The voice slithered through Medea's consciousness like liquid nitrogen—cold, ancient, and hungry. Nidhoggr's presence unfurled within her mind, its serpentine thoughts coiling around her own.

  Caution, little godling. The horse-man reeks of old divinity. He has watched heroes rise and fall since before man learned to tame fire.

  Medea's pupils contracted momentarily, the only outward sign of the intrusion. Her stride never faltered as she followed Chiron deeper into the camp, though her clawed fingertips brushed against her sword's hilt in silent acknowledgment.

  The weapon's consciousness had first stirred three winters ago, after she'd bathed it in the ichor of a particularly ancient drakon. Since then, Nidhoggr's guidance had proven useful, if self-serving. The blade hungered always.

  Ahead, Chiron's tail swished against flies as he led their procession past a volleyball court where teenagers paused mid-game to stare. Their fear perfumed the air—delicious and sharp like crushed wintergreen. Medea's nostrils flared, drinking it in.

  "Your welcoming committee needs work," she purred, deliberately flashing teeth at a gawking boy who yelped and missed his serve. "They're all so… soft."

  The blonde archer walked stiffly at her flank. "Appearances deceive. Everyone here has survived things that would break most people."

  Medea's laugh crackled like breaking ice. "Survived? How disappointing." Her gaze swept across buildings with peeling paint and worn stairs. "I was hoping to find something more than just survivors."

  The camp sprawled before them—a hodgepodge of Greek architecture and modern necessity. Cabins arranged in a horseshoe pattern dominated the central green, each distinctly styled yet clearly divided by some organizing principle. Beyond them, forest pressed close against cleared training grounds where children as young as ten crossed blades with older teens.

  They train their meat well before the slaughter, Nidhoggr whispered darkly.

  Her tail lashed once, betraying irritation. For all its knowledge, the blade sometimes missed nuance. These children weren't being fattened for sacrifice—they were being hardened into weapons.

  How fascinating.

  "So this is where gods dump their mistakes," she mused aloud, ignoring the archer's sharp intake of breath. "At least you give them sharp objects before sending them to die."

  Chiron stopped abruptly, his flanks rippling with tension. "We prepare them to survive in a world that was never designed for their existence." His voice carried the weight of countless failures and occasional triumphs. "Much like yourself, Ms. Ulthar."

  The comparison rankled. Her lip curled, exposing a single needle-sharp canine. "I require no preparation. No training. The strong devour the weak—a simple truth your charges would do well to learn."

  Something flashed across Chiron's weathered features—not fear, but a sad recognition.

  "We've had your kind before," he said quietly, for her ears alone. "Those who mistake cruelty for strength. They rarely find what they're looking for here."

  He knows nothing of your nature, Nidhoggr hissed, its voice fogging her thoughts with frost. End him and claim this territory.

  Medea ignored the blade's bloodlust. Instead, she stepped closer to Chiron, invading his space with predatory disregard for social boundaries. His equine half shifted nervously, though his human torso remained rigidly composed.

  "And what am I looking for, wise teacher?" She tilted her head, fuchsia eyes gleaming with dangerous curiosity. "Since you seem to know me so well."

  Before he could answer, commotion erupted from a nearby arena—shouting, the clang of metal, and a roar that vibrated in Medea's bones. Her ears swiveled toward the sound, predatory instinct overriding her conversation.

  Her smile widened, revealing row upon row of sharpened teeth. "Now that," she purred, "sounds promising."

  Medea pivoted toward the sound with feline precision, her body already in motion before conscious thought could form. The promise of violence drew her like blood in water.

  "That would be the monster fighting arena," Chiron said wearily, his hooves clopping against the packed earth as he moved to intercept her. "Where we train against controlled threats."

  Another metallic clash echoed across the campground, followed by panicked shouting. Campers scattered from the area like startled prey, some clutching weapons, others wide-eyed with fear.

  "Controlled?" Medea's laugh cut through the chaos. "How disappointing."

  She stalked forward, brushing past Chiron with deliberate disregard. The blonde archer nocked an arrow in one fluid motion but hesitated at the centaur's subtle head shake.

  "Valdez fucked up!" someone shouted from the direction of the commotion. "The automaton's gone haywire!"

