The empire that had been crumbling for centuries had begun to change.
The first step in that change was the retirement of the old emperor, who had held the empire together for decades.
He took responsibility for the succession dispute that had arisen over the shared imperial seat in his later years.
It was also an admission that he no longer had the energy to keep up with the rapidly shifting political tides.
When Manuel declared he would retire to a monastery, the citizens could not dissuade him.
Laying down the ceremonial robes and crown that signified him as emperor, the aged monarch wore a simple black monastic habit, the attire of one who had taken religious vows.
Before completely abandoning his worldly identity, he looked to the empress who had long stood by his side and embraced her tightly.
“I will go ahead and wait for you.”
“This time, I shall visit you as a friend, Your Majesty.”
With that brief exchange, Manuel finally cast off all remaining duties.
The old man, having completed his obligations, no longer held onto any lingering attachments.
He merely looked over those who would carry on the gruelling battle in his place—the new protagonists of the era. Among them, his gaze naturally lingered on those who shared his blood.
John, who had chosen to become the scabbard.
Andronikos, who pledged undying loyalty to the emperor.
And Constantine, who swore never to give up the desperate struggle.
Knowing just how brutal that fight would be, Manuel’s gaze lingered longest on Constantine.
Noticing the old emperor’s attention, the prince respectfully bowed. But it was more than that.
It was a gesture of respect for the lonely struggle Manuel had fought in pursuit of a hope long thought severed.
The other sons who understood their father’s battle responded in kind.
John and Andronikos also bowed deeply to their father. Seeing this, Manuel felt a deep pride—though he couldn’t hide his worry for one son who wasn’t present.
‘Demetrios didn’t come…’
Manuel had once planned to divide Morea into three, giving parts to Constantine, Demetrios, and Thomas.
He had even personally persuaded a young Demetrios for that purpose.
But after witnessing Constantine’s capabilities, Manuel abandoned the original plan and reshaped Morea accordingly.
Demetrios would have every reason to feel betrayed. Nothing wounds a child more deeply than having trust given—and then taken away.
Even so, it was enough that he was still alive.
When thinking of his second son, Theodoros, whose fate was still unknown, Manuel felt that perhaps Demetrios was the more fortunate.
It had been quite some time, yet there was still no news of Theodoros. Every time Manuel thought of him, it squeezed his heart so tightly he could hardly breathe.
So he had avoided the topic all these years. But now, the time had come. Slowly turning his gaze from his children, Manuel looked away.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t keep believing in you.’
As a father, it should have been natural to always believe in his children.
But Manuel had lived first and foremost as an emperor—he had spent his life as one, and until this very moment, he was still that man.
Faith in one’s child alone would not protect a nation. Though he had been a caring father, he had not let go of his imperial judgment. So with every step away from the palace, he mulled over his regrets.
‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your faith in me.’
He was filled with guilt toward the sultan, who had entrusted his beloved son to Manuel based on a fragile bond between rival nations.
That child had been taken in during a fleeting moment of peace, only to become a piece on the board to save the empire. While a miracle might still occur, it was almost impossible. Murad II, now sultan, was no easy foe.
Whichever side emerged victorious, the inevitable clash between the sons of Manuel and the sultan—each beloved by their respective fathers—would end in death.
Manuel knew this was not the ending the sultan had wanted. And yet, he had chosen to act not as a father, but as an emperor.
That may have been his imperial duty, but it wasn’t the only reason. Manuel could never forget what he had seen with his own eyes.
The city that had once looked to him for salvation.
The city he had personally brought to ruin.
The moment he realized what it meant to “cut away in order to protect,” he had lived ever since with a cry of near-anguish in his heart.
He had sacrificed endlessly, called for aid relentlessly, endured humiliation after humiliation.
But in the end, Manuel’s wish had been answered. That alone brought comfort—relief for the betrayal and cold-heartedness he had committed in the name of survival.
Finally, stepping beyond the palace gates, the faded sky of the capital came into view.
Beneath it, the people watched his departure. No cheers, no sobbing farewells. Just a quiet crowd observing the final steps of a man who had once been their emperor.
Only then did Manuel turn back. The palace, where he had resided for decades. The place that had embraced him as emperor during an age of decay. And the place he would never return to.
As he turned away for the last time, true freedom settled over Manuel.
‘I shall spend what little life remains in penance and prayer. You granted my final wish, O Lord—I welcome punishment with a joyful heart.’
The aged man, reborn as a humble seeker of truth, left behind all worldly attachments.
The people silently stepped aside, letting the monk pass between them. Some bowed reverently, others quietly wept behind cupped hands. Seeing that he walked alone, a few volunteered to accompany him. The procession grew quickly. Without a word, Manuel accepted their presence.
Only once Manuel entered the monastery did the people stop. The black-robed monks silently took over, guiding the new brother within. And thus, the emperor named Manuel vanished from the world. Only then did the people feel the full weight of it.
The old era had ended.
Preparations for the coronation of the new co-emperor began with unprecedented speed.
Normally, neighbouring nations would be summoned to assert legitimacy, but given the erratic situation surrounding the empire, tradition was cast aside.
It was also due to the strong insistence of the current emperor, John. With the revered Manuel retired, the empire needed a new pillar. And John had long had one man in mind—his brother.
“Constantine Dragases Palaiologos, child of the Lord and one called by Jesus Christ, step forward.”
From swinging censers, fragrant smoke billowed toward the heavens. Though dim, the golden icons still shone with divine light, and stained glass in every color cast hues throughout the church.
Under the dazzling radiance singing of celestial glory like starlight, the kneeling youth rose at the summons. For a moment, his gaze shifted sideways—to John.
