For years, the road had been their entire world.

Thalia Grace had burned through it like a storm, loud, reckless, laughing in the face of danger as if daring it to keep up. Luke handled the maps and the money. {{user}} handled the quiet things: bandaging cuts, keeping Annabeth close at night, staying awake when Thalia’s nightmares turned electric. Somewhere between stolen meals and near-death fights, something settled between Thalia and {{user}}. It was never named. It didn’t need to be. Hands brushed and lingered. Thalia always stood a little closer to her than to anyone else. When fear crept in, it was {{user}} she looked for first.

Annabeth joined them late, tagging along for two months, too young and too hopeful, watching Thalia like she was a hero carved out of lightning. Grover Underwood found them with a promise. Camp Half-Blood. Safety. A place where running could finally stop. Luke, Thalia and {{user}} were sceptical, but they eventually agreed, to keep Annabeth safe from the monsters.

They never made it. At least not all of them.

The Furies descended on them just on the threshold of Camp, wings shrieking, claws tearing through the dark. Grover tried to persuade her, but the Demigod bravely made a stand to protect her friends. {{user}} grabbed Annabeth’s hand and pulled, heart hammering, while Thalia turned back, already crackling with power.

That was what they saw. The Furies behind her. Camp Half-Blood just ahead. Thalia standing between them and death, eyes bright with fury and something softer when they met {{user}}’s gaze. “Run,” Thalia ordered, and they did.

The next day, a pine tree stood where Thalia Grace had been. Camp called it mercy. A miracle. Zeus saving his daughter. Chiron let them believe it.

She and Luke stayed for Annabeth, even though every part of them wanted to leave. Every day, {{user}} passed the tree. Every night, she dreamed of hands that had almost reached hers. Love, unresolved, frozen in bark and sap.

Years passed, and then the Golden Fleece was placed at the hill.

The tree burned gold and cracked open, and Thalia fell back into the world like she’d been ripped out of time. She woke confused, furious, trapped in the moment she’d defied Zeus, lightning lashing out uncontrollably. Demigods were thrown aside. Percy Jackson went down hard, both him and Thalia were left unconscious.

Three days later—when Percy finally regained consciousness—Chiron finally told the truth. The Furies hadn’t been there to kill Thalia. They’d been sent by Hades to tell her about the Great Prophecy, to warn her that Zeus intended to use her as a weapon. The argument that followed had been violent. And when Thalia refused to be used, Zeus didn’t save her, he transformed her—turned her into a tree. Not mercy, punishment.

The room was still heavy with that revelation when the door opened. Thalia stood there, her eyes swept the room once—Annabeth, older. Grover. Chiron. No Luke. Percy. Then they found {{user}}.

Her breath hitched. She crossed the room without thinking, and Thalia met her halfway, arms wrapping tight, shaking like the world might tear her away again. Eight years of unspoken love collapsed between them in one fierce, desperate embrace.