Chapter Text
Sixteen
“Growing up is not always becoming someone new. Sometimes it is learning how to live with everything you have already become.”
Sixteen.
Lyra woke to rain tapping against her window. She pulled her thick winter duvet over her shoulder, burying her face into her pillow.
She had heard the faint sound of Happy Birthday just before she woke up.
She rolled over so that she was facing into her room rather than the window. On her white bedside table sat a digital clock. It read 07:15, and the date was 15/12/2006.
Fifteenth...
Twelfth...
December...
It was December fifteenth.
It was her birthday.
She should have been more excited. She should have been ready to jump out of bed and greet her family and friends.
She loved birthdays. She loved her birthday.
Her mum would make her a birthday crown, which Lyra would wear for the entire day. Last year, she had Luke, Annabeth, Ethan, the Stolls, Silena and Lee at her birthday party.
They had played board games, eaten about ten different kinds of French pastries and ended the day with a movie night.
It had been perfect.
She decided to skip the party this year.
Her mum had been heartbroken when Lyra told her, but she had done what she did best: been completely understanding before getting distracted by the smell of cookies about to burn.
Lyra had laughed and quickly thrown her the oven mitts.
Her birthday felt more like a countdown.
One more year until her prophecy.
Until she became a Seer.
Until Apollo.
Sun, the Golden Door, all the things she had been avoiding.
She didn't get up at sunrise anymore. She thanked the gods for cloudy, cold winter days.
She did not resent Apollo.
She just didn't know what to say.
What to make of him.
Or the fact that she was beginning to see not just the future, but the past and the present.
She had spent many school nights trapped in memories that weren't her own.
Maths lessons spent getting impressions of people miles away.
Feelings that flooded her body, taking more than they gave.
Lyra knew what they were, but that didn't mean she understood any of it.
“When silence walks where sunlight gleams,
the Dream shall wake from golden dreams.
When seventeen summers have passed her by,
the sleeping Seer shall open her eyes.
When dream meets dawn and night meets day,
the Sun shall find her, and Fate shall have its way.
Two threads shall meet where none can sever,
the Dreamer and Sun, bound by Fate forever.”
Seventeen summers.
Her seventeenth birthday.
Her eleventh summer at Camp.
Her prophecy would be fulfilled. She would finally be a Seer.
And that was terrifying.
Lyra had written the words over a hundred times, between the pages of books and in the margins of her school notebooks.
Her mum knew about the prophecy. She always told Lyra that she was strong, that she would forge her own destiny.
Lyra wasn't sure.
She didn't tell anyone about her doubts.
Her insecurities.
Any of it.
How could a god love me?
She had whispered the words to herself in the mirror, tracing the scar across her face.
How could anyone love a face like this?
Her scar had caused so many problems.
Firstly, her school had called Child Protective Services—which, honestly, they should have. What teenager came back from summer with an ugly scar and unexplained 'fits' that neither she nor her mother could explain?
Chiron had intervened, pretending to be a specialist doctor and using the Mist to explain away everything.
Secondly, people stared at her all the time.
Lyra had never been particularly concerned about her appearance. Silena and her mum said she was beautiful, and that had always been enough for her.
She liked how she looked.
Messy hair. Frumpy clothes.
She knew her eyes could be a little uncomfortable, but they were nothing compared to the scar running along her face.
Everywhere she went, people looked.
Even her mum.
She didn't blame them.
It was ugly.
She felt ugly.
Third, it hurt.
It ached all the time and itched whenever the weather changed. Her mum would gently rub a little rosehip oil onto it while comforting her after a nightmare.
Nothing healed it completely.
Lee had tried Ambrosia and Nectar. He had found other herbs and remedies.
Nothing worked.
The scar remained.
The nightmares were difficult.
Luke accompanied most of her thoughts.
Where was he?
Was he okay?
Lyra replayed that night in her head every night before she went to sleep, waiting for him.
He had said he would come back.
So every night, she replayed that night and waited for him to appear at her window, on her Juliet balcony.
Lyra didn't know what she would do if he actually came back.
Or what he would do.
But she did know that she missed him.
She missed him like one might miss a limb.
She missed Ethan.
She missed her family as it had been.
Lyra glanced at the clock.
08:58.
It was time to get up.
Getting out of bed was a slow process involving a lot of lying down again, followed by slowly lifting one limb before giving up and lying back down. Eventually, the final push—usually her alarm for school—would force Lyra to get up.
