"'He was cold, the boy was cold. Hungry. It was his initiation. His time in the wild. He would return as a Spartan—or not at all. He had wandered far from Sparta. Far from home. He'd survived on roots and bugs and rodents—and now he was freezing to death. He heard a low growl. Cold. Hungry. Far from home. Defenseless. Defenseless. The scrawny stick he's sharpened—it was nothing. A joke. A child's toy masquerading as a proper spear. He was defenseless. He was prey. The beast circled, sniffing, savoring the scent of the meal to come. Did the boy run? Did he cower? Did he cry? No! Not this boy. He showed the wolf his backside. He was calm. Not a trace of fear did he show. The wind screamed through a narrow wound in the rock. Too late, the beast charged...