Many weeks had passed. The first autumn winds began to carry a chill, and the leaves on the single tree at the edge of the field had turned a withered yellow. A strange peace settled over the small house, a peace woven from unspoken sorrow.
Lycaon had changed. He spoke less, but his gaze was deeper and calmer. The iron hunting knife his father had given him became a constant companion, always tucked carefully at his belt. The villagers began to notice him. They saw a skinny serf boy who now possessed a hard silence, a composure that didn't belong to his fifteen years.
This change was most unsettling to Kretos, the neighbor. He was used to looking down on Orpheus's family. One afternoon, seeing Lycaon sitting on his porch carefully cleaning the iron blade of his knife, Kretos couldn't resist a sarcastic remark.
"Oh, look at Orpheus's kid. Sharpening that knife to go robbing or to scare rabbits in the bushes?"
Lycaon slowly stopped what he was doing. He didn't get angry, nor did he retaliate. He simply raised his head and looked directly into Kretos's eyes. A cold, still gaze, without a hint of fear. It wasn't the challenging look of a defiant child. It was the empty stare of an abyss.
Under that gaze, Kretos suddenly felt a chill run down his spine. His boastful words caught in his throat. He muttered a curse and quickly turned away, his steps faster than usual. Lycaon had won this confrontation without a single word or a single punch.
A short while later, Icarus, a boy of the same age with a more slender build and a quieter personality, approached. He was one of the few in the village who didn't look at Lycaon with an alienating gaze.
"Don't mind Kretos," Icarus said softly. "He's just jealous because even though your father is a serf, the whole village respects him more than they respect him."
Lycaon just nodded.
Icarus hesitated for a moment, then continued in a lower voice: "My mother has been worried lately. She said that Priest Lycomedes keeps lurking around the village, and the way he looks at the girls is strange, especially the ones around your sister's age..."
Lycaon's heart tightened, but his expression remained unchanged. He just uttered a soft "mm," but he etched that implicit warning deep into his mind.
That evening, as father and son were mending a cracked hoe handle together, Orpheus suddenly spoke, his eyes still on his work:
"Sometimes, silence is more fearsome than a fist. Today... you did well."
It was his father's silent acknowledgment. He didn't ask, but he knew his son was no longer a child who needed his protection.
But the brief peace was soon shattered by harsh reality. Winter was fast approaching. That night, as Theona was mending clothes by the hearth, she sighed, holding Lyra's only pair of cloth shoes.
"They can't be mended anymore, Lycaon," she said, her voice full of worry. "The leather is all worn out."
Lycaon looked over at his sister. Lyra was fast asleep, curled up in a thin blanket, her small, bare feet sticking out. Going barefoot in the coming winter could make her gravely ill.
They had no money. Their last Obolus coins had been used to buy salt for the entire winter. They had nothing to trade for a new pair of shoes, not even the crudest leather pair from the village shoemaker.
Lycaon looked at his sister's bare feet, then down at his own hands, which were unconsciously clenching the cold iron hilt of the knife at his belt. Once again, he was faced with powerlessness. And he understood that to protect his family, love and hard work were not enough. There would be times when he would have to use the blade.