The battle was over.
As they watched the Ottoman army destroy camp and begin their retreat, the soldiers of Morea truly felt it.
How hopeless it had been until now.
Many among them had braced themselves for a glorious last stand, convinced that the Ottomans, radiating an aura of impending slaughter, would charge at any moment. It was only natural that tears flowed when they saw the enemy withdrawing without further conflict.
“The Turks are retreating…”
A soldier’s dazed murmur captured the sentiments of them all.
Thousands, tens of thousands of lives had been lost in this war—victims of the Prince’s ruthless decisions to save his homeland and of Murad’s unyielding resolve to bring down the Empire.
And yet, not a single soldier resented the Prince.
For he had been the one who had stood closest to death.
Now, as they watched the Ottoman forces retreat, their faith in him only deepened.
“The Holy Mother has watched over us!”
“A miracle! Praise be to the Virgin!”
A roar of cheers soon erupted. Their suffering had been long and agonizing, making their joy all the more overwhelming. Faces were filled with exhaustion, their bodies battered, yet their expressions shone with a light unseen for generations—one that had been absent for centuries in this withering empire. Even in Morea, the last flickering remnant of the Empire’s glory, that light had been faint at best.
No one had dared hope that those who had stood face to face with the might of the Ottomans could feel such joy.
Prince Thomas of Epirus, watching this scene unfold, clenched his lips tightly.
It had been unbearably close.
Had he arrived just a moment later, all would have been lost.
Was it truly divine will that had granted the Empire another chance?
The western winds had blown in their favour, but even such coincidences felt like part of a bigger plan during such a dramatic moment.
And yet, it was not mere divine favour that had turned the tide.
Had he not known the truth, he too would have been among those singing praises to the Virgin.
But Thomas knew why the Ottomans had truly chosen to retreat.
Because of the “Final Flame.”
A flame that no one could deny now—one that was slowly growing, consuming everything in its path.
Yet the man called the Final Flame stood, his expression frozen in stone.
Why?
Thomas, seeking the answer, stepped forward.
“Brother, why do you not rejoice? This is a remarkable victory. Though we have lost much, is this not the first time in a century that we have reclaimed our homeland?”
“…Thomas, forgive me. I have dragged you into this abyss.”
“Was that not already decided? If nothing else, let this be an opportunity to understand the true nature of the Sultan’s army. So do not worry too much. The battle is over now.”
“Thomas…”
Despite his brother’s reassurances, the Prince closed his eyes.
Even a fool could see it—he was still wary, still afraid.
What troubled him so deeply?
Thomas was neither experienced nor wise enough to see through his brother’s concerns. But he was not just an ally—he was family, a sworn companion.
And so, the Prince did not hesitate to speak his mind.
“The clash of steel may be over. But now begins the battle of time.”
“Time…” Thomas murmured. “I see. I think I understand your concern now.”
At last, he realized.
This was no time for mere celebration.
Time—more than anything—was what the Empire needed.
Time to rebuild its army.
Time to forge new alliances.
The Ottomans, too, had suffered losses in both war and rebellion and would need time to recover.
But would the time needed by the Empire ever align with the time provided by the Ottomans?
If the Sultan raised his sword again before they were ready—
How long could they possibly endure?
“But isn’t it possible that the rebellion in Asia Minor will drag on? Just as it was with Musa and Mehmed before, the Ottomans might even fracture entirely.”
“Musa and Mehmed were both fully grown sons. More importantly, at that time, the Ottoman Empire had just collapsed under Timur’s onslaught.”
This was not the same as the Ottomans weakened by Timur.
Back then, the conflict had erupted when Bayezid, having been taken as Timur’s prisoner, died without properly securing a successor. It had been chaos from the start.
Murad, on the other hand, had carefully solidified his rule even before ascending the throne—sealing off Edirne and systematically purging all close relatives except for Mustafa. He had already laid a firm foundation.
Unless foreign powers intervened again, there was little reason to expect further fragmentation of the Ottoman Empire.
Hoping for such an outcome would be wishful thinking.
All the Prince could do was prepare for the uncertain future.
“The only thing I can do is lay the groundwork for the next battle.”
“Brother… must we truly surrender Thessalonica to Venice?”
“Even if I dislike it, we have no choice.”
Even before the war, the Prince had taken strict measures against all merchant ships to prevent the spread of a disease suspected to be the Black Death.
And that wasn’t the only cause for Venetian displeasure—just bringing Genoa into this war had already strained relations with them.
With the next battle nearing, every alliance mattered.
So, he had to appease Venice.
And the bait he offered was none other than one of the Empire’s last remaining cities—Thessalonica.
As compensation for Genoese involvement and the earlier trade restrictions, the Prince had promised Thessalonica to Venice.
As a result, Venice now had a pressing reason to secure Thessalonica quickly, not only to protect their new colony but also because, from a strategic standpoint, it was the perfect location to block the retreating Ottoman fleet.
This was Venice’s true intent—one the Ottomans had failed to perceive.
But there was another hidden intent—one neither Venice nor the Ottomans had noticed.
“The Ottomans covet Thessalonica just as much. Having lost Larissa, Murad will be seething with rage and will never accept Venice’s bloodless takeover. He will do whatever it takes to exert pressure on Thessalonica. And as the cost of defense rises, Venice will inevitably seek support from the nearest power to ease their burden.”
And in the Balkans, there was only one force that had proven its worth by standing against the Ottomans.
Morea was the only viable choice for Venice.
The Prince had already set the stage for the next war.
“As long as Venice cannot afford to abandon Thessalonica, they will remain our allies against the Ottomans.”
The blade aimed at the Ottomans’ throat had already been sharpened.
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