The Birth of an Empire

Pyrrhus sat on the throne of Epirus, the weight of the bronze crown pressing against his brow. The cheers of the people still echoed in his ears, but in his heart, he knew—this was only the beginning.

Victory was not enough. Glory was fleeting.

He had spent his childhood in exile, his youth among warriors. And now, at seventeen, he was king. But what was a king without an empire?

The court of Ambracia gathered before him. Nobles, generals, and statesmen waited for his words.

Pyrrhus stood. His golden eyes burned with ambition.

"Epirus has been restored," he declared. "But we are still surrounded by enemies."

Murmurs spread through the crowd. His generals exchanged uneasy glances.

Echecrates, his most trusted commander, stepped forward. "Who do you see as our enemies, my king?"

Pyrrhus's voice was steady. "Macedon."

A hush fell over the hall.

"Macedon is fractured," Pyrrhus continued. "Cassander's grip weakens. If we strike now, we can reclaim what was stolen from us."

One noble, an older man named Ptolemaeus, frowned. "We are strong, my king. But we are not as strong as Macedon."

Pyrrhus smirked. "Then we shall become stronger."

He turned to Echecrates. "Send envoys to Ptolemy of Egypt. He was my father's ally. If he supports us, we will have the gold and ships we need."

The general bowed. "As you command."

Pyrrhus sat back on his throne, his fingers tapping against the armrest.

Epirus had been reclaimed.

Now, the world awaited him.