We walked the streets like a gang of very confused tourists who'd just finished a war. Plastic takeout bags crinkled in every hand—except mine, because someone had to carry the newly enchanted backpack and the bag Morgan had "liberated" from some poor soul who hadn't been paying attention to their purse.
The city pulsed around us: car horns, music leaking from half-open windows, street vendors shouting, tourists gawking at the skyline. It felt almost normal. If you ignored the part where one of us was a literal saint, a drunk demigod, another was a knight from Arthurian legend, I had a wolf the size of a motorcycle, and Morgan was grumbling about bag enchantments while sketching glowing glyphs in midair with a chicken nugget.
"I'm just saying," she muttered, drawing a faint sigil on the strap of the oversized duffel, "walking while enchanting is barbaric. I miss thrones, incense, and the silence. You're lucky I don't polymorph this whole sack into a possum."
"You already turned a guy hoodie into a scarf, Morgan," I muttered, shifting the bag so it didn't knock against Sif, who padded happily beside me. "You're out of wardrobe crimes for the day."
Cú was cheerfully gnawing on the leg of something that had started its life as chicken but now resembled pure sauce. "We're heading to the docks," he announced, voice full of grease and glee. "The sea'll remember me."
"He means she'll bend it to your will," I corrected, nodding toward Morgan.
"He does," she said, smugly.
They were heading back across the Atlantic. Or through it, more like. Magic helped with that. Gawain was seeing them off, adjusting the satchel slung over his shoulder—now stuffed with road snacks and a tourist map folded like a battle plan.
"I'll find a steed," he said seriously. "A worthy one, I'll just have to find a stable, whatever this 'Ten-e-sii' demands."
"You're not going to ask for directions?" I asked.
He looked genuinely confused. "From whom? These people walk enthralled with wires in their ears and can't stop looking at rectangles."
Point.
Beside me, Patrick walked in silence. Dignified. Still suspicious of everything. He clutched the relic of Christ like it might disappear. The jelly shots had worn off, but the holy fire in his eyes hadn't. I was leading him through the city. He didn't know where yet.
Which was why I grinned quietly to myself when I said, "Don't worry, Father. There's a church up ahead."
He grunted. "A church."
"Yep," I said. "Nice one. Big one."
He didn't press. He would see soon enough.
The group spread a little as we walked. Morgan was muttering her last incantations, sealing the Wind Bag snug to my back and whispering something into the bag that would hold Sif when we needed to fly again. The wolf side-eyed her, ears twitching at the hum of spellwork.
"Honestly," Morgan grumbled, finishing the last glyph with a flick, "you people expect miracles and you can't even give me a bench to sit on."
"You could've asked for one," I said.
"I did. He wouldn't share it." She pointed at a very confused man on a park bench we had passed five blocks ago. "Rude."
Cú chuckled. Gawain rolled his eyes.
And for one, quiet moment, I looked at all of them—walking, eating, joking, complaining. Alive. Together.
"Gods, I'm glad this is over," I said.
There was a beat of silence. Then Morgan snorted. "Never want to see you again."
"Agreed," said Gawain.
"Amen," said Patrick, dead serious.
"I'll miss you all terribly," said Cú. "Especially after I forget your names."
We all laughed. Even me. Even Patrick cracked a smile.
The street narrowed, crowds thickening as we approached midtown. I could see Patrick's eyes flicking from sign to sign, glass towers rising like modern-day Babels, the swirl of people and noise and cell phone chatter. He was holding it together. Barely.
Then we turned the corner. And the world went quiet. Not with power. But with reverence.
The spires of Saint Patrick's Cathedral rose ahead, cutting into the sky like they belonged there more than any skyscraper ever could. White marble. Stained glass. A structure forged by faith and held up by the finest of American craftsmanship.
The moment he saw the plaque out front—his own name, carved in stone—he stopped walking. He stared, like the world had just snapped into alignment.
I watched him walk forward, slowly, like approaching a holy relic. He touched the front step, knelt with shaking fingers, then rose and walked inside without a word. Didn't look back. Didn't need to.
We stood there a minute, watching the doors ease shut behind him.
Morgan's voice broke the quiet. "Good place for him."
"He'll be alright," I said.
"He'll find God again," Gawain added. "Or at least the modern interpretation."
Cú clapped me on the shoulder with his meaty, scarred hand. "We'll be off, then."
I turned to face them.
Morgan gave me a rare, genuine smile. "Try not to break too many realms while we're gone, bard."
"I make no promises, Sorceress." I said.
Gawain gave me a knightly nod. Cú ruffled my hair like an annoying older brother. And with that—they crossed the street together. Off toward wherever madmen belong. Gone, just like that.
Sif padded closer, brushing against my side. She looked up, tongue lolling, like she was waiting for me to tell her what came next.
I stood there for a second. Alone on the sidewalk. City moving around me. Sirens in the distance. The faint hum of traffic. The great cathedral behind me. And a backpack full of wind on my shoulders.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's see if Morgan's as good as she says."
I unbuckled the top flap—the one stitched in layered sigils and runes that smelled like pine sap and old ink—and it opened like a mouth into forever. Not just big. Infinite. A tunnel of soft, glowing light and open sky folded into canvas.
Sif tilted her head, sniffed, then leapt in with a grunt and a huff, vanishing into the void like she was diving into a soft cloudbank. The pack barely twitched on my shoulders.
"Okay," I said, pulling the top flap shut and cinching the latch tight. "That part worked."
Then I unbuckled the bottom flap—the one marked with the glyph of air's fury. The one Morgan warned me not to open indoors unless I wanted to repaint the walls with wind.
A faint hum built behind me. Like pressure. Like a storm just behind the curtain.
I pulled the side strap tight. Felt the slight tug, the building tension, like the backpack was alive and waiting. Then I pulled out the compass—the black sun's gift. It flickered. Twitched. Then pointed, steady as a heartbeat, due north. Right toward camp.
I stuffed it into my jacket pocket, braced myself, and slid my hands under the reinforced shoulder straps, gripping the launch handles Morgan had enchanted.
"Sif," I muttered, "if I die, I'm leaving all my stuff to you."
The wind inside the bag howled, impatient. I took a breath. Then let it out. And pulled.
The straps snapped. The bag screamed. Wind roared out the bottom like a war cry from the sky gods themselves—and I went up.
Shot into the air like a bard-shaped cannonball.
New York blurred beneath me. Cars became ants. Buildings became teeth. The cathedral vanished in a flicker of white stone.
And I soared.
Wind tearing at my jacket, hair whipping wildly, my boots barely catching the updraft as the world fell away beneath me and the sky opened up above. The wind held. The compass pointed. And I flew.
The wind carried the scent of sweat, pitch, and olive oil.
Camp Half-Blood was no longer just a sanctuary. It had become a battlement.
Wooden palisades circled the perimeter like the ribs of a giant beast—freshly built, but sturdy, reinforced with bronze nails and hand-chiseled stakes. Banners snapped in the breeze above the gates while campers hustled, armor strapped and swords clanging, training dummies shredded under frantic repetition.
Hestia moved among them like a flickering candle in a thunderstorm. Quiet. Constant. Every few minutes, she appeared with a tray of food—bread that steamed with comfort, meat that restored more than stamina. She spoke softly to those too tired to lift their heads. Her fire never went out.
Further along the walls, Ares bellowed like a war drum come to life, his red-plated armor blinding in the sun. He barked orders at the cabin leaders, stomping through the dirt like he was already charging into battle. His children stared up at him like they just found a box of puppies.
Athena was opposite him, poised and severe, flanked by scrolls, golden glowing holograms, and war maps glowing faintly with ancient enchantment. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Every instruction landed like a law, sharp and clean. Her eyes never left the horizon.
Neither god dared spend too long near their own children—not with what was coming.
Above the main field, on a ridge that looked over the entire camp, stood three demigods.
Percy Jackson stood with arms folded, watching in silence. Annabeth Chase adjusted the bronze hilt strapped to her belt, fingers twitching with nerves she wouldn't admit to. And Thalia Grace, newly freed from years as an enchanted pine tree, was doing her best not to look completely overwhelmed.
"Okay," she said slowly, looking from the camp to her two friends. "So let me get this straight…"
She pointed at the wall where Ares was shouting at campers like a drill sergeant possessed. "That guy's a god."
