Author: Renegade

As soon as the empire had resolved the Black Death, the situation escalated rapidly.

As he had long resolved to do, John supported Büyük Bayezid, the youngest son of Bayezid as the new Sultan of the Ottomans. Furthermore, the young emperor dismissed the harsh warnings and protests of the Ottoman envoys, who condemned the betrayal of their alliance, with a single remark:

“I am merely helping the rightful heir reclaim what is his.”

John’s intention to divide the Ottoman Empire perfectly aligned with Venice’s interests. The Venetian Senate had neither forgotten nor forgiven the Ottomans for threatening their dominance over the Aegean Sea, nor Constantine, the Prince of Morea, for his atrocities against Venetian trade ships under the guise of suppressing the plague—burning their cargo and causing significant losses. The division of the Ottoman Empire presented an excellent opportunity not only to weaken a mutual threat but also to pressure the defiant prince.

Soon, Büyük Mustafa secured foreign support through Venetian negotiation. The sponsor was none other than Wallachia, which had observed the political situation in the Balkans from afar during the previous Serbian-Ottoman War. Despite Hungary’s intervention, the Ottomans had emerged unscathed, proving their formidable strength and inspiring fear in others.

(TL : Büyük means great in Turkish)

The realization that the menacing Ottoman blade could one day turn toward them sparked fear, which quickly transformed into determination to strike first. With Wallachian support secured, Büyük Mustafa began receiving promising news. Even the Bulgarians, long subjugated under Ottoman control, joined his cause in exchange for promises of religious freedom.

Under Büyük Mustafa’s banner, an army of 12,000 men gathered. Determining it was time to act, Mustafa launched an offensive southward across the Danube, initiating attacks on Bulgaria. The Ottoman governor of Bulgaria attempted to delay him while urgently requesting reinforcements from Edirne.

When Sultan Murad II received the urgent report, he didn’t hesitate. Without a word, he rose from his seat, drawing the curiosity of his attendants. To their questioning gazes, Murad responded calmly:

“My enemy is approaching, and yet you all stand idle?”

With that single statement, Edirne bustled with preparations for war. The speed of the new sultan’s mobilization testified to how firmly he had consolidated his power. In just one month, he assembled 6,000 infantrymen, 1,000 Janissaries, and 800 Sipahis from the Rumelia provinces, who would serve as the cavalry on his right flank.

Waiting for reinforcements from Anatolia would have allowed Murad to muster a force capable of matching Mustafa’s army. However, Murad had no intention of giving his enemy time.

Two months had already passed since the Bulgarian governor had begun his desperate struggle. Though loyal to the Sultan’s command, the local governors’ forces were undeniably limited. Mustafa’s southward march across the Danube had incited a Bulgarian uprising, isolating and scattering the Ottoman forces.

Even the strongest army is powerless when fragmented and surrounded. Murad knew he had to act swiftly to save them. After all, the besieged Ottoman troops in Bulgaria were his soldiers.

Murad II’s forces soon began a forced march.

His first objective was to punish the Bulgarians who had disrupted the rear. To this end, Murad detached two separate units of 1,000 men each. At the forefront of these detachments marched grim-faced men, their armor replaced by the scars etched into their bodies from their past as enslaved laborers. Murad issued a special order for these men.

“Place masks on them and deliver this warning: should they attempt to flee, they will be executed. However, if they achieve remarkable feats in battle, they will be granted the opportunity to convert and join our ranks as soldiers. If they truly value freedom and honor over death, they will willingly charge at the enemy, even without armor.”

The appearance of the new detachment immediately produced results. The yearning for freedom and a change in status imbued the soldiers with a madness that overcame even the fear of death. Thanks to their light equipment, they moved swiftly to strike the Bulgarians from the rear, and the beleaguered Ottoman forces, surrounded and nearing death, realized the tides were turning. True to their reputation as a formidable army, they launched a counterattack. Faced with assaults from both sides, the Bulgarian forces had only two options:

To die or to flee.

