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    “Thalia Grace,” said the man, the god, as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Your father has just killed someone I cared very deeply for. I’m here to make certain he doesn’t do it again." Shit. Before Thalia or Luke or Grover could react, the god reached behind him, and pulled out-

    -a kid. A little kid, no bigger than Annabeth. A boy with curly blonde hair, and red-rimmed eyes, who stared at the four of them with the sort of dazed expression that belonged on people just rescued from the wreckage of natural disasters.

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    09 Jun 2026

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    The corners of Manolo’s eyes crinkled. The hugs had mussed his hair; Maria laughed and smoothed his curl back into place. Manolo attempted a serious look, though it was ruined by the way his mouth kept twitching. He said, mock-solemn, “Joaquin, if you wanted a dance, you should have said.”

    Joaquin started to laugh. It caught in his throat as Manolo took his hand and Maria grasped the other. Both of their hands were callused, and Joaquin remembered, dizzily, how Maria had held the sword aloft like she was born to wield it, and of Manolo’s fingers, certain and deft upon the guitar.

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    03 Jun 2026

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  3. Public Bookmark *

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    "Has anyone ever asked Joaquín to stay?"

    It was a blindingly simple question that hit Manolo with the strength of a rampaging bull. But then, María always asked the most difficult questions.

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    03 Jun 2026

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    “You know,” Olruggio says, roughly. He doesn’t move to take Qifrey’s hand again. “You know. You can’t not know, Qifrey.”

    Qifrey just looks at him. “I do.”

    The rain continues falling.

    (And so Olruggio forgets. And he inevitably figures it out again, because of course he does; and he inevitably chooses to forget again, and again, and again, because his heart is always the same. The story is always the same. Like a tale from under a silverwood tree, like a myth from the days of old, not so much tied by the constraints of the narrative so much as being narrative itself. Antigone must bury her brother. Iphigenia must be put to death. At a thousand turns, in a thousand ways, Orpheus must turn, and he must look, again, and again.

    And Olruggio forgets.)

    There is an old story about a witch and a silverwood tree.

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    01 Jun 2026

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  5. Public Bookmark 20

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    Bismuth gets cracked.

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    30 May 2026

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