(Apollo)
The palace had stopped trembling hours ago. Apollo had not.
The quiet pressed against him like a hand at his throat, familiar and unwelcome. The stillness sat wrong in the bones of the place, like a held breath stretched too long. Rage simmered under his skin like magma trapped beneath brittle stone. Every step he took down the obsidian corridor scorched faint, glowing trails in his wake—lines of molten gold that faded only when the palace, cowed and nervous, hurried to heal them. The stone learned quickly when not to resist him. It learned what obedience looked like.
His wards pulsed against the walls like racing heartbeats. His temper wrapped around them like claws.
Someone had entered his chamber. Someone had touched his bond. Someone had put their hands on what belonged to
