After the trial, Atlas was escorted away from the training square. The air was thick with the smell of blood and fire, and though the guards surrounded him as before, there was something different in their posture. They did not shove him. They did not sneer. Their grip was firm, but cautious—like men handling a blade that might cut them if they grew careless.
He was taken to a small stone chamber, dimly lit by a single torch. The air was cool and damp, a reprieve from the choking dust outside. Inside, two cots sat opposite one another, rough straw bound in cloth. On the far cot sat a boy, legs drawn up, elbows on his knees.
The boy looked up as Atlas entered. His grin was quick, wide, unguarded.
"I saw you fight," he said, eyes gleaming with excitement. "That was incredible! You were like—like a wolf tearing down a deer."
Atlas didn't reply immediately. He studied the boy instead: broad shoulders for his age, messy hair, sharp eyes full of mischief and fire. He already knew his name, his face, his destiny. But hearing it in person made it real.
"I'm Alexios," the boy said proudly, standing and extending his hand. "What's your name?"
"Atlas," he answered, voice even.
Alexios gripped his hand tightly, nodding as though sealing some unspoken pact. "Atlas," he repeated, as if testing the sound. "Strong name. Fits you."
The boy's grin widened. "I thought you were going to run when they threw you in there. Most kids would. But you didn't. You fought like a real warrior. You made them scared." His laughter rang out, careless and bright. "Did you see their faces? Even the guards didn't know what to do with you!"
Atlas sat on his cot, setting his daggers aside. He studied Alexios carefully. He's nothing like I remember, Atlas thought. Not like Deimos he remembered. Just a boy trying to survive.
Alexios plopped back onto his bed, still buzzing with energy. "One day, we'll fight side by side. I can feel it."
Atlas said nothing. His silence wasn't cold—it was calculating. He lay back on his cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind turning over the day's events. If I'm going to survive here, I need allies. Trust. The children must see me as more than another pawn.
Sleep came late, heavy with thought.
At dawn, the door banged open. Guards stormed in, their voices sharp. "Up! To the field!"
The children stirred reluctantly, groaning and rubbing at tired eyes. But when the guards' gazes passed over Atlas and Alexios, there was hesitation. No longer contempt, no longer derision—something else. Unease.
On the training field, the sun had already begun its climb, promising heat. The ground was dry, cracked from countless drills. Weapons were thrust into small hands: swords, spears, bows, axes, both light and heavy.
"Again!" barked a guard. "Strike until your arms break, then strike again!"
The children trained relentlessly. Steel clashed, wooden shafts cracked, sweat poured. Some collapsed outright, fainting under the unforgiving sun. Others staggered, chests heaving, unable to keep up.
"Move, you worthless whelps!" another guard snarled, kicking a boy back to his feet.
Alexios, panting, shot Atlas a grin between swings of his wooden sword. "This is nothing! I've carried boars bigger than this sword!"
Atlas raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his own strikes fluid, efficient. His comprehension turned each movement into mastery. Where other children flailed, Atlas adapted, refined, perfected. The guards noticed. The children noticed.
By high noon, the camp was a graveyard of exhaustion. Bodies sprawled across the dirt, gasping, sweating, trembling. The guards finally relented, allowing a brief rest.
Atlas sat beneath the shade of a crumbling wall, wiping sweat from his brow. A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see a masked guard holding out a rough sack. Without a word, the man placed it at Atlas's feet and walked away.
Atlas frowned, lifting the sack. Empty. A tool for carrying, nothing more. But the timing… unusual. Why him?
Before he could ponder further, Alexios dropped down beside him with a waterskin slung over his shoulder. "Come on," he said, voice still bright despite the exhaustion in his eyes. "If we want to eat tonight, we need to hunt. I'll bring water. You bring the sack."
Atlas nodded. The sack's purpose became clear.
The forest was alive with sound—the chatter of birds, the rustle of leaves, the snap of branches underfoot. Alexios led with fearless confidence, a grin plastered across his face even as sweat dripped down his brow.
"We'll find a boar," Alexios said, gripping a crude spear. "Always plenty of them around here. They'll feed us for days."
Atlas followed quietly, daggers ready at his sides. Hours passed before they cornered one—a massive beast, tusks long and sharp, eyes wild with fury.
It charged.
Alexios roared back, slamming his spear into the beast's shoulder. The boar squealed, thrashing violently. Atlas moved in with precision, his daggers finding tendons and arteries, his strikes swift and deliberate. Together, they brought the monster down.
Panting, Alexios grinned wide. "Ha! Did you see that? Together, nothing can stop us!"
Atlas only nodded, though inside, he acknowledged the truth. Alexios fought with reckless bravery; Atlas fought with surgical precision. Together, they were formidable.
On the way back, Atlas's eyes caught something among the roots of trees. Green, white, yellow—plants. Herbs. His heart leapt with recognition. Feverfew. Yarrow. Willow bark. All familiar. All useful.
He knelt quickly, gathering them into his sack.
Alexios tilted his head. "What are those for? Can we eat them?"
Atlas shook his head. "No. They heal. For cuts, fevers, sickness. The children in camp are dying. These can help."
For once, Alexios didn't joke. He stared at Atlas, respect dawning in his eyes. "You're… different," he said quietly. "Not just strong. You care."
Atlas met his gaze briefly, then looked away. "Strength means nothing if you don't use it to help others."
Alexios was silent for a long moment, then nodded firmly. "Then we'll help them. Together."
That evening, they returned with the boar and the herbs. Atlas shared the meat with the weakest children, those too frail to hunt. He treated wounds, crushed herbs into poultices, soothed fevers. His hands, though young, moved with the certainty of the doctor he once was.
At first, the children stared at him with suspicion. But when pain eased, when fever broke, when hunger lessened, their eyes changed. Gratitude replaced fear. Hope replaced despair.
"Thank you," one whispered, clutching the food he offered.
Another, with a gash along his arm, muttered, "Why? Why help us?"
Atlas's answer was simple. "Because no one else will."
The guards did not stop him. They watched from the shadows, silent, measuring. But they did not intervene.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months.
Atlas grew taller, stronger, sharper. Every lesson, every weapon, every tactic was absorbed into him like water into dry earth. But more important than his skills was the trust he built.
When food was scarce, children turned to him. When wounds festered, they sought his herbs. When fear threatened to crush them, his presence steadied them.
Two years passed.
By then, Atlas was not just another child in the camp. He was their leader. Not through fear, not through cruelty, but through kindness. The children followed him because he gave them something the Cult never offered—hope.
And so, at the age of ten, Atlas became the one thing the Cult did not expect to forge in their crucible.
A leader chosen not by command, but by choice.
(PS: Please support me on patreon there 30+ chapters there
https://www.patreon.com/c/BX_XDS)