Chapter 32 - A Day at Camp III

Lucas decided to start his day with purpose. After the purification spell experiment at the creek, he felt the need to address something else long overdue: his weapons. The daggers gifted by Hecate had served him well on his journey to camp, but he knew they were more of a starting point than a final product.

He passed the strawberry fields first, watching as campers from the Demeter cabin, alongside dryads draped in petals and vine-woven dresses, worked quietly among the rows. The scent of ripe fruit and tilled earth drifted on the breeze, mixing with the distant sounds of birdsong and laughter.

One dryad hummed as she carried a basket brimming with berries, her eyes half-lidded in peace. A young Demeter camper knelt to coax a stubborn vine toward the sun. It was tranquil

He made his way toward the forge, where the constant rhythm of hammer and flame echoed through the morning air. The heat hit him before he even saw it

Sparks flashed behind the marble columns stained with soot, and bronze chimneys belched smoke over the carved gable.

Lucas paused at the threshold, watching it all. Unlike the organic peace of the fields, the forge was alive with sweat and steel.

Inside, the children of Hephaestus moved with the confidence of those born to shape metal. Sweat clung to their arms, streaked with soot, but none of them looked uncomfortable, this was their element.

A girl about his age noticed him hovering near the entrance. Her heavy gloves, dark apron, and streaked face gave her the look of someone who knew her way around a forge better than most.

"You need something?" she asked, setting down her hammer.

Lucas nodded. "A pair of daggers. Custom-made."

She raised a brow and gestured toward the belt at his waist. "You already have some."

Lucas drew one and handed it to her. She turned it over in her palm. Then frowned.

"This wasn't forged."

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"This isn't shaped bronze," she said. "It was conjured. The grain's wrong. No hammer marks. No fold lines. It's... synthetic." She handed it back, frown deepening in thought. "Let me guess, gift from a god?"

"My mother. Hecate."

She gave a slow nod, as if that explained everything. "Makes sense. Magical, sure. But not a weapon. Not really. Not one made for your hand."

Lucas tilted his head. "Is that a problem?"

She hesitated. "No. Just... I think a true weapon should be forged, not just willed into being."

He didn't take offense. Her words carried respect for her craft, not insult toward his mother.

"I can make you a pair," she said. "Any ideas for the design?"

"I was hoping your expertise would guide it."

She nodded, then grabbed a nearby training sword and led him outside.

"Show me how you fight. Let me see how you move. A weapon should match its wielder."

Lucas sparred with her, controlled and nimble. He moved like a phantom, relying on speed and precision over brute force. She watched carefully, saying nothing, her eyes reading the arc of his strikes like a blacksmith reading flame.

After a few minutes, she stepped back and nodded once before disappearing into the forge. He followed, watching as she pulled chalk and paper and began sketching.

When she finally held the draft up, there was pride in her expression.

"Triangular blades. Laconian in style. One for offense, one to parry; balanced, light, responsive."

"Perfect," Lucas said.

"You'll have to enchant them yourself," she added, wiping soot from her cheek.

Lucas smirked. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

The order placed, Lucas wandered without purpose, the smell of metal and ash clinging to his clothes, letting his boots carry him along familiar dirt paths and worn wooden steps. Trees framed his walk, heavy with summer green, and the sounds of sparring from distant arenas faded behind him. His path veered from the main trails, cutting toward the deeper, quieter groves near the creek.

That was when he heard it, soft rustling, murmurs. Not whispers of secrecy, but the kind of unhurried voices one heard while half-asleep. Curiosity piqued, he stepped off the trail.

Nestled in a shaded glade, beneath a half-fallen willow, he saw them.

Five campers. Draped lazily across roots, nestled in blankets or jackets. One was asleep on a mossy boulder. Another lay sprawled on their back with a journal propped against their knees, doodling in lazy spirals. They didn't flinch as he approached, just blinked slowly, as if seeing him through a haze, almost wondering if he was real or just a dream.

One sat up, rubbing at their eyes. Sandy hair, clouded gaze, a gentle expression that didn't match the usual camp sharpness.

"You're that child of Hecate," the camper said, blinking at Lucas.

Lucas hesitated, then stepped into the clearing.

"Do I know you?"

"No," the camper said with a small smile. "We see things. Sometimes. In dreams."

He gestured lazily to the others. "We're Hypnos kids. Unclaimed"

A shrug. "Everyone calls us Hermes' kids. We know better."

One of the other campers spoke without opening their eyes, voice soft and slow. "Claiming takes energy. Our father is... not fond of effort. Not that it matters"

Lucas lowered himself to sit beside them. "I didn't know Hypnos had kids here."

"We don't have a cabin. Not officially," said the journal-holding camper, flipping a page.

"And you?" Lucas asked. "You don't seem bitter."

"What's the point?" the sandy-haired camper replied, shrugging. "It's easier to dream."

Lucas considered that.

"You know a lot for campers who sleep through most of the day."

A small grin. "Dreams are doors. We know how to open them."

He fell into silence with them, the grove hushed but not silent. Eventually, he asked, "Do you know how to send an Iris message?"

One of them nodded. "Butch is better at that. Child of Iris. He's usually by the southeast stream. Likes the light."

Lucas stood, brushing dirt from his knees. "Thanks."