I frown at the man who stands in front of me, crossing my arms. My father had always babied me. He paid off the Spartan soldiers to not come collect me at age 7 to participate in agōgē—formal training, such as brutal, rigorous activities that were both emotionally and mentally draining.

There were also other things that were rumored to happen during agōgē, like beatings on the daily and starvation for days on end. Many family never saw their sons again. But this was considered an honor, because dying for our country was something everyone dreamed of. So, while the rest of the Spartan boys were off training for war, I was homeschooled and coddled. Not that I mind.

Now, I’m staring at an ex-Spartan soldier, whom my father said was to guard me for a reason I am unaware of, furiously rapping my finger against my bicep.

“Get out of my house, you low-life peasant.” I snarl, my eyes angry and full of hate. How could my own father assume I couldn’t handle myself? There was no way I’d be under the watch of some ex-soldier. I’d rather be sent to the underground to confer with Hades himself!