The barracks breathed with a different rhythm that night. Usually, after drills, the air was filled with the groans of sore bodies, laughter meant to mask pain, the occasional scuffle between boys too restless to sleep. But tonight, silence lay over the room like a heavy cloak. No one dared disturb it. Even the rats scratching in the rafters seemed to move softer, cautious of the weight that pressed down on everyone's chest.
The reed mats creaked as battered boys lowered themselves into them, bodies twitching from lashes and bruises. The smell of oil rubbed into welts mingled with sweat and smoke from the dying hearth fire, thick and suffocating. Every breath carried the memory of the yard, of wood slamming on wood, of the overseer's booming voice declaring, the wall stood.
Leonidas eased onto his mat with care, his shield arm trembling so badly he nearly dropped it before he stripped it off. His ribs ached, each inhale sharp enough to make him grit his teeth. But exhaustion wasn't enough to smother the images that replayed in his mind: Nikandros staggering under Phaedon's shield, Theron's spear flashing true, Kyros's near collapse. The overseer's grudging approval. The System's whisper of a small gain in cohesion. It had been survival, not victory. Yet survival mattered.
Nikandros sat cross-legged at the far end of the room, back against the wall, his fists resting on his knees. His swollen lip split wider every time he chewed at it, but he didn't seem to notice. His one good eye burned, not at Leonidas but at the floorboards. For the first time since Leonidas had met him, Nikandros's fury was tempered with something else—thought. The anger was still there, coiled tight, but beneath it simmered the realization that strength alone hadn't been enough.
Doros sat nearby, rubbing oil into his calf where the rod had left a welt that bled. His big hands moved with steady patience, his face grim but calm. He had been struck hard, nearly buckled, but he had not broken. When his eyes lifted, they met Leonidas's across the dim barracks. The nod he gave was slight, but heavy. Recognition. Respect.
Kyros curled on his side, his face turned away from the room. His shield had dipped in the clash, his panic plain. The shame clung to him now like a second skin. His breaths came shallow and uneven, shoulders tense even in supposed rest. Leonidas knew boys like him—ones who carried fear like a stone in the gut. If he couldn't be steadied, he would crumble at the next blow. Yet Leonidas also knew that a fearful soldier, if anchored, could become the fiercest. Desperation could make men cling harder than pride.
Lysander sat hunched, muttering curses under his breath as he rubbed his raw shoulders. His words were bitter, sharp with venom, but there was no bite left to them. His curses weren't aimed at Leonidas anymore. They were spat into the air, into the pain, into the very world that had ground him down. Between each curse was a pause, almost a laugh, as if he couldn't believe they had actually stood their ground.
And then Theron. Always Theron. He sat with his back to the wall, his breathing steady, his body loose but his eyes sharp as knives. He hadn't spoken since leaving the yard, but he didn't need to. The way he watched Leonidas, the way his eyes lingered—not with disdain, not with challenge, but with cold measurement—was enough. For a brief second, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, almost a smile. And then it was gone, leaving only that unreadable calm.
Leonidas closed his eyes, though sleep would not come. The overseers' voices still rang in his ears. He had seen their gazes during the clash, felt them weighing him, testing him. They knew he had forced his squad to hold when it should have collapsed. But they also knew the wall was fragile. It hadn't been clean, hadn't been polished. It had survived by desperation, not discipline. And in Sparta, desperation was not enough.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the ache from his chest. A spark had been lit among his squad tonight. Small, fragile, flickering—but real. Nikandros's pride had been bruised into thought. Doros's stoicism had shifted into respect. Lysander's bitterness had started to turn outward. Even Kyros, though still drowning in shame, had not fled. And Theron… Theron's approval, unspoken, meant more than all the rest.
Across the yard, in another barracks, Phaedon's fury burned. Word spread faster than fire. His squad, proud and seasoned, had failed to crush a wall led by a peasant. The humiliation had stung not just him but all who had stood at his side. The whispers cut deep. And Leonidas knew men like Phaedon—men who lived on pride would claw it back at any cost. The overseers had seen it too. They would pit them against each other again. Next time, it would not be a trial. It would be a reckoning.
Leonidas stared at the beams above, his eyes wide in the dark. His ribs ached, his arm throbbed, his whole body screamed, but his mind sharpened. He had endured his first true test as leader. But endurance was only the beginning. He would have to be sharper, faster, and colder than Phaedon if his squad was ever to survive what was coming.
Sleep came for the others, slow and restless. Nikandros's fists finally unclenched. Doros's breaths deepened. Kyros twitched in his dreams, muttering words of apology even in sleep. Lysander cursed until exhaustion dragged him under. Theron remained upright long after the rest had surrendered to the dark, his eyes open, steady, and watching.
Leonidas let his breath slow, though his thoughts raced like fire. Tonight, the wall had held. Tomorrow, it would be tested again. And one day soon, when the overseers called for them, it would not be about survival. It would be about who commanded respect—and who was left broken in the dust.