Darius didn't blink. He didn't flinch. But something cold moved down his spine—a ripple, like the breath of a ghost behind him.
He wasn't there anymore.
He was somewhere colder, darker.
**
The snow had been knee-deep in that forest north of Ryazan when it happened.
One moment, he was checking comms near the convoy. The next—a crack behind his head and he was out cold.
He woke in darkness, bound, his mouth full of copper, a dirty floor, walls of iron and ice. Somewhere beneath the world, or maybe outside of it.
The guards didn't speak English, one had golden teeth and the other chewed matches and smiled when the door opened.
There were others in the cells, all of them looked dispirited.
They took him out the next night.
The arena was circular, barely lit by oil lamps. The floor was dry earth, but stained with blood. The air was thick with anticipation and smoke. It smelled like men who had nothing to lose.
His opponent was bigger than him. Slower, too. But the man had a jagged pipe and murder in his eyes.
Darius didn't speak. His mind was set to survive.
He learned.
And he killed.
Over and over again.
Days blurred. Nights bled. The rules were simple: kill or die. So he killed. With fists, with glass, with anything useful that could hurt his opponent.
He managed to escape eventually, but the scars that this place left him...
.....
Back in the arena, Darius exhaled slowly, his face full of doubts.
But his fingers had curled unconsciously, the phantom weight of a blade filling his grip before the real one ever touched his palm.
If he killed again, would he become a murderer like back then? Would he be able to control his emotions?
The arena buzzed with tension as the cadets drew their lots
Drakos stepped forward once again, his cloak dragging softly over the stone as he raised one hand.
"You've all drawn your lots," he said, voice carrying across the arena. "Now, retrieve your tablets and prepare to see where the gods place you."
One by one, the cadets stepped forward to a raised stone basin at the center. Inside, flat wooden tablets had been marked in pairs—symbols etched with fire. Each pair matched one fighter to another.
Darius reached in. The wood was warm from the sun. He pulled a tablet and turned it in his hand. A spiral etched in black.
Across the square, another cadet held the same symbol. Darius recognised him the moment he moved—a tall, wiry youth with a face carved from symmetry and calculation. One of the famed Tyndaridai twins. It was all coming back now. The brothers had been mentioned by Theron: flawless coordination, speed, ruthlessness.
Only one of them stood here now.
Drakos nodded once.
"You two. Stay."
The rest of the cadets turned, stepping off the sand and into the shade of the corridor. Even the crowd, restless and murmuring, was ordered to stand. Spartan instructors moved through the stands, instructing villagers and noble guests alike.
"All of you," Drakos commanded. "Clear the arena."
There were complaints. Confused murmurs. But when Ephor Dion rose from his seat with the calm weight of authority and gave a subtle nod, the protests stopped.
Soon, only the two cadets remained in the arena.
Darius.
Drakos didn't raise his voice.
"This match," he said, "will not be for entertainment."
He looked at them both.
He stepped back. Are you ready?
Darius nodded. So did Polon.
Steel gleamed in the morning sun.
From his seat, Ephor Dion watched in silence, fingers clasped before his chin.
Darius stepped into the sand, Red's absence suddenly weighing on him. His fingers curled around the hilt of his xiphos. His shield, already worn from training, felt solid in his grip. He'd left the spear behind for this round. He wanted to move.
Polon carried a dory—a spear nearly his own height—and a smaller, sleeker shield than Darius's. It wasn't the standard hoplon; it was lighter, built for mobility.
The match began with no ceremony.
Polon surged forward, a blur of footwork and measured jabs. Darius raised his shield just in time to deflect the first strike, but he felt the pressure behind it. Polon wasn't just aiming to test him—he was already trying to end it.
They circled.
Darius tried to close the distance, but the spear's reach made it impossible. Every time he moved in, Polon retreated just enough, then countered with a thrust. Shoulder, thigh, stomach—none of them hit, but all of them came too close.
It was like fighting a shadow.
Darius's mind raced. He couldn't win a contest of distance, not like this, not with the spear in play. He needed to shift the terrain. He had enough experience to use the terrain around him to his advantage.
A small dip in the sand.
He feinted left, then twisted his heel, launching a kick that sent a spray of dust directly into Polon's eyes. The twin recoiled, stumbling back with a curse.
Darius charged.
