Dawn's gray fingers barely penetrated the forest canopy when Medea slipped from the Big House. Sleep had been a luxury she'd barely indulged in—four hours at most, curled atop rather than under the musty blankets. The camp was still quiet, a few early risers jogging along cabin rows or tending the strawberry fields.
Perfect hunting conditions.
She followed her nose, hood pulled low, moving with the fluid economy of something born to stalk. That reptilian scent she'd caught yesterday—ancient, cold-blooded, with undertones of something metallic and wrong—had intensified overnight. Whatever it was had been busy while the camp slept.
Not demigod. Not god either, Nidhoggr whispered in her mind as she penetrated deeper into the woods. Something… familiar.
"Yeah," Medea muttered, pausing to examine a broken fern frond. Beneath it, a scaled impression in the soil. Large. "I noticed."
The forest thickened around her, trees growing older and more twisted the further she ventured from camp boundaries. The magical protections should have prevented any monsters from entering this far, yet the scent trail cut straight through as if the barriers meant nothing.
A twig snapped ahead—deliberate, not accidental.
Medea froze, every sense razor-sharp. Her hand drifted to the sword at her hip.
"You might as well come out," she called, voice pitched to carry just far enough. "We both know you're not here for the nature walk."
Silence stretched for three heartbeats. Then a low chuckle emanated from behind a massive oak—a sound like coins being dragged across stone.
"Interesting," said a voice that matched the laugh. "I expected demigods. Not… whatever you are."
The figure that emerged was humanoid only in the vaguest sense—seven feet tall with scaled skin that shifted between red and gold depending on how the dappled light hit it. Its face was elongated, reptilian, with intelligent yellow eyes and teeth like broken daggers. Not quite dragon, not quite man.
Fafnir. Had to be. The name surfaced from Nidhoggr's memories without explanation.
"Funny," Medea replied, her own lips pulling back to reveal teeth sharper than any human's. "I was about to say the same thing."
They circled each other, neither willing to turn their back, predators recognizing predators. She caught more details with each step—the ancient armor fused to scales in places, the faint smell of treasure hoards and blood sacrifice, the way he moved with the contained power of something that had once been much, much larger.
"The barrier rejected you yesterday," Fafnir observed, nostrils expanding as he took in her scent. "Yet here you are, little not-quite-human. What deals did you make, I wonder?"
Medea's tail bristled. "I walk where I choose," she asserted. "More interesting is how you got in, lizard. These barriers keep out monsters." Her smile was knife-sharp. "Usually."
Fafnir's laugh was a metallic rasp. "Perhaps I'm not what they were designed to repel." He cocked his head, studying her. "Or perhaps my master's power exceeds theirs." He took a deliberate step closer. "You smell of the old world, cat-thing. Of branches and roots that should not be disturbed."
Nidhoggr's presence surged against her consciousness—eager, ravenous. The sword at her hip shivered with anticipation.
"Your master," Medea echoed, her tone mild, her mind sharpening. "The one who sent you to scout these defenses? To test how far you could penetrate?" She clicked her tongue. "Careless of them to send just one of you."
A flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—crossed Fafnir's reptilian features. "Bold assumption that I am alone," he countered. "Bolder still to track me without knowing what you hunt."
The air between them crackled with potential violence. Medea caught the scent of his blood magic now—ancient, powerful, but constrained somehow. Diminished from what it once was.
"Strange days when old powers stir," Fafnir continued, his yellow eyes never leaving hers. "When world-eaters wake and dragons walk reduced." He gestured at himself with clawed hands. "Tell me, youngblood—what do you want with these godlings?"
Medea's expression remained carefully blank, but internally, alarm bells rang. This creature knew—or suspected—something about Nidhoggr.
"Information," she replied simply. "Same as you."
Fafnir's scaled lips pulled back in what might have been a smile. "Then perhaps we need not be enemies. Yet."
Do not trust, Nidhoggr's voice hissed urgently in her mind. Old rival. Old hunger.
"Perhaps not," Medea agreed, her tone suggesting she believed otherwise. "Though I doubt your master would approve of sharing."
The dragon-man laughed again, the sound sending nearby birds scattering from branches. "My master does not approve of much." He began backing away, still facing her. "We will meet again, cat-thing. When stakes are higher and choices harder."
