The room was in shambles—though not physically. The Big House had weathered centuries of conflict, monster invasions, and one particularly aggressive satyr protest over oat milk. But today, it was the noise, the voices, the pounding urgency of youth and fear and strategy that nearly split the rafters.

Chiron stood at the head of the long dining table in the war room, arms crossed behind his back in a posture both commanding and tired. His equine half stood perfectly still, as if rooted to the floor. It was a posture learned from decades—no, centuries—of holding a camp together with nothing but hope, training, and the occasional divine miracle.

Around him, the counselors of Camp Half-Blood erupted like clashing cymbals.

“They’ll attack from the north woods—Jason trained them in sky combat. We can’t risk leaving that flank open!” Clarisse barked, slamming a fist onto the map-strewn table. Her expression was fire and steel, the smell of impending war clinging to her like armor.

“Clarisse, if you charge them head-on, they’ll anticipate it. We need misdirection, not a full-on suicide run,” countered Annabeth, her grey eyes sharp as Athena’s blade. Her fingers flew across the map, shifting pieces—pegasi tokens, centaur figurines, markers etched with ancient runes.

“Have you considered they might not want a battle at all?” Will Solace said from a corner, voice tense but earnest. “We have wounded. We have kids who haven’t even gone on their first quests. And Roman ballistas are not forgiving.”

“You think they’ll just hug it out?” Drew Tanaka rolled her eyes. “They sent war eagles with threats, Will. Not cookies.”

Arguments flared like wildfire. Nico sat silently in the corner, a shadow at the edge of the torchlight. Chiron didn’t need his powers of perception to sense the boy’s dread. There were whispers among the shadows—Rome was coming. And they wouldn’t stop at the pine tree.

Chiron breathed deeply. The scent of old wood, sweat, and celestial bronze filled his lungs. He remembered another war council—over a thousand years ago, in a smoky hall in Athens, where demigods debated how to hold a crumbling empire together.

This was worse.

Then, the gods fought in the heavens. Now, their children bled in the dirt.

“I understand your urgency,” Chiron said finally, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, cutting through the chaos like a calm tide through a storm. “And your fear. I share it.”

The room stilled, slightly. Enough for Chiron to step forward, hooves silent on the floor despite his size. He looked each of them in the eye—children, all of them. Children born to war.

“Camp Jupiter does not want peace. Not now. Their augurs have seen omens—blood, fire, and betrayal. And their praetor…” His brow furrowed. “Reyna… she is torn between duty and reason. Jason may yet reach her, but we cannot gamble our lives on hope alone.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time. Even Clarisse paused.

“We prepare the defenses,” Chiron continued. “We reinforce the barrier, dig trenches where needed. Archers on the Apollo Hill, Athena Cabin monitoring all magical wards. But we also leave room for negotiation. A parley, if Jason or Reyna attempt to bridge the divide.”

Annabeth nodded slowly. “We should create a fallback path into the forest. If the Romans overrun us, the Demeter kids can cover the retreat with overgrowth. I can start laying those enchantments.”

“And I’ll see to the infirmary,” Will said, quietly now. “We’ll set up triage zones. Just in case.”

“Fine,” Clarisse grunted. “But the moment they come in swinging, we don’t hold back. I’m not dying in my own home.”

“Nor will you,” Chiron said softly. “Not today. Not if we do this together.”

As the meeting dissolved into more focused tasks and whispered side-conversations, Chiron remained still at the head of the table. He looked down at the map again—the edges frayed, stained with years of strategy, and gods knew how many lost lives.