CHAPTER ONE / VOL. I, BAD OMENS EVERYWHERE

REMEMBER: virtue is a fickle thing—volatile and wayward, subject to change at any time given the right circumstances. As you may see it, the hero stumbles through mire and slays the dragon, rescuing the princess who sits perched in her tower like an object of desire, but never anything more than skin-deep. However, the hero still has something to gain and selflessness doesn't exist even in fairy tales. So the hero has self-interest at heart, the princess waits to be saved, but what of the dragon who dies at the hands a of proud man—a villain. Even if the dragon is self-serving and antagonistic, the hero is the one swinging a sword and carving through flesh. At the end of the day we are all the same ugly, belligerent creatures predisposed to breed rancor and chaos. And what becomes of us after? Well, that doesn't matter much.

Somewhere along the way the hero may look upon their own reflection in a window and see the incomplete parts of a human being, some malformed creature made up of vices and sharp objects. The hero wallows in their own fragility, wondering at what point the world had fell to ruins. At the same time, the princess might be pacing the tower, glimpsing in a mirror at all the pretty parts that don't quite form a whole. More importantly, the tower has become a prison with bludgeons for stones and nooses for curtains. If the hero comes too late, still in shambles from their own misery, they might find the princess in pieces, lost in the mire, a long way down from the tower that watches on, seeing all and saying nothing.

But the dragon is still a dragon. It doesn't care for the trials and tribulations of mankind. It still treks through the brambles, spreading droplets of blood and setting fires everywhere, bleeding from a laceration that should have been cauterized, but some wounds never heal. It's important that you understand who you are: the hero, the princess, the dragon. A lot of things depend on this, including whether or not you make it to the end of the story—that, of course, doesn't take into account self-destruction. But Will is none of the above—not the hero, not the princess, and not the dragon. So what does that make her?

Will has never tried to mask the monster she is. She'd learned long ago that it didn't matter how violent and volatile she was, or how antagonism was laced in her DNA, inseparable from the most fundamental framework that forged her. It didn't matter because Will was never made to be anything good. Haunting and devastating, she is a perpetual open wound, raw and exposed—digging deeper with bloodied fingers to reach bone, lancing with pain, but still enough to bring relief. After all, pain is proof of life.

Like all children of Ares, Will was born from chaos and strife, made from ash and bones to give rise to war and bloodshed. Bastard child, bad omen, harbinger of death.

The tip of a gleaming dagger is wedged into the bark of a tree, forging splinters and carving shapes into the rough rind. Bad habits are hard to kill. Perched on a branch with her back pressed against the trunk—one leg dangling below her and the other curled against her chest, the sharp blade puncturing the spot on the branch next to her foot—Will rips the dagger from the grooves of the tree, a firm hand clasped around the hilt of Éleos, the blade gifted to her by her father, along with the brutal words: you were bred for war and nothing more.

He had told her, in his thundering, whiskey timbre like a war cry, that the reason it gleamed a deep red under certain light was because it had been stained by the blood of his enemies. If you looked hard enough at the blade you could see the reflection begin to distort and slowly the scene of a battlefield would appear. Countless warriors frozen in time, on their knees, bleeding out with a look of pathetic desperation—a sad plea to anyone out there that would listen. Their words fell on deaf ears. There was no one in the world that reached to hold their cold, trembling hands or shut their haunting eyes after their chest failed to rise once more. The faces of forgotten men lost in battle, seared onto a bloody dagger. Holding the blade under the sunlight, Will watches the images play out. Blood-stained faces and trembling hands, silent prayers slipping from agape mouths, bloody teeth like soldiers on a battlefield. The dagger feels heavy in her hands.

Will pulls her gaze from the massacre, lips twisting down into a soft frown as her dark eyes survey the lake in the foreground. The clouds were rolling by and the garish sun was hanging high in the sky like a star at the top of the Christmas tree. It would've seemed picturesque to most, the waves lapping up on shore and the sunlight catching against ripples in the water, but it was too placid, too good. Will could feel it; the stifling and rigid nature in the air, so thick that it weighed heavy on her. She could feel it tremble through her bones, in the tips of her fingers, the tingling, the aching, the hunger for hands clasped around a cold dagger.