News soon spread that the main Ottoman army was on its way. Alarmed, the Bulgarians withdrew their siege, recognizing the need to consolidate their forces. Meanwhile, those who had prematurely declared victory were captured and executed. Mercy and forgiveness are virtues reserved for those who practice peace; Murad had no intention of sparing those who delighted in cornering his loyal warriors.

Fortunately for Murad, the feared guerrilla warfare never materialized.

The Bulgarians began gathering in one place. Whether this was to consolidate their resolve or to make it easier for Büyük Mustafa to send reinforcements was unclear. What they did not realize, however, was that this consolidation played directly into Murad’s hands.

He had faith in the sharp sword passed down by his predecessors—the sword that had, for centuries, brought cries of victory in the name of the Prophet. The soldiers, strengthened further by their victory over the Crusaders at Nicopolis, were the reason Murad was confident of success.

“Teach them the virtue of submission. Show them who their true ruler is, and ensure they never again harbor such futile ambitions—through death!”

The gathered Bulgarians numbered roughly 8,000, equal to Murad II’s forces. The leaders of the rebellion may have thought they had a chance. But Murad thoroughly crushed those hopes.

Murad’s first move was to send forward Bulgarian captives who had been released as a gesture of mercy. As expected, the rebel army hesitated to kill their countrymen, who were placed in the vanguard.

During this hesitation, Ottoman skirmishers maneuvered around to attack the poorly armed Bulgarians on their flanks, following Murad’s orders. Although some units noticed the maneuver and hastily adjusted their positions, their lack of formal training caused significant delays. This delay was exploited by the Sipahi cavalry, who had circled around to attack from the rear.

“Damn it…! They’re everywhere!”

The rebel formations collapsed. Lacking the morale to face the charging cavalry head-on, the rebels scattered in chaos, tripping over each other as they fled from the terrifying speed of the horses. The Sipahis focused solely on breaking through the enemy lines, leaving the disoriented rebel units vulnerable to the skirmishers attacking from the flanks.

Piece by piece, the rebellion was dismantled.

The battle did not last long.

After the fighting ended, Murad surveyed the battlefield slowly.

Amidst the lifeless bodies, the air was filled with terrified screams and the sharp stench of blood pooling as evidence of retribution. Above it all rang the triumphant cries of his soldiers—shouts of joy and exultation, as they always were after a hard-fought victory. The few who survived and managed to earn the Sultan’s mercy trembled as they knelt in submission.

“My Sultan, a glorious victory! Behold the fate of those who betrayed your trust!”

One of the Janissaries could not hide his excitement as he shouted, but Murad showed no trace of similar emotion. The only change in his expression was the deepening of his previously faint anger.

“How many had to die because of their schemes?”

This rebellion, in truth, should never have arisen. Misled by the ambitions of power-hungry leaders, the rebels likely believed they were fighting for a noble cause, unaware of the lies they had been fed. And among them were Murad’s own warriors, who had swung their swords in loyalty only to meet their deaths on this battlefield.

“I shall never forgive them.”

Murad tightened his grip on the reins of his horse.

“Disasters seem to come in waves.”

After John exiled the aging emperor to a monastery, the days were filled with a unusual tension between Morea and the capital. The first signs of an chaos appeared in the capital when a corpse with blackened skin was discovered. A chilling thought ran through everyone’s mind as the news spread.

The plague had arrived.

The two brothers’ response to this new calamity was ruthless yet swift. John, with his younger brother Theodoros leading the effort, ordered the immediate quarantine of ports and anyone deemed suspicious.

Meanwhile, Prince Constantine fully isolated refugees arriving from the capital, offering only the bare minimum of humanitarian aid. To ensure no risk remained, they imposed strict inspections on all incoming ships from the capital and burned any suspected contaminated cargo.

Unsurprisingly, these harsh measures met significant resistance. To shield himself from the growing discontent, John placed Theodoros at the forefront of the operation. Prince Constantine, however, leveraged his unshakable influence in Morea to enforce obedience. Thanks to their firm actions, the situation began to stabilize within three months.

But the aftermath was beyond their control.

To rebuild faltering public trust after the plague, John saw the need to redirect attention outward. Rumors blaming the calamity on the empire’s hesitation against the “enemies of the faith” began circulating.

