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Chapter Text

The air in Pella was thick with festival smoke, ripe with the smell of lamb fat dripping into the braziers, resin curling from torches, the sweet tang of grape must staining the stones. Garlands of ivy and laurel trailed from the colonnades, and the sound of pipes carried through the courtyards, bright against the steady beat of drums.

The palace forecourt was crowded, nobles pressing forward to offer sacrifice, their wives trailing in fine-woven wool, children darting around their skirts. Nurses tried to corral the younger ones, but the boys broke loose in noisy knots, wielding sticks like spears, wrestling in the dust.

Alexander had already claimed Achilles. He had planted himself in the middle of the courtyard, shoulders square, voice pitched louder than the rest. Leonnatus fought at his side with wild abandon, his grin as quick as his swings.  Leonnatus thrust his stick at Alexander, laughing. “If you’re Achilles,” he cried, “then you need a Patroclus!”

Alexander stilled. His gaze swept the courtyard, past the noise and the dust, until it found the boy with the beautiful eyes, sunlit and steady, set on him as though he were the only one there. Alexander crossed the space between them and held out his hand.

“Hephaestion,” he said. “Will you be my Patroclus?”

For a heartbeat the boy held still, fingers curled tight around the little clay horse in his lap. Then he set it gently aside, brushed the dust from his palms, and took Alexander’s hand.

“Okay, Alex.”

Their fingers closed, small and certain. The shouting and laughter of the courtyard went on around them.

**

Philip sat in state beneath the colonnade, the sun casting long bars of light across the stone. His one good eye swept the gathering, sharp as a drawn blade. Lords advanced in turn, bowing low, declaring themselves and the sons they brought to pledge. Each boy of age was formally given into Philip’s household, to learn service at his court and be shaped into the companions who would one day serve at his side.

When the line shortened, two stood out.

Anteas of Lyncestis stepped forward, his hand firm on his son’s shoulder. He bowed deeply, voice resonant beneath the colonnade. “Philip, my king. I am Anteas, of the royal house of Lyncestis, bound to you in blood and oath. I bring you my son, Leonnatus, seven summers old. He is of my line and of yours, and I place him now in your service.”

The boy bowed with eager clumsiness, his tunic still dusty from play. A faint ripple of amusement passed through the gathered lords. Philip’s mouth curved, though his eye was stern. “A prince’s blood in small hands. We will see it schooled into strength. Rise, Leonnatus, and take your place among the pages.”

The boy straightened quickly, cheeks flushed, and went to stand with the others.

Then Amyntor of Elimeia came forward, a quieter figure at his side. He bowed, laying a steady hand on the child’s shoulder. “My king. I am Amyntor, of Elimeia. I give you my son, Hephaestion. Seven summers he marks this day, already taller than his brothers were at his age. I place him in your household, to serve and to learn loyalty at your hand.”

The boy inclined his head with grave care, the solemnity in his bearing at odds with his youth.Philip regarded him for a long moment before nodding, slow and deliberate. “Then let him be taught. Through service, he will learn loyalty. Through loyalty, he will earn honor. Rise, Hephaestion, and take your place.”

The boy moved to join the others, his step measured. The ceremony rolled on, lord after lord coming forward, but the memory of those two boys lingered.

After dismissal, the boys tumbled back into the courtyard, their play a tangle of dust and shouting.

**

The herald’s voice carried across the palace yard, calling the younger boys into line. The chatter of the festival dimmed as they shuffled forward, sandals scuffing the stones. Some tried to stand tall, others fidgeted under the weight of the moment. Alexander was already at the front, chin high, refusing to look nervous.

The older pages stood to one side in their short cloaks, watching with expressions that ranged from amused to stern. They had been through this themselves, and the sight of new faces was a reminder that their own duties were soon to grow heavier.

Philip stepped into the sunlight, broad and solid, his presence enough to still the boys’ shifting. His one good eye passed down the line, sharp and measuring, pausing on each face.

“You are given into my service,” he said, his voice low but carrying. “From this day you will attend me as pages. You will run where you are told, carry what must be carried, hold your tongue, and keep your eyes open. You will learn discipline in my house and strength in my yard. If you serve well, you will earn the right to stand as men of Macedonia. If you do not, you will be sent home in shame.”

The words struck like stones. Leonnatus shuffled, restless as ever, but when Philip’s gaze landed on him he straightened, jaw set, daring himself not to fidget. Hephaestion stood still, though Alexander noticed the way his hands tightened at his sides.

“Step forward,” Philip ordered.

Each boy was called by name. Leonnatus was first of their knot, striding up with his chest puffed out, though his grin faded quickly under Philip’s stern eye. He touched the king’s hand with more force than grace, then hurried back into line, shoulders still twitching with nervous energy.

Alexander followed, bold as ever, his grip firm, eyes lifted to meet his father’s without flinching. Pride radiated from him as he stepped back, as if the act alone had proven something more.

Hephaestion came last, quieter, his bow deeper, his hand steady though his face was calm to the point of solemn. Philip’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before the nod came, brusque but unmistakable.

When the line was finished, Philip raised his staff. “Go. Learn to serve.”

The older pages clapped them on the shoulders as they broke from the line, half in welcome, half in test. Leonnatus’s grin was back in an instant, brash with relief. Alexander’s eyes burned bright, pride flashing like steel. Hephaestion said nothing, but his calm steadiness was its own kind of oath.

**

Alexander woke before the sun. He tried to lie still, but the thought kept circling in his chest like a bird that couldn’t find a perch: they live here now.

He flung the coverlet aside before the servants had even lit the lamps. His nurse muttered in her sleep as he pulled his tunic over his head crookedly and slipped into the hall. The marble floors were cool under his feet as he ran, the torches along the walls still burning low.

The pages’ quarters weren’t far. He knew the way. He had asked three times the night before. Two guards blinked at him as he skidded to a halt in front of the heavy door, then shoved it open without ceremony. Inside, the new pages were only just waking. Leonnatus was already sitting up, hair wild, grinning as if he’d been waiting for this. Hephaestion blinked sleep from his eyes, slower to rise, his blanket still drawn to his chin.

“You’re here!” Alexander blurted, too loud for the hour. “You live here now. In the palace, with me!” He ran to the bed, grabbed Hephaestion’s hand, then spun back to Leo. “Both of you. Come on. I’ll show you the training yard, and the kitchens, and—”

“Breakfast first,” Leonnatus said, rubbing his stomach. “I’m starving.”

Alexander groaned, tugging Hephaestion off the bed. “There’s food everywhere, always, you’ll see. But you have to see the yard first. We’ll race. I’ll show you where I win.”

Hephaestion laughed softly, still bleary, but he let himself be pulled to his feet. Alexander’s hand didn’t leave his, even as Leo barreled after them, still arguing about bread and honey.

Alexander tugged him down the courtyard’s walkway, half-running, hair uncombed, tunic crooked. Hephaestion stumbled after, still blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Alex,” he said, his voice soft but firm, “it’s early. Where are we going?”

“The yard! To race, and then the kitchens, and the horses—”

Hephaestion shook his head, tugging gently on Alexander’s hand until the prince turned back to him. “Breakfast first. Then you can show me everything.”

Alexander huffed, caught between impatience and obedience. For a moment it looked as though he might argue, but Hephaestion only waited, steady as stone, his dark eyes holding him.

“…Fine,” Alexander said at last, with all the gravity of surrender. He tightened his grip on Hephaestion’s hand. “But after breakfast, we run.”

The great hall was quieter than it would be later in the day, only a few servants moving between the long tables, setting down bowls of fruit and fresh bread. Smoke curled from the hearth, and the smell of honey and warm milk hung in the air.

Alexander dragged Hephaestion to the high table and plopped onto the bench, keeping his hand tight in his. Leonnatus flopped across from them, eyes already fixed on the platters.

“I call the honey cakes,” Leonnatus declared, snatching two at once.

“You can’t call them!” Alexander shot back, snatching one off his plate in retaliation. “They’re for everyone.”

“You took mine!”

“You took mine first!”

The two of them glared across the table, crumbs flying as Leo stuffed one whole cake into his mouth just to prove a point. Alexander, scowling, bit fiercely into his own half. Beside him, Hephaestion picked up a piece of bread, dipped it neatly in a bowl of cheese, and took a slow bite. He glanced between them with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Eat,” he said, his voice even, amused. “Both of you. There’s enough.”

Alexander chewed furiously, then leaned closer as if to prove his case. “I was going to share with you anyway,” he muttered, sliding the last bite of his honey cake onto Hephaestion’s plate. Leonnatus swallowed noisily, pounding his cup on the table. “Me too,” he said, crumbs spraying. “You can have some of mine.”

Hephaestion looked at the two sticky offerings, one fierce, one clumsy,  and shook his head, breaking his bread in half instead. “I’ll share with you,” he said simply, and handed a piece to each of them.

**

The outer courtyard shimmered with morning heat, shadows from the olive trees stretching long across the dust. Alexander crouched at the scratched line in the earth, heart pounding, Leonnatus bouncing on his toes beside him. Hephaestion stood calm and ready at his other side, eyes fixed on the far tree.

A nurse raised her arm. “On your marks. Ready—go!”

They exploded forward.

Leonnatus sprinted hard, a wild yell tearing from his throat, but his reckless pace faltered halfway across the yard. His strides grew ragged, dropping him back.

Alexander and Hephaestion surged ahead together, side by side.

Alexander’s legs burned, breath scraping in his throat. But when he glanced over, Hephaestion was still running smoothly, his face steady, his stride clean, closing on the olive tree faster than seemed fair. Alexander’s chest jolted; he was losing. He drove harder, arms pumping, sandals slapping the dust. The tree loomed closer — ten paces, five — and Hephaestion was still half a step ahead. Not today. With a last furious burst, Alexander lunged, shoulder brushing Hephaestion’s as he flung himself forward and struck the trunk first. The bark bit into his palm, and he gasped, chest heaving.

Alexander slapped his palm against the olive tree first, lungs burning. “I won!” he gasped, grinning wide.

Hephaestion skidded in just behind, chest heaving, sweat damp on his curls. He bent forward, hands braced on his knees, then looked up at Alexander with a faint smile that wasn’t quite hidden. “That was fast,” he admitted, still catching his breath.

Leonnatus barreled up well after them, stumbling into the dust with a groan. “You cheated somehow,” he panted, though the grin on his face spoiled the complaint.

“I didn’t!” Alexander shot back, triumphant.

“You always think you don’t,” Leon said, collapsing onto the ground with a laugh. “Next time I’ll win.”

“You won’t,” Alexander said firmly, standing tall against the tree. His eyes flicked sideways, still bright from the run. “Not if Hephaestion runs against you.”

Hephaestion shook his head, brushing dust from his tunic, but the small, proud smile lingered as the nurse’s voice called them back toward the palace.

The nurse’s voice carried across the yard, sharp enough to cut through their laughter. “Enough, boys! Back inside, you’ve weapons practice waiting.”

Alexander groaned, kicking at the dust as he let Hephaestion tug him away from the tree. Leonnatus scrambled up, still brushing dirt from his knees, and bounded after them. They trailed back through the palace corridors, sandals slapping stone, until the sun struck hot on the packed earth of the yard. Spears and practice swords leaned in ordered rows, shields stacked neatly against the wall. The trainer eyed them as they filed in, already flushed and dusty from their scuffle.

The training yard opened wide before them, hot with sun and noise. The clang of wood against wood cracked in the air, older boys sparring with practice swords while the instructor barked sharp corrections. Dust rose in little clouds under their bare feet, and the smell of leather, sweat, and trampled grass clung heavy.

Alexander tugged Hephaestion by the hand, eager, almost dragging him forward. Hephaestion let himself be pulled, his gaze steady on the ring of older boys striking and circling, their movements sharp and practiced.

Beside them, Leonnatus darted ahead, his whole face alight. “Look at them! Did you see that swing? And that one! He nearly fell over! I want a sword. Can we have swords? Alex, do you think they’ll give us swords?”

“Not yet,” Alexander said, though his own eyes glittered with the same hunger. “But soon.”

Hephaestion’s fingers tightened briefly around his, quiet but sure. Alexander glanced at him, a quick smile flickering.

Then his gaze caught on a familiar figure among the older boys. Taller, hair dark with sweat, shoulders broadening with age. Alexander’s face lit. He pointed across the yard, tugging Hephaestion’s hand.

“Ptolemy!” he shouted, waving with his free arm. “Ptolemy is my cousin. He’s a page, too, and he’s twelve.” 

The boy’s head turned at once. He broke from the sparring circle, grinning as he came toward them. “Alex!”

Ptolemy strode over, taller than Alexander remembered, his grin easy and warm. Alexander beamed. “Ptolemy!” He held up their joined hands without thinking, as though to show him both treasures at once. “This is Hephaestion. And that one,” he pointed at the boy darting around the weapon rack, “is Leonnatus.”

Ptolemy looked them over with amusement, ruffling Leonnatus’s curls before giving Hephaestion a nod. “So these are the new pages.”

Leonnatus puffed out his chest, practically glowing. “I want to fight!”

“You’ll get a stick first,” Ptolemy said, crouching to eye level. “And splinters, and bruises. If you last through that, maybe you’ll hold a real weapon.”

Leonnatus laughed and seized the nearest practice staff anyway. Alexander smirked, but Hephaestion’s gaze lingered on the sparring circle, his free hand flexing at his side. Ptolemy clapped Alexander’s shoulder, firm but fond. “The instructor says I’m to keep an eye on you three. Make sure you don’t break your necks.”

Alexander lifted his chin, pride prickling, but said nothing. Hephaestion’s hand was still in his, steadying.

Ptolemy fetched three practice staffs from the rack and handed them out, each taller than the boys themselves. Leonnatus nearly toppled at once under the weight, though his grin never faltered. Alexander hefted his own like it was already a spear. Hephaestion took his carefully, studying how Ptolemy’s hands rested on the worn wood.

“Feet apart,” Ptolemy instructed, planting his own in the dust. “Balance first, swing later.”

Leonnatus copied him immediately: wrong-footed, off-balance, his staff wobbling. Alexander smirked and adjusted, determined to get it right first. Hephaestion moved more slowly, matching Ptolemy’s stance inch by inch until he seemed rooted, steady as stone. From the shade of the portico, a soft sound of laughter carried. The boys turned to see Cleopatra perched on a low wall, skirts gathered up from the dust, her dark eyes following every move.

Leonnatus brightened. “Come on Cleopatra!” he called to her. “Don’t just sit there. Grab a stick!”

Cleopatra blinked, then glanced toward the instructor hovering at the far side of the yard. She shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“She can’t,” Alexander said, matter-of-fact. “She’s a girl.”

