The cabins formed a rough horseshoe around a central hearth—each structure a bizarre architectural fever dream dedicated to its divine patron. Some gleamed with precious metals or pulsed with unnatural light. Others hulked in shadows or vibrated with barely contained energy.

  "Thirteen cabins," Chiron explained, gesturing with an open palm. "Each representing an Olympian patron, plus Hades and Artemis's Hunters when they visit."

  Medea stalked between them, her movements fluid and predatory. Her nose wrinkled at the gaudy golden cabin that practically screamed "Apollo" with its solar panels and lyre motifs.

  "You segregate them by parentage," she observed, tail swishing beneath her hoodie. "Fascinating. Creating artificial kinship bonds while simultaneously reinforcing divine hierarchies."

  Chiron's jaw tightened. "The arrangement provides structure and mentorship. Those with similar abilities train together."

  "And compete for Daddy's attention," Medea added with a razor-edged smile. "Tell me, horse-man… do they fight over who has the better cabin? The prettier toys? The stronger powers?" Her fuchsia eyes gleamed. "Or do they simply accept their place in the pecking order?"

  She paused before the largest cabin—a marble mausoleum with heavy columns and the stink of ozone. "Zeus. Positioned at the head of the horseshoe. How predictably narcissistic."

  Her gaze shifted to the peacock-adorned structure opposite. "And Hera. Empty, I presume? The goddess of family has no half-blood bastards to claim."

  Chiron's tail swished sharply. "It's honorary. A sign of respect."

  "Respect," Medea repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "How many of these children has she tried to murder over the centuries for the crime of existing?"

  She moved on before Chiron could answer, pausing before a blood-red structure that reeked of metal and aggression. War radiated from its walls like heat from an oven. Her nostrils flared, drinking in the scent.

  "This one has potential," she murmured.

  A cluster of muscular teens lounged on the cabin steps, their eyes following her with undisguised hostility. One spat on the ground as she passed. Medea's ear twitched with amusement.

  "Ares children. So predictably confrontational." She flashed them a smile full of teeth. "At least they understand the natural order. Strength consuming weakness."

  They smell of cheap violence, Nidhoggr whispered in her mind. Unrefined. Untempered.

  Her attention shifted to a silver cabin that gleamed with moonlight despite the afternoon sun. Something about it made her skin prickle—not with fear, but recognition.

  "The twins," she said softly. "Apollo and Artemis. Sun and moon." Her hands clenched and unclenched. "Light exposing all secrets."

  She moved faster now, categorizing each structure with predatory efficiency. The Athena cabin with its owl carving and books visible through windows. Demeter's roof of living grass. The barnacle-encrusted fishing lodge that could only belong to Poseidon.

  "Your divine parents play favorites," she noted, gesturing to the stark differences in size and grandeur. "Some cabins house dozens. Others stand nearly empty."

  "The gods' attentions wax and wane," Chiron admitted carefully. "Some are more… selective in their mortal liaisons."

  Her laugh was cold and sharp. "Or some are simply better at preventing unwanted consequences."

  She stopped before a cabin that pulsed with rainbow light, its door framed by living vines that bloomed with grapes despite the season.

  "Dionysus," she identified immediately, her nose wrinkling. "God of madness masquerading as revelry. Your camp director, I understand." Her lip curled in contempt. "Another divine prisoner."

  Chiron's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Mr. D serves his sentence with… variable enthusiasm."

  "Gods make poor jailers," Medea observed, continuing her circuit. "And worse parents."

  A heavy-set girl emerged from the Hephaestus cabin, arms smudged with grease. She froze upon seeing Medea, then deliberately detoured around her path.

  "Smart girl," Medea purred just loud enough for the camper to hear. The girl quickened her pace.

  At the end of the row stood a cabin of obsidian and silver, with green fire burning in braziers flanking the entrance. Death clung to its walls like Spanish moss—invisible but undeniable.

  "Hades," she breathed, genuine interest flickering across her features. "Now here's a patron who understands consequences."

  Her clawed fingertips trailed along the obsidian wall, leaving five parallel scratches in frost across its surface. The green flames guttered briefly, as if recoiling in fear.

