The midday heat clung to the stone walls and bare shoulders like a second skin. In one of the shaded corners of the training yard, four cadets from Mesoa sat beneath an olive tree, the crunch of dried leaves and distant shouting from sparring drills filling the silence between their words.
"He trains like a mule," said Midas, long-legged and sharp-faced, as he leaned back against the trunk. His lip curled slightly, the kind of sneer you'd expect from someone who always talked just a little too loud. "All day. Every day. Always with that damn shield."
"I bet he sleeps with it too," chuckled Dexion, the broadest of the bunch. His arms looked like they belonged to a man five years older, but his eyes still had the flicker of a boy who needed approval more than breath.
"He doesn't even use a spear," added Lysandros, fidgeting with the strap of his training sandals. "I haven't seen him touch one since we got here. What kind of cadet doesn't train with a spear?"
A moment of quiet passed.
"Enough," came the voice of the fourth.
Tymon sat with one leg pulled to his chest, elbow resting lazily on his knee. His dark hair was tied back in a short tail, and a thin scar ran just above his right eyebrow—a gift from one of the older cadets last year. He'd smiled when he got it.
Now, he wasn't smiling.
"He's the one Drakos picked to train," Tymon said, eyes fixed on the distant figure of Darius, who was moving in slow circles with his shield raised. "Drakos doesn't waste time on useless boys."
Midas squinted. "You think he's good?"
Tymon tilted his head.
"I think… I don't care."
Lysandros frowned. "But if he's in the tournament—"
"Then we deal with it," Tymon said simply.
Dexion leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Let's deal with it now, then. A duel. Nothing serious. Just enough to bruise him up. Make him think twice before stepping into the arena."
Tymon stood, brushing the dust from his tunic.
"Do whatever you want," he said quietly, already turning away from the group.
He didn't wait for a response. Just walked off toward the shade, leaving the others to their amusement.
He hadn't stopped them.
But he wasn't going to join them either.
................
Darius didn't need to hear their conversation to know they were coming for him.
He could see it in their stride.
In their grins—tight-lipped and hungry for something they didn't yet deserve.
One of them, broad-shouldered with a buzzed head, was already clenching and unclenching his fists like he was imagining them colliding with something solid. Another looked like he was enjoying the walk a little too much, already smirking like they'd won something.
But the leader—the one with the sharp jaw and colder eyes—he didn't follow.
He stopped halfway, gave no explanation, no warning, just turned and walked away without a word.
Darius watched him go, lingering a second longer than he should've.
Interesting. Not eager to get his hands dirty? Or just saving himself for later.
Red, resting in the shade nearby, lifted his head. His ears turned sharply, nostrils flaring. He didn't growl.
He just watched, the way wolves do when they're deciding whether something is prey or a threat.
Darius stayed still. Shield strapped to his left arm, body loose but alert. He looked relaxed. Calm. But his eyes were sharp as the day he stepped into the forest.
The first one to speak was the shortest of the three—though he tried to hide it by puffing his chest out like a rooster.
"Training hard, huh?" he said, stopping just a few paces away. "Must be tough learning how to hold that thing and walk at the same time."
Darius blinked slowly, then nodded, adjusting the shield on his arm with exaggerated care.
"Yeah, it's been rough," he said, tone perfectly straight. "I've got no clue what I'm doing. The thing's heavy, awkward... Honestly, I'm just trying not to fall on my face."
He gave a small shrug and glanced back toward the training dummies, clearly more interested in returning to his drills than entertaining whatever nonsense they brought with them.
"Appreciate the concern, though."
He started to turn.
But Dexion didn't move.
The smile on his face was gone.
"That supposed to be funny?"
The shorter one took a step forward, jaw tightening, but Dexion held out a hand to stop him.
"No. He's trying to be clever. Thinks if he plays the fool, we'll walk away."
Darius finally turned, slow and deliberate.
"I was hoping for it, yeah."
