The Weight of the Lie

The camp flickered under torchlight, a jagged sprawl of shadows and murmurs as the herd settled into the night. Lysander limped beside Damon, her leg a throbbing mess, her back a map of fire from Gaius's lashes. The air smelled of smoke and blood, her own and the boar's, a stench that clung to her tattered cloak. Gaius's parting words—Not for long—rang like a death knell, his grin a promise of ruin. She felt his eyes even now, lurking in the dark, waiting for her to falter.

Damon's grip on her elbow was steady, too steady, his silence a storm brewing. She could still feel his arms around her in the ravine, the heat of his embrace when he'd found her alive—too close, too dangerous. Her voice had cracked then, a high note slipping free, and his furrowed brow told her he'd heard it. He's piecing it together, she thought, panic clawing her chest. The lie she'd carried for years, the one that kept her alive, was unraveling thread by thread, and Damon held the loose end.

They reached the edge of camp, a cluster of reed beds under a gnarled olive tree. She sank onto hers, wincing as the rough stalks dug into her wounds. Damon knelt beside her, his face tight with something she couldn't name—anger, worry, doubt. He pulled a waterskin from his cloak, offering it. "Drink," he said, voice low, clipped. "You look half-dead."

She took it, her bloody hands trembling, and sipped, the cool water a fleeting balm against her parched throat. "I'm fine," she muttered, forcing her tone deep, rough. A boy's voice. His voice—Lysander, not the girl beneath.

"You're not." He snatched the waterskin back, his green eyes piercing hers. "You're bleeding everywhere—leg, hands, jaw. And you won't let me help. Why?"

Her stomach twisted. "I told you—"

"Stop lying!" His shout cut through the night, sharp enough to turn heads among the herd. He lowered his voice, leaning closer, his breath hot against her face. "You've been dodging me since the hunt. Shutting me out. I heard your voice back there—something's wrong, Lys. Tell me."

Her heart stopped, then raced, a frantic drumbeat. He heard it. The crack in her facade, the girl's pitch she'd fought to bury. She scrambled for a lie, her mind a whirlwind. "It's the pain," she said, too fast. "I was winded—my voice does that. You're imagining things."

He didn't flinch, didn't back off. "I'm not. You're hiding something—have been for years. I've seen it in the way you move, the way you flinch when I get close." His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, gentle but unyielding. "I'm your friend—more than that. Whatever it is, I can take it."

The more than that hit her like a spear, piercing the wall she'd built. Her eyes stung, the truth clawing up her throat—I'm not a boy, I'm a girl, I've lied to you since the start—but fear clamped it down. If he knew, if he turned, she'd lose him. Worse, he'd lose her—Sparta didn't spare liars, not ones like her. "There's nothing to tell," she rasped, yanking her wrist free. "Let it go, Damon."

His jaw tightened, hurt flashing in his eyes, but before he could push, a shadow loomed. Thales stumbled into the torchlight, blood streaking his arm, his face pale and wild. "Felix!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Pyrrhus—he's dead! The bridge—I couldn't—"

The camp erupted, boys surging to their feet, Felix striding forward with Linus at his heels. Lysander froze, Pyrrhus's name a weight on her chest. Another death. She'd felt the bridge snap, heard his shout as it fell—had she caused it? Her hands shook, blood and guilt mingling in her palms.

"What happened?" Felix demanded, grabbing Thales by the shoulder.

"He was behind me," Thales gasped, eyes darting to Lysander. "We cut the ropes—she—he—made it across, but Pyrrhus fell. I climbed back, found him… his neck's broken."

The herd's gaze swung to her, a mix of awe and accusation. Damon stepped closer, protective, but Felix's eyes narrowed. "You crossed," he said, voice flat. "They didn't. Explain."

Her mouth dried, words tangling. "They attacked me—cut the bridge to drop me. I got lucky." She kept her voice low, steady, praying it held. "I didn't mean for—"

"Lucky," Gaius cut in, emerging from the shadows, his whip coiled like a snake. "Or clever. Too clever for a runt." He stalked toward her, his grin a slash of menace. "Thales says you moved fast—too fast for someone half-dead. Makes me wonder what you're hiding."

Her blood ran cold. He's baiting me. She squared her shoulders, meeting his stare. "I survived. That's all."

"Is it?" He stepped closer, towering over her, his breath sour. "I've got something of yours." He pulled a scrap of cloth from his cloak—her binding, torn and bloodied, lost in the ravine. Her heart stopped. "Found it near the bridge. Strange thing for a boy to carry."

