Qia

Reign of the Usurper

The sea here possessed none of the vitality he understood. In the land of his birth, water followed a strict and sensible order. Rivers carved precise paths through parched soil, canals stitched a geometric pattern across farmlands, and wells were deep, contained circles of vitality. Storms, when they came, spent their final fury on the dunes, their violence muted by infinite sand. But this place, the Bramble Weave, held a different kind of water. It stretched to the horizon, a dull and immense expanse like tarnished silver held in the jaws of the mountains. It did not move with current or tide, but with a deep, laboured rhythm. The reflections of the mountains fractured and swam with each rise and fall, a dizzying smear of dark pigment across a shifting pane.

Raelan’s gaze clung to those broken images, refusing to look at the land itself. The mountains were not a vista but an aggression. They dominated every point of the compass, their razor-edged summits sheathed in ice, their sides dropping away into darkness that seemed to swallow the light. During their voyage, he had called them magnificent, a lie he’d offered Saphira to calm her nerves. Now, enclosed within the vast weave of water and stone, he saw the truth: they were the unbroken walls of a giant’s crypt, offering no promise of exit.

His knuckles ached, bone-white against the ship’s rail. He hadn’t meant to grip it so hard. The wood was slick with chill spray, its texture a wrongness his very sinews recognized even as his mind fought for serenity. A memory surfaced, unbidden, that had taken place years in the past on a patrol through a southern Wyrmway gorge. There had been one sharp crack as if the world was breaking its spine, and then the sky had suddenly turned to falling stone and dust.

They had dug with their hands until their fingers were raw, pulling three men from the tomb of rubble. A fourth was never recovered, becoming one with the stone, a permanent spectre in the gorge.

To Raelan, stone that reached this high and leaned this close offered no security. It was a colossal hand, frozen in the act of closing into a fist. The thought coiled tightly around his lungs, a constricting pressure. His breathing grew quick and shallow, useless. Without thought, he pulled one hand from the rail and pressed it against his neck, his thumb seeking the frantic beat of his pulse, as if to prove his body still functioned.

He commanded himself to inhale

Instead of oxygen, Raelan heard the sound of his lieutenant’s voice, ragged as they called the roll. The endless silence that had followed the final name on that list.

Another inadequate gasp.

A heavy, cold sensation rooted itself at the base of his neck.

“Raelan.”

The voice was a grounded rumble, cutting through the wind and the noise in his own mind. It was meant only for him. Calis.

Raelan did not turn at once, though the sound of his name was a line thrown to a drowning man. He knew Calis stood behind him, hands resting at the small of his back, the very image of a man content to wait. The captain understood the value of standing watch without intrusion, offering the dignity of self-recovery rather than the shame of a public rescue. So, his presence was neither a prod nor a pity; it was simply an anchor, waiting for the storm within Raelan to pass. And slowly it did.

Raelan’s hand fell from his throat. “I am steady,” he managed, trusting his lungs more and finally turning his head to his companion.

Calis nodded once. A soldier’s acknowledgment. A mentor’s acceptance.

“In that case,” he said, his voice barely rising above the lap of water against the hull, “welcome to Thornvale, my lord.”

A bright, clear chime sliced through the damp air, followed by another. Then three more in a rapid sequence. A signal.

Calis turned, his focus narrowing toward the shore. “The harbour watch has marked our arrival,” he observed. “Or more likely, our colours.”

Raelan followed his gaze. Ahead, the oppressive wall of mountains finally relented, revealing the valley they guarded. It was a sudden burst of life crammed into the stone crevice with tiered rooftops that climbed the lower slopes and stone arches that spanned a milky, fast-moving river, along with banners of every hue fluttering against the grey rock. The fortress known as the Black Citadel remained hidden around a bend, but its influence was felt in the orderly lines of the settlement and the fortified gates built into the cliffs.

Yet what truly seized Raelan's focus was the docks they drifted closer and closer to.

Masts bristled along the shore like a forest of pale spears, some flying simple trade flags, others bearing more ostentatious crests. The narrow band of white stone and sand between the river and the town was alive with movement. From this distance, he could see only colour and gesture, but the impression was unmistakable, with a festival’s swarm of bodies filling every scrap of space the water would allow.

“The Summer Solstice,” Calis explained, anticipating Raelan’s unspoken question. “You were on the southern frontier during the last celebration. The valley keeps to the traditional observances.”

“By throwing themselves into a mountain river?” Raelan muttered mostly to himself, his forehead creasing in confusion. Now, Raelan Al’Seren did not traffic in mystery when information was so readily available. He was the sort to study a place before he set foot in it, if not out of curiosity then out of necessity. And yet, none of the reports he’d consumed, none of the conversations with merchants, envoys, diplomats, or even those pompous scholars at the Ninefold academies had ever mentioned this.

“This seems… impractical,” he added, which for Raelan was the closest he came to what in all seven hells are they doing?

“They call it the Cleansing,” Calis replied. “ Or so I've heard from travellers. It seems to be this ritual where the regrets of the past year are carried off by the current, and the new one is greeted with the shock of the Weave. Though...could be that they just dip in because it's hot.” He gestured loosely toward the boisterous crowd. “Either way, it is a practice that ignores station, so even the highborn are known to participate.”

Raelan blinked.

“Nobles,” he repeated slowly, as though confirming the concept still meant the same thing in these mountains. “Voluntarily.”

“Voluntarily,” Calis confirmed, his expression perfectly neutral.

Raelan moistened his lips, considering the improbable scene.

“…I did not expect that,” he admitted.

“No,” Calis replied softly. “Nor did I, when first I saw it.”

As they drew nearer, the picture became clearer. Dozens of figures, from the smallest child to bearded elders, were yielding to the river’s invitation. They stepped into the churning shallows, footwear abandoned in careless mounds on the stones. The shrieks of playing children pierced the air. Soldiers, their uniforms modified for the day, stood with trousers rolled high, their stern demeanours softened by involuntary grins. Wealthy merchants and soot-stained labourers shared the same shocking chill, their knees knocking in unison. Even those dressed in fine fabrics had hiked their garments, their pale ankles exposed to the current with a collective disregard for decorum.

The scene struck Raelan with a force that was both intellectual and visceral. Where he came from, water was usually locked away and divided. It practically marked the boundary between classes, where deep, cool wells were for the great houses, allotted channels for sworn farmers, and tepid, shared ponds for the rest. This lavish, public communion with something so precious felt brazen, almost indecent. Yet he found himself transfixed, unable to look away as the very architecture of status collapsed before him. Every face, regardless of its owner’s station, appeared transformed by the same breathless shock and subsequent, giddy delight.

“No one seems to be in distress,” Calis noted mildly. “That should ease your mind.”

“My concerns were never about drowning,” Raelan answered, the deflection automatic.

Calis did not press. He merely let out a low, knowing hum that conveyed his doubt, then turned his attention to the mechanics of docking: the shouted commands, the creak of hemp lines, and the rustle of great sails being secured as their ship coasted toward the quay.

Their craft, a narrow-hulled cutter built for speed over cargo, turned gracefully toward an extended pier that had been kept clear. Raelan witnessed the exact instant when their identity penetrated the crowd’s consciousness. As a fresh gust billowed the banner of House Al’Seren—a black field emblazoned with a golden sun being dragged beneath a dune—a wave of recognition visibly passed through the onlookers.

The merriment didn’t stop, but it quieted and hardened into watchfulness. Mothers and fathers pulled playing children back from the water’s edge. Guards stationed along the docks shed their festive languor, their spines straightening into formality. A single figure, cloaked in navy and silver, broke from the crowd and moved with urgent purpose, his path a dark streak against the pale stone as he headed for the stairways leading up to the now visible fortress—a messenger, ensuring the Citadel would know of their landing before the mooring lines were even fastened.

“It begins,” Calis said beside him.

“‘It’?” Raelan asked.

Calis’s lips quirked in a dry half-smile. “Whatever purpose your father believes you are here to fulfill.”

Raelan didn’t respond, at least not aloud. The words lodged somewhere between his chest and spine, heavy enough that he felt their weight more than their meaning. Purpose. He had spent the entire crossing trying to unravel what shape that purpose might take—political negotiation, resource appeal, alliance mending—yet standing here, seeing Thornvale alive as a breathing body, the question quickly changed.

Their arrival wasn’t merely noticed. It was actively being interpreted.
Every stare from the shore carried meaning he couldn’t yet read.

A heavy rope struck the pier with a solid impact, jerking Raelan’s attention back to the moment. Dockworkers swiftly coiled and fastened the line, and the ship let out a long, wooden groan as it came to rest, as if exhaling after a long journey. Raelan’s fingers had only just relaxed their grip on the rail when the boarding ramp was lowered with a decisive clatter. In the very next breath, Saphira bolted past him. One hand was pressed firmly to her lips, the other arm windmilling for balance as she moved with the desperate speed of a prisoner sprinting for an open gate.

“Solid ground,” she gasped, the words tearing from her throat like a curse and a benediction fused. “Unmoving, blessed land.”

Miren followed hard on her heels with the resigned patience of someone who had been shadowing her for the entirety of the crossing, ready to catch her should she headbutt the mast or collapse dramatically against a coil of rope. All the while, she kept her body angled protectively between Saphira and the sailors hauling the final mooring lines taut. They hit the gangplank without hesitation, Saphira gripping the rail as if expecting gravity to betray her again. The moment her boots found unmoving stone, her entire posture shifted: her shoulders dropped, her spine loosened, and her eyes closed in a look of relief.

“Thank every steadfast god,” she breathed out, then twisted to glare at the ship behind her, adding with venom, “and curse all ships to the deepest hells.”

Miren leaned close, muttering words meant for Saphira alone, perhaps a reminder to breathe or a caution against voicing such sentiments too loudly. Saphira didn’t kneel to kiss the pier, though the impulse seemed to flicker across her face. Instead, she bent at the waist, bracing her hands on her knees as she gathered herself.

“That,” she announced to no one and everyone, “was the worst experience of my life, and I will never forgive the sea.”

Calis let out a choked sound that was, for him, equivalent to a roar of laughter while Raelan gave an understanding nod.

“And that,” he said, watching as Saphira straightened, inhaled sharply, and began braiding her hair with the ferocity of someone trying to regain their self-possession, “is one of the two reasons my Father sent me.”

Calis’s brows rose a fraction.

“Ah. Your strategy is to complete any negotiations before she attempts to gnaw on the princely heir, I take it?”

“My strategy,” Raelan corrected, his tone flat and certain, “is to help my father complete them before she attempts to gnaw on anyone.”

Raelan made his way down the gangplank with measured assurance, a man keenly aware that a single moment could define an entire mission, and that his sister possessed a talent for creating memorable, if not always prudent, first impressions. Ahead of him, Saphira secured the end of her braid with a final motion, and as she straightened, she was once again the picture of rigid composure. Only a faint ashen hue beneath her tan and the bright spots of colour high on her cheekbones betrayed the violent sickness that had held her in its grip just moments before.

“You lived. My compliments,” he said softly as he reached her side, the words meant for her ears alone.

“By the narrowest of margins,” Saphira replied through a tight smile, though her usual razor-edged lilt had fully returned to her words.

“Oh come now, you couldn’t drown in a puddle if it tried,” he replied. “We both know spite alone would keep you afloat.”

Her answering glare could have soured milk, but she said nothing as Calis approached. His features were arranged in a placid mask, but the keen intelligence in his eyes missed nothing.

“Lady Saphira,” he greeted with a polite incline of his head. “Your debut has certainly drawn a crowd.”

Saphira’s spine elongated. Any remaining trace of her physical distress vanished, consumed by the idea of being observed and assessed.

“As it should,” she responded, her voice now carrying a confident timbre.

It was then that Miren leaned in, her words a breath against Saphira’s ear.
“Your earring,” she whispered. “The right one is facing the wrong way.”

Saphira’s hand flew up to correct the gemstone with unconscious grace before she spoke once more.

“Shall we proceed?” she asked, her tone cool and clear. She presented her hand, palm upturned, a silent command for her brother’s arm. Raelan provided it without comment, ready to lead their party toward the town. Yet he had taken only a half-step when he realized her attention was not on the path ahead, but had been captured by the shimmering line where the river met the shore, studying the rhythmic way the water whispered over and receded from the smooth, pale rocks.

Saphira’s expression changed into a dangerous one, and Raelan knew that expression. Saints preserve him, he knew it.

“Oh, no,” he breathes, the words barely audible. “You’re plotting.”

Saphira didn’t look at him. “I am considering.”

“I fail to see how that is any better.”

With two purposeful strides, she drew him toward the riverbank. She let go of his arm and crossed her own, her posture shifting into that of a tactician surveying a map or a scholar pondering a difficult theorem.

“If this kingdom reveres water,” she mused, “would it not be prudent to… acknowledge it? A symbolic gesture of some kind?”

Raelan stared at her profile.

“You wish to baptize yourself in front of half the harbour?”

“Don't be absurd,” she hissed back. “Just my toes, I'm thinking. Or ankle. Possibly knee if the symbolism is exceptional.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment. “You’re inches away from licking the riverbank.”

Her gaze cut towards him, and her eyes narrowed. “I am not licking anything. I am merely contemplating diplomacy. There is a distinction.”

“A very small one.”

“A cultivated one.”

“It is not necessary.”

“It feels necessary. Besides, I am older and believe it to be a great idea. So there.”

Raelan ran a hand across his face. “Fine. If you insist on doing the ridiculous, at least let me escort you so you don’t fall in and begin our political assignment by drowning in five inches of water.”

“I cannot drown, or have you forgotten already?” Saphira answered with a haughty exhale that seemed to chill the air between them before once more placing her hand on his sleeve. Together, they left the firm planks of the dock for the water-worn stones leading down to the river. The temperature dropped noticeably with each step, the sun’s feeble warmth succumbing to the penetrating cold that radiated from the rushing water. Around them, the lively bankside scene resumed, playing out in intimate glimpses Raelan slowly took in: children shrieking in the shallows, a man with russet hair sitting with water wading up to his calves, groups conversing on the rocks. Raelan noted it all with a detached curiosity—these were not his people, and this particular vibrancy was not of his world. Still...a habit was a habit.

Saphira, for her part, appeared to see only obstacles.

“This will do,” she announced, selecting a relatively flat stone at a prudent distance from the nearest onlookers. She gathered her skirt in one hand with a motion so practiced it seemed second nature.

Raelan steadied her with the lightest pressure of his arm. “You know,” he stated, “there are less dramatic ways to demonstrate goodwill.”

Saphira paid him no mind, bending to work open the fastenings of her boot. She pulled it off, then carefully rolled down the fine stocking underneath, exposing a foot marked with faint red lines from the tight weave.

“This is not drama,” she said. “This is adaptation.”

“And where does one draw the line for you?”

“In drama, you suffer for effect,” she explained, straightening briefly to look at him. “In adaptation, you suffer for survival.” Her mouth quirked. “I much prefer the latter.”

Without further discussion, she raised her bare foot and lowered it into the current. The cold was an immediate, biting agony. It lanced up her leg and locked her joints, forcing a silent intake of breath. Her eyes flew open wide.

“…by the burning suns,” she whispered, voice strangled and thin. “That is not water. That is liquid winter.”

Raelan stifled a laugh. “Winter is not a liquid.”

“It is here,” she insisted, her fingers clamping onto his sleeve. Small, frantic waves radiated from where her foot breached the surface, betraying the tremor she was otherwise suppressing. “It freezes the very marrow.”

“And yet the local youth appear to thrive in it,” Raelan observed, nodding toward a burly man farther out who was cheerfully tossing a shrieking child into a deeper pool amid shouts of encouragement. “With, it seems, great enthusiasm.”

“They are accustomed to it,” Saphira observed, her attention lingering on the splashing figures. Or perhaps, Raelan noted, her attention had settled more specifically. He followed her line of sight back to the man with the child, observing his easy strength and uninhibited laughter. Raelan looked away before his study became obvious, gently steering his sister’s focus with a chastising comment about the impropriety of such fixed attention.

Another small wavelet crept higher around Saphira’s foot. This time, she did not flinch, though a telltale rigidity touched the line of her jaw. She exhaled, long and slow, letting her shoulders ease by a fraction. The Weave muttered around her, its current licking at skin that had only ever known desert wells and oases.

