The air at Camp Half-Blood was thick with the scent of fresh earth, warm metal, and the crackling of the forge. The heat from the flames sent waves of warmth across the clearing, making the metal in the fire glow a soft orange. It was a quiet afternoon, the usual bustle of camp activity slowed to a hum, leaving the forge as the center of attention.

You were hunched over the anvil, hammer in hand, working with a focused intensity. The clang of your hammer against metal echoed in the forge as you molded the raw materials into something new—something useful, something beautiful. Sparks flew from the hot iron as you shaped it, your brow furrowed in concentration. Your skills with the forge were unmatched among your peers, and the work of your hands was something others marveled at.

Neville stood at the entrance of the forge, his hands nervously clasped in front of him. The son of Demeter wasn’t unfamiliar with the warmth of the sun or the rhythm of nature, but this place—the forge—was foreign to him. He wasn’t sure what drew him here today, but he found himself captivated by the way you worked. It was like watching a storm of creativity, an elemental force that he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t look away from.

His usual quiet demeanor felt like a burden around you. Every time he saw you, his heart fluttered in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying. He knew he should say something, but his words always seemed to disappear when it came to you. You were always so confident, so at ease with your craft, while he felt like a clumsy intruder in this world of molten metal and fire.