It all began with the matter of a deserter.
“There’s no way to say for certain that no one harbours resentment over the burning of all of Nemeapatre. In fact, in a situation like this, it would be more surprising if everyone remained loyal.”
The core of the plan was to select a soldier who, despite knowing the horrors that had transpired, still held unwavering loyalty. Frankly, he was skeptical. Who would truly follow and trust someone responsible for burning thousands—friend and foe alike? Even if one could rationally accept the necessity of it, the heart would never allow it.
For this reason, selecting the person to play the deserter was done with extreme caution. The atmosphere was subtly shaped so that murmurs of criticism against him would naturally rise among the soldiers. Eventually, even those who had remained silent began to voice their thoughts. And every word they spoke was justified.
—Did we really have to go that far?
—Even so, was it truly necessary to sacrifice all of them for the sake of this operation?
Even knowing it was necessary, even recognizing the results it had yielded, these questions were inevitable. The cost had been too great compared to what was gained, and so, the criticism was bound to come. However, amidst this growing unease, there were those who either maintained their silence or cautiously defended the decision. Their arguments came from a perspective that valued harsh reality above all else.
—Then how else were we supposed to stop the Sultan?
—There was no other choice. Something had to be done.
The retort to the skepticism were reasonable, but what struck him most was that single phrase: Something had to be done.
Yes. The noose had been set, but doubts lingered. More than anything, time was of the essence. Some might say that burning an entire city had brought only meager gains, but it had secured what was needed most at this moment. By sacrificing lives, they had bought time to alter the course of the battlefield.
The soldier who had spoken those words might not have known all of these underlying calculations, yet he still wanted to meet him.
“I ask this of you, Adrianos.”
“How could I possibly receive a request from Your Highness? Command me, and I shall obey.”
“…Very well, then. I command you—bring him here at once.”
“As you will, Your Highness.”
Following his order, Adrianos brought the soldier into the tent.
His first impression was utterly unremarkable. The man was simply another weary soul, his exhaustion from relentless forced marches and prolonged standoffs was clear in his demeanor. Yet, his tightly pressed lips, the unyielding light in his eyes, and the emotion woven into his voice revealed everything.
“I… I stand before Your Highness.”
Swallowing his tears, he knelt in a silent bow. His figure, at first glance, seemed pitifully haggard, yet the prince could not treat him lightly. Because he understood.
This exhausted soldier were searching for something to rely on. A man who had taken up the spear by mere coincidence had now stepped into the jaws of death in pursuit of a hope so faint it barely existed.
Whose fault was it?
Who was to blame?
The answer pointed squarely at him.
“Raise your head. I have done nothing to deserve your reverence.”
“Your Highness… who among us would dare to condemn you?”
“It is you. Only those who follow me have the right to criticize me.”
Seeing the soldier flustered by his unexpected answer, he smiled. Dwelling too long on heavy topics always led to fatigue—both for the listener and the speaker. Perhaps, before anything else, he himself would collapse from exhaustion.
For just a fleeting moment, he felt at ease.
But a moment of humor was all they could afford.
“Long ago, I told you of the four things that a man must be willing to risk his life to protect: family, faith, sovereignty, and freedom.”
“That is correct, Your Highness.”
“And I swore that I would stand alongside you, even in the face of death.”
“…Your Highness, how could you say such a thing…”
“I will not be a man of mere words.”
Then, he explained to the soldier the disgraceful, humiliating task that awaited him.
A foolish ruler, not content with having burned a city to the ground, who, when faced with an unfavorable situation, abandoned his army and fled alone. Disillusioned by his sovereign’s cowardice, a soldier turned to the Ottomans and informed them of the escape attempt.
That was the story they would create.
But it was not the truth. It was bait, meant to move the enemy.
With a hundred knights at his side, the ruler would draw the enemy’s attention and force them into battle.
Hearing all of this, the soldier was unable to contain his shock. Moments later, he began to weep.
“Your Highness…! To cast yourself into the jaws of death—what a dreadful thing to say…!”
“If one wishes to defy fate itself, one must be prepared to wager even their own life. Your only duty is to follow my orders without fail. And if…”
If…
“If I fall in battle, I will not hold your surrender against you. Live.”
“Your Highness!”
“Whether I win or lose, you are free. Live. It is the least I can do to repay the one who, despite everything, still believed in me.”
“Your Highness! Your Highness!”
“This may be the last command I ever give. Obey it. Just follow me.”
Even then, the soldier did not step back immediately.
But now, as he led his knights along the ridge, those words—this may be my last command—must have been what finally moved him.
The long silence was broken.
At last, the Janissaries began to advance.
Murad’s banner was still nowhere in sight.
But even if Murat himself was absent, his devoted soldiers were here.
Their ironclad discipline and unwavering loyalty gave rise to morale so high it seemed to pierce the sky.
And that morale fueled their terrifying prowess on the battlefield.
In just a few decades since their founding, the Janissaries had established themselves as the anvil and blade that struck fear into all of Europe. Now, that same blade was aimed at the empire—and at him.
A battle of one hundred against three thousand.
No matter how superior their equipment, the odds of victory were grim.
Yet, this was reality.
Such was the nature of war between a crumbling empire and a newly ascendant Ottoman force.
“Hamahara.”
His voice was quiet, almost too quiet to be heard.
But the tense silence of the battlefield carried his command to all.
The knights, who had once shattered enemy lines with their lances, now wielded swords that would determine life or death.
Instead of the gallant chargers that had carried them to countless victories, their horses had become mere shields, meant to absorb arrows.
One by one, the knights dismounted and formed a battle line.
Sensing something amiss, the Janissaries hesitated.
In that brief moment, he had never felt his palms sweat more against the hilt of his sword.
If the enemy chose to withdraw now, time would simply pass until Murad’s forces arrived and crushed them.
Had he ever wished for something so desperately?
—Would they choose to cling to life, or carve out a path between life and death?
Surely, the Janissaries, too, were hesitating.
—Would they simply follow the Sultan’s command, or seize the chance to end this war here and now?
A long silence followed.
Only the pounding of his own heart filled his ears.
Then, the Janissaries began to advance once more.
He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands.
It was then that a knight at his side, his voice heavy within his helmet, spoke up.
“Forgive my impudence, Your Highness, but may I ask you something?”
“Speak.”
Pressed for time, his response came out stiff and curt, but the knight seemed unbothered.
Rather, his tone grew almost cheerful.
“You once called us brothers in faith. If we make it through this battle alive… may I call you cousin?”
For a moment, he was at a loss for words.
Cousin? Out of nowhere?
“If you survive, cousin.”
“So… it begins now?”
“Are you taking back your own words after declaring you’d survive?”
“Hah. When else would I ever get the chance to call a prince my cousin?”
Even amid such foolish banter, the enemy drew ever closer.
Fate approached.
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