The moon hung pale over the Atlantic as Artemis and her Hunters crested a ridge that overlooked the Portuguese coast. The sea air was sharp, salt-scented, and beneath its freshness lay another note—smoke, faint and acrid, curling from villages further inland. Reports from her scouts had been grim: a band of Cyclopes had strayed from their caves and had begun raiding human settlements, tearing roofs from homes, smashing livestock pens, even dragging away the unlucky who crossed their path. Mortals saw only disasters—collapsed barns, "earthquakes," or wild animals—but the truth lingered raw in the shadows.
Artemis raised her hand, and the column of silver-clad girls halted in silence. The forest here was dense with cork oaks and olive trees, branches whispering with the night breeze. The youngest Hunter, barely fourteen, kept her bow string taut, her eyes scanning the darkness. Phoebe, veteran and second-in-command, slipped up beside Artemis.
"We should make camp," Phoebe said. "The Cyclopes are close, but the scent of smoke says they moved further inland this morning. They'll rest now. We should do the same."
Artemis nodded. She had already marked the trail. Their quarry would not evade them for long. "Here will suffice. The ground is dry, the trees cover us, and the slope gives us sightlines."
The Hunters moved quickly, unrolling packs, preparing to set wards and pitch their tents. But Artemis paused, her eyes flicking toward the bottom of her own satchel. For weeks, it had lain there, unused, yet never far from her thoughts: the magical tent Harry had pressed into her hands after the day she and her Hunters had saved Andromeda and Teddy.
She had not needed it until now. But the memory of that night, the scorch on Andromeda's sleeve, Teddy's wide eyes, and Harry's raw fury as he worked days on end to craft protection—it lingered with her. She had taken the gift, but she had never tested it.
Her hand brushed the fabric now.
"Lady?" Phoebe asked, tilting her head.
Artemis drew out the folded cloth. To the untrained eye it looked like a small, ordinary roll of canvas, no larger than a cloak bundle. But the moment it touched the earth, a hum vibrated through the ground. The Hunters stilled, their eyes flicking curiously to their mistress.
"This is no common tent," Artemis said quietly, though her voice carried in the night air. "It was given to me by Harry. He called it… insurance. I think it is time we see if his craft is worthy of Olympus."
A murmur ran through the Hunters. They respected Harry—some more openly than others—but they had never truly understood the depth of his magic. For them, Artemis's word alone had carried him into their trust.
Phoebe smirked faintly. "If it's half as clever as he is stubborn, it may be worth something."
Artemis allowed the smallest smile. "Then let us see."
She unfurled the cloth with a flick of her wrist. Instead of spreading like fabric, it seemed to spill like water, unfolding and expanding, a shimmer of runes glowing briefly at its edges. It anchored itself into the soil with a soft thrum. The cloth stretched, lengthened, and in seconds, a tent rose where none had stood before—a gleaming structure of pale canvas embroidered with runic patterns that glowed faintly silver in the moonlight.
The Hunters stepped back, murmuring. It looked no larger than a simple field tent from the outside, enough perhaps for three at most.
"Is that it?" one of the younger girls whispered.
Artemis arched an eyebrow and stepped forward. With a touch, she brushed the flap aside. "Enter."
Phoebe followed, bow in hand, while the others waited with curiosity.
The inside stretched wide—far wider than physics should allow. A long common room greeted them first, lined with beds that looked softer than any mortal feather mattress, each bed marked with a small silver insignia of the moon. A hearth glowed warmly without smoke, filling the space with gentle heat. To the left, a long table stood, its surface laden with untouched food—bread still steaming, bowls of stew rich with herbs, pitchers of water and juice that refilled as soon as they were emptied.
"By the Maiden…" Phoebe whispered, eyes sweeping the chamber. "It's enchanted like a palace."
