Archive of Our Own

There's danger in beauty.

Louis' POV

The clang of swords slices through the morning air—sharp, relentless, and rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing across the packed earth of the training arena. Each strike rings out beneath the towering pine trees of Camp Half-Blood, their needles whispering in the breeze as sunlight filters through in golden shafts, catching the dust kicked up by fast-moving feet and spinning blades.

Louis tightens his grip on the celestial bronze sword, the one he’d chosen from the central Armory weeks ago. Or maybe it had chosen him. The way it fit in his hand—balanced, familiar, almost eager—it felt less like a weapon and more like a memory waiting to be remembered. Sweat beads along his brow and slides down his temple, stinging slightly as it reaches the corner of his eye. His stance is firm: feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight centered. Just like Liam taught him.

“Again,” Liam says, voice low but commanding as he circles Louis like a hawk sizing up prey. His own blade rests against his shoulder, casual in posture but not in presence. His gaze is razor-sharp, dissecting every movement. “You’re dropping your left shoulder when you swing. That’s a gift to a monster’s throat. You want to hand it over wrapped in a bow?”

Louis exhales through his nose, jaw tight, and nods. He resets his stance, rolling his shoulders back. The sword feels heavier today. Or maybe it’s the weight in his chest—the ache that hasn’t left since he arrived. A month at camp, and he still dreams of Lottie. Her laugh, her stubborn tilt of the chin, the way she always believed him even when no one else did. That kind of loyalty doesn’t fade. It lingers like a song stuck in your head.

He swings again. This time, cleaner. Sharper. The blade whistles through the air, catching the light.

Liam grins, stepping in to clap him on the back. “There we go. Dad would be proud.”

Louis snorts, breathless. “Or at least mildly impressed.”

“Which, in Hermes terms, is basically a standing ovation,” Liam says with a laugh. “Trust me, I’ve seen him nod once. It was historic.”

Louis chuckles, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. “You should’ve framed it.”

“I tried. He said it was ‘excessive.’” Liam gestures toward the rest of the arena. “Take five. You’ve earned it.”

Louis steps back, letting his arms fall to his sides. Around him, the arena hums with life. Hermes kids spar in pairs, their movements quick and clever, orange camp shirts clinging to sweat-slicked backs, beaded necklaces bouncing with each dodge and strike. Campers from other cabins join in, laughter and shouts rising like birdsong. Bruises bloom on forearms and shins, but no one seems to mind. The chaos is familiar. Warm. Like a family that’s learned to thrive on teasing and shared trouble.

“Oi, Louis!” Niall’s voice cuts through the hum of the training grounds, bright and unmistakable. He’s standing at the archery range, waving a bow in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other like he’s conducting a symphony of chaos. His golden hair catches the sunlight, practically glowing, and his grin is wide enough to rival Apollo’s.

“Come shoot with me later!” he calls, voice full of mischief. “I need someone to make me look good!”

Louis lifts a thumb in acknowledgment, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “You mean worse, right?”

“Details!” Niall shouts, already turning back to his target with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s missed five in a row and still thinks he’s winning.

Louis chuckles under his breath, the sound lost in the clang of swords and the thud of arrows hitting straw. He lets his gaze wander across the arena, past the sparring campers and the sun-dappled pine trees, until it lands on a figure sitting in the shade near the edge of the field.

Zayn. Cabin Thirteen. Son of Hades.

The only known child of the Big Three currently residing at Camp Half-Blood. The only one, period, as far as anyone knew. He sits cross-legged on the ground, sketchbook balanced on one knee, charcoal staining his fingers like shadows clinging to skin. His Camp Half-Blood shirt hangs loose, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his dark hair falls into his eyes as he draws—quiet, focused, untouched by the noise around him.

Seven beads hang from his necklace, each one marking a year survived at camp. Liam has five.

Louis watches him for a moment, brow furrowing. Zayn’s been there every morning. Always in the same spot. Always sketching. Never training. Never sparring. Never speaking.

Just... watching.

“Liam,” Louis murmurs, nudging his half-brother with an elbow. “Doesn’t Zayn train? Like, ever?”

Liam follows his gaze, eyes landing on the figure in the shade. “Probably does. Just not where anyone can see. He’s not exactly the performative type.”

Louis tilts his head. “Why not?”

“Because people already flinch when he walks past,” Liam says, lowering his voice. “Son of Hades. One of the Big Three. That kind of power makes people nervous. They expect drama. Destruction. So he keeps his skills to himself. Doesn’t give them a reason to panic.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Liam says, voice steady. “Most campers steer clear. Too powerful, too moody, too mysterious. But he’s not dangerous. Just... reserved.”

Louis watches Zayn again. The way his eyes flick up from the page, scanning the arena with quiet precision before dropping back down.

“He doesn’t talk to anyone,” Louis observes.

“Only when he has to,” Liam replies. “And even then, it’s brief. You know how it goes—something weird happens, a storm rolls in, a monster shows up in the woods, and suddenly everyone’s whispering about the child of Hades. It’s exhausting, I bet. But he’s a year-rounder. He stays through the winters. Through the silence. Through the suspicion.”

Louis’s gaze lingers. “You think he sneaks out?”

“I think he’s capable of it,” Liam says with a shrug. “No one’s caught him, but he’s powerful. And perceptive. He’s got this whole ‘I’m not here to make friends’ vibe, but he’s never rude. Just quiet. Keeps to himself. But if you ever get past that wall, he sees everything. Reads people like books.”

Louis nods slowly, curiosity blooming like a bruise. Zayn’s eyes flick up again, and this time Louis follows the line of his gaze. It lands on the group of Aphrodite kids practicing nearby—elegant, yes, but mostly hopeless. One girl shrieks as her blade clatters to the ground, another boy twirls his spear like it’s a dance prop.

But Zayn’s eyes aren’t on the chaos.

They’re locked on one boy in particular—tall, lean, and graceful in a way that doesn’t demand attention but earns it anyway. His curls catch the sunlight like spun gold, haloed against the backdrop of sparring campers and flying dust. There’s a quiet concentration etched into his features as he adjusts his grip on the dagger, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted in thought. He’s beautiful—not in the loud, polished way most Aphrodite kids are, but in a way that feels unintentional. Soft. Earnest. Not trying to be admired at all.

Louis tilts his head, watching the way Zayn’s gaze doesn’t waver. “He’s watching him.”

Liam follows the line of sight, then lets out a low chuckle. “Ah. That’d be Harry. Son of Aphrodite. I like him too. He’s more determined than the others from his cabin—doesn’t care much for drama or mirror worship, but still ends up looking like a walking daydream. And he actually trains. Wants to improve. Doesn’t just pose with weapons for the aesthetic.”

