The horn that marked the end of the march never came.
For three days, they had trudged through dust and stone, sun and lash. Boys collapsed where they stood, their bodies broken by hunger and thirst. Leonidas had expected, at last, to be herded back to the agoge, battered but alive. But when the overseers finally barked for them to halt, it wasn't near the camp gates. It was in a barren clearing, hemmed in by hills and thorn.
The crooked-nosed veteran stepped forward, his grin cruel. "Three days you have marched. Stone, not dust, still stands. But Sparta does not forge warriors by marching alone." He gestured broadly to the wild stretching out around them. "You are far from the agoge. For one week, you will endure here. No food. No water. No overseers. Survive, or die. Find your way back. Those who return will be warriors. Those who fail will be carrion."
Gasps rippled through the boys. Some looked stricken, others excited, a few tried to hide their fear. Leonidas's gut turned cold. This wasn't a trial anymore—it was a proving ground.
The overseers tossed each squad a single flint and vanished into the dusk. Their shadows melted into the rocks until only the boys remained, dozens of squads stranded in hostile wilderness.
Nikandros snarled, his voice low. "So they throw us into the wild like dogs." He spat in the dirt. "Fine. Then I'll be the wolf."
Doros shifted his shield strap, his face drawn. "We need water. Without it, we'll be corpses before the week's half done."
Kyros's eyes darted everywhere, his voice trembling. "How far are we from the agoge? What if we can't find it? What if—"
"Quiet," Leonidas hissed. His own ribs ached, his throat dry as dust, but his mind was already turning. Water was life. Fire, food, shelter—they mattered, but not yet. Water came first. He pointed to the folds of the hills. "Low ground. Streams run there. We move at dusk."
Lysander cursed under his breath, swatting a mosquito. "And what if someone else finds it first? We'll fight them for it. You heard what the bastard said—no overseers. No rules."
Theron's eyes glinted in the fading light, sharp and cold. "Then we make others bleed before we do. If we shadow them, let them fight, we can take what remains."
Leonidas studied him, uneasy at how calmly he said it. Yet the logic was sound. "We move."
They set out under cover of night. The forest floor crackled with dry twigs, every sound magnified in the dark. The moon cast broken silver through the trees, enough to see by.
Before long, the sound of water reached them—a trickle, faint but real. They crept closer, hearts hammering. A stream gleamed under moonlight, shallow but flowing.
Another squad was already there.
Boys knelt at the bank, splashing greedily, their laughter harsh in the stillness. Leonidas counted six of them, shields propped nearby, spears resting within reach. Too careless. Too loud.
Nikandros whispered, "Let's rush them now—"
"No," Leonidas snapped. He crouched lower, scanning the area. Beyond the stream, another group lurked, watching. Ambushers, waiting for the first fools to lower their guard.
He saw it then—the trap within the trap. One squad flaunting itself at the stream, another crouched in shadow to strike anyone desperate enough to charge.
Leonidas motioned his men back into cover. "We wait. Let them bleed each other."
They watched as a third squad blundered in, rushing the stream. Shouts tore the night as the hidden ambushers leapt. Spears clashed, boys cried out in pain, water turned dark as the fight devolved into chaos.
Kyros's face went pale. "Gods, they'll kill each other—"
Leonidas's voice was flat. "Better them than us."
When the shouting died, only a handful crawled away from the banks. The ground was littered with broken spears and groaning bodies. The stream still flowed, cool and clear, indifferent to the carnage.
"Now," Leonidas said.
They crept down, wary, every shadow a threat. Nikandros drank first, gulping greedily, Doros kneeling to cup water into his mouth. Kyros trembled but managed to steady his hands. Lysander swore in relief as the cool liquid hit his tongue.
Leonidas drank last, his eyes never leaving the treeline. Theron crouched beside him, his gaze also on the dark. "You saw it before anyone else. That's why we live."
Leonidas didn't answer. He was thinking of tomorrow—of food, of fire, of how many boys would kill for one mouthful of water. This was only the beginning.
The week would be war.