[Special] Even the Master Falls into His Own Traps
Since Tantalus disappeared at such a critical moment for the camp, the campers had been truly nervous. And even though Mr. D was present, everyone knew he would not actually lift a finger if every single one of them died. After all, he was a god. They were not worth earning a harsher punishment for interfering. And he had no intention of doing so anyway. If they all died, perhaps the one who would be happiest, even happier than their enemies, would be him. His punishment would finally come to an end.
But there was something else that made them even more uneasy. The supposed enemy of Olympus, the one people whispered about everywhere because of his battle against Zeus on Mount Olympus, the one who had forced the mountain to be rebuilt in large part because of him, was now standing on the camp's very land.
As if it were nothing. Walking around at times, watching them with annoyance during their training and preparations for a possible monster invasion.
As if they were nothing more than simple worms crawling around like idiots. Not even worth the effort of a proper glance.
He was none other than the acknowledged master of Poseidon's son. And ever since he arrived, every time he crossed paths with Mr. D, the campers would scatter in genuine fear at the possibility that a fight might break out between them and, with it, the total destruction of Camp Half Blood from its very foundations.
So basically, it was like living with a nuclear bomb. Or waiting for one to fall right on top of their heads.
Miraak was once again watching with disdain the way the campers trained. Feeling that they were truly fools if they believed that would make them stronger. At least the two idiots he trained were many times stronger than the rest; although one of them, perhaps, was even more of an idiot than all of them combined.
Miraak grabbed a can of beer and opened it without ceremony before taking a long drink. And as happened every single time he did that, a gaze fixed itself on him with genuine hatred from the place called the Big House.
Miraak let out a truly mocking smile as he took another heavy swallow. Then the entire camp began to feel a deep fear rising from the center of their chests.
And once again, everyone started growing nervous, looking for somewhere safe. As happened every time.
"Aaah…" a sigh was heard near Miraak, who shook the can with amusement, following the faint rattle of aluminum. A simple sound, yet strangely it calmed the irritated gaze coming from the Big House.
Beside the campfire stood a girl shaking her head in tired resignation. Or rather, a woman in the body of a girl. She glanced toward Miraak for a moment.
"Could you behave like what you are? You truly seem even more childish than the children you are supposed to take care of," she said. Though she stood far away, her voice seemed to reach directly into the ears of the two adults who carried thousands of years behind their backs.
The gaze from the Big House shifted in annoyance, though it did not respond. Miraak simply finished the contents of his can and tossed it behind him without looking.
Immediately, a dryad emerged from a nearby tree and glared at him in irritation.
Had it been any camper who did that, she would already be preparing to make them wake up covered in dirt and worms.
But when she saw Miraak turn his head and look at her, she froze completely before retreating back into her tree.
Miraak watched that and let out a faint, amused breath. At the same time, the can that had fallen to the ground began to be devoured by shadows until it disappeared completely. Just like the creatures that tried to enter the camp unnoticed.
He turned his gaze back to the woman disguised as a child, but she had already returned to tending the central fire as if nothing had happened. Miraak could not help but study her for a moment longer. Truly unable to understand why a being so powerful would lower herself to something like that.
Even in his infinite knowledge, he had never seen or heard of something similar. In his plane, every superior being acted according to their rank. Only one person would behave in such a way. And that person was the least sane of them all. Which was precisely why they would do it.
Even he, if he was now doing something remotely similar by helping a group of brats avoid being devoured by filth, did so only because he adhered to an agreement he had made with himself; to accept any task imposed upon him as long as there was a corresponding payment.
It was the only pact he had imposed on himself since the beginning of his life as a dragon priest. The only thing that kept him sane.
When you live imprisoned for thousands of years, with nothing but knowledge as your only companion, pacts like that are the only things that keep you sane.
He had taught Percy the same principle. Though perhaps the foolish brat understood nothing and only follows it because Miraak ordered him to.
And of course, for every mission there must always be a benefit. That, at least, was never in doubt.
Miraak let out a sigh before walking through the camp. He did not truly expect to find anything interesting.
