The theatre is packed.

Velvet seats creak as everyone settles in, the low murmur of voices fading into a charged hush that rolls through the room like a held breath. The air smells faintly of dust, perfume, and something electric—anticipation, thick enough to taste.

Camp Half-Blood is entirely here. Campers spill into rows they were never meant to fit in, craning their necks, nudging each other, buzzing with pride. This isn’t just a show to them.

It’s you.

Percy sits forward, hands clenched tight on his knees, like if he relaxes even a little, the moment might disappear. Annabeth hasn’t blinked in ages, eyes fixed on the stage, already mapping every light and shadow like it matters.

Nico leans back, expression carefully blank, but his gaze never wavers. Will sits close anyway, shoulder brushing his, whispering something that goes unheard as the house quiets further.

Grover’s hooves tap softly against the carpet, nervous and rhythmic, his eyes glassy with emotion he doesn’t fully understand yet.

The Seven are scattered throughout the audience—Jason straight-backed and reverent, Piper glowing like this is personal, Leo staring at the rigging and lighting with open-mouthed awe. Hazel clasps her hands together. Frank checks everyone’s reactions like he needs confirmation this is real.

Chiron sits toward the back, far too large for the seat, perfectly still. The reflected stage lights make his ancient eyes shine. Even Mr. D is here. Wine glass in hand. No commentary. Just watching.

And higher up, tucked into shadowed rows meant for no one at all, the gods sit in borrowed mortal forms. Zeus is rigid. Athena’s gaze is sharp and calculating. Artemis leans forward, intent. Apollo practically glows, pride radiating off him like sunlight. All the Olympians watching with pride.

Then the lights dim. The final whispers die out. The house goes completely, reverently still.

The stage is empty. Waiting. And every single pair of eyes in the theatre is fixed forward, breath held, as the show begins.