It had been a week since they left Luke's home, and something in him had changed.
Cyrus could feel it—like a pulse of static tension in the air every time Luke walked ahead of them. Once the reliable, rational leader, Luke had become impulsive, aggressive even, as if he were constantly chasing something he could never quite catch. He volunteered to fight monsters they could've easily avoided, sought them out like he had something to prove. And maybe he did.
Thalia had noticed too. She didn't say much, but the tightness in her jaw and the way her eyes trailed Luke whenever he was out of earshot said enough. They both saw it. They just didn't know how to talk to him. He hadn't told them what happened with his father—and none of them had dared ask.
The days were starting to blur together in a haze of fatigue and blood. They were all injured to some degree—scrapes, bruises, deeper wounds that Cyrus had pushed himself to heal. Every time someone fell, he was there, hands glowing gold, calling on the sun's warmth to knit bone and flesh back together. But it was draining him. The bags beneath his eyes were darker. His shoulders sagged more with each mile. Sometimes he wondered how much longer he could keep this up.
Then came the breaking point.
They were passing through a forgotten neighborhood near the Hudson River when they were ambushed—again. This time by a group of mechanical bull automatons. It should've been a fight they could've avoided. But Luke, walking ahead, had raised his voice and provoked them like he always did.
"Come on then!" he shouted, drawing his blade with a grin. "Let's see what you've got!"
Cyrus barely had time to roll his eyes before chaos exploded around them.
The group scattered, Thalia launching arcs of lightning through the Celestial bronze monsters, Luke cleaving through them with swift, brutal efficiency. Cyrus stood farther back, his golden bow shimmering into his hands. He fired radiant arrows, each bolt striking with pinpoint accuracy.
But in the middle of it all, a tarandos—a twisted, malformed stag-like monster—emerged from the alley, gnawing on something it had stolen from an old woman's grocery bag. It slipped past their battle lines, unnoticed until it crept too close to Annabeth.
She turned just in time to see its antlers swing at her, but not fast enough to avoid the jagged slice it carved into her waist.
She screamed, collapsing to the ground.
"Annabeth!" Cyrus shouted.
He dropped his bow. His axe appeared in a burst of light, massive and pulsing with golden energy. With one mighty swing, he cleaved through the air, forcing the tarandos away from Annabeth. Another step forward—another blow—and the monster crumpled in a heap of ash.
Cyrus dropped to his knees beside her, hands already glowing.
"It's okay. I've got you. You're okay," he whispered, pressing his hands against the wound. Warm light spread beneath his fingers, mending torn skin and sealing the blood back inside her.
Annabeth whimpered, blinking up at him. "It hurts…"
"I know. You were really brave," he murmured, pulling out a small piece of ambrosia and pressing it into her hand. "Here. Just chew. Slowly."
She obeyed. Her breathing steadied, but she looked pale—too pale.
By the time Luke and Thalia finished off the automatons and ran back, Cyrus was sitting beside Annabeth protectively, still catching his breath.
"What happened?" Luke asked, panting.
"She got hit by a tarandos," Cyrus said, standing slowly. "While you were too busy picking fights."
The words were calm, but sharp. Cyrus's voice didn't rise—didn't need to.
Luke's jaw clenched.
"I've been watching you for the past week," Cyrus said. "We all have. You've been provoking everything that crosses our path—hellhounds, automatons, empousai, dracaenae—you name it. But this?" He gestured to Annabeth, who now sat up, cradling her side. "This is the cost. And next time, someone might not get back up."
Luke looked at Annabeth. "I'm... I'm sorry."
Annabeth gave a small shake of her head. "I'm okay. Really."
Cyrus exhaled. He stepped closer to Luke, his expression softening.
"Luke... I don't know what happened between you and your dad," he said, voice quieter now, "but I do know that we're here for you. Just like you were there for us. You said we were family. That we'd always look out for each other. So please... trust us. Take it slow. We'll figure this out—together."
Thalia nodded. "He's right. You don't have to carry this alone."
