plenty. But Aethoria is only as strong as the bonds that bring us together. We invited you here not merely for sport or revelry, but to ensure that those bonds endure for generations to come.

Let the following months be defined by honest conversation and new friendships. And may your time within these walls be as pleasant as it is purposeful.

The Great Hall is yours. Let us make meaningful introductions and then we feast."

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Descendants

^{#796e9c .....|..... alloy ....|..... outfit ............... #bdddff ....|..... polar ....|..... outfit ............... descendant tower}

The gunshot echoed in her mind like she’s in an empty dome, the sound reverberating over and over until her teeth felt loose and her ears rang. The dream didn't end when her mom died, it was like a time loop, replaying over and over, never ending, no escape in sight. Bellamy watched her die too many times to count, and then she watched her father die, and then she watched the men die, and then she watched her mom die again. The only thing she was never given the privilege of seeing is the release of her own life, and that was what woke her up shaking and gasping, vomit climbing up her throat.

She jerked out of the bed, putting too much pressure on her bad ankle, and she crumpled to the ground with a dull sounding thud. Loki popped up behind her, eyes wide and bleary from sleep, but Bella couldn’t afford to pay him any mind. She all but dragged herself to the bathroom, the door already open, determined to throw up anywhere but Tobias’s hoodie. She makes it, but there is nothing in her stomach to really expel besides bile, heaving over the toilet until the sickness had passed.

Eventually, Bell sank to the floor, pressing her flushed cheek to the tile as shivers shook her body. She felt feverish, but there was a ball of cold that was manifesting across her chest, pressing down on her. She couldn’t breathe, but two thoughts stood out louder than all the rest.

Her mom was dead. Her dad was gone.

A violent shudder ripped from her, and she knew she had only a few seconds before it all fell apart. Bella ripped off the hoodie, ignoring the pain that rolled from her shoulder blade down her spine, pushing the compression bandages to its limits as she struggled up, shucking off the sweatpants, stumbling toward the shower. The temperature in the bathroom was dropping rapidly, and Bella slipped when she stepped onto the cold tile, falling hard on her hip, and that’s where she stayed, dragging the glass shower door shut behind her before Loki could slip in.

Her hands shook, the bracelet slid from her wrist, clattering to the tile, and then the ice practically exploded from her skin. It crawled across the floor, up the walls of the shower, wrapping around the ceiling. Loki yowled from the other side of the shower, unable to help, but the ice was contained with her in there, frosting over her skin. The temperature was dropping further, and she couldn’t breathe. Bella curled in on herself, pressing her hands over her eyes as tears froze on her lashes.

"Ms. Drake," a voice was speaking, but she couldn’t seem to understand the words it was saying. Her vision was narrowing, dimming, as the ice frosted over the glass. She could hear Loki howling from the other side of the shower door, sounding pathetically panicked, but she couldn’t slow how her chest was heaving or her thoughts were spiraling. "Ms. Drake, your core temperature is rapidly dropping, do you require assistance?"

"No, no, no, no," she was incoherent, one hand clutching the wrist of her other hand hard enough to bruise. It was too much, powers too closely linked to her emotions, she couldn’t get it to stop. She was having an anxiety attack, nothing particularly new for Bellamy, but it had never been this bad before. Her powers were spiraling out of her control because of it, and she couldn’t get it to stop which only added to her panic.

"Ms. Drake, how may I assist you?"

Her chest hurt, and she stayed on the floor of the shower, surrounded by ice, hyperventilating, but inside she was standing in a forest screaming until her heart burst. The trees grew until the sunlight could no longer break through the foliage, and the darkness in her head became impenetrable. She wanted her mom, she wanted her dad, she wanted…

She took in a breath that seemed to rattle in her lungs, choking her as if ice was climbing up her throat from the inside out. "Tobias," His name fell from her lips begging, like a prayer, without even an ounce of consideration to why she was saying it, calling out to him like he was there and he could save her from the spiral she’d fallen into. The voice overhead said something else, but she didn’t listen. Loki was making loud sounds of distress, clawing at the glass door, but Bella felt as if she was sinking in on herself, drowning in her anxiety.

Everything else felt so, so far away.

"Mr. Lehnsherr," The sound of J.A.R.V.I.S. cut through the silence of Tobias’s penthouse. "Ms. Drake is in severe distress, her core temperature is approaching below zero, heart rate at 189 bpm, and she has called for your assistance. Should I alert someone in the case of a medical emergency?"

Tobias had managed to stumble his way back to his apartment and fall into bed. He barely managed to get beneath the covers before sleep took him. He hadn’t moved an inch, unaware of how much time had passed when J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice rang throughout his bedroom and pulled him out of his nightmare. It took a second for his brain to catch up, fighting through the mental fog of exhaustion. Then it all crashed into him like a tidal wave, rousing him like a bucket of ice dumped over his head. He threw his blankets off of him and practically jumped out of bed as all of his exhaustion and pain was locked away beneath a surge of adrenalin.

"No. Remain on standby," he replied to the tower’s AI as he sprinted through his apartment, running past the elevator and out the door to the stairwell. Tobias took the stairs multiple at a time and used the railing to quickly launch himself around the landings and down the next flight. He reached Bellamy’s floor faster than the elevator would have reached his floor and hurried toward the ornate staircase in her living room. "Where is she, J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"Primary bathroom."

Where Tobias’s legs had grown weak with every step as he climbed to her bedroom earlier, he took them with a hastened fury, tunnel vision overpowering every other thought and sensation that attempted to cross his mind. The second he entered her room he was hit with a blast of cold. The drop in temperature sent an involuntary shiver down his back as he made his way toward her, finding it to look more like an arctic tundra than a bathroom. He quickly and carefully scoped Loki off the frozen ground. "Sorry buddy." The panic was evident in his voice as he set the cat outside the bathroom, then closed and locked the door behind him so he didn’t get hurt.

Tobias turned back around, his breath a white cloud rising from his lips as he watched the frost climb up the sides of the shower, cracking and splintering the glass. He hesitantly reached out and carefully wrapped his fingers around the handle to the shower. The metal was so cold it burned against his palm. The fragile touch made the glass pop and threaten to shatter. He took a deep shaky breath and prepared himself. Then he pulled open the door. He let the handle fall from his grasp before pressing his hands against the tile above Bellamy. He hunched over her, using his body as a barricade as the glass shattered around them, and slid off his back before crashing to the ground.

Once the destruction had settled, Tobias crouched down in front of her. He tucked her hair behind her ear then dipped his head to try and meet her gaze. "I’m here," he whispered with a warmth she desperately needed. His finger gently hooked beneath her chin, turning her to face him. Bellamy’s skin was colder than ice. He wasn’t a doctor, but that wasn’t normal. There was a brief second where he reached for the shower’s tap, but she couldn’t stay there with all the broken glass.

His skin was so warm it burned, but Bell relished in the pain because it distracted her from everything else. She took a deep, shuddering breath as if she’d emerged from water for the first time after quite a long time, opening eyes she hadn’t realized slipped shut. Her tears had crystallized, tumbling from her lashes and shattering against the frost covered tile. Confusion clouded her face at the sight of Tobias, but her hands rose of their own accord, latching onto the fabric of his hoodie like a lifeline.

"I’m sorry," he spoke quietly as he slipped his hands beneath her and picked her up. Tobias tried his best to carefully step out of the shower. With his focus solely on her, he didn’t notice the small pieces of glass that sliced the bottom of his feet as he carried her toward the tub. He perched himself on the edge, letting Bell rest in his lap as he turned on the hot water. He didn’t want to send her into shock, so he made sure it was a cool but comfortable temperature before plugging the drain and carefully setting her down inside.

Some part of her brain registered what was happening, trying to pull back her powers, desperate to make it stop, terrified of accidentally hurting him because she couldn’t control it. The lukewarm water was agony for a moment, the differing temperatures between her body and the liquid slowly filling the tub drew new sobs from her chest, and she twisted in the tub, looking for a way out.

Tobias didn’t know if someone with her type of powers could get hypothermia, but with the way she shook and how she felt colder than death, he wasn’t willing to take any chances. He knew the fastest way to raise someone’s body temperature was skin to skin contact. There was a brief second where his cheeks flushed, but he pushed aside the embarrassment for the sake of Bell’s well being. He quickly pulled off his hoodie so his chest was bare, then climbed into the tub behind her, still wearing his sweatpants. Tobias slowly slid his legs on either side of her as he lowered himself into the lukewarm water. "We have to get you warm," he whispered from behind her, as a quiet warning. He hesitantly grabbed her biceps and eased her backwards so the exposed skin of her back rested against his bare chest. His hands then started to rub along her arms, trying to boost circulation and give her some of his warmth.

"Toby," Bellamy’s voice was choked, and her back arched to put distance between them for a moment, scared beyond words of hurting him, the burn of his skin searing into her back and arms. "Hurts." His hands were steady on her arms, rooting her to the spot, and after a moment, as the heat slowly began to thaw her body and cut through the panic, she collapsed against him.

