Dawn crept across Camp Half-Blood with hesitant fingers, painting the cabins in hues of faint amber and gold as sunlight peeked through building storm clouds. Medea had been awake for hours, methodically arranging supplies in a sleek black backpack—mortal currency, ambrosia squares, a change of clothes, and a few items she'd "acquired" from the camp store when no one was looking. The World Rune remained against her hip, its weight a constant reminder of power waiting to be unleashed.

  Three days to prepare for Jormungandr.

  She had ground to cover—and fast.

  Distant thunder rumbled across Camp Half-Blood, but the real storm brewed inside Bunker Nine. Jake Mason hunched over his workbench, surrounded by the skeleton of his latest project. Bronze gears scattered across the surface caught the orange glow from the forge, while half-assembled contraptions waited for his touch. The workshop smelled of hot metal, motor oil, and frustration.

  Jake wiped sweat from his brow, leaving another streak of soot across his forehead. His latest invention—a self-adjusting celestial bronze shield—had failed spectacularly during testing that morning. The calibration mechanism jammed when the shield absorbed its third impact, leaving Clarisse with a bruised shoulder and Jake with bruised pride.

  "Leo would've figured it out by now," he muttered, tossing a bent gear into the scrap pile.

  The sound of claws clicking against concrete pulled his attention from his failure. Medea materialized in the doorway, her fuschia eyes shining in the dimness. She wore her usual white stockings and a fitted hoodie, looking more like she planned to attend an anime convention than attend campfire singalongs.

  "I’m stealing you for a quest," she said, lounging in the doorway.

  Her tail swayed like a whisper.

  "Dress warm."

  Jake's socket wrench slipped from his fingers, clattering against the workbench as his heart skipped a beat. "A quest? Did Chiron approve this?"

  "Chiron doesn't need to know." Her ears twitched with impatience. "The camp has protocols. I find them tedious."

  Jake pushed back from his workbench, the legs of his stool scraping against concrete. "That's not how things work here." He nervously wiped his hands on a rag that had long ago surrendered to permanent stains. "We get prophecies, approval, supplies—"

  "I already have everything we need." She cut him off with a dismissive wave, stalking closer. Her presence seemed to cool the forge's heat. "Including information about our Norse friends that Chiron seems determined to keep buried."

  That caught his attention. His fingers stilled over the shield's broken activation switch. "The rune?"

  "And more." Medea smiled, showing just enough fang to emphasize her point. "I'm offering you knowledge no other Greek demigod possesses. Access to technology and magical theory from entirely different pantheons."

  Jake’s eyes drifted to the far corner of the bunker, where Leo’s unfinished projects remained untouched—each one a silent monument to the camp’s golden genius.

  The comparison stung, as always. Not because Leo was gone, but because he wasn’t.

  "I can't just leave," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. "I have responsibilities here. The weapons need maintenance, and—"

  "Your siblings can handle hammering swords for a few days." Medea circled his workbench, examining his failed shield with calculating eyes. "Unless you prefer to remain here, forever fixing other people's equipment rather than creating something that's truly yours."

  Jake flinched. "That's not fair."

  "Isn't it?" She tapped a claw against the shield. "How many of your inventions have been implemented? How many ideas have you abandoned because someone said they weren't practical enough?"

  The forge seemed suddenly too hot, too confining. Jake turned away, busying himself with organizing tools that were already perfectly arranged.

  "Leo wouldn't hesitate," Medea continued, her voice softening to dangerous silk. "He'd seize this opportunity with both hands."

  "I'm not Leo!" The words burst from him louder than intended, echoing through the bunker. A nearby automaton stirred at the sound before settling back into dormancy.

  Medea's expression shifted—not to shock but to satisfaction, as though she'd finally reached the heart of a problem.

  "No," she agreed, circling closer. "You're not. And that's precisely why I'm asking you instead of him."

  Jake's shoulders tensed. "What do you mean?"

  "Leo builds impressive toys, certainly." She gestured dismissively. "Fire and flash, noise and spectacle. But you—" her claw tapped against his chest, "—you understand structure. Fundamentals. You see how things connect on a deeper level."

  The praise felt good, even as part of him recognized the manipulation. "You're just saying that to get me to help you."

  "Am I?" Medea lifted his failed shield, examining the mechanism with genuine interest. "This design is elegant. The calibration issue is solvable. Leo would have added unnecessary flair—flames, perhaps, or some irrelevant feature that compromises durability."