Too long she's been left to her own devices and as a result her mind relives that dark and stormy night. Everything good turns bad, and Will is reminded of all the bad omens. Her senses are flooded with the sound of rain pounding against the pavement and the smell of fire searing through tender flesh. It always comes back to her in some form or other—the images that flicker to life like an old film reel, casting shadows in her mind of ghosts that never should have been there, apparitions of a life that had been left behind. All the could-haves and should-haves are seared onto her brain, permanent reminders of her own shortcomings that had revealed themselves that day but remained long after fire was put out.

Will is just about to drop from the branch, no longer interested in her
dissonant, deafening thoughts or the slices her dagger makes in the bark, when a familiar bronze carriage plummets through the sky like a falling star, hurling itself straight into the depths of the lake whose Monet likeness has been shattered. The pegasi stand in the shallow and shake their wings out in a way that suggests irritation, sending droplets of water spraying onto Will's dirty sneakers with frayed laces and dried drops of blood across the toe. At the sound of the commotion a large group of campers rush over, curiously eyeing the wreckage. Will scowls at the amount of people that begin to surround the scene, wanting nothing more than to retreat to the safety of her cabin where even with all of the disarray, Will could find comfort in its chaos. She only drops from the branch when she sees Annabeth's head of curly flaxen hair emerge from the lake. Immediately overcoming any previous hesitation, Will shoves past the other campers—most of whom give her disgruntled looks but say nothing in protest, knowing well that to Will they are nothing more than warm bodies that could just as easily turn cold.

          "Blondie," Will calls out once she's close enough, reaching over to Annabeth and slugging her in the arm hard enough that a sound is made, and though it wasn't intentional, a bruise will start to form as a consequence of all of her training.

          "What was that for?" Annabeth asks with a miffed expression as she staggers back from the hit, used to Will's punches, at least to the point where she no longer rubs the wounded spot and simply ignores the sting.

The answer is simple, or at least it should be. Will was worried about her, thinking about the nights that Annabeth has stayed awake racking her brain for any kind of explanation concerning Percy's abrupt disappearance and the disappointment that soon followed from a lack of answers. Admittedly, most of Will's concern was inherently selfish—more concerned with the change that had taken place with Percy's vanishing act being the catalyst, rather than the disappearance itself. Still, a sliver of that concern was unadulterated and unhindered by ulterior reasoning, but she would never say. Ignoring the question, her scrutinizing gaze lands on the two boys emerging from the lake, drenched in water that pools beneath their feet.

    "Who are they?"

          Annabeth's expression shows annoyance, though the disappointment and exhaustion etched on her face are far more apparent. "New campers. There wasn't any sign of Percy," she sighs, trying to run a hand through her hair before realizing that it's in a ponytail. Another bad habit.

          "We'll find him, Annabeth," Will reassures after seeing Annabeth's poor attempt at masking her distress. "He's hard to get rid of... like a venereal disease." This causes the blonde's lips to twitch, threatening to form a smile, though maybe it shouldn't have. Another frown overpowers it as she thinks that Percy would have a fit if he heard what Will had just said. They'd probably get into another fight, which would end with Will as the victor and Percy licking his wounds—even his power pales in comparison to Will's prowess in battle, some remnant of her father that outgrew even him.

          Will notices Annabeth's deflation and purses her lips, murmuring, "There, there," and offering two pats on the head. Annabeth accepts her head pats, knowing that it was the closest thing to comfort she would get from the girl. Will had never been anything soft, and as a result relationships were hard for her to comprehend and even harder for her to navigate—compassion and affection felt like a far cry from the bloodlust and rage she born from. But Annabeth understood that, never asking Will to be something she wasn't, and never expecting her to be capable of changing.

Looking back at the two boys who emerged from the lake, Will could see them being greeted by the growing crowd of campers and dried off with leaf blowers. The smaller one had wild curls and an impish visage that rivaled Will's. He was lanky and seemed to be fiddling with his hands to fill a necessary void, beady eyes taking in his new surroundings with a childlike fascination. Everything about his features seemed warm and full of life, even his tawny skin with light tan lines and calloused hands, as though they'd been battered and burned too many times to be repaired.

