✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜰᴏᴜʀ

Lights Out.

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   PERCY WAS JUST ABOUT TO ASK ANOTHER QUESTION—his brow furrowed, voice already half-raised—when a deep, echoing braaaaaam rang across the valley. The dinner conch. The sound rippled over the hills like a call to arms, cutting him off mid-thought.

    “Eleven, fall in!” Luke called, his voice sharp and authoritative as twenty-some campers poured out of the Hermes cabin like a small army. They moved with practiced ease, forming a line in the common yard by seniority. Luke took his place at the front and Rory stepped in behind him. Percy, however, made his way toward the rear, trying not to get in anyone’s way.

    Campers from other cabins emerged in similar formation, their lines tidier, their numbers smaller. The honorary cabins—Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Artemis—remained quiet and empty, looming like monuments rather than homes. They were pristine and hollow, as if the gods they honored didn’t dare get their hands dirty with the lives of the demigods below.

    The march to the mess hall was a quiet, rhythmic procession, winding up the hill toward the open-air pavilion. The air already smelled of roasted meat, pine, and magic. Satyrs fell into step beside the campers, some chatting quietly with the dryads who emerged from nearby trees. Naiads drifted along the creek, laughing under their breath.

    Rory’s gaze drifted over the lines ahead, catching glimpses of familiar faces—some offering tired smiles, others caught in hushed conversation. Then she caught a flash of pale pink in the Aphrodite line and turned instinctively.

    Valentine was impossible to miss. All her Camp Half-Blood shirts had long since been aggressively dyed a soft rose hue that clashed cheerfully with the standard camp orange. She wore hers tied at the waist, the hem twisted just enough to be deliberate, paired with faded denim cutoffs and a glittering charm belt that jingled faintly when she moved—definitely not regulation. Her hair, of course, was curled to glossy perfection, framing her sharp smile like the petals of some dangerously pretty bloom.

    She was already watching her. Their eyes met across the crowd. Val raised two fingers to her brow in a dramatic mock salute, her lips twitching with amusement. Rory didn’t miss a beat—she tilted her head with exaggerated sweetness and blew her a sarcastic kiss, fingers fluttering off her chin.

    Just a few places ahead of her, leading the Aphrodite line, was Silena Beauregard.

    Rory’s gaze lingered a little longer than it should have—long enough to be questioned, if anyone was looking. But no one was. If Silena noticed Rory's staring, she gave no sign.

    At the pavilion, Cabin Eleven’s table—longer and far more crowded than the others—filled up exceptionally quickly. Rory and Luke, thanks to their place at the front of the line, claimed two of the best seats near the center, facing one another. Percy, late to the shuffle, awkwardly squeezed onto the far end of the bench, wedged between a pair of campers who barely acknowledged him.

    The chatter died down the moment Chiron stepped into view and struck his hoof against the polished marble floor. The resulting sound echoed like a drumbeat, pulling everyone's attention. He raised a goblet in one hand.

    “To the gods!” he declared.

    A chorus followed—“To the gods!”—some enthusiastic, others mechanical, a few barely audible.

    Rory lifted her cup along with the rest, but her words were barely more than a breath. “To the gods,” she muttered, her tone brittle, like she was toasting poison. The familiar bitterness settled under her tongue, too practiced to show on her face.