CHAPTER 50: PROCESSION OF ASH

The drums woke Apollo from a dream of drowning.

He sat upright in bed, heart hammering as the rhythm penetrated the inn’s thin walls, a slow, deliberate cadence that seemed to bypass his ears and strike directly at his core. The gold in his veins stirred in response, warming beneath his skin.

"You hear that?" Nik was already at the window, silhouetted against the deepening twilight. His voice held none of its usual flippancy.

Apollo swung his legs over the edge of the bed, muscles protesting after hours of fitful sleep. "How could I not?" The relic pulsed against his spine, suddenly alert, like a predator scenting prey.

Lyra appeared in the doorway, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, eyes hard with tension. "Everyone up. Now." She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and disappeared down the hall.

By the time Apollo reached the common room, the others had gathered at the large bay window that overlooked the square.

Thorin stood with arms crossed, his expression hidden beneath his freshly braided beard. Renna leaned forward, one hand resting on her spear as if expecting trouble. Cale remained slightly apart, his dark eyes reflecting the first flickers of torchlight from outside.

"It’s starting," Nik whispered, breath fogging the glass.

The square had transformed in the hour since sunset. Hundreds of townsfolk now filled the space, each wearing a dark cloak that blended into the gathering darkness.

They stood in concentric circles around the fountain, faces turned inward, waiting. The drums grew louder, each beat now accompanied by a low brass note that hung in the air like smoke.

Torches flared to life along the perimeter, their sudden brilliance revealing the scale of the gathering. What had seemed like dozens was now clearly hundreds, perhaps the entire population of the city’s central district.

"We should stay here," Lyra said, her voice pitched low. "Whatever this is, it’s not our business."

Nik turned to her, eyes bright with the feverish curiosity that always preceded his worst decisions. "Are you joking? This is exactly what I was hearing about in the market. The ritual procession. It only happens when the moon aligns with some constellation they call the Drowned King."

"All the more reason to stay clear of it," Lyra countered. "Local rituals aren’t for outsiders."

Apollo watched as the crowd began to move, forming a sinuous line that wound around the fountain three times before stretching toward the eastern edge of the square.

The drums never faltered, their rhythm as steady as a heartbeat.

"We should at least see where they’re going," Nik pressed. "Could be important. Could be valuable."

Thorin made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a growl. "Humans and their theatrics. Never trust a ceremony where everyone hides their face." Despite his words, Apollo noticed the dwarf’s eyes tracking the procession with uneasy fascination.

The relic remained oddly silent, but its weight against Apollo’s spine felt heavier, more insistent. The gold in his veins pulsed in time with the drums, each beat sending a warm current through his body.

"If we go," Lyra said, clearly recognizing she was outnumbered, "we stay at a distance. We observe only. First sign of trouble, we’re back here and gone by morning. Understood?"

Nik’s grin was answer enough. Renna nodded once, sharp and decisive. Thorin grumbled something unintelligible but didn’t object.

They slipped out the side entrance, avoiding the innkeeper’s curious gaze. The night air hit Apollo like a physical force, thick with the smell of incense and something else, something older and brinier that reminded him of the ocean they’d left behind.

Lyra led them through narrow side streets that ran parallel to the main thoroughfare, where the procession now flowed like a dark river.

The drums were joined by voices, hundreds of them chanting in unison, though Apollo couldn’t make out the words from this distance.

They found a vantage point in an alley between a cooperage and a tannery, the mixed smells of fresh wood and curing leather almost but not quite masking the incense. From here, they could see the procession without being seen, shadows among shadows.

"What are they carrying?" Renna whispered, pointing to tall poles that rose above the crowd at regular intervals.

Apollo squinted, trying to make out details in the flickering torchlight. The poles supported what looked like effigies, human-shaped figures draped in cloth, their faces blank ovals of white wood or plaster.

But there was something wrong about them, something in their proportions that set his teeth on edge.

’Too many limbs,’ he realized, counting the appendages that hung at awkward angles from one of the nearer figures. ’And the heads aren’t right.’

As the procession drew closer, he could see that what he’d taken for blank faces were actually masks, smooth, featureless, with only the suggestion of eyes and mouth rendered in shallow depressions.

They might once have been meant to represent gods, but time or intention had twisted them into something grotesque.

Children darted between the marchers, scattering flower petals that looked black in the torchlight. Behind them came figures in elaborate masks, swinging censers that released coils of pungent smoke.

The chanting grew louder, resolving into words that Apollo could almost grasp, almost, but not quite, as if they were speaking a language he had once known but had forgotten.

