The Flight from Epirus

The battlefield was silent.

The blood of Pyrrhus of Epirus still stained the streets of Argos, and the fires of war flickered in the distance. The once-great king, the man who had fought Rome, Macedon, and Carthage, was dead. His body, once full of might, lay broken in the dust.

Echecrates stood there, staring at the corpse of his king. His friend. His brother-in-arms. His leader.

His hands were trembling. He had seen thousands die in battle, but nothing compared to this.

The Macedonian soldiers of Antigonus II Gonatas were still searching the battlefield for any remaining Epirote survivors. They would not stop until every last one of them was dead.

Echecrates knew he had to leave.

"Commander," one of the Epirote warriors called, his voice hoarse from battle. "We cannot stay here. The enemy will be upon us soon."

Echecrates turned to the few surviving Epirote warriors, bloodied, wounded, but still standing. They were all that remained of Pyrrhus's once-mighty army.

"We are leaving," Echecrates said, his voice hardening. "We return to Epirus."

---

The journey home was long and merciless.

The warriors marched through the rugged terrain, moving like ghosts in the night, avoiding Macedonian patrols. Their bodies were weak from hunger and exhaustion, but their spirits were unbroken.

Echecrates refused to stop. He could not afford to stop.

There was still something left to protect.

And so, days later, they arrived at the palace of Ambracia.

---

The halls were eerily silent.

The Epirote nobles had already heard the news. Pyrrhus was dead.

Their expressions were grim, their eyes filled with uncertainty.

Echecrates had no time for them. He was here for one reason.

He stormed through the palace, past the fearful servants and grieving courtiers, until he reached the private chambers of the young prince—Alexander II.

He pushed open the doors.

A boy of twelve years sat by the window, staring out into the night. His hair was golden like his father's, but his eyes… his eyes were still filled with the innocence of a child.

Echecrates felt his chest tighten.

This was Pyrrhus's son.

This was the last hope of Epirus.

"Alexander," Echecrates said, his voice firm.

The boy turned, his face unreadable. "My father is dead."

Echecrates swallowed hard. "Yes."

Alexander's small hands clenched into fists. His body trembled, but he did not cry. Not in front of them.

"What happens now?" the boy asked.

Echecrates knelt before him.

"We leave," he said.

Alexander frowned. "Leave?"

"The Macedonians will come for you," Echecrates explained. "They will not let you rule. They will not let Epirus stand."

Silence.

Then, a flicker of something changed in Alexander's eyes.

"Then we must fight them," the boy said.

Echecrates almost smiled.

He already sounded like his father.

---

The escape from Epirus was chaotic.

The night was dark, and the Macedonian forces had already entered the city.

Echecrates and his warriors led Alexander through secret tunnels, avoiding the guards that had come to seize him.

A horn sounded in the distance.

"They know we're here," one of the warriors muttered.

Echecrates gritted his teeth. "Then we move faster."

As they rode out of Ambracia on horseback, arrows rained down behind them. Macedonian riders pursued them, their torches burning in the darkness.

Echecrates turned to his men.

"Ride for Illyria!" he commanded.

The hooves thundered against the dirt, and the survivors of Epirus fled into the night—just as Pyrrhus had, years ago.

History was repeating itself.

But this time, Echecrates swore, they would not fail.