Morning came with all the warmth of a gravedigger's handshake. Apollo shifted the pack on his shoulders, feeling the relic's familiar weight press against his spine.
No one had spoken since they'd broken camp. The silence hung between them like a sixth companion, unwanted but persistent.
Even Nik, whose mouth usually ran faster than his feet, kept his gaze fixed on the path ahead, lips pressed into an uncharacteristic line.
Yesterday's verbal assault had left wounds deeper than any of them cared to admit.
Apollo concentrated on his breathing, on the steady rhythm of boot against earth, trying to feel for the relic's pulse beneath it all. There was a pattern there, something like a heartbeat, but older, more deliberate. It reminded him of waves against a shore, of time itself wearing away at resistance.
'It's waiting,' he thought, adjusting the straps of his pack again. 'Biding its time until we're ready to listen.'