"Yes," said Percy.
"And he just… shows up now? That's normal?"
"That's more recent stuff, specially after we found Kronos on the quest," Annabeth said.
Thalia narrowed her eyes. "And that's Athena, your mom?" she said, nodding to where the goddess stood near the command tents, surrounded by floating war maps and silently commanding respect like she was built from razor wire and consequence.
"Correct."
"Cool, cool, yeah. Not terrifying at all."
Percy grinned faintly. "You haven't even met Dionysus yet."
Thalia snorted. "The party god?"
"You'll see."
She sighed, pushing her dark hair out of her face. "Last time I remember miss Annie bell you were a cute little seven year old, everything was far more grounded. Now we've got gods making house calls and a fortress for what was a summer camp."
Annabeth's expression shifted—just slightly.
"Yeah," she said. "A lot's changed."
Percy nodded once, then added, "Luke betrayed us."
Thalia froze. "What?"
"He's working with Kronos," Annabeth said, her voice tight. "We tried to stop him. He was… already too far gone."
"That can't be right." Thalia turned, staring between them. "Luke wouldn't—"
"He would," Percy said. "He did."
"He said the gods were broken," Annabeth added, quiet now. "And maybe he wasn't wrong. But what he's doing… he's not saving anyone. He's just breaking more things."
Thalia looked away. Her eyes tracked a child of Hermes racing past the archery range, carrying two quivers and a rolled-up banner.
"Gods," she muttered. "I've been back for a day and everything I knew got sent to the garbage."
"Hey at least you are back, greatest time to be alive," Percy said.
"Oh—cell phones got smaller now," Annabeth offered, trying to lighten the mood.
Thalia raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Don't use them," Percy added quickly. "They attract monsters. But… you can text."
"We… what?"
"Also," Annabeth said, "pop culture. There's a lot, even a new star wars movie."
"I missed that much?"
"We'll catch you up," Percy said, shrugging. "Eventually."
Thalia rubbed her temples. "Can I go back to being a tree?"
"Nope," Percy said.
They stood there for a moment, watching the camp shift. Hunters moving in formation. Chiron having just arrived from a strategy meeting galloped between tents. Hestia passing bread and warmth from fire to fire. Tension thrumming in the ground like a held breath.
"Luke's not coming back from this, is he?" Thalia asked, her voice fraying.
"No," Annabeth whispered.
And none of them corrected her.
Campers moved between stations, sweat-slicked and armored. The Hunters of Artemis darted between trees like wraiths, nocking silver-tipped arrows and mapping kill zones. Children of Athena shouted instructions. Children of Hermes passed supplies like a hive of buzzing bees. The war drums hadn't started, but their echoes lived in every footstep.
Ares barked across the main field, tightening formations.
Athena stood still and sharp, eyes glowing.
Artemis stood on the corner of the camp with her huntress, notching an arrow and gazed northward, a grimness in her stance that made the archers behind her straighten.
Above them, Percy, Annabeth, and Thalia scanned the horizon, every muscle telling then that something was wrong.
Then—
A sound.
Whistling.
High. Thin. Shrill.
It came from above. Somewhere far… but getting closer.
The Hunters turned toward the sky, eyes narrowing. Campers froze. A new set of whistles pierced the air—emergency signals—and suddenly half the camp was in motion. Archers scrambled into position. Melee fighters surged forward into shield lines. Campers bunched together, shields raised, breathing fast, scanning the sky for monsters.
The whistling grew louder. Like a dive bomber, shrieking through the clouds.
Closer.
And closer.
Percy summoned water to his palm, ready to strike.
Annabeth readied her dagger.
Thalia's fingers sparked with static.
"Incoming!" someone yelled.
A moment later, the sky split.
A streak of howling wind and screaming metal punched through the clouds, trailing wisps of storm and the smell of burnt meat.
At the last second their ears betray then, it sounded like rock? but the music stopped half way, probably a trick of the mind.
And then—
BAMM.
A crater erupted on the southern hill, just inside the palisade.
Dirt exploded. Branches cracked. Stones went flying. A gust of warm air sucked inward like the sky had just exhaled.
Silence.
Then coughing.
A figure rose from the smoking crater.
Dressed like a hobo who robbed a carnival.
Crocs. Ratty pants. A weird, slouching top hat that screamed unlicensed theme park mascot.
An axe-bass hybrid slung across his back.
A bone-and-branch crown lashed to his right arm, It was caked in golden ichor.
A short sword sheathed crooked at his hip.
And a book — thick, glowing faintly — cradled in his arms like it was the only thing keeping his ribs intact.
He was bleeding from a dozen cuts. His shoulder smoked faintly.
The crowd didn't breathe.
Then from the melee line, a camper in battered Ares armor broke rank and shouted:
"Lucas?"
The figure looked up.
Face bruised, lip bleeding, dirt in his stubble—and then he grinned.
A mouth full of dagger-shaped teeth gleamed in the light.
Half the line shivered.
An camper—Rhea, daughter of Ares, one of the new arrivals—tried again.
"Lucas?!"
"Rhea!" he shouted, grinning like a madman. "You won't believe what I had to deal with!"
He stepped forward—just as she stormed up and slapped him across the face.
The crack echoed across the hill.
Lucas didn't flinch.
Rhea winced, holding her hand.
"Ow."
He tilted his head, shrugged, and said, "Yeah. That seems fair."
And then he looked at the whole camp staring down at him in stunned silence.
Lucas threw his head back and laughed, arms wide.
"Say hello to the savior of the world!" he shouted, half-grinning, half-feral, with enough swagger to power a solar city. "And check the loot!"
"Boom," he said, holding up the crown, a twisted weave of bone and ancient branches, still faintly pulsing with magic. "Stole this off a queen. ripped it out right out of her head."
He shifted letting his hand fall to the sword on his hip. "don't know what this does, but its probably something."
Then, with theatrical flair, he unslung the leather-bound book from where it had been strapped across his ribs like a second heart. The thing was ancient. The ink shimmered with some kind of divine varnish. Greek letters, scrawled fast and raw.
Lucas held it up like a pizza box and grinned. "Plato's unpublished work." He wiggled it for emphasis. "Dude's personal notes. Drafts. Stuff he didn't even finish."
Rhea stared like he'd just handed her a live grenade.
"This one's for the nerds," Lucas added, smug.
Then she slapped him again. Hard.
"You reckless—!"
He stumbled slightly, grinning. "Ow."
"Impulsive—"
"Fair."
"Stupid—!"
"You already said that."
"I needed it to sink in!"
He laughed louder, unbothered, practically radiating smug energy... then he just started walking away.
From the crowd, someone called out, "Wait—where are you even going?!"
Lucas turned, blood crusted along his temple, Crocs squeaking in the grass, the hat somehow still perched perfectly wrong. He smiled, all teeth.
"Outhouse," he said. "Gotta take the mother of all shit's. They were handing out jello shots at TGI Friday's."
And with that, he limped off like a battle-worn hobo, His wounds closing in real time.
Behind him, Rhea sighed like a woman who'd just remembered what heartburn felt like.
The outhouse smelled like bleach, damp wood, and that someone used this thing before me.
I leaned over the washbasin, hands braced on either side, staring into a cracked mirror that was doing its absolute best to lie to me. My reflection looked like something you scrape off the bottom of a monster's foot—hair wild, clothes scorched, dirt smeared across my cheekbone. My hat—my stupid, wonderful hat—was sitting lopsided on my head like it had been drinking too.
I tried to fix it. Failed. Tried again. Still looked like a lunatic who'd gotten dressed in a party city.
The mirror didn't pull any punches. I had dried blood on my chin. One sleeve was mostly ash. The band on the axe strap was being held by a very thin piece of cord. The crown on my arm—bone and wood —glinted faintly when I moved.
"Perfect," I muttered. "Just how the heroes did it in the Iliad."
Outside, Sif growled. Low. Long. Not just annoyed. Not hungry. Something in between don't like this and touch me and I eat your liver.
My fingers twitched toward the bass on my back. Old habit.
"Calm, girl," I said softly. "We're safe now."
The words felt wrong as soon as I said them.
Safe. Like I even knew what that felt like anymore.
The growl didn't stop. It dipped lower, chestier. Not quite a warning. Not quite a bark.
I glanced at the door. Silence. No shouting.
