CHAPTER 61: THE RELIC BROKEN

The last of the marsh spirits sank beneath the surface with a sound like a dying breath, leaving only ripples to mark where they had been.

Silence descended over the marsh, broken only by the ragged breathing of the companions and the soft drip of water from their sodden clothes. The unnatural fog began to lift, morning light filtering through in pale, tentative beams.

Apollo stood at the center of their shrinking island, trembling. The golden light that had poured from his skin moments before faded gradually, retreating beneath the surface like a tide pulling back to sea.

His legs threatened to buckle as the power drained from him, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made even drawing breath an effort.

He forced himself to look up, to meet the eyes of his companions. They stood in a loose circle around him, weapons still drawn but lowered, expressions ranging from awe to confusion to something he couldn’t quite name. No one spoke. The weight of revelation hung between them, heavy as stone.

Lyra stepped forward first, her knife still clutched in one hand. Mud streaked her face and arms, a cut above her eyebrow leaked blood in a thin trickle down her temple. Her green eyes searched his face with an intensity that made him want to look away.

"Why did you hide this?" she asked, her voice surprisingly soft despite the directness of the question. "This power. Why keep it secret from us?"

Apollo swallowed, tasting marsh water and something metallic that might have been blood. The truth was complex, layered with divine politics and ancient grudges that these mortals could never understand. But beneath it all lay a simpler truth, one he could give them.

"I was afraid you’d turn from me," he said, the admission scraping his throat raw. "That you’d see me as... something other than what you are. Something to fear."

He braced himself for their rejection, for the suspicion and anger that had followed him since his fall. Instead, Lyra’s expression softened, the knife in her hand finally lowering completely.

"We wouldn’t have survived without you," she said simply. "Whatever this is—" she gestured vaguely at his chest where the golden light had been brightest, "—it saved us all."

Apollo blinked, uncertain he’d heard correctly. The gold in his veins warmed faintly in response to her words, a gentle pulse that eased some of the ache in his bones.

Renna stepped forward, her spear planted firmly in the mud beside her. Her usual stoicism had cracked, revealing something that looked almost like respect.

"We’d all be dead without you," she said, meeting his eyes directly. "Whatever you are, whatever power that was, it matters less than what you did with it."

The simple acknowledgment struck Apollo like a physical blow. For centuries, he had been defined by what he was, not what he did. Gods were their domains, their powers, their lineages.

Actions were secondary, almost incidental. To be judged on his choices rather than his nature, it was so fundamentally mortal a perspective that it left him momentarily speechless.

Thorin cleared his throat, the sound rough as grinding stone. The dwarf’s beard was singed at the edges, his face splattered with mud and whatever passed for marsh spirit blood.

"Still don’t trust magic," he growled, but there was less heat in it than usual. "But you fight well enough. That counts for something." He paused, then added grudgingly, "You’re one of us now, I suppose. For better or worse."

Nik had been uncharacteristically quiet, his usual stream of observations and questions silenced by the battle’s aftermath. Now he looked up, his face pale beneath the dirt and sweat.

"You saved my life," he said, voice shaking slightly. "That thing had me. I could feel it pulling me under, and then—" he gestured vaguely, unable to find words for the golden light that had driven the spirits back. "That means everything. Everything."

Even Cale, who rarely expressed any emotion at all, gave a single, deliberate nod. From him, it was the equivalent of a lengthy speech, and Apollo felt the weight of it just as keenly.

"I’m sorry," Apollo said, the words feeling strange on his tongue. Gods rarely apologized, and he was still learning the shape of humility. "For hiding it. For not trusting you with the truth."

"Secrecy doesn’t matter anymore," Lyra said, sheathing her knife at last. "Only survival. Only loyalty." The last word hung in the air between them, an offering rather than a demand.

Renna nodded in agreement. "We’ve all got secrets," she said with a shrug that tried for casualness but didn’t quite achieve it. "Yours just happen to glow."

A startled laugh escaped Apollo at that, unexpected and genuine. The sound seemed to break something loose in the air around them, a tension he hadn’t fully registered until it was gone. One by one, the others relaxed, shoulders lowering, grips on weapons easing, expressions softening into something that, if not quite trust, was at least acceptance.