Louis’s eyes flick between Harry and Zayn. The latter’s gaze lingers a beat longer, then drops back to the sketchbook balanced on his knee. His fingers move again, slow and deliberate, charcoal sweeping across the page.

“He’s drawing him,” Louis murmurs.

“Probably,” Liam says, voice softer now. “Zayn sketches everything. Monsters, campers, shadows in the woods. But yeah... Harry most of all. Stunning muse, I dare say. Can’t blame him.”

Louis doesn’t respond right away. He watches the way Zayn’s shoulders stay relaxed, the way his eyes flick up every few seconds to study Harry’s posture, the curve of his wrist, the way he bites his lip when he’s frustrated. There’s no performance in it. Just quiet observation. Quiet longing.

Something shifts in Louis’s chest. A flicker of something he hasn’t felt in weeks. Not since arriving at camp with guilt heavy in his bones and a sword he barely knew how to hold. He’s spent the last month trying to become someone who could fight back. Someone useful. Someone strong.

But now, watching Zayn sketch in silence and glance toward Harry with something unspoken in his eyes, Louis wonders if there’s more to this place than just survival. More than drills and bruises and monster attacks.

Maybe there’s something worth protecting. Maybe there’s someone.

Maybe he’s not the only one haunted by someone he’s lost.

The break stretches long enough for the sun to climb higher, casting warm gold across the backs of their necks and the dust-swept arena. Louis leans against the weathered wooden railing that borders the training field, his sword resting beside him, the handle still slick with sweat and effort. The wood creaks faintly beneath his weight, sun-bleached and scarred from years of demigod drills.

Liam sits cross-legged on the ground nearby, sipping lazily from his canteen, his eyes fixed on the Aphrodite cabin’s latest attempt at combat training. The scene unfolding before them is less battlefield, more slapstick comedy.

One boy twirls his sword like a baton, nearly decapitating the girl beside him, who shrieks and stumbles backward. Another girl lets out a startled yelp as her dagger slips from her grip and lands point-down in the dirt, narrowly missing her foot.

Louis squints, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Are they all just bad at weapons?” His tone isn’t cruel—more curious than anything. He knows he’s still new, still learning, but even he’s faring better than this.

Liam snorts, nearly choking on his water. “Not all of them. But to be fair, they’ve got other weapons than the usual kind.”

Louis tilts his head, catching the implication. “You mean their beauty.”

Liam grins, teeth flashing. “Exactly.”

Louis glances back at the group, watching them move with a kind of chaotic grace. Every single one of them looks like they’ve stepped out of a magazine spread—glowing skin, perfect hair, limbs that seem to glide even when they’re flailing. It’s surreal. Almost eerie.

“They’re all objectively beautiful,” Louis mutters, half to himself. “But I’m not really into that. I mean... not just that.”

Liam raises an eyebrow, amused. “Not into beauty?”

Louis shrugs, brushing sweat from his brow. “I’d rather date a daughter of Athena or Ares. You know, warrior types. Someone who can actually fight. I don’t like people who rely on looks alone.”

Liam chuckles, nudging him with his shoulder. “You’re such a Hermes kid.”

“What, because I like people who can stab things?”

“No,” Liam says, nudging him again with his foot this time. “Because you judge fast and talk faster.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m just saying. I don’t get the appeal of relying on looks. It’s shallow.”

Liam hums thoughtfully. “Don’t judge too quickly, mate. Some of them are big-headed, yeah, but some are serious. Reserved. You’d be surprised.”

Louis doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts again to the boy with the dagger—Harry.

Unlike the others, Harry isn’t twirling or posing. His grip is firm, his stance grounded. The dagger flashes in the sunlight as he slices through the air with quiet precision, each movement deliberate and clean. His curls fall into his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on the arc of his blade. There’s no showmanship. Just effort.

A few other girls beside him try to match his seriousness, adjusting their stances and mimicking his form, but they don’t hold a candle to him. Louis watches him a moment longer, something shifting in his chest. A flicker of respect. Maybe even curiosity.

“Okay,” Louis murmurs. “Maybe one of them’s not shallow.”

Liam grins, catching the change in his tone, following his gaze. “Told you. Don’t let the glitter fool you.”

“He’s good,” Louis murmurs, nodding toward Harry, who’s now adjusting his stance with quiet precision. The dagger, back in his hand, gleams.

Liam exhales with a small smile. “Yeah, he is. Like I said—he actually works at it. Most Aphrodite kids? You don’t see them on the frontlines. They’re more... background players. Their powers tend to be subtle. Surface-level.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, watching as another Aphrodite camper fumbles her grip and drops her blade with a frustrated groan—only to immediately check her compact mirror, as if the reflection might offer tactical advice.

“What kind of powers do they usually have?” Louis asks, curiosity piqued.

Liam stretches his legs out, brushing pine needles off his knee. “Well, the basics? Permanent makeup, control over clothing—fabric manipulation, color changes, that sort of thing. All of them speak fluent French, too. Don’t ask me why, but it’s weirdly useful when we get quests in Europe.”

Louis snorts. “So they’re stylish and multilingual. Deadly combo.”

Liam chuckles. “Exactly. But every now and then, you get one who’s... different. Powerful. Worthy of fear. They don’t come around often, but when they do, you remember them.”

Louis leans forward, intrigued. “What kind of powerful?”

Liam’s expression shifts, growing more serious. “There’s shapeshifting. Not just appearances—they can mimic voices, personalities, even emotional rhythms. Imagine someone who could become you. Not just look like you, but sound like you. Think like you. It’s rare, but terrifying.”

Louis whistles low. “That would be useful. And dangerous.”

“Very,” Liam agrees. “Then there’s Amokinesis—control over feelings and desire. The last Head Counselor of Cabin Ten had it. But instead of using it for missions, she used it to stir drama. Tried to make her ex-boyfriend fall back in love with her... even though he was dating her sister.”

Louis winces. “Oof. That’s brutal.”

“Camp-wide chaos,” Liam says, shaking his head. “It’s a shame, really. That kind of power could’ve been incredible in the field. But she wasted it on heartbreak and jealousy.”

Louis agrees. What a shame, truly. It could’ve been lethal to someone crueler, with ambition that is beyond the typical calling of an Aphrodite child.

Liam’s voice drops a notch when he continues. “Then there’s the Charmspeakers.”

Louis straightens slightly. “What do they do?”