Yet as he followed the goddess's movements with his eyes, watching her simply stir the embers of the fire, he could not help but feel something close to a strange communion.
Then he turned toward the forge, where the smiths, sons of the god of the forge, hammered steel without rest.
Forging weapons that, in his view, would not even be accepted by a bounty hunter in Tamriel.
Every glance he cast at each camper was the same. All and every one of them seemed nothing more than simple mortals, no different from what he believed of the children of gods. Nothing special.
His gaze settled on a somewhat muscular young man, his skin burned by the constant heat of the furnace, who was striking a piece of metal slowly, shaping it into a sword.
The boy lifted it afterward, holding it up from below to check whether it was straight, and nodded to himself with confidence.
That made Miraak unable to stop an irritated sigh at such brutality toward the craft.
"It is wrong," he said.
For a moment he frowned at his own intrusion into something that did not even interest him.
"What?" the young man replied with annoyance. But when he realized it was Miraak speaking to him, and with that particular frown that made him tremble every time he saw it, he immediately began to pale. "S sir… what do you require?" the smith asked, barely containing his panic.
Miraak drifted out of his thoughts before looking at him again. Completely cowed. Very different from when he had been striking that hammer with confidence.
"It is wrong. That will end as scrap. You are missing three blows at the center. Two at the tip. At least there you will not waste the metal, and it will be somewhat usable," Miraak said calmly, fixing his gaze on the young man.
"What?" he repeated, confused.
"Is each one of you equally foolish?" Miraak asked, mild irritation in his voice.
The word clearly offended the young smith, though he would not dare show it.
"Ah… well…" he muttered.
He looked at his sword, which only lacked the oil quenching. He let out a defeated sigh before picking up the hammer and placing it back on the anvil. He already saw it as ruined.
Clang.
"Harder," Miraak said at the first strike.
The smith could not prevent his expression from darkening further. Then he struck with all his strength.
Clang.
The sound rang firmer.
And then another. And another. Until he completed exactly the number Miraak had stated.
Strangely, the sword did not end as scrap, as he had expected. Though its shape had changed slightly. The tip was finer. The blade seemed one or two centimeters longer than before. It still looked like the same sword… but not entirely.
"Eh…"
The smith examined it, surprised that it had not cracked, and moved to plunge it into the oil. But Miraak stopped him once more.
"You need total cold," Miraak said.
"But… it will shatter," the smith replied.
Miraak released a tired breath.
"It is good to follow the book, since it carries the experience of those who wrote it. But if you never step outside that balance, you will never find new experience," he said as he stepped closer and took the sword from the tongs holding it, grasping the red hot steel with ease.
The young man flinched in alarm. Yet he did not dare move as Miraak lifted the blade slightly toward his face.
And exhaled softly upon it, uttering a single word.
"IISS."
An icy wind burst from his mouth, freezing the glowing steel completely, coating it in frost and cooling it in an instant.
Crack.
The sound echoed through the blade like a sentence being passed.
The smith, shaken from his shock, could not help but shake his head, already considering it lost. Fractures spread visibly across the surface.
But he froze again when Miraak gave the sword a light shake.
What appeared to be its outer layer broke away, falling to the ground in frozen fragments. And from within emerged a finer blade. Bearing the previous shape, yet fully tempered.
Miraak touched lightly the areas he had pointed out earlier. Those points shone with a clean metallic tone, as if already polished. The rest still required work.
Without another word, he tossed it back to the smith.
"Well. At least it will serve to cut your dinner. If you add an enchantment, it may serve to take the head off some weak bandit, at least," he said calmly. And then he walked away.
The young smith stared at the sword.
Every part of it seemed superior to his usual weapons. And above all, those highlighted points, the tip and the center.
"Enchantment?" he murmured, studying the blade. Then he lifted his gaze toward Miraak's back as he walked away without haste.
As if something within him had finally been struck into shape, he suddenly ran straight after the man.
Meanwhile, the goddess who continued to stir a single coal in the fire looked toward the forge with a small, amused smile.