"Count on it," Medea promised, her pupils contracting to vertical slits in the strengthening morning light. "And next time, bring answers."
Fafnir melted back into the forest with surprising grace for something his size. Only when his scent had faded did Medea allow herself to exhale fully.
He knows of me, Nidhoggr growled inside her. And his master…
"Yeah," Medea commented, already turning to follow Fafnir's trail at a safe distance. "Whoever they are, they've just made things interesting."
She stalked through the underbrush, following Fafnir's scent trail with single-minded focus. The reptilian musk hung in the air—gold-tinged and ancient, with undertones of molten metal and hoarded treasure. She breathed in the forest air, cat ears twitching beneath her hood at every sound.
"You knew him," she muttered to the sword at her hip, keeping her voice below even demigod hearing range. "Start talking."
Old rival, Nidhoggr responded, his consciousness brushing against hers like cold scales. From before. When the world was young and names carried more weight.
The trail veered suddenly west, toward rockier terrain where the forest thinned. Medea adjusted course, her footfalls silent on the moss-covered ground.
"That tells me nothing useful," she hissed. "What's he doing here? Who's his master?"
The sword thrummed with reluctance. Dragons hoard secrets as well as gold. If Fafnir serves another now, the power binding him must be… considerable.
Medea paused at a clearing where Fafnir had apparently stopped. The grass was singed in a perfect circle, earth scorched by something hotter than normal flame. She crouched, running clawed fingertips through the ash. It smelled wrong—like burning currency rather than burning plants.
"He's diminished," she observed. "Not a full dragon anymore."
Yet still dangerous, Nidhoggr warned as she straightened and continued tracking. His greed was legendary even among our kind. He killed his own father for treasure.
Interesting. Medea filed that information away as the trail led her to the base of a cliff face. Here, Fafnir's scent abruptly vanished—not faded, but completely disappeared, as if he'd walked through a door in reality itself.
"Shit," she muttered, running her hands along the rough stone. No hidden switches, no obvious mechanisms. "Some kind of portal?"
Or domain, Nidhoggr suggested, his mental voice tinged with uncharacteristic concern. Dragons of his lineage could fold space around their hoards. It could be that—or control of the very land beneath us. There are too many threads to follow until we have more to grasp.
Medea pressed her ear to the rock, listening for any vibration or movement beyond. Nothing. She stepped back, studying the cliff with narrowed eyes.
"His master sent him to scout the camp," she reasoned aloud. "That means they're planning something. An attack? Theft?"
Or recruitment, Nidhoggr added. Half-gods make powerful servants.
The morning sun crested the trees, illuminating the cliff face. For just an instant, Medea caught a glimmer of something etched into the stone—a symbol that vanished as quickly as it appeared. Not Greek or Norse. Something she hadn't seen before.
Her tail lashed out like a viper, felling a nearby tree and betraying her agitation. What existed without her knowledge existed without her consent.
"We need to know who he's working for and what they want with a summer camp for divine brats," she growled.
She marked the location mentally, committing every detail to memory before turning back toward camp. She'd return tonight. Camp activities would provide perfect cover—no one would notice her absence during the campfire sing-along or whatever inane bonding ritual these half-bloods practiced.
"Next time," she promised the silent cliff, "we'll be ready for him."
Careful, Nidhoggr cautioned as they slipped back through the trees. Old hunters become old by recognizing traps.
Medea's lips curled into a chilling smile. "So do old predators."
The forest seemed to hold its breath as she passed, as if recognizing something more dangerous than itself had claimed new territory. Whatever game Fafnir and his mysterious master were playing, they'd just gained an unexpected opponent.
And Medea played to win.
The morning sun climbed higher as Medea emerged from the forest's edge, squinting against the sudden brightness. Camp Half-Blood sprawled before her—disgustingly wholesome in daylight, with orange-shirted teenagers hurrying between activities like ants in a hill. She could smell their half-divine blood on the breeze, a cocktail of power diluted by mortality.
"Pathetic," she muttered, watching a group struggle with archery. The arrows flew wide, instructors shouting encouragement despite the obvious incompetence. "These are the children of gods?"
Some have potential, Nidhoggr observed. Raw material.
