The bronze hall was colder than usual, though the fires burned high. Overseers and elders filled the semicircle of stone seats, their cloaks drawn tight, their faces shadowed by flickering lamplight. Leonidas stood in the center, his fifty arrayed outside the chamber like a wall of silent bronze.
Above Sparta, the remnants of the leaderboard still glowed faintly across the night sky. Everyone had seen it. Every soldier, every overseer, every rival. Leonidas's name burned beside the lambda, his cohesion higher than Rome's legions, Persia's Immortals, even Evelyne's steel-clad knights.
The hall buzzed with whispers. "Fifty men?" one elder muttered. "Outranking hundreds?"
"Impossible," another said, shaking his head. "A trick of the system."
Damaris's voice cut through the murmur. "Not a trick. Discipline. I've seen it. His men move as one. No panic, no gaps. Iron."
That word seemed to sour the air.
---
An overseer with a narrow jaw sneered. "And what do you call it when fifty boys stand firmer than two hundred veterans? Sorcery? Luck? Or something worse?"
Leonidas answered calmly. "Not sorcery. Loyalty. Cohesion. My men trust me because I've bled with them. The others on that board—they command from above. Their armies were given, not earned. That is why their loyalty cannot rise past seventy-five."
The words hung heavy. The elders shifted in their seats, uneasy. They had noticed the same thing: Evelyne's knights gleamed brightest, but her cohesion sat capped, frozen like iron cooled too fast.
One elder leaned forward, eyes sharp as nails. "You speak as though you know the limits of the system."
"I see it," Leonidas said evenly. "They cannot rise past seventy-five. We already stand at ninety-six. No other wall in the world can match it."
The whispering grew louder now, half disbelief, half fear. Kleon's name was muttered more than once.
---
The doors creaked, and Kleon entered unbidden, his jaw tight, eyes blazing. He had seen the leaderboard too, and his pride stank of the wound. "He claims glory with fifty while I command a hundred," Kleon spat. "He makes the council look blind for trusting me with rank."
The narrow-jawed overseer nodded in agreement. "Perhaps his wall holds too well. Men who follow him so completely may forget Sparta."
Leonidas's gaze never wavered. "My men follow me because I am Sparta. I rose from dirt, and they saw me earn my place. Can Kleon say the same?"
Kleon's face flushed. His knuckles whitened around his spear.
---
Damaris struck his staff on the stone, the crack silencing the chamber. "Enough. You fear what you do not understand. I tell you this: Leonidas's strength is Sparta's strength. If you cannot see that, you are blind."
But even as his words rang out, Leonidas saw the overlay flicker faintly in his vision:
[Political Hostility Rising: Council Suspicion 65%.]
[Note: Rivals may attempt sabotage to slow your rise.]
He clenched his fist behind his cloak. So be it. Let them plot. Walls do not fear whispers.
---
After the session, Leonidas returned to his fifty. Doros leaned on his shield. "They looked ready to choke on their own tongues."
Kyros smirked. "Council doesn't like seeing dirt climb their stairs."
Theron's eyes were sharper. "They won't stop at words. Be ready for shadows, not just spears."
Leonidas nodded slowly. "I expect it. But the board doesn't lie. The world already knows. They'll try to tear us down, but every hand against us only proves our worth."
He looked north, past the city walls, past the mountains. Evelyne's banner still gleamed brightest, her numbers dwarfing his. And yet her cohesion was capped, frozen at seventy-three.
Leonidas whispered to himself, too low for the men to hear. "Steel bends. Iron does not."
And the First Wave crept closer.