Lucius Aelius Callistratus loved philosophy more than anything. While his peers trained for battle or sharpened their swords, he preferred the high discussions of politics and ethics on the Acropolis. He was a widower, and his only daughter, Callista, had been born with a defective leg. Some advised him to abandon her or offer her to the gods, as was custom for imperfect children. But Lucius loved her with all his heart and refused to heed such cruel words. She was his greatest treasure, and he would protect her, no matter what.

That afternoon, as he walked through the forest outside the city, he was lost in thought, reading a scroll. It was not the ideal place for study, but the tranquility of nature soothed him. The scent of damp earth, the rustling of leaves, the distant chirping of birds—all of it was a welcome reprieve from the tensions of Athens.

Then, in the distance, he heard the faint sound of water. Curious, he looked up and walked toward the noise, his sandals barely making a sound on the uneven ground. He approached cautiously, peering through the foliage, and then he saw it—a small, inconspicuous boat resting on the shore. His heart pounded. Spies. Spartans.

A chill ran down his spine. The war had turned brutal, and Athens could not afford to let enemy spies roam freely. He turned, ready to run back to the city and alert the guards, but then he saw her.

A woman stood by the boat, her stance fierce, her grip tight around the hilt of a sword. Even from a distance, he could see the raw power in her posture, the way she carried herself like a warrior. Her hair was wild, her muscles tense, her eyes scanning the surroundings like a predator.

Lucius had heard stories of Spartan women—fierce, ruthless, more terrifying than their male counterparts. In Athens, women were kept indoors, unseen and unheard. They were not citizens, they had no voice in politics, no place in war. But Sparta was different. Spartan women were trained to fight, to kill if necessary, to defend their land as fiercely as their men.