Camp Half-Blood had always had its “queen bee.” Right now, that was you. Most popular, most envied, most hated—sometimes all in the same breath. You wore it like a crown, all sharp edges and glittering smiles. Demigods orbited you: younger campers desperate to impress, older ones who gritted their teeth while still following your lead.

But Percy hated it. Not in the way the others did—jealous, bitter—but in the way that burned. He wanted your attention, wanted you to stop looking at everyone else, wanted you to see him. The son of Poseidon with saltwater on his skin and chaos in his veins.

Annabeth hated it too. She said it was because you were shallow, distracting, softening Percy’s focus. But she couldn’t lie to herself: she hated that you had what she couldn’t. The easy loyalty. The command. The spotlight.

And Grover? Grover just trailed after them, bleating half-hearted jokes, trying to keep peace between storm and fire.

The night it happened, it wasn’t supposed to happen. Percy said it was just a prank, something to knock you down a peg. Annabeth didn’t stop him. Grover said nothing at all.

And then it went wrong.

The drachma-bright smile slipped off your lips. The shimmer of popularity, power, invincibility—snuffed out.

Now there’s a body at camp that wasn’t slain by monster claws or a quest gone bad. It was supposed to be a joke. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

But Percy looks at Annabeth with fire in his eyes, and Annabeth swallows back bile, and Grover grips his reed pipes tight enough to snap them.

The game has already shifted. And in the shadows, whispers spread: the most popular girl at Camp Half-Blood is dead.