Lucian pushed through the dense forest, his eyes straining in the darkness. Doubt gnawed at him - was he even going the right way? The stranger's directions suddenly seemed vague and unreliable.

Just as he was about to turn back, a faint wisp caught his eye. Smoke. Rising lazily into the night sky, it was unmistakable evidence of a campfire nearby. Hope surged through him. Could Drakon be there?

Curiosity overcame caution, and Lucian crept forward, following the smoke's trail. As he drew closer, the glow of firelight became visible through the trees. Voices drifted on the night air, growing clearer with each step.

Lucian approached the edge of a small clearing and pressed himself against the rough bark of a large tree, peering around its trunk. The scene before him came into focus: three men seated around a crackling fire, the remains of their meal scattered about.

With a jolt, he recognized them - the bandits from the road. But where was Drakon? He held his breath, straining to catch every word of their conversation.

"Gods, this deer is good," Keras said, tearing into a chunk of meat. "Beats that dried crap we've been eating for weeks."

Myron nodded in agreement, licking grease from his fingers. "Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can. Things might get trickier soon."

Keras raised an eyebrow. "What're you on about now?"

"Heard some interesting stuff while we were in Thrace," Myron replied, lowering his voice. "Locals say the Persians are cooking up something big."

Keras scoffed. "Bullshit. You probably got that from some whore you paid for."

"Fuck you," Myron snarled. "I'm serious. There's something-"

"Both of you, shut it," Stavros interrupted, his hand raised. "I heard something."

Lucian froze, certain he'd been discovered. But before anyone could investigate, a familiar voice rang out from the opposite side of the clearing.

"Good evening, boys."

Lucian's eyes widened as Drakon stepped into the firelight, his weathered face illuminated by the flames. The bandits leapt to their feet, hands flying to their sword hilts.

"Don't draw your swords," Stavros commanded.

Confused, Myron and Keras hesitated, then slowly returned to their seats, eyes never leaving Drakon.

Stavros squinted at the newcomer. "Is that... Drakon?"

Myron jerked his thumb. "You know this old man?"

He nodded. "That's the Wolf of Sparta."

A small smile played on Drakon's lips. "Good to know my reputation still precedes me."

Keras snorted. "The Wolf of Sparta is a myth."

"I assure you," Drakon replied, "I'm very real."

Myron's hand twitched towards his sword. "Why don't we just kill him and take his shit?"

"Trust me," Stavros hissed, "I'm saving our lives here." He turned to his companions. "I've seen him fight. He's a beast in battle, taking down an entire squad single-handedly."

"Come on," Keras said. "Look at him. He's old, unarmed. We can take him."

Drakon's smile never wavered. "You're welcome to try. You'll lose."

"What did you just say?" Myron snarled, leaping to his feet and leveling his sword at the old man's chest.

"Sit the fuck down!" Stavros barked.

After a tense moment, Myron complied, still glaring at Drakon.

Stavros turned back to their unexpected guest. "What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? Last I heard, you'd gone back to Sparta."

Drakon shrugged. "Things change. I go where I'm needed."

Lucian knew Drakon was skilled, but to see hardened bandits cowering before him was something else entirely. As the conversation continued, he found himself wondering just how much he truly knew about his mentor.

Stavros leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied Drakon's face. "I'd say you're on a mission."

"Mission?" he chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. "I'm just a wandering man with nowhere to go. The world's a big place, and I've got time on my hands."

Myron snorted, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, right. More like you're here to rob us bandits. Turning the tables, eh?"

"Rob you? With what army? As your friend so kindly pointed out, I'm just an old man. Unarmed, at that."

Keras shifted uncomfortably, his earlier bravado fading in the face of Drakon's calm confidence. "Then why are you here? In this exact spot?"

"Coincidence," he shrugged. "I saw your fire, thought I might find some company. The road can be lonely."

Stavros shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "The Wolf of Sparta, reduced to seeking company from common bandits. Times have changed indeed."

"Perhaps they have. Or perhaps they haven't changed as much as we'd like to think."

"I don't buy it," Myron said, still bristling with suspicion. "No one just wanders into these woods at night. You're up to something."

