The Scales Had Tipped
The long, search for a way out was finally coming to an end.
Everyone in the Morean army believed it, and the prince was no exception.
After countless defeats, they had always been forced to fight while considering the worst possible outcome. But at this moment, for once, they could be confident in victory.
A devastating onslaught.
The Ottoman forces, unable to withstand the relentless and surging momentum of the Morean assault, were beginning to crumble.
Watching this, the prince clenched both fists tightly.
“There was a time… when I vowed to myself that one day, I would become an undeniable beacon of hope for you all.”
The silver-tipped lances, gleaming brilliantly under the sunlight, pierced through vital points.
Even the splattered blood could not hide their radiance. But this blood was different from all that had been spilled before. It was not the blood of those who followed him but of those who had stood against them. Their blood pooled on the battlefield, leaving behind a lingering scent.
The sickening stench of iron, the very proof of war’s horrors. And so, the prince had to be even more ruthless.
Just as someone had once said—
The crueler and bloodier a war, the faster it ends.
Victory or execution—these were the only ways to bring this battle to a close.
The prince’s confidence in his judgment came from Ivania’s performance.
Though she had not been given specific orders, she had assessed the situation and, instead of charging the enemy’s left flank, she had maneuvered to strike their rear.
It was more than expected.
Thanks to her, not only was the enemy’s left flank in disarray, but even their reserves were now tied down.
There was no reason to hesitate—these were enemies.
And yet, a lingering regret clung to the prince.
They were the ones he should have protected. The ones he had needed to earn the trust of. The ones who should have marched forward hand in hand. But they had been divided instead, and, unable to reconcile, they had chosen the Ottomans’ side.
He had once declared that he would become an undeniable beacon of hope.
And yet, it had come to this.
But that did not mean he could afford mercy. He had made his decision long ago when he first faced those he had failed to protect.
The prince recalled the resolution he had made:
From now on, I will fight for the sovereignty and freedom of those who follow me.
“The heavy infantry in position will strike the enemy’s left flank. The center will continue pressing the main force and isolate their right wing. We must make it easier for Ivania to strike.”
Rather than deploying the heavy infantry to support Ivania’s charge as originally planned, it was better to use them differently.
The prince made his judgment, and the unfolding battle confirmed that he had been right.
The Ottoman formation, already halfway cut off from its main force, was now being surrounded and consumed piece by piece.
Even a soldier armed with long spears was useless without the will to fight.
Step by step, shielded soldiers advanced, their honed killing intent cutting through the Ottomans.
There were casualties, of course.
But the numbers were far better than anticipated.
The Morean pikemen had also done their part.
The advantage of long spears diminished as morale faded and the tide of battle turned against them. With the Ottoman lines collapsing, it was now meaningless to even question the battle’s outcome.
Yet the Moreans did not lower their guard, continually blocking the enemy’s right-wing reinforcements as they attempted to aid their main force.
If Ivania’s knights could now land a decisive blow on the enemy’s right flank, the battle would be won.
The prince had no doubt.
That was until—
Ivania’s knights suddenly charged straight toward the enemy’s main force.
The prince was momentarily thrown into confusion.
Ivania had followed his expectations perfectly until now.
Why?
Why abandon the isolated right wing which was nearing its destruction, and instead charge headlong into the main force?
The answer only became clear when he belatedly noticed a flag.
Amidst the crescent-marked Ottoman banners, another emblem stood out—the crest of a Christian noble house.
The enemy commander was there.
Ivania must have realized it as well.
Seeking to end the battle as swiftly as possible, she had chosen to go straight for the enemy leader.
Ideally, it would have been better to reduce the enemy numbers rather than pursue the commander’s head, but field decisions had to be respected.
The prince carefully observed as the two forces collided.
Perhaps his gaze had been particularly sharp.
As Ivania spurred her horse forward, her eyes shimmered with excitement.
A confident smile formed at her lips.
“—Your Highness is watching.”
Before her triumphant cry had even finished, a spear thrust forward, piercing the chest of an enemy soldier who had made a desperate, foolish attempt to resist. The soldier, impaled straight through the center like meat on a spit, was so stunned by the impact that he could not even utter a proper groan.
It was at that moment that Ivania’s soaring excitement started to wane slightly.
“…How cumbersome!”
Even as she muttered in frustration, she refused to release the spear, ultimately piercing yet another enemy who had stepped in her path.
It was an intricate lance technique that even seasoned knights would hesitate to attempt—a single thrust piercing through two men, their chests and abdomens aligned perfectly.
But was three simply too much?
Ivania discarded the spear and drew her sword.
It did not matter if she could not cut down every enemy herself.
Behind her were the four hundred knights personally entrusted to her by the prince.
The Ottoman forces, already struggling to hold their ground against the frontal assault, could not withstand the knights’ overwhelming charge.
They scattered.
And were slaughtered.
A force that lacked the hope of victory, nor even the resolve to stand their ground and die, could do nothing else.
The tide of battle shifted just as Ivania’s charge was concluding in success.
It was then that the banner she had been keeping an eye on finally drew close.
A man, clad in clean yet plain scale armor, raised his sword toward her.
The long years of conflict had led to countless cultural exchanges between the Turks and the Greeks, but even Ivania, who had fought beside the prince for so long, would never mistake one for the other.
Besides, his armor was unmistakably Greek, not Turkish.
In that moment, Ivania’s mind reeled back to the prince’s journey.
From a young age, he had sacrificed everything for his homeland’s salvation.
Through endless storms, he had never once abandoned his resolve, willing to shed his own blood for the cause.
How could they not see it?
Did they truly not understand why the prince had to don red armor?
Did they really not know?
Blood rushed to Ivania’s head, and she welcomed the fury that came with it.
“There is no forgiveness for those who abandoned the prince!”
If she cut him down and presented his head to the prince, surely he would be pleased.
A sharp intent to kill, mingled with the faint hope of offering victory, filled her heart as she prepared to strike.
At that moment, a voice filled with agony tore through the battlefield.
“Forgiveness?”
Paliotes, staring at the golden-haired female knight charging at him with unwavering fury, echoed her words.
Even if she had not shouted, the sheer weight of her emotions in that single word was enough for those around him to hear.
The shock of being cast aside by the Sultan had left his eyes empty.
Now, they were sharpened with hatred.
In 1204, after the cursed catastrophe of the Fourth Crusade, the empire had been torn apart.
Every time there was a glimmer of revival, disasters struck, making them question whether even the heavens had abandoned them.
And whenever they barely managed to survive, civil wars broke out, crushing any remaining hope.
Paliotes knew all too well that there were those who still clung to hope despite it all.
His great-grandfather.
His grandfather.
His father.
They had never lost their pride in their homeland, never stopped to believe.
And yet, the father who had once vowed daily that he would rise for his nation had, at some point, drowned himself in drink until his miserable life came to an end.
And it wasn’t just his father.
Too much time had passed.
Too many chances had been squandered.
And yet, that lowly woman dared to say such a thing?
Abandoned?
No forgiveness?
“Two hundred years.”
Paliotes’ trembling hands clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.
He wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words caught in his throat.
Still, he forced out the cry that had been buried for generations.
“Was even that… was even that too short for you?!”
His grandfather.
His great-grandfather.
And all his ancestors before them—
How many times had they sworn that ‘one day’ their nation would rise again?
How many thousands, tens of thousands of times had they dreamed of hope beyond ruin?
He, too, had dreamed of it countless times because his father had dreamed the same dream..
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