CHAPTER 53: ECHOES IN THE NIGHT

Apollo climbed the inn’s narrow staircase, the memory of fire dancing on the priest’s palms burning brighter in his mind than the actual flames had in the chamber below. The others followed close behind, their footsteps unnaturally loud in the midnight quiet, as if the very cobblestones beneath them had grown suspicious of their presence.

"We need to leave this place," Thorin growled once they’d reached the relative safety of the second-floor landing. His voice was low but intense, beard still bristling with agitation.

"Something about this city isn’t right. The way those people watched that fire-show like it was a miracle instead of a parlor trick."

Renna nodded, her fingers still wrapped around her peace-tied spear as if she expected to need it at any moment. "First light tomorrow. No delays, no excuses. I’ve seen enough to know we don’t belong here."

Apollo said nothing as they moved down the hallway toward their rooms. The gold in his veins had gone dormant again, but the memory of its brief awakening lingered, a phantom warmth that reminded him of what he’d lost. What he might never regain.

Nik, by contrast, practically vibrated with excitement. He’d produced a small leather-bound notebook from somewhere inside his jacket and was frantically scribbling notes by the dim light of the wall sconces.

"Did you see how the flame coiled before it spread?" he whispered, pen never pausing. "And the way it responded to his breath patterns? There’s a technique there, a real system. I’m sure of it."

Lyra snatched the notebook from his hands, snapping it shut with a decisive thwack. "Stop that. We’re trying not to draw attention, remember?"

"But this is important!" Nik protested, reaching for his stolen property. "This is the first concrete evidence I’ve seen that..."

"That what?" Lyra cut him off, voice sharp as a blade. "That magic exists? That people can throw fire from their hands? We all saw it. Writing it down won’t make it make more sense."

Apollo watched the exchange, noting the fear beneath Lyra’s anger, the desperate curiosity driving Nik’s enthusiasm. Both reactions were familiar, he’d seen them countless times throughout his long existence, mortals confronting power they didn’t understand.

"The common room," Cale said quietly, breaking his usual silence. "Less obvious than huddling in a hallway. We need to talk."

The inn’s common room was nearly empty at this late hour. A lone barmaid wiped down tables with mechanical efficiency, barely glancing up as they claimed a corner table far from both the entrance and the kitchen doors. A single candle guttered between them, casting their faces in shifting shadow.

Apollo took a long pull from the ale Thorin had ordered, grimacing at its bitter taste. Mortal drinks rarely satisfied him, but tonight he welcomed the burn, the momentary distraction from the weight of the relic against his spine and the questions he knew were coming.

"So," Nik began, having reclaimed his notebook and positioned it carefully beneath the table, out of Lyra’s immediate reach. "About these Aether cores, could any of us learn to do what that priest did? Channel energy through our bodies?"

Lyra’s eyes flashed with warning. "That’s not what we should be focusing on right now."

"Why not?" Nik countered, leaning forward. "If we’re in a city of fire-wielders, shouldn’t we understand what we’re dealing with? Maybe even level the playing field?"

Thorin snorted, foam clinging to his beard as he lowered his tankard. "Mortals pretending to be gods. That’s all it is. Parlor tricks dressed up as divine power."

"You don’t ’pretend,’" Apollo cut in, his voice sharper than he’d intended. The others turned to him, surprised by the sudden intensity. "You burn. That’s the price."

Silence fell over the table. Even the barmaid seemed to pause in her endless wiping, though Apollo knew that was just his imagination, his senses heightened by the memory of power.

"What do you mean?" Nik asked, pen poised above his notebook, eager for knowledge that Apollo suddenly felt reluctant to provide.

"Magic isn’t creation," Apollo said finally, measuring his words with care. "It’s consumption. You draw energy through your core, yes, but that energy comes from somewhere. From you. From your life force."

Renna leaned forward, skepticism written across her features. "But the priest looked fine. Healthy, even."

"For now," Apollo replied. "Small workings, small price. But it accumulates. Burns hotter with each casting. Some can last decades before showing signs of deterioration. Others burn out in years. It depends on the strength of the core and the wisdom of the wielder."

"So it’s dangerous," Lyra said, seizing on the confirmation of her suspicions.

"All power is dangerous," Apollo countered. "But this particular kind? It’s consumption dressed as creation. A beautiful lie that eats you from within."

