Stephanos sat at the small wooden desk in his room, his eyes fixed on the ledgers spread before him. The parchments, stolen from Aristos' warehouse just days ago, held a wealth of information that would make any magistrate salivate. Bribes to politicians, shipments of illegal goods, and transactions with foreign traders—all meticulously recorded in neat columns of figures and notes.

But it wasn't these damning details that held his attention. His gaze was locked on a series of letters tucked between the pages of financial records. Correspondence between Aristos and a close friend, discussing intelligence from Persian sources. The contents made his blood run cold.

"Millions," Stephanos muttered. "Not thousands. Millions of soldiers."

The implications were staggering. If this information was accurate, the Persian invasion force would dwarf anything Greece had faced before. It wasn't just an army; it was a tidal wave of men and steel poised to crash upon Hellenic shores.

Stephanos leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He needed to inform General Brasidas immediately. The Spartan forces would have to be mobilized on a scale unprecedented in their history. Every able-bodied man, every scrap of bronze and iron, every grain of wheat would be needed to face this threat.

He reached for a blank piece of parchment, his mind already composing the urgent message to be sent back to Sparta. But before his stylus could touch the surface, a loud clanging sound erupted from the adjacent room.

He froze, ears straining. The noise came again, a metallic crash followed by muffled cursing. It was coming from Drakon's quarters.

With a sigh, Stephanos set down his writing implements and rose from the desk. The old man had been acting strangely lately, more so than usual. Probably the wine, he thought, though he couldn't recall seeing Drakon drink much recently.

He crossed the room in a few long strides and opened the door, stepping out into the narrow hallway of Thais' house. The clanging continued, punctuated by grunts of exertion and what sounded like furniture being moved.

"Wolf?" Stephanos called out, approaching the old warrior's door. "Everything alright in there?"

No response came, just more shuffling and the scrape of metal on wood. He frowned, his hand hovering over the door handle. He respected the old man's privacy, but something about this didn't feel right.

"I'm coming in," he announced, then pushed the door open.

The scene that greeted him was one of controlled chaos. Drakon stood in the center of the room, surrounded by an assortment of weapons and armor pieces. The bed had been pushed against the wall, and a large trunk lay open on the floor, its contents spilled out around it.

"Ah, Stephanos. Good timing. Give me a hand with this, will you?" He gestured to a breastplate that lay on the floor.

Stephanos stepped into the room, scanning the array of military equipment. "What's all this about? Are we under attack?"

The old warrior snorted. "Not yet. But soon enough, I'd wager." He bent down, grimacing as he lifted the breastplate. "I may be old, but I'm not blind. Something's coming. I can feel it in these old bones."

Stephanos moved to help Wolf with the armor. Did the old man somehow know about the Persian invasion plans? Or was this just another of his paranoid episodes?

"Drakon," Stephanos began, "what exactly do you think is coming?"

"War, boy. What else? It's always war. The only question is when and where."

"War? You knew about the ledger?"

"Ledger?" Drakon paused, his grip tightening on the breastplate. "What ledger? No, I know nothing of any ledgers."

"Then what war are you talking about?"

"An assassin tried to kill me recently."

"An assassin?! Wha—ho—" Stephanos stammered, trying to piece together the information. "Why would an assassin come after you? And why now?"

Drakon set down the breastplate with a clunk on the wooden table and straightened up. "I don’t know, but I beat him. And now I need to armor up because I have a feeling that he’s going to go after those orphans I’m taking care of."

"Great," Stephanos paced back and forth. "This is exactly what I warned you about," he said, jabbing his finger towards the air. "I told you to stay away from those kids; they're being used to lure you into a trap."

"I know, that’s why I’m going to rescue them."

"Rescue them? How?"

"I’m going to take them to a safe house in the countryside. Far from here, far from the city's prying eyes."

"And you think you can just waltz out of the city with a group of orphans, unnoticed?"

"Why? You think I can’t do it?"

"No, that’s not the point."

"Then, what’s your point?"

"How are you going to feed them? You can’t even take care of yourself properly. What makes you think you can handle a group of kids on the run?"

"I’ll figure that out. I’m going to live with them. Protect them..."

"Like, permanently?"

"Yeah, why not? I don’t see any problem with that?"

"And the mission? What about Lucian?"

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"Haven’t I answered these questions before? I told you I’m getting out of this mission, and Lucian can take care of himself. He doesn’t need me to babysit for him anymore. You got the info from Aristos, correct?"

"Yeah."

Drakon put on the breastplate. "There you have it. Mission accomplished. I'm done," he announced.

"Wait, you can’t just leave."

"Why not?" The old man paused mid-way. "I’ve done my part. It's time for me to do what I want. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again."

"You do know that General Brasidas asked for you specifically for this mission," Stephanos said, watching Drakon as he adjusted the straps of his breastplate, ensuring a snug fit. "He won’t be happy if you just up and leave. Especially not for some half-baked plan about orphans."

"And you think I should care because?" Drakon glanced over.

"You can’t be serious."

"I told you before," Drakon strap on his sword belt. "I’ve done enough for Sparta. Now, it’s time to do things for me."

Stephanos watched in silence as Drakon grabbed his shield and slung it over his back. He had always admired the Wolf’s resolve, but this is reckless. The old man seemed to be acting more out of emotion than reason.

"Wolf, wait," Stephanos urged, catching up to him as he walked towards the door. "Do you know what I found out in the letters that we stole? Do you know how many Persians are coming?"

"What did you find out?"

"Millions, my friend. They’re sending out millions. So it won’t matter where you go or what you do with those kids. They’ll find us all eventually, and then what? You think you can protect them against an army? Unless you help us to find a way to stop this war, this quest of yours of having a peaceful life won’t even make sense."