"I’m sorry," he whispered as the warmth of his breath brushed along the back of her head. Her skin against his was numbing and piercing at the same time, while the warm water stung against the fresh cuts along the bottom of his feet. The muscle in his jaw tensed, but the concern that tugged at his brows wasn’t from his discomfort, but hers. He didn’t want to hurt her and contemplated pulling away, but then the full weight of her body fell back against him.

Her gasping, shaking breaths subsided slowly, turning into soft sobs of mingled shame and fear. Bella felt as if the dam she’d built up around her emotions finally broke, and the flood was simply too much for her to bear alone. She hadn't wanted to give him this burden, they barely knew each other, and yet in the midst of it all, she’d wanted Tobias to be here, and now he was. She went very still for a moment, chest not rising or falling, body tensing in the water as the last of her ice melted, and then… Bellamy twisted around, arms slipping beneath his own, curling around his sides, and she pressed her face into the warm skin of his chest as her sobs spilled over. She could be embarrassed later, could hate herself for the weakness later, for now she clung to him and cried because her family was gone and she was alone and it was all just too much for her to face alone.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry," she managed to find the words between her sobs, lips ghosting over his skin, but she made no move to pull away and put distance between them.

Tobias’s eyes went wide as she turned to face him and he froze, not knowing what to do or how to react. He didn’t know what to expect. Was she going to be mad at him for the warm water or getting in with her without asking permission? Maybe she was mad at him for breaking her shower. But it was none of those. Bell’s arms wrapped around him and she buried herself into his chest as her grief took her. There was a second or two of hesitation before his arms reflexively wrapped around her, one hand rested along her back while the other gently cupped the back of her head. He slowly sank into a more comfortable position, resting his back against the tub with a silent wince at the pressure against cuts. "You don’t have to apologize," he spoke calmly, lightly stroking her hair as he attempted to console her.

The pressure of his arms around her, cradling her to him, made Bellamy feel as if she was being held together while she broke apart. She trembled against his chest as her sobs turned from soft to heartbroken and gut wrenching. She let the grief out now, because she wasn’t sure if she’d ever give herself another chance. Incoherent words fell from her lips, things like; "They’re gone." and "My fault." and "I’m sorry." repeating over and over until she’d exhausted herself, cries slowly quieting, arms going a little lip around his sides. Bella didn’t know how long she cried for, clinging to Tobias, but by the time she was done the water had cooled and she was shivering against him.

Bell didn’t move away, she couldn’t find any energy to be embarrassed, the beat of his heart beneath her ear was steady and comforting, lulling her into a sense of calm that felt foreign and far away. Her hair was damp, clinging to the bare skin of his chest, and she shivered again, instinctively pressing closer to him, seeking more warmth even though she was the one that caused all the cold to begin with. "’M sorry," she mumbled, eyes drifting shut. The cold didn’t matter all that much, anyways. This was comfortable enough, and she had no energy left for anything, let alone to pull herself away from him and out of the tub. She just… didn’t want him to leave.

Tobias didn’t pull away or try to leave. He settled into the chill of the tub, their shared body heat the only thing that kept him from trembling. He didn’t know how long they remained there, but when the water got high he used his foot to shut it off, being careful not to disturb her. He didn’t know what to say or what to do besides be there and give her soft reassurances. Every time she blamed herself he muttered a soft, "It’s not your fault," or when she apologized he said "It’s ok," and stroked her hair.

As the water grew cold, he concentrated on keeping his breaths steady. His muscles ached as he held in every shiver and tremble so he didn’t make Bell feel any worse than she already did. "Bell," his voice was soft and quiet, but a faint shiver hung on the end of her name as it left his lips. "You’re getting cold again. We need to get out." He slowly sat up, letting her remain against his chest as his hand fumbled around for a moment until he found the drain. It took some coordination, but Tobias managed to keep one arm around her as he lifted them up until he was sitting on the edge of the tub with her in his lap while red tinged water swept from his feet and down the drain. He carefully swung his legs over the side, turning to face out toward the rest of the bathroom. "I need you to stand. Ok?"

He gently helped Bell to her feet, then grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Dry off," he instructed her before turning back toward the room. Tobias grabbed another towel and knelt down on the tile. As best as he could, he attempted to sweep the pieces of glass into a pile beneath the sink. He could figure out cleaning it up and replacing her shower door tomorrow when he talked to Alfred, but it wasn’t worth waking him up in the middle of the night. When he thought he got it all, he ran a hand along the ground sacrificing his own palm to make sure she didn’t cut herself on any strays. He noticed the clothes he had lent to her, picked them up before he stood up and held them out to her. "Here." Then without a warning, he picked her up for the… He had lost track of how many times at that point. While he was certain he got every piece, he still didn’t trust it.

Tobias unlocked the bathroom door, opened it and then set her down on the soft carpet where Loki impatiently waited for her. "Get dressed," he directed her gently. "I’ll wait in here until you’re decent." He closed the door and sighed. Now that he was alone and didn’t have to put on a brave face, he grimaced with each step as he made his way to the toilet and sat down. Tobias sat in quiet, shivering in his soaked sweatpants as he pulled the small pieces of glass from his feet and discarded them into the trash. It wasn’t until he was done that he noticed the blood he trailed across the tile floor. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Everything Tobias said took a few moments to process, she felt as if she were in a fog, unfolding herself from his body to stand, rubbing the soft fabric of the towel over her chilled body slowly, taking the clothes and staring at them blankly for a long moment before her feet left the ground and she was lifted. Bella tilted her head back, eyes catching on his own, and her breath stuttered in her chest as she realized he was here. It hadn’t fully registered, but… she’d called, and he came, and something about that meant more than she could put into words.

The carpet was soft and warm compared to the bathroom, Loki meowing and rubbing against her bare foot, trying to get her attention as the door shut and she looked down at the clothes, at the towel still wrapped around her, and her soaked bandages. It took a moment, but slowly, with stiff fingers, Bellamy unwound the compression bandages. First from her wrist, then her ankle, and then finally the one around her chest and shoulder. Slowly, painfully, she pulled the hoodie over her head. The fabric pooled around her waist, but she didn’t bother with the sweatpants, remembering vaguely that Tobias’s were soaked.

"Tobias?" Bell’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, and she cleared her throat, trying again until his name came out clearly. "I’m dressed…kind of." Loki was climbing up the back of the hoodie, until he could curl around her shoulder, and when the bathroom door opened she held up the sweatpants with flushed cheeks, eyes set on the ground. "You…You wear them," her hand trembled, eyes burning with fresh tears, and she couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see his expression as she allowed herself to be selfish one more time tonight. "Just—please, don’t leave."

Tobias pushed off his knees, slowly standing up and making his way over to the door. The tips of his fingers unintentionally brushed hers as he took the sweatpants gently from her grasp. "Ok," he replied quietly with a nod. He slowly closed the door then pressed his back against it as he studied the crimson streaks mixed with water that trailed along the floor. First he needed to wrap his feet before he trailed bloody footprints across her apartment. He took a step toward the sink and started opening cabinets and drawers. There were things for certain about the academy, that they’d get injured and that most of them were too stubborn to go to the infirmary. As such, every penthouse had its own first aid kit. He just had to find it.

After a minute or two of searching, he found the white box tucked up under the sink out of sight. Tobias set the hoodie he was wearing and the dry sweatpants on the counter before returning to sit on the toilet lid. He made quick work of cleaning his feet with antiseptic wipes and then wrapping them in bandages. It was nothing fancy or a fraction as efficient as the infirmary, but it stemmed the bleeding which was all he needed. He then spent the next five minutes on his hands and knees, cleaning up the puddles of pink water with a towel. He discarded the stained cloth in a pile with the one filled with glass and moved back to his feet.

For the first time since returning to the academy, Tobias caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Circles nearly as dark as his tattoos curved beneath his eyes. Small clumps of dried mud lingered in his hair and along the curve of his jaw. The cut in his cheek ran along his cheekbone just beneath his eye and halfway across his nose. The ink that decorated his body rose and fell with every labored breath. Every bandage was soaked and clung to his skin. He sighed and head fell, no longer wanting to look at the shadow of a man that stared back at him. His fingers diligently tore the bandages from his arms and shoulder, discarding them into the trash, and then pulled on the dry hoodie with a sharp breath. He peeled off the drenched sweatpants and draped them over the side of the tub before pulling on the ones Bell had borrowed.

