The hills rose like worn knuckles from the earth, covered in stunted brush and pale grasses that whispered with each gust of wind.
Heat shimmered above the ground, distorting the horizon where sky met distant water. Apollo wiped sweat from his brow, feeling the gold in his veins pulse in time with something beyond his own heartbeat.
"We should head northwest," Thorin said, pointing toward a ridge that curved away from the sea. "Better cover, less exposed."
Renna snorted, planting her spear in the dirt. "Northwest is nothing but broken ground for three days. East ridge has water."
"East takes us too close to the trader roads," Thorin countered, his voice gaining an edge.
Apollo watched them, noting the unusual sharpness in Thorin's tone, the rigid set of Renna's shoulders. The argument felt different from their usual tactical disagreements, more visceral, somehow.
