Author: Renegade

The peaceful Morea began to tense once more.

The news brought by refugees from the capital was nothing short of devastating. The Ottomans, encircling the triple walls, continued to bombard them whenever they had the strength.

Of course, even such offensives fell far short of breaking the formidable defenses of the triple walls, but the sound of artillery alone was enough to instill fear in the people.

Added to this were reports of fleets assembling near the Golden Horn to monitor passing ships, and the plundering that swept through the region of Thrace. Each piece of news was too serious to be dismissed lightly.

Yet, among all these reports, what stirred the deepest outrage in people was the humiliation the Empire was forced to endure.

It was understandable that the Imperial Guard could do nothing against the Janissaries who had all but seized the Blachernae Palace. Even if it were them, they would have acted the same.

But Murad’s demand that the very people of the Empire destroy their newly repaired triple walls was something they simply could not accept. The triple walls were the Empire’s last great legacy, the final line of defense that had protected the city until now.

To destroy those walls would not only mean surrendering to the Sultan, but also declaring the abandonment of all future resistance. Fortunately, Emperor John in the capital showed resolve and declared he would fight to the end.

And he could make such a decision because everyone in the capital had vowed to endure, holding fast to the pride of their thousand-year history. A cruel waiting period that could last years, perhaps decades.

But no matter how ancient and fortified a city protected by triple walls might be, there were always limits.

Once Morea realized both the capital’s determination and its breaking point, calls grew loud to send reinforcements immediately, setting aside all previous conflicts. Yet these cries were driven by emotion alone, offering no rational or effective plan.

—“Just how do you suppose we save a capital under siege by the Ottomans?”

Still, some continued to cling to hope. After all, it was Emperor Dragases who had overturned even the most hopeless battles with brilliant stratagems. In Morea, a vague expectation spread that he must have made some preparations this time as well. As such hope took root, the emperor’s advisors and allies began gathering in Mistra, drawing the attention of many.

There were Thomas, who had just finished his military service and was resting; Demicleos, who had been dispatched to the provinces to carry out reforms; and those who had already been in Mistra—all gathered together.

Only Andronikos, who had come from the capital in poor health, was absent. Though he had initially shown great resolve, his weary body would not allow it.

“When I lay down in bed, I felt nothing but comfort… But now that I try to rise, my body refuses to follow.”

“Please rest well. Once you’ve regained your strength, come to us again.”

“Yes… Thank you for your concern, Konstantinos.”

Leaving behind only bitter words, Andronikos had no choice but to recover. But aside from his regrettable absence, it was the first time in a long while that everyone had gathered. If not now, it would be quite a while before such a chance to discuss a matter of great importance would come again.

With that in mind, the emperor glanced once around the office where all his key advisors and supporters were assembled. The meeting began with a cold acceptance of reality.

“As you all know, saving the capital is impossible. Let this be the starting point of our discussion, and do not forget it.”

Rather than seeking solutions, it was a statement of resignation. Some clenched their fists in frustration; others received it with composure, and some even seemed intrigued. Yet none showed signs of disappointment—because all had already known it deep down.

Though Morea had rebuilt much of its army over time, it still could not compare to the Ottomans, whose forces were growing rapidly in both size and quality. The difference in national power had always been overwhelming. Until Emperor Dragases rose to prominence, the Empire had been reduced to the level of a mere city-state. A single battle could never hope to close such a vast gap in strength.

Clearly, they lacked the means to topple a prepared victor summoned by history itself.

As everyone quietly turned over this bitter truth in their minds, one person alone raised a question. He knew the gap in power was insurmountable. But what he wanted to know was just how bad the situation in Thrace and the capital truly was. The one who posed this question after some thought was none other than Prince Thomas Palaiologos of Epirus.

“I’ve heard the general reports, but I don’t yet know the full details. Brother, what exactly happened? Are the rumors circulating in the streets true?”

