The Hunt in the Dark

The moon hung low, a silver sliver casting jagged shadows across the valley. Lysander crouched behind a gnarled olive tree, her breath shallow, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The night air bit at her bare arms, the thin red cloak offering little against the chill. Somewhere in the dark, the other boys moved—silent, predatory, their footsteps muffled by the damp earth. This wasn't training anymore. This was survival.

Felix's voice still echoed in her skull from hours earlier, barked out as the sun bled into the horizon. "Tonight, you hunt. Pairs of you against the herd. Steal their cloaks, their food, their pride—or be the prey. The weak don't return." His grin had been a blade, sharp and cruel. "Live or die. Prove you're Spartans."

She'd paired with Damon, of course—instinct, necessity, something deeper she couldn't name. Now, pressed against the tree, she scanned the shadows for him. He'd slipped ahead to scout, his silhouette swallowed by the night. Where are you? Panic clawed at her, but she shoved it down. She couldn't falter—not here, not now, when every misstep risked exposing her.

A twig snapped to her left. She froze, her hand tightening around the rough stick she'd scavenged as a weapon. Her stomach growled, a hollow roar after days of near-starvation, but hunger was an old friend now. She'd failed at stealing again yesterday—caught snatching a scrap of meat from the trainers' fire, earning five lashes that still stung across her shoulders. Not tonight, she vowed. Tonight, she'd take what she needed, prove she belonged.

Footsteps crunched closer, deliberate and heavy. She peeked around the trunk, squinting through the gloom. A broad figure loomed—Linus, one of the older boys, his cloak flapping like a tattered wing. He carried a stolen loaf, clutched tight against his chest, his eyes darting for threats. Alone. Vulnerable.

Lysander's pulse surged. Now or never. She darted from cover, stick raised, aiming for his knees. He spun at the last second, dropping the bread to block her swing. The wood cracked against his arm, and he grunted, lunging at her with meaty fists. She ducked, smaller and faster, and drove her shoulder into his gut. He staggered, breath whooshing out, but hooked her ankle with his foot. She hit the dirt hard, pain flaring through her bruised back.

"Little runt," Linus snarled, towering over her. "I'll strip you bare and leave you for the wolves."

Fear spiked, sharp and cold. He can't see me—not like that. Her bindings held, but a ripped cloak could end her. She rolled as his boot came down, missing her head by inches, and scrambled up, stick lost. He charged, a bull in the dark, and she dodged again, desperation fueling her. Her hand brushed a rock—jagged, heavy. She seized it, whirling to face him.

Before she could strike, a shadow blurred past her. Damon—silent, swift—tackled Linus from the side, sending him sprawling. The older boy roared, grappling, but Damon was a storm of precision. A knee to Linus's ribs, a fist to his jaw, and he slumped, dazed. Damon ripped the cloak from his shoulders, tossing it to Lysander with a breathless grin.

"Move!" he hissed, snatching the bread from the ground. "They're closing in."

She caught the cloak, adrenaline buzzing, and sprinted after him, the stolen fabric clutched tight. Shouts erupted behind them—other boys, the herd waking to the theft. Branches clawed at her legs as they plunged deeper into the valley, the stream's murmur guiding them. Her lungs burned, her bare feet bleeding from thorns, but Damon's pace didn't falter. He was a beacon, golden hair glinting faintly under the moon, and she clung to that light.

They skidded into a shallow gully, dropping low behind a tangle of roots. Lysander pressed against the earth, panting, her back screaming from the lashes. Damon crouched beside her, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, his breath hot against her cheek. He broke the bread in half, shoving a piece into her hands.

"Eat," he whispered, eyes scanning the dark. "You're shaking."

She hesitated, hunger warring with guilt "You're shaking."

She hesitated, hunger warring with guilt—he'd risked himself for this, for her—but took it, tearing into the crust with ravenous bites. The taste was stale, gritty, but it filled the void, steadying her trembling hands. "Thanks," she muttered, voice rough.

He nodded, chewing his own share, his gaze flickering to her. "You held your own back there. Fast. Smart."