  She set the shield down and fixed him with those unnerving eyes. "I don't need Leo's chaos. I need your precision."

  Jake turned back to his workbench, fighting the warmth that spread through his chest at her words. "This quest—it's dangerous, isn't it?"

  "Undoubtedly." Medea didn't bother sugarcoating it. "We'll be crossing pantheon boundaries. Survival is not guaranteed even with my presence."

  "And you want me specifically? Not just any Hephaestus kid?"

  "If I wanted just any child of Hephaestus, I wouldn't be wasting time convincing you." Impatience edged her voice. "Do you know what holds most demigods back, Jake? Not their abilities, but their unwillingness to step beyond prescribed boundaries."

  Lightning flashed outside, momentarily brightening the bunker through its high windows. In that flash, Jake saw something profound in Medea's eyes—knowledge and ambition that transcended mortal understanding.

  "Leo will always be Camp Half-Blood's hero," she continued, softer now. "The boy who died and returned. The one who built a dragon and saved the world."

  Jake's hands clenched around a gear.

  "But beyond these borders—in the wider world of pantheons and primordial powers—you could forge your own legacy. One built on knowledge no Greek demigod has ever possessed."

  The weight of potential hung in the air between them. Jake stared at the scattered components of his failed shield, seeing not the failure but the possibility of what it could become with the right knowledge.

  "Thalia's pine at midnight," Medea said, already turning to leave. "Bring tools, but travel light. This will require discretion."

  She paused at the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the stormy sky outside. "Choose your path, son of Hephaestus. Remain in someone else's shadow, or step into uncharted territory and cast your own."

  After she'd gone, Jake stood alone in the forge's fading heat. His eyes drifted once more to Leo's corner, then down to the half-assembled shield on his workbench. With sudden determination, he began packing his tools—not the standard camp-issued ones, but his personal set, modified to his exact specifications.

  Medea found Clarisse in the arena, systematically dismantling training dummies with brutal efficiency. Sweat darkened her shirt as she drove her spear through another straw target, her movements precise despite their violence.

  "Impressive form," Medea commented, examining Clarisse with feigned casualness. "Though I wonder if you ever tire of fighting stuffed scarecrows when real monsters await beyond these borders."

  Clarisse grunted, extracting her spear from the dummy's chest. "What do you want, princess?"

  "To offer you a proper fight." Medea circled the arena's edge, tail swishing behind her. "I'm leaving tonight for the Great Lakes. I need to meet someone there, and our enemies won't like that."

  The daughter of Ares lowered her spear, interest flickering across her battle-hardened features. "And you think this is worth my time?"

  "Without a doubt."

  Clarisse considered this, staring at Medea with confusion. "Why invite me?"

  "Because you're not afraid," Medea answered simply. "And because when Fafnir died, you didn't flinch. You saw power and respected it rather than fearing it."

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  The warrior woman nodded, accepting this assessment. Then her eyes narrowed, calculation replacing curiosity. She planted her spear in the dirt and crossed her arms.

  "They say when two warriors fight, their hearts are bared to one another."

  Clarisse jerked her chin toward the center of the arena. "If I'm risking my neck on your unauthorized field trip, I want to test your character."

  Medea's lips curled into a smile that revealed the tips of her fangs. "You want to spar with me?"

  "I’m not stupid—I know I’ll lose. But you’ll remember the fight."

  Clarisse’s eyes burned with defiance.

  "Fine. Just this once. Try not to disappoint me."

  Medea stripped off her hoodie in one fluid motion. The black tank top beneath clung to her lithe frame, outlining the lean muscle carved by years of battle.

  Her slitted, fuchsia eyes brightened with anticipation as she prowled toward the arena’s center. Each step was calculated, her tail moving with the slow rhythm of someone who knew exactly what she was about to do.

  "No weapons," Medea said, flexing her clawed fingers. "Unless you don't trust your hand-to-hand skills."

  Clarisse snorted, kicking off her boots. "Fine by me."

  She rolled her shoulders and settled into a fighter's stance, hands raised.

  Three younger campers who had been practicing at the far end of the arena paused, recognizing the electric tension that preceded a serious match. They edged closer, whispering among themselves.

  Clarisse struck first—a lightning-quick jab aimed at Medea's solar plexus. Medea sidestepped with impossible speed, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. Clarisse pivoted, throwing a roundhouse kick that would have shattered ribs had it connected.

  It didn't.