The other boy looked more like a threat. He was tall and lean, but not weedy and unassuming like his companion—rather he was Adonis-like in every way, already stirring wariness within Will. She'd spent ten years at Camp Half-Blood training and fighting until her hands were raw and her body was bruised. Will knew exactly what the effects of combat training looked like, but even with his build, there was still something soft to him. It was something about his blue eyes like the sky after a storm and the golden mop of hair atop his head, with little constellations scattered across the bridge of his nose and a small scar just above his petal lips. He was undeniably handsome in a way that might make your heart leap against your ribcage or make your brain go haywire, contemplating the existence of gods among men. But he wasn't a god. He was just a boy who radiated an inexplicable feeling of doom. And though Will made it a point not to trust anyone, she felt even more adamant that he was not deserving of her trust. Something about him made her skin crawl.

Staring at the boy a moment longer, she hears a name resonating in her head like a whisper traveling along the air: Ivlivs. Forged from imperial gold and disguised as a coin, the weapon burns a whole in his pocket. Will could feel it's power, live it's history—knew of the battles it's seen, the blood it's spilled. Will stops to think why an unclaimed boy with no knowledge of this world outside of his own would carry a weapon of such great power. A question without an answer.

          "I'm Jason," the blonde boy introduces with initiative that seemed to come naturally, approaching the two girls with some hesitation upon seeing Will's narrowed eyes and gleaming dagger. "That's my... friend, Leo." The word seemed foreign to the golden boy. A friend, his friend. It all felt so wrong, the words falling from his lips flatly, ending the conversation with an incongruous note.

Will regards him with onyx eyes, a perpetual boneyard of emotion with just enough expression to allow for scrutiny. This allowed Jason to really look at her; the girl with eyes like stones and hands that quivered, itching to grab hold of the dagger in its holster. She looked like the kind of girl that would ruin you, snuffing you out like a cigarette with the heel of her boot. Even with the ugly, garish scar that branded her face like a never ending reminder of unwanted memories, Will's presence was still enough to gather attention—or rather demand it. But some part of her looked softened over the years. Maybe it was the way Annabeth was standing right beside her, arms pressed together like Will is capable of something more than just fury. Or maybe it was all of the miscellaneous bandaids plastered across her body, hiding cuts and wounds that the campers in the Ares cabin had treated. The younger kids had heaved their bodies on hers, the mass of them being enough to hold her down while Sherman risked his life to sanitize and apply pretty bandaids to Will's wounds. That's not to say that he got out unscathed. In spite of her bitterness towards that memory, Will still hadn't removed a single bandaid.

Before Will could say anything in return—not that she was going to—there was another body thrown up on the shore, wet hair obscuring their face. The girl quickly pushed herself up from the ground, shoving the uneven, umber hair from her eyes. Even the choppy locks and ill-fitting clothing weren't enough to conceal her beauty, though it seemed like an effort was made. She makes her way towards the group hesitantly, still glancing back at the naiads who disappear beneath the surface once more in a dark mass of tendrils and murky water. The ruined chariot is tossed up onto shore not a moment later, leaving the once rainbow-painted wood looking like a prismatic massacre.

As if sensing the destruction of his beloved chariot, Will Solace jogs over quickly with eyes narrowed uncharacteristically. He has his bow and quiver on his back, pale hand running over his face as he surveys the carnage. "Annabeth," Will bellows, shoving past the crowd and coming to a stop in front of the group, arms crossed in annoyance. "I said you could borrow the chariot, not destroy it!"

"Will, I'm sorry," Annabeth apologizes. "I'll get it fixed, I promise. "

Will scowls at his broken chariot before letting out a dejected sigh. He shrugs, signaling no resentment towards Annabeth for the demolished chariot that now sits abandoned by the shore, and then turns to Will with his familiar sunny smile, golden like his father in every way. "Hey Will," he greets.

She lets a smirk slip onto her lips. "Will the second," she acknowledges with a nod, catching the gleam of his arrowheads just over his shoulder. More so by habit than by choice, Will always notices what weapons people have on their person. It happens whether she wants it to or not, but she assumes some part of it must have to do with Ares and his proclivity for weaponry.

