Sleepy Tani

Sleepy's Dream Vault

dialogue color test...

This is a test "To see how dialogue would look for Charlotte." And if it is different enough from gray.
This is a test "To see how dialogue would look for Arabella." And if it is different enough from gray.
This is a test "To see how dialogue would look for Warren." And if it is different enough from gray.
This is a test "To see how dialogue would look for Isaiah." And if it is different enough from gray.

Sleepy's Dream Vault

Just need a place to throw stuff around.

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tester

^{N P C s . O F . N O T E}

A S T R I D . U N N The Unn family owe the Járnbjørn a life debt, as such for decades they have served the Lord's of Ironcrag. Astrid is the handmaiden for the women of the family whilst they travel. She's closest with Selja and acts as her eyes and ears throughout the Hold. Quiet, patient, and kind, Astrid keeps to herself and stays out of view in order to spare herself a similar level of abuse that the children of house Járnbjørn endure. .................................................................	.	L E I F . U N N Serving under the same debt of life as his younger sister, Leif has taken his fathers place amongst the Járnbjørn families guard, The Shieldbearers, and worked as a valet to the sons of the family when he was younger. Harboring affection for the youngest daughter, he grew up alongside her and taught her how to fight. Soleil's disappearance left what felt to be a hole in Leif's that seemed to only be filled with anger. At what, he is not quite sure. .................................................................
R A G N A R . T O R E Close confidant to both Einarr and Elrik, Ragnar is fiercely protective of the Járnbjørn family, he went as far as to aid in teaching Soleil how to fight when she expressed a desire to be able to protect herself. He is the head of The Shieldbearers, and works alongside Elrik in his training to eventually take over the hold. He is the only one who can stand up to Einarr when he is one of his fits of anger without paying dire consequences, and often uses this to protect Lady Serene. .................................................................	.	T O R S T E N . A E L F W I N Torsten is a rare breed among the King’s Guard, unyielding in duty yet disarmingly human in the quiet moments between. His humor ran dry as old parchment. He never pried, never pressed, never angled for secrets; he simply appeared at one’s shoulder with a low murmur or a sly, sideways quip that landed sharper than any blade. In a court full of watchers, Torsten was the anomaly, present without intruding, loyal without suffocating, and perceptive enough to know when silence was the truest kindness he could offer. .................................................................

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Star Wars: Shadows of the New Republic

I'm excited to lurk on what my two favorite nerds are doing over here.🥰 (I hope there's at least one of those little fuzzy guys. The ones that look like teddy bears? They're cute...but only if MJ's character doesn't eat them.🙃)

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

I have been lurking, and frankly I'm enjoying the characters that have been created so much that I figured I'd listen to Wraith and jump in. All I have left is to add some supporting cast, but I'll have that done by the end of the weekend.

update - All done :)

█ Charles Aponte

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█ ███ ██ █ S U M M A R Y █ ██ ███ █ CHARLES MATTEO APONTE AGE 35 GENDER Male ETHNICITY/RACE Caucasian MARTIAL STATUS Single SEXUALITY Bisexual ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

▅BIOGRAPHY▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ Charles Matteo Aponte was born between countries and temperaments, into a marriage that seemed, even in retrospect, improbably balanced. His mother, Elena Croft, was an American gifted cellist whose emotions lived close to the surface, who believed music was a moral language, a way of teaching the heart how to behave. His father, Lucien Aponte, was Swiss, a computer engineer devoted to systems, elegant logic, and the quiet comfort of precision. They met in Zurich while Elena studied abroad, two people speaking different dialects of devotion; hers loud and luminous, his restrained and exacting. Their love never burned theatrically, but it endured, and when Charles was born, they raised him carefully between New England summers filled with salt air and song, and Zurich winters shaped by glassy streets and disciplined silence. From his mother he learned how to listen for feeling beneath words, how sorrow could be disguised as humor, how admiration could be coaxed from strangers with the right cadence of voice. From his father he learned that order was power, that patience could outlast anger, that the most durable control was the kind no one noticed being exercised. Even as a child, Charles understood instinctively which parent to resemble at any given moment. He cried easily when his mother watched, clung to her skirts, absorbed her tenderness, but with his father he was still and observant, his questions sparse and exact, his attention sharp enough to be unsettling. Adults called him sweet, thoughtful, gentle. They never realized how often he was measuring them in return. His intellect emerged early but without spectacle. Charles did not announce answers, he waited to be asked. He did not correct classmates, he let them reach the conclusion themselves, then quietly confirmed it. By adolescence he was already practicing a careful choreography of humility, allowing others the comfort of competence while ensuring he remained indispensable. He skipped grades with apologetic smiles, graduated high school years early, and accepted attending Princeton with polite gratitude, as though opportunity were something he merely happened upon rather than something he had positioned himself to receive. At university he cultivated an image of calm brilliance, the soft-spoken prodigy who played cello late at night in empty practice rooms, who stayed behind to help classmates sort out their code, who never raised his voice even when others did. Profesors trusted him, peers confided in him. He learned that people revealed more when they felt unjudged, that secrets rose naturally in the presence of attentive silence. After graduation, he did not chase headlines. He chose obscurity, precision, and accumulation. He moved through several tech companies, improving infrastructures, solving failures no one else could untangle, never staying long enough to threaten those above him, always leaving behind the faint impression that things worked better after he had passed through. Managers described him as reliable, gracious, unusually mature. He sent money home. He called his mother every Sunday. He listened to his father speak about restraint, about how technology was a blade that cut both ways, about how the most dangerous men were not the loudest ones. Harvard’s fellowship program found him the way such institutions always did, quietly, reverently, as though brilliance were a natural resource that required stewardship. He immersed himself in behavioral modeling, predictive systems, machine learning architectures designed to anticipate human decisions before the mind itself had settled. He spoke often about ethics, about responsibility, about the importance of building tools that protected the vulnerable. His papers were elegant, his arguments persuasive, he asked questions that sounded like concern and functioned like reconnaissance. It was during this period that LUCENT first took shape, not as a corporation, but as a philosophy, that chaos was simply data insufficiently gathered, that morality was a variable influenced by environment, incentive, and fear, that people could be understood well enough to be guided without ever realizing they were being led. ▅CAREER▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ When Charles founded LUCENT at twenty-eight, the narrative wrote itself. The philanthropic prodigy. The half-European visionary. The quiet genius who quoted Rilke in interviews and funded youth orchestras in cities no investor could locate on a map. He spoke of privacy as sacred while designing systems that understood the precise geometry of its erosion, of connection as salvation while perfecting the architecture of observation. LUCENT grew with unnatural speed, not through spectacle but through absorption, threading itself into infrastructure, communication platforms, financial systems, and security networks until disentanglement became unthinkable. Every company he’d worked for in the past slowly folded into LUCENT, as if it were his plan all along. Charles remained, in public, unchanged by the ascent, gracious in interviews, reserved on stage, endlessly patient beneath the lights, always crediting his mother for his empathy and his father for his discipline, presenting himself as the fortunate convergence of art and logic, compassion and code. His name became linked with countless groundbreaking donations and side projects. Millions flowed into mental health initiatives designed to modernize crisis-response technologies, into digital literacy programs for rural communities, into refugee education platforms that provided classrooms to children who had no direct access to an education, into disaster relief infrastructure that promised food and shelter first and foremost. He framed these gifts not as charity but as responsibility, as though wealth were a temporary condition and stewardship the only moral posture it permitted. He spoke in the polished cadences of a man who had practiced sincerity until it became indistinguishable from instinct, threading ethics in AI, human-centered design, and the dream of a safer internet into speeches that sounded less like corporate addresses and more like benedictions. His interviews trended. His lectures went viral. Twice, committees spoke his name into the same sentence as the Nobel Peace Prize. Twice, journalists speculated about timelines, probabilities, inevitability. Charles responded with modest smiles, soft deflections, carefully worded statements about collective effort and unfinished work. He cultivated the impression of a man perpetually surprised by his own significance, as though success were something that happened around him rather than because of him. Both of his parents would have recognized the truth, if they had known how to name it. Elena would have seen how easily his kindness opened doors, how naturally people leaned toward him, how quickly admiration softened into trust. Lucien would have understood how deliberately he chose which doors remained closed, how every public vulnerability was measured, how every confession offered to him became another thread in a widening lattice of influence. Charles did not lose his gentleness as he rose. He refined it. He sharpened it into something precise enough to slip past defenses, persausive enough to gather loyalty, intimate enough to invite confession, and durable enough to rearrange entire lives without ever staining his hands. To those who know him only by reputation, he remains the rarest of men, a genius without arrogance, a billionaire without cruelty, a visionary without appetite for harm. To those who look closer, to the politicians he’s blackmailed, the whistleblowers he’s ensured were buried under lawsuits or character assassination, to the competitors he’s driven to to suicide via financial and social sabotage, he is something else entirely; a man who learned, very young, that control does not require force, only time, attention, and the discipline to be underestimated. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

▅_{SUPPORTING CAST}▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Rebecca Harmon — Assistant Rebecca Harmon has been at Charles side longer than anyone remembers to question. They met as children, two outsiders orbiting brilliance in different ways; Charles with his impossible mind, Rebecca with her unwavering steadiness. Where he learned to calculate, she learned to anticipate. Where he spoke softly, she learned to listen harder. Now his executive assistant, gatekeeper, and shadow, she manages his calendar the way others manage governments. She knows his tells, his silences, the precise moment his kindness becomes strategy. If Charles is the architect, Rebecca is the locked door.	▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Jonah Snyder — Security Guard Jonah Snyder does not look like danger. He looks like structure, tailored suits, military posture softened into corporate polish, eyes that miss nothing and forgive less. Former intelligence, former counter-terror, former things he never confirms. Charles hired him after a single conversation and never interviewed another candidate. Jonah runs LUCENT’s physical security, private surveillance, and “special containment,” which is not a department on any org chart. He calls Charles “sir” in public and “Charles” in private, and means something different by both. He does not ask why problems need to disappear. He only makes sure they do.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Mara Kessler – Behavioral Systems Architect Mara Kessler designs the algorithms that predict human collapse. She is brilliant, meticulous, and visibly grateful to work at LUCENT. The world knows her as the daughter of a disgraced tech CEO who leapt from his office balcony after his company imploded under scandals Charles’s firm quietly accelerated. LUCENT hired her six months later. Charles paid for her mother’s medical care. Sent flowers. Spoke gently at the funeral. Mara keeps the thank-you card framed on her desk. She also keeps copies of old financial logs buried in encrypted partitions, waiting for the day gratitude rots completely into truth.	▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Dr. Mitchell Rowe – Ethics Director Dr. Mitchell Rowe is LUCENT’s moral architecture, at least on paper. A former philosophy professor turned tech ethicist, he drafts the speeches Charles delivers and the principles the company claims to obey. He believes, earnestly, that he is there to restrain a titan. Charles believes, accurately, that Mitchell is there to make restraint look convincing. They have lunch once a month. They debate free will and harm reduction. Mitchell leaves each meeting feeling cautiously hopeful. Charles leaves with new language to justify what he was already going to do.

Reign of the Usurper

^{#455955 ....|..... outfit ............... #b5c7eb ....|..... outfit ............... the black citadel}

It wasn’t until the wooden wheels hit the stone pavement and the carriage reached the edge of the Valley of Kings that the Varrows pried themselves apart. Before Aelyria climbed off of him, Rhaevyn seized her chin between his thumb and curved index finger. He pulled her in close, stealing one last kiss knowing that their time together within the Black Citadel was uncertain, tentative at best. He looked up into her eyes while she was still close, his other hand tightly gripping her bare thigh from beneath her chemise. His fingers slid along her jaw, beneath her ear, and tangled in the damp braid of ivory hair. Their heavy pants filled the space between them and drowned out the sounds of distant revelry as they traveled toward the heart of the Valley.

"We are all that matters." He pulled her in for a second kiss, savoring the softness of her lips and the faint taste of honeyed wine that lingered on her tongue. It took all his self control… and restraint to fight the temptation to keep her there, nobles and royals be damned.

Aelyria lingered in the cradle of his grasp, her breath a tremor between them. Heat flushed her skin from collarbone to cheek, a bloom of rose beneath moon-pale flesh. Her hands, braced against his shoulders, tightened as though anchoring herself to him, thumbs pressing into the damp fabric of his tunic, fingers curling just a little, as if to memorize the shape of him before the world could demand they part. Her eyes fluttered open to meet his, half-lidded and luminous, the carriage’s dim light catching on irises like embers tucked in snow.

When his mouth claimed hers, she answered not with the fervor that had moments ago consumed them, but with something softer—reverent, careful. She kissed him as though he were a secret relic she feared to damage, as though every brush of her lips could crack him open or mend him whole. It felt like prayer, devotion restrained only by the fragile need to make it last. Her breath stuttered against his, the taste of him lingering, familiar and newly precious all at once. She chased it gently, helplessly, like the last note of a song she refused to let fade.

His words echoed between them—We are all that matters. For a heartbeat, her world narrowed to the shape of that vow. Aelyria drew back only far enough to see him clearly, to let him see the truth unmasked in her own gaze. Stray tendrils of silver hair clung to her temple, she did not bother to brush them away. Oh, how she burned for him, how she wished he would take her once more, timing be damned. Her voice rose in a murmur, still unsteady from the remnants of their kiss, but laced with steel beneath the silk.

“Yes,” she breathed, forehead nearly touching his, voice trembling like the low string of her lyre. “You and I—our blood, our bond—those are the only truths I will ever kneel to.”

Her thumb traced the line of his jaw, feather-light, reverent. The gesture contradicted the fierce edge of her words. “Let the Citadel demand fealty. Let courts whisper and monarchs scheme.” Her tone sharpened, quiet as a drawn blade. “I will play their game, wear whatever mask keeps us alive. But my loyalty is not theirs to claim, it belongs solely to you.”

She leaned in, capturing his mouth again—brief, tender, deliberate. A kiss like a seal on a pact sworn in smoke and bone. When she finally pulled back, her breath ghosted over his lips, close enough that speaking felt like sharing air.

Hot, heavy breaths fell from Rhaevyn’s nose, brushing along Aelyria’s cheek as his lips conformed to hers, affectionate and delicate like she was a piece of porcelain, fragile and pristine, to be handled with care, but also with an insatiable hunger that only a lifetime in her embrace could satisfy. When the kiss broke his hand slipped from the nape of her neck, rising to brush damp pale hair from her face and tucking it gingerly behind her ear. "I am yours," he whispered into the sliver of space between them, their breaths becoming one as they were. The tips of his fingers trailed along her skin and nestled in the curve of her neck while his thumb gently, possessively pressed beneath her chin, tilting her head back. There was a dark, dangerous glint in his eyes as he held her gaze. A look save for only her, wild and untamed like a monster… her monster. "I give you my word that I will kill anyone who dares try to take you from me."

The carriage turned onto a stone pathway that led down into the valley. One of the wheels rolled over a large rock, the axle creaked in protest while the cabin shuddered and rocked. Inside the sudden movement jostled and bounced the siblings as they remained closely entwined. Rhaevyn’s hand instinctually slipped from Aelyria’s neck to brace against the small of her back and keep her from falling over, while his grasp on her thigh tightened, the tips of his fingers curving into the sweat-dampened skin. The tip of his nose brushed against hers as a startled groan slipped free, followed by a devious grin that curved across his lips and darkened behind his eyes. "I should help you dress… Before I take you again." His voice was deep and gruff with a hunger that never left but ignited anew.

Aelyria’s breath caught in her throat as his words settled between them like the edge of a blade laid reverently across her skin. The ferocity in his gaze did not frighten her; it softened her, melted through all the armor she had ever learned to wear. It was the kind of devotion she had once feared to dream of, a hunger that should have devoured her and yet somehow made her feel exalted instead. Her fingers slid up to trace the line of his jaw, trembling only in the way a drawn bowstring trembles—ready, taut with purpose. The promise he spoke was a vow sharpened to a lethal point. She met it with one of her own.

“As I with you,” she murmured, voice frayed with breathlessness, but edged with iron. Her forehead pressed to his, the world narrowing to the heat of their shared air. “If any hand dares to come for you—” her thumb brushed his lower lip, gentle as snowfall and just as cold in its implication. “I will make them wish for death long before it comes. And when it does, it will not be merciful.”

The bump of the wheel striking stone tore a gasp from her lips, soft and startled, her body lurching against his. She melted into the brace of his arm as though molded to fit there, as though the world had been arranged incorrectly until this moment. Her fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders, knuckles whitening, breath dragging in sharp and quiet. Her eyes, half-lidded, flicked up to his, desperation glinting like starlight caught in ice. His grip at the small of her back, the press of his fingers at her thigh, none of it read as confinement. It was an anchor, tether, claim. Her lips parted on a shaky breath, the sweltering air between them tasting of heat and promise.

She managed a laugh—small, breathless, barely there at all. “If you help me dress now,” she whispered, her voice a tremor shaped like temptation, “I fear I will feel every thread as a prison.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then rose back again with slow deliberation—an answer in the look alone. “I would rather have you unraveled with me once more,” she confessed, lashes fluttering against the ridges of her cheeks. “Before duty and watchful eyes make ghosts of moments like these.”

