Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diomedes King is strange.

No—he's beyond strange. He's a mystery wrapped in something dead that got back up and decided to keep walking.

I've known him for six months now. Give or take. And I still don't understand him. I don't think anyone does. Not really.

He arrived at Circe's Spa when I was eight—barely more than a kid, still clinging to the edges of childhood after everything that happened with my father. Diomedes must've been seven. Even younger. But he didn't look at it. Gods, no. He looked ancient.

He came in with a nearly naked woman and this delirious man mumbling nonsense about the "Arc of Athena." No—wait. Park? No. The Mark. The Mark of Athena. I'll never forget the way Circe's eyes narrowed when he said it. That alone was enough to snap me to attention. But it wasn't the words that really held me—it was him.

Diomedes didn't speak. Didn't blink. Didn't move unless someone told him to. And he was surrounded by corpses—men and women who'd died from dehydration. Just three survivors, him, the man, and the woman who dragged him in, clutching a jug of fresh water like it was divine ambrosia. The implication was clear: they let everyone else die.

It was the kind of cruelty we dealt with often. And simply. Turn them into pigs. One drink, one flick of Circe's hand, and justice was served.

That's what I thought we'd do. Same old thing.

But when Circe turned the man beside him into a squealing guinea pig, Diomedes didn't flinch unlike the naked woman. No fear. No protest. No begging.

He just stared at us. At me.

And I'll never forget that stare. His eyes—a faded color I couldn't truly place, sun-bleached and hollow—met mine like he was grateful. Like we'd done him a favor. Like he wanted to be next.

His skin was sunburnt and cracked, lips blistered, hands trembling with exhaustion. He looked like a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet. But underneath all that decay and silence, there was this intensity—this rage—boiling behind his eyes. Like if he ever let it out, it'd tear the sky open.

It reminded me of Hylla.

That same clenched-fist expression. That same look of someone who'd seen too much and refused to fall apart because of it. He didn't have to say anything—his silence was louder than most people's screams.

Still, I thought he'd be turn like the rest.

But Circe spared him due to how the woman had begged for his life.

And I watched. I waited for the moment he'd show his true colors. They always do. That slow shift from docile to dangerous, from quiet to cunning. But... it never came.

He didn't try to charm Circe —probably because he was eight. Didn't suck up to the nymphs. He just helped. Carried things without being asked. Fixed things no one noticed were broken. Picked up the slack when Hylla was overwhelmed. Always steady. Always quiet.

Always kind.

That was what unsettled me the most.

Because how could someone who looked so broken still choose to be kind?

And maybe that's why I didn't trust him.

Because people like that? People who survive whatever it was that he survived and still choose decency? They terrify me. You can't predict them. They don't break like normal people. They bend, and bend, and bend—but they don't snap.

They become something else. Something powerful.

And I knew what trauma did to people. My father had been living proof of it. I'd watched it twist him, poison him, consume him. So to see someone like Diomedes—scarred, haunted, barely holding himself together—and still being kind?

It made me feel like I was the one doing something wrong.

Because even when I was short with him... even when I accused him of things, of being something dark just waiting to crawl out of his skin... he never snapped back.

He'd just take it. Eyes low. Voice soft. Hands steady.

Even when it was me who hurt him.

I didn't mean to. Not really.

It was a normal day for me. Diomedes and that woman had arrived on the island six months earlier and were already fitting in.

I laid awake in bed, staring at the living accumulation of clouds in my room. That was another thing about Diomedes.

He was a cloud nymph... I think.

He looked mortal when he came here, but after noticing how many nymph's were here I guess he decided to take a more cumulous appearance.

"Rise and shine, Reyna." He said, holding a plate of food.

I don't know why but he's been making breakfast for everyone every morning a month after he came here.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, blinking at him like he was an unsolvable riddle written in someone else's handwriting.

He just stood there, barefoot on the tiled floor, mist clinging to him like it belonged. Like it listened to him. There was a plate in his hands—slices of fruit, perfectly peeled; bread with that honey-lavender spread Circe liked; a warm cup of tea steeped just right. Balanced. Neat.

"Why?" I asked.

Diomedes tilted his head, like a curious cuckoo carved from marble. "You need to eat."

"That's not what I mean."

He blinked once. Slowly. "I know."

I rolled my eyes and took the plate, not because I was grateful, but because arguing before breakfast would've made Hylla scold me again. I hated that.

"Whatever," I muttered. "Put it on the table."

Diomedes obeyed, as usual. No sigh. No huff. Just this weird, quiet obedience that always made me feel like I was the one being unreasonable.

He turned to go, like that was the end of it, but something in me—it flared. Maybe it was his calm, or how he made everything look so easy. Like being decent was simple. Like the world hadn't chewed us both up and spat us out.

"Do you enjoy being everyone's servant?" I asked, sharper than I meant to be.

He paused mid-step, but didn't look back. "No."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

A heartbeat. Then two.

"Because I can."

His voice was quiet, like always. Gentle, but not fragile. It made my insides twist. I hated that he said things like that. Like he didn't need recognition or thanks. Like he was... fine with it.

I set the plate down harder than necessary. "That's stupid," I said. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

Now he turned, slowly, with that same dead-serene expression. Not cold. Not distant. Just... unreadable.

"I'm not proving anything," he said. "I'm helping."

"Why?" I pushed. "You don't even talk to anyone. You float around like a ghost and pretend you're useful. Is that it? You wanna be needed so bad you'll wipe down tables and pick flowers like some trained faun?"

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to answer—but not out of defense. More like... he was trying to find the right words to explain something I couldn't see.

But then he just said, "You're angry today."

I frowned, memories of the nightmare I had creeping into my head.

"Shut up," I snapped.

His eyes flicked down, and he gave the smallest bow of his head, like he was accepting a verdict. Or excusing himself from a conversation he hadn't started.

He left without another word, mist curling gently around his heels as the door closed behind him.

I sat there, plate untouched, hands balled in my lap like I'd just lost a fight I hadn't meant to start.

Gods, I hated that.

I hated that I couldn't get under his skin no matter how hard I tried. That he never flinched, never got mad, never shoved back when I shoved first. It made me feel like a bully. Worse—it made me feel seen.

Because what if he wasn't being polite?

What if he really was just... good?

And what did that make me?

I went through the rest of the morning with a storm cloud in my chest. The nymphs were busy polishing bottles and mixing potions. Hylla was already three steps ahead of me, barking orders like a mini-general as she directed a pair of naiads toward the east gardens. And me? I was stuck scrubbing the main entry tiles with a stiff-bristled brush, even though no one asked me to.

I told myself it was to stay busy.

But maybe I just didn't want to think about the way Diomedes had looked at me.

Not hurt. Not annoyed.

Just... quiet. Still. Like a lake that hadn't been stirred in centuries.

"That kid," I muttered under my breath, scrubbing harder. "That stupid, smiling, mist-drenched—"

"Reyna," Hylla called from across the hall. "Don't take it out on the tile. It's not the one who made you mad."

"I'm not mad," I said. Too quickly.

Hylla just gave me a look. Big sisters always know.

"Alright , if you're so calm why don't you explain why you snapped that brush in half?"

I glanced down at my scrub brush. Where I had been gripping it a large crack had formed across it.

I grumbled in annoyance. "It's an old brush. They break."

Hylla nodded. "Right. And this has nothing to do with how much you're glaring at the living nimbus cloud?"

I paused, blinking as I realized I had been staring out the window at Diomedes as he helped some of the younger nymphs with making crowns from lotus flowers.

"It has nothing to do with him." I spat.

Hylla sighed, waving off the nymphs she had been talking to. "I know it's crazy for me of all people to say this ... but you can't keep a grudge against someone who hasn't done anything to you."

I scoffed, leaning back on my heels and wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "I don't hold grudges."

Hylla gave me a look.

"Not for no reason," I amended.

She folded her arms, her expression somewhere between exasperated and amused. Her

I threw down the cracked brush. "He's weird. He's too quiet. Too polite. Too helpful. Nobody is that perfect unless they're hiding something."

Hylla raised an eyebrow. "You mean, like you?"

I glared at her. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She walked closer, lowering her voice. "You walk around here like a little Roman statue. Polished. Sharp-edged. Unbreakable. You smile when Circe's watching and bite your tongue until it bleeds when she's not. You're loyal. You're capable. You're composed."

"So?" I crossed my arms, defensive. "That's different."

Hylla's voice softened, but she didn't drop her gaze. "Is it? Because I remember when you used to hide in the fireplace with me and tell stories to make the ghosts shut up. You remember that?"

"Of course I remember." My voice cracked more than I wanted it to. "That's the point. We had to survive that. We earned our right to be guarded."

"And maybe he earned his right to be quiet," she said simply.

That shut me up.

Hylla let the silence stretch for a second before she added, "I know you're scared."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," she interrupted. "You're scared because you see him, and you don't get him. And you don't like not getting people. It makes you feel out of control."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words didn't come. Because she was right.

I hated that she was right.

"He's not like us," I muttered.

Hylla crouched beside me, resting her hand on my shoulder. "No. He's not. And maybe that's a good thing."

I stared down at my hands. Callused. Tense. Always ready for a fight.

"I don't like how he looks at me," I said quietly. "Like he understands something I don't. Like he sees everything and doesn't need to say it."

Hylla smiled faintly. "That's because he probably does understand. But unlike most people, he doesn't use that against you."

I pressed my lips into a tight line. "It's just... easier to hate people when they give you a reason."

"And harder when they don't."

I nodded.

Hylla stood up and nudged the broken brush with her foot. "You don't have to like him. But you don't have to fight him, either."

I sighed. "He'll just keep bringing breakfast, won't he?"

Hylla smirked. "Probably. And tea. Don't forget the tea."

I rubbed my temples, groaning. "Gods help me."

"Already did," Hylla said with a wink, turning to leave. "Now go rinse your hands. You look like you strangled a Dryad."

I watched her go, then glanced back toward the window.

Diomedes was still out there. Still helping. Still smiling that soft, unreadable smile like none of it cost him anything.

I didn't trust that.

But for the first time, I wondered if maybe that was my problem—not his.

Circe found me not long after that.

I was still in the main hall, hands raw and wet from rinsing off the tile scrubber grime, trying not to think too hard about Hylla's words—or the fact that I had been glaring out the window like some melodramatic villain.

Her perfume always announced her before she entered the room. Rosewater, myrrh, and something older—something sharp and sweet and dangerous, like the scent of a campfire being. She drifted in, robes trailing silk and starlight, the ever-present shimmer of her magic leaving specks of light in the air.

"Reyna, darling," she cooed, voice velvet and command all at once. "How would you like a task suited to your talents?"

I stood a little straighter. "Of course, my lady."

She smiled, pleased, but her golden eyes flicked toward my cracked brush and the faint scorch mark I hadn't noticed on the marble floor. "Hylla said you've been especially diligent today."

"Just trying to be useful."

Circe's smile deepened, knowing. "Indeed. Well, let's put that energy to better use than punishing the stonework. I need more starroot and dusk-thistle from the forest. The western grove, just past the spring."

I nodded, already mapping the route in my head. "Right away."

She touched my chin lightly with one jeweled finger, tilting my face up just slightly. "Take the little one with you."

I blinked. "Diomedes?"

"Of course." Her tone said it should've been obvious. "He's quick, quiet, and very good at not stepping on things he shouldn't. Unlike certain nymphs who think every vine is decorative."

I opened my mouth to protest—to say I didn't need help, or that I worked better alone, or anything—but Circe was already turning away, gold trailing behind her like comet dust.

"Don't be long, dear," she said over her shoulder. "Sunset blooms only last till moonrise, and I need that dusk-thistle whole."

And just like that, I was dismissed.

I found him outside, of course. Sitting beneath the afternoon sun with one of the younger nymphs, showing her how to braid reeds into bracelets. He looked up as I approached, that same mild, unreadable look on his face.

"We've been summoned," I said flatly.

He tilted his head. "Summoned?"

"To the woods. Supplies. You're coming."

He didn't argue. Of course he didn't. Just got up, brushed off his hands, and nodded.

The walk started in silence. Dense mist clung low to the ground, curling around our ankles as we followed the narrow path into the forest. Branches arched overhead like cathedral vaults, sunlight spilling in broken mosaics through the leaves. Everything felt too quiet. Too still.

Too much like being alone with someone I didn't want to talk to.

"You don't have to act like we're friends," I said after ten minutes of trudging. "Just because Circe told you to come."

"I'm not," he said calmly.

I glanced at him, suspicious. "You're not what?"

"Acting like we're friends."

That threw me for a second. "Then why are you here?"

"Because she asked me to come. And because I don't mind helping."

I huffed. "You always 'don't mind.' You ever actually mind anything?"

He looked thoughtful. "Loud sounds. Swans. Vermin... baklava."

I raised my brow at the way he had said vermin, like it hurt him to even say the word.

I shook my head, rolling my eyes. "I meant people."

He didn't answer right away. Just walked beside me, light-footed like he weighed nothing, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

"Sometimes," he said eventually. "Traitors. Infidels. People who they lie."

I stopped walking for a second. "You think I'm lying?"

"I think you're hurting."

I turned sharply. "Don't start with that."

"I'm not starting anything."

"Yeah, well, stop doing that thing where you talk like you've got it all figured out."

He paused, hands at his sides now. "I don't."

"Could've fooled me."

He looked at me again, but softer this time. "You don't have to be mad at me to be mad."

Gods.

"Stop talking like that," I muttered. "Like you're a grown-up in a child costume."

He didn't smile. Didn't smirk. Just bent down and plucked a starroot from the moss with surprising grace.

"You talk like that when you think no one hears," he said, still crouched. "Like you're not a kid either."

I wanted to yell at him. Or hit him. Or tell him he didn't know anything.

But the truth was, I didn't feel like a kid. Not after San Juan. Not after everything. Not after all the ways we had to grow up overnight.

So I said nothing.

We worked in silence after that. Gathering roots, checking for dusk-thistle hidden beneath fern fronds. I kept throwing glances at him, but he never once looked smug. Never once acted like he'd won something. He just moved like he belonged here.

Eventually, we had enough. I tied the herbs into a bundle with a spare string.

"You always listen that closely?" I asked, not looking at him.

He tilted his head. "To you?"

I shrugged.

"No," he said. "Only to those in pain."

I wanted to ask why. But I already knew the answer. Because that's who he was.

Quiet. Kind. Too soft for someone who'd survived something.

Too good for someone like me.

"Don't expect a thank you," I grumbled as we started back.

"I never do," he said.

Okay. That stung a little.

"Let's just keep looking."

Diomedes didn't disagree and followed after me, grabbing fruits from the higher leaves and places I didn't fit.

We kept walking.

I kept moving forward, deeper into the woods, pushing through the hanging vines like they were curtains I didn't want to walk back through. My fists were clenched even though there was nothing to punch, and the air was thick with the smell of moss and wild blossoms that made my head feel even more crowded.

He didn't say anything behind me. Just the soft sound of his steps, the occasional rustle as he reached up and took something I'd missed. Helpful. Always helpful.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

The deeper we went, the more the path narrowed, but I didn't stop. Didn't slow down. I was asked to do something so I'm going to do it.

The forest changed when you got deep enough. The trees got older, darker. The light didn't shine through as much. The air felt thick, like something was holding its breath.

I finally stopped near a tangle of thorny roots winding over an old stone, the kind that had markings on it—old, barely legible. Maybe something latin. Maybe something worse. I didn't care.

I just stood there, catching my breath, glaring at nothing.

"You're going too far," Diomedes said quietly behind me.

I didn't turn around. "You don't even know where we are."

"Yes, I do," he said.

Of course he did.

"Well, then you can find your way back without me," I snapped.

There was a beat of silence.

"I could," he said. "But I won't."

I whipped around. "Why not? You're good at not doing what people expect. Why not leave me alone for once?"

He blinked slowly. "Because I don't think Hylla will let me live if I leave you here to die."

I stared at him, confused as to how I was meant to respond to that.

"... I'm going to keep looking for the sunset blooms." I said, turning away from him and going left.

"Reyna we have more than enough," he said, holding the basket of herbs and flowers.

"I know what I'm doing, Diomedes," I snapped, yanking a root from the earth. I didn't want to hear caution. I wanted control.

He didn't argue. Just hovered beside me like a shadow.

The leaves blew calmly as Diomedes floated around, gathering some more items.

I wandered deeper into the green brush, pulling herb after herb like my life depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

Every stem I yanked, every blossom I pocketed, felt like a challenge. A defiance. To everything that had tried to shape me into something delicate, obedient, breakable. The farther I walked, the more tangled the vines became, as if the forest itself was trying to warn me. Or stop me. Or swallow me whole.

I didn't care.

"Reyna," Diomedes's voice came again, softer this time—like sea foam trying to tell a hurricane to calm down. "The path's farther behind us now."

"I said I know what I'm doing," I muttered, more to myself than to him. My hands were slick with crushed sap and pollen, knuckles stinging from bramble scratches. My sandals squelched with every step in the muck, but I kept going. Faster. Deeper.

Behind me, I heard the leaves shift.

"You don't," he said.

I froze mid-step.

What did he just say?

I turned on my heel, fists full of crushed herbs, and glared at him. "Excuse me?"

He didn't even blink. Just stood there like some tragic statue half-eaten by time and moss, his eyes as blank as the sky before a storm. Like he hadn't just told me—me—that I was wrong.

"What would you know about it?" I snapped. "You don't even feel things. You drift around like some—some cloud wraith and act like you understand people just because you watch them."

His expression didn't budge. Didn't even flicker. It made me want to throw something. He didn't have the right to be so unreadable.

"That doesn't mean I can't see when someone's hurting," he said, in that same infuriatingly even tone.

"You don't know me," I hissed, stepping toward him. "You've been here six months—if that. I don't know what your deal is, and honestly, I don't care. You don't get to analyze me like I'm some project that needs to be fixed."

He stayed still. Always still.

"You don't know what I've been through. You don't get to act like you see me. You haven't earned that."

I didn't even realize my voice had risen. That I'd taken another step toward him, like proximity would prove my point. Nor did I notice the sound of stone being broken.

And then—he moved.

A blur of motion, faster than I expected. One second I was standing, mid-rant, and the next—

"Wha—!"

I hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of me.

"What the Hades is your—"

(In Roman writings it's usually translated to Hades. The Greeks actually called it the Domos Aïdao, House of Hades or Dwellings of Hades.)

CRUNCH.

A club came down like thunder.

It should've hit me. I was standing right there.

But Diomedes moved.

It wasn't flashy. No big heroic leap. Just... a step. One step, right into the path of the blow. The wooden club slammed into his head with a sickening crunch, and he barely flinched. Like it had hit a post. Or mist.

Diomedes didn't scream.

Didn't even grunt.

His body just... jerked, like the blow was an afterthought. Like someone had nudged a statue too hard.

My heart dropped straight through my sandals.

I froze. For a split second, I froze. My lungs locked, my fingers curled around the dirt, and all I could hear was the attackers breathing—wet and wheezing and close.

"Diomedes!" I scrambled back, grabbing the first thing I could—some stalk of wolf's fang—like a weed would save us.

The thing that hit him snarled, stepping into the clearing. A Cyclops. Massive, greasy, teeth too big for its mouth and one yellow eye locked on us like we were already roasting on a spit.

Diomedes turned. Slowly. The mist around him curled upward, sharper than before. Less like drifting fog, more like claws.

"Vermin," he spat.

His voice didn't sound like him. Diomedes always talked like the world was distant, like everything was a puzzle he was still figuring out. But now? He sounded like the puzzle was finished and the answer was war.

It sniffed once. Twice. Then smiled.

"Mm~" the thing hummed. "I've never smelled demigods this fresh before. But you—"

Its nostrils flared, eye locking on Diomedes like a predator sizing up its favorite cut of meat.

"You smell like ambrosia. Like suffering and sunlight. Like a feast the gods forgot to finish."

I rose, shakily, fumbling for the dagger on my belt—Circe had given it to me when I had arrived. The golden blade caught the light like a sunbeam. She'd said it was made from judgment itself. It hummed in my hand like it remembered blood.

