Dawn broke grudgingly over the campsite, pale light filtering through twisted branches to illuminate the aftermath of yesterday's violence. Apollo winced as he shifted, the wound in his side protesting the movement despite the gold in his veins working steadily through the night to mend torn flesh.
The others were already stirring, their movements stiff and cautious. No one spoke. No one needed to.
The tension hung in the air like morning mist, palpable in the way Thorin kept one hand perpetually near his axe, in the quick, sidelong glances Cale cast toward Apollo when he thought himself unobserved.
'They fear me now,' Apollo thought, watching Lyra methodically roll her bedding with movements that betrayed neither pain nor fatigue. 'Not the forest, not the bandits. Me.'
