The recent series of events had successfully weakened the Ottomans.
Though there were dark shades to it all, they had annihilated 4,000 enemy soldiers through a fire attack, repelled the Sultan’s elite Janissaries, and inflicted another 3,000 casualties through an ambush.
These were feats that even renowned commanders would struggle to achieve. And given that they were accomplished when everyone had predicted an overwhelming Ottoman victory, their significance shone all the brighter.
However, the Morean army led by the Prince had suffered losses as well.
To slay those 4,000 enemies, 300 men had thrown themselves into the flames at Nemeapatre to ensure the fire attack’s success. There were also 98 knights who willingly met death to hold back the Janissaries, as well as another 200 who fell in battle. And then, 1,000 soldiers had abandoned all hope for the sole purpose of deceiving the Sultan, while 700 had been sacrificed as a diversion during the ambush. More than 2,000 lives had been lost in the fight against the Ottomans.
It was partly because of such heavy losses that the Prince decided to avoid direct confrontation.
Despite achieving an advantageous kill ratio, the absolute difference in numbers was too great. The enemy still commanded 7,000 troops, whereas the Morean forces had barely maintained around 4,000. Some might question why such a gap was a concern, believing that the Prince’s leadership alone could overcome it. But there was a loss far more devastating than all the sacrifices mentioned before—one that only Ivania knew.
Naturally, this “critical loss” must never be revealed. Even if it meant thousands more had to die.
In such a risky situation, the Prince had withdrawn into seclusion. With the threat of Murad’s army looming, he left behind only a single statement before shutting himself away: that he was devising countermeasures. Occasionally, a messenger—his face pale—would rush in to relay the Prince’s orders.
And those orders were exactly as expected.
“His Highness commands that vigilance toward the northern wall must not diminish.”
Of all the walls surrounding Athens, the northern one was the only section that did not benefit from natural defenses. Anyone looking to deploy siege engines more easily would naturally target it. Sure enough, when Murad’s forces appeared, Ivania knew the Prince’s judgment had been correct. The enemy’s wagons and soldiers were moving busily toward the northern wall.
“As expected, His Highness was right.”
Standing atop the wall, Ivania spoke with an air of confidence.
Had anyone familiar with her past eccentricities seen her now, they might have laughed at the sight. But at least in this moment, she carried herself like a proper noblewoman. Of course, if someone could peer into her mind, that illusion would be shattered instantly.
Ivania was well aware of it—how her body subtly heated up whenever she recalled the Prince standing before her, no longer a child but a fully grown man.
Behind the cool beauty she projected was a simmering, clinging desire.
It was that desire that had kept her by his side, waiting for a moment that might never come. But recently, she had been rewarded for her patience. Ivania traced her fingers over the hand the Prince had once touched, over the lips that had met his, as she recalled the past.
How often had she been disregarded simply for being a woman? She had been fortunate, and skilled enough, to rise to the rank of mercenary captain without suffering unspeakable horrors. Yet, no matter how capable she proved herself, the world continued to see her as just a “woman.”
A society so deeply entrenched in male dominance would never appoint a woman, no matter her abilities.
All but one man. The Prince had been the sole exception.
“You have always carried the burden alone, Your Highness.”
“Even if His Highness is not by my side, I will prove here and now that I am worthy of his trust.”
Ivania made her vow. To fulfill it, she could not afford to miss a single movement Murad made. Determination settled in her blue eyes. If she had wanted a passive life, she would never have picked up a spear. She wished to stand proudly beside her chosen partner, and that was why she had remained by the Prince’s side. In that regard, he was nearly the only one who mattered.
Alright, let’s do this.
“Do not let go of your spears! The enemy still outnumbers us! A moment’s carelessness will bring His Highness grief!”
As Ivania burned with Intensity, Don Francisco merely shrugged.
The soldiers are going to drop like flies.
Her orders were perfectly reasonable, but the more a commander overexerted themselves, the faster their troops wore out. Still, there was nothing better to shake them out of their recent contentment. Even so, Francisco voiced his thoughts aloud.
“You look all refined on the outside, but inside, you’re a total mutt.”
If she had a tail, she’d be a spitting image of a warhound. With a sigh-laced chuckle, Francisco turned his gaze toward Murad’s formation, having refocused his mind. If the officer he’d placed his faith in was acting like this, then he had to be all the more diligent.
Though his mannerisms might seem carefree, his experience did not simply vanish.
Don Francisco was not just any knight—he had once wielded a spear in the Reconquista, fighting against Muslim forces to reclaim Iberia. That was why he could see things others overlooked.
The first thing that caught his eye was how the enemy forces had split into three divisions.
At first glance, the center seemed the thickest, but even under the sunlight, there was little reflection. Perhaps they had dusted themselves with dirt to dull the polish of metal. However, the weather had been too dry for the ground to be damp enough for such a method.
From that one detail, Francisco deduced that the majority of soldiers in the center were lightly armored infantry.
Then where were the Sultan’s famed elite guards?
The distinctive white hats of the Janissaries were nowhere to be seen, meaning they had yet to join the front lines. The only noteworthy force was the Sipahi cavalry waiting in reserve on the left flank.
If anything else stood out, it was the long procession of wagons laden with wood and other supplies.
Francisco frowned at the sight of the slow-moving carts.
“Are they planning to fortify their position and advance methodically? Damn, if that was their plan, they should’ve taken their time from the start.”
Wasn’t Murad the one who had been using bold deception tactics precisely because he wanted to avoid a drawn-out siege? For him to change course now was proof that the Prince’s message had hit its mark.
Francisco scoffed at Murad’s change in tactics with the sarcasm of youth but soon turned away from the watchtower.
The smirk had vanished from his lips.
“Guess his pride took a real hit. Seeing how thorough his preparations are.”
Anyone could see that he was planning for a long war. It was a little concerning, but as long as they crushed the enemy before their fortifications were completed, it wouldn’t matter.
Others might hesitate, but the knights he led—veterans of the Reconquista—were experts at securing victory, even in unpredictable battles.
If this was all the enemy had, then winning would be simple.
“Still… I won’t let my guard down.”
Even if Murad had some other trick up his sleeve, they had the Prince.
With that unwavering belief, Francisco ran his hand over his sword hilt.
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