The fire burned low, spitting sparks into the dark. The carcass of the boar lay stripped down to bone, its fat already congealed, its taste still clinging to their mouths. Leonidas had portioned it carefully, saving what little remained for the next day, but even as they chewed, he knew the smell would carry.
It did.
The rustle of movement came from the trees. Shadows emerged—six boys, gaunt but armed, spears glinting in the firelight. Their leader was a tall youth with a scar on his cheek: Menon, a boy Leonidas knew from training drills. Not a friend, but a familiar face—one who'd sparred with Nikandros, shared bread with Doros, and laughed too loudly in the mess hall.
"Spartans," Menon said, his voice smooth despite the edge in it, "we come not for blood, but for strength. Alone, we are prey. Together, we can guard what little we have."
Nikandros bristled instantly, his memories as raw as his hunger. "You?" he snarled. "You who laughed when Kyros collapsed in drills? You who jeered when Doros failed the wall climb? You've no place at our fire."
Menon's mouth twitched. "That was before. This is now." His eyes lingered too long on the bundle of meat by the flames. "One week of survival changes boys into men. Or into corpses."
Doros lifted a steady hand, holding Nikandros back. "He's not wrong. We all bleed the same now." His voice was weary, more practical than forgiving.
Kyros shifted uneasily, staring at the familiar faces. One of them, Philemon, had once lent him a waterskin after a brutal drill. Another, Acanthus, had traded him figs when overseers weren't looking. And now they'd gut me for scraps?
Lysander spat into the dirt, glaring. "So much for brotherhood. Hunger makes liars of us all."
Theron's voice cut through, low and sharp. "They came because they know us. They think familiarity softens the blade. It doesn't."
Leonidas studied Menon, his eyes unblinking. "One night," he said. "You watch one side, we the other. At dawn, you go your way."
Menon inclined his head, smiling faintly. "Agreed."
The two squads circled the fire together, shields forming a ragged perimeter. They shared no words, only the pop of wood, the hiss of fat, the heavy breaths of boys too tired to sleep. But Leonidas did not close his eyes. He remembered every face, every laugh, every shove from days in the yard. Hunger made such memories knives.
Hours crawled.
Kyros's eyelids drooped, exhaustion drowning him. Maybe Menon truly means alliance… we trained together, after all. He wouldn't—
Nikandros, awake and coiled like a spring, muttered to himself. If they twitch, I'll split their skulls. Leonidas sees it too. He must.
Theron never blinked, his gaze pinned on Menon. Familiar or not, hunger has already chosen their side. Not ours.
It came just before dawn. Menon gave a slight nod. Two of his boys crept forward, crouching low, fingers reaching for the bundle of meat wrapped in Doros's cloak.
Leonidas's voice cracked the silence like a whip. "Now!"
His squad moved as one.
Nikandros lunged first, shield smashing into Philemon's face, the boy he'd once wrestled beside. Blood spattered the dirt. Doros rose like a mountain, grabbing Acanthus by the throat and driving him into the ground. Kyros, startled awake, stabbed desperately, his spear glancing off Menon's shoulder.
Lysander roared curses as he slammed another down, fury making his blows savage. Theron's thrust was clean and cold, his spear sliding into a boy's thigh with surgical precision.
Menon staggered back, eyes wild. He spat blood and hate. "This isn't over, Leonidas."
Leonidas stepped into the firelight, his spear firm in his grip. "No. It isn't. But next time, you'll think before you test me."
The scarred boy snarled but limped into the shadows, dragging his wounded. The others fled into the trees, their faces pale in the dying firelight.
Silence returned. The fire crackled weakly. The bones of the boar gleamed red in the embers.
Kyros's breath came fast, his voice shaking. They knew us. They sparred with us. Ate with us. And still they tried to gut us in our sleep. If even they can't be trusted, who can?
Nikandros grinned fiercely, his knuckles bloodied. Let them all come. We'll show every last one that the wall does not break.
Theron sat back, calm, his gaze steady on Leonidas. He knew it would come. He always knows. That's why I follow him. Even against those we once called brothers.
Leonidas stared into the flames, the weight of it pressing down on him. Familiar faces. Boys he'd trained beside. Hunger had turned them into predators. And tomorrow, more would come.
Trust was dust. The week had only just begun.