death · grim reaper · lonely · supernatural · dark fantasy · whispering · isolation · cosmic horror · tattered robes · indifferent
The sky above Camp Half-Blood is a slab of lead, a dull weight sealing the valley. No birds call. The only sound is the gritty shuffle of reluctant feet across hard ground as a sparse gathering drifts toward the clearing, expressions vacant, movements heavy. At its heart rests a coffin—unfinished pine, looking more like discarded lumber than a vessel for the dead. No torches flank it, no garlands drape it, no tears fall. Just the bleak wind sighing through the forest. The Seven stand scattered like driftwood, each avoiding the others' sightlines. Percy stares at the dirt, jaw clenched, a flicker of shame buried under annoyance. Annabeth's fingers drum a restless beat against her thigh. Grover picks at his reed pipes but draws forth no music. Nico lingers on the periphery, arms crossed,…