The sun had barely risen above the hills when Darius reached the outer edge of the Agōgē camp.
Dust still clung to his sandals. Limnai was only an hour behind him, but the forest, the wolves, the blood—it all felt like another lifetime.
Red followed in silence, white fur gleaming in the morning light, nose twitching with every new scent. The soft crunch of their footsteps broke the calm of dawn.
Two cadets standing watch squinted at the figure approaching with a wolf at his side. As Darius stepped into the clearing, recognition spread across their faces.
One of them called for the primus.
Moments later, the training yard fell silent. Dozens of boys froze mid-drill, wooden spears half-raised, instructors pausing mid-command.
All eyes turned to him.
And Darius walked.
Back straight, cloak slung over one shoulder, the heavy satchel balanced across his back. His expression was calm. Measured. The stride of someone who had returned—not by chance, but by merit.
Among the boys, one face stood out. Cleon.
Their eyes met. A flicker of surprise in Cleon's gaze, followed by something else—respect.
Red padded beside Darius, ever alert. His snow-white coat stood out like a ghost among the red cloaks and brown dust.
The primus stepped forward—a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp eyes and the posture of a veteran.
Darius stopped in front of him, lowered his satchel, and bowed his head slightly.
"Darius, reporting from punishment," he said. "Forty-five days in the Taigetos. I've returned as ordered."
The primus studied him, silent. Then his mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile. He gestured with two fingers.
"Come. The Marshall wants to see you."
They walked together, passing cadets and instructors, barracks and training posts, until they reached the shaded building where officers met.
Inside stood the Marshall—a man in his fifties, streaks of silver in his hair, eyes like polished stone. He didn't speak right away.
The air inside the officer's hall was cooler, still holding the night's chill within its wooden bones. Faint light crept in from the slits in the walls, catching motes of dust that swirled around Darius like ghosts. He stood still, his hands behind his back, posture upright—though his muscles ached beneath the calm. The Marshall took his time studying him, not just with his eyes but with something deeper, measuring presence more than appearance. Red stood at Darius's flank, quiet but tense. Every breath the wolf took seemed calculated. Darius didn't look away. This was his moment to be seen—not just acknowledged, but judged. Whatever came next would set the tone for his future.
"You survived," he said finally.
"I did," Darius replied.
The Marshall nodded toward the satchel. "Bring anything back?"
Darius bent down, opened the flap, and pulled out a bundle wrapped in hide. But it was the collar he reached for first—a band of leather, strung with thick, yellowed teeth.
He held it up so it caught the light.
The primus leaned in. "Lion's teeth."
Darius nodded. "From the one I killed."
He pointed at the satchel. "The rest is in there."
The Marshall raised a skeptical brow.
"You're saying you killed a fully grown lion? Alone? With a bow you couldn't even draw six weeks ago?"
"I am," Darius said, without hesitation.
The two men exchanged a glance.
"Open it," the primus said.
Darius stepped back.
The primus unfolded the bundle on the table. A thick, golden pelt spilled out, heavy with presence. Even stripped of flesh, it radiated something untamed and majestic.
The Marshall didn't speak.
The primus's fingers traced the hide, then stopped. "He claims he shot it eight times and stabbed it once."
They examined it closely—eight clean punctures, spaced as Darius described. One deep gash below the shoulder.
Their silence shifted.
From doubt… to belief.
"How?" the Marshall finally asked.
Darius unslung the bow from his back and held it out.
The Marshall took it and immediately noted the difference—shorter, heavier, more tension in the limbs.
"This isn't ours."
"No," Darius said. "The issued bow was too stiff, so I made one better."
The Marshall blinked. "You made this?"
"Laminated wood," Darius said calmly. "Horn and sinew. Glue from boiled hide. It's stronger, faster, more accurate—and it takes less strength to draw."
He paused, then added, "It's called a composite bow."
The Marshall examined it again, this time with care.
He turned the bow over in his hands, tracing the layers with his thumb. The craftsmanship was rough in places but purposeful. Every notch, every seam told a story—not of luxury, but of necessity. Of invention born in solitude.
"This... isn't something a boy builds," the Marshall murmured.
