Time flows on, regardless of whether one is prepared.
The day of decision had finally arrived. As the royal prince had declared earlier, the Morean army abandoned the siege and began forming ranks beyond the city gates. Watching as they opened the gates and positioned themselves, Murad tightened his grip on the reins. How long had he awaited this moment? With a mixture of sentiment and determination, the young sultan gave his command.
“Commence the advance.”
The sound of horns echoed through the battlefield, followed by the steady rhythm of war drums. At the forefront, the renowned Ottoman Janissaries stepped forward in unison, leading the advance. As the entire Ottoman force moved in perfect sync, even the silent earth trembled beneath them. The distance between the two armies steadily narrowed. So far, everything was unfolding exactly as the royal prince had planned. Yet, despite this, he could not bring himself to feel relief.
“One thousand three hundred men.”
A staggering number of 1,300 lives were to be sacrificed for the retreat to Corinth. Was this truly the only way? Even now, it wasn’t too late. If there were a better plan, a superior strategy, then these men wouldn’t have to be abandoned.
For years, Adriános had served him with unwavering loyalty, and these soldiers had entrusted him with their hopes for the empire’s survival, prepared to die for it. Surely, there had to be another way—one that wouldn’t force them into certain death.
But no matter how hard he searched for an alternative, none came to mind. A turning point without sacrifice simply did not exist. Perhaps his hesitation stemmed from the sheer number of people he had already abandoned. He had burned cities, ordered the deaths of innocents, and now, he was about to cast aside even those who had followed him with trust. Was the sovereignty and freedom of his people truly worth such a price?
Even as the royal prince wrestled with these doubts, the battlefield moved forward relentlessly. The gap between the two armies shrank until a clash was imminent. Murad, unaware of the prince’s turmoil, observed the Morean formation, carefully calculating his next move.
“They’ve concentrated their forces on the left flank to an absurd degree. Are they gambling on a breakthrough at a single point?”
A new question filled Murad’s mind—one concerning the very fundamentals of strategy and tactics. Since ancient times, the most basic military formation had been the hammer and anvil. Even the division of armies into wings and a central force was designed to maximize the effectiveness of this tactic. Moreover, most formations tended to be stronger on the right flank, as the majority of soldiers were right-handed. The Ottomans were no exception.
No matter how much Dragaš reinforced his left flank, breaking through the well-fortified Ottoman right would not be easy. Would that meticulous man truly march into battle without considering such a basic principle? Murad sharpened his gaze, focusing intently on the Morean left. With knights stationed at the front, it was clear they intended a traditional Western-style lance charge.
At the same time, the extreme focus on the left had left their right flank dangerously thin. The Ottoman sipahis, who had suffered heavy losses in a previous ambush, now had an opportunity for vengeance. Even if Dragaš managed to collapse Murad’s right, it would be meaningless if his own right and central forces crumbled first.
Then I shall clip your right wing before you can take mine.
“Send the sipahis to the left. Have them annihilate the enemy’s right flank and redeem themselves for their past defeat.”
Messengers hurried to relay Murad’s orders. Soon, the sipahis, eager for retribution, turned their horses toward the enemy right with triumphant shouts. At the same time, the Janissaries were held in reserve to counter the inevitable lance charge. Even if the enemy’s cavalry broke through, they would not easily fall. In the end, this battle would be decided the moment the sipahis crushed Dragases right and center. All they needed to do was hold their ground until then.
“This will be our final battle, Dragaš.”
The sipahis surged forward, kicking up a cloud of dust, while the Ottoman infantry advanced in tight formation. Murad took in the sight, falling into silent contemplation. Against the unwavering faith and loyalty of his troops—the true warriors of belief—how much resistance could the remnants of a fallen thousand-year-old empire muster?
The sipahis moved in perfect coordination under the sultan’s command. Despite suffering heavy losses in the past, their spirit remained unbroken. Yet, Murad could not begin to imagine what the royal prince must have felt upon seeing them.
The prince bit his lower lip. A force of just three hundred men was far too little to halt the incoming charge. From the moment the sipahis began their charge, he knew—
Without reinforcements, the right flank would be annihilated.
Clenching his fists, the prince agonized over his decision one last time. This was the final crossroads. Would he save them and stake everything on this battle, or abandon them without hesitation?
The fate of Adriano and 1,300 soldiers hung in the balance. Standing at this final moment, how could he not long for the kind of sweet, hopeful resolution found in fairy tales and heroic epics? The kind where everyone, against all odds, survives and finds happiness in the end.
Then, the prince felt it—countless gazes upon him. At some point, they had turned their eyes to him, watching in silence. Even with weary faces, they gripped their spears firmly, their eyes burning with determination.