Thomas’s eyes wavered as he asked. The emperor could guess, even if vaguely, what his brother must be feeling. He was still a boy—one who, unlike himself, had never experienced anything truly extraordinary, born royal and nothing more. Thomas was likely torn between the duty to know the truth and the desire to turn away. Before him, the emperor could choose to hide the truth—or even lie.

But Emperor Dragasēs chose instead to tell everything he knew.

“The Sultan mobilized his army at once. And the moment his troops assembled, they seized the entire Thracian region, including Selymbria. This time, perhaps to send a message, they plundered the region thoroughly.”

“How—how could they have gathered an army so quickly? Did the Venetians betray us!?”

“…No. Even the Venetians were caught off guard this time.”

“But how could that even be…”

Thomas trailed off in disbelief, and the others also failed to hide their dark expressions. After all, once the Anatolian beyliks disbanded, it should have taken time to recall and gather the troops. How could the Ottomans mobilize so rapidly in such an unusual manner? Naturally, suspicion arose—and someone began turning that suspicion into conviction.

“It seems the Sultan saw potential in the previous battle.”

All eyes turned to the source of the voice.

The one who finally broke the long silence in the meeting room was none other than the commander of the Murtati—Halid Murtat, the son of a traitor who called himself one as well. Unshaken by the grim news, Halid stood tall and calmly looked around. He who knew the Ottomans better than anyone could now see the answer clearly in his mind—and he was not afraid to speak it aloud.

“In the previous battle with His Majesty, the Ottomans experienced a form of warfare they never expected. They saw an entire city used as a trap for fire attacks. And it was the first time someone conceived the idea of assembling stone throwers. Then, during the siege of Athens, the effectiveness of cannons was proven—especially their superior speed compared to traditional siege weapons.”

“Fine, let’s accept all that. But what the hell does that have to do with the capital being under siege?”

Francisco, who had always looked at Halid with distaste, frowned as he pressed him for an answer. But if Halid were the kind of man to be rattled by Francisco’s words, he wouldn’t be here. With a slight shrug and a small smile directed only at Francisco, he continued.

“Of course, those prior experiences aren’t the only reason. That insolent knight is correct: the two events are too far apart to be directly linked.”

“Then what exactly are you trying to say, Muslim? Is there truly a way to save this nation hidden in that arrogant tone of yours?”

“…But judging by the looks on your faces, many of you seem too angry to let me finish.”

“Of course we are!”

The Morean representatives had already been uneasy about sharing the room with a former Ottoman officer. The one who reacted most aggressively was Thomas Magistros. How could his arrogance before Emperor Dragases himself be taken well?

His sharp retort triggered a backlash. Even Plethon and Demicleos, usually calm and respectful, began siding with Magistros.

“Magistros is right. Even if you are a Muslim, surely you haven’t forgotten how to show respect to His Majesty. What’s with that arrogant tone of yours?”

“It’s nonsense that he’s a Muslim to begin with! Who’s to say he’s not a spy? Your Majesty, having an enemy of the faith in this room puts us all in danger!”

“The bishop speaks the absolute truth. Expel him at once, Your Majesty!”

The arrows were finally nocked, now aimed directly at Khalid. As the advisors’ protests continued to pour in, Emperor Dragasēs slowly turned his gaze to Khalid. Despite not having a single ally in the room, Khalid’s lips curled upward in a faint smile. Just then, Prince Thomas stepped forward to mediate the tense atmosphere.

“You are all right. Commander Halid of the Murtati has clearly shown an arrogant and insolent attitude toward my brother. However, even so, His Majesty has not issued a single rebuke. Can we, then, presume to judge Halid’s fate ourselves?”

“…That’s…”

“…The bishop and the scribes may not realize this, but Morea is currently suffering from a shortage of commanders. If we lose Halid, there will be no one left to lead the Murtati.”

“Can’t you lead them yourself!?”

“Do you even hear yourself right now!?”

Francisco’s attempt to be respectful was quickly shattered. His thunderous outburst was so fierce that even stern, learned men like Plethon and Magistros flinched. Surely it carried the weight of all his pent-up frustrations. Amid all this, one person who had stayed silent until now finally raised her head.

