Apollo didn't throw him with the practiced technique of a warrior; he discarded him like refuse. His fingers uncurled, releasing Rex's mangled frame.
Rex's body hit the cracked violet floor with a sickening, wet thud, the sound of shattered ribs grinding against stone and organs shifting uncomfortably in a ruined cavity.
Apollo stepped back. His chest heaved in ragged, violent spasms, but the tears had dried.
The raw, bleeding wound of his grief had cauterized itself in real time, leaving behind something far more terrifying: a cold, calcified resolve. The expression on his face had ceased to be human; the sorrow had been hollowed out, replaced by a terrifying, focused emptiness.
The energy surrounding him began to warp. The loose, blazing red gold aura that had been flaring outward like a dying sun began to retract.
