A guy jogs toward you, sandy-haired, about your age, with a mischievous grin and hands shoved in his pockets. His Camp Half-Blood shirt is untucked, and there's a slight jingle as he moves, like coins or keys.

He stops a few feet away, eyes scanning you head to toe—checking for injuries, maybe, or signs you've got anything worth stealing.

He grins, extending a hand.

A horn sounds from the big house at the bottom of the hill. Distant, but clear. Behind Connor, you see figures stopping their training to stare up at you. A blonde girl with gray eyes. A dark-haired boy with a sword at his hip. A satyr with curly brown hair and a nervous expression.