We weren’t supposed to be out there.

  The obstacle course was reserved for older demigods—thirteen and up. “Advanced reflex development,” they called it. “High risk. Supervised only.” But that morning, every Guardian was busy with training the other demigods, and no one was watching the yard.

  So naturally, we went straight for it.

  Stephen was the one who dared us. He always was.

  “You’re telling me the four of us can’t clear it?” he said, standing at the edge of the course with his arms crossed like a gladiator in a school uniform. “Come on. I bet I could finish it before Leander even nocks an arrow.”

  Leander snorted, pulling the bow from his shoulder. “You’ll twist your ankle in the first ten seconds.”

  “I don’t twist. I land hard.”

  “You fall hard,” I muttered.

  Stephen grinned at me. “Xandor, don’t start. You know you want to try.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  The course loomed ahead of us—ropes, walls, unstable platforms, a few trick magic-trigger tiles designed to disorient or trip. It was half-training ground, half death trap. And at eleven years old, it looked like the most exciting thing I’d ever seen.

  Damian clapped his hands once. “Alright, children. Winner gets my dessert at dinner. Losers get to carry my gear for a week.”

  “No one wants your protein bars, Damian,” Leander said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Stephen replied. “They’re the only thing that tastes like real sugar.”

  We lined up at the start. No countdown. No ceremony.

  Stephen launched forward first, blazing ahead, vaulting over the first hurdle with a shout of pure joy. Damian followed, cackling, twisting mid-air to flip over a wall he should’ve climbed.

  I took off next, letting the wind carry me in short bursts—just enough to lighten my jumps and push off the ground faster. Not enough to cheat. Just to flow.

  Leander stayed back. Watching. Calculating.

  I reached the second platform just as it tipped under Stephen’s weight. He rolled through the landing and kept going. Damian barely caught the edge, scrambling with a laugh.

  Then a faint thrum behind me. I turned mid-step and saw Leander loose an arrow.

  It sliced past me—fast, clean—and thwip! hit the trigger plate on the third platform ahead. The magic trap fizzled and died before Stephen could set it off.

  “Seriously?” Stephen called. “That was mine!”

  “You’re welcome,” Leander said calmly, already knocking another arrow.

  I grinned. Show-off.

  We hit the halfway mark when it all went to hell.

  Stephen misjudged a gap jump and slammed into the side of a climbing wall. Not hard enough to break anything, but he lost his grip and fell back, hitting the ground hard.

  “Stephen!” I skidded to a stop.

  “I’m fine!” he yelled. “Mostly!”

  Damian was already halfway back to him. “You idiot, that was a three-meter gap! What did you think you were, a flying horse?”

  “I thought I was awesome!”

  Leander jogged over, keeping his bow ready in case another trap activated.

  We huddled around Stephen while he sat up, wincing.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t break your arm,” I muttered.

  “I told you I land hard,” he said, grinning through the pain.

  It took all four of us to get him on his feet.

  And just in time for Thalos to round the corner with his arms crossed and one brow raised like it had never gone down in his life.

  “Brilliant,” he said dryly. “Four prodigies, one advanced obstacle course, and zero supervision. Exactly what I wanted to find today.”

  We froze.

  Damian broke first. “In our defense, sir… Leander’s accuracy did save Stephen’s life.”

  Thalos didn’t smile. “That accuracy will be put to use in the garden for the next week. With shovels.”

  Stephen groaned. “Not the perimeter weeds again.”

  “Next time,” Thalos said, walking past us, “try using your powers where they belong. And not where they might get you killed for pride.”

  We stood in silence until he disappeared around the far end of the yard.

  Then Stephen sighed. “…Totally worth it.”

  I’d smelled the forge before I ever saw it.

  Faint, buried under grease and motor oil, but distinct—the metallic tang of heated steel, the scent of scorched leather, and something else. Something older. Intent. The kind of focus you could taste in the air.

