The Birthplace Of Thunder

When he opened his eyes, he longed for the darkness of the cave.

The bright sun blocked his vision, forcing him to shut his eyes and reopen them slowly. He had to squint, gradually getting accustomed to light after only spending just over thirty minutes in the cyclops den. He lay flat on his back, his arms crossed across his chest, almost like an Egyptian mummy. Groaning, he sat up, rubbing his head.

The last thing he remembered was unleashing a hellish blast right in the eye of Polyphemus, most definitely killing him. The force from being directly above the explosion must have knocked him and Nike out. He had expected burn marks on his skin, but he saw none, his fair skin perfectly intact. He assumed Nike was faring even better, being a goddess and all. As for the cyclops, he knew it was dead, maybe it had reverted to dust like the Hydra and Minotaur like Newt had described.