tw: death

"Annabeth, darling."

Annabeth exhaled heavily, dragging open her heavy eyelids.

She was more exhausted than she was willing to admit. She had barely slept, tearing through every page of that stupid book—Tales of Trial and Strife—and she hadn't found anything worth consideration. It was stuffed full of fairytales and urban legends. Why had he recommended it to her? It was nonsensical. It was ludicrous. Unless—

Unless he'd done it just further confuse her? Yes, that sounded just like him, but—but why go through the trouble at all?

"Annabeth," Luke repeated with a frown, reaching forward to take her hand in his.

"Yes?" she replied, her gaze flickering involuntarily to their hands. His skin felt clammy and luke-warm against hers.

"Is there something troubling you?"

They were seated in the drawing-room, in front of the window overlooking the gardens. The familiar sight was comforting amongst her turbulent thoughts.

"No," she said quickly, painting a small smile on her lips to give credit to her statement.

He seemed to accept it, pulling her hand into his lap and stroking a finger up her bare arm. She let him. It was the least she could do after last night.

"Are you sure you're feeling better?" he asked.

Annabeth sighed, wondering if she had imagined the yearning hidden in his words.

"Yes," she told him, her gaze tracing the careful lines of tulips and roses outside. The bright colors glowed among the murky green. It was foggy out today.

"Since you're feeling better then," Luke prompted, with a grin, his index finger brushing her chin, turning her attention in his direction. She blinked in annoyance but otherwise ignored it. "What would you think of a ride?"

"I thought you didn't like riding," Annabeth remarked lightly.

"I like you," he assured her easily. "If you enjoy riding, then I will learn to enjoy it."

She smiled at that. These were the rare moments that made her wonder if a life with Luke would be so bad after all? Yes, it would be a life of luke-warm hands and half-hearted kisses, but it would be a simple life.

"Okay," she agreed softly.

"I'll have the servants ready our horses," he informed, gesturing for one of the guards. "We'll go—"

"Wait," Annabeth stopped him, recalling the note she'd received from her sister earlier that morning.

Come to my room later

There was no address or signature. It was simple, honest, to the point. Just like they had always been—until he'd shown up.

"I should see Rachel before I go."

Something caught her eye in the gardens, a flash of darkness among the flowers. She turned. There were two figures wandering among the blooming bulbs—Percy and Rachel, she recognized easily—they were laughing. Annabeth watched as he grabbed her hand, pulling her towards him. Rachel folded into him, her fingers flattening against his chest.

Annabeth's stomach twisted painfully. She faced Luke, but his bemused expression did little to calm her. Her gaze dropped his lips, and she couldn't help but picture the movement of his mouth when he'd uttered those three little words—those horrible words.

"Actually," she amended, careful to curl her lips and crinkle her eyes in mannered pleasure. "Let's go now."

"Grand," he returned, his expression happy, composed, perfect.

...

Despite her hesitance, riding considerably improved her mood. The biting wind against her skin and the deafening crash of gallops served as an excellent distraction. Even as they reached their destination and the world stilled around them, Annabeth found herself so captivated grandeur of the landscape that none of her troubles could invade her mind.

"Shall we stop?" Luke proposed.

"Okay," Annabeth allowed, watching him as he dismounted and reached to help her down. She took his hand. He looked better like this—carefree and untroubled.

"I brought something," he revealed once she was on stable ground.

"Hm?" she hummed in question, observing him as he reached into his satchel and drew a book—that book—the one that had been troubling her all morning.

She swallowed thickly, feeling her muscles strain to keep a straight face.

"I saw it on your bedside," he explained, a bashful smile adorning his lips. She might have found the gesture endearing had the circumstances been different. "I thought I might read to you."

Her indifferent expression must not have been as convincing as she'd hoped because he looked uncertain, running his fingers through his hair as a frown slowly marred his innocent expression.

"Should I not have brought it?" he questioned.

"No—" she interjected quickly. "I was just surprised."

"It's an odd choice, I must admit," he remarked as he ran his long fingers along the bridge.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you enjoy it?" he wondered aloud, turning it over in his hands. "It doesn't seem like your style."

"It was a recommendation," she dismissed quickly, then at his questioning brow added. "A servant mentioned it in passing."

"Must not know you very well," he noted with a lopsided grin. "Unlike yours truly."

Annabeth rolled her eyes but allowed a smile, taking the book from him. He motioned for their guards who were trailing yards behind them to watch the horses and took her free hand in his, pulling her along the trail.

"Luke," she breathed, watching her sigh condense before her. "Have you read it?"

"The book?" he clarified, his eyes tracing the skyline.

"Yes."

"Of course," he chuckled, a wistful tone taking over. "My mother used to read it to me when I was young."

"Is it for children?" she asked, more confused than ever. Why had Percy recommended a book for children? Was he mocking her?

"Not necessarily," he reasoned, tucking her into the crook of his elbow. She was unusually grateful for the warmth, leaning into his figure. "It's folklore, but—well, it's a bit gruesome for children, isn't it? I certainly would read it to my children."

