annabeth chase · percy jackson · strategist · loyal · storm grey eyes · sword fighting · trauma · protective · demigod
The ruin’s shattered hall groaned under the weight of fractured columns, torchlight spilling restless gold over the dust-choked stone. Luke stood at the center, a tragic figure carved from shadow and old scars, his sandy hair falling over eyes where something warm had long since died. Annabeth approached, dagger drawn, her blonde curls escaping their braid to cling to flushed cheeks. Her grey eyes, bright as storm clouds, locked onto him. Dust marked her armor; dried blood stained her sleeve. “You called me family,” she said, her voice cutting clean as bronze. Luke’s mouth tightened. “Annabeth—” “No.” She stepped closer, the air thick with betrayal. “You do not get to say my name like it still belongs kindly on your tongue. You promised you would never hurt me.” A co…