  "Where do they put the mistakes?" she asked suddenly, turning to Chiron. "The unclaimed. The ones whose divine parents are too minor or too ashamed to acknowledge their existence."

  Chiron's weathered face remained carefully neutral. "Cabin Eleven—Hermes—welcomes all travelers and unclaimed demigods." He gestured to a large, weathered structure that looked like an ordinary summer camp cabin. "Though since the gods' oath to recognize their children, it's rarely necessary."

  "Oaths." The word emerged as a dismissive hiss. "I've yet to meet a deity whose word couldn't be purchased with sufficient blood or flattery."

  She completed her circuit, standing now at the center of the horseshoe. Her gaze swept the cabins with calculating precision, cataloging strengths, weaknesses, occupancy. The sword at her hip hummed with quiet satisfaction.

  "Where," she asked, her voice dangerously soft. "Do I sleep?"

  Chiron shifted his weight, hooves scraping against packed earth. "That depends."

  "On what?" Medea's smile was all teeth and no warmth.

  "On whether you choose to stay," the centaur replied evenly. "And on who claims you—if anyone does."

  Her laughter echoed between the cabins, sharp and cold as breaking ice. Several nearby campers flinched at the sound.

  "Oh, horse-man," she purred, eyes gleaming like hot coals. "Claiming implies ownership. And I belong to no one."

  "Belonging is precisely what this camp provides," Chiron replied, his voice carrying the patient weight of millennia. "Safety. Purpose. Community."

  Medea's lip curled at the last word. Her gaze swept across the bizarre collection of cabins again, nostrils flaring as she inhaled the mingled scents of adolescent demigods—sweat, fear, and that distinctive ozone tang of divine blood.

  "Community," she echoed, tasting the word like something rotten. "How quaint."

  Her attention fixed suddenly on movement near the hearth at the center of the horseshoe. A young girl, perhaps eight or nine, tended the flames with a long stick. Her brown hair was tucked beneath a simple hood, her face unremarkable save for eyes that reflected the fire too perfectly.

  Old power, Nidhoggr whispered in her mind. Ancient and patient.

  Medea's ear twitched in acknowledgment. The girl was no camper—that much was obvious. The flames she tended burned with a steady warmth that predated Olympus itself.

  "Home and hearth," Medea whispered, watching the girl who hadn't yet acknowledged their presence. "The oldest comfort. The first weapon."

  Chiron followed her gaze, his hard expression relaxing slightly. "Lady Hestia maintains her vigil, as she has since the beginning."

  The girl looked up then, her eyes meeting Medea's across the distance. Something ancient and knowing passed between them—Recognition flickered—not of history, but of kind. One creature of instinct acknowledging another, though cut from very different cloth.

  "First and last Olympian," Medea said quietly. "The one who steps aside rather than fight. How is that working out for you, hearth-keeper?"

  The girl's smile contained no fear, only gentle amusement. "Better than consuming everything in my path has worked for others."

  Her voice carried easily despite its softness, bringing with it the scent of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread. Several nearby campers glanced around, confused, having heard nothing.

  Medea's tail moved once, deliberate and sharp. “Interesting.”

  Before she could pursue the exchange, a conch horn blasted across the grounds. Campers began emerging from various activities, streams of adolescents converging toward a large open-air pavilion visible on a nearby hill.

  "Dinner," Chiron explained. "Perhaps you'd like to join us? The food is excellent, and it will give you a chance to observe camp dynamics."

  "Communal feeding," Medea observed, nose wrinkling.. "How primitive." Her stomach growled audibly—a reminder that even her unusual physiology required sustenance. "Though I suppose I should see how you nourish your charges."

  As they walked toward the pavilion, the sword at her hip vibrated with sudden intensity. Nidhoggr's consciousness pressed against her mind with unusual urgency.

  Blood of the pit, it hissed. Child of darkness approaches.

  Medea's pupils contracted to slits as she inhaled sharply. A new scent cut through the ambient mixture of sweat and strawberries—something cold and dark, like freshly turned grave soil and pomegranate seeds.

