Apollo glanced at Hermes—whose knees were visibly shaking—then patted the side of his golden chariot with a smile that could've doubled as a death sentence.
"So," he said gently, "are you going to wrap the rope around your own neck, or would you like some help with that?"
"I think we can… talk this out," Hermes said, voice squeaky as he dragged Cyd out like a peace offering.
"Wait—what?!" Cyd blinked, caught completely off guard. Weren't YOU supposed to talk to him?! he wanted to shout.
Apollo's eyes narrowed. "Cyd, is it? If you had shown up today on your own, maybe we'd be having a pleasant conversation. But you're with him. So this better be good."
Cyd gulped and stepped forward. "O Great Sun God—Apollo, sir—I believe I can help… resolve things between you and Hermes."
Apollo's expression darkened. "Resolve? This isn't just some spat," he snapped, glaring at Hermes, who was now hiding behind Cyd like a guilty raccoon. "You stole my cattle. I forgave you because that lyre you gave me had value. So I let it go."
He held up the shattered remains of a lyre—snapped clean in half.
"But this?" he growled, voice sharp as sunlight. "This makes me want to tie you to my chariot and drag you across the world. Or maybe shoot you straight into the sun."
Hermes winced. "I may have underestimated how fragile that model was."
"If I offer you a new instrument—one you've never seen before—and a melody you find satisfying…" Cyd said, voice steady despite the panic rising in his chest, "would that earn mercy?"
Apollo's glare flicked between the two of them. He chuckled darkly. "You think you can pull that off? Fine. Impress me. Give me an instrument this world doesn't yet know. And a piece of music that satisfies me. Do that, and maybe I'll only drag Hermes for half the day."
Hermes turned a shade paler. Music was one thing. But pleasing Apollo, while he was mid-rage? That was suicide with strings.
Cyd took a deep breath and handed over the erhu Hermes had prepped earlier. The slim-necked, two-stringed instrument looked almost humble in Apollo's hands.
"What is this… stick?" Apollo asked, raising a brow. He plucked one string lightly, and the resulting screech was not divine.
"That's not how you use it," Cyd said quickly, pulling out the bow. "It's meant to be drawn across the strings, like this. I think… no, I believe it can produce something truly worthy."
Apollo narrowed his eyes but took the bow. He adjusted the strings like a pro, then drew the bow slowly across. The first note hummed in the air—low, haunting, otherworldly.
His fingers moved instinctively, tightening the strings, coaxing the tone into something richer. Within seconds, the forest fell silent, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
A melody poured out—melancholy and deep, like a story without words. Something human. Something divine.
Hermes, still crouched behind a tree, exhaled for the first time in what felt like forever. Being a trickster god meant knowing when someone's mood had flipped—and Apollo's had flipped. Not all the way to happy, but definitely off the "fiery vengeance" setting.
The song ended. Apollo held the erhu close like it was something sacred. His gaze softened when he looked at Cyd.
"You came up with this?" he asked quietly.
Cyd shook his head. "No. I didn't make it, and I didn't write the music either."
"If you'd claimed it as yours, I would've rewarded you," Apollo said gently. "A blessing, treasures, whatever you wanted."
"I can't take credit for something that isn't mine," Cyd said simply. "That wouldn't be right."
A pause. Then Apollo reached out and gently ruffled Cyd's hair.
"I'm impressed," he said. "With you. And with this music."
"YES!" Hermes fist-pumped and wiped his forehead. "We're in the clear!"
Apollo's smile dropped. "Not so fast."
Hermes flinched.
"I said I was pleased," Apollo growled, "but I never said I forgave you. One good song doesn't undo a broken instrument."
"Oh, come on!" Hermes groaned. "Isn't one half-day mercy enough?"
Apollo folded his arms.
Cyd stepped in, again. "Lord Apollo… I have another piece. It's not mine either, and I probably can't do it justice, but… can I offer it to you?"
Apollo looked at him for a long second. "Cyd, you don't have to cover for this scheming gremlin."
"That's rude," Hermes muttered. "Accurate, but rude."
Apollo sighed. "Fine. Let's hear it. But if it's bad, you get to ride shotgun on the chariot."
Cyd cleared his throat, then began to hum "Moon Reflected in Erquan Spring."
It wasn't pretty. He missed the rhythm. Went off-key. Fumbled a few notes. But he poured everything he had into it.
Not perfection.
Emotion.
Apollo watched silently. The melody faltered in places, but… it was there. The heart of it. The aching beauty.
When Cyd finished, he looked up, breath caught in his throat. "Did… did it work?"
Apollo raised an eyebrow. "You hum like a dying goose."
Cyd's heart sank.
"But," Apollo added, smiling faintly, "it was a remarkable piece. And you brought it to me."
Cyd let out a shaky breath. That was a yes. Probably.
Hermes stared in disbelief. "You're telling me that off-pitch wailing impressed you?"
Apollo glared. "Shut it, Hermes. One more word and I will throw you into orbit."
Hermes clamped his hands over his mouth—but that grin? It snuck back anyway.
Apollo turned to Cyd, voice lower now, more sincere. "You didn't make this. You didn't compose it. But you carried it here. And you were honest."
He raised a glowing hand.
"I know what reward suits you best."
His palm brushed Cyd's forehead, warm like sunlight after rain.
"O Pure Son of Man," he said, "your honesty is not weakness. It is your light."
If Cyd had tried to lie, tried to take credit for the erhu or the melody, Apollo would've showered him with treasure—and dismissed him the next minute.
But he hadn't.
So Apollo offered something greater.
"I, Apollo, God of the Sun, bless you."
Cyd looked down. The bracer on his left wrist shimmered. One of the thirteen crystal shards embedded in the metal flared to life, slowly filling with vibrant orange light.
[The Light of the Sun will guide your path.]