I used to chase the other younger demigods through the compound garden after training, the sun dipping low enough to make the shadows long and perfect for hiding.

  One day, when I was eight, I remember fluttering up to the roof, giggling behind my hand as I peeked over the ledge. I had spotted Angelina crouched in the bushes and was about to dive down—when Stephen exploded from behind a tree with a wild yell, arms covered in flickering fire.

  “Found you!” he shouted.

  Angelina shrieked—not scared, just startled—and took off running.

  “No powers!” Phoenix yelled from across the yard, exasperated. “We said no powers during tag!”

  Stephen laughed so hard he tripped over his own foot and rolled down the slope, flames sputtering out as he landed face-first in the grass.

  “That’s what you get,” Angelina called, sticking her tongue out. “Burnt toast brain.”

  I landed beside him, wings folding, trying not to laugh too loudly.

  “You okay?” I asked, offering him a hand.

  “I’m always okay,” he muttered through a mouthful of grass, though his voice was muffled and a little dazed. Then he spit out a blade of it and grinned. “That was awesome.”

  Angelina jogged over a second later, panting with laughter. She flopped onto the grass beside us and gave Stephen a gentle shove.

  “You’re going to get us all banned from tag,” she said.

  Stephen just grinned wider. “Totally worth it.”

  I sat down beside them, legs tucked under me, and looked between them—Stephen’s face still smeared with dirt, Angelina’s eyes bright with amusement.

  In that moment, we were just kids. No training, no expectations. Just grass, sun, and each other.

  The front door was already hanging from its hinges when I launched myself through it, wings slicing open behind me.

  The porch was a battlefield—shattered wood, blood smeared across the steps, and Xandor at the center of it, his staff spinning like a cyclone of steel and wind.

  Monsters swarmed toward him—all teeth, claws, and twisted limbs, snarling with wild hunger. But Xandor stood unshaken. He moved like the wind itself—fluid, unpredictable, yet precise. His staff sliced through the air in wide, sweeping arcs, catching two creatures in a single blow and sending a gust that knocked a third off its feet. Wind swirled around him, lifting dust and debris into a cyclone that shielded his flank. He fought like a storm given shape—unrelenting, untouchable. Calm in the chaos. Focused.

  I dove into the fray, blades in hand, catching one of the creatures mid-leap. It snarled, claws outstretched, but I met it midair—my daggers crossing in front of me in a perfect arc. The impact jarred my arms, but I twisted, letting my momentum carry me into a spin. My wing clipped a lantern, shattering it in a burst of glass and flame that briefly lit the porch in a flash of orange. I landed low, slicing through the creature’s legs in a single motion, then pivoted to face the next wave without pause. The wind whistled through my feathers, and the world narrowed to blade and breath.

  The others poured out of the house behind me.

  Peter’s voice rang out above the noise—sharp, commanding, and unshakable. He moved like he’d already seen the battle unfold, calling out positions and directing attacks with practiced precision. But Peter wasn’t just giving orders—he was in the fight, his chainblade flashing as he moved. The dual-blades connected by the flexible metal whip lashed out like a serpent, wrapping around limbs, disarming foes, and delivering powerful strikes with every flick of his wrist. He fought with focused intensity, cutting down enemies while keeping the rest of us moving like a single unit. Under his lead, chaos turned into coordination—loose, brutal, but effective.

  Nix raised the dead from the soil, her fingers curling in silent command as skeletal warriors clawed their way up from the earth, armed with rusted weapons and bound by her will. They formed a protective ring around the group, striking with mechanical precision and eerie coordination. Each movement echoed her emotions—controlled, fierce, and coldly determined.

  Damian’s blades flashed as he darted between monsters, slashing and dodging with the fluidity of a dancer and the precision of a predator. He laughed as he moved—half thrill, half challenge—like this was the only place he ever truly felt alive. He twisted between enemies, twin swords gleaming, his movements unpredictable and wild, emotions fueling every strike as if the battlefield sang to him and he knew the rhythm by heart.

  Bay fought like the ocean even without water—rhythmic, powerful, and unpredictable. Her trident, the one Hector had forged for her, moved like an extension of her body, cracking through monster limbs and spinning in arcs that mirrored crashing waves.

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  Helena danced with her chakrams, each arc of the spinning blades weaving through the air with precise, elegant violence. Her movements were fluid, almost hypnotic—more like a ritual than a battle. Vines from the garden responded to her presence as if they could hear her heart, slithering through the earth and bursting from the ground to ensnare legs and snap taut like whips. She moved between enemies like a breeze through leaves—graceful, untouchable—every strike balanced with nature’s fury and healing strength just beneath the surface.

  Hector held the left side—unmovable, his hammer a blur of weight and fury. He fought with methodical power, each strike deliberate and devastating. The hammer didn’t just knock monsters back—it obliterated them, sending bone and ash flying in wide arcs.

  Leander’s bow thrummed with precision, each arrow loosed with measured calm, striking through gaps in the monsters’ armor or pinning limbs mid-strike. He didn’t waste a shot. From elevated ground near the side of the house, he provided cover fire for the others, eyes constantly scanning the battlefield, predicting movements before they happened.

