AndyB_writes

Born in exile, Pyrrhus of Epirus rises to reclaim his lost kingdom, proving himself a warrior as fierce as his ancestor, Achilles. From the battlefields of Greece to the war-torn lands of Italy, he wages war against powerful enemies, including Macedon, Rome, and shifting allies who betray him at every turn. As he builds an empire through blood and conquest, Pyrrhus seeks not just victory, but immortality—a place among the greatest legends of history.

But war demands sacrifice. And the price of ambition is steep.


Years after his father’s fall, Alexander II of Epirus is forced into exile, raised in a land of warriors. As a young king, he reclaims his throne and seeks to restore his father’s legacy. But he soon faces an even greater threat—Rome, an empire that will not bow to kings or gods.

Outnumbered and surrounded by betrayal, Alexander must decide what kind of ruler he will be—one who fights for his people, or one who fights for history. As war consumes the land, his destiny unfolds in a battle that will determine not only his fate, but the fate of all who defy the rise of an empire.

Crown and Blood

The mountains of Illyria loomed ahead, jagged and merciless. The air was cold and sharp, the kind that cut deep into the bones.

Alexander II rode in silence, his cloak whipping behind him as his horse trudged through the rough terrain. Behind him, the Epirote survivors followed—bloodied, exhausted, and disillusioned.

Echecrates rode beside him, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. They were not safe yet.

"We are close," Echecrates murmured. "Glaukias once ruled these lands. If we are lucky, his kin still remember us."

Alexander tightened his grip on the reins. If we are lucky.

The Illyrians were known for their harshness, their distrust of outsiders. They had no reason to welcome refugees from a dying kingdom.

As they approached the Illyrian stronghold, figures appeared on the cliffs above. Warriors, armed and watching.

Alexander felt their eyes on him. Judging him. Measuring him.

Soon, they reached the Illyrian gates, carved into the mountain like the mouth of a beast.

The Illyrian guards raised their spears, barring their path.

One of them, a man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward. His gaze was cold and sharp.

"You come armed," he said in the Illyrian tongue. "Are you conquerors?"

Echecrates did not flinch. "We are exiles."

The warrior studied them, his lip curling. "We have no place for beggars."

Alexander gritted his teeth. His father had once fought beside these people. Had they forgotten so quickly?

Echecrates stepped forward. "Look at me," he said firmly. "Do you not remember me? I fought beside Glaukias. I fought beside Pyrrhus."

The Illyrian warriors exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves.

The scarred man narrowed his eyes. "You speak of ghosts."

"I am no ghost," he said, his voice strong despite his youth. "I am Alexander, son of Pyrrhus. If my father once bled for Illyria, then Illyria should stand for me now."

Then, a new voice spoke from behind the warriors.

An elderly man, his hair streaked with gray, stepped forward. His eyes widened in recognition as he studied Echecrates.

"You… You were there," the old man whispered. "You rode beside Pyrrhus when he first came to us."

Echecrates nodded slowly. "And I have returned, with his son."

The old man turned to the younger warriors. "Lower your weapons."

Hesitantly, the guards pulled back their spears.

The elder approached Alexander, studying him closely.

"You have his eyes," he murmured. "The fire of Pyrrhus."

Alexander held his gaze. He would not be seen as a boy. Not here. Not now.

The elder sighed. "You will come inside. But do not think that Illyria will fight your wars for you."

Alexander nodded. "I ask for no favors. Only a chance to prove my worth."

The gates creaked open, revealing the stronghold beyond.

As Alexander rode inside, he knew:

A King Without a Kingdom