Drakon rested his hand on the wooden frame. "Pass, I’ll take my chances. I’ve did it before. I’ll do it again."

As the old man turned his back to reach for his shield, Stephanos saw his opportunity and, in a split second, lunged forward, hands outstretched. His palms connected with Drakon's back, shoving the old warrior hard towards the wall with a resounding thud. The impact sent his belongings rattling towards the ground.

Seizing the moment of confusion, Stephanos then lunged for the hilt of the old man's sword, but Drakon was one step ahead. He swiftly rotated the handle and twisted it, causing the Spartan's fingers to slip off. In one fluid motion, Drakon countered with a sharp elbow to Stephanos' face, then followed up with a swift kick to his abdomen. Stephanos stumbled back, gasping for air and holding his bruised stomach.

Drakon stood there, chest heaving. "What the fuck are you doing?" he growled.

"Stopping you," Stephanos straigthened up.

"Stopping me? From what? Saving those kids?"

"From throwing everything away," he shot back. He took a step forward, ignoring the ache in his midsection. "You're not thinking straight, Wolf."

Drakon's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "I'm thinking clearer than I have in years. Those kids need me."

"And what about Sparta? What about our people? Ever think of that?"

"I'm done fighting other people's wars. I'm done watching children die for the ambitions of kings and generals."

"You can't just walk away from this. Not now. Not when we need you most."

"Need me?" Drakon barked out a harsh laugh. "Sparta used me for forty fucking years. And what did they do after all those service I gave them? They exiled me. Gone. Nada. So spare me your pleas about duty and loyalty. I gave them everything and they threw me away."

"Maybe not to Sparta, but what about to me? To Brasidas? To Leonidas? To the men who stood by you?"

"You know what happened to those buddies of mine?...dead. All of them. I’m the only one standing. And for what? So they can have some gravestones with their names engraved on them? Wow, what a prize. Sparta has fucking brainwashed us all that fighting and dying for them is some kind of great honor. It’s not. There is no honor in dying for a country that is doing exactly what their enemies are doing. There is no honor in being a pawn in their game. I'm choosing to fight for something worth fighting for this time. For those kids. They don't deserve what’s coming to them, caught between power-hungry leaders."

The air in the room was thick with tension, both men refusing to yield. Stephanos could see the determination in Drakon's gaze. This was not a rash choice; he clearly made a conscious decision.

"Those orphans," he said. "You barely know them. How can you protect them?"

"I have fought countless people trying to kill me. All of them are dead. I know the risks. But I also know what it's like to be a child with no one to turn to. No one to protect you from the cruelties of this world."

"And what about the choice to defend your home? To protect all of Greece from the Persian horde? What about the families of those people in Sparta? If we don’t stop this war, how many of them will become orphans? How many of them will end up the same way those kids you're so eager to protect have? You can't turn your back on everyone."

"There will always be another war," Drakon said, grabbing his weapons and placing it into his bag. "Another enemy at the gates. It never ends. But those kids? They need help now. And I'm the only one who can give it to them."

Stephanos stood there, jaw clenched, watching the old man pack his belongings. He couldn't let it end like this. He couldn't stand by and watch Drakon walk away from everything they'd worked for. The fate of Greece hung in the balance, and they needed every skilled fighter they could muster.

The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the reality of the situation sank in. He glanced at the door, half-expecting Thais or Lucian to burst in and talk some sense into the old man. But they were alone.

Stephanos clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn't let it end like this. He couldn't let Drakon throw away everything they had worked for, everything they had sacrificed for. But what could he say?

He felt a surge of anger, of frustration, of desperation. He wanted to shout, to argue, to physically restrain the man if necessary. But he knew it would be futile. The Wolf of Sparta had made his decision, and nothing short of the gods themselves could change his mind. He had failed. Failed his mission, failed his country, failed the people counting on them.

So, in a final act of defiance, Stephanos took a deep breath and lunged forward hitting Drakon's face with a sickening crack of his fist. The old warrior stumbled backward, his legs giving out as he crashed to the floor. His head spun, vision blurring from the impact. Through the haze, he saw Stephanos advancing again. Instinct took over and he rolled to the side, feeling the whoosh of air as Stephanos' fist narrowly missed his ear.

Both men scrambled to their feet, chests heaving with exertion.

The room tilted and swayed around Drakon as he tried to steady himself. He tasted copper in his mouth, felt the throb of what would soon be a nasty bruise blooming on his cheek.

"You fucking bastard," he spat. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Stephanos stood his ground, fists clenched at his sides. "I'm not letting you walk away from this. I’ve tried to reason with you, but it seems to me the only language you know is violence."

Drakon wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "And what would you have me do, huh? March off to die in some glorious last stand? Fuck that. I've seen enough death to last ten lifetimes."

"So you'd rather hide? Pretend the world isn't burning around you?"

"I'd rather save who I can. It’s more noble than this fucked up shit. I'm tired, Stephanos. Tired of fighting other people's wars. Tired of watching good men die for nothing."

"That's not fair and you know it. Sparta has its flaws, but it's still our home. And right now, it needs us."

"And what makes you think we can stop it? You said it yourself - millions of Persians. What chance do we have against that?"

"I don't know. But I do know that our chances are a hell of a lot better with you fighting alongside us. You're the Wolf of Sparta, for fuck's sake. Men would follow you into the depths of Hades itself."

"Men would follow me to their deaths, you mean."

"Maybe. But they'd do it believing in something greater than themselves. Believing that their sacrifice meant something."

Drakon sighed. "You're really not going to let this go, are you?"

Stephanos didn't bother with a verbal response. His silence was answer enough as he shifted into an offensive stance, fists raised high, ready to continue the fight.

"Ok, suit yourself," Drakon mirrored his pose, hands curling into fists and rising to guard his face. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you."