The Oracle's words stand as a warning. A prophecy. Sparta will fall. All of Greece will fall. And Persian fire will reduce Athens to cinder. For Athens is a pile of stone and wood and cloth and dust. And, as dust, will vanish into the wind. Only the Athenians themselves exist, and the fate of the world hangs on their every syllable. Only the Athenians exist and only stout wooden ships can save them. Wooden ships, and a tidal wave of heroes' blood.
It begins as a whisper. A promise. The lightest of breezes dances through the rigging as it creaks above the death cries of 10,000 men. It moves through her hair as gently as a lover's hand. That breeze, that promise, became a wind, a wind that is blown across Greece carrying a message told again and again of our Lady Freedom and how wise she was to charge Leonidas to lay all at her feet. A wind, my brothers, of sacrifice. A wind of freedom. A wind of justice. A wind of vengeance.