The Edge of the Abyss

The ravine swallowed Lysander whole, its shadows curling around her like a shroud. The stranger led the way, his black cloak billowing as he moved silent and swift over the rocky descent. Her bare feet slipped on loose stones, the cut on her calf throbbing with every step, blood seeping through Damon's makeshift bandage. Her back burned, the lashes from Gaius's whip a pulsing agony, but fear outstripped the pain. Why me? Felix's order echoed, the stranger's rasping Orders a riddle she couldn't solve. Her gut screamed trap, and Gaius's mocking grin—I'll be there when you slip—felt like a prophecy closing in.

She glanced back, the ridge a faint silhouette against the crimson dusk. Damon's face lingered in her mind—his fierce grip, his plea cut short by the horn. He'll come for me, she thought, a flicker of warmth in the cold dread. But that warmth was a blade too—if he followed, if he saw too much, her lie could unravel them both.

"Move," the stranger snapped, his voice a gravelly lash. He didn't turn, his hooded head bent forward, navigating the ravine's twists with eerie precision. She hurried after him, rocks biting her soles, her breath ragged in the thinning air. The walls narrowed, jagged cliffs towering on either side, their edges clawing at the sky. The stream's murmur faded, replaced by a low, ominous hum—wind, or something alive, she couldn't tell.

"Where are we going?" she demanded, forcing her voice low, steady, masculine. A slip now could be fatal.

He didn't answer, just pointed ahead. The ravine opened into a hollow, a natural arena of stone and shadow. At its center stood a figure—tall, broad, cloaked in gray, a spear planted beside him. Torchlight flickered from stakes driven into the ground, casting a hellish glow over his face: Linus, the older trainer from the hunt, his eyes glinting with cold purpose. Two boys flanked him—Thales and Pyrrhus, their smirks sharp as blades, each clutching a short sword.

Lysander stopped short, her heart slamming against her ribs. A test. Or worse—a reckoning. Gaius's words slithered back—Something's off about you, runt—and she wondered if this was his doing, his way to break her.

"Lysander," Linus said, his voice a deep rumble. "You've been chosen."

"For what?" she snapped, clutching her cloak tighter, the bindings beneath a fragile shield. Her leg trembled, but she locked it, refusing to show weakness.

He stepped forward, spear in hand, the torchlight dancing on its bronze tip. "A trial. Spartans don't just endure—they conquer. You've hunted, fought, bled. Now you face the abyss." He gestured to the hollow's edge, where the ground dropped into a black chasm, its depths lost to the dark. "Cross it. Alone. Or don't come back."

Her stomach plummeted. She edged closer, peering down—a sheer drop, thirty feet at least, rocks jagged at the bottom. A rope bridge swayed across, its planks weathered, some missing, the wind tugging it like a taunt. Cross that? Her head spun, the height yanking at her courage. She wasn't built for this—her arms too thin, her grip too weak. A girl's body, she thought, panic rising. But retreat wasn't an option—not with Linus watching, not with Thales and Pyrrhus grinning like jackals.

"Why me?" she asked again, stalling, her voice rough with strain.

Linus's eyes narrowed. "Orders from above. Gaius says you're soft. Felix says you've got grit. Prove one of them right."

Gaius. The name was a punch to her gut. This was his game—push her to the brink, watch her crack. She glanced at the bridge, then back at Linus. "And them?" She jerked her chin at Thales and Pyrrhus.

"They're your shadows," he said, a faint smirk tugging his lips. "To make it interesting."

Her blood ran cold. They'll cut the ropes. Or worse—follow her, force a fight mid-crossing. She was outnumbered, outmatched, her sword left behind after the boar hunt. All she had was her cloak, her wits, and a body screaming for rest.

"Go," Linus barked, slamming his spear into the dirt. "Now."

She swallowed, stepping to the bridge's edge. The first plank creaked under her weight, the ropes groaning as she gripped them. Wind whipped her cloak, tugging at her balance, and she froze, heart in her throat. One step at a time. She moved, slow and deliberate, her bare feet slipping on weathered wood. The chasm yawned below, a hungry maw waiting for her fall.

A laugh rang out—Thales, behind her. She glanced back, saw him and Pyrrhus stepping onto the bridge, swords drawn. "Run, runt!" Pyrrhus called, his blade tapping a rope. The bridge swayed, violent and sudden, and she lurched, grabbing the line to steady herself. Splinters dug into her palms, blood welling, but she pushed forward, faster now, desperation driving her.

