✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ɴɪɴᴇ

Brushed Aside.

⚡

    BY THE NEXT MORNING, PERCY WAS GONE—moved into Cabin Three.

    It was a dream come true. No more crammed sleeping bags on the cold, wooden floor of Cabin Eleven, no more sharing a pillow with someone else's elbow. In his new cabin—Cabin Three—he had an actual bed. A space of his own. Silence. Solitude. It was what every undetermined camper in Hermes Cabin longed for: to be claimed, to belong, to have a name and a purpose carved into the divine order.

    But it wasn’t just about the amenities.

    Moving into the Poseidon Cabin was symbolic. It was stepping into an identity that had until recently been hidden from him. The gods didn’t always claim their children. In fact, most of the kids in Hermes Cabin had been waiting for years—some silently hoping, others bitterly resigned. For them, being claimed was a sign that they mattered. That they were seen. That they were chosen.

    And yet Percy, who had only just arrived, barely had time to unpack before he was not only claimed, but claimed by one of the Big Three—Poseidon himself, lord of the sea. It wasn’t just unusual. It was unheard of.

    Some called it Fate. Others muttered about favoritism. Either way, Percy had been thrust into a world where he was suddenly the center of gravity.

    In the wake of his claiming, a tide of emotions surged through the Hermes campers. Admiration, yes—but it was laced with something more acidic. Envy. Frustration. Confusion. They gathered in corners, speaking in hushed voices, trying to rationalize what had happened.

    "Why him?" they’d whisper, glancing over their shoulders. “He’s been here a week.”

    Percy hadn’t even wanted this life. And now, he had everything.

    Or at least, it seemed that way on the surface.

    Since leaving Cabin Eleven, Percy had grown quieter.  He no longer lingered at the dining pavilion. He took his meals alone at the Poseidon table. During sword training, he would stand awkwardly on the sidelines, waiting for someone to spar with, but no one ever stepped forward. Even the Ares kids avoided him now.

    Rory couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Percy as she watched him from across the pavilion—just a single, still figure in a sea of movement. No one even passed by that side of the pavilion unless they had to.

    Night after night, he kept his head down, poking at his food with distracted motions, his eyes flickering every so often toward the other tables—toward the groups of siblings leaning into one another, elbows nudging, mouths full of laughter. There was something quietly devastating in the way he watched them. Not with bitterness, but with a kind of aching detachment, as if he were trying to memorize what it looked like to belong.

    Rory was having lunch one day, her half-eaten meal growing cold in front of her. The lunchtime chatter of Camp Half-Blood swirled around her—laughter from the Ares table, the sound of clinking goblets—but her attention was elsewhere. Her gaze drifted absently across the pavilion, scanning faces without really seeing them. Until it landed one more on Percy.

    He sat alone, as he always did now, at the foot of an empty table—an expanse of polished marble meant for a family he didn’t have. His posture was hunched, his eyes trained on his plate like it might offer a distraction.

    Beside her, Luke sat motionless, his fork tracing slow, mechanical lines through the mashed potatoes on his plate. He hadn’t touched his food. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere too.