A few days later. The wound on Lycaon's leg was no longer swollen; the burning heat of the infection had been replaced by the dull itch of healing skin. He could now walk without the staff, though each step was still a limp and a twinge of pain.
Elyra went into the forest again. This time, Lycaon followed, but no longer as a vigilant shadow in the rear. He walked closer, and his eyes no longer scanned the thickets for enemies, but focused on her every action.
He watched how her slender fingers brushed past a patch of green leaves, then paused at a plant with faint purple veins. He saw how she knelt, using a sharp piece of rock to dig deep into the damp earth under a fern, carefully unearthing a dark brown tuber. All of these skills, he suddenly realized, were not luck; they were the legacy of her merchant father, who specialized in rare medicinal herbs.
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, a secret garden. 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.
That afternoon, as Elyra was sitting by the fire mending a hole in his animal hide, Lycaon emerged from the forest. He approached her. Without a word, he held out his hand. In it were two types of leaves. One had serrated edges and a faint, sharp scent, identical to the ones she had used. The other looked similar but had smoother edges and almost no smell.
Elyra looked up, meeting his eyes. She understood immediately. This was his way of "asking." A faint, almost unnoticeable smile touched her lips. She took the correct leaf and nodded, speaking softly, almost to herself, "Dragon's Blood Leaf... for staunching blood." Then, she took the wrong leaf and shook her head. She crushed it between her fingers to show him it lacked the characteristic sharp scent, then rubbed it gently on the back of her hand, signaling that it might be harmless, but it was also useless.
The first silent lesson was over.
The next day, he brought her two different types of roots. Once again, she patiently showed him which was right and which was wrong.
But on the third day, he returned with a cluster of dark red berries that looked very appetizing. He held them out with a hint of a student's quiet pride.
When Elyra saw them, for the first time, her face showed clear horror. She shook her head violently, quickly taking the cluster of berries from his hand. She didn't just toss it aside. She threw it directly into the fire. Instantly, the berries popped and sizzled, releasing a black smoke that smelled acrid and foul. She looked at him, her voice trembling with fear: "Those are Night's Tear berries. A single one is enough to kill a grown man."
Lycaon was stunned. He realized his lack of knowledge could have just killed them both. His respect for her knowledge now transformed into a true dependence. He understood that he needed her, not just to fight off loneliness, but to literally survive.
That evening, Elyra was applying a new poultice to Lycaon's wound. The wound had closed and new skin had formed, leaving only a reddish-pink scar. After she finished bandaging it, Lycaon didn't immediately turn away or withdraw as he usually did. He looked down at his healing wound, then looked up, meeting her eyes directly.
He gave a slight nod, a very small but meaningful gesture. It was not a word of thanks. It was an acknowledgment. An acknowledgment of her skill, of her help, and of her role as his teacher in this battle for survival. Elyra responded with a similar nod. Their relationship had a new foundation: respect and shared knowledge.