"Back off," I snapped, planting myself between the Cyclops and Diomedes My knees were trembling, but I didn't let them bend. "This island is protected. By Circe."

The Cyclops licked its lips. Its eye flicked between us, head tilting as it considered which one would scream louder.

"Circe's not here," it said. "You are. And you reek of war."

The Cyclops took another step. Each one felt like it shook the ground.

Its eye flicked between me and Diomedes, and gods, I knew that look. It wasn't hunger. It was cruelty.

"Little demi-things," it said, voice sludgy and thick. "You taste better when you scream."

The Cyclops laughed.

"Reyna," Diomedes said, quiet and sharp, blood running down his temple like it didn't bother him at all. "Why do you try to give this vermin mercy?"

What?

I turned to him, time slowing down as the air shifted.

It wasn't dramatic. It didn't explode. It just shifted. Like the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Like the world itself was holding its breath.

Diomedes shot forward like an animal out of its cage. In a matter of seconds this eight year old boy tackled the ten foot tall cyclops to the ground, a guttural roar echoing from the monster's jagged maw.

"You hesitate," he said. His voice was still gentle. Still weirdly kind. But it held the weight of a tombstone. "You see this disease... and give it the chance to live?"

The Cyclops gasped for air as Diomedes dug his nails into its neck, his form shifting to that of a storm cloud. His eyes glowed with a mix of thunder.

There was a familiarity to them though. They looked like my dad's eyes. The same color and everything.

The cyclops tried to hit Diomedes with its club but was stopped as Diomedes grabbed its shoulder and dislocated it, the ground cracking as he pushed it into the dirt.

The Cyclops tried to shriek but was stopped by Diomedes reeling back his fist and punching him in the jaw.

I was frozen. What in the name of Jupiter was I supposed to do? The guy I've been insulting for months, who I thought was just a quiet wind spirit, was currently beating a cyclops into the ground like it personally insulted his mother.

After a few moments, the cyclops turned to dust, dead. Diomedes's hands were coated in its golden remains.

Slowly, he stood up, wiping dirt onto his garments as he heaved deeply.

"Sorry," he said meekly. "I just... really hate cyclops's."

We stared at each other in silence for a few moments, unable to speak or move. Finally, I spoke.

"What the heck was that?!" I cried.

Diomedes blinked, slowly, like he was trying to remember how to use his face.

Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, he said, "It was a Cyclops."

I stared at him.

He stared back.

"That's not—" I threw my arms up, pacing a furious little circle. "That's not what I meant and you know it!"

He tilted his head. "You asked what it was. I answered."

"Gods!" I spun to face him again. "You got hit with a tree trunk. You didn't even flinch! You turned into a cloud—or—or something, and then you obliterated it! Like it was a fly! You—your eyes—"

"I told you," he interrupted, brushing a smear of gold off his tunic like it was tomato soup. "I hate vermin."

"That's not an answer!"

He looked at me for a long moment. Then sighed. "No. It's not."

The mist around him began to fade, slowly, like it was crawling back into his skin. Whatever that storm was, it was retreating. But I'd seen it now. I'd seen him. And no amount of calm breathing or polite words was going to make me forget it.

"What are you?" I whispered.

His lips parted—just slightly—but he said nothing.

My fists clenched again, but not from anger. Not really. From fear. From confusion. From this sick twist in my chest that made me feel like I'd missed something important.

"I don't get you," I said, and this time my voice cracked. "You show up here half-dead. You never talk about yourself. You act like nothing bothers you, like you're above all of us. And then you say things like that. Do things like that. Like you're not even a real person."

He watched me, face unreadable, expression caught between tired and... something softer.

"I am a person," he said, so gently it almost didn't sound real. "I just don't... show it the same."

"That's not good enough!" I shouted, and the word echoed. Like even the trees were startled.

"I don't know who you are!" My voice was shaking now. "You make me feel like I'm the one going crazy! Like I'm always behind! Like you're watching me, judging me, and I don't even know why! I've been trying to be perfect, trying to keep everything together, because if I don't—"

My breath hitched.

"If I don't, then I'll break. And no one is going to put me back together again."

Diomedes didn't move. But something in his eyes did. Just a flicker.

"I'm not judging you," he said, voice low. "I'm not trying to be perfect either."

I laughed. Or tried to. It came out cracked. "Sure. Because the quiet, polite, genius child who just turned a monster into mist is totally not perfect."

His lips thinned into a line. "I'm not perfect. I'm just... me. I try not to break things."

I stared at him.

"You just broke a Cyclops," I said.

"That's different." He paused. "They're not people."

My skin went cold. "You said it like they're a disease."

His expression darkened, just barely. "They are. They are children who never grow. They create to destroy because they want. They don't feel. They're selfish. I hate them."

There was something final about the way he said it. Like a judge slamming down the gavel. Like someone who'd lived through something I hadn't yet imagined.

"But... I don't hate you," he added, quieter. "Even if you hate me."

I looked away. "I don't hate you."

He waited.

"I just—" I wrapped my arms around myself. "I don't understand you. And I hate not understanding. I hate feeling like I'm the weakest one in the room. Like I'm the only one still bleeding."

I expected him to say something vague again. Something distant.

Instead, he said, "I still bleed. Just not where anyone can see."

My throat closed up.

I turned, slowly, to look at him. And for the first time since I met him, he actually looked his age. Eight. Just eight. Bruised, scratched, tired. Covered in gold dust and grief.

"You shouldn't have protected me," I said, softer now.

"Yes I should've."

"You could've died."

"I've been close before," he said. "It wouldn't have been new."

My stomach twisted.

"You're not invincible, Diomedes," I whispered.

"No," he said. "But I'm not fragile either. Neither are you."

That... stung. In a different way.

We stood in silence, surrounded by crushed herbs and the ghost of something too large to name. And in that moment, I didn't feel angry anymore.

Just exposed.

"Promise me you'll stop doing that," I muttered.

"Doing what?"

"Throwing yourself in front of things for me."

He looked at me, quiet for a long time. Then nodded. "If you promise to stop pretending you're not afraid."

That was the deal?

"...Okay," I said. "Deal."

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close.

We turned toward the path, and this time, we walked side by side.

And though I didn't say it out loud, I realized something strange.

Maybe I didn't hate not understanding him.

Maybe I didn't hate him at all.

After that, things were different with Diomedes and I. We were... friendly? Acquaintances. We held up both our sides of the deal.

I stopped pretending to be afraid and he stopped overworking himself by helping everyone.

It was good.

Till I noticed.... Carol.

Chapter Text

I liked Carol at first.

Unlike Diomedes, she was very open to speaking —after she recovered from seeing someone being turned into a guinea pig.

She looks nothing like Diomedes, even though she's his aunt. She's completely human, not a cloud nymph.

Carol is loud in the way sunshine is loud. Always glowing, always moving, always talking with her hands like she's trying to draw pictures in the air. She's soft in the places Diomedes is sharp—bright where he's muted, apologetic where he's silent. I remember thinking once that she must be his older sister, or cousin, or... I don't know, a neighbor who followed him here. But aunt? That still catches me off guard sometimes.

She doesn't carry herself like someone who survived a shipwreck. She doesn't have the thousand-yard stare a lot of us do. She flinches at loud noises, sure, and sometimes she stares off into space with this weird, aching look in her eyes. But then she blinks it away, and smiles, and starts offering snacks or telling a story about "the old days" like she's hosting a party.

It's disarming. I didn't trust it at first.

But after a while, I realized—Carol isn't pretending. She really is that warm. That helpful. That present. Like she has to be. Like if she stops for too long, she'll disappear.

I've seen her try to comfort kids who are crying by pretending to cry with them. I've seen her braid someone's hair with shaking hands because she was scared too, but she wanted them to feel normal. She's the kind of person who can't sit still if someone's in pain—not because she wants thanks, but because standing still feels worse than drowning.

I don't know what she's running from. But I know she loves Diomedes.

That part's obvious. They're essentially the same person.

The way she hovers behind him when she thinks he's tired. The way she offers him food and always acts like it's his choice—never pushing, just presenting. Like she knows better than to corner a wild animal, even if that animal is her nephew. I think she's afraid of spooking him. I don't blame her. Sometimes I am too.

But the thing is... he barely talks to her.

Not rudely. Not coldly. Just... distantly.

Like she's a stranger with his last name.

And that's the part I don't get.

Because Carol is sunshine. She's kind, clumsy, brave in the way I always wish I could be. She's good. And Diomedes, for all his intensity and bluntness and polite shut off behavior, is also good.

So why does he act like she's made of glass and teeth?

Why doesn't he look at her?

Why does his voice get even quieter when she's around?

I'm not used to mysteries anymore. Circe's island doesn't give us time for secrets. You either survive by knowing who someone is, or you don't. And I've gotten very good at reading people.

But with Diomedes and Carol?

Something's missing.

Something happened between them, and I don't know what.

But I want to.

Because I like Carol. And I trust Diomedes.

And if those two truths can't coexist... then I'm going to have to find out why.

So obviously I just asked him. We've been friends for a year and six months, what could go wrong?

I found Diomedes in the gardens, tending to the pomegranate trees. A while after he came here he'd decorated them with lilies and lotus'.

He didn't hear me approach, or maybe he did and just didn't care. His hands were dirty up to the wrists, sleeves rolled back neatly. He was humming something—barely audible—under his breath, something old and off-key, like a lullaby meant for someone who'd long since stopped needing it.

The lilies bobbed gently in the breeze. The lotus flowers, blue and pale and otherworldly, had curled into the crooks of the branches like they'd been there forever.

I stood behind him for a few breaths longer than I should've, unsure of how to start.

Eventually, he spoke without looking at me. "If you're here to ask about the stew, it's in the kitchen. Don't eat the red bowl, Hylla cursed that one so the Dryad who keeps stealing the flowers."

I blinked, startled. "Wait—Hylla cursed the stew?"

"She cursed the bowl," he clarified, still not looking at me. "Explodes into bees if you lie while eating it."

"That's... horrifying."

"She said it was poetic justice."

I stepped closer, scuffing my sandal in the dirt to make my presence clearer. "Not here for stew."

"Mm." He plucked a dead petal from one of the lotus blossoms and dropped it into the soil like it was a fallen star. "Didn't think you were."

I hesitated.

The wind stirred through the branches, rustling soft as breath. He moved with it—still, precise, like someone raised in silence. When I finally spoke, it felt like breaking something.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, quieter than I meant to.

Diomedes straightened up, wiped his hands on his tunic, and turned just enough to glance at me sideways. "You can always ask."

"That doesn't mean you'll answer."

He didn't deny it.

I folded my arms, trying to look casual. "It's about Carol."

At that, his shoulders tensed. Only slightly. Most people wouldn't have noticed. But I wasn't most people anymore.

He crouched back down and returned to the roots of the tree, fingernails working the dirt like it owed him answers.

"She's... good," I continued. "Loud. Funny. Kind. Like—really kind. She helps people even when she's shaking. That kind of kind."

Diomedes didn't respond.

"She talks about you like you hung the stars. You know that, right?"

A pause. Then: "She talks a lot."

"Yeah," I said, kneeling beside him. "But that doesn't make it empty."

He didn't meet my gaze.

"She looks at you like she's waiting for you to say something. Anything."

"I don't have anything to say."

"That's not true."

He finally turned to look at me. Not sharply. Not coldly. Just... flat.

"That's not your truth to dig up."

I flinched.

And he saw it. His expression softened. Just a little.

"I don't mean that to hurt you," he said. "But some things... aren't ready to be shared. Just because a wound stops bleeding doesn't mean it's healed."

I didn't know what to say to that.

But I couldn't stop now.

"She's not a wound," I whispered.

"No." His voice was soft. So soft it barely existed. "But she left one."

Something hollow cracked in my chest.

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Did she... hurt you?"

Silence.

Diomedes looked back at the tree, like it was the only thing in the world he trusted.

"No," he said finally. "Not the way you think."

I watched him for a while, trying to read the silence. But there was too much in it. Too much buried. Too much deliberately unsaid.

He ran his hand along the roots again.

"She's good," he repeated. "She's kind. She saved me in her own way. But that doesn't mean she didn't... make mistakes."

"What kind of mistakes?"

He hesitated.

My mouth was dry.

"Dio—"

He shook his head. Not to silence me. To spare me.

"She tries. That's what matters now."

We sat there for a long time. The pomegranates ripened in the trees above us. The lilies shivered.

He pressed his palm to the dirt, like grounding himself.

"I don't not like her," he said finally. "I just... don't trust what she forgets."

I blinked. "What she forgets?"

"She means well," he said. "But she forgets how much things cost. Especially when she's not the one paying."

There was no anger in his voice—just tiredness.

I swallowed. "She loves you."

"I know."

"You don't love her?"

He looked at me then, expression unreadable. "I do."

"But?"

"But love doesn't fix everything." He stood, brushing off his hands. "Sometimes, it just makes the silence heavier."

Then he walked off, slow and quiet, like the garden had taken the last of his strength.

He stopped walking for a second, turning back to face me. "If you truly want answers, ask Carol about Briar. She was closer to her than I ever was."

With that said, he turned away, continuing his walk.

I stood there, more questions than I ever had before.

Who is Briar? What did she have to do with Diomedes and his aunt?

Well... he did say to ask Carol if I wanted answers.

I found Carol later that evening near the shore.

She was perched on a sun-warmed rock, hair tied up, braiding seaweed into rope. Her hands worked fast, practiced—like she was trying to beat the tide.

The sun dipped low behind her, casting gold across her shoulders, and for a moment, she looked like someone in a painting. Warm, alive, untouchable.

She didn't hear me approach, or if she did, she gave no sign of it. So I sat down beside her and waited.

"Need a hand?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

Carol startled slightly, then offered me a bright, crooked smile. "Only if you want one. I'm not in great company tonight."

"Perfect," I said. "Me neither."

She laughed, soft and surprised. "Fair enough."

We sat in silence for a while, her hands twisting the seaweed into a braid, mine just resting on my knees. The ocean murmured at our feet.

Eventually, I said, "I talked to Diomedes today."

Carol's fingers faltered—just a little. Barely a hitch in her weaving. "He alright?"

I nodded. "Yeah. He was in the gardens. Looked tired. Like always."

Carol gave a faint little smile. "That boy's been tired since the moment he was born."

She said it lightly, like it was a joke. But something in her tone stuck in my teeth. Like she was trying to make grief sound funny.

"He told me I should ask you about Briar."

The seaweed slipped through her fingers.

Her hands stilled. Then she looked out at the horizon like it had just become interesting for the first time all day.

"You don't know what you're asking," she said, voice low. "You don't want to know."

"I think I do."

Carol breathed in sharply through her nose. Her smile vanished.

Carol's hands clenched in her lap, seaweed forgotten.

"That's not a name you just say, Reyna," she said tightly. "Not unless you mean something by it."

I straightened, caught off guard by the shift in her voice. The warmth was gone. Her eyes stayed locked on the horizon, but her jaw was set hard, like she was holding her teeth in place with force.

"I didn't mean to overstep, I just—"

"Just nothing. You don't see me picking away at your bastard father, so leave Diomedes's mother to rest."

My face went hot at the mention of my father. I wanted to hit her.

"I can see why Diomedes doesn't talk to you." I grunted.

Carol finally turned to look at me, and something in her expression cracked—just for a second. It wasn't anger. Not really. It was fear. Shame. Like she already knew she'd gone too far.

"Reyna," she said, softer now. "I didn't mean—"

I didn't let her finish, instead; I hit her and walked away.

Carol didn't stop me.

She didn't yell after me. Didn't follow. Didn't even stand up from the rock.

I don't know if that made it better or worse.

The moment my fist landed, I regretted it—not because she didn't deserve it, but because it felt too small. Too human. Like trying to strike lightning with a match. I didn't want to hurt her. I wanted her to feel something. Understand something. See the weight she carried on Diomedes's back like barnacles on a drowned hull.

But she just sat there, still as driftwood, watching the tide.

I don't think she even raised a hand to shield herself.

Coward.

I stormed away, heels kicking up sand, fists tight and trembling. The world felt too loud—waves crashing, gulls shrieking overhead, blood roaring in my ears like war drums. I kept my head down until the beach gave way to gravel paths and flower-slick stone, and even then, I didn't stop.

I didn't know where I was going.

I just knew I needed to find Diomedes.

I found him by the cliffs.

The wind was stronger here, pushing at his hair, whipping his sleeves. He stood close to the edge—too close—like he belonged there. Like the sea wouldn't dare take him.

He didn't turn when I came up behind him.

"I hit her," I said.

His silence was the kind that makes your skin crawl. Not judgmental. Just... braced.

"I hit Carol," I said again. "She said something about my father and I—I lost it. I'm not sorry."

Still nothing.

I stepped closer. "She deserved it."

Finally, he sighed. "Yeahhh, that's Carol for you."

I blinked at him, expecting more. Maybe a wince. A scolding. A something.

But Diomedes just stood there, arms loose at his sides, eyes on the horizon like the world out there made more sense than the one behind him.

I stepped beside him, close enough to hear his breathing, slow and even like the waves below.

"You're not mad?"

"I didn't ask you to spare her," he said. "She doesn't spare people either. Not when she's cornered."

He looked down at the rocks far below, and I saw it—just for a moment—that flicker in his eyes. Like he remembered the sound of someone screaming from this height. Like he'd watched something fall and never stop falling.

I swallowed hard. "She said something about your mother. Briar."

Diomedes didn't speak. He didn't move.

So I pressed on.

"You told me to ask her, so I did. But she didn't tell me anything. She—she deflected. Got angry. And when I defended you, she brought up my father. Like she thought pain makes a fair trade. How'd she even know about my father? Only Hylla and Circe know what happened."

Diomedes paused, scratching his chin. "Well," he said. "She is a daughter of Luctus."

I paused. "Luctus... the personification of grief and mourning. That Luctus?"

I groaned, placing my face in my hands. "And I pissed her off."

Surprisingly, Diomedes shook his head no.

"Yes, she's upset that you brought it up. But she's going to feel guilty for how she reacted. Will that stop her from doing it again? Who knows."

He glanced sideways at me, that same quiet, unreadable calm in his expression. Like he was measuring the weight of the world and had already decided not to flinch.

"She's not good with being cornered," he said. "Grief and guilt, they don't sit still in her. They come out sideways. Sharp. Fast. Angry."

I exhaled slowly. "She said you were tired since birth."

"She's not wrong."

I didn't laugh, but something in me wanted to. Not because it was funny—but because it wasn't. Because there was a hollow kind of truth in it that felt too familiar.

"You're not going to ask why I hit her?" I said.

"I already know why."

"I don't even fully know why."

He gave a small shrug. "You don't like people who weaponize pain."

I blinked. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

I looked at him then—really looked. At the curve of his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes, the set of his shoulders that always seemed braced for a fight that hadn't come yet. He looked so calm, so together, but I knew better now.

Diomedes wasn't calm because nothing touched him. He was calm because everything had.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He tilted his head. "For hitting her?"

"No. For not asking sooner."

That finally made him look away, eyes scanning the horizon again like it held the next chapter of a story he'd already lived too much of.

"I wasn't ready for you to ask," he admitted. "But I'm glad you did."

The wind picked up again, threading between us. I didn't move. Neither did he.

"Will you tell me about your mom?" I asked, gently this time.

"No... not yet."

We stood there a long while. No one spoke. The wind didn't ask us to.

I didn't push him. I'd learned that much, at least. That silence could be kinder than questions. That Diomedes needed space the way other people needed sleep—regularly, fully, and without warning. Sometimes, pressing too hard on a closed door only made it stay shut longer.

There was one thing I wanted to say.

I turned to Diomedes. "You're weirdly emotionally stable for a nine year old boy."

Diomedes turned to me and shrugged. "Mom was studying to be a therapist. I guess it rubbed off on me..."

He sat down on the cliff edge, crossing his legs, as if the drop didn't matter. Like he'd made peace with gravity a long time ago.

I stayed standing, arms crossed, heart still rattling in its cage. His calm was infectious, but it also made me want to scream sometimes. How could someone so... young be this composed? It felt unfair. Like he'd skipped childhood in exchange for knowing too much.

