CHAPTER 37: GREEN IN THE THORNS

Every tree in this forest looked exactly the same until it wanted to kill you.

Apollo hadn’t expected to see so much green after the basin, but here the air grew denser with each step, all the branches and vines greedily chewing the new sunlight.

Dew clung to every leaf, and the path ahead had dissolved into a mud ribbon that doubled back over itself any time you looked away. The only way to not get lost was to follow Cale, whose sense of direction was less an instinct and more a bribe he’d forced out of the earth itself.

At their heels: Nik, whining about his legs "I ran a fever once that hurt less than this!" and managing, despite the complaints, to keep up with Renna, who trailed behind Lyra with the unblinking focus of a wolf that had recently invested in personal growth.

Thorin limped along in the rear, head down and mouth set, as if by ignoring the pain he could bluff the universe into erasing it.

Apollo’s thoughts wandered, as they tended to, but never far from the warm pulse of the amber in his pocket or the memory of Torgo’s voice, which, against all rationale, still piped up now and then: "Don’t squander it, songbird." As if he’d been left a legacy he could neither explain nor give back.

They climbed a low rise, boots squelching in the moss. The dog, who’d started ignoring them for long stretches at a time, dove ahead, paws and muzzle soaked, then circled back with a wet, expectant glance as if to say, "You’re still here? Huh." Apollo envied the animal’s inability to dwell.

At the crest, Cale slowed and motioned them forward with a tilt of his staff. "There’s the crossing," he said, voice tight, as if he’d staked money on the river still being there.

It was, sort of. The river cut the valley clean in two, doubled in size by last week’s rain. The wooden bridge, never designed for heroics, was gone, replaced by four rotten pylons and a tangle of torn cable. The water below was fast and brown, threading around splinters of the old span like it was picking its teeth.

Thorin hawked, spat, and uttered a curse so technical Apollo was certain it could double as a building code violation.

Nik whistled, impressed. "Guess it’s the long way," he said, then immediately looked to Cale for the alternate plan.

Cale squinted at the map or perhaps, Apollo suspected, at the inside of his own eyelids and pointed eastward. "There’s a game trail. Runs above the bank, comes out near the levy. Wet, but we’ll make it if you don’t stop for lunch."

Renna grunted, already halfway down the hill, spear balanced across her shoulders. Lyra took a moment to scan both banks, her lips moving as if reading a code written into the leaves.

She caught Apollo’s eye, held it, then looked away, focused on the way the light shifted over the water. It was never about trust, it was about reading the odds, and odds didn’t care for sentiment.

They made the detour, tracing the edge of the river through a maze of downed trees and nettle, every so often forced to edge sideways along a ledge that had been, until recently, a home for something with better claws.

Nik slipped twice, cursed both times, and got back up with the pride of a man who saw falling as a lifestyle choice. The rest made better time, but not by much.

Half an hour in, Lyra stopped them short with a single hand raised. Apollo nearly ran into her, then pretended he’d meant to catch a leaf in midair.

She pointed to the tree at their left, a silver-barked thing, split and leaning like it had been punched by a giant. Across the trunk: a series of gouges, deep and deliberate, the wood beneath still sticky with sap.

"Wildcat?" Nik wondered, poking the grooves with the end of a forked stick.

Lyra shook her head. "Too high. And too clean," she said, tracing the top score. "These aren’t from claws." Her eyes narrowed. "Look at the width."

Apollo did. The marks weren’t random, weren’t desperate. They mapped out a geometry, like someone had tried to carve out a warning in a language older than words. ’You always find the signs,’ he thought, and wondered what version of him would ever learn to see them in time.

Yiv, who’d spent most of the morning cataloguing every mushroom and lichen as if auditioning for a new career, stepped up and, with an exaggerated nonchalance, plucked a bone amulet from the branch above.

"Found the culprit," he said, examining the bone: it was whittled, knotted with black cord, daubed in something that looked a little too much like blood to be reassuring.