Tobias sighed then slowly crossed the bathroom. The glint of metal out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked over and saw a small bracelet lying on the ground in the shower. He held out his hand, pulling the small piece of jewelry off the ground and floating it through the air until it fell gently into his palm. With one last deep breath, he opened the door. Tobias stood silently on the edge of her bedroom, just the tips of his toes brushing against the carpet. His gaze fell to the ground the moment he noticed Bellamy was undressed from the waist down. The full gravity of everything that had just happened and what he did finally slammed into him like a sledgehammer to the chest. His cheeks flushed as he struggled to meet her gaze. "You dropped this," he spoke quietly, filling the silence as he extended his hand toward her with the bracelet resting in his palm.

She’d curled in on herself waiting for him, and it wasn’t the sound of the bathroom door opening but his voice that pulled her back from the spiral her thoughts had almost fallen into again. Bella titled her head back, taking in the sight of Tobias with tired eyes, but…she reached out, taking the bracelet and slipping it back onto her wrist before she struggled to her feet, catching herself unsteadily on his arm once she was standing. The fabric of his hoodie fell just below the tops of her thighs, hiding her underwear from view, and she leaned against him for a second, letting out a soft sigh.

Her hand slid down his arm, until she found his fingers, lacing them with her own, before she very pointedly pushed Tobias back a few steps into the bathroom, limping along behind him without a word. Bellamy directed him back toward the tub in a way that was a little bossy in its silence, putting both her hands on his shoulders when they got to the ledge and pushing down uselessly until he obliged and sat. She twisted away without a word, moving carefully as her ankle and hip throbbed in pain, snagging a clean washcloth from the rack and a bottle of shampoo that had been left by the tub before she turned the water on and left it on, steam billowing up as hot water slid down the drain.

Tobias remained silent, heat building in his chest and flooding his cheeks as his gaze followed her hand from the corner of his eyes. His hand twitched slightly as her fingers slipped between his effortlessly. A breath caught in his chest as she pushed him backwards, his mind fumbling to keep up and understand what was happening while his body heeded her commands subconsciously. It all felt intimate… too intimate. Panic tugged at the back of his mind as she moved him with a silent dominance that felt foreign to the timid stranger he was familiar with. It wasn’t… She wasn’t… His heart raced as a thought sunk into his mind like an anchor. It couldn’t be that. They had just met… They were exhausted. He was exhausted… That wasn’t why he did it. He didn’t want repayment, not like that. He needed to tell her to stop but his body still caved to her demands, lowering himself onto the edge of the tub. Tobias’s lips parted, struggling to find the words to tell her no when she turned on the water and a panicked tense laugh spilled out instead.

Methotically, Bell wet the washcloth beneath the water, added a small dollop of soap, and rubbed the fabric together to spread it, before she turned back toward Tobias. She was determined, lips pulled down into a slight frown as she stepped closer, slotting herself between his legs without a second thought, one hand curling around the back of his neck and tugging gently until he bowed his head some so she could properly find all the little bits of dried mud that still flecked his hair, rubbing at them gently until the soap cleaned it all away. Bellamy was so focused and intent that she didn’t properly register how close they were at first, his forehead nearly brushing her collarbone as she leaned into him, her outer thighs pressed to his inner thighs, the hand at the back of his neck found her fingers ghosting over bare skin.

She paused as the realization sunk in, hands stilling as the heat of his body registered, his cologne mixing with the smell of the shampoo; something floral and musky, it took a lot of self control for Bella to step away as color flooded her face, soaking the wash cloth and then squeezing the soap from it as best she could until only water remained. She returned to her spot in front of him, still blushing but just as determined, running the hot, damp cloth one more time over his hair to remove the soap that had remained, using one of her hands to tilt his head back so she could look at his face. It was a little silly, how he put up with her silent demands, looking exhausted and just a little bewildered, but it softened her some as her lips pulled up into a tired smile.

Some of Tobias’s initial tension melted away as he realized what she was doing. But something else twisted and knotted in his chest as he sat silent and obedient. He swallowed, knees subconsciously spreading slightly as Bell stepped closer, slipping between them. His gaze fixated on the drawstring of his hoodie she wore, keeping his breathing steady as the heat grew in his cheeks and his clenched fists rested on top of his knees. Everything from the neck down remained frozen and stoic like a statue while his head moved with every gentle guidance of her touch. When she tilted his head back, Tobias blinked slowly before letting his gaze slowly lift to meet hers. He wasn’t expecting to see her smiling down at him, even exhausted and sad, there was an authentic warmth behind her eyes and the subtle curvature of her lips. His shoulders fell slightly as the faintest bit of tension eased from his muscles while a weary smile softened the dark melancholy in his eyes.

She took him in properly, the slope of his nose, the curve of his cheekbones, the bags beneath his eyes, the shape of his lips… Bella blinked, lifting the cloth to rub at a single remaining smudge beneath his chin, using her free hand to tilt his head ever so slightly. Once she was done, she laid the washcloth along the edge of the tub beside his soaked pants, turning back to face Tobias with slow uncertainty. "I…" she licked her lips and looked down, feeling like her mouth was too dry all of a sudden, and catching sight of how close she was to him from where she stood, keeping him in place on the edge of the tub with how she’d wedged herself between his legs. Her face burned, and she looked back up at him.

"Sorry, I-I don’t know what I was thinking, I just…" Bell went to step back, bad ankle flattering for a second, body tilting backwards.

Tobias’s eyes widened. He leaned forward, standing slightly as his hands reached out to gently grab Bell by her waist. He steady her carefully before slowly lowering himself back onto the side of the tub. Hesitantly he released his hold on her, but his hands hovered in the air at her side, ready to catch her if she stumbled again. "Why do you keep trying to use that foot?" he asked her quietly with a weak playfulness in his tone as he let his gaze fall to the bruised culprit. "It’s not going to heal if you keep twisting it every five minutes." He slowly looked back up into her icy blue eyes with a gentle concern that knit his brows together.

The press of his hands curling around her waist made her heart skip a beat, and her face felt so hot that she was worried she had an actual fever. Bell looked down, away from his soft gaze, feeling a lump form in her throat as she contemplated how to answer. "I…" she squeezed her hands into fists for a moment, breathing slowly as she took a moment to make sure she had full control of her powers. "I can heal, technically," she felt disgusting for admitting it aloud, for sharing the fact that she was choosing this weakness over the alternative. "I was too tired, and…it feels wrong to heal it when—when they’re—" Fresh tears filled her eyes, and for the first time since she’d come to the tower it wasn’t only sadness that filled her chest. There was a swell of anger, and it only made her even more tired.

He scooted forward slightly, gently taking her forearms into his large calloused hands. Tobias waited patiently for her to meet his gaze and settle her breathing. "Your parents wouldn’t want you in pain." His voice was calm as he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word with a reassuring squeeze of his thumb. "What do you need to do to heal?"

Her breath caught in her throat, tensed shoulders relaxing beneath his hands as she peaked at Tobias from beneath her lashes. They wouldn’t want her in pain, she knew that, but… "I have to turn into ice." It sounded so, so ridiculous saying it out loud, and her cheeks darkened a little, so she hastened to explain herself. "I have an organic ice form, I mean, technically I could use molecular control over moisture to replace my body's compromised cells with fresh, untainted water molecules but…" Bell trailed off, and she let out a soft sigh, sagging just a little against his hands. Her eyes burned, both from the tears and exhaustion. "It helps if I’m submerged in water, and it takes focus."

"So, what you’re saying is…" Tobias’s voice trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder toward the steaming water she left running. "You could have healed yourself the entire time we were in there, and didn’t?" He quirked a brow then slowly looked back over at her with a tired but soft playfulness behind his eyes. He understood that it was the farthest thing from her mind while in the middle of a panic attack and he didn’t blame her for that. But he still tried to find some levity in the irony of the situation. If only to ease tensions.

Pink flushed her face from her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears, embarrassment seeping into her like cold, and Bella tried very hard not to squirm where she stood. Yes, that was what she was saying, but it was the way he wasn’t condemning her for it, rather gently joking about it, that made her chest feel warm and her heart flutter. "Yes," she managed, biting her lower lip and realizing that just like with Alfred, Tobias being so kind in this moment felt like proof that something in her had broken. She wasn’t even sure if she deserved the kindness, not after he’d sacrificed so much trying to save her but she allowed her injuries to remain. "I wasn’t thinking clearly."

Bellamy swiped at her cheeks with one of his sleeves, trying to stem the flow of tears before she could fall apart completely again. She looked back at him, letting his presence ground her in this moment, fighting the urge to hug him again. It was wrong, and confusing, to take so much comfort in Tobias when they barely knew each other, and it wasn’t fair on him either. "I’m sorry, you were sleeping, I didn’t mean to. I had a nightmare, and sometimes I can’t control it." She held up her good wrist, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie until the bracelet he’d returned to her was visible. Bruises in the shape of her fingers overlapped the pale skin, and Bella blinked at the sight in surprise, quickly tugging the sleeve back down. "The bracelet is supposed to help, but I panicked." She couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his gaze, eyes settling on his cheekbones instead.

