"Not all lessons are taught with words. Some come from blood, and some—from one's own hands."
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.
The wound on Lycaon's leg, though bandaged with branches and vines, began to protest his forced survival. It was no longer a dull ache. It swelled up, burning hot, and beneath the filthy bandages, the flesh had turned a frightening bruised purple. A low fever began to return, seeping into his body like a poisonous fog, draining what little strength he had left.
He tried to hide it, seeing it as an unacceptable weakness. But his increasingly heavy breathing and ever-more-pronounced limp could not escape Elyra's notice. He realized a bitter truth: his muscle and iron will were completely useless against the invisible enemy of sickness. The familiar feeling of powerlessness washed over him, gnawing at him.
One morning, after seeing Lycaon have to lean against a tree to stay upright, Elyra said not a word. She just quietly took out the small leather pouch she always kept with her and walked into a denser part of the forest.
At first, Lycaon silently followed to protect her, as a reflex. But then, curiosity overcame his vigilance. He began to observe how she searched.
She didn't wander aimlessly. She looked at the type of soil, seeking out the damp places under moss-covered rocks. She smelled the leaves of plants, breaking a small twig to see the color of the sap inside. She was 'reading' the forest in a language he had never known. Finally, under a rotten log, she carefully dug into the damp earth and pulled up a type of whitish-ivory root. Then, she picked a handful of leaves with serrated edges and a faint, sharp scent.
Lycaon stood at a distance, looking at what she had found. In his world, the forest had only wood to burn, vines for traps, and beasts to kill. But in her world, the forest was also a medicine cabinet. He suddenly realized, his skills were for ending life. Hers were for sustaining it.
This was not weakness. This was a different kind of strength, a strength born of knowledge and patience. A silent and reluctant respect began to form within him.
They returned to their shelter. Elyra used two flat stones to carefully crush the leaves and root, mixing them with a little clean stream water to create a dark green poultice. She approached Lycaon. This time, he didn't growl or pull back. He was silent, sat down, and rolled up his tattered pant leg, revealing the swollen wound. An act of trust.
Elyra gently applied the rustic medicine to his wound. He flinched slightly as the cool, soothing sensation of the herbs spread, easing the burning pain. He didn't say thank you. But after she had finished bandaging it, he looked at the remaining herbs, then looked at her with a completely different gaze—no longer just vigilance, but now held the curiosity of a student.