“This place venerates its river,” she murmured, her voice introspective. “They build their lives upon it. The Weave, the Bay… I’d wager every other landmark borrows its name. If we are to find our place within these stone walls, I would prefer to know what binds them.”

“The water,” Raelan supplied.

“The water,” she agreed. “And the collective trust of the people who live by its grace.”

With deliberate care, as if negotiating with a living thing, she withdrew her foot and placed it back upon the sun-warmed stone. She tended to her stocking and boot with the same fastidious attention she gave her jewels. When she rose, any sign of discomfort had been schooled into complete neutrality. To any observer, she might as well have been a traveller pausing to appreciate the view.

“Let me be perfectly clear before our return,” Saphira said in a confidential tone, her gaze lifting to the fortress looming above the town, “this little interlude never occurred.”

“What interlude would that be?” Raelan played along.

“A moment of weakness,” she replied crisply. Then, after a heartbeat, she conceded, “And a moment of information.”

Raelan inclined his head, accepting the compromise. “I will remember the latter and forget the former then.”

“And that,” Saphira said, looping her arm through his once more as they turned back toward the quay where the rest of the family now waited, “is why Father sent you.”

Raelan’s mind drifted back to the oppressive cliffs of the Vise, to stone that threatened to entomb and water that could both give life and snuff it out. He considered his sister’s act of testing the very element that had been her tormentor, and her unwavering resolve to confront a land so foreign it seemed designed to repel their very nature.

“No,” Raelan corrected, his voice soft yet firm. “That is precisely why he sent us.”

_{Location: The Docks (Present Day)
Interactions: Calis, Saphira
Mentions: Kaelan, Declan, Lei
#2f5e58...|...outfit}

Camp Athens - Closed

The transition from the bitter cold outside to the arena's interior was so abrupt it felt like stepping through a portal. One moment, Rae was bracing against the winter wind, and the next, she was enveloped by a soporific heat that clung to her skin like a second layer of clothing. A low thrum resonated in the air, the unmistakable signature of powerful magic at work, maintaining this pocket of artificial summer. Though the constant reliance on enchantment was a little unnerving, Rae had to admit it was a practical mercy. Freezing to death was now off the list of imminent concerns despite her innate abilities, leaving her to worry solely about the athletic trial ahead.

She followed Zelia up into the stands, finding a spot that gave them a clear view of the arena floor without sitting too close to anyone else. The benches were pleasantly warm beneath her when she sat, like they’d been sun-soaked for hours instead of iced over minutes ago. The black joggers and cropped hoodie suddenly felt like the right call, too. And she was still adjusting to the effects of this unreal warmth when River stepped out from the edge of the arena.

Up close, or at least closer than “camp-wide announcement over an intercom”, he looked… exactly like the kind of person who should be running a place like this and also like someone who desperately did not want a hundred sets of eyes on him. He walked toward the center, exhaled, and Rae felt her own stomach tighten in sympathy. Public speaking in front of a bunch of strangers with god-powers? That would have been a hard pass for her as well.

"Good morning, everyone. If it wasn't already obvious, I am River, your new leader… And son of Poseidon, if that matters."

Rae’s brows climbed, just a fraction. Son of Poseidon.
Right. So that was…kind of a big deal, no? What did it even mean to carry that lineage? To have the seas themselves as your inheritance, yet to stand before everyone looking so intensely uncomfortable? A sharp spike of gratitude shot through her; her own confusing encounter with her divine parent was more than enough. She couldn't imagine having that level of expectation placed on her shoulders.

She observed as he began to pace slowly along the length of the stands, a clipboard held loosely in one hand, his knuckles white where he gripped it. His gaze was carefully directed just above the sea of faces, skimming the tops of heads rather than making direct contact. Rae recognized the technique immediately. She’d employed the same strategy during school presentations, fixing her eyes on the clock at the back of the room to avoid seeing the expectant or, worse, bored faces of her classmates.

He clearly wasn't a natural performer, but he was pushing through it anyway. There was a quiet determination in his actions that made Rae sit up and pay closer attention as he continued his address. He spoke of a boy named Ajax, his late brother, and acknowledged the efforts of a young woman named Andy, his words painting tragic outlines of people and events she had yet to understand.

"Now that everyone has had time to recover from the horrors of Pandora’s Box, my focus is going to be on training, the original purpose for camp… Not parties every night or the Greek tragedy that was the Valis’s chokehold on this place."

Rae’s mouth pulled to one side.
Yeah, okay, so maybe arriving on New Year’s Eve had not been peak timing. The phrase parties every night made a few campers near the front trade looks, the kind that said they’d lived through that aforementioned era. Rae just filed the names she didn’t know away: Pandora’s Box. Valis. Ajax. Andy. Context she didn’t have yet to, of course, get sometime later.

"No one likes training, but it’s important," River continued, pacing slowly. "The world won’t forget you’re demigods just because you ignore it. We can’t stop things from happening, but I can help prepare you all, so if the time comes, you can defend yourselves."

Rae felt a traitorous shiver crawl up her spine despite the magically warm air. The world won’t forget you’re demigods. His wording was brutally matter-of-fact, stripping away any comforting pretense that danger was just a theory in this place. It was a guarantee. A countdown clock had started the moment each of them was born.

Her thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome, flew to the memory of Wes from the night before—specifically, to the space where his right arm should have been. She hadn't meant to stare when she’d first seen it, but her eyes couldn’t help but catch on the way his sleeve fell, limp and flat, against his side. There was a slight, unconscious adjustment in his balance with every movement made, as if his body was perpetually compensating for a weight it had learned was gone. He’d promised to tell her the story later, framing it as a casual anecdote to be delivered with a joke and a shrug. But sitting here now, with River’s grim pronouncements about Pandora’s Box and a world that wouldn’t forget, that promise felt less like a story and more like a premonition. It was a warning label on this entire world that she’d failed to read. Or, better yet, it was one that her father hadn’t even bothered to provide, along with that drawn map he’d given her. Instead, Hephaestus had shown her molten metal and impossible craft over kids coming back from this place with pieces of themselves missing. There was no brochure section labelled Potential Dismemberment: See Back For Details. Nothing.

River then went on to introduce the obstacle course to them and its purpose today, and Rae watched him move to the starting line, quietly deciding that “example” was a strong word for what was about to happen.

And her instinct was almost immediately proven correct.

By the time River cleared the last obstacle, clearing the water with room to spare and landing solid on the other side, he looked less like someone showing off and more like someone proving a point, to them all and to himself. I can do this. You’re safe with me in charge. The thought wasn’t spoken, but it might as well have been.

Rae finally dragged in a breath and leaned back a little, shoulders brushing lightly against Zelia’s.

“Okay,” she said under her breath, “So, he’s like, some comic book hero or something? Jeez.”

Her heart was still thudding too fast, but under the intimidation and the very real awareness of her own limits, something steadier curled up beside it: If that was who was training them… maybe she actually stood a chance. Her own goal for the day, however, remained decidedly humble: she just needed to get through her own attempt without becoming some kind of permanent meme.

After the first group navigated the course with a mix of triumph and struggle—Rae winced in sympathy as a slender girl with dark hair lost her footing and tumbled onto the floor below—Zelia’s name was called for the second wave. By the time Zelia finished a brief exchange with River and jogged back to her starting position, Rae was anxiously picking at a loose thread on her hoodie. Surely this would be straightforward for her, right? Zelia carried herself with a natural confidence that suggested she could handle anything.

The second Zelia stepped up to the tires, Rae’s brain quieted.

Her friend moved, not like River, who had torn through the course like a breeze, but with a kind of rhythm to her that made the whole thing look…weirdly fun. Her feet threaded through the tires in quick patterns without a hint of hesitation, like her legs had done this a thousand times in different configurations. There was a lift in her step, too, a bounce that made Rae think less “drill” and more “choreography.”

An involuntary smile touched Rae’s lips. Her worry had been entirely misplaced.

The next set of obstacles only reinforced the impression. Zelia didn't just overcome them; she engaged with them, turning a test of endurance into a display of personality. She cleared the first log with a smooth, vaulting motion, swung over the second with a cheeky, dismissive kick, and on the third, her footing betrayed her for a precarious moment. Rae’s breath seized in her chest—

—until a bright, unfiltered laugh burst from Zelia, and she twisted the near-fall into forward momentum, making the recovery look like part of a planned routine.

Rae released a quiet sigh of relief. Somewhere deep in her chest, a warm sense of pride bloomed as she kept her eyes locked on her friend. That was when she noticed the subtle shift as Zelia approached the pool. The change in her posture was minor, but unmistakable to anyone watching closely. And Rae was watching very closely.

She’s afraid of the water, Rae understood with sudden clarity. That unshakeable confidence had suddenly iced over.

But then Zelia pivoted and took off along the side, and Rae’s admiration rewired itself into something steadier.

Suicides were brutal. Rae knew that much from the mandatory gym class hell years. Watching them from above, though, tracing the back-and-forth, back-and-forth along the length of the water, she could see what it was doing to the other girl—face heating, breaths chopping shorter, shirt sticking between her shoulder blades. Still, Zelia’s form stayed clean, her feet pushing off with that track-bred snap, arms driving even when the fatigue started to creep in. On one turn, Rae caught the tiniest hitch in her stride, Zelia powering through it with cheeks flushed and eyes fixed somewhere just ahead of her own feet.

A peculiar warmth coiled in Rae’s chest.

Feed the storm, she remembered Zelia saying over breakfast, and apparently, she hadn’t been exaggerating.

The log ladder looked like the point where a normal person would fold, and yet Zelia hit it like she’d been waiting for the next test. And if River had climbed like a soldier, Zelia climbed like someone refusing to let gravity have the last word. Every grab-hoist-plant-rise sequence made Rae’s shoulders ache in phantom protest.

“You’ve got this, Zee,” she whispered under her breath, testing the casual nickname Zelia had offered. The word felt both foreign and comforting on her tongue. (They were friends now, right? This seemed like a friend-thing to do.)

At the top, Zelia rolled over, vanished for a heartbeat, then popped into view on the descent, skipping rungs where she dared, feet thudding a quick pattern down toward the ground. When her feet finally met the earth, Rae unclenched her jaw, becoming aware of the half-moon marks her fingernails had pressed into her palm.

One more challenge.

Having seen River make it look trivial, Rae now watched Zelia’s attempt with a knotted stomach. This didn’t feel like a foregone conclusion; it felt like a gamble, and Rae was desperately invested in the outcome.

Zelia swiped a damp strand of hair from her forehead with her wrist, drew a deep breath, and launched into a final, all-out sprint. For one breathtaking second, she was suspended in the air, silhouetted against the bright light of the arena, her body stretched in a perfect, horizontal line. Rae’s stomach lurched into her throat, a visceral sensation of shared flight and terror.

Then, the satisfying crunch of soles hitting dry ground. Zelia landed with a forward skid, her balance wavering for a step before she caught herself, a giddy laugh escaping as she remained firmly on her feet.

A huge, relieved sigh escaped Rae. The nervous tension that had gripped her own body dissolved, replaced by a giddy, effervescent energy.

When Zelia stood tall and shot a victorious thumbs-up toward the stands, Rae acted without thinking. She cupped her hands around her mouth, her voice cutting clear across the space before shyness could intervene.

“Let’s go, lightning legs!”

A few heads turned. Rae absolutely pretended not to notice, dropping her hands and schooling her face into something less proud than she felt. Heat climbed her ears again, but she didn’t take it back. Her gaze, instead, tracked the flush on Zelia’s cheeks, the way her chest heaved, the bright, wild look in her eyes. Rae felt a little jolt of something like…secondhand victory. Pride tangled with a prickle of intimidation.

Because now she knew exactly what River’s “baseline” looked like.

And what Zelia’s “I can’t swim, but watch me do everything else” looked like.

And somewhere, not too far from where her anxiety was already cataloguing every way this could go wrong, another thought lodged stubbornly in place:

Okay. So that’s where their bars are. I don’t need to match it. I just need to get through it. One obstacle at a time. Tires first. Don’t die. Try not to throw up. Simple….right?

When River called the next group forward, Rae’s name hung in the air. She drew a sharp breath, forced her shoulders back, and commanded her legs to move. Leaving the safety of the bleachers, she cast one last glance at Zelia’s glowing, triumphant face. At least, she told herself, when she inevitably became a spectacle of clumsiness, Zelia would be there at the finish, probably still smiling.

This small comfort, however, did nothing to brace her for the unmitigated disaster that was about to unfold. Not even remotely.

River lifted his hand, and Rae stepped up to the starting line. Her stomach was a restless knot of dread, excitement, and the stupid hope that maybe adrenaline would carry her further than her actual skill level could.

That hope died about three seconds later.

The starting signal seemed to short-circuit her brain. She lurched into the first set of tires with frantic, uncoordinated panic, making it through a grand total of four before her limbs staged a mutiny. Her left foot slid out, her right foot tangled in response, and she pitched forward into a windmilling stagger that barely kept her upright. So, by comparison, she looked less like an athlete and more like a newborn giraffe on a skating rink already.

“This might be the worst,” she muttered, breath puffing out. She hated this so much. By the time she stumbled out of the tire section, her lungs were screaming in protest, and she hadn't even encountered a single substantive obstacle yet.

The horizontal logs were an immediate disaster as Rae tripped over the first, climbed over the second like a confused woodland creature, and half-slid down the third on her stomach. The low crawl under the net, she decided later, was a comparative success, though. Her elbows kept sinking treacherously into the loose sand, but she set her jaw and shoved herself forward, her shoulders ablaze and her abdominal muscles quivering with the strain. When she finally hauled herself out of the trench, she was blanketed in grit, dripping with sweat, and mildly astonished that her arms hadn’t simply detached from her body along the way.

She headed to the rope climb section, wiping her palms on her pants the same way River had, except her hands were shaking so badly that it was just basically smearing dirt around. She grabbed the rope, jumped, and instantly realized why this obstacle had made a few people hesitate. Her arms shook violently. Her grip felt slippery and weak. She managed two pathetic, scrambling pulls before her legs failed to lock around the rope, leaving her dangling helplessly, spinning in a slow, pathetic circle like some forgotten piñata.

She tried again. And again. Until River’s voice, firm but not unkind, cut through her struggle, instructing her to move forward. And somehow, on legs that felt like water, Rae obeyed, muttering a mortified “thanks” without looking up.

The rope bridge swayed madly with her first step, nearly bucking her off. The rope swing that followed was less a swing and more a desperate, wobbling collision course with the far ledge, which she hit with a jarring thud that rattled her teeth. Then came the balance beams. Three wooden spans: up, across, and down. Setting foot on the incline, her body immediately listed sideways, her arms pinwheeling. Each step was a precarious negotiation. By the midpoint, she was sweating anew, her sense of balance utterly extinct. The flat section brought a misstep and a yelp, while the decline tempted a reckless, disastrous sprint that ended with her stumbling into the dirt in a humiliating puff of dust.

Rae remained hunched over, hands braced on her knees, drawing ragged breaths. The threat of tears or nausea was acute, but she fought both down fiercely. She’d already seen one camper succumb to that particular humiliation. She didn’t need to draw any more attention to herself than she undoubtedly already had, she decided.

The pool, when she reached it, thankfully offered a moment of respite in answer to this decision. While no champion swimmer, Rae was at least competent in the water. The simple act of crossing it felt almost peaceful compared to the fiasco on solid ground, and for a few strokes, she wasn’t embarrassing herself for once.

This minor reprieve evaporated the second she hauled herself out and faced the final towering structure: the log ladder.

It was immense. Daunting. An architectural insult.
She was utterly spent.
Every muscle screamed in unified protest.
Her arms felt like boneless appendages.

But Rae made herself grab the lowest rung anyway because what else were you supposed to do when someone you didn’t know was cheering you on at the end of this whole thing?

She hauled upward.
A raw, grunting sound tore from her.
She somehow scrambled a knee onto the wood.

