✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ

Clash of Titans.

⚡

   THE HERMES CABIN ERUPTED INTO EXCITED CHATTER the moment Rory stepped into the ring. Anticipation crackled in the air like static, rippling through the crowd of campers now pressing forward for a better view. The whispers rose in volume—bets were being made, favorites declared, and more than a few cheers echoed as the promise of a real showdown loomed.

    Everyone knew this wasn’t going to be a quick spar. This was Luke and Rory—two of the most experienced demigods at Camp Half-Blood. And neither of them liked to lose.

    Amid the rising din, Percy leaned toward Rory, blinking in confusion.

    “Uh… aren’t you going to get your sword?”

    Rory simply shot him a crooked smirk, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ve got my own.”

    She held up her empty hand, fingers spread as if gripping air. Then, with a sharp inhale and a flick of her wrist, light bloomed between her fingers. The glow intensified, pure white and edged in gold, coalescing into the shape of a hilt. With a faint, high-pitched hum, the light expanded—morphing, taking form—until a sword of radiant light shimmered in her grasp. Its edges pulsed, the air around it shimmering with heat.

    Percy gaped. “Oh. Cool.”

    "Showoff," Luke muttered under his breath, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement, raising his own weapon.

    Then, without warning, Rory lunged.

    The clash of their swords hushed the whispers immediately like a lightning strike—sparks flying as celestial bronze collided with raw, radiant light. Rory pressed the advantage, her strikes coming in swift arcs that glowed against the duller metal of Luke’s blade. She moved like she was dancing, her feet light and deliberate, every blow aimed with intention.

    Luke blocked her initial flurry with practiced ease, falling back on his years of experience. His parries were forceful, his movements tight and efficient, each step calculated to guide the rhythm of the fight back into his control.

    But Rory was relentless.

    She ducked low, spun beneath his guard, and came up swinging. Still, Luke caught the strike, their blades locking in a shower of sparks. They weren’t fighting to kill or even to incapacitate, of course—not here, not now. This was training. A chance to test their limits, push each other to the brink, but never to cross that line. Still, the intensity of it felt real enough. With a grunt, he pushed her back and retaliated with a powerful overhead swing—only for his sword to pass right through the shimmering edge of her blade as if it weren’t there at all.

    Rory had let her weapon phase through his at the last second.

    Luke stumbled, thrown off by the lack of resistance. But he recovered fast, too fast. They knew each other’s styles too well—had trained too long together to be easily outmatched. He planted his feet and caught her next strike mid-swing, eyes narrowing with renewed focus.

    “Still playing dirty,” he said through a grin.

    “Just playing smart,” she shot back, breathing hard.

    Rory surged forward, her blade a blur of light. She struck high, low, then spun to the side with a sweeping arc. Luke blocked all of them, but a few came close—although not close enough. He began to shift into defense, trying to find an opening. He was starting to slow.

    So was she.

    Her arms ached from the effort, sweat dampening her brow. Her breath came faster, sharper. But she didn’t let up. Neither did he.