Percy Jackson stood near the Big House, arms crossed, watching as Chiron stepped out onto the porch. The centaur’s eyes were calm, but Percy could read the tension behind them. A few campers gathered nearby, whispering. Annabeth lingered beside him, silent. Her shoulder was bandaged, and her eyes flicked toward the archway of the forest.

From the shadows emerged the last one.

The last demigod of Kronos’s army.

They were bruised, bloodied, but not broken. A dozen pairs of eyes followed their slow walk toward the campfire circle, where the trial would be held. They didn’t wear the black armor of their fallen comrades anymore—just a tattered shirt, burnt at the sleeves, and a face that looked like it had seen too much.

Percy’s grip on Riptide tightened in his pocket.

“I don’t get it,” Clarisse muttered from behind. “Why even let them step foot in camp?”

“Because we’re not Kronos,” Percy said, his voice low. “They surrendered. They deserve a chance.”

The demigod stepped into the circle.

Chiron’s voice rang out.

“You stand accused of siding with the enemy during the war against Olympus. But you also stand alive, while others chose destruction.”

Percy met their eyes across the fire.

This was going to be a trial—but it might become something else entirely.