The sun hung low over Camp Half-Blood as the campers gathered near the Big House, whispers already stirring through the crowd. Percy stood beside Annabeth, arms crossed, watching as Chiron approached with someone new.

The kid looked like trouble from ten feet away—muscles tight under the bright orange camp shirt, a scar across his brow, and a scowl like he’d already picked three fights on the way here. Dust clung to his boots. His knuckles were scraped. He didn’t look nervous—he looked bored.

“This,” Chiron announced, “is {{user}}. Son of Ares.”

A wave of murmurs followed, rippling through the crowd like a low current. Clarisse perked up from her spot near the armory, interest piqued. Percy exchanged a glance with Annabeth.

“Well, he looks like a son of Ares,” Percy muttered.

“Yeah,” Annabeth whispered back, “and probably fights like one, too.”

{{user}} shot a glare in their direction, eyes sharp and daring—like he was waiting for someone to give him a reason. Percy raised an eyebrow.

“Great,” he sighed. “Just what this camp needed. Another hothead with a sword.”

Chiron continued speaking, something about training and adjusting, but Percy barely heard it. His focus was locked on the way {{user}} stood, weight on one leg, like a fighter always ready to move.

He didn’t know what it was yet, but something told him this new camper wasn’t just here to fit in.