Winter’s chill deepened its grip as the new year dawned. In Sparta, victory’s momentum had stalled against stubborn Athenian defenses, morale sinking under endless skirmishing. Leonidas led longer patrols, hoping fresh air might lift his men’s dampened spirits.

One gray morn, his scout reported a party approaching under parley flag. Emerging from the mist were high-ranking diplomats, long-faced but determined. They bore grave news—Athens had endured a catastrophic plague, decimating half the populace in its grip. With resources spent and manpower crippled, their forces could hold out no more.

A truce was requested to discuss terms. Though troubled by this unexpected turn, Leonidas knew his king would seize such a prize. Within months, an armistice was brokered, bringing nine years of bloodshed to an uneasy end. Jubilation swept Sparta even as Leonidas found no joy in this victory. All he wished was to see Elysia's sweet face, hold her in his arms and never let the fates part them again.

When first green shoots began to pierce the earth that spring, Leonidas took leave and rode as if hell itself pursued. Finding Elysia’s farm thriving under her care, he swept her into an embrace, drinking in her lush beauty even more radiant than his memories. But as they spoke, Elysia's breath began to come short, color draining from her cheeks. Alarmed, Leonidas carried her inside.

Hastening to fetch Hestia, Leonidas returned to find the healer already at work, binding Elysia’s swollen belly. The babe had come early, she said gravely, and the labor was taking a dire toll. For three days and nights, Leonidas refused to leave Elysia's side as she struggled, wracked with pain. On the dawn of the fourth, her cries peaked—and then sank to exhausted breaths as Hestia laid a squalling newborn on her breast.

A delicate little girl peered up at her parents with azure eyes like her mother’s. Elysia wept with joy even as her lids grew heavy. Leonidas' heart seized—the ordeal had drained her beyond recovery. As Elysia’s final breaths slipped away, she met his eyes and whispered their daughter's name —Irena, for the peace she will know. Then she was gone, and Leonidas’ anguished howl rent the skies.

Through tears, Hestia tried to soothe his grief. But nothing could assuage the hollow abyss torn in Leonidas' soul that day. All he had was this tiny spark left of his love, who even in passing had given him the most sacred of gifts. Cradling little Irena close, Leonidas vowed with the fires of Mount Olympus as his witness—nothing would come between him and fulfilling Elysia’s last wish for their daughter’s joyful future.