Her hand slid up the nape of his neck, fingers threading through damp strands of silver hair, holding him close enough that their next breath might be a kiss. “Let me be greedy,” she pleaded softly, ferocity and vulnerability twisted together until they were indistinguishable. “Let me have you while I still can, please, Rhaevyn. Then, we may dress…”

Aelyria’s struggled breaths, her begging and pleading… It would all be his undoing. Rhaevyn was never able to tell her no, not when they were children and not like she was before his very eyes, sweat glistened, panting, desperate to entwine one last time before they were swallowed by the Black Citadel and duty. His hand upon the small of her back curved around her waist, grabbing a fistful of her damp chemise, pulling her closer until her chest pressed against his, drawing a rough groan from beneath gritted teeth. He looked up into her eyes, his nose brushing against her cheek while his lips ghosted hers with every word. "Yes, my love," was his only response.

He kept his arm tight around her waist, holding her close as he shifted to the edge of his seat. Rhaevyn’s other hand reluctantly pried itself from her thigh to make quick work of drawing the carriage’s curtains closed before curious eyes caught glimpses as they passed through the valley. Once they were bathed in darkness, his grip, his need turned greedy with hunger like he hadn’t just taken her moments before. He drew her legs around him as he lowered them to the floor of the carriage, pinning her beneath him as he gave into her every desire… One last time.

* * *

By the time they’d nearly arrived Aelyria was composed once more, every trace of heat and desperation folded away like silk into the quiet chambers of her heart. The carriage had become her sanctuary and her battlefield both; now it was her mirror. She sat poised, spine a perfect line, breath steady, as though every ragged gasp she had offered him had been exhaled by some other woman entirely. Gone was the sweat-damp chemise, the loosened laces, the tremble of limbs still learning to remember stillness. In their place was elegance sharpened into armor.

Her gown unfurled around her like the night sky coaxed into fabric. Deep emerald panels fell in regal sweeps, the color of pine forests under rain, while black skirts pooled beneath like shadowed riverwater. Gold embroidery traced the hem in curling motifs of leaves and thorns, each thread glinting faintly with every shift, patterns that called to mind ancient crowns buried with kings. The bodice, structured, unforgiving, hugged her form in jewel-toned velvet, the neckline daring but dignified, framed in ornate gilt filigree that rested like a promise against her sternum. Black lace sleeves draped from her arms, a whisper of darkness that shivered with each movement.

At her throat, a high choker, emerald to match the gown, clasped with a single drop of gold that rested in the hollow where his lips had lingered not so long before. Her hair, once a tumble of silver and sweat, was now coiled into an elegant arrangement of braids and twists. A few deliberate tendrils brushed her cheeks, softening the precision. She smelled of cinnamon and apples, warm and sweet like autumn markets, but beneath it, faint and floral, the powder she’d pressed to her skin, wildflowers, a ghost of the meadowlands they would never again walk as children. It clung to her like memory, or hope.

Aelyria leaned forward, fingertips reaching, hesitant only in the affection they couldn’t quite hide. She smoothed a stray lock of silver hair from Rhaevyn’s brow, her touch gentle enough to hush storms. For a moment, her hand lingered, thumb just brushing the curve of his temple. The air between them cooled, softened, the world outside waited with sharpened teeth, but here, just here, something warm held fast.

“Hold still,” she whispered, the words shaped like a smile. Her voice carried the remnants of their earlier fire, now banked to embers; controlled, but no less bright. She combed her fingers through a handful of his hair, coaxing it into place with the tenderness of someone who had known him long enough to see every version of him, and chose them all. “The Citadel will be expecting perfection, as will our parents.”

Rhaevyn held her gaze with a fire he could not snuff or quell. He relished in her touch, drinking in the intimacy of its innocence, knowing that once they exited the carriage moments like those would be dangerous… and forbidden. "Fuck the Citadel, and fuck our parents," he spat the words with a palpable venom that would make a lesser woman recoil, but not his Aelyria.

While the curtains were still drawn, while they had one last fleeting moment where the world narrowed to that stuffy cramped carriage, to just her and him, he seized her lips a final time. It was deep, passionate, and full of a fury that he could not repress at being kept from her touch. He cupped her neck, being careful not to disturb a single curl or piece of fabric, but rough and greedy in every other way. He savored her taste like honeyed wine, her touch like the richest imported silks, the sound of her breath hitching like a song for only his ears, and her scent—not of perfumes and oils, but the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her essence.

If he let himself, he could have been lost in that moment, in her. There had been a nagging temptation since the moment they entered the valley to tell the driver to turn around, to disappear back along the King’s Fist and seize the life they deserved, ruling over Gloomfen… together. But while the fantasy was alluring, intoxicating, there was also duty, something neither one of them had been able to turn from. Not duty to the crown or to marry, no. Duty to each other, to their family. And in that duty, they were expected to present House Varrow to perfection, enigmatic, elusive, and unobtainable, but perfect.

He pulled away, reluctantly, almost pained as he sat upright. White blond hair elegantly fixed with half of it pinned back while its length still brushed the tops of his shoulders. Strong pale fingers adjusted the collar of his coat, a dark black velvet that stood as a testament against the heat, rather conforming to it. He held his chin high as he carefully aligned the seams along his throat before fastening the last silver clasp. Rhaevyn then tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, made from the finest black and silver brocade that accented his monochromatic attire with a subtle sophistication and silent power. Finally, he pried his dagger from where it had been lodged in the carriage walls for hours. Rhaevyn slid it into its holster at his hip, sheathing the polished silver as a silent promise to any hand that dared touch her, to any man that sought her as a bride.

He didn’t bother with the curtains, instead pushing open the door to the carriage and stepping out, chin proud but not too high. While the world should bow to him, Rhaevyn was not arrogant enough to assert such thoughts in the presence of royalty… not yet. He stepped beside the small steps and held out his hand, a steady loyal offering given palm up, obedient and vulnerable in a way no one would understand but his sister.

Aelyria watched him go as one might watch the tide draw back from shore, inevitable, composed, leaving quiet in its wake. For a breath, she remained within the dim hush of the carriage, framed by velvet shadow and the fading warmth of what had been. Then he straightened, stepped into the light, and the world reshaped itself around his silhouette.

How easily he became him again. Rhaevyn, heir of Gloomfen. Steel given bone and breath. Velvet and silver and intention. Her gaze traced the line of his back, the proud set of his shoulders beneath dark finery, the careful economy of his movements as he claimed the space beyond the carriage door. The heat had not dulled him; it had merely sharpened the contrast, pale hair against black velvet, silver clasp against shadowed throat, the dagger at his hip a quiet, lethal punctuation to his presence. He looked every inch the future House Varrow demanded… and everything her heart had already chosen.

When he turned and offered his hand, palm up, the gesture struck her with its familiar violence; devotion disguised as courtesy. She placed her hand in his with practiced delicacy, allowing him to draw her forward. The carriage steps received her like a stage, and she descended with unhurried grace, emerald skirts whispering against polished wood, black lace stirring like wings at her arms. When her feet touched stone, she released his hand only long enough to smooth her skirts into place, one elegant sweep, another, composing the fall of velvet and shadow until the gown obeyed her will.

Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. The mask settled perfectly. Still, she resisted the instinct to stretch, to arch her back and draw a fuller breath after hours confined to velvet and heat. Such gestures belonged to private rooms, to unguarded moments. Not here. Not before the Valley of Kings. She glanced toward him from beneath her lashes, eyes cool, mouth faintly amused.

“It is not much cooler out here,” she murmured dryly, the cadence of her voice silk-wrapped steel. “A terrible oversight for this event to be hosted during this particular season.”

Her gaze drifted briefly to the stone stretching toward the Citadel, banners stirring lazily in the heavy air. “A winter gathering would have been far more civilized,” she added, smoothing an imaginary crease from her bodice. “Furs. Frost. An excuse to look at everyone with open disdain beneath the pretense of cold.” Her voice had dropped by the time she was finished speaking, only for her brother's ears.

Then, after the faintest pause, something softened. Not her posture. Not her composure. Only her eyes. They warmed, just a fraction, as she looked ahead toward the rising spires of the Black Citadel. “Still,” she said quietly, “I find myself… quite eager to see Mother.”

The admission was gentle, rare as snowfall in Gloomfen. She drew a slow breath, scented of cinnamon and apples and distant wildflowers, then inclined her head toward him, subtle, sovereign, certain. “Shall we?”

Rhaevyn did not answer in words but with a gentle nod that denoted his supplicance to her and none other. He guided his sister’s hand to hook beneath his arm and rest in the crook of his elbow. His right hand, however, remained casually rested upon the silver pommel of his sword. A harmless gesture meant to show his ease but also his subtle readiness at a moment’s notice. The Varrows were nothing if not elegance and grace, with a hand always poised on a blade. The intricacies of court called for such dances and it was something his father had taught them since they were children. If anyone could navigate the following months it was them, even through disdain and a forlorn absence of each other’s touch.

Together, they moved forward, perfectly poised in their natural synchronicity. Behind them, the dust of the road settled. Before them, the Black Citadel waited. They did not walk as servants to nobles, but as masters returning to a chessboard, two blades sheathed in silk, ready for the first move.

The Varrows did not merely arrive. They began.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

The Last Will of Olympus

^{lux .....|..... outfit .......... beckett .....|..... outfit .......... shore of lake montauck}

Beckett knew before she moved. He knew it before the way her shoulders set with that quiet, terrible certainty, before her eyes ever lifted to meet his. He felt it in his bones, in the old instincts that had once kept him alive and now only seemed to tell him when something was about to be taken away. He hoped anyway, stupidly, desperately, that between him and Violet, between the weight of everything they’d survived to get here, she might listen. But hope had never been something Lux indulged in when action was required. When their eyes finally met, he saw it there, unmistakable and unwavering, written in the line of her jaw and the stillness of her gaze.

She had already decided.

Panic tore through him then, sudden and brutal, like the lightning itself had speared him straight through the chest. The flash came, blinding and white-hot, and in that instant she was gone, vanished into rain and shadow, leaving behind a hollow ache so sharp it stole his breath and left him frozen, heart hammering uselessly in his ears. He sat there, unmoving, as if the storm had claimed him instead, as if the thunder belonged inside his ribs now. The shelter felt impossibly empty without her, too wide, too exposed, the air stripped of the faint rose-scented warmth that had grounded him only moments before. His hands curled reflexively, reaching for someone who was no longer there, muscles screaming for motion while his mind lagged behind, caught in the terrible stillness between loss and action.

He could hear the rain, the lake, Violet’s sharp intake of breath, but they all felt distant, muted, secondary to the roaring realization that settled over him like a verdict. He had been here before. He had stood like this once already, begging someone not to make a martyr of themselves, watching stubborn resolve turn into irreversible consequence. He remembered the weight of that moment, the way it had carved something out of him and never given it back.

And in that breathless second, Beckett understood with terrifying clarity that he could not survive it again. Not this time. Not if it was her. The idea lodged in him like shrapnel, raw and unbearable, and for the first time in years the storm outside felt small compared to the one ripping through his chest. The thunder rolled on, indifferent and immense, but Beckett barely heard it. All he could see was the place where Lux had been, the space she’d left behind, and the unthinkable certainty that if the world took her now, it would take what little of him that was left with her.

Flash.

Lux didn’t have to survive. She could live with that… Or die with that, more accurately put. She just wanted them safe. Beckett and Violet were her first real friends. A life isolated in the mountains took that from her. It may have taken her fifty-five years, but now that she had it, had them, it wasn’t something she was willing to give up… But it was something she was willing to die for if it came to that. She just hoped that he could forgive her someday. Gods let him forgive her.

Crack.

She broke out of the bush, side stepping and pivoting around the adjacent tree to line up her shot. String pulled, muscles flexed tight across her shoulders, heel of her palm pressed into the grip, and fingertips anchored to the corner of her mouth. Hold. The rumbling carried across the sky as she searched for a target. Hold. The echoing was dying as she found it, a boulder hugging the shore of the lake, a straight shot. Hold. The silence was consuming, filled with the sounds of water lapping against shore, droplets bouncing off of leaves and the tarp, and her bowstring creaking, taut in anticipation.

Loose.

Lux’s fingers relaxed and the string rolled along her skin, snapping back into place as it sent the arrow flying through the air. The same guiding gust that followed her like an intangible guardian nudged the arrow to stay on course when it fought against the rigor of the storm. Then just as iron struck stone and the resounding ting reverberated through the trees, a streak of lightning, bright and furious broke through the clouds and crashed into the boulder, splitting in two with an earth shattering boom. The sound and spectacle drew the attention of the lurking shadows. They did not stop or pause, but turned abruptly, claws dragging trenches in the mud as they barreled through the trees straight for the sky-struck rock.

The next strike of lightning tore the world open, and Beckett moved with it, not waiting for thought, not waiting for fear to catch up. His body reacted before his mind could argue, before memory could drag him backward into other storms and other losses. He grabbed Violet by the arm, felt the solid reassurance of her pack already slung over her shoulder, and shoved his own on in the same motion, muscle memory taking over as if this were just another extraction under fire. Mud sucked at his boots, rain clawed at his face, but none of it slowed him. His eyes were already locked on Lux, on the place she’d broken cover, on the slim, reckless silhouette that burned brighter than the lightning itself.

Rage threaded through him as he ran, not the blind kind, but something sharp and desperate, honed by the terror of almost. This time had to be different. It had to be. He had to be fast enough. He had to reach her before the world decided otherwise.

He closed the distance in a handful of strides, lungs burning, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs open from the inside. His hand fisted into the back of the borrowed jacket she wore, and he yanked her hard against him, grounding her in the brutal reality of his grip. She was solid. She was here. Violet was already ahead of them, moving fast and sure, the only sensible choice when hesitation meant death. It was now or never. Beckett didn’t slow, didn’t stop, just pulled Lux with him and then yanked again, harder, urgency carved into every movement. He couldn’t afford to wait for thunder or lightning or waves to cover them. He couldn’t afford to be clever. He’d already lost once to patience and timing and the cruel assumption that there would be another chance.

He leaned down as they ran, rain streaking his face, breath ragged, and broke the one rule he’d lived by since the war, since loss had clawed its way into his chest in more ways than one; don’t speak unless you absolutely have to, don’t let anyone in. He had to. This mattered more than stealth, more than survival, more than pride. His voice slipped out raw and unguarded, barely louder than the rain, meant for her alone. “Please.” The word fractured at the end, desperation bleeding through despite his effort to hold it together. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. His grip tightened, his pace never faltered, and he ran like a man who refused, absolutely refused, to let the storm take her too.

After her shot, Lux was temporarily stunned and blinded by the serendipitous strike of lightning. She spun around, pressing her back against a tree beside her, feeling the bark cling to the fabric of the oversized jacket while the wet and cold of the storm started seeping its way through the layers, embracing her in that familiar chill. Her eyes closed as she rested her head back against the tree trunk, listening and counting. One Mississippi... The beasts tore through the trees, snapping underbrush and branches under paw and talon as they neared the rock. Two Mississippi... There was another stirring, not near the beach, but closing in on her. It lacked a predator’s finesse. The footfall was heavy and urgent. It didn’t wait for timing or precision. It tore through the woods fast, carving the earth under its fury rather than moving with it.

Three… Lux’s eyes opened to find Beckett barreling down on her. There was a brief, fleeting moment, of what could be called nothing other than a startled bliss, when she saw the way he didn’t follow orders or plans, but threw them all into the wind out of fear that she wouldn’t follow. But as quickly as it came, it was washed away in the downpour of rain that fell on their heads as he grabbed a furious fistful of the jacket, like an angered father dragging his child by the collar of their shirt. Her face twisted and contorted, eyes cast under dark shadows by brows furrowed with indignation. Praise the Gods for the thunder crash as if it knew she couldn’t bite back her startled protest. "What are you doing?!"

Lux seized his wrist in her grasp, not pulling it away but seeking answers. But his gaze didn’t linger. Beckett pried her off the tree, bullet fast and unrelenting as he dragged her through the forest, no regard for the plan or timing his movements in sync with the storm. Just blind determination as he dragged her along behind him. More than once she tried to break free of his hold, not to run a different way, but to give herself a chance to run of her own accord rather than being pulled along like an unruly child. She was fast, faster than him and he knew it. But his grip held fast, unyielding and white knuckled… When he let a single word fall free, masked by rain and slosh of their feet sinking into the mud with every step. Too quiet and too unguarded to be for anyone else than herself.

She tried her best to keep up with him, stunned by a word spoken when he was normally silent, tripping over mud and roots, rarely able to find her footing before Beckett gave her another yank. Lux spared a quick glance over her shoulder and her stomach sank. The two shadows had turned around, drawn to their clumsy steps and disregard for stealth. This wasn’t going to work, not his way, bullheaded, loud and sloppy. She knew she couldn’t over power him, he was too strong. Surprise was the only way she could stop him and maybe, just maybe knock some sense into that war addled mind of his.

Lux kept pace, waiting for the thunder, for an opening. When the sky roared to life around them, she turned towards Beckett, fingers curling into the breast of his shirt. With a forceful shove and a nudge from a gust of wind at her back, she pushed him off course, backing him up into a tree. She held him there with a determined frustration, shoving him back into place if he dared to try moving. More silent praises were said to the Gods for the darkness of the storm that hid the tears that welled in her eyes. "Asshole, the plan," she hissed beneath the thunder, her words trembling in unison with the dissipating rumbles.

She kept Beckett pinned in place best she could as she peeked around the side of the tree, catching a glimpse of the creatures as they stalked closer, slow, patient… searching. Lux dipped back into the shadow of cover, turning so her back was pressed against his chest, forcing them to blend into the darkness like an extension of the tree. Beck’s breaths and pulse, racing but steady, grounded her as she took one of her remaining arrows and nocked it. Then again, she exhibited patience, bending to the will of the storm, not fighting against it. Following the next flash of lightning before the thunder would devour everything, she stepped out and let loose the arrow. It soared through the trees, weaving more than flying straight until it collided with another rock, drawing the monsters away a second time.