Leonnatus frowned, baffled. “So?”

“So,” Alexander faltered, his brow knitting as though reaching for words he’d heard from his tutors. “Girls don’t train with weapons.”

Leonnatus stared at him as if he’d said something truly ridiculous. “That’s stupid. Athena is a girl and she fights! She’s the best fighter of them all. Everyone knows that.”

Cleopatra’s laugh bubbled out, quick and delighted. “Thank you, Leon.”

Alexander’s ears burned. He scowled, staff tightening in his hands as though he could argue the point by force alone.

Hephaestion’s gaze moved between them, thoughtful, his mouth pressed in a quiet line. He didn’t speak, but something in his eyes told Alexander he was measuring the weight of Leonnatus’s words and finding them true.

Alexander flushed, scowling at Leonnatus as though he’d been made foolish somehow. Hephaestion only shifted his grip on the staff, his expression unreadable, though his gaze lingered on Cleopatra a moment longer than the others.

Ptolemy clapped his hands once. “Enough talk. Show me you can hold it without hitting yourselves in the head.”

Leonnatus immediately swung his staff in a wild arc. It whistled through the air and cracked against his own shin. He yelped, hopping on one foot, then burst into laughter.

Alexander smirked. “You’ll never make a hoplite like that.”

“I’ll be better than you,” Leonnatus shot back, still grinning. He raised the staff again, determined to prove it.

“Balance first,” Ptolemy reminded. “Feet apart. Weight low. Think of your staff as part of your body, not a toy to wave about.”

Alexander dropped into a stance, shoulders squared, staff angled just so. He shifted his grip, watching Ptolemy closely, every line of him taut with focus.

Hephaestion moved slower, testing the weight of the wood, feeling the way it pulled in his hands. He adjusted once, twice, until the motion seemed to settle into him. His staff didn’t wobble.

“Better,” Ptolemy said, nodding toward him.

Alexander’s jaw clenched. He tried again, matching Ptolemy’s stance exactly, determined not to be outdone.

“Now—strike!” Ptolemy barked.

Leonnatus swung immediately, too fast, nearly overbalancing but laughing as he caught himself. Alexander drove forward with force, his staff slamming against Ptolemy’s with a crack. Hephaestion followed last, his motion cleaner, less noisy, the wood shivering at the point of contact.

“Strength matters,” Ptolemy said evenly, pushing Alexander back a step. “But so does control.” His gaze flicked toward Hephaestion as he said it.

Alexander flushed, hot with the sting of it. He gritted his teeth and threw himself forward again.

“Again!” Alexander demanded, swinging hard. His staff smacked Ptolemy’s with a loud crack, but his grip slipped; the wood jolted from his palms and nearly went spinning into the dirt.

Hephaestion caught his wrist before it flew wide, steadying the motion with a quiet firmness. “Hold it here,” he murmured, sliding Alexander’s grip lower. His voice wasn’t sharp, just sure.

For a heartbeat Alexander bristled, ready to snap, then he caught Hephaestion’s eyes, calm and steady, and the anger ebbed. His face flushed instead, a mix of pride and something he couldn’t name. He tightened his grip and tried again, the strike truer this time.

“Better,” Ptolemy said with a curt nod.

Before Alexander could savor it, Leonnatus darted forward, swinging his staff wildly. “Hyaaah!” he cried, striking at both of them. His blow missed entirely, whooshing through the air. He staggered and toppled backward into the dust, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Even Ptolemy cracked a grin. “That,” he said, “is how you end up dead.”

Leonnatus spat dust and scrambled up, still grinning. “Or how you end up winning! They never see you coming!”

Alexander’s lips twitched, the anger dissolving into reluctant laughter. Hephaestion gave the smallest shake of his head, but his mouth softened too.

From the shade of the portico, Cleopatra clapped once, bright and amused.

The trainer’s voice cut through their laughter. “Line up. Enough games.”

Groaning, Leonnatus dusted himself off and shuffled into place. Alexander squared his shoulders, jaw tight, and Hephaestion slipped beside him, staff steady in his hands.

“Feet apart. Grip firm. Again.”

The boys obeyed, wood cracking against wood until their arms ached and their tunics clung with sweat.

At last, the trainer barked, “Enough for today.”

Alexander dropped his staff with a thud, chest heaving, eyes still bright with the fire of it. Leonnatus leaned on his like a walking stick, grinning despite the bruise already rising on his shin. Hephaestion set his neatly aside, brushing dust from his hands.

“Come on,” Alexander said, already tugging Hephaestion’s hand toward the shade of the colonnade. Leonnatus scampered after them, half limping, half laughing.

Together they left the yard behind, the noise of older boys sparring fading into the hum of the palace beyond.

**

The lesson hall smelled of ink and rush mats, cooler than the yard but no less demanding. The boys tumbled in with hair still damp from exertion, sandals scuffing the floor as they took their places on the woven mats spread in a neat row.

Leonidas, the tutor, sat waiting, a scroll unfurled across his knees. His eyes swept over them with the same sharpness as the weapons master. “Discipline does not end when you leave the yard,” he said. “A soldier’s arm must be strong, but so must his mind.”

Alexander flung himself down cross-legged, curls sticking to his forehead. He twisted the stylus between his fingers, restless even at rest, eyes darting to the window where sunlight spilled in. Hephaestion lowered himself more quietly, settling at his side, careful in the way he laid out his wax tablet.

Leonnatus slouched in behind them, still rubbing a bruise on his knuckles, muttering, “I liked the yard better.”

Cleopatra looked up quickly from where she had settled, her little tablet balanced carefully across her knees. “I would like the yard better too,” she said, a hint of envy in her voice. “But they never let me.”

Leonnatus pulled a face, but said no more. Ptolemy lingered only long enough to straighten the fold of his cloak before sitting with a practiced air of calm. He smirked faintly as Leonidas began to dictate lines of Homer, his stylus moving a fraction faster than the others.

Alexander, already impatient, scrawled the opening hexameters in a hurried hand, lips moving as he murmured the words under his breath. Hephaestion followed more steadily, taking care with each mark. When Alexander leaned to peek at his work, Heph angled the tablet so he could see without needing to ask.

Cleopatra recited the lines aloud with crisp precision, earning a nod from Leonidas. Leonnatus, meanwhile, scratched a jumble of half-formed letters until Leonidas rapped the butt of his pointer sharply against his mat.

“Your words will be as useless as a broken spear if no one can read them,” the man said, and Leonnatus groaned, erasing the mess with his palm.

Alexander’s grin flickered bright. “Then my words will be sharper than any spear.”

Leonidas fixed him with a look. “Only if you learn to master them.”

The hall quieted then, the scratching of styluses filling the air as the morning sun crept higher. It was not the clash of spear and shield, but the beginning of something deeper;  the lessons that would shape them as surely as the yard outside.

**

The evening meal was no children’s affair. The hall smelled of roasted lamb and garlic, of oil smoking in iron pans. Sunlight poured through the high windows, catching in the smoke that curled from the torches. Wine sloshed in the king’s cup, and again when he refilled it, dark as blood against the gold. He drank deep, laughing with the men at his table, though his single sharp eye missed little.

The boys were seated at the benches below, close enough to feel his gaze on them. Alexander sat rigid, chin high, as though daring the room to look at him. Hephaestion slipped onto the bench beside him more carefully, movements neat, while Leonnatus dropped across from them with a thud, already eyeing the platters.

Philip raised his cup high, the wine flashing. “These boys belong to my house now,” he declared, his voice booming off the stone. “They’ll eat at my table, fight in my yard, bleed with my son. If they prove themselves worthy, they’ll share his victories.”

The men shouted approval, banging fists on the wood. Philip drank again, long and loud, wine streaking his beard.

Leonnatus puffed his chest, cheeks flushed with pride. He snatched bread the moment it was set down, tearing a piece so large he nearly choked. “I can ride as well as any man!” he blurted, crumbs spraying. Laughter rippled down the benches.

Philip’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “We’ll see if your courage matches your appetite.”

Alexander seized the moment. “I beat them both in the race this morning,” he announced, voice too loud. “No one can outrun me. Not even the older boys.”

Philip paused with his cup half-raised. “Boasting is easy,” he said. “Holding victory is harder.” He drained the wine, set the cup down hard, and waved for it to be filled again.

Alexander’s smile faltered. His back stayed straight, but his small hand clenched around the honey cake he had grabbed, crumbs sticking to his fingers. Beside him, Hephaestion brushed his sleeve, a quiet nudge. Alexander glanced at him, met the calm in his eyes, and the heat in his chest loosened. He ducked his head just enough to tear into the cake, chewing hard as if it were proof enough.

Philip’s gaze shifted. “And you, son of Amyntor?”

Hephaestion sat taller, lowering his eyes respectfully. “Thank you for welcoming me into your household, lord,” he said. His voice was soft, but clear enough to carry.

The king studied him through the haze of wine, then gave a curt nod. “Polite. Careful. We’ll see if you’re strong.”

Alexander’s mouth curved again, crumbs clinging to his lips. Pride swelled in him, not for himself this time but for Hephaestion. He edged a little closer on the bench, his shoulder brushing Hephaestion’s, a quiet show of loyalty that no one else at the table noticed.

Leonnatus, oblivious, leaned across the table for another honey cake. “I’m strong too!” he declared, pounding the wood with his little fist. Sticky crumbs flew everywhere. “You’ll see!”

Philip barked a laugh, spraying wine into his beard. “At least one of you eats like a soldier already.” The men roared with him, cups lifted high.

Servants moved steadily down the benches, setting bowls of olives slick with oil, figs split open to show their red hearts, roasted birds glazed in honey. The men at the high table shouted to one another over the clatter of knives and the slosh of wine, but at the boys’ table the noise was more contained, smaller, but no less eager. Alexander tore into bread with too much force, as if each bite were a challenge. Hephaestion ate more slowly, methodical, placing pits back into the bowl instead of tossing them under the bench like Leonnatus.

When the last platters had been cleared and the torches guttered low, the boys were herded from the hall. Their bellies were full, fingers sticky with honey, their eyes bright though sleep tugged at the edges. Leonnatus trailed behind, still chewing on a pilfered fig; Hephaestion walked quiet at Alexander’s side, his expression calm as the sounds of laughter and drinking faded into the distance.

The nurses were waiting at the chamber doors with warm cloths and fresh tunics. Leonnatus grumbled at being scrubbed, but yielded in the end, collapsing into his bed with a sigh of relief. Hephaestion obeyed without protest, allowing his hair to be combed smooth, his hands to be washed. Alexander endured the same with far less patience, squirming under the rag, scowling when the comb caught on a tangle.

When at last the lamps were lowered and the boys were ushered toward their beds, Alexander dug in his heels. He stood in the doorway of Hephaestion’s chamber, arms folded, chin lifted high.

“I’m sleeping here,” he announced.

The nurse blinked, startled. “No, my prince. Your room is a whole corridor down, prepared as always.”

Alexander shook his head, curls tumbling. “I don’t care. I’m sleeping with him.” He jabbed a finger toward Hephaestion, who was already sliding beneath his blanket, wide-eyed and still.

The nurse frowned. “I have no patience for this nonsense. A prince does not climb into other boys’ beds.”

Alexander padded across the room anyway and slipped under the blanket beside Hephaestion, burrowing down with a stubborn huff. Heph shifted wordlessly, cheeks pink, and wrapped an arm around Alexander’s shoulders.

“Alexander,” the nurse said more firmly. “Out. To your own bed.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as if pretending to sleep. “I’ll stay here. It’s warmer.”

The nurse’s sigh was long and weary. She came over, peeled back the blanket, and tugged him gently but insistently to his feet. He dragged his heels, but did not fight, only muttered, “I’ll come back,” as she led him out towards the courtyard.

Deposited on his own pallet, Alexander curled up tight, glaring at the wall. For a while he lay still, listening to the hush of the palace, waiting for footsteps to fade and torches to burn low.

At last he slid from the blankets, bare feet soft on the stone. He padded down the walkway, nudged the door open with care, and slipped back into the chamber.

He darted for Hephaestion’s pallet and wriggled beneath the blanket again. Heph stirred as Alexander pressed close, blinking awake for a moment before settling. With a sleepy murmur, he lifted his arm and draped it around Alexander’s shoulders once more, drawing him in without question.

Alexander let out a triumphant little sigh, cheek pressed to Hephaestion’s shoulder. “I said I would,” he whispered into the dark, before sleep took him.

Chapter Text

The chill of autumn crept through the shutters, carrying with it the sweet tang of apples stored in baskets along the hall. The air was sharper now, cool enough that the boys huddled close under their blankets, curled together in the narrow bed.

Alexander woke first, as he always did. His curls were tousled, his toes cold, his face pressed against Hephaestion’s shoulder. For a long moment he lay still, breathing in the warmth at his side, the smell of clean linen and woodsmoke lingering faintly in Heph’s hair. 

Hephaestion stirred only when Alexander shifted, tightening his arm briefly as though he might hold him in place even while half-asleep. Alexander grinned at that, a small, secret thrill, before wriggling to face him.

“Heph,” he whispered, conspiratorial, as though there were some secret only they shared. “Wake up. It smells like apples.”

Hephaestion groaned softly, eyes still shut. “It smells like cold,” he mumbled, tucking the blanket higher over his ear.

Alexander laughed under his breath and burrowed closer, heedless of the chill. “Apples,” he insisted. “Sweet ones, from the orchards. We’ll find them today.”

Hephaestion cracked one eye at him, skeptical. “You only ever want to eat.”

“And you don’t?” Alexander shot back, triumphant. He leaned his forehead against Hephaestion’s, the grin refusing to leave his face. “Come on. We’ll beat Leonnatus to the kitchens before he eats all the honey cakes. I’ll race you.”

From across the chamber came a muffled groan. Leonnatus rolled over on his own pallet, hair sticking up in every direction. “No races. Too early. I had to guard the king all night.”

Alexander ignored him, already tugging at Hephaestion’s arm, impatient energy bubbling in his chest. “Up! Or I’ll drag you out myself.”

Hephaestion sighed but pushed himself upright, dark hair falling into his eyes. He rubbed at them once, then glanced at Alexander who was already standing barefoot on the chilly stone, blanket thrown off, shivering and smiling all at once. He shook his head, but there was no hiding the small, fond curve at his mouth.

“All right,” Hephaestion said.

Alexander beamed, seizing his hand as soon as he stood. The chill bit at their bare feet as the boys padded down out into the courtyard, their joined hands swinging between them. The torches along the walls had burned low, leaving only the thin light of dawn creeping through the high windows. It gleamed on the worn flagstones, on the faint trail of their breath puffing white in the cool air.

