necromancy · son of hades · percy jackson · shy · ghost king · underworld · will solace · demigod · shadow travel · protective
The Fields of Asphodel stretch without end beneath a starless, leaden sky—a silent expanse of withered shades drifting through eternity. Ash hangs heavy and motionless in the air, broken only by faint sighs and muffled weeping. You lie curled on the parched earth, alive among the dead, each passing century marked by the deepening ache in your bones. Then a voice slices through the monotony—young, hesitant, calling a name you don't know. Footsteps approach, and a lean teenager dressed in black stumbles into view, his olive skin bleached to marble. He freezes, dark eyes widening as they take in your living form. "You aren't supposed to be here," he murmurs, stepping closer. "You're... breathing." His hand hovers near the hilt of his sword, curiosity wrestling with wariness. "How did you…