"For the last time, I was not named after you! Just because you're older than me, doesn't mean that you're my namesake!" Will's words would seem harsh, but as always there's no real bitterness behind them as he looks to the girl in front of him. She only smiles wolfishly, in a way that would usually send shivers down your spine. The only problem was that Will had never been afraid of her—even when he'd first arrived at Camp Half-Blood and the other campers warned him about the girl who had been there for countless years throughout every season; violent, seething Will Capote and all the chaos that followed her.

          She shrugs nonchalantly. To the untrained eye she would look entirely bored with the path that the conversation had taken, but the way her lip twitches gives away her amusement. "Whatever, Sunshine."

Though he doesn't mean to, Jason notices the way the fondness she has for the two blondes. It's unexpected from a girl who has a gleaming sword strapped to her back and a large dagger holstered on her hip, accompanied by various other smaller, less notable but not less threatening knives. Will seems a lot less hostile in this light—smiling with the other Will like they have some sort of inside joke, and standing a hair length away from Annabeth as though she finds comfort in the blonde girl's presence. Jason thinks there might be more humanity left in Will Capote than everyone thinks.

Will shakes his head at the nickname, though he remembered just as vividly the rush of euphoria that spread through him the first time she called him Sunshine. He looks at Piper, Leo, and Jason—calculating honey eyes giving them a once over. "These are the ones? Way older than thirteen. Why haven't they been claimed already?"

"Claimed?" Leo asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

Will speaks again before Annabeth can explain. "Any sign of Percy?"

"No," Annabeth admits to the boy and the group that has gathered around them. The campers mutter to themselves as Drew takes it upon herself to step forward with a scrutinizing snarl—ebony hair twisted in ringlets and plump lips curled down. She's vacantly pretty in Will's opinion—not having much substance or value outside of her appearance, or so it seems. Drew glances at Leo with disinterest, not finding anything noteworthy from the elfish boy whose hands still fumble together. Will fixates too long on the boys hands and suddenly her own fingers itch to clasp around a hilt, carve through flesh or do something to fill that void.

Drew's still looking at the newcomers when Will pockets her hands, biting her cheek so hard that it starts to bleed, pooling with a metallic taste just below her tongue. Drew's eyes land on Jason, dragging her eyes over his lean build and trailing up to his face that is laced with comical confusion. Finally she looks to Piper, glossy lip curling as she takes in the girl's appearance. Seemingly the antithesis of Aphrodite's beauty.

Will rolls her eyes at the shrewish girl, crossing her arms with a malicious glare that could send men running. Drew sent her a snarl back, not having forgotten the time that Will sent Éleos right through her freshly manicured hand. Will honestly hadn't meant to. Generally the two had steered clear of each other up until a couple years ago when Drew made a snide comment about Luke's betrayal, rubbing salt in an open wound. The next thing Will knew, her dagger was pinning Drew's frail hand to the table and blood was cascading from the pulsing wound, staining the white nail polish red and leaving a burning resentment between the two girls.

"Well," Drew says, flicking her inky hair behind her shoulder with a look of disdain. "I hope they're worth the trouble."

Leo snorts, a sarcastic look coming across his impish face. "Gee, thanks. What a warm welcome."

"No kidding," Jason agrees, stormy eyes narrowing in annoyance but mostly with frustration. "How about some answers before you start judging us—like, what is this place, why are we here, how long do we have to stay?"

"Are you always this annoying?" Will retorts, crossing her arms with a scowl. "What's the rush? You're unclaimed. It's not like you're going anywhere anytime soon."

Jason, despite not understanding what claiming is, looks rather offended, eyes flicking around the rest of group to determine whether or not this kind of hostility was expected. From the looks on the campers faces, he can tell that this is nothing out of the ordinary.

"Will," Annabeth chastises. "Go easy on them. Jason, I promise we'll answer your questions. And Drew," Annabeth pauses, eyeing the girl with a pointed look. "All demigods are worth saving. But I'll admit, the trip didn't accomplish what I hoped."

"Hey," Piper's interjects. "We didn't ask to be brought here."

Drew scoffs, turning her nose up at the girl like something putrid is hanging in the air. "And nobody wants you. Does your hair always look like something died in it?"

