The training field had cleared, but the sun still burned high overhead. Dust clung to every surface, and the smell of sweat hung thick in the air.
Darius stood across from Drakos, his hands behind his back, posture straight. The older man studied him in silence, then motioned toward a wooden rack lined with Spartan weapons.
A dory rested on one side—long and balanced.
Beside it, a xiphos—short and sharp, designed for close quarters.
And next to them, a hoplon—round, heavy, and wide, the iconic shield of Sparta.
"This," he said, motioning to the weapons, "is the foundation of hoplomachía."
Darius tilted his head slightly. The word was unfamiliar—but it sounded important.
"The art of fighting with weapons," Drakos continued. "We do not train like Athenians, dancing around in light armor. We fight as one body, shield and blade, spear and breath. Your footwork, your balance, your instinct—everything must serve the weapon in your hand, and the brother at your side."
He stepped toward the rack, tapping each item as he spoke.
"The hoplon protects the man beside you."
"The dory strikes first."
"The xiphos finishes what the spear cannot."
Darius absorbed every word.
Drakos turned back to him.
"You will not learn tricks. You will not be taught flourishes or acrobatics. In Sparta we train to survive, to kill and endure. Our style is not graceful. It is efficient. No wasted motion. No unnecessary strikes."
He gestured to the rack once more.
"You'll learn them all," Drakos said, voice even. "But you'll start with one. Choose."
Darius didn't move at first.
His gaze swept across the rack—spear, sword, shield—each one radiating history, weight, expectation. Any other boy might have lunged for the spear, eager to strike first. Or the xiphos, short and sharp, familiar in shape.
But Darius... thought.
He raised his hand and pointed to the hoplon.
Drakos arched an eyebrow. "The shield?"
Darius nodded. "It's the one I understand the least."
He stepped closer, fingers curling around the inner grip.
"I've trained my body. I've learned how to strike, how to move. But balance… weight… coordination under pressure…" He looked up at Drakos. "I've never fought with something like this."
He lifted the shield slightly, feeling its awkward pull to one side. It was heavier than he expected, and already, his stance shifted instinctively to compensate.
"If I can master this," Darius said quietly, "the rest will follow."
Drakos arched an eyebrow, amused. "Most boys your age reach for the spear first. They want to kill, not survive."
Darius shrugged. "I want to learn to do both."
"It's not just armor," Drakos said, circling him. "The shield is a weapon. And it's the soul of a Spartan."
Darius listened in silence.
"You drop your spear, they call you unlucky. You drop your sword, they call you clumsy." Drakos stopped in front of him, gaze sharp. "You drop your shield… and they call you coward."
He stepped back and pointed to a wooden dummy.
"Now move. Push. Strike. Find the weight."
Darius lunged forward, driving the edge of the hoplon into the dummy's chest. It didn't move.
He tried again. This time, angling his body behind it. The dummy shifted.
Drakos barked corrections.
"Don't swing it like a hammer—press it like a wall. Short steps. Low stance. Breathe with the blow."
Over and over, Darius practiced—bashing, blocking, turning. His shoulders burned. His legs trembled. Sweat soaked through his tunic. But he didn't stop.
The training wasn't flashy.
It was brutal.
Drakos watched with a practiced eye.
After nearly an hour, he called a halt. Darius lowered the shield, chest heaving, arms shaking.
Drakos stepped closer. "You'll keep training with the hoplon until you move like it's part of your body. When that happens, we add the dory."
Darius nodded through gritted teeth.
By the time Darius made it back to the barracks, the sky was streaked with orange and purple, the last warmth of the day bleeding over the stone walls. The dormitory buzzed with the usual chaos—cadets laughing, arguing over dice rolls, some already asleep despite the noise.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, rolling his neck. His arms still burned, and his left forearm had a red welt where the hoplon had smashed into it again and again.
Cleon was lounging on his cot with his feet up, lazily tossing a small stone into the air and catching it with one hand. He looked up as Darius entered and grinned.
"Well, look who survived day one."
Darius grinned back, exaggeratedly dragging his feet across the floor like a corpse.
"Barely," he said. "I think my spine's shorter now."
Cleon laughed. "What did they throw at you?"
