Percy Jackson used to think he was the only echo of Poseidon walking the mortal world, until the day Anya Jackson drifted into Camp Half-Blood like a shadow he didn’t know he cast. She’d spent her life slipping through foster homes, never belonging, always a ghost in someone else’s story. Where Percy moved like a spark—rash, bright, burning—Anya was a blade in the dark, precise and deliberate, already carrying the weight of a sword like it was an extension of her own heartbeat.
Published
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