Then he saw it, the central figure, taller than the rest, cloaked in fabric that seemed to drink in the torchlight rather than reflect it. In its hands, it carried a vessel, a wide bowl filled with water that glowed with a faint, pulsing light.

Apollo’s breath caught in his throat. The chant shifted, and suddenly he could understand it, not because the words had changed, but because something in him had realigned, like a key turning in a lock.

"...from the depths he rises, from the darkness he returns, bearing gifts of sight and sorrow..."

It was a hymn to Poseidon. Or it had been, once. The original verses had been about the god’s generosity, his dominion over the seas that gave life to coastal cities. This version was darker, focused on appeasement rather than praise, on fear rather than reverence.

The gold in Apollo’s veins flared hot, a sudden surge that made him gasp. At the same moment, the relic pulsed against his spine, a sharp, insistent pressure that felt almost like recognition.

"Apollo?" Lyra’s voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you alright?"

He couldn’t answer. The procession was passing directly before their hiding place now, and he could see the water in the vessel clearly. It wasn’t just glowing, it was moving, swirling in patterns that had nothing to do with the carrier’s steady pace.

Patterns that reminded him of the ocean they’d left behind, of the cave where they’d found the relic, of things much older than this city or its rituals.

Then the voice came, sliding into his mind like ice water down his spine.

"Look at them," the relic sneered, its tone dripping with contempt. "Worshipping shadows of shadows. Do you see it? That’s your family, rewritten as a pantomime for frightened cattle."

Apollo clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his expression neutral. The others were watching the procession, not him, but he couldn’t risk drawing attention.

"And they don’t even know you’re here to watch," the relic continued, delighted by its own cruelty. "Delicious."

The word hung in Apollo’s mind, a perfect crystallization of the relic’s malice.

He felt physically ill, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead as the procession continued past their hiding place, the glowing water and its hooded bearer disappearing around a corner.

"We need to go back," Lyra said, turning away from the spectacle. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Apollo’s face. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," he managed, though the word felt like gravel in his throat. "Just the incense. It’s strong."

Lyra clearly didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press. "We’ve seen enough. This isn’t our business."

"But we haven’t seen where they’re going," Nik protested, already edging toward the end of the alley. "Processions always end somewhere, and that somewhere usually hides something worth finding."

"No," Lyra’s voice was firm. "We’re already too exposed. This city is on edge, and we’re strangers. We need to keep our heads down until morning."

Renna, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. "Those guards at the east gate," she said, her voice low but intense. "The ones watching too carefully? They’re in the procession. Near the front. This is connected somehow."

Apollo glanced at Cale, expecting the quiet man to side with Lyra as he usually did in matters of caution. But Cale wasn’t looking at any of them. His gaze remained fixed on the corner where the glowing vessel had disappeared, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

"We should follow," Apollo heard himself say, the words emerging before he could reconsider them. "At a distance. Just to see where it leads."

Lyra turned to him, surprise and something like betrayal flashing across her face. "After everything we’ve been through? You want to risk exposure for curiosity?"

"It’s not just curiosity," Apollo said, though he couldn’t explain the certainty he felt. The gold in his veins had cooled, but the memory of its recognition remained. Whatever that water was, whatever ritual they were witnessing, it was connected to him, to what he had been, to what he might be again.

Thorin cleared his throat, the sound like stones grinding together. "Much as I hate to agree with the boy," he said, nodding toward Nik, "there’s something off about all this. Better to know what we’re dealing with than be caught unawares."

Lyra looked from face to face, clearly seeing she was outvoted. Her shoulders slumped slightly, the only outward sign of her frustration. "Fine. But we stay at least a hundred paces back. First sign of trouble, we scatter and meet back at the inn. No heroics, no curiosity, no lingering. Clear?"

They all nodded, even Nik, though his agreement seemed more perfunctory than sincere.

They moved as a group, keeping to the shadows of side streets and alleyways, tracking the procession by its drums and chanting rather than direct sight.

The city seemed to close around them as they went, buildings leaning closer together, streets narrowing until they were little more than crevices between stone walls.

The drums grew louder, the chanting more intense. Apollo felt the relic shift against his spine, its weight a constant reminder of its presence.

It had fallen silent after its initial mockery, but he could sense its attention, focused and waiting.

They turned a final corner and froze. Before them, the narrow street opened into a small plaza dominated by a structure Apollo hadn’t seen during his earlier explorations, a massive stone archway set into the very ground, steps descending into darkness beneath the city itself.

The procession was funneling through it, torches disappearing one by one into whatever lay below. The drums echoed strangely now, as if coming from a vast, empty space.