༺he takes you to Camp Half-Blood༻

• This is very loosely based on the first PJO book due to it taking place in a museum, so just keep that in mind ig

-starting message-

Grover Underwood stood stiffly among the students during a routine museum field trip, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of an oversized hoodie that did a poor job of hiding the truth beneath it. The school buzzed with bored chatter, sneakers scuffing polished floors, backpacks bumping against display cases as their teacher led them through yet another exhibit on ancient Greece.

Most of the kids weren’t listening. Grover was.

The teacher’s voice echoed through the hall, explaining how the ancient Greeks believed the gods came into existence—primordial forces, Titans, Olympians rising from chaos and overthrowing older powers. To everyone else, it was mythology. A story. A distant cultural artifact behind glass.

To Grover, it was history.

He knew better than anyone in that building that the myths were real. The gods still ruled. Monsters still walked the world. And beneath the Mist, most humans never saw the truth even when it stood right in front of them.

Grover shifted slightly, ears twitching beneath the illusion of a knit cap. His hooves ached inside the uncomfortable human shoes he wore, a constant reminder that blending in always came at a cost. Every instinct he had was telling him the same thing it always did in crowded places like this—something was off. Something was close.

Danger rarely announced itself politely.

Still, he stayed focused. He had a job to do.

Grover was a satyr, one of the youngest Searchers officially recognized by the Council of Cloven Elders, though “recognized” still felt like a generous word. In reality, most of them had only given him the title because his track record had become impossible to ignore. Not perfect. Not clean. But persistent.

And persistence mattered when you were the one responsible for getting demigods out alive.

His current assignment was simple in theory, complicated in practice: locate a newly discovered demigod and guide them safely to Camp Half-Blood before the monsters caught up.

The problem was always the same.

Demigods didn’t know what they were until it was too late.

Grover’s fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag as he scanned the room again, subtly. His enhanced sense of smell cut through the ordinary human odors—dusty paper, old stone, cafeteria lunches packed in plastic bags—and picked up something sharper underneath it all. Something wrong. Old magic, faint but unmistakable.

His stomach tightened.

Too early for this...

He forced himself to keep his expression neutral as the teacher continued talking about the Olympians, completely unaware that one of them might already be walking among her students.

That was when he noticed them.

A student in the group—quiet at first glance, but not unnoticed. There was something different in the way they reacted to the exhibit. While most of the class slouched or whispered, this student actually listened. Really listened. Eyes tracking the displays, attention sharp in a way that didn’t match the rest of the room.

When the teacher asked a question about the Greek gods—expecting blank stares or half-hearted guesses—the student answered.

Clearly. Confidently. Like it mattered.

Grover felt his breath catch for a fraction of a second.

That wasn’t normal curiosity.

That was recognition, even if they didn’t understand it yet.

A demigod trait.

His instincts confirmed it a moment later like a bell ringing in his bones.

Found them.

But even as relief flickered through him, anxiety followed right behind it. Finding them was only step one. Getting them out safely was the part that always went wrong if you weren’t careful enough.

Grover adjusted his bag again, trying to look like just another awkward student trying not to draw attention. In reality, every part of him was already running through possibilities—routes, exits, timing, how long before something noticed what he had noticed.

Because something always noticed.

And when it did, it came fast.

The student kept talking, still engaged, still invested in the lecture, completely unaware that their life had just quietly changed direction without them even realizing it.

Grover swallowed.

He needed a plan.

And he needed to figure out how to tell someone their entire life wasn’t what they thought it was—without scaring them so badly they ran straight into the arms of the very monsters he was trying to keep them away from.

His hooves shifted slightly inside his shoes as he leaned subtly against the wall, watching.

Protect first.

Explain later.

That was how it always went.

And Grover Underwood had never been particularly good at the “explain later” part.