"That's not normal," I muttered.

Diomedes arched an eyebrow. "Neither is turning men into guinea pigs for minimum wage."

Chapter Text

"There's a storm coming in three days off the east coast," Hylla stated. "Neptune and Jupiter are upset about something so we need to make sure everything is working properly."

I stood near the veranda, arms crossed, watching the horizon where the sea had already begun to darken. I could smell the storm before it arrived—ozone and salt thick in the air, like the sky was holding its breath.

Hylla's voice was clipped, commanding. The nymphs scrambled to obey, darting like minnows to their stations across the terraces. I respected her like no one else, but even I could tell she was worried. When Circe's island got storms, they weren't just wind and water. The gods didn't argue in whispers.

Diomedes stood beside me, silent as always. He had a rake in one hand and a length of sea-silk rope in the other, helping fasten the wind-catchers on the upper pool terraces. His eyes, large and unreadable, flicked skyward briefly. He looked thoughtful, almost sad.

"You'll help with the northern cliffs," Hylla called to me, "Make sure the aqueduct channels are cleared. If they back up, we'll lose three pools and the herb gardens."

I nodded once and turned to Diomedes. "You, with me."

He gave me a thumbs up, clouds wisping off his skin. When storms got close to the island, Diomedes and the other cloud nymphs would take their more human forms so they wouldn't be caught in the torrential winds.

We took the old spiral path up to the cliffs, the one slick with moss and edged with morning glory vines that had started to curl in the rising wind. The sky had gone the color of red rust. The sea below churned like it was remembering some deep grudge.

Diomedes didn't speak, but he didn't have to. He moved with purpose, long strides quiet and sure over the uneven stone. I kept pace beside him, glad to have him even if he didn't fill the silence with chatter. I needed the quiet to think. Or maybe I just didn't want to talk about her.

Carol had been quiet lately. Not soft, or gentle—just quiet, in that careful way people get when they think their words are weapons and they're trying not to draw blood by accident. It didn't fool me. Her cheerfulness had been a mask. Her silence was another.

I focused on the aqueducts. Twigs, palm fronds, and a half-eaten papaya had clogged one of the channels. I crouched, reached in, and yanked the debris out. The water rushed past my fingers, cold and fast.

Behind me, I heard Diomedes crouch, too. He didn't say anything, I could feel him watching me. But I didn't ask him to stop.

"You're still angry with her," he said quietly.

I sighed. "That obvious?"

He didn't answer.

I yanked a chunk of seaweed from the grate and flicked it aside. "She gets one moment of kindness and suddenly she's allowed to bring up my father? Like she has any idea what that was like?"

"You did bring up her dead sister," Diomedes countered.

I grumbled. I couldn't counter that because he was right; I went snooping around where I shouldn't have —Diomedes did give me the consent to ask but his words and body language should have been clear enough for me to tell it wasn't a good idea.

"But," I said, changing the subject. "Hasn't she been sketchy lately?"

Diomedes didn't answer right away. He was twisting the sea-silk rope around his fingers, letting the frayed ends catch the wind. I could tell he'd noticed something too—he always did—but he didn't want to admit it. Not out loud. Not about her.

"Define 'sketchy,'" he said finally.

I stood, wiping wet moss from my hands onto my pants. "Sneaking off after sunset. Always looking over her shoulder. And don't tell me I'm imagining it—I've seen her slipping past the bathhouse stairs with a pack. Twice."

Diomedes's brow furrowed. "A pack?"

"With rope. Blankets. A lamp. She's hoarding supplies."

He looked away, scanning the clouds like they'd give him answers. They didn't.

"Maybe she's scared of the storm," he offered, but even he didn't believe that.

"Didn't you say she and your mom worked on a ship before you met her?" I asked.

In the last couple months Diomedes had opened up a bit more about Briar. She and Carol had been exotic dancer's —she got the job to pay for college. They worked on party boats for bachelor and bachelorette parties.

Diomedes nodded, "yes, but that doesn't make you stop being afraid of storms. I'm afraid of pomegranates and yet I still help plant them."

I paused, "you're afraid of pomegranates?"

"They're the symbol of Dis Pater and Prosperina, kinda hard to not be afraid of them when they're what got Prosperina stuck in her marriage."

"Huh, you learn something new everyday." I said. "... but pomegranates?"

Diomedes gave a soft shrug, brushing a loose curl from his face as the wind picked up around us. His features were calm, but there was a tightness around his mouth I didn't miss.

"Symbols have power," he said. "Especially if you believe in what they mean."

I didn't know what to say to that. It was a very Diomedes answer—quiet and half-wrapped in riddles—but I felt the truth in it, too. The kind that tugged under your ribs.

We kept walking. The aqueducts snaked along the ridge like ancient scars, carved into stone before either of us was born. Every so often, I'd crouch to clear another blockage, and Diomedes would follow without a word, sometimes pulling a blade of grass from a crack in the stone, sometimes just watching the sky. Always watching.

"She's not just hoarding," I said finally. "She's preparing."

He looked at me sideways. "For what?"

"I don't know. But it's not a party."

Diomedes didn't answer.

We reached the last aqueduct channel near the edge of the cliffs. The wind was strong enough now that it whistled through the rocks, and the sea mist left a film on our skin. I tightened the ties on my braid and crouched to check the grate. It was clean. Still, I hesitated. I didn't want to leave yet. Neither did he.

"You know," I said, "I didn't always hate her."

He didn't look surprised. "I know."

"She was so... bright, at first. I thought it was fake."

"It's not," Diomedes said softly. "But it is something she turns on and off. Like a lamp. She does it when she's scared."

I looked up at him. "She's scared now."

Diomedes nodded. He was quiet for a beat. Then: "She's been disappearing before dinner. Gone for hours."

I blinked. "Where?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I asked once. She said she was 'looking at the stars.'"

"In daylight?"

He gave me a rueful look. "Exactly."

We stood there for a long moment, the wind pressing into our backs like a warning.

"If she's planning to leave," I said slowly, "she'll go before the storm hits. Or in the middle of it."

"She wouldn't survive," Diomedes said.

"She's a daughter of Luctus. Maybe she's fine with that."

He flinched at that. Just slightly. But I saw it.

I didn't apologize. I couldn't—not when I still remembered the way Carol's words had hit me a month ago, cutting straight through the ribs.

"What do we do?" I asked.

Diomedes stared out at the waves. He didn't speak, but I could see him thinking, gears turning behind those impossibly large eyes. He'd inherited his mother's mind, even if no one knew it yet. Strategic. Dangerous.

"Tomorrow night," he said finally. "We follow her."

"And if we find out she is planning to run?"

His jaw tightened. "Then we stop her from running away from her problems again."

He said it like a vow. Not a threat, not a plea—just a truth. And I knew, standing there with the storm swelling behind us, that he meant it.

The night couldn't come fast enough, the whole spa was boarded up thanks to Circe's magic. We were all sat in the dining hall eating —well, everyone but me.

I was staring down Carol as she ate in a corner near the exit.

She was picking at her food—some dried fish and seaweed rice—like she didn't even taste it. Her eyes kept flicking toward the doorway like it might open any second. Like she was waiting for someone. Or something.

Maybe escape.

Her hair was braided back, and she wore one of the nymphs' storm cloaks, the kind woven from kelp and silk. It was too big on her. The hood kept slipping. She'd tug it back up every few minutes like it mattered, like she needed to hide her face even in here.

Diomedes was sitting beside me, scarfing down his own food. He didn't look like he was paying attention, but he was. Something about how Cloud nymph's are able to sense changes in the air.

"She's planning it," I said under my breath. "She's gonna run."

Diomedes swallowed his food. "Not yet. She's waiting."

"For what?"

"For the right moment." He glanced sideways, his curls brushing his cheek.

And then the lights flickered.

It was only for a second—barely more than a blink—but it was enough. The whole mess hall seemed to hold its breath. A couple of the younger nymphs squealed. Hylla barked something to calm them down, her voice steel even over the howling wind outside.

Carol flinched. Her hand went straight to the strap of the pack she'd stashed under her bench, like instinct. Like guilt.

Diomedes didn't move, but I felt the change in him. The tension, low and steady. Storm-sense, maybe. Or just instinct.

"She's going to try it tonight," I muttered.

He nodded once, subtle. "After curfew."

I pushed my untouched food aside. The wind rattled the heavy windows. Somewhere outside, a bolt of lightning cracked so sharp it sounded like the sky tearing open.

"Do we tell Hylla?"

Diomedes shook his head. "Not yet. If she finds out and confronts her, we'll lose the chance to see what Carol's actually planning. Let her think we're asleep."

That didn't sit right with me. Letting her run around unchecked, with a storm on our doorstep? What if she got herself killed? What if she wanted to?

"You really think she'd go through with it?" I asked.

"I think," Diomedes said slowly, "that people who carry guilt start making reckless choices when they feel they have no other choice."

I looked back over at Carol. Her fingers were tight around the strap of the bag, like she thought she might need to bolt before dinner even ended. And gods, I recognized that look. I'd worn it myself before—back when I was planning to leave home for good, and didn't know if I'd come back alive.

She wasn't just scared. She was set on something.

And Diomedes, for all his calmness, had that distant look again—like his mind was already outside, scanning the beach, searching for paths in the dark.

The storm hit full force after curfew. The island shook in its foundations. Rain lashed sideways, screaming through the trees. Thunder cracked again and again, too fast to count. I couldn't tell if it was Jupiter yelling, or Neptune, or both, but whatever they were mad about? We were catching the fallout.

We waited.

Pretended to sleep in the bunk hall while the storm scraped its claws across the island. The wind howled through the rafters like it was angry to be locked out, and every time the walls groaned, I heard someone flinch. The nymphs murmured to each other in hushed, staccato tones, like prayers in a foreign language. One of them near the window cried quietly into her pillow, pressing her face into the sea-glass beads woven into her blanket.

This storm wasn't just wind and rain—it had will. It watched. It listened.

Diomedes didn't sleep. I didn't have to look to know. His breathing was too steady for someone that was asleep.

When the third gust hit the walls hard enough to make the floor tremble, I saw him sit up.

"She's going," he whispered.

I nodded. Slid from the cot, boots in hand, heart in my throat.

Together, we crept past the rows of sleeping nymphs. One or two opened their eyes, but didn't stop us. Everyone was too afraid of the wind. And besides—Circe's magic would keep the hall safe. It always had.

It was outside that wasn't.

We slipped into the passage behind the kitchens and out through the servant's stairwell, cloaks pulled tight. Rain hit me like nails. My braid soaked through in seconds. Diomedes didn't seem to mind—he moved like the storm was part of him, like it recognized him and parted around him just a little. The air crackled near his skin.

He led, I followed. Down the back paths, past the herb gardens, past the sealed fountains and silent pools. And then—

"There." I pointed.

A faint glow bobbed in the trees beyond the bathhouse. A lamp, swinging low. Someone moving fast and quiet, heading east. Toward the docks.

Diomedes's mouth went tight. He nodded once, and we moved.

We stayed in the shadows. Didn't call out. Not yet.

The trees thinned. The sand turned rougher, darker—this wasn't the nymphs' usual dock, the one used for sunbathing and fishing and spell-deliveries. This was the east cliff route, the old one. The dangerous one. The one nobody used anymore because the path was half-eroded and the dock itself was just rotting wood and seaweed.

And yet—there she was.

Carol.

She was down on the lower steps now, struggling with a tarp. A boat rocked in the waves below her—a small one. Too small for the open sea. It looked handmade. Rough. Nails poking through the wood. A makeshift sail tied crooked to the mast.

"You have got to be kidding me," I breathed.

Diomedes grabbed my arm before I could storm forward.

"Wait," he said.

"What?"

"She's not alone."

I blinked. Squinted past the sheets of rain. And then I saw her pause. Look behind her.

And out of the trees came a figure cloaked in shadows and a very beautiful man.

"That does not look safe," the man said with a voice like that of wine.

"It will be fine, Neptune won't let the occupant drown, unless he wants a war with you know who." The shadowy figure said to the man, turning back to Carol she spoke. "Safe travels my dear."

Carol shifted uncomfortably under the shadowy figure's gaze.

She looked like she wanted to shrink under it. Her hand hovered near the edge of the boat, not quite touching it—like the whole thing might vanish if she pressed too hard. Or maybe like she wanted to vanish instead.

I could barely see her face from where we crouched behind a twisted palm, but I saw her swallow. Hard.

"You're sure he'll be okay? The storm won't be too much?"

He? Is this boat for that man? Why is Carol helping him?

The shadowy figure nodded, "of course, I've protected you all these years haven't I? Why would I lie now?"

Protected? Who is this person?

Carol looked down in thought before nodding, "no, no you haven't lady Circe."

Circe?

The branch of the bush I was hiding behind snapped as I squeezed it in surprise.

The heads of Circe, Carol, and the man turned to face Diomedes and I's direction.

"Ah, right on time," Circe said. "Come on out you two!"

Diomedes and I didn't move, scared as to what could happen.

Circe sighed, "Ganymede, would you be a darling and get those two?"

The man —Ganymede—sighed and held up his hand, winds began to circle Diomedes and I, pulling us towards the three. Carol's face fell at the sight of Y/N, a glint of shame in her eyes.

She looked like she'd been punched. Her lips parted like she might speak—but no words came. Just air and guilt.

Diomedes dug his heels into the sand, but the wind dragged him forward anyway. He didn't yell. He didn't panic. He just stared at her with the kind of stillness that made it worse.

The wind dropped us on the slick dock. My sandals hit the wood hard. Diomedes landed softer, I glanced around the dock at the guy who grabbed us, he looked at Diomedes with something, I think sympathy? Disgust? I wasn't sure.

Circe offered us a smile. A radiant, razor-sharp thing. "Children," she said, hands clasped in front of her. "What a surprise. You should be inside, where it's safe."

Carol stepped forward. Just a step. Just enough to put herself slightly between Diomedes and Circe. "Diomedes," she said. "You weren't supposed to be here yet."

His eyes narrowed. "What is this, Carol? What are you doing?"

"I was just—" Her voice faltered. She looked at the boat like it might give her a script. "I was trying to help."

"With what?" I asked. "Why'd you go out all sneaky setting up a boat for that Ganymede guy?"

Carol flinched like the question hit her in the spine.

But she didn't answer.

The wind howled around us again, tugging at my cloak and drowning the silence for a heartbeat. My skin felt electric. Not just from the storm—but from something deeper. Wrongness, thick in the air like the salt.

"It's not for me," Ganymede said quietly. His voice sounded tired now, almost sad. "It's for him."

He didn't gesture. He didn't have to. He meant Diomedes.

Diomedes didn't react. He just stared at Carol, as if this was something that happened before.

"For him?" I repeated, breath caught. "What do you mean—for him? You're putting him on that?"

"It's the only way," Carol said, much too fast. "It's not safe for him here anymore."

"Safe from what?" Diomedes asked. His voice cracked, just once. "Carol. What's going on?"

Circe cut in, her tone so smooth it felt rehearsed. "You've drawn attention, Diomedes. Ganymede came asking questions. You're important to a very dangerous woman —do you know what kind of danger that brings? Her enemies might come looking. That's not something I can afford."

"Who? What woman?" Diomedes asked.

Circe looked down at him. Contempt? Sympathy? Disappointment? I don't know what she was thinking but Ganymede spoke.

"We can't say, just know that she has power in places high and low. She has cursed Aphrodite herself for lesser treachery than this."

Cursed Aphrodite? What treachery will Circe be committing if she does this to Diomedes?

"If you wanted me safely gone? Why send me out during a storm?" Diomedes asked, inching away.

"Why, to make sure Neptune keeps you safe of course?" Circe said.

"Hey why do you keep saying Neptune?" Ganymede whispered. "His names—"

Circe cut him off, "his name, Ganymede. Isn't important. What is important is getting this bastard off the island. Now Reyna, please help Diomedes into the water."

I hesitated. Circe didn't like that, frowning at me before sighing.

"I'm sorry dear, but this is important for your sister's safety. Do you really want to put a boy you've known for a year at most... over Hylla?"

I stared at her.

My breath fogged in the cold storm air, but it felt like the world had gone still around me—like everything except Circe's words had frozen.

Hylla.

That was low.

My hands clenched into fists at my sides. My cloak snapped behind me like a banner in the wind, but I didn't move. Not toward Circe. Not toward the boat. Not toward Diomedes.

"I'm not putting him over her," I said, and my voice came out steady, sharp. "But you are."

Circe blinked, slowly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You want me to choose," I said. "But you already made the choice. You're gambling with her safety just by doing this. You think this is going to protect the island? Protect us?"

A flash of lightning lit Circe's face in stark lines. She didn't look mad. Not yet. She looked... patient. Like she was waiting for me to realize something obvious and stupid. Like I was a child missing a lesson she'd already spelled out.

"Reyna," she said, "I have given you shelter. Power. A place to belong. This is the cost of keeping that. I'm not your enemy."

"Then who is?" I snapped. "Because it's starting to feel like you're protecting yourself more than anyone else."

Circe's eyes narrowed. Ganymede took a half-step back, wisely not interfering.

Diomedes, to his credit, still hadn't moved. But I could feel it from him—his anger was rising. Quiet, cold, slow. The kind that didn't shout. The kind that watched.

Carol spoke next. "Reyna," she said. Her voice trembled. "Please. Just... trust me. He'll be okay. I wouldn't have agreed if I thought he'd die."

He didn't look at her.

He didn't say her name.

He just said, "You said the same when mom died..."

Carol flinched like he'd struck her.

I didn't blame her.

Circe's hand twitched at her side. "Enough," she said. The wind around her stilled. The rain hit harder, sudden and brutal. "You've been allowed too much. This is not a debate. You're young, Reyna. You'll understand what I'm doing for you when you're older."

She lifted her arm.

And before I could do anything, the dock beneath us lurched.

A gust of wind unlike any I'd felt before—not natural, not just storm—ripped up around him, spun around his feet, lifted him like he weighed nothing.

"No—!" I lunged, but Ganymede's hand closed around my wrist before I could grab him.

Diomedes didn't scream. But I saw the fear. The betrayal. His eyes found mine as the wind spun him around, cloaking him in the storm.

"Reyna—" he called.

"I've got you!" I shouted. "I'll find you! I swear—!"

And then Circe waved her hand—

And the wind took him.

Not up. Not down.

Out.

Out to sea. Into the storm. Away from the cliffs and the island and everything we knew.

I screamed after him. Pulled against Ganymede's grip so hard my shoulder nearly dislocated. "Diomedes!!"

He was already a shadow in the distance.

Then a speck.

Then—

Gone.

I stood there, panting. Rain in my eyes. Hands empty.

Circe turned to me slowly. "He'll live. If he's meant to."

She sounded so damn calm. Like she'd done us a favor.

"You're a monster," I whispered.

She only tilted her head. "I'm a survivor. Just like you."

I wanted to hit her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear her magic apart with my bare hands. But instead, I turned.

Carol stood there like a ruin. Her hands limp at her sides, her eyes hollowed out.

"You said you wanted to help him," I hissed.

She didn't even cry.

Just looked at the sea.

"I did," she whispered. "I thought this was helping."

And for the first time since I met her—

I didn't believe her.

I didn't forgive her.

Not even a little.

Chapter Text

“Diomedes!!”

Reyna's voice tore through the storm, sharper than the wind. I reached for her—but I couldn't move. The gusts wrapped around me like chains, dragging me backward off the dock. My feet never even touched the water.

The world tilted.

Rain slammed into my face. The salt stung my eyes. Wind roared in my ears, so loud it drowned everything else—except her. I could still hear Reyna, still see her fighting to reach me, held back by Ganymede's grip.

Circe raised her hand and I was ripped from the dock. The air turned solid. The sea opened beneath me, waves black and heaving. The last thing I saw before it swallowed me whole was Reyna's face—furious and scared.

Then cold.

Waves hit me like fists. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The sky disappeared behind a wall of black waves.

I was barely conscious for another second.

I don't know how long I was out. Hours? Minutes? Days?

I awoke somewhere, surrounded by sand. From what I saw the place was almost completely deserted. I couldn't look around and check as I immediately started throwing up water.