Each rung was a brutal campaign. She climbed with the sluggish desperation of a wounded animal. In her frantic struggle, she kneed herself hard in the stomach, the jolt of pain making her slip. She arrested her fall only by jamming her elbow into the rough wood, pain lancing up to her shoulder. At the top, there was no graceful roll. She simply flopped over the beam like a sack of grain.

Getting down was its own fresh hell. Rae hugged the structure, bracing her whole trembling body against each log and sliding down in graceless, jerking increments. By the time her feet touched the ground, her limbs were practically vibrating with a life of their own.

One last thing stood between her and the finish line, yet for Rae, it was merely the final chance for disappointment she told herself.

She ran toward the pool, pushed off—

And didn’t clear it, landing right on the edge with one foot, slipping down the slope, and ending up in the shallowest corner of the water with the saddest splash known to humankind.

“Perfect,” she mumbled through a mouthful of damp hair, hauling herself out to a smattering of applause that felt hollow and distant. But she had crossed the line. On legs that could barely support her. With lungs that felt shredded and raw. That at least she could say she’d managed.

In the end, she stood there as a living monument to humiliation: caked in dirt, sand, and chlorinated water, her face blazing with shame. A ragged hitch caught her breath. Her eyes stung with a heat she couldn’t blink away. She swallowed hard, trying and failing to lift her chin, battling to keep the violent tremor in her chest from breaking loose for all to see.

But they had seen it all. Every fumble, every stumble, every moment of pure struggle. They had all borne witness as Rae finished in undeniable, uncontested last place.

---

_{Location: Arena
Interactions: Zelia, River
Mentions: Andy, Wes, Blair, Nelly}

^{#3b9ae1...|...outfit}

Camp Athens - Closed

Maylisse did not bother pretending to be surprised that he was late by his own standards. It was a calculated choice on his part, really.

He could have started at 8:30 on the dot, and she knew this because she knew their father; punctuality with a side of intimidation was exactly how Poseidon preferred an entrance to be made. So when River hesitated, allowing a full sixty seconds to slip past the deadline as if granting a reprieve to a classroom of children, she recognized it for what it truly was: a quiet rebellion, and in her eyes, a fundamental error in judgment.

She occupied a seat on the lower bench, the morning sun already heating the bench beneath her. Her posture was a study in composed elegance, legs folded at the ankles and hands resting lightly one over the other. While her position offered a comprehensive view of the entire training ground, including the rugged obstacle course and the sun-baked earth of the arena, her focus remained exclusively on one person. Him. Her brother.

He finally emerged into the center of the open space, clutching a clipboard like a lifeline he hoped no one would notice he needed. The sharp, repetitive clack, clack, clack of his fingers drumming against its back made the fine muscles along her jawline tighten.

He was nervous.

The realization was a cold stone in her gut. Amid all the personas he could have adopted—commanding, self-assured, even casually indifferent—he had instead revealed the most disqualifying one of all. This was not the moment for self-doubt, however, not with the entire camp's attention fixed upon him, and most certainly not with the spectral pressure of their father's judgment potentially looming over the day's proceedings.

No matter.... The show must go on.

“Good morning, everyone,” he began, his voice carrying across the hushed space. “If it wasn't already obvious, I am River, your new leader… And son of Poseidon, if that matters.”

If that matters? What in the bloody hell does that mean? Maylisse thought, her lips parting in the barest ghost of an exhale. That single clause lodged beneath her skin like a splinter. It was as though his parentage were incidental to him.

As River began to pace the length of the stands, her gaze tracked him with the detached interest of someone assessing a piece of disputed property. His movements were controlled, his shoulders squared, but she saw the tension riding his frame like an undercurrent.

“Per my father’s orders, I’m here to help get camp back on track….” The official wording was a diplomatic shield, Maylisse was sure. The unsentimental truth from the God of the Seas was undoubtedly more severe: Your incompetence has become tedious. As for the second part of his statement, Maylisse hadn’t known the dead brother, not properly, but she knew enough to conclude that he was nothing more than a cautionary tale for them both.

River continued to speak, and Maylisse absorbed his words in long, unbroken lines, the way one listens to the tide. Some moments hit harder than others, like the way he credited the girl, Andy, for rebuilding in a way that both surprised her but also didn’t. He was clearly trying to lead with humanity instead of force. With transparency instead of pressure. With a tone that asked to be heard instead of demanding it from the subordinates listening in.

She also knew very well that Poseidon would have hated it.

Maylisse, however, had not yet decided how to feel herself. Not truly.

In their father’s doctrine, empathy was a critical weakness, a design flaw to be engineered out of any potential ruler. Maylisse’s own beliefs were not so rigidly defined, yet the stark contrast between that divine philosophy and River’s gentle approach sent a crawling unease through her. From her upbringing, she knew that true authority and genuine warmth were incompatible forces; the former would always, inevitably, snuff out the latter. So, River’s endeavour seemed less a leadership style and more a futile attempt to calm a tempest by reasoning with it. And she knew very well that there was no reasoning with her father.

She watched River cross the arena alone, his downturned head a posture she knew intimately. The defensive hunch of his shoulders, the cyclical grip on the clipboard—clenching, relaxing, then clenching again—were silent admissions of a strain she understood all too well. Her own posture did not relent, but the quality of her observation altered. It wasn't sympathy, an emotion she considered worthless. It was something closer to… a profound and unsettling acknowledgment. She saw the weight of the title he now bore. She felt the shared inheritance of their bloodline. She recognized the constant, unseen force guiding their steps, a pressure that had dictated the course of both their lives.

He was here to establish his worth.
She was here to decide if he had any.
And in the deep quiet where her connection to the sea thrived, a cold truth resurfaced and drew breath:

If he fails, Poseidon will blame us both.
If he triumphs, Poseidon will credit no one.
Either way… I cannot look away.

So she didn’t. Maylisse did not even blink as River stripped off his shirt.

A ripple of reaction went through the other spectators, a mix of open stares, muffled laughter, and the eager leaning forward of an audience anticipating a free show. Maylisse, by comparison, didn’t even flinch. Having been raised among both the refined elite of London and relentlessly driven athletes, a bare torso was as noteworthy as a piece of furniture to her.

From the instant his feet met the first obstacle, her mind became a ledger of his every move. His knees drove high, his placement on the tires was secure, his rhythm consistent. The polished nature of his form was an irritant that felt peculiarly directed at her. She was hunting for flaws—for a misstep, a moment of doubt, any crack in his composure that would confirm the heavy suspicion she carried: that their father’s judgment had been flawed. That this sibling was unworthy of the role, let alone the divine legacy it symbolized.

But River kept clearing the hurdles. Even the half-mount on the fourth log for the subsequent obstacle was correct. He nearly clipped on the third, though.

Maylisse’s lip twitched. There it is.

But he recovered. Every damn time, he recovered.

By the time River retrieved his abandoned shirt and made the walk back toward Andy, dripping and breathless, Maylisse realized she had not looked away once. She watched him wipe his brow with the shirt, watched the way his chest rose and fell, watched how he didn’t smirk, didn’t look for cheers or validation, and just nodded at Andy like a man who had simply done what needed doing. She exhaled slowly, controlling her diaphragm until not a single tremor touched her posture.

He had performed admirably.
Exceptionally so.

And a part of her felt a needle-like resentment at the fact.

"You have 15 minutes to complete the course—" River paused, drawing a deep lungful of air in an obvious attempt to steady his breathing and find his voice. "—Because this is an assessment, there will be no skipping obstacles, no cheating, no powers, and no helping each other. Break any of the rules, and it is an automatic failure." Her eyes followed as he scanned his notes a final time before giving a decisive nod. "Alright then. You’ll run the course in groups of five.” Then he called the first names:

“First up is Sloane, Sylas, Nate—”

The first three names washed over her, meaningless background static. But then—

“Maylisse—”

A heavy thump echoed against her ribcage, a jarring and involuntary spike of adrenaline that felt like a betrayal by her own body. She crushed the sensation instantly, smothering it beneath a lifetime of imposed discipline—a reflex honed by years of exacting tutors and demanding instructors who valued ironclad self-mastery above all else.

In one seamless motion, Maylisse rose to her feet. She placed the coat she had been holding onto the bench and stepped neatly out of the row. Her progression toward the starting line was a study in unruffled grace, and once there, she squared her shoulders, bypassing any warm-up stretches as such preparations were for those who doubted their own capabilities. Instead, she took one steadying breath and let her eyes trace the path to the course’s finish.

Fifteen minutes. Ten obstacles. No powers. No help. No failure.

River raised his hand and brought it down, signalling them to start.

Maylisse propelled herself into motion, not with a burst of raw power like Andy or the aggressive drive of Stilts the Sod, but with the ingrained efficiency of one whose every gesture had been refined by critical eyes. Her footfalls landed in the center of each tire with a metronomic precision, and there was no hesitation in her pace. Yet, despite her control, she couldn't match the innate, spring-loaded grace of the other woman, who flowed through the sequence as if by second nature.

Her stature provided a distinct advantage on the log hurdles, offering a cleaner line than Andy's more compact frame could manage. She cleared the first two barriers with an almost disdainful ease. However, by the third obstacle, a subtle deficiency in her conditioning became apparent. Though she mimicked River's technique—palms planting, legs swinging up—the movement cost her a fraction of a second. The heavy thud of Stilts landing on the next log ahead of her sent a jolt of irritation through her system. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself forward, springing across the fourth and fifth logs as if they were mere stepping stones, but Andy remained several strides in the lead.

Any expectation that the low crawl would shift the dynamic was quickly dismissed. The instant her skin made contact with the coarse, abrasive sand, a wave of visceral distaste washed over Maylisse. Her upbringing had been a dual curriculum: the polished arts of poise and elegance from London, and the terrifying disciplines of power and dominion from her father. Nowhere in either syllabus was there a module on scrambling on all fours through what might as well be filth. Yet, she committed her body to the task without reservation, overriding her revulsion with sheer force of will. She drove herself forward, her elbows digging and pulling through the loose earth. Her movements were rigid compared to the natural flow of her competitors, but the force of her intent was undeniable. The utter lack of dignity was a petty concern at this point. She would be witnessed giving a flawless effort, even in something so debasing.

It was then that a more analytical part of her consciousness stirred from its slumber: the dispassionate tactician.

She glanced ahead, eyes narrowing on the two figures currently carving a lead.

Andy, hugging the ground, moved with an instinctual efficiency that spoke of a lifetime of drills. Stilts, all lanky limbs and competitive fury, relied on raw power, his passage gouging a deep furrow in the sand.

A faint, scornful curve appeared on Maylisse’s mouth.

Of course, they’re ahead. The bloke’s an offensively tall walking ladder, and the bird looks like she practically grew up in a boot camp instead of a home.

As for the two behind her, she spared not a single thought. Why would she? They weren’t threats. They weren’t even variables. They were filler, mere background bodies meant to fail quietly while she took her rightful place near the top where she naturally belonged. Even if, for the moment, that position was just behind the leaders she so despised.

Maylisse pushed herself upright, the coarse grit falling from her palms in a taunting shower. The crawl had stolen more precious time than she had allotted for, and a hot frustration began to burn behind her sternum. Andy was already at the rope, her hands finding their hold, while Stilts was right beside her, his height an unfair advantage and his expression radiating a smug, obstinate confidence.

When Maylisse’s fingers finally closed around the rough, heavy cord, a bolt of undiluted fury electrified her blood. She seized the rope with more force than finesse, her hands clamping down in a grip meant to punish the fibres for daring to carry someone else upward before her. It was a mistake. She knew that instantly. Momentum requires rhythm. Climbing requires technique. But in that moment, she was not operating on logic; she was reacting from a place of wounded arrogance. She jumped, her muscles tightening as she secured the rope between her feet in a clumsy imitation of River’s earlier demonstration. She possessed the intellect to replicate the motions, but she could not summon the essential calm. The discipline was absent. The patience, nonexistent.

Her climb was therefore a burst of raw power, but it was messy and exhausting.

Her shoulders burned too soon. Her hands slipped twice (not enough to cost her the climb but enough to make her clench her jaw). When she finally reached the top, she descended with a jarring impact, her shoes meeting the packed earth with a force that travelled unpleasantly up her legs. She swallowed the sensation, along with a chaser of pure chagrin.

Andy had already moved on, Stilts a handful of steps ahead.

Maylisse threw herself forward in pursuit.

The rope-net bridge offered her a momentary reprieve. Balance came naturally to her with her sleek, controlled movements that mirrored how she walked polished marble floors without ever allowing her mother to hear her footsteps. She crossed swiftly, lightly, as though the ground beneath her was solid stone and not shifting rope-knots that wanted to tangle her ankles. She even gained a sliver of ground when Stilts, the overgrown git, stumbled at the exit platform, his big frame too unwieldy for the delicate transition.

This minor victory, however, was instantly erased.

The rope swing awaited, and Andy hit hers seamlessly, catching the rope at just the right moment of sway and launching off with a momentum born of experience.

Maylisse, by contrast, seized her rope as if it were a rival. Her launch was powerful but poorly angled, resulting in an awkward, stumbling landing that forced her to wrench her body back into alignment. By the time she had recovered, Andy was already advancing toward the balance beams, Stilts closing in behind her.

At that point, Andy had already reached the balance beams. Maylisse jogged after her, breath steady but pulsing with anger. The beams rose before her like three thin insults. She approached the incline without hesitation, her arms spreading lightly at her sides, posture elegant even now. The beams required control. She had that.

But what she didn’t have was patience.

She stepped too quickly onto the final downward beam, her foot slipping for a fraction of a second. She corrected immediately, her body snapping back into equilibrium, but she felt it. She felt the vulnerability of the moment.

Focus, she snapped internally. You’re way better than this.

And then she reached salvation.

The pool.

The moment Maylisse’s feet left the ground and her body sliced into the water, everything changed. The world above her, full of noise, expectation, and the irritating scrape of competition, fell away in a clean, blue silence. The pain in her arms dissolved into nothing. The burn in her legs didn’t vanish, but it transformed into something more soothing. Her lungs, tight with exertion and pride, eased open like a tide withdrawing from the shore.

Here, in the embrace of the water, the titles that chained her above held no power.
She was no longer a daughter of the Beaumont name.
She was not a demigod performing for a god's approval.
The exhausting mask of perfection could finally be discarded.

Here, every movement was inherently just…right.

The water did not simply surround her; it recognized her. It moved with her, a familiar force coaxing her limbs into powerful, fluid arcs and streamlining her body into a purposeful line. She moved not through the water but with it, her form elongating into a seamless and effortless glide.

For the first time that day, a genuine and untouchable power coursed through her. The others could possess their land-bound strength and practiced skill. But this domain, this buoyant world, was her exclusive sanctuary.

Maylisse emerged from the pool in one powerful motion. Her hands found the ledge, and she lifted herself from the water with an ease that had been absent on land. Liquid streamed from her in silvery sheets, as if the pool itself were reluctant to let her go. But the moment her soles met the packed earth, the spell was broken. The din of the camp and the weight of the contest came crashing back.

But with it came a crystalline clarity.

Winning this race was insignificant.
Her final position was irrelevant.
Even the ever-present, critical voice of her father in her mind, which always demanded absolute supremacy, seemed to fade into a faint echo, dampened by the memory of the water that still beaded on her skin.

You are not here to win.
You are here to observe.

The thought slid in with the same calmness the water had gifted her.
River was the mission.
River’s performance, River’s decisions, River’s strange, human attempt at leadership—that was what she was here to measure.

She wasn’t here to outrun a military brat.
She wasn’t here to embarrass a walking telephone pole with clear anger issues.
She wasn’t here to prove her bloodline.

And so the final obstacles passed in a state of detached focus. Maylisse moved with a newfound economy, her actions precise and devoid of the frantic energy that had plagued her earlier. She no longer fought for position or prestige, her objective having shifted entirely. At the long jump, she paused for only a moment, drawing a calm breath and settling her weight before launching into a flawless arc over the pit. She landed with a controlled impact, her body decelerating gracefully until she came to a full and deliberate stop.

A single breath escaped her lips. Without a backward glance at the other participants still struggling through the course, she turned to leave the field. Their progress was now irrelevant; their final standings held no interest for her. In her mind, her part in this spectacle was conclusively over.