  A boy materialized from the shadow of the Hades cabin, his olive skin contrasting with a silver skull ring and battered aviator jacket. Dark circles beneath his eyes suggested either insomnia or recent shadow-travel. Power rolled off him in waves—not the flashy lightning of Zeus's brood, but something deeper and more fundamental.

  Chiron nodded respectfully. "Nico. I didn't realize you'd returned."

  "Message from my father," the boy said, soft as shadow—but everyone heard him. His dark eyes fixed on Medea with undisguised wariness. "Who's this?"

  "Medea Ulthar," she answered before Chiron could speak. "Admiring your camp's… charming arrangements."

  The boy—Nico—studied her with eyes too old for his teenage frame. His gaze lingered on her concealed ears, the slight bulge beneath her hoodie where her tail was hidden, the unnatural fuchsia of her irises.

  "You're not a demigod," he said finally. Not a question.

  Her smile exposed knives of ivory. "Perceptive—halfway to the truth."

  "Then what are you?" The bluntness of his question carried no fear, only detached curiosity. This was a boy accustomed to cataloguing supernatural threats.

  Medea cocked her head, studying him with equal intensity. "A daughter of Aphrodite and the Nemean Lion, death-child."

  Instead of backing away, Nico stepped closer, his hand drifting to the black sword at his side. The temperature dropped several degrees around them—not from Medea's power this time, but from his.

  "We get all types here," he said with grim amusement. "But they all follow the same rules."

  Nidhoggr's voice whispered through her consciousness again. He carries old iron. Stygian. Soul-drinker.

  Medea's ear twitched with genuine interest. "Rules," she repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "Always rules."

  But her eyes remained fixed on Nico's sword, recognizing a kindred hunger, though far lesser in nature than her own. Perhaps this camp of half-breeds held more potential than she'd initially thought.

  The dining pavilion swarmed with adolescent demigods, their energy charging the air like static before a storm. Sunset painted everything in amber light, gleaming off weapons casually worn as accessories. The clatter of plates and voices echoed beneath the open sky.

  "Fascinating," Medea murmured, watching the demigods self-segregate by divine parentage. "They even feed at separate tables. How delightfully tribal."

  Nico matched her pace, keeping a deliberate three feet between them. His pale fingers drummed against his sword hilt, a gesture that wasn't lost on Medea.

  "The tables reflect their cabins," he explained, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Ancient traditions die hard here."

  "And where do you sit, death-child?" she inquired, noting how other campers gave him a wide berth—not quite fear, but wariness etched into their postures. "Alone at the Hades table, I assume?"

  Something flickered across Nico's face—an old pain, quickly masked. "Sometimes. Other times with friends."

  Medea's nostrils flared, catching the complex scent-profile of the boy beside her. Beneath the grave-soil and pomegranate tang lay notes of fast food, sword oil, and the faintest trace of sunshine clinging to someone else's t-shirt he'd recently touched.

  “Friends.” She said it like it burned, her lips curling around the word as if tasting rot. Forgotten memories stirred—half-submerged driftwood of pain and betrayal. In the span of a single step, she relived it all: fear, struggle, abandonment.

  Friends are for fools, she scoffed.

  They approached the pavilion's edge, where Chiron stomped a hoof for attention. Conversations died like flames doused with water as all eyes turned toward them—toward her.

  "Campers," the centaur announced, "we have a new camper. This is Medea Ulthar. She will be living in our camp for… an undetermined period."

  The silence that followed carried weight. Medea's enhanced hearing caught whispers rippling through the tables: "What is she?" "Look at her eyes." "Is that a tail?"

  Chiron continued smoothly: "She will require dining accommodations. As her parentage is… unique, she may sit where she chooses tonight."

  This displeases them, Nidhoggr observed with satisfaction. They cling to their hierarchies.

  Indeed, several counselors exchanged troubled glances. A blonde girl at the Athena table narrowed stormy gray eyes. A massive Asian boy at Ares cracked his knuckles with deliberate loudness.

  Medea scanned the pavilion, calculating. Each table represented a different power base, different abilities. The Hermes table overflowed with miscellaneous campers, while Zeus stood conspicuously empty. Apollo's children radiated sunshine and health. Demeter's offspring communed with their vegetation. Each group broadcasting their strengths and weaknesses with unconscious clarity.

