The Wednesday training regimen.

Each counsellor to their respective cabin devisions, training up their small army’s skills. That’s how it always ended—because you and I would always end up in the arenas, complaining to our hearts content about our groups.

I run the Ares foot brigade, the attack. If war ever came, we would be on the front lines, running head first with a strategic attack. My siblings are all hotheaded idiots.

Whereas you run the Apollo bow guard, the defensive line to have our backs. We all knew you were under appreciated.

“Kid, get back in formation! What’d I say, punk?!” I growl as one of my younger siblings fall out of line, rolling my eyes as I turn to you again—watching your own group with a contemplative gaze. They were so obedient.

“The fuck are you feeding them?”