"Believe what you will. I'm here, I'm alone, and I'm unarmed. Make of that what you will."

The tension around the fire was palpable. Lucian could see the bandits exchanging glances, clearly unsure how to proceed. Drakon, for his part, seemed utterly at ease, as if he were among old friends rather than potential enemies.

"Well, Wolf," Stavros finally broke the silence, "if you're truly just seeking company, you're welcome to share our fire. But know this - we'll be watching you."

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"Fair enough," Drakon nodded, moving to sit on a fallen log near the fire. "I'd expect nothing less from men of your... profession."

Stavros’ curiosity warred with his annoyance, but for now, curiosity won out. He jerked his chin at Myron.

"Give the old man some meat," he ordered.

Myron hesitated, looking from Stavros to the weathered stranger. "But... that's our food."

Keras snorted. "Just do it, you idiot. Before Stavros loses his patience."

With a resigned sigh, Myron tore off a hunk of roasted venison from their spit and thrust it unceremoniously at the old man. "Here. Don't say we never did anything for you."

Drakon accepted the offering with a nod. Without hesitation, he sank his teeth into the meat, tearing off a large chunk. As he chewed, his eyes closed in apparent bliss.

"By the gods," he mumbled around his mouthful, "this is delicious. You boys know how to cook, I'll give you that."

Stavros raised an eyebrow. "We're not 'boys,' old man. We're the most feared bandits in these parts."

"Is that so?" Drakon swallowed. "Well, color me impressed. Although I must say, your hospitality leaves something to be desired. Where I come from, we offer our guests a seat by the fire."

"You're not a guest," Keras bristled. "You're an intruder."

"Semantics," Drakon waved his hand. "Now, about that seat..."

The three bandits exchanged glances, their bewilderment evident. Stavros cleared his throat. "Look. You've had your meat. Why are you still here?"

Drakon took another bite. "Well, that's an interesting question, isn't it? Why is anyone anywhere? Philosophy aside, I suppose I'm here because I'm curious."

"Curious about what?" Myron asked, unable to hide his interest despite his earlier reluctance.

"About you three, of course. It's not every day one stumbles upon a group of self-proclaimed fearsome bandits in these woods. Tell me, how does one get into such a... unique line of work?"

Stavros narrowed his eyes. "That's none of your business. We don't owe you our life stories."

"Fair enough," he took another bite, "but surely you can humor an old man with a tale or two? I've got nowhere to be, and the night is young."

"Bullshit. You want stories? Fine. But first, you're gonna tell us why you're really here. No more of this cryptic old man routine. Speak plain, or get the fuck out of our camp."

Myron and Keras tensed, hands moving to their weapons. The atmosphere around the fire grew thick with tension, like a storm about to break.

Drakon paused mid-bite, regarding the bandits with an unreadable expression. He chewed slowly, as if savoring not just the meat but the moment itself. The silence stretched on, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant cry of a night bird.

Finally, he swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fair enough," he conceded and finished the last of his meal, then dusted his hands off. "I want information."

Stavros raised an eyebrow. "Information? What kind of information?"

"A Spartan scout was beheaded not far from here. I want to know if you three were involved in that killing."

The words fell like stones into a still pond, sending ripples of unease through the camp. The bandits exchanged quick, furtive glances, a silent conversation passing between them in the span of heartbeats.

Stavros was the first to recover. "We don't know anything about no killing."

"Yeah, old man," Keras nodded. "We're thieves, not murderers. We don't go around chopping off heads."

Myron remained silent, his eyes darting between his companions, clearly unsure of what to say or do.

Drakon didn't respond immediately. Instead, he studied each of their faces in turn, as if trying to read the truth in their eyes. The silence grew oppressive, broken only by the sound of Myron nervously clearing his throat.

"Is that so?" he finally said. "You're certain you haven't heard anything? Seen anything unusual in these parts lately?"

Stavros leaned back, affecting a casual pose that didn't quite mask the tension in his shoulders. "We told you. We don't know shit about any dead scouts. Now, if that's all you wanted, you can be on your way."

