When Lycaon rolled out of the burning wall, he was no longer human. He was a living torch, a soul being consumed in a furnace. Half his face was a mass of charred flesh, his clothes had become tattered rags clinging to his burns, and blood from his chest and shattered leg gushed out like a spring, dyeing a patch of white snow red.
He raised a charred arm to the sky, a silent plea for help.
The celebrating villagers suddenly fell silent. They looked at the creature that had just escaped the flames, and on their faces was not pity, but an ultimate fear and disgust.
"It's still alive..." one person whispered.
"A monster... it's truly a monster..." another backed away.
No one approached. They just stood there, watching Lycaon writhe in his own pool of blood until his body stopped convulsing, and then they quietly dispersed, leaving him to the night and to death. They believed he was dead, or would be soon.
Darkness fell. Lycaon passed out.
Two hours later.
It wasn't the pain that woke him, but the biting cold of the snow. He opened his eyes. The fire had died down, leaving only smoldering embers. The entire village was silent. The night sky was clear, the stars shining like shards of broken ice.
Was he dead?
No. He couldn't die.
An image flashed in his shattered mind: Lyra's screaming face as she was carried away. His hand unconsciously clenched, and he felt something cold and hard at his side. The knife. His father's iron knife. It was still there, tucked into his belt, even though the tunic had been burned to cinders. It was the only thing that remained intact.
"Save Lyra" – this purpose became the only flickering flame left in his ashen soul. He could not die.
He turned his head, looking toward the ashes of his home. There, he saw two charred figures, unrecognizable. Father. Mother. He wanted to cry, but his tears had long since dried up. He wanted to scream, but his throat could only produce a blood-choked gurgle. The pain had transformed into a cold strength. He knew he had no time for grief. When morning came, they would return. They would return to clean up, to confirm if the "heretic" family had been completely purified. He had to go. Immediately.
There was only one path left. The forest.
He began his race against death. He couldn't stand. He could only crawl.
He drew the iron knife from his belt. It was no longer a weapon, but his only tool for survival. He drove the tip of the knife into the hard snow, using it as an anchor, then summoned all his remaining strength to drag his mangled body forward. Every thrust of the knife was a vow; every painful drag was a step closer to revenge.
A long, winding trail of blood began to be drawn on the white snow, marking his path through hell.
Faster. Must be faster.
He crawled through the commons, where just a few days ago, the laughter of the festival had echoed. He crawled past the village well, where he had once confronted Kretos. He crawled past the houses that were lost in sleep. He had to reach the Axios River. That was the boundary, the hope.
The only stroke of luck in his desperation was that the guards patrolling the village were no longer there. Perhaps after the "Purification Ceremony," their vigilance had waned. This was his only chance.
Finally, after a relentless struggle with pain and death, he reached the riverbank. The water flowed lazily, black as ink under the starlight.
Without a moment's hesitation, he threw himself in.
The icy water was like a thousand needles stabbing into every burn, every open wound. The bone-chilling cold almost made him pass out again, but the thought of Lyra kept him conscious. He used his last ounce of strength, flailing, clinging, letting the current carry him to the other side.
He washed ashore, collapsing on the damp earth at the edge of the forest. He lifted his head and looked back at the distant village, now just a faint, blurry speck of light. He had escaped. He had survived.
His charred hand still gripped the ebony handle of the knife, the only thing left of his father, of his family, of his past. It was cold and hard, just like the hatred forming in his heart.
But the boy Lycaon was dead. The one lying here, a ruined creature, with a charred face, a shattered leg, and a heart of nothing but ash, was no longer human.
And then, the monster had entered its element.