With these whispers, there was little reason left to resist the arguments of the war faction. Soon enough, news reached Morea that Mehmed’s youngest son, Mustafa, was being promoted as the next sultan of the Ottoman Empire.

“Your decision to prepare for war has proven correct after all,” Sophia remarked with a mixture of admiration and jest.

“…The problem is that we’re in no position to wage a war right now,” Constantine replied, unable to muster his usual sharp retort. Though he had anticipated a conflict and had already begun stockpiling resources, the unexpected arrival of the plague had disrupted all control. His knowledge of the future proved insufficient to account for the sudden emergence of localized epidemics—a blind spot in his otherwise extensive foresight.

Desperate to prevent the spread of the plague, Constantine had enforced drastic measures. While these actions succeeded in halting the disease’s advance, they cost him the support of key cities in central Greece.

Additionally, the majority of trade routes between the capital and Morea were operated by Venetian merchants. Burning cargo suspected of contamination had provided immediate relief but had also sparked backlash. Recent letters from Venice, veiled in courteous language, carried a sharp tone of protest.

The empire’s grip on central Greece was weakening. Relations with Venice were deteriorating. The blueprint Constantine had painstakingly drafted to counter the Ottomans was beginning to crumble, all due to an unforeseen epidemic.

Even his firm resolve to persevere faltered under the weight of the situation. As doubts gnawed at him, he recalled the words he had once repeated to himself while preparing for war:

“History has yet to choose anyone… but is that really true?”

Was history truly undecided? With each passing day, as the situation spiraled further, Constantine felt his confidence waver. His steadfast belief that he could alter the empire’s fate seemed increasingly like arrogance. Perhaps it was stupid to think that he alone, with his limited abilities, could change the course of an empire doomed to destruction.

What was the glory so fervently sought by leaders throughout history? What was honor? Were these concepts mere empty slogans, or did they truly embody values worth sacrificing one’s life for? Constantine couldn’t find a simple answer. His era and experiences had shown him the sacrifices often demanded in the name of glory, leaving him skeptical of its worth.

Yet, he understood the irreplaceable value of sovereignty and freedom for a people. He knew the deep scars left when such rights were stripped away. Was it better to relinquish these ideals for the sake of a prosperous life, or was it worth fighting to preserve them, even at the cost of death?

This was the core of Constantine’s dilemma.

There were already enough people who chose the former, along with viable alternatives for survival. For those who chose the latter, however, Constantine resolved to be their rallying point—their alternative.

Survival alone was not the answer. But if the empire was destined to fall, he would ensure it did so fighting, not groveling. History would record that Byzantium did not go quietly. And besides, not all options had failed yet.

“At least Epirus managed to avoid the worst of the plague, preserving its strength. That’s fortunate. This was precisely why we allied with Serbia—to prepare for such situations,” Constantine noted.

“It’s not a total loss. Didn’t you also gain skilled spies in the process?” Sophia replied slyly.

Constantine chuckled, shrugging his shoulders in response.

“Well, then, I’ll hope for a move as clever as the one Serbia used to evade our watchful eye with Hungarian support in the past.”

“Oh my, was there really anything to monitor? Ivania, wasn’t it? Perhaps you should treat her a bit more warmly. There’s no one as unpredictable and dangerous as a woman starved for affection.”

“…Is that so.”

The prince quickly caught on. Yet, despite what could be considered a betrayal by his subordinate, he displayed no signs of condemnation or anger. His calm reaction puzzled Sophia enough to prompt her to ask.

“You’re not going to reprimand her?”

“How could I hold someone guilty when, as you said, she is simply thirsty for affection?”

“So, you’re aware you’re using her… Hah, what’s this? Guilt for your own sake? Is that why you’re keeping her at arm’s length?”

“I believe love between a man and a woman can only be realized when their hearts are ready to accept one another.”

“…”

What in the world is he talking about? Sophia’s gaze seemed to pierce him with such a sentiment. She had never imagined a man, who should understand better than anyone the obligations of his noble lineage, would utter something so idealistic. Normally, the prince would have ended the conversation there, but in an unusual turn, he continued.

