The next morning, the atmosphere in the small house had completely changed. It wasn't anger, but a heavy and distant silence. Breakfast was still oatmeal porridge, the fire still burned, but no one spoke a word to each other.
When Mother Theona handed Lycaon his bowl, her hand hesitated slightly, and she avoided looking him in the eye. Father Orpheus just focused on eating his portion, seemingly concentrating all his attention on finding the unopened oat grains in his bowl. They loved him, but now, in that love, there was a little fear. They no longer saw their little boy, but a familiar stranger, a person with calculations they could not comprehend.
Lycaon felt that distance. He wasn't sad; he accepted it as a necessary price. He quietly finished eating, picked up his hoe, and went out to the fields alone.
He didn't start work right away. He stood in the middle of the barren plot, letting the cold morning wind blow past. In his mind, he replayed the confrontation from the day before. He felt no pride, only a cold analysis.
Kretos wasn't afraid of me, he thought, he was afraid of Overseer Hector.
He was afraid of the trouble the lord's power could bring. The fear of a greater power... that was the real weapon
.
He had learned a new lesson. Not about the strength of his fists, but about the power of a threat.
"Lycaon!"
A voice pulled him from his thoughts. It was Icarus. His friend approached, his eyes shining with admiration.
"The whole village is talking about you," Icarus said, his voice full of excitement. "They're saying you scared Kretos so badly he didn't dare say another word. You're so brave!"
Lycaon just nodded slightly.
Icarus lowered his voice, glancing around as if afraid of being overheard. "My father said we have to be careful these days. Overseer Hector is going around looking for able-bodied young men for the lord's 'great hunt' this winter. No one knows what they hunt, but none of the ones who were taken last year ever came back."
A new worry was planted in Lycaon's heart, but his face betrayed no emotion.
That evening, after they had finished their silent dinner, Orpheus saw his son sitting in a corner, quietly cleaning the iron knife. He hesitated for a moment, then walked over.
He didn't ask about what happened with Kretos. He just sat down beside Lycaon, took the knife, and examined it.
"The blade is a little dull," Orpheus said, his voice low and hoarse. "A good tool needs to be cared for. Come, I'll show you how to sharpen a knife."
He took out a smooth whetstone that he always kept hidden away. Under the flickering firelight, Orpheus began to show Lycaon how to position the blade, how to move his wrist, how to listen to the sound of metal on stone to know when the edge was sharp enough.
They said nothing more. Only the steady "shh, shh" of the blade on the whetstone echoed in the small house. It was not a lesson, but an inheritance in silence. Orpheus wasn't asking his son who he had become; he was using his actions to say:
no matter what path you have chosen, you are still my son, and I will teach you what I know so that you can survive on it.
Lycaon and Orpheus sat side by side, very close. The firelight cast their two shadows onto the mud wall, two shadows huddled together, but Lycaon knew they were already in two different worlds. His father sought to survive, while he was preparing to fight.
And he had to walk that path alone.