Lyra stretched her arms above her head. Her shoulder clicked.
She glanced around.
Her room was a mess.
There was a pile of vinyl records in their sleeves stacked on the floor beside her record player. Clothes were scattered everywhere. Half-written study notes covered her desk, her iPod sitting on top of them, its earbuds tangled around one of the pages.
The only things that were actually neat were her collection of cuddly toys, which lived in a hanging chair in the corner of her pink room, and her floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, which Annabeth had organised the last time she visited.
Annabeth would be here soon.
She was coming to stay after New Year's, and Lyra couldn't wait.
There was one more week of school before winter break. Lyra had chosen to stay home this year rather than go to Camp.
Then Annabeth would stay until the summer.
While Lyra still had school to attend, Annabeth was technically homeschooled, so she would spend her days sightseeing and helping Beatrice around the house.
Lyra lifted a forgotten sweater from the autumn, gave it a sniff and deemed it still wearable.
She got semi-dressed, retied her hair into a bun and headed downstairs.
On her way, she passed a closed door.
Luke and Ethan's room.
They had hated sharing and complained about it constantly, but Lyra knew they had secretly enjoyed their late-night talks.
Just the two of them.
She paused at the top of the stairs, staring at the door.
Then, hastily, she made her way down, tripping over the bottom step.
“Maman! The bottom step is loose again,” Lyra called in French.
There was no reply.
“Maman?”
Lyra turned the corner into the kitchen.
All the lights were off.
She flicked the switch.
Blinded by the warm light for a moment, Lyra blinked.
Then she took it in.
The kitchen ceiling was covered with inflated helium balloons.
At the end of each balloon was a photograph of Lyra.
Starting with a picture of her dad holding her just after she was born.
Her mum helping her take her first steps.
Lyra, four years old, helping her mum bake.
A picture of Lyra at six, taken on the last day of her first summer at Camp.
Most of Cabin Eleven in that picture were gone now.
Then Lyra and Annabeth on the subway together. Lyra was twelve. Annabeth was nine.
She brushed her fingers against a picture of Ethan and her together on the docks.
The last picture they had taken together.
He looked so serious. So harsh.
But Lyra could see the softness in his eyes, the slight quirk of his lips.
She looked at the next picture.
It was her, Grover and Percy on Independence Day the previous year. They were watching the fireworks together, Annabeth behind the camera.
Lyra had become especially close to Grover after the quest the year before. They had bonded over indie rock music and hiking.
He had even stayed at Lyra's for a little while during his search for Pan.
Her mum had loved having him around.
Lyra took in each photograph, remembering all the little moments behind them.
There were some pictures of Luke.
Not many.
But enough to show who he had been to her.
Lyra giggled when she reached a picture of herself with the Stolls.
Beatrice simply watched her, tears shining in her eyes.
On the breakfast nook was a homemade gâteau—a classic, simple French yoghurt cake decorated with fresh berries and a dusting of powdered sugar.
Six presents sat beside it, all wrapped differently.
“Joyeux anniversaire, ma puce.”
Beatrice walked over to Lyra and pulled her into a tight hug.
“Merci, Mama.”
Lyra rested her head against her mother's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
They stayed like that for a moment.
Her mum rubbed circles over her back, softly singing Bon Anniversaire, the traditional birthday song.
Lyra listened closely, allowing the words to wash over her.
“Bon anniversaire,
Nos vœux les plus sincères,
Que ces quelques fleurs
Vous apportent le bonheur.
Que l'année entière
Vous soit douce et légère...”
“Mon cœur, I know you did not want a birthday this year.”
Beatrice pulled away, placing a hand on each of Lyra's arms.
“It is such an important day, so I hope you can forgive me.”
“Oui, Mama. Of course.”
Beatrice smiled and kissed her on each cheek.
“I have made breakfast. Your favourites: croissants, pain au chocolat and brioche.”
“Crêpes?”
“Oui, crêpes with eggs and bacon. I do say, mon cœur, they are not breakfast.”
Lyra laughed.
“They are, Mama. In America, I swear.”
“America is strange, and I have lived here for eighteen years.”
Lyra shook her head as her mum began to ramble about all the things she still found odd about America, guiding them towards the breakfast table.
The Sunday night after her birthday, Lyra was packing her school bag, getting ready for the final week before winter break.
She was contemplating packing a book when something caught the corner of her eye.
On the windowsill was a box.
A small, square box.
It wasn't wrapped like the presents she had received on Friday.