"Almost got caught," she said, wiping crumbs from her lips. "If you hadn't—"

"You'd have managed." His tone was firm, cutting off her doubt. "You're tougher than you think, Lys."

The words warmed her, but they stung too. Tough enough to keep lying? She swallowed, the bread sticking in her throat. Every moment with him tightened the knot—his trust, his closeness, a thread pulling at her secret. What if he knew?

Rustling broke her thoughts. Damon tensed, hand on her wrist, silencing her. Two figures crept along the gully's edge—Thales and Pyrrhus, lean and feral, their cloaks marked with dirt. Hunters now, not prey. Lysander's grip tightened on the stolen cloak, her pulse racing. They'd taken Linus down, but these two were sharper, meaner.

Damon leaned in, his whisper barely a breath. "We split. Flank them. You go left—I'll draw them right."

"No," she hissed, clutching his arm. "We stay together."

He met her eyes, green and fierce in the moonlight. "Trust me. We've got this."

Her stomach twisted, but she nodded, releasing him. He slipped right, a shadow melting into the night, while she crept left, hugging the gully's curve. The damp earth chilled her knees, the air thick with pine and sweat. She circled wide, heart hammering, until she saw Thales ahead, his back to her. Pyrrhus had veered toward Damon's rustling—bait taken.

She lunged, slamming into Thales with all her weight. He yelped, crashing face-first into the mud, and she yanked his cloak free, tearing it from his shoulders. He flailed, grabbing her leg, but she kicked loose, sprinting back toward the gully. Shouts rang out—Pyrrhus charging after Damon, Thales scrambling up behind her.

"Damon!" she yelled, voice cracking the silence. She couldn't see him, only heard the thrash of branches. Panic surged—Where is he?—but then he burst from the dark, Pyrrhus's cloak in hand, blood streaking his cheek from a fresh cut.

"Run!" he barked, grabbing her wrist. They bolted, weaving through trees, the herd's cries echoing closer. Her legs screamed, her vision blurring, but Damon's grip anchored her. They dove behind a boulder, collapsing in a heap, breaths ragged.

For a moment, silence—just their panting, the thud of their hearts. Then Damon laughed, low and wild, head tipping back against the rock. "We did it. Two cloaks, bread—we hunted them."

Lysander grinned despite herself, the rush still buzzing in her veins. "Barely."

"Barely's enough." He turned to her, eyes glinting. "Told you—you're brave when it counts."

Her smile faltered. Brave enough to tell you the truth? The thought choked her, the stolen cloaks heavy in her lap. She shifted, wincing as her back twinged, and his hand brushed her shoulder—gentle, probing.

"You're hurt," he said, voice dropping. "Let me see."

"No!" She jerked away, too sharp, too fast. His touch burned, a threat to the bindings beneath

her cloak. "I'm fine."

He frowned, hand hovering. "Lys, you're bleeding through. Let me—"

"It's nothing," she snapped, pulling the cloak tighter. He can't look. He can't know. Her chest heaved, panic clawing up her throat. The lashes were shallow, but any closer inspection risked everything.

Damon's jaw tightened, hurt flashing in his eyes, but he dropped his hand. "You don't have to hide from me."

The words hit like a spear. I do. More than you'll ever understand. She looked away, guilt and fear tangling inside her. He was too close—too kind, too perceptive. Every day with him pulled her secret taut, a thread ready to snap.

A shout cut the night—Felix's voice, distant but closing. "Time's up! Back to the grounds—or stay out here to rot!"

Damon stood, offering his hand. "Come on. We've got spoils to show."

She took it, his grip warm and steady, and hauled herself up. But as they started back, a rustle stopped her cold. Eyes gleamed from the dark—Gaius, watching, his silhouette a predator's. He'd seen them. Seen her. Her stomach dropped, ice flooding her veins. Did he notice?

"Lys?" Damon tugged her forward, oblivious. "Move!"

She stumbled after him, Gaius's gaze a weight on her back, the night swallowing her dread. The hunt was over—but for her, the real danger was just beginning.