"When the fathers are taken and the mothers fall, the children will sharpen their own fangs. Because in an abandoned world, innocence is the first crime to be executed."
The journey through the farmlands of Argonia was a silent lesson in death. The land was barren, the houses in ruins, and the heavy silence was more terrifying than the roar of any wild beast. The food from the wild dog had run out, and hunger once again began to gnaw at them.
At the end of the second day, as the sun was just a withered orange streak on the horizon, they saw it. A small village, huddled at the foot of a barren hill. But it exuded a strange deadness: no cooking smoke rose, no sounds of livestock, not a single person in sight.
"Let's go around," Elyra whispered, the caution in her voice clear.
Lycaon nodded. But just as they were about to change course, he suddenly froze. His ears, honed to a morbid sharpness, had caught a sound. Not the wind. It was the sound of a giggle, faint and quickly stifled, followed by the patter of bare feet running on dry earth. There were people here. And they were hiding.
They advanced cautiously. The village was a mess. And then, from behind the ruined walls, from within the dark houses, they appeared. Not warriors. But a pack of children.
The oldest was no more than twelve or thirteen, gaunt but with sharp eyes, holding a spear made from a sharpened branch. The younger ones held rocks and clubs. They moved in an organized, silent manner, surrounding them in a hostile circle.
Lycaon's instincts screamed. He immediately fell into a fighting stance, his oak staff held before him, his single good eye flashing with a ruthless light. But Elyra placed a hand on his shoulder, a gentle but firm squeeze. "Wait," she whispered.
She looked into the eyes of the boy in the lead. She didn't see aggression; she saw a fear hidden behind a tough facade. She looked over at a little girl in the group; the child's face was pale, and she was coughing weakly.
Elyra didn't offer cooing words. She quietly set down her pack and took out some of the fever-reducing roots she always kept with her. She used two flat stones, patiently crushing them, then gently pushed them toward the children. After that, she took out their last piece of dried rabbit meat—the rations for both of them—and placed it down as well. It was a sacrifice, a language that even young beasts could understand.
The children, led by the boy named Nikos, were at first full of suspicion. But Elyra's action was something they had never seen. They looked at each other, and then Nikos nodded. A timid child stepped forward and took the medicine and food. Their wall of defense had been lowered.
That night, they sat around a small fire. Nikos, with the hardness of one forced to grow up too soon, told the story of the village. All the men had been taken by the Overseer for forced labor last spring and had never returned. The women had tried to hold on, but a plague at the beginning of winter had claimed most of them. Now, only the children were left, surviving on their own.
While Elyra was listening, Lycaon stood in the back, in the role of a guardian. He looked at these children—gaunt, filthy, their eyes both innocent and feral—and he saw a horrifying reflection. This is what would have happened if he and Lyra had been separated, if their protectors were gone. This was the world that the Goddess Hera, the one called "protector of families," had turned her back on.
Just as trust was being built, a younger child, perhaps remembering something, spoke up: "A few weeks ago, some people in white robes passed through here. They gave us some bread. They asked if we had seen two escapees, an injured young man and a girl..."
The air immediately froze. Lycaon and Elyra looked at each other. The threat was no longer a memory in Axios; it was right here, hot on their heels.
At dawn the next day, they prepared to leave. Before they went, Elyra left behind all the blood-staunching herbs she had. Lycaon, in turn, quietly placed the small hunting knife he had made from a piece of rusted iron by the fire, a silent gift for Nikos.
They left while the children were still sleeping. They didn't look back. Their journey now had a new urgency. Now, they were not just fleeing the past; they were racing against the future.