The halls of the Gerousia, the Spartan council of elders were quiet, save for the soft sound of sandals against polished stone. Damon stood alone beneath the high torches, their flames casting long shadows across his face. Bronze armor clung to his frame, still stained with the grime of war. He hadn’t even changed.

  He didn’t want to.

  Let them see it, he thought. Let them smell the blood on me.

  At seventeen, he was too young to speak at the Gerousia. But victory, undeniable victory, had changed things. Now, when he spoke, men with gray in their beards listened.

  “You want an elite unit?” one of the elders asked. “You already command Spartans. They are elite by birth.”

  Damon nodded once. “Then I want the best of the elite. Those who will not break. Who will not speak unless commanded. Who fight not for glory, but for each other.”

  There was a pause.

  Then another elder leaned forward, eyes sharp.

  “You mean to train them... like you?”

  “No,” Damon said, stepping forward, the fire dancing in his eyes.

  “I mean to train them better.”

  They gave him twenty names. All young. All promising. All dangerous.

  Damon took them into the Taygetus Mountains, where the cold could snap bone and the rocks could slit throats. For a month, they lived without fire. Without shelter. They hunted to eat, bled to stay warm, fought to learn each other’s weaknesses, and destroy them.

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  They slept in shifts, with one standing guard each night.

  If even one man failed to wake the next, Damon made them all run until they vomited blood.

  This wasn’t training.

  It was transformation.

  The final test came without warning.

  At dawn, Damon walked into camp with a spear in hand and pointed at the one with the strongest build, Lykos.

  “Kill me,” he said, calm and clear.

  Lykos froze. “What...?”

  “You want to lead?” Damon asked. “Kill me. If you can.”

  Lykos hesitated.

  Then charged.

  The fight was brutal. No theatrics, just raw, bone-breaking fury. Lykos was strong, maybe stronger, but Damon was precise. Efficient. Every move served a purpose. He fought like a man with no emotion, no panic, just calculation.

  Lykos hit the ground, windless and beaten, Damon’s spear at his throat.

  He looked at the others.

  “You are not Spartans anymore,” he said.

  “You are wolves.”

  That night, they knelt around a fire for the first time.

  Each man took a blade and carved a mark into the leather of his own shield, an oath to never break formation, even in death.

  To die before leaving a brother behind.

  To obey Damon, even if he ordered them into the jaws of Hades himself.

  Thus, the Lupakaí were born.

  Word of them spread like wildfire. Soldiers whispered of black-cloaked shadows that fought in complete silence, moved like smoke, and never left their dead behind. Generals feared what they couldn't predict. Enemies feared what they couldn't shake.

  Damon’s name no longer echoed only in Sparta.

  It was spoken in Athens, in Thebes, in Corinth, spoken with fear, with hatred, with respect.

  In his tent, Damon sat alone sharpening his spear.

  One of his wolves approached and knelt.

  “Orders for tomorrow?”

  Damon didn’t look up.

  “We’re not attacking tomorrow.”

  A pause. “But the Athenians...”

  “Will attack us,” Damon said softly. “And they’ll think we’re retreating. So when they overextend...”

  He looked up.

  “We devour them.”

  The wolf nodded and vanished.

  Damon kept sharpening.

  He didn’t need to fight to make war.

  He just needed them to move exactly where he wanted.