In the days after the village was sealed off, Lycaon became a ghost. By day, he still performed his usual chores, but his eyes were elsewhere. They were always fixed on the church, observing, memorizing, and calculating. He learned the routine of his prey: every evening, after the final prayer, Priest Lycomedes would walk alone from the back door of the church to his private residence. There was a short stretch of road, an alley squeezed between the Church's granary and an old stone wall, that was the darkest and most deserted place.
It was the perfect spot for an ambush.
On the third night after the village was sealed, Lycaon decided to act. He checked the iron blade one last time, its sharpness providing a cold sense of reassurance. He tucked it behind his back, under his coarse woolen cloak.
As he was about to step out the door, a figure was already there, blocking his way. It was his father, Orpheus.
He said not a word. In the faint firelight, his face was etched with the deep lines of suffering. He didn't scold, didn't dissuade. He just stood there, looking directly into his son's eyes. In those eyes, Lycaon saw a silent plea, the ultimate fear of a man who had already lost everything and could not bear to lose again.
Lycaon paused for a second. He saw the image of his steadfast father collapsing. But then, the image of Lyra with her purple, cold feet, the image of the sister Aella he had never known, reappeared, sharp and painful. The resolve within him hardened like iron.
He didn't push his father aside. He just gently slipped past him and stepped into the darkness. Behind him, he heard a soul-crushing sigh, the sound of a breaking heart.
The alley was dark and damp. Lycaon hid behind a pile of old wooden barrels, holding his breath, his entire body tensed like a drawn bow. He waited. Time seemed to stand still.
Then he heard footsteps. Priest Lycomedes appeared, his hands clasped behind his back, humming a hymn. He walked at a leisurely pace, completely unguarded.
As the priest passed his hiding spot, Lycaon lunged. As fast as a wolf pouncing on its prey, silent and deadly. The iron blade in his hand drew a cold arc through the air, aimed directly at the back of the priest's neck.
The moment the blade was about to reach its target, something unimaginable happened.
The silver holy symbol the priest wore around his neck—a small sun representing the gods—suddenly erupted in a halo of blinding white light.
It wasn't just light. It was a wall of pure energy, searing and powerful.
Lycaon's blade struck the halo and was violently repelled. A terrifying force threw him backward. The knife flew from his hand, clattering onto the ground. His entire right arm burned as if it had been thrust into a fire, and his vision was filled with nothing but white.
"Who's there?!" Priest Lycomedes spun around, staring in terror into the darkness. But he saw nothing but an empty alley. The light had faded. Thinking it was an omen or a sign of divine protection, he hurried back to his residence, constantly muttering prayers.
Lycaon lay on the ground, stunned. The pain from his burned arm and the impact nearly made him pass out. But the will to survive forced him to his feet. He staggered to find his knife, then melted into the shadows before anyone could arrive.
He stumbled back to his house. He no longer felt the cold of the winter night. His body and mind were filled with a horrifying emptiness.
He sat alone in the darkness, staring at the burn on his hand, then down at the iron knife.
That night, Lycaon learned the bitterest of lessons. His hatred was real. His blade was real. But they were merely mortal things. His enemy, even a portly henchman, was protected by a different kind of power. A power that came from the gods.
He realized that to fight those who served the gods, he could not use only the weapons of men.