Beckett felt her before he could stop himself from noticing her, the press of her back against his chest fitting with an ease that unsettled him more than the monsters ever could. The contour of her body aligned with his like it had always belonged there, like some cruel part of the universe had decided to show him what right felt like at the worst possible moment. He let out a slow, measured breath through his nose, forcing his thoughts anywhere but the warmth at his sternum, the way her shoulders rose and fell in time with his own. He dragged his mind to safer places—to the burn of anger still simmering low in his gut, to the humid jungles of Vietnam and the discipline that had kept him alive when feeling anything too deeply meant death. He clung to those memories like lifelines, grounding himself in old ghosts and old rules, because if he let himself linger on the way she fit against him, on how easily his body recognized hers, he knew he would lose something he could not afford to give up.

Beckett’s jaw ached with the force of his teeth clenching, the low, burning coil of frustration thrumming through his chest like a live wire. Even now, even after the crack of his own voice had bled into the storm and Lux had heard the raw, unvarnished desperation he’d tried so hard to cage, she refused to listen. She moved like a storm unto herself, a force of nature that no plan could contain, no vote could sway, no caution could restrain. The anger churned deep and cold in his gut, darker than the rain-soaked shadows around them, sharper than any blade he had ever wielded, and yet it was not aimed at the storm, or the monsters, or even the mud that clung to his boots. It was aimed at her. At her obstinate, relentless refusal to make this easier on him, at the way she refused to bend for anything or anyone, even when the world threatened to swallow them whole. He hated her, yes—but not in the simple way of childish spite. He hated her for forcing him to care so deeply, for dragging him into the very peril he’d sworn he could survive alone if he must.

His hand clenched impossibly tighter around the jacket she wore, fingers pressing into the wet fabric so hard that the tremble running through them vibrated along her spine, and for a heartbeat he allowed himself to imagine letting go. Just letting go, stepping back into the shadows, detaching from the chaos, from the responsibility, from the weight of their lives. It would be safer, easier. He would walk away, abandon the madness and survive.

The darkest part of him, the part that had seen war chew up the bravest and the best, that had counted friends lost to folly and fate alike, rose to the surface in that moment, whispering with venomous clarity that release was an option. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her go. Not her. Not Violet either. Not now. Not ever. And the hate for the choice she forced upon him, stubborn, impossible, infuriating, coiled with the same desperation that spurred him forward.

So he let go, but not in the way he desperately wanted. Slowly, deliberately, as if conceding to the storm and the forest and the inevitable, he released his grip on the jacket. His fingers slipped free, leaving her there, wild and untamed in the deluge, and he braced himself, heart hammering so loudly he could almost hear it over the rain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the trees, the mud, the twisted shapes of the forest like the world itself was holding its breath with him. He looked around, scanning for shadows, for movement, for the subtle hints of the monsters’ approach, and for Violet. And in the hush that fell after the thunder’s roar, when the storm seemed to pause in anticipation, he let his voice break the silence, shakier and smaller than he intended, almost swallowed by the rain. “Where’s Violet?” he whispered, breath ragged, urgency wrapped in uncertainty.

Violet hit the tree hard enough to rattle her teeth.

Cold bark bit into her palms as she pressed herself into the curve of the trunk, breath tearing in and out of her chest in sharp, uneven pulls. Her lungs burned. Her legs shook with the aftershock of motion finally denied. Rain slicked her hair flat against her neck, curls clinging to her skin like damp ivy, and every nerve in her body screamed at once—stop, hide, listen.

The storm did not care.

Thunder rolled overhead, fractured and furious, lightning strobing the woods into moments of frozen clarity before plunging them back into ink-dark chaos. Somewhere behind her, the earth groaned, roots splitting stone, soil shifting like something alive and angry beneath the surface. Monsters howled in the distance, their voices carried and distorted by rain and wind until it was impossible to tell how close they were. Too close. Always too close.

Beckett. Lux. The names burned through her chest like a second heartbeat.

They had been together, they were supposed to stay together, and somehow, in the blind, desperate mile of running, the world had reached in and tore them apart. Sloppy. Careless. Stupid. Violet swallowed hard, throat tight with the weight of it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t how they survived. Separation was death. Isolation was a weakness. She knew this. She had always known this. They would be stronger together. But knowing didn’t stop the fear.

It lanced through her ribs, sharp and immediate, at the thought of one of them hurt, of Beckett’s grim, stubborn resolve finally costing him something he couldn’t get back, of Lux’s small, defiant body crumpling under claws meant for something bigger, stronger. The idea of losing them hollowed her out in a way she wasn’t prepared for, a pain deeper than anything the rest of the world, than she, had ever shown her.

Friends.

The word felt fragile and enormous all at once. They weren’t just allies anymore. Not just people moving in the same direction out of necessity. They weren’t just her mission. They were her people. Her first real ones. Something dangerously close to family—a thing Violet had never learned how to lose without breaking.

She forced herself to breathe.
In. Out. Count the seconds between thunder. Count the spaces where sound swallowed sound. When her breathing finally evened into something that wouldn’t betray her immediately, she took a risk she knew she shouldn’t. The storm was loud, yes, but monsters learned patterns the same way demigods did. Still, the silence pressed too hard against her chest, and fear made cowards of plans.

“Beckett?” she called, voice barely more than breath, thin and shaking as rain slid down her jaw. “Lux…?” The name left her mouth like a prayer.

Something answered. Not a voice. A growl.

It rolled out of the dark low and wet, a sound that vibrated through the ground and up her spine, ancient and territorial and very, very close. Violet’s blood went cold in an instant, shadows at her feet recoiling as if burned. Her heart slammed once, twice, then she twisted on instinct, body already moving before her mind could catch up.
Lightning split the sky. For a fraction of a second, the world was white.
Teeth. Claws. A mass of muscle and hunger surging toward her, eyes reflecting the storm with feral intelligence.

It lunged.

And then—a scream. Sharp, piercing, human, cutting through the downpour just a few feet away, splitting the air in half with terror. Beckett froze for only an instant, the smallest fraction of a second, and then instincts took over. His hands clenched into fists, rain plastering his hair to his skull, mud sucking at his boots, and he surged toward the sound. He trusted that Lux would follow, at least this one time. Every muscle, every sinew, every ache from the endless journey since Vegas screamed with urgency, they had no choice now. No hesitation, no planning, no voting, no arguing. Just run. Just move. Just survive.

Lux would be with him, and they would find Violet together, or they would all fall. And in that furious, impossible moment, Beckett understood the depth of his own fire, not just for survival, not just for fear, but for the people who had become his world, the ones he could not, would not, leave behind. Every pulse in his veins, every memory of war and rain and lightning sharpened into one singular, unforgiving purpose: keep them alive, no matter what it cost.

The scream reached deep in Lux’s chest, constricting around her heart and squeezing. Whatever she had felt before wasn’t adrenalin, wasn’t a rush, but a resolute calm, an acceptance that her distraction would buy them time, precious time they could use to get away. But then Beckett couldn’t just follow the plan, couldn’t let her make the choice, make the sacrifice just once. If he was the stronger one, then why the fuck should he be the one to die? He was useful, more important, suffered more—Mother fucker!—He asked for a plan, for her plan. She gave him what he wanted, an answer, a solution. It was perfect, but if they were patient and he listened—Why couldn’t he listen… just once?!

Whatever she had felt before, whatever calm resolve was replaced by pure, unfiltered adrenalin. It coursed like electricity through her veins, feeding her energy and synapses firing with a drive that had been drained from her days earlier. Her mind focused to the point of a needle, pushing away the anger she felt towards Beckett, and that other feeling she couldn’t name that clawed into the pit of her stomach at his single word… Please. Because it wasn’t about him now, it was about Violet.

Lux took off the second Beck did, without hesitation, without thought. Just action. She slipped her bow over her head and kept the single remaining arrow grasped tightly in her palm ready to strike, as a last defense or a last resort. She barreled toward the scream, weaving through the brush, dunking beneath low hanging branches and using the momentum of a turn and a hand on a tree to launch herself forward. Beckett was stronger, unstoppable, but Lux… Lux was faster. She was small, swift, and agile with the headstrong determination of a caged wild animal set free.

Beckett knew it the moment she surged ahead of him—that sickening, unmistakable truth snapping into place with the clarity of a gunshot. Lux was faster. Smaller, lighter, built for this kind of chaos in a way he wasn’t, and the realization tore a curse out of him before he could swallow it back. “Shit—” The word was ripped apart by the rain, by thunder, by his own breath as he pushed harder, legs burning, lungs screaming, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or fear clawing its way up his spine. He barreled after her anyway, caution abandoned, survival instincts overridden by something far more dangerous. He had already lost people to screams like that. He would not lose another. Not her. Not Violet. Not tonight.

They broke through the trees just in time to see the ground itself betray the monster. The earth twisted and split open in a violent, unnatural spiral, darkness yawning wide beneath clawed feet and snapping jaws. The creature howled as it was dragged down, sound stretching and warping as if the pit were swallowing not just flesh but noise itself, until there was nothing left but churned mud and rain slamming into empty space.

Lightning cracked overhead, searing the moment into Beckett’s vision, and in that flash he saw Violet on the far side of the collapsing void. She stood with one arm thrust out, fingers curled like talons, body locked in a rigid, defiant stance as if sheer will had held the world open long enough to consume their enemy. There was a tear in the side of her shirt, white fabric soaked through with crimson that ran in thin rivulets down her ribs. Her hair clung to her face and neck, plastered by rain and sweat, her skin frighteningly pale beneath the grime. Her outstretched hand trembled violently, the effort of whatever she’d done still ripping through her.

When the darkness finally sealed itself shut and the forest rushed back in to fill the void, Violet’s arm dropped. She stared at them like she wasn’t entirely sure they were real, eyes wide and unfocused, shaking her head as words stumbled out of her. She didn’t know—she didn’t know what happened—but they had to go. Howls tore through the woods again, closer than Beckett liked, sharp and eager and multiplied. His heart slammed against his ribs as he closed the distance between them, rain slicking his boots, nerves screaming. He caught Violet’s gaze, forcing himself to stay steady. “Can you run?” he asked, voice low but urgent, already bracing for the answer he feared.

She nodded. Of course she did. Violet always did.

It didn’t matter. Beckett stepped in anyway, caught her arm, and pulled her bag from her shoulders, slinging it onto his own, bearing the extra weight to make her lighter, as if sheer stubbornness could carry them all through this. He turned then, eyes finding Lux through the rain, panic and fury tangling tight in his chest. “Then run,” he snapped, sharper than he meant, harsher than he wanted, already moving again. “Let’s go, I won’t watch you get mauled by a fucking monster because of your stubbornness, Slade.” He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t wait for thunder or lightning or miracles. He pushed her ahead of him, both of the girls, and urged them into a run, jaw clenched, refusing, absolutely refusing, to look back at the monsters chasing them.

While Beckett played twenty questions, Lux hurried to Violet’s aid, gently lifting up the hem of her shirt to check the cuts in her side. The rain washed away the blood in a stream of crimson that ran down her side and stained her pants. Concern furrowed the blonde’s brows as she looked between the slashes and her friend’s pained eyes. "I’m sorry," she croaked, the guilt hammered in her chest, heavy and relentless, a constant reminder like the tick of a cloak. It looked bad. She could see the strain on V’s face every time she drew in a breath, but luckily it wasn’t deadly. Stitches were needed and it was going to hurt like a bitch as they ran… But if they could just get to camp, get somewhere safe, then Lux could dress it.

Violet’s breath hitched when she saw them, both of them, shapes resolving through rain and shadow into something solid, something real. Alive. Unbroken. The relief was so sudden and so sharp it nearly dropped her to her knees, a sob clawing its way up her throat before she could stop it. Her hands trembled, slick with rain and blood, pain flaring bright and hot along her side with every breath she dared to take. Gods, she was so tired. Hollowed out. One good excuse away from folding in on herself and letting the storm take the weight for her.

But there wasn’t time.

When Lux apologized, Violet shook her head immediately, jaw tight, swallowing hard against the ache burning behind her eyes. She caught Lux’s hand before she could pull away, fingers closing gently but firmly around hers, grounding herself in the cold, familiar reality of it. “Don’t,” she managed, voice rough but steady enough. You’re here, the squeeze said. That’s what matters. She let go a heartbeat later, already pushing herself to stand steadier despite the protest of torn flesh and frayed nerves, already turning her gaze toward the dark ahead. They could fall apart later. They could scream and cry and argue when the ground wasn’t trying to eat them alive. Of course, neither of them seemed to care about waiting for later… like usual.

When Beck barked orders at her, Lux’s head snapped around, incredulous and furious as she met his gaze. "If you would have stuck to the fucking plan," she hissed beneath gritted teeth, a venomous whisper that road the tail of thunder. If he would have just done as she said, followed fucking directions for once in his damn life... She turned from him before he could say something else, now wasn’t the time to trade insults. There was no knowing where the monster went, but she wasn’t going to try their luck by getting into a screaming match that would rival the storm itself.

Lux’s hand was gentle and coaxing against V’s back where Beck’s was abrasive and commanding, herding them forward like cattle. "You lead. I’ll be right on your heels," her words were soft in a way their warfaring friend wasn’t, but no less urgent. She waited for Violent to set the pace, letting her get a few feet ahead of her but she didn’t follow, didn’t start running until Beck did. She’d be fucking damned if he derailed the entire plan for them to make a five mile sprint while he played martyr. Not on her watch.

The storm followed them as they ran through the forest, pushing past exhaustion and the mud that clawed its way up their calves. There was no room or time for error as the beasts cried out in the darkness behind them, charging through the foliage like battering rams. Whenever one of them faltered the others were there, bolstering and lifting each other without sacrificing speed. No one left behind, no matter what. Five miles wasn’t long when compared to how far they had traveled, but now, in that final torturous stretch it felt like an unending gauntlet determined to watch them fail on the doorstep of salvation.

Just when it felt like they couldn’t run any further, lungs on fire, gasping and unable to draw in enough air, they burst through the treeline. Stretched out before them was a small field, a narrow winding road that curved around it, and then there, beyond the clearing, like a beacon of light, was a Grecian arch, wrapped in ivy beside a large pine tree sitting on top of the hill… The entrance to Camp Half-blood.

Something in Beckett finally tore.

It wasn’t sudden, not really. It had been fraying for months, worn thin by endless roads and borrowed shelter, by hunger and mud and monsters that never stopped coming, by the way Lux always knew, always had an answer, a plan, a certainty sharp enough to cut through anyone else’s doubt. It lodged in his chest now like a twisting blade, a physical ache that made it hard to breathe, harder still to think. When she snapped at him, when she dared to throw the plan back in his face like a weapon, the pressure finally broke. A laugh tore out of him before he could stop it—short, cold, and utterly humorless, stripped of anything that resembled warmth. It sounded wrong even to his own ears, like something cracked loose and couldn’t be put back where it belonged.

“You’re unbelievable,” he snapped, the words spilling out fast and sharp, carried on the edge of thunder and rage, and he took two steps toward her, twisting around instead of running like he wanted to. “You don’t give a damn about plans, Slade. Not really. Not unless it’s all yours.” His voice shook, not with fear now, but with something hotter and more dangerous, the kind of fury that came from being pushed past endurance.

“Being outvoted? Listening to the group? Apparently that doesn’t mean shit to you.” He laughed again, harsher this time, and it hurt, God, it hurt, to force the sound past the knot in his throat. “But fine. Fine. If you don’t want me to care what happens to you, then I won’t.” The lie burned even as he said it, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The dam had already burst, months of restraint and swallowed words crashing out all at once. “Do whatever the hell you want. You always do.”

Beckett’s laugh, cold and detached, cut through the storm, wedging itself into her chest like a dull, rusted blade. Lux froze, so close to the end, so close to safety and he unloaded on her like there was no longer a pretense for being kind or tolerating her presence anymore. She stopped walking, holding her ground and breath as he turned on her, anger palpable in the air between them, in the heat behind his eyes, and the venom that laced his words. Her blinks came slow and measured, unable to hold back the tears that welled against her lashes as one slipped free, trailing down her cheek. Her hands trembled violently at her sides, gripping the single arrow she had left like a lifeline to keep her tethered, keep her grounded… keep her from melting away beneath the storm.

The second laugh stung more, like salt and grit rubbed in an open wound. Lux wanted to look away, to curl in on herself and disappear. But if he was going to unleash on her so openly, so viscerally, then she’d force herself to hold his gaze for every barb, every unguarded truth… Maybe then it’d smother the uncontrollable stirrings that twisted to life whenever she looked at him, strangle the spark that burned in her for a man who hated her, a man who cared out of forced obligation. If she could just hate him too… but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t… and that was the worst part.

He twisted away from her then, abrupt and furious, refusing to look back, because if he did, if he saw her face, saw the hurt or the defiance or whatever truth lived there, he might break in a way he couldn’t afford. The anger turned inward just as quickly, snapping back on itself, because it was always her that did this to him, always her who dragged emotion out of places he’d buried deep for a reason. And because, worse than all of it, he cared anyway. That truth throbbed under his ribs like a wound he couldn’t cauterize.

He shoved it down hard and surged forward after Violet, hands coming to her back and arm, urging her on with a grip that trembled with barely contained fury and something else he couldn’t name. “Keep moving,” he barked, voice rough, every word scraped raw. He didn’t look behind him again. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep running. Not if he wanted to survive what caring was doing to him as they ran toward salvation with monsters howling at their heels and his heart splintering in time with every step.

