Qia

Camp Athens - Closed

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

Smiling at Rae, Nelly replied, “Hey, at least with this one you can take your time. I wish I could help, but all of that running really didn't help me since I drank a lot last night. It's a wonder I managed to win our group because I kept getting dizzy. Besides,” she added, nodding toward Zelia, “Zelia here is in way better condition than me. I wish you the best, Rae. By the way, since you're both new, the Main Hall pretty much serves whatever you want. I want to check something before I take a bath and get something to eat. I am famished. If either of you has any questions about camp in general, feel free to ask me, and I'll try to help as best as I can. Toodles!”

With that, Nelly walked away, going down the steps and exiting the arena.

Rae stood blinking, her mind still processing Nelly’s expansive monologue with a perceptible lag. The concepts arrived in a jumble: victory in their group, a night of drinking, dizziness, baths, food, and the Main Hall.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks," Rae managed, lifting a hand in a belated half-wave just as Nelly had turned away. "Good luck with… whatever you’re–"

But Nelly was already gone, her vibrant energy receding like the afterglow of a firework, leaving Rae with her unfinished sentence and a head still spinning from the verbal whirlwind. She slowly lowered her hand, exhaling through her nose.

Well, that was…an experience.

Zelia lifted her hand to wave, a little late, fingers fluttering in the space Nelly had already abandoned. She blinked once. Then twice. The redhead’s bright colors retreated down the steps like a living spark of magnesium, vivid and flickering until the arena swallowed her up, leaving only the echo of motion behind. Zelia stood there a heartbeat longer than necessary, watching the last glint of that energy vanish, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and gentle bewilderment.

Then she turned. Rae was already shifting back toward the course, and something fluttered in her chest. “Oh—” Zelia breathed, the sound soft but urgent, realization blooming too late. She gathered herself in a quick, instinctive motion as she hurried after her.

Which was when Zelia’s hand closed around her wrist, Rae starting in response from the sudden, vivid shock of the contact. It was warm. Certain. It left her feeling strangely exposed.

Her gaze dropped to their joined hands.

Then lifted.

“Hey,” Zelia said, her voice low and clear. “You don’t have to race to the finish this time. Just…” Her thumb brushed lightly against the inside of Rae’s wrist, a steadying stroke over her frantic pulse. “Just finish it. Take every minute you need. No one gets to decide what your pace means.” Her smile then was effortless, bright and genuine as the sun beating down on them.

Rae swallowed, her throat tight.

"I know," she murmured, her voice rough but gradually firming. "I’m not…trying to be fast anymore. I won’t."

"I’ll be right here," Zelia added, as if passing her a lit lantern to carry into the dark. "Cheering for every step. Even the small ones. Especially those, that’s what friends do."

Friends. The word landed softly, a quiet truth. That’s what they were.

Rae nodded, a slow dip of her chin, and after a moment, Zelia released her grip. The warmth lingered in Rae’s skin, a phantom heat nestled in her fingertips—an extra warmth she didn’t pause to examine even though she was usually the one generating it. She turned and faced the course. This time, she walked, not jogged, back to the starting line.

The tires lay ahead, identical and unforgiving in their neat, mocking row. They looked different now that she was standing still long enough to really see them. She remembered the blind panic of her first attempt, the way her feet had tangled the moment she rushed, how her frantic body had tried to outrun a mind that hadn’t finished forming a plan.

Rae took a final, calming breath and stepped into the first tire. This time, she did not lunge. She placed one foot carefully into the center, testing the rubber’s give, then shifted her weight with deliberate control before bringing her other foot through. It was awkward. It was painstakingly slow. Her shoe clipped the edge once, and she muttered a curse, adjusted her balance, and moved on.

Zelia stayed where she was at first, hands knotted together in front of her as Rae stepped into the tires again. She chewed on her bottom lip, the habit unconscious and telling, eyes tracking every careful placement of Rae’s feet. The panic wasn’t there this time, Zelia could see that much, but the effort was. The slowness. The concentration. Each step looked like a negotiation Rae was having with gravity and memory and exhaustion all at once. Zelia’s chest tightened with something like reverence and anxiety braided together. She trusted Rae, she truly did, but watching her do this alone still felt wrong, like standing on the shore while someone else waded into cold water without a hand to steady them.

She shifted her weight, restless. She could stay here. She should stay here. This was what spectators did: watch, cheer, hold their breath from a distance. That would be normal. That would be easy.

But something in her kept pulling forward, tugging at her sternum like a tide she didn’t quite understand. The memory of Rae’s wrist under her palm flashed hot and immediate. The way Rae had walked back to the start line alone— quiet, resolute, carrying more than she should have had to. Zelia swallowed, heart thrumming too loud in her ears.

And then, River’s voice, replaying itself with infuriating clarity.

You won’t be timed.
It isn’t about speed.
You’re welcome to help each other.

The realization hit her so hard she actually smacked her own forehead with the heel of her hand. “Oh my god— err…gods,” she muttered under her breath, half a laugh, half a groan. Of course. She hadn’t needed to stand still and worry. She hadn’t needed to be a lantern left behind on the sidelines. She could go. She could do something better than watch. She could be a better friend than that.

Her body moved before her doubt could regroup.

Zelia broke into a jog, shoes kicking up sand as she cut across the edge of the arena, heart hammering with sudden, electric certainty. She didn’t look at anyone. All that existed was Rae, just clearing the last tire, lifting her foot out with careful triumph. Zelia caught up beside her, breathless but grinning, her expression bright and crackling like she’d just stepped into her own storm. She slowed to match Rae’s pace, bouncing once on the balls of her feet like she couldn’t quite contain the energy buzzing through her.

“Okay,” she said, sheepish laughter threading through the word. “So—confession.” She rubbed the back of her neck, eyes sparkling with equal parts apology and excitement. “I was so focused on making sure you were okay that I… absolutely did not listen to River very well.” A beat. “Turns out, we’re allowed to help. Like. Actually, help.”

She gestured vaguely back toward the course, then toward herself, then toward Rae, as if connecting invisible dots that suddenly made perfect sense. Her smile softened, but her eyes stayed bright and earnest.

“So,” she added, voice tipping into hopeful mischief as she fell fully into step beside her, “Will you let me run it with you? Help you through? I promise not to rush you. Or carry you. Or narrate dramatically. Unless requested, of course.” She waited there, open and warm and a little breathless, electricity humming under her skin— not from lightning this time, but from the simple, fierce relief of realizing she didn’t have to let Rae do this alone.

Rae was so focused on the choreography of her feet that the sudden presence at her side almost escaped her notice. She started slightly before turning her head, blinking as Zelia launched into a breathless explanation tinged with apparent chagrin. When the offer became clear, Rae’s first, truthfully visceral, instinct was one of pure resistance. It was a reflex sharpened over the years that screamed, I can do this myself. I should have to. It was the same stubborn voice that had gotten her through a childhood marked by her mother’s long hours and quiet exhaustion, through stretched-thin meals and school hallways buzzing with talk of family vacations and fathers who showed up to games. Rae had learned early not to need what wasn’t offered. Not to ask. Not to expect. So, pride and self-sufficiency had fused into something like a principle with time: We’re fine. Even when “fine” meant planning and doing absolutely everything alone, while others merely observed from the sidelines.

Then she looked at Zelia again. Truly looked.

Zelia wasn’t ahead of her, effortlessly clearing obstacles. She wasn’t hovering behind either, poised to catch a fall. She was simply there. Standing beside her after initially staying to watch her. Offering, not insisting, and waiting for Rae to decide now.

Something in Rae’s chest shifted, subtle but seismic, and she swallowed, aware of a warmth diffusing up her neck that was entirely divorced from physical exertion.

"You…really don’t have to," she said first, the words a transparent and gentle truth. "I mean, I’m slow. And I’ll probably complain the whole time."

Her gaze darted forward to the next obstacle, then back again, the choice sitting between them, small but heavy.

"...But," Rae added, her voice dropping to a shy, almost hesitant murmur, "yeah. Okay." Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, as if she’d set down a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying. "Running with you sounds…" She searched for the right word, then huffed a self-conscious breath. "Less awful. Maybe even… kind of good?"

Zelia didn’t move while Rae thought it through. Not a step forward, not a glance away. She stayed exactly where she was, easy and open, hands loose at her sides, breath slowly evening out as she matched Rae’s pace without meaning to. There was no impatience in her posture, no flicker of disappointment waiting in the wings—only a quiet, unmistakable contentment in simply being there. If Rae decided she wanted to finish this alone, Zelia would peel away without hurt. If she wanted company, Zelia would stay. Either way felt right to her, and it showed plainly in the soft lines of her face.

She watched Rae wrestle with herself, and something tender settled behind Zelia’s ribs. She knew that look. The way someone tried to convince themselves they didn’t need what was being offered. Zelia didn’t interrupt it. Didn’t rush it. She let the silence be generous. When Rae finally spoke, hesitant and honest, Zelia’s grin didn’t explode into triumph; it simply warmed, like sunlight slipping through cloud cover. Relief, yes, but more than that, gratitude that she was allowed to be there beside her through this.

“Hey,” she said gently, voice light but sure, as if setting something fragile down between them instead of picking it up. “Complaining is absolutely allowed. Encouraged, even. I’ll probably join in.” A small laugh curved through the words. “And slow is fine. Slow still moves forward.”

She shrugged, the motion loose and unguarded. “I’m not here to push you or fix anything. I’m just… here. To cheer you on, or run with you, or walk beside you if that’s what today needs.” Her eyes flicked ahead to the course, then back to Rae, bright with easy sincerity. “Being a good friend mostly just means showing up and not disappearing when things get hard, I think. I can do that.”

Her smile tilted into something playful, electricity humming faintly beneath her skin. “And I can definitely work with ‘kind of good’,” she added, conspiratorial. “As long as you don’t make me get in the pool. That’s where I draw the line. Very firm boundary.” Then, like a spark catching dry air, her expression lit fully—warm, buoyant, impossible to miss. She bounced once on her heels, energy gathering again like a coiled spring. “Okay,” she said, sunshine-bright, turning slightly so they faced the next stretch together. “Ready for the log jumps?”

"Ready might be too strong a word," Rae replied, her tone dry. "But willing? Yeah. I think I can manage that." Besides, something told her if she could decipher Nelly’s fast rambling, she could handle anything, especially with her friend lending a helping hand.

She moved forward, positioning herself beside Zelia rather than ahead or behind, their strides falling into a shared rhythm as they neared the first log. Rae paused for a half-second, drew a steadying breath, and let it out slowly.

"Hey," she said, not so embarrassed but thoughtful. "Do you mind going first, actually?" She offered a self-aware tilt of her head. "Just so I can see how you approach it. My body and I are still… renegotiating our terms." She gestured vaguely toward the log. "I think watching you might also help me figure out where my feet are supposed to go instead of, you know, just hoping."

Zelia’s face lit up immediately at the request, not with showy excitement but with a bright, unmistakable relief that Rae was letting her help in a way that felt right. She nodded once, quick and confident, then twice more, softer, like she was tucking the agreement gently into place.

“Yeah,” she said easily. “Of course. I’m happy to.” There was no impatience in her voice, no sense of finally. Just warmth. A small smile tugged at her mouth as she stepped closer to the first one, feet crunching lightly in the sand. “I ran track growing up, hurdles were a big part of it. They’re not like this exactly, but the idea’s similar. It’s less about power and more about timing. And knowing where your body actually is, not where you think it should be.”

Then she turned to the log.

Zelia approached it without hurry, her movements unspooling with a deliberate calm that felt almost instructional. She didn’t leap. She didn’t attack it. She placed one foot, tested the height, and let her weight settle before committing. Her body moved like it remembered a rhythm older than this obstacle, knees lifting cleanly, core steady, breath even. She stepped over the first log with quiet control, landing softly on the other side as if the ground were something to be greeted rather than conquered.

The second log was higher, and she adjusted without fuss. Hands came briefly to the wood, not to haul herself up but to guide the motion, palms warm against the grain. She swung one leg over, then the other, pausing just long enough at the top to show that balance wasn’t something you stole, it was something you kept. She descended smoothly, shoes touching down in a way that barely disturbed the sand.

By the third and fourth, her pace slowed further, intentionally so. Each movement was clean and readable, like she was spelling it out in a language Rae could learn. Step. Shift. Lift. Clear. No wasted motion. Just patience and trust in her own body. The logs didn’t rush her, and she didn’t rush them. When she reached the end, she turned back, a little breathless now but smiling, eyes shining with quiet encouragement.

Zelia’s movements appeared to possess a preternatural effortlessness. Rae watched in silence, her attention fixed on the intention guiding each one. Her friend wasn't showing off or performing for an audience. She was, whether consciously or not, teaching, deliberately slowing her own pace so she could absorb the shape of each motion. And it struck Rae then, with a small, poignant ache, that such consideration was not an isolated incident but a consistent pattern.

She had been like this from the very beginning. It wasn't just that she was skilled at the physical challenges Rae found so daunting; Zelia was good with people in a way that felt natural and unforced. When they had met that morning, and Rae had nervously claimed her space, Zelia hadn’t bristled or withdrawn. Instead, she had offered a warmth that didn’t crowd and a presence that carried no pressure. Even the nickname, Winter Fire, hadn’t landed as a joke or a careless label. It had felt, strangely and wonderfully, like being seen fully for who she was and who she could be. As if Zelia had noticed something both fragile and fierce within her all at once and had decided it was worth safeguarding.

“That’s really it,” Zelia said gently. “You don’t have to jump unless it feels right. You can step, climb, pause—whatever keeps you steady.” She gave her a thumbs up, because it was silly enough paired with her grin that maybe she could drag a smile from Rae, eyes bright.

"Okay," Rae said with a single, firm nod. Her tone was thoughtful, not yet confident, but no longer defeated either. She moved toward the first log, mirroring Zelia’s measured approach instead of rushing headlong. Her foot hovered briefly before she set it down, testing the height just as she’d observed. The memory of her earlier stumble flashed through her mind, but this time it didn’t hijack her focus. Instead, she adjusted—shifting her weight back, then forward, until her balance felt secure—before stepping over the log with an unceremonious clearance.

"...Huh," Rae muttered, glancing down at her feet as if they’d betrayed her by cooperating. "It’s a little rude of you to suddenly decide to work with me, you know?"

The second log stood taller. She paused before it, exhaling slowly through her nose as she gave the obstacle a long, unimpressed stare. Then, remembering Zelia’s advice, Rae placed both hands firmly on the log, her palms warm against the rough grain, and took her time swinging one leg over, then the other. It wasn’t graceful, but it was controlled. At the top, she allowed herself an extra second to re-center before focusing on the next log. When her shoe scraped the edge of this one, she hissed softly, froze, corrected her stance, and continued forward without spiralling into panic.

When she finally cleared the last log, Rae straightened and released a long, slow breath. Better. It may not have looked as easy as Zelia’s run, but that second run was ultimately so much better for her.

Zelia stayed just off to the side, giving Rae space without ever truly stepping away. She watched every careful adjustment, every pause that wasn’t hesitation so much as consideration. Her smile grew slowly, stretching into something unguarded and bright as Rae crossed the logs not like someone trying to conquer them, but like someone negotiating a truce—mind, body, and obstacle all agreeing to cooperate for once.

It struck her, quietly and unmistakably, that what was blooming in her chest wasn’t relief. It was pride.

Not the easy kind, the borrowed sort that came from someone doing exactly what you’d suggested. This was deeper than that. This was the pride of watching someone think. Rae hadn’t just copied her movements; she’d watched, absorbed, translated. She’d taken what she saw and reassembled it to fit her own body, her own limits, her own rhythm. She’d turned observation into strategy, hesitation into method. Zelia felt it curl warmly beneath her ribs, that fierce admiration, because Rae wasn’t strong in spite of being thoughtful; she was strong because of it.

And somewhere between the second and third log, Zelia realized her own body had relaxed completely. Her shoulders weren’t tight. Her hands weren’t clenched. She wasn’t braced for a stumble or a fall. She trusted Rae, wholly, instinctively, because Rae had decided she would make it through, and that kind of resolve was its own gravity.

When Rae cleared the last log and straightened, Zelia was already moving. She bounded forward with a lightness that felt almost celebratory, shoes skidding just a bit in the sand as she closed the distance between them. Her smile said everything before her mouth ever caught up— bright, open, unmistakably proud. She bumped her shoulder gently against Rae’s in an easy, affectionate nudge, electricity humming happily beneath her skin.

