The Lyceum Games

Part I: Archē — Beginning

I don't exactly remember arriving. I remember the field and the emerald green grass that felt soft beneath my feet. It was pressed down in some areas, like someone had sat exactly where I was not too long ago. As I walked, some flowers in the grass brushed against my leg. I could see tents lined neatly in rows with baskets of food set right outside. The doors were slightly open, enough to glance in. There were pillows, blankets, and stuffed animals crowding the small spaces. I knew which tent was mine without being told – I felt it.

There were children everywhere – plucking blades of grass and passing toys back and forth. As I moved across the field, a light breeze carried the steady song of a bird. A distant bell rang, and all of the children huddled into a large circle around a small platform. I joined in and sat next to a young boy who looked to be around my age. An older man walked onto the platform and introduced himself, "Good day young children – welcome to Archē. You may refer to me as Didáskalos." There were a few murmurs, followed by giggles. He looked at the boy beside me and winked, "some of you may already know me, and some of you might not. Either way, get some rest and eat a good meal. Tomorrow, some of you will play your first game." Didáskalos walked off the platform and into a small hut near the camp.

By bedtime, everyone had discussed their guesses for the game multiple times. Some kids argued it would require athleticism, while others insisted it would be a game that required more strategy than stamina. The empty, deep blue sky put me to sleep faster than a lullaby – the crickets chirped, and though the stars were nowhere to be seen, I was out in a blink. Despite the crowd of kids, the field – Chōra – felt like a sort of loneliness I couldn't quite place my finger on.

I woke up to the same familiar bell and the calm voice of Didáskalos calling us into the field. He stood on the platform again, hands folded, watching us with the same still expression as before. "Didáskalos says," he began. Some of us moved immediately. Others waited, feeling unsure. When he spoke again, a few children spun around, then stopped, tittering when they realized their mistake. No one was told they were wrong. No one was sent away. Didáskalos only waited until we were ready before continuing. We tried again – and again. When someone forgot, they smiled and fixed it. When someone hesitated, they weren't rushed. The game went on until everyone understood.

After Didáskalos returned to his hut, the boy from the previous day approached me and introduced himself. He had big brown eyes and curls that never seemed to sit still. He looked a few years older than me – he looked like he knew what he was doing. He went by Kouros. We strolled around the Chōra – there were flowers of every sort and tall trees surrounding the camp. Some kids were playing, others eating, and some were just soaking in the warmth of the sun.

From that day on, Kouros was always there. During every game, Kouros stayed by my side. As time went on, I became fairly good at the games and didn't need his help anymore – but even then, Kouros still stayed at my same speed and offered me his aid whenever I needed it. One day before another game, the bell rang, and like clockwork, we all gathered around the platform to see what Didáskalos had to say. Before he could even speak, five kids walked out from the small forest behind Didáskalos' hut. They all looked confused and didn't seem to know where they were going. Kouros glanced at me and pointed to a younger girl that looked more alarmed than the others.

Didáskalos gestured for the kids to sit with the rest of us, then called out a small group to stand near the platform. "You'll be moving on to Mĕsos," Didáskalos said. Between the loud whispers and silent pressure, I didn't notice that Kouros disappeared until the next game had begun.

The young girl approached me – the same one from the night Kouros left. She had a fake smile plastered onto her face. I could tell she was frightened by the surroundings and the talk of the upcoming games. "Korē", she said, implying her name. I nodded and gestured to her to sit beside me. I explained Archē the way Kouros once did for me – although the words felt thinner without him next to me.

Over the next few days, Korē started sitting next to me without asking. We learned each other's habits – like how she twirled the loose threads at the ends of her blanket when she was stressed, and how I'd talk to myself before falling asleep. She asked questions constantly, not because she wanted answers, but because she didn't like the silence. I didn't mind the quiet, though. In the Chōra, time felt wide enough for the both of us.

When I woke up the next day, I felt a shift. It wasn't just the extra pressure or the way the others talked more about Mĕsos. Some kids theorized it was a "paradise" for those who had won every challenge in Archē; others thought it was a second "level" of the games. I ignored their chatter and focused. Over time, the trials became so easy that effort itself felt unnecessary. Even so, I stayed with Korē.

The bell rang that morning just like any other day, except that day, it felt heavier. The routine was the same – everyone gathered around the platform as Didáskalos explained the game for the day. But as we got up to prepare for the challenge, Didáskalos stopped us. He called a few names, then mine, then Korē's. "You'll be moving on to Mĕsos," he said.

