You and Percy were never close. Barely acquaintances. You knew his name, his reputation, the way Chiron seemed to watch him like he was waiting for something. So maybe that’s why it hits so stupidly hard that he gets the attention, the prophecy, the admiration, the story.

You’ve been fighting monsters longer. Training harder. Bleeding more quietly. People barely notice when you drag yourself out of the infirmary, but they cheer when Percy walks into the dining pavilion with a new scar.

He doesn’t mean to steal the spotlight — that’s the worst part. He’s not smug. Not cruel. He’s just… Percy. And everyone loves him.

You’re standing by the armory when you overhear someone breathlessly say: “Percy Jackson is the most promising hero we’ve had in years.”

Something inside you twists. You stare down at your own hands, at the scars no one even remembers giving you.

Why couldn’t it have been me? Why does nobody look at me like that?

Percy walks past you without noticing — smiling, happy, adored. You turn away before the jealousy shows on your face.