Alexander was half-shivering, half-buzzing with restless energy. He hopped from one foot to the other, curls bouncing, tugging Hephaestion along faster than the slower boy would have chosen.

“Can’t you smell it?” Alexander whispered fiercely, as if Hephaestion were missing something obvious. “Apples. Cooked with honey. They’re making baked apples, with honey and nuts and cinnamon.”

Hephaestion’s dark eyes flicked sideways, his voice calm as ever. “You always think you smell something. Last week it was roasted lamb, and the week before that it was honey cakes.”

Alexander wrinkled his nose, unconcerned. “And I was right. Every time.”

From behind them came the soft slap of smaller feet: Leonnatus, hair sticking up like a bird’s nest, stumbling and yawning. “If you’ve dragged me out of bed for nothing…” he muttered.

Alexander grinned over his shoulder. “It’s not nothing. It’s baked apples. You’ll see.”

The walkway opened into the wider gallery that led to the kitchens. Already the air was warmer, scented with smoke and spice, and the faint clatter of pots drifted through the door. Servants bustled past with baskets, their arms full of loaves and jugs, too busy to scold the children for slipping in ahead of the breakfast hour.

Alexander darted forward, tugging Hephaestion through the doorway, Leonnatus trailing after with a yawn. The warmth hit at once, welcome after the chill of the stones, and with it came the smell Alexander had promised: apples cooked down with honey and cinnamon and nuts, the fragrance of them crisping golden in the ovens.

“There!” Alexander cried, pointing toward the hearth as though he’d discovered treasure. “I told you!”

Hephaestion only sighed, though the corners of his mouth betrayed the shadow of a smile. Leonnatus rubbed his eyes, muttering, “If there aren’t honey cakes with them, I’m leaving.”

Alexander puffed up, already striding deeper into the bustle of the kitchen like a prince on campaign. “Bread, cheese, honey cakes, and baked apples,” he declared. “We’ll have them all. We’re heroes, after all.”

**

The summons came before they could swipe a second helping. A steward’s sharp voice cut through the bustle of the kitchens, sending the boys scattering like startled birds. “To the yard, all of you! The master waits!”

Leonnatus groaned, his mouth still full of apple. “Already? I’ve hardly started.”

Alexander sprang to his feet at once, crumbs clinging to his tunic. “That’s because you’re slow,” he shot back, tugging Hephaestion with him before Leonnatus could protest further.

Their nurse met them at the chamber with folded arms and neatly laid tunics. “You will not step into the yard half-dressed,” she said firmly, steering Alexander away from the door before he could bolt. “Sandals, belt, and tunic tied proper.”

Alexander scowled, fidgeting while she fastened the belt at his waist. “It doesn’t matter what I wear. I’ll still win.”

“It matters,” she said dryly, giving him a final pat between the shoulders.

Hephaestion had already pulled his tunic straight, dark hair smoothed with water, sandals tied with even loops. He waited quietly until Alexander wriggled free, then passed him the practice staff resting against the wall. “You’ll need this more than the belt,” he said softly.

Alexander’s grin came quick and sharp. He seized the staff and whirled it once, narrowly missing Leonnatus’s ear.

“Hey!” Leonnatus yelped, ducking. “Save it for the yard!”

They spilled out into the pale morning light, the air brisk enough to redden their cheeks. The yard stones were still damp with dew, crunching faintly underfoot. Other boys were already gathered, staffs clattering, voices high with excitement. The weapons master loomed at the center, broad and stern, his arms folded as he surveyed them.

“Pairs,” he barked.

Alexander seized Hephaestion by the wrist before anyone else could lay claim. “Mine,” he announced, dragging him forward.

The master’s eye lingered on them, then he gave a curt nod. “Very well. Begin.”

The yard erupted in a storm of clacks and shouts. Alexander lunged forward recklessly, his staff swinging high with more energy than precision. Hephaestion caught the blow cleanly, bracing and pushing him back with steady force. Their rhythm fell quickly into place—Alexander pressing, Hephaestion yielding, then returning the strike with calm exactness.

“Too wild!” the master barked across the yard. “Control, Alexander. Strike to land, not to dazzle.”

Alexander grit his teeth, circling fast. “Heph’s only stalling,” he muttered under his breath.

“Or you’re rushing,” Hephaestion countered, his mouth curving.

Their staffs locked. Alexander shoved harder, muscles straining, but Hephaestion held firm. For a heartbeat it seemed neither would give. Then Alexander twisted, breaking the hold, and lunged again with a laugh bright as the autumn air.

Across the yard Leonnatus was battling Ptolemy with more noise than skill, his feet slipping on the damp stone, his staff clattering wide. “Stop laughing at me!” he shouted when Ptolemy caught him easily in the ribs.

The master groaned and turned back to Alexander and Hephaestion. “Better,” he allowed, though his eyes narrowed. “But you will both do it again, until it is not luck but habit.”

By the time the session ended, their arms ached and their brows shone with sweat, steam rising faint in the chill. The boys were dismissed in pairs, shoulders brushing, staffs thumping against their legs as they trudged back inside.

**

Scrolls unrolled across low tables, tutors with sharp reeds in hand. The air smelled of wax and parchment, less lively than the yard, though the boys’ faces still glowed from the cold and the contest.

Alexander sprawled onto his cushion, still fidgeting about the staff he had been forced to surrender at the door. His eyes darted constantly to Hephaestion, who sat straight-backed beside him, stylus steady in hand, already tracing out his letters in clean, even strokes.

Leonidas rapped the table. “Pay attention, prince. Battles are won with the mind before the spear.”

Alexander smirked, grabbing his own brush at last. “Then I’ll win both.”

Leonidas’s reed tapped the table again, sharp as a spear-tip. “Straight lines, steady hand. The letters will not run from you if you chase them properly.”

Alexander hunched lower over his wax tablet, tongue caught between his teeth as he carved the lines too deep. The scratches wobbled but were bold, sprawling larger than they should have been. Hephaestion’s neat strokes sat beside his, clean and precise, a row of soldiers standing at attention.

Leonnatus had given up pretending. His stylus spun idly between his fingers until Leonidas rapped him smartly on the knuckles. He yelped, then bent grudgingly to the task.

The minutes stretched in silence but for the rasp of styluses on wax and the occasional sigh from Leonidas. Alexander shifted constantly, one knee bouncing, eyes flicking toward the window where sunlight spilled golden on the sill.

At last, when the lesson was judged sufficient, Leonidas rolled the scroll shut with a snap. “Enough for today. Go, before your fidgets wear grooves in the floor.”

Alexander was on his feet before the words had fully left the man’s mouth, grinning like he had been released from a cage. Leonnatus groaned with relief, shaking out his sore fingers. Hephaestion set his tablet neatly aside, rose, and smoothed his tunic.

Alexander seized both their wrists at once, tugging them toward the orchards. “Come on. No more sitting. Today we’re Herakles, and the orchard’s full of apples. We’ll steal them all before the dragon wakes.”

Leonnatus brightened immediately. “I’ll be the dragon!”

“You’re always the noisy monster,” Alexander shot back, but his grin widened as they spilled into the sharp autumn air, the smell of apples drifting on the breeze.

The orchard lay golden in the autumn sun, rows of trees heavy with fruit. Their branches bowed low with apples, red and gold, their skins glowing where the light struck them through thinning leaves. The grass was strewn with windfall, sweet and bruised, buzzing with wasps.

Alexander darted ahead at once, his basket abandoned in the grass. He leapt for the lowest branch, tore an apple free, and held it high above his head like a trophy.

“Herakles!” he shouted, his voice carrying through the trees. “The apples of the Hesperides are mine!”

Leonnatus’s eyes lit up. He dropped his own basket with a crash and crouched low, growling from deep in his chest. “You’ll never take them! I’m Ladon, the dragon, and I’ll eat you whole!” He launched himself at Alexander with a roar, arms flailing like wings.

Alexander shrieked with laughter, twisting away just in time. The apple tumbled from his grip, bouncing into the grass. Leonnatus pounced on it and bit down, juice spilling down his chin. “See? Dragon’s teeth are sharper!”

“You can’t eat the god’s apples!” Alexander cried, scandalized. “Spit it out!”

Leonnatus only roared louder, hopping in a circle with his arms out like a monster.

Hephaestion arrived last, his basket still in hand, his eyes taking in the chaos with quiet resignation. He set the basket carefully against the trunk of a tree. “Herakles doesn’t fight Ladon alone,” he said mildly. “He asked Atlas for help.”

Alexander stopped mid-lunge, eyes flashing. “Then you’re Atlas,” he declared, seizing Hephaestion’s arm. “You’ll hold up the sky while I steal the apples.”

Leonnatus grinned, mouth still full, and dropped to all fours, roaring up at them. “The dragon is watching! You’ll never get past me!”

Hephaestion tilted his head, not quite smiling. “And who will hold it up for me?”

Alexander blinked, then frowned as though the question were ridiculous. “I will. Someday. But now it’s your turn. Come on! Up!” He shoved at Hephaestion’s shoulders until the other boy bent grudgingly to one knee, bracing his hands against the grass.

Alexander scrambled onto his back, crowning him with a crooked wreath of apple leaves as though it were a lion’s pelt. He stood tall, arms flung wide, curls gleaming in the sun. “Look! Atlas holds the heavens, and Herakles steals the prize!”

Leonnatus bellowed, “The dragon will eat you both!” and charged.

Alexander leapt down in a burst of energy, snatched two apples from the branches overhead, and whirled to face him. He smacked one against Leonnatus’s chest with a satisfying thud. “Slain!” he cried. “The apples are mine!”

Leonnatus fell backward into the grass with a groan so dramatic it drew peals of laughter from the servants nearby. He rolled twice, tongue hanging out, then popped back up to chase Alexander through the trees. “Not slain! Never slain!”

Their shouts echoed bright against the orchard walls, the boys darting and dodging between rows, apples tumbling from their baskets in their wake.

Through it all Hephaestion remained steady, gathering the fallen fruit back into the baskets, his quiet movements in sharp contrast to the chaos. When Alexander finally collapsed in the grass, breathless with laughter, Hephaestion brought him a fresh apple, polished on his tunic.

Alexander sat up, still panting, and accepted it like a victor’s prize. He bit deep, juice running down his chin, and grinned. “See? Herakles always wins.”

Leonnatus flopped down beside him, grass in his hair. “I almost had you. My dragon teeth were this close.”

“No dragon beats Herakles,” Alexander said, puffing his chest. Then his gaze slid back to Hephaestion, standing with one hand braced on a basket, the sun bright on his dark hair. “And no Herakles wins without Atlas.”

Hephaestion blinked at him, startled, then gave a small, quiet smile. “Atlas carries the burden, Alexander. Herakles just takes the prize.”

Alexander tilted his head, considering that as though it were an insult, then shook it off with all the fierce certainty of a boy who never doubted. He scrambled to his feet, apple still clutched tight, and seized Hephaestion’s wrist.

“Then you’re mine,” he said simply, as though it settled everything. “My Atlas. Always.”

Hephaestion’s ears flushed pink, but he didn’t pull away. Leonnatus groaned, rolling in the grass again. “If you two start saying that every time, I’ll never win as the dragon.”

Alexander ignored him, tugging Hephaestion toward the next tree with a grin bright as fire. “Come on. More apples. Dionysus will want the biggest ones, and we’ll bring them all.”

The orchard rang again with laughter as the three boys ran on, baskets bumping at their sides, the leaves whispering above them like the gods themselves were listening.

**

Supper was finished, the bowls cleared away by the boys performing their page duties, and then they were scrubbed clean of grass and orchard dust. Their hair was still damp from washing, their tunics smelling faintly of soap and oil. The larger hall roared on with laughter and cups clashing, but the children had been bundled instead into one of the smaller chambers where the fire burned low and the air was calmer.

Ptolemy was already waiting for them, a scroll balanced on his knees. He was twelve now, proud of the extra inches of height that set him above the others, though still soft-cheeked in a way that betrayed his youth. He smirked at the sight of them shoving for the best spot by the hearth.

“You look half-dead from running all day,” he said. “And now you want a story on top of it?”

“Yes,” Alexander declared at once, scrambling to the front. His curls clung damp to his temples, his face bright with expectation. “Read Homer.”

Ptolemy raised his brows, amused. “Which passage?”

“The best one.” Alexander leaned forward, eyes alight. “Achilles.”

Leonnatus groaned loudly, flopping onto a cushion. “Always Achilles. Odysseus is cleverer.”

“Clever isn’t glory,” Alexander shot back, but his grin was fierce.

Ptolemy shook his head and unrolled the scroll. His voice steadied, smooth and low for his age, filling the chamber with words older than any of them.

“Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles…”

The cadence hushed them. Leonnatus tilted his head back, mouthing lines he half-remembered; Hephaestion sat cross-legged, gaze intent on the fire. But Alexander could not keep still. At the first mention of Achilles, he sprang to his feet, snatched a cushion from the bench, and brandished it like a shield.

“I am Achilles!” he cried, stabbing at shadows with an invisible spear. “Swift of foot, terrible to the Trojans!”

Leonnatus shrieked with laughter and rolled over, clutching his stomach. “You sound like an old goat!”

“I do not!” Alexander launched himself at him, planting a triumphant foot on his chest. “Down, Hector!”

Leonnatus shoved him off, still laughing. Ptolemy lowered the scroll, sighing through a smile. “If you two break the furniture, I’m telling Philip you were rehearsing Homer with your elbows.”

But Hephaestion didn’t laugh. His dark eyes followed Alexander as he stood, flushed and wild in the firelight. When their gazes caught, Alexander’s grin sharpened into something fiercer. He thrust the cushion toward him as though offering a weapon.

“You,” he said, loud enough to drown out Leonnatus’s giggles. “You’re Patroclus. Always.”

For a moment, silence. The fire popped, smoke curling toward the rafters. Hephaestion flushed but did not look away. Quietly, he nodded. Alexander’s smile flared bright, and he bounded off again, whirling through the circle of firelight, Leonnatus arming himself with another cushion to fend him off. Ptolemy groaned, rolling up the scroll. “Enough! Off to bed before you take each other’s heads off.”

The boys were herded toward their pallets, Leonnatus already yawning, Hephaestion folding neatly into his bed. But Alexander twisted free of the nurse’s guiding hand and marched straight to Hephaestion’s side.

“I’m sleeping here,” he announced.

The nurse frowned, sharp with long practice. “No, my prince. Your bed is two doors down.”

Alexander folded his arms. “I don’t care. I’ll sleep with him.” He plopped down beside Hephaestion and burrowed under the blanket, smirking like he had already won.