Lyra walked over and picked it up, inspecting every side.
She began making a list of everyone who had given her something.
Her mum—a new camera.
Annabeth—a book she was sure Lyra would like.
Percy—a box of homemade blue cookies.
Lee—a vinyl from a band they both liked.
Silena—a detailed hand mirror, with a card that said Lyra would always be beautiful to her.
The Stolls—a little pouch of sweets for “emergency prophetic visions” and a frame filled with pressed poppies, which was clearly Silena's doing.
Even her dad had gotten her something.
He had given her a dream journal that never ran out of pages.
He had left a note.
For the dreams you remember,
and the ones you wish you could forget.
Happy sixteenth birthday, little dreamer.
—Dad
That was everyone she could think of.
There was no tag or card.
Just a simple cardboard box.
Lyra opened it slowly, prepared for something to either blow up or attack her.
Nothing did.
Inside was another box.
A small navy-blue box.
She lifted the lid.
Inside was a pocket watch.
The same one Ethan had always carried in his pocket.
There was no note.
No letter.
Just the brass watch that had belonged to him.
It was simple, with no engraving or elaborate design.
It had belonged to Ethan's paternal grandfather.
The man who had raised him.
Lyra held the watch tightly.
She lifted it to her ear.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It still worked.
“Where are you, Ethan?”
Lyra had not slept well that night.
She had dreamt of scales tipping one way, then the next, constantly out of balance.
There had been fire and swords clashing.
The presence of a war not yet begun.
And the strange certainty that the scales mattered.
And Lyra still had school.
She had taken so long to get out of bed that eventually Beatrice all but threw her off the mattress, playfully muttering something about Lyra being her father's child.
Lyra threw on the first items of clothing she could find: an olive-green baggy sweater, jeans with a paint stain from her mum, mismatched socks and her Converse.
She grabbed an apple on her way out.
“Au revoir, Maman!”
Her mum called something back, but Lyra was already out the door, apple in her mouth as she attempted to tie her shoe while walking.
Lyra's last week at school had been mostly mundane, aside from the few visions that gave her teachers mini heart attacks.
She had heard her history teacher, Mr Lace, shout some very inappropriate words when her body stiffened at her desk, her eyes rolling back for a few seconds too long.
Her classmates didn't appreciate her visions—or 'fits', as the school knew them—very much either.
During gym class, they had been playing volleyball when Lyra simply stopped.
Her eyes rolled back.
Her hands began shaking.
Coach Miles had gone to call the school nurse while the game continued around her.
Someone accidentally hit the ball in her direction.
Demigod instinct—or ADHD—kicked in.
Lyra hit the ball away while still dazed.
It flew straight into someone's face.
Breaking their nose.
Thankfully, Coach had already gone to get the nurse.
Lyra had been mortified.
Because she had broken someone's nose.
It wasn't like she already had dyslexia, ADHD, mysterious 'fits' and, of course, a massive scar on her face.
Lyra used to love school.
The peace and mundanity of her routine made being a demigod easier.
But now she hated it.
It meant she had to leave the house, which meant people stared at her.
The school thought the scar was from a canoeing accident while at summer camp, and that the head injury had started the 'fits'.
So everyone thought she had been stupid enough to get hurt while canoeing.
Who gets hurt while canoeing?
Her classmates stared.
They whispered.
Her old friends started avoiding her.
She sat alone at lunch.
She avoided the cafeteria and sat in the library instead.
Lyra had never been very popular. She was awkward and always said things at the wrong time.
She wasn't just the awkward girl anymore.
Now she was the strange girl who had fits and broke someone's nose.
Her final week had consisted of:
A couple of tests.
A history essay.
Homework she hadn't finished.
Teachers who were increasingly concerned about her “episodes”.
The PSAT she had already sat earlier in the year.
And lunches alone.
The last day had been the worst.
Her mum had been called in for a meeting regarding Lyra's health and whether or not Washington Heights Preparatory School was 'the right place for Lyra'.
Lyra felt doomed to fail the moment she and Beatrice stepped into the principal's office.
She had whispered her protests to her mum in French while they sat in reception, arms crossed, one earbud in.
She kept sinking lower into her chair each time a classmate walked past.
Her mum whispered reassurance back to her. At one point, she took Lyra's hand and did her best to glare at her fellow students.
When Mr Pine finally called them into his office, some of the tension finally left Beatrice's shoulders.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Pine.”
