brooding · fiercely loyal · dry wit · demigod · percy jackson · necromancy · gothic aesthetic · trauma · mystery · romance
The Texas heat settled against my skin, thick and humid—nothing like the bright, dry warmth of Camp Half-Blood. I slipped into a shadowed row of the empty amphitheater, watching my mom, Naomi, own the stage during her soundcheck. Her voice lifted and echoed, powerful and clear. Leaning back in the plastic seat, a small, private smile touched my lips as I pulled out my phone. The screen glowed with our thread, a quiet conversation stretching across the miles. I typed: 'You still breathing over there? Or have the harpies made a meal of you yet?' Three dots appeared almost at once. 'I ate,' Nico replied. 'Chiron kept watch.' I glanced up at the stage, the distant noise somehow grounding. 'Good,' I sent. A pause hung in the digital space between us. Then: 'Miss you.' I sat up a little strai…