The nurse groaned, tugging at his arm. “Alexander, this is unseemly. You’re too old to be—”

“I’ll come back,” Alexander interrupted hotly, clinging tighter. “Even if you drag me out, I’ll sneak back. You can’t stop me.”

The nurse sputtered, looking to Ptolemy for support. Ptolemy only shrugged, smirking faintly. “He will. You know he will.”

“Come now,” the woman coaxed, gentler this time. “Your chamber is ready. You’ll disturb Hephaestion’s sleep.”

Alexander shot back at once, “He doesn’t mind.”

Hephaestion, caught wide-eyed under the blanket, murmured softly, “I don’t.”

That silenced the nurse for a beat, but only a beat. With a long-suffering sigh, she hauled Alexander out bodily, his protests echoing down the courtyard as he kicked and twisted.

He was deposited firmly in his own bed, scowling in the dark. Yet when the palace had quieted, his bare feet slapped softly against the stone as he slipped back down the courtyard’s walkway. The door creaked open, and a small shadow padded across the floor.

Hephaestion stirred when Alexander wriggled under the blanket, curling against his side with a triumphant little sigh. “Goodnight,” he whispered, and was asleep within moments.

Chapter Text

The frost had crept in overnight, silvering the edges of the shutters and turning the floor freezing. Alexander woke first, as he always did, and saw his breath ghost white in the dim air. The brazier in the corner had gone cold, leaving only a smudge of ash.

Hephaestion lay curled beside him, face half-buried in the blanket, one hand tucked tight beneath his chin. Alexander wriggled closer, grinning at the way Heph instinctively tightened his arm, as if to keep him from escaping.

“Up,” Alexander whispered, breath fogging against his ear. “It snowed.”

Hephaestion groaned. “Too cold.”

Leonnatus’s muffled voice rose from the other bed, thick with sleep and complaint. “If it snowed, we should stay inside. Who goes out in this?” He buried his head deeper under the blanket.

Alexander laughed, bouncing free of Hephaestion’s arm. The floor shocked his bare feet, and he yelped but didn’t stop, dragging the blanket with him like a cape. “Come see,” he insisted, tugging at the shutters until the brittle wood gave way. Pale light spilled through. The courtyard stones below were rimmed with white, puddles stiff with ice that gleamed like glass. Breathless, Alexander turned back. “Look! The gods left the world shining.”

Hephaestion rubbed his eyes, slow and unwilling, but the sight pulled even him up to sit, blanket wrapped over his shoulders. Leonnatus peeked from his cocoon and scowled, though his eyes widened.

Their nurse bustled in just then, arms full of wool. “Away from the window! We don’t want the king’s pages freeze themselves stupid.” She clucked at Alexander’s bare toes and thrust a thick chiton into his hands. “Boots, cloaks, mittens, every scrap of it. The king won’t forgive tardiness because you caught your death of cold.”

The nurse shoved cloaks and mittens at them before they could wriggle free. “Enough noise. The horses won’t feed themselves, and the king will have no use for pages who hide under blankets.”

The air outside struck like a slap. Frost glazed the stones, sharp beneath thin soles, and every breath hung white. They trudged across the yard toward the stables, Leonnatus muttering all the way.

“I’ll freeze stiff,” he said, clutching his cloak tight. “They’ll find me in the stall like a block of salted fish.”

“You talk too much for a salted fish,” Alexander said. His nose was red but his chin was high, as if daring the cold to strike him harder.

Hephaestion only walked steady, his hood pulled close, hands neat inside his sleeves. When they reached the stable, the smell of hay and horse-sweat wrapped around them, warmer but heavy. The horses stamped and blew clouds into the dim air, impatient for feed.

Grain sacks had already been set out. Leonnatus heaved one with a groan, spilling kernels across the frost. “Here, help me,” he said, but Alexander snatched the bucket instead.

“I’ll do it,” he declared, filling it too full until the weight dragged his arms down.

Hephaestion took the other bucket without fuss, measured, steady. Together they carried the feed down the row, horses tossing their heads, teeth clattering on wood as they nosed into the grain. Alexander grinned at the sound, proud of his work even as kernels spilled over his boots.

“Careful,” Hephaestion said softly. He brushed the grain even with his hand before setting the bucket down. “Too much and they’ll founder.”

Leonnatus snorted. “Listen to him, already lecturing like Aristotle. They’ll eat what they’re given.” He tugged hay into place with exaggerated grunts, then let the fork clatter. “There. Done. Can we thaw now?”

But a groom came past and set another task: water from the well. Groaning louder, Leonnatus trudged back into the cold with the others. They hauled the buckets together, hands stinging, shoulders bent, water sloshing over their cloaks and freezing on contact.

By the time they returned to the stable, the horses had settled, crunching grain, tails swishing. The boys leaned against the stall doors, panting clouds into the air.

Then the clatter of hooves outside snapped them straight. Philip passed the stable mouth on a tall bay, hunting cloak thrown over his shoulder, a spear resting easy in his hand. Men followed close behind, their breath steaming, their laughter hard in the cold.

The boys froze, watching. Philip didn’t spare them a glance. He rode past like a storm moving through, his men trailing in his wake, and only the churn of hoofprints in the frost proved he’d been there at all.

Alexander’s eyes burned bright. “One day,” he whispered.

Leonnatus groaned, rubbing his arms. “One day I’ll still be frozen.”

When the last hoofbeat faded, the groom waved them off at last. Their cheeks were raw, their cloaks stank of hay and horse, and Leonnatus’s boots were soaked through, but they walked back toward the hall with heads higher than before. The porridge waiting on the table would never taste better.

By the time they stumbled back to the hall, their breaths puffed like smoke around them, and the smell of honeyed porridge was a mercy. Alexander’s eyes kept darting toward the door as if he could already hear the yard calling.

“We’ll spar,” he announced, chin high despite the porridge on his lip. “And I’ll win, even on ice.”

Leonnatus groaned into his cup. “We’ll slip and break our necks. All of us.”

Hephaestion only tightened the ties on his boots, silent but steady, and Alexander grinned at him. “You’ll keep your footing. You always do.”

The hall was already awake, the air rich with the smell of warm bread, smoke, and honey. Servants hurried past with steaming jugs and baskets of loaves, their sandals squeaking on the damp flagstones. The boys slipped to their places at the long table, small among the older pages and squires who were already bent over their bowls.

Alexander could not keep still. His legs swung under the bench, his fingers tapped a restless beat against the boards, his eyes slid again and again toward the door as though the yard itself were calling his name. Every noise seemed to grate on him: the scrape of a cup against the table, the crunch of another boy biting into an apple, Leonnatus’s exaggerated sigh as he slumped across the bench.

Leonnatus scowled into his cup, muttering loud enough for everyone near to hear. “If the master makes us run today, I’ll freeze solid halfway round. They’ll find me on the ground, stiff as a board. I almost froze to death feeding the horses.” He tipped his head back and stuck his tongue out, pretending to fall over dead. A couple of the older boys laughed.

Alexander straightened at once, eager to claim the moment. “Then I’ll win by default,” he said, bright and quick, as if Leonnatus had offered him a prize.

“You’ll slip first,” Hephaestion put in, voice even, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He sat straighter than the others, hands folded when he wasn’t lifting his cup, as though neatness alone could ward off the chill. His calm only seemed to fuel Alexander’s spark.

“I won’t slip,” Alexander shot back. “Not today. Today the frost makes me faster.” His curls bounced as he nodded, as if his certainty could shape the world itself.

Leonnatus snorted. “You’ll trip over your own feet, that’s what will happen. The frost will make you fall flat on your face.” He puffed out his cheeks and slapped his hand against the table in mock collapse.

Alexander leaned toward Hephaestion, eyes alight. “I won’t. You’ll see. I’ll beat them all across the yard.”

Hephaestion only shook his head, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You never learn to walk first. Always running.”

“That’s because walking is too slow,” Alexander said, as if it explained everything. He drummed his fingers faster, then pushed back from the bench, already half rising. “Come on. It’s time.”

“Sit,” the nurse hissed, pressing him down by the shoulder. “Not until you’ve finished.”

Alexander scowled but tore into the bread anyway, chewing fast enough to choke. He swallowed with a gasp, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and bounced to his feet again.

Leonnatus groaned, dragging himself up more slowly. “We’ll freeze, I tell you,” he said to no one in particular, though his grin betrayed the thrill beneath his complaint.

The nurse shook her head as the three of them tumbled toward the door, their cloaks swirling. Outside, the air hit sharp and cold. Frost glittered across the stones, puddles iced over in sheets that cracked faintly under their boots. The yard lay waiting, pale in the morning light, and Alexander was already striding toward it, eager as if the whole world had been laid down for him to conquer.

**

Breath steamed from every boy called to line, their cloaks stripped off and thrown to the fence rail. The master stood waiting, a dark bulk against the light, staff in hand. His breath didn’t show, though he was as human as they were; his stillness made the cold sharper.

“Form pairs,” he barked.

The boys shuffled into place, boots scuffing over the white film of ice that had crept across the ground. Alexander seized Hephaestion by the wrist before anyone else could, tugging him forward with a grin sharp as sunlight. Leonnatus ended up paired with Ptolemy again, which earned a groan from him and a laugh from the older boy.

“Run,” the master ordered. “Five laps. Warm yourselves, or the cold will eat you.”

They went pounding across the yard, the ground slick underfoot. The first lap made their lungs seize with the icy air, every breath a cut. Leonnatus stumbled twice, cursing between gasps, while Alexander ran as though it were a game, his heels striking hard, eyes bright. Hephaestion kept steady beside him, neither lagging nor pushing ahead, his breath pluming in even clouds.

By the time the fifth lap dragged them back to the chalk line, sweat dampened their hair despite the chill. The master tapped his staff once. “Blades. Now we work.”

Wooden swords were shoved into their hands, the grips cold enough to sting. The boys squared off across the frost-crusted ground.

Alexander bounced on his toes, grinning through his ragged breath. “Try to keep up,” he told Hephaestion.

Heph only adjusted his stance, quiet as always.

The first clash rang sharp, wood cracking against wood. Alexander pressed with reckless bursts, his boots skidding on the icy patches, while Hephaestion planted himself firm, letting Alexander’s momentum crash against his guard. Twice Alexander nearly overbalanced, saving himself with a wild laugh.

“Feet!” the master snapped. “Do you want to split your skulls? Balance, you little fools!”

Alexander adjusted, set his weight lower, and lunged again. This time Hephaestion met him in rhythm, their blows striking quick and clean, wood ringing like a drumbeat across the yard. For the first time, they moved together, Alexander’s fire tempered by Hephaestion’s steadiness, each strike answered, each feint tested. The other boys slowed in their own bouts, stealing glances toward them.

On the far side, Leonnatus yelped as Ptolemy’s blade rapped him on the shoulder. “Ow! You’re supposed to teach me, not kill me!”

“I am teaching,” Ptolemy said dryly. “Lesson one: don’t drop your guard to scratch your nose.” He tapped him again, lighter this time, and Leonnatus gave a theatrical groan that made two of the other pages snicker.

The master’s staff cracked against the stones. “Again!” he barked at Alexander and Hephaestion.

They surged together once more, blades snapping in the cold air. Alexander’s grin widened, his breath visible in white bursts. Hephaestion’s eyes stayed steady, his arms moving with patient strength. The rhythm settled in: a give and take, reckless strike and calm response, until it seemed less like punishment and more like a strange, frozen dance. Alexander pressed forward in a rush, boots skidding across the frosty ground. He caught his balance with a laugh and lunged again, his sword striking fast but wild.

“Keep your feet, Alexander!” the master snapped. “A man who falls on ice is a man dead.”

Hephaestion stepped lightly aside, steady as a post in the wind. Alexander swung at him again, blade high, but the strike came too quick, his boots sliding out from under him. He landed on one knee, huffing out a white plume of breath.

Leonnatus cackled from across the yard, earning a cuff from Ptolemy’s practice sword. “Don’t laugh at him,” Ptolemy said. “You’ll be down next.”

“I’ll never—” Leonnatus began, only to slip a heartbeat later. He landed flat on his back, arms spread wide in the frost. Ptolemy raised his sword in mock salute, and half the yard broke into laughter.

Alexander scrambled up at once, cheeks pink from cold and embarrassment. “That doesn’t count!” he called, gripping his sword tighter. Hephaestion only lifted his brows, calm as ever.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Always,” Alexander said, and rushed him again.

This time Hephaestion didn’t give ground. He let Alexander’s blade glance aside, turned his shoulder, and swept low. Alexander’s boots skidded again, and Hephaestion pressed the advantage, driving him backward step by step until Alexander’s heel caught on the frosted chalk line. He wobbled, arms flailing to keep balance.

The master’s voice cracked the air. “Finish it.”

Hephaestion’s sword darted forward, the flat of it landing square on Alexander’s chest. The younger boy stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and only just managed to keep from falling flat again. Hephaestion lowered his blade. “You’re too quick for the ground,” he said quietly.

Alexander blinked at him, then burst into laughter, bright as the morning frost. “You won,” he admitted, gasping, “but only because of the ice.”

Leonnatus, still brushing frost from his tunic, shouted across the yard, “Then fight him in summer and see what happens!”

“Enough chatter,” the master barked. “Form again. The frost doesn’t care for excuses. Learn to fight on it or learn to fall.”

Alexander grinned at Hephaestion, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with mischief. “Next round,” he promised.

Hephaestion only nodded, though the faintest smile pulled at his mouth. For once, the rhythm was his.

**

By the time the master barked dismissal, every boy’s breath was ragged, their hands stung raw from the cold wood. Frost clung to tunics where they had fallen, patches of ice melting into damp spots that steamed faintly in the pale sun. Alexander pushed damp curls off his forehead, still grinning despite his bruises. Leonnatus groaned theatrically, holding his ribs as though Ptolemy had broken him in half.

“Enough,” the master snapped. “Wash your hands and your faces. Leonidas is waiting. If you sleep through lessons, I’ll know it.”

The boys tramped across the yard, boots crunching frost, and back into the warm stone corridors. The change was a relief. The sting of cold replaced by the closeness of smoke and heated braziers. Their cloaks were returned to them by long-suffering servants who muttered about mud, bruises, and the foolishness of princes.

The children’s hall was warmer than the yard, the brazier glowing in the corner, smoke curling soft into the beams. Cushions and low stools were scattered around the circle, wax tablets stacked neatly to one side. A scroll lay open on the lectern, ink dark and sharp.

Alexander dropped cross-legged to the floor at once, his cloak falling off his shoulders, already leaning forward with restless impatience. Hephaestion sat straighter on his cushion, hands folded neatly in his lap. Leonnatus sprawled until Leonidas glared, then shifted upright with a dramatic sigh. Cleopatra had arrived with her nurse, braid tied in a bright ribbon, her eyes sharp and curious as she settled among them.