Annabeth added, "Yeah. We've got your back."
Luke looked at them, really looked, for the first time in days. His shoulders sagged.
Cyrus said once more "Let us help too."
Luke managed a small smile. "Yeah. We're family. And family always has each other's back."
From that day on, things changed to an extent. Though the fire in his eyes still persists, Luke at least stopped chasing fights. Instead, they focused on building something that would last.
They started constructing camouflaged safe houses—woven from vines and tree limbs like Native American huts. Cyrus and Thalia built them by hand while Annabeth monitored their progress and pointed out flaws like a miniature architect.
"This wall's crooked," she announced.
"We're not building the Parthenon, Annabeth," Cyrus groaned, brushing sweat from his brow.
"Well, the Parthenon didn't have crooked walls," she shot back with a smirk.
They laughed. They built six of them in total, scattering them along their route. Each was stocked with sleeping bags, blankets, celestial bronze weapons, ice chests, nectar, ambrosia, and kerosene lamps. Some supplies they took from monster camps. Others, Luke "borrowed" from stores nearby.
"These will help others someday," Cyrus said, stepping back from the last one.
"That's the idea," Luke replied, watching the sunset filter through the leaves.
The next two weeks were lighter. They snuck into arcades, played mini-golf with enchanted coins, and roasted marshmallows by campfires. Luke stole a Polaroid camera from a pawn shop, claiming it was to "replace Cyrus's ridiculously cool sunglasses" before the film ran out.
One evening, as the firelight flickered, Luke stood dramatically, pointing toward a dark alley.
"March, soldiers!" he bellowed, grinning. "We ride at dawn!"
Annabeth snapped the photo just in time.
"I'm keeping that one," she giggled.
Luke smirked. "That better not be the last shot. I still need to get one of Cyrus brooding with his axe."
Cyrus chuckled. "Brooding's a lifestyle."
Then, near the edge of Central Park, everything shifted again.
They spotted a nervous-looking boy in crutches, wearing a too-big cap that shaded his eyes. He flinched at every sound, constantly glancing behind him like something was chasing him.
Luke tensed, hand going to his sword. "Monster?"
The boy looked up, startled. "W-wait—"
But Luke was already stepping forward, sword drawn.
"Blahhh....Calm down!" the boy yelped, stumbling back. "I'm not a monster! I'm a Sa... Satyr!"
Cyrus grabbed Luke's arm. "Luke, stop."
The boy huffed, catching his breath. "I—I mean no harm. I've been searching for demigods. Especially the daughter of Zeus. I was sent to guide her to Camp Half-Blood."
He looked straight at Thalia.
She blinked. "Just me?"
The Satyr hesitated, then looked at the rest of them—at Luke's wary glare, Cyrus's wary but curious expression, Annabeth's bandaged side.
"You all look like you've been through Tartarus," the Satyr said quietly. "No... all of you should come. You need rest. Camp's a safe place."
Luke crossed his arms. "If it's so safe, why didn't anyone find us earlier?"
The Satyr looked down. "I—I wasn't the only one sent. But not everyone made it. I got lucky. Barely."
Luke glanced at the others. He didn't answer for a long moment.
"We didn't go to camp," he finally said with a half-smile. "We've been surviving on our own."
The Satyr blinked. "You mean you... chose not to?"
Luke shrugged. "We've built safehouses. Trained. Kept each other alive."
"And that's incredible," the Satyr said gently. "But you shouldn't have to keep doing it alone."
Cyrus studied Luke's expression—the flicker of doubt, the weariness he tried so hard to hide. It struck him how close they'd come to losing Annabeth. How frayed Luke had become at the edges. And how much he didn't want to admit how tired he was.
Cyrus stepped forward. "Maybe it's time to stop running."
Luke didn't speak, but he nodded—just once.
"Alright, Satyr," he said. "Take us to this camp of yours."
The boy grinned in relief. "My name's Grover. Grover underwood. Follow me."
And so they did.
For the first time, there was a path forward.