The door to their quarters clicked shut behind them with a solid thunk.
Lucas leaned against the frame for a moment, letting the silence settle, letting the tension of the feast bleed away.
Elizabeth, already sprawled on one of the plush armchairs, bit into a donut the size of her fist. Powdered sugar dusted the air around her like faint mist.
She chewed thoughtfully, then spoke through the mouthful.
"I don't like her," Elizabeth said flatly.
Lucas smiled slightly, moving to a small table and tossing his jacket over the back of a chair. "Circe?"
Elizabeth nodded, reaching for another donut from a small box on the table. "That wasn't a test. That was a trap. If you had made one mistake, she would have crushed you without blinking."
Lucas lowered himself into a seat across from her, hands folded loosely in his lap.
"You're right," he said simply.
Elizabeth blinked, mid-bite.
She swallowed, frowning. "You knew?"
Lucas nodded, expression calm. "Of course. That was never meant to be a fair trial. She wanted to prove a point."
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, voice even. "Circe grew up in a time where women were seen as property. Where their worth was weighed against dowries and bloodlines. Men caused wars for beauty, Gods cursed women for choices men and gods forced them into, making females suffer while tales called the men heroes."
Elizabeth listened quietly, donut forgotten in her hand.
"She does not hate us personally," Lucas continued. "She hates what we represent. The old world."
He shrugged, almost casually. "Her hatred is earned. But she owes Hecate too much to truly harm me. Not while I wear my mother's favor."
For a moment, there was only the quiet hum of the ocean outside the window.
Then Elizabeth snorted softly.
"You sound like an old man," she said, grinning.
Lucas gave a dry chuckle. "I may have picked up a few habits from my father."
His eyes narrowed, amused. "Where did you even get those donuts?"
Elizabeth brightened instantly, grabbing another. "A shop down by the docks. Only way to find it is if you truly want a donut, though only monsters can purchase from the store."
Lucas raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "You're telling me monsters have a donut industry?"
Elizabeth shrugged. "Demigods have Camp Half-Blood. Mortals have Starbucks. Monsters have... Monster Donut."
Lucas stared at her for a long moment.
"That sounds fake."
"It's very real," Elizabeth said, grinning around a mouthful of powdered sugar. "Best coffee too."
Lucas shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Of course you would know where to find pastries for monsters."
She threw a donut at him. He caught it easily, tasting it.
It was good.
The quiet returned, easy now, comfortable.
Lucas stood, stretching.
"I am going to turn in early," he said, grabbing his jacket.
Elizabeth nodded, already reaching for another donut.
Lucas made his way to his private room.
Before even considering sleep, he activated Veil Sight again, sweeping the walls, the ceiling, the furniture.
No hidden traps. No eavesdropping wards.
Just a simple, magically reinforced room. Cold but safe.
He let the magic fade, shrugged off his jacket, and finally allowed himself to relax into the bed.
Outside, the waves whispered against the shore.
Tomorrow, the real work will begin.
...
The morning light spilled across the courtyard like liquid gold.
Lucas stood in the center of a circular arena paved with black volcanic stone, the heat of it seeping through the thin soles of his boots. Around the edge of the courtyard, Circe's attendants stood silently, their expressions blank, their hands folded into their sleeves.
Circe herself sat upon a stone throne carved with swirling sigils of moon and flame. She regarded Lucas with cool detachment, a queen weighing the worth of a single stone in her treasury.
Elizabeth leaned casually against a column nearby, arms crossed, a silent witness.
Circe lifted a hand, a gesture as slight as the shifting of a shadow.
"Show me," she said.
Lucas bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.
He began simply.
He extended his hand, gathering the Mist like threads on a loom. The air shimmered. A second Lucas appeared beside him, a doppelganger woven from illusion and Mist, its every movement mirroring his own.
Circe watched, unimpressed.
Lucas dispelled the double with a wave and moved on.
He closed his eyes, reaching inward, feeling the cold spark that lived under his skin. A thin sheen of frost spread outward from his boots across the volcanic stone, a breath of winter in a summer morning.
"gelu"
Cryokinesis: minor but controlled.
He shifted focus, calling to the air.
