✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ᴇɪɢʜᴛʏ-ᴏɴᴇ

The Messenger.

🌃

The next day, there was commotion everywhere. Shouts, hurried footsteps, the clatter of weapons being gathered. The air buzzed with tension, thick enough to taste. Even from the dim confines of her prison, Rory could tell that Camp Half-Blood was making its final preparations for war. They were on the verge of leaving—marching to their deaths, if they were being honest with themselves.

She sat motionless against the cold stone wall, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, listening. She didn't need to see it to know what was happening. The camp was likely in chaos, demigods arming themselves, making last-minute plans, saying hurried goodbyes. Some of them, she imagined, were trying to hide their fear behind brave words, forced smiles. Others were too angry to be scared—clutching their weapons with white-knuckled grips, ready to strike first and ask questions later.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard footsteps on the basement stairs.

Valentine.

The daughter of Aphrodite appeared moments later, descending into Rory’s dim prison with the same casual ease as before. Clarisse, however, remained stationed at the top of the staircase, arms crossed over her chest, as if she refused to sully herself by stepping into the same space as a traitor.

Valentine, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind.

She plopped down in front of Rory with an air of exaggerated exhaustion, stretching out her legs and leaning back on her hands. She didn’t seem to care much about the fact that Rory was still very much a traitor—someone who, in theory, could still relay information to the very enemy they were about to face.

Not that Rory had any intention of doing that.

If Kronos had wanted her back, he would have come for her. If he thought she was still valuable, he would have sent someone. But no one had come. She was no longer his lieutenant. She was no longer anything.

"I'm staying here," Valentine said suddenly, breaking Rory out of her thoughts.

That caught Rory’s attention. She looked up, brows furrowing slightly.

Valentine seemed to take that as encouragement and continued, “The Ares cabin—” She hesitated, glancing toward Clarisse, whose scowl deepened. The girl huffed and looked away, as if refusing to acknowledge the conversation at all.

“They’ve decided not to take part in the war,” Valentine finished.

Rory frowned.

Not take part? That was… unexpected. No, more than unexpected—it was disastrous.

Even before this, the odds were already stacked against them. Kronos had numbers. Hundreds upon hundreds of warriors at his disposal, some seasoned and deadly, others inexperienced but fanatical in their devotion. Camp Half-Blood had, at best, seventy demigods.

And now, minus the Ares cabin, that number had dwindled even further.

Thirty.

They had no chance.

The Ares cabin’s absence wasn’t just a blow—it was a death sentence. Ares’ children were their best fighters, their front-line warriors. They were the ones who thrived in the chaos of battle, who could turn the tide when everything seemed lost. Without them, Camp Half-Blood wasn’t just outnumbered. They were walking into a massacre.

Still, Rory couldn't bring herself to care.

Let them go. Let them all march to their deaths.

What did it matter to her?