They were out of the forest.
The first wind of the plains slapped Lycaon's face, carrying the dry taste of dust and a chilling emptiness. It was completely different from the damp, vibrant air of Labyrinthos. The forest, though dangerous, was a breathing entity. This place, it seemed, had been dead for a very long time.
He limped along, his oak staff digging into the barren earth, leaving small holes like scars. His crippled leg screamed in protest after the struggle at the chasm, but the physical pain was now drowned out by a different feeling. He was no longer alone.
Elyra walked right beside him, no longer keeping her distance. Occasionally, their shoulders would brush. She said nothing, but her presence was a silent reassurance. Her hand, where the vine had cut into her flesh when she pulled him up, was wrapped in a makeshift bandage.
Together, they looked ahead.
In the distance, under a grey sky, was the village of Dustmere. It didn't appear as an oasis of life, but as a scar on the land. A few thatched roofs, rotten and crooked, leaned against each other like dying old men. There was no cooking smoke, no sound of children playing, only a heavy, suffocating silence hanging over it—a silence different from the stillness of the deep forest.
Lycaon could feel it. A collective sorrow, a crystallized despair, hovered over the village like a colorless, toxic cloud.
He unconsciously reached for the place where his lost hunting knife used to be, and a familiar pang of pain shot through his heart.
Elyra seemed to sense the change in him. She said softly, her voice a whisper like a fleeting wind, "We need rest. And... clean water."
Lycaon nodded. He knew she was right. But inside him, another instinct was screaming. This place, though it had no fangs or claws, was more dangerous than the monster they had seen in the forest.
They had escaped a prison of nature, only to enter a cage of men.
The path into Dustmere was muddy and reeked of the sour smell of waste. A few villagers, gaunt and ragged, caught sight of them from a distance and quickly bowed their heads, scurrying into the dark alleys. Their eyes held no curiosity, only the suspicion and deep-seated fear of animals long accustomed to being hunted.
The only inn had an ironic name: "The Last Hope." But inside, there was only despair. The air was thick with the smell of watered-down beer and must. The innkeeper, a middle-aged man with dead eyes, was silently wiping a wooden cup with a dirty rag, not bothering to look up at his guests.
Elyra stepped forward. She didn't beg. Her voice was even, carrying the clarity of someone used to making transactions. She placed a few dark copper Obolus coins on the counter. "A spot in the stables and whatever was left over from last night's dinner."
The innkeeper glanced at the coins, then at them. His eyes lingered on Lycaon's ruined face for a second before quickly moving away. He asked no questions, just nodded, took the money, and jerked his chin toward the kitchen.
Their meal was a bowl of thin vegetable soup and two pieces of black bread as hard as stone. As they were eating in a dark corner, whispers from a few other patrons drifted over. They spoke of a new "soul tax" the overseer had just imposed, about how one family's son had just been taken away for unpaid labor.
Lycaon listened in silence. He was used to conversations like this. But this time, it was no longer just his family's story. It was the background music of this entire world.
As they were preparing to leave the next morning, a scream from the village square stopped them.
A family of serfs—a gaunt husband, a wife clutching a little girl about Lyra's age—was surrounded by a fat overseer and two guards.
"Where's the barley?" the overseer roared, his fat belly jiggling. "Where is the tax for this month's small harvest?"
"Sir... we've paid everything. The harvest failed..." the husband stammered, his voice full of fear.
"Failed?" The overseer laughed, a gruesome sound. He kicked their empty straw basket away. "Then you'll pay with something else." He reached out a fat hand and grabbed the little girl's braid. "This one looks decent enough. Perhaps the lord would like a new servant."
The little girl shrieked. The mother cried out in despair.
It was an all-too-familiar scene.
The blood in Lycaon's veins seemed to freeze. The child's cries merged with Lyra's screams in his mind. The rage he had suppressed for so long erupted. He stopped thinking. His hand had already closed around a sharp-edged rock by the road. The "Crack of Fate" in his soul vibrated, the surrounding Aether began to ripple, and a cold, deathly aura enveloped him. He was about to charge.
In that instant, a hand gripped his arm tightly. "Don't."
It was Elyra. Her voice was not a plea, but a command as cold as ice. "Look."
She wasn't looking at the overseer. She was looking at the tightly shut doors of the surrounding houses, at the villagers who were secretly watching from a distance with eyes full of fear, but also indifference.
"Kill him, and then what?" she whispered, her voice urgent but clear. "The lord will send ten more. This whole village will be slaughtered to make an example. And we will be the first ones hunted. Your anger won't save anyone; it will only get us all killed."
Her ice-cold reason collided with his fiery rage. Lycaon froze, his body rigid. The beast within him roared for blood, but Elyra's words were an iron chain. He realized the cruel truth: his simple violence was meaningless against a rotten system. Killing one henchman was just pulling a single weed from a field that was already dead.
He was forced to suppress his rage, a process as painful as swallowing broken glass. He stood there, helpless, watching the overseer drag the child away amidst the mother's wails.
That night, by a small, flickering fire in the wilderness, no one said a word. The silence was heavier than usual. Lycaon stared into the flames, but in his eyes, he only saw the image of the little girl being dragged away. He had failed again. He had been unable to protect.
He tore off a piece of dried rabbit meat, the larger piece, and handed it to Elyra. She took it.
He didn't look at her, only said, his voice hoarse, "How... do we not become like them?"
Elyra stared into the fire, the flames dancing in her eyes. After a long moment, she answered, her voice also just a whisper:
"By keeping this fire burning. Even if it's just a small spark. We keep it burning, not to warm the world, but to remind ourselves that we have not yet completely sunk into darkness."
Lycaon was silent. He looked at the fire, then at her.
He was the sword of hatred. And she, she was the reason for that sword not to just swing blindly. Their covenant was reshaped, no longer just for survival, but to preserve the last shred of humanity in a decaying world.