@eterknows | x
LUKE'S EYES NARROW. He isn't smiling—this is cold calculation. Nothing more.
The thing is—he is exhausted. Kronos plagues him with night terrors. During meals in the Dining Pavilion, Luke offers portions of his meal to the gods; he wonders if the gods smell the spite inherent to him and his obligatory sacrifice. He picks at his food and he laughs half-heartedly when younger campers say something that's supposed to be funny.
So he hasn't slept, and he hasn't eaten much. Also, Adam is, unlike the majority of campers, Luke's size. Luke shouldn't always win, but he needs to. Taking this so much more seriously than anyone else—than Adam—is an advantage (for now) because it has to be.
"What are you talking about?" They call it what?
The training swords lack the reassuring weight of celestial bronze—or even Annabeth's dagger. Without warning, Luke propels himself forward, sword raised.
Watch out, Adam!
