[Gwen]
The air was cold on the morning of December 23rd.
Gwen leaned against the outside wall of the Fifth Cohort barracks, holding a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. She could hear bursts of laughter from inside the barracks, even the Fifth found enjoyment on this day. Saturnalia, the best time of the year.
She took a slow sip and let her thoughts drift to their newest legionnaire.
She knew he was powerful. The rumors of him defeating a Praetor in the Gloria Periculum were already the stuff of legend. But she was worried. She'd been at the mess hall the night before and had seen him go to the Senate House with Jason for his induction. But when he came back, she noticed the absence of the SPQR tattoo on his forearm. Jason had confirmed he was officially a legionnaire, but the facts didn't add up. How could you belong to the legion without its mark?
And that was the real danger. The Fifth knew better than anyone what it was like to be whispered about, judged before you even had a chance to fight back. They'd been the dumping ground for years, the joke of the legion. They just started clawing their way toward rebuilding their honor under Jason. Gwen had no intention of letting a strange new kid be isolated and picked apart by the rest of the camp.
No demigod left behind, that was her rule. Especially not one who willingly picked them.
However, Serif joined at an inconvenient time. Saturnalia was all about community, but he'd arrived on the second to last day and even missed most of yesterday. Everyone else had spent the past week enjoying feasts and games. All that's really left for him is the last scramble for the Sigillaria gifts. There's also Christmas in two more days, but that was a mortal observance, not the deep-rooted legion tradition that Saturnalia was.
The barracks door creaked open, and Gwen turned, expecting Dakota on a quest for more Kool-Aid mix. Instead, it was Serif, stretching his arms as he walked out wearing a t-shirt and shorts like the cold didn't even exist. He looked annoyingly relaxed for someone who'd just gone through the weirdest induction ceremony in camp memory.
Still, she could be the first to welcome him. "Io Saturnalia!"
Serif paused mid-yawn, squinting at her. "Huh? 'Rejoice, Saturnalia?' Isn't Saturn the big bad evil guy? You know, the Titan who ate his kids?"
Gwen snorted. "That's the Greek version, Kronos. For us, Saturn is different. He ruled during the Golden Age. It was a time of absolute peace and prosperity for mortals. The God of Agriculture, the one who taught us how to farm and live well. We celebrate the king of a lost paradise, in the hope that we can one day build a world that peaceful again."
Serif leaned against the railing, processing it. "So what does celebrating even involve?"
"We have massive feasts, gambling is legal everywhere, the reversal of roles for a week," she said, ticking the points off on her fingers. "And we give handmade gifts, Sigillaria, to our friends."
As if on cue, they spotted a scene unfolding down the path.
Hank, the gruff Centurion of the Fourth Cohort, wore a pileus cap while standing before a cluster of younger probatio. One of the boys wore a paper crown and pointed to a mound of gravel.
"Centurion," the boy intoned with regal gravity, "see that pile of gravel? If Terminus were here, he'd have a fit. We must uphold standards even in his absence. Put all the light gray on the left and all the dark gray on the right. Be precise!"
Hank let out a groan but actually knelt and began sorting the tiny rocks.
Serif's lips curved into a grin. "Wait, that's allowed? We can just order a centurion to do dumb shit like that?"
Gwen laughed. "Not quite, that privilege goes to the Saturnalicius Princeps. The 'Lord of Misrule.' Every year we pick one, and for the entire week their word is law, as long as it's not dangerous. It's a reminder that even leaders must sometimes serve."
"Damn, I missed my shot this year. Next Saturnalia, I'm getting that crown."
"It's a little cold, though." He muttered a second later, almost surprised by the admission. A thin veil of fire cloaked his body, flickering an inch from his clothes and skin. The chill in the air around them was replaced by a comforting heat.
Gwen stared, momentarily speechless. She'd heard the whispers, sure, but this was the first time she'd seen his fire. And it wasn't even a weapon now. He used it so casually, like it was the same as breathing to him.
At that moment, her plan solidified. A Sigillaria was the perfect way to show him he belonged. And she knew exactly what to make. She would go to the workshop and forge him a stylized flame, a symbol of the warmth and power that was uniquely his.
A way to say, we see you.
No one should be forgotten.
Gwen gave me one last smile and ran off to do whatever it is people do during this holiday.
Good talk, though. Very informative.
With nothing to do, my mind went to more practical matters. I'd seen a few people around camp exchanging silver coins, and my duffel bag full of regular money was starting to feel heavy.
Guess there's one person to ask since Gwen is gone.
I went back inside the barracks and found my target in the common room. "Yo, Jason. What's the deal with the money here? I've seen people paying for things with those silver coins."
His posture straightened slightly. "Those are denarii. The official currency of the legion. They're around ninety-seven percent pure silver, almost the same standard as during the reign of Emperor Augustus. It's a point of pride for us. None of that degradation the future emperors pulled."
"Okay, cool stuff," I said, not really interested in the history lesson. "So where's the currency exchange? I've got a ton of cash with me."
He glanced at the bulging duffel bag under my bunk. "Where did you even get that much?"
"Claimed it from a monster I killed on my way here."
"You took money from a monster?"
"Dude, it's quite the profitable strategy! They're practically walking ATMs. The two of us could make a fortune just hunting monsters and taking their stuff."
He had a distant look on his face. "I guess I never really thought about it. I've been at camp for as long as I can remember."
"Damn, that's a tragedy. Guess we'll have to sneak out sometime."
Oh shit. Did I just suggest going AWOL to my cohort's centurion?
Jason just stared at me for a second, then a small smile crept onto his usually stoic face. "I don't think we need to go that far. There's an official exchange at the Forum. Come on, I'll take you there."
He led me out past the city's edge and through the arch with Terminus's statue. He tossed his Ivlivs coin into the basket. I didn't have a weapon to leave, so we just kept going. Terminus didn't even shout at us, which had to be some kind of miracle.
We kept going through the Forum until we stopped at a place called "AERARIUM."
Inside, a woman in her late twenties wearing a purple tunic stood behind a counter serving another demigod.
When it was my turn, I got straight to the point. "What's the exchange rate?"
The teller replied without looking up from her ledger. "Twenty United States dollars to one denarius."
"Alright then." I dropped the duffel bag onto the counter. "I've got around two thousand in there. I never actually counted it though. I'll take your word for it, but if you scam me, I'll kick your ass."
She didn't blink, just started sorting bills.
Jason gave me a look. "The tellers swear an oath to Mercury and Fides, the god of commerce and the goddess of trust respectively. They are divinely bound to honesty in their duties."
Huh. That is quite convenient.
After a few minutes, the teller slid a leather pouch over to me. "ninety-seven denarii. The receipt's in the bag."
What an annoying number. One hundred would've been much cleaner.
Still, I picked it up, feeling the satisfying weight.
Just as we were about to leave the Forum, the female Praetor appeared at the door.
"There you are. Serif, you're due for your orientation. I'll walk you through everything you need to know about Camp Jupiter. Standard procedure for new legionnaires."
Ah, yeah, that would be useful. I've been asking people for basic information ever since I got here.
Jason tilted his head. "Praetor, if I may? Normally, a cohort's centurions are responsible for this. I was prepared to do so myself."
She just smiled. "I thought it might be best coming from a Praetor this time. Serif deserves a proper introduction. Besides, this way I can personally answer any unusual questions."
"Understood."
"Let's go to the Principia. It won't take long," she said, looking back at me.
So that was a fucking lie.
I stood in Praetor Serena's office in the Principia, the magical projection finally fading into nothing. She told me the orientation "won't take long." Maybe time passes differently for Praetors, because I'd been trapped here for nearly two hours while she walked me through every possible aspect of Roman demigod life.
"Any questions?" she asked, like my brain wasn't smoking.
