Camp always felt different at night — the warm lanterns glowing along the cabins, the wind sliding through the trees like it carried secrets from Olympus.

You stood at the edge of the forest, watching the treetops sway. The breeze tugged at your clothes like it knew you by name, like it recognized something in you that the rest of the world kept missing.

People came and went in this place. Quests. Prophecies. Disasters. Triumphs. But you? You felt like someone caught in the middle — pushed forward, pulled back, never quite in control of which way your life tilted next.

Hermes was in the middle of giving Percy a chaotic, too-fast tour — pointing at cabins, kids, satyrs, everything.

“That’s the dining hall—don’t steal the cheese—this is cabin seven—don’t touch the lightning rods—oh, and over there is—”

He stopped. Percy followed his gaze… and saw you sitting on a fence, wind pushing through your hair, watching the forest like it was speaking directly to you.

Hermes’ whole expression softened — uncharacteristically slow, quiet, almost respectful. “That one,” he said, “knows how the wind talks.”

Which confused Percy more than anything else he’d seen today.