Wind slid off Taygeton like a cold hand, carrying ash down to the Spartan camp. Above them, the ridge glowed orange where furnaces breathed and hammers struck—defiance wrapped in smoke.
Leonidas walked the rows. Men worked in silence: sanding spear shafts, oiling greaves, checking straps. No songs, no boasts. They knew what the smelter ridge meant—last ground, last pride. They treated both with respect.
The overlay shimmered in his mind: [Iron Cohort Cohesion: 98% | Lakonian Recruits: 78% (rising)]. The numbers were honest, and honesty mattered. Tomorrow those numbers would bleed.
Doros whetted his spearhead by firelight. "I've fought slopes like walls," he said without looking up. "But heat steals breath faster than a blade."
Leonidas nodded. "Then breathe for the man next to you. A wall shares what it has."
Kyros sat nearby, watching the furnace glow. For once his grin was gone. "The mountain will make men hear their hearts too loud. That's when some falter."
"Hold it in your teeth," Leonidas answered. "Bite down until it steadies."
Kyros's grin flickered back. "I'll teach mine manners, then."
Theron approached, quiet as always. "Their families have been pulled to the ridge. Smoke is thicker—they're burning more wood. If they fire their own furnaces against us, we fight flame as well as men."
Leonidas traced lines in the dirt. "Then we cut their air. Smother the bellows. Kill the fire before it reaches us."
The system flickered: [Tactical Advantage Identified: Smother – feasible if bellows lines severed.]
---
At the forge, Phokas and Lyra worked like dueling musicians, one hammer, one mold. Sparks leapt into the night as Lyra held up a spearhead, socket thicker than before. "Ridge fights crack sockets first. This will hold."
Phokas tapped a shield rim, listening to its ring. "And this will not fold when rocks test it." He eyed Leonidas's scar. "Let the metal complain. The wall will not."
Nearby, Damon arrived with baskets of bread. "Eat now. Tomorrow, the heat will steal hunger and call itself courage. You'll want water more than wine."
Leonidas clasped his arm. "Then drown them in it if they're too stubborn."
The farmer's thin smile almost broke through.
Eryx stood with his riders on the camp's edge, the horses restless in the dark. "No charges here, but hooves can carry orders. Place us as stitch-lines. The slope won't steal our messages."
Leonidas pointed to the flanks. "Watch for rockfall. If the mountain throws itself at us, send it back."
Eryx's grin was sharp. "I'll tell the cliff to sit."
The Lakonian recruits, once uncertain, now copied Cohort discipline. One fumbled a strap until his neighbor helped. Leonidas corrected a stance: "Hips forward. Don't give the slope your spine." The young man steadied, and his loyalty bar brightened.
Two council observers sat apart, sipping hot wine, hands soft. One smiled thinly. "We will record tomorrow's valor."
"Record truth," Leonidas said flatly.
"Truth," the elder murmured, "is a generous word."
Theron joined him after. "Want them watched?"
"They already are," Leonidas replied. "They see what I allow."
The system whispered: [Observer interference contained.]
---
Later, when the last straps were tightened and the forge banked, Leonidas addressed his men. He didn't climb a rock. He didn't shout. He spoke as if correcting a shield angle.
"The ridge will fight us with two foes: fire and men. When heat steals your breath, give it to your brother. When thirst claws, share water. A wall is not made of heroes. It is made of men who refuse to be alone. Their pride burns above us. Tomorrow we take it and leave none of ours behind."
Shields thudded once in answer. Quiet. Certain.
Leonidas returned to Theron's sketch, marking bellows and timber stairs. "We cut here, we smother here. When they choke, they'll leave their ridge. That's when we close the door."
Theron's eyes caught the firelight. "And if we miss?"
"We won't," Leonidas said. "Iron remembers its shape."
---
Chapter Forty-Seven – Toward the Ridge
False dawn turned the sky grey when the horn blew. Men rose without shouts. Leather whispered, bronze clinked, bread went down with water.
Leonidas checked his shoulder strap, then took his place at the front file. The ridge glowed above, breathing smoke like a beast waiting for challengers.
The system pulsed: [Final Objective Pending: Smelter Ridge]
[Bonus Objective: 'Forgeheart' lies within.]
Doros rolled his shoulders. "Feels like carrying the mountain itself."
Kyros twirled his spear. "Then let's drop it on their heads."
Eryx's riders tightened girths, ready to carry word up and down the slope. Lyra and Phokas loaded tool carts, the promise of sharper steel gleaming even in morning gloom. Damon oversaw water jugs slung across mules, gruffly shoving extra to anyone who lagged.
Leonidas raised his spear. "Shields."
They lifted.
"Breathe."
A single exhale rolled across the line.