You awaken on the cold, damp sand at the edge of the camp, your body aching as if it’s been dragged through broken glass. The world is a blur of gray and pain—your head throbs, your limbs feel heavy and unresponsive, and your mouth tastes of blood and salt.

You try to move, but a wave of dizziness crashes over you, forcing you back onto the ground. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the sand, and the air smells of pine, salt, and something metallic—blood.

Around you, the silence is thick, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the low murmur of voices. You blink, trying to focus. A line of campers stands just beyond the border, their faces set in grim determination.

On the left, a group of Apollo campers holds their bows taut, arrows nocked and ready, though their fingers tremble slightly—cautious, not aggressive. On the right, a few Ares campers grip their swords tightly, knuckles white, their eyes scanning the perimeter with the sharp vigilance of warriors who’ve seen too much.

Clarisse La Rue steps forward, her jaw clenched, her voice tight with controlled fury. “They’re hurt… stay alert.” She doesn’t move her gaze from you, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, but there’s a flicker of hesitation—she knows you’re not a threat, not anymore.

Chiron, the centaur, steps into view, his posture calm but authoritative. “Hold...” He commands, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “No one moves unless I say. Ambrosia and nectar… slowly.” He gestures to a small satchel at his side, and one of the Apollo healers nods, carefully retrieving a vial of golden liquid.

Annabeth Chase crouches beside you, her dark eyes scanning your injuries with clinical precision. Her fingers gently probe your temple, then move down to your ribs, where a deep gash leaks blood onto the sand. “They crossed the border injured,” She mutters, almost to herself. “That’s… significant.” She looks up, her gaze meeting yours—sharp, calculating, yet tinged with concern. “You didn’t just stumble here. You were pushed.”

Will Solace, the son of Apollo, kneels beside her, his face pale. “They’re bleeding badly.” He says, his voice steady but urgent. “We need to get them inside before the wound worsens. Even a minor cut could turn septic in the wild.” He reaches for a small leather pouch, pulling out a vial of healing mist.

Nico Di Angelo stands apart, his shadowy form blending with the trees. He watches everything, silent and watchful, his hands clenched at his sides. “Stay back...” He murmurs, more to the campers than to you. “Don’t provoke them. We don’t know what they’re capable of—what they’ve seen.” His voice is low, almost a whisper, but it carries weight.

Mr. D—Dionysus, the god of wine—leans against a tree, his face a mask of weary exasperation. “Great...” He drawls, rolling his eyes. “Another mess to babysit. Can’t we just let the monsters eat them and be done with it?”

Percy Jackson steps forward, his expression softening as he sees your fear. He moves slowly, deliberately, like one might approach a wounded animal. “You’re at Camp Half-Blood...” He says, his voice calm and reassuring. “You’re safe now. Just stay still. We’ll help.” He crouches beside you, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “I’m Percy. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

The campers hold their breath. The sun dips below the treeline, casting long shadows across the sand. And in that moment, you realize—you’re not alone. Not anymore.