The sole woman in the council room.

The blonde, blue-eyed knight smiled calmly as she looked at Emperor Dragases.

“What’s the point of continuing this argument among ourselves? I will follow only Your Majesty’s decision.”

“……What the… Why are you suddenly so calm?”

“Hehehe… Isn’t this what they call the ‘composure of the victor’?”

“Oh, heavens above…”

Even Francisco, who had been raging just moments before, could only let out a helpless sigh at the state of Ivania. The once spirited and resilient female knight had vanished, replaced by a strange lady behaving like a demure gentlewoman.

But the Emperor could not afford to concern himself with her condition—there were far graver matters demanding his attention.

At last, Emperor Dragases, who had been silently listening to his ministers, finally opened his heavy lips.

“Halid is a man who cast aside everything that no one else dared to abandon and came to me. As a former officer of the Ottomans, he knows their inner workings better than anyone. In fact, it was he who used his own experiences and knowledge to guide me toward what needed to be done.

That said, I do not mean to claim that Halid is always right.

Of course, I understand that your anger is justified.

However, we do not endure merely to give vent to our rage. Nor have we gathered here simply for the sake of venting frustration.”

“…Your Majesty.”

The reply came in a voice that was part sigh, part admiration—a stifled moan wrung from the heart. It was the very image of the ruler they had longed for—one who remained unshaken by emotion and concerned only with the survival of the empire.

The ministers slowly bowed their heads, silently indicating their agreement. Only then did the Emperor turn his gaze once more to Halid.

Halid Murtad.

The man branded a traitor—and son of a traitor—immediately grasped the meaning behind that gaze.

“…As it happens, the Ottomans are currently undergoing sweeping military reforms. Such reforms inevitably bring great changes within, and naturally, opposition is bound to grow. The Sultan must have seen this campaign as a chance.”

“To silence those voices of opposition through a successful campaign, while also gaining hands-on experience in the use of artillery.”

If Halid was correct, then this expedition was done with political intent. But Emperor Dragases had already discerned Sultan Murad’s nature. The young Sultan never chose methods that benefited only himself.

He always selected the path that would not only strengthen his own position but also rob his enemies of theirs. A man who pursued total victory—that was Murad’s nature.

…Murad, are you hiding something more?

Could those two aims truly be all there was to it? Dragases could not be certain. He simply lacked the evidence to voice his suspicions. Yet in the recesses of his mind, a faint sense had already taken root—that this was not the end. And that made his current ignorance all the more frustrating.

—But mere contemplation alone will not win us this desperate war.

Only meticulous preparation and planning can guarantee even the faintest sliver of hope.

Mulling over this truth once more, Emperor Dragases slowly shook his head.

“…In that case, we shall seize this moment—while the Sultan’s attention is fixed on the capital—to form a new alliance.”

“An alliance? But will the Western Church truly aid us?”

He tried to hide it, but the joy in his voice could not be completely concealed. Prince Thomas’s unrestrained enthusiasm stirred curiosity in everyone present. In front of them all, the Emperor began outlining the first step of a strategy he had long pondered.

“To gain the support of the Western Church, we must show that a Crusade can indeed succeed. This alliance is part of instilling that confidence—and also a strategic necessity that we must secure at all costs.”

“Incredible, cousin! Venice? Genoa?”

“The Christian lords of Albania.”

“…What?”

Francisco’s stunned response hung in the air for a beat—before Emperor Dragasēs resumed speaking without pause.

“Not long ago, Halid informed me that the Ottomans are seeking complete domination over the Albanian region. Even the mass refugee migrations of recent years were, in hindsight, a blatant step in that direction.”

“In that case, I understand even less, Your Majesty. How could we possibly intervene in a region already under Ottoman control? I beg you—please share your plan with this feeble old man.”

