THE FIRST TIME Blaire Sullivan watched someone die, she was only six years old. She was six years old and terrified of her own shadow, so of course, the blood staining her small hands did more than frighten her. The final quivering breaths her father took petrified her beyond measures.

The second time Blaire watched someone die she was fifteen and less afraid of the horrors taunting the earth's cruel soil. Still, the dead boy lying in her lap had a detrimental effect on the way she viewed the world.

      The third and final time she watched someone die, she was still fifteen, considering it happened mere minutes after she cradled her dying best friend's broken figure. When the third person she once loved perished in her presence, all the good she saw in the world faded into nothing. The vibrant hues that previously painted her surroundings dimmed by a tenfold, leaving her with permanently monotone lenses.

Although in person, she had only witnessed death three times: in her dreams the terrible fate haunted her each time she dozed off. To her, the night terrors felt so incredibly real, that she often mistook them for reality. If one were to ask her about the amount of deaths she had the displeasure of witnessing firsthand, Blaire might hesitate for a second before offering up a meek shrug.

The thin line between dream and reality seemed to vanish upon the familiar weight of Sunny's limp head in her lap. She would forget about time and the impossibility of being stuck in it, and she would feel young again.

"I love you," he would mutter and her heart would shatter. Again. And again, the next night. It was an endless cycle, one that couldn't be broken by any amount of prayers.

That night— the night before her life changed for both the better and the worse, she witnessed Sunny Garfeild die. She cupped her trembling hands over his wound, attempting to lessen the outrageous blood flow. She cursed at the darkened sky with a thick, unsteady voice. And then she woke up.

"Yo, Miss Mute," A shrill, youthful voice jolted Blaire Sullivan from her land of dreams. "Wake up."

Upon being awoken from her much-needed slumber, Blaire shot up so hastily she nearly smacked her head on the top bunk of her bed. A thin sliver of drool had escaped her open mouth overnight and gradually dried on the freckled surface of her chin. Wayward brown waves were cascading down the striped material of her T-shirt: they'd fallen loose from her hastily done updo.

"You sleep through everything," Marlowe Mason, a young Hecate camper told the girl, tugging on her rumpled purple bedsheets. "You missed breakfast."

Blaire didn't offer up any sort of verbal response, she just pulled her knees close to her chest, resting her chin on the tartan plane. She'd hoped the position would provide some sort of shelter from the frigid temperatures invading the cabin.

"We've got sparring in five," Marlowe continued, fidgeting with the end of her brunette braid. She carelessly collapsed onto the older girl's bed, ignoring the odd glare Blaire aimed at her. "So, like, hurry. I should've woken you up earlier, I know. But you just looked sooo peaceful."

Once again, Blaire didn't say anything. Marlowe said enough to make up for her lack of words anyway.

She didn't really care about being late for training—she rarely went anyways— but still, she hurried to the bathroom. The last thing she wanted to deal with after enduring a trauma-ridden nightmare was her thirteen-year-old half-sister and her rapidly moving mouth. And if readying herself for sword practice was the only way out of that, then so be it.

She tried to spend as little time in the bathroom as physically possible, for she yearned to avoid the mirror. The sight of her own disheveled reflection always made Blaire cringe.

The dark bags under her brown eyes were deeply hollowed into her pale face, creating steep indents. Blaire wasn't surprised by the imperfections, considering she'd never been one to follow a certain sleep schedule. She either slept way too much, or not enough. This proved to be very unhealthy and brought forth waves of fatigue and exhaustion that corrupted her everyday tasks, turning them into impossible missions.

Not only did she have the largest eye bags she'd ever seen on a fifteen-year-old, but she also had the palest skin. It looked as if she went out of her way to avoid the beaming rays of the sun. Her ghostly complexion seemed almost sickly to those around her.

She wasn't concerned about the ill traits soiling her appearance though. Disappointed, yes— but not concerned. Since after the death of her father, Blaire bore an uncanny resemblance to a corpse. So for her, it was completely normal and nothing to fret about.

With all previous knowledge considered, it made sense that she turned her back to the mirror while brushing her teeth and plaiting her hair.

It didn't surprise Blaire that Marlowe was waiting outside the bathroom for her, leaning against the wall.

"That was quick," the young girl said. "You missed breakfast— but I think Lou Ellen has a box of blueberry Pop-Tarts under her bed."

Blaire had several half-blood siblings who were all descendants of Hecate, her mother. She wasn't close with any of them, not even the three-year-rounders who bunked with her. It wasn't like she purposely avoided their attempts at a close bond, but it was just hard to communicate kindly with them considering her mind was constantly befuddled by the ghosts of her past.

She didn't have enough energy to respond to their pathetic attempts at a friendship.

And she didn't mean to treat them with any sort of coldness, it just came naturally with her silence.