“Ivania has been a loyal companion since the days when I was nothing more than a mere prince. She’s devoted herself beyond what any mercenary captain of high standing could ever offer. Perhaps Ivania is already prepared to love.”

“Do you realize how childish you sound?”

“Sophia, I’m not so twisted as to dismiss matters of the heart as mere trifles, like you seem to.”

“Then why won’t you embrace her? Even if it’s not for love, couldn’t you at least hold her to satisfy your desires?”

At some point, Sophia had taken a seat on a nearby chair, locking eyes with the prince. Perhaps it was because he had opened up, or maybe it was the rarity of their personal conversation—one that felt clearly different from their usual business like exchanges.

“It’s because I cannot cast off the Red Cross that rests on my shoulders.”

“The Red Cross…?”

“A cross stained with the blood of my enemies—a symbol of both the empire’s restoration and the peace it must achieve. Now that the very essence of a universal empire has faded, the true value of unity among countless peoples lies not in legal systems but in religious ideals. Thus, I must be more devoted to religion than anyone else. That is why I cannot embrace a woman.”

“You think this decaying nation is worth all of that? Do you truly believe this crumbling land, with nothing left but the remains of its once-great triple walls, holds that kind of value?”

“Sophia, you once asked why I cared so much for this empire.”

The prince closed his eyes, exhaling thoughts and emotions forged over the years.

“A thousand years is not just a thousand years.”

It was the reason he was burdened with duty and responsibility, the reason he couldn’t stop struggling. The curse that bound him could not be taken on by anyone else.

“That is why no one can replace the empire.”

“Not even a woman who loves you?”

“No one.”

Not yet. With those words, the prince opened his eyes once more, gazing at his clenched fist.

The battle had already begun.

If it had been an ordinary day, the office would have been quiet, with him working alone.

But today was different. The room was filled with familiar faces: Bishop Nikephoros of Mistra, Adrianos, who had taken on the role of vice-commander, and even the delegation led by Judge Demicleos, who had been dispatched to negotiate with the city’s influential figures.

None of them displayed any hint of ease, leaving the atmosphere heavy and tense. However, given the gravity of the matter at hand, there was no need to ease the tension.

It had been two weeks since Sophia’s letter arrived.

She had disappeared from sight for a time, likely to avoid drawing unnecessary attention while leading her network. Personally, she was more irritating than pleasant to deal with, but he had no choice but to trust her now.

A Venetian merchant stationed in the capital had relayed information about the political situation through their trade network. To continue doubting her despite this would be foolish. The weight of the situation demanded otherwise.

Venice, which had long weighed the balance between Morea and the imperial government, seemed to have tilted toward the former. The detailed information about the coup in the capital indicated as much.

What unsettled him most, however, was how sharply and accurately the Venetians understood the power dynamics within the empire. Though they were allies for now, their allegiance could shift the moment their interests dictated otherwise.

For now, however, the most pressing threat was the establishment of a regime hostile to Morea.

“…This is dangerous. The central government is now, for all intents and purposes, your enemy, Your Highness. Arresting all those who were favourable to you—it’s practically a declaration of war,” Demicleos said, his complexion pale as he rubbed his chin.

He was right. Even Manuel II, his father, had ceased appearing at court. This left John, who had always sought to check Morea, as the sole emperor. Given the strained history between them, there was little reason to expect a positive outcome. Naturally, Demicleos recalled the years of conflict with the central government.

“…Moreover, the request to establish a archbishopric in Morea could become a significant obstacle for the capital. It’s not out of the question for the capital to issue a summons to weaken Your Highness’s faction under this pretext.”

“And if I comply with that summons?”

“You’ll die.”

His calm, matter-of-fact response sent a chill down his spine. Judging by the expressions in the room, everyone seemed to share the same opinion. Even Ivania, the blonde-haired knight he hadn’t seen in ages, visibly trembled at the word “death.”

“My lord’s death… I’ve never even considered such a thing. If it came to that, I would sooner—”

“Let me make one thing clear to all of you: I have no intention of walking to my own death. So, put your worries to rest.”

