Morning found the world rinsed clean. The rain had swept the camp bright; leaves dripped from every branch, and the cobbles shone like wet slate. Damien woke with the heavy feeling of sleep that hadn't quite done its job. The storm above Zeus's temple murmured instead of growled—present, but subdued, like a distant crowd.
He sat up slowly. The room felt larger in daylight, emptier. Last night pressed against him in pieces: the pavilion, the hush, the quiet weight on the mattress, the words he wasn't sure he believed. He rubbed his eyes and stood. The ring—still there—caught the light and flickered once, as if reminding him it had opinions.
Chiron was waiting outside the temple when Damien stepped into the morning. The centaur inclined his head. "Walk with me."
They cut across the inner paths. Camp Elysion had already shrugged back into its rhythm—sparring in the training yard, laughter near the mess line, the steady hiss of the forge waking up. Over it all, Hecate's tree stood like the spine of the world, drinking sunlight through a thousand wet leaves. The runes in its bark glowed softly, a pale silver that pulsed with the heartbeat of the camp.
"I had planned to speak with you yesterday," Chiron said, not accusatory. "But I believe you would have appreciated being alone for the night."
"I didn't sleep well," Damien said, and then wished he'd kept that to himself.
"Few do, their first week." Chiron's hooves clicked as they reached the base of the tree. There, a broad spiral stair had been carved into living wood—no nails, no seams, only a path that wound upward between roots and branches. "Come."
They climbed. The air cooled as they rose, shaded by the vast canopy. Prayer ribbons fluttered from knots in the bark—strips of fabric and leather, feathers, coins pressed into sap. Names were scratched here and there, some shallow and young, some worn nearly smooth: small proof that others had made this climb when they needed to look down and remember how large the world was.
"What is it?" Damien asked, touching a rune that shimmered like moonlight trapped under water.
"The keystone of our borders," Chiron said. "Hecate's gift anchors the Veil that keeps monsters wandering and mortals unseeing. When the tree is strong, the camp is strong." He glanced back. "When it weakens, we all feel it."
Damien thought of the night he arrived, the way the world had seemed to tilt. "And the top?"
"The observatory," Chiron said. "We watch the stars for signs. We watch the forest for movement. We watch ourselves for folly." He smiled slightly. "Perspective is an underrated form of magic."
The stairs opened into a platform dotted with bronze fittings and open arches. Higher still, almost hidden in the crown of the tree, Chiron pointed out a second House of Artemis. "It is the closest place in camp to the stars," he said quietly. "Her children are rarely seen, and few in camp even know this temple is here, but it is fitting for the goddess of the moon and the hunt."
"She has children; I thought she was a maiden?"
Chiron nodded, explaining calmly. "Not many know of this, but Artemis often adopts children and gifts them powers similar to that of demigods. Young maidens in need of help, young boys who have no one else, she cares for them and trains them as hunters and protectors, but they are rarely seen, if ever."
It wasn't a closed room so much as a crown: an observatory with telescopes on swivels, star charts weighted by smooth stones, a great circular table etched with constellations. Wind moved easily through; the smells of resin and rain lived here.
Damien stepped to the rail. All of Camp Elysion lay below—rings of temples and shrines like ripples, the training fields, the arena's pale ellipse, the line of Hestia's pavilion near the gate. Beyond the wards, the mortal world was a blur of green and gray under morning mist. From up here, it looked far away.
'There must be some kind of magic going on here-' Damien Thought. 'There's no way this massive camp fits here normally'
"Many of Zeus's children came here when they needed quiet," Chiron said, joining him. "You won't be the first to stand on the edge and measure yourself against the sky."
Damien's fingers tightened on the rail. "How many of them are still alive?"
Chiron didn't answer at once. "Few remain," he said, and the honesty of his statement somehow made it easier to breathe. "But even still you are not alone."
They stood together for a time. The silence wasn't unfriendly. It held the hum of insects, the distant clatter of wooden swords, the soft creak of branches.
"What do you want me to be?" Damien asked at last, eyes on the horizon.
"What do you want to be?" Chiron countered.
Damien let out a breath. "I don't know," he said. "I keep getting the feeling that everyone expects me to do great things, but..." His hand found the ring. "No one's asked what I want."
"I just did- or are you suddenly deaf?" Chiron's mouth tugged at one corner. "You are your father's son. That will shape you. It does not have to define you." He gestured to the charts. "The sky is not one thing. It is light and weather and time. It changes. She carries ships acrost vast oceans, just the same as it crushes them and leaves their cargo to the mercy of her brother. It gives harvests and it denies them. It is not only thunder and destruction."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Learn," Chiron said simply. "Train. Eat. Sleep. Fail where it is safe to fail. Listen to those who have walked this before you. And when it's time to choose who you are—decide."
Damien studied the ring. "Everyone keeps looking at this like it's proof."
"It is," Chiron said. "But it's also a tool. Tools are for work, not worship." He nodded toward a narrow alcove where a brass telescope waited. "Look."
Damien leaned into the eyepiece. The world leapt close—the line where the ward shimmered against the forest, birds split like stitches in the air, far-off rooftops of the mortal coast catching sun. He found the stormline too: a thin bruise of weather crouched offshore, gathering itself into something larger.
"The sky answers you," Chiron said quietly. "It will also test you. Most things worth having do both."
Damien straightened. "Everyone thinks I'm dangerous."
"They think you're untested," Chiron replied. "There is a difference." He considered Damien. "You will have friends. That, I can promise. Perhaps not the ones you expect."
The wind lifted, playing with the pages of a star chart. A faint roll of thunder came from the horizon—so far away it felt like memory, not sound.
"What if I don't want to be what he wants?" Damien asked.
"Then be what you are," Chiron said. "And if they are the same, don't let pride talk you out of it."
They walked the circumference of the crown once, twice. Chiron pointed out landmarks, told the brief histories of scrapes and triumphs that had happened on this very platform—duels stopped by a word, omens read correctly and incorrectly, a night when a meteor shower rained over the camp and every child swore it was for them alone.
"Why bring me up here?" Damien asked finally.
"Because below, the world is loud," Chiron said. "Up here, you can hear yourself think." He paused. "And because you needed to know you have somewhere to stand that isn't a battlefield or an altar."
Damien nodded. The knot under his ribs loosened a little. The camp below looked less like a maze and more like a map: not easy, but legible.
"Come," Chiron said at last. "Breakfast is long gone, but there's always bread at Hestia's fire. Then we'll find you something sensible to wear and someone patient to teach you how not to get your head knocked off with a wooden sword."
"Promises, promises," Damien muttered, and surprised himself with the shape of a smile.
They started down. The runes glimmered beside them, steady as breath. At the first turn, Damien glanced back at the observatory crown. A breeze moved through it, and for a heartbeat the building itself sang, the metal vibrating to let out a soft, soothing sound.
Sighing to himself, Damien turned back down the steps, deciding that he would think more about his future later. For now, it was time to get his hands busy and his mind occupied.