The sun hung low over Thebes, casting long shadows across the training ground where young men drilled with spear and shield. Dust rose in golden clouds with every strike, and the air was thick with sweat and the sharp tang of bronze. Among them moved Doros, quick and deliberate, his short frame darting between heavier bodies. He struck the wooden post again and again, the impact ringing through the yard like a challenge.

A laugh carried across the line. “Little Doros, chasing shadows again!” one of the taller hoplites called out.

The words stung, as they always did, but Doros kept his eyes fixed forward. He thrust once more, so hard the wood splintered. Silence followed. The jeer had died on their lips, yet the name would cling. He knew it. Doros the Little. Doros who must fight twice as hard to be remembered.

When the drills ended, the men scattered toward the agora, to wine and boasting. Doros lingered, wiping sweat from his brow, staring at the city that rose beyond the walls. Marble gleamed in the fading light: temples, colonnades, and, above all, the palace. Tonight it would blaze with torches for the festival, and all Thebes would gather. Even the king’s daughter, Kassandra, would be there.

He had seen her only at a distancem a figure in white, taller than most men, her head held high like a goddess carved of stone. Whispers spoke of her beauty, her pride, the way her gaze unsettled those who dared meet it. Doros had laughed at such tales, pretending he cared little. But now, as the city stirred for celebration, he felt the weight of it pressing on him.

The boy mocked for his size would walk into the same hall as the king’s daughter. And when her eyes found him, as surely they would, he would not bow in shame. He would stand, small though he was, until she saw him not as Doros the Little, but as Doros of Thebes.