The morning air was crisp, the kind that clung to your skin and filled your lungs with the weight of coming change.
Darius walked with the caravan, a quiet shape among the crates and creaking wheels. Red padded beside him, ever silent, drawing the occasional glance but no questions. The others had accepted his presence the way one accepts a shadow—there, but not threatening.
They had left Amyclae at first light.
The path to Limnai cut through rolling hills and stretches of pine that swayed with every breath of wind. Dry grass lined the road, tall and brittle, brushing against the wheels. Distant shepherds moved flocks across sun-baked slopes. The road itself was dust and stone, shaped by countless footsteps and wooden wheels over generations.
Darius kept his eyes forward.
But his ears... they caught everything.
The creak of harnesses. The quiet murmurs of guards exchanging shifts. The subtle grunt of the lead mare each time the road dipped. It all entered his mind and stayed there. He couldn't help it.
"You're quiet for someone your age," said a voice beside him.
It was her—the woman who led the caravan. She hadn't offered a name yet, and he hadn't asked. Her armor looked older than she did, patched and scored by time, but she wore it like skin. Her short blade was clean. Not polished. Used.
"So are you," Darius replied.
She smirked. "Touché."
They walked a few more steps in silence.
Then Darius asked what he'd been meaning to since the road began.
"What year is it?"
The woman raised an eyebrow.
"You don't know?"
"I was… away."
She studied him for a moment, then shrugged.
"It's the 15th year of the 54th Olympiad," she said. "Early spring. A few weeks into the season."
Darius did the math quickly. His mind still worked like it had in his old life—automatically, with precision.
564 BCE.
So that was the year. Still distant from the great wars he remembered. Still time.
Plenty of time.
He nodded once.
"Thanks."
She didn't pry further. She only kept walking.
A hawk circled overhead, crying into the open sky.
Ahead, the road dipped into shadow—where the hills grew sharper, the trees closer.
The sun climbed high, casting pale spears of light through the breaks in the forest canopy. The wagon wheels clattered softly over the dirt road, accompanied by the occasional snort of a horse and the creak of worn wood.
They were nearing midday.
Darius lay stretched out on a pile of cloth and rope near the back of the last wagon, arms behind his head, eyes half-closed as he watched the clouds drift lazily overhead. The rhythm of the caravan had become familiar—predictable. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Red shifted.
At first, it was subtle. A flick of his ear. A faint growl barely above a breath. But then the wolf stood, muscles tense, nose lifted, eyes darting from one tree line to the other.
Darius sat up.
"Red?"
The wolf didn't look at him. He was locked in—watching the forest as if it might lunge forward at any moment.
Darius felt the prickle of instinct ripple across his skin.
He swung his legs down and jumped lightly from the wagon bed, landing in a crouch. Dust puffed around his boots. Red moved beside him—silent, alert, a hunter ready to strike.
He didn't hesitate.
Darius jogged toward the lead wagon, where the woman—the mercenary commander—was walking beside her horse.
"We've got trouble," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "What kind of trouble?"
"My wolf—he doesn't act like this unless something's wrong."
A nearby mercenary, lean and smirking, scoffed. "We're trusting a pup now?"
"A wolf's nervous and we're supposed to—?"
THWIP—CRACK.
The sound cut the air like a whip.
The man's head snapped back—an arrow buried clean through his temple.
He dropped like a stone. No sound. No final words. Just death.
And then came the roar of movement—branches shaking, hooves stomping, shouts erupting in confusion.
The ambush had begun.
The commander didn't flinch.
She raised her shield, caught another arrow mid-flight, and charged. She slammed into the first attacker, dropped him with a single cut, spun to block another, then swept his leg out and opened his thigh with a brutal slash.
She moved like someone born for war.
The mercenaries fought hard. Ten in total, outnumbered two to one—but they didn't falter. They held formation, struck with precision. Ganesha—though her name was still unknown—held the center like a stone in a flood.
But the enemy pressed harder.
The bandits grew bolder. The mercenaries slowed. Wounds accumulated. Ganesha barked orders while cutting down anyone who came too close.
Still… it wasn't enough.
Until the arrows charged.
At first, they didn't notice.
A bandit raised his axe, charging toward a stunned caravan worker.
THWIP.
An arrow slammed into his temple.
He dropped before his feet stopped moving.
Another turned to flee—THWIP —arrow through the spine.
A third shouted, trying to rally his men—THWIP.
Then silence.
Then panic.
Bandits turned in confusion as their numbers thinned. The mercenaries, bloodied and out of breath, held their ground.
The commander narrowed her eyes and scanned the treeline.
Nothing.
But the bodies didn't lie. Eight more had fallen with precision strikes—one arrow each, perfectly placed, not a single shot wasted.
Finally, one of the mercenaries spotted him.
"There!"
They turned.
And saw the boy.
Darius.
Sitting on the roof of the last wagon, legs swinging idly, bow resting across his lap. His expression unreadable, calm as stone.
He reached into a pouch and pulled out a fig, biting into it slowly.
Juice dripped down his fingers.
Eight bodies. Eight arrows.
No mistakes.
The commander stared at him for a long moment, breathing hard, blood on her arms, her blade dripping red.
Then she let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"I'll be damned," she muttered.
Darius met her gaze from the wagon roof, chewing lazily.