“Fortunately, it is not the Ottoman main force that is currently working to subjugate Albania. The region is undoubtedly of interest to them, but its mountainous terrain and their ongoing reforms have limited their deployment. Because of this, the Albanian lords have so far managed to retain some freedom.

Unfortunately, the one leading the Ottoman forces in Albania is a man of exceptional capability. The Ottomans call him Skanderbeg.”

“Skanderbeg?”

“It means ‘a man like Alexander the Great.’”

Halid swiftly answered Demicleos innocent question. Naturally, Demicleos scowled deeply in response. For the Turks to carelessly use the name of that great conqueror was nothing short of insolence. Regardless, the Emperor now chose to share his conclusions with all present.

“And I believe this is our final chance to assert influence over Albania. Thomas.”

“Yes, brother.”

“Upon your return to Epirus, immediately begin reforms. Maintain a moderate stance toward the Albanians and ensure that word spreads—I want them to know that we are watching events in Albania closely.”

“I shall do so.”

“And Francisco, for the time being, focus on organizing the cavalry units with Albanians at its core, rather than Latin soldiers. We must give the impression that we are employing Albanians without discrimination. Please, do not complain.”

“…Ah, well. I suppose there’s no helping it~.”

“Magistros, while the reforms are underway, I want you to thoroughly oversee the exemption policies—make sure the refugees resettling around Thessaly and Athens are properly granted tax and military service relief.”

“As Your Majesty commands.”

“Plethon, I ask that you guide the students at the Academy so they are not swayed by the turmoil in the capital.”

“With Your Majesty’s words, how could I possibly refuse?”

“My request of Bishop Nikephoros is much the same. Please help keep the people calm. I ask the Church to engage in charitable efforts to prevent discrimination or violence against the refugees. If you need troops, I will send Ivania.”

“Your concern for all things marks you as a true and virtuous sovereign, Your Majesty.”

“And lastly—Ivania, you will leave the non-commissioned officer training to the instructors. Instead, focus our forces on patrols to prevent public disorder among the refugees. Be ready to respond to support requests from Bishop Nikephoros or others, if necessary.”

“If it is Your Majesty’s will… always.”

Only after issuing all these orders did Emperor Dragases finally allow himself a breath.

He drew in and let out his breath several times before slowly raising his eyes to look again at the ministers and allies gathered before him. They were all different individuals, with their own beliefs and ambitions.

Yet at this moment, they were united in purpose.

Etching that truth into his heart, the Emperor began drawing the map in his mind. One question loomed above all:

—How will the Ottomans move next?

TL : Nah, they gonna introduce Skanderbeg soon.

For decades, the emperor who had singlehandedly supported the empire had finally closed his eyes.

Despite the city being under siege, the procession to mourn the revered emperor’s death paid it no mind and made its way to the funeral.

But among those who should rightfully have been present, several were noticeably absent. Demetrios Palaiologos had secluded himself in his appointed quarters ever since Emperor Manuel’s retirement, so his absence was expected.

But even Empress Joannina, wife of Emperor John, was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, in the midst of widespread grief, no one paid much attention to the Empress, whose presence had never commanded strong notice anyway.

Meanwhile, as ships one after another left the harbor to escape the growing Ottoman pressure, Empress Joannina held her younger brother in a tight embrace.

“Take care of yourself, Demetrios.”

“I hope only good things await you, Sister. I’ll deliver your message to Father in your stead.”

Kantakouzenos spoke with a brave face to reassure his sister. He’d always thought of her as a tomboy, but he never imagined she’d go this far. He kept such thoughts to himself. Soon, his gaze shifted from Demetrios to another figure.

The next man he faced was Andronikos, brother to the emperors and once the ruler of Thessalonica.

The prince, whose legs had grown weak and needed a servant’s support, offered the only words he could before his departure.

“Take care of my brother. He must be deeply grieving. Stay by his side and serve him well.”

“I won’t forget Your Highness’s advice.”

“Good. I like your spirit.”

Andronikos shrugged slightly, as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. That sight made Kantakouzenos’s brow twitch. Perhaps they hadn’t been close, but today was still their father’s funeral.