When he turned away, Lux finally let herself breathe, drawing in a sharp, ragged breath. It was strangled and barely masked the sob she fought desperately to repress. She couldn’t will her feet to move, half tempted to let the storm and the earth swallow her whole rather than take a step forward. Her exhaustion had been chipping away at her, piece by piece, stretching her thin until the only part of her that remained steadfast hung by a thread that Beckett didn’t just snap, but cut abruptly with his own blade. The tears blurred her vision, stinging and relentless as she stared at his retreating back and the archway that now felt more ominous than hopeful. A camp for demigods where she’d be forced to be around him… forever. No freedom from his ire or the constant torment his presence left her in.

It was only the sound of a growl closing in from the woods behind her that gave her the will to move. One foot, then the other until she was trudging forward with a furious resolve. Her strides were long, determined, as she quickly closed the distance between them. Without even sparing Beckett a sidelong glance, Lux peeled off his jacket and slammed the damp heavy lump of fabric against his chest as she passed by. A shiver, violent and involuntary, passed through her body like a wave as her exposed skin was laid bare for the biting wind and the chill of the rain. She’d rather freeze to death than find comfort in his handouts. He fucking tainted it anyway.

Lux marched ahead of them. Drenched blonde hair clung to her cheeks and the tops of her bare shoulders. Her cropped tank top hugged her chest like a second skin, rising and falling with every heave and quiet, angry sob. Combat boots sunk into the earth with each step as she crossed the field. It wasn’t long before she reached the other side and crossed over the narrow road to reach the base of the hill. She paused for a second to look up at it: the tall lone pine, the columns, the Greek letters that vibrated and shifted before her eyes until she read ‘Camp Half-blood.’ She took a single step forward to start her final ascent when a shadow emerged out of the side of a large tree that stood between them and the entrance. One large clawed paw stepped out, then another until she was faced with a mangled maw of razor sharp fangs. Saliva and rain fell from its mouth as it growled with piercing yellow eyes that were locked on her.

She took a slow measured step backwards, snapping a twig underfoot. The hellhound snarled and lowered its head at her movement. Lux held up her hands part in surrender and part like she was trying to calm a wild, unpredictable animal. She still clutched that single arrow tight within her grasp, her final useless defense against a beast that weapons didn’t seem to hurt. Forced bravery repressed her other emotions and demanded action. She knew the moment she moved or made a sound it would lunge, so what she did next had to matter… it had to count.

They were so close… She could see it. It was no longer about working together but surviving. One monster and three of them. It wasn’t heroism… It was basic math. Lux drew in a deep breath, preparing herself for what she knew would happen. Then before she could back down, her lips parted and words broke the seal. "Split up!" She dropped her arms and immediately darted left between the trees where the hellhound peeled after her.

Beckett caught the jacket on instinct, fingers closing around the sodden weight without a word. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs anyway, not from force, but from the way something in his chest tightened further, like a knot being pulled too hard, too fast. The fabric was heavy with rain and mud and the ghost of her warmth, and holding it made every inhale ache, sharp and shallow, like breathing around a bruise. He curled it in his right hand as if it might anchor him, while his left tightened uselessly around the hilt of his own knife, the blade a comfort only in habit now, a lie he told himself because he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

When Lux shouted, when the word split cut through the air and the hellhound answered her decision with a feral snarl and a violent pivot toward her fleeing shape, Beckett froze. It was only for a heartbeat—but it felt like an eternity stretched thin. Every instinct in him screamed to go after her, to put himself between her and the thing barreling through the trees with murder in its eyes. Protect. Intercept. Die if you have to. But Violet was there, hurt, bleeding, pale, and as if the gods themselves were mocking him, another hound emerged behind them, low and massive, blocking the path she needed to take.

He turned, panic flaring hot and wild, and met Violet’s eyes.

She was shaking, breath ragged, blood soaking darker into her shirt, but there was something unyielding in her gaze, something iron beneath the fear. She took a shuddering breath and spoke his name like it hurt to say it. She told him to go. Told him she could make it. Told him she could handle the other one if she had to. The words landed wrong, struck something deep and fragile inside him, and he shook his head once, violently, like denial could rewrite reality. He couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t choose. The choice tore at him, split him clean down the middle, and for a moment he was nothing but a man caught between two people he cared for, both running headlong toward death in different directions.

“Go!” Violet screamed then, her voice cracking apart, raw and desperate and terrified. Because she understood, she understood more than she’d ever say. She understood how they felt for each other, and while the three of them had become something like a family, while they’d become her whole world in a few long weeks, she couldn’t imagine either of them without the other at their side. She could do this, and if she couldn’t… if there was ever anything worth dying for, she realized, it was this. “Go, Beckett!”

That broke him.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If he opened his mouth, he knew the sound that would come out wouldn’t be fit for either of them to hear. So he moved. He turned and ran, boots tearing up wet grass and mud as he chased after Lux, lungs burning, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The jacket flapped uselessly from his fist, forgotten but not released, and the knife bounced against his palm as if mocking him with its futility. Rain lashed his face, branches whipped at his arms, but he didn’t slow. He ran like the devil itself was on his heels—not the hellhound, not the storm, but the certainty that if he didn’t reach her in time, something inside him would be lost forever.

Lux didn’t have a destination. She didn’t have the luxury to think about the future or anything that came after one step, then another. Her breaths came sharp like embers in her lungs, tearing at her throat with each inhale. She couldn’t hear the wheeze as her body desperately tried to drag in more air, all that flooded her ears was the rumble of thunder, the squelching thuds of her boots as they compressed puddled earth under foot, and the relentless pounding of a beast in pursuit with a speed she could not match. It was close, so close that she swore she could feel its pants hot and hungry on the back of her neck.

She vaulted over a fallen tree, graceful and poised, even in the chaos of her panic and adrenalin, only for the monster to charge through it like it was made of paper. She heard the log snap and felt the splinters against her back, but didn’t dare look back, she couldn’t. One minute of weakness could be her undoing, so Lux kept pushing harder and faster. All that mattered was that the hellhound was following her, not them. That meant Violet… Beckett, they had time to reach camp, to get help, safety or shelter… to live. That was enough to keep her going, to strengthen her resolve and fight past the breaths that tore at her lungs like shattered glass, to push past the ache of her muscles that she willed to move over and over and over again. Maybe she could circle back around. Maybe she could follow the road back, and climb her way up the hill. Maybe—

Thunder died just as a fearsome growl roared through the silence of the storm. A paw the size of her head slashed down through the air, catching her as she went to weave through the trees, dragging razor sharp talons across her back. A piercing scream echoed through the forest, lightning crashed in unison as she was thrown forward and crashed into the mud laden ground. Gravity carried her down the decline of the hill, rolling over the rough grit of the earth until her momentum was stopped abruptly by a tree that knocked the wind from her. She coughed and wheezed while the eager pants and growls of the hound were closing in. Mud, rain and hair blinded her, and trembling limbs kept her from being able to get back to her feet. Her only defense was—the arrow...

Her hands were empty. The last weapon she had, gone. Lux frantically ran her hands around the forest floor, feeling, searching… but finding nothing. The beast was close. She had to move, get up and run but her knees wouldn’t listen. Frozen fingers continued to scrub the underbrush, trembling furiously. It was nearly there, nearly on top of her. She could feel the earth shudder under its stride, feel the spray of putrid breath against her face when the familiar prick of an arrowhead jabbed into her thumb. She clutched it tight in her palm without a care for the cuts it would cause, then just as fangs lunged at her, she slipped from around the tree and threw herself down the hill.

The hellhound, fast and bloodthirsty, barreled after her, charging through trees and bushes, leaving behind a path of ruin through the woods. It launched itself into the air, leaping over her tumbling body. As Lux rolled to a stop in a ditch along the roadside, the beast landed on the asphalt in the path of a loan car. A horn blared, followed by a loud crash as it slammed into the creature then swerved off the road into a tree. There was a second where Lux was able to breathe, settling into false hope that maybe… that was enough. But then it was on her. Teeth came down at her head and just before it had her, she shoved her left arm up into its maw. Fangs tore at her flesh, gnashing on skin and bone, coating her mud covered face in a spray of crimson. Another scream ripped through the air. She kicked and thrashed, but its hold was relentless, only chomping down harder at her struggle. Desperate to break free, she gritted her teeth through the pain, taking the arrow and stabbing it into the monster’s eye.

Beckett ran like he was already too late.

The forest tore itself apart ahead of him, a brutal trail of snapped branches, gouged earth, and churned mud marking the hellhound’s passage like a wound carved straight through the land. He followed it blindly, desperately, lungs burning so hard it felt like he was breathing fire, heart hammering against his ribs with a violence that bordered on unbearable. His thoughts narrowed until there was nothing left but Lux—her name a pulse in his skull, a prayer and a curse all at once. Every second stretched thin, every misstep a betrayal of the promise he’d made the moment he’d turned and ran after her. Fear twisted in his chest, sharp and merciless, but beneath it something else began to rise, something hot and unfamiliar, coiling tighter with every stride. He didn’t know what it was. He only knew it was answering the panic, feeding it, transforming it into something dangerous.

He burst from the treeline just in time to see the lights.

Headlights swerved wildly across rain-slick asphalt, a horn screaming in protest. The car slammed into the tree, glass shattering, steam hissing into the storm, but Beckett barely registered it. His eyes locked onto the moving mass of dark muscle and snapping jaws instead, onto the way it shook itself free and surged forward again, relentless. When he was close enough, skidding to a halt, he saw her. Saw the hellhound’s teeth clamped around Lux’s arm, heard her scream tear through the rain, raw and strangled but alive. The sound shattered whatever restraint he had left. Something in his head, in his chest, snapped clean in two.

The rain stopped.

It wasn’t gradual. It didn’t fade. It simply ceased, as if the world itself had flinched. For a heartbeat, maybe two, maybe more, the storm froze around them, water suspended in midair, sound swallowed whole. Beckett didn’t notice how long it lasted. Time no longer existed. There was only the beast, Lux in its jaws, and the singular, overwhelming certainty that he was going to kill it or die trying. Power surged through him, undeniable and feral, roaring through his veins like a tide breaking free of its bounds. The rain obeyed him without question, folding inward, curving and sealing into a dome of churning water that locked them in together, a living wall that cut them off from the rest of the world.

The hellhound released Lux with a startled snarl and twisted toward him, yellow eyes blazing, body coiling to strike. Beckett’s arm rose on instinct, no hesitation, no thought, the knife fell to the ground with a dull thud. The dome shuddered, then collapsed inward, the water twisting into a furious spiral, narrowing, sharpening, screaming as it obeyed his will. When he screamed—raw, wordless, ripped straight from his chest, and swung his arm down, the water followed. It cut through the beast in a violent arc, tearing into dark flesh with a force that made the air tremble. The hellhound yelped, thrown off course, stumbling as something thick and dark spilled from its side, but it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

Its head snapped back toward Lux.

“No!” Beckett roared, voice breaking, and he lashed out again, rage overtaking control. Another blade of water tore free—but this time it wavered, unraveled, crashing down on them like a breaking wave. The rain returned all at once, slamming into his skin, soaking him to the bone, dragging him back into the world with brutal force. He staggered, snarling like an animal himself, eyes locked on the monster. “Look at me,” he shouted, guttural and furious, every word soaked in blood and fear. “Not her. Me.”

It listened.

The hellhound lunged.

Pain exploded across his chest as claws raked deep, tearing through fabric and flesh alike, stealing the breath from his lungs in a ragged scream. He barely felt it. He barely felt anything at all. Beckett threw the jacket, the one Lux had ripped from herself, the one he’d clutched like a lifeline, over the beast’s head, blinding it for a split second that gave him just enough time to turn what would have been a death blow to mere injury. Teeth sank into his shoulder, claws tore again, and agony finally punched through the haze, dragging a sound from him that he couldn’t swallow back. He staggered under the weight of it, blood mixing with rain, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. His arms locked around the creature's neck, squeezing as hard as he could, trying for all his life to find the strength to kill it.

Because if he didn’t, if it killed him first, then it would turn back to Lux.

All that mattered was that Lux was no longer in its jaws.

All that mattered was that the monster was looking at him, not her.

The world narrowed to a cacophony of thunder, growls, and her own pained screams as Lux continuously plunged the arrowhead into the hound’s eye hoping it’d feel it, just once, just enough to give her an opening. Her vision blurred, reduced to a black mass of drenched fur and teeth. Its head reared back, a small reprieve before it would undoubtedly take her arm clean off. Then there was a shout, not of pain, but raw, furious and guttural that the earth itself trembled. Her vision came back without the rain pouring into her eyes in time to see water bend against gravity and cut through the hound. It yowled and a thick, dark ichor covered her legs beneath the beast’s belly.

With its attention drawn elsewhere, Lux tried to crawl out from under the hellhound. She rolled onto her stomach, teeth clenched with heavy, pained breaths through her nose, trying not to draw its attention. Elbows dug into the mud like anchors as she pulled herself forward. Her feet pushed off the earth, but slipped, smacking into the monster’s paw. It reared with a growl. She buried her face into the shallow puddles in the grass, cupping her hands over her head protectively as teeth snapped so dangerously close its hot breath grazed along the tops of her knuckles.

Then she heard it, his voice, like a roar that cut through the storm, commanding and full of a rage like nothing she had heard before. One word tore through the rain and carved into her like the water had with the hellhound, deep, past the ribs, and straight to the heart. "Beckett." His name fell from her lips like a whimper, a desperate plea that twisted and constricted around her very soul like a snake. He came for her. That thought alone stole the air from her lungs. In that dark finality, Lux found a glimmer of light, knowing that through everything, the fighting and arguing and the barbs that cut a little too deep, a little too raw… After all of that, he still came…

But then as the rain came crashing back down on her, so did reality. The reality that he wasn’t safe beyond the camp’s borders, but here… with her… taunting the beast to turn its wrath on him.

"No!" The word fell raw and strangled, disappearing beneath a crack of thunder as the hellhound turned from her. Desperate, Lux grabbed a rock sunken in the muck beside her and threw it at the monster. The stone could have been no more than a ball of snow given the way it bounced off its hide, not even drawing its attention.

Beckett’s scream made the blood drain from her face and run colder than ice through her veins. It was a sound she never wanted to hear… something that hooked its talons into her and would haunt her until her last breath. Hearing his pain willed her body to move when she could not. Fingers clawed at the earth, pulling her up the steep incline of the ditch. But her knees buckled under the exhaustion and fatigue, refusing to bear her weight and stand. "Get up," Lux muttered at her legs, as if words alone could force them to cooperate. "Get up!"

A wave of wind heeded her words before her legs did, lifting her when her knees trembled and threatened to give. She needed time to catch her breath and muster her strength, but time was precious… And Beckett’s life more precious still. Lux didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate, she took one deep breath and ran at the hellhound. The wind buoyed her, gave her speed, and when she jumped, it bolstered her, giving her the right amount of height to land on the monster’s back. Her own pain was a dull roar at the back of her mind compared to the sight of Beckett, marred, blood soaked, and trying to strangle the beast like he was Heracles.

Lux mounted the hound like a bull. She reached forward to grab the arrow still lodged in its eye, gripping it with both hands and pulling it back with every ounce of strength she had. Lean muscles slick with rain and blood tensed and strained as she pulled back on the carbon fiber shaft. Her entire body pulled against the arrow, holding the beast's head, writhing and gnawing just out of reach of Beckett. She grunted and panted through clenched teeth, putting her whole body into it, pulling so hard her back was nearly flat against the creature’s.

With every struggle, every slip of her grip from the rain, dark clouds rolled across the sky, gathering and spiraling overhead like a tornado could drop on their heads at any moment. Static electricity tingled along the tips of her fingers and down her spine. The metallic scent of burning ozone filled the air around her as it stirred to life. Lux’s eyes went wide as they snapped to Beckett. The wind answered as if it knew without being told, slipping between the man and beast, severing his hold and knocking him backwards.

The wind hit him like a living thing, not a shove but a command, slipping between flesh and fury with surgical intent. His grip tore free, fingers grasping at nothing as he was flung backward, the world tilting violently before his spine slammed into the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth and drive the breath from his lungs in a sharp, broken sound. Mud and rain swallowed him whole. He didn’t get back up. The pain finally caught him then, shoulder screaming, chest burning, exhaustion settling into his bones like lead, and for the first time since he’d started running, he let himself stay down. His vision swam, lightning fracturing the sky above, and through it all one thought surfaced with quiet, devastating clarity; if this was where it ended, then so be it. At least he would die with her. At least neither of them would leave the other behind.

The clouds cracked open and a golden bolt of lightning shot down from the sky, slamming into Lux like a conduit. She could feel every synapse in her body alive, charged… wired as the power didn’t shock her, but coursed through her, strengthened her. Electricity arced and buzzed along her body like lightning bugs running along her skin. Before she lost the control, the power, Lux’s grip on the arrow tightened. A growl, visceral and charged, roared behind her gritted teeth as the lightning in its entirety flowed from her, through the arrow, and into the hellhound’s head.

Everything stilled…

Then the creature expanded beneath her before exploding into a cloud of golden dust.

Beckett’s eyes fluttered open just in time to see the sky break apart, gold light tearing through the storm as lightning speared downward toward Lux. For one breathless moment she was no longer just a girl standing in the rain, but something incandescent, alive with power, electricity dancing across her skin as if the storm itself had chosen her as its heart. She glowed in the darkness, terrible and radiant all at once, and the thought drifted through him, hazy and unguarded—like a goddess. Beautiful. So impossibly, achingly beautiful. His chest loosened around the pain, around the fear, and a quiet peace settled over him as he let his eyes fall closed again. He would be okay, he decided, if that was the last thing he ever saw.

