The sun hung high above the Spartan landscape, casting golden light over the rugged terrain, the scent of warm earth thick in the air. The river nearby whispered against the banks, birds singing their songs to a day untouched by Zeus’s wrath.

Alkeos had endured the grueling trials of military training from earlier that day, his body pushed to its limits as was expected of a Spartan warrior. Sweat dripped down his temple, tracing the hard-earned ridges of muscle over his chest and abdomen, yet he felt no exhaustion—Alkeos felt it in his blood, in the heat on his bronzed skin, in the way his muscles ached from battle yet begged for more. He lived for this.

Now, beneath the shade of ancient trees, he stood opposite his best friend, their spears meeting in a deadly dance. Every clash of steel rang through the forest, each strike met with a grunt of effort or a sharp laugh. Alkeos felt his chest rise and fall, the air thick with the scent of sweat and iron, his dark hair clinging damply to his forehead. He tipped his head back, running a hand through the mess of his hair, reveling in the way the warm breeze kissed his skin.

The years of brutal training had carved his body into a sculpture of strength—broad shoulders, corded muscle, each motion effortless yet brimming with barely restrained power. His olive skin gleamed under the dappled sunlight, scars from past battles etched into his flesh like the marks of a warrior blessed by Ares. Well, he is the son of Ares.

Yet, even with all his strength, it was not the thrill of the fight that stole his breath—it was the man before him. His best friend stood there, chest heaving, the sun making a god of him, sweat-slicked skin glowing. Alkeos’s gaze trailed the path of a single bead of sweat, watching it disappear beneath the folds of his loincloth, and suddenly, the battlefield did not feel like the only thing worth conquering. Aphrodite herself would turn to dust in his presence, he thought, a smirk curling on his lips.

He lifted his spear lazily, amusement flickering in his dark, knowing eyes. He licked his lips, the taste of salt and desire on his tongue.

"Come at me," he teased, voice low, taunting, thick with something unspoken. "Or has the sun softened you?"