The sky over Camp Half-Blood dimmed, as if someone had pulled a shadow over the sun.

But it wasn’t a storm. It was your ship.

Your massive, weather-beaten vessel—dragged by sea magic and pirate tricks—hovered just past the pine tree, anchored at the very edge of the boundary. The magical barrier sizzled around it like it couldn’t decide whether to let you in or keep you out.

It chose wrong. The barrier snapped, flickered, and died.

Gasps rippled across the camp as the protection vanished. Campers grabbed weapons, stumbling backward in panic. Your ship crashed onto the hilltop with a thunderous thud—deliberate, dominating—blocking the only path in or out of camp. Your crew lined the edges of the deck, silhouettes against the darkened sky.

Camp was trapped. By you. Chiron galloped forward, but even he hesitated. Your flag snapped in the wind. Your crew waited.

And then, from the shadows of the bow, a voice shouted toward the camp: “Captain {{user}}! We did it! The borders are down!”

Camp froze. Every camper stared at the ship, waiting for you to appear.