Dawn in Dustmere did not bring hope; it was just a cold, silver-grey light cast upon the crooked roofs and muddy roads. The silence of the village was even heavier than the night before. The fear following the confrontation with the overseer had turned into a quiet hostility. The doors remained shut, and through the cracks, the gazes were no longer indifferent but had become suspicious and alienating.
Lycaon and Elyra said not a word. Their covenant had been sealed, and now it was time to act on it.
Elyra was the first to move. She quietly took out her small leather pouch. Using the knowledge her father had taught her, she recognized the wild bushes growing near the rotten fences, picking leaves that could help stanch bleeding and a few bitter roots that could stave off hunger. She used a piece of cloth to filter the murky water from a broken rain barrel in a corner into something clearer, drinkable. She was the strategist of life.
Lycaon was the eyes. He limped to the edge of the village, his oak staff digging deep into the damp earth. He didn't look at the houses; he looked at the spaces between them. He observed the direction of the wind, calculating the path the patrols were least likely to take. The impulsiveness of the previous day was now held in check by ice-cold reason. He was the guardian.
They left as the morning mist had yet to clear, like two phantoms gliding along the village outskirts, leaving behind the decay and the hostile gazes.
The road east led through the farmlands of the Kingdom of Argonia. But these were not prosperous fields. The land was arid and cracked, the plots abandoned, overgrown with weeds taller than a man. Occasionally, they passed the ruins of a serf's house, its mud walls collapsed, revealing a bare skeleton, a silent reminder of the families crushed by taxes and famine.
"They've sucked the life out of this land," Elyra whispered, her voice nearly carried away by the wind. She pointed to the greyish-white color of the soil. "The land isn't allowed to rest, isn't fertilized. The lords only know how to drain it dry."
Lycaon did not reply. But he felt it more clearly than anyone. He felt a vast sorrow, an emptiness radiating from the earth itself. This land was dying.
Dusk fell, dyeing the grey sky a bloody red. They found an abandoned farmhouse to rest for the night, only four stone walls and a half-collapsed roof remaining. As Elyra was patiently building a small fire, Lycaon suddenly froze, his whole body tensed.
From the encroaching darkness, low growls echoed.
One, then two, then a whole pack. A dozen pairs of green, hungry eyes lit up in the dark. Wild dogs. Not the wild wolves of Labyrinthos, but creatures that had once been domesticated, now abandoned by men and driven mad by hunger. They were skeletal, their fur matted with mud, and saliva dripped from their mouths, thick with the smell of desperate starvation.
"Inside!" Elyra shouted, her voice not panicked, but decisive. She pointed to a corner of the ruined farmhouse where two remaining stone walls formed a narrow angle, a perfect kill zone.
Lycaon did not hesitate. He backed away, his back against the cold stone wall, shielding Elyra behind him. The beast within him roared for blood, but reason told him to wait.
The pack surged forward. The leader, the largest and most ferocious, charged in first. Lycaon didn't meet it head-on. He sidestepped, letting the dog crash into the stone wall. At the same moment, with all his might, he swung his oak staff and brought it down hard on the dog's spine.
A dry "crack" echoed. The pack leader let out a terrible howl and collapsed, convulsing.
His calculated brutality worked. Seeing their leader taken down so easily, the pack froze for a moment, the madness in their eyes replaced by an instinctual fear.
Lycaon gave them no time to recover. He lunged forward, not to slaughter, but to create chaos. He slammed his staff on the ground in front of them, creating loud noises and waving it menacingly.
The pack, merely a collection of hungry individuals with no discipline, had lost its leader. They let out a few weak barks, then turned and fled, disappearing into the night.
The battle was over quickly. The air was still thick with the smell of blood and desperation. Elyra rushed over; she saw a long scratch on Lycaon's arm, not deep but bleeding.
She tore another clean strip of cloth from her tunic and carefully cleaned his wound with the little water they had left.
Lycaon looked at the corpse of the pack leader, a skeletal creature, dead because it was trying to find a scrap of food. He said, his voice hoarse, almost to himself:
"They were also just trying to live."
Elyra looked up, the flickering firelight dancing in her eyes. She looked him straight in the eye, her voice gentle but firm:
"That's right. But the difference is, we have a choice. We fight to protect, not to destroy. That is our fire, Lycaon."