Leonidas cleared his throat. “Today, Homer. If your arms are too tired to write, then your ears will do the work. We’ll see if your memories are sharper than your swords.”

He bent over the scroll and began: “Sing, Muse, of the anger of Peleus’ son, Achilles—”

“Achilles!” Alexander burst out, his voice too loud in the close chamber. “Achilles is the greatest of all!”

Leonidas raised his head slowly and fixed him with a look. “Since you are so eager, perhaps you will finish the line?”

Alexander’s mouth opened and stayed open. He faltered. “I… might not remember every word.”

A ripple of laughter went around the circle. Even Hephaestion’s lips curved faintly.

Leonnatus grinned, seizing the moment. “Some king you’ll make, forgetting your own hero’s song.”

Alexander bristled, cheeks hot. “I didn’t forget. I was testing him.” He jabbed a finger at Leonidas. “And he passed.”

Leonnatusidas pinched the bridge of his nose. “By the gods, I would rather herd goats.” He started again, his voice louder this time, rolling through the opening lines.

For a while the children listened. The words painted the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles, the sickness that swept the Greek camp. When Leonidas’s voice dipped low at the mention of Apollo’s plague, Leonnatus snorted.

“Serves them right,” he said, grinning. “Fighting over women. If men stayed home with their wives, half the wars would never start.”

A scatter of giggles broke the stillness. Leonidas glared. “Do you think Homer is a jest, boy?”

“No,” Leonnatus said quickly, though his grin didn’t fade. “That’s what my mother says.”

Alexander barked a laugh. “Your mother is wise!”

Leonidas slammed his hand on the lectern. “Enough.” His gaze swung to Hephaestion. “You. Who carried Zeus’ message to Agamemnon?”

“Kalchas, the seer,” Hephaestion answered at once, voice even.

Leonidas inclined his head. “At least one of you listens.”

Alexander sat up straighter. “I listen better than anyone. Ask me who’s greatest!”

Leonidas’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. Who is greater: Achilles, or Odysseus?”

“Achilles!” Alexander answered instantly, bright and fierce. “Odysseus is tricks. Achilles is glory.”

Leonnatus sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Odysseus would talk you out of your crown before you even noticed.”

Alexander whipped around, ready to argue, but Cleopatra’s clear voice cut in. “Athena is greater than both.”

The boys turned to her in surprise. Cleopatra lifted her chin, eyes bright. “She is wisdom and war together. Strategy, not only strength. Without her, Odysseus would never have made it home.”

Leonnatus whooped. “See? Even she knows!”

Alexander scowled, cheeks burning. “She’s a goddess. It’s not the same!”

“Why not?” Cleopatra shot back. “Do you think glory only belongs to men?”

Leonidas lifted both hands in despair. “If you children shout me deaf, the Muse herself won’t save you.”

Hephaestion smothered a smile in the fold of his cloak. Alexander sat stiff and indignant. Leonnatus leaned back, smug as a cat in the sun. Cleopatra’s eyes shone with triumph, pleased to have held her own.

Leonidas at last rolled up the scroll and waved them away with a weary hand. “Enough for one morning. Go burn off that noise before you shake the rafters down.”

The children tumbled into the corridor, cloaks snatched up in a flurry of wool and laughter. Cold air licked at their cheeks as they darted out into the courtyard, where the sky hung pale and the frost still glittered.

“Not the yard,” Alexander said, already veering toward the outer path. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Come, there’s better ground than this.”

Leonnatus groaned but followed all the same, tugging his hood close. “Wherever you’re dragging us, I’ll regret it.”

Ptolemy, towering over them, raised a brow. “You’d best keep your feet, little prince. I’ve no mind to fish you out of a snowdrift.”

The path wound past the stables and down to the horse pond, its surface stilled to a dull mirror under the thin winter sun. Alexander ran ahead and skidded onto the ice, his boots sliding out from under him at once. He went down hard, burst into laughter, and scrambled up again.

“It holds!” he shouted, arms spread wide. “Come on!”

Cleopatra squealed and clutched Leonnatus’s sleeve, but her eyes shone as bright as his. “I’ll try!” She stepped gingerly onto the ice, slippers sliding. Leonnatus followed, yelping when his feet went in opposite directions.

Hephaestion came last, measured as always. He tested the edge before stepping out, moving with a steadiness that made Alexander dart straight for him. “Race me across!” Alexander cried.

“You’ll break your neck,” Hephaestion warned, but Alexander had already shoved off, sliding half the width of the pond with his arms flailing.

Ptolemy’s laugh carried across the ice. “You’ve less grace than a goat on stilts!” He stepped out himself, boots firm, and with one push glided past Leonnatus, sending him sprawling with a wail.

Cleopatra shrieked with laughter and toppled into Alexander, the two of them sliding in a tangle until Hephaestion caught them both by their cloaks. He steadied them, cheeks pink from the cold, while Alexander crowed, “See? He always keeps me upright!”

They went on until their cloaks were soaked at the hem, fingers numb and noses red, the air sharp with the sound of their laughter.

**

By the time the bell called them in, their cloaks were soaked and their fingers numb. Servants clucked and fussed as they were herded back into the palace, tugging wet wool from their shoulders and thrusting them toward basins of warm water. Cleopatra’s braid was a tangle of ice-stiff strands, Leonnatus’s tunic was stiff with frost, and Alexander’s curls dripped steadily onto the floor. Hephaestion alone looked half-composed, though his cheeks burned red from the cold.

The great hall glowed with torchlight. Braziers roared at intervals down the length of the chamber, their heat almost unbearable after the sharp bite of the air outside. They filed to their places at the lower tables, still rubbing warmth into their hands. Trenchers of steaming stew were set before them, the smell of lamb and onion filling the air.

Leonnatus tore into his meal with gusto, declaring loudly that he would never thaw, and therefore needed a double portion. Cleopatra rolled her eyes, but slipped him her heel of bread all the same. Alexander devoured his stew quickly, then leaned forward, retelling the afternoon’s misadventures in great, dramatic detail.

“I slid clear across, faster than the horses can run!” he boasted, sweeping his arm in a grand arc that nearly toppled his cup. “Hephaestion tried to stay on his feet, but I dragged him with me, and then Leon—”

“Leon fell on me!” Cleopatra interrupted, laughing. “He says I knocked him down, but he’s heavy as a sack of grain.”

Leonnatus puffed out his chest, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “You’re just jealous I spun farther than you!”

Alexander smirked into his cup. “Heph caught me every time before I could fall.”

Hephaestion lowered his gaze, lips curving faintly. “Someone had to keep you upright.”

Laughter rippled down their end of the table until a sharper voice cut across it. Olympias, seated not far behind them, had turned from her place among the women. Her eyes glimmered like the torchlight on bronze, her smile unreadable.

“My son,” she said, her voice clear enough to carry, “you make a fine show of yourself. But one day the ground will not be so forgiving as a patch of winter ice.”

The laughter quieted. Alexander flushed, pride and defiance warring across his face. “Then I’ll have Hephaestion beside me,” he answered, chin lifting.

Olympias’s smile only deepened. “Yes. We shall see.” She turned back to her cup, and the hall’s noise swelled again, rough with wine and smoke.

When the meal was done, the children were ushered back to their chambers. Leonnatus collapsed onto his bed with a dramatic sigh, still muttering about his bruises. Cleopatra disappeared with her nurse down the adjoining corridor, humming under her breath.

In the boys’ chamber, the brazier glowed faintly, casting long shadows up the wall. Hephaestion pulled off his boots and slipped beneath his blankets, settling quietly. Alexander lingered in the middle of the room, curls still damp, eyes restless.

The nurse frowned, arms folded. “Prince Alexander, your bed is in your chamber. Off with you.”

Alexander scowled, reluctant. “I want to stay with Hephaestion.”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” she said firmly, herding him toward the door.

With much grumbling and backward glances, Alexander let himself be hustled down the courtyard, his protests fading with the sound of the nurse’s scolding. Hephaestion lay still, staring at the flicker of firelight, until the door creaked again some time later.

Bare feet padded across the floor. The blankets lifted. A familiar weight pressed close against him, cold toes tucking against his legs.

“Alex?” Hephaestion whispered, half-turning.

“Shh,” Alexander murmured, wriggling into the warmth as if he belonged there. His breath was quick at first, then settled against Heph’s shoulder. “Don’t send me back.”

Hephaestion didn’t. He only sighed softly and shifted to make room beneath the blanket, tucking the cover close around them both.

Soon Alexander’s breathing slowed, steady and sure. The frost still rimmed the world outside, but here, pressed close together, the night was warm.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped sometime in the night, leaving the world damp and shining. Droplets clung to the window lattice, and the smell of wet earth drifted in on the cool breeze.

Alexander stirred first, pressed close against Hephaestion beneath the blankets. His curls were warm and mussed, his feet cold as they sought out Heph’s legs. He blinked into the gray light, then whispered against his friend’s shoulder, half conspiratorial, half triumphant.

“Heph. Frogs.”

Hephaestion groaned softly, tugging the blanket higher. “What about them?”

“They’ll be out this morning. After rain, they always are. Croaking in the reeds, hopping in the mud. We could catch them.” Alexander wriggled, too restless to lie still, already imagining the chase.

“You want frogs before breakfast?” Hephaestion asked, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Yes,” Alexander said at once, then reconsidered. “No. Both. Frogs and breakfast.”

Heph pushed himself up on one elbow, studying him with bleary patience. Alexander grinned, eyes bright in the dim room, already halfway out of the blankets.

By the time they padded to the hall, Alexander’s tongue hadn’t stopped. He described fat, green frogs that could leap as high as a boy’s knee, and tiny brown ones that vanished into puddles, and how he was certain the loudest croaker in the palace pond must be king of them all. Hephaestion listened, yawning into his hand as he reached for bread. Leonnatus had joined them, still chewing sleepily, and looked across the table with raised brows.

“Frogs?” he asked, muffled around his bite.

Alexander nodded eagerly, crumbs already on his lips. “Today, after breakfast. We’re going to find them.”

Hephaestion caught his hand under the table, steadying him before he bounced right off the bench. Alexander tore into his bread with impatient bites, crumbs scattering across the table. His knee bounced under the bench until Hephaestion laid a steadying hand on it.

“Sit still, Alex,” Hephaestion murmured.

“I can’t,” Alexander whispered back, eyes bright. “They’ll all be out this morning. The rain called them. If we wait, they’ll go back to the water and we’ll miss them.”

Leonnatus squinted at him, skeptical. “Miss who?”

“The frogs,” Alexander said, as if it should have been obvious.

Hephaestion gave him a look; not sharp, but long-suffering, the kind that meant he already knew where this was heading. “We have training this morning.”

Alexander leaned close, conspiratorial, his curls brushing Hephaestions’s cheek. “We could skip. Just this once. No one would notice.”

“They’ll notice,” Hephaestion replied.

“They won’t,” Alexander insisted. “Not if we’re clever. We’ll go before anyone looks for us. And Leonnatus can come too.”

Leonnatus blinked, caught between horror and intrigue. “Skip training?”

Alexander nodded fiercely. “Yes. To hunt frogs. Better than any sparring match. Come on, Heph, don’t you want to see them? Hear them croak, hold them in your hands? We’ll be back before anyone knows.”

Hephaestion sighed, but the corner of his mouth curved despite himself. “You’ll get us all in trouble.”

“Only if we’re caught,” Alexander shot back with a grin. He pushed the last of his bread into his mouth, grabbed Hephaestions’s hand beneath the table, and tugged. “Come on. Before they’re gone.”

Hephaestion hesitated for only a heartbeat before letting himself be pulled along. Leonnatus trailed after, shaking his head but clutching another bun for the road.

Outside, the air was sharp and fresh, the stones slick with last night’s rain. Alexander bounded ahead, pointing toward the palace gardens, laughter echoing across the wet courtyards.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Hephaestion’s hand before he could protest. “There’s frogs in the reeds by the stream.”

Leonnatus’s face lit up. “Frogs!” He took off at a sprint, already half-laughing.

Hephaestion groaned but didn’t let go of Alexander’s fingers. “Do we have to?”

“Yes!” Alexander declared, tugging him along. “You’ll see. They’re fast. You have to be quicker.”

The path gave way to squelching mud, reeds whispering in the warm breeze. Leonnatus barreled straight through, sandals and all, whooping as he splashed. Alexander followed, chasing a croak with single-minded fury.

Hephaestion stopped at the edge, eyeing the muck. His sandals sank when he shifted his weight. He made a face.

Alexander turned, grinning, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up in damp curls. “What’s wrong? Afraid of mud?”

Hephaestion rolled his eyes, tugged off his sandals, and waded in barefoot. “Only you would think this is fun.”

“See?” Alexander said triumphantly, catching his hand again. “Now we’ll catch twice as many.”

Hephaestion sighed, but his mouth curved anyway.

Somewhere ahead, Leonnatus’s triumphant shout rang out. “Got one!”

Leonnatus came sloshing back, holding a fat green frog high above his head like a trophy. It kicked furiously, legs splayed, before he dropped it into Alexander’s cupped hands.

“Careful!” Alexander scolded, though he was grinning. “You’ll hurt him.” The frog promptly sprang free, smacking into his chest and plopping back into the mud. Both boys lunged after it, slipping and sliding, while Hephaestion stood at the edge with his arms crossed.

Then he crouched, watching the reeds sway. A smaller frog blinked at him from a muddy bank. Quietly, gently, he reached down and scooped it up with both hands. The frog sat still, throat pulsing.

Alexander straightened, smeared with mud to his knees, and stared. “You caught one.”

Hephaestion shrugged, almost shy. “I didn’t scare it.”

Leonnatus whooped again. “That makes two!”

It wasn’t long before the boys had three, then five, each sloshing in a shallow puddle while Leonnatus tried to keep them corralled with his hands. They leapt in every direction, croaking indignantly.

“They’ll just get away,” Hephaestion said, frowning down at the mess. Then his eyes lit in thought. “We need walls.”

“Walls?” Alexander tilted his head.

Hephaestion was already dragging twigs from the bank, setting them in the mud at sharp angles. “A fortress,” he said. “So they can’t escape.”

“A frog palace,” Leonnatus corrected grandly, splattering both of them as he plopped into the mud to help.

Alexander’s eyes sparkled. “Yes. A palace.”

Soon the three of them were smeared to their elbows, stacking reeds and packing wet earth into crude little ramparts. Leonnatus shoved more frogs inside as he caught them; Hephaestion braced the walls; Alexander crowned it with a leafy branch.

