After breakfast, it was Lycaon's duty to fetch water from the village well. He carried two wooden buckets and stepped out of the house. The dirt road of Axios village was muddy from last night's rain. The smell of mud, livestock manure, and damp cooking smoke mingled together, creating an atmosphere characteristic of poverty.
Axios village was built around a small stone church. Compared to the villagers' mud-walled, thatched-roof houses, the church looked solid and imposing. Its bell tower rose up like a divine finger, pointing directly at their miserable lives.
The village well was located in the open space right in front of the church. This was the center of all activity, a place where all news, all gossip, and all gazes met.
When Lycaon arrived, a few people were already there. Mrs. Elara, a widow whose husband had died during forced labor building a castle for the lord, was struggling to pull up a bucket of water. Seeing Lycaon, she smiled kindly. "Lycaon, have you come for water? Come, let me make way for you."
"Thank you, ma'am," Lycaon replied, stepping forward to help her pull up the bucket.
Just then, Kretos also arrived. He was one of the few freemen in the village, not bound to the land, owning his own small plot and a cow. He looked at Lycaon and Mrs. Elara with a condescending gaze. "What's taking so long? Hurry up so others can use it." He jutted out his chin and pushed his way to the front.
Lycaon said nothing, silently drawing water for Mrs. Elara before taking his turn. He knew that in a world where everyone was hungry, a little bit of fullness could easily turn into arrogance.
As he was drawing water, he saw a gaunt man huddled in a corner of the churchyard, his cough dry and weak. The villagers called it "consumption," a disease with no cure. Everyone stayed away from him, as if he carried a curse. Lycaon's gaze lingered there for a moment. He saw more than just sickness. Somehow, he could 'feel' the life within the man flickering, as weak as a candle about to be extinguished.
Suddenly, a horn blast echoed. Overseer Hector, the local lord's manager, was making his rounds on horseback. He wore an old leather armor, but the sword at his hip and his arrogant expression were enough to make the whole village tremble. Everyone, including Kretos, quickly bowed their heads, no one daring to look him in the eye.
Orpheus and the other men on their way to the fields also had to stop, bowing low on the side of the road until he passed. That was the law. Lycaon bowed his head too, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the overseer glance at the villagers with the look of a shepherd gazing down upon his flock.
That afternoon, while helping his father in the fields, Lycaon remembered something. It was two winters ago, Lyra had a high fever and was delirious for days. The village herbs had no effect. In her desperation, his mother had taken the family's only hen, the one they had been saving for the offering to the goddess Hera, to the church. She knelt down, begging the priest for some "holy water." The priest, a portly man, after taking the hen, gave her a cup of plain water over which he had muttered a few prayers.
That night, the whole family stayed awake. Orpheus held Lyra in his arms, using his own body heat to warm her. Theona whispered prayers she didn't fully understand. Lycaon sat beside them, watching the flickering fire in the hearth, and for the first time in his life, he felt a deep hatred for his own powerlessness.
Fortunately, Lyra survived. But the image of his mother kneeling before the priest, and his father shivering from the cold after giving his only woolen cloak to his daughter, was deeply etched in his mind. He understood that his family didn't live by the blessings of the gods; they lived by sacrificing for each other.
As the sun set, Lycaon carried two full buckets of water home. Inside the dark house, the fire was lit again, illuminating the four familiar faces. Theona was busy cooking dinner, which was still a thin vegetable soup and a few pieces of hard, black bread.