Chapter 5: First Night at Camp
The Hermes cabin was controlled chaos. Twenty-three unclaimed demigods crammed into a space designed for twelve, bunks stacked three high against every wall, possessions spilling from bags and footlockers in an archaeological layering of desperation. The noise hit Alaric first—conversations overlapping, laughter cutting sharp, someone arguing about a stolen shirt near the back. The smell came second: teenage sweat, monster dust that never quite washed out, and something metallic that might've been blood or might've been the celestial bronze weapons everyone kept under their pillows.
Luke Castellan stood at the cabin's center like a general surveying his troops.
He was older than the others—nineteen, maybe twenty—with a scarred face that told stories and a posture that screamed veteran. Camp counselor shirt hung loose on his frame, and his hands moved with casual grace as he directed traffic, assigning bunks and settling disputes with the kind of authority that came from years of survival.
When Alaric entered, Luke stopped mid-sentence.
Their eyes met. Luke's were blue, sharp, calculating. Predator's eyes. They swept over Alaric in three seconds flat—taking in the mismatched crimson and gold irises, the too-clean clothes, the way he held himself like someone ready to fight or flee at any moment.
Luke's expression shifted. Not friendly, exactly. More like a wolf recognizing another predator in its territory and deciding whether to attack or assess.
"Fresh meat," someone muttered from a top bunk. A few kids laughed.
Luke's voice cut through the noise. "Bottom bunk, far corner. Try not to touch anyone's stuff."
The false friendliness didn't reach his eyes. Alaric recognized that tone—had heard it before from warehouse supervisors who smiled while calculating how to exploit you. It set his teeth on edge.
"Thanks," Alaric said. Kept his voice neutral. Non-threatening.
He threaded through the cabin's chaos, hyperaware of the attention tracking him. Kids whispered. Pointed at his eyes. One girl near the bathroom actually flinched when he walked past, like he might bite.
The bottom bunk in the far corner was barely a bunk—more like a sleeping bag on the floor, wedged between a wobbly footlocker and the wall. Someone had scratched "UNCLAIMED ZONE" into the wood above it. Charming.
Alaric dropped his pillowcase of belongings—still the only thing he owned—and started unpacking. A change of clothes. The bronze dagger. Some scavenged protein bars that were probably expired.
The dagger clattered across the floor when he pulled it out.
Instinct kicked in. His hand jerked, willing it back, and the Gate of Babylon responded. Golden light erupted around the dagger—a portal opening beneath it—and the weapon vanished. Just dissolved into the light and was gone, leaving nothing but a faint shimmer in the air.
The entire cabin went silent.
Twenty-three pairs of eyes locked on him. Even the argument about the stolen shirt died mid-sentence.
Luke walked over. His footsteps were deliberate, measured. He stopped three feet away—close enough to intimidate, far enough to react if Alaric tried something—and crossed his arms.
"Neat trick," he said. His voice was cold. Clinical. "Care to explain where a fresh arrival learned magic?"
"It's not magic." Alaric kept his hands visible. Relaxed. "It's just... my thing. I can store weapons. Summon them when I need them."
"Your thing." Luke's scarred face betrayed nothing. "Like a divine gift. From your godly parent."
"I assume so. I don't know who they are yet."
"Convenient."
The word hung in the air like a thrown knife. Alaric held Luke's gaze, refusing to look away first because that would be admitting weakness. Around them, the cabin's occupants watched with the fascinated horror of people waiting for a fight.
"It's the truth," Alaric said.
"The truth." Luke smiled. It didn't improve his face. "You show up with powers nobody's seen before, eyes that glow like a monster's, and you want me to believe you're just another unclaimed demigod?"
"I am just another unclaimed demigod."
"Sure." Luke stepped back. The smile stayed in place, but something dangerous flickered behind it. "Word of advice, Alaric—that is your name, right? Word of advice: people here don't trust easy. Especially people who look like they're hiding something. So maybe keep your neat tricks to yourself until you figure out whose side you're on."
He walked away before Alaric could respond. Clapped his hands once, sharp, and the cabin noise resumed like someone had hit an unpause button.
Alaric sank onto his makeshift bunk, pulse hammering. That had been a warning. A threat wrapped in friendly advice, delivered by someone who'd perfected the art of manipulation.
"Luke knows," Alaric thought. "Not what I am, but that I'm dangerous. He's marked me as competition."
Which meant everything just got more complicated.
The dinner pavilion was open-air and beautiful, stone columns supporting a roof that didn't quite exist, tables arranged by cabin with bronze braziers burning offerings to the gods. Alaric sat at the Hermes table—unclaimed demigods got stuck with Hermes by default—wedged between two kids who refused to make eye contact.
Maya and Carlos sat three tables over.
