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 trembled under the weight of marching soldiers.

From the western frontier, a Roman legion was advancing—6,000 legionaries, 300 cavalry, and siege engineers.

Their banners glowed red beneath the sun.

Epirus would submit. Or it would burn.

Inside the halls of Ambracia, Alexander and his generals gathered.

Drakon slammed his fist on the table. "We should ride to meet them! Crush them before they reach our walls."

Lysandros shook his head. "We do not have the numbers. A battle in the open will be our death."

Alexander remained silent, staring at the map.

He traced his finger over the rivers and valleys that led to Ambracia.

"We will not fight them in the open," he said. "We will bleed them dry before they ever reach us."

Drakon's eyes gleamed. "An ambush?"

Alexander nodded. "More than one."

Lysandros exhaled. "If we fail, there will be no second chance."

Alexander stood, his golden eyes burning like fire.

The Roman commander, Marcus Cornelius Scipio, rode at the head of the legion.

He was a man of iron discipline, a veteran of Rome's wars in Gaul and Carthage.

As they marched through the narrow valleys, he felt a sense of unease.

"These lands belong to wolves," one of his centurions muttered.

Scipio grunted. "Then we shall tame them."

A Roman soldier cried out, falling from his horse.

From the cliffs above, Epirote archers unleashed death.

Boulders came crashing down, crushing entire Roman ranks.

From the shadows of the trees, Illyrian warriors charged, axes flashing.

The Romans fought back, forming their infamous testudo formation, shields locking together.

Alexander watched from above, his breath steady.

The Epirote cavalry charged from the flanks, smashing into the Roman lines.

The valley became a graveyard of steel and fire.

And for the first time, Rome tasted fear.

The March of Rome