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The Sunlit Veil: Twenty-two years ago Delos, Greece The island where Apollo was born should not have been weeping. Yet as dawn broke over the ancient sanctuary of Delos, the very stones seemed to shed tears of golden light. The ruins of temples that had once echoed with hymns of praise now stood silent, their broken columns reaching toward a sky that felt infinitely distant. Even the Aegean Sea, normally a brilliant blue-green under the morning sun, appeared muted, as if the colour were slowly draining from the world. Apollo stood among the ruins of his most sacred temple, cradling something infinitely precious and impossibly fragile: a mortal woman whose life was ebbing away with each laboured breath. Maria Damaris had given birth less than an hour ago, but the cost had been higher than either of them had anticipated. Divine blood, even diluted, demanded its price from mortal flesh. ""She's beautiful,"" Maria whispered, her voice barely audible above the lapping of waves against the ancient harbour. In her arms, wrapped in cloth that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light, their daughter slept with the perfect peace of the innocent.

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