  More screams erupted as something massive crashed against stone. The sound of breaking architecture sent delicious shivers down Medea's spine. Her nostrils flared, drinking in the acrid tang of fear, sweat, and—most interestingly—hot metal and oil.

  "An automaton?" she purred, quickening her pace. "How… mechanical."

  A group of younger campers—none older than thirteen—fled past her, one girl sobbing with a bleeding gash across her forearm. Medea didn't spare them a glance. Weakness held no interest.

  She crested a small hill, bringing the arena into view. The stone amphitheater had stood for centuries, but its western wall now sported a fresh, jagged hole. Inside, bronze glinted in the afternoon sun as something the size of a delivery truck rampaged across the sandy floor.

  It resembled a bull, but only in the same way a tank resembled a car. Hydraulic pistons powered legs thick as tree trunks. Steam vented from its nostrils in angry plumes. Its metallic hide reflected sunshine in blinding flashes as it charged a cluster of defenders who scattered like bowling pins.

  Nidhoggr's voice slithered through her consciousness once more. Metal has no soul, no blood. It will not satisfy our hunger.

  Medea's lips curled into a sneer. "Hush," she whispered under her breath. "Let me enjoy the show."

  A skinny boy with curly hair and oil-stained clothes darted around the automaton's periphery, frantically waving tools and shouting in what sounded like a mixture of Spanish and technical jargon. "The override isn't responding! Someone get the EMP grenade from the armory!"

  The machine pivoted with unnatural speed, one massive hoof catching a defender in the chest. The impact launched the unfortunate camper twenty feet through the air. He crashed into the remaining wall with a sickening thud before crumpling to the ground, groaning in pain.

  "Fascinating," Medea murmured, tail swishing with excitement beneath her hoodie. The display of raw power, albeit mechanical, stirred her interest more than anything else in this camp of half-breed children.

  She leaned against a marble column, making no move to assist as three campers dragged their unconscious comrade to safety. Chiron galloped past her, medical supplies clutched in his human hands.

  "Are you just going to watch?" the blonde archer demanded, materializing at her side.

  Medea's fuchsia eyes gleamed with amusement. "Should I be doing something else? Your little mechanical toy seems to be providing excellent training opportunities." She gestured toward the chaos with a clawed hand. "Isn't that the point? The weak fall, the strong survive."

  The archer's disgust was palpable. "We protect each other here."

  "How limiting," Medea yawned, letting her razor-edged smile stretch wide..

  Below, the bronze bull crashed through another section of wall, sending campers scrambling. The curly-haired boy—presumably Valdez—had climbed onto its back and was attempting to pry open a control panel while cursing fluently in multiple languages.

  A savage mechanical roar shook the ground as the bull bucked violently. Valdez went airborne, his tools scattering across the arena floor. He hit the sand hard, rolling to avoid the automaton's retaliatory stomp that left a crater where his head had been moments before.

  Something shifted in Medea's posture—not concern, but sharpened interest. The boy moved with surprising grace for a mechanic. There was skill there, underneath the panic.

  "Such chaos from a simple machine," she observed, watching as Valdez scrambled back to his feet. "Your craftsmen lack precision."

  "Leo's one of our best," the archer snapped. "That automaton wasn't supposed to be activated yet."

  Medea's ear twitched at the implied respect in the archer's voice. Perhaps there was more to these half-bloods than first appeared.

  The bull charged again, this time toward a group of younger campers who had foolishly ventured too close to the arena's entrance. Panic flashed across their faces as they froze in the path of the mechanical monster.

  Medea felt Nidhoggr's hunger pulse against her hip, eager for action despite its earlier dismissal. The sword's contradiction amused her.

  She straightened, stretching languidly like a cat waking from a nap.

  "Perhaps," she mused, "I should introduce myself properly after all."

  Medea pushed away from the column with fluid grace, her movements unhurried despite the chaos below. The bronze bull pawed the ground, steam venting from its nostrils as it lowered its head toward the frozen younger campers.

  "Move, idiots!" Leo shouted, scrambling for a fallen wrench while nursing what looked like a dislocated shoulder.

