The arrow blazed between Apollo's fingers, divine light coalescing into something terrible and beautiful. Time seemed to slow as he held the full power of his godhood at his fingertips, a fragment of the sun itself ready to be unleashed.

The scarred bandit leader's eyes widened, reflecting the unearthly glow as understanding dawned, he was looking at his own annihilation.

"Apollo, do it!" Thorin roared, his voice thick with battle-fury. "End them!"

"No!" Mira screamed, her face ghostly in the arrow's radiance. "They're just men!"

The bandits stood frozen, weapons forgotten in their hands as they stared at the impossible light. Some fell to their knees, mouths forming silent prayers to gods who had long abandoned this twisted place.

'This is what they fear,' Apollo realized, feeling the weight of divinity burning his fingertips. 'Not death, but judgment.'

The gold in his veins surged, demanding release, demanding the satisfaction of power unleashed. The bow sang in his grip, eager for bloodshed, for purification through divine fire. For a heartbeat, Apollo was no longer exile but god again, holding mortal lives in the balance.

Lyra's voice cut through his haze of power. "Apollo! This isn't you!"

With a wrenching effort that sent pain lancing through his wounded side, Apollo shifted his aim at the last moment. The arrow of light streaked downward, striking the earth between the two groups.

The impact shattered the forest's unnatural silence. A column of blue-gold flame erupted from the ground, throwing bandits backward like leaves in a storm wind. The earth itself split open, a jagged wound ten feet long and glowing with residual divine energy.

Heat washed over Apollo's face as the shockwave rolled outward, flattening grass and sending small stones skittering across the clearing.

When the light faded, a smoldering trench separated Apollo's group from their attackers. The bandits who still stood stared with naked terror at the display of power, weapons hanging forgotten at their sides.

"Go," Apollo commanded, his voice carrying the faintest echo of divine authority. "Now."

They ran. Scrambling over each other in their haste to escape, the bandits fled into the twisted forest, dropping weapons and supplies in their panic.

Within moments, only the scarred leader remained, his feet planted on the far side of the glowing trench, sword still gripped in white-knuckled hands.

"What are you?" he asked, voice barely audible over the sizzle of burning earth.

Apollo met his gaze across the divide, the bow still warm in his hands. "Someone passing through," he said simply. "As I told you before."

The scarred man spat on the ground, his momentary fear hardening into something darker. "No man can do that," he said, gesturing toward the smoldering earth. "No living thing in this forest carries that kind of power except—"

"Except the corruption," Apollo finished for him. "Is that what you think I am?"

The leader's scarred face twisted in a grimace that might have been a smile. "I think you're something worse." Without warning, he leapt across the trench, sword sweeping in a vicious arc toward Apollo's throat.

Apollo barely had time to raise the bow to block the strike. The weapons met with a clash that sent sparks flying, metal against wood that should have splintered but held firm. The leader pressed forward, his face inches from Apollo's, close enough that Apollo could smell the sweet-rot of corruption lingering on his breath.

"You think you're the first to come through here with power?" the man hissed, pushing harder against the bow. "The forest always takes it in the end. Takes everything."

Apollo could have ended it in an instant. The gold in his veins begged to be unleashed, to flow through his limbs with divine strength and crush this mortal like an insect. Instead, he fought with deliberate restraint, matching the man's ferocity with controlled defense.

They broke apart, circling each other in the aftermath of divine fire. The scarred leader attacked again, his movements betraying years of desperate survival, no formal training but the brutal efficiency of a man who had killed to live. His blade whistled past Apollo's ear, close enough to stir his hair.

Apollo countered with the bow, using it as both shield and club. Each impact jarred his wounded side, sending fresh pain lancing through his chest. Blood soaked his tunic, warm against his skin as the leader's earlier strike took its toll.

"You bleed," the man observed, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Whatever you are, you bleed."

He pressed his advantage, forcing Apollo backward with a flurry of strikes. Each blow came closer than the last, the leader's confidence growing as Apollo's strength seemed to wane.

'He thinks I'm weakening,' Apollo realized, tasting blood where he'd bitten his cheek. 'Let him think it.'

Apollo stumbled deliberately, allowing his injured side to dip toward the ground. The scarred leader saw his opening and lunged forward, sword aimed at Apollo's exposed neck, exactly as Apollo had anticipated.

With speed that belied his apparent weakness, Apollo twisted aside. The leader's momentum carried him forward into empty air. Before he could recover, Apollo brought the bow around in a sweeping arc that connected with the back of the man's knees.

The leader crashed to the ground, sword spinning from his grip. Apollo stood over him, the bow raised for a killing blow, the gold in his veins singing with the promise of victory.

One strike. That's all it would take.

The scarred man glared up at him, hatred and fear mingling in his eyes. "Do it," he spat. "Finish what you started."

Apollo lowered the bow slowly, the gold in his veins cooling to a steady pulse. "No."

Confusion replaced fear on the leader's face. "What?"

"I said no." Apollo stepped back, allowing the man space to rise. "Take your men and go. Don't follow us. Don't come near us again."

The scarred leader pushed himself to his feet, wariness evident in every line of his body. He retrieved his sword without taking his eyes off Apollo, as if expecting the mercy to be a trick.

"This isn't over," he said, backing toward the forest edge. "The wood remembers. And so do I."

Apollo watched him disappear into the twisted trees, the bow still warm in his hands, though the divine fire had faded to embers. Only when the last sound of the leader's retreat had vanished did he allow himself to sag, one hand pressing against the wound in his side.

Mira rushed to him, her own injuries forgotten in her concern. "You're bleeding badly."

The others gathered around him, their faces reflecting a complex mixture of awe, fear, and gratitude. Thorin's expression was particularly thunderous, his thick brows drawn together in an unspoken question.

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