By the time the trail dropped them into the belly of the valley, the sun was gone, replaced by a blue-black dusk that stretched dusk into infinity.
Apollo couldn't see the sky for the branches, and the air had a flavor, minerally sweet, with the high note of blossom, the undercurrent of rot.
There was no sign of the old city anymore; only trees, packed so tight their limbs interlaced like the fingers of feuding gods.
Rows and rows, as if the valley had once been planted with the logic of a spreadsheet, then left for centuries to go feral.
Nik staggered to a stop, hands on his knees, and eyed the orchard with the look of a man waiting for it to apologize. "This isn't on any map," he said, more to himself than the others.
Lyra was already halfway down the slope, boots skidding through the mulch.
Every tree she passed moved a little, then settled, like a crowd shifting at the edge of a duel. The dog charged ahead, then froze, tail up, hackles combed by static.