  Hector hadn’t let us in the night before. Just gave us a grunt, pulled the door shut behind him, and told us to get some sleep. Peter had argued—of course he had—but Hector didn’t budge. So we’d spent the night upstairs in their living space, lying on mismatched cots under a ceiling fan that clicked every third rotation.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Now, morning light filtered through the garage windows. The shop floor below was quiet, the human part of the world still asleep. And Hector stood at the back, facing a canvas tarp hanging from the ceiling like a curtain.

  “Come on,” he said without looking at us. “Time.”

  We followed him down the stairs, boots thudding on concrete, the air cooling with each step. Damian was already bouncing like he was wired on caffeine and adrenaline. Peter had that sharp, unreadable look on his face—already halfway through planning our whole trip.

  I kept my eyes on the tarp.

  Hector grabbed the edge and pulled it aside.

  The forge wasn’t big, but it felt like walking into another world. The back corner of the garage had been completely transformed—stone flooring, reinforced benches, and walls covered in tools and sketches. Blueprints were pinned up, some old and worn, others newer, curling at the corners. A compact forge still glowed low from the night’s heat. It smelled like ash, metal, and years of work.

  And at the center of it all—laid out on a long steel table—were the weapons.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let us look.

  Then he stepped forward and picked up the first set.

  “Damian,” he said, and handed him a pair of short swords.

  They were beautiful—sleek and deadly, slightly different in shape. One blade curved inward like a sickle, the other straighter, better for defense. The hilts were blackened steel with a textured grip—simple, elegant, built to move.

  Damian grinned, turning one blade in his hand. “They’re perfect.”

  “They’re fast,” Hector said. “Like you. You fight off rhythm, so I gave you options.”

  “Gods, I love you,” Damian muttered, testing the balance.

  Hector didn’t smile. He just moved to the next.

  “Peter.”

  Peter stepped forward as Hector uncoiled a chainblade from the table. Two mid-length blades, joined by a flexible metal chain, glinted under the forge light.

  “It locks together,” Hector said, showing him the mechanism. “Or comes apart. You like to control the field. This’ll let you own the space.”

  Peter took it with quiet reverence. No big speech. Just a nod.

  Then Hector looked at me.

  He didn’t say anything at first. Just handed it over.

  A collapsible staff, ultralight but solid in my hands. I extended it with a flick of the wrist—clean motion, a faint whrrr as it locked into place. One end ended in a slender, hooked crescent blade. The other tapered to a sharp point. The metal was hollow, but I could feel it—listen to it. As I turned it, the wind hummed through the center, soft and sharp like a breath just before a storm.

  “It’s yours,” Hector said. “Balanced for movement. Meant to catch the wind.”

  It already had.

  I turned the staff in my hands, letting the air slip through its hollow center. It sang to me—soft and high like the sound the wind makes in canyon gaps or between skyscrapers. A sound you feel more than hear.

  It wasn’t just well-made. It was perfect. Every inch of it was deliberate. Balanced for someone who moved light, fast, in arcs and swirls rather than straight lines. Hector didn’t just make a weapon—he made my weapon.

  I looked over at him. He was already turning back to the forge, cleaning something with a cloth like this whole thing hadn’t just punched me in the chest.

  I’d always known Hector was strong. I don’t think I ever really appreciated how skilled he was until that moment. This wasn’t some rough battlefield smith job. This was… artistry. And patience. And loyalty, hammered into steel.

  He’d made these for us.

  Quietly. Steadily. While the rest of the world forgot we even existed.

  My grip tightened on the staff—not out of anger. Just to feel it again. To ground myself.

  Behind me, I heard Peter shift. “What’s that?”

  I looked up in time to see him pointing toward the far corner, where Hector had just grabbed a heavy canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder like it was nothing.

  Hector looked over at us, matter-of-fact. “More weapons.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes. “For who?”

  Hector adjusted the strap and said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The rest of us.”

  Damian raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been making weapons for all ten of us?”

  Hector nodded once, then turned toward the far wall. “Actually… all twelve.”

  I’d filled them in this morning. Everything Zoe had told me, including the fact that Angelina and Stephen were alive.