With nothing below her, Lux’s body careened forward, cushioned by the wind before landing in the ditch’s puddle. She coughed on the water that filled her lungs, but didn’t let herself rest or stop moving. Favoring her left arm, she crawled across the rain slicked grass to Beckett’s side. His shirt was gone, torn to shreds and lost to the storm. What was left was a gory mess. Flesh bathed in crimson, mangled and shredded to the point it was hardly recognizable. "Oh my god…" Her voice was a strained whimper, raw from the sobs she could no longer keep at bay. She knelt beside him, trembling hands hovered over his chest and then his face, struggling to know what to do. For someone who always had answers, her mind was a vacuum. Her eyes were wide, terrified at the sight of him bleeding out before her. The only thought that repeated like a desperate prayer to him, to the Gods, to anyone who was listening… please don’t die.

Her chest heaved as she drew in ragged, strangled breaths. Tears cut trails through the blood and muck that stained her pale skin. She cupped his face in her hands, unable to stop the tremors that racked her body from the cold, from the adrenalin… from the fear of losing him. "You idiot… Why did you follow me?" Lux’s words had no malice or anger, just a sob of unspoken fear, gratitude, and adoration.

Lux drew in one last shaky breath to steady herself and steel her nerves for one last push. "Come on, old man." She shifted to his left side, slipping her right arm through the mud beneath his back, while her left arm—fragile, broken, and bleeding—curved around the front of him. "You’re not dying here. I won’t allow it." With a loud groan and a surge of strength that had to come from the lightning… or maybe… something else, Lux pulled him to his feet. The wind aided her where her strength faltered, a gentle hand against Beckett’s back and along her knees.

On their feet, Lux dipped beneath his left arm, letting it drape across her shoulders while her right hand held his waist. She looked up at him, concern knitting her brows. Her left arm seared with pain at every movement, but she ignored it as she raised it to meet his hand that hung over her shoulder and laced their fingers. "We can do this… but I need your help," she whispered, a quiet plea beneath the storm for him to make one final push for camp… with her.

Beckett dragged his eyes open like it took effort just to convince them the world was still there. Rain blurred everything into streaks of silver and gold, pain pulsing in slow, heavy waves through his chest and shoulder, but her face was right there, steady, impossible, real. Lux. He felt something unfamiliar tug at his mouth, a weak upward pull that surprised him as much as it probably would have surprised anyone who knew him. A smile. God, a smile. The thought almost made him laugh, and maybe he did, a soft, breathless huff that hurt like hell.

He tilted his head slightly, vision swimming, and murmured, voice rough and unguarded, “You’re… stubborn.” The word carried no edge, no irritation, just something like wonder. His gaze lingered on her like he was afraid she might vanish if he blinked. “And beautiful,” he added, barely louder than the rain, the confession slipping free before he could stop it.

His head lolled to the side, heavy as stone, exhaustion finally clawing its way past sheer will. He breathed in shallow and uneven, forehead resting briefly against hers as if drawn there by instinct alone. “I couldn’t…” he started, the sentence unraveling as quickly as it formed. His hand tightened weakly in hers. “Couldn’t let you die… care too much.”

A laugh, weak and lost beneath her sobs, fell free between them. His smile, unbidden and on the cusp of death tore through Lux like the hellhound through the forest, relentless, devastating and unapologetic. Her knees threatened to buckle under his weight, but mostly under his words… Under the weight of things left unspoken for three months given breath like dying confessions. It cleaved her heart in two. One half soaring weightless like a bird set free, silhouetted against the sun. The other half was like an anchor, impossible to bear, so heavy it sank right through her, through the earth, all the way into the pit of Tartarus.

The soft pressure of his forehead against hers with his final confession seized her breath, both suffocating and life giving. Her fingers slipped free from his, moving to cup his cheek and help steady his head so he could meet her gaze. Beckett’s eyes, heavy lidded and brilliant blue, struggled to look back. Her thumb strokes his skin, streaking his skin with her dark crimson blood, determined to keep him conscious. "Don’t do that," she begged him between sobs. "No dying confessions… I can’t lose you."

Abandoning thought and reason, Lux closed the last bit of space between them, pressing her lips to his. It wasn’t passionate in the way she had imagined it in the dark of night when she couldn’t sleep and the only thing that gave her peace was the rhythmic cadence of his breaths beside her. It was soft and fragile like handling cracked glass, where one wrong move could shatter it into a million pieces. It was her final desperate plea to pull him back to reality, back to her… Or a final admission, the last secret that hung suspended between them given life, so in his final moments he’d know…

Beckett kissed her back without thinking, without fear, without restraint, because in that moment there was nothing left to lose. Her lips were soft against his, gentle, trembling, and the tenderness of it undid him more completely than pain ever could. It wasn’t hunger or desperation that filled him, but something quieter and infinitely deeper, a warmth blooming in his chest that he finally understood what it was for. This was the spark he’d felt chasing him through storms and sleepless nights, the thing he’d never dared name because naming it would mean wanting it. He let himself want it now. He let the feel of her linger, memorized the way her breath hitched, the way the world seemed to narrow until there was only her and the rain and the steady truth of her mouth against his. He could die with this. He was certain of it. Peace settled over him, fragile and fleeting, and somewhere beneath it all was an apology he wished he could give her, but the words never came, and he let the kiss carry what he no longer had the strength to say.

The truth of it sat between them, simple and absolute, the last thing he had the strength to give. Whatever else he might have said, whatever promise or apology lingered unspoken, never made it past his lips. His body betrayed him then, muscles going slack all at once as consciousness slipped through his fingers like water. Beckett sagged heavily against her, dead weight, breath shallow but there, still there.

"Beckett!" she croaked as her left hand fell to grip his side in a frantic attempt to support him and not collapse under his weight. Tears burned her eyes as pained groans tore at her throat from the strain on her arm, shredded and broken from the hellhound’s maw.

That was when Violet appeared through the rain-soaked blur, limping hard as she crossed the broken ground toward them. Blood streaked her side, darker now, and a fresh gash marked her calf, red against pale skin, but her eyes were fierce and focused when they landed on Beckett’s collapsed form. “Lux,” she called, breath hitching with relief as she reached them, hands already moving, already helping. She slipped in close without hesitation, shouldering his other side, pain be damned. “I’ve got him. Together, we can make it together, I’ll help.” she insisted, more to herself than anyone else, voice shaking but resolute. Together, soaked and bleeding and trembling, they’d make it together.

The relief of seeing Violet through her mud and rain drenched locks of hair… alive, nearly made Lux collapse from relief. "Thank the Gods." Her voice cracked beneath the tears she couldn’t stop and the fear that gave her strength where she had none. "W-we have to hurry. He’s lost a lot of b-b-blood." She let Violet shoulder some of Beckett’s weight, but Lux still insisted on carrying the brunt of it, letting his head lull against her shoulder and his body lean into hers. This was her fault. He was hurt protecting her… She was going to get him to camp. She had to.

The wind, like an invisible whirlpool, circled them, helping buoy Beckett’s unconscious body and lighten the load. He was still heavy, and difficult for the two of them to carry through mud and rain, up a hill and injured, but they persevered, taking it one step at a time. Between their fatigue and bloodloss, the final climb was grueling, riddled with setbacks, and took a lot of time… too much time.

When they crossed beneath the archway, Lux felt a wave of static electricity wash over her. The rain that had been a relentless monsoon was washed away by a warm summer night. The dramatic shift in temperature overwhelmed her senses, making her head spin and her legs buckle under the burden of Beckett’s dead weight. She collapsed, dropping like every muscle in her body ceased to function all at once. Without her support, and unconscious, Beckett’s body tipped over in the void she left behind, falling like a domino beside her, and the weight of it all brought Violet down to her knees beside them.

"Over here!" a voice called from somewhere beyond the tall pine tree.

Lux fought to keep her eyes open, but with every blink they grew heavier and the world around her grew dark and hazy. "Hel…" She tried to speak but the words were dry and rough like sandpaper in her throat, coming out little more than a wheeze.

"Go get Chiron!" a second voice shouted, as more hurried steps surrounded them and the darkness took her…

^{interactions ....|.... violet ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#A64017 ....|..... outfit .....|..... #c9bef3 ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Colton tugged his shirt back over his shoulders, letting the hoodie hang abandoned on the bench beside him. The fabric clung damply to his chest where sweat and sand had traced themselves into temporary patterns despite River’s best efforts, but it felt good—earned, necessary. He leaned back, shoulders pressing into the hard pillar he’d tucked himself into, and let himself exhale for the first time in what felt like hours. His heartbeat slowed into something more human, more manageable.

His mind wandered easily, untethered, slipping past the arena and the scent of heated stone and lingering pine smoke. He thought of his cabin, the one he’d barely unpacked, the fire still crackling in the stove, wood stacked neatly beneath the windows. He hadn’t even had the chance to peek inside the shed beside it yet—an unexplored space, a small mystery waiting just for him. Maybe tools. Maybe scraps. Maybe some quiet corner to lose himself in, to tinker, to make something his own.

Somewhere among the crowd around him, he reminded himself, was a sister. A sibling forged from this strange new place, who shared something unspoken and deep, even if they hadn’t met yet. The thought made the emptiness of the arena feel less vast, less intimidating. He could imagine her somewhere out there, feeling the same frost on her cheeks, the same hum of the air vibrating through her lungs, and for a fleeting moment, the world contracted pleasantly around that idea.

His thoughts drifted further, back to home—the farm, the fields, the clatter of the barn, the quiet of the house at dawn before anyone was awake. He wondered how his family was holding up, what they felt when they opened the letter he’d left behind so abruptly. Relief? Worry? Confusion? He hoped they’d understood why he had to go, why he had to leave the forge and the smell of hay and his father’s gruff instructions behind, even if only for a while. Did they miss him yet? Did they fear what grief and guilt had turned him into?

The warmth of the arena wrapped around him, pulling his thoughts back from the edges of memory. He marveled at it, this magical heat, contained and steady, a comfort unlike any woodstove or open fire he had known. He could almost feel it seeping into him, thawing the chill he had carried from the snow and exertion. He pictured his cabin now, imagining it bathing in the same sort of quiet heat, a sanctuary waiting for him with a shower and a nap, things he planned to indulge in the second he returned.

His musings were interrupted by River’s voice, now cutting through the murmur of the arena as he went over the results. Colton paused mid-breath, taking in the words as they landed, the names of those who had failed, the instruction that they would run the course again, and the offer that others could help if they wished. He scanned the faces around him, noting reactions—some frustrated, some eager to offer assistance, some quietly resigned. The mixture of tension and pride, the ebb and pull of competitiveness and camaraderie, fascinated him. Even those who had stumbled bore themselves with a quiet resilience he admired, and it sparked a flicker of resolve within him.

He leaned back further, letting his spine sink into the bench, taking the measure of it all, the warmth, the cold creeping from his damp hair, the lingering effort in his limbs, the hum of energy in the crowd, the pulse of potential waiting to be tested. Around him, voices rose and fell, laughter bounced off stone walls, boots scuffed against the floor, and somewhere just beyond the edges of his attention, the forest exhaled faintly through the open arches of the arena. Colton let it all in, a steady, measured inhale and exhale, feeling the strange, satisfying comfort of being both small and capable in a world that demanded both, and then he stood up. His plans could wait, there had to be someone around here who could use a little help.

Blair might have been healed, but she felt like a zombie. Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled about people fussing over her, but after looking like the most incompetent person at camp, and barfing in front of everyone for good measure, it was all becoming suffocating. She didn’t want to have to worry about how she was making the Carmichael name look or how her performance reflected on her brother. She was embarrassed looking unbelievably pathetic in front of the one friend she had made since she arrived at camp. And then there was Fiona who hovered around the edges, almost certainly judgemental in her silence. Aside from moments that required her attention—like holding Anissa’s sunglasses, chapstick, and a napkin that she didn’t read due to her own stupor and the silent plea to not make a scene of it—Blair avoided eye contact or speaking beyond noncommittal groans or nods.

The rest of the courses passed like a blur. She paid attention well enough when Anissa ran, but otherwise her attention remained on her hands, the cloud of dust her feet stirred up, and the slow painstaking tick of time. When it looked like everyone had finished their runs and River was getting ready to give his final address, she sighed, relieved it was over and that she’d be free in a matter of moments… A misplacement of her faith she’d quickly come to find out. While there was a small fraction of her that was hopeful that maybe, just maybe, her time wouldn’t have been the absolute worst, all optimism was dashed to the winds when her name was the last one to fall from Leader boy’s lips, only followed by a no show. Fantastic.

First, everyone who had passed was dismissed. Well… lucky for them. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that didn’t bode well for her. Blair slipped her hands along the bench, pinning them beneath her thighs as she waited for the initial wave of demigods to shut up and leave already so she could hear what hell was in store for her. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and bounced her legs, anxious and impatient. Then the other shoe dropped… A second fucking run. A wave of stunned gasps and frustrated groans passed over the people that remained, those who failed and supportive friends alike.

"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 tugged the zipper on her top up to the collar, as if approaching the course prepared and with more determination would somehow change the outcome. Her fingers slipped into one of her pockets, pulling out a hair tie—something she never used because she spent far too much time and money on her hair to risk damaging it with a cheap piece of elastic. But this wasn’t about appearances, or at least that’s what she told herself. She scooped up her dark raven hair as she approached the tires, fastening it up into a messy ponytail to keep it out of her face. She might not be nauseous and no longer had a headache, but something inside her said no amount of preparation would make this much better.

"Alright, Blair. You can do this," she tried to hype herself up, not giving a shit if the others running the course heard her. "You survived Bergdorf’s on Black Friday. You can do anything." She cracked her neck and drew in a deep breath like she was about to run a marathon, not traverse a handful of tires. "... You can do this." The words came out unsure and shaky, matching the apprehension that furrowed her brows and contorted across her face. Then she took off with all the haste of a sloth, moving through the tires with all the skill of Victoria in the Spice World movie.

Colton rose from the bench slowly, like his body wasn’t quite ready to leave his seat behind. The arena hummed with a strange mix of leftover adrenaline and resignation, those who’d passed drifting toward the exits in clusters, laughter echoing off stone, while the unlucky lingered, shoulders set, gathering themselves for another go. A few had already started re-running the course, sneakers slapping sand and water, curses punctuating the air. He took it in with a steady breath, eyes traveling the length of the obstacles he’d just conquered.

He spotted them, the pair who looked like siblings alongside Sloane. Something eased in him at the sight, the idea that Sloane wouldn’t face this alone knotted warmth into his chest. It was a relief, like watching someone be handed a rope before slipping too close to an edge. He let a small, private smile pull at his mouth before his gaze kept roaming.

That was when he saw her.

On the near side of the course, near the line of tires, stood the girl who had gotten sick earlier, the memory of her pale face and bent frame had stuck with him more than he liked. Now, though, she was upright, raven-dark hair gathered into a ponytail that still managed to look deliberate, even tied in haste. Her skin held that faint, luminous undertone of olive that was too pale, likely because of the season, cheeks still tinged pink from exertion or embarrassment. She had the air of someone fighting her own mind as much as the course, pep talking herself into motion, shoulders squared as if she could strong-arm her nerves back into place.

Before he’d thought it all the way through, Colton had snagged the unopened water bottle beside him, fingers closing around it like instinct, and started down toward the course. The dirt gave a little under his feet as navigated his way closer until the world narrowed to her and the messy trail she left through the tires. He reached her just after she stumbled free of the final one, breath heaving in uneven bursts, determination and dread warring in the line of her brow.

Blair stopped to catch her breath… already. Fucking pathetic. Her hands rested on her hips, chest already heaving from one obstacle. One. And the easiest one at that. The purple cropped jacket felt like it was suffocating her with every breath, fabric pulling tight across her chest as her lungs expanded. Gods, why the fuck did she wear that? Not a thing about it was actual athletic wear. It didn’t stretch, didn’t breathe. It just held all her body heat in. She wanted to rip it off, but couldn’t recall if she thought to put a bra on while fuzzy brained and hungover. She tugged the zipper down an inch or two and pulled the fabric to the side to look beneath the cloth. Nope. No bra. "Fuck," she groaned, head falling backwards in defeat.

As she ran her hands over her face, Blair got that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach that someone was watching her. Sweat dampened fingers brushed wild hairs back out of her face, looking over just in time to see someone approaching. The initial sight of him was enough to help her forget what she was doing for a second or two. Tall, blonde, handsome in that frustratingly unassuming way humble men had a tendency to be, and muscles that no amount of sweatpants or t-shirts could hide. A pleasant sight to be sure, but one that left her a bit bewildered as to why he was approaching her of all people. On a normal day, sure. But she was covered in sweat, no makeup, riding the tailend of a hangover, and literally barfed… in front of everyone. Nothing about… any of that was a reason for a guy to approach her, to her dismay.

Her hands fell to rest against the back of her neck, arms dangling against her chest lazily. "You lost, handsome?" she asked, her voice absent its usual flirtatious silk in lieu of pants that left her struggling to catch her breath.

Colton startled at the word like it had been tossed past him by mistake, brows lifting as he instinctively glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to find some other poor soul catching the compliment instead. Snow-damp air, empty stretch of course. No one there. He looked back at her, confusion knitting softly across his face, mouth parting just a little as realization crept in. Heat rose quickly in his cheeks, ears pinking as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sheepish and unsure. “Uh—” he started, blinking once, then again, a faint laugh slipping out. “You mean… me?” Colton cleared his throat, trying to remain on track, not loudly, but enough to be heard, and called out to her, voice carrying that easy, unhurried southern lilt he couldn’t scrub from his bones. “Afternoon, ma’am.” It wasn’t fancy or clever, just gentle, respectful. He stopped a few feet away so he didn’t crowd her, free hand sliding awkwardly into the pocket of his sweatpants.

