The first light of dawn cut through the thin canvas of the tent, weak and gray, like a hesitant apology for the horrors of yesterday. My body protested violently. Every muscle, every joint, every tendon seemed to have staged a mutiny overnight. I tried to sit up, and the effort alone made me wish for a bucket to throw up into.
"Finally awake?" a voice drawled from the corner. I blinked through the haze and saw a young man, roughly my age, sitting cross-legged on a cot opposite mine. His hair was matted with sweat, his tunic patched in several places. He grinned. "You look like a wounded boar. Nikandros. And you?"
I groaned. "Ethan… I mean… Ariston."
He tilted his head, appraising. "Ariston. Good. Names help with survival. And you survived. That's the real achievement. Not everyone does."
I swallowed, tasting blood and bile from the day before. I survived… by luck. Pure luck. "I… I don't even know how."
Nikandros shrugged, tossing a rag over his shoulder. "Don't think about it. You were here, the gods didn't take you. That's enough for now. Focus on moving, breathing, and not screaming when you see a Trojan again."
A gruff laugh cut through the quiet. "The gods had little to do with it," said a deeper voice. A man stepped into the sliver of morning light, broad-shouldered, hair streaked with gray. His eyes were sharp, scanning, calm. "Skill, awareness, and quick thinking. Not blind luck."
I craned my neck. A veteran, for sure. "Theron?" Nikandros introduced. "Our senior. One of the few who's seen ten campaigns, survived eight."
Theron nodded, settling on a cot across from me. "Eight campaigns, yes. Survived all because I watched, I learned, and I kept moving. Today, you moved too. That counts for something, even if you nearly got skewered twice."
I pressed my hand to my ribs. "Barely. I… I froze. Then something just… clicked."
Dorian, a younger soldier with a sharp nose and restless hands, leaned in from the corner. "Clicked? That's called staying alive. You saw what others did—most would have panicked or tripped over their own feet. You didn't."
I winced. "It didn't feel like skill."
Nikandros smirked. "Skill comes in layers. One day it'll feel like it. Today, you survived because you were alive. That's step one."
Theron's eyes softened slightly. "We were lucky you didn't break like a twig. You had some awareness, some… instinct. That's more than most green recruits had. But don't think the next battle will be easier. Survival doesn't wait for courage."
I swallowed. Instinct. Awareness. Not enough. Never enough. I can't rely on luck again. The tent smelled of sweat, mud, and yesterday's blood—a reminder that death had brushed past all of us. My stomach churned. I'm not ready. Not even close.
Dorian leaned back, crossing his arms. "Tell me, Ariston, how did you feel when that Trojan hit the line near you?"
I flinched, the memory vivid. The clash of bronze, the smell of iron, the screams, the horse… "Terrified. Frozen, then… then survival took over. I moved. I didn't think. I just… did."
Nikandros chuckled. "Ah, the great paradox. Fear makes the strongest moves. Don't underestimate it. Yesterday you fought with terror as a blade in your hands."
Theron's expression sharpened. "But that terror will fade. Or it will break you. You need to understand it, own it, and prepare your body for what comes next."
I nodded slowly, muscles stiff as stone. Prepare… right. Not just survive, but be ready. Everything counts—the body, the mind, the knowledge. Even this… borrowed body.
Nikandros leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Now, breakfast before training. We eat, we move, we laugh… if we're alive, we laugh. You, newcomer, get used to it."
I forced a small smile. "Laughing… feels far away right now."
Theron's lips twitched. "It'll come. Only after you've survived more than one day. And maybe then, you'll start thinking like a soldier instead of a terrified stranger."
I swallowed again, nodding. A soldier. That's what I need to become. Not Ariston, not Ethan. Something else… something stronger.
The tent filled with low murmurs—preparation, conversation, small gossip about the battle, who survived, who screamed, who fell. Names I barely knew were thrown around like coins. And somewhere beneath it all, I realized—this was the first morning I felt the pull to stay, to live through this, to anchor myself in the chaos.
And I noticed Lysa moving outside the flap, hands steady as she handed a water jug to a passing soldier. She's here again. Still calm. Still… real.
A whisper in my head—Mnemosyne, I think—slipped past the noise: Observe. Learn. Anchor.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment, letting the tent sounds wash over me. Tomorrow, I train. Tomorrow, I survive. And maybe, just maybe… I begin to understand.
I unrolled from my cot, joints protesting like an orchestra of rusted hinges. Outside the tent, the morning sun struggled to pierce the haze of smoke and dust hanging over the camp. The chaos of yesterday had left its mark—splintered shields leaning against posts, scattered helmets, and a muddy, churned earth that smelled like iron and sweat.
Nikandros clapped me on the back, a little too hard, and I staggered. "Move, Ariston. Breakfast waits. Don't faint before your first meal."
I followed him out, squinting against the gray light. The camp was sprawling, a patchwork of canvas tents and lean-tos, the kind you'd imagine a dozen Greek armies making each night. Stakes drove into the earth, ropes taut, canvas flapping with the occasional gust. Smoke rose from multiple cook fires, curling into the sky like lazy ghosts. Some men cleaned weapons, others sharpened spearheads, and somewhere, a smith pounded metal with rhythmic authority, sparks shooting like fireflies.