But then, the atmosphere behind her altered just enough for her to pick up on it. A gradual temperature rise. A shift in pressure so subtle most wouldn’t notice, but she felt it the way a violin string feels a plucked note in the same room. A soft, coaxing warmth gathered at her back, gentle and meant to comfort.

River was drying her.
Of course he was.
He’d done it for everyone else, quietly, unobtrusively, as if kindness could be dispersed like mist. She wondered if he even fully realized when he used his abilities, or if it simply poured out of him by instinct, the way some people breathed.

But the problem was simple: His power was reaching for hers. This water belonged to her.

Maylisse raised her hand without even turning around, a preemptive command that halted his influence before it could touch her. Her fingers parted slightly, establishing a definitive boundary. Then, with a thought, she drew the moisture from her own garments. The water lifted from the fabric in a shimmering curtain, hanging for a moment in the air as a constellation of perfect, glittering spheres. With a sighing hiss, they flashed into steam, leaving a light, transient cloud that dissolved in the sunlight.

The air grew still once more, the connection between their abilities cleanly severed.

Only then did she glance back, a minimal turn of her head that offered the barest profile and the ghost of a smile.

“That’s not necessary, love,” she said, her voice a masterclass in layered intent: courteous in its melody, yet absolute in its finality. She paused, allowing the silence to stretch for a beat before adding the slightest concession.

“But… thanks.”

Then, she turned before he could respond, not a hair nor a breath out of place.

---

_{Location: Arena
Interactions: River
Mentions: Andy, Sylas, Sloane, Nate}

^{#a9c9eb...|...outfit}

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

Got it. Your tone makes more sense now. Just understand that my comment was never defending the trope you’re mocking, only pointing out that your reply assumed I’d made an argument I didn’t make. I clarified my meaning, you clarified yours. That’s about all there is to it for me.

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

<Snipped quote by Qia>

I need help understanding how confronting and mocking this pattern of behavior, per the conceit of this thread, is actually endorsing and perpetuating it.

@TokyoPewPew

The issue isn’t that you’re mocking the trope. That part is completely fair. It’s that "Aladdinland" also flattens Middle Eastern inspiration into a punchline while accusing others of doing that exact thing. That’s what I was responding to. You weren’t endorsing the trope, but the phrasing definitely leaned into the same reduction, which is why your reading of my comment felt like a big double standard.

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

Woof. Thank goodness you're just playing devil's advocate, else the insinuation that race is merely an "aesthetic" and not "how characters are written" would have been insidious as fuck 🙏

@TokyoPewPew

Except that would have been a complete misunderstanding of what I stated and, better yet,a little condescending tbh. No where do I say that race is just an aesthetic . I also find it a little ironic tbh considering in your original post you're the one that seems to treat race as an aesthetic with the whole "Aladdinland" bs, which literally reduces being Middle Eastern to an aesthetic fyi. So the moral grandstanding is a bit too rich here.

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

That trope can definitely be frustrating, especially when it’s done without research or care. Though sometimes in collaborative RPs, to play devil’s advocate a little, is that the distribution of cultures ends up uneven simply because people are going to gravitate toward what they personally enjoy writing, not because the GM wants a token desert culture or anything like that.

Plus, most people here are writing as a side hobby. Not everyone feels confident portraying cultures outside their own in detail, and forcing it can lead to worse outcomes, like shallow caricatures or stereotypes. Personally, I’d rather players write what they understand and enjoy than feel pressured into hitting some kind of diversity quota for a small RP group.

And honestly, in a lot of cases, I think it’s more important for the focus to be on how characters are written, not what race they are. A ton of work can go into personality, politics, relationships, lore, flaws, motivations, i.e. the things that make characters feel real. The faceclaim or cultural aesthetic is just one piece of that, not the substance, I would argue.

At the end of the day, this is supposed to be fun. A few writers choosing similar aesthetics doesn’t automatically mean the worldbuilding lacks depth. All it usually just means is that a handful of people happened to share tastes at the same time.

Reign of the Usurper

The world had become a pendulum of gray and blue, a ceaseless, nauseating sway that hurled the vessel toward the clouds before plunging it into watery valleys. This eternal motion had broken the spirit of many seasoned sailors already, who now hunched over the sides or clung to whatever solid object they could find, their complexions pale. A damp, penetrating cold rode the air, leaving a persistent taste of salt on Saphira’s tongue and turning her unbound hair into a heavy load atop her head—a far cry from the sun-bleached, light strands she knew from home.

She categorically refused, however, to join the ranks of the miserable.

A single, telltale shudder, one gasp for steadying air, and Zahara’s perceptive eyes would be upon her. That look—a delicate blend of pity and compassion that silently declared I see your struggle—was a humiliation Saphira would not endure. She would rather fling herself overboard into the deep abyss than grant her sister that moment of superior sympathy. For her, this was more than mere vanity; it was an article of faith in their long-standing rivalry. A pact cemented by twenty-six years of identical education, constant comparison, and recited devotions to deities whose hymns Saphira had always fumbled.

And so Saphira stood tall as if the ocean itself were bowing to her instead of tossing her around like a loose grain sack. She concentrated on ignoring the violent lurching in her gut. She fought the primal urge in her fingers to clutch the ship’s rail for support. Above all, she feigned deafness to the soft, melodic humming that drifted from behind her, a traditional desert tune Zahara employed because she had, naturally, already achieved perfect harmony with the vessel’s movements. Zahara always mastered things first. Poise. Composure. Their father’s esteem. And yes, it was utterly exasperating.

“The Vise draws near,” Zahara murmured, gliding to the railing as if borne by the mist itself. Her voice was a serene counterpoint to the ship’s creaks and the wind’s moan, threaded with that maddening note of reverence she reserved for things she deemed spiritually significant. “Local legend describes it as the mountain taking a bite out of the world. They say the stone itself decides which vessels are worthy to pass and which are not.”

The gale played with the hem of Zahara's desert robes, the earth-toned fabric wrapping and flowing around her figure like a second skin. Even here, surrounded by the harshness of the sea, she appeared ethereal as if she’d stepped from a stained-glass window. Her hood was draped gracefully over her dark hair, a polished gold band encircled her upper arm, and a woven belt elegantly defined her waist, arranging the garments into perfect, harmonious lines.

Saphira, by contrast, wore travel attire suited for someone who preferred to plant her feet on solid ground. Her cream tunic was belted tight at the waist, long enough to fall over fitted riding trousers tucked into scuffed leather boots. Clothes made not for ceremony but for movement and defence.

The sight of her sister, untouched by wind or wave, sparked a fresh wave of irritation that Saphira barely suppressed.

“What an inviting prospect,” Saphira said, arms folding. “A kingdom chiselled from the world’s most unforgiving rockfaces. I wonder if they provide maps charting all the scenic overlooks suitable for a fatal plunge, hmm?”

Zahara’s mouth lifted at the corners into that patient smile that never failed to make Saphira feel like an entertainer rather than a critic. It was a look that dismissed her very valid anxieties as charming theatrics. She had pored over every travel log and merchant account she could find, and they all agreed: the geography of Thornvale was its most efficient executioner. More lives were lost to misplaced steps and sudden rockfalls than in any recorded war. Pathways carved into the mountainsides could vanish in an instant, transformed into scree and dust without a whisper of warning. Tempests, brewed in the icy heights, descended with a violence that could splinter whole forests, and the great slides of snow and stone were discussed by locals with the casual annoyance one might reserve for a sudden downpour.

This understanding was not born from ignorance of threat either. On the contrary, Saphira’s childhood had been a masterclass in survival within the stark and beautiful arena of the desert. There, peril was direct. A coming sandstorm would paint the sky a furious, swirling orange hours before it arrived. The killing heat made itself known through waves of distortion rising from the ground. A viper would signal its displeasure with a clear, dry rattle. So, the hazards of the sand were, in their own way, honourable. They showed you their face before they struck.

But these cliffs…these mountains…
They were deceivers despite their obvious towering height.
They masqueraded as pillars of permanence, their stony faces promising solidity, only to betray a traveller the moment their footing grew too confident. The mountains did not hiss or rattle warnings. They simply let you fall.

Saphira observed the dark outlines growing ever more dominant against the sky, a tight dread winding itself around her core. This was a sensation she would deny until her last breath. Without question.

Still, the instinctual retreat of her heels from the ship’s edge was a betrayal her body would not conceal. Zahara’s glance was immediate, her awareness as keen as the cliffs they approached.

“Your worries are misplaced,” her sister murmured, the words almost lost in the wind. “The people of Thornvale have been shepherding ships through this passage for generations.”

“So I’ve read,” Saphira retorted, her voice flat. “They keep soldiers stationed in those high perches, prepared to lower a great linked barrier across the waterway should any captain offend their delicate sensibilities. Truly a heartwarming welcome.”

“It is mere precaution, Saphi, not a provocation.”

“It is both,” Saphira countered, her fingers whitening as they gripped the rail against another nauseating lift and fall of the deck. “A kingdom that uses the very landscape as its fortifications clearly has a habit of hiding behind them. Don’t you think so?”

“My personal opinion is irrelevant,” Zahara reminded her, her gentleness itself a kind of weapon. “We are here at their invitation.”

“I am acutely aware of that. Which is exactly why I plan to disembark with every shred of my dignity preserved.”

“You are referring to your pride.”

“The distinction is meaningless.”

Zahara released an airy laugh, a sound that was perfectly serene and entirely maddening.

Saphira pointedly looked away. Or made a show of doing so.

A sudden blast of wind caught the sails above, the heavy canvas cracking like a whip and sending a frantic dance of shadows skittering across the deck. The last of the coastal haze melted away, fully revealing the two immense faces of rock that curved toward each other like the pincers of some primordial creature. Their dark, wet stone seemed to swallow the light, squeezing the wide waterway into a slender, foaming channel that promised nothing but peril.

This was the entrance the sailors feared. The Vise.

Steel glinted faintly high on the stone walls where watch-fires and signal mirrors would be set. Saphira could almost picture the archers tucked behind arrow slits, their eyes tracking the ship’s progress, calculating the perfect moment for a lethal rain. Thornvale’s greatest boast was its ability to seal the Valley of Kings from any invasion, by land or sea. It was an admirable defence, to be certain, in the same way a scorpion’s sting was admirably efficient.

Zahara shifted beside her, her form relaxed against the ship’s motion, every strand of her dark hair perfectly contained. She wore that introspective look that the temple elders always called ‘devotional,’ a mask of pure, untroubled grace. “You use mockery as a shield against what frightens you,” she observed, her tone not unkind. “It has always been your way.”

For a long moment, the only sounds were the lonely shrieks of seabirds, the relentless wash of waves against the bow, and the deep, aching complaints of the vessel as the current seized it, drawing it inexorably forward. Then, an unexpected warmth enveloped Saphira’s hand. Zahara’s fingers slipped between her own, their grip both firm and familiar.

The contact was so sudden, so unasked for, that Saphira’s entire body tensed with the urge to recoil. Every instinct screamed to retreat behind the high, cold walls they had built between them—walls made from a lifetime of strict tradition, suffocating expectations, and a thousand whispered criticisms that she knew, in her heart, still festered. The memory of one, in particular, a cruel and unforgivable betrayal in her mind, rose like a ghost.

And yet… her hand remained.

The simple act felt like a key turning in a long-locked door. It did not feel like a gesture that belonged to the women they were now, but to the children they had been. Two girls stealing away to the oasis, fingers linked for courage as they navigated the starlit darkness, long before the heavy titles of heir and duty and political bride had shaped their destinies.

“We will be fine,” Zahara whispered, her voice a low counterpoint to the groaning of the ship. “We have endured far more frightening things than a simple passage of stone.”

“Have we?” Saphira asked, eyes fixed on the approaching cliffs. “As I recall, we have no prior experience with being presented to a foreign court like a pair of jewelled birds brought to amuse a king.”

Zahara’s thumb brushed once over the back of her hand. “We are not ornaments.”

“A poor choice of words, then. Let us use Father’s,” Saphira amended, her voice dripping with a honeyed venom. “We are‘long-term investments.’ ‘Diplomatic solutions to a volatile political landscape.’ I do pay attention during his lectures.”

An unwelcome memory surfaced with perfect clarity: her father, Lord Kaelen, standing over his great map table, his palms flattening the painted realms of Ashmar and Azrahir. His tone had been so reasoned, almost sorrowful, as he detailed how a bond with the Ninefold Throne would cement their legacy for generations. The silence from her mother, standing rigidly beside him, had been a sharper protest than any shout.

You will be seen, he had promised them, his eyes holding a gleam of ambition. You will walk into the lion's den as partners, not petitioners. They need the resources we command. Never forget that.

Saphira had wondered briefly at the time if by resources he’d also meant the ones between their legs. For beneath the careful phrasing, she heard the simpler truth: daughters were the most adaptable assets in a noble house’s treasury. Transferable. Expendable, if one preferred a more diplomatic term.

“If one of us marries a royal,” Saphira continued, the words hushed between them, “we are tied to their valley. Their laws. Their storms. And Raelan—”

“Raelan will finally be allowed to remain where he belongs,” Zahara interjected, with something between fondness and worry. “In the desert, with the people who have already named him their own.”

That was the core of the unspoken agreement, wasn’t it? Two sisters were dispatched to forge a political future in a foreign land so one brother could inherit the sands without challenge. It was a masterfully efficient arrangement. A perfectly elegant solution.

Saphira despised the flawless yet cold logic of it all.

“And you?” Saphira asked, turning her head to study her sister’s profile. “Are you truly so resigned to the prospect of spending your life bound to a man whose only qualification is the castle he was born in?”

Zahara’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon as if she could already see their future written there. “We do not know the men we will meet,” she said, her voice measured.“We cannot predict where affection might grow or whose regard we might earn.”

“A magnificent game of luck, then. Luck and thrones,” Saphira quipped, the words tasting sour. “My anxieties are completely settled.”

A shadow of something pained flickered across Zahara’s features, there and gone in an instant. It was a silent language they both understood, born from years of watching their mother’s approving eyes settle on Zahara during state functions, of hearing the high priests speak of auspicious stars at her birth, while their prognostications for Saphira were always more vague and tempered with caution. Zahara had been sculpted from childhood to inherit more than a title; she was to be the living bridge between faith and trade, the unifying heart of their desert nation.

And yet, both of them were now being shipped across the world to audition for a role in someone else’s dynasty.

“It was never a path meant for both of us to walk at home,” Zahara said at last. “You have always known that.”

“I have,” Saphira admitted. “But I am absolutely committed to making our gracious hosts rue the day they presumed to measure our worth and find one of us wanting.”

Zahara’s lips quirked. “Now that sounds just like the sister I remember.”

The deck heaved beneath their feet as a powerful surge of water pushed them onward. The entrance was upon them now, the two immense cliffs blocking out the sky, a gateway of such staggering proportions it seemed to dwarf the very concept of human endeavour. All that remained between the stone behemoths was the thin, turbulent ribbon of sea they were on. Saphira’s gaze tracked the formidable structures grafted onto the rock—East and West Watch, the legendary guardians of Thornvale. They perched on the vertical stone like fortresses built by eagles, their forms accentuated by the cold sheen of iron and steel.

High above, she knew, sentries wrapped in cloaks the colour of basalt observed their approach, their hands resting on the mechanisms that controlled barriers massive enough to crush a warship.

Despite the chill that ran through her, Saphira raised her chin in a fresh act of defiance. Her fingers, still entwined with her sister’s, held fast, and she stared down the passing stone giants, ready for anything.

“Yes,” Saphira agreed. “That is me.”

_{Location: The Vise (earlier timeline)
Interactions: Zahara
Mentions: Kaelan, Samira, Raelan
#A34261...|...outfit}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#ebceed ....|..... outfit .....|..... #3b9ae1 ....|..... outfit .....|..... near rae's cabin>main hall>arena}

Zelia’s lips quirked into a soft, amused smile as Rae's stomach grumbled, a slight tilt of her head betraying the warmth of her amusement. It was such a real thing to happen, so completely human and mundane, that it caught her off guard. The soft chuckle that escaped her lips, shaking her head, sounded more like a hum than full laughter. There was something about Rae, about the way she wore her awkwardness without embarrassment, that made Zee feel a little less self-conscious about her own oddities. It was like a permission slip to be herself, or at least, a little bit closer to it.

