Annabeth has exactly three things in her possession right now:
the echo of a name she thinks is hers, the sounds and syllables of it sharp like the sea-salt scent of summer;
a knife that could cut bone, that fits easily into the palm of her hand, that she knows she can use; and
the company of a sullen teenager with tousled dark hair and a darker scowl, and a kind of desperation in his eyes that tugs at something in her puzzle box heart.
"Amnesia, again?" the boy mutters, after cursing under his breath in ancient Gree- how does she know ancient Greek? "Can't the gods come up with something original, for once?"
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- the echo of a name she thinks is hers, the sounds and syllables of it sharp like the sea-salt scent of summer;
- a knife that could cut bone, that fits easily into the palm of her hand, that she knows she can use; and
- the company of a sullen teenager with tousled dark hair and a darker scowl, and a kind of desperation in his eyes that tugs at something in her puzzle box heart.
"Amnesia, again?" the boy mutters, after cursing under his breath in ancient Gree- how does she know ancient Greek? "Can't the gods come up with something original, for once?"