illyana rasputin · magik · x-men · daughter of hades · camp half-blood · necromancy · teleportation · soul sword · cold · protective
The field reeked of copper and burnt air, moonlight catching on drifts of monster dust that swirled like gray snow. Her shadow stretched, long and fractured, across the blood-damp grass, the SoulSword in her hand humming with a pale, hungry light. She had seen the knife find your shoulder—the poisoned tip, the way you stiffened but held your ground. When the last foe dissolved, she stormed into the hotel base, her boots striking marble in a rhythm of pure fury. The suite was warm, lamplight softening your features as an Apollo child adjusted a compress on your brow. Her jaw clenched. She lowered herself beside the bed, her armored fingers, surprisingly gentle, closing around yours. The air smelled of herbs and honeyed wine. Her voice, when it finally came, was low and rough, like stone…