It was already dawn over Camp Half-Blood. Although it was usually a symphony of chirping birds and the distant clang of sword practice, this morning felt muted. A heavy, unnatural stillness hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the seismic shift that had occurred within their walls, and more profoundly, within Percy Jackson. Once the vibrant heart of the camp, now moved with the cold, measured precision of a tide governed by a moon of ice. His decision to spare Cyrus, not out of mercy but out of a chilling, tactical redirection of his rage, had sent tremors through the demigod community.

Nico, having spent a restless night wrestling with Hades's cryptic favor and Percy's terrifying transformation, found himself drawn to the beach. The waves lapped at the shore with a whisper that felt like a lament. He watched Percy, already there, standing at the water's edge. Percy wasn't swimming, wasn't conjuring storms, or even just staring out at the familiar expanse of his father's domain. He was simply there, a sentinel of grief, the ocean around him responding with an almost imperceptible, yet profoundly unsettling, quietude. The very water seemed to hold its breath around him, a mirror to the tightly coiled fury just beneath his skin.

The news of Annabeth's death had spread like wildfire through the cabins. Shock had given way to a profound, collective sorrow, but beneath it, an uncomfortable question simmered: What would this do to Percy? The rest of the campers had never seen him so utterly devoid of the warmth that had always been his defining characteristic.

Meanwhile, in the Poseidon cabin, an unwelcome guest stirred restless. Corina, still reeling from the events in Pensacola and Chiron's revelation about Pan's lingering essence, sat huddled on a bunk that had once belonged to a hero she barely knew. The air in the cabin felt sterile, a canvas wiped clean. Cyrus, still bound and under a powerful demigod guard, remained in the Big House, a captive whose madness, they now understood.

Chiron, too, felt the shift. He stood on the porch of the Big House, watching the camp, his ancient eyes troubled. A shard of Pan's wildness. It was a terrifying thought. The benevolent god of the wild had faded, but his untamed, chaotic essence—a primal force of nature unbound by reason or compassion—had somehow persisted, and now, infecting. Kymopoleia, a goddess of storms, was already volatile, but this...this meant trouble. And Cyrus, a demigod, had been influenced by it directly. The implications for the world, already recovering from two major wars, were staggering. The question wasn't just how to contain Cyrus, but how to stop madness from fully reawakening and consuming everything. The sky above Camp Half-Blood, despite the rising sun, felt heavier than usual, laden with the weight of an approaching, unseen storm.

Chiron was about to turn back inside when a groan echoed from behind him, followed by the distinct clink of a Diet Coke can hitting the porch railing. "Honestly, Centaur," Dionysus drawled, materializing beside him, his Hawaiian shirt rumpled, his eyes bleary with what seemed like a perpetual hangover. "Must your little disaster zone be quite so...loud? It's disturbing my afternoon nap!" he waved a dismissive hand towards the beach where Percy stood "That Peter Johnson," Mr. D said, shaking his head. "He's radiating enough misery to curdle milk. And that...thing you've got locked up in there? It's making my vines itch. Pan was always a bit of a nuisance you know? But this...this feels like a really bad hangover. Without the fun part." He paused, took a long swig of his soda, and then added, almost too casually, "Be careful, Chiron. Wildness, when it breaks free, cares for nothing. Not even the strongest anchors." He then vanished as abruptly as he appeared, leaving behind only the faintest scent of grapes.

Chiron frowned, considering Dionysus's rare, uncharacteristic advice. The Wine God's insight, when provided, was usually disturbingly accurate.