"Yeah, actually. Is going to New Rome University worth anything in the mortal world, or is it just, you know, for show?"
It came out sounding more sarcastic than I meant, but it might be the one thing I was genuinely curious about. If I was gonna be stuck in this Roman larping camp, I wanted to know if all the training and books led anywhere.
"It is worth quite a bit," she said. "The legion maintains strong relationships with several of the top mortal universities in the state. When you graduate from NRU, we can facilitate the issuance of an accredited degree from an affiliated mortal institution that aligns with your field of study—Stanford, Caltech, UCLA, UC Berkeley, whichever is most appropriate."
I had to admit, that was better than I expected. Not that I needed any of it. But having that kind of safety net, especially for the other legionnaires, wasn't something I was going to complain about.
I stood up and stretched, getting ready to leave. "You guys really thought this all the way through."
"One last thing, Serif."
I turned.
"While you chose to join the Fifth Cohort, you should be aware that you'll be eligible to petition for a transfer to a higher-ranked cohort in a year. The First and Second would welcome your strength. Please consider it."
"Good to know."
I understood what she was really saying: that there's a path to the top if I want it.
But for now, I had no interest in being the legion's golden boy.
I let myself relax the second I stepped out of the Principia and into daylight. My time was finally my own. The good news was, the next few days were also free. Schedules didn't go back to normal until after Christmas.
Which meant it was the perfect time to make up for what I missed.
I got here at the end of the festival. Everyone else had already swapped their little gifts, so I was left with nothing. I guess that it was a nice gesture and all that, but there's a better present I can get myself.
Money.
Gambling is legal during Saturnalia, and from what I saw the other day, these Romans weren't shy about throwing their coins around on sparring matches.
So naturally, I have to get a piece of that pie. I'll jump in there, kick some ass, and walk out rich. I have to remember to hold back with the fire though, I can't let them realize I'm the guy who beat the praetor in a match.
As I walked past the First Cohort's barracks, a crowd caught my eye. A circle of legionnaires cheering around two kids locked in an arm wrestling match.
Interesting.
Honestly, this had the potential to be better than sparring. I could play the part: skinny kid from the Fifth Cohort, up against the big dogs from the First. That's an untapped market if I've ever seen one.
I found an empty crate and dragged it to a nice central spot between two of the paths leading to the mess hall and the barracks. Then I took a small clay bowl from the barrack's steps and dropped five denarii inside as seed money.
"Alright, listen up!" I projected my voice. "Arm wrestling with no stakes is just a waste of time. The winner takes everything in the pot, just toss one denarius to enter. Any takers, or are you all just here to spectate?"
I got a ripple of amused laughter from most of them, but one of the older ones stepped forward. He was a big guy, probably around twice my weight.
"You're kidding, right?" He looked down at me with a smirk on his face.
I just gave him a shit-eating grin. "Worried you'll lose to a kid from the Fifth?"
It was the perfect taunt for these people. Cohort pride was a button just waiting to be pushed.
His smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl as he tossed a denarius into the bowl. "You're on."
We locked hands. His grip was strong, but I played it up even further by clenching my teeth as my arm trembled like I was already at my limit. The crowd leaned in, shouting encouragement at the other guy. For a good ten seconds, I let him think he had me.
Then I stopped pretending and slammed his hand flat against the crate.
"Next!" I quickly said.
Gotta keep the crowd invested. No breaks in between, so all they could focus on was winning the money before someone else got it.
And then it was like blood in the water. Challenger after challenger stepped up, each one more determined than the last, none of them willing to let their cohort's honor be bruised by a kid from the Fifth.
I made sure to play it smart. Some matches I let run long, making it look like I was barely holding on. Others I ended almost instantly, just to keep everyone guessing. Each time, my pile of denarii grew bigger.
There was even a guy running side bets on how long it would take for me to run out of steam.
Just as I was locking hands with another poor soul, the crowd suddenly parted. Praetor Marcus was standing there, wearing a new cape and an unamused frown on his face.
Before he could even open his mouth, I released my opponent's hand and threw him a jaunty salute. "Io Saturnalia, Marcus!"
The greeting was my way of saying: 'It's festival rules today, I'm not being unlawful.'
"Great matches, everyone!" I said brightly, scooping the winnings into my pouch in one quick motion, then gave the crate a loving pat. "House is closed. See you next year."
And I was gone before I could actually test Marcus's patience.
While walking back to my cohort's barracks, I counted my winnings in my head.
I attracted them with the big prize and the comparatively low entry fee, and their pride kept them coming. I think it was a few over twenty-five challengers. One denarius from each meant a solid five hundred dollars. A decent amount to enjoy my time at camp.
The Roman dream is alive and well.
Still grinning, I pushed open the door to the barracks, only to freeze in place.
Gwen was waiting just inside, leaning against a support post. She was holding a simple wooden box, and when I entered, she looked up and smiled at me.
"Welcome to Camp Jupiter, Serif."
She opened the box and held it out.
Inside, nestled on a bit of cloth, was a small figure. It was a piece of polished wood carved into the shape of a flame.
I took it, still off guard. For a moment, all I could do was stare.
Sure, it looked well-made, surprisingly so for something done by hand. But it probably wasn't worth much. Maybe a denarius at best if you could find someone who liked trinkets. Nothing compared to the pouch of silver I had just earned.
Except it wasn't about monetary value, was it? Someone had spent their free time, on a holiday, making something specifically for me.
"I thought you might not get anything," she added, seeing the confusion on my face. "Saturnalia can be a bad time to show up when you don't know anyone."
"You didn't have to—"
"I did." She cut me off with a smile. "Looking out for each other is what we do here. Put it somewhere you'll see it. Don't lose it."
"Right…" I mumbled, my eyes fixed on the gift instead of her. "Thanks."
She flashed me one last grin and slipped out to rejoin the festivities, leaving me alone with the little wooden flame. I turned it over in my palm, tracing the grooves with my thumb. Its organic warmth was a strange contrast to the cold silver I'd been handling all day.
Well, shit. Now I have to get her something before the day is over.
AN: So while I was thinking about what to write for this chapter, I found out that the Romans basically had a version of Christmas, except it was dedicated to Saturn. So my new headcanon is that the reason the Romans weren't that involved in the first book (and the Titan War) was because Kronos/Saturn didn't actually dislike them. Or if Kronos tried, he'd go crazy as Saturn took over and basically change his mind immediately lol.
Edit: Forgot about Krios lol
Anyways! Patreon is two chapters ahead (I'm trying okay) so check it out if you're interested!
[January 4th, 2006]
By the gods, if I hear the word "pozzolana" one more time, I might set the desk on fire.
Cassius, a legacy of Apollo and a student from New Rome University who was teaching our class, was on his third slide about the marvels of Roman concrete. His toga was perfectly pressed, and he had the vibe of a guy who genuinely loved teaching. Poor guy. He was completely oblivious to the fact that he was slowly killing us.
The classroom was inside one of New Rome's older marble buildings, with wide arched windows that let in the morning light.
Apparently, the Romans have a strong sense of civic duty. It's strongly encouraged for the NRU students to provide academic instruction for the legion's youth. So, every morning, I was grouped with the twenty or so other twelve-year-olds from across all the cohorts for lessons.
We get taught all the normal subjects: math, literature, science, and so on. The problem with these classes was that they were unnecessary for me. I had a complete high school education from a whole other life.
The only subject that offered anything remotely new was Roman History, and even that was a bit of a gamble. Yesterday, the lecture was on Scipio Africanus and his masterful maneuvers at the Battle of Ilipa. Now that was interesting. A brilliant general using terrain, timing, and sheer psychological audacity to encircle and annihilate a larger Carthaginian force.
Meanwhile, today's riveting discussion was about cement production in the second century CE and its economic impact.
