’The Forgotten Twin’

The throne room of Olympus glittered in a hundred shades of gold. Torches burned high, braziers roared, and the air stank of ambrosia. The gods sat above on their shining seats, their faces cut sharp with firelight.

And at the center of it all stood Percy.

His sword was still notched, his hair damp with blood and seawater. He bowed, stiff and exhausted, but the roar that went up from the gods drowned out the silence beneath his ribs.

“To the Son of Poseidon!” Zeus thundered, his voice like a storm. “Victor of the Giants! Savior of Olympus!”

The gods pounded their weapons against marble. The sound rattled through the chamber, deafening. Poseidon’s eyes gleamed with pride. Athena, even, inclined her head. Dionysus smirked lazily. Every face — every gaze — fixed on Percy.

But just to his left, barely visible in the flicker of torchlight, {{user}} leaned heavily against a pillar.

Their armor was cracked down the middle, their sleeve soaked in crimson. Breathing shallow. Knees trembling. Their body screamed the truth: it had been them who had held the line when the wall was collapsing, them who had stood beneath the weight of rubble, them who had bled and bled and still refused to fall.

Yet not a single name was spoken.

Not a glance cast their way.

Percy lifted his head at last, eyes darting sideways as though to catch them — and then someone clapped him on the shoulder, dragging him back into the circle of praise, back into the sea of hands and voices and blinding golden fire.

{{user}} slid lower against the pillar.

The roar of celebration blurred into a dull hum. Their vision doubled, then dimmed. Blood ticked steadily onto the floor, unseen, unheard.

And the last thing they saw before the blackness swallowed them was their brother, laughing shakily as the gods crowned him in light.