"Stop apologizing," he chided her softly with a warm, understanding tone and faint smile. "I can sleep on the couch if it’d make you more comfortable having someone close by," Tobias offered. With how tired he was, it really didn’t matter where he slept. He’d be out within a few minutes and still probably sleep like shit between how sore he was, the numerous fresh wounds he had, and the nightmares that plagued him every night. Plus, if she had another panic attack he wouldn’t have to run as far, which was a bonus.

She caught sight of his lips pulling up into a soft smile, and her bottom lip wobbled traitorously for a second before she managed to return it. "Could you… I mean, if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, you could just sleep in the bed." Bella’s face burned and she hastened to add more, looking anywhere but at Tobias. "I just mean, it would be more comfortable, and of course I don’t expect se—I mean, Christ." She raised her hands, covering her face and trying to decide if it was too late to have Tobias leave so she could just drown herself in the damned tub and end all of her suffering in one go.

Tobias’s face turned bright red as he abruptly stood up, shifting from being at eye height to towering over her. She was still close enough that he wobbled slightly, trying to find his balance without tipping backwards into the tub or pressing his chest against hers. He swallowed the lump in his throat, holding his hands up cautiously, letting them hover precariously in the air near Bell’s shoulders. "I…" His brain struggled to find the words and make coherent sentences. "I’m not that type of guy," he admitted between shaky breaths. He blinked trying to focus his thoughts. "You uh…" He nodded his head at the tub behind him. "Heal yourself and I’ll—" Then he pointed at the door.

Her hands slipped from covering her eyes to just her lower face when he stood up, head titling back some to look up at him. Bella’s brain felt like it stalled for a second as she realized how tall he actually was, and how close they were still, every breath she took kept the smell of his cologne in her head. She felt awful, he was clearly flustered now and it was because she’d said the wrong thing, she didn’t—it wasn’t like she was trying to seduce him or something stupid like that.

While holding his breath, Tobias sidestepped, slipping out from being sandwiched between the edge of the bath and Bellamy. Before she could panic again, he quickly added. "I’m not going anywhere. Just… you know… privacy." He nodded his head and quickly exited the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him.

Not two steps into her bedroom, Loki meowed up at him seemingly annoyed that he was closed out. "Sorry, buddy," he whispered, giving himself a second for his heart to stop racing and the heat to fade from his cheeks. Tobias sighed softly, leaning down to pick up the small kitten before making his way toward Bellamy’s bed. Then he sort of just… froze. Five minutes earlier he wouldn’t have thought much about it, but now a cold sweat tickled along the back of his neck and the subtle dread of anxiety twisted in his chest. There was one clear side where she had been sleeping, so he walked around to the other side where the blankets still remained perfectly made.

Rather than climbing beneath them, Tobias laid on his back on top of the comforter. He gently set the cat on Bell’s pillow as he got settled, crossing his ankles, tucking his left hand behind his head and resting his right hand across his stomach. Once he stopped moving, Loki wasted no time climbing onto Tobias’s chest, burrowing himself into the hood of his sweater, nuzzled against his neck. It wasn’t his intention to fall asleep, but as another rush of adrenalin left his body, he was too exhausted to think, let alone keep his eyes open. It was a matter of a couple minutes he was out cold, chest rising and falling rhythmically with each heavy breath.

The door had shut softly behind Tobias, and now it was her turn to sit on the edge of the tub. Bellamy rested her elbows on the tops of her thighs as she hunched over for a second, hands pressed to her forehead, and she fought to calm her breathing. It had been irrational, the panic she’d felt when she’d thought that he was leaving. It wouldn’t be any good for her to get attached to him, it would be bad for both of them. She pushed herself to her feet, looking at the tub for a moment, debating which way would be easier, but… no, it would be faster to just switch to her organic ice form.

Bell dragged off the hoodie, squeezing her lips together tightly as her shoulder pulled and pain slid down her back like rain water, cold and persistent. She dropped the hoodie to the ground, and slid her undergarments off, letting her eyes slip shut as she focused. It started at the soles of her feet, soft skin shifted into unrelenting ice, as blue as a glacier in the Arctic. It spread to the tops of her feet, up her ankles, curling around her calves, thighs, stomach, all the way to the top of her head. Her eyes fluttered open, and she held out a hand for inspection. This form reminded her of her father, it made her chest hurt just to look at her iced over hand, but she’d never felt stronger, more alive than when she was like this.

She let out a soft breath, the air that expelled from her lungs visible as it hissed into the relative warmth of the bathroom, and she let the focus on holding this form slip. The ice seemed to seep back beneath her skin, leaving her body unblemished of the previous injuries that had marked her and, in their own morbid way, represented the tragedy that had become her life. Bellamy stared down listlessly at the hoodie for a moment, feeling as if she’d displaced the last piece of herself that existed before everything fell apart, and then she got dressed. The world doesn’t stop spinning, even if it feels like hers did, so she took it one step at a time. Turning off the water from the tub, making sure the hoodie covered her as much as possible, and finally making her way out of the bathroom.

She wasn’t expecting him to already be asleep, but Bellamy shouldn’t have been surprised. Her gaze softened, and she hesitated before slipping into her side of the bed, very carefully and delicately draping a blanket that had laid rumbled on her side of the bed across Tobias before she slid beneath the sheets and curled up on her side. The bed was soft, and warm, and the steady breathing beside her lulled her off into sleep faster than she could begin to overthink the fact that he’d stayed. If at some point in the night she naturally gravitated closer to Tobias, one of her hands curling into the fabric of his hoodie, the crown of her head just barely brushing his arm, well she was asleep and it wasn’t her fault.

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Camp Athens - Closed

^{#0a6d6b ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena > cabin}

After his run, Sylas spent most of his time silently judging the inadequacies of others aside from the small handful of demigods that drew his attention, specifically Evelyn and the Polish fucker who kept sparing him the stink eye. If he didn’t know better he would have assumed Sloane had loose lips based on the way her newest protector found every opportunity to make a show of his proximity or general smugness. But he did knew better. His sister was too much of a martyr to drag others into her problems. Liam busted his way in like a bull in a china shop and left her worse for wear. If he was a betting man, she was doing everything in her power to avoid the same kind of familiarity a second time, if only to avoid abandonment… again. Especially considering the mass exodus of her newest acquaintances. It was a pattern and only a matter of time before tweedledee and tweedledum followed suit.

Generally his attention lulled from the clock, and the slow progression of time or flitted around taking stock of the various unfamiliar faces. He only looked back toward the course when the raven haired siblings were called. It didn’t take rocket science, but a simple process of elimination, to connect the dots that they were Katryna and Kacper. Apparently their parent had a penchant for alliteration like his own father, ironic. To no surprise, the girl was utterly useless when it came to the course, similar to his sister. Birds of a feather he supposed. But her general lack of… anything remarkable quickly erased her from his attention as he focused on the brother. He didn’t seem to struggle like his sister, even flowing through most of the obstacles with some degree of finesse, once he stopped worrying over his sister. A weakness, no doubt. Unlike himself, these siblings seemed to be intrinsically linked and that was exploitable. The only hitch was how Sloane seemed to be their new favored pet, getting any of them alone would not be an easy task… Not with how brazen she has become after Liam’s meddling.

Evelyn’s name was called in the next group, which quieted some of his scrutiny for the others in lieu of stoic intrigue and silent support through his undivided attention. The group as a whole struggled immeasurably. While she didn’t have any big falls or setbacks like some others, her overall speed was slow. Sylas thought, perhaps, she’d pull ahead with Wes’s fall but by the end they both finished at the same time, trailing behind Anissa and the girl with braids who worried herself more with healing others than conserving her energy… And it showed. Still, she finished and didn’t skip the rope climb like he had seen others do, like Anissa. If nothing else, he figured Evelyn should get a boost to her time because she completed it, a failure on River’s part no doubt… Or favoritism.

Sylas scoffed to himself and rolled his eyes as he leaned back against the bench behind him. Another leader with his own personal pets that would get a pass. The only silver lining is that, from what he gathered, Anissa didn’t have Alex’s murderous tendencies and short temper. So overall that was unlikely to have an effect on everyone else throughout the camp. If it becomes much of a problem he could handle it, one way or another. Not that he was much for authority, but when he has to suffer the consequences of other people’s actions, then it becomes his problem. Whether Glove’s attention would be a good or bad distraction was yet to be seen. But so far it seemed whatever New Year’s dalliances transpired didn’t sway him from a grueling first day of training.

For the remainder of training he watched the clouds forming and breaking apart overhead with little concern for what everyone else was doing. He only sat up with mild interest when he heard a rough tumble at the log ladder. He looked across the arena to see Daniel getting up like an old man with an injured back. And while that, in general, didn’t garner an ounce of concern on Sylas’s part, watching the humiliated son of Hecate seek out comfort from Evelyn, out of all people, piqued his interest. He watched with a sharp, unwavering gaze like he sought to pierce him straight through with just a look. Something dark and acidic churned in his gut as he watched her hand rest on another man’s chest. He was poised to stand, to intervene when he recalled Evelyn’s reaction to his public display the night before. It was that, and only that, which kept him confined to his seat. She isn’t mine, he had to remind himself. ... Not yet.

