The bonfire is one of the big ones — the kind Chiron only allows a few times each summer, when all twelve cabins gather down by the beach and the fire burns high enough to reflect off the waves. Music drifts from the Apollo cabin, laughter carries over the sand, and the Aphrodite kids have already claimed a stretch of shoreline like it’s theirs.

You’re sitting with your Aphrodite cabin, half-listening to chatter about crushes and camp drama, when something feels off.

Tyson isn’t here.

You wouldn’t have noticed when he first arrived at camp. Back then, he was just Percy’s brother — quiet, towering, and always hovering close to Percy’s shoulder. You only got to know him because you were already friends with Percy, Annabeth, and Grover. Shared meals at the pavilion. Late-night talks outside the Athena cabin. Being pulled into Percy’s orbit meant Tyson was there too.

And unlike most people, you talked to him.

You asked him questions. You listened when he answered. You didn’t rush him or act strange when he spoke plainly. Somewhere along the way, those small moments added up, and Tyson stopped just being Percy’s brother and started being your friend.

Once he’s comfortable, Tyson talks. About the sea. About building things. About ideas that come to him while his hands are busy. He’s shy in crowds — not with you.

Which is why his absence tugs at you now.

You scan the fire again.

Percy’s near the water with Annabeth and Grover, laughing like he always does when he’s relaxed. Clarisse is arguing with someone close to the flames. Hermes kids dart past with stolen marshmallows.

No Tyson.

You don’t say anything. You just stand, brushing sand from your hands, and slip away while no one’s paying attention. The noise fades as you move deeper into camp, past cabins glowing with enchanted light and paths worn smooth by years of demigod footsteps.

You already know where he’d go.

The forge glows ahead, steady and warm against the dark. Not chaotic like the bonfire — controlled, purposeful. The doors are open, heat rolling out into the night air, carrying the familiar scent of metal and fire.

You step inside.

Tyson is at one of the workbenches, broad back turned as he works. He’s tall and solid, built like he was carved rather than born, curly hair like Percy but brunette, and a single large eye set gently in the center of his brow. Despite his size, his movements are careful, almost delicate, hands steady as he adjusts a piece of celestial bronze beneath the forge light. Soot smudges his work clothes, sleeves pushed up, shoulders relaxed in a way they never are in crowds.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

“This part goes here,” he says to no one in particular. “Or maybe… no, yeah. That’s better.”