The Return to Epirus

The morning sun cast long shadows over the Epirote plains. Below, thousands of warriors stood ready—Illyrians, Epirote exiles, mercenaries.

At the head of the army sat Pyrrhus, now seventeen, his horse restless beneath him.

His general, a grizzled Illyrian named Bardylis, rode beside him. "Neoptolemus will not expect this," he said. "He believes you are still a child."

Pyrrhus smirked. "Then he will die surprised."

With a nod, he raised his sword.

"Advance!"

The battle for Epirus began.

Neoptolemus's forces crumbled under the assault. Pyrrhus led the charge into the city, cutting down enemies with precision and fury.

Inside the palace, Neoptolemus waited. The usurper was old, but still dangerous.

"You have no claim to this throne," Neoptolemus hissed.

Pyrrhus raised his blade. "And you have no right to live."

Their swords clashed. Sparks flew.

But Neoptolemus was slower. Pyrrhus dodged, countered, and drove his sword into the man's chest.

Neoptolemus collapsed, gasping. His crown rolled across the floor.

Pyrrhus picked it up, turning to the balcony. Outside, the people of Epirus gathered, waiting.

He stepped forward, raising the crown high.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

The boy in exile had returned.

And Pyrrhus of Epirus was king.