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Medea snorted, pulling her hood lower as she skirted the edge of an arena where campers clashed with dull-edged bronze swords. Their movements were telegraphed, amateur—though one blonde girl showed promise, her strikes precise and vicious.
"Materials need refining," Medea replied under her breath. "These kids wouldn't last five minutes against Fafnir."
A conch horn blew somewhere near the central pavilion, signaling a shift in activities. Medea used the resulting chaos to study the camp's layout more carefully—noting the barrier's shimmer at the property line, the positioning of guard posts, the oldest and youngest campers. Tactical assessment disguised as casual wandering.
"Hey! Pink-hair!"
She turned, expression neutral but senses instantly alert. A lanky counselor jogged toward her, clipboard in hand.
"You missed orientation. Again." He looked her up and down, clearly trying to place her parentage. "You can't just wander around. There's a schedule."
Medea's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Schedule."
"Yeah." He thrust the clipboard toward her. "You're assigned to pegasus riding at ten, then Greek mythology with Annabeth at eleven."
Her tail bristled beneath her hoodie. Riding flying horses and sitting through lectures while a draconic scout prowled the borders? The tedium was almost physically painful.
But cover was cover.
"How… exciting," she managed, taking the clipboard with clawed fingers that the counselor somehow failed to notice. "I'll head right over."
The flying horses will smell what you are, Nidhoggr warned as she walked toward the stables. They'll panic.
"Good," Medea murmured, a genuine smile finally touching her lips. "Chaos creates opportunities. While they're managing their precious schedule, we'll map every weakness in this camp."
She cast one last glance toward the forest where Fafnir had disappeared. Whatever ancient game was afoot, she'd position herself to control the board—not be a piece on it.
The scent of hay and horse dung grew stronger as she approached the stables, mixing with the distinct ozone smell of immortal creatures. Inside, pegasi stamped nervously, their breathing shifted—short, sudden, and sharp.
"Time to play nice," she whispered to Nidhoggr, her voice dripping with sarcastic disdain. "For now."
The stable's interior was all weathered wood and golden straw, dappled with morning light filtering through high windows. A dozen pegasi occupied the stalls, their coats gleaming white and chestnut and dappled gray. They should have been magnificent—mythological wonders straight from storybooks.
Instead, they were pathetic.
The instant Medea crossed the threshold, every winged horse froze. A ripple of tension passed through them, as if the air itself had changed. Eyes rolled white. The nearest pegasus—a cream-colored stallion—reared up with a scream that was half-neigh, half-human shriek of terror.
"Whoa! Easy there!" A blonde counselor rushed forward, grabbing the stallion's halter. "What's gotten into you, Buttercream?"
Buttercream. Medea suppressed a derisive snort. These children named weapons of war after desserts.
More pegasi joined the panic, kicking stall doors and beating wings against wooden partitions. The air filled with feathers and dust and the reek of prey-fear. Perfect.
"What's happening?" A younger camper backed away, nearly colliding with Medea.
"I have no idea," she lied smoothly, stepping further into the stable as chaos blossomed. While counselors rushed to calm the animals, she cataloged details—the stable's construction, the proximity to other buildings, sightlines to the forest edge where Fafnir had disappeared.
"They never act like this!" The head counselor—some Apollo kid with sun-bleached hair—struggled with three panicking pegasi at once. "Someone get Chiron!"
Medea leaned against a support beam, observing the structural weaknesses of both the building and the camp's operational hierarchy. When threatened, they called for the centaur. Useful information.
A massive black pegasus kicked through its stall door and bolted straight toward her, wings extended in blind panic. At the last possible moment, she sidestepped, letting the creature crash through the stable door behind her. Freedom called to the other pegasi, who followed their herd-mate in a thundering stampede toward open sky.
"Stop them!" the Apollo kid shouted. "They can't leave without riders!"
But the pegasi were already airborne, circling high above the camp in a display visible to everyone. More counselors came running. Attention diverted exactly where Medea wanted it—away from her, away from the forest borders.
"What happened?" The girl with intense gray eyes—Annabeth—appeared beside her, assessment sharp and suspicious.
Medea arranged her features into a mask of confusion. "No idea. I just walked in and they went crazy." She gestured vaguely upward. "They seem happier up there."