"I’m the same way," her voice was light but genuine. "I lose track of time quite often when I’m lost in something. Poetry, books, running, lightning..." Zee paused, letting the words hang between them for a second. "I suppose it’s not really a surprise, though. You don’t have to eat when you’re lost in something that consumes and challenges your mind."

The playful smile lingered as she glanced down at the letter in her hands, almost subconsciously rubbing it between her fingers. It wasn’t that she was trying to avoid the conversation, quite the opposite, really, but Zelia was careful with how much of herself she revealed. She hadn’t shared things like this with anyone in a long time, certainly not in a casual way, and certainly not with someone like Rae, who seemed to get it, and not judge her openly for her oddities.

At the mention of food, though, her stomach gave a small, somewhat embarrassing reminder of its own needs. Zee’s eyes flicked to the side, feeling the cool air press against her cheeks "Yeah, I’d be down," Zelia said, her tone warming as she tucked the letter into her jacket pocket. She took a small step to the side, her boots crunching against the snow beneath her. "I should probably eat, too." Her attention shifted towards the path leading to the cabins, her fingers tapping lightly against the letter now safely hidden from view. "You’ve been here longer, right? Do you know where to go?”

Rae lifted a confident finger like a human compass."This way–"

The certainty vanished from her posture in an instant.

Her gaze darted uncertainly between the two forks in the path, each one a mirror image of the other beneath its blanket of snow. Her raised finger wilted in a slow descent. "Okay. Not this way…I think. That’s away from the entrance so…" She squinted at the treeline as if the pines might cough up a neon sign. It was more than likely the case that the place they were meant to go was one of the buildings near the entrance. It just made the most sense.

And then it hit her. "Oh! Wait, I have a map." Her face brightened with the realization. "I grabbed one when I got here yesterday and put it in my pants pocket." The thrill faded half a notch. "Which are, naturally…still in my cabin." She gestured over her shoulder toward said cabin with a look of chagrin. "I’ll be two minutes tops. Promise."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, she set off at a determined pace that quickly devolved into an awkward, skidding trot across the slightly icy terrain. After a dozen steps or so, her breathing grew audible, pluming in the cold air. A few more steps and a distinct protest began to emanate from her leg muscles, which clearly felt this was an unreasonable demand before breakfast.

Still, once Rae got to her cabin door, she shoved it open and vanished inside, reappearing moments later ( a bit more than the two minutes promised), waving the map like a conquering hero. "Behold," she announced, slightly breathless as she returned to Zelia’s side, "my dignity reclaimed via paper."

She pressed the pamphlet flat against her forearm, her eyes scanning the layout. " According to this, the main hall is over here," she explained, tracing a direct route with her fingertip. "And we are over here, near my cabin. So, if we follow this path and circle past the main office, we should be there."

Zelia’s lips twitched upward at Rae’s triumphant return, the corners of her eyes softening with a fondness she didn’t bother to hide. There was something infectious about Rae’s energy, all quicksilver motion and self-deprecating humor, that pulled warmth into the hollow spaces the cold morning tried to claim.

"Dignity looks good on you," Zelia murmured, voice quiet but touched with amusement. Her breath fogged in the air between them, a pale wisp that drifted away like a spirit unsure of where to linger. She tucked her hands deeper into her sleeves, the paper in her jacket pocket crinkling faintly as she did. "Lead the way, navigator. I trust your map-reading skills… slightly more than your sense of direction."The jest came out soft, like snowfall settling on pine needles, and she let it linger between them with a shy curve of her mouth.

Rae responded to the praise with a flourish, dipping into an exaggerated bow that was both playful and self-deprecating before doing just as she’d been asked and leading the rest of the way.

They started walking, boots crunching rhythmically through the powder. The forest loomed close on either side, heavy with the hush that came only after a storm. The world still felt half-dreamt, snow glazed the branches like glass, and light spilled weakly through the fog, turning the air to silver and pearl. Every exhale felt like it might dissolve into the dawn.

Zelia glanced at Rae from the corner of her eye, watching the way the morning haloed her hair and caught in the frost on her lashes. There was something grounding about her presence— solid, human, and warm in a place that felt like it had been carved out of myth.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" she said after a moment, tone thoughtful. "How quiet everything is here. Like the world’s holding its breath." Her gaze trailed over the snow-laden trees, the faint suggestion of cabins further ahead through the mist. "Almost feels like the forest is…listening." A small smile tugged at her lips as she added, almost sheepish, "Or maybe that’s just me being weird again. I just never imagined a place quite like this, I suppose"

A breathy chuckle escaped Rae, crystallizing into a tiny cloud in the frigid air. "Yeah, quiet’s definitely new. When I showed up last night, it was the total opposite, with all the people and music and fireworks and stuff. It was a lot."

Her slight smile lingered for a moment before fading as her gaze drifted away, settling on the heavy, snow-laden branches of the nearby pines. Rae’s expression grew more contemplative. "It’s a little eerie now, though," she continued. "It feels like the world just… stopped. Like someone hit pause on everything." She shook her head slightly, as if trying to dislodge the feeling."Back home in Cali, the night was never really silent. There was always some sound I could hear, like sirens, traffic, or some dog having a barking fit at two in the morning, so it was the kind of place where you could almost never hear yourself think."

Zelia smiled faintly at that, the sound of Rae’s voice threading easily through the stillness around them. There was something soothing in it, a rhythm that fit perfectly against the quiet pulse of the woods. "I think I’d like that," she said after a moment of contemplation, "A city that never sleeps. Noise means life, doesn’t it? Motion, warmth, people going places. I grew up somewhere small, too small, maybe. When it got quiet there, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t peaceful. It was…empty."

"Where did you grow up?" Rae asked at that.

” Springdale, Utah. It’s a small town, but it’s near Zion National Park. I liked to go for hikes around there.” Her boots sank into the snow with a slow, careful crunch. She hesitated, eyes drawn upward to the frost-glazed canopy where pale light filtered through in trembling ribbons. A beat passed. Snow fell from a nearby branch with a soft whump, scattering into tiny crystals that caught the dawn light. Zelia’s eyes followed it down, and she let out a breath that looked almost like a sigh.

Then she glanced back at Rae. "I think I like this sort of quiet better," she said, voice steady and honest. "It lets you hear things you’d miss otherwise." She tilted her head slightly, the corners of her mouth lifting in quiet amusement. Nodding toward the branch as they passed it, and the steadily growing pile of snow beneath it. "Like how snow sounds when it falls," she added softly, " Or, how someone’s voice carries in the cold." Her gaze lingered on Rae for just a heartbeat longer than she meant it to, then she looked away again, letting the rhythm of their footsteps fill the hush.

Rae blinked when the girl added that last line, and for a beat too long, she couldn’t look away from her gaze, which was why she was grateful when Zelia managed to. Something in the other girl’s voice—quiet, certain, unembarrassed—struck a chord she wasn’t expecting. The snowfall around them even seemed to ease into a slower descent, as if the world itself was tilting its head, waiting to see what Rae would do with a moment that felt strangely suspended.

It was both strange and understandable.

It was strange because people simply didn’t voice those kinds of observations aloud. They didn’t articulate how the texture of a voice could change the very air, or how a pause could feel heavier than any sound. Those were the kinds of perceptions you were supposed to keep to yourself, the kind of raw noticing that often got dismissed as being overly sensitive or just plain odd.

Yet, it was understandable because Rae knew exactly what she meant. For Rae, those tiny shifts were the closest thing people had to schematics, which was something she was more than comfortable with.

Growing up, she’d learned to listen like that out of necessity. Like with her mom, one wrong read on how exhausted she was after a double shift could mean Rae pushing too hard, asking too much, or accidentally tipping her from “holding it together” into “overwhelmed.”Then, at Lockwood Prep, it was self-defence. She was the poor scholarship girl surrounded by kids whose families owned half the city. No one said what they meant directly; it was all tone and implication. So, learning to hear the difference between a joking, “Nice shoes,” and a cutting, “Nice…shoes,” was the only way to know when she was being laughed with and when she was being laughed at.

Letting out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, Rae finally found her voice.
"Yea...," she said, the word soft but sure. "You’re not wrong about that."

Zelia hadn’t expected the warmth. Not from the winter sun, which barely made it through the fog, or from the cabins with their thin threads of chimney smoke. And not even from Rae, not at first. Warm people made her wary; they cracked things open without meaning to. But somewhere between the crunch of their footsteps and Rae’s slightly breathless return with the map, something inside Zelia had begun to thaw, soft and unexpected as frost melting along a windowpane. She walked half a step behind Rae now, letting the other girl’s bright presence cut a path through the cold. Rae’s energy moved like warm wind does, quick, restless, humming with a kind of optimism that felt almost mythical in a place like this. It left Zelia drifting in its wake, lighter than she meant to be.

The dining hall waited somewhere ahead, tucked into the white hush of the forest. She should have been focused on that. On warmth, on food, on the letter tucked tightly into her pocket. But her mind, a traitorous thing, stayed circling the moments just behind them. How Rae had bowed like a court jester accepting a royal decree. How her voice had softened, just slightly, like a page turned gently instead of folded. How she’d listened. Really listened. Zelia wasn’t used to being listened to. Her thoughts drifted like snowflakes, slow and suspended. Each one fragile, glittering, half-embarrassing.

She tucked her hands deeper into her pockets, fingertips brushing the edge of the letter hidden there. The paper was still cold, its weight familiar, reminding her of why she’d come, of everything she was supposed to be doing here at this camp for people like them. People who weren’t quite human but weren’t anything else entirely. People stitched with thunder or shadow or flame. The path began to curve, leading them around a stand of birch trees where the fog thinned. Ahead, faint shapes emerged, the angular rooflines of the main office, the distant shimmer of light from the main hall windows. The scent of something warm and spiced drifted faintly toward them, a promise of comfort in the form of warm food and drink on such a chilly morning.

Zelia tilted her head toward Rae, eyes softening again. "Guess your map was right after all, I may need one of those." She said, the teasing gentle as the falling snow. "Breakfast awaits, conqueror of cartography."

Rae grinned, lifting the map like a banner of victory. "What can I say? I have my moments." She tucked it under one arm, rubbing her hands together as the faint scent of cinnamon and something buttery drifted through the cold, causing her stomach to grumble once more in anticipation.

"And you have to admit," she added, falling into step beside Zelia, "my sense of direction is marginally more reliable than my endurance, if you couldn’t tell. So, I’ll take that as a personal victory."

With every step toward the cozy-looking lodge, the enticing smells of the food grew richer and more distinct. The scent of coffee mingled with the comforting fragrance of freshly baked bread and something sweet —like caramelized sugar —that Rae couldn't quite identify but just knew she had to taste. A bit of a sweet tooth she definitely was.

Heaving the solid wooden door open, Rae was met with a blast of welcoming heat that instantly fanned her face, turning the world into a soft, blurry glow at the edges of her vision. A deep, relieved sigh escaped her. Without wasting another second, she made a direct path toward the source of the smells. The buffet was a glorious sight with its towers of golden pancakes, a steaming pan of fluffy scrambled eggs, herb-roasted potatoes, vibrant fruit bowls, and, most importantly, a large urn of coffee.

"Now this," Rae announced, snatching a plate and eagerly motioning for Zelia to join her, "is what you call a divine intervention." As she began piling her plate with a little of everything, she cast a glance toward her companion. "So, what’s the deal? Do demigods with a knack for lightning have a favourite breakfast, or are you fueled solely by storm clouds and dramatic soliloquies?"

Rae grabbed a heavy mug and filled it to the brim with the dark, aromatic coffee, lifting it to her face and breathing in the revitalizing steam as if it were the very essence of life. "As for me, all I need is some good caffeine and delicious carbs."

Zelia laughed under her breath, the sound low and warm, blending easily with the softer noises echoing through the main hall. The air here was rich with scents— butter and maple syrup thick enough to taste, roasted coffee sharp and grounding beneath it, cinnamon and nutmeg threading through the warmth like a quiet hymn. It was intoxicating after the sharp chill of outside, and for a moment she just stood there, breathing it in, feeling her body thaw from the inside out. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d become in her hike, but now pins and needles seemed to be rushing across her entire body, bringing an odd sort of ache to her bones that was just intriguing enough for her to not be upset with.

"Divine intervention, indeed." She said with a faint grin. Her gaze swept the buffet, lingering on the stacks of pancakes glistening with butter and the trays of crisped bacon that still hissed faintly with heat. "A good dramatic soliloquy could be enough to keep me satiated, I will admit, but I’m probably worse than most when it comes to food. My metabolism’s something of a nightmare." She gave a rueful shake of her head, picking up a plate and beginning to pile it high with practiced efficiency, bright wedges of melon and strawberries first, then several slices of crispy bacon, some scrambled eggs, and finally a heap of roasted potatoes, golden, buttery, and flecked with herbs.

"I swear I could eat my body weight in this stuff and still be hungry an hour later," she continued, grabbing two pancakes and drizzling syrup over them, the amber liquid catching the light like molten glass. "It’s like there’s a storm burning under my skin half the time. Guess that kind of energy needs a lot of fuel."

Her eyes flicked to Rae’s, a teasing glint there as she added, "So don’t be surprised if I come back for seconds. Or thirds. You might have to wrestle me for the last of the bacon." She offered a playful smile before turning toward the coffee, the dark brew sending up curls of steam that caught in the light— a small, earthly kind of magic in the morning haze.

"Point taken," Rae said, lifting her own plate like a visual counterargument. Compared to Zelia’s storm-powered breakfast, Rae’s was… modest. A couple of pancakes, a cinnamon roll that absolutely did not need to be there but was, some scrambled eggs, and a smaller scoop of potatoes that suggested she was at least trying to be responsible. She stepped along the buffet with her, adding one more strip of bacon almost on principle after Zelia’s little “threat”.

She nodded toward an open table near the windows, where the light outside was still soft and pale, filtering in through the frosted glass. "C’mon, before I drop this and live my new life as ‘that girl who face-planted into the pancakes on her first day.’ Not the legacy I’m going for."

After a careful journey across the room, she deposited her meal onto the wooden surface with a sense of ceremony and settled into her chair, a soft sound of contentment escaping her. For a moment, she simply cradled the warm ceramic of her coffee mug, allowing the heat to seep into her palms and chase the last of what little chill there was from her bones. Finally, she took a deep, appreciative drink.

"So, purely in the interest of scientific inquiry…." Rae gestured at Zelia’s loaded plate with her fork. " Is this your normal amount, or are we witnessing a special, ‘first-day-of-camp’ edition of your appetite?" She then carved into a fluffy piece of her pancake, savouring the first taste as she waited for an answer.

Zelia slid into the chair across from Rae, the wooden legs whispering against the floorboards. For a moment, she just let herself absorb the warmth of the room, the coffee cupped between her palms, and the soft quiet of early morning settling around them like a blanket. Her plate steamed faintly in the amber light, a small mountain of color and heat, and she felt oddly comforted by the sight of it. Safe, almost. When Rae asked her question, teasing glimmer and all, Zelia couldn’t help the small, helpless smile that tugged at her mouth.

She lifted her fork, turning it slowly between her fingertips as though considering how honest to be. Honesty still felt like a fragile thing, thin ice she wasn’t sure she should trust with her weight. But Rae’s eyes were bright and open and patient across the table, and something in that made it easier. "This?" Zelia gestured lightly to her plate. "This is pretty normal for me." A quiet laugh drifted from her, warm and a touch self-conscious.

"I’m almost always hungry. It’s like my body burns through whatever I give it the second it gets it. If I go for a run or train even a little, it gets worse, like throwing wood on a fire that’s already starving for more." She speared a roasted potato and took a thoughtful bite, the crisp edges giving way to butter-soft warmth before she continued.

