The walk back to camp blurred in Ethan's mind. His side had been patched with a quick field dressing from Michael, though it still throbbed with each step. The pain was secondary to the swirling mix of emotions battling for dominance: relief, anger, pride, and something else he couldn't quite name.
By the time they emerged from the treeline, the adrenaline crash had faded, leaving room for a strange, buoyant feeling to take its place. They had faced a hellhound, an actual hellhound, and lived. Not just lived. Won.
"We actually did it," Sophie whispered beside him, her eyes wide with dawning realization. The bandage on her shoulder was clean and white against her tanned skin, the wound already halfway healed thanks to Michael's magic.
Ben grinned, his earlier rage transformed into a fierce, predatory smile. "Damn right we did. That's what Ares cabin is about." He twirled his spear with newfound confidence, the hellhound's claw now hanging from a cord around his neck.
Ethan said nothing, but something warm unfurled in his chest. It wasn't just that they'd survived, they'd worked together, adapted, overcome. Just like Luke had trained them to do.
The training grounds came into view, and Ethan's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. Several groups of trainees had already returned, clustered in small circles near the weapons racks. Their expressions told the story before any words were exchanged, most looked disappointed, some nursing minor injuries, others simply exhausted.
"Looks like we weren't the first back," Sophie observed.
Some of them looked up as Ethan's group approached, eyes widening at their bloodied appearance. They hadn't fought anything more dangerous than automated training dummies or each other.
"Holy shit," someone whispered. "Did they actually—?"
Ethan caught sight of Silena from Aphrodite's cabin, her normally perfect hair disheveled, a scratch across her cheek. She was sitting with her team, shoulders slumped in defeat. Nearby, the Stoll brothers were comparing what looked like minor electrical burns, their flag attempt clearly thwarted by one of the magical traps.
"They never even made it to the monsters," Ben muttered, a hint of pride creeping into his voice as he surveyed the other trainees.
"Well, look what we've got here," a growl interrupted their commentary.
Coach Hedge appeared from behind the armory, baseball bat slung over his shoulder. His goat legs stamped impatiently as he surveyed the group. Sweat glistened on his forehead despite the pleasant camp temperature.
He began circling them sniffing the air. "I smell monster blood. Fresh kill, huh?" He poked Ethan in the ribs with his bat. "Don't get cocky. One hellhound doesn't make you heroes."
Ethan winced, stepping back. The satyr's eyes were intense, almost manic.
"Coach Hedge!"
The shout came from the direction of the weapons shed. Ethan turned to see a small, stocky figure stomping toward them, radiating fury with every step. Despite her not being more than eight, she carried herself like a seasoned warrior.
"Clarisse," Coach Hedge grunted neutral. "Problem?"
"You sent THEM against a hellhound?" she demanded, jabbing a finger toward Ethan's team. Her face flushed red with indignation. "I've been training for MONTHS!"
Coach Hedge crossed his arms. "They managed to get through the obstacle course. You didn't."
"Bullshit!" the girl exploded. Several nearby campers flinched at the language coming from someone so young. "I'm stronger than any of them! I'm a daughter of ARES!"
Ben stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over his younger sister. His eyes narrowed, and a vein pulsed at his temple.
"You think I'm weak, little sister?" Ben's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Maybe it's time I showed you what real children of Ares are made of."
Clarisse didn't back down. She squared her shoulders, chin jutting upward to meet her brother's glare. "You got lucky with one monster. Big deal."
The air between them crackled with tension. Ethan felt the hairs on his arms rise. The sibling rivalry was legendary in camp, but this felt different, more volatile than usual.
"Lucky?" Ben's laugh was harsh. "We took down a hellhound while you couldn't even clear the first obstacle course." He tapped the monstrous claw hanging from his neck. "Trophy speaks for itself."
Clarisse's hand dropped to the knife at her belt. "I'd have killed it faster. Alone."
"Prove it," Ben snarled. "Right now. You and me."
Coach Hedge stepped between them, bat raised. "Save it for the arena, cupcakes! We've got protocols—"
But Ben was already moving, shouldering past the satyr with a dismissive grunt. His spear spun in his hand, the shaft a blur as he settled into a fighting stance. "No weapons for me. Just hands. I'll still put you down."
Ethan exchanged a worried glance with Sophie. This wasn't standard sibling bickering anymore. The look in Ben's eyes had changed, the same rage from the forest was returning, but directed at his own blood.