“You did amazing,” she said, voice warm and certain, like it was a fact rather than praise. “See? You and your brain are an excellent team.”

"Thanks to you being such a good teacher, of course," Rae replied, her own voice lighter than it had been for the past two and a half hours."And to my legs, I suppose. They deserve some credit. They did most of the actual work."

Next awaited the low crawl. This obstacle didn’t worry her too much as she’d managed it easily enough the first time. So….

"I can go through this one first…but if you want to join me…?" Rae asked while fully turning to look at Zelia, a new, tentative boldness colouring her tone.

When Rae turned to her—cheeks flushed from effort, freckles darkened by heat, hair caught in the sudden spill of sunlight so that it burned copper and gold all at once—and asked if she’d do the low crawl with her, something inside Zelia tipped sideways. The thought came uninvited and startling in its clarity; If it had been Rae insisting she do swim lessons, not River… she might not have argued at all.

The realization stole the air from her lungs for a heartbeat. Zelia blinked once. Then again. It wasn’t fear that followed, but wonder—bright and a little frightening in the way new truths always were. The kind that rearranged things quietly, without asking permission. She hadn’t decided anything. She hadn’t made a promise to herself. But the knowledge settled anyway, warm and undeniable. Rae asking had weight. Rae asking changed things. This was what a friend was, right? Someone who mattered so much that you’d face your fears for them?

Joy surged up in her chest, sudden and irrepressible, fizzing through her veins like a live wire. It made her grin wide enough to show her teeth, a smile too big to hide even if she’d wanted to. The world felt lighter in that moment, the sand underfoot less heavy, the obstacles less sharp-edged. “Of course,” Zelia said, voice bright and breathless with it.

A similar wide grin spread across Rae’s face. "Great!" she said, already turning toward the low-crawl obstacle. She lowered herself to the ground, pressing her palms briefly into the sand to gauge its texture. The earth here was looser than she remembered, soft and churned from dozens of bodies before her, yet forgiving in a way the rigid logs had never been. She dropped onto her stomach, immediately feeling the cool sand seep through her clothes, a relief against the lingering heat in her skin. Tucking her elbows in close, she began to inch forward, pulling herself along with short, controlled motions.

The heavy net brushed against the back of her shoulders, hanging low enough that she had to press herself flatter, tilting her chin down to avoid snagging it. Sand filtered into her sleeves, clinging to her forearms and dusting her cheek whenever she turned her head to breathe. It wasn’t graceful, but for the first time all day, it didn’t feel humiliating. It was hard to feel truly alone when someone was moving right beside you.

Halfway through, she paused to glance sideways. Zelia was right there, matching her pace. The simple awareness of it sent a wave of warmth through Rae’s chest, stronger than the heat still humming beneath her skin. She hadn’t fully realized how much of her earlier panic had come from feeling watched and judged—until now, when the only eyes on her belonged to someone who wasn’t keeping score.

Rae pushed forward again, her arms burning just enough to let her know she was working but not enough to strain. The end of the net appeared sooner than she expected, and when she finally cleared it, she planted her hands, pushed up onto her knees, and sat back on her heels.

"I wish the whole course was like that," she admitted as her friend approached, dusting sand from her own forearms. "I’m not completely sure I can handle the next one…"

Zelia matched her without thinking, dropping down into the sand with a quiet laugh that puffed grit into the air. The ground was cool against her palms, loose and forgiving, and she let herself sink into it, elbows tucked, shoulders angled just enough to slide beneath the net without catching. She moved beside Rae, not ahead, not behind, close enough that their arms occasionally brushed, close enough that she could feel the rhythm of Rae’s breathing and let it set her own pace.

She grinned the entire way through, even when sand pressed cool against her collarbone, even when the net grazed her back and tugged at her curls. There was something almost ridiculous about it, this shared crawl through dirt and effort, like two kids daring each other to see who could make it to the other side without laughing first. Zelia’s cheeks warmed, flushed from exertion and delight, curls slipping loose and collecting grains of sand like tiny stars caught in dark clouds.

When they emerged, Zelia pushed herself up easily, brushing at her forearms without much success and deciding not to care. She was breathing a little harder now, chest rising and falling with a pleasant ache, but her smile didn’t dim. She turned toward Rae, still half-kneeling in the sand, and crouched down again so they were eye level, like she didn’t want to loom or rush her forward.

“It was like that,” she said softly, warmth threading through every word. “Because we did it together.” She tilted her head, eyes bright with a kind of playful certainty. “And the next one can be, too. If we let it.”

Zelia gestured vaguely toward the rest of the course, then back at Rae, her tone lightening. “Try thinking of it like a game instead of… whatever cruel productivity nightmare this place is pretending to be.” A small laugh escaped her. “A playground for big kids. No grades. No score. Just figuring out what works.”

She shifted closer, shoulder nearly touching Rae’s again, grounding without crowding. “And if it gets too hard or frustrating,” she added gently, “I’m right here. We’ll problem-solve. Or complain. Or laugh at it. Probably all three.” Her grin returned, easy and sincere, sand-smudged and bright.

Rae listened, nodding along at first, genuinely trying to follow Zelia’s reframing. Playground. Game. No grades. Just figuring out what works.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed through her nose.

"Okay," she said slowly, as if she was troubleshooting out loud."I understand what you’re saying conceptually, like with the low crawl being some kind of tunnel on a playground kids have to crawl through, I guess. And I appreciate it. I do."

Her eyes drifted to the rope climb ahead, expression flattening into something analytical and deeply unimpressed.

"But I don’t know how to pretend that," she gestured at it with two fingers," is a playground problem when my upper body strength is basically one big design flaw." She paused, her tone turning dry. "Like…there is no version of my childhood where I looked at a rope and thought, ‘Ah, yes. Fun. Joy. Whimsy.’ It’s always just been… impossible physics." She hated the way she sounded, like it wasn’t enough to just…believe that she could handle this next challenge by just having Zelia by her side.

But she couldn’t do it again. Rae didn’t want to live through a second pointless humiliation.

Zelia hummed at that, not dismissive, not amused, but thoughtful in the way one does when a truth has been set down plainly and deserves to be turned over in the light. She leaned back on her heels and tipped her head up toward the sky, curls brushing her shoulders as her gaze traced the low ceiling of clouds overhead. They were a deep, woolen grey, heavy with the promise of more snow, the kind that softened sound and made the world feel smaller. Every so often, though, a seam split open and sunlight spilled through in sudden, unapologetic bursts, bright enough to make the sand glitter and the ropes gleam like they were strung with fire.

She watched one such beam fade, then another take its place, and let Rae’s words settle.

“Yeah,” Zelia said at last, quietly. She looked back down at Rae, her smile gentler now, softened around the edges by understanding rather than cheer. “That’s fair.” No argument. No reframing. Just acceptance, offered cleanly. “That’s… pretty much how I feel about swimming.” Her shoulders lifted in a small, almost sheepish shrug. “I’ve never once looked at a pool and thought ‘fun.’ It’s always just been… depth. And cold. And the math of how long I can hold my breath, which, by the way, isn’t nearly long enough.”

She shifted closer, sand whispering beneath her knees, eyes flicking once more toward the rope before returning to Rae with renewed focus. “So maybe we don’t pretend it’s a playground,” she continued. “Maybe we just… problem-solve it like adults who didn’t get the fun version of these things.” The idea seemed to settle into her, brightening her expression just a little. She rose smoothly to her feet and gestured toward the base of the rope. “I can give you a boost,” she offered. “As much height as I can get you. You won’t have to start from nothing, just from somewhere higher.” Her mouth curved into a small, confident smile. “All you’ll need to do is reach the top.”

Then, softer, but steadier, she added, “And if you fall, I’ll catch you.” It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t a promise made lightly. The certainty in her voice ran deeper than reassurance, settling into her bones and offering itself as something solid to lean against. Zelia met Rae’s eyes without flinching, without doubt.

“And—” she went on, the seriousness easing back into warmth. “We could work out together in the mornings. Nothing like… this.” She waved vaguely at the obstacle course. “Just a little. Consistent. Building strength instead of throwing you at ropes and hoping for you to transform into Wonder Woman.” Zelia held out her hand for Rae, her smile small, but as bright as each beam of sunlight that slipped free of the clouds.

End of Part 1

^{interactions ....|.... nelly ............... mentions ....|.... river ............... collabs ....|.... @Sleepy Tani}

Camp Athens - Closed

Emerging from the arena’s periphery, Anissa was immediately struck by the drop in sound, as though a thick velvet curtain had fallen, severing her from the cacophony inside. The chill afternoon air washed over her like a salve and a shock, followed by a deep, delayed ache that bloomed from muscles which had held their own only until they were safely out of view. An insistent growl from her stomach underscored the interminable stretch since her last real meal. Too long, in truth. But then, forgetting her own needs had become a bit of a ritual since long ago, a necessary sacrifice when navigating social landscapes that refused to cohere into anything resembling comfort.

She drifted toward the main hall, her body moving on autopilot while the course reassembled in her memory as a palette of sensations. From this review, a slow-dawning realization emerged: it hadn’t felt unjust. Gruelling, certainly. Ill-timed, perhaps. Even questionable in its design. But not cruel. River had established a standard and maintained it with inflexible integrity, even when a more lenient path would have been easier for everyone involved. This understanding caused bifurcating feelings to settle within Anissa's chest—both grounding and uncomfortable—as it placed her at odds with the only two people she had begun to trust here.

Her thoughts, however, circled back to River himself with inexorable pull. To his audaciousness during the rope climb, to the apology he hadn’t owed, and to the encouragement he’d offered without saccharine cushioning. The idea of speaking with him later now felt less like a well-made plan and more like standing at the edge of a crevasse that should, in theory, be a manageable step. The reality, however, was far more daunting. She continued walking, her jaw set tight as if to pulverize the nervous energy gathering there. She recited a silent petition to herself: It’ll be fine. It’s only a conversation. You can hold your own.

But how was she to express the conviction that something significant had happened, even if she couldn't remember what? Anissa had no clear answer. And, frustratingly, she sensed that any attempt to pretend otherwise would only complicate things further.

Anissa drew nearer to the main building, the brisk early afternoon air continuing to be incisive against every exposed inch of her skin. As the distance closed, a faint, tantalizing waft of cooking scents drifted through the doors before her, a siren call to the ravenous beast gnawing at her insides. She paused before she entered, gathering the scattered fragments of her composure. Her purpose here was straightforward: to secure a bit of food for herself and for Blair. And perhaps, she admitted silently, for River as well. He’d left so early before she’d even stirred that she doubted, with first-day leader trepidations compounding things, he’d taken the time for anything substantial. A practical gesture, then, is what she told herself this was. And if it also happened to serve as a slight conciliatory offering before their impending, difficult conversation, so be it.

With a steadying breath, she reached out, her hand closing around the cold iron handle. A push, and the door yielded with a low, wooden groan, releasing a swell of warmth that wrapped around her like a weary embrace. Immediately, Anissa was captivated by the room’s rich, layered aroma, her mouth watering instantly. After everything she had endured, the prospect of a hot meal transcended mere sustenance; it felt like a truce her body was determined to broker, whether her proud mind was ready to acquiesce or not. Besides, for now at least, the pretense of appearances could be abandoned as the room’s long trestle tables were bare of both people and noise. Anissa felt her shoulders loosen a fraction, a subliminal tension she hadn’t fully registered beginning to seep away. Here, there were no eyes to scrutinize, no roles to uphold. No one awaited a performance of competence, or charm, or gritty resilience. She could, for all intents and purposes, simply be while she was here.

Her gaze drifted down, catching on her own hands as they hung at her sides. The thick knit gloves she wore—a coarse facsimile of the fine barriers she typically relied upon—were a testament to the day’s ordeal with grime infused deep into the woollen seams. They looked weary and frayed, the observation quickly chased by a more pragmatic thought: she was about to handle food with them, assuming she chose to keep the soiled garments on to begin with. The incongruity gave her pause, a final, small hesitation on the threshold of respite.

You don’t have to.
That was the simple solution, arriving with a surprising, almost luminous clarity. She could just… not. Not brace herself. Not perform caution for an audience that wasn’t there. In this temporary solitude, she wasn’t a danger to anyone, and that distinction mattered more than most people would ever realize. Herself included, once upon a time.

Her power, that capricious and unwieldy force, didn’t lash out blindly; that much Anissa had painstakingly deduced long ago. It seemed to react to a stimulus. Proximity, perhaps. Density. Life pressed too close together, a teeming and pulsating mass. Intention had never been a reliable thing either, as her desire not to harm had never been enough to keep at bay. And while fear was a potent catalyst, sure, calm didn’t guarantee another person’s safety. Nor did anger. Nor grief. It followed no single feeling that was the whole key. So, there was no rule she could test without inviting consequences.

And then there were the inconsistencies. How alcohol, of all mundane things, acted as a palliative, blurring the internal alignment that usually let the power slip through her skin. None of it conformed to a logic Anissa could articulate, only to patterns she’d learned to recognize in the aftermath of her ordeals.

Patterns, however, were sometimes enough.

The hall was empty. Nothing living brushed against her awareness but herself. Whatever the reason, whatever the mechanism she didn't yet and might never understand, this was one of those rare, benign intervals where the world granted her room. And room, she’d come to accept, made all the difference. Still, Anissa hesitated a moment longer, studying her hands as if they might offer silent rebuttals to this idea. Then, with a sigh, she tugged the soiled gloves free, shoving them in the pocket that didn’t hold her lip balm and that small, treasured cloth. The cooler air of the hall kissed her exposed skin immediately, but, more importantly, nothing stirred beneath it.

She walked to the buffet area, her footsteps the only sound in the vast space, and slowed before the long serving table. For a moment, she simply let herself look, allowing the sheer plenitude to register. The spread was generous in a way that felt less like “camp rations” and more like a sustenance meant to fortify them after the day’s exacting trials. Steam curled from beneath polished brass lids. Baskets of bread radiated a gentle, yeasty warmth. Bowls of fruit and grains were arranged with a care that suggested someone, somewhere, had applied genuine forethought.

Anissa’s gaze drifted past the table itself, searching instinctively for the source, like a kitchen door or any sign of the organized effort behind this feast. There was none. It was as if it had all materialized through some kind of silent wish fulfillment, much like the furnished cabin she’d been given. Weird, she mused, a dry thought threading through her weariness. The magic of this place seemed a bit frugal. It provided a hot meal, yes, but what about a nail salon? Better yet, a mall? Or was that too thoughtful, too considerate, even for whatever gods or architects had engineered this peculiar purgatory for them all?

Decision made, Anissa selected three of the sturdier takeaway containers from a nearby stack, lining them up next to each other. Blair came first, Anissa deciding to choose nothing too heavy and nothing that would sit poorly after pain or exhaustion. A portion of herb-roasted chicken, tender enough to fall apart under the fork. Steamed root vegetables glazed lightly with a buttery and forgiving sauce. A soft roll torn in half so it wouldn’t feel overwhelming. She hesitated only briefly before adding a small cup of broth on the side, just in case.

River, in comparison, was… far trickier. Anissa paused longer there, weighing options with a faint crease between her brows. Her gaze landed briefly on a platter of grilled fish, the skin crisped and flecked with lemon and herbs, and she snorted quietly to herself. Absolutely not. That felt like flirting with some kind of cosmic faux pas. What if fish were, like, a weird distant cousin? Or a friend? Fish are friends, not food, Anissa concluded in her mind with an inner smile before redirecting her attention to other options.

She eventually decided on something safer: a generous portion of roasted lamb, savoury and filling without being sweet, paired with herbed potatoes and a slice of bread thick enough to tear into properly. No sauces that leaned sugary. No hint of fruit glaze. She remembered the grenadine well enough for that.

Only after she had closed both containers did Anissa allow herself to think about her own meal. Not as an afterthought exactly, just… last in line, as usual. Her eyes skimmed the options again, this time with a different metric in mind: filling, portable, uncomplicated.

She found the best option for her almost immediately.

Poutine. Proper poutine, too. Thick-cut fries, still steaming under a ladle of rich, umami-laden gravy that pooled in voluptuous pockets, their heat coaxing the cheese curds into a state of perfect, partial surrender. The sight sparked a visceral, homesick tug deep in Anissa’s chest, a sibling to the ache she’d felt upon seeing the photo of her mother and her. Of course, this place would manifest that particular comfort. Its magic seemed proficient at conjuring the specifics of longing without ever seeking permission from the receiver (case in point, that beautiful lilac dress shoved in the bottom of her drawer).

