Crossing into Italy

The sea stretched endlessly before Pyrrhus as his fleet sailed toward the Italian coast.

Behind him, thousands of Epirote warriors stood on the decks, their armor gleaming under the sun, their faces hardened with anticipation.

The Roman Republic had never faced an enemy like him before.

Echecrates stood at his side, arms crossed. "The Romans will not fight like the Greeks."

Pyrrhus smirked. "Then they will die differently."

Echecrates sighed. "They do not fight for kings, Pyrrhus. They fight for their Republic."

Pyrrhus turned to face him. "And I fight for my own empire."

As the Italian coast came into view, a messenger approached, bowing.

"My king, news from Epirus."

Pyrrhus took the scroll, breaking the seal with a flick of his thumb.

As he read, his jaw clenched.

Lanassa was gone.

She had left him. For Demetrius.

For a moment, he felt something inside him crack.

Then, he crushed the parchment in his fist.

"Prepare the men," he ordered. "The Romans are waiting."

Echecrates hesitated. "Pyrrhus…"

"I do not have time for ghosts," Pyrrhus snapped.

He turned away, his heart a battlefield of its own.

Lanassa had chosen betrayal.

But Pyrrhus?

He would choose war.