The Price of Victory

The field of Heraclea was silent.

The battle had ended hours ago, yet the stench of blood and smoke lingered in the air.

Pyrrhus rode slowly through the battlefield, his horse stepping carefully over the bodies of the fallen. His men had won, but at a terrible cost.

His army was broken. His warriors were weary.

Echecrates walked beside him. "We lost too many," he said grimly. "Even in victory, we bleed."

Pyrrhus said nothing.

Instead, his gaze fell on a young Epirote soldier, no older than eighteen, lying among the dead. His eyes were open, staring at the sky, but his chest did not rise.

Pyrrhus dismounted, kneeling beside the boy.

"What was his name?" he asked.

One of the officers stepped forward. "Nicos, son of Adrestus."

Pyrrhus's fingers tightened into fists.

"Send word to his family," he ordered. "Tell them he died a hero."

The officer nodded and moved away.

Echecrates watched Pyrrhus carefully. "Do you still believe this war is worth it?"

Pyrrhus exhaled slowly. "I do."

Echecrates frowned. "And how many more victories like this can we survive?"

Pyrrhus stood. His golden eyes burned with determination.

"As many as it takes."

But even he was beginning to wonder if he was lying to himself.