The Forgeheart still glowed in Taygeton when news reached Leonidas of another fire smoldering in the mountains. Scouts brought word of a slave column being marched west through the ridges—a caravan of mercenaries escorting chained men who did not walk like peasants, but like predators pacing in a cage.
Leonidas rode out with Theron, Kyros, and a file of the Iron Cohort. When they came upon the camp at dusk, he saw them clearly for the first time: tall, wiry men with arms like coiled rope, shoulders scarred from endless throws. Each carried the bearing of warriors even in chains, their eyes sharp and restless.
Theron's whisper was almost reverent. "The Agrianes. Mountain tribes from Thrace. I've heard they were hunters before they were soldiers. Javelins their bread and wine, close combat their feast. Alexander used them as his knives in the hills. Whoever enslaved them was a fool."
Kyros grinned in the dark. "Fools die quickly. Let's cut the chains."
The overlay pulsed in Leonidas's sight: [Potential Units Identified: Agrianes – Elite Medium-Range Infantry | Specialty: Javelin Skirmishing / Agile Close Combat | Cohesion: 31% (shattered by captivity) | Potential: S-Tier]
---
The ambush fell swift. Theron and his shadows slipped through the guard posts, knives whispering across throats. Kyros leapt like a wildcat, cutting mercenaries down with laughing fury. The Iron Cohort pressed as one, shields and spears silencing the last cries.
When the last mercenary fell, the Agrianes lifted their heads. They did not cheer. They did not beg. They only stared at Leonidas with hungry, measuring eyes.
One among them stepped forward, taller than the rest, with a jagged scar down his cheek. Though chained, his voice was steady. "You broke their wall. Why? To trade us to new masters?"
Leonidas planted his spear in the earth. "No. To give you your fire back. Sparta would chain you. Persia would bleed you. I will let you hunt again. Stand with me, and your javelins will break empires."
The scarred man's gaze did not soften, but he tugged the chain at his wrist until the iron cut flesh. Then, with a growl, he spat, "Break this, Spartan, and we will test your words."
Leonidas's spear butt shattered the shackle. One by one, the Iron Cohort cut chains until the Agrianes stood free. The scarred man hefted a fallen mercenary's javelin, spun it once, then hurled it into the dark. The shaft sang before it buried itself deep into a pine trunk with enough force to split the bark.
He turned back. "We are the Agrianes. We do not kneel. But we will follow one who leads us into the hunt."
The overlay shimmered: [Agrianes Loyalty: 41% → 56% (Cautious). Integration Possible.]
---
They marched together back toward Taygeton. The Agrianes moved with uncanny grace across broken ground, javelins balanced like extensions of their arms. Even without armor, they looked dangerous—predators who could soften a line with a storm of throws before closing to finish with knives and short spears.
Theron murmured to Leonidas as they watched them climb ridges like goats. "Medium-range, agile, unyielding. They don't replace the wall. They become its teeth."
Leonidas nodded. "Then we'll forge them to strike where the wall cannot."
Far away, in the bronze hall of Sparta, whispers reached the overseer's ears. He slammed his staff on the floor, fury twisting his face. "Now he takes Thracian wolves and calls them his own. Does he mean to make Sparta into a mongrel pack?"
But the whispers in the streets told another story. Merchants spoke of Spartans who marched beside wolves, of a Polemarch who drew strength not just from Sparta, but from all who dared fight beneath his banner. The people murmured his name not with fear, but with pride.
And in his overlay, Leonidas saw the faintest tremor: [Council Hostility: 93% → 95%. Retaliation Certain.]
But for now, he looked at the Agrianes sharpening their javelins by the fire, their eyes glinting with the promise of blood and freedom, and he thought: The wall just grew sharper.