Although the enemy commander’s banner still stood, the tide of battle had already decisively shifted.
The remnants of the Ottoman forces were being crushed on all sides, their numbers dwindling to the point of being visibly scarce. The enemy had been shattered—only the task of expanding the victory remained.
The prince had been somewhat cautious, concerned about the loss of troops, but even so, the army’s spirits were high, sensing the ease with which victory was within reach. Yet, the prince’s expression remained grim.
The more certain an overwhelming victory became, the more time passed, the graver his expression grew.
Among the battlefield chaos, the prince’s attention was drawn to the enemy main force, which was supposed to be locked in combat with the knights. Despite the relentless assault that should have broken them by now, they still held firm.
Their unexpected resilience held a meaning that could not be ignored. Seeking an answer, the prince thought about Murad’s past strategies. The conclusion was immediate and clear.
—There’s more to this.
By assessing his own army’s situation, the prince was able to deduce further details. The Isthmus of Corinth was a deathtrap—if both ends were blocked, his forces would face total annihilation.
Murad must have intended to turn this place into such a trap, first cutting off the retreat to Corinth by pushing his own forces toward the sea. In that case, what was the final piece to complete this strategy? Timing was crucial. And to synchronize that timing, one needed mobility—enough to encircle the enemy in an instant during the heat of battle.
At last, the prince realized Murad’s true intent.
“…The Sipahi!”
He didn’t know when they would appear from the rear. Grasping the gravity of the situation, the prince could hesitate no longer. He had to withdraw the knights as soon as possible. Furthermore, this battle needed to be concluded immediately. Now was the moment to unleash a decisive offensive.
“All forces, full-scale assault! Cut them down!”
The prince’s urgent command transformed into the roar of soldiers across the battlefield. What had been a calculated engagement to minimize losses now became a ruthless slaughter, thickening the stench of blood. No one was unaware of what was happening.
The warriors gripping their spears, the ones dying on the ground—every single one of them. Even Paliotes, who had been fleeing from the assault, understood.
Compared to just moments ago, the speed at which his soldiers were being cut down was undeniable proof. Such a wretched end. Paliotes could only let out a bitter smile.
“So, you’ve finally realized.”
Perhaps the Sipahi had already revealed themselves. Either way, the chances of survival were slim. The role he had been given was nothing more than that of a sacrifice in this war to determine the era’s victor. But at the very least, he could solidify one side’s triumph.
As Paliotes pondered this, a shift came over the battlefield. The knights, who had been tearing through his men like a war chariot, now showed signs of withdrawal instead of pursuit.
When he noticed this, Paliotes stopped running. Instead, he reached out to the soldier beside him.
“Lend me your spear.”
Without a word, the soldier handed him his well-worn weapon. It was an old spear, its shaft marked by years of use—but it was enough. Gripping it tightly, Palaiotes broke into a sprint. His target was none other than that monstrous female knight.
No matter how skilled she was, she could not completely deflect a direct charge with a lance at full speed.
At last, Ivania was forced to turn her horse to meet Paliotes head-on.
“You turned your back on the prince, and now you stand in the way of even meeting him!?”
Her exasperated shout barely registered to Paliotes. His ties to his homeland had already been severed. He had prayed in his father’s name—now, it was time to act upon the oath he had sworn in his own name.
Paliotes steadied his thoughts, knowing exactly what he had to do, and gave his final order.
“Encircle the enemy knights! Hold them off for even a moment longer!”
The instant he issued the command, his collision with Ivania’s Knights was inevitable.
As their weapons clashed, Paliotes instinctively knew—this was his end.
::[Flame]::
“The banner has fallen! The enemy is breaking!”
A cry of triumph echoed across the battlefield, drawing the prince’s gaze. The enemy commander’s banner was falling, its once-proud symbol now slumping lifelessly. The prince clenched his fist tightly.
Whether by mere coincidence or because something had truly happened to the enemy leader, it did not matter. The only certainty was that the enemy forces would waver. The crumbling Ottoman troops were already throwing down their weapons and fleeing.
At this rate, their complete annihilation was only a matter of time. The prince, who had been desperate mere moments ago, now felt a fleeting sense of relief as the tide of battle turned. He thought back on the hardships endured and managed to utter a single phrase.
“…At last, a path to retreat.”
If they could clear the road to Corinth, there were plenty of ways to exhaust Murad’s forces. Even though Murad had begun shifting siege warfare through the use of gunpowder weapons, the prince knew well the flaws of this era’s gunpowder—its fragility and unreliability. Too much had already been lost, but not everything.
Such hope was abruptly shattered by the sound of a horn.
—Bwoooooo…
A chilling, eerie wail rang out across the battlefield, freezing the scene in place. It was as if time had stopped. Only the prince reacted immediately, snapping his head around to see the cause.
His pupils reflected the last sight he had wanted to see.
Cold sweat trickled down his face. It was exactly as he had feared.
The Sipahi, the Sultan’s elite cavalry, were advancing in formation.
What an impeccable moment.