Artemis moved deeper. Doors branched off into side chambers—an armory stocked with gleaming silver-tipped arrows and freshly polished blades, racks aligned perfectly. A bathing chamber, complete with steaming pools that smelled faintly of cedar and herbs. Even a library, small but precise, shelves filled with tomes on hunting, maps, and a set of journals labeled in Harry's hand: Bestiary. Poisons and Countermeasures. Wards for the Field.
Phoebe turned in a slow circle. "Your Ladyship… this is no tent. This is a palace."
Artemis ran a hand along the smooth fabric of one wall, her eyes narrowing. She felt the wards—woven not only for comfort, but for protection. Anti-scrying sigils were layered into the seams. Notice-me-not spells shrouded it even from wandering monsters. A barrier at the entrance would collapse into fire if breached without permission.
Harry had not given her a tent. He had given her a sanctuary.
When the Hunters entered, their awe quickly turned to delight. The youngest rushed to the bunks, running her hands over the linens. Others tested the weapons, finding them perfectly balanced. One filled a goblet at the table and gasped when it refilled itself with cool water.
Artemis raised a hand, quieting them. Her silver eyes swept the chamber. "Remember, this is a gift. Harry made it not for me, but for you—for all of us. Because he understands what it means to face danger without reprieve."
Phoebe crossed her arms, though there was no defiance in her voice. Only grudging admiration. "I didn't think mortals could build something like this. Not even wizards."
Artemis's lips curved faintly. "Harry Black is not an ordinary mortal. He has faced monsters since he was a boy, and he has seen what gods too often overlook."
The Hunters settled into the chamber, some already preparing bunks, others stringing their bows with relieved smiles. For once, Artemis let them ease. They had a long hunt ahead—Cyclopes did not die easily—but tonight, they would rest under Harry's gift.
Artemis moved to the center of the tent and lowered herself onto one of the benches by the hearth. She looked at the flickering flames and thought of the boy with the storm-grey eyes and the unyielding heart.
"Your craft endures, Harry," she murmured softly. "And so do your promises."
Phoebe, catching her words, sat across from her. "He made this for you, Lady. Don't pretend otherwise."
Artemis did not answer, but the faintest color touched her cheeks as the firelight danced.
Outside, the forest whispered with danger. The Cyclopes prowled somewhere beyond, their roars distant thunder. But inside the enchanted tent, the Hunters of Artemis slept safe for the first time in weeks.
And Artemis herself sat awake by the fire, her hand brushing the rune-stitched canvas, silently acknowledging the mortal who had built her a home in the heart of the hunt.
The Hunters rose before dawn, their silver cloaks blending with the pale mist that curled through the cork oaks. The tent had given them deep rest; no one had stirred from nightmares, no one had woken to the snap of branches or the echo of distant roars. They emerged renewed, their bows gleaming, their eyes bright.
Phoebe knelt at the edge of the ridge, brushing her fingers over the dirt. "Tracks," she murmured. "Heavy, wide-spaced. At least three of them. They moved west last night."
Artemis crouched beside her, studying the prints: enormous ovals pressed deep into the soil, the kind only a creature ten feet tall could leave. The earth itself seemed to ache from the weight.
"They're hunting," Artemis said quietly. "Not wandering. Their steps are purposeful. They know there are mortals here."
A murmur went through the Hunters. Everyone remembered why they had come: a village attacked only three nights ago, a child taken, and the smoke of burning homes drifting across the countryside.
Artemis rose, her silver bow in her hand. "We end it today."
They followed the trail through low hills until the scent of smoke grew thick in the air. By midday, they reached the ruins of a farmhouse. Stones lay scattered, walls crushed as if a giant hand had swept them aside. A cart lay overturned, its wheels snapped.
A scream echoed faintly across the valley.
The Hunters froze. Artemis raised her hand. "Steady. Move silent."
They advanced, slipping through the trees, every step placed with the care of wolves on the hunt. From the hilltop, they saw it: a small village square, shattered. And in its center, three Cyclopes loomed like mountains.