How could he not understand their desire for a happy ending? They all wished for it. The prince himself, and even the soldiers who would soon be forced to flee, leaving their comrades behind.
But he had committed too many sins to believe that such a story could happen to him. Miracles did not come to those who merely wished for them. Heaven would not aid those who relied on faith alone.
And the moment he steeled himself with that conviction—The prince cast away all hesitation.
“There will be no reinforcements for the right wing. We proceed as planned.”
No one objected to the prince’s decision. No one expressed anger. Those who followed him merely accepted it with quiet resignation.
Among the soldiers turning their eyes back to the battlefield, none shed tears. They only gripped their spears so tightly that their veins bulged. And so, Morea’s right wing clashed with the Sipahis, receiving no aid.
In step with them, the Ottoman center advanced swiftly. The forces led by Adrianos began their clash with the numerically superior Ottoman army. How terrifying it must be—to hurl oneself toward certain death. Even the prince, as a man, could not help but feel such sentiments. Yet as he observed the unfolding battle, his right hand instinctively reached for the horn trumpet hanging beneath his saddle.
It was a precaution, in case Adrianos’ banner fell too late in the chaos. But such concerns proved unfounded. The moment the spears of both armies met, the banner snapped without hesitation. The prince let out a silent cry, unable to voice it aloud.
—I’m sorry.
—Buuuuuuuuuu…
The deep, steady sound of the horn trumpet echoed across the battlefield. Before the battle, all Morean troops had been briefed on the signal. The moment they had hoped would never come had finally arrived. Standing at the forefront against the Ottoman right wing, Francisco lowered his helmet as soon as he heard the sound, concealing his face.
“This is truly disgraceful.”
A knight who abandons his comrades to avoid battle—such an act is neither honourable nor noble. And yet, as the Morean forces began their retreat in response to the signal, their movements carried a solemn weight.
If they were fleeing in terror, they would have turned and bolted. But instead, they withdrew with unwavering discipline, their motion slow and deliberate—like the stillness that falls before death. The cruelty of the decision weighed upon them all.
“I can’t afford to be the only one whining… Retreat.”
When even Francisco turned his horse around, Morea’s center and right wing were engulfed by the surging tide of the Ottoman army. Only the broken banner remained, barely upright, the last proof that Morean troops still stood.
The one most stunned by this unexpected maneuver was none other than Murad. Even he, who had always maintained his composure in his battles against the prince, Dragases, could not hide his shock. But only for a moment. Murad’s initial confusion quickly turned into searing rage.
“Abandoning them again? The people who followed you, the ones you swore to protect—are you discarding them once more, just to run away alone?!”
What is a thousand-year empire worth? Who is it meant to serve?
A thousand years of glory? A ruler of all the world?
No—he is nothing more than a lizard, cutting off its own tail in a desperate bid to survive.
“I allowed him one stroke of fortune, but not this time! Deliver terms of surrender to the enemy before us! If they refuse, turn all our cannons away from the walls and obliterate them instead!”
“Your anger is justified, my sultan! But the battle is already in chaos! The remaining enemy forces are clinging to us, refusing to retreat, making bombardment impossible!”
They were stalling for time. Even after being abandoned by their lord, they refused to forsake their loyalty. Murad could no longer contain his fury.
“DRAGASES!!!”
But by the time his rage reached its peak, the battle had already turned. Morea’s right wing, deprived of any reinforcements, had finally collapsed, and the Sipahis had struck the flank. The fact that they had withstood the onslaught this long was proof of their exceptional courage. Pressing the advantage, they could continue hammering the flank and quickly annihilate the remnants.
Yet Murad chose a different path.
“The right wing is finished—that is enough. Recall the Sipahis and send them after Dragases! Delay him—make sure he cannot escape!”
Even as he issued the order, his breath was heavy with lingering rage. His gaze then shifted to the battlefield, where the encircled Morean forces were falling apart. And at that moment, a phrase he had once heard resurfaced in his mind.
“Those who follow Prince Constantine have chosen to die in hope rather than live in despair.”
“…Hope. What a cruel sound it is.”
A single life snuffed out by a dozen spear tips. Men thrashing in agony before death. Among them, one stood out—a commander, no doubt, a man of rank. If he had the conviction to embrace death, he must have been one of Dragases’ lieutenants.
Did he resent his prince in his final moments? Or did he still believe?
As his body was dragged from his horse and impaled upon an upturned spear, the only remnant he left in this world was the face within his fallen helmet. Murad turned away from the battlefield, his expression growing cold.
A spark will one day become a flame, and a flame will one day turn into an inferno.
But in the end, all that remains after the fire has passed is cold ash.
“O Allah, now I understand why You have given me Dragases as my trial.”
TL : Wow, I stood up and applauded. What a great chapter it was. Rest in peace, my boy Adriános.
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