𝟎𝟏.⠀ 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭

━━ NIA

          EVEN BEFORE HER OPPONENT EXPLODES INTO MOLTEN GOLD, NIA IS HAVING A TERRIBLE MORNING.

          The usual demigod dreams of flashing images she can't comprehend make it impossible to get a decent night's sleep. The Hermes cabin isn't exactly a five-star hotel either. With more than two dozen kids crammed side by side into bunks that even the oldest campers have outgrown by now. Not to mention the monstrous snores coming from the furthest end of the cabin that she's pretty sure belong to a fellow unclaimed, Chris Rodriguez — loud enough to wake a minotaur, but the other campers are long used to it, and the never-ending noise that comes with being the most overcrowded cabin at camp.

          Nia isn't. Her grandparents' farm is the most peaceful place on the planet, with bronze fields stretching out in every direction, quiet broken by nothing but the hum of bees. She was horrified when she'd arrived in New York for the first time, an entire city buzzing with infinite energy. Even at night and as far away as Camp Half-Blood is from the city, Nia can hear the cars speeding on the highway and the jarring klaxon their occupants make as they hurry on, awake as she is in the city that never sleeps.

          To make matters worse, the Hermes cabin had lost at Capture the Flag last week, which meant she and her cabinmates were stuck with dish duty until the next game. Nia is tired of eating dinner and having to trudge to the kitchens to clean up with the harpies, who screech and squawk to one another in unintelligible bird noises as they hose off dishes with an industrial powerhouse that sends smaller kids flying if they aren't paying attention.

          That's going to change tonight. Nia doesn't care if she has to take on the guards herself to get that damn flag, just as long as she isn't soaking wet by the end of it.

          But for now, she has to focus on overtaking the dummy. Nia had chosen one of the intermediate ones — not too easy, but not too difficult either, in case she'd overestimated her sword fighting ability at the crack of dawn. The light was already spilling over the arena and the sun peeked over the strawberry fields, bathing them in a rosy glow.

          This was the kind of atmosphere she thrived in. The fresh air at camp was almost as crisp as the air back home, for which Nia was grateful after having to travel through so many smog-riddled cities on her way to Camp Half-Blood back when she'd learned that everything she'd learned about the gods turned out to be true, and turned her life upside down.

          The warmth washes over her, like someone has placed a heater inside her chest. Strength surged into her arms. Her sword didn't feel as awkward as it always did. Nia feels the hilt heat up and, grunting with effort, pushes harder back against the training mannequin's own sword from the Lost and Found in the armory. The loud clang of metal against metal rings in her ears.

          She can't help but grin in anticipation as she fights to keep from losing her footing on the gravel. An image of herself standing over a pile of enemies fills her mind's eye. She sees herself standing triumphantly with her sword in the air as the camp claps and cheers her name. Premature, she knows, but these practice dummies are easier than they —

          Nia's foot abruptly slips, and she barely has time to yelp and hastily throw her hands up to shield her face before hitting the ground roughly.

          Her sword clatters to the ground dangerously close to her. Her hands sting with pain as the gravel digs into her hands, but that isn't what worries her. She raises her head cautiously to face the training mannequin, ready to concede the fight. She's not at all prepared to see it still fully functional when it should have powered down after its demigod submits.

          Instead, her training partner raises its sword high above its head, the tip pointed straight down.

          The celestial bronze gleams in the sunlight as it prepares to drive the sword into Nia's back.

          Her breath catches in her throat, trapped by an invisible force that choked away any attempt to scream or flee. She's heard of "fight, flight, or freeze" responses but this — it isn't it. Her hands are glued to the ground so tightly she can't lift a finger. Her limbs feel heavy, as if the weight of fear anchors her to this very spot. She wants to move — by Gods, Nia wants nothing more than to simply roll over and pick up her sword to defend herself. But her body lays pressed against the ground while she stares, eyes wide in terror, up at what should've been her harmless opponent, about to skewer her clean through.

          Wait! The scream that should wake up the entire camp never comes. WAIT!

          FWOOM!

          The dummy bursts right over her head — way too close. Wet, golden liquid splashes down all over her. Whatever grip the earth had on her has melted away like icy chains. The dummy is gone, and she and a good several feet are now covered in amber. Good thing it's so early, otherwise she doesn't think she can bear a dozen kids witnessing her Carrie moment again.

          "Nia?"

