𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʏ-ꜱɪx

The Boy in the Basement.

🧶

As they pressed on, the darkness began to wane, replaced by a faint glow ahead. Rory’s light grew brighter in response, pulsing like a heartbeat, as if guiding them toward the exit. The oppressive weight of the labyrinth—the twisting corridors, the shifting walls, the ever-present sense of being watched—began to ease. The air grew less stagnant, no longer thick with the scent of damp stone and ancient dust. A whisper of fresh air reached her, cool and crisp, carrying with it the distant scent of pine.

The labyrinth’s walls widened, the once-constricting passage now a broad tunnel, its stone edges uneven, as if reluctant to release them. The light ahead grew stronger, its warmth beckoning them forward. And then, with a final push, they stumbled out into the open.

The first thing Rory noticed was the sky—open, endless, blindingly blue. For a moment, it was disorienting, the sheer vastness pressing down on her after so long spent underground. The sun, high overhead, was almost too bright after the dim glow of her conjured light, making her squint as her eyes adjusted.

She inhaled sharply, filling her lungs with air that tasted real—carrying the scent of pine needles, fresh earth, and a faint hint of salt from the Long Island Sound. It grounded her, reminded her that she had made it out. They had made it out.

Her gaze swept across the familiar terrain of Camp Half-Blood, and for a fleeting moment, a ghost of nostalgia flickered in her chest. The strawberry fields stretched out before her, their rows lush and vibrant under the midday sun. The cabins stood in their neat horseshoe formation, each one distinct, radiating the presence of its patron god.

But something was wrong.

This wasn’t the same Camp Half-Blood she had left behind.

The air buzzed with tension, an undercurrent of urgency in every movement. Demigods weren’t lounging by the lake or training in the arena for sport—every single one of them was dressed in full battle armor. Chest plates gleamed, helmets glinted, and weapons were strapped to belts or clutched in tense hands.

Near the entrance they had just emerged from, a team of campers was setting up defenses. Razor wire crisscrossed the ground, hidden by thin layers of dirt. Pits filled with Greek fire had been carefully positioned, the green flames flickering ominously in their trenches. Rows of sharpened stakes jutted out at angles, designed to break a charge. Even the dryads, who usually preferred to avoid violence, stood armed with bows, their quivers full of arrows tipped with celestial bronze. Satyrs moved through the crowd, gripping wooden cudgels and shields made from thick slabs of tree bark.

The Athena Cabin had set up a command tent at the heart of it all, maps and battle plans spread out on makeshift tables. Campers darted in and out, relaying orders, their faces grim with focus.

They weren’t just preparing.

They were ready.

Rory exhaled slowly, forcing herself to swallow down the knot forming in her throat. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what they were preparing for. She already knew.

This was her fault.

Of course, she had known the war was coming. She and Luke had made sure of it. Every stolen relic, every calculated strike, every move they had made—it had all led to this. But seeing it now, really seeing it, was something else entirely.

Her eyes locked onto a pair of younger campers—maybe thirteen, fourteen—struggling under the weight of their armor as they hurried toward the training grounds. Their swords were too big for them. Their shields too heavy.