The sun climbed steadily overhead, turning the road to Sparta into a ribbon of heat and dust. Darius marched silently alongside Cleon and the rest, Red padding quietly at his heels, his white fur dulled by the dirt. The landscape around them had changed slowly but dramatically—olive groves gave way to open fields, vast and golden, dotted occasionally with hunched figures toiling beneath the relentless sun.
At first, Darius didn't pay them much attention, his thoughts still focused on the tournament ahead. But as they passed closer, his eyes were drawn inevitably toward those labouring figures—men and women whose backs were bent from years of forced work. He noticed their hands, calloused and raw, their feet bare and bleeding.
Slaves.
He'd almost forgotten this reality of Sparta. Here, beneath the grandeur and strength, lay a darker truth. People stripped of freedom, chained not by iron but by fear and tradition, bound to a life without hope or reprieve.
A particularly loud shout drew his gaze. An overseer—a Spartan, unmistakable in his crimson cloak and bronze helm—raised a whip, cracking it through the air with practised brutality. One of the slaves, older and clearly exhausted, stumbled and fell onto the cracked earth.
"Up!" the Spartan barked, lashing the whip dangerously close to the fallen man's head. "Or I leave you here for the vultures!"
Darius's jaw tightened, his fists clenching involuntarily. Beside him, Cleon noticed.
"What´s wrong," Cleon asked. "Are you worried for the slaves?."
"This is Sparta," Darius said bitterly, eyes still locked on the harsh scene.
Cleon looked at Darius calmly, then spoke again, with a firmness that reflected his deep indoctrination. "It has to be this way. They keep our fields, build our walls, forge our weapons. Without them, Sparta wouldn't survive."
Darius turned sharply, his voice edged with suppressed anger. "And you truly believe that justifies it?"
Cleon's eyes hardened slightly. "Of course, they are a necessity. We are born warriors and they were born slaves, Darius. Strength demands sacrifice."
Darius looked away, focusing again on the weary slave who was slowly climbing back to his feet, sweat and blood mingling on his brow.
He understood the logic, the cruel practicality of Sparta's social structure—an entire people systematically oppressed to free Spartans from the concerns of daily labour, allowing them to focus solely on warfare and discipline. The helots farmed the land, cooked meals, maintained infrastructure, and supplied the very lifeblood of the Spartan war machine. Without their subjugation, Sparta's formidable military prowess might crumble.
A heaviness settled in his chest, a bitter awareness that Cleon was right—at least in part. No matter how strong he'd grown, no matter how capable, changing this system was beyond his reach, at least for now.
They moved on in silence, each step heavier than the last. But Darius couldn't shake the image from his mind—the look of defeat in the old slave's eyes, the casual cruelty of the overseer, and the disturbing truth in Cleon's words.
This was Sparta.
It was a side of Sparta he would never allow himself to forget again.
The quiet march was abruptly interrupted as their path merged with a larger, busier main road. Another caravan was approaching, unmistakably Spartan in formation, the crimson cloaks and bronze helms glinting in the sun. At its head was a Marshall, his scarred face familiar and instantly souring the mood of Limnai's own Marshall, Theron.
Theron's expression darkened visibly. He had recognised his rival—Marshall Kyros—from a distance, and clearly disliked what he saw. Their rivalry had begun years ago, born from countless competitions and tournaments. Theron had lost to Kyros consistently over the last three years, an embarrassment that still stung deeply.
Kyros approached them with an exaggerated smile, his eyes gleaming with sarcasm. He extended his hand as if greeting an old friend. "Theron! What a pleasant surprise," he called out loudly, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing.
Theron forced a polite nod, his voice tense. "Kyros."
Kyros turned slightly and beckoned forward a tall, muscular young man of around nineteen, whose brutish appearance was marred by a crooked nose and thick brows. "Let me introduce my top disciple, Lysander," Kyros said proudly, placing a firm hand on the young man's shoulder.
Lysander stepped forward confidently, his broad frame imposing, his expression indifferent.
Theron clenched his jaw and gestured to his own primus, a respected cadet named Nikolaos. "Nikolaos," he said simply. Nikolaos stood straight and confident, his gaze steady.
Behind Lysander, the other primus from Kyros's caravan stood aligned, followed by their cadets and initiates, organized neatly by rank. Theron mirrored the arrangement without bothering to introduce the rest. The two groups stared at each other silently, tension palpable in the dusty air.
Kyros's eyes moved down the line of Limnai's cadets, his sarcastic grin faltering as he paused on Darius. His brows drew sharply together, confusion quickly giving way to irritation.
"Theron," Kyros growled, turning sharply toward his rival, his voice dripping with disdain, "what exactly are you playing at?"
Theron straightened, folding his arms calmly over his chest, though his jaw tightened slightly. "Careful with your tone, Kyros."