"Oh, how touching," the relic’s voice cut through the moment, dripping with sarcasm. "The fallen star finally shows a fraction of his true nature, and instead of running screaming, you all gather round to sing his praises. How perfectly nauseating."

Apollo felt the familiar surge of irritation at the artifact’s mockery, but before he could respond, Thorin spat into the mud.

"That thing talks too much," the dwarf muttered, deliberately turning his back on Apollo’s pack where the relic lay. "Ignore it."

"For once, I agree with the dwarf," Lyra said, her mouth quirking in a half-smile that transformed her face, making her look younger, less burdened. "The relic just wants to cause trouble. It always has."

Apollo felt something shift inside him at their dismissal of the artifact’s taunts. For days, the relic had been his secret burden, its voice a constant presence whispering doubts and mockery into his mind. Now, suddenly, it seemed smaller, less significant. Its power over him lay in isolation, in the wedge it drove between him and potential allies. Without that, what was it but an object? A tool, nothing more.

"You don’t need that thing," Nik said quietly, as if reading Apollo’s thoughts. "Whatever it is, whatever it knows, it’s not worth what it takes from you."

’He’s right,’ Apollo thought, looking at the companions who stood around him, muddy, bloodied, exhausted, but alive. Alive because of what he’d done, not what he was. ’I don’t need it anymore.’

With deliberate movements, Apollo unslung his pack and reached inside, fingers closing around the relic. It warmed at his touch, almost eager, as if sensing his intention and welcoming the confrontation.

"What are you doing, golden-boy?" it hissed as he drew it into the light. "You think you’re strong enough without me? You think these mortals can replace what I offer? You’re nothing without—"

Apollo tightened his grip, cutting off its words. The gold in his veins stirred, responding to his will rather than his fear for the first time since his fall. It flowed outward, not in a desperate burst as before, but in a controlled stream that gathered in his palms around the relic.

"I am exactly what I choose to be," Apollo said, his voice steadier than he’d expected. "With or without you."

The gold intensified, wrapping the relic in bands of light that sank into its surface. The artifact shuddered in his hands, its usual mocking tone replaced by something that might have been alarm.

"You can’t...this isn’t...stop!" it demanded, but the command lacked its usual force.

Apollo felt the relic’s resistance, felt it struggling against the divine energy that now permeated it. Then, with a sound like ice cracking on a frozen lake, the artifact began to fracture.

Fissures appeared across its surface, golden light pouring from within as if it had been merely a shell containing something brighter, more powerful.

The relic shattered in his hands, fragments falling away to reveal a core of pure, concentrated aether, the magical essence that flowed through all things, but condensed here to its most potent form.

The aether rose in tendrils of golden light, twisting around Apollo’s arms, sinking into his skin where the gold already flowed.

Power surged through him, not the desperate, painful burst from the battle, but something deeper, more fundamental.

The aether from the relic merged with what remained of his divine essence, strengthening it, expanding it. Apollo gasped as the energy filled him, his vision momentarily whiting out from the intensity.

His knees finally gave way, and he would have fallen if not for the hands that suddenly supported him, Thorin’s broad palm against his back, Lyra’s firm grip on his arm, Nik’s steadying hand on his shoulder. They held him upright as the last of the aether flowed into him, leaving only dust where the relic had been.

"I’ve got you," Lyra said, her voice close to his ear. "We’ve got you."

Apollo looked up into their faces, concerned, determined, bound together by what they’d survived. The gold settled beneath his skin, no longer painful or foreign but a warm, steady presence. Not what it had once been, perhaps, but stronger than before. Enough.

"Thank you," he said simply, the words encompassing more than just their physical support.

They stood together on the island of mud, surrounded by marsh but no longer threatened by it. The sun broke fully through the dissipating fog, illuminating them in the clear light of morning, a fellowship forged in battle, in truth, in acceptance.

Different, all of them, but united by choice rather than circumstance.

And for the first time since his fall, Apollo didn’t feel alone.