The barracks were alive with the kind of silence that made every sound sharper. The scrape of shields against the wall, the wheeze of lungs trying to pull breath from the heavy air, the rustle of straw beneath exhausted bodies. Leonidas lay flat on his reed mat, sweat cooling against his battered skin, eyes fixed on the beams overhead. His body begged him to let go, but sleep never came easy in Sparta, least of all tonight.
The door slammed open. The frame rattled, and a flood of mocking laughter poured in before the men themselves. Phaedon's squad filled the threshold, six broad figures casting shadows long across the floor. Phaedon leaned lazily on the post, his grin carved into his face like it had been etched there by a knife.
"Hard day?" His voice carried a cruel warmth, a snake curling through the room. His eyes drifted over the boys sprawled on their mats before settling on Leonidas. "The overseers finally remembered what you are. Not a warrior. Not even a trainee. A peasant. And peasants don't hold shields. They carry baskets."
The laughter from behind him came loud and easy. His men swaggered into the room, spreading out to block the doorway, their shoulders broad enough to fill the space. The boys from other squads, already half-dozing, perked up, heads lifting to watch. They wouldn't step in—no one ever did. But they'd whisper about it tomorrow, stoking the fire.
Nikandros was on his feet before Leonidas could sit up. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his chest heaving from the day's drills, but his eyes burned with fury. "Say it again."
Phaedon chuckled. "Gladly. You're only as strong as your weakest stone. And yours—" he jabbed a finger at Leonidas "—was cracked before it was ever set."
The words struck harder than the overseer's rod. Kyros shrank down, guilt and shame heavy in his posture. Doros shifted, his thick fingers flexing into fists, but his eyes narrowed with caution. He knew what would happen if they started something here. Lysander muttered low, a string of curses meant only for himself, his hands trembling with pent-up anger and fear.
Nikandros lunged, his pride long since frayed by punishment and humiliation. The barracks roared to life—jeers, gasps, boys clambering up on elbows for a better look. Phaedon's grin widened, welcoming the blow.
Leonidas moved. His hand clamped down on Nikandros's arm like an iron cuff. "Not here." His voice was sharp enough to cut through the chaos.
Nikandros whipped toward him, face twisted with rage. "He insulted us!"
Leonidas's ribs screamed from the effort, but he forced himself upright, his eyes sweeping the room before locking on Phaedon. "He insulted me. And he wants you to swing now, in the dark, where it means nothing. You hit him here, we're punished. We're weaker tomorrow. That's what he wants." He raised his voice, letting the whole barracks hear. "If you want to shut him up, do it in the yard. Do it where it counts."
The room hushed. Even the boys from other squads leaned forward, weighing the words.
For a flicker of a heartbeat, Phaedon's smirk slipped. He leaned closer, his breath hot against Leonidas's ear, his whisper a blade. "Next trial, I'll break your wall. One by one, I'll make them crawl."
Then he straightened, masking the slip with another sneer, and gestured for his men. They filed out slowly, laughing again, though the sound was stretched thin, brittle at the edges.
When the door slammed shut, Nikandros tore his arm free and spun on Leonidas. "You should have let me hit him. You robbed me of my pride."
Leonidas met his fury with calm, though his insides trembled with exhaustion. "That's what he wanted—to make fools of us. Tonight would have been punishment and whispers. Tomorrow can be victory."
Doros grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. "He's right. A fight here breaks us. A fight out there proves us."
Kyros muttered bitterly, his pride still stung, but he didn't lift his head. Lysander stayed silent, staring hard at the floor, but his fists had unclenched.
Theron's voice cut through, level and certain. "The peasant is right. That would have broken us, not him."
The words held weight. Even Nikandros's anger dulled, though it still burned in his eyes.
Leonidas lay back down, every bone aching, but his mind sharper than the overseers' rods. Tonight, something had shifted. Phaedon had come to plant doubt, to split them apart. Instead, he had given them a common enemy. The spark of unity was faint, fragile as a coal, but it was there, glowing in the ashes of exhaustion.
Phaedon thought he was grinding them down into dust. But Leonidas knew better. Stones under pressure did not always break. Sometimes, they became unbreakable.