  Her gaze landed on a lone figure at the Hades table. Isolation within community—a position she understood intuitively.

  "Those rules you mentioned," she said in a low voice to Nico, "are they written or unwritten?"

  His dark eyes met hers, assessing. "You're not claimed. You could technically sit at Hermes."

  Without waiting for further discussion, Medea strode directly to the Hades table and seated herself across from Nico's empty place. The dining pavilion fell so silent she could hear heartbeats accelerating around her.

  "What?" she said, raising her voice as she glanced around. "No one was using it." Her gaze dared anyone to disagree.

  Food appeared on golden plates before her—brisket with perfect pink smoke rings, roasted vegetables, still-steaming bread. The goblet beside her plate remained empty.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Speak your preference to the cup," Nico explained, reluctantly taking his seat across from her. "It fills with whatever you request. Non-alcoholic," he added with a grimace.

  "Blood of virgins," Medea commanded the goblet with perfect deadpan delivery.

  The cup remained empty. Several nearby campers gasped.

  "Kidding," she said, ears folding in mirth beneath her hood. "Cranberry juice."

  The goblet filled with deep red liquid. She sipped, watching Nico over the rim. "So, death-boy. Tell me about this sword that makes my own… interested."

  Nico's hand tightened on his weapon. "Stygian iron. It drinks souls."

  "Mmm." Medea took another sip, eyes sparkling like a secret. "And who taught you to wield it? Daddy Hades?"

  Something dangerous flickered in Nico's expression. "No. The dead taught me."

  This one has suffered, Nidhoggr whispered. He wears his scars like armor.

  "The dead make excellent teachers," Medea agreed, surprising him. "They've experienced the ultimate consequence. It sharpens their perspective."

  Around them, conversation slowly resumed, though many campers kept glancing their way. A boy with sea-green eyes at the Poseidon table watched their interaction with particular intensity.

  "Why are you here?" Nico asked bluntly, cutting into his brisket. "And don't say 'to observe.'"

  Medea tore into her own meat with fast, savage movements. "Would you believe I'm searching for family?"

  "No."

  Her laugh was genuine, if cold. "Smart boy. Let's just say I'm hunting for things worthy of my attention." Her gaze swept the pavilion again, cataloging threats and opportunities. "So far, the results are… mixed."

  Nico followed her gaze, then frowned. "The demigods here are trained fighters. Don't underestimate them."

  "Oh, I never underestimate prey," Medea replied, licking juice from her lips. "It makes the hunt so much more satisfying when they surprise you."

  Before Nico could respond, a shimmering blue trident symbol appeared above the head of a young girl at the Hermes table—perhaps twelve years old, with wild curly brown hair and wide eyes. The pavilion erupted in cheers.

  "All hail Mara Johnson, daughter of Poseidon!" Chiron announced.

  The girl looked shell-shocked as campers pounded her back in congratulation. The green-eyed boy at Poseidon's table broke into a grin, waving her over to join him.

  "Claiming," Medea observed, watching the ritual with cold fascination. "The gods marking their property."

  Nico's expression remained neutral, but something like old pain shadowed his eyes. "It means belonging. Family."

  "Family," Medea repeated, the word dripping with contempt. Her clawed fingers tightened on her goblet, frost creeping up its sides. "Tell me, death-boy—did your father protect those you cherish before or after you proved useful?"

  The temperature dropped several degrees around their table. Shadows thickened beneath Nico's skin.

  "You know nothing about me," he said, voice deadly quiet.

  Medea's smile was all teeth. "I know enough. I can smell old grief on you like perfume." She leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "How many did you lose before you learned that family is just another word for weakness?"

  For an instant, raw pain flashed across Nico's face—then his expression hardened into something ancient and terrible. The shadows around him deepened, bones shifting beneath the pavilion floor.

  Careful, Nidhoggr cautioned. He communes with death differently than you. His power has… jurisdiction.

  Before either could escalate further, a tall figure appeared beside their table—the green-eyed boy from Poseidon, his presence bringing the scent of sea salt and ozone.

