Chapter Text
The summer sun bled through the canopy of pine trees, warm and golden, casting long shadows across the half-woken Camp Half-Blood. The strawberry fields in the distance shimmered with dew, and the soft rumble of waves brushing the shore echoed faintly through the still air.
Another summer. Another beginning.
For most demigods, this was the start of something exciting—the return to camp, reunions, Capture the Flag, quests, and songs around the fire. But for me? This was just… a continuation. A loop I never left.
I’m a year-rounder. One of the ones who never leaves when the chariots roll out and the campfire dies down. Been here since I was ten, when monsters first started clawing at the edges of my world. This is my third summer. My third chance to watch everyone else get claimed while I stay forgotten.
Back home—if you can even call that place a home—there was only one person who might’ve been called “family.” My father. If you could even give him that word without choking on it.
He was the kind of man who made silence dangerous. A drunk, a pill-scraper, always riding the edge of rage. His fists did more talking than his mouth, and when he did speak, it was a mess of curses, threats, and the kind of venom you don’t forget. He’d leave for days, then come back with glassy eyes and bloody knuckles, accusing me of things I didn’t do. Blamed me for my mom leaving, for the house falling apart, for the world turning against him.
One time, I broke a plate—just a plate—and he threw me into the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Another time, he held a lit cigarette to my arm and told me to stop crying like a girl.
I was ten.
The first time the monsters came, I honestly thought they were his friends.
That’s when I ran. Not because I was brave. Because I knew staying there would break me in ways no Fury ever could.
Then Thistlebranch found me.
A satyr with crooked horns, a permanent scowl, and a voice like gravel. He looked like someone’s failed attempt at a druid and acted like a big brother who’d never admit he cared. But he got me out. Led me through the woods, taught me how to listen to the world instead of fear it. He brought me to camp. Taught me how to survive.
Thistle was everything.
But last summer, after Kreon died protecting camp, Thistle was reassigned—to Eli Stavros. The fire kid. The one with the prophecy clinging to his back like smoke. The one the gods whispered about when they thought no one was listening.
But Eli wasn’t just a prophecy. He was my friend.
The first kid who talked to me like I mattered. Who didn’t flinch when I got quiet or angry. We didn’t always see eye to eye, and sure, he had this stubborn streak that could burn down a city block—but he saw me. Not just the unclaimed kid from Cabin Eleven. Me.
Then he disappeared.
Not vanished from camp like a runaway—gone. Swallowed by some crack in the world. A void so deep and wrong that even the gods didn’t have a name for it. That was nine months ago. And when no one else could find him, Thistlebranch went looking.
He didn’t come back either.
Two people who mattered. Two people who fought for this camp and for each other.
Vanished like smoke.
But we got him back.
Lyssa, Callie, and I went to the Underworld to bring him home. We crossed the Styx, defied the judges, and faced things that still haunt my sleep. I fought through fields of the dead and shadows that whispered my worst fears—and I’d do it again. Because Eli was worth it.
I’ve spent the last year grinding. Training harder than ever. Getting better with a blade, learning how to track, how to listen, how to be dangerous. Because if something tries to take another one of us, I want to be ready this time.
I’m still unclaimed, so I crash at Cabin Eleven—Hermes' cabin. The catch-all for all the demigods nobody seems to want. I stopped expecting that glowing symbol above my head two summers ago. I don’t need a divine name. I’ve made one for myself.
This morning, like always, I went on a jog around camp before the sun fully crested the hill. The cabins were quiet, the smell of pine and campfire smoke still hanging in the air. A few early risers wandered out—year-rounders like me, shaking the sleep from their bones. But most of camp was still holding its breath.
I peeled off into the woods after my second lap, letting the quiet swallow me whole. The trees closed in, the light getting softer, green-filtered. That’s where I found him.
Jeremy.
The hellhound the size of a Buick. Black fur like polished obsidian, yellow eyes sharp as knives. He didn’t growl when I approached—just lifted his massive head from the forest floor and let out a low rumble that sounded suspiciously like a “good morning.”
“Hey, buddy,” I said, crouching down beside him. “You miss her too?”
Jeremy huffed and pressed his snout into my chest. His breath was warm and smelled like old bones and camp bacon. Comforting, in a weirdly monstrous way.
Lyssa had left him here when she moved into Eli’s apartment in Poughkeepsie. No way Jeremy would’ve fit in a city walk-up, and the last thing we needed was a viral news story about a dog bigger than most sedans. So he stayed here, watching the woods, waiting.
At least I wasn’t alone out here. At least I had someone.
