Betrayed But Never Forgotten

I beat a camper

Lukes pov

After the painful training lesson, we warriors sought refuge by the beach, our cloaks billowing in the sea breeze like dark wings. The fabric—enchanted by Hecate herself—shimmered with constellations that mirrored the ones starting to appear in the twilight sky. I perched on a jagged rock, my feet dangling above the surf that crashed against the shore with unusual ferocity.

"I wonder when Percy will get back," I said, my eyes tracing the turbulent waves that seemed to mirror our collective unease. The water roiled and churned as if Poseidon himself was in a foul mood—perhaps he was, with his son gone on a mission that none of us fully understood.

Annabeth sat nearby, her stormy eyes reflecting the darkening horizon. Her fingers nervously traced the worn hilt of her dagger as she leaned against Piper's shoulder. "Listen, we're sorry," she said, her voice barely audible above the crashing waves. "We didn't even know we were possessed." The guilt in her voice was palpable, hanging in the salt-laden air between us.

I turned to face her fully, noting how the shadows under her eyes had deepened in Percy's absence. "It's fine. We all forgive you, even Percy, I think." The words felt hollow even as I spoke them—forgiveness was easy to offer but harder to feel, especially after what had happened.

She nodded, but the tension in her shoulders remained. The possession had left scars deeper than any monster's claws could inflict—invisible wounds that festered with self-doubt and regret.

Charles sat with his arm protectively around Silena, their silhouettes forming a single shadow against the dying light. His calloused fingers, stained with engine grease that never fully washed away, interlaced with hers. "Well, he should be back soon," he offered, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed his concern.

Nearby, Bianca sat cross-legged on the sand, a whetstone in one hand and a wicked Stygian iron knife in the other. The blade scraped against the stone in a rhythmic hiss that somehow complemented the sound of the waves. An array of already-sharpened weapons lay arranged beside her in a perfect semicircle—daggers, throwing knives, and what looked suspiciously like a collapsible spear.

"Stealth! I got a bone to pick with you!" A voice called out from behind us, cutting through our moment of relative peace.

I turned slowly, as did the rest of the warriors—except for Zoe, who continued sharpening her knives with deliberate, unbroken focus. The sound of scraping metal became slightly more aggressive, the only indication she'd heard the interruption at all.

Jason Grace and Nick strutted toward us across the sand, their Camp Jupiter purple shirts a stark contrast to our dark attire. Jason's golden hair caught the last rays of sunlight, his face set in that perpetual expression of entitlement that made my fingers itch for my dagger.

I slid down from my perch, landing lightly on the sand. The grains shifted beneath my feet as I straightened to face him, noting how he subtly positioned himself upwind—a small power play that didn't go unnoticed.

"What do you want, Jason, Nick?" I asked, keeping my voice level despite the irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

Jason's eyes scanned our group, his confident stance faltering slightly when his gaze landed on Zoe's impressive collection of freshly sharpened blades. He swallowed visibly before regaining his composure. "Is Torture no longer here?" he asked, stating the painfully obvious with a smirk.

The mention of our absent friend sent a ripple of tension through our group. I stepped forward, feeling the others shift behind me in silent support. "You were there when he had to go into Tartarus to protect your sorry butts," I reminded him, the memory sending a chill down my spine despite the warm evening air.