"The bell tower echoes with the sound of prayers. But it is also the place where lies echo most clearly."
Weeks passed. Lycaon, in the guise of a consumptive beggar, had become a part of the filthy scenery outside the church. Villagers walked past him, throwing him looks of disgust, and sometimes, a leftover piece of bread. No one recognized the ghost of the past who was observing them.
By day, he was a dying beggar. By night, he was a silent predator. He had memorized the priest's schedule, the guards' routines. He learned that every third night, Priest Lycomedes would stay in the church later than usual to perform a "private prayer ritual."
That was his chance.
On a moonless night, when the village was deep in sleep, Lycaon acted. He moved like a ghost, slipping through the dark alleys, avoiding the lantern light of the patrols. Using the skills learned in the deep forest, he slipped into the church through a small back window whose latch he had noticed was loose.
Inside, the church was cold and silent. The familiar smell of incense and cold stone filled his nostrils. He wasn't seeking revenge; he just wanted a clue as to where Lyra had been taken. Using his experience of living in darkness, he quickly mapped out the layout of the place in his mind. He went to the altar. Based on his observations of the priest's strange behavior, he believed a secret was hidden there. He felt around on the cold stone floor. And then, his hand touched a floor tile that could be moved. Using his iron knife, he carefully pried it up. A secret wooden cellar door was revealed.
A gust of musty, foul air rose up. He opened the door and carefully descended the slippery stone steps, which led into a thick, oppressive darkness.
The deeper he went, the colder and more suffocating the air became. At the bottom of the stairs was a small cellar, illuminated by a single, flickering candle on the wall.
Lycaon's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He saw the damp stone walls, the thick cobwebs.
And then he saw his sister.
Lyra. His sister was right here.
Lyra was hanging on the opposite wall. Her small wrists were locked in rusty iron chains, leaving her body almost dangling. She wore a filthy white garment and was skeletal, her skin as pale as paper. Her eyes were wide open, but empty and soulless, staring into an unknown void. Her long hair was matted with sweat and dirt.
Lycaon stood frozen at the foot of the stairs.
The air seemed to solidify. The sound of his own heartbeat was the only thing echoing in his head. He stared at the small, emaciated figure hanging on the wall.
It was Lyra. It was his sister.
And it was also not his sister.
It was an empty shell, a flower being slowly and cruelly drained of life.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to charge forward, to use his father's knife to tear apart the guards standing at the cellar door, to cut the rusty chains. But he couldn't. He froze, not from fear, but from a truth colder than the stone floor beneath his feet: if he charged out now, it would all be over. He would die, and Lyra would die too. A reckless attack would be a meaningless suicide, a momentary satisfaction of his rage in exchange for permanent destruction.
He had failed once. He had powerlessly watched his family burn because he wasn't strong enough. He would not repeat that mistake. The hatred screaming in his chest was pinned down by the ice-cold reason of a survivor. He had to observe. He had to wait. Wait for an opportunity, no matter how slim. Every second he stood in this darkness, watching his sister being tortured, was a torture a thousand times more terrible for his own soul. But he had to endure. Because if he fell, the last hope would be extinguished too.
In that moment, Lycaon felt no anger, no pain. He felt nothing at all. His soul felt as if it had been frozen solid. Every thought, every emotion, every hope that had kept him alive for all these months, all of it vanished, leaving only a horrifying emptiness.