Chapter Text
The forest was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that meant stillness—but the kind that meant waiting.
Sally stopped just short of the invisible line between worlds. Percy felt it too. The air ahead had thickened—soft and slow, like molasses. Like dream-stuff trying to decide whether to let him in... or spit him back out.
Sally turned to him and gently brushed a wind-curled strand from his forehead.
“Be polite,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone your father’s name until he claims you. Do not antagonize Zeus unnecessarily.”
Percy sighed. “I know. Breathe, ground, reality is soft, don’t shout in divine languages unless cornered by something with scales or unreasonable legal authority.”
Sally kissed the crown of his head. “Good boy.”
He clutched his bag tighter. Wings twitching just under the surface. Heart just a little fast.
Then he stepped forward—into the wards.
The magic met him like fog made of maybe. It coiled around his arms, ran ghost fingers through his curls, tugged gently at the seams of his self like it couldn’t quite decide what he was. Mortal? Godling? Something else entirely?
It pulsed.
Hesitated.
Then let him through.
Percy exhaled.
And promptly got startled by a centaur.
“Ah—Percy,” said Chiron, already standing at the edge of the ward line like a man bracing for divine paperwork. “Your mother called ahead. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.”
Percy tilted his head. “Hi, Mr. Burner. It’s been a while.”
Chiron blinked. “Here, I’m called Chiron, Percy.”
“Sorry. Old habit.” Percy shrugged. “You still smell like hay and chalk.”
Chiron gave him a look of polite exhaustion, then turned to lead him toward the Big House, hooves clicking against the flagstones like he was mentally assembling a crisis response team.
The Big House smelled like lemonade, sunscreen, and several decades of unresolved divine trauma.
“Ah,” said Mr. D, behind a game of solitary pinochle. “Another small demigod doomed to early tragedy. Welcome. Try not to destroy anything before dinner.”
Percy blinked. “Hi.”
Mr. D gave him a squinty look. His gaze lingered. “You look familiar.”
Chiron shifted with a nervous flick of his tail. “He’s only just arrived, Mr. D—”
“Mmm,” Mr. D said. “Reminds me of a different kind of headache.”
Chiron sighed like a man whose internal serenity had packed its bags.
“He’s likely tired.”
“It’s noon,” Mr. D replied flatly.
“Still,” Chiron said—too quickly. “Best to get him settled. I’ll have someone show him to Hermes cabin.”
Just as Percy opened his mouth—
“Luke!” Chiron called over his shoulder.
A tall boy turned mid-step, raising an eyebrow.
“This is Percy. Could you show our new camper around?”
Before Luke could reply, Chiron was already trotting away.
“Anxiety,” he muttered. “Breathing exercises. Panic ward protocols. Olympus help me.”
Luke blinked after him, then turned to Percy.
“So,” he said, still absorbing whatever just happened. “You’re new to all this?”
Percy, very tired, very done, and not yet unpacked, simply replied: “Depends who you ask.”
Luke laughed.
And led him toward the cabins.
The first thing Percy noticed about Camp Half-Blood was that it was loud.
Not monster-fight loud.
Not subway-at-rush-hour loud.
Just… people loud.
Too many heartbeats. Too many conversations happening at once. Footsteps, laughter, metal clanging on metal, someone yelling about a minotaur and a faint layer of magical interference that buzzed at the edge of his senses like bad radio static.
By the time they reached the cabins, Percy was already chewing the inside of his cheek and clutching his seahorse charm like a grounding stone.
And he was still mad about the Winchester thing.
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A few days earlier
The treehouse swayed slightly in the summer breeze, high in the arms of Zach’s ancient willow. Late sunlight poured through the slats in golden streaks, catching the corners of snack wrappers and a glitter-covered map of “The Nearby Constellations According to Lila.” The walls smelled like cedar and wild ideas.
Percy sat near the corner. Lila was sprawled upside down on a beanbag, legs flopped over the side like a lizard sunbathing after an existential crisis.
Zach and Sadie were playing cards with no discernible rules, and definitely no intention of finishing the game.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Lila said, flipping her head upright with a dramatic fwump. “You’re going to be gone the whole summer?”