"I think I’ll stay for a little while more."

The tension in the camp ratcheted up another notch as Myron's hand crept towards his sword’s hilt. His eyes flicked to Keras, a subtle nod passing between them. The air grew thick with unspoken intent, like the moment before a lightning strike.

But Drakon was faster. In a blur of motion that belied his age, the old man's hand shot out.

WHAM!

There was a flash of steel, a meaty thunk, and suddenly Myron was screaming.

The young bandit stared in horror at his hand, now pinned to the log by Drakon's large knife. Blood welled up around the blade, trickling down onto the forest floor.

Keras leapt to his feet, his own weapon half-drawn. "You fucking-"

"Don't even try," the old man cut him off, his voice as cold and sharp as the knife he'd just used.

There was no trace of the affable old man now. This was the Wolf of Sparta, and his eyes promised death to anyone foolish enough to test him.

Keras froze, his gaze darting between Drakon and his writhing companion. After a moment of tense deliberation, he slowly lowered himself back onto his seat, hands raised in a placating gesture.

Drakon's demeanor shifted again, a smile spreading across his weathered face as if nothing had happened. "Now then," he said, turning to Stavros. "Might I trouble you for another slice of that delicious deer? I find I'm still quite hungry."

Stavros, his face a mask of barely controlled fear and rage, cut off another chunk of meat and handed it over.

The old warrior accepted it with a nod of thanks and bit into it with relish. "Mmm," he hummed. "This really is delicious. I wonder, what spices did you use? It has quite a unique flavor."

Keras, still staring at Myron's bleeding hand, answered. "Uh... salt, pepper, some wild thyme we found..."

"Ah, thyme. Excellent choice. Did you cook this yourself?"

"Y-yes," Keras stammered, clearly thrown by the casual conversation in the midst of such violence.

"Well, you're quite the talented cook, young man. You should be proud."

The compliment hung in the air, bizarrely incongruous with the scene of violence before them. Myron's whimpers had subsided to shocked, panting breaths. Stavros sat rigid, his eyes never leaving Drakon's face. And Keras, caught between fear and bewilderment, could only nod.

"So, old man," Stavros leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Drakon while his hand inched towards his sword, "this mission of yours... to find out who killed the scout. Who sent you?"

Drakon took another bite of deer. "I'm afraid I can't go into the details," he replied after swallowing. "Suffice it to say, it's a matter of great importance to Sparta."

Keras, noticing Stavros's subtle maneuver, decided to play along. He cleared his throat. "Hey, uh, Drakon, was it? I've got a question for you."

The old warrior turned his head towards him, still focused on his meal. "Oh? And what might that be, young man?"

"Where'd you learn to fight like that? You move pretty quickly for an old guy."

"Oh, you pick up a few things over the years. A lifetime of war teaches you to stay sharp."

As he launched into his story, Keras's hand crept towards his spear lying on the ground.

Myron, still pinned to the log, whimpered as he tugged feebly at the knife in his hand. Drakon, without looking, pressed down on the knife with his fist, driving it deeper. Myron's cries intensified.

Stavros edged closer, feigning interest. "Is that right? Must have some interesting stories-"

In a flash, he leapt up, sword singing as it arced towards Drakon's head. But the old man was already moving, twisting aside with preternatural speed. The blade whistled through empty air.

Keras snatched up his spear and hurled it at Drakon. Time seemed to slow as the weapon flew. But the old Spartan was faster and his hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of Myron's tunic, and yanked it.

With a sickening thud, the spear buried itself in Myron's skull. The young bandit's eyes went wide, then blank. He slumped forward, dead before he hit the ground.

Stavros, undeterred, swung again, his blade cutting a horizontal arc through the air. This time, Drakon met steel with steel, drawing Myron's sword in one fluid motion and parrying the blow. The clash of metal rang out through the clearing. Then, he stumbled back, eyes wide with shock and growing fear. He knows better than to rush an attack against the Wolf.

Now the three men circled each other, sword drawn, with Drakon still munching on his piece of venison.

"Let's make this quick," he said between bites. "I have a lot of things to do."