I yawned as Cassius paced in front of the chalkboard. "The concrete had a secret ingredient known as pozzolana, made from volcanic ash from the region, and was cured with lime. Ash and lime do make strong concrete, but this was only the original theory known to the mortals."
Without warning, he reached under the lectern and brought out a thick slab of actual concrete and a mallet. He placed the slab on the sturdy pedestal beside him.
"The real key was how the ingredients were mixed," he declared with a grin, raising the mallet high.
CRACK!
The sudden, violent sound jolted the class. Some of the kids next to me physically jumped. Even I blinked, my attention snapping to the front.
The concrete had a fracture running across its surface.
Cassius held it up for all of us to see. "As you can see, small white chunks are found in the concrete, and this was originally thought to be poor mixing. But the material, derived from limestone, had a secret purpose. Rather than using slaked lime, which is done by mixing quicklime with water, the builders mixed quicklime directly with the rest of the building materials at high temperatures, in addition to adding slaked lime. This 'hot mixing' created new compounds only possible under intense temperatures, and reduced the time needed for curing and setting the concrete."
"But there is still more, the secret lies in the lime clasts themselves!" He opened his bottle of water and let only a small amount of water fall onto the cracks.
The moment the water touched it, the white lime clasts along the fracture began to fizz. A milky solution seeped from them, filling the gap. "When water—the very thing that weakens mortal concrete—meets with the lime clasts, they dissolve and create a calcium-rich solution that glues the cracks back together."
"So you see," he concluded, turning back to the class, "the Romans didn't just invent strong concrete. They invented self-healing concrete!"
Just as my interest was finally piqued, Cassius clapped his hands.
"Well, that's all the time I have. Remember, you guys are the most important people in the legion, so make sure to go to your cohort training this afternoon. You have a one-hour break. Consult your Centurions for details. Class dismissed!"
My classmates' brief moment of fascination was already forgotten in the face of freedom as they scrambled for the exit. I pushed myself up slowly, feeling a sense of ironic frustration.
I sat through the boring parts of the lecture like the history of how it changed architecture, and the class ended just when it was getting interesting?
Still, I guess it wasn't all that bad.
If only Cassius locked in earlier.
With the brief flare of intellectual curiosity now extinguished, I was left with an hour to kill.
Mess hall? Nah, not hungry.
I suddenly remembered that inexplicable warmth from the round temple on the hill. The sense of a welcoming pull that felt nothing like the imposing grandeur of the other gods' shrines.
Yeah, I had nothing better to do. Maybe I'll even check out the inside today.
"Hey, Serif!"
I looked back to see Gwen jogging up to me.
"How was class?" she asked, breathing slightly fast from the run.
"It had its moments," I admitted with a shrug. "The start was boring though."
She laughed. "Ha! That's just how it is sometimes. Anyways, are you heading to the barracks before training?"
"I guess I can stop by to say hi. But I have other plans."
"You're coming to training today, right?" She held my gaze long enough for it to be clear that it wasn't a casual question. "It was optional during Saturnalia. It went back to being mandatory three days ago. You were there the first day, but where were you yesterday?"
I sighed, not thinking anyone would actually care if I missed a session or two.
"It's pointless for me, Gwen," I said, trying to explain my logic. "You guys are practicing shield formations and spear thrusts. That's not how I fight. I'm more of a—" I waved a hand vaguely in the air. "punch wizard. When am I ever going to need to stand in a line and poke someone with a long stick?"
She nodded in understanding. "I get that. Nobody here thinks you need help with fighting. But this isn't about your fighting style, Serif. It's about the cohort."
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.
"People have noticed that you're not there, and some of the other cohorts are already whispering that the Fifth gets another strong recruit and he thinks he's too good to train with us."
"There's those war games on the weekends, right? I'll just show up and kick some ass. That'll teach them."
Gwen shook her head. "It's not about teaching them. The others in our cohort are worried you're already pulling away."
I looked away, chewing on that. While the training itself still seemed like a waste of my time, the social implications of skipping were a headache. The last thing I wanted was to make my new cohort look divided, not when they were already fighting an uphill battle against every other cohort with their less than stellar reputation.
I let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. I'll be there. But if I get bored and set the practice dummies on fire, that's on you."
She grinned and lightly punched my shoulder. "Deal. See you in an hour, Punch Wizard."
With that, Gwen headed off toward the barracks, leaving me free to continue toward Temple Hill.
I found myself standing at the open archway of the round temple, staring inside like some creep.
Even though it was a cold winter day, I felt a comfortable heat in the air. It was a welcoming warmth, the kind that made you want to sit by a fire and not say anything.
Still, I hesitated to go inside.
Vesta was one of the original virgin goddesses. Her priestesses, the Vestal Virgins, were similarly sworn to chastity. It stood to reason that this place might have a strict 'No Boys Allowed' policy.
"Are you lost, legionnaire?"
The calm voice that startled me from my thoughts belonged to a young woman in simple white robes.
"You've been lingering by the entrance for a while," she added. "This isn't the first time either."
"Uhh," I scrambled for an excuse. "I just... wanted to pay my respects. Am I even allowed inside?"
"Of course. The hearth is for everyone. We don't get many visitors these days. I'd be glad to show you around."
I hesitated for only a second longer before following her into the temple.
As we walked, she pointed out a few of the shrines.
"These are for the Lares and Penates, the spirits who guard the family and the pantry that sustains them. Every home has these small protectors, but Lady Vesta is the hearth that warms the entire house. She is the anchor for both the smallest family and the greatest state."
She moved on without comment, leading me past braziers scattered around the temple. "These fires are kept burning day and night. We feed them with offerings and prayers. They are small reflections of the goddess herself."
Finally, we stopped at the center where the big stone hearth was. Unlike the little braziers, there was no flame.
Something about it made me frown.
"Why's the main fire empty?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"This was where the original Flame of Rome burned," her expression turned wistful. "It was said to be a fragment of Lady Vesta's own divine fire. It was lost centuries ago. No one knows exactly when or how. While we keep the lesser fires alive, the true heart of the temple sleeps."
"Right." I rubbed my wrist without thinking. The wooden flame Gwen had given me felt warmer in my pocket, as if it knew where we were.
With the short tour over, she looked at me directly. "You're welcome to stay, if you'd like."
I nodded. "Thanks. It's peaceful here."
She gave me an approving smile before leaving without another word.
Left to my own devices, I wandered around the temple, looking through all the small side chambers. Eventually, I found a thick, leather-bound book on a table. Its cover was worn, but the title was still clear in gold.
Annales Virginum Vestalium.
The Annals of the Vestal Virgins.
"Virgins and anal," I laughed under my breath. "Nice."
A low hanging fruit, but because I'm twelve, I get a pass.
I opened the book, wondering if I could find the name of the girl who just gave me the tour. I flipped toward the end, the entries becoming sparse, a testament to the order's decline.
And then I saw a name that made me freeze.
Cecille Dubois — Legacy of Fortuna
Consecrated: MCMLXXXII (1982)
Released from Vows: MCMXCIII (1993)
Cecille.
My mother.
No. That couldn't be right.
But the dates lined up. She left the order in '93. The same year I was born.
It made so much sense.
She was a Vestal Virgin who broke her vows. She had a child with Vulcan. And that child was me.
That's why this place felt so warm, so safe. Vesta had blessed her, and through her, me. It also explains why my fire is so unnaturally powerful.
I quickly stopped feeling shaken. While it was interesting information, it changed nothing about me or the person who raised me. A label doesn't rewrite a person.
I gently closed the book and placed it back where I found it.
As I walked towards the exit, I passed the cold, empty central heart one last time. A fleeting thought crossed my mind. I could light a fire for them. Something symbolic to return the favor.
I stopped, looking from my own hand to the ashen hearth.
No. That would be an insult. That hearth held divine flame once, a piece of a goddess. It would be like trying to replace a masterpiece with a knockoff wouldn't do anyone any favors.
