"Memory is a curse—what is buried will rise in the dark of night, reminding us that the price of life is loss."
The next morning, while cleaning a corner of the old storage shed, Lycaon's hand brushed against a small, dust-covered wooden box. Curious, he opened it. Inside, besides a few seashells and a faded bird feather, was a worn-out wooden toy, crudely carved into the shape of a small bird. It was too old to be Lyra's. The wood was worn smooth, proof that it had once been held and loved by a child's hand for a very long time.
He took the wooden bird and went to his mother, who was sitting by the hearth mending a shirt for his father.
"Mother, what is this?" he asked innocently.
Theona turned around.
The moment she saw the wooden bird, her face stiffened. The weary smile on her lips vanished. Her eyes widened, filled with a horrifying grief that Lycaon had never seen before. She snatched the toy from his hand, not in anger, but as a reflex to protect something incredibly precious.
She said not a word, only clutched the wooden bird to her chest and quickly turned away, her thin shoulders beginning to tremble. There were no sobs, only a silence more painful than a thousand laments.
Lycaon stood there, stunned.
He needed no further explanation. He understood everything.
His father's nightmare. The old wooden bird. His mother's nameless sorrow.
He had once had a sister. A sister who had been taken by the gods.
His father's submission, his mother's silence, it all stemmed from this unspeakable loss. They didn't just fear the gods; they were disgusted and helpless before their power. They had offered everything, and still, their child had been stolen from them.
Lycaon slowly 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 mother.
It became a blood debt.
He pulled the iron hunting knife from his belt. The blade glinted in the sunlight. He no longer looked at his father, but raised his head, looking up at the vast blue sky, where the invisible and cruel powers resided.
His grey eyes were as cold and still as an abyss. The flame that had long been kindled now had enough hatred to begin to burn.