Chapter 4 - Chapter 4: Night's Quiet Pull

Cynthia Morales shifted on her bunk in the Hermes cabin, the moon's pale light cutting sharp angles across the cluttered floor. It was her fourth night at Camp Half-Blood, and sleep wouldn't come—her body hummed with restless energy, like it knew the dark was its time. At ten, she felt small amid the older campers' snores, her wiry frame tense under the threadbare camp blanket. Dark waves spilled over her pillow, tangled from the day's sweat, and her obsidian eyes stared wide at the ceiling beams. Why can't I sleep like them? she wondered, a smart flicker cutting through her naivety. Foster homes had taught her nights were for watching, waiting—not fearing, just ready.The cabin breathed around her: Travis Stoll kicked in a dream, muttering about hidden stashes; Connor snored softly nearby; Luke Castellan, bunked above, lay still, his breathing even. Cynthia didn't dwell on them much—kids were kids, some nicer than foster siblings, and she was glad for the roof. But instincts nudged: Quiet means safe. Move. She sat up slowly, age-appropriate caution making her glance around before slipping into sneakers. Her orange T-shirt hung loose, backpack slung light with knife and apple. Out the door, soft-footed like alley cats back home.Camp paths silvered under the moon, woods whispering just loud enough to comfort. Feels right out here, she thought, smart enough to stick to open ground but naive to deeper dangers. Archery range drew her first. She picked a bow—light recurve, familiar weight—and nocked an arrow. Breath in, release: thwack! Dead center, straw puffing. Excellent, natural as breathing. Five more, each perfect. Knives next; her pocketknife spun in small hands, then flew—chunk!—hilt-deep in the target. Close hand-to-hand followed: shadow punches, low kicks, grapples against air, body flowing excellent from street scraps honed sharp.Spears gleamed on racks; she hefted one, twirling very good—thrusts straight, spins balanced for her size. Sword nearby? Mediocre swing, too heavy; it clanged awkward. Axe thunked off-center. Not those, she decided practically, wiping sweat from olive skin.Hooves scuffed gravel—Tully, emerging from shadows, scruffy beard silver-trimmed, hazel eyes knowing but kind. "Out again? Moon's got you good."Cynthia startled, hand to chest. "Tully! Yeah... helps me think." No bubbly squeal, just quiet ten-year-old honesty, naive trust in the satyr who'd saved her."Smart to practice. Keep low." He nodded, limping past—thoughts his own.Dawn grayed the sky; pavilion breakfast hummed. Cynthia piled oatmeal and fruit small, joining Hermes kids at their table. Travis and Connor flanked her, redheaded chaos arguing over milk cartons."Pass the sugar," Travis said, nudging her elbow.She slid it over wordlessly, watching them wrestle spoons. Luke dropped beside, golden hair sleep-rumpled, blue eyes scanning. "Night practice paying off?""Guess so," Cynthia said simply, spooning oatmeal. Smart eyes noted his easy tone, but naivety filed it as normal. Older kids look out.Archery rotation: campers lined up, bows thumping. Cynthia's turn—arrows blurred excellent, cluster tight as a fist. Apollo kids murmured; Lee Fletcher, freckled teen with a bandage on his arm, grinned. "Spot on. Try flaming ones later?"She nodded shyly. "Okay. They light up nice?"Hand-to-hand pit: dirt warm underfoot. Paired with a younger Hermes boy, she ducked his swing naive but quick—"Watch out!"—then closed excellent: palm block, foot sweep, pin. He tapped out laughing. Travis whooped; Clarisse La Rue hollered from Ares benches, burly frame looming, scarred cheek pink. "Scrawny's got grit! Spar me sometime."Cynthia rubbed her arm, uncertain. "Maybe. You're big." Age showed in hesitation, but smart instincts sized the challenge.Knife drills: excellence pure. Blades flipped seamless in small hands, parries snapping. Luke tossed a pair; she caught, disarming a dummy fast. "Good form," he said.Spears: very good technique, her throws piercing distant hay bales, spins controlled. Katie Gardner leaned from Demeter table at lunch. "Hunt practice? My vines could help.""Uh, sure," Cynthia said, naive to the offer's warmth.Pavilion lunch buzzed—campers swapping tales. Silena Beauregard sat across, silky black hair tied back, smile soft. "Your hair's wild. Want a clip?" She offered a flower pin.Cynthia touched her waves. "Thanks." Pinned it in awkwardly, smart fingers steady.Malcolm Pace wandered over, glasses slipping, Athena gray streak in hair. "Saw your dodges. Chess after?"She puzzled board quick once—won a game, lost two. "You're tricky good."Lake afternoon: canoes rocking. Cynthia paddled solo first, then with Connor—splashes traded quiet. "Faster!" he yelled. She leaned in, smart strokes cutting waves.Forge wafted smoke; Beckendorf loomed huge, dreads tied, hammer demo. Cynthia's axe swing mediocre—glanced off anvil. "Slippery," she muttered, blisters smarting. Sword same—decent blocks, weak chops. Stick to knives.Free time: lava wall pulses. Mediocre climb—grips held, but slips from small reach. "Higher next time," she told herself.Night pulled insistent post-campfire, where s'mores crackled and songs droned. Cynthia slipped away early, woods edge for spears—very good thrusts felling leaves. Archery excellent under stars, knives singing. Hand-to-hand: full katas, breaths puffing clouds.Luke appeared quiet. "Can't sleep either?""Just moving," she said plainly, lowering knife. Ten-year-old directness, naive but instincts alert. "Spar light?"Hand-to-hand excellent—her grapples flipped him once, accidental. "Sorry!" Mediocre sword trade ended quick; she yielded smartly."Night suits you," he said, sheathing. "Claim'll come."She shrugged, wiping dirt. "Hope. Tired of extra bunks."Cabin late: Travis flipped cards; Connor shared jerky. "Ghost story?" Travis asked.Cynthia huddled knees up. "Real ones?" Naive curiosity, smart ears keen.They spun yarns till snores won. Cynthia lay last, moon fading. Nights mine. Body smart like that. Instincts hummed content, age keeping it simple.