Annabeth's gaze lingered on her a beat too long. This one's smarter than the others, Nidhoggr warned.
"Animals sometimes react strangely to new campers," Annabeth said carefully. "Especially those with… unusual parentage."
Medea raised an eyebrow, letting just enough challenge show. "Is that so?"
Before Annabeth could respond, Chiron himself trotted up, his human torso rising from his palomino horse body. Even he seemed small to Medea—she'd fought frost giants in Niflheim who made this centaur look like a pony.
"What seems to be the trouble?" he asked, his ancient eyes taking in the empty stable, the campers pointing skyward, and finally, Medea herself.
Something in his gaze suggested he saw more than the others. Careful, Nidhoggr cautioned. Old ones recognize the stench of treachery.
"Just a misunderstanding between species," Medea offered with a porcelain smile. "I'm sure they'll come back once they've burned off some energy."
Chiron studied her with three thousand years of wisdom behind his gaze. "Indeed. Miss Ulthar, perhaps you would prefer archery to pegasus riding? At least until the herd… adjusts to your presence."
Translation: until they figure out what she is and why immortal creatures flee from her.
"Perfect," she agreed, already planning how to use the archery field's elevation to map the forest entrance where Fafnir had vanished. "I do love ranged weapons."
As campers dispersed to different activities, Medea caught Annabeth watching her with calculated interest. The girl's storm-gray eyes missed nothing. A potential problem.
Or a potential resource.
She smells of strategy and war, Nidhoggr observed. Useful or dangerous?
"Both," Medea hedged, following the crowd toward the archery range. "Like everyone else in this little divine petting zoo."
Above them, the pegasi continued their agitated circling, unwilling to return while the source of their terror walked freely below. Their instincts were better than their owners'. They recognized what stalked among them.
A monster assessing her territory.
Medea cut across the commons area, weaving between clusters of chattering demigods brushing off a few people who attempted to garner her attention. She could smell their frailty—bonding with dead weight held no appeal.
The archery field lay on the far side of camp, offering an elevated vantage point of the forest's edge—perfect for mapping potential weaknesses in the barrier where Fafnir had disappeared.
Her senses cataloged details with mechanical precision: the scent of sweat-dampened grass trampled by celestial bronze boots, the buzzing undercurrent of divine power that hummed beneath the camp's surface, the subtle hierarchies evident in how younger campers yielded space to older ones. These were puzzle pieces, and her distant kin—foolish though they were—were beginning to take shape.
A bronze dagger gleamed in the sunlight, momentarily blinding her as someone rounded the corner of the armory at a run.
The collision sent the other girl sprawling to the ground in an undignified tangle of limbs and feathers. Colorful beads scattered across the dirt as her necklace broke, and a small braid adorned with an eagle feather came loose from her choppy brown hair.
Medea didn't stumble—only a calculated pause, a flash of feigned surprise as curious eyes turned toward the commotion.
"Gods, I'm so sorry!" The fallen girl pushed herself up on scraped palms. Her kaleidoscopic eyes shifted from brown to blue to green as she looked up, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her features. "I wasn't watching where—"
She froze mid-sentence, those color-changing eyes widening slightly as they met Medea's. Something primal passed between them—recognition of the sort that transcended conscious thought. The girl's expression transformed from apologetic to wary in the space of a heartbeat.
"I think I remember you from yesterday," she said, her voice carefully neutral despite the subtle shift in her posture. Ready to move. Ready to fight if necessary.
Medea extended a hand, carefully keeping her claws retracted. "How observant."
The girl hesitated before accepting the offered help, her grip surprisingly strong as Medea pulled her to her feet. "Piper McLean, Aphrodite cabin." She brushed dirt from her jeans, never fully turning her back. "Though something tells me you already knew that."
Her scent carries power, Nidhoggr whispered.
Interesting. Medea's lips curved into what might have passed for a smile if not for the coldness behind it. "Medea Ulthar. Unclaimed." She gestured at the scattered beads. "Your necklace."
Piper knelt to gather the clay beads, each marked with different symbols—years of survival, Medea realized. Achievement tokens for children playing at being warriors.
"So what exactly are you?" Piper asked, threading the beads back onto the broken leather cord.
