Dawn broke like a reluctant promise over the mushroom forest, painting the massive caps with a muted glow that did nothing to lift the weight in Apollo's chest.
The night's whispering chorus still echoed in his ears, phantom sounds that lingered even as the others stirred from their uneasy sleep.
"Cursed thing," Thorin muttered, scrubbing at his axe blade with a handful of moss. The blue luminescence remained stubbornly embedded in the metal, seeming to pulse in rhythm with the ambient aether of the forest. "No respectable dwarf carries a weapon that glows like a tavern sign."
Apollo pressed his palms against his eyes, willing away the gritty sensation of sleeplessness. When he lowered his hands, he carefully arranged his expression into one of ordinary morning fatigue rather than bone-deep exhaustion.
'They can't know I stayed awake all night,' he thought, watching Lyra roll her bedding with quick, efficient movements. 'They'd only ask questions I can't answer.'
