The battlefield still stank of smoke and blood when Leonidas called the men together. The Iron Cohort stood at their accustomed ease, while the Lakonian recruits, weary but proud, leaned on their spears. And then there were the two new Cohorts—no longer limping, no longer scarred by time. Where broken bodies had once stood, now gleamed warriors reborn, their eyes sharp, their limbs whole, their breath steady.
The change had shaken even the veterans. Doros slapped the shoulder of a man who had fought beside him earlier that day with only one good arm. "You had a stump this morning," Doros bellowed. "Now you swing like an oak. How does it feel?" The soldier grinned, teeth flashing. "Feels like I've been cheated out of twenty years of fighting. Time owes me a debt." Laughter rippled through the ranks, but Leonidas's overlay reminded him of what laughter could not erase. [Loyalty: 85%]. They were stronger now, but loyalty still had to be earned.
Leonidas gathered the captains of all three Cohorts beneath the rising sun. The Iron Cohort veterans stood solid, their discipline unquestioned. The new captains—men hardened by decades of experience—regarded Leonidas with unreadable eyes. They did not speak against him, but neither did they bend easily. One of them, a lean man with a face lined like cracked marble, stepped forward. "We fought before you were born. We bled for Sparta when you were still a farmer's shadow. Now the gods give us back our bodies. Tell me, Polemarch—why should we follow you?" The camp grew quiet. Leonidas met his gaze without blinking. "Because your bodies are whole, but your cause is broken. Sparta would have thrown you aside. I pulled you back into the wall. You know more of war than I ever could—but knowledge without command is wasted. Stand with me, and your wisdom becomes steel. Stand apart, and you will be nothing more than old stories with young faces." The man's eyes narrowed, but slowly, he nodded. "Then let us see if your wall can hold with us in it." The overlay pulsed faintly: [Loyalty: 85% → 87%. Integration in progress.]
The next weeks were filled with drills. Leonidas paired young recruits with the newly reforged veterans. The old men—once limited by failing bodies—now demonstrated techniques so precise that even Doros and Kyros paused to watch. They corrected stances, adjusted grips, taught tricks of rhythm and terrain. "Feel the weight of his shield through yours," one instructed a recruit. "When it leans, push, don't pull. The wall is a conversation. Learn to listen." The Iron Cohort veterans took notice too. Where before they had been the backbone of discipline, now they found themselves challenged by men who had fought twice as many campaigns. It sparked competition—friendly at times, sharp at others—but Leonidas saw the benefit. Each Cohort sharpened the other.
But not everyone celebrated. News of the reforged warriors spread fast, carried on whispers from merchants and smiths traveling between Taygeton and Lakonia. In the bronze hall, the overseer slammed his staff in frustration. "We sent him ghosts, and now he commands gods!" Another elder hissed, "The people murmur his name more than ours. If he keeps this pace, he will not just lead Sparta—he will own it." Damaris alone remained calm, his eyes heavy with thought. "Then perhaps we must ask if that is the Sparta the gods demand." The overlay flickered faintly in Leonidas's mind, though he did not yet know of their words: [Council Hostility: 91% → 93%. Retaliation schemes intensifying.]
At night, Leonidas stood before the Forgeheart's glow, its pale blue light painting his armor. Theron approached, silent until he spoke. "The council will not forgive this. Their trap gave you strength instead. They will strike again." Leonidas nodded. "Then let them. Every strike sharpens the wall. And when the Wave comes, Sparta will not stand because of the council. It will stand because of us."