The breeze that brushed the courtyard suddenly shifted, swirling around him in a tightening spiral, pulling at his hair and clothes before he let it die.
"ventus"
Aerokinesis: basic, enough to be useful.
With a flex of his fingers, a small flame flickered to life in his palm: bright and steady, not wild or clumsy.
"igniculus"
Pyrokinesis: more instinctive, but still rough.
Finally, Lucas pressed his hand lightly against a cut he had traced along his forearm. The skin mended slowly, sealing itself under a faint glow of greenish light.
"Sarcio"
Vitakinesis: minor, but present.
He lowered his hand and opened his eyes.
The courtyard was silent.
Circe drummed her fingers lightly against the stone armrest of her throne, her expression thoughtful.
"You have... potential," she said finally, as if the words pained her to admit. "You have learned much on your own."
She rose gracefully, stepping down from her seat, her bare feet silent against the warm stone.
"But your magic is narrow," she continued, circling him slowly. "Your Mist weaving is crude, your elemental control serviceable, your healing barely more than a mortal's herbal salve."
She stopped in front of him, her golden eyes sharp.
"You have been taught tricks," she said, her voice cool. "But you have not yet been taught magic."
Lucas remained still, letting her words fall where they would.
"You manipulate," Circe said, "but you do not yet understand. You mimic, but you do not yet create."
She turned slightly, motioning to the attendants.
"This place will change that," she said. "You will learn the branches of magic as they were meant to be wielded."
Her gaze returned to him, heavy as a hand pressing against his chest.
"Do not mistake survival for mastery, demigod. If you remain narrow, you will be broken long before you become anything worth fearing."
Lucas met her gaze without flinching.
"I am ready to learn," he said simply.
Circe smiled then.
"You have shown me tricks," she said coolly, folding her arms behind her back. "Now, show me magic."
Lucas said nothing. He waited.
Circe smiled, a slow, dangerous thing.
"You will create a bird," she said. "Nothing grand. A sparrow will do."
Lucas blinked once, the task sounding deceptively simple.
"But," Circe continued, her voice sharpening, "it must not merely look like a bird. It must act like one. Sound like one. Feel real to the senses. If I were to reach out and grasp it, I should feel feathers. If it were to sing, it should stir the soul."
She smiled wider.
"And if you fail... you will learn firsthand how transformation magic feels when poorly handled."
Lucas tilted his head slightly, gauging her.
A trap, of course. But an honest one.
Circe stepped back, motioning with two fingers for him to begin.
Lucas closed his eyes.
He reached, drawing the Mist. He remembered the steps: Focus. Weave. Shape. Breathe life.
He shaped the Mist in his mind first: the feel of small wings, hollow bones, the subtle beat of a heart that; less than a whisper.
He shaped not an image, but a memory, the way sparrows darted and turned through forests, their bodies sharp and quick.
The Mist obeyed, curling into his hands.
Slowly, trembling at first, a shape emerged.
A small bird, no bigger than his fist, formed out of translucent silver light. Its feathers shimmered faintly, catching the sun at strange angles. Its wings twitched.
Lucas opened his eyes.
The bird perched delicately in the air before him, fluttering its wings once, twice.
It gave a soft chirp.
Circe watched, unblinking.
Lucas reached deeper, willing the Mist to carry more, the tiny heartbeat, the heat of living flesh, the dusty smell of feathers in the summer air.
The sparrow ruffled its wings, preened, and tilted its head at Circe with bright, curious eyes.
For a moment, the courtyard was silent.
Circe stepped forward.
She moved slowly, reaching out a hand not to snatch, but to feel.
Her fingers brushed the bird's side.
It resisted slightly, like real feathers bending under pressure.
Circe's golden eyes narrowed.
The sparrow gave another soft chirp and flitted to land lightly on Lucas' outstretched finger.
Only then did Lucas allow the magic to fade, the bird dissolving into wisps of silver mist that melted into the sunlight.
Circe was very still.
Then, very slowly, she clapped her hands once.
A sharp, deliberate sound that echoed through the courtyard.
"You are better than you look," she said, voice rich with reluctant admiration.
Lucas inclined his head slightly, accepting the praise without arrogance.
Circe's smile returned, but this time there was a glint of something new behind it.