Kyros jabbed a finger toward Darius. "Explain this, then. You've got a man standing among your cadets. He's easily a head taller than the rest. He's twenty, at least. Do you think we're fools?"
A brief silence hung between them, tense and heavy.
Theron didn't look at Darius; he kept his gaze locked firmly on Kyros. His voice remained steady, controlled. "The boy is thirteen."
Kyros laughed harshly, a dry, mocking sound. "Thirteen? And I'm Zeus himself."
"Check your tongue," Theron warned, his voice sharp enough to silence the laughter from Kyros's cadets. "Darius is exactly as I say—thirteen. He's simply better fed and better trained than anything you've brought this year."
Kyros's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do you think this trickery will intimidate us?"
"It's no trick," Theron said, allowing himself a thin, confident smile. "But you'll discover that for yourself soon enough."
Kyros stepped closer, studying Darius with unconcealed suspicion. Darius held the older man's gaze steadily, calm and unwavering. Kyros scowled, then reluctantly stepped back.
"We'll see," Kyros muttered bitterly. "We'll see what he's really made of once we reach Sparta."
Theron nodded once, unflinching. "We will."
Kyros's eyes moved down the line of Limnai's cadets, his sarcastic grin faltering as he paused on Darius. His brows drew sharply together, confusion quickly giving way to irritation.
"Theron," Kyros growled, turning sharply toward his rival, his voice dripping with disdain, "what exactly are you playing at?"
Theron straightened, folding his arms calmly over his chest, though his jaw tightened slightly. "Careful with your tone, Kyros."
Kyros jabbed a finger toward Darius. "Explain this, then. You've got a man standing among your cadets. He's easily a head taller than the rest. He's twenty, at least. Do you think we're fools?"
A brief silence hung between them, tense and heavy.
Theron didn't look at Darius; he kept his gaze locked firmly on Kyros. His voice remained steady, controlled. "The boy is thirteen."
Kyros laughed harshly, a dry, mocking sound. "Thirteen? And I'm Zeus himself."
"Check your tongue," Theron warned, his voice sharp enough to silence the laughter from Kyros's cadets. "Darius is exactly as I say—thirteen. He's simply better fed and better trained than anything you've brought this year."
Kyros's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do you think this trickery will intimidate us?"
"It's no trick," Theron said, allowing himself a thin, confident smile. "But you'll discover that for yourself soon enough."
Kyros stepped closer, studying Darius with unconcealed suspicion. Darius held the older man's gaze steadily, calm and unwavering. Kyros scowled, then reluctantly stepped back.
"We'll see," Kyros muttered bitterly. "We'll see what he's really made of once we reach Sparta."
Theron nodded once, unflinching. "We will."
The road had grown busier as the sun climbed high, and just when Darius thought they'd passed every type of traveler heading to Sparta, something extraordinary appeared on the horizon.
At first, it was just a cloud of dust rising steadily in the distance. Soon, the rhythmic sound of marching feet and creaking wheels reached their ears. Cleon was the first to notice, nudging Darius and nodding forward.
"Look at that," Cleon whispered, awe coloring his voice.
From around the bend came a magnificent carriage, drawn by two powerful horses whose coats gleamed under the midday sun. The carriage was crafted with remarkable care, painted in rich crimson and gold, intricately carved with symbols of Sparta's noblest families. It wasn't just rare—it was practically unheard of.
Surrounding the vehicle was a squad of hoplites, their bronze armor shining brightly, crimson cloaks billowing slightly in the warm breeze. They moved in perfect synchronization, every step disciplined, every gaze alert.
The Marshall quickly ordered his cadets to step aside and clear the road, his voice sharp with respect and urgency.
As the carriage drew near, the curtain covering its side fluttered slightly, revealing the face of a young woman seated inside. She couldn't have been much older than fifteen, with almond-brown hair cascading softly over her shoulders, catching the sunlight in subtle highlights. Her eyes, deep and strikingly green, glanced curiously at the young warriors lining the road.
For an instant, all conversation ceased. Every cadet—from the youngest initiates to the hardened primus—stood transfixed by her unexpected presence. Even Cleon, usually controlled and composed, stared openly, a quiet breath escaping his lips.
Darius himself felt something stir inside—a sudden, unfamiliar curiosity. But more than that, he sensed this girl wasn't just beautiful; she was important. Her very presence spoke of power and lineage, wrapped in elegance rarely glimpsed by ordinary Spartans.
The girl's eyes moved slowly down the line until, briefly, they met his. A flicker of something unreadable passed across her face, too fleeting to grasp.
And then, with the steady rhythm of horses' hooves, the carriage passed, leaving only dust and questions in its wake.
"Who was she?" Cleon finally murmured, breaking the stunned silence.
Darius shook his head slowly. "Someone we'll probably see again," he answered quietly, eyes still following the fading dust trail.
Cleon nodded, thoughtful, and said nothing more. But both boys knew instinctively—this brief encounter was only the beginning.