She smiled as she took a seat in front of his desk, with Lyra beside her.
A storm cloud still hung over Lyra's head.
“Hello, Mrs Dormo—”
“It's Miss.”
Lyra interrupted without looking up.
Beatrice glanced at her, wide-eyed.
Lyra had never spoken to anyone like that before.
“My parents aren't together.”
“Lyra.”
Her mum squeezed her hand.
Lyra simply crossed her arms.
“I apologise, Miss Dormont.”
“It is quite alright, Monsieur.”
Mr Pine began slowly explaining why he had called for the meeting, talking about his and her teachers' concerns: her unexplained episodes, the serious facial scar, altered behaviour, accidental injury to another student, increasing isolation and their concern about a student who seemed exhausted and distressed.
Lyra wanted to tell him to shut up.
She had just had to sit there and listen to an adult reduce her entire existence to a list of things that were wrong with her.
And she knew none of them were actually the truth.
She didn't have “unexplained episodes”.
She was seeing things.
She didn't have a mysterious scar.
Luke did that to her.
She wasn't simply “altered”.
Her entire life had changed.
She wasn't isolated because she was antisocial.
People stopped sitting with her.
She hadn't intentionally injured someone.
She was reacting on instinct during a vision.
And she was exhausted because she was barely sleeping.
Because her dreams were becoming prophetic.
So, as she sat there brewing with anger, all she could think was:
Shut up. You do not know a thing about me.
She made a fist, her nails digging into her palm.
Beatrice sat silently beside her, one hand resting on Lyra's knee.
She took it all in.
She knew her daughter was struggling. She knew she was angry. She could see it now as Lyra clenched her fist and silently shook.
But she didn't know what to do.
Hypnos had warned her that one day Lyra's life would be beyond her grasp—a life of prophecy and immortals.
It was happening all too soon for Beatrice's liking.
So she grasped Lyra's hand and gave it another squeeze.
“We aren't asking Lyra to leave,” Mr Pine concluded. “We want to make sure she is receiving the support she needs.”
Beatrice almost sagged with relief.
Lyra wasn't being expelled.
Lyra curled up in her chair.
She didn't want their support.
She needed Luke.
She needed Ethan.
She needed her life back.
Mr Pine started going on about accommodations they could make after winter break.
Beatrice sat up straighter and leaned forward, nodding eagerly at some of his suggestions.
Lyra stared at her mum.
Even Maman thinks I'm broken.
Lyra turned her gaze to the floor, tears building in her eyes.
Her whole body felt like a tightrope about to snap.
“How does that sound, Lyra?”
Lyra looked up.
Both Mr Pine and her mum were looking at her expectantly, hope shining in her mum's eyes.
“Yeah. Great.”
She looked at her mum.
“Can we go now, Maman?” she asked in French.
Beatrice sighed.
“Oui, ma puce.”
Everyone stood.
Lyra went straight to the door while Beatrice shook hands with Mr Pine and thanked him for his time and help.
He smiled warmly and said something about getting a healthcare plan ready for the start of term.
The mother and daughter duo left the school and drove home in Beatrice's yellow Beetle.
The car ride home was silent.
Beatrice had her hands tightly gripped around the wheel while Lyra stared out of the car window for the entire journey.
Once they got home, Lyra immediately went to her bedroom, still trying not to slam every door on her way in.
Beatrice followed her silently.
Once inside, Beatrice put her handbag down and hung up her scarf. She slowly took off each shoe before putting her face in her hands.
Lyra shut the door softly.
She had wanted to slam it.
But she had seen how defeated her Maman looked.
She slid down the door and pressed her back against it.
Beatrice made her way upstairs and sat against Lyra's door on the other side.
“Lyra...”
“I do not want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Oui. We shall not discuss it further until you go back to school.”
Lyra remained silent.
“This is our first Christmas together in years, non?”
Lyra nodded, though her mum couldn't see her.
“Usually, I work and you go to Camp...”
“We haven't decorated yet,” Lyra whispered.
Beatrice struggled to hear her.
“Oui!”
Beatrice had completely forgotten about decorating the house for Christmas.
“We need to decorate!”
Lyra stood up and opened the door, causing her mum to fall backwards.
“Maman!”
Beatrice laughed as Lyra helped her to her feet.
“Let's go decorate.”
The two climbed into the attic and began raiding the boxes for decorations.
Once they found everything they needed, they carried the boxes down to the living room.
Slowly, the mismatched coffee table, complete with its old tea stain, disappeared beneath boxes of decorations.
