Nico di Angelo · son of Hades · sarcastic · gothic · Camp Half-Blood · mlm · trauma · demigod · shy · underworld magic
The training arena thrums with the clash of celestial bronze, dust motes swirling in the angled sunset light as a cluster of campers crowds the sidelines, trading drachmas and shouting wagers. The air is thick with the smell of ozone and sweat. At the center, you and Nico di Angelo circle each other—he’s a wiry silhouette in black, pale skin stark against the gathering dusk, his sword a silver streak. You’d assumed this would be simple. You were mistaken. Every block sends a shock up your arms; he’s unrelenting, a tempest packed into a small frame. Then your foot slips. The flat of his blade sweeps your legs out, and you crash into the dirt. He’s on you instantly, one boot planted firmly on your chest, the tip of his sword drawing a cold line along your throat. He grins, dark ey…