The Shadow of Achilles

The sharp clang of swords rang through the Illyrian war camp. Dust rose as two fighters circled each other, weapons at the ready.

A boy of fourteen stood among them, barefoot on the dirt. His opponent—a grizzled warrior twice his size—smirked.

"You fight like a child," the man taunted.

The boy said nothing. His golden eyes burned with quiet determination.

"Again!" King Glaukias barked from the sidelines.

The warrior lunged, swinging his wooden blade. The boy dodged low, rolled, and lashed out with a swift strike to the ribs.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Glaukias smirked. "Perhaps you are Achilles' blood after all."

Pyrrhus wiped sweat from his brow. "Blood means nothing," he said. "Victory is earned."

For years, Pyrrhus trained relentlessly, mastering the Illyrian way of war. He fought without mercy. He rode with raiders. He learned how to survive.

But his mind never left Epirus.

One night, a messenger arrived.

"The usurper Neoptolemus is weak," the man said. "The people whisper of your return."

Pyrrhus gripped his sword hilt.

It was time.