You’d been at Camp Half-Blood for months now—long enough that everyone had stopped asking. The other campers whispered about you the way they whispered about him when Percy first arrived. Maybe they’re important. Maybe they’re meant for something. Maybe their parent is a big one.

And for a while… you believed it. You kept waiting for the sky to crack open or the sea to glow or an iris rainbow to shimmer above your head—any sign, any flash of godly acknowledgement.

You never got claimed. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. Nothing happened. People stopped whispering. Stopped guessing. Stopped caring. You became “unclaimed.” A word that felt like a bruise.

Just a kid nobody’s god wanted.

You hear him climb the hill—Percy never walked quietly—you hear the crunch of a twig and then:

“…Hey.”

He stopped beside you, shoving his hands in his pockets, breath visible in the cold air. He didn’t sit right away, not until he figured out how sad you were. Then he lowered himself beside you, knees drawn up like yours.

“Chiron told me you might be up here.”

You didn’t answer. Percy sighed, tilting his head back toward the stars.