The already small Morean army had now split into two.
The difference in scale was striking—an unmistakable divide between the main force and the detachment of knights.
For Turahan, who was still contemplating whether to launch an offensive, this was far from a welcome development.
However, any further delay would only grant the prince more time.
Lowering his gaze coldly, Turahan spoke.
“We will strike the smaller force. Prepare to charge.”
The Sipahi, cavalry designed to counter the knights of Western Europe, were heavy lancers armed with long spears.
Like their opponents, they were capable of executing lance charges.
However, shock tactics like a lance charge lost effectiveness when facing opponents of equal mobility.
Even so, Turahan had given this order for one reason alone—to decipher the prince’s intentions.
The enemy would have no choice but to form a defensive formation, uncertain of where the cavalry’s charge would land.
If the knights who had split off were used to block this assault, then dividing their forces in the first place had been a grave mistake.
In that case, why had the prince separated his troops at all?
To uncover the answer, Turahan aimed to strike precisely at the gap between the main infantry force and the cavalry detachment, forcing the prince’s hand.
A question lingered in his mind.
Would the prince abandon his knights once again, or had he laid a trap?
If the knights turned back to aid the main force, he would simply reverse course and strike them first.
If they fled, he would shift direction and give chase.
Either way, no matter what action the prince took, it would prove he had made a fatal miscalculation.
Unless, of course, he had never considered preserving his forces in the first place.
If the rear guard had once again been left behind solely to facilitate retreat…
“Conserve your strength. Be ready to halt at any moment.”
“As you command, Bey.”
The Sipahi at his side answered firmly, but Turahan showed no emotion.
He knew the burden that came with the honor of leading the Sultan’s elite forces.
Only by maintaining an unyielding focus on victory had the Sultan entrusted him with this campaign.
There would be no repeat of the Janissaries’ mistakes.
He reaffirmed this resolve over and over as he advanced steadily.
The Sipahi followed, forming their ranks in perfect order.
There was no hesitation in their eyes—only unwavering focus on the enemy’s movements.
As Turahan turned his gaze skyward, his eyes fell upon a banner fluttering in the wind, inscribed with a crescent moon.
A prophecy, attributed to the Prophet himself, surfaced in his mind.
—Behold the Queen of Cities, surrounded on three sides by the sea. In that place, the verses of the Qur’an shall reach the heavens.
“We are not all blinded by greed, Dragases.”
We are the army of the Prophet, executing the will of Allah.
The remnants of a fading era shall be cut down here.
On the verge of the charge, Turahan honed his resolve.
It was time to show the enemy just how sharp the blade he had forged had become.
Casting aside all doubt, Turahan drew his sword and roared—
“Allahu Akbar! Charge!”
The Sipahi surged forward, lances ready for impact.
Though distance obscured the expressions of their enemies, the shifting atmosphere spoke volumes about which side held the upper hand.
The thunderous sound of hooves shook the earth, mingling with the silent screams of those paralyzed by fear.
After suffering repeated defeats, their morale was crumbling.
Could any commander truly believe the formation would hold?
Turahan’s unanswered question was also the prince’s.
As expected, the prince, surveying the battlefield, bit his lower lip.
“This isn’t a direct breakthrough… It’s a maneuver targeting a gap?”
At first, he had been relieved that the enemy commander chose caution over reckless aggression.
But now, that same caution had become an obstacle.
Had the enemy simply committed to a frontal assault to inflict greater casualties, there might have been a way to counter it.
Their charge looked like a conventional attack at first glance, but the prince recognized the subtle shifts in their formation.
They weren’t aiming for destruction.
It was a maneuver.
A precise, cutting movement that placed them between Francisco’s knights and the main army.
If they turned that position into another charge at the exposed flank of the main force, things could spiral out of control.
More than that, both the prince and Francisco were now being tested—A trial of patience and judgment.
Which was in greater danger—the main force or Francisco’s detachment?
Were the Sipahi targeting the prince, or Francisco?
There was no way to stop them.
The enemy’s cavalry superiority was undeniable.
And after already splitting the four hundred-strong force, the Morean army lacked the means to counter the Sipahi’s maneuver.
Deploying infantry would only fracture their formation further, giving the enemy an opening.
Attempting a early retreat would spell doom for himself, Francisco, and the men under their command.
If the rear was overrun and the enemy’s reinforcements swallowed them whole, it would be the end.
A complete and utter disaster.
Realizing all of this, the prince found tears slipping down his face.
“I sent four hundred men to their deaths, knowing it was our only hope…”
Even understanding that, he still hesitated.
