Whispers of the Valley

"You're too slow, Lysander!" Damon called over his shoulder, his voice bright with mischief as he sprinted ahead, golden hair flashing like a beacon in the sunlight.

Lysander laughed, a rare, unguarded sound that burst from her chest as she pushed her legs harder, chasing him through the tall, swaying grass. The valley stretched wide around them, a sea of green rippling under a relentless summer sky. Her muscles burned, her breath came in sharp gasps, but the thrill of the chase fueled her—a fleeting escape from the agoge's iron grip.

Nearly two years had passed since that night in the barracks, when Damon had slipped beside her with bread and a whisper of kindness. That single act had tethered their fates, binding them closer with every shared glance, every bruise earned side by side. He'd kept his promise—hours of sparring, teaching her blocks and strikes until her hands bled and her body ached, forging her into something stronger, something that could pass as Spartan. He was her shadow now, her confidant, the one soul she almost dared to trust with the secret that gnawed at her every breath. Almost. The word hung heavy, a wall she couldn't breach—not yet, not ever.

This midday, a rare sliver of freedom had lured them beyond the training grounds into the wild valley, a chance for a friendly race. Not that it was much of a contest—Damon's lean frame cut through the grass with effortless grace, his strides long and sure, while Lysander's shorter legs fought to keep pace. But her determination burned hot, a stubborn ember stoked by the need to prove herself—to him, to the agoge, to the lie she lived.

At twelve, Damon outshone boys years older. He'd felled a wild boar on a hunt last spring, a tale still whispered with awe among the trainees. Yet he wore his skill lightly, his humility a quiet rebellion against the agoge's brutality. What secrets hide behind that gentle smile? Lysander wondered, her eyes tracing his form as he darted ahead. She knew the weight of masks—hers was a girl's face buried beneath dirt and defiance. Did he carry one too?

The valley thickened around her, vines snagging at her tunic, thorns raking her shins. Trees loomed, their branches tangling into a disorienting maze of green and shadow. She pressed on, lungs burning, until she stumbled through a wall of bushes into a hidden clearing—a sanctuary carved from the wild.

It was breathtaking. Tall trees formed a natural wall, their canopy framing a patch of sky where a lone hawk wheeled lazily. A clear stream sliced through the center, its waters glittering like scattered gems, murmuring a soft, ceaseless song. The air smelled of earth and resin, a balm against the sweat and blood of the training grounds. Peace, Lysander thought, her chest loosening for the first time in months.

She knelt at the stream's edge, cupping her hands to drink. The water was cold and sweet, washing away the dust clogging her throat—a moment of pure relief after the chase. The sun beat down, its heat seeping through her tunic, clinging to her skin despite the damp cloth binding her chest. She adjusted it discreetly, wincing as it dug into her ribs. Soon the cold will come, she mused, a shiver ghosting down her spine despite the warmth. Winter would test her disguise even more—hiding her shape beneath layers, masking her voice against chattering teeth.

"Lysander?" Damon's voice echoed nearby, tinged with concern. "Where've you gone?"

She froze, listening. He called again, closer now, then his footsteps faded, veering off the wrong way. A grin tugged at her lips—rare mischief sparking in her chest. She'd stumbled into this haven by chance, thorns and all. He'll never find me here. The thought was a small victory, a flicker of control in a life dictated by masters and fear.

She leaned for another drink, the water cool against her palms, when a sudden weight crashed into her. She yelped, tumbling forward, water splashing across her tunic as she landed face-first in the grass. The breath whooshed from her lungs, leaving her dazed.

"Hah! Got you!" Damon's voice was warm and teasing, his breath tickling her ear. He rolled off her, flopping onto his back beside her, green eyes dancing with amusement.

"I knew you were there," she lied, flipping over to mirror him, her heart still hammering from the surprise. Grass clung to her damp tunic, itching against her skin.

