Burn of the Blade

Smoke stung Lysander's eyes, thick and black, as the helots' fire chewed through the camp's edge, spitting embers into the night. She gripped her dagger, blood crusting the blade, her torn cloak flapping—bindings underneath frayed but holding, her secret a heartbeat from spilling. A girl in the agoge was a death sentence, a crack in Sparta's iron honor, and she'd cut throats to keep it down. Her leg throbbed, blood soaking the rag Damon tied, her shoulder raw from Gaius's whip—every move hurt, but she stood, hiding it all. Damon crouched close, his sword dripping, his green eyes locked on her—too close after that glimpse in the flames, his I'm here echoing in her skull. He's digging, she thought, panic spiking, but I need him.

Spartan soldiers smashed through, shields banging helots back, their captain roaring, "Hold the line!" The herd—eight left, battered and wild—fought in the mess, Felix wheezing on his shield, blood pooling. Gaius limped at the rear, whip coiled, his slashed arm bleeding but his grin sharp—He's coming, she knew, that binding scrap from the ravine his dagger to twist. The helots scattered, torches dropping, and the captain yelled, "Secure it—rest now!"

Lysander slumped by Felix, catching her breath, dagger ready. Damon dropped beside her, his shoulder brushing hers—warm, steady, too damn close. "You're bleeding again," he said, voice low, rough with worry. His hand hovered near her leg, eyes flicking to her cloak—bindings peeked, faint—and her gut flipped.

"I'm fine," she snapped, shoving his hand off, keeping her voice gruff—boyish, she prayed. "Focus—Gaius is watching." Her heart pounded, his touch a spark she couldn't let blaze—not when he'd die for her secret if he knew.

He frowned, jaw tight, but stayed near—too near. "He's a bastard—won't stop. I've got you, Lys—always." His voice dipped, soft, and it hit her—he means it, a pull she couldn't shake, dangerous as hell.

"Shut it," she hissed, glancing at Gaius—his eyes glinted through the smoke, locked on her. "He wants us fighting—stick close, Damon, that's it." She let her tone ease, just enough—pulling him in, keeping him blind.

He nodded, slow, his hand brushing hers—accident, maybe, but it stuck, warm and rough. "Whatever you say," he muttered, sword up, and her chest tightened—Too much.

The captain stomped over, red cloak flapping, his scarred face hard. "Rest—two hours. Helots'll hit at dawn—be ready." Soldiers tossed out bread—stale, hard—and the herd grabbed it, tearing chunks. Lysander took hers, splitting it quick, handing half to Damon. His fingers brushed hers, lingering, and he grinned—small, real. "Thanks," he said, voice low, and her gut twisted—Stop that.

They ate fast, silent, Felix groaning beside them—alive, barely. Gaius limped past, whip tapping, his grin slicing her way. "Runt's soft—won't last," he sneered, loud enough for the herd—Kratos gone, seven left—to hear. They shifted sniggered, eyes on her, waiting.

Damon stood, sword twitching. "Say it again, Gaius—I'll cut that whip off you." His voice was steel, fierce—for me, she thought, heat creeping up.

Gaius laughed, cracking the whip near her feet—dirt flew. "Soft like your runt—watch it break." He limped off, soldiers glaring, and Damon sat, fist clenched—too pissed, too hers.

"He's baiting you," she muttered, keeping it low—boyish. "Don't bite—stay with me." Her eyes locked his, a plea, and he nodded, simmering down—He's mine, she thought, dumb and true.

Dawn broke gray, cold, the camp stirring—soldiers barking, herd jumping up. The captain roared, "Cliffs again—move or die!" They marched, Felix on his shield, the path steep, rocks sliding. Lysander's leg screamed, blood seeping, but she climbed—fast, quiet—Damon close, his hand steadying her once—too quick, too warm.

Halfway up, a rumble—rocks crashed down, big, fast. "Scatter!" the captain yelled, but one smashed a soldier's leg—crunch, scream—and the herd dove, Lysander pulling Damon behind a ledge. Dust choked her, his arm over her—too close—and she shoved him off, panting. "Watch it," she growled, voice rough, but his eyes stayed—soft, searching.

