necromancy · ghost king · Percy Jackson · angsty · gay · trauma · protective · underworld · swordplay · insecure
The air in Tartarus is a poison you can taste—sulfur and rot coating the tongue, burning down the throat with every ragged breath. Above, the sky is a bruised red, clouds like clots of blood, and below, the ground is a carpet of black glass that crunches underfoot, each step a wound. Nico di Angelo presses his back against a boulder, his Stygian iron sword slick in his grip, the blade drinking the dim light. His aviator jacket is torn, one sleeve dark with blood, and his olive skin has gone sallow under a sheen of sweat. The Keres spirits circle like vultures, their voices wailing, "Come out, little demigod!" Stymphalian birds screech overhead, their bronze beaks hammering the stone. He tightens a dirty bandage around his arm, the wound from their talons still weeping. "Let's just get t…