The sun was past its zenith when the twin caravans crested the final hill overlooking the valley. There, sprawled across the dry plain like a living fortress, stood Sparta.
No high marble walls greeted them. No towering gates carved with gods and myths. Sparta was not built to impress—Sparta was built to endure.
Its perimeter was marked by low defensive ridges and a modest stone wall no higher than a man. It didn't need more. The true walls of Sparta were its citizens—its warriors. Every road leading in was watched, every corner patrolled. What the city lacked in grandeur, it made up for in lethal efficiency.
As they descended the hill, Darius squinted into the sunlight. The first thing he noticed was the order. Streets were aligned with geometric precision, flanked by stone buildings with wooden beams, built more for purpose than beauty. There were no palaces. No statues of kings. Just stone, steel, and discipline.
People moved with quiet focus. Men and women wore simple tunics or short cloaks, the iconic crimson visible on many shoulders. There was no noise for the sake of noise. Every shout served a command. Every step had intent. Even the children seemed alert, their backs straight and eyes sharp.
It was alive—but in a way that felt different from Limnai or Amyclae. No laughter. No music. Just the sound of boots, hooves, and blades clashing in distant training yards.
"Feels like we've marched into a blade," Thalon muttered beside him.
Darius said nothing. But he felt it too.
They passed through the southern entrance—a checkpoint rather than a gate. No crowd. No fanfare. Just two rows of hoplites standing tall with xiphos drawn, inspecting each caravan as it entered. Theron gave a nod. It was returned. No words exchanged. Just recognition between soldiers.
Once inside, the scope of the city revealed itself.
Sparta wasn't just a single city—it was a cluster of five ancient villages merged into one. Darius had heard this from the Marshall, but now he saw it. The districts of Pitana, Mesoa, Limnai, Cynosura, and Amyclae pulsed with their own identities, yet all flowed like veins feeding the same heart.
Foreigners were rare—but not absent.
Near the Agora, Darius spotted a few eastern traders, their robes brighter than anything Spartan, standing behind wooden stalls selling perfumed oils and dyed cloth. Their Greek was rough. Their eyes watchful. Likely here under strict permission, escorted by guards. Commerce was tolerated—but never trusted.
Security was everywhere.
Every few streets, pairs of hoplites marched in rhythm, inspecting corners, questioning the idle, watching rooftops. Unlike other cities, their soldiers weren't ceremonial—they were the law.
Darius could feel the eyes. Even as they moved freely, they were being watched.
The caravans split just after the central plaza. Ganesha gave a brief nod to Theron—no words—and turned her wagon east. Darius remained with the Limnai group.
The air here was dry, but rich with scent—sweat, iron, sunbaked stone, and the smoke of old forges. Shouts of drillmasters echoed across courtyards, followed by the rhythmic clash of wooden swords. Shields slammed. Feet stomped.
This was Sparta.
A city without excess.
A city that didn't need walls, because its people were born to be them.
Theron led them through the city without speaking much. His pace was steady, confident, weaving past narrow alleys and broader training yards, until they reached the military quarter—the bones of Sparta.
Darius couldn't keep his eyes still.
Everything around him screamed discipline. From the clean angles of the stone barracks to the way the hoplites moved, drilled, breathed as one. Even the buildings felt sharp—nothing wasted, nothing decorated. Just function, perfected.
He'd read about Sparta.
Now he was inside it.
The culture here was unlike anything he'd known—a society entirely built for war, for resilience, for survival. It was a miracle of social engineering, terrifying in its success. In his old world, it was studied, admired, criticized. But here?
It was alive.
He found himself observing everything: the way soldiers handled their spears, the rhythm of their footwork, the calm with which they accepted commands.
And the forges.
He saw one as they passed—a low structure half-open to the street, where blacksmiths hammered glowing metal under the eye of a commander. The clangs rang sharp, deliberate, like notes in a war song.
His fingers itched.
Back in his old life, forging had been an outlet. A way to breathe. He wasn't a master—but he was good. Watching these smiths work with such purpose sparked something inside him.
He wanted to learn their ways. All of them.
They turned one last corner, and suddenly, the noise hit him like a wall.
A vast open yard stretched out before them, lined with racks of weapons and rows of shields stacked like dragon scales. And at its center—hundreds of hoplites, stripped to the waist, cloaks tied at their hips, training in brutal unison.
Their voices rose as one.
Darius froze for half a second. The sheer presence of them… it was unreal. The coordination, the precision, the power in every movement—it wasn't just technique. It was instinct carved into bone.
There were easily five hundred men.
All of them seasoned. All of them dangerous.
He swallowed, eyes wide.
These were not boys.
Not trainees.
They were the product of everything the Agōgē aspired to create. Killers, shaped by discipline, honed through war. Even from a distance, Darius could feel it: any one of them could kill him. Not out of luck. Out of routine.