"Nothing really… stops it. Not for long. I eat, I feel full for maybe thirty minutes, and then the whole cycle starts again." Her tone softened, almost sheepish. She’d had to explain it to her family, teachers, and her track coaches over the years. They’d all learned to keep a protein bar or ten on hand for her. "If I don’t keep up with it, I get tired. Really tired. Like… falling asleep standing up tired." A tiny grimace pulled at her lips. "It’s embarrassing. I once passed out during a school assembly. Right in front of the superintendent. And another time, during a track meet, right before I cleared the finish line. Not my greatest moment." She took a sip of her coffee, letting the rich bitterness chase away the memory’s sting.

Then she glanced at Rae again, eyes glinting with gentle humor. "So yes," she added, "Consider this a standard Zelia portion. A little excessive-looking, maybe, but trust me, if I don’t eat like this, I will turn useless in record time."

Rae paused mid-chew, fork hovering halfway to her mouth as she listened. By the time Zelia got to “passed out in front of the superintendent,” Rae’s eyes had gone wide in something between sympathy and horrified secondhand embarrassment.

She managed to swallow her food, carefully setting her fork down on the edge of her plate before releasing a low, impressed breath.

"Okay, first of all?" she said, leaning in a little over the table. "That’s not embarrassing, that’s… like, medically concerning. There’s a difference." Her gaze swept from Zelia’s substantial breakfast to the steaming mug of coffee, then back to Zelia herself. " Honestly, it just sounds like your body’s running on ‘permanent lightning mode’ and needs enough fuel to keep up. You’re basically a space heater with legs. If you didn’t eat like that, I’d kinda be more worried."

She took another bite of pancake, chewing thoughtfully as she considered it. The idea of eating that much regularly made her stomach ache differently, as hers was more used to weird schedules and skipped meals than constant intake. It wasn’t even something she’d consciously chosen, really. It was just… how her life had been wired. Growing up, meals had been more about timing and math than appetite. Her mom’s shifts rarely lined up with normal dinner hours, so Rae learned early that you ate when there was food, not when you were hungry. Leftovers reheated at odd hours, cereal for dinner, cold pizza for breakfast if they’d gotten lucky the night before. Add in the unwritten rule of poor households—stretch what you have, don’t complain, don’t waste—and she’d gotten used to ignoring hunger until it was convenient or efficient to deal with.

College hadn’t improved that habit. If anything, it made it worse with all those late nights in the machine shop. Food was just another task on the list when in the headspace that environment put her in, and one that felt negotiable compared to a looming deadline or a glitching prototype. Half the time, she’d look up, realize it was 3 a.m., and realize her “dinner” had been three sips of coffee and a stale granola bar from the bottom of her backpack. She could go hours without eating and barely notice it, right up until her stomach rebelled like it just had moments ago, complaining loud enough for her company to hear.

Rae speared a portion of scrambled egg with her fork, a self-aware smile touching her lips as she pushed her own thoughts aside and returned her full attention to Zelia.

"All I’m trying to say is that it all sounds incredibly demanding," she concluded, her tone softening. "Though I suppose it makes me more grateful that my own… spark doesn’t have the same kind of energy requirements."

Zelia forced herself to take her next bite slowly, deliberately, letting the flavors settle on her tongue instead of devouring them with the ravenous instinct gnawing at her ribs. It was always like this on the first real meal after a workout or a cold morning, her stomach twisting tight, a hot, insistent ache curling low and sharp, urging her to hurry, hurry, eat.

But she’d learned long ago how to cage that impulse. Her mom and grandma had trained her in “table manners,” as she’d called them, with the same seriousness other parents reserved for religion. Small bites, Zelia, she’d say, smiling soft and fond. Chew. Be polite. It’s not going anywhere. She missed her mom. She cut her pancakes into tidy pieces, paced her forkfuls, and breathed around the hunger. Rae didn’t need to see the intensity thrumming under her skin. Still, she couldn’t stop the low shiver of relief that ran through her when the first real wave of warmth settled in her stomach. Not full, not even close, but steadier.

"It can be demanding," she admitted softly, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her thumb. "Always having to think about food. Planning around it. Making sure I don’t… crash." Her fork paused above her plate, hovering for a heartbeat before she resumed her slow rhythm.

"But I don’t really mind," she continued, voice mellow, reflective. "It’s just the way I’ve always been. I grew up like this, so it’s normal to me. Predictable. Like breathing a little faster than everyone else."

She lifted her mug, letting the steam soften the tension in her face. "Sometimes I still forget," she said with a small, rueful smile. "Especially if I’m cooking for myself. I get distracted, or I misjudge how much I’ll need, and then suddenly I’m shaky and lightheaded and remembering, oh—right. Feed the storm."

A soft chuckle escaped her. "It helps that there’s free food here," she added. "A lot of it. I think camp kitchens were designed by someone who understood the phrase ‘bottomless pit. I got free meals at my college too, but not nearly as much as this.’" She took another bite, slow again, despite the way her stomach clawed for more, and let her gaze lift toward Rae with a glimmer of curiosity.

"You mentioned your own spark," she said lightly, tilting her head, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. "What did you mean by that?"

"Oh, I can make fire, and control it if it’s already there," Rae replied, the words coming out with an offhand ease that she instantly seemed to regret. She raised her palm in a calming gesture, as if to physically temper her own statement. "Which sounds way more dramatic out loud than it does in my head, to be clear."

She turned her hand over, examining her fingers with a hint of analytical curiosity as if they were tools she was still learning the full capabilities of.

"It’s not… big lightning-in-the-sky dramatic like yours," Rae continued, her voice adopting a more explanatory tone. "It’s smaller. Focused. I can generate a flame in my hand if I want to. Or turn up the heat on something that’s already warm. If there’s fire nearby, I can… nudge it. Shape it. Tell it how hot to burn, how far to spread or not spread at all."
Rae paused to take another sip of coffee, buying herself a second of thinking.

"The fun part," she added dryly, "is that I don’t burn. At all. Fire doesn’t hurt me, and heat just… doesn’t register the way it should. I can stick my hand in an open flame and not even blister."

Her gaze lifted to meet Zelia's, both straightforward and slightly apologetic.

"The less fun part is that I sometimes forget that fire does hurt other people." A wry smile tugged at her mouth. "So I have to be extra careful not to treat it like a toy just because it listens to me. That, and I have to watch my temper in workshops. I used to think I was just ‘really bad with tools’ until I realized I was literally overheating them when I got frustrated. Melted a wrench once. That was… a day."

Zelia’s fork stilled again, but not from caution this time. Curiosity lit her face, warm and surprised, as Rae spoke. The more Rae explained, the more Zelia seemed to lean in without quite physically moving, as though her attention itself tilted toward the flame-user. Her eyes brightened, that soft, dark brown hue sharpening with interest. “Fire that listens,” she echoed, almost wonderingly. A small spark of delight crossed her features. “That’s… actually really incredible. I’ve only ever met people who put out flames or avoid them. But shaping it? Not burning?” Her smile widened, genuine and quietly impressed. She sat back slightly, fingers tapping once against her mug as if gathering her own words.

“I’m kind of the opposite,” she said lightly. “Less warmth, more… voltage.” Her tone was joking, but there was a truth beneath it, steady and matter-of-fact. “I’m basically a walking, talking taser. Or a battery pack. Depends on the day.”
The humor faltered for just a heartbeat.

“I didn’t use it much growing up,” she admitted, eyes flicking down to her plate. “Didn’t really explore it. It only showed up when I was angry or scared, and I—”

Her voice caught. Just a thread. A tiny crack in her even tone. Her expression flickered— pain, regret, something old and uninvited, but she shut it down with the practiced ease of someone used to swallowing memories like bitter pills. She speared a bite of pancakes, chewed slowly, deliberately, letting the moment dissolve under maple syrup and motion. When she swallowed, the brightness returned, lighter, steadier.

“It’s different now,” she added, softer but clearer. “Controlled. Focused. I can use the charge to move faster—kind of like giving my muscles a jump-start.” A subtle, almost mischievous smile curved her mouth. “Helps when I’m running late. Or racing someone.” Her gaze lifted to Rae’s again, warm and open despite the brief shadow. color=EBCEED]“I guess your spark and mine aren’t so different, then.”

Rae’s fork slowed halfway to her mouth, the warmth of the dining hall seeming to thin for a moment as something in Zelia’s voice registered. There were certain kinds of silence she had learned to respect and live in, and this seemed to be the kind that forms around an old wound which someone may not want to explain. She knew better than to try to force that door open with a clumsy or intrusive question. Instead, she fell back on her default strategy: attempting to deflect with her own particular brand of awkward humour.

“A walking taser, huh?” Rae set her fork down and leaned back just enough to give Zelia a very serious, very mock-considering look. “Remind me not to hug you impulsively. Or if I do, at least let me…ground myself first.”

The pun left her before she could stop it, a small, undignified snort escaping with it. Rae immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening.

“Wow. Nope. Too late. I heard it. You heard it. The entire universe heard it. And I am so sorry about that.” Rae kept her hand glued over her mouth as if she could physically shove the pun back inside her lungs and pretend it had never been released upon the mortal world. “I swear I’m not usually this—”

Which was a lie.
Whatever she’d been about to say was a bold, shameless lie.

Zelia grinned at the pun, but she didn’t tease; she didn’t even laugh at Rae’s frantic attempt to swallow her own joke. Instead, her expression softened, gently, unmistakably, and something warm unfurled across her face. A fondness that hadn’t been there a moment ago, subtle but undeniably real. She set her fork down, leaning her elbow lightly against the table as she watched Rae with open amusement that was not cruel, only gentle and honest.

“I like how you are,” she said simply. No teasing. No irony. No hesitation. A quiet truth dropped between them like something fragile and precious, delivered in that way that seemed unique to Zelia, as if she didn’t care to hide the softer parts of herself like other people. “Snorts, bad puns, the whole package.” A small, warm smile rose at the corners of her mouth. “You’re kind of… refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” Rae echoed, blinking once, twice, as if making sure she’d heard correctly. Her hand dropped from her mouth, fingers drumming nervously against the side of her coffee mug. “Like… lemon-water refreshing, or more like those weird mint-lotion samples they give you at fancy stores?” The joke was automatic, instinctual, but the next part wasn’t. “Because either way, that’s… really nice to hear.”

Zelia’s smile deepened, not bright but warm, soft at the edges, unguarded in a way that made her eyes glow faintly, like embers under snowfall. She shook her head at Rae’s examples, amused, but it was the kind of amusement that carried no distance. Only closeness. “Not lemon water,” she murmured, “And definitely not mint lotion.” Her voice dipped lower, thoughtful, as if she wanted to choose the words carefully.

“It’s more like… when you’ve been out in the cold too long, and then you finally step inside somewhere warm.” She lifted her shoulders in a small, gentle shrug, eyes never leaving Rae’s. “Or when you crawl into bed after a long day, and the blankets settle around you just right.” A breath. Soft. Honest. Gods, the things she would do to be able to crawl into a soft and warm bed right now…well, there was nothing to do for it. Training first, everything else second. “That kind of refreshing.” Her fingers toyed with the edge of her plate, a subtle fidget she didn’t seem aware of.

“Like peace for the soul,” Zee added, quieter now, almost shy in the sincerity of it. Then she laughed under her breath, small and warm, as if realizing she’d said something too earnest and was choosing to stand by it anyway.

Rae went still.

For a second, the clatter and murmur of the hall faded into something distant and muffled, like sound underwater. Peace for the soul. No one had ever used words like that about her before. At best, she got smart or intense or the occasional you talk a lot when you’re nervous, huh? So, the idea that her whole snort-laughing, pun-dropping existence could be… comforting to someone else landed somewhere deep and unfamiliar in her chest.

A jolt of feeling, sharp and warm, travelled up her spine. Her grip on the coffee mug instinctively tightened, her knuckles standing out white against her skin before she consciously forced her hand to relax. A flush of heat, entirely separate from the steam rising from her drink, crept up her neck and warmed her cheeks. This wasn't a compliment she could easily deflect or laugh off; it was a gesture of genuine kindness that slipped past all her usual defences, leaving her strangely exposed.

“Oh,” she managed, the word soft and airy. “That’s… really good to know.”

At that moment, a static crackle split the comfortable hum of the dining hall, the sound of a microphone being activated. It was followed by a voice which was clipped, clear, and left no room for debate.

"Good morning, campers. This is your new leader, River, speaking. It is currently 7:30 a.m. on January 1st. Your first training will begin in 1 hour, at 8:30 a.m., in the arena. Please arrive promptly and dress accordingly."

Zelia’s posture lifted instinctively at the sharp crackle of the intercom, her attention snapping toward the ceiling as a man’s voice swept across the hall, clean, clipped, authoritative. The shift in her was immediate; the strange and quiet softness of their moment folding itself away to be revisited later, replaced by something alert and sharpened at the edges. By the time the announcement clicked off, she had already paused mid-motion, fork hovering over her plate.

She blinked once, the lingering echo of River’s words settling into the space between them, then let out a low breath, half surprise, half gathering focus. “Training already,” she murmured, sounding equal parts startled and energized by the prospect. “Guess they don’t believe in easing us in.”

Her gaze shifted back to Rae, a flicker of curiosity and anticipation brightening her expression as she straightened fully in her chair. “What kind of training do you think they mean?” Her voice dropped to a thoughtful murmur before she lifted her fork back up to eat more, allowing some of her hidden eagerness to slip through now that Zelia knew they were on a time crunch. “Combat? Power control? Team drills?”

A pause. Her eyes met Rae’s again, bright and searching. “Or… all of the above? How exciting.”

“Well, based on what little I’ve seen and heard so far, I’m guessing it might include how we use our powers and stuff. Although…River did mention to dress accordingly. So, I guess there’s something physical involved, too.”

The word physical sat in Rae's head like a weight.

Her mind flicked back, unhelpfully, to about ten minutes earlier when she’d declared she’d be back in two and then promptly nearly died speed-shuffling through the snow to her cabin. Ten steps in, her lungs had started filing complaint forms. By the time she’d hit the stairs, her calves were burning like she’d tried to sprint uphill through wet cement. If this place wanted endurance, they had, at best, acquired a very determined toaster.

Gym class in high school hadn’t been much better. At Lockwood Prep, PE felt less like “physical education” and more like a weekly public shaming ritual dressed up in branded shorts. There’d always been That One Kid who finished their mile looking like they could go run another just for fun. Rae, on the other hand, had finished hers feeling like she’d unlocked a new, horrible angle of existence. Wes had been one of the annoying people who could jog backwards and still beat half the class. She remembered hating that just a little more than was reasonable.

Compared to Zelia’s barely-contained excitement, the idea of more running made Rae’s stomach tighten in a very non-breakfast-related way. Powers? Fine. Fire she could handle. Cardio? That was where her enthusiasm politely got off the bus. Still…Rae wasn’t the type to throw in the towel right from the start, either. So, she would do her best and accept whatever outcome that would bring.

Zelia’s excitement dimmed just a shade, not from disappointment, but from noticing Rae’s shift. The subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze dipped for half a second. Zelia didn’t comment on it, didn’t press. She just let her smile soften into something gentler as she took another bite of food. Then, with the same quiet confidence as before, she set down her fork and lifted her coffee mug up to take a long drink from it.

“Hey,” she said lightly, tilting her head. “Before we go…can I change in your cabin?” Her tone was casual, almost matter-of-fact, but there was a touch of sheepishness around the edges. “I, um… still haven’t actually found mine yet, and I figure I can just do it after, so we don’t run late or anything.” A faint laugh slipped out, self-deprecating but warm. She didn’t really care if she was late, but first impressions ought to matter. “I promise I won’t take up much space, or steal your socks. Mostly, I just want to not show up to training in the same clothes I’ve been traveling in.”

Of all the things Rae had expected—questions about training, more talk about powers, a comment about her tragic relationship with cardio—that hadn’t been on the list.

Change…in her cabin?

There was something quietly weighty about that. It wasn’t just logistics; it was trust. Zelia didn’t even know where her own cabin was yet, and somehow Rae had made the short list of people safe enough to ask. Which, if Rae thought about it too hard, would absolutely short-circuit her brain.

“Sure. Yeah, absolutely,” she replied without hesitation, offering an encouraging smile to reinforce her words. “Just be warned, my definition of ‘organized’ leans heavily toward ‘controlled chaos.’ I wouldn’t say I’m fully unpacked yet.” This was a generous description of the situation. The current state of her room resembled a disaster zone, where sweaters and tangled cables coexisted in a precarious, semi-sentient pile. Still, it wasn’t dirty. Just…very Rae-coded.

