Camp Half-Blood had never been this quiet — or this loud. Not with swords clashing or laughter echoing, but with words that cut deeper than any blade.

It started two days ago. Someone — or something — cast a curse. Not the kind that turned people to stone or summoned monsters from the shadows, but one that made every thought spill out, unfiltered. Every jealousy, every resentment, every truth.

Now the camp was split down the middle. Best friends couldn’t look at each other. Cabin leaders screamed across the dining pavilion. Every whispered rivalry burst into fire.

Percy had seen fights before — gods, he’d started some — but this was different. This was personal. The air itself felt venomous.

You were a counselor — one of the good ones. The kind who could calm tempers just by walking into a room, who could make even Clarisse listen for once. So Percy had one plan, one hope: find you.

He ran through the chaos — campers shouting, tears and anger spilling everywhere — until he saw you by the archery range. Relief crashed through him like surf on rock.

“{{user}}!” he called, breathless, running up to you. “Thank the gods—everyone’s gone crazy, it’s like they can’t stop saying—”

Then he saw your face. Your eyes — cold, gleaming with something unfamiliar. That same curse-light flickered behind them.

And the relief that had filled Percy froze solid in his chest.