The prince had once given instructions to the retainers who followed him.
Naturally, each of them was assigned an important role in orchestrating the plan. Even Sophia, who had long been viewed with suspicion by the prince, was readily employed as an informant. That was how dire the prince’s shortage of capable hands was—and above all, how desperate he had become.
But among all the roles assigned, there were some of particular importance. The prince entrusted what he considered to be the most crucial mission to two individuals.
“Gemistos, I want you to cross over to Epirus and explain the foundation of my plan to Thomas.”
“Rest assured, Your Highness. Though my body has aged, my silver tongue remains as sharp as ever.”
One of them was Thomas, another prince who resided in Epirus. The thousand soldiers Epirus possessed were essential to joining forces with the western powers. They had to be deployed at the right moment to maximize their effectiveness.
Believing this, the prince wanted none other than Gemistos Plethon—renowned for his exceptional knowledge and prestige—to support Thomas. After all, Thomas was still young and might face ridicule from those around him. But with a figure of great fame at his side, he would be able to establish at least some authority.
However, the truly critical matter lay elsewhere.
The most decisive players in this war would be Genoa and Venice. In order to maneuver these two forces according to his designs, the prince needed someone he could trust completely. And unfortunately, he had few choices.
Sophia, who had nearly plunged Morea into crisis for the sake of her homeland, was out of the question. It was regrettable, but so was Ivania, who had once been deceived by Sophia’s smooth words. As for Bishop Nikephoros, while his devotion was unquestionable, he was entirely too naive when it came to intrigue others.
Eliminating all these options left only one person.
“Demicleos.”
“At your command, Your Highness.”
“The movements of Genoa and Venice will be the greatest variable in this war. That is why I am willing to offer something significant in order to move them.”
At the same time, he would ensure that Genoa and Venice became even more deeply entangled in this murky conflict. The prince resolved to see it through as he issued his final instructions to Demicleos, who gazed up at him.
And it was precisely this arrangement that allowed the prince to exert some measure of control over Venice’s actions.
Murad, who had failed to see through the deception of the false Crusade, had no hope of discerning the true intentions of the prince, Genoa, or Venice. But this was not a reflection of Murad’s incompetence—rather, it spoke to the prince’s meticulous preparation and patience.
From the very moment he chose to wage war, he had carefully set the board against the Ottomans, waiting with unwavering resolve for the perfect moment to spring the trap.
Even the Ottoman sultan, favoured by history, could not easily penetrate the truth buried beneath the rivers of blood already spilled.
The cross had finally been stained red with blood.
The scales, which had seemed motionless until now, were shifting steadily. And at last, they tipped in the prince’s favor—enough to drive Murad into a corner with no escape.
The prince clenched his trembling fists tightly to steady his hands.
He had finally arrived at this point.
Perhaps a point he would never reach again.
He would not retreat any further.
Just as Murad gritted his teeth in frustration, so too did the prince steel his resolve. Neither of them could afford to yield so easily. After all, the Ottoman Empire and the Roman Empire were fated to be eternal enemies under the same sky.
The battle between the prince and the sultan continued, with the very survival of the empire at stake. A cold silence hung between them, as if they might draw their swords at any moment. And in the end, it was Murad who finally spoke.
“You have made quite thorough preparations, Dragases.”
His tone, which should have been filled with anger, instead carried an unsettling calmness. Yet the prince, having observed Murad intently, understood that the sultan had not regained his composure.
But nor was he simply seething with rage.
Within the fierce pounding of his heart, Murad felt something other than anger.
And the prince had a vague idea of what it was.
“I acknowledge it. You truly are the last defender of the thousand-year empire—an adversary who can threaten the Ottomans. As many have called you before, I too shall name you the last flame.”
Murad.
The ruler who would rise to new heights—The eternal nemesis of the Byzantine Empire, who denied everything it stood for—
“That is why, here and now, I swear before the mighty Allah.”