She packed it carefully, adding a second scoop of fries as a bulwark against the lingering hunger and what was sure to feel like a long walk back to the arena. Then, because today had already been a day of impulses, she reached in with her bare fingers, lifted a fry slick with gravy, and ate it.

Salt. Heat. Fat. Home.

She sucked the excess sauce from her thumb without thought, her eyes drifting half-closed as the composite flavour settled, rich and indulgent in a way that loosened a knot of tension in her chest. For a moment, it was simply good. Just her, standing in the quiet warmth, alive and unabashed in her wanting.

And then the quiet stretched, dilating until it filled the hall completely, underscored only by the conspicuous absence of any footstep or shifting shadow beyond the sunlit windows.

She was still, unmistakably, the only one here.

Everyone else, it seemed, had intentionally remained behind at the arena for much longer than originally assumed. They would be clustering together now, she imagined, coalescing with that unthinking ease which had always felt, to Anissa, like a native tongue she had studied for years but could never quite speak without an accent. She was not built for such effortless communion, at least not without a foundation of careful calculation and the low-grade exhaustion that always followed. The realization seeped in slowly, attenuating the earlier warmth of solitude until the freedom of being alone metamorphosed into something heavier and much more hollow.

The only two people at this camp who had not made her feel that familiar strain were not here, either. Not that Anissa honestly expected them to leave when they’d had to stay for their own specific reasons. And yet, the thought still constricted her chest with a surprising force, the loneliness rising not as a sharp sting but as something primordial and patient, an old companion that had simply been awaiting its turn. She exhaled, a slow release through her nose, and snapped the lid shut on the container in her hands. The soft, final click was a period to the moment.

She should go.

Blair had waved her off earlier, insisting she didn’t need anyone to hover. And rightly so; Anissa could well imagine how cloying all that attention must have felt with all the endless questions, the concerned looks, and the weight of other people projecting their own discomfort onto someone already worn thin. Better to return bearing something tangible: sustenance for Blair, and for River, a simple, useful offering that stood apart from the fog of her own uncertain thoughts.

With renewed purpose, she gathered the containers into a plastic bag, adding the necessary utensils and a clutch of napkins. She tucked the makeshift parcel against her chest, steadying its weight, and turned back toward the door.

Besides, she told herself, experience suggested that both Blair and River were the sort of people who might notice, and value, quiet effort. The kind who would appreciate being remembered, not with grand gestures but in small, practical acts of foresight.

Then again, who was to really say? Discernment of details, big and small, hadn’t exactly been Anissa’s strong point as of late.

---

_{Location: Arena-> Main Hall->Arena (before anyone else gets there, as she's a loner and apparently a freak for being one of the first to leave)
Interactions: N/A
Mentions: Blair, River}

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

(Don't) Look Outside - small-scale survival horror in a mutagenic apocalypse

Hmm tentatively interested because the premise sounds very...unique. :)

Camp Athens - Closed

Anissa hadn’t expected to recognize him. With her own run over, she was only half-attentive as the final group assembled, her mind softened by a buzzing fatigue. Her eyes drifted idly over the crowd until a single spoken name snapped her focus into sudden, razor-sharp clarity.

Elias.

Her eyes tracked his easy stride toward the starting line, and in the silent pause before the signal, a belated understanding dawned: he had never come back. After his awkward offer to fetch her a drink, there had been no reappearance. Not even an attempt at some mumbled apology or flimsy excuse. Not that the observation carried any particular weight, though. Perhaps, Anissa considered now, he’d been intercepted, or he’d simply seized an escape from an uncomfortable moment. She left the possibilities unexplored, letting them rest in the space between them. It was the easiest thing she could think of doing at this point.

Her gaze stayed on him as River gave the signal to start, and Elias surged forward, his body slipping into motion with an ease that suggested he’d done this kind of thing long before today. Of course, she reflected, a wry note colouring her thoughts. She had misread so much during their first conversation, clearly. Not that he’d made it easy, as he’d seemed more interested in the buffet table than in her until Tapeesa had excused herself to dance. Only then had his attention turned fully to Anissa, leaving her with a mistaken sense of connection she now understood was never really there.

Now, watching him navigate the course only confirmed the distance between them. Where other competitors had wrestled with obstacles, hesitating or over-correcting, Elias moved with an economical certainty that Anissa found herself envying somewhat. The rope climb, the narrow beams, the pool—none of it seemed to disrupt his rhythm. Even when he fell behind a swift blonde runner, he didn’t scramble to close the gap. He merely maintained his own self-contained pace.

By the time River called out the final times, the whole show was pretty much over. Elias’s name landed near the top of the rankings, exactly where Anissa suspected it belonged. As for her own…

“Fourteen forty—Anissa Quinn and Heath Taylor.”

She let out a slow, controlled breath, her lips pressing into a thin line of acceptance. She had felt every lost second during her run: the sear in her overtaxed shoulders and slightly injured but slowly healing knee, the costly fumble on the rope climb, the moment of paralysis at the pool’s edge. The time was no surprise. What was unexpected was how little it stung. There was no hot rush of shame, no compulsion to compare her number with those above her. What was the point? It was only an assessment, after all.

Besides, River himself had already told her she’d done well after watching her from start to finish. His approval hadn’t felt performative or conditional. It was a quiet acknowledgment that seemed to seal the effort itself, making the result feel complete. The work, the fatigue, and even her near-failures had been seen and validated in the only way that truly mattered. Perhaps that was why Elias’s own non-reaction now resonated with her. His detached indifference aligned, strangely, with her own sense of closure, despite the awkward way their first interaction had ended.

That same sense of resolution, however, did not carry evenly through the stands.

River’s next announcement sent a visible ripple through the crowd. “Anyone who finished in under fifteen minutes is excused for the rest of the day.” A murmur of relief swept through one section of the demigods. “For everyone that remains,” he continued, his voice rising above the chatter, “you will run the course a second time.” He paused, letting the groan from a majority of the group subside. “You won’t be timed, so you can complete it at your leisure. It isn’t about speed, but practice, learning, and muscle memory. Powers are still prohibited, but you’re welcome to help each other.”

The moment River snapped his clipboard shut and tucked it under his arm, the arena seemed to split into two distinct atmospheres. Among the excused, there was a tangible release of tension—shoulders loosened, postures relaxed, and light conversation resumed as they began to disperse. Elsewhere, a heavy, resigned silence settled. Anissa didn't need to scan the seat next to her to know Blair would be among those still seated. This kind of mandate landed differently when the struggle wasn't abstract, when your own limitations had just been measured and found wanting, no matter how much grit you’d shown.

She barely had time to turn before Blair vocalized her simmering frustration.

"Nipple boy is really starting to piss me off," Blair snapped. Her anger wasn’t directed at Anissa but at the situation, their new leader, and her own shortcomings…which seemed to be a lot over the past day. She didn’t wait around for hollow sympathies or whatever sarcastic comment her brother would have about all the times she skipped P.E. to fool around in the locker rooms. "Don’t bother waiting for me."

She gave Anissa a half-assed reassuring smile with a pat to her knee before standing up. Blair knew it was unlikely for her second attempt to be anything short of half an hour, and the only thing that made her feel shittier than their pity was them sitting around watching and waiting for her to stumble through each obstacle a second time. It’d be easier for everyone—and her pride—if she suffered alone.

Blair had already taken a few steps away when Anissa found her voice.

“Hey—”

Blair paused, but didn’t turn around.

Anissa didn’t chase after her. She understood that pride was a fragile, stubborn thing. The last thing Blair needed was to be coddled or to mistake kindness for pity. So, Anissa remained seated, bracing her arms against the bench and leaning forward just enough for her words to carry across the distance.

“I’m grabbing breakfast,” she called, her tone leaving no room for debate. “I’ll get you something. You can yell at me about it later if you want.”

Blair lifted a hand in a vague, dismissive wave—its meaning lost between don’t bother and whatever—and continued her grim march toward the course. Anissa watched her retreating back for a long moment before letting out a slow, measured breath. Turning back toward the stands, she caught Fiona’s eye, then Lochlan’s.

“It was really nice meeting you both,” she offered, summoning a small, weary smile and equally tired wave goodbye. Then, she adjusted her sweatshirt over her shoulder and began descending the stepped benches, already charting a mental path out of the arena and toward the promise of food. But before she reached the bottom, a sharp whistle cut through the residual noise.

“If you don’t wish to run the course a second time,” River’s voice carried clearly across the arena, “I’ll also accept thirty push-ups.”

Anissa stopped short, her head snapping up as the words registered. A flicker of fragile hope warmed her chest, and she turned instinctively, searching for Blair. Push-ups. That was far more manageable, wasn’t it? Brutal, yes, but contained—a private burn in the arms and shoulders instead of a public spectacle of scraped palms, choked breaths, and stalling out on a rope for everyone to see. Surely Blair would choose the simpler, quicker punishment.

But when her eyes found her friend, that hope dimmed. Blair was already positioned near the first set of tires, hands planted on her hips, her chin lifted in defiant assessment of the obstacle course. She didn’t even glance toward Wes, who was already dropping to the dusty ground nearby to begin his reps. Her posture was rigid, resolved in that uniquely self-punishing way Anissa recognized all too well.

Ugh, stubborn bitch, Anissa thought, rolling her eyes in a blend of irritation and understanding. She knew better than to interfere, though. Once someone had chosen that kind of solitary, self-imposed trial, trying to stop them usually backfired, turning concern into condescension. Anissa, perhaps more than anyone, knew the tangled logic behind such a choice.

Shaking her head slightly, her gaze drifted from Blair back to the far end of the arena, where River stood. She meant to offer him a commiserating what-can-you-do? shrug. Instead of meeting his eyes, however, she found her attention snagged by Maylisse, who now stood a short distance from him. The older girl’s posture was, as ever, immaculate, her presence subtle yet commanding—a quiet force that drew the eye without seeming to try. They weren’t speaking loudly; in fact, they barely seemed to be speaking at all. A few quiet words passed between them, followed by a slight incline of Maylisse’s head. All the while, River listened, his shoulders still tense from the morning’s pressures, one hand absently rubbing the back of his neck as if the mantle of leadership still weighed physically upon him.

None of it, in truth, should have meant anything. It was just a quiet exchange between two siblings. And yet Anissa’s mind, that traitorous and self-condemning instrument, reached backward without permission, retrieving a recent, pointed warning.

Omission, after all, is such an elegant weapon.

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She told herself—firmly—that she didn’t believe that. River hadn’t struck her as someone who curated silence with intent. If anything, he seemed like someone who carried his burdens openly, retreating only when he was uncertain of the expected boundaries. Still, Maylisse had uttered those words with such certainty, as if describing a fundamental law for children of Poseidon rather than offering a mere opinion. The memory cast an uneasy shadow over the scene before her, leaving Anissa to wonder what, exactly, was being left unsaid now.

Anissa’s gaze drifted back to River, searching his expression for something—a tell, a flicker of detachment, anything that might hint at calculation as he spoke with his half-sister.

She found none.

Only fatigue, and a focus that seemed worn thin only after the first day as their leader. He looked like someone trying to do right by too many people at once, including those who clearly wanted nothing to do with his help. (See, Blair? Maybe “Nipple Boy” isn’t so terrible after all.)

He isn’t obligated to tell me everything, she reminded herself, the thought arriving with a steadying clarity rather than defensiveness. And I’m not entitled to it. While the reminder didn’t fully dissolve her unease, it gave the feeling a place to rest without curdling into something uglier.

Finally releasing the held tension in her shoulders, Anissa let her attention drift away from the scene. She reached for the sweatshirt she’d tossed on her shoulder earlier—her only shield against the chill to come—and tugged it back over her head. The sloth printed across her chest reappeared, now streaked with grime and looking significantly less serene than it had that morning.

She glanced down at it, lips twitching.

“Sorry, buddy,” Anissa murmured under her breath, brushing at a stubborn smear of dirt with her thumb as she started toward the arena exit. “I’ll make him do my laundry at least.”

---

_{Location: Arena
Interactions: Blair
Mentions: Elias, River, Tapeesa, Heath, Maylisse, Wes, Trinity}

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

Fashionably Late // The Wild Hunt

Not 100% sure what my time is going to look like once this OOC gets going, but the second one, to no one's surprise, interests me more. :)

Camp Athens - Closed

By the time the next group was called forward, Maylisse had returned to her seat, her posture impeccably straight despite the dampness that still seeped through her clothes. The list of names River recited flowed past her like background noise; she registered the scattered cheers and the solemn pauses that followed each failure only vaguely. Her concentration was reserved for one candidate alone.

"Next up: Evelyn, Ariana, Tapeesa, Wes, and Anissa."

There she was.

Maylisse’s attention narrowed instantly, sharpening on Anissa as the girl stepped away from her companions. She looked slight—almost insubstantial—compared to some who'd gone already. Their physiques had hinted at a more natural suitability for the grueling course, and even the one in her group who lacked a limb appeared more able physically. Every aspect of Anissa seemed too fine and too unready (especially because of her stupid shirt). The observation, however, carried no scorn. It was more a cold, automatic valuation, measuring inherent potential against visible disadvantage. The girl had, after all, revealed an unexpected fortitude during their earlier exchange, a spine where Maylisse had first seen none.

From the outset, Anissa did not move like an investment meant to yield any immediate returns. There was no explosive confidence, no obvious leverage. Her start was cautious, almost conservative, as if she were feeling out the terrain that the tires and logs presented rather than asserting dominance over it. Maylisse noted it all with a faint creasing at the corner of her mouth. By the low crawl, the girl was filthy with her sweatshirt ruined and posture stripped of whatever fragile dignity she’d started with. Maylisse felt a bit of distaste, not so much at the mess but at the waste. Appearances mattered. They always did. But even as that thought formed, another followed close behind, unwelcome but undeniable: sometimes the ugliest investments survived the longest downturns, didn’t they?

Yet by the time Anissa reached the rope climb, Maylisse had already categorized her as a non-factor in the immediate equation. Not unimportant in a grander sense, but here, now, she was merely a participant who would either pass or fall. Neither outcome warranted further investment of her attention, despite the dogged resilience on display. A minor risk, certainly, but like the girl herself, one that seemed more likely to exhaust itself than to disrupt the established order at camp. Even as Anissa fought her way upward, fingers slipping and grasping anew, Maylisse foresaw the impending stall. How predictable, she mused. And how ultimately inconsequential.

As Anissa dangled, suspended in her struggle, Maylisse’s gaze grew restless. It was commendable, perhaps, that the girl refused to make a drama of her effort, but it made for a dull spectacle. Her eyes almost wandered of their own accord, drawn to the more compelling figure of the one-armed man, as his own earlier fall had been a jarring, unforgettable event. Now he, at least, offers a more aesthetically pleasing study, her inner commentary supplied with unwelcome idleness. A subtle frown betrayed her annoyance at the frivolous thought, and she swiftly shut it down, turning her focus instead to the presence of her brother positioned near the rope climb.

River’s attention, which should have remained evenly spread among the remaining runners, snapped to Anissa as if tugged by a wire. He paused briefly before closing the distance between them. Their words were lost to the general noise of the arena, but Maylisse had no need to hear them. The silent dialogue of their stance told her everything.

“He isn’t obligated to tell me everything. He doesn’t… even know who I am.”

Maylisse had initially mistaken that quiet statement for insecurity. Now, she saw it for what it was. This girl was not demanding closeness from her brother; she was creating a space for it, and River was stepping into that space with negligible hesitation. After all, his hesitation was born of nothing more than his own irritating nerves, quickly overruled by who knew what exactly. The proof, however, was the smile that touched his lips—a private, fleeting thing there and gone in a heartbeat yet irreversible once witnessed. In that unguarded moment, his authority appeared to soften into something more personal: familiarity and a spark of genuine interest.

Then, Anissa slipped.

River’s reaction was instantaneous, a raw instinct that outpaced his training. His whole body lurched forward, hands twitching out to catch a fall that wasn’t his to prevent. Discipline crashed back down a heartbeat later, but the damage was done. The clipboard in his grip fell, striking the hard ground with a crack that silenced the immediate air around them. Maylisse didn’t flinch externally, but internally, everything crystallized into cold, still clarity.

Because favouritism, even when checked, always leaves a trace.

