Noctis had been at Camp Halfblood for three months, and they still didn't belong.
Not in the way the other children belonged—the ones who laughed too loud at breakfast, who trained with bronze swords in the arena like they were born holding weapons, who gathered around campfires telling stories about their godly parents with a mixture of pride and resentment that Noctis couldn't quite understand.
They sat now in the shadow of Cabin Thirteen—the Hades cabin, empty except for ghosts and the lingering scent of pomegranate—watching the morning unfold like a play they hadn't been given lines for. The sun was too bright. It always was. Noctis preferred the hours just before dawn, when the world was caught between night and day, when the darkness still had teeth.
"You're doing it again."
Noctis looked up to find Chiron, the camp's director, standing a respectful distance away. The centaur—because of course he was a centaur, because nothing at this camp was normal—had his arms crossed, but his expression was kind. Patient. He'd been patient with Noctis since the day they'd arrived, confused and angry and crackling with power they didn't know how to control.
"Doing what?" Noctis asked, though they knew.
"Weaving." Chiron nodded toward Noctis's hands.
They looked down. Between their fingers, darkness moved like living thread—not shadow, not the absence of light, but true darkness, the kind that existed before the first star was born. It coiled and twisted, responding to Noctis's emotions, to the restless energy that always hummed beneath their skin.
"Sorry," Noctis said, letting it dissipate. The darkness reluctantly retreated, sinking back into the spaces between things, waiting.
"Don't apologize." Chiron moved closer, his hooves making soft sounds on the grass. "Your power is nothing to be ashamed of. Nyx is one of the most ancient beings in existence. Older than the Olympians. Older than the Titans. Her children are rare, and their gifts are... significant."
Rare. That was one word for it. Noctis was the only child of Nyx at camp. The only one, perhaps, in generations. The other kids didn't know what to make of them—this nine-year-old who could make the lights go out with a thought, who sometimes forgot to cast a shadow because the darkness clung to them like a second skin, who had been born Kinley Grace Shadowalker but had chosen a new name the moment they understood they could.
Noctis. Of the night. It fit better than the name their mortal father had given them, better than the pronouns that had never felt quite right. She and they—both and neither, fluid as darkness itself.
"The other kids are afraid of me," Noctis said quietly.
Chiron sighed. "Some of them, yes. Fear of the unknown is natural, even among demigods. But fear can become understanding, given time. You've only been here three months, Noctis. Give them a chance to know you."
But how could they know her when Noctis barely knew herself? When every day brought new revelations about what she was capable of, new whispers from the darkness that spoke in her mother's voice, new dreams of a primordial void where stars were born and died in the span of a heartbeat?
"There's a new arrival coming today," Chiron said, changing the subject with the gentle skill of someone who'd been counseling troubled demigods for millennia. "A daughter of Hades. About your age."
Noctis felt something shift in their chest. "Hades?"
"Yes. She's been living in the mortal world with her mother, but her powers are manifesting early. Strongly." Chiron's expression grew thoughtful. "The Oracle has been... active lately. Prophecies about children of darkness, about the balance between realms. I suspect this girl's arrival is significant."