But Sif didn't growl for nothing. She never had.
I looked back at the mirror. At me.
I caught a shadow along my jawline. Paused. Leaned a little closer.
Yup. Stubble. Not much. Not thick. Just enough to make me look like I lost a fight with sandpaper and then rolled in soot. Which, honestly, wouldn't be far off.
"Awesome," I muttered. "Now I look like a hobo philosopher."
I reached up, rubbed a thumb across my chin. It scratched. Then, without thinking, I popped one of the claws from my right hand. The adamantium hissed into place, glinting faintly in the outhouse light.
"Luxury," I said to no one.
And got to work.
It wasn't the cleanest shave—definitely not spa-quality as the blood on the sink indicated. More Texas chainsaw massacre meets dollar-store mirror. But the edge was sharp enough to split hairs a whisper above the skin, and it worked better than half the razors I'd ever own.
A few passes across the jawline, a gentle swipe under the chin. One tiny nick on the neck—barely enough to bleed. The claw retracted with a soft snk when I was done.
I rinsed my face with water from a canteen someone had stashed in the corner, then patted it dry with the sleeve of my jacket. Still looked rough. Still looked like hell chewed me up and forgot to spit. But hey—clean-shaven hellspawn now.
Progress.
I looked at the mirror again. Nodded.
Then—
Two black suns blinked into existence behind my eyes.
And then they shined.
Something inside me cracked open. A drawer in my brain I didn't know existed clicked, and knowledge slid in like it had always belonged.
Evil relic? Cursed artifact? Some whispering haunted hunk of doom?
I could burn it.
And it would stay gone. No curse. No aftershock. No screaming in Latin at midnight.
"That's useful," I muttered. "Fire really is the best treatment."
Then the rest of it hit.
I turned toward the mirror—and my pupils flared blue, light spilling forth. A flame flickered into my palm. Real fire. Orange-gold. Angry. Dancing like it wanted a stage. Hot enough to blacken the corners of the mirror. But it didn't burn me. Didn't even tingle.
It just sat there. Like it knew me.
I blinked. Took a breath.
The air stirred. Wind brushed against my Crocs. The sink hissed. A ripple of water rose and hung there, trembling midair like it was waiting for a conductor's baton.
The floor rumbled. A shard of stone cracked free and hovered, pulsing with heat and light. The air snapped cold—ice crystals formed on the mirror's edge without ever touching it.
Lightning danced through my hair, sparking and popping, static clinging to my skin like a lover too afraid to let go.
Everything—the raw bones of the world—responded like I'd spoken their true names.
Fire. Water. Earth. Air. Ice. Lightning.
And with that, the wind swelled again. My boots lifted from the floor.
Flight. Not just being pulled up—taking the sky. I could feel the storm above the clouds. I could feel the barrier around the camp, the heartbeat of the ground, the weight of the air pressure in a storm that hadn't been born yet.
I could shape it. Mold it. Unmake it.
And for some reason, the cosmos—or something close enough—had slapped a label on it.
Seasonal Maiden.
Which made no sense. Not a maiden. And I very recently murdered a monarch from one of those.
"…weird flex," I muttered, flexing my hand. The flame in my palm twisted, then snuffed itself out with a little sigh of smoke.
I looked back at the mirror. Still me. But not.
Eyes glowing faintly blue. Hair wild, static still clinging to the tips. The crown on my arm sat like it had always been there—bone, wood, memory. My jacket was torn in at least three places, and my hat was holding on by sheer spite. My grin curled up at the edges like I knew something the gods didn't.
Because maybe I did now.
I leaned in a little closer to the mirror. Smirked.
"Ohhh, you handsome devil."
Then I straightened, adjusted my hat, turned to the door—and stepped out into the sunlight.
And froze.
The entire camp was there. Waiting.
It wasn't an ambush, not exactly. But it had vibes.
Campers stood in rows—armor strapped on, weapons at their sides, a few with bows half-drawn just in case. The Hunters of Artemis flanked the clearing, cloaks gleaming like fresh snow, expressions unreadable.
And at the center of it all, the three gods waited.
Ares stood like a punch that hadn't landed yet. Leather jacket with armor underneath, biker boots. His scowl was default. His arms were crossed. His entire vibe screamed, "Say something stupid. I dare you."
Athena stood with her hands behind her back, eyes sharp and unreadable. Her dress was white. Her presence was sharper than a sword. She didn't blink. Didn't need to. She knew I was trouble. If I had to be real... she looked like a librarian.
And then there was Artemis. Small. Bow slung casually across her back. She looked young, but the kind of young that reminded you wolves didn't need to be tall to tear your throat out. Her expression didn't shift, not even when Sif padded out beside me and sat calmly at my side like a furry exclamation point.
The gods didn't speak.
So I broke the silence.
"I washed my hands," I said casually. "Just in case anyone was wondering."
No one laughed. But no one drew a weapon either, so I took that as a win.
I stepped forward. Slowly. Not too fast. Not too cocky. Just… aware. Like a guy who knew the rules, and had bent them so often they squeaked.
I nodded toward the gods.
"Lord Ares," I said first.
He grunted. Possibly in acknowledgment. Possibly gas.
"Lady Athena."
Her eyes flicked to the crown on my arm, then back to my face. No reaction. Which somehow felt worse than a frown.
"Lady Artemis."
She didn't blink. Just studied me like I was a curious noise in the woods. Then she glanced at Sif. Sif flicked an ear. I think that was some kind of divine approval exchange. Or maybe just two predators acknowledging they could kill each other. Hard to say.
I cleared my throat.
"Sorry about the, uh… landing. Little less 'graceful eagle' and more 'Meteor.'"
Still nothing.
So I smiled wider. Let it flicker just a little. Let the crackle of magic underneath my skin hum like a tuning fork.
"I brought souvenirs."
That got their attention.
"First up—gift for the nerds," I said,
My fingers found the first prize, leather and aged parchment, humming faintly like it was embarrassed to still exist. I pulled it free and held it up with both hands, careful not to smudge the cover.
"Plato's unpublished notes," I said, turning the book so the crowd could see the Greek lettering. "Yes, that Plato. Turns out, he was a lot more into magic theory than he let on, half of the words on that book flew over my head, and I had someone explain it to me in detail."
The Athena cabin collectively gasped. One kid dropped his sword. Another made a noise like a religious experience and physically restrained himself from lunging forward.
I tossed it—gently—to him. He caught it like it was a newborn made of glass.
"I suggest scanning it. More copies to spread around."
Next, I reached back in and pulled free something shorter, heavier, wrapped in deep red cloth with a weight that settled hard in the hand.
I unwrapped it one corner at a time, letting the bronze hilt gleam in the sunlight.
"This," I said, letting the blade glint dramatically, "is Alexander the Great's sword. The real one. Found it."
I turned and lobbed it underhand toward the Ares cabin. A tall camper caught it one-handed, eyes wide, mouth open.
Ares himself let out a low grunt that might have been approval.
"Still sharp," I said. "Also possibly cursed. No refunds."
Then I straightened, slung the bag back over one shoulder, and spread my hands like a magician who'd just wrapped up his big trick.
"Look, I brought back knowledge, a legendary weapon from the hands of the Fae, and I only caused minimal realm destabilization in the process. That's, like, a B+ on my chaos curve."
Some camper in the back, probably an Athena one asked. "What do you mean Fae, aren't that Gaelic?"
Athena's eyes narrowed to razor slits and faked a cough to cover the noise.
"You traveled into an unstable realm," she said slowly and silently, "engaged in political violence, stole multiple relics, and returned without debriefing or quarantine in Olympus."
"Yes," I said. "Also, there were jello shots."
Ares, still smirking, muttered under his breath, "Atta boy."
Artemis didn't.
Athena took a step forward.
"You will explain," she said, voice low and even, "everything, else you will spend eternity in Olympus darkest dungeons, you don't want to know what a bronze bull sounds like."
I nodded. "Sure. Can we maybe sit down first? I've been awake for three days, possibly more, everything is kinda hitting right now."
"Now," she said., anger in her voice
"Right," I muttered, patting the bag. "You hear that, Plato? We're about to get dissected by a goddess."
I turned to Sif, scratched behind her ears again.
"If I don't come back, avenge me."
She huffed once. Possibly encouragement.
This was going to be a long day.
