The Fire of Achilles

That night, the campfires of the Epirote army flickered under the dark sky. Pyrrhus stood alone, staring into the flames, his mind restless.

The battle had been a victory, but not a decisive one. Cassander still lived. That was unacceptable.

He reached for his wine but barely drank. His hunger for battle far outweighed his thirst.

Lanassa entered the tent.

She was still in her wedding robes, her golden bracelets gleaming in the dim light. Her green eyes studied him carefully.

"Do you ever rest?" she asked, pouring herself a cup of wine.

Pyrrhus chuckled darkly. "A man who rests is a man who has already lost."

Lanassa took a sip, then leaned against the wooden table. "You speak of war as if it is your only purpose."

Pyrrhus's jaw tightened. "Is that not the purpose of all great men?"

She tilted her head. "And what of peace?"

He scoffed. "Peace is for those too weak to take what is theirs."

Lanassa studied him in silence. Then, she placed her cup down. "I have heard the whispers in camp," she said. "The men say you believe yourself to be Achilles reborn."

Pyrrhus did not answer.

"You chase shadows, Pyrrhus," she said. "Achilles died young. He won his glory but lost everything else."

Pyrrhus finally met her gaze. "Then perhaps that is the price of greatness."

Lanassa exhaled sharply. "And what of me? Of our son? Are we part of your war, or just another battlefield you intend to conquer?"

For the first time, Pyrrhus hesitated.

He wanted to say he cared—that he saw a future beyond war. But the truth was, he did not know how to be anything but a warrior.

Lanassa laughed bitterly. "You are a fool, my husband. And one day, that foolishness will destroy you."

She turned and walked out of the tent, leaving him alone with the flames.

Pyrrhus gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white.

He did not fear death.

But in that moment, he realized—he feared being forgotten.