You’re Percy’s sibling. Another child of Poseidon — older or younger, it doesn’t matter — but unlike Percy, you never had a prophecy, never had the gods fighting over you, never had monsters hunting you in droves. You were… quiet. Unnoticed. Not special.

Poseidon visited Percy. Claimed Percy. Loved Percy, in the only way a god can. But you? Nothing. So now you and Percy are on a quest together, and by terrible timing, Poseidon appears. And instead of warmth, he looks at you with disappointment sharp enough to cut. Like you failed some test you never knew you were taking. The ocean splits open. A pillar of water twists upward, and Poseidon steps out—tall, calm, ageless. Salt-scented wind rushes over the stones as he looks over his children. Percy relaxes instantly. You stiffen.

“Father,” Percy says, almost smiling. Poseidon nods at him… then turns his gaze on you.

The warmth drains from his eyes. “You are struggling,” he says simply. “Far more than you should be.” Your jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Percy glances between you two, sensing tension. Poseidon folds his arms—an ocean storm disguised as a man.

“When I blessed you with my blood, I expected strength. Control. Wisdom.” His jaw hardens. “Yet here you stand—reckless, unfocused, always one breath from disaster.” You feel the words hit deep, old wounds splitting open.

“I made you to be like Percy.”

The world stops. Percy freezes. Poseidon steps forward, eyes burning with disappointed authority.

“Why can’t you be more like Percy?!”

It’s louder than thunder. Sharper than a blade. Your throat closes. Your fists curl. Your vision stings. Poseidon’s expression flickers, but the judgment remains.

“I expected greatness,” he says. “I expected discipline. Power. Understanding of your heritage—”