"When a soul has been stripped of everything—name, memory, ideals, hatred—it is nothing more than a breathing ruin. And the only thing that keeps it from dissolving into nothingness, perhaps, is the silent presence of someone who does not turn their back."
The small figure of Elyra had become a blurry speck, then dissolved into the grey mist at the forest's edge.
Lycaon still sat there. Motionless.
The fire from the previous night was just a black smear of ash, its last warmth having been blown away by the cold morning wind. This hollow, which had once been a shelter, now suddenly felt as empty and cold as a tomb. The silence was no longer peaceful; it screamed with the echoes of what he had lost.
The world outside the forest was a hell from which he had escaped. But to stay here, alone, was another kind of hell, a prison of solitude and ghosts that never slept. To lose her meant losing the lullaby that had chased away his nightmares, losing the warmth of the only fire that had warmed his ashen soul.
His charred hand clawed at the cold earth. His body screamed for rest. His soul longed to dissolve. But an instinct more primal than pain had awakened.
From deep in his throat, a growl escaped, dry and broken. It was not the sound of anger, but of a wounded beast trying to fight off death. He laboriously pushed himself to his feet, every muscle in his body protesting. His crippled leg felt as if it would shatter.
Hope had died long ago. The thing compelling him to crawl on was simply a primal fear, the fear of being left alone with the ghosts.
He limped along, keeping a safe distance, like a wounded wolf sullenly following another animal it wasn't sure was friend or foe. Every step was an agony. The forest terrain was a tangible enemy: slippery roots like snakes, muddy slopes that threatened to pull him down, and sharp thorns that tore at his ragged clothes and his very flesh. The broken leg that had healed crookedly now felt as if it would break apart once more. He had to put nearly all his weight on one side, making his gait skewed and laborious.
He was a phantom, following a flickering flame up ahead. He didn't call out, didn't make a sound. He just followed.
Up ahead, Elyra walked on, but her steps were no longer as determined as they were at the start. She slowed down. She didn't need to look back; she could hear it all.
The heavy, uneven footsteps. The sound of a crippled leg dragging on the rotten leaves. The ragged breaths suppressed after each wave of pain. The small skittering of a stone when he nearly stumbled.
Reason told her to walk faster, to leave this burden behind. To flee from the monster who had killed three men before her very eyes. But she couldn't.
Because when she looked into his eyes—those grey, ashen eyes—she didn't see a monster. She saw a mirror. A shattered mirror, reflecting the image of herself on that horrific night. His pain, though expressed in silence and brutality, had the same root as her own: ultimate loss at the hands of a cruel world.
Her father had taught her: "As long as the sun still rises, there is still hope." To abandon him now would be to admit that lesson was a lie, that mercy was dead, that the law of the forest—the strong live, the weak are left behind—had won.
No. She would not accept that.
Helping him, even by just slowing her pace, was her final act of rebellion against that decay. He was not her burden. He was her purpose. He was the only other survivor she had met, the proof that she was not alone in this hell.
The path ahead grew muddier and more slippery. A light drizzle began to fall, making the rotten leaves on the ground even more treacherous. Lycaon slipped on a muddy slope, his entire body losing balance, hurtling toward a gnarled tree trunk. He barely managed to get his good arm up to brace himself, his shoulder slamming hard into the tree. The pain from his crippled leg and his shoulder nearly made him pass out. He leaned against the tree, gasping for breath, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. He had reached his physical limit. A mental collapse was imminent.