  Chiron galloped toward the endangered children, but the distance was too great. The archer beside Medea nocked an arrow, though what good that would do against the automaton's armored hide seemed questionable at best.

  Medea gave a slow shake of her head. "Predictable. And utterly disappointing."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  In one liquid movement, she vaulted over the arena's edge, dropping fifteen feet to land in a crouch that barely disturbed the sand. Her tail lashed once for balance as she straightened, positioned now between the charging bull and its targets.

  The automaton's ruby eyes locked onto her with mechanical precision. Its programming recognized a new threat—perhaps the greatest one in the arena. Steam bellowed from its vents as hydraulics tensed for renewed charge.

  Frost whispered across Medea's skin, crystallizing the air around her fingers. "Finally," she purred, "something worth my attention."

  The bull charged, each thunderous step sending tremors through the packed sand. Its speed was impressive for something so massive—three tons of bronze and gears barreling forward with deadly momentum.

  Medea didn't draw her sword.

  Instead, she waited until the automaton was mere feet away before sidestepping with preternatural speed. Her movement was so precisely calibrated that the bull's left horn missed her by millimeters. As it passed, she reached out with frost-wreathed fingers and casually dragged them along its bronze flank.

  Ice exploded across the automaton's side, crackling as it spread through seams and joints. The bull's charge faltered as one rear leg seized up, gears grinding audibly against the sudden cold.

  "Too slow," she taunted, her voice carrying across the now-silent arena.

  The bull wheeled around, more awkwardly now with its partially frozen hindquarters. Steam vented more aggressively from its nostrils, as though trying to counteract the cold invading its systems. It lowered its head and charged again.

  This time, Medea didn't dodge.

  She raised one hand, palm outward. The temperature plummeted so rapidly that campers gasped as their breath turned visible in the suddenly frigid air. The bull's charge slowed as frost formed across its bronze skin, ice crystals growing visibly with each passing second.

  As the automaton closed to three paces, Medea's lips curved in delight—an expression more beast than beauty. She clenched her raised hand into a fist.

  The ice coating the bull's form contracted violently.

  Metal shrieked in protest as the bull's outer layer compressed inward, crushing delicate mechanisms beneath. Hydraulic fluid burst from ruptured lines, freezing instantly in bizarre sculptural arcs. The automaton's momentum carried it forward another step before its legs locked completely.

  It towered over Medea, frozen mid-charge like a macabre statue.

  She examined her handiwork with the critical eye of a connoisseur, circling the immobilized automaton. "Fascinating construction," she mused, tapping a claw against its frozen hide. The sound rang hollow. "Crude, but effective."

  The arena remained silent, shock having rendered even the wounded temporarily mute. Medea's gaze swept across the gathered campers, taking in their wide eyes and slack jaws with obvious amusement.

  "Is this truly the best challenge your camp offers?" she asked, addressing no one in particular. "A malfunctioning toy?"

  Leo Valdez was the first to recover, limping forward with a mixture of professional interest and wariness. "Holy Hephaestus," he muttered, examining the frozen automaton. "You flash-froze the hydraulics without damaging the celestial bronze shell. That's—"

  "Basic physics," Medea interrupted, looking bored. "Your machine was unbalanced. Too much power in the legs, not enough control systems." She flicked a shard of ice from her fingertip. "A design flaw I exploited."

  Chiron approached cautiously, his hooves leaving perfect crescent impressions in the sand. "That was… impressive, Ms. Ulthar." His tone suggested he was reevaluating her, though not necessarily in a positive way.

  Medea's ear twitched at the underlying tension in his voice. She stretched languidly, deliberately exposing a strip of pale midriff as her hoodie rode up. "Hardly. If you find that impressive, your standards are depressingly low."

  A small crowd had gathered at the arena's edge—campers drawn by the spectacle. Their whispers carried easily to Medea's sensitive ears:

  "Did you see how fast she moved?"

  "Is she a daughter of Khione?"

  "No way, ice powers aren't enough to explain… whatever that was."

  "Her eyes are like… weird. And those teeth!"

  "Is that a tail?!"

  Medea's tail swished with satisfaction. Fear and awe—the proper reactions to her presence.

