A sharp, piercing noise shattered the quiet void of my mind, yanking me from the depths of sleep. Pain throbbed behind my eyes—dull yet persistent—as if someone had driven nails into my skull. I groaned, instinctively squeezing my eyes shut, hoping to push the ache away. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The dense, cold, alien air brushed against my skin, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. Where was the gentle hum of the air conditioner? The familiar scent of last night's chamomile tea? My bed felt too firm, and the sheets were coarse, scratching my skin like sandpaper. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes.

What greeted me was utterly foreign. Above, dark wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, polished and gleaming—not the smooth plaster of my bedroom. Stone walls loomed around me, the kind you'd expect to find in a medieval fortress. Panic surged in my chest as I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting in a way that felt off, wrong, foreign. I looked down at the hands in my lap.

These weren't my hands.

I remembered my hands—slightly wrinkled, the skin soft from years spent turning pages rather than wielding weapons. There was a small scar on my left index finger from when Jason and I had tried to build a treehouse. We'd laughed so hard when the plank slipped, and I'd nicked myself with the saw. The memory brought a pang of longing. What would my sons, Jason and Nick, think if they saw me now?

My heart raced as I stared at my chest, flat and muscled instead of comfortably padded like I was used to. My breath quickened, short and ragged. Swinging my legs over the bed, I nearly tripped over the edge of a heavy rug that covered the cold, stone floor.

A voice behind me, soft and gentle, pierced the panic. "Does something trouble you, my Despot?"

I froze, the word echoing in my mind. Despot. The term was in Greek—a language I knew bits of thanks to my Yaya. But this was different; I understood it perfectly, as if I had spoken it my entire life. The word floated at the edges of my memory, yet it felt wrong. Not my title. Not my life. I swallowed hard, turning slowly toward the voice.

A woman lay there, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her features soft, though her eyes held concern as she studied me. She knew me. But I didn't know her.

I stared at her, my chest tightening. Who was she? More importantly—who was I?

Suddenly, memories flooded my mind—memories that didn't belong to me—stern, battle-hardened faces under crested helmets, battlefields drenched in blood, the thunderous clash of swords and shields, and Ottoman banners, black and gold, flapping in the wind.

The sensation was suffocating, like I was drowning in a sea of memories that weren't mine but somehow felt like they had always been there, waiting for me to remember them.

"No..." I muttered under my breath, gripping my head, my fingers digging into my scalp. "This can't be real."

I forced myself to look down at the hands again—youthful, scarred, marked by a life of battle. But whose life? Certainly not mine. The room spun, and I sank onto a nearby stool, the cold stone wall pressing against my back as I buried my face in my hands. Was this a dream? No, it felt too real. The smoky scent of burning wood, the chilly draft cutting through the room—everything was too vivid, too alive.

Who am I?

I tried to speak, to demand answers from the woman in the bed, but my voice faltered. When the words finally came, they were deep and resonant—a voice I did not recognize.

"I... I'm fine," I stammered, the unfamiliar voice grating against my ears.

Her face softened, relief washing over her as she leaned back into the bed. Her concern melted into sleepy reassurance. "You've been restless in your sleep," she said, her voice gentle and soothing.

Restless. That was an understatement. My mind was spinning, fragments of memories pushing their way to the surface, each more alarming than the last. Constantinople, its towering walls looming large against the horizon. Endless councils with generals, their faces etched with exhaustion. The weight of responsibility—both in metal and in spirit—is pressing down on me. The weight of a crown. But not just any crown.

Constantine.

The realization struck like a lightning bolt, cold and fierce, leaving me breathless. Constantine Palaiologos. The last emperor of Byzantium. How could that be? I wasn't him—I was Michael Jameston. A fifty-five-year-old American. I sold books, for God's sake.

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But as I examined my hands—his hands—scarred and hardened from battle, the truth dug its claws into me. This body wasn't mine, yet somehow, it was. I was Constantine. Somehow, I was.

I rose shakily from the stool, gripping the wall for support, feeling the cold stone bite into my skin. Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced myself to breathe—in and out, slow and steady. I needed to think.

How? Why?

Constantine's memories, life, and struggles were pouring into me, overwhelming my sense of self. The more I resisted, the stronger the memories became. The Morea. The title she had used—*Despot*. My breath hitched. This was real. I was here, in his body, in his world.

