The camp of Taygeton no longer sounded like just Sparta. Spartans and Agrianes sat side by side around the fires, eating the same bread, sharing the same skins of wine, and laughing in ways that would have been unthinkable days before. The victory against the Persian scouts had cut the tension like a blade. Where once the Agrianes had sung their low hunting songs alone, Spartans now beat shields in rhythm to their chants, the strange melodies of Thrace mixing with the deep voices of Lakonia. Doros, who had once spit at the sight of Thracian feathers and bone charms, told a wide-eyed recruit that he had never seen javelins fly so true. Kyros, with a bloody grin, boasted that the Agrianes had taught him to throw a knife almost as fast as he could thrust with a spear. Even the young recruit Antaeus, humbled by his early quarrels, had begun to train beside a grizzled hunter who treated him more like a son than a rival.
Leonidas moved quietly among them, saying little but watching everything. His eyes caught the subtle changes—the way men leaned closer when they spoke, the way food was passed without hesitation, the way laughter spread easily instead of suspicion. For the first time, he allowed himself a rare smile. The overlay flickered faintly in the corner of his vision: [Spartan Cohesion with Agrianes: 78% → 84%. Morale: Elevated.] The wolves were no longer circling the wall. They were learning to hunt beside it.
Still, Leonidas knew better than to believe unity forged in one skirmish was permanent. Bonds made in the heat of victory needed tempering in the grind of discipline. The next morning he ordered joint drills, pushing the mixed companies until sweat drenched their tunics and muscles trembled. Spartans braced their shields while Agrianes loosed volleys of javelins in perfect time, their shafts thudding into targets at angles designed to tear open enemy formations. When one Spartan grumbled at the pace, Leonidas paired him with two hunters and forced them to run the length of the valley until the Spartan gasped for breath and the Thracians had not yet slowed. By evening, there were fewer complaints.
The men could feel it too: they were no longer just training as Spartans or Thracians, but as something new. The camp whispered of a wall with teeth, a phalanx that bled its enemies before they ever reached bronze.
But while Taygeton burned with pride, shadows stretched far to the east.
---
Persia's war camps sprawled across the plains like a second city. Black and gold banners snapped in the wind, and the air throbbed with the sound of thousands moving as one. Spears rose and fell in unison as drills repeated endlessly. Archers tested bowstrings, arrows flashing in the sun. Cavalry circled the edges of the camp, horses snorting, hooves drumming. It was not chaos but machinery—an army where men were not wolves or walls but gears in an empire's endless wheel.
At the heart of it sat Darius upon a dais of dark stone, cloaked in black silk embroidered with gold. Chains hung from the platform into the shadows, and at their ends knelt bound soldiers who dared not raise their eyes. He listened as his generals described Leonidas's victory in the mountains, their tones hesitant. Darius smiled slowly, his teeth gleaming in the torchlight. "The council sought to weaken their own wolf," he said, his voice soft but carrying. "Instead, they have sharpened his teeth. How fitting. It makes the hunt more worthy." He lifted a hand, and the generals bowed low. "The Immortals march. First a probing strike, then the flood. Let the Spartan's mongrel pack learn that when the tide rises, even the strongest walls drown."
---
In Lakonia, the bronze hall echoed with discord. The overseer's staff cracked against the floor as he shouted, his voice filled with venom. "He provokes Persia! He will drag ruin to our gates. Every step he takes brings the Immortals closer. If we do not end him now, he will crown himself king of Sparta on the blood of our people!"
Some elders muttered agreement, their fear stoked by his words, but others shifted uneasily. Damaris rose slowly, his staff tapping once, steady and final. "He has done what none of you dared. He has bound peasants, cripples, and foreigners into iron. He has beaten Persians where none expected victory. Perhaps the gods favor him."
"The gods favor fools as bait," the overseer snapped. "Let him bleed when the Persians come. Then the people will see the truth." But beyond the bronze hall, the city itself whispered differently. Market stalls carried stories of Spartans training beside Thracian hunters, of Persians broken in the mountains. Mothers told their children that Leonidas had made a wall with teeth, a wall the gods themselves must envy. The council's voices grew weaker in the streets, drowned by the name of Leonidas.
---
That night in Taygeton, Leonidas stood before the Forgeheart's glow. Its pale blue flames cast light over men drilling late into the night—Spartans bracing their shields, Agrianes hurling volleys with a rhythm that struck like thunder, then melting behind bronze only to strike again. He studied them in silence, listening to the clash of wood and metal, the hiss of shafts cutting air, the grunts of men becoming more than they had been. The overlay pulsed once more: [Combined Unit Efficiency: Rising. Loyalty Stabilizing. Doctrine Evolution Underway.]
Theron stepped beside him, his face half-shadowed. "They fight as though born to it now. But Persia will not send scouts again. The next strike will be heavy."
Leonidas did not look away from the fire. "Then we will bleed them as we bled the first. The wall is higher now. The wolves are at our side. Let Persia come. Let the tide rise. We will teach them that some walls do not drown."
And as the firelight burned in his eyes, the System whispered faintly, as though echoing his resolve: [Warning: Major Wave Approaching. Prepare.]