Just as victory was within reach, the Sipahi had appeared at the most decisive moment. The prince was momentarily speechless.
The enemy’s numbers might have been fewer, but they were all cavalry, whereas his own forces had been engaged in intense combat. Factoring in their exhausted state, the real balance of power tilted sharply in the Ottomans’ favor.
Even those who had fought alongside him could no longer deny the truth.
The battle had never truly been won. Though some still claimed that God had chosen no side, the signs of divine favour were unmistakable. Was this fate? The murmurs of doubt spread like ripples through the ranks.
Yet the prince bit down on his lip and pressed forward.
“…End this battle swiftly. Use whatever means necessary.”
“Y-Your Highness…”
“The west wind is blowing—hurry!”
To the Ottomans, who had already foreseen the Morean army’s downfall, this sight must have seemed utterly laughable. They watched the prince’s forces struggle on, following his orders even in the face of despair.
And so, Turahan turned to fulfill his Sultan’s command.
“The Sultan’s decree has been given. Offer them the chance to surrender.”
The Sipahi from Rumelia spurred his horse forward after receiving the letter that Turahan pulled from his bosom.
Of course, sending an envoy to urge surrender did not mean the battle could be avoided. Turahan issued another order to the Sipahi who followed him.
“Whether they accept the surrender or not, our task remains unchanged. Advance! Allah is great!”
With cries praising their god, the Sipahi closed the distance. The prince was not so naive as to fail to grasp their intentions. The only question was why they had sent an envoy first.
The answer came soon enough, in the fluent Greek of the Sipahi who had ridden up to him.
“Dragaš of Morea, the Sultan grants you one last mercy. Surrender, if you truly care for those who follow and depend on you.”
How laughable.
If they were truly urging surrender, then why was the Sipahi main force already in motion? The prince laughed at the obvious deception and spoke aloud the reason he stood here.
“We have already resolved to face our fate and tribulation.”
But the Sipahi, his expression stiff and unyielding, posed another question.
“After abandoning so many, can you truly speak of ‘we,’ Your Highness Dragaš?”
“That…”
For a moment, the prince could not help but waver.
He had stood and fought alongside those who vowed to resist until the end. He had sacrificed much for this cause.
But what if those who followed him had never truly wished for it?
What had he sacrificed for, and for what cause had he driven so many into danger?
The sympathy in the Sipahi’s gaze only deepened his momentary panic.
Yet contrary to the prince’s fears, his soldiers showed not the slightest hesitation.
“Your Highness, not once have we felt abandoned.”
“And if this is our fate, we shall accept it willingly.”
The word “fate” jolted the prince as if he had been soaked in cold water.
Fate.
He despised those who used that word to justify all things, who accepted their demise without any effort. It was precisely because he could not bear to watch his nation fade away under such hopelessness that he had taken up arms.
Turning from the Sipahi to his own soldiers, the prince declared,
“It is not fate. Do not blame fate for my own shortcomings. If you must resent something, resent me, the one who led you into this.”
He should never have struggled. He should have bowed to the tides of time. Had his foolish resistance only brought needless bloodshed?
Now, faced with the doubts he had long averted his eyes from, the prince could not help but condemn himself.
His once-unshakable conviction was fragile. It wavered from a single remark.
At that moment, a voice—many voices—spoke through one.
“Your Highness, we would rather burn in the flame you have shown us than live as empty husks.”
That voice breathed new life into a flame that was on the verge of dying out.
The flickering fire stood tall once more.
As the faint glow returned to his eyes, the prince clenched his fists.
—He would not let those who had resolved themselves to perish with nothing but the word “fate” to console them.
The western winds were already stirring.
And from the western shores, a fleet had begun to emerge—one flying a banner the prince had not foreseen.
He had thought there was no aid left to seek. That belief had led him to fight alone all this time.
Now, he realized that had been one of his gravest miscalculations.
Even if he wavered, he would not be extinguished.
Feeling the fire within him reignite, the prince met the Sipahi’s gaze.
“Return and tell your commander this: we will carve our own path here.”
“What a sorrowful choice.”
With those parting words, the Sipahi turned back toward his formation.
Watching him go, the prince understood.
This was the final turning point granted to him.
For one who had chosen to fight to the bitter end, this was the single chance that the heavens had permitted.
And he was not alone.
Someone had refused to leave him to fight this last battle by himself.
A hidden ally had finally arrived for this most decisive moment.
Knowing this, he would no longer stand alone.
He had learned that his own strength was not enough.
To overcome this formidable foe, he needed allies.
And for that, he was grateful to Manuel, who had foreseen this moment and made preparations long in advance.
The prince recalled one of the few friends who had chosen to stand by him.
A friend who had pledged to follow him into this desperate struggle.
He did not know what had prompted such an unexpected movement.
What mattered was that he was not the only one waging war against Murad.
Enjoying the winds blowing from the west, the prince slowly closed his eyes.
Now, the true battle would begin.
The final chance to slip a noose around Murad’s neck.
—Dragaš’s young friend has led a fleet toward the Isthmus of Corinth.
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