“One word,” Liam says, “and you obey. Their voice carries power—real power. Not just suggestion, but control. It’s like possession. They speak, and your body listens before your brain catches up. Unlike shapeshifting, which is mimicry, or Amokinesis, which is more like emotional manipulation... Charmspeaking gets inside your head. It rewires you.”

Louis swallows. “That’s… disturbing.”

“Exactly,” Liam says. “The effects don’t always last long, but sometimes... you don’t wake up the next day to find out how long it lasted. I’d never want to cross someone who can Charmspeak.”

Louis falls quiet, watching Harry again. The boy moves with quiet determination, focused and unflinching. There’s no sign of manipulation, no hint of supernatural influence. Just effort. Just grit.

He wonders, briefly, what Harry’s gift is. If he has one at all. Or if he’s just choosing to fight without it.

Louis watches Harry for a moment longer, eyes tracing the way his curls bounce as he moves, the way his shoulders stay relaxed even when his grip tightens. Then, almost reluctantly, his gaze drifts to the edge of the arena.

Zayn is still there.

Perched in the shade like a shadow stitched to the earth, sketchbook balanced on one knee, pencil moving in slow, deliberate strokes. His fingers are smudged with charcoal, his sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms dusted with faint scars and ink. Every few seconds, his eyes flick up—never scanning the crowd, never distracted.

Always landing on Harry.

Louis frowns, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “So... he’s Zayn’s favorite subject, huh? He really just spends the whole morning drawing?”

Liam doesn’t even glance over. “He usually does.”

Louis hesitates, then asks, “I noticed Zayn’s necklace has seven beads. So he’s been here since he was twelve?”

“Eleven,” Liam corrects, stretching his legs out in front of him. “He and Harry actually arrived the same summer. From what I heard, Zayn was protecting Harry from the monster chasing them to the border. Carried him halfway, fought off the thing, and got them both inside.”

Louis’s chest tightens. The memory hits fast—branches whipping past, the satyr’s panicked grip on his wrist, the roar behind them that felt too close. He wonders if Zayn had felt the same fear. If Harry had.

“So it’s a universal welcome to demigod life, then?” Louis mutters. “Being chased to the border by something with too many teeth?”

Liam chuckles, dry and knowing. “There’ve been luckier ones, sure. But yeah. Most of us had to earn our entrance with a monster. It’s like an initiation rite. You survive the first monster, you belong.”

Louis presses his lips together. First hundred monsters, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts the subject. “So... Harry’s a year-rounder like Zayn?”

“Harry’s a summer kid,” Liam says, arms now folded behind his head. “But don’t tell anyone—I think Zayn sneaks out when Harry’s gone. Visits him.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Are they more than friends?” He tries to sound casual, but the question lands heavier than he expects. “Zayn seems... keen.”

Liam tilts his head, considering. “They’re close. Harry’s the only one Zayn lets inside Cabin 13.”

Louis whistles low. “Isn’t that normal, going into other cabins?”

“For us, yeah. For Zayn? Not even close. He’s been here so long, most of the campers who arrived with him are off at Camp Jupiter now. College, Legion training, all that. No one’s left who remembers what the inside of Cabin 13 looks like.”

“So... they’re dating?” Louis doesn’t know why he insists, but the question slips out anyway.

“If they are, it’s private,” Liam says, voice softer now. “No one knows for sure. But I do know Zayn’s got feelings for him.”

Louis turns back toward Harry. He’s laughing now—soft, unguarded, head tilted back just enough to catch the sun. Louis catches the flash of bunny teeth, the curve of a dimple, and the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds.

He doesn’t mean to think it, but he does: That’s a really cute smile.

And then, just as quickly, he shakes the thought away. He’s not here for gossip. Not here for crushes or camp drama.

He’s here to fight. To train. To avenge his sister.

But still... he watches Harry for a moment longer. For absolutely no reason at all.

Monday, at breakfast.

The dining pavilion thrums with morning energy—sunlight spilling across long wooden tables, the clatter of plates and silverware mixing with laughter and half-shouted conversations. The scent of syrup and strawberries, grapes, cheese and extra lean, nymph-cut barbecue drifts lazily through the open air, carried on a breeze that rustles the banners overhead. Campers sit clustered by cabin, their beaded necklaces catching the light, though a few—like Niall—float freely, welcomed everywhere with grins and stolen bites of food.

Louis stabs at his pancakes, enchanted goblet in hand, not really tasting them, half-listening to the buzz until a familiar voice rises above the din.

“Capture the Flag,” Chiron announces, standing tall at the head of the pavilion, his presence commanding instant attention. “Friday night. Standard rules. Teams will be finalized by Thursday evening. Begin forming alliances.”

The reaction is immediate.

Cheers erupt from the Ares table, fists pounding the wood as they start flexing and boasting. Athena kids lean in close, already whispering strategy. Hermes cabin—Louis’s own—breaks into a flurry of bets and wild predictions before teams are even named. Someone’s already offering two drachmas on Zayn flipping sides mid-game.

Liam leans over, grinning like he’s just been handed a sword and a challenge. “Here we go.”

Later, as they walk toward the training arena, the air still buzzing with anticipation, Louis nudges him. “Who do we usually team with?”

Liam shrugs, hands tucked behind his head. “Depends. Athena and Ares are always on opposite sides. That’s tradition. Aphrodite sometimes sits out. Sometimes a third joins in.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “A third?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, chuckling. “Like that one time Zayn refused to join any group and played solo.”

Louis blinks. “He played Capture the Flag alone?”

“His second summer,” Liam confirms. “I wasn’t here yet, but the story’s camp legend. First summer, he didn’t join at all. But that year? He went solo. And won.”

Louis whistles low. “That’s... kind of epic.”

“Tell me about it. Since then, he usually teams with Athena. He’s got some kind of beef with Ares Cabin. Long story.”

Louis nods slowly. “And he’s close to you, too, right?”

“Yeah. So he usually joins whatever team I’m on.” Liam shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s pride in his voice.

Louis hums. “What about Aphrodite?”

“As I mentioned yesterday,” Liam says, “they usually sit out. Didn’t join for two summers. But ever since Harry became Head Counselor, things changed. He’s been pushing them to train. They used to stay behind the scenes or team with Ares, but this year...” Liam’s grin widens. “Harry told me he wants to team with us. And he doesn’t want to be background anymore.”

Louis blinks. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. He’s convinced some of his siblings to wear helms and hold actual weapons. Not just charm and distract.”

Louis snorts. “So those kids yesterday flailing their swords—they’re going to be on our team?”

Liam gives him a look. Older-brother energy, despite being younger. “Hey. They’re trying really hard.”