“I know,” I muttered, scratching behind his ear, careful not to nick my hand on the spike of his collar. “She’ll be back today. Chariots coming in. New kids, old friends. All that.”
His tail thumped once against the mossy ground.
Callie was still here too—our healer from Apollo’s cabin. Sharp-tongued, too smart for her own good, and always ready with a snarky comeback. She liked to mess with me. A lot. Called me "broody boy" or "emo hero." Said I had the energy of a tragic Shakespeare character.
And yeah, maybe I do.
But she made me laugh sometimes, and that... that counts for something.
Still. Jeremy got me in a way no one else did. No talking. No judgment. Just loyalty. Just presence.
I leaned back against the tree beside him, feeling the warmth of his side against my shoulder, and stared up through the gaps in the branches. Bits of blue sky peeked through, cloudless and bright.
Today the chariots would roll in. Camp would wake up. The world would shift again.
But I’d still be here.
Waiting. Watching.
By late morning, the sun had climbed higher and the air had shifted—brighter, louder, full of fresh voices and the thudding of chariot wheels on dirt. The smell of strawberries mingled with sweat and metal and that strange scent of half-divine excitement only Camp Half-Blood ever had.
They were back.
From the crest of Half-Blood Hill, I watched as campers streamed through the borders. Some were wide-eyed first-timers, clutching duffel bags like lifelines. Others were returning veterans, laughing, shouting, calling out to friends across the hill.
I stood near the armory with Callie, leaning against the railing. She was flipping a celestial bronze scalpel between her fingers like it was a coin, expression unreadable behind a pair of round, gold-tinted sunglasses that screamed don’t talk to me unless you want to get roasted.
“So,” she said, voice dry as ever, “ready for the annual game of ‘Will This Be the Summer I Get Claimed?’ or are we skipping the heartbreak this year?”
I snorted. “I’ve skipped that game since summer one.”
Callie smirked. “Smart. Unlike me. I still play, but that’s just because I like the drama.”
A chariot rolled past us, pulled by what looked like two very judgmental pegasi and one extremely confused mortal taxi driver who had definitely been misted into submission.
Then I saw him.
Strutting up the path in a sleeveless pink-and-gold tank top, jeans that looked like they belonged on a fashion runway, and sunglasses even more obnoxious than Callie’s, came Dorian Valeur.
He had a perfectly tousled head of blonde curls, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and a grin that could power a city block.
“Well, well, well,” he said, spreading his arms like the returning star of a Broadway show. “Look at you two, camp’s resident brooder and sarcasm incarnate. Did you miss me?”
Callie didn’t even look up. “Not enough to say it out loud.”
“Barely noticed you were gone,” I added, though my mouth twitched in spite of myself.
Dorian placed a hand over his heart, gasping dramatically. “I leave for a few months and this is what I come back to? Verbal abuse and emotional neglect? Truly, I am unloved.”
Callie turned to me, deadpan. “Andros, remind me—why don’t we let the Aphrodite kids drown in their own reflection pools again?”
“Because then we’d miss moments like this,” I said, crossing my arms as Dorian slung his duffel to the ground beside us.
He grinned. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
I rolled my eyes, but not in the way I used to.
When I first met Dorian, I didn’t trust him. Kids of Aphrodite? Manipulative. Too smooth. Too perfect. The kind of people who smiled while cutting you down with a compliment. And he was all of that. But also… not.
He stayed behind to fight for this camp. Almost got himself killed more than once, and never asked for thanks. And when Eli came back? Dorian didn’t run.
He held him. Stood beside him. Became his.
Now, they were a thing. Eli’s boyfriend. And you know what? He earned that title.
“So,” Dorian said, pulling off his sunglasses and tucking them into the collar of his tank top. “What’s the news? Camp still standing? Has anyone been claimed in the last twenty-four hours or are the gods still playing deadbeat?”
“Still deadbeat,” I said.
“Excellent. My expectations remain delightfully low.”
Callie gave him a side-eye. “Speaking of low, how many shirts did you pack this summer that have sleeves?”
Dorian blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Listen,” he said, offended in the way only Dorian could be, “when you look this good, it’s a public service to share. Honestly, it would be cruel not to.”
“Oh my gods,” Callie muttered. “I’ve missed bullying you.”
“And I’ve missed letting you pretend you have the upper hand.”
I let the banter wash over me. Their dynamic was sharp and fast, like a fencing match made entirely of witty insults and smirks. I didn’t really join in—not my speed—but I liked being in the orbit of it. It made camp feel… alive.
“Have you seen Eli?” Dorian asked, suddenly more serious. “Did he come in yet?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. But he’ll be here.”
Dorian nodded once. “Good. I brought him something.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. The look in his eyes said it wasn’t a joke this time.