  "Everything okay here, Nico?" he asked, hand casually resting on a pen in his pocket.

  Medea assessed him instantly: powerful, battle-scarred beneath his orange camp shirt, carrying himself with the unconscious authority of someone who'd led others into war. His sea-green eyes met hers without flinching.

  "Percy," Nico acknowledged, the shadows receding slightly. "I'm fine."

  "Percy Jackson," Medea purred, tasting the name. "Son of Poseidon. The camp's hero, I presume?"

  Percy's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Just a camper. Welcome to Half-Blood Hill." He extended his hand—a deliberate test.

  Medea glanced at the offered hand, then back to his face. After a calculated moment, she clasped it briefly, her clawed fingers leaving faint impressions on his skin.

  "Charmed," she lied, feeling the power humming beneath his mortal shell. This one was worth watching closely.

  “So… do monsters talk about me?” he asked, brows raised, a spark of interest in his eyes.

  The suddenness of the question gave Medea pause.

  Percy's question landed like a pebble in still water, creating ripples of subtle calculation across Medea's face. Her fuchsia eyes narrowed fractionally, assessing the son of Poseidon with renewed interest.

  "Monsters talk about everything," she replied, voice sliding into something almost playful. "But you, Percy Jackson? Your name carries particular weight in certain circles."

  Percy's posture shifted slightly—not quite preening, but there was definitely a hint of satisfaction there.

  "Really?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "Like what kind of stuff do they say?"

  That you're dangerous. Unpredictable." She tilted her head, studying him like a specimen. "That killing you would earn… significant reputation."

  The temperature at the table dropped several degrees. Not from Nico this time, but from Medea herself. Frost crept along the edge of her plate.

  "But mostly," she continued, "they talk about your weakness for loyalty. How you'd sacrifice yourself for these…" she gestured around the pavilion, "…friends. How that makes you both predictable and exploitable."

  Percy's expression hardened, the easy confidence replaced by something older and battle-tempered. His hand tightened around the pen in his pocket—a weapon in disguise, Medea realized.

  "That's worked out pretty badly for most monsters who've tried," he said, voice light but eyes suddenly dangerous. The goblet of blue soda beside him rippled without being touched.

  Medea's ears twitched beneath her hood, clearly catching the subtle threat. Rather than backing down, she leaned forward, nostrils flaring as if cataloging his scent. The festive atmosphere dissolved into memory, yielding to a bone-deep cold that draped itself across the landscape like an abandoned cemetery at midnight. Shadows lengthened across the ground, drawing nearer as they whispered hateful things too twisted to comprehend. The hearth's flames diminished, their uncertain dance betraying a growing unease that matched the darkening surroundings.

  "I'm not most monsters, Percy Jackson," she spoke as if sharing a secret—quiet as the forgotten battlefield, the kind that is drenched in blood and lamentation.

  Nico hastily cleared his throat. "Percy, didn't you need to help your new sister get settled?" His eyes darted meaningfully toward the confused-looking girl with the curly hair.

  Percy hesitated, clearly torn between staying to protect Nico and attending to his newly-claimed sibling. "Yeah. Right." He gave Medea one final measuring look. "Enjoy dinner. Camp Half-Blood is… protected."

  As he walked away, Medea watched him with undisguised interest, like a cat tracking a particularly fascinating bird.

  "Fascinating," she crooned. "So much power in such a… limited package." She turned back to Nico. "And that's your friend?"

  Something complicated passed across Nico's face—pride, exasperation, and something deeper. "Yes."

  "Hmm." Medea savored another bite of her dinner while her eyes roved across the pavilion, calculating and dissecting each figure like a vulture selecting its next meal. "Perhaps this place harbors worthy challenges after all."

  The dining pavilion hummed with renewed conversation, though the volume remained noticeably lower around the Hades table. Medea savored each bite methodically, her eyes never still—cataloging exits, weapons, power dynamics playing out across the tables with merciless precision.

  "They're afraid of you," she shared her observation with Nico, gesturing with her fork toward several campers who kept glancing their way. "Not just me. You."

