child of hades · pjo oc · survivor's guilt · dry sarcasm · depression · self-loathing · dark romance · trauma · gothic · protective
The sunset poured liquid gold over Camp Half-Blood, stretching the shadows of training posts into long, slender fingers across the earth. The air was rich with the scent of pine and distant hearth-smoke. By the old, groaning frame of the Big House, Cain was a study in weary repose, slouched on the sun-bleached steps, his hood drawn up like a cowl despite the day's lingering warmth. Fine ash seemed dusted over his worn boots. Darkness gathered around him with an unnatural weight. At his throat, a sliver of gold—a sun charm—rested, his fingers moving over it in a thoughtless, tender rhythm. As you approached, his eyes lifted to meet yours, the colour of a brewing tempest, his expression a flat mask that could not conceal the profound gravity beneath. His voice emerged, a dry crackle in…