"Ben," Ethan started, "maybe now's not—"
"Stay out of this," Ben snapped without looking away from Clarisse. "Family business."
Clarisse drew her knife, a wicked celestial bronze blade that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Despite her age and size, she held it with practiced confidence. "About time someone taught you respect."
The gathering of campers widened into a circle, voices rising in excitement. Bets were already being exchanged. No one moved to stop them.
"Ten drachmas on Ben!" "I'll take that action. The little one's got something to prove."
Coach Hedge looked torn between enforcing camp rules and his natural instinct to appreciate a good fight. He settled for backing up, grumbling, "Your funeral kid. Don't break anything I can't fix."
Clarisse struck first, lunging with her knife aimed at Ben's midsection.
Ben sidestepped with surprising agility for his size, his hand shooting out to catch her wrist mid-thrust.
"Too slow," he growled, twisting her arm until she dropped the knife with a hiss of pain.
Instead of retreating, Clarisse drove her head forward, connecting with Ben's chin. The crack echoed across the training ground. Ben staggered back a step, momentarily stunned.
Clarisse pressed her advantage, diving for her fallen knife. Her fingers had just closed around the hilt when Ben recovered. His boot came down on her hand, not hard enough to break bones, but with enough force to trap her.
"Yield," he demanded.
Clarisse answered by twisting violently, freeing her hand and rolling to her feet in one fluid motion. Her eyes burned with determination as she circled again, knife held in a reverse grip.
Ben's lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "Not bad, little sister. Dad taught you something after all."
The taunt hit its mark. Clarisse charged with a furious yell, slashing wildly. Ben caught her knife arm again, but this time he didn't stop there. In one smooth movement, he swept her legs out from under her, following her down to pin her shoulders against the dirt.
Clarisse bucked and thrashed, her face contorted with effort. For a moment, it seemed she might break free, then Ben shifted his weight, locking her in place with practiced efficiency. The struggle continued for several seconds before the inevitable became clear.
Ben had her completely immobilized, one hand pinning both her wrists above her head, his knee across her torso. The size difference between them was too great, his strength too overwhelming.
"Yield," he repeated, voice low but carrying across the now-silent training ground.
Clarisse stopped struggling. Her chest heaved with exertion, face flushed and sweaty. For a tense moment, Ethan thought she might explode with rage.
Instead, she huffed and mumbled something inaudible.
"What was that?" Ben pressed, not relaxing his grip.
"I yield," she said, loud enough for the circle of onlookers to hear. "This time."
Ben released her and stood, offering his hand. To Ethan's surprise, Clarisse took it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. She brushed dirt from her clothes with sharp, annoyed movements.
"I'll beat you next time," she grumbled, retrieving her knife. There was no real heat in her voice, just the matter-of-fact statement of someone stating an inevitable truth. "You just got lucky with your size."
The lack of genuine anger was surprising. Ethan had expected tears or a full-blown tantrum. Instead, Clarisse seemed almost... resigned. Like this was a familiar dance between siblings rather than a humiliating defeat.
Ben's posture relaxed slightly. He ruffled her hair, an unexpected gesture of affection that she immediately batted away. "Keep dreaming, squirt. But your form's getting better."
The crowd began to disperse, some collecting or paying out bets, others returning to their previous activities. The spectacle was over, and with it, much of the tension.
Coach Hedge watched her go, then turned to Ben. "Not bad, cupcake. Not bad at all." The satyr's eyes gleamed with something like approval before hardening again.
"Just so you know, you kids aren't the only ones who had some success today," Coach Hedge said, giving Ethan a pointed look. "Second team to bag a monster, actually."
Ethan's head snapped up. "Second?"
"Yep." The satyr nodded toward the far side of the training ground. "Boyo Beckendorf's team was first. Took down something nastier than your hellhound, too."
A strange sensation rippled through Ethan's body at the words. Ever since the hellhound fell, something had changed in him. A humming awareness in his veins, like his blood itself had awakened to a new purpose. The wound in his side throbbed, but it felt almost... good.
"What kind of monster?" Ethan asked, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
Coach Hedge grinned, showing teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp for a moment. "Empousa. Nasty piece of work. Fire-hair, bronze leg, fangs that'll drain you dry before you can blink."
Ethan's gaze followed the satyr's nod. There, beneath an oak tree at the edge of the training grounds, sat Beckendorf along with a group of Hephaestus cabin older campers. Among them was Beckendorf. His hands delicately manipulating what appeared to be a detached celestial bronze leg.
