"Morality dies in the cold, and justice doesn't give out shoes. In times of hunger, a thief isn't a demon, but the only one who is still sane."
The first wind of winter blew in, carrying a piercing cold that seeped through every crack in the wattle-and-daub walls of the house. It not only extinguished the weak flame in the hearth but also seemed to want to blow out the last vestiges of warmth and life.
Lyra sat huddled by the fire, her bare feet already turning a light purple from the cold. Mother Theona tried to wrap her daughter's feet with the last remaining scraps of cloth, but everyone knew it was a hopeless comfort against the cruel winter to come.
Lycaon observed the scene with a frightening calmness. Powerlessness no longer gnawed at him; it had been replaced by a resolve as cold as iron. He stood up, putting on his worn-out, coarse woolen cloak.
"I'm going out for a bit," he said softly.
Theona looked up, her eyes full of worry, but she didn't ask where he was going. She just nodded.
Lycaon went to see Philemon, the only shoemaker in the village. His shop was just a small shed, reeking of leather and glue.
"Sir," Lycaon said, his voice calm, "I will do anything, work for you for free all winter, just for a pair of old shoes for my sister."
Philemon, a weary old man with gnarled hands, looked at Lycaon, then down at the small leather shoes he was in the middle of sewing. He sighed. "Kindness doesn't buy barley, young man. I have a family to feed as well. Even this smallest pair costs fifteen Obolus coins."
Fifteen Obolus coins. A sum his family couldn't even dream of. The first door of conscience had been slammed shut in his face.
On his way home, he passed the village well. Kretos was there again, boasting to a few neighbors. This time, he was showing off a new, sturdy pair of leather shoes he had just bought for his son, who was about Lyra's age.
"See?" Kretos bragged, "Only those who are successful can provide for their children like this! This winter, my son's feet won't have to touch the snow."
Kretos's words weren't just boasting. They were an insult, a slap in the face to his family's poverty and love. Lycaon said nothing, just walked past quietly. But in his mind, a target had been set.
That night, the entire village was asleep. Lycaon was not. He waited. He had spent the afternoon observing Kretos's house, memorizing their habits, the location where they kept the shoes—near the hearth to keep them warm.
When the moon was at its zenith, he acted. With the iron knife hidden at his belt, he moved like a phantom. He applied what his father had taught him: move against the wind, stay in the shadows, walk without a sound.
He slipped gently inside Kretos's house. The neighbor was snoring loudly next to his wife and child. The shoes were right there, just a few steps away.
Lycaon reached out his hand.
Creek...
A floorboard let out a small but piercing sound in the silence. Kretos stirred, muttering something in his sleep.
Lycaon froze. His heart didn't beat faster with fear; it slowed down with a cold focus. His hand was already on the hilt of his knife. He was ready. If discovered, he would not hesitate. In that moment, the boy Lycaon died, making way for a predator.
But Kretos didn't wake up. He just turned over and continued to snore.
Lycaon took the shoes and vanished into the night, as silent as a passing breeze.
He returned home. He couldn't give the shoes to his family directly. He sneakily placed them in a hidden corner near the door where his mother would surely find them the next morning, as if they were a lucky gift from a kind stranger, or a belated blessing from the gods.
Once done, he sat alone in the darkness, looking at his hands. He felt no guilt, nor did he feel any joy. He only felt a cold satisfaction.
A problem had been solved. His sister would have a warm winter.
"The gods do not provide. The villagers do not provide. So I will take for myself. This is the new law. My law."
In the darkness, Lycaon's grey eyes glinted with a sharp, cold light. The first theft was a success, and it would not be the last.