Darius flopped onto his own cot with a heavy sigh. "Drakos. Personally."
Cleon sat up a bit straighter, eyes widening. "Drakos trained you? That explains the corpse-walk."
"He had me working the shield for what felt like hours. Just the shield. He made me feel like I've never stood on two legs before."
Cleon chuckled and shook his head. "That old bear doesn't waste time, huh?"
Darius chuckled, then shook his head, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
"No, he doesn't. But today taught me something important."
Cleon raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
Darius sat up slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
"I always thought of the shield as just defense. A thing to block with. But it's more than that—it sets the pace. The weight shifts your balance, changes how you move, how you breathe. Every decision starts with it."
He paused, then sighed.
"But I've got a long way to go. I'm not used to fighting with something that big strapped to my arm, let alone pairing it with a spear or a sword."
Cleon leaned back, thoughtful.
Darius continued, more to himself now.
"It's going to take time. Real time. My body's strong, sure—but that won't mean anything if I can't control the rhythm of a fight. Drakos knows it too. That's why he started me there."
He looked at Cleon and gave a half-smile.
"Luckily, we've got a few months left before the tournament."
Cleon grinned. "Plenty of time to become a wall that hits back."
Darius leaned back on his cot again, letting his muscles relax just enough before the soreness set in fully. Then, casually:
"How about you? How well do you handle weapons?"
Cleon's grin spread slowly, like a challenge forming in real time.
"Well enough," he said. "Want me to show you?"
Darius raised an eyebrow.
Cleon stood, already grabbing a pair of training hoplons from the rack near the door. He tossed one to Darius, who caught it midair with a grunt. The weight was still unfamiliar in his hand, but his competitive spirit lit up instantly.
"I accept," Darius said, standing. "I haven't lost to you yet, and tonight won't be the first."
Cleon only chuckled. "Big words for someone who still holds it like a dinner plate."
The two made their way to the empty stretch of yard just behind the barracks. A few cadets, noticing the movement, followed with curious eyes. Someone muttered something about Darius getting crushed. Another laughed.
They faced each other, feet braced in the sand, shields raised.
"Ready?" Cleon asked.
Darius nodded.
The next moment, Cleon lunged.
Darius managed to catch the first push, but the momentum knocked him a step back. He tried to counter with a forward rush, but his balance was off. Cleon pivoted cleanly, slammed the rim of his shield into Darius's side, and spun again for a final shove.
THUMP.
Darius landed flat on his back, the sky blinking lazily above him.
He groaned.
Cleon stood over him, laughing. "You're lucky I like you, giant. Otherwise, I'd be charging you rent for how often you end up lying under the stars."
Darius muttered something unintelligible and sat up.
Cleon reached down and helped him to his feet, still smiling. Pfff—haha! You'll need four or five lives to beat me with a shield, Darius."
Darius shook his head with a sheepish grin. "Maybe six."
The cadets watching burst out laughing. One of them slapped his knee. "This is who we're supposed to be afraid of in the tournament?"
Another chimed in, "If all it takes is a shield to beat him, I'm bringing a door!"
The group dissolved into laughter as they walked away.
Darius didn't mind. Not much, at least.
He dusted himself off and looked at Cleon.
"I'm going to get better."
"Of course you will".
That night, long after the laughter had died and the barracks had gone quiet, Darius stood alone in the training yard.
The moon hung low and pale above the rooftops, casting a soft silver light across the sand.
He held the hoplon strapped to his left arm, its curved edge gleaming dully in the dark. His muscles still ached from earlier, but he didn't care.
He raised the shield again.
Step. Brace. Rotate. Step again.
Keep it close. Keep it tight.
He repeated the motions over and over—basic forms, blocks, short pushes. His footwork was still off. His balance still shifted too much with each move.
But it was improving.
Slowly.
He could feel it.
Every breath became more controlled. Every adjustment more natural.
It's not just a shield, he thought. It's a weapon. It's armor. It's your rhythm. Your wall. Your anchor.
He pivoted on his heel, mimicking the way Cleon had moved. He stumbled the first time, corrected the second, and finally nailed it the third.
He stood there for a moment, catching his breath.
Then reset.
Again.
And again.