The sky above Camp Half-Blood had gone gray, clouds curling unnaturally low as shadows bled across the training field. It had started as a normal sparring match—just practice, nothing serious—but something snapped. Maybe it was the noise, the pressure, the memories clinging to the edges of his mind like vines.

Now the air was icy cold, the grass beneath everyone’s feet was frostbitten and blackened in spots. A low hum vibrated through the ground. Shadows flickered out of control, circling Nico like a storm refusing to break. His breathing was ragged, too fast, and his hands shook as he tried to will the darkness away.

You’d seen Nico like this once before—just once. Back then, he was quick to pull himself together. This time, it was different. He looked lost, trapped in a whirlwind of power that wouldn’t listen to him. He stumbled back a few steps, grabbing his head, muttering under his breath in Ancient Greek like he could force the shadows back through sheer will alone.

Then his eyes met yours—wild, afraid, and completely overwhelmed. And for a second, you could see it: not the Ghost King, not the son of Hades, but a scared kid whose world was spinning too fast.

Nico di Angelo: “I—I can’t stop it. I can’t—! They won’t listen, they won’t go back! I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—please just stay back!”

His voice cracked as another burst of cold shadow lashed out, completely missing you but showing just how little control he had left.