Luke listened to the music. Warmth enveloped him.
He let go of his worries, his doubts, the ache in his chest he didn't always admit to feeling. He let himself be absorbed.
...
He woke, startled, sweat clinging to his skin.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden shapes across a modest room. The air smelled like home: fresh pancakes, syrup, coffee.
"Morning, sleepyhead," came a voice.
He turned.
Hermes stood in the doorway. Casual. Smiling.
"May's making breakfast. Even whipped up some Kool-Aid for you."
He wore a faded Camp Half-Blood tee and held a mug of coffee in one hand.
"You should get up. Your friends are downstairs. Any later and they might eat all the pancakes."
With a chuckle, Hermes turned and disappeared down the stairs.
Luke sat slowly upright. The bed was soft. His skin unscarred. His hands were smooth, smaller like he was younger again.
He blinked.
"...Dad?"
Hermes didn't hear. Or didn't answer.
Luke pulled himself from bed, dressed, and followed the sounds of laughter.
Thalia leaned against the kitchen wall, dressed in jeans and a navy hoodie. She was laughing, easily, naturally, as she chatted with May who was working the stove.
Annabeth lounged on the couch, humming as she flipped through a book.
Lucas sat at the table, sipping tea, a small, knowing smile on his face.
Everything was fine.
...
Outside, the camp had changed, but it hadn't.
The cabins lined the hill, including ones Luke had never seen before built for minor gods, filled with life, with children laughing and playing.
Chiron led a group through archery drills nodding with pride. Zeus and Poseidon bet on sword matches nearby, arguing with mock aggression before changing to booming laughter.
Athena discussed ancient battles with a group of children under the shade of the amphitheater.
It was perfect.
This place was his home.
Filled with families.
At dinner, Luke sat at a circular table with the others enjoying the atmosphere. He truly loved this place.
...
Days passed. He didn't count how many. Luke lived in this peace, this dream.
He trained, ate with friends, felt whole.
But something gnawed at him.
One night, he made his way up Half-Blood Hill.
Lucas stood there, overlooking camp, quiet.
The atmosphere had shifted. The laughter below was softer, distant.
Luke stopped beside him.
"It's false, isn't it?"
His voice cracked.
Lucas didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The silence said enough.
"Everyone is happy. Everyone has a place. Why... why...?"
Luke dropped to his knees, fists clenched against the grass. His voice trembled with fury and grief.
"This is what I dream of. But why does it hurt so much?"
Still, Lucas said nothing. Just watched the glowing cabins and quiet fire-pits below.
"You're not even Lucas, are you?"
Silence again.
Luke looked up at the figure. Something about the eyes. Too perfect. Too still.
Luke recalled every time they spoke to each other.
Every time they spoke previously, it started the same way:
"Is this what you wanted?"
The truth?
No.
Luke wanted his friends.
His real ones.
He wanted the Hermes Cabin kids who looked to him as a leader because he stood for them. The broken, unclaimed, overlooked children. His family.
And he would never abandon them.
...
The dream shattered.
...
Darkness. Cold. The scent of mildew and cracked paint.
He was small again, hiding in a cabinet, his mother screaming outside it.
Her laughter followed, high-pitched and hysterical.
She called him a mistake. A curse. A punishment. A betrayer.
Hermes stood next to her. Calm. Smiling. "You were never meant to last," he whispered. "You were never enough."
Then he turned.
Annabeth appeared, blood on her face, staring at him with hollow eyes, clutching his arm. "You abandoned me...us" she whispered.
She turned and his eyes followed to behind her, there on the ground lay the corpses of Thalia and Lucas.
Another flash.
Now it was the Hermes Cabin. Overcrowded. Loud. Campers shoving for space.
Luke sat in the corner, his face still bloody from a sparring accident.
No one asked if he was okay.
No one even looked.
No one cared for him.
...
The illusions began to swirl. Faster. Relentless.
"You're worthless."
"Your father never cared."
"You're not a leader. Just another abandoned child pretending he's not broken."
"You will always be alone."
Luke fell to his knees.
He clutched his ears.
He wanted it to stop.
The illusions snarled around him.
His mother's cries. Hermes' silence. Annabeth's bloodied hands. The corpses of friends.
But deep inside, beneath the pain and the guilt and the shame, something remained.
Something steady.
A voice.
His own.
The part that had always pushed forward.
The part that refused to break.
The part that said:
"I remember. I know. But I'm still here."
Luke straightened.
He clenched his fists.
He straightened.
He wasn't running anymore.
He drew them in.
All of them.
Embraced them.
He didn't shatter the world.
He left it behind.
...
Luke awoke to flickering torchlight.
The Sirens were preparing a fire.
Thalia lay nearby, still unconscious. Her expression twisted in pain.
Luke rose, sword already in hand.
No hesitation.
Three quick steps. Three clean strikes.
The Sirens didn't get to collapse, turning to dust before a head even touched the ground.
He dropped to one knee beside Thalia.
But before he could speak, her eyes snapped open.
No fear. No confusion.
Only clarity.
She had escaped on her own.