At the time when Murad’s forces clashed with the prince’s army…
Not far from the battlefield where the fate of the nation was being decided, three thousand soldiers stood atop a hill, unnoticed by either side. The Greek officers leading them had come to a realization—their intervention, at the right time and place, could change the tide of battle entirely. In short, they were observing the situation, waiting to see which side would gain the upper hand.
Under the pretense of hunting down scattered remnants, they had distanced themselves from the main battlefield, securing an opportunity to tip the scales. There were few as relaxed as they were at this moment. With blood being spilled and cries of agony echoing through the air, they savoured the scene like fine wine, contemplating their next move—a luxury afforded by their years of experience.
It had always been this way.
They were the ones who had to welcome new conquerors in place of fallen governments. Those who, amidst shifting tides, had to decide where to point their blades to protect their lives, wealth, and families.
They were the true power behind the city-states of central Greece, the very reason they had maintained independence between the empire and the Ottomans. These were men who had long grown accustomed to watching blood pour from headless bodies and ever ready to throw themselves into danger when needed.
And now, even these men had gathered under a single leader—a middle-aged man who hid an unrecognized passion within his calculating gaze: Paliotes. Each of the city-state rulers smiled at him with gratitude.
“Paliotes, thanks to your timely counsel, we were able to pull back from that hellish battlefield. I don’t even know how to begin expressing my gratitude.”
“It was only natural. Are we not bound together by fate?”
“Indeed, we share a common destiny.”
Amidst their satisfied laughter, Paliotes and his allies never took their eyes off the battlefield. Missing even the smallest clue could mean failing to discern which way the battle was turning. Normally, their influence would have been too insignificant to even consider swaying the battle. But a single unforeseen variable had changed the equation. And only Paliotes had been granted the knowledge to see through the veil concealing the truth.
Distant clashes of steel and shouts of war echoed across the land. The air was thick with the fear of death and the frenzy of slaughter, all justified in the name of honor and conviction. With every breath of this battlefield’s intoxicating air, Paliotes felt his heart race. Like the others, he closed his eyes, as if savouring the ominous heat of battle.
But what filled his mind was not the battlefield.
It was a single man.
Each time he closed his eyes, the memory surfaced vividly.
The night after the battle began, when everything under the sky had vanished into shadow, one figure alone had emerged from the darkness. When Paliotes first heard that this man had summoned him, his reaction had been pure disdain.
“Dragaš… dares to summon me?”
He had agreed to the meeting for one reason alone. As soon as he learned of the Janissaries’ annihilation, he had moved swiftly to stabilize the shaken Ottoman command. The most crucial task was to delay the Morean army’s retreat for as long as possible.
Rather than engage in a hopeless fight with their diminished forces, stalling through negotiations was the wiser choice. But for that to work, the other side had to show interest in talks as well.
Fortunately, with the prince’s fall, that condition had been met.
Thus, Paliotes assumed that the prince, now cornered, had hastily sent envoys seeking peace.
But peace had never been an option.
Not even if they all perished here.
The massacre at Nemeapatre had already spread throughout Greece. How could they possibly make peace with a man who had thrown thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, into the flames just to halt Murad’s advance? His burning resentment had turned to confusion in an instant.
The shadowed figure approached, limping, without even a single attendant to support him. He had received no proper medical treatment, his body wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, his armor stained and dirty under the faint moonlight.
At that moment, Paliotes knew exactly who stood before him.
“Dragaš.”
Who in the Balkans did not know that name?
The final hope of a dying land.
The last defender.
The lone lighthouse standing against the stormy sea.
But Paliotes refused to accept such sentiments.
How could a man who used innocent lives as bait for fire attacks be called hope?
If that was truly the case, then perhaps it would have been better if hope had never existed at all.
Yet even as these scornful thoughts filled his mind, he found himself unable to voice them.
Before him stood a man utterly wrecked by war.
His complexion was drained of life, his eyelids heavy as if they might close at any moment. His lips, slightly parted, struggled to draw breath. His armor was drenched in blood, its source unknown.
Could this wretched figure truly be the prince Dragaš?
No noble figure Paliotes had ever seen had come to a negotiation in such a state. It was not only a matter of respect for the other party but also an opportunity to present themselves in a manner befitting their honor and glory. But Dragaš was different. He had arrived just as he had emerged from the battlefield, still bearing the marks of brutal struggle, standing before Paliotes without pretension.
After exhaling a breath laced with pain, Dragaš finally lifted his head and spoke.
“Are you the commander?”
“And you must be Dragaš.”
“I won’t waste words. Deliver this message to the Sultan—tell him we have been defeated.”
“There’s no need for that. If I capture you here, it’s over. No, in the first place, there was no need to burn Nemeapatre.”
Paliotes did not trust the empire. Given its history, his skepticism was entirely justified. And because of that, his loathing for Dragaš—the so-called last hope of the empire—was all the greater.
“Why did you burn Nemeapatre to the ground? Was your country truly worth such a sacrifice? Were you so desperate for the throne? Was Rome’s so-called glory so precious that the lives of thousands meant nothing to you?”
The questions Paliotes threw at him were the same questions everyone had for Dragaš. Some accepted his decisions as necessary; others could never forgive them.
“Is the empire truly so important? Do the rulers not see the fallen beneath their feet, blinded by their supposed glory? If that is what an emperor is—someone who drinks the blood of innocents for his own greed—then you are no different. A demon who would cast others into the fires of hell for power!”
At last, the prince answered.
“The power of man was far too insignificant.”
“What nonsense are you spouting?”
“A man’s hands are too small to hold onto everything. No matter how tightly one grasps, everything slips away like grains of sand.”
Dragaš clenched his right hand into a fist. Slowly, but firmly.
“So I had to let go of some things, one by one. So that even if some slipped through, I wouldn’t lose my grip entirely.”
At that moment, Paliotes saw something different in the battered prince. He understood why people called him the last hope.
“The old glory that was lost—”
The prince no longer cared about the honor once associated with the name of Rome.
“I will not loosen this grip as long as it is to protect the sovereignty and freedom of those who follow me.”
“…”
“Even if I must burn cities, even if I must set the world itself ablaze… even if tens of thousands of lives stain the cross I bear—if, at the end of it all, peace remains for those who follow me, then I will do so without hesitation. That is my answer to you.”
—Unconsciously, Paliotes’ hand, gripping his horse’s reins, trembled.
Lost in deep reminiscence, Paliotes opened his eyes once more. Now, he understood why the prince was considered the last hope. He now knew that Dragaš was a man willing to give everything for the empire.
And yet—
“It’s time. Time to serve the Sultan.”
—Once distrust takes root, it does not fades so easily.
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