  Medea caught her ankle mid-swing, her grip firm but controlled. "Good power," she commented, as if discussing the weather. "But telegraphed. Your eyes gave you away."

  She released Clarisse's leg and danced backward. The daughter of Ares recovered her balance instantly, her expression hardening with determination rather than embarrassment.

  The fight escalated, Clarisse unleashing a barrage of strikes honed through years of harsh training.

  It wasn't enough.

  Each blow met empty air or was deflected with minimal effort. Sweat beaded on Clarisse's forehead while Medea remained dry, her breathing calm and measured.

  "You fight like a Greek," Medea observed, ducking under a vicious right hook. "It makes you predictable."

  "Is that supposed to be an insult?" Clarisse grunted, pressing forward with renewed intensity.

  Medea caught her wrist mid-punch and used Clarisse's momentum to flip her. The daughter of Ares landed hard on her back, dust rising around her. Before she could rise, Medea pinned her with one knee, claws hovering inches from her throat.

  "It's an observation," Medea said quietly. "The world beyond these borders doesn't fight by Greek rules. Norse warriors use environmental advantages. Egyptian magicians attack from multiple dimensions. Celtic fighters become the battlefield itself."

  She stood, offering Clarisse a hand up. After a moment's hesitation, the warrior accepted it.

  "Your style is effective against what you know," Medea continued. "But we're venturing into territory where different rules apply."

  The small audience of campers had grown, drawn by the spectacle of the undefeated Clarisse La Rue being bested so thoroughly. Whispers rippled through their ranks.

  Clarisse ignored them, her focus entirely on Medea. "Show me."

  Medea's ears twitched with interest. "Pardon?"

  "If I'm going with you, show me what I'm missing." Clarisse wiped blood from her split lip. "Not just talk about it."

  Satisfaction flickered across Medea's features. She stepped closer, lowering her voice so only Clarisse could hear. "Stance wider. Center lower. When facing beings from other pantheons, you'll encounter strengths and weaknesses foreign to Greek understanding."

  She tapped Clarisse's elbow, adjusting its angle slightly. "Strike from here, not the shoulder. More power, less telegraph."

  For the next twenty minutes, the daughter of Aphrodite guided the daughter of Ares through movements that seemed to blend combat styles from a dozen different martial traditions. The watching campers gradually dispersed, losing interest in what had become an impromptu lesson rather than a fight.

  By the end, Clarisse was soaked in sweat, her shirt plastered to her skin.

  But her eyes flashed with something new.

  She launched into the combo Medea had shown—Muay Thai elbows, Krav Maga knees, a brutal Pankration sweep—fluid, focused, and deadly.

  "Acceptable," Medea pronounced, though a hint of genuine approval colored her tone. "You learn quickly."

  Clarisse retrieved her spear, twirling it with renewed confidence. "Midnight then. Thalia's pine."

  "I'll be there."

  As Medea turned to leave, Clarisse called after her. "Princess?"

  Medea paused, glancing back with one eyebrow raised.

  "Better not be wasting my time."

  A dangerous smile crossed Medea's face. "Oh, I assure you, Clarisse La Rue—where we're going, boredom will be the least of your concerns."

  Satisfied, Medea left the arena, her mind already turning to final preparations. She needed maps, transportation arrangements, contingency plans.

  She was crossing the green toward the Big House when Annabeth intercepted her. The daughter of Athena's footsteps fell into perfect rhythm beside her, gray eyes sharp with calculation beneath the storm clouds.

  "You're planning something," Annabeth stated. Not a question—an observation.

  Her lips twisted, just briefly, before her expression reset into icy calm.

  Always.

  "Chiron's been worried since yesterday. Something about Norse artifacts and keeping pantheons separate." Annabeth's fingers tapped against her dagger hilt, a nervous habit she'd developed after Tartarus.

  "Worried about the wrong things, as usual."

  Medea stopped beneath the shadow of a tall pine, sheltering from the rain as she turned to face Annabeth directly.

  Challenge crackled between them—intelligence meeting intelligence across an unbridgeable divide of morality and purpose.

  "The separation exists for a reason," Annabeth insisted, her voice dropping as a group of younger campers passed by. "Historical precedent—"

  "Historical propaganda," Medea corrected, her eyes glowing in the dappled shade. "Your mother is the goddess of wisdom. Surely you've asked yourself why these artificial boundaries exist? Why knowledge is so carefully controlled?"

  Something flickered in Annabeth's eyes—doubt, curiosity. The curse of the truly intelligent: never being satisfied with simple answers.

