Tangled in the Mist

Mist coiled thick around the cliff's summit, a gray shroud swallowing the herd as helot war cries pierced the dawn. Lysander gripped Linus's dagger, its blade still tacky with his blood, her torn cloak flapping in the wind. Damon stood beside her, his sword raised, his eyes burning with the question he'd barely voiced—What are you hiding? The bindings beneath her cloak hung loose, frayed from Gaius's whip, a heartbeat away from spilling her secret. Firelight from the camp below flickered through the fog, a distant echo of chaos, but here, the helots closed in—shadows with spears, their footsteps a drumbeat of death.

"Form up!" Felix bellowed, his voice cutting through the haze. The herd—ten left, battered and bleeding—rallied into a ragged circle, backs to the cliff's edge. Lysander pressed in beside Damon, her leg a pulsing ache, her back a furnace of pain from the lashes. Gaius limped at Felix's side, his thigh wound seeping, his whip coiled but his grin sharp as ever. He's waiting, she thought, dread icing her veins. Waiting for her to falter, for Damon to see, for the helots to finish what he'd started.

A spear flew from the mist, thudding into Kratos's shoulder. He grunted, dropping to a knee, and the herd tightened, swords flashing. "Hold!" Felix roared, slashing at a helot who broke through, his blade carving flesh. Blood sprayed, hot and slick, and Lysander flinched, the copper tang stinging her nose. Stay alive, she told herself, raising her dagger as a helot lunged at her—a wiry man, eyes wild, spear aimed for her chest.

She dodged, the tip grazing her arm, and drove her dagger into his side. He gasped, collapsing, and she yanked it free, her stomach lurching. Another. Pyrrhus's fall, Linus's death—each kill piled on her, a weight no Spartan should feel. Damon's sword flashed beside her, felling a helot with brutal precision, his face a mask of focus—but his glance at her lingered, heavy with doubt.

"Watch your left!" he shouted, shoving her aside as another spear arced from the fog. It missed, clattering against the rock, and she stumbled, her wounded leg buckling. He caught her, his arm around her waist—too close, his hand brushing the bindings' edge. She jerked free, panic spiking, and slashed at a helot closing in, the dagger sinking into his thigh. He fell, screaming, and she spun, meeting Damon's stare.

"Stop hovering," she snapped, voice low, rough—boyish, she prayed. "I can fight."

His jaw clenched, hurt flickering, but he nodded, turning to parry a new attacker. The helots pressed harder, their numbers swelling—twenty, thirty, a tide of rage against the Spartan youths. Thales fought nearby, his sword a blur, but a helot's club caught his knee, dropping him with a crack. He yelled, rolling to stab upward, and Lysander lunged to help, her dagger finding the helot's back. Thales nodded, grimacing, but his eyes flicked to her torn cloak, narrowing.

"Keep moving!" Felix barked, his sword dripping as he carved a path through the fray. Gaius lashed his whip, catching a helot's neck, yanking him down for a brutal stomp. His gaze darted to Lysander, glinting with malice—He's watching. She tightened her grip, fighting through the pain, each swing a desperate bid to prove her place.

A horn blared—helot, not Spartan—and the attackers shifted, some retreating into the mist, others tightening their assault. Felix seized the gap, roaring, "Push them back!" The herd surged, Lysander with them, her dagger a frantic blur. She slashed a helot's arm, ducked a spear, her breath ragged, her vision swimming. Damon stayed close, his sword a shield, but his silence screamed louder than the battle.

The mist thickened, cloaking friend and foe alike, and the herd's line frayed. A helot loomed from her right—tall, scarred, a axe raised—and she dove, rolling as the blade bit the dirt. She sprang up, stabbing his leg, but he swung again, the haft catching her shoulder. Pain exploded, her arm numbing, and she staggered, the dagger slipping from her grip. Damon's shout rang out—"Lys!"—and his sword plunged into the helot's chest, dropping him.

He grabbed her, pulling her behind a jagged rock, his breath hot against her ear. "You're hurt—stay down."

"I'm fine," she rasped, shoving him off, but her arm hung limp, useless. Blood soaked her cloak, her leg, her back—a crimson map of her limits. The bindings shifted, loose and treacherous, and she clutched the fabric, terror clawing her. He'll see.

