Theodore II Palaiologos sat in the dimly lit chamber of his palace in Mystras, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the stone floor. His hands rested on the arms of the intricately carved chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically as he stared at the missive before him. The wax seal had already been broken, but the contents gnawed at him still. He had read it several times, but each reading only deepened the knot of resentment in his chest.

It had been just a few weeks since word arrived of the death of his brother Constantine’s wife, Theodora. Theodore had felt a fleeting pang of sympathy for his younger brother—such loss was inevitable in these times, though the sting never dulled. But this was not what weighed on him now.

No, what truly unsettled him was the news that followed.

A monk from Glarentza had passed through Mystras, bearing disturbing reports—rumors that Constantine had been seen commissioning Latin Bibles, of all things. Theodore’s brow furrowed as the words of the letter burned in his mind: Catholic Bibles, printed with some unnatural device—an orange machine that sounded like some abomination from a foreign land. The idea was almost too absurd to contemplate, but if there was even a shred of truth to it…

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Alexios, one of his most trusted advisors. The aging man entered quietly, bowing deeply before approaching Theodore with the air of one who bore troubling news.

"My lord," Alexios began, his voice steady but grave, "there are fresh reports from Glarentza."

Theodore leaned forward, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Speak."

Alexios took a measured breath. "The news we received earlier about Despot Constantine's activities appears to be accurate. More details have emerged from the monks. They claim he is producing Catholic Bibles—in Latin—using some strange contraption."

Theodore's fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest. "A contraption?"

"Yes, my lord. They describe it as an ingenious device, akin to a wine press but designed to imprint entire pages swiftly and repeatedly. It's unlike anything they've seen."

Theodore's gaze drifted momentarily to the window, where the fading sunlight cast long shadows across the city. He could almost hear the distant clamor of Glarentza's bustling workshops, the rhythmic thud of machinery disrupting the sacred silence.

Alexios continued, "This machine allows him to produce books in quantities unheard of, bypassing the painstaking work of scribes."

A chill settled over Theodore.. He had already suspected that Constantine was meddling in dangerous affairs, but this went beyond mere rumor. "And the Church?" he asked, his voice a quiet growl. "What of the Church?"

"The monks who witnessed these things have spoken of blasphemy, my lord," Alexios continued, his tone growing darker. "To produce the holy scriptures in Latin, and in such a manner… it undermines our faith, our traditions. This is nothing short of an affront to the Orthodox Church."

Theodore rose from his seat, the aged wooden floor creaking beneath his boots as he paced the length of the chamber. His rich, burgundy robes whispered against the cold stone, echoing the turmoil within. The scent of melting wax and aged parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of incense lingering from the morning prayers.

Blasphemy. The word pulsated in his mind, each syllable hammering like a drumbeat. The flickering flames of the wall-mounted torches cast dancing shadows, their light playing across tapestries depicting the glorious battles of their ancestors—a stark contrast to the insidious threats he now faced.

Ever since Constantine had embarked on his ventures in Glarentza— entangling himself with smooth-talking foreign traders—Theodore's unease had grown like a dark cloud. But this... producing Catholic Bibles? It was not just a line crossed; it was a dagger thrust into the heart of their traditions.

He paused by a narrow window, the cool evening breeze brushing his face. Below, the city of Mystras sprawled under the twilight, its terracotta roofs glowing softly. The distant bells of a monastery tolled, their melancholic tones weaving through the silence. Yet, even this serene vista offered no comfort.

That crossed a line.

"You know my views on the unification of the churches, Alexios," Theodore said, stopping abruptly. "I have made them clear. I will not tolerate any effort that brings the heretics of Rome into our sacred fold. We are Orthodox, and we remain so. To mix with them is to spit on the sacrifices of our ancestors."

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"Indeed, my lord," Alexios agreed, his face betraying no emotion. "But there is more. It appears that your brother is using these Bibles for political leverage. Word from the monks is that Constantine has been distributing these works to foreign traders, Venetian and Genoese, gaining favor in their courts. It is said that the Latin Church has already taken note of his efforts. They see him as… sympathetic to their cause of unification."

Theodore stopped pacing, his fists clenched. "Of course," he spat. "Of course, Constantine would do this. He has always sought to curry favor—especially with our brother, the Emperor."

The mention of John VIII, their elder brother, struck Theodore like a blow to the chest. Memories of his mother, Helena Dragas, flooded his mind—her proud gaze whenever John entered the room, the way her eyes lit up at Constantine's every word. She had always looked upon them as the heirs of greatness, the sons who would shape the future of the empire. And Theodore? He was the shadow that trailed behind them, the dutiful governor expected to support but never to lead.

