Some were crude stone slabs, weathered and cracked by time. Others were grand structures carved with runes that shimmered faintly, resisting decay. Each tomb radiated a powerful and distinct aura—some noble and vast, others wild and violent, and a few so ancient their presence pressed down like the weight of vast history itself.
None of the tombs were ordinary.
Apollo's gaze swept across them. Every one of these resting places belonged to a warrior who once shook the stars with their blade, claw, or will. Even in death, their power hadn't entirely faded. He could feel the remnants—flickers of memory, battle intent, and perhaps something more.
They didn't speak and quickly walked forward, pulled by an invisible thread.
A wind rose from deeper within the valley, heavy with scents of ash, iron, and time. The tombs seemed to hum—softly, faintly—as if acknowledging the arrival of a new master.