My fire would have no special meaning to Vesta.
"Better get going," I muttered.
And I left the temple behind.
[Jason Grace]
Jason stood at the edge of the Field of Mars, arms crossed over his chestplate as he deliberated.
The earliest memory he had was of a woman abandoning him.
He could've focused on the fact that his life was offered up by Jupiter to placate Juno's wrath. That would've been enough to send any kid spiraling. Instead, he held on to a distant memory of a loving sister who took care of him.
Still, his mother's unkept promise was at the core of who he was. He'd built his whole life around the pain of her words, like a grain of sand at the center of a pearl. People lie. Promises are broken. That was why, as much as it chafed him, Jason followed rules. He kept his promises. He never wanted to abandon anyone the way he'd been abandoned and lied to.
Even the smallest lapse, like being slightly late for a meeting, felt like a betrayal. But he didn't hold others to this impossible standard, only himself.
It was suffocating.
From the moment he'd arrived at Camp Jupiter, the legion had treated him like a prince in waiting. Legionnaires whispered when he passed. Older recruits straightened, as if they were already saluting their future commander. Every success was not his own, but a fulfillment of destiny. Every failure was not a mistake, but a crack in the foundation of Rome itself.
He had tried to escape it—choosing the disgraced Fifth Cohort, befriending the outcasts, attempting to reform camp traditions from the bottom up—but it was no use. The role of the perfect Roman was a gilded cage he could never leave. They had made him Centurion anyway. As a son of Jupiter, his future had never belonged to him.
Perhaps that's why Serif was the first person he disliked to such a degree.
Plenty of legionnaires misunderstood what it meant to be a son of Jupiter. But Jason didn't hate those who envied him. Power was the thing they all needed, the weapon against the constant tide of monsters and death. How could he fault anyone for desiring what the world denied them?
On the training field, the contrast was unbearable. Legionnaires stood stiff-backed, trying to embody discipline. Meanwhile, Serif leaned lazily on his scutum, letting Dakota jab at him with a pilum as if it was nothing more than a child's game. His block was sloppy, almost mocking.
Jason clenched his jaw.
When he'd first seen Serif fight in the Gloria Periculum, watching as the flames cut through opponents one after another, he had felt something he never felt before. Hope. Lupa was there beside him, speaking of the boy's potential with pride. For a moment, Jason had believed the Fates had granted him a partner. Someone who could shoulder the impossible weight with him. A friend who might make him feel less alone.
But that had been a fantasy.
While Serif may not be a child of one of the eldest gods, he possessed power that rivaled them. And he wielded it like everything was a joke to him. All he did was burn whatever stood in his way.
The disappointment curdled into a cold, hard resolve. The time for passive observation was over.
Jason drew a deep breath. As his posture straightened, the observer was replaced by the Centurion of the Fifth Cohort. He pushed himself off the railing and began walking across the training field, receiving respectful nods from the legionnaires he passed.
Up ahead, Dakota executed a textbook thrust aimed at the center of Serif's scutum. It was a solid, disciplined move. It was also completely ignored.
Instead of blocking with the scutum as the drill intended, Serif's free hand shot out. He grabbed the shaft just below the point, then tugged the pilum out of Dakota's grip. He tossed it to the side as if it were trash instead of a weapon.
Jason stopped a few feet away.
Dakota immediately snapped to attention. The Fifth might treat him with casual familiarity, but they knew when it was time to be serious.
On the other hand, Serif had the expression of someone who'd rather be anywhere but here.
"Wassup, Jason?"
Part of him actually preferred the casual address, though he didn't let it show.
"Serif," his voice took on that formal cadence he polished through habit. "I need to speak with you. In Private."
Serif shrugged, letting the scutum fall from his arm. "Yeah, it's about time," he met Jason's gaze directly, dropping the disinterested act. "Cause I'm seeing a fire in your eyes for the first time."
As they walked toward an isolated part of the field, Jason was left with one final thought.
What truly bothered him was that Serif embodied the one thing he craved more than anything. While Jason had spent his life bound in chains of expectation, here was someone who acted like chains didn't even exist.
So was it wrong to feel this way? To resent someone for having the freedom he himself had never been allowed?
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Jason led me across the Field of Mars, past the orderly rows of sparring grounds and into the far corner where the catapults and ballistae stood. They were massive tools of destruction, resting quietly for now. The place was empty except for us.
I immediately understood his choice of location. He wasn't acting like a Centurion about to make an example of an unruly recruit. This was personal.
He stopped, his posture as rigid as the war machines surrounding us.
"Serif," he started, sounding like he was reading from a report. "You've skipped mandatory cohort training. You've shown open contempt for the equipment. And you've disrespected a training partner by mocking the exercise. All of that leads me to one conclusion: you believe yourself to be above the cohort."
I smirked. "Above the cohort? Jason, I'm above everyone."
The joke failed to land. Perhaps making light of the issue wasn't the best decision here. He didn't even blink. And in that moment of silence, I realized that my usual approach would be useless.
So I dropped the smirk. "The problem isn't me thinking I'm above the rules. It's that you've forgotten how to live without them."
He glared harder, but didn't interrupt.
"You don't have a life; you have a role. The Son of Jupiter or the Centurion of the Fifth Cohort. You're so busy being what everyone else expects that you never learned how to be your own person."
"That's not a choice I can make!" he snapped, his voice filled with a fierce passion. "It's a sacrifice! A duty. And your selfish attitude is an insult to every single person here who puts the legion before themselves!"
He had to visibly force himself back under control. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, the raw emotion was gone, replaced by the familiar, rigid discipline. "The rules are the only reason we have a home. It's the structure that keeps us alive when the world wants us dead."
It seemed like I had hit a nerve.
"That structure is just a cage you hide in," I countered, pushing harder. "Take away that SPQR brand on your forearm, take away your title, and what's left of Jason Grace? You don't even know who you are."
The air around Jason seemed to thin, and a faint tang of ozone hit my nose.
Fueled by the attack, he fired back, his own accusation just as sharp. "And what about you? Take away your fire, and what's left of you then? A boy who hides behind jokes because he's afraid to mean anything to anyone."
I looked him in the eye, letting out a mocking laugh. "The real reason you're here is because I didn't become what you wanted me to be."
He flinched.
"You're a hypocrite. You saw someone strong and thought, 'Oh boy, looks like there's someone who can carry the burden with me because I'm helpless and don't know how to do anything for myself.' But I didn't sign up for any of that. You hate the expectations people put on you, but the moment I showed up, you tried to throw them on me."
"I never—" Jason started.
"You did," I cut him off. "And now you're pissed that I won't carry them."
With his arguments dismantled and his hypocrisy exposed, he was left seething, words having failed him.
Which was fine by me. I was getting tired of talking anyway.
I took a step back and spread out my arms. "You know what, Jason? You want me to follow your rules? To stand in line and be a good little soldier?"
A challenging grin spread across my face.
"You'll have to make me."
Jason stared back at me. The challenge, a direct assault on the very foundations of his belief, was one he couldn't refuse. His hands went to his pocket and he pulled out Ivlivs.
"Fine. Let's see if your power is any match for a demigod who actually earned his strength."
My grin widened.
He flipped the coin, and it descended as a gleaming Imperial Gold gladius. At the same time, flames erupted around my fists.
Jason's form was a perfect display of all the training he did. He didn't rush in like some overeager rookie. He held his gladius like it was an extension of his will.
He pressed forward, slashing his gladius in a diagonal. I ducked under it, swinging back with a fiery fist. He stepped just outside my reach.
I smirked, rolling my shoulders. "Really? We're doing this the old-fashioned way?"
He didn't give me a response. I guess he was trying to teach me a lesson, to prove that his rigid style actually had some value.
I was willing to play along for now.