  "Your machine is salvageable," she informed Leo, who was poking gingerly at the frozen bull. "Though I wouldn't recommend activating it until you've improved the neural network. Artificial intelligence requires balance between aggression and control."

  The mechanic looked up sharply, suspicion replacing his initial fascination. "How do you know about automaton neural networks?"

  Her smile was all teeth and no warmth. "I've eaten things more complex than your little toy."

  The blonde archer had made her way down to the arena floor, bow still in hand though no longer drawn. "That was… efficient," she admitted grudgingly. "Though you could have helped sooner."

  Medea's laugh was cold and sharp. "Help? Is that what you think I was doing?" She gestured dismissively toward the frozen automaton. "This was merely… entertainment. A brief diversion from the tedium of your little tour."

  She turned to face Chiron directly, her posture a study in predatory confidence. "Though I must say, if a simple mechanical malfunction causes such chaos, I question the effectiveness of your training methods."

  Chiron's weathered face remained carefully neutral. "We train for many threats, Ms. Ulthar. Adaptability is as important as preparation."

  "Clearly." Her gaze swept pointedly over the injured campers being tended to at the arena's edge.

  Leo cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, uh, thanks for the assist, even if it wasn't meant as one. The Colchis Bull design is unstable at the best of times, and this one had some… unauthorized modifications." He shot a guilty glance toward Chiron. "Hands-on experimentation, you know?"

  Medea's ear twitched with something almost like approval. "Experimentation requires failure to achieve success." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Though perhaps next time, conduct your tests away from those too weak to survive the consequences."

  The mechanic flinched, his earlier warmth cooling noticeably.

  Chiron stepped between them smoothly. "Perhaps we should continue our tour, Ms. Ulthar. The training facilities might interest you more than our residential areas."

  Medea glanced once more at the frozen bull, already losing interest. "Lead on, horse-man. Show me where you forge your little heroes."

  As she followed Chiron toward the exit, she felt eyes boring into her back—dozens of them, calculating, reassessing, wary. Good. Let them wonder. Let them whisper. Let them fear.

  The sword at her hip hummed with quiet satisfaction, its consciousness brushing against hers like frost against a window.

  They see only what you allow them to see, Nidhoggr whispered. Power restrained is still power recognized.

  Her lips curled into the ghost of a smile. For once, the ancient blade wasn't entirely wrong.

  Chiron led Medea away from the arena, his hooves leaving precise crescent imprints in the packed dirt. Whispers followed them like persistent flies—speculation about her heritage, her powers, her teeth, her eyes, her tail and ears. The campers maintained a respectful distance, their fear a pleasant perfume that trailed in her wake.

  "The training grounds," Chiron announced as they crested a small hill overlooking an expansive clearing. Teenagers clashed with swords and spears, their movements competent if unimaginative. "We focus on classical combat alongside modern techniques."

  Medea's nose wrinkled at the overpowering stench of adolescent sweat. "How quaint. Teaching children to use outdated weapons against enemies who've had millennia to perfect their use."

  A muscular girl disarmed her opponent with a brutal twist that sent his sword spinning. Medea's ear twitched with mild interest before she turned away, already bored.

  "Our methods have proven effective," Chiron replied evenly, though a muscle twitched beneath his human eye. "Modern weapons attract unwanted attention from mortal authorities. Celestial Bronze doesn't trigger metal detectors."

  She ran a claw absently along a wooden training dummy, leaving five parallel grooves in its surface. "Effectiveness is measured in survival, I suppose." Her tone made it clear how low that bar seemed to her.

  The centaur's tail swished in subtle agitation. "Not all strength is measured in combat capability, Ms. Ulthar."

  "How convenient for the weak." Her fuchsia eyes swept over the armory—a squat building with smoke belching from stone chimneys. Inside, through open doors, she glimpsed glowing forges and half-finished weapons. The scent of hot metal and sweat mingled with something else—old magic, embedded in bronze and leather.

  "The crafting techniques date back to the height of Mycenaean civilization," Chiron explained, noticing her momentary interest. "Our Hephaestus cabin maintains traditions—"

  "Your weapons lack soul," she interrupted, dismissing the building with a flick of her tail. "Mass-produced tools barely removed from mortal steel."

