Elites

The sun loomed high over the city of Sparta, casting golden light over the great arena carved into the earth like a scar. It wasn't Rome but it was the closest thing this land had to a coliseum. Rows of limestone benches circled the oval pit below, each row packed with soldiers, elders, merchants, and nobles alike. The people of Sparta had come to watch their future fight.

The arena itself was stark, brutal, and beautiful. Sand-covered stone, carefully flattened. No decorations. No frills. Just a wide open space meant for one thing—combat. The only shade came from high wooden beams, supported by pillars lashed with leather and rope. At the far end, a raised platform stood like a throne, and upon it, Drakos.

He wore no armour, only a crimson cloak over his shoulders and the black tunic of a high officer. When he stepped forward, silence fell over the crowd like a blade.

"Warriors of Sparta," his voice echoed, deep and clear. "Today, we begin the Tournament of the Agōgē."

Cheer´s erupted, raw and thunderous, rising like flame.

Drakos raised one hand, and the noise died instantly.

"This year, we welcome participants from every corner of Laconia—Limnai, Amyclae, Pitana, Mesoa, and Cynosura. From the fields and forges of the villages to the stone halls of Sparta's nobility. One hundred and fifty-six young warriors have come here to earn glory."

He paused, letting the weight of the numbers settle.

"Four warriors from each rank—novices, cadets, and primus—from each of the thirteen delegations. That is fifty-two warriors per rank."

"They will be split into two groups of twenty-six," Drakos continued. "Each group will enter the arena for a battle of endurance, strength, and will. A battle royal. The last eight standing from each group shall move forward."

"Sixteen warriors from each rank," he declared, his voice rising. "Then the duels begin."

The crowd shouted again, anticipation thick in the air.

Drakos stepped down, pacing in front of the assembly of warriors now lined up at the edge of the arena.

"Only traditional weapons are allowed. Xiphos, dory, hoplon. All of them crafted from wood for the sake of training and safety—but do not be mistaken."

He eyed the cadets.

"These weapons will break bones, end fights, crush pride."

He looked toward the group where Darius stood, still and calm.

"This is not a game. It is not for the faint of heart. It is for those who would one day call themselves Spartans."

He paused for a final breath.

"Begin the draws."

All the cadets, primus, and novices were assembled on the stone stands, grouped by village and rank. A large amphitheater carved into the hillside served as the stage for the Agōgē Tournament. It wasn't as grand as the stories of the Colosseum Darius had once read, but it held its own—a structure of stone, made for the young warriors to prove themselves.

A tide of movement followed. Cadets, novices, and primus rose from the stone benches and moved toward the stage where two wooden boxes awaited, each filled with small rectangular tablets—some dark, others light.

Darius walked in line with his group. When it was his turn, he reached into the box and pulled out a tablet of dark brown wood. Group One.

Cleon went next. His was lighter—Group Two.

One by one, the rest followed. Thalon and Ajax drew the same color as Cleon. Darius glanced toward them, raising a brow. So they'd be in separate groups.

The crowd slowly filtered back to their places as Drakos raised his hand again.

"You now know your groups," he said. "Each of you will face the others in battle. Eight shall rise from each to advance. For now, the novices will begin. Cadets and Primus—observe, prepare, and wait for your call."

As the novices moved toward the field, Darius dropped down beside Cleon on one of the upper rows.

"Guess we won't get to beat each other up just yet," Cleon said with a grin.

Darius smirked. "Just means I won't have to hold back until the octofinals."

"You think you'll make it that far?"

"I plan to."

They bumped fists, a small but firm gesture of brotherhood.

"I'll see you there, then," Cleon said.

"You'd better survive your group first," Darius replied with a wink.

The tournament for the novices unfolded across the afternoon. The younger boys fought with wooden weapons too large for their frames, but some showed promise—aggression, resilience, even strategy.

Still, none stood out.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, Drakos stepped forward once again.

"Group One. Cadets. Prepare."

Darius rose.

The horns sounded sharply, echoing across the amphitheater carved into the stone hillside. All the cadets in Group One tightened their grips on wooden weapons, eyes flicking toward one another, searching for threats or allies.

Darius stood tall, hoplon in one hand, a wooden xiphos in the other. He exhaled slowly, centering himself. The shield's weight no longer pulled at his balance. It was a part of him now.

