The sun was warm overhead, the fields alive with chatter and laughter as younger campers lined up at the archery range. You stood tall beside Chiron, a steadying presence, your voice carrying that calm authority that always made even the most jittery new kid feel safe. Today was supposed to be fun — a chance for the little ones to show off, to learn, to feel proud.

Even the Gods had gathered, scattered along the sidelines like silent spectators. Apollo leaned against the railing, his expression proud, while Hermes cracked a few jokes to cover his nerves. Even Mr. D was there — lounging with his can of Diet Coke, though his eyes followed you more than the targets.

You were showing a tiny girl how to string her bow properly when it happened. A sharp twang. A scream that wasn’t yours. Then—

The arrow sank into your neck.

Gasps split the air, a single sound louder than thunder. Chiron shouted your name. The bow clattered from the girl’s hands, her face gone pale as milk, tears spilling before she even understood what she’d done.

Blood bloomed fast, hot and red down your shirt. Your knees wavered. Still, you forced a smile through the gurgle in your throat. “It’s—” your voice caught wet, shaky, “gurgle—okay!”

But the words weren’t for yourself. They were for her — the girl who had shot you, who was frozen in terror, shaking so hard she could barely breathe.

It shocked everyone how you weren’t angry, just concerned, for everyone else—it also hurt how selfless you were.

The other kids were already sobbing, clinging to one another, wailing in fear.

You swayed, back colliding with the painted wood of the nearest archery board. Before you could slide down, arms caught you — strong, desperate. Percy. His sea-green eyes were wide and shining, panic spilling from him. Annabeth hovered close, hands trembling like she wanted to do something, anything.

“MEDICS! PLEASE!” Grover shouted so loud it was sure his vocal cords would’ve been damaged.

Apollo was already running forward, face pale. Even Mr. D dropped his can, the fizz spilling into the grass, forgotten as his usual sharp tongue vanished. His eyes — dark, frantic — were locked on you.

The Gods themselves looked shaken.

You could feel yourself fading, the world tilting, the kids’ cries cutting sharper than the pain in your throat. Still, your last strength went to them. You lifted your bloodied hand, reaching toward the terrified girl.

“Not… your fault,” you rasped. The words were weak, broken — but she heard. She broke, sobbing so hard she couldn’t even breathe.

The camp had seen battles. It had seen monsters. But nothing had ever made it look this small, this fragile, as the one person who had always been its anchor bled in the dirt before their eyes.