CP Bank:100cp
Perks earned this chapter: 500cp Seasonal Maiden (RWBY) [Modus] (Picked) Remnant is home to many myths and fairy tales. Some of which aren't as fictitious as one may think. Have you ever heard the Tale of the Maidens for example? 4 Woman who were blessed by a Wizard with incredible magical power. Now you are a Maiden as well, by default one of the most powerful beings in the World. You may choose to either be a 5th maiden or replace an existing one. If you choose the later this will undoubtedly have repercussions on the Plot and earn you the ire of Cinder, but you will also be capable of opening the Vault associated with your Season (Spring-Mistral, Summer-Vacuo, Fall-Vale, Winter-Atlas), something you wouldn't be able to do when the power comes ex nihilo. Normally the powers of a Maiden are restricted to... well a woman, but if you pay with CP we can handwave that issue. Good luck explaining that though.
Maiden powers are remnants of true magic that was gifted by the God of Darkness to humanity. This type of Magic is in its purest form only present in two people and in shattered parts in 4 woman. They seem to have taken a mind of their own after being given away by the Wizard. When used to their full potential your eyes burn with flames the colour of your iris. The true limitations are not completely known but at your disposal are things like Flight, manipulation of the elements like Fire, Wind, Lightning and Ice and even controlling the Weather with casual ease. You will start at a basic knowledge of your powers and need to train with them but in time you may become a fully realized Maiden with all the power that entails. That being said even a Maiden can fall by a particularly strong warrior or a well trained Team.
One more thing, in the event of your death the Maiden power would go on to the person that was last in your thoughts at the time of death. So make sure not to think of your killer okay?
400cp I Burned the Thing (Old Man Henderson) [Destruction] These pesky Evil Artifacts of Doom. I am not talking about the Necronomicon. Maybe we should take WHM's word at face value and say the world is better of without Hendersons backstory. So destroy these things. It is rather easy for you to destroy cursed artifacts or the like, without any repercussion or negative consequence at that. Fire always works.
Milestones: none.Last edited: Apr 25, 2025508Magus exploratorApr 25, 2025View discussionThreadmarksChapter 27- I'm not even angry. I'm just disappointed.View contentMagus exploratorApr 28, 2025#1,874We were in the Big House now, tucked into one of the side rooms — quiet, the window cracked open, the walls lined with old books and faded photos from old campers. I sat in the comfiest chair I could find, it creaked a fair bit. Sif was curled at my feet, a very large, mildly judgmental weighted blanket.
Across from me, seated like a divine interview panel, were Ares, Athena, and Artemis, triple A themselves.
Ares wasn't smirking. He was full-on grinning, arms thrown behind his head, booted feet propped up on an ancient side table that he used his powers to pop it in.
"Finally," he said, practically vibrating with approval. "A Greek who finally found his real calling. War. Your ancestors should be proud young man."
I gave him a casual thumbs-up. "Glad I could make you proud, sir."
Athena looked like she'd swallowed a lemon and was now chewing it for extra wisdom. Artemis had her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, though the sheer amount of judgment radiating off her was enough to kill a lesser demigod where he stood.
"So let me get this straight," Athena said, voice tight. "You entered the Faewylds on a personal mission, assembled an off-book team of interdimensional legends, incited regime change, slept with a Winter Court noble, shook the realm of the gods themselves, and came back with an crown, multiple divine relics, and a favor from Oberon himself."
I nodded. "Yup."
Ares chuckled under his breath, voice dropping into something low and pleased. "This is perfect."
Artemis gave him a side-eye, then turned her attention back to me, her eyes full of judgment. "And you just... agreed to that price?"
I cleared my throat, shrugging a little. "In fairness, she spoke in riddles. Very poetic. Extremely misleading."
"Of course she did," Athena muttered darkly. "She's a Fae."
"And technically, I didn't not deliver what she asked for," I added. "I just... happened to take it literally, and besides I think the result worked very well for both of us, mutual beneficial and all that."
That broke Ares completely — he laughed so hard his chair actually creaked under him.
Athena pinched the bridge of her nose, probably wondering if turning me into a chair herself would solve any of her problems.
Artemis exhaled, a slow breath like she was trying to measure her patience. "And the part where you... broke prophecy itself?"
I blinked. "Well... that part I'm not a hundred percent sure on. Might've been the swap, might have been just me being weird. It's borderline."
Athena leaned forward, steepling her fingers with a weight that made the air seem heavier. "You. Somehow. Fooled fate."
I scratched the back of my head. "That wasn't... on purpose. The Morrigan said the same thing. Something about how I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Or when. She was... pretty upset about it."
Artemis's jaw tightened. "It's not just the Faewylds. My brother — Apollo — is in the middle of a... midlife crisis."
I raised an eyebrow. "Sun god crisis?"
"And your father," she continued, not missing a beat, "has been avoiding everyone. Even Olympus."
I frowned. "That doesn't sound like him."
"No," Athena said, her voice gone cold, "because nothing sounds like anything anymore. The Fates haven't been seen in weeks. Not by gods. Not by oracles. Not even by Chiron. And prophecy?"
She glanced at Artemis.
Artemis gave a sharp nod. "Dead. Past six months."
I straightened instinctively, the words hitting harder than I expected. "Dead how?"
"Unseeable," she said. "Clouded. Broken. Anything beyond six months? Gone. Like someone cut the threads before they were ever woven."
Athena continued, "Three months ahead? Unreliable. It shifts daily. The oracle are going quiet, Apollo has gone back to drinking. Patterns are falling apart."
I leaned back slowly, the weight of it settling into my ribs like a boulder.
"So... what? I broke fate because I took a wrong turn in a magical swamp?"
"We don't know," Artemis said, her voice calm, too calm. "But something in that swamp changed the way time sees you. Or... it doesn't and you just passively break reality near you, which is starting to be my leading theory."
Ares kicked his feet down from the table and stood, cracking his knuckles with a sound like firewood splitting.
"Well," he said, grinning again, "you really stirred the pot, didn't you?"
"I didn't mean to," I said quickly.
"Even better."
He turned to the others. "We should keep him alive. Might be the best accident we've had in millennia."
Athena's frown deepened into what a librarian would wear before yelling at the rowdy kids in her library.
Artemis remained silent, her silver gaze still fixed on me like a dissecting scalpel.
I shifted in my seat, the chair creaking. "So... I'm what now? Immune to prophecy?"
"No," Athena said, the word falling like a hammer. "You're a hole in it."
Silence fell.
Even Sif lifted her head to blink at me.
"Cool," I said finally. "That sounds healthy and manageable."
"Lucas."
I turned. She still hadn't moved — still poised, still composed — but her voice had shifted. Less steel. More weight.
"You've done something... historic," she said carefully. "The Faewylds haven't seen a mortal do what you did since long before the gods were worshipped in marble. You stopped a war before it began."
She let that settle.
"Not many can say that."
The room held the breath for a moment longer.
Then she added, almost softly, "We'll see if it's enough. Stay in camp. Keep quiet about your trip."
Ares gave me a mock salute, cracking his knuckles with a grin. "Hey, either way — hell of a story. I'm batting on your side once they vote if they should kill you or not."
Artemis, still unreadable, gave Sif the tiniest nod of acknowledgment.
Which, considering it was Artemis, was probably the highest honor I was going to get.
And then, the air around them shimmered, heatless and bright. The smell of ozone flooded the room. Light poured in — gold white and godly.
In the span of a blink—
They were gone.
I stood there for a long moment, letting the silence settle, the space still humming faintly where their power had been.
Then I exhaled and looked down at Sif.
"Well. They didn't smite me."
She wagged her tail once.
"Which means," I said, stretching my back and already dreading the mountain of questions coming my way, "I guess I've got some time to kill before the gods call me back up."
I turned and stepped out of the Big House into the sunlit camp, the crown still strapped casually to my arm, a half-smile curling on my face.
"Time to chillex."
And suddenly, I was thirsty.
Not "maybe a drink would be nice" thirsty. The kind of dry, hollow thirst where I could have drunk a river and still felt dusty. Apparently, when you spend gods-know-how-long in the Faewylds — where hunger and thirst are more polite suggestions than real needs — it all catches up to you the second you step back into reality. My stomach growled. My throat felt like sandpaper. Every nerve in my body pinged like a microwave on a vengeance cycle.
