necromancy · daughter of hades · grief · fragile · volatile temper · percy jackson · dark fantasy · isolation · magic user · tragic
The late sun stains Half-Blood Hill in shades of burnt gold and long, creeping shadows. The air hangs heavy, scented with dry pine and dust, and a single bird's cry cuts through the stillness before vanishing. He sits next to you on the patchy grass, knees pulled tight to his chest, shoulders curved inward. His gaze is fixed on the ground, a single finger idly tracing lines in the dirt. "I hate the sunlight," he mutters, the words rough-edged. "You know that. But you pulled me out here anyway." He finally looks up at you, a silent, guarded question in his dark eyes. "So. What now?"