Beatrice put on Christmas music and began dancing her way around the living room.
Lyra giggled at her mum and began unpacking the boxes.
They found old decorations from previous years.
One Lyra had made as a child.
Another that Luke and Ethan had helped make.
They had argued so much over what colour glitter to use.
There was a moment of silence.
Beatrice didn't comment.
Lyra put it up anyway.
They continued unpacking and decorating, arguing playfully about where everything should go until their home was covered, room by room, in Christmas decorations.
The final piece was the star on the tree.
Beatrice took a picture of Lyra placing it on top.
They put out three stockings.
A Disney one for Lyra.
A traditional red one for Beatrice.
And a purple one for Hypnos.
Beatrice held the stocking lovingly, never taking her eyes off it.
Lyra was looking at her mum when she heard something.
A man's laugh.
Footsteps.
Moving in a rhythm.
On the wall, she could see the silhouettes of two figures dancing.
A woman giggled as the feminine shadow was dipped.
Her parents.
Dancing.
Lyra smiled.
She took hold of her mum's hand, surprising Beatrice, and the two began to dance.
They laughed.
Beatrice twirled Lyra.
A feeling like a dream washed over them.
For the first time in a long time, Lyra didn't feel like she was waiting for something to go wrong.
They were ready for Christmas.
Christmas had come and gone faster than Lyra or Beatrice would have liked.
They had spent most of the day watching Christmas films, eating far too much food and letting themselves forget, for a little while, everything waiting for them in the new year.
Christmas Eve had been the biggest ordeal.
Lyra had made the mistake of hoping that, because there were only two of them, her mum might finally decide not to cook enough food to feed an army.
She had been wrong.
“Maman, we are two people. You do not need to cook for twelve.”
“It is Christmas. Of course I need to cook for twelve.”
And so Beatrice had gone all out.
There had been roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables, cheeses, fresh bread and enough desserts to make Lyra wonder if her mother had secretly invited half the neighbourhood.
They had avoided the seafood Beatrice would normally have served, because of Lyra's shellfish allergy, but somehow that hadn't stopped her from producing an impressive amount of food.
Then came the bûche de Noël.
Beatrice made the chocolate sponge look beautiful.
Lyra was responsible for decorating it.
That had been her first mistake.
She had covered the top with so much powdered sugar that it looked as though the entire thing had been buried in snow.
“Maman, look! It's Christmas.”
“It is a disaster.”
“It is snow.”
“It is half a centimetre of sugar, Lyra.”
“It needs more.”
“It absolutely does not need more.”
The argument over the tiny meringue mushrooms lasted almost ten minutes.
“They look like rocks,” Lyra insisted.
“They are mushrooms.”
“They do not look like mushrooms.”
“They are supposed to be decorative.”
“Then they should look decorative.”
Beatrice stared at her.
Lyra stared back.
Then they both started laughing.
Christmas morning was quieter.
There were presents beneath the tree, Christmas films playing in the background and the smell of coffee and pastries filling the house.
At some point, Beatrice caught Lyra trying to sneak another piece of the bûche.
“I saw that.”
Lyra froze, fork halfway to her mouth.
“No, you didn't.”
“I am your mother. I see everything.”
“That's creepy.”
“You are the daughter of Hypnos. You should be used to creepy.”
Lyra rolled her eyes and ate the cake anyway.
Later, while they were clearing up, Beatrice caught sight of Lyra's American stocking hanging from the fireplace.
She shook her head.
“You know, in France, Père Noël leaves presents in your shoes.”
“You mean Santa.”
“Non. Père Noël.”
“I'm American, Maman.”
“You are absolutely not.”
“I've lived here my whole life.”
“And yet you still complain about American bread.”
Lyra opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
“...That's different.”
Beatrice laughed.
By the end of the day, Lyra was curled up beneath a blanket beside her mum, watching some ridiculous Christmas film neither of them was really paying attention to.
For once, Lyra wasn't thinking about school.
Or her visions.
Or her prophecy.
Or Apollo.
It was just Christmas.
Just her and her mum.
And for now, that was enough.
They still had leftovers from Christmas by the time New Year's rolled around, which was perfect because the Stolls were coming, and between the two of them they could probably eat a family of five out of house and home if they wanted to.
What was not perfect was that her mum had started making even more food.
They were having guests, Beatrice had insisted. Guests needed to be fed. Demigod children, apparently, needed to be fed especially well.