“My lord… If that’s the case, I’d rather you kill me first before you meet your end—”

It might not be a bad idea, he thought, shuddering at the gleam of excitement in her eyes. He glanced away reflexively, only to see Demicleos shaking his head in disapproval.

Indeed, dealing with Ivania’s quirks must have taken a toll on him. He resolved to reward Demicleos generously in the future for enduring such a burden.

But first, there was the matter at hand.

“Demicleos is correct. Refusing the summons will likely lead to civil war.”

It was a standoff. The newly established regime was centered around John, who had long sought to keep Morea in check, and Theodoros, who had fully turned against them after breaking their previous agreement.

Neither man would tolerate a Morea that had grown this powerful. If he complied with their summons and travelled to the capital, he would undoubtedly be detained and stripped of power.

And if it ended with mere deposition, he might consider himself lucky. The possibility of a complete split between Morea and the empire was large.

Morea had already been isolated from the central government for far too long.

In essence, Morea functioned as a semi-independent state. The only thing keeping it under the empire’s banner was the shared bloodline of its rulers. While familial ties meant they could not fully sever ties, this also made coexistence between them tense with rivalry and discord. The only viable candidates to rule Morea as its prince were his brothers, Demetrios and Theodoros.

But rather than entrusting it to either of them, he would prefer to unite Morea and Epirus under Thomas’s rule through a personal union.

The problem was that such a move would almost certainly provoke Ottoman intervention.

Epirus existed as an independent state, even if only on paper, which was why the Ottomans had tacitly acknowledged Morea’s claims over central Greece. But if the prince of Morea were to simultaneously rule Epirus, bringing it under the empire’s fold, the Ottomans would no longer remain passive.

Yet, if he refused the summons, civil war was inevitable.

“If there’s a silver lining, it’s that Morea’s power far surpasses that of the capital.”

“It’s ironic that the very reasons which caused conflict between His Majesty Johannes and Your Highness might be the same reasons
that will unite you as allies”

Adrianos’ remark was the answer. If even Morea were to break away from the Empire, then it would truly be reduced to just a single city-state. No matter how symbolic Constantinople might be, or how much wealth it could amass as a natural strategic point, maintaining a nation with only one stronghold is nearly impossible—especially when facing an opponent as formidable as the Ottomans. With shared objectives driven by different motivations, there was a strong certainty that John would not push for an overly hardline approach.

Even if John sought personal glory, his desire lay in restoring the Empire’s glory, not in grasping some shattered crown.

“In that case, they shouldn’t have provoked us in this way. How dare they treat Your Highness, the Empire’s last hope, with such disrespect? If they committed this act without understanding what sustains the current Empire, they have shown themselves utterly unfit as rulers and must be condemned.”

But it seemed calming Demicleos anger was not an easy task. This loyal judge was genuinely enraged by the political actions taken by John. It was Bishop Nikephoros, who had long worked hard to mediate conflicts, that stepped in to calm him down.

“I understand your feelings, Judge. However, it is clear that His Majesty desires the Empire’s restoration, and Your Highness shares this goal. Let us not lose sight of what Your Highness seeks by aspiring to the throne.”

“…”

At last, Demicleos fell silent. Nikephoros’ words rang true. My desires were no different from John’s. I never sought a shattered crown. Nor have I ever confused means with ends. My sole ambition has always been the salvation of the Empire, and that aspiration has been engraved in my heart.

“I will not draw my sword against His Majesty John simply because my father was overthrown. Waging another civil war would only weaken us against the overwhelmingly strong enemy before us.”

“…This old man’s eyes see the truth. Even knowing that it may delay your path to the throne, you are willing to make sacrifices for the sake of the Empire’s survival. I am deeply moved by your resolve.”

Plethon, the wise elder, was visibly moved by this decision, one that I considered merely natural. To me, it wasn’t a sacrifice; it was simply the right thing to do for the Empire’s preservation. However, instead of voicing such thoughts, there was a more pressing matter to address.

