Apparently, being unclaimed wasn't rare.
That didn't stop it from feeling like standing in the middle of a room while everyone pretended not to look at you.
Chiron led us down the cabin path while the sky dimmed into late afternoon gold. Campers passed by in clusters. Some curious, some cautious, some whispering badly enough that they might as well have been shouting.
I caught fragments.
"—that's him—"
"—light thing—"
"—Apollo kid, right?"
I ignored all of it.
Chiron stopped in front of a cabin that looked… busy. That was the only word for it. Symbols scratched into the wood. Notices nailed over older notices. A few scorch marks that looked suspiciously recent. The place had the energy of a lost-and-found bin that had become sentient.
"The Hermes cabin," Chiron said. "Until you're claimed, this is where unassigned demigods stay."
Luke stared at it beside me.
"…So," he said slowly, "we're all guessing together, right?"
I glanced at him. "You don't know either?"
He snorted. "If I knew, do you think I'd be here?"
That actually helped. A little.
The door creaked open, and noise spilled out immediately. Voices overlapping, someone laughing too loud, something clattering to the floor.
A kid poked his head out, took one look at us, and blinked.
"Uh. New people?"
Luke raised a hand awkwardly. "I think so."
The kid shrugged and stepped aside. "Cool. Try not to steal anything until you're settled in. Or do. I'm not your dad."
Inside was… chaos, but not hostile chaos. Beds crammed together, trunks half-open, people talking over each other like it was normal. No one looked especially important. No one looked especially weak.
Luke leaned toward me as we stepped in. "Okay. I take it back."
"About what?"
"This is worse than I imagined."
I huffed. "You imagined wrong."
He grinned, just a little, tension easing from his shoulders. "Yeah. But at least we're equally lost."
We claimed two empty bunks near the wall. Luke dropped his bag and sat down hard, staring at the ceiling.
"So," he said after a moment, "temporary home for you, right?"
"For now," I replied.
He glanced sideways at me. "You okay with that?"
I thought about it longer than I expected.
"Yeah," I said finally. "I think so."
Dinner was loud. Overstimulating. Exactly what it was supposed to be.
I didn't talk much. Luke talked more than he probably meant to. Annabeth vanished into observation mode. Grover hovered like he was waiting for something bad to happen if he relaxed too much.
Afterward, when the noise got to be too much, I slipped away.
I found Thalia near the edge of camp where things hadn't decided what they wanted to be yet.
Not loud like the campfire area. Not quiet like the woods either. Just a stretch of dirt, a couple of logs, and an unlit fire pit.
She was sitting on one of the logs, elbows on her knees, staring at the pit. I stopped a few steps away.
She didn't look up. "If you're here to tell me bedtime rules or camp songs, don't."
"Sorry to disappoint you," I said. "I practiced harmonizing."
I sat beside her, keeping a polite distance. The log creaked like it was tired of new demigods already.
"Cabin?" she asked.
"Hermes," I said. "Temporary."
She scoffed. "Of course."
"Is that sympathy or judgment?"
"Both."
I smiled faintly. "Luke's there too."
That did it.
Her expression shifted with a subtle tightening around the eyes. "Yeah," she said. "I figured."
"He hasn't said it," I added, "but I think he hates it."
She let out a breath through her nose. "He hates anything that feels like a joke at his expense."
"Especially when it comes from a god."
"Especially from that god."
We sat in silence for a moment, listening to camp sounds bleed through the trees. Laughter, someone arguing about chores, metal clanking somewhere far off.
"He didn't even look at the cabin," she said quietly. "Just stood there like he was waiting for it to disappear."
I nodded. "I think he'd rather sleep outside than stay there."
"That wouldn't surprise me."
I glanced at her. "He doesn't talk about Hermes much."
She snorted. "That's him talking about Hermes."
Fair.
"He keeps making jokes," I said. "But not the fun kind. The sharp ones."
"Maybe he's angry," she said. "Or hurt. Or both."
"Any chance he grows out of it?"
She tilted her head, considering. "Any chance gods grow out of being disappointing?"
"Point taken."
She leaned back on her hands, staring up at the sky. "This place keeps acting like cabins are gifts. Like it's an honor."
"Yeah," I said. "Meanwhile half the people here look like they'd trade the honor for a normal childhood."
She laughed quietly at that. "You noticed Annabeth yet?"
"Hard not to."
"She hasn't stopped staring at everything," Thalia said. "Like she's afraid it'll vanish if she blinks."
"She asked me three questions about the camp layout in under a minute," I replied. "Then apologized for asking."
Thalia smiled, softer this time. "She's been alone a long time."
"Yeah," I said. "You can tell. She holds onto information like it's a life raft."
"She'll like it here," Thalia said, then hesitated. "I think."
I glanced at her. "You don't sound convinced."
She shrugged. "I don't trust places that promise safety. But… it's better than running."
"That bar's low."
"Still a bar."
We fell into silence again. Not the heavy kind. The kind where words weren't urgent.
"I don't like being sorted," Thalia said suddenly.
"Me neither."
"It feels like being filed away," she continued. "Like this is who you are now. Deal with it."
"Yeah," I said. "And if you don't fit, that's somehow your fault."
She glanced at me sideways. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Not pretending it's fine."
I shrugged. "I save my pretending for later."
She smirked. "Figures."
She nudged my knee lightly with her boot. "You're weird."
