Whispers of the Valley 2

Damon fell silent, his gaze drifting to the horizon, and Lysander's stomach twisted. Did I push too far? She opened her mouth to apologize, to soften the raw edge of her question, but his eyes flicked to hers, halting her words.

"No. He didn't die in war." His voice was low, heavy with something jagged—sadness, yes, but laced with shame. He looked away, jaw tight. "He fled battle. When he limped back to Sparta, they made a spectacle of him. Shunned him publicly, as they do all cowards. Forced him into rags, shaved half his face—everyone who saw him knew his disgrace."

Lysander's breath caught. She knew the fate of tremblers—men who crumbled under Sparta's brutal expectations. Identified by their patched, multicolored cloaks and half-shorn beards, they were pariahs, mocked and stripped of all standing. For Damon to carry that shadow, the son of a coward, explained the relentless pressure from the trainers. He wasn't just fighting to survive the agoge; he was clawing back his family's honor, proving he wasn't his father's echo.

"What happened to him?" she asked, her voice softening, barely above the rustle of the grass.

"He slit his own throat." Damon's words were flat, hollow. "The shame broke him." He paused, then whispered, "Do you think badly of me now?" His eyes fixed on a cloud drifting overhead, as if it might shield him from her answer.

The vulnerability in his voice pierced her. She couldn't bear it—couldn't let him think she'd judge him for a sin he didn't commit. Gently, she brushed the back of her hand against his cheek, turning his face until their gazes locked. His skin was warm, rough with the day's sweat, and her pulse stuttered at the contact.

"Never," she said, leaning closer, her voice firm despite the tremor she hid. "You're not your father, Damon. You're brave—braver than anyone I've seen here. Your mind's sharp, your skills outstrip boys twice our age. Nothing could make me think less of you. Nothing."

He watched her, unreadable, his dark lashes framing those light-green eyes. She felt herself sinking into them, caught in their quiet intensity. Her chest tightened—too close, too much. He can't see me. Not really. But the lie she lived pressed harder against her ribs, a secret she couldn't share, not even with him.

"I treasure you," he said at last, his voice low and steady, cutting through her spiraling thoughts. "Not a day goes by that I don't thank the gods for you."

A smile broke across her face, and she nudged his arm playfully, settling beside him on the grass. "Getting sentimental, are we? I suppose I feel the same."

Her tone was light, but her heart thudded with unspoken weight. His words wrapped around her like a cloak, warm and dangerous, a fleeting peace against the agoge's unrelenting storm. She couldn't linger on it—couldn't let herself feel too much. Not when every bond was a thread that might unravel her disguise.

"What of your mother?" she asked, steering the conversation away from the ache in her chest.

His gaze roamed the vast blue sky. "She died bringing me into this world. Before the agoge, I'd visit her grave whenever I could—lay stones there, talk to her."

In Sparta, only warriors fallen in battle or women lost to childbirth earned inscribed graves—heroes both. Lysander pictured him as a boy, alone at that marker, and her throat tightened.

"So if she died at your birth, how old were you when your father…?" She trailed off, letting him fill the silence.

"Nearly seven," he said, his tone clipped. "I fended for myself until the agoge took me."

A hard life, and they were still just youths—twelve summers old, yet already scarred by loss and survival. It explained his ease in the drills, his knack for thriving where others faltered. He'd lived this harshness long before the trainers demanded it.

They lingered in the clearing until the sun dipped lower, casting golden streaks across the valley. When they finally returned, a crowd of boys blocked their path, huddled around a scene unfolding near the training grounds. Lysander glanced at Damon, who shrugged, and they edged closer. Their herd stood in a ragged line, facing Felix and a knot of trainers.

Felix prowled down the row, tearing tunics from each boy's shoulders, exposing pale, bruised flesh to the air. The fabric ripped with sharp, final sounds, piling at their feet.

"What's happening?" Lysander whispered, a knot of dread coiling in her gut. Her hands clenched, the damp cloth of her own tunic clinging to her skin.

Damon's fingers brushed her arm, a steadying touch. "Don't worry. This is expected. We're twelve now—this is the next phase."

"But we were late," she hissed, eyes darting to the younger boys watching from the sidelines. "I kept us out there too long. I'm sorry—it's my fault."

She'd craved that taste of freedom, a breath beyond the agoge's walls, but now it felt like a noose tightening.

"You!" Gaius's voice cracked like a whip. He seized her tunic, yanking her from the group and hurling her to the dirt. She hit hard, a cry escaping before she could choke it back. Pain bloomed in her side, and she cursed herself—Never show weakness.

Gaius kicked her stomach, a dull thud that stole her breath. She scrambled up, forcing her spine straight, jaw clenched against the ache.

He grabbed her again, arm raised to strike, but Damon stepped between them, his presence calm and unyielding. "We wandered too far," he said, voice even. "The tardiness is mine. I'll take the blame."

"Damon, no—" She reached for him, but he shook his head, silencing her.

Gaius's grip slackened, his glare shifting to Damon. "Both of you, in line. Now."

They shuffled to the end of the row, where boys shivered as their tunics were stripped away. Felix reached Lysander, his rough hands tearing the cloth from her shoulders. She locked her arms at her sides, willing her body not to flinch as the cool air hit her skin. The bindings around her chest held tight, a secret pressed beneath her ribs, but she felt exposed all the same—every eye a threat to her lie.

Felix slapped her bicep, then her chest and stomach, his palm stinging against her skin. "Still a weakling," he growled, shoving a thin red cloak into her hands. "This is your only garment now."

"What about winter?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

He backhanded her, a sharp crack across her cheek. "You don't speak out of turn, boy."

The sting flared, but she glared back, channeling defiance into her stance. Weakling or not, I'm still here.

"That cloak's all you get," Felix spat, turning to the group. "On the battlefield, you'll face heat and cold with nothing but your wits. You'll learn to endure." His voice rose, commanding. "From today, your diet's cut—scraps only. Soldiers go moons without food, so you'll master hunger. Stealing's allowed—but if you're caught, you'll pay. Not for the theft, but for your clumsiness." His eyes flicked to Lysander, cold and mocking. "Live or die. Your fate's yours to shape."

He moved to Damon, stripping his tunic with a swift yank. Damon stood tall, unflinching, his bare skin marked with faint scars from years of drills. Felix smacked his bicep, then his abdomen, nodding. "You're growing strong. Good."

Next came the blades. Linus, a wiry young trainer, grabbed the nearest boy, hacking off his hair with quick, brutal strokes. The shears rasped, locks falling like shed feathers. He worked down the line, and when he reached Lysander, she braced herself. The cold metal grazed her scalp, tugging at the short strands she'd kept to blend in. Her once-long hair—her last tie to the girl she'd been—was already gone, but this cut felt final, a severing of something deeper. Soldiers grow it long, she thought bitterly. If I make it that far.

When Linus finished, she ran a hand over the stubble, a strange, prickling sensation. She glanced at Damon—his golden locks, the ones she'd secretly admired, now littered the ground. He caught her eye and offered a small, reassuring smile, a silent tether between them.