The training ground was cold, the winter wind cutting across the compound, but the men stood straight. They had been drilling since dawn, running through the formations Miros had taught them over months of patient, relentless work. Their spears were steady. Their shields were level. Their faces were no longer the faces of fishermen and farmers who had washed up on Troy's shores with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
They were soldiers now. Not the equal of Hector's regulars—not yet—but something real. Something that could hold a line.