Louis glances toward the training area. The Aphrodite kids are already there, scattered across the field, testing weapons with varying degrees of success. One girl manages a decent parry. Another nearly trips over her own spear. But they’re trying.

And then there’s Harry.

He’s already in motion—dagger in hand, stance solid, eyes focused. He throws. Bullseye. The blade sinks into the target with a satisfying thunk.

Niall cheers beside him, loosing an arrow that lands dead center beside Harry’s blade. They jump, hug, high-five, laughing like they’ve just won the war. Harry’s curls bounce with the movement, his smile wide and unguarded. Bunny teeth. Dimples. It’s ridiculous.

Liam chuckles. “And they’ve got Harry. I promise you, they’ll be good for our team.”

Louis doesn’t answer. He’s too busy watching the way Harry’s joy lights up the field, the way his laugh seems to ripple through the air like sunlight on water.

Liam coughs into his fist, a sound too pointed to be casual. “Careful, lad.”

Louis blinks, caught mid-stare. “What?”

“That look,” Liam says, smirking as he tips his head toward the training field. “That’s exactly how Brad Gould ended up on the wrong end of Zayn’s rarely unsheathed Stygian Iron sword.”

Louis frowns. “Brad?”

“Head Counselor of Cabin Five. Ares,” Liam explains, “Dated Harry for a summer. Two years ago. Offended him somehow—no one knows the details. Harry never talked about it, and Brad’s too proud to admit anything. But Zayn made sure it didn’t happen again. Public duel. Ten seconds, that’s all it took. Zayn humiliated him. No theatrics, no speeches. When I said Zayn doesn’t give people reasons to fear him, that day was the exception.”

Louis snorts. “Never fear. I don’t plan on dating him. I’m straight.”

Liam raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And he’s the son of Aphrodite. I swear to you, Lou, it won’t matter what you think you are. When you get charmed, you get charmed. Straight or not.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “You sound suspiciously like someone speaking from experience.”

Liam shrugs, unapologetic. “Harry’s beautiful. And I’m just a teenage boy with eyes.”

Louis stares at him, incredulous. “You dated him too?”

Liam laughs, full-bodied and unbothered. “No. But I did ask him out when he was fourteen. Wanted to meet outside camp after summer. He declined. Very gently. No hard feelings. I had to shoot my shot.”

Louis snorts. “So he’d rather date an Ares hothead than you? Sounds about right for an Aphrodite kid.”

Liam shakes his head, still chuckling. “Hey, no shade to Brad. He’s actually not that bad. I’m not defending whatever he did to upset Harry, but in general? He’s the most level-headed ‘hothead’ in their cabin. Which is saying something.”

Louis hums, eyes drifting back to Harry. He’s practicing again—focused, calm, dagger slicing through the air with precision. His curls bounce with each movement, and when he smiles, it’s like the sun itself leans in to listen.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Li,” Louis says, voice low, repeating, “I don’t plan on dating him.”

“All right,” Liam says, hands raised in mock surrender. “You’d rather the warrior type, was it?”

He swears he’ll just look. Admire from a safe distance. He’s not scared of Zayn or anyone else. Surely, he’s allowed to appreciate beauty without risking a blade to the throat, right?

And yes, he’s very straight, thank you very much. Doesn’t matter that Harry’s beauty is soft-edged and androgynous, or that his laugh makes Louis’s chest feel weirdly light. He knows Harry’s a guy. He knows what he came here for.

He didn’t stay for distractions. He stayed to train. To sharpen his skills. To become someone who could stand his ground. To avenge his sister.

One day, he’ll face the monster that took Lottie. And he’ll kill it.

And no matter how beautiful anyone’s smile may be, he won’t let himself be swayed.

Still... his eyes flick back to Harry. Just for a second. Just to admire. That’s allowed. Right?

Cabin Eleven thrums with chaos—laughter ricocheting off the walls, bunks groaning under the weight of campers leaping from mattress to mattress, hammocks swinging like pendulums above the fray. Someone’s enchanted a pair of sneakers to sprint in circles, nipping at ankles and shrieking when caught. The air smells faintly of smoke, sweat, and whatever spell just exploded near the window.

The game is simple: show off a new trick, and the winner gets immunity from stable duty. The stakes are laughably low. The bragging rights? Legendary.

Liam stands on a trunk in the center of the room, arms raised like a referee at a circus. “Alright, children of Hermes!” he bellows, voice cutting through the din. “Impress me—or enjoy the smell of Pegasus poop for the next week!”

A chorus of groans and cheers follows. One camper flips off the top bunk and lands in a perfect split, arms raised like a gymnast. Another conjures a glowing illusion of Chiron in a tutu, pirouetting with unsettling grace. Someone else accidentally triggers a glitter bomb, coating half the cabin in shimmering chaos.

Louis sits on the edge of his bunk, legs swinging, grinning wide as he tosses commentary into the fray. “Ten points for trauma!” he calls, earning a round of laughter and mock applause.

For the first time since arriving, he feels like he belongs. Not just the new kid with a monster problem and a sister-shaped hole in his chest. He’s Louis. And these are his siblings—chaotic, clever, loud, and loyal.

Then the cabin door swings open with purpose, cutting through the noise like a blade.

Harry Styles strides in first, curls tousled, dagger strapped to his thigh, eyes sharp and unreadable. Behind him is Taylor from Cabin Six—Athena-born, all precision and calculation, already mid-sentence as she enters. Neither of them pauses. They clear the center table with practiced ease, parchment unfurling in one smooth motion to reveal a massive, detailed map of the forest.

The room stills.

Liam hops down from the trunk, instinctively shifting into Head Counselor mode. “Uh—what’s going on?”

Harry doesn’t look up. His voice is calm, clipped, but commanding. “They’ve got Demeter and Hephaestus. But we’ve got Apollo. It’s time to plan, Li.”

Taylor nods, tapping the map with a silver-tipped pen. “Correct. They’re brute force. Terrain and weapons are in their favor. But we outnumber them. And we’ve got more brains on this team.”

Liam blinks at their intensity, coughs, and straightens his shoulders. “Y-Yeah. Of course.”

Harry continues, eyes scanning the map. “They’ve got Dionysus, Nemesis, and Hebe. Iris, Nike, and Hypnos sat this one out—missions elsewhere. But we’ve got Tyche and Hecate. And of course... Zayn.”

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the cabin. One camper whispers, “Zayn’s scary, though,” voice barely audible.

But others grin, high-five, and elbow each other with glee. Having a child of the Big Three on their side? That’s not just strategy. That’s mythic insurance.

