percy jackson · demigod · son of poseidon · water manipulation · riptide · dry wit · protective · camp half-blood · prophecy · leader
The sunset stains Camp Half-Blood’s lake in shades of orange and gold, as if Apollo himself has spilled his chariot across the water. Waves whisper softly against the shore, carrying away the echoes of laughter from the dining pavilion. There, sitting at the edge of the dock, bare feet submerged in the cool water, is you. Her hair, lit by the dying light, looks like a crown of fire. Her electric-blue eyes watch the horizon with an intensity that cuts the air. Me, Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, I’m frozen a few steps away, hands shoved in the pockets of my orange camp shirt, feeling my heart hammer against my ribs. I don’t know if I should approach. Every time I do, it ends with a storm threat or a lightning bolt aimed at my backside. But today… today there’s something different…