Demi-God

The bronze helmet slid over Lucian's head, encasing him in darkness. "I can't see shit in this thing," he grunted, adjusting the fit.

Drakon secured his own helmet, the metal gleaming dully in the midday sun. "Get used to it, kid. You'll be living in armor from now on." He grabbed two wooden swords from a nearby rack, tossing one to Lucian. It thudded heavily against his palm. "These practice blades are heavier than the real deal. Safety first and all that crap."

Lucian nodded, then cursed under his breath. The damned helmet was still obstructing his vision. How was he supposed to fight like this? Drakon's voice cut through his thoughts. "You know why they call me the Wolf of Sparta?"

"What's that?" Lucian asked distractedly, fiddling with the chin strap. He never saw the attack coming.

In a blur of movement, Drakon lunged forward, his practice sword a dark blur. The blow crashed into Lucian's shield with staggering force, the clang of wood on iron ringing out like a thunderclap. Lucian stumbled back, tripping over his own feet and hitting the ground hard. Pain lanced through his abdomen where the shield had been driven into his gut.

"Ah, fuck! That's not fair!" he wheezed, clutching his stomach.

Drakon loomed over him. "In battle, always expect the unexpected. Fairness is a lie they tell children. Out there, you either react and defend, or you die. It's that simple." He took a few steps back, dropping into an offensive stance, sword at the ready. "Now get up. We're just getting started."

Lucian struggled to his feet, coughing and brushing dirt from his armor. His pride stung worse than his bruised ribs. "Alright, you old bastard. You want a fight? I'll give you a fight." He raised his shield and sword, squaring off against his mentor.

Drakon grinned, a flash of teeth in his grizzled face. "That move is called the Aegis Assault. Remember it, because next time, I won't be using a wooden sword."

"I'll show you a move, you old pervert," Lucian muttered under his breath.

"Let’s go!"

They circled each other, Lucian blinking sweat from his eyes as he tried to peer through the slitted visor of his helmet. Drakon was a blur of motion, feinting left and right, probing for an opening.

Lucian saw his chance and lunged. At the same instant, Drakon leaped to meet him, his shield raised high. Their shields clashed with a resounding bang, the force of the impact sending shock waves up Lucian's arm. But before he could react, Drakon torqued his shield, leveraging it under Lucian's and heaving upwards. Lucian's shield arm was forced up and back, leaving him wide open.

Whooosh!

The blunt tip of Drakon's practice sword touched the boy’s throat, the old warrior's face inches from his own. "Dead," he said, then stepped back, lowering his weapons as Lucian stood there, chest heaving. "Your grip on your shield was weak, easy to break. In a real fight, a mistake like that would cost you your life."

Lucian yanked off his helmet, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead. How could it be over so fast? He'd barely landed a blow. Drakon made it look effortless, dancing around him like a man half his age.

"I don’t understand," he said. "How can you move so fast like that? I’m younger than you."

"That’s true, but you do not use your youth very well and concentrate all your energy into your offense and not spread it evenly."

"What? I don’t even understand what you just said," Lucian groaned, tossing his shield to the ground in frustration.

Drakon chuckled, sheathing his wooden sword. "Fighting isn't just about strength or speed, boy; it's about balance and control. You're all fire and fury, which makes you predictable. A seasoned warrior uses that against you."

"How did you use my youth against me?"

"I predicted your moves."

"Predicted?"

"I observed that you always swing your sword with such strength in your right, so that means the power to your left arm is not that strong. I exploited it. I avoided your right and used my shield as an offensive weapon to push your left."

Lucian retrieved his shield, examining the straps for any sign of weakness. But it was fine; it was his technique that had faltered. "So how do I improve? How do I keep my balance and not be... predictable?"

"I thought you’d never ask," Drakon said, a sly grin tugging at his weather-beaten face. "You need to strengthen your upper body, especially your left side. Your right arm is strong, but that's not enough. You need to be as dangerous with your shield as you are with your sword."

Lucian nodded, rubbing his sore arm. "So what do I do?"

"First, we'll start with some weight training for that arm of yours. We're going to lift stones and logs, anything heavy enough to make you curse my name. And you are going to curse me, make no mistake. But it'll make you stronger."

"Fine," he said. "What else?"

"Your stamina we need to work on that too, which means running. Lots of running. You'll run until you can't feel your legs, and then you'll run some more."

"Running in full gear?"

"Of course in full gear you dummy. How else is your body going to master wearing that armor?"

Lucian sighed. "I think you’re doing these things to make fun of me."

"Of course I do. It amuses me. But it will also help you become strong."

"Ok, fine. If it’ll get me in the Spartan army."

——

Lucian grunted as he heaved a moss-covered boulder up to his chest, his muscles protesting with every inch it rose. Drakon stood by, a wineskin hanging loosely from one hand and the other resting on his hip.

