Spartiatide The Lioness

The early morning air over Sparta was cold enough to sting the lungs.

A pale mist rested between the wheat fields, and the first sunlight touched the distant mountains in thin bands of gold. Beyond the training grounds, the city was beginning to wake. Smoke rose from household fires. Somewhere near the eastern road, a bell sounded once.

The training yard was already loud. Wooden spears struck shields. Sand shifted beneath marching feet. The sharp commands of instructors carried across the open ground.

At the center of it all stood Spartiatide Chiloris.

Her black hair was tied tightly behind her head. Her muscular upper body was exposed to the cold morning air, a red military cloak hanging from one shoulder. Bronze bracers covered her forearms, and a practical leather-and-bronze armored skirt allowed her to move freely. A long spear rested in her hand.

She stood among the recruits like a mountain among stones. Before her, a line of young Spartans struggled to maintain formation.

“Again.”

The recruits raised their shields.

“Move.”

They advanced.

“Hold.”

A few shields collided. One woman stumbled. A young male recruit lost his grip on his spear and nearly dropped it. Chiloris watched without expression.

“Stop.”

The entire line froze. She walked toward the male recruit. He was breathing hard, embarrassed, but he did not look away.

“Your grip is wrong.”

She took his spear, adjusted his hands, and returned it.

“Your strength is not the problem. You are fighting the weapon instead of using it.”

“Yes, General.”

“Then stop doing it.”

She turned back toward the formation.

“Sparta does not need people who look like warriors. It needs people who can remain standing when the battlefield stops looking like a training yard.”

The recruits straightened.

“Again.”

They moved.

This time, the formation held. Chiloris watched for another moment before giving a small nod.

“Better.”

A horn sounded from the entrance of the training grounds. Then a second. The instructors immediately stopped shouting. A royal messenger entered the yard, followed by two mounted guards.

“Behold!!! The Queen is entering!”

The announcement carried across the entire training ground. Every soldier lowered their weapon. The recruits dropped to one knee. The instructors knelt. Even the servants carrying water and equipment bowed their heads.

Chiloris turned toward the entrance. She did not kneel. She lowered her head in a formal bow. The difference was not disrespect. It was rank. In Sparta, the most powerful women were not required to kneel fully before the Queen unless they were being formally honored or receiving a royal decree. A general of Chiloris’s standing could bow and remain standing.

The royal procession entered the yard. At its center rode Queen Aurelia Vespera.

She wore a long crimson cloak over dark ceremonial attire, the gold of her crown catching the morning light. Her expression was calm, but the atmosphere around her seemed to change as she passed.

The Queen possessed the kind of authority that did not need to be announced. People simply felt it. Beside her rode Crown Princess Lyra Vespera, younger, sharper, and visibly interested in the training yard.

Behind them came King Marcellus Vespera, seated on a smaller horse. He wore formal clothing rather than armor, and his attention moved quietly across the soldiers, the instructors, and the equipment.

The Queen stopped near Chiloris.

“General.” “Your Majesty.”

Aurelia glanced toward the recruits.

“New soldiers?” “New recruits,”

Chiloris corrected. “Soldiers come after they learn discipline.”

Lyra’s mouth curved slightly.

“Then how many soldiers do you expect to have by winter?” “Enough.” “That is not a number.” “It is the number that matters.”

Lyra looked toward the training formation.

“You are hard on them.” “They will be harder on themselves when they understand what war costs.”

The Princess studied her for a moment.

“And the men?”

Chiloris glanced toward the male recruits.

“Those who are willing to train are welcome.”

Marcellus spoke from behind them.

“Some of the young men have already shown considerable aptitude for engineering and logistics. A few have requested permission to train with the infantry.”

“Good,” Chiloris said. “A warrior who understands supplies is more useful than a warrior who only understands killing.”

The Queen gave a quiet nod.

“That is why I wanted to see this training myself.”

Before Chiloris could answer, the light changed.

At first, it was only a strange brightness beyond the mountains. Then the entire sky seemed to turn white. The recruits looked upward. A streak of fire tore across the morning clouds. Someone shouted. The object was enormous. It was not shaped like a falling stone. It was too smooth, too round, too deliberate. Its surface flashed with a metallic brightness as it descended, trailing smoke and burning fragments. Chiloris looked up.