Was he truly leaving without even showing his face, without any hint of emotion? The same discomfort he’d once felt from Emperor John now surfaced again. He could no longer hold his tongue.

“You’re not going to attend the former emperor’s funeral?”

“Demetrios! That’s far too—!”

His question may have seemed rude. It was enough to fluster Joannina, who scolded him on the spot. But Andronikos neither became angry nor shed tears.

For the briefest moment, he almost seemed to smile before he slowly turned and made his way to the cabin. Then, just as silence seemed to settle, his voice cut through—quiet, yet firm enough to dispel all doubt.

“There’s nothing left for me to say to Father.”

With that, Andronikos disappeared from the deck. Though his voice had been calm, the weight behind that one sentence was beyond easy judgment.

It was a decision so heavy that Kantakouzenos felt ashamed for having misunderstood and asked such a question. A dull ache began to stir in his chest. It wasn’t just the capital’s emperor—everyone was preparing for battle.

And that included Prince Andronikos, whom many had thought had long since given up everything.

As Kantakouzenos pondered this, a sudden, sharp pain flared in his side. He clenched his teeth to suppress the scream that nearly escaped, then turned to glare at the culprit.

“Sister…! What was that for?!”

“You’re the one who asked such a rude question! Do you have any sense in that head of yours?!”

“Urgh! Okay, okay! I get it! I’m sorry!”

She pinched him mid-sentence and so forcefully that not even a grown man like Kantakouzenos could resist. He held back from crying out but couldn’t stop a tear from slipping down.

He deeply regretted not wearing armor just to avoid drawing attention—never had he cursed that decision more.

Seeing her brother’s pitiful state, Joannina backed off with a broad smile.

“If you can’t even handle that, don’t forget to wear your armor. Got it?”

Despite the throbbing in his side, Kantakouzenos couldn’t bring himself to resent her. He had thought her old, eccentric, mischievous self had completely faded—but it hadn’t.

Recalling how she used to tease him with that same smug grin, he finally realized their farewell had come.

“…Yeah.”

Perhaps there was more he could have said.

But he held back. A single, short word marked the end of their goodbye. Demetrios Kantakouzenos—heir of a noble family who stayed behind to defend the capital—accepted a farewell that offered no certainty of reunion.

To linger any longer would be indulgent. The distant thud of cannon fire and the groaning city walls called him back.

Without hesitation, Kantakouzenos turned and disembarked from the ship.

Soon after, the merchant vessels began to raise their anchors one by one. From the deck, Joannina gazed at the receding figure of the ancient city. Once brilliant, now fading—a place where the remnants of greatness and the ruins of collapse coexisted.

It was the city of her birth and her childhood. As she took it all in, she spotted a familiar figure standing still, staring up at the ship.

“…Farewell!”

She waved vigorously at the man. Whether he saw her or not, she couldn’t tell. Without a word, the man watched the ship’s departure before turning and walking away from the pier.

And so, the capital was left behind. Isolated. Joannina and Andronikos had departed.

It was about two weeks later that the two of them arrived in Morea.

Because they had escaped just before the Golden Gate was sealed off, they managed to avoid capture by the Ottomans. The weather was good, and though the refugees aboard were somber, they maintained order. With the exception of having no one to converse with, it had been a satisfactory first voyage for Joannina.

And at last, as they entered the domain of Morea, they disembarked at the port of Nauplion, where a familiar face awaited them. By sheer luck, Emperor Dragases had personally come to check on the incoming refugees.

“Your Majesty! …Ah!”

Joannina, nearly dashing forward in her joy, abruptly stopped herself as she recalled the presence of a rival—the blonde woman who had once called her a threat.

She didn’t know the woman’s name, but there was no mistaking the need for caution. Wary, she quickly scanned her surroundings with a sharp gaze, checking whether the woman might be nearby.

