Oron raised his fists, elbows tucked tight to his ribs, chin lowered behind his forearm. His stance wasn't wide, but firm—balanced like a boulder with legs. To anyone else, it might've looked like instinct.
To Darius, it looked like boxing.
Not perfect. Not trained. But close enough. The way Oron shifted his weight, the slight bounce in his heels—it reminded him of old drills in sandbags and underground gyms. Of modern footwork disguised in ancient dirt.
He hadn't expected that.
Darius moved in with a quick jab, testing.
Oron absorbed it, barely flinching, and countered with a low hook meant to slam into Darius's ribs. The boy pivoted back just in time, reassessing.
He's reading me.
Not just reacting—predicting. Every feint, every twitch of Darius's muscles got a reaction from the older man. He wasn't faster. Or stronger. But he was experienced, and it showed.
That changed everything.
Darius abandoned the rhythm of fists and shifted his footing. Lower, tighter. Waiting.
The moment Oron advanced, Darius let the punch come.
Then he trapped the arm.
Pivot. Hip drop. Leverage.
The older man flipped over Darius's shoulder and hit the ground with a grunt. Before he could recover, Darius locked his elbow in place, twisting until the joint screamed in protest.
Oron growled, trying to power through.
The pressure increased.
Another second, and the arm would break.
"Enough!" Drakon's voice cut through the murmurs around them.
Darius let go instantly and stood, breathing steady. Oron rolled to his side, holding his arm but not angry—just surprised.
Not bad for a child, his eyes seemed to say.
Darius didn't smile. He wasn't proud. It was a fight that favoured him as they didn´t use weapons. He was trained to restrain and the spartans were trained to kill.
Drakon clapped slowly, arms crossed, his expression caught between approval and curiosity.
"A solid display," he said. "Quick thinking, clean technique. But tell me, boy… do you think Spartans win wars with their fists?"
Darius said nothing, chest still rising and falling evenly.
Drakon continued. "No. We use the spear, the xiphos, and the aspis. Without them, a Spartan is only half a warrior."
He turned to Oron, who was already walking toward the weapons rack.
The older man grabbed a standard xiphos—a short, double-edged sword, wide at the base and tapered to a brutal point. In his other hand, he took an aspis, the circular bronze shield of the hoplite, large enough to cover him from chin to knee. The leather straps wrapped tightly around his forearm, locking it in place like a natural extension of his body.
Darius approached the same rack, grabbing a xiphos of equal length. It was heavier than the knives he was used to—less precise, more… demanding. The shield, too, felt awkward. Its weight shifted his balance. He adjusted his grip, locking in, planting his feet.
Oron stood ready.
Darius raised his shield, lowered his blade, and nodded.
Drakon's voice echoed through the yard.
"Begin."
Oron didn't charge.
He advanced, slow and confident, testing Darius's guard with two quick jabs of the sword—feints, not meant to land. Darius blocked both, repositioning.
Too slow.
Every movement with the shield felt like swimming through mud. Oron circled, striking the rim of Darius's aspis with short, controlled blows, each one ringing out like a war drum.
Darius stayed defensive, absorbing, watching.
But the rhythm wasn't his.
It was Oron's.
A low strike came toward his legs. He blocked. Another toward his shoulder—parried. But each time, the shock of impact pushed him back.
Oron grinned.
The older man was toying with him now.
A sudden lunge—shield-first—caught Darius off guard.
The force of the blow smashed into his guard like a battering ram. His heels slid in the dirt. Before he could reset, another strike followed, this one angled down like an executioner's chop.
Darius raised his xiphos in time to parry.
But it cost him balance.
His knee buckled.
And Oron moved.
He slammed the flat of his shield forward, into Darius's own. The impact sent him sprawling. Dust burst around him as he hit the ground hard, his back flat, sword clattering aside.
When he looked up, Oron was standing above him, blade pointed at the bridge of his nose.
Darius didn't blink.
Oron didn't move.
Slowly, the older man lowered his weapon and stepped back.
