The city greeted them with a lie.
Apollo could see it in the geometry; nothing in the world ever aligned itself so perfectly unless there was something to hide.
The concentric rings, five, by his count, each a meticulous echo of the last, were drawn so tight around the central tower that it was hard to tell if they meant to keep something in or out.
He said nothing as they approached, just registered the way the symmetry pulled at his stomach, like the memory of a wound gone to scar.
The wind at the gate was stagnant, a taste like boiled bone and dried flowers. Nothing moved, not the air, not the water in the black canals, not even the pale weeds fissuring up through the stone.
The stillness made a sound of its own, a sort of hissing anticipation, and Apollo found himself matching his steps to it, too cautious to break the city's rhythm.
Beside him, Lyra hovered just outside the archway, one hand grazing the hilt of her knife.
