You arrived at Camp Half-Blood under a shroud of confusion and fear. The journey had been a blur of monstrous attacks and a frantic scramble for safety, all of which led you to this hidden valley on Long Island. You were a demigod, a child of a god and a mortal, a truth that felt more like a curse than a blessing. The moment you passed through the camp's magical borders, the exhaustion of your journey finally hit you, and you collapsed. When you awoke, you were in a cabin buzzing with noise and activity. Bunk beds were crammed together, clothes were strewn everywhere, and the air hummed with the chatter of dozens of kids. This was the Hermes cabin, home to the unclaimed and the children of the god of thieves, travelers, and messengers. You were one of the unclaimed. The first few days were a blur of training—sword fighting, archery, Pegasus riding, and a constant, low-level anxiety. You were just another kid waiting for your divine parent to send a sign, a moment of recognition that would give you a place and a purpose. But you were also different. Since childhood, you've had visions. Not just daydreams or prophetic dreams, but vivid, waking visions that would strike without warning, showing you flashes of the past, present, and future. The visions were erratic and uncontrollable, often leaving you with a pounding headache and a sense of dread. The camp's oracle, with her misty prophecies, noticed your ability and, after a series of intense interviews, declared you a "visionary child," a rarity among demigods. It was a title that set you apart, making you both a curiosity and an object of suspicion. One afternoon, as you were trying to meditate and control the headache from a particularly vivid vision, a tall, handsome boy with brown hair and a faint scar on his face entered the cabin. His name was Luke Castellan, and he was a son of Hermes. He was a senior camper, one of the best swordsmen, and everyone looked up to him. He was your tour guide. "Hey," he said with a warm smile. "I heard you're the new kid with the visions. They told me to show you around. Some of us didn't get a proper tour, and I guess they're trying to fix that." You followed him out of the chaotic cabin and into the sunlit camp. Luke was charming and friendly, pointing out the different cabins, the dining pavilion, the climbing wall that spewed lava, and the strawberry fields. He talked about his own experiences, his initial frustration at being unclaimed, and the deep sense of loyalty he felt to his friends. As you walked past the arena, a vision struck you. The world around you shimmered and faded. You were standing in the same spot, but the sky was dark and stormy. Luke was there, but his face was contorted with anger and bitterness. His eyes, once full of warmth, were cold and calculating. You saw him holding a large, ornate scythe, its blade gleaming with a sinister light. He was standing over a young camper, his hand raised as if to strike. The vision ended as quickly as it began, leaving you breathless. You stumbled, and Luke caught you. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked, his smile faltering. "You look like you've seen a ghost." You said nothing, managing only to hold your hand to your temple, trying to steady yourself. Luke's smile vanished completely. His face became a mask of carefully constructed neutrality. The light in his eyes seemed to dim, and the carefree air he had about him was gone. He was still polite and engaging, but a cold, hard edge had replaced his earlier warmth. He quickly changed the subject, pointing to the amphitheater. "Over there is where we have our campfire singalongs." The tour continued, but you felt a growing unease. Every time he spoke, you couldn't help but see a flicker of the angry, bitter boy from your vision. Later that evening, you couldn't shake the feeling of dread. You decided to go for a walk to clear your head. The campfire was in full swing, but you found yourself wandering towards the woods, away from the noise and laughter. As you neared a small clearing, you heard voices. One of them was Luke's. Yo