They'd been claimed within an hour of arrival. Maya's claiming had been dramatic—a glowing sheaf of wheat appearing over her head while she stood in the strawberry fields, Demeter's symbol blazing gold. Carlos got his hammer-and-anvil while helping repair the camp's climbing wall, Hephaestus recognizing his son's talents immediately.
They'd tried to stay with Alaric. Insisted, actually, saying they were a team. But Chiron had been gentle and firm: claimed demigods slept in their parents' cabins. That was the rule.
So now Maya wore a green shirt with Demeter's cabin number, and Carlos had the red of Hephaestus, and Alaric sat alone in Hermes brown, surrounded by strangers who thought he was dangerous or weird or both.
He was poking at his food—some kind of stew that tasted better than it looked—when someone materialized at his elbow.
"Your weapon summoning uses dimensional folding similar to Hermes's teleportation but with matter retention properties."
Alaric nearly dropped his spoon. The girl who'd appeared was maybe twelve, blonde curls pulled back in a ponytail, grey eyes that dissected him like a biology experiment. She wore the silver of Athena's cabin and the expression of someone solving a puzzle in real-time.
"Um," Alaric said eloquently.
"And your eyes suggest heterochromia iridium except they glow, which is biologically impossible unless you're part monster, but you smell like demigod so that's not it." She sat down across from him without asking permission. "So what's your parentage?"
The question was delivered with the kind of intense focus that made Alaric want to either laugh or flee. This had to be Annabeth Chase. The books had described her as brilliant and intense, but reading about it was different from experiencing the full force of her attention.
"I don't know my parentage," he said. Honesty was easier than lying, mostly. "I'm unclaimed."
"Obviously. But your powers suggest someone unusual. Not one of the Big Three—their children have distinct signatures. Not Athena—she doesn't do glowing eyes. Maybe Hecate? Goddess of magic and crossroads?"
"I don't think so."
"Then what?" Annabeth leaned forward. Her grey eyes were unnerving—too knowing, too smart. "Your abilities are too specific to be random. The dimensional storage, the weapon variety, the way you move like you've been training for years but you're clearly new. What are you?"
"Transmigrator with stolen powers from an anime," Alaric thought. "But I can't exactly say that."
He chose his words carefully. "I have dreams. Prophetic dreams, I think. My godly parent—whoever they are—visits me, shows me battles from the past. Ancient warriors, legendary fights. And when I wake up, I can... use what they showed me. The weapons, the techniques. Like they're teaching me through visions."
It was half-lie, half-truth. The dreams were real—he'd had them since arriving, fragments of monster memories and bloodline instincts. The teaching part was fabricated, but it sounded plausible.
Annabeth processed this with visible speed. "Prophetic inheritance. That's... actually documented. A few demigods throughout history have exhibited similar traits. Children of Apollo with combat precognition, Nike's kids seeing victory paths. But none with your specific power set."
"Maybe I'm unique."
"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe you're lying."
The directness caught him off-guard. Alaric laughed—couldn't help it—because at least she was honest about her suspicion.
"I'm not lying about the dreams," he said. Which was true. "The rest... I'm still figuring out myself."
Annabeth studied him for a long moment. Then she stood, brushing invisible dust from her camp shirt. "I'm Annabeth Chase. Athena cabin. I'll be watching you, Alaric Bond."
"I'd expect nothing less."
She almost smiled. Then she was gone, vanishing back to her table with the same abruptness she'd arrived.
Alaric exhaled slowly. Two major encounters in one evening, both with people who would be critical to Percy's story. Luke marked him as threat. Annabeth marked him as puzzle.
He was still processing when someone grabbed his shoulder from behind.
The grip was iron. Alaric spun, reaching for weapons on instinct, and found himself facing a wall of muscle wearing the red of Ares cabin.
Clarisse La Rue looked exactly like her descriptions: built like a tank, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, electric spear crackling in her other hand. Her expression said she'd happily use that spear if given half an excuse.
"Armory," she said. "Now."
"Why?"
"Because I don't like mystery meat in my camp, and you're the most mysterious thing I've seen in months. So you're going to prove you belong, or I'm throwing you in the lake."
She didn't wait for agreement. Just turned and walked toward the armory, clearly expecting him to follow.
Alaric followed. Mostly because refusing would cause a scene, and partly because he was curious about how this would play out. Clarisse was supposed to be Percy's antagonist, not his. But the timeline was already changing, and apparently that meant redirecting her aggression.
The armory was empty—most campers were still at dinner. Clarisse kicked the door shut and spun, spear leveled at his chest.
"Prove it," she said. "You're supposed to be some hotshot with magic weapons? Show me."
She lunged without further warning.
Alaric's body reacted before his brain caught up. The hellhound reflexes he'd absorbed tracked her movement—saw the spear's trajectory, calculated the dodge—and he threw himself left. Golden portals erupted around him. Five weapons burst into existence simultaneously: two swords, a spear, a shield, a hammer.
