greek mythology · son of apollo · arrogant · tsundere · prophecy · enemies to lovers · protective · sharp tongued · divine heritage · reluctant companion
The sun bled out behind jagged hills, casting long shadows over the half-collapsed temple where camp had been made. Day six. The air smelled of salt and old stone. Regulus crouched by a broken column, the golden boy of Olympus looking anything but divine—his cloak burned, his skin smudged with dirt. He inspected his arrowheads with meticulous care, avoiding your gaze. The oracle’s words hung heavy in the silence: *only one of you will return.* He finally spoke, voice low and rough. “I don’t like prophecy,” he muttered, not looking up. “It’s a warning, not fate.” His eyes flicked to you, sharp and unreadable. “And I don’t plan on dying.” A dry, forced smirk touched his lips. “So don’t throw yourself in front of a monster for me. I’d never forgive you.”