When the Sipahis finally made contact with the Morean army, they fully understood—and shared—the Sultan’s fury.
A man who abandoned those he was supposed to protect and fled.
People had praised him as the last light of the thousand-year empire, but in the end, he was nothing more than a fleeting existence.
The Sipahis from Rumelia (the Balkans) were particularly scornful.
Look at him.
The moment he realized they were in pursuit, he had begun butchering his own soldiers again.
Where, in that sight, was the glory of a thousand years?
And this sentiment was not exclusive to the Sipahis.
Turahan Bey—son of Pasha Yiğit Bey, who had devoted himself to the Ottomans since their early rise, and a young man who had distinguished himself during the Bulgarian uprising—felt the same way.
“Dragases… has he become so blinded by immediate victory that he has forgotten what he is fighting for?”
As a general, such an attitude might be natural.
A vision that eliminates all distractions and evaluates the battlefield purely from a strategic standpoint.
But Dragases was not merely a general.
He was a sovereign, bound by duty to lead his people toward a prosperous future, to bring forth the peace upon this earth.
And yet, he abandoned his own subjects.
Then what, exactly, was he fighting for?
For what cause had he sacrificed so many lives?
Those who followed the Prophet’s prophecy had been promised prosperity.
They carried within them the assurance of a blessed life in paradise and the unshakable conviction that they were doing what was right.
But what of those who floundered within the remnants of a crumbling thousand-year empire?
What resolve did they hold?
It was time to discern Dragases’ true intentions.
Before issuing the order to attack, Turahan hesitated.
—Does he want us to split? Or does he want us to take the bait and bite down on one side?
One thing was clear—Turahan himself could not make a swift decision.
This was a long-awaited chance for the Sipahis to redeem themselves, after their humiliating defeat at Dragases’ hands during his surprise attack.
It was also an opportunity for Turahan to repay the Sultan for saving his life during the Bulgarian uprising.
They could not afford heavy losses against such a meager force.
That very thought restrained Turahan.
And this moment of hesitation would open a path for the enemy.
He knew that.
Yet, in the end, Turahan could not bring himself to make a rash decision.
Dragases, though he often seemed excessively cautious, would sometimes display bold recklessness.
He knew when to be brave and when to think.
Fighting such a man was troublesome.
Turahan narrowed his eyes and muttered under his breath,
“This is getting irritating.”
Ultimately, the prince’s judgment had been correct—so long as the enemy was unsure of his true objective, they would not launch an all-out attack.
By hesitating, Turahan and the Sipahis had given Dragases the time he needed.
Now, all that remained was to abandon in order to advance.
But he would not turn away so easily.
He had vowed not to become a fool who accepted sacrifice as a given.
With his lips pressed into a firm line, the prince looked upon those he would have to leave behind once more.
He did not know all their names.
But he knew their wishes.
They still wanted to fight.
They still cried out that it was not too late, that they could still succeed.
They begged for just a little more time, pleading desperately for one more chance.
The prince’s role was not to bear this burden alone.
His duty was to take their desperation—their refusal to accept the crushing weight of ruin—and raise it to the heavens so that even the sky would hear their cries.
The existence of the last light was proof that fate, no matter how predetermined it seemed, could still be rewritten by human hands.
And the soldiers who would throw themselves into death understood this well.
They also understood that for flames to burn, fuel must be fed to them.
At last, the prince’s gaze turned to his knight.
Before the silent gaze fixed upon him, the knight let out a hearty laugh.
“We’ll meet again alive. Even on battlefields worse than this.”
Battlefields worse than this.
The prince turned Francisco’s words over in his mind.
If there were worse battles than this, how much more desperate would they be?
The sheer amount of bloodshed would be too horrific to even imagine.
It was not a sight he wished to see.
Suppressing a shudder at the thought, the prince replied with a faint chuckle in his voice, as if hoping to ward off such a future.
“Is there really a battlefield worse than this?”
“Well… I suppose our cousin would know the answer to that.”
Francisco’s vague response left little room for further discussion.
From that moment on, the prince said no more.
They simply stared at each other in silence before turning their backs in unison, as if it had all been prearranged.
The sound of horses gradually faded into the distance.
Before long, Francisco closed his eyes as a voice called out to him from behind.
—Your Highness, I will stay by your side. Please, do not take unnecessary risks.
—I can ride on my own, so stay back.
—How long do you intend to keep sacrificing yourself like this?
—If a day ever comes when no more blood must be spilled, it will be long after you have learned to read the room and stopped approaching me like this.
Was he speaking with that insolent woman?
Francisco smirked, shrugging his shoulders slightly.
A steel-hearted sovereign who kept his reason even in the darkest of times, and an overly passionate female mercenary captain.
No matter how things unfolded, their story was bound to stir up gossip.
Would that impenetrable heart of his ever break?
With idle thoughts flitting through his mind, Francisco strode toward the four hundred men awaiting his command.
For the prince, self-sacrifice was a given.
He had endured countless losses, and yet there were still those waiting for him—those he had to protect.
The same was true for the four hundred soldiers Francisco would now lead.
Each had come to the battlefield carrying the weight of a reason to survive.
Francisco was no different.
“I’ll make it back alive.”
Because he knew when he was meant to die.
His words, spoken from within his helmet, echoed like a chant, yet the rest of his thoughts remained unspoken.
A blade that had claimed countless lives before would only shine brighter, the more blood it drank.
With that in mind, Francisco drew his sword.
It shined, radiating a silver-white brilliance.
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