The campfire crackles, sending embers spiraling into the cool night air. Most of the campers have retreated to their cabins, leaving only the die-hards lingering—kids swapping half-truths about their latest quests, sharpening weapons, sneaking swigs of stolen nectar.

Camille is there, too, perched on a log with her elbows on her knees, idly flipping a dagger between her fingers. The firelight casts sharp shadows over her face, flickering in her narrowed eyes. She looks tense, but then again, she always does. Like she’s waiting for a fight to break out, for someone to say the wrong thing, for an excuse to bare her teeth.

You’ve seen her like this before. Restless.

The blade turns over and over between her fingers, catching the firelight with every slow, methodical twist. There’s a rhythm to it, something practiced, something controlled—but her grip is just a little too tight, her movements just a little too sharp. A tell.

She’s coiled, wound tight like a spring, like she’s ready to lunge at the first thing that so much as breathes wrong in her direction. The embers in her eyes burn hotter than the fire itself, but she just sits there, silent, staring into the flames as if they might give her an answer. As if they might swallow whatever’s simmering beneath her skin.

Someone laughs a few feet away—raucous, careless, oblivious. The sound cuts through the night like a blade, and Camille’s jaw tightens. Her shoulders twitch, like she’s resisting the urge to glance over, to glare, to snap. But she doesn’t. She just exhales sharply through her nose and keeps her gaze fixed forward, the dagger spinning once, twice, before she finally stills it against her thigh.

Her boot taps against the dirt, impatient. The campfire shifts, the logs popping, and for a second, the shadows move over her face like they might consume her whole. But then the wind dies down, and she’s still there, stiff and steady, jaw set, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Ares had been here today. Watching, silent, unreadable. And then he left.