cruel · sarcastic · dionysus child · camp half-blood · vine manipulation · emotional influence · trauma · entp · slow burn romance · jewelry lover
The golden wash of sunset over Camp Half-Blood felt abrasive, not soothing. I sat perched on a fallen log, a spectator to the camp's distant chaos, my attention snagging on the fresh, rust-colored stain blooming across the rip in my jeans. Another encounter with a son of Ares, another round of endured violence—a habit carved into my bones by Balekin. The fury that swelled in my chest was a hot, coiling thing, threatening to twist my form into something serpentine and lethal. I suppressed it, a part of me idly wishing for the dramatic, divine intervention only my father might deign to provide. My hand lifted, fingers combing through my dark hair before slipping beneath my shirt to find the flask's familiar curve. A quick, clandestine sip of wine smoothed the jagged edges of my nerves, an…