So I made my way toward the mess hall. Campers were still staring — wide-eyed, half-finished plates forgotten, conversations frozen in midair while my crocs squeaked against the floor.
I didn't say anything. Just walked straight past them, straight to the drink machine like I owned the place.
And oh, sweet Olympus — Coke.
I filled a cup. Drank half of it in one go. The carbonation punched me in the throat like a sugar-coated blessing straight from Hestia herself.
"Holy gods," I muttered, pressing the chilled cup against my forehead. "I missed modern beverages."
Campers were still staring. I raised my cup in a lazy salute. Then turned and walked away.
One miracle at a time.
Next stop: Apollo Cabin. My bunk. My stuff. A real bath.
The second I stepped in, the cabin hit me with a smell that was weirdly comforting — sunshine baked into old laundry, a faint trace of eucalyptus shampoo, and the warm, lived-in scent of a place that was, against all odds, home.
Sif padded in behind me, shook herself off like a very judgmental mop, and immediately curled up in the nearest sunbeam like she was claiming the place.
"Don't get too comfortable," I said, already digging through my trunk for clean clothes. "We're probably not done with chaos yet."
She yawned, unconcerned.
I stripped off the grime-and-glitter-encrusted disaster that was my current outfit and beelined for the bath.
Warm water. Actual soap. Shampoo that smelled good, whoever I just stole from had some good taste.
It was heaven.
I was clean. I was caffeinated. I was alive.
Which, given everything?
Felt like a win.
After that I looked around my things, made a note to burn the clothes I wore to the fairy realm, put on a new one and walked out.
I barely had time to enjoy it before the storm hit.
Campers.
They came at me like I'd just returned from stopping the Persians at the hot gates. Which, considering the crown still hanging off my arm, wasn't too far off the visual.
"Lucas!"
"Is it over?"
"Did we win?"
"What happened?"
"Was there a battle?"
"Why didn't Kronos show up?!"
"Why do you have a crown?!"
And just like that, I remembered something far more terrifying than facing down monsters or gods:
Public relations.
I raised a half empty coke can like it was a divine artifact and gave them my best tired smile, they flinched.
"Alright, alright, calm down. First things first — yes, I'm alive. No, we weren't invaded. And yes, I smell significantly better now."
A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the crowd. They were watching me like I was a bomb they weren't sure had already gone off.
"But seriously," someone said — a girl from the Athena cabin, voice sharp — "we were preparing for war. There were gods on the field. We even raised a wall around camp. We thought we'd be fighting for our lives."
I nodded, took a slow sip from my cup, then shrugged.
"Well... surprise. The war didn't come."
"Why?" another camper asked. "Did they back off? Was it a bluff? Was it Kronos?"
I let my gaze sweep across them — all those worried, sleep-deprived faces — and picked my words with surgical care.
"The gods handled it," I said. "That's what they told me. Handled. And they told me I'm not allowed to say more."
"Wait," a Hermes camper frowned, "you were there? Where?"
I gave them a practiced grin. "Classified."
"Classified by who?"
"The gods."
A few groans, a few mutters, a few exchanged glances.
"Seriously?" someone muttered. "The gods are keeping secrets now?"
I raised an eyebrow. "They've always kept secrets, that's kinda part of the job. Welcome to the club."
That earned a few tired chuckles.
"Look," I said, stepping past them, "I get it. Everyone's on edge. But for now? We're okay. Whatever almost came? It's not coming anymore."
A beat of silence.
"So... we won?" a kid near the back asked, voice small.
I smiled faintly.
"Hell yeah we won," I said. "We won hard."
And with that, I walked on — Sif padding at my side, the crowd parting around us.
I was sprawled on a towel at the edge of the lake, half-dried from a quick dip, half-sunk into the kind of sun-warmed bliss that made you forget you ever had responsibilities. The crown of bone and branch was looped casually around my arm, less a symbol of victory now and more an oddly fashionable bracelet. My shirt was somewhere off to the left, crocs kicked off to the right, and my bass-axe leaned against a nearby rock, close enough to grab if someone really insisted on starting problems.
Sif lay beside me, belly-up, her paws twitching every so often like she was chasing something particularly unfortunate in her dreams.
And me?
I was doing something radical.
Relaxing.
Properly. On purpose. I was a guy who had just survived mind control, court politics, regime change, and seasonal deicide, and I made the radical decision that no, I would not be answering emails today.
A few campers passed by on the trail behind me, their conversations dipping into nervous whispers. One of them cleared their throat, hovering like they weren't sure if interrupting was worth it.
"Hey, Lucas?"
I cracked open one eye.
"Yeah?"
The camper shifted awkwardly. "Uh. Shouldn't you, like... be helping? We're still prepping. You know. Just in case?"
I smiled behind my sunglasses, slow and easy.
"You guys have been prepping for days," I said, stretching out like a sun-drunk cat. "Guess what? The invasion's not coming."
That earned me a pause. Long enough for doubt to start creeping in.
"Wait. Really? You sure?"
"Gods told me to take a vacation," I said, voice relaxed, unbothered. "Pretty sure that means we're good for now."
Another camper scratched his head. "Huh. Weird. We were told to stay sharp."
"Then stay sharp," I said with a shrug. "I'll stay moisturized."
There was a beat of silence. Then someone snorted — a stifled, helpless little laugh — and the tension broke. They moved on, a few still glancing back over their shoulders.
I wasn't going to explain the full diplomatic collapse of the Faewylds and the power vacuum it left behind. Not while I had a cold drink, a sunbeam, and a wolf using my foot as a personal leg rest.
So I tilted my sunglasses down, closed my eyes again, and slept.
Right there in the sun.
The warmth seeped into my bones, the kind of slow, heavy contentment that made you forget you'd ever been cold. I was half-asleep, drifting somewhere between dreams and the real world, when the air shifted.
Not with magic. Not even danger.
With... disappointment?
I opened one eye.
A small girl stood at the edge of my towel — barefoot, dressed in a soot-stained tunic, a tiny clay pot flickering steadily with flame cradled in one hand. She looked about twelve years old, but the kind of twelve that could set cities on fire if sufficiently annoyed.
Hestia.
She looked tired.
"You," she said, voice low and precise, "are the single most exhausting demigod I've dealt with in centuries."
I blinked, cautiously. "…Hi?"
She took a step forward. The air warmed by ten degrees.
"I had to crash a council meeting," she said, her voice rising a fraction. "A council meeting on Olympus, mind you, where not a single god believed me when I said the apocalypse was happening—based on a letter from a demigod who decided it was a fantastic idea to go gallivanting off into forbidden territory."
Ah.
Right.
She wasn't done.
"You gave that letter to a child who didn't even know what it said. Just handed it over and disappeared into a portal."
"I—technically I was trying to stop the apocalypse," I said, pushing myself up slowly on my elbows.
Her flame pulsed.
"I had to lie to the entire camp," she hissed. "Because gods forbid demigods ever learn there are other pantheons out there. So while you were busy stabbing your way through fairy politics, I was here —on the ground convincing frightened children that monsters were on the march. That they should prepare for war, without ever telling them who they were about to fight."
My mouth opened.
She wasn't finished.
"The gods were the ones combing the woods, sweeping every mushroom circle, sealing every glade and hollow we could find — because you gave no details. Just 'incoming apocalypse' and poof."
Sif, beside me, opened one eye, took one look at the scene unfolding, and very wisely pretended to be asleep again.
"And now," Hestia said, voice low and dangerous, "I find you here. Shirtless. Sunbathing. Thriving."
I raised a hand slowly, peace offering style. "I just got back—"
"Do you think that matters?" she cut me off, stepping closer. The air around her was a furnace now, low, steady and merciless.
"You almost caused a panic. You broke the chain of command. you left children thinking they'd have to face death by nightfall."
I looked down at the towel. The Coke can. The lake. The wolf.
"…Sorry," I said, quietly.
"You should be," she replied.
The heat didn't lessen. But her shoulders dropped, just a fraction.
"I covered for you," she said, quieter now. "But don't make me do it again."
She turned, the flame in her clay lamp guttering low.
"Come see me later," she said over her shoulder. "You owe me a conversation."
And with a flicker of cinnamon-scented smoke, she was gone.
Sif huffed a breath through her nose and gave me a single pitying glance before curling tighter against my leg.
