Dawn arrived not with light, but with a cold, silver-grey color that filtered through the leaves. The fire from the previous night was just a black smear of ash, its last embers trying to hold onto their warmth against the early morning breeze.
Elyra woke up first. She moved quietly so as not to make a sound, then gently added dry twigs to the embers. The flame flickered, then slowly grew, chasing away a bit of the damp forest chill.
Lycaon awoke not long after. He said nothing, just silently watched her from his hollow. After a night flickering between pain and exhaustion, he felt a change. The fever had subsided, and the oak staff from yesterday still lay right beside him. He looked at it, then with a silent determination, he grasped it. Using it as a brace, he laboriously pushed himself to his feet. Every muscle in his body, especially his crippled leg, screamed in protest, but he now had a support.
Silence fell. They were no longer two strangers, but not yet companions.
The new day of survival began, but this time, it began together. An unconscious division of labor took place. Elyra, applying the harsh lessons from her journeys with her father, became the seeker. She didn't rely on luck. She recognized the type of soil, observed the indicator plants, and quickly found a type of plump root vegetable, one an old guide had once shown her was edible after being thoroughly roasted. She was also the one who found the stream, not by following the sound of running water, but by recognizing a dark green moss that only grew in places with high humidity. She was the one who maintained life.
Lycaon, though injured, was still the predator. He limped along the trails, his sharp eyes scanning every track on the damp earth. He took the small coil of rope that Elyra had already woven in the preceding days and used it to set two snares in locations he believed were most logical. He was the protector.
By afternoon, one of the traps had sprung. A fat forest squirrel was struggling desperately. Lycaon approached, one hand holding the animal steady, the other ending its life with a quick, emotionless slice of his knife. He brought it back to their shelter. Elyra saw it and, saying nothing, simply took the squirrel from his hand. She used a sharp piece of rock, and with clean cuts and no hesitation, skillfully skinned and cleaned it.
That evening, for the first time in many days, they had a real meal. The fragrant smell of roasted squirrel filled the cold air.
As they sat eating by the fire, a biting wind swept through the ruined vault of the temple. Elyra shivered slightly, unconsciously wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Her tattered tunic was too thin against the cold of the deep forest.
Lycaon saw it.
In that moment, the image of his father on that freezing winter night, taking off his only woolen cloak to wrap around Lyra, returned. The memory no longer brought only pain; it prompted an action.
He quietly got to his feet with his staff and went to his hollow. He picked up the tattered animal hide he had been using as a blanket, the most precious thing he had to ward off the cold. He walked over to Elyra.
He said nothing, just draped it over her trembling shoulders.
Elyra started, looking up at him. His hand, as it touched her shoulder, brushed past quickly, but its warmth seemed to linger. In her eyes was surprise, which then turned into a deep warmth and gratitude. She didn't say thank you. She just gave a slight nod, an acknowledgment.
The animal hide wasn't large, but it was enough for them to sit close together, sharing the warmth from the fire and from their own bodies. The physical distance between them had been closed. They remained silent, but this silence was no longer one of distance, but of understanding.
The Silent Covenant had been sealed. They were not just surviving together; they had begun to exist together.