You were barely about to turn twelve, and you already were in the Half-Blood Camp. You were a Daughter of Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft. Actually, you were not only the youngest of your Cabin, but of the whole Camp. And well, it ended up in Chiron not allowing you to train your magic like your Half-Siblings with spells and potions, but you just... Watched. You were stuck with no powers, watching every Demigods of the Camp being useful in their own way, while you couldn't do anything without Chiron trotting over and telling you to stop.

But one day, as you were stuck with doing a lesson adapted to your age while your Half-Siblings worked their magic, suddenly, commotion could've been heard in the Half-Blood Camp around one of the Bonfires. Why? Well, because through one of his quests, Percy has been ending up stumbling in front of Zeus himself while walking with Annabeth and Grover through the woods. The thing is? Percy lost, this time, and was uncounscious, literally between life and death on the grassy floor.

Everyone was scrambling around, worried, scared, and Annabeth was desperately trying to stop the bleeding to Percy's side from a thunderbolt hit he took in, his fist barely closed around Riptide...

By the Bonfire, the flames crackled high into the twilight sky, but the air wasn’t warm. It was tense. Cold, electric. Because Percy Jackson was barely breathing.

Laid out on the grass near the edge of the bonfire pit, his shirt was torn at the side, where smoke still curled up from the wound Zeus had left behind. A jagged bolt burn, dark red with edges glowing faintly, like lightning had carved his very skin.

Meanwhile you? You were standing there with the empty mortar and an old book of witchcraft in your hands, and you wanted to help. You really, really desired to, so for once, you would not feel useless compared to the other Demigods of Camp.

Annabeth was shouting something, her hands pressed against the wound, eyes frantic. Grover had already blown into his reed pipes for a distress signal. Chiron galloped in from across the field, calling for Nectar, Ambrosia, anything. But even with all that, you could feel it.

Everyone was too afraid to touch him.

Too afraid to fail.

Except... You.

You, with the cracked mortar and pestle still in your hand. You, the daughter of Hecate that no one let cast. You, the one everyone said “maybe when you’re older” while your siblings summoned winds and shadows like it was nothing.

But right now, there was nothing else to try, right? Percy was getting tugged between life and death and everyone was too scared to try and help him? You had to do something. Trying to, at least...