The morning air still clung to the chill of night, cool against the skin and heavy with silence. Most cadets remained asleep in the barracks, limbs sprawled over thin straw mattresses, dreaming of blood and glory. But Darius had risen before the sun. He sat cross-legged near the training yard, breathing in the stillness, Red curled up at his feet like a sentinel made of muscle and fur.
Steps approached—light and deliberate.
"Already awake?" Cleon's voice broke the quiet as he dropped beside him, stretching his arms with a yawn. "You really don't sleep, do you?"
Ajax stumbled in moments later, rubbing his eyes. "If you two start sparring again before I've had water, I swear—"
"You won't have to," a fourth voice interrupted. Not harsh, not friendly—measured. It was Theron, one of the less visible instructors. Darius had only heard him speak twice before, both times during punishment briefings.
Now, he stood before them dressed in a simple dark cloak, eyes sharp as obsidian. "Come with me. Quietly."
The three exchanged glances but followed. Theron led them past the edges of the training field, into a narrow grove of olive trees behind the armory. There, beneath the partial shade, he turned.
"You've made it to the Round of Sixteen, that alone changes things. Eyes are on you—some admiring, others calculating."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"I'm here to praise you and to warn you. There are cadets left in this tournament who could end your chances in less than a minute. You should know who they are."
He turned to Darius. "Starting with the boy you watched in your match—the one who stood motionless."
Darius nodded slightly.
"His name is Leon of House Agiada," Theron said. "Direct descendant of the royal bloodline. He is ruthless, and stronger than he looks. They say he trained with elders far older than him and learned to predict battlefield flow like the palm of his hands. He's not here for the title. He's here to evaluate his future vassals. One wrong move against him, and you'll never see the counter coming."
Then, he turned toward Cleon, holding his gaze longer than needed.
"Now... the trio from round 1—they are from House Europontidai. Your cousins, I believe?"
Cleon tensed, just slightly.
"Heir to one of the twin royal lines. Their style is polished, almost elegant. They don't waste moves. If you face any of them, don't expect mercy."
Theron's tone sharpened. "And the giant? The one you fought in round two that's Boros of Therai, son of a blacksmith from the highlands. He's not noble—he's worse. He has nothing to lose. Strong as an ox and fights like one, but don't let his simplicity fool you. He adapts fast, and he's survived more matches than any other cadet still standing."
He began to pace.
"Then we have the twins from Tyndaridai, Lysandros and Pollon. Descendants of the Dioscuri, or so their house claims. When they fight together, they are flawless—perfect mirrors, anticipating each other's every move. But even when split, each is a terror in his own right. Fast. Coordinated. Relentless."
Ajax let out a low whistle. "Fun."
Theron didn't smile.
"And finally... there's one more. Someone none of you noticed, and that should concern you. His name slips my mind—he doesn't talk much, doesn't train with others. Yet he made it through with barely a scratch. That makes him dangerous. Unpredictable."
He folded his arms.
"These are your opponents. Every one of them has been raised for this moment. You may be skilled, strong, and clever—but to them, you're either an obstacle or a stepping stone."
His eyes moved from Ajax to Cleon, then finally to Darius.
"You've been warned."
Then he turned to leave.
Cleon waited until Theron's figure disappeared behind the olive trees before exhaling."Well, that was uplifting," he muttered, folding his arms. "But he missed one."
Ajax raised an eyebrow. "One what?"
"One fighter," Cleon replied, tapping a finger to his temple. "From your round, Darius. The kid who barely moved."
Darius nodded. "Leon. He mentioned him."
"No, not him." Cleon shook his head. "The other one. The one who did move, but only when it really mattered. He was quick, clean and efficient—like he was trying to avoid moving as much as he could."
He paused. "His name is Sophos, he comes from the outer city. His mother's a healer. His father's a tactician in the royal guard. They say he was reading military treatises by the time he was six."
Ajax blinked. "Sophos? What a fitting name for a genius."
