At the beginning, no one could have predicted such an outcome.
It had been a full week since the Morean and Ottoman armies had begun their standoff. In that time, the Morean forces had displayed tactics that tested Murad’s patience.
When the Ottomans advanced, they retreated, but when the Ottomans pulled back, they closed the distance.
At night, instead of launching direct attacks, they sent small detachments to create a ruckus with loud instruments before fleeing, occasionally firing arrows to disrupt the camp.
Whenever the Ottomans attempted a decisive counterattack, the Moreans formed aggressive battle lines, threatening to seize any opening before gradually pulling back.
Even when Murad sent his own detachments, the narrow terrain restricted their movement, making meaningful ambushes difficult.
The only way to inflict real damage would be to mobilize the entire army, but doing so would risk engaging in a full-scale battle against the Moreans—one that could result in heavy casualties.
Morea could certainly be crushed, but Murad had another battlefield waiting for him. If he lost too many soldiers here, he risked losing Anatolia as well.
Preserving his forces was not just Dragases’ concern; it was Murad’s as well. With each passing moment, the Anatolian rebels would only grow stronger.
To remain locked in a standoff without a clear solution was the worst possible strategy. And Dragases undoubtedly knew this.
That was why Murad, despite the urgency of the situation, had repeatedly attempted to force a decisive battle rather than retreat.
Yet every time the fighting intensified, the Moreans showed signs of withdrawing toward Corinth, forcing Murad to abandon his efforts. In the end, pride was the only thing keeping this conflict dragging on.
“Any further is meaningless.”
Letting out a sigh heavy with frustration, Murad made his decision. The war had ended exactly as his enemy had intended. Clinging to it any longer would be disgraceful, not a practical choice.
At the very least, he would uncover Dragases’ true intentions. Murad resolved himself to that, running his fingers over the hilt of his sword—ready as if to draw it at any moment.
But in the end, his blade remained sheathed.
“Send an envoy. I must speak with Dragases.”
The negotiations began at dawn the following day.
The urgency of the situation meant that the meeting place was nothing more than a simple tent—just enough to shield them from the wind. There, the pillar of the Empire and the blade of the Ottomans would meet.
Of course, this was not the first time the Sultan and the Imperial Prince had faced one another. Their eyes had already met on the battlefield. Yet neither had been certain they would come to meet to talk face to face, even if they weren’t certain such a moment was inevitable.
Even if they shared the same awareness, their thoughts remained their own.
Standing at the heart of the battlefield, where their armies still stood at a standoff, the Prince arrived at the meeting tent first, carefully organizing his thoughts.
The fact that Murad had initiated the negotiations meant the situation was dire. He was even impressed at how quickly the timing had advanced compared to his expectations.
Despite having the strength to annihilate the meager Morean force, Murad had immediately found out what truly mattered and decided accordingly. Even for a ruler of reason, such a decision would be difficult to act upon due to pride.
As expected of the Ottomans.
But how far could he push Murad?
The question lingered, but before he could dwell on it further, a new presence arrived, causing it to fade naturally from his mind. A familiar face, as expected.
For a moment, the tent was filled with cold silence.
Murad and Dragases—two figures representing the Ottoman Empire and Byzantine Empire—locked eyes. Neither showed a hint of surrender. They remained like that for a long moment before the Prince finally lowered his head.
“I greet the Sultan.”
His courtesy was minimal, far from the proper formality expected of a vassal addressing his sovereign. Anyone witnessing this exchange would see a foreign envoy, not a subordinate.
Murad’s eyes narrowed briefly but soon regained their usual sharpness. Such displays of pride were still within acceptable limits. After all, the man before him had successfully repelled his forces multiple times.
Though Murad found it displeasing, it was only natural between enemies.
With a nod, the Sultan spoke.
“Formalities are unnecessary. We are here to speak, so let us proceed swiftly.”
“The Sultan is well-versed in Greek, I see.”
“It is the language of my lands.”
Murad’s sharp retort drew a wry smile from the Prince. At a glance, it seemed as though he brushed it off lightly, but Murad did not miss the slight tremor in his opponent’s arm. He had clearly felt something at that remark.
Not enough to exploit, unfortunately.
But for now, Murad was satisfied with asserting dominance.
And with that, he spoke.
“They are the people who live under my rule in the lands I govern. And not just them—every Christian ruler across Rumelia has sworn loyalty to me as vassals. I am the sovereign who has taken their oaths of loyalty.”
It was almost laughable—this desperate attempt to unite their pitiful forces after so many failures. Up until recently, Murad himself had thought so.
He had embarked on this campaign with the firm belief that he could succeed, had found proof of his own capabilities throughout the expedition, and yet, he could not ignore the reality that he had been pushed into a disadvantage.
Looking back, the source of the Ottoman Empire’s instability was clear.
An uncertain line of succession. The powerful officials who opposed the growing authority of the Sultan.
And finally, the Christian rebellions that refused to cease.
“Has the Ottoman Empire not already shown you enough? Your misjudgment and misguided stubbornness have cost countless lives. What were those deaths for? Why do you continue to resist, even as you witness the blood spilled before you?”
“Then tell me—what exactly were we supposed to accept?”
“Fate.”
To submit to the divine will of Allah—that was the duty of mankind. The Empire had to fall so that the people could be led to true faith.
The long-prophesied fall of Constantinople, foretold for a thousand years, was finally within sight. Against that inevitability, the prince’s resistance was nothing but a empty cry.
“The Empire has already disappointed its people more times than one can count. Your so-called thousand years of glory, your vaunted triple walls—none of them could protect those who needed them most. And yet, Dragases, in your effort to defend your homeland, you chose to set fire to your own city, to turn the innocent into sacrificial lambs.”
“……”
“Tell me, then—what was their sacrifice for?”
“The survival of the Empire.”
“Then let me ask you one more thing. This thousand-year legacy you carry—who is it for? This Empire you claim as your burden—who does it truly belong to?”
The prince bit down hard on his lower lip.
This was the crucial moment—the most dangerous question Murad could have asked.
What was that thousand-year legacy for? Who was the Empire for? Why had they demanded so many sacrifices?
Fragments of those questions whirled through his mind, and for a brief moment, his gaze wavered.
But only for a moment.
He had long since found his answer.
“The thousand years I carry is the pride of my people.”
At the same time, it was the sum of countless emotions—schemes, betrayals, honour, faith, and hope, all woven into history. A thousand years was proof that their hopes had been realized.
But a thousand years was not enough.
That was why—
“The Empire I bear belongs to those who have chosen to believe in me and follow me.”
All power originates from the people. The Emperor’s authority, too, had always been a power granted by the people.
It was the ideology that once ruled the world. An ideal that must never be forgotten.
For it was the last foundation keeping the Empire as an Empire.
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