Whispers slithered through Sparta long before the summons came.
"Leonidas hoards smiths and farmers like spoils."
"He breeds cavalry—un-Spartan trickery."
"Even Lakonia bends to his word, not ours."
The council had tolerated much—too much. But with Lyra's forge glowing, Damon's fields thriving, Eryx's horses drilling, and Phokas's anvil ringing, they could no longer call him merely a captain. He was building something greater. Something that frightened them.
The order arrived at dusk: Leonidas was to bring his Iron Cohort into the city for "inspection."
Theron read the scroll aloud, his eyes narrowing. "Inspection. That's a dagger wrapped in silk."
Leonidas said nothing. He tightened his cloak and gave the order. If they mean to test me, then we'll see who breaks first.
The bronze hall was packed when they arrived, firelight flickering across rows of elders and overseers. Kleon stood smirking at the side, arms folded, his pride gloating like a wound half-healed.
The narrow-jawed overseer rose. "Leonidas. You stand accused of undermining Spartan unity. You recruit foreigners—artisans, peasants, horse riders. You build walls outside the council's will. You inspire loyalty that should belong to Sparta, not to you."
The chamber hummed with approval from his allies. Leonidas felt the overlay flicker across his sight:
[Council Hostility: 78% – Retaliation Active.]
He spoke calmly, evenly. "Everything I have built strengthens Sparta. Without food, soldiers starve. Without steel, shields crack. Without speed, enemies vanish. These artisans, these men, they are bricks in the wall. Do you despise the wall because you did not lay the stone yourself?"
Gasps rippled. The elder's face reddened.
Kleon stepped forward, voice sharp. "Your words drip treason. You speak as if you are Sparta."
Leonidas turned his gaze on him. "No. I am its wall. The one you tried to break in Amyklai. The one you failed to shame in the yard. The one your own men trust more than you."
The overlay flickered—Kleon's men outside hovered at 59% loyalty, some whispering admiration for Leonidas despite themselves.
Kleon's fists clenched. "You twist men with lies!"
Leonidas's voice dropped to steel. "No. I lead them with truth."
The chamber erupted in shouts, elders arguing, overseers snarling, Kleon nearly frothing with rage. Only Damaris remained silent, his staff tapping once on the floor to steady the storm.
At last the narrow-jawed overseer roared, "Enough! If Leonidas claims strength, let him prove it—not against raiders, not against villages, but against Sparta itself."
The hall hushed.
"What do you mean?" an elder asked cautiously.
"A trial by combat. Leonidas and his Iron Cohort will face Kleon's hundred in the training yard. If his way is stronger, he may keep his artisans. If not, his wall crumbles and his followers return to true Spartan order."
Kleon's grin widened like a cut.
Leonidas's overlay shimmered:
[Event Triggered: Trial by Combat – Survival Required.]
[Note: Failure results in loss of Cohort and talents.]
Theron leaned close, his whisper barely audible. "They mean to drown us in numbers."
Leonidas's jaw tightened. "Then we show them numbers don't matter when the wall stands."
He stepped forward. "We accept."
The overseers blinked, startled at his lack of hesitation. Kleon laughed, already tasting victory.
But Leonidas's men behind him stood straighter, eyes burning, shields thudding once against the ground in grim approval.
That night, in the barracks, Doros spat into the dirt. "A hundred against fifty. Twice our number. They want us broken."
Kyros smirked, twirling his spear. "Let them come. One hundred cracks twice as fast as fifty iron."
Lyra set a spearhead on the table between them, its edge gleaming razor-sharp. "Numbers mean nothing if their weapons shatter."
Phokas grunted in agreement, hammering another blade. "Let's make sure they do."
Damon stood silently in the doorway, eyes dark. "Win, and the fields are yours. Lose, and all you've built burns."
Eryx's voice was softer, but firm. "Then ride the storm, Leonidas. We'll follow."
Leonidas looked at each of them—artisans, riders, farmers, warriors. Men and women bound not by orders, but by choice. His overlay shimmered, showing their loyalty bars, not capped, not stagnant, but alive, burning higher with every word.
[Iron Cohort Loyalty: 98%.]
[Lakonia Recruits: 74% and rising.]
He closed his fist. Steel bends. Iron does not.
Tomorrow, he would prove it again—before Sparta itself.