“Plethon, wise sage, I ask for your report on what you’ve seen and heard. Who are the ones you failed to sway?”

“Forgive my inadequacy, Your Highness. Allow this old man to deliver news of both partial success and partial failure.”

Plethon began reciting the names of cities that had resisted persuasion, either due to a lack of time or the dismissive attitudes of their influential leaders. Most were cities near the Ottoman border. Among them were cities of significant size and importance:

Neopatras and Voivodina.

Situated on the plains of Thessaly, these cities, being geographically close to the Ottomans, seemed more shaken by the recent turmoil than others. Relying on such cities to form the front lines would lead to certain defeat. A desperate certainty took hold of my mind. Now was the time to prepare for the worst. Without hesitation, I brought up the true subject of this meeting.

“You all understand by now that war is imminent. The reason I’ve summoned you here is that you are the pillars that uphold Morea and the closest aides who will play key roles in the long struggle ahead. We cannot afford either complacency or overconfidence.

The foes we face are unimaginably powerful. For centuries, they have invaded on our lands, violated our families, and now they aim to strip us of our proud traditions and history. They are heretics seeking to dethrone Christ and install their prophet in His place. They are the ones who seek to bring down the millennium-long empire embodied in this City of Cities.

Fear them. Be vigilant. They are the greatest trial and the weight of destiny that the Empire must overcome to survive.”

The cities favourable to the Ottomans must be abandoned.

“And we, under Christ’s scales, shall prove that we are worthy of His choice.”

For that, we will never let go of what we hold.

TL : Let me tell you something fun: The Byzantine Empire was first founded by Constantine the Great, who was the first Roman emperor to convert to Christianity. During his time, he moved the capital of Rome to Byzantium and renamed it Constantinople, which marked the beginning of the Byzantine Empire. Don’t get confused—Constantine the Great was the emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire so the Eastern Roman Empire continued to be known as the Byzantine Empire after his rule. Meanwhile, the Western Roman Empire continued with Rome as its capital. And Constantine Dragases, our main character, was the last emperor of the Byzantine Empire. I don’t know if this is a spoiler since a lot of stuff has already been changed.

John’s firm resolve soon translated into bold action.

One by one, those who had supported for a cautious observation of the Ottoman situation began to lose their positions. The charge?

Conspiring to threaten the current regime. Before they could band together to resist, a single figure acted swiftly to arrest them: Manuel’s second son, Theodoros. Known as the Prince of Selymbria, Theodoros’s sudden emergence took everyone by surprise.

Yet, despite this being Theodoros’s first open involvement in state affairs, he showed no hesitation. Exercising the authority assigned to him by his brother John, Theodoros systematically dismantled the nobles aligned with the conservative faction.

By the time a day had passed, the conservatives who had rallied around Manuel were left staggering, having suffered a devastating blow.

The nobles of the conservative faction, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in the political landscape, urgently sought out Manuel, but the aging emperor did not make an appearance. Naturally, the confusion only deepened.

Stripped of their rallying point, the conservative faction lost their voice in court and found themselves largely imprisoned, unable to mount any meaningful opposition. Only a few managed to escape the brutal purge, including Georgios Sphrantzes, a young secretary overlooked due to his age, and the aged chancellor Notaras.

Even they, however, did not escape Theodoros’s gaze entirely.

Once Theodoros deemed the situation sufficiently under control, he made his way to the audience chamber where his brother John awaited him. Accompanied by soldiers, Theodoros marched into the court in an audacious display of disobedience. Witnessing this, Notaras, who had come to John seeking answers about the recent turmoil, trembled with anger as he scolded Theodoros.

“Your Highness, even as a member of the imperial family, there are protocols to be observed in the audience chamber of the emperor. Furthermore, you should be aware that you were not granted one sided authority to arrest officials occupying public office.”

But Theodoros merely responded with a smug, satisfied smile. As Notaras prepared to speak again, his words were interrupted by John’s calm, measured voice.

“All of it was done under my orders, Chancellor. There is no need to scold him.”

“…Your Majesty?”

Why had John granted such authority to Theodoros? Notaras dared not ask. For in John’s eyes, he saw something he had never before encountered—something he could not name but instinctively feared.

