The celebration was loud enough to shake Olympus. Tables groaned under ambrosia platters, gods and demigods alike lifting goblets, voices raised in laughter and song. The war was over. The prophecy fulfilled.

And at the center of it all—Percy.

He stood beside Annabeth, basking under the gleam of divine attention as Zeus himself toasted his name. Apollo strummed a lyre in his honor. Dionysus even cracked a half-hearted smile. The crowd cheered louder with each retelling of his feats: how Percy held the sky, how Percy had braved Tartarus, how Percy had sacrificed everything.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, half-shadowed by a marble column, the golden light catching only the tired lines on your face. No one noticed you there. Not when all eyes were on your brother.

But you remembered.

It hadn’t been Percy’s shoulders breaking beneath the crushing weight of the sky—it had been yours. He hadn’t been the one who bled in Tartarus for what felt like centuries, forcing one foot in front of the other through the choking dark—you had. You had been the one to hold the line, to bear the pain, to step forward when silence was demanded.

And when the war ended, when you stumbled back from the battlefield with blood crusting your hands, the only words you’d heard were: ”Did you see what Percy did?”

Now, across the hall, Percy caught your gaze. He grinned—easy, bright, unknowing. With a laugh, he mimed a mocking bow, as if to say, look at me, little sibling, hero of Olympus. The crowd roared around him, drowning out everything else.

Your lips stayed sealed.

The cheers washed over you, warm and hollow. You did not step forward. You did not speak. You simply stood there, still and silent, as your brother’s name was carved deeper into the story—while your sacrifices, your scars, slipped further into the cracks of history.

Unseen.

UnPraised.

Forgotten.