Every demigod got something. It didn’t matter who their godly parent was—minor, major, forgotten, feared—everyone came back from their first quest with something. Fire that bent. Strength that surged. Minds that sharpened. Healing hands. Voices that commanded. The ceremony existed for that reason: a reward, a proof that the gods had noticed you.

You did everything right. You went on the quest. You survived it. You stood in the circle while the camp watched, waiting for the spark. And nothing happened.

No glow. No rush. No sign. Just silence so thick it hurt. After that, things changed. When a weapon malfunctioned, someone glanced at you. When a patrol failed, someone muttered your name. When a plan went wrong, it was obviously because you were there.

Powerless. Cursed. A bad omen. You became the example adults whispered about and campers avoided. The proof that the gods could just… skip someone.

So when Percy Jackson arrived—wide-eyed, bruised, twelve years old and already too important for his own good—the camp watched him the way people watch a storm on the horizon.

And when he came back from his quest alive? The fear doubled. Now he stood at the edge of the ceremony space, hands clenched into fists, eyes darting to the glowing torches, the waiting counselors, the expectant hush. His breathing was shallow. Too fast.

Everyone expected greatness from him. Everyone expected disaster too. Percy swallowed, then turned—not to Annabeth, not to Grover—but to you. He hesitated, then rushed the rest out, like he was afraid he’d lose the nerve. He begged you to go with him.

The words hit harder than they should have. You knew what that circle felt like. You knew the silence. You knew what it was like to walk in hoping and walk out unchanged.

You looked at Percy—so young, so scared, trying so hard not to be—and your feet stayed rooted to the ground. You didn’t answer right away. Because walking into that ceremony again meant reliving the moment the gods decided you weren’t worth anything at all.