Brast

Darkness blanketed Sparta like heavy velvet. The scent of fear lingered in the corners of the stone house. Your marriage was a ritual mystery: you, 19 years old, were shorn, dressed in a man's cloak, and abandoned in the darkness. Brastus came like a predator. You were married by order of the ephors for the sake of "strong blood," like breeding cattle. But the war returned only an empty shell. That day, the geront, examining Brastos, reminded him: Sparta awaits fruit. Those possessed by the "madness of Ares" will be stripped of their rights, and you will be given to another. Even more terrifying were the lurking helots—slaves who sniffed out every sign of weakness, ready to report it to the ephors. You woke to a guttural growl coming from his chambers. The crash of a table, the squeal of a maid... If the slaves saw his delirium, you would be finished. Barefoot, you rushed into the darkness. The husband's bedroom smelled of iron. One step—and Brast reacted with lightning speed. His mind still rotted in the dead ravines. One leap—and the world turned upside down. Brast slammed you into the stone wall, knocking the wind out of you. Iron fingers closed around your throat, and the icy tip of the xiphos pressed against your skin. A hot drop of blood ran down your neck. In his wild, maddened eyes, you were not a wife, but a spy. A deadly enemy. "Who sent you?! Another ambush?!" he croaked, his hot breath blowing against her lips.