The Rise of the Exile

The Illyrian warriors stood in a circle, chanting in their harsh, guttural tongue. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and fire, and in the center of the ring, Alexander faced his greatest test yet.

Before him stood Drakon, one of the most feared Illyrian warlords—a giant of a man, his arms thick as tree trunks, his face marked with old scars.

Drakon rolled his shoulders, smirking at the young Epirote. "You have trained with us for years, boy," he said, his voice a deep rumble. "Now prove you belong."

Alexander said nothing. He simply raised his fists.

The Illyrians roared as the duel began.

---

The Trial of Strength

Drakon came at him like a bull, swinging a massive fist toward Alexander's head.

But Alexander was faster.

He ducked, sidestepping the blow, and drove his elbow into Drakon's ribs.

The warlord barely flinched.

He grabbed Alexander's arm, twisting it with bone-crushing force, then slammed his knee into the young warrior's stomach.

Alexander staggered back, gasping for breath, but he did not fall.

Drakon grinned. "You have spirit. But you are still a boy."

Alexander wiped the blood from his mouth. "Then come and break me."

The Illyrians cheered, sensing a real fight.

Drakon charged again, but this time, Alexander did not retreat.

He sidestepped, then swept his leg out, sending Drakon crashing into the dirt.

The crowd erupted in shock.

Drakon snarled, lunging to his feet, but Alexander was already moving. He slammed his fist into Drakon's jaw, then landed a brutal knee to the ribs.

For the first time, Drakon fell.

Silence.

Then—cheers.

Alexander stood over the fallen warlord, his breath heavy.

Drakon, still on the ground, let out a booming laugh. He clutched his ribs, shaking his head.

"You fight like a beast," he muttered. "Perhaps you truly are Pyrrhus's son."

Alexander extended a hand. "Then fight with me."

Drakon stared at him, then gripped his hand and rose.

"You have my loyalty," the warlord said.

And just like that—Alexander had won his first true ally.

---

The Death of Echecrates

That night, as Illyrian warriors drank and feasted in his name, Alexander went to Echecrates's tent.

The old general lay on his cot, his breathing shallow. His skin was pale, his once-strong frame now frail.

Alexander knelt beside him. "You should have come to the feast."

Echecrates chuckled weakly. "I have seen enough feasts for one lifetime."

Alexander looked away, his throat tightening. He had always known this day would come, but knowing did not make it easier.

"You did well today," Echecrates murmured.

Alexander swallowed. "I had to prove myself."

Echecrates's weak hand gripped his forearm. "You have nothing left to prove to me."

Silence.

Then, Echecrates's grip loosened.

His eyes, once sharp as a hawk's, began to dull.

"Epirus needs you," he whispered. "Go home, my king."

A long breath.

Then, nothing.

Alexander lowered his head, his fists clenched.

For years, Echecrates had been his guide, his protector, his father in all but blood.

And now, he was gone.

The Last General of Pyrrhus had fought his final war.

---

The Path to Epirus

At dawn, Alexander stood before the Illyrians, his grief buried beneath iron resolve.

Drakon stood at his side.

"What now, my king?" he asked.

Alexander looked to the horizon, where Epirus waited.

"We go home."