Oceana Jackson had always been Percy’s twin—never just Oceana. That’s how it felt, anyway. The moment people found out you were the other child of Poseidon, they’d smile politely, ask about Percy, and move on. You weren’t the chosen one. You weren’t the kid with the prophecies and the gods’ attention. You were just… there.

Sally loved you, yes, but not like she loved Percy. He was her little boy, her miracle. She still made him blue pancakes, fussed over him when he got a paper cut, hugged him a little longer. You never doubted she cared, but it wasn’t the same. It never felt the same.

You tried—gods, you tried. You got perfect grades. You kept your head down. You made sure to be the good twin, the one who didn’t cause trouble. You reached out to your godly father when Percy wouldn’t. Left seashells and pearls as offerings at the shoreline. Whispered prayers into the waves. Even when the sea was silent, you still hoped.

Then came the quest for Zeus’s lightning bolt. Percy came back victorious, his name on everyone’s lips. He was the hero. You were just the sister in the background.

One afternoon at camp, you found him at the shoreline. He was going into the sea again, probably to clear his head. You followed quietly, maybe to stand in the water yourself, maybe just to pretend for a few minutes that Poseidon might notice you.

You told yourself it wouldn’t happen. No way. He didn’t show for you; why would he show for Percy?

But then the water stirred.

A figure rose from the waves, tall and regal, eyes like storms. Poseidon.

You froze.

He smiled—not at you. At Percy. “My son,” he said warmly. “You did well. I am proud to call you mine. You’re one of my favorites, you know that?”

Your chest tightened. Your nails bit into your palms. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but the words slipped out anyway. “What about me?”

Poseidon turned to you, brows furrowed. His eyes—your eyes—were blank. “Who are you?”

The world tilted. It wasn’t teasing. He meant it. He didn’t even know your name.

You didn’t remember walking away, only the rush of salt air and the burn in your chest as you left the shoreline. By nightfall, you were at the edge of the woods, away from the campfires and laughter. Away from them.

It was in that quiet darkness that you first felt them.

A cool shadow curled around you, warm in its own strange way. The stars seemed to blink slower. A voice like the velvet night spoke your name—not the name the camp used, not your family name, but the true one buried in your soul.

Nyx, the primordial night, emerged from the dark. And with her, Erebus, the deep shadow between worlds. They didn’t just see you—they knew you. Every wound, every crack, every lonely moment.

You fell to your knees. “No one wants me,” you whispered.

Nyx knelt and lifted your chin with a touch that felt like moonlight. “Fools,” she murmured. “They do not see the treasure they’ve discarded.” Erebus’s shadowy form wrapped around you protectively, as if daring the world to harm you again.

From that night, you prayed to them instead of the sea. You left black candles and star-shaped stones as offerings. In return, Nyx and Erebus gave you a necklace, its pendant swirling with both midnight and shadow. Wear it, they told you, and we will come.

They spoiled you endlessly—not with empty gifts, but with presence. They sat beside you when you cried, whispered encouragement before you slept, draped you in soft starlit cloaks. Their children and grandchildren treated you like one of their own. With them, you were never the “other twin.” You were theirs.

Nyx often told you she despised the Olympians for how they used their children—tools, weapons, pawns in games older than mortals could imagine. And you couldn’t help but agree. With her and Erebus, you weren’t a pawn. You were cherished.

And perhaps, though you wouldn’t say it out loud, you were beginning to feel something more than devotion for them. The way they looked at you, touched your hand, whispered your name—it was more than divine favor. It was love.

And for the first time, it