"So, I'm guessing you don't want a Pop-Tart?" Marlowe said in response to her silence. "I'd get one but I don't want you to snitch....Oh who am I kidding, you don't even talk!"

  Both of the campers zipped fluffy coats over their t-shirts before departing from the otherwise empty cabin. Miniature crystalline flakes fell from the sky rapidly and piled in heaps upon the cracked cobblestone pathway.

A ton of campers mulled around, rushing hand in hand to their first lessons and gossiping about the latest camp drama. Like the daughters of Hecate, they were all bundled up. Their cheeks were flushed from the harsh winds despite the several layers they wore. When they walked, the snow crunched under the rigid soles of their shoes.

"Are you gonna skip sparring, again?" Marlowe questioned, cocking her head. "I wish I could get away with that."

Blaire just shrugged and turned away. "Bye."

Marlowe stood on her tiptoes and pressed her cold lips to her sister's cheek, "Bye, Miss Mute," She muttered with a sigh.

Blaire lifted a singular gloved hand in silent goodbye, before turning away and dashing toward the beach.

Every morning, or at least, every morning she had the opportunity to, Blaire lounged on the beach. It was a tradition between her and her late best friends: every morning they met up on the beach and recounted their previous day. It only felt right, talking to the cloudy grey sky whilst she lay sprawled across the frosty sand, relishing in the ghost of her friend's presence.

"Sunny," Blaire sighed, dropping down onto the shoreline. She lay in a starfish position on the sand, so close to the water that the thrashing tide soaked the toe of her Converse. "I miss you."

She frowned at her own words and continued, "I wish you were still here."

She passed golden grains of sand through her gloved fingers, watching them fall between the crevices of her cupped hands. Blaire kept her gaze on the sky, hoping somehow Sunny could hear her speak.

"I dreamt about you last night," Blaire admitted, "The dream started off great. It was that one time we got in trouble with Chiron for hogging the volleyball net, and then out of nowhere you just dropped dead."

   Blaire frowned, trying to hold back the tears pooling in her eyes, "It was weird. And then I woke up to Marlowe."

She imagined how Sunny would react if he were still with her, maybe he'd laugh. Or maybe he'd tell her to let Marlowe in, tell her that Marlowe was a sweet girl worthy of a strong bond with her sister.

Sunny had always been the better part of herself. So, after he died, Blaire was left half of a rotten girl who was angry at the world. And angry at herself for destroying everything she touched.

"Sometimes—" Blaire began but hastily cut herself off when her gaze fell upon an object falling at a rapid pace from the sky. "What the Hades?"

As the falling object fell closer and closer to land, it became more clear to Blaire. It was the chariot, falling from the heavens. And it was carrying people.

  Before Blaire was able to subliminally scan the people on the chariot, it crashed into the murky depths of the lake, splashing Blaire who was still perched on the shoreline. She was doused from head to toe, but she wasn't submerged like the previously flying campers.

  Sensing the commotion, several campers scrambled from the woods, ready to witness a new topic of hot gossip. Apparently, none of them had expected a falling chariot to be at fault for the loud splash that rung across the entire area of the camp.

  A few of the nereids had helped one of the fallen teens from the water, tossing the shivering girl onto the sand, at Blaire's feet. The others had begun to surface as well.

  Blaire recognized two of the five occupants of the chariot. Butch, who was the head counselor of the Iris cabin. And Annabeth Chase, a daughter of Athena who had always been very kind to Blaire.

  Annabeth had always considered Blaire a friend. A very very distant friend, but still, a friend.

Perhaps the word acquaintance was more fitting.

  Maybe the word peer. Or even stranger.

    A muscular blonde boy, stood shakily to his feet, pulling another boy with him, this one had wide, terrified eyes.

The blonde boy's friend wasn't muscular like him, he was very scrawny. Smooth tan skin was nimbly stretched over his joints, dusted with a small amount of dark freckles. Hazelnut curls fell limply over his forehead, dripping from his plunge in the lake, obscuring his doe brown eyes.

The wide-eyed boy allowed his gaze to frantically scan over the mob of campers who had periodically collected atop the sand. Blaire, ever the observer, recognized the look of pure disbelief alight within his pupils. Many many years ago, nearly a decade, she once wore an expression mirroring his upon her arrival at Camp Half-Blood.

"Annabeth!" Will Solace, a young Apollo camper, stormed from the thick greenery, arms crossed firmly over his chest. "I said you could borrow the chariot, not destroy it!"

"Will, I'm sorry," Annabeth sighed, "I'll get it fixed, I promise."

Will scowled at the scattered ruin of his chariot before he sized up the new kids. "These are the ones?  Way older than thirteen. Why haven't they been claimed already?"

  "Claimed?" The wide-eyed boy asked, suddenly defensive.