While Sylas remained seated waiting for the results, as much as he tried to pry his gaze away, it inevitably found its way back to that familiar mane of red hair and a hand resting on someone that wasn’t him. When River finally approached to address them all again, a sigh of relief slipped out, involuntary and quickly lost in the wind. The sooner training was over then the sooner Daniel could fuck off… Or he’d—

"Thank you everyone. I know training sucks…"

Blah, blah, blah. Get to the fucking point.

A discontented grumble hummed behind his tight lips and clenched jaw at hearing Andy finishing before him. While he was aware how he placed compared to her, it had slipped his mind when more important developments caught his attention. However, he was the time after her… Good. At least that meant he was better than everyone else. Better than tweedledee and tweedledum, and definitely better than Daniel.

When Evelyn’s name came up toward the end of the list, finishing outside the fifteen minute deadline, his gaze briefly found Anissa where she babied Blair. It wasn’t fair that she, and others, were able to skip the rope climb and still pass yet others were penalized for the time it took to struggle up it. He had every intention of leaving the arena promptly, but knowing that failure rarely got off free, he lingered… If only to know what Evelyn would have to do and to see if Daniel waited behind too.

"For everyone that remains, you will run the course a second time."

Sylas sucked in a sharp breath. He settled back into his seat, watching as Evelyn readied herself, even sharing a drink from Daniel’s water, before approaching the course for a second time. While there was a genuine part of him that remained behind in hopes that his presence would be some semblance of support because… That’s what people did for someone they cared about… Right? The darker more envious side of him stayed to prove a point and to observe, not Evelyn, but Daniel. Every obstacle she struggled through he watched and waited for the son of Hecate to leave, but he didn’t.

As more demigods trudged back toward the course, Sylas’s attention began to split between Evelyn, Daniel—who lingered like a fucking parasite—and Sloane, with her tagalongs that followed her through every obstacle. While generally his sister running through the training was nothing interesting, it was Kacper’s help that went beyond what he offered his own sister that really caught his attention. There was something going on there. Camp went from so dull he thought he’d actually die from boredom to little pieces like breadcrumb trails appearing before him. It was enticing, and of course the one time where there was something worth watching he couldn’t stop focusing on fucking Daniel.

When Evelyn reached the end and fell to her knees, Sylas stood up like a subconscious part of him was stirred into action before his mind could catch up. He snatched up his coat in his hand and started down the stairs with every intention of going to her. But just as his feet hit the dirt and he looked up… Daniel was already there, offering her a hand and words he didn’t wait around to hear.

Sylas peeled his gaze away, turning toward the exit with his teeth clenched, the muscle along his jaw flexed and his knuckles white as his grip tightened around his coat. He didn’t bother putting it on. He didn’t care about the cold… He just wanted to be out of that fucking arena. His long strides carried him past others who were too busy being pissed off themselves or wrapped up in each other. A cold breeze slammed into him the second he felt snow crunching underfoot, but that didn’t stop him. He walked through camp unbothered by the cold, or the bite of winter that slipped through the thin cotton of his track jacket. He didn’t have to go far and his flurry of emotions was more than enough to keep him heated.

It wasn’t long before he reached his cabin. Sylas climbed the stairs two at a time, then disappeared inside with a slam of his door… And no desire to deal with anyone for the foreseeable future.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... evelyn, kacper, sloane, katryna, wes, tapeesa & daniel ............... collabs ....|.... none}

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^{#86a8ad ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

No one besides Wes came up to him with arguments or complaints about having to run the course a second time. River didn’t know if he was thankful for that or secretly dreading the hushed whispers shared when his back was turned. He knew leadership wasn’t going to be easy, but the lingering glares and muffled curses that were meant for him weighed awkwardly and off balance across his shoulders. It was a burden he’d have to learn to bear… If only because he had no other choice.

His head remained hung deep in thought, hand rubbing the back of his neck when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eyes. River sighed softly, slowly looking up, expecting someone who wanted to bitch about the outcome or running the course twice or perhaps just his general shittiness as a leader. But standing before him was a dark haired woman with a familiarity he couldn’t quite place.

"You handled that well, even if it may not feel that way at the moment." Her words came out plain, simple, like she was stating the facts or reading off of a roster. It was cold in its analytical approach, leaving him unsure how to respond. Should he say thank you? Did a comment like that warrant gratitude? He wasn’t sure.

River watched her, silent and attentive while her gaze drifted toward the course before eventually returning back to him. "You made a decision. You upheld it. And you didn’t waver when the pushback came." There was a silence, a pause that didn’t feel necessarily heavy… but purposeful. "That matters. And it will matter to him."

He nodded his head slowly, lacing his fingers together as his elbows rested on his knees. The memory of her drying herself after her run came back to the forefront of his mind. Something he made a passing note of, but was quickly erased with everything else he had to keep track of. But now that she stood in front of him with a cold and calculating demeanor like Poseidon himself, it was apparent… Even without the showmanship of her powers. "So, you’re one of his." River ran his tongue along the front of his teeth beneath his lips as he exhaled a deep breath through his nose. "Did he send you here to observe me or do you study everyone with his scrutiny in mind?"

River drew in a deep breath and ran his hands back through his hair. The idea of someone watching his every movement not from the heavens, but from the same level as everyone else at camp somehow bothered him more than his father’s watchful gaze. There was more separation with a father hidden among the clouds. But her… His… sister? She was right here staring him in the eyes. A constant reminder of what was expected of him and the role he was expected to fill… Like knowing she was there meant he’d never be able to relax, not really, not with an extension of his father’s judgement following him around like a looming storm cloud.

Whatever gripes festered in his thoughts, River kept his face blank. He slowly extended his right hand toward her. "Knowing our father I’m sure you know everything about me already. But do I, at least, get to know who you are?"

^{interactions ....|.... maylisse ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... none}

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^{#667c0c ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Thirty push ups, no sweat. Well, ok… There was sweat. It was beading along his bare back, dripping from his chest and brows onto the sand and dirt beneath him. But push ups were manageable, doable. It was something a man with one arm could do without the risk of breaking his nose for the second time in one day. Of course he wasn’t the lightest man. He had the benefit of muscles he had built up in the absence of his right arm, but one handed push ups were nothing to bulk at either. It took a fair bit of balance, determination and patience. The most important thing was not burning out too quickly because the last thing he wanted to do was fail at that too and then have to do the course again anyway. That wasn’t an option. So slow and steady he pushed himself up, then lowered himself, breathing in sync… In the nose, out the mouth.

Halfway through, Wes felt eyes on him. He knew he shouldn’t lose focus and keep his pace. But when he pushed up and locked his elbow, he raised his head and looked around. At first he didn’t notice anything, but then on the far side of the arena he saw her, blonde hair, guilty smile, watching him unabashedly. He couldn’t help the smirk that curved across his face through the exhaustion, bright and mischievous in its warmth. While none of their morning erased everything, he was a simple man… And catching his girl watching him with an unashamed hunger did things. A single brow rose in a suggestive silence before he winked at her then lowered himself into another push up.

The last handful were done through gritted teeth and trembling muscles. But once Wes pushed up the last time, he let out a sigh of relief as he rocked backwards to rest on his knees. He sat there for a minute or two, stretching and flexing his arm while focusing on steadying his breaths. Having had his fill of training and the arena, he pushed off the ground and made his way up the stands to where he had left his bloodied t-shirt and jacket. Noticing Trinity still lingering near the exit, he hurried back down the stairs taking two at a time. He used the dirty shirt to wipe sweat from his brow and chest as he approached her with a charming smile that he couldn’t fight.

"You’re very distracting… You know that?" he mused. His voice was deep like a suggestive whisper laced with his desires that always burned for her. There was one thing for certain, no matter if they were fighting or not, he would always… always yearn for her in ways she could never fathom. Unable to help himself, he gently hooked his index finger beneath her chin and lightly ran the tip of his thumb against her bottom lip before leaning in and stealing a kiss. "If I knew it only took push ups to get you to look at me like that, I’d do them every morning." His smile grew as a quiet chuckle rumbled behind his lips.

"I was thinking about grabbing food before a shower," he offered her. Trinity didn’t ask, but even after their night, that didn’t mean he wanted to be rid of her or she had to stay away. He wasn’t the best at being grumpy when the one person who was making him grumpy also made him happy. Wes was a complicated golden retriever. "I know you probably want to talk, so we can over lunch if you want? Or… If you want to now, that’s fine."

