I was the youngest, but with my wings, I was the fastest. I could glide over obstacles, swoop out of reach, and make sharp turns that left the others scrambling to catch up. I wasn’t just the decoy—I was the wild card.
One night, I remember soaring just above the yard, dipping between trees and racing the wind as fireflies sparked beneath me. My heart pounded with laughter and adrenaline.
Peter was shouting orders from behind a pile of crates like he was leading an elite unit, already planning three moves ahead. Helena had trap vines hidden all over the field—anyone not paying attention ended up tangled and stuck, usually with a soft “sorry” from her that didn’t stop her from tagging them.
Leander kept to the high ground, launching soft-tipped arrows with perfect aim from a perch above the garden wall. Ella was golden light in motion, darting between shadows, flipping over obstacles, snatching flags like it was nothing.
Xandor used bursts of wind to redirect thrown objects or launch himself over walls. He’d appear out of nowhere with a gust at his back, laughing like it was all a joke. Nix moved silently, slipping through the game like a ghost. She rarely tagged anyone, but somehow she always got to the flags first and never got caught.
Damian, of course, was everywhere and nowhere. He’d vanish from one end of the yard and pop up behind you with a grin, tagging your shoulder and disappearing before you could yell.
Stephen lit up like a fire when he got excited—literally. The longer the game went on, the warmer the air around him became. We always had to call a break before something caught fire. Angelina played with precision, not speed—her movements calculated, deliberate, always looking for a weak point to exploit, always calm under pressure.
We played until we collapsed. Breathless. Laughing. Covered in dirt and glowing like stars.
Back then, we weren’t warriors. Not yet.
We were just kids who trusted each other with everything.
I landed first, the dry wind brushing my wings as my boots touched down in the dirt. The porch light flickered ahead—and then they were there. Ella and Leander.
They ran toward me before I could even take a breath. I dropped my bag, heart in my throat, and they pulled me into a hug so tight I forgot how to breathe.
Ella laughed, breath hitching through tears. Leander didn’t say anything—he never needed to. He just held me like he meant it. Like we were really here. Like we were whole again.
For the first time in years, I let myself believe we might actually be okay.
Minutes later, the others appeared over the ridge, their shadows stretching long in the starlight. Dusty, bruised, a little bloody—but grinning like they’d won something bigger than just a fight.
Damian sprinted ahead, nearly tackling Ella in a spin. Helena laughed as she threw her arms around Leander. Peter clapped him on the back. Xandor lingered beside me, quiet as always. Nix nodded to the twins—just once—but that single gesture held weight.
We were ten.
Together again.
As Ella and Leander led us toward the house, Helena suddenly stopped.
“Wait,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on something just ahead.
We all paused, following her gaze to the garden tucked along the front of the porch—rows of herbs and flowers glowing faintly under the moonlight.
Helena stepped forward and knelt beside the plants, her fingers brushing gently against the leaves. The plants responded to her instantly—unfurling, brightening, almost reaching toward her.
She closed her eyes, drew a breath, and let her hands hover over the soil. The air shimmered slightly, and I could feel the garden responding—not just with growth, but with gratitude.
Then she turned to Hector. The makeshift rag around his upper arm was soaked in blood from a gash he’d gotten during the last fight.
Without a word, Helena guided him to sit and pressed her palm over the wound. Vines crept up from the base of the garden, wrapping gently around his arm. Within seconds, the wound knit itself closed beneath glowing green light. Hector blinked at it, stunned, then gave her a silent nod.
Helena looked to the rest of us. “Sit. You’re all getting healed.”
We didn’t argue.
She moved from one of us to the next—drawing energy from the garden to close cuts, soothe bruises, ease the tightness in muscles worn from too many fights and too little rest.
By the time she finished, the tension in our bodies had softened. We were still tired. But whole.
Only then did the twins lead us the rest of the way inside.
Inside, the house smelled like old wood and warm air. The kind of place that didn’t forget who had walked through it.
Ella kicked off her boots the second we stepped through the door and announced she was cooking a dinner for everyone. No one stopped her.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Leander gave us the tour—quiet rooms with sun-faded curtains, a big couch worn soft at the edges, a dining table just barely big enough for all of us. There were photos on the mantle. Faces I hadn’t seen in years.
The others tossed their bags to the side as we moved from room to room, shoulders sagging with the first signs of real rest. Some flopped onto cushions, others leaned in doorways, taking it all in. It didn’t matter where we landed—this house had space for all of us, and for the first time in a long time, we let ourselves feel that.
For a moment, I let myself sink into it. The comfort. The familiarity.
But the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
There was something underneath it all. Something I couldn’t hear—but could feel. Like pressure behind a closed door.
Still, I stayed silent.
The others laughed in the kitchen. Someone dropped a pan and cursed. Damian shouted something about seasoning. Helena rolled her eyes. It felt like home.
And I watched them all with something warm and heavy in my chest, praying it could stay this way.
Even if something in me already knew it couldn’t.
I stepped outside for some air, the screen door clicking shut behind me. The night air was cooler than I expected, brushing over my skin like a whisper. Crickets hummed in the distance, and the moon hung low, casting silver shadows across the porch.
For a second, I just stood there, letting the stillness settle around me. But it didn’t take long for that unease to return. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even obvious. Just a tug beneath my ribs, a hush behind the quiet.
I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind, expecting to feel peace. Familiarity. But instead, I touched something wrong.
It recoiled—like a shadow with teeth.
Cold. Slippery. Watching.
And then it was gone.
I opened my eyes, heart ticking faster. The night looked the same, but it wasn’t. Something had been out there. Something that didn’t want to be found.
