"The gods do not need barley, nor do they eat chicken eggs. But they demand, for the very right to demand is their sustenance."
August. The summer heat reached its peak. The barley fields of Axios village had turned a brilliant gold, the stalks heavy with grain, bending in the dry, scorching wind. Under the harsh sun, Lycaon's entire family was toiling in their plot of land.
His father, Orpheus, shirtless and drenched in sweat, used an old iron sickle to cut the barley stalk by stalk. Sweat ran in rivulets down his stooped back, mixing with the dust and dirt. His mother, Theona, followed behind, her hands nimbly tying the cut stalks into neat sheaves, her face flushed from the sun. Even Lycaon was working without rest, his hands already beginning to callus, helping his parents carry the sheaves of barley to the corner of the field.
This was the most important time of the year. The sweat and labor of an entire year were crystallized in these golden grains. They were food, life, and the fragile hope that his family would survive the long winter ahead. Amidst the searing heat, Lyra sat in the shade of the single tree at the edge of the field. She was no longer playing, but quietly watching her parents and brother work, her innocent eyes shining with a love that surpassed her age.
Just then, a group of people appeared from the path leading into the village. In the lead was Priest Lycomedes, dressed in a pristine white robe, so clean it was out of place amidst the dusty backdrop of the fields. Following him were two church guards, clad in leather armor, spears in hand, their faces cold and arrogant.
"The tax collectors are here," Lycaon's father whispered, his hand stopping in mid-air. The look of joy from the good harvest vanished from his face, replaced by a deep-seated anxiety and reverence.
His entire family, like the other farmers in the neighboring plots, stopped their work and bowed their heads in anticipation.
The priest strode forward, his leather sandals seeming reluctant to touch the parched earth. He cleared his throat and delivered a short but condescending sermon: "O flock of the Most High! The gods have granted you another harvest. Their mercy is infinite, and now is the time for you to show your devotion. Offer up your best, to prove that your faith has not wavered."
With that, he glanced at Lycaon's family's pile of barley. His eyes scanned the golden sheaves indifferently, then he stopped, his brow furrowed. "This harvest... is merely adequate. It seems your devotion has somewhat diminished this year."
Lycaon's father hastily bowed low. "Father, we have given our all. May the goddess be our witness."
The priest snorted coldly, not bothering to reply. He signaled to the two guards. "Take a third. That is what belongs to the goddess."
The two guards stepped forward without a word and began carrying away the plumpest and most golden sheaves of barley—the fruits of the family's labor. They took not just a third, but what seemed to be much more, seizing without mercy.
Lycaon stood there, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He saw the beads of sweat rolling down his father's bare back, saw the worried eyes of his mother as she watched their pile of barley dwindle rapidly, and saw the portly, prosperous figure of the priest. A question, like a dagger, plunged deep into his mind: His father's sweat, his mother's tireless labor… was it all for nothing more than an offering to a god who wouldn't even deign to notice?
When the tax collectors had gone, leaving a large empty space where the barley had been, the air remained heavy. His father sighed and resumed his unfinished work, but every movement was now marked by a weary resignation.
"Father," Lycaon couldn't help but speak up, "why do we have to do this?"
Orpheus stopped, turning to look at his son. His eyes held a complex, indescribable expression, with pride, but more so with fear. He walked over, placed a rough hand on Lycaon's shoulder, and leaned in to whisper, his voice hoarse:
"Because we must live, my son. Never ask questions like that again."
Lycaon fell silent. He looked towards the path where the priest had just disappeared. He said nothing, but the flame of rebellion in his perceptive eyes had been kindled.