Come closer. Let the night pull its blanket over our shoulders. Hear how the fire speaks in crackles and sighs—because this story begins long before a boy takes his first breath.

In this first telling of our three-part saga on Hannibal and Rome, we sit on the salt-wind edge of the world and watch Carthage—the city of purple dye and polished coin, of cedar ships and sharp bargains—at the height of its hunger. She is rich, yes. But riches do not make a people safe. They only make them noticed.

Across the water, a hard young power learns the taste of conquest and calls it duty. Rome grows like iron in the soil—slow, relentless, and unforgiving. Between them lie islands, straits, trade routes, and pride. And pride, children… pride is dry tinder.

We walk the streets before dawn: merchants whispering over weights and measures, priests reading the will of the gods in smoke and bone, veterans carrying old wounds from old wars. We feel the aftershocks of Carthage’s great struggle with Rome—the loss that stings, the debts that tighten like rope, the bitterness that turns brother against brother. We watch generals rise, families harden, and a certain house—the Barcids—begin to speak of vengeance not as a dream, but as a plan.

This is the world awaiting Hannibal. Not peace. Not innocence. But a city learning what it costs to survive—and what it might cost to strike back.