My next punch aimed for his side. Nothing fancy, just raw strength.
Jason stepped into it, turning his gladius so that he caught the strike on the flat side and redirected it without losing an inch of ground. He was about to follow through with a thrust, but I twisted out of the way, letting fire flare from my hand as I jabbed back. He disengaged immediately, retreating back two steps.
That became the rhythm. He stepped forward to strike with some classic Roman swordplay, while I countered with blunt force and sudden bursts of fire.
If there was anyone watching, it probably looked like Jason was outclassing me. But the thing was, he failed to prove whatever he wanted. The only lesson I got out of this was that he was the better swordsman. And that's not an accomplishment considering I fight with my fists and flames.
After a few more minutes the game got boring. Whenever I looked at him, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.
He's the son of Jupiter, the big boss. He has to be more than just a fancy swordsman. I want to see his lightning.
Time to find out if I could draw it out of him.
"Alright, lesson's over," I said, backing away to create some space. "As thanks, I'll teach you one of my own."
I swept both arms outward, hurling arcs of fire toward him. The heat distorted the air, forcing him to shift from his perfect footwork.
"Come on, Jason!" I taunted, sending another wave of fire to cut off his retreat.
I surged forward, using a jet of fire from under my feet to accelerate myself even further. One second I was a good distance away, the next I was right on him. He just barely managed to block with the flat of his gladius, trying to do the same thing he did earlier, but this time I put all of my strength into it.
The impact shuddered through the blade and up his arm, the force of it driving him back several steps. He grunted as his balance wavered for the first time this fight.
Gotcha.
I decided not to follow up. "You're not half bad, Jason. But it's not enough." My flames flared around my entire body to make a point. "I've got my fire, so show me what you've really got if you want to actually fight."
Jason narrowed his eyes. "You wanted a real fight, Serif? You'll get one."
He raised a hand, and the very air turned against me. The wind began to swirl violently, kicking up dirt from the earth. In seconds, I was caught in a vortex of wind and debris designed to obscure my vision.
I caught a brief flash of gold through the swirling chaos.
Jason returned Ivlivs to its coin form and flipped it again, causing it to reshape itself into a seven-foot lance.
Finally, things were getting interesting.
I sent a scattered volley of fiery blasts into the dust cloud, aiming for his general location. But it was useless. The gust of air extinguished them before they could even get close.
While I wanted an actual fight, him rendering my primary weapon useless wasn't what I was expecting. I guess ranged attacks won't cut it anymore since he could just snuff out my fire from a distance. The only option left was to close the distance and take away his weapon too. Jason probably won't be a pushover physically, but I should win a contest of pure strength.
As I dashed through the dust cloud, my hand shot out to grab the lance shaft and rip it away from him.
Pain exploded throughout my entire body. A jolt of static electricity travelled up my arm, feeling like a thousand super-heated needles digging into my nerves.
"Fuck!" I let go and jumped back, shaking out my hand as I muttered to myself. "At least I can tell we're actually getting serious now."
I unleashed a massive wave of fire in every direction, superheating the very ground and air around us into an inferno.
Jason reacted instantly, calling on the sky. A black cloud appeared above us as droplets of rain poured down, sizzling into steam as they came into contact with the ground. But my flames were too intense to be extinguished.
Realizing that the ground was now a death zone, he launched himself into the air with a blast of wind propelling him upward until he was flying above the inferno.
With the high ground claimed, he began throwing down little crackling forks of lightning.
It was a little irritating. I took away his wind and rain, then he chose to own the sky instead.
I bent my knees and exploded upward using my flames to propel me like a rocket. I wasn't made to fly with any grace, but then again I wasn't trying to look pretty. I slammed into him in mid-air, my fist wrapped in the usual flames. My punch hit his chestplate, sending him tumbling in an awkward spin.
But the sky was his domain.
Jason righted himself with a shift of air currents, his flight becoming controlled again. He thrust both hands forward, and a solid wall of wind slammed into me.
It felt like hitting a brick wall. My rocket-like ascent was killed instantly, and I was thrown back down toward the earth.
No more games.
I planted my feet and reached out with my will. Every lingering flame on the battlefield answered. I spread my arms wide, gathering the energy and shaping it into a massive sphere above me.
Then came the hard part.
I began to bring my hands closer together, forcing the massive sphere to compress. My arms trembled under the strain, like I was trying to crush a star between my palms.
By the time my palms were only a foot apart, the massive sphere had formed into a blinding white orb. I looked at it with satisfaction as it floated between my hands, no longer fighting against me.
Then I hurled it skyward.
Jason punched wind at it, trying to steer it to a different direction, but the sphere held its course. He saw what was coming and gambled. The lance in his hands began to hum blue. He let the currents gather through the gold until the metal was a vein of lightning itself. He put everything he had into his weapon and launched it like a spear.
The two forces collided mid-air, white fire and blue lightning merging together.
The resulting explosion was deafening. A flash of light erupted from the point of impact, and a wave of force blasted outward through the field. Wind rippled past me, the air blasted from my lungs.
When the light cleared, Jason was crumpled onto the edge of the field, steam rising from his armor. Meanwhile, Ivlivs was back to being a coin a few feet away from him.
But I was still standing.
Barely.
I dragged myself forward. Every part of me ached, but the fight hadn't concluded.
Jason stirred.
I stopped a few feet away as he forced himself to one knee.
"It's over. You're out of steam," I said quietly.
He didn't respond. He just stood back up and lifted his fists.
I didn't say anything either, feeling respect for the final act of a warrior who would not surrender.
He sluggishly came at me.
I slipped under his clumsy guard and drove an uppercut into his jaw. His head snapped back. He crumpled to the dirt, finally still.
I looked down at his unconscious body.
I won. But what exactly had I won? An argument? He could wake up still believing his cage was a home. And I would still think he was a fool for living in it. We hadn't settled anything either. All we did was prove that I was the one who could hit harder.
And in the end, that didn't change a damn thing.
With a heavy sigh, I bent down and hooked my arms under his shoulders, grunting as I hauled his dead weight up. This was going to be an awkward walk to the infirmary.
[Vesta]
The fire in the brazier of Vesta's palace rose and fell. She kneeled right in front of it, watching the fire arrange itself into a picture of a tired boy carrying another.
Relief flooded her, so powerful it nearly overwhelmed the steady fire. Pride followed immediately after.
Serif is perfect. He's everything we hoped he would be.
He possessed the strength to conquer, and the heart to protect. Her own fire combined with the warmth of Hestia's.
Behind her, Jupiter slumped in a conjured marble chair, pinching his nose as a low grumble emanated from his throat.
A triumphant smile graced her lips as she turned away from the brazier. "I'm sorry, what were you saying earlier, brother? Something about the might of the heavens? Your boy has skill, I'll grant him that. But my Serif has something better."
"My son learned a valuable lesson today about his limits," Jupiter retorted. "A necessary, if harsh, part of his training. I wonder if yours learned anything at all, or if he only learned that his power can solve any problem."
"Oh, stay mad," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "He showed the compassion to care for a defeated rival. It seems that he has the best of both worlds."
Her smugness softened to a flicker of concern. "Still... it may be problematic. An unsanctioned duel with his centurion, only his second week in the legion. Will this tarnish his reputation?"
Jupiter rolled his eyes. "It will be fine. He now has the reputation of being the strongest, albeit most insubordinate, recruit. It will earn him respect, even if it comes with a headache for the Praetors. The legion will learn to adjust."
Vesta's shoulders relaxed slightly, a sign of acceptance. Still, her gaze went back to the fire, seeking a deeper confirmation of her brother's words within the flames.
The only answer she received was the noise of a door slamming open.
Poseidon stormed in, his sea-green eyes wild and his trident glowing with barely contained energy.
