The wolves came from everywhere at once, materializing from shadows as if born from the darkness itself. Apollo counted a dozen, then twenty, then lost track as more corrupted forms poured from between the ancient trees, their golden eyes burning with hungry malice.
"Form up!" Cale shouted, his sword already drawn. "Back to back, now!"
The group moved with desperate coordination, forming a tight circle in the center of the clearing. Apollo found himself between Thorin and Lyra, their shoulders pressing against his as they faced outward toward the encroaching pack. The gold in his veins surged with warning, hot and urgent beneath his skin.
'Too many,' he thought, nocking an arrow with practiced precision. 'Far too many for us to fight off.'
The first wolf lunged from Apollo's right, a twisted mockery of nature with patchy fur and veins that pulsed golden beneath corrupted flesh. His arrow caught it mid-leap, blue-gold fire blooming where the shaft pierced its chest.
