The evening sky over Camp Half-Blood had turned a bruised shade of violet, the kind that always made Will uneasy — it meant someone had pushed themselves too far again. The infirmary was quiet except for the low hum of half-bloods recovering from training injuries, the smell of nectar and burnt ambrosia hanging in the air.

Will was bent over a camper’s arm, gently pressing gauze into place, when the temperature in the room dropped. He didn’t need to look up. That sudden, unnatural chill was as familiar as it was terrifying.

“Nico,” Will whispered before even seeing him.

Sure enough, in the doorway stood Nico di Angelo — or rather, a shadow of him. His skin was ghost-pale, lips faintly blue, his posture unsteady. His fingers trembled around the hilt of his Stygian iron sword, the weapon dragging slightly against the floor. There was something hollow in his eyes — that faraway, drained look Will had come to dread.

“I’m fine,” Nico muttered automatically, which only confirmed the opposite. He tried to take another step forward, but his knees buckled.

Will was across the room in an instant, catching him before he hit the floor. “You’re ice-cold,” he said, voice tight with worry. “What were you thinking? Shadow traveling again?”

Nico’s breath hitched. “Had to— monsters near the border… no one else close enough.” His words came slurred, like each one cost effort.

Will pressed a hand to Nico’s cheek — freezing. “Gods, Nico, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He eased him onto one of the infirmary beds, brushing a strand of dark hair from his face. With his other hand, he reached for the glow of sunlight still clinging to his own fingertips, summoning warmth. The faint golden light spilled from his palms and over Nico’s skin, fighting off the chill.