The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows across the packed dirt of the training field. The clang of wooden practice swords had quieted for the day, but one figure remained, drenched in sweat and moving with relentless focus.
Darius.
He moved in circles, shield raised, breath steady despite the burn in his legs. His muscles ached. His tunic clung to his back, soaked through. Each step was deliberate, each pivot rehearsed. He wasn't practicing for spectacle. He was practicing for war.
The hoplon in his arms wasn't just a tool—it was a burden, a test, a promise he hadn't yet learned to fulfill.
From a shaded bench near the edge of the field, Cleon watched him.
There was admiration in his eyes. And concern.
Darius had barely rested in a week. Ever since the duel with Oron, he'd thrown himself into training like a man possessed—driven by pride, shame and ambition. Cleon understood, but even Spartans needed time to breathe.
He stood, brushing dust from his cloak, and walked out to meet his friend.
"You're going to wear a trench in the ground if you keep pacing like that," Cleon said with a smirk.
Darius stopped, exhaled, and rolled his shoulders. "My movements are still not fluid enough. I lose balance every now and then."
"It´s impossible not to make a few mistakes, you will get the hang of it with time." Cleon gestured toward the city beyond the gates. "Let's go into Sparta. Walk around. Eat something. Maybe let your arms recover before they fall off."
Darius raised an eyebrow. "Leave the training ground?"
Cleon crossed his arms. "What's the point of working so hard if you forget how to enjoy your life?"
For a moment, Darius hesitated. Then he gave a small, tired smile. "Alright. Lead the way."
........
Sparta was unlike any other city in Greece.
It had no walls. No towering acropolis like Athens. No marble palaces or crowded theatres. Instead, it sprawled quietly across the Eurotas valley—open, functional, unpretentious. The buildings were made of stone and mudbrick, low and solid, built to last but never to impress.
Yet the simplicity hid a deeper strength.
Everywhere they looked, there were signs of discipline and order. Spartiate men moved with purpose, many in uniform red cloaks, their xiphos and kopis hanging at their sides. Boys from the Agōgē marched in tight lines through the streets. Even the elders walked like warriors who had never truly stopped fighting.
Despite its stoicism, the city breathed with life. Markets buzzed with activity—foreign traders from Crete, Rhodes, and even the East had brought their goods: dyed cloth, rare spices, bronze trinkets, fine ceramics. Foreigners, or xenoi, weren't loved in Sparta—but they were tolerated, especially if they brought wealth.
Their stalls stood clustered near the central agora, where villagers bartered for salted fish, black olives, barley bread, and goat cheese. The scent of roasted meat wafted from alleyways.
Not all of it was Spartan.
Tucked behind a quiet stone path, just past a row of modest workshops, stood a small kapēleion—an unofficial tavern. It was run by a Messenian freedman, and though it didn't fly any banners or signs, those who knew it came often.
Cleon led them there, stepping inside as if he'd done so many times before.
"Don't expect a feast," he said over his shoulder, "but the lamb stew's better than the slop at camp."
The room was dimly lit by a single oil lamp and smelled of herbs, garlic, and cooked meat. A few older men sat in silence at rough-hewn tables, sharing bread and watered wine.
Darius followed, removing his cloak and lowering his shield with a grunt. For the first time in days, his shoulders relaxed.
He didn't realize how much he'd missed this kind of silence—one not filled with the sound of drills or the barking of commands.
Cleon slapped a few coins onto the wooden counter and called out, "Two bowls of stew. And something sweet if you've got it."
The owner gave them a curt nod and vanished into the back.
They sat down, tired bodies sinking into the creaking chairs.
And just as Darius let out a long sigh…
The door creaked open.
A shadow passed the threshold—followed by the soft glide of sandals over stone.
They turned.
And there she was.
The girl from the noble carriage.
The wooden door creaked open, letting in a burst of sunlight and the clamor of the street. Every head in the taverna turned instinctively—not because someone important had entered, but because of the way the room changed. It was subtle. Still. Like the air had shifted.
She stepped inside with the poise of someone raised to be seen but never touched.
Darius recognized her instantly—though he had only caught a glimpse of her days ago, behind the curtains of that ornate carriage. Now, in the flickering lamplight of the taverna, her presence was impossible to ignore.
