Summer night fell. Outside, the chirping of crickets was incessant, and the silvery moonlight filtered through the thatched roof, sprinkling tiny specks of light onto the earth floor. Inside the house, Lycaon's family gathered around the hearth. The air was still thick with the smell of smoke, but it also carried warmth.
Dinner was as simple as breakfast. A pot of wild vegetable soup with a few turnips, and a piece of black bread made from coarse barley for each person. Lycaon ate slowly. He didn't feel hungry, just a vague emptiness. The image of the haughty overseer and the coughing man huddled in the churchyard corner kept replaying in his mind.
"Eat, son," Theona said softly, noticing her son's pensiveness. She picked the largest piece of turnip from her bowl and put it into his. "You must eat to have the strength to work."
Lycaon nodded but didn't eat right away. He looked at his mother's hands, her thin, calloused fingers mending his father's only tunic. Every stitch she made was filled with care and worry.
Orpheus, after finishing his portion, began telling Lyra a story. Not stories of gods or heroes; his father didn't know those tales. He told of the giant fish his grandfather had once caught, of the great storm that had nearly swallowed the whole village many years ago. His voice was deep and warm, like the soothing sound of waves, gradually lulling Lyra to sleep.
Lycaon watched his sister sleeping soundly in their father's lap, a slight smile on her lips. He remembered that winter again. He remembered the biting cold, remembered the desperation in his mother's eyes as Lyra burned hot as a coal. He remembered his father taking off his coarse woolen cloak, the most valuable garment in the house, and wrapping it around his daughter. Then, wearing only a thin shirt, he walked through the snowy night to the next village, where an old woman knew a few folk remedies. He walked for nearly a day, returning with his feet swollen and bruised from the frostbite, but in his hands was a bundle of leaves that could bring down a fever.
That night, Theona brewed the medicine, while Orpheus just sat there, holding his daughter, using his own body heat to fight off death. Lycaon sat beside them, helpless, able only to add more wood to the fire. He had prayed. For the first and last time. He prayed to the goddess Hera, the protector of this kingdom, begging for her mercy. But the only answer was the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks in the door and the cold silence.
Lyra survived, not by divine grace, but by her parents' sacrifice.
From that day on, Lycaon no longer believed in prayers. He only believed in what he saw. He saw the boundless love in his father's sacrifice, in his mother's tears. That love was not a miracle, but a stark and powerful truth. It was the only flame that warmed him in this frozen world.
"Father, Mother," he suddenly said, breaking the silence.
Orpheus and Theona both looked at him.
"In the future, I will take care of you both, and Lyra too."
It was not the impulsive promise of youth. His voice was low and steady. In his grey eyes, there was the resolve of a grown man.
Orpheus was taken aback for a moment, then he smiled, a weary but proud smile. He said nothing, just reached out his rough hand and gently patted his son's shoulder.
Theona looked at the father and son, her eyes welling with tears, but she quickly turned away so they wouldn't see.
The fire in the hearth had died down, leaving only glowing embers in the pile of ash. Outside, the night was thick and silent. Lycaon knew the world out there was full of injustice, oppression, and the indifference of the gods. But here, in this small house, around this dying fire, was everything he had, everything he was willing to die to protect.
The flame in the embers still burned, smoldering and resilient. And so did Lycaon.