Weeks had passed since Leonidas staggered through the gates of the agoge draped in the Alpha's pelt. The wounds he carried had closed, leaving thick, angry scars that traced his ribs and thigh like reminders carved into flesh. His body had healed, but the whispers had not faded.
If anything, they had grown louder.
Among the boys, his name moved like a current.
Wolf-slayer.
The one who fought the wild and won.
Not like us.
Wherever he walked, voices dropped. Boys who once mocked him now stared in silence, their jeers swallowed by memory. In the mess hall, his squad sat straighter when he joined them, pride swelling though none dared put it into words. When he trained, younger boys lingered at the edges, stealing glances as though looking upon some figure from myth.
The overseers noticed. And they wielded the story like a weapon.
During runs across the stone yard, when boys collapsed gasping, the bark came sharp:
"Look at Leonidas! He bleeds more than you, yet he stands!"
When they sparred until teeth rattled and blood flecked the sand, the lash of words came again:
"Would you shame yourselves in front of the wolf-slayer? He did not beg the forest for mercy!"
Even in silence, they invoked his name. A pointed glance. A nod toward his scarred chest. An unspoken demand: if he endured, so must you.
The attention was no crown. It was a weight. Leonidas bore it without smile or complaint, without the pride that might have warmed others. He endured as he always had — steady, silent, unbending. Yet the others could not escape it.
None more than Diodoros.
Once, Diodoros had gathered squads beneath his wide smirk and booming voice. He swaggered like a young king, strutting on the fear of weaker boys. But when Leonidas walked back through the gates alive, wearing the Alpha's hide, that smirk soured. His boasts — that Leonidas had been swallowed by the forest, that he was carrion in the dirt — had turned to ash.
Every whisper of wolf-slayer was a knife twisting in his gut.
He brooded in silence now, jaw clenched, fists curling until knuckles cracked. When the overseers praised Leonidas, Diodoros' stare burned with the promise of violence. His followers whispered behind cupped hands, sneers thinly veiled, but the swagger that once commanded them faltered. More than a few of his own cast their eyes toward Leonidas when the word leader was spoken.
Leonidas noticed — of course he noticed. But he gave no answer. He wasted no words on Diodoros' resentment. His strength spoke for him, and silence was sharper than any insult.
Still, tension coiled tighter with each passing day. And the overseers, whether knowingly or not, twisted the cord further.
---
The training grew harsher as the season shifted. The boys were driven from their beds before dawn, lungs burning in the cold morning air as they carried stones across the yard until their shoulders buckled. They sparred with blunted spears and wooden swords until arms went numb and welts blossomed purple. Every mistake earned lashes, every stumble a bruise, every hesitation a scar.
Leonidas endured it all, his scars reopening, his muscles burning, yet his will steady. When his squad faltered, he carried more. When they bled, he dragged them back to their feet. Their bond tightened, not through friendship but through respect — even Nikandros, who once bristled at every command, now fell silent when Leonidas' voice cut the air.
It was on one such evening, after the boys had collapsed in the dirt from endless drills, that the eldest overseer strode into the yard. His voice carried over their gasps for air, sharp as the crack of a whip.
"Playtime is finished."
Heads lifted.
"You will no longer train as children. From this day forward, squads will fight squads. You will learn to hold ground, to seize ground, to break each other."
A ripple passed through the ranks — groans from the weary, grins from the cruel. Whispers rose as boys glanced at one another, sizing up rivals.
The overseer's gaze swept over them all before locking on Leonidas. His scarred lips curled into the ghost of a smile.
"Let us see," he said, voice slow and deliberate, "if the wolf-slayer commands men as well as he fights beasts."
The yard buzzed with excitement. Heads turned toward Leonidas, eyes filled with hunger, envy, or hope. Some wanted to follow him. Others wanted to see him fall.
Leonidas rose from the dirt, sweat dripping down his chest, and met the overseer's gaze. His eyes were steady, unflinching. He said nothing. He did not need to.
The cord between him and Diodoros pulled taut.
The clash was coming.