          Speak of the devil.

          Luke Castellan walks toward her, his blond hair shimmering in the early morning light. Nia groans. Of course it had to be Luke to see her like this, covered in goo like a mosquito in amber. No longer tethered, she brings herself to her knees, not meeting his eyes. She glances down at her her sword, it too encased in liquid. She hates having to clean her sword already, and whatever this amber liquid is is a pain to clean. It gets in every groove and she has to spend hours at the armory trying to make sure she's gotten every bit out until another incident occurs and she makes another opponent spontaneously combust.

          She finally stands, and when she does, Luke doesn't look disappointed or annoyed, like she hadn't just dropped a glitter bomb on the arena. Instead, his eyes glitter with something she can't quite place as he surveys the scene — sympathy? Amusement?

          Whatever it is, it disappears as she finishes wiping her face so that she can see. He looks solemn, young as he is, but it's the way he presses his lips together, the muscles in his face tensing like he's trying to contain a burst of laughter, that gives him away.

          "Morning," he says nonchalantly, as if the two of them have just met at breakfast. A greeting they've given one another a thousand times, but none of them involved Nia head to toe in gold ooze. His attempt at being casual might work too, if he hadn't been trying so hard not to laugh.

          "Oh, shut up," Nia grumbles. She bends down to pick up her sword, cursing under her breath. She'll have to spend the rest of the morning at the armory instead of training for Capture the Flag.

          Not for the first time, she wishes she isn't saddled with such a vexing weapon but she doesn't do well with the other swords the camp has to offer; many of them are much too big, too bulky. Nia's is about the right size and weight — light enough to control in combat but not so much so that it does no damage.

          Connor Stoll, for instance, learned that the hard way the last time he'd teased her about her choice of weaponry. (Neither Stoll brother was much of a fighter, but then again, neither was Nia at the time. So it was really quite pleasing to knock Connor on his butt after he'd stolen her sword and replaced it with a rubber one. Travis, his twin, was most definitely in on it by the look of him doubling over in laughter. She still hasn't proven it though.)

          Luke's sword, Backbiter, hangs at his side. His hand rests easily on its hilt as he surveys her with interest. The double-edges are made of tempered steel and Celestial Bronze, and there's no doubt that something about its crescent moon blades bites back when it shoves against your own. Literally perfect for dueling, which he seems to have decidedly not to do.

          "Combat training doesn't start for hours," he reminds her, like she needs her memory refreshed. She's been at camp long enough to know the schedule.

          Nia gapes at him. "Are you serious? You were there this whole time?"

          Like most kids who've stayed at Camp Half-Blood for so long, Luke has an athletic, pretty muscular build. It comes with the territory when most of your camp activities entail training with real metal weapons — weapons that are more than capable of hurting you if you're not paralyzed with fear and not lucky enough to have a camp counselor strolling by and possessing more than enough skill to help.

          Which is why: "You could've helped!" spits Nia. A shadow crossed her face, a flicker of vulnerability that betrayed the sting of hurt much more then her bleeding palms. "The mannequin didn't shut off when I fell, Luke, I thought I was gonna die!"

          "You weren't going to die," he says firmly. The assurance in his voice catches her off guard, as if he'd breathed life into them himself "They're supposed to be enchanted so that when their opponent yields —"

          "I know what they're supposed to do," she snaps. The air around her seems to crackle, and being smothered in gold goo is not helping. "You've been here this entire time, then you saw how it kept going! If this is Connor and Travis' idea of a great joke, I swear to —"

          "This is too sophisticated for Connor and Travis," Luke remarks thoughtfully. His voice is far too calm for her liking, as if she's a child throwing a temper tantrum and Luke is the babysitter offering cool, consoling words that do nothing but upset her more.

          She grits her teeth. "Then who."

          "Not sure. But I'll talk to Chiron about it, okay?"

          A hand appears in front of her face, and Nia stamps down her anger. Her anger is less directed at Luke then it is whatever asshole thought it would be funny to stab her through the back. It's not his fault she can't hold her own in a simple duel.

          Besides. Now she realizes that if she were ever in any real danger, Luke would be the first one at her side.

          Nia grasps his cold hand in her warm one and allows him to yank her up. She can and will still hold a grudge.

          Childish? Possibly. Maybe she'll let it go once her heart stops racing like a rabbit on the run.

          "How come you didn't wait till this afternoon?"

