Chapter 6 - Chapter 6: Unclaimed Shadows

Cynthia Morales had grown a touch taller by her first full year at Camp Half-Blood, her wiry eleven-year-old frame filling out just enough from steady meals—no more foster-skinny ribs showing through. Her dark waves hung longer now, often braided practical with camp cord, and her obsidian eyes held a sharper glint, matured by twelve months of drills and dorm life. Still naive at heart, with that quiet ten-to-eleven wonder at camp magic, but smarter instincts had honed: reading wind shifts in archery, sensing pranks before Stolls struck. Age-appropriate poise showed in steady hands, less wide-eyed flinch at shadows. Nights still called strongest—archery excellence under moon, knives flipping excellent, spears very good in dark.Hermes cabin felt crowded as ever, bunks sagging under unclaimed siblings like her. She lay awake one winter night, staring at the rafters, wolf pendant from Luke cool against her chest. A year. Still no claim. Heart ached—not dramatic tears, but a gnawing sorry for the others: skinny newbies huddled scared, older kids like the twins masking doubt with jokes. "Hey," she'd whisper to a crying newbie last month, sharing jerky. "It happens. We're family till then." Her own want simmered quiet: Who am I? Why wait?Chiron called meetings more now. Big House porch, wheelchair creaking under autumn leaves. "The Great Prophecy stirs," he'd say, voice grave. Camp chatter buzzed it like bees: Oracle's ancient words, seven half-bloods of the eldest gods, Titan shadows looming. "Big Three kids—Zeus, Poseidon, Hades—no more since WWII," campers whispered at pavilion lunches. Cynthia listened over oatmeal, smart mind puzzling: Eldest? Sounds bad. Me? Nah, unclaimed.Winter passed drills-deep: excellent hand-to-hand pins on Annabeth now even, their friendship thickening like camp honey. Annabeth Chase—blonde ponytail whipping, gray eyes fierce—pushed her hardest. Lake edge one frosty morn, daggers clashing. "Faster counter!" Annabeth barked, but grinned after Cynthia's excellent disarm. "You're getting it."Panting, Cynthia sheathed her knife. "Thanks. You too—sword's scary good." Naive trust made her open: "Think the prophecy's real? Scary."Annabeth's eyes lit weird, eager almost hungry. "Has to be. Quests! Glory. I need one." Her voice edged urgent, like camp confined her.Cynthia tilted head, matured quiet. "Yeah, but... safe here." Friendship bloomed in sketches—Annabeth drew cabin designs, Cynthia adding smart hunt blinds. "Team good," she'd say simply.Spring thawed into summer 2004, campers flooding back—hugs, tales. Silena with city gossip, Clarisse boasting school fights, Katie's greenhouse blooms. Pavilion overflowed; Cynthia claimed her table spot, passing spears to newbies. "Practice slow."Annabeth returned jumpy, devouring prophecy talk. "Oracle mumbled last week—something's coming." Her eagerness gnawed weird, pacing during free time.Cynthia watched concerned, heart tugging. Wants quest bad. Be careful.Summer peaked capture-the-flag: Cynthia's excellent archery sniped flags from trees, spears very good in charges, knives flashing hand-to-hand. Hermes teamed Athena—Annabeth strategized flanks, Cynthia executed smart dodges. Victory roar: Clarisse's grudging high-five, "Not bad, wire."Yet prophecy hung silent—no quests sparked, no Big Three claims. Chatter faded to shrugs: "Oracle's drunk again." Cynthia's parent gnaw deepened nights alone—archery under stars, arrows excellent but lonely. Why me last? Siblings too. She'd comfort a homesick unclaimed girl with stories: "Foster tough, but here better."Annabeth cornered her post-dinner, eyes stormy. "No action. Prophecy's wasting." Eagerness bordered frantic, fists clenched.Cynthia paused, matured calm. "Maybe soon. We train anyway." Smart instincts saw the itch; naive heart offered jerky. "Want spar? Night's good."Annabeth exhaled, nodding. "Yeah. Thanks, Cyn."Camp family wrapped tight—Luke's quiet checks ("Holding strong?"), Stoll pranks dodged, Tully's nods. Unclaimed ache lingered, prophecy a distant rumble. Cynthia grew into it, eleven steady, heart hoping quiet.