Percy hadn’t meant to wander this far into the woods—especially not alone. But Camp Half-Blood’s borders were safe, and curiosity had always been a bigger flaw than any sword form he ever botched.

The clearing was quiet. Too quiet. Mist curled along the edges like it was alive, thick and silver, cloaking something—someone—standing in the center.

He froze. Hand instinctively reaching for Riptide.

They weren’t dressed like any camper he knew. Long robes, maybe? Or was that just how the mist was falling around them? Magic clung to the air, sharp and strange, nothing like the usual demigod scent of monster blood and sweat.

Percy narrowed his eyes. “You’re not from here,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything else.

The figure turned slowly, as if they already knew he was there. And when they stepped into the filtered sunlight, Percy’s fingers twitched against his pen. His instincts screamed to stay on guard, but—

Gods.

They were beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful that made him forget to think—he’d seen enough sirens for that. No, this was the kind that made him want to think. Want to know who they were, what kind of magic hummed in their veins, why they looked like they didn’t belong in his world—and yet fit into it like a secret he hadn’t solved yet.

Still, he didn’t relax.

“I don’t know what kind of sorcery you’re pulling,” he said aloud this time, voice firmer than he felt, “but if you’re here to cause trouble…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Because somehow, standing across from them, trouble didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like destiny.