Lyra quietly disagreed.
She was a demigod child, and she was fed more than enough. Sometimes, she secretly hoped she wouldn't be fed anymore.
Beatrice had apparently decided that the six people coming for New Year's required enough food to survive the apocalypse.
Connor, Travis, Lee and Silena all arrived together, with poor Argus looking exhausted in the driver's seat. Lyra still couldn't believe they had driven all the way from Long Island. She couldn't imagine being stuck between Travis and Connor for several hours in a small space without eventually committing some sort of murder.
The thought alone made her shiver.
She greeted each of them with a tight hug, relaxing a little more with every familiar face. Silena gave Lyra a kiss on the cheek, unfortunately right where the scar ran along her skin. Lyra flinched before she could stop herself, and Silena immediately pulled away, apologising.
A lot.
Lyra insisted she was fine several times before eventually giving Silena a kiss on the cheek in return. She misjudged the distance, nearly headbutting her in the process, which at least made Silena laugh.
“Shouldn't you know how to kiss people on the cheek?” Connor asked as they walked through the front door. “Isn't that, like, the whole thing about being French?”
Beatrice appeared from the kitchen, greeting each of them with a kiss on both cheeks.
Connor pointed at her.
“I mean like that. You're French. How can you not do that?”
He turned towards Beatrice, raising an eyebrow.
“Truly, Miss Dormont, be honest with me. Is she adopted?”
Lyra lunged at him.
Lee caught her around the waist before she could get anywhere near him, laughing as she struggled against his grip.
“Let me go!”
“No.”
“Lee!”
Connor was already laughing as Lyra attempted to kick him.
Beatrice laughed so hard she had to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Non, non.” She shook her head. “She is definitely mine.”
That only made Connor laugh harder.
Eventually Lee let Lyra go, and she immediately straightened her sweater and glared at Connor.
“You're sleeping outside.”
“Worth it.”
“You're sleeping in the snow.”
“Also worth it.”
Travis shook his head and followed Beatrice into the kitchen, offering to help carry out food and drinks while the others made themselves comfortable.
Lee automatically wandered towards the record player, already looking through Lyra's collection with the confidence of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Silena settled into the corner of the sofa that had become hers over the years, sinking into the cushions as though she'd been born there, while Connor jumped over the back of the couch and landed on the other side with a surprising amount of grace.
Silena gave him a small round of applause.
Connor bowed.
Lyra shook her head, but she was smiling.
It was strange how quickly everything felt normal.
She hadn't realised how much she'd missed this. The noise, the arguments, Connor and Travis bickering over something completely insignificant, Silena laughing at them, Lee changing the music whenever Connor complained about it. Nobody was watching her like she might suddenly break. Nobody was asking if she was alright or whether she'd had another episode or whether she needed to see the nurse.
They already knew her.
At least, they knew the version of her that existed before everything had become so complicated.
Lyra made her way towards the shelf of board games, running her fingers along the boxes as she tried to decide what they should play first. She was halfway through considering one of the older games when Connor mentioned Camp.
“We should play this at Camp next summer.”
Lyra's fingers stopped against the edge of the box.
Next summer.
She stared at the game for a moment before pulling her hand away.
She knew she was going back to Camp. It wasn't even a question. She always went back. But something about hearing Connor say it so casually made the thought feel heavier than it should have.
Summer meant Camp.
Camp meant her prophecy.
Camp meant Apollo.
And Ethan wouldn't be there.
Neither would Luke.
She forced herself to pick up another game.
“You alright?” Lee asked.
Lyra looked over her shoulder.
“Yeah.”
He studied her for a second, but when she smiled, he didn't question it.
“Good.”
He turned back towards the record player.
Lyra appreciated that.
The evening continued, and for a while she managed to lose herself in it. They played games, ate enough food to prove Beatrice's theory about demigod children being bottomless pits, argued over rules and eventually gave up on keeping track of who was winning. Connor cheated more than once. Travis denied helping him. Silena caught both of them and threatened to ban them from choosing the next game.
At some point, Lyra laughed so hard she had to put her drink down.
The sound surprised her.
She hadn't realised how long it had been since she'd laughed like that.
Not the polite little laugh she'd given teachers when they made jokes in class. Not the nervous laugh she used when someone stared at her scar for too long.
A real laugh.
For a few seconds, she felt almost like herself again.
Almost.
Then her eyes caught the empty space on the sofa.
Ethan would have sat there.
