Mark bounded down the trails from the strawberry fields, a skip in his step. He was purely in his element, the very essence of camp and what it meant to him resonating to the deepest parts of his soul. Even if he'd chosen to stay at Camp Half-Blood to get his bearings while a good majority of his friends went on to college in New Rome, he felt happier than he had in months—which was saying a lot.

The son of Iris dragged a hand through his onyx hair, taking a deep breath of the summer air. He'd been back in the valley for a few months now, but he awoke each day grateful that he had the chance to see the sunbeams over the Sound, to hear the sound of swords clashing beneath waves of laughter, to feel the warmth that was Camp Half-Blood fill him to the brim. He'd lived in darkness and dust and shadows for...

Mark stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat as he racked his brain. He couldn't remember how long he'd been a part of that forsaken group. The last thing he remembered was a crippling feeling of pain forcing him into a dark slumber, and then the reverse happening when he was brought back to being during the Battle of New Orleans. It could have been a week, or even a year. However long it was, it'd been a splotch of dark ink on the story of his life.

A shudder ripped through Mark's body, as if the sunlight surrounding him had been dampened. He shivered from head to toe, looking around wildly. The world seemed to slow down, his actions as if he were moving through molasses. His dark almond eyes widened as he peered before him, through the mist and haze of whatever was hitting him, and felt a sharp pain behind his eyes.

A figure made of shadows seemed to be walking towards him, a hand on a weapon at its side. It stopped a few paces away from Mark, who stood shivering and shuddering from this unprecedented cold, and then the darkness faded.

Mark found himself staring at himself, donning clothing as black as night with a visage cut from stone. The son of Iris tried to blink the haze away, but each time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of memories in the darkness. A katana being unsheathed, the screams and cries of the damned, the echo of footsteps across a large room, and blood coating his hands.

His heartbeat pounded erratically within his chest, and Mark desperately looked back up, and the version of himself that stood before him when the world had gone still.

The Lieutenant of Orion's forces only smirked, dissolving into shadows as the pain behind Mark's eyes burned away at his skull, and the son of Iris collapsed.

~~

The first thing Mark noticed as he came to? The distant hum of static in the air, like his ears were ringing. The second? A harsh slap across the face.

"Ow!" Mark mumbled, his senses spiking into clarity. He reached a hand up to his face, rubbing the skin that was most likely red.

"Wake up," A silky feminine voice said, the words laced with venom.

"I'm awake," Mark muttered, sitting up. He blinked a few times, and the haze before his eyes seemed to disappear as he focused on the source of the voice: a bronze-skinned girl with hair like midnight, cascading down her back. Her irises were an impossible shade of violet, but her eyes as a whole were glaring daggers at him. At last, Mark was able to put a name to the face: Adhara Wren, daughter of Nemesis.

Mark cleared his throat, and he wasn't sure if it was the sting of the girl's slap or the blood rushing to his face that was making his cheeks itch. "Did I do something? Why are you glaring at me?"

"To answer your first question, you passed out in the middle of camp. The answer the second, however, is one you'll have to compile yourself." Adhara responded, her voice airy as she stood from his bedside.

Mark gazed at her in confusion, but tore his focus from her. He was in a cot in the infirmary, and aside from himself and Adhara, there was no one around. Probably why she'd slapped him without retribution, he figured. She wouldn't get caught.

"I passed out?" Mark asked, glancing at the daughter of Nemesis who was busy making some sort of concoction at a table nearby. "Can you tell me why?"

Adhara slammed the bottle she was holding down onto the table, making it shake. She glared back at Mark, a fire behind her eyes. "No," She deadpanned. "You know why? Because even with all of my training from both Flynn and Amelie in the arts of medicine and magic, I haven't been able to find out what's wrong with you. So drink this," She shoved the bottle towards him. "And shut up."

It occurred to Mark that Adhara was a good foot shorter than him, but with the fire she was wielding in her words and her actions, she could have been a giant. He plucked the bottle of what seemed to be nectar with some sort of additive from her grasp and chugged it down.

"That last command isn't in my vocabulary," Mark folded his arms behind his head, a soft smirk lacing his lips.

Adhara's eyes widened, and maybe it was Mark's imagination, but her clear bronze skin seemed to turn pink. "I can't believe this," She mumbled to the ceiling, followed by a string of words in some language that Mark couldn't recognize.

"And one more time in English?" Mark requested, cracking a weak smile.

Adhara inhaled sharply, meeting Mark's gaze. "You're possibly the biggest imbecile I've had the misfortune of meeting."

Now, Mark was used to dry insults such as those on a regular basis. He wasn't easily offended, considering he accepted his tomfoolery as one of his best qualities. But there was something about Adhara saying it to him, with such intensity and passion, that made something within him shrink, as if he wanted to her to think highly of him.

"I-I'm sorry," Mark stammered, his mouth numb.

Adhara's features seemed to soften, and she looked down at her lap. She wrung her hands, which were covered in bracelets and rings. "No, I am," She sighed. "That was uncalled for."

"Hey, you're not wrong," Mark tried. "I can be an imbecile from time to time."

A ghost of a smile played at the daughter of Nemesis' lips, but she quickly forced it away, as if remembered her fire of hatred burning within her. She stood up from her seat and mumbled a mix of words in Greek and another language—Nepalese, Mark remembered the girl's heritage—as she waved her hands over him like she was casting a spell. However, her hands fell back to her side, and she cocked her head to the side.

"That's weird," She mumbled.

"What is?" Mark asked.

Adhara shook her head, her waves of obsidian hair tumbling over her shoulder. Mark felt a sudden urge to run his hands through it, it looked so silky, but restrained himself. "Your aura is way off," She perched her hands on her hips.

"What's off about it?" Mark asked again, trying to wrap his head around the situation.

Adhara looked down at him in amusement, and there was something in her violet gaze that made Mark's insides go fuzzy for a split second. "Is asking questions your default setting?"

Mark grinned at that, even if his body felt like he'd been through a carwash made of boulders. "Actually, sarcasm is my default setting, but it's a common mistake to make."

"I'm sure," Adhara nodded, a faint laugh in her voice. She shook her head, as if remembering what she was there for. "Do you think you can stand?"

Mark tried to move, and when he could without pain—it must have been the nectar concoction Adhara had given him—he nodded.

"Alright, then let's go!" Adhara clapped her hands together and started for the exit. She was almost out the door when Mark called after her.

"Where are we going?" He stumbled out of bed.

Mark could feel Adhara fighting the urge to punch him for asking so many questions, but she merely turned on her heel to face him and gave him an impish look. "To find out what the hell is wrong with you."

And with that she bounded out the door, leaving Mark to commence the chase.

And boy, would he.