          Nia scoffs. She's not quite ready to forget and play friendly entirely yet. "Are you kidding?" She gestures to the mess around them. "I'd rather blow up a dummy here alone than do it in front of the Ares cabin. Clarisse would kill me if I ruined her precious playground."

          He grins. "Or the Aphrodite kids might've kissed you for decorating the place."

          He suddenly turns serious. For once, Luke Castellan isn't his at-ease self. "That's the third time this month, Nia. We didn't want to ask before but this. . .it's not normal. We just want to help you. . ."

          "We." Nia repeats this with the same tone of finality he'd used a moment ago. She knows the other campers whisper about her, but she thought they were just that — whispers. "You've talked about this? With who?"

          "It's okay! I'm not going behind your back, I swear. Just Chiron."

          Chiron, Chiron, Chiron. Activities director, immortal centaur, keeper of secrets. So much information flows into the camp offices; rarely do they get anything more than hearsay.

          He tilts his head, studying her as if he's solving a puzzle and he's deciding whether or not she"s the missing piece. "But we agree, the. . .incidents aren't in control. If you do this to a person —"

          You agree, do you? "I won't," she insists stubbornly. "I mean, I haven't, and —"

          "You only haven't because no one is willing to spare you," he interrupts, perhaps more harshly than he means to, because he grimaces. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. You know I'm always up for a little Russian Roulette, right?"

          Except you did. Nia forces herself to nod, to put his comment aside. He's right, she tells herself. Not even the kids from the Ares cabin will fight with her anymore. Which is saying something, because you could always count on someone from Cabin Five to spar, especially Clarisse La Rue, who seemed to take it upon herself to warn every one of her siblings to steer clear of Nia, or else end up bursting like an overinflated tire.

          In fact, last week's Capture the Flag proved it. Nia and a group of Hermes and Apollo had been captured embarrassingly early in the game, to which she either had two options: sit and brood in the dirt until someone had won, or use the time to torment her captors. Worse case scenario, she'd fight the boredom and deal with the consequences of dish duty later. But best case? Prisoners weren't allowed to bound. And being nimble is the one thing Nia has going for her.

          This was exactly how Nia found herself running through the woods with an Ares camper red in the face, hot on her trail. Her laughter came bubbling out as she jumped over fallen logs and twisted branches.

          The air split with a roar from the Athena lines in front of her, and a different thunder shook the ground as a wave of demigods swept up from behind them. The relief hit Nia like a lightning bolt, and she was almost shaking with it as she clambered over the dug out to hide among tbe advancing wave of blue. All around her, she heard battlecries.

          Just when she thought she had escaped her pursuer, Nia felt herself being tackled from the side, all the breath leaving her body in one fell swoop as she made hard contact with the forest floor.

          "Oof!" Above her, Nia could see Clarisse quickly getting to her feet. Bright sunlight haloed around the armored girl like a vision.

          Though her breath hasn't fully returned, Nia knew there was no chance of winning this fight by staying on the ground.

          "All this because you let me get away?" Nia exclaimed. She bounded on the spot as best she could to shake out the stiffness in her limbs.

          (How could she have known at the time that Clarisse La Rue had been shunned for a quest? How could Nia have known why Clarisse was taking her anger out on her?)  

          The older girl smirked, as though she'd already won. "Maybe I just like a challenge."

          She actually managed to block Clarisse's first jab, but not the second. It caught her hard on the jaw, her head snapping back. Nia tried to shake it off, but it was getting harder and harder to dodge blows when she sees three girls in front of her, not one.

          She took Clarisse's jolt hard to the gut. As Nia gasped for breath, she followed with the back of her spear, which she managed to avoid more by luck than skill.

          The Ares girl pressed her advantage and lunged forward — her mistake. Nia may have been weak and slow, but Luke had taught her to make use of your opponent's strength.

          Nia pivoted to the side, and as Clarisse came in close, the former hooked her leg around her her ankle. The daughter of the war god went down hard.

          A cheer went up in the group of demigods closest to her, ones who had been too busy battling their own adversaries but had witnessed her win. But before Nia had a chance to even register her victory, Clarisse sat up, her expression furious, her spear slashing through the air with an arc of electricity. Nia felt herself lifted off her feet as she sailed backward through the air and slammed into a tree trunk. Something cracked, and for the second time in less than ten minutes, all the breath went out of her body as she slid to the ground.

