Morning at Camp Half-Blood never started quietly. The sun had barely climbed over the hill when cabin doors were already slamming open, sleepy demigods stumbling outside with tangled hair and swords half-falling from their belts.

Some campers dragged themselves toward breakfast still wrapped in blankets. Others had apparently decided sleep was optional and were already sparring in the arena before sunrise.

The smell of pancakes and strawberries drifted across camp from the dining pavilion. A child of Hermes sprinted past carrying six pieces of toast they definitely hadn’t paid for while another camper chased after them yelling threats that sounded increasingly less serious the longer breakfast continued.

At the Apollo table, a few campers were already awake enough to sing loudly and terribly while someone else banged a spoon against a goblet for rhythm.

A few unlucky first-years got immediately knocked flat during sparring lessons while older campers laughed and offered completely unhelpful advice.

Near the canoe lake, campers shoved each other into the water between races while naiads shouted insults from the shoreline.

At the Big House porch, Chiron watched the chaos with the patience of someone who had seen camp survive far worse. Meanwhile Mr. D looked deeply disappointed to be awake at all.

The infirmary stayed busy as always. Children of Apollo patched up sword cuts, sprained wrists, broken fingers, arrow accidents, and at least one camper who had somehow injured themselves trying to ride a pegasus backwards. Someone was always limping in dramatically insisting they were dying. Most of the time they were fine. Usually.