The Thessalian cavalry training corps was housed in a fortified camp outside the city of Larissa, a sprawl of leather tents and wooden stables that smelled of horses, sweat, and leather oil. Adrestus arrived at dawn, three weeks after the tournament, with Skotadi's hooves printing the dew‑wet grass and the silver from his winnings jingling in a pouch at his belt. He had said goodbye to Odomantike—temporarily, he promised Thyia—and ridden south with nothing but his weapons, his armor, and the quiet hum of the system in the back of his mind.
The camp was already awake. Men in leather and bronze drilled in the training yard, their spears rising and falling in unison. Horses cantered in circles, their riders leaning low over their necks, practicing the parthian shot—the famous Thessalian maneuver of firing a bow while turning away from the enemy. Dust hung in the air like smoke.
Adrestus dismounted at the gate and presented his invitation letter, which bore the seal of the tournament judges. The guard, a grizzled sergeant with a missing ear, looked at the letter, looked at Skotadi, and raised an eyebrow.
"That's not a Thessalian horse."
"She's faster than one," Adrestus replied.
The sergeant grunted and waved him through.
The training master was a man named Eumedes, a retired cavalry commander with a face like cracked leather and a voice that could peel paint. He stood in the center of the yard, arms crossed, watching Adrestus approach. His eyes lingered on Skotadi—on the wings, the horn, the burning eyes—but he said nothing about them.
"So you're the tournament champion," Eumedes said. "Three wreaths in one festival. Haven't seen that since I was a boy."
"I had good teachers," Adrestus said.
"Good teachers don't win tournaments. Good fighters do." Eumedes circled him, assessing. "You're lean. Not built for cavalry. Most of my riders are heavier—they need the weight to absorb shock."
"I don't plan to absorb shock. I plan to avoid it."
The training master laughed—a short, barking sound. "We'll see. Mount up. Let's see what that devil horse of yours can do."
---
The first month was brutal.
Adrestus had thought himself a competent rider. He had flown on Skotadi's back for months, had learned to guide her with his knees, had practiced shooting his bow from altitude. But flying was not fighting. Flying was freedom. Cavalry combat was a different kind of art—one that required timing, coordination, and the ability to kill while a thousand pounds of muscle moved beneath you.
Eumedes started with the basics. He taught Adrestus to couch a lance—a twelve‑foot spear of ash wood—under his arm and drive it into a straw target at a full gallop. The first time, Adrestus missed entirely, the lance tip skittering off the target's edge. His absolute body control had no answer for the unpredictability of a moving platform. He could control himself perfectly. He could not control Skotadi's gait, her breath, the slight sway of her body as she ran.
He missed again. And again.
"You're thinking too much," Eumedes shouted from the sidelines. "Cavalry is instinct. Feel the horse. Become the horse. Then kill."
Adrestus closed his eyes. He let his body relax—not an easy thing for someone who prided himself on perfect control. He felt Skotadi's muscles move beneath him, the rhythm of her gallop, the slight hesitation before she planted a hoof. He synchronized his breathing with hers. When he opened his eyes, the target seemed clearer, closer.
He couched the lance and drove it through the straw man's chest.
"Better," Eumedes said. "Now do it again. A hundred times."
---
Mounted archery was worse.
Adrestus had won the archery tournament with Thryptō, but shooting from the ground was child's play compared to shooting from a moving horse. His first attempt sent an arrow into the dirt thirty feet short of the target. His second flew wild to the left. His third hit the target—but only because Skotadi had slowed to a walk.
"You're releasing too late," said a voice beside him.
Adrestus turned. A young man on a bay mare had pulled up alongside him, a bow in his own hand. He was perhaps a year older than Adrestus, with sandy hair, a crooked nose that had been broken at least once, and eyes the color of the Aegean. He wore the plain leather armor of a trainee, but his saddle was worn smooth—sign of long use.
"Lysandros," the young man said, extending a hand. "I've been here two years. You're the tournament champion, right? The one with the flying horse?"
"Adrestus." He shook the offered hand. "And she's not a horse. She's a unicorn."
"She's terrifying," Lysandros said cheerfully. "I love her. Now, your release. You're holding too long. You're trying to aim like you're on the ground, but you can't. On a horse, you aim with your hips, not your eyes. Draw, feel the rhythm, and release when the horse's front hooves are in the air. That's the still point."
Adrestus tried again. He felt Skotadi's gallop, counted the beats, and released when her hooves left the ground. The arrow flew straight and struck the target's edge.
"Better," Lysandros said. "Again."
They trained together for the rest of the afternoon. Lysandros was not the most skilled rider in the camp—he admitted freely that his talents lay in persistence rather than brilliance—but he was patient, generous with his knowledge, and utterly without ego. He showed Adrestus how to read the terrain for cavalry charges, how to preserve his horse's stamina over long distances, how to use the morning sun to blind an enemy. In return, Adrestus showed him a few archery tricks—the instinctive shooting technique he had developed, the breathing pattern that steadied the hand.
By sunset, they had agreed to train together every day.
---
Months passed. Spring turned to summer, summer to autumn. Adrestus turned nineteen in the cavalry camp, far from Odomantike, and celebrated by eating an extra ration of bread and honey. Lysandros sang a bawdy song about a Spartan and a goat. Skotadi stood in her stall, wings folded, watching the other horses with aristocratic disdain.
