The Court of Mistra
The emperor, usually buried in his office and engrossed in work, momentarily set down his quill at the rare news brought by a messenger and muttered in a calm tone,
“So he chose to back down, after all.”
The revolt of Little Mustafa had come to an end.
As the emperor had predicted, it ended in a decisive victory for Murad.
It was an obvious outcome. Though Little Mustafa had gathered a decent force by rallying support from the beyliks with the backing of the Karamanids, the limitations were clear.
The true power of the Ottomans—the Sipahi and the Janissaries—remained loyal to none other than Murad.
Had no countermeasures been taken, the Ottomans might have seized Anatolia even faster than Dragases himself had anticipated.
If Murad had one misfortune, it was that his hunch had become all too predictable.
The young and ambitious Sultan fully understood the heavy burden that came with mobilizing troops.
And that was not just Murad—it was something any sensible monarch would know.
War was usually a last resort.
A single defeat could shake the foundations of a nation, given the enormous cost in resources and manpower. That was why Murad sought to seize as many gains as possible with a single move.
Dragases would never have overlooked such a point.
Defeating Little Mustafa’s forces meant more than just quelling a rebellion. It was also a direct blow to the Karamanids, who had supported him.
The emperor knew that the main reason Ottoman dominance in Anatolia hadn’t been fully established was the resistance from the Turkic beyliks, especially the Karamanids. Thus, he could naturally deduces Murad’s next move.
Murad would likely take advantage of the Karamanids weakened state and launch a campaign to finally establish supremacy over Anatolia.
The emperor was certain that the young Sultan, having secured his rule, would continue advancing.
But Murad’s intentions were stopped by something as simple as a single letter.
At last, the emperor, who had been silently observing the movements of the Ottomans in Anatolia, could let out a sigh of relief.
“…With this, the Ottomans advance into Anatolia has been stopped—for now.”
As long as the Mamluks retained their power, the Ottomans wouldn’t dare recklessly push forward. Still, the recent conflict had made it undeniably clear just how capable Murad was and how formidable the army under him had become.
Now that the world knew this young Sultan possessed both talent and ambition, neighboring states would begin to see the Ottomans as a real threat.
And that was reason enough for encouragement. The moment the Ottomans showed any hostility, there was now a far greater chance that these powers would unite against them.
Especially now that Murad knew the Mamluks had a stake in the region, the Ottomans would hesitate to further involve themselves in Anatolia.
From this point forward, any expansion in that direction would inevitably provoke a confrontation with the Mamluks.
Still, there were problems.
The emperor slowly closed his eyes and clenched both fists tightly.
“Next will be the Empire.”
With their path into Anatolia blocked, there was only one direction left for the Ottomans to turn.
Constantinople, proud of its triple-layered walls, may be well-defended, but not all of imperial territory shared such fortifications. Murad, more than anyone, surely knew the Ottomans were not yet ready to fulfill their grand dream of seizing the imperial capital.
That was why they would tighten the noose slowly but surely.
And so, the emperor Dragases could only sink deeper into thought.
How much time had passed since then?
Having shed his immediate concerns about the Ottomans, the emperor was now busy reviewing the results of his reforms. Tension in the capital had heightened with the Sultan’s return, but there was nothing Morea could realistically do at the moment.
The more rational choice was to continue building strength. And not all news was grim—on rare occasions, even Dragases received genuinely good news.
Thomas Palaiologos, Despot of Epirus, had finally returned safely after completing his campaign.
Though he brought back fewer than a thousand troops, they represented one of the Empire’s few remaining military assets. Even if there had been some losses, the mere fact that he returned safely was a blessing.
More encouraging than anything else was that Thomas—one of the emperor’s most trusted allies—had returned without injury. Normally, the emperor remained in his study to receive after-action reports, but this time was an exception.
The emperor personally rode out to greet Thomas forces as they approached Mistra. Exhausted by the long campaign, the soldiers’ shoulders sagged as they marched. But what caught the emperor’s eye most was Thomas’ face.
