The Last War

The storm raged over Argos, the sky flashing with lightning, the winds howling like ghosts of the fallen.

Pyrrhus stood in his war tent, staring at the map before him. One last war. One last battle.

Macedon was fractured, its king weak. It was his chance to reclaim his destiny.

Echecrates entered, his cloak dripping with rain. "The city is fortified. But the gates—"

"They will fall," Pyrrhus interrupted.

Echecrates sighed. "You sound so certain."

Pyrrhus turned to him, his golden eyes burning. "Because I am."

Echecrates hesitated. "And if you are wrong?"

Pyrrhus smirked. "Then I will die as I lived."

The horns sounded.

The last war had begun.