Chapter 62
The afternoon sun beat down on the arena's stone floor, turning the air into a shimmering haze. Three days at Camp Half-Blood, and already my muscles ached in places I didn't know existed. Beside me, my older brother James stood easy and loose, a faint, knowing smile on his face. He'd been here before. For Percy and me, this was all new.
Luke gathered us, the Hermes cabin, in a loose circle. His easy confidence was both inspiring and intimidating. "Basics first," he said, his voice carrying without strain. We stabbed and slashed at straw dummies clad in peeling bronze. Percy, to my surprise, was a natural. His movements were sharp, instinctive. Where I overthought, he just *did*.
Then came the paired duels. Luke's announcement that he'd partner with Percy drew a collective murmur. "Good luck," a camper muttered to us. "Luke's the best swordsman in the last three hundred years."
"Maybe he'll go easy," I said, trying to sound hopeful.
The camper just snorted.
He did not go easy. Luke was a patient, relentless teacher. With every command—"Keep your guard up, Percy!"—came the sharp *whap* of his flat blade against Percy's ribs. "Lunge!" *Whap!* "Back!" *Whap!* Percy's face was a mask of determined concentration, but with each strike, he grew more battered, his movements a little slower. James watched from the sidelines, his eyes tracking every parry and thrust with analytical calm.
By the time Luke called a break, Percy was drenched, breathing hard. We all swarmed the drinks cooler. Luke, looking barely winded, poured a bottle of ice water over his own head. The relief looked so profound that Percy and I immediately did the same. The shock of cold was a bolt of clarity. I felt the fatigue recede, strength tingling back into my weary arms.
"Okay, everybody circle up!" Luke called, his hair dripping. "If Percy and James don't mind, I want to give you a little demo."
He explained a disarming technique, a complex twist of the blade. "This is difficult," he stressed, his gaze sweeping over us. "I've had it used against me. Most swordsmen work years to master it."
He demonstrated on me in slow motion. My sword clattered to the stones with a gentle, embarrassing tap. Percy retrieved it for me, his expression grim.
"Now in real time," Luke said, adopting his ready stance. "We keep sparring until one of you pulls it off. Ready, Percy? James?"
We nodded. The arena fell silent, save for the distant sounds of the woods.
Luke moved. It wasn't the pedagogical pace from before; it was a fluid, controlled assault. Percy met him, their blades ringing in the dry air. I saw my opening and stepped in, my own sword flashing. I executed the disarming maneuver—a clean, precise twist. Luke's blade shuddered in his grip, but his hold was like iron. He adapted instantly, shifting his weight and turning the momentum against me, forcing me back.
But Percy… Percy was in a zone. His earlier clumsiness was gone. He wasn't just blocking; he was *seeing*. He anticipated Luke's feints, countered his thrusts. He stepped forward, launching an attack of his own. Luke deflected it, but a flicker of surprise—and something sharper, more intense—crossed his face. His eyes narrowed. The friendly lesson was over. He began to press Percy in earnest, his attacks becoming faster, harder.
Percy was being driven back, his defense fraying. It was only a matter of seconds. I saw the decision flash in his sea-green eyes: *What the heck?*
As Luke came in for a final, disengaging strike, Percy didn't retreat. He lunged forward, not away. He didn't just try the maneuver; he reinvented it. His blade didn't slide against Luke's—it smashed into the base with all his momentum, and he twisted, putting his entire body into a desperate, downward thrust.
***CLANG.***
The sound echoed off the stones. Luke's celestial bronze sword spun from his hand, rattling across the ground. The campers gasped as one.
Percy stood frozen, his own blade extended, its point a mere inch from Luke's undefended chest.
For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Then it was broken by a single, triumphant voice.
"YES!" James whooped, his cheer exploding in the quiet. He was grinning, a fierce, proud grin directed at Percy. The spell broke, and a wave of stunned murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Luke slowly straightened. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, his eyes never leaving Percy. The friendly counselor's expression was gone, replaced by a deep, calculating appraisal. He looked at Percy not as a clumsy new camper, but as a puzzle. As a potential. He then glanced at me, where I stood with my own sword still at the ready, and gave a slow, acknowledging nod.
The interest in his eyes was no longer just instructional. It was real, sharp, and entirely new. The lesson was over, but something else had just begun.