Apollo woke to the taste of ash in his mouth and the absence of birdsong in his ears.
The fire had died sometime in the night, leaving nothing but a circle of cold cinders where warmth had been. He pushed himself upright, joints protesting after a night on the hard ground, and looked around at the sleeping forms of his companions. The gold in his veins felt sluggish, reluctant to warm with the dawn as it usually did.
Something was wrong.
He tilted his head, listening for the familiar sounds of morning, rustling leaves, chirping insects, the distant calls of birds greeting the sun. Nothing. The silence pressed against his ears like a physical weight, broken only by the soft breathing of the others as they began to stir.
'This isn't natural,' he thought, reaching instinctively for the bow that lay beside him. The weapon's touch was reassuring, its wood warm beneath his fingers despite the morning chill. 'Even after we escaped that place, something's still not right.'