Medea tilted her head. "Unclaimed," she repeated with deliberate emphasis.
"That's not what I asked." Piper stood, meeting her gaze without flinching. Her voice carried a subtle undercurrent of power—an attempt at compulsion that slid off Medea like water from oiled scales.
"Careful with your gifts, daughter of love," Medea whispered, leaning closer than social norms dictated. "They work poorly on those beyond your mother's reach."
Around them, other campers had slowed their activities, drawn to the tension crackling between the two. Percy Jackson started moving toward them, hand drifting to his pocket.
Piper noticed too. Her expression softened into a practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Well, welcome to Camp Half-Blood, Medea Ulthar. I hope you find what you're looking for." She stepped back, adding more quietly, "Whatever that might be."
Medea's smile widened, revealing teeth just a fraction too sharp. "Oh, I usually do, Sister."
She stepped around a shocked Piper and continued toward the archery range, aware of the girl's eyes tracking her movement behind her back. Another potential complication—or resource—to factor into her plans to find a worthy challenge.
The archery range bustled with activity as Medea approached, bow hanging loosely in her grip. Orange-shirted campers lined up in neat rows, their arrows sailing through the air with varying degrees of success—mostly failure. The Apollo cabin members strutted between stations, offering tips with the insufferable confidence of those born to a skill rather than having bled for it.
Medea claimed a target at the far end, distancing herself from the chattering mass. The position offered an excellent vantage point of the forest edge where Fafnir had disappeared. Her fingers traced the training bow's curve, feeling its balance. Poorly made, like most things in this camp—designed for children playing at war rather than those born to hunt.
"You need help with your stance?" An Apollo boy with sun-kissed curls approached, his smile blindingly bright.
Medea's lips curled. "No."
Without looking at the target, she nocked an arrow, drew, and released in one fluid motion. The shaft whistled through the air and struck dead center with a solid thunk. The boy's smile faltered.
"Lucky shot," he grumbled.
Five more arrows followed in rapid succession, each splitting the shaft before it. The final arrow buried itself so deep that only its fletching remained visible. The Apollo boy's jaw grew slack as he witnessed the impossible happen.
Silence spread across the archery range like ripples in still water. The Apollo boy backed away, something primal in his expression recognizing the superior being before him.
"Where did you train?" A new voice—Annabeth. Her storm-gray eyes scanned Medea like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit in the neat architecture of her world.
"Everywhere," Medea answered, already tiring of the conversation. She used the distraction to scan the tree line, noting how the shadows deepened unnaturally in one particular area. A shimmer in the air, like heat rising from asphalt. Something was definitely wrong with the barriers.
"I've never seen a technique like that," the girl persisted annoyingly. "Not Greek. Not Roman either."
Medea's gaze slid back to her, cold and calculating. "There are other ways of killing than those your pantheon invented."
Annabeth crossed her arms. "You're not claimed yet, are you?"
"Claimed?" Medea let amusement color her voice. "No, I don't imagine I am."
"Everyone gets claimed eventually. The gods promised."
"How comforting for you all." Medea nocked another arrow, this time turning to face the opposite direction—toward the Big House where Chiron watched from the porch, his ancient eyes fixed on her with unmistakable wariness. She loosed the arrow, sending it singing over the heads of gasping campers to pierce an apple off a distant table. "But some of us exist beyond promises."
Whispers erupted among the younger campers. Annabeth stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"Whatever mask you wear, whatever game you play," she said. "leave now—before the cost finds you."
Medea leaned in, her breath carrying the scent of winter forests and copper. "Have you considered that I might be here to ensure it survives what's coming?"
Before Annabeth could respond, a conch horn sounded across the valley. Lunch. The campers dispersed in reluctant groups, casting backward glances at the strange cat-girl with pink hair and scary teeth.
Medea remained, collecting her arrows with methodical precision. The last one—the one that had struck the apple—she left embedded where it fell. A small message for the centaur watching from his porch: I hit exactly what I aim for.
As the camp settled into its mealtime routine, she slipped away toward the creek boundary. She had reconnaissance to continue if her goal of finding worthy opponents was to be realized. The archery display had served its purpose—establishing her capabilities while simultaneously diverting attention from her true interest in the forest's edge.
