The first snowstorm of winter arrived without warning. The north wind howled, carrying millions of icy needles that whipped against the weak mud walls of Axios village. The snow fell thick and fast, blurring the line between earth and sky, turning the world outside into a chaotic white void.
The village was plunged into isolation. All activities ceased. Each family huddled inside their home, burning feeble fires, listening to the wind shriek through the cracks.
Inside Lycaon's house, the hearth fire was the only source of light and warmth. The whole family gathered together. Outside was the fury of nature, but inside, in this moment, there was a strange warmth.
To chase away the fear in Lyra's eyes, Father Orpheus began to tell a story. He didn't tell tales of gods or heroes. He told a folk tale he had heard as a child, about a small, clever rabbit who used his wits to trick a big, vicious wolf, thereby protecting his family.
His voice was deep and warm, mingling with the crackling of dry wood in the fire. Lyra was captivated by the story, her eyes lit up, an innocent smile on her lips. Mother Theona smiled too, her hands never ceasing their mending of an old shirt.
Even Lycaon, though his heart was on high alert, allowed himself to relax. He looked at his family, at the dancing flames. In that moment, he felt a profound peace. It seemed that as long as they were together, no storm, no power, could touch them.
After the story ended, Lyra and Theona, tired, had drifted off to sleep. Only Lycaon and Orpheus remained awake by the dying fire.
Orpheus looked at the iron knife at Lycaon's belt, then into his son's eyes. He didn't speak of plans or danger. He simply placed his rough hand on his son's shoulder, his voice hoarse:
"This winter... will be very difficult. But I believe in you, Lycaon."
It was an acknowledgment, a bestowal of trust. In that moment, Lycaon felt the burden on his shoulders grow heavier than a mountain, but he did not falter.
The next morning, the storm had passed. The sky was strangely clear, and everything was covered in a layer of pure white snow, beautiful but cold. The scene looked peaceful, as if the rage of the previous night had never happened.
The villagers began to emerge from their homes, breathing in the fresh air after the storm.
Just then, a figure in the Church's leather armor appeared. He walked to the commons and, with a single, decisive hammer blow, nailed a notice to the wooden post in front of the church.
The sound of the hammer echoed in the morning stillness, dry and ominous.
Everyone quickly gathered. Kretos, one of the few who could read, pushed to the front and read the notice's contents aloud:
"By order of Priest Lycomedes, the Winter Purification Ceremony will be held tomorrow, when the sun is at its zenith."
The post-storm peace was shattered in an instant. The faces that had been cheerful just moments before immediately froze in fear.
Lycaon stood in the crowd, staring at the notice. The warm hope of the previous night had been extinguished by a reality colder than the snow itself.
The doomsday clock had begun its countdown.