The notice from Priest Lycomedes was like a death sentence hanging over the family. The air in the small house grew thick, more suffocating than cooking smoke. Mother Theona sat in silence, her hands unconsciously clutching Lyra, as if even a gentle breeze could snatch the girl away.
Lycaon stood in the dark corner, his hand gripping the hunting knife. The silence was more terrifying than any scream. Finally, he was the one to break it.
"We can't let them take Lyra," he said, his voice low and cold.
The statement was like a spark, igniting Orpheus's restraint. The father, the man who had always been silent and submissive, suddenly lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot, filled with a pain that had festered for years.
"What do you know!" he roared, an unexpected explosion, then his voice broke, weak. "You know nothing... You don't know..."
He collapsed onto the earth floor, his hands clutching his head, his whole body shaking. "I should have known... I should have known history would repeat itself..."
He turned to look at Lycaon, his eyes filled with an ultimate, agonizing despair. "You had a sister, Lycaon. Her name was Aella."
Lycaon held his breath.
"She was a beautiful child, and she had a gift," Orpheus continued, his voice trembling. "She could make wild flowers bloom out of season. We thought it was a miracle, a blessing. But then one year, the harvest failed, and a plague spread. The priest at the time said Aella's gift was unnatural, a bad omen that had angered the gods."
Tears began to stream down the father's weary face. "The villagers... they were so afraid. To appease the gods' wrath, to beg for forgiveness... they... they took her..."
He paused, taking a ragged breath, then continued, his voice a whisper, as if telling a horrific secret. "They didn't kill her right away, Lycaon. That was the worst part. They called it an 'honor.' They took her to the Temple... and they... they 'used' her. I don't know what they did, but I heard the elders say that the village's fear, our family's pain... it all became an 'offering' to nourish that 'purification.' They don't just need a corpse, my son. They need our despair."
He didn't specify what they did, but Lycaon understood. "A sacrifice."
"They took her," Orpheus repeated, his voice breaking, "and the gods' wrath was appeased. The next year's harvest was bountiful."
He gripped Lycaon's shoulders, his bloodshot eyes pleading. "I've seen the same thing in your eyes, Lycaon. A difference. Something they can't understand. You must hide it! You must be like them! If not, the tragedy will repeat itself. I can't lose another child!"
The father's confession brought no relief, only a horrifying truth. Lycaon finally understood the operating principle of this world. The gods didn't just demand submission; they were parasites, feeding on the very pain and despair of mortals to nourish their power. And the deluded crowd would readily sacrifice anyone different to buy their own peace.
He looked at his own hands. The skills his father had taught him were no longer just for hunting animals. They were so that one day, he could hunt those who had created and maintained this cruel order.
His path was set. Not by any prophecy, but by the tears and blood of his own family.