To be reborn, a soul must first be burned to ash. And from the ashes, it is not an angel, but a demon that rises first."
Time seemed to stand still. Lycaon lay there, pinned under the burning roof beam, the pain from his shattered leg a river of lava searing through his mind. But it was nothing compared to the sound of Lyra's cries for help, growing more distant, more distant, until they stopped completely.
Through the roar of the flames, he heard the voice of Priest Lycomedes ringing out from outside, sonorous and full of false sanctity.
"Behold! O my flock! The Goddess Hera has been merciful, she has intervened to save this innocent child from the sins of her parents! The girl will be taken to the Temple to be purified and will have the honor of serving the Goddess!"
A cheer rose from the crowd, a cheer full of joy and relief.
Lyra... is alive?
A frantic, twisted glimmer of hope flared in Lycaon's shattered mind. His sister was alive. But she had been taken. Taken by the very monster who had murdered his parents.
Must live! Must live to save Lyra!
That thought became a command, a fire that burned hotter than the one consuming him. He roared, a soundless scream, and began his escape through hell.
He used his hands to claw at the scorching earth floor, trying to drag his shattered leg out from under the beam. Every movement was torture, the gruesome, grinding sound of broken bones rubbing together was horrifying.
Just then, a large section of the burning thatched roof fell from above. Lycaon only had time to turn his head. An unimaginable burning pain struck him. He smelled his own flesh scorching. The left side of his face had become something no longer human.
He did not scream. The physical agony had been consumed by another pain, a thousand times greater.
Lyra...
He clawed, he crawled. He crawled over the body of his mother, who was still in a protective posture. He crawled through the pool of his father's blood. The flames licked at his clothes, at his flesh. He no longer felt anything.
In his mind, only his father's last command remained: Run to the forest!
He crawled toward the back wall, the one Orpheus had said was the weakest. He used his shoulder, his head, his entire uninjured side to ram into the red-hot mud wall. Once, twice, three times. The wall cracked. He tore at it frantically, creating an opening, then rolled outside.
He fell onto the cold, damp snow. The freezing shock of the snow against his burns made him shiver violently, but it also kept him conscious for a moment. He turned his head.
And he saw it. A sight that would haunt him to the very end of his existence.
He saw the villagers dancing, singing around the fire. Their faces, in the flickering firelight, looked so satisfied, so holy. They were celebrating the victory of the gods, a victory built on the corpses of his family. He saw Kretos laughing gleefully. He saw Priest Lycomedes carrying Lyra, who had fainted, toward the village entrance.
Then the roof collapsed completely in a shower of fire and embers, burying everything.
Burying his father.
Burying his mother.
Burying Aella all over again.
Burying Lycaon.
He reached a charred arm toward the priest's retreating back, trying to say his sister's name, but only a blood-choked gurgle came from his throat.
And then he saw nothing more.
Darkness fell.
The fire had consumed everything. The house. The family. And the boy named Lycaon.
All that remained were ashes, and a newly born hatred.