Betrayed But Never Forgotten

Training was painfull

Charles POV

The sun hung like a molten bronze shield in the cloudless sky as I watched the chaos unfold before me. "Stab left, no!! YOUR left!" Luke bellowed, his voice cracking with frustration. The young Hermes camper—a freckle-faced kid whose sword looked twice his size—finally corrected his stance and drove his blade into the straw dummy's left side, sending a cloud of dust motes dancing in the sunlight.

Eight days. It's been eight excruciating days since Percy vanished to Tarturas , leaving us to pick up the pieces and whip these half-bloods into fighting shape. The responsibility fell to us veterans like a Titan's curse. Luke and I drew the short straw with the most volatile cabins: Hermes with their sticky fingers and mischievous grins, Hephaestus with their bulging muscles and tendency to set things ablaze, and Ares—gods help us—with their bloodthirsty sneers and hair-trigger tempers.

Across the field, I could see Silena and Zoe working with the Artemis hunters and Aphrodite cabin—an odd combination of deadly archers and perfumed beauty queens who were, surprisingly, finding common ground in their precision. On the far side of the training grounds, 

Annabeth's analytical voice carried on the wind as she drilled the Athena and Dionysus cabins in tactical formations, while Piper's charmspeak occasionally wafted over, compelling even the most reluctant campers to fall in line.

Bianca had drawn perhaps the most dangerous assignment—corralling the volatile mix of Zeus, Hades, and Apollo cabins on the hillside, where flashes of lightning, eruptions of darkness, and blinding light showed just how close they were to disaster at any moment.

In our arena, Luke was attempting to demonstrate a difficult disarming technique on a burly Hephaestus kid whose biceps strained against his Camp Half-Blood t-shirt. All us warriors were in our training gear; our masks light enough we could breathe as we fight. Meanwhile, I supervised the rest of our motley crew, struggling to correct a hundred mistakes at once as they hacked at practice dummies with all the grace of drunken cyclopes.

Ares himself loomed at the edge of the training circle, his flaming eyes hidden behind wraparound sunglasses, muscled arms crossed over his leather jacket. "When Zeus asked us to train the campers," he growled, "I didn't know it meant us Gods had to get our divine hands dirty." His voice rumbled like distant artillery.

Beside him, Hermes tapped impatiently at his caduceus-turned-smartphone, while Hephaestus absently crushed a chunk of celestial bronze between his fingers, reshaping it into intricate gears. Both nodded in sullen agreement.

I approached Ares with a tight smile. "Do you want my help or not?" I asked, then moved like lightning—a feint, a twist, and suddenly his massive sword clattered to the ground as my blade kissed his immortal throat. The assembled campers gasped as one. Disarming the God of War was like poking a dragon in the eye.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might incinerate me on the spot. His nostrils flared, and the air around us shimmered with heat. Then, remarkably, he grunted, "I guess I'm fine with it," though his eyes promised divine retribution later.

"That's what I thought," I replied, stepping back and turning to the wide-eyed campers. "Now, let's fix that footwork before you all get yourselves killed."

***

As the afternoon wore on, the mood darkened with the lengthening shadows. Luke paced before the assembled campers like a general inspecting troops headed for slaughter.

"Sloppy wrist action," he spat, eyeing a particularly clumsy Ares kid. "Bad stance," he continued, shoving a Hermes camper's foot into proper position with his own. "Unbalanced weapons, no strategy—you all make me sick." Each word fell like a hammer blow.

Behind him, we warriors presented a united front—battle-scarred veterans of too many conflicts. Behind us, the Gods towered, their auras making the air shimmer despite their attempts to appear mortal.

"Today showed how slacking off of training is a sign of weakness," Luke continued, his voice carrying across the now-silent arena.

From the back row came a derisive snicker. "We haven't been slacking off," Jason Grace called out, his perfect features twisted in a smirk. "She's just been showing us the wrong movements." A few of his cronies chuckled, emboldened by their ringleader's defiance.

Luke's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Since I was a warrior I could slightly see under his mask unlike the gods.  A cruel smile played across his lips as he locked eyes with Jason. "If you've all been training properly, I suppose it won't hurt to run six miles today?" His voice was silky smooth, the calm before a storm. "Campers are running six, Gods and Mister Proud are running twenty. Have fun—and no powers allowed." The last part he delivered with particular venom.

The collective groan that rose from the campers sounded like the wail of tortured souls in the Fields of Punishment. The Gods exchanged glances ranging from irritation to outright fury, but none dared challenge Luke—not after what happened last time. Jason's face, meanwhile, had gone from sun-kissed bronze to ashen gray as he realized the price of his arrogance.

"Training is painful," Luke remarked as he rejoined us, watching the campers begin their punishment. His eyes were hollow, haunted by memories I couldn't begin to guess at.

"I agree," Annabeth replied, her stormy gray eyes calculating as always. She twirled her dagger absently, the celestial bronze catching the dying light.

We settled on the benches to watch the spectacle unfold. The younger campers were already faltering, while the more experienced ones paced themselves wisely. The Gods, despite their immortal stamina, were clearly chafing under the "no powers" restriction—Ares looked ready to explode, literally, with every lap.

When it was finally over, the scene before us resembled the aftermath of a battle. Twenty campers lay sprawled across the dusty ground, gasping like landed fish, sweat-soaked and trembling. Jason, who had stubbornly refused to quit despite falling behind, finally staggered across the finish line after two hours, his perfect hair plastered to his forehead, his Camp Jupiter shirt soaked through.

Luke rose to his feet, silhouetted against the setting sun, his face carved from stone. "Campers, that took half an hour. Gods, twenty minutes." His gaze fixed on Jason, who could barely stand. "And Jason, two hours is pathetic. Take the day off—tomorrow will be much worse."

The campers scattered like cockroaches, desperate to escape before Luke changed his mind. The Gods vanished in flashes of divine light, no doubt heading back to Olympus to nurse their wounded pride.

As twilight descended on Camp Half-Blood, an ominous silence fell over the training grounds. The air felt heavy with prophecy—a coiled snake about to strike. I caught Luke's eye, and something in his gaze sent a chill down my spine.

If only we knew how much worse tomorrow would be. If only we could see the shadow of fate that was already descending upon us all, black wings spread wide, talons outstretched, ready to carry away those we couldn't save.