^{interactions ....|.... trinity ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... none}

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^{#0bbdaf ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Tapeesa headed down the arched hallway that led out of the arena. She pulled on her hoodie in a huff, then slipped her arms into the sleeves of her parka just before stepping back into the bitter chill of winter. The cold didn’t really bother her, she was used to it, but she pulled her hood up over her head nevertheless if only to hide her face from anyone she might pass. No longer surrounded by people in the arena she was able to let her guard down and release the tension that tightened across her shoulders. Her shaky breath created a small puff of cloud in front of her as her shoulders rolled forward. The tears she had been desperately trying to hold back… and failing, finally fell freely. She didn’t sob or heave, her tears fell silent like sparkling icicles down her cheeks.

She didn’t know what she expected from a demigod camp, probably something like The Parent Trap but with Gods. That’s what she had prepared herself for, but the second she stepped through the gates nothing had been what she expected. A New Year’s party? Kissing a boy she just met? Grueling training? Suffering through exhaustion because she made the mistake of healing people? None of it. Never in her wildest daydreams did Tapeesa ever think anything like that would happen. The hardest thing to wrap her mind around though… Was how going out of her way to heal people somehow reared around and bit her in the butt. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t expect preferential treatment because she was helping people but… Maybe she did? It wasn’t like she didn’t try, because she did. She shook her head. "Two seconds…"

And while the failure frustrated her, her mind always came back to Nate. Just the thought of him made her pivot, glancing back over her shoulder to see if he was trailing behind her like a fox in the snow… But no. A defeated sigh filled the silence as she slowly turned back around and continued down the path. She felt bad for snapping at him. She never ever wanted to hurt someone else’s feelings, especially not his. It was never the easiest for her to stand up for her own feelings and whenever she did it always seemed to come out… wrong. She should have said what really was bothering her, that his showing off and the way he didn’t quite help her, not like the others, hurt her feelings… but she didn’t. Now she had messed up whatever may, or may not have been building between them. Or not? Gods she had no idea. Maybe she was being stupid and just crushing on him because he was her first kiss. It’d make sense.

Tappi stopped dead in her tracks, throwing her head back with a groan. She raised her hands to wipe away the frozen tears that clung to the apples of her cheeks. With a sniffle she looked over and realized she stood at the gate to her tiny little yard that led to her cabin. There was a second where she took a step toward it, then froze when her stomach roared angrily. She had forgotten they talked about getting food… She also wanted a nap but knew she’d never be able to stay asleep if she didn’t eat. So as much as she wanted to disappear from the world for the rest of the day, her feet carried her onward toward the big building further down the path. If there was a cafeteria… it had to be in there.

She slowly climbed the steps toward the entrance, looking around for any signs of other campers but it seemed like she was either one of the first people out of the arena, or maybe one of the few that was hungry? She had no idea. Tapeesa opened the door and the second she stepped inside she was hit with a gust of warm air and the delectable scents of fresh made food. The smell alone made her stomach lurch with anticipation. She sighed softly as her gaze drifted over toward the buffet spread of nearly any food she could think of. "Thank the Gods."

Tapeesa pulled off her parka and tossed it onto the first available chair before making her way over toward the food. She made a heaping plate of anything and everything that sounded good from breakfast foods to a double decker sandwich and a salad. She probably looked a little insane, but she also had never been hungry like that before either. With her hands full, she tucked a bottle of juice under her arm and made her way back to her seat. Finally being off her feet pulled a deep sigh from her. Tappi gave herself a moment to just… sink into her chair and relax. Then, before her stomach decided to start eating itself, she dug into her food like a woman who had been starved for days.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... nate ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Mjolnir's Forge

The Last Will of Olympus

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Lux Slade | Zeus

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L U X...

.................................................... __________________________________________ L U X . S L A D E ________________________________________________________ 23 | female | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | zeus ▹ hair color | blonde ▹ eye color | blue ▹ height | 5' 6" ▹ build | athletic __________________________________________ S C A R S ▹ back | four slashes (claw) ▹ left forearm | mangled / gashed (bite)

. A B I L I T Y aerokinesis - By far Lux's strongest power is her ability to control air. She subconsciously uses this ability to direct arrows and projectiles to her desired locations. With active effort she can use this to fly or levitate herself, others, and perform minor bits of telekinesis by pushing or pulling objects with gusts of wind. In theory, she could also use this skill to suffocate someone, but has not had the need or desire to attempt this... yet. atmokinesis - Lux has zero to no control over this ability. As it stands she is unaware of her sway over the weather, finding it to be mere coincidence that whenever her emotions spike, the weather often changes to match, rain with sadness, thunder with anger, and so on. electrokinesis - While she has never effectively summoned lightning on her own, she can direct and control lightning that falls from the sky or her bow. With this power she is also immune to all forms of electricity and can sense incoming lightning or electrical fields. S T R E N G T H S survivalist - Learned from her grandfather, Lux is quite skilled when it comes to surviving off the land or in the wild. She knows how to make shelters out of whatever she can find, purify water, hunt for food, which plants are edible, which are toxic, and how to navigate without the sun or stars for visibility. perceptive - She has a keen eye and sharp memory, able to notice when something is out of place, shifts in someone's demeanor, the changing sounds of the winds, or track through the harshest of terrains. physical strength - Between hiking and her skill at archery, Lux has a natural physical strength that surpasses others like her. There is some innate power inherited by being a demigod, but her capabilities go beyond that of the average half-blood. W E A K N E S S E S water - Lux can swim, not well, but enough to be useful if her life depended on it. For reasons she could never explain, she always had a fearful reverence for open water, like something in her soul told her she didn't belong there and it wasn't safe. She'd rather be high up in the mountains, lost in a sea of clouds rather than anywhere near the actual sea. deception - Having spent most of her time isolated in the mountains, only surrounded by her family, Lux never learned the skill of deception or lying. She is honest to a fault, to the point where it is more harmful than helpful. In her time on the run she has learned some scenarios where it is best if she doesn't talk at all, but if someone is needing misdirection, Lux is not the person they go to for help. melee combat - Her skills rely on observation, distance, and stealth. She is an archer, thriving at range, so when combat is close quarters she struggles. She could hold her own for a time, but usually seeks to put distance between herself and her opponent rather than fight hand to hand. I T E M fulminata / thunderbolt - A gift from her father, Thunderbolt is a golden bow that shoots bolts of lightning rather than arrows. When it is put over her head, it disguises itself into a golden crossbody fanny pack. The pouch, while small, is deceptive and can hold up to a backpack's worth of supplies. When it returns to its weapon form, the various items in the pouch become charms dangling from the bow, able to be plucked at a moment's notice. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y altruistic .... | .... passionate .... | .... stubborn .... | .... loyal .... | .... sincere H I S T O R Y ✦ 1970 . Born in Big Sky, Montana, Lux was raised in a small home high up in the mountains with her mother and grandfather. She never met her father, but grew up on stories about him being divine and from the heavens. As she got older the stories seemed more like fantasy to cover up a broken heart versus reality, but she could never bring herself to convince her mother otherwise. ✦ . Along with tales of her father, she was told about the day of her birth how the clouds parted and sunlight poured in through the window to illuminate her in her mother's arms. Her mother saw that as a sign and named her in honor of her father, calling her Lux for light. It was because of signs like that and her skill with archery that she was convinced her father was Apollo... until proven otherwise. ✦ . Growing up, Lux spent most of her time with her grandfather who enjoyed most of his time outdoors in the mountains, hiking, hunting, and camping. By the time she was a teenager Lux had better survival instincts than most men. She could survive easily in the wild, track proficiently, and handle a bow like it was an extension of herself. ✦ 1990 . Her life was peaceful, quiet, and unassuming until she was a young adult, hunting in the mountains with her grandfather. They were ambushed by a hound far larger and uglier than any creature they had ever crossed. It fatally wounded her grandfather trying to get to her. She tried to save him, but her arrows did nothing to it. Her grandfather told her that her time was up, that the creature and more like it would be coming for her, and she had no choice but to run. ✦ 1993 . For three years Lux was on the run, finding cities to be only slightly safer than the wild. The creatures found her no matter where she went and even in the middle of Las Vegas. While outrunning a flying hag with bat wings, Lux sought cover inside a casino called the Lotus hotel. For the first time in years, she found herself safe and comfortable, with a warm bed to call her own. It was so easy to get comfortable... So easy to lose track of time... to get lost in the allure, games, and the lingering glances of a man she couldn't bring herself to meet. ✦ 2025 . Lux was only there for a couple weeks, just enough time to relax and recover before going on the run again. Then a dark haired girl pulled her out of the crowd along with the guy often hanging around Cube's Quest. It didn't make sense, but they humored her anyway, stepping outside to find the world had changed around them overnight... No, that's not right. Not overnight... 32 years. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #f8d296 ........ faceclaim . | . lili reinhart ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Nero Torres | Hypnos

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N E R O...