Percy nodded, arms crossed. “Apparently, I’m too young for interdimensional flights and my mom and uncle have to ‘deal with the Winchester situation.’”
Zach looked up from the game “Winchester like… the rifle?”
“Could be a town. Might be a demonic convergence. Honestly, they were evasive. All I know is, I can’t go with them”
“Could be all of those,” Sadie muttered. “Winchester is definitely cursed. Name just sounds like someone forgot to bury a grudge.”
Percy continued, “Anyway, since I can’t stay home alone while they’re doing celestial damage control, it’s summer camp for me.”
Zach frowned. “You could stay with us. You know my grandma adores you. She still thinks you’re an angel that fell into her tomato garden on purpose.”
“Not really,” Percy said, shrugging. “She’d want to talk to my mom. And I can’t exactly tell her, ‘Oh, she’s out of this dimension right now, fighting ancient metaphysical gun energy, leave a message after the trumpets’ Too much trouble.”
Sadie tilted her head. “So... we won’t be able to talk all summer?”
Percy grinned and reached into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out his phone like a magician revealing a prized artifact. “What do you take me for? A savage?”
He handed it to Zach, who examined it with reverence.
“I convinced Uncle Gabe to enchant it,” Percy continued proudly. “It gets signal through any ward and doesn’t need charging. It draws energy from atmospheric awe. Or maybe divine sarcasm. The enchantment was... vague. And the only people who can track it are my mom and uncle, that was non-negotiable for mom to allow it”
Zach’s jaw dropped. “Dude. That’s so cool. I’m totally copying this when you get back.”
“Bet you five bucks your phone catches fire,” Sadie said, still playing cards without looking.
“Bet you ten mine turns into a duck,” Lila added.
Percy smiled, tucking the phone back in his hoodie. “So no matter where I am, signal or not, you can text me. Or send memes. Or summon me with the power of friendship and passive-aggressive emoji spam, I’m counting on you to keep me sane, otherwise I’m stuck at Greek LARPing Camp with no memes and a bunch of very dramatic sword people.”
Lila flopped backward again. “Still not fair. Summer without you feels out of balance. Like toast without jam. Or spellwork without glitter.”
Zach nodded solemnly. “Yeah, or like—like a robot with no chaos module.”
Sadie raised an eyebrow. “I’ll live. Barely.”
Percy looked around at them—the soft shadows in the treehouse, the quiet light of early twilight, the way Zach’s blueprints glowed faintly on the shelf, the way Lila’s sketchbook curled at the edges like it had absorbed a hundred small miracles.
He breathed in. The cedar. The starlight. His people.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’ve got each other. And I’ll be back before you can finish one of Zach’s overengineered trebuchets.”
Zach muttered, “You say ‘overengineered’ like it’s a flaw.”
Lila rolled onto her stomach and groaned. “You’re going to make friends. Accidentally. You always do.”
Sadie gave a curt nod. “Try not to trigger any minor prophecies.”
Zach looked thoughtful. “Don’t enchant any plumbing. Unless it’s a tactical advantage.”
Percy glanced at them all. “I’m serious. You have to keep me grounded. Send updates. Memes. News. Lies. I don’t care. I need weirdness. I need you.”
Lila sat up and leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Sea Nerd. You always are.”
Sadie smirked. “You’re going to destroy their whole concept of subtlety, aren’t you?”
Percy grinned. “I’d never dream of it.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Luke stopped in front of the Hermes cabin, offering a crooked grin.
“Until your godly parent claims you, you bunk here. Hermes takes all the unclaimed kids. It’s a little… cramped, but everyone’s chill.”
“Cramped,” Percy repeated, voice flat.
“Yeah, but we make it work. Good energy, lots of jokes. You’ll be fine.”
Then Luke slid open the door.
And Percy immediately began to shut down.
It wasn’t that the room was messy. He could handle messy.
It was the chaos.
There were so many people.
Most were asleep, curled up on mats and makeshift nests.
Some were arguing about toothpaste.
Someone in the back was trying to enchant their sock drawer.
