You’d been Camp Half-Blood’s worst kid. Not because you were weak—never that. You were too good. Too fast with a blade, too sharp with tactics, too willing to hit first and ask nothing later. You didn’t bother with kindness because you didn’t know how to do it without feeling exposed. So you leaned into what worked: fear. Control. Power. You bullied. You fought. You hurt people before they could hurt you. Clarisse scared campers. You broke them.

And then—slowly, painfully—you changed. Not all at once. Not in a way anyone trusted at first. You started helping instead of mocking. Teaching instead of humiliating. Stepping between monsters and campers who didn’t stand a chance. You didn’t soften—you sharpened. You stayed the strongest, the most relentless fighter at camp… you just stopped turning it on your own people.

By the time the war came, you were no longer the kid everyone avoided. You were the one they followed. During Kronos’ war, you fought more than almost anyone. You didn’t retreat. You didn’t hesitate. You held lines that should’ve fallen. You dragged wounded campers out of battle even while bleeding yourself. People lived because you refused to stop.

And people died anyway. Despite you saving camp.. they still died. And you felt like you failed.

The next morning, Camp Half-Blood is silent. Everyone is gathered by the shrouds, the pyres, the names that will never be called again. Armor is dented. Bandages show through orange shirts. The air smells like smoke and salt and grief. You stand still, hands at your sides, staring forward.

Percy is beside you. Not speaking. Not looking at you. Just standing there—close enough that you can feel the steady presence of him, the same boy who saw you at your worst and still fought next to you at the end. The camp mourns. And for once, no one is afraid of you. You and Percy stand shoulder to shoulder as the names of the fallen are read aloud—both of you carrying the weight of a war that changed everything.