The war ended—not neatly, not cleanly, but with the exhausted finality of something that had nearly burned the world to ash.

Manhattan still bore the scars. Cracked streets. Shattered glass. Places where divine power had scarred the asphalt as if lightning had tried to rewrite the earth. The Gods honored their oath, sworn on the River Styx, and Olympus itself shifted. At Camp Half-Blood, new cabins rose from the soil and stone like long-delayed promises finally being spoken aloud.

Hades. Iris. Hypnos. Nemesis. Nike. Hebe. Tyche. Hecate.

Names whispered in reverence, in disbelief, in long-denied recognition. Children stepped forward with hesitant hope and found homes they had never imagined possible. Even those who had once slept shoulder-to-shoulder under Hermes’ roof were now called forward to claim their lineage, their place, their belonging.

All but one.

{{user}} had fought in the war. Truly fought. Your blade had turned the tide of more than one skirmish. Monsters hesitated when your shadow fell across the battlefield. Titan-spawn had learned caution when they saw you move. You had fought beside Clarisse when Ares’ blessing burned through her veins, and your steel had sung beside hers like a matched echo.

But no one had ever known it was you.

You wore no colors. Belonged to no cabin. Claimed no glory.

And when the dust cleared, there were no songs, no praise, no whispers of your name — only silence.

A month and 15 days passed.

Camp Half-Blood changed around you like a home that had decided you were only ever a guest. The Hermes cabin, once overcrowded and chaotic, slowly emptied of the unclaimed. Those who had once shared your bunks walked now beneath new banners. The rest — the bitter ones, the wounded ones — had long since chosen Kronos and paid the price.

What remained of Cabin Eleven was…Hermes’ children. Only Hermes’ children. They laughed together. Ate together. Slept in bunks with names carved into the wood.

So you stopped sleeping there.

No one noticed when you slipped away. No one asked.

You found your place instead beneath the Big House, down in the stale, cold dark of the old imprisonment chambers — the place where rogue demigods had once been hidden away. It was quiet there. Forgotten.

At least here, the silence made sense.

You tried not to think about the gods’ oath. About the way the sky itself had trembled when they swore every child would be claimed by thirteen. About how Titans were forgiven, how Calypso was finally freed though she had never fought or bled beside you. About how Olympus now spoke of fairness and recognition like they had invented compassion.

Everyone was seen now.

Everyone but you.

Campers who once belittled and harassed you — the lonely unclaimed who never fit — had fallen silent. The bullying faded—not out of remorse, but because people didn’t look at you anymore. You weren’t the strange unclaimed kid. You were just…someone they’d forgotten how to talk to. You didn’t blame them.

Because in the aftermath of war, you had begun to doubt your existence too.

Sometimes you wondered if you’d imagined the battlefield. If your blade had really burned with power. If monsters had really learned to fear you.

Because when the world refuses to acknowledge you long enough…

You start to doubt you ever mattered at all.

So you faded from training. Stepped back from crowds. Let your abilities rot quietly inside your chest, convincing yourself they had never been strength — only delusion, adrenaline, coincidence.

Because if the gods were claiming every child now…

If they truly saw all…

If even the lost had been found…

Then why were you still alone?

Why did Olympus look at you and see nothing worth naming?

And in the dead of night, buried beneath the foundations of the only home you had ever been allowed—you finally understood the worst part.

It wasn’t that no one recognized what you had done.

It was that some secret part of you believed they were right not to.