Another month had passed since the news spread that Nemeapatre was ablaze, the Janissaries who had threatened the prince had been defeated, and the prince himself had fallen in battle, unable to withstand the assault.
During this time, supplies, including food, were transported by the relatively intact coastal fleets of Asia Minor, which had survived the recent naval battle against Venice. Naturally, this made a certain presence impossible to ignore—like a thorn lodged in the throat—due to its strategic significance in maritime transportation. With a map of Rumelia (the Balkans) spread out before him, Murad openly displayed his displeasure.
“Thessalonica. Even in this state, it refuses to move.”
To Christians, it might have held some significance, but to the Muslim Murad, there was only one reason to focus on Thessalonica: it was the second most crucial strategic point for controlling the Aegean Sea, after Gallipoli.
Situated precisely in the western midsection of the Aegean, Thessalonica functioned as the empire’s second-largest trading hub after Constantinople, capitalizing on its geographical advantage. Even the weak-willed Mehmed had imposed tributes from Thessalonica to pressure it, making further explanation unnecessary.
Naturally, this also made it a point of contention between the Ottomans and Venice.
The Ottomans sought to develop a navy to challenge for supremacy over the Aegean, while Venice was desperate to maintain its dominance and expand its colonies. Thessalonica, where neither side had yet gained an overwhelming upper hand, had become a disputed territory.
This was why Murad viewed his current campaign as an opportunity to bring Thessalonica into his grasp. He believed that if the empire or Morea were in crisis, Thessalonica, which had always remained isolated, would finally be forced to act.
Was it foolishness, or had it simply seen through his intentions?
Either way, the ruler of Thessalonica did not move as Murad had expected. Even as the empire crumbled, Morea was shattered, and even upon hearing that his own brother had perished in battle. Unexpectedly, the same was true for Epirus, a puppet state supposedly established by the prince. Though Murad had not encountered them at Nemeapatre, his forces had clashed with the prince’s troops multiple times, allowing him to grasp the true composition of their army.
It was purely Morea’s forces—nothing else. The prince had not even reached out to his puppet state, Epirus. After some contemplation, Murad arrived at a single conclusion. If his thoughts were correct, then the prince had truly made a desperate sacrifice, holding on to a sliver of possibility in the bleakest of circumstances.
“So all of these strategies and resistance were merely a move to conceal his final strength.”
The war was beginning to show signs of dragging on far longer than Murad had anticipated. Though the prince was dead, his followers still remained, and to achieve his original goal, Morea had to be utterly destroyed.
If the remnants of Morea’s forces managed to retreat into the fortresses the prince had prepared in advance, the attrition would only grow worse. The moment they crossed the Isthmus of Corinth, Murad’s original objective would become unattainable.
Meanwhile, as he was forced into prolonged and inefficient warfare, the strength Morea had stockpiled would inevitably shift to Epirus. In the end, Morea would be reduced to ashes, but the empire would merely replace it with Epirus, allowing the cycle of tiresome resistance to continue. Even if Murad wanted to turn his forces against Epirus immediately, the political landscape of the Balkans made it impossible—because of Venice.
The Ottomans and Venice had already clashed once over Durazzo. If the Ottomans were to seize control of Epirus now, it would undoubtedly raise Venice’s suspicions. In an extreme scenario, Venice might even impose a complete naval blockade on the Ottomans.
Given that the Ottoman fleet had yet to fully recover from its previous defeat, provoking Venice any further was unwise. But the most chilling realization was what these facts implied.
It was proof that the Constantine had foreseen all of this—that one day, the Ottoman sultan would reach this exact conclusion.
“Marvelous. Simply marvelous.”
He had intended to intercept the prince at his leisure and he had even succeeded in drawing him out of Morea—only to ultimately move in accordance with the prince’s designs. The battle had returned to square one.
The moment Morea’s remnants succeeded in escaping through the Isthmus of Corinth via Athens, a series of grueling sieges would inevitably follow. To prevent this, Murad now needed to pursue them with all possible speed.
As these thoughts settled, a hollow laugh escaped him. So even this prince, after all, had succumbed to fate? Fate and trials favour heroes. Those beloved by fate do not die easily. They may be bent and broken countless times, yet they rise again. In that moment, Murad heard fate’s whisper.
—The prince is alive.
Logically speaking, it was an absurdly slim possibility. Reports had stated that he had acted as bait, suffered through a chaotic battle where his guard was annihilated, and then fallen while commanding against a sudden assault. Even if he had survived, he was likely clinging to his last breath. And yet, Murad was certain—the prince, somewhere, was leading his forces and devising a plan to defeat the Ottomans, to defeat him.
While contemplating what that plan might be, new figures entered Murad’s office. They were his loyal retainers.
“Sultan, the army from Edirne has arrived.”
“I see… Have you considered what I told you?”
“It was deemed safe, and we implemented it immediately. Preparations are already underway across all of Rumelia to act according to your will, and what is needed for this campaign is being readied as we speak.”
At those words, the sultan smiled quietly. A prince clinging to a fading era and himself, striving to bring in a new one—what could be more fitting as a symbol of this struggle? Slowly, Murad turned south, recalling the vow he had once made in this very place. He had granted a brief relief, allowing his enemy to savour it.
“Your despair is nothing more than the tide of history.”
And he would stand at the forefront of that tide, pursuing the last hope the prince had left behind. Nothing in war is ever certain. Yet at this moment, one truth was undeniable.
The relief was over.
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