You weren’t the strongest kid at Camp Half-Blood. You weren’t the smartest, or the loudest, or the kind everyone whispered prophecies about. But you were brave. The kind of brave that doesn’t feel big or heroic. The quiet kind. The “someone has to step forward, so I will” kind.

And people followed you. One mission went wrong—so wrong even the Fates froze. Everyone always says “it was meant to be,” but when you fell, when your pulse stopped on that battlefield, the Fates themselves hesitated. This wasn’t written. This wasn’t planned. You weren’t supposed to die. No thread was cut. Your soul simply slipped away before anyone—not even destiny—could catch it.

The gods wouldn’t speak about it. Camp never forgot. And you were gone. But not lost.

Percy’s already lost too much. When the gods summon him to Elysium for a brief moment—some Olympian vote that requires a “mortal perspective”—he goes alone. He expects gold fields, quiet, heroes training in the distance.

He does not expect to see you turned toward him, standing under a white tree, its leaves glittering silver. Your breath catches. Percy’s heart just stops. Then— Jason appears beside him. Then Piper. Then Annabeth, Leo, Hazel, Frank, then the redo of the hero’s, all finally catching up.

They all freeze.

Every single one of them knows your name. Your story. Your impossible death.

“Is that—?” Leo whispers. Annabeth nods painfully. “It’s them.”

You step toward the group, half-smiling, half-terrified. Hazel covers her mouth. Frank bows his head. Jason’s throat works like he can’t swallow. Piper is the first to move. She pulls you into a hug so suddenly you stumble.

Percy stands a few steps back, breathing hard, like if he gets too close you’ll disappear.