He was exulting in the emergence of a worthy foe.
“A fire that refuses to extinguish will only burn all in its path… Dragases, I swear upon Allah: before you consume everything, I shall trample you beneath my feet. And once you are crushed, neither the empty name of the thousand-year empire nor the empty cause of hope shall be able to demand any more meaningless sacrifices.”
Though the prince’s cunning and strategy had forced Murad to sheathe his sword for now, the sultan would only continue sharpening its edge.
Murad’s determination remained unshaken.
He would bring the prophecy of the Prophet Muhammad to life with his own hands.
Resolving himself to this, Murad wiped away all lingering emotions.
“Use this time of rest well. Until the destined day arrives, prepare yourself. For you are the final trial that Allah has set before me.”
The prince felt a chill as he met Murad’s gaze.
Was this what it meant to be chosen by history?
The fire of passion that had burned within Murad mere moments ago had vanished without a trace, leaving only his cold, calculating resolve.
Fearing he might waver in the face of Murad’s presence, the prince forced himself to widen his eyes, refusing to be overpowered.
Murad, staring coldly at him, made his declaration.
“But know this—every trial shall be overcome.”
With those final words, Murad gave a small nod.
“Very well. Take it. As an act of the sultan’s mercy, I grant you the right to govern Larissa.”
“…What’s caused this sudden change of heart
“I had to do at least this much for you to truly support me as your sultan. And the more I grant, the more genuine loyalty I can expect, can I not? So that even in my absence from Edirne, you will not entertain any other thoughts.”
“…I am deeply moved by the Sultan’s generosity.”
“With this, the negotiations are over. The pact is sealed. Dragases, return now to your domain and serve me well. I must go and subdue the other rebels.”
So that was it. The Sultan feared Morea’s movements while he marched to pacify Anatolia. Even if Dragases refused the concession of Larissa, should Venice lead its forces to ravage Macedonia, the conquest of Anatolia would become a distant dream. Murad was offering Larissa in exchange for a promise of peace.
And this—this was precisely the answer Dragases had so desperately longed for.
Yet why did unease still gnaw at him?
The Sultan’s composure stripped Dragases of his own. As soon as the negotiations concluded, Murad turned back without hesitation, as if eager to depart. But Dragases was not one to withdraw so timidly. As the Sultan walked away, Dragases reaffirmed his own resolve.
“…Your Majesty, I shall come to see you again someday.”
That made Murad pause. He remained with his back turned, his expression unreadable. Yet the silence that stretched between them spoke volumes.
“……If my vassal wishes to visit, I suppose I cannot refuse.”
“Then remember this.”
The moment he heard the Sultan’s response, Dragases slowly rose from his seat. The negotiations were concluded; there was nothing more to be done on either side. Yet unlike Murad, Dragases did not immediately turn away. Instead, he unfastened the sword at his waist and placed it atop the table.
“Though I have come today to protect what is mine—”
That sword, which had cut down countless foes throughout this war, was more than just a weapon; it was a symbol of himself. But at this moment, it no longer represented only him. With his sword resting on the table, Dragases slowly bowed his head toward the Sultan.
In any other circumstance, this would have been the moment for words of praise.
But what left Dragases’ lips was not praise.
“—Next time, I will come to reclaim what is mine.”
Both Murad and Dragases must have understood the conviction in each other’s words.
The Ottomans would soon subdue their internal unrest and strengthen their hold. Meanwhile, the Empire would bide its time, replenishing its strength and gathering its allies. Whether in the distant future or sooner than expected, their forces were destined to clash again.
And when that time came, no trick or negotiation would suffice.
The true decisive battle would determine the Empire’s survival.
“May you emerge victorious, Your Majesty.”
Leaving behind only that brief grace—if it could be called that—Dragases turned his back and departed, his sword still lying untouched upon the table.
And in the silence left in his path, Murad stood still for a long while.
His hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.
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