The valley near Thermiscia was known for its wild lavender, now trampled beneath the feet of ten thousand Athenian soldiers. Their commander, General Kephis, stood high on a hill, staring down at the smaller Spartan force ahead, barely eight hundred strong.

  At the front: fifty men clad in deep black cloaks over bronze, shields etched with the mark of a wolf’s fang.

  The Lupakaí.

  “They’re retreating,” one Athenian captain said. “Look, pulling back from the center.”

  Kephis smiled coldly. “And so the legend falls. They’re just boys after all.”

  He gave the signal to advance.

  Damon stood behind the withdrawing center line, his face unreadable beneath his slightly darkened bronze helmet. His black cloak whipped in the wind. The valley narrowed behind him, exactly as he’d chosen.

  His voice was low. Calm. Cold.

  “Formation one. No sound.”

  The Lupakaí moved instantly, breaking off into three tight wedges, flanking right and left through the rocky outcrops. Not a single word. Not a single rattle of armor.

  Only motion.

  Only purpose.

  The Athenians poured in, confident, roaring. They wanted to drown the Spartans in numbers.

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  And for a moment, it looked like they would.

  But then…

  The flanks disappeared.

  And then...

  Screams.

  Not from Spartans. From Athenians in the back ranks.

  Lupakaí emerged from the rocky ridges, driving long spears into the exposed flanks, carving through the unarmored backs of shouting men. Shields broke. Lines collapsed. Archers turned to fire, only to be run through from behind.

  From the center, Damon advanced alone, his bronze gleaming, his spear held low. The Lupakaí fanned out behind him in a V, silent, tight, their steps measured.

  The Athenians in front of them froze.

  Because it wasn’t war they saw.

  It was a hunt.

  The clash was a brutal whisper.

  No war cries. No chants. Just impact.

  The Lupakaí didn’t need to shout, they didn’t even need to speak. Every move was rehearsed, every motion trusted. They shifted mid-fight, responding to Damon’s subtle gestures, splitting formations, turning shields, exploiting gaps before they existed.

  Damon himself moved like the gods had whispered strategy into his bones. He fought only when necessary, never wasting a strike, never hesitating.

  He didn’t chase victory.

  He created inevitability.

  By sundown, the field was quiet.

  Kephis had fled with what little was left of his command, wounded and humiliated. He would survive, but the legend of Damon would reach Athens before he did.

  At the center of the field, the black-cloaked Lupakaí stood unbroken, fewer than fifty when it began... still fifty when it ended.

  They hadn't lost a single man.

  Back in the Spartan camp, Damon removed his helmet and sat on the ground, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames.

  One of the youngest Lupakaí, Pyrron, approached.

  “We won.”

  Damon didn’t smile.

  “We didn’t win,” he said quietly.

  “We just told them the cost of facing us.”

  And across the lands of Greece, as word of the battle spread, so did a new name:

  “Wolf King.”

  He wasn’t king yet. Not by law. Not by title.

  But in the minds of soldiers, enemies, and even Spartan citizens...

  Damon had already claimed the throne.