"Hestia! I can't take it anymore! First Zeus's accusations about his bolt, and now Hades has sent Alec—"
He stopped dead in his tracks.
An awkward silence descended. Both she and Jupiter stared back at him, unimpressed.
Poseidon coughed into his fist, stepped back out, pulling the doors shut behind him.
A few seconds later, Neptune entered. His posture was perfectly straight, and the storm in his eyes was now a calm, imperial blue. "Jupiter. Vesta. My apologies for the intrusion. I was… momentarily disoriented."
"Neptune," Jupiter acknowledged with a curt nod. "It is fine. We were merely discussing the spirited training of our children."
Neptune approached the hearth, taking in the scene of the two exhausted demigods. He studied it for a moment, then smirked at Jupiter.
"Ah, it seems your son was defeated by Vesta's. Quite impressive work, sister. He's something special."
She inclined her head with the grace of a woman who already knew but still appreciated the recognition her boy received.
But Neptune wasn't finished.
"Of course, if I were to sire a son in this age, he would wield the might of the sea itself. Fire, no matter how bright, is ultimately quenched by water."
She let out a short, dismissive laugh, finding his argument absurd. "Serif's fire is not some common campfire. It is the fire of my Hearth, the first flame, the heart of civilization itself. Your sea is wild and untamed, but my son's fire is eternal."
Jupiter let out a long, suffering sigh and pushed himself to his feet.
"Honestly, I preferred you when you never left your hearth," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. He then addressed Neptune directly. "Brother, a word of advice. Do not argue with her about that boy. It is the one subject upon which she is utterly unreasonable."
Neptune shrugged his shoulders. "Who really cares if she lost her mind? At least it's a change of pace. Nothing new ever happens around here."
Vesta ignored her brothers' slanderous claims, returning her gaze to the brazier. To her perfect son. Serif was simply the best, and it's only natural everyone should acknowledge his greatness.
If only he had lit his fire at my temple…
It was quiet in the infirmary, a stark contrast to the scorched chaos of the training field.
I leaned against the wall with my arms crossed and a bandage on the hand I grabbed Ivlivs with earlier, courtesy of a child of Apollo acting as the doctor. Jason's electricity did some damage, but for the most part, I was unharmed.
Jason wasn't as lucky as me. He sat silently on the edge of a cot across the room. He'd taken the majority of damage from that last explosion. The doctor gave him a small dose of Nectar to stabilize him, saying he had some kind of passive heat resistance that prevented it from being any worse.
The doors swung open, shattering the awkwardness building between the two of us.
Marcus and Serena entered, immediately locking their eyes onto Jason. Neither of them spared me so much as a glance.
Marcus spoke first. "Centurion Grace. We reviewed the state of the training field. An unsanctioned duel is a gross breach of discipline. To be provoked by a new recruit is a lapse in judgment. But to lose? You allowed the honor of a Centurion to be publicly diminished."
Jason's head stayed down.
Those were bold words for someone who lost to me even worse than the one he was scolding did. And that was before I was a recruit too.
Serena stepped forward. Her tone wasn't harsh like Marcus's, but somehow it cut deeper. "We expected better from you, Jason. We always have. You're not the same as other legionnaires, and you know it. That's why this is so disappointing."
Jason started to open his mouth, but just as quickly, he swallowed and looked away.
I stared at him, then at the SPQR tattoo etched into his forearm. Eight bars of service. That meant he'd been here since he was three. His entire existence must have revolved around being the perfect Roman soldier. And here he was, taking a verbal beatdown in silence because even now he thought that was his duty.
It had to be the most revolting thing I've ever seen in my life.
I pushed off the wall. "Are you two done yet?"
Both Praetors turned sharply, as if just now remembering I was there.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. "You will hold your tongue. You've caused enough problems for one day."
"Yeah? One of those problems is this, and you're blaming him for it. This whole lecture? It's not about the fight. It's about your ridiculous expectations."
I kept going, looking at Serena first. "You're disappointed he wasn't your perfect symbol for a few minutes. That he showed he's an actual person under all that expectation. And you," I shifted my gaze to Marcus. "You only care that he lost. You want him to be a weapon, nothing else."
Neither of them interrupted me.
"Has it ever crossed either of your minds to ask him what he wants to be? Or does that not matter as long as he plays the part?"
A long silence followed.
Serena was the first to recover. "Your defense of your fellow cohort member is noted," she said carefully. "However, both of you are still at fault. And you will share the consequence."
She paused, flicking her gaze between us. "For the next month, the two of you are assigned joint guard duty at Caldecott Tunnel. Perhaps standing watch together will teach you both what it means to rely on one another."
As soon as the words left her mouth, I knew that it wouldn't work for me.
"Guard duty? That's your solution? For what? No one other than the two of us even got hurt. None of the siege weapons were damaged. We only messed up a patch of dirt that the legionnaires can fill in an hour."
I took a step forward, turning their own words back on them. "You said you want us to learn to rely on one another, but guard duty won't teach that. It'll just make us resent each other." A challenging grin spread across my face as I continued. "So I'll do you one better. Don't just watch the two of us, watch the entire Fifth Cohort. At the upcoming war games, we'll show you something spectacular."
Marcus looked offended by what I just offered. "You want to turn a disciplinary action into a public spectacle? And what happens if you fail? If your 'spectacular' teamwork falls apart and you lose?"
"I'll bet my place at Camp Jupiter on it. If we lose, I'll walk out of that tunnel and never come back."
Jason's head snapped toward me, but I ignored it.
In my head, it made perfect sense. If we won, I'd prove my point. If we lost, well, that'd be its own kind of freedom.
Marcus, though, looked like I'd smacked him. "What? Don't be a fool. We're not in the business of exiling legionnaires so easily. Even with all of your insubordination, no one wants to see you throw your life away for nothing."
I blinked at him, caught off guard by how firmly he said it.
I just thought it would add some stakes. Didn't think Marcus of all people would care.
Serena rubbed at her temple like she was warding off a headache. "Marcus is right. Your exile is not on the table, Serif. But your arrogance requires a suitable price for failure."
She looked between me and Jason, who remained quiet, still watching from the cot. "If the Fifth Cohort achieves a victory in the war games, your punishment is waived. If you lose, you will be demoted to Probatio for the year. And that one-month guard duty becomes three months. For both of you."
Marcus crossed his arms, studying me like I might become a problem. "And the performance must be decisive."
I smirked. "Sounds good to me."
Without another word, the two Praetors strode out of the infirmary, leaving me and Jason alone once more.
Jason finally broke the quiet, his voice low and hesitant as he looked up. "You didn't have t—"
"Well," I cut him off, not wanting to hear whatever sentiment he was about to offer. "Looks like I actually have a reason to take those training sessions seriously now. Guess our fight really was a waste of time. And," I said, pointing a finger at him. "I've decided I'm going to teach you how to live for yourself."
He just stared at me.
"So for these next three days, just follow my lead."
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After my little wager with the Praetors, Jason and I were cleared to leave the infirmary. The rest of the cohort was still at afternoon training with the other centurion. I could've rejoined them, but I figured this was the perfect time for the two of us to finish our talk without an audience.
Except, things hadn't gone according to plan. We walked back to the barracks without exchanging any words, and now we were just sitting on our respective bunks, occasionally glancing at each other.
Man, this awkward silence is killing me. Better to clear the air directly before it gets any worse.
"Well," I started, breaking the quiet that had stretched for a solid five minutes. "I guess our fight earlier was pointless. How about we actually talk things out?"
Jason straightened his shoulders and retorted, "That's what I tried to do. But you just wouldn't listen."
I waved a hand dismissively. "Hm, my bad then. Let's actually try listening to each other this time, alright? I'll even go first. Feel free to ask me anything you want."
He hesitated for a second. Then asked a question. "Why? Why are you so resistant to following the rules? The legion has seen insubordinate demigods before, but no one was as defiant as you."
