Apollo lowered the bow, his arms trembling not from the weapon’s weight, but from the raw power that had coursed through him. The gold in his veins settled into a gentle hum, cooling after the fire of combat.
No one spoke. His companions stared at him as if seeing a stranger wearing a familiar face. Their expressions ranged from awe to fear, with shades of suspicion darkening their wide eyes. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint sizzle of corrupted ichor burning away where his arrows had struck.
Nik was the first to break the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "How did you... the arrows... they were glowing."
Apollo slid the bow back across his shoulder, feeling its warmth press against his spine like a reassuring hand. "The bow," he said simply. "There’s something special about it."
"Special?" Thorin’s gruff voice carried an edge Apollo hadn’t heard before. The dwarf’s fingers tapped against his axe handle, a nervous rhythm at odds with his usual steady demeanor. "That’s what you call it? Special?"
Renna stepped forward, her hunter’s eyes bright with unconcealed admiration. "I’ve never seen shooting like that. Not from the elven archers of the eastern forests, not from the royal guard of Clarion."
She gestured toward the treeline where the creature had disappeared. "Those shots would have been impossible in daylight with a perfect bow, let alone in darkness against a moving target."
The sanctuary’s blue glow flickered, the runes dimming slightly as if the battle had drained their ancient power. Apollo felt the bow tug gently against his back, a subtle pressure urging him eastward, deeper into the forest. The sensation was new, directional rather than merely protective.
’It wants to go somewhere,’ he realized, the thought rising unbidden. ’It’s pulling me toward something.’
"We owe you our lives," Cale said, his voice measured and careful. "But I think we deserve some explanation. That wasn’t normal archery."
"It wasn’t," Apollo admitted, seeing no point in denying what they had all witnessed. "The bow... it guides my hands. I can feel what it wants, where it wants the arrows to go." The half-truth came easily, better than explaining the way the gold in his veins had sung in harmony with the weapon, how knowledge he couldn’t possibly possess had flowed through him like water through a channel.
"Guides your hands?" Thorin’s voice rose with disbelief. "A bow doesn’t guide anything. It’s a piece of wood with a string."
"Not this one," Apollo replied, his fingers brushing the smooth surface at his shoulder. "This bow is different. Ancient. I think it was made to fight those creatures specifically."
"Convenient that you found it, then," Lyra remarked, her green eyes studying him with the careful assessment of someone weighing possibilities. "Just when we needed it most."
Tension crackled between them, gratitude warring with suspicion. Apollo felt it like a physical pressure against his skin, the fragile trust they’d built threatening to fracture under the weight of what they’d witnessed.
The runes flickered again, more noticeably this time. A few of the outer symbols dimmed completely, their blue light fading to dull stone. Follow current novels on NoveIＦire.net
"The sanctuary is weakening," Mira observed, her good arm pointing toward the failing runes. "The fight must have drained it."
"We should move at first light," Cale suggested, kneeling to examine the fading symbols. His fingers traced the patterns with surprising familiarity. "These are old magic. Very old. I’ve seen similar workings in the abandoned temples of the eastern mountains."
"Move where?" Nik demanded, his face still pale from their encounter. "That thing is still out there, probably calling its friends right now."
"It’s wounded," Renna countered. "Badly, from what I saw. It won’t return tonight."
"And tomorrow?" Thorin challenged. "What about tomorrow, when we’re beyond this circle’s protection, injured and exhausted?"
The debate continued as Apollo moved to the edge of the sanctuary, drawn by the bow’s persistent pull. He stared into the darkness, trying to discern what lay in the direction it urged him toward.
Nothing but trees and shadows met his gaze, yet the sensation remained—a constant, gentle pressure guiding him eastward.
The others gradually broke into smaller groups, the immediate danger passed but the tension lingering. Apollo found himself beside the central well, refilling his waterskin when Lyra approached.
Her steps were silent despite the stone floor, a hunter’s habit ingrained through years of practice.
"Thank you," she said simply, her voice pitched low enough that only he could hear. "Whatever that bow is, whatever you are... you saved us tonight."
Apollo nodded, accepting her gratitude while noting the careful qualification in her words. ’Whatever you are.’ Not ’whoever’ but ’whatever,’ as if she sensed the truth hidden beneath his human appearance.
"I’m just glad it worked," he replied, focusing on securing the cap of his waterskin to avoid meeting her too-perceptive gaze.
"Is it pulling you somewhere?" Her question caught him off guard, forcing him to look up. Her expression revealed nothing, but her eyes never left his face. "I’ve been watching. You keep looking east, like something’s calling you."
The gold in his veins quickened at her insight. "Yes," he admitted, seeing no benefit in lying. "It wants to go deeper into the forest."
"It wants," she repeated, the words hanging between them. "Not you want."
Before he could respond, Renna joined them, her face alight with the professional curiosity of one skilled warrior recognizing another.
"You have to show me how you draw so smoothly," she said, seemingly oblivious to the tension she’d interrupted. "I’ve been an archer for fifteen years, and I’ve never seen anyone maintain such perfect form through multiple rapid shots."
Apollo welcomed the change in subject, though he noted how Lyra stepped back, still watching him with that careful, measuring gaze.
"It’s all in the breathing," he offered, falling into the familiar pattern of instruction he’d given countless times during his divine existence. "Most archers hold their breath when they should be exhaling steadily."
Across the sanctuary, Thorin sat with his back against one of the stone pillars, methodically sharpening his axe with rhythmic strokes of a whetstone. The familiar ritual seemed to calm him, though his eyes frequently darted toward Apollo with undisguised suspicion.