Adrestus's skills improved steadily. His lance work became precise enough to skewer a falling leaf. His mounted archery reached the point where he could hit a target nine times out of ten at a full gallop. He learned to fight with a sword from horseback—slashing at passing targets, defending against infantry with low strikes, using Skotadi's height to tower over enemies.
He also learned about the man who would become his first follower.
Lysandros was not a noble. His father had been a farmer, his mother a weaver, and he had joined the cavalry because it was the only path to something better than poverty. He was not exceptionally strong, fast, or skilled. What he had was loyalty. He remembered favors. He never forgot a kindness. And he had decided, somewhere in those months of training together, that Adrestus was worth following.
"You're going to do something big," Lysandros said one evening, as they sat by the campfire. The other trainees had gone to their tents. The stars were bright overhead. "I don't know what. But you've got that look. The same look the old heroes had in the stories."
Adrestus poked the fire with a stick. "The old heroes all died badly."
"They died remembered." Lysandros shrugged. "That's more than most get. When you leave this place—and you will leave, probably sooner than later—I want to come with you."
"You don't even know what I'm planning."
"Doesn't matter. You're the best fighter I've ever seen. You're not cruel. And you have a flying unicorn." He grinned. "That's enough for me."
Adrestus was silent for a long moment. He had not planned to gather followers. He had imagined himself as a lone wolf, a solitary hero moving through the shadows of myth. But Lysandros was offering something he had not known he needed: a witness. Someone who would see his deeds, remember his name, and carry his story forward if he fell.
"Alright," Adrestus said. "When I go, you can come. But I warn you—the path I'm walking leads to war. To Olympus. To things that would make a normal man run screaming."
Lysandros tossed a pebble into the fire. "Good. I was getting bored here anyway."
---
By the end of his training, Adrestus had earned the respect of the Thessalian cavalry. Eumedes, the old training master, shook his hand at the graduation ceremony—a simple affair, no crowds, just the riders and their horses and the setting sun.
"You're not a Thessalian," Eumedes said, "and that creature of yours is not a horse. But you can ride with us any time. You've earned that."
Adrestus thanked him and mounted Skotadi. Lysandros rode beside him on his bay mare, his few possessions tied behind his saddle. They turned north, toward Odomantike, toward the future.
Behind them, the camp faded into the twilight.
That night, camped by a stream, Adrestus summoned the system.
```
[SYSTEM UPDATE – Age 19]
Training completed: Thessalian cavalry corps (9 months).
Skills acquired: Mounted combat, lance drills, cavalry tactics, formation riding.
Public feats detected (cumulative over training period):
- Graduated at top of cavalry class
- Set camp record for mounted archery accuracy
- Trained 14 new riders in basic horsemanship (unofficial)
Witnesses: Approximately 200 cavalrymen and support staff.
Fame increase calculated.
Popularity: Regional Hero → Regional Hero (threshold for "Hero" tier at 85%)
Fame Coins Earned: +1 (for exceptional training performance)
Total Fame Coins: 6 (previous 5 + 1)
No new titles.
NEW STATS:
- Strength: 20 → 24 (lance work and mounted combat)
- Speed: 24 → 28 (agility on horseback)
- Agility: 30 → 34 (balance and coordination)
- Magic: 10 → 11 (ambient exposure to divine mount)
SKILL LEVELS (raw proficiency):
- Spearmanship: Journeyman (Level 16 → Level 19) (lance specialization)
- Swordsmanship: Journeyman (Level 13 → Level 15) (mounted slashing)
- Hand‑to‑Hand Combat: Journeyman (Level 22 → Level 23)
- Marksmanship (Bow): Apprentice (Level 13 → Level 18) (mounted archery breakthrough)
- Riding: Apprentice (Level 5) → Journeyman (Level 15) (major increase from daily training)
BATTLE EXPERIENCE (separate from skill level):
- Combat encounters survived: 6 (no new life‑threatening battles)
- Significant battles: 1 (hydra)
- Monster kills: 3 (boar, harpy, hydra)
- Human opponents defeated: 3 (tournament wrestlers)
- Training battles (simulated): 47 (cavalry drills, mock charges, sparring)
- Near‑death experiences: 1 (hydra)
- First follower acquired: Lysandros (age 20, Thessalian cavalry trainee, loyal, skilled rider, average fighter but reliable)
System note: You have gained a follower. Followers can perform tasks, spread your fame, and fight beside you. They can also be killed. Protect Lysandros or use him wisely. Your mounted combat skills have reached professional level. Your bow skill is now closing on Journeyman. Consider seeking a real combat encounter to test your new abilities.
New relationship registered: Lysandros (friend, follower, first ally). Loyalty: High. Combat effectiveness: Moderate. Usefulness as fame‑spreader: High (he talks constantly).
```
Adrestus dismissed the screen and looked across the campfire at Lysandros, who was already snoring, his head on his saddle, his bay mare grazing nearby.
First follower, the system had said. He talks constantly.
Adrestus smiled and added another log to the fire. Tomorrow, they would reach Odomantike. Tomorrow, he would begin the next phase of his plan. But tonight, he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.
He was no longer alone.
---
End of Chapter 9