Voices. Raised, excited. Not the usual sounds of camp waking up.

You push yourself up from the crumpled sheets. Your legs feel heavy, your joints stiff from another restless night.

Through the grimy glass, you see them. A knot of campers by the boundary line, blocking the tree line. Some are pointing. A few are crying.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. That feeling—the one you've trained yourself to ignore—surges forward, insistent.

You're moving before you decide to. Bare feet on cold floorboards. The door swings open.

The grass is damp under your soles as you run. The crowd parts, campers turning, their faces a blur of shock and pity and something else. Something you haven't seen in eight months.

And then the path clears.

She's standing there. Tanned. Bruised. Her armor is dented, her dark hair caked with dirt. But her eyes—those storm-gray eyes—are locked on you.