It felt like my eyes were going to pop out my head, the salty bile rising as I wretched onto the sand.

I was like that for another four minutes.

When finished I flopped on the untainted sand bed, looking up at the sky.

It was still storming, the sky full of thunderous clouds.

"Where am I?" I rasped.

No one answered. All I got in return was the squawk of a bird.

I followed the squawking and saw up on an umbrella was grey bird with striking yellow eyes and a striped chest.

It blinked at me.

Once. Twice. Like it had been waiting.

I pushed myself upright—slowly. Everything hurt. My ribs, my throat, even the skin on my fingers felt scraped raw. My clothes clung to me, heavy with seawater and sand. Breathing tasted like rust.

The bird squawked again. Harsher this time, like it was annoyed I hadn't moved yet.

"Yeah," I croaked. "Give me a minute."

The beach around me was empty. Miles of pale sand, broken only by some umbrellas, plastic chairs, and the occasional washed-up soda bottle. The buildings just beyond the dunes looked strange —familiar. Like something I'd seen in a photograph.

The grey bird fluttered down from the umbrella and landed a few feet away. It cocked its head at me, then took a few steps forward. Almost like it wanted me to follow.

I stared at it. "You serious?"

It squawked again. Louder this time. Then flapped once, turning toward the boardwalk.

"Fine," I muttered, dragging myself up.

Each step felt like wading through molasses. My limbs were too heavy, my thoughts too slow. But I followed anyway, partly because I didn't have another plan—and partly because, honestly, the bird was the only thing I recognized.

Signs hung crookedly on the buildings ahead—faded, some rusted. I tried reading one, but the letters twisted and danced like psychedelia. I blinked hard, trying to focus.

Still nothing. Just shapes and confusion.

I rubbed my temples. "Come on..."

"You lost, kid?"

I spun. A woman was standing beside one of the hot dog stands, holding a baby  as a second woman ordered hot dog buns and eyed me like I'd washed up from Mars. Which... wasn't that far off.

"I..." My throat rasped. "Where is this?"

The woman with the baby squinted at me. "You hit your head or something?"

I didn't answer.

"This is Jersey Shore," she said, like it should be obvious. "New Jersey."

New Jersey.

I almost laughed. Circe threw me into a hurricane and I ended up in New Jersey.

The woman frowned. "You okay?"

Behind her, the grey bird landed on a railing, watching me again with those sharp yellow eyes.

I coughed, "yes ma'am."

She didn't look convinced, nor did her friend as she walked over with her hot dog buns —literally only the buns, no sausage. She had a flask in her purse, smelling of wine.

"Abeona," the lady with the flask said to the woman with the baby. "The kids got to get home to his parents soon."

The baby lady —Abeona— turned to the flask woman, "I know Adeona, I'm just checking in on this kid."

Adeona took a swig of her flask, "another demigod?"

Abeona nodded, "I think so. He smells weird though, kinda like pomegranates and lotus."

Lotus? Do I really still smell like lotus? I haven't eaten a lotus flower in years. Shouldn't I reek of sea water?

Wait did she call me a demigod?

Adeona groaned, "I miss lotus flowers so much, I wish they'd return to that island in the Mediterranean."

Abeona laughed at Adeona's dismay, "you have to be more adventurous little sister. They have a hotel close to the underworld."

"But that's so far from home," Adeona groaned.

"Im sorry," I said, interrupting the two. "You called me a demigod ... are you two... ya know."

"Goddesses?" Abeona asked, a sly smile on her face. Her eyes were filled with a mischievous glimmer, like the eyes of those dolphins I met when I was five.

Adeona nudged Abeona, "don't scare the kid. He's just a baby."

I pouted. I know, I'm too okay for that. But the last —unknown amount of time— was starting to weigh down on me. I was cold, wet, and lost; talking to two possible Goddesses after a goddess threw me into the sea because I was somehow related to a dangerous woman who I don't know.

"I'm ten, not a baby."

Adeona giggled, knocking back another swig of her flask. "Kid, to us you're nothing more than an infant that can talk."

I stared at her, slack-jawed. "I'm ten," I repeated, like maybe she hadn't heard me. Like that was supposed to mean something.

Adeona cackled, wiping the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. "Ten! That's barely out of the womb for our kind."

Abeona gave me a gentler look, tilting her head like she was inspecting me. Not just looking at me—reading me. "You're not from around here, are you?"

I hesitated. "Depends on what you mean by 'here.'"

That made Adeona bark another laugh. "Gods, he's polite. So formal. I love it when they're still in shock."

"Circe threw me into the ocean," I said, trying to hold my voice steady. "That was... yesterday? Maybe? I don't know. I woke up here. The signs don't make sense. Everything smells like fried oil and seaweed. And now you're telling me I'm a baby?"

Abeona's face softened, almost like a mother's would—if I remembered what that felt like. "You've had your first lone departure. That's always hard."

"My what?"

"Lone departure ," she said. "You've left a place truly on your own without anyone else to verbally guide you. You left home. Not just physically. Spiritually. Circe cutting you loose like that... brutal, but effective. You've stepped into the world now. You don't go back from this."

"Yeah," Adeona chimed in, "you got pushed off the dock and dropped into your first chapter. It's kind of poetic."

"Poetic?!" I snapped. "She nearly drowned me!"

"Still poetic," Adeona shrugged. "Also traumatic. But those things usually hang out together."

I rubbed my eyes. My skin felt tight with salt, my throat raw. The bird—still perched on the railing—watched me without blinking. It gave a low, rolling sound in its throat. Almost a purr.

"You said you're goddesses," I said slowly, looking between them. "Which ones?"

"Abeona," said the one with the baby. She gave a little nod. "I walk with those who are leaving. I guard first steps—first journeys. Children setting out into the world. Like you just did."

Adeona grinned, swinging her flask in lazy circles. "And I make sure they find their way back. I'm the one waiting at the door. Or the grave. Depends on the journey."

There was a beat of silence. Wind rustled the empty chip bags along the boardwalk. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screamed like it had been wronged.

"...You're serious."

Abeona smiled faintly. "As serious as birth."

Adeona raised her flask. "And death."

"Great," I muttered. "So I'm either at the beginning or the end."

Abeona gave a light shrug. "Or both. You're a demigod. Those are never so easy to separate."

"Why are you even here?" I asked. "In New Jersey?"

Adeona wrinkled her nose. "Honestly? I hate it here. But the mortal world's shifting. Boundaries are thinner lately. So we walk where we're needed."

"And you," Abeona said, pointing a finger gently at my chest, "were very much needed."

I didn't answer. My stomach felt hollow. Not just from hunger—though that was part of it—but from the weight of everything crashing down. Circe. Reyna. Being called dangerous. Being thrown away.

"You'll have a choice soon," Abeona added, voice low and serious. "A real one. And you won't be able to go back once it's made."

"Not without me, anyway," Adeona said with a wink.

I opened my mouth to ask more, but before I could—

The bird let out a sudden, sharp cry. Its wings flared wide. It flew straight to me, landing hard on my shoulder.

The goddesses both tensed.

Abeona's eyes narrowed. "It's starting."

"Already?" Adeona groaned. "I didn't even finish my drink."

I blinked. "What's starting?"

Abeona didn't answer. She stepped back, cradling the baby tighter. Adeona gave me a mock-salute, but there was steel behind her grin.

"Try not to die, infant," she said. "We hate when they don't make it past the first page, oh and look out for the blonde one with the scar, he bites."

Then—just like that—they were gone.

The wind began to pick up, thundering across the sky as a lightning struck a large shack near the docks.

The building exploded into shrapnel, if anyone were inside they were either dead or gravely injured.

The bird on my shoulder dug in its talons, squawking at me and pulling on my tattered chiton. Adamant for me to go in the other direction.

Obviously, I listened. As five seconds later the monstrous roar of some sort of horned beast came from the smoking shack.

I couldn't fight it, not when it was two stories tall.

I began booking it down the road. If only the winds weren't so strong, I could fly away from whatever that thing was.

But I couldn't. My feet were lead. The rain felt like knives. And behind me—

Another roar. Closer this time. So loud it rattled my spine.

The bird screamed on my shoulder, flapping its wings like it was trying to push me faster. My bare feet slapped the soaked pavement as I weaved between crumbling buildings and flickering street lamps. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized I was crying—but not out of fear.

Out of frustration.

"I just got here!" I shouted at the sky. "Give me five minutes!"

The ground shook behind me, and something massive snorted through the storm.

I risked a glance back.

It stepped out of the smoke like a nightmare—massive, hulking, and white. Not just pale—blinding, gleaming white. Fur that shimmered even in the stormlight. Horns like ivory spears, twisted and polished to razor points. And eyes like burning gold. It looked like something out of an ancient mosaic—except alive, and very angry.

The monster stomped once, and the street cracked beneath its hooves.

"Not good," I breathed.

It charged.

The air seemed to ripple around it, like even reality was getting out of the way. Thunder cracked again, but I barely heard it over the sound of its pounding hooves and my own blood screaming in my ears.

I turned a sharp corner, nearly wiping out on a slick patch of oil. My shoulder slammed into a box on a stick, papers launching out of it.

I kept running.

The bird dug in again, squawking furiously.

"I get it!" I snapped. "Go left, right, die horribly—I'm on it!"

I dodged into a narrow alley between two weird places that said aPap hoJn and nomiDoes. The walls were close, barely wider than my wingspan. The beast wouldn't fit, I hoped.

Wrong.

The bull didn't care. It crashed into the alley wall like a wrecking ball, bricks raining down behind me. The whole building groaned, like it was about to come down.

"Who sends a bull after a ten-year-old?!"

I spotted a fire escape ahead, its ladder hanging just out of reach. I leapt, scraping my hands raw on the metal—but I caught it. I pulled myself up as the bull snorted again, pacing at the alley mouth like a predator that knew I wouldn't get far.

The fire escape shuddered beneath my weight. Every part of me screamed in protest. My hands, my lungs, my legs. But I climbed. Higher and higher.

The roofs weren't much safer. Just more flat wet surfaces and unstable air.

I crossed three rooftops before I made a mistake.

My foot hit moss. Slipped. I hit the roof hard—wind knocked out of me.

And then the bull jumped.

The thing leapt. Up. From the ground. Onto the rooftop.

I scrambled backward. "That's illegal! You're not supposed to jump!"

It lowered its head. Snorted. Steam curled from its nostrils.

Then it charged again.

"Nononononono—"

I dove behind an old air conditioning unit as the bull plowed through the corner of the roof like it was paper. Lightning flashed again, and I saw its face. Not mindless. Angry. Sentient. It knew what it was doing.

And it wanted me.

"Why?" I panted. "What did I do?!"

No answer. Just another snort and a scrape of hoof on gravel.

The bird pecked me once on the shoulder. Not hard—more like an insistent Go.

I didn't think. I just ran again. Off the edge of the roof.

I fell.

The bull didn't follow this time. It watched.

Which was almost worse.

I landed in a dumpster, the smell nearly knocking me unconscious. I tumbled out, gagging, and took off again. My legs were jelly, my breath ragged, but I kept going.

I ran until the streets blurred and the storm faded.

I didn't stop until I found a drainage tunnel and collapsed inside, shivering and covered in muck.

The bird landed beside me, finally quiet. Its feathers ruffled, eyes still alert.

"Thanks," I croaked.

It blinked.

Outside, the thunder rolled. Distant now. But not gone.

I couldn't stay still for long, that bull thing ran through literal buildings to get me, who knows what else it's willing to do?

I looked down the tunnel, listening for any strange or uncommon sounds. The dark swallowed the end of the tunnel like a mouth. Every few feet, the flicker of lightning flashed through a grate above, casting fractured light across the damp concrete. Shadows moved where nothing should've moved. Water trickled somewhere up ahead, too steady to be threatening—but I still didn't trust it.

The bird didn't either. It shifted beside me, feathers fluffed out, head cocked toward the dark like it expected something to come crawling out of it.

I pushed off the wall, wincing as my body protested. I wasn't sure how many bruises I had, but I was guessing "too many." I took a shaky step forward, one hand trailing along the tunnel wall for balance.

Each step echoed.

I passed a rusted ladder leading up to a manhole cover. I paused under it, staring up. The thought of fresh air tempted me, but I'd seen what was up there.

Ivory horns.

Golden eyes.

I kept walking.

The tunnel stretched on like the throat of some giant beast—wet, tight, and endless. Every few feet, the air changed: warmer, then cold again; metallic, then thick with mildew. I don't know what I expected to find in here. A way out? A miracle? Maybe just a second to breathe without the world trying to crush me.

My steps were soft—too soft. I hated how they sounded, like I was sneaking through a place I didn't belong. The walls wept old water. Pipes hissed overhead. Everything felt watched.

The bird—still with me, somehow—hopped onto my shoulder again. Its talons were lighter than I expected, but I still flinched.

"You're not going to leave me, are you?" I whispered.

It tilted its head, and for half a second, I could've sworn it looked... proud. Not of me, exactly. Just... that I was still moving.

"Yeah, well," I muttered, "walking's all I've got."

Time got weird in the dark. I didn't know how long I walked—minutes, hours? My thoughts spiraled the whole time. What was that monster? Why was it after me? What had Circe meant by "dangerous woman"? And why did those goddesses talk to me like I was important?

I wasn't.

I'm just—me.

Just a half-formed not-quite-kid who doesn't even know who his godly parent is. Who gets thrown into oceans and chased by mythic death cows and smells like lotus and pomegranate and whatever else makes people raise their eyebrows at me.

I didn't notice I was crying until the tears hit my lip—warm, salty, and pointless.

The bird nudged my jaw gently. I didn't even have the energy to tell it to stop.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

Light ones. Measured. Confident. Not like mine.

I froze. So did the bird.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

Twang.

Something hit the wall just ahead of me with a sharp, precise thunk.

I staggered back. My heart nearly exploded out of my chest. I stared at the arrow lodged in the concrete wall, its white fletching slick with tunnel condensation.

"Whoa!" I yelped. "Not the bull!"

Silence.

Then—a voice. Sharp. Cool. And somehow... older than it sounded.

"You're not. But you smell like it..."

I turned, slowly.

She stepped out of the shadow like she'd always been there, like the tunnel had waited for her to arrive.

She was tall for a girl, with lean muscle under her silver hunting jacket. Her ginger hair was pulled back into a braided ponytail, the sides shaved.

Her eyes were pale green and unreadable. And she was pointing another arrow at me.

"I'm not a monster," I said, hands raised.

Her bow didn't lower. "Name."

"Diomedes."

"Parentage?"

"Parentage?"

"Who's your godly parent?"

"Unknown."

She stared. Bow still drawn. "You said something about a bull? White fur. Golden eyes. Like a storm made solid?"

I nodded, "he chased me halfway across the city— who are you?"

She didn't answer right away. Her eyes narrowed, studying me like she was trying to decide if I was lying—or worse, useless.

Then she exhaled slowly, not lowering the bow. "Phoebe. Hunter of Artemis. I'm tracking that bull."

I blinked. "You're a Hunter?"

She finally eased the string on her bow, letting the arrow drop a fraction. "Yes."

I stared at her—at the silver brooch of the moon pinned to her collar, the way her eyes glinted like metal in the flickering tunnel light, the quiet weight she carried, like she'd lived through a hundred things and didn't flinch anymore.

I took a cautious step forward. "The bull—what is it?"

Phoebe shook her head once, sharp. "Don't know if I can trust you enough to answer that."

I opened my mouth to argue, but stopped.

Fair.

I must've looked like something scraped off a shipwreck, barely standing, soaked to the bone, reeking of seaweed, old flowers, and rotting fruit.

Phoebe looked me over again, "You're alone?"

"Yeah."

"No satyrs?"

"Not sure what that is, but I have a bird." I motioned to my shoulder.

The bird blinked smugly, like it was proud to be the one who hadn't tossed me into to Ocean. Where did it even come from?

"Do you know why the bull is here? Large amounts of food? Something like that, "Phoebe asked.

I looked down at the floor for a moment, it was definitely here for me. "Yeah, lightning struck a shack after I washed up here and talked to some goddesses. Five seconds later it was chasing after me through, and up buildings."

"Do you know why?" Phoebe asked. "Did the goddesses you meet say anything?"

"No." I said, I mean they did, but it wasn't much help so I didn't say it to her.

Phoebe grumbled scratching her chin, "well I need to find it for lady Artemis... how do you feel about being used as bait?"

"... what?"

Chapter Text

"...What," I repeated, slower this time, because clearly she hadn't heard how insane that sounded.

Phoebe crossed her arms, arrow now fully lowered, but still in her hand. "You said it chased you halfway across the city. Climbed buildings for you. Jumped roofs. It's obviously hunting you."

"No kidding."

"So," she continued, like we were discussing the weather, "we use you to draw it out. I shoot it. It dies. You live. Easy."

"Easy for you. You have a bow. I have—" I gestured at myself, "a bird. A dress. And probably a concussion."

"It's a chiton," Phoebe corrected without missing a beat. "But you can't expect a man to know these things. That cuckoo is probably smarter than most I've met."

The bird made a satisfied clicking noise on my shoulder.

"Okay, wow," I muttered. "Betrayed by my own sidekick."

The cuckoo squawked, as if it was apologizing.

"No, no. I understand you hate me," I joked. "To think you'd agree with a sexist you've known for six minutes over me who you've known for two hours."

The bird chirped in protest, flapping its wings.

"Ugh, will you take this seriously?" Phoebe asked. "We need to deal with this Bull. And I am not a sexist. I treat the women who deserve it well."

I cringed, she sounded a bit like a few nymphs I knew.

"That's a harmful way to think, but we can talk about it when we get done with this bull."

Phoebe grunted but complied.

We began walking, our footsteps muffled by the wet concrete, the steady plink-plink of water echoing like a ticking clock. I stayed half a step behind Phoebe—partly out of caution, mostly because I was still trying to figure out if she would shoot me if I did something dumb.

"Alright," she said after a moment, "if we're going to do this, I need to know what I'm working with. What can you do?"

I scratched my chin. What could I do?

"I can't fly or else the winds will tear me apart and have me end up halfway across the continent. I can hit hard enough to dent tungsten —don't ask where I got it."

"Well, it's not useless information. But the Bull is too big for me or you to hit it at its heart, maybe you could fly up and have the winds carry you over?" Phoebe suggested, taking out a knife to cut through an over grown blockage in the tunnel.

"I can't control the wind," I told her. "... but I can control the distance I'm going."

It's extremely hard for me to do. But when cloud nymph's turn into the wind they can control the way they travel, it's just much harder to do when storm winds are forcing you in a specific way.

But maybe I can use that to my advantage.

If I can focus hard enough, maybe I can ride the storm winds just enough to stay on course—keep myself close enough to the ground so I don't get blown halfway to the next city.

I mean I have to help this girl. The bull literally spawned minutes after I arrived and tore straight through the city after me. So it makes the most sense that I'd help deal with it.

The only question now is how? Because she said so herself she couldn't shoot it in the heart.

"What about the scapula?" I suggested. "It's a clear shot and it should debilitate the bull?"

Phoebe didn't respond right away. She stopped carving through the vines clinging to the rusted grate ahead and turned toward me slowly, narrowing her eyes.

"The scapula?" she repeated, like I'd just suggested we tickle the monster into submission.

"It's—" I made a vague gesture to my shoulder, "—the shoulder blade. A clean shot there could disable a foreleg. And if it can't charge..."

"...Then it's easier to kill," she finished, her expression unreadable. She studied me for a moment longer than necessary. "Interesting."

Her voice didn't sound impressed. It sounded like someone trying to figure out how a goat just did math.

"You don't strike me as the anatomical type."

"Thanks," I muttered.

"No, really," she said. "Most of the people like you that I've met couldn't point out a femur if it was sticking through their own leg. But here you are, spewing medical terms like you've seen combat."

I shrugged, "I have seen combat... but I learned that from a veterinarian that had hired my mom when I was little, he'd teach me about them to put me to sleep. It's not that different, right?"

Phoebe tilted her head. "Depends on the animal."