Dexion stepped forward, just a bit—close enough now that the tension shifted in the air.
"Well, it didn't work," he said. "Pick one of us. Spar. Unless you're afraid your shield might actually hit someone."
"I'm not interested," he said over his shoulder. "Go bother someone else."
But behind him, feet shifted.
Too fast. Too quiet.
Darius felt it before he heard it—the rush of movement, the shift in the air.
He pivoted instantly, dropping into a crouch just as the boy lunged at him from behind with a wooden sword raised high.
Coward.
The shield came up in a blur, catching the strike with a sharp CRACK. The wood rang out like a drum.
Before the attacker could recover, Darius stepped forward and twisted his hips, driving the full weight of the hoplon forward like a battering ram.
WHAM.
The edge of the shield caught the boy square in the chest. The impact lifted him clean off the ground and sent him crashing into the dirt a meter away, landing hard on his back with a gasp of pain.
Dust rose. The training field went quiet.
Darius stood there, shield lowered but ready, eyes hard.
His smile was gone.
Completely.
"You attacked me from behind," he said flatly. "Like a thief. Or a coward."
He turned to look at the other two, voice calm but colder now.
"You call yourselves warriors? Spartans?"
He didn't raise his voice.
"There's no honor in striking someone who's walking away."
His eyes settled on Dexion last.
"Is this what your village teaches you?"
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was sharp. Cutting.
No one laughed anymore.
Not even Dexion.
A sharp whistle cut through the silence.
Everyone turned.
An instructor strode toward them, tall and weathered, with a crooked nose and a scar that split his cheek like a river across stone. His crimson cloak fluttered with each step, and the moment his boots touched the edge of the circle, all the other cadets straightened on instinct.
He stopped beside the boy still groaning in the dirt, gave him a single glance, then turned to Darius.
"What happened?" he asked, voice like gravel.
"He tried to hit me while I was walking away," Darius replied, his tone level. "From behind."
The instructor didn't question it.
He'd seen enough.
"Name."
The boy on the ground coughed, clutching his ribs. "N–Nireon."
The instructor turned to the others. "Did anyone else see what happened?"
No one dared lie.
A few hesitant nods. One voice—quiet—said, "Yes, sir. It's true."
The instructor didn't hesitate.
He grabbed Nireon by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet with a single motion. The boy yelped in pain but didn't resist.
"You shame your village. You shame your shield. You shame this camp."
He didn't shout.
His voice didn't need volume.
It had weight.
He looked to the other cadets now. "Strike your opponent from the front. With strength. With skill. With honor."
Then, to Nireon again.
"You'll report to the trainers at dawn. Full armor drills. Extra shifts. No rest days until the tournament."
He paused.
"And if you ever raise a weapon to someone's back again... you won't raise one at all."
He released the boy, who staggered back with his head down, red-faced and silent.
Then the instructor turned to Darius once more.
"Well deflected," he said simply.
Then walked away, cloak snapping behind him.
Dexion stood frozen, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Darius and the instructor who had just walked away.
He didn't say a word.
Not an insult. Not a threat.
Just clenched his fists, turned around, and walked off in the opposite direction.
The others followed him, quietly. No more smirks. No more mockery.
Darius adjusted the shield on his arm and exhaled slowly through his nose. His face had returned to that calm, unreadable expression. But something lingered in his gaze—something colder than before.
He turned back toward the dummies and resumed his drills, ignoring the stares.
Each movement was sharper now. Focused.
He wasn't angry.
But he wasn't amused anymore either.
The lesson had been delivered.
From a few steps back, Tymon watched the entire exchange in silence. He hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. But his thoughts lingered longer than the rest.
That boy, he thought. That… thing.
No pride. No interest in proving himself. No need for applause.
And yet, when it mattered, he struck like a weapon pulled from the dark.
Tymon's eyes narrowed.
That wasn't luck.
That wasn't arrogance.
That was control.
And control was more dangerous than strength.