His survival had been bought with the lives of those who trusted him.
But reality was even crueler.
He could not let the enemy sense his intent to retreat.
To do that, he had to convince them that he still commanded four hundred knights.
And there was only one way to do that.
A word heavier than any other, soaked in blood—
[Sacrifice].
Another sacrifice was needed.
And the longer he hesitated, the more lives it would cost.
“Was… four hundred not enough?”
The sheer momentum of the Sipahi cavalry alone made them seem like thousands, yet to stop them, only a few hundred lives had been sacrificed. Had that been the mistake? Was it wrong to struggle to shed less blood? Even as he wrestled with these thoughts, the prince had no choice but to give his orders. The longer he hesitated, the greater the sacrifice would be. Feeling the dampness of his helmet strap against his skin, he issued a command, bracing for the worst.
“Form a defensive line.”
The prince’s order brought a shift within the Morean army. Soldiers began to cluster tightly, forming a defensive stance, with Ivania at the forefront—not beside the prince, but in front of him, ready to shield him. It was a clear sign of their determination to fight. Now, only Francisco’s decision remained. Would he charge toward the Sipahis, fearing for the main force’s safety, or would he remain patient and observe?
Fortunately for the prince, Francisco did not make a rash move.
True to his reputation as a knight hardened by the Reconquista, Francisco and his men stood firm. One obstacle had been overcome, but one more remained.
As the Sipahis finally cut off the prince’s connection with Francisco, he found himself muttering under his breath.
Please, don’t realize it. Not yet. How desperately he repeated that silent prayer in his mind.
Then, the Sipahis—who had been thundering toward them with unwavering resolve—began to slow. They lowered their lances, reducing their speed, and eventually came to a halt. There was no sudden charge, no immediate clash. Instead, they merely stood still, staring at the Morean formation, as if allowing their winded horses a moment’s rest.
Seeing this, the prince recalled a crucial difference between the Ottomans and the Moreans.
The Ottomans had something the Moreans—and the empire—did not.
—A corps of officers rich in experience.
“…They’ve noticed.”
No. Even if they hadn’t fully realized it, it wouldn’t matter. From the very beginning, victory in this battle had never been about annihilating the enemy. The Moreans had only one goal—to retreat to Corinth at any cost—while the Ottomans had to prevent it. It had been a hopelessly one-sided battle from the start.
And now, the worst-case scenario had arrived.
The Sipahis were not attacking. Instead, they were merely maintaining their position, waiting for reinforcements. And the worst part? There was nothing the prince could do about it.
—How much time had passed?
He swallowed hard. The Sipahis still hadn’t moved. If this stalemate continued, nothing would change. And yet, time was slipping away.
Then, amidst the eerie stillness of the battlefield, a faint, foreign sound reached his ears.
It was so subtle it could have been missed. But in his state of extreme tension, the prince did not.
Because he had been dreading this very moment.
Whipping his head around, he saw it. The final nail in the coffin that would seal the fate of this battle.
A flagpole raised high. A crescent moon fluttering in the wind.
The meaning was clear.
“…Reinforcements.”
The word fell from his lips in despair, and at that instant, the sounds of galloping hooves and sharp gasps rang out behind him.
Would it be better not to look?
That thought crossed his mind, but he still turned his gaze. And when he did, he regretted it.
The Sipahis, who had been standing idly, had begun to move. They were circling around, cutting off his retreat.
At that moment, the prince looked up at the sky.
Is this the end?
After struggling so desperately, does it all end here?
After sacrificing tens of thousands, was this truly all they had gained?
Then, amid his despair, a voice—one filled with near-reverent astonishment—shouted out.
“The Sipahis have turned! Look! They’re chasing the knights!”
The prince snapped his gaze back to the battlefield. It was true.
Francisco and his knights had suddenly bolted westward, and the Sipahis were now giving chase.
Why? Why now?
For a brief moment, confusion clouded the prince’s mind. Then, realization struck.
“-He will not allow even the smallest possibility.”
At the same time, he understood something else.
Murad was not indifferent to the movements in the West.
He was wary of Genoa and Venice. The fleeing knights—though a small force—were enough to trigger his caution.
Murad was acting under the assumption that a nonexistent Crusade might yet materialize.
“It wasn’t in vain.”
None of it was in vain.
The false Crusade, the scheme to lure Murad deeper into the conflict—all of it had meaning.
The tens of thousands of lives lost were not a pointless sacrifice.
The blood spilled had forged the very chains now tightening around Murad’s throat.
If that was the case—
“Retreat. I repeat, retreat!”
To Corinth.
With hope in their hearts.
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