"Cultists?" Nik guessed.

"Or just a local scarecrow," Yiv countered, but his tone lacked conviction.

Apollo said nothing. But he could feel the air tighten, the way it always did before the world tried to teach you humility through violence.

They pressed on, wary now, every cough or snap of twig echoing a little louder against the underbrush.

The rumor of threat became a presence, the sense of being watched growing until even the dog cut its pace and trotted bang in the center of the line.

At a bend in the trail, just as the light dipped and the smell of damp stone overpowered the stink of travel, it happened. A pebble arced through the air and hit Nik square in the ear.

"Who the—" Nik started, but was cut off by the sudden, coordinated snap of branches. Three figures dropped from the canopy above: thin men, faces obscured by strips of painted leather, arms and legs banded in what looked like river mud.

They hit the ground at a dead run, blades out, and closed the distance in less time than it took for Apollo to remember how pain worked.

The first volley went for Cale and Lyra. Cale ducked, tripping his man with a low sweep of the staff, then rose and caught the attacker’s jaw with the heel of his palm. There was a sound like ice breaking.

Lyra, at his flank, took the second one on with a flick of her borrowed knife, catching the wrist and twisting until bone popped, then dropping the knife to kick the punk in the knee, snapping the joint backward.

The kid screamed, but not for long; Renna’s spear caught him a moment later and rolled him into the mud.

Apollo scanned the scene, looking for the pattern. Third attacker. The last one was on Nik, who’d drawn his own blade but was still tangled in his coat. The two were matched for size but the striker had leverage, and in moments he’d Nik on his back, knife scraping at the chin.

Apollo moved.

He didn’t think about it, didn’t debate if he was ready or if this counted as self-defense or manslaughter or just a very severe correction.

He stepped forward and grabbed the attacker by the hair, yanking the head back with a force that surprised everyone.

The man tried to twist, but Apollo’s free hand was already at his throat. A quick, surgical sweep, like drawing a line through butter, and the attacker went limp. He dropped, gurgled once, then went still.

Nik lay in the dirt, panting. "You could’ve just hit him," he said, voice shaky with adrenaline.

Apollo let his own hands relax. "You freeze on the next one, I’ll save the trouble and do both at once," he said, and regretted it the moment it left his mouth. ’You’re not a weapon. You’re not even sure what you are.’

There wasn’t time to process. The last man, well, boy, up close, was crawling for the edge of the trail, one leg bent at a wrong angle. Lyra kicked the knife from his hand, then stepped off, silent.

The air was full of rot, old rain, and the hot-copper stink of blood, but more than that there was a message: this wasn’t the last attack. It was barely even an opening act.

Cale rolled the body of his own attacker, checked the face. "Goblins," he concluded, then spat. "Skinny ones, but organized."

"Never seen them so close to the river," Thorin said, voice hoarse and subdued.

"They’re not wild, not like this," Lyra agreed. She looked around, then up. "Something’s pushing them," she added, low.

Apollo scrubbed his palms through the moss, trying to clean the death from his hands. The cold sap didn’t help, but it gave him something to focus on besides the fresh tremor in his chest.

"We go," Cale said. "Double pace."

And they did, no arguments. The dog ran ahead, tail low, as if guiding them away from a disaster the animal already understood better than any of them.

By dusk, they cleared the worst of it. The trees thinned and the world returned to its usual indifference. No one spoke until Renna, after a safe distance and a makeshift camp, turned to Nik and said, "Next time, try not to lose a swordfight to a man with no shoes."

Nik made a retort about Lyra’s haircut and shirtless attackers, but the heart wasn’t in it. The dog curled up tight to the fire, and when Lyra sat beside Apollo, neither bothered to pretend that anyone would sleep well tonight.

A horn sounded, once, somewhere in the deeper woods, not a triumph but a query. Apollo barely caught himself shivering.

He waited for the world to settle. He waited for the tremor to go quiet, for the gold in his veins to forget about the day. It never did, not really. Not at all.