False dawn painted the sky grey, the cold mountain light giving the ridge above the look of a beast curled on its side, smoke rising from its belly. The horn sounded—a single, low note held until it faded into silence. Men stirred in the camp, not with shouts but with the steady ritual of soldiers who knew tomorrow might be measured in breaths.
Bread and water passed from hand to hand. Leather straps tightened, bronze fittings checked, spearheads kissed with oil. Damon moved among them, forcing water into stubborn throats. "Drink now. The mountain will steal more than you think you have." Lyra muttered at Phokas as they loaded carts with tools. He grumbled back, but his hands moved quick. Even their rivalry felt sharper on this morning.
The overlay flickered:
Iron Cohort: 50 veterans, Cohesion 98%
Lakonia Militia: 200 recruits, Cohesion 79% (steady rise)
Cavalry: 12 riders, Cohesion 88% (support role limited)
Leonidas walked the line, eyes on each face. Veterans looked back at him with the calm of men who trusted the wall. The Lakonian recruits still carried fear, but fear tempered by pride—their first great test lay ahead. He adjusted a strap here, shifted a shield there, nodding approval. Each small touch lit bars of loyalty brighter in his vision.
---
Doros rolled his shoulders, grinning like a man about to wrestle a god. "This slope feels heavier than it looks," he muttered. "As if the mountain itself wants to sit on our chests."
"Then we carry it together," Leonidas said.
Kyros twirled his spear lazily, but his eyes were fixed on the orange glow above. "The heat will be worse than the climb. It'll make men want to throw their shields aside just to breathe."
Leonidas looked at him. "And will you?"
Kyros's grin widened. "I'll bite down on my heart until it obeys. Then I'll teach the rest to do the same."
Theron stood at the edge of the shelf, eyes narrowed at the smelter ridge. "They're reinforcing the walkways. Smoke's thicker. They're preparing to fight with fire, not just iron. Expect them to roll burning timbers down the slope."
Leonidas traced the outline in his mind. "Then we don't give them time to burn. We cut their air. Without bellows, their fire dies."
The overlay pulsed: [Advantage: Bellows Sabotage Possible].
---
The Cohort gathered near the camp's center. Leonidas did not climb a rock or raise his arms; he simply spoke, his voice the weight of stone on stone.
"The ridge will fight us with two enemies—heat and men. Fire steals breath. Climbing steals legs. Together, they'll try to convince you you are alone. You are not. When the slope grows cruel, breathe for the man beside you. Share water. Share strength. A wall does not stand on heroes. A wall stands because no brick gives alone."
He paused, letting the silence settle. "Their pride glows on that ridge. Tomorrow we take it. Tomorrow, they lose their story, and we write ours."
Shields thudded once, in perfect unison, echoing like a drumbeat that reached even the smelter ridge. The defenders above paused at the sound.
---
When the men dispersed, Leonidas lingered with his captains. Theron crouched beside a charcoal sketch of the ridge: bellows sheds feeding the furnaces, timber walkways, narrow stairs cut into the rock. "If we sever the bellows here and here, they'll choke their own forges."
Doros jabbed the smelter ridge with his finger. "And once they choke, we hit. Straight up, like iron rising through fire."
Kyros smirked. "Or straight down, once they panic and trip over their pride."
Eryx leaned on his spear. "Hooves can't climb that throat, but we'll run orders and keep the flanks clean. No rocks drop on us unless they fall on themselves first."
Lyra's eyes glowed with the fire she loved. "Give me that forge intact, and I'll feed it until it spits spears sharp enough to slice gods."
Phokas growled agreement. "We'll make the mountain work for us."
Leonidas nodded. "Then tomorrow, we break their fire, not their stone. The forge becomes ours—or it becomes their grave."
---
Later, in the stillness, Leonidas sat alone, his spear across his knees. The overlay's counter ticked at the edge of his vision: [Second Wave: 21 months].
He thought of Evelyne's knights, their armor polished, banners high, cohesion capped by pride. He thought of Marcus's Roman blocks, Darius's Immortals, the zealots who whipped their followers with fear. All of them burned bright already. He, the peasant captain, built slowly, brick by brick. But his wall had no ceiling.
Steel bends. Bronze tarnishes. Iron remembers its shape.
The smelter ridge glowed above him, breathing fire. Tomorrow, they would climb into that fire and make it theirs.