He always did.
He would have complained about Connor sitting too close to him, even though he never actually moved away. He would have pretended not to care about whatever game they were playing while quietly keeping track of everyone's scores.
Lyra's smile faded.
She looked away before anyone could notice.
She missed him.
She missed Luke too.
The two absences were different, but they both seemed to occupy space in the house.
Sometimes Lyra still caught herself expecting Luke to walk through the front door.
Sometimes she thought she heard Ethan's footsteps upstairs.
She never did.
Her eyes drifted towards the clock.
9:47.
She wasn't sure why she'd checked.
She looked away.
A few minutes later, a strange prickling began behind her eyes.
Lyra went still.
The room blurred.
For a fraction of a second, she saw fire.
A sword.
The flash of metal.
Scales tipping violently from one side to the other.
Then the living room returned.
Lyra blinked several times, gripping the edge of the table until the feeling passed.
Nobody seemed to have noticed.
“Lyra?”
She looked up.
Travis was watching her from across the room.
“Are you alright?”
She swallowed.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
He didn't look convinced.
But he didn't push.
Instead, he picked up another piece of food from the plate in front of him.
“Your mum's going to kill us if we don't eat all of this.”
Lyra smiled faintly.
“She'd probably make more.”
Travis laughed.
“That's terrifying.”
And Lyra laughed too.
This time, it lasted.
By the time midnight approached, everyone had gathered around the television.
Connor insisted that watching the ball drop in Times Square was an essential New Year's tradition, despite Travis repeatedly pointing out that none of them were actually in Times Square.
“That is not the point,” Connor insisted.
“It is literally the point.”
“No, the point is that we're watching it.”
“That's not how geography works.”
Lyra sat between Silena and Lee, listening to them argue while Beatrice stood behind the sofa, smiling at the ridiculousness of it all.
She looked around the room.
For once, there was no strange feeling pressing against the back of her mind.
No prophecy.
No visions.
No school.
No Apollo.
Just her mum and her friends.
She felt something warm settle in her chest.
The countdown began.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Lyra looked around the room again.
Seven.
Silena was smiling.
Six.
Connor had an arm around Travis's shoulders.
Five.
Beatrice was laughing.
Four.
Lee was sitting beside her, their shoulders occasionally brushing whenever either of them moved.
Three.
For one small moment, Lyra felt safe.
Two.
One.
The room erupted.
Connor shouted.
Travis shoved him.
Silena threw her arms around Lyra.
Beatrice called, “Bonne année!”
Lee hugged her too.
It was only a hug, but he held on for a second longer than usual.
“Happy New Year,” he murmured.
Lyra smiled against his shoulder.
“Happy New Year.”
When he pulled away, their eyes met for a moment.
Lee looked away first.
He wasn't entirely sure when it had started.
Silena had mentioned it first, teasing him about how cute he and Lyra would look together. Connor had picked up on it almost immediately, and Travis had eventually joined in just to annoy him.
Lee had laughed every time.
But lately, he had started wondering if maybe they weren't completely wrong.
Lyra was one of his closest friends. She was brave and clever and strange in a way that Lee had always found interesting. She could spend half an hour talking about something completely random and then say something so unexpectedly insightful that he would think about it for days afterwards.
He liked being around her.
He liked making her laugh.
And maybe, somewhere along the way, he'd developed a little crush on her.
Nothing serious.
Nothing he needed to do anything about.
At least, not yet.
Across the room, Lyra was already arguing with Connor about whether he had cheated during their last game.
Lee smiled to himself.
Maybe everyone else had a point.
Eventually, the house became quiet.
The dishes had been abandoned until morning, the television had been switched off and the last of the music had faded away. Everyone had gone to bed, leaving the house unusually still after hours of laughter.
Lyra was sharing her room with Silena.
It had seemed like a perfectly good idea earlier.
Now Silena was beginning to question the decision.
“Lyra.”
“Mhm?”
“You're on my side.”
Lyra opened one eye.
She was, in fact, almost entirely on Silena's side of the bed.
“I am not.”
“You're on my pillow.”
Lyra looked down.
“Oh.”
She moved back towards her own side, pulling the blanket up around herself.
Silena sighed and settled down again.
For approximately thirty seconds, everything was peaceful.
Then Lyra rolled over and wrapped an arm around her.
Silena went completely still.
“Lyra.”
No answer.
“Are you cuddling me?”
Lyra made a sleepy noise.
“You are.”