Their single eyes glowed a faint yellow, their skin rough as granite, their shoulders broad enough to carry tree trunks as clubs. One tore apart the roof of a chapel, tossing beams aside as if they were twigs. Another held a pen of sheep under his arm, laughing as the animals bleated. The third dragged a cart filled with terrified mortals, their cries muted by the Mist but no less real.
Phoebe's jaw tightened. "They're feasting."
Artemis's eyes narrowed, silver bright with cold fury. "Not for long."
She raised her bow, her voice low but carrying. "Two volleys. Eyes first. Then legs. We cripple, not kill, until the mortals are clear. Do not waste arrows. Phoebe, with me. On my mark."
The Hunters moved like a single body, arrows nocked, breaths held.
"Mark."
A storm of silver hissed through the air. The first Cyclops howled, clutching his face as two arrows buried themselves in his single eye. The second staggered back as shafts pierced his thigh and shoulder. The third bellowed, dropping the cart in shock.
"Move!" Artemis commanded. "Free the mortals!"
Half the Hunters broke off, sprinting into the square, cutting ropes and pulling villagers to safety. The other half loosed another volley, their arrows burning like moonlight against the monsters' hide.
The Cyclopes roared, swinging tree-trunk clubs in wide arcs that shattered stone walls and sent debris flying. One club struck the ground so hard the earth split, tossing two Hunters off their feet.
"Shields!" Phoebe barked, and two girls raised silver discs. The clubs struck and ricocheted, sparks flying.
Artemis moved like the moon itself—swift, inevitable. She darted beneath a giant's swing, her silver bow cracking across his knee like a staff. He roared, dropping to one leg, and Artemis's next arrow buried itself in his throat.
"Lady!" Phoebe shouted, loosing at the second Cyclops. "They're trying to flee with the cart!"
Artemis turned sharply. The largest Cyclops had seized the cart again, dragging it toward the forest with staggering speed, two mortals still trapped inside.
Artemis's voice rang like steel. "Cut him off!"
Phoebe vaulted from a broken wall, landing squarely on the creature's back. Her dagger flashed, slashing across its neck, but the beast only howled and swatted her off like an insect. She struck the ground hard, rolling.
The Cyclops lifted his club to finish her—
And a silver shaft of light seared the air, Artemis's arrow striking true through the giant's eye. The beast staggered, dropping the cart. Hunters swarmed, pulling the mortals free as the monster collapsed with a ground-shaking crash.
The battle raged another ten minutes, but the outcome was never in doubt. One by one, the Cyclopes fell, their roars silenced by silver shafts, their massive frames tumbling into the dirt. The last tried to limp into the hills, but Artemis pursued, her steps silent as moonlight on snow. When her arrow struck, it fell without a sound.
Silence returned to the valley, broken only by the weeping of freed villagers and the ragged breaths of the Hunters.
Phoebe limped back, wiping blood from a cut on her forehead. "All accounted for, Lady. No losses."
Artemis inclined her head, relief softening her sharp features. "Good. See to the villagers. The Mist will cover what they cannot understand, but let them know they are safe."
One of the youngest Hunters approached, her eyes still wide with awe. "Lady… if not for the tent last night, we would not have had the strength. It gave us more than shelter."
Artemis allowed herself a faint smile. "Harry's magic has its place in this hunt, even if he is not here."
Phoebe smirked, though her voice was respectful. "If he keeps this up, Lady, the Hunters may start asking to carry his tools."
Artemis shot her a look that silenced the jest, but in the quiet of her heart, she thought of the glowing runes inside that enchanted tent, of the mortal who had given her more than she had asked for.
She turned to the Hunters, her silver eyes reflecting the fading firelight of the ruined village. "Tonight, we rest again beneath the wards of our new sanctuary. Tomorrow, we hunt whatever still lingers. The Cyclopes will not rise again."
The Hunters cheered softly, their voices like the rustle of leaves in the wind.
And beneath the Portuguese moon, the hunt was victorious.
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