The fire was the only living thing between them.
It licked at the dry branches, dancing and crackling, casting their flickering shadows onto the ruined stone walls of the temple. A hunched, motionless shadow, leaning back against a rock—a living statue of vigilance. The other shadow sat on the opposite side, smaller, occasionally adding a dry twig with a quiet gesture to maintain the fragile warmth.
The night passed in almost absolute silence.
Elyra dared not sleep. The fear was still there, smoldering like coals beneath the ash. The monster who had saved her from the three wanderers was sitting just a few feet away. He hadn't said a word, hadn't moved, only his chest rose and fell with a faint rhythm. The firelight played across the ruined half of his face, turning the contracted scars into deep, dark furrows.
Why didn't she leave?
Reason told her she should. Run, run as far as she could from this dangerous creature. But instinct kept her there. The Labyrinthos Forest at night was the domain of things far more terrifying than men. This fire was her only safety.
But that wasn't all.
She watched him. She saw how he flinched when a dry twig snapped in the fire. She saw his single good eye was not looking at her, but was constantly scanning the surrounding darkness, a vigilance that bordered on exhaustion. And she saw the emptiness in that eye.
It wasn't the look of a killer relishing his victory. It was the look of someone who was already dead, but was forced to keep walking by some curse.
In his empty eyes, Elyra did not see a monster, but a mirror. A shattered mirror, reflecting the image of another survivor. His pain, though silent, was all too familiar. It was like her own. And in that moment, she realized that next to him, she no longer felt completely alone.
Dawn arrived, bringing a cold, silver-grey light. The fire had died down, leaving only glowing embers.
Elyra stood up. Her body ached from a sleepless, cold night. She had to find food. After a difficult search, her efforts yielded only a few bitter-tasting roots and a handful of sour wild berries. It was all the forest would offer.
She returned to the dying fire. He was still sitting there, as motionless as a stone.
She said not a word. She sat down, using a sharp piece of rock to divide the meager food into two nearly equal portions. She placed one portion on the clean flat stone near Lycaon, where the white strip of cloth she had torn the night before still lay, untouched.
Then, she quietly sat down on her side and began to eat her share.
Lycaon had watched her every move. Her hands, her eyes. When she placed the food near him, his mind screamed a single word: "Trap." In his world, kindness always came at a price. Was this food poisoned? Or was it a handout meant to make him lower his guard?
He sat motionless, staring at the portion of food. He watched her eat all of her share. He waited. Nothing happened. She just sat there, quietly, not looking at him, not expecting anything.
After a long silence, he slowly moved.
His body aching, he reached out his charred arm. He didn't take all of it. He just picked up the smallest wild berry. He brought it to his nose, sniffing it—the habit of an animal. Then, he carefully put it in his mouth. The sourness of the berry spread through his mouth, but he didn't taste it.
That act was not for hunger. It was an acknowledgment.
But in his mind, the thought remained unchanged. When my strength returns, I will leave.
He finished the berry, then retreated back into his state of silent vigilance. But between them, something had changed. A seed of trust, however fragile, had been sown in the wasteland of their two souls.