Darius didn't flinch. "I wasn't just surviving out there. I was learning. Every day. Every failure taught me something. How to hunt. How to aim without hesitation. How to adjust a bowstring for wind. I didn't have the strength for your weapon, so I built one that suited mine."
The primus let out a slow breath, no longer hiding his awe.
This boy hadn't just survived.
He'd created.
Invented.
Adapted.
The primus looked at Darius differently now. With awe.
He wasn't just a prodigy.
He was a phenomenon.
A few minutes later, once the Marshall rolled up the lion's pelt, he gave Darius a look of consideration, then spoke:
"In five years, there will be a tournament. An inter-village competition. The five villages around the Eurotas will send their best: Amyclae, Pitana, Mesoa, Cynosura… and Limnai."
Darius stood still.
"The victor earns not just fame, but privilege. Allies. Recognition. And those who train him…" the Marshall allowed himself a half-smile, "...gain prestige of their own."
"I understand," Darius said.
"You think you'll win it?"
"If I'm still alive," Darius answered, "then yes. I will."
The Marshall didn't laugh.
He nodded.
And so, the years began to pass.
The seasons turned.
Spring gave way to the dry sting of summer, then to autumn's smoke and winter's frost. Year after year, the world changed around the camp—but Darius remained constant in one thing: growth.
Every dawn saw him rise before the others. Every dusk, he was the last to return to his mat. The instructors stopped treating him like a boy. They treated him like a weapon under construction—one that needed tempering, not coddling.
His meals grew heavier. His assignments, harsher. But he never complained. Not once.
The forest had taught him silence.
Now, silence was his language.
Cleon began calling him "the Werewolf."
The name stuck.
Even Red seemed to approve.
Four years and five months.
That's how long it took to turn Darius from a lone survivor into something else entirely.
The Agōgē was merciless, but it had never met someone like him. He didn't just endure. He thrived.
He trained harder. Fought smarter. Learned faster. While the others were taught discipline, he studied patterns. Pressure points. Movement.
He studied every opponent, not just their strengths—but their fears, their habits, the tiny hesitations that came before each mistake.
He didn't waste energy.
He didn't waste time.
He hunted daily, even when it wasn't required. He made tools. Sharpened instincts. Built muscle. By thirteen, he stood nearly 1.80 meters tall, with the build of a grown man carved from stone.
His body was forged from real battles. Real hunger. Real death.
Cleon was his closest match—smart, precise, and loyal. Together, they pushed each other. Grew together. Fought together.
They became brothers.
The only real challenges came in group sparring. Alone, Darius was unstoppable. Thalon and Ajax no longer even tried one-on-one. Two-on-one gave him a workout. Only when they teamed up with Cleon did they force him to sweat.
Darius loved it.
The pressure. The danger. The edge.
It kept him sharp.
Even older cadets started watching him.
He wasn't a boy anymore.
He was something else.
The sun rose over the training yard.
All cadets assembled, their ranks tight, their weapons clean.
The Marshall stood in the center, arms crossed, voice calm and absolute.
"You all know what's coming. In a few weeks, we march for Sparta. The tournament begins soon after."
He scanned the boys.
"Each rank sends four fighters. If anyone believes they deserve to go, speak now. Challenge the chosen."
A murmur passed through the ranks.
Everyone knew who the chosen were.
From the youngest group: Darius. Cleon. Thalon. Ajax.
Challenges came—but not for Darius.
No one wanted to fight him anymore.
Not out of fear.
But because they knew it wouldn't be a fight.
One boy tried to challenge Thalon—lost in seconds.
Another faced Ajax—same result.
Darius stood beside Cleon, arms folded, face unreadable.
Red lay at his side, eyes alert.
The wolf didn't growl.
He didn't need to.
The selection was over.
And with it, the preparations began.
The next morning, before dawn, the chosen packed their satchels.
They would march for the capital—Sparta itself.
None of them knew what awaited them.
But all of them knew:
This wasn't just a tournament.
It was a war for legacy.
For Darius it was an opportunity to reach the next level and even more important than that was to see the legendary polis, the city that gave birth to countless warriors and forged an undefeatable army, Sparta.