"Good fig," he said.
The dust hadn't even settled before the silence took over.
Smoke drifted across the trail. Bodies lay scattered among the trees, motionless. The mercenaries, bloodied and breathing hard, stood in a rough circle around the wagons, blades lowered but not sheathed.
All eyes turned toward the wagon roof.
Darius sat there, legs swinging lazily over the side, the bow still humming faintly from the last shot. He took another bite of the fruit, as if nothing at all had happened.
One of the older mercenaries muttered, "Gods… he's not even sweating."
The others stayed quiet.
It was the commander who finally broke the tension. She stepped forward, her sword still red, her breath heavy, but her eyes steady on the boy above.
"That was good work," she said—not loudly, not with surprise. Just a statement. Honest and even.
Darius glanced down and nodded once, wiping fig juice from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.
She tilted her head slightly. "You've got a name, kid?"
"Darius," he answered simply.
Something in the way he said it made a few of the mercenaries shift uncomfortably. Not out of fear—but out of understanding.
He wasn't just a kid.
She gave him a nod. "I'm Ganesha. Captain of this caravan. Normally, I don't thank children for saving my life."
She smirked.
"Today's an exception."
Darius hopped down from the roof, landing light on his feet, and slung the bow across his back again. Red trotted to his side from the treeline, fur clean but his ears still alert.
The group watched as the boy passed between them, the wolf at his heel.
No one said a word.
No jokes. No laughter.
Just quiet nods of respect.
They resumed their positions soon after. Some dragged bodies off the road. Others re-checked the horses and supplies. Ganesha gave the order to move again, and the caravan rolled forward—slower now, but whole.
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Perfecto, acá tenés la Parte 4 del capítulo "Deadeye":
Hours passed.
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dry earth. Dust rose in thin spirals behind the wheels, the smell of blood fading into the scent of pine and sweat.
Darius rode on the last wagon, legs folded, cloak draped over one shoulder. Red lay curled beside him, finally resting. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.
And then, as they crested the final hill, he saw it.
Limnai.
The village sprawled below, nestled between two low ridges and fed by the winding Eurotas River. Its walls were taller than those in Amyclae, built of limestone and timber, weathered but proud. Red-tiled roofs glinted under the dying sun. Smoke curled from dozens of chimneys. Watchtowers dotted the perimeter. Fields stretched beyond the outer roads.
It looked old. Hard. Spartan.
They reached the gates just as the last light dipped behind the hills. The entrance was heavily guarded—no lazy spearmen here. These were hoplites. Full armor. Red cloaks. Bronze helms. Stern faces.
Real Spartans.
Ganesha rode at the front, exchanging a short nod with one of the guards. No questions asked. She'd been here before.
Darius stayed near the rear. Red followed without sound, his nose occasionally twitching. The boy's eyes swept across the rooftops, the soft glow of oil lamps, the way the town pulsed instead of bustled. There was no chaos here. Just precision.
Once the wagons rolled to a stop in a modest square, Ganesha turned.
"Darius."
He looked up.
She tossed him something.
A small leather pouch.
He caught it with ease.
Coins inside.
"Payment," she said. "For the meat. And the kills."
He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think we agreed on a price."
She smirked. "We didn't. I'm just giving back what I took."
Inside the pouch were a few bronze oboloi—nothing lavish, but enough for food. Enough to show respect.
He nodded. "Thanks."
"You got a place to stay?"
"No."
"Now you do."
She gestured to a low stone building with a wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze:
The Ram's Rest.
"We're bunking there tonight. You're with us."
He didn't argue.
That night, the beds were straw-stuffed but clean. The roof didn't leak. Red curled near the hearth, eyes half-closed. Darius stretched beneath a wool blanket and listened to the distant sound of a harp from another room. For the first time since waking in this world…
He slept under a roof.
And he didn't dream.
The next morning.
The sky was still silver when he stepped outside, the cold nipping at his skin.
Most of the caravan was still asleep. Ganesha wasn't. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, chewing on dried fruit.
"Going already?" she asked.
Darius adjusted the strap of his satchel. "I have somewhere to be."
She gave him a slow nod. "You'll be alright?"
"I will."
She smirked. "Then good luck, archer."
He stopped at the threshold.
"You too, captain."
Red was already at his side.
The streets were quiet. Vendors rolled carts into place. Smoke curled from rooftops. A temple bell rang once, faint and distant.
Darius walked to the southern gate, where two hoplites stood guard.
Bronze cuirasses. Crimson cloaks. Sharp eyes beneath polished helmets. They weren't just watching the road—they were measuring everything.
He approached with calm, stopping a few steps short.
"My name is Darius. I've completed my punishment in the Taigetos range, by order of the Agōgē."
He held their gaze, unwavering.
"I was sent into the forest for survival. Forty-five days. I returned this morning with the caravan from Amyclae. I need directions to the Agōgē camp to report my status to the primus."
They studied him in silence.
Then one gave a short nod.
The other pointed past the outer road, toward the woods.
"Follow the dirt path until you reach the river bend. Then east, into the trees. You'll see the banners."
Darius gave a respectful nod. "Thank you."
They didn't smile. They didn't move.
Just stepped aside.
And Darius passed through the gate, Red at his heel, the road opening ahead like a trial already accepted