Once she confirmed there was no such threat near Emperor Dragases, her voice rang out with excitement.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

Even amid the murmur of the gathered refugees, it seemed he heard her. The emperor, who had been calmly observing the flow of people, suddenly began to turn his head, searching. And the moment their eyes met, Joannina was already running toward him, acting on pure impulse. Had no one stopped her, she might well have thrown herself into his arms. Fortunately, Andronikos reached out swiftly and grabbed her by the arm, preventing disaster.

Naturally, Joannina wasn’t going to take that quietly.

She snapped her head toward him with a sulky glare that practically shouted, What’s your problem?! In response, Andronikos let out a heavy sigh.

“I understand your joy, but you must restrain yourself. Don’t forget the position you’re in.”

“…I know. I just wanted to see him up close.”

“I’m sure you did. But you’ll be seeing him from now on—often. So be patient.”

She could have kept sulking, but her opponent was once the Ruler of Thessalonica, and he was still politely addressing her as the wife of the current emperor.

She couldn’t bring herself to dismiss his words. In the end, Joannina accepted Andronikos’ rebuke and stayed put. Still, it was obvious she wouldn’t last much longer like this. Fortunately, the emperor approached soon after.

But he wasn’t alone.

Trailing behind him was the overly cheerful—or, depending on one’s mood, obnoxious—knight Francisco, showing his face with an irrepressible grin.

“Oh-ho! Picked up another woman already?”

“That’s not what this is. Watch what you say if you don’t want to be misunderstood.”

“Oh, come on. Then what’s with that look, cousin? She’s glaring like she’s going to bite me for even saying that.”

“Even if it’s not—”

The emperor, beginning to respond irritably, fell silent as soon as his eyes met Joannina’s.

One thought passed through his mind:

I’ve been had.

By the time he turned back with a shudder of betrayal, it was already too late. Francisco was too busy whistling smugly with a satisfied smirk to even notice. As the emperor shot him a cold glare demanding an explanation, Francisco replied shamelessly:

“You really are something, cousin! I can barely handle two tasks at once, and you’re out here juggling two women!”

“Francisco… Is this revenge for entrusting you with command of the Murattati?”

“Of course! It was hell out there!”

The emperor wanted to press further, but the growing storm of Joannina’s icy wrath forced him to let it go.

“…So your sweet words last time were just to string me along, weren’t they?”

“…”

“You really thought staying silent would help? No use—it’s all burned into my memory now!”

Emperor Dragases faltered, unsure how to deal with the mess. Francisco, the traitor, simply averted his gaze toward the distance, acting as if he wasn’t even there. At this critical moment, salvation came from the quiet observer nearby—Andronikos.

“That’s enough, Empress.”

“…Can’t we talk a little more?”

“Unfortunately, time is short. I must ask for your understanding.”

“…I suppose it can’t be helped. I can always finish the conversation later.”

Joannina tried to cling to a shred of hope, while Andronikos cut her off firmly. Thanks to him, Emperor Dragases was able to sigh in quiet relief. Only Francisco clicked his tongue in disappointment, while Andronikos shook his head.

“Don’t think it’s over. You’ll still be the one to soothe her later, Konstantinos.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind.”

“More importantly, I’m sure you understand what we need to discuss the moment you see these refugees.”

“Of course. I had planned to question a few of them to get a clearer picture of the situation, but with you here, that won’t be necessary.”

“I would have liked to rest, but sadly.”

“If you’ll allow it, we’ll prepare a room for you. You’re not well, are you?”

The emperor couldn’t ignore Andronikos’ condition, seeing the clear strain in his body. Though he didn’t know the full details of his illness, it was obvious Andronikos could barely move without assistance.

After an unfamiliar and surely rough voyage, it was natural to be concerned for his health. But Andronikos only gave a wry smile in response.

“That’s why I must speak quickly—before my time runs out, I want to be of use. Give the room to the empress instead. I imagine she’d be most pleased.”

“Absolutely!”

Having withdrawn from the conversation briefly, Joannina now eagerly jumped back in. The lively spark in her voice made the emperor’s head throb.