By the third day in the wild, the forest no longer felt like earth and sky. It was a battlefield without banners, where boys hunted each other as much as they hunted beasts. The trees, once silent, now echoed with distant cries and the clash of iron.
Leonidas's squad crept along a ridge, their bodies gaunt with hunger, their faces hollow from thirst. Smoke rose in the valley below—thin at first, then thick enough to twist into a column. Where there was smoke, there was fire. And where there was fire, there was food.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of meat. Grease and char, heavy and rich, hitting their stomachs like a blade. Nikandros snarled aloud, his voice raw.
"They've caught something big. A feast." His fists clenched. "We take it. We take it now."
"Patience," Doros muttered, his voice hoarse. His hand pressed to his stomach, but his eyes stayed sharp. "A fire like that's a challenge. They'll guard it. We'll pay in blood for every bite."
Kyros's lips parted, cracked and bleeding. His eyes burned as he stared at the smoke. Meat. Gods, real meat. If I could just taste it, just once, I'd have the strength to go on. But if we fight for it… will I fall again?
Lysander spat into the dirt. "You're both blind. Every starving fool in the hills is smelling the same thing. They'll all be there. Let the idiots kill each other. Then we'll take what's left."
Theron crouched low, his expression unreadable. "And if we wait too long, there'll be nothing left to take." His eyes cut toward Leonidas. "Decide."
Leonidas squinted down at the clearing. His heart pounded, but his mind remained cold. Three squads circled the fire already. One defended the carcass—a boar, fat and charred, ribs splayed over flames. Another stalked them from the treeline, spears raised. A third crept closer, half-hidden in brush.
A trap within a trap. Hunger made men careless. Leonidas could smell the blood before the first clash began.
The defenders roared as the second squad charged. Spears slammed into shields. Boys screamed. One staggered back with a shaft through his thigh. The third squad sprang their ambush, shrieking like wolves. The fire's glow painted their faces with madness as steel met steel.
Kyros whimpered, trembling. "They're killing each other for it…"
Leonidas's voice was iron. "Better them than us."
He watched, every detail sinking into his mind. The defenders held for a time, their formation tight, but exhaustion dragged them down. The ambushers cut into their flank, blood spraying across the flames.
Then the line broke.
Leonidas's hand rose. "Now."
They descended like shadows on the chaos.
Nikandros charged first, his roar echoing off the trees as his shield crushed a wounded boy's jaw. Doros slammed into another, his weight carrying them both into the dirt. Kyros thrust wildly, eyes wide, his spear slicing skin but not bone—until Theron's precise thrust finished the work, swift and merciless. Lysander spat curses as he struck, his rage driving him to carve down those already on their knees.
The clearing became theirs in heartbeats. The fire hissed where blood splattered the coals. Broken bodies lay scattered around the boar, some groaning, others silent forever.
Nikandros tore a hunk of meat free with his bare hands, grease running down his chin as he devoured it. "Victory," he snarled between mouthfuls. "Real victory."
Doros knelt beside the carcass, his heavy breaths like a smith's bellows. "Eat, but ration it. This beast must last us." His big hands worked quickly, stripping meat with practiced care.
Kyros sat trembling, tears streaking through the grime on his face as he chewed. "It's… it's food. Real food." He laughed once, hollow and desperate, before biting again.
Lysander cursed even as he stuffed his mouth. "By the gods, I've never tasted better. Damn them all—we'll live, and they'll rot."
Theron ate slowly, deliberately, his gaze sweeping the treeline. He chewed each bite like it was nothing more than fuel, his attention fixed outward. "They'll come," he said flatly. "The smell will drag more. We'll have to fight again soon."
Leonidas ate last. The meat was heavy and rich, coating his mouth, easing the hollow ache in his belly. But the taste wasn't victory. It was necessity. His eyes traced the broken boys sprawled around the fire. This is the true trial, he thought. Hunger that makes wolves of men. Hunger that teaches strategy more than any drillmaster's rod ever could.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze hard. "We've won a feast tonight. But this week isn't over. If we drop our guard, we'll be dead before the fire burns out."
The crackle of flames filled the silence. The squad sat closer than they had in days, chewing, breathing, watching the dark. They had meat in their hands and blood on their boots.
And for the first time, Leonidas felt the bond of survival pulling them tighter. Not loyalty—not yet. But the wall was being forged.