Winter in the Labyrinthos Forest did not depart gently. It melted, leaving behind a world that was damp, bare, and full of unease. Snow on the ancient treetops turned into heavy droplets, pattering down onto the rotting forest floor. The smell of decaying leaves and musty earth rose up, thick and cloying. The forest was awakening, but this awakening did not bring the joy of spring, but the stirring of dangers that had been dormant.
Lycaon felt it in every fiber of his being. His ears, honed to a morbid sharpness, no longer heard just the wind in the leaves, but also low, distant growls echoing from deep within the woods. He saw new tracks imprinted on the damp earth, larger and deeper than those of the beasts he was familiar with. Their relative safety, the fragile bubble created by the winter's stillness, was slowly dissolving.
Elyra felt the change too, but she saw it through different eyes. For her, the melting of the snow was a promise. She began to venture further, not just for roots, but to find the first green shoots. She found a few wild berries, and instead of eating them all, she carefully saved the smallest seeds, wrapping them in a dry leaf.
Lycaon watched her in silence from their shelter—a hollow beneath the giant roots of an ancient tree. He saw her sitting by the fire, caressing the tiny seeds as if they were jewels. He didn't understand. To him, tomorrow was simply another battle to avoid starvation. Yet here she was, sowing seeds for a future he dared not think about. Her hope, to him, was a foreign and dangerous language.
Finally, Elyra knew she could not stay. One afternoon, she used a piece of charcoal to draw on a flat stone. She drew a small, crooked circle—their shelter. Around the circle, she drew sharp, jagged shapes, representing the beasts that were drawing near. Then she drew an arrow, pointing decisively to the east, where she sketched a simple, branching tree.
Lycaon looked at the drawing. His gaze locked onto the arrow pointing out of the forest. Leave this place? Return to that world? The world of torches, of cheers, of blades?
A shiver ran down his spine. He said nothing, just stood up, turned his back on the stone slab, and trudged into the darkness of the forest. That was his answer. An absolute refusal.
That night, a scream tore through the silence. It wasn't human, but the horrified, agonized cry of a large beast, followed by the sounds of crashing and splintering. Lycaon and Elyra sat motionless in the hollow, holding their breath. From a distance, under the dim moonlight, they saw a massive dark shadow glide past. It was unlike any beast they had ever seen. It was tall, and in place of hair was a writhing, squirming mass of something.
The next morning, curiosity and fear drove them to investigate. Not far from their shelter, they found the corpse of a large forest bear. But the corpse had turned to stone, frozen in a horrifying posture of struggle.
Elyra's face went pale. Lycaon froze. He didn't know what it was, but he knew one thing: they could not fight it. The danger was right here, no longer a distant growl. This place was no longer safe.
The following morning, Elyra didn't draw again. She quietly packed what little she had: a few pieces of flint, the small packet of seeds, and the wooden bird she always wore around her neck. She stood up and looked at Lycaon one last time. Her eyes held no reproach, only an infinite sadness. Then she turned and began to walk east.
Lycaon sat there, alone. The silence in the hollow suddenly became terrifyingly heavy. He watched her small, determined figure slowly disappear behind the trees.
His prison, the Labyrinthos Forest, which had sheltered him, was now also the thing that confined him. If he stayed here, he would be "safe" from the memory of humanity. But he would have to face the real monsters, alone.
And he would lose her. Lose the only small flame that had warmed him these past days. Lose the lullaby that had chased away his nightmares. Lose the only glimmer of light in his world.
The fear of the past. The fear of the present. The fear of solitude.
They tore at him.
He looked at the nearly dead fire, then in the direction she had gone. His charred hand clenched.
Finally, with a growl escaping his throat, a growl of pain and decision, he laboriously pushed himself to his feet. His crippled leg screamed in protest, but he didn't care. He limped on, step by step, following the path she had chosen. He was not walking toward hope. He was simply fleeing an emptiness even more terrifying than death.
"You... you do have a name, don't you?" Elyra asked, her voice soft and a little hesitant, as if afraid of shattering the silence that had become so familiar.
Lycaon flinched, not in alarm, but as if struck. He just slowly raised his head, his single good eye looking at her through the flickering firelight, a silent question.
The name.
That word was like an invisible knife, stabbing straight into the emptiness of his mind.
His name had died with his family in the burning house that night. It had been buried under ashes and hatred. The being that existed here was just a phantom, a wounded beast, a nameless pain.
To speak that name meant to acknowledge the existence of the boy who had once been happy, the boy who had powerlessly watched everything be taken from him. To speak that name was to face his own weakness.
He was silent. A long, heavy silence.
Elyra did not press. She just sat there, waiting patiently, as if she understood the weight of the question she had just asked.
Lycaon looked at the fire, at Elyra's eyes reflecting the flames. He saw curiosity in them, but no judgment. He saw expectation, but no demand.
In her eyes, he was not a monster. He was just another person, one who also carried a story.
"Lycaon."
The name escaped his throat, hoarse and foreign, as if it didn't belong to him.
But as he said it, he felt something change. An invisible burden seemed to partially lift.
He was no longer just a phantom. He was Lycaon. The one who had survived.
Elyra nodded slightly. She didn't ask anything more about the name. She didn't ask about his past. She simply accepted it.
"Lycaon," she repeated the name, soft as a whisper. "That's a nice name."
In that moment, the wall of ice between them melted a little more. They were no longer two anonymous survivors. They were Lycaon and Elyra. Two names, two fates, bound together in a cursed forest.
Elyra gently poked the fire, sending small sparks flying up. "We can't stay here forever, Lycaon."
He looked at her.
"This forest is awakening. Larger beasts are returning," she said, her voice full of worry. "My father used to tell of a place. A land that lies between the kingdoms, belonging to no one. A place called the 'Buffer Lands,' where wanderers and outcasts can find temporary refuge. It's far to the east, beyond the Grey Mountains."
A destination. A direction.
Lycaon looked deep into the dark forest, then to the east, where the night sky seemed to have a fainter glow.
He didn't say yes. He just picked up the oak staff beside him.
That action was his answer.
The next morning, they left the ruined temple. They were no longer just wandering. They were heading in a direction, with a purpose.
The journey would still be fraught with hardship and pain. But now, they were not walking it alone.
And in Lycaon's heart, alongside the hatred, a new, fragile and unfamiliar emotion had begun to sprout.
It wasn't hope. It was something closer to trust.