"When Gods Cross Paths."
Miraak, from the roof of Percy's cabin, watched the brats bustling below with interest. Noisy, covered in dirt from head to toe. Some carried bows and amused themselves by shooting arrows at vines not far away; others practiced with swords. And there were even a few riding winged horses, performing clumsy and pompous maneuvers.
The night he brought Percy here—just like the previous one—he hadn't noticed them. But now, Miraak thought, they were truly annoying, as he looked down with disapproval at that so-called training that, to him, was nothing but garbage.
If those kids could hear what Miraak thought about their training, more than one of them would surely draw their sword to challenge him to a duel. But considering where Miraak came from, it made sense. Sometimes, you had to break a few bones while training and fighting in camp. Garbage. Until you've endured every bone breaking in your body, you don't feel the thrill of life and death. And it was nothing that a couple of healing spells couldn't fix anyway.
Of course, he kept those thoughts to himself. In truth, Percy had come out quite well: no broken bones, only a few strained tendons. Miraak healed him before the boy even realized it. Perhaps that was why Percy was now stronger than any other kid in the camp.
And to think Percy looked down on the camp for letting young people fight with real swords and get hurt. It was as if he hadn't realized how many times his own muscles and tendons had been strained from lifting heavy weights. But, well, that much was true—Miraak's method of training was rather effective, throwing in healing spells every now and then while Percy remained unaware. That not only strengthened his endurance and power but also toughened his mind. The problem was that, being just a kid, his hormones sometimes took control; in serious cases, though, he was supposed to maintain the cold focus Miraak had taught him.
Then his gaze shifted to one of the tallest boys in the camp—well-built, walking with confidence, showing no visible weakness, the result of disciplined training. The others around him showed respect; his presence alone commanded it. Blond hair, a friendly smile for everyone.
Miraak tilted his head slightly toward him. "Trash," he muttered under his breath, spitting out the word before turning away with disdain.
"So, are you going to keep staring at me, or are you going to attack so I can have an excuse to destroy you on your own ground? Though honestly, I don't need one if I wanted to," said Miraak, without even looking back.
Behind him, the chubby Mr. D stood with an expression full of irritation and barely contained anger.
"This isn't a place for someone like you," said Mr. D with open contempt, as if he too were ready to fight.
After all, it was his task—or punishment—to protect this place, to make sure that no outsiders who weren't demigods crossed into this territory, enemy or not.
"Someone like me," Miraak repeated calmly before standing up, fixing his gaze on Mr. D. The god, being much shorter, forced Miraak to look down at him. They were, in a way, perfect opposites.
Mr. D was a short, plump man with round cheeks and a red nose—something between a cherub and a badly drawn caricature—with an unkempt beard that made him look even more ridiculous. Miraak, on the other hand, wasn't dressed elegantly at all; he wore the same old jacket as always, but his muscles showed clearly through the fabric, especially when he exhaled like a warrior in control of his breath.
His beard, however, was neatly trimmed. His pale blond hair, pulled back in a Viking-style braid, glimmered under the sunlight, and his blue eyes shone with an intense, cold light as they fell upon the man before him.
Between the two, the one who looked more like a true god was Miraak, with his warrior's bearing and calm dominance.
"And what will you do to drive me out?" asked Miraak, a faint smile curling on his lips as his battle aura grew denser.
"This is not your playground, foreigner. Your muscles and arrogance mean nothing here. This is my domain, and every blade of grass exists because I allow it," replied Mr. D, and the air around him seemed to thicken, as if he were stirring the very trees themselves.
"Are you going to fight, or will you keep showing off your stupid pride?" said Miraak calmly, his tone steady and unimpressed.
The campers, who until then hadn't noticed that both figures stood on the roof of the cabin, finally felt it. They looked up and recognized their camp director—and the stranger standing defiantly before him. The tension between them felt like a storm ready to break at any moment.
To be honest, many of them watched with great interest, wondering whether their director could actually hold his ground, especially when the man standing across from him looked anything but normal.
Some even sided with the stranger; after all, their director wasn't exactly the most beloved person in camp.
"Oooh, they're going to fight. Why didn't anyone tell me? I'd love to see how this ends. Then I'll fight the winner," said a sudden voice that made both of them turn instantly.
There, standing naturally like a colossal statue, was a huge Nordic warrior—muscular, towering, impossible to ignore. They noticed him the moment he spoke; his bright red hair and beard swayed with the wind, and his gaze held an amused interest in both opponents.
"What are you doing here?" asked Mr. D, furious yet cautious at the same time, watching the figure who had appeared out of nowhere—someone who shouldn't even be able to set foot on his territory.
"Me? I came to find my friend Miraak. The old man found another one of those lizards for him," replied the newcomer with a calm smile, spinning his massive hammer between his fingers as if it were a simple wooden tool—despite its colossal size and the metallic hum it made as it moved.
That's right—it was Thor. He had left the hotel from which he normally wasn't allowed to set foot outside. After all, he was a warhead who always caused trouble… but this time, it seemed Odin himself had sent him in search of Miraak. Though, if he wanted to, the All-Father could have easily sent a message through his ravens as he often did. Still, something told Thor that this time Odin preferred to see him act in person.
Meanwhile, the God of Thunder examined the camp with genuine interest. The children stared at him wide-eyed, unable to comprehend that this giant of muscle and lightning had appeared among them without anyone noticing—even when everyone's attention had been fixed on Miraak and Mr. D, seconds away from a potential clash.
"Oh… Greek warriors?" exclaimed Thor with an eager grin. "Do you wish to train with me?" he asked, spreading his arms wide, revealing his tense muscles and the gigantic hammer he wielded with insulting ease.
Immediately, several campers ran off screaming incoherently or pretending they suddenly had urgent tasks elsewhere.
"Hmm… it seems your warriors lack courage," said Thor, turning toward Mr. D, whose expression had grown more rigid. He looked at the thunder god with a mix of anger, distrust, and even slight fear—as if he were ready to summon all his brothers and sisters, and perhaps even his father, if the situation demanded it.
"Oh, come now, drop that," said Thor with a casual wave of his hand. "I'm leaving anyway. I just came to get him," he said, pointing at Miraak. "Unless, of course, you two plan to fight. In that case, I can wait," he added with a teasing smile.
"I don't have time to behave like a barbarian," Mr. D retorted with disdain, turning away with a huff.
Meanwhile, Miraak raised his hand and cast a small spell that flew toward Percy, leaving behind a faint bluish glow. Then he turned away without looking back.
"All right, let's go," he said with his usual calmness.
"Want me to carry you?" asked Thor, resting the hammer on his shoulder with a grin.
"There's no need," replied Miraak.
Mana gathered around his hands, and with a simple snap of his fingers, his body vanished in a surge of energy, leaving behind only a faint echo in the air—he had used a transportation spell.
Thor glanced at Dionysus one last time, a faint, mocking laugh escaping him. Then, he raised his hammer, and his body transformed into a bolt of lightning that, instead of striking from the sky, shot upward toward it, disappearing among the clouds with a deafening roar.
Mr. D remained for several seconds staring at the exact spot where the two men had stood, his face completely serious and his eyes narrowed. Finally, he sighed, turned around, and began to walk away, leaving behind the rooftop of the cabin and the restless murmurs of the campers who still didn't understand what had just happened.