River caught himself. He stepped back. He enforced the rule. And on paper, it was the correct decision for him to make. But for Maylisse, the assessment of that single second was already complete. The issue was not his final decision. It was the blinding speed with which he had been ready to abandon it.

Anissa descended, landed softly in the dirt, and turned away without a backward glance. River, meanwhile, straightened his spine, the mask of the detached assessor firmly back in place, though a telltale rigidity lingered in his shoulders like a ghost of the lapse.

Maylisse’s gaze followed Anissa as the girl moved toward the next obstacle, her mind refining its conclusion with ruthless precision. Anissa was not the rot itself. She displayed none of the voracious hunger for control, nor the sly impulse to corrode from within. Instead, she was something worse: a catalyst. Her mere presence within the system tested its soundness, exposing flaws and weaknesses no one, not even Maylisse, had thought to look for.

And River, for all his principles and good intentions, had already shown a bend in his resolve because of it.

Maylisse leaned back against the bench, fingers interlacing in her lap, posture once more immaculate.

Rot. It was a sickness to be cut out before it could spread. She had accepted that definition without hesitation, for it mirrored her father’s stated creed exactly: identify, remove, and cauterize for the greater good.

But Anissa’s addendum resurfaced now, unwelcome and tenacious.

Sometimes rot isn’t the problem. Sometimes it’s the roots.

Maylisse’s gaze grew distant, sliding past the obstacle course and the camp’s perimeter to the blurred line where she imagined the land met the iron-gray expanse of the lake. Roots were not an infection. They were a foundation that was ancient, necessary, and driven deep by whatever formidable force had first planted them. Furthermore, you could not simply rip them out without threatening everything they upheld; the resulting collapse would bury you as well.

It was a principle that Poseidon, with grim irony, had carved into her understanding before granting her this duty.

You do not destroy what already governs the flow, he had instructed. You learn the source of its strength. You restrict its channels. You redirect its current. And only if it resists… then you apply pressure until it fractures into a shape you can tolerate.

Her focus sharpened, returning to the present. Anissa had progressed to the final obstacle by now, and though she seemed outsized by the challenge, she was still advancing—awkward, inelegant, but persistent. Not dangerous in herself, of course, yet clearly able to command attention and provoke instinct over reason. River had already demonstrated that in his single moment of hesitation. One almost-step across a boundary he himself had established.

And sometimes, that was all it took.

The rot she had named was not always loud. It did not always arrive as betrayal or open defiance. Sometimes, it wore the guise of compassion offered too soon. It looked like an attachment forming before authority had fully solidified. It was a leader who bent on instinct, only remembering the rules after his posture had already shifted.

River was not weak.
But he was unrefined.
And unrefined structures tended to buckle under strain.

Maylisse let the conclusion solidify within her, storing it away with the meticulous care she reserved for all valuable intelligence. Her evaluation, for now, was complete. Around her, the crowd was thinning, naturally sorted by success and failure. Those who passed drifted away, their relieved chatter fading into the general hum of the camp. Those who had stumbled remained, faces etched with frustration, now occupied with the grim work of repetition—whether to strengthen their skills or their resolve, it hardly mattered to her at this moment.

Instead, Maylisse waited. She did not approach while River stood in the arena’s focus, nor while lingering eyes still sought his direction. She remained still until he had transitioned back into just a man: a figure on a bench, a jacket beside him, the vast, silent pressure of the ocean at his back.

Then, and only then, did she rise and move toward him.

Maylisse’s shoes made no sound on the packed earth as she crossed the arena, passing the stragglers now restarting the course without so much as a glance. River had just completely settled onto the bench when her presence entered the edge of his vision. She stopped a careful distance away—near enough for quiet conversation, far enough to avoid crowding him—and observed him for a moment longer than courtesy typically allowed.

She noted the weary drop of his head.
The absent way his hand rubbed the tension at the base of his neck.
The quiet, absorbing fatigue that follows a performance delivered under someone else’s watchful eye.

When she finally spoke, her voice was level, unhurried by the tension still hanging in the air.

“You handled that well, even if it may not feel that way at the moment.”

It wasn’t quite praise, nor was it empty reassurance. It was a statement delivered as a straightforward fact.

Her gaze drifted briefly back toward the obstacle course, where a handful of determined campers were already a third of the way through, moving slower now but offering each other guidance over the logs and ropes that had defeated them earlier.

“You made a decision,” she continued, her attention returning to him. “You upheld it. And you didn’t waver when the pushback came.”

Maylisse let the words settle between them, her expression unreadable yet intent.

“That matters. And it will matter to him.”

---

_{Location: Arena
Interactions: River
Mentions: Anissa, Wes, all the top performers and failures (indirectly)}

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

Camp Athens - Closed

Rae hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until Zelia touched her.

The contact startled a sharp, stinging ache loose in her chest, one that seized her throat in an instant. Head bowed, she stared at the damp sand between her feet as though it might hold instructions for how to exist normally again while water dripped from the ends of her hair in a steady rhythm. All the while, her arms trembled from exhaustion, from humiliation, or more likely, from the bitter cocktail of both after what she’d just been made to do.

“I—”
The sound caught, embarrassingly fragile, and broke off. Rae shut her mouth, swallowed hard, and tried again. “I’m… sorry. I know I was really bad.” The apology spilled out before she could stop it, reflexive and automatic, as if she’d been rehearsing the words since the moment she’d slipped in the tires. She hated how small her voice sounded. Hated, too, that Zelia could probably feel the fine, constant shake running through her.

But Zelia didn’t pull away. In fact, when she said winter fire, something inside Rae seemed to respond. Something confused, startled, and painfully warm. It didn’t feel like a joke. It didn’t feel like pity. It felt…like she’d been chosen regardless of it all, something she hadn’t felt since miraculously becoming friends with Wesley all those years back in high school.

Slowly, Rae lifted her head just enough to glance sideways. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and she didn’t quite meet Zelia’s gaze, but she managed a short, jerky motion that sent droplets flying from her wet hair.

“I didn’t quit,” she echoed quietly, like she was testing the truth of those words. Her chest hitched. “I really wanted to.”

Her mind scrambled for something solid to cling to, cycling through memories like a broken film reel: other campers stumbling on the obstacle course, slipping from holds, missing their grip; the girl in the earlier group who’d gone down hard by the end of her run; the ones who’d had to stop, hands on knees, gasping for air just as she had. River had said it himself: this was an assessment, not a judgment. A baseline. A first day. No powers, no expectations beyond trying.
She repeated it to herself silently, the words stacking up like sandbags against the swell of shame in her chest. It wasn’t a ranking. It wasn’t a sentence. It was just information. Just data. Just… a starting point.

Pressing her lips together, Rae breathed through the lingering tremor in her hands, willing the logic to stick. Others had struggled. Some had done better. Some had done worse. This didn’t mean she didn’t belong here. It didn’t mean she’d failed at being a demigod. It just meant she was tired. Sore. And very, very done for the day, even though the sun hadn’t yet reached its peak.

When Zelia tugged her closer, Rae went without resistance, leaning into the solid warmth of her before she could second-guess the impulse. The heat of Zelia’s body cut through the deep chill that had settled into Rae’s soaked clothes—a chill that seemed reluctant to leave, even after River had drawn the water from her. For the first time since stumbling across the finish line, Rae let herself sag, just a little.

“C’mon,” Zelia said. “Let’s go sit down so you can rest up some.”

“Okay,” Rae murmured. “Yeah. Sitting sounds… really good.” She hesitated, then added, barely above a whisper, “Thanks for… coming over.”

Rae allowed Zelia to steer her away from the arena floor, each step leaden but steady. The violent trembling in her limbs was gradually subsiding, leaving behind a dull, all-over ache as the immediacy of her failure began to recede. She sank onto the sun-warmed bench with a soft, spent exhale, her shoulders slumping forward as if her body had finally received permission to cease its performance. The heat that River had summoned for them, which had felt like a mercy before, now pressed against her damp clothes, creating a stifling, sticky warmth. Though if she was honest, Rae lacked the energy to even mind it.

She sat there, elbows braced on her knees, fingers loosely curled, staring at nothing in particular. The course replayed in disjointed flashes behind her eyes, each memory already being filed away under things she would undoubtedly think about later against her own will.

Across the arena, River’s voice cut through the humid air, calling the next group forward. Rae registered the sound only dimly, as if from a great distance. Names were announced and floated past her awareness without sticking, just more noise in the backdrop of her exhaustion. Someone jogged out onto the course. A nervous laugh echoed from the stands. The assessment rolled on, utterly indifferent to her small, personal catastrophe.

She let out another slow breath, her eyes drifting shut. She tried to convince her nervous system that it was over, that she was safe, that nothing more would be demanded of her right now. The silent mantra was almost soothing: You could walk away. Right now. And no one would blame you.

Then River spoke again.

“…Wesley.”

The name landed with jarring force, shattering her fog like a dropped crystal. Rae’s head lifted a fraction, her spine straightening of its own accord. Her gaze drifted back toward the starting line, her focus sharpening for the first time since she’d stumbled across her own finish.

She found him immediately, a reflex she didn’t bother to examine. He looked… perfectly at ease. More than fine, actually. His dark hair was already damp with sweat, and his shoulders gleamed under the arena lights as he casually tugged his shirt off. The sight triggered an old, inconvenient hitch in her attention, a purely physical awareness she hadn’t quite outgrown. High school muscle memory, she thought dismissively. Or perhaps just the ambient, beguiling pull that seemed to emanate from any child of Aphrodite, a charm that slipped past defences before you could think to raise them. Rae blinked, forcing her eyes away.

But then she noticed what wasn’t there.

Her attention snagged on the clean, pronounced line of shoulder, the absence more potent than any allure. Whatever faint warmth had sparked in her chest evaporated, doused by a wave of cold, sobering clarity.

Oh, Rae thought, stupidly. Right.

Her stomach tightened as she followed him with her eyes, the earlier distraction dissolving into something heavier. Concern, maybe. Or guilt. Or the uncomfortable realization that though she’d performed badly, she’d at least had the advantage of having both her arms to help her. How was Wes going to handle the crawl? The rope? The ladder? She had no idea.

Rae swallowed, leaning forward until her elbows pressed into her knees, as if getting closer could somehow will him safety. She tried to reason it away. He’s been here longer. He lost an arm, yes, but he survived whatever took it. He knows his own limits. They wouldn’t let him out there if he couldn’t handle it.

Still, the thought lingered, agonizingly insistent: Please don’t get hurt, Wes.

She didn’t glance at Zelia. She didn’t speak. Her entire world narrowed to the figure on the arena floor as River gave the signal. Her own humiliation was suddenly distant, eclipsed by a more anxious focus as Wes took off.

The first three obstacles ranged from easy to decent for him, but when he got to the rope climb….

Rae’s breath caught in her throat when he fell.

She leaned forward without realizing it, fingers digging into the edge of the bench as Wes hit the ground hard, face-first, and didn’t move for a heartbeat too long.

No. No, no—

When he finally pushed himself up, spitting a dark streak of blood into the dirt like it was an everyday nuisance, relief and dread crashed together inside her. He was hurt. That was obvious. But he was still moving. At least he’s still going, she thought, the mantra doing little to calm the knot in her stomach.

What followed was a brutal study in adaptation. Rae watched, muscles tense, as Wes dragged himself across obstacles that had never been designed for a body like his. Every slip made her flinch. Every hard-won recovery was a punch she felt in her own ribs. By the time he launched himself for the final jump, Rae hadn’t blinked in what felt like minutes. Only when he stumbled across the finish line—shaking, mouth bloody, but miraculously upright—did she release the air burning in her lungs.

He didn’t quit either, she thought.

And somehow, that truth settled over her with a far greater weight than her own failure ever had.

The assessment ground forward after that, but Rae witnessed it from a distance, as if someone had turned down the volume on the world. She watched the next group run, registering only a blur of motion—figures scrambling, obstacles conquered, muffled cheers rising and falling. None of the details stuck. Her attention wavered, snagging on a brief flash of someone’s struggle before drifting away again, numb and disconnected. She just wanted it to be over.

Her focus sharpened momentarily when Trinity stepped up in the final group. What struck Rae most was the immediate, stark contrast. Trinity moved through the course like it was a familiar dance, her body speaking a language of effortless command. The tires barely slowed her; the logs were cleared with fluid grace; the rope climb was dispatched with ruthless, efficient confidence. Where Rae had faltered, and Wes had endured, Trinity simply executed. Every motion was clean, fast, and utterly controlled.

Rae watched her clear the final obstacle with time to spare, the gulf between their performances impossible to ignore. She felt no bitterness, only a quiet, sinking comprehension of the vast spectrum of skill that existed here.

Still….finally, blessedly, it was over. The collective tension in the air loosened, and Rae looked forward to nothing more than River’s dismissal.

She was still adrift in that thought when a flicker of movement caught her eye. She glanced up as the redhead from her group, the one who had cheered for her, approached their bench. It took Rae a second longer than usual to orient herself before she managed a small, tired smile.

"Hi there,” the girl said, her voice warm. “I hope I am not interrupting. I just got tired of sitting in one place and was hoping I could join you two since I want to meet all of the new campers here. My name is Penelope, but call me Nelly, please.” She didn't wait for an invitation before settling onto the bench near them, her movements easy and open.

“Oh, hey,” Rae said, shifting slightly on the bench to make room. “You’re not interrupting. I think we’re all just kind of… waiting for permission to go at this point.”

“How are you both feeling by the way?” Nelly asked, her eyes crinkling with genuine concern.

“I’m… okay,” Rae said after a brief pause. “Sore. Very aware of muscles I didn’t know I had. But alive, which feels like a win today.” She offered a quick, polite nod. “I’m Rae. And new. Obviously.”

Her gaze flickered past Nelly toward the course, where River was now studying his clipboard with a frown, then back. “How’d you make out? I have to admit, I was… a little too in my own head to notice much else.” The unspoken truth hung between them: other than being the one to finish last.

After Nelly answered her question, Rae felt her shoulders tense. River was walking toward the stands, clipboard in hand. He cleared his throat, and the scattered conversations around them died instantly.

He began with the results, and Trinity’s name at the top drew no surprise. As he continued down the list, names and times blurred into a monotonous hum for Rae. She braced herself as the timestamps grew slower, the gaps between them shrinking. What had been abstract data began to feel intensely, painfully personal.

When her name finally cut through the noise, it landed exactly where she had known it would.

“Sixteen minutes, thirty-three seconds — Rae Kowalewski.”

The announcement felt like a formal stamp on a truth she already knew. Last place. Or so close to it that the difference was meaningless.

A familiar sting of wounded pride flared up, immediate and hot, but beneath it, something steadier took root. She had finished. She had remained standing. She had gotten an official time. That had to count for something. Rae clung to that thought, forcing herself to believe it.

Until River spoke again.

"Anyone who finished in under fifteen minutes is excused for the rest of the day," he called out. A wave of immediate relief and low chatter swept through a large portion of the demigods, followed by the sound of benches scraping as they seized their chance to leave. River waited for the exodus to subside before continuing, his voice carrying over the diminished group. "For everyone that remains, you will run the course a second time."

Her stomach plummeted, a wave of pure resignation washing through her, followed by a tired, bone-deep acceptance. Rae was done with this course in the way only a curmudgeon could be: thoroughly, irrevocably, and without a single ounce of remaining goodwill. But clearly, it wasn’t done with her. And for what? Practice, River had said. What good was more practice when her body already felt like a hostile, malfunctioning entity? And learning—wasn't it enough to have learned, not just years ago but again today, that this type of brutal physicality simply wasn't where she belonged? If she had any real muscle memory, it was for that specific, humbling understanding. Her mind was her best and most reliable tool, the one that had always carried her through.

Rae exhaled a long, slow breath through her nose and buried her face in her hands. Every muscle throbbed in dull, unified protest. Scrapes stung, and bruises ached now that the adrenaline had fully drained away, leaving behind only raw fatigue. For one wild moment, she considered standing up, flagging River down, and demanding answers. What should I do differently? Where am I losing the most time? How is a body like mine supposed to conquer that without just breaking down? He’d said they could help each other. He’d even said he wanted to.

But then she lowered her hands and looked across the arena. River had settled on the far bleachers, rubbing the back of his neck as he surveyed the remaining campers. Leader. Coach. Referee. The guy who had flawlessly run the course himself and now had to manage a camp full of demigods who ranged from effortlessly elite to barely holding themselves together.

Rae swallowed hard and gave a single, subtle shake of her head.

Some other time, she told herself. If I’m still standing by then.

