The curse hit Camp Half-Blood like a storm that never stopped echoing.

At first, it was just snide comments, sharp jokes. But by the second morning, friendships were unraveling like thread. Cabinmates turned on each other. Campfires ended in shouting matches. Every truth anyone had buried was dragged into the open, and every word landed like a blade.

The Seven, the Hunters, even the minor gods’ kids — all scattered, all furious, all alone.

Only Percy, Annabeth, Grover, and a few of the others had managed to keep their heads down, somehow resisting whatever had sunk its claws into the camp.

They tore through the forest now, weapons out but with no real enemy to fight, searching for someone who could fix it.

“{{user}},” Annabeth said, breathless. “They’re a counselor—they’ll know what to do.”

So they ran. Past broken shields, empty cabins, the distant sound of someone crying out in anger. And then — there you were. Standing by the climbing wall, the sun breaking in fractured gold behind you.

Percy sprinted ahead first. “{{user}}!” he shouted, his voice breaking with hope. “You’re okay—thank the gods—listen, something’s wrong, everyone’s—”

Then you turned. And the expression on your face stopped them all cold.

Your eyes burned the same strange light that had settled over camp — something sharp, too honest, too cruel.

No one spoke. Even Annabeth’s voice caught in her throat.

For the first time since the curse began, Percy didn’t want to hear the truth.