"When the gods turn their backs, flint and blade are the final prayers."
In the days following the tax collection, Orpheus never spoke another word about the incident. He remained a quiet, diligent father, going to the fields day after day. But Lycaon noticed a change. His father began to watch him more. Sometimes, when he was silently gazing into the distance, he would catch his father's eye on him, a gaze mixed with pride, worry, and a deep, profound sadness. He saw his son's hard silence, saw that his son's eyes no longer held innocence, but a cold skepticism.
He knew that forbidding it would no longer work. The seed had sprouted, and trying to stamp it out would only make it root deeper in the darkness.
One evening, as the family sat around the hearth after a meager dinner, Orpheus called Lycaon over. He didn't command; his voice was low and hoarse, as if telling an old story.
"Lycaon, come here. I have something to tell you."
Lycaon silently sat down across from his father. Theona and Lyra stopped what they were doing and listened.
"Your mother and I," Orpheus began, his eyes fixed on the fire, "were not born in this village of Axios. We are wanderers."
Wanderers. The word sounded so foreign, yet so bitter. It meant no home, no land, no roots.
"Many years ago," he continued, "my home village angered a river god. The river grew furious and drowned everything. I was one of the few survivors. I wandered for many years, eating roots, sleeping in caves. Until one day, I met your mother."
He turned to look at Theona, a rare tenderness shining in his weary eyes. "At that time, your mother was also fleeing a plague. She was near exhaustion, surrounded by a group of beggars. They didn't want to rob her, for she had nothing. They only wanted... their pleasure."
Lycaon held his breath.
"I was just a skinny youth then, with nothing in my hands but a few pieces of flint and desperation," Orpheus said with a sad smile. "I couldn't fight them, but I knew that forest. I set a hornet's nest on fire and threw it into their midst. While they were in chaos, I pulled your mother away. We ran for a whole day and night without stopping."
He paused, taking his wife's calloused hand. "That is how we survived, Lycaon. Not with prayers. But with flint so we wouldn't freeze to death in the night, with simple snares made from vines to catch a few wild rabbits, by knowing which roots could be eaten and which mushrooms were poison. When the gods turn their backs, only your own hands and your own head can save you."
Lycaon listened in silence. For the first time, he felt he truly understood his father. He understood that his father's submission was not faith, but a bitter strategy for survival.
Orpheus took a deep breath, then from an old leather pouch hidden under the straw bed, he took out an object. It was a hunting knife. The iron blade had a few scratches but was still sharp, its ebony handle worn smooth from years of being held. In a world where serfs only had tools of wood and stone, an iron knife was a fortune.
"This is the only legacy your grandfather left behind," Orpheus said, his voice filled with solemnity. "It saved my life and your mother's. Now, I pass it to you."
He placed the knife in Lycaon's hand. He felt its weight, the cold of the metal, and the warmth from his father's hand that had just been transferred to it.
"Learn how to use it," his father said, his voice growing hoarse. "Trust your eyes, trust your hands, and learn to save yourself. That is the only lesson a father like me can teach you."
That night, Lycaon did not sleep. He sat in the darkness, his hand clutching the knife. It wasn't just a weapon; it was the legacy of a survivor, the silent rebellion of his father. And he knew his path would be the same.