Callie stepped back and squinted toward the hill. “Think that’s Chiron coming up now. Wonder how many prophecies we’ll be dodging this summer.”
“At least one,” I muttered.
Dorian turned toward the hill, eyes scanning the road. “Let’s hope it’s not ours again.”
None of us said it out loud, but we were all thinking the same thing.
It was never really over. Not with forbidden children. Not with the gods’ broken oaths.
But for now, for this moment—we were back.
I felt them before I saw them.
There was a shift in the air—like something steadied, like a held breath finally let go—and I turned just in time to see two figures making their way up the path beyond the cabins.
Eli Stavros and Lyssa Silverpine.
They stood out, even among demigods. Eli walked like he didn’t quite trust the ground, like it might open again at any moment. Lyssa moved beside him with the kind of grace that came from always expecting danger and knowing exactly how to meet it. She carried her bow over her shoulder like it was part of her, like it had always belonged there. Jeremy padded behind them, looming and silent, his black fur shimmering like heat off stone.
They reached us, and just like that—we were all together again.
Eli’s eyes met mine first. There was that same flicker behind them—like the fire he carried had never quite dimmed, just learned how to stay quiet.
“Andros,” he said.
I nodded. “Hey, Flame Boy.”
He cracked a smile. Just a flicker. But it was real.
Lyssa grinned. “Still brooding on the hill, I see.”
“Tradition,” I said, stepping forward to meet them.
Dorian lit up, practically sprinting to Eli’s side. “Took you long enough! I was starting to wither without your melodrama.”
Eli let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and leaned into him without thinking. Dorian slung an arm around his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Callie raised an eyebrow at Lyssa. “That bow look heavier, or have you been lifting souls in the Underworld for reps?”
“Only the dramatic ones,” Lyssa shot back, eyes twinkling.
I watched them, my friends—if that’s the word. More than friends, maybe. Not quite family. Somewhere in between.
Best friends, I guess. That’s what I’d call them. The kind you don’t get by luck. The kind you bleed beside.
We’d gotten close last summer—me, Eli, Lyssa. It wasn’t planned. Just happened somewhere between the fire and the shadows and the cracked-open truths. When Eli disappeared, something inside me cracked wide. That was when I started noticing things. Subtle things.
Like how I was also forbidden. Like something deep in me had been broken before I was even born.
I don’t know who my godly parent is, but whoever they were… they made me wrong.
We haven’t talked much since the rescue. Not in a real way. Eli and Lyssa have been in and out of camp, checking in. Still, it stung more than I wanted to admit.
We stood there for a while—making light conversation, tossing around jabs and updates—but beneath it all, I could feel something pulsing just under the surface. Something unspoken.
That dream.
Last September, after Eli had been rescued and everything had supposedly calmed down, the three of us had the same dream on the same night. We never talked about it, but I know we all remember. I could see it in the way Lyssa’s fingers twitched near her bowstring, the way Eli’s jaw clenched just slightly when the conversation dipped into silence.
I remembered every second of it.
We were standing in a dead field—gray dust curling around our ankles. The sky was colorless, the air too still.
Then, the mist came.
Black. Rolling. Thick and alive, like a storm that had learned to hunger.
And from it… a figure.
Veiled. Faceless. She moved like she didn’t need to walk, like the air parted for her. Like fear was the only thing she answered to.
She stopped before us.
Raised her hands.
And pulled back the veil.
Her eyes burned. Coal-red, endless. Her smile was calm—too calm. Like she wasn’t angry. Like she knew how this ended.
“Guess who’s back,” she said.
Her voice didn’t echo from around us—it came from within. From inside our ribs, our bones, our blood.
It was Kerostes.
Then we woke up.
No one screamed. No one said a word.
We just carried it. Like we were waiting for her to make it true.
Now, standing here again for the first time in months, I wondered why we still hadn’t said anything. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was denial. Maybe it was because if we spoke it aloud, it became prophecy.
I glanced at Lyssa. She was scanning the treeline like she could still see that dream creeping in from the shadows.
Eli caught my eye. For just a second. And I knew—we were both remembering.
But no one brought it up.
Instead, Jeremy gave a low bark, breaking the tension, and everyone turned.
“Alright,” Callie said, breaking the moment like it was just another branch underfoot. “So, we doing the usual or what? S’mores by the fire, sparring at noon, and pretending we’re not all marked by death and divine trauma?”
“Sounds perfect,” Lyssa said.
Dorian winked. “It’s not camp if there’s not emotional repression and fire hazards.”
And just like that, we moved on. For now.
But I knew better.
Some storms don’t stay in dreams.