Warmth kissed Cyrus's face, soft as a lullaby. He opened his eyes to sunlight pouring through a wide bay window, golden and perfect, casting light across a house that felt too beautiful to be real.
Wooden floors gleamed beneath his bare feet. The air was filled with the faint scent of coffee, lavender, and a whisper of sunshine itself. He sat up on a plush couch, surrounded by bookcases, old records, and photographs in silver and gold frames.
Near the window, seated in a vintage armchair, was a man who looked like an older version of him—sunset-red hair, eyes the color of the sky at noon, wearing a retro cream shirt, dark vest, and slacks, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He stared out at the landscape beyond the glass—rolling green hills and an impossibly blue sky.
"Good morning, sunshine," Apollo said without looking. His voice was warm, gentle, as if it were the first song of dawn. "Why don't you sit with me?"
Still in a daze, Cyrus stepped toward the matching chair opposite his father and slowly sat. The house felt familiar, like something from a dream long forgotten.
After a quiet moment, Apollo smiled—sad and wistful. "You know… this is your home. Or, well, it was. Your mother loved this place more than anywhere in the world."
Cyrus turned to look around, his gaze catching on the black-and-white photos lining the walls. A young woman—smiling, fierce, proud—posed in some, while others showed her laughing with friends, training with other demigods, hugging mortals who might've been her parents or siblings.
"When we learned she was expecting you," Apollo continued, "we made a room upstairs. It was… one of the happiest moments of our lives."
He pointed to the stairway. "Go ahead. You should see it."
Cyrus stood and climbed the stairs, each step echoing with a strange mixture of anticipation and sorrow. At the end of the hallway was a small wooden door. He pushed it open.
The nursery was painted a soft blue, with little suns and white clouds stenciled across the walls. A crib sat in the center, crafted entirely of celestial bronze. A mobile of glowing constellations hung above it. Sunlight spilled through the window, catching on the golden threads of a baby blanket draped over the edge.
He felt warmth in his chest—and a knot of sadness tightening there too.
When he descended the stairs, Apollo was watching him.
Cyrus met his gaze. "That memory… the one I saw. Was Mom trying to protect me when she fought that thing?"
Apollo didn't answer right away. He only offered a tight smile, heavy with grief.
Cyrus's voice cracked. "But why? Why did they want me? Why did she have to die—and why didn't you come sooner? You saved me—why not her?"
He hadn't meant for the words to come out so sharp, so angry—but they did. And it shattered the quiet.
Apollo stood and gently pulled Cyrus into a hug. His voice trembled.
"My dear sunshine… I wanted to save her more than anything. But she chose that fate. I could only save you because… she gave up her life to make it possible."
Cyrus shoved him away, disbelief twisting his face. "So—so I lived because she died?"
Apollo's eyes closed briefly. He nodded.
"In order to seek protection from a god," he said softly, "a powerful offering must be made. And—"
"So she sacrificed herself," Cyrus said, the words tasting like ash. "She offered her life to keep me safe."
Apollo didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The silence was answer enough.
Minutes passed in stillness, both of them weighed down by the unspoken.
Eventually, Cyrus whispered, "Who was that being? Why did they want me?"
Apollo's jaw clenched. "You can't know that yet. The time's not right. But…"
He turned to the window. The light had shifted—brighter now, almost blinding.
A soft smile touched his face. "It seems you'll be waking up soon."
He turned back, eyes shining like morning. "Don't be too shocked when you see your siblings again. And Cyrus—tell them I love them. I love you."
The world began to blur.
Light pulled at the corners of his vision, and the scent of lavender and sun faded.
Reality returned with a quiet snore.
Cyrus blinked open his eyes to find Annabeth's head resting near his side, asleep in a chair beside the bed. Across the infirmary, Luke and Thalia sat talking softly, both of them wrapped in bandages like mummies.
The room smelled of nectar and clean linen. His limbs felt heavy but functional. He shifted upright, groaning softly.
Thalia turned, her face lighting up despite the tape on her cheek.
"Well, look who finally woke up," she said, her blue eyes glittering. "Sleeping Beauty lives. I was this close to asking Prince Charming—" she jabbed a thumb at Luke "—to give you a kiss."
Luke pulled a disgusted face. "No way I'm kissing that ugly mug. Though—" he turned to Thalia with a smirk "—I might have kissed you if you needed help waking up."
Thalia flushed scarlet, swatting at him with her good arm. "Shut up, idiot."
Cyrus blinked, half-laughing, half-confused. He felt uncomfortable looking at them. He pushed the thought aside—probably just some lingering pain in his chest.
Annabeth stirred and blinked up at him. When she realized he was awake, she launched herself forward.
"You're up!" she sobbed into his shoulder. "I thought—you weren't—you didn't wake up for two weeks!"
"Two weeks?!" Cyrus choked, eyes wide, before immediately breaking into a coughing fit.
Luke snorted. "Yup. Fourteen days of dead-weight snoring. Want some water, Sleeping Beauty?"
After downing a cup of water and a swig of nectar—chocolate milkshake flavor, blessedly—Cyrus finally felt steady enough to move.
"Think you're good to walk?" Annabeth asked gently.
He nodded, and she stood beside him. "Let's go see Chiron and Mr. D. They've been waiting."
As he stepped out of the infirmary, sunlight filtering through the trees, he felt a strange mix of joy and sorrow settle over him and for the first time in his life, Cyrus Ceallaigh laid eyes on Camp Half-Blood which he heard so much from other hunters.
He stopped in his tracks.
It was beautiful.
Rolling green hills glowed in the sunlight. Strawberry fields stretched in the distance, glistening dew on their leaves. Cabins stood in a semi-circle, each unique—some ancient Greek in design, others wild and overgrown, a few shining like polished marble or glowing with magical energy. The scent of sea air carried from the edge of the woods, and in the center of it all, A bronze dragon coiled around a tree trunk.
He could hear laughter in the distance, the clash of weapons from a training arena, the clip-clop of hooves and saw some demigods were flying in what seems to be Pegasus. But it wasn't the sounds and the scenery that got him.
It was the feeling.
Cyrus took a deep breath.
This place… felt like safety. Like hope. Like the home his mother had dreamed for him, painted in blue skies and sunlit walls.
"So," Annabeth smiled beside him, "welcome to Camp Half-Blood."
Cyrus swallowed the lump in his throat and managed a quiet smile. "Yeah," he whispered. "I think I like this place."