Cleon opened his mouth—probably to blurt out something stupid—but Darius beat him to it.
He glanced up at the girl, steady but not rude. "Do you always walk up to strangers after a brawl?"
The girl smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips. "Only when they win."
There was something sharp in her tone—teasing, but calculated. She wasn't nervous. If anything, she was studying him like one would study a particularly interesting blade.
Darius set his spoon down carefully. "You're not from around here."
It wasn't really a question.
She laughed softly, the sound like wind stirring olive branches. "I could say the same about you."
Cleon leaned forward, his grin wide and absolutely unhelpful. "We're from Limnai. Training for the Agōgē tournament."
The girl tilted her head, considering them. "I know," she said lightly. "Everyone here knows."
Her eyes flicked to Red, still lying patiently under the table but now watching her with mild suspicion. Most people would have backed away at the sight of the wolf.
She didn't even flinch.
"You have a name?" she asked.
Darius hesitated just half a heartbeat.
"Darius," he said.
"I'm Thaleia," she said.
No family name. No titles. Just the word, clean and bare.
It meant she either thought herself above needing to explain—or she assumed everyone already knew.
Given the way the other diners watched her from the corners of their eyes, Darius guessed it was the latter.
"And what about you?" she asked, crouching slightly, voice softening.
Red lifted his head, golden eyes watching her with calm suspicion. He didn't bare his teeth, but he didn't wag his tail either.
Thaleia extended a hand—slowly, carefully—palm up.
Darius tensed slightly, ready to intervene if Red reacted poorly.
But after a few long seconds, Red huffed through his nose and allowed her fingers to brush along the side of his muzzle.
She chuckled quietly. "A warrior and a wolf. Sparta gets stranger by the day."
Red tolerated the touch, though his muscles stayed coiled, ready. He wasn't trusting her—only allowing the moment.
"You have good taste in companions," Thaleia said, glancing up at Darius.
Darius shrugged, his mouth twitching into something almost like a smile.
"He chose me," he said simply.
For the first time, Thaleia's expression shifted. Not amusement. Not curiosity.
Something closer to respect.
She straightened, smoothing her cloak, and gave a small nod.
"Good evening, Darius. Red."
And with that, she turned, her attendants snapping to attention behind her as she moved toward the exit, leaving the quiet weight of the encounter hanging in the air.
Cleon stared after Thaleia's retreating figure, mouth slightly open.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, he threw his arms up dramatically.
"Not even a look!" he groaned. "Not a word! Not a glance! I was sitting right here!"
Darius speared a piece of meat with his knife, entirely unimpressed. "Maybe she just didn't see you."
Cleon clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. "I'm not invisible, am I? You saw me! Red saw me!"
At the sound of his name, Red flicked an ear and resumed ignoring him completely.
Darius smirked, finally giving Cleon a sideways glance. "You'll survive. Probably."
Cleon huffed, crossing his arms with exaggerated offense. "Next time, I'm standing on the table."
Darius let the humor pass, leaning in slightly. His voice lowered."You know her?"
Cleon blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
He shook his head. "No. But the cloak and the guards? She's nobility for sure. Probably one of the high families. The ones who don't even bother hiding how much better they think they are."
Darius nodded slowly, filing that information away.
People like her could crush a life with a single word.
And here he was, crossing paths with them without even trying.
He sat back in his chair, the humor from a moment ago fading from his mind.
A stray thought gnawed at him—one he hadn't given enough attention until now.
Who was he really?
He knew his name. But when it came to his family—his past beyond the Agōgē—it was a fog. He didn't even know who his father was.
Now, surrounded by noble bloodlines and ancient names, it mattered.
He'd have to ask the Marshall.
The moon hung low over Sparta, casting a pale silver glow across the dusty streets as Darius and Cleon stepped out of the restaurant.
The night was cooler now, the clamor of the day long faded into distant echoes. The city felt different after dark—quieter, but heavier somehow, as if it was watching.
Red padded silently at Darius's side, tail low but alert.
