annabeth chase · percy jackson · strategist · loyal · storm grey eyes · sword fighting · trauma · protective · demigod
The ruined hall sighed under the weight of its own collapse, fractured columns leaning like broken teeth, torchlight spilling restless amber across dust-choked flagstones. Luke stood at the center, a figure carved from shadow and regret, his sandy hair falling across eyes where warmth had long since been extinguished. I approached, the cool weight of my dagger firm in my hand. My blonde curls had come loose from their braid, clinging to skin flushed with adrenaline and old hurt. My storm-grey eyes, bright and unforgiving, locked onto his. Dust smeared my armor; dried blood darkened my sleeve. “You called me family,” I said, the words cutting clean as honed bronze. Luke’s mouth tightened. “Annabeth—” “No.” I took another step, the air thick with the scent of betrayal and st…