She straightened up slowly, wincing as her protesting muscles tightened. Her eyes lifted to the obstacle course looming before them, and another quiet sigh escaped her lips.

“Well,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Guess I’ll just… get this over with.”

---

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

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

Camp Athens - Closed

"Hi, Anissa."

The voice cut through the low hum of the arena. Anissa flinched, glancing up as her name pulled her from her thoughts. It took a second to place the speaker, her mind still adrift and anchored only by the urgency of getting Blair to this bench. Then recognition arrived, a soft electric pulse of memory.

Tapeesa.

She remembered spotting Tapeesa in the thinning crowd at the party—strangely, among the first to leave before midnight. Anissa had lifted a hand then, an attempt to catch her attention, only to let it fall again, unseen. Now, of course, the memory was hazy at the edges. Perhaps her gesture hadn’t been as obvious as she’d thought. Still, the recollection carried a faint sting of embarrassment… and, oddly, a thread of relief at seeing Tapeesa now, looking more like her usual, brighter self.

“Hey,” Anissa said, her voice quieter than she intended. She offered a slight nod in return. A flicker of curiosity rose—what had prompted Tapeesa to approach?—but the question soon answered itself.

She didn’t speak up or offer any explanation when Tapeesa introduced herself. From where she sat, Anissa simply observed the exchange unfold, choosing not to intervene or soften the interaction on her friend’s behalf. This wasn’t her place to mediate, even when Blair’s immediate response was guarded suspicion rather than gratitude. Anissa didn’t find it rude, as it felt like a reflex born from being too accustomed to help that came with strings attached. She understood it. Gods knew she did. Still, watching that same wariness cross Blair’s face before she gave consent felt unsettling in a way that was difficult to put into words.

As Tapeesa began to work, Anissa turned her eyes away. Some acts, even those performed in the open air before a scattered audience, demanded a kind of privacy. Still, she sensed the change in Blair immediately: a slow, deep breath drawn where before there had been only shallow hitches, the rigid line of her shoulders softening, the ashen pallor of her skin warming back toward its usual hue. Magic. It was always something else. Within minutes, Blair seemed to inhabit her own body again, any grimace of pain replaced by mere exhaustion as the session concluded.

Tapeesa rose, meeting Blair’s tired but genuine smile with a quiet one of her own. Anissa opened her mouth, a sudden impulse to speak not as a go-between but as a witness—to thank her, to say she was glad to see her—but the words lodged in her throat. And then, too swiftly, Tapeesa was turning to go.

Shoot.

In the end, Anissa settled back beside Blair, resolving to thank Tapeesa properly when the next opportunity arose. It would be a simple acknowledgment since some things deserved to be said, even if belatedly.

Ironically, that moment arrived sooner than expected. Two groups later, River’s voice cut through the arena once more.

"Next up: Evelyn, Ariana, Tapeesa, Wes, and Anissa."

Anissa's stomach dipped.

She rose from the bench with a quiet exhale, her limbs both too light and impossibly heavy. Driven by a nervous curiosity, or maybe a dose of pure masochism, her gaze drifted toward the small cluster of contestants gathering near the starting line. She found Tapeesa easily. Then her eyes caught on another figure approaching the mark, and they stubbornly refused to move on.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Shirtless.

And–

One arm.

The realization struck a heartbeat later, a jolt of surprise that made her glance away a little too fast. He was strikingly handsome in a way that felt almost deliberate, a light sheen of sweat already highlighting the planes of his chest as if he’d emerged from some athletic editorial and not the scattered crowd. That’s the only reason you noticed, she told herself firmly. That, and the undeniable, obvious fact of his missing shirt and missing limb.

Yup. That had to be it.

Stop fucking staring, weirdo, she scolded herself, giving a slight shake of her head as if to physically dislodge the thought. She turned back to Blair.

“Hey,” Anissa murmured, reaching up to slide her sunglasses from where they were perched in her hair. She pressed them into Blair’s palm, followed by the tube of lip balm from her pocket. Her fingers brushed the useless brick of her phone, but she left it there. At least it could serve as a personal timer or something. Then, after the briefest pause, she added the carefully folded napkin, placing it atop the small pile in Blair’s hand as though it were something fragile.

“Mind hanging onto these for me?”

Her tone was casual, but her eyes flicked up to Blair’s face with a wordless plea. Please don’t ask. The napkin, especially, felt heavier than it should have, inked with something unfinished and something she didn’t want rattling around in her pocket while she tried to climb ropes and misjudged distances.

Once Blair had taken the items, Anissa straightened up, rolling her shoulders back in a resetting motion. She drew one steadying breath and turned toward the course. As she reached the edge of the starting area, she sensed a presence easing into step just to her left. She glanced over.

Tapeesa had slipped back beside her, apparently having stepped away for something Anissa hadn’t noticed. And somehow, up close, the girl seemed different. Not injured exactly, but… dimmed. The brighter, more present person from minutes before had faded, like a light turned low. Was she nervous? Anissa hesitated, a question hovering unspoken between them. Should she say something?

"I like your shirt."

The compliment caught Anissa off guard. She glanced down, following Tapeesa’s gaze to the oversized sweatshirt and its sloth emblem, which gazed back with its characteristically serene expression. A small, genuine smile touched Anissa’s lips.

“Thanks,” she replied, her tone matching Tapeesa’s for quietness. She ran a finger over the sloth’s tranquil, sleeping face. “He felt… pretty appropriate today.”

Tapeesa laughed softly. "I would say so."

As Tapeesa looked back up, her focus abruptly snagged on something behind Anissa, her attention catching like fabric on a nail. Anissa felt her own gaze begin to drift—not to follow Tapeesa’s, but forward, landing irresistibly on River, who remained, conspicuously, without a shirt.

Oh.
Right.
That was… still happening.
What was he trying to do? Make things harder for her?
And why oh why was she being so ungrateful about it?

Anissa blinked once. Then twice. As if that might somehow undo the image currently searing itself into her retinas.

It did not.

So, she went to plan B.

Her hand dipped into her sweatshirt pocket, fingers closing around the solid rectangle of her phone. Wrapped around it were her earphones—an old, automatic habit born from years of needing a swift escape from overwhelming spaces. She untangled the cord with practiced ease and slipped the silicone tips into her ears. The gentle seal instantly muffled the arena’s din, reducing it to a distant, manageable rumble.

Only then did she let herself look down.

Her thumb hovered for a second before touching the screen. It lit up beneath her touch, revealing the lock screen photo she had seen countless times yet never grew accustomed to: her mother, an arm draped around Anissa’s shoulders, both of them caught in a moment of unrestrained laughter. Sunlight streamed from behind them, bright and forgiving. The photo was older—Anissa’s face looked softer, younger—and her mother looked vibrant. Beautiful. Most of all, she looked present, solid and real in a way that now, years later, carried a persistent ache.

She missed her. Missed her more here than she’d ever imagined she would. But now was not the time to dwell on how or, more importantly, what she would ever say once they got into contact again.

Anissa unlocked her phone and went straight to Spotify, navigating to her downloads through muscle memory alone. No Wi-Fi, no overthinking, just the immediate need for a soundtrack with a beat to disappear into as she ran.

Her thumb hovered over a track that felt right, but then she noticed Tapeesa again in her periphery. The other girl’s expression was drawn and distant; Anissa read it plainly as nerves. That won’t do, she thought. However their day had unfolded, Tapeesa had been solid when Blair needed someone.

So, she lightly nudged the other girl’s elbow with her own.

“Hey, thanks for… being so caring?” Anissa murmured, her voice carrying a warmth that felt both genuine and a little awkward. She offered a small thumbs-up. “You’ve got this.”

"Oh," Tappi replied, a bit stunned at first. "Sure." She returned the thumbs-up with one of her own. "You too."

Anissa acknowledged her with a faint smile before letting her attention fall back to the screen. She bypassed her regular mix—heavy with Halsey’s contemplative energy, all wrong for this moment—and instead tapped her “Oldies but Goldies” playlist. She selected the first track without ceremony, the second track already queued to follow.

The opening synth notes bloomed in her ears, crisp and propulsive. She stuffed the phone back into her pocket just as River signalled for them to begin.

Bodies surged forward in a sudden rush of momentum. Someone shot ahead immediately—Wes, the man with one arm—moving with a focused velocity that seemed to pull the very air along with him. In contrast, Tapeesa, who had been beside Anissa a moment before, now seemed to wade through invisible currents behind her, her steps laboured as if weighed down by something far heavier than hesitation.

But Anissa couldn’t prioritize her. Even though she’d only vaguely absorbed the assessment rules, something told her there were no points for helping others, not after what had happened with Blair and others like her. So she stepped into motion instead, letting the opening swell of “Midnight City” lock into her pace. Not too slow, but not so fast she’d risk an early stumble. Not fucking happening.

The first tire dipped under her weight as her foot landed inside it, the thick rubber flexing beneath her shoe. She adjusted without conscious thought, her knees lifting a little higher, her stride shortening into a quick, stable rhythm. Left, right, left again. A cadence took hold, her body syncing to the private beat in her ears rather than the chaos unfolding around her.

The logs had seemed far more manageable from a distance. Up close, however, the graduated heights became impossible to ignore. Each one stood taller than the last, a series of rising challenges that demanded more than a single, repetitive strategy.

Oh well. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to improvise.

The first log was trivial, barely a foot off the ground. Anissa cleared it without breaking stride. The second followed just as smoothly, requiring only a slightly higher knee lift that still felt well within her comfort zone. Her body relaxed into the motion, the driving synth in her ears syncing perfectly with her footfalls, making the initial pace feel almost like a dance.

The third log, however, gave her pause.

At three feet high, it stood squarely against her center of gravity. A clean jump felt risky, so she instinctively slowed, planting her palms firmly on the sun-warmed, rough-hewn surface. She swung one leg over, then the other, briefly straddling the beam before pushing off to land on the far side.

The fourth one…Gods. Anissa huffed out a breath, her shoulders already warm with gathering fatigue. Jumping was out of the question here, too, she decided. Instead, she climbed again, palms grinding against the coarse grain as she hauled herself up, her core tightening to pivot her weight over the wide beam.

And that wasn’t even the last one.

The final log loomed ahead, a solid, unapologetic five feet of timber. Wonderful.

For a split second, Anissa hesitated. Then she stepped closer. She gripped the log, fingers curling tight, and climbed it carefully. It took more time than she liked, arms burning by the time she swung a leg over, but she refused to rush it. When she finally dropped down, she landed solidly, breath tearing from her lungs as her feet hit the ground.

Next was the low crawl. Almost before she registered the change, Anissa was down on her hands and knees, the packed earth cool and unforgiving beneath her palms. Dirt immediately worked its way under her fingernails—a minor tragedy she mourned internally—and clung to the sleeves and front of her sweatshirt, seeming to target the serene sloth printed there. Some tired part of her mind remarked that this was probably not the tranquil, tree-dwelling existence her shirt advertised.

Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t all terrible.

At 5'3", she didn’t have to fight the netting the way taller competitors did. She tucked her elbows in, kept her head low, and moved with a grim, functional rhythm. Drag. Shift. Breathe. Repeat. The music in her ears smoothed the journey, turning the arduous crawl into something almost meditative—if meditation involved grit in your teeth and the distinct, unsettling sense of being publicly perceived in a way she had never consented to, spiritually or otherwise.

The next obstacle, however, was the one Anissa had dreaded most: the rope climb. She slowed despite herself, tilting her head back to stare up at its daunting length…then up a little more…finally realizing she had severely underestimated it. From the ground, the thick rope stretched toward the sky as if it had a personal vendetta. Against her, specifically.

Anissa reached it just in time to see the aftermath of Wes’s attempt, his fall already resolved, but his momentum carrying him forward toward the next obstacle as if nothing had happened. Tapeesa, meanwhile, was still high up on the rope beside her, clinging with determined focus that made Anissa’s shoulders tense in sympathy.

Swallowing a flutter of nerves, she stepped forward regardless.

She wiped her gloved hands against her leggings, took a firm grip on the coarse, bristling rope, and jumped.

For one brief, glorious moment, it almost worked.

Her feet caught, thighs tightening instinctively as she hauled herself up a few precious inches. A system almost clicked into place—hands pulling, legs clamping—but her arms ignited with strain immediately, her shoulders protesting with a sharp, burning ache. The smooth rhythm she’d imagined shattered into a clumsy, desperate scramble.

Up a little.
Down a little.
Up. Oh…nope. Down some more.

She stalled barely a third of the way up, chest heaving, and let her forehead rest against the rope as she gasped for air. The music in her ears seemed to warp under the strain, the synths stretching into a distant echo as her grip began to weaken. This is impossible, she admitted inwardly. She lacked Tapeesa’s raw upper-body strength and, frankly, the sheer will to risk a higher fall. No, thank you.

Regardless, Anissa descended a little and hung there longer than was sensible. Longer than could be considered strategic. So long that the idea she was “just pacing herself” became a fiction even she couldn’t believe. Finally, because embarrassment had its limits but self-awareness did not, she turned her head.

River was there. Stopwatch idle. Posture relaxed. Watching the last two girls in their group still crawling through the dirt at first, before his attention finally shifted her way.

Anissa didn’t look away.

She just… stared back.

Still clinging to the rope. Still trembling. Very clearly not climbing another inch.

One second passed.
Then another.

Her expression was flat. Thoughtful. Just faintly accusatory.

At last, Anissa shifted her grip just enough to free one hand, tugging one earbud loose so she could actually hear whatever was coming next. But first, to make her intent unmistakably clear, she pointed at the rope. Then at herself. Then, very deliberately, she crooked her finger in a subtle come here gesture.

When he was close enough for her to keep her voice low, she leaned in slightly and said the first thing that came to mind.

Which, historically, was never her safest choice.

“River…,” she began, her tone deceptively earnest for half a breath before tilting into something lighter, almost conspiratorial. “How can you expect me to striptease for you in front of the other kids?”

River looked up at her as she dangled a few feet higher than him, tucking his clipboard beneath his left arm, pinning it between his bicep and bare chest. He cupped his hands together, tilting his head to the side as his brows tugged together in slight amusement. While he had a subtle confidence in his role as a leader, opposite her, the authority made him feel like she didn’t have quite as much sway over him, even if he knew the opposite couldn’t be truer. Anissa’s words still made him flush, but he retained enough of his composure to look fairly unbothered to anyone else, while his gaze showed a shadow of his thoughts to only her.

"Is that your plan? Seduce me?" The thought of her giving him a striptease was a welcome mental image, although maybe not in the presence of the entire camp, but there was a faint glint in his eyes that betrayed his interest where he remained as… professional as possible. "Where the record stands, I’ve currently done more stripping." He looked down at his bare chest before shifting his gaze back up to her.

The heat reached Anissa’s cheeks a moment before she fully registered the words themselves. Where did that even come from? She’d expected to startle him, maybe fluster him a little, which was the usual result when something that wildly out of pocket left her mouth. Instead, he remained maddeningly composed. Unfazed.

And still, infuriatingly, shirtless. That fact alone felt like a low blow.

Her eyes betrayed her, dipping for a split-second to the defined lines of his chest before darting back to his face. She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile she couldn’t quite suppress. There she was, dangling from a rope with trembling arms, her dignity fraying just as fast as her grip. Gods, she really didn’t want to fall and add another person to Tapeesa’s list.

“…I think you’d be disappointed by my technique,” Anissa finally managed, her voice breathless from strain rather than any intended allure. So much for sounding capable.

Then, because she had clearly abandoned all instinct for self-preservation today, she added with a light, conversational air,

“You’ve never seen me dance.”

His gaze slowly trailed from her eyes, down to her shoulder, along her arm and up to her trembling hand. River was quietly impressed that she was able to hold herself up for so long. No doubt her approach wasn’t quite working in her favor, prolonging her time on the rope, but her comments still made a smile slowly curve across his face, contrasting his strong jaw. "I’m familiar with some of your techniques," he commented low and quiet so only she could hear as his eyes slowly drifted back to meet her gaze. "If that’s an offer, you can show me… After training." His grin shifted slightly, a touch of mischievousness coloring his words.

Anissa swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

“Huh?”

It was not her finest response, she had to admit. But the way River was looking at her made her think of hands—his, specifically—and how they must have felt sliding across her skin last night. He’d seen some of her techniques. What the fuck did that even mean?

