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 Grover a chaotic, too-fast tour. Grover tried to pretend he wasn’t nervous, but his hooves kept clicking on the dirt.

Hermes gestured around camp. “Strawberries, cabins, chaos—standard stuff. But if you’re ever lost, or scared, or feeling like the whole world’s about to tip—”

Then— Hermes’ whole expression softened — uncharacteristically slow, quiet, almost respectful. He pointed at you, sitting under a tree, wind brushing the leaves around you in a circle.

“Go to them,” Hermes said softly. “Some folks are born knowing which way the wind means to blow.”

Grover didn’t understand yet. But he would.