"Did you see your house?" I asked one evening as we sat in the mess hall, our bodies aching from the day's grueling training.
Before us sat the same tasteless food that made your jaw clench with every bite. A dreadful broth, hard bread, and water. There was no choice.
As always, the camp ran with absolute discipline. You could leave it only once per week and only until sunset. No exceptions.
"Yes," Damipp replied without looking up. "It's empty. An old servant watches over it. Before me, another Spartan lived there… but he's dead now."
"Have you received any proposals?" I asked. While I'd been bedridden in the infirmary, several women had visited, asking to marry me once I turned thirty. Fourteen years still remained. Our generation had few men left who were worthy of Spartan women so they had chosen to act early.
"A few," he admitted.
"Anyone you liked?" I asked, smirking.
He gave the slightest nod. "She's twenty-two. I liked her voice. It calms me. And you?"
I fell silent, my gaze drifting beyond the wooden walls of the camp.
"Honestly? I'd like to travel all of Greece. To see the mythical beasts, the wonders of this world. Who wouldn't want that?"
"You'll have to wait fourteen more years," Damipp muttered with a chuckle.
To leave would mean becoming an outcast. A traitor.To stay meant surrendering freedom.
"I wanted to become a perioikos," I said.
"Why?" Damipp asked, surprised. We had never spoken of this before.
"They have more freedom than we do. We can't even buy an apple without breaking some law," I replied.
"Our status is higher than theirs," Damipp countered.
"Yes. But until we're thirty, we are tightly bound," I said.
"Hey, boys what's the topic of discussion?" came a voice from behind. A Spartan approached and laid his hand on my shoulder.
"You weren't invited," I said, rising to my feet, bracing against the table. The wound still made it difficult to move properly.
"So, you think you're special?" he sneered. "When a senior speaks to you, you're to listen in silence and answer only what is asked."
I wanted to challenge him. But he would've crushed me easily. My wounds still burned. I couldn't wipe that smugness from his face not yet.
"We earned the right to be called Spartans with blood and sweat," I said.
"Or maybe that's just your pitiful tale," he snapped back. "Few survived that war. You probably just hid like cowards and saved your skins while the real warriors died on the field."
Damipp, standing beside me, had already gripped his spear just like our adversaries. The tension was almost physical, like a taut bowstring ready to snap. One spark, and the fire would ignite.
"Areus, shut your mouth and do not dare insult your brothers," came the firm, cold voice of Lochagos Timeus.
"Yes, Lochagos," Areus muttered, silenced at once.
"Calm yourselves. Damocles and Damipp are the ones who slew dozens of enemies and kept the capital from falling. The only thing you owe them is respect," Timeus said, scanning the room with a heavy, commanding gaze.
"Yes, sir," the voices replied in unison.
The rest of the meal passed in silence. It was expected there were no friends here, and not everyone was pleased with our presence.
A week passed. My wounds no longer ached. The pain had faded.
On a rest day, while out hunting, I stopped at the river. I stripped down and stepped into the water, catching sight of my reflection. Scars dozens, perhaps hundreds marked my body like a map of battles fought. Most were where armor hadn't protected me. But some… some pierced even through bronze, torn open by blades and spears.
I ran my fingers along one jagged scar across my torso. Rough, torn. The pain was gone but the memory lived on.
Even now, remembering that battle, I knew had I made even one wrong step, I'd have died there. Buried among the fallen, swallowed by the illusion of invincibility.
Time passed. Sparta, slowly but surely, began to recover from the war. We were more frequently sent into the mountains and villages nearby to patrol and prevent centaur raids. Their main territory lay in the pastures at the mountain's base, where they hunted and lived by their own laws.
We were fortunate: it seemed they didn't dare test our defenses. Though, deep down, a part of me regretted never seeing one not even from afar. These creatures were like living myths to me. To lay eyes on one, even with a spear in hand, would've been something. Centaurs were a fierce yet reclusive people, preferring to keep away from human roads.
