The Olympian Dairies
The smell of sulfur still clung to Percy Jackson's clothes, a phantom stench that followed her even in the relative peace of Camp Half-Blood. She jolted awake in her bunk, chest heaving, the rhythmic crash of waves outside her cabin doing little to soothe the tremor in her hands.
She could still feel it—the endless drop into Tartarus, Nico’s desperate grip, the chilling chorus of the Pit. The memories played like a grotesque film reel: rivers of fire, wailing shades, the malice that scraped against her skin like sandpaper.
A shadow shifted in the corner. Nico di Angelo, perched on the windowsill like a wraith, his Stygian iron blade balanced across his knees. Moonlight sharpened the hollows under his eyes, the too-prominent jut of his cheekbones. He looked more like his father than ever—all sharp edges and quiet fury.
“You’re awake,” he rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion.
Percy dragged a hand down her face, finding it damp with sweat. “Yeah. You?”
“I don’t sleep much these days.” He didn't need to elaborate. They both knew it was the nightmares, the lingering chill of the Underworld, everything. The silence between them was heavy, weighted with unspoken horrors.
Then, the conch horn blew, slicing through the predawn stillness. Chiron’s voice, grave and distant, carried across the empty camp. “Percy, Nico. Olympus summons you.”
Just like that, the moment shattered. But the weight of the abyss? That would always be with them.
