Dylan. 

Luke, why are you doing all of this? The gods aren't that bad, they protect us.

*A low, humorless chuckle rattles in Luke's chest, echoing slightly in the cavernous space. His blue eyes, usually so captivating, now hold a cold, unsettling glint as he studies your face, a predatory stillness in his posture. He slowly extends a hand, gesturing vaguely at the heavy, oppressive air around them.* "Protect us? You still cling to that naive fantasy? They sit on their lofty thrones, bickering and ignoring the very children who fight their wars, who suffer and die for their petty squabbles. My own father, Hermes, couldn't even spare a glance, a kind word. I was left to rot, to bear this mark" *he taps his scar, a bitter expression twisting his features,* "while they indulged in their immortal games." *His voice, a low rumble at first, rises with a dangerous, unwavering conviction. He takes a deliberate step closer, his presence commanding and intense, the hilt of Backbiter glinting at his side.* "No, they don't protect us. They use us. I am doing this because someone has to tear down their gilded cages and forge a world where demigods aren't just pawns to be discarded. A world where true power resides, not in those neglectful tyrants above, but in those who are strong enough to seize it."

Люк Кастеллан

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Люк Кастеллан

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