**10 years later;**
Ten summers and winters had passed since Gaia handed King Damonis his little miracle. And on this bright morning, under the cloudless skies of Achaea, that little miracle, grown up into a little warrior, was drawing a weapon.
Icarus stood barefoot in the center of the palace training ground, a wooden practice sword gripped in both hands. His tunic clung to his back with sweat, his black curls damp and wild, his eyes locked onto his opponent—a grown warrior twice his size, a veteran of real wars, and still panting from the boy's last strike.
Around the courtyard, nobles, guards, and servants had gathered in a loose circle. Even the Queen watched from the shade, fanning herself slowly.
The captain of the guard barked, "Again!"
The adult warrior lunged.
Icarus pivoted, ducked under the man's swing, and struck the back of his knee.
The warrior stumbled.