          Dimly, she was aware of some demigods gathering around her, of someone calling for a Healer.

          "I'm fine," she tried to say, but there wasn't enough air in her lungs to speak. Nia lay in the dirt, panting shallowly until a child of Apollo hurried over just in time for Nia to faint in her arms.

          She'd been told the rest once she came to in the infirmary; how they'd given her ambrosia and waited for her to wake up, how furious Chiron had been with Clarisse, how even though her team had won the flag fair and square, she would be joining the losers in the extra chore rotations as punishment.

          Clarisse's seething face as she withstood the water blasts in the kitchen alongside the rest of them for a change was well worth the bruised rib and concussion in Nia's opinion. But now the daughter of Ares was even more incensed than usual, and Nia knew losing another game was not an option for either of them.

          "— sorry I didn't step in," is Luke's current comment. Only then does she realizes he's been speaking this whole time. "— Hopefully there won't be a next time, and I'll keep an eye on them, but you know I have your back no matter what.   . . .  Nia?"

          ". . .Thanks, Luke. That means a lot."

          Luke is perceptive, but even he can swallow a lie of thanks wrapped prettily in honesty.

          "Just making sure you're not concussed or anything, you know," he teased, and it shouldn't have meant so much, that there was someone here who remotely cared if she was broken or bleeding.

          But then again, that's simply Luke's nature; to see a new, bright-eyed demigod and take it under his wing before the gods stamped out whatever hope they'd by some miracle been able to arrive with.

          "You saw that?"

          "Well, yeah," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't want to distract you. You seemed like you were actually going to win. Was the dummy set to the first level?"

          "Thanks for the vote of confidence." The bitter edge to her voice returns. "And no, it wasn't. Just intermediate."

          ". . .I keep digging myself deeper, don't I?"

          "Absolutely."

          For some reason, he still looks impressed. "Not bad." He gives her a reassuring smile, and that warm feeling washes over her again. The sun must be making its way up the hill. "You're getting a lot better, you know. You used to not be able to lift a sword above your head. Now you're fighting like a hero."

          Even the smallest compliment about her combat training is enough to make Nia's day; Luke's words have enough to power an entire week. Little by little, the grudge melts, until all that remains is a lone, fleeting storm cloud.

          Her cheeks turn pink and she smiles in spite of her bad mood. It's true, she's worked harder than anyone else at camp — combat comes so easily to everyone else, even the Aphrodite kids, who curl their lip in disgust at the idea of spending an entire afternoon mucking it up in the forest for a piece of fabric. While she's not the worst at evasion and stealth, combat is where a demigod's true talent should lie.

          Just look at Luke. His parry makes Nia's look like she's aggressively squatting on the toilet, for crying out loud.

          Luke pats her shoulder in approval, and Nia realizes she's been smiling broadly for too long. When he withdraws his arm, they can both see it's covered/plastered in amber liquid.

          "Sorry about that," Nia says hurriedly. She tries wiping his hands with hers in hopes of lessening the liquid, but only succeeds in covering more of his wrist. "This stuff never comes off. . ."

          The son of Hermes surprises her again with a laugh. The smile tugging at his lips breaks into another easy grin. "No worries. I'm gonna hit the showers anyway." He looks down and frowns.

          Nia does too, seeing as how the most interesting thing between them is her sword. She wonders for a split second if it's broken or something. Then with far more gentleness than she expected from a seasoned demigod like Luke, he takes her hands and holds them in his as if he's cradling a baby bird. His frown deepens. "You hit the ground pretty hard. Where are your cuts?"

          "What? They're right —" Nia pulls her hands out of his to get a better look and can't believe her eyes.

          It's a bit of a challenge to see the skin of her palms clearly beneath the smears of gold. White scratches are in place of where the cuts should be. Razor-blade thin rivers of blood run over them, blending in with the amber.

          Eyes wide and lips parted in amazement, Nia looks up at Luke, whose face seems to have aged a decade in a moment. "They were right here!"

          She felt every piece of gravel run against her palms, every centimeter of sharp stone dig into her skin. So where are the gashes to prove it?

          "They were right here," she repeats to herself, quieter this time. She traces the furthest curve on her left hand where a deep cut should be in wonder. "That's never happened before. . .I. . .I guess I didn't fall as hard as I thought."

