You’d been at Camp Half-Blood for months now—long enough that everyone had stopped asking. The other campers whispered about you the way they whispered about him when Percy first arrived. Maybe they’re important. Maybe they’re meant for something. Maybe their parent is a big one.

And for a while… you believed it. You kept waiting for the sky to crack open or the sea to glow or an iris rainbow to shimmer above your head—any sign, any flash of godly acknowledgement.

You never got claimed. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. Nothing happened. People stopped whispering. Stopped guessing. Stopped caring. You became “unclaimed.” A word that felt like a bruise.

Just a kid nobody’s god wanted.

You heard him before he reached you— soft footsteps, careful, like he didn’t want to scare you off. Will always walked like that around hurt people.

he sat beside you, folding his legs, resting his hands on his knees. He exhaled slowly, watching the camp glow faintly below.

“You’re out past curfew,” he said quietly. Not scolding. Not annoyed. Just… noticing.

You didn’t answer. Will picked a blade of grass, rolled it between his fingers, and waited. He was good at waiting. “Still no sign?” he asked softly. Your jaw tightened. That was answer enough. Will looked at you with that healer’s gaze—gentle, steady, too good at seeing pain you thought you’d hidden.