Munch, munch. "Mmm, these figs are amazing. So sweet."
The forest was beautiful — almost like paradise — when the sun was up. But at night, it was harsh. The cold could chill your bones.
I need to find natural shelter today. Building a proper one from scratch would take too much time — not worth it if I wasn't staying here long. To the mountains, then.
It took longer than expected, but after three hours of walking, he finally reached the foot of the mountain. It was magnificent — the view, breathtaking. This should be Taygetos, he thought. In the books, it was said that Spartans threw away deformed children or any kid that had some kind of deviation.
This place will do. Let's just find a cave and get to work.
The Taygetos rose like a sleeping colossus to the west of the Eurotas Valley, its jagged peaks cutting the sky with teeth of stone. Though the sun still burned above, the heat had begun to wane. The air carried a dry, metallic scent, laced with pine resin and the dust of the trail. The cicadas, once deafening, now sang in shorter bursts, as if announcing the slow death of summer.
Forests of cypress and fir clung to the lower slopes, broken by rocky clearings and narrow paths carved by time and the feet of hunters. Higher up, the greenery gave way to stone — cold, ancient, and silent. Small streams whispered their way down the mountain's flanks, hidden beneath brambles and ferns, feeding the land with cold, clear water.
It was a wild, untamed place. Not even the bravest shepherds dared climb too far. Legends clung to the cliffs like mist — stories of abandoned children, of spirits that judged the weak. For the Spartans, the Taygetos was more than a mountain — it was a crucible.
Darius had stopped wandering. His body ached, his stomach gnawed with hunger, but his eyes remained sharp. He moved along the slope of the mountain, where thick trees thinned and the ground rose in uneven steps of rock and dirt. That's when he saw it — a narrow opening in a wall of stone, half-covered by a curtain of ivy and low-hanging branches.
He approached cautiously, crouching low. The opening wasn't deep — no more than a shallow recess in the rock — but it was dry, and the overhanging stone curved just enough to shield it from rain and wind. The floor was uneven but manageable. A shelter. Not perfect, but enough.
Not far below, he had noticed the soft murmur of a stream. Fresh water, cold and clear. He smiled faintly. For the first time since his punishment began, the odds were no longer entirely against him.
He cleared the space first — dragging out fallen branches, stones, and old leaves. Then, using fir needles, dry moss, and bundles of long grass, he built a thick bedding layer to insulate himself from the cold stone beneath. Every plant was chosen carefully; nothing damp, nothing moldy.
The open sides of the recess worried him. He needed warmth. He found broken branches and deadwood nearby — some dry, some not — and stacked them under a tree to dry out further. By sundown, he had a modest pile of fuel and had built a simple fire ring of stones a few steps outside the shelter, careful to avoid smoke collecting beneath the rocky overhang.
Before nightfall, he twisted a few green saplings into a crude frame and laid leafy branches over it, setting it at an angle against the side of the entrance. It wasn't a wall, but it would cut the wind. He'd improve it tomorrow.
That night, he sat by the fire with his back to the rock, staring into the dancing flames. The chill had arrived, creeping down from the peaks, but the heat on his face and the soft bedding beneath him reminded him of something he hadn't felt in days.
Control.
By the third day, hunger had sharpened into something primal. The shelter had bought him safety. Water kept him alive. But now his body demanded more. Fuel. Protein. Focus.
The Spartan bow lay across a flat stone near the firepit. Thick. Rigid. Crude. It was designed to fire heavy shafts at close range — more tool than weapon. He'd seen similar builds in museums. Functional, yes — but wildly inefficient.
He turned it over in his hands, feeling the unbalanced weight, the uneven pull.It's a club pretending to be a bow, he thought.
The string was worse — braided gut, coarse and dry. It might last a few more shots before fraying. With this kind of tension, there was no chance to get a clean arc, let alone proper velocity.
He exhaled slowly.I can work with this. I just need to think like a primitive engineer.
Using a small flat stone, he began shaving and sanding the grip, tapering the limbs slightly to reduce mass and allow more flex. He loosened the string, adjusting the brace height. Then, he split a strip of inner bark from a nearby willow and soaked it — a future replacement string in case the original snapped.
