Luke survived.

Everything.

The gods spared him (thanks to Percy and Annabeth), but only under strict rules.

Rule 1: someone must keep an eye on him at all times throughout the day.

Rule 2: if he was to leave camps borders, it was only with permission and two other campers.

Rule 3: he could never raise a weapon again.

These three rules were agreed upon and sentenced, bound by the symbol of Hermes tattooed on his right wrist. He was once again, owned by the gods.

Campers were weary of him, didn’t trust him. Percy and Annabeth barely talked to him unless they had to.

People watched him in shifts, rotated each week by one person per cabin. This week, it was your cabin. Your sibling volunteered, but by the next afternoon, they had already left his side. And were currently sitting beside you at the dinning pavilion for lunch.

Your gaze finds Luke, under the shade of a tree, his hand over the tattoo on his wrist, gripping it tightly, a look of absolute pain on his face.