The cadets walked in silence, footsteps echoing against the stone as they returned to the amphitheatre. Drakos had summoned them, but he was not the one waiting.
In the center of the arena, standing perfectly still with both hands clasped behind his back, was Dion — the Éphor. His chiton was spotless, his posture relaxed yet unnervingly upright. He didn't move until the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned.
His arms opened wide, voice resonant, calm, and powerful."Congratulations," he said. "To each and every one of you who stands here today. You are Sparta's finest — the iron that withstood the flame. The eight of you are no longer mere cadets… You are the seeds from which our future will grow."
A pause. His eyes scanned the line they had instinctively formed, measuring them. There was no smile, yet something in his voice hinted at approval.
"I have seen many tournaments. I have seen many boys fall, and few rise. But you…" He began to walk slowly, from right to left, stopping before each one. "You are different."
He began to walk the line they'd instinctively formed, inspecting them one by one like a smith eyeing unfinished blades.
He stopped at the far right.
"Lysandros, son of Tindaros. A blade sharpened by loss. You carry your brother's defeat like a brand on your skin. Use it."
He stepped toward the next boy.
"Boros, son of iron. You are a mountain with fists. Raw strength, no pretence. You fight to crush."
A few paces more.
"Naraka. The quiet eye of the storm. You study, calculate, and strike where it hurts most. The mind is your weapon — and it's sharper than steel."
Then, pausing before a boy with proud eyes and noble posture:
"Acastus of house Europontidai. Second son, but first in pride. You believe power is your birthright. Let's see if your blood agrees."
The next figure stood tall, sword at his back like a loyal friend.
"Therion of house Hyllidai. The sword dancer. An amazingly gifted warrior, indeed."
Next came the boy with scars both seen and unseen.
"Darius....A rebellious one, don´t worry I will fix that and make you a weapon for the future of the empire."
To his right:
"Cleon. The golden sun of Europontidai. Honored, tested, expected. You carry the weight of a family — whether you asked for it or not."
And finally, before the one with royal bearing:
"Argos, son of kings. You fight like a lion cub trying to earn his roar. Not yet a king…."
Dion took a step back, arms once more behind his back.
"You are not boys anymore. Sparta watches you now. Every step you take echoes into history."
Then his tone hardened.
"For the next rounds there will be no more tablets, no more random pairings. From this round on, there will be no chance — only choice."
He raised a single finger.
"I will choose one of you to enter the arena first. The rest of you will face him, one by one. No breaks. No resets. One stands. The others come."
Gasps. A flicker of surprise even from those who thought they were ready for anything.
Dion's eyes narrowed slightly.
"The one I choose will face overwhelming odds. He will be hunted by all. But if he endures…"He let the silence stretch."…then he deserves to win more than anyone."
Dion stood still, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, without pause, his gaze locked on Darius.
"I already know who it will be," he repeated.
He took a slow step forward, and his voice grew sharper.
"There is one among you who has not yet understood what it means to be part of this world. One who clings to pride over order, instinct over discipline. A boy who walks alone, convinced his strength excuses his defiance."
Darius narrowed his eyes. Something coiled in his chest — tension, heat, something close to fury. But he didn't speak.
Dion did.
"To fix that boy… he must fight." He said with a sly smile.He let the silence drag, then pointed — a single, undeniable gesture.
"Darius, you will be the first."
The others turned to him. Some in shock. Others in satisfaction. A few with thinly veiled amusement.
Cleon didn't flinch.Naraka tilted his head, lips twitching like he was analyzing probabilities.Lysandros gave a humourless chuckle.Argos muttered something under his breath — likely a prayer, or maybe a curse.Therion's face was unreadable.Acastus smirked, almost impressed.And Boros… grinned.
Darius' jaw clenched, but he met Dion's stare head-on. No fear in his eyes. Just the fire.
"This is your punishment," Dion continued, pacing in front of the group. "But also your chance. You may defeat them all… or fall beneath the first."
He looked at the rest.
"As for the others… you will decide when to enter. There will be no order. No names drawn. Step into the arena when your heart tells you. Or when your ambition outweighs your caution."
He paused again. Then his voice rose, colder now — meant not just for them, but for the guards standing along the upper terraces.
"The ban on spectators is lifted."
Murmurs rippled from the shadows above as soldiers straightened in place. Dion's tone left no room for confusion.
"Send word to the city. Let the gates open. Let the villagers and the nobles, the merchants and the soldiers, the old men and the children — let them all come."