The smell was like a locker room had cried.
Percy’s stomach twisted.
His fingers tingled.
His head got that cottony pressure feeling that always came right before something weird happened.
He reached for his charm. Too late.
Thrum.
The ward around the cabin stuttered.
He took a step back.
Breathed in.
Then looked at Luke and said, perfectly calm:
“Yeah, sorry. That won’t work for me.”
He raised his hand and...snaped
It wasn’t loud.
Just… final.
Like flipping a page.
Like the cabin had been holding its breath and finally remembered how to exhale.
The walls shimmered.
The floor rippled.
And then, suddenly—
The Hermes cabin was new.
A spacious dorm layout that would make the fanciest boarding school weep with envy, softly glowing string lights overhead, beds, not bunks, for everyone, white wood polished and glowing faintly with warmth, a fully stocked sensory corner at the far wall with beanbags, noise-canceling headphones, fidget baskets, and weighted blankets. The air smelled like lavender and cinnamon. The windows opened to ocean breeze.
Percy turned to Luke, smile shy. “There. That’s better.”
Then he noticed the room had gone dead quiet.
All the kids stared at him.
Mouths open.
A boy near the back whispered, “Did he snap an IKEA catalogue into reality?”
“I can turn it back if you want…” Percy offered, lifting his hand again nervously.
“NO!”
Every single camper shouted at once.
The sound was so loud Percy flinched and slapped his hands over his ears on instinct, shrinking a little.
Luke blinked like someone who had just been hit by a tidal wave.
He crouched slightly, voice gentle now. “Hey, Percy? Just… who exactly is your divine parent?”
Percy peeked out from behind his fingers.
“Oh, no,” he said cheerfully, “I learned this trick from my uncle. On my mom’s side.”
Luke stared.
Then sat down.
Just. Sat.
One of the kids poked the mattress on their new bed. “It has lumbar support,” she whispered reverently.
Another kid pressed a wall panel. “The lights dim individually.”
The cabin began to adjust itself again—someone found a plush beanbag that hadn’t existed before. Another camper opened a mini fridge with sparkling water. A sunlight skylight that wasn’t architecturally possible let in just enough warmth to feel like a hug.
“Uh,” Luke said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You… sure you’re unclaimed?”
Percy tilted his head. “Technically? Yes.”
A beat.
Then Percy pulled out a packet of seaweed snacks from his bag. “My mom says announcing who your divine parent is before they do it formally is ‘rude and inconsiderate with their culture.’”
Luke just stared.
The ceiling gently twinkled overhead with tiny, shifting stars.
Percy walked quietly to the sensory corner, sat cross-legged, and pulled out a coloring book from his bag. He flipped to a sea monster page and began coloring.
Luke sat next to him a few minutes later, still a little stunned.
“So,” Luke said again, trying to shake the stunned silence from his voice, “I’m Luke, by the way.”
Percy, still curled in his beanbag near the sensory corner, looked up from his coloring page. He capped the sea-green crayon slowly and met Luke’s eyes.
“I know,” he said simply. “I remember you. Thalia. And Annabeth. From that night you stayed with us.”
Luke blinked.
Hard.
“Wait, wait—”
Percy just nodded, calm as the tide. “You were tired. Thalia kept sparking when she breathed. Annabeth wouldn’t stop staring at the ceiling because there weren’t any spiders.”
Luke’s knees went weak. He sank onto the edge of one of the (very new, very supportive) beds.
“You’re…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re Sally’s kid.”
“Uh-huh.”
Luke put his face in his hands for a long, quiet moment. The memory returned in full color now—not a dream, not a fluke, but real.
A house tucked in impossible peace.
A woman who felled a cyclops with a knife and didn’t even raise her voice.
A kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and safety.
And a small boy who padded into their room with a drum, played three notes that wrapped around nightmares like arms
Luke pulled his hands away, slowly.
“That explains so much.”
Percy blinked.
He didn’t know what Luke meant exactly—but the tone felt safe. So he nodded again and offered, “You took the biggest cookie and gave it to Annabeth.”
