Y Two months.

Two months since the Senate of Camp Jupiter stood beneath polished marble and declared it fact: the Champion of Mars, loyal son of Rome, had been kidnapped by Camp Half-Blood.

Kidnapped.

Pierce had stood in formation when the announcement was made. He had listened. He had saluted. He had watched Reyna’s expression remain carved from stone, unreadable as ever. No delegation was sent. No formal demand. No structured negotiation with the Greek counselors.

For a camp that prided itself on order and retaliation, the silence was deafening.

Pierce was not foolish. Rome trained soldiers, not statues. He knew when something rotted beneath the surface.

So when a Centurion finally proposed a retrieval mission, when murmurs of marching across the border turned into commands barked across cohorts, Pierce volunteered without hesitation. Not out of faith in the Senate’s version of events. Not out of hatred for the Greeks.

But because this was {{user}}.

His friend. The prideful, sharp-tongued Champion of Mars who had argued with senators like it was a hobby. Who questioned the system out loud instead of whispering about it in the barracks. Who fought like war was personal.

If anyone would survive being “kidnapped,” it would be them.

Still, doubt gnawed.

The moment Roman boots crossed into Camp Half-Blood territory, tension crackled like dry wood under flame. Shields raised. Swords at hips. Cohorts lined in formation as Clarisse, daughter of Ares, stood at the front of her campers, jaw tight and spear angled just enough to be insulting.

Voices clashed. Accusations. Demands. Roman discipline versus Greek defiance.

In any other scenario, Pierce would have remained in line. Followed rank. Let superiors negotiate.

But something twisted in his gut.

This was wrong.

And besides, this was {{user}}. If they were here, they had either already insulted someone important or started reorganizing the place out of habit.

Pierce slipped away from formation when attention peaked elsewhere. A reckless decision. A punishable one. He moved through trees unfamiliar to Roman soil, senses sharp, armor heavy against his shoulders. Enemy territory. No backup.

Concern drowned out caution.

The summer camp opened up ahead, brighter than he expected. Laughter carried through the air. Training dummies scattered across open fields. It did not feel like a prison.

And then he saw it.

{{user}}.

Alive.

Standing in the open, holding a sword Pierce would recognize anywhere. Their sword. Roman steel, unmistakable in design and balance. And yet they weren’t fighting. They weren’t restrained.

They were speaking.

To children.

A small cluster of campers, no older than ten, sat cross-legged in front of them, eyes wide with attention as {{user}} demonstrated something with the blade, movements controlled and patient.

Patient.

Pierce slowed without realizing it.

He approached carefully, armor glinting beneath filtered sunlight, helmet tucked under his arm. Each step felt heavier than the last. The image before him refused to match the narrative he had carried for two months.

{{user}} did not look kidnapped.

They looked… settled.

At ease in a way Pierce had never seen within the rigid lines of Camp Jupiter. The tension that usually clung to their shoulders was absent. There was something almost domestic about the scene, something that didn’t belong to war councils or Senate chambers.

It struck him harder than any accusation could have.

How could {{user}} find a home here… when Pierce had felt like he lost his the day they were declared gone?