The torches of the royal hall crackled softly as the wind rolled in from the mountains. The stone walls bore the weight of centuries, and in the center of it all stood a man cloaked in crimson — the king of Sparta, Eurymenes of House Agiada.
Before him, barefoot on the cold marble floor, stood his youngest son.
Argos.
He was no older than eight, but already his shoulders were squaring, his jaw hardening. There was discipline in his stance, sharpness in his eyes — and fire waiting behind them.
Eurymenes looked down at him with the measured gaze of a warrior and a father.
"You are the most talented of my sons," he said at last.
"But talent is nothing," the king continued, voice like iron dragging over stone. "A king does not rise by gifts of the gods. A king must be the best. The strongest. The one who crushes whatever dares block his path — even if that path runs through blood."
A long silence followed.
Argos breathed in through his nose, held the air in his chest, and nodded once.
"I understand."
He did.
Even at that age, he understood everything.
From that day on, his life had a single purpose: to become the kind of king his father believed in. The kind the world would fear.
He trained harder than anyone. Fought older boys. Sparred against grown men. He learned from tutors, studied the wars of the past, the politics of the present, and the ambitions of those around him.
His body became a weapon. His mind, a forge.Not for glory.Not for admiration.
But because he had been born to rule.
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The sand beneath Darius' feet felt heavier than before. His body, stiff. His arms slower. The crowd still cheered, but it was a distant hum — like the sea inside a shell.
Across from him, Argos Agiade stepped into the arena.
The prince.
Broad-shouldered, eyes calm, not a drop of sweat on him. His shield was pristine. His sword untouched. He didn't look excited. He didn't even look angry.He looked ready.
The crowd hushed.
Darius raised his shield. Took the sword from the rack. His fingers barely curled around the hilt.
Argos didn't speak. He just saluted and moved.
The first clash was like thunder.
Argos struck fast — two slashes and a thrust in under two seconds. Darius blocked the first, dodged the second, barely parried the third. The impact made his arm tremble.
He stepped back.
Argos advanced again.
Sharp angles. Perfect footwork. The kind of movement that came from years of practice, not just talent. His sword flashed like silver lightning, his shield turned every attempt from Darius into nothing.
Darius couldn't find a gap.He wasn't in control this time.
A kick from Argos slammed into his ribs. He staggered and the sword sweep grazed his cheek, his blood slowly coming out of the wound.He blocked a strike too late and lost his balance, falling to the ground.
Gasps echoed from the stands.
Argos stood over him — not gloating nor cruel, he was just taking every action to win.
Darius rolled, barely in time to avoid the finishing strike. He stumbled to his feet, panting.
Every exchange became tighter each time and while Argos pressed, Darius gave ground.He was being dissected.
And yet…He kept moving.
Each dodge bought him a second. Each failed counter made Argos just a little more aggressive. And aggressiveness begets miss calculation.
Argos lunged, sword high, shield open for just a blink.
Darius didn't think.He stepped inside. Slammed his shoulder forward, the difference in physique could be overcome with technique and weapons, but if the difference was overwhelming then it became an arduous task to overcome.Both shields crashed.
Argos stumbled, losing ground, enough to take the opportunity.
Darius spun, using his shield as a blunt weapon, hitting his opponent hard on the head.
Argos flew like a rag doll totally knock out.
Darius stood still, chest heaving, barely believing it.His shield hand trembled, dropping it.
He didn't raise his fists. Didn't roar.
He just stood there, one breath away from collapsing.
The crowd exploded.
Some stood. Others chanted. A name began to rise — scattered at first, then louder, swelling like a tide.
"Darius! Darius! Darius!"
But Dion didn't stand.He didn't smile.He clenched his jaw, eyes sharp as obsidian.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
He was supposed to fall.
One match should've broken him. Two, at most. But now… now he had bested even the prince of the Agiades — the one Dion believed would not fail.
And yet there he stood.Bloodied and exhausted but still standing.
Dion's fingers curled behind his back. His voice, when it came, was cold and ruthless.
"There is no need to wait."
The cheers faded. Heads turned.
He stepped forward, gaze fixed on the arena.
"There is only one left. No breaks. No speeches."
His words weren't for the crowd.They were for Darius.
"No recovery."
He raised his hand and pointed across the sand.
"Therion of house Hyllidai. Enter the arena."
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He remembered everything.
Therion had memories from when he was barely a year old.He remembered the shape of the ceiling above his crib, the cadence of voices, the way sunlight hit the stone floor in the mornings.
He walked at one month.Spoke in complete sentences before his first year.And when he first held a sword…It was like finding the other half of his soul.
He didn't learn — he absorbed.Forms, footwork, tempo, breathing — every lesson took root instantly.
Other boys couldn't keep up.Among adults, only his father and the highest-ranking warriors of House Hyllidai could match him — of course they held back, but his technique was top notch.
To the rest of the world, he was quiet.To his teachers, terrifying.
And now he stood at the edge of the arena, blade in hand, heart still.
High above, in the shaded seats reserved for noble houses, two men watched him closely.
The first wore the red-cloaked armour of a captain — commander of the Hyllidai forces. His arms were crossed, but his eyes gleamed.
"This is it," he whispered. "The moment our house returns to the top, Sparta will remember the name Hyllidai."
Beside him, dressed in robes of dark blue, sat Traial, the patriarch of the family — and father of Therion.
He didn't smile.Didn't nod.
Instead, he sighed.
"I only wish his opponent weren't already broken," he murmured. "This isn't a fight… it's a formality."
He said it with no pride.Only a tinge of regret.
And below, Therion stepped into the sand, the final match was coming.