You were Camp Half-Blood’s worst kid. Not loudest. Not strongest. Worst. The kind of worst that turned into a story people told around the campfire.

You’d had nicknames. Most of them weren’t flattering. Stormstarter. Cabin Curse. That One. Horrid {{user}}

Even the gods paused when your name came up. Not because you were evil. Because you were unpredictable. Things exploded when you were nearby. Fights started. Pranks escalated. Harpies screeched louder. Weapons racks mysteriously collapsed.

And the thing was? Half the time it wasn’t even you. But it didn’t matter. If a window shattered? Your fault. If a camper cried? Your fault. If a sword went missing? Obviously your fault. You’d stopped defending yourself years ago.

It was easier to just shrug and take the blame. If everyone already thought you were the villain, you might as well lean into it. So you did. Smirked when accused. Rolled your eyes when Chiron sighed. Took punishments without flinching. Let them think they knew you.

Today, someone’s shield had been set on fire. Not a little burn. Fully, spectacularly, blazing. And before the smoke even cleared— “Where are they?”

You hadn’t even been near the arena. You’d been at the lake skipping rocks. But that didn’t matter. By the time you reached the Big House steps, half of camp was staring at you like you’d personally challenged Zeus to a duel.

You stood there, hands in your pockets, bored expression perfectly in place. Chiron’s gaze was steady.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

You shrugged. A few campers muttered. Someone scoffed. You didn’t defend yourself. Didn’t point out you smelled like lake water, not smoke. Didn’t mention you’d been alone. Didn’t bother. Because it didn’t matter. You were the worst kid at camp. That was the role. And everyone liked their roles simple.

Gods feared your name, apparently. Campers flinched when you walked by.