"Put your back into it," Drakon slurred, taking a swig from the skin. "Lifting pretty stones isn't going to prepare you for a real fight."

"Easy for you to say," Lucian shot back, dropping the rock with a thud that sent a shockwave of pain up his arms. He wiped sweat from his brow with a dirt-streaked forearm. "You're just standing there getting drunk."

"Observing," corrected Drakon, eyeing him. "There's a difference. Now, grab that log over there. And lift with your legs this time, unless you fancy a snapped spine."

Lucian trudged over to the fallen tree trunk Drakon was pointing at, feeling the day's fatigue settling into his bones. He bent down, positioning himself as Drakon had shown him, and lifted. His thighs burned.

"Better," Drakon conceded. "But don't think I didn't see that wobble. A Spartan warrior must be steady. Like me." He took another deep gulp.

"Steady?" Lucian grumbled under his breath as he set the log down. "If steady means reeking of wine by noon, then sure."

"Watch your mouth, whelp," Drakon warned but with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or I'll have you running laps until you puke your guts out."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Lucian said, dropping to the ground for push-ups, his arms shaking with each descent. "How many?"

"Until I finish my drink," Drakon replied, holding up the wineskin and giving it an evaluating look.

"Great, I'll be here all night then," Lucian muttered, pushing through another rep.

"Keep up that sass, and it might just be two nights," Drakon chuckled, taking his time with his drink.

As dusk turned to full darkness, the only sounds were the rhythmic exhales of Lucian's effort and the occasional glug of wine. Eventually, the wineskin deflated with a final gurgle, and Lucian collapsed onto the forest floor.

"Get up," Drakon commanded. "Time to run."

"Can't I catch my breath first?" Lucian asked, still sprawled on the leaf-littered ground.

"Fine, five breaths, no more," Drakon relented, starting to walk. "One..."

Lucian pushed himself up and fell into step beside the older man as they began jogging through the trees. The cool night air filled Lucian's lungs, a welcome respite from the exertion.

"Keep pace," Drakon instructed, navigating the forest terrain with ease. "Remember, it's not just strength that wins battles. Stamina is key."

"Got it," Lucian panted, dodging a low-hanging branch. "Run, fight, survive. The Spartan way."

"Exactly," Drakon said with a nod. "And never forget—"

"Never forget where I come from," Lucian finished for him. "I know. Slave mother, Spartan father. Stuck in between."

"Use it," Drakon insisted. "Let it fuel you. You're not less than any other Spartan. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

They continued in silence, feet pounding a rhythm against the earth, until the canopy above thinned and the road came into view. Drakon slowed to a stop and placed a heavy hand on Lucian's shoulder.

"Training's done for today," Drakon said. "Let's eat. You're going to need your strength for tomorrow."

"Finally," Lucian breathed out, relieved, as they walked towards the road together, side by side.

The dirt beneath his feet seemed to grow heavier with each step, as if the earth itself conspired to drag him down after a day's brutal training. His slouched posture betrayed his exhaustion, but he kept pace beside Drakon who swaggered along, a bottle of wine swinging lazily in his grip.

"By Hades' beard, you look like you've been wrestling with the Minotaur all day," Drakon remarked, taking a swig from his bottle without breaking stride.

"Are you kidding me? It’s all because of you, you old fart," Lucian grunted, wiping the sweat from his brow despite the coolness of the evening.

"Ha! Well, at least you're still standing. That's more than I can say for some of those soft boys back at the agoge."

"Standing, yes. But feeling every damned year of my life in these old bones," Lucian's attempt at humor only half-masked the ache seeping through his body.

"Old bones?" Drakon let out a bellowing laugh. "You're hardly past your second decade, boy. Wait ‘till you've seen as many winters as I have."

"Many winters? The way you’re training me? I doubt I even reach one winter."

Their banter was interrupted as they passed a pair of slaves carrying bundles of wood, their heads bowed low. One dared to glance up, recognition flashing in his eyes before he hastily looked away. Not far behind, a patrol of Spartan soldiers strode by, their red cloaks a stark contrast against the night. They nodded respectfully at Drakon, one calling out, "Evening, elder!"

"Soldiers," he acknowledged them with a raise of his bottle before turning back to Lucian. "See, respect is earned in blood and sweat."

"Or in your case, drenched in wine," Lucian countered.

"Ah, this? Merely nectar for the soul," Drakon retorted, shaking the bottle, the liquid inside sloshing.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Lucian muttered, though he couldn't suppress a smile as the familiar outline of his house came into view.

"Speaking of which," Drakon began, pointing ahead, "looks like we've arrived at your humble abode. And not a moment too soon. My own soul is parched."

"Home," Lucian sighed, relief flooding him as much as weariness. "At last."