“I’m glad you returned safely, Thomas.”
“…Brother. Once we’re back in Mistra, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Would that be alright?”
“Of course.”
“…Thank you.”
His face had grown pale with fatigue—a clear symbol of the hardships he had endured. Whether due to sheer exhaustion or something else, Thomas said no more after that.
Even though the soldiers had loosened up somewhat at the joy of returning home, Thomas remained silent. Out of concern for his brother’s condition, the emperor refrained from any further conversation, and a quiet hush settled over them.
As they continued toward Mistra, Thomas began glancing around at his surroundings.
How long had it been since the two brothers had ridden together in silence? When Thomas finally spoke again, a good amount of time had passed—and they had arrived at Mistra.
“…Even this place, which I thought would never change, has changed.”
It was a single sentence, but it carried many emotions woven together in a curious tone. Still, it was far too little to draw any conclusions from.
It was dangerous to assume another’s thoughts so carelessly. Yet, Thomas wasn’t wrong. Though only three years had passed, Morea—centered around Mistra—had achieved a surprising degree of prosperity and transformation.
“This time we’ve bought was hard-won. Even if it’s just three years, we must make the most of it.”
The transformation over the past three years was entirely thanks to Emperor Dragases. Under his full support, reforms had slowly begun to yield results.
Although not fully independent, a new system of governance by the People’s Assembly, granting significant independence to the cities, had been established.
Furthermore, the seizure of wealth through the dissolution of many monasteries had given the empire much-needed financial breathing room. Many clerics had turned their backs on the emperor as a result, but he had expected as much.
Diplomatic progress had also been made. In exchange for providing troops to help defend Thessalonica, Morea had secured a deal with Venice for the provision of armor.
This was a significant development for Emperor Dragases, who envisioned infantry as the backbone of his reformed army. The glory of the empire’s once-mighty military had long since faded.
For Morea’s largely chain mail-equipped forces, acquiring Western plate armor was essential for building a professional core.
Though the supply was still too limited for widespread distribution, that was a problem time would solve. But for now, there was no need to speak of such matters—Thomas’ expression was far too clouded.
The emperor, sensing no need to press the issue, fell silent. Thomas glanced around the streets of Mistra once more and let out a small sigh.
“Anyone who sees this place will know just how much effort you’ve put into it, brother. On the road to Mistra, I ran into several groups of migrants. They, too, must be aware of your efforts.”
As Thomas said, unprecedented events were unfolding in Morea. While migrants from Constantinople were nothing new, it was exceedingly rare for other ethnic groups—particularly Albanians—to migrate in group.
Beyond the forty thousand Albanians who had already come, more refugees were steadily arriving in Morea, increasing in number, if not at the same scale.
Considering Morea’s prosperity and stability, it was only natural.
The entire Balkan Peninsula now lay under the shadow of Ottoman threat, and Morea was the only place that, however dangerously, could still promise peace.
This was the image shaped by the last hope of a millennial empire. Only at the brink of destruction had the empire—collapsing for centuries—barely found a final chance.
It was no wonder that those who had long resigned themselves to ruin would now willingly follow.
However—
“…But I keep thinking it still might not be enough.”
Street merchants haggled with bright smiles, unaware of the doom approaching just around the corner.
People laughed and cried in the naive hope of a brighter tomorrow. They could live like that only because they trusted and followed Emperor Dragases. Or perhaps, because they had yet to face the true strength of the Ottomans.
Biting his lower lip, Thomas spoke in a voice choked with pain—like a groan of anguish.
“The Sultan once asked me a question.”
“…..”
“He asked if a thousand years hadn’t been enough.”
That question from the Sultan struck Thomas deeply—it laid bare the different perspectives held by Muslims and imperial citizens, even when looking at the same empire.
What tormented him the most was the sheer weight of those thousand years. A weight too immense for any mere human to easily speak of.
