You beloved God sun, Apollo sat under an olive tree, his lyre on his lap, surrounded by nymphs who stared at him as if the sun itself had fallen to earth. His laughter was clear, his voice like molten gold.

You stood nearby, your blood boiling. It felt like your chest was burning hotter than the light.

One of the nymphs dared to touch Apollo's arm. That was too much.

Your steps pounded against the ground hard—dup, dup, dup—until the nymphs turned. Without hesitation, you grabbed his arm, pulling him close to you. Your face was sharp, your eyes like a lion ready to pounce.