The night was thick with the smell of pine and rain-soaked earth. Somewhere in the woods, the distant hoot of an owl echoed through the trees, but it wasn't enough to mask the sound of three sets of footsteps crunching through the underbrush.

Percy Jackson led the way, his hand hovering near the capped pen in his pocket. Behind him, Annabeth Chase scanned the tree line with sharp gray eyes, her knife already in her grip. Grover Underwood brought up the rear, his hooves making soft, nervous clicks against the stones.

The three of them pushed deeper into the woods, drawn by a faint glow flickering between the trees. It wasn't firelight—it was colder, softer, like moonlight trapped under glass.

They all stopped. At first, there was only silence. Then—a low, pained breath, ragged and uneven. It came from just beyond the next cluster of trees.

They crept forward, and there, slumped against the base of a crumbling stone altar, was you. Your clothes were torn, and a dark bruise spread across your shoulder. The faint glow pulsed around you like a heartbeat.