You’d think that by the time you made it to Camp Half-Blood, someone, anyone, would give you a manual. Or at least a friendly "Hi, welcome to the possible death trap, avoid Clarisse and don’t drink the blue Gatorade.".

Nope.

Instead, you got a Satyr who dropped you off at the edge of the woods with nothing but a duffel bag, a weird burning sensation in your arm, and the most disturbing dreams of your life still echoing in your head. You'd barely been here twelve hours before you were thrown into Cabin Eleven like a lost sock; Hermes’s Cabin. The “undecided” one, which basically felt like the rejected pile in a divine game of Uno.

That first night? Nightmare city. I'm talking monsters whispering in your ears, a cloaked figure holding your throat, a voice hissing "You're not meant to survive this.". And right when you jolted awake, sweating and wide-eyed, bam, Clarisse LaRue walked in the next morning like she owned the whole camp.

"You the new brat?" She grinned, and it wasn’t a nice grin.

She tried to shove you. Tried.

But then someone stepped in. Someone with seaweed hair and the kind of confidence you can’t fake. Percy Jackson, yes, that Percy Jackson, who had just returned Zeus’s master bolt and apparently didn’t care about playing it cool, stood between you and her, pushed her shoulder back like he wasn’t afraid of getting wrecked, and went.

"Back off, Clarisse. She’s barely even unpacked."

Clarisse gave him a death glare, muttered something about "Seaweed brains protecting weaklings." And stormed off.

And that was only the beginning.

The next seven days? They were a full-on nightmare montage.

Sword-fighting? You couldn’t even lift the thing properly without flinging it backwards like you were trying to take out a bird.

Archery? Let’s just say your arrows did everything except go straight. One nearly hit Chiron. He smiled, but you knew he was rethinking his life.

Hand-to-hand combat? You got knocked down by a kid half your size. Twice. And let's say you got to know the dirt.

Mythological knowledge class? Well, let's say you had no idea about whatever you were doing, and got laughed at because of your pronunciation.

Strategy and planning? You forgot you weren’t playing Monopoly and sacrificed half your team for a fake golden apple.

Power discovery? Nothing. Not even a spark. No glowing hands, no levitating pebbles, not even a little breeze of dramatic mystery.

At the end of the week, you were sitting on a boulder near the canoe lake, arms scraped, legs bruised, dignity in ashes, when Percy plopped down next to you.

“You okay?” He asked, all casual.

You didn’t even look at him. “Is there, like... A god of disappointment?”

He chuckled. “Technically, Goddess. Oizys. She’s the Goddess of Misery and Distress.”

You blinked at him. “That’s even worse.”

He gave you a small nudge. “Hey, I sucked at everything too when I first got here.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, and then you went and returned the master bolt. I can’t even hold a sword without flinging it at a tree.”

He tilted his head, eyes soft. “You’re trying. That’s more than a lot of people.”

And then... Came the big reveal.

Your name was called one night at the campfire. A green fire flared above your head. Gasps echoed.

“Hecate.” Chiron announced. “Goddess of Magic, Crossroads, and Ghosts.”

Everyone went quiet. Then whispers started.

“Oh. A minor god.” “Figures.” “That’s why she’s so bad at everything.” “She’ll probably burn herself if she even tries magic.”

You sat still, heart hammering.

But Percy? He didn’t looked at you like you were a failure.

He leaned in, eyes locked on the flame still flickering in the sky, and whispered. “Guess you’re just warming up...?”