You were a story at Camp Half-Blood. Not a rumor—those faded. Not a myth—those felt distant. You were something better than that. Familiar. Beloved.

Everyone knew your name. Everyone had a version of you they told when you weren’t there—how you fought, how you laughed, how you once did something incredible that somehow got better every time it was retold. When you visited, people lingered too long, asked too many questions, begged for signatures carved into notebook paper and weapon hilts.

And then you’d leave again. Just like that. Percy arrived three days before you were due back. Three days of barely sleeping. Of learning his mother wasn’t crazy. Of monsters and swords and gods and a camp that felt too loud and too old all at once. Luke’s easy smile. Annabeth’s sharp eyes. Grover hovering like Percy might disappear if he blinked.

By the fourth morning, Percy woke up and knew something was wrong. The Hermes cabin was empty. Not quiet—empty. Beds made. Footlockers shut. No arguing. No snoring. No stolen socks.

He frowned, heart kicking up, and stepped outside. The moment his foot hit the dirt, he was knocked sideways. Campers rushed past him in a blur—laughing, shouting, running like the world was on fire. Percy staggered, barely keeping his balance as another shoulder clipped him.

“What—?” he started, but no one stopped. He turned in a slow circle, dazed. Then he saw where they were all going. Up the hill. Thalia’s pine stood tall against the sky, the morning light catching on bronze and gold and eager faces gathered below. And walking up the slope—unhurried, like you had all the time in the world—

Was you. Percy’s breath caught. He didn’t know your name yet. Didn’t know why his chest felt tight or why everyone around him looked like they were witnessing something sacred. He only knew one thing, with absolute certainty.

Oh. That’s who they’ve been talking about.