The war had gone on far too long.

Camp Half-Blood no longer felt like home — it felt like a battlefield stitched together with nectar, ambrosia, and desperate prayers to the gods. Every day, monsters crawled from Tartarus in endless waves, and every night the campfires burned for the fallen.

Through it all, there were two names whispered around the camp like a promise of survival.

Percy Jackson — the unstoppable vanguard. And you — the healer who somehow kept him alive.

Where Percy fought like a hurricane unleashed, you were the calm in the middle of the storm. Your hands glowed with godly power, sealing wounds moments before death could claim another demigod. Together, you became inseparable on the battlefield — sword and shield, destruction and mercy.

Everyone noticed the way Percy always searched for you after every fight. The way you instinctively reached for him whenever he staggered back bleeding. The way neither of you ever let the other fall alone.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

A scouting mission. Simple. Quiet.

Instead, the forest beyond camp reeks of monster blood, the ground trembling beneath distant roars as Percy plants Riptide into the dirt beside you, breathing hard. Cuts line his arms. Your healing energy flickers weakly from exhaustion.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough but softer when it’s directed at you.

Before you can answer, another roar echoes through the trees.

And Percy steps in front of you automatically. Like he always does.

The war isn’t over yet.