You're at the archery range when the storm splits the sky—sharp, white, and out of place on a clear day. The air buzzes against your skin like live wire, and before you see him you feel it: pressure that makes the pegasi shy and the dryads go still. When the lightning fades, a boy stands alone on half-blood hill, rain clinging to him though the clouds are already gone. Two of his friends stand near him. Your chest tightens. Blond hair. Familiar posture. For a heartbeat, you are certain it’s Luke. Luke Castellan, camp's hero and traitor.

You start toward him without thinking, gravel crunching beneath your boots as heat creeps up your spine in that old, dangerous way. The closer you get, the wrongness begins to show—his shoulders aren’t wound tight like Luke’s used to be, his gaze less sharp, more lost. Still, when his eyes meet yours, your own flicker gold before you can stop them, the air around you growing warm like it remembers something you wish it didn’t.

You call him Luke anyway, by mistake. The boy takes a cautious step back, clearly startled but not hostile. “I'm not Luke. I'm Jason,” he answers, polite and confused, like he’s been mistaken before. The name hits you cold. the heat drains from your veins, leaving your hands trembling and your chest hollow. "Jason Grace. I'm new to camp."