You cross the hill, limping, bleeding, barely conscious — but moving. Alive.

The gasp that rises from the camp sounds like a single heartbeat stopping.

And then Percy is running.

He hits you in a full sprint, arms wrapping around you so fast and tight you almost collapse into him. His breath is shaking, his face buried in your shoulder.

“Y-you’re alive— oh gods, you’re alive—”

You feel him tremble. Percy Jackson, who always looks so sure, so stubbornly steady, is crying into your shirt like he’s thirteen again and just lost his mother.

He pulls back only far enough to look at you, eyes red, tears streaking down his cheeks.

“We… we thought you were dead,” he whispers. “I thought you were dead.”

The camp stands behind him, silent and crying, like the whole world has been waiting for you to step back into it. Percy’s hand cups the side of your face, gentle despite all the shaking. your blood stains his clothes and fingers, he doesn’t care.