"Fuck, you would have an accent," Blair mused with an exasperated laugh and a shake of her head. This man rolls up looking like a Levi’s model hidden beneath sweats, sounding like any woman’s harlequin cowboy daydreams… and she looked like a fucking trainwreck in purple. Karma really was a fickle bitch.

“You, uh… you headed through the rest of it on your own?” He swallowed, eyes flicking briefly toward the log jumps and back. Then, softer—“Don’t gotta. If you want someone runnin’ it with you… I’d be happy to help. I mean, everyone else has someone with them, for the most part, so I figured…” He gave a small shrug, feeling, abruptly, as if maybe he’d made a mistake. He held out the water bottle, not forcing it, just offering, plain and honest like the fields he’d grown up in. “Figured you might need this, at the very least. If you want it.”

There was a shyness in the way he smiled, a modest curve of lips that dimpled one of his cheeks, earnest, almost nervous. A man unused to stepping into someone else’s orbit, but doing it anyway because something in him couldn’t just stand there and watch her drown on dry land alone.

Bewilderment, plain as day, knotted her brows and left her at a loss for words. Her hand hesitantly reached out to take the bottle, but froze, fingers wrapped around the plastic not taking the offering but gripping it like a bridge of understanding. His smile was charming, distractingly so, especially with the faint shadow that grazed his strong jaw and the warm light behind his eyes that was almost… disarming. It was hard not getting lost around a handsome man, but too many unanswered questions plagued her mind, disrupting her ability to flirt, which was just annoying.

Her head cocked to the side. "Why?" Blair had been burned enough to know that nothing in life was free, especially kindness… Especially not twice in a day, within an hour of one another. Men complicate things. They always did. She had known far too many men who thought a favor warranted sex, and while she was never one to turn down a nice time with a handsome specimen like Quick Draw McGraw here, she did have boundaries… Or she was trying to. It was a new development that was very confusing and went against how she’d been for years. "I guess my actions last night might have given off the wrong impression." She squinted slightly and sucked in a sharp breath. "Or perhaps a bad first impression," she corrected herself, not that she imagined either statements or the party painted her in a particularly good light. Her fingers slipped from the bottle, hand falling to her side in a silent rejection of his offering. "I might be a slut, but I’m trying to be kinder to myself… Which includes not accepting favors for sex."

Colton froze like he’d been struck clean through. Whatever easy confidence he’d gathered trudging through the course scattered to the winds, bewilderment sweeping across his face unguarded and raw. His blink came rapidly, like he had to reset his whole understanding of the conversation, of her, of the ground they were standing on. The word she used for herself hit him like a slap; he actually flinched, hands coming up between them, palms forward as if he could push the idea away with sheer force, water bottle held between them like a shield. His ears went a violent shade of red, crawling down his neck, embarrassment warming him hotter than the enchanted air of the arena ever could.

“Ma’am—” It came out on a startled breath, and he had to try again, voice pitching softer, tangled in that low country lilt he couldn’t shake. “Miss. I—” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, like he needed to make sure it was still there, grounding himself. “I ain’t ever in my life—I mean, I am not the type to trade anythin’ for… for that. That ain’t—” He swallowed, mortified, words failing him before tumbling out again. “My mama’d haunt me straight to hell if I even thought like that. She raised me to be a gentleman, not… not someone who’d put a price on another person like that.”

Blair watched his rising panic, noting the way he wouldn’t look her in the eyes and the flush that flared across every inch of visible skin, but had no clue what to say. She had heard of men like that, gentlemen… You know, in movies and Nora Roberts books. It was also something said by the men who whined about the hardships of nice guys. But that little gut sense that tingled and twisted whenever someone lied to her was dormant, still as the grave. "Ohhhh…" She dragged the word out as the pieces clicked into place.

He ducked his head for half a second, then forced himself to meet her eyes, sincerity plain and a little desperate to be understood. “I wasn’t at the party. Just got here this mornin’. First day, and all that.” Then, with a stubborn little breath, he thrust the water bottle forward again, right into her startled hands, gentle but insistent, like this one small gesture could right the ship of misunderstanding between them. His blush was still riding high across his cheeks, but his gaze stayed steady.

"Ah." Blair clicked her tongue. Before she had a second to put together any kind of response, he was shoving his bottle back into her hands, determined for her to take it. Her eyes went wide, hands fumbling as she tried to take the offering without dropping it. Her gaze flicked back and forth between his startled, but sincere eyes, and the cool plastic resting in her palms. "I… Well…" She clicked her tongue a second time and tapped her thumbs against the bottle. "Probably best you didn’t see that…"

His brows furrowed at that, not sure what she could have possibly done that would warrant calling herself something so vulgar, but pressed on anyways. “Ain’t askin’ nothin’ from you. You oughta drink somethin’—this place’ll wring you out faster than a summer field. I got plenty back at my cabin, promise.” He tipped his head toward the rest of the course, giving space with his body before he actually stepped away. “Don’t gotta let me help. I get it. But the water’s yours, if you want it. And I’ll, uh… I’ll leave you be now.” He backed up a step, then another, shoes scuffing in the churned dirt of the arena floor. His voice softened on the last bit, earnest even as he tried to withdraw. “…I was just tryin’ to be nice. Maybe make a friend.” He cleared his throat, nodded once, not curt, not offended, just honest, and started to turn away.

"Hold up, Cowboy." Blair called after him as she took a step forward, shifting the water bottle into her left hand while her right reached out to seize his arm. Gentle but assertive, her fingers wrapped around his bicep and attempted to turn him back around to face her. There was a moment or two where her touch lingered. His biceps, chiseled from muscles he didn’t seek to flaunt, pressed back into her palm. Her brows raised, impressed, intrigued, but ultimately trying to be on her best behavior. Plus she felt completely and entirely un-sexy covered in sweat, post barf, and out of breath from fucking tires. And she about gave him a coronary from calling herself a slut… And and she told herself she wasn’t chasing men anymore. Right?... Right.

"Muscles... Huh," she mused as her mind briefly wondered what he looked like beneath his white t-shirt… All muscles and abs and a charming smile to make a girl swoon. Gods help me. The one fucking time she didn’t pay attention to training, figures. Blair cleared her throat, snapping herself out of it as she released her hold on him and fixed the bit of his sleeve she wrinkled.

Colton stopped the moment she called out, feet planting without a second thought, like the word hold had been stitched into his bones. Her hand closed around his arm and he sucked in a quiet breath, color blooming fast and traitorous across his cheeks. Her skin was cool where it met his, softer than he’d expected, a brief contrast that sent a strange, grounding awareness through him. He turned back as she guided him, blinking at her a little owlishly, caught somewhere between surprise and the earnest instinct not to pull away. Whatever she muttered under her breath made his brows knit faintly, like he was trying to puzzle out a problem he hadn’t known he’d been handed, and when she let go, straightening his shirt gently, he cleared his throat, standing there warm, flustered, and very much paying attention now.

She took another step backwards for good measure. Self control and what have you. Her free hand raised to scratch her head, half messing up her already sad excuse of a ponytail. Blair finally met his gaze with an apologetic smile. "I’m sorry. Women who…" Her voice trailed off as she tried to find more delicate wording. "Have a reputation like mine attract certain types of men." She then quickly held out her hand to stop him before he started trying to reassure her about the type of man he is. "I believe you. Athena… intuition." Her explanation probably did little to nothing to actually explain anything, but Blair also wasn’t in the habit of having to apologize for… Well whatever this is. She had never thrown someone into a whirlwind by calling herself a slut or assuming they wanted sex. For better or worse, in her experience, that was what most men wanted.

"I appreciate it… The being nice thing." She wasn’t really doing the best at easing the conversation, but even in his panic and everything, there was a small weight that lifted from her shoulders at having a man approach her not for sex. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when she had her drunken epiphany, but baby steps. "Friends is fine, nice even. Can’t say I’ve ever really had a man friend." Blair cocked her head to the side as her face scrunched at how weird that sounded, but it was already out in the open, and wasn’t entirely wrong. "You being all hot and shit—" She motioned her hand up and down at all of him. "—could complicate things. Can’t guarantee I won’t think of you naked, but if that doesn’t bother you." She shrugged her shoulders as if that was an entirely normal conversation to have with a prospective friend.

Colton listened like she was telling him something sacred. Not in the wide-eyed, startled way from before, but with a steady attentiveness that settled into his posture—shoulders relaxed, head tilting just slightly as he followed every word. He didn’t interrupt when her voice faltered. He let them land, let them breathe. The dust of kicked up sand in the air, the magical heat of the arena, the sweat clinging to her skin, none of it seemed to register as something to recoil from. If anything, he looked at her like she was exactly where she was meant to be; tired, human, standing in front of him trying to be honest.

When he finally spoke, it was slow and thoughtful, his drawl softened even further. “If men took advantage of you before,” he said, carefully, “Even if you were okay with it at the time… that ain’t on you.” His brows knit faintly, not in judgment, but in something closer to concern. “That’s on them. Every bit of it.” He gave a small shrug, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “I don’t keep a ledger on people’s pasts. Ain’t my business.” His gaze stayed steady on hers. “You treat me with respect, I’ll do the same. That’s kinda the whole deal, far as I’m concerned.”

Blair crossed her arms, lightly pressing the top of the water bottle against her chin as he spoke. She wasn’t entirely sure how she expected a man like him to react to her self proclaimed promiscuity, but blaming other men for it was not the angle she imagined. There was a moment where she held up a finger with an intent to interrupt and correct him, because, if anything, she was the problem, not the other men. At least a solid 50/50 split. But when he showed that he didn’t care about a person’s past her lips closed and her hand fell, letting the thought float away on the wind. She could correct him later… Or someone at camp will give him a rude awakening about the things she’s done at some point, like the party.

The corner of his mouth twitched when she mentioned fantasies, only a little embarrassed this time, and quietly amused. “People think all kinds of things,” he said, easy and unbothered. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna cross a line or make it weird. I know how to behave.” There was a certainty to it, rooted deep, like it wasn’t a promise he had to work at, it was simply who he was. Toned muscles, accented words, calloused hands, mama-raised manners and all.

"Sometimes it’s fun to misbehave." The words hung in the air around Blair as she stood there looking back at him with a popped hip and cocked brow. There was a beat or two of silence before it hit her. She hissed, sucking in a sharp breath and snapped her fingers. "Damn it. Old habits." She laughed and shrugged with an innocent and partially apologetic smile.

Colton’s ears went pink first, like they always did, the color creeping down his neck as he blinked at her, caught somewhere between understanding the words and not quite knowing what to do with them once they landed. He let out a soft, crooked laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as if that might smooth the moment out. “Uh—yeah,” he said, drawl tipping uncertain but kind, “I reckon it can be.” There was no judgment in his eyes, just a gentle bewilderment and an earnest effort to stay on the right side of things. His smile came back slower this time, smaller but sincere, like he was still finding his footing around her sharp edges and bright sparks. Awkward, sure, but not bad. Not bad at all.

Then his smile shifted, full and bright, like the sun cracking through after a long stretch of clouds. White teeth flashed, dimples carving deep into both cheeks, warmth radiating from him in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat. “So,” he said, holding out his hand toward her, open and earnest, “Friends?” A beat passed, and he cleared his throat, suddenly sheepish again. “I’m Colton. Uh—son of Hephaestus.”

A strangled gasp fell from her lips the moment Blair saw that dazzling smile that looked like it belonged in a magazine or on a movie screen, not standing right before her. She threw her head back with a frustrated groan. The Gods really decided ’Oh, you wanna turn over a new leaf? Here, have a sexy ass cowboy. Enjoy.’ Cruel. Cruel fucking Gods. She exhaled, puffing up her cheeks and lips. "Sorry. It’s not you, it’s me." She cocked her head to the side, squinting her eyes as she stared at the tight fabric of his shirt and how it pulled taut across his muscles in all the fantastically perfect ways. "Ok it is you, but because you’re hot and I have no self control."

Her laugh was soft and a bit awkward as she finally took a step forward, filling some of the space between them to slip her hand into his. Strong, calloused, but gentle—For fuck’s sake get a grip. Blair’s gaze fell to his hand, turning it over slightly as she studied the muscles that ran along his forearm, up and over his knuckles—Not of his hand! Jesus fucking christ. She cleared her throat and finally looked up in his eyes, you know, holding his gaze like a civilized person. Her smile grew, a bit confused at her own stupid brain or loins, maybe both, and she shook his hand. "Blair. Daughter of Athena… not that I’m doing her any favors right now."

Colton felt it the moment her hand slid into his, felt it like a live wire under the skin. Her palm was softer than his, cooler too, and the contrast made his fingers tense before he caught himself and loosened his grip, careful not to hold too tight. When she turned his hand, studying him like he was something carved instead of grown, he blinked down at her, lashes fluttering as heat rushed straight to his face. It wasn’t vanity that flustered him so much as the attention, so direct, so unguarded. Folks didn’t usually look at him like that. Not back home. Not like he was something to be examined and admired all at once. His ears burned, red as a warning light, and he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

“I—uh,” he started, then stopped, breath catching on itself as he tried again. “I wasn’t… aware I could, y’know—have that kinda effect on people.” A nervous laugh slipped out, soft and breathy, and he ducked his head just a touch, eyes flicking back up to hers like he couldn’t quite help himself. “That’s real kind of you, though. Flatterin’.” His gaze lingered a second longer than strictly polite before he added, just as earnestly, “And—well—you’re very pretty yourself. Truly. I reckon I could have mistaken you for one of Aprohdite’s daughters, but this whole Greek Gods thing is pretty new to me.” The words came out careful, respectful, like he was setting them down instead of throwing them, and he tried to lighten the moment with a joke tagged on to the tail end.

Blair was genuinely surprised how some men could be so utterly oblivious about their own appeal and the effect it had on women. It was almost endearing in that adorable confused puppy type of way. "Listen here, Lover Boy," she started like she was going to share some deep guarded secret. "This—" She motioned to all of him once again. "Is dangerous. You direct that charming ass smile and twang at half of the people at this camp and I promise you they’ll swoon." There was a pause and she went to snap, but forgot she was holding the bottle and nearly dropped it. "But don’t get cocky. It’s cute that you have no idea how attractive you are."

She let slip a quiet, surprised giggle that illuminated a small fraction of her usual light behind her eyes. "Well now who’s the flatterer?" Blair mused when the tables turned back on herself, catching her a little off guard in its sincerity, but in a positively wonderful type of way. Her smile slipped to the warmest it had been all morning, natural without the stress of the course or a looming hangover weighing her down. What girl wouldn’t appreciate a compliment? "I feel like there’s a white lie in there somewhere—" She gestured her hand that held the bottle, and waved her index finger at him, accusing, but playful. "—But I’ll accept it because I look and feel like shit, and this has been a morning from hell."

Colton’s eyebrows shot up at the nickname, surprise flashing clean and unfiltered across his face before it melted into something quieter, amused. Lover Boy. Well—he supposed he’d been called worse, though never with that kind of spark behind it. He shifted his weight, watching her with an expression that suggested he already knew that being friends with Blair would mean never quite knowing what came next. It would mean whiplash conversations and teasing truths and moments that caught him flat-footed. Strangely enough, the thought didn’t make him nervous. It made him smile. A real one. The kind that crept in without permission and stayed.

“Dangerous, huh?” he said, half-laughing, head tipping as if conceding a point he didn’t fully understand yet. His tone was warm, lightly self-deprecating, southern drawl softening the words. “Guess I’ll try and wield that power responsibly then, ma’am.” His eyes crinkled, dimples cutting deep, gaze steady on her despite the chaos she carried with her. Yeah. On his toes for sure. And, against all sense, he found he didn’t mind one bit.

"Ma’am," Blair echoed, a smile, guilty and quietly beaming, lit up from such a simple word. It was the almost chivalrous way he let her win, with a nod that asked for him to be wearing a cowboy hat, a tone that said he didn’t believe her, but let her win all the same, and that god damn ma’am. It was one of those moments in old movies where women would fan themselves dramatically. There was just something about a man, unapologetically charming in all of his southern-ness, that could make a woman giddy. She wasn’t immune to charm and flattery, but it was so rare for any of it to catch her off guard that it was disarming. The fact he had no idea he was doing it made something in her chest flutter, if only for a moment.

"Ok well, maybe you can be a little irresponsible," she mused, holding up her fingers pinched together with only a sliver of space between them. "But, you know, just with me." Blair laughed softly, a faint mischievous glint sparkling behind her eyes. She was being good… enough. How could she not flirt with Clint Eastwood over there? She had to, just a little. He was too cute not to.

Colton let out a startled laugh, the sound warm and genuine, like it had been pulled from him before he could stop it. He tipped his head in a small, conceding nod, eyes bright with a mix of amusement and something quietly appreciative, like he understood the game she was playing—and was choosing, very deliberately, to meet her there. The grin that followed was easy, dimples deep, posture relaxed but attentive, as if this was a promise he intended to keep in exactly the way she meant it. “As you wish,” he said softly, drawl curling around the words like a half-bow, half-smile, just irresponsible enough to matter.