  "The gods—"

  "Are fallible." Medea's voice remained conversational despite the heresy of her words. "They've rewritten history to suit themselves countless times. They've buried pantheons, erased deities, obscured truths that threatened their supremacy."

  "That's dangerous talk." Annabeth glanced toward the rumbling sky, as if half-expecting a thunderbolt.

  "Truth often is." Medea studied the younger woman, noting the tension in her stance, the hungry intelligence behind her caution. "You've dedicated your life to them—to Olympus. Have you never wondered if they deserve such loyalty?"

  Annabeth's jaw tightened. "I've seen the alternatives."

  "Have you? Or have you only seen what they allowed you to see?" Medea gestured broadly at the camp around them. "This carefully controlled environment, these selective quests, this curated education. You're brilliant, Annabeth. Don't you find it odd that beings thousands of years old would fear what might happen if their children learned too much?"

  The daughter of Athena didn't immediately respond, her gaze distant with thought.

  "Think about it," Medea continued softly. "Your mother—goddess of wisdom—participating in a system that methodically restricts knowledge. Doesn't that strike you as contradictory?"

  "You're trying to manipulate me." Annabeth's voice hardened, but uncertainty lingered in her eyes.

  "I'm offering perspective." Medea smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. "Something in short supply on Olympus."

  She took a step closer, voice dropping to a silken whisper. "Has your precious camp education included Zeus's complete list of rapes? Hera's methodical revenge against innocent women? Apollo's punishment of Niobe's children for their mother's pride?"

  Another step. No distance left between them.

  "Or perhaps Poseidon's creation of monsters specifically designed to terrorize mortals who displeased him?"

  Annabeth paled. "Those are ancient stories, from different times—"

  "Different times?" Medea laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Your father met Athena in this century. The gods haven't changed; they've simply adapted their public relations strategy."

  A distant rumble of thunder punctuated her words. Annabeth's fingers curled into fists at her sides.

  "Thousands of years of immortality," Medea continued. "And not one of them has evolved beyond pettiness, vengeance, and using mortals as playthings. Generation after generation of half-blood children sent on quests to clean up their messes."

  "We're their children," Annabeth countered, though her voice lacked conviction. "They've protected us—"

  "Protected?" Medea hissed, genuine anger flashing across her features. "Look around you, daughter of Athena. Most of you won't live to see twenty-five. Those who do survive carry scars that would break ordinary mortals."

  She tapped her temple with one curved claw. "And what of your minds? Your dyslexia isn't a learning disability—it's a deliberate design feature. Your brains are hardwired for ancient Greek, making modern education nearly impossible without extraordinary effort."

  Annabeth stepped back, surprised. "That's just how we're born—"

  "It's how you're designed," Medea corrected. "A convenient feature that keeps you dependent on their system. Why educate yourselves in mortal schools when monsters hunt you there? Why question Olympian history when you can barely read the mortal versions? Convenient, isn't it, how your very neurological wiring prevents widespread access to alternative perspectives?"

  The daughter of Athena's expression shifted, calculations running behind those stormy eyes. Medea recognized the look—the same expression she herself had worn a decade ago when first questioning divine authority.

  Around them, the camp continued its afternoon activities—a perfect tableau of half-blood life, carefully segregated from the wider world of divine politics. Medea felt the weight of the World Rune in her pocket, the promise of what lay beyond these artificial boundaries.

  "Give it some thought," Medea said, stepping away. "Your brilliance deserves more than the scraps of knowledge they've deemed safe for you to possess."

  She walked away then, leaving Annabeth standing alone with uncomfortable questions germinating in her brilliant mind. Seeds planted. Whether they would flower into doubt or be crushed by loyalty remained to be seen.

  But Medea had seen that hunger before—curiosity sharpened into hunger.

  And hunger for knowledge was a fire that never died once it caught the scent of something forbidden.

  The sun climbed higher as Medea finalized her preparations. In her pocket, she carried Lamia's latest message—coordinates for meeting Jormungandr and warnings about the World Serpent's temperament. The monster had been thorough, if reluctantly so.

  Night couldn't come soon enough. The camp felt increasingly restrictive—a pretty cage with flimsy barriers. Beyond its borders was the fight she needed.

  A foe worth her name.

  She wrapped her hand around Nidhoggr’s hilt—solid, familiar, hers.

  Her shoulders eased. She was ready.

  Seven more hours until midnight. Seven more hours of pretending to care about camp rules and divine hierarchies.