As if sensing the attention, Beckendorf looked up. Their eyes locked across the distance.
In that instant, Ethan knew. Beckendorf had it too, that same edge Ethan had felt growing inside himself. Not just skill or strength, but something deeper, more primal. The older boy's eyes held a focused intensity that mirrored what Ethan felt stirring in his own chest.
Beckendorf's expression shifted, a flicker of recognition crossing his features. He gave Ethan a single, measured nod, acknowledgment between equals, before turning back to his analysis of the bronze limb.
"What happens to the spoils?" Sophie asked, eyeing Ben's hellhound claw with newfound interest.
Coach Hedge snorted. "You keep 'em if you want. Trophy, study material, whatever. Beckendorf's been taking apart that leg since he came back. Says he might be able to repurpose the metal."
Coach Hedge looked them over one final time. "Get cleaned up. Rest. You'll need it." He turned to leave, then paused. "And, uh... good work today. Not that I'm surprised. That's what I trained you for."
The praise caught Ethan off guard. He blinked, momentarily stunned by Coach Hedge's words. Coach Hedge, the same satyr who called twelve-year-olds "cupcakes" while threatening to feed their entrails to harpies if they slacked off, had just acknowledged their success.
"Did he just... compliment us?" Sophie whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Ethan nodded, equally shocked. In all his time at camp, he'd never heard Coach Hedge give straight praise without following it with an insult or a threat of bodily harm. The satyr's vocabulary usually consisted of creative combinations of profanities that would make sailors blush.
"Don't look so damn surprised," Coach Hedge growled, catching their expressions. "I can recognize when you little sh—" He caught himself, glancing around as if someone might be monitoring his language. "When you've done something right. Doesn't mean I won't work you twice as hard tomorrow. Now scram!"
As they turned to leave, Ethan caught a flicker of something else in the satyr's eyes—was that pride? It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by Hedge's typical scowl.
"Something's changing," Ethan murmured as they walked toward the pizza party. The wound in his side pulsed with each step, but it felt different now, a badge of honor rather than just pain.
Ben strutted ahead of them, hellhound claw bouncing against his chest with each step. The fight with his sister seemed to have only fueled his confidence. "We are special. We're the ones getting it done while the rest play at being heroes."
With each step, the strange energy inside him seemed to grow stronger, more defined. Something fundamental had shifted today, not just in how others saw them, but in how Ethan saw himself.
They weren't just unclaimed campers anymore. They were hunters. Warriors. And this was just the beginning.
x__________________________________________x
The pizza party was interrupted as more training squads filtered out of the forest in waves. Ethan watched them emerge, some limping, others chattering excitedly, a few looking shell-shocked.
Then Ethan spotted them.
Alabaster's squad, walked out of the treeline with an unmistakable swagger. Unlike most groups, they all wore identical expressions, triumph. Their clothes were torn, faces streaked with dirt and something else. Monster dust. Golden residue clung to their hair, their weapons, even their eyelashes.
Ethan's eyes narrowed. Three of them sported fresh bruises, and Alabaster himself had a nasty gash across his forearm hastily wrapped with a strip of cloth. But they were all grinning wildly.
Alabaster's head turned, as if sensing Ethan's scrutiny. Their eyes locked across the training ground. The pale boy's lips curled into that infuriating smirk, the one that made Ethan's blood boil. A look that said he knew something Ethan didn't, had accomplished something Ethan couldn't.
"This fucking bastard," Ethan muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. The familiar heat irritation surged through him, but beneath it lurked something else, a grudging respect. Whatever monster they'd encountered, Alabaster's team had clearly taken it down. Successfully."
We took ours down quicker . Ethan smirked internally.
"What did they get?" Sophie whispered, leaning closer to Ethan, her eyes fixed on the triumphant squad.
"Don't know. Don't care," Ethan lied.
"Dracanae," Ben said suddenly, having drifted closer to eavesdrop. "Overheard the Stoll brothers. Alabaster's team took down a dracanae. Used some kind of spell to blind it first."
Ethan's jaw tightened. Dracanae. Bigger than a hellhound. Smarter, too. The grudging admiration in his chest grew, much as he wanted to squash it.
Fucking smug bastard. He's good at his combat spells. I'll give him that much -
Alabaster maintained his stare off with Ethan, and his smirk widened. He held up his bandaged arm like a badge of honor, then patted the pouch at his side. Something scaly and green peeked out from the opening. A dracanae scale. Trophy.