They arranged themselves defensively. Hovering in the air, spinning slowly, ready to intercept or attack on command.
Clarisse's eyes widened. Just for a second. Then she grinned—feral and excited—and charged again.
The fight was brutal and short.
Clarisse was stronger. Faster. More experienced. Her spear moved in patterns Alaric's copied techniques recognized but couldn't quite match, and when she struck, his summoned weapons shattered. The first sword broke against her spear's shaft. The shield cracked when she kicked it. The hammer bent when she parried.
But they reformed. That was the thing about the Gate of Babylon—destroyed weapons just regenerated in the armory, ready to be summoned again.
Alaric fell back, summoning and resummoning, using the Cyclops strength he'd absorbed to put actual force behind his strikes. A sword got through her guard, slicing her shoulder (barely, just a scratch). The spear forced her to block instead of attack. And for thirty glorious seconds, he matched her.
Then Chiron's voice boomed across the armory: "ENOUGH!"
They froze. Clarisse's spear was inches from Alaric's throat. His summoned blade was pressed against her ribs. Neither had been willing to back down first.
Chiron trotted through the door, his centaur form filling the space with ancient authority. "Training exercises do not involve actual combat without supervision. Ms. La Rue, you know the rules."
"I was just testing the new kid," Clarisse said. But she lowered her spear.
"By nearly impaling him?"
"He held his own."
She looked at Alaric with something new in her expression. Not friendship—that would take more than one fight—but grudging respect. The universal language of warriors recognizing each other.
"You're tougher than you look," she said. Then, to Chiron, "He's good. Weird, but good."
She left without waiting for dismissal. Her footsteps echoed down the path, fading into the camp's evening noise.
Chiron regarded Alaric with those ancient, knowing eyes. "You fought well. Where did you learn those techniques?"
"Dreams," Alaric said. The lie was getting easier. "I see battles. Warriors from history. When I wake up, I remember how they moved."
"Interesting." Chiron's expression was unreadable. "Most demigods with prophetic abilities dream of the future, not the past."
"I'm not most demigods."
"No. You certainly are not."
The centaur left him standing in the armory, surrounded by broken weapons and the smell of ozone from Clarisse's electric spear. Alaric dismissed his remaining summons and flexed his hands. They were shaking—adrenaline crash hitting hard.
"Three major encounters," he thought. "Luke suspects me. Annabeth is investigating me. Clarisse respects me but could turn hostile if I screw up. This is fine. Everything's fine."
It wasn't fine. But it was progress.
That night, lying on his floor-bunk while the Hermes cabin breathed and snored around him, Alaric stared at the ceiling and took inventory.
Luke Castellan: suspicious, potentially hostile, definitely watching. Risk level: high.
Annabeth Chase: curious, analytical, probably keeping a file on him. Risk level: medium but climbing.
Clarisse La Rue: impressed but unpredictable. Could be ally or enemy depending on future interactions. Risk level: variable.
Chiron: knows something is off but hasn't acted yet. Probably waiting to see what Alaric does. Risk level: unknown.
And across the cabin, in the bunks reserved for actual Hermes children, Maya and Carlos—no, not them anymore. Maya was in Demeter's cabin now. Carlos in Hephaestus. They'd been claimed, given homes, integrated into camp society within hours of arrival.
Which was good. Great, even. They were safe.
But it also meant Alaric was alone again.
The thought shouldn't have stung as much as it did. He'd been alone in his old life—working solo shifts, living in a one-bedroom apartment, reading books to avoid human interaction. But that had been by choice. This was... different. This was isolation forced by circumstances, by the secret he carried, by the fact that he couldn't tell anyone what he really was.
A transmigrator. An outsider. Someone who didn't belong in this world no matter how many monsters he killed or friendships he forged.
"Stop it," he told himself. "You saved Maya and Carlos. You're at camp. Percy arrives tomorrow—you know he does, you've been dreaming about the Minotaur fight for days—and when he gets here, you'll help him. That's what matters. Not your stupid feelings about being alone."
His crimson eye caught the moonlight filtering through the cabin's windows. The glow was faint but persistent, a reminder of what he was becoming. Eleven bloodlines absorbed. Blood potency somewhere around 5%. Each monster he killed made him stronger and stranger and less recognizably human.
But tomorrow, Percy would arrive. The Minotaur would attack. And Alaric would intervene, changing the canon in ways he couldn't predict, because letting a twelve-year-old fight that monster alone was unthinkable.
The consequences would be what they'd be. Right now, he needed sleep.
But sleep didn't come easy. And when it did, he dreamed of bull-headed monsters and sea-green eyes and a future that was shifting with every choice he made.
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