Grover had joined them less than an hour ago, and already the group felt the shift.
Something wasn't right.
Cyrus felt it in the back of his neck, the way the air thickened with unease the moment they agreed to follow the satyr. It wasn't just nerves—monsters were moving, circling, converging. It was like the world itself didn't want them to reach Camp Half-Blood.
"What do you mean it's only fifty miles?" Thalia had asked earlier, half-incredulous, half-exhausted.
Grover had stammered something about northeastern Long Island, about how it should've taken less than two hours. But they'd barely made it ten miles in that time. Every few blocks forced them into a new detour—ambushes by automatons, harpies, and even a band of angry Cercopes that had clearly been stirred up by something.
Cyrus didn't say anything when it happened, but he saw Luke's jaw tighten, saw the way he had stared a little too long at the harpies overhead before they'd dived. Thalia had noticed too, the faint twitch in her expression saying more than words could. But she kept it to herself. For now.
They pushed forward, chased block by block through the city, until they emerged into the chaos of Times Square.
The Mist warped the world around them, twisting perception. To the mortals, the street was crowded with flashing lights and rush-hour tension. What they saw were massive police dogs snarling and snapping on leashes, and uniformed officers with blank expressions sweeping through the crowd.
To the demigods? Hellhounds. Zombies.
"We're surrounded," Annabeth breathed, blade drawn.
They didn't wait.
Cyrus stepped forward, readying his bow—only to curse when a jolt of movement beside him sent the arrow wide. The press of monsters was too dense, the alley too tight. His usual rhythm—hang back, provide support—was shattered.
So he dropped the bow and drew his axe.
He roared into the fray, swinging in wide arcs. A hellhound lunged, and Cyrus slammed the flat of the axe into its jaw, knocking it sideways before burying the blade into its spine. The creature disintegrated into ash.
Another came from behind. Cyrus spun, catching it mid-air with a brutal upward slice that left only dust in its wake. The zombies, disguised by the Mist as uniformed officers, were slower but just as relentless. He crushed one's skull with the blunt end of his weapon, barely pausing before covering Annabeth's side, who was panting hard and holding a defensive stance.
They fought in a blur, navigating the surreal battlefield. Tourists screamed and ducked, unable to say why. Some swore they saw a dogfight or riot, others just saw smoke and confusion. The Mist cloaked everything else.
Grover pulled Annabeth away from a snarling "K-9" as Cyrus blocked another charge. Luke and Thalia held the flanks, blades flashing. Finally—finally—they broke through the perimeter, darting into an overgrown alley.
Two more Stymphalian birds dove from above. Cyrus didn't hesitate. With a shout, he vaulted off a parked car, bringing his axe down mid-air. One bird exploded in a burst of golden dust; the other shrieked and crashed into a fire escape.
"Come on!" he yelled, landing hard and dragging Grover forward.
They ran again.
Another maze of buildings. Another swarm.
Cyrus's muscles screamed in protest. He'd been swinging, blocking, healing for hours. His magic was nearly spent. Every breath burned.
Finally, the city gave way to woods. Branches clawed at their arms as they stumbled into forest cover. Grover tripped, collapsing to his knees.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "This is… this is because of me. I took too many wrong turns. I made this worse—"
Cyrus, already kneeling to tend to Thalia's scraped arm, looked up and rubbed his temple. His gaze softened.
"It's not your fault," he said, handing Grover a piece of ambrosia. "You're doing the best you can. We all are."
Then, with a quick side glance, he flicked his eyes toward Luke—silent, tense, and avoiding them. He hadn't apologized for earlier. Not to Grover. Not to anyone. He'd just checked Annabeth's condition and kept his gaze forward.
Thalia noticed. Her blue eyes lingered on Luke a little too long, her fingers tightening around the javelin strapped to her back. But she said nothing.
The silence held—heavy, uncertain.
Then came the howl.
It echoed through the trees, low and drawn out like a war horn. And with it, a voice, clear and cruel:
"You can't escape, Daughter of Zeus. Surrender, and we'll give you a quick death."
Every hair on Cyrus's neck stood on end.
"Run," he said, already pulling Thalia up.
Luke didn't argue this time.
They sprinted again, feet pounding the earth, lungs straining. The voice didn't follow—but something did. Heavy steps in the dark. Grover shouted directions between gasps. "L-left—now right—through here—"
"It seems Lord Hades found out about Thalia," he choked out.
Thalia huffed. "Yeah, we figured, given his warm welcome."
Finally, an old abandoned building came into view, swallowed by vines and time.
Grover waved them in. "We—we can rest here. I think we lost them."
Inside, the place reeked of mildew and rot. Thalia glanced around, shivering. "Man, this place could make a fortune as a haunted house."
Cyrus nodded, gripping his axe tighter. The unease in his chest hadn't lifted. It reminded him of the last time they sought shelter in a haunted-looking house—a vampire, Mormo, had nearly drained a younger demigod in front of them.
"I don't like this," he muttered. "We should leave."
No one answered.
He turned—and found the room empty.
A sudden chill rippled through him.
"Mist," he whispered, and it thickened like smoke.
A voice called out. "Cyrus! Help!"
Rebekka.
He didn't think. He ran. The mist twisted, and then—
A scream.
He turned, too late.
Pain exploded across the back of his skull. The last thing he saw was a cyclops, grinning with jagged teeth, before everything went dark.