When they broke from the trees, Apollo didn't see the fire first or the people around it, but the river, earthy red in the predusk, grazing its way around the half-circle of tents and lean-tos like a barn cat hoping to be invited in.
The encampment was just tight enough to look temporary but too meticulous to be abandoned soon: wooden stakes in an uneven ring, canvas patched with three colors of resin and whatever rags were cleanest, racks for drying meat, and signaling twine strung from branch to branch in a language only birds could read.
No livestock, no grandstanding. Hunters, then. Or people who wanted to be less noticed than they were.
The man tending the fire had the air of someone who'd known what every part of this land tasted like, smoke, clay, maybe even a little feather.