Cleon grinned. "Fitting, isn't it? He fights like he's already read the ending. If we face him, we need to assume he's already three steps ahead."
Darius hummed thoughtfully, but then added, "There's someone else Theron didn't mention."
Both Cleon and Ajax turned to him.
"The last boy from your round. The one nobody even looked at, remember? Hands behind his back, just… waiting. He didn't get a single scratch."
"Yeah, that guy," Ajax said. "What's his deal?"
"He's Thaleia's cousin," Darius said, almost too casually. "From House Leonidai."
Ajax squinted. "Wait… that Thaleia? The noble girl?"
Darius nodded. "She told me he was particularly talented with the spear, but it seems his luck is off the charts so he didn´t have to move in his round".
There was a pause. Then both Cleon and Ajax stared at him.
"In what universe," Cleon said slowly, "did you end up having a private conversation with a noble girl?"
Ajax leaned in, eyes wide. "When did that happen?! Did you drug her? Was she lost? Did you hit your head again?"
Darius sighed.
"It was nothing. She showed up at the tavern, sat at my table and ate together, just a coincidence."
Cleon's jaw dropped. "She sat at your table? Voluntarily?"
Ajax grabbed his shoulders. "You talked to her? What did she say? What did you say? Was she pretty? Wait—of course she was pretty. Did she smile? Did you smile? Gods, Darius, this is vital intelligence!"
Darius exhaled heavily, his expression flat. "We talked about the tournament, her family..... and some other things, not for children to listen."
They looked at him incredulously. 'You have the same age as us!' That´s what they wanted to say.
Neither of them looked convinced.
He stood and brushed off his tunic. "Now can we please talk about something that matters?"
Cleon gave him a long, theatrical sigh. "You're no fun."
But that was the end of it—for now.
The next day arrived with the scent of iron and dust hanging in the air. The amphitheatre buzzed with energy as cadets from every region gathered beneath the midmorning sun. Rows of villagers, nobles, and instructors filled the stands. The lower tiers were crowded with younger initiates, craning their necks for a view. The nobles sat higher, under linen shades, their robes pristine.
Darius stood in the staging area with Cleon and Ajax. Red was not allowed on the field today, but he'd been left in trusted hands at the edge of the barracks. Still, Darius felt the wolf's absence like a missing limb.
The horn blared.
Drakos stepped onto the central platform, his cloak whipping in the breeze. He waited a moment for silence, then raised his voice—not shouting, just enough to reach every corner of the arena.
"The trials of the Novices have concluded. Their strength has been measured, their paths set. Now comes the time of the Cadets."A wave of applause swept through the stands.
"But before we begin," Drakos continued, "I wish to acknowledge a guest of great importance, one who graces us not only with his presence, but with the weight his name carries."
The crowd shifted, a ripple of anticipation moving through the arena.
"Please welcome Ephor Dion of House Aetolidai."
A tall figure stepped forward at the top of the noble stairs. He descended slowly, each step full of force, every movement exuding a kind of practised dominance. He wore no armour, no weapon. Just a deep crimson cloak over a black tunic, fastened with a silver brooch carved in the shape of a spearhead.
Despite the simplicity of his attire, his presence was enormous—a man not of noise, but of weight. Heads bowed as he passed. Even noble sons who might have ignored any other elder straightened their spines.
He reached Drakos and leaned in slightly, whispering something only the commander could hear.
Drakos's brow furrowed. Then, slowly, his expression shifted—from seriousness to surprise. He looked the ephor in the eye, but whatever worry had passed through him vanished at the next words.
Dion's voice was calm, firm. "It will go well."
Then the ephor turned and ascended to the high platform, where a stone seat had been prepared. He sat with the composure of a king—without the crown, but with more gravity than most who ever wore one.
Drakos turned back to the arena. His voice had changed. He no longer spoke as a teacher or a marshal. Now, he was a herald.
"This round will be unlike any before it," he declared. "From this moment on, the cadets will real steel."