She was tall for her age—sixteen, maybe seventeen at most—with the lean frame of a Spartan upbringing, but her posture spoke of refinement, not war. Her skin was olive-toned, sun-kissed but unblemished, and her long, chestnut-brown hair had been braided down one side in the traditional style of noble maidens. Her eyes were green, sharp and intelligent, like polished jade. She wore a simple but clearly expensive chiton, dyed deep crimson and cinched with a gold-threaded sash at her waist. The cloth hugged her hips and revealed strong legs beneath—graceful and sculpted.
Heads turned not just because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she didn't belong here.
At her sides walked two young men Darius recognized from the training grounds: Nikanor and Selios, both primus of the rival camp—the one loyal to Kyros, Theron's bitter rival. They carried themselves like dogs off-leash, practically elbowing their way through the crowd as they flanked Taleia.
Nikanor, taller and broader, had a confident grin plastered to his face. His dark curls fell messily across his brow, and his arms, folded tight across his chest, were thick as tree trunks. Selios was leaner, sharper, with narrow eyes and a cocky smirk that never quite reached his eyes. Both were handsome, dangerous, and entirely too aware of it.
They were speaking to her as they entered—trying to sound casual, charming—but Taleia's expression barely shifted. A polite nod here, a vague smile there. She wasn't interested. That much was clear to anyone paying attention.
The trio scanned the room, searching for a table.
Nothing.
The tavern was packed, loud, and reeking of sweat and roasted lamb.
Nikanor's grin widened. He spotted Darius and Cleon, seated by the window, halfway through their meal.
Darius didn't move. His posture relaxed, spoon halfway to his mouth. Red lay beneath the table, tail flicking lazily.
Nikanor made his way over, chest puffed.
"Well, well," he said, stopping at their table. "Didn't expect to see the farm boys out of their field."
Cleon glanced up but didn't answer. Darius didn't even blink.
Nikanor leaned a hand on the table. "We need your seats. Why don't you finish your goat outside like proper villagers?"
Behind him, Taleia remained by the entrance. Her brow tightened slightly. She said nothing, but her lips pursed—disapproval in its purest form.
Darius set down his spoon slowly. He looked at the hand on his table, then at Nikanor.
Then he smiled.
And said nothing.
Nikanor's smirk began to falter when Darius didn't so much as glance at him. The silence stretched—humiliating, deafening in his ears. Around them, a few nearby patrons had started to notice.
"You deaf?" Nikanor snapped, his voice sharper now, eyes narrowing.
Darius took another bite of stew. Slowly. Calmly.
The silence was his answer.
That was enough.
With a grunt of rage, Nikanor lunged across the table, his hand flying toward Darius's collar, intending to drag him out of the seat like a child throwing a tantrum.
But the moment his fingers touched cloth—
Click.
Darius's left hand snapped up, catching Nikanor's wrist mid-motion. With fluid precision, he rotated the joint inward, locking the elbow against the edge of the table. His right hand rose and added torque, and in a blink, Nikanor's arm was twisted into a searing, unnatural angle.
A sharp gasp escaped him.
He froze—not from fear, but from pain. Real pain. Sharp. Bright. His knees bent involuntarily.
Darius leaned forward without standing, lips brushing close to Nikanor's ear.
"Sit down. Eat something. I didn´t come to this place to play with you," he said quietly, with a calm more dangerous than rage.
Then, with a flick, he released him.
Nikanor stumbled back a step, cradling his arm. His pride boiled inside him—burning with humiliation. All around, whispers were spreading, eyes widening, and worst of all, Taleia had seen everything.
With a roar, Nikanor lunged again, aiming a wild punch at Darius's face.
Darius didn't even rise.
He tilted his head slightly—the punch missed by inches—and in the same motion, his leg kicked out under the table, slamming into Nikanor's knee with brutal precision.
CRACK.
Nikanor dropped to one knee, gasping.
Before he could recover, Darius grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his forehead down into the wooden table.
THUD.
Utensils rattled. Ale sloshed. And Nikanor collapsed in a heap at Darius's feet, motionless.
A beat of silence passed.
Then Cleon whistled low. "You've got a real talent for making friends."
Darius finally looked up at the girl.
She was staring at him with a smile on her face as she approached their table.
Then she stopped just beside them, her green eyes flicking between the unconscious body on the floor and Darius's expressionless face.
"Well," she said softly, "you certainly know how to make an impression."
Darius blinked once, then looked back down at his stew.