Lanassa’s Fury

The royal palace of Ambracia was cold and silent when Pyrrhus returned.

He had won battles, but lost opportunities.

And Lanassa was waiting.

She sat in the grand hall, dressed in crimson robes, a goblet of wine in her hands. Her emerald eyes glowed with restrained fury.

Pyrrhus removed his cloak, his armor still stained with blood.

"You return," she said flatly. "Again."

Pyrrhus poured himself a drink, swallowing it in one gulp.

"There was a war," he said.

"There is always a war," she countered.

Pyrrhus exhaled sharply. "And what would you have me do, Lanassa? Sit idly while my enemies conspire against me?"

She set her goblet down with force. "I would have you remember that you have a wife. A son. A kingdom that needs more than just a warrior—it needs a ruler."

Pyrrhus met her gaze. "I fight for this kingdom."

She laughed bitterly. "No, Pyrrhus. You fight for yourself."

A tense silence filled the chamber.

Then, she spoke again, softer this time.

"I did not marry you to become a widow while my husband still breathes," she whispered.

Pyrrhus clenched his jaw. He did not know how to explain the hunger inside him—the hunger for war, for legacy, for something greater.

Lanassa shook her head. "One day, Pyrrhus… I will not be here when you return."

She turned and walked away, leaving him alone.

For the first time, Pyrrhus felt a different kind of loss.

But he buried it deep.

He was not Achilles reborn for the sake of love.

He was a conqueror.

And conquerors did not grieve.