He woke to daylight. The storm in the ceiling of Zeus's temple had dimmed to a slow churn, the lightning only a soft flicker, like a thought trying to form. His body still felt heavy, the ache of yesterday sunk deep into the bone, but the smell of food tugged him toward the doors like a rope.
The pavilion buzzed with noise—laughter, the clatter of dishes, the scrape of benches. He didn't make it three steps inside before conversations thinned and a few dozen eyes slid his way. Damien kept his gaze down, grabbed a plate, and piled it with whatever was closest. He sat at the end of an empty bench, shoulders tight, pretending not to hear the whispers.
"That's him."
"From Zeus's temple."
"Big Three kids don't last; they always send them on the hard quests."
He focused on chewing. The bread tasted like wheat and salt and normal. He latched onto that. Normal. He could do normal.
"Hey."
Damien looked up. A girl with a bright scarf and hair that flashed with tiny flecks of color in the sun dropped onto the bench across from him like she'd been invited. She had quick eyes and a faster smile.
"You're sitting like you're about to bolt," she said. "Don't. It makes them think they're right."
He blinked. "Right about what?"
She gestured at the room with her fork. "About you being a disaster. I'm Kyra."
"Damien."
"I know," she said, and then, softer, "Everyone does." She stabbed a piece of fruit. "Sorry. Camp's small despite the actual size. Gossip moves faster than Hermes on a coffee run."
He tried a smile and failed. "They're staring."
"They're curious," Kyra said. "Also scared. Also impressed. It's complicated." She leaned in, lowering her voice. "You walked out of Zeus's temple. That hasn't happened in years. People think it means storms and monsters and quests and whatever else makes life interesting and short."
He looked at his plate. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"Nobody does." She flicked her fingers, and a thin strand of light caught between them, color splitting like a tiny rainbow before fading. "My mom's Iris. I hear things. And I promise you—half of the kids staring are just waiting for you to trip so they can stop being scared and start being smug."
Damien almost laughed. "Comforting."
"Hey, I said half. The other half are rooting for you." She tilted her head, studying him. "...You don't look like a thunderbolt."
"What do I look like?"
"Like a kid who slept in a storm and woke up hungry." She laughed, popping the fruit in her mouth. "Sorry, just weird rumors. Eat, then you'll feel strong enough to decide whether to be offended or flattered."
They ate in a not-uncomfortable silence for a minute. The room's noise swelled again as other conversations picked up. Damien felt the tightness in his shoulders loosen by a fraction.
"So," Kyra said lightly, "what's he like?"
Damien frowned. "Who?"
She nodded toward the ceiling, toward the thunder that never quite stopped since Damien arrived. "Your dad."
Damien's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down. "I don't—I haven't met him yet."
Kyra's expression softened. "You don't have to know yet." She pushed her tray aside and stood. "But for what it's worth, you're not the first camper not to meet their parent from upstairs. Don't let that get you down-you're not alone." She flashed that quick smile again.
Seeing that smile, Damien couldn't help it—the words spilled. "I heard his voice, I think."
Kyra leaned in, color brightening in her scarf as it caught the light. "You did? What did he sound like?"
Damien closed his eyes, dragged back to the alley: the one-eyed giant, the tearing wings, the shield of bronze and thunder. His thumb rubbed the ring without thinking, his father's voice sounding in his head.
"Rise, my son, and show them who you are."
Even the memory sent a chill through him, like thunder far away. He stared at the table, and something broke loose inside him.
"...He's a deadbeat."
The word hit the pavilion like a dropped plate. Conversation died. Older campers tipped their heads toward the sky. Outside, the daylight dimmed a shade; a skin of cloud pulled itself further over the sun.
Oblivious, Damien kept going. "All I can remember is being alone. If my mom was still here, maybe—" His voice snagged. "She's been gone so long I can barely remember her face."
Above the open pavilion, the clouds thickened, slow at first, then gathering with purpose. Rain kissed the stone once, twice.
"Even when I was starving, he never helped me. And now I'm supposed to live up to his title?" Damien lifted his head. The sky was a single gray plate now. "No. What good is a king who can't even be a father?"
"Stop," Kyra hissed, panic cutting through her whisper. "He'll strike you if you keep talking like that—look at the sky."
Damien met her eyes, and for the first time she saw how tired they were, how empty. "Then let him. It's not like I have anyone to live for."
The clouds bunched, a heartbeat from breaking. Wind shuddered along the pavilion's edge. The storm felt like Damien's chest—tight, about to split—shot through with a colder, older anger that wasn't his alone.
Then everything went still.
The rain stopped mid-fall. Wind died. The sky went quiet, as if someone had pressed a hand over the world's mouth.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Damien sat there another breath, two. He let out a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob, and stood. He left his half-eaten plate and walked out of the pavilion. No one tried to stop him. No one would have dared.
He made it back to Zeus's temple without looking up. He passed the statue in the main hall, all marble power and cold eyes, and slipped into the side chamber that had become his. He didn't bother with the blanket. He didn't take off the ring. He curled on the bed, facing the wall, and let the hollow inside him be hollow.
Outside, after a long, fragile pause, the rain returned—soft at first, then hard enough to blur the world. Training was called off. Voices faded to the hush of water.
He didn't know how long he lay there before he felt it: the mattress dipped. Footsteps hadn't echoed. The door hadn't creaked. Just weight, settling, ordinary and undeniable.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to. After the pavilion, no one else would enter the 'House of Zeus.' No one else would sit here.
Silence stretched. He listened to the rain.
"As a king," the voice said at last, low and even, "I have a standard to keep. If I bend, those who would take my throne press closer." A breath. Not quite a sigh. "As a husband, I have vows. As a god, I have laws."
Damien stared at the wall.
"Your mother," the voice went on, softer, "was freedom. I loved her as I love my wife. Perhaps more." Another pause, longer. "I could not stay. Interfere too much, and we invite chaos. So I watched."
Damien's hands clenched under his chin. "You watched," he said, the words dry as ash.
"I saw the beatings," Zeus said. "I saw you steal when you chose your own life over obedience. I saw you sleep in rain and wake in alleys. You hate me for it. I do not blame you."
A hand rested lightly on his forearm. Human. Warm.
"I am allowed to act only when my child's life is in true danger," Zeus said. "So, I acted. I sent what was yours- Aventi."
Damien's thumb pressed into the ring until it hurt. He wanted to fling it away again, watch it return, curse it for returning. He didn't move.
"You expect me to forgive you," he said, and wasn't sure if he meant it as a question.
"No." The answer came without hesitation. "I expect you to live." A beat. "I expect you to become who you are fated to be."
Damien swallowed. His throat burned. Words crowded up and died there. Finally: "If you cared—why didn't you come before?"
"...I did," Zeus said. "Not like this. But I was there." The bed shifted—no closer, no farther. "It is not kindness to be seen when sight endangers you."
They let the rain fill the room again.
"Even if I do not say it again," Zeus said at last, "know this: I love you, Damien."
The words landed with the weight of a promise and the fragility of glass. Damien's breath hitched. He turned—too fast, desperate for a face, for anything he could hold—but the bed was already lightening. The door hadn't opened. There was no figure to see.
Thunder cracked once, sharp as a farewell, and rolled away into distance.