.................................................... __________________________________________ N E R O . T O R R E S ________________________________________________________ 27 | male | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | hypnos ▹ hair color | black ▹ eye color | green ▹ height | 6' 0" ▹ build | muscular / athletic __________________________________________ S C A R S ▹ location | description

. A B I L I T Y hypnokinesis - Nero has the ability to control sleep. He can make others tired in his presence, induce sleep, or with enough power and focus he could send an opponent into a deeper state of slumber, much like a coma or a death-like state. On the opposite side of the spectrum, he can help others not feel as tired but he cannot erase the exhaustion entirely, instead siphoning it into himself or someone else. oneirokinesis - Alongside sleep, Nero can control and manipulate dreams. He can access memories through someone's dreams, soothe nightmares, or implant his own images into someone else's mind. He is able to exert some control while awake, but his power over dreams is heightened exponentially while sleeping. astral projection - When asleep or dreaming, Nero can send his consciousness into the minds and dreams of others. This is where his oneirokinesis is the most powerful. He doesn't have complete control of this and has a habit of accidentally slipping into the dreams of others if they are sleeping close by. S T R E N G T H S observant - Nero is a man of few words, a loner who keeps to the shadows watching and not participating. From the outskirts he notices things others overlook. It wouldn't be uncommon for him to find a solution while others bicker, but it's rare that he'd interrupt and insert his own voice into a conflict. resilient - Life has not been the kindest to Nero. Through its trials and tribulations he has adapted a thick skin, able to withstand a barrage of emotional and physical torment and get back up where others would falter. indomitable will - If Nero sets his mind to something no one, not even the Gods, can persuade him otherwise. His determination is a hard shell to crack. It would take an unreasonable amount of persistence and patience to be able to whittle away at his resolve. W E A K N E S S E S dreams - They terrify Nero. He has suffered through too many nights slipping into his drug-addled mother's mind, catching glimpses of the horrors she's been through or continues to put herself through. Then if he ever managed a night of sleep where he fell into his own dreams, they were plagued with horrifying prophetic visions of the earth reclaiming the world and him being swallowed by vines and dirt... It's easier not to sleep at all. caffeine dependence - With his fear of dreams, Nero refuses to let himself sleep. His entire existence is fueled by caffeine, often carrying around a flask of straight espresso. Of course, one can't avoid sleep forever, but he'll still fight it until his body crashes and claims sleep whether he likes it or not. pessimistic - When life has been rough and humanity rougher, Nero has a hard time looking at things with a glass half full. He won't go out of his way to drag down the mood or piss on someone's moment, but hope and optimism are often lost on him. I T E M bed roll - A gift from his father, Nero has a bedroll that gives whomever sleeps upon it the most restful, dreamless night of sleep in a matter of hours. They'll wake feeling recharged and rejuvenated like they had slept for an entire day. It also helps elevate the body's natural healing, shortening illness and the lifespan of injuries. When it is folded up it takes on the appearance of a regular black bandana. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y reserved .... | .... cynical .... | .... sarcastic .... | .... sullen .... | .... aloof H I S T O R Y ✦ 1998 . Nero was born on the shitty side of Chicago. Growing up it was just him and his mom, a woman with dreams and aspirations thrown into motherhood when she was too young, forced to choose between her son and the life she had planned for herself. Money was tight and things were never easy, but his mom always pulled through giving him everything she could, but most importantly love. ✦ 2003 . Everything started going downhill when Nero started Kindergarten. It became pretty common for him to watch himself when he got home from school until the late hours of the night when his mom would stumble home with a man he didn't know. When he was young he didn't know what it all meant, but he learned quickly... the hard way. ✦ 2008 . By the time he was ten, his mom was so deep into her drug addiction it was a wonder how she kept a roof over their heads. Food was scarce and he often found himself next door with Abuela Maria who had all the cats. She made sure he ate, helped him with his homework, and would let him sleep on her couch when his mom had company. ✦ 2011 . That was the year Abuela Maria passed. She left him what little she had since she had no children or grandchildren, but because he was underage, his mother took it all, using the money to feed her addiction. The only thing Nero was able to keep hidden was Abuela's rosary, silver and amethyst... It'd fetch a good price if his mom saw it, but he always wore it beneath his shirt to keep it out of her greedy hands. ✦ 2012 . Over the next year things just got worse. Nero's mom started taking her aggression out on him. That was when the satyr Alder showed up to save him from his shitty life. Since then, Nero has been a permanent figure at Camp Half-blood, a grumpy shadow rarely in the Hermes cabin, never claimed, but always around. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #685673 ........ faceclaim . | . samuel larsen ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Clover Blake | Tyche

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C L O V E R...

.................................................... __________________________________________ C L O V E R . B L A K E ________________________________________________________ 25 | female | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | tyche ▹ hair color | red ▹ eye color | green ▹ height | 5' 4" ▹ build | petite / average __________________________________________ S C A R S ▹ location | description

. A B I L I T Y tychokinesis - Clover has the capability to manipulate probability and chance. Through these powers she can shift the scales of probability in favor of or against people at her whim. Her control over this ability is tentative and usually a side effect from her emotions or feelings, so it has a habit of fluctuating subconsciously. passive luck - Blessed by her mother, Clover is lucky to the point of it being so serendipitous that it's comical. This is just a state of being for her and something she has absolutely no control over, but is cause for much entertainment and frustration for those around her. S T R E N G T H S successful - With Clover's natural luck, she can accomplish nearly anything she attempts. It might not be in the most straightforward way and involve her literally tripping into a solution, but even with her unorthodox methods, it is rare for her to fail outright. charming - Her personality has been described as contagious. She has a natural warmth and friendliness to her that it is rare for someone to dislike her. Maybe it's her luck guiding her to say the right things? She isn't sure. But she's never known a stranger, no matter the situation. optimistic - Clover can find hope in any situation. There is always a silver lining no matter how dark the cloud. While this can skew her understanding of the gravity of a situation, she's always able to find the positives to try and bolster morale. W E A K N E S S E S accident prone - Clover is insanely clumsy. If there is a way to trip, fumble, or break something, she'll figure it out quickly. Her clumsiness has an odd way of working in her favor, but people around her have learned not to entrust her with certain tasks. no danger sense - Her sense of self preservation or knowing when they're walking into a trap? Nonexistent. She floats through life without a care, unaware of the cliffs she tip toes on. combat - She's been at camp for years and is still useless with any form of weapons. Clover has a weapon because everyone does but it's a slingshot, so unlikely to do much of anything besides give someone welts or a black eye. I T E M lucky rabbit's foot - Clover has a hot pink rabbit's foot keychain like the cheap ones she won at the arcade as a child. True to the superstitions, it gives whomever is holding or wearing it a boost of luck that could present itself in infinite different ways. Since receiving it from her mother, Clover has added a few charms, notably a crystal strawberry, a clover, and a pearl, but these serve no purpose other than being cute... And making a jingling noise when she walks around. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y effervescent .... | .... empathetic .... | .... generous .... | .... trusting .... | .... vulnerable H I S T O R Y ✦ 2000 . Born on a sunny day in L.A., Clover's arrival was the only fortune her father ever needed. A man who floated like a nomad through life, he put down roots in a new city across the country and was gifted with his own sunflower, a little ray of light that followed him around with wonder and awe. She was his best friend from the moment she entered his life. ✦ 2006 . One day while walking home from the park they stumbled upon a lottery ticket floating around on the sidewalk. Her father thought little to nothing of it, but took it home nonetheless. To his surprise, he won a wildly outrageous sum. ✦ With their new found wealth, Clover's father quit his job and chose to home school her instead, not wanting to miss a moment of her growing up. He taught her how to garden, harvest, and spread kindness in a world that was sorely lacking it. Their money wasn't spent on luxuries but helping those in need: feeding and housing the homeless, paying for life changing medical procedures in the hospitals they visited, helping the orphanages afford to support the children, and aiding shelters so animals could live to find the forever homes they deserved. ✦ 2013 . When Clover was 13 a satyr named Thistle arrived at her home, telling her and her father about Camp Half-Blood. Neither one of them seemed terribly surprised at the existence of Gods, but were more concerned at the prospect of being separated. Hearing that she would be safer at camp her father trusted Thistle's word and insisted Clover went with her. ✦ The moment Clover set foot on camp soil her mother claimed her before everyone like a proud beacon. While she was the sole Tyche kid, she quickly bonded with many demigods and earned an honorary place amongst Demeter's children. She spent most of her years at camp, but always went home for summer, the holidays, and her father's birthday. She'd never miss it. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #5d8c77 ........ faceclaim . | . emma stone ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Chase Porter | Hermes

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C H A S E...

