✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱɪx

The Art of War.
 
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   BY THE TIME THURSDAY ROLLED AROUND, Luke’s obsession with uncovering Percy’s godly parent had cooled—at least outwardly. Whether it was a deliberate shift or just a temporary distraction, his focus had moved to the next night’s capture the flag game instead. And when Luke Castellan set his sights on something, the entire Hermes cabin usually suffered for it.

    That afternoon, he had them all in the combat arena for what promised to be four grueling hours of drills, sparring, and strategy. No breaks. No excuses. Just sweat, bruises, and Luke barking out orders like a general preparing for war. Which, in a way, he was.

    Capture the flag might’ve been a game on paper, but to Luke, it was never just that. ND certainly not anymore.

    Rory wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. She wasn't a stranger to the arena, but she currently wasn't as motivated as Luke seemed to be. The afternoon heat was relentless, the smell of sweat and worn leather clung to everything, and her arms were already sore from the previous day's drills. Still, she showed up. She had to keep an eye on Percy.

    They started with warm-ups—basic stabbing and slashing drills against battered straw dummies dressed in faded Greek armor. Percy gave it an honest effort, but his strikes were uneven, sluggish, like the sword was pulling against him. The practice blade he’d chosen was too long, poorly weighted, and clearly not meant for his build. He tried a few others, but none seemed to click. In the end, he returned to the least awful one with a frustrated shrug.

    “I’ll find you something better later,” Luke promised, barely looking at him as he moved through the line of campers correcting stances.

    Rory watched him from across the ring, tightening her grip on her own sword. Luke was pushing everyone hard, but especially Percy. It wasn’t cruel—at least not intentionally. But it was relentless.

    Neither Luke nor Rory had been sleeping much lately. Night after night, they spent in restless sleep, nightmare after nightmare. And Luke? Training was how he coped. Exhaustion was his comfort zone. If he couldn’t sleep, then no one else would either.

    Rory knew the truth: the capture the flag game wasn’t really what Luke was preparing for. It was just the latest excuse to keep moving, to keep fighting, to keep from standing still. Because stillness meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering the last time he had failed—and knowing he couldn’t afford to again.

    Eventually, Luke called for pairs, and the campers shuffled into loose formation. Without hesitation, he stepped toward Percy.

    “For your first bout,” he said simply.

    Chris winced on Percy’s behalf. “Good luck,” he muttered as he passed.

    “Maybe he’ll go easy on me,” Percy said, only half-joking.

    Chris just snorted. “Yeah, okay.”

    Luke Castellan didn’t do easy. Not when training. Not when watching. Not when he thought something important was at stake—which, judging by the sharp glint in his eye, this was.

    Chris drifted toward Rory, raising an eyebrow as if to say Shall we? She nodded, rolling her shoulders and slipping easily into a familiar stance as he took position opposite her.

    Swordplay had never been Rory’s favorite part of camp, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t good at it. Years of practice had shaped her into a formidable opponent, one who fought with careful restraint and sharp control. She wasn't brute force like the Ares kids, and she wasn’t as effortless as Luke, but she knew what she was doing—and more importantly, she knew how to win.