Cynthia trained when the camp slept.
It wasn't a rule. No one had told her she had to stop training after curfew. But most campers did. Exhaustion won. Fear. Or comfort.
Cynthia had never been good at comfort.
The forest behind the Artemis cabin was silvered with moonlight, shadows long and patient. Cicadas hummed low, a steady rhythm that matched her breathing as she moved between trees, boots soundless against the earth.
Knife in hand.
She drew, struck, withdrew—again and again.
The blade flashed in tight arcs, precise and economical. No wasted motion. No flourish. She practiced throws at uneven angles, pivoting mid-step, correcting her wrist by instinct alone. The knife thunked into bark, quivering, dead center of a knot she'd marked earlier with chalk.
She didn't smile.
She adjusted.
Another knife. Another throw.
Missed by an inch.
"Again," she muttered to herself.
Her shoulders burned. Forearms tight. Breath steady despite it. The moonlight caught on the edge of her blade, silver-white, almost… encouraging.
She ignored the thought.
Knives had always come easier than swords. Swords demanded presence—weight, commitment, noise. Knives were quieter. Honest. They didn't ask you to stand your ground. They asked you to decide.
She rolled her wrist, loosened her grip, and threw again.
Perfect.
Cynthia exhaled and retrieved the blade, pressing her thumb briefly to the cool metal as if grounding herself.
She'd been improving faster lately.
That bothered her.
Not because she disliked progress—but because she hadn't changed how she trained. Same routines. Same discipline. Same limits. And yet her throws were cleaner. Her reaction time sharper. Her body recovered faster between sets.
She told herself it was confidence.
Claimed campers always got a boost, right?
Still.
The night breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of pine and something colder beneath it. Cynthia paused, senses prickling—not danger, just awareness.
She was not alone.
"Your left shoulder drops when you throw tired," a voice said mildly.
Cynthia didn't jump. She turned, knife already loose in her fingers—but not raised.
Will Solace leaned against a tree at the edge of the clearing, hands in his jacket pockets, blond hair catching moonlight like it was personal friends with the sun.
"You stalking people now?" she asked flatly.
He grinned. "Only people who are clearly going to injure themselves if left unsupervised."
She snorted and turned back to the tree. "You're out late."
"So are you."
She threw again. The knife struck true.
Will whistled. "Okay, that one I felt."
"Don't flatter the weapon," she said. "It gets ideas."
He laughed softly and stepped closer, careful not to disturb the clearing. The Apollo kids had learned early that Cynthia didn't like being crowded when she trained.
Not because she was aggressive.
Because she was focused.
"You know," Will said, watching her reset her stance, "most people don't practice knives at night."
"Most people sleep."
"Most people also don't keep three backup blades in their boots."
She shot him a look. "You counted?"
"Not intentionally," he said easily. "You walk like someone who's always prepared to run or fight. Hard not to notice."
She considered that, then shrugged. "Habit."
He didn't push. That was why she liked the Apollo cabin. They noticed things—but they didn't pry unless invited.
"You're getting better," he said after a moment.
She rolled her shoulders. "You said that yesterday."
"And it's still true."
She finally looked at him properly. "You're not just here to critique my form."
"No," he admitted. "Kayla sent me. She's worried you're going to forget how to be human if you keep training like this."
"Tell her I'll pencil it in."
Will smiled, but there was something gentler underneath it. "We're doing archery drills tomorrow morning. You should join us. Not as a guest."
She raised a brow. "And what would I be?"
He shrugged. "Family, maybe?"
The word landed softly—and stayed.
She looked back at the trees, at the moon filtering through branches, then nodded once. "Alright."
Will brightened. "Cool. Also, you left your algebra book in the pavilion again."
She groaned. "I hate you."
"Love you too," he said cheerfully, already backing away. "Don't overdo it, moon girl."
"Don't call me that!"
He laughed and vanished back toward the cabins.
Cynthia stood alone again.
She stared at the tree, then deliberately sheathed her knives.
Enough.
The Apollo cabin was loud in the mornings.
Not chaotic like Hermes—no pranks or shouting—but full of life. Music drifted from somewhere inside. Laughter. Someone arguing about lyrics. Someone else arguing about whether archery form mattered more than instinct.
Cynthia arrived early, bow slung over her shoulder.
Conversations paused when she stepped in.
Then resumed.
Which was… new.
"Morning," Kayla said, tossing her a pair of gloves. "You're with me and Austin. Try not to make us look bad."
"No promises," Cynthia replied.
They trained under the rising sun, light warming the field, arrows whispering through the air. Cynthia adjusted her stance, feeling the familiar pull in her shoulders—but something felt smoother today. Like the bow and string were cooperating rather than resisting.
She loosed.
Bullseye.
Austin groaned. "Okay, that's unfair."
Kayla squinted at the target. "You didn't even hesitate."
"I hesitate plenty," Cynthia said. "Just… earlier."
They laughed, and for a moment it felt easy. Like she wasn't the claimed girl. Not the mystery. Just another camper with a weapon and sweat on her brow.
Between rounds, they shared water, jokes, sun-warmed apples. Someone started humming, and someone else joined in, off-key and unashamed.
Cynthia found herself smiling without meaning to.
Later, as they packed up, a gust of wind kicked up unexpectedly, knocking a stack of arrows from the rack. Cynthia reached out automatically—
And caught them.
All of them.
Before they hit the ground.
The moment froze.
Kayla blinked. "Okay. That was… impressive."
Cynthia stared at the arrows in her hands.
She had moved without thinking. No calculation. No panic.
Just… reaction.
She set the arrows back carefully. "Lucky timing."
Will met her eyes across the range, something thoughtful there—but he only nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Lucky."
That night, Cynthia returned to the Artemis cabin.
Moonlight spilled across the floor, cool and quiet. The silence pressed in—not lonely, exactly, but… waiting.
She sat on her bed and unwrapped her knives, laying them out carefully. Checked edges. Balance. Familiar ritual.
A moth fluttered against the window.
She paused.
It beat its wings again, soft and persistent, until she rose and cracked the window open. The moth drifted inside, circled once, then settled on the bow rack.
Cynthia watched it.
After a moment, she said quietly, "You're lost."
The moth didn't move.
She sighed and opened the window wider. "That way."
A breeze stirred—gentle, deliberate.
The moth lifted and vanished into the night.
Cynthia stood there, heart beating just a little faster than before.
Coincidence, she told herself.
Just… coincidence.
She closed the window and lay back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, moonlight tracing pale lines above her.
She didn't pray.
She didn't call out.
But somewhere between waking and sleep, she had the strange, steady feeling that if she had—if she'd spoken into the quiet—
Something would have listened.
And chosen not to answer.