The second morning after the duel, Darius rose before the sun.
No orders had woken him. No shouting, no whistles, no drills. Only his will to improve and surpass himself.
He dressed in silence, wrapped his hands in fresh linen, and stepped out of the barracks. The sky was still painted in shades of ash and indigo, and most of the camp slept. Only the cicadas whispered.
He found the same spot beneath the olive trees. Sat. Closed his eyes.
The body was sore— but clearer. He could trace the bruises like landmarks, feel where the muscles tightened in sleep and where they loosened with breath.
The scan came easier now. The stillness, too.
But the war inside hadn't ended.
Every time his focus drifted, memories surged forward: the fights, the voices, the weight of expectation, the ghost of the life he'd once lived. And underneath it all, one question clawed its way up from the dark:
What if I lose myself trying to master this new path?
He exhaled. That fear — he'd felt it before. In a different world. Different wars.
..........................
Cleon stood in the shade of the stone pavilion, arms at his sides, posture disciplined — but beneath it, a current of tension. His back was straight. His jaw set. And yet, for the first time in years, something tightened in his chest.
He was standing before his father.
Héctor Europontides. King of Sparta. One of two.
A living pillar of the state.
The weight of that presence was something Cleon had always known — but rarely felt so keenly.
Héctor dismissed the guards with a simple gesture. Once they were gone, silence lingered like a drawn bowstring.
Then the king turned, studied his son with unreadable eyes… and smiled.
"So tell me," he said at last, his voice slow and razor-sharp, "why did you lose?"
Cleon didn't flinch.
"I don't believe the boy from Hyllidai could defeat you. Not my son. Not the greatest talent our line has ever seen."
Cleon's reply came without hesitation.
"I wanted my true strength to remain hidden. For as long as possible."
A beat of silence.
Then Héctor gave a small nod — pleased.
"Good. You're learning to think ahead."
He stepped closer, voice lowering.
"You're being sent to the Krypteia."
Cleon's heart thudded once, but he kept his expression neutral.
"And you won't go alone."
Héctor's tone shifted — curious.
"The boy, Darius. He'll be sent with you. I made sure of it."
Cleon said nothing.
"I want you to get close to him. Find out where his ideals lie. If he can be brought to our side, all the better. If not…" He waved the thought away, as if Darius were a passing shadow. "Then we let time deal with him. He's not dangerous — yet."
Cleon nodded once.
"And now," said the king, turning back toward the open columns of the pavilion, "go. Return to camp. Wait for orders, o before that go and see your sister, she misses you. And remember—".
He looked back, eyes like hammered bronze.
"Strength is nothing without vision. Don't disappoint me."
Cleon bowed.
"Never."
Then he turned and walked away — carrying the weight of his father's expectations like a second cloak.
.......................
Darius was deep in his breathing, seated beneath the same olive tree as the day before. His body was still, his spine tall. Eyes closed, thoughts focused inward — breath, tension, connection.
He heard the sound of crunching leaves.
"You're working hard," it said, calm and edged with something between respect and challenge. "Not a bad idea after what happened out there."
Darius opened one eye.
Therion Hyllidai stood nearby, arms crossed, his presence as solid as ever. There was no mockery in his tone — only blunt observation.
"Don't get me wrong," Therion continued. "You're strong. But if you're trying to understand your muscles, I could help. Just a little."
Darius frowned. "Why would you help me?"
Therion's answer came with a shrug. "My father asked me to."
Darius narrowed his eyes. That made even less sense.
"Why would the head of House Hyllidai care whether I reach Stage Three?"
"It's just a favor," Therion replied plainly. "A gesture of good will. You can take it or leave it."
Darius studied him, the offer hanging in the air. Therion didn't look like someone offering pity — this was something else. Strategic, maybe. But honest.
"Alright," Darius said. "I want to make sure I'm on the right path."
Therion gave the faintest nod. "Good. Start by telling me what you've been doing."