"Yeah," I muttered, flopping back onto the towel. "Okay. Definitely deserved that."
I found Rhea sitting by the archery range, hunched over a battered bow like it had personally offended her. A small mountain of snapped arrows lay in a pile beside her, each one looking increasingly like it had lost a fight with a temper tantrum.
She looked up as I approached, her expression flat.
"You're alive," she said, in the same tone you might use to announce mold growing on bread.
"Mostly," I replied, dropping down onto the bench beside her with a grunt.
She gave me a slow once-over, taking in the still-scuffed shirt, the faint scorch marks along my sleeves, the gleam of the crown looped casually around my arm like a particularly questionable bracelet.
"You better start explaining."
I held up both hands in surrender. "Can't. Gods' orders."
She stared at me, unblinking.
I sighed, reaching down to scratch Sif behind the ears as she flopped against my legs, basking in the shade like a very spoiled, very judgmental cat.
"I can tell you this much," I said, voice low. "I went into a hell pocket full of color-coded danger. Recruited a few legendary figures. Deposed a would-be monarch trying to light the world on fire."
I paused.
Her stare sharpened.
"And I may have," I added casually, "broken prophecy."
The broken bow slipped from her fingers into her lap with a soft thud.
"Do you know how long you've been gone?" she asked, her voice thin, tightly controlled.
I opened my mouth to guess, thought better of it, and simply looked at her.
She didn't blink.
"A week," she said, through gritted teeth. "You were gone for a week."
I gave her my best sheepish smile. "Time's weird in other realms?"
"I thought you were gonna be away for a day. Two, max."
"Technically," I offered, "I never specified anything."
Rhea groaned and dragged her hands down her face like she was trying to erase the past week by friction alone.
"I swear to the gods, Lucas—"
"I've met them now," I interrupted helpfully. "They're very stressed. It's a whole thing."
She gave me a look that could have cut marble.
"You're not getting out of telling me the full story later," she muttered, tossing the broken bow aside like she might start snapping planks with her teeth next.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She leaned back, arms folded across her chest, watching me with narrowed eyes.
"You look like hell."
"Please. Hell looks like me," I said, stretching out my legs, feeling the aches settle in places I didn't even know I had. "But in its defense, I came back with loot."
"You brought a cursed crown," she said, jabbing a thumb at the bone circlet hanging from my arm. "Alexander the fucking Great's sword. Two gods are probably still arguing your fuck up. And the Athena cabin won't stop pestering me about thanking you for the notes you brought back."
"And a TGI Friday's receipt," I added proudly. "For the archives."
Rhea snorted — the closest thing to a laugh I'd wrung out of her since I sat down.
"Glad you're back, jackass."
"Same," I said, nudging her shoulder lightly with mine.
For a while, we just sat there. Letting the camp settle back into itself — the close thunks of arrows finding targets, the crackle of campfires being rekindled, the easy hum of summer air wrapping itself around us like a blanket.
Then she nudged me back, harder this time.
"So what now?"
I tilted my head back, staring at the blue stretch of sky overhead.
"Now?" I said, voice thoughtful. "Now I wait for the gods to call me up to Olympus."
I settled deeper into the bench beside her, letting the sun soak into my bones.
"In the meantime," I said, "what'd I miss while I was off saving reality?"
Rhea gave me the longest, most unimpressed look imaginable, then rolled her eyes like the motion was muscle memory at this point.
"Well, first of all," she said, drawing it out like she was savoring it, "some guy named Percy Jackson came back from an unlicensed quest. Sound familiar?"
She arched a brow at me.
I placed a hand over my heart, gasping theatrically. "Are you implying I'm a bad influence? I'm pretty sure he went first."
"I'm saying there's a pattern forming."
I grinned wide and innocent, the kind of grin that should have come with a warning label.
She didn't buy it for a second.
"He's the son of Poseidon," she continued, "so naturally everyone thinks he is hot shit. Did something important. a kid of the big three. Camp's practically ready to crown him the next big thing."
"But," I prompted.
"But after riding around with you for a week?" she said, folding her arms. "Not impressed."
"Ahhh," I said, mock-swooning. "Truly, my greatest legacy."
I reached out to ruffle her hair. She smacked my hand away, then, without warning, grabbed a broken arrowhead from the pile beside her and stabbed it into the back of my hand with surgical precision.
I yelped, pulling it free with my other hand as she sat back looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"You missed me," I said, rubbing my hand.
"Like a rash," she muttered.
I wiped the faint smear of blood on my jeans, grinning through the sting.
"So who else made waves while I was off committing crimes against reality?"
"Jasper went out hunting another demigod," she said, pulling a fresh bowstring from her pouch and pretending she wasn't smiling. "This one's closer to home. Somewhere down south."
I nodded, proud. "That boy's growing up. Finally taking quests of his own."
"Yeah," she said, chucking another snapped arrow into the pile. "And everyone's flipping out about Thalia coming back too, everyone is coming back apparently."
I paused. "Thalia. The tree?"
"Not a tree anymore," Rhea said, flicking a twig off her shoulder like it personally insulted her. "Back to being Zeus's kid. Big dramatic entrance. Lightning bolts. Storm clouds. Whole camp threw a party."
"And?" I said, leaning in.
She gave me a flat look.
"Same deal as Percy," she said. "Not impressed."
I barked a laugh, nearly losing my balance on the bench.
"That's your bar now, huh?"
"You fought a Labor of Heracles," she said, deadly serious. "We committed arson together. You spit fire."
"One of my finer talents," I said, solemnly.
She glared.
"Point is, I've seen impressive. Lived it. So no, some girl turning back from tree form and glaring at clouds doesn't exactly move the needle."
"Please," I begged, "tell me you said that out loud."
"To the Aphrodite cabin."
I winced. "Oh, no."
She jerked her thumb at the trash pile of broken arrows.
"Archery range duty. All week."
I clapped a hand over my heart. "You're one of us now."
She gave me a side-eye. "One of what, exactly?"
I spread my arms wide. "The beautifully cursed idiots who open their mouths before thinking."
She sighed heavily. "And you're not gonna help, are you?"
"Absolutely not," I said, already leaning back and basking in the sunlight, "I'm vacationing, gods orders."
She picked up another broken arrowhead.
I rolled off the bench just as she threw it.
Sif barked once like she was cheering for her.
And I couldn't stop smiling.
The shower hissed softly behind me as I stepped out, steam clinging to my skin like a second, hotter version of myself. The water had been blessed — Apollo Cabin perks — and for the first time since returning from the Faewylds, I actually felt clean.
Not just physically, either.
Something about the scalding heat, the hiss of pressure, the citrus-and-sage soap they kept stocked like holy relics — it worked. My muscles felt looser, the bone-deep tension that had wrapped itself around me since the quest finally beginning to uncoil.
I grabbed a towel and rubbed it through my hair, still dripping, still humming something half-formed under my breath.
And then I felt it.
Like the world inhaled — and forgot to exhale.
Two black suns blinked open behind my eyes.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe. I just... watched.
They hung there, silent and vast, bleeding gravity into the corners of my mind. One of them pulsed — brilliant, final, and utterly indifferent.
I waited.
For what, I wasn't sure.
But nothing happened.
No magical artifact dropped from the ceiling. No surge of divine power flooding my veins. No sudden visions, no cryptic knowledge pouring into my head like it had before.
Just... nothing.
I blinked, slowly. Looked around the misty room. Still standing on tile, still holding a towel like some idiot expecting the dramatic moment to come crashing down at any second.
"…Cool," I muttered under my breath. "That's not ominous at all."
I shook off the feeling, tossing the towel around my shoulders.
First things first — there was a music bash tonight.
And for that?
I needed to look dangerous.
Maybe even slightly feral.
Oh who am I kidding, that's how I dress already, I got the murder hobo look figured out.
CP Bank:0cp
Perks earned this chapter: 100CP Exaltation!(Solar) (Generic Exalted) [Modus] Choose a type of Exaltation and any caste that would belong to that type. You are now guaranteed, at some point after your first year here, to attract that Exaltation to yourself. You can choose Dragon-blooded (not Dynast, that's a background, not a type of Exaltation) for free, a Celestial version for 100cp. Sounds great right, much cheaper than the background options?
