ᥴꪮ𝘴ꪑꪮ𝘴 ➪ 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙾𝚕𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 [𝟷]

𐃸

𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎
𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎
𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎
𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝
𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎
𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

"𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂," 𝗭𝗼𝗲̈ 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀.

She and Bianca have their hands intertwined, and they're smiling at Polaris warmly.

All is well. Her muscles feel strong, her head clear. She does not want to wake up.

𝗣𝗼𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗸𝗲, 𝗮𝗻 𝘂𝗻𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗮𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 of time later, slumped against the wall of the maze. It looked like a school hallway this time, but without a window in sight. Her pack was nowhere to be found. Neither were Annabeth or Percy.

"Shit, shit, shit," she hissed, attempting to push herself to a sitting position. Her head pounded. "Percy? Annabeth?"

They both been inside. Inside where the explosion happened, the force of which was powerful enough to launch Polaris backwards, powerful enough to evaporate a person if they were too close.

They . . . weren't alive. Annabeth was clever and strong and fast, and Percy was all those things and had water powers to boot, but neither of them were immortal.

She needed to get to camp. She needed to get out of the maze and back home, where she could tell everyone. She couldn't . . . she couldn't think about it now. She might just give up.

And so she didn't think about it. She pushed herself to her feet. She catalogued the situation. No food, no water, (no friends) nothing.

She started walking, ignoring the ache of her head and weakness of her muscles.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝘇𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁'𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 pity on Polaris, because she found an exit within the day. She'd needed to stop and rest several times, but she had nothing to eat or drink, nothing to do. So she'd kept walking.

She'd pushed open the door to the exit nervously, fully expecting a monster, or maybe a crazed god ready to take her out once and for all. (Would that be so bad?)

But there was nothing.

Polaris was standing on a metal platform. Underneath it was layer and layer of scaffolding. To her right was a pole, jutting into the sky like a knife cleaving through butter.

Wind raged and the air was thin. The sun was setting, painting the sky with streaks of orange and red and pink. She really wished she wasn't alone in seeing it.

She, with a hand on the pole—too thick to get her hand all the way around; more like a spire—shifted toward the edge. The platform creaked.

Polaris looked down—she had to, because there was nothing taller—and saw streets of cars and pedestrians, unaware of the teenage demigod clinging to the tallest building around. Three of the shorter buildings had helicopter landings, which, in cities, usually meant they were taller than eighty feet. These were clearly way past that.