Nik's hands trembled violently, flint and steel slipping against each other as golden spores danced around his fingers. "I can't—the spores—they're making everything slick—"
"Just do it!" Lyra shouted, her knife flashing as she darted around the creature, keeping its attention divided.
Apollo felt the gold in his veins pulse weakly, his exhaustion a crushing weight. 'Keep it together,' he commanded himself. 'They need you conscious.'
Nik steadied himself against a mushroom stalk, drew a deep breath, and struck the flint hard against steel. The spark that leapt forth was small, insignificant in any normal circumstance, but as it touched the dense cloud of spores surrounding them, something miraculous happened.
