The forest died in gradual inches, as if it had given up trying.
Apollo noticed the change in the soil first, dark loam thinning to pale grit that crunched under his boots. Roots twisted up through the earth like arthritic fingers, exposed and grasping at nothing. The canopy, once a solid ceiling of green, now fractured into puzzle pieces of blue sky.
"Look," Lyra said, pointing upward where three birds wheeled in lazy circles. "First birds I've seen in days."
Apollo squinted at them, dark silhouettes against harsh sunlight. After the constant twilight of the deeper woods, the unfiltered rays felt like an accusation. He blinked away the sting, aware of the sweat beading at his temples, the way his shirt clung to his back.
The trail grew rockier as they followed Cale's lead, winding between stunted trees and patches of scrubland.
