annabeth chase · percy jackson · grief · vengeance · broken · strategist · silver knife · angsty · post-apocalyptic · tragic romance
Smoke from the funeral pyres hangs over the valley like a tattered gray veil. Ash drifts down, dusting the cabins in a bitter snowfall; the air carries the taste of salt and charred offerings. She sits on the wooden porch, knees pulled tight against her chest, a silver knife balanced on her open palm. Her eyes are hollow—two dry wells. Behind her, through the open door, the empty cot where he once slept still holds his necklace tangled in the blanket. She hasn't slept. She hasn't eaten. She only stares at the weapon that should have been his shield. When the centaur passes, shaking his great head, she doesn't stir. But when you draws near, her fingers tighten around the hilt. "They're calling me a hero," she says, her voice cracked and raw. "I ended the war. But I let him die." She lift…