"The dead are not silent. They just speak in sounds that the living do not want to hear."
Elyra believed that as long as the sun still rose, there was still hope. Those were the last words her father had spoken to her, before their neighbors, with fanatical eyes and torches in hand, turned her village into a sea of flames.
Her father was not a serf; he was a respected merchant, but not the kind who dealt only in silks and spices. He specialized in particular goods for adventurers and those living on the frontiers: rare herbs, high-quality flint, and survival tools forged by isolated tribes. He believed that practical knowledge was more valuable than gold and silver, so he had not raised her as a delicate lady. Instead, he often took her along on his shorter trading journeys. On those trips, Elyra had learned how to read tracks from a guide, how to distinguish poisonous plants from an old medicine woman, and how to start a fire with just two pieces of flint from a guard. The harshness of the road had forged in her a resilient stamina and a spirit that did not easily break.
But those skills were only enough to keep her existence flickering. How many weeks had passed since that day? She couldn't remember clearly. Time in the Labyrinthos Forest was measured only by hunger and long, cold nights. Her dress was in tatters, her bare feet covered in scratches. She dared not venture deep inside, only wandering the forest's edge, where she believed its chaos had not yet completely consumed a person.
Her village had been a small, prosperous farming community on the eastern edge of the Kingdom of Argonia. The land was fertile, the people gentle. But that prosperity had become a curse. One day, a prophecy was issued from the Stone Echo Temple—an ancient shrine that worshipped the local goddesses of Fate. The priests proclaimed that her village's land had lost the favor of the gods and that a curse of barrenness would soon spread. Only a purification by fire and blood could prevent it.
She still remembered the gloating face of the lord from the next village, a man who had long coveted their fertile fields. With his incitement and the fearful sermons of the priests, their neighbors had attacked her village. They were not monsters; they were ordinary people, turned into demons by greed and superstition. She had escaped, but the image of her parents being consumed by the flames would haunt her forever.
Unlike Lycaon, she had cried. She had screamed. And then she chose to live, to find somewhere, some piece of land, where she could plant a seed anew.
But today, it seemed even hope was about to abandon her.
Three men, ragged and filthy, their eyes wild with hunger, had surrounded her in the ruined temple.
"Stay back!" Elyra screamed, her voice trembling but full of rage. She backed away, her back hitting a cold stone wall, her hand unconsciously clutching the small wooden bird she wore around her neck—her father's last memento.
"All alone in this forest, little girl?" one of them sneered.
He reached out a dirty hand and grabbed her shoulder. Elyra tried to struggle, but it was useless. She closed her eyes.
But then, a strange sound. A dry, choked "gurgle."
When she opened her eyes, the man holding her had collapsed, a stream of dark red blood pouring from his throat. Standing behind him was a figure.
It was not a savior. It was a monster.
He was gaunt, his clothes mere rags. The left half of his face was a lumpy, contracted mass of burn scars. His grey eyes were cold and empty, without a shred of emotion. The rock in his hand was still smeared with blood. The other two men fell before they even knew what was happening.
It was all over in silence.
The one who had saved her was more terrifying than her attackers. He stood amidst the three corpses, breathing heavily. He looked at her, a blank, soulless gaze.
Elyra sat on the ground, horrified. And yet, on her travels with her father, she had seen rougher faces, more gruesome scars on mercenaries. She knew that in this world, appearances often meant nothing.
The monster turned, as if to leave. As he limped away, she clearly saw his disabled leg, his pained, crooked gait. She saw the blood seeping from the old wounds on his chest. In that moment, her fear vanished, replaced by an inexplicable compassion. This monster... was also bleeding.
"Wait..." she called out, her voice weak.
He spun around, his whole body tensing like a cornered animal, the iron knife raised defensively. His eyes were full of suspicion.
Elyra dared not approach. She looked down at her own frayed dress, then resolutely tore a strip of cloth from the hem. She stood still, holding the clean piece of cloth out towards him. A simple gesture. A wordless care.
Lycaon froze. His instincts screamed: "Trap!" But the remaining "human" part of him saw something else: the fear and sincere compassion in her eyes. It was the gaze of a victim.
After a tense, silent moment, he slowly backed away a few steps, leaned against a large boulder, and laboriously sat down. He accepted her presence, but not her help.
Elyra understood. She gently placed the strip of cloth on a clean, flat rock nearby, then backed away and began to build a small fire in the space between them. The fire became a safe boundary, but also a shared source of warmth, a first whisper between two shattered worlds.