✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ᴏɴᴇ

A Storm Brewing.

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    NEWS OF THE LATEST ARRIVAL AT CAMP HALF-BLOOD HAD SPREAD LIKE WILDFIRE. By the time the lunch conch sounded, every demigod at camp—from the newest arrivals to the most seasoned year-rounders—had heard about the mysterious newcomer and the dramatic fight that had unfolded right at the edge of the camp’s magical borders. Rory first caught wind of it from her best friend, Valentine Gibson, who, true to form, was nearly vibrating with excitement. Gossip was practically Valentine’s second language.

    "Everyone’s saying he killed the Minotaur," Val said breathlessly, sliding onto the bench in front of Rory with the grace of someone who had definitely skipped archery practice to gather more details. Her wide-eyed wonder quickly turned to dramatic exasperation. "Can you believe it? The most I've ever killed were those hellhounds last year."

    The hellhounds in question hadn’t exactly been a glorious battle. Summoned during a prank gone wrong—thanks to the Stoll brothers and their endless need for chaos—they had terrorized the cabins for hours before anyone managed to get things under control. Rory could still vividly remember the weight of a full-grown hellhound crashing into her, knocking the breath out of her lungs. It hadn’t been funny at the time—still wasn't—but Valentine had taken the whole thing as a badge of honor. Slaying monsters, even ones let loose by accident, was no small feat for a daughter of Aphrodite.

    Still, Rory had to admit, it did sting a little. Most demigods spent their whole lives training, sparring, preparing—and many would never be faced with anything more than the most common of monsters. Valentine, despite her sunny disposition and fierce loyalty, was among those unlucky ones. Monsters seemed utterly disinterested in her, forcing her, summer after summer, to focus on sword drills and ancient Greek conjugations while she itched for something more. Rory supposed it wasn’t entirely fair. Maybe monsters just didn’t see a daughter of Aphrodite as much of a threat. They probably went hunting for bloodier, more dangerous prey.

    But she kept that thought to herself. She knew better than to bruise Valentine’s ego; besides, it wasn’t really Val's fault. It just made them both wonder, sometimes, what the point of it all was. Were they here to become heroes? To sharpen their skills for a battle that might never come? Or just to waste away their best years singing campfire songs and braiding each other’s hair? Rory, who had been living year-round at Camp Half-Blood for nearly four years now, often feared the latter.

    Rory and Valentine had decided against joining the crowds who had scattered out into the sunny strawberry fields for lunch that day. Instead, they stuck to the almost-empty dining pavilion, its long, worn tables nearly deserted save for a few diehard campers who preferred shade to sun. The air was warm and sweet with the smell of strawberries drifting in on the breeze, mingling with the sound of distant laughter and the faint clatter of weapons from the training grounds.

    Usually, strict tradition dictated that campers sit only at their assigned god’s table, lest they risk some divine offense. But Rory and Val had long since stopped caring about the gods’ rules when it suited them. They picked a table at random, the marble smooth beneath their fingers, and sat close enough to talk without raising their voices. The pavilion, open on all sides, let the sunlight spill in golden pools across the stone floor, and Rory found herself tapping a restless rhythm against the tabletop, her mind still turning over the day's rumors.

    "He must’ve been pretty powerful if he had the Minotaur after him," Rory murmured, barely glancing up from her plate as she pushed her food around with her fork. Her movements were slow, mechanical, the edge of her metal utensil scraping softly against the worn ceramic with each absentminded swirl.