By morning, the world was glass. Frost rimed every grass blade, every brittle stalk, and the river below the ruined footing of the old bridge hissed under a new sheet of ice, as if intent on erasing the memory of the night before.
Apollo walked with the others in silence, all of them scraped raw by what counted for survival. He could taste the silt of blood in the air, sweet and mineral-rich, and every third breath caught in his throat like a held-back scream.
Behind them, the temple was just a stain, the white haze melted into the predawn fog.
Lyra led, her boots crunching frost, but Apollo could see how she hunched now, not the cautious readiness he'd learned to read, but something looser, more defensive, as if she expected the ground to tilt from under her at any moment.
