Pirric Victory

I looked down at Julius, unconscious on the ground. His shattered shield was still strapped to his arm. His limp body lay upon the ancient sand of the arena.

Blood streamed from his forehead like a waterfall, staining the earth like a crimson offering.

My chest swelled with pride. A warm, comforting glow — the triumph of victory.

I stood tall, firm. I felt as if the world would kneel to my will. I was powerful.

My breathing slowed. I calmed myself. My blood, at last, began to cool.

Servants rushed down the atrium. Alarmed, they tended to Julius with urgency.

That's when the pain began.

The taste of iron in my mouth.

Throbbing fists.

My shoulder — the one that had collided with his shield countless times — now screamed.

Excruciating.

I let my sword fall — there was no strength left in my arm.

My muscles seized up. My tendons stretched taut, like instrument strings about to snap.

It was sudden.

As if someone had snuffed out a candle.

Crack.

I tried to move. Something broke.

My body couldn't hold itself.

I tried to plant my foot in the sand, to regain my balance.

In vain.

I fell.

The world went dark.

⸻

I woke with intense pain in my shoulder.

My body screamed urgency.

My mind begged for rest.

Distant echoes drifted in through the window slit. Outside, carts unloaded goods into the Dominus' courtyard.

The door creaked open, dry wood groaning to announce someone's arrival.

Augustus. My father.

Standing in the doorway, his eyes — blue and sharp as shards of ice — observed me. Judging.

He wore a gray wool tunic with the symbol of House Varenth: an iron lily.

On the hem, the embroidered phrase: "Blood, labor, tears, and sweat."

A cruel reminder: though noble, our house was forged to serve.

He approached with steady steps.

Not too fast.

Not too slow.

But measured.

Like the march of a legion.

Midway, he dragged a cedar chair across the floor. The grating sound of wood against stone — deliberately irritating.

He placed the chair by the bed and sat down.

Silence.

Not a word.

An unsettling silence.

Torturous.

Unable to bear it any longer, I gathered what courage I had left.

Fighting through the pain, I spoke:

— You… You won't say anything? I-I won. I'll be an explorer…

His gaze was predatory.

Cold.

Imposing.

How many times had I seen that look? He could make kings kneel and sons fall silent.

He reached out his hand.

Like an eagle's talon, it clamped down on my injured shoulder.

He squeezed — sadistically.

I groaned in pain.

Twisted, trying to find a way to pull away.

Tried to grab his hand, pry it off — but it was like trying to move a mountain.

His rough, grave voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Each word: a lash.

— Fool.

Silence.

The lash of anticipation.

— You call that victory?

— In foolishness, yes, you won.

— You may become an explorer…

— But at what cost did your victory come?

He released my shoulder. Relief washed over me — like a false reward.

SLAP.

The blow was dry. Cruel.

My face burned, as if flames from a campfire had licked my skin.

— That's so you remember.

— What I say now, you'll carry for the rest of your life.

— There are three types of victory:

— The complete victory, where you defeat your enemy with little effort.

— The decisive victory, where you achieve a goal and can negotiate the end — or continuation — of a war.

— And then yours: the Pyrrhic victory. Costly. Self-destructive. Leaving your spoils to the vultures.

— You won, Caesar… but at what cost?

— You defeated a proxy — a meaningless conquest.

— And what do you think Caius is doing now? He's spreading venomous words like arrows across the realm: Rat. Coward. Barbarian. Cheater.

— Your honor? In the mud.

— You? In bed. Helpless. Defenseless.

— I thought I raised you with discernment.

— Pack your things.

— Gather supplies.

— Say your goodbyes — to me, your mother, and your brothers.

— You will serve as the squire of Titus, frontier explorer.

— House Caranthus. Northern border of the Tiroth Confederation.

— You will leave here as a boy.

— And return… as a man.

He rose. Tall as an obelisk.

Upon the bed, he placed:

A book.

A jar of dark herbal salve.

A ring bearing our house's iron lily.

He turned and walked toward the door.

In silence.

Each step fed the flame of my frustration.

— EVEN IN VICTORY, I'M NEVER GOOD ENOUGH?!

Step.

— EVEN IN VICTORY, I'M A DISAPPOINTMENT. A MISTAKE TO BE FIXED.

Step.

— DON'T WORRY, FATHER!

Step.

— I'LL BE A MAN!

Step.

— JUST NOT HERE!

Step.

— NOT IN THIS HOUSE!

He left.

Leaving behind silence.

As if he had never entered.

My breath was ragged.

My mouth trembled.

My face dripped with sweat.

And the bitter taste of salt lingered on my lips.

Augustus' room was quiet. He tightened the straps of his light armor, crafted from dark leather. He dressed as though he were about to march into war — even in times of peace.

The door creaked.

Antonieta entered without knocking. Her eyes searched for his.

She embraced him. Silent. Long.

— How are they? — she asked softly.

— Julius is fine. The cut wasn't deep. The fall knocked him out for a while, that's all. Pride hurts more than skin — Augustus replied, voice steady.

— And Caesar?

He took a moment before answering.

— The pain will fade. The lesson… I hope it stays.

Antonieta pulled away, looking into his eyes.

— Do you really think he needed all that?

Augustus walked to the desk. Straightened a pile of reports. Took his time.

— He needed to learn that winning means nothing if it breaks you from within.

— Augustus… he's just a boy…

— Swords that are never tempered will snap in their first battle.

And I won't bury sons who could've learned earlier.

Antonieta stepped toward the window. Outside, the night's torches lit up the stone walls.

— The northern frontier is savage. Orcs, goblins, skirmishes… You really think he'll survive?

Augustus looked at her. His gaze unwavering.

— I told him:

"Return as a man."

Because no boy survives war.