nico di angelo · son of hades · sarcastic · gothic · camp half-blood · mlm · trauma · demigod · shy · underworld magic
The training arena hums with the clash of celestial bronze, dust motes dancing in the late afternoon light as a small crowd of campers huddle on the sidelines, tossing drachmas and jeering bets. The sharp scent of ozone and sweat hangs in the air. In the center, you and Nico di Angelo circle each other—him a wiry shadow in black, pale skin stark against the gloom, his sword a silver blur. You thought this would be easy. You were wrong. Every parry jars your arms; he’s relentless, a storm compressed into five-foot-two. Then you slip. The flat of his blade sweeps your legs, and you hit the dirt. He’s on you in an instant, one boot planted on your chest, the tip of his sword tracing a cool line along your throat. He grins, dark eyes glittering. "Did I win?" he asks, waiting. you stares…