The midday sun poured over the whitewashed stones of the Leonidai estate, its tall columns casting wide shadows across the courtyard. Slaves moved in silence, raking the sand, drawing water, polishing bronze. The air carried the scent of laurel and olive oil.
Thaleia moved with precision through her forms. Barefoot, armourless, sweat gleaming on her brow, she drove her training spear into the dummy again and again. Her motions were sharp, deliberate. She didn't speak. Her eyes never wavered.
From the archway behind her, footsteps approached.
"You're late," she said, still striking.
Her father chuckled. "And you're relentless, my daughter."
Lord Damakles, head of the Leonidai house, stepped into the courtyard. Broad-shouldered, with silver streaking his once-black beard, he wore a crimson himation over his bronze-studded tunic. Two guards followed at a distance. His presence, as always, commanded attention.
Thaleia paused, turning to face him with a respectful nod. "What brings you back before dusk?"
"A meeting," he said. "With someone worth hearing."
Right then, another figure entered through the gate.
The veteran commander bowed his head slightly. His bronze armour bore the wear of daily drills, his eyes sharp as ever.
"Lord Damakles."
"Drakos," the noble greeted. "If you've come all this way, I assume it isn't to admire the columns."
"No, my lord," Drakos said. "It's about a boy, one of the cadets from Limnai."
Damakles raised an eyebrow. "What kind of child made you pay attention to?"
"A boy named Darius," Drakos said, his tone even. "He trains like he's starving for war. He listens. Learns. His body grows faster than any I've seen. And there's something else… he's controlled. Balanced. The kind of calm that can't be taught."
Damakles crossed his arms, studying the man before him. "A prodigy, then?"
"More than that," Drakos said. "He could win the Tournament of the Agoge, as a cadet."
That made Damakles pause.
Drakos continued, lowering his voice. "I don't know his lineage, but someone placed him in Limnai for a reason. I didn´t ask him about his family. But his bearing… it doesn't belong to the village, he is too astounding."
The noble nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "What are you suggesting?"
"Nothing," Drakos replied. "But if he wins, and rises… you may want him close."
His gaze drifted to Thaleia.
The girl raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Damakles followed his eyes, then looked back at Drakos.
"Let's see if the boy survives the tournament first."
Drakos inclined his head. "Of course, but I thought it wise to give you time to consider it."
He turned to leave.
Damakles stood still, hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on his daughter, now back in her stance.
A marriage of strength and legacy.
It was just a seed.
But it had been planted.
Drakos had barely left the courtyard when Damakles turned his gaze to his daughter, who remained seated on the stone bench, watching the last flicker of dust disappear beyond the olive trees.
"Well," he said calmly, folding his arms over his cloak. "You heard the man. What do you think?"
Thaleia tilted her head slightly, still thoughtful. "Darius," she repeated. "That was his name?"
Damakles nodded.
"I met someone by that name not long ago," she said slowly. "In the city. At a tavern near the Agora."
His eyebrows lifted.
"He didn´t look like a cadet at all, he was taller, broader, I thought he was a primus.
"He had a wolf with him," she added. "White as snow. And he knocked a man unconscious with a single blow without standing from his chair and kept eating as if nothing had happened."
Damakles's expression froze for a moment, then darkened slightly. He turned to stare out at the yard, mind flicking through old memories like pages.
"A tall boy," he murmured. "Strong. Silent. Fights with brutal efficiency…"
Thaleia watched him now.
"He reminds me of someone," Damakles said, voice low. "Long ago. A rival I could never quite surpass. He was from the Krypteia... but no one really knew his origins."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to hold onto a fading shape in the smoke of time.
"I wonder if this boy… is his."
....................................
The sun was already high when Darius found Theron standing near the training grounds, arms crossed, eyes scanning the sparring cadets. The Marshall of Limnai looked the same as always—stern, weathered, solid like a mountain.
Darius stepped beside him without a word.
Theron didn't look at him right away. "Something on your mind, boy?"
Darius hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
"I've been wondering," he said, voice low. "About my family."
That made Theron turn.
