Apollo was giving Will the most chaotic tour ever — talking too loudly, making jokes that didn’t land, bragging about the sun doing exactly what he told it to.

Until he saw you. He stopped mid-sentence.

Will nearly ran into him. “Dad? What—?”

Apollo’s face changed. The jokes evaporated. His posture straightened like a bowstring pulled taut.

You were sitting on the steps of the infirmary, watching the trees sway in the breeze. The light bent around you strangely — like the sun wasn’t sure if it should approach or keep its distance.

Apollo whispered, “Careful. That one is… marked.”

Will frowned. “Marked? By who?”

Apollo didn’t look away from you. “By the Fates. And by the wind. Those two do not choose lightly.”

Will felt his stomach flip. He’d never seen his father look actually worried before.