Chapter 11: Honour

As Niko lay on the cold floor of the outhouse, the sound of the family's grieving voices filtered through the night air. The sobs and hushed whispers of Elena’s mother, the murmured prayers of the elders, the shuffling of feet as villagers came and went—he could hear it all. The house was alive with sorrow, a raw, palpable force that he could feel pressing down on him even from his isolated corner. But amid the flood of mourning, one voice was conspicuously absent.

Yannis.

Niko strained to listen for any sign of him, but there was nothing. No angry outbursts, no sobs, no footsteps. Yannis had gone silent. His grief, once so loud and violent in the cave, now simmered into a terrifying quiet. It was as if Yannis had disappeared altogether, and that scared Niko more than anything.

Inside, Niko’s stomach twisted. He could still see Elena’s lifeless body in his mind, the bruises on her arms, the dark streaks of blood marring her pale skin. The guilt, sharp and searing, gnawed at him. He wanted to scream, to beg for forgiveness, but he knew—deep down, in the marrow of his bones—that Yannis would never forgive him. And he didn’t deserve it.

Yannis wasn’t in the house. He wasn’t there to share in the family’s grief, to comfort his wife or receive condolences. No, Yannis had retreated into the wilderness. Up in the rocky hills above the village, he stood alone beneath the vast, indifferent sky. The stars above him glittered coldly as if mocking his pain, their light a cruel reminder of a world that continued to turn, even as his own had come to a brutal stop.

He stared out into the darkness, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His grief was no longer loud and explosive, but a silent, seething thing that tightened around his heart like a vice. His mind reeled, not just from the loss of his daughter, but from the bitter irony of it all. He had been so overjoyed when Niko arrived—his nephew, his sister’s child, the last living link to the family he thought he’d lost forever. For a moment, he had felt whole again.

And now that joy had turned to ashes.

Yannis couldn’t shake the image of Elena—the lively, spirited woman who had once danced through their village, who had embraced life with such fierce joy, now cold and broken. It was too much to bear. He felt something inside him break, but he held it in, the grief only adding fuel to the fire of rage simmering beneath the surface.

He wanted to scream at the heavens, to demand why this had happened. But no words would come. Instead, he stood in silence, his face etched in stone as he stared at the night sky. The village’s ancient code, the traditions that had governed their lives for centuries, were now pulling at him, demanding justice. The village wouldn’t wait for police or courts; they would want justice the way it had always been done.

Yannis’ mind swirled with conflicting emotions. The rage that had consumed him in the cave still lingered, but now it was tempered by something deeper. Honour. Tradition. The same forces that had shaped his life, that had built this village and held it together through years of hardship and joy. He knew what the village expected. They would want blood. They would want to take matters into their own hands.

But Yannis was not a man to act rashly. Despite the agony that twisted inside him, he knew he had to be just. Elena deserved that much. He had to be wise, had to honour her memory not with mindless vengeance but with the dignity she deserved. He had to carry the weight of this burden with the same strength that he had carried every challenge in his life—the same strength that had made him a leader in the village, the man who had revived their dying festival, who had breathed new life into their community when it had started to falter.

He wouldn’t hand Niko over to the mob, though many in the village would clamour for it. No, he would make the decision himself. He would be the one to deliver justice.

But first, he had to confront his own grief. And his own anger. He stood on the edge of the wilderness, staring into the abyss, knowing that he could never truly make things right. Elena was gone. That part of his heart would never heal. But there was still something left to protect. The dignity of his family. The honour of his village. He had to do this right, even if it meant sacrificing his own peace.

Yannis lowered his head, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to spill over. His body trembled, not with rage now, but with the sheer weight of his grief. The tears came anyway, silent and unstoppable. He wept for his daughter, for the loss of her light, for the future she would never have. And he wept for himself, for the man he had tried to be, for the father he had always hoped to be.

And then, as the last of his tears dried against his weathered face, Yannis stood up straight, steeling his heart. His path was clear. He would return to the village, and he would deliver the judgment. For Elena, and for the village. He would show them that he could be just. That he could honour her memory with wisdom, not with blind rage.

The night was cold and still, as Yannis turned his back on the wilderness and began the long walk back down the mountain.