Five years passed beneath the weight of stone and fire.
Atreus was no longer the fragile boy who once knelt in the grove baking bread and feeding foxes. His shoulders had broadened, his arms lean with wiry strength, his eyes sharp with a quiet, patient fire. What he lacked in brute size, he made up for with cunning, speed, and a will hardened by years of training under Ata's stern watch.
Now, at fifteen, he stood among the other youths of Spartacus at the foot of the Trial Grounds—an ancient arena carved into the cliffside, where generations had shed blood to earn their place as warriors.
The Trial of Spartacus was no game. It was a rite older than memory, a test decreed by the first kings themselves. Only those who passed would be counted among the defenders of their people; those who failed bore shame—or worse, death.
Torches lined the outer walls, their flames crackling, casting long shadows across the arena floor. The dawn sky was streaked with crimson and gold, as if the heavens themselves marked the trial with blood.
Before the combat began, ritual demanded preparation. The boys knelt in silence, the elders moving down the line with bowls of ash and ochre. One elder smeared ash across Atreus' forehead in a jagged line, then dipped his thumb in crimson dye and pressed it against the boy's chest.
"You enter the trial as children," the elder intoned, voice deep and echoing. "You leave as warriors… or not at all."
The smell of smoke and iron filled the air. Mothers whispered prayers, fathers clenched fists, and warriors stood stone-faced, their gazes piercing. The entire village had gathered, for this was not simply a test for the boys—it was a renewal of Spartacus' strength.
Damon stood apart, arms crossed, his face a mask of iron. But his eyes followed Atreus with something caught between pride and fear. His lips moved, barely audible: "Don't falter."
Beside him, Ata leaned heavily on his staff. His calm gaze lingered on Atreus longer than the others, thoughtful, calculating. His expression carried a weight none around him noticed—something beyond the trial itself.
The horn blared.
The boys surged into the arena. Sand crunched underfoot, weapons clashed, and shouts filled the air.
Cassian was the first to target Atreus. His cousin's grin was cruel, spear leveled at his chest.
"Let's end your little games, Atreus!" he shouted, lunging forward.
Atreus sidestepped, catching the shaft, and used Cassian's momentum to hurl him to the ground. The crowd gasped. Cassian snarled, scrambling up, but Atreus pressed his advantage, striking his cousin with the butt of his spear and sending him sprawling again.
From the edges, Taren called mockingly, "The fox bites back!" He darted in, quick as a snake, while Marcellus lumbered from the other side.
The three cousins circled him, and for a moment the crowd expected to see Atreus crushed under their combined assault. But Atreus had learned patience, learned to read the smallest shifts in stance, the faintest flicker of intent in an opponent's eyes.
Marcellus swung wide. Atreus ducked under it.
Taren lunged. Atreus twisted, using his cousin's momentum to slam him into Marcellus.
Cassian roared and charged again, but Atreus pivoted, striking just hard enough to send him crashing once more into the dirt.
One by one, they fell.
The crowd erupted in cries—some of disbelief, some of admiration. The elders nodded among themselves. One murmured, "Not brute force… but cleverness."
Atreus' chest rose and fell as he steadied himself, spear still in hand. He thought it was over.
Then the air shifted.
A silence fell over the arena, sudden and heavy. From the far side, a figure stepped forward—taller than the boys, cloaked though no cloak had been issued for the trial. His steps were slow, deliberate. His presence carried weight.
The crowd whispered in confusion. Who was he? No name was spoken. No elder stopped him.
Atreus' grip tightened on his spear. Something in his gut told him this was different. Dangerous.
The man did not speak at first. He simply drew his blade—an unfamiliar weapon, its edge glimmering faintly under the torchlight. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, calm, steady:
"Show me."
The fight began.
The man's blade struck like lightning, swift and unpredictable. Atreus parried desperately, each blow jarring his bones, each strike heavier than anything he had faced. Sparks flew. Dust swirled.
Atreus stumbled, pain burning as the man's blade grazed his side, opening a shallow wound. He grit his teeth, refusing to fall. His mind worked furiously, watching, reading, learning.
"You learn quickly," the man said mid-strike, his tone neither mocking nor kind—only observing.
Atreus countered with feints, dodges, and sudden bursts of speed. The man's style was sharp, refined, but Atreus began to anticipate it, adapting with each exchange. With a sudden twist and strike, he knocked the blade from the man's hand and drove his spear's blunt shaft into the man's chest.
The crowd roared, the sound echoing through the cliffs.
Atreus staggered back, panting, blood dripping from his wound. He blinked—and the man was gone. Vanished. No footprints in the sand, no sound of departure, as though he had never been there at all.
The elders looked at each other in silence, their expressions unreadable. Finally, the head elder spoke:
"Small in frame, but sharp in mind. Weak in body, but stronger than many. Atreus has earned his place."
Damon's jaw tightened, and for once, his voice was steady, not cruel:
"You've grown. More than I dared believe."
Ata's eyes narrowed slightly, a shadow flickering in his gaze, but he said nothing.
And high above, unseen by all, something stirred. A presence older than stone, watching, listening. A faint chuckle rippled through the silence—not cruel, not joyous, but certain.
At last… the ember is lit.
Atreus shivered though no wind touched him, unaware that the trial was more than a rite of passage—
It was a beginning.
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