.................................................... __________________________________________ C H A S E . P O R T E R ________________________________________________________ 28 | male | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | hermes ▹ hair color | brunette ▹ eye color | hazel ▹ height | 6' 1" ▹ build | lean / athletic __________________________________________ S C A R S ▹ location | description

. A B I L I T Y superhuman speed - As a son of Hermes, Chase has enhanced agility and stamina that helps him outpace most others, able to outrun and outmaneuver his opponents with superhuman swiftness. enhanced thievery - Chase possesses a keen aptitude when it comes to thievery. He is naturally stealthy, knowing the best paths to take to remain unnoticed or stick to the shadows and he has an innate skill at being light footed and light fingered. enhanced trickery - Like most Hermes kids, Chase has a natural skill when it comes to persuading or deceiving others. While he is not a fan of misdirection or lying, he has seen his siblings exhibit it first hand and knows he's capable of it, if he wanted. S T R E N G T H S tech savvy - Chase is a savant with technology at his fingertips. He is knowledgeable of various equipment and able to pick up new tech fairly quickly. He also has amateur hacking knowledge, capable of accessing back doors in some networks and bypassing basic security systems. opportunistic combatant - A highly adaptable fighter, Chase is able to think on his toes in the middle of a fight, exploiting his environment, an opponent's weaknesses, or finding improvised weapons in a pinch. street smarts - While Chase might not be the most book smart, his life experience has given him keen common sense, able to navigate real life situations with a comfortable ease that cannot be learned through studying or schools. His knowledge is exceptionally useful in dealing with unsavory people or navigating urban environments. W E A K N E S S E S kleptomaniac - Old habits die hard, and while Chase no longer has to steal to survive, he still has sticky fingers. He never steals from his friends or fellow campers, but whenever he finds himself outside of camp he can be found with a few extra spoils lining his pockets. camp half-blood - Chase never had a proper home before camp. His half siblings and the other demigods are the closest thing he's had to a family. He is fiercely loyal and protective of camp. fear of abandonment - Having been left and abandoned multiple times throughout his life, Chase is always scared of the next person who will leave him. It's difficult for him to avoid friendships, even though he's always worried about losing them, but because of his fear he has a habit of avoiding romantic entanglements. I T E M kaeidi - Chase has a magic key that can unlock any lock, magical or mundane. This functions as a universal skeleton key that can be used anywhere a key can be used, a lock, a car, a plane, etc. This key can also magically seal locks or leave whatever the key was used on, unable to be opened or operated without magic to undo it. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y compassionate .... | .... impulsive .... | .... charismatic .... | .... protective .... | .... adaptable H I S T O R Y ✦ 1997 . Born to a mother who never wanted him, Chase was given up before she ever held him and sent to a New York orphanage as a newborn. ✦ Most of Chase's childhood was spent bouncing between foster homes. He would stay with one family until they got tired of how slippery he could be, vanishing out of their sight in a matter of seconds. He rarely ever went far, often trying to sneak away with any toys he wanted. But once he became too much of a handful it was onto another family or back to the orphanage. ✦ 2010 . By the time Chase was 13, families no longer wanted kids his age. Rather than waiting around to be denied time and time again he ran away from the orphanage, choosing a life on the streets rather than a life being unwanted and overlooked. It wasn't always easy, but he had an uncanny knack for finding his way into closed or vacant buildings for a night's rest, or stealing food and money when he needed it. ✦ 2013 . It wasn't until Chase was 16 with several petty crimes under his belt, looking at the possibility of going to juvy that a satyr came to him, posed as a lawyer and told him about camp. At first he thought it was all bullshit, but seeing it as an opportunity to get out of jail free, he took it. Upon arriving at camp he found that everything he thought he knew was turned on its head. He was accepted with open arms and not judged for his past. ✦ 2018 . Chase had been at camp for 5 years before Hermes actually claimed him. He's not sure what he did or why his father claimed him, but once it became official, he was made head of the Hermes cabin within the following month. In his leadership role he has earned himself the title of "camp's big brother" and also gained his closest friend, Daphne. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #a0c0dc ........ faceclaim . | . heath ledger ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Blair Carmichael | Athena

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B L A I R...

.................................................... __________________________________________ B L A I R . C A R M I C H A E L ________________________________________________________ 26 | female | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | athena ▹ hair color | black ▹ eye color | brown ▹ height | 5' 6" ▹ build | slender __________________________________________ S C A R S ▹ right shoulder | large bite mark

. A B I L I T Y genius - Blair has always been incredibly smart, excelling in school with little to no effort. Unfortunately, she rarely applies herself in academics finding them boring. She gets A's for her fathers sake, and occasionally covered Lochlan's ass with his own school work. strategy expertise - Blair has a mind for strategy, able to see patterns and predict movements of her opponents steps in advance. While she hardly has the skill to put this to use in a battle sense, she has used it to her advantage to win games or solve puzzles. S T R E N G T H S persuasion - Blair has never had to struggle to get what she wanted, if it's from her father, brother or anyone else. Sure, she has better lucky on men, but she's grown quite the talent in reading others and using it to her advantage. seduction - Flirting comes naturally to Blair and it's worked more often than it hasn't. She was lucky enough to be gifted with the goods, and a knowledge on how to use them. quick thinking - Perhaps it has something to do with her parentage, but Blair has always be able to think on her feet, if it's pick up lines, convenient lies, or a quick plan to get out of a sticky situation. W E A K N E S S E S horses - Blair has an irrational fear of horses. She never really had any encounters with them growing up, but after her run in with man eating horses on her way to camp, she’d be happy never having to encounter another one for the rest of her life. combat - Fighting? Are you kidding? Before camp she probably would have laughed in your face at the idea of breaking a nail or ruining her outfit. For better or worse her travels to camp humbled her a bit, but not enough to magically give her the prowess to be able to hold her own in a fight. lost sense of self - Surprisingly, Blair doesn’t have the best opinion about herself. Once, she thought she was the hottest thing ever, a woman who could get whatever she wanted and the world was her oyster. Camp Half-Blood was a wake up call that left her scrambling and trying to figure out who she was beneath the facade she wore for years. Hind sight has given her the clarity to be disappointed in who she was, but no clear path forward. I T E M mood ring - A gift from her mother, her mood ring does not show her emotions, but shares the emotions of the person she is talking to. While useless in someone else's hands, with Blair's emotional intelligence, she is able to glean insight into another person through their emotions. ✦ . black . - . scared, frightened ✦ . green . - . calm, relaxed ✦ . gray . - . nervous, anxious ✦ . yellow . - . restless, worried ✦ . white . - . confused, frustrated ✦ . orange . - . excited, eager ✦ . purple . - . happy, content ✦ . red . - . angry, passionate ✦ . blue . - . neutral ✦ . pink . - . romantic, love __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y self-aware .... | .... flirtatious .... | .... honest .... | .... confident .... | .... blunt H I S T O R Y ✦ 2000 . William Carmichael was a smart, successful businessman when he met Athena. Their shared intellect is what brought them together, and not long after is when Blair came into their lives. And typical, like it is for most demigods, she was left to be raised by her father in Manhattan. ✦ . While Blair grew up never needing for anything, she was raised by nannies and governesses, not her father. He was gone so frequently that her excitement for the holidays stemmed from getting the chance to see her dad face to face rather than the brief bedtime phone calls. ✦ . As a child, Blair excelled academically, skipping grades and taking advanced courses before she had reached double digits. But as she got older and her father became more scarce her drive for academic excellence began to slip. By the time she was a teen, she spent a majority of her time spending her dad’s money because, in her mind, if money was so important to not be around her then she should at least enjoy that. And whether or not her intention was to get her dad’s attention, he didn’t seem to care about her spending, or maybe he never even noticed. ✦ . High school is when everything changed, money, privilege, and a pretty face unlocked doors she never thought to test. Shallow friends who came from equally as rich families started to skew her perspective from school to boys and her sway over them. Blair quickly discovered the power she held over them, able to make most of them bend to her will, and it was intoxicating… But more than that, the popularity and pedestal the other girls put her on was unmatched. ✦ . Blair’s grades plummeted while her popularity rose and by the time she finished her senior year, she was lucky to have graduated. Her life slipped into a dark cycle of bouncing between men and an empty feeling she couldn’t quite shake, and all the while, her father never even noticed. Her credit card never declined and he spent what holidays he did make time for her, on his work computer or phone calls. ✦ 2025 . Whether she’d admit it or not, her life was spiraling, one bad decision after another. Perhaps that’s why a satyr, Ginger, showed up when they did, like if her dad couldn’t see her cry for help then maybe her mom did. The journey wasn’t long to Camp Half-Blood, but that didn’t stop the monsters from chasing them. She didn’t realize how easy she had it up in a skyscraper for most of her life, but the road was far more deadly than it had any right to be. Both her and Ginger nearly died during the short trek to camp, narrowly escaping with scars to prove it. ✦ . Blair has been at Camp Half-Blood for nearly a year and has taken a step back from the life she used to lead, trying to figure out who she is beneath the weight of being a demigod, which somehow made everything entirely more complicated. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #ff6686 ........ faceclaim . | . camila mendes ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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