Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.

The forest hadn’t changed much.

Same slope of silverleaf trees. Same patch of smoothed stone where they used to rest—sometimes bruised, sometimes bleeding, but always together. But tonight, the silence felt heavier. Not hostile. Just hollow.

Apollo lay on his back, arms behind his head, watching branches shift above him. "Three years," he said quietly. "Feels longer, doesn’t it?"

Conrad sat beside him, legs crossed, a crystal of frost slowly spiraling around his palm like instinct. "It does."

"You think we’ll see him again?"

Conrad didn’t look over. The frost paused mid-air. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But I hope so."

Apollo closed his eyes, the tiger inside him rolling beneath his ribs. That deep low hum of waiting. "I still see him in dreams sometimes. Usually mid-fight. That half-smile he wore after every bruise. Like he knew we’d survive it."

Conrad smirked faintly. "He used to say our bond wasn’t born in battle—it was burned into us."

Silence settled again, broken only by soft wind sliding between roots and bark.

Then Conrad looked over. "I heard you joined the Wachter’s Guild."

Apollo opened one eye, groaning. "Yeah. Nothing flashy. I’m still on basic rounds. Guard detail. Surveillance sweeps. Barely scratched past surface missions."

Conrad’s voice carried more weight than the compliment needed. "Doesn’t matter. You’re one of the youngest to join officially. That’s no small thing."