He turned his head, smirking, a knowing glint in his gaze. "Horrible liar. Want to know how I can tell?" He propped himself on an elbow, leaning close—too close—and brushed a finger against the corner of her mouth. "Your lip twitches right here."

She swatted his hand away, scoffing to mask the heat creeping up her neck. "You're too observant for your own good."

"No," he said, lying back, his voice softening as he stared at the sky. "I just know you too well."

The words settled over her, heavy and warm. She studied him as he closed his eyes, sunlight painting his face in gold. High cheekbones, a full curve to his lips, the delicate slope of his nose—he was beautiful in a way that unsettled her. I know you too, she thought, a strange ache blooming in her chest, spreading like wildfire. It scared her, this pull toward him. If he knew her—really knew her—it could destroy everything.

"I've never seen this place before," he murmured, eyes still shut, his tone dreamy. "It's peaceful, isn't it?"

"It is," she whispered, barely audible over the stream's song.

"We should head back," he said, sitting up, his gaze sharpening with sudden seriousness. "They'll expect us soon."

Lysander sighed, tracing a lone cloud drifting across the sky. "Just a while longer… please?" The plea slipped out, raw and unguarded. Here, she could pretend—pretend they were free, unbound by orders and beatings, free from the constant dread of discovery curling in her gut.

"As you wish." He lay back, arms tucked behind his head, his eyes lost in the endless blue above.

A breeze stirred the grass, whispering through the trees in a rustling chorus. The stream hummed its gentle tune, weaving through the clearing like a lifeline. If only we could stay, Lysander thought, her gaze drifting to Damon. Here, she wasn't a lie. She was just… herself, or as close as she could get.

"You've never spoken of your family," Damon said suddenly, his voice soft but edged with curiosity, his eyes still fixed skyward.

Family visits were rare in the agoge—brief, stolen moments drowned by the grind of training. They lived in the barracks, their days a relentless march of drills and discipline, leaving little room for roots or memories.

"You never asked," she replied, watching him, her pulse quickening. She'd guarded those truths like a shield, afraid a slip might unravel her.

A smile curved his lips, softening his features. "Consider this me asking."

She exhaled, threading half-truths with care. "My mother's quiet, always fretting. I have a sister, Leanna, two years older—sharp-tongued, fierce." Her voice faltered, the words tasting distant, like echoes of a life she'd left behind. The agoge had widened that gap, dulling the ache for her mother's touch, the bickering with Leanna, replacing it with survival's cold edge.

"And your father?" he asked, his tone low, probing.

"He died in battle before I was born. They say he was strong, fearless—a true Spartan. Sometimes I wish I'd known him." Her chest tightened, the lie bitter on her tongue. She'd never known him, true, but the rest was a mask for the truth: her mother's terror when she'd cut her hair and slipped away to join the boys.

"Sometimes?" Damon's gaze sharpened, pinning her.

She met his eyes, a storm of longing and fear swirling in her own. "I'm afraid he'd see me and… be ashamed. My skills are shaky, my strength barely enough. My mother worries I'll bring disgrace." If he knew how heavy this cross is, she thought, the weight of her secret pressing harder. "But you—you're different. Your father must've been proud."

He shrugged, head tipping back, his expression clouding. "My father's dead too. I don't know if he'd care."

"War?" she asked, seizing the shift in focus, grateful to escape her own tangled web.

"Yeah. Died fighting the Thebans when I was six. My mother raised me until the agoge took me." His voice was flat, but his fingers twitched, betraying a flicker of pain.

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. "She must miss you."

"Maybe." He turned to her, green eyes searching. "What about you? Do you miss them?"

The question pierced her. "Sometimes," she admitted, voice small. "But here… it's like they're a dream I can't reach." She paused, then added, "You're the closest thing I've got now."

His smile returned, soft and unguarded. "Same for me."

The words hung between them, fragile and electric. Her heart thudded, too loud, too fast. He can't mean it like I do. But as he held her gaze, the valley fading around them, she felt the danger of it—the spark that could expose her, ruin her, and yet drew her closer all the same.