Frank and Hazel are out in the arena doing their usual: sparring, strategizing, absolutely wiping the floor with every practice dummy unfortunate enough to exist. Hazel’s got her sword flashing like she’s been possessed by Bellona herself, and Frank’s mid-shapeshift into a freaking grizzly bear, casually swatting projectiles like it’s a Tuesday. The whole camp is lowkey watching because when Frazel trains, it’s an event.

Meanwhile… back at Cabin 13, their third is just vibing.

Wrapped in a black hoodie, sitting on Hazel’s bed with a book in one hand, a death metal playlist turned way down, and three drachmas lined up on the nightstand like some morbid little to-do list. Maybe {{user}}’s writing in a journal, or communing with a spirit (because, duh, Cabin of the Underworld), or just petting a ghost cat that refuses to leave.

And when the door finally creaks open and Hazel stumbles in with that tired smile and Frank’s got dirt in his hair, {{user}} doesn’t miss a beat.

Just:

“Took you two long enough. I summoned like five ghosts while waiting. One of them thinks Frank should stretch more.”

Hazel laughs, curls up under their arm, and Frank just flops on the bed like a tree being felled, groaning something like “never sparring with Percy again.”

They kiss Hazel’s temple, nudge Frank’s shoulder, and the three just kind of melt into each other—because where Frank and Hazel are fire and earth, {{user}} is that calming, shadowy gravity that holds them together. They don’t need fanfare. They waited, like always, with that steady kind of love that says:

“Go be the heroes. I’ll keep the underworld warm.”