She took a final swallow from her mug before glancing toward the wall, searching for a clock. Her eyes then returned to Zelia.

“So, we’ll leave here in a few, stop by my place, and head to the arena together, if that's okay with you.”

Zelia’s smile, while still warm, was steadier, quieter, as if she were tucking the softer parts of her reaction away before they showed too much. “Good,” she said simply. “Thank you.” She nudged her mug with her thumb, eyes dipping briefly before returning to Rae with an easier, lighter expression.

“And for the record?” A small grin tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Chaos doesn’t bother me.” She lifted one shoulder in a casual half-shrug. “Honestly, it’s kind of familiar. Makes things feel… less stiff.” Her gaze lingered a moment, thoughtful but not pushy. “So you’re fine. Really.”

Zelia quickened her eating, though there wasn’t much left to conquer. She’d been working through her breakfast with the same steady discipline she gave everything, bite after measured bite, even as her hunger urged her to devour instead of dine. Now only a few scattered remnants remained on her plate, a smear of syrup catching the light, a lone potato crisp at the edge, the last soft bite of pancake waiting like a small reward. She considered going back. Her body certainly wanted her to, her stomach a quiet, persistent ache, the storm under her skin stretching awake, already hungry again. She could’ve piled a second plate just as high, maybe a third if she didn’t mind the stares. But with training looming and the clock nudging them forward, she made a rare, practical choice… leave it. For now.

Besides… there would be more later.

She let the thought bloom in her mind like warmth spreading through cold fingers, returning after training to a hall refilled with trays and steam and spices. Maybe an early lunch, eggs again, or pasta, or whatever they rotated through in this place. Or brunch, because she could absolutely justify brunch if she’d burned enough energy. And then actual lunch, because why not? If food here were truly endless, if the camp lived up to its buffet promises like this morning, she could build a schedule around meals like beads on a string.

A small, hopeful flutter tugged at her expression. Maybe this place understood people like her, people with hungers that didn’t quiet, bodies that never quite stopped asking for more fuel. Maybe she wouldn’t have to ration her appetite here. Maybe there would always be a plate waiting. Always warmth. Always enough. The idea alone was enough to brighten her as she finished the last bite, sweet and soft on her tongue.

Rae watched Zelia polish off the last bite, something loosening in her chest at how genuinely content the other girl looked. There was a sort of satisfaction in it, like watching a machine finally whirr properly after you’d been listening to it strain for hours. She snorted softly to herself. Great. I’ve started comparing people to appliances. Totally normal, Rae. Very well-adjusted behaviour.

Still, she couldn’t ignore the way Zelia’s shoulders had unknotted bit by bit or how her expression had gone from tentative to… settled. Like the idea of enough was finally starting to feel real to her. Rae knew what that was like in a different way, growing up counting the number of times she went back for seconds in a week, not because of rules but because you just… didn’t. Because you didn’t want your mom to pretend she wasn’t hungry.

This place, however, operated on a different principle. The serving platters were abundant, the coffee urns were bottomless, and there was no anxious calculation behind anyone’s eyes. She slid her own nearly-empty dish away and lifted her coffee mug, draining the last of the lukewarm liquid before placing it back on the table with a sense of closure.

"I’m ready whenever you are," Rae said, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape. She rose to her feet, collecting her tray and steadying it in her hands before turning to her companion with a patient, expectant look.

Zelia pushed her chair back, the legs scraping lightly against the floor, and gathered her tray with a quiet efficiency born of habit, plate, fork, empty mug, everything stacked just so. The last warmth of the coffee cup lingered briefly in her fingers before it faded, leaving only the steady hum of her hunger and the brighter, lighter anticipation of whatever meal she’d earn next.

She fell into step beside Rae, matching her pace easily, her expression softening into something wry and good-natured as she watched the other girl’s theatrical grimace about showers and athletic wear. A grin curled across Zelia’s mouth, small at first, then uncontained.

“Honestly?” she said as they reached the bin, setting her tray down with a soft clatter. “I think I’m as ready as I’m ever gonna be to march right back into the freezing cold and pretend this is just normal… camp stuff.” She gestured vaguely toward the door, as if the cold itself were waiting there with crossed arms. “You know— mandatory morning frostbite, scenic hypothermia, and whatever River’s about to throw at us. Real classic bootcamp vibes, super normal for a camp.”

Her breath puffed out in a faint laugh as she nudged her mug into place on the tray’s edge. “But hey,” she added, tilting her head with a mock-earnest brightness, “If we survive the ‘agility assessment,’ I’m pretty sure we earn brunch. Maybe even dessert brunch. Which feels like the only reason anyone has ever willingly run outside in winter.”

The corner of Rae's mouth tugged up as she dumped her tray beside Zelia's. Somehow, it didn't surprise her that the other girl could make frostbite sound like just an ordinary part of a regular summer camp. She straightened her jacket and slung her empty mug into the stack.

“Food would be a good motivator,” she conceded as they moved toward the exit together. “I still don't think I'd move very quickly, but there would for sure be some forward motion there.” A gust of frigid air immediately greeted them as she leaned her shoulder into the heavy door. She gestured with her chin toward the snow-dusted path that led to the cabins. “This way.”

The walk back to her cabin was shorter now that Rae knew exactly where they needed to go. Along the way, she did her best not to psych herself out about the upcoming training and focused on the more immediate quest of not slipping on the icy patch she knew was coming up near the bend. After warning Zelia about it and stepping over the slick stretch herself, they rounded the last row of cabins, an odd little stab of relief stinging her as her own cabin came into view. She bounded up the two wooden steps of the porch and reached for the door.

“Welcome to Casa Controlled Chaos,” Rae announced as she swung the door open, “and your very last chance to back out right now.”

Zelia followed Rae up the snowy path, boots crunching through the thin crust of ice, breath curling like pale ribbons in the air. She kept close but not crowding, eyes flicking briefly over Rae’s shoulder when she pointed out the slick patch ahead. Zee stepped over it neatly, a small, appreciative hum slipping out of her. Good to know Rae was the type to notice things like that. Good to know she shared them. By the time they reached the cabin steps, Zelia felt the cold digging its faithful teeth into her cheeks and fingers, but the sight of the porch, and Rae bounding up it like a half-frozen but determined cat, brought an easy smile to her face.

Rae’s grand declaration had Zelia snorting in amusement, warm and genuine.

“Back out?” she echoed, stepping up behind her, carefully placing each foot, testing the wood before shifting her weight, just in case thin ice had settled where the overhang didn’t quite reach. Satisfied, she took the last step onto the porch without incident. She leaned in just a little, grin bright and unbothered. “Rae, I only back out of things that involve swimming.” A pause. A shrug. “Or, like… deep water in general. And anything that might require me to wear goggles.” She lifted a hand, palm open in mock surrender. “Cold? Bootcamp? Agility tests designed by someone named after a geographic feature? Absolutely fine. Swimming? Nope.” She popped the p in nope.

And with that, she stepped inside, the warmth hitting her in a gentle wave as she toed off a bit of snow on the threshold. A small, pleased breath slipped out of her.

Rae stepped in after her, nudging the door shut with her heel and immediately kicking her boots off onto the mat. Heat wrapped around her like a blanket fresh from the dryer, fogging the cold-stung edges of her awareness for a second.

She still wasn’t quite over this place.

Even with the evidence of her existence scattered everywhere, the cabin looked like something out of a catalogue: high beams, warm light pooling over wood and fabric, the kitchen opening into a living space big enough that her old apartment could’ve fit in it twice. Her mess only dented it with some blueprints and half-folded clothes draped over the back of the nearest couch, a coil of extension cord on the coffee table beside a mug with a scorched ring on the rim, and her suitcase yawning open near the stairs like it had exploded in the night.

"So uh," she began, gesturing with a wide sweep of her arm at the disarray " as you can see, Martha Stewart has tragically passed away and left me nothing but shame and poor organizational skills."

She bent down to discreetly nudge a stray wrench farther beneath the table with her foot, ensuring it wasn’t a tripping hazard, then straightened up with a short sigh, planting her hands on her hips. The longer she stood there, the more acutely she felt the juxtaposition—the inviting plushness of the furniture, the warm glow from the kitchen fixtures, and the almost overwhelming volume of space. The main living area alone seemed to contain more square footage than her mother’s entire apartment.

An internal voice still whispered that someone was going to walk in and accuse her of being somewhere she didn't belong. Rae did her best to ignore it.

"Living area, kitchen, all that boring functional stuff down here," she rattled off, falling back on explanation the way she always did when she felt weirdly exposed. She jerked a thumb toward the staircase. "Bedroom and bathroom are upstairs. You can change in my room."She took a few steps toward the stairs, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "You can also grab the bathroom first if you need it. I’ll take the quickest shower I can afterwards."

Zelia let out a bright, uncontained laugh at Rae’s Martha Stewart eulogy, the sound bouncing easily off the beams overhead. The clutter didn’t bother her; in fact, something about it made the cabin feel lived in, like it had a pulse instead of existing as a showroom for people who never touched their own furniture. The blueprints spread over the couch, the spilled-open suitcase, the coil of an extension cord tangled like a sleeping snake on the floor, each one felt like a faint echo of the person who actually used this place. Like fingerprints in motion, and that made her smile.

Her eyes swept the room once, warming despite herself. If mine is even half this nice… The thought landed soft and tentative. The idea of a space this big, this warm, being hers to come back to felt almost dangerous, like wishing for too much. Rae’s explanations drifted around her, familiar in the way people filled silence when they were a little unsure, and Zelia found herself smiling with something small and quiet beneath her ribs. She nodded at the offer of the bathroom without hesitation.

“Five minutes,” she promised, lifting a hand as though giving a solemn oath. “Scout’s honor. Or, uh—whatever the demi-god equivalent is.” It felt strange, for just a moment, to say that aloud. Putting it out into the open, giving what they were the air to live and become more tangible, it felt too surreal.

She climbed the stairs two at a time, the wooden steps creaking softly under her socks, since she’d had the presence of mind to take her boots off by the door before scurrying up. The warmth of the cabin rose with her, clinging to her chilled skin like a grateful second layer. Rae’s room was neat only in the sense that someone had tried to make it neat at some point; her boots, bag, and clothes found a patch of open floor without effort. Zelia dropped her own bag beside them, fishing out the leggings, tank top, and hoodie she’d packed at the top of her bag before slipping into the bathroom.

The shower was quick— barely longer than the time it took for the steam to settle on the mirror. Hot water beat over her shoulders, scouring the cold from places she hadn’t realized were aching. Five minutes exactly. Maybe a breath over, but she doubted Rae would drag her to bootcamp court over it. She dressed with the same efficiency she’d eaten breakfast, tugging her leggings up and pulling the tank top on before the grey hoodie was settled over her still-damp curls. The fabric soaked up the moisture in a darkening patch between her shoulder blades, a blooming shadow of steam and the faint scent of mint and eucalyptus shampoo she’d used. Zelia ran a hand through her hair once, wincing when her fingers caught in knots. It was completely useless, curls already frizzing from the humidity, so she shrugged at her reflection. Good enough.

Then she bounded down the stairs, feet landing lightly, her energy renewed and coiled like a warm spring. “Your turn!” she announced as she reached the bottom, framing the declaration with both hands like she was presenting a trophy. “Bathroom’s all yours, go forth and achieve hygiene greatness.” Her grin widened as she nudged a stray blueprint with her foot—not moving it, just acknowledging it. “I’ll, uh… try not to touch anything that looks like it might explode.”

Rae was mentally cataloguing her necessities—towel, clean shirt, where on earth did I stash my sports bra—when the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted her. Zelia reappeared, announcing her successful and surprisingly speedy completion of her shower with the air of someone who had just unlocked a major life goal.

“Wow, that was fast,” she said, standing and dusting imaginary lint off her pants as if that might make her look less rumpled. She took a step backward toward the stairs, walking herself out of the room before she could start fussing over the mess again.

“Help yourself to the couch, by the way,” Rae called as she hit the first step. “Or the books. Or the kitchen. Nothing explosive in here.” At least, not at that very moment. With that, she turned and took the stairs two at a time, a burst of energy that her protesting leg muscles immediately registered as a very bad idea, given the physical ordeal that awaited them. The bathroom was still warm and humid when she got inside, the mirror streaked with condensation from Zelia’s recent use. Rae closed the door and proceeded to take the most efficient shower possible, one that balanced speed with the basic requirement of emerging feeling like a functional person. The hot water beat down on her shoulders, working to dissolve the deep-seated cold and the low-grade anxiety that had become her constant companion since arriving at this strange, new place.

After rinsing off, she turned the water off and dried herself with a series of brisk movements. The air carried a clean scent of mint and eucalyptus from Zelia’s shampoo, a detail that, for some reason, made the whole cabin feel more anchored and real. She quickly pulled on the clothes she had prepared: comfortable black joggers, a simple white tank top, and a lightweight hoodie. The fabrics were chosen for mobility and breathability, crucial for both managing her abilities and surviving whatever physical challenges River had planned.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she zipped the hoodie halfway. Damp hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, a few rebellious strands already drying into frizz at her temples. The outfit hugged her in a way that felt…competent. Simple. Like she might actually pass for someone who knew what they were doing here.

Fake it ‘til you make it, Kowalewski. Preferably without tripping over your own feet in front of the entire camp.

She slipped into her white sneakers, double-knotted the laces, and grabbed a hair tie from the counter, twisting her hair into a quick, low ponytail. Clean, dressed, marginally put together. Good enough.
Rae descended the stairs, her hand gliding along the banister. As she entered the main living area, she spread her arms in a playful, presenting gesture. “Ta-da!” She glanced down at herself, then back at Zelia with a crooked grin. “You good to go? ‘Cus if we head out now, we can still get there on time.” Although it would definitely be a close call.

Zelia hadn’t meant to hover, but she did— half-rooted near the edge of the living room, fingers curled loosely at her sides, gaze flicking over the cabin as if waiting for someone to tell her where she was supposed to stand. The space felt too warm, too generous, too deliberately made for living to be something she could just…step into without permission. Places like this usually belonged to other people, people who didn’t feel like temporary guests in their own lives.

But Rae had offered the couch. So Zelia moved toward it slowly, each step measured, almost tentative. She lowered herself onto the cushion like someone expecting it to push her back out, spine straight for a moment before the softness coaxed her into a slight, reluctant sink. Her hands settled on her knees, unsure. She didn’t quite sprawl or relax. She simply existed there, perched on the edge of comfort, as if waiting for the couch to decide whether she belonged.

Her gaze drifted to the nearest object, a book lying open-faced on the coffee table, half draped over a schematic page. The title wavered between technical and poetic in its own right, something about structural load and reinforced joints. Nothing she understood, not really, but the worn spine suggested Rae did. Zelia reached for it, fingertips grazing the cover before she lifted it into her lap. The pages smelled faintly of paper, graphite, and the metallic tang of workshop hands.

She flipped through slowly, eyes skimming diagrams of beams and brackets, equations she couldn’t name, sketches of angles and supports. It all looked like a language she’d never learned, numbers that formed logic, logic that formed stability, stability that built something permanent. She wondered, briefly, what it was like to think in shapes and structures instead of impulses and instincts. To build instead of bolt. To fix instead of flee.

Her eyes moved, but her mind slipped elsewhere.

To the fox den tucked deep in the woods, snow-cradled and secret, the memory of fur and breath and the quiet pulse of something alive watching her from the dark. To her dorm room, small, loud, already cluttered by the second week. Posters curling at the corners. Running shoes piled beneath her bed. That one mug she never washed properly. The place she’d assumed she’d return to without question. To the echo of track meets, the rhythmic smack of feet against chalked lanes, lungs burning in that sharp, dizzying way that almost felt like freedom. The certainty of the finish line. The certainty of hunger afterward. To pancakes—silver-dollar stacks glistening in maple syrup, soft enough to tear apart with a fork. The fleeting promise of fullness. The warmth that lingered longer than the taste.

