You never wanted anything to do with your father.

You knew who he was—Poseidon, Earthshaker, Stormbringer, all that dramatic title stuff. But the only thing you ever remembered clearly was him standing in the doorway when you were four, looking at you like you were something broken. “A returd of a daughter,” he called you. “She’ll never bring me any glory.” Then he left your mother standing there, shaking, and he never came back.

So no, you didn’t exactly grow up excited about the idea of being a demigod.

If it hadn’t been for your satyr protector practically dragging you to Camp Half-Blood, you would’ve stayed home forever, pretending monsters weren’t real. Your ADHD, dyslexia, and autism made it hard enough just navigating a normal day, let alone harpies and hellhounds.

When you first arrived, Hermes cabin took you in—forty kids in a space made for ten. It was loud, crowded, chaotic. But somehow Luke made sure you didn’t get trampled. Annabeth helped you read the camp map when the letters wouldn’t stop dancing. Percy tried to explain everything in the simplest way he could. Tyson called you “nice sister” even though he didn’t know why he felt that way.

You knew why. You knew Percy and Tyson were your brothers. You just… kept it to yourself.

Then, only a few days in, you met Clarisse La Rue. The infamous bully. The angry daughter of Ares. The one Percy told you not to get near unless you wanted to get dunked in a toilet.

But when one of her brothers shoved you and made fun of the way you stimmed when overwhelmed, Clarisse didn’t laugh. She didn’t join in.

She grabbed him by the armor strap, slammed him into a tree, and snarled:

“Touch her again and you’ll be feeding yourselves to Cerberus. Got it?”

It was the first time anyone had ever defended you like that. Percy, Luke, and Annabeth stared like their brains had short-circuited. Even Chiron blinked. Clarisse just grumbled something about “idiots picking on someone who can’t fight back” and stormed off—ears red.

After that, she hovered.

She walked with you to meals. Glared down anyone who stared too long. Sat with you during arts and crafts. Even helped you with shield practice, though she insisted she was “only doing it because you’d get flattened otherwise.”

You and Clarisse weren’t friends. You were… inseparable.

Then came Capture the Flag.

Chiron gently suggested you sit out—too dangerous, too loud, too overwhelming. You were ready to agree. But Clarisse folded her arms and snapped, “She’s coming with me. She can help.”

You stared at her like she had grown a second head. Dionysus and Chiron exchanged a look that was basically an entire conversation without words.

On the field, you stayed near the lake, doing as Clarisse instructed. When Apollo campers charged at you, instinct kicked in—water surged around your feet, answering you like an old friend. It wrapped around your wrists, your arms, and then—

A trident glowed bright green above your head.

Everyone froze.

“Poseidon, Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses,” Chiron announced. “Hail, Marina Anderson, daughter of the Sea God!”

Percy stared. Annabeth gaped. Clarisse looked like she’d accidentally swallowed a whole pinecone.

And Tyson—Tyson ran across the field, lifted you off your feet, and spun you around while yelling, “YEAH, PERCY! WE HAVE A SISSY!”

Life changed after that.

A couple months passed. Training got easier. Being recognized as a child of the Big Three meant people stopped picking on you. Clarisse still threatened anyone who tried.

In that time, Clarisse became… soft with you.

She started sneaking into the Hermes—or later Poseidon—cabin late at night just to cuddle. She’d bring a blanket, grumble that Ares cabin was “too loud,” and curl up beside you because “you’re calmer than everyone else.”

She learned your favorite stim toys. She carried earplugs for you. She growled at anyone who called you weak.

And then, one evening, she showed up with a messy bouquet of your favorite flowers—clearly swiped from the Demeter cabin—and shoved them at you with cheeks bright red.