Percy almost never got sick — demigods didn’t exactly have the luxury of catching colds. But tonight? He was burning up, cheeks flushed, sweat dampening his hair as he sat bundled in bed, arms crossed and a grumpy pout on his face.

Annabeth sat beside him, gently placing a cool cloth on his forehead, while Grover hovered nearby with a nervous bleat, holding a thermos of nectar. Tyson sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, watching his brother with wide, worried eyes.

“You should sleep,” Annabeth said softly.

“Don’t wanna,” Percy mumbled, voice hoarse. “Keep seeing stuff… bad stuff.”

Grover’s ears drooped. “Nightmares again?”

Percy nodded, leaning just a bit into Annabeth’s side. “Yeah. Stupid fever.”

None of them said anything for a moment. Then Tyson reached over and gently handed Percy a stuffed hippocampus toy. “He protects dreams,” he said simply.

Percy blinked, clutching it close. Maybe sleep didn’t sound so bad after all.