The night dragged on like a slow knife.
Leonidas sat slumped against the ridge, every muscle trembling, his breath ragged and shallow. Blood soaked the cloth he had pressed into his wounds, sticky and warm against his skin. His thigh throbbed with each heartbeat, his ribs burned, and his right arm felt heavy as stone. He gripped the cracked spear with both hands, the wood slick from his own sweat and blood.
Sleep crept at the edges of his mind like a thief. His eyelids sagged, his head drooped, and for an instant, he began to fall into darkness. His chin struck his chest, and he jolted awake with a growl, slapping himself hard across the face.
Stay awake. If you close your eyes, they'll be on you before you ever rise again.
He forced his eyes open wide, staring into the black tree line. He thought he saw shapes moving between the trunks, pale eyes glinting — but when he blinked, they were gone. Once he thought he heard his mother's voice, soft and distant, calling him home. Another time, the overseer's bark was sharp with scorn. He shook his head each time, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. Hallucinations. The wolves were not gone. They were patient. They would come again.
Hours crawled. The stars wheeled across the sky. The boy who had once known only drills and sparring now sat alone in the wilderness, staring down death with nothing but blood and will.
At last, the east began to pale. The first hint of dawn bled through the branches, chasing back the shadows. With the sun came silence. Birds stirred, their songs sharp and alive. The wolves did not come in daylight.
Leonidas let out a long, shuddering breath. He had lived through the night.
---
By crawling, dragging, and sheer force of will, he made his way toward the sound of running water. His knees sank into the earth, dirt smeared across his skin, roots clawing at his arms, but he pushed forward until he reached a narrow stream glittering in the morning light.
He collapsed at its edge, plunging his wounds into the icy current. The cold was agony — like fire drawn sharp against his skin — but it shocked him back to life. Blood streamed out in dark ribbons, twisting away downstream.
He cupped his hands and drank greedily, choking on the first swallow, then drinking more until his stomach cramped. The water scoured his throat raw but steadied him.
When he lifted his head, he noticed green stalks sprouting along the bank. Narrow leaves, bitter-smelling, sharp to the touch. Knotweed. He remembered an instructor once crouching by a patch, holding up the leaf. Good for fever. Good for blood. It will close a wound if you can stand the sting.
His hands shook as he tore the plants free. He crushed the leaves between his palms until they turned to pulp, dark green and wet. He pressed the mash into the torn flesh of his ribs and leg. The burn was so fierce he almost blacked out, biting down on a cry. His vision swam, but he kept pressing, forcing the poultice into every open cut.
With strips of tunic ripped from his chest, he bound the wounds tight, tying knots with his teeth. His body screamed with each pull, but when it was done, the bleeding slowed. The throbbing dulled to a steady ache. Crude, but enough to keep him standing.
---
By midday, he dragged himself back to the ridge. He scouted, slow and deliberate, until he found an alcove where stone and root narrowed the ground to a choke. Here he would stand. Here, if the wolves came again, they would meet him one by one.
He wedged stones beneath his boots, braced his back against the rock, and planted his spear at an angle, jagged point forward. He dragged a brush behind him, darkening his outline, forcing any attacker to come straight through the gap.
The sun sank slowly, shadows stretching long through the trees. Leonidas sat waiting, every muscle tight, every breath measured. His body begged for rest, but he forced his eyes open, jaw clenched.
The forest shifted, shadows growing larger as the sun's last rays of light faded into oblivion.
Low growls rolled out of the gloom. Paws brushed against soil.
One by one, yellow eyes blinked open in the dark. Dozens of them.
The pack had returned.
Leonidas' grip tightened on the spear. His body trembled, but his gaze was steady.
"Come," he rasped.