    Before Annabeth could offer up any sort of explanation, Will queried, "Any signs of Percy?"

  Percy Jackson, Annabeth's boyfriend. Camp Half-blood's saviour. Blaire Sullivan's closest (and only) living friend.

  Once again, the term friend was very generous given the fact Blaire always felt the Jackson boy paid her mind due to mere pity. Still, he had half the heart to pretend he cared about her, unlike the other campers. He was kind to her and that was rare.

     "No," Annabeth admitted and Blaire's heart dropped.

Drew Tanaka stepped forward, blinding the camp's population with her glittery blue eyelids and bright red lips. The tall Aphrodite girl seemed to survey through a long course of emotions as she stared down the newcomers. Disgust, admiration, disgust (x2).

"Well," Drew said, placing her hands on her hips, atop the neon pink belt she wore. "I hope they are worth the trouble."

"Gee, thanks," The new boy, not the blonde one, snorted. "What are we, your new pets?"

"No kidding," The other boy scoffed in agreement, "How about some answers before you start judging us—like, what is this place, why are we here, how long do we have to stay?"

    Blaire wanted to turn and leave, to retreat from the crowd, to cower away from her peers and their flabbergasted grimaces— they rarely had the displeasure of coming in contact with Blaire for she hardly left her cabin—but she couldn't. She was rooted in place, perhaps by curiosity. Or maybe by sympathy for the newcomers, it wasn't easy, being suddenly thrust into a world of monsters and gods and mythical beings.

   "Jason," Annabeth began, "I promise we'll answer your questions. And drew, all demigods are worth saving. But I'll admit, the trip didn't accomplish what I hoped."

  "Hey," The new girl spoke, "we didn't ask to be brought here."

    Drew sniffled. "And nobody wants you here, hon."

  Classic Drew, Blaire thought. Giving others a hard time for no apparent reason.

    The insulted girl stepped forward as if to hit Drew, but Annabeth stopped her. "Piper, stop."

  "We need to make our new arrivals feel welcome," Annabeth announced, with another pointed look at Drew. "We'll assign them each a guide, give them a tour of camp. Hopefully by the campfire tonight, they'll be claimed."

  The girl—Piper— said, "Would somebody please tell me what claimed means?"

  At once, a gasp rippled through the throng of nosey campers. They all backed away wearily, tripling over each other as they went.

    Each of the warriors were bathed in an eerie red glow as if somebody had lit a torch behind them.

    Hovering above the unnamed new kid's head, was a blazing holographic image of a fiery hammer.

  "That," Annabeth said, "Is claiming."

    "What'd I do?" The cornered boy backed toward the lake. He glanced up and yelped. "Is my hair on fire?"

    He ducked but the symbol followed him, bobbing and weaving so it looked like he was trying to write something in flames with his head.

  "This can't be good," Butch murmured, "The curse."

  "Butch, shut up," Annabeth demanded. "Leo, you've just been claimed—"

  "By a god," Jason interrupted. "That's the symbol of Vulcan isn't it?"

  Everyone turned to him, excluding Blaire, who was still fixated on the tool shining above a frantic Leo's head.

   "Jason," Annabeth prompted. "How did you know that?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Vulcan?" Leo demanded, "I don't even LIKE Star Trek. What are you talking about?"

    "Vulcan is the Roman name for Hephaestus. The god of blacksmiths and fire."

  The fiery hammer faded but Leo kept swatting the air like he was afraid it was following him. "The God of what? Who?"

   Annabeth then surveyed the crowd, her eyes sparkling with mischief when they landed upon Blaire.

  "Blaire, would you take Leo, give him a tour? Introduce him to his bunkmates in Cabin Nine."

  Leo jumped in, "What's cabin nine? And I'm not a Vulcan!"

  Blaire stared at the indents her sneakers had left in the sand, avoiding eye contact with anyone who dared to look at her, praying to subliminally silence their snickers. Was this some kind of joke? Annabeth assigning Camp's residental weirdo to give the new kid a tour, knowing she hardly spoke.

  "What? Why me?" Blaire murmured, quietly, but loud enough for Annabeth to hear her.

  "Please," Annabeth pleaded, "I've got things to do. And I trust you."

  Leo's gaze fell on Blaire for the first time that day and he flashed her a sheepish grin. Blaire tried to hide her face behind her hair as she beckoned the boy forward and toward the cabins.

  MAXLYN SPEAKS: chapter one!! who is leaping, certianly not I considering this is terrible and unedited. I'm not lying when I say I have been cooking this chapter for months. also pls no blaire or marlowe hate even tho they are a tad annoying, they are just babies!!! I am aware this is grammatically terrible and boring and gruelingly long, but next chapters will be better! I will edit soon and try to better my terrible writing. thanks for reading <33