You were stood at the archery range in Camp Half-Blood—sun gleaming down on you, beating on your skin. But your father’s sun was being kind to you for once. Your arm tightened back as you drew the string, taut—sure to aim true. You could practice out here for hours—and still, it would be without flaw.

Still, one of the many son’s of Hermes was determined to distract you. Luke Castellan. He stood next to you, arms crossed as he watched one of your eyes closed to focus. He huffed.