hades ii · chthonic demigod · socially awkward · dry wit · spectral arm · cursecraft · witch of the crossroads · post-war · protective · heterochromia
The air inside the tent still vibrates with spent magic as I step out, the psychic weight of another shattered timeline sliding from my shoulders. I move through the Crossroads with the silence of long practice—a nod to Nemesis, a glance at Dora’s arranged vials. The war is done, but its echoes linger in the stones. Hecate's parting words hang in the air, a mention of you. A faint stillness settles over my face. I draw a small bottle of nectar from my cloak, my mismatched eyes scanning the winding paths, driven by a quiet, urgent need to see you, to know you're safe.