Part II: Mĕsos — Middle

The children erupted with hollers and cheers for us. Beside me, Korē nervously gripped my hand. Didáskalos led the way toward the forest, and we followed. As we moved through the trees, the vibrant grass faded to a dull, dusty tint, and the air grew sharp and cool. When we reached the edge of the Chōra, Didáskalos pointed toward a narrow stone path. We stepped onto it, the stones cold beneath our feet. One by one, we made our way through the path and into Mĕsos.

The once light blue sky had faded into a pale, misty grey. Fog circled Mĕsos, grasping the sides like a barrier and engulfing the vibrant memory of Archē. Instead of tents, sleeping bags lay scattered across the colorless grass. This time, I didn't know which belonged to me – Korē and I quickly claimed the last two and set them side by side. A man who looked identical to the one we had left behind walked toward us. "This is Mĕsos. I am Didáskalos," he said simply, then turned and disappeared into a small shack near the forest's edge.

That night, I could barely sleep. Everyone back in Archē had envisioned this place as a utopia, but the reality was jarring. There were only a handful of kids here – some barely spoke, while others huddled together, practicing their own small challenges. Unlike in Archē, the games here were a stern priority. Kids spent their free time drilling and practicing instead of relaxing or letting themselves breathe. The only food we were given was bread and water.

Instead of the lulling bell, we were woken by a sharp, piercing ring followed by racing footsteps. I got up and shook Korē awake. We made our way to the platform where everyone stood in a rigid line. Didáskalos led us into a clearing wrapped in fog and paired us off randomly. The only thing we were given was one tarnished bell. All Didáskalos said was, "You will find your way back."

The fog instantly thickened, making it hard to see anything beyond a few feet. My partner seemed familiar with the trial and made it clear we had to stay together. At first, everyone clung to one another – then the voices began to echo strangely. Some kids called out, and I heard replies that weren't quite right. Paths forked, and partners began to argue quietly about which way felt right. We were only allowed to ring our bells once, following the echo to find our way back. My partner guided me through the fog and into the clearing.

Didáskalos stood there with his hands in his pockets. As we approached, he reached out and handed us each a thick, heavy, circular token. A set of pillars was engraved on the front, and on the back, an intricate "S" had been carefully chiseled into the cold metal. "It's a sēmeion. You can trade it in for a warm blanket, a real meal, or a hint for the next game", my partner told me. Right as Didáskalos retreated back to the camp, other kids started to emerge from the fog. I had counted fourteen of us earlier – seven pairs. Now, as sweaty, unfamiliar faces broke through the constricting haze, I realized only two pairs remained. Korē still wasn't back.

Two figures appeared in the mist. A boy stepped out first, and following close behind him was Korē. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. She looked feeble, her hair damp and clinging to her face – but she was out. Her eyes searched the clearing until they found mine, and the tension in her shoulders finally snapped. I looked back at the wall of grey, realizing there was still one pair left in the game. I turned to my partner, a question forming on my lips, but she spoke before I could even ask. She didn't look at me. She only stared into the fog and whispered, "The last ones left never come back." Her eyes were pink and glossy as she turned and walked toward the camp. The realization felt like a sudden plunge into ice – I needed to win.

I searched the field for Didáskalos. His silhouette stood near the forest's edge, tall and unmoving outside his shack. His cold eyes were already locked on mine. I ran toward him and held out the sēmeion – "I want a hint for the next game," I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. He took the token, his gaze never wavering as he closed his fist over the metal. All he said was, "The key is independence".

The next morning, the same piercing ring woke everyone up—except for me. I was already awake, stretching and bracing myself for whatever came next. I had the hint, though I still didn't know how I would have to use it. I hurriedly woke Korē, and we rushed to the clearing. There were only twelve of us now, standing in a jagged line before Didáskalos. The air was crisp, and the fog had finally retreated, leaving the landscape exposed and cold. We waited until Didáskalos spoke a single word: "Run."

Everyone bolted. We ran in straight lines – back and forth, back and forth across the colorless grass. Korē followed close behind me at first, but she quickly began to hinder. As my pace intensified, she faltered. Then, she collapsed, her hands gripping her ankle as she hit the ground. I started to slow, my instinct screaming at me to turn back, but the hint held me in place. I kept running, knowing the consequences of stopping. Korē's shriek of pain echoed across the field, but I didn't look back. I just kept running.