Everywhere I looked, there were small dramas: a recruit arguing with a veteran over a shield, a soldier carrying water for the wounded, a group of men huddled in whispers, talking about battles past and kings yet to come. Horses were tethered in rows, stamping and whinnying, nostrils flaring. The air smelled of leather, charred meat, and human sweat—an aroma that somehow signaled life to survive, not just the memory of death.
I walked alongside Nikandros and Dorian, trying to match their pace. My mind wandered. This camp… it's a city of war. And I'm just a citizen, but one who wants to thrive, not just survive. I noticed the stores of grain in clay jars, the haphazard piles of dried meat, and the occasional basket of fruit. Not much to sustain someone used to modern nutrition—or a body borrowed from a soldier already strained to the limit.
Breakfast was a simple affair: coarse barley porridge, a few dried figs, salted goat cheese, and water from a communal jug. The soldiers ate quickly, shoving spoonfuls into mouths that barely had time to chew. I took a small portion, not from hunger, but from observation. Every bite made me think of calories, protein, and recovery.
Barley… okay, carbs. Goat cheese… decent fats and some protein. Dried figs… sugar. Not enough. I need better.
I found myself calculating quietly, as if I were still at my London desk. If I can find extra grain from the storeroom, maybe trade with the smiths or horse handlers for meat scraps… I can get a few more calories. A steady supply would keep me from losing muscle. And if I use my knowledge of modern training… I can develop strength and endurance faster than most of these recruits.
Nikandros caught my gaze and grinned. "You staring at your food like it owes you something?"
I forced a smile. "Just… planning my next move."
He chuckled. "Planning is good. Keep it alive in you. Don't let the Trojans plan it for you first."
I nodded, internally cataloging every detail: which tents held food, which men controlled it, the rotation of the guards, the water sources, the livestock. I'm not just eating. I'm mapping survival, opportunity, advantage.
Theron appeared beside me, hands folded behind his back, eyes scanning the camp. "Food is scarce. Good soldiers make do, but smart soldiers make more. If you can get extra, ration it, train with it, and recover better, you'll last longer. Don't waste time thinking about taste—think about fuel. Fuel for the arms, legs, and the mind."
I chewed thoughtfully. "And if I run out?"
"Then you adapt," Theron said simply. "Scavenge, trade, or earn it from a task others can't do. You've already survived the first day. That counts for leverage."
The camp bustled around us: a tent flap flew open, revealing a young soldier writhing as he tried to adjust a splint. Laughter erupted from a nearby group as someone tried to lift a heavy water jug—another reminder of the world I was in. This was survival, crude and beautiful, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
I took a deep breath. I can work with this. I can become better. Muscle, endurance, calories, recovery… all under their noses.
Nikandros leaned in. "Quiet day? Or plotting conquest?"
"Conquest," I muttered, more to myself than him.
And as I glanced toward the edge of the camp, I caught Lysa moving between tents, her hands steady as ever, carrying water and supplies with quiet authority. My chest tightened slightly. She belongs here. Somehow, she anchors this chaos. And maybe… she's why I want to anchor myself too.
The first meal in the camp was gone in minutes, but in my mind, the real breakfast had just begun: understanding, planning, and preparation.
The camp was alive with the sound of metal and shouted orders long before the sun fully climbed above the horizon. I followed Nikandros and Dorian toward the training ground—a patch of flattened earth, churned mud, and scattered stones, ringed with weapons racks and a few makeshift targets. Soldiers were already moving in formation, spears in hand, shields strapped, bodies moving in synchronized steps.
At first glance, it looked like chaos. Men running, shouting, swinging wooden swords and spears. Dust kicked into the air with each step. I smirked internally: This is going to be inefficient, outdated, and exhausting. I'll show them how modern training works.
But as we fell into line, I began noticing patterns. The men weren't just flailing—each movement had purpose. The drillmaster shouted cadence: forward, thrust, pivot, step back, swing. Spears were planted, shields locked, bodies angled to maximize reach and protection. They repeated the motions relentlessly. Every strike, dodge, and counter was drilled until it became second nature.
I tried to mimic the steps, arms aching almost immediately. My mind, though, was working overtime. Wait… this makes sense. Every repetition builds muscle memory, endurance, reflexes. They're not just training strength—they're building coordination, agility, and mental resilience under stress. Efficiency disguised as chaos.
When we broke formation for a brief rest, I crouched low, hands on my knees, catching my breath. Nikandros grinned. "You're thinking too much. Move, Ariston. The body learns better than the mind commands at this stage."
I nodded but couldn't stop my thoughts from racing. I can apply my calisthenics routines here—push-ups, squats, planks, jump drills. Endurance and hip drive for thrusts, shoulder stability for shield work, explosive power for short bursts. I can enhance what they're doing, not fight it.