Drakon exhaled through his nose.
"Impressive," he said, though his tone wasn't celebratory.
He stepped toward Darius, who was already rising to his feet.
"You fought a grown man to a standstill with your bare hands. But give you a sword, a shield… and you become a novice."
Drakon's eyes narrowed, studying him like a puzzle.
"What kind of warrior fights like a master without the tools of war, yet crumbles the moment you put them in his hands?"
Darius picked up the shield from the ground, dusted it off, and stood straight again. He kept his gaze low, respectful—not submissive.
"I didn't mean to disappoint," he said. "During my punishment, I focused everything on developing my body—strength, speed, balance, reflexes. I hunted. I climbed. I fought with tooth and nail."
He glanced at the xiphos lying in the dirt.
"There was no one to teach me the sword. No time to master the shield. So I trained what I could control."
Drakon said nothing.
Darius looked up at him again.
"I can learn the rest," he said, calmer now. "I want to."
Drakon held his gaze a little longer, then gave a small, sharp nod.
"Then starting tomorrow, you train under me."
He turned toward the others, his voice rising.
"He may not know the blade—but he knows the body. We'll see what happens when those two things come together."
A few hoplites exchanged glances. Oron gave a slow nod of approval.
Darius, breathing deeply now, stood firm.
No more words.
He had earned something today.
Not praise.
But a chance.
And in Sparta, that meant everything.
Drakos turned from Darius without another word and raised his voice above the scattered murmurs of the soldiers.
"All of you—form up!"
His command snapped through the air like a whip. Hoplites straightened instantly. The boys of the Agōgē moved into lines without hesitation. Darius, still catching his breath, joined his rank with Cleon and the others.
In less than a minute, the training yard was organized into rows of disciplined bodies. The morning sun now burned brighter overhead, casting long shadows across the dirt.
Drakos stood tall in front of them all.
"We will wait for the others to arrive," he said simply.
And so they did, everyone stood in their positions, waiting under the heat of the sun.
It didn't take long—no more than an hour before the distant sound of marching feet echoed down the stone path. Then came the banners—each one representing one of the five villages of Sparta: Limnai, Mesoa, Pitana, Cynosura, and Amyclae.
Each Marshall arrived with their own contingent of young warriors, ranging in age and size, flanked by instructors and hoplites. Some boys looked ragged from travel, others well-groomed and alert. But all of them wore the same expression beneath the dirt and sunburn: pride.
The Marshall from Amyclae, a lean man with hawk-like eyes named Kleomenes, gave Drakos a curt nod.
From Mesoa came Eurytos, thick-bearded and always scowling.
Cynosura sent Brasidas, younger than the others, eyes full of ambition and fire.
And from Pitana, the last to arrive, came Nestor, an old rival of Theron and a man who never smiled unless it was at someone else's expense.
Once the groups were positioned, Drakos stepped forward.
He didn't raise his voice much—he didn't need to. The silence around him made every word land like a hammer.
"Young warriors," he began, scanning the sea of faces, "you stand here not as villagers… but as sons of Sparta."
No one moved.
"You were born in different corners of our land. You were trained by different hands. But your blood is the same. Spartan. And that blood has made this city the envy of the world."
His gaze turned sharp.
"Seven months from now, the Tournament of Youth begins. Only the finest among you will earn glory. The rest will earn scars. And all of you will remember it for the rest of your lives."
He let that linger.
"This place will be your home until then. You may train as you like. Rest as you like. Fight as you like. But you will do so with honor."
He paused.
"And remember—outsiders will come. Merchants, nobles, foreigners. They come to see what makes a Spartan."
He took a step forward.
"So show them what it takes to be called a Spartan warrior"
Another pause. Then, simply:
"That's all."
Drakos stepped back. The Marshalls gave quiet nods. The formation began to break as boys murmured among themselves, some glancing toward Darius and the others sizing up the competition.
But in every chest burned the same thought:
Seven months.
Seven months until the tournament began.