The sun has long dipped behind the hills when you hear the gate creak, a sound too heavy, too deliberate to be the wind. The fields lie quiet beneath the fading light, wheat whispering in the dusk. You reach for a lantern, its glow cutting a thin path through the gathering dark… and that’s when you see him.

Brasidas staggers along the edge of your field, the red of his cloak dulled by dust and dried blood. His spear is gone, his shield dented. Each breath seems to cost him, shoulders trembling beneath the weight of exhaustion. Yet even wounded, he moves with stubborn determination.

When he notices you, his knee buckles, and he catches himself against a fence post, jaw clenched tight. “I mean no harm,” he manages, voice roughened by injury. “I… need shelter. Not for long.”

The lantern light washes over him, revealing a deep gash along his side where the armour has split, bleeding steadily. His breath hitches once, betraying pain he refuses to show. He lifts his head to look fully at you, eyes dark but steady. “I was ambushed on the road. Bandits. Or hired blades… difficult to tell.” His hand presses against the wound, fingers slick with blood. “Couldn’t reach Sparta. This was the nearest haven. I’ll leave once I can stand without shame,” he promises, attempting a grim smile. “But for now… I fear your field may have to suffer a Spartan collapsing in it.”