The Court of Morea.
A place that, as a ruler’s seat, should have been decorated with all manner of splendor to display its authority was instead steeped in cold, somber silence. Not a single coin had been spent on decoration; every resource was poured solely into governing the state, reflecting the nature of the prince himself. Those who visited for the first time were always surprised by its plain simplicity, a direct testament to the character of its master.
The ruler of Morea was often hailed as the last defender of the empire, the final beacon of light. His growing fame now extended not just across the Balkans, threatened by the Ottomans, but also into the Western world.
A figure of unmatched discipline, tirelessly fighting to save his collapsing homeland against the mighty Turks. Even the Christians of the Western world, despite centuries of hostility, couldn’t help but acknowledge the efforts of this young ruler.
Through Venice, his name spread—Prince Dragases.
Perhaps because the Western world’s attention was still preoccupied with the Hundred Years’ War and the Hussite Crusades, the detailed circumstances were not well-known. Yet those who loved to gossip could not suppress their admiration upon hearing tales of this young ruler.
Still, few could have imagined the level of frugality he embraced. Many had criticized the prince’s disregard for luxuries, but he had always dismissed them, saying it was not yet “the time.”
And indeed, it was as he had said.
“The time” still seemed distant.
“…..”
The prince closed his eyes, unable to overcome the pounding headache. All the news that reached him was grim. It was a miracle he hadn’t collapsed upon learning that Murad’s army of 8,000 had finally turned its march toward Constantinople. It would have been better if it had ended there, but the subsequent reports only painted an even bleaker picture.
Hoping that Murad’s forces, exhausted from their forced march, would be vulnerable, Emperor John had ordered Theodoros, recently appointed as despot, to launch a surprise attack.
If it had succeeded, things wouldn’t feel so suffocating. However, Murad had fully anticipated the possibility of an ambush and prepared accordingly. Feigning retreat with a decoy camp, he lured Theodoros into a trap, encircling and annihilating his forces in one swift stroke.
The fate of Theodoros was unknown.
But one thing was clear:
Even if John knew it was a trap, he would have no choice but to summon the prince.
To prove that he wasn’t finished, Murad issued a sweeping mobilization order. Thousands of troops were already gathering in Edirne and would soon join Murad’s main forces unhindered.
If that happened, even with the most optimistic view, the Ottomans would have at least 13,000 soldiers.
The prince’s eyelids trembled. Ever since Murad’s initial victory, he had anticipated the worsening situation and had issued an early mobilization order. The resulting force numbered approximately 6,000—the absolute maximum that Morea, and the crumbling empire as a whole, could muster in its current dire state.
“…I don’t want a victory that costs me my army..”
A battle that left only losses behind was meaningless. This fight was about finding a path toward survival. Victory alone wasn’t always the answer.
Feeling the cold sweat drip down the bridge of his nose, the prince slowly repeated those words in his heart, over and over again.
The goal of this war is not victory.
First, it is to prove that the call for aid from Constantinople has not been ignored.
Second, it is to preserve Morea’s strength to the greatest extent possible.
Third, it is to secure recognition of sovereignty over central Greece, no matter what it takes.
As soon as the prince reaffirmed these objectives, the inevitable happened.
A sound, close to a resounding crash, shook the air. The prince opened his eyes. A man appeared, throwing open the doors to the audience chamber. His fine hair, clear complexion, and well-formed features immediately marked him as someone of noble lineage.
His armor, however, caked in dirt and blood, bore witness to a fierce battle. Yet the man paid no mind to his condition, urgently catching his breath as he knelt before the prince.
“Your Highness, I bring a command and a plea from His Majesty the Emperor.”
The man’s lips, bloodied and cracked, framed words that no one dared expect.
“‘Constantinos, I now realize you were not wrong. I should beg your forgiveness, but the urgency of our situation compels me to cast aside my shame and plead with you first. Constantinople is in danger. The Empire is in danger. I will not appeal to familial bonds, nor will I issue this as a command from an emperor.
Show the world once more the devotion you once displayed to the Empire. Do not forget the passion that once moved this unworthy brother’s heart. And…’”
The man swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he delivered the final words.
“‘…Now I understand why our father’s will resided in you, Constantinos.’”
The prince bit his lower lip hard. Why? That was the very question he wanted to ask. Why did John only now place his faith in him, only after the Empire’s fate teetered before Murad’s forces? Was this nothing more than a desperate plea to survive the current crisis? Suspicion clouded his thoughts, but it was the man’s voice that brought him back to clarity.
“Your anger is justified, Your Highness. But before delivering this message, His Majesty shed tears in my presence. I do not believe those tears were false.”
“…How can you be so certain?”
“Because I have seen genuine tears before. I have witnessed the tears of one whose heart was torn apart by betrayal. That is why I am certain.”
It was only then that the prince noticed the hostility simmering in the man’s eyes. A glare, sharp enough to border on murderous intent—something not easily fostered. Just as the prince wondered why a stranger would harbor such animosity toward him, the man provided the answer.
“Despite the insults Your Highness dealt to our family, we vowed to devote ourselves to the Empire. Now it is Your Highness’s turn to display a dedication of equal measure. I, Demetrios Kantakouzenos, speak these words.”
“…A brother of Joannina.”
Now that he looked closer, there was a resemblance. The prince nodded quietly and rose from his seat.
The preparations had already been made long ago.
Murad would surely expect that if he marched north, the siege of Constantinople would be lifted and his forces redirected toward Morea.
Now, the fate of the Empire and the course of history rested entirely in his hands.
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