“There,” Alexander said at last, filthy and triumphant. “A palace worthy of kings.”

One of the frogs croaked and promptly launched itself over the wall.

All three boys shouted at once and dove after it, laughter echoing down the stream.

The frog palace was holding, barely, when a tiny voice rang out from the bank.

“What are you doing?”

All three boys froze. Cleopatra stood above them in a clean linen dress, her hair braided neatly, a golden pin catching the sun. Her sandals were spotless. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of mud and frogs, but her eyes were curious.

“Building a palace,” Alexander declared, brushing mud from his cheek with even muddier fingers.

“For frogs,” Leonnatus added proudly, holding one up by its slippery belly until it kicked free and landed in the moat.

Cleopatra’s mouth twitched. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is not,” Alexander said, bristling. “It’s a proper palace. See the walls? Hephaestion built them.”

Cleopatra crouched at the edge of the mud, dress bunched in her fists. “It looks fun.”

Alexander blinked. “You want to play?”

“Of course I do. Girls are boring.” She kicked off her sandals and stepped straight into the muck, ignoring the gasp from Hephaestion. “Show me how.”

Leonnatus cheered. “Yay! Someone else who isn’t afraid of mud!”

Alexander’s grin split his face. “All right. You can help catch frogs.”

Before long Cleopatra was shrieking with laughter, chasing frogs through the reeds with Leonnatus while Alexander and Hephaestion repaired the crumbling walls. She ended up muddier than any of them, her braid unraveling, dress streaked and clinging. When a nursemaid’s horrified cry finally split the air, the frog palace collapsed in a flurry of croaks and laughter.

The nursemaids took one look at the children: mud plastered in their hair, tunics stiff with it, frogs wriggling in their fists, and wailed as if the gods themselves had cursed them.

“By Herakles, look at you! The prince and princess of Macedon, and his friends, wallowing like swine!”

“They were meant to be at training hours ago,” another hissed, trying to pry a frog from Alexander’s hand.

“And now the king has sent for them!” the first cried, wringing her hands. “They can’t go before him like this!”

“The river,” one decided grimly. “In with them, clothes and all. There’s no time for scrubbing.”

“You’ll catch more than frogs when the king sees you,” the eldest nurse muttered darkly, already tugging them toward the water.

Before the scolding could mount further, Alexander bolted. With a shout he charged down the bank and leapt straight in, water erupting around him.

Leonnatus whooped and followed at once, a graceless plunge that sent a wave over the nursemaids. Cleopatra hesitated only long enough to let herself be carried shrieking into the shallows, kicking happily as she splashed her brother.

That left Hephaestion, rooted on the bank. “It’s freezing,” he murmured, tugging at his tunic.

“Not if you’re fast enough,” Alexander called, beckoning with both arms, dripping and grinning. And before Hephaestion could protest again, Alexander splashed back to shore, seized his hand, and hauled him headlong into the river.

They went under together, came up gasping, mud bleeding from their clothes into the current. Leonnatus declared it a contest to see who could clean fastest; Cleopatra scooped water in both hands and poured it over her head like a priestess; Alexander splashed everyone equally until the nursemaids screeched that they’d never be fit for supper at this rate.

But by the time the sun lowered, the worst of the mud had been washed away. The children squelched back to the palace with tunics dripping, hair plastered flat, frogs hopping free in their wake. Servants descended with dry linen and combs, muttering furiously, but when all was done the four looked almost respectable. Almost.

Alexander’s curls refused to stay flat, Leonnatus tracked mud even after his feet had been wiped twice, Cleopatra’s dress had to be changed again, and Hephaestion’s hair still smelled faintly of river weeds. Still, they were bright-eyed and triumphant as they were herded toward the midday meal.

**

The great hall was alive with noise: the scrape of trenchers, the slosh of wine, the crack of laughter loud enough to rattle the rafters. Philip presided at the high table, cup in hand, his one sharp eye tracking everything even as he drank. The boys were guided to their places just below him, set together where every eye could measure them.

Plates heaped with roasted lamb and figs steamed before them. Alexander seized his bread too eagerly, though this time he remembered to swallow before blurting out his words. Hephaestion ate with careful neatness, hands folded when he paused. Leonnatus, legs swinging under the bench, darted for whatever platter passed near, grinning all the while.

Philip’s voice cut through the din. “You three think yourselves clever? Skipping training to wallow in mud like swine?” His eye fixed on Alexander in particular. “A prince of Macedon, brought to my table caked to the knees, clutching frogs as if they were spoils of war.”

The boys froze. Hephaestion ducked his head, Leonnatus’s grin faltered, and Alexander sat straighter, cheeks hot but chin unbowed.

Philip snorted into his cup. “Enjoy your meal. This afternoon you’ll sweat twice as hard to make up for it.” A ripple of laughter went down the table, rough but not unkind, and the moment passed.

“Whose son are you?” a noble asked Hephaestion then, leaning forward to study him.
“Amyntor’s,” he replied quietly, voice clear. The man nodded, satisfied.

“And you, boy?” another demanded of Leonnatus.

“Anthes!” Leonnatus said, spraying crumbs as he grinned. “My father says I’ll fight better than him one day.” That earned a roll of laughter, mugs knocked against the boards.

Alexander got the sharper test: “And you, my prince? What will you be, sitting there between them?”

Alexander straightened. His voice rang firm. “King. And they’ll ride with me.”

A murmur passed along the table. Philip drank, expression unreadable.

But it was Leonnatus who next stole the hall’s attention. He tipped his head back, wiggling a tooth nearly free. “Look! This one’s almost out!”

Alexander leaned in, eager. “I lost one just last week! See?” He pointed proudly at the gap in his own grin. Both boys turned to Hephaestion expectantly. Heph flushed, ducking his head. “…None yet.”

That admission drew chuckles from nearby soldiers. One called down the table: “Give him time, he’ll catch up.”

The questions turned playful after that. “What did you scamps do today, then? Learned your letters already?”

Leonnatus nearly bounced on the bench. “We built a frog palace!”

The lords blinked. “A what?”

Alexander jumped in, eager to explain. “We caught them down by the stream! Fat green ones with long legs! Hephaestion built the walls, Leonnatus dug the moat, and we made a throne of mud.”

Hephaestion added, quiet but smiling, “And Cleopatra brought the leaves to roof it.”

That set the whole bench laughing. The prince’s sister, future bride of kings, implicated in frog architecture. A few older men wiped their eyes, shaking their heads at the image. Alexander grinned wider, thrilled at their amusement. Leonnatus leaned forward, proud. Hephaestion sat back, cheeks warm.

By the time the meat was offered a second time and Philip called for more wine, the boys had passed their test of court, even if it began with a scolding.

**

The rain smell still clung to the yard, sweet and heavy, the mud patched into drying islands under a sun that had decided to come back hard. Steam lifted from the dark places along the wall. The weapons master stood like a stake in the center, arms folded, face set. He did not raise his voice at first. He only looked them over from head to heel, taking in the last flecks of river on their hair, the fresh linen clinging to damp skin, the high color still in their cheeks.

“Twice through everything,” he said at last. “You will learn to choose duty before games.”

A few of the boys groaned. Leonnatus muttered something that sounded like a prayer for mercy. Alexander set his jaw. Hephaestion rolled his shoulders once, loosening his arms the way he had seen older men do.

“Run,” the master barked.

They ran. Laps around the square, past the stone basin, around the stack of straw targets, along the long edge where the sun made the stones glare. The first circuit tasted like river water and bread. The second burned the chest. By the third, the pack had strung out, shoes slapping dull against the packed earth. Leonnatus puffed like a bellows and still tried to grin at Ptolemy when he passed him standing by the fence.

“Eyes up,” Ptolemy called, not unkind. “Stop staring at your feet or you will kiss the ground.”

Leonnatus lifted his chin and very nearly tripped on a stone. He kept running anyway.

“Water,” Leonnatus begged at the fourth lap.

“After,” the master said. “You had water all morning.”

Alexander did not look at the master when he passed him. He looked across the yard at the rack where the wooden swords hung, and the straw dummies, and the line of shields leaning like sleeping men. He felt Hephaestion draw even with him, a steady shape at his shoulder, not quite touching, matching him breath for breath.

On the fifth lap the master lifted a hand. “Enough. Line.”

They bent over, hands on knees, lungs dragging at the air. The master let them have three heartbeats. Then he pointed at the spear rack.

“Thrusts,” he said. “Stand to the mark. Reach with your body, not just your hands.”

They filed to the chalked line. The spears felt heavy with the damp. Alexander took his in both hands, set his left foot forward, and grinned at Hephaestion without meaning to. Hephaestion’s mouth made the faintest curve back. The master passed between them like a moving wall, pushing elbows down, tapping knees with the butt of a staff until the line stood the way he wanted.

“Count,” the master said.

They counted. The spearheads slapped the straw with a dull punch, again and again, shoulders burning, wrists aching, mud flaking from the target’s belly. By twenty the rhythm began to settle in the body. Alexander felt Hephaestion at the edge of his sight, the spearheads rising and falling almost together, the line working like a single beast.

“More reach, Alexander,” the master said without looking at anyone else. “You are not poking a fish. Put your weight in it.”

Alexander set his teeth and drove the next thrust hard enough to make the straw squeal. He heard Hephaestion breathe out a small laugh and did not ask what for.

When the count reached fifty the master moved them again. “Shields.”

The boys groaned under their breath and went. The round shields were stacked in a leaning tower, each one scuffed with use. Hephaestion tipped one to Alexander, took another for himself, and they shouldered in together to the painted chalk line. The master set them in two facing ranks and planted his staff between them.

“Hold,” he said. “Feet under you. Hips low. Push when I call it.”

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of breath and the small shifting of feet. Then the staff snapped against the ground. The ranks surged. Shield kissed shield. Wood scraped and bit. Alexander felt the shove through his arms and spine, the push of boys he wrestled with and laughed with, the ground small and slippery under him. He drove back with everything he had, eyes level over the rim, mouth open to drink air. The master snapped again. Break. Reset. Again. Again.

On the third push the line buckled and a boy went down with a grunt. The master’s staff cracked the dirt a hand’s breadth from his ear.

“Up,” he said. “If you fall, you die. Again.”

They pushed until the world narrowed to the circle of the shield and the heat under the rim and the throb in the legs. In the short pause after, the master walked the ranks and looked for the ones who still stood straight and the ones who sagged.

Ptolemy had stepped into the yard now, sleeves rolled, a wooden sword in his hand. He had that older boy’s confidence, easy, almost lazy, that had nothing to do with sleep. The master jerked his chin at him.

“Take Leon,” he said. “Teach him to keep his feet.”

Leonnatus brightened and blanched all at once. “I can keep them,” he protested, which made a few of the boys snicker. Ptolemy smothered a smile and beckoned him to the far square.

They faced. Ptolemy held his sword down, not yet a threat. “Show me what you think you know,” he said.

Leonnatus came in boldly, which was to say rashly. Ptolemy turned his blade and let Leonnatus’s stroke slide harmlessly aside, then tapped him in the ribs almost gently. Leonnatus squawked and swung again, more wildly. Ptolemy caught that too, rapped him on the shoulder, and stepped back out of range.

“Feet,” Ptolemy said. “Weight low. If your toes fly, your head follows.”

Leonnatus made a face, shifted his stance, tried again. This time he reached too far, lost his balance by a finger’s breadth, and Ptolemy hooked his ankle with the edge of the practice blade and slid him neatly into the dust. The watching boys laughed. Leonnatus sat up, spitting grit, indignation pink on his face. Ptolemy held out a hand and hauled him up without comment.

“Again,” Ptolemy said. “Less arm. More hip.”

They went at it for a while, a strange mixture of training and game. Ptolemy never struck hard, but he did not let Leonnatus get away with anything sloppy. Each mistake found a tap, each improvement a small nod that Leonnatus watched like a beggar watching a loaf. When Leonnatus finally managed to land a clean touch on Ptolemy’s thigh, he let out a yell of such wild delight that even the master’s mouth moved in something like a smile.

“Good,” Ptolemy said. “Now do it twice in a row.”

Across the yard the master clapped once. “Alexander. Hephaestion.”

They stepped forward at once. The wooden swords felt familiar now, fitted to the hand the way a spoon fits the mouth. Alexander’s breath came quick but even. Hephaestion’s face had settled into a calm that made him look older, though he was not.

“Begin when ready,” the master said.

They circled. Alexander’s grin came as if drawn out of him by a string. Hephaestion’s eyes watched his shoulders more than his blade. Alexander struck first because he always did. Hephaestion met it because he always could. The wood cracked and slid. They broke. Alexander came again, same line but quicker, and Hephaestion was there. He stepped into it, not away, and turned the force so that it bled harmlessly along the length of the blade. Alexander’s lips pulled back from his teeth in something that was not a snarl and not a smile.

“Stop trying to kill him with your arms,” the master said, almost bored. “Your feet do the killing.”

Alexander shifted. He took a breath that went all the way to his heels. He moved. The next cut had less anger in it and more weight. Hephaestion felt it at once and adjusted, and for three exchanges something eased, as if the ground had turned from gravel to packed sand under them. He found himself seeing the beat before it happened, the twitch in Alexander’s shoulder that told of a feint, the spark in his eye that told of a true line. He caught one, slipped another, pressed back once to test him. Alexander yielded without panic and came in again at a low line that nearly took Hephaestion’s ankle. Hephaestion snapped his foot clear and laughed under his breath.

“Good,” the master said. “Again.”

They went again. The boys watching had quieted, the yard narrowing itself around the two. Hephaestion felt Alexander’s impatience as a heat in the air, and he felt, too, the way the impatience changed under the work. It became less like a fire that flares and more like a coal that holds. They began to meet in the center, not at the edges, blade to blade, and neither gave ground for three, then five, then seven heartbeats. The last time they broke, Alexander did not charge. He waited one breath, two, then came with a line that began like the last and turned in the wrist at the last instant. Hephaestion’s guard was there. The wood knocked and held.

“Again,” the master said.

They kept at it until the arms ached and the breath sawed, until the sweat stung the eyes and the hands had forgotten the softness of river water. When the master finally lifted his staff, the sound of the yard coming back was like stepping out of a tunnel. The boys swayed where they stood. Leonnatus flopped onto the dirt and lay spread like a starfish. Ptolemy toed his calf until he rolled to his feet again.

“Form,” the master said.

They groaned but moved. Shields up, spears braced, march in two files across the yard and back again, turn on the heel, repeat without looking down. The steam off the stones smelled like hot iron and wet dog. A guard came to the rail and spoke low to a page who had drifted in to watch. The page moved off at once. A little later, Philip came.

