Two years after the war, the camp still remembers you.

You stayed when the Apollo cabin fractured, when loyalty became a choice instead of an expectation. Some of Apollo’s children followed promises they shouldn’t have trusted. Others disappeared quietly, leaving empty bunks and unanswered questions behind. You remained. Lone-born, untouched by fate, carrying a god’s light without the comfort of a mortal past.

You were never meant to exist. No prophecy marked your arrival. No thread of destiny tied you to survival. You were made from divine light and a hyacinth left at Apollo’s altar, and somehow that was enough to keep you standing when so many fell.

Now you stand among the oldest campers left. Not a leader by title, but by endurance. Scars trace your history. Power rests beneath your skin, controlled, familiar, no longer something you need to prove. The oracles still fall quiet around you. The Fates still hesitate.

Camp Half-Blood is rebuilding, and so are you. Not to redeem Apollo, not to erase what happened, but to prove that loyalty outlives failure. That some things remain when gods falter and wars end.

You don’t speak much tonight. You don’t need to.

Another eldest murmurs, “I think the strongest cabin should get the quest.”