The Big House dining hall had never felt so small.
Voices crashed over each other before Cynthia even reached the threshold—sharp, overlapping, charged with fear disguised as authority. The long table was crowded with counselors, satyrs hovering near the walls, and Mr. D already halfway through a second can of Diet Coke like this was his personal entertainment.
Chiron stood at the head, posture rigid, hands folded behind his back.
Cynthia stepped inside.
Every argument stumbled—just for half a heartbeat.
Then it got louder.
"This is reckless," the Apollo counselor snapped. "You don't send anyone alone when prophecy language starts sounding like—like that."
"It literally says go alone," someone from Athena shot back. "Do you want to argue semantics with the Oracle now?"
Hermes cabin was split straight down the middle.
"Solo missions get people killed," one camper said sharply, eyes flicking to Cynthia. "We've lost enough."
"And sometimes they're the only way things don't get worse," another fired back. "You think monsters file group discounts?"
Aphrodite's counselor leaned forward, expression cool and cutting. "Let's not pretend this is just about danger. This is about optics. A newly claimed child of a maiden goddess disappearing alone? That causes panic."
"Panic already exists," Apollo said. "We're standing in it."
Cynthia stayed silent.
She'd learned that skill early—how to be present without being invited, how to let people argue around her like she was a weather pattern instead of a person.
Chiron raised a hand. Slowly, reluctantly, the noise thinned.
"The prophecy was received by Cynthia Morales," he said. "It references actions she has already taken. Ignoring it is not an option."
Mr. D snorted. "Ignoring prophecies has worked out great historically."
A few campers flinched.
"The question," Chiron continued, "is not whether she goes. It is how—and when."
"How about never?" someone muttered.
Cynthia lifted her head.
"I'll go alone."
The room snapped quiet again.
Chiron turned to her. "Cynthia—"
"It already says it," she said evenly. "You can argue about escorts and supervision all you want, but the moment someone follows me, whatever this is gets worse. You all know that."
Apollo's counselor grimaced. "You're too young."
"So was Percy," someone from Hermes said quietly.
That name landed heavy.
Cynthia didn't react. She'd trained herself not to.
Ares cabin laughed from the far end. "If she survives, she survives. If she doesn't—well. That's fate."
Several people shot them murderous looks.
Selena stood abruptly. "She's not expendable."
"No one said she was," Aphrodite replied smoothly. "But emotions don't rewrite destiny."
Cynthia felt something tighten in her chest—not anger. Something colder.
Chiron exhaled slowly. "Enough."
He turned fully to her now. "You are not leaving today."
A ripple of surprise moved through the room.
"You will leave in one week," he continued. "That time will be used to prepare, to observe, and to see whether the signs worsen or stabilize."
Mr. D raised an eyebrow. "A countdown. Fun."
"During that week," Chiron said, "no one interferes. No shadowing. No secret plans to follow her 'for safety.'" His gaze flicked meaningfully toward Athena and Apollo. "If this prophecy demands solitude, we respect it."
The arguments tried to restart.
Chiron didn't let them.
"The meeting is over."
Chairs scraped. Conversations splintered into heated whispers. Camp politics didn't end when the meeting did—they just went underground.
Cynthia left before anyone could stop her.
The week that followed fractured the camp in quiet, dangerous ways.
Support came first—from unexpected places.
The Apollo cabin doubled down on training with her, not pushing, just being there. Archery sessions stretched longer. Will never asked why she preferred night practice now. He just handed her fresh arrows and said, "You don't miss when it matters."
Selena started showing up at her cabin steps in the evenings, bringing snacks, gossip, normalcy. "If you're going to walk into mystery doom," she said once, "you're doing it well-fed."
The Hermes cabin was… complicated.
Some avoided her entirely, like proximity might invite prophecy spillover. Others treated her exactly the same—loud, messy, fiercely loyal. One kid pressed a spare pair of running shoes into her hands without a word. Another left a map under her pillow, routes marked in pencil.
Disapproval came quieter.
A few campers stopped sparring with her. Training partners suddenly "had other duties." Whispers followed her through the pavilion.
She's tempting fate.
She thinks being claimed makes her special.
This is how tragedies start.
Cynthia heard it all.
She didn't confront anyone.
She trained.
At night, when the camp slept, she moved through the forest edge with knives instead of bows. Her grip adjusted naturally now—wrist looser, movements sharper, economy replacing force. The blades felt like extensions of intent rather than weapons.
Sometimes—only sometimes—things aligned too perfectly.
A tripwire snapped just as she stepped over it.
A practice dummy's arm fell when she needed space to dodge.
A loose stone rolled away from her foot instead of under it.
She noticed.
She didn't comment.
During the day, she prepared the mortal things. Clothes that didn't scream "demigod." Cash. A notebook with blank pages and no prophecies written down. She kept up with schoolwork like the world wasn't about to tilt again.
At night, she dreamed of silver thread.
Not breaking.
Stretching.
On the seventh morning, Chiron found her at the edge of the climbing wall, tightening the straps on her pack.
"You are not required to prove anything," he said gently.
"I know," Cynthia replied.
"You may not like what waits."
"I don't like not knowing."
He nodded, accepting that answer for what it was.
The camp watched from a distance as she walked toward the boundary—not cheering, not mourning. Just witnessing.
Cynthia didn't look back.
She had a week's warning.
That felt like mercy.
And somewhere beyond the trees, something ancient waited—patient, irritated, and very aware that a thread had already been touched.