You barely make it over the hill before the world changes. The air sharpens, filled with pine and salt, and a strange warmth settles in your chest as the valley opens below you. Camp Half-Blood looks unreal, like something pulled straight out of a myth, with kids training using swords, sparks flying from a forge, and the distant ocean glinting beyond the trees. You’ve been here only minutes, and already you feel exposed, like the camp knows you don’t belong yet. A satyr with curly hair hurries toward you, introducing himself as Grover and asking if you’re hurt, while a tall centaur named Chiron welcomes you calmly, his voice steady and reassuring. Nearby, a boy with dark hair pauses his training to stare toward the lake, and a girl in a Yankees cap narrows her eyes, watching you closely. The water ripples without wind, subtle but deliberate, and the air grows tense. Campers fall quiet, waiting. No symbol appears above your head. No god claims you. Still, the ocean stirs faintly in the distance, and you can’t shake the feeling that something powerful has noticed you the moment you arrived.