And that ominous feeling proved correct. As Notaras stood there, struggling for words, Theodoros sneered at him.

“Old Chancellor, do you still believe your emperor retains his throne?”

“My emperor? Your Highness, what are you saying? Who else would I serve but His Majesty John and His Majesty Manuel?”

“How foolish you are to think so,” Theodoros replied, his dark eyes filled with disdainful pity.

As anger began to rise within Notaras, he opened his mouth to retaliate, but Theodoros raised his arms, gazing toward the ceiling as if calling upon the heavens. With seriousness, he proclaimed:

“How can there be two supreme rulers under the heavens?”

The very concept of a co-emperor was absurd. The emperor was meant to be the Pantokrator (All Mighty), second only to Christ, the ruler of the world, a figure comparable to the twelve apostles. The idea of two such figures existing simultaneously was laughable to Theodoros.

He genuinely believed this. Though his cooperation with John had other motivations, this conviction lay at the heart of his actions.

Notaras, hearing this declaration, seemed to grasp the reality of the situation. His face turned deathly pale as he shifted his gaze from Theodoros to John, searching for confirmation of what he now feared.

“Your Majesty, do you understand the meaning behind Prince Theodoros’s words?”

In response, John remained silent, offering only a faint smile. That, in itself, was the answer. Notaras could no longer suppress his cry of despair. As he trembled, the sound of slow footsteps approached from behind. It was Theodoros.

“You have served the former emperor until now. From this moment onward, you must serve His Majesty instead, Chancellor.”

Notaras, still shaking in disbelief, was forced to accept the truth. There was no room left for denial. The city had already been entirely taken over by them. Emperor Manuel II had been deposed. And…

Even the faction that had supported Prince Constantine would disappear entirely as a result of these events.

All the facts spoke for themselves.

The vision Manuel had drawn up had failed.

//

The situation was deteriorating far more quickly than anyone had anticipated.

“Your Majesty…? Are you all right?”

A maid, whom Constantine vaguely remembered encountering once before, hesitantly spoke up. But there was no time to pay her any attention. The contents of the letter from Demicleos demanded his full focus.

As a part of efforts to silence unrest in the cities of central Greece, Plato had been sent to negotiate and persuade. The results were not insignificant. Plato’s emphasis on Morea as the last defender of Greek culture had succeeded in winning over a fair number of people.

However, this also meant that there were many who remained discontented. The newly established administrative body, the Ecclesia, had not had enough time—barely a year—to take root. Furthermore, the former elites were deeply resentful of having to share their power with others. Demicleos highlighted this point, warning that if a way to appease the elites was not devised, further defections might occur.

He also added an urgent plea for assistance, noting that Ivania’s frenzy were growing worse by the day.

It seemed she was venting her anger over not having seen him even once recently. Constantine was relieved he had arranged for Ivania to escort Demicleos; who knew what chaos might have unfolded had they met again after such a long time. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, he closed his eyes for a moment.

Means to appease the elites… They likely wished to regain their status as rulers, but such a thing was out of the question. Hadn’t they been the very ones walking a tightrope between the Ottomans and the empire? Allowing one city to fall entirely into their hands was a risk he could not afford.

The only option was to rely on the newly empowered factions within the Ecclesia to keep those elites in check.

“…Time will solve this. Acting hastily would only worsen things.”

After all, the Ecclesia had been created for this very purpose. Barely a year had passed. As long as the groundwork was laid to allow the opposing factions to grow, stability would eventually return. With that thought, Constantine shifted his focus to the upcoming crowning of Thomas, the Prince of Epirus.

Or so he tried.

“Your Majesty, forgive the interruption, but… Her Grace has sent a message for you.”

The maid, who had been lingering nearby for some time, finally spoke up. So that was why she had been waiting. Without much thought, Constantine nodded and took the letter she offered. The maid, as if relieved of a great burden, quickly rushed out of the room.

It was probably something he needed to read alone, he thought, as he broke the seal on the letter.

“……Hmm….”

A wave of intense dizziness suddenly overcame him.