Louis watches the shift in energy—how the room pivots from playful to focused. He stands, stepping beside Liam until he’s directly across from Harry. The map sprawls between them on the cleared table, its surface crowded with terrain markers, trap zones, and potential flag placements. Inked lines crisscross the parchment like veins, pulsing with strategy and anticipation.

Taylor and Harry begin outlining their plan, voices low but firm. Taylor taps the map with a silver pen, her brows drawn in focus. Harry gestures with fluid precision, his fingers trailing across the parchment like he’s sketching battle choreography. Liam nods along, occasionally chiming in with suggestions that Taylor scribbles down without missing a beat.

Louis listens. He really does. But his focus keeps drifting.

To Harry’s hands—slender, expressive, nails tinted with a soft pink sheen. To the way his straight, shapely brows furrow when he’s deep in thought. To the curve of his mouth, unusually pigmented, like he’s wearing gloss that catches the light when he speaks. His voice is calm, but commanding, and when he explains a flank maneuver, Louis finds himself watching the way his lips move more than the words themselves.

It’s almost like he’s wearing makeup. Maybe he is. It’s really subtle, but it’s also really enthralling.

He’s not the only one noticing. A few Hermes kids glance at Harry now and then, caught in the Aphrodite effect—distracted, dazzled, momentarily entranced. Louis rolls his eyes at himself. Focus.

Then Taylor pauses, pen hovering. “Any other input?”

Louis clears his throat. “Uh, I’ve got a suggestion.”

Three heads turn. Well, everyone’s, but especially the three that matter the most—Taylor, Harry, and Liam. Louis shrugs, suddenly aware of how visible he is, how close Harry’s eyes are.

“I played lacrosse,” he says, voice steadier than he feels. “A lot. Different schools. There’s a tactic we used—fake flank, draw the defense, and then cut through center with speed. It works best when the other side’s aggressive.”

Taylor nods immediately. “That’s smart. We can adapt that.”

Harry’s eyes are on him now. Really on him. Louis feels the weight of it—quiet, assessing, not unkind but intense enough to make his pulse skip. It’s the first time they’ve been this close, and in the hush between words, Louis catches the scent of something sweet. Vanilla? Peaches? Of course.

And his eyes—green. Not piercing, but bright. Arresting.

Then Louis makes the mistake.

“We could use someone from Aphrodite as distraction,” he says, trying to be helpful. “They’re good at—”

Harry’s face shifts instantly. The warmth drains, replaced by something cold and sharp. “We can be more than distractions, thank you.” His tone slices through the room.

Silence falls.

Louis blinks, mouth half-open. “I—I didn’t mean it in a bad way—”

Harry snorts, not looking at him. “Yeah, whatever. Thanks for the suggestion. We’ll consider it.”

He gathers the map with swift, clipped movements, rolls it tight, and strides out without another word. Taylor gives Liam a look—tight-lipped, unreadable—then turns to Louis with a flicker of disappointment before following Harry out.

Liam sighs, rubbing his face like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

Louis turns to him, helpless. “I swear, I didn’t mean anything foul.”

“I know, lad,” Liam says gently. “Harry just really despises the thought of being a ‘distraction.’ He’s fought for years to join the combat in Capture the Flag, but the previous Head Counselor always took the distraction route.”

Louis nods slowly, guilt creeping in like fog. “I know. I just... I didn’t think.” He doesn’t say the rest—that he’d been distracted by Harry’s mouth, his voice, his presence. That he’d wanted to be noticed. That it had all come out wrong.

He sinks back onto his bunk, the laughter from earlier now a distant echo. The enchanted sneakers lie motionless in the corner. The glitter has settled.

Liam pats his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. We won’t lose the alliance.”

But Louis isn’t worried about the alliance.

He’s haunted by the look on Harry’s face. The shift from curiosity to disappointment. The way Louis had wanted—just for a moment—for his attention to linger on him. And he hates that it even matters.

He didn’t stay at camp to impress anyone.

But still... he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

The arena hums with heat and motion, the scent of dust and bronze thick in the air. Sunlight glints off celestial weapons, casting flickers of gold across the packed earth. The clang of blades rings out in rhythmic bursts, punctuated by laughter, shouted instructions, and the occasional grunt of impact. Campers move in pairs across the training field—sparring, dodging, and testing each other’s reflexes with the kind of reckless joy that only comes from surviving monsters and living to tell the tale.

Louis grips his sword tighter, knuckles white around the hilt. He’s trying to focus. Really trying.

But he’s been off all morning.

Not in form—his footwork is crisp, his strikes clean, his balance sharper than ever. It’s impressive, honestly, for someone who’s only been at camp a month. And a week and a half of that was spent in the Infirmary, stitched up and silent, stewing in grief and the kind of anger that simmers.

It’s not the drills. It’s not the heat, though the sun is relentless, pressing down like a challenge.

It’s the memory of Harry’s face.

The way it had darkened at his words. The way his expression had shuttered, like a door slammed in Louis’s face. The way he’d walked out without looking back.

Louis hadn’t meant it like that. He’d been trying to help. Strategize. But the look on Harry’s face had stuck with him like a bruise—deep, invisible, and impossible to ignore. It’s frustrating.

“Oi, Louis!” Liam calls, tossing him a water bottle with a grin. “You’re slicing like you’re mad at the sword.”

Louis catches it, breathless. “Just trying to keep up.”

Liam chuckles. “You’re doing more than that. You’re making the rest of us look lazy.”

Louis snorts, but it’s hollow. His heart’s not in it.

Then he hears it—Niall’s voice, bright and unmistakable. “Harry! Over here!”

Louis turns instinctively.

Harry walks into the arena, dagger strapped to his thigh, curls damp with sweat and tied back in an elegant ponytail. A few strands have escaped, framing his infuriatingly symmetrical face—flushed, spotless, and somehow still glowing. He’s dressed for training, his movements fluid and purposeful, like he’s carved from grace and quiet fire.

Niall waves him over, already bouncing with excitement. “Pair up with me! We’ll do dagger and bow drills again.”

Harry smiles, soft and genuine. “Sure.”

Louis watches them cross the field, setting up targets with practiced ease. Niall looses an arrow—clean, fast, and precise. Harry throws his dagger—bullseye. They cheer, high-five, laughing.

Louis feels something sharp and unwelcome twist in his chest.

The arena pulses with movement—sunlight glinting off blades, the air thick with dust and the metallic tang of celestial bronze. Campers from Apollo, Athena, and Aphrodite cabins gather in clusters, stretching, adjusting gear, murmuring strategies. The ground is packed and sun-warmed, the scent of sweat and pine drifting between bodies.

Then Liam claps his hands, voice carrying in the arena to the Athena, Apollo, and Aphrodite cabins scattered about. “Alright, everybody! Pair up!”

