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.
Today had been a long and tiring day. Lycaon had spent the entire day reinforcing their temporary shelter, a corner of the old temple where the vaulted roof had partially collapsed. He worked like a machine, without rest; physical exhaustion seemed to be the only way for him to temporarily forget the storms in his mind.
Elyra had watched him. She saw how he flinched when a small stone rolled down from the top of the vault. She saw his single good eye was not looking at his work, but was constantly scanning the surrounding darkness, a vigilance that bordered on exhaustion.
As night fell, exhaustion finally won. After eating a few dry, tough strips of rabbit from the day before, Lycaon sat leaning against the stone wall, next to the fire. He had not had a full night's sleep in a very long time; his mind was a battlefield that never fell silent. But tonight, the warmth from the fire and the quiet presence of Elyra created a fragile sense of security. His eyes grew heavy, and before he knew it, he had drifted into sleep.
Elyra remained awake. She gently added another twig to the fire, trying not to make a sound. She looked at him. In sleep, his face seemed less cruel, the sharp lines softened under the firelight. The ruined half of his face looked terrifying, but also deeply pitiful.
Suddenly, he stirred.
It was not a normal turn. He began to tremble, even though he was very close to the warm fire. At first, there were only small whimpers, but gradually they turned into broken, tormented words spoken in his sleep.
"Lyra... my sister..." His voice was lost, full of despair. "Don't go..."
Elyra froze, her heart tightening.
Lycaon began to curl up, his arms wrapping tightly around himself as if trying to fight off an invisible cold. His entire body shivered violently.
"Pa... Ma... don't abandon me..."
A choked sob escaped his throat, not that of a monster, but of a child left all alone in the harshest of winters. It was the cold of that winter, the flesh-cutting cold of ultimate loss.
Elyra sat in stunned silence. Her initial fear was quickly replaced by a painful empathy. She understood. The monster before her was also just a victim, a soul tormented by ghosts that could not be banished. His pain, though silent, was all too familiar. It was like her own.
Reason told her to stay silent, to leave him alone with his nightmare. But her heart would not allow it.
She dared not get closer, afraid of startling him. She just sat there, looking at his trembling back, and began to sing softly.
It was not a song with words. Just a melody. An ancient lullaby her mother used to sing, a tune that was sad but as gentle as the moonlight. Her voice was clear and fragile, seeping into the stillness of the ruined temple, trying to chase away the screams in his dreams.
It seemed the melody worked. Lycaon's convulsions gradually subsided. His breathing became less ragged. The nightmare seemed to retreat before the fragile light of a lullaby.
A long while later, Lycaon slowly opened his eyes.
It was not a sudden awakening, but a weary return from a very distant place. He saw the fire had nearly died down, and he saw Elyra sitting there, quietly looking at him.
He knew. He knew she had seen everything.
A feeling of shame and raw, fragile vulnerability washed over him. He wanted to turn his face away, to rebuild his wall of ice.
But Elyra didn't ask a single question. She didn't look at him with pity or fear. She just looked at him, a quiet gaze of understanding.
She took the small ladle made of leaves, filled it with some of the cool stream water she had stored, and gently pushed it toward him.
Lycaon looked at the ladle of water, then back at her.
He said nothing. He just slowly reached out, took it, and drank a sip.
The cool water flowed down his throat, soothing the burn of his silent screams.
This was their language. The language of fire, of a lullaby, and of a cool drink of water.
It was an acknowledgment. He had shown her the demon inside him, and she had not run away. Tonight, for the first time, a faint glimmer of light had shone into the prison of his memories.