He fell silent, aware he’d revealed more bitterness than he’d intended. The others exchanged glances, processing his words.

"But with proper training..." Nik began.

"Listen to him...the fallen lecturing on moderation. Hilarious."

The relic’s voice cut through their conversation, audible to all of them despite emanating from Apollo’s pack. Its tone dripped with mockery, each syllable precisely calculated to undermine.

Nik froze, pen suspended above his notebook. Thorin’s hand drifted toward his axe, while Lyra’s eyes darted around the room, checking if anyone else had heard.

"Oh, don’t worry about the barmaid," the relic continued, as if reading Lyra’s concern. "She’s too busy wondering if her husband has found the letters she hid beneath the floorboards. Humans and their petty secrets."

Apollo felt heat rise to his face, embarrassment and anger mingling in equal measure. The relic had been quiet for hours, letting him explain and pontificate, only to cut him down at the precise moment when the others might have begun to trust his judgment.

Nik, to Apollo’s surprise, recovered first. He cleared his throat, a nervous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Well," he said, addressing the pack as if it were just another drinking companion, "at least one of us is enjoying the conversation. Though I have to say, your timing could use some work. I was just getting to the good questions."

The quip hung in the air for a moment, too bold or too foolish to be immediately processed. Then Renna snorted, a sound of surprise more than humor. Cale’s lips twitched upward. Even Thorin gave a grudging chuckle.

Just like that, the tension cracked, not broken, but momentarily bridged by Nik’s willingness to treat the impossible as commonplace. Apollo felt a rush of unexpected gratitude toward the young man, whose bravado often masked a keener intelligence than most gave him credit for.

The moment passed quickly. Lyra rose, her expression making it clear that she considered the discussion finished. "We should rest. Early start tomorrow, remember?"

The others nodded, draining their drinks and gathering their belongings. Apollo remained seated, watching as they filed toward the stairs, Nik still scribbling in his notebook despite Lyra’s disapproving glance.

"Coming?" Cale asked, pausing at the edge of the table.

Apollo shook his head. "In a bit. I need some air first."

Cale studied him for a moment, then nodded once and followed the others, leaving Apollo alone with the guttering candle and the weight of the relic against his spine.

Once they were gone, Apollo moved to the window seat, looking out over the now-empty square. The city had fallen silent after the procession, its streets deserted save for the occasional patrol of watchmen. The fountain stood dark and still at the center, no hint of the power that had briefly stirred beneath its waters.

’What are you hiding?’ he wondered, eyes tracing the familiar contours of the square. ’What else lives beneath your streets?’

As if in answer, he felt it, a faint ripple in the Aether, distinct from the crude working he’d witnessed in the underground chamber. This was older, sharper, closer to the divine energies he remembered from his time on Olympus. The gold in his veins warmed in response, a subtle current that spread from his core to his fingertips.

Apollo closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation. It wasn’t coming from the temple or the fountain, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere the procession hadn’t led them. A power that existed alongside the fire priest’s amateur conjurings but remained separate, hidden even from those who thought themselves masters of magic.

His veins warmed further as he concentrated, echoing the brief flare he’d felt during the ritual. The connection was tenuous but undeniable. Whatever lurked beneath the city wasn’t just a relic of forgotten worship, it was active, aware, and possibly divine in origin.

The realization sent a chill through him despite the warmth in his blood. This city held more than just a handful of fire-priests playing at power. Something older dwelled here, something that might recognize what he had been, what he still carried within his diminished form.

From the streets below, a new sound drifted up, faint chanting, similar to what they’d heard in the procession but subtly different in rhythm and tone. Apollo leaned closer to the glass, straining to locate its source. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, as if rising from the very stones of the city.

’Not from the temple,’ he realized with growing unease. ’From somewhere deeper.’

Apollo shut the window with more force than necessary, cutting off the distant chanting. The gold in his veins cooled again, retreating beneath his skin as if seeking shelter from whatever had stirred it.

"Sleep well, golden-boy," the relic chuckled softly in his mind, its voice almost gentle in its mockery. "Tomorrow will be louder."

Apollo didn’t respond, but as he turned away from the window, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the city itself was watching him, waiting to see what the fallen god would do next.