CHAPTER 49: STREETS OF SMOKE AND STONE

Their group stood out like blood on snow. Road-worn and tense, they moved with the heightened awareness of those who had survived too much to ever truly relax.

Thorin’s beard was matted with dust from the trail, Nik’s usually impeccable clothes hung in tatters, and Renna’s knuckles remained white around her peace-tied spear.

Even Cale, typically impossible to read, kept his eyes moving constantly, cataloging every potential threat.

A guard’s gaze lingered on them a moment too long. Apollo felt rather than saw Lyra stiffen beside him.

"We need to blend in," she said, voice low but carrying to each of them. "We’re too obvious like this. Traveling together, looking like we’ve fought our way through hell."

"Haven’t we?" Nik muttered, but his usual humor fell flat.

Lyra’s mouth tightened. "Split up. Meet back at sundown. Renna and I will find the lodging. The rest of you..." she swept her gaze across them, "...try to look like you belong here."

Thorin grunted his agreement, already turning toward the eastern quarter. "Going to find some real steel," he announced. "Not this peace-tied nonsense." He stomped away, his limp barely noticeable now that he had a purpose.

Nik’s face brightened. "I’ll check the markets. See what people are saying." The gleam in his eye suggested he’d be doing more than just listening, but no one bothered to caution him against pickpocketing. Some habits were too ingrained to break.

Cale merely nodded, then drifted away without a word, melting into the crowd with surprising ease for a man of his size.

Apollo found himself alone in the press of bodies, the relic a dead weight against his spine. The city closed around him, a maze of stone and noise and life that somehow felt more confining than the open wilderness had been.

’Where to?’ he wondered, letting his feet carry him forward. The gold in his veins remained cool and quiet, offering no guidance.

He wandered without direction, past shops and homes and taverns already doing brisk business despite the early hour.

The city unfolded around him, revealing itself in layers. Narrow alleys opened onto sunlit squares. Stairways led to upper walkways that offered glimpses into private courtyards.

Everywhere, people lived their lives with the peculiar intensity of those who had no idea what lurked beyond their walls.

Apollo turned a corner and stopped short. Before him spread a small plaza dominated by a weathered mural that covered an entire wall. The painting was faded, colors dulled by years of sun and rain, but the symbols were unmistakable, divine sigils arranged in a pattern he recognized immediately.

’My family’s work,’ he thought, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. The central figure...barely discernible now...had once been a rendering of Zeus, surrounded by the lesser gods.

Apollo’s own symbol, the golden lyre, was still visible in the lower right corner, though someone had scratched deep gouges through it.

A chill ran through him despite the warmth of the day. These were old gods to these people, legends, myths, stories to frighten children. Not family.

He forced himself to turn away, continuing his aimless exploration. The city pressed in closer now, the buildings leaning toward each other as the streets narrowed. Here, the smell of salt grew stronger, mingling with the stench of too many bodies in too little space.

A beggar sat huddled in an alcove, his face hidden beneath matted hair and a beard that might have once been red. As Apollo passed, the man’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly fixing on him with unsettling clarity.

"The fallen still fall," the beggar whispered, his voice cracked but carrying clearly. "Even gods bleed gold when they hit the ground."

Apollo froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. The beggar held his gaze for one impossible moment, then looked away, resuming his mumbled litany as if nothing had happened.

’He can’t know,’ Apollo told himself, forcing his feet to move again. ’No one knows what I am. What I was.’ But the gold in his veins had warmed at the beggar’s words, pulsing once beneath his skin like a warning.

He quickened his pace, wanting distance between himself and those knowing eyes. The streets widened again as he entered what appeared to be the city’s main square. A fountain dominated the center, water cascading from the outstretched hands of a stone figure whose features had been worn smooth by time.

As Apollo approached, the gold in his veins suddenly flared hot, flowing through him with an intensity he hadn’t felt since before the warped wilderness.

He gasped, one hand flying to his chest as the sensation peaked and then ebbed, leaving behind a residual warmth that pooled in his fingertips.

