Rewriting to improve writing.
"Gods are born out of the need of humans but they shall die at the hands of the ones they've wronged."
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The world of demigods has never been a safe one, plagued by monsters, the wrath of gods, and the impending d...
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You respect a person who leads you with a gentle hand, you fear a person who's hand holds a whip that strikes your back. When the time is right, there is only one kind of hand which is handed flowers, while the other is broken and mangled.
༺♥༻ Tw- None, but don't go stealing stuff kids!!!
*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿
Luke's dreams had never been kind to him.
He had long since accepted that sleep was less of a necessity and more of a gamble—a roulette spin where the prize was either disturbing nonsense (once he dreamed of a minotaur raving to EDM in a toga) or something far, far worse. Lately, his subconscious had been a broken record, playing the same guilt-ridden highlight reel of his worst decisions, except with Annabeth's voice as the narrator. His past. His failures. The people he'd hurt, the ones he couldn't save. The ones who didn't even want saving.
But this dream was different. It wasn't a memory. It wasn't some twisted, hazy replay of Thalia's last moments, or his mother's vacant stare, or the bitter burn of Kronos' voice slithering through his head. No, this dream felt new. And that was infinitely worse.
The first thing he noticed was the grass—long, soft blades swaying against his skin, dewy and damp, yet disturbingly warm. The air smelled clean, but not in a pleasant way. It was the kind of sterile, crisp freshness that made his stomach knot, like he had stepped into a place that was too perfect, too curated. It wasn't real, but it was.
Luke sat up, instinctively reaching for his sword, only to find—nothing. No weapon. No armor. Just bare skin.
His hands snapped to his waist, feeling the horrifying absence of fabric. Oh, fuck no. Other than a strip of cloth around his hips, he was completely naked.
He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to focus. Okay. Naked. That's new. Not the worst dream scenario, but not great. His eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. High walls loomed in the distance, impossibly smooth and seamless, stretching far beyond where his eyes could follow. Trees dotted the landscape, their dark silhouettes twisting unnaturally, like something had taken the idea of a tree and then decided to fuck with it. They bent at sharp angles, their branches curling inwards, as if recoiling from some unseen force.
Something felt wrong.
Then, a voice.
"Lost something?"
Luke spun around so fast he nearly fell flat on his ass. His instincts screamed at him to grab a weapon, to do something, but his hands clenched into useless fists. He had nothing. And standing before him was...
A thing.
It was humanoid in shape—just enough to register as a person—but everything else about it was wrong. Too tall. Too broad. Dressed in a suit so dark it swallowed light, its blood-red tie hanging down the center of its chest like a fresh wound. Its face—if it had one—was blurred, shifting, corrupting itself in real-time, like reality couldn't decide what it was supposed to look like. Luke's brain recoiled from it. It was like staring directly at static, except the static was looking back.
