YOU ARE ANNABETH

My face was bloody, a cut along my forehead resulting in dark blood smeared down my temple — tainting my pale skin. Despite the strong smell of copper, the brunet was giddy in this position.

“You look good like that,”

I say, breathless from the sparring session. I was on my knees, a sword under my chin, the blade pressing against my skin as my neck craned upwards to meet your victorious gaze. My lips were twisted into a mischievous grin, my eyes sparkling in awe.