The volleyball net has been “temporarily” repurposed.

Leo stands on a picnic table, dramatically tightening a rope that absolutely did not need tightening. Sparks flick from his fingertips as he grins.

“Boom. Structural integrity? Sexy. Engineering? Flawless.”

Annabeth doesn’t look up from the blueprint rolled across her knees. “If it collapses again, I’m telling Chiron it was your idea.”

“It was Percy’s idea,” Leo says instantly.

Percy, currently flat on his back in the grass with his hands behind his head, doesn’t even move. “I’m offended. I haven’t had an idea all day.”

Grover snorts, chewing on a tin can tab like it’s gourmet. “That tracks.”

From the shade of a nearby tree, Nico watches the sunlight crawl across the dirt like it personally insulted him. He’s half in shadow, half in light—exactly how he prefers it. Will Solace plops down beside him, nudging his shoulder.

“You know you won’t combust if you sit in the sun for five minutes.”

“I might,” Nico mutters. “You don’t know.”

Will beams anyway. “Statistically unlikely.”

A sudden WHACK echoes across the clearing.

Clarisse has just sent a volleyball flying directly at Percy’s face.

He yelps, water instinctively surging up from the lake in a defensive splash that soaks Leo mid-victory pose.

“HEY!” Leo sputters, hair smoking.

Clarisse crosses her arms. “Get up, Seaweed Brain. You’re on my team.”

“I was on the ground,” Percy protests, sitting up and wringing out his shirt.

Thalia, leaning against a tree with her arms folded, smirks beneath her pine-green jacket. “You look natural down there.”

Rachel Elizabeth Dare sits cross-legged near the campfire pit, sketchbook balanced on her knees. Her charcoal moves quickly—capturing the chaos, the movement, the way Percy’s hair still drips and Leo’s expression screams betrayal.

“Don’t move,” she murmurs.

“I am literally soaked,” Leo says.

“Exactly.”

From the porch of the Big House, Chiron watches over them, hooves resting comfortably on the wooden boards. His expression is fond but calculating—the look of someone mentally preparing tomorrow’s combat drills.

Beside him, Dionysus—Mr. D—sighs dramatically as he sips from a Diet Coke.

“They’re loud,” he mutters. “In my day, demigods brooded more. Very dramatic. Lots of tragic poetry.”

“They’re children, Mr. D,” Chiron replies gently.

“They’re chaos,” Mr. D corrects.

Back by the court-that-isn’t-a-court, Grover tries to serve the ball and instead launches it directly into a strawberry crate.