The thought left her thoroughly flustered, her mind blanking entirely. This time, the heat that rushed through her wasn’t confined to her cheeks; it spread downward, sudden and distracting. Her fingers slackened on the rope just enough for her to slide several inches before she caught herself with a sharp gasp. Her thighs clamped tight, her arms screaming in protest, begging her to simply let go already.

She shot River a wide-eyed look before scrambling to reclaim her grip. Her pulse hammered loudly in her ears, syncopated with the distant thump of Daft Punk’s One More Time leaking from her dangling earbud.

She cleared her throat, desperate to form any kind of coherent reply. But for what felt like the first time in her life, Anissa Quinn had nothing to say.

It was only then that River’s face grew red and a glimpse of his usual anxious and flustered nature slipped out. A moment ago he was almost at ease in the comfort of their flirtatious back and forth, like a door had been left open to explore after the night they shared. But now he felt like he overstepped, said too much… somehow slipped too deeply into the possibility of what it all meant. His smile faded, just a fraction, and the confidence he had to look her straight in the eyes vanished as his gaze fell to the rope that dangled beneath her.

When she lost her grip, there was a fraction of a second where he acted. River took a half step forward and started to extend his hands to help her, but he caught himself as his clipboard slipped from where he had it pinned and fell to the ground. That was the kind of favoritism he couldn't have. He said no help… that meant him too. His hands clenched until his knuckles went white, frozen as tried to regain his composure. He cleared his throat, leaning down to pick up the dropped board. "Sorry," he muttered quietly as he stood back up.

He let his gaze find hers, if only to try and see a glimpse of her thoughts behind her eyes… but all he saw was confusion. River's posture straightened as he took a step back and looked anywhere else. "You uh... Can move onto the next obstacle."

Anissa registered the shift in an overwhelming rush.

The sudden flush that colored River’s cheeks. The way his gaze dropped, as though he’d just remembered the strict, public rules of the world they were currently occupying. The sharp clatter of his clipboard hitting the ground echoed between them, a startling punctuation mark to a sentence left hanging.

Oh.

That… was not the reaction she had anticipated.

When his hands twitched toward her only to freeze, and when he withdrew into a posture that was professional and detached once more, it stole the breath from her lungs more effectively than the attempted climb ever had. A cold doubt seeped in. Had she pushed too far? Said too much? Hadn’t said enough at all?

And then his apology lodged somewhere uncomfortable in her chest.

Anissa looked down at him from her perch, truly seeing him, and for once resisted the urge to hide behind a joke or a deflection. Instead, she offered a small, acknowledging nod. It was simple. Understanding. Message received.

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice soft and breathless. “Okay.”

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, her muscles screaming in protest as she descended the last few feet of rope. Her shoes met the dirt with a soft thud, and she turned mechanically toward the next obstacle, fumbling her earbud back into place. She fought the impulse to glance back, and won, but the sensation of his eyes following her was a tangible heat between her shoulder blades. Her heartbeat, still racing from the physical exertion, kicked into a faster, more frantic rhythm as a vivid fragment of memory surfaced—the feel of his mouth against the sensitive skin of her neck the night before

After that, it was a battle to walk normally and not spin around to confront him, to demand he explain this confusing push-and-pull between them and define what, if anything, it meant now.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Anissa reached the rope bridge just as Tapeesa and Wes were picking their way across. A deep, tired burn had settled into her shoulders and arms, a persistent ache that served as a bodily reminder not to assume too much. She paused briefly, shaking out her hands as if she could dispel the fatigue. It lingered stubbornly, but the motion gave her a moment to steady her breathing.

The bridge shuddered and swayed with the movements of the others, long before she set foot on the first piece of netting. Her eyes tracked Tapeesa, who was now caught in a struggle with a segment near the far end. Anissa winced in sympathy as the girl’s momentum worked against her, tangling her further. Ouch. That looked utterly frustrating.

But what was a tangled net compared to the bewildering emotional collision she’d just experienced? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Anissa stepped further onto the bridge, bending her knees slightly and lifting her arms out for balance. The ropes groaned and dipped under her weight, the entire structure shifting in a slow, nauseating roll that made her stomach pitch. She adapted quickly, taking short steps and fixing her gaze on the far platform. Don’t look down. Don’t rush. Just keep moving.

Halfway across, the sway intensified. The world tilted, the edges of the arena blurring as her sense of balance rebelled. Anissa let out a sharp hiss, her knuckles whitening where she gripped the rough guide ropes. She paused, forcing herself to wait out the motion, and concentrated on slowing her breath. In. Out. You’re fine. You’re literally fine. If you were going to die here, you’d know by now.

Ahead of her, she became acutely aware of Wes. He was moving with careful deliberation, his shoulder braced against the netting for stability. It wasn’t pretty, but it was smart, as he wasn’t fighting the bridge’s instability; he was working with it. Anissa felt a bit of respect for the tactic, even as she caught up to and navigated past him.

When she finally stepped off onto solid ground, her relief was immediate and intense, her shoulders sagging as she let out a shaky exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Another obstacle down. The rope swing was next.

By the time Anissa reached the platform, Tapeesa had just cleared the gap and was scrambling toward the balance beams, wearing the slightly frantic expression of someone who had escaped disaster rather than mastered a challenge.

Good.
That meant there was no pressure at all for her.

Anissa slowed, rolling her shoulders once as she eyed the rope. It hung there innocently enough, swaying just a fraction from Tapeesa’s jump. The pool beneath it glimmered up at her like an invitation. Or a threat. Hard to tell. Okay, she thought, you can do this. It’s literally just a rope. Children do this. Children with less coordination than you.

Her arms immediately responded by throbbing in protest, as if offended by the comparison and the fact that she’d just put them through hell on the rope climb.

Anissa flexed her fingers, wiped her damp palms on her leggings for a better grip, and drew one steadying breath. She grabbed the coarse rope, tested its solid weight, and backed up to the very edge of the platform. She rocked forward onto her toes, then back onto her heels, building momentum the way she used to before leaping into a cold lake.

“One, two—” she muttered under her breath.

Then, Anissa ran.

The jump was clean. The arc felt right. For a glorious second, she was airborne, weightless, the world narrowing down to motion and grip and wind rushing past her ears. Oh, hey, she thought distantly, this is actually—

Her feet struck the far edge a fraction too close to the water.

“—shit.”

Like Tapeesa before her, Anissa windmilled her arms wildly, one foot skidding perilously over the rim. It was a deeply ungraceful, entirely instinctual dance for survival. The rope swung back behind her, useless now, as she fought for equilibrium, every muscle in her body firing at once.

Don’t you dare fall, you bitch, her mind screamed.

And with what seemed like willpower alone, somehow Anissa stayed upright. She froze there for a beat, chest heaving, eyes wide, as if the ground might change its mind and betray her anyway.

It didn’t.

A breathless, slightly hysterical laugh escaped Anissa before she could contain it. She shook out her tingling hands and pushed forward toward the balance beams. The sound surprised her—not because it was inappropriate (though it probably was, for the sake of the others, all thankfully out of earshot), but because it felt like the kind of laugh that surfaces when adrenaline has no other outlet.

Tapeesa reached the beams first, still breathing heavily from the rope swing. Her movements were deliberate as she stepped onto the narrow, sloping timber. Anissa followed a few steps behind, her pace instinctively slowing as she neared the obstacle. Her eyes traced the beam’s length, anticipating nerves, exposure, and the particular cruelty of an obstacle that punishes doubt more than clumsiness.

Instead, she found herself unexpectedly calm.

Actually…she kinda liked it.

The beam wobbled beneath her foot, and for a split second, Anissa braced, waiting for gravity to claim its due. But her body corrected before her mind could panic, her weight redistributing in a way that felt almost lazy in its confidence.

Ice skating. That’s what this was like.

Cold air burning her lungs, the scrape of blades against ice, and arms stretched wide as counterweights. Falling, getting back up, learning again and again not to lock up when the ground stopped behaving the way it was supposed to. You didn’t fight that kind of instability. You listened to it. Let it tell you where you needed to be.

She surrendered to that same instinct now, allowing the rest of the arena to fade away. Momentum and subtle shifts, not force, continued to carry her forward.

Ahead, halfway up the incline, Tapeesa faltered. It began as a slight hitch in her step, a tiny misplacement of weight. Then the wobble became a violent shudder, and Tapeesa pitched sideways, catching herself on her hands and knees just beside the beam.

Anissa’s breath caught. She slowed immediately, her heart leaping into her throat. Every impulse screamed at her to stop, to turn back, to help. But she couldn’t. The rules were clear in such a way that even River couldn’t shield her from the consequences of breaking them now. So she did the only thing permitted: she adjusted.

Without fanfare or haste, Anissa took the lead, passing Tapeesa with only a swift, glancing look—a silent Are you okay?—before continuing onward.

Yet as she approached the next obstacle, her body betrayed her again, her pace slowing almost without her consent.

Anissa’s chest constricted, her breath turning shallow as her eyes fixed on the smooth, glassy surface of the pool. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt—not from physical imbalance, but from the sudden, unwelcome reminder of that damned nightmare. She swallowed hard, her feet glued to the spot.

Then, cruel and clear all at once, her mind corrected the record.

It hadn’t been her in danger. It had been River.

And he was fine. He was standing right there. Stopwatch in hand. Watching. Breathing. Solid and vividly real in a way her nightmares never were—at least, not until they somehow bled into waking life.

Anissa let out a slow exhale. She reached up, tugged one earbud free, then the other, silencing the music mid-chorus. The abrupt quiet felt intimate, almost vulnerable, like stepping into a private room unannounced. She wound the cords around her phone once, twice, and before hesitation could take hold, she walked toward River, extending the device in both hands.

“Could you hold onto this for me?” she asked.

Her hand was steadier than she’d expected. What Anissa hadn’t expected was the way his fingers brushed hers during the exchange—brief, unintentional, but lingering just enough to send a restrained shiver down her spine. She didn’t give herself the chance to read into it. Didn’t give herself the chance to make it weird. The phone was out of her hands, and that was that.

She took a step back, peeled the oversized sweatshirt over her head, and tucked it neatly beside the pool, out of everyone’s path. The sloth had served its purpose; it deserved a quiet retirement until she collected it later. Besides, the sports bra she wore underneath felt lighter, freer, and less like something that could weigh her down or betray her once she entered the water.

Anissa returned to the pool’s edge, toes curling slightly against the cool surface. One more heartbeat of hesitation, prompted more by memory than by fear, and then she drew a deep breath and jumped.

The water swallowed her in a rush of cold that punched the air from her lungs. This was not the cold, endless abyss from her dream, though. This was contained, chlorinated, real. She broke the surface quickly, slicking wet hair back from her face as she got her bearings. The pool stretched ahead of her, clear and manageable, its lane markers faintly visible beneath the rippling surface. Swimming had never been her greatest strength, but she was competent enough to get from one side to the other without panic.

She pushed off, her arms carving through the water with workmanlike strokes. The rhythm itself was a relief. Pull, kick, breathe. Again. Again. Her muscles protested all the while, her shoulders still smouldered from the rope climb, but the water’s resistance felt honest and straightforward. There were no tricks here, no unstable beams. Just pure, effortful motion.

When her fingertips brushed the far edge, relief washed over her, sharp and sudden. Anissa hauled herself out, water streaming from her limbs, her shoes releasing a soft, damp sound as she moved from horizontal to vertical. She didn’t pause to catch her breath or shake the water from her hands. Instead, she turned immediately toward the second-to-last obstacle: the log ladder.

Up close, the structure was daunting—thirty-five feet of vertical timber and rope, with rungs spaced just far enough apart to make her arms ache in anticipation. Anissa tilted her head back as she had at the rope climb, tracing the ladder’s rise until it met the platform above. Eleven rungs up. Eleven back down. Simple arithmetic, and what promised to be a brutal test of endurance.

She approached it anyway. What other choice did she have? Surely not throwing in the towel at this point.

Her fingers closed around the first rung, tightening as she tested her weight. She pulled herself up, her feet finding the next foothold, then the next. Each ascent demanded more from her arms; her shoulders protested with increasing volume. By the fifth rung, her breathing turned ragged. By the seventh, her thighs trembled from bracing against the unyielding wood.

Don’t look down, she told herself.

So, of course, she did.

Instant regret.

The ground had fallen away, distant and small. Her stomach lurched in response. Anissa squeezed her eyes shut for a heartbeat, pressing her forehead against the sun-warmed wood as she forced herself to breathe through the vertigo. You’re fine. One rung at a time. She continued to climb.

When her hands finally gripped the top rung, her arms were shaking in earnest. She hooked one elbow over the beam, then the other, hauling herself up with a grunt that held no grace. Getting over the top was an awkward scramble, but she made it, chest heaving as she swung a leg over and straddled the beam, pausing in an undignified crouch to gather herself for the descent.

Somehow, climbing down felt worse. Her muscles were already spent, and gravity seemed less forgiving on the return. Anissa took it slowly, lowering herself rung by rung, her fingers burning as they clenched and released. By the last few rungs, her arms felt like water, but the ground was close enough now that fear began to loosen its grip.

She dropped the final foot to the dirt with a soft thud, her knees bending automatically to absorb the impact. For a moment, she just stood there, hands hanging limp at her sides, lungs fighting for air as her body remembered how to exist on solid ground. Her forearms felt hollowed out and buzzing with static. Every muscle hummed with fatigue.

But only one obstacle remained.

Anissa lifted her head and immediately wished she hadn’t.

The long jump stretched before her—eight feet of open air over a shallow trough of gleaming water. It didn’t look malicious, but eight feet was not nothing. Not when she stood barely five-four on her toes on a good day, her legs still trembling, her shoes damp, and her lungs scraping for each breath. She edged closer, peering down into the water as though it might offer some hidden advice. It did not. It was merely clear, shallow, and endlessly patient in that infuriating way only water can be.

Anissa rolled her shoulders back, once and then again. She flexed her fingers, shaking out the lingering tension, and bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, testing whatever spring her legs had left. Not much, but maybe just enough. Others before her had made it, tired and worn as she felt now. If they could, so could she.

She took several steps back, carving out a short run-up on the uneven dirt. After lining herself up, she drew a steadying breath and broke into a sprint. Her feet struck the ground in quick, determined strides. When she reached the edge, she pushed off hard—harder than she thought she had left—swinging her arms forward as she launched into open air.

For one suspended moment, she was weightless, her mind filled with a single thought: this either works, or it doesn’t.

She landed with a jarring impact, her feet slapping down cleanly on the far side. Just barely. Her heels skidded forward, toes splashing water up her calves as she windmilled her arms wildly to keep from tumbling forward. For a heart-stopping instant, it seemed she might still fall, and right at the finish line too.

But she didn’t.

Anissa stumbled one step, then another, before finally steadying herself fully upright. Water dripped from her shoes, but she was across. Past it. Done.

A breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped her as she straightened and took the last few steps over the line. Her legs burned. Her lungs ached. Her whole body hummed with exhaustion, as if it might simply vibrate apart. But she’d cleared it.

Once across the finish line, she slowed to a walk, letting her momentum bleed away in uneven waves. She bent forward, bracing her hands on her thighs as she fought to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling in ragged pulls. Sweat cooled on her skin; her shoes gave a soft, damp squelch with each step. Water still dripped lazily from the hem of her leggings.

She straightened again, rolling her shoulders back despite the immediate protest of sore muscles. Now that there was nothing left to push toward, every part of her seemed to voice its complaint. Her arms felt wrung out and heavy. Her legs trembled faintly, not enough to buckle but enough to remind her of the effort she’d just spent.

Still, Anissa smiled. A small, private, satisfied smile.

When she lifted her gaze, she found River almost without looking. He stood close enough that she didn’t have to search, yet far enough that the distance between them felt intentional. He still held her phone, just as she’d left it with him, earbuds coiled neatly around it.

She walked over, the sounds of the arena fading into a background hum. Her attention narrowed to the stretch of ground between them, to the weight of her fatigue, and to the quiet relief of having finished this monster of an assessment.

Stopping in front of him, Anissa reached out, palm open.

“Hey,” she said, her voice slightly rough but warm, traces of adrenaline still clinging to her words. She nodded toward the phone, a silent thank you woven into the gesture.

There was a small, almost imperceivable smile that tugged at one corner of River’s mouth, not from Anissa’s gaze or her approaching him, but silent unspoken pride that she not only finished the course in time, but was first in her group. He waited patiently for her to approach, not moving closer or further away, holding her phone gently cradled in his palm with a delicate reverence. "Hey," he replied quietly. A tinge of apprehension laced his words, unsure of where they stood and how to act. He waved his hand subtly, siphoning the moisture from her hair and clothes, then let the water fall, darkening the dirt around her. "You did good," he added, just above a whisper as he held out her phone for her, exactly as she left it, only warmer from his touch.