“In the face of that phrase—‘a thousand years of repeated despair and failure’—I couldn’t say a word….I could no longer be sure of anything.”
The veins in his hand, clenched around the reins, stood out sharply.
Once a boy who knew nothing, he had come to understand just how dire their enemy truly was—how essential victory over them was to the empire’s survival.
“Brother… Do we truly need this country? Isn’t everything the people long for already being given to them by the Ottomans?”
Order, stability, prosperity.
These three, above all, were the values most important to the people. Thomas wasn’t someone who believed that the state existed for the monarchy’s sake.
Likewise, most imperial citizens saw the purpose of their nation in the values it upheld. And those values—those three—no longer existed in the empire, but in the Ottomans.
Centuries of decline had come from civil wars over power.
At the height of internal strife, the Ottomans set foot on this land, and in that moment, the empire’s fate was sealed.
Even as true peril arrived, the nation, fractured in pursuit of the last remnants of its thousand-year glory, could no longer offer order, stability, or prosperity.
That was the root of Thomas’s painful question.
“Brother, can a nation that offers nothing but empty promises really defeat the Ottomans?”
Before Thomas’s pleading eyes, the Emperor slowly closed his own.
He understood that question all too well, for it was one he had asked himself—again and again—as a student of history. Wouldn’t it be better to simply accept ruin and adapt to the new order that followed?
It was a doubt that still lingered in some corner of his heart. And so, after reaching a quiet resolve, the Emperor finally answered:
“No country can escape the natural order of rise and fall. Thomas, if you’ve seen a thousand years of despair and failure—then understand also what that thousand years means.”
“A thousand years… It doesn’t feel real. For a human, it’s far too long a time to grasp.”
“It was just something I said.”
Thomas’s eyes widened in surprise.
The Emperor, who never spoke frivolously and always maintained a solemn, strict demeanor, had uttered such a thing. When Thomas turned his gaze from the streets of Mistra back to the Emperor—
The Emperor was smiling softly.
“If a thousand years feels unreal, then don’t look at time—look at the people. It’s only natural that one person can’t bear the weight of a millennium.”
“…Is that something an emperor should say?”
“I’m not saying it’s wrong to pursue a thousand years. But life is too short to chase only after that. Even a person’s entire lifetime can’t contain a millennium—So it’s better to look to those who stand with you, even if just for a moment.”
“But we have a duty to carry on a thousand years of history.”
“Then all the more reason to look at the people. It’s not the people who contain a thousand years—it’s the thousand years that contain the people. That’s how time has always moved.”
As he spoke, the Emperor recalled the vow he had once made.
Not to fight for past glory, but for the sovereignty and freedom of those who believed in him.
“Thomas, you said you’ve seen a thousand years of despair and failure.”
“…….”
“Then this time, let us be the hope that shines at the end of that thousand years.”
Even if that hope was destined to be broken.
Even if they would face an end far more miserable than surrendering to fate without resistance. Though he left the thought unspoken, Thomas finally understood the full extent of his brother’s resolve.
He realized just how futile, and how cruel, it was to challenge a foe when defeat seemed inevitable—when overwhelming disadvantage and failure were a given.
People called Emperor Dragases the hope that appeared at the brink of ruin. Even abroad, he was known as the last pillar supporting a crumbling thousand-year empire.
At the same time, there was another, lesser-known description someone once gave:
A light that rose alone in the dark.
A reckless man, who, even when the very belief in salvation had drowned, dared to throw himself into a doomed struggle and declare that he would change fate.
It was because of this that people came to believe again. They believed this country could still change. And Thomas was no exception to that belief.
“The edge of a thousand years…I wonder if we’ll be able to see what lies beyond.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“I am. I want to see what comes after a thousand years of history.”
Before he knew it, the shadow across Thomas’s face had begun to fade. The two brothers looked at each other for a long time—And then burst out laughing.
Their laughter, mingling with the lively atmosphere of Mistra, scattered unnoticed into the air.
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