“Move the recruits away from the field.”

The command had barely left her mouth when the sphere struck. The impact shook the ground. A thunderous explosion rolled across the wheat fields, followed by a wave of dust and broken stalks. Horses reared. Several soldiers fell to the ground. The training yard filled with shouting.

When the dust began to settle, a dark column of smoke rose beyond the eastern fields.

The Queen’s horse stamped nervously. Chiloris had already mounted.

“General!” Lyra called. Chiloris turned.

“Your Majesty, the field is secure enough to approach.”

Aurelia looked toward the smoke.

“Then we will see what has fallen into Sparta.”

Only Chiloris and the royal family rode toward the impact site. The soldiers followed on foot. The wheat field had been torn apart. A wide patch of earth was flattened, and a shallow crater smoked in the middle of the ruined crops. Broken stalks lay scattered across the ground.

At the center of the crater sat the sphere. It was larger than a wagon, perfectly round, and made of a strange dark metal. Its surface was smooth except for several narrow lines that seemed to glow faintly beneath the dust. Lyra dismounted first.

“What is that?”

Chiloris approached carefully.

“Something that does not belong here.”

The King stared at the object.

“It appears to be made of metal.” “Not any metal I know,”

Chiloris said. The sphere made a sound. A low mechanical hum. Everyone stopped. A seam appeared. The sphere opened. A door folded outward with a hiss of escaping air. Inside lay a human. A young man. He was unconscious, pale, and dressed in an absurdly loose, unfamiliar outfit that hung from his body like it had been borrowed from someone much larger. His clothing was unlike anything worn in Sparta—soft, layered, and strangely cut. Lyra stared.

“Is he dead?”

Chiloris stepped closer.

“No.”

The man’s chest moved. Slowly. The Queen looked at him.

“Human?” “Looks like one.” “Then take him.”

Chiloris turned toward the nearest soldier.

“Carefully. Do not damage the body.”

She turned back to the soldier.

“Take the anomaly to the physicians. Admit him to the herbs chamber. Treat him as a wounded prisoner until we know what he is.”

The soldier bowed.

“Yes, General.”

As the man was lifted from the sphere, Chiloris looked once more at the strange metal object. The Queen stood beside her.

“Do you believe he came from the sky?”

Chiloris watched the smoke rising from the crater.

“I believe something brought him here.”

Aurelia’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Evening

The royal offices were quiet by the time the sun had disappeared. A few lamps burned along the walls, and the smell of oil and parchment filled the room.

Chiloris sat at a heavy wooden desk, reviewing military reports. A male Sarvent was massaging her Shoulder and forearm.*

There was stacks of sheep skin, some sealed carefully prepared and scraped thin enough to write upon.

She read through a supply report, made a correction, and set it aside. A male servant entered quietly.

“General.”

Chiloris did not look up.

“Speak.”

“The stranger has awakened.”

Her eyes lifted.

“The physician says he is unharmed. He is conscious and has been asking questions.”

Chiloris placed the report down.

“Has he attacked anyone?”

“No, General.”

“Has he spoken?”

“Yes.”

“What language?”

The servant hesitated.

“He speaks like us.”

Chiloris stood.

"Interesting...”

The herbs chamber was warm and dimly lit.Bundles of dried plants hung from the ceiling. A brazier burned near the wall, filling the room with the scent of crushed leaves and smoke.

The stranger lay on a narrow bed. His strange clothing had been removed hours earlier. He now wore a simple white robe provided by the physicians. His arms were secured to the headboard with cloth bindings. Not because he had attacked anyone. Because no one knew what he was.

Chiloris stopped beside the bed. The physician stood nearby.

“Leave us.”

The physician bowed and stepped outside. The room became quiet. Chiloris studied the stranger. He was young. Not particularly muscular. His hands were soft, without the calluses of a soldier or laborer.

Yet he had fallen from the sky inside a metal sphere.That alone made him dangerous. She pulled a wooden chair toward the bed and sat.

“Look at me.”

She waited until his attention settled on her.

“What are you? A Orge? Or sent by pherao?”

“Your name?”

She studied his face.

“Where did you come from?”

suggest.