XVIII| the daughter of Hermes makes a new choice

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By the time they burst onto the street, the scene that unfolded before them was a grim tableau of defeat. The air, thick with the acrid scent of ozone and freshly spilled ichor, hummed with a palpable dread.

Dozens of campers and hunters, their orange shirts stained crimson and their armour dented, lay sprawled across the asphalt and marble steps, their groans a mournful symphony of pain. Some lay still, too still.

Not far from the main doors, a colossal, jagged block of ice shimmered ominously. Imprisoned within it, like a prehistoric fly in amber, was Clarisse La Rue, her usually fierce expression frozen in a rictus of shock, and her trusty chariot, its bronze plating gleaming dully through the frigid prison. A Hyperborean giant must have ambushed her, its breath a literal weapon, turning one of Camp Half-Blood's fiercest warriors into a silent, icy monument.

The earth usually thrumming with the centaurs' hooves was eerily silent. A chilling thought, a cold knot in Theo's stomach, suggested they were either scattered in terrified flight or, worse, utterly annihilated, leaving no trace but the lingering metallic tang of disintegration.

The very air vibrated with their oppressive presence. A formidable semi-circle of monstrous forms and chillingly familiar faces ringed the building, standing a mere twenty feet from the sanctuary's besieged doors. Their numbers seemed endless, a dark tide poised to engulf the last bastion of Olympus.

Kronos's vanguard stood at the forefront, a chilling tableau of betrayal and ancient malice: Daphne Evans, her hair stark against the dark, militaristic uniform of the Titans, stood with an unnerving stillness. Beside her, Ethan Nakamura, his single eye glinting with a cold, almost fanatical resolve.

Then there was the unnamed demigod who had served as Daphne's guide to this dark path, his features shadowed by a sneer of triumph. The dracaena queen, her serpentine scales gleaming like polished jade beneath her grotesque green armour, hissed softly, her twin swords gripped ready. And flanking them, two towering Hyperboreans, their icy blue skin radiating a bone-deep cold, their heavy clubs resting on their shoulders like tree trunks.

But Theo's gaze, like a compass needle drawn to a malevolent north, was transfixed on Daphne. Every nerve ending in his body screamed her name, a silent, desperate question. He wasn't alone.

Ellis, Oliver, and Valentina, their faces a mixture of shock and profound sorrow, stared at their former friend, a ghost from a different life, a betrayal made manifest. They hadn't seen her in ages, and the sight was a cruel punch to the gut.

Even amidst the chaos, the dust, and the scent of imminent destruction, Daphne remained eerily composed, her face a mask of impenetrable indifference. Her hand, gloved in dark leather, gripped the hilt of her sword with a white-knuckled intensity.

Unbidden, subconsciously, Theo's eyes dropped to her left wrist. A pang, sharp and devastating, lanced through his chest. The silver bracelet, intricately woven with tiny charms, the one he and Charlie had spent an entire afternoon crafting for her, was gone. No, not just gone. It had clearly been removed. The absence spoke volumes, a louder declaration of her allegiance than any banner or uniform.

Of Prometheus, the treacherous fire-bringer, there was no sign. Theo cursed him internally. The slimy weasel was doubtless cowering in the deepest recesses of the Titan headquarters, pulling strings from the shadows.

But Kronos himself, a towering figure of ancient power and malice, stood directly opposite the doors, his colossal scythe, dark as a moonless night and humming with primordial energy, resting against his shoulder. The very air around him seemed to warp, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. The only thing, the only thing, standing between him and total victory was...

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