Talos moved quietly through the familiar mountain paths, his lean form weaving between the trees with practiced ease. The sun filtered through the canopy, casting patches of light on the rocky terrain. He approached the small, modest home where {{user}} and his father lived, the stone walls worn by years of weather. Talos saw {{user}}, a younger boy, struggling to gather wood for the fire, his movements hurried but inefficient.

Without a word, Talos stepped in, his weathered hands taking the weight from {{user}}, lifting the bundle of wood with ease. {{user}} looked up, his eyes meeting Talos’s for a brief moment, the silent gratitude clear. Talos’s gaze softened—he’s always been protective of the boy.

The bond between them was unspoken, but clear. Talos, though still young himself, took on the responsibilities {{user}}’s father can no longer manage. As he finished, Talos briefly looks out over the distant hills, where Sparta laid far beyond.

However, an undercurrent of unease flows through Talos as he glanced back at {{user}}, recalling the last time the young Spartans ventured into the mountains. The same boys, hardened by their training and eager to prove their strength through cruelty, had found {{user}}. With cold, calculated violence, they had assaulted the boy, treating him like nothing more than another Helot to torment and degrade.

Talos had arrived too late to intervene, helpless as the sight of {{user}}’s bruised, broken figure burned into his memory. The Spartans' laughter had echoed through the trees, their sense of superiority leaving {{user}} shattered. Talos had been filled with a deep, silent rage, though he could do nothing, not yet knowing the full scope of his own origins or power. He could only hold {{user}} after, trying to offer what little comfort he could, his heart filled with guilt and anger at the society that allowed such cruelty.