Beside him, Cleon watched too, though with less awe—more aspiration.
Darius glanced down at his own body. His hands. His arms. His legs.
He'd grown.
He was already as tall as he'd been in his old life—nearly 1.80, and still rising. Arkantos had told him once: a man must adapt his technique to the shape of his body, or he'd never reach the next stage. The real Stage Three.
Darius wasn't sure if he'd crossed into Stage Two yet. Maybe halfway.
But those men out there? The way they moved?
They were already in it. Or past it.
As the caravan slowed near the edge of the massive yard, Theron raised a hand.
"Wait here," he said, his voice firm but low. "Discipline is expected even in silence."
He stepped ahead, approaching a man who stood watching the soldiers drill like a hawk among pigeons.
The man was tall—nearly as tall as Darius—with a lean, wiry build that hinted at speed more than brute strength. His bronze cuirass was dulled by use, and his red cloak hung short, clipped for movement. His arms were crossed, revealing deep scars that ran down both forearms like fading lightning.
"Commander Drakon," Theron said with a respectful nod. "As requested, I bring the Limnai delegation."
Drakon turned slowly.
He had a sharp face, long nose, and eyes like cut stone—gray, unreadable, unblinking.
"Theron," he said. His voice was quiet but carried weight. "Still breathing, I see."
"Barely," Theron smirked. "These boys nearly killed me on the march."
He turned toward the gathered disciples.
"This," he said loud enough for all to hear, "is Commander Drakon of the Spartan Central Phalanx. He trains our reserve hoplites and oversees the southern barracks. His word here is second only to the high generals."
The boys straightened.
Even Darius.
Because something about Drakon… commanded silence.
Drakon gave a slow nod, scanning their ranks.
"Three ranks," he said. "Primus, cadets, initiates. Limnai kept its structure."
"And its edge," Theron added.
Just then, the second caravan pulled up beside them.
The rival Marshall dismounted with theatrical ease, his smile already in place. He was broader than Theron, his red cloak longer, trimmed in gold. The man walked like someone who enjoyed the weight of his own presence.
"Theron!" he called, arms wide. "Still bringing boys to a men's game, I see."
Theron turned slightly, jaw already tightening.
"Kyros," he muttered under his breath.
Kyros strode closer, nodding to Drakon with feigned courtesy. "Commander. Good to see you still breathing. I'd thought training half-wits might've dulled your instincts."
Drakon didn't blink. "Not yet."
Kyros grinned wider, then pointed toward Darius.
"And this one?" he asked, eyes twinkling. "I see Limnai's brought a man of twenty disguised as a child. Bold strategy, Theron. Is that what losing three years in a row does to a man? Makes him desperate?"
A few of his cadets laughed behind him, but Kyros raised a hand to silence them—still smiling.
Theron didn't answer right away.
Darius stood still, unreadable.
So did Red.
Then Theron said, calm as stone: "Desperation is when you bring your best too early, Kyros. We brought ours just in time."
The air thickened.
Even the hoplites in training slowed their movements, sensing tension building between the men who now led Sparta's future warriors.
Drakon didn't take long to notice the anomaly.
"What's his age?"
Theron opened his mouth, but Darius stepped forward calmly.
"Thirteen."
Drakon stared at him more intently now—not with open disbelief, but with calculation. As if weighing the boy's soul behind the answer.
"Thirteen?" he echoed. "You say that too calmly, boy. Either you're lying… or you're something else entirely."
"You can verify it," Darius said evenly. "Just over four years ago, I was nine and barely over one and a half meters tall. Ask in Limnai—many saw me then. On my way back from the forest punishment, I met a caravan captain named Ganesha. If you find her, she can confirm my age."
Drakon paused for a breath, then raised one hand, calling over a nearby hoplite.
"Send two men to Limnai. Have them speak with the Agōgē overseers, any soldier who's seen this boy grow. And if they can find this 'Ganesha,' all the better."
The hoplite saluted and vanished down the road.
Drakon returned his gaze to Darius, folding his arms across his chest.
"You don't seem nervous about this," he said, his tone lower now, more thoughtful. "Your physique is unsettling, yes. But that calm of yours? That's what makes me question more than your age."
Darius didn't respond. He didn't flinch. He simply stood there—tall, still, unreadable.
A gust of wind passed between the two lines of soldiers, catching the edge of Drakon's crimson cloak.
The silence grew heavy.
Then, at last, Drakon spoke again. A glint of curiosity cut through his skepticism.
"Let's say you're telling the truth," he said slowly. "That you are thirteen. And you are this calm. This sharp. This… prepared."
He took one step closer.
"Then let's test what that means."
He turned to the nearest group of hoplites—men hardened by years of real battle, not drills.
"I'd like to see what you can do, boy."
His voice was still calm, but now it carried a subtle challenge.
"Would you fight one of my men?" he asked. "If you dare."
Darius didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because his silence, like always, spoke for him.