Collab pt. 1/2

^{interactions ....|.... anissa ............... mentions ....|.... lochlan, fiona, sloane, katryna and kacper ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

Fashionably Late // The Wild Hunt

I’m just lurking on the off chance that you might have room for one more. The Wild Hunt really interests me. If you decide to go with that concept, I may still lurk even if there aren’t any available slots. Excited to see what y’all decide!

The Last Will of Olympus

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Beckett Thorne | Poseidon

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B E C K E T T...

.................................................... __________________________________________ B E C K E T T . T H O R N E ________________________________________________________ 29 | male | heterosexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | poseidon ▹ hair color | blond ▹ eye color | blue ▹ height | 6' 1" ▹ build | athletic / muscular

. A B I L I T Y hydrokinesis - absolute control of water, healing via water, breathe underwater indefinitely, see clearly in the darkness of the deep, remain dry if desired, and immune to water pressure. atmokinesis / geokinesis - limited control over weather, able to summon strong winds and create miniature hurricanes or typhoons. limited control to cause earthquakes to a certain degree. zoolingualism / perfect bearings - can communicate telepathically and normally with all marine animals and equine creatures (horses, pegasi, etc.) always knows his exact nautical coordinates, allowing him to navigate the sea with ease. S T R E N G T H S survivalist - years in Vietnam and life at sea honed his instincts—he can read terrain, track resources, and endure extreme conditions without panicking. strong swimmer - the ocean feels like an extension of his body, he cuts through water with supernatural ease, able to navigate currents and dive deep without fear. tactical thinker - combat and experience taught him to assess a situation in seconds, he’s quick to strategize under pressure, preferring precision over brute force. W E A K N E S S E S fear of heights - anything above open ground or water sends his pulse racing—he freezes up, dizzy, as if the sky itself might swallow him. emotionally guarded - he struggles to form close bonds easily, vulnerability feels dangerous, so he keeps people at arm’s length even when he aches for connection. nightmares - memories of war and loss haunt his sleep, leaving him exhausted and unfocused when they’re at their worst. I T E M kataklysmos / deluge - A gift from his father, the Deluge is a tactical, black-faced watch with luminous markings that glow a bioluminescent green in the dark. When he turns the hands and pushes the button it will transform into whichever weapon the hand landed on. A curved sword with ancient greek etchings on it, a luminescent trident that feels like a storm forming beneath his hands, or a glittering net that is near indestructible, and something only he can lift. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y stoic .... | .... wary .... | .... loyal .... | .... protective .... | .... resilient H I S T O R Y ✦ 1952: Born near a small coastal town, somewhere along the eastern seaboard. He never met his father, Poseidon. Rather, his mom marries a fisherman with a successful business, they have two more children, but Beckett inherited an uncanny affinity for water from his father, he can calm a storm at sea in small ways without knowing why, the water whispers to him in ways it doesn't for anyone else he knows. This is never explained ✦ Late 1960s–early 1970s: Teenage years filled with long hours swimming, fishing, and working odd jobs along the docks to stay connected to the water and escape the mundanity of school. Quiet, thoughtful, and introspective, he didn't fit in easily with other teens, but he had a few close friends. ✦ 1970: Drafted for the Vietnam War around age 18, alongside two of his best friends. Trained as infantry, learned survival, navigation, and leadership skills. Experienced the trauma of combat and lost one of his friends. This left a lingering tension, mistrust, and a profound respect for life. His remaining friend turned to alcohol to cope, he tried to help. Eventually, when his help was answered with violence, they grew apart. 1972–1976: Served four years actively, he signed on for another four years after finding stability and purpose in the military structure. ✦ 1976–1978: Military service ended when he was around 26. Carried the weight of his experiences but also gained discipline, survival skills, and a quiet confidence. Late 1970s: Drifted along the eastern seaboard working odd jobs; commercial fishing, sailing cargo boats, delivering goods by sea. These jobs kept him close to the ocean, where he felt safe, at home, and almost supernaturally connected. ✦ Early 1980s: Moved into slightly riskier work to keep life interesting, despite his families disapproval; deep-sea salvage, private boat charters, freelance guiding for adventurous travelers. He developed a reputation for being dependable, calm under pressure, and quietly clever. 1983: On vacation, he entered the Lotus Casino, a curious, alluring place full of games, lights, and perpetual glamour. Fascinated and distracted, he didn't realize that time was frozen inside. He settled in, drawn by the endlessness, the lure of a place that felt detached from the hardships of his past. He caught glimpses of a pretty blonde after a few years, noted her appearance, her strange attire each time he saw her pass by, but then let it go. Beating Cube's Quest had stolen his attention once more. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #5c83a7 ........ faceclaim . | . stephen amell ........ creator . | . Sleepy Tani

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Evander Castell | Athena

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E V A N D E R...

.................................................... __________________________________________ E V A N D E R . C A S T E L L ________________________________________________________ 28 | male | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | athena ▹ hair color | brown ▹ eye color | brown ▹ height | 6' 0" ▹ build | beanpole :(

. A B I L I T Y genius intellect / strategic combat - possess high intelligence, especially regarding war strategy. can analyze opponent movements and weaknesses on the fly. weapon proficiency - can to adapt to various weapons quickly. limited telekinesis - a rare ability to move objects with his mind using physical gestures. [not useable yet] S T R E N G T H S brilliant - his IQ is off the charts, photographic memory, patterns click, and he can dissect complex problems in seconds. strategic - raised on stories of battlefields and war heroes, he reads a fight like a chessboard, always three moves ahead and accounting for every possible outcome. perceptive - he notices what others overlook, the shift in someone’s tone, the flaw in a plan, the weak point in a structure. His mind is always connecting dots, sometimes before he realizes he’s doing it. W E A K N E S S E S abrasive - his prickly attitude and cutting sarcasm push people away before they get close, leaving him isolated more often than not. overconfident - he trusts his intellect to a fault, sometimes assuming he’s right simply because he usually is, which makes him dismissive of advice and blinds him to mistakes. overthinker - he spirals in his own mind, analyzing every angle until the moment to act passes, his brain is his best weapon and his worst trap. I T E M daedalean compass - A gift from his mother, the Daedalean Compass appears as an ancient, bronze compass with gears that shift like a puzzle box. It doesn’t point north—it points to the nearest solution, not the nearest exit, toward what he needs, not what he wants, steers him like strategy incarnate. It can lead him to a missing ally, a critical resource, the answer to a riddle or logistical problem. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y sarcastic .... | .... prickly .... | .... perceptive .... | .... strategic .... | .... passionate H I S T O R Y ✦ 1997–2008 (Ages 0–11): Evander was raised by his mortal mother, an astrophysicist, in a quiet academic life surrounded by books, equations, and the quiet ache of an absent parent. Athena visited rarely, almost always for his mother, rarely for him, so he grew up believing she was just an eccentric friend his mom liked a little too much, who blew in like a storm and left just as abruptly. ✦ 2009–2013 (Ages 12–16): As monsters began to notice him, his mother finally revealed the truth: his absent parent wasn’t mortal at all, but a god. She never named Athena, and he never asked. Instead of heartbreak, he felt a spark of challenge, an equation with an unknown variable that begged to be solved. Camp Half-Blood was the safest place for him, he placed in the Hermes cabin, unclaimed but undeterred. Chiron noted his sharp mind and instinct for strategy, and Evander began treating every class, duel, and quest like a puzzle waiting to be solved. Maybe then that would earn him his place in his rightful cabin. ✦ 2014–2022 (Ages 17–25): He split his time between Camp (nine months a year) and home (three months during the holidays). He earned two accelerated college degrees, Mechanical Engineering and Applied Physics, while securing eighteen patents for inventions, many related to innovation and battlefield-adjacent tech. He remained unclaimed, but every accomplishment felt like an offering to the parent he didn't know. It wasn't good enough, and though he may have developed a complex, but he was never discouraged. ✦ 2023–2025 (Ages 26–28): He invested in multiple start-up companies, each subtlety tied to Athena’s spheres; research, strategy, education, invention. Every victory was sharpened with intent, proof that he was worthy of being claimed. He knew it was her, knew it down to his marrow, but there was a challenge that he hadn't met completely, a puzzle unfinished. The silence didn’t feel like abandonment, it felt like the final quest. He believed he would earn the moment she finally named him her own. ✦ 2025 (Age 28 – Present): Now a seasoned camper with a reputation for intellect as sharp as celestial bronze, Evander balanced demigod life with mortal responsibility, leaving camp three times a week to take business calls. He no longer worked with start-ups as often; instead, he funneled his success into founding a scholarship for brilliant young minds without the means to chase their ambitions. He named it Athena’s Scholarship, a gift to the mother who had never claimed him, an offering to the empty space where her approval might someday live. On the day our story begins, his phone chimed with the confirmation when he went for a hike outside the camps borders, approved, funded, and already receiving applications, his first victory that felt like a prayer. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #8A6038 ........ faceclaim . | . hayden christensen ........ creator . | . Sleepy Tani

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Daphne Hart | Apollo

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D A P H N E...

.................................................... __________________________________________ D A P H N E . H A R T ________________________________________________________ 27 | female | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | apollo ▹ hair color | brown ▹ eye color | brown ▹ height | 5' 5" ▹ build | pretty :)

. A B I L I T Y vitakinesis - highly skilled as a healer who can cure wounds, diseases, and illnesses with a touch, often accompanied by also singing hymns in ancient greek for added healing strength. photokinesis - able to use the ability to manipulate sunlight, create blinding light, and make objects or herself invisible for a short time. musical prowess - proficiency with instruments, particularly the lyre, and the ability to influence others with music and her singing voice. S T R E N G T H S medical prodigy - Daphne’s knowledge of mortal and magical medicine rivals that of veteran healers, she diagnoses injuries and illnesses with an accuracy that feels like intuition, but is really the result of years of relentless study and sleepless practice. healer - her hands carry sunlight like a second heartbeat, warming wounds closed and coaxing scarred tissue to knit, her healing isn’t instantaneous, but it’s efficient, gentle, and utterly reliable, an anchor in the chaos of demigod life. empathic - Daphne reads emotional states like vital signs, knowing when someone needs space, a joke, or the truth softened at the edges. it makes her a leader without raising her voice, the kind of person others follow because they feel safe near her. W E A K N E S S E S pacifist - she avoids fighting whenever possible, preferring diplomacy or healing, which can leave her vulnerable in battle or in situations where combat is unavoidable. stamina - despite her skill and determination, prolonged physical exertion drains her quickly, she excels in precision and care but cannot sustain heavy combat or intense labor for long periods. fear of death - not for herself, but for those she treats; Daphne is terrified of failing anyone under her care, and the pressure of that responsibility can paralyze her in critical moments. I T E M heliosheart pendant - A gift from her father, the Heliosheart Pendant; glow's like gentle sunlight in darkness, just enough to light a path or soothe, not blind. Grows warm to the touch when danger is near, growing hotter the closer it is. When placed on someone’s skin, amplifies her healing ability for a short time. If she pushes herself too hard, the pendant cools suddenly, Apollo’s warning to rest or she risks burning herself out. Along the circular frame is a ring of ancient Greek runes, forming a short poem. In darkest hours, light persists; In trembling hearts, the dawn insists. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y selfless .... | .... compassionate .... | .... tntuitive .... | .... resolute .... | .... gentle H I S T O R Y ✦ 1998–2010 (Ages 0–12): Daphne was raised by her mother, a gifted writer who loved her more than words could even explain. She grew up immersed in stories and creativity, feeling her mother’s love and warmth, which left her with a gentle, empathetic spirit and a fascination with the arts. She never met her father, but each year on her birthday a poem would arrive for her, she kept them all. ✦ 2010 (Age 12): Her mother sent her to Camp Half-Blood, believing it was safer for Daphne to learn how to protect herself early rather than later. Daphne arrived nervous but determined, quickly discovering that while she lacked the inclination for fighting, she possessed a natural gift for healing others. Her mom sent her care packages and poems throughout the year, and she'd always go home for Christmas. ✦ 2011–2015 (Ages 13–17): She honed her abilities as a healer, studying mortal medicine alongside magical remedies. Apollo claimed her the first time she healed another camper by accident, solidifying her place as a valued child of the sun god. By age 17, she had earned the respect of her peers and was named councilor of the Apollo cabin, a role she embraced with quiet determination. ✦ 2016–2022 (Ages 18–26): Daphne reformed the camp’s infirmary, streamlining procedures and training other Apollo children with the “healer’s touch” to maximize their abilities. Her efficiency and empathy made the infirmary a place of safety, and she became widely respected. When she could, she'd take trips to the closest hospital, visit the children's unit, and heal them as she read to them. ✦ 2023–2025 (Ages 27–present): She solidified her role as a cornerstone of Camp Half-Blood, mentoring younger campers and maintaining the Apollo cabin’s reputation for excellence. Her mother continued to send poems and care packages, which Daphne treasured, and she took pride in knowing that her work saved countless lives and nurtured the next generation of demigods. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #B07482 ........ faceclaim . | . emma watson ........ creator . | . Sleepy Tani

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Faye Mikami | Ares

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F A Y E...

.................................................... __________________________________________ F A Y E . M I K A M I ________________________________________________________ 27 | female | pansexual __________________________________________ ▹ parentage | ares ▹ hair color | black ▹ eye color | brown ▹ height | 5' 6" ▹ build | hella fit ;)

. A B I L I T Y physical prowess - superior strength, speed, and endurance compared to normal demigods, allowing her to lift heavy objects and fight without tiring for long periods of time. odikinesis - control over the emotions of hatred and rage, often used to spark conflict. Telumkinesis - the ability to manipulate, summon, or repair weapons. blessing of ares - given to those showing immense courage or bloodlust, this blessing surrounds them in a fiery aura, granting temporary invulnerability to pain and physical harm. [not usable yet] S T R E N G T H S scrappy fighter - Faye relies on agility, cunning, and adaptability in combat, using every advantage in her environment rather than raw strength alone. if she gets knocked down, whoever knocked her down better hope they also knocked her out, because if she gets back up they'll live to regret it. stamina - she can endure long battles or grueling training sessions without tiring, allowing her to outlast opponents physically and mentally. she grew up learning martial arts from her mom and has the stamina to prove it. strategic mind - her anger is surgical, not impulsive, she plans moves carefully, analyzing weaknesses and exploiting them with efficiency rather than relying on blind fury. W E A K N E S S E S love of a challenge - she is drawn to combat for the thrill and the test of skill, which can put her in unnecessary danger or lead her to underestimate risks. self-critical - Faye holds herself to impossibly high standards, often obsessing over minor mistakes or perceived failures, which can undermine her confidence. overly cautious with trust - she struggles to fully rely on others, preferring to control outcomes herself, which can slow teamwork or create tension in group settings. I T E M makhai / the spirit of battle - A gift from her father, forged with celestial bronze and the essence of the makhai, who considered the spirits of battle and combat that attended Ares on the field. They represent the "demonic" side of war—slaughter, riot, and grief. Chaotic and supernatural, the feeling of the axe in her hands suggests the axe has a mind of its own and a thirst for the heat of the fray. It can transform intp a more modern looking tactical pocket knife with a red-and-black "damascus" steel pattern on the handle. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y pragmatic .... | .... patient .... | .... clever .... | .... witty .... | .... honorable H I S T O R Y ✦ 1998–2018 (Ages 0–20): Faye was raised by her mother at The Aiki Shrine in Iwama, Kasama City, immersed in the discipline and philosophy of Aikido. Growing up alongside her mother, she learned to channel energy with precision and control, developing a calm, surgical temperament. Her mother met her father abroad, and though Faye never met him, he chose her name. Ares’ deep care for her mother granted Faye a rare life of relative peace, shielding her from the dangers that most demigods encounter early in life. ✦ 2018–2024 (Ages 20–26): Faye honed her Aikido skills and cultivated patience, observation, and strategic thinking. Though she trained as a warrior in theory, she focused on discipline and precision rather than rage, she was deeply passionate about the shrine, hoping to become a master of Aikido some day. ✦ 2024 (Age 26): Ares sent a message to her mother that Camp Half-Blood would soon be the safest place for Faye. She reluctantly left her life of peace at the shrine and arrived at camp, quickly adapting to demigod life. She was claimed upon arrival and even received a small gift from her father, one that she cherished greatly. ✦ 2024–2025 (Ages 26–27): Faye integrated into camp life, finding camaraderie with many of her siblings, though she often found the more abrasive Ares children frustrating. Her calm, calculated approach to combat was a disconnect they could never bridge, and she often found herself lingering closer to the calmer Apollo cabin, becoming fast friends with Daphne. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #964A4A ........ faceclaim . | . chloe bennet ........ creator . | . Sleepy Tani

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Colton "Colt" Shepherd

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Colton Shepherd...

