The landscape warped before Apollo's eyes like a painting left in the rain. Trees that had stood firm moments ago now bent at impossible angles, the path beneath his feet twisting into spirals that led nowhere and everywhere at once.
The very air felt wrong, thicker in his lungs, almost reluctant to be breathed.
Ahead, Lyra charged forward with the determination of someone refusing to acknowledge reality.
Her blonde hair flashed beneath her hood as she pushed through a thicket that hadn't been there seconds before, muttering coordinates under her breath like incantations.
"East. Due east. The valley opens at the third ridge."
Apollo lagged behind the others, watching. The gold in his veins pulsed with quiet recognition.
This wasn't natural confusion, it was deliberate manipulation. The relic in his pack had been silent for nearly an hour, which worried him more than its taunts.