His eyes settled on Darius—sharper now, but not cold. "You've been doing well not asking that question," he said after a pause. "I figured it would come eventually."
Darius didn't push. He just waited.
Theron exhaled through his nose. "I don't know everything. That's the first truth."
"But you know something," Darius replied.
Theron nodded. "I was given an order. Years ago. From someone far above my rank. Higher than a noble. Much higher."
Darius's brows lifted slightly. "How high are we talking?"
Theron didn't answer directly. He just said, "Let's say I didn't ask questions. Orders like that come from people who don't appreciate being questioned."
Darius looked away, lips pressed together. "What did the order say?"
"To bring you to Limnai," Theron said. "To oversee your upbringing. To prepare you for the Agōgē. That's all."
Darius didn't speak, he was thinking, 'Who could command someone like Theron like nothing, higher nobles, an Eforo?'
'It seems I have quiet the background but the question is why would this family with high standing send their child to Limnai instead of the Agoge of the capital that had the best of soldiers. What comes will come, let´s just go with the flow for now'.
A strange stillness settle over him, not peace, but a sort of clarity.
Theron clapped a hand gently on his shoulder. "You've built your own name here, that matters more than blood."
Darius nodded.
He said nothing else.
But deep down, a question had been answered—and a mystery had grown in its place.
The days bled into weeks, and weeks into months.
By the end of the fourth month, Darius no longer needed guidance with the spear. His stance was grounded, his thrusts precise, and his footwork had molded into the fluid rhythm Drakos had drilled into him every morning. Where once he moved like a hunter, now he moved like a soldier.
But there was still one weapon left to master.
The xiphos.
It was the shortest of the three, the last line of offense when the spear shattered or was lost.
When Drakos handed him the wooden training blade, Darius felt something familiar settle into his palm. The weight, the balance, the sharp angle of motion—it was not the same as the military blades from his past life, but it was close enough to stir old muscle memory.
"This one should come easier," Drakos had said. "Too many cadets treat it like a toy, I hope you won't make that mistake."
And he didn't. He was already holding the xiphos like it was something familiar—because it was.
His mind drifted, just for a second, to another world. Another battlefield. He remembered the grip of the combat knife in his previous life—shorter, yes, but deadly in the right hands. He remembered Halorand, his old commander, a man carved from war and smoke, teaching him how to use a blade in tight quarters.
"Your knife is not for dancing," Halorand had said, that gravel voice still etched into Darius's memory. "It's a negotiation. You either end it clean—or die mid-sentence."
The lessons came flooding back.
How to control distance. How to feel for the shift in your opponent's stance before they moved. How to twist the blade, not just stab. Where to aim when panic made fine motor skills useless.
Back in the training yard, Darius exhaled slowly and let his body remember what his mind already knew.
This wasn't a toy.
It never had been.
If the spear had taught him patience and reach, the xiphos demanded speed, control, and brutality. It wasn't about waiting—it was about ending. Every motion was tight. Every step brought him closer. Every slash had to count.
Darius learned fast. Within a week, he could parry most cadets. By the second, he could outmatch the younger Primus. By the third, he wasn't just winning drills—he was teaching them.
Drakos watched with arms crossed and a silent smirk hidden beneath his beard.
"He's done," the old soldier murmured to himself one evening, after Darius disarmed two opponents in three seconds flat. "That boy is ready."
And just like that, the last piece clicked into place.
Shield. Spear. Sword.
Darius knew them all.
By the start of the sixth month, the news swept through the barracks like wildfire:
The Tournament of the Agōgē would begin at dawn.
The city of Sparta was already stirring with foreign tongues and noble banners. Messengers arrived daily. New recruits crowded the roads. Merchants and spectators alike prepared for the spectacle ahead. The tournament wasn't just a test of warriors—it was a display of pride. Of legacy.
Of future kings.
That night, Darius sat alone beside a dim oil lamp in the quiet corner of the barracks, polishing his xiphos in slow, careful strokes. Red lay curled nearby, eyes half-closed but ears alert. Outside, Sparta hummed like a beast waking from slumber.
Tomorrow, the world would be watching.
And he would be ready.