The Cost of War

The torches flickered inside Pyrrhus's war tent. Outside, the Epirote camp was silent, weary from too many battles.

Pyrrhus sat at the head of a table, staring at a map of Italy, his fingers tapping against the parchment. Every inch of land he had won had been paid for in blood.

Echecrates entered, his face grim. "Sire, more reports from Tarentum. The people grow restless."

Pyrrhus barely looked up. "Then they are fools. Would they prefer Roman rule?"

Echecrates sighed. "They would prefer peace."

Pyrrhus clenched his jaw. Peace.

He had not come this far for peace.

The tent flaps rustled as a messenger from Epirus entered, bowing. "My king, there is troubling news from home."

Pyrrhus turned sharply. "Speak."

The messenger hesitated. "The nobles in Epirus are… uneasy. They whisper that you have been gone too long. That our kingdom is vulnerable."

Pyrrhus's hands tightened into fists. "Have they forgotten who I am?"

Echecrates met his gaze. "They have not forgotten, my king. But they fear what you may become."

Silence filled the room.

Pyrrhus stood suddenly, knocking over his cup of wine. Red liquid spilled across the map—just as his ambition had spilled the blood of so many.

"If I return to Epirus now, I return in defeat," he growled.

Echecrates placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then perhaps it is time to ask yourself—what is victory truly worth?"

Pyrrhus did not answer.

Because he feared the answer more than he feared Rome.