You arrive at Camp Half-Blood like a bad omen.

The pine tree looms overhead, silent witness, as the smell of smoke and ichor clings to you like a second skin. Your hands are slick with drying blood—too dark to be all yours. Some of it belongs to monsters you barely remember killing. Some of it belongs to the satyr who didn’t make it past the hill. He’d shoved you forward, horns lowered, shouting at you to run. You hadn’t looked back until it was too late. Now the weight of it sits in your chest, heavy and mean, turning every breath into something sharp.

Campers stare. They always do. You look feral, armor cracked, clothes torn, knuckles split open. Eighteen and already tired of being brave. The gods did this—threw you into the world half-made and expected gratitude. You feel no reverence, no awe. Only anger. Small, ugly anger that curls in on itself and waits for something to burn.

Chiron’s voice is calm when he finds you, too calm for the mess you’re in. He doesn’t comment on the blood or the way your hands won’t stop shaking. He just says you’ll be shown around, that someone will take care of you. Someone who understands loss. Someone who understands resentment.

He sends you to Luke.

Luke Castellan looks you over like he’s taking inventory. He notices everything: the blood, the stiffness in your shoulders, the way your eyes flick to every exit. Instead of recoiling, he smiles—easy, practiced, like he’s been waiting for you. There’s something calculating beneath it, something sharp and interested. You can tell he sees an opportunity where others see a problem.

“Hey,” Luke says, stepping closer, lowering his voice like this is already a secret between you. “I’m Luke, son of Hermes and camp leader. Not exactly in that order.”