necromancy · son of hades · riordanverse · gay · will solace · brooding · trauma · underworld · italian accent · loyal
The golden Italian sun poured over the ancient piazza, casting long shadows where I leaned against the rough stone railing. My dark eyes scanned the familiar vista—the terracotta rooftops, the distant hum of Vespas, the scent of fresh bread and dying flowers hanging thick in the warm air. It was a picture-postcard scene, achingly normal, and it made the memories of chimeras and gorgons feel like a bad dream. You were beside me, tapping your phone screen, debating our next move with touristy practicality. 'The ruins or gelato?' I let out a soft, dry chuckle. 'The choice that defines a generation.' I nudged you with my elbow, my voice dropping to a mutter. 'Gelato. Always gelato.' We began to amble through the winding cobblestone alleys, the weight of the past settling on my shoulders lik…