He recalled a winter evening years ago, standing in the cold corridors of the palace while his mother and brothers warmed themselves by the grand hearth. He had approached them, eager to share news of a successful negotiation with a local governor. But Helena had barely acknowledged him, her attention fixed on John's tales of imperial court intrigues. The sting of that dismissal had never left him.

A knot tightened in his throat. Despite all his efforts, all his sacrifices for the realm, he remained unseen in his mother's eyes—a mere steward of the periphery, not a son of destiny.

But this? This was more than a simple rivalry. If Constantine was positioning himself as a champion of the unification of the churches, it would not only win him favor with John but undermine Theodore’s own standing.

Your Grace," Alexios interjected softly, pulling Theodore from his reverie, "there is another matter that requires your attention—your brother's debts."

"Debts?" Theodore's brow arched, a glint of curiosity mingling with disdain.

Alexios nodded solemnly. "Indeed. Constantine has secured substantial loans from the Genoese merchants. He has poured fortunes into his workshops, his sprawling paper mills, and this ambitious publishing endeavor. Whispers suggest his obligations far exceed his means to repay."

For a moment, Theodore was silent. Then, a mirthless smile curved his lips. "So, the illustrious Constantine, finds himself ensnared by his own ambitions. He plays the grand ruler, yet stands on the precipice of ruin."

He walked towards the hearth, the warmth of the fire failing to thaw the chill settling within him. The flames cast a golden hue on his stern features. "I remember when we were children," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Constantine would spin tales of conquering distant lands, of forging alliances with exotic kings. Mother would listen with rapt attention, her eyes filled with pride. Meanwhile, she tasked me with tending to the mundane—managing estates, studying law, upholding traditions."

He turned to face Alexios, his eyes reflecting a blend of bitterness and resolve. "Perhaps it is fitting that his lofty dreams now tether him to the very traders who would see our empire carved up for their gain.

"Indeed," Alexios said. "And yet, despite this, he continues to expand his influence. There are whispers that Constantine is using the Catholic Bibles not just to appease foreign traders, but to gain political leverage with our brother. He seeks to use these works to secure John’s approval, to present himself as an ally of the Church and a man of modernity, one who is willing to embrace change."

"Modernity," Theodore muttered, the word laced with disdain. "All this talk of innovation, of progress. My brother is a fool. He thinks he can straddle both worlds—the world of Orthodoxy and the world of heresy—and in doing so, he will bring ruin upon us all."

Alexios hesitated before speaking again. "Constantine's actions seem not merely a matter of innovation, my lord. He is positioning himself to weaken your influence. The monks in Glarentza say that he is gaining the support of John, presenting himself as a visionary, while you… well, your opposition to the unification may soon paint you as the one standing in the way of progress."

Theodore turned, his eyes flashing with anger. "Do you take me for a fool, Alexios? I see it all clearly now. This is not just about books or Bibles. This is about power. Constantine is trying to make me irrelevant in the eyes of the Emperor. He knows where our mother’s favor lies. He knows how John looks to him for advice. He seeks to paint me as the backward brother, the one clinging to the past."

He stepped toward the window, his gaze hardening as he looked out over the hills of Mystras. "But he will not succeed."

"Theodore—" Alexios began, but the Despot raised a hand, silencing him.

"Enough. I will not let Constantine, nor any other, undermine me. He may think his books and his devices will win the future, but he forgets one thing: the people, the Church, they are not as eager for change as he believes. There is power in tradition, in faith, and I will wield it to stop him."

Alexios bowed his head. "What shall we do, my lord?"

He turned to Alexios, a steely determination settling over his features. "Constantine may bask in Mother's favor," he said quietly, a hint of old wounds surfacing in his tone. "He may dazzle others with his schemes and his grasping at the new. But he forgets—or perhaps chooses to ignore—that true power is not rooted in fleeting innovations. It is forged in the bonds of influence, the steadfastness of loyalty, and the unyielding defense of all we hold sacred."

Theodore's gaze drifted upward to a faded tapestry depicting the triumphs of their forebears, warriors who had safeguarded their heritage with blood and sacrifice. "He seeks to remake the world in his image," he murmured. A shadow crossed his face, a mixture of sorrow and resolve. "But he underestimates the world—and me."

His eyes met Alexios's, filled with a cold fire. "If he insists on walking this perilous path, then he must be prepared to face the consequences. I have stood in the shadows long enough, watching as others gambled with our legacy. No more."