  Nico shrugged one shoulder, the motion economical and practiced. "Fear is easier than understanding."

  "Mmm." Medea's ear twitched beneath her hood. "And safer, usually."

  She tracked Percy's movements as he joined his newly-claimed sister, noting how other campers instinctively made space for him. Not from fear—from respect. The blonde girl from Athena joined them, her gray eyes occasionally flicking toward Medea with analytical intensity.

  "The minds that measure the board are always the first to sense the knife," Medea chuckled, tilting her chin ever so slightly toward the blonde. "Who is she?"

  "Annabeth Chase. Daughter of Athena." Nico's voice carried reluctant respect. "She redesigned Olympus after the Titan War."

  Medea's eyebrows arched slightly. "Architect for the gods. Impressive for a mortal."

  Her attention shifted to a Cherokee girl at the Aphrodite table who, unlike her preening siblings, radiated quiet authority. The girl caught Medea's gaze and held it unflinchingly for three seconds before deliberately turning away.

  "That one has charm-speak," Medea noted, impressed despite herself. "Potent, too."

  Nico followed her gaze. "Piper McLean. She helped stop Gaea from waking."

  A pattern emerged in Nico's terse identifications—these weren't ordinary demigods. The muscular Asian boy at Ares, the Latino tinkerer at Hephaestus, the regal girl at Jupiter's table—all radiated unusual power, all carried themselves with the unconscious gravity of veterans.

  "You've fought wars recently," Medea concluded, wiping her mouth with deliberate precision. "Not just skirmishes. These demigods have killed."

  It wasn't a question, but Nico nodded anyway, something dark and knowing passing between them—recognition of shared experience.

  "Two wars in as many years. Titans, then giants."

  Study them, Nidhoggr whispered. Their scars. Their formations. See how they cluster around their strongest.

  Indeed, Medea noted how the pavilion's seemingly casual groupings formed unconscious defensive patterns. How younger campers gravitated toward the veterans. How every demigod, even the youngest, kept weapons within reach as they ate.

  "A functional militia, disguised as a summer camp."

  "We survive," Nico replied simply.

  The dinner plates vanished, replaced by desserts—s'mores brownies, fresh strawberries, cobbler steaming with cinnamon. Medea ignored hers, instead watching as campers began scraping portions of their meal into the central brazier.

  "Burnt offerings," Nico explained, following her gaze. "For the gods."

  "Tribute," she corrected. "Feeding divine egos with the smoke of sacrifice."

  Nevertheless, she observed the ritual with careful attention, noting which gods received the most offerings, which the least. Information worth cataloging.

  A boy with messy hair and pointed ears from the Hermes table kept stealing glances their way, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table. Each time Medea's gaze swept past him, he flinched subtly.

  "That one can sense me," she said, nodding toward him. "Not just see—sense."

  "Connor Stoll. Good instincts. Better thief."

  "Interesting."

  As the meal concluded, campers began drifting toward a large amphitheater where a campfire blazed unnaturally high. The flames shifted color—currently a wary orange tinged with purple, reflecting the camp's collective mood.

  "Sing-along," Nico said, the word dripping with reluctance. "I usually skip it."

  Medea's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Communal bonding through synchronized noise. How primitive."

  She stood, her body unfolding like a shadow given shape, stretching with the lazy menace of something that hunts for pleasure. Campers edged away without realizing why. Her tail shifted behind her, sashaying with a noble grace that drew the eye like flies to honey.

  "I believe I've suffered enough social banality for one meal," she announced. "Where does one sleep in this… charming establishment? Since I've made it clear I belong to no one."

  Nico stood as well, maintaining careful distance. "There's a guest room in the Big House. Or Hermes takes in strays."

  "I'm no stray, death-child." Her smile exposed too many teeth, too sharp by half. "But a private room sounds… appropriate."

  As they left the pavilion, Medea felt dozens of eyes tracking their movement. She could practically taste their unease, their speculation. Chiron observed from a distance, his ancient eyes unreadable.

  "This camp has survived gods and titans," Nico said quietly as they walked. "Whatever you're planning—remember that."

  Medea laughed, the sound like ice cracking over deep water. "Planning? I'm merely… exploring possibilities."

