Camp always felt different at night — the warm lanterns glowing along the cabins, the wind sliding through the trees like it carried secrets from Olympus.

You stood at the edge of the forest, watching the treetops sway. The breeze tugged at your clothes like it knew you by name, like it recognized something in you that the rest of the world kept missing.

People came and went in this place. Quests. Prophecies. Disasters. Triumphs. But you? You felt like someone caught in the middle — pushed forward, pulled back, never quite in control of which way your life tilted next.

Hermes was in the middle of giving Will a chaotic, too-fast tour — pointing at cabins, kids, satyrs, everything.

“That’s the dining hall—don’t steal the cheese—this is cabin seven—don’t touch the lightning rods—oh, and over there is—”

He stopped. Hermes didn’t usually slow down for anybody. But when he spotted you, leaning against the strawberry fields with that tired, thoughtful look you always had, his fast-talking grin eased into something gentler.

“That’s {{user}},” Hermes said. “They’re… one of the few kids the wind never lies to.”

Will blinked. Hermes never talked like that. And the breeze actually shifted toward you — like it was answering.