I wasn’t imagining it.
I pressed my hand against the porch railing, grounding myself.
Something was coming. I just didn’t know what.
Ella’s voice rang out from the kitchen, bright and steady. “Dinner’s ready! Come eat before Damian steals it all.”
We gathered around the dining table, ten of us squeezing in shoulder to shoulder. The lights overhead were soft and warm, casting familiar golden shadows across faces I hadn’t seen gathered like this in years. The food smelled like comfort—bread and roasted vegetables and something that reminded me of home.
For a little while, it felt safe.
Bowls were passed, jokes flew fast, and for the first few minutes, we were just kids again. Damian teased Bay about her cooking skills, and she threatened to stab him with her fork. Helena and I laughed at something that probably wasn’t even funny. Even Nix cracked a smile when Damian tried (and failed) to impersonate Thalos.
I didn’t eat much. I listened.
Watched.
Felt.
Because beneath the laughter, the tension still curled around my spine.
Eventually, the mood shifted. It always did.
Leander cleared his throat, and Peter leaned forward, already pulling a napkin toward him. His fingers started moving before his words did—sketching routes, marking possible strongholds.
“What do you all know?” Leander asked, too casually. “About Cole. About what he’s trying to do?”
The words landed wrong. Not sharp, not suspicious—but practiced. Controlled.
“We still don’t know where Cole is,” Peter said. “Thalos didn’t give us a location. Just warnings. But we know he’s working with the monsters—and maybe that’s something we can use. If we track the patterns of their movements, we might be able to find where they’re coming from. Where he’s hiding.”
Ella glanced at Leander.
It was subtle—a flicker of something in her expression, a question she didn’t speak. And Leander’s eyes met hers for only a second before he turned away.
I stared down at my plate, the food untouched.
That presence I’d felt outside—the one that recoiled from my mind—it hadn’t left. It was still here. Not loud. Not clear. Just watching. Coiled in the corners of my thoughts like smoke.
I didn’t say anything.
Then Nix broke the silence. “What has Cole done to them over the last ten years?”
Her voice was soft. But it hit like a blade.
The whole table went still.
None of us answered.
Because none of us wanted to imagine it.
But we all did.
After dinner, some of the others cleaned up, while the rest drifted off to find places to sleep—bags unzipped in corners, blankets tugged over couches, weapons propped nearby just in case. At some point, Hector had quietly handed the twins the weapons he’d made for them, wrapped in thick canvas and tied with cord. They’d accepted them with soft thanks and unreadable expressions, their hands brushing over the weapons like they were trying to remember how it felt to hold power in their palms again.
I stepped back outside.
The porch boards creaked beneath my boots. The air was cooler now, quieter. The wind rustled dry grass in the dark, and somewhere out beyond the reach of the porch light, a bird called once and fell silent.
I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind.
Nothing.
Not the usual threads of life, not the faint pulses of magic. Just static.
It was like trying to listen underwater. Like something in this place was interfering—clouding my thoughts, dulling my reach. That shadow from earlier still lingered, but I couldn’t get to it. I couldn’t even tell if it was still here.
The door creaked behind me.
Peter stepped out, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood next to me, staring into the night.
“Feel it too?” I asked quietly.
He nodded. “Yeah. Something’s off. I can’t explain it, but… my instincts are wrong here. It’s like everything’s muffled.”
I didn’t say what I felt. I didn’t need to. He saw it on my face.
A moment later, Xandor joined us. He glanced between us, brows drawing together. “What are you two talking about?”
Peter and I shared a glance.
“Just… something feels off,” I said finally. “Like the house is clouding everything. My powers aren’t working right.”
Peter nodded. “Same. It’s like all my instincts are dulled.”
Xandor didn’t say anything right away. He just stepped closer, his gaze shifting from me to Peter and back. Then, gently, he placed an arm around my shoulders. The weight of it wasn’t heavy—it was grounding.
“I’ll take first watch,” he said quietly. “Probably won’t sleep much anyway.”
Peter gave a short nod. “I’ll take the second half.”
I looked at both of them and, for a second, I let myself feel a flicker of safety again. If anyone could keep us steady through the night, it was them.
Still… the static didn’t go away.
Late that night, I couldn’t sleep.
The others were scattered throughout the house—curled up on couches, layered in old quilts, sprawled in corners like we were trying to become kids again. I lay with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts too loud, my power too quiet.
Something wasn’t right.
I reached out with my mind, slowly, cautiously, pushing beyond the walls of the ranch. At first, there was nothing but silence.
Then… something answered.
Not in words. Not in images.
Just a feeling—cold, wet, and crawling. Like shadowed fingers trailing across my thoughts.
I jerked upright.
Outside, the wind stilled.
Then the night shattered.
Windows exploded inward, glass flying like knives. The ground trembled with the impact of claws and weight slamming into the porch.
I heard Xandor shout from the front of the house—a single word:
“Move!”
The warning wasn’t just loud—it was carried by the wind itself, sweeping through every hallway, rattling doors, slamming through the silence like a living thing.
Demigods sprang into motion.
I bolted to the door as Hector thundered down the stairs, hammer already in hand. Damian leapt up half-dressed, blades flashing as he spun into place beside Nix, who was already conjuring skeletons in her sleep-rumpled clothes.
Bay grabbed her trident from the wall. Helena reached for her chakrams, her plants crawling toward the windows on instinct.
I ran through the hallway as more crashes came—wood splintering, snarls echoing.
By the time I reached the front room, the first monster had torn through the porch.
And we were no longer safe.