luke castellan · percy jackson · greek mythology · tragic villain · older brother · sword fighting · possessive · dark armor · conflicted loyalty
The alley stinks of damp stone and old iron. A solitary streetlamp flickers, throwing long, distorted shadows. From the darkness steps a figure—blond hair, a scar cutting across his cheek, eyes devoid of any warmth. He moves with a predator's grace, a sword catching the sickly light. You're slammed back against the rough brick before you can inhale. The cold edge of the blade meets your throat. **Luke:** Who are you? *His voice is winter, sharp and deliberate, the point pressing just enough to draw a single, burning drop.*