Apollo stood frozen at the tactical overlook, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. Forty meters away, the southern shelf's brilliant flanking maneuver hadn't just failed; it had been systematically dismantled.
He watched through the haze of dust and magical discharge as the last of his hopeful soldiers were cut down in that godforsaken stone bowl.
A cold, oily suspicion slithered up his spine, settling in his gut like lead.
This wasn't a battle.
This was a harvest.
'Every move I make... every tactical shift... they're already there waiting.'
'It's like they've seen this dance a thousand times before.'
"They knew," Apollo whispered, the words lost to the wind until he forced them out. "Gods above, they knew."
"Knew what, Apollo? Speak up!" Elliot roared as he charged past, his divine radiance flickering like a dying candle.