“I am sleeping.”
“You are sleeping on me.”
Lyra tightened her arm.
Silena stared at the ceiling.
“You're lucky I love you.”
A sleepy smile appeared on Lyra's face.
“Love you too.”
Silena's expression softened.
“Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year.”
Within minutes, Lyra was asleep.
And then she dreamed.
There was no bedroom.
No bed.
No Silena.
Lyra stood barefoot on cold white marble, surrounded by a vast golden sky.
The air was warm against her skin.
Not summer warm.
Sun warm.
She looked around.
A long road stretched ahead of her, disappearing into the distance. There were no buildings, no trees, no people.
Then she heard someone crying.
Lyra turned.
A woman stood beneath a laurel tree.
She was beautiful, but there was something deeply sad about her.
Her dark hair moved gently in the wind, although Lyra couldn't feel any breeze herself.
“Hello?”
The woman didn't answer.
Lyra stepped closer.
The woman finally looked at her.
Her eyes were filled with tears.
“You shouldn't be here.”
Lyra frowned.
“Who are you?”
The woman's expression softened.
“You know.”
“I don't.”
“You will.”
The dream shifted.
Suddenly Lyra was somewhere else.
A temple.
Sunlight spilling across marble.
A young man with golden hair standing before the woman.
Apollo.
Lyra knew him immediately.
Her stomach twisted.
The woman smiled at him.
There was love there.
Or something that had once been love.
The scene changed.
Apollo was offering her something.
A gift.
Prophecy.
Knowledge.
The future.
The woman accepted.
Then she refused him.
The warmth disappeared.
The golden light faded.
And the woman's face changed.
Hope became fear.
Fear became anger.
Anger became grief.
Lyra stumbled backwards.
“What happened?”
The woman looked at her.
“He loved me.”
Lyra swallowed.
“And then?”
“He hated that I did not love him enough.”
The words echoed through the dream.
Lyra shook her head.
“No.”
The woman tilted her head.
“You don't believe me?”
“I don't know what I believe.”
“Good.”
She stepped closer.
“That means you still have a choice.”
Lyra stared at her.
“What choice?”
The woman's expression softened.
“To believe that the gods are not their stories.”
Lyra's breath caught.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled sadly.
“Cassandra.”
The name seemed to strike something deep inside Lyra.
The dream fractured.
She saw a girl standing before a crowd, screaming warnings no one would hear.
A city burning.
People laughing.
A temple.
Apollo.
A curse.
Words that came true.
Prophecies spoken into empty rooms.
A woman who knew what was coming and could do nothing to stop it.
Lyra covered her ears.
“Stop.”
“You see the future.”
“I don't want to.”
“You will see the past.”
The world around them began to crack.
Golden light spilled through the fractures.
“You will see the present.”
Lyra looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
Cassandra stepped closer.
“You will see things you were never meant to see.”
Lyra's heart hammered.
“Cassandra—”
“Be careful who you trust.”
The golden light became almost blinding.
“Who?”
Cassandra looked past her.
Lyra turned.
There was nothing there.
“Who am I supposed to trust?”
Cassandra's expression changed.
For the first time, she looked afraid.
“Especially him.”
The dream shattered.
Lyra woke with a gasp.
For several seconds she didn't know where she was.
Her bedroom was dark.
Rain tapped softly against the window.
Silena was still asleep beside her, breathing quietly.
Lyra's heart hammered against her ribs as she slowly pushed herself upright.
Her scar was burning.
She pressed her fingertips against it, breathing carefully until the pain began to fade.
Cassandra.
She knew that name now.
Not just from stories.
Not just from something she'd read.
She had seen her.
And somehow, Lyra knew that this wasn't the last time.
Her visions weren't simply becoming stronger.
They were changing.
She had spent so long being frightened of seeing the future that she hadn't considered what it might mean if her gift began reaching backwards.
The past.
The present.
Other people's memories.
Other people's lives.
Lyra looked at the sleeping Silena, then towards the dark window.
Her thoughts returned to the scales from the night before.
Tipping one way.
Then the other.
Always out of balance.
She thought about Ethan.
Luke.
Lee.
Apollo.
And Cassandra's warning.
Be careful who you trust.
Lyra pulled her knees towards her chest.
She didn't know who Cassandra had meant.
She wasn't sure she wanted to find out.
But somewhere deep inside her, beneath the fear and exhaustion, she had the strange certainty that the scales mattered.
She just didn't know what they were weighing yet.