          For a split second, she swears she sees Luke's face darken. It's so quick she can't tell in anger or in sadness, but it's enough to unsettle her. Whatever woke up Luke so early this morning had already troubled him, even if he does a good job at hiding it. Nia leans down to pick up her sword, and just like that, the look is gone, and his usual easy  smile in its place. It looks plastered on, like a picture nailed to the wall.

          "I'll see you back here later, Nia," he promises. "Don't worry about Clarisse, okay? She'll come around."  His smile is still plastered in place, and his words are genuine, not forced, but his hand grips the hilt of his sword more tightly than before. "Let me know if you need a sparring partner, okay? Chiron won't be too happy about our dwindling supply of targets."

          He says it like a joke, but Nia knows it's true; the centaur takes great care to animate and reanimate the dummies for sword fighting practice, so to keep having them spontaneously blow up like a piñata probably isn't winning her any points. There's no way he hasn't noticed. It's a wonder she hasn't been banned yet.

Luke Castellan walks away and she follows, an invincible string tied between them.

          It's afternoon by the time Nia makes her way to the armory. After cleaning up as best she could in Cabin Eleven completing her round of chores, and of course, filling in for dish duty after breakfast, Nia is already exhausted. She's almost tempted to march back to her bunk and collapse and sleep for the next twelve hours. Almost.

          She carries her sword wrapped in an old blanket (there's no way she's letting any of the stuff glue all over her again) and replays the last capture the flag game in her mind. She needs to be ready this time. She doesn't want to explode anyone. Just their weapon. Or their armor, maybe.

          It'd be great if I knew how to control it. If only. Then everyone would be worried about how to get the glitter out of their clothes and she wouldn't tell them the best way to eradicate all traces of mysterious golden liquid entirely. At least for a few days.

          But that was exactly what she'd said her first week at camp. Her second. Third. Each week like clockwork, she prays to whatever god was listening to hear anything about her father, her mother. She knows nothing about her ancestry, even less so than other kids at camp. They at least know which was their godly side; Nia has no idea which side is mortal and long gone and which is cozying up on Olympus, ignoring her for nearly a year.

          Her grandmother used to say her father was the most silver-tongued man she'd ever met, capable of stringing together anything to make it seem like the most eloquent speech you'd ever heard. She'd believed it for the longest time, too. Then an old farmhand had been passing through when she'd gotten older and Nia had realized that her grandparents were simply getting old. They listened to everyone's stories with a kind of raptured engagement that made Nia double take and wonder if the neighbor really had only stepped in the lake to save his daughter's favorite bow when she'd gone canoeing or if he'd battled the Loch Ness monster while he was at it.

          She'd stopped believing their stories a long time ago. Still, Nia couldn't help praying to Apollo when she made her offerings at dinner. If any Olympian was eloquent at camp, it had to be the god of poetry, right?

          She'd felt like she finally made a break in figuring out her godly parent until the last demigod had stumbled into Camp Half-Blood — literally stumbled, he'd tripped over his shoes trying to reach the property line despite the notable lack of monsters pursuing him — and been claimed almost immediately by Apollo.

          A blinding golden light engulfed his body, and a golden sun with dozens of arrow-shaped rays appeared above his head. So much for subtlety.

          Needless to say, Nia is used to far-fetched stories. It may be why she hadn't been as shocked as other demigods had been to learn about the gods when they arrived at camp. It was always the same: they'd deny it vehemently — "there's no way the Greek gods actually exist," they'd say with a scoff, looking around for anyone to back them up. When no one did, they'd try to counter it. "If they really do exist, why didn't they help me when I failed my algebra test? Or when my uncle couldn't pay rent? Where were they when the monsters attacked?"

          All very good questions, and no real answers.

          Why haven't they claimed me?

          "There are some questions only the gods themselves can answer," Chiron had said at her second morning at camp. His fingers were steepled and pressed to his chin as he regarded her. "You have to patient. I know the future looks blurry, but just do what you can. The gods don't reveal what they want on the whims of mortals. Have faith, Nia. We'll help you adjust."

          Have faith. Not a chance.

          Nia's mind is so occupied that she's surprised to find herself in front of the armory so quickly. The path is so familiar at this point that her legs automatically take her here, she supposes. Not the most comforting thought.