He came without trumpets, only a knot of Companions trailing and a cup carried by a servant who knew enough not to hand it to him yet. He leaned on the rail and let his eye rake the yard. The line did not falter much, though a few boys stumbled near the far corner and earned a snap of the master’s staff.

“Again,” the master said. He did not look at Philip. He did not need to.

Alexander saw his father and the world brightened and tightened at once. He straightened a fraction. Hephaestion sensed the change in him without taking his eyes off the point of his spear. They reached the chalk and wheeled as one. The master grunted, which was his way of saying that this was not terrible.

“Break. Pairs. Short swords.”

They came together again, the yard falling into its familiar patterns. Ptolemy had Leonnatus again. Hephaestion had Alexander again. The master stalked and turned like a dog in a flock, shifting boys into different matchups, forcing a taller one to face a shorter, making the lazy ones fight the quick.

“Keep your blade between you and the problem,” he said. “Stop making the gods work for you.”

Hephaestion and Alexander met. The first touches were light, almost formal, a handshake with wood. Alexander could feel the gaze at the fence line. He wanted to bang his blade hard enough to make a sound that would carry to Philip’s ear and sit there singing. Hephaestion could feel that too, and for two exchanges he let him have the pressure he wanted, met him hard enough to ring his bones. On the third he stepped back half a pace and let Alexander’s momentum spill past in a way that looked like nothing and felt like falling forward into an empty room. Alexander windmilled twice to keep his feet and then snarled, for real this time.

“Stop,” Hephaestion said softly, so that only Alexander heard. “Let us not be stupid for him. He will see better if we are clean.”

Alexander’s eyes snapped to his for a beat. Hephaestion did not look away. Then Alexander nodded once, small and sharp, and the wild light in him shifted again, from proud to precise. They came together like the teeth of a gear. Hephaestion took his line from Alexander’s hips, not his hands, and Alexander watched the set of Hephaestion’s shoulders. Hephaestion pressed to find the edge of Alexander’s balance. Alexander sank his weight and did not yield it cheaply. They began to use the yard itself, not just the space between them, letting the small dips and firm places underfoot shape where they stood and how they turned. The master stopped moving for a count of ten and let them work.

Philip straightened off the fence and let his eye rest on his son. He did not smile. He did not need to. The lack of a frown was gift enough. He lifted the cup, took a swallow, and spoke in a voice that carried without effort.

“Better,” he said. “Remember this: men are not made by mud and frogs. You skip your duty for play, you’ll pay for it twice over. Men are made by this.”

Alexander stood with the sword still in his hand and drank the words like water. Hephaestion, beside him, let his shoulder brush Alexander’s for the space of a breath where no one would see it. Alexander did not move away.

“Rack the gear,” the master called. “Stretch, then water. If any of you vomit on my stones you will clean it with your shirts.”

That won a tired laugh. Boys shuffled to the racks, hands clumsy with fatigue. Hephaestion hung his sword carefully, palm sliding along the worn wood as if to lay it to sleep. Alexander jammed his into place and then corrected it, made it neat as Hephaestion’s.

Leonnatus came to them with his hair stuck to his forehead and his grin too big for his small face. “Did you see me?” he asked, half to Hephaestion, half to Alexander, wholly to anyone who would listen. “I stayed on my feet. Ptolemy knocked me stupid, but I stayed up.”

“You did,” Hephaestion said, honest and kind. “Twice.”

“Twice,” Leonnatus repeated, as if that were a number large enough to shake the world. He puffed his chest and then winced because Ptolemy had found the meat of his arm with one of those gentle taps that did not look like much and hurt like sin.

Alexander looked past Leonnatus’s grin toward the fence. Philip was still there, watching with his one sharp eye, unreadable as ever. When the boys finally stumbled off the yard, sweat-soaked, sore, bruised in pride as much as skin, Philip gave a curt nod, then turned away, his cloak snapping in the dust.

The yard exhaled all at once, the boys sagging where they stood. Alexander grinned through his exhaustion, catching Hephaestion’s eye. “Worth it,” he whispered, defiant and proud.

Hephaestion only shook his head, but his mouth curved faintly in answer.

**

The children’s hall was warmer than the corridors, a brazier glowing in the corner and shadows stretching long across the plastered walls. The air smelled faintly of soap and oil from their baths, damp curls still clinging to foreheads.

Ptolemy sat nearest the fire, long fingers lifting into the glow. With a twist of his hands, a hound leapt onto the wall, its ears sharp, its jaw snapping as he moved his thumbs.

Leonnatus whooped. “Show me!” He scrambled up, throwing his hands into the light. His shadow came out crooked, more horns than muzzle. “A bull!”

“More a pig with horns,” Alexander retorted, jostling in beside him. He tried to copy the hound, but his nose kept collapsing into the floor. Still, he puffed out his chest. “Mine’s faster.”

Cleopatra edged close, small hands fluttering against the glow. A round shadow with stiff wings spread over the wall. “An owl,” she declared. “Athena’s owl, watching you all.”

Ptolemy shifted again, his dog melting into a horse that seemed to paw at the ground. The younger children gasped. Leonnatus attempted it at once, producing something with three legs and antlers. Alexander stamped his into a charge. Cleopatra sent her owl swooping through their chaos, scolding them. Through it all, Hephaestion sat back, watching quietly. His hands stayed folded in his lap until Alexander, flushed with laughter, turned toward him. “You try, Heph!”

The others stilled, curious. At last Hephaestion lifted his hands. Slow and deliberate, he shaped the shadow into four legs, a long neck, a proud head. A horse — plain, but clear. It held steady when the others wavered.

Alexander’s grin broke wide. “That’s the best one! Look — it’s real!” He darted in close, making his own messy horse trot beside it, tangling the shadows together.

Leonnatus groaned. “Mine had antlers. Antlers are better.”

Cleopatra huffed, fluttering her owl between them. “Athena’s is wisest. Horses don’t even talk.”

The game carried on until their arms ached and the shadows blurred into nonsense. Leonnatus toppled sideways in giggles; Cleopatra folded her wings primly; Alexander refused to stop, declaring each crooked shape a lion or a hero.

The door opened at last, nurses filing in with cloaks and soft voices. They gathered the children like geese, herding them down the corridor. Hephaestion lingered one step behind, but Alexander glanced back with a grin that carried as much triumph as if he’d won a battle.

**

The night was quiet, the palace sunk deep into sleep. Only the distant echo of guards’ sandals broke the stillness, along with the slow rhythm of the boys’ breathing in their chamber. Hephaestion stirred faintly when the door creaked open, blinking blearily. A small figure padded across the floor, barefoot, hair mussed, eyes wide and restless.

“Alex?” he whispered.

Alexander didn’t answer. He climbed straight into the bed and pressed close, cold toes finding Hephaestion’s shins. His breath was quick, almost shaky, though he tried to disguise it.

“Bad dream?” Hephaestion murmured, half-asleep.

“Maybe,” Alexander muttered into his shoulder. “Don’t send me back.”

Hephaestion didn’t. He only shifted enough to make space beneath the blanket, then wrapped an arm firmly around Alexander’s waist. Before long, Alexander’s breathing steadied, and he slept again, safe and still.

That was how the nurse found them at dawn: two heads tangled on the same pillow, Alexander plastered against Hephaestion’s side. She let out a long sigh, rubbing her temples.

“By the gods, not again,” she muttered. “Prince Alexander, your chamber is a whole courtyard away!”

Alexander only grinned drowsily without moving an inch. Hephaestion’s hold around him tightened, silent but sure.

Chapter Text

The cicadas were already singing when Alexander woke. The sky outside the shutters was still pale, the air warm with the promise of heat to come. He blinked into the dim light, then rolled immediately toward Hephaestion, grinning.

“Wake up. It’s our day.”

Hephaestion made a small, muffled sound and buried his face against the pillow. Alexander tugged the blanket down anyway, bright and insistent. “Eight summers old! The whole palace is celebrating. Come on, Heph, we can’t waste it.”

Leonnatus stirred in the other bed, his hair sticking up like a haystack. “Too early,” he groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Festivals don’t start till the food’s on the tables. Go back to sleep.”

Alexander sat up at once, curls wild, bare feet slapping against the floor. “Sleep is for old men. Today I’ll have laurel on my head, honey-cakes stacked higher than I can reach, and a race in the yard. You’ll see. By midday they’ll all be shouting my name.”

Hephaestion lifted his head at that, blinking sleepily. “They’ll shout it whether you race or not,” he said, though his mouth curved faintly.

Alexander pounced onto the bed beside him, grabbing his wrist. “Then you’ll race too, so they’ll shout yours with mine. Up, Heph! Up!”

From the doorway came the nurse’s voice, half-scolding, half-resigned. “Prince Alexander, at least let them wash before you drag them into your schemes.” She swept in with fresh linen, humming with the excitement that filled the palace that morning. The smell of roasting meat already drifted from the courtyards, and outside, servants were stringing garlands of ivy and oak.

Alexander barely sat still long enough for his curls to be combed, wriggling under the nurse’s hand. “Faster,” he insisted. “We’ll miss the start of everything.”

“You’ll miss nothing,” she said firmly, tugging the laurel wreath straighter on his head. “The feast waits for the prince. The world will not begin until you walk into it.”

Alexander’s grin blazed at that, and he darted for the door, Hephaestion and Leonnatus stumbling after him.

**

The palace courtyard was already alive when the boys tumbled out, the summer air thick with the smell of roasting lamb and crushed mint. Servants hurried in every direction, arms laden with garlands, trays of honey-cakes, baskets of figs. Bright ribbons snapped in the hot breeze, ivy and laurel twined around every pillar.

“It’s for us,” Alexander declared, tugging Hephaestion forward by the hand. His laurel crown slid sideways in his curls, but he didn’t stop to fix it. “Because we’re eight. Everyone knows this is ours.”

Leonnatus bounded after them, his tunic askew, mouth already watering at the sight of the cakes stacked dangerously high on a platter. A nurse swatted at him with a cloth when he reached for one, and he pulled back with a wounded cry. “If it’s ours, then we should eat first!”

“You’ll wait until the sacrifice,” she scolded, and Leonnatus made a face, retreating to Alexander’s side.

Other children darted about; younger boys weaving between the columns, Cleopatra shrieking with delight as she scattered petals from a wicker basket larger than she was. A knot of pages stood watching the decorations with more practiced eyes, muttering about which race they would win later in the day.

Alexander barely spared the others a glance. He knew the feast was meant for every child in the palace, a single day when all their summers were gathered into one celebration. But to him, the garlands and the music and the honey-cakes mattered most because they were turning eight: he, Hephaestion, and Leonnatus. He gripped Hephaestion’s wrist tighter, his grin sparking as he glanced back at Leonnatus. “This is our year. They’ll remember us.”

Leonnatus grinned, puffing out his chest as if he believed it absolutely. Hephaestion didn’t argue, though his quiet smile suggested he knew better. Still, he let Alexander pull him forward into the swirl of festival color, their hands linked tight, the three of them shoulder to shoulder as if the whole day truly belonged to them.

**

The morning sun beat down as the children were herded into the temple courtyard, their laurel crowns fresh and green, their hair combed until it gleamed. The air was heavy with incense, sweet and sharp, rising from braziers at the steps of the altar. A white lamb stood tethered nearby, garlanded with flowers, bleating softly as the priests made their preparations.

Philip presided at the front, broad-shouldered in his cloak of deep crimson. Olympias was at his side, a circlet of gold catching the sun in her dark hair. The other children clustered together, shifting nervously under the eyes of the court.

Alexander stood between Hephaestion and Leonnatus, his hand brushing Hephaestion’s, his shoulders thrown back. He knew this part was not just for them, it was for the gods, for the city, for Philip to show his strength. But in his chest, the day still belonged to the three of them.

The priest lifted his arms, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. “We honor the sons and daughters of this house. May the gods grant them strength, wisdom, and long years.”

The lamb was led forward, its hooves clattering on the stone. A murmur rippled through the children; some flinched at the sight, others leaned forward eagerly. Alexander held his breath, his jaw set tight. When the knife flashed, Hephaestion’s hand found his, steadying without a word.

Blood spilled into the waiting bowl, smoke rising as the fat was thrown on the fire. The scent of it mixed with the incense, heavy and cloying. The priest prayed aloud for victory in battles yet to come, for sons who would make their fathers proud.

Philip’s one good eye roved over the gathered children. It lingered on Alexander, sharp and measuring. Alexander met it head-on, refusing to look away.

Leonnatus shifted at his other side, restless as ever, but he squeezed Alexander’s shoulder once, grinning faintly. “The gods saw us,” he whispered, though he earned a sharp hush from the nurse.

The flames roared higher, wreaths of smoke curling toward the sky. Alexander let out a slow breath, his grip still firm on Hephaestion’s hand.

Once the sacrifice was done, the children were given a moment to eat before the games began. Servants passed among the benches with baskets piled high, setting out platters for eager hands. There were figs split open and dripping with juice, soft cheese drizzled with honey, and little cakes of barley studded with dates. Grapes spilled in clusters across the boards, their skins shining in the sun, and bowls of roasted chickpeas gave off a warm, nutty smell. Children lunged for them at once, stuffing cheeks until the nurses clucked and tried in vain to impose order.

Leonnatus had both fists full of grapes before anyone could stop him, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel. Cleopatra claimed a whole honey-drizzled cheese cake for herself, daring anyone to take it away. Alexander snatched up a piece of barley cake, biting it in half before he’d even sat down. He tore another piece and pressed it into Hephaestion’s hand. Hephaestion accepted it quietly, eating with the same neatness he did everything, while Alexander devoured his own in great, impatient gulps.

Leonnatus, through a mouthful of grapes, cheeks bulging, declared, “If they start the race now, I’ll win just to boast I beat you.”

“You’ll choke and fall over,” Alexander shot back, grinning as he grabbed for another barley cake.

Before long, a herald’s voice rang out across the courtyard: “Children of seven to nine summers to the starting line!”

Dozens of heads turned. Boys and girls scrambled from the benches, garlands slipping, tunics flapping loose as they jostled toward the chalked lanes scratched into the dust.

Alexander sprang to his feet at once, still chewing. He reached for Hephaestion’s hand without thinking and dragged him forward, Leonnatus trailing close behind, licking honey from his fingers as he ran.

**

The chalk lines were freshly scratched across the palace courtyard, straight grooves running toward a bronze-tipped staff planted in the earth at the far end. Garlands fluttered above, and the air buzzed with the shrill excitement of children tumbling into place.

“Children of seven to nine summers, to the line!” the herald called again, his voice carrying over the din.