"Begin!" Drakos's voice thundered across the arena.

The chaos erupted instantly. Dozens of feet pounded against stone, and the air filled with grunts, shouts, and the crack of wooden weapons colliding.

But Darius didn't have to search for a fight.

Four cadets from Amyclae charged straight at him, their movements coordinated and ruthless. They were given orders by their Marshall, eliminate the candidate from Limnai whatever it takes.

He adjusted his stance, bringing the shield in closer and lowering it just enough to bait a strike. The first Amyclae cadet took it, lunging for Darius's exposed shoulder.

The blow never landed.

Darius pivoted, his shield slamming into the attacker's ribs with brutal force. The boy was lifted off his feet and landed hard on the stone floor, gasping for air.

The second and third cadets came at him from opposite sides. One aimed low, the other high.

Darius sidestepped the lower strike, using the rim of his shield to block the other. With practiced speed, he slashed his xiphos across the thigh of the cadet to his right, dropping him with a yelp. He turned immediately, stepping into the space between them, and slammed his shoulder into the third boy, knocking him back.

The fourth tried to come from behind.

Darius felt the shift in air before the strike, spun, and used the flat of his blade to parry the wooden spear thrusting toward his back. He hooked his shield under the attacker's arm and twisted, sending the boy tumbling to the ground.

Four attackers, neutralized in seconds.

Around him, the arena was still in full motion. Cadets from other villages and noble houses had formed quick alliances, only to turn on each other the moment an opportunity presented itself. Some fought in brutal duels, others hovered at the edge, conserving energy.

But one figure did not move.

The lone cadet from the House of Agiada.

He stood at the far end of the field, arms crossed, observing everything with an unreadable expression. No one attacked him. No one approached him. It was as if an unspoken law kept him untouched.

But his gaze never left Darius.

Their eyes met across the battlefield.

And Darius understood.

The real fight hadn't begun yet.

When the dust finally began to settle, Darius stood with his chest heaving, his training tunic torn at the shoulder, streaks of sweat and dirt painting his face. Around him, the training ground bore the marks of chaos—scuffed earth, shattered weapons, and groaning bodies strewn across the field.

Drakos raised a hand. "That's enough!"

The horn blew sharply across the amphitheater, and the battle came to its end.

From the original twenty-six cadets in Group One, only eight remained standing.

Darius was among them, still gripping his shield, its edge cracked from repeated blows. Around him stood the victorious—and the lucky.

From Pitana and Sinosura, none had survived. Their numbers had clashed early and violently, eliminating each other in a scramble for dominance. Mesoa had struck opportunistically in the chaos, bringing down the survivors—but in doing so, cost themselves dearly. Only one of their number remained standing now, swaying slightly, his lip split and one arm hanging limp.

Among those still standing, there were two identical boys—tall, lean, and moving with the mirrored precision of trained killers. They had fought in perfect sync, covering each other's flanks without ever speaking. Darius had kept an eye on them during the chaos, and they had done the same to him. There was something unnatural about the way they moved, like dancers trained for war.

Then there was the boy who had spent most of the battle watching. He hadn't lifted his weapon once. Not a single cadet had approached him. Not even by accident. He stood now with his arms crossed, untouched, calm, as if the violence around him had been a performance staged for his amusement. Something about his presence made the others keep their distance—whether out of respect or fear, Darius couldn't tell.

Two others had survived by doing almost nothing at all. One of them still held his weapon in a lazy grip, his stance relaxed, shoulders loose. He looked more like someone who had just finished stretching than someone who'd fought through a trial by combat. The second stood beside him, equally unbothered, with only a thin scratch on his cheek as proof that he'd even been involved. They had moved sparingly during the match, picking the right moments to strike and fading into the background the rest of the time. Smart and Calculative.

And finally, there was the last boy—the one who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. His hair was a mess, eyes half-closed as if he'd just rolled out of bed, and yet, somehow, he was still there. He hadn't said a word, hadn't made a scene. He'd just... existed. Slipping through openings, avoiding trouble, and dispatching just enough opponents to stay in the game. Now, he stood with arms dangling at his sides, blinking slowly under the sunlight, as if wondering when he could go home and sleep.

Eight remained.

And not one of them had made it there by chance.