The days of Atreus' youth bled into weeks, then years, his body slowly hardening under the harsh regimen that Ata set for him. While other boys relied on brute strength and constant sparring, Atreus' training was quieter, sharper, and far more grueling.
At dawn, Ata would wake him before the others stirred.
"Rise, man. The world does not wait for stragglers."
They climbed cliffs barefoot until Atreus' legs burned. They carried stones across rivers, water biting at their calves. They sparred in silence, Ata never raising his voice, only correcting Atreus with quiet precision.
"Hold the spear lower. No—lower still. You are not stabbing the air. You are breaking through flesh, armor, and will. Do it again."
When Atreus faltered, Ata would only shake his head.
"Pain is a teacher. Do not flee it. Learn its voice."
Atreus grew from a frail boy into a lean, wiry man. Still smaller than Cassian, Taren, and Marcellus, but with a presence that unsettled them. He did not boast, he did not taunt—he only watched, waited, and struck when the opening appeared.
One evening, after a brutal sparring match where Atreus disarmed Cassian with a calculated twist, Ata sat with him by the fire. The shadows danced on the old warrior's scarred face, deepening the creases that made him look older than the others.
"You are learning well," Ata said softly. "But remember… strength and cunning are not enough. The world beyond Spartacus is crueler than you imagine. Our enemies are patient. They wait in the shadows, not always with swords, but with silence, with whispers."
Atreus tilted his head. "Enemies? You speak as though you've seen them."
Ata's eyes flickered toward the dark horizon, lingering too long before answering. "I have… seen much. And I know this: not all foes are meant to be killed outright. Sometimes… to endure, one must bend until the moment is right to strike."
Atreus frowned. "That sounds like cowardice."
Ata's mouth curled faintly. "No. It is survival. The wise man bends, the fool breaks."
The words troubled Atreus, though he didn't understand why.
In the weeks that followed, Ata pressed harder. He made Atreus memorize the movements of animals—the way wolves circled before they pounced, the way serpents waited in silence before striking.
"Learn from them," Ata urged. "There is more to war than honor. Honor gets men killed. But patience… patience wins kingdoms."
Atreus nodded, repeating the lesson, though a part of him wondered why Ata spoke with such certainty, as if he had lived among the shadows he described.
One night, Atreus awoke in the grove, hearing Ata whispering near the treeline. The words were low, carried away by the wind. When Atreus stirred, Ata returned quickly, his face unreadable.
"You dream too much," the old warrior said flatly. "Save your strength for tomorrow."
Atreus said nothing, though the unease lingered.
Years later, when truths would come crashing down, he would remember these moments—the way Ata's gaze lingered on the horizon, the way he spoke of bending and waiting, the way his lessons felt less like defense of Spartacus and more like preparation for something else.
But for now, Atreus only trained harder, believing his mentor to be the only one who saw his worth.