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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He who seeks does not find, but he who does not seek will be found.
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*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿
Luke Castellan, to his growing horror, was starting to develop a pattern. Not one of those quirky, cute personality quirks that make you interesting at parties, but the kind you stare at long enough to realize you might actually be cursed. It was almost funny—like, statistically, cosmically absurd—that every time he made a genuine connection, the universe rewarded him by revealing the other person to be the estranged offspring of a god on Olympus's VIP list. At this point, the trend was starting to feel less like fate and more like the gods drawing dicks on his life roadmap with a glittery Sharpie.
Thalia had been the first. Fierce, electric, chaotic in a way that made him feel alive. A daughter of Zeus, storm-brained and lightning-veined, who changed his life just by existing in it. Then Percy, Mr. "I-Accidentally-Flooded-The-Bathroom" Jackson, the waterlogged son of Poseidon. Luke had tried not to like him—tried being the operative word—but Percy was annoying in that charismatic, oblivious way that made him impossible to ignore. Now Y/N. His closest friend. The only person he trusted enough to see him on bad days without a smirk or a lecture. The girl who'd ripped through monsters like they owed her lunch money, and still called him out when he forgot to wash his camp dishes.
And of course, she was a fucking daughter of Hades.
Luke wasn't religious. Not in any traditional way. But right then, standing in the suffocating silence of the Hermes cabin, watching Y/N go dangerously still with that brittle envelope in her hand, Luke was about this close to checking if someone had carved "I attract trauma" into his back with divine runes.
Her fingers tightened around the parchment like she was trying to smother it alive. The stiffness in her spine had a tell-tale familiarity—he recognized it from fights. From when she was seconds away from flipping a table, or going ghost mode in capture the flag just to scare the living hell out of a few Ares kids. She didn't tremble like a scared girl. She trembled like a ticking bomb. Like someone who'd been holding her breath since birth and was just now realizing air was poison anyway.
He tried not to look at Hermes. He really did. But every glance—every twitch of the god's face, every little parental attempt at softness—was gasoline on a fire Luke had kept on simmer for years. There was something particularly infuriating about how calm the god looked. As if stepping down from Olympus for a casual heart-to-heart with your bastard kids was a completely normal afternoon activity.