The herd murmured, confusion rippling, but Damon tensed beside her, his eyes flicking to the cloth. He knows what it is, she realized, terror gripping her. She'd worn it too long—her secret's armor, now her noose.

"It's nothing," she said, voice steady despite the quake in her bones. "A bandage. I tore it off when I climbed."

Gaius laughed, a harsh bark. "A bandage? Wrapped like this?" He held it up, the shape unmistakable—a chest binding, not a random strip. "Looks like something a girl would use."

The word girl hung in the air, a blade poised to strike. The herd shifted, some scoffing, others frowning. Felix crossed his arms, watching, while Linus smirked from the sidelines. Damon's breath hitched, his hand brushing hers—a question, a lifeline.

"She's no girl," Damon snapped, stepping forward, his voice fierce. "He's taken more lashes than half this camp—killed a boar, crossed that bridge. Call him that again, Gaius, and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Gaius turned on him, whip unfurling. "Defend your little shadow? Maybe you're in on it—covering for him. Or her."

"Enough!" Felix roared, silencing the chaos. He snatched the cloth from Gaius, inspecting it, his face unreadable. "This proves nothing. Yet." He fixed Lysander with a hard stare. "You're too good at surviving, boy. Too quiet. I'll let it slide—for now. But one slip, and you're done."

Relief warred with dread, a fragile reprieve. Gaius scowled, coiling his whip, but his eyes promised more—I'm not done. She nodded at Felix, forcing calm, and stepped back, Damon's shadow a shield she didn't deserve.

The camp settled, Thales sent to rest, Pyrrhus's death a grim footnote. But as the herd dispersed, Damon pulled her aside, his grip tight on her arm. "That cloth," he whispered, voice low, urgent. "It's not a bandage. I've seen you wrap it—every day. What are you hiding, Lys?"

Her chest seized, the lie crumbling under his gaze. "It's… personal," she stammered, pulling free. "A habit. Stop digging."

"A habit?" His voice rose, cracking with frustration. "You're bleeding out, shutting me out, and I'm supposed to believe that? I've fought for you—bled for you—and you won't trust me?"

"I do trust you!" she shot back, too loud, her control slipping. "More than anyone. But this—it's mine to carry. Leave it."

He stared, hurt and fury warring in his eyes, then turned away, fists clenched. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But they're killing you—and me." He stalked off, leaving her alone in the torchlight, the weight of his words a stone on her heart.

She sank onto her bed, head in her hands, Pyrrhus's death and Gaius's threat swirling. He's right. The lie was a poison, seeping into everything—her strength, her bond with Damon, her place here. She couldn't keep it up, not like this. But letting it go meant death—or worse.

A rustle broke her thoughts. She looked up, and Gaius stood there, alone, his whip dangling. "Thought I'd find you sulking," he sneered, stepping closer. "That cloth's just the start. I've got eyes on you—Thales, Linus, others. One mistake, and I'll strip you bare for all to see."

Her pulse raced, but she stood, facing him, defiance masking her fear. "You've got nothing but guesses. Try me."

He grinned, leaning in, his breath hot on her face. "Oh, I will. Tomorrow, we march to the cliffs—Felix's orders. A real test. You'll break, runt—or I'll break you." He turned, vanishing into the dark, his laugh a chilling echo.

She stood frozen, the camp's hum fading to a dull roar in her ears. The cliffs—a death march, a gauntlet she couldn't dodge. Gaius had his proof, or close enough, and Damon was slipping away, his trust fraying. I can't run, she thought, desperation clawing her. But I can't stay like this.

A cry split the night—sharp, panicked—from the camp's edge. She spun, heart leaping, and saw flames licking the sky, shouts rising. "Ambush!" Felix bellowed, the herd scrambling, weapons drawn. Shadows moved in the dark—helots, bandits, she couldn't tell—but they were coming fast.

Damon rushed back, sword in hand, his eyes finding hers. "Lys, move!" he shouted, grabbing her arm. But as they ran toward the fray, a figure stepped from the chaos—Linus, bloodied, a dagger gleaming. "Gaius says now," he hissed, lunging at her.

She dodged, instinct kicking in, but the camp erupted around them—fire, steel, screams—and in the chaos, her cloak caught, tearing free. The bindings beneath glinted in the firelight, exposed for a heartbeat before she yanked it back, but Linus froze, eyes wide. "You're—"

Damon's sword flashed, cutting him down, blood spraying. He turned to her, panting, his gaze locking on the torn cloak, the bindings peeking through. "Lys," he breathed, voice breaking. "What—?"

The question hung, unanswered, as the ambush closed in, and her world teetered on the edge of collapse.