The bowl of Taygeton was quiet except for the hiss of smelters and the faint clang of iron on iron. From their perch on the lower shelf, Leonidas and his captains studied the ridgeline above the charcoal terraces. Small fires burned there—pickets, men watching, spears glinting in the sun.
Theron crouched low, tracing lines in the dirt with his knife. "Three posts across the ridge. Each with ten men. If we strike loud, the whole valley knows and pulls back to the smelter ridge. We'll bleed on the climb."
Leonidas's overlay shimmered with numbers:
Ridge Pickets: 30 men, Cohesion 60%
Iron Cohort: 50 veterans, Cohesion 98%
Lakonia Militia: 200 recruits, Cohesion 77%
Cavalry: 12 riders, Cohesion 88% (unsuited for cliffs)
He studied them in silence. If they retreat and barricade, this fight stretches weeks. We don't have weeks.
---
Doros grunted. "Send me and ten. We'll smash the closest picket before the others blink."
Theron shook his head. "And the sound will have the other two blinking fast. We need them blind, not awake."
Kyros leaned on his spear, smirking. "So slit throats, not bash skulls. I like it."
Eryx crossed his arms. "My riders are useless on those slopes. But I can send two to circle, create noise behind the posts. If they think danger's in the wrong place, their eyes follow it."
Leonidas nodded slowly. "Good. Diversion. Quiet knives. Then weight."
---
That night, under a sliver of moon, the plan unfolded.
Two riders crept wide around the bowl, their horses muffled, torches ready. On Leonidas's signal, flames flared in the distance, shouts echoing off stone. The ridge guards turned, distracted.
Theron moved then, silent as a shadow, leading a handpicked dozen. They climbed quick and low, shields strapped to backs, blades in hand. Kyros followed, grinning like a wolf.
The first picket never saw them until it was too late. A whisper of steel, a muffled cry, bodies slumping into the dust. The second post saw torches and shadows where Eryx's riders stirred dust, and by the time they realized the trick, Leonidas's men were already among them.
The third post fought harder, spears stabbing, voices breaking the night. But Doros's roar rolled louder, a hammer among knives, and the last of the guards tumbled into silence.
---
At dawn, the Cohort stood on the ridge. Below them, the charcoal terraces sprawled, stacks of wood feeding the smelters, smoke staining the air. Miners and militia scrambled in panic, rushing to form lines around the supply stores.
The overlay flickered:
[Objective I Complete: Ridge Pickets Broken.]
[Next Objective: Seize Charcoal Terraces.]
Theron wiped his blade, calm as ever. "They'll form at the terraces. If we take the wood, their forges die. Without forges, they can't hold long."
Leonidas nodded. "Then we strike fast. No time for them to dig deeper."
---
The terraces were a maze of stacked timber, carts, and narrow paths. Perfect ground for ambushes.
"Shields high," Leonidas ordered as the Cohort advanced. "Step steady. Burn nothing—we take it intact."
Arrows hissed from above, bouncing off shields. Spears jabbed from behind stacks. The Lakonian recruits faltered, but Doros's voice thundered. "Up! Hold!" Kyros darted through a gap, dragging two men down before they could retreat.
Theron flanked with another file, circling through the stacks, cutting supply lines before they could be torched.
The militia broke first. Cohesion dipped, loyalty flickered, and soon the defenders scattered. Some ran to the smelter ridge, others dropped their spears and begged quarter.
The overlay pulsed:
[Objective II Complete: Charcoal Terraces Captured.]
[Supply Cut – Enemy weapons degrade 15% in effectiveness.]
---
The Cohort cheered, stacking captured timber under guard. Lyra and Phokas inspected the piles with greedy eyes.
"Good wood," Lyra muttered. "Hot burns, steady. Spears will sing sharper."
Phokas grunted. "A mountain's gift. Don't waste it."
Leonidas allowed himself one deep breath. One more step. The smelter ridge remains.
---
That night, by the campfire, he studied the dark line of the smelter ridge above. Smoke still rose from its furnaces, defiant.
Theron sat across from him. "They'll fight harder there. Last ground, last pride. If we bleed too much, the Wave finds us weak."
Leonidas stared at the flames. "Then we bleed smart. Pressure where they can't breathe. We'll break their forge without shattering our wall."
The overlay flickered:
[Final Objective Pending: Force Smelter Surrender.]
[Bonus Objective Hint: 'Forgeheart' lies within.]
Leonidas closed his eyes, feeling the mountain's heat. Tomorrow, we take the fire itself.