Anissa stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the offered phone as if it contained an answer to a question she hadn’t known to ask. The residual warmth from River’s hands still lingered in the metal casing. She could almost trace the faint impressions left by his grip along the curve of the case. All the while, River's magic settled over her in soft waves, his power brushing over her skin like a lover's touch. The dampness clinging to her clothes evaporated, leaving only a soft, dry warmth in its place.

Again…magic was so cool.

Eventually, her fingers finally closed around her phone. She noticed, too, how carefully he’d held it: earbuds still neatly coiled, screen dark and undisturbed. That small, considerate detail softened her expression before she could guard against it. She drew the phone to her chest for a grounding moment, then slipped it back into her pocket.

His quiet praise—You did good—spoken like a secret meant only for her, landed with more force than she’d expected. Anissa swallowed, her throat tightening. She lifted her eyes to meet his and held his gaze a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I almost didn’t,” she admitted under her breath. “Some of it was...harder than it looked.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, muscles still trembling faintly from effort. “But that means a lot. Coming from you.”

She took a small step back, allowing space between them even as a crooked smile touched her lips. “So… how bad was my time?” The question escaped before she could reconsider, and her stomach dropped almost instantly. “Actually—” she cut in quickly, raising a hand in a halting gesture. “Wait. No. Don’t tell me.”

Pressing her lips together, she glanced over her shoulder toward the course. Tapeesa was just finishing, with Wes not far behind. A fleeting, uncharitable thought slipped in—wondering about nerves, old injuries, whether being first in her group even mattered—and it made her wince inwardly.

She turned back to River, exhaling softly through her nose. “If it was under the cutoff,” she amended, more carefully now, “you can just… say that. Vaguely. Very vaguely.”

River looked away for a second, making sure to record the proper time for the next two campers that followed behind Anissa, before turning his attention back to her. He chuckled at her nervousness. It helped him relax, in his own way, his posture becoming a little less rigid while his weight shifted to one leg. He waited and watched as she battled with herself trying to decide if she wanted an answer or ignorance, his smiling growing just a fraction as he lightly rapped his fingers on the back of the clipboard, amused. When she paused, his head cocked slightly as if testing if she was going to take it back again, but when she said nothing he replied with the same quiet calmness. "I wouldn’t have said you did good if you failed."

Anissa released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, the tension draining from her shoulders all at once like a severed line.

“Right,” she said, her eyes shuttering once, then opening again. Of course, he wouldn’t have offered praise if she’d failed to meet the standard. That much was obvious. Yet the way he’d said it had made it feel like more than a mere checkbox. He had seen her struggle, had watched her falter, and he’d still meant it.

For a moment longer than was comfortable, she scanned his expression, looking for something she couldn’t quite define. Then she gave a single, firm nod, as if settling a matter within herself.

“Thanks,” she said, simply.

A pause followed, and then, because she seemed committed to keeping things emotionally complicated, Anissa spoke again.

“Um, also.” She shifted her weight, her gaze darting to the side before returning to him. “About what you said. Earlier. After training.”

Her stomach fluttered, betraying her instantly.

“Yes,” she added quickly, the word escaping before she could catch it.

Then she went perfectly still.

Heat climbed the back of her neck. She lifted a hand in a small, corrective gesture, palm out as if to slow the conversation down. “I mean, yes,” she repeated, softer now, “but—” She drew a breath. “Just to talk. About… what happened. You know. Last night. And the—” She made a vague, circular motion between them, then winced at her own clumsiness. “Not the other… stuff. Necessarily. Unless that’s part of the conversation. Which—maybe it is? I don’t know. Is it?”

She pressed her lips together, visibly reining herself in.

“What I’m trying to say,” Anissa finished, cheeks warm, eyes earnest, “is that I’d like to. Talk. With you. After training. Like adults. Who can use words?” She let out a shaky little breath. “Yes.”

When Anissa first answered ‘yes,’ River’s mind started running… Yes what? Yes to trying to seduce him? Yes to the striptease? Yes to the dancing?... Yes what? Some of his earlier composure quickly started slipping away as his wheels spun in overdrive. His facial expression made his confusion very apparent between the shift in his smile, the furrowing of his brows, and the way his eyes searched the sky like the answer lived somewhere beyond the clouds. She must have caught wind of his growing turmoil because she held out a hand as if to tell his brain to calm the fuck down… Which, that was fair. His imagination was definitely running away from him in a montage of not unwanted images, but definitely shit he did not need to be thinking about.

Just to talk. Right. Ok. That made more sense. He nodded his head in understanding, even if there was a twinge just behind his ribs in… Not necessarily disappointment, but he’d be lying if he said the thought of kissing her again hadn’t crossed his mind at least a dozen times since he woke up.

River had just managed to get a hold of his thoughts when she mentioned other stuff... What other stuff? There was other stuff? He searched her face for some sort of clue or understanding like he had completely lost the plot or somehow words meant something different to women. He had heard they could find extra meaning in things… But… Huh? His free hand reached up to scratch the back of his head, running through the events of the night in search of whatever this ‘other stuff’ was. Talking, the nipple drink thing, kissing, barfing, more kissing, almost sex… but almost. They stopped. He stopped.

He coughed, choking on the words that didn’t come out. There was a part of him that bubbled and churned in his gut, preparing to explode into a nervous ramble, but he couldn’t… Not here, not now. River nodded his head again, finding that to be the safer answer as he unknotted his thoughts into a cohesive sentence. "Yeah. Sure. Of course. Talking." He nodded a third time. "Yep."—Ok, so maybe more of a semi-coherent train of words rather than a sentence.

Anissa registered it all at once—the clipboard in his hand, the other campers still waiting their turn, the realization that she had thoroughly disrupted his focus in the middle of his duties. Again. Oops.

“Oh,” she said quickly, nodding a little too fast, as if the motion alone could erase the last thirty seconds. “Okay. Cool. Talking. Yeah. That works.”

She flashed a small, decisive thumbs-up—why did I just fucking do that?—and immediately dropped her hand as though it had committed a betrayal.

“Great. I’ll—yeah. So, I’ll go… do that.” She gestured vaguely over his shoulder, then to the side, then abandoned the effort entirely. “Later.”

Before she could embarrass herself further, Anissa pivoted on her heel and made a direct line toward the pool. She scooped up her discarded sweatshirt in one fluid motion—her group had all finished their runs by now—and didn’t slow until she reached Blair. She sank beside her friend with a soft exhale, stretching her legs out and leaning back on her hands, gazing up at the open arena sky as if it might grant her some kind of pardon. Her heart continued to drum in her chest, her muscles hummed with residual adrenaline, and her mind replayed the entire exchange on an unforgiving loop.

After a moment, she glanced sideways at Blair.

“…I passed,” she said, as though those two words explained everything.

---

_{Location: Arena
Interactions: Tapeesa, Blair
Mentions: Wes, Ariana, Evelyn
Mini collabs: River @Mjolnir}

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

Camp Athens - Closed

The sound of her own name pulled Anissa from her anxious thoughts. She hadn’t been certain Blair was actually awake; until that moment, her friend had been little more than a shapeless form buried beneath a coat. So when Blair’s bleary eyes focused and her voice, rough with sleep, cut through the morning air—“Anissa! Thank the Gods.”—the greeting landed with a surprising force.

Before Anissa could form a reply, Blair groaned and, with a graceless fling, she shoved the coat from her head as if escaping a tomb. The violent movement made Anissa jerk backward instinctively, and she watched as the coat sailed sideways, collapsing in a heap onto the lap of the young woman seated to Blair’s left. Her face softened into a look of pained understanding as Blair mumbled a slurred, insincere apology. Her friend looked positively ravaged, and the simple effort of holding herself upright seemed almost too much.

A sudden, sour twist of guilt clenched in Anissa’s chest. She should have paid better attention last night. But she’d been utterly captivated by the brilliant starbursts of fireworks and, more intoxicatingly, by the flattering attention of one boy named River. As for the later hours, that had dissolved into a glittering, indistinct blur her memory could not—or would not—reconstruct. Blair isn’t my responsibility, she told herself reflexively. But wasn’t that the point of friendship? The question offered no comfort, only highlighting how new and uncertain she felt in this new world of actual friendships.

Before another thought could fully form, a hand shot out and seized hers. The touch was so abrupt that Anissa gasped, stumbling forward as Blair yanked her unceremoniously onto the bench. She was now wedged firmly between her friend and the unfamiliar redhead, only catching herself by slapping a palm down on her seat.

Blair didn't immediately let go, her friend peering at her, a silent question hovering in her eyes. It was only when she seemed to think better of asking it aloud that she released her hold, Anissa feeling a wave of relief. Confessing that her own memory of the night’s end was a blank slate, especially with strangers mere inches away, was a deeply uncomfortable prospect.

"Anissa, this is my brother Lochlan," Blair declared, gesturing weakly toward the man with a tilt of her head."Same dad—mortal—different moms. His is Hera. And then that—" She then waved a limp hand past Anissa's shoulder. "—is Fiona, also Lochlan’s sister, but both Hera… It’s all very Once Upon a Time."

Anissa turned first to Fiona, offering a tentative smile that served as both greeting and apology for the coat now pooled in her lap. She then shifted just enough to acknowledge Lochlan, meeting his offered hand with a firm shake of her own. She didn’t dwell on the trio’s tangled history. She, of all people, had no room to judge complicated lineages, being an only child raised by a mortal mother who remained blissfully and blessedly unaware that gods played any role in their lives whatsoever.

"Good morning, everyone."

The voice cut through the morning’s lazy fog, a sound Anissa recognized but now layered with a crisp, undeniable authority. Every murmured conversation ceased as if severed by a blade. All heads turned toward its source.

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

As River began a slow, measured walk before the assembled campers, Anissa became acutely conscious of her own posture. She didn’t shift or fidget, her hands resting motionless in her lap with her spine straight without appearing stiff. It was the practiced pose of someone who had learned that the first step toward invisibility was absolute stillness. Yet when his scanning gaze passed over her, it felt like a spark landing on dry kindling. The memory of his handwriting—those confident, looping lines on a simple paper napkin—flared in her mind, causing a private and persistent warmth to gather in her stomach.

"Now that everyone has had time to recover from the horrors of Pandora’s Box," he continued, his voice carrying easily, "my focus is going to be on training, the original purpose for camp…."

 

𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖌𝖔𝖉𝖘.

Anissa swallowed, her gaze drifting briefly to her hands and to the barrier of fabric between her skin and the world. Is that what her father had meant by leaving her that letter and sending her to this camp? Not just come here, not just learn who you are, but prepare yourself? For inevitability. For the truth that being a demigod wasn’t a static condition but a flashing beacon to every monster, human or nonhuman, that existed in all parts of their world? Her old life, with its narrow misses and the constant, creeping feeling of unseen eyes, was all the proof she needed of this, surely.

She forced her attention back as River outlined his plans, her stomach knotting around a single word: assessments. It sounded exposing, promising timed runs, recorded failures, and quantified weaknesses laid bare for public evaluation. Her eyes followed his outstretched arm toward the obstacle course looming behind him. Moments before, it had been just a structure of wood and rope. But now, with every word he said, it transformed into a gauntlet. Anissa was in decent shape, but the thought of hauling herself up the log ladder or navigating the trembling rope bridge under the collective stare of the camp made her skin prickle with a cold, anticipatory sweat.

Anissa watched River stride toward the course, his exchange with Andy a brief murmur before he took his place at the starting line. He said he would help, she reminded herself, clinging to his words stated in his introduction. Even if she embarrassed herself today, it wasn't going to be like before. There was a plan now. A teacher. For the first time, she wasn't completely alone in this.

Gathering her resolve, Anissa sat up taller, nudging her sunglasses to rest atop her head. River stood poised at the start, every inch the competent instructor—focused, composed, a model of controlled power. She leaned forward, intent on memorizing his form, his rhythm, the strategy behind each movement. She would watch, she would learn, she would—

River hooked his fingers in the back of his shirt and tugged it off in one fluid motion.

And Anissa’s brain produced a sound not unlike a record needle being dragged violently across vinyl.

The world seemed to skip a beat as the steady morning light grew suddenly intense, spotlighting the unexpected view of sun-warmed skin and the shift of muscle as he tossed his shirt aside. Her carefully constructed concentration didn’t just fracture right then. It dissolved into the air, leaving a blank, buzzing silence in its wake.

Against her own will, Anissa's gaze traced the lines of his shoulders and the defined contours of his back, her mind helplessly cataloging every profoundly unhelpful detail. Why was he doing this? The question popped into her head pointlessly, it offering no rational explanation other than Why the hell not? in return.

With a conscious effort that felt physical, she wrenched her eyes away and fixed them on the packed earth beneath her feet, her cheeks flaming as her treacherous mind, now fully unleashed, began its slow and murderous assault. It supplied hazy fragments from the prior night that felt much more immediate than the bench beneath her. The true torment she knew, however, lay in the space between that brilliant, exploding sky and waking up alone in her cabin. Anissa's fingers drifted to the napkin tucked in her pocket, its corners a tangible proof that felt both like a comfort and an accusation.

… I wanted to stay.

...He'd wanted to stay.

Yet if that was true, then what filled the hours between the context for that written confession and the harsh morning sun?

Stop. Just stop.

Anissa squeezed her eyes shut, drawing a long, slow breath through her nose and releasing it with deliberate control. When she looked again, she immediately intercepted Blair’s sidelong glance, her friend clearly drawing her own, entirely erroneous, conclusions.

But Blair’s assumptions were wrong, and Anissa’s own spiraling thoughts were equally misguided. She knew this because the man now navigating the ropes with effortless and athletic grace wasn’t performing for the crowd. He was simply competent, visibly strong, and dedicated to his role. More importantly, he had called her his friend, a simple yet complicated word that underscored her own inexperience and the persistent confusion that continued to dog her steps.

Not that River appeared to harbour any regret, given the easy smile they’d shared. The normal behaviour from Fiona and Lochlan suggested the previous night’s events remained a private matter to them both as well. In fact, aside from Blair’s silent teasing, there were no sly glances or whispered jokes circulating that she knew of. Which meant they hadn’t, it seemed, become a camp-wide spectacle overnight. That, at least, was a small mercy.

Once Upon a Time. Blair had tossed out the phrase as a convenient label, a way to simplify the messy origins she and Lochlan shared. But what had unfolded with River defied such neat packaging. It wasn’t a storybook beginning; it was something human, messy, and real, born from choices made in vulnerable, disorienting hours when the world felt unmoored. And for now, Anissa decided, it needed to remain exactly that: undefined. A quiet understanding belonging only to them, its meaning waiting to be written by whatever came next.

Besides, in a storybook, a moment of pure dread would usually come with a warning. There would be a dramatic chord from an unseen orchestra, a narrator’s grave observation, or at least a sudden flash of insight to untangle the knot of cold fear now tightening in Anissa's chest.

Instead, there was only the stark reality of the moment.

River reached the pool’s edge and dove in without a moment’s hesitation, the splash a crisp, singular sound that vanished almost instantly into the vast quiet of the arena. He slipped beneath the surface with a fluid grace that left no trace, swallowed whole by the deep, distant blue.

Anissa’s breath locked in her throat.

“River…?”

The name escaped before she could stop it, a whisper pushed past her lips. She was on her feet before she registered moving, her knees bumping the bench behind her. Her hand lifted, fingers curling into the empty air as if she could reach across the distance and haul him back by will alone.Because something was wrong. The pool was wrong. Absence rushed in where he should have been. The surface was too smooth. Much too unbroken. A perfect mirror that refused to give anything back.

A roaring sound filled Anissa's ears, the rush of her own blood, and for a terrifying instant, she heard it again: the voice from her dream, stretched and distorted by impossible acoustics and carrying River’s name the way a deep current carries debris.

From beside her, Blair looked up as Anissa stood, brows tugging together, confused. Her gaze shifted back and forth between her friend standing and Aquaman swimming in the pool. It didn’t make sense why there of all places on the course she would be concerned. He was the son of Poseidon, a literal fish-boy, and the single, solitary person who could be Hulk slammed into a pool and be happy about it.

But the look on Anissa’s face… She looked terrified.