  The sword at her hip seemed to pulse once in agreement, its ancient consciousness brushing against her mind like winter frost against a window. Nidhoggr had opinions about inferior blades.

  Medea paused suddenly, nostrils flaring. A new scent cut through the camp's ambient mixture of sweat and strawberries—something old and dangerous. Her head turned sharply toward a small stone building set apart from the others, its entrance bound with chains of celestial bronze that glowed faintly with protective enchantments.

  "What's in there?" The question emerged as a purr—the first genuine curiosity she'd displayed.

  Chiron's expression tightened. "The armory for more… specialized equipment. Items too dangerous for everyday training."

  Her lips curled into a smile that displayed far too many pointed teeth. "Now that sounds promising."

  Chiron's face darkened like storm clouds gathering over ancient mountains. His tail swished sharply—the equine equivalent of a frown. "Those items are restricted for good reason, Ms. Ulthar."

  Medea's pupils dilated as she inhaled deeply, savoring the faint, electric tang of confined power. Her tongue flicked briefly against the back of her teeth, tasting the air like a serpent. Something inside that building called to her—not with words, but with the silent recognition apex predators feel for one another across great distances.

  "What makes them so special?" she asked, already drifting toward the chained doors with deliberate nonchalance. "More ceremonial relics? Family heirlooms with sentimental value?"

  "Weapons that have consumed their wielders," Chiron answered bluntly. "Items touched by primordial forces. Artifacts that whisper madness." His human torso shifted, subtly placing himself between Medea and the building. "Things that even gods handle with caution."

  Her ear twitched with interest. "Now that sounds worthwhile."

  The sword at her hip seemed to vibrate against her thigh, Nidhoggr's consciousness pressing against the edges of her mind. Siblings in spirit, perhaps. Old hungers recognize each other.

  Medea circled the building with the casual precision of a shark investigating potential prey. The chains crossing the entrance weren't merely physical—layers of magic pulsed around them, old spells woven with newer ones. She recognized at least three different divine signatures in the workmanship.

  "These restrictions only make me more curious," she purred, trailing clawed fingertips inches away from the enchanted metal. Frost crystalized in the air where her hand passed. "What's the point of collecting power if you keep it locked away?"

  Chiron's weathered face remained impassive, though his eyes tracked her every movement. "These items aren't collected for power, but contained for safety. Some fought alongside heroes in ancient times. Others were retrieved from enemies at great cost."

  "Caged predators," Medea mused, pressing her ear against the cold stone wall. Her eyes half-closed as she listened to something beyond mortal hearing. "They hunger still."

  "Which is precisely why access is restricted to senior counselors, and only with my supervision." The centaur's tone hardened with authority thousands of years in the making.

  "Restrictions," she repeated, the word dripping with contempt. Her gaze flicked toward the chains, assessing them with professional interest. Breaking them would be trivial—though the magical backlash might level half the camp. A waste of energy for mere curiosity.

  Her tail lashed once with irritation. "Fine, keep your dangerous toys locked away." She stepped back, deliberately casual. "Though I question the wisdom of wasting resources that could strengthen your little warriors."

  "Strength without wisdom is merely violence waiting to happen," Chiron countered, visibly relaxing as she moved away from the building. "Something I suspect you understand better than most."

  Her lips twisted into something devoid of joy, exposing a seething maw of darkness and ivory. "Philosophy from a horse. How unexpected."

  As they continued walking, Medea cast one final glance over her shoulder. Something inside that building had recognized her—had called to the ancient hunger she carried in her blood. Perhaps this camp of half-breeds wasn't entirely worthless after all.

  "Take me to where they sleep," she said suddenly, turning her attention back to Chiron. "These demigod children. I want to see how you've organized them."

  Nidhoggr's voice slithered through her thoughts again. Know where the prey nests. Always wise.

  "The cabins," Chiron acknowledged with a nod, leading her away from the restricted armory. If he noticed her lingering interest, he gave no sign. "Each represents a different Olympian patron."

  "How orderly," she murmured, following at her own pace. "Sorting your little heroes by divine parentage. I imagine that creates fascinating social dynamics."

  Her smile could have frozen blood. "I do so enjoy watching hierarchies form."