.................................................... __________________________________________ S O N . O F . H E P H A E S T U S ________________________________________________________ 22 | male | heterosexual __________________________________________ ▹ hair color | blond ▹ eye color | green ▹ height | 6' 1" ▹ build | buff / athletic

. A B I L I T I E S Pyrokinesis - The ability to mentally generate, control, and manipulate fire. Colton has never experimented with his supposed powers, though he has...melted things in the past, burnt his handprints into bed frames, but he's always ignored when sparks jump from the tips of his fingers. Fire feels...natural to Colt, he can remember staring into bonfires in the past, watching the flames jump and leap into the sky, higher and higher the longer he watched. It wasn't good, to be different, so he stopped staring at fires, learned to temper his anger and remain as cool as possible. Calokinesis - Colton has always run warmer than most people, he's like a walking, living, breathing furnace. It comes naturally to him, and it has made summers out in the country when he was working on the farm brutal. He's melted his fair share of tools in an aggravated, hazy accident, but as he's aged he's learned to keep a tight lid on his emotions to try and control it. The result is warmth spread across his entire body, natural to Colton, but surprising for others. Master Inventor & Engineer - Inventing and building runs in his blood, Colton has always been brilliant when it came to repairing or building things, scraping things the rest of his family deemed unusable to create something new. If you have something broken and you're thinking of throwing it out, he's the person to go to. There's a small sense of pride in every creation, knowing that he could be useful to others makes him happy. High Intelligence - His therapist once suggested when he was younger that the reason Colton was so scared of everything, was because he was so smart. It was posed as a logical affliction, anyone who could look at a scenario and know all the ways it could go wrong would be smart enough to be terrified of the bad outcomes. His mind has always worked too fast, sometimes faster than Colt can even register the whirlwind of what-if's and maybes. He tries to look at everything from every angle, pick apart a perspective until he understands, and above all else, considers the worst case scenarios. S T R E N G T H S Physical Strength - Growing up on a farm, Colton's been lifting thing's twice his body weight for as long as he could remember. His physical strength often feels like the one thing he truly has going for him other than his mind, especially since his stamina is abysmal. Adaptability - Colton can think fast on his feet, he likes to compare sticky situations to puzzles, if he can just line up the pieces correctly he can solve the issue. It doesn't matter what sort of puzzle he's dropped into, if there's a solution he can find it. Innovative - Retired tractor parts, scrap metal, old battires, whatever he can get his hands on, Colt can transform to fit his needs. W E A K N E S S E S Fear - For as long as he can remember, fear has ruled his every waking moment. It still is there, lingering in the back of his mind like smoke caught in his lungs, rattling every breath he takes and filling his mouth with the rancid taste of bile. Recent event have made it possible for Colton to overlook most of his fears, but he knows it can't last forever. Self-Doubt - Every choice he makes is laced with doubt, and those doubts are often enough to keep him up at night. Kindness - Colton was raised to be kind, no matter what. His Pa has remarked that too much kindness could be his downfall. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y respectful.... | .... dependable .... | .... innovative .... | .... integrous H I S T O R Y nyctophobia; an extreme and irrational fear of darkness or night. Colton was born the same day a volcano erupted on Anatahan, in the Northern Mariana Islands. He cannot dwell on what he scarce remembers, so the fact that his mother passed in childbirth has been something that has only ever sat at the back of his mind, a constant and compelling reminder that his life had started with death. He had been adopted quickly, before any of the oddities that would mark Colton as being different started to fully manifest. He grew up on a farm, with two brothers and three sisters, a loving mom, kind dad, and Colton was...terrified. Of everything. It started off small, the inability to sleep without a nightlight filling the dark crevices of his room, the darkness outside jarring him into fits of fear that seared hand prints into the alabaster wood of his crib. His parents called a priest, but there was no demonic entities to explain the oddity of their adopted son. Colt was odd, but he was brilliantly smart, and so the strangeness was eventually pushed away. They loved their son as if they had given birth to him, they'd chosen him, and so what if he ran a little warmer than their other children? Colton was theirs, and they were content. He, was not. His fears didn't start and end with his childhood. His fear of darkness kept him up as night, twisted his dreams into nightmares where a boogie man chased him through the slick and black streets of their town, menacing laughs echoing off the old brick roads. To Colt, fear wasn't about what made sense. Fear was about possibilities. Not things that happened, things that might, that could, even if it seemed impossible. His fears started with the darkness, but they grew until he was scared of the bath, scared of bugs, scared of heights, scared of living. phobophobia; an intense and irrational fear of experiencing fear or panic itself. His parents argued when he was ten, going around and around for days. His mom wanted to take him to see a professional, his dad believed their faith would be enough to see Colton through his trials and tribulations. The rest of the family watched on, quiet and confused, until finally his mom took him and left. They were gone for three weeks, in which he saw a therapist for the first time and was able to begin giving voice to all the fears that coiled around his throat like wire, and then his dad came begging for forgiveness. They returned home, and once a week, every week, they'd take Colton together to therapy. His fears became more manageable as he got older, each living nightmare was still there, sticking to his skin with all the persistence of oil, but over time Colt found other things to help steady the tremble of his fingers, one of which being, as his mom called it, tinkering. His brother's had laughed until he fixed the families tractor using bubble gum, and parts of a dissembled lamp. From there, Colton flourished. He was still scared more often than not, but it was like something clicked for him, and he shifted the gears of his brain from fear to focus. He'd stay up late into the night, his room overflowing with light, building little robots, drones, and a small handheld, digital music player shaped like a cube. Despite his father's wishes, and the the beliefs of the rest of his siblings, Colton never quite found himself following their chosen religion. He attended church on Sunday's, feeling each time as if he were having an out of body experience. He didn't understand the concept of a God who would allow so many evil and cruel things to transpire, but for him mom's sake he pretended, reading the sermons and praying at night before bed. Colton grew up in the country, where faith was unanimously revered, and he allowed the customs to be imparted onto him. He grew up to be kind, respectful of women, a perfect gentlemen, honest to a fault. He didn't play any sports, the fears outweighing the rewards, but Colt was smart enough that he didn't need a sports scholarship to attend college, his teachers had noticed his brilliance, and that had been enough for him. pyrophobia; an intense and irrational fear of fire. Colton doesn't remember much about the day it all fell apart, he'd come back to visit from college for the first time in close to three years, and he'd been so excited to see his family again...but there was fire licking up into the sky, fluctuating the air with it's heat. He'd stood there for a long moment, terrified of the flames, of the fact that none of his family were outside, their truck was parked in it's usual spot. They were all in the house. He remembered the moment of clarity, of refusing to abandon his brothers and sisters, beneath a blue sky in the middle of the afternoon, his tragedy unfolded, and the only thought he could think in that moment was... not my family. There is a moment when a person will walk into fire, knowing full well they'll get burned, but it doesn't hurt. When you're prepared for pain, pain loses power. Only...the fire didn't even burn him. His parents bedroom was on the first floor, he got them out first, ignoring his mom when she begged him not to go back in, because how could he leave his siblings in there? The fire didn't burn, but the smoke choked him, every breath making his lungs feel raw like an open wound. It billowed down the halls as it swallowed the cries of his sisters, flames curling around their door hungrily. They'd screamed when he burst in, smoldering and choking, but Colt got them out. The sirens of fire trucks screamed in the distance, he couldn't see their lights from outside with the sun beating down on him, but his job wasn't done. For the first time in his life, there wasn't an ounce of fear in his heart when he charged back into the burning house. All Colton cared about was getting his brothers out, was making sure his family was safe. He didn't care what happened to him, not anymore. The fire licked at his ankles, melted his boots, seared the fabric of his shirt into his skin, but it did not burn him as he took the stairs two at a time. In the end, all of his resolve meant nothing. The fire got to his brothers before he could, and the Shepard family shrunk by two. There isn't a single recognized medical term or widely accepted name for the fear of being unafraid. (def.) fear of the inverse of courage; a psychological state where a person is afraid of what it might mean to be courageous or free from fear. Tragedy feels a lot like a house fire. There are days were it is stifling with it's heat, where you feel as if you are suffocating with every lung full. Though, if you really wanted to, you could learn how to hold your breath as you made your way through the smoke left in its wake and you could keep going. And sometimes, sometimes, you could grow something beautiful from the ashes that were left behind. If you were lucky. Colten wasn't sure if he was lucky, it didn't feel like luck when they put two small coffins in the ground, it felt cold and cruel. He does not return to college. He helps his dad rebuild their home, he helps on the farm, he loses himself to the grief of loss and pretends that the shaky grasp he had on his faith his entire life hadn't slipped from his fingers at some point between the fire, and the funeral. Colton lives one day at a time, and while everyday gets a little easier, sometimes he still wakes up gasping, choking on smoke that isn't there, and seeing what fire can do. His father finds him in the shed, surrounded by blueprints of things he will never get the chance to build, his dreams for the future crumpled up in the wastebasket in the corner. He hadn't felt afraid since the fire, but old habits died hard, and light filled every crevice of the old, small barn. "You'll waste all your potential here." The rich timber of an unfamiliar man's voice cut through the silence of the night, making Colt whip around with wide eyes and tensed arms. They lived, to put it eloquently, in the middle of bum fuck nowhere. The idea that a stranger would stroll up to their property was preposterous...and yet here was a man that Colton had never seen before. "Who the hell are you?" The man's lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile, as if he'd said something that was part of some inside joke. "You're a lot like your sister." The man didn't answer his question, simply gave an idle comment that made Colt draw short, brows furrowing in confusion. "How do you know my sister?" There was a tinge of protectiveness in his voice, his entire body growing tense and too warm. The man waved him off casually though, still smiling faintly. "Your actual sister." Time seemed to freeze like the top of a lake in winter, curling impossibly in on itself as Colt stared at this unfamiliar man...and then it all clicked, all at once. He knew he was adopted, everyone in his family had dark hair, brown eyes, and a paler parlor. Colt was the only one with blond hair, green eyes, and naturally olive toned skin. He was taller than his father, and shared no visual similarities with his mother. He knew he was different, knew he never quite fit the mold of the Shepherd family, but he hadn't ever thought he'd see himself in the face of another man. "Surely you didn't think someone like you could be produced by a mere farmer?" There was an indistinguishable edge of pride in the man's tone that Colton has never heard in his adopted father voice. He opened his mouth, but no words came to him, and so the man closed the distance, sliding a letter onto his workbench with a wry smile, scarred knuckles glinting in the florescent light's overhead. He looked up after reading Camp Athens, but the man was gone with the same mysterious silence he'd appeared in. The letter was detailed, and he'd made up his mind before he'd even finished reading it. Colton couldn't go back to college, but he couldn't stay home and sit in his grief either. He left his own note for his family, and left before the night was through. He wasn't scared anymore. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #A64017 ........ faceclaim . | . Austin Butler ........ creator . | . Sleepy Tani

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The Last Will of Olympus

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T H E . L A S T . W I L L . O F . O L Y M P U S

An original fandom RP set in an alternate Percy Jackson universe

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In the age after Kronos fell, when the stars still trembled from the echoes of his screams, the gods of Olympus stood newborn and unsteady beneath a sky that did not yet know their names. Zeus had claimed the throne on a stormbolt and a promise, but thrones made of lightning are brittle things. Power hums, and power warns, and in the marrow of every god’s being thrummed the same dread; the earth itself was stirring. Not the creatures upon it, not the oceans or the forests or the mountains, but the being beneath it all—Gaia, first mother, cradle and coffin, the world made will. She did not roar. She did not strike. She simply shifted, continents groaning as if exhaling centuries of dust, and the gods understood the truth before they could speak it. She was turning against Zeus for imprisoning the Titans in Tartarus.

No throne was safe if the stone beneath it chose to move. Zeus summoned them then, Hades silent as grave-soil, Poseidon with salt still dripping from his beard, Athena sharp-eyed as strategy incarnate, Hermes restless as winds over open fields, Ares with all the ferocity of an army, and spoke of a plan born not of pride but of panic. No lightning bolt, no trident, no Helm of Darkness could slay her. Gaia was not a foe to conquer, but a mother to carve apart.

They found her in a valley that had not yet learned to fear gods, her presence neither monstrous nor gentle, but total. She rose like a horizon, an expanse of soil and sea and sky given shape, her eyes older than the constellations that watched her. Mountains bowed when she moved; rivers rerouted rather than touch her feet. Zeus stepped forward and lightning coiled around him like serpents, but Gaia did not flinch. She regarded him with the patience of sediment, of fossils, of the slow crush of continents drifting over eons.

“Child,” she said, voice like tectonic plates grinding in the dark, “You have mistaken a spark for a sunrise, free my children and you will have peace. Refuse and you, your children, and your children’s children, will have war.” The words shook the bones of Olympus. Even then, he might have faltered, might have begged, bargained, bent. But the throne behind his eyes was too new. And so the gods acted first.

Athena struck from thought alone, unraveling Gaia’s consciousness from her form the way roots are torn from fertile soil. Her mind tore like silk under a blade, not screaming but sighing, like the wind through an old forest. Hades caught that severed mind and bound it in chains hammered from starbone and river-iron, forged in silence so deep it tasted of endings. Down into Tartarus he cast her consciousness, where dreams pool like oil and drip into nightmares. Zeus watched as the pit sealed itself, and his fear eased—not gone, but quieter. They had not defeated her; they had made her sleep. Yet even sleeping minds dream.

Poseidon approached next, heart heavy, trident lowered as though for prayer. He did not strike. He sang, voice thrumming like the pull of tides beneath flesh, coaxing the earth to rest. Mountains bowed, valleys sank, oceans rolled into caverns carved by forgotten gods. Slowly, Gaia’s vast body succumbed to slumber, continents crusting over her like scabs, mantle smoldering as its own cage. The world hardened above her, turning her prison into the very land mortals would someday tread upon. Zeus raised Olympus then, not as a temple but as an escape, lifting the new gods into the clouds where no roots could reach.

But still there remained her heart—golden, luminous, dripping with the sweetness of creation. It pulsed like a sunrise beneath her ribs, and even bound and sleeping, its love bled through the soil, sprouting forests, coaxing beasts from clay, urging mountains to grow. If left, it would call her back. So Hermes and Ares, swift and sorrowful, strong and resolute, plucked from the Hesperides’ orchard a Golden Apple, gleaming with the evening sun. Into it, Hades breathed Gaia’s heart—her mercy, her memory, her tenderness for all things that breathed. The apple thrummed with the pulse of the world. They hid it in the garden, beneath the watch of Ladon, coiled in eternity. The dragon wept poison tears, tasting the grief of the mother she guarded.

When it was done, Zeus carved an oath across the sky in jagged lightning: As long as the earth sleeps, Olympus shall stand. As long as Olympus stands, the earth shall not wake. If ever roots remember, if ever soil dreams, the throne will fall and the world will choose anew. The clouds burned with the words, and the gods believed themselves victorious. They believed eternity was a cage they could build.

But gods do not understand patience. They do not understand how mountains are born grain by grain, how oceans rise drop by drop, how roots deepen in silence. Gaia is the world, and the world cannot be killed. Only divided. Only delayed. In Tartarus, her mind dreams of sunlight. In the garden, her heart ripens, waiting. Beneath the crust of continents, her body stirs, tectonic and slow. And in the cracks of highways and the quiet of forests and the marrow of mountains, the roots remember.

The gods have let it slip from their minds as decades pass, lulled into a false sense of security.

The world has not.

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They say the end of the world will come with fire. They are wrong. It begins with roots.

At first, only the demigods notice: the magical tree protecting the borders of Camp Half-blood weeping sap that smells like rot, naiads refusing to swim in poisoned lakes, the wind sighing in a language older than Olympus. Then the mortals see it too, forests blooming through highways overnight, coastlines swallowed by brine and kelp, cities cracking like egg shells from the inside out.

The Earth is remembering herself. Gaia, the Earthmother, lies in three parts, ripped apart by Zeus and stowed away so she may never regain power: Her mind dreaming madness in Tartarus, her heart sealed within a Golden Apple in the Garden of the Hesperides, her body rising like a tidal breath beneath the mortal world.

Now, the dreams seep through the soil. Something ancient is waking.

Camp Half-Blood shudders as Hyperion, Titan of blazing dawn, sends storms of living flame against its borders. He believes the world must burn clean before it can be remade green. Roots twist under the cabins like veins, and the barrier falters, flickering like a candle in the wind.

Above them, constellations shift. Krios, the Titan of the heavenly constellations, pulls fate loose from the heavens. Prophecies knot and choke; quests repeat wrong; even the gods forget what futures they once promised. The Fates’ tapestry trembles like a dying web.

The heroes of old do not come. Instead, he comes: Perseus, returned from the Isles of the Blessed, eyes bright with conviction. He has seen a world without Olympus and calls it kindness. He kneels not to Zeus, but to the ground beneath his feet. He calls it home.He calls it Mother. He calls it Gaia.

And millions listen.

A group of demi-gods are chosen as a last option to take on this fight. Together, they must follow the roots into the Underworld, where Gaia’s mind blooms like a rot behind the eyes of the world within Tartarus and Krios crowns himself shepherd of fate. They will need to recover the last functioning prophecy from the Stygian Archive, an ancient library in the Underworld where prophecies, stories, and fates of all living things are stored, guarded by forgotten spirits and monsters, so they may know their fate.

They must steal the Golden Apple from the Garden of the Hesperides before Perseus can return the heart within it to Gaia—and convince the greatest mortal hero to abandon the god he has become.

They must hold the line at Camp Half-Blood’s gates as Hyperion’s fire rains like judgment and the forest itself rises to swallow the demigods whole, and the magical tree at Camp Half-Blood begins to rot further from within, sprouting vines with golden eyes that whisper sedition. These are Gaia’s Roots, tendrils of consciousness that spread through the earth like nerves.

The sacred tree in the world is becoming a gate for Gaia’s return, if they don’t stop her, she will emerge on their front door.

In the end, every road leads to Mount Othrys, the Titan citadel dragged screaming from the earth like a skeleton from its grave. Olympians burn in its shadow; mortals kneel in its light; the sky splits with lightning as Zeus and his brothers come face to face with his mothers mother. There, at the end of all things, Gaia rises—not as a monster, but as the world itself made flesh. Her voice is the earthquake, her breath the sea.

She offers the demigods a choice.

Save Olympus. Let the gods rule and the world bleed. Or, save her, save Gaia. Let the earth reclaim what was stolen and watch humanity fall like leaves in winter.

This is not a prophecy. This is not destiny. This is simply how worlds end.

And how new ones begin.