Damien woke to the smell of rain and metal. His eyes fluttered open, and for a long moment he thought he was still caught in the storm. The ceiling above him churned with black clouds, crackling with tiny streaks of lightning. Thunder rolled softly, not deafening but steady, like waves crashing on a reef. He lay on a stone bench, his ribs aching with every shallow breath, and for several moments he simply stared, half convinced he was still dreaming.
The monsters couldn't have been real. The one-eyed giant, the winged horrors, the shield of lightning—they had to have been tricks of exhaustion and hunger. He told himself so again and again. You were starving. You were delirious. None of it happened.
Then he noticed the glint of gold.
A ring, smooth and bright, sat on his right pointer finger. His stomach tightened. He didn't remember putting it there. He tugged at it with his other hand, and it slid free easily enough. Damien exhaled sharply and set it down on the stone beside him. For a moment, relief flooded him. See? It's nothing. Just jewelry someone left here. It doesn't mean anything.
He turned his head toward the ceiling again, watching the storm crackle. But when he glanced back down at his hand, the ring was there, snug on his finger once more.
Damien's mouth went dry. He tore it off again, dropped it on the floor, and watched it clink against the stone. He looked away, forced himself to count the thunderclaps. One. Two. Three. When he looked back—the ring was back on his finger, gleaming as though it had never left.
He sat frozen, staring at it, his heart pounding in his throat. Whatever had happened last night, dream or not, this was real. Too real.
The smell of food drifted through the temple doors. His stomach clenched, and hunger quickly overpowered fear. He pulled himself upright with a groan, one hand pressed to his ribs, and limped toward the light spilling in from outside.
The camp stretched out before him, alive with color and movement. Stone paths wound between houses and training yards, and everywhere children moved—laughing, sparring, carrying supplies. Steel clashed from the training ground, the ringing of hammers rose from the forge, and the scent of smoke and herbs mingled with roasting meat. But as Damien stepped out from Zeus's temple, heads turned. Conversations faltered. A boy nudged his friend; a girl whispered behind her hand. The weight of their stares pressed into Damien's back, a mix of awe, suspicion, and something colder. He lowered his head and kept moving.
Wait, why do I think that was Zeus' temple, let-alone a temple at all?
The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread guided him toward a wide marble pavilion. Its columns were plain but sturdy, framing an open space filled with long stone tables. Platters of food stretched across them—grapes, apples, steaming bread, meat sizzling on bronze trays. At the center of the hall blazed an enormous hearth, its flame steady and bright, warming the air like a blanket. Laughter and chatter echoed from every table, but Damien barely noticed over the gnaw of his hunger.
Damien's restraint lasted all of two heartbeats. He collapsed onto the nearest bench, grabbed a hunk of bread, and tore into it like an animal. Soup followed, then slices of meat, his hunger bottomless after days of scraps and rainwater. For a few minutes, the ache in his ribs faded under the weight of sheer relief. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt safe.
A shadow fell across the table. Damien looked up, bread still in his mouth.
The man—no, not a man—stood taller than anyone Damien had ever seen, his chest broad, his eyes kind but sharp. And below the waist, his body stretched into the powerful form of a horse, dark hooves clicking gently against the stone floor. Damien's jaw dropped, his mind screaming that this couldn't be real. A centaur. An actual centaur.
"You should be careful," the centaur said in a voice both patient and firm. "Your injuries are worse than you realize."
"I'm fine," Damien muttered around a mouthful of bread, temporarily ignoring that he was speaking to a mythical being. He tried to stand, only for pain to lance through his side. His knees buckled, and he would have collapsed if the centaur hadn't caught him with one steady arm.
"My name is Chiron, pronounced Kai-ron," the centaur said. "And you, young one, are in need of healing."
Damien wanted to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He let Chiron lead him away, still dazed, still clutching the bread in his hand.
The House of Apollo glowed with golden light, its air rich with the scent of herbs and honey. Murals of the sun god lined the walls, and soft music drifted from unseen instruments. Inside, older campers moved with quiet purpose, carrying bowls of water, rolls of bandages, and vials of liquid that shimmered faintly.
A boy about Damien's age approached, his blond hair shining in the temple's glow. His smile was gentle, warm, the kind that immediately put people at ease—but there was a firmness beneath it, a quiet authority that warned he would not be ignored. "I'm Callias," he said. "Apollo counselor. Let's see those ribs."
Before Damien could protest, Callias pressed glowing hands gently to his side. Pain flared, sharp enough to make Damien hiss—but then warmth followed, sinking deep, easing the ache. He felt broken bones shift and knit together, bruises fading beneath the golden light. In minutes, the agony dulled to a faint throb. He stared, wide-eyed, as Callias stepped back with a satisfied nod.
"There. Not perfect—you'll need rest—but you'll live. And don't think that means you can start running around again. You disobey me, you'll regret it." He said sternly, pointing at him with squinted eyes as he drifted off to the next patient.
Damien managed a nod, still stunned. His stomach turned at the thought of what he had just seen. Real magic. Real healing. He wanted to deny it, but the absence of pain was undeniable.
Chiron led him outside again. Together, they walked the stone paths as the centaur spoke patiently. "This place is called Camp Elysion. It is a sanctuary, hidden from mortal eyes. Here, the children of the gods learn to survive—and to fight. You are not the first to arrive here bruised and confused, and you will certainly not be the last."
They passed the central valley, where the colossal tree of Hecate rose skyward, its bark carved with glowing silver runes. Around it stood the grand Houses of the Olympians, each distinct in design—Athena's library of marble shelves, Ares's smoke-stained barracks, Apollo's radiant hall. Beyond them stretched another ring, smaller shrines to gods whose names Damien barely remembered, each humming with strange power.
Chiron pointed out each and every temple, naming them for Damien's benefit; the training fields, where young campers sparred with wooden swords; the stone arena, scarred and glowing faintly from old enchantments; the armory with its racks of gleaming bronze; and the council hall, its star-map floor catching the afternoon sun. Damien tried to take it all in, but each step felt heavier. None of this should have been real—and yet here it was.
Finally, Chiron stopped and looked down at him. "You are a demigod, Damien. A son of Zeus, we believe. That ring on your finger is not an accident—it is your divine gift. In time, you will learn to wield it. But for now, you must rest."
Damien turned back toward Zeus's House, its storm still raging above. He remembered the shield, the monsters, and the voice that had thundered through him. His gaze fell to the ring, gleaming stubbornly on his finger, then lifted again to the roiling sky. His chest tightened. Quietly, almost to himself, he whispered: "This is real." Just once, thunder roared, but there was no flash.
Apparently, his father was confirming his thoughts.