I didn't expect him to go straight to the heart of our entire conflict. But it might have been better that way.
"It ties into my idea of what a home should be," I said slowly, not sure if it would make sense. "If I'm staying somewhere but it doesn't feel right, I don't want to be there."
"So that's the problem? Camp Jupiter doesn't feel right to you?"
"It's weird. Um, think of the Wolf House as an example. When I started out there, I had problems with all the wolves and the other demigods. But Lupa let me do whatever I wanted. I picked a fight with all of them, until eventually no one tested me. After that, Lupa started training me personally. We talked, I played around with her, she told me stories..." My voice trailed off for a second. "And soon enough, it started feeling like a home. Maybe not a comfortable one, but a home nonetheless."
"Freedom and connections then. You value your independence above all else, and you need people so you don't feel isolated."
I smirked at him. "Looks like you've been keeping an eye on me. Those are probably the two most important things for me to consider a place my home."
"So what is it here? You get a lot of leniency from the Praetors, and you don't seem to have problems with making friends around here either. Help me understand what's missing."
I thought back to what I'd expected before coming here. Lupa's stories hadn't painted a flattering picture. She'd told me about the endless duty while leaving out the parts about the city. The reality that it was more than a soulless camp, that it was a community.
"Being here is like being a compass needle. Right now, I'm at a place that's so amazing. There's so much dedicated to giving demigods a good future. So many people see it as their home. All that combines into this incredible force pulling at me. But there's this other, fainter pull, somewhere in the opposite direction, that makes the needle tremble. It feels like I can't ever fully settle."
Jason's gaze drifted to his forearm. To the SPQR, the eagle, the eight bars of service.
"Maybe what's missing is the choice," he murmured. "You chose to fight the wolves and earned your place with Lupa on your terms. You didn't choose to come here. I never had a choice either. For me, this camp just is. I've never known anything else to compare to."
It wasn't exactly the same, but I could see where he was coming from.
"Well," I said, "that's enough about me. You can tell me your side now."
"For as long as I can remember, everyone has treated me differently. You know, people were already looking to me for orders when I was only six." He looked down at his hands. "For you, independence is everything. For me, the only thing that matters is making sure no one gets left behind; the only way to do that is to become exactly what the legion expects me to be."
That was admirable, even if I could never do the same.
I continued with my next question. "When we fought, it felt like I personally wronged you. So, when I arrived, what were your expectations of me?"
He looked me straight in the eye. "You were right about what you said earlier. I saw your power, and I hoped you could be a... partner. Someone to share the weight of it all. I was wrong to put that expectation on you; it was the same thing everyone has always done to me. For that, I'm sorry."
As he apologized, his expression showed honest self-reflection.
And I could work with that.
I couldn't help but grin. "Alright. I don't need to hear anything more. I've decided I'm going to burn away those expectations placed on you."
Jason looked at me, confused.
"You see, because I'm around now, the legion has a new standard for what a powerful demigod acts like. So from now on, you don't have to be so perfect. All you have to do is be slightly better than me. And I promise I'll set the bar so low that you'll look like a saint in comparison."
For the first time all day, he let out a smile.
"Anyways," I clapped him on the shoulder, "we've got our work cut out for us if we want to get the Fifth Cohort ready to win the war games. And our first move is morale! An army marches on its stomach, right? So, do you know any place around here where I can use an oven?"
"There's a bakery on Via Praetoria, but I don't think they would let legionnaires use the oven themselves." He hesitated, then stood up. "But I'll take you. If I put in a good word, the owner will allow it."
My grin widened. "Alright then, Centurion Grace! Let's get going."
[Leila]
Leila, daughter of Ceres and Centurion of the Fifth Cohort, watched as the cohort's newest problem walked into the common room like he owned the place. He balanced a tray in his hands, a smug grin on his face, as if the duel earlier today and the chaos it caused had never happened.
Brownies. Of all things. He thought he could waltz into her cohort's space with baked goods and fix everything?
The worst part was that the smell hit her before her indignation could finish rising. The rich scent of warm chocolate filled the air. As a daughter of Ceres, she had an instinctual connection to food and the nurturing it provided. What Serif brought carried the feeling of hope and safety.
She watched as the others, less suspicious than she was, descended upon the tray.
Gwen was the first to crumble. "By the gods, this is a gift from Olympus!"
Dakota didn't even try to restrain himself. He shoveled another two into his mouth before scrambling over to Serif and shaking his shoulders. "What is this magic? You have to tell me the secret. I swear I'll make it worth your while!"
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a pouch of cherry Kool-Aid, holding it out with both hands. "I have other flavors if you don't like cherry!"
But it was Jason's reaction that caught her attention. He was sitting right next to Serif, smiling as he took a bite. For a moment, her resolve faltered. Jason, who carried the cohort's burden on his shoulders with grim determination, looked like a boy again.
"Leila!" Gwen called across the room, waving another brownie at her. "Come on, you're the last holdout. Don't make me drag you."
Damn it all.
She accepted the offering with a skeptical frown, telling herself that it was just to be polite. But the moment she bit down, she understood the cohort's reaction.
It was perfect. Down to the last minute detail. The brownie filled her chest with warmth, like standing in front of a fire on a cold day.
She didn't want to like him. She had prepared a list of grievances in her head: insubordination, creating public spectacles, a lack of commitment during trainings, and the humiliation of her co-centurion. Yet she couldn't deny the effect he had.
Serif clapped his hands once, drawing everyone's attention.
He cheerfully made his announcement. "Glad you all like them. 'Cause you'll need the energy. I might have mouthed off to the Praetors earlier today."
Of course he did.
Serif continued, completely unbothered by the sudden silence. "I may or may not have declared that the Fifth Cohort is going to win the war games this weekend."
She felt a surge of fury. How dare he make a promise on behalf of the cohort?
Dakota nearly dropped his brownie. "We haven't won in, actually, I don't think we've ever won one."
"You bet on us?" Gwen added, her eyes wide. "Serif, no offense to anyone here, but the other cohorts are way stronger than us, and they have all the best gear."
Serif just grinned, "Yeah, well, we have me."
Leila couldn't hold herself back any longer. "A war game isn't a duel. It's about teamwork and discipline. Two things you've shown zero interest in."
She expected him to deflect, maybe toss out another smug quip. Instead, he addressed the room with an infuriatingly steady confidence. "I was thinking it's about time this cohort stops accepting last place. We're going to get serious. We're going to go all out. And we are going to win."
He then turned, his gaze landing directly on her.
"Leila, you know the standard drills better than anyone. Except maybe Jason, since that's all he lives for, but I'm going to need you to run the main group."
Her first instinct was to refuse on principle. She had not become a centurion to be told what to do by a new recruit. But as she looked at Jason, all she received was a nod.
Jason is actually backing him up? After that duel?
She looked back at her cohort. Faces that usually held resignation now flickered with hope.
"I'm in if we get more brownies," Dakota muttered to a few scattered chuckles.
She let out a sigh, knowing she had no other choice. "Alright then. If we're doing this, we're doing it right. The Fifth Cohort will fight as one. And we won't hold back."
We were at the Field of Mars.
Jason and I observed from the sidelines as Leila barked orders like she'd been waiting years for the cohort to give this level of effort. They had finally moved beyond the mindless 'hold shield, stab spear, repeat' drill that I'd constantly seen since I arrived.
"Damn, they're really going at it. I guess all they needed was a dose of PEDs. Or, wait, PEBs? Performance-Enhancing Brownies."
"I'd credit a certain someone for inspiring them," Jason said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "But I thought this meant you'd finally be joining us for drills."
I shook my head. "I'll train, just in a different way. For demigods as strong as us, training with them is a lose-lose situation. We'll only hold each other back." I saw the frown starting to form on his face and elaborated. "Think about it. We'd force them to move at a pace they can't handle, and they'd force us to slow down and never reach our full potential. We have to train separately."