It wouldn't become a modern composite bow overnight — but with patience, it would become his.
That task would take time. And hunger wouldn't wait.
Near the stream, fish flickered just beneath the surface — lean, fast, and perfect for eating.
He crafted a spear from a straight shaft of olivewood, using his fire-hardened blade to carve a point. With no glue or binding, he couldn't risk a barbed head — not yet. But he could make it sharp and true.
Kneeling beside the water, he watched. Breathing slowed. Focus narrowed.First attempt — too soon.Second — too shallow.Third — he corrected for the water's refraction, and this time the spear pierced deep.
When he pulled it back, the tip quivered with silver muscle.His lips tightened into a brief, satisfied line.
The fourth day brought no rain, only wind — dry and steady, brushing down from the upper slopes. Darius moved silently through the brush, eyes low, ears alert. He wasn't hunting with weapons now. He was hunting with ideas.
Small trails crisscrossed near the stream — narrow prints, droppings, disturbed leaves. Rabbits, or something close. Maybe hares. He crouched and studied a cluster of tracks near a berry bush.
They feed here. Same time every morning. Same route in, same route out.
He returned to the shelter and began working. Using forked sticks, tensioned saplings, and stones, he built simple snare traps. Not elegant, but deadly if stepped in. He used strips of bark for cord, anchoring them deep in the soil. He set five across the area, camouflaged with leaves and loose dirt.
The fifth day, two of them were triggered — but empty. False alarms. The third snare held fur.
It wasn't much. A young rabbit, thin but edible. He skinned it carefully, preserving the hide for later use. It wasn't enough to fill him, but it was proof.The system worked.
But something else had changed.
Near the southern edge of his perimeter, he found deeper prints. Hoofed. Heavy.Soil torn, branches broken at chest height. A sharp, musky stench lingered in the air.
Boar, he thought, crouching beside the tracks.It had been here at least twice — the same spot, circling the stream. Maybe looking for roots. Maybe watching him.
It was big. Too big for a direct confrontation.
But not too smart.
He spent the next day and a half planning.
First, he set a warning system — stones balanced on branches that would clatter if disturbed. Then, he dug a shallow pit near the trail, masking it with dry grass and thin sticks. Nothing too deep — just enough to slow the animal down.
Next, he sharpened two spears and wedged one into the earth at an angle, hidden behind a blind of brush. The second he kept in his hand.
The evening of the sixth day, the wind changed. He could smell it before he heard it — a heavy grunt, the low rustle of something large moving with confidence.He crouched, heart steady. Muscles coiled.
The boar stepped into view — massive shoulders, bristled hide, tusks dark with dirt. It sniffed, snorted, and moved forward.
It triggered the first noise trap. Startled. Rushed forward.Its front leg dropped into the shallow pit. It stumbled — just enough.
Darius lunged from the side, driving the spear forward with all his weight. The angle was perfect. The sharpened wood pierced the neck just behind the jaw.
The boar shrieked and thrashed — once, twice — then collapsed into silence.
Darius stood over the carcass, breathing hard, blood on his arms, his face cold and expressionless.
No mistakes.
The boar lay still, steam rising from the wound as its blood soaked into the forest floor. Darius didn't celebrate. He only stared — chest heaving, arms trembling from the final thrust. It was over. His plan had worked — not because of luck, but because of control, calculation, timing.
He crouched beside the body, blade in hand, already thinking through the process: bleeding it out, separating the organs, drying the meat, preserving the hide. Nothing would go to waste.This kill would buy him days, maybe weeks.It meant strength. Stability.
A base.
But as he wiped the blood from his forearm, something shifted in the wind.
Distant. Faint.Then again — closer.
A howl.
Long. Drawn-out. Answered by another. And another. Echoing through the trees like a chorus of ghosts.
His eyes narrowed. He stood slowly.
Wolves.
They had caught the scent.
He looked down at the boar — his victory, his resource — and then toward the darkening forest.
He had food now. But he was no longer alone.