Lycaon could not leave. Every night, like a ghost, he would return to that dark and damp cellar. He did nothing, just sat in his hidden corner in the darkness, watching his sister. He wanted to go to her, to touch her hand, but he was afraid. He was afraid his presence would alert the jailers, and he was afraid to face the truth that he could do nothing to change her fate. He could only be there, a helpless older brother, standing guard over his sister's final days.
And then, the fateful night arrived.
As he was sitting in the darkness, the cellar door opened. Priest Lycomedes descended, followed by Overseer Hector and two burly attendants. Lycaon held his breath, shrinking deeper into the shadows.
Lycomedes approached Lyra, who was hanging on the wall. The little girl seemed no longer conscious of anything. He used a finger to lift her chin, examining Lyra's gaunt face like an artist admiring a nearly completed work.
"A year has passed, my flower," he whispered, his voice full of satisfaction. "It is time to offer up your finest essence."
He gave a signal. The two attendants brought over a small stone table and placed it directly beneath Lyra. On the table was a set of silver instruments, consisting of long needles and an empty crystal vial.
Lycaon, from the shadows, witnessed it all. He wanted to scream, to charge out, but his body was as if frozen. He could only watch.
Lycomedes began the final ritual. He took the silver needles and, with a cold precision, inserted them into the pressure points on Lyra's body. With every needle that went in, Lyra's small body convulsed weakly.
Then he began to chant in an ancient tongue, a language that did not belong to the gods. As he chanted, the silver needles began to glow. A wispy white mist, as pure as the morning dew, began to be drawn from Lyra's body, converging and flowing into the crystal vial.
It was the 'Essence of Immortality.' It was his sister's life.
Lyra began to convulse more violently, her soulless eyes stared wide, her mouth agape but unable to make a sound. He had to watch, with his own eyes, as his sister writhed in agony, her breath fading, and fading.
And then, she stopped. Her small body went limp in the chains. Her eyes remained open, but they were now completely lifeless.
In the crystal vial, a single, brilliant golden drop of liquid had formed, radiating a powerful but cold light.
The ritual was complete.
Lycomedes took the vial, holding it up to the candlelight. He began to laugh. A soft chuckle at first, then growing louder and louder, turning into a fit of mad, savage laughter that echoed throughout the cellar. Hector laughed along, his face twisted with greed and joy.
"A masterpiece! A perfect offering for the Goddess!" Lycomedes shouted. "The power of an entire soul... held in the palm of my hand! With this, eternal life is no longer a dream!"
The two attendants, their faces impassive, stepped forward. They unfastened the chains, and Lyra's small body fell to the stone floor with a dry "thud." Then they dragged her away, tossing her into a dark corner of the cellar like a discarded object.
When they had gone, when their laughter had faded, Lycaon finally crawled out from his hiding place.
He crawled to the dark corner where his sister's body lay. He gently gathered her small, cold form into his arms.
And then, everything shattered.
The coldness. The hatred. The will of steel. Everything that had kept him alive for the past year, all of it dissolved.
He buried his head in his sister's chest, and he wept.
Not silent tears, but choked sobs, the soundless screams of a child who had lost everything. He cried for Lyra. He cried for his father. He cried for his mother. He cried for Aella. He cried for the very reason for living that had just turned to smoke and ash.
In the dark, filthy cellar, there was only the mournful cry of a dead soul.
The last hope had been extinguished.