He waves them in, beckoning their team into formation. The energy shifts—friendly chaos giving way to focused anticipation.

Louis steps forward, already scanning for Max or Jules. They usually pair off together, and he’s half expecting to be slotted in beside one of them. But Liam’s gaze flicks toward Harry, then back to Louis.

“Lou,” he says, voice casual but weighted. “You’re with Harry.”

Louis freezes mid-step. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Liam replies, already turning to organize the rest.

Harry walks over, dagger strapped to his thigh, his expression unreadable—calm, composed, but distant.

“Ready?” he asks, voice even.

Louis nods, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

They move to a clear patch of ground, the sun casting long shadows between them. Harry draws his dagger with practiced ease, the blade catching the light. Louis raises his sword, adjusting his grip. For a moment, they just circle—silent, watching, measuring distance and intent.

Louis breaks first. “About yesterday—”

Harry cuts in, voice clipped but not cold. “Let’s just train.”

Louis swallows. “Right.”

They spar.

Harry moves like water—fluid, fast, precise, obviously more at ease with close proximity combat. His dagger is a blur, slicing through the air with quiet grace. Louis matches him, barely, adjusting to the rhythm, his sword heavier but steady. They move like dancers—strike, dodge, pivot, reset. The tension between them is taut, but not hostile. Focused. Charged.

Then Harry feints left, and Louis falls for it. His foot slips, balance falters, and he stumbles forward.

Before he hits the ground, Harry catches his wrist—firm, steady, grounding him.

“You’re good,” Harry says, breathless.

Louis blinks, surprised. “You too.”

Their eyes meet. And for a moment, something flickers there. Not anger or disappointment. Something quieter. Softer. Like the edge of forgiveness.

Louis clears his throat, voice low. “I didn’t mean what I said. About Aphrodite kids. I was trying to be tactical, but I phrased it wrong.”

Harry nods slowly, eyes still on him. “I know. I’ve just... heard it too many times. And it’s never tactical. It’s always about minimizing risk. Maximizing liabilities.”

Louis hesitates, then says, “You’re not a distraction. You’re clearly a fighter.”

Harry’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Thanks.”

They reset.

Louis feels lighter. Not forgiven, maybe. But not condemned either.

And this time, when they spar again, the rhythm comes easier. The tension softens. The training goes better. Not perfect. But better.

Night of Capture the Flag

The night air thrums with anticipation, thick with torch smoke and the scent of pine. Camp Half-Blood’s forest looms ahead—dark, wild, and whispering secrets through the branches. The only light comes from flickering torches and the soft glow of celestial bronze, casting long shadows across the field where campers gather in two tight clusters.

Blue Team. Red Team.

Louis stands shoulder to shoulder with his siblings from Cabin Eleven, the familiar chaos of Hermes kids buzzing around him. Niall bounces beside him, already hyping up the Apollo cabin. Harry stands just ahead, calm and composed, Aphrodite cabin flanking him in gleaming armor and braided hair. Zayn lingers near the edge, silent and still.

At the front of the Blue Team, Taylor from Athena Cabin stands like a general—armor polished to a mirror shine, eyes sharp and calculating. Her fingers rest lightly on the hilt of her sword, but her mind is already ten steps ahead.

Across the field, Brad from Ares Cabin leads the Red Team, flanked by the brute strength of Hephaestus, the wild unpredictability of Dionysus, the quiet menace of Nemesis, and the earthy resilience of Demeter. The tension between the teams crackles like static, thick enough to taste.

Then Chiron steps forward, hooves silent on the grass, his voice calm and commanding. “Standard rules. No maiming. No killing. The flags are hidden somewhere in the forest. First team to retrieve the opponent’s flag from their base, carry it across the river that divides the forest, and bring it back here—wins.”

He pauses, gaze sweeping the crowd. “May the gods favor your blades.”

A horn sounds—low, ancient, and thrilling.

The game begins.

Campers scatter like arrows loosed from a bow, sprinting into the trees with war cries and laughter. Louis runs with the offense squad, heart pounding, and sword strapped to his back. The ground is uneven beneath his boots, the forest a blur of shadows and movement. He’s trained for this. He’s dreamed of this. But now that it’s real, it feels different. Bigger. Sharper.

The forest swallows him whole.

Branches whip past his face. Leaves crunch underfoot. The moon filters through the canopy in fractured beams, lighting the path in flashes. He moves fast, but not fast enough.

A kid from Hephaestus barrels into him with a shield bash, knocking him flat. The breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He rolls, just in time to avoid a second strike, but a Nemesis camper slashes at his arm—shallow, but enough to sting.

Louis grits his teeth, pushes up from the dirt. His grip slips on the hilt, sweat and blood mixing on his palm. He’s bruised, bleeding, and breathless. But he keeps moving.

Because this isn’t just a game. It’s proof.

Proof that he belongs. That he’s strong enough. That he’s not just the kid who lost his sister.

He ducks under a low branch, hears the clash of blades nearby, and tightens his grip.

Louis pushes deeper into the forest, lungs burning, sword slick with sweat and sap. Branches claw at his arms, roots threaten his footing, but he doesn’t stop. He runs, slashes, dodges—until the last of his opponents vanish into the trees behind him. The forest grows thicker, darker, and quieter.

Then he hears it. The unmistakable clash of metal.

He veers toward the sound, ducking under low-hanging limbs, weaving through the underbrush with practiced urgency. His boots skid across moss and loose soil until he bursts into a clearing lit only by moonlight and the faint shimmer of celestial bronze.

Brad stands there, sword drawn, chest heaving. Zayn faces him alone.

Louis freezes.

Zayn moves like smoke—fluid, precise, terrifying. His Stygian Iron blade gleams with a dull, hungry light, vibrating with a power that makes Louis’s skin prickle even from a distance. Brad is strong, fast, trained to be a perfect child of the God of War. But Zayn is something else. Something colder. Older.

Louis watches, transfixed, as Zayn sidesteps a strike and twists his wrist with surgical grace. Brad’s sword flies from his hand, clattering against a tree. The Ares counselor hits the ground hard, blood dripping from a split lip.

Zayn steps forward, blade angled at Brad’s throat, his smirk slow and deliberate. “Feels like déjà vu, doesn’t it?”

Brad spits blood, defiant. “Fuck off, Zayn. If this is still about Harry—”

Zayn’s voice is quiet, but it cuts like ice. “Of course it’s about Harry.”

Brad sneers, wiping his mouth. “I already apologized to him. You know I’d never disrespect him on purpose. I just didn’t know he’d react the way he did.”

