The forest woke with a slow groan, heavy with dew and chill. Mist curled low, clinging to roots and bare ankles. The fire was no more than a bed of pale ash now, a faint line of smoke twisting into the gray morning sky.
Leonidas stood first. He had not slept deeply, though he had closed his eyes. None of them had. His spear was already in his hand when the first bird cried out. His gaze settled on Menon's boys.
"It's time," he said. His voice was rough but certain.
Menon pushed himself to his feet. His movements were stiff, as if every bone was protesting. His boys stirred after him, slow, gaunt, their faces hollowed by the week's hunger.
Nikandros moved close to Leonidas, his words low, biting. "You actually think they'll come back with something? They look like they'll fall over before the sun's up."
Leonidas didn't answer. He was watching Menon tighten his belt, watching the wiry second rub his palms against his thighs, restless.
Doros whispered, "What if they don't come back at all? What if they just vanish into the trees?"
"Then that's one less mouth to feed," Nikandros muttered.
Menon glanced over, hearing him. His jaw set, and for once, his easy smile was gone. "We'll come back," he said flatly. "Doubt it if you want, but starving out here alone isn't an option. We'll fight for it, same as you."
Theron's voice broke through the tension, calm as stone. "If you fail, don't bother returning."
The silence that followed was heavier than any argument. Menon stared at Theron, long enough for the air between them to bristle. Finally, he gave a single sharp nod. "Fair."
The six slipped into the trees, one after another, their figures dissolving into the mist.
Leonidas waited a beat, then signaled with his hand. His squad followed, not close enough to be seen, but near enough to hear the forest if it turned violent.
The woods were alive with damp sound. Droplets fell from leaves in steady rhythm. Birds trilled sharp notes and then went silent without warning, as if sensing predators too near.
For the first hour, nothing stirred but shadows. Hunger gnawed louder than the woods themselves. Doros chewed his lip until blood welled faintly. Nikandros' muttering was constant, under his breath but loud enough to gnaw at the others.
"They'll chase rabbits all morning and come back empty. Waste of daylight. Waste of strength."
Leonidas ignored him. His own stomach twisted like a knotted rope, but he forced the feeling down. Hunger was only weakness if you let it reach your eyes.
Theron scanned the treeline as he walked, silent as ever. Menon will either return with food or he won't. The forest doesn't care who starves. But Leonidas will decide what happens after. That is what matters.
A sharp squeal ripped through the mist.
The boys froze.
Leonidas raised a hand, signaling them lower. His whisper was no more than breath. "Boar."
The noise came again, frantic, snapping through brush and undergrowth. Branches thrashed. The forest itself seemed to flinch.
Menon's group came into view. They had cornered a young boar near a gnarled oak, its bristles raised, tusks flashing. It was smaller than the beast Leonidas had taken before, but rage made it larger than it was.
One of Menon's boys lunged too soon. The spear tip scraped the boar's flank but didn't bite. The animal swung fast, tusks slashing. It caught the boy's leg, tearing deep. His scream tore the air.
The rest of Menon's group shouted, trying to hold formation. The wounded boy crawled backward, dragging his bleeding leg, smearing dirt red.
Menon barked, voice raw but commanding: "Hold! Brace!"
Two of his boys set their spears together, wood trembling in their hands. The boar charged again, crashing against their shafts, teeth gnashing inches from their arms.
From the trees, Nikandros hissed, "This is it—we strike now. Take the kill, let them bleed. Then we eat, and we don't owe them a damn thing."
Doros' face twisted, torn. "They'll die if we leave them. You saw his leg—he can't run."
Theron didn't look away from the fight. His words were for Leonidas alone. "I'll follow you."
Leonidas stepped forward. His grip tightened on the spear, knuckles pale. His eyes locked on the boar, on Menon's straining stance, on the wounded boy's pale face.
"On me," he said, voice steady and sharp.
And with that, the line between watcher and fighter vanished.
Leonidas lunged from the brush, his squad erupting with him. Spears leveled, voices sharp with raw force.
The boar spun, fury red in its eyes. The battle for survival had become a battle of twelve.