In the following days, a new order formed between the two of them. It was not an arrangement, but a natural flow, shaped by what they lacked and what they possessed.
Lycaon, with his oak staff as his third companion, became a sullen but reliable shadow. The wound on his leg, thanks to the sharp-smelling leaves that Elyra patiently changed every day, was no longer swollen. The fever had retreated deep into memory, and his strength, though slow to return, was gradually coming back. He was the one who went ahead to clear the path, using his father's knife to cut through the thorny bushes that blocked their way, using his sharp eyes to find signs of wild beasts. He was the shield.
Elyra followed behind, silent and observant. She was the one who found the hidden streams, distinguished the edible roots, and knew how to coax a flame from the dampest of branches. Her hands, though they held no weapon, held life. She was the flame.
They still did not speak. Their language was a piece of roasted meat split in two, a dry branch added to the fire, a nod in place of thanks. This silence was no longer one of vigilance; it had become an understanding, a comfort in their shared sorrow.
One evening, as they sat by the fire in another ruined temple they had found, a cold rain began to fall. The droplets pattered on the broken flagstones, creating a sad, monotonous rhythm. Elyra sat hugging her knees, staring into the fire. The flames danced in her eyes, but could not chase away the chill within them.
"You..." she suddenly spoke, her voice soft and a little hesitant, as if afraid of shattering the silence that had become so familiar.
Lycaon started, but not in alarm. He just slowly raised his head, his single good eye looking at her through the flickering firelight, a wordless question.
"You... you do have a name, don't you?" Elyra asked, her eyes still fixed on the fire. "I am Elyra."
The name.
That word was like an invisible knife, stabbing straight into the emptiness of Lycaon's 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 acknowledge that name was to confront 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 have been partially lifted.
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.