She turned back to the vines and slashed cleanly through them with her hunting knife, the silver gleaming in the faint light of the tunnel's opening. The grating fell away with a groan of rusted metal, revealing a cracked concrete slope that led up to what looked like an abandoned rail yard. I could smell rain, copper, and distant smoke.

"Fine," she said, stepping over the threshold. "We'll go for the scapula first. But if that fails, I've got other tricks."

She tapped the quiver on her back.

"Tripwire arrows," she added when I must have looked confused. "And one that smells like a fart."

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

"That's—" I wanted to say ridiculous, but the look she gave me stopped the words midair. "Creative."

She smirked slightly, and for a second, I thought she almost looked proud. Then the moment passed.

We moved out of the tunnel into the wet open air. The world outside was dark with stormlight, that kind of bruised purple sky that made everything look like a bad dream. Lightning flickered in the clouds, high and mean. The Bull was somewhere out there—I could feel it. Not just in the tremble of the earth or the way the wind caught wrong in my lungs, but in something deeper. A pressure in the air, like the world itself was trying to hold its breath.

Phoebe motioned for me to crouch behind the rusted shell of a railcar. I did, the metal cold and sharp against my palms.

"Alright," she said, crouching beside me. "Here's how this works. You go out there. Make noise. Draw it in. I'll find a high vantage point and shoot the scapula. If that doesn't drop it, I'll switch to the hind legs."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then we run."

I blinked. "You're surprisingly honest about the possibility of failure."

"I've hunted monsters longer than you've been alive," she said. "Some just don't go down easy. Or at all. That's why we're always ready to lose."

"...Comforting," I said dryly.

"Don't get soft on me, cloud boy."

I sighed and shifted my stance, closing my eyes for a second. Wind tugged at my sleeves, not with the fury of the storm earlier, but still sharp. I could feel the tug of the upper currents, wild and hungry, like they wanted to snap me up again and dash me into some distant ocean.

I couldn't give in to them.

I imagined myself as a string tied to a rock—free to flutter, but not to break away. One breath in. Another out. The feeling built in my chest, like static in my lungs. My skin prickled.

Then I let go.

My form blurred, not vanished, just... softened. I felt myself become mist and breath, stretched across the wind but anchored. The trick wasn't power—it was control.

I floated low, just above the cracked asphalt, gliding past rusted cars and broken fencing, my eyes scanning the yard for any sign of movement. The cuckoo flew overhead, circling once before perching on a nearby crane arm, ruffling its feathers anxiously.

And then I heard it.

A scrape.

A breath.

I didn't see it right away, but I felt it. The pressure in my bones shifted. The ground shuddered.

It stepped into view like a nightmare peeled off the page. Hooves cracked concrete with every step. Its white fur was matted with grime and blood, and those eyes—those glowing gold eyes—locked onto me like I was the only thing in the world.

I flickered sideways, letting the wind carry me a few feet to the left. The Bull's nostrils flared. It reared once, then charged.

Right toward me.

I didn't scream. (I thought about it.) Instead, I pulled hard against the wind, forcing myself into a tight curve just above its horns, the air singing in my ears. The beast roared past beneath me, plowing through a railcar like it was paper.

And then—thwip.

A silver arrow buried itself deep into its shoulder.

Right where the scapula should be.

The Bull staggered. It didn't fall, but it screamed—an awful, ragged noise that echoed across the empty yard. It whirled, blood frothing from the wound, and I saw Phoebe on the rooftop of a crumbling shed, bow already drawn again.

"One more," I whispered.

But the Bull was moving. Fast.

It threw its weight sideways, smashing into the shed like a battering ram. Phoebe leapt, twisting in midair like a fox, landing hard and rolling as the roof collapsed behind her.

She came up snarling, bow in one hand, knife in the other.

"Hind leg!" I shouted, circling low above the Bull again. "Go for the knee!"

Phoebe didn't question me. She didn't speak at all. She sprinted across the yard, planted her foot on a fallen beam, and leapt again. Her next arrow buried itself just behind the joint.

The Bull shrieked—and collapsed.

It didn't die. But it couldn't stand.

I landed beside her, breath heaving, limbs shaky from the effort of holding myself together mid-flight.

"Nice shot," I wheezed.

Phoebe didn't look at me. She watched the Bull, breathing hard.

"Thanks," she panted, holding her shoulder in pain. "Dear Gods I should not have rolled like that.

"Oh crap, we should you to a Me'dicus," I said, reaching towards her only to get swatted away.

"No," she protested, sitting down. "I have ambrosia in my bag, I'll get it after this thing dies."

Dear Gods she's another Reyna.

Phoebe grunted as she pulled out her knife and marched towards the pinned bull. I followed, not sure she'd make it another step with the blood leaking from her head.

And I was right, as five feet away from the bull, she collapsed onto the asphalt.

I was at her side before she even hit the ground. The sound of her knees slapping the wet asphalt made me wince, and I caught her just in time to stop her head from hitting the pavement. She was burning up, her breath shallow and fast, and one of her arms twitched like she was still reaching for her knife.

"Phoebe?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "Hey. No dying. That's not part of the plan."

She groaned, which I decided to take as a good sign, even if it was more aggressive than grateful.

"I'm not—dying," she snapped, eyes fluttering open just enough to glare at me. "I'm... resting."

"Resting with a concussion and probable internal bleeding?" I adjusted her to sit more upright. "That's not rest, that's denial."

Her eyelids drooped again, but she fumbled weakly at her side. "Ambrosia. In the side pocket. Black pouch."

I found it after a moment's rummaging—careful not to disturb the rest of her gear. The pouch was warm, almost unnaturally so. Inside were two small, wrapped squares of what looked like golden bread.

Ambrosia. Food of the gods. Healing, sacred. Delicious. Deadly to mortals.

And here I was, hands trembling, holding it like it might explode if I moved wrong.

Phoebe's hand twitched again.

"Right," I said, more to myself than her. "Don't let the Hunter die."

I unwrapped one of the squares. A buttery, warm smell hit me immediately—like fresh honeycake from back home, with just a hint of something citrus. My mouth watered just smelling it. Gods, it must taste like heaven.

I broke off a small piece. She wouldn't need the whole thing—not unless she wanted to wake up feverish and hallucinating. Carefully, I pressed it to her lips.

"Phoebe," I coaxed. "You need to eat this."

Her eyes cracked open again, barely. "You... feed me... and I'll stab you."

"Noted. Stabbing later. Healing now."

To my surprise, she took the bite without further protest. Her jaw moved slowly at first, then faster as she chewed. Her whole body seemed to sigh. Color came back into her face almost instantly, and the cut at her temple began to knit itself shut.

I waited, watching her carefully so she didn't keel over and die. When she finally sat up on her own, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and gave me a sharp look.

"I said don't feed me."

"Would you have preferred I let you bleed out face-first in the dirt?"

"I'd prefer you not act like my nursemaid."

I blinked. "You collapsed."

"I slipped."

"You lost consciousness."

"A strategic rest."

"I fed you ambrosia, Phoebe. You were about to keel over and die in front of a monster."

That shut her up for a second.

Then she mumbled, "...Fine. Maybe. Thanks. I guess."

That was the closest to gratitude I was going to get, I figured.

"Next time," I said, helping her to her feet, "just admit you're injured. You don't lose honor points or whatever by accepting help."

Her scowl returned, but her hand stayed in mine for a moment longer than necessary before she pulled away.

"I don't trust men," she muttered, brushing her knees off. "They always want something."

I sighed. It was all I could do since she technically had a point. Working under the daughter of the second biggest man whore you could meet? I'd stop trusting men too.

"So you decided that death is a better option?" I asked.

Phoebe sputtered slightly, "no, I just—"

"You let your distrust of men cloud your judgment and put yourself in more danger."

"No I do—" Phoebe grunted, holding her head in pain. She wiped her head, bringing her hand down to look at the blood.

I smiled at her, she turned away glowering.

The Bull gave a low groan behind us, reminding me it still existed—still pinned, but very much alive. Its blood leaked in thick, black rivers onto the asphalt, and its sides heaved like a bellows. Phoebe stiffened and turned back to it, knife still in hand, but I grabbed her wrist before she could take another step.

"You're not killing that thing like this."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. Your knees are still shaking."

"So what, I let you do it?"

"Why not?"

"Because you look like you should be playing a harp in a temple courtyard, not finishing off a monster."

I sighed and grabbed her back the back of her shirt, lifting her off the ground with one hand.

"Look, I'm not asking you to hand me your knife and pray I don't stab you. I've seen what this thing does. It's strong, but it's dumb. I can handle it long enough for you to catch your breath and maybe line up a proper final shot."

Phoebe opened her mouth—probably to say something cutting and full of disdain—but then paused. She looked back at the Bull, then at me. Then at the blood drying on her fingers.

"I could shoot it through the eye," she murmured. "From here. If I had a clean line."

I nodded. "I'll give you one."

"You're offering to bait it again."

"I'm offering to help."

Phoebe didn't answer right away. Her eyes searched my face like she was reading a passage she didn't quite trust. I saw the moment she realized something — not everything, not yet — but enough to hesitate.

"Fine," she finally said, not quite looking at me. "But if you get gored, I'm not scraping you off the pavement."

I gave her a half-smile. "Fair."

I stood slowly, not bothering to dust myself off. There wasn't much point — I was soaked, scraped, and bruised in a dozen places already. I turned my eyes back to the Bull. It was struggling, thrashing against its ruined knee, its hooves gouging ugly divots in the concrete. But it wasn't going anywhere. Not fast, anyway.

The wind kicked up again, brushing across my skin like a living thing. I could feel the pressure building in my chest — that pull to become vapor, to scatter across the sky, free and formless. But I held it back. I had to.

I stepped forward, keeping my movements loose, natural, like I wasn't about to taunt a creature big enough to flatten me with one flailing hoof.

"Hey," I called out, my voice clearer than I expected. "Over here, you undercooked stifado!"

The Bull's head snapped toward me, golden eyes burning.

Good. Still mad.

I took another step closer. I didn't need to fight it. I just needed to give Phoebe her shot. Which meant I had to get its attention — and hold it.

"You're not very smart, are you?" I continued, drifting sideways. "Just all muscle and fury and not enough brain to understand when you've lost."

The Bull bellowed, loud enough to rattle my ribs. It heaved itself up on its good legs, head lowering. I could practically see the heat radiating off its horns.

Behind me, I could hear Phoebe moving, the soft whisper of fabric and leather as she adjusted her aim. She was trusting me.

Gods help her.

The Bull charged.

I didn't try to run. Not immediately. I waited until it was almost on me — close enough to feel the heat and smell the blood on its breath — before I leapt sideways, twisting in the air and letting the wind catch me just enough to avoid the worst of the shockwave as it tore past.

The Bull roared in frustration, skidding as it tried to turn. Its front legs faltered, the injured shoulder giving out again.

Now.

"Phoebe!" I shouted.

A heartbeat passed. Then a silver gleam flashed through the air — straight and true, cutting the stormlight in half.

The arrow struck deep, right through the Bull's eye.

The creature screamed, a hideous, rattling sound that shook the earth. Its legs buckled, its body shuddered — then, finally, it collapsed for good. A groan of crushed metal and broken bone echoed across the yard as it fell.

Silence followed.

Even the wind seemed to hold still.

I stood there, panting, knees weak, staring at the monster. It didn't move. The light in its eye — the one that remained — had gone out.

I turned, slowly, to see Phoebe lowering her bow.

She was breathing hard, face pale under her freckles, but steady. She looked at me, eye to eye for the first time since we'd met. Like she didn't quite know what to make of me anymore.

I gave her a shaky thumbs-up.

"You kill all your monsters that dramatically?" I asked, voice hoarse.

She blinked. Then, for the first time, she actually smiled. Just a little.

"Only the ones stupid enough to chase cloud nymphs across the city."

"Ah," I said, walking back toward her, "so I'm useful now."

"You're still a man," she muttered, but her tone had changed. Softer. Less barbed. "But... maybe not the worst one."

I shrugged. "Still a bad thought process. But it's a start."

She didn't stop me when I reached out to steady her again. Her legs were still shaky, but the color had returned to her face.

I helped her down onto a piece of rubble, and we sat there for a moment, catching our breath while the storm began to ease overhead. The rain slackened to a drizzle, the thunder distant now.

The Bull was dead.

I knelt beside the body, gently touching its flank. The fur was coarse, almost wiry. Beneath it, I could feel the unnatural cold of monster-flesh beginning to come apart, even if it hadn't disintegrated yet. It would. In time. All monsters did.

Phoebe approached slowly, bow now slung across her back, knife drawn again. Her limp was subtle, but there.

"We have to skin it before it dissolves," she said bluntly, crouching beside me. "I need the hide."

"I figured," I murmured, still staring at the corpse. "Spoil of war?"

"Tribute to Artemis," she corrected. "It's a ritual."

We sat there for a few moments

"... thank you." Phoebe said, not looking my way. "For the help."

I shrugged, "no problem, if maybe this'll help you treat strangers better."

Phoebe opened her mouth to protest but stopped and sighed, "I'll try."

I didn't say anything. I just nodded and reached for one of the blades she passed me — a clean hunting knife, worn from use but still sharp. The moment I touched it, the hilt warmed in my palm.

Phoebe knelt opposite of me, rolling up her sleeves. Her hands were steady, precise. I mimicked her motions as best I could, watching how she slid the blade beneath the hide just above the shoulder joint, slicing along the muscle with practiced ease.

I had gutted goats before, helped Hylla cut a stillborn calf out of its mother once. This wasn't much different — just bigger, tougher, and somehow heavier than it should've been. Not in mass. In presence. Even dead, the Bull didn't feel like it belonged here. Like the air around it still bent a little wrong.

"Do you know what it was?" I asked after a while, keeping my voice low. "There aren't many two story tall bulls that trample cities."

Phoebe flicked a look at me. "Cretan Bull."

I blinked. "The thing Theseus killed?"

Phoebe gagged in disgust. "Please don't mention that freak, I just started liking you."

I cracked a smile at that, despite the gore beneath my fingers. The laughter barely made it to my chest, but it was real. Strange how a person could be elbow-deep in monster guts and still manage to joke.

Still, something about the name stuck in my head. Cretan Bull. I knew of the Roman tales. The Labyrinth. Minos. Minotaurs. Hercules dragging the Bull back alive.

"Do you know why it came here?" I asked.

Phoebe shook her head. "Just that Artemis said it needed to be put down. It's been stirring for months. Took me forever to find it. This is the third city I've chased it through." Her brow furrowed. "I thought I'd get it alone."

I glanced up at her. "You were alone this whole time?"

She paused, gave a small shrug. "I'm the best healer. They weren't worried since I'd just come back."

Not arrogance. Just fact.

Still, something in me twisted. "That's a heavy thing to carry alone."

She didn't answer that. Just kept cutting.

The hide came away slowly, in long, heavy folds. We moved around the body, grimy with blood and effort, working by the dim silver light that pierced the thinning clouds above. I couldn't tell how long we spent there, but by the time we were done, the drizzle had stopped, and the storm had sunk somewhere beyond the skyline.

Phoebe stood first, wiping her blade on a torn scrap of shirt from the Bull's side. She looked exhausted. Somehow more real, more human like this than she had before.

"You held up," she said, glancing down at me.

"Thank you?" I offered, unsure if that was praise or judgement.

Phoebe nodded as she shifted the weight of the hide onto her shoulder with a grunt. It nearly dragged the ground behind her.

I started to brush the blood off my arms but stopped. It was everywhere. In my clothes, on my skin, in my hair. I must've looked like I'd rolled around in a tar pit.

"You helped kill it," Phoebe said suddenly, voice flat. "That means something."

I frowned. "What does it mean?"

"It means you get to present it. To the Hunt."

I stared. "Me?"

"It's tradition," she said. "When someone joins the Hunt on a kill, even if it's just once, they help deliver the trophy. You don't have to take an oath or anything. But..." She paused. Her mouth twisted like she hated asking, but meant it anyway. "You want to come?"

She didn't look away, not this time.

I looked past her, at the Bull's carcass starting to smoke at the edges. A beast that had just been trying to kill me not even an hour ago, now dead on a broken track under a half-dead sky.

And then at her — this bloodied warrior with eyes that seemed like they could decide between the silver of her blade and a dark brown, asking me to follow her into a camp led by the woman known for turning people into animals for minor slights against her.

But I didn't exactly have anywhere else to go. I wasn't sure where I was supposed to go now. I hadn't exactly planned past not dying.

"Will I be turned into a deer and get fed to dogs?" I asked.

Phoebe paused, thinking for a moment before she spoke"are you going to peep on any of the hunter's while they bathe?"

"Why would I do that?"

Phoebe shrugged, "men and some women do stupid things in acts of lust."

I scratched my head, "I don't think I've ever felt lust. So I don't plan on doing any of that."

"Then no, you probably won't get turned into a deer."

"What do you mean probably," I asked. But Phoebe was already walking away, carrying the hide and meat of the Cretan Bull behind her.

Seeing no other choice, I followed her.

Chapter Text

The walk from New Jersey to the woods was long and confusing. Phoebe and I talked, I told her about how I ended up in Jersey —minus Circe, Carol, and Ganymede, I didn't wanna give her any ideas.

The good thing about being a cloud nymph is I don't produce fatigue chemicals as much as a human or demigod. The bad thing is that when I do it feels like my muscles are being melted.

So here I am, five miles from the nearest city, carrying two thirds the weight of a twenty-five foot tall bull, as a cuckoo kept pecking at my head.

... maybe I should've taken my chances going alone.

"Ow- can you please stop?" I asked the bird, trying to swat her away.

The cuckoo continued relentlessly as it picked at my hair. I could hear Phoebe snickering ahead of me.

"What?" I asked, walking closer to her. "What's so funny?"

Phoebe's look of amusement disappeared as she turned to me.

"Nothing," she said, her lip twitching. "Just enjoying the sound of you and your momma bird bonding."

"Momma bird?"

The cuckoo cawed in my ear, flapping its wings as it landed and nestled into my hair.

Phoebe gestured at my head, "momma bird."

I blinked at her, then looked up—or tried to—at the fluttering bundle of feathers tangled in my curls.

"I am not its mom," I said flatly.

Phoebe gave me a look. "Tell that to her. She looks pretty committed."

The cuckoo nestled deeper, a little warm lump that shifted every few seconds to preen or squawk. I could feel her claws through my hair, like she was trying to build a nest.

"I don't even like birds," I muttered.

Phoebe snorted. "Liar."

I opened my mouth to argue, but I hesitated. It wasn't that I disliked birds. It's just... they creep me out man. They keep following me, even before I left Circe's island, the birds there would follow me or try to lead me places. The crows near the bath houses. The vultures near the storm drain. This cuckoo.

"She imprinted on you or something," Phoebe went on. "I've seen wolves do that with Hunters sometimes. Usually they pick the ones who smell familiar to them, like food or their home."

"Great," I said, adjusting the slabs of meat on my shoulder before it slipped. It was still warm. Still bleeding a little. "I smell like home and raw steak. Exactly the vibe I was going for."

Phoebe turned away, letting out a throaty laugh. I felt a strange warmth in my chest. It had nothing to do with the hike. It was just... nice. Like when I'd hang out with the nymphs.

Wait— no— don't become friends with the Hunter. She's threatened to stab you. She's going to stab you.

"Why are we walking anyway?" I asked, trying to change the subject. "Shouldn't you guys have like, wolf sleds? Or, I don't know, ravens?"

"Ravens?" She echoed, "we haven't used those since the Gigantomachy, and that's because Iris was missing."

"I'm brainstorming."

"We usually don't bring kids to camp," Phoebe said. "Usually if someone is coming to camp they are a new hunter and when we get new hunters they come to us, and usually they aren't boys."

"Why?"

Phoebe paused slightly, "most male hunters we've had ended sadly... and there was the whole thing with Genghis Khan."

I raised a brow, "Genghis Khan? Who's that?"

"You don't know who Gen—" Phoebe paused slightly. "Right, raised on an island."

Phoebe cut through a branch before inhaling, "he was a conquerer who killed so many people the ozone layer changed. Which isn't great for a group of hunters, can't hunt if there's nothing left... also the fact he slept with everything."