Piper steps forward with a look of fury that almost convinces Will that she's a child of Ares. Something about that encounter made her look hungry for bloodshed. But Will was surely disappointed when Annabeth's voice cut through the tension. "Piper, stop."

Unfortunate, Will thinks, more than ready to see trenchant violence.

"We need to make our new arrivals feel welcome," Annabeth demands, ever the diplomat, with another cutting look at Drew and Will. "We'll assign them each a guide, give them a tour of camp. Hopefully by the campfire tonight, they'll be claimed."

"Would somebody tell me what being claimed means?" Piper asks, though it's mostly towards Annabeth. Even she's realized that Will—as gentle as her sloping lips and pink cheeks make her seem—is not the kind of person you call a friend.

A surge of whispers comes from the crowd as they are basked in a searing red glow that scorches Will's skin like fire dancing across her flesh. Her skin starts to itch as she tries not to think of that night—how the flames felt so familiar to the ones that burned her world to the ground. She peels open her eyes to see a blazing hammer, glowing like a crimson halo over Leo's head.

"That," Annabeth says slowly, eyes still trained on the scene before her, "is claiming."

"What'd I do?" Leo panics and backs up in alarm, looking up at the flaming symbol though he could only discern the red glow and nothing else. "Is my hair on fire?"

Will rolls her eyes as the boy begins to run away from it, ducking and staggering in a desperate attempt to get away from it. However, Will always viewed this process as foreshadowing. Despite how much you fight against it, there is a certain destiny that you can't escape—no matter how hard you try. As for Will, her fate was set in stone, carved into it like cuts on flesh. She was destined to be garish and unlovable and constantly in anguish. The stars would not align for Will Capote.

"This can't be good," Butch mutters, staring at the glowing symbol with apprehension painted on his visage. "The curse—"

Annabeth cuts him off sharply, looking more like her mother than ever. "Butch, shut up. Leo, you've just been claimed—"

"By a god," Jason interrupts, blue eyes showing recognition as he looks pensively on at his supposed friend. "That's the symbol of Vulcan, isn't it?"

Now everyone's eyes are on him. And Will would mark this as another reason that Jason couldn't be trusted.

"Jason," Annabeth says tentatively, "How did you know that?"

"I'm not sure," he admits.

"Vulcan?" Leo asks. "I don't even like Star Trek. What are you talking about?" His hands are still swatting at the symbol, flinching each time they pass through the light without harm.

"Vulcan is the Roman name for Hephaestus," Annabeth explains, "the god of blacksmiths and fire."

The fiery hammer fades, but Leo continues to glance up like it might be haunting him. "The god of what? Who?"

Annabeth turns to the son of Apollo, ignoring the boy's stream of questions. "Will, would you take Leo and give him a tour? Introduce him to his bunk-mates in Cabin Nine."

"Sure," He agrees jovially enough, despite the fact that he could see Will snickering at his misfortune.

"What's Cabin Nine?" Leo asks with alarm. "And I'm not a Vulcan," he insists.

"Come on, Mr. Spock, I'll explain everything." Will puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him off toward the cabins, not before throwing a glare at the daughter of Ares' amused expression. She was convinced that spending any time alone with the Valdez boy would be a nightmare.

          Annabeth turns her attention back to Jason as do the others like programmed machines. She eyes him analytically, and though she wouldn't say, she doesn't have to. Will can read Annabeth easily and the glint of mistrust in the blonde's eyes doesn't go unnoticed. "Hold out your arm," Annabeth finally demands.

Jason holds his forearm facing towards the sky, revealing a mess of black ink that forms a dozen straight lines like a bar code and an eagle with the letters SPQR. Will's hand surges towards her dagger as a reflex, ready to carve Jason's flesh until the bad omen is nothing more than a mangled chunk of tissue. She fights the urge and her eyes meet Annabeth's who shares the same look of apprehension, saying: whatever this is, it isn't good.

Will has seen the signs too many times. Her eyes fall back on the glaring ink like a message from an angry god. Bad omen, she thinks.

Bad omens everywhere.

note: i still didn't want to change will's name cause i think it suits her so sorry for any confusion with will capote and will solace. like i literally went through a bunch of names and none of them sounded right so will capote is still will capote