We moved on to individual training. Archery, swordplay, and spear handling were taught side by side. I watched a veteran—muscles corded like ropes beneath tanned skin—execute a sword drill: step, parry, thrust, pivot, repeat, repeat, repeat. His precision was hypnotic. The thought struck me: This is why Greek soldiers are feared. They are trained for efficiency of survival, not just raw strength.
I couldn't resist experimenting. Between drills, I added small movements from my past: single-leg squats while holding a shield, plank rotations to mimic twisting in combat, explosive push-ups to simulate pushing an enemy away. I felt my muscles adapt in ways I hadn't anticipated. The blend of ancient technique and modern understanding was uncanny.
Nearby, a leading figure emerged from the melee. A tall, lean man with copper hair and piercing eyes—clearly an elite soldier, his posture impeccable. He moved among recruits, correcting stances, offering tips, not with the arrogance of a master, but with a calm authority that drew attention naturally.
He approached me, observing as I adjusted my form during a spear drill. "Ariston," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "Your stance is decent… but your weight is back too far. You're risking speed."
I swallowed, trying to appear humble. "Understood, sir. I'll correct it."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Good. You have awareness—rare in new soldiers. I'm Kleon. Stick with me during drills. I can teach you more than the group can. But you'll need to keep up."
Finally, I thought. Someone who might actually accelerate my learning here. And perhaps give me a glimpse into elite tactics.
Kleon pulled me aside, showing proper footwork for spear thrusts, balance drills for shield defense, and even subtle body shifts that preserved energy while maximizing force. I absorbed everything, connecting it to my knowledge of modern body mechanics. He paused, noticing my curiosity.
"You have the look of someone who thinks beyond the drill," he said. "Most men mimic; few innovate. If you want to survive—and thrive—you'll need both."
I nodded, and inside, a plan began forming. Private instruction from the elites… I need resources, maybe barter labor or favors. Gain skills fast. Be ready for the next battle. Endurance, agility, strength… all under their radar, quietly.
All around me, soldiers shouted, swung, and stumbled. The sun climbed higher, baking the earth. Sweat and dust coated everything. Yet I felt… alive. The training ground wasn't just a place to strengthen bodies; it was a crucible for minds, a place where history shaped men into tools of war.
And somewhere in the distance, I felt a familiar pull—a whisper from the Echo, or maybe from Mnemosyne herself. Observe. Learn. Adapt. Anchor yourself in both worlds.
I pushed harder, pivoted faster, lunged deeper. Every repetition was a step toward surviving in this borrowed flesh—and toward understanding why I wanted, more than ever, to stay in this echo.
As the sun dipped low, burning orange across the horizon, the camp began to settle. Fires flickered in small clusters, casting long shadows across tents and training grounds. The air was thick with sweat, dust, and the metallic tang of sharpened weapons. Soldiers groaned from exhaustion, leaning against shields or sprawling on the hard-packed earth, their movements slowed but purposeful.
I staggered back to my own tent, muscles trembling with fatigue, lungs still burning from the day's drills. The camp had a rhythm now—chaotic, alive, but structured. I found a corner and sank onto the dirt floor, letting my armor clatter to the side. Every tendon, every joint ached, yet I felt… sharper. Smarter. Somehow, in this borrowed body, the pain had a purpose.
Nikandros tossed me a waterskin as he passed. "You survived the day. Not everyone does. Remember that." His grin was rough-edged, but encouraging. I nodded, swallowing down the bitter taste of both water and humility.
I thought of Kleon, moving among the elite, correcting stances with a calm authority. There was much to learn, and if I wanted to survive the next engagement, I had to keep up, secretly pushing past limits I never thought I had. My calisthenics routines, my future knowledge—they were tools. And in this time, with these men, tools could mean life.
Somewhere in the periphery, a faint movement caught my eye. Lysa, carrying a bowl of water, paused briefly at the edge of my tent. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. No words. No explanation. Just presence. Calm, unshakable, and somehow grounding. Even in a world of bronze and blood, her gaze reminded me there were constants worth holding onto.
I settled onto my bedding, letting the hum of the camp at night wash over me: the murmur of guards, the low crackle of fire, the distant clatter of late-night drills. And through it all, the whisper returned, softer now, almost intimate: "Remember yourself. Anchor. Observe. Adapt."
I closed my eyes, breathing deep. Pain, exhaustion, fear—they all existed. Yet beneath it, a strange exhilaration thrummed. I was alive in history, a ghost in flesh, with knowledge that could bend the rules in subtle ways. And I realized, with an almost shocking clarity, that I didn't want to leave. Not yet.
The first full day had ended. Tomorrow, I would train harder, observe closer, and begin threading my own future through the past. But tonight… tonight, I let the blood, sweat, and dust of Troy settle around me, and allowed a small spark of something else to grow—a cautious hope.
Somewhere outside the tent, Lysa's quiet footsteps faded into the night, leaving behind a faint ripple in time I couldn't yet name.
And in that silence, I understood one thing: surviving this world wasn't just about muscle or steel. It was about memory, observation, and knowing which parts of myself to anchor in an echo that might never release me.
Tomorrow, the real training begins.