  But her catlike eyes gleamed with calculation as she surveyed the sprawling camp, the strawberry fields, the forest boundary, the lake beyond. She hadn't had this much entertainment since that time she visited Asgard.

  "Your camp is impressive, I'll grant you that," she conceded. "But I've seen things you couldn't begin to imagine, death-child. I've walked through distant lands both enchanting and terrifying. I've seen monsters larger than mountains battle in lands of molten fire."

  She paused, head tilting as she caught a scent on the breeze—something ancient and reptilian from deep within the forest. "This place has secrets it doesn't even know it's keeping."

  Nico tensed. "Most dangerous places do."

  Medea nodded, satisfied. "Yes. And that's what makes them worth my time."

  Nico eyed her with silent calculation, the shadows pooling at his feet. "I'll walk you to the Big House. Chiron will want to show you around himself."

  Medea strode beside him, her footfalls unnaturally silent against the packed earth. The camp sprawled around them, bathed in the deepening twilight as fireflies sparked to life over the strawberry fields. Young demigods gave them a wide berth, their conversations faltering as the pair passed.

  "Your kind doesn't understand true power," she murmured, watching a group of Apollo children hurry past with their bows. "They mistake weapons for strength, numbers for security."

  "And what do you consider true power?" Nico asked, his voice betraying a hint of genuine curiosity beneath the wariness.

  Medea's eyes gleamed in the gathering darkness. "Fear, death-child. Not causing it—embodying it." She sniffed at the air, her breath slow and deliberate, as if catching something just beneath the surface. "This place reeks of divine fingerprints, but underneath..." The tip of her tail danced behind her, slow and deliberate. "Underneath, it smells of desperation."

  The Big House loomed before them, its farmhouse facade belied by the strange blue glow from its attic window. On the wraparound porch, Chiron waited in his wheelchair form, his ancient eyes tracking their approach.

  "Ms. Ulthar," he greeted, hands folded in his lap. "I trust dinner was informative?"

  "Illuminating," she replied, her gaze sweeping the building's exterior, identifying weaknesses with practiced efficiency. "Quite the little warrior factory you've built, centaur."

  Chiron's weathered face revealed nothing, but a muscle twitched beneath his beard. "We prepare young demigods to survive in a world that hunts them. Nothing more."

  "Lies bore me," Medea warned, folding her arms over her chest. "You're building an army. The question is—for whom–and why?"

  Before Chiron could respond, the floorboards creaked behind him as the screen door swung open. A harpy with mottled red feathers and unblinking eyes shuffled onto the porch.

  "Room ready," the creature squawked, fixing Medea with a suspicious glare. "No eating campers. House rules."

  Medea's lips curled back, revealing teeth too sharp for comfort. "How disappointing. And here I planned to snack on the Aphrodite cabin. All that moisturizer makes the meat so tender."

  The harpy hissed, humor completely lost on her.

  "That's enough, Ella," Chiron said firmly. He turned to Medea. "We've prepared a guest room for you on the second floor. The harpies patrol after curfew—for everyone's protection."

  "How thoughtful," Medea purred, ascending the steps with liquid grace. "A daycare with amenities."

  Nico remained at the foot of the steps. "I'll leave you to it, then." His dark eyes met Medea's without flinching. "Remember what I said about this camp surviving gods and titans."

  "Sleep well, death-child," she replied, her voice honey over broken glass. "Dream of better guards than harpies."

  Chiron led her through the house, past a rec room where a ping-pong table served as an incongruous war council space, and up a creaking staircase. Decades of demigod scents had soaked into the wooden steps—blood, sweat, divine ichor, and fear. Medea inhaled deeply, sorting through the complex tapestry of aromas with silent appreciation.

  "This camp has seen much bloodshed," she observed, running a clawed finger along the banister. "It clings to the walls like perfume."

  "We endure," Chiron replied simply, stopping before a door at the end of the hallway. "Your accommodations. Breakfast is at eight." He hesitated, then added, "You'll find the room lacks a lock. A precaution."