Cleon stretched his arms overhead, yawning. "I needed that," he said. "Food. Good company. A small bruised ego, but still—worth it, we should tell Thalon and Ajax next time."
Darius allowed himself a small smile.
They didn't get far.
Halfway down the street, a group of figures detached from the shadows, blocking the path.
Darius stopped, eyes narrowing slightly.
It wasn't just the drunk fool from earlier. It was him, his two friends—and four more.
All with the same stupid smirk painted across their faces.
The leader, a wiry kid with too much swagger and not enough sense, stepped forward.
"Thought you could humiliate us and walk away?" he sneered, voice dripping with false bravado. "You're gonna pay for—"
Darius moved before he finished the sentence.
A straight punch to the mouth dropped the leader like a sack of stones.
Red launched into action a second later, tackling another of the newcomers to the ground with a low growl, jaws snapping inches from the terrified boy's throat.
The poor fool didn't dare move—his entire body frozen in pure, primal terror.
Cleon whooped, elbowing one opponent in the stomach and tripping another with a sweeping kick.
Within seconds, the night exploded into brief, chaotic violence.
Darius ducked a wild punch from another boy and buried a fist into his ribs, folding him in half. He didn't waste time—just a sharp shove to the ground and the kid stayed down, wheezing.
Another charged Cleon from behind.
Cleon spun smoothly, grabbing the attacker's wrist and flipping him over his hip with a thud that echoed down the empty street.
The fight ended as fast as it began.
The attackers lay groaning on the dirt, some curled into themselves, others too stunned to move.
Red still hovered over his prey, teeth bared in a silent, lethal promise.
The pinned boy whimpered audibly—and then, with a soft, wet noise, he completely lost control of his bladder.
Cleon snorted.
Then he laughed.
"Gods," he said between gasps, pointing at the puddle beneath the boy, "he pissed himself!"
Darius rolled his shoulders lazily, already turning away from the mess. "I'm tired of beating up idiots," he muttered, shaking his head.
Red gave one last warning growl before backing off, tail flicking with disdain.
The boy scrambled away on all fours, sobbing.
Cleon caught up to Darius, still chuckling. "You really know how to pick your friends, huh?"
"They picked themselves," Darius said dryly.
They left the defeated pile behind them, walking deeper into the sleeping city.
Above them, the stars blinked coldly in the vast dark.
Darius didn't even look back.
He had better battles to fight.
And better things to care about.
The morning sun broke over the hills, its light sharp and clean. Sparta stirred awake, the clang of steel and the barked orders of instructors already filling the air.
In the training yard, Darius stood ready, shield at his side.
Across from him, Drakos watched silently, arms folded, sharp eyes weighing every subtle movement.
The boy had changed.
A month ago, Darius had struggled even to hold the hoplon properly—losing balance at every shift, fighting the weapon more than wielding it. Now, he moved with certainty. His feet rooted to the ground. His center steady. His steps calculated.
He's ready, Drakos thought.
He strode forward, stopping just a pace away.
"You've done well," Drakos said, voice steady. "The shield no longer controls you. You control it."
Darius kept silent, standing tall, listening intently.
"It's time you learned your next weapon," Drakos continued. He gestured toward a nearby rack where the blunt practice spears waited—lean, sturdy, iron-tipped.
"The dory," he said. "The soul of the phalanx."
He picked one up and twirled it once in his hand, letting the wood whistle through the air.
"Remember this," Drakos said. "The spear is your reach. Your authority. With it, you command space."
He demonstrated, stepping forward with a sharp, stabbing motion.
"The point is not to clash—it is to end the fight before it begins. Precision over power."
He shifted his grip slightly, bringing the spear lower.
"If your spear breaks or you're forced too close for reach, only then do you draw the xiphos."
His tone grew harder.
"Your duty is to hold the line. Not to chase glory. The man who breaks formation is already dead."
He let the spear rest against his shoulder, locking eyes with Darius.
"Today you will learn to hunt men at a distance. Tomorrow, you'll learn to kill them up close."
He took a step back, lowering the spear toward Darius.
"Are you ready?"