So slowly and cautiously, Blair stood up next to her, hoping it would draw less attention to her alone. She reached her hand out to gently take Anissa’s outstretched wrist, the other girl jerking involuntarily at the contact.

"Hey. It’s ok," Blair whispered so only Anissa could hear. A subtle weave of light humor coloured her voice, if only to try and break through whatever trance her friend was in. "They’re all born with gills or something. He’ll be fine."

And while the meaning of the words barely penetrated the static in Anissa’s mind, the warm pressure of Blair’s hand certainly did. She managed a stiff nod, though her eyes remained chained to the unnervingly placid water.

It was only when the surface finally broke, a dark shape streaking through the pool and cutting the length of it with powerful, unmistakable motion, that relief slammed into Anissa so hard it left her somewhat lightheaded. The moment River surfaced, she slumped back down without a word, looking like someone had walked over her grave. Blair said nothing and just lowered herself back down in the spot beside her. She gently started rubbing her back, and, if Anissa had to guess, more than likely she wanted to voice the obvious question on her mind.

But Blair decided it could be saved for later. This kind of girl talk was private and only for their own ears.

Anissa let her hand fall into her lap, then bowed her head, pressing her face into her palms to block out the world around her. Inside that self-made darkness, she focused on the only task that mattered: drawing one shaky breath in, and pushing another out.

With each cycle, the ghostly echo of the dream-voice receded, its chilling grip fading to a mere dream. She stayed like that for a while, counting her breaths, because the true horror was finally coming into focus.

Her fear hadn’t really been about the water claiming River, for in her dream, it wasn't the sea that had killed him.

It, in fact, had been her.

At this point, Anissa barely registered the end of River’s demonstration. She only emerged from the private sanctuary of her hands after the fact, distantly aware of the scattered applause and low whistles that signalled his performance had been impressive. She vaguely heard him explaining the assessment parameters, but the words washed over her without sticking, her nerves still humming from the earlier scare.

A dry ache had settled in her throat, yet the girl made no move for her water bottle. A punishing thought insisted she didn’t deserve the comfort. It was only when River began calling the first group of names—Maylisse’s among them—that she finally lifted her head. Her eyes found the course just as the starting signal sounded. Bodies launched forward, and she watched, detached, as the daughter of Poseidon moved through the obstacles with an aggressive but fluid grace. Of course she makes it look easy, Anissa thought, a dull resignation in the observation. They were both raised by a God, River and Maylisse, moulded by this world from childhood.

"You’re like the Powerpuff girls."

Lochlan’s comment slipped into her awareness from the side, light and unexpected. Anissa blinked, turning her head toward his voice, though it was difficult to see him fully past Blair. Instead, she glanced down at her own oversized sweatshirt, as if noticing it for the first time. Weirdly enough, a soft huff of laughter escaped her. Which one of the famous trio was she supposed to be, anyway? Not Blossom, surely—too leader-coded. Not Buttercup, either; she didn’t run that hot.

That left only one option: Bubbles.
Anissa wasn’t entirely sure she fit the part. But a hopeful part of her really wanted to.

“So,” Lochlan began again, his tone casual but intent, “Anissa, since you know our whole story now, who—”

River’s voice cut through, announcing the next group. Lochlan’s name was called, followed immediately by Blair’s.

"Five bucks says I barf before the pool," Blair declared, hauling herself upright with a groan. She gave her brother’s arm a feeble tug. "Come on. Let’s go. I’ll be shit, so you'll look great. Chicks will love it."

As Blair pulled him away, Lochlan’s attention shifted back to Anissa. This time, his gaze was openly curious, as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

She felt it like a tangible touch on the back of her neck, managing to meet his gaze easily. One brow lifted in quiet challenge before her mouth curved into a knowing smile. If he was trying to piece her together, he’d have to get in line; she hadn’t even managed it herself.“Good luck, you two,” she said, watching the two siblings approach the starting line. Despite herself, her eyes lingered on Blair, a knot of unease tightening in her chest.

Would she be alright?

The start of the run confirmed the answer to this question, with Blair missing the initial signal and, even worse, her first attempt at the opening obstacle ending in a jarring fall.

A flush of heat, born of pure helplessness, crept up Anissa’s neck. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her sleeves, as she watched the other girl shakily push herself back up.Okay. She’s up at least and still moving. That’s good, Anissa reasoned, trying to hold onto the thought. But with every obstacle, a little more of Blair’s resolve seemed to crumble. All the while, Anissa found herself leaning forward, elbows planted on her knees, while the rest of the world dissolved into a blur, her entire world narrowing to the struggling figure of her friend.

She didn’t look away, not once, following Blair’s painful progress until she finally crossed the finish line. A shimmer of magic whisked the water from her clothes, and for a second, it seemed she might be okay. Then, Blair simply folded, her body giving out as if her bones had turned to liquid.

Anissa was already moving, her bottle of water in hand, as Blair dropped to her knees and retched. She moved quickly, but not recklessly, only stopping short as she registered Lochlan lowering himself beside his sister first. Good. He’s got her. Blair probably didn’t need a crowd, anyway. Shifting her approach, Anissa crouched to place herself just within Blair’s line of sight. She extended the water bottle during a lull in the heaving, her grip loose and the offering easy to refuse. Still, she desperately hoped Blair would take it, knowing all too well the parched agony that was sure to follow.

“Whenever you’re ready….” she murmured, her voice barely there. She held her position, close enough to help but far enough not to crowd, her eyes lowered to the floor as if to grant Blair a small pocket of privacy amidst the arena’s exposure. All the while, Lochlan’s hand moved in slow, steady circles against Blair’s back, his calm utterly assured.

When Blair’s trembling fingers finally closed around the bottle, Anissa released it and drew back slightly, giving room but remaining present. As Lochlan gently coaxed Blair upright, she let him take the lead, only moving ahead when he nodded toward their bench to clear a space for them to sit down.

End of Part 1

---

_{Location: Arena
Interactions: Fiona, Lochlan, Tapeesa
Mentions: River, Andy, Maylisse
Mini collab-ish: Blair @Mjolnir}

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Camp Athens - Closed

Elias kept to himself as the training ground slowly came to life with arriving campers. He’d come early out of a long-standing habit of avoiding the awkwardness of walking in late, so he truly had no interest in making small talk. With this in mind, he'd purposely selected a seat that offered solitude, raised enough to deter casual conversation but not so conspicuously high that it seemed like a protest. Letting his eyelids fall shut, he sank into a semi-conscious drift, where the murmur of voices softened into a formless background buzz. Only when River’s sharp tone cut through the hum, paired with the agitated sound of footsteps moving back and forth below, did Elias surface fully into the present.

The son of Zeus opened his eyes just as River’s nervous stride brought the man into his line of sight. Even from a distance, River seemed to emanate a jittery, restless energy. Elias caught only pieces of what he was saying—something about a brother who had passed, and how the former leader had allowed the camp to crumble. Then, two words seized his attention: Pandora’s Box. The mention referred to something Elias hadn’t been here for, and his thoughts hooked onto the mystery. What exactly had taken place here?

As River described, and then demonstrated, each stage of the obstacle course, Elias followed along with detached interest. Tires, log hurdles, a low crawl, a rope ascent, a balancing sequence, and water. Each element registered as a simple physical problem, something he understood as naturally as he understood how to brace against a strong wind. Far from daunting, the straightforwardness of it felt almost reassuring, even familiar in a way he couldn’t immediately place.

What River had no way of realizing—what nobody here knew, actually—was that Elias was already intimately acquainted with challenges like these. The Albuquerque neighbourhood where he’d grown up wasn’t designed as an obstacle course, but neglect and the harsh desert climate had definitely turned it into one. Survival there meant moving by feel, not by plan. The passages between the sun-bleached adobe homes were treacherous with cracked concrete and loose rock. Construction projects stalled for months, leaving behind pits and rusted metal. Roofs lay so near to one another that you could cross entire streets above the ground. And when monsoon rains swept in, they changed the landscape in moments, filling arroyos with fast, knee-deep water that could practically knock you over. What's more, in that environment, stopping to think could mean getting caught or worse, and above all, he’d learned that counting on someone else to come for you was often a sure way to be disappointed.

So no, this course and its conditions didn’t concern him. In fact, it was almost comforting to know that success today required nothing but his body and his breath. No obvious Olympus politics. No conversations he didn’t want to have. Just pure and uncomplicated motion.

Elias didn’t really react when River began calling names, even for the few he recognized. He sat where he was, shoulders resting against the bleacher behind him, arms loosely draped along the seats as if he had all the time in the world. But the instant his own name was spoken, an internal tension seized him. It wasn’t quite nerves or dread. It wasn’t even anticipation. It was…wrongness. A persistent itch at the base of his skull, a sensation like something crawling along the inside of his skin. Something he couldn’t quite place.

He pushed himself to his feet as the rest of his group began to shift and gather. His descent down the bleachers was steady, unhurried, but the sensation didn’t calm. If anything, it worsened. Something was missing. Something he expected to hear or see that hadn’t appeared. That much he could figure out. What exactly, though, Elias couldn’t say.

It wasn't until he reached the starting line, surrounded by the other campers, that the missing piece floated into his consciousness, hazy and half-formed.

Forest.

But before the thought could fully take root, River’s command echoed across the arena, and Elias’s focus snapped abruptly to the course ahead.

The tires came first. Elias moved through them with light, rapid steps, his feet touching only the inner edges. Next were the log hurdles. The first three he cleared with fluid motion; the fourth he half-vaulted; the fifth he pushed past with a low, driving stride that landed him slightly ahead of the blonde woman beside him—Trinity, he presumed, based on the group list. She matched his pace effortlessly, then surged forward with a sudden acceleration that caught his attention. He didn’t rush to follow, however, simply readying himself for the next challenge instead.

The low crawl brought back the visceral memory of scorching pavement and dust and the abrasive grit of concrete against his arms. Elias kept his body flat and streamlined, elbows tight, and legs propelling him steadily forward. Trinity remained ahead, but he closed some of the distance, focusing already on the next obstacle: the rope climb. There, he relied on precision over power, using controlled pulls that conserved energy rather than wasting it. And though Trinity reached the top platform first, Elias was only a breath behind. His feet met the platform, and he turned immediately toward what came next.

A swaying rope-net bridge stretched ahead, a lattice of thick cords that dipped and sighed with each shift of weight. Elias watched as the net gave beneath Trinity’s steps, absorbing her movement like a living thing, and in that instant, he understood how to move across it. Sort of. He stepped onto the webbing without hesitation, the net trembling beneath him. Yet, he moved with it, not against it, like a silent conversation between body and obstacle.

Trinity was first to reach the far platform, with Elias arriving a heartbeat behind. Without breaking stride, he moved toward the next challenge: a long rope swing over a pit of loose sand. He didn’t allow himself to pause and plan. In his experience, hesitation was the real enemy as it led to stuttered movements and avoidable mistakes. His trust lay in the deep, physical wisdom of his muscles, which often understood what to do long before his mind had formed the thought. So, he grabbed the rope, sprinted the last two strides, and let momentum take him. The arc carried him smoothly and true. The sand rushed up, and he hit the ground rolling, letting the force dissipate through motion rather than impact. He came up on his feet in the same breath and faced the balance beams.

This part felt familiar in a way none of the others had. The beams weren’t stable, but Elias adapted instantly. His body remembered sun-baked retaining walls behind apartment complexes, narrow parapets edging local convenience stores, the bones of old buildings he used to cross when monsoon runoff made the ground-level shortcuts impassable. His steps were confident and practiced, and while sure there was the occasional wobble, it was the kind that corrected itself without panic or hesitation.

Then came the pool.

Unlike River, Elias felt no special connection to water. It was merely a denser element to pass through, offering resistance but no particular welcome. He entered with a dive, and the world muted into a blur of greenish-blue. Then, he surfaced into a strong freestyle, his strokes long and purposeful, his kick steady and compact. He broke for air only once or twice before hauling himself onto the far ledge. Trinity was already there, water streaming from her clothes as she sprinted toward the next ascent.

The log ladder was a test of pure grit, designed to wear a person down. That much was clear before Elias had even begun climbing. Still, his first approach was too forceful as he pulled himself up using sheer upper-body strength, immediately feeling the burn of fatigue in his shoulders and back. Mid-climb, he shifted tactics. Instead of fighting the ladder, he worked with it, using the pendulum swing of his body and the drive from his legs to propel himself upward. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective. He gained steadily, reaching the top only a couple of rungs after Trinity before rolling his torso over the final beam.

One challenge remained: a running leap across a wide trough of water. Elias allowed no room for doubt. His strides opened, his posture aligned, and he launched from the edge with concentrated power. He sailed over the gap and landed well clear on the other side, his shoes skidding slightly in the sand before he found solid footing. And for a few seconds, the world narrowed to the sound of his own breathing, heavy but controlled, before he wiped the moisture from his brow with the back of his arm and straightened up.

Trinity stood a few paces ahead, also recovering, her victory clear and unarguable. Under different circumstances, second place might have needled his pride. Yet, when she turned just then and held out her fist, Elias met it without hesitation, the contact brief and solid.

“Nice run,” he said, the words coming out with a tinge of genuine respect even through his own fatigue.

But the feeling that tightened in his chest a bit after this wasn’t any delayed frustration. It wasn't rivalry either, nor even the sting of defeat.

It was that same, persistent wrongness, except now it wasn't a vague hum as before. It was a clear, cold fact Elias found he could finally identify.

His mind rewound the morning.
The roll call.
The order of groups.
The names spoken and the names omitted.

And the absence was suddenly obvious.
 

Forest’s name, which he'd been so glad to learn yesterday, had never been spoken.

Elias’s gaze swept across the arena with new intensity, scanning the clusters of campers in the stands for that particular, easygoing posture Forest had shown at the party. He was certain he would know it. He needed to see it.

But there was nothing. The man he’d tentatively begun to think of as a friend was simply gone.

The wrongness deepened, a pressure low in his chest that had nothing to do with exertion. Elias considered his choices before exhaling once and making a decision. Instead of joining his recovering group, he turned and walked toward the one person who might have an answer.

River was still near the course, clipboard back in hand, attention split between the final camper crossing the finish line and the notes he appeared to be making. Elias stopped a few feet away, close enough to be noticed without forcing it. He waited because he’d learned long ago that barging in rarely got you better answers.

When River finally glanced up, Elias felt a flush of awkwardness but pushed through it. He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck, a self-conscious gesture he couldn’t seem to suppress.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” he started, inwardly cringing at the hesitant sound of his own voice. His eyes darted to the clipboard and back to River’s face. “I was just wondering… is there someone named Forest on your list?” He paused, realizing how little he actually knew. “That’s his name. I… don’t know his last name.”

River’s head cocked slightly at the question. "I think I’ve called everyone…" he started to answer as his gaze fell to the clipboard in his hand. Slowly he flipped through each page, eyes scanning every name line by line to make sure he didn’t miss anything. "No. No Forest." There was a brief awkward silence before he cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "My father told me it’s pretty common… Some people come to camp and realize it’s not the place for them."

“Oh…alright. That makes sense. Thanks,” Elias said, keeping his voice light and agreeable. He offered a closed-lipped smile and took a step back, already turning away before River could read the doubt in his eyes or feel compelled to say more.

He managed about twenty paces before the pressure in his chest expanded, muting the sounds of the arena into a dull roar. He slowed to a stop near the shadow of the bleachers and turned, his eyes once more travelling over the rows of seats. He scanned slowly, systematically, even though he knew it was futile. If Forest wasn’t here, looking harder wouldn’t conjure him. Elias knew that...

...and yet he kept looking.

He wasn’t expecting to find a face anymore. He was arguing with his own mind, which rushed to offer tidy, convenient excuses. Maybe he overslept. Maybe a mead-maker has no stomach for boot-camp drills. Maybe he packed up before sunrise and slipped away without a word to avoid awkward goodbyes. Elias could assemble a dozen such rational stories. He was adept at that, after all. That type of logic had been his shield long before he knew he was the son of a god.

But oddly…it just wasn’t enough this time. Forest hadn’t seemed like someone who would just disappear. There had been a sincerity in him, a directness that didn’t match the profile of a person who leaves without a trace. To believe otherwise felt like choosing a comfortable lie over a difficult truth.

And while Elias didn’t know for sure if Forest had left because of him, he knew, with an ache, that Forest just might have.

---

_{Location: Arena
Interactions: River, Trinity (knuckles)
Mentions: N/A}

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