His frown deepened anyway. "A Centurion's place is with their legionnaires. We lead from the front, not from the sidelines."
"Relax, that's what Leila's job is. Our role isn't to be part of the shield wall. We're the living siege machines that'll lead the charge and break through the enemy line so the cohort can sweep in and clean up."
Jason looked back toward the cohort. Leila had them in a wedge formation now, with Gwen shouting encouragement and Dakota managing not to trip over his own feet for once.
"Fine," he conceded with a sigh. "We'll train our powers. But we are not going as hard as we did in our fight. I'm not interested in another trip to the infirmary."
A cheeky grin spread across my face. "Well, duh. I don't want to have to carry you there again. My back is still sore."
I clapped my hands together. "Anyways, let's get started. Forget about drills and all that formal crap, show me what you can do. The fun stuff only."
Jason held out a hand, and a perfectly controlled gust of wind shot out, knocking over a target from fifty feet away. With his other hand, he dropped a bolt of lightning from the sky onto a different target.
It was impressive. He had both power and precision.
And also lacked any joy.
I stuck my thumb down. "Boo! You stink! Boring!"
He shot me a look.
"But seriously," I added, dropping the act. "It seems like all this is a chore for you. Like you're going through the motions because you have to, not because you want to."
"Training is about discipli—"
"Y'know, the first time I used my fire was when a pair of monsters cornered me in an alley. I was just eight and didn't know what a demigod was, didn't know about the gods or any of this Roman stuff. All I knew was that I was in trouble."
I held up my hand, letting tiny wisps of flames burn on my fingertips. "And then I found out about this. I kept my powers a secret, thinking I was the only one in the world. Like the protagonist of a story. So what did I do? I played. I spent all my free time messing around with my fire, trying to copy moves I saw from all kinds of fire-based characters. That's why I'm so good with my powers. Fire's a part of who I am."
Jason looked thoughtful. "I never had that moment of discovery. I knew all about my heritage before I could grasp the significance of it. My powers were just another responsibility for me."
"Alright, that's your assignment then," I declared. "Stop thinking about what your powers are and start thinking about what you want them to do. Be creative. Try something that sounds stupid. Like, what if you shaped the lightning into a blade around your hand? Imagine stabbing a monster right through the heart and shouting 'Lightning Blade!'"
Without saying anything, he flipped Ivlivs into his hand and let it transform into its lance form. He planted his feet, electricity crawling up the shaft, and then released. A beam of lightning arced across the field, vaporizing another target into a smoking crater.
He turned back to me. "How's that?"
"Yeah, that works too! Oh wait, I got another idea. What if you ran a bunch of electricity through Ivlivs while it's still a coin? Could you use that charge to fling it forward so fast it's basically a bullet of lightning? You could even call it Railgun!"
A one hundred percent original idea from me, like all the ways I use my power.
Jason considered it for a second before shaking his head. "No. It feels disrespectful to Ivlivs."
I shrugged. As long as he was thinking for himself, my job was done. "You do you, I'm just the guy who makes up cool moves. It's your loss if you want to put people to sleep."
He crossed his arms. "Alright then, critic. You've had your fun with me. Now it's your turn. Show me something you haven't tried before."
"Oh, is that a challenge I hear? Just watch me."
Something new. There was an idea I'd been toying with for a while, but never got the opportunity to put it into practice.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
Flames began to erupt from my skin in controlled streams. I directed them, willing them to swirl around me until I was completely encased in a roaring inferno.
Please tell me my eyes are glowing right now. That would really sell the look.
"This," I announced, my voice distorted by the flames, "is an offensive and defensive aura. Since I'm a hand-to-hand fighter, anyone who wants to fight me gets burned the moment they get close. Plus, my own hits get that much more dangerous."
And I definitely look cool.
I let the fire die down, feeling quite pleased with myself.
Jason's mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "That's impressive. But Serif?"
"Yeah?"
"You burned your clothes off."
Slowly, I glanced down. Sure enough, not a scrap of fabric remained.
Ah. I thought I fixed that problem. Better do something about that.
[Vulcan]
Mechanized arms arced down from the ceiling, fitting celestial bronze onto frames of adamantine. This forge was his sanctuary, a place where logic triumphed over the fickleness of love.
Vulcan sat hunched at one of his more modest workbenches, which still had more processing power than a thousand mortal factories.
"Come on, you piece of scrap," he muttered as he tinkered with a stubborn automaton leg. "You'd think I could create something that didn't break itself after a century."
Suddenly, a voice from a prayer arrived directly in his mind.
Hello, my esteemed godly parent. Wait, my bad. Maybe you don't prefer that because I haven't been claimed. Ahem. Greetings, Lord Vulcan.
Vulcan's hand jerked, nearly snapping the delicate wire. He set his tools down with a heavy clank.
He quickly ran through the list of his children. There was Flint and Cole, both of whom have already been acknowledged by him. And then there were another two, Kendal and Blaise, who were too young to join the legion.
The voice he heard belonged to none of them.
Anyways, I wanted to ask if you could make something for me. Or maybe I'll go on a quest for you, and you could reward me with it? Basically, the problem is I keep burning my clothes, and I end up naked. I was hoping you could make me a pair of fireproof pants. You don't have to claim me or anything, I don't really care about that part. This is all I'll ever ask from you.
A prayer for pants. Of all the trivial requests he received from mortals, this was by far the most absurd. He dismissed the prayer as the ramblings of some unhinged demigod who had gotten his godly parentage wrong and was about to return to his work.
But before he could pick up a tool, a warm presence brushed the edge of the room. One that was much gentler than the searing heat of his forge.
"Vulcan? Are you there, nephew?"
Vulcan's gruff expression softened. "Auntie. It is good to see you. Do you need something?"
Vesta was the only one he was willing to consider family. While the others saw him as a means to an end, she had always seen the person behind it. She was the only one who ever brought him a kind word without asking for anything in return.
She stepped closer. "I was hoping to commission a set of fireproof clothes."
"Huh? You want me to make you some clothes?"
"Yes. I was hoping for the highest quality possible. I know such a request is beneath your usual standards, but I would consider it a personal favor."
He froze. A strange boy praying for pants because he kept burning them. His aunt, who happened to be the goddess of the hearth, arriving moments later to commission the same thing.
"Auntie, does this have something to do with that prayer I just received?"
Vesta's serene smile widened as she placed a hand on his shoulder. The comforting warmth he'd felt from her presence suddenly intensified, gaining a threatening edge.
"Actually, never mind," he said quickly. "I don't want to know. In fact, I've… I've recently been having problems with my memory. Must be the fumes."
"That's terrible, nephew!" Despite the sweet tone, her hand pressed harder into his shoulder. "But you're right. With all the stress of your work, it's for the best that you don't trouble yourself with thinking too deeply."
"Auntie, your hand is still on my shoulder."
She ignored him, her gaze becoming distant as she began to list specifications. "We'll want a full wardrobe, of course. He prefers fitted clothing, but not tight. He'll tug at the seams if it restricts his movement. Oh, and make sure it doesn't itch. He has this adorable nervous tic where he'll scratch absentmindedly during serious conversations. Though I haven't seen it from him in a while, so maybe make it a little itchy? No, what am I thinking, it'll be better if it's natural."
"Do you have a camera following this kid?"
She ignored him again.
"And let's not stop at simple fireproofing. While you're at it, make sure the material has the durability of celestial bronze armor. Oh, and the pockets of the hoodie? Can you make them larger on the inside than they appear on the outside? Just enough to carry a snack and large amounts of Denarii."
"I'll get started right away."
Maybe once I'm done, Auntie will return to normal? And just to be safe, I can add a note to it, telling the boy to never contact me again.
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