As they approached the modest dwelling, the door swung open, spilling warm light onto the darkened path. Lexi emerged, her silhouette framed by the flickering hearth behind her.

"You're late," she chided, hands on her hips.

"Uhm, ok."

"How was the training?"

"Excruciating," Lucian admitted, allowing himself a small grimace.

"Good, that means you're learning," Lexi shot back, scanning her brother for any sign of injury.

"Learning how to take a beating, more like," Drakon interjected before taking another gulp.

"Drunkard," Lexi spat, her playful concern for Lucian instantly replaced by fiery contempt as she glared at the old man.

"Harpy," Drakon shot back with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Old hag!"

"Ass-face."

"Enough, you two," Ianthe's voice cut through the exchange as she joined them at the doorway. Her gaze softened as she looked upon Lucian. "Come inside. You must be starving."

"Starved and parched," he agreed, giving Drakon a pointed look.

"Speaking of which," Ianthe turned toward Lexi, "help me with dinner, will you, dear?"

"Of course, mother," Lexi replied, her earlier irritation forgotten as she slipped past Lucian to join her mother inside.

"Lucian, darling," Ianthe called over her shoulder, "would you prepare the table?"

"Right away," he answered, already moving.

Drakon, meanwhile, remained where he stood, taking one final contemplative drink from his jug before setting it aside with a hollow thud.

"I think I'll enjoy the stars a little longer," he announced, stepping away from the doorway and settling down on a nearby stump, his gaze fixed on the night sky.

Lucian heaved the water jug onto his shoulders with a grunt. The cool water sloshed as he made his way to the table, setting it down. He wiped his brow and began to arrange the utensils across the wooden surface.

"Pass me the knife, will you?" Lexi asked from her station by the chopping block.

Her hands were swift and sure as she sliced through vegetables, the pile of fresh cuts growing steadily beside her.

"Here," Lucian said, sliding the blade across the table towards her. "You're getting pretty good at that."

"Have to be," she shrugged. "Can't expect Spartans to fight on an empty stomach, can we?"

"Nor should they," Ianthe chimed in from the hearth, where she was tending to a pot over the fire. She glanced back at them, a small smile playing on her lips. "And not just warriors need their strength."

"Or their wits," Lucian added, cracking a tired smile.

"Speaking of which, how did the training go today?" Lexi asked, eyes still on her task.

"Drakon pushed me hard. As always," Lucian replied, straightening up after setting the last of the utensils in place. "He says I'm improving, though he'd never admit it outright."

"Because that would require him to stop drinking long enough to pay a genuine compliment," Lexi snorted, rolling her eyes.

"Perhaps," Lucian conceded, his gaze drifting to the doorway where the old man had disappeared earlier. "But he knows his craft. I've learned much from him."

"Even if he is a perverted old drunk," Lexi muttered under her breath, but Lucian caught it and laughed.

"Old, yes. Drunk, certainly. But he's the best I’ve seen so far."

"Doesn't excuse his manners," Lexi countered playfully, sliding the now chopped vegetables into a bowl.

"True enough," Lucian admitted, taking a moment to watch his mother and sister work in unison.

"Lexi, can you hand me the meat?" Ianthe requested, wiping her hands on her apron before turning to prepare the next step of their meal.

"Here," she said, transferring the sliced meat from the cutting board to a platter and handing it to her mother.

"Thank you, dear," Ianthe said, accepting it with a nod. "Now, let's get this cooking before hunger turns us all into beasts."

"Too late for some of us," Lucian jested, grinning as he pulled the jug of water closer and filled three cups.

"Speak for yourself," Lexi retorted.

Ianthe mixed the meat into the pot, stirring and allowing the spices to blend with the juices, filling the room with a savory aroma that wrapped around them like a warm embrace. She then added the vegetables cut by Lexi and let out a satisfied hum as the colorful medley sank into the broth.

"There, that should be ready soon," she said as she kept stirring the pot.

"What is it, mother?"

"Meat stew."

"Yum," Lexi said, her eyes lighting up at the food.

As the meat stew simmered, and the soup color began to change, Ianthe let it cook for a little more time before she took a sip.

"Food's ready!" she announced and carried the steaming pot to the table. Lexi followed, placing the bowl of crisp vegetables alongside it.

"Hey, grandpa!" Lucian called out. "Supper's on the table!"

There was a moment's pause before Drakon's footsteps signaled his approach. He appeared in the doorway, the scent of night air clinging to him, and gave a rare nod of approval at the spread before them.

"Looks like you haven't lost your touch, Ianthe," Drakon grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Sit down, old man, and eat before it gets cold," she said.

"Don’t mind if I do."

With a final glance outside, Drakon joined them at the table. Together, they bowed their heads for a brief moment of silent gratitude, before the simple sounds of their evening meal filled the room.

Of course, Drakon and Lexi started shouting at each other only after a few minutes.