Fire in the Fight

The clearing blazed with torchlight, shadows dancing as helots melted back into the night, their war cries fading to a dull hum. Lysander gripped her dagger, blood slick on the hilt, her torn cloak flapping in the cold wind. Her leg burned, the ravine cut bleeding fresh, her arm stinging from Gaius's whip—every breath was fire, but she stood tall, hiding the secret beneath her bindings. A girl in the agoge was a death mark, a stain on Spartan pride, and she'd kill to keep it buried. Damon stood close, his sword dripping helot blood, his green eyes locked on her—too sharp, too near the truth after that glimpse of her bindings. He can't know, she thought, heart slamming, not yet.

Spartan soldiers stormed in, shields banging, their captain—a scarred bull in a red cloak—yelling, "Who's down?" Kratos lay dead, spear through his chest, his blood pooling black in the dirt. The herd—nine now, ragged and wild—huddled tight, Felix groaning on a shield, his side a mess. Gaius limped at the edge, whip coiled, his hand slashed from Damon's blade, but his grin stayed, a promise of trouble. He's still got that scrap, she thought, panic clawing her gut—the binding from the ravine, proof he'd wave if she slipped.

"Form up!" the captain barked, voice like a rock cracking. "We're holding here—helots'll hit again!" Soldiers fanned out, torches popping, the herd grabbing what weapons they could. Lysander stepped back, catching her breath, but Damon grabbed her arm, pulling her behind a tent—his grip firm, warm, too close.

"You're hurt," he said, voice low, rough with worry. His eyes flicked to her cloak—torn, the bindings' edges peeking out—and her stomach flipped. "That's no bandage, Lys. I saw it—felt it. What's going on?"

She yanked free, glaring, keeping her voice gruff—boyish, she prayed. "It's a scar wrap—old cut. Stop digging, Damon, or Gaius gets us both." Her heart raced, his touch lingering, a spark she couldn't let catch—not when he'd die to protect her if he knew.

He squinted, jaw tight, but his hand hovered, like he wanted to grab her again. "You're lying—I feel it. I've got your back, Lys—always—but you're shutting me out." His voice softened, a crack in his steel, and it hit her hard—he cares, too much.

"Not now," she snapped, glancing at Gaius—his eyes glinted across the camp, watching. "He's waiting—wants us split. Stick with me, Damon, please." She let her tone ease, just a bit—enough to pull him in, not push him off.

He nodded, slow, eyes still burning, but stepped closer, sword up. "Fine. But this ain't over." His shoulder brushed hers, steady, warm—a shield she needed, even if it scared her.

A yell ripped through—soldiers shouting, "Helots!"—and the night exploded again. Shadows charged from the trees, spears flashing, their roars shaking the dirt. The captain's shield slammed a helot down, soldiers slicing through, but the herd scrambled, caught raw. Lysander dove into the fray, dagger swinging—fast, sharp, cutting a helot's arm. He dropped, howling, and she spun, blood spraying her face.

Damon fought beside her, sword slashing a helot's chest wide—guts spilled, hot and wet, and he shoved the body off, shielding her from a spear. "Stay tight!" he yelled, voice fierce, his arm brushing hers again—too close, too safe. She nodded, slashing another helot's leg, dropping him quick. He's got me, she thought, a flicker of heat in the chaos, but Gaius's laugh cut through, chilling it.

The trainer limped forward, whip cracking—a helot's face split, blood gushing—and he locked on her, grinning. "Runt's mine!" he roared, charging through the mess, whip lashing out. It hit her shoulder—pain exploded, blood dripping—and she ducked, rolling fast. He swung again, missing, and she popped up, dagger aimed for his gut.

He twisted, whip cracking her hand—the dagger flew, clattering away—and he grabbed her cloak, yanking hard. The bindings stretched, tearing faint, and her breath stopped—No!—but Damon tackled him, sword slashing Gaius's leg. Blood sprayed, Gaius cursed, and bolted back, vanishing into the fight.

Damon hauled her up, panting, his eyes on her cloak—bindings held, just barely. "You good?" he asked, voice tight, searching her face—too soft, too deep.

"Yeah," she lied, shoving him off, heart racing. "Thanks—watch my back." She kept it gruff, but his nod lingered, a promise—he'd bleed for her, and it twisted her insides.