Alexander shoved his way to the front, chin high, his laurel crown slipping sideways but his eyes fixed bright on the staff gleaming in the sun. Hephaestion took his place beside him without hurry, sandals set neatly behind the mark. Leonnatus crouched on Alexander’s other side, bouncing on his toes like a colt, grinning wide enough to split his face.

“You’ll eat dust,” Leonnatus muttered, puffing out his chest.

“You’ll trip first,” Alexander shot back, though his grin betrayed him.

The herald lifted his arm. “Ready yourselves—”

The courtyard hushed. For a moment even the pipes and drums from the outer court faded.

“Go!”

They sprang forward in a blur of dust and shouting. Sandals slapped against the hard-packed earth, garlands flew from heads, elbows jostled in the first mad rush. Leonnatus bolted like an arrow, laughter spilling from his mouth as he surged ahead. Alexander matched him stride for stride, curls flying, face fierce.

Hephaestion ran close behind, not wild, but steady. His arms pumped in smooth rhythm, his gaze fixed on the bronze staff ahead. Where the others faltered or veered, he kept his line true.

Halfway down the course Leonnatus stumbled, winded by his own exuberance, and Alexander swerved to dodge him. That misstep cost him. Hephaestion, calm and sure, pulled past them both. His sandals struck the dust in even measure, and he stretched out his hand to slap the staff cleanly before either of them could catch him.

“First!” the herald declared.

Hephaestion stopped, breath quick but even, as Alexander skidded in just behind him, teeth bared in frustration. Leonnatus arrived last of the three, red-faced but still grinning, collapsing onto the ground with a triumphant, “At least I finished!”

The courtyard rang with cheers and laughter, older boys clapping Hephaestion on the back, the nurses smiling with approval. Alexander stood with fists clenched, breath coming fast, his pride pricked raw.

Hephaestion glanced at him, quiet as ever. “You ran well.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened. Then his grin burst through, sharp and blazing. “Again.”

The herald seemed amused but raised his arm once more. “Second heat. To the line!”

This time Alexander set his stance lower, eyes narrowed with determination. Hephaestion took his place beside him, calm as before, and Leonnatus flopped back into position with a groan.

“Go!”

Alexander exploded forward like a spark to tinder. He shot ahead at once, his arms pumping, his legs a blur. Hephaestion kept pace for a while, but this time Alexander drove himself harder, teeth gritted, every breath a burst of fire in his chest.

The staff loomed nearer, nearer. Hephaestion stretched for it, but Alexander flung himself forward in a desperate surge, slapping the bronze with a crack that rang across the yard.

“First!”

Alexander spun at once, flushed and triumphant, his grin wide enough to split the sun. “Achilles himself couldn’t have beaten me!” he shouted.

Hephaestion reached him a breath later, chest rising, eyes calm even in defeat. Alexander seized his wrist and thrust it upward like a herald’s cry. “And Patroclus was at my side!”

Cheers and laughter erupted again, children clamoring for another race, nobles smiling from the edges of the courtyard. Leonnatus stumbled across last, panting, and promptly collapsed in the dust. “I’m alive,” he wheezed. “Barely.”

Alexander laughed brightly as he leaned on Hephaestion’s shoulder, already hungry for the next contest. The dust had barely settled when the herald’s staff struck the ground again, calling the children to order.

The herald raised his staff. “Teams of four! Each child will run to the turning post and back, hand the laurel branch cleanly to the next. The first team to finish takes the crown.”

Children scrambled into groups, elbowing for place. Alexander shoved his way to the front, dragging Hephaestion and Leonnatus behind him. A smaller page named Nearchus was pushed forward to take the fourth spot, eyes wide as saucers.

Alexander gripped the branch tight, sap tacky on his palm. “We’re winning this one,” he said, fierce as a vow.

Leonnatus grinned nervously. “Only if I don’t drop it.”

Hephaestion simply set his stance, calm as stone.

At the far end of the courtyard, a tall pole wrapped in ribbons marked the turning post. The herald lifted his arm. “Ready—go!”

Alexander flew like a spark, feet striking hard, the branch flashing green as he tucked it close. The cheers rang in his ears, but he barely heard them. He rounded the post sharp and came back in a blur, skidding to thrust the branch into Leonnatus’s chest.

“Run!” he barked.

Leonnatus yelped, nearly fumbling, but clutched the branch and staggered off. His knees pumped too high, his wreath bounced off his head, but somehow he kept his feet. Children laughed as he waved the branch like a banner, gasping by the time he slapped it into Hephaestion’s waiting hand.

Hephaestion took it steady, lengthening his stride, every step smooth. He didn’t blaze, but he never faltered, and when he returned he passed the branch to their smallest runner with neat precision.

Nearchus darted off like a startled rabbit, sandals kicking dust. The rival team’s runner was neck-and-neck with him, cheers splitting the courtyard in two.

Alexander’s voice cut above them all: “Faster! Faster!”

Nearchus’s face twisted with effort, but he stretched, flung himself forward and crossed the line a heartbeat first. The herald’s staff struck down. “Victory!”

Alexander seized the branch back, thrust it over his head, his grin blazing. “Did you see? We won!”

Leonnatus collapsed in the dust, gasping. “Barely,” he wheezed.

Hephaestion stood beside Alexander, composed but smiling faintly. “A good run.”

Alexander threw an arm around Nearchus, triumphant. “The best run.”

After the races, the younger ones were herded to low tables where baskets of cool clay waited. “Make an offering for the gods,” the nurse instructed, “a creature to guard your house or carry your prayers.”

Alexander attacked his lump at once, thumbs digging until it vaguely resembled a lion with too many teeth. “Look! Ferocious!” he declared, baring his own.

Leonnatus squashed his into a dog, ears lopsided, tail crooked. “Mine’s better,” he said through a grin, though the thing sagged sideways the moment he lifted it.

Hephaestion shaped his clay with quiet patience. When he set it down, it was a small horse, legs straight, head bent as if grazing. Simple, but balanced.

Alexander leaned close, scowling at the neat little figure. “It’s too plain,” he said, then shoved his lion beside it. “But mine will guard yours. They belong together.”

Hephaestion’s smile flickered, soft but sure. “They always will.”

**

By late afternoon the courtyard had filled again, this time with music. Flutes trilled above the steady pulse of drums, and the air smelled of trampled flowers where petals had been scattered across the stones. Servants had strung fresh garlands along the colonnade, and the children gathered in clusters, chattering as they were pulled into circles for the dances.

Cleopatra darted among them, ribbons flying from her braids, her laughter as bright as the pipes. She seized Leonnatus by the hand, tugging him toward the ring of children. “Come dance!”

Leonnatus dug his heels in at first, scowling. “I’ll trip.”

“You already did that in the race,” Cleopatra teased, dragging him anyway. Leonnatus stumbled into the circle, his limbs hopelessly out of rhythm, which only made the other children laugh harder. Cleopatra grinned, proud of her victory.

Alexander stood apart, hand fastened to Hephaestion’s hand. When another boy reached to tug him in, Alexander snapped, “No. If I dance, it’s with him.” He pulled Hephaestion closer, chin high, daring anyone to argue.

Hephaestion blinked at him, startled, but the circle was already spinning around them. With a sigh that turned quickly into a smile, he let himself be dragged into the rhythm. Their hands never parted, even as they joined the weave of the dance.

Around them the music swelled, feet stamping, ribbons fluttering. Alexander leaned close in the whirl, curls brushing Hephaestion’s temple. Without hesitation, he pressed a quick kiss to Hephaestion’s cheek, bright and impulsive, but claiming. Hephaestion flushed, eyes widening, but he didn’t pull away. The corners of his mouth softened instead, a small, private smile meant only for Alexander.

Leonnatus, circling past in Cleopatra’s grip, caught sight of them and grinned, shaking his head in open amusement. He let Cleopatra spin him onward, still laughing to himself. The pipes shrilled higher, the drums thundered, and Alexander laughed too, reckless and unguarded, his hand still tight in Hephaestion’s as the dance carried them through the heat of their eighth summer.

**

By the time the sun dipped low, the courtyard had been transformed. The garlands and ribbons strung that morning now glowed in the torchlight, their shadows long and flickering against the colonnades. Long tables sprawled under the open sky, the feast was laid with roasted goat basted in wine and herbs, skewers of river fish grilled over coals and sprinkled with sea salt, and pomegranates split open so their jeweled seeds gleamed in the firelight. Figs stuffed with walnuts and dipped in honey sat beside honey-cakes layered with crushed pistachio, while bowls of cucumbers and onions in vinegar offered something cool and sharp against the richness. The air buzzed with cicadas in the grass beyond the walls, their steady hum mixing with the music of flutes and drums.

Children darted between benches, chasing each other until the nurses caught them by the shoulders and forced them down again. The men were already loud with wine, their laughter booming, their cups raised high to the king at the head table. Philip sat broad-shouldered in crimson, his one sharp eye never idle, drinking deep but missing little. Olympias gleamed beside him, her gaze quick as a serpent’s across the crowd.

Alexander sat at the lower table with the other children, his curls wild, his eyes still lit from the day’s games. He tore into his meat with vigor, recounting his race in bright bursts, his voice rising clear even above the chatter.

“I was faster,” he insisted, half laughing. “No one could catch me, not even Heph!”

Leonnatus smirked, mouth full of bread. “Until next time. I’ll trip you first.”

“You’d trip yourself,” Alexander shot back.

Hephaestion didn’t rise to the bait. He ate neatly, quietly, his steady presence beside Alexander a weight the boy leaned on without realizing it. When Alexander reached for another slice of meat with greasy fingers, already halfway into another boast, Hephaestion’s hand slipped under the table and gave his wrist a quick squeeze. Alexander paused, glanced at him, and for a moment his grin softened.

Philip’s gaze swept their table, lingering. “You run fast, boy,” he said, his voice rough but carrying. “But speed fades. Strength lasts.”

The laughter around the tables dulled. Alexander straightened, his chin high. “Then I’ll have both.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Olympias’s smile curved faint and sharp, though whether in pride or challenge was impossible to say.

When the feast slowed and cups were drained, a painted linen screen was carried into the torchlight. Lamps were lit behind it, and at once the flat cloth sprang to life with sharp silhouettes. The puppeteer’s hands worked thin rods, the jointed figures jerking and bowing as he gave them voices: a pompous king who tripped over his own cloak, a clever slave who stole his crown, and a pair of squabbling gods who fought over a chicken leg.

The children shrieked when the king tumbled into the “sea,” a bronze bowl rattled behind the screen for the splash. Leonnatus slapped the table in delight, shouting advice to the poor king, while Cleopatra laughed so hard she had to wipe honey from her nose.

Alexander leaned forward, his curls glowing in the firelight, eyes fixed as though he could command the shadows themselves. “Make him fight back,” he muttered under his breath when the king was mocked again. Beside him, Hephaestion smiled faintly at his intensity, watching the shadow-figures chase each other across the cloth until the lamps guttered low.

The show ended in a roar of applause, children clapping and stamping their feet until the puppets bowed and vanished. For a breath the courtyard was all laughter, the torches bright against the summer dark.

Leonnatus reached across and snatched a honey-cake before anyone could stop him. Cleopatra giggled and followed suit, her lips sticky with honey as she leaned close to whisper something that set the other girls laughing.

Alexander returned to his boasting, but under the table, his hand found Hephaestion’s again and held fast, as though that quiet pressure steadied him more than the food or laughter.

The feast rolled on, louder and hotter as the torches climbed higher into the night. The men’s laughter grew rougher with wine, their talk turning from horses to women, from the day’s games to border skirmishes. Voices boomed across the tables, bawdy jests earning roars of approval, sharp debates about allies and enemies spilling like another kind of drink.

At the lower benches, the children’s chatter tangled with yawns. Leonnatus stretched until his joints cracked, then tried to snatch another honey-cake before a nurse’s hand clamped down on his wrist. Cleopatra leaned against her friends, half-asleep but still giggling. Even Alexander, still bright-eyed, swayed against Hephaestion’s shoulder, his curls slipping into his face as he insisted he wasn’t tired.

“Enough,” Lysimachus barked. “All of you. To bed.”

Nurses swept in at once, clucking and tugging, gathering sticky fingers and drooping heads. Leonnatus protested the loudest, declaring he could sit up as long as any soldier, but he was hauled off all the same, crumbs still clinging to his tunic. Cleopatra was half-carried, still humming softly as her braids bobbed.

Alexander squirmed the whole way, grinning up at Hephaestion as if daring him to try and escape the nurses’ grasp. Hephaestion only let himself be steered quietly down the corridor, the heat and noise of the feast fading behind them into the warm summer dark.

The boys’ chamber was quiet after the noise of the feast, the only sound the crackle of a brazier glowing in the corner. Their nurses moved briskly about, tugging off sticky tunics, wiping honey from faces, combing tangles from hair made wild by the day. Leonnatus yawned through the scrubbing, complaining half-heartedly until he collapsed onto his bed in a heap, asleep before the blanket had been pulled over him.

Hephaestion submitted more patiently, though his eyes were heavy, his body bone-tired from races and dancing. He climbed into his bed without protest, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The room smelled faintly of smoke and sweet wine, the echoes of laughter still lingering in the walls.

Alexander, however, was nowhere to be seen. His nurse frowned, checked behind the screen, then in the corridor, muttering under her breath. By the time she turned back, Alexander had already wriggled under Hephaestion’s blanket, curls tumbling over the pillow. He pressed himself close with a triumphant grin, toes icy against Hephaestion’s shins.

“There you are!” the nurse exclaimed, exasperated. She strode across the chamber and yanked back the covers, but Alexander only burrowed deeper against Hephaestion, holding fast.

“This is my bed now,” he declared.

“Prince Alexander,” she said sharply, prying at his arms, “your chamber is in an entirely different courtyard, and that is where you will sleep.”

“I’ll only sneak back if you make me go,” he muttered, muffled in Hephaestion’s shoulder.

“And I will only keep dragging you until you learn to stay,” she retorted, pulling harder. At last she managed to peel him free, though he kicked and protested all the way to the door.

Hephaestion sat upright, blinking, the blanket clutched in his lap as the nurse swept Alexander out into the corridor, his voice still rising in indignant threats. Silence settled in their wake, broken only by the distant scold of her voice echoing down the hall.

But when the torches outside had burned lower and Hephaestion’s eyes had already grown heavy, the door rustled again. A shadow slipped across the chamber, small and quick. Alexander crawled back beneath the blanket, triumphant grin restored, his curls cool with the night air.

“I sleep better here,” he whispered, pressing close, toes icy back against Hephaestion’s shins.

This time, Hephaestion only hugged him and let him stay. Within moments, Alexander’s breath evened into sleep, warm and steady in his hold, as though he had never left at all.