Annabeth's eyebrows flew up. Calling the stories Annabeth had read gruesome seemed like a stretch. "But your mother read it to you?" Annabeth pointed out delicately. His parents were a touchy subject.

"She did," he confirmed, stiffening for a second before relaxing again. "The stories—they're supposedly rooted in fact—but then again, aren't all folk tales reminiscent of history." He chuckled, the warm sound spreading into the cool air. "My mother would use the stories to scare me. She would tell me if I didn't complete my lessons, the deadly seven would come for me."

"Deadly?" Annabeth frowned. She must have been more tired than she'd thought because she had no memory of the story he was referencing.

"Oh," he stopped himself, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't spoil it for you. I forgot that you hadn't read it."

"No, no," she waved away his worries. "Please tell me more—I like hearing you speak. It—soothes me."

He grinned at her. She felt a pang of guilt over her lie but just smiled, waiting to hear the rest of the story.

"Deadly seven are—well, let me start at the beginning." He licked his lips. "They say—the story says that were originally twelve families that peaceful governed all the land. Each controlled an essential resource. Until one day, one family grew too powerful. They were greedy, wanted it all—just necessary ambition really."

He laughed silently. She said nothing, the word still hitting a little close to home.

"The family—or kingdom, it depends on the edition," he continued. "But the family convinced two others to join forces with them. Together, the three possessed the most resources—land, capital, and labor."

"And?" Annabeth pressed impatiently.

"Well, the other nine were demolished—obviously," he expounded easily, his grip around her arm shifting to keep her warm. "And the eldest son of each family was murdered—a symbolic gesture, I think. Something about depriving them of their namesake " He waved his free hand hastily as he continued. "The triumphant families became known as the big three. All but seven of the others bowed down before them. In a demonstration of their newfound strength, the big three slaughtered the remaining seven.

"Despite their power, the big three families suffered generations of bloodshed and gore. It is said that the seven that were murdered—the deadly seven—would appear before them, poisoning their minds and turning them against each other."

Annabeth was silent as he finished his story, listening to the wind whistle across the empty hills surrounding them.

"That is quite a bloody story to tell a child," she said finally. "Do you think it's true?"

"I don't think this world has ever been peaceful," Luke shrugged honestly. "But enough of this talk of bloodshed and gore, let's find somewhere to sit."

"Okay," Annabeth agreed, swallowing heavily.

She shivered. He held her close.

...

It was nightfall by the time they got back to the castle. On any other night, she would have visited her sister, inquired about her day, but tonight she could only think of one thing—or rather seven.

Once in her room, she sat down at her desk, laying the book flat against the surface. There was no table of contents, so one by one, she scanned each page, searching for anything about the deadly seven. By the time she reached the end she was even more frustrated than when she'd begun. There was nothing—not one word. Perhaps she had a different copy. After all, Luke had implied there were different editions of the text.

Annabeth laid her head on her hands, feeling her eyes flutter shut as she stared sideways at the tome.

Percy couldn't be referring to the deadly seven. Why would he have recommended the book if it didn't even include the story in question? No, he was probably indicating another story—but then, every other story was a simple fairytale, full of shallow morals and happy endings.

She sighed, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. Her gaze traced the delicate leather binding of the book. The notion that her copy might be different than the one Luke had read as a child wasn't ridiculous, especially considering how new the binding looked—but then, why had the pages held onto each other when she'd tried to open it for the first time? Why had she met a cloud of dust when she'd peeled the pages apart?

Then Annabeth's eyes noticed something odd. There was a break in the shoulder that didn't quite match the joint. She frowned, the discovery sending a wave of adrenaline through her. She narrowed her eyes, inching closer to the minuscule mistake—so small it was virtually undetectable.

Her heart dropped, her stomach twisting as she realized what she was looking at. The contents of the book had been altered. There were pages missing.

A loud crash accompanied her discovery—then, silence, just the soft breeze of the wind through her open window, the ill-timed creak of the ancient wood beams, a light scratching at her door.

Annabeth frowned, standing up from her desk. Facing the door, she silently slid open her drawer, reaching for the dagger she had hidden beneath her books and wrapping her fingers carefully around the hilt.

A series of metal clangs clouded her mind, the eerily familiar sound of steel on steel. Annabeth took a shallow breath, carefully hiding the blade behind her back. Her doors clattered, her blood rushed through her ears, her pulse racing—

A figure rushed into the room, the doors shuttering behind them. Annabeth's nerves thrummed as her eyes struggled to identify the man in the dim candlelit room—then, realizing she couldn't identify him, her grip around her dagger tightened.

"Your highness," he greeted mockingly, stepping into the light. He was tall, with dark sweeping hair and a rogue wicked curve to his lips.

Annabeth blinked, said nothing, following the positioning of his feet to try to predict his movements. Her gaze flashed to the glimmer of steel at his right, noticing the sword gripped tightly between his grubby fingers.