  Ella was fire and flare—her daggers a blur of motion as she leapt into the fray. Even without the sun, there was a glow to her—an inner light that pulsed faintly from her skin, illuminating her path in the darkness. With each strike, a shimmer of warmth flickered through the air, enough to disorient or startle the monsters. She moved with blazing speed, always one step ahead, covering blind spots and intercepting attacks meant for her friends. She didn’t need sunlight to shine—her will alone made her burn.

  We were holding our own.

  Until the wind shifted.

  A heat wave rolled across the field.

  And then—flames.

  Not from the ten demigods.

  From the other side.

  The monsters backed off, parting down the middle.

  A figure emerged.

  And my heart stuttered.

  Stephen.

  He burned like a walking inferno—flames racing across his shoulders, dancing along his arms.

  And behind him… stood Angelina.

  Angelina lifted her hands—calmly, deliberately—and something shifted. A wave of silence passed over the field, deeper than the chaos, heavier than the heat.

  From above, I looked down at the others and felt the change ripple through them. Helena’s vines, which had been lashing and twisting with precision, suddenly fell limp and unresponsive. The wind that had been swirling around Xandor vanished, leaving the air still and unnatural. He glanced down at his hands, brows furrowed in confusion.

  Across the field, Angelina and Stephen moved toward us, their steps slow, purposeful, relentless.

  I reached out with my mind, pushing past the smoke and the noise, trying to find some spark of recognition in them. What I found instead was a tangle of emotion—rage, pain, betrayal—woven so tightly I couldn’t separate them. I tried again, more focused this time, sending my voice straight into their thoughts.

  Stephen. Angelina. It’s us. It’s me, Zoe.

  Nothing.

  They didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause.

  It was like my voice didn’t exist at all.

  The other demigods saw them now—Stephen and Angelina—clearly, unmistakably. Confusion rippled through our ranks, followed by realization. Their powers weren’t fading from exhaustion. They were being unraveled, one by one.

  Angelina’s presence was a silencing force, and Stephen… Stephen was an inferno with no leash.

  Hector stepped forward, hammer gripped tight in both hands. He didn’t say a word to us—just moved, placing himself between Stephen and the rest of the group. His expression was calm, but I could see the way his jaw clenched, the steel in his eyes.

  Stephen didn’t stop. He charged like a meteor, flames flaring around him in wild bursts.

  They collided with a shockwave of fire and metal. Hector’s hammer caught Stephen mid-sprint, halting his momentum with a blast of sparks. Flame burst around them, curling over Hector’s skin like water over stone—but he didn’t flinch. As a son of Hephaestus, he was immune to the touch of flame, though not to its force. He met every burning strike with a grounded, deliberate counter, like he was trying to put out the fire without harming its source.

  “Stephen, stop!” Hector shouted between blows, his voice rough with effort. “It’s us. You know me. You know who we are.”

  Stephen didn’t answer. Just roared—wordless, full of pain—and launched another wave of heat that scorched the ground beneath them. But Hector held, driving his hammer down like an anchor, shielding the rest of us with his body.

  He kept trying.

  “Whatever he’s done to you, it’s not stronger than us,” Hector said, blocking another flaming punch that cracked against his shoulder. “You’re still in there. I know you are.”

  The flames only burned hotter.

  But Hector didn’t move.

  Not even when the fire tried to swallow him whole.

  I kept moving through the chaos, wings slicing the air as I fought. Every breath burned, every movement tighter than the last. Below me, Nix was encircled by a ring of bones that refused to rise. Her chain sickle flashed like lightning, whipping through monsters in jagged arcs. Angelina’s power must have disrupted her connection to the dead—they wouldn’t answer her call. But Nix didn’t stop. She fought with steel instead of bone, her eyes sharp and furious.

  To my left, Xandor was still standing tall. His staff cut through the darkness, and he kept trying—calling on the wind, trying to summon the starlight that always answered him at dusk. But the wind had gone still, and his light flickered like a candle in a storm. He clenched his jaw, his grip tightening, but kept swinging. He wasn’t giving up.

  I looked for the twins—Ella and Leander—but the smoke was too thick, the battlefield too loud. I couldn’t see them. Couldn’t feel them.

  But I could see Angelina.

  She stood behind a wall of monsters, unmoving, protected, like a queen on her battlefield. Calm. Controlled. Distant.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I surged upward and over the horde, wings slicing through smoke, dodging snapping jaws and swiping claws. I landed hard in front of her, blades raised.

  She didn’t look surprised. Her eyes locked on mine, and something in them cracked, just for a second.

  I reached out with my mind again, diving deeper this time, trying to find the girl I knew underneath the ice. The tangle was still there—rage and fear and something colder, something not hers. I tried to unravel it, pulling at the threads, whispering her name.

  “Angelina. It’s me. We’re here. Come back.”

  She attacked.

  A harmonic pulse exploded from her hands, and I barely rolled aside in time. The ground where I stood shook and split.

  I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Maybe I could reach her. Maybe I could free her. Or maybe—just maybe—I could distract her long enough for the others to get their powers back.