His shield struck Pollon's chest with the weight of a battering ram. The boy flew backward—two full meters—before landing hard on the sand, spear flying from his grip.
Darius stood over him, xiphos raised.
Then he paused.
Just for a moment.
Polon groaned, his hand twitching toward his fallen spear. He wasn't finished.
Darius could have ended it right then. One more step. One downward thrust. But something—something stopped him.
A whisper of his old self.
He waited.
Polon coughed, rolled onto his side, and slowly pushed himself up.
From the elevated stone seat under the linen shade, the ephor, Dion, watched.
He hadn't blinked once since the match began. His fingers were laced together, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were sharp—not with anger, but with evaluation.
This boy, Darius, had hesitated.
It wasn't the hesitation of fear. It wasn't indecision.
It was mercy.
And mercy, in this context, was defiance.
Dion leaned back slightly, a breath escaping his lips.
The king had ordered for a real battle between the cadets, they were testing their loyalty. Every cadet in this tournament was expected to fight to the edge—and sometimes, past it.
To obey without pause.
To kill if ordered.
Of course no one would die, that´s why he was sent here.
But Darius had failed that command.
The ephor's eyes narrowed.
Not all soldiers needed to kill without thinking.
But only a rare few dared to stop thinking while everyone else followed blindly.
Was this defiance?
Perhaps it was something... more.
Polon had retrieved his spear making Darius take a step back.
The fight wasn't over.
Darius tightened the grip on his xiphos as Polon stumbled to his feet, blood streaking his cheek, one eye half-shut from the earlier blow.
Darius didn't need a warning.
His heart pounded—not from fear, but from the sharp awareness of what his mercy could cost him. He'd been punished before for not following orders. Beaten. Humiliated. Marked. This time, the order wasn't spoken, but it hung in the air like a knife over his neck.
Kill. That's what the trial demanded. That was the expectation.
And yet he hadn't done it.
If he wanted to avoid punishment, avoid suspicion, he would have to erase any doubt.
Not through blood.
Through dominance.
He charged.
Polon barely had time to raise his guard. Darius's shield slammed into him like a wall, staggering the boy back. Before he could recover, a flurry of relentless strikes followed—one, two, three, each one harder than the last. His xiphos hammered against Pollon's spear, battering it like an axe against a tree.
Crack.
The shaft snapped near the middle.
Polon's eyes widened as the broken weapon clattered to the ground.
Darius didn't stop.
He slammed his fist into Polon's gut—one clean, merciless punch that emptied the air from his lungs. The boy gasped, folding forward instinctively, and Darius met him with a shield bash to the temple.
Polon hit the ground hard, rolling once, dazed but still conscious.
He tried to push himself up, one elbow trembling under the weight of his body.
Darius stepped forward.
And kicked him square in the ribs.
Polon flew.
His body skidded across the dust, a limp blur of red and brown, until he landed in a heap at the feet of Drakos. Blood trickled from his nose, mouth, and a gash along his scalp.
Drakos didn't flinch.
The ephor leaned forward slightly.
Darius lowered his shield. His chest rose and fell. His face was unreadable.
From the upper stone platform, Ephor Dion watched the dust settle over the blood-streaked sand.
He had seen the hesitation.
Not the clumsy kind—the kind born from mercy calculated, not granted. Darius had struck with precision, over and over, his movements sharp and forceful, but never needlessly cruel. Every blow seemed designed not to kill, but to strip away resistance piece by piece. Polon had collapsed at the end, unconscious, broken, and humiliated—but alive.
Dion narrowed his eyes slightly.
He saw something else in Darius
Control.
It was easy to follow orders. Easier still to revel in violence when given permission. But Darius had chosen a third path—obedience, dressed in pragmatism. His opponent lay at Drakos's feet like a corpse, yet his life had been spared.
Why?
Not because Darius feared punishment.
Because he understood what punishment meant.
Interesting.
Dion stood slowly, the silver clasp of his cloak glinting in the sun.
"That will do," he said, his voice reaching the arena like thunder without the storm. "Return to the staging area, Darius of Limnai. You are not to rejoin the others. Wait until called."
Darius met his eyes, just briefly, then turned and walked away without a word, steps steady, shoulders square.
The boy did not need applause.
Dion sat again, resting one elbow on the stone arm of his seat.
For the first time that morning, he allowed a slight smile to curl the corner of his mouth.
"Darius…"
He would remember that name.