Luke huffed a laugh. “Yeah. She tried to save it for later.”
“She didn’t. Loki told her it had a decaying charm.”
“Loki…” Luke said, dazed. “That guy was glowing.”
“Uncle Loki glows a lot. He thinks it’s dramatic. It’s not.”
Luke wheezed.
Then stood.
He looked at Percy—not the boy who’d snapped a divine remodel into place, but the quiet, steady center of something very old and very new.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said at last, genuinely. “Camp’s better with you in it.”
Percy smiled. Just a little.
Then returned to his sea monster.
Outside, the sun was beginning to set, streaking the sky with the colors of seafoam and promise.
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Dinner at Camp Half-Blood was a thing.
The pavilion shimmered like something out of an old myth reimagined by a very enthusiastic theater kid. Long stone tables, one per godly cabin, overlooked the ocean. Braziers lined the edges, their flames flickering in hues no normal fire should. The smell of food—everything from grilled cheese to ambrosia-laced lamb skewers—wafted through the air with the subtle smugness of a spell that knew it was working.
And tonight, something felt…off.
Or rather: better.
The Hermes cabin arrived to dinner chipper. Unsettlingly chipper.
Nobody spoke about why.
Not even when Clarisse narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Why are they smiling like that?”
Not when Will Solace leaned over and whispered, “Hermes kids don’t hum. Do they hum now?”
Even Chiron clocked it from across the pavilion, blinking as he watched a group of notoriously sleep-deprived, prank-obsessed teenagers politely pass the bread down the line like they were auditioning for a musical titled Camp: The Redemption Arc.
Luke sat at the head of the table, noticeably more relaxed than usual.
And Percy?
Percy was staring at the fire.
A golden brazier sat in the center of the pavilion, flames licking toward the sky like they were trying to whisper something in a language older than memory.
Luke nudged him gently. “You’re supposed to burn a bit of your food. For the gods.”
Percy blinked. “All of them?”
“Just your parent, usually. The one who’ll claim you.”
Percy tilted his head. “Is this… legally binding?”
Luke choked slightly on his water. “It’s not a contract, kid. It’s more like... a message. A way of saying ‘Hi, I’m alive, please don’t smite me.’”
Percy considered this. Then picked up a chunk of honeyed cornbread, frowned at it, and stood.
He walked to the fire with the solemnity of someone approaching an ancient cosmic vending machine.
And then he sighed—theatrically.
“Okay. Look,” he said to the flame, just loud enough for the nearest people to hear: “I know you’re busy and is probably watching this whole thing like it’s cable news. Mom told me I’m not allowed to swear in offerings, so consider this: I’ve been exiled to Greek-themed daycare for the summer if I get eaten by a harpy, it’s your fault. Also—hi. Still not dead.”
He tossed the bread in. It vanished in a curl of seafoam-colored smoke.
The flames burped.
Someone from Apollo’s cabin actually clapped.
Percy turned, grumbling to himself. Then paused.
Dug into his pocket.
Took out three carefully wrapped peppermint-chocolate cookies (from the stash Sally had slipped in his bag).
“Also—” he said, turning back to the brazier, “This one’s for Auntie Hestia. Thanks for the cocoa trick. House still smells like cinnamon.”
The cookie flared with soft golden fire and the pavilion lights actually dimmed in respect.
Percy nodded.
“This is for my definitely not siblings Benthesikyme. And Rhodes. And Triton, who’s probably still upset I beat him at chess. Again.”
He set the cookies gently on the edge of the fire. The moment it touched flame, it dissolved like sugar, leaving a burst of scent—sea air, coral, and something vaguely like lavender-salted fudge.
Percy stared at the smoke.
He returned to the table.
The Hermes campers stared.
Then, one by one, very casually, they each got up and made the most elaborate offerings you’ve ever seen.
A grilled cheese pyramid. A floating mango. One girl offered up what looked like a full plate of tiny cursed pancakes that sang.
None of them said why.
None of them acknowledged it.
But Percy sat back down and found someone had left him the biggest brownie.
Luke just winked.
“Welcome to camp, kid.”