In the weeks that followed, a strange peace settled over Lycaon's small house. No one mentioned the past. His mother tucked the wooden bird away somewhere he could never find again. The pain became a silent shadow, an uninvited guest who would never leave, sitting with them at every meal and seeping into every dream.
The biggest change came from Lycaon. He became quieter, but his silence was no longer the melancholy of a teenager; it was the focus of a wolf stalking its prey. He proactively took on the heaviest chores. When his father, Orpheus, had to sit down due to a recurring backache, Lycaon would say nothing, simply pick up the hoe, and continue the unfinished work. He went into the thorny bushes by the fields to chop firewood so his father wouldn't have to. His hands grew more calloused, and the muscles on his body became more sinewy. He was forcing himself to grow up, to become strong, because he knew his parents could no longer shelter him.
Drawing on his father's lessons, Lycaon began setting simple snares made from vines, hiding them carefully on the small trails near the riverbank. Every morning, while the dew still clung wetly to the grass, he would sneak out to check them. But reality was crueler than he had imagined. His traps were almost always empty. Once, he was thrilled to see a trap had sprung, but when he got closer, he found only a pool of blood and a few tufts of rabbit fur. A weasel or a fox had been quicker than him. He stood there, looking at the empty trap, and learned a harsh lesson: in this world, even snatching a bite of food from nature was a relentless struggle.
This premature maturity created an invisible distance between him and the other boys his age. One afternoon, while passing the village commons, he saw a group of boys, including Kretos, shouting and wrestling. They called out to him. "Lycaon, come play with us!"
He just shook his head, his gaze sweeping past them toward the horizon. While they were engrossed in their games of strength, his mind was calculating how many more days the firewood at home would last, and whether the thatched roof could withstand the coming rain. He no longer belonged to their carefree world.
His kindness also began to take on a different purpose. One day, he saw Mrs. Elara struggling with her leaky roof. The old, frail widow didn't have the strength to climb up. Lycaon said nothing, simply took some of his family's reserve straw, climbed onto the roof, and carefully patched the leak for her. Mrs. Elara, moved, pressed a small turnip into his hand. He took it, bowed his head, and left. He didn't do it out of pity; he did it because he understood that in this village, a neighbor without ill will was a precious ally.
But Lycaon's greatest change only happened at night.
When the whole family was fast asleep, when the night was thick and his only companion was the cold, silver moonlight, he would sneak out of the house. He didn't go far, just to a thicket of trees hidden behind the village. There, he would draw the iron hunting knife his father had given him.
Under the moonlight, he practiced.
He didn't brandish the knife like a warrior from the epics. He practiced practical, lethal movements. He practiced drawing the knife from his belt in the blink of an eye. He practiced thrusting, not at the chest, but at the vital points he imagined: the throat, the armpit, the lower abdomen. He practiced cutting cleanly, quickly, and deeply. His face under the moonlight was cold and utterly focused. There was no anger, only a clear purpose. He wasn't training to be a hero. He was turning himself into a tool, a blade being sharpened in the darkness, ready for the day blood must be shed.
After his practice, he would return. Standing at the door, he would look inside the dark house where his father, mother, and sister were fast asleep, curled together for warmth. He could feel the weight of the iron knife at his side, the cold of the metal a stark contrast to the fragile warmth within.
He knew that the peace they had was not a gift from the gods. It was woven from the sacrifices of his parents, and now, it was a responsibility he had to bear. This peace had to be protected, not with prayers, but with the very blade he was hiding in his sleeve.