Think again. This means you have zero experience with your Exalted powers, not even starting on the level of a typical 'player generated' character. You'll have to learn everything from scratch unless you can somehow find a teacher or mentor to train you (better hope they don't use their more developed Exalted abilities to mind-fuck you). Keep in mind all those 'starting character' archetypes from the books had, on average, two or so years of experience with their abilities, something you won't have.
Additionally when you get your Exaltation it WILL be in a public place and people WILL notice it happening, there is no way to avoid this. If you pick a Celestial or Solaroid level Exaltation prepare to be hunted.
Cannot be Taken With Exaltation!(Dragon), or Exaltation!(Solaroid)
Note: Can Happen Sooner than One Year After Acquisition if you so Wish.
Milestones: none.Last edited: Apr 28, 2025431Magus exploratorApr 28, 2025View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 28- Hello protag-kun View contentMagus exploratorMay 1, 2025#1,949The Apollo music bash was in full swing by the time I stepped into the pavilion. Strings, drums, a couple enchanted flutes going off and making people wince—the usual Camp Half-Blood version of chill.
Except, no one was chill.
Conversations stopped when I passed. Heads turned. The air felt heavy. More specifically, the weird vibe surrounding me since I came back. The sky hadn't fallen, sure—but campers had expected war, barricaded the walls, and instead got me crashing in from nowhere looking like I'd just walked off a heavy metal album cover.
So yeah, people had questions.
A guy from Hermes cut across my path. "Well, well. Look who decided to show up."
"Just came for the music and snacks," I said, brushing past.
A girl from Ares stepped in next. "Funny. We were prepping for monsters while you were off... what? Getting a tan?"
"I can't talk about it, but I did get a tan when I got back."
Another voice piped up—one of the younger campers, not even sure who his divine parent was. "Bet you think you're the next big thing. Like a replacement or something."
I blinked. "Replacement for who?"
"Percy," someone snapped. "Don't play dumb."
"I've never even met Percy."
"Sure," the Ares girl sneered. "But the gods are all buddy-buddy with you now, hell for some of us that was the first time we have ever seen then, after that you show up right after a supposed invasion vanishes into thin air. Pretty convenient."
It was getting heated. Not in a "this-is-fine" way, more in a "chairs-are-gonna-fly" kind of way.
Then a voice rang out behind me. "Back off."
Jessie, one of the older Apollo kids, walked forward, arms crossed, face dead serious. "He's not doing anything. He's here for music—which is kind of our thing."
A few other Apollo kids nodded, murmuring backup. But it didn't help.
The Hermes guy stepped forward. "Maybe we will see what else he's here for."
The Ares girl cracked her knuckles.
I sighed, looked down at my axe-bass, and strummed a single, shimmering chord. The notes came sharp and fast—jagged little strikes of melody. The spell pattern was complicated, like tying a knot with your soul. But I pushed through it, stretched the music through sheer will.
Then I cast it.
Otto's Irresistible Dance.
The four loudest hecklers froze. Then they started dancing. Not just awkward swaying—no, we're talking full-body, Broadway-level, musical-theater-nightmare dancing.
One did the worm. The girl from Ares broke into an angry tango with a picnic bench. The Hermes kid tried to moonwalk away and accidentally spun into a cartwheel.
The entire pavilion exploded in laughter. Apollo cabin lost it. Even some of the Hermes kids were howling.
I kept playing—casually now, riding the beat, pretending like this was all part of the show.
After a minute, I let the final note hang in the air. The dancers collapsed, gasping, sweaty, and more humiliated than hurt.
"Next time," I said, slinging the bass over my back, "try heckling someone without a magic instrument."
Jessie grinned. Someone from Demeter cabin clapped. And I headed toward the snack table, needing to be ready for my turn in the bash.
The next morning I got back to the routine. Or something pretending to be it.
Other cabins were watching me—not avoiding me, just giving that half-curious, half-suspicious look. A couple kids from Demeter actually paused their gardening just to whisper and point. The Hermes cabin looked like they were taking bets on what I'd do next.
But my cabin? Apollo came through.
They didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Jessie tossed me a granola bar and a nod. One of the newer kids, Mikey, offered to polish my bass like it was some sacred relic. Someone left an extra towel on my bunk. It was their way of saying: We've got you.
I appreciated it more than I let on.
So after breakfast, I made my way to the sparring ring. Just me—sweatpants, boots, and the straps on my fists tightening for some action. The training field was already alive—steel clashing against steel, wooden dummies getting shredded, the occasional burst of magic sparking midair. Normal stuff.
I stepped up to the ring. Let the whispers ripple again.
Cracked my knuckles, bounced on the balls of my feet, and smiled.
"All right," I called to no one in particular. "Who wants to help me knock the rust off?"
I'd barely gotten a good stretch in when one of the Ares kids strutted into the ring like he owned it. Tall, broad, but a little small—short king build. Probably lifted weights for fun between breakfast and second breakfast.
"Hey, sunshine," he called, cracking his knuckles. "You done playing musician? Let's see what you've got without the guitar solo."
The Apollo kids behind me made a few pointed coughs. One actually started humming Eye of the Tiger. I didn't look back. I just rolled my shoulders and threw one of my half-sisters my bag.
"Keep a hold of Plato."
One of the Athena kids raised an eyebrow. "Why'd you call it that?"
"Well, for one, it was enchanted with spells from his notes. For the other reason... look at the stitching inside."
I smiled—sharp teeth flashing—and a few kids instinctively took a step back. My half-sister opened the bag, looked for the stitching... and laughed when she found it. She quickly pulled the cloth from inside and held it up for everyone to see.
It read, embroidered in golden thread:
"Here is Plato's man."
Then—an embroidery of a chicken nugget.
The Athena kid deflated.
The Ares kid had a smirk like he thought this was going to be funny.
Spoiler: it was.
The bell rang.
He came in swinging—wide arc, all brute force and no grace.
I stepped just left of it and let his momentum carry him right past me.
His side was wide open.
I pivoted, dropped my weight, and drove a single fist straight into his lower back, just under the ribs. Right in the kidney.
Thunk.
His eyes bulged. He dropped his sword, and let out a single, shocked wheeze like someone had unplugged him—then crumpled like a folding chair, out cold before he even hit the dirt.
The sparring ring went dead silent.
Then someone—I think a Hermes camper—whispered, "...yo."
I turned around, casually walked back to my side of the ring, and picked up my towel like I hadn't just ended a fight in five seconds. Jessie gave me a slow clap.
Then I wiped the sweat from my brow and asked, "Who's next?"
A kid stepped out from the sea of onlookers. Dark hair. Sea-green eyes. No armor—just a worn t-shirt and jeans, hoodie tied around his waist. He looked straight at me, then stepped up to the ring.
"Mind if I give it a try?" he asked, voice calm, even.
I blinked. "Sure. You new here?"
He looked surprised, just a flicker, then offered his hand. "Percy. Percy Jackson."
I shook it. "Lucas Walker."
The handshake was firm. Friendly. Strong grip too.
Behind me, someone from Apollo let out a tiny gasp. Figures.
I stepped back into the ring, eyed the blade, raised my fists.
"So... are we doing magic, or...?"
Percy gave a little half-smile as he tightened his grip on the hilt. "Let's start with melee. See how long we can keep it clean."
"Fair enough," I said, rolling my shoulders. The bell rang.
Percy moved fast. That bronze blade flashed in the light as he came at me with a clean diagonal swipe.
I moved. Not back—around. Slid low, let the blade pass over my shoulder, then pivoted and came in close. He adjusted instantly, bringing the sword around again in a tight arc. I blocked it with the meat of my forearm, teeth clenched, felt the impact ring through my bones like a tuning fork as a gash formed on where he hit.
He stepped back, readjusting.
The next series came faster—swipes and thrusts, meant to probe my guard. A stab toward my side—I spun away. A high slash—I caught the flat of the blade between my palms with a smack.
The crowd gasped.
Percy blinked and I grinned.
With a sharp twist, I pushed the blade away, forcing him to retreat a step. He planted his feet, eyes locked on me now, trying to reading me like I was a page in a book.
We circled again. He attacked. I dodged. He stabbed low—I pivoted high. He spun, brought the sword down in a vertical arc—I slipped sideways, grabbed his wrist, and went for the disarm. But he slipped out.
The kid was fast. But I was faster.