"Consistently."
"Still," she said, quieter now, "I'm glad you're here."
I didn't joke that time.
"Yeah," I said. "Me too."
That's when I noticed the hearth. Not the big campfire. Something smaller, off to the side. A steady flame, calm and warm, like it had always been there.
Someone was sitting nearby.
A small girl, wrapped in a simple shawl, holding a mug in both hands. She looked up when she sensed us—not startled, not curious.
Just aware.
"Good evening," she said gently.
My chest eased in a way I couldn't explain.
"Hi," I replied.
Thalia stiffened beside me. "Do you… feel different all of a sudden?"
"Yeah," I said quietly.
The girl smiled. "That's normal."
"You're Hestia," I said.
It wasn't a guess. It slipped out whole.
She tilted her head, studying me with eyes that didn't judge, didn't pry. "Names can be useful," she said. "But they're rarely the most important part."
Thalia shot me a look. Of course you say that to a goddess, her expression said.
I hesitated. The question had been sitting in my chest all day, heavy and sharp, catching every time I breathed too deeply.
"Do you know who my godly parent is?"
The air didn't change. The fire didn't flicker. But her expression softened, like I'd asked something fragile instead of dangerous.
"I know many things," she said.
I huffed quietly. "That's not an answer."
"No," she agreed easily. "But it's the one you need right now."
I swallowed. "So you do know."
She nodded once.
Not dramatic. Not mysterious. Just… certain.
"You noticed," I said.
"Of course," she replied.
Something shifted behind her eyes with recognition, warmth, and something more careful.
"She would worry," Hestia added softly, almost to herself. "If she knew."
My pulse jumped hard enough that I felt it in my throat.
"She?" I repeated.
Thalia's head snapped toward me. "Wait—"
Hestia stood, the firelight catching in her eyes. She looked impossibly small and impossibly steady all at once.
"Not all truths are meant to be carried immediately," she said kindly. "Some are meant to wait until they can be held without breaking you."
I wanted to ask a dozen questions. I didn't trust my voice with any of them.
She stepped past us, her presence lingering like warmth after a door closes. The hearth burned on, unchanged.
Thalia exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair. "Okay," she said. "That confirms nothing."
She glanced at me.
"…And everything."
I didn't respond. I just stared at the fire, at how steady it was. How patient.
She.
Later, in the Hermes cabin, the noise had settled into something softer breathing, shifting blankets, the occasional muttered complaint.
Luke was already half-asleep, face turned toward the wall. "Stupid signs," he mumbled. "Hate signs…"
I didn't comment. Didn't think he'd hear me anyway.
I lay on my bunk, staring up at the ceiling beams, listening to the sound of people existing around me. Not running. Not hiding. Just… here.
She.
The word echoed, quiet but persistent.
Artemis didn't make sense. Not really. And yet—
I turned onto my side, the thought unfinished.
Unclaimed.
Uncertain of my background.
.
.
.
Night settled over Camp Half-Blood in layers.
Most of the noise had already faded. Campfires burned lower, voices softened, laughter thinning into murmurs. At the edge of the camp, away from cabins and footsteps, a different fire burned.
Hestia sat beside it, hands folded in her lap, gaze resting on the flame like it was an old friend.
She didn't turn when the presence approached.
"You felt it too," Artemis said.
Her voice was cool, clipped, already sharp with irritation. She stood just beyond the firelight, silver eyes reflecting none of its warmth. Her cloak stirred though there was no wind.
"I did," Hestia replied calmly.
Silence followed. Tense. Waiting.
Artemis crossed her arms. "You shouldn't have spoken to him."
"I didn't tell him anything," Hestia said gently.
"You acknowledged him." Artemis's jaw tightened. "That's enough."
Hestia finally looked up at her. "He's a child."
Something dark flickered in Artemis's eyes, not anger exactly. Disgust. Rejection.
"I don't want to hear it," she said immediately. "I don't want to hear about him. Or what he is. Or what you think he deserves."
The fire crackled softly between them.
Hestia didn't raise her voice. "Running from it doesn't erase it."
Artemis let out a sharp, humorless breath. "I didn't run. I made a choice."
"A choice that's hurting him," Hestia said.
"That's not my concern."
The words landed hard but not convincingly. Artemis's fingers curled at her sides.
"He's alive," Artemis continued, almost defensive now. "He's strong. He doesn't need me."
"Children always do," Hestia said quietly.
Artemis looked away, gaze cutting toward the dark forest beyond camp. "I swore never to be that kind of goddess."
"And yet," Hestia replied, "here you are, watching him from a distance."
Artemis's eyes narrowed. "Did he ask about me?"
"Yes," Hestia admitted.
Artemis's expression hardened instantly. "Don't answer him."
"I didn't."
"Good." She turned, cloak already shifting with her movement. "Keep it that way."
Hestia watched her go, the firelight reflecting sadness instead of flame in her eyes.
"He doesn't hate you," Hestia said softly, not expecting an answer.
Artemis paused, just for a fraction of a second.
Then she disappeared into the night, leaving the fire behind.
Hestia remained where she was, staring into the hearth.
"Someday," she murmured, "you'll realize distance can wound just as deeply as cruelty."
The flame flickered once.
Elsewhere in camp, a boy lay awake, staring at the ceiling, haunted by a single word he couldn't let go of.
She.