I closed my eyes, hoping the darkness would provide some escape, some reprieve, but it only sharpened the flood of memories. I had stood in the halls of Constantinople, spoken with Emperor John VIII, and fought on the front lines of an empire on the brink of collapse.

I was Constantine Palaiologos.

The realization hit me like a blow to the chest, and I gasped for air, my hands trembling as I gripped the rough stone wall.

I couldn't be. Yet... I was.

The woman—Theodora, his wife—watched me with concern and confusion. She rose from the bed, her gown whispering against the floor as she approached. "Are you certain you're well?" she asked softly.

I forced myself to meet her gaze, seeing the genuine worry etched in her eyes. "I'm just... overwhelmed," I managed to say, the words foreign yet somehow fitting.

She offered a gentle smile. "You've taken on so much lately. The responsibilities here in the Morea, the matters with your brothers. It's no wonder you're feeling the weight of it all."

I nodded slowly, seizing on her words. "Yes, that's it. Just... the weight of everything."

Her hand rested lightly on my arm, a comforting gesture that only deepened the surreal nature of the moment. "Perhaps some fresh air would help clear your mind," she suggested. "Or a ride through the countryside?"

"Maybe later," I replied, attempting a reassuring smile. "I think I just need a moment."

She squeezed my arm gently before stepping back. "Of course. I'll have breakfast sent up for us."

As she approached the door, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Once she was gone, I allowed myself to sink back onto the stool, running a hand through my hair.

I needed to understand what was happening. Was this some kind of vivid hallucination, a dream, or had I truly been transported into Constantine Palaiologos's body?

I tried to recall the last thing I remembered as Michael Jameston. Closing up the bookstore late at night, the scent of paper and ink lingering in the air. The sound of rain tapping against the windows. I had felt a sharp pain—a headache unlike any I'd experienced before—and then... darkness.

And now, I was here.

I stood and moved toward the window, pushing aside the heavy drapes. The view that greeted me stole the breath from my lungs. Rolling hills stretched toward the horizon, dotted with olive groves and vineyards. In the distance, the sun cast a golden glow over the rugged mountains. It was breathtaking—and entirely unlike anything I'd ever seen.

This was real.

I reached up to touch my face, feeling the stubble of a beard along my jaw. Turning, I caught sight of a polished metal mirror resting on a nearby table. Hesitant, I approached it.

The face that stared back was not my own. Dark hair framed a strong, angular face, with piercing eyes that held a depth I didn't recognize. A face young but hardened by years of responsibility and conflict.

I was Constantine.

A mix of fear and awe coursed through me. If this was real—if I indeed was in his body—then what did that mean? For me? For history?

I knew what was coming. The fall of Constantinople. The end of the Byzantine Empire. And here I was, inhabiting the body of the man who would be its last emperor.

Could I change it? Was I meant to?

A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. "Enter," I called out, the deep timbre of my voice still unsettling.

A young servant stepped inside, carrying a tray with bread, cheese, and fruit. "Your breakfast, Despot," he said with a bow.

"Thank you," I replied, watching as he set the tray on the table. As he turned to leave, I stopped him. "Wait."

He paused, glancing up at me with a mix of curiosity and caution.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Alexios, Despot."

"How long have you served here, Alexios?"

"All my life, Despot. My father was a steward before me."

I nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Alexios. That will be all."

He bowed again before quietly exiting the room.

I sank into a chair by the table, staring at the simple meal before me. My mind raced with possibilities, questions, and fears. If I had this knowledge—if I knew what was to come—could I use it to change the course of history? To save the empire? Or would my interference only make things worse?

But another fear was gnawing at the edges of my thoughts: Could I ever go back? Was this some kind of nightmare I would wake from, or had I been pulled permanently into this world? Am I trapped here? The uncertainty clawed at me, making it hard to breathe.

Author's Note: In early 1428, Byzantine Emperor John VIII Palaiologos launched a campaign against Glarentza. During the Battle of the Echinades, the Byzantine fleet successfully defeated Count Tocco’s forces, ending his influence in the Morea. This victory led to a negotiated settlement where John VIII's brother, Constantine Palaiologos, married Carlo Tocco's niece. As part of her dowry, Constantine received Glarentza and other Tocco-held territories in the Morea. At this time, Constantine's brother Theodore Palaiologos controlled Messinia, Laconia, and parts of Arcadia, while their younger brother Thomas ruled over the region of Kalavryta in the northern Morea. Together, they managed the defense and administration of these key territories.

image [https://i.imgur.com/m01ebRi.jpeg]