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.

He wasn’t graceful climbing the hill. You knew it was him from the frantic, uneven footsteps alone.

“{{user}}—wait—just—hold on—these mortal legs—give me a moment—” Lester collapsed beside you with a wheeze, clutching his knee dramatically. “I may have aged five years from walking up here. You owe me.”

You didn’t smile. And that was when he realized this wasn’t one of your usual late-night wanderings. His expression softened in a way most people never saw from him.

“Oh,” he whispered. “…Stars. You’re hurting.” Lester sat beside you, pulling his legs in like a quiet kid instead of a former god.