It was the third day since I woke up in this body, and today, I decided it was time to stop pretending.

For two days, I had told Theodora and the court that I was too ill to leave my chambers, too weak to fulfill the duties of Despot. But the charade couldn’t last forever. Today, I would finally step out of my isolation and face this new life to see what awaited me beyond these stone walls. I had no choice. The world would not wait.

As I walked through the cold stone halls of Clermont Castle, the weight of expectation settled heavily on my shoulders. Servants tiptoed, bowing as I passed, their gazes averted in silent deference. I tried to move purposefully, to mimic the confidence of the man they thought I was. But everything felt wrong—the heavy Byzantine robes clung to my skin, the layered fabric stiff and unfamiliar. Even the air in these halls felt thick with history and duty, and I was a stranger walking in someone else’s life.

I pause, my hand resting on the cold, unyielding stone wall. The rough texture under my fingertips tugs at a memory, pulling me away from the stone corridors of Clermont and back to a sunlit kitchen thousands of miles and hundreds of years away.

Yaya’s voice rises in my mind, clear as day. She’s at the stove, stirring a pot of thick, fragrant lentil soup, her hands moving with a confidence born from decades. "Do you know, Michael," she says, looking over at me with that familiar twinkle in her eye, "the great emperors of Byzantium weren’t all just men in armor. Some were wise and clever beyond belief."

I remember nodding, watching her as the bright midday light streams through the window, glinting off the brass pot on the stove. She used to tell me stories of Constantine the Great, Basil the Bulgar-Slayer, and Empress Irene. Every tale ends the same way: “They loved their people, you see. Loved them as a mother loves her child. Never forget that.”

And now, somehow, I’m in the body of one of those figures, living in the very world she described.

Then Constantine's memories surged within me, vivid scenes of battlefields and council chambers flashing like lightning strikes. The weight of his past pressed against my mind, but the finer threads—those everyday nuances—remained frustratingly out of reach.

Servants and courtiers paused as I passed through the grand corridor, their whispers hushed but perceptible. Their gazes followed me, expectant and probing. A pair of guards snapped to attention, their armor clinking softly. I straightened my posture, forcing a confident stride. If I couldn't be Constantine, I would at least appear to be.

I turned a corner and came face to face with George Sphrantzes, Constantine’s most trusted advisor. He bowed slightly, his sharp gaze never leaving my face, as though searching for something beneath the surface.

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"Despot," he said, his tone smooth but testing. "I am heartened to see you in better spirits, truly. It was worrisome to see you so burdened." He paused, then continued with a hint of familiarity. "The lords of the region await your council in the coming days. This will be your first formal meeting with them, and there are matters that require your attention before we convene."

The "first council". My heart raced. Constantine had only recently taken control of the region, so the lords and nobles here didn’t know him—didn’t know me. This would be their first real look at their new Despot, the man they expected to lead them. And I wasn’t ready.

"Yes, of course," I replied, fighting to keep my voice calm, though the knot in my stomach tightened. "What matters, exactly?"

As soon as I asked, I felt that familiar fog creeping into my mind. I had his memories, but not all of them. Significant events, battles, decisions—those were clear, like vivid scenes from a life that wasn’t mine. But the more minor details, the ones I needed now, remained frustratingly blurry. It was as if Constantine’s mind was a puzzle, and I had only the corner pieces, leaving the rest incomplete. I knew enough to seem like him, but not enough to be him.

George raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained unreadable. "The grain stores, the fortifications around Clermont, and the skirmishes along the borders of Morea with the Duchy of Athens," he recited, his tone formal, as if reminding me of matters I should already know. "You requested updates before the council convenes."

Constantine had requested those updates, not me. I swallowed hard, trying not to let my uncertainty show. These memories and responsibilities belonged to him, not me. But I had to act as though they were mine.

"I see," I said, forcing a nod. "Remind me of the... most pressing of these."

George’s gaze flickered momentarily, and I could sense a sliver of doubt in his eyes. "The fortifications, Despot," he replied carefully. "The defenses around Clermont are weak, and the local lords fear an Ottoman raid. We must decide whether to divert resources to reinforce the western walls or strengthen our watch along the Morea borders."

I took a slow breath, trying to remain steady. I had access to the grand strokes of Constantine’s memory, but the tactical decisions, the names, the intricate politics of this world—the gaps that made everything feel like it was slipping through my fingers. The Ottomans were a known threat—one that would loom over this world for years to come—but my knowledge of how to address them now, at this moment, was clouded by Constantine’s incomplete recollections.

"We will... discuss it soon," I managed to say, hoping I sounded calm, though inside, I was reeling. "Ensure that everything is ready for the council."

George bowed again, though there was something in his eyes—a flicker of doubt or perhaps concern. He watched me closely, waiting for Constantine to reveal himself. But I wasn’t Constantine.

"As you command, Despot," he said, his voice steady, before turning and walking away down the corridor, leaving me standing alone with my thoughts.

I exhaled, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I had bought myself a little more time, but not much. The council was fast approaching, and soon, these lords would expect answers—decisive leadership. They didn’t know me yet, but they would soon enough.

And that terrified me. Because I didn’t know if I could be the man they needed. I had Constantine’s memories, yes. But they were fragmented, blurred in the places where I needed clarity the most. I was an outsider, trying to fill the shoes of a Despot.

And I had no idea how long I could keep pretending.