The marble hall near the heart of camp stood tall, its doors etched with owls and olive branches. The air inside smelled of parchment and candlewax, cool and steady.
Athena was waiting.
She wasn't radiant or blinding. She didn't need to be. Her sharp eyes pinned Damien in place the moment he entered, studying him the way a blade studies the flaw in its target. She wore long, flowing purple silk robes patterned with subtle designs—owls, olive branches, and other symbols woven in silver thread. Trinkets of polished silver gleamed at her belt and wrists, charms that whispered of wisdom and war. Her purple eyes, clear and commanding, fixed on Damien without mercy. Her presence was both beautiful and intimidating, like a mind honed to a perfect edge. Scrolls lined the shelves in ordered perfection, and a lectern at the center bore a spread of maps and tablets.
"The son of Zeus," she said, not a question. Her voice was silk drawn over steel. "Tell me, what is your father's greatest triumph?"
Damien froze. "Uh… killing grandfather?"
Her brow arched, and he felt heat crawl up his neck. "Ignorance kills faster than any sword," she said, each word precise. "Here, you will learn the history of your world—its victories, its follies, its endless cycles. Knowledge is your first shield, Damien Leventis. You will not remain ignorant under my watch."
By the time Chiron led him out again, Damien felt as if he'd been dissected and put back together.
"Why is Athena the history professor here?!"
Chiron just laughed and led Damien to the next destination.
The next stop was a smaller building that looked more like a mortal classroom. Chalkboards lined the walls, maps of the world were pinned in neat rows, and a faint smell of coffee hung in the air. Behind a desk cluttered with papers sat a man in his thirties, one sleeve pinned neatly at the bicep, his left leg a seamless mechanical replacement that clicked softly as he stood. His violet eyes marked him as Athena's bloodline, though softer than hers.
"Relax," the man said with a wry grin. "I don't bite. Hydra already tried that." He extended his scarred right hand. "Nikolas Stavros. Most just call me Niko."
Damien shook his hand carefully, trying not to stare at the burn scars that ran across his skin. Niko noticed anyway and chuckled. "Consequences of not paying attention," he said lightly, then gestured at the chalkboard. "Humor me. If you're five miles from camp and a stormfront is moving at twenty miles per hour, how long before it's on top of you? And if the ground between you and camp is boggy and halves your pace, which is faster: cutting straight across, or detouring one mile to the road and running back on dry stone?"
Damien blinked. Numbers made his head throb. He did the math out loud, stumbling, frowning, rubbing the ring with his thumb. Niko didn't rush him. When Damien finally muttered, "Detour," Niko snapped his fingers once, pleased.
"Correct. Mortal math, monster stakes. You'll get plenty of both here," Niko said. He tapped his prosthetic with the back of a knuckle, the metal ringing soft. "I didn't lose these just because I was brave. I lost them because I was careless. Bravery without thought is just suicide with better PR. We'll keep you from that."
He slid a simple workbook across the desk. The cover was hand-labeled: Blending In 101. Inside were schedules, reading lists, and pages on things like forged paperwork, public-school transcripts, and how to talk to a social worker without setting off alarms.
"You'll meet me three afternoons a week," Niko said. "You'll also bring me any mortal paperwork they hand you, and we'll make sure your story holds together. Questions?"
Damien shook his head, a little stunned. "No. I—thanks."
"Good. Go get bruised. Tell Thera I sent you." Niko grinned and lifted his bottomless mug in a small salute. "Oh—and learn to love homework. It keeps you alive."
As they walked out, Chiron gave Damien a brief explanation. "Nikolas is a kind man, so much so in fact that he sacrifices his limbs for the lives of his friends. He would have given his life as well, if he didn't shove his last remaining hand into the hydra's mouth himself."
That stunned Damien, causing him to glance back. 'That...fragile man fought a hydra and lived to tell the tale himself?'
The training fields were a bright scar of dust and packed earth under the midday sun. Shouts and the smack of wood on wood echoed off the stone lip of the arena. At its center stood a woman with a twin-bladed axe resting across her shoulders, scar cut clean across one cheek like a slash of white chalk. Her stark white hair and blood-red eyes made her heritage unmistakable.
"Thera Kastor," Chiron said. "Our training director."
Her eyes cut to Damien, measuring. "So this is the lightning rod." Her voice carried without effort. "You'll bleed like the rest, boy."
Chiron's mouth twitched. "I leave him in your care."
"You always do," Thera said, not looking away from Damien. Chiron's hooves clicked away.
She tossed him a wooden sword. He fumbled and nearly dropped it.
"Rule one," Thera said. "Pick it up. Rule two: stop thinking your father's name will keep you on your feet. It won't."
A younger camper—twelve, maybe; quick-eyed, quick-footed—stepped into the ring opposite Damien with a practice spear. Thera nodded once. "Begin."
It was ugly from the start. Damien swung wide; the kid slid inside his 'guard' and cracked him across the ribs with the spear shaft. He stumbled, breath leaving in a rush. He tried again; the kid tapped his knee, then his wrist, then his shoulder for good measure. The ring hummed with quiet interest. Twice Damien almost let the wind answer for him—the air pressed against his skin, willing—but Thera's bark snapped across the arena: "Control it. Or it controls you."
He gritted his teeth and kept going. The third time he hit the ground, sand in his teeth, he stayed there long enough to taste iron and humiliation. Then he planted the sword and pushed up.
"Again," Thera said, unreadable.
They went another round. Damien didn't win. But he stopped flailing. He watched the kid's shoulders instead of the spear. He lasted longer.
At last Thera lifted a hand. "Enough."
The younger camper saluted, banging a closed fist across his chest, and trotted off grinning, sweaty-bright and proud. Damien swayed where he stood. Everything hurt. The world felt a little tilted.
Thera stepped close enough that he could see the fine scratches in the axe's haft. "Rule three," she said quietly, so only he could hear. "Survival first. Glory later. I don't care who your father is. You train like the rest, or you die like the rest. Understood?"
Damien swallowed. "Understood."
"Good." She jerked her chin toward the racks. "You're on dawn drills. Every day. We'll make you useful before you get yourself killed. Now get out of my ring."
He didn't remember walking to Hestia's pavilion, only that he ended up on a bench with a hunk of warm bread in his hands and sweat drying cold on his back. The hearth burned steady and kind, the only fire in camp that never asked anything in return.
Athena's words rang in his head—Ignorance kills faster than any sword. Niko's too—Bravery without thought is just suicide with better PR. And Thera's, sharpest of all: Survival first. Glory later.
He tore into the bread and let the heat spread through his chest. For the first time since arriving, the future didn't feel like a wall; it felt like... a road. Hard, steep, but a road he could walk.
"Fine," he murmured to no one. "I'll try."
Somewhere over the trees, the persistently bad weather dispersed, like the skies themselves had let out a held breath.