Dusk fell, dyeing the now-desolate barley field red. Lycaon's family trudged home in silence. No one said a word, but the weight of disappointment and helplessness was as heavy as a stone pressing down on the air.
Inside the wattle-and-daub house, Theona gently stacked the remaining sheaves of barley in a corner. She worked mechanically, her eyes staring into the void. Lycaon saw a single tear roll silently down his mother's thin cheek, quickly wiped away with the back of her calloused hand. He knew she was calculating. After setting aside the portion for the lord, would this much barley be enough for the family to survive the harsh winter to come?
The answer, as everyone knew, was no.
The turmoil in his chest made it impossible for Lycaon to sit still. He quietly stepped outside, leaving his parents to their silent space.
Outside, Axios village was shrouded in a similar silence. Glimmers of firelight flickered from the other huts, but there was no sound of laughter or chatter. Lycaon walked past Kretos's house; the man who usually boasted was now sitting in his doorway with a long face. Lycaon overheard him grumbling to his wife: "...took almost half, the flock of vultures in white robes!" before his wife quickly covered his mouth, whispering in fear.
Mrs. Elara was just sitting there on her wretched threshold, her eyes gazing distantly toward the fields where her labor had also just been stolen.
This pain did not belong to his family alone. It was the shared pain of the entire village, of all mortals who were oppressed.
Lycaon walked on until he reached a small crag overlooking the valley. The night wind began to blow, carrying a chill. He sat there, alone, letting the anger inside him settle. His father's words echoed in his mind: "Because we must live...".
He had once thought his father was weak. But now, in the stillness of the night, he began to understand. His father was not weak. His forbearance was not cowardice, but a much greater form of sacrifice. He sacrificed his own pride, bowing his head to those he despised, all to keep this family safe, to allow Lycaon and Lyra to survive another day.
It was the courage of a father, a silent and painful courage.
Lycaon turned and walked out of the house. He went out into the middle of the field where his father was diligently working. He looked at his father's stooped back and no longer saw submission, but a colossal burden of the past pressing down on those frail shoulders. The hatred in his heart was no longer an abstract indignation. It now had a shape, a name, and the silent tears of his parents. It became a blood debt. He raised his head, looking up at the vast blue sky, where the invisible and cruel powers resided.
No. He knew the answer.
The vow to protect his family now held a different meaning in his heart. It was no longer simply about love. It had been tempered by injustice, sharpened by hatred. He understood that to protect his small garden, he couldn't rely on love alone. He would need strength.
When Lycaon returned, the house was dark. His father, mother, and Lyra were fast asleep. The fire in the hearth was down to smoldering embers, glowing faintly. He gently went to his sister's side and tucked her thin blanket in.
He looked at the beloved faces sleeping peacefully for the moment. A resolve as cold as steel formed in his heart. Those who had sown suffering upon his family, those who sat on high and treated their lives like dirt, one day, he would make them pay.
The seeds had been sown within him, amidst the storm of a decaying world. And they were waiting for the day to sprout.