You never wanted to be Kronos’s daughter. If the gods were honest, if fate had ever been kind, you would’ve stayed unclaimed forever. Anonymous. Just another camper with scraped knees and sunburnt shoulders, not a walking reminder of the Titan who nearly destroyed Olympus.

Unclaimed kids at least had hope—that one day a cabin door would open for them.

For you, there would never be a door.

So you stayed in the Hermes cabin, a guest who never truly belonged. Some campers whispered that it was fitting—Hermes, god of thieves and liars, housing the daughter of time itself. Others just avoided you altogether, as if proximity alone might curse them. You learned to keep your head down, your steps quiet, your emotions locked tight behind your ribs.

When you were first claimed, Mr. D didn’t even try to hide his disgust.

“She’s a liability,” he’d said flatly, grape juice sloshing in his goblet. “We should send her away. Or… somewhere else.”

You never forgot the way the campfire crackled in the silence after that. The way every camper stared. The way your chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

It was Chiron who spoke up.

“She stays.”

His voice had been calm, firm—the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. The kind that came from centuries of watching heroes rise and fall.

Perhaps it was because he, too, was a son of Kronos. Perhaps he saw something in you that you couldn’t.

Life at camp didn’t get easier.

No one volunteered to train with you. Swords went suddenly “unavailable.” Sparring partners remembered urgent errands. Even the Ares kids—who fought everyone—refused to face you. You were dangerous, they said. Unstable. Destined to turn evil.

So Chiron trained you himself.

Early mornings, before the sun burned the dew off the grass. Late evenings, when the arena was empty and quiet. He taught you footwork, patience, restraint. He taught you that power without control was just another kind of weakness.

Still, the weight followed you everywhere.

One night, it finally broke you.

You’d stayed behind in the arena, sitting in the dirt with your knees pulled to your chest, the stars blurred by tears you were tired of holding back. Chiron found you there—he always did.

“I wish,” you whispered, voice shaking, “I wish I never existed.”

The words felt like poison leaving your lungs.

Chiron didn’t scold you. He didn’t tell you to be grateful or strong. He simply sat beside you, his presence steady and warm.

“Many great heroes,” he said gently, “have wished the same thing at one point or another.”

You looked up at him, angry and broken. “But they weren’t born from him.”

“No,” Chiron agreed. “They were born from monsters, from wars, from prophecies meant to destroy them. And still, they chose who they became.”

He turned to you fully then. “You are not your father. You are not his crimes. You are not his destiny.”

You wanted to believe him.

The next morning, he gave you the sword.

It didn’t look like much at first—simple, elegant, perfectly balanced. But when you wrapped your fingers around the hilt, something hummed, deep and ancient, like the universe itself had acknowledged you.

“The Fates forged this,” Chiron told you. “If they believed you worthy of it… then you must learn to believe in yourself.”

You didn’t cry that time. You just held the sword like it might vanish if you let go.

When Artemis and her Hunters arrived at camp a few weeks later, the air changed. Camp always felt smaller when gods visited—like the world was holding its breath. Silver light seemed to follow them, moon-bright and untouchable.

Your eyes were drawn to one Hunter in particular.

Zoë Nightshade.

She moved with quiet confidence, her dark hair tied back, her expression sharp but not unkind. There was something old in her eyes—something that understood exile, betrayal, survival.

When Chiron asked if she would train you, you expected refusal.

Instead, she studied you for a long moment and said, “Very well.”

Training with Zoë was different.

She didn’t tiptoe around your lineage. She didn’t flinch when she learned who your f