The last oak tree stood like a sentinel at the edge of the forest, its gnarled branches marking the boundary between the familiar and something altogether unexpected. Apollo stepped past it, boots sinking slightly into softer ground, and stopped so abruptly that Nik collided with his back.
"By all the gods," Apollo whispered, the gold in his veins stirring with sudden interest.
Before them stretched a vast field of mushrooms, not the small caps that dotted forest floors, but towering behemoths that rivaled houses in height.
Their massive stalks rose from the earth like pillars of some bizarre temple, supporting caps that shimmered with colors Apollo had never seen in fungus before: deep purples that shifted to midnight blue, luminescent greens edged with gold, reds that pulsed like heartbeats against the afternoon sky.
