The first light of dawn crept through the trees as Lucian stirred, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The events of the night before felt like a dream, yet the soreness in his muscles and the lingering scent of wolf on his skin told him otherwise.

He sat up, rubbing his face and glancing over at Drakon. The old man was still asleep, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Beyond him, their two horses were tethered to a nearby tree, grazing on the sparse grass.

"Old fart," Lucian called. "Time to get up. We should move on to Thrace."

He grunted and rolled over, squinting at the boy. "Already? Feels like I just closed my eyes."

"Yeah, well, the sun waits for no one," Lucian stood up, stretching his arms above his head. "Come on. We've got a long ride ahead."

"Alright, alright. No need to rush me," Drakon grumbled but sat up, running a hand through his graying hair.

As they began to pack up their meager camp, Lucian found himself hyper-aware of every movement, every sound. The forest seemed different now, alive in ways he'd never noticed before. He could hear the scurrying of small animals in the underbrush, smell the damp earth and decaying leaves.

"You're quiet this morning," Drakon observed as he rolled up his bedding. "Something on your mind?"

Lucian paused, his hand hovering over his water skin. For a moment, he considered telling Drakon everything – about Linus, about the wolf, about his supposed divine heritage. But the words stuck in his throat.

"Just... thinking about the journey to Thrace," he lied, averting his eyes. "It's a long way."

"That it is. But remember why we're going. The skills you'll learn, the experiences you'll have – they'll serve you well when we return to Sparta."

"I know," Lucian said, forcing a smile. "You're right, as usual."

They continued packing in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Lucian found himself stealing glances at Drakon, wondering what the old man would say if he knew the truth. Would he believe it? Or would he think Lucian had lost his mind?

As they doused the remnants of their fire and scattered the ashes, Drakon turned to Lucian with a curious expression. "You know, there's something different about you today. Can't quite put my finger on it, but... you seem changed, somehow."

"Different? How so?"

"Just a feeling," Drakon shrugged. "Your eyes, maybe. They look... older, somehow. More aware." He chuckled and clapped Lucian on the shoulder. "Or maybe I'm just getting sentimental in my old age."

"Maybe," Lucian forced a laugh. "Or maybe you're just hungry. Come on, let's get the horses ready. We can eat on the road."

"Yeah, maybe."

They approached their mounts, two sturdy bay geldings that had served them well on their journey so far. Lucian ran a hand along his horse's neck, feeling the animal's warmth beneath his palm. For a moment, he wondered if he could transform into a horse as easily as he had become a wolf. The thought made him dizzy.

"So," Drakon said as they saddled the horses, "how far do you think we'll make it today? With luck, we might reach the border of Thrace by nightfall."

Lucian tightened the girth on his saddle. "That sounds about right. As long as the weather holds and the roads are clear, we should have a good time."

They mounted up, the horses snorting and pawing at the ground, eager to be moving. As they set off down the road, leaving the clearing behind, Lucian found himself glancing back, half-expecting to see the black wolf watching them from the shadows. But there was nothing there – just the trees and the wind.

"Ready for another day of adventure?" Drakon asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Lucian urged his horse into a trot. The animal's steady gait was comforting, grounding him in the present moment.

As they rode, the forest thinned, giving way to rolling hills and open meadows. The road stretched out before them, a dusty ribbon leading north towards Thrace.

The mountain path wound its way down the rugged slopes, a narrow ribbon of dirt and stone carved into the landscape over centuries of use. They guided their horses carefully along the treacherous route, the animals' hooves clopping against the rocky ground. The air grew thinner as they descended, the crisp breeze giving way to the warmer currents of the lowlands.

Towering pines lined the path, their branches stretching overhead like gnarled fingers, filtering the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground. The scent of resin and wild herbs filled the air, a sharp contrast to the musty odor of decaying leaves that carpeted the forest floor. As they rode, Lucian found himself acutely aware of the myriad sounds around them - the rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant cry of an eagle soaring above the peaks, the soft snorts and huffs of their horses.

The path twisted and turned, revealing new vistas with each bend. To their left, the mountainside fell away, offering breathtaking views of the valleys below. Mist clung to the distant peaks, shrouding them in an ethereal veil that seemed to blur the line between earth and sky. On their right, the mountain rose steeply, its rocky face dotted with stubborn vegetation that clung to any available crevice.

As they continued their descent, the landscape began to change. The dense pine forests gave way to more varied vegetation. Oak trees appeared among the conifers. Patches of wildflowers bloomed in sunny clearings, splashes of purple, yellow, and white against the earthy tones of the mountainside.

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Wildlife abounded in this transitional zone. A family of deer bounded across the path ahead of them, their white tails flashing as they disappeared into the underbrush. Then, they saw a red fox paused on a rocky outcropping, regarding the travelers with wary curiosity before slinking away. Overhead, a pair of falcons wheeled and dove, engaged in an aerial dance.

The road itself bore proof to the long history of human passage through these mountains. In some places, ancient wheel ruts were still visible, worn deep into the bedrock by countless carts and chariots. Here and there, crumbling stone markers stood by the wayside, their inscriptions long since weathered away by time and the elements.

As the day wore on, the path began to level out, the steep descents giving way to more gentle slopes. The air grew warmer and thicker, carrying with it the scents of the lowlands - rich earth, flowering plants, and the faint, tantalizing hint of cultivated fields. The sound of running water grew louder, and soon they found themselves crossing a swift-flowing stream via an old stone bridge, its arches green with moss and lichen.

