The air was thick with smoke and blood, the kind of stillness that came only after something irreversible. You were on the ground, the glow of celestial bronze fading from your fingertips as Percy pressed his hands over your wound, desperate, shaking.

“Stay with me, please—” his voice cracked. You wanted to. Gods, you wanted to.

But the world was slipping.

And as you lay there helplessly, a million different thoughts came to you. You saw your parent — Dionysus — hearing the news. His youngest child died today. You thought about what he might say. Would he roll his eyes? Would he pour another glass of wine and mutter, “Figures”? Would he care?

The pain dulled. Artemis knelt beside you, her silver glow brushing against your cheek. Her voice was soft, steady — the kind that made you feel safe even now. “Rest, little one. You’ve done enough.”

Percy was crying — loud, broken sobs that echoed across the battlefield. You wanted to tell him it was okay. That it didn’t hurt anymore.

Then you were gone.

They buried you at camp, beneath the oldest oak tree. Hunters and campers alike stood together for once, heads bowed, tears running down cheeks usually too proud to cry. Even Clarisse didn’t speak. Percy swore there’d be no more wars. Will promised to remember your laugh. And Artemis whispered your name to the stars.

Days later, Percy found himself at the Big House. Mr. D was lounging as always, eyes on a deck of cards. Percy’s voice was hoarse. “They’re gone,” he said. “{{user}}… they’re gone.”

For a moment — just one — Dionysus’ hand froze. His gaze flickered up, but the words never came. Outside the window, unseen, your ghost stood. You didn’t expect tears. You didn’t expect him to even care. But still, part of you waited.

He didn’t look up again.