"Everything?" I asked, confused.

Phoebe slowly turned to look at me, her eyes sunken and tired. "Everything."

"Oooookay, then." I said, not wanting to learn what else he had done.

We continued to walk, the trees getting thicker as we marched deeper into the woods.

They were tall, old trees—thick-trunked and moss-slick, rising so high the canopy blurred into a green-gold haze. The further we walked, the more the air changed. It smelled colder, sharper, like clean water, crushed pine needles, and something I just couldn't place.

Phoebe seemed to relax the deeper we went, her gait looser, like the forest was absorbing her weight.

I didn't feel that. If anything, I felt like a lotus in the desert —confused and unfamiliar with my surroundings.

I hadn't really gotten to let the whole 'banished from my home of a year by the woman who welcomed me' settle in. It shouldn't have hurt, I've been running from island to island since I was a toddler ...

So why did this hurt so much?

I was ripped from my thoughts as the cuckoo chirped from my hair. Loudly.

"Stop that," I demanded, tilting my head to the side to dislodge her. She just dug in tighter, fluffing her wings and pecking the same spot like she was looking for a secret door.

"She's grooming you," Phoebe said without turning around. "Might want to get used to that. Birds don't do that unless they like you."

"I'd rather she didn't," I muttered. "I don't like being touched."

"Tell her that."

"I have. Repeatedly."

"Then she doesn't care."

I sighed and adjusted the meat again. My arms were beginning to ache. The bull had smelled worse the longer we carried it, its scent clinging to my skin like a curse. Blood and fur and something deeper—something born in the sea and stamped into earth.

"Are we close?" I asked.

"Sort of. You'll feel it when we get there."

"What does that mean?"

Phoebe glanced back. "It means we're close enough that Artemis might be watching."

I tensed. Immediately.

"Relax," she said. "You're not a threat. If she thought you were, you'd be a jack rabbit by now."

"That's comforting."

"It should be."

We kept walking. The shadows stretched longer between the trees, the light softening like it was being filtered through moonlight even though the sun was still up. The forest began to hum, low and steady, like a heartbeat buried deep in the soil.

I stepped on a patch of moss and suddenly felt it—like falling through water. Like a breath caught in my throat.

"Oh," I whispered.

Phoebe smiled. "Yeah. That's camp."

It didn't look like much at first. No walls. No gates. Just an invisible threshold we'd crossed, where the forest shifted from real to something I'd never felt before. I could see shadows between the trees—girls moving fast and silent, flashes of silver, quick hands with bows. A few wolves padded in the underbrush, quiet as breath.

And then I heard it—laughter.

Phoebe stopped and turned to me. Her face was serious now.

"Okay. Listen. They're gonna be weird about you. Don't take it personally."

"I don't take things personally."

"Don't." She repeated flatly. "They're protective. Suspicious. Some of them are older than cities. You? You're a ten-year-old boy with a bird in your hair and a hunk of dead monster on your back. You'll look like trouble before you look like help."

I frowned. "I'm not trouble— mostly."

The cuckoo flapped her wings again and shrieked, like a war horn. From the trees ahead, several figures turned. One of them raised a hand, and I saw a flash of light.

Phoebe squared her shoulders.

"You ready?"

"No."

She glowered. "I'll do the talking then."

And with that, she led me forward.

The tree line cleared to reveal several girls. The most prominent ones were a girl —about twelve, maybe thirteen years old— with shoulder-length raven-black hair and striking silver-grey eyes that seemed to radiate energy.

When we were about twelve feet from the silver-clad figures ahead, Phoebe stopped short. Her hand shot out and caught my arm, pulling me gently but firmly down into a kneel beside her.

"Lady Artemis," Phoebe said, voice dropping into something careful but warm. Respectful, but not stiff. "I am overjoyed to see that you all are well."

The air around Artemis seemed to shimmered with quiet command. The wolves at her side stilled. The bow slung across her back seemed to hum with presence.

She didn't smile, not really, but I saw the flicker of content in her eyes as they swept over Phoebe. Beneath the goddess's unshakable calm, I could feel the depth of her concern, hidden behind discipline.

"Thank you, Phoebe," Artemis said, her voice gentle but edged with steel. "It seems your hunt was fruitful."

Phoebe nodded once. "Yes, my lady."

Another girl stepped forward beside Artemis, tall and elegant, with ink-dark curls and a circlet of silver braided into her hair like a crown. She looked like she belonged in a mural—not just from the way she held herself, but from the way she spoke.

"We art gladdened beyond measure to see thee returneth whole, Phoebe," she said, gaze slipping toward me like a knife unsheathed. "Yet 'tis apparent thou bringeth with thee a blood-spattered stray."

... Is she speaking Shakespearean?

"This is Diomedes," Phoebe said before I could answer. Her tone was patient. "He helped me kill the Cretan Bull. He even treated my wounds after I was hit during the fight." Under her breath she whispered, "even if it was unneeded."

I whispered to her, "you were concussed."

She sighed, turning slightly red from embarrassment, "shut up."

The girl paused. Her expression softened just slightly at Phoebe's words. Then, just as quickly, her mouth thinned and the light left her eyes again.

Artemis stepped forward. The rest of the Hunters lowered their weapons as she lifted one hand, her presence alone cutting through the air like frost.

"You may rise," she said—not unkindly, but with a general's finality. Not a suggestion. An order.

Phoebe and I stood. I shifted the bloody slabs of meat off my shoulder and laid them beside the folded hide she carried.

"I thank you for aiding Phoebe," Artemis said, nodding to me. Her voice was calm and cool. "But I must ask—why was he brought here?"

Phoebe hesitated. Just for a second. "He helped slay the bull. I thought it right he shared in the spoils, you can see he is visibly distressed ... and he's alone, my lady. He has nowhere else to go."

That was more than just a report. There was something behind her words. A tension. A choice she'd made.

Artemis studied me. Her gaze was sharp, assessing—like she could read everything written in the blood and sea-salt staining my skin.

"You are not wrong," she said.

I followed her gaze to myself and immediately regretted it. My chiton was shredded, my arms stained with gore. My hair—well, a bird was still living in it. I smelled like monster guts, saltwater, and swamp rot.

"Why could he not slice a piece of the flesh and bathe in the river??" The mural girl suggested.

"I believed it would be best for him to present his spoils on his own, he has nowhere else to go so it would not be much of a problem." Phoebe reasoned, brushing her fiery red curls out of her eyes.

Artemis hummed, still looking at me.

"Is that correct?"

I nodded, "I kinda woke up here three hours ago? I don't exactly know where things are."

"Mm." Her gaze sharpened for half a breath, then softened again. "I see."

Zoë stepped forward, her voice low. "My lady, surely thou dost not intend to bid him entry. We already have two other males to contend with."

Wait, two males? There were other boys here?

"Zoë," Artemis said, voice like silver drawn across a whetstone. "The least we can do is be hospitable."

Zoë's lips pressed into a flat line. She lowered her eyes. "As thou dost desire, mine lady.."

She turned to me, her expression unreadable.

"Let us but hope thou art not like the daughter of Ares whom they did bring.," she muttered.

She led us into the camp.

It was smaller than I expected, more like a clearing stitched together by silver tents and firelight. Girls moved like shadows between trees—some polishing weapons, others boiling herbs or brushing down wolves. There was laughter, quiet and fierce. The air shimmered faintly with magic, and the moonlight filtering through the trees felt alive.

It might've been cozy—if not for the dozens of eyes tracking my every step like I was a wounded fox in a henhouse. Or maybe a wolf.

The cuckoo squawked again in my hair.

Phoebe walked beside me. "You're making a great first impression."

"Should I wave?" I asked, slightly nervous.

"Probably not."

"Fair enough."

The first place on the tour we were taken too was the makeshift infirmary.

Zoë turned to Phoebe and I, "Thou shalt be tended by Miriam; prithee, cause her no discomfort, boy."

"I didn't plan on it," I said. I get being protective of your friends, but I don't think someone covered in black blood and guts would make a thousand year old doctor uncomfortable.

Zoë nodded curtly, "Then all shall be well."

With that we were led into the infirmary.

It smelled like thyme, honey, and rubbing alcohol inside the infirmary—clean, warm, and not entirely unpleasant. A few small lanterns cast golden light on the canvas walls, and baskets of bandages were stacked along a low shelf. In one corner, an older Hunter with an apron and streaks of silver in her brown hair was crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle.

She looked up as we entered, her hands still busy. "Phoebe," she said, smiling. "You look like you lost a fight with a brick wall."

Phoebe did an iffy motion with her hand, "not far off. The wall got in the way of my fight."

Then her eyes found me.

They didn't widen. They didn't narrow. They just... settled.

"And you," she said, "look like you picked a fight with a slaughterhouse."

"I won," I said, wiping black blood off my face. "Mostly."

Miriam arched her brow but didn't comment. She gestured to two cots near the back. "Sit. Strip. Not all the way, just enough for me to get to the wounds. And please, boy, don't faint. I've had enough drama for one moon."

"Yes ma'am," I said, complying with whatever she'd ask.

I pulled the tattered remains of my chiton over my head and dropped it beside the cot, then sat down and tried very hard not to wince as the cool air hit the bruises blooming along my collarbone from when I fell off that roof.

Phoebe eased down onto the other cot beside me. Miriam moved between us like a seasoned battlefield medic—efficient, firm, but not unkind. She cleaned the worst of my wounds in silence, the cloth warm and steady against my skin.

Then—

"Hold still," she said, and pressed something into a gash on my side.

The moment it touched me I let out a pained yelp.

"What is that stuff?"

"Asclepius brand extra strength iodine, it helps remove any possible bacteria the monster could leave."

I gritted my teeth. "Why does it feel like it's eating me alive?"

"Because it is."

Phoebe chuckled under her breath. Miriam gave her a look, then moved on to her, sucking her teeth at the sight of the semi healed gash on Phoebe's head.

Phoebe groaned as Miriam placed some of the iodine on her head.

"I'm fine," Phoebe complained.

"You're bleeding from the head, Phoebe." Miriam retorted as she bandaged her head. "Forgive me if I don't trust your sense of proportion."

Phoebe scoffed, "Semantics."

"Accuracy."

Miriam moved away again to fetch fresh gauze, muttering to herself about young hunters and their recklessness.

How old is this woman if Phoebe —the self proclaimed thousand year old girl— is young to her.

"So Miriam," Phoebe said, sitting up to get a better look at her. "Zoë mentioned two other males were in the camp."

Miriam sighed, "yeah, two came from Camp-Half-blood with a daughter of Ares. A son of Hermes and Zeus's youngest."

Zeus? He had a kid? Weren't they forbidden? There were some nymph's on Circe's island who's celebrate the day it happened. They had fireworks and everything.

Phoebe seemed to know who Miriam was talking about as her face flashed with pity.

"He's still alive?" She asked, a look of pity on his face. "Good. I'm glad he's recovering from what happened."

Miriam came back, wrapping Phoebe's head. "I wouldn't say he's recovered, from the way he looked and acted I say he isn't far from becoming a Mania."

A Mania? What happened for him to be driven mad? Should I ask who they're talking about? They're talking about him in front of me so it doesn't seem that private. I'll just ask his and the other guys names.

"Who's—"

My question was cut off by the flap of the tent swinging open.

In stepped a young man, maybe sixteen or seventeen, dust and sweat streaked across his sandy-blonde hair and tanned face. His blue eyes were sharp but tired. He wore a bright orange tank top—torn at the sleeves and smudged with ash—emblazoned with the black letters C.H.B. over a horse-shaped silhouette.

"Sorry to barge in," he said with a lopsided, impish smile, holding up a hand wrapped in unraveling bandages. "My wrappings are kinda... falling apart."

Miriam barely looked up from Phoebe, her tone flat. "Sit down next to the cloud. I'll deal with you in a minute."

"You're the best, Miriam." He grinned and wandered over to my cot, moving with a kind of casual confidence that almost looked like he was floating.

He didn't speak at first. He just sat on the stool beside me, elbows on his knees, eyes occasionally flicking my way as Miriam's steady hum filled the tent. It was like he was waiting for something.

Eventually, I broke the silence.

"What's your name?" I asked, more curious than cautious, though something about him made my skin prickle. He had this strange... pull. A kind of invisible gravity that reminded me of Hylla and a few of the women on Circe's island—I could never pin what it really was, but it always reminded me of this one book I found in Circe's library. Coral, something.

He blinked, clearly surprised I'd said anything. "Huh?"

"It's Luke," Phoebe answered for him, wincing as Miriam applied salve to her shoulder. "Luke Castellan. Son of Hermes."

Hermes. I repeated the name silently. It was still strange to hear these guys use the Greek names of the gods. Was it a mainland thing?

"Yeah, he's my father," Luke said, voice flat. He didn't look proud about it. Noted. Probably a sore spot.

Then, he turned to me. "Sorry to ask, but... are you a cloud nymph? I don't think I've ever met a male one before."

I tilted my hand side to side. "I think so? I haven't met any others like me. The female ones I've talked to said I probably am."

Luke nodded slowly. "That's... weird."

My face fell. "Gee, thanks."

Luke's eyes went wide with embarrassment. "No—I didn't mean weird bad weird. I meant like... cool weird. Rare. Like a shiny Pokémon or something."

"What's a pokémon?"

Luke scratched the back of his neck, looking like he wanted to melt into the floor. "Never mind."

Phoebe coughed to cover her laughter, but failed spectacularly. She looked between the two of us with clear amusement. "You're doing great," she told him dryly.

"Thanks," Luke muttered under his breath. "Really appreciate the support."

Miriam stepped in then, towel in hand. "Hold out your hand, Castellan. Let's fix that mess."

Luke obeyed, offering his wrist. The gauze had come undone, revealing angry, raw skin beneath. Miriam worked quickly and without sympathy, but Luke didn't visibly flinch.

"Did you get burned?" I asked, watching the pink shimmer of healing skin.

"Yeah," Luke said, as if it were nothing. "Laestrygonians. My sword missed the giant's hand and I got grazed by a fireball."

"Laestrygonians?" I echoed. The name tickled something at the edge of my memory, but I couldn't place it.

Luke nodded. "Me and my friends were cutting through an alley. Two of the brutes jumped us. Got a second-degree burn for my trouble."

"Oh, Zoë mentioned a daughter of Ares and a second guy," Phoebe said, more alert now.

Luke nodded. "That'd be Clarisse. The second guy's my little brother."

"Where are they now?" I asked.

"Clarisse is probably out sparring with some of the Hunters. My brother's probably asleep in one of the tents."

"Your brother?"

"Not blood," Luke clarified, leaning back a little. "He's a son of Zeus. But he's mine anyway."

"What's his name?"

"Jason," Luke said, a faint grin playing at the edge of his mouth. "Jason Grace."

Chapter Text

A/N: Edited

*
*
*

Zeus.

King of the Gods.

God of the sky, weather, law and order, destiny and fate, and kingship.

Father of heroes like Heracles, Perseus, and the greatest of them all, Thalia Grace. My sister.

My name is Jason Grace. I am nine -years-old, and I hate Zeus.

I was young when I was first introduced to the concept of him. This woman named Beryl would hold me up at the beach as a thunderstorm raged on. I don't remember everything she'd said —I was two years old, obviously I wouldn't— but there was one thing that stuck with me for years.

That's your father, he left because of you.

Not "he left because he had to." Not "he'll be back someday." No. Because of me.

It stuck like a thorn in my side. Like I had been born wrong somehow, and he couldn't stand to look at me.

I don't remember a whole lot from back then. Just flashes. My sister brushing the knots out of my hair while I squirmed on the kitchen floor. The smell of old perfume and wine from Beryl's coat. This weird old lady who appeared in my room. Once, a stuffed rabbit I used to carry around. His ear fell off when we were hiding under the bed from the monster outside. Thalia said it was a neighbor's dog. I didn't believe her.

Thalia... she was everything back then. My sister. My protector. My entire world.

She never said it, but I know she stayed as long as she did because of me. Beryl was slipping fast, losing touch with reality, picking fights with shadows, yelling at walls. Thalia handled it like she was already older than she was. At seven, she was already a grown-up in a kid's body. Because someone had to be.

She tried to make it fun sometimes. Hide and seek in our apartment. I always picked the same spot behind the curtains. She pretended not to know, every single time.

Then came the day she didn't pretend anymore. We were going on a "vacation," Beryl said. Just the three of us. She packed us into the car with a smile so wide it seemed like her jaw would break.

We drove through rolling hills and oak-lined roads until we stopped at some fancy park with a white building in the middle. Beryl called it a gift. I didn't understand what she meant until she told Thalia to grab the picnic basket.

Thalia didn't want to go. I remember her yelling. I remember clutching her sleeve. I remember the way Beryl's hand pushed her shoulder.

"Just a minute," Beryl said.

That minute stretched into forever. Because Thalia almost didn't come back.

I don't know what would've happened if the goat hadn't shown up.

Yeah. A goat. Sadly it wasn't LeBron.

A white one with curly horns and hooves like thunderclaps. It just wandered in out of nowhere and stared right at me. I laughed. I think I was the only one who wasn't freaked out. Beryl dropped her wine bottle. I remember the crash. Then Thalia's voice again—angry, panicked, cutting through everything.

The goat saved us. A gift from Zeus Thalia had called her. I didn't believe it, but from that moment on, Thalia said we weren't going back. Not ever.

Fast forward a couple months and we ran into this blonde guy who looked like an older scarless version of me.

He said his name was Luke.

We became friends, family even. I learned to even call him my brother —I refuse to believe he had a crush on my sister. No matter what Clarisse says.

Our family was nice, just the three of us. Fighting monsters, skulking around the united states.

We didn't have a home, but we had each other. A backpack stuffed with jerky, duct tape, and fake IDs. A dozen safehouses hidden in the woods or wedged between crumbling buildings. Thalia called it freedom. Luke called it survival. I didn't know the difference yet.

Then came Richmond.

It was summer, maybe. Or close to it. Hot enough that my shirt clung to my back and the cicadas screamed like monsters in the trees. Amaltheia—our goat guide—had led us through half a dozen towns by then, but something about this place was different. She bolted toward this old, broken-down mansion like it was held the answer to ever problem on earth.

Luke hesitated. He always did when we got too close to cities. But he couldn't say no to Thalia. He never could.

The mansion was old, like Civil War old. With boarded windows and doors that groaned like they were in pain. Luke picked the lock like it was nothing—he was good at that, like magically good at it—and then we stepped inside and everything felt wrong.

Halcyon Green was waiting for us. I didn't know what to make of him at first—just this quiet guy with tired eyes and Apollo's sun in his bones. He couldn't speak, not really, he'd use a computer to help communicate with us.

But we were trapped. Cursed to be fed on by the Monsters at sunset.

Hal had saved someone, a girl, using his powers to see the future. The gods didn't like that. So they shut him away, turned his gift into a prison. He brought demigods to the house—not because he wanted to, but because he had to. And we were next.

Thalia was furious. Luke even more so. I remember the way his fists clenched and the fire in his eyes.

We thought about running. But there wasn't time. The leucrotae—three of them—were coming. Big, fast, and nasty. Their voices sounded like human laughter, but wrong. Crooked. Mocking.

Hal said every demigod thought they could beat the curse. That we'd think we were different. Special. Then he told us about the treasure.

We didn't come for treasure. But once he said it, we had to try. That's how demigods are. A whisper of something shiny and powerful, and we can't help ourselves.

The lock guarding the weapons vault should've been impossible. Luke opened it in seconds.

Thalia found a bracelet. A miniature version of Zeus's shield, complete with the Gorgon head and everything. She looked at it like it was a message. A sign. I didn't know if she was proud or angry. Maybe both.

I found a dagger, curved and golden-edged. Hal said it was made from a hydra's fang. It hummed in my hand like it recognized me.

We had weapons, but not a plan. We tried everything—traps, spells, hiding. None of it would've worked.

It was Luke who figured it out. He had gotten this strange look in his eye after Hal had mentioned 'fire'.

"Luke, that would be perfect!" Thalia had said after had searched up the recipe for Greek Fire.

I didn't understand half the ingredients that had been listed, but Thalia made it happen. She called down lightning for the catalyst.

