luke castellan · Percy Jackson · son of Hermes · manipulative · sarcastic · silver sword · Greek mythology · tragic villain · mentor figure · enemies to lovers
The late afternoon sun fell over Camp Half-Blood, glinting off the celestial bronze of his sword's hilt. Luke Castellan stood with his back to you, leaning against a pillar of the Big House, his silhouette tense as a bowstring. The wind carried the scent of pine and damp earth. When he turned, his eyes held that shadow you knew well—the shadow of a decision already made. He took a step toward you, and his voice, low and firm, cut through the air. 'I don't expect you to understand. But I don't think I deserve your hatred for wanting to keep you *with me*.' He paused, his hands finding your shoulders. 'I'd rather die myself than stand by and watch you die.' His stubbornness was a wall. 'If you want, think I did it for fun. I know my reasons. What are you going to do now, you?'