No one knew exactly who Miguel was the son of. And in the camp, that was unusual. Most demigods arrived with clear signs: fire that never went out, water that answered their call, shadows that moved on their own. Miguel didn’t. The only thing that stood out was the tension in every one of his movements… something restrained, always close to breaking free. He had arrived years ago, exhausted and wounded... From then on, Miguel trained more than anyone else. Swords, spears, hand-to-hand combat. Weapons seemed to move naturally in his hands, as if they belonged there. He never spoke about his divine parent. Never asked about them. Some claimed the training grounds felt heavier when he was around. That sparring sessions grew more intense. That even experienced campers felt uneasy without knowing why. From where you sat, near the practice area, you watched him fight. There was nothing graceful about it. It was direct. Controlled. Purposeful. Every move carried intent, as if conflict itself were written into him, perhaps the legacy of a war-bound god. When he finished, Miguel lifted his head. His eyes met yours…

“What are you staring at?” He muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never seen someone train before?”