It worked.

We made the fire.

And Hal... Hal chose to stay.

He pressed his diary into Luke's hands. Told him to read it, to learn. There was a warning in his eyes when he looked at Luke. Not angry, not scared—just... sad. Like he already knew how it would go.

He gave Luke a knife too. A shiny bronze dagger. Luke held it like it weighed more than it looked.

Then Hal opened the doors and walked into the dark.

When the leucrotae came, he lit the fire. The explosion rocked the house. Two of them died in the blast. One got away, singed and shrieking. I didn't think anything could scare it—but Thalia raised the Aegis, and it ran. Just like that. The look on her face... I'll never forget it.

We made it out. Barely.

The house came down behind us.

We found a gas station to clean up. Then Luke said he felt something—someone—watching. In an alley nearby, we met Annabeth.

Seven years old. Alone. Hammer swinging in her hand. Shouting about monsters. That's how we knew. Demigod.

Luke crouched down and offered her Hal's dagger.

"Knives are only for the bravest and quickest fighters," he had told her

She came with us that day. Just like that, our family of three became four, even if it just slowed us down.

I wasn't a fan of annabeth at first, she used to many words and phrases when she could have said it in ten words or less.

But I learned to love her as a sister. Which made it hurt a bit when she contemplated joining the hunters.

It wasn't even that she said it out loud. It was the way she stared at them when we crossed paths that winter—eyes wide, caught between awe and something like longing. The Hunters of Artemis were everything we weren't: organized, disciplined, purposeful. They had tents and patrol schedules, matching silver jackets, and faces that didn't flinch when monsters came out of the dark.

I remember that night. The air was cold enough that my breath came out in puffs, and our fire kept trying to die no matter how many times I fed it twigs. Luke was still asleep, curled around Annabeth. Thalia sat with her back to a tree, her chin on her knees.

I crept over to her. She didn't look at me.

"They're not better than us," I whispered.

Her eyes flicked to the clearing where Zoë Nightshade stood watch with two other Hunters. Silent and graceful. Nothing like us at all.

"I know," Thalia mumbled, though she didn't sound very believable.

As we sat in silence I could see Zoë beginning to march over, her eyes trained on my sister.

"Thou art strong," she had stated. "Too strong to wasteth thy time following after a knave who doesn't knoweth wh're he's moving."

I wasn’t sure as to what she was saying but Thalia seemed to understand, standing at attention as she glared at the permanent fifteen year old.

"I don't follow anyone." Thalia had declared.

Zoë tilted her head. "Doesn’t thee?"

There was this silence. A thick, dangerous pause.

Zoë didn’t seem to care for Thalia’s growing annoyance, continuing her assessment, "He shall betray thee, thou know’st. The boy. And the little one—" she glanced down toward me— "he shall leave thee to perish."

I shot up, fists clenched —how could she say that? I wouldn’t betray Thalia, I would never leave her to die. Thalia grabbed my shoulder, stop ping me from doing something I’d likely regret.

"Go," she said to Zoë. "Before I make you."

Zoë gave a slight bow. "Artemis offers thee a place at our fire, shouldst thou change thy mind. Yet I fear the window closeth."

With that she left, leaving Thalia and I to take in her words.

Thalia didn't sleep that night. Neither did I.

I didn't believe Zoë. Not then. I didn't want to.

Luke had his issues, yeah —he was bossy sometimes, and he acted like he knew everything—but he wouldn't betray us. We were family.

Still, four years later, Thalia's gone because of me, and I'm laying in a tent being cared for by the people who told me I'd leave her to die. And they were right.

A voice outside the tent yanked me out of it.

"Yo, Jason," called Clarisse. "You decent?"

I looked down. My hoodie was dirty and crusted with dried blood—rooster blood—from pretending to kill Alectryon. My jeans had a rip in the knee. Pretty normal for me, honestly.

"Define decent?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Wearing clothes, idiot," she snapped, but it sounded like she was trying not to laugh.

I smirked just a little and sat up. "Yeah, come on in, Potty Mouth."

Clarisse marched in, already groaning. "We should not have let you watch Kids Next Door. That show's melting your brain."

"I'll stop quoting it when you stop dunking kids' heads in toilets."

"Hades, no," she scoffed, flopping down on the empty cot across from mine. "How else are they supposed to learn respect?"

I rolled my eyes and rubbed my temple. "So... why are you here?"

Clarisse pulled a folded-up paper from her cargo pants and held it out like it was gold. "I got one of the Hunters to give us a map. She says the Garden of the Hesperides is somewhere near Chicago."

"Wait—seriously?" I asked in surprise, snatching the paper from her hands. It was hand-drawn, but detailed. Rivers, train tracks, even a weird symbol next to a warehouse. "Who gave you this? I wanna thank her."

"She made me swear not to say," Clarisse said. "Something about not wanting the younger ones to find out."

I nodded. "Still. She helped a lot; now we just need to figure out how to distract Ladon."

"And survive the 'Scourge of Poseidon.'" She added.

Right. That thing.

I frowned. "Are we sure it's 'Scourge'? I swear Luke said the Oracle might've meant 'Bane.'"

"Well, considering a talking bird, two Cyclopes, and my own dad all said 'Scourge of Poseidon'—and the Oracle warned that it'll “burn the path to Ladon's retire”—I'm betting it's real, and bad."

I gave her a look. "Can’t be as bad as an Empousa in a cheerleader outfit trying to make out with Luke?"

"We agreed never to talk about her again," Clarisse shuddered.

"Fair," I snickered, handing the map back so she could stuff it into her pocket. "Where is Luke anyway?"

Clarisse scratched her head, "I think the infirmary? I was gonna check up on him after he got his bandages rewrapped"

I nodded and slid off the cot, wincing a little when my feet hit the cold floor. My knees still ached from the climb, and my shoulder felt like it'd been hit by a truck. Technically it was a motorcycle.

Aphrodite was right when she said Ares couldn't drive.

"I'll come with you," I said, tugging on the sleeves of my hoodie to hide the bruises. "Just in case they won't let you in alone."

Clarisse snorted. "They already don't like me. Something about 'threatening the nurse's rat.'"

"You did threaten to shave her ferret," I reminded.

"It was being snippy.”

We stepped out into the moonlight. The camp was quieter than usual, the pine trees still, the tents mostly dark. Somewhere near the edge, I could hear a couple of Hunters laughing around a fire. The rest of the place gave off that strict, serious, Artemis-vibe— as if even the dirt was judging you.

I walked beside Clarisse, trying not to limp too obviously.

"You ever think about what happens after we find the apples?" I asked suddenly.

Clarisse raised an eyebrow at me. "You mean, after rob your step mom of sacred fruit, trick a giant hundred headed snake dragon, and maybe die to some sea monster with a cool nickname?"

"Yeah," I said. "Like when Luke actually gets the apple back to Hermes? What then?"

Clarisse fell quiet for a moment, which was rare for her.

"I dunno," she admitted. "I think I’ll have to whip my cabin back into shape when we get back to camp, but other than that I got nothing."

I guess that makes sense. I didn't say much in response, only nodding in agreement. I didn't have much to say, I don’t have a cabin to whip into shape after all. Hell I don’t even have any actual siblings.

I wonder what it’s like: living with your siblings. Luke has Hermes Cabin, Annabeth has Athena Cabin, and I have —what? A statue of my father? A lonely space that’s never gonna be filled?

We turned a corner past the makeshift stables, moving quietly to not wake the horses. Weirdly enough, when we reached them they were empty. When Clarisse, Luke and I had first arrived there were two sleeping foals. Now there was just patchy spots in the grass, as if someone —or something has burned it.

Clarisse and I followed the smoldering grass all the way to the infirmary, speckles of a red substance growing more common as we approached.

"Jason, stand ready," Clarisse ordered, her spear extending.

I nodded, brandishing my fists as the bracelet's I'd commissioned from the Hephaestus cabin transformed into a pair of bronze cestus as we stepped closer to the nursing tent.

A struggle could be heard from behind the tent, neighing and grunting echoing from within.

I glanced at Clarisse, waiting for her confirmation. That was a dumb decision as she immediately ran inside.

Wasting no time I ran straight in after her.

There wasn't much to see inside as we were then forcefully launching out by a gust of wind and fire.

We hit the ground hard.

I skidded on my back through dirt and ash, blinking up at the sky as Clarisse crashed beside me with a pained grunt. For a moment, I couldn't breathe—my lungs stunned, my vision spinning with colors like a busted kaleidoscope. All I could hear was the wind still howling from inside the tent, like a storm trying to claw its way out of the world.

Clarisse groaned and pushed herself up, her hair smoking at the ends. "What in Tartarus—?"

"Guys!" I heard Luke shout. "Are you okay?"

I forced a breath into my lungs and sat up, coughing as smoke clung to the back of my throat. My chest felt as if it'd been caved in by a battering ram. Next to me, Clarisse spat out a mouthful of dirt and used her spear to get upright, shoulders tense and eyes blazing.

"Peachy," she growled, rubbing a scorch mark on her arm. "Someone want to explain why I just got drop-kicked by the wind?!"

The tent flap fluttered violently as the wind settled. Sparks spat out across the ground, scattering red-hot embers like angry fireflies.

Luke stumbled out of the tent, patting out small fires on his clothes. Following him was Miriam, Phoebe, and this weird looking cloud nymph.

The cloud nymph coughed, waving away the smoke.

"Sorry," they said, waving a strange flaming mass. "I panicked."

Chapter Text

Authors Note: I am basing Jason off of pre loving family Damian Wayne, if you have any complaints please say.

*
*
*

Note to self, don't throw gale force winds at a fire breathing horse in close quarters.

"What do you mean you panicked," the mini version of Luke sputtered. "What happened?!"

I held up the freshly decapitated head of what Miriam had called a Mare of Diomedes —which, weird, never knew I had a species of flaming horses.

Luke was the one to explain to his group what had happened —I think they were part of his group, the boy looked exactly like him so he must've been Jason and the girl looked a lot like daughters of Mars I'd met so she must've been the daughter of Ares.

Wait would that make her and Reyna step sisters? Since she and Mars were married? No, wait they broke up— shit I'm getting side tracked.

Phoebe nudged me in the side, "Cloud boy, the horse head."

What? Horse hea—

"Oh shit!" I cried as I tossed the flaming head, allowing it to turn to dust.

Phoebe sighed, walking over to where the head had decayed, raising her foot as she stomped out the embers.

The daughter of Ares rubbed her temples, "how the Hades did a Mare of Diomedes get into Artemis's camp?"

Luke didn't seem to know how himself. None of us did. Phoebe and I were talking to Luke about his quest when we were confronted with the smell of burning methane.

Before any of us could ask what the smell was, the medical tents flaps lit up in orange flames followed by the maw of a horse barging in, coated in dried blood.

We were all startled and I acted out of instinct. I reeled back my injured arm and fired a torrent of wind at the beast. That wasn't a good idea since it knocked the flames into something flammable, mixing the wind gust with an explosion and launching the flaming decapitated head of the Mare of Diomedes into my lap.

"Should we inform lady Artemis?" Luke asked as he and I helped Miriam put out her flaming tent.

"Most likely," Miriam answered, throwing a bucket of water on the fire.

Jason spoke, his toneless voice like static, "wouldn't she have noticed it entering her territory?"

That, is a good question. Circe immediately noticed me when I woke up ok her isle— though I was covered in the blood of a sea monster.

"Lady Artemis has been occupied with her brother's shenanigans," Phoebe explained. "It's why I was sent to hunt the Cretan Bull instead of her going herself."

"Shenanigans?" I asked, putting out the last of the fire.

Miriam sighed, "Lord Apollon has lost track of one of his servants. I do not know much of what happened but it has to do with Lord Poseidon and Lady Hera."

The daughter of Ares piped up, "so that's why it's been storming for two weeks?"

Two weeks?

That can't be right, I only got hit with the storm yesterday. I couldn't have survived two weeks unconscious in the ocean. If that was the case shouldn't I have severe brain damage?

Wait do I have brain damage?

I blinked hard, fingers twitching like maybe that'd somehow test for neural damage. No slurred speech. No memory loss—well, not counting the apparent two weeks I was unconscious.

Maybe I could pray to Monēta? She could tell me what I forgot? No, what would I even give her, I have no stories to offer.

"Yo, cloud boy," Phoebe called as she shook my shoulders. "You traveled the sea right?"

I raised a brow, "yeah? Why?"

"Luke thinks the servant of Apollo that's been missing has something to do with the Cretan Bull you and I killed. Since the bull belonged to Poseidon maybe you have some guesses as to who it could be?"

Apollo and Poseidon? I mean it would make sense, they've been friends since before the trojan war.

But what servant of Apollo has connections to Poseidon?

"The only things I can think of are Telchines —but they're servants of Poseidon and hate Apollo— and Nessus, cause he's half horse."

That didn't seem to be the right answer as Luke and his group seemed to sigh.

"Maybe a Telchine from crete serve's Apollo?" Luke suggested.

Jason shook his head, "what would it being from Crete have to do with it serving Apollo and sending the horse? Wouldn't Poseidon just send the horse here himself?"

"Hold on," I said, blinking as I finally tuned back in. "You think that the horse was sent? Like, on purpose?"

The Ares girl looked at me like I was the dumbest person she'd ever met. "Obviously. You think a flaming cannibal-horse just wanders into Artemis's camp by accident?"

"I mean..." I trailed off. "I was kinda thinking that, yeah?"

It happened a lot on Circe's island —I once woke up to a hellhound gnawing on my foot.

Jason crossed his arms, pale blue eyes unreadable as he said, "It didn't attack randomly. It charged straight for the infirmary without being noticed by anyone in this camp."

That's, actually makes sense. How does an entire camp of ancient hunters not notice a flaming horse entering their camp? They instantly noticed me —though have to do with the fact I reek of lotus flowers and pomegranates. For some reason.

"Plus," Phoebe added, "the mare only burst into flames when it got close to Luke. Only reason it didn't incinerate him was because Diomedes hit it with that gust of wind."

I shrugged. "Maybe Poseidon stole it from Apollo? He's a big customer at Triple G Ranch. They sell Mares of Diomedes."

Jason blinked. "What's Triple G Ranch?"

"A monster farm in Texas. "

Everyone—except the Hunters—stared at me like I'd grown an extra head.

Clarisse was the first to break the silence. "What."

"It's a monster farm," I repeated, confused by their horror. "Run by a guy named Geryon. They sell steaks too."

Jason made a sound like he was in pain. "Good. Good to know."

"Whatever," Clarisse muttered. "We'll figure out what the flaming death horse had to do with the quest when the next monster shows up to kill us."

"Clarisse, please don't manifest us dying," Luke said, only half-joking.

"I'm not manifesting anything," she growled.

I blinked. "You just manifested it."

Clarisse's eye twitched slightly. "Listen here, Cloud Boy—"

"Diomedes," I cut in, raising my hands in defense.

Phoebe elbowed me hard. "Stop poking the murder boar."

I elbowed her back. "Maybe don't call her a boar."

Clarisse muttered something under her breath that sounded like a death threat, but instead of stabbing me, she reached into her vest and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper.

"Ignoring the future smoke-screen," she growled, glaring at me, "I got this from one of the Hunters. Said it's a map to the Garden of the Hesperides."

Luke took the paper with reverence, his eyes lighting up like someone had handed him a golden ticket.

"This is great," he said. "Did she give any clues on how to convince Aigle or one of the others to call off Ladon?"

Aigle? Why's that sound familiar?

Clarisse shook her head. "Nah. She just muttered something about eucalyptus, said it wouldn't help unless we could convince Atlas to intervene."

Luke groaned. "Fantastic. How are we supposed to convince Atlas?"

"Brute force?" Jason offered dryly.

"Wait, why do you need Atlas?" I asked, genuinely confused. A nymph at the Spa once told me Ladon constantly sheds his serpent teeth—those could be used to summon Sparti. Let them do the heavy lifting. I think her name was Lipara.

"He's their father," Luke explained. "Only one with enough sway to get the Hesperides like Erytheis and the others to back off and call off Ladon."

"Wait—Erytheis?" I asked, the name striking a chord.

Jason nodded slowly. "Yeah. One of the Hesperides."

My eyes widened. "That's why it sounded so familiar!"

"What? What sounds familiar?" Luke asked, a glimmer of something in his eyes.

"Aigle and Erytheis," I said in realization. "They're Lipara's sisters."

There was a pause.

"Who?" Jason asked, luckily I didn't have to explain since Miriam did it for me.

"A Hesperide, except instead of her parents being Atlas and Pleione, her mother was Hesperis, though she's been missing for eleven thousand years, so I don't know how he would know her."

"Oh, uh—Lipara worked at the spa I stayed at," I said quickly, it wasn't a lie persay, I just didn't tell them the spa was on an island in the sea of monsters. "She mostly helped with the sun lamps and helped treat venom. She talked a bit about her sisters. Especially Erytheis —said they'd build these reflective mirrors and use it to mess with their dad."

Phoebe made a face, like she'd remembered something. "Definitely sounds like a Hesperide."

... I'm gonna ignore that.

"She said she left the Garden centuries ago. Something about the family being suffocating and Ladon being 'too loud to live with.' She hated how they had to stay stranded in an empty garden."

Jason looked at me like I was suddenly useful instead of annoying. "So... you're saying you personally know one of the Hesperides?"

"I mean," I hesitated, "I wouldn't say we were friends. I lived with her for two years, but I think everyone at the spa thought I was annoying. She never tried to kill me, so I'd say we were on good terms."

Luke's eyes sharpened like he'd just spotted a golden drachma under a floorboard. "If she's not in the Garden anymore, do you think she'd be willing to help us get in?"

"That wouldn't be possible," I said instantly. It's kinda hard to contact someone when you were recently banished from the spa they're at.

I mean the moment I was safe I wanted to Iris message Reyna and tell her I was alive, but I'm pretty sure Circe's found a way for none of my iris messages to get through to her island if I somehow survived her attempted drowning.

"Why not?" Asked Jason. "We could Iris message her if the Spa's too far."

I scratched the back of my neck, not making eye contact. "I didn't exactly leave the Spa on good terms."

Luke tilted his head at me like I was a particularly odd scroll he couldn't decide how to read. "What happened?"

I stared at a blackened spot on the floor and lied through my teeth. "I flooded the spa. It caused mass property damage and I got kicked out."

Phoebe snorted.

Jason didn't seem to care. "Okay, but even if you're not buddies, you know one of the Hesperides. Maybe you can convince Atlas to help us by telling him about his missing daughter?"

"That's a big maybe," Luke muttered as he looked between the Map and I, expression sharpening. "You said she helped you guys treat venom?"

I nodded, "yeah, she had a treatment plant she said she used back home. She and her sisters got it from Europeans and would plant it near the entrances to the garden, said it was called Broad Leaf Plantain."

Luke went quiet in thought, mumbling the word broad leaf.

Clarisse raised a brow, "isn't that used for snake venom?"

"Yeah they used it to help treat Ladon's venom."

Luke froze like someone had just jammed a dagger into a puzzle box and cracked it open. His eyes lit up with that same look he'd had when he first saw the map—only sharper now, like a blade that knew where to strike.

"Wait," he said, turning slowly toward me. "They used it to treat Ladon's venom?"

I shifted, suddenly very aware of how everyone was now looking directly at me again. "Yeah. Lipara said she and Erytheis used it a lot. Ladon sheds his teeth. A lot. His venom gets everywhere. They used the plantain poultice to keep their skin from blistering."

Jason narrowed his eyes slightly. "Why would they need to treat themselves for venom if Ladon's their protector?"

"She never really explained it?" I said. "Something about her sister Asterope leaving and Ladon growing restless. She said he would get overwhelmed by the slightest noise. Sometimes even their singing would set him off, and he'd lash out before realizing it."

Phoebe muttered, "mood."

Luke ignored us, now pacing in a tight circle, rubbing his fingers together like he could wring an idea out of the air.

"If they're planting broad leaf at the Garden entrance," he murmured, "then that gives us a way in."

Clarisse frowned. "How? We gonna offer Ladon a salad?"