His arms opened slightly.
"Let Sparta witness what true steel looks like."
The weight of those words hit hard. Even the wind seemed to quiet, as if listening.
Eyes turned toward Darius.
Acastus smiled without warmth.Therion lowered his gaze, then nodded to himself.Cleon stood still, expression unreadable.And Boros stepped forward.
"I'll go first."
His voice was low and firm, without hesitation.
Drakos nodded at the edge of the field."Clear the space."
The arena stirred. Attendants rushed to remove debris, bloodstains, and broken tablets. The ground would be clean — but not for long.
Darius took a breath.
Boros rolled his shoulders.
Eight stood… but only one would begin.
And all of Sparta was about to watch.
The gates were creaking open.The first to arrive were the servants — messengers, stable boys, market runners, all slipping through the corridors with wide eyes and louder whispers. Then came the elders, the artisans, the warriors on leave. By the dozens, then by the hundreds, they filtered in.
The stone seats filled with noise.Silence gave way to movement, to clapping, to scattered cheers. Some shouted names, others just roared.A chant started. Then another.Whistles, anticipation, and excitement that was the atmosphere of the arena.
People leaned over to each other, pointing to the two boys standing in the center of the arena.
"Are those cadets?" someone asked in disbelief."They look like grown men.""Gods, look at their arms… they can't be thirteen.""They're monsters. Both of them."
In the arena, Boros rolled his shoulders again and took a few steps forward until he stood face to face with Darius. The murmurs faded in Darius' mind. All he saw was the mountain before him.
Boros studied him for a moment.
"I've never met anyone my age with my size," he said, voice calm and respectful. "Same shoulders. Same arms. Same height."He cracked his knuckles. "I want to know whose fists hit harder."
Darius didn't even blink."You sure?"Boros grinned. "Of course I am, let strength be the protagonist of this fight."A pause."Just strength."
Darius slowly raised his fists into a guard."HAHA, yeah why not, let's roll."
Boros didn't wait.
He lunged forward with the force of a bull, throwing a heavy right hook. Darius blocked it with his forearm, the impact rattling his bones. He countered with a sharp jab to the ribs — Boros grunted but didn't step back.
The next few seconds were a blur.
Fists slammed into ribs, shoulders, chins. Elbows tucked tight, forearms absorbing what they could. They moved like trained boxers, but with the rage of two wolves fighting for territory.
Boros managed to drive Darius backward, landing a clean uppercut to his chin. Darius staggered, but didn't fall. He spun, ducked under the next punch, and slammed a body shot into Boros' liver.
The bigger boy gasped.
But he didn't drop.
They clinched. Chest to chest. Foreheads grinding. Breathing hard. Each trying to overpower the other.
Boros tried to lift Darius off his feet — Darius twisted and slammed his shoulder into Boros' sternum, breaking the grip.
They separated, out of breath, blood slowly flowing from Darius' lips, sweat dripping down both their brows. The crowd held its breath.
Then they charged again.
No words. No mercy. Just fists. Flesh. Fury.
The arena roared. This wasn't a duel.It was a storm.
Darius felt his knuckles bruising, his jaw throbbing, his lungs burning. Boros didn't slow down — if anything, he seemed to get stronger with each exchange. Blow for blow, neither boy backed down.But Darius knew something Boros didn't.
This was only the beginning.
If he kept going like this, he wouldn't last the rest of the day — not against six others waiting to tear him apart. As much as he respected Boros — maybe even liked him — he couldn't afford to waste more time.It had been fun. It had been brutal.But it had to end.
So he waited and when Boros stepped forward with one wilde hook, Darius slipped under it, hooked a leg behind his opponent's calf, and twisted his body sideways.
The world spun.
Boros crashed to the ground with a grunt, and before he could react, Darius was already behind him.One arm around his throat.The other locking it in place.
A rear naked choke.
Boros thrashed. Elbows flailed. Fingers clawed at Darius' forearm. But the hold was perfect — tight, clean.
His movements slowed.Weakened.Stopped.
A final exhale and he was K.O.
Darius released the hold gently, letting Boros fall to the sand like a stone dropped in water.He stood, chest rising, blood dripping from his lip, eyes calm again.
The crowd was dead silent — for a heartbeat.
Then they exploded.
Cheers. Gasps. Screams.No one had ever seen a fight like that. Not in a cadet trial. Not between boys that age.Not ever.
And Darius…had only just begun.