We ran for hours until Didáskalos finally signaled for us to stop. Nine of us remained. Korē was still on the ground clutching her swollen ankle as tears covered her cheeks. Didáskalos did not offer to help, he only ushered her and the two others into the forest behind his shack. I watched Korē until the forest swallowed her whole. Something broke inside of me that day. I wasn't sure whether it was because she was taken, or because I had stood by and let it happen – but the warmth I had carried from Archē was gone. I had followed the hint. I was independent. And I was completely alone.

I won every single game after that, trying to outrun Korē's fate. Sēmeion after sēmeion, I traded my victories for what was supposed to be warmth, comfort, and hints. Slowly, I grew used to the shallowness of Mĕsos. I discovered that if I didn't eat for days and saved my meager rations of bread, I could create a feast like the ones back in Archē. Every night, I thought of Kouros and Korē. I tried to imagine them in a different place – back in a version of the Chōra where they were snug and happy. Sometimes, when the silence grew too heavy, I'd catch myself playing with the loose threads of my blanket, just as Korē once had.

The next morning, I was woken by a shadow looming over my sleeping bag. The sun peaked through the trees, sharpening the silhouette until it became solid, revealing the figure of Didáskalos. "You'll be moving on to Tĕlos," he said.

Part III: Tĕlos — End

Just as before, I followed Didáskalos into the woods past his shack and onto a frigid stone path that numbed my toes. This time, the uncertainty was heavier. I didn't know that there was a level beyond Mĕsos. As I followed the path, the air grew dry and the grass evanesced into stone. Above, the sky grew into a bruised, heavy, dark – not the dark of the night, but a hollow void.

When I entered Tĕlos, it was silent. I looked around and saw only three people around me. They weren't practicing games, they weren't eating, and they weren't speaking. There were no tents and no sleeping bags, only the stone ground. The fog was like a solid wall here, a cage enclosing the camp. As I walked past the others, my heart stopped. I noticed a boy. He looked to be in his late teens, like me. He had brown, curly hair – matted with dirt and debris. I recognized the way his head tilted and the way he fidgeted with his nails. It was Kouros.

Just as I stepped towards him, the group lined up in front of Didáskalos without a word. I quickly stepped into place, my eyes still burning into the back of Kouros's head. Didáskalos said nothing – only watched the rest as they stared lifelessly at the mist. He pointed toward the thick wall of haze at the edge of the stone floor. "Walk. Drop a sēmeion, do not come back." I looked down at my pile of sēmeions. I had won so many. I had traded Korē for them. Now, Didáskalos demanded that I wear them.

I strung each heavy token onto a sharp metal cord. My fingers were numb and my vision blurred because of the thick fog surrounding me and the dim light of Tĕlos. Beside me, Kouros was already moving. He didn't look like the young boy that had been my only friend in Archē anymore. His skinny spine curved under the weight of a hundred tokens. "Walk", Didáskalos hissed.

We stepped into the mist. Every step was calculated – if I stepped too fast, the heavy weights would swing and clash onto my chest. If I moved too slow, the weight pulled me backwards. I was terrified of dropping one – not because I wanted the token, but because I realized that without them, I was nothing to this place. Slowly but steadily, I made my way through the mist – where Kouros was sitting on the same spot as earlier. I thought about going up to him, but he wasn't Kouros anymore. He didn't look up as I passed. He was just a shape in the fog, a monument to the games he had won, and the person he had lost to win them. He was just another part of Tĕlos.

That night I slept on the course stones instead of a warm blanket. For dinner, we foraged for scarce amounts of weeds around Didáskalos's shack. They were thin and flavorless, but it was better than starving. Around the center of the camp, there was a patch of land that had been scooped out by some of the kids there – it was beneath the stone, containing dirt that was closer to a brick than loam. We used sticks to coax small flames, heating the solid until it was soft enough to eat. It wasn't good, or nutritious, but it was better than nothing. As the grit crunched between my teeth, I realized how far I had fallen from the emerald grass of the Chōra. I looked at the heated dirt in my palms and then at the heavy, shining tokens around my neck. These metals once offered me solace, and now here I was, lying in a bed of stone.

When morning came, there was no bell, there was no ring – there was only silence. I only woke up when the pain in my joints was too much to sleep through. I sat up on the cold stone, the necklace of sēmeions feeling heavier than before. I looked at the others – they were still staring into the mist, or perhaps they were sleeping with their eyes open. I didn't wait for Didáskalos to appear and wake us, or for a sign that the day had begun. I merely just stood up.