In the late afternoon, as the sun began its descent towards the western horizon, the path finally emerged from the last vestiges of the mountain forests. Before them stretched a vast expanse of rolling hills and open plains, dotted with clusters of trees and the occasional glint of distant rivers.

And there, on the far horizon, barely visible in the hazy distance, they saw it - the first glimpse of Thrace. A smudge of darker color against the sky, it might have been mistaken for a low-lying cloud or a trick of the light. But both Lucian and Drakon knew what it signified - the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

As they approached the gates, the road became increasingly crowded. Travelers from all corners of Greece converged on the city, creating a vibrant tapestry of cultures and backgrounds. Lucian found himself captivated by the diversity on display.

"Look at that one," Drakon muttered, nodding towards a young woman with olive skin and dark, curly hair. "Must be from Athens. They always have that sophisticated air about them."

Lucian rolled his eyes. "Focus you old fart. We're here to learn, not ogle every pretty face that passes by."

"Who says I can't do both?" Drakon said, his gaze lingering on a group of fair-skinned merchants, their pale complexions suggesting northern origins. "Besides, observing the locals is part of our education, isn't it?"

As they drew closer to the gates, the crowd thickened. Farmers hauled carts laden with produce, their sun-weathered faces speaking of long days in the fields. Traders from distant lands stood out with their exotic garments and unfamiliar languages. A group of young men, their bodies toned and muscular, strode past with the confident bearing of athletes.

"Those must be heading for the Olympics," Lucian observed. "Think they stand a chance against Spartan training?"

"Not likely," Drakon snorted. "But it'll be fun to watch them try."

They were mere yards from the entrance when a gruff voice called out, "Halt! You two, step aside."

Four guards approached. Each carried a bronze armor, a long spear and a short sword at their hip. Their leader, a burly man with a thick beard, eyed the two suspiciously.

"Why are we being stopped?" Drakon demanded. "You're letting everyone else through without a second glance."

The lead guard narrowed his eyes. "You look suspicious. For all we know, you could be Spartan spies."

"Spartan spies? Us? Do we look like we have the discipline for that?"

"Appearances can be deceiving," the guard growled. He gestured to his companions. "Check their belongings."

While the other guards began rummaging through their saddlebags, the leader fixed Drakon with a hard stare. "Where did you say you were from?"

"We didn't. But if you must know, we hail from a small village near Thebes. Came here seeking work, like many others."

"Where in Thebes?"

"Somewhere in the foothills of Mount Helicon."

"Helicon, huh?" the guard's gaze shifted to Lucian. "And him? He's awful young to be your traveling companion."

"My nephew. Poor boy lost his parents last winter. Plague. I'm all the family he has left, so I took him in. Thought a change of scenery might do him good."

Lucian fought to keep his face neutral.

The lead guard studied them for a while, then nodded to his men.

"Nothing suspicious here, sir," one reported.

With a grunt, the leader stepped aside. "Very well. You may pass. But know that we'll be keeping an eye on you. Any trouble, and you'll answer to me personally."

"Wouldn't dream of causing trouble," Drakon urged his horse forward. "Come along, nephew. Let's find ourselves some lodging for the night."

As they passed through the gates, Lucian leaned in close. "Quick thinking back there. How do you come up with those stories so fast?"

"Years of practice, my boy. When you've lied to many women as I have, you learn a thing or two about talking your way out of sticky situations."

Lucian slaps his forehead with his hand.

They entered the city proper, the sounds and smells of Thrace washing over them. The streets were a maze of activity - merchants hawking their wares, children darting between the legs of adults, the enticing aromas of cooking food wafting from taverns and homes alike.

At major intersections, they encountered statues of gods and local heroes. A massive bronze sculpture of Zeus dominated the central square, its surface covered in a rich golden hue. Nearby, a white marble Athena stood guard over what appeared to be a local council building, her spear and shield shimmering in the sunlight. In a small garden area, they spotted a colorful statue of Dionysus, painted in vivid purples and greens, surrounded by grape vines and revelers.

The taverns they passed were a mix of architectural styles. One establishment has a distinct Ionian facade, with slender columns supporting an ornate pediment. Its walls were adorned with frescoes depicting scenes from popular myths - a vibrant portrayal of Herakles wrestling the Nemean lion caught Lucian's eye.

Another tavern had a more rustic appearance, its walls made of rough-hewn stone. Large terracotta amphorae lined its entrance, and the scent of roasted meat and strong wine wafted from its open doors. Inside, they were walls decorated with hunting scenes painted in earthy tones of ochre, sienna, and umber.

The homes varied widely in size and grandeur. Modest dwellings of sunbaked mud-brick stood alongside grander houses of stone. Many featured small courtyards visible through open gates, offering tantalizing glimpses of private gardens and household shrines. The wealthier homes boasted colorful mosaics adorning their entranceways, depicting geometric patterns and scenes from daily life.

In the artisan district, they passed workshops where potters shaped clay on wheels and painters decorated vases with black-figure designs. The air was filled with the sounds of hammering from metalworkers' forges and the pungent smell of dyes from textile shops.

Public spaces were marked by colonnaded stoas, their long porticos offering shade to pedestrians and housing rows of shops. In one such area, they observed a group of men engaged in animated discussion, perhaps philosophers or politicians debating the issues of the day.

"Well," Drakon said, smiling, "we made it. Thrace, in all its glory. What do you say we find a tavern and celebrate our arrival?"

"What, really?"

"Yeah, why not? I haven’t had any wine lately."

"Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, I know you when you get drunk."

"Oh shush. It’s just one drink."

"That’s what I’m worried about. It all starts with one drink."