Dawn arrived, bringing a cold, silver-grey light. The fire from the previous night was nothing but glowing embers, its faint warmth nearly extinguished by the early morning breeze. Lycaon still sat motionless in his spot, his back against a boulder, a statue of vigilance. He had eaten a wild berry that Elyra had left, a fragile acceptance, but the wall of silence between them was still there, thick and cold.
Elyra had watched him all night. She saw that he was not purely a wild beast. His silence and pain were too heavy, too much like her own. She felt that if they were to survive together, this silence had to be broken. The fact that he had accepted her food, however little, gave her a sliver of courage.
She took a deep breath, letting the cold morning air fill her lungs. She decided to take a risk, to place her faith in the person hidden behind the monster's shell.
"My home... it used to have a garden," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly, her eyes fixed on the dying fire. "My father used to say that every flower was a promise from the mother earth."
Lycaon didn't move, but Elyra knew he was listening.
She spoke of a lost world, a world completely opposite to the one Lycaon had ever known. Her father was not a serf; he was a respected landowner and merchant. Their home was a familiar stop for trading caravans passing through the Argonia region. From a young age, she had grown up amidst stories of distant lands and had seen strange and wonderful things. Her father had taught her to read from the scrolls he brought home. Her mother was a gentle woman with a clear singing voice, and she always wore a smile. Their love was not loud; it was present in the way her father always remembered to bring her mother a ribbon of her favorite color, in the way her mother always saved the best piece of meat at dinner for her father.
"This wooden bird," Elyra unconsciously touched the memento on her neck, "my father carved it for me himself, from a piece of fragrant wood a merchant brought from the south. He said it would carry my dreams to new lands..."
She had once had everything. A warm family, a promised future.
But her voice grew lower, the warmth in her memories slowly fading, replaced by the cold of reality.
"But my family's prosperity attracted greed," she continued, her eyes staring into nothingness. "A neighboring lord, he wanted my father's land and trade route. He couldn't attack openly, so he conspired with the priests of the Stone Echo Temple."
"They created a false prophecy. They said my father was hoarding wealth, disrespecting the gods, and that my family's fortune would bring a curse of barrenness to the entire region. They incited the peasants, turning their greed into holy wrath."
"That night... it wasn't an attack. It was a slaughter in the name of the gods. My father fought like a lion to protect us. He held them at the main door..."
Elyra's voice broke, but she did not cry. Her tears had long since run dry.
"My mother pushed me through a secret passage in the wine cellar. Her last words were: 'Live, my child! You must live!'. I ran, not daring to look back, the sounds of screams and the sight of a blazing sky behind me."
After she finished her story, a heavy silence fell. She lowered her head, her thin shoulders trembling.
Throughout Elyra's story, Lycaon said not a word, his face expressionless. But inside, his mind was in turmoil.
He didn't hear about wealth. He heard about a happy family that was destroyed.
He didn't hear about the Stone Echo Temple. He heard about the divine being used as an excuse for greed.
He didn't hear about soldiers. He heard about betrayal and slaughter.
And most importantly, he heard about parents sacrificing themselves so their child could live.
Different... yet so much the same.
For the first time, he realized his pain was not unique. There was another person here who bore a similar scar. His hatred was validated; it was no longer the private pain of an individual, but part of a decaying world.
After a very long silence, Lycaon slowly moved.
He didn't offer empty words of comfort. He simply reached out quietly, picked up a dry branch, and gently nudged the glowing embers. A few small sparks flared up, weak but resilient.
The action meant: "I understand. Let's keep the flame burning."
It was his response. An acknowledgment. A wordless promise that they would face the night together.