The dust of conquest had barely settled before Leonidas faced his next challenge—not raiders or gates, but men.
Two hundred Lakonian militia stood in the village square, stripped of their weapons but not their pride. Some scowled, others hung their heads, many shifted uneasily under the steady gaze of the Iron Cohort. Their loyalty bars flickered across Leonidas's overlay, none higher than fifty-five, some dipping into the thirties.
Conquering land is easy. Conquering hearts takes more than steel.
Leonidas stepped forward, shield slung over his back, spear grounded beside him. His voice carried steady.
"You are Lakonians. Farmers, hunters, smiths. You fought to protect your homes. For that, I honor you. But now your homes belong to Sparta. That means your fight does not end—it begins anew."
Murmurs rippled through the militia ranks. One man spat in the dirt. Another muttered, "We are not Spartans."
Leonidas's gaze swept them. "You are men. Men who hold shields, who carry spears. You bled for your families. Bleed now for your brothers beside you. My wall does not break, and if you stand in it, neither will you."
The overlay shimmered faintly:
Average Loyalty: +5% (Respect Stirred)
Integration began the next day. Leonidas paired each group of Lakonians with Cohort veterans. Doros drilled them in shield discipline, barking orders until their arms shook. Kyros smirked as he corrected stances with mocking humor, lightening the shame of failure. Theron moved quietly among them, pointing out mistakes with calm precision.
At first, the militia faltered. Their shields clashed awkwardly, gaps yawning in the line. Veterans shoved them back into place, cursing but not abandoning them. Slowly, the rhythm grew steadier.
The overlay confirmed it:
Lakonian Cohesion: 55% → 62%
That evening, Leonidas gathered both groups for a shared meal. Damon, the farmer, had prepared bread thicker and heartier than the militia were used to. Eryx slaughtered a goat, roasting it over the fire.
The Lakonians hesitated at first, keeping to their own circle. But Doros slapped a hunk of bread into one man's hand, laughing. "Eat, or I'll eat twice!" Kyros tossed wine cups their way. Soon, the silence broke into murmurs, then conversation, then laughter.
The overlay pulsed:
Loyalty: 65% (Integration in progress)
Theron leaned toward Leonidas. "You feed them, fight beside them, laugh with them—they'll be yours soon enough. But not yet."
Leonidas nodded. "Iron takes time to temper."
The real test came three days later, when a band of raiders tried to strike Lakonia under cover of night. Leonidas had expected them.
The Iron Cohort formed instantly, shields locking. But this time, the militia were ordered into the line as well. Panic flared at first—hesitation, fear—but Leonidas's voice cut through.
"Hold! Ten breaths! Only ten!"
The Cohort anchored their flanks, covering the militia as they trembled. But when the raiders crashed against them, something shifted. Cohort veterans steadied their new brothers, shouting, pushing, forcing them to lock shields tighter.
And then—miraculously—the militia held.
The raiders broke and fled within minutes, scattered into the dark.
The overlay blazed:
Lakonian Loyalty: 72%
Cohesion: 70% (Stabilized under Spartan training)
At dawn, the Lakonian captain approached Leonidas, dirt smeared across his face, eyes burning with shame and pride.
"We thought we'd die when you came. Thought we'd kneel or bleed. But you put us in your wall. You bled with us. From this day, Lakonia stands with you."
The overlay shimmered:
[Militia Integrated: 200 men added to Iron Cohort ranks.]
[Cohesion: 73% and rising.]
Leonidas clasped the man's forearm. "Then you are Spartans now. Not by birth. By choice."
That night, around the fire, Doros grinned. "Two hundred more bricks in the wall. Soon they'll call us a fortress."
Kyros smirked. "If they can keep their shields up without crying, maybe."
Theron's gaze was steadier. "You've done it. The council wanted you to bleed for this, but instead you've grown stronger. They won't forgive you for that."
Leonidas's eyes turned north, to the heavens where Evelyne's banner still gleamed. Her knights swelled with steel and pride, but their cohesion froze at seventy-four. His men, born from dirt and fire, already burned brighter.
Steel bends. Iron does not.
And when the Second Wave came, Sparta would stand taller than before.