The roosters announced morning with their strident cries, pulling Apollo from the depths of dreamless sleep. He blinked away the last vestiges of slumber as golden sunlight spilled through the simple curtains of his room at the inn.
For a moment, he simply lay there, breathing in the rich aroma of baking bread that wafted up from below, mingling with the earthy scent of the wooden beams overhead.
'How strange,' Apollo thought, 'that such ordinary comforts could feel so extraordinary.'
He rose and dressed, listening to the gentle symphony of the village coming to life outside his window. It wasn't the chaotic clamor of their travels, no urgent whispers about pursuit, no weapons being checked and rechecked, no tense discussions about which path might prove least dangerous.
Instead, he heard the measured rhythm of everyday life: the creak of a well bucket being drawn, children's laughter spilling across the square, the distant clang of the blacksmith already at his forge.