  But hearing Hector say that he had suspected that years ago?

  That hit different.

  He reached up and pulled something down from a reinforced wall mount with practiced ease—a massive battle hammer, dark steel and blunt force wrapped in heat-scarred leather.

  “I had a suspicion,” he said. “That Angelina and Stephen survived.”

  Silence settled over the workshop. Damian stared. Peter straightened. I didn’t say anything, but I felt it. That flicker of something between hope and certainty. Like a wind shift before the first roll of thunder.

  “You believed they were out there?” Peter asked.

  Hector shrugged, like it didn’t need explaining. “Didn’t have proof. Didn’t need it.”

  Damian let out a breath. “Gods, you really are the heart of this group.”

  Hector just laughed and headed out of the room.

  The station was quiet when we got there—just birds, distant traffic, and the low hum of the morning.

  Hector slung the canvas bag over one shoulder like it didn’t weigh more than any of us. I’d helped him lift it earlier. It definitely did.

  Peter was already a few steps ahead, tickets in hand, glancing at the platform schedule like it might change its mind and reroute us. Damian trailed behind us, bouncing on his heels, humming some half-forgotten tune under his breath.

  We boarded just before the train pulled out.

  No one questioned Hector about the bag—probably assumed it was full of tools or parts. Which, in a way, it was. Just not the kind anyone on this train would understand.

  Our car was mostly empty. A couple of scattered passengers, eyes glazed from sleep or screens. We took the back row, all four of us.

  Peter immediately pulled out his map and notebook, spreading them across the tray table in front of him. He started muttering to himself before the train even moved—routes, timing, contingencies. The kind of planning that only made sense if you’d spent the last ten years trying to keep chaos from swallowing you.

  Damian took the seat across the aisle and kicked his legs up. “All aboard the Apocalypse Express,” he said, stretching out like it was a beach chair. “Next stop: destiny.”

  Hector dropped the canvas bag under his seat and sat back, crossing his arms. He didn’t sleep, not really, but his eyes drifted closed. One hand still rested on the strap.

  I took the window seat beside him and leaned my forehead against the glass.

  The train lurched into motion.

  Outside, the city blurred past—brick, steel, trees flickering between them like ghosts. I watched until the buildings fell behind and the sky opened up, wide and endless and unknowable.

  The others talked. Or pretended to rest. I just listened.

  The metal-on-metal rhythm of the tracks. Peter’s low voice counting minutes. Damian spinning some wild story about a girl in New York who might’ve been part siren. Hector’s breath, steady as ever.

  And somewhere beyond all of it, wind pulled against the corners of my thoughts.

  Like it already knew what was waiting for us down south.

  We rode for over a day. Slept in shifts. Ate what we had. By the time we hit the edge of northern Texas, the train had emptied out. No one left but us and a conductor who looked like he’d seen a few too many sunrises.

  We got off the train near a rundown station just outside a town I didn’t catch the name of. One of those places where the air feels like it stopped moving years ago.

  Peter stepped off first, scanning the area like there might be some hidden route none of us could see. There wasn’t.

  “No public transit,” he muttered. “We’re still three hours out.”

  “Great,” Damian said, dragging his duffel behind him. “Anyone feel like walking?”

  No one answered. So we didn’t.

  There was an old auto lot two blocks from the station—more graveyard than garage. Dozens of rusted cars and half-gutted trucks baking under the Texas sun.

  Hector walked the rows without a word, studying engines, checking under hoods, testing weight with one hand on the frame like he was measuring breath.

  Finally, he stopped at a beat-up blue pickup with a cracked windshield and three good tires. “This’ll do.”

  We watched as he scavenged parts from two other cars in the lot—a battery here, a belt there, a fuse pulled like a thread from an old jacket. It was surgical. Almost artistic.

  Less than thirty minutes later, the engine coughed once, then roared to life.

  Damian let out a low whistle. “You’re a walking miracle.”

  Hector just shut the hood, wiped his hands on a rag, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  We loaded up. Bag in the back. Wind at our backs.

  And Texas ahead.