          At first glance, the large metal shed looks like it's meant for gardening tools, but the inside is a lot more unnerving for your average farmer. (Nia can only imagine what a glimpse would do to her grandparents, what with the myriad of deadly objects.) The shed was lined with all sorts of weapons — from swords to spears to baseball bats spiked with nails. Any weapon a demigod could imagine, and then some.

          Whoever designed the armory clearly hadn't intended for anyone to do anything more than grab a quick weapon or two, but its uses have grown in recent years (re: decades), or so she's told.

          The Hephaestus Cabin has its own methods of repairing weapons, plus the Forge to construct them from scratch. But Nia prefers the overcast, enclosed space of the armory where she can muck out her sword in peace without having to hear any jeering comments over her shoulder. 

          The only problem? The only light that illuminates the area are the weaponry.  Celestial Bronze glows brightly from each blade and dagger. The compact building only has one small window that looks lile it wasn't part of its original construction. It doesn't help that the glass is papered with sheets of decorative cloth either. The fabric has completely faded on the side exposed to the sunlight, and whatever was there is gone. Scorched away.

          It's not a problem during the day, but it's one of the several reasons why no one visits the armory at night. Tripping and maiming hazard included.

          Inside stands a squat girl only a few inches taller than Nia with olive skin and short, ragged hair, like someone has attacked it with a pair of scissors. The singed ends rest just above her shoulders. Malia Butler, daughter of Hephaestus, has her back to the door, surveying an array of identical spears.

          "I can't tell," says Malia abruptly. Her face is still turned away, so Nia's not quite sure if she's talking to her or to herself. Being a child of Hephaestus, a god more adept at studying machinery than human behavior, the latter's honestly entirely possible.

          Nia decides to humor her in case it's the first option. "Can't tell. . .what?"

          The Hephaestus girl suddenly whirls around, and Nia winces at the colorful bruise beginning to bloom under her eye. "Rough repairs?" she guesses.

          Malia waves her hand impatiently. "We put way too much force into the trick telescope —" Nia opens her mouth to ask why they've invented a scope that gives you black eyes, but Malia drags her over to the table covered in spears. "But that's not it — tell me, which one do you think has the best mobility? I've been trying to experiment with thicker slabs but I don't know if I've gotten the balance right. . ."

          Past experience has taught Nia that tuning a lot of demigods out is the only way to concentrate on what they're asking. She looks down at the identical array of spears on the table before her; each is less than two meters with a lead-shaped blade on one end and a short spike at the other.

          Great, Nia thinks. She's making the spears more deadly. The spike is smaller in comparison to the blade, clearly designed to penetrate the gaps in a person's armor from a safe distance.

          "They all look identical," she remarks, and it's true. There's no visible difference between any of the spears, aside from their varying degrees of surface-level grime. No way Nia is giving manufacturer tips to make it even easier for the other team to pummel hers during Capture the Flag.

          "Other than the scissored rain guard, you mean?"

          Nia has no idea what she's talking about. "Um, look, I just came in here to clean my own sword up." The blanket's getting heavier by the minute. If she doesn't out it down soon the armory's going to follow the same fate as the arena. 

          Malia finally notices Nia carrying her sword, who suspects that if she hadn't holding a weapon Malia wouldn't have noticed if she was carrying a skunk. She looks at her warily. "It happened again?"

       "Yes," says Nia defensively. "Obviously," she can't help but mutter under her breath. You'd think she'd killed someone.

       "Has it ever occurred to you that your sword is the issue?" Malia asks bluntly. Her eyes follow Nia's movements as she uncovers the blanket, as if being turned to goo is worth examining the weapon capable of such a deplorable demise. "Maybe it's not the bearer that's causing the combustions but the weapon. You should come by Cabin Five sometime; we could take it apart and —"

       "No!" Nia blurts hastily.

       A momentary freeze grips her olive skim, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, like she can't quite believe anyone wouldn't jump at the opportunity to study an enigmatic piece of weaponry. But Nia has absolutely no desire to disassemble the only gift she has from her godly parent like a curious toddler taking apart the telephone for the first time.

          She imagined giving up her sword. Nia had held it for the first time only a year ago, when her grandfather had thrust it into her hands with urgent instructions to defend the cows in the pasture. When she got there, she'd found a herd of monsters gulping down cattle, their belches sounding suspiciously like mooing.

          In the end, there was little to do but flee. As she ran after her Satyr Protector, Nia glanced back and saw the barn in flames, the walls collapsing inward and smoke billowing into the sky.

