The battlefield was a furnace of dust and blood.
The khalasar crashed against the phalanx again and again, horseflesh slamming into bronze, arakhs screeching against shields. Each wave broke like water against a cliff. Yet for every rider that fell, ten more rose, and the plain was a sea of screaming, charging Dothraki.
The Spartans did not falter. Their spears thrust upward in rhythm, their shields locked tight. They moved as one, a machine of bronze and crimson. Blood slicked the ground beneath their sandaled feet, but their chant thundered above the chaos.
"A-oo! A-oo! A-oo!"
At the center of the storm, Leonidas met Khal Drogo.
The great stallion struck the phalanx like a hammer, its hooves smashing against shields. Drogo swung his arakh in a gleaming arc, cleaving a Spartan spear in two. His roar rose above the din — the cry of a man who had never been defeated.
Leonidas slammed his shield upward, catching the stallion's chest, forcing the beast to rear. In that heartbeat, he lunged, spear thrusting for the Khal's heart.
Drogo twisted in the saddle, the arakh flashing. The spear's shaft shattered, splinters flying.
The two locked eyes. No words — only fury, respect, and the will to conquer.
Drogo leapt from his saddle, landing in the dust like a wolf among sheep. His braid whipped as he circled, arakh gleaming. Leonidas cast aside the broken spear and drew his xiphos, a short blade forged for killing at arm's length.
Around them, the phalanx groaned under the storm. Riders circled, loosing arrows into the wall, horses crashing against bronze. Spartans fell, pierced or crushed, yet the gaps closed instantly, shields locking tighter.
"Hold!" bellowed the polemarch of the second line, his voice ragged but unyielding. "Hold, brothers! For the Queen!"
The formation pushed forward, step by bloody step, driving the Dothraki back.
But for every foot gained, Drogo carved one away in his duel.
He swung the arakh low, forcing Leonidas to block with his shield. Sparks flew as steel met bronze. Leonidas answered with a thrust of his xiphos, grazing the Khal's ribs. Drogo snarled, blood staining his chest — not mortal, but enough to sting his pride.
The Khal struck again, overhead, his arakh biting deep into Leonidas' shield, cracking the wood. The Spartan grunted, shoulder straining, then shoved forward with all his might. Drogo stumbled, just for a breath, and the crowd gasped.
The System pulsed in Leonidas' mind:
> [Boss Battle: Khal Drogo – Phase III]
Drogo's Rage Activated: Attack Speed Doubled.]
Drogo came like a storm. His arakh flashed left, right, down, each blow faster than the last. Leonidas blocked, deflected, his shield splintering under the fury. The xiphos slashed back, cutting braids, biting flesh, never yielding.
All around them, Spartans fought like men already dead. Spears broke, shields cracked, but the phalanx held — pushing the khalasar back, drowning them in their own blood. The horsemen screamed in disbelief. Never had the riders of the grass met such defiance.
At last, Drogo struck high — Leonidas raised his shield — and with a roar, Drogo kicked it inward, splintering it apart. The Spartan was thrown back, dust choking the air.
Drogo raised his arakh for the killing stroke.
But Leonidas rose to one knee, bloodied, unbroken. He spat dust, grinned like a wolf, and raised his sword.
"Come then," he growled. "Let us see who the gods favor."
The Khal roared.
The Spartan charged.
And the world itself seemed to stop as bronze met steel, lion met stallion, and the fate of the plains trembled in the dust.