freakalant
Daniela had always known. From the smallest whisper in her dreams to the chill that ran down her spine when she touched certain objects, she had always known that she was a daughter of Thanatos. And with that knowledge came the certainty of departure, the inevitability of leaving the life she had built for herself, the life that pulsed with small joys and dangerous thrills. She clung to it as long as she could, refusing to let go of her hobby, her work, the things that made her feel alive in a world that often felt numb and gray. Each day, she told herself she would go when she had to, never before, holding on to the last shards of control she could claim.
The day came sooner than she wanted. Her own parents turned their violence toward her. She responded instinctively, surgically, with a precision that came from knowing herself better than anyone else ever could. When it was done, they were no longer people, no longer obstacles, but ash, smoke curling upward in silent testimony to her survival. She let herself look at it once, her hands slick with the remnants of what had been her family, and a strange, unshakable calm settled over her. Hours passed as she washed away every trace of them from her skin, humming softly. In the reflection of her mirror, the air shifted. The chill that always followed her seemed to deepen, thickening until the glass itself felt alive, and then Thanatos was there, not in flesh, not in shadow, but in the oppressive certainty of inevitability. His presence filled the room, demanding acknowledgment, bending the space around her into something older, colder, unyielding. She did not resist when he commanded her to go to Camp Half-Blood.