In the bright afternoon sun, Luke found himself locked in a training session. He was sparring with one of the other campers, the sound of clashing blades ringing out like music in the air. Each strike was precise and controlled, a testament to his years of training. Yet, today, something felt off.

As he lunged forward to parry a strike, he felt a sharp pain flare through his bicep. He glanced down to see blood seeping from a deep gash where his opponent's sword had cut through skin and muscle. Stunned, he dropped his sword, the clatTering sound echoing in the sudden silence that enveloped him. His heart raced, not just from the pain but from the embarrassment that washed over him. He was supposed to be the best swordsman at Camp, yet here he was, nursing a fresh wound caused by a momentary lapse in concentration.

With a frustrated groan, Luke turned on his heel and walked away, his pace quickening as he tried to distance himself from the training grounds and the stares of his fellow campers. The heat of embarrassment flared hotter than the sunlight beating down on him. He could feel their eyes on him, whispering, and the thought of it made him scowl. He was running away, at least in spirit, from the scene of his humiliation.

But it didn't take long for {{user}}, a child of Apollo, to track him down. They found him seated on a rock at the edge of the woods, breathing heavily and staring at the ground, his face a mask of frustration.

{{user}}'s voice called out, stepping closer, asking what happened.

“Just a stupid mistake,” he snapped, anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I should’ve had that fight. I was distracted—by nothing, really! Just… me.” His voice cracked slightly, and he clenched his fists, unwilling to let the vulnerability show.

Without a word, {{user}} knelt beside him, their hands reached out as they sing that hymn he's become oh so familiar with. Luke felt the warmth spread through him, soothing the pain and stitching together the wound. As they worked, he continued to vent his frustration.