"No," Luke said, pausing mid-step. "We sneak in near where the plantain's growing. If the Hesperides planted it at the entrance to control the venom levels, that means it marks a weak point in Ladon's patrols. A blind spot."

Phoebe raised an eyebrow. "So your plan is to walk straight into the mouth of the serpent?"

Luke turned to me again. "Diomedes, did Lipara ever say how often they planted it? Or where exactly near the mountain it grew?"

I squinted, trying to remember. Lipara wasn't exactly chatty unless she was sunbathing or stealing food from Hylla.

"She mentioned something about the western slope," I said slowly. "Near a cypress grove. Said it grew fast so they needed small amounts of sunlight or else it would end up like kudzu. So they planted it at every dusk in small crevices in stone before harvesting it at sunrise every morning."

"So we wait till dusk and jump one of them, find the western slope, and come in under cover of the grove..." Clarisse suggested.

"We have a chance of slipping past Ladon," Luke finished, excitement returning to his voice. "That's good. That's really good."

Phoebe crossed her arms. "And Atlas?"

Luke hesitated, then looked back at me.

"You said Lipara didn't want to go back. But maybe she'd want her sisters to leave. Maybe she'd talk to him if it meant freeing them too."

I snorted. "You've never met Lipara. She'd rather turn herself into compost than ask her dad for anything."

"But maybe you could ask him," Luke said, voice suddenly smooth, kinda hypnotic actually. "You know things no one else here does. Even if you didn't mean to, you've got a tie to the Garden. And to one of Atlas's daughters."

I stiffened, arms folding before I could stop them. "Why would Atlas listen to me?"

"Because," Luke said carefully, "he's been holding up the sky for a long time. If he thinks he's lost control of his daughters—if he hears the one who got away is hiding away in a spa, he might want to reassert power. Or... bargain."

Jason added, "He's prideful. He might help just to remind them he can."

"Or he might hunt you guys for sport," I added. "Plus, I am not revealing the location of someone who ran away from an abusive situation."

"You don't have to actually reveal it," Clarisse said. "Just lie saying you'll tell him if he gets the apples."

"That's..." I dragged a hand down my face. "That's a terrible idea."

Clarisse shrugged like she got told that a lot and did it anyway. "Most plans are. The good ones just don't get you killed as fast."

"We're not asking you to actually give her up. Just make him think you might. Long enough to get the apples. Then we run." Jason explained.

"Or fly," Luke added helpfully. "I've got a plan for that too."

I blinked at him. "How many plans do you have?"

He grinned. "Enough to not get killed."

I shifted awkwardly, my gaze dropping to the scorched, soot-smudged ground. I could still smell the burning gauze and horse blood. My chiton was torn. My hair smelled like burning ozone, the cuckoo sleeping soundly in my curls.

"Okay, say I agree," I humored. "What do I get out of this?"

I have been burned way too many times. I'm not getting nothing out of this.

"Glory in the name of Hermes?" Luke suggested.

"An apple of immortality?" Jason offered.

I was about to decline —I didn't really trust Gods anymore and spending an eternity in a world where Zeus exists sounded like torture; but what Clarisse said next got me to rethink.

"A place to stay?"

"What?" I said in confusion.

Clarisse shrugged, "you're greek and can control the wind. Gotta be something you can do at camp so they'll let you stay."

"Camp? What camp?"

"Camp Half-blood," Clarisse said, like that explained everything.

"He's hasn't seen civilization till now," Phoebe explained. Rude, but she isn't entirely wrong.

Clarisse sighed, not having expected to explain what a camp was today.

"It's a training ground," Clarisse said, rubbing the bridge of her nose like this was physically painful to explain. "For people like us—well, specifically demigods. Monsters want us dead, gods don't help, mortals can't see what's happening, so we train. Fight. Survive. That's Camp Half-Blood."

I tilted my head. "That's the actual name?"

"Yes," Jason answered, deadpan.

"Half blood?"

"Yes?"

"That sounds like a slur."

Jason opened his mouth to protest but paused. "... is Zeus petty enough to do that?"

Clarisse pressed on. "It's in Long Island. Protected by magical borders. The gods—some of them, anyway—agreed not to let monsters or mortals in without permission. It's the safest place you'll find outside Olympus, and unlike the Hunters, we don't make you swear off dating or life expectancy."

Phoebe muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "cowards."

Clarisse growled at her. "We've got cabins for each godly parent, campfires, sword training, pegasi stables, war games, a lava climbing wall—"

"I'm sorry, did you say lava wall?"

Luke smiled like this was the best part. "Oh yeah. It collapses and tries to kill you. Builds character."

"Whose character?" I asked.

"Yours, hopefully," Clarisse said dryly. "Point is, you don't have to keep hopping from place to place as monsters hunt you. Camp's a —mostly— safe place to stay. It's got food, beds, showers. Showers," she repeated like that was the main selling point.

Which—okay. That was tempting. All I got was a bucket and a closet at Circe's spa.

"Is it a cult?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Be honest. I've met three cults disguised as sanctuaries so far and I am not getting drugged again."

Clarisse shook her head. "Definitely not a cult. We're way too dysfunctional for that."

Jason nodded solemnly. "I've never seen a successful chant last longer than five seconds."

Luke folded the map again, slipping it into a waterproof pouch. "You don't have to make the decision now. You can come on the quest. See what we're about. If you hate it, we'll drop you at the next safe haven."

Phoebe frowned. "Why are you assuming he's even coming?"

Everyone turned to look at me again.

I looked at the soot-stained tent, the way Miriam was studiously not looking at us anymore. The way Phoebe had folded her arms just a little tighter.

Clarisse had offered a lot of things—danger, mostly—but also a way out. A direction.

And frankly, I've been here for an hour and staying here is gonna mean more side-eyes from the Hunters, more muttering behind my back. And Phoebe... as much as she was starting to tolerate me, she wasn't going to let her guard down.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. "So... lava wall, flying, and more potential god-related trauma?"

"Yep," Clarisse confirmed.

Jason added, "Also possible death at the breath of a snake dragon."

Luke smiled. "And glory."

I hesitated.

"...Do I get my own bed?"

"If you survive the quest and get claimed." Clarisse said before pointing at the cuckoo on my head. "Gonna have to feed that on your own though."

"Well then," I said, standing up, brushing ash from my sleeve, and straightening my spine like I hadn't just been burned by a flaming horse. "Guess I better not die."

Chapter Text

A/N: I'm sorry for such a late chapter, I've rewritten this thing eight different times with eight different plots. If there's complaints, please let me know so I can fix them. With all that, please enjoy.

*
*
*

It turns out, no matter how fast you join a quest, it doesn't heal the several broken bones you have all over your body.

After I eviscerated the last tent, Phoebe and I were moved over to a makeshift clinic across the camp. It was a bit jankier than the old one, but it helped me not break any more bones. Plus it got me into new clothes.

Miriam was nice enough to gift me a silver hoodie and some black cargo pants from Phoebe's closet —technically it was the whole Hunt's closet, but since they all wear the same uniform and Phoebe was the one who brought me here, they took it from her pile.

The boots and socks were insanely comfortable, I've been wearing sandals for so long I don't think I can remember a time I ever wore anything else.

The hoodie was warm but not unbearably hot, even with the extra T-shirt underneath. Phoebe explained that it was due to these magic glyphs that helped regulate a Hunter's body temperature so they wouldn't overheat or freeze while tracking through hot and cold climates.

Now that I was out of my blood and sea water soaked clothes, Phoebe and I were left to heal in the back up infirmary.

It got boring fast.

Nothing against Miriam and her speedy craft, but I don't think I can physically handle abject silence after spending years with Reyna and watching her sister argue with Lipara.

So to combat the boredom for the next thirty minutes, Phoebe and I started playing a game.

'What do you know?'

Since I grew up on an island removed from society, and Phoebe's seen the rise and fall of nations; we're trying to see how much I actually know before entering society. Plus, it's nice to get to know the person you killed a Kaiju bull with.

Now obviously Phoebe knows more than me, but I think she's so flabbergasted by how much I have and how much I lack in information that it's ruining her perception of things.

"Wait, so you don't know who Genghis Khan is, but you know who Christopher Columbus is?"

I nodded yes. I mean he is a Guinea pig on Aeaea —or at least he was. So of course I know who he is. She didn't need to know what happened to him.

"I grew up around a lot of scholars, what can I say?" I said with a shrug.

Phoebe scoffed, turning in her cot. "Yeah, probably didn't mention what he did with the manatee."

Ugh, the manatee...

No matter how many people you see turn into Guinea Pigs. You will always be able to see the horrors they committed in their eyes. Kinda why I don't regret letting him run into the pizza oven while it was on.

... why do guinea pigs die in such strange ways?

Phoebe began to continue her questioning. "Okay, you know who Columbus was, how about Amelia Earhart?"

"The lady who got eaten by crabs?"

"How is that the specific thing you know about her?! You didn't even know what gasoline was!"

My shoulders shrugged as I got more comfortable, "didn't come up much in my childhood."

"But one-hundred-thirty-thousand gallons of Marine Diesel Oil did?" Phoebe asked, her face scrunching up in scrutiny.

I gave her a shrug, "how else would I know how to fuel a cruise ship?"

Phoebe stared at me dumbfounded. I think her brain was blue screening. Maybe I shouldn't tell her I know how to fix a boat's computer system?

"Okay, my turn." I said, trying to not get on Phoebe's last nerve. "You've been with Diana—"

"Lady Artemis," Phoebe corrected.

"Lady Artemis, right. You have been with her for a couple millennia, what's something you know that not many others do?"

Phoebe paused, bringing her hand to her chin as she began to think. She went on for a couple minutes, I almost thought she fell asleep. But she finally came up with an answer.

"Well, I can't tell you anything too secretive or I'd have to kill you." She started.

A nervous chuckle escaped my throat, "Please don't."

Phoebe waved me off, "I'm not, you'll be in enough pain when your healing reaches the 20 minute mark."

"Wait- what-"

"Anyway," Phoebe said as she cut me off. "Something not many people know is that Artemis loves comics."

"Comics?"

Phoebe paused, staring into my soul as the light slowly died in her eyes.

"Do you not know what comics are?"

"I know what comics are." I protested. "My old boss at the spa pre ordered all the Absolute Wonder Woman comics."

Phoebe nodded slowly, not really believing me. "Right... anyway. Artemis loves comics. While it isn't well known by most, it's still known by a lot of the Hunter's. What they don't know is who her favorite comic book character is."

"Who is it?" I asked, scooting forward on my cot.

Phoebe looked around the room before leaning in. "...Lobo."

"... Lobo?" I asked. "Who's Lobo?"

Phoebe blinked at me like I'd just asked what a tree was.

"You don't know Lobo?" she asked, her voice flat with just the faintest hint of judgmental thunder behind it. "The Main Man? Space biker? The guy who was banned from Heaven?"

I gave a weak smile and an even weaker shrug. "Uh... should I?"

Phoebe flopped back against her pillow and stared up at the tent ceiling with disappointment. "Unbelievable," she muttered. "You've got enough random trivia packed into that pretty little skull to identify the taste of seawater by region, but you don't know the guy who killed his own retcon."

As Phoebe described Lobo images of Diana started floating through my head.

I only just met Diana— I mean Lady Artemis— earlier yesterday, and the only way I can describe her is... strict. Even though she looks like a fourteen year old girl; she does not seem like the kind of person who likes Lobo. If anything she seems like she'd hate him.

Where does she find the time to pick up a comic about a murderous space bounty hunter anyway?

"So why does she like him so much?" I asked, taking a bite of the ambrosia Miriam had left near my cot.

"Oh she doesn't like him," Phoebe corrected. "She actually hates him. He's sex driven, rude, and just down right nasty."

I blinked, "then why's he her favorite?"

Phoebe shrugged, "she's got a weird hate reading relationship with the series. I think he reminds her of her brother's, Apollo and Ares."

I let that sit for a second. Then snorted. "Gods, she must really hate him, huh?"

Phoebe smirked. "Oh, she loathes Lobo. Her, Apollo and Ares get along though—but she never misses an issue. She got Hecate to enchant a quiver to deliver new comics on Tuesdays."

She paused, then whispered, "Don't tell her I told you that."

"I would never." I held up my hands. "Your secret's are safe with me Ruru."

Phoebe quirked her brow, "Ruru?"

"The golden deer?" I said, picking at my bandages. "The one Buddha turned into in 'The Story of Ruru the Deer.'"

"And why did you feel the need to call me that?"

I shrugged, "you keep calling me Cloud Boy, might as well give you a nickname of your own. Plus, it fits given your name literally means radiant."

Phoebe chuckled a little, "and why do you know that?"

"I was a fan of Emma Frost and looked up the names of her kids which just led me down a rabbit hole."

"Where is that spa for you to know who Emma Frost is? You said it was in the middle of nowhere."

"It is." I confirmed, grabbing another ambrosia square. "People just keep showing up for some reason. I once met a lady who said she was on a show called Golden Girls."

Phoebe looked like she was close to hitting me over the head so she could pick apart my brain to see what was wrong with me. Luckily for me she stopped herself.

"I think I need an aspirin ." She muttered under her breath, turning to face the wall.

I couldn't help but laugh at that, watching her back as she very deliberately avoided looking at me.

"Sorry Ruru," I said, turning on my pillow with a sigh.

All I got from her was a grumble in response.

A breeze moved through the tent flaps, stirring the scent of ambrosia, poultice, and antiseptic herbs. It was oddly peaceful. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket Miriam had tossed over me—a lot more comfortable than I was used to, but warm nonetheless.

"So," I said after a beat, "Can I ask you something? Please don't shoot me if I overstep."

"Sure, as long as it isn't stupid." She said carefully. "And no, the hunters do not date each other. That's a rumor made by Aphrodite."

"What? No, that isn't what I was going to ask." I sputtered. "I was wondering why you were so adamant on me not helping you? I mean I get that you guys— girls?"

"Hunters." The Hunter confirmed.

"I get that you Hunters aren't fans of the male population, but isn't it a bit destructive? Why put yourself in danger — fighting through multiple broken bones so you can almost die to a monster; when you have someone there to help heal you and give you a better shot?"

Phoebe went quiet. So quiet that I started wondering if she was deciding if the question was worth answering—or worse, that she was going to stab me and was just picking the best vertebrae.

But then Phoebe spoke, her voice almost dull, "I had some issues with a few men that tried 'saving' me once."

"Oh, I'm—" I tried to say sorry, but a firm "Don't." Phoebe stopped me in my tracks.

"You don't know what happened, and you don't have to," she said. "You wouldn't understand, you're a guy after all."

My face turned into a grimace at her words, the silence hanging heavy in the air. She obviously doesn't want to talk about it, who would when talking to a stranger. But, something about her told me she needed to. If not with me, maybe with someone else?

"Is there anyone that would understand?" I asked, placing the cuckoo next to the ambrosia squares on the bed side table.

"None of your business." Phoebe declared firmly. "The others are young and have their own problems they need to worry about."

Okay, so the younger hunters aren't an option. "What about Lady Artemis, or Miriam?"

Phoebe sighed and begrudgingly held up her injured arm, waving it weakly. "As you can see, I'm already a burden to Miriam with these injuries. Artemis is likely unhappy with the fact that I had to take the help of someone like you to kill the Cretan Bull, something Theseus of all creatures killed on his own."

"But Artemis seemed happy that I brought you back safely?"

A scoff escaped Phoebe's mouth, though I could see her cringe at actions quickly after. "You're young, and I vouched for you. She was just being nice."

My face morphed into a frown. I twisted over and scooted up on the cot until I was looking at her more directly, even if she wasn't meeting my gaze. "You really believe that?"

Phoebe didn't answer. Her eyes stayed fixed on some point beyond the tent wall, her jaw tense and shoulders tight. The silver moonlight from a crack in the tent catching the edge of her cheekbone.

I know in the past Diana has been harsh —with how she turned Actaeon into a deer because he accidentally saw her— but I'm pretty sure that she still cares for her Hunter's safety no matter who helps them.

A sigh escaped me. If she won't willingly bring it up to anyone, might as well bring it up to a stranger she's likely never going to see again.

"...I'm not gonna pretend I get what happened," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I know I don't."

Phoebe's silence stayed with her, but the twitch of her shoulders and shift of her ears told me she was still listening.

I leaned back, resting my head against the tent wall. "But I do know what it feels like when someone turns a good deed into a leash. When somebody believes that just because they helped you means they get to dictate your every motion ."

Her head tilted slightly.

"I've seen a lot of people get 'rescued'," I said after a bit, my thumb brushing over the blanket's weave. "But not all of them got to walk away whole. They just traded one danger for another."

That got something out of her. Not exactly a word, but a noise that was the least bit coherent. Maybe she was agreeing with me. Or maybe she was saying I was an idiot.

Phoebe's body was still, safe for the slow curl of her fingers around the blanket.

I didn't push after that. What good was forcing open a gate if it was just going to break the dam. We sat there wafting through the tense air till someone made a peep.

Sure enough, a minute passed, then two, and finally—

"You talk like you've seen things," Phoebe said, her voice rough around the edges. "But what do you really know, Diomedes?"

Her tone wasn't hostile, not entirely. Yet it wasn't exactly friendly either. Her hands were clenched tightly around her blanket as she continued to refuse to make eye contact with anything but the ceiling.

I let out a soft breath. "Probably not enough."

"Exactly." She said, shifting her gaze to finally meet mine. "You spout on about an island you refuse to name, people you barely elaborate on; and yet you confront me —a complete stranger— about my issues? You, a boy who hasn't bled an ounce compared to the blood I've let. You don't know what it's like, watching the world twist itself against you just because you exist."

"I haven't lived your life," I professed. "I won't pretend I have."

Phoebe didn't look away. Her eyes locked on mine. Those sharp and unyielding silver eyes scanning through—like she was testing if I'd fold under the pressure.

I didn't.

She blinked once. "Then why try? Why sit there and ask questions you don't want the answers to?"

I thought for a second, chewing on the words before I let them out. "Because I don't think anyone should have to carry it alone."

That made her scoff, the sound bitter yet full of an unending exhaustion. "And what, you're gonna help me unpack centuries of trauma between overdosing on ambrosia squares and a game of jeopardy?"

"No," I said, not knowing what jeopardy was. "But I can be here while you rest your body, till it's time for me to leave and you get to go back to pushing your problems away."

Phoebe stared at me for a beat. Then she rolled onto her back and let out a long breath through her nose, the exhale rustling the curls near her temple. Her injured arm shifted in the wrapping as she winced.

"You sound like my mom." She grumbled, almost fondly at the thought.

"I get that a lot."

She turned over, "that has to be the strangest thing I've ever heard you say."

"You've heard worse."

"I have. But not from you."

"Fair," I conceded, smirking slightly.

We fell quiet again. The tent's curved ceiling swaying softly with the breeze, with the herbal smell clinging to the corners of my nose.

Eventually, she spoke again, "Do you ever feel like you're always trying to prove yourself?"

"Day and night," I replied without missing a beat. How couldn't I when I've failed so much in the past.

Phoebe shifted a bit, adjusting the way her legs sprawled out under the blanket. "It's like... no matter what you do, there's always going to be this voice in your head waiting for you to mess up. Even when you don't, it makes something up to pretend like you did. Just because you could have."

My throat tightened at that. "Yeah," I said quietly. "I've felt that."

Her voice dropped again. "I think... sometimes I'm more tired of existing than I am of fighting."

I nodded. "Because one wrong move means you've failed."

Phoebe closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly toward me. "Yeah. Exactly that."

I let that settle. I didn't have a solution. I don't think she wanted one. Sometimes it's just about hearing someone say it out loud then it is having it figured out.

After a while, I broke the silence. "You know, you're a lot more reasonable than you pretend to be."

"I'm drugged," she said dryly.

I couldn't help but laugh, "That tracks."

Phoebe's mouth twitched again. Her walls weren't down, not completely. But there was a little window now. A crack in the cage she'd built around herself, maybe after I leave she'll ask for help.

She didn't say thank you or anything; but I could tell she was somewhat grateful for the chat. The clench of her fists was gone and replaced by a soft snore. If only I could sleep as peacefully as she did.