I had known so little since childhood. My training camp lay a few days north of Sparta, along the riverbanks. The territory was heavily guarded. Nothing could pass unseen. Sparta's perimeter was nearly impenetrable. Because of that, I had heard and seen very little of the outside world.
Even the nymphs, it was said, avoided these parts. Though some whispered that they hadn't left only hidden. Nymphs could live anywhere you just had to know how to find them.
So much about mythical Greece I was only beginning to understand.
I was fortunate to have met Doreas, a veteran.
He was nearly forty an age that seemed impossible for a Spartan to reach. He rarely left the camp, spending most of his time on the training grounds, instructing the young. He had no family. The camp was his home.
Doreas told many stories. According to him, most Spartan armor came from giants who lived in the mountains. Hephaestus himself was said to bless their forges, and their skill knew no equal. I couldn't imagine how such massive beings could craft weapons so small and intricate. Doreas claimed they stood as tall as five warriors stacked one atop another. Humans did not disturb the giants and in return, the giants forged their weapons.
Whole units were dispatched to retrieve metal and armor, for the mountains held more than just giants. Harpies half-human, half-bird, chaotic and fiercely aggressive lurked in the cliffs. They always struck first, without warning. And deeper still, in the caves, dwelled the Cyclopes. According to Doreas, some trade had been established with them: sheep in exchange for arms. It wasn't proper trade, exactly more like food for weapons. Absurd, perhaps, but it worked.
There were also others of similar kin who refused all contact. Not the Cyclopes, with their single eye and crude manners but something more savage. Two-eyed, with a bestial language no one could understand. They couldn't distinguish man from beast or even their own kin. They devoured everything everything with eerie delight.
Doreas once spoke of how his unit had killed one of them and rested nearby after the battle. Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath their feet. They rose immediately, ready to fight to the death. But the giant ignored them. It simply walked up to the corpse of its kin… and began devouring it. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Had that giant noticed the soldiers, none would have survived. Creatures like that are nearly impossible to stop. Their skin is thicker than any armor, their height surpasses anything that has ever walked the earth. Killing one costs dozens of lives and even then, there's no guarantee.
The world was far more dangerous and far more wondrous than we'd ever been told.
Nearly half a year into our service, Damipp and I still hadn't become part of the unit. The feeling of being outsiders never quite left us. That was when I was offered a chance to join a special division.
This unit operated exclusively against monsters those who attacked humans, ravaged villages, brought ruin. True monster hunters. Their task was simple: track and eliminate the threat to ensure safety.
It was Doreas who offered me the place. He understood at once that I wasn't made to sit in the camp, waiting for something to happen. And it would've been fine, if not for one catch.
"Mortality?" I asked.
"Yes," Doreas replied calmly. "Most of them last about a year, maybe a year and a half."
"Why is it so high?"
"Because of the monsters," he said. "When you face a harpy, a gian or worse, a creature from the Underworld that somehow escaped to the surface survival is uncertain. You must be ready for anything, always. And hope the gods don't turn away from you."
"That's not an easy choice," I admitted.
"You'll sharpen your skills and if you survive, you'll become stronger than you've ever imagined," said Doreas. "There's more freedom in this unit. But the price is steep."
It truly was a chance. A path to freedom and power. Sure, the chances of dying were high, but if I stayed in the camp, one day, when real danger came, I might not be able to do anything at all. To slay monsters… you must become one.
Yes, my goal was to become a commander but in the future, raw strength and honed skill would matter more than rank.
I decided to speak with Damipp.
"So, you've made up your mind," he said after listening. "Found a way out?"
"Will you come with me?"
He paused briefly, then slowly shook his head. "No. I'll stay here. I never wanted another life. This one suits me. The time for adventure is behind me. But you you should go. This is your path."
"We will always be brothers," I said.
"Forever," he replied.
I was sorry he didn't want to come with me. But his choice deserved respect.
After the war, and losing everyone we'd known, he no longer wished to dive once more into that chaos where death could strike at any moment. I understood. It's a hard life. Maybe I had some hidden trait that kept me from going mad. Or maybe… maybe I was already mad.