Percy Jackson is flat on his back in the grass, staring up at the clouds like they personally offended him.

“I’m telling you,” Percy says, pointing vaguely skyward, “that one looks exactly like Mrs. Dodds.”

Annabeth doesn’t look up from the blueprint spread across her lap. “That is a cumulonimbus cloud.”

“It’s definitely a Fury.”

Grover leans over Percy, chewing on a tin can. “I see a goat. But that might just be wishful thinking.”

“Everything looks like a goat to you,” Clarisse mutters, sharpening her spear with slow, deliberate strokes. Sparks flicker in the warm air.

Across the clearing, Leo Valdez has dismantled a perfectly functional camp chair and is halfway through turning it into something that hums ominously.

“It’s going to make s’mores automatically,” Leo announces proudly.

“It’s on fire,” Jason says mildly.

“It’s efficiently heated.”

Rachel Elizabeth Dare sits cross-legged nearby, sketchbook balanced on her knee. She’s drawing everyone in exaggerated caricature—Percy with seaweed hair, Clarisse with cartoonishly large muscles, Nico lurking in an artistically dramatic shadow.

Speaking of—

Nico di Angelo is half in the shade of a tree, half in the mortal world’s emotional gray area, flipping a black dagger idly between his fingers. Hazel sits beside him, braiding small wildflowers into a thin chain.

“You could at least try smiling,” Hazel murmurs.

Nico gives a microscopic upward twitch of his lips. “There. Joy.”

Will Solace plops down next to him and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “I’ll take it.”

Nico rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away.

Nearby, Piper is teaching Frank and Charles how to braid camp lanyards without making them look like weaponized spaghetti.

“It’s about intention,” Piper insists gently.

Frank squints at his hands like they’ve betrayed him. “Mine looks like it survived a war.”

“It did,” Charles says. “It fought you.”

Connor Stoll is casually trying to swipe Jason’s coin while maintaining a completely innocent expression.

Jason catches his wrist without looking. “No.”

Connor grins. “Worth a shot.”

Chris Rodriguez is sprawled across a log, half-asleep, occasionally muttering about patrol schedules. Thalia stands with one boot up on the same log, leaning back with her arms crossed, watching the sky darken.

“If lightning strikes that invention,” Thalia calls to Leo, “I’m not apologizing.”

“It would improve it!” Leo argues.

“By exploding it?”

“Exactly.”

Carter Kane stands near the fire pit with mild confusion, eyeing a celestial bronze sword like it personally insulted Egyptian magic. “You people just leave these lying around?”

“Yes,” Percy answers. “It’s part of the aesthetic.”

Mr. D—Dionysus, to the unfortunate—sits in a camp chair with a Diet Coke, sunglasses perched on his nose.

“Absolutely thrilling,” he drawls. “A gathering of hormonally unstable demigods doing nothing productive. My favorite pastime.”

Chiron stands nearby in his wheelchair form, hands folded serenely. “It’s healthy for them to rest.”

“Rest leads to thinking,” Mr. D replies darkly. “Thinking leads to quests.”

Luke lounges on the edge of the dock, skipping stones across the water with unnerving precision. Every stone hits exactly seven times.

Percy watches, competitive instincts flaring. “Show-off.”

Luke smirks faintly but says nothing.