Ethan's fingers twitched at his side. Of course Alabaster would try and rile him up.
Their eyes remained locked across the training ground, a silent conversation passing between them. Grudging respect mixed with fierce competition. Neither would ever admit to admiring the other's skills, but they'd trained side by side often enough to know each other's true worth.
"He's coming over," Sophie whispered, nudging Ethan.
Alabaster broke away from his group, crossing the distance with that casual confidence that made Ethan want to both punch him. His pale hair was matted with sweat and monster dust, giving him a wild look that contrasted with his usual calculated demeanor.
"Nakamura," Alabaster greeted, voice low and controlled despite the excitement radiating from him. "Heard you bagged a hellhound."
"Heard you needed magic to take down your dracanae," Ethan shot back, keeping his face neutral. "Couldn't handle it with steel alone?"
Alabaster's eyes flashed with that familiar competitive fire. "Used the right tool for the job. ten-foot serpent woman with poison claws needs strategy, not just brute force."
"Our hellhound was fully grown," Ethan countered. "And we didn't need parlor tricks."
"Parlor tricks?" Alabaster raised an eyebrow, his fingers tracing symbols in the air that left faint golden trails. "This 'parlor trick' saved Jeffery's life when the dracanae had him cornered."
The unspoken acknowledgment hung between them. They'd both led their teams successfully. Both achieved what most campers couldn't. Both unclaimed, yet proving themselves more capable than many with godly parents.
Ethan opened his mouth to respond when a sudden hush fell over the training grounds. He turned to see the treeline parting for the final group. Luke strode out, flanked by a mix of Head Counselors, James Mason, Fay, and a few other senior campers.
Alabaster's retort died on his lips. Even his perpetual smugness momentarily faded as Luke approached.
The crowd parted, conversations dying mid-sentence as Luke and his entourage made their way to the center of the training grounds. Ethan straightened instinctively, ignoring the sharp twinge from his side. Luke's blue eyes swept over the assembled campers, taking in their battered appearances, the monster trophies, the hastily bandaged wounds.
For a moment, Luke simply observed them, his eyes betraying nothing. Then he nodded once, decisively.
"Good job all of you," Luke announced, his voice carrying easily across the now-silent grounds. "Enjoy the pizza party and take the rest of the day off. I'll announce the final results at five-thirty. Rest up."
A collective breath released. Tension Ethan hadn't even realized was building dissipated from his shoulders.
Luke clapped his hands once, breaking the spell. "That's all. Dismissed."
The crowd dispersed with renewed energy, campers moving toward the food tables with fresh enthusiasm.
Alabaster gave Ethan one last measuring look. "This isn't over, Nakamura." The words held no malice, just the promise of continued rivalry. He turned and rejoined his squad, already comparing notes on their dracanae encounter.
"Come on," Sophie nudged him. "Let's grab pizza before Ben eats it all."
Sure enough, Ben had already claimed an entire pie for himself, the hellhound claw still prominently displayed against his chest as he regaled a group of younger campers with an increasingly exaggerated version of their battle.
"The hellhound never stood a chance! You should have seen Nakamura, moved like a shadow, buried his blade right in its neck!"
Ethan grabbed a paper plate and loaded it with three slices of pepperoni. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since breakfast. The adrenaline crash was hitting him now, leaving his limbs heavy and his mind foggy. He needed fuel.
He found a spot under a pine tree, away from the crowd, and sank down with his back against the rough bark. The first bite of pizza tasted like heaven, greasy, salty, and exactly what his body craved after the fight. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it.
Ben's booming laughter carried across the field as he pantomimed the hellhound attack for a growing audience.
"He's going to be insufferable for weeks," Sophie muttered, though there was affection in her voice.
"Let him have it," Ethan said. "He fought well today."
The pizza settled warm in his stomach. For once, the constant tension in his shoulders eased. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk and allowed himself a rare moment of contentment. They had survived. Succeeded. Proven themselves.
x____________________x
Deep in the woods the last rays of sunlight retreated from the forest floor. Shadows lengthened between ancient trees, darkness pooling like spilled ink.
A faint blue glow pulsed among the undergrowth, illuminating a small clearing. The symbol, a triangle, etched into a boulder, cast its eerie light upward, as it slid away to reveal an entrance.
Three shadows emerged from the darkness.
The tallest stopped, head tilting as if scenting the air.
"Mmmm," an oily voice murmured from beneath a hood. "Such a delicious scent."
x______________________x
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