The captain roared, "Push 'em!" and the herd surged, driving helots back—swords flashed, spears broke, blood soaked the dirt. A helot lunged at Felix's shield, spear raised, and Lysander dove, dagger sinking into his side—quick, clean, dead. Felix groaned, eyes fluttering, and she pressed Damon's cloak tighter to his wound. "Hold on," she muttered, voice low—boyish, she hoped.

Damon joined her, sword up, guarding Felix. "You're fast," he said, a grin flickering—pride, maybe more—and her chest warmed, dangerous and dumb. "Had to be," she shot back, keeping it light, but his look stayed—too warm, too close.

The helots broke, scattering into the trees, their horn wailing retreat. Soldiers chased, shields banging, and the herd slumped, panting—eight now, one lost in the rush. The captain stomped over, glaring. "Who's alive?"

Names barked out—Lysander, Damon, a few others—Felix wheezing, still kicking. Gaius limped up, blood dripping, whip coiled, his eyes on her—He's not done. The captain nodded, sharp. "Rest—short. Helots'll regroup."

Lysander sank by Felix, catching her breath, Damon dropping beside her. His hand brushed her arm—accidental, maybe—and she froze, the heat sticking. "You're a mess," he said, low, pulling a strip from his cloak. "Leg's bleeding—let me."

"I've got it," she snapped, grabbing the cloth, tying it quick—too quick, hiding the bindings' edge. His frown deepened, but he didn't push, just watched, quiet—too quiet.

Gaius stalked over, whip tapping his leg, grinning. "Runt's tough—too tough," he sneered, leaning close—his breath stank, sour and mean. "What's under that cloak, huh? I'll find out."

Damon stood, sword twitching. "Back off, Gaius—he's worth ten of you." His voice was steel, protective, and her gut flipped—He'd fight for me, die for me.

Gaius laughed, whip cracking near her feet—dirt flew. "We'll see, lover boy." He turned, limping off, but his grin promised blood—hers, soon.

Damon sat, glaring after him, then at her. "He's hunting you—why? What's he got?"

"Nothing," she lied, fast, keeping her eyes hard. "He hates me—wants me gone. Stay with me, Damon—don't let him split us." She let her voice dip, a crack of trust—enough to hook him, not break her.

He nodded, slow, his hand resting near hers—close, warm, a spark she couldn't dodge. "Always," he muttered, voice rough, and her chest tightened—Too much, too soon.

A yell snapped the night—soldiers shouting, "Smoke!"—and heads turned. Fire flared at the camp's edge, orange tongues licking the trees, helots back with torches. The captain roared, "Shields up!" and the herd jumped, weapons flashing, but Lysander locked on Gaius—he grinned, whip out, slipping toward her through the chaos.

Damon grabbed her, pulling her up. "Move—stick with me!" His grip was tight, fierce—too fierce—and she nodded, dagger ready, as helots charged, fire spreading fast. Gaius lunged, whip cracking—her arm again, blood spraying—and she ducked, slashing back, nicking his shin. He cursed, stumbling, but kept coming, eyes wild.

A helot torch flew, hitting a tent—flames roared, smoke choking the air—and Damon tackled Gaius, sword slashing his arm. Blood gushed, Gaius yelled, and bolted into the haze, gone again. Damon spun, grabbing her, his face close—too close. "You're bleeding—stay with me, Lys!"

"I'm fine," she growled, pulling free, but her cloak tore more—bindings peeked, faint—and his eyes widened, catching it. "What's—" he started, but a helot spear zipped past, and she shoved him down, fire roaring around them.

Soldiers charged, shields smashing helots back, the captain barking, "Hold the line!" The herd fought, blood and fire mixing, but Damon's stare stuck—questions burning hotter than the flames. Gaius's laugh echoed from the smoke, sharp and mean—"Run, runt!"—and a soldier yelled, "They're pulling back!"

The helots fled, fire crackling, and Damon grabbed her again, his hand tight, his eyes locked—too deep, too dangerous. "Lys," he whispered, voice breaking, "whatever it is—I'm here."

Her secret ticked louder, a bomb in her chest, as the camp burned and Gaius's threat hung in the dark—closer than ever.