Percy Jackson left Camp Half-Blood without ceremony.
One morning he was there—orange shirt, nervous smile, promises made too easily—and the next, the Hermes cabin felt like it was missing a loose board. Cynthia didn't walk him to the hill. She told herself it was because she had training duty.
It was a lie.
Life at camp resumed its rhythm quickly. It always did.
Cynthia's days filled with familiar tasks—the same ones she'd handled before the quest, only now people watched her differently.
New campers gravitated toward her instinctively. She showed them how to lace armor properly, how not to panic when a practice blade rang too close, how to read the signs when the camp itself seemed to hum wrong.
"Breathe," she told a trembling kid from Demeter cabin, steadying their grip on a spear. "Fear makes you sloppy. Focus makes you live."
They listened.
Weapon practice came easy—archery at dawn, knives at midday, spears in the evening until her arms burned. Physical conditioning followed: runs through the forest edge, balance drills, sparring matches she never quite lost.
And then there was the part no one expected her to care about.
Schoolwork.
She spent afternoons hunched over textbooks in the pavilion, muttering algebra formulas under her breath, correcting grammar with more intensity than sword forms. The mortal world still mattered to her. She refused to let it slip away just because the gods had noticed her.
The Artemis cabin remained… silent.
One bed. One bow rack. Moonlight spilling through silver-trimmed windows onto empty floorboards. No sisters. No voices. No rules spoken aloud.
Cynthia slept there anyway.
At night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, aware of the divine claim hanging over her like an unanswered question.
She did not call Artemis mother.
She wasn't sure she ever would.
Selena Beauregard found her during lunch on the third day, sliding onto the bench beside her with a conspiratorial grin.
"So," Selena said, eyes sparkling, "moon goddess, huh?"
Cynthia groaned. "If you say that louder, I will trip you."
Selena laughed. "Relax. People are surprised, not scared. Big difference." She leaned closer. "Besides, you're still you. You helped me sneak dessert past Mr. D last summer. Divine heritage doesn't erase that."
That… helped.
The Apollo cabin adopted Cynthia informally after that. Not officially—no cabin switch nonsense—but they welcomed her into archery practice, music breaks, and sunlit conversations that balanced the Artemis cabin's quiet.
Will Solace tossed her an apple one afternoon. "You shoot like you're listening to something the rest of us can't hear."
"Maybe I am," Cynthia replied, catching it.
He grinned. "Fair enough."
Grover's Searcher's License came through at the end of the week.
The sendoff was warm, chaotic, emotional. Music. Food. Laughter that hurt a little. Cynthia hugged Grover tightly, pressing a small lucky charm into his hand.
"You come back," she said. "No excuses."
Grover smiled, eyes wet. "You better still be here when I do."
That night, after the camp quieted, Cynthia returned to her cabin alone.
She sat on the steps, looking out at the forest, moonlight silvering the grass.
She wasn't angry at Artemis.
Not exactly.
But she wasn't grateful either.
"I didn't ask for this," she said softly to the empty night. "But I'll carry it. On my terms."
The wind stirred. The moon remained distant.
And Cynthia Morales—claimed, unclaimed in spirit—stood exactly where she always had.