His co-emperor and brother briefly seemed surprised, then smiled and nodded. Only then did the youth face forward without hesitation.
The followers with censers stepped forward, surrounding the youth in smoke.
Amid the intoxicating scent, he slowly closed his eyes. A sacred silence embraced him. And within that hush, he heard faint voices—more like echoes than sounds.
As if someone were weeping in sorrow… or holding back overwhelming emotion. Hearing this, the youth opened his eyes and walked forward—toward the throne that awaited him.
One step forward—and he saw the ruins of past glory.
Another step—and he heard the cry of those mourning a lost golden age.
With each step, flashes of stained glass flickered in the corner of his vision, their brilliant colors dulled by layers of dust. The censers swung solemnly, spilling only smoke. The church, filled with reverent silence, permitted no cheers.
Within that stillness, only the youth continued to walk forward.
Finally, as he knelt before the throne awaiting him, the patriarch opened his mouth to speak.
( Patriarch is the highest ranking bishops in Eastern Orthodoxy )
“Jesus Christ, ruler of the world and the order of the cosmos, our savior—before You, we now place the one chosen to rule the last empire permitted beneath the heavens until the day of judgment You have promised.”
After this invocation, the patriarch posed his question to the youth.
“Constantine Dragases Palaiologos, do you swear to rule this land and its people with justice and unwavering faith, in the name of Jesus Christ?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to remember always that your power is granted by the support of the people and the will of God, and to serve the people and obey the Lord accordingly?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear, as protector of the Church and the people, to defend both the Church and the citizens, to never neglect the duties entrusted to you for any reason, and to always fulfill your responsibilities with sincerity?”
“I earnestly swear it.”
“Then may the Lord bless him.”
As the priest approached with a cup filled with holy oil, the Patriarch carefully accepted it and slowly tilted the cup.
A slender stream of oil began to flow, trickling down onto the young man’s head. Once he deemed it sufficient, the Patriarch took the cup back.
“Constantinos Dragases Palaiologos, he who has come to swear before Jesus Christ whom you serve, must also swear to the citizens whom you are bound to serve.”
There were many phrases he could have used to swear his oath. Some were already established; in a ceremony so devout, it would have made sense to emphasize faith even more.
But from the moment he stepped into this place, the young man had already decided what his vow would be.
“I am a lowly man with nothing to my name.”
He opened his mouth, feeling the sacred oil slide down the bridge of his nose.
“I once longed for a life of indulgence, and I’ve committed unforgivable sins out of weakness. All I can offer as an oath are these two words.”
Those who knew the young man’s life might have scoffed at the first reason.
But in the midst of this holy coronation, no one laughed.
In the heavy silence, the young man finally spoke the vow he had carried in his heart.
“I did not give up. And I will not give up.”
With those words, he lifted his head—though no one had called on him to do so.
Yet no one rebuked him.
The Patriarch, as if expecting this moment, had already passed the cup to another attendant.
Now, in his hands, he held a different object—one countless people had longed for, prayed for.
A symbol of everything that had been lost, the final remnant of past glory left standing in the ruins.
And in front of it, the Patriarch smiled warmly and said:
“Then this crown is for you, Your Majesty.”
Slowly, so slowly, a weight descended—not upon flesh, but upon the soul. As the coronation crown was finally placed upon his head, the immense burden settled over the new emperor, and he rose.
The new emperor did not turn to the altar. He turned to the people. They were all watching him. Their gazes were trembling with uncertainty. And yet, none could turn away from him.
And in their eyes, the emperor saw what he must do.
“O Lord, light the path I must walk!”
A great smoke passed, dimming the brilliance of the stained glass.
The light vanished—but so too did the dust that the light had revealed.
“Then I shall go forth!”
The censer, burned to ash, could no longer hold incense.
The smoke that had risen to the heavens now thinned and dispersed.
“Then your emperor shall go forth first!”
The sacred silence was broken.
The emperor’s declaration echoed through the cathedral—and those who had watched the coronation in breathless silence now shouted aloud.
The hope they had doubted but could no longer deny stood before them, unshaken. And the people cried out, over and over.
“Lead us, Your Majesty Dragases!”
“Long live Emperor Constantinos!”
“Dragases, our protector!”
Their varied cries began to converge. And at last, the voices merged into one.
—Dragases!
—Dragases! Dragases!
Amid the unending chants, some still watched the emperor.
“Andronikos, are you feeling alright?”
“It’s a rare coronation. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to come to the Hagia Sophia. A little discomfort is fine.”
Though they stood amid the thunderous cheers of the people, John and Andronikos were not swept up in the excitement. Yet even they couldn’t hide the stirrings of passion rising from deep within.
John, his cheeks now flushed with emotion, spoke with a hint of disapproval.
“Then stay and see more.”
“I already am. He’s being welcomed to the point it makes me jealous.”
“Is jealousy all you can think of? A memory came back to me after so long.”
“…Some of it came back to me too.”
Silence fell between the brothers.
But it was not awkward or uncomfortable.
Rather, it was a moment of reflection amid the roar, one that compelled someone to speak their heart.
“This country will change.”
Centuries of decline, crumbling pride, and a wretched present had finally given way to faith.
What the empire had lost for so long had finally returned.
Who could remain calm, seeing the impossible become real?
Such reflections soon gave rise to others.
“And it will move forward.”
No longer did they resign themselves to despair.
The people stood again, clinging to the last of their pride.
Even knowing the road ahead would be drenched in blood.
Only at the end would they know if that blood had meaning.
Ruin—or survival.
One or the other awaited them at the end.
And at this moment, not just those gathered here, but everyone in the empire understood:
—A new era has begun.
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