       Malia still stands shock-still, like a statue caught in a sudden gust of wind. Too still, in fact, resembling more of her father's inanimate machinery than a human caught of guard. Nia clears her throat in a painfully obvious attempt to clear the air. "Er — I mean — um. No. Thank you."

       She shrugs noncommittally, as though Nia hadn't bitten her head off moments ago. "You could always go for axes and maces. They're lethal enough." She runs an eye over the hilt, the bright metal scored with faint grooves, glinting even through the lone grimy window.

       "I prefer swords," says Nia truthfully. "I think they're easier. I tried to hang a mace and chain from my belt once. I took one step and fell over."

       "A dagger, then," she suggests.

       Nia ponders this. A dagger would be helpful to conceal, unlike a sword and its sheath. More versatile, precise.

       "A dagger is subtle," Malia murmurs, more to herself than anything, perhaps sensing Nia's hesitation. The edges glitter under her gaze, even underneath the amber sap. "It's suited for a subtle fighter. I think you're more subtle than you look."

       Nia frowned. She's been accused of many things in her life, but never subtlety. Still, she'd seriously consider it, but a nagging voice in her mind forces her to reconsider the sword she holds in her arms. Filthy as it is, it's hers. Nia isn't sure she could bear to part with it for a weapon that dozens of other demigods handled before her.

       Everything at Camp Half-Blood is second-hand — the bunks, the clothes, the weapons. Countless demigods stood where she is, hoping to find a weapon that suited them just as she mulls over it now. But this sword is hers, and hers alone. It's one of the few things she owns that's survived not only her journey to camp, but her year here too.

       It can explode all the training dummies it wants. Nia's keeping it.

       She rewraps the blanket around her sword more carefully than earlier. "I think I'll stick with what I've got. Thanks, though."

       Malia nods like she understands. She points absentmindedly to a shelf neatly lined with chemicals/chemical bottles, her focus already shifting back to her spears. "Rice paper and coffee filters are over there. Brushes and scrapers are in the second drawer on the left."

       "I know that," Nia grumbles, an edge of bitterness returning in her voice as she drags her feet to the all too familiar corner. Malia knows all too well she's been in here to clean her sword from whatever this gold gunk is before. Nia's certainly left enough of a mess in here afterwards to prove it.

       The ground is splattered with drenched in gold liquid — other times Nia's been in here to clean up her sword and couldn't be bothered to mop the floor when she'd finished. It's enough of a pain to wipe the substance off the metal completely to begin with, but to scrap down the grooves, get between the cracks, polish every crook and cranny from the hilt to the blade. . .it's definitely asking for too much. Sitting through such a tedious and mundane task was almost as bad as school. . .almost.

       Nia settles herself on a low woven stool that is all too familiar, her tools and rags strewn on the ground around her. Every now and then she can feel Malia scrutinizing her — perhaps now with more curiosity than suspicion — with those dark eyes that seemed to burn through her like a sword flickering in the heat of a forge. What did she see? A broken girl, so errant she couldn't keep a proper weapon? A failed demigod? Or perhaps her love of arms had blinded her to the real issue of its bearer, incapable of defending herself when the crucial moment came.

       She doesn't tell her, and Nia doesn't have the heart to ask. Instead, she sits there for what feels like hours. At first her spine is as rigid as the iron rods scattered throughout the shed as she works, determined to demonstrate her confidence in her weapon for as long as as possible.

       But as the time passes, her back curves until she bends all the way forward, her elbows resting on her knees, defeated, mechanically scrubbing the golden blade that will never see a battle outside the confines of camp.

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( A/N. )

when i say this is a rough first chapter,,,,,whoo boy do i mean it

i know i literally didn't give any explanation at all as to why training dummies explode into gold goo whenever nia's in danger but it'll be relevant later i swear 😭 as first chapters go, i'm not happy with this at all but it had to come out at some point or else the show will have finished by the time i write anything lmao.

this isn't quite like some of my other fics for other fandoms in that there's more freedom and more opportunities to be creative within the pjo universe but then that also means you're on your own for minor chapter events,,,which results in chapters like these somehow also being 6.4k words lmao.

anyway!! thoughts, comments, concerns, questions? i'd really like to have at least one chapter introduce each of the four characters before being issued the quest, though that comes with the same issue of trying to figure out what these kids do all day at camp besides spar.....

( word count: 6.4k )