Her hands were still behind her back, her heart beating out of her chest as his grin only seemed to widen with every passing second. Her nerves jolted at the realization that he was most likely not the only attacker, thinking of Rachel. Where was she? Was she safe?

He stepped towards her, his movements lazy and sloppy, like he hadn't expected her to struggle, like he expected her to just surrender.

"Who sent you?" she demanded suddenly, stopping him in his tracks. She dragged the dagger out and brandished it in his direction, trying to look threatening, even if she felt powerless.

His eyes caught the silver with amusement. He arched his brow at her but did not answer her question.

His grip tightened.

Annabeth gulped.

"Who sent you?" she charged again, imbuing her words with false confidence as she balanced her dagger carefully between her fingers, appraising the man before her.

He stepped forward, she stepped back.

He stepped left, she stepped right.

He was holding the blade in his left hand, a little weaker on his right foot, leading with the other. His shoulders were broad, and his figure wasn't lanky enough to be living on a peasant's diet. He was skilled, but not overly so.

Something was off, she realized as he treaded towards her, lunging slackly for her shoulder. She dipped away from him, easily dodging his attack. He was reserved, his actions subdued—a step, never a stride.

He could have probably killed her if he had wanted to. She was out of practice, and he was stronger, faster, more powerful than her, but instead, he was dancing, tiptoeing around her. He wasn't trying to kill her, she realized suddenly, he was trying to scare her.

The thought made her unreasonable angry, overriding the fear surging through her system.

Annabeth lurched forward. The attacker rocked backward, his brows shooting up in surprise. He hadn't been expecting her to fight. He frowned, confused for a second before stumbling back, staggering on his heels.

"So," he laughed as he caught his balance, his voice rough and patronizing. "Princess can fight now?" The unfamiliar timbre of his voice slithering over her nerves.

She didn't answer, carefully dodging a jab at her elbow. She swept her leg at his right ankle, his weaker side, taking advantage of his momentary lack of attention to knock him off his feet. He toppled to the ground, his blade clattering across the floor, surprise flickering across his dark eyes.

He gasped, rasping air into his lungs as he stared at her, a glimmer of fear hidden behind his broken features.

Annabeth reveled in it.

She watched his fingers twitch and his shoulders tense as he tried to reach for his sword, but she was quicker, kicking the blade out of grasp. Her chest heaved against her dress, the fabric rough against her skin as she glared at him.

His palms flattened against the ground for support, attempting to stand. Anticipating his actions, she slid herself over him, straddling his hips as she positioned her blade at his neck.

"Who are you working for?" she commanded, the silver blade digging into his delicate skin with every anxious pulse of his throat.

He laughed.

Annabeth's blood seemed to boil in her veins, her heart ricocheting off the barriers of her chest. She had a blade to his throat. His life was in her hands. Why wasn't he answering her questions?

"Who are you working for?" she repeated, pressing harder and watched as ruby red blood trickled from the wound.

"We're rebels," he replied sharply, his words trapped between rough breaths. "We don't work for anyone."

"Don't lie to me," Annabeth snarled, registering his flinch at her harsh tone. "I'm not a fool. Who sent you?"

"You royals really are horribly arrogant," he chuckled, breaking into a stiff cough before fixing her with a venomous stare. "You will all face the wrath of the seven"

Annabeth gut clenched as a dark wicked dread strangled her lungs. Her breath catching uncomfortably in her throat. She forced herself to strangle the scream creeping into her larynx.

"Your family will die for what they have done," he roared, spitting in her face.

She inhaled—

The world went fuzzy around her, her rapid heartbeat the only thing tying her to the reality.

No

Her entire life, Annabeth had grown up surrounded by empty, hollow threats. They'd become a rather sour backdrop to her childhood, to her family. They were just passing remarks you heard before someone's head inevitably rolled.

No

Threats against her family were normal.

They were common.

But something about this one felt different.

No

Perhaps it was because she was beginning to worry she didn't understand the gravity of the mystery she was unraveling—or perhaps it was because Percy's arrival had opened a door of uncertainty, filling her mind with an ambiguity she was now forced to address—or perhaps it was the fact that if she hadn't been so caught up in the enigma surrounding that stupid book or that stupid Duke, she might have answered her sister's note—come to my room later—and she might have been there to protect her.

Nonono

And maybe it was that—the idea that her sister was in danger, that her sister could be dead, that inspired something inside of Annabeth, something unfamiliar and terrifying and fiercely protective that roared to life, prompting her limbs without her permission, doing anything to make him stop, to make him shut up

And then, silence—peace.

—she exhaled.

"Your Highness," a hushed voice reached her ears.

The world came back to her, armored figures coming into focus before her. They were staring at her. No, not at her, at—

Annabeth looked down. There was her attacker, silent and dying before her, and plunged deep into his chest was her dagger.


a/n: so craziness. hope the tw didn't give it away lol. tried to edit but my attention span sucks, so ill do it l8r. dedicated to XxFanxX and blackhairedtrash thx for being lovely

iciao!