The world was on fire.
Cyrus stood in a battlefield soaked in shadows and screams. Thalia who looked a bit older was wearing a blood stained silver jacket was on the ground, her shield shattered, her body limp. Enormous monster whose face he couldn't see was loomed over her, teeth bared and claws dripping with ichor.
"Thalia!" he screamed, running toward her—but before he could reach, the scene shifted.
Now he saw Annabeth— much older than Thalia, bloodied, covered in scrapes as though she'd been dragged through every thorn bush in existence. Her Stormy Grey eyes were hollow as a pit open near her, dark, endless and dangerous. She screamed as she was pulled into it.
Then—Luke looking older. He was on the edge of a cliff, fighting with Thalia and she won, then he reached out saying something and was pushed from the cliff by her. He fell, reaching out as his face twisted in pain and shock.
The images blurred. The ground cracked. A woman's voice, twisted with grief, echoed through the void.
"My child... Must pro-tect him! Hermes, help—"
Cyrus clutched his head, pain splitting through his skull. "No!" he shouted.
Everything turned black.
Then came a whisper—low, powerful, ancient:
A half-blood of the eldest gods
Shall reach sixteen against all odds—
Before he could hear the rest, the scene warped again. Cyrus found himself inside a cozy, dimly lit cafe. The scent of cinnamon filled the air, and sunlight streamed through dusty windows. Three old women sat at a table with a ball of bright orange yarn and a yawning kitten curled up at their feet.
They were silent, unmoving, their eyes locked on him. Somehow, Cyrus knew they were ancient—older than gods.
The woman on the left opened her mouth, but the voice seemed to echo in his mind, not the room: "Son of Apollo, don't try to pry too much."
The middle one added, "Don't upset the balance."
The one on the right, without speaking aloud, finished, "You can't bear the consequence."
Fear tightened around his chest—but his first thought was something else entirely.
Wow. How the Hades did they finish each other's sentences? Did they rehearse that?
The rightmost woman narrowed her eyes, clearly offended. She lifted the orange yarn and began to stretch it. The other two held the ends as the middle one raised a pair of gleaming scissors.
Just as the blades began to close—
A burst of golden light blinded the entire cafe.
Apollo stood there, radiating fury.
The Fates narrowed their eyes at him, but then, as if on cue, the yarn disappeared. In unison, they spoke:
"Beware, Cyrus Ceallaigh. Don't meddle and look beyond what you can see."
They vanished.
Apollo turned to his son, eyes softening. "My little sunshine," he said with a sad smile. "I'm sorry, but you're not ready for what you just saw. I'm going to seal this memory until the time comes."
He reached out and gently pat Cyrus's head.
"Wait—what did that mean? What did they mean?" Cyrus asked.
But Apollo only smiled, and then gently shoved him backward.
Cyrus woke up with a gasp.
He was in a soft bed in a warm room. The scent of baked cookies hung in the air. His wounds were bandaged, his clothes fresh. His stomach growled.
He stood slowly, aching, and stepped into the next room. Annabeth sat in a chair, swinging her legs as she munched on cookies, eyes flicking curiously around. Thalia was browsing photos on a table, biting into a cookie of her own.
Cyrus dragged himself over to the table.
Annabeth glanced up, concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah... Where are we? Where's Luke?"
Thalia eyed him up and down. Satisfied he was okay, she said, "Luke's house. He's... talking to Lord Hermes."
Before Cyrus could process that, a woman bustled into the room with a tray of cookies. Her eyes lit up.
"Luke! Just in time—want some cookies?"
Cyrus blinked in confusion. Thalia looked pale and discreetly tugged his sleeve.
"Uh... sure," Cyrus said, letting the woman hand him cookies.
Just then, Luke burst in, face stormy. "Cyrus, you good?"
Cyrus nodded.
"Good. We're leaving. Now."
Lord Hermes followed him into the room, face emotionless. He handed over bags filled with supplies—food, band-aids, fresh clothes, weapons.
They gathered their things in tense silence.
As Cyrus walked to the door, Hermes murmured, "Please look after him."
Cyrus paused—then heard a strangled gasp behind him. Luke's mother—her eyes suddenly glowing green—clutched Hermes.
"My child... Must pro-tect him! Hermes, help! Not my child! Not his fate—no!"
Hermes quickly ushered her inside and closed the door.
Cyrus froze, a chill crawling up his spine. Something about this—her voice, her words—it felt like something from his dream. Something important.
Before he could dwell on it, Annabeth gently tugged his arm. "Come on. We have to go."
He followed them, leaving the warmth of Luke's house and the echoing cries of a mother behind.