"You good?" he asked, low, hand near her shoulder—bindings tight, secret safe.

"Yeah," she lied, standing quick—Don't look. Gaius grinned above, whip out—He did it, she knew, rage bubbling.

At the top—flat, bare, wind howling—the captain halted them. "Spar—pairs! Prove you're Spartan!" Soldiers watched, Felix propped up, pale but glaring.

Gaius pointed at her, whip snapping. "Runt—me. Now." His grin was blood, his leg still bleeding—He wants me dead.

Damon stepped up, sword out. "I'll—"

"No!" she barked, stopping him—Mine. "I've got this—stay back." Her voice was hard—boyish—and Damon froze, eyes blazing—Trust me.

She faced Gaius, dagger up—small, sharp—his whip cracking fast. It hit her arm—blood sprayed, pain flared—and she ducked, lunging low. He swung, missing, and she slashed his shin—quick, deep. He roared, whip lashing her back—fire exploded, old cuts splitting—but she rolled, popping up, dagger at his gut.

He blocked, whip wrapping her wrist—yanked hard, she stumbled, bindings stretching—No!—and he grinned, pulling. Damon yelled—"Lys!"—charging, but she twisted, kicking Gaius's wound—blood gushed, he cursed, letting go. She slashed again—his arm, red pouring—and he dropped, whip falling.

"Enough!" the captain roared, stepping in—Gaius glared, panting, blood pooling. "Runt wins—barely." Soldiers nodded—respect, maybe—and Damon grabbed her, steadying—too tight, too warm.

"You're insane," he whispered, eyes wide—pride, heat—and her chest thumped—Too much. "You're hurt—let me—"

"Back off," she snapped, pulling free—bindings held, secret safe—but his hand lingered, brushing her arm—soft, dumb, hers. "I'm good—watch Felix." She turned, hiding the shake—He's too close.

The captain barked, "Rest—then march!" The herd slumped—seven, bloody, alive—and Lysander sat, panting, Damon near—quiet, watching. Gaius limped off, soldiers binding him—his glare promised more—He's not done.

Night fell, cold and sharp—soldiers lit fires, bread passed again. Damon sat close—too close—his knee brushing hers, his voice low. "You took him—Gaius. You're something, Lys." His grin flickered—real, warm—and her gut flipped—Don't.

"Had to," she muttered—boyish—tearing bread, handing him half. His fingers grazed hers—slow, deliberate—and he held it, eyes locked. "Thanks—for sticking by me."

"Always," he said, voice rough—too deep, too hers—and she froze—Not yet. She pulled back, chewing fast—He's trouble.

A yell—soldiers jumping, "Helots!"—and fire flared again, trees lighting up—helots back, torches swinging. The captain roared, "Shields!"—soldiers charged, the herd scrambled—Lysander up, dagger out, Damon beside her—tight, ready.

Gaius limped forward, whip up—grinning, blood dripping—heading her way. "Runt's mine!" he yelled, lashing out—her leg, blood sprayed—and she ducked, slashing back—his arm, red flowing. He swung again—missed—and Damon tackled him, sword slashing—Gaius's shoulder, deep, wet—blood everywhere.

Helots rushed—screaming, torches high—and Lysander spun, dagger sinking into one's gut—fast, dead. Damon yelled—"Lys—behind!"—and she turned, another helot swinging—spear at her chest—she dodged, slashing his throat—blood sprayed, he dropped.

The captain's horn blared—helots bolted, fire fading—and Gaius crawled off, laughing—sharp, mean—"You're done, runt!" Damon grabbed her, panting—his arm around her, too tight—Too much.

"You hurt?" he asked—close, soft—his eyes on her cloak, her face—He's looking.

"No," she lied—boyish—shoving him off, but her leg bled, her back wept—bindings held, secret safe. "Watch him—Gaius ain't dead."

Damon nodded—eyes burning, too deep—and the captain yelled, "Camp—now!"—soldiers moving, herd limping. Gaius's laugh echoed—far, dark—and Damon's hand brushed hers—quick, warm—a promise as helots faded, leaving her secret ticking louder than ever.