𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑺𝑲𝒀outside the window spilled into a pale, deep-blue dusk, and the others in the helicopter drifted off into silence, Artemis realised, finally, what her name meant.
It meant that whatever she was, it was far from complaisant. It was far from only halfway. It was far from subtle and soft and breakable. It was far from the girl made of cracking ice that she had left behind in the Maze.
It meant that she existed only in extremities. That she had power, power flooding like molten metal through her veins instead of blood. That she had a firestorm within her, an inferno, a dark halo made of crackling wildfire that shot into her heart only passion and strength and the ability to love with a fierceness that was just as strong as her ability to hate.
It meant that she was a hurricane, a song of chaos, a raging storm of fire and havoc that would not stop. Not until she had found them, the ones who had torn her apart and snapped her back together until nothing but the shell of a girl had been left. Not until she had made them bleed like she, and so many others, had.
It meant that she was exactly what they had made her to be. She was Artemis, the Huntress. She had drawn her bow, strung with an arrowhead that was made of thunder, and lightning, and a storm of fire and ice. Now, all it needed was a target. She would find them. And they were not ready.