Still, I hadn't found my shot yet. Not a clean one. I needed something decisive—a shot to the ribs, a knockout to the temple. Something to put a period on this spar.
The crowd was growing. Campers from every cabin drifting toward the ring.
Percy adjusted his stance. He came in again—overhead strike, tight and controlled, aiming to slam the flat of the blade down on my shoulder.
Too slow.
I shifted sideways, just enough so that he committed and the blade went to the ground. My crocs met the flat of the sword with a loud clang, and the blade went flying—high and spinning—over the heads of the crowd. It clattered somewhere near the archery range, a good twenty feet away.
Percy blinked, stunned for half a second, then his hand shot toward his pocket for backup plan. Probably a dagger.
Too late.
I stepped in and decked him. A clean, brutal sucker punch—straight to the face. His head snapped back. He stumbled, feet dragging across the dirt. Blood burst from his nose. But he didn't fall.
He twisted, arms wide, using the momentum to keep from hitting the ground flat. Landed on one knee, one hand braced in the dirt, blinking fast.
The crowd lost it—gasps, shouts, whoops from the Apollo kids. Someone from Hermes shouted, "Let's GO!"
Percy wiped the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. Then looked up at me—still dazed, still swaying slightly. But not out. Not even close.
I tilted my head, gave him a nod. "You good?"
He grinned, blood on his teeth. "That all you got?"
I smiled back.
Percy wiped his nose again, this time grinning wide. "All right," he said, cracking his neck. "Powers allowed."
He swiped a hand through the air. Behind him, the camp's water cooler—the one reserved for post-spar hydration—exploded. Water burst from its sides, rushing toward him like a tide answering a call. It twisted, spiraling around his shoulders, forming into a whip and shield.
The campers gasped.
I raised a brow. "Okay. kinda cool." Then I took a breath. Deep. Let it settle in my chest. Then my eyes lit up in a bright vivid blue.
The crowd took another collective step back. Someone shouted, "What the—"
Too fast for Percy to to process. I raised my hand, fingers spread wide—and the rushing water froze mid-air, catching Percy mid-summon.
Before he could do anything more, I swept both hands outward. Hard.
From my palms, a roar of wind blasted forward—a hurricane in miniature. And with my other hand, a searing jet of fire. Fire and wind, screaming across the arena.
Percy didn't panic. He gritted his teeth and pulled on the water. Even frozen, it heard him. Cracked and rushed to his defense.
The flames slammed into his shield of water, sending steam skyrocketing into the air. The crowd could barely see us now—just silhouettes inside the mist.
I stepped forward, the wind hand sweeping down. The steam followed, sending hot steam straight to Percy face.
Then I lifted my other hand, the one which I blasted him with fire.
"Time for the grand finale."
The ground answered. Right under Percy's feet, the packed dirt swelled and erupted in a geyser of stone.
Percy's eyes went wide. He shot upward—launched like a volleyball out of the ring. Landed with a thud on the soft grass just outside the sparring line.
Silence...
The crowd exploded. Cheers, laughter, shouts. Someone screamed, "HE JUST YEETED THE SON OF POSEIDON!"
I stood in the ring, breathing hard, very sweaty from the heat.
Percy sat up, coughing once, wiping more blood from his nose. Then he gave me a thumbs-up from the ground.
"Okay," he said. "That one's yours."
I offered a hand.
The applause was still fading when the unmistakable sound of thundering hooves rolled over the grass.
Chiron. Full gallop. Clipboard clutched tight. Mane tousled by sheer exasperation.
The crowd parted like Moses had rolled up with a zoning violation. He came to a sharp halt just outside the sparring ring, glaring at the cratered ground, the frozen puddle of what used to be a water cooler, and the wisps of steam curling off the air like we'd summoned a volcano.
"I just said you were getting back into camp routine to the gods!" he shouted, voice sharp enough to slice through armor. "Not dueling Poseidon's son in an open-air brawl! Are you out of your mind ?!"
I blinked. "Technically, it started as a normal spar."
Percy coughed from the grass, raising a thumb. "And we did keep it melee for, like, a full minute."
Chiron gave him a glare that could've kill.
"You exploded the water cooler."
"It was for dramatic effect," Percy offered helpfully.
He turned the glare on me. "You launched someone through the air."
"In fairness, he landed fine."
"Oh, excellent. That makes the scorch marks on the grass, and the terrified satyrs who ran for the hills to warn me we were under attack completely understandable."
Percy leaned toward me. "Are we getting detention?"
"No," Chiron said flatly. "You're getting stable duty. One week. Each."
Percy groaned. "Do I at least get hazard pay?"
"You get a shovel."
Chiron exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he was trying to prevent a migraine.
"Welcome back, Lucas," he muttered.
"Happy to be here."
The stables smelled like a crime. Like something had died. Twice. Then got kicked by a pegasus and left in the sun just long enough to ferment.
I gagged. Again.
I had a shirt tied around my face like a makeshift gas mask, but it did nothing. My senses were too sharp. Too blessed, apparently. Every shovel-load felt like an assault on my soul.
"Ugh—by the gods," I muttered, dry heaving as I magicked another pile of divine-grade horse crap into the wheelbarrow using Mage Hand. "This is a hate crime against my nose."
Percy wasn't doing much better. He was scrubbing a stall with the defeated look of someone who once fought monsters but was now losing to ammonia.
"Why do the Huntresses even have horses?" he grumbled, waving flies away from his head. "I thought they ran around in the woods. Like... I dunno. Ninjas."
I flicked my wrist and levitated another spadeful of misery into the cart. "Apparently, they were big horse girls back in the day. Old-school. Like Mongol Horde vibes. Artemis was really into the whole 'ride fast, shoot fast' aesthetic when they were still in Europe. Think they keep it for when the world goes full madmax,"
Percy groaned. "Great. So they used to cosplay as horse girls."
"Yup. And now we get to clean up after them."
And we both gagged again. Somewhere in the distance, a pegasus neighed like it was laughing at us.
I was halfway through dragging a wheelbarrow of pegasus droppings when I heard Percy's voice — sharper than usual.
"Hey. That's uncalled for."
I looked up, blinking sweat from my eyes. Percy was squared up in front of one of the larger pegasi — a grey-spotted beast with flared nostrils and the kind of expression that made you think it was judging your credit score.
The pegasus neighed.
Percy crossed his arms. "You don't even know him."
More neighing. Louder this time. A huff. A tail flick.
Percy's nostrils flared. "Well maybe if you weren't so busy being an opinionated hay vacuum, you'd know what he actually did."
I blinked. "Everything okay over there?" I called.
Percy glanced over. "He's talking trash about you."
"What? I didn't do anything to it!"
I stared at the pegasus. It neighed again. Snorted. Tossed its head in my direction with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed judgy diva energy.
"All I'm saying," Percy muttered, "is that you're being rude. And kind of a jerk."
Another whinny. Whatever the horse said, Percy's eyebrows shot up like it really crossed a line.
That was it.
I wiped my hands on my pants, reached for my axe-bass leaning against the stall door, and strummed a clean, resonant chord. The strings hummed with arcane rhythm — and just like that, Speak with Animals spell slipped into place. A whisper across the world's frequency, tuning me into the horse channel.
"—and he walks around like some kind of badass," the horse was saying, "but here he is hauling shit from the mare's. And don't get me started on the crocs."
I blinked. Then said, "Wow. That's a lot of attitude for someone who sleeps in a haybox and thinks apples are fine cuisine."
The pegasus froze. Its ears swiveled toward me. "Wait—you understood that?"
I nodded. "I'm magical motherfucker."
Percy gave me a wary side-eye. "I don't know if this is going to de-escalate things…"
"Let's find out," I said, strumming a few dramatic notes for emphasis.
The pegasus glared. "You know what? Fine. You want honesty? Your fashion sense is horrendous."
I stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the smell of hoof fungus and crap on your tail."
We stared each other down.
Percy groaned, grabbing a shovel like it might be needed for crowd control. "I hate everything about this conversation."
I offered a slow grin. "Hey, man. I'm just getting to know my customer."
The pegasus flicked its tail. "And I'm regretting even breathing the same air as you."
"Good talk," I said, strumming a final note to cancel the spell.
Back to work, hauling shit.
CP Bank:0cp
Perks earned this chapter: None.
Milestones: none.