  Medea smiled, the expression never reaching her eyes. "Locks are for creatures who fear what's outside. Or perhaps... what's within." Her hand drifted to the sword at her hip. "Rest assured, I require no such protections."

  Chiron's ancient eyes studied her, centuries of wisdom weighing her threat. "Good night, Ms. Ulthar. I suggest you use your time here wisely."

  He turned around on all fours with practiced ease and made his way back down the hallway, leaving Medea alone before the doorway. She waited until his retreating form had disappeared down the stairs before pushing the door open with a single clawed finger.

  The guest room in the Big House smelled of mothballs and stale divine power—like vintage wine left uncorked for decades. Medea's nose wrinkled as she prowled the perimeter, clawed fingertips tracing along faded wallpaper. The sword at her hip hummed with quiet distaste.

  "Charming," she muttered, glaring at the sagging twin bed with its threadbare quilt. "Five-star accommodations for visitors. How hospitable."

  She'd just finished testing the window's lock mechanism when the air pressure in the room changed—subtle, but unmistakable to her enhanced senses. The scent of grapes and madness seeped through the floorboards.

  "I know you're there, wine god," she said without turning. "Your stealth needs work."

  The air shimmered and condensed into the form of a pudgy man with curly black hair, bloodshot eyes, and a garish leopard-print shirt. He lounged against the doorframe with forced casualness, Diet Coke can dangling from his fingers.

  "So you're the stray cat everyone's mewling about," Dionysus drawled, voice thick with contempt. "Medea something-or-other."

  Her ear twitched beneath her hood. "Ulthar." She turned fully, facing him with an evaluating gaze. "And you're the divine prisoner. Drawing babysitting duty at demigod daycare."

  Dionysus's eyes flashed purple—a momentary glimpse of the madness-inducing power constrained within his unimpressive physical form. The Diet Coke in his hand briefly transformed into something darker and more potent before flickering back.

  "Let's establish ground rules, shall we?" He took a deliberately casual sip. "I don't care what beastie bargain-bin you crawled out of. This is my camp."

  Medea's smile was all teeth and zero warmth. "Is it? Strange. I smell Zeus's restrictions all over you." She tapped her nose. "Like a shock collar on a particularly disobedient hound."

  The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Grape vines momentarily sprouted along the baseboards before withering into ash.

  "Careful, kitten." Dionysus's voice had shed its bored affect, revealing something ancient and dangerous beneath. "Gods have turned mortals into constellation patterns for less disrespect."

  "Don't threaten me with a good time."

  They regarded each other with mutual calculation—two warriors assessing whether violence was worth the potential cost. Nidhoggr's consciousness pressed against her mind, hungry and alert.

  Old power, but chained, it whispered. His madness could reach us, though.

  Dionysus broke the standoff first, huffing a laugh that smelled of fermentation and bitterness. "You're not worth my remaining probation time." He examined his fingernails with exaggerated boredom. "Just know that I'm watching you, cat-thing. One wrong move toward my campers…"

  "And you'll what?" Medea's voice dropped to a silken purr. "Tell daddy Zeus? Summon your maenads?" She stepped closer, invading his personal space. “Face it—you’re rusted through. I’ve crossed Asgard and Helheim. When’s the last time you even saw a battlefield, wine god? The Bronze Age?”

  For an instant, something like uncertainty flickered across Dionysus's face. But it was quickly replaced by a smile that promised straitjackets and padded rooms.

  "You think you're the most dangerous thing to walk into this camp?" He chuckled, the sound rippling the air like heat distortion. "You're not even the most dangerous thing in this room."

  With that, he dissolved into purple mist that smelled of vineyard soil and antipsychotic medications.

  Medea's tail swished once as she processed the encounter. The god fears something, Nidhoggr observed. Not us. Something else.

  "Interesting," she murmured, resuming her inspection of the room's defensive capabilities. "A god on a leash, watching over little half-bloods."

  She located three potential escape routes, cataloged the weaknesses in the floor and ceiling, and tested the mattress with a dissatisfied growl before settling cross-legged on it. The sword across her lap thrummed with quiet anticipation.

  "Tomorrow," she promised it, running clawed fingers along its hilt. "We hunt."