In the days following the Harvest Festival, the atmosphere in Axios village grew heavy. The laughter had died, replaced by worried whispers and doors that were quickly shut whenever a stranger passed by. The fear of the "Winter Purification Ceremony" hung like a cold fog over every rooftop. Families with teenage daughters lived in constant anxiety. The girls were no longer allowed to play outside alone; they were kept tightly indoors by their parents like precious, fragile treasures before a storm.
Amidst this anxiety, Priest Lycomedes began his "blessing visits." He went to every house with a daughter, his face benevolent and his voice gentle. He didn't say he was choosing, but rather "blessing" and "inquiring about the family's piety." But everyone understood it was an evaluation, a cruel selection. Every footstep of the priest sowed false hope in one house and despair in another.
And then, he came to Lycaon's house.
When the white-robed figure of Lycomedes appeared at the end of the path, Theona, who was mending a net with Orpheus, was so startled she dropped her needle.
"He's here," she whispered, her voice full of panic.
Orpheus said nothing, but his face hardened into a mask of submission. He quickly pulled Lycaon and Lyra into the house, instructing them in an urgent tone, "Remember, no matter what happens, you must show absolute reverence."
Priest Lycomedes entered the hut, followed by his two guards. Their presence made the already cramped space feel even more suffocating. The priest's pristine white robe and portly figure were a mocking contrast to the family's poverty and raggedness.
He glanced around, his eyes sweeping over the damp mud walls and the muddy floor with a skillfully hidden disgust. Finally, his gaze settled on Lyra, who was hiding fearfully behind her mother.
"Come here to me, little one," Lycomedes said, his voice artificially sweet.
Theona gently nudged her daughter forward. Orpheus bowed low.
The priest squatted down to face Lyra. "What is your name?"
"L-Lyra, sir," the little girl mumbled, not daring to look him in the eye.
"A beautiful name," Lycomedes smiled, but the smile did not reach his cold eyes. "Do you love the Goddess Hera, the great mother of us all?"
Lyra nodded vigorously.
Throughout the exchange, Lycaon stood in a dark corner of the house, silent as a rock. He didn't say a word, but his grey eyes never left the priest. He wasn't looking at the holy symbol on the man's robe. He was looking at the soft, white hands that had never known labor. He was looking at the calculation in the priest's eyes as he looked at his sister. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of the iron knife hidden beneath his tunic. He knew he could do nothing now. To attack a priest would mean the immediate extermination of his entire family. This powerlessness didn't make him despair; it made him colder and more calculating. He was observing his enemy.
After a few more meaningless questions, Priest Lycomedes stood up. He seemed very pleased.
"A truly devout family," he said to Orpheus, though his eyes were on Lyra.
Before leaving, he placed his hand on the little girl's head. Lyra shuddered slightly at the cold touch.
"The Goddess Hera always watches over the purest flowers," he said, his voice full of hidden meaning. "Keep yourself pure, my child."
With that, he turned and left, leaving the family engulfed in a deathly silence.
There was no doubt left.
They had been marked. Their family's little flower had caught the eye of the Church. The threat was no longer distant; it was right at their doorstep, wearing a saintly face and a deathly smile.