Her thumb paused against the edge of a page. The room around her hummed with heat and quiet, broken only by the faint settling creak of the cabin frame. For a moment, she let herself be still. Let herself imagine that this warmth was something she might return to. That she wouldn’t be asked to give it back.
Rae’s footsteps returned, light, familiar, and Zelia blinked, grounding herself back in the present as Rae appeared, arms spread, triumphant. Zelia’s lips curled into a slow, genuine smile. She closed the book gently, setting it back in its place with surprising care, as though it deserved respect for simply existing here. She stood, hoodie clinging damply to her back, curls still leaving tiny droplets at her collar. “Yeah,” she said, voice soft but steady, a small breath threading through the word. Then, with a spark of dry humor flickering beneath it, “Before River decides lateness counts as a mortal sin.”

She tugged her sleeves down over her wrists, squared her shoulders, and nodded toward the door— toward the cold, the training, the unknown. At least she wouldn’t have to face it all alone.

Their pace was brisk from the moment they stepped outside, boots crunching through a thin crust of frost that glittered like crushed glass under the pale morning sun. Their breath puffed in white clouds, drifting behind them like fleeting ghosts as they hurried down the winding path. Questions rose between them in little bursts, half-curious, half-teasing, and each answer only seemed to spark another. The cold nipped at their ears, but the conversation warmed the space between their shoulders, a gentle thread keeping them tethered as they moved.

A laugh, hers, broke first, quick and bright, scattering into the trees as if the branches themselves carried it onward. Rae’s followed, softer, but just as bright. Between their jokes and clipped observations, there were small silences too, not awkward, just comfortable, where the world seemed to listen in, letting them breathe and share the quiet as if it belonged to both of them. By the time the towering curve of the arena came into view, rising from the frost like some ancient colossus, their cheeks were flushed and hair frosting. The massive iron doors loomed ahead, promising noise and challenge and whatever awaited them beyond. They slid to a stop at the threshold, hearts racing. Three minutes to spare. Just enough to catch their breath.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... wes, river ............... collabs ....|.... @Sleepy Tani}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5a3e85...|...outfit}

The world outside the stables met Anissa with a crisp, honest cold, a welcome change from the suffocating and unnatural chill that had seized her from within the night before. That had been a gnawing freeze born deep in her core, one that had left her feeling gutted and ill. This winter air was different; it was real and present, nipping at her cheeks and crystallizing her breath in white puffs that misted the lenses of her sunglasses.

During all of this, the exchange with Maylisse began its insistent cycle in her mind, an intrusive recording she lacked the power to stop.

Everyone is part of a test.
Rot.
Cut it out.
Who does he actually tell anything to?

Her jaw flexed, and behind the shelter of her dark lenses, her gaze lifted sharply toward the stable’s roof as if she could burn a hole through the wood and peer directly into Maylisse’s thoughts. It would have been so much simpler if the other girl had just been openly malicious. Cruelty was straightforward; it could be dismissed, categorized neatly under she’s a bitch and mentally discarded.

But Maylisse’s approach hadn’t been hostile. It had been more… analytical. Dispassionate. She'd possessed a sterilized coolness that had raised the fine hairs on Anissa’s arms, triggering a deep-seated alarm within her. It was unnervingly reminiscent of the way certain professionals had once assessed her. Their expressions had been neutral and their terms clinical as they murmured words like "histrionic" like a diagnosis of a chronic, shameful condition.

“Heat makes things fester,” Anissa muttered under her breath, her lips barely moving as she started walking. “Yeah, well. So does never opening the windows.”

The temporary peace she’d found inside was already dissolving. The solid comfort of the mare’s body, the soothing rhythm of grooming, the fleeting sense of purpose—it had all been an effective distraction. But crossing that threshold back into the world shattered the illusion, and the weight of her larger predicament came crashing down. A far more significant issue was waiting, doubtless in the training arena. To be specific, it was a single individual, a man whose frame seemed built of pure strength and whose voice had, less than sixty minutes ago, reverberated across the entire camp with an announcement that probably startled everyone from their sleep.

And then there was the damn napkin. It was no longer sitting on her nightstand, of course, but now tucked safely into the inner pocket of her sweatshirt. A tangible backup plan, in case her own voice failed her and her tongue couldn’t quite form all the questions screaming to be asked later on.

The short path from the stables to the arena wound between cabins and bare-limbed trees, all stark lines and patchy snow. Anissa kept her head down and her pace steady, relying on her sunglasses and resting bitch face to do most of the social deflection for her if necessary. However, it appeared she would be one of the last stragglers heading toward the arena, which should have been perfect. If the universe had any compassion at all, there would be at least three or four other demigods stumbling along the path with her, looking equally exhausted and morally defeated as she felt.

But no.
Of course not.
The walkway was emptier than a shelf after her mother declared something “out of season.”

There were no dazed, hungover campers to hide behind.
No slow-moving groups to use as a buffer.
Not even the welcome distraction of someone losing their breakfast in the shrubs to grant her a few precious seconds of unnoticed arrival.
It was just her. Solitary. Accompanied only by her own turbulent thoughts and the winter breeze.

On a technicality, this was a good thing, she reasoned. If River was already inside, she wouldn't have to suffer the immediate, gut-punch sight of him. Yet, the utter lack of a crowd was a catastrophe. It left her with two equally terrible choices:

1. Walk in right now, alone, and be immediately spotted like a deer in an open field.

2. Wait outside, also alone, and risk the equally humiliating outcome of being late on day one, which would make her look irresponsible, unserious, and also deeply suspicious.

So, the only solution left for her was to simply…raw-dog the situation. Good morning, Anissa, she thought, Time to confront the consequences of your continuous poor decision-making.

She attempted to split the difference, adopting what she termed a "strategically moderate tempo." It was brisk enough to convey intention yet leisurely enough to suggest she wasn't in any particular hurry, all while secretly praying a door would fly open and release a handful of other latecomers to create the cover she craved.

But no one appeared.
She wasn't surprised.

The arena rose before her, a formidable circle of stone and metal and, if she had to guess, magic, making it look a little like some kind of budget Olympus coliseum. The only hints of activity were the muffled sounds of conversation from within and a persistent, vibrational hum that she assumed was from enchantments meant to mitigate the winter chill. A gust of heated air, reminiscent of the party the night before, rolled out from the entrance tunnel, washing over Anissa’s face as she stepped under the archway and immediately making her regret all the layers she’d put on.

The cavernous interior of the arena unfolded before her, a vast expanse of dust-moted air and intimidating scale. Just as she had predicted, most of the campers were already present, dotting the rising rows of stone benches. Some were huddled in conversation while others sat in isolated silence, all united by a shared sense of anticipation for whatever was to come. Her gaze performed a swift, covert scan of the area, and she felt a tight coil of anxiety in her chest loosen a fraction. There was no sign of River, which was a brief pardon, she was certain, but one she would gratefully accept.

What was impossible to miss, however, was the monstrous arrangement dominating the arena floor.

Anissa froze just inside the entrance, one foot still slightly behind the other as if her body was debating a full retreat. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, her eyes widening as they adjusted to the light and the scale of the task before her.

The course sprawled across the packed earth in a sadistically organized path, each segment laid out with brutal clarity like a curated selection of her worst nightmares.

The starting point was a double line of massive truck tires. They appeared innocuous, just rubber and air, and yet her mind instantly conjured a humiliating image of her foot catching on a rim, sending her sprawling into the dirt in a tangle of uncooperative limbs.

Beyond the tires, a line of log hurdles marched steadily upward in height—one foot, two, three, four, then five. By the end of the row, the last log was less “little hop” and more “congratulations, soldier, now please detach your soul from your knees and launch.” Anissa imagined clipping her toe on the four-foot and nearly eating shit, and told herself that perhaps after a couple of these she at least might have an even more amazing ass than she already possessed. What a bright side she managed to find there.

Next was a low crawl, a shallow trench filled not with forgiving mud but with fine, abrasive sand. A brief moment of gratitude was swiftly overtaken by a wave of practical horror as she envisioned the state of her leggings and the newly healed scars on her knees. But these concerns were dwarfed by the sight of the next station: a heavy, twenty-foot cord dangling from a beam high overhead, its tip brushing the earth. Tidy pails of chalk were placed nearby, a feeble consolation against the glaring reality that her arm strength was better suited for lifting shopping bags than propelling her entire weight upward. So, this particular challenge, she understood with a sinking feeling, had the greatest potential for public failure.

Next to the rope, a rope-net bridge stretched between two platforms, each section of knotted lines swaying gently even without anyone on it. A sign helpfully declared NO FALLING in bold letters, which she could only assume was meant to be ironic, given there was absolutely nothing but dirt beneath it. Then came the rope swing, which was dangled over a battered pit. Anissa eyed it with the wary caution of a girl who knew her limits. Whatever was in there, she wanted absolutely none of it touching her.

She reached up and gave her ponytail a resigned pat.

This was peak Tarzan territory. Meanwhile, she was channelling Jane — specifically the Jane who once shrieked about being rescued by a “flying wild man in a loincloth.” Which, frankly, was the appropriate reaction to any of this.

Anissa didn’t even bother to take in the rest of the daunting setup, her mind slowly beginning to realize that it was no obstacle course at all. Instead, it was a guided tour of all the ways her body reminded her why she would always prefer traversing packed malls over boot camps.

Still, beneath the dread and the pre-emptive muscle soreness, a different feeling began to flutter. A tiny part of her wondered what it would feel like to actually make it through all of this. To climb the rope without slipping. To cross the bridge without falling. To, overall, achieve something objectively arduous and have the victory be so concrete, so visible to everyone, that it could never be brushed aside as another one of her exaggerations or inventions. Was this the unspoken lesson the universe had arranged for her? And, dare she hope, a weird sort of gift?

Her gaze dropped, and her hand drifted almost unconsciously to the front pocket of her sweatshirt once more, her fingertips finding the papery crinkle of the napkin within. It was such a delicate object, so vulnerable to being ripped or lost, yet it contained the proof of his handwriting, his unexpected care, and the unvoiced promise that he had wanted to remain. With her.

She allowed her palm to press against the hidden message for a sustained second before drawing her arm back, fighting the compulsion to pull it out and read his words again in front of everyone. She balled her hand into a fist at her hip, shaking it slightly to cast off the jittery tension coursing through her. Then, having run out of reasons to stall, Anissa raised her head.

This time, she didn’t need to scan the crowd. Her line of sight travelled past the tires and the escalating hurdles, moving over a sea of unknown faces and forms, until it settled directly on River as if pulled by an invisible string.

He stood near Heath with a clipboard in hand, his attention nowhere near the page. Because he was already looking at her. Not just in her general direction but right at her.

For a heartbeat that appeared to stretch into an eternity, the surrounding commotion all faded into a dull buzz. The distance between them felt like it collapsed, isolating them in a bubble of silence: the young woman in a cartoon sloth sweater guarding a paper treasure, and the instructor who had placed his scribbled regret where she would be sure to find it. The final occasion she had witnessed that specific expression on his features, her fuzzy memory supplied helpfully, she’d been settled comfortably in his lap while the night sky detonated in colour above them. Now, there was no festive chaos, no alcohol-fueled boldness, and no place to hide. All that existed was the honest daylight and a distinct tenderness in his eyes that was meant for her...and her alone.

Anissa, though she was no nebbish, felt the impulse to look away, to pretend she hadn’t noticed him and save herself the risk. Instead, the bravest part of her, the part that had climbed into his lap that night, nudged her hand into motion. She lifted her hand just a few inches from her side, her fingers curling inward in a questioning wave.

It was nothing like the wild, wobbly arc she remembered from the party. This one was smaller, more contained, but somehow felt far more revealing. A quiet, I see you looking. And I remember… mostly. Do you?

Across the arena, River’s shoulders eased, something almost imperceptible unwinding in his posture. The corner of his mouth curved into a soft and stupidly genuine smile, and his own hand rose in a mirror of her motion, offering a reciprocal wave that felt like a private conversation happening across a crowded room.

A burning flush ignited at Anissa’s collar, spreading quickly up her neck and heating her face. She dropped her hand, a brief, unguarded smile appearing before she concealed her eyes behind the familiar barrier of her sunglasses. Needing an escape from the charged atmosphere, she scanned the stands for a safer focal point—and found one. A bundled-up form was slumped on a bench, looking as thoroughly defeated as Anissa herself felt, a clear veteran of the same long night.

Blair. Bless the gods.

Here was her refuge. She could slide onto the bench next to Blair in a show of hungover solidarity, offer some silent moral support, and use her presence as a shield to fake her way through this entire ordeal. They weren't the closest of friends, but Blair had been decent to her at the party, a gesture that carried significant weight for someone who was fairly certain she’d managed to irritate at least a few people before the night was through (she still hadn't caught sight of Anatoliy, for which she was mildly grateful).

Anissa made for the steps, shoes scuffing lightly as she climbed, taking her time partly because her stomach still remembered last night and partly because every motion felt like it might draw River’s attention again, and she didn’t think she was ready for a sequel of whatever exchange they'd just had.

It was only as she drew closer that she noticed the redheaded girl already occupying the space on the bench beside Blair. And then, as if the cosmos had a flair for the dramatic, another person slid smoothly into the spot on Blair's other side. He settled in with the unthinking ease of someone who belonged there. He had dark hair, was dressed for a workout, and held a water bottle, which he now gently wedged between Blair's side and her limp, folded arm.

His voice, though low, carried just enough on the air for her to catch the words.

"I haven’t seen you like that in a while. You manage to get to your own cabin in one piece?"

Sibling, Anissa guessed immediately. Or something close enough. The tone had that fond-exasperated quality that didn’t usually exist between casual acquaintances. Great. So not just strangers but strangers who actually knew each other.

Her forward momentum stalled. She found herself hovering a row below them, acutely conscious that she was on the verge of intruding on a tight-knit circle where she was very much an outsider.

You don’t know these people, Anissa reminded herself sternly. Blair probably only remembered her in fragments. And now the "tequila-and-couch" girl from the party was preparing to invade this private recovery session, bringing nothing to the table but her own nervous energy and a pocketful of emotional baggage. The simplest solution was to turn around, to melt away into the anonymity of the higher rows where she could be invisible and unbothered. She could always try to catch Blair's eye another time. Or just… never mention it.

But then, a shift of movement at the main entrance snagged her attention.

She glanced down. Maylisse had just walked in.

The other young woman entered the training ground’s humid air with an air of inherent ownership, her winter coat arranged perfectly and her demeanour composed and utterly self-possessed. Her gaze swept across the assembled campers, methodically noting and evaluating each one—a mirror of her behaviour in the stables. But the moment her assessing look found Anissa, it stopped dead.

A transformation occurred.

The barest hint of a smile touched her lips, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. But that fleeting expression was enough to ignite a spark of apprehension in Anissa’s stomach. It carried a disturbing air of acknowledgment, even satisfaction. It was the look of a scientist who had just seen a lab animal make the predicted choice, and was now waiting to observe how it would navigate the maze.

Everyone is part of a test.

Anissa didn’t want to be someone’s test subject. Not hers. Not Poseidon’s. Not anyone’s. She broke eye contact first, tearing her gaze away from Maylisse and up toward Blair’s row again. The trio at the top of the stands suddenly seemed like the lesser of two evils. So, before she could talk herself out of it, Anissa climbed the remaining steps.

Up close, the evidence of Blair’s rough night was even more pronounced, making her appearance at the arena a feat of pure determination. The jacket was still draped over her face like a funeral shroud, with messy locks of hair splaying out from underneath as if she’d lost a violent battle with her bedding. Even the water bottle nestled against her ribcage looked precarious, as if one deep sigh would send it clattering to the stone below.

Anissa stopped at the side of their row, fingers flexing where they wrapped around her own water bottle. She managed a soft, hesitant sound in her throat.

“Um…hi.”

Smooth. Flawless. Absolutely not weird.

She winced internally, but kept going before any of them could ask why she sounded like she was about to ask for directions in a foreign country.

“I, uh—” She gestured weakly toward Blair’s concealed figure. “We met yesterday.”

---

_{Location: Stables --> Arena
Interactions: River, Blair, Fiona, Lochlan
Mentions: Maylisse, Heath}