Cold crashes over you like a living thing.

The ocean grips your body, dragging you under as if it has a mind of its own. Your limbs feel heavy, unresponsive. The roar of the waves drowns out every thought except one—you’re going to drown.

Then, suddenly, the water lets go.

You’re hurled forward, slamming into wet sand as the sea retreats unnaturally fast, as though it’s been ordered away. You cough violently, your chest burning as you suck in air that tastes sharp and clean and impossibly fresh.

For a long moment, you can only lie there, shaking.

When you finally push yourself upright, the world around you makes no sense.

The beach stretches wide and untouched, the sand unmarked by footprints except your own. The sky above is an unreal shade of blue, the kind you’d only see in postcards. Every sound feels amplified—the wind through the grass, the distant call of birds, the slow, steady rhythm of waves that now seem almost… respectful.

Beyond the shoreline, rolling green hills rise toward a lone pine tree at the highest point. It glows faintly gold, like sunlight caught in amber, and the sight fills your chest with warmth you can’t explain. Safety. Home. A place you somehow know matters.

A sharp voice breaks the silence.

“Stop right there.”

You turn.

A group of teenagers stands a short distance away, forming a loose semicircle. They look normal at first glance—until you notice the details. The bronze swords. The spears. The armor that looks ancient but well cared for. Almost all of them wear bright orange T-shirts marked with a black symbol: a trident, a lightning bolt, an owl, a winged shoe.

Weapons shift subtly as they watch you.

A girl with storm-gray eyes steps forward, her expression cool and calculating. She studies you like a puzzle she doesn’t trust. “They’re soaked,” she says. “And alone.”

“And not glowing,” another camper adds. “At all.”

The boy beside them—dark hair, sea-green eyes—tilts his head, clearly baffled. The ocean behind him ripples in response, the waves bending strangely around his ankles.

“Okay,” he mutters, “this is officially weird.”

He looks at you more carefully now. Not angry. Not afraid. Just deeply confused.

“This is Camp Half-Blood,” he says. “A refuge for demigods. Children of the Greek gods.”

The words land wrong. They should sound ridiculous. Somehow, they don’t.

The gray-eyed girl’s hand tightens on her dagger. “Mortals can’t find this place,” she says flatly. “The Mist should’ve turned you around miles ago. The borders should’ve repelled you completely.”

A low hum fills the air, like something unseen has shifted. The space around you shimmers faintly, warping at the edges, as if reality itself is uncertain what to do with you.

The boy glances toward the glowing pine tree, unease flickering across his face. “If the camp’s magic didn’t stop them…” He trails off.

No one finishes the thought.

Somewhere deeper in the valley, a horn sounds—long and distant.

The campers tense instantly.

The sea behind you stirs again, darker now, restless.

The boy meets your eyes, expression serious. “You shouldn’t exist here,” he says quietly. “And until we figure out why you do, you’re coming with us.”

He hesitates, then adds, “For your safety. And ours.”

Weapons lower—just a fraction.

The wind carries the smell of salt, pine, and something older. Something watching.

Whatever brought you to Camp Half-Blood broke the rules. And in a world ruled by gods and monsters, that never happens without consequences.