Leonidas had always believed that war was not only blood and bronze but rhythm. The Spartans lived by the rhythm of the phalanx, every step, every thrust, every heartbeat locked in unison. The Agrianes were something else entirely. They fought like storms, every man his own strike of lightning, wild but precise in its own way. If he wanted to bind wolves to the wall, he had to make a new rhythm—one that allowed storm and stone to beat as one.
At dawn he watched them on the ridges beyond Taygeton. The Agrianes hunted as naturally as breathing, their javelins singing through the air with deadly grace. They did not just throw; they shaped each shaft, weighted it to their liking, tested balance with a flick of the wrist. They threw in volleys, yes, but also singly, quick as reflex, as though each man was both soldier and hunter. Targets carved from wood shattered beneath their storm, and before the dust settled, knives were already in their hands. They could not hold a shield wall, but they could break one open.
The overlay shimmered before his eyes: [Unit Potential: Medium-Range Dominance | Role: Harass, Weaken, Disrupt, Retreat Behind Shields | Cohesion with Spartans: 61%]. It was a message he had expected. It confirmed what his instincts told him—these men could never be walls, but they could be the fire that made the wall unbreakable.
That evening he called the captains together, both Spartan and Agrianes. The scarred Thracian leader sat with arms crossed, his men close behind. Doros and the Spartan veterans glared but said nothing. Leonidas set his spear in the dirt between them. "The phalanx holds, but it does not chase. The javelin strikes, but it does not hold. Alone, you both fail. Together, you make a new form of war. The wall advances three steps. The Agrianes strike, and the enemy staggers. When they recover, the wall breaks them. Then the wolves strike again. Do this, and no army will stand."
The scarred leader narrowed his eyes. "And if the wall falters?"
Leonidas did not blink. "Then you will see that my wall does not falter."
The next days were filled with endless training. At first chaos ruled. The Agrianes leapt too soon, loosing javelins before the Spartans braced, leaving dangerous gaps. Spartans cursed and shoved them back into line. Agrianes mocked the slow, heavy steps of men chained to shields. More than once the drills ended in shouting, knives drawn, fists flying. Leonidas broke every fight with harsh words and harsher punishments. "If you cannot fight together in practice," he thundered, "you will die together in truth."
Slowly, rhythm emerged. Spartans advanced, shields braced, and over their shoulders a storm of javelins fell like rain. Enemy dummies shattered, painted shields splintered, formations broken before they touched the bronze. Then the Agrianes fell back through the phalanx, reloading, vanishing behind the wall only to emerge again when the moment came. The recruits who once mocked them began to cheer when their volleys landed. Veterans like Doros muttered approval even as they scowled.
Kyros, ever restless, took to sparring with them, grinning when they darted around him with unnerving speed. "Faster than fleas," he laughed one evening, wiping blood from his lip. "But I like fleas that bite this hard." Even Theron admitted grudging respect. "They do not replace the phalanx. They make it something new."
By the second week, Leonidas ordered full mock battles. On a wide field, Spartans formed the wall and advanced against an enemy line of practice shields. At the signal, the Agrianes darted forward, loosing volleys in perfect rhythm, their javelins slamming into targets and staggering the "enemy" before they touched bronze. When the shields broke, Spartans surged, and the Agrianes flowed around the flanks like water. The overseers who had come to observe could not hide their unease at the sight of such harmony between wolf and wall.
The overlay pulsed: [Agrianes Cohesion with Spartan Units: 61% → 78% | Effectiveness vs. Phalanx: High.]
At night Leonidas sat before the Forgeheart's glow, listening to the mingled voices of Spartans and Agrianes sharing meat and song. The bond was not yet love, but it was something—respect born of sweat and bruises. He felt it building, a new shape of war.
But beyond Taygeton, in the bronze hall of Sparta, the overseer slammed his staff. "He makes mongrels into spears and dares call it Sparta! He will unmake the city in his own image." Another elder answered in a low, fearful tone. "Or he will make it untouchable." Damaris only watched, his expression unreadable, as though weighing the weight of destiny itself.
Leonidas did not yet know it, but the whispers of his wolves had already carried east, toward Persia, where Darius sat on his throne of chains and smiled at the thought of breaking a wall with fire.