Ages ago, you left Camp Half-Blood. You didn’t raise a banner. You didn’t poison the borders or hand secrets to the enemy. You just… walked away. And somehow, that was worse.

The argument with Chiron had been loud, raw, ugly—shouting that echoed through the Big House, words you wished you could swallow back the moment they left your mouth. You’d lashed out, desperate and hurt and furious at a world that kept asking things of you without ever listening. You struck him once—not hard, not enough to truly hurt him—but enough that people remembered it.

That was the part they clung to. By morning, the story had already grown teeth. You’d left. You’d fought Chiron. You must have gone to Kronos. Traitors always did.

You didn’t correct them. You couldn’t. Instead, you ran. SPQR—Camp Jupiter—had taken you in with clipped discipline and cool suspicion. You wore the purple. You followed the rules. You tried to belong. But it never fit. The air was wrong. The loyalty felt conditional. You were a ghost there too, just in different colors.

So you escaped again. And this time, Percy found you. Not with a sword drawn. Not with anger burning in his eyes. The moment he saw you—thin, exhausted, desperate—he broke. He crossed the distance in three steps and grabbed you like you might disappear again, his grip shaking as he cried into your shoulder.

Something was wrong—really wrong. Olympus was faltering. Camp Jupiter was cracking under pressure, gods silent, signs twisted and wrong. You were heading for Olympus because you didn’t know where else to go.

But you couldn’t do it alone. “You need Chiron,” Percy said gently, like he already knew the answer would hurt. “We both do.”

You didn’t want to see him. Not after the way you’d left. Not after the shouting, the strike, the door you’d slammed so hard it rattled the Big House windows. You were ready for disappointment. For cold disappointment, maybe forgiveness at best.