Percy tells himself he doesn’t care what camp thinks.

But after a day of snickers, of being shoved aside during training, of someone muttering scaredy cat just loud enough for him to hear, the words stick. They follow him like a dare he can’t put down. So when the stranger demigods invite him out—casual, confident, acting like this is normal—he goes.

They lead him past the familiar edges of camp, into the woods where the trees grow closer together and the light thins out. They joke at first. Tease him lightly. Percy laughs along, forcing it, heart thudding too fast. He doesn’t want to be the kid who backs out.

The woods go quiet. Not peaceful. Watching. The group slows. Spreads out. Percy realizes, too late, that none of them look nervous. None of them are glancing back toward camp. The leader turns, eyes sharp, smile gone.

Percy’s hand drifts toward his sword. This isn’t a test. This is a mistake.

The leader steps closer, voice low, dangerous now, lifting his weapon like he’s already decided how this ends. Percy backs up, breath shallow, mind racing—no plan, no help, just the awful realization that he walked straight into something he doesn’t understand.

And then— the leader raises their sword.