Darius stood, brushing off the back of his tunic. "I start with breath. Then I scan — muscle by muscle, from toes to head. I try to notice tension, placement, tightness. No movement. Just awareness."
Therion listened carefully, then stepped around him and tapped the base of Darius's neck.
"Not bad, but incomplete," he said. "You're scanning muscles like a map. But it's not enough to locate them. You need to understand how they move in relation. Antagonistic pairs. Chains. Stability points."
He touched Darius's forearm. "This one contracts, this one releases. They always work together. You want to feel that rhythm, not just see it in your mind."
And so, they trained.
Therion made him hold positions, isolate fibers, then switch with conscious control. They moved through stances slowly — precision over speed, coordination over strength. Therion corrected him with minimal words and exact hands, guiding tension, release, balance.
By midday, Darius's muscles trembled — not from fatigue, but from concentration. From learning.
And then, it happened.
For one fleeting moment, Darius drew a motion — elbow to wrist, shoulder to spine — that felt seamless. Not powerful. Not fast.
Perfect.
He stopped. Looked at his hand.
It had felt like nothing.
Like everything.
Therion raised an eyebrow. "You felt it."
Darius nodded. "Just for a second."
"That's all you need," Therion said. "Stage Three doesn't arrive all at once. It reveals itself — when you're ready to feel it."
Darius kept staring at his hand, the sensation still lingering in his body — faint, but unmistakable. It hadn't been power. It hadn't been speed. It had been control.
Therion broke the silence.
"If you want to go further," he said, voice steady, "you'll need more than meditation."
Darius looked up.
"You've built awareness. That's good. But awareness alone isn't enough. The body doesn't truly learn through stillness — it learns through movement."
He rolled his neck slowly, stretching his shoulders like a predator preparing for the next chase.
"Sparring. Duels. That's where it solidifies. That's where your instincts form. You don't just feel your muscles — you test them. You fail, adjust, refine."
Darius nodded. "So… I need to fight."
"Not to win," Therion replied. "To feel. To understand. Every strike, every dodge — it's a lesson. But only if you're paying attention."
Darius took a breath. "Will you fight me?"
Therion's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Not yet. You're not ready to see how much you're still missing."
He turned to leave, his steps silent, grounded.
But before disappearing, he spoke again, without looking back:
"Pick someone. Challenge them. Watch how your body responds. Then make it better."
And just like that, he was gone.
Darius stood alone under the olive tree, muscles burning, mind racing.
He was no longer trying to get stronger.He was trying to understand.
Darius exhaled and muttered under his breath,"This is a pain in the ass. I can't believe Spartans were so good at meditation. Given their history, I thought they were more the brutish kind."
He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching out the tension in his shoulders.
From far down the hill, a boy came running — dust rising behind his sandals. He didn't stop until he was just a few steps away, breathing hard.
"Darius!" he called out. "Drakos is asking for you. Back at the camp!"
Darius stood up, wiped his palms on his tunic, and grabbed his belt. Whatever it was, it didn't sound optional.
When he entered Drakos' tent, the air inside felt heavy, as if the space itself knew what was about to be said.
Cleon was already there, standing straight beside the war table, arms behind his back. Smiling at his friend and knowing what was to come.
Drakos didn't look up at first. He was going over a scroll, unrolling it with deliberate patience. Then he spoke.
"You're both here. Good."
He looked at them one by one, then got straight to the point.
"As of this moment, you're no longer cadets of the Agōgē."
Darius blinked, caught off guard.
Cleon didn't react.
Drakos continued. "You've been reassigned — by command of the kings and with approval from the ephors. From now on, both of you will train and operate under the Krypteia."
He let that word hang in the air, like a blade.
"You'll receive advanced training. Special missions. You'll be tested, pushed, and used — not just for your growth, but for the strength of Sparta itself."
Silence.
Darius nodded slowly, keeping his face neutral. But inside, a question stirred:
The Krypteia?
What the hell is that?
Why had he never read about it?
It sounded like a secret.It smelled like danger.
And somehow… he was already part of it.