He didn't let go, his hand on her shoulder, steady but insistent. "You're not fine. Look at you—bleeding, shaking. And that—" His fingers brushed the torn cloak, grazing the bindings' edge, and she froze, her heart a frantic drum. "What is it, Lys? Tell me—now."

Her throat closed, the truth clawing free—I'm a girl, I've lied, I'm sorry—but a scream cut through, Thales's voice, sharp and panicked. "Felix—behind!" She turned, Damon with her, as helots swarmed from the mist, a fresh wave, their spears glinting. Felix spun, too slow—a spear pierced his side, and he grunted, dropping to a knee.

"No!" Lysander shouted, surging forward, Damon at her heels. She snatched her dagger from the dirt, slashing at a helot closing on Felix. The blade sank into his neck, blood gushing, and she kicked him off, reaching Felix. He waved her back, grimacing, his hand pressed to the wound. "Hold… the line," he gasped, blood bubbling on his lips.

Gaius laughed—a harsh, chilling sound—lashing his whip at a helot's face. "Old man's done," he sneered, stepping over Felix like carrion. "Time to thin the herd."

Rage flared, white-hot, and Lysander lunged at a helot aiming for Felix's back, her dagger sinking deep. Damon fought beside her, his sword a whirlwind, but the helots kept coming, their cries a tide of hate. The herd rallied—Thales, Kratos, the remnants—pushing back, but Felix slumped, his breaths shallow.

"Get him up!" Damon yelled, grabbing Felix's arm. Lysander took the other, her numb shoulder screaming, and they hauled him behind the rock, blood slicking their hands. The mist swirled, the battle a blur beyond, and Damon tore his cloak, pressing it to Felix's wound. "Hold on," he muttered, but Felix's eyes fluttered, fading.

Lysander knelt, panting, her gaze locking on Damon. "We can't lose him," she said, voice raw—too raw, a girl's edge slipping free. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing, and her stomach dropped. He heard it again.

"Lys—" he started, but a shadow loomed—Gaius, whip raised, his grin a slash of triumph. "Tender moment?" he taunted, lashing out. The leather cracked across her back, reopening lashes, and she bit down a cry, her voice a choked grunt. He struck again, aiming for her chest, and the cloak tore further, bindings dangling.

Damon surged up, sword swinging, but Gaius sidestepped, laughing. "Protecting your little secret?" he jeered, whip cracking at Damon's legs. He stumbled, cursing, and Lysander scrambled to her feet, dagger raised, her vision swimming with pain and fear.

"Enough!" she growled, lunging at Gaius. He caught her wrist, twisting, and the dagger clattered away. His grip tightened, yanking her close, his breath sour on her face. "I knew it," he hissed, his free hand ripping at her cloak. The bindings hung loose, her shape outlined in the torchlight, and his eyes widened, victorious. "A girl—"

A spear flew from the mist, piercing Gaius's shoulder. He roared, releasing her, and she stumbled back, clutching her cloak as a helot charged. Damon tackled him, sword plunging, and Gaius staggered, blood streaming, his grin twisting into a snarl. "You're mine," he spat, retreating into the fog, Thales dragging him off.

Lysander sank to her knees, trembling, the herd's shouts fading to a dull roar. Damon turned, panting, his gaze locking on her—her torn cloak, the bindings clear now, no lie left to hide. "Lys," he whispered, voice breaking, "you're—"

A horn blared—Spartan this time—distant but closing. The helots scattered, melting into the mist, and the herd rallied, Felix groaning between them. Damon reached for her, his hand hovering, but she pulled back, terror and shame choking her. "Don't," she rasped, voice hers—her voice, soft, unmasked.

He froze, eyes wide, the truth sinking in as hoofbeats thundered closer—reinforcements, too late. Felix stirred, coughing blood, and Damon knelt by him, torn, but his gaze stayed on her, a storm of betrayal and awe. "Why?" he breathed, barely audible.

She had no answer, the mist swallowing her words as Spartan shadows emerged—soldiers, real ones, their shields gleaming. One stepped forward, his helm glinting, and barked, "Who's in charge?"

Felix rasped, "Me," but his voice faded, and Gaius's laugh echoed from the dark, chilling her. The soldier's eyes swept the herd, landing on her—torn, bloodied, exposed—and narrowed. "You," he said, pointing. "Come with me."

Her heart stopped, Damon's hand twitching toward her, but the soldier grabbed her arm, pulling her into the mist as the herd watched, silent and stunned.