The planks thinned—gaps widened, one missing entirely. She leaped, landing hard, the bridge bucking beneath her. Thales's footsteps thudded closer, his sword slashing at a rope. It frayed, snapping with a sharp twang, and the bridge tilted, throwing her against the side. She clung on, legs dangling over the abyss, her breath a ragged sob she couldn't voice. Not now. Not like this.

"Cut it!" Pyrrhus yelled, and Thales swung again. Another rope gave, the bridge listing further, planks splintering. Lysander hauled herself up, scrambling forward, her wounded leg screaming. The far side loomed—ten feet, five—she leaped as the bridge collapsed, a cascade of wood and rope plunging into the dark. Her hands caught the ledge, rocks slicing her fingers, and she pulled, kicking, dragging herself onto solid ground.

She rolled onto her back, panting, blood streaming from her hands and leg. The chasm

swallowed Thales and Pyrrhus's shouts—they'd fallen, or retreated, she couldn't tell. Her chest heaved, relief warring with terror, but the trial wasn't over. Linus's voice cut through the wind. "Not bad, boy. But you're not done."

She staggered up, turning to face him. He'd crossed—how, she didn't know—standing on her side now, spear leveled at her chest. "Fight," he said, simple and final. "Or die."

No weapon, no strength left—she was a cornered animal. He lunged, spear thrusting for her gut. She dodged, barely, the tip grazing her side, tearing cloak and skin. Pain flared, but adrenaline surged, and she dove low, tackling his legs. He stumbled, surprised by her speed, and they hit the dirt in a tangle. The spear skittered away, and she clawed for it, her bloody hands slipping.

Linus roared, pinning her, his weight crushing her battered back. "Weak!" he spat, fist slamming into her jaw. Stars burst in her vision, blood flooding her mouth, but she twisted, kneeing his ribs. He grunted, grip loosening, and she rolled free, snatching the spear. She spun, driving it toward his chest—not to kill, just to stop him. The tip pierced his shoulder, shallow but enough, and he fell back, cursing.

She stood, trembling, spear in hand, blood dripping from her jaw. "Enough?" she rasped, voice low, praying it held.

Linus clutched his shoulder, glaring, but nodded. "Enough. You pass."

Relief crashed over her, but it was short-lived. Footsteps crunched behind her—Damon, breathless, his face pale in the torchlight. "Lys!" he shouted, rushing forward. He'd followed, climbed down somehow, his cloak torn, hands scraped raw. "You're alive—gods, I thought—"

He reached her, pulling her into a fierce embrace, his arms tight around her shaking frame. She stiffened, panic spiking—He'll feel it—the bindings, her shape, too soft beneath the cloak. "Damon, stop—" she choked, pushing at him, but he held on, his breath hot against her neck.

"You're hurt," he said, pulling back just enough to scan her—bloodied jaw, torn leg, hands a mess. His eyes darkened, fierce and tender. "I couldn't stay back. Not when they took you."

Her throat closed, his closeness a fire she couldn't douse. "I'm fine," she lied, stepping free, but her voice wavered, too raw, too high. His brow furrowed, a flicker of doubt crossing his face, and her heart stopped. He heard it.

Before he could speak, Linus staggered up, blood seeping through his fingers. "Get back to camp," he growled. "Both of you. This isn't over."

Damon nodded, guiding her away, his hand on her elbow. She limped beside him, the ravine's shadows stretching long and menacing. Silence hung heavy, his unspoken question a weight between them. He's piecing it together, she thought, terror gripping her. Gaius's trial had pushed her to the edge, but Damon's trust might shove her over it.

As they climbed the ridge, torchlight fading behind, a cry pierced the night—sharp, panicked. She turned, squinting into the dark. Thales stumbled from the chasm, blood streaking his arm, his voice a frantic shout. "Pyrrhus—he's gone! The bridge—"

Linus barked orders, but Lysander barely heard, her gaze locking on Damon. His face hardened, guilt and fear mirroring hers. Another death. The agoge claimed its toll, and she felt it—another crack in her facade, another life tied to her survival.

"Move," Damon urged, pulling her up the final slope. Camp loomed ahead, Felix's silhouette waiting, but as they neared, a figure stepped from the shadows—Gaius, his whip coiled, his grin a slash of triumph. "Survived, did you?" he called, eyes glinting. "Not for long."

Her knees buckled, but Damon caught her, his grip fierce. Gaius knew—maybe not all, but enough. The abyss hadn't taken her, but the real fall was coming, and it wore his face.