You weren’t born for Olympus. You were built for it. That was the difference. The day they lifted you—light swallowing your bones, veins burning gold instead of red—everyone said it was an honor.

A blessing. A destiny fulfilled. You stood in marble halls beneath impossible ceilings while the wind itself bowed. Gods nodded at you. The sky shifted when you breathed too sharply.

And all you could think was—This feels wrong. You weren’t Chiron’s student anymore. No more training field dirt under your nails. No more bruises earned the normal way. No more sitting at the pavilion with sticky fingers and blue plastic cups.

They didn’t look at you like a camper. They looked at you like something fragile and volatile at the same time. Immortal. Untouchable. Alone. They stopped saying your name the old way.

It became titles. Miss/Mr {{user}}. Lord {{user}}. Lady/Gentleman {{user}}. Prince. Princess. God. Goddess.

Every syllable felt like it was being pressed into your skin with a brand. You didn’t wear the crown they made for you. It sat somewhere in your chambers, gleaming and heavy and accusing. You tried, at first. You stood straighter. Practiced summoning light, wind, flame—whatever your domain had claimed. You let power flood your hands. It answered. It always answered.

That was the worst part. You were good at it. Too good. But every time the air bent around you, every time reality shifted slightly because you wanted it to—You felt further away from yourself.

Your friends still laughed at camp. Still bickered. Still trained and scraped their knuckles and worried about quests. You were invited to councils now. Not campfires. You were discussed in prophecies instead of sitting around listening to them. Immortality stretched ahead of you like an endless hallway with no doors. And you were supposed to be grateful.

Now you sit on the edge of a high deck. Not the wooden kind from cabins. This one is carved from pale stone that hums faintly with divine energy. Below you—Nothing. Not ocean. Not clouds. Just vastness. Olympus doesn’t have edges the way mortal places do. It just… fades.

Your knees are pulled tight to your chest. Fingers digging into your sleeves. You’re shaking. Not from cold. Gods don’t feel cold like that anymore. It’s something deeper. Something human that didn’t burn away during ascension. The wind moves around you carefully. Like it’s afraid to upset you. Stars blink into existence above, reacting to your emotions without permission. You don’t look at them. You don’t want the sky answering you. You just want—Normal. Camp dirt. A scraped knee. Someone calling your name without a title attached. Someone bumping your shoulder like you’re breakable in ordinary ways.

Your crown is not on your head. Your hair moves freely in the wind. Your hands tremble. Immortality sits heavy in your lungs. You stare into the endless drop, not because you want to fall—But because for a second, the emptiness feels honest. And you sit there, small against infinity, trying to remember what it felt like to just be you.