Two years passed, though it hardly felt that long to Cyrus who is now 15 years old. Life at Camp Half-Blood had become a comfortable rhythm: morning training, afternoon archery and healing, nights around the fire. He'd made friends, gained respect, and become someone people naturally gravitated toward. His skills with the axe and bow were matched by his cheerful disposition and his willingness to help anyone in need. For many campers, he was more than just another demigod—he was a beacon.
But over time, Cyrus began to notice the cracks beneath the surface.
It started small—little things he couldn't ignore. There were kids, older than him, who lingered in the Hermes cabin even though they didn't belong there. Unclaimed demigods with tired eyes and hardened stares. Some didn't even bother training anymore. They sat under trees, staring off into the forest like the monsters out there were a better fate than the walls that kept them safe.
"Camp's not what it used to be like when I first came here" one of them, a tall, silent boy named Evan with a jagged scar across his nose and eyes that looked much older than seventeen, told him one evening. "We're just... extras. Space fillers. They keep bringing in younger kids every year, and we just fade into the background, without any care. "
Cyrus had no words.
Luke, too, had grown more withdrawn. The boy who once laughed and joked with them now spent more time brooding on the porch of the Big House or pacing near the lake. When Cyrus approached him, Luke tried to act normal—but the bitterness lingered in his voice like poison.
"There's no cabin for Hermes kids that aren't Hermes kids," Luke muttered one afternoon. "They dump every unclaimed child here, whether their godly parent wants them or not. Tell me that's fair."
Cyrus didn't answer immediately. They were sitting near the armory, cleaning weapons after a training session. "Maybe the gods have their reasons?"
Luke scoffed. "They always have reasons. Good luck finding one that actually cares."
Cyrus frowned. "Apollo cares."
Luke gave him a look, not angry—just exhausted. "Maybe. But caring isn't the same as doing something."
It wasn't just Luke. Cyrus noticed it everywhere now. Older campers with no cabin of their own, no future here. They whispered about leaving, choosing to die on their feet outside the camp rather than fade away quietly inside it.
That night, after another long day of training, Cyrus found himself at the edge of the campfire circle with a few of the older campers—not just unclaimed kids from Hermes cabin, but even those from Olympian lines.
Evan was there, sharpening his blade. So was Marcy, a daughter of Athena, with streaks of grey prematurely lining her hair despite being only nineteen. Next to her sat Trevor, a sullen son of Demeter, his hands calloused and dirt-stained. Cyrus hadn't talked to him much before, but tonight, the mood was heavy enough to draw him in.
"We're just placeholders," Marcy muttered, not looking up. "Once you're too old to be a prodigy or a prophecy-child, they stop looking your way."
Trevor nodded. "My mom's the goddess of growth, but where's the growth for us? I've been here six years. No quest. No future. Just chores and sparring."
Cyrus sat quietly for a moment, then said, "But you're some of the strongest fighters we have. You've helped keep the camp running."
Evan snorted. "Yeah, and for what? So the next wave of twelve-year-olds can treat us like counselors? They get claimed, trained, and will be like us. We just sit here, watching time chip away at us and then what our elder siblings done"
Marcy glanced at Cyrus, her voice quieter. "We talk about leaving sometimes. Not to betray camp—just to live. Or die. At least then, it's on our terms."
Cyrus's heart tightened. He didn't have an answer. Not one that would make a difference.
"I'll miss you," he said finally, his voice soft.
Trevor gave him a small smile. "You're a good kid, Cyrus. That's why we're telling you this. Someday, you might be the one who needs to make a choice just like we are now."
"Better to be a ghost in the real world than a nobody here," Evan said.
Then there was Thalia.
She had healed well—better than anyone expected. She was strong, sharp-tongued, and fearless in battle. Campers admired her, respected her... but slowly, some of that admiration had begun to shift. Toward Cyrus.
He didn't mean for it to happen. But he was always there: helping, encouraging, fighting at their side. They started looking to him for answers, for leadership. And Thalia noticed.
She never said it out loud, but Cyrus caught the slight narrowing of her eyes when campers sought his opinion first. The way her jaw tensed when they chose to train with him instead of her. She laughed it off, always, but he could see it—subtle, restrained jealousy.
It was only made more complicated by the way he had started to see her.
He wasn't sure when it happened. Maybe it was when she smiled at his joke and actually laughed—a full, real laugh. Or the way she pushed her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. Maybe it was just the way her electric-blue eyes glinted with mischief every time she challenged him to a spar.
Cyrus had always cared for Thalia. But now, he couldn't help the way his eyes searched for her in a crowd, or how his mood lifted every time she smiled at him. He found excuses to sit near her, to walk beside her during patrols, to catch her eye during meals. He never said anything, of course—not with everything going on, and not when Luke was still hurting.
But the feeling was there, and it grew.
One warm evening, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Cyrus and Thalia sat by the lake.
"You ever think about leaving?" she asked suddenly, tossing a pebble into the water.
Cyrus hesitated. "Sometimes. But I've got people here who count on me. You, Luke... Annabeth. The kids. I don't think I could just walk away."
Thalia nodded slowly. "Yeah. Me neither. But sometimes I wonder if staying makes us better... or just trapped."
He glanced at her. The setting sun bathed her face in gold and orange, making her look impossibly beautiful. He said nothing.
Thalia smiled faintly. "You're staring."
"Yeah," Cyrus admitted. "I know."
She blinked, caught off guard—but the smile didn't fade.
Behind them, the campfire was being lit, campers calling for Cyrus to come sing, asking Thalia to show them a new spear technique. They stood slowly, brushing dirt from their clothes, and joined the others.
But that moment lingered between them, fragile and flickering, like the last light of day.
And somewhere near the shadows, Luke watched them go—his hands clenched in his pockets, and his gaze darkening just a little more.