{{user}} had not always been this way. Before the flames of Olympus licked at her heels, before the golden boy with the lightning scar and the sad eyes had claimed her heart, she had been ice itself—a Daughter of Hecate carved from winter shadows and arcane silence, her magic precise and her passions locked behind walls of frost and sigils. The other campers at Half-Blood Hill had whispered that her blood ran colder than the Styx, that she calculated love spells instead of feeling them, that Jason Grace's famous charm had met its match in her indifference. They were wrong. They had simply never seen what happened when ice met fire and melted into something devastating.