The overseers dragged them from their mats before dawn, rods cracking against the walls to wake the boys with a jolt. The horn's blare cut through the dark, harsh and shrill, and before they'd even rubbed sleep from their eyes, they were being shoved into the yard.
"Armor up. Shields. Spears. March."
There was no explanation. Just the barked order and the sting of rods that drove them into line. They were herded from the camp, shields digging into shoulders, spears clattering as they were forced into step.
The road out of Sparta bit at their feet. Rocks dug through thin sandals, the dust rose thick with every tread. The sun was only a sliver on the horizon, but already the heat pressed heavy on their necks.
Whispers were passed down the line of trainees. Mentions of the next trial not being one of combat but of endurance.
Leonidas adjusted the strap of his shield, his ribs aching where bruises still throbbed. Around him, his squad shuffled under the weight. Nikandros muttered curses, his jaw tight, but his stride never faltered. Doros plodded steady, broad shoulders hunched, his breathing heavy but controlled. Kyros lagged early, sweat dripping, eyes wide as if the hills themselves were enemies. Lysander cursed louder than Nikandros, spitting venom with every step as though his words alone kept him upright. Theron moved differently from them all—silent, steady, his pace unbroken, as though heat and weight meant nothing.
The overseers circled like wolves, rods ready. Boys who slowed felt wood crack against their calves, sending them stumbling forward. Water skins dangled from the overseers' belts, swaying deliberately, but none were offered.
By the first ridge, the march had already claimed victims. Two boys collapsed in the dust, legs trembling, eyes rolling. Rods struck them again and again until they crawled to their feet, only to collapse once more. They were dragged back toward camp by their ankles, jeered at by the rest. "Cowards!" the overseers barked. "Sparta has no place for the weak!"
Nikandros sneered, spitting to the side. "Let them crawl. I'll not fall." His voice cracked with defiance, but Leonidas caught the way his steps faltered when the incline steepened. Pride was a furnace—it burned bright, but it ate its own fuel quickly.
Doros said nothing, but every breath rattled from deep in his chest. His shield pressed deep welts into his shoulder, but he bore it like a beast, steady and uncomplaining. Leonidas marked him as dependable—the kind of man who would break only when crushed completely.
Kyros nearly fell on the slope, his shield dragging in the dirt. His eyes darted wildly, panic setting in. Nikandros shoved him roughly. "Pick it up or I'll leave you!"
Kyros whimpered, his voice a rasp. "I can't—"
Leonidas snapped before the words could fester. "You can. Breathe. Small steps. Don't look at the hill, just the ground in front of you." He caught Doros's gaze. "Hold his pace."
Doros shifted slightly, letting his bulk shield Kyros from the overseers' eyes. Theron gave Kyros's shoulder a shove, forcing him back into formation. The boy stumbled but kept moving, his breath ragged.
Lysander cursed every rock, every lash of the sun. "By the gods—hell itself couldn't be worse." But even as he spat his venom, his feet never stopped. Each curse was a drumbeat that carried him forward.
Hours blurred. The sun climbed, blazing overhead. Sandals frayed on jagged stone, blisters split, lips cracked from thirst. The overseers watched with cruel satisfaction, dangling waterskins but never loosening them.
Rival squads jeered as they passed stragglers. One boy from Phaedon's group shoved a rock underfoot as Leonidas's squad trudged by, nearly sending Kyros sprawling. Nikandros barked a curse, but Leonidas snapped at him. "Eyes forward. Don't give them the satisfaction."
Nikandros snarled, but obeyed.
By midday, heat shimmered across the hills. The march dragged into its seventh hour. Boys collapsed one after another, some dragged back, others beaten until they rose again. Leonidas's own vision blurred, his tongue swollen in his mouth. Every step was pain, but he forced his mind to stay sharp. He watched his men, memorizing their limits. Nikandros pushed with fury, but fury could betray him. Doros endured like stone. Kyros bent but hadn't broken—not yet. Lysander's curses carried him farther than silence ever could. And Theron… Theron moved like a shadow untouched by mortal strain, as if he belonged to a different kind of soldier altogether.