Zayn’s expression doesn’t shift. “It doesn’t matter what you say to me. A slight is a slight. And I hold grudges.”

Louis doesn’t breathe.

It’s the most words he’s heard from Zayn in all his time at camp. And every syllable sounds like a verdict.

Then—shouts. Red Team reinforcements crash through the trees, weapons raised, boots pounding the earth. The clearing erupts with movement.

Zayn doesn’t flinch. He steps back into the shadows—no flourish, no sound—and vanishes.

Gone.

Brad curses, scrambling to his feet, blood smeared across his chin. Louis ducks behind a tree, heart hammering, breath shallow.

Shadow Travel. Liam had whispered about it once, voice reverent and wary. A gift only a child of Hades could wield. A way to disappear into darkness and reappear wherever shadows touched the earth.

But it’s not just the disappearing. It’s the way Zayn speaks—like he’s already maimed you, even when he’s only threatening to.

The forest thrashes with life—branches snapping like bones, metal clashing in bursts of fury, shouts ricocheting through the trees like war drums. Louis stumbles over a root, nearly going down again, breath ragged, ribs aching where bruises bloom like ink beneath his shirt. He’s lost track of how many times he’s been knocked flat, how many blades have grazed him, how many near-misses have left him gasping.

But he keeps getting up. That’s what Liam said matters most.

He pushes forward, limbs burning, until he reaches the river—the natural divide between chaos and strategy. The defensive perimeter glows ahead, the Blue Team’s flag tucked safely behind a wall of enchanted vines and Apollo’s radiant wards. The magic pulses like a heartbeat, steady and strong.

Relief floods him. They haven’t lost it.

Then he sees Harry. Alone.

Standing in the clearing like a painting come to life—dagger in hand, curls damp with sweat, eyes locked on a group of Red Team campers closing in. The leader, a broad-shouldered boy from Hephaestus Cabin, grabs Harry by the arm, yanking him forward like he’s already claimed victory.

Louis freezes, heart lurching. No.

But Harry doesn’t resist. He lets himself be pulled in, calm as moonlight. His expression is unreadable—serene, almost bored.

Then something strange happens.

The Hephaestus boy turns.

And attacks his own team.

Louis watches, stunned, as the boy activates a series of weapons—detonators, smoke bombs, spring-loaded blades—all crafted by Hephaestus hands, all now aimed at Red Team allies. Chaos erupts. Campers shout, scramble, and dive for cover as their own arsenal turns against them.

From the shadows, Apollo Cabin emerges—bows drawn, blades flashing—striking fast and clean while the Red Team reels in confusion.

Harry smirks and steps back, just enough to avoid the blast radius, then lunges forward with sharp, practiced grace. His dagger flashes in the torchlight—disarming one camper, tripping another, moving like he’s dancing through the wreckage.

Louis doesn’t hesitate.

He charges in, sword raised, flanking Niall with instinctive precision. They fight side by side, wordless but in sync—Hermes and Apollo, speed and light, cutting through the chaos like they were born for it.

Then—Zayn appears. No sound. No warning.

Just a flicker of shadow and the gleam of Stygian Iron as he parries a strike aimed at Harry’s back. His expression is unreadable, carved from stone, but his movements are lethal, clean, exact, and final.

Louis barely has time to process it before—

BLARE.

A horn sounds from the direction of the field. The signal. Someone has won.

Louis spins, heart hammering. Their flag is still here. Untouched. Which means—

“Taylor and Liam,” Harry breathes, eyes wide.

Louis grins, chest swelling. “They did it.”

They break into a run, weaving through the forest, dodging stunned Red Team campers still recovering from betrayal and smoke. The trees thin, the field opens, and there—bathed in torchlight and cheers—stands Taylor, tall and gleaming, red flag raised high.

Liam is beside her, sweaty and triumphant, sword lifted in victory.

Louis laughs, breathless and elated. They did it.

He turns, taking in the team—Taylor, brilliant and ruthless; Liam, steady and fierce; Zayn, silent and terrifying; Harry, beautiful and unpredictable.

He watches Harry laugh with Niall, eyes bright, curls wild, cheeks flushed with adrenaline. And wonders—

What did he say to make that Hephaestus boy turn?

He doesn’t know. But he’s amazed. And for the first time in a long time, he feels it—not just the thrill of victory, not just the ache of survival.

He feels like he belongs. Like he’s part of something brilliant.

The bonfire roars into the night sky, flames licking high and wild, casting golden light across the camp like a beacon. Sparks drift upward like fireflies, swirling into constellations before vanishing into the dark. The air is thick with celebration—roasted marshmallows, pine smoke, ambrosia, and the sweet tang of nectar. Laughter spills from every direction, rising and falling like waves against the shore.

Campers lounge on logs and blankets, plates piled high with food, cups clutched in sticky hands. Someone’s enchanted the flames to flicker in rhythm with the music, and the whole clearing pulses with warmth and movement.

Louis sits with his half-siblings from Cabin Eleven, legs stretched out, back against a log, a grin tugging at his lips. For once, his thoughts aren’t tangled in grief or guilt or monsters. Just the hum of music. Just the comfort of belonging.

Zayn is there too.

He’s quiet, as always, but not distant. He sits beside Liam, one boot tucked under his knee, nodding along to jokes, even letting out a soft laugh when someone mimics Chiron’s battle stance with a marshmallow skewer. His sketchbook is nowhere in sight. He looks... normal. Just another teenager basking in the glow of victory.

Louis watches him, trying to reconcile the boy who threatened Brad with the one sipping ambrosia beside a crackling fire.

Then Zayn’s eyes drift. Louis follows the line of sight instinctively, already knowing where it’ll land.

Harry.

He’s dancing near the bonfire, surrounded by his siblings from Aphrodite Cabin, all of them glittering like stars. Strands of shimmer weave through their hair, catching the firelight like spun gold. They move like they were born to music—fluid, magnetic, joyful.

The Ares kids are nearby, laughing and cheering. Apollo Cabin’s taken over the music, with Niall perched on a log, guitar in hand, strumming something wild and fast. His siblings join in, tambourines and flutes and harmonies swirling into the night air.

But Harry—Harry is something else in Louis’ eyes.

He’s dancing with Taylor, hands on each other’s waists, spinning and laughing like they’re lost in a club instead of a stretch of beach in Long Island. His orange Camp Half-Blood shirt is cropped, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. His denim shorts are scandalously short, hugging long, creamy, athletic thighs. The familiar pink holster hugs his right leg, dagger gleaming. His boots are pink too—scuffed, bold, unapologetic.

And his eyes—when they catch the light, when he tilts his head just so—he looks effortlessly seductive. Like he doesn’t know the effect he has. Or maybe he does, and he’s just too graceful to care.

Louis swallows, glancing back at Zayn.

Zayn hasn’t moved. His gaze is locked, cup of ambrosia halfway to his mouth. He downs it in one gulp, eyes still fixed on Harry, expression unreadable.

Louis exhales, amused and a little unsettled. He’s not sure what he’s feeling—curiosity, admiration, maybe something sharper—but he’s not alone. Half the camp seems caught in Harry’s orbit, drawn in like moths to flame.

Then Niall calls out, voice bright and teasing. “Oi! Come dance, you lot! Don’t make me serenade you into it!”

Liam grabs Louis’s arm before he can protest. “No escaping, Lou. You fought like hell today. You earned this.”

Louis laughs, letting himself be pulled into the crowd. Campers cheer, music swells, and the bonfire crackles higher, casting flickering shadows across flushed faces and tangled limbs.

They dance. Louis loses himself in the rhythm, in the laughter, in the shimmer of firelight and celebration. For a while, there’s no grief. No monsters. No guilt.

Just light, music, and the shimmer of victory.

And somewhere in the crowd, Harry spins again—wild and radiant—and Louis lets himself watch.

Just for a moment.

The bonfire has dwindled to a low, pulsing glow, embers flickering like a heartbeat in the dark. Smoke curls lazily into the night sky, and the last notes of Niall’s guitar drift through the clearing like a lullaby. Most campers have faded into their cabins or curled up in hammocks, their laughter now a distant hum. Only a few silhouettes remain—swaying gently, whispering, and clinging to the final shimmer of celebration.

Louis spots him.

Harry stands by the food stand, peeling a banana with the kind of casual grace that makes Louis’s breath catch. The firelight dances across his skin, catching the shimmer still threaded through his curls. He’s alone. For once. No Zayn in sight, either.

Louis’s heart stutters.

He’s spent the whole evening scanning the crowd for him—again and again. He feels ridiculous. Like a cliché. Like a boy with a crush he swore he didn’t have, not even seventy-two hours ago.

Now or never.

He walks over, coughs once—too loud, too awkward—and offers a smile that feels suddenly shy and uneven. Gods, pull it together.

Harry turns, smile blooming instantly. “Hi.”

Louis clears his throat, voice rough. “Hey. Uh, I just wanted to say... You were brilliant today. Defending the flag.”

Harry’s smile softens, eyes crinkling. “Thank you. You were pretty good too, especially considering you’ve only just started training. You held up well. And your suggestion worked. Smart thinking.”

Louis feels heat crawl up his neck. Maybe it’s the ambrosia. Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe he’s about to combust. “Sorry,” he blurts. “For the comment before.”

Harry tilts his head, amused. “You’ve already apologized. And I said I understand. Which I do. No harm done.”

Louis nods, still insistent. “Still. I didn’t want our first real interaction to go like that.”

Harry’s eyes glint, playful. “Okay. How did you want it to go, then?”

Louis freezes. Was that flirting? Or just the Aphrodite aura—effortless charm that makes every word sound like a tease?

He clears his throat again, brain scrambling. And then his mouth moves without permission.

“Well. First, I would’ve told you my name. Second, I would’ve complimented your throwing skills because you’re actually a kill shot. And third... Third, I would’ve asked how to make you keep smiling that big, dimpled smile of yours. Because this bleak world could really use more color.”

Silence.

Louis blinks. What the fuck did he just say?

Harry stares at him, surprised. Then slowly, a blush creeps across his cheeks. He laughs—soft, delighted, like the sound itself is a gift.

Louis’s stomach flips. Hard.

“So,” Harry says, still smiling. “Do it, then.”

It takes a beat for Louis to catch up. But when he does, something bold overrides the nerves. He steps closer, sets his cup down, brushing against Harry on purpose. His hand extends.

“Hi. My name’s Louis Tomlinson. I’m eighteen. Son of Hermes.”

Harry chuckles, reaching out. “Hey. I’m Harry Styles. Seventeen. Son of Aphrodite.”

Louis surprises them both.

He lifts Harry’s hand gently and presses a kiss to the back of it.

“Son of Aphrodite,” he murmurs. “I’m both surprised and not.”

Harry’s smile widens, eyes bright. “Why?”

Louis shrugs, gaze steady. “Because you threw that dagger into a bullseye like it was nothing. Like you were born of war or the hunt. But also... with the way your smile alone pulls the ground from under my feet? It should’ve been obvious you’re the child of no less than beauty herself.”

Harry stares at him, pleasantly stunned.

Louis stares back, heart thudding like a drum.

And if he thought Harry across the bonfire was distracting—this is worse. The scent of him, warm and sweet. The green of his eyes, impossibly bright. The heat of his body, close enough to touch.

Louis doesn’t move. Neither does Harry. And for a moment, the world holds its breath.

Harry gently takes his hand back, stepping away with a soft laugh, his cheeks flushed and glowing in the dying firelight. He fans his face with exaggerated flair, curls bouncing with the motion.

“Well, son of Hermes,” he says, voice teasing and warm, “I’d say you’re embodying it quite well.”

Louis grins, cocking his head. “Why do you say that?”

Harry raises a brow, twirling a strand of hair around his finger like it’s second nature. “Lord Hermes has the most demigod kids across the world, you know. Because he’s one smooth and charming motherfu—” He cuts himself off, laughing into his hand. “You get the idea.”

Louis bursts into laughter, the sound spilling out of him like relief. “So that’s your way of telling me I’m charming?”

Harry smirks, eyes glinting with mischief. “Take it however you like.”

He steps back, brushing imaginary dust from his cropped shirt, the shimmer in his hair catching the last flickers of firelight. “I’m heading back to my cabin. But it was nice meeting you—again—Louis.”

Louis watches him turn, boots crunching softly against the pine needles, curls bouncing with each step. The pink holster glints once more before fading into shadow. He doesn’t look away. Not until Harry disappears into the trees, swallowed by the quiet.

The embers crackle behind him, pulsing low and steady.

Louis exhales.

He’s still going to avenge his sister. Still going to find the monster that took her and drive his blade through its heart. That vow hasn’t changed.

But maybe distractions aren’t weaknesses. Maybe they’re fuel.

Maybe they’re the reason he’ll train harder, fight smarter, and become someone who can stand tall beside legends—and charm even the most coveted son of love and beauty.

He glances at the stars overhead, then back toward the path Harry vanished down.

He smiles. Something in him feels lighter. And something else feels ready.

There's beauty in danger.