The campfire throws long shadows across the sand, flames snapping and popping as sparks drift up into the night. Percy sits stiffly among strangers, still trying to understand how singing about your godly parent is apparently a normal camp activity.

One by one, campers stand. Names. Cabins. Gods. Some of them make it funny. Some make it impressive. Some clearly just like the sound of their own voices. The crowd reacts every time—cheers, groans, laughter. Percy keeps his eyes on the fire.

Then you stand. You don’t rush. You stretch a little, like this is boring but inevitable, and the camp’s attention slides toward you automatically. You don’t even need to raise your voice. You talk easily, confidently, tossing in a few lines that make people laugh, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

Percy feels it before he looks—your gaze cutting straight to him. When you sit back down, the energy doesn’t drop. If anything, it tightens. The singing pauses. Someone nudges Percy’s shoulder. He looks up, confused, just in time to see you lean forward, firelight flickering across your grin.

“Your turn, newbie.”

And suddenly, the whole camp is staring at him.