The fountain. Something about the water, or what lay beneath it, had triggered a response in his divine blood.

Apollo approached cautiously, aware of people moving around him, of the need to appear normal. He dipped his fingers into the water. Nothing happened. No flash of recognition, no surge of power.

Just cool water against his skin. And yet, the gold in his veins continued to pulse gently, as if in recognition of something he couldn’t perceive.

Most disturbing of all was the relic’s continued silence. After days of mockery and instruction, its quiet felt deliberate, calculating. Like it was letting him stew in his own confusion.

’What are you waiting for?’ he thought, directing the question inward, where the artifact’s presence lay coiled against his spine. No answer came, not even the usual sardonic chuckle.

The sun began its descent toward the western horizon, painting the city in hues of amber and bronze. Apollo made his way back toward the central market, where Lyra had told them to meet. His nerves felt raw, exposed, every sense heightened to painful clarity.

The inn Lyra had secured stood three stories tall at the edge of the market square, its weathered sign depicting a rearing horse with a broken bridle. Inside, the common room hummed with conversation and the clatter of wooden tankards against tables.

Apollo spotted the others immediately. They had claimed a corner table, partially shielded from the rest of the room by a wooden pillar carved with intertwining vines. Lyra sat with her back to the wall, green eyes constantly scanning the room even as she leaned forward in apparent conversation with Renna.

"There he is," Nik called, waving Apollo over with a grin that seemed brighter than it had in days. His pockets bulged suspiciously, and a new dagger hung at his belt, evidence of a productive afternoon in the markets.

Thorin looked up from his ale, face split by a rare smile. His beard had been trimmed and rebraided, and fresh axe fittings gleamed at his belt. "Found a proper smith," he announced as Apollo took a seat. "Man knows his metal. Fixed what needed fixing."

Renna, by contrast, looked tenser than ever, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the table. "Guards were watching the east gate when we came through," she said without preamble. "Same ones are still there four hours later. That’s not normal rotation."

"They’re looking for someone," Lyra agreed, her voice pitched low beneath the tavern’s noise. "We need to be careful."

Apollo nodded, absorbing the warning. His gaze drifted to Cale, who sat slightly apart from the others, his dark eyes fixed on Apollo with unsettling intensity.

The quiet man hadn’t changed position when Apollo approached, hadn’t spoken, but there was something in his steady gaze that suggested he was seeing more than the others.

Nik leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Heard interesting things in the market. City’s on edge. Something about strange lights in the hills. People gone missing."

His eyes gleamed with excitement. "And get this...there’s talk of a procession tonight. Some local ritual they do when the moon’s right."

"We should be gone before then," Lyra said firmly. "First light tomorrow. This place isn’t safe."

Apollo listened as they exchanged information, each sharing what they’d observed during their separate explorations. But his mind kept returning to the mural, to the beggar’s knowing eyes, to the fountain that had made his blood sing.

The city wasn’t just a waypoint. It was part of the Path, he was certain of it now.

Later, as the others retired to their rooms, Apollo lay awake, staring at the ceiling beams. The relic, silent all day, finally stirred against his spine.

"Better, isn’t it?" it whispered, voice sliding into his mind like cold fingers. "But don’t mistake stillness for safety, golden-boy. Even cities have teeth."

Apollo turned onto his side, one hand slipping beneath his pillow to grip the hilt of his knife. "What are we doing here?" he asked, voice barely audible. "What’s in this city that matters to you?"

The relic’s chuckle rippled through him. "Who says we’re here for me? Perhaps we’re here for you, fallen star. Perhaps we’re here for what you left behind."

Before Apollo could question it further, a sound drifted through the partially open window, not the usual